“F-f-f-f-fuuuucking c-c-c-cunts…” You chatter, hearing the words resounding through your head more than actually getting aural feedback, the howling winds so callously robbing you of even that as you trudge through snow, hauling your cart along with you. Go south, they said, go west, they said. The dwarves there love exotic things like this, oils from the far east that do all kinds of things to a wound up dwarf girl sweat-soaked from the forge, nobles that love adorning themselves in fur coats of exotic beasts, more exotic than the furred coats of their peers.
So what if they did? The dwarves could get it themselves, why do you have to trudge through the frigid weather like this? Risk your entire future on one cart load, fine some one or some ones to buy it all or face the prospect of not being able to afford so much as a roof and a meal, let alone the trip back… Because they’re right, fundamentally. You might be new and lacking the robust networks of older merchants but you know the value of the things in your rickety old cart, sell all this off to dwarven women or even a single incredibly wealthy dwarven woman and you’ll be so set you don’t even need to worry about your immediate future. Your everything that you put into this procurement would see you fat and happy, able to plan your next steps accordingly so long as you can pull this off.
To you, failure isn’t an option. For this, the rumours you had heard, for the glimmering future you foresaw you’d give your everything. Unfortunately, you didn’t take season into account. Because you’re new. And the weather isn’t the issue either, you’re more than equipped to deliver the goods physically. Rather, you didn’t know. And how could you, who knows what kinds of celebrations the dwarves hold locked away in their mountain halls? Seasoned traders, the men who convinced you of this venture to begin with. They know. Now you understood that look in their eyes, probably hoping for you to limp back starving, ready to sell it all for a slice of bread, that they may make this trip in your place and reap the rewards. Not that your stock’s value would last inviolable for that long.
You kick yourself for your haste and foolishness, in not doing your research. Surely such an event would be marked in some one’s writing on the dwarves. Alas, lo and behold, after the travel, after barely selling enough along the way to pay for the time and expense spent transporting your load, Foothold is empty.
Foothold. The hold at the foot of the mountain. You wrest the snarky sneer off your frozen face and set a more proper, more amiable one in its place. You feel lips split as you trudge all the way up to the back gates of Foothold, the geological titan looming over you.
Ignorance. Ignorance will be your sword and shield, the empty guard postings your opening. Putting on your best tourist impression, you trundle up the immaculately cut stone road, trying not to slip on the thin ice that had formed. It’s not hard really – the tourist impression, not the walking on frozen roads part.
Larger than life statues adorn the road between the town and the enormous black metal gates resting slightly ajar that yawn at the mountain’s maw. As your first time here, any single statue, even the doors themselves are enough to have your mouth open, catching snow and expressing awe. The ensemble of them all has you utterly dazed, wandering mechanically all the way up to the entrance, eyes wandering over every fold of cloth and intricate rune hewn in the stone by master hands.
Tilting your head back you can see a monolithic portcullis looming, aching to drop like an earthquake at the first sign of invasion. By all accounts, the mountain is relatively unmolested, you had heard that some other holds have numerous spires and outlooks jutting out of the mountain, but this only has one of each. A thick tower rises out of the mountain to the south-west of its enormous south-east facing doors, circular and stout, not unlike the dwarves themselves, short too, though that’s only relative to the mountain’s peak. An outlook sits to the east, a semicircular platform with utterly impractical, enormous ramparts just below a titanic grate you can only assume is a vent of some form, sitting on the mountain face and gleaming in the evening sun.
You can’t see it from this angle but from your tertiary knowledge of the race in general this platform is probably where they launch their gyro-copters from, mounted is doubtlessly a runic anti-air ballistae of immense proportions that’s said to crack light lightning and leave a rumble of thunder when it fires. You doubt it’s all that, what story involving dragons isn’t exaggerated? A dragon’s about all this monstrosity is fit for, they’d surely have crossbows and guns for just about any other swarm.
Your country bumpkin-esque trance is broken by a rough yet undeniably feminine voice hailing you from the side of the gates. “Where do you think yer goin’?”
“Hm? Oh!” You turn to the voice and put on your best polite merchant face. “D-dear me, I’m t-t-terribly s-s-sorry! I just g-got s-s-so awes-s-s-truck by the mag-n-n-nificent entrance here…” Your smile twitches and spasms, teeth chattering, fairly sure your frozen lips just split further, but the nerves haven’t had the chance to thaw out to complain about it. You have a thought and change your plans quickly, dwarves are a fairly insular bunch, what if they don’t take kindly to tourists? You vaguely recall learning a long time ago that business with a dwarf and business with a dwarf mountain were two very different things. “Y-y-y-ou’d think af-ft-ter a w-while you’d get us-s-s-ed to it.”
You look the woman over. She’s a dwarf, as one would expect, her diminutive height not so prominent yet as she sits on a large barrel and drinks from another smaller one. What you do note is her atypical – for the image of a dwarf in your head – state of undress. Or, unarmour? Her feet are decently protected for a guard, thick leather fur lined boots with some metal plating protecting the shin, her hands are clad in gauntlets similarly fur lined but instead of some kind of mail hauberk or solid plate as you might expect from a guard of a city like this her thighs are, well, barely contained by some kind of leather pants. And that’s probably an understatement. Never doubt the ability of a dwarf’s craft, though you can see it skin-tight over her thick, shapely thighs, you can actually make out the individual stitches straining against her hips as she sits on the barrel.
With a merchant’s discerning eye and the good year and a bit since you’d started your wandering journeys, you’re able to glean that this may be in fact, one of the thickest asses you’d seen and she hadn’t even bent over yet. Proportionally of course. Lovely as those centaur ladies are and unlikely as you are to find enough alcohol to actually want to do one, you can’t argue that horse ass is quite substantial. In this fine lady’s case, it’s probably just a warrioress’ lot mixed with a dwarven diet of meat and alcohol. And scarce else, or so you’ve heard.
As slim belt holds the thing up, more decorative than utilitarian. You don’t doubt the arduousness of the task of stripping her pants off her. Of course, under other circumstances, it might be incredibly easy. The buckle is a neat, decorative hammer motif and just above her pants it is the faintest hint of an indentation as a thin layer of cold-warding fat softens and curves the ridges and valleys of what would otherwise be an ice-hewn, snow white torso, strong pelvic definition, abs and all. You’d describe it as sculpted but some of the immaculate and holy sculptures you’d seen seem to capture an uncanny amount of give.
The bare abs honestly strike you as out of place and make your own stomach feel cold in sympathy despite the multiple layers of cloth, but dwarves are hardy and you don’t doubt that whatever’s in that smaller barrel of hers is helping keep the chills away. From just under her breasts up to her shoulders is a sleeveless vest of sorts, cropped, of similar leather as her pants, only studded, grouped as such to almost look like runes. In fact, from what you’ve heard of dwarves you wouldn’t be surprised if each stud was inscribed with its own rune. Well, except for how inordinately expensive that would be. Then again, dwarves. You’re sure the metal pieces inside the vest are of some unfathomable quality.
All in all it’s the most impressively useless piece of armour you’d seen. So great, overflowing and bountiful is the cleavage, the cut in the cropped ‘armour’ so deep, that you’re honestly more interested in what’s keeping the thing from just splitting asunder. Though, you’ve seen some matrons with breasts significantly larger, so the specimen before you maybe closer to average. Still, it bears mentioning the other dwarves you’ve seen don’t look like they’re as… active as the one before you.
The fluff around the shoulders is thick enough to practically form a collar and a lot of her hair – which would be probably sitting somewhere just above the middle back were she nude – pools in the fur and runs like ashy brown rivulets down her bust. A clump of it is braided on the left side of her head, which hangs just below her jaw, capped with numerous rune inscribed rings. She has no fringe to speak of – her hair is haphazardly pushed back, though a few strands hang loose down the side of her face.
The latter’s paleness strongly contrasts her splashy crimson cheeks and nose, though you can’t tell if that’s a product of the drink or the weather. Her face is a bit slimmer than you’d come to expect of dwarven women, jaw more angular and less broad too, though her lips are thick and almost pouty, the bridge of her nose is slim and elegant with the tip being slightly upturned, though only enough to present a pleasant profile. Her iris is a faint pale blue with a dominant inner ring of grey, both it and her pupil being set quite large in her upswept eyes. They don’t seem as unfocused they should be for belonging to a woman gods knows how many drinks in. Though, again, dwarf. A hefty pole axe rests beside her barrel, leaning up against the wall. You’d question the thickness of the axe and its effectiveness, but there’s something more akin to a meat tenderiser on the other end of the head so it’s probably best not to ask questions.
“Oh… Ye’ve been here before have ye? Why don’t I recognise yer face then?”
“S-so m-m-many faces, you can’t remem-m-m-member them-m all can you?”
She rolls her pretty eyes, “Agh, quit yer stammerin’.” She looks you up and down and you’d swear she bit on her lower lip for a moment there. With a deliriously enticing, almost full body jiggle – bar her midriff perhaps – she hops off her barrel, bringing to bear her full dwarven stature, head coming to just below your chest were you to stand face to… well, not face. She picks up her weapon and points to the guardhouse, it’s large doors shut against the wind, large by even your standards, “Get yer cart inside and I’ll get ye warmed up first. Can’t have ye turning to ice on my watch, yer lips ‘r blue already.”
“T-thanks…” You follow after her and you’re treated to a most pleasant and comprehensive view of that pant straining behind and pleasantly, perhaps the jewel of her toned back, the twin dimples just above her rear. She pushes the huge doors aside with a single hand and you hasten to catch up, feeling for a second as if your feet had actually frozen to the stone road. The room isn’t as big as the doors would suggest, mostly occupied by a desk to one corner, a table in the middle, some chairs, a large fireplace and a cot in another corner, some barrels stuffed under it, a keg sitting on the desk. There’s just enough room to the left of the doors for your cart and as you enter you’re immediately stuck by a wave of warmth. The dwarf guard closes the door behind her, makes her way over to the table and conjures a mug from somewhere when you weren’t looking. You take a grateful seat at the table, as she brings it over to you, the thing now sloshing.
“Drink up. It’ll help ye grow some hair on yer chest, maybe then ye won’t get so chilly. Mm, well it’ll warm ye up in the meantime.”
Further thanks seem unnecessary, but you’re immediately stopped from taking a large swig by the dense, almost toxic fumes of alcohol wafting off the thing. You can’t help but feel a tinge of mockery in the dwarf’s gaze on you, so you steel yourself and take a large mouthful without coughing or spluttering, or doing your best anyway. Your face would usually be red from that, a dead giveaway, but judging by how the thing goes down like smooth fire, you imagine you’re supposed to be all kinds of red anyway. Instantly, you begin to feel yourself thaw.
“Whoah.” You cough a little, and clear your throat. “That’s… what do you call it?”
She grins, “Wintersbane. So, mister merchant, now that yer warmed up and not talkin’ at a glacial pace, I’ve got somethin’ to clear up with ye.” She walks over to the door and much to your sudden nervousness whips out a key and in a practised motion, locks it. Your skin is only feeling hotter and hotter, but suddenly your heart feels cold. She tucks the thing away between her breast and her top. “Ye see, when I said I didn’t recognise ye I wasn’t makin’ small talk.” She sits back down across from you, an audible thunk as she does so. She leans forward, resting her breasts on the table and for as perilous a situation you’re currently in you’re utterly betrayed by your biology for you can make out the edges of her areola from this angle and they are deadly distracting.
“Yer free to trade all ye like in Foothold. That’s why it’s there, thing is ye need a special kinda permit to trade in the hold proper. Permission from some one high up. Almost a privilege, really. Ye see without it, entering the hold, it’s kinda illegal. And I’m afraid when it comes to those permit holders, I know every last one of ‘em. It’s kinda my job.” She gets up from her seat and begins to slowly round the table, dragging a finger along its immaculate stone surface as she does so, finally coming to your practically full mug before grabbing it. You stand and slowly begin to back up but almost sit back down as a sudden rush of alcohol to your head rams into you. Still, your mouth runs like it’s second nature as you take unsteady steps back.
“W-well it’s a good thing you stopped me, before I entered then. Haha… If you’ll just unlock the door I’ll be happily on m-” You voice cuts short at your back smacks against the wall, the dwarven guard still approaching, with that wide hip swinging gait. You go to move from the wall when an impossibly firm hand keeps you in place, pressing against your hip. It’s not the only thing either, the rest of the dwarf follows in fact, fitting mostly between your legs, except for two very large things pressing hot against your crotch. Her hand tucks an errant strand of hair behind an ear as she gazes up at you in undisguised lecherousness and moves back to your hip before sliding up under your clothes to trace all over and tickle your belly. The leather of her glove is soft and you would swear you could feel her heat through it.
Looking down at her, feeling the twin… things and you come to the conclusion that the drink was definitely spiked. Your eyes dart to it and she chuckles, “Sorry, forgot to mention, there’s some dust in Wintersbane, minerals from the mountain, tends to get dwarf girls a little randy, after all what better way to beat winter than to spend her inside makin’ friction? Hear it hits humans pretty hard though. As I’d expect from some light-liver. But that’s besides the point…” She lifts your mug to her lips, just so happens to land where your lips were and takes a huge swig, easily downing half of it in one gulp. She holds the second in her mouth though, swishing it around, eyes twinkling in a dusky kind of mirth as her cheeks bulge before she lets her tongue slide out. A cute, almost pointed thing forming a funnel of sorts, though much of the alcohol spills from her lips anyway. Regardless, it all coats the valley that is her cleavage which she has been incessantly rubbing against your groin for the past while now. You can’t help but grow a little short of breath.
“Ye see, I guess yer crime weren’t too bad… that big dumb tourist act?” She giggles, cheeks growing redder with a heat that has nothing to do with shyness, “Wasn’t really an act now was it? Can’t blame ye, can’t blame ye, no knowledge of our culture, no guards by the Foothold gates I bet, just wandered yet cute little butt up here. Ye see though, now I’m in a real…” She downs the last of the mug and tosses it aside, using both fingers to deftly work at your trousers, “big… throbbing… hard…” You stand there, kind of stunned, secretly happy to blame your lack of action on the alcohol. But you stand there all the same, gulping as your cock, already hard, springs free of its confines and slaps itself into her slippery bosom. “Mmmmm… dilemma. Ye see, the laws the law. By rights I oughta confiscate yer gear…”
The merchant’s hackles within you raise and you mumble, a little hoarsely as she moves her chest away from you and the tip of your cock slides down her valley until the tip threatens to slip. You mumble, perhaps unwisely, enticing. “The law can be bent though…”
“Mmmm, not what I like to hear…” with your tip poised, she begins to move forward again, your head quickly butting up against and pressing into her impressive, almighty cleavage, “I like my law rigid… stiff…”
You clear your throat, “Things that are too rigid tend to break you know.”
“Ye want to break the law?” her breasts flatten up against your abdomen and she shoots you a pitiful glance with her big eyes, “But I am the law, ye wanna break me?”
You swallow around a suddenly dry mouth and perhaps wisely don’t answer this time. She leers and places both hands to the side of her breasts, squishing your manhood between her lawful goodness. “Well I’ve caught ye now, criminal scum,” She gives her bust a shake for emphasis, “Ye’ve violated the law – me – now pay the court a fine or serve yer sentence.”
“What if I resist arrest?”
She scowls angrily and presses into you harder, the crown of your prick actually escaping her soft confines and pressing up against her jugular notch, “Then ye’ll pay with yer cum!”
Your eyebrows shoot up at the prospect of paying with something that is basically free and infinite given enough time and food presumably “I can do that?”
She starts moving her breasts up and down while rotating her palms in little tit rippling circles, “Maybe. Maybe I don’t confiscate yer goods. Maybe I do if ye keep yappin’.”
You acquiesce and simply lay your head against the wall, still feeling the alcohol wreak havoc in your system. You’re a little unsure what to do with your hands so you just let them hang by your side as she works her breasts up and down your length. The slipping and sliding is heavenly. Smirking, she swaps from pressing her breasts together with both hands and simply wraps her arms around your hips, holding you tight as she bounces up and down. Your eyes meet as you look down at her again and you see a face practically melting in the heat of lust, her big pretty eyes glowing like embers, not spent but waiting to roar to life.
“Mmm, ye like this? I can feel ye harder against my chest. Yer like a bar of iron. Mfh, gonna take you home and see how long you stay hard after I slam ye in me forge.” She picks up the pace, her breath growing heavy and her hair starting to fall loose over her face as she bounces. The slick motion, the warmth of her bosom and those smoky eyes drive you wild. That or whatever was in her drink is some potent stuff. Hands twitching, itching, you decide to discard the consequences. With a suddenness that shocks her pretty eyes wide, you grab her by the head and thrust up against her, sliding your cock through her cleavage and butting up against her lips. The thick shapely things part around your tip and a soft suction makes a halfhearted attempt at denying you, but you pull back from her mouth with a pop as you prepare to thrust again.
This dwarf, however, is not content with that and with a startling hunger, she chases after you, all but burying her face in her tits as you thrust back into her mouth, where her lips can take you more fully, her hot tongue rubs wetly over your length and her cheeks to hollow out, caressing the sides of your cock.
Each thrust sends ripples through her bosom that squishes and caresses your length as it travels between, head royally received in her mouth with kingly devotion. You chest grows stifled as you hold the short stacked beauty’s head in place and fuck her breasts and mouth, a core of fire blazes in your stomach and slowly leaches through you, doing little – doing the absolute contrary to easing the broiling tension in your loins. You pull back to hilt again when a pair of astoundingly strong arms clench about your hips and draw you in, her nose pressing up against your crotch as her big eyes smoulder into yours with fiery passion as your cock rubs up against the back of her throat, nary a wince or gag in her.
The molten surge courses up your length before erupting. Sadly, you are but a normal man. You are not addled by some demon juice nor crazed by any of the infinite sexual maladies out there, your load is normal, if a little larger than usual and far hotter due to the Wintersbane. But she takes it all with ease as your twitching, throbbing cock sputters and spurts its thick seed into her throat, milked by her hands, which had released you at some point to resume their mammary manipulation.
Her eyes seem to simmer down at this, fires burning lower and you cant help but begin to move your hands gently, stroking her as you hold her head. But as the orgasm wears off and you come to your senses, a rising dread floods your mind, not the quick surge of a rising tide, but the inexorable slow death of rising water levels, sinking lands and splitting others.
Never force a dwarf.
It’s about the only thing you took from the limited lessons on interracial trade you’d been taught, so heavily frowned upon as it was. Never use force when negotiating with dwarves, renowned all over as one of the most stubborn of races the moment you try and force a dwarf, the single intrepid merchant can only have one of two endings. He gets fucked, or he gets fucked. Only a corporation or conglomeration, or a man thoroughly marked by another may weather a dwarf’s ire at a steep cost.
You take your hands from her head as if scalded and she slowly draws her lips up from the base of your cock to the tip, licking and sucking as she does, swirling rings about the head before her thick lips come off in a resounding pop. She closes her eyes in bliss and tilts her head back, opening her mouth, showing you the proof of your tryst as her tongue dances in it, releasing a soft semi-vocal sigh that ends in a low almost purring moan as she closes her mouth and swallows.
The display arouses a sympathetic twitch within you, one that she notices, eyes opening lazily to reveal an ever smouldering thirst, but she does little more than smile at it, like a girl would a cute pet that hides in her bosom and she offers it a parting kiss before tucking it away, patting your hip and looking up, “So ye can take charge, I was beginnin’ to get worried.” That sinking feeling comes to full fruition as her coming words realise your fear, you weren’t going to be able to just go on your way. You were going to get fucked. “Ah, that’s a problem though, I told ye, pay yer fine or serve yer service,” She brings a finger to her temple, tips her head and sticks a tongue out, leering at you, “I don’t recall saying ye could just go bribe a lass with a thick load down her mouthpussy, did I?”
“I believe you did?”
She inspects her nails casually, “Ah, age must be gettin’ to me, didn’t hear ya. Listen here lad. Yer smuggled goods are a big issue!”
You pat your chest in affront and thrust a hand out, palm up, “Smuggled?! I assure you every item on that cart is above board-”
“Or below belt.” She mutters.
“-and was purchased legally! What?”
she finishes inspecting her nails, “Oh nothin, look origins aside yer still here illegally, ye don’t have permission, do ye?”
You blanch, “W-well, I…”
“Yer transportin’ goods illegally, that’s smugglin’. Either ye abide by the law or…” you didn’t think some one could make a word so laden with hints and hidden meanings, no matter how drawn out.
“Or…?”
She leans back into you, pressing her breasts against your pelvis and sliding her hand up under your layers of cloth, “Or we cut a deal, handsome.”
You swallow, suddenly finding your throat dry once more and in need of another drink. You’ve a good grasp on the flow of this situation, so you decide to put on a smile and negotiate as much benefit as you can, “A deal…” you run a hand down the side of her face, fingers catching her thick braid and toying with it gently, “What’s on your mind?”
“Well, ye see…” She leans her cheek against your hand and you grow a bad feeling about the mischief in her big eyes, “What if ye were just transporting some one’s possessions? Movin’ a few of their things into a certain dwarf girl’s residence? That’s not really smugglin’ now is it? I bought them all, I could easily get the documents to prove it, if pushed. But who’s gonna care?”
Your eyes go wide, “You’ve got to be joking, do you have any idea how much that all costs? I can’t just give it to you, I’d be ruined.”
“Travelin’ alone, no horse no guards, can’t be worth that much.”
“Well it cost me a lot!”
“Ye doubting a dwarf lass’ coin, lad? I didn’t say ye’d be just donating them now did I? There has to be a transaction fer the papers to be legit. ‘Course,” she gropes your balls through your pants, giving them gentle hefts and squeezes, “any donations you wish to make on the side are up to yer discretion, I’ll take ‘em all nice an’ deep.”
You one-eighty again, isn’t the life of a merchant just full of so many amazing ups and downs? “I’d never. I’d be glad to help you move your things in, and… well, maybe a donation to show my sincerity is in order. When can we make this uh… transaction?”
“Ye can move my things in now, but… the payment will have to wait.”
Your face darkens, “For how long?”
She giggles, “Oh, ye really know nothin’ lad.” She walks away slowly, swinging her hips as she leers over her shoulder, swiping a mug on her way out, “Three days, all trades are forbidden fer three days, ye can spend em in lockup, or ye can help move ‘em in fer me…” She opens the door, leaving you to think, bringing in a gust of chilling wind, “It’s yer choice.”
You sigh and curse those crusty old bastards back home, before following her out, pushing the doors open and hauling your cart outside before closing them again, the immaculately cut stone making moving the thing far far easier than the country roads. “Your goods are here, Miss…?”
“Bryllia. Bryllia Fireheart.”
“Bryllia Fireheart, a truly inspiring name, is it my pleasure to serve, I am Edwin, no last name I’m afraid.”
“Oh I could give ye one”
“Yes… quite.”
She grabs her pole-axe and leads you though the ajar door – the big titan sized ones this time – into another chamber and instantly a cold shiver runs through your spine, as you’re surrounded by countless small holes, like a sparse hive, a grate below yawns to fathomless depths that waft an aura of blood and demise, while the gloomy dark far far above hides unknown brutality. The decorative golden runic inscriptions skirting the floor and bordering the murder holes do little to allay your unease. Thankfully, Bryllia doesn’t notice, or doesn’t comment. You note now, that with the sun as low as it is this time of year, sunlight is free to streak into dwarven halls that probably never see day. Immediately ahead is another immense portcullis, though this is more a wall, solid and a number of men shoulder-to-shoulder thick.
“Is it okay to just leave the gates open like this?”
Bryllia shrugs, “Eh, not my duty. I was just wastin’ time. I’m not even a guard. But ye’ll have to be insane to attack a dwarf hold on this day.”
“…”
You glare at her, trying to bore a hole in the back of her head but after a fashion you end up staring at her ass instead. “What are you then?”
There’s a moment of silence and her tone is a little more serious than what she’d upheld so far, “I’m a Low Ranger.”
“What’s that?”
“A wanderer of the deeps, more or less. Not like those loose sun-crazed High Rangers. A dwarf should never tan. It’s unnatural. I’ll fill ye in later.”
“Oh.”
The entrance of this dwarven city is evidently meant to inspire a bloodsoaked resolve first and a grandiose awe second. Immediately ahead is a wide open road, covered in snow that had been blown in and empty, lined by grand and immaculate buildings many stories tall. From the entrance, looking up you can see multiple immense platforms, terraced with some tens of metres between each level held aloft on great arches and monolithic blocky pillars that reach from the level you stand up all the way up into the mountain peaks, as you can see by the vast warm yellow illumination from billions of sources. You don’t doubt these pillars reach to the bowels of the mountain either, though from where you stand at the entrance you can’t see any evidence of lower layers. At each layer on these terraces you can make out some glorious landmark, statues, great carvings, colossal skulls, works of artistry, siege weapons of war on display. Were you gifted with flight, able to rise where you stand you’d wager directly in front on every level is a large square for gatherings, because buildings don’t begin to loom over the walls of the terraces until a few hundred metres out either side.
The whole place is so picturesque yet empty, you forget what a nightmare it would have to be to finally burst through those gates only to be met with rows of defenders on multiple elevations all aiming down at you. Perhaps it’s a message, a warm welcome to guests that hides the final warning to invaders. It might be more potent if you could see a single dwarf.
“So where exactly is every one?” You look around at the abandoned streets, feeling as though you should be unnerved, but you’re surrounded by too much life, some buildings are cold and dead, but most have great warmth spilling out of the yellowed windows, they almost glow and there’s a faint din of joy, conversation and laughter and no few moans. She takes you down an alley and around another bend, coming to a thick stone shaft, a metal platform on it, suspended on chains.
A small post rises before the contraption, blank and nondescript until she waves a glove ever it, a rune glowing out. The thing kicks to life with a jolt of chains once you’re both on it, then kart and all begin to rise. “This is novel.”
“Small wares lift, most shipments are processed on this level but sometimes ye’ll have to move somethin’ that’ll make stairs inconvenient. As to yer previous question, dwarves don’t go out during the Honouring. Well, most don’t.”
The lift jolts to another halt at the second level and you disembark. You look at all the squat houses around you and figure this is a largely residential layer. The houses are all similar yer different in their ways. They look squat, but that’s only because they’re a lot larger than they are tall, even the two storied houses, of which many seem to be, come off as looking decidedly dwarven. You’re stunned as a sudden breeze blows at you from an angle impossible to have come from the huge open doors.
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
“That breeze? You felt that right?”
“Oh that’s the mountain breath.”
“Mountain breath?”
“From the mountain lung, obviously.” She pauses as if just realising she were talking to a complete foreigner, “Agh… just imagine a huge billows of sorts. I’d take ye to see it, but they’d impale me to the mountain side and have me bake to death under the sun while birds gouge my eyes and rip out my entrails. It’s kinda important. One of the few places that keeps a tight guard durin’ this time a year actually.”
“Oh.” Struggling a little to register what you just heard, you blink, as if erasing the image and force yourself to continue to look around and study the buildings. It’s a little hard for the buildings with multiple stories to come off the same squat, dwarfy way. Each house is the same over all, squarish, of a pleasant grey stone, iron metal caps and braces around pillars supporting small eaves of stone overhanging, decorative bronze rigid, geometric knotwork bordering edges.
“What exactly is the Honouring?”
“It’s a three day celebration where families shut themselves inside and spend their time with loved ones, parents and children. The first day ye honour the mountain, who gives us everythin’. The second day ye honour yer family and yer ancestors, who teach us everythin’ and finally on the third day ye honour the gods who protect and guide us.
“How do you honour them?”
“It’s the same fer all three, good food and good sex. Basically.”
“So, why aren’t you celebrating?”
You stop before a house with a diagonal staircase running along the length of the front of the building from bottom right to top left, a modest little flight at the front doorway. It strikes you that the thing isn’t really proportioned for a dwarf. Except maybe the steps are a little on the smaller side. Eyeballing the portal from the ground though and you wager a fairly tall man could step through without having to stoop much. Below the lit front door though, is another smaller less assuming one half hidden under the shadow of the staircase.
“… A ranger spends her life wanderin’ boundin’ from hold to hold. I’m not like those High Rangers who go around fuckin’ under the stars. In the forgotten underways its just me and the stone. My clan’s… far far away. And I never really got to settle, make friends and meet a lad. Stones, I just bought this house and moved in something like three months ago. Dwarves don’t take too kindly to wanderers. See it as unnatural. As for partners, my last one was a fool explorer lost in some caverns, oh, about…” She crosses her arms, poleaxe leaning against her shoulder, “two hundred years ago? I reckon even his kids are dead now. It’s been too long…” Bryllia sinks into a long and heavy silence, as if deliberating over something. After a while she turns to you, a solemnity in her gaze and a kind of pleading you doubt the lonesome woman shows any of her neighbours, “So entertain a lass fer three days, will ye? Let me pretend I’ve got some one near. If yer willin’ to do this fer me, I-I… I can pay ye! Yer cart, yer goods, ye can take ‘em with ye. I’ll make sure no one causes ye a fuss.”
Maybe you’re weak to emotional manipulation, maybe you’re inexperienced and haven’t truly lost out on a deal yet, but you’re taught to always go with your gut. So you take a deep breath and toss aside the hesitation, ready to bite a truly tremendous loss for, what is starting to seem to you, a faint glimmering light in the dark, a budding opportunity. Flashing a bright smile, you give your response. “A merchant’s word is as good as his coin, Bryllia. I’m yours – I mean – these goods are yours. Now let me in will you? It’s freezing out here.”
She looks up at you – stunned or shocked – big, pretty eyes wide, those almost pouty, kissable lips slightly ajar. You reach out and take her chin in hand, bending down to give her a kiss. You catch one of those cushiony things between your own and give it a few licks and pecks, though you’re alone in the effort. Thinking you’d somehow horribly misread the situation you give one last kiss before retreating, only she kisses back, rising on the tips of her toes to follow you before gripping your shirt and tugging you back down. Your lips crush with a bit of teeth smacking, making you wince, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care, closing her eyes as you make out. You only part a while later, startled to see her cheeks damp. “I’d be honoured if I could spend the Honouring with you, Bryllia. You won’t have to be alone this year, at least.” You let go of her chin and rub your thumb over her damp cheeks. She looks up into your eyes with her own swimming, unfocused ones, fiddling with her pole axe and twisting it into the stone before a spark relights them.
“Oh fuck off, ye silver tongued light livered sun blasted cock.” She plants a fist into your ribs with her free hand, making you gasp before turning from you and wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. Ignoring your noises of pain, she marches to the door and all but kicks it open, “Get yer ass inside before I make ye drink yer body’s weight in booze.”
You try affect a smile as you wheel your cart over, “Y-yes ma’am.”
“Agh, don’t get business-like with me, I’ll be kissin’ it better anyway.”
You follow in after her, closing the door as you do. The room is pitch black but for the light dimly flowing in through the streets, yet she navigates it deftly, heading towards a section of wall that lights up moments later, a glass sconce with some kind of stone within it sheds a steady light over the room, only faintly flickering, not nearly as much as a fire might. The room appears to be a place of storage and work, mostly, benches, worktables, some oils and a grind stone, boxes piled to the roof. The door is just large enough to permit your cart and she comes back to you after hanging her poleaxe up.
“Now, lets see what this was all about. I know I said I’m not actually a guard, but if this is some kinda demon tainted shite yer gonna have a bad time. Hm? What’s this?” Pop, “Don’t smell like booze.” She waves around a dim glass bottle full of some dark liquid, her assessment comes after a tentative sniff.
You take it off her and put the stopper back. “It’s oil. We can play with this later.”
“Oil? Bah got plenty of cookin’ oil. And no one makes a better oil for blades and machines than dwarves.”
“Oh-o, this isn’t for cooking, nor is it for metal.”
Her eyes glow with interest and understanding and she snatches it back, “Then we’re playin’ with this now.”
“You don’t want to look at the rest?”
“Ye’ve got other good stuff? Lets see…” Some bottles were loose, but much of what’s in your cart is sealed in wooden boxes. Opening the largest, she pulls out a thick fur coat, about the size of a dwarf, though maybe just a little larger. Or a bit more than a little You doubt they lack the craftsmen needed to make adjustments. There’s a number of these and as she goes through your wares she gets the full scope of your inventory.
Some things tickle her fancy as a dwarf, some don’t. But she’s not a typical dwarf from what you’re able to gather, so you don’t feel too put off. Indeed her oddly ready acceptance of you may hint to that. She seems ambivalent towards the incense, outright derides the exotic teas as elven poison – granted you might have been off the mark there. But she seems interested in even the more mundane and practical goods like sugar.
Most of your goods don’t really interest her too much though, as you’d expect, since the majority of it, the fine silks for instance, were never intended to a personal market, but to be traded between merchants. Or ivory, for the interested craftswoman. She displayed a purely dwarven interest in the exotic liquors though. Even if you bet each mouthful would be followed by “dwarven booze is better”. That was it though, mostly. The more random stuff came in smaller stock, the larger portion of your cart was dedicated to the oils and furs.
“A good haul ye got here, all in all. I mean, ye might as well just trash the leaves, no respectin’ dwarf’s gonna want that unless ye can smoke it. And we got plenty of our own.” She lifts up the bottle of oil, “Though I rather ye show me how yer fingers are. Follow me. I’m sure yer weary from yer travels, how ‘bout we get ready for a nice steamin’ bath?”
She snatches one of the fur robes as she leaves and leads you out of the room and up a flight of stairs to the second floor of the building. Coming from the stairs, directly infront of you is the front door and a small open area to receive guests, in fact, most of this floor plan is quite open except for a large room to your left. To your right is a collection room of sorts, where a dwarf would flaunt their heirlooms and victories, though it’s a little sparse which is understandable given the life she’s told you she’d led and the fact that she settled down here not too long ago. You doubt you have much chance to take trophies with a largely nomadic life. There is however, an immensely thick and foreboding suit of armour propped up by a stand. Some axes and thick swords, and a gun hanging off a rack.
She draws your attention away from this, however, as she leads you to the only other room on this floor. Inside it is a surprisingly spacious bath, empty for now though the taps on the stone wall are probably able to fix that. The room is split into two, one larger and one very small room, all stone. There’s a rather large stone bench to the right of the room, for sitting or even laying on, it’s just a metre or so away from the door, just enough space for the thing to swing open without hitting the bench. Up against the walls of this corner are shelves and cupboards, probably full of bathing items, you surmise the contents of the cupboards by looking at the rolls of towels and jars of what looks to be various salts, baskets of soaps, cutely fashioned to resemble ingots.
The bath takes up the rest of the room, leaving only a walkway up against the inner wall leading to the smaller stone room. The thing is pretty huge, with a high lip and some tiny steps by which to access it. Just eyeing the large thing, you could stand in it and it would reach your stomach, standing. A ledge is cut into it by one corner, shallow enough for a dwarf to lay in comfortably, assuming they rest their head above the water. The deepest part is for her to stand, evidently. It would probably reach her neck. To another corner however, is a low stone throne, it’s arms submerged when the thing is full. You can’t help but imagine how nice it must be to sit in it.
But soon your gaze is directed towards the smaller stone room questioningly, earning a mocking laugh, “Yer still too green fer that, lad. Takes about half a year fer humans to really begin to acclimate to the heat of a dwarven sauna. Wait till ye can handle the heat of a forge, we’ll make a dwarven man out of ye yet.” A sudden pause hits her and she blushes faintly, “That is i-if ye want to… Anyway! Get naked, lemme see what this oil can do.” She reaches into a cupboard and your previous guess is more or less proven right. She pulls out a metal bucket and dumps it on the floor, tossing a thick and large towel over the bench and setting aside the fur robe she’d brought before plopping down heavily and beginning to work at her gear.
You can’t help but watch with mild interest as her boots fall apart piece by piece as she undoes numerous buckles. The same holds true of her gauntlets, she only stops to take a good look at your body as you take your shirt off. “Hmph. Ye don’t look like ye’ve had a proper meal all yer life.” You blink, taken aback as you look at your own vaguely-toned stomach. You certainly weren’t malnourished. Should you have been fat?
Then again, you think to all the dwarf men you’d seen, or rather, men who’d spent a number of years acclimating to a dwarven way of life and you’d certainly look malnourished in comparison. With their odd standards of beauty it’s a wonder they go for normal men at all. Then again short bearded ripped men are in short supply. Ever the pragmatic craftswomen they probably just figure they’ll make their own short bearded ripped men, with dwarf drink, dwarf air and probably a good bit of dwarf labour.
Not too concerned with whether or not your belly should betray a few too many, or, significantly too many pints, you continue to disrobe – well aware of her smouldering gaze. In fact, she’d stopped disrobing after setting her boots, gloves and armour aside, simply watching as you go, trousers and all. It almost seems as if her gaze gets hotter, but your own isn’t too cold either, looking at those large breasts that always seem to be on the verge of bursting out, your very being and aura begins emitting powerful curse magics towards the dastardly cropped top holding them in place. She stands and thrusts her chest out. “Well, ye gonna do somethin’ about it?”
You startle yourself, with just how swiftly a properly motivated man can move. You arrive before her nigh instantaneously and study her bosom with the steady eye of a master appraiser. You decide the angle isn’t right and gesture to the bench, which she rolls her eyes at before standing upon, her breasts now perfectly at eye level. It’s a little hard to make out due to the way the mass of mammaries push against the top but at the very bottom where the top thins to only a few inches of material, the cleavage having cut so deep, you see two buckles. You grasp the top frame with one hand and the metal-tipped strap with the other, unceremoniously tugging them apart and separating the prong from it’s metal-rimmed eyelet. Bryllia gasps as her bust quakes, squished together but you grin in response for you know that’s not the end. There are some things in life that you just have to learn to let go of and the strap holding a pair of breasts in place is definitely one of them, so with one simple flex her bust shakes again, this time spilling out even more ridiculously, to the point you can clearly make out a good bit of the rim of her areola. Maybe, just maybe a hint of nipple. A small stretch of pale pink on a sun-shunned chest. She moans, though you don’t know if she’s playing into it or being genuine, nor do you care, attentions aroused and turned to the final buckle.
You’re less gentle than before in tugging the two apart, though she doesn’t seem overly discomforted. You even lift a bit, admiring that valley you so fondly recall plunging into dick first a mere hour ago, if that. She lifts a knuckle to her mouth and bites down, pushing her chest forward and playing it up as you let go and let the glorious things free to revel in their liberation. Large and pale, with light pink nipples they fall, though not too far, that monstrous perk holding true as it does in nearly all cases. First, the inward pressure of her top sends her large breasts springing outward as they drop before swinging back in like soft, firm, fleshy pendulums. The collision sends ripples from two sources, at once both across her breasts as they collide, and upwards as they bounce with the momentum of the fall. Of course, to the untrained eye these slight movements are indiscernible, to the uninitiated, her breasts only bounced a bit. But none of it can escape the master’s discerning gaze. Her little moan followed by a self aware giggle is but auditory garnishing.
It takes a moment, a sassy swing of the hip and a smack upside the head to draw your attentions away from the magnificent sight before you. “I’m still wearin’ pants. I really, really don’t wanna be wearin’ pants right now.” You gulp and nod, eyes trailing down the soft rolling hills of her abs, guided to her belt buckle by the vale formed by the twin ridges of her pelvic bones, prominent enough to form an eye grabbing tract down to her forge, as you recall her referring to it. And at this angle, with this close a scrutiny are you able to appreciate the tightness of her leather pants. Emboldened, you give her puffy vulva a poke. You’ll soon learn if it’s more squishy, but clad as tightly in leather as it is, such that you can clearly see the outline, you find it’s more springy than anything.
You imagine she’d be happier if you were poking her there with something else and an impatient huff spurs you onward. You undo her belt, though nothing overly dramatic happens, your earlier conclusions that it were just there for decoration being spot on. Beneath the buckle is a button which is a little hard to force through its hole given the tightness. Though you persevere and the top part of her pants open in a significantly enticing way. That’s it though, looks like you’ll have to peel it off her. How dreadful, how woeful.
Folding the top over, you pull it down, stopping just above her clit, partly because you wanted to, partly because you had no choice. Her puffiness is already on display, but you spare it the poke of verification and simply stare at the thick yet somehow soft tuft of fluff adorning her womanhood. The conspicuous absence of specks of hair shorn at skin-level around such a neat, almost manicured tuft speaks of something more than a razor. Wax? Or just a natural oddity? Scrutinising it, you realise that if it were a little shorter and better kept it would look a little like… “Is that a flaming heart?” There’s a tinge of red on the outside, a hair colour conspicuously absent from her.
“A-all dwarves are marked by their clan symbol. What of it? D-Don’t sniff it ye freak!”
“You’re fine, it’s obvious you weren’t working hard at being a ‘guard’. Turn around.”
She mumbles and grumbles, but allows you to spin her but you’d just spent so long focusing on her front that you were truly quite unprepared. This… is a bottom heavy dwarf. The dimples on her lower back are just as prominent and eye catching as the pelvic protrusions on her front and her ass is such that when her pants sit low, as they did before you’d pulled them partway down, there’s enough definition there to rise above waistband. Which is an odd thing to appreciate, but you’ve seen flat and depressing asses before. This isn’t one of them. Above that though, her back wasn’t too defined. Or it might be more accurate to say it wasn’t too lacking in a certain percentage of body fat. About the most defined thing about her mid to upper back is the fairly obvious cleft down her spine. It doesn’t take long though, for your eyes to dart back to where they rightfully belong, that half-clad ass, almost spilling over the rolled and bunched up pants.
There’s enough reason in your mind to prevent you from giving the giant thing a hefty smack but you still sneak in a lift and a grope, though it’s a little disappointing as your fingers can’t quite sink into the leather quite the same. Grabbing her pants around the hips you continue to disrobe Bryllia, inch by inch.
She puts a hand against the wall to balance and thrusts her butt back, smirking at you as you stare fixedly. It’s almost enough to make you forget your purpose here, but you reign in the desire to just pick her up and go to town. Not that you’re entirely sure you even can, dwarves can be incredibly heavy. Almost weighing as much as the adult male. Still you’re not sure that if you really let yourself loose you wouldn’t still attempt it, pulled muscle be damned. You peel the pants down past her ass, revealing her pussy, fully as puffy as you’d expected only the slit’s slicked in her excitement towards what’s to come – you can’t figure if you should feel flattered or if you should’ve expected it, being part monster and all, though the term doesn’t quite fit. Dwarves and elves and the like stand far closer to humanity on the spectrum than something like a dragon or a slime.
Those are all vaguely heretical musings, however and ones that you quickly relegate to the back of your mind. Far more important to you at the moment, is the nearly naked dwarf. Her pants don’t quite fall down after you’d pulled them past her hips, thick, powerful thighs still keeping her pants up through the sheer pressure of their existence alone, though it takes less coaxing to bring them down her thighs than it did her ass. Indeed, a moment later and the leather’s pooled around her ankles. She shifts, giving you the perfect view of her legs and ass rippling and flexing under that mead-gifted thickness as she lifts a leg out of the pool and kicks out with the other, sending the pants flying into the bucked with a well placed punt. She stands up off the wall and turns to face you, grinning as her loose hair spills all over her shoulders and chest, looking down at your obvious approval. “So, how do ye want me?”
Having a dwarf look down at you isn’t the most pleasant and you clear your throat and put on a less awestruck face and instruct her. “Lie down face up, first. There’s obviously a lot of tension on your front side that we should work out before moving onto the back. Yes.”
She looks a little bemused, but obeys, “If ye insist.” She lies down as you turn to fetch the bottle of oil, popping its stopper and releasing its fumes and peculiar scent into the air, faintly floral and it almost smells slick. It’s an odd notion to wrap your head around. You head back over to Bryllia and stop by her side, suddenly unsure of the best angle to work at this from. This is the first time you’ve felt like you need more hands.
You circle around and climb onto the bench, facing her feet, which is as good a place to start as any. She squirms a little as you dribble oil over her toes and bites her bottom lip as your now-slick fingers work at the pads before going on to work deep circles into the flats of her feet. You’d heard of the effects of the oil, but you didn’t expect her to react this much, legs quivering, letting out short stifled noises. It takes you a moment to realise she’s just ticklish though. Still, you spend some time on her feet, stroking the arches with your thumbs and some deep pressure. The good thing is when it comes to pressure your only consideration is how long you can press hard before your fingers go numb. Especially as you work your thumbs into and around her heel, you doubt it comes close to the pressure she bears when out ranging with all her stuff.
She stops quivering as you work up her ankles and into her shin and calves, though you focus less on the latter for now and simply stoke up and down, getting back to pressing your thumbs in around her knee, a little more gentle this time, as you work small circles into the nerves around the cap. Asides from her feet, the knee is the most sensitive area you’ve worked on so far, and the point of the oil isn’t to flex your non-existent skills as a masseuse, but to rub the oil into the skin and have its effect begin to play on the body, so the more sensitive spots are your key in this.
It seems to have effect, as you work up to her thighs they begin to heat up and she begins to exude an air of anticipation and almost… impatience. You drip oil over her leg and begin to rub it in, having to remind her to relax as your hands slide up her inner thigh and she listens up until your fingers get really close where she tenses again, yet your fingers never stray quite far enough. You tease her, until she almost weeps in frustration. In more senses than one. After coating one leg you go on to the other, starting once more by the feet. You’re sure that doing the opposite of striking while the iron is hot is torturous to metal. This probably holds true for dwarves. It’s a wonder you don’t end up with a stocky but powerful leg through your face, but she permits it for now.
You’re about to test if dwarven tenacity translates to patience, though you keep a mind to not go overboard. It’s a little lop-sided, but you spend a little less time on her other leg, simply rubbing the oil in all over once or twice before getting closer and closer to her now soaked with anticipation pussy. Yet you avoid it once more, earning you an almost feral growl as your fingers sink into her pelvis. “Oh I’m gonna hit ye…” But she doesn’t and you begin to work up her sides, sinking into soft fat before running into solid dwarven steel. Even if you can’t see it jutting out like carved stone, you can feel the definition of her mountain-like core. So this is where the stories of dwarves ripping feeble wooden taverns to shreds in an alcohol fuelled brawl comes from. The lack of trees underground probably isn’t the only reason everything here is made of stone.
You press neither too hard nor too soft into her stomach and sides, working and pushing at the muscle as far as you can comfortably reach, which is pretty far, she is a dwarf. Though you want to get closer and it’s hard to completely ignore your own arousal. Shifting a little closer, you lift her legs and place them about your hips, shifting further yet until your hips meet hers and your cock rests nestled in the middle of the heart, like a thick arrow piercing it. Her loins feel about as hot as the fluffy motif suggests.
“Mmmm…” Bryllia wraps her legs around you and starts to roll your hips, sating her longing on your hardening shaft. You do your best to ignore her though and begin to drizzle oil on her breasts. Some time ago and it might be freezing enough to have her buds stiffen out of hiding, but having spent some time in the hold where even in the depths of winter you personally would feel alright going about with a single layer of loose fitted clothes, the oil is room temperature and the temperature of this room is hot. Not steaming, the water hasn’t even spilled yet, the bath is bone dry, but a certain heat just radiates from that smaller stone room, such that you don’t dare to near it. The oil has long since reached a comfortable heat, where it’s dense aroma fills the air. Indeed, her response to having it dribbled all over her breasts isn’t one of recoiling but satisfied sighs. You drizzle a bit more onto your hands and settle them into the shaking things, as if your fingers wanted to make them their mountain homes.
You apply extra pressure to squish and squeeze the bountiful things and massage them in circles, making her moan and press her chest into your hands, but when you let up on the pressure, your hands slide around them in the oil instead, her nipples start to peek out and get hard as your fingers brush over them and your hands move, coating the rest of her chest in oil, some times working both breasts simultaneously, sometimes focusing on one with both hands, one gliding over the top while the other cups it from the bottom. Having such space to work with, such ground to cover, is absolutely a boon.
The fun times end though, as you remind yourself that you’re not here to just mindlessly play with her tits as fulfilling as that would be. Thankfully the moments of devoted attention to her second most sensitive of spots seems to have appeased her and she doesn’t thrust her hips up against your crotch as insistently as before, though her delta is positively sweltering right now.
You move upwards to her collar bones and shoulder well, there’s still some solid, tense muscle here, but it’s not as exaggerated as what you find from her lower body, as one would expect, really. The strength of these less or more than human races doesn’t correlate to the size of their muscles either. She rolls her head from side to side, letting you place both hands against one side of her neck or the other, to knead it and work in the relaxing and stimulating oils.
From the shoulders you work on both arms simultaneously, stroking up and down those steel swinging muscles, squeezing and kneading her biceps, taking gentle care around the sensitive elbow, stroking along her smooth forearm and taking a moment to entwine your fingers with hers. You look down at her, faces so close to touching, then touching, as she lifts her head and closes her eyes, her full lips meeting with yours in a passionate embrace as she begins to rock her hips, almost painfully squeezing your own hips with her thighs. Her tongue entangles with yours as you press lips together, but she only indulges for a moment before breaking the kiss and pleading with you. “Please, I’ve been a good lass. I didn’t hit ye even when I feel ye deserve it, ye got one last spot. Stick it in already.”
You don’t see fit to deny her, nor are you cruel and wicked enough to point out she still needs to turn over as you’d initially intended. Instead you give her another peck on the lips and grab for the bottle of oil, nearly half spent by now and straighten up, looking down at where your rock-solid cock leaks its anticipation into the thick tufts of her clan identity. You tilt the bottle and drizzle the oil over your length, quivering as it begins to seep through and hyper stimulates your member as you feel each individual hair brush against it in the course of her shaking, rolling hips. The scent of the oil mixes with the scent of her hot arousal and it almost sends your head spinning. You’re honestly a little surprised, that for how dense the scent clouding the two of you is right now, you can’t see it.
You drizzle it, anointing her entrance though you doubt that it does much after a certain point, a point she’d already more than made her way to with her own lubrication. Yet you don’t thrust in immediately, well, you kind of do, but not with what she wishes you’d thrust into her and it’s to the sound of complaint that your oil-slicked fingers circle her cunt before probing inwards, one at first, then two, rubbing the oil in and making sure she isn’t too tight for you, in consideration of her self professed neglect. She lets out a half sigh, half grunt that turns out to sound a little more like a growl, “Ye know that’s not what I want…”
She almost breaks your fingers, as her hips ram up against yours, grinding her soaked clit against your length and trapping your fingers somewhere between your legs. You place a hand on her belly and do your best to force her back down. “Just a moment now…” You work your fingers inside her, stroking, gliding about her inner walls for a bit before drawing them back out and placing both hands – slick now but not of the same substances – on her wide hips.
You roll yours back, tip sliding maddeningly over innumerable textures before finally slipping down her sodden slit, tip tingling as it flicks past her small yet solid clit and settles grandly before the gates. Your grip on her hips grows tighter as you dispense with all diversions and begin to pierce in. Her folds are tight and might have proven tight enough to bar you entry without coaxing, but as the “guard” had had their hands “greased” you eventually abscond inwards, for the threat of remaining outside is great. About as great as a hammer to the face.
She lets out a low moan as you sink into her smouldering vice. You expect to run into obstruction as you sink past the oil, but her passage proves far wetter than you’d imagined. To the point where you find her forbearance to be honestly admirable. You spread your legs as you enter her, your thighs pressing up against her knees and forcing them back as you bring your weight down over her, not that she seems bothered by it. Indeed, her arms wrap around you shortly after and your skin is quickly smeared in the very oil you so lovingly applied to her. She grips you tight to prevent your escape and you reassure her by freeing her hips of your grip so that you might wrap your arms around her. She quickly steals your lips.
Maybe she gave in to her urges or the loss of your restraining hands inspired the usurper’s ambition, for before you’re able to even draw out and make a single thrust back in, her immense thighs clench, and she slams her hips up against yours from below, in a jarringly loud ball-to-ass slap. A familiar, cheeky smirk lay upon the lips pressed to yours and you take swift revenge, destroying her rhythm as she brings her hips back down by slamming into them. It’s war.
Her limbs grip you tight enough to break bone and you press your lips against hers harder, feeling teeth knock as you flex and try and contest. It’s a loosing battle as you pound down into the dwarf, her fat ass thudding against the towel covered bench, but if you didn’t try to crush her, without employing your own muscle to resist hers, you feel as though you’d shatter. She doesn’t go beyond your limit, though you suspect she could quite easily and instead settles for a hard rough fuck, perhaps venting out her frustrations on you, be it what you’d just been doing to her, or centuries of lonesomeness. Her breasts slip and slide over your chest as you gasp and pant and press together like a mass of writhing flesh. Your cock throbs in her smouldering depths as her walls seek to crush you like a bar of iron, the folds like innumerable tiny hammers rolling along and shaping steel or perhaps moving with the irresistible rock-tide of the earth turning over.
A pressing need burns in your loins, a conflagration fuelled by oil, your balls tensing after only a short moment’s burst after a long wind up you’re about to spend yourself inside this woman. Thankfully, stroking your pride and only making it that much harder, Bryllia is the first to climax, having had to endure the exotic onslaught and torturous moments of massage, you’re sure if you gave her a moment longer she could have ground herself into orgasm against your length alone, needless to say of you plunging her depths. She breaks the kiss sloppily, tongue hanging out as her eyes roll up, corner of her lips still smeared in saliva, cheek against yours as she moans and gasps into your ear, her volume surprisingly subdued. The open and loud gasps and cries quickly turn to stifled, lip gnawing moans and whines. Her grip on you wavers as her muscles spasm, but the quivering of her quim swiftly undoes you and with a final thrust your tip butts up against her womb and you collapse over her. Well, that’s how you were already, but now you’ve no choice in the matter, your tense muscles suddenly freed and limp see to that. Thick spurts course up your length and splash into her long forgotten depths.
The quick bout seems to make up for everything, as her muscles find their use again and she strokes along your spine with one hand while the other grabs a handful of your ass, her calves and thighs clenching rhythmically as she milks the rest out of you, “Ahhh… that’s that I needed. Ye went and filled me up, lad, I dunno if there’s room fer more.” You push up off her and slip, landing face first in dwarven bust, making her gasp, “Ye right?”
“Mm, just slipped.” You grip the towel and push up, looking down at her gleaming body and now, your own. “You’ll need to make room, I still need you to roll over so I can work on your back.”
“Ye want my back, or my backside? I know where yer eyes have been.” She gives a smirk and you roll your eyes as you pull out and shuffle back a bit, noting barely any leak and your still solid cock. Indeed, seeing her flip over in a purposefully abrupt manner and watching her large, muscular yet soft rump jiggle, you’re not getting any softer. But as arduous as it is, you put those thoughts aside and drizzle some oil onto her heels, gently massaging the things and coating what you missed previously due to the position she was in.
From this position, it’s easier to rub your fingers into her heel in small circles and you soon move on to the back of the ankle and the calf proper. As you poke and prod around, you find that her calves, while large, are actually fairly long and more slender than you’d have otherwise assumed. It’s probably responsible in part for the shapely look of her legs and no doubt it’s the shape desired by those who travel long distances regularly. The deep hollow at the back of her knee is soft and squishy and you lose more time than you’d care to admit just poking at it. Eventually you are urged to move on, where you dump a liberal heaping of oil over her thighs and revel in the slabs of muscle, stroking and groping, wiggling them to see her ass bounce and clap. For this, you nearly earn a foot in the gut.
You go back to treating this seriously. Rather, you’re forced to and you work your way all the way up to her upper thigh, stroking and kneading at the muscles as you go. Now, however, your attentions are drawn to her thick rear and you scoot up to straddle her thighs, sitting on them quite comfortably as you begin to pour another generous dose of oil over her ass, saving just enough to cover the rest of her back with a thin layer before the bottle runs dry. Or, dry as something coated in oil is going to get. That’s one item from your stock down, though since she said she’s paying for it, you don’t pay it any mind. You put the bottle aside and grab two large handfuls of pale dwarf ass.
Similarly to her breasts, to actually give the things a proper massage and to not just slip and slide over them, you need to really apply force and sink your fingers in. Thankfully, there’s quite a lot to grab hold of, you’re almost more concerned with losing your hand. You don’t forget to show attention to those deserving twin dimples, stroking them with your thumbs as you press your palms into the area just above her ass, before gliding back down. In groping, squeezing circles you molest her rear, making her moan and squirm as the lascivious lubricants spread. Like her cheeks, as you adjust your sitting position, take more weight on your knees and drop your dick between them, stroking and groping the things before pressing them around your cock and thrusting into her butt with a slippery, meaty smack.
She gasps with the force of it, probably not due to the impact actually hurting or shocking her, but more to the burning lust instilled inside her, making her react to every sense of pleasure you dole out. You give her ass a final grope, then a pat, then, mustering your courage, a tight slap. She lets out a light “Eep!”, but doesn’t admonish you. Unless grinding their ass against your cock was the dwarven way of justice.
Thrusting slowly and enjoying the sensation, you drizzle the last of the oil down the shallow ravine of her spine and work your fingers into it, fanning your digits and splaying your hands out with a hefty pressure, pressing down and kneading out the muscles in her back, from the middle outwards, doing this all the way up until her shoulder blades, where you begin to knead up towards her shoulders and back down. Each stroke of your fingers is accompanied by a thrust and you only stop momentarily to gently push her hair aside and reveal her neck, gingerly working your fingers around the delicate areas before leaning down and kissing the lobe of her ear. “Lets see if you can find room for another round.”
“Mmmmm, ye know how to tickle a lass’ heart.”
You grin and reach a hand down between your oily bodies to position your tip between her lips, pressing in with much greater ease after your first romp, though she’s still inordinately tight. Secured firmly with half your tip prodding at her iron gates you wrap your arms under her and sink your fingers into her breasts. Bryllia moans in response and arches her back, pressing her ass further into your lap, taking you deeper inside her as if to repay all your effort.
It’s a little awkward for your back, but you silence her moans, bending over as you thrust down, beginning to pound her prone. She can’t quite kiss you full on the lips, your bodies twisted as they are, but she manages well enough, though the kiss is broken often, hot breath rolling over your cheeks as she gasps and moans. Her walls writhe and wring you, her dwarven tunnel tight. Yet you hammer away at those very walls with the ferocity of a miner spying the mountain’s glimmer between the stones. Pound for pound you take her as she bucks back with all her will, those smouldering ember eyes locked on yours. Her ass ripples and her walls quake with each jolting smack, the motion shaking though her so violently you feel it in her breasts.
You’re not able to reach so deep this time, her ass simply too much in the way. And to be honest, you got all the hard fucking out of your system already. You take a hand from her breast and grip her chin, hard as that is with your hand slickened by oil and you drastically slow your thrusting, going for less impact and more slow, inexorable insistence, thrusting slowly into her until her ass is squished flat against your hips then pushing a little further against her before drawing back out. The more moderate pace affords you the stability to maintain a kiss that isn’t just the mashing of faces together, the downside is in your hyper sensitive state, the slower you move the better you’re able to register the folds and textures of her pussy. You fear you won’t be able to hold on for any longer than before, you may even end up worse off. Though if the oil’s having this effect on you, it’ll be doing the same to her, not to mention your cock’s still slathered in the stuff, rubbing it into her dwarf passage with each thrust.
Indeed, Bryllia’s ass begins to thrust up against you as best she can in this position, her strong, supple back arching more as she tries to incite just that bit of extra movement. Her lips press to yours and her other lips crush up against your base. You hold yourself there for a moment, simply pushing her as deep into the bench as you can, length twitching and pulsing with the beat of your lust. Her tight vice grips you as you pull out, and sucks you back in as you return, grinding your hips against hers. Shudders wrack their way up your spine as your balls clench, pumping what feels to be your very life force out of you. You press in with short erratic half-thrusts as your seething seed leaves your loins, to be dumped into Bryllia’s still-full belly. You break the kiss and take your hand from her chin, propping yourself up by sinking your hands into her thick ass trying to gain purchase and cum just that little bit deeper inside her.
After a blissful moment of twitching spurts, you let out a soft sigh of release and look down as you pull out, and marvel at the mess, streaks of oil and cum refusing to mix as they splatter and run in rivulets down her thighs and ass, pooling between her thick legs. “Usually you’re thankful for towels for sparing you a mess.” You look to the stone floor with its small, unobtrusive grating and note the only fabric in the room is the very towel she lay on. “I think in this case it would have been smarter to just dump a bucket of water over the bench when we’re done.” You climb off her and she groans as she rolls onto her side.
“Lying on solid stone isn’t the nicest no matter how attuned ye are to the earth.” She tilts her head to the bath a little tiredly after two consecutive railings. “Get in, just beware ye might not handle the heat.” You enter the thing, finding the whole experience rather novel, it was like a miniature private bath house, a far cry from your usual experience of shabby barrels or tubs, or, should amenities allow, large public bath houses.
You ascend the steps gingerly and sit yourself on the stone throne somewhat bemusedly, feeling the intricate stonework. “You’re not some dwarf Lady’s daughter are you?”
“Lady? We’re all ladies.” She frowns in confusion as she heads over to the tap in the wall by a thick pipe that immediately begins to flood the bath with water. You hiss in mild pain as the near scalding hot water splashes about on the floor, but after flinching away once, you resolve yourself to keep your feet on the floor and deal with the pain. You’ve only got from your sole to your knee to get accustomed to the heat and it wouldn’t do to have it suddenly surprise you in your more sensitive areas.
“That’s not what I mean. I’m sorry… Thane, was it?”
“No, my clan is big in our hometown but not that big, why?”
“Ah. It’s just a set up like this is something I’d expect to be in the private rooms of some wealthy Lord. Don’t tell me you all have one of these.”
“What, a bath? Of course we do, do ye humans not bathe?”
“We bathe, draw water, heat it up, throw it in a tub or bucket.”
“That’s depressing.”
“We’ve grand public bathes too, it’s quite a tradition.”
“Ye share ye bathes publicly?”
“Oh it’s quite alright. Priests make sure the bathes are cleansed multiple times every day.”
“Yer traditions are weird.”
“How do you afford all of this?” You keep the conversation up as the water slowly rises and Bryllia sits on the ledge across from you, her toes barely dipping in the water. The constant chatter helps take your mind off the soaring heat, though it slowly becomes more bearable.
“Afford all what?”
“This,” you gesture the stone works, the pipe that carries the hot water into the bath. She rolls her eyes.
“Ye humans really oughta spend less time in the sun. If I didn’t know better I’d say ye were as backwards as those star-gazin’, tree huggin’ elves. Maybe if ye didn’t waste a dragon’s hoard pullin’ all the good stuff out of the earth ye’d have the answer already. Stone, comes from the mountain, metal, comes from the mountain, water, the mountain, heat, the mountain, the craftswomen?” She looks a little smug, “Well we’re in the mountain.”
“I see why you worship it.”
She slaps the bath rim, “It all becomes quite cheap when it’s all around ye.”
You nod, before squeezing your eyes shut and grimacing as water runs up along your thighs, licks at your ass and flows over your knees to pool in your lap, normally a pleasant sensation if it weren’t about as hot as the water you’d steep tea from. You grit your teeth, as the heat engulfs your legs and begins to climb up your hips, almost giving you the sensation that the water wasn’t rising so much as you were disintegrating into it.
“Ye doin’ well?”
Bryllia’s voice almost doesn’t register, focused as you are on not leaping out of the bath. “I-I think I’ll be half cooked after this, but yeah.”
She runs her hands over her tits, wrapping her arms about them before sliding one up between her tits to put a finger on her pouty lips, “But can ye still get hard?”
You look at her and honestly wish you could have mustered so much as a twitch, but you’re forced to give a sad shake of the head. “Ah well, maybe I was hopin’ fer too much. Yer doin’ better than most, most woulda run squealin’ by now. Yer oils weren’t bad, but I can’t let ye go without experiencin’ somethin’ truly sublime.” You watch as Bryllia bends over the edge of the bath, a little impressed with your little guy as he manages a reaction despite the searing heat. She gropes for the cupboard by the bath’s side and it’s just close enough for her to swing a door open and grope inside, pulling out a large, coarse cloth bag.
“Mountain dust.” She reaches in and pulls out a small fistful of the stuff before tossing it into the flowing stream of hot water. It kind of looks like metal sand, if that glimmered with odd properties. Instantly, what was once clear grows cloudy, bubbles begin to form as the water almost seems to take on a new texture and quality. For one, the water itself seems to gain a slick kind of soapiness, and for the other, either you ability to feel the heat has been numbed – which might be an issue – or the water itself has become more bearable.
You begin to feel an almost unnatural relaxation, as you rest your head back against the chair, slump down and close your eyes, feeling the water rise up your chest, breathing in the thick steam, now mixing with the lingering floral and exotic scents of the oil. The water reaches to about just under your nipples, when the rushing, sputtering and spitting stream stops, filling the room with a near silence.
There’s a small splashing as you hear the cupboard door close and then a wave of displaced waters laps up against your chest. A presence grows closer. A presence, thick and soft, heavy and curvy sits itself in your lap, resting its head against your chest. Bryllia’s head fits perfectly under your chin. You wrap your arms around her, naturally, almost as if on instinct. You rest them atop her bountiful bosom, crossing, feeling rather content to remain like this for a time, though that’s probably the two loads you’d dumped into her prior speaking. She brings up a hand to rest on your arm and leans her cheek against it, nuzzling in to you. You lean back and plant a kiss in her ashy brown hair.
Whatever she put in the water is a welcome addition, for now. Whatever devious and lewd substances that were no doubt mixed in seem to be slow to manifest. For the moment, all that there is is a deeply penetrating comfort, one that bleeds all the strain and wear and tenseness out of your muscles, washing off your long journey like so much sweat and dirt. She’s hot. In almost every sense of the word and you can’t figure if it’s her or whatever she put in the waters that’s responsible for the rising heat in your core. The waters seem to pull out more than just the wear and tear in your body, a deep lethargy rests in your bones that threatens to take over as it leeches out through your body, but the molten heat in your core reacts at this very moment. Waves of energising heat radiate out and course through your nerves like steam down a pipe, blasting the exhaustion out of your system and tingling all the way up to your spine, reaching so far as to crest over your spine and shower sparks into your brain.
A very telltale twitching begins, trapped under Bryllia’s thighs and ass as your body strides through its list of various states of arousal, you squeeze her a little lighter as your hair stands on end. But as your grip on her loosens, you quickly find out that she wasn’t as content to relax with you as you’d assumed. Indeed, there is no ignoring the horny dwarf in the room as she grinds and bounces in your lap. She takes the opportunity to move your arms from her chest, grabbing them both and placing one of your hands to her soft, solid belly and sinking the other into her breast. You don’t need much guidance from there. You’re beginning to feel whatever was in that mix of powder, as the warm aftermath of that surging blaze begins to transform into a kind of need, as if you hadn’t just spent yourself twice moments ago. As if you hadn’t done that in quite a long while.
She doesn’t wait for your cock to fully harden though, spreading her legs a little and reaching down to trap it between her thighs, up against her entrance, hot even against the backdrop of once-scalding water. You feel her abs clench underhand as she begins to lift and drop her hips, rolling them and causing small waves to crash up against your chest. The odd consistency of the water is almost akin to experiencing this while submerged in oil, there’s little gripping traction to speak of, just the monolithic pressure of her thighs squeezed together and the hot giving reprise of her pussy, bar the hard bud of her clit, rubbing up and down your length.
Your hands begin to wander over her body, though you show blatant favouritism, while your left hand roams around her belly, feeling the muscle beneath, running fingers down the lines of her pelvic bones, spreading your fingers through her muff and stroking across her broad hips, your other remains largely fixed to her breasts. It’s not your fault they’re so fun to squeeze and squish and poke and flick, to cup and heft. Your hands eventually find their way to hers, where they press against your hips for leverage.
A mounting pleasure begins to grow and much as you’re enjoying her thighs you don’t really want to waste yourself into the bath water, not out of any hygiene considerations, it’s just that it won’t all remain either on or in her and that truly is a waste. You press against the submerged arms of this throne and sit up a little straighter, disturbing Bryllia’s rhythm.
“W-what are ye-eep!”
You grin and heft her up against your chest, shocking and confusing the poor dwarf as she finds her knees by her breasts. As if she didn’t know what this position entailed. You shift about, squishing her legs together so that you can free one of your hands from the back of her knee. You other hand takes it and the leg that it had now rests over your arm. With your free hand, you angle the tip of your manhood to the only hole you’d yet to claim. Bryllia stiffens in your embrace, you’re almost worried she’ll break free. She’s plenty capable.
“A-are ye mad ye sun-kissed light-liver?! I-I’ve never had anything up… t-there…”
“Really?” You laugh, “Nothing, not a thing on all those long dark and lonely nights?”
“W-well maybe I experimented once or twice when I was younger b-but I’m not a pervert!”
“I’ll be gentle?”
“J-just promise me one thing…” you can almost feel her blush radiating off her face,
“Anything.”
“N-next time we do it we hafta face each other. A-and I get to be on top!”
“What, no doggy style?”
“Y-Ye’d take me like a dark elf?! M-Maybe after…”
“Alright.” You grit through your teeth, truly sacrificing quite a bit just to stick it in the thick rear she keeps flaunting, giving up sex for sex, the tragedy. “I promise.” You don’t change positions as your prick presses up against her tightest tunnel, but you do relax your grip on her legs, letting them rest atop the arms of the seat as you instead lift her up by her thighs. You complete the transition smoothly, juggling her weight from hand to hand, aided greatly by the buoyancy about you. There’s little doubt that despite her tightness, with the peculiar properties of the water as you find them now, with even just a little too much weight you’d have slid into her ass down to the hilt.
As a matter of fact, you do precisely that, able to better control the motion, with a mix of letting her hips drop and raising your own, taking it slow and easy and giving her plenty of time to adjust as the tip of your cock presses into the tight ring and coaxes its way in. Unable and uninterested in sealing her lips at this moment Bryllia lets loose all pleasing manner of sounds, from enticing open mouthed trepid gasps to sexy stifled whimpers to finally a sultry closed lip moan as she stirs, one of her hands finding a breast while her other dips down between her legs. You’ve little doubt as to what that one is doing, as her ass tightens around the head of your cock a moment after. You feel a few fingers have entered the fray.
As she seems to be taking to it well enough, you decide to go deeper yet, throbbing cock being milked by her tight constricting walls, letting out beads of pre to lubricate the way as you plunge head first into tight dwarven tunnel. It constantly squeezes and ripples as if trying to push you back out, but finally, with a heavy clap that you can’t heat that could probably guide dolphins all the same, her ass settles in your lap, ring tight around your base as any ring ought to be. You can almost feel the vibrations of her fingers going mad in her pussy. You relish in the moment, listening to Bryllia’s moans with a smile on your face.
“W-Why’d ye stop?”
“Oh, you’re good?”
“I’m fine! Just f-fuck me!”
Okay. You lift by the thighs and stifle a groan of pleasure as her passage tightens and grips your shaft, unwilling to see it leave as it was to see it come. You guide her ass back down and thrust up a little, barely finishing it before she cries out in frustration, jilling madly, “Harder, damn ye!” Something about it just irks you. It might be your care and consideration being tossed aside like so much trash. So much for no experience. You let out a small grunt of dissatisfaction and quicker than she can react, aided no doubt by the slippery texture of the waters, you hoist her up, letting her legs ride down your arm and hooking her knees by your elbows once more, only this time you clench your hands together behind her neck, lean further back into your chair, the waters up to your shoulders now and thrust up into her ass in a solid wave churning smack you’d swear you could hear.
Her fingers stop and her ass tightens as if it didn’t know what else to do, she lets out a gasp, but your cock’s already half out her ass and ramming back in. Her shuddering hole works out a rhythm quicker than she does and the going gets a little harder – along with your dick – as she begins to tighten each time you go to pull out. You muse on your luck, that you’re sensitive enough to finish quicker than your muscles can burn and fail, going by the surmounting bliss. Quicker yet as you fuck Bryllia into an inarticulate screaming orgasm faster than the thought can finish. Though that might be due to her equally quick fingers, which you can feel again through her vibrating walls. With a final thrust you bury your cock in her rear and cum, balls twitching in the turbid waters.
The cathartic release wipes you and you collapse back into the chair before you’re really even done painting her bowels white. Alas, from the position you were in previously, you soon find yourself underwater, and suspect you probably pulled her under too. Well, it’s good to give your hair a wash, it’s probably sweaty now. You let her legs go to flop down over yours and give Bryllia a hug even as her ass still spasms, sighing a stream of bubbles out up to the surface. With your ass on the edge of the seat, you grope for the arms of the chair and lift the two of you out of the waters to take in some much needed breaths. Scooting back until your back hits solid stone, you take your dwarf back with you, your arms hugging her under the bust, her ass still in your lap, your cock still in her.
“I hope I didn’t get too carried away.”
“Ye… Yer good at that.”
“Well thank you.”
“Yer just a little too weak, ye won’t get anywhere by tappin’ metal.” She twists in your lap to smirk at you as you make a very displeased face. “But ye’ll get plenty places tappin’ dwarf arse.” She reaches up to the back of your head and pulls you down for a peck on the lips, “Thank ye for treatin’ me gentle. Sorry I wasn’t really into it.”
You sigh and give a wry smile, “Well at least you seemed to be into something else.”
“Ye bet I was. I didn’t know it could feel so good. Hmm, still think I prefer the traditional way of fuckin’ though.”
“Little variety is nice.”
“Aye. Now get outa my arse.” You’re half soft anyway. The two of you part, and you take the opportunity to stand and wade into the centre of the pool, taking a deep breath, closing your eyes and dropping under the chest high waters, curling up like a stone and pushing to the bottom. You scratch at your head for a bit letting your hair loose before spreading out and slowly rising back to the surface face up. You sigh in relaxation once you breach the surface but keep your eyes clothed, losing track of the time as you float, a second, sixty or ten.
Soon your head butts into two large bountiful floating things. You open an eye a slit and see Bryllia sitting on the throne, legs crossed, her wet hair pushed back off her face. She looks down at you and smiles, before leaning in for a kiss, nearly sinking your head with her breasts. Her fingers wrap around your jaw and she slowly floats you over to her. You spend the next few moments in a silent bliss, getting your scalp stroked and scratched, your cheek brushed and your head patted. You let out a deep breath and bring your legs down, sinking into her lap, resting your head on her bosom and getting your shoulders, arms and chest stroked. The peace is broken by the unceremonious grown of a stomach. Yours, reminding you that it had been some time since you’d eaten and you were now very in need of food.
Bryllia laughs, “Well that’s good. Ye’ll never make a dwarf woman’s man with a scrawny appetite. I wasn’t really plannin’ on celebratin’ but there’s still enough layin’ around fer a feast fer the next week! Plenty a booze too. T-though we can take it slow and easy tonight too, I don’t mind. Whatever ye want.”
“I just want some food for now.”
“Mmm, man after my own heart. Lets get out and get ye fed.”
The both of you climb out after Bryllia takes a quick dive to pluck out whatever plug was at the bottom keeping all the water above it. She hands you a towel and you begin to dry yourself, “Um, clothes?”
“Uh, I guess I could graciously lend ye one of these fur coats I recently got. Here,” She reaches for the robe she set aside and tosses it to you, “Use this and put yer thing away, lest I get a different kinda hungry.”
You shudder and wrap yourself up. It’s not perfectly sized by any means, something for a short man perhaps, but still to large for a dwarf, so it only reaches your knee. You take a moment to try and dry your hair as Bryllia struts out and returns a moment later wearing a much too large robe herself. She’d pulled a belt out of somewhere and tightened it around her stomach. The thing just barely clears the floor and has way too much room up top, almost looking like a hood or a cloak. The incredibly loose fit means her bust is tantalisingly visible however, just barely short of a nipple peaking out, in fact, a single errant movement would probably release a breast. She makes none, sadly, as she flaunts herself. “Comfy stuff this. What is it?”
“Far eastern shifting fire marten.”
“What?”
“A kinda magical critter from the east. Makes fire.”
She suddenly eyes the coat suspiciously, “A dwarven lass doesn’t fear heat, but being set on fire’s another thing entirely. This isn’t gonna blow is it?”
“No, no. They lose that ability when they die. It’s just really expensive fur now.”
“Ye came to the right place. I mean, not in the right way, but this’ll definitely sell well here. Better yet if ye sell ‘em through dwarven hands. I’ll earn quite a bit on this, but I already told ye, tradin’s forbidden on these days and ye’ll not get any right dwarven lass to open her door without offerin’ her a whole lotta somethin’ else.”
“I can tell that.”
“Oh shush. This was yer choice. At any rate we’ll talk numbers after the celebrations. Ye just gotta hope that between now and then ye’ve given me enough incentive to really do my best.”
She leads you out of the bathroom and to your left, towards the odd mix of kitchen, dining and loungeroom, though the former can only be called as much due to the small but evident cooking space around the fire. The fireplace, though flanked to the left by a kitchen area including sink, cupboards and all else you might expect, is surrounded on its right side by an array of lounges and seats, mostly of stone, though some show off a dark wooden texture. Most are draped over with thick furs, as is the floor before the fire, though, given enough space that any errant ember doesn’t set the thing alight. Even still, tiny patches of singed fur would suggest that the thing were fairly resistant to flame regardless. Further right of the fireplace, beyond the chairs in a half circle about the fire, is the corner of the room, lined in dense shelves carrying all manner of oddity and thick tomes. A desk resides here, a small table and some chairs. Further left, beyond the small corner dedicated to cooking was a stairwell leading down. From the outside, there’s only so much of the house, you’ve seen everything except the other side of the first floor. Judging from the lack of any beds, you wager that Bryllia’s bedroom is down there. You’ll be familiar with it soon enough.
You watch with some curiosity as she takes a stone out of a metal bucket and tosses it into the fire. The thing dances in revelry and you can feel the heat of its gratitude a good number of paces away. You’d take a seat nearby, but she mentioned food, so the obvious thing is to sit at the large stone table that dominates the room. It’s a little closer to you than the cobbling of chairs, space enough between for one to comfortable walk while carrying whatever pots or pans of food they’d retrieved from the fire. Lining the huge and decorating thing are chairs made of what else but stone, lined again with thick furs, thankfully.
“Hmph, if you don’t do your best and get me enough gold to earn a profit, each coin less is a day sooner I have to head off to find a venture.”
She turns to you as you’re halfway though sitting, making you pause awkwardly. She eyes you seriously. “Is coin that important to ye?”
Inwardly unsettled at her sudden shift in tone, you respond off-hand, “Of course. Even I’m for sale for the right price.”
“… Really…” She turns from you, seemingly lost in thought and your ass takes the rest of its trip down to its seat.
You watch her back as she heads over to the kitchen area, somewhat perplexed. Of course, your eyes swiftly drift downward. You startle slightly, as Bryllia talks again, “And do ye accept just any one’s coin?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t get anywhere. A merchant has to be discerning.”
“Yet ye’ll accept the coin of a ranger? ‘Course… ye know nothin’ about dwarves.”
You smile, not that she can see it, “Even if I did, there’s no one’s coin I’d rather take than yours Bryllia.”
She snorts, “Like I’d believe that… enough talk about coin, it’s unlucky. Somethin’ tells me we’ll have plenty to discuss later anyway.” She bends over. Sadly though, you’re not able to make much more than the pleasing outline given the thickness and looseness of the fur robe. She begins to produce all manner of metal works, pots and containers, grates and stands, there’s a rush of water as some of them get filled from the sink by the fire and more clattering as she rifles through draws and cabinets, producing all manner of food stuffs, some root vegetables, you even spot a truly, unfeasibly, impractically large sausage. A knife comes out, it’s immaculate craftsmanship evident even at a distance, and the rhythmic chopping of metal on thick wood board begins to fill the room, accentuating the sizzling crackle of the fire. You didn’t think rock could sound so energetic burning, then again it’s evidently no ordinary rock.
Suddenly taken by boredom, you stand up once more and head over to her shelves of books and trinkets, spending a moment to appraise each one. You get a little lost in this, as you usually, do, growing to feel like you’re spying juicy and mysterious goods all laid out on a pedlar’s mat. Something far far juicer summons you back to the table though, or at least, the smell of it does. You sit, graciously awaiting your meal, relieved in no small part that Bryllia’s rough lifestyle hadn’t led to a rough palate, going by the intricate scents wafting from the fireplace. Grated it’s all quite muted, most all the fumes being sucked away by the chimney above the fire. That enough of it seeps out to reach you is testament of itself. A short exchange has you fumbling around through her cupboards to set the table at her direction.
When it finally arrives, you’d all but drowned in saliva. The star of the meal was that sausage you’d seen earlier, carried over in some strange rectangular container, upon opening the lid to a dense waft of steam you see it has been boiled in some murky mix. It kind of smells like some vegetables made its way in to it, but they’d since dissolved. With a pair of tongs she fishes out the large sausage and lay it on a platter between the two of you. It’s skin looks rigid and tight and you watch with some awe as Bryllia takes a blade and runs it down it’s length, where it splits open of its own accord, almost like a flower, a meaty succulent flower.
The rest of the meal comprises of other vegetables like potatoes, mushrooms and some other exotic thing you don’t recognise, cooked in some manner, grilled or boiled, or steamed, laid down the split open sausage. The final touch is the liquid the thing boiled in, poured over it all like gravy. Your stomach practically aches in hunger. But Bryllia neither serves you nor takes a seat, instead she heads over back to the kitchen area and you feel like smacking your head.
Of course, where were you?
She returns with two truly colossal jugs of some form of alcohol doubtlessly and dumps them on the stone table with a heavy thunk. Not a drop spills. Now, she takes a large knife and two smaller plates she’d brought over earlier and begins to cut into the sausage, slicing a large portion for herself and an even larger portion for you, enough to nearly dwarf the plate, a slab of meat filled with vegetables and gravy. And the other half of the sausage still sits on the large plate, mocking you, displaying it’s ample derision of your stomach’s capacity. You were about to show it a thing or two, though you have to question Bryllia’s motives in serving such a dish. You knew all to well what she wanted, no, what you both wanted, from now ‘till the end of the celebrations and possibly… further beyond. Much further. As if reading your thoughts from your expressions and glances, she only smirks and digs her fork in, gouging out a chunk of sausage.
You hack into your own, slicing free a piece, balancing a number of soft, squishy and juicy vegetables on the steaming thing, all covered in sauce and you cram it into your mouth. The presence of the skin on the underside of the sausage adds an interesting texture as you chew through, not really tough enough to prevent you from doing so, but tough enough that your teeth first sink through the vegetables and the exposed, tender, fatty flesh before puncturing the skin from below. The explosion of flavour in your mouth is nearly as good as when your flavour exploded in Bryllia’s mouth. Just as messy too – you weren’t about to let a drop escape.
She watches you with evident delight as you scoff down her cooking in between mouthfuls of mead, of course, you do all you can to maintain a proper appearance. Even if the both of you are in little more than a fur robe. The meal goes down quite quick between the two of you and you’re not as poor off as you thought you would have been. At least, you don’t feel a food coma slowly reaching its way into your mind and urging you to find a spot to lie down. You go to deal with the dishes, the errant greasy slick of fat and juice the only evidence left behind, but she stops you, “Ah, don’t ye worry about that, we can do it later.” She stands up and stretches, her coat opening with the motion, flashing you. You stare a little enviously at her belly, your own probably a little worse for ware after all that. Sneaking a glance down there’s actually not as much bloat for how full you feel right now.
“Mmm,” She finishes stretching and lets out a deeply satisfied sigh. She looks at you, eyes smoky and half-lidded. A reaction stirs in you, as you’d already grown accustomed to her looks and which one of hers was ‘that’ look. The heat in her gaze cools down somewhat though, as she looks to the fire, “Come, lets relax a bit. A good rest comes after a good meal.”
Though you’re not as tired as you’d thought you’d be, you still won’t say no to lying before a cozy fire, especially not upon such a luxurious fur rug. You shudder to think of what once wore it, making its presence stand out that much grander upon the stone floor. You follow and watch as she all but flops down, arms and legs spread. You’re a little less… loose about it, but you lie down next to her too, though you prop up an elbow and look curiously towards the woodless fireplace and those glowing stones. She blocks your view soon though, joining you on an elbow, temple on her fist.
“Before I ask my questions though, as host I oughta make sure ye’ve not got any more of yer own. Anythin’ ye needta know?”
“I was curious. Is there anything we need to do? Are we doing something tomorrow, or the day after?”
“There’s no real delineation, we’ve traditions but it doesn’t really matter if we do them on the first, second or third day. We’ve not done much today, have we?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary, I suspect.”
She leers and for a moment you can’t separate her greyish orbs from those in the fire behind her. “Ye suspect wisely. And that’s basically what we’ll be doin’ tomorrow and the day after. Then I’ll take ye to sort out the goods and… well… ye see, I wasn’t countin’ on company a-and I didn’t prepare anythin’ but…” She sits up a little and is visibly uncomfortable, hesitant, looking away from you. You reach a hand out and brush your fingers through her hair before stroking her cheek and leaning forward to give her a kiss on those full lips. This calms her down, as her lips meet with yours, though there’s no tongue nor is the kiss overly salacious.
You move a little closer, breaking the kiss and laying a hand on her hip, slowly beginning to explore her curves playfully as she gathers herself. Her breath starts to grow a little quicker and her eyes flash. Before you can really react, a whole lot of solid, thick and curvy dwarf launches at you. You find yourself on your back, Bryllia on your belly and looking down at you with renewed confidence. She braces her weight with an arm on your shoulder, holding you down. Her hair hangs down framing her face, drawing you into her, creating a curtain of intimacy that’s continued on by the robe that she wears, draping over the both of you. Her hand reaches back and you feel her fingers curl about your soft shaft and press it up against her rear. “I wasn’t countin’ on company and I didn’t prepare anythin’, but I’ll show ye next year how the celebration’s really done.”
“Hmm…” You reach your hands up to her breasts as they hang and jiggle so enticingly above you and sink your fingers in as you lift and squish them. Her eyes narrow into slits of pleasure that then widen into surprise as you lift, push her off you and off to the side, rolling with her to land on top, pinning her down with your weight, as effective as that could ever be against a dwarf. Your forearm lay next to her head, propping you up and you bring your free hand to her lips, tracing them with a finger before lowering down for a kiss. This time, you open her mouth with a finger against her chin and slip your tongue into her mouth, not really surprised to taste the meal you just had, though her own taste is mixed in too, subtle and hot.
She quickly reciprocates the kiss and spreads her legs, drawing her knees up to hug your hips, while she thrusts her chest up against you and wraps her arms across your back, thick fur sleeves brushing you quite pleasantly. You’ll have to make sure to get your money’s worth when you work out the deal some days later. You take your hand from her chin and reach down to direct your crown, pressing it up against her lips, already wet, predictably, as you are hard. You break this kiss.
“That depends, Bryllia. That’s a big decision.” You emphasise ‘big’ rather cockily, as you begin to penetrate the lonely dwarf ranger’s wet, hot and writhing tunnel. “But no merchant worth his coin is afraid of big decisions.”
She gasps as your balls slap against her ass as you sink all the way in, rigid shaft spreading her wide and butting insistently up against her womb, “What are ye gettin’ at.”
“You just, ngh-” you draw out and thrust back in, “Want me to be here for you next year so you don’t feel lonely?” Your words begin to flow a little freer as you build up an actual rhythm, “Isn’t that a little one sided? What’s in it for me?”
“Ahh…” She lets out a saint whimper, “D-deeper… Ha… Ye know what’s in it for ye, ye just gonna toss me aside? Do ye dare to, human?”
You pause for a brief moment before continuing, “Well, no, I suppose I don’t, but still, I’ll not accept such a one sided deal, I think the following negotiations are going to be long-”
“And hard.”
“Yes.”
“And repetitive.”
“Well that too and to be honest with you, probably quite messy. I doubt we’ll come to a settlement in the next three months, nor the next six let alone nine.”
“Mmmm…” you world spins and your back slams into something soft and furry. You’re not quite sure how she did that, but she’s tossed her robe over a nearby lounge and runs her fingers through her hair once, fluffing and shaking it out before leaning down over you, planting a hand on your chest and burying the other between her legs where she begins to rock and bounce, “I guess ye’ll need about a year to deliberate over the issue, I get it. And ye’ll need to stay under my eyes in this time too, ye’ve already broken one promise to me.” She grins down at you and you gasp.
“Of course!” It hits you, that steep price you had to pay to stick it to that huge taunting rear, “I’m terribly sorry, I just got carried away.”
“Oh, I know yer heart was in it. Or maybe yer dick. I don’t blame ye so long as you sit still like a good lad. Now, dwarves aren’t known for haste, fer a human yer prudence is quite commendable. I see how it is.” She leers, tongue slipping out to trace a wet hot line across your jaw and cheek, before tracing back down to part your lips for a short kiss.
“As a host then, it’ll be my duty to get ye the best price possible for yer goods so ye’ve a little coin to spend on comfort and luxuries while we handle this thick, throbbin’ negotiation.”
You plant your hands on her ass and give the huge thing an affectionate squeeze, “Mmmm, I do need to start gaining capitol. After all, we may come to a conclusion come next year, but what of the one after? And the one after that?”
“It looks like yer in quite the dilemma.”
“Well I am in quite the dwarf. I suppose if I don’t handle her right my end won’t be too pleasant.”
“Hah!” she slams her hips down on you with pelvis quaking force, making you gasp and tense, “Ye’d never make it out the mountain. But then,” she lay down over you, breasts squished up against your chest, her hair all pushed to one side and running over your shoulder and arm, her blueish grey eyes flare and smoulder with mirth and lust. Her tongue flicks out to run another wet warm line from your other cheek to ear, before retracing it with lines of smooches, hot breath coming to rest in your ear as her lips nibble and tease at them, her voice a low molten whisper, “Ye don’t seem like ye’d even want to.”
Penywise's Reliquary 