Author: AzimuthMoore
Description: With music of the ages long lost flowing from a strange device, and balls straining against his jeans, Amari will lead the Harem of the Blue Rose to adventures glorious. And he might even learn that there may be more to his skills in the blade and the bed than meets the eye.
*Content Warnings: explicit violence, explicit sex, explicit nudity, fantastical race-related prejudice, sex-based prejudice*
Tags: oversized genitalia, excessive fluids, harem, sadomasochism, small penis humiliation (minor)
ACT ONE
The shade cast down from the forest canopy checkered across his coat, and the large rings riveted on it were bright with what sunlight slalomed through the leaves and bounced across them. His locs dusted his shoulders, wound in tight cords, but in a mild need of a retwist. The clement curves of a broad nose curled at the wood's irritating pollen, and with his throat tight with effort, he barely choked back a sneeze. This was not the pleasant glen of his home where the grass was soft like marshmallow and the scents did not strangle but seduced the senses. And still, while he lusted for that peaceful home at times, Amari was blessed with his current company, the group of seductive adventurers that called themselves with pride: the Harem of the Blue Rose.
As Amari lifted his arms to stretch the morn's dull ache from his shoulders, a pair of blue hands long-gloved in black cloth swept about him, and a sultry grin pressed into the deep blue hood that hung around his neck. "Don't look now, but I think Ashalanter's getting horny." That feminine voice sizzled in his ear, and his head sandwiched the newcomer's between itself and his shoulder. He felt the tender teasing of fresh-shorn hair, and the silk of the mid-grown mop that hung over it. The alien and bestial shape of the hugging one's nose pressed against his neck, lips intermittently feinting kisses on his muscle. With a smile, an adjustment of weight, and a quick and deliberate pressure, Amari clipped himself free of the flirtatious grasp and into a handhold with the lusty assailant.
Shale was a hobgoblin; in contrast to her goblin family, she stood at Amari's own height. Like a priceless vase, her waist flared into the belt of her black cargos, her legs underneath like grand sequoias, always growing stronger as more she needed to move herself faster and higher. Her utility harness clasped a cropped hoodie to her body. With it she showed those axe-sharp abs to whoever was blessed to know her and not be in the computer-sights of her weapon: a menacing crossbow nearly as long as her shoulders were to the ground.
"I think it's you that's horny," Amari replied. At his antics, Shale's black lips, which were often-- and now-- plastered onto ice-blue skin in a fiendish smirk, creeped into an amorous snarl.
"Please," she said with all the fight she could muster toward him. He could smell goodberries on her breath as she closed the distance again, bouncing their intertwined hands against her hips. "Just look at her, her face is all blush, her fingers are catching through her hair, and she's bouncing her leg trying to get that needy ache out of her pussy."
Against the forest sheet behind her, Amari saw Ashalanter standing there. While she was an astonishing sight-- tanned elfin face stuffed in some whispering arcane tome, platinum blond hair laying straight over her shoulders and capped by rave goggles, eldritch staff in her hand and gaiters adorned with countless streamers, let alone those boobs that could only be humbled by those of a data-titan-- she was well within her normal, non-horny bounds and was certainly not doing a single thing that Shale insisted.
"Ashalanter?" Amari asked.
Her eyes lifted from the arcane binary script she studied to meet Amari's. "Hm?"
"Are you horny?"
The plump lips of the elfin mage where once pursed in focus, widened into an excitable smile. While her enunciation implied a clueless slut, behind that nigh-impenetrable castle of her ineptitude for everything else, lay someone who was-- theoretically-- very intelligent in matters of the System. "I'm always horny for you, babe!"
While flattered, Amari believed this answer was sufficient to prove his point. He turned with a victorious glint in his eyes to Shale. "That didn't sound like someone who's paralyzed by lust."
The hobgoblin let out a laugh through sharpened teeth. "Okay, maybe it's me that's horny."
Stepping around the tricky Shale was the telltale rattling of chainmail. Underneath the leather shortcoat and briefs was a shimmering suit of the noisy stuff, conforming unerringly to the imposing and lean construction of an orc. Though the very first etchings of age were worn on her emerald skin, she still maintained a soldier's physique, toned and indomitable. But not given to reckless brutality was their Mosh; her salt-twinged twilight hair was styled meticulously close to her head, and the tusks that jutted from the back of her jaw were a pristine white for their manicuring.
"We only just set out for the morning an hour ago," Mosh interjected in that privileged brogue, her hands flopped over the haft of a gleaming poleax. "I'm afraid we haven't time to stop and bang."
"Oh, are you sure?" Shale asked, genuine behind her sardonics, as she overemoted a whine. "The Ky-Wassail Fetish isn't going anywhere."
"And just where do you figure would be a good place to get nude and doff our weapons?" Mosh asked, stopping with everyone else, shouldering her weapon and standing at attention.
For a few quiet moments, Shale drank the surroundings. She shifted her feet across the dirt path, searching for something underneath the discarded topsoil. She turned her ear to the wind, and trailed every bird with her eye. Whenever she did this, Amari was overcome with the desire to spend that moment in her head, just to know what secret messages their environment was telling her. "Here should be fine," she announced, leering.
"Here? In the middle of the woods?" Mosh was incredulous. "And I suppose you reckon there won't come along any highwaymen?"
"My skills are in the art of knowing exactly that sort of thing, dear," Shale explained, tapping a finger against her chin, rounding the orc and cracking a stern spank over the cuir bouilli that wrapped Mosh's firm ass. In doing so, she coaxed an eye roll from the usually prim warrior. "Where people are and are not is necessary knowledge for slaying them."
Ashalanter lifted her nose from her study in a single interjection. "Shale says so, I believe her. She's like, the one who knows all that tracking stuff." She teased her bottom lip with her teeth. "And like, I'm always down to suck Amari's balls!"
Mosh sighed and raised the white flag. "Fine. If that's your word."
"Excellent," Shale accepted with a bow, bounding into a clearing and tugging Amari along, nearly pulling his glove free of his hand. It seemed, he thought, that if he didn't want her to lavish his manhood with all of her built up lust, he would have to tell her out loud. Not that he, nor the thing occupying more and more room in the crotch of his jeans, objected.
Pressing her lover against a tree, the rings of his armor clacked against the bark as Amari slid down to a sit. He watched as his jeans were swept from his legs, the tender forest breeze caressing the tightening flesh of his ballsack, and filling his belly with ice. He saw the eyes-- Mosh's neon green, Shale's blood-red, and Ashalanter's coffee brown-- be set alight as often they were at seeing his twenty-two-inch cock. It pierced the sky like a primordial obelisk with the scent of thousand-year-old orgasms still swimming around it. Every time he saw their days brighten at the mere sight of his shaft, he got high, like a tyrant does, on the fumes of that power.
"I think the most adept at cocksucking should be the one to-- well-- suck his cock," teased the hobgoblin, tempered by the companionate stroking of her comrades' hair.
Mosh's hands lifted his sperm-full sack, weighty like the head of a flail. With a wolfish expression, as diamond-rare as it was, her reply rendered. "No matter. The balls are an acquired taste for refined tongues." Amari felt the punctuation of that sentence kiss clement onto him.
"Yeah! What Mosh said!" Ashalanter's honest speaksong joined the chorus.
With a blissful smile, Amari made clear his intentions to stop the stalling. His fingers firm, he found that special place that Mosh adored. In the valley of her ear a pressure point that would send saccharine sting like lighting through her core, he pinched. At the same time, a more merciful hand caressed the pasture-soft cheeks and elfin ears of Ashalanter and guided her lips to their destination. Leadership tailored for both, one for the penitent, and the other for the bimbo. At once the cool and dewy air disappeared, as warm and wet tongues spoke adoring proto-languages across his ballsack.
A stare held like the lines of a warfield lanced from Shale to Amari and back. Amari felt her probe for any kind of reaction, a silent indication of what he liked, as not to interrupt the flow of the gradually intensifying handjob she was giving him. The smacking of fingers squeezing at hobgoblin spit danced over the idle slurp of ball worship. The electrical waves rocketing through Amari's soul coaxed one twitch after another, and leaked foamy precum-- already enough to smear over Shale's dark lips like dropped lacquer.
As her lips tightened around the head of his spear, however, Amari broke the stare. He felt the massage leave his cock, and a desperate push press toward his body-- stopped of course by the limits of Shale's mortal form. What he wanted-- to feel every inch enveloped in wet ecstasy-- she could not give; far too big was his cock.
Dejected was she; Amari could feel it in the way her hands returned with less vigor than they departed with. She would feel shame if he broke off their tryst to comfort her, so he simply took his doting cream-palmed hand to her head-- a vain attempt to remind her that he cared and something so trivial would not break him from her. He could feel her sadness through his pleasure.
Yet still, his orgasm approached. The muscles ever burning with ballooning euphoria and a need to call forth a deluge of his semen upon the unsuspecting souls that begged him for it. Though his mind was on his desire for pelvis-deep fellatio, his cock was more than stimulated enough to rock him to the precipice. And, with all the frustration of a bruised manhood, he rolled free of the pile with sword in hand at the sound of a swarm of approaching footsteps.
A peculiar rectangle, some manner of eldritch interface, found its way from the pocket of Amari's hastily replaced pants into his hands. Two cords settled into each ear, along with the slow-stomp rhythm of a drum set's uncanny facsimile. His toes began to tap in time as the effected guitar clapped in the valleys between the kick and snare. By instinct he dropped into cow guard, his left foot forward and the glowing fuller of his blade held back like a threatened cobra.
From around him and the battle-ready stances of his harem, came an elf-- not dressed dissimilar to Shale: a hooded longcoat and urban survival gear. In such a full black was he dressed, a sharp contrast to the cyan deciduates that enveloped them, that it boggled the mind that they were able to catch the hobgoblin assassin flat-footed.
"Gotcha," cackled a second elf, a sadistic creaking echoed by another, then another. Repeated until they were several men outnumbered, and surrounded on all sides.
Mosh held her poleax at low-ready, prepared to charge. "I suppose you're some kind of merry band of robbers? Kidnappers perhaps?"
"Don't think us so dull," said one elf, standing up straight and brandishing a saber-knife, where the others crouched low and ready to tackle. "Like you, we're noble adventurers. The only problem is that we seek the same goal."
"So you've been tailing us a while then," Mosh growled, the line that joined her nose to her lip growing darker with a growing expression of disgust. Amari's periphery was enough to see Shale blanch a stronger pallor than already she blanched since the first elf left the woods.
An ease came over Amari's stance as the noise in his ear grew mellower and a jittering melody entered. His longsword settled on his right shoulder and his weight shifted to his rear foot. "So," he said, what jocularity that inhabited his voice beginning its faraway vacation. "You want to find the Fetish of Ky-Wassail."
"That's right, friend," the elf said as the two more on his flank began to close to measure. "Who more deserving than those spurned by society to claim the Cobalt God's boon? I'm afraid you're a rival."
A sour taste festered on Amari's tongue, the taste of disdain, as he bopped back and forth, so subtle as to deny notice. "You think you have what it takes to please the idol and earn the boon?"
"Of course I do!" The elf drew back in offense.
"Compared to me, it looks like you're lacking in a critical department."
"P-please," the elf said, flushed, flustered, and frustrated. "Only on such vain attributes would a man like you-- and whores like those-- rely. Real pleasure is given by skill."
"That's like, exactly what someone with a small dick would say," Ashalanter interrupted, the insult gone right past her ears. "I used to hear that so often from man-elves."
The elf hissed in anger. "The Khal Absalom whore has an opinion? The broodslut designed only for big tits? As if I would dignify a bitch like you-- let alone a she-elf-- with a response."
Mosh let out a chuckle as she stepped toward the rogue opposite herself. "Sounds like he used to hear that from a Khalsister often as well, Ash," she mused. "Don't feel ashamed, the sisters of Khal Absalom are incredibly discerning. Not everyone measures up."
The dreadlocked swordsman let out a quiet and despondent laugh, masking a primal impulse to take a limb for every insult. "Their words, not mine. I too, think skill is paramount." With a tilt, he popped his neck. "Are you sure you have skill, though?"
"Enough!" the elf growled. "Kaliarnus, teach this fool a lesson."
"With pleasure," one of the rogues creaked. The sound of a drawn saber filled the air like a stick around a metal bowl. He held it aloft in a high guard, and waited for Amari to move.
Amari remained much like he did, focused not on the assailant but on the decaying hiss of the musical breakdown in his ears, and swaying like a tree in a breeze from one foot to the other. He held up a left hand to keep the anxiously advancing harem from interfering. This fight belonged to him and his talent.
The elf thought to take an easy shot to the left neck, but Amari let the muted skipping of the hi-hat guide him into a relaxed crouch. The only blow that struck him was the gale that passed harmlessly over his head.
Growing in speed was the kick drum, first a four-count, then an eight in its measure as the sound funneled into a tense whine. He dared not lift his sword from his shoulder before the beat gave him leave. With a sidestep, then a backstep, then a hand-parry he made the elf's strikes amateur. With each level in the crescendoing rage of the elf and the swelling tension of the white noise in his ears, Amari grew more serene. His heart slowed, and any trouble that he could think of remained purely conceptual. In that music he spoke his invulnerability into law.
In his ears it was almost inconceivable that the noise could grow any louder, until like a trap disarmed the sound was cut, and replaced with the sound of some mechanical titan commanding the listener to fall. This moment was the last that Amari would feel that serenity, and the last in which his opponent would have the initiative.
With the sudden force of a tsunami, the bass quaked his brain and pumped seismic signals that sounded like the strangled screeching of a bolt-shot thunderbird through his body. Alight was a fire in him like that of the earth herself screaming his name in the throes of orgasm. With that power, that primal gnosis of his own eminentia coursing through his arteries, he rendered a great cut that threatened to blow through the parry of the enemy. In perfect sync with the four-beat whine he kicked his leg, a queer feint obscuring the wrathful stroke from over his shoulder, barely escaped by the enemy's hasty backjump.
Twisting like the porcine groan that flew from one ear to the other over a crunchy drum fill, he transitioned into a thrust, coaxing a drop of blood from the elfin ear, and crashing him to a shoulder's meeting. With the arrival of the next beat, his left foot pivoted back and his sword cleaved toward the elf's neck. The thump of metal against flesh, the red scent of war-earned coins, and then the unceremonious bump of a fallen head and another of the body.
"Fuck!" cried the lead rogue. "Bail, friends! We shall see this whoreson right at the Cavern of Iz-Agaga!"
As the bass gave way to the same chirping melody and the tsunami settled back into a gentle sea, the ill-intentioned cadre melted into the brush. Amari let out another measured breath, and removed the cables from his ears.
"So," Shale sighed, twinged with something deeper that nearly escaped Amari's notice. "Suppose this expedition just got a lot harder."
"Our big, strong Amari kicked that one's ass! I don't think we have a thing to worry about." Ashalanter, bubbles nearly visible as they floated from her personality, replied. Her two arms wrapped one of Amari's.
Mosh chewed a cheek as she shouldered her unbloodied poleax. "I have a feeling they're not going to resort to such forward means next time."
"I'm afraid you're right," Shale agreed.
"Mm," Ashalanter added. "Man-elves can be tricky when they go rogue."
"Well," Amari spoke, wiping the blood from his blade's cyan glow. "We'll just have to rely on our strength and our wit to beat them."
"And your cock!" Ashalanter giggled, coaxing a smirk even out of the unusually stern hobgoblin.
With a grin of amusement, Amari replied. His cock, after all, would have to win them the boon of the Ky-Wassail Fetish. "And my cock."
ACT TWO
The entrance to the Cavern of Iz-Agaga was at once grand and yet, unassuming. Over its mouth was a tapestry of vines, and from the floor in front of it grew great ferns that cloaked its presence. The only way one could truly parse its existence was the pair of cracked statues of a time long lost; each was of an artistic suggestion of a nude woman, wearing only a g-string and a strange device over her eyes. Her body was shaped in flat surfaces, her prodigious bust made of two great pyramids that burst forth from a much smaller chest, and hips cresting into legs that ended not in feet but in dagger points jabbed into the plinth beneath her.
Amari pondered the portcullis. Somewhere deep within this prelapsarian stronghold was an idol. They said it was made of gold and cobalt and was suspended from the cave's ceiling by steel-weave cables. They said its mouth was carved to be open, with tongue lolling. They said, that although its body was carved of heavy metals, its pussy accepted what it was given, if it deemed one worthy to even try, and if it was satisfied with how one fucked it, it would give a boon uncraftable by mortal hands. To even get that far, to the coveted Ky-Wassail Fetish, one had to be crafty, nimble, and strong.
His orcish knight arrived behind him, lifting up his armor coat for him to slide the sky-blue sleeves of his of his hoodie into the arm-holes. She came to his front, buckling the coat over the scraped and patchy pinup of a goblin, hiding those sharp, grinning teeth beneath brown leather.
In turn, he helped her don her armor. He felt the warmth of her thigh as he knelt down to slid her chausses up those forest-green curves. He felt them as yielding as a feather pillow when she did not flex, comforting enough to sleep upon, and then as hard as the Cliffs of Curr when she did. It was these quiet moments that tasted like candy to his soul-- and at this unsatisfied moment, bane to his balls. Mosh and he helping each other arm was a tradition they had shared since the forming of the Blue Rose Harem. With sugar-tasting lips he kissed the viridian plains, before he clipped the chausses to them. He held the mail bodysuit open for her armored legs to slide into, stashing away the pleasant crease that formed on her underarmor and beckoned him toward the green lips beneath.
Across the way, Shale impatiently toyed with the mystic cube that floated atop Ashalanter's magic staff, while the air-headed elf fought hard to get her wedgeheels onto her feet. So vigorously did she hop that one of her massive, magical breasts, a strong bikini tanline there that exposed her original fair skin, fell loose from its halter, and she pouted. Amari felt inconsiderate for being so endeared to her failure, but her clumsiness instilled in him that kind of soft-boiling adoration that one had for their beau's small features. Not to understate his appreciation for the larger features that now both bounced against each other pendulum.
Gathered in force at the entrance now, as prepared as their still-raw selves could be for this undertaking, the other three looked to Amari, and in turn he looked to them. His heart saw each of them haloed by perfection; and the special word they together chose, to describe a relationship of lust and companionship that pushed beyond the bedroll, pressed against his lips. "Bitch," he let himself whisper, and they took their first steps through the dripping vines and into the tunnel.
What met them was a relatively shallow room. Glass panels mounted into plastic mounted onto the walls lay cleaved and cracked, spark stolen centuries ago from the copper rope splayed through the shatter. Across the room was a gate that spanned the entirety of the atrium, left to right and top to bottom, and etched into its metal face was a series of straight lines connected by small nodes. It formed a kind of eldritch netting that had no place in Amari's only-human ken. This was the domain of the harem's lovely sorceress, and she was crouched down and inspecting something on the floor, the data inside her left boob glowing cerulean through her skin and illuminating the chamber.
"Look everyone," she announced, holding up a handful of black substance that oozed between her fingers, webbed to the ground in a foul stickiness. "Slime!"
"Are you sure you should be touching that?" Shale inquired, pulling as much condescension as she could.
Ashalanter pouted. "I'm trying to help," she whined, flicking the goo back the floor and rising to a cocked hip. "Back in the Sorority, some of the sorceresses used slime for like, familiar work and stuff. It's not really a substance, it's more like a bunch of really tiny little animals, or um, automata. You can use the System to manipulate them, and make them do stuff you want! We can get past the door!"
"Would animated slime help us break the door down or something?" Amari inquired.
"No, silly!" Ashalanter beamed, bounding to the door and pointing to the crevices. "The slime is the key to the door! It goes into these lines and like, zaps it so it opens!"
This was far from the first time Ashalanter explained like it was nothing some inscrutable concept that left the rest of their heads short-circuited; however, it never ceased to be a shock that anything lived between those pointed ears but dry air and calliope music. The others shared a few speechless glances and Mosh urged Ashalanter to continue. "So what might we need to make this slime-- er-- go?"
"Uh..." the elf replied, as if the person that was home inside her skull had suddenly left. "I dunno. Maybe like a-- a button?" And, just as quickly as Ashalanter's genius had came down and bestowed divine insight on their struggle, it left them nearly as stuck as they began. "I guess just look around for anything out of the ordinary?"
It was moments like these when Amari was nearly overwhelmed with the desire to just bend Ashalanter over and fuck her until what few thoughts she had that were not already themed around his cock were dissolved in the tide of his jizz and left her a cocksleeve. His sober brain, the side not a fiend from thirst for her pussy juice, knew that he would miss the real Ashalanter: she whose knowledge was so bizarrely deep and yet so powerfully incomplete, she whose passion for his balls was only rivaled by the passion for learning.
He did as she asked, though his cock remained a pillow of heat in his pants, as did the rest. Mosh, as the tallest, scoured the ceiling for any hint of something besides a root poking through the stone. Shale poked at every inconsistency in the walls, hoping for a hint of a secret lever or button. And staring at the laces of his shoes was Amari, scraping the ooze from side to side in search of something laying on the ground.
The first time he felt it, he forgot almost immediately. A subtle tap on the leather sole of his shoe that hid beyond notice. It was only on the second time, lucky that it happened, that he found it. A small stone, covered in that black slime.
"Ash," he called out as he lifted it from its gooey rest. It pulsed with a green cybertronic power, like a geode cracked in only the right places. The patterns on it were like a lattice, some occult symbology composed of those sames lines and nodes and at each intersection read what he could only assume to be "1" or "0".
The sorceress's shoeheels made a moist clacking as she eagerly bounded over, snatching the stone away from Amari and burying her button nose in it, her eyes crossed from holding it as close. "A binary rune! Like, rad!"
"I found one too!" signaled Shale, pulling one from a hole in a glass panel.
"And I," said Mosh, clasping one from the ledge within a loose ceiling tile.
Ashalanter eagerly colllected the runes, and studied them, taking each node's number into the margins of the book that earlier she read. Amari wondered if she had always been so careless with her possessions, or if this was merely the result of overeagerness to please. She muttered to herself, and all souls were rapt with their attention of watching her work. With a final look over her notes and the runes therein, she slammed the pages shut with a whump, tucked it between her arm and her titan glowing tit-- and dropped a stone on the ground, without a care into the sludge.
"Ash, what are you doing?" Shale interrupted, stopping herself from diving for the rune.
"Just trust me! Rise!"
The sludge began to bubble and boil around their feet, their toes feeling the warmth pumping through it like veins. It began to slough from the walls to the floor, and Amari saw it slip from under his feet to reveal the clean floor underneath. Slipping and sliding it went, growing into an ever swelling bulb, until a pile of black goo, lit with a rainbow spinning disc, stood before them.
"What the..." Mosh spake incredulously.
"Next, plug!" Ashalanter said as she dropped the next rune into the muck. In an instant, though the room filled with a near-silent whine, it sailed past Mosh and Shale with an inhuman speed and slammed into the door, permeating each crack until the gray holes were filled with an umbral sludge, and only a small sphere was left on the door's face.
Giddily, the elf slid the final rune into the slime. "Shock!" The ooze hummed with a blue aura and a thud could be heard from within the walls. Slowly the door split in three, and each triangular segment sank into the floor and wall and ceiling, revealing a sheet of darkness that obscured the far tunnel. Proudly, Ash placed her hands on her hips, and turned her cheek expectantly.
With joyous pride, Amari embraced her, feeling milk-full breasts press into his upper chest with such force that he half-expected them to pop. He gave Ash exactly what she asked for, a loving kiss on the cheek. Of course, he knew she could translate binary script, but, "How did you know you needed to put the stones into the slime?"
"My aunt always told me," she tittered. "Most of science is guesswork!"
Mosh shook her head. "I'm thankful you're here, girl, but by the lady's chains, you worry me."
"Now!" came a familiar voice from the shadows, and in several blinks, those damnable bandits crossed the room. With each step they became like a mist of junk data, and coalesced again ten or twenty feet further. Their forms dissolved into that inky black sheet, and Shale did not intend to give them that peace.
Firing a bolt wildly into the umbra, then reloading with the speed only someone drunk on murder could gather, she screamed. "You fucking bastards! I'll kill you!"
She pushed her foot back as if to take off after them, but Amari and Mosh, with their fighter's speed, clasped her to their chests. "I'll eat their fucking hearts! I'll rip their little pricks off and grind them into paste!"
Amari struggled to hold the kicking and shouting hobgoblin, her pointed teeth biting at the air and her ice-blue skin seeming to burn as magma. Twice she nearly broke from him, only to be thankfully brought back to his grasp by Mosh's unrelenting arms.
"Calm down, Shale, it's okay!" Amari pleaded.
"You won't get anywhere rushing in like a fool. You'll only be surrounded," Mosh added.
Ashalanter could only provide a concerned and somewhat frightened expression as she trotted over to them, and Shale's cargo kicks slowed to a suspended crawl.
"Talk to me," said Amari.
"They outmaneuvered me. They hunted the hunter. They must die," replied Shale with the hiss of cruel violence dripping from her words.
With a sigh, Amari nodded. Only when he was certain that Shale would not bolt did he set her feet back to the floor. "I promise, this place will chew them up. And I'm sure if they try to pull something, you'll put a bolt between every pair of eyes those blowhards have."
Shale looked to Amari with a grim seriousness that rarely crossed her cheeks, nor befit her. "You are fucking right, I will."
Amari pressed his face to her forehead and kissed her, moving down to her lips only when she expectantly looked up at him. In her kiss he tasted ice; indeed, sometimes Shale frightened him with just how ready she was to slay those who threatened the harem-- or even just leveled a petty insult at himself. It was the unfortunate fright of a bystander, one who knows that the blade will not reach for their throat, but uncomfortable nonetheless.
"I've never seen magic like theirs before," Amari remarked, as he stared long into the dark, attempting to find any hint of a silhouette.
"Male elves have like, innate magic," Ash explained, reciting the knowledge that to her, as an elf, was common. "Each time they cast it their life gets shorter, and they can do stuff like run faster than you can even see!"
"Don't male elves live a lot shorter than females?" asked Mosh.
"Yep! That's why most don't use it. Just nasty types like these idiots."
"Wish they'd spend their life a little faster," Mosh spat, before being the first to take a step toward that night-sky blanket.
With a thunderous click followed by a buzz like locusts, the following room was bathed in a sickly green-tint light, as large glass squares on the ceiling cast it forward into the night. Another panel on the wall lit up to the image of some strange creature screaming and squirming as the smiling face of a drawn vampire giggled in the corner. What was lain before them was a pit, so deep as to outpace the light glowing from the ceiling, and dotted across it were translucent platforms colored red, green, yellow and blue, suspended by some force that one could only catch sight of when the light hit beneath the platform in exactly the right way.
"Now what the hell is this?" said the orc.
Shale gazed to the other side of the chasm. It was that typical short glance she gave that Amari had learned to trust. She picked up a piece of glass and skipped it at a platform. When it did not phase through the borders of the windowy substance, but instead skid to a whining stop atop it, Shale cracked her knuckles, and leapt to the platform.
Amari wondered to himself if she knew how entrancing her confidence was. That was the thing he loved most, that trust she had in her own instinct as unshakable as a castle wall, the knowledge that if she only took the first leap, the rest would come with ease. His eyes watched the backside of her pants, the ass within them threatening to rip through, as she leaped again, her boots grinding her to a halt on the green construct. Mesmerized was he, that he barely noticed he was the last one left at the precipice.
He placed the cords back into his ears again. What joined him was a guitar like the peaceable bubbling of a brook, easy drums dripping with the salted tears of someone who smoked way too much pot. The first jump came like the dripping of a vagina's lifewater onto a thirsting tongue, refreshing and relaxing as he turned his back and indulged himself in a lurid gaze at Mosh's chainmail-straining chest. He pressed two fingers to his lips and split them with his tongue, as his eyes lazily closed on the flirtatious thread that bound their gaze together. He tried to ignore the ache coming back to grasp his ballsack, begging to be let loose inside one of his bitches.
Groaning into his ears was the voice like a bow drawn hastily across violin strings, made by some magic in tune again. Words of some desert roadstop spoke into his psyche, as if related over a tavern's drunken table. When next he landed on a platform, one foot stopped him, and he hopped about several times in time to the snare's snap.
In the quiet of the music's rest, he heard the snap of a bowstring, the frightened squeak of an elfin bimbo, and the snap of a missed arrow cracking the wall. The music seemed to work with him, filling him with the strength of a harder, slower thrust, as the drums began to slam like pickaxes in a crypto mine. The final cry before the chorus pulled him toward Mosh, crossing a gap to be her parrying dagger, landing with the thump of a strike against leather.
His sword in hand, he took account, with the lethargic pounding of a bass guitar in his ear. Across the way, their rivals for the Fetish were shooting arrows at them in an attempt to damn them to careening into the chasm.
"Damn! We need to hurry across!" shouted Shale to the others before taking another leap forward.
Mosh placed a hand on Amari's back, encouraging him forward through the whistling hail of arrows. To the left corner he rushed, crossing the ravenous chasm biting at his belly, over the hiss of fletchings through stale air. Mosh soared from the right corner, splitting them up again and making for a less tempting target.
Shale crossed what for anyone else among them would be an impossible number of platforms in such a short time, leaping every time from a bestial crouch, snarling and snapping at the air in her swirling wrath. Ash behind her lagged, but still in front of the orc and human.
It was when Amari felt the feathers of the next arrow touch his cheek did he decide it was time for another leap. With a charge accented by the raucous drumfill at the coda of a screeching guitar solo, he rolled to the next platform, just in time to process the sight of Ashalanter losing her precarious balance, the hungering depths reaching up to pull her into its maw. Amari was suddenly deaf to the music, its beats only a distant message from the stars filtered through the atmospheric sieve.
He ran like in a dream, feet stifled by some kind of bug in the System that tried to stay him. He cursed the cruel gods, swearing to cleave through to the digital realm to slay every last merciless inhabitant there if they took his Ashalanter from him. He heard her anguish, her eyes dripping tears like wash-water from whipped hair, as she fell. If his boots hadn't weighed him down, he would have thrown himself off that damnable edge with her.
Until that steel-blue blur lanced into Ashalanter's chest and collapsed her back into safety.
The relief that came over him was like the crushing weight of the bottom of the sea, weakening his knees as he stared in adoration at such raw determination carved into the curled black lip of the hobgoblin. With one hand she held aloft her crossbow, impossible to hold straight as she loosed bolts wildly at the enemies, while the other hand shielded the elf from return fire. He could smell Shale's thirst for war-blood from still this distance.
One lucky bolt slew a foe-man, puncturing his temple as he rose to loose another arrow. At this turn, the rivals routed deeper, from the fortunate found shots of Shale's crossbow, and the charging orc-knight that was closing to measure with them.
As Amari settled to the platform's safety, he let loose the breath that all hold when doom strikes its viper head. Mosh too allowed herself to sit against a wall at the solid ground on the far end, shutting her eyes against the sweat that dripped from her forehead. Soon it became obvious, by the adoring stare that he saw rise from Ashalanter's teary eyes, that they were having a moment; he decided watching from a distance was best. What he didn't expect, at Shale's probing glance down to the elf, was the elf's launching herself at her rescuer. Ash's plush pink lips parted and seemed to strangle Shale's, as her tongue speared forth to her rescuer's mouth.
Taken by surprise, Shale pulled her hands back, but Ashalanter did not let loose her choking embrace. Only after a few words stopped short by Ashalanter's unrelenting kisses, did Shale start to smile, and then laugh, and then kiss back.
Amari was ecstatic to see Shale's joy return, as the two made out like young spouses on the honeymoon. Partly that contentment at the crunched melody of her laugh, and partly the image of two of his bitches locking lips, stirred stars within the core of his cock.
"You're like, amazing, Shale!" Ashalanter blurted out the side of her mouth when they parted just enough, before pressing again. "You're-- so-- mm-- cool!"
Soon enough, their breath was no longer pumped directly into the other's mouths, and Ashalanter loosened her clutches on her savior.
"I--" Shale managed to eke out before Ashalanter silenced her again with a grin and another peck to the lips. Several more times she tried to speak, before the giddy elf allowed her to continue with her sentence, looking up from the bosom in which she rested her head. Shale ran her fingers through that gold-white hair with a gentle smile. "I bet Amari liked watching that, at least."
Ash tittered. "I bet!"
Amari smiled at the pile of intertwined flesh across the gap, and interjected. "Could watch you two go at it all day."
Shale kissed the elfin forehead. "If you're in this mood a lot, I might have to keep you in my tent when you're not in Amari's," she teased, fingers playing through golden strands.
With a running longjump, Amari landed next to the two with the crack like a wooden branch against armor. He watched Shale greet his gaze with tenderness that quickly faded to a heartbreak as she stared at some point on his upper arm. Amari wondered what she was looking at, until he felt the feeling of some tightness in that spot, as if her stare was pressing into him with that force. What he saw when he traced her gaze there, was the broken haft of an arrow jabbing through the gap between his coat's rings like a doctor's syringe.
"Oh, fuck," he muttered, poking at the haft and feeling the pain shock from his neck to his wrist. Suddenly, the desire that pounded uncomfortably in his shaft was eaten by the sting of injury. He didn't seem to be bleeding heavily-- indeed he didn't seem to be bleeding hardly at all. In fact, of bigger concern to him were the tears welling in Shale's long crimson stare.
"Shale, what's wrong?" asked Ashalanter, those tears not escaping her notice either. "Are you still upset that they sneaked up on us?"
"Now Amari's hurt," Shale replied.
"That's not your fault," Amari argued, attempting to comfort his bitch.
"If I hadn't let them get the drop on us--"
"They'd still be here, trying to kill us."
Shale shook her head and stood, brushing the both of them from her shoulder, and leapt the remaining platforms to the other side.
Amari let her go, if only because he needed to see Mosh's expert hands to treat his wound.
"How does it feel?" she asked him as she inspected his injury, sniffing at it.
"Like a punch that lasts forever," he replied, stroking at her armored waist.
"Xa Mazakian be praised," Mosh moaned, her thoughts clearly on the feeling that must be coursing through Amari's arms at the moment, and imagining that she instead was in his shoes. She dripped a few soothing drops of salve on the slowly-oozing wound. "Who feels pain is her domain alone, for she relieves and doles in measure equal." With a quick and unprompted yank, the arrow came loose from the wound, spinning Amari's eyes about like loose change, and she pressed an adhesive strip to the hole, sealing it shut.
Idly while he recovered from the arrow's final shockwave of discomfort, he pulled Mosh's waist to him, and hugged his lips to hers. In turn she rested her arms about his shoulders and kissed him back. He felt her mouth, softened by middle age, wrap itself around his and pull. They could not idle here for long, though they were both nigh-overcome with the urge to lay here and bang forever.
What rose before them was a rotunda, empty again as the elves were either hiding within or had already moved on. Like the atrium, this room's floor was covered in the black ooze deeper than before, and it was stirring.
"I get the feeling something's about to attack us." Mosh's hand clapped against the haft of her poleax.
"You have a sixth sense or something?" Shale asked, curt.
"For war, always."
"Uh," Ashalanter interjected, pointing to the glow that pulsed through the sludge at Amari's feet. "I hope not."
From the goo that smeared the ground rose ten spires about them, at first indistinguishable stalactites, but then from them gained a humanoid form too similar to the statues outside to be coincidental: polygonal breasts and hips, sharp extremities that were not bound to the floor, but welded to polearms that grew from their own flesh. Their helmets were cubes atop their heads and each plate on their arms and legs was rectangular.
Speed-drums fell into Amari's ears along with a spasmodic bass guitar and the ringing of some faux siren. With two free hands he got to work; fighting alone would not serve his harem.
As like a stripper's erotic flow, he swung around Shale's body by her waist. He kissed her deep, rolling her eyes back in her head as he rolled his form against her. The titan between his legs pressed between hers, coaxing a shiver from her and a whisper of "Oh, fuck." Through her hands that crossbow lit with a pink power, imparting that glow to the bolt. With a giddy pirouette, Shale let her weapon's sights magnetize to the oozing foe, and loosed that bolt, puncturing a gooey hole into it.
Amari swept his legs back and forth, charging across the field toward Ashalanter, whose left hand was filling with blue flame and whose breasts were filling with blue light and losing mass to the pull of data into her magic attacks. As he passed her he left her with a handprint sticking out from beneath her miniskirt, a clap echoing into the room, and a somewhat stinging right hand. The tittering joy of Ashalanter contrasted the beam of clear and molten air that jet forth from her hands and began to deconstitute the slime being advancing toward her.
Mosh was caught in a fencing match with another, polearms clashing and hooking one another, each trying to get their fateful step behind the other for a killing blow. Amari sneered as he charged in, leading with a flying knee into the slime's head. Unexpectedly, what met was a steel-hard clank and a searing pain through his leg-- but the monster melted into the floor nonetheless.
As two more beings menaced them, Amari, through his wound's grave ache and his knee's pounding bruise, gave what he knew Mosh needed. He pressed two fingers into her mouth and gripped her by the jaw. She begged him with her eyes, and with a mean-spirited grin that sent her knees weak, he obliged. With that same stinging right hand he struck her across the side of her head. He watched as she nearly toppled, dizzy and funny-walking as he guarded her recovery in a jaunty c-walk. When her eyes opened, colorless irises awoke, and a snarling grin signaled the arrival of the legendary orcish focus. Breaking into a merciless sprint, she nearly knocked him over as she entered a dance of war far less rhythmic than his, breaking in twain an ooze monster, before engaging the other.
He broke out from the fray, sword dancing and swinging in circles as he tried to spy a place he could help. Instead, he found his ever-talented harem having all the fun themselves, and smiled. Ashalanter held the creatures at bay with unseen force sourced from the wellspring in her boobs, while Shale picked them off by shots aimed with stolen glances at Amari's crotch. Mosh cracked skulls with the haft of her poleax, every glancing hit that her opponents gave her fueling her next crashing strike.
And when the bass dropped into Amari's skull, so too did a gloved fist and the cackling face of the foe-elf.
Birdsong was all he could hear, and above him he saw four ceilings. He was again deaf to the music, hearing nothing but tinnitus and his own heartbeat. To his left he saw Mosh, surrounded on all sides by the rival men. Though their sabers could not cut her chainmail, the blood-blue epaulets she wore with pride fell from her prize coat, and she was tiring to more hits than even she could weather. To his right, he saw Shale, screaming like the one who jumps in the loved one's grave, fencing in a tearful rage with her daggers, desperately trying to keep their assailants at measure. As much as she could drive them back with beams of lightning, Ashalanter's anxiety forbade her from hitting her targets; the data in her breasts was quickly draining-- shrinking those once titanic spheres down to a fraction of what they once were. And finally, directly above him he saw the glint of a blade in the light, driving down toward him.
With a hand that felt the bleeding cut of the blade, he forced it to the side.
"Give up," he heard. A quiet order. He parried the next blow as well.
"Fuck you," he muttered, before swallowing a giant breath and leaping from his back to legs less rigid than the vines that cloaked this place's entrance.
He raised his sword to longpoint toward the elf, who scowled down the fuller at him. The music returned to him, acoustic and mellow-- ethereal and meditative. What emotion did find him was only of contentment, and what ken burrowed its way into his soul was only of his ability, his superiority. He didn't let this foul cuckold hear a single upset breath, nor a single frustrated brow. This brought naught but rage to the elf, who charged foolishly.
A left parry came easily, the ring of church bells. A right thrust followed, the slide of flagpoles against one another. The two singers in his ears sang like wailing angels, over a warbling guitar like the peace of drowning in the open sea. He wobbled back and forth, shoulders and hips rolling in time with the groove that carried him.
Only by the sight of their man, through blood and bruises draining from his tawny forehead, did the bitches rally. Shale screamed louder and swung recklessly in a wide arc, slicing blood from their black coats. With the opening Ashalanter let out a cry to the realm beyond and loosed from her nipples two arcane beams that sheared through the enemies, divorcing their shoulders from their chests. The force burned through her reserves, leaving her-- catastrophically-- flat-chested.
With a mighty swing about her head, Mosh cleaved one foul elf from the shoulder to the waist, and flowed into a thrust, lancing the point through the foe-man's neck. Blood painted across her blade-torn coat, as her ghost-white eyes grew more bloodshot with sweat and battle fever.
Amari's battle continued, the elf thrusting, and Amari stepping to the left to counter. The elf parries into a cut, Amari steps back. Not one strike hit him since the first, even though he seemed to fight two elves. So thorough was this fugue that the music had dipped him in that the idea of letting one strike succeed never occurred to the beat that governed his movements. His left leg craned, feinting six fast kicks before the seventh completed and knocked a tooth loose from the elf's head.
The final cut was here, and Amari placed his full weight behind it. Powered by the hips, the sword fell from the left high to the right low and sliced deep-- into nothing. At the last moment, the elf dissolved into the air like he had been built of it in the first place, denying the final cut. If any rage or frustration thought about entering Amari's mind, it didn't reach him before he was tackled to the ground by a wailing hobgoblin.
Burying her salt-soaked face into his arrow-shot shoulder, she wept and wept. The first thing he thought to do was hold her, and let her sob as much as she liked. He gave a confirming look to Mosh and Ashalanter, who-- startled though they were-- did not have such a strong reaction.
"Don't mourn me, Shale," Amari whispered. "I'm not dead."
"Yeah?" Shale hissed, her face bluing harder with her fury. "Well we all thought you were!"
He pat her on the back, and didn't argue as she sniffed and returned to her embrace. The elf and orc crouched to their knees, adding their hands to Shale's back.
"You all don't get it," she said, muffled into the fabric of his hoodie. "I just keep fucking up."
"You aren't fucking up, Shale," Mosh replied. "You commit to this harem as much as the rest of us."
"First, I let those bastards surround us! They could have killed us before we even saw their ugly faces!" Shale cried. "Then, I let Amari take an arrow."
"Yes, I took an arrow, but Ash was about to die. Saving her was the right thing to do," Amari explained, his heart sinking further into his stomach wtih every sob.
"I could have done both," Shale grumbled indignantly.
Exhaling, Amari set Shale at a sit in front of him, and held her by both arms. He felt her lachrymose stare dare him to say a damn thing disagreeing. Unfortunate for her that he had already decided to do so anyway. "Shale," he explained. "You have to understand that somehow stopping the arrow from where you were, and still having time to save Ash-- which, might I add, was already an insanely close call-- is fucking impossible. You have to give yourself a break."
"Even though I still disagree with you, that's not even the thing that makes me feel worst," Shale eked out through a diminishing sob. "I see the way you look when I suck your cock. That you're disappointed I can't fit your whole cock in my mouth. And I want to be able to please you the way you want."
"Hey," Ashalanter spoke up. "Like, Mosh and I can't fit it in our mouths either."
"It's not your fault that my cock is huge," Amari tried to get through. "And yes, I'd like it if you could fit it all in your mouths-- all of you-- but it's not reasonable for me to expect the impossible."
"Don't you think I know that?"
Amari's idle movement stopped, and he nearly short-circuited. No, he didn't think she knew that.
"There's a part of me that knows-- conceptually-- that I don't have superpowers. But the bigger part of me, the part that lives it's life pressing against the boundaries of my subconscious, believes that for you all, for the Harem, that I should have superpowers. That I have to have superpowers to be loved, to be useful."
Amari pondered for a moment longer. A rational mind was not making Shale's emotions tick-- this was something his expertise did not cover. Something a kiss and a mighty pair of balls could not fix.
"I want to be able to break free of that," Shale continued. "Because it makes me so upset all the time, I just couldn't hide it when you all were really in danger."
"We're like, always here for you," Ashalanter said with a gentle pat on the pack.
"We swore an oath to one another," Mosh said. "That these bitches would not be fair-weather friends."
"I..." Shale started. "I thought for sure this would ruin it. Amari? You don't think less of me?"
"No," Amari simply stated. "No, I don't think less of you. But what I want to do is stand with you as you work through this. I'm not going to dump you by the roadside over a little bit of emotional unrest."
One of Shale's eyes looked trusting, while the other suspected trickery.
"I love the way you move through life-- how sure you are of everything you do. That the only question you ask is how we can do what we do, not how what we do is even possible. And as much as I love that, you have to learn how to keep it from wreaking havoc on you. And we, all of us-- while we can't understand what you feel, we are here to stand behind you."
"Where do we start?"
"I imagine we start where we already are," Amari laughed. "By getting to the Fetish. Maybe it'll have something that can help."
With a smile like pearls glinting from the bottom of the sea, Shale nodded.
ACT THREE
The whispers of divinity echoed through their souls as they stepped through the portcullis into the final chamber. They stood before a staircase that rose up to an altar, and there, bathed in the glow of four lights embedded in the steel embossed floor, was the hanging body of the Fetish of Ky-Wassail.
Amari was awash in its glory; all the rumormongers said about this statue was true. It was made of cobalt and lined with gold and iridium, it's left eye was sapphire and its right eye was ruby. It's mouth hung permanently ajar and it's tongue rolled over its bottom lip as if to lick the underside of a penis. Each breast was half made of brass, one-quarter of iridium, and one quarter of tungsten. It's labia were naught but a crease between golden legs, that hid the hole beneath; yet, that slit was bare between both legs spread like wings and pointing to the sky, suspended by the ankles. He wondered if it truly expanded to accept what penis it was given, because from here it looked like it wouldn't even spread to allow his tip.
"I almost can't believe it's really here," Mosh spoke, taking a few steps forward.
"It's so pretty." Wistful was Ashalanter's speech, her eyes wide with awe.
"Well, I guess there's only one thing to do," Amari said, beginning to ascend the staircase towards the goal, only to be cut off by warping and torn air in front of him. From it stepped their last surviving rival, with a defeated scowl on his eyebrows. He looked like he had aged twenty years since he disappeared from their duel.
"You made it," he said. "How about that."
"Give up," Amari replied. "You're outnumbered and far outmatched."
"I won't stop you from getting to your goal. But I'm getting that boon."
"And you want it so bad you're willing to get your entire crew killed? You should have left well enough alone, let alone after the first slaying."
"I don't suppose you know what it's like? Being so mistreated by your own species's women, so dismissed and disrespected, and humiliated to live one-tenth their lifespan? And then to watch those same women lavish their attentions upon other species in some vain attempt to breed their own species into extinction?"
"It's not our fault male elves are worthless lovers," Ashalanter giggled. "Even if what you said was true, like, at all."
"See what I mean? Call me a liar and denigrate me in the same sentence," replied the rogue.
"The politics of elves don't interest me beyond how they interest my bitches," Amari sighed, growing impatient. "If you can't keep up with the she-elves' desires, then that's not their fault. And it has even less to do with us getting to the Fetish."
"I hoped I would get to you, but alas, I won't. So I'm going to make sure you can't interfere with what is rightfully mine." Around the harem rose a wall of violet electricity, sparking like plasma against glass, growling at them like rabid insects. On the elf's already-rough face, the creases grew deeper, darker, and more plentiful in an instant. His hair began to gray and fall out, and freckles grew into dark liver spots on skin painted an ever-sicklier pallor.
"Not only your comrades, but yourself too?" Mosh spat. "When will you learn that enough death is enough?"
"Silence, orcish whore. See the vanity of women. Soon, I will have the boon. My current state will cease to be and your opinion will change like a flipped coin."
Amari snickered. What women loved most, of course, was being told that what they really wanted was actually the thing they didn't want. And how the men that had the least to offer were so insistent that by changing one or two superficial things, they too could be a success. While the Fetish's boon might add inches to one's cock, this posturing sure wouldn't.
He lifted a testing hand to the wall of lightning, but recused it once he felt the bubbling heat and needles pricking into his fingers. There was naught to do here but wait and see.
"Awaken, Ky-Wassail! I come to seek your boon!" the elf declared, and the idol awoke.
The air filled with a deep hum and green arcs zapped through the metal cables that held her up. The gems that made her eyes filled with light and washed the room in red and blue glow, blazing into the deepest fearful fathoms of those who saw her countenance. "At your call, I awaken. I shall test your worth, shed your trappings and bare nude before me." The voice was three crushing altos in disharmony, and her tone was that of tinfoil crumpled and shredded.
The elf obliged, ripping his clothes free from his form. Ashalanter barely held back her retching with a polite hand at the sight. His body had become like a discarded burlap sack, folded over itself and covered in warts and the marks of hard living. Where once Amari had clashed with a man not much older than he, he now saw a shriveled man, shaking hands with death. "I am here," he declared, his voice imparting shake to the marbles that hung sagged and low a finger from his pelvis, and the warty bean that could only charitably be called his penis.
"I have declared you unfit," replied the Fetish without pause.
"You-- you dare!"
"Your body is warped and ugly with age, and your penis cannot perform the actions I crave."
"But, I could lick your--"
"Enough! I will suffer no more of your begging!" the Fetish roared, the walls shaking their ancient dust into the lungs of the Harem. "You have failed my test. I shall grant you only the mercy of leaving this life now, rather than live more as a decrepit husk!"
"No--" started the elf before his body froze, his mouth locked open and his hand pressed forward against the air. Slowly, his head, then his shoulders, and piece by piece, the rest of him, evaporated into component code flowing into the air like scattered ashes. Deleted from this existence as if he had scarcely existed in the first place. Amari felt the lump rise in his throat; not once today had he truly been frightened of their goal, until now.
The barrier that kept them disappeared with its source, but the light within the Fetish's skull did not go out. Instead, it seemed to turn to stare daggers into Amari's soul. "Yet more? Seek you my boon as well?"
Three hands stroked him, as each bitch offered her encouraging look.
"You've got this, sweetness."
"Like, she'll love you; promise!"
"Your cock has no equal. We'll be waiting for you when you succeed."
Amari took the first trepidatious step onto the stairs. His heart pounded against its ribs, as though it were imprisoned and trying to break through by sheer force. In his mouth was the bleak taste of fear, like ice cubes washed in poison ivy. In his ears swept a guitar pick, ticking like a dysphonic clock; the muttering of a singer on his fifth day awake. The cutting stare that lanced deep into his lungs sounded like the distant howling of spectral wolves.
The stairs stretched like a road, spearing so far that the altar disappeared; behind him and before him was a void as dark as sleep, and the ascent that yet lay in front of him speared forever into that death-black sea.
And yet, within a single blink, he stared that sapphire and ruby in its orgasmic face, waiting in the impatience of millions of years for him to prove himself unlike the last failed challenger.
His hands shook, and yet found the buckles of his armor-coat and severed them with ease. With each clock-strike of the guitar strings, his fingers slipped a new leather hole from its spike, and loosened the arrow-pierced jack. Soon, the goblin mascot that he wore was not smiling flirtatiously, but struck in divine panic, silently begging her dimensions to permit her to avert her gaze. As he parted with the cerulean hoodie, before that idol, before a god whose flesh was made of stone older than mountains, he showed his flesh. His muscles were tight with anxiety, valleys cut into his abdominals and pectorals squared against his belly. Creases dove from his hips toward his pride, Shae-Karani's maker's mark upon Amari's masterwork body.
The gem's coal stare burned lines across every part of him, tracing each etching on his flesh in ravenous hunger. What it lingered on though, was the zipper of his jeans and the mountain that pressed against it, warming his cock like simmering water.
Amari pushed the button through the slit in the fabric, and pulled the zipper down. With two thumbs he pressed down on his belt, pulling his underwear and denim trousers with it. He felt the stale and chilled environment touch, on each of all twenty-two inches, one by fleshy one. His balls, frigid by the cold's bitter touch, grew hotter as Ky-Wassail's molten attentions affixed on them.
"I have not judged you unfit. You may proceed."
The violin's teasing crescendo compelled his hands toward the statue's waist. He swore he could feel the warmth of an aroused lover wafting from its skin, but as he clasped his hands to those impossibly smooth hips, he felt what he saw: nothing but the icy kiss of metal.
With hi-hats and electric piano filling his ears to bursting, he approached the open mouth of the cobalt god with his own open and panting. Across his nose felt he a single warm breath, before he clasped his lips around that tongue of gold.
Around that steel-solid mouth, which gave no offering of encouragement nor signal of life, he tied himself. Bound by his spit to him, the idol let the first sound emerged from her brazen breast; she gave up a moan of lust.
He clasped a hand about each precious breast, squeezing though they did not yield to his fingers. The drone of a single-strummed bass guitar rang into his chest and he kissed himself again to her, wrapping her nipple in his suckling clutch. What little was left in his psyche was vacuumed up by an ethereal flute and the tingling taste of a stripper's favorite coin placed upon her tongue. With every roll of her nipples between clement teeth, he coaxed another eldritch, breathless groan from within the statue's hollow core.
Lavishing his gifts on her right breast, his right hand departed to clasp around his shaft. Not once dreaming of departing from his duty on her chest, he caressed the jutting bulb that was her clit with the head of his penis, the chill of her skin drinking the sun-heat that erupted from his stiffening shaft. It was only when the moans grew more frequent, subtly in time with the marching kick drum, that he lifted his head straight, and laid his penis over her body. His balls felt his own warmth lingering on her labia, while his cock nestled between each breast, nearly tickling the golden tongue that still dripped with his adoration.
With his swelling lust grew the growl of a distorted instrument, and the construction of a chorus approaching. And as the cymbals shimmered and with one expert motion, he lanced his titan cock through the brass vagina. Impossible would it be to spear half as deep into a woman of flesh and bone, and impossible without lubrication would it be for metal mundane, but Ky-Wassail demanded everything one had for its pleasure. In harmony with the echoing and crushing guitar was the Fetish's wail of sudden ecstasy, as the yielding metal that allowed his shaft passage constricted again around his flesh. So tight did that pussy become that for a cruel moment he feared she would steal his manhood from him. She still might.
"You like that, bitch?" The words erupted from deep within his heaving lungs.
"Yes," replied Ky-Wassail, as lacking in emotion as she was lacking in physiology, before loosing another tritonic noise of joy.
The euphoria that burst through him like the pain from his wound absorbed his fear; no longer did he feel tested-- instead, she and he were a pleasure circuit, pleasure sailing through and between them with every rolling thrust he kneaded into her vagina. From the hills of her ass he leveraged his attacks, the dust thrown away from his lips as he huffed exertion from his body. The drum's thundering and meditative tempo pummeled through him and into Ky-Wassail's metal mound, every impact reminding Amari of the growing bruise that haloed his shaft.
"You look so good with your legs spread wide for me!"
"Your huge cock fills me up. I love it."
"And how would you feel about me cumming all over your face?"
Ky-Wassail's response lingered and skipped, like a musician artfully scratching his instrument. "Y-y-yes. Cum all over my face. Cover me w--ith your jizz."
The growing power of the guitar solo overcame him, and his toes curled so mightily that his bones joyously cried with ache. His chest filled with warmth, his balls trembled and his belly quivered, his eyes fell shut and his mouth dropped open in a giddy smile. He begged the stars of his birth for his orgasm-- may it rock his own world and that of the Fetish of Ky-Wassail.
It nearly escaped his notice when his wish was granted. The first spurt, though cream-thick and larger than most men's whole load, was underwhelming for his typical scale. He felt it leave from his shaft, and pulled his cock, pre-cum glistening over dark flesh, from its well-fucked hole. The second jet, however, rocketed forth like a comet, crashing into Ky-Wassail's face like an onager's round into a castle's crenelations. So powerful was the white deluge that flooded forth that he had to grab each of the cobalt god's splayed legs to keep from throwing himself down the stairs.
The eyes' ruby-sapphire glow had to sizzle through a sheet of slime to see, and the open mouth filled immediately, running over with Amari's godlike semen. "Oh, fuck," said the statue's unemotive alto; were it not what he expected now, Amari would have to believe she was truly in shock at the magnitude of his orgasm.
"Fuck yeah, bitch! Yeah!" Amari moaned, delirious from the white noise and screeching guitar solo that pounded into his gray matter. The more he unloaded, the less was visible of Ky-Wassail's upper half; each pump left a new string webbing between him and her like the cables that held her aloft and drowned her further in the unrelenting tide of his cum.
Only when the tsunami finally subsided, did Amari let a breath deeper than a toe-dip flood his lungs, and he collapsed to the ground.
The world returned to him, gradually like wine poured into a flask, and he saw the blushing and sweaty faces of his harem. In a pile they cuddled, huffing shallow breaths with fingers buried in their vaginas. Amari felt a satisfied grin creep across his face, before the reality of his situation robbed it from him. He could not bear to rise under the pressure of Ky-Wassail's fatal judgment.
"You--" the voice caught on itself. "You--"
"I think he broke her," Amari heard someone whisper.
"You," finally spoke the deity that now bathed in cum. "Are truly a superior specimen. Blessed with a cock like the highest gods, balls heavy like the earth herself, and semen so potent it could impregnate dead iron."
Amari held his breath.
"If ever there were an orgasm as titanic as mine with you, I know not of it," Ky-Wassail concluded. "You have honored me with your manhood, and so I would be again honored to present you with my boon. I declare you worthy. Gather, blessed harem."
Amari fought through the growing soreness in his bones, especially in the wounded arm, and rose to face the cum-soaked god. The rest ascended the stairs, reclothing themselves where needed and wiping the sweat from their faces, blanching paler in their afterglow.
Before them gathered data, loose code programming itself before their eyes into a cube. Then, the cube became a prism. Then, the prism began to filigree itself, intricate ornamentation embossed in gold like a king's blue armor.
"Behold. The Golden Lootbox of Gez," the monotonous voice rang from the mouth still draining of jizz. "Long ago, in an age that defies my own memory, there were many of it's kind. In that primeval time, the true rulers of their society held captive their populace with addiction. More food than they could gorge themselves on, more coins than they could ever spend, were heaped upon their shadow thrones. What these gifts purchased were chests of great wonder whose contents were only limited by their creator's imagination.
"Still, those who opened these chests found not food or gold; indeed they found nothing tangible. All that their shadow masters provided them was the illusion of something desirable. And yet, some few were made so addicted to these baubles that they would starve themselves, indebt themselves, and steal for the chance at something they were told was rare.
"It was one angel that saw this for the indignity it was. He created many of these golden crates, that rather than offer the illusion, offered something real-- limited not by his own imagination, but the one who opened it. The shadow rulers hunted him for this, and attempted to destroy his boxes, that he might not threaten their rule with prosperity.
"This is not the last one in existence; merely the only one I possess. And now, it is yours. I ask only that I get to witness its magics for myself.
Amari did not need a single second to know his desire. "Shale."
"Great Ky-Wassail," the hobgoblin implored, knowing better than to fight her man when he was trying to help her. "My mind hurts me. I need perfection in everything, or I cannot feel positive toward myself. I want something that will fix it. Something that will make me feel better-- to be able to let go."
"I'm sorry," the cobalt god replied, the first hint that this statue felt emotions beside orgasm. "The Lootbox is a product of the System; it can only change the values, not recode what is already made. Help for you must be found somewhere else."
Shale's heart sank and she softly pressed her cheek to the steely sweat of Amari's chest. Amari felt no such concern; his confidence was like Shale's now. The Harem of the Blue Rose was always going to take care of its own; there would be no doubt in his mind that they would find help for Shale, no matter how long it took. And he whispered in her ear: "Maybe I can find something that will help in the short term."
The tears evaporated from her eyes.
"Ky-Wassail, I ask this. I want three magic rings," Amari explained. "Rings for my harem, that will permit them to take the whole of my cock in all of their holes, like you can in your vagina. I want to be able to fuck them without compromise in their mouths, pussies, asses."
All eyes in the room lit up.
"Then claim your prize."
The Golden Lootbox of Gez clicked open, and a light burst from it, divine in its radiance. When it faded, inside, it was a simple box that contained three plain silver bands.
Shale darted her hand inside like a striking snake and put it on to see if she felt any different; Amari felt her gaze return to him when she didn't.
"Get on your knees, Shale," Amari ordered, soft and breathy.
Shale lowered herself to her knees, lifting Amari's titan cock and wrapping her lips around his cockhead, as so many times had she done before. Then she pushed down-- and down, and down; with each additional inch that slid through her mouth like a snake through its burrow, Amari's and Shale's pupils both widened with growing glee. Tears of elation began to drive paths across Shale's cheeks, as Amari felt his cock-- every last perfect inch-- be squeezed and massaged by cheeks, a pocket dedicated wholly to making him cum his brains out again.
"You two, suck my balls!" he called to the orc and elf, who eagerly threw the rings to their fingers and dropped to service those coveted reservoirs of sperm, and make their dear man deliver them the same jizz that drained from Ky-Wassail's leaden form. Their lips parted to engulf each precious jewel in their entirety, coursing heat through his system as all his manhood was wrapped in joy.
As they stepped between the entrance's jagged statues, with bitches drenched in still-warm semen, Amari swept those vines from tickling his dreadlocked head.
When he looked back to find a solid wall of stone between the statues, he puzzled; he puzzled until he looked to his device and found a new entry in its database.
"KYWASEQ.X"