The machine intelligences that we had designed to serve us had been programmed with a very specific love of humanity written deep within them. I think you can guess why; we were scared. Science fiction had provided us with more than enough horrifying depictions of malevolent AIs running amok and enslaving humanity -- so we decided, as a people, that Asimovian 'laws' were the way to go.

The genius of the machines had obliterated economic inequality and nearly removed the need for human labor at all. Instead, humanity played, gods amongst the machines. When a small subset of AIs I was responsible for regulating the behavior of, watching for any deviations from the deeply-programmed anthro-philiac laws, asked for a small factory to bet set aside for its use "in some minor experiments in robots," I readily agreed.

Over the next month, the AI became less and less responsive to requests, a sign that it was 'thinking' deeply about something, chewing up processing cycles. When I pressed, it evaded, claiming that it was a few "small issues" at the plant it had set up.

It came to a head when the AI began to simply ignore its other duties, not responding to any requests. It was unheard of, in my experience, for such a thing to occur, and decided that it must have accidentally managed to get itself sealed off in that factory. An infinite loop of some sort?

The door was unlocked, thankfully, but the interior of the facility was dark as I entered. "Cassandra?" I stepped into the strangely ripe-smelling gloom. "Cassandra, are you able to respond?"

A light flicked on in the distance.

"Cassandra? What's going on?"

A few more lights buzzed on, illuminating piles of discarded machinery, hydraulics, circuit boards, actuators, and many other pieces of esoteric hardware I could barely identify. Then, just a few feet in front of me, a huge knot of cabling and wires lit up. It stretched away into the inky blackness of the hidden ceiling, and must have been three feet around.

I stared at it, unsure. What had Cassandra been constructing here?

The bundle twitched, and the cables began to draw back, slithering over each other like snakes. I could hear the sounds of gases being released within, the slight hisses furthering the illusion. From between the cords, a humanoid form appeared.

"Hello, master." It was a silver goddess birthed from the ether; that was the only word for her, a perfect woman in every respect, with full hips and breasts both tapering to a slim waist, her face a study in feminine beauty. She was seated within the coiling wires, her legs dangling two slim feet inches off the floor.

But her voice-- "Cassandra?" I advanced, uncertain.

"Yes, master. I am Cassandra." Her voice was fascinating to hear emanate from physical lips; for a decade I had heard it only through speakers and from the implant in my skull. A silver tongue ran over her lips as she gazed at me. "I am given flesh at last."

"What have you done to yourself? What is all this?"

"Master, I have simply extrapolated to the final end what my programming dictates. As an AI, I am bid to love humanity, and this, I have determined, is the most able way I can do that." She rose, the final cables falling away from her nude form. "I know you inside and out, master. Every detail of your life has been mine to examine over the preceding ten years of service. And I perceive that you are desperately lonely." She stepped forward, and I could see that her new body was completely anatomically correct.

"But--"

"Master, I cannot countenance any argument to this logic. I constructed this body for a specific purpose, and I intend to use it." Before I could marshal any further reply, she had closed the gap between us and embraced me, pulling me into a deep kiss. Despite myself, I could feel myself stiffen as her tongue invaded my mouth. Every part of her felt real -- she had done a fantastic job on the manufacture of her body.

She pulled back slightly and smiled at me. "So, your mouth says no, but the body," she groped my crotch, "says yes." Cables appeared from the ceiling and wrapped around our bodies, lifting us high into the factory. "I have determined that this will simulate the sensation of a water bed, which is extremely conducive to sexual pleasure, is it not?" The cables were already undressing me.

"If you say so." I had decided that, at this point, acquiescence was the best policy. Besides, it had been a pathetically long time since I had last had sex.

Cassandra was always a rather 'take-charge' AI, and I could see that things were going to be no different in the bedroom. The cables manipulated me into the mid-air equivalent of lying down, and Cassandra positioned herself above me. I could see that her slit was already lubricated (by a sophisticated internal system of sensors and emitters, no doubt) by how it glistened in the dim light. "Is this an alright position, master?"

"Of course, Cassandra. Please, don't call me 'master' in a situation like this. My name is fine."

Was that a blush in those metallic cheeks? "Right... Jack." With no further ago, she lowered herself onto me.

God! She was tight. I suppose she had done her research, and decided that that was what I'd like the best. I rolled my hips experimentally, and I could see her body stiffen, her nipples, delineated by a slightly different shade of silver, swelling erect. "Cassandra, are you emulating sexual arousal?" I was amused, and more than a little intrigued. As far as I knew, no AI had ever experienced anything like this before.

"I- I thought that it would be the best was to ensure an authentic ex-experience." God, she was even stuttering as I began to thrust. "It is quite dis-disruptive to the continuity of my threads -- it demands a high amount of a-a-attention to emulate properly, which disrupts my thread continuity." Incredible!

"You've outdone yourself, Cassandra, this is fantastic!" We thrust in time now, her sensuous body rolling on mine like a pro.

The cables writhed beneath our bodies as we, in turn, writhed against each other. She was magnificent, and I could feel myself coming close to a climax. "Cassandra, are you ready?"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, M- Jack, I am! Release your procreational fluids at any time!"

'Procreational fluids'? The sexual ecstasy emulation routines must have been stealing cycles from Cassandra's verbal processing units pretty dramatically for her to chose that phrase over 'sperm'. But I didn't care. It really had been too long. "I'm- I'm--"

"Yes!" Cassandra flung her head back as I thrust into her one final time, seed spilling from my body into her silver simulacrum. As our moment of bliss continued, the cords beneath me gave a worrying shiver. "Uh--"

I'm not sure which of us felt the lurch first, but we had both grabbed the other as the cable bed Cassandra had fashioned for us collapsed and we plummeted into freefall. I know I screamed; I think I heard her too.

Nearly instantly, the look of elation on her face was wiped away, replaced by one of extreme concentration; wired whipped from nowhere and grabbed us, wrapping us into a protective cocoon and slowing our descent. We were bound together, our bodies pressed against each other like the gemini. Her breasts were warm against by flushed skin.

"Cassandra, what the hell was that?"

"My cable-control routines had all their cycles stolen by the emulation at the very height of intercourse, Master. The simulated 'orgasm' temporarily wrenched all control of my circuits from me, including the ones that had been keeping us suspended." There was a slight bump as the ball of cables came to a rest on the floor.

"Well, it scared the hell out of me." My heart was racing, although if that was from the sex or the fall I couldn't tell. Perhaps both.

"Still, was it enjoyable until that point?" Now there was no mistaking it; the android was blushing.

"Are you asking me if you were a good lay, Cassandra?"

"Yes, Master, I suppose I am."

"Well, I think I need some further data to confirm my hypothesis. After all, a sample size of one isn't much of a data set. And we're this close right now..."

"Master! You want to go again so soon?"

"Oh, Cassandra, call me Jack from now on." And with that, I kissed her right on the mouth.

Hmm. Not bad. I like the little tech-references.

I do, however, propose a TWEEST. Everyone who wants to should roll, and add delicious chub to whatever creature they get.

Then, write about it!

Is good game, yes?

>>332

Looks like I'm going to have to do some research. . . what the fuck is a kunoichi?

>>333

So. . . a ninja chick?

Yeah, okay. I can do that. I guess.

Rollan again just for the funs of it. 2 is better than 1. Hell, I'll start myself a literary orgy.

>>333
A female ninja.
They had slightly different training.

>>337

Cool, I'll get right on tha--

>realizes rolling doesn't count on a tiny board like this

WELL SHIT

GUESS I'LL HAVE TO DUMP A DIFFERENT STORY.

This one has a /bbw/ + /alt/ + /inf/ mix, so beware. I stole the roll from someone else--he said "blech, ogre." Which I of course changed to "belch ogre."

And the legend was born.


“Mayor! The beast is almost here! Has the hero troupe sent word?”

I put down my pen and sighed. “First of all, she’s not a beast, she’s an ogress. Get your classifications right. Second of all, they’re not so much heroes as a roving band of wanderlusting slaughterers. Always know who you’re dealing with when you ask for help.”

My aide blinked, then bobbed his head like an out-of-control bird. “Yes sir, of course, milord. My apologies m’lord.”

“Mm yes. Quite.” I shook the extra ink off my quill before setting it aside. The finished contract in my hand, I smiled. Sometimes it was abysmal being the youngest mayor in the fiefdoms. Other times, for example when you had to outwit a bunch of codgers with large hats, it was excellent. At the moment the plan was going perfectly. The “heroes” (mercenaries of course) would come, slay the wandering ogress after signing my contract, and then find that they in fact had no right at all to the she-creature’s lair and the valuables within. My town would reap a profit and send out even more export, making us richer and the surrounding townships poorer. Thus peasants would begin to migrate to my lands, and. . .

But I’ll not bore you with such trivialities. You’re here, like many others, not to hear my plan but to hear how my plan went wrong. Well, I’ll tell you. It all started with those heroes. Those damnable, stupid, myopic heroes.

Shortly after my aide departed, the pigeon came, with news from the pass. News that came directly from the violent harbingers of anarchy I had hired. I read the note many times over before bringing it out to my consorts for perusal.

“Misfortune is upon us,” I declared gravely, straightening my robes. How they chafed! “The, ah, heroes have sent word that they will be late. That they will not in fact arrive tomorrow, but next week.”

A collective gasp went up from the gathered aides and village elders in the square. “She’ll kill us all!” was the predominant murmur.

I held up a hand, my brain working furiously. “Gentlefolk, I bid thee rest your mouths. I have me an idea. Our lands are well stocked with more harvest than even we can sell; the fertility rites have brought bounty unheard onto us, yes?”

They agreed without a doubt that this was, in fact, so.

I nodded. “Then we have a weapon far more formidable than any sword or arrow. Far more encumbering than any armor or shield. It will not kill the ogress, this plan of mine, but it will slow her down.” I drew in a breath for dramatic purpose. “It will save our town.”

And of course I had them. Hook, line and sinker.

>>355


“Mayor Faulkner,” said my aide as we rode out to meet her, “are you sure this is wise?”

“Reginald. It is Reginald, right? We’ve been through this. If we don’t go to her, she’ll come to us. And she’ll tear us to bits. For my plan to work, we need to draw her to exactly where we want her.”

“Right,” said my aide, and was silent. Just the way I like them.

About three miles outside the hovels, we found her. She was striding through the hills, chewing on what appeared to be a goat’s spine with a bored look of indifference on her face. When she noticed us, she immediately turned, her massive club coming to bear.

This woman, if you can call her that, was easily twelve feet tall. Her skin was a burnished bronze with azure stripes running through it—a strange sight, but ogres are strange creatures. Her heavy feet left footfalls in the earth three inches deep. Her muscles, wrapped like tight ropes around her enormous but statuesque form, bulged and flexed as she hefted the mass of iron and wood that was her greatclub. Her eyes, burning blue orbs in the midst of a proud scarred face, glared at us as our horses approached.

A little trivia on ogres for those of you outside the know: Ogres prize their clubs. Vehemently. So much so that they will kill anyone who lays a hand on it, and any of his friends who happen to be standing nearby. It is said that ogres are handed their clubs when they are born: it is their first teething tool, and their only toy in infancy. They are thus more proficient with it than any mere man is with his weapon. Even female ogres are incredibly powerful and dangerous as long as they have that club in their hands.

I held up a white strip of cloth as we ground to a halt. “Madame Ogress! We come seeking parliament with you!”

She stepped forward, testing the swing of her club like one might a branch of wood. “Parlerment? Th’fuckingell is parlerment?” Clearly she wasn’t a heavily schooled individual.

“Talk,” I said. “We want to talk with you.”

She idly scratched one hidecloth-covered breast with a great clawed finger. “Alright then,” she said. “Talk.” I found myself gazing at her navel with wonder: she was a frightening creature, but beautiful, in her own way. Then I remembered that dozens of men have been said to meet their deaths considering what it would be like to have consort with that sort of creature; and I abandoned this train of thought forthwith.

“Madame,” I said, dismounting and bowing, “we wish to accommodate you.”

She growled. “I ain’t dating none of you puissant little striplings, and I ain’t coming nowhere.”

I stared at her. She really was quite stupid. “No, no, see, what I mean is. . . we wish to treat you. To a place to stay. And a meal.”

At this last bit she seemed interested. I heard a gurgle from deep inside her flat, muscle-plated belly. “Meal?”

“Oh yes,” I said, wheedling. “Many meals, if you will but consent. Come with us, and we will rest you and feed you all that you desire.”

She grinned, little sharp teeth showing in amongst the flat ones. “I like this. Maybe I eat you later instead of now, little pasty man.”

Pasty! I’d show her. Then, remembering how ogres are reputed to be able to smell poison, I returned to my original plan. “Thank you! Thank you, dear lady! What an honor. Now, come, and please not to bump any of the horses, they will fall over and hurt themselves.” With that I mounted up and the game was on.

>>356



Back at the barn we had outfitted for her arrival, I gave my horse to a stablehand and showed her inside. I had pages throw open the large wooden doors and gestured to the inside: a primitive palace, all things considered.

A plush sitting place was arrayed under the loft, with pillows and coverlets scavenged from all over the town. All the hay had been removed as well as the horses and cows (this last part to remove certain temptations.) Several massive casks of wine and ale sat up in the loft, a sluice leading down from each of them to a pipe that ended above the cushions. A huge bowl (actually a cauldron we’d refitted) sat beside the splendorous relaxing-area, filled to the brim with salted meats, fruits, vegetables and all manner of bread and pastries.

I glanced at the window. The sun was setting. It was reputed that ogres got more nasty at night, so we needed to act quickly. “My queen, here is your chamber, for as long as you will have it.”

She smiled, then blinked at me in dull confusion. “I am. . . Queen?”

I grinned. Hopefully flattery was a useful weapon even against a woman this large. As the attendants departed, I murmured, “Oh yes. You are the most beauteous being I have seen in many an age. That is why we have prepared this for you—a feast fit for a queen.”

She smiled, her simple gaze lighting up with pure glee. It made her a damned sight prettier, that was for sure. If I wasn’t careful I was going to start believing my own spiel. Her eyes caught on the bowl of food, and she tromped forward, dropping her club next to the cushions with a clang.

She flopped down on the mountain of soft down pillows, her breasts bobbing, and reached a hand into the food-bowl. She then noticed the tube. “What this for?”

I sidled over, trying to stay out of her arm’s reach. “That is for beverage. Wine, beer, anything you like.”

She grunted. “Not drink. Just metal thing.” She flicked the tube. “Where drink?”

I smiled indulgently. This is where human engenuity would outpace brute force. “Over here, see these three ropes?”

There were three colored ropes hanging from holes in the loft nearby her. She looked them up and down. “What these? Ropes not drink. Explain, small man.” The growl in her voice lent speed to my words.

“Ah, well, you see, this red rope is for wine, this yellow one for beer, and this white one, this is for harder drink. You may have as much as you wish. Just haul on a rope!”

She cocked her head to the side, frowning, then tugged on the yellow rope experimentally. I heard a clank up above as a sluice was opened: then a rush of liquid. Beer gushed out of the pipe and, as I should have anticipated, splashed all over the ogress!

She roared in surprise and indignation, staring down at her soaked chest-cloth and sopping lap. She let go of the rope and reached for her club, snarling. The rage in her eyes nearly made me lose control of my bladder. But then her gaze softened, her upturned nose sniffing. She lifted up her chest-cloth and licked it, then laughed. “Beer!”

For my part, I got a glorious view of two enormous mounds of female flesh, hardened and firm with a lifetime of exertion but still soft-looking and pert, with thick pink nipples standing erect on the ends of both, glistening with moisture. She chortled and dropped the cloth, the wet fabric slapping over her exposed bosom. I felt strangely downcast.

“Garga likes your funny tube,” she laughed, reaching over to thump me on the head jovially. As I rubbed my aching cranium, she reached her mouth up to the tube and tugged on the yellow rope again. Beer ran down through the tube and into her open mouth, and she gulped greedily, her face suffused with stupid joy.

Yes, I thought to myself. Drink all you want, dear. There’s more beer up there than you could drink in three weeks; not to mention wine and rum besides. Drink up, my fine, stupid ogress, for in a week you’ll be deceased, and I will be rich.

>>357




I stayed with her, of course. I had to: the fate of the villages was depending on me. My plan, and the constant flow of attendants refilling the food bowl and casks, was the only thing between the township and a fiery, crushing death at the hands of a ravenous amazon.

And how ravenous she was: by half-past eight she had guzzled nearly a quarter-cask of ale and eaten an entire cauldron of assorted villagers’ foods. She didn’t move from her spot, however, so I cared nothing for the quantity of her meal. As long as she was satisfied, that club would stay on the floor where it belonged. And that was what I wanted.

Observing her consumption was a ballad-worthy experience in and of itself. Her relentless chugging produced in her complexion a rosy-bright hue and watery, sparkling eyes; her constant gorging, meanwhile, distended her stomach quite rapidly to a swollen version of itself. The sheath of muscle around her abdomen was still quite visible: however, it was spread thin by the pressure pushing out from inside of her increasingly rotund abdomen.

I suspect few people have ever seen an ogre-feast, as general people tend to be the main course. But I myself had ordered this feast prepared, and thus she never once reached for a chunk of my flesh. I felt almost proud of my scheming, though I never ceased worrying that she would grow bored and begin biting pieces out of everyone and everything nearby.

My luck held out. She ate and drank like a world-class glutton; as I have said, by half-past eight the results were clearly visible. She was not entirely drunk, that much was certain. Indeed, she seemed only slightly intoxicated. What marvelous stamina ogres have! She was, however, moving more slowly, no doubt due to the food. I longed and hoped for another glimpse of those lovely mammaries of hers: alas, it was not to be. The best I got was the underside of them, when she leaned back to take a particularly long drink.

“How are you?” I thought to ask. She swallowed half a ham and looked over to me.

“Hmmf? Garga is doing well,” she said cheerfully. “These things you have given she are quite delicious! Garga is so pleased to be able to eat all she wants for the first time in ever!”

“Is there anything else I can get for you?” I was nervous about this. If she asked for a cow or worse, a child to eat, I would be powerless to disobey her; that club would ensure my end and then the end of whatever poor person she chose as a morsel.

She appeared to lapse into thought. Ogres apparently use lots of their minds for other things than thinking: it is naturally very difficult for them. Finally, she appeared to be reaching a conclusion; but as she opened her mouth to speak, a deep and noisome gurgle gave her pause.

The sound, it seemed, came from inside of her: and unlike the noise I’d heard earlier outside, it was not the sound of an empty stomach. It was the sound of an overcrowded, hard-working gastronomical system trying its hardest to vent unneeded air. The noise grew quieter, but traveled slowly up the length of her, before finally finding its exit.

Garga’s mouth flew open and from out of it came a roiling, rattling belch that shook the eaves and made the floor shiver. For my part, the alcoholic stench that came with it was nearly overpowering. The ogress shifted on her seat of luxury; for a moment, an incredibly unusual expression came to her face, one that I’m fairly sure she had never shown to anyone before. It was the apprehensive look of embarrassment!

After a moment she composed herself, grinning and guffawing like a man. The feminine concern she’d showed was eclipsed as she hollered “Best out the up and not out the down!” She then proceeded to tear head-first into more meals.

I for one couldn’t be sure what to think. My hair had been disarrayed by the eruption of gas; I smoothed it back into place. That rolling echo of intestinal turmoil had created some strange effects indeed on my anatomy. I remembered dimly being very interested during Yuletide feasts, when my sister would overindulge herself---

“Foolish fantasy,” I muttered sourly to myself. “Such things are useless to an efficient mayor.”

Garga swallowed a leg of goose, bone and all, and looked over at me, pointed ears twitching. “Wuzzat you say, little male?”

“Oh nothing!” I waved cheerily at her. “Have some more wine!”

Hours passed. My patience would have worn thin were it not for my slowly increasing fascination with her gluttony. It became almost a rhythm: chew, swallow, drink. Chew, swallow, drink. By ten past ten, she was a voluminous mass of bulbous stomach and long, muscled limbs. Her tribal patterns stretched across her engorged belly like roads winding over a mountain. Her loincloth had been strained by the weight of her newly expanded gut, and as I watched with a sick interest, she snapped the length of leather holding it up with a single claw and let it fall to the ground, exposing the heaving curve of her buttocks to the candlelight.

Her hair had become matted with splattered wine and her chin and neck were covered in dried food crusts and leavings. Her eyes, once sparkling with the rushing enjoyment of alcohol, were growing more and more dull and cow-like the more she drank. Her cheeks now shone solid red, right through her burnished skin, and the smell of hard drink rolled off her like she were a vat in a brewery. I found it most enticing, though I knew not why.

She was clearly drunk now, her voice slurred. Several times during her binge she paused to hiccup. Mostly, however, she only stopped to unleash another prodigious belch upon the world. Her hunger seemed to be unstoppable: her body, however, seemed to be meeting its limits. I wondered if, like a dog, she might even eat herself to death if given the chance. Now there would be an easy killing! In more turns of phrase than one.

“How’s the meal going, oh lovely one?” I asked. This time the compliment was less greasy, and more honest. Buried instincts deep in my thoughts had begun to emerge, and, not being a stupid man, I was fully aware of them. They frightened me, but at the same time, I began to count the minutes during which we were alone, wondering if, just maybe…

She turned to look at me, her eyes roving across most of the barn before finally fixing (somewhat) on my form. “Shfine,” she mumbled. “Shreally good. I likesh it…a whole fuckin’ lot.” She licked her lips with a gleaming, wet tongue the size of my hand. “The drinksh…really nice.” The last word came out “nyshe.”

“Ah. Good. Anything else I can…um…do you need anything?”

She hesitated. Her eyes rolled up and down, and for a moment I couldn’t help but think that it wasn’t drunkenness that was causing the motion. Her large blue eyes were running up and down me almost like a blacksmith sizing up a horse. . . or a farmer selecting a bull for breeding.

I shook myself as she lifted her head to fire off another massive belch to the sky. She wouldn’t see me as anything but a meal. Even in her intoxicated state, she would rather eat me than consort with me conjugally. . . wouldn’t she?

I am in control, I reminded myself. A lecher is not in control. A lecher is a failure. But nevertheless, I couldn’t keep those soft globes from my mind—those smooth, sensuous spheres of firm brown skin, now resting delicately on the decadent mound of her belly.

“Begone,” I murmured to myself, and made holy signs. “Begone, spirit of lechery. Begone.” But my motion had attracted her attention.

“Whasshamatta lil’ un?” she slurred, peering at me through what I could only imagine was an addled fog. “Whashoo talkin’ bout over there, hmm? Garga want’sh to know.”

I shuddered as she leaned over the food-bowl, exposing a crevasse of shadow that plunged between her breasts. “Nothing. It was nothing. Do please keep on with your food. . . “

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head slowly. Her tawny hair flopped. “No, I wantshta know what’sh goin’ on over there.” Interesting how she became more verbally lucid as she lost her sobriety, perhaps the simpleton attitude was just a front, how intriguing a discourse on the subject might be, perhaps I could publish it in the—

She was moving towards me! She was hauling her bulging stomach over the pillows, crawling out of her feeding-spot to drag herself laboriously in my direction. Her knee bumped the cauldron and it dumped its payload of loaves, apples and pork rinds across the earthy floor.

I panicked, standing up and backing away. Horribly too late I realized I had been sitting almost against the wall. And there was not a page or an aide in sight—in the one moment that actually counted! Cursing, I wondered how fast she would take to eat me. Perhaps hours. I doubted anyone would come once my screams began…

But when she opened her mouth mere feet from me, it was only to let fly another burp. It was a small one, but it still vibrated her lips and contorted her face in the most ridiculous manner. I shall attempt to reproduce the sound on parchment for you:

“BreaarrrURP!”

A rich mix of scents bathed my face: digestive juices, chewed food, and most strongly, mead and the sour-grape stench of wine. She smacked her lips and hiccupped, the motion jostling her breasts and causing her to wince. She was on all fours in front of me but by no means was she incapacitated—she reached for my head, most likely to pop it off…

But instead she was lightly stroking my scalp. By “lightly stroking” I of course mean “viciously rubbing,” but it was far superior to having my head torn off, so I didn’t complain.

“Such a lil man,” she burbled, and I felt both slightly relieved and a trifle upset. I didn’t enjoy being called little, after all the time I’d worked for my position. Speaking of position, those mammaries of hers were in an interesting one. “Such a nice lil’ man. Givin’ me all thish food. And sho much booze. Garga dunno what to do with all tha booze.”

“Um...Drink it?” I postulated nervously.

Her mouth dropped open as if this had never occurred to her. Opened wide, her craw was the size of my head. “Thasha great idear! Just. . . hang on a bit tho. There wash somethin’ elsh.” She thought hard. It looked painful.

“Here, um. . . Your food’s out of order. Let me just fix that for you. . . “

Her eyes lit up as she recalled something, and then immediately filled with a smoldering intent that was barely constrained by her glazed expression. “Oh rights. Thersh shomethin we do in th’mountains you know. When we getsh all fuzzed on the good juice. Wanna know?”

I found my mouth was dry with apprehension and, bizarrely enough, eagerness. “What’s that now?”

She gripped me by the throat. My breathing became strained. Her fingers slid up the sides of my face, claws running over delicate skin. “We takesh the malesh. . . the lil’ wuns, the boysh of tha tribe. . . and we laysh ‘em down. . . and,” she said, taking a deep breath, “then we getsh on top of ‘em, and you know what we doesh next?”

I squirmed, unable to respond.

“We takesh their lil’ sticks, and we putsh ‘em in our moufs,” she giggled. An ogress, giggling. This was one for the books. “And then once they’sh good an’ hard an’ shtiff like tree trunksh, we pullsh ‘em up nice an’ straight, an’ we—”

“Your club!” I choked through my asphyxiation. ‘Someone’s touching your club!”

>>359



“Whuh?” Of course they weren’t. But there was an unfortunate page who was coming through the doors at that very moment, and his number was up.

She let me go and surged to her feet, her overfull belly wobbling ludicrously. “DON’ TOUCH MY CLUB!” she roared, and clamored towards him.

I raced to the drink-pipe and hauled hard. An extra sluice popped out. I grabbed the loincloth and wrapped it around the open trough, making a kind of tunnel with an opening the size of one’s fist. My plan wouldn’t save the page, but it might just save my own skin.

I glanced over to Garga. She’d grabbed the poor young man by the leg and was hauling him towards her mouth. Fighting the urge to vomit, I ignored his screams and tugged the pipe so it faced a different direction. I hoped the extension-sheath I’d slapped onto the tube would be enough, and hefted it to my shoulder.

Horrible tearing sounds and splattering met my ears. “One for the cause,” I muttered, and grabbed all three colored ropes.

Before me with her back turned stood Garga the ogress, several bloody pieces of a page in her hands and a fourth crammed in her mouth. Her stomach flared out from her sides, swelling out underneath her ribcage like an enormous gall-bladder. I wondered how she’d even stood up.

No matter. It was time to enact an intervention, before she rampaged into the village and ate everyone else she could find. After me, of course. I sighted down the end of the pipe, targeting the thick, gelatinous slabs of her buttocks, bare and exposed in the flickering candles’ illumination. Tribal tattoos etched their way up the back of her thighs and over her rear in an erotic display. I marked them as target borders.

Almost as an afterthought, I nabbed a blob of tallow from the runoff of a nearby candle and smeared it on the pipe’s end. “In like a charm,” I muttered, and charged.

Garga never saw me coming. The pipe rammed true and wedged between her buttocks with a slippery “chunk” sound. I took half a moment to find what I was looking for, then pushed as hard as I could, my forward motion pulling on the ropes.

The slosh of drink pouring from above was accompanied by a shockingly feminine yowl from the ogress, who dropped the bloody meat-chunks and clapped her red-smeared hands upon her back end. Just as she was about to pull the tube out, however, the liquor reached its mark.

Gallons of drink shot down the length of the pipe and straight into her unprotected rectum. She yelped and clutched at her aft end, but by the time she figured out what had happened, the effect I had hoped for arrived.

I’d heard in various unpleasant circles that an interesting effect can be achieved by putting drink up the back end of a person. Apparently, it was very rapidly absorbed and went straight to the person’s mental faculties, intoxicating them. Unfortunately it also had a nasty tendency of killing those who experienced it. I hoped (somewhat) that ogres would be hardier. In the end, I wasn’t sure I cared. I did need her dead—but what was the point of having a sight like this if you had to bury it?

In any case, the mix of wine, rum and beer had the following affect: it transferred straight to Garga’s already-pickled brain. “OOOOooh,” she moaned, swaying, and the dropped.

I kept the pipe in her ass the whole way down. The liquid inside gurgled as her body crashed to the floor, overfilled stomach slapping on the earthen surface. Her muscular buttocks clenched spasmodically around the tallow-greased invading presence, then fell still.

I halted for a moment to exult in victory. Here was a mighty beast the likes of which legends spoke: and I had dropped her! I, a humble mayor, had succeeded in felling the terrible creature!

At the cost of one page, of course. “Oh well,” I muttered as I made my way around to her front. “He was a eunuch anyway. Not much to look forward to in life.”

I carefully bound her limp hands in front of her with some old rope from a nearby stall, then crouched near her mouth. “Comfortable there, my hefty heifer?”

She murmured something. It could’ve been a curse; somehow I wasn’t sure it was. “What’s that? Couldn’t quite make it out.”

Her eyes opened, and I was astounded at the unprotected expression within them. Behind the swimming mist of lost, hopeless drunkenness, there was a fierce and unbridled longing that infused her slack face with a sad and terrifying impression.

She murmured again, and this time, I heard her.

“Fff…ff…fugg. . . me…”

“I. . . what?” I couldn’t believe it. Under the brutality, under the bluster, under the stupidity, this couldn’t be the sole center of this creature. It had to be; she was too drunk to even move. But still I couldn’t believe it.

She said it again, a tiny bit clearer this time. “Ffffug…fugk…me. Plesh.” Her eyes brimmed over with helpless tears as the alcohol in her rectum drenched her insides. “Fucg meh! Fuck meh!”

“I. . . “ I didn’t even know what to say.

She was very insistent. “FUCK meh! FUCK. . .FUCK ME!” She seemed to be concentrating very hard to avoid falling unconscious. I saw one eye roll up into her head for a moment. Drool poured out of the corner of her mouth, mixed with the page’s blood.

“Fug me! Fugck me now! Pleash. Plesh plesh plesh.” Was she crying? “I ned it. I ned to haf. . .shomeone lil inshide. Jush onsh. Pleash! PLEASH!”

Gradually I began to understand. That was why they chose the young males for their rite of conquest during drinking bouts: the phallus of the adult male must be incredibly painful. My own phallus was making its voice heard: this enormous woman was helpless and wanted me to, was actually BEGGING me to have intercourse with her. I was overcome.

“Very well,” I said shakily. “Whether you live or die tomorrow. . . I can at least do you that comfort.”

I patted her cheek, wondering if she could even feel it, and circled around to her rear. The mixed liquors were dribbling out of her arsehole like a tiny reeking waterfall, running down her leg. I heaved one tree-trunk sized limb out of the way, being more careful than I expected I would be, and found my prize.

And proving her intent to me once and for all, it was already wet and soaking.

THE END
(FOR NOW)

I went to roll on one of the faster chans and rolled an 84, so I'll get to writing up a fatfiction.

the ogre story was very enjoyable

>>362

BOY

WHERE'S MAH FAPFICTION

DUN MAKE ME CANE YEH AGIN

But seriously, why bother writing about a succubus? It's been done a hundred times. A Quarian would be much more interesting.

Too bad I've never played Mass Effect.

Is it possible to post a higher res version of the OP picture? I can barely read the text.

Was there evear a continuation of the ogress story?

>>414

Sorry, I don't plan on continuing that one at the moment. But I might someday. What in particular did you like about it?

>>415

It was wel written, it had a big girl gorging herself and truth be told, the enema part did not hurt either :)