Chapter 13: Scoffer's Tale
The smuggler’s cut was a tight, oppressive squeeze. The walls wept a constant, chilly condensation that soaked into their already slime-caked clothes. The only sounds were the squelch of Scoffer’s clown shoes, the squeak of Minnie’s trolley wheels, and the ragged echo of their own breathing. The air was stale and thick with the smell of damp earth and primordial mould.
They walked single file for what felt like hours, the tunnel winding downward in a slow, relentless spiral. Dravion trailed at the back, his earlier humiliation festering into a sullen silence. The others were too tired for talk, conserving their energy for the simple act of placing one foot before the other.
Finally, the walls abruptly fell away. The tunnel debouched into a vast, natural cistern. A wide, still pool of black water filled the centre, its surface reflecting the faint phosphorescent fungi that clung to the ceiling like a sickly constellation. The ground around the pool was a flat shelf of smooth stone, mercifully dry. A handful of pale, blind cave fish broke the water’s surface with soft, concentric ripples.
“Here,” Scoffer announced, his voice booming in the sudden space. He sank onto a large, flat rock with a groan that echoed. “Rest. This place is safe. Nothing comes here but the fish and the drips.”
Gratefully, the party collapsed. Brutehilde leaned against the wall, her clogs scraping on stone. Minnie immediately began rummaging on her trolley. “Right, who’s for tea? I’ve got a lovely Oolong that sings of high mountains. Well, it would if it could. It’ll have to sing of deep, dark caves instead.”
As the comforting ritual of the tea trolley commenced, Scoffer stretched his massive arms, making the leather of his posing pouch creak alarmingly. He looked at the expectant faces around him. Polly was lighting a slim, stolen goblin cigarillo. Tulip rested her head in Polly’s lap. Tanna sat polishing her blade, the magical plug now reinserted in her rear making her shift slightly on the stone. Ulrika watched the water with tactical dispassion. Dravion stared into the middle distance, composing a new poem about the existential damp.
“So,” Scoffer began, scratching his broad, green belly. “The pit. Right. After that tent show kerfuffle with the angry villagers and the rather enormous hedgehog, the ground gave way. Just swallowed me whole. I fell for a fucking age. Long enough to think, ‘Well, this is a boring way to die,’ and then get bored of thinking that.”
He took a chipped clay mug of tea from Minnie with a nod of thanks, swallowing the scalding liquid in one gulp.
“It was dark. Real dark. The kind of dark that gets inside your head. Then, whump. Didn’t hit rock. Hit something… softer. Springy. Made a sound like a bag of wet gravel bursting.”
He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound.
“Turns out I landed arse-first on the chief of the Bleeding Ear tribe. Old Chief Grikk. Nasty piece of work, by all accounts. Had a skull thicker than a troll’s toenail. My arse is thicker still. Smashed him flat. I was sitting there in the dark, covered in what I hoped was just mud, when all these little pairs of shiny eyes appear. Goblin eyes.”
He mimed their peering looks, his own small eyes wide.
“They’re chittering. ‘He fell from the sky-hole! He squashed the Chief! The Chief who beat us and stole our shinies and our fungus-wine!’ They poked Grikk with a stick. He didn’t move. Then one of ‘em, a brave little runt, pokes me with a stick.”
Scoffer paused for dramatic effect, sipping more tea.
“I farted. Not on purpose. It was the impact. A real earth-shaker. In that enclosed space, it must have sounded like the voice of the mountain. The goblins fell over themselves bowing. Decided I was a god sent to liberate them. The Great Green Wind, they called me. The Fart of Freedom.”
Polly snorted, blowing out a plume of smoke. “Poetic.”
“I leaned into it,” Scoffer said with a shrug that made his pectorals dance. “What else was I gonna do? I had no clue where I was. So I became their god. They fed me. Brought me tribute. Mostly stolen garbage and fermented cave-rat milk. I taught them a few things. The proper way to headbutt. The strategic value of a well-placed whoopee cushion. The best way to wank. It was a living. A smelly, bizarre living, but a living.”
His expression grew more serious, or as serious as an orc in a clown nose could manage.
“But gods get restless. The air down here… it’s recycled. It’s been breathed by bats and farted by fungi for a million years. I started dreaming of wind. Real wind. The kind that smells of pine needles and rain and open shit you didn’t have to dig a hole for. I craved a horizon that wasn’t a wall of rock. And somewhere I could buy a really big hat.”
He looked around at the women, his gaze lingering appreciatively on the curve of a breast, the swell of a hip, the line of a thigh.
“And, I’ll be honest,” he rumbled, a familiar, hungry gleam returning to his eyes. “Goblin pussy is… enthusiastic. But it’s also grey, and often slightly fungal. I have a powerful craving for something… fresher. More varied. A proper, juicy, pink cunt that hasn’t spent its life eating glow-worms. I want to taste sunlight on skin again. And I want to feel a tight, warm hole that isn’t asking me for a divine blessing in exchange.”
The crude desire hung in the damp air, stark and unvarnished. It wasn’t a romantic plea. It was a biological manifesto. Tanna blushed, looking down at her sword. Tulip arched an eyebrow. Polly just grinned, a challenge in her eyes.
It was then that Honeymuff, who had been curiously dipping her tiny feet in the black pool, zipped over. The orc’s blunt words had lit a spark in her. She hovered before Scoffer’s monumental face, her wings a blur, her naked body gleaming in the faint light.
“You want fresh?” she chirped, her voice like a bell. “I’m fresh! I’m the freshest! And you may not remember, but you fucked me in Yokelling Down. We have a son called Rollox! I bet your god-juice is mighty potent.” She landed on his knee, a six-inch tall vision of impossible curves and blatant invitation. “Your finger will do for a start. Let’s see if a god of the deep still knows how to make a pixie sing.”
A slow, wicked smile spread across Scoffer’s face. “A bold little nectar-sip.” He raised one tree-trunk finger, its tip broader than her entire torso. It was calloused, grimy, and stained with ancient under-earth soils. He brought it towards her, a colossal pillar of flesh descending.
Honeymuff didn’t flinch. She spread her tiny legs, her minuscule slit already glistening with arousal. “Don’t be shy,” she breathed. “Plant your flag, explorer.”
With a rumbling chuckle, Scoffer applied the very tip of his index finger to her body. He didn’t push. He merely covered her, the warm, rough pad of his fingerprint encompassing her entire lower half. He made a slow, grinding circle.
Honeymuff gasped, a tiny, sharp sound. Her wings fluttered frantically. “Oh! It’s like… being rubbed by a warm mountain!”
Scoffer increased the pressure slightly. The scale was immense, absurd. He was masturbating her with a fraction of a single finger. He shifted his touch, the rough skin dragging over her clit. Her back arched, her tiny cries echoing sharply in the cavern.
“Fuck yeah,” Polly murmured, watching intently, her hand idly stroking Tulip’s green hair.
Scoffer, seeing her reaction, changed tactics. He carefully hooked the very edge of his fingernail beneath her, lifting her. He brought her close to his face, his hot, damp breath washing over her. Then, with a surprising delicacy, he extended his thick, grey tongue.
It was wider than she was tall. He didn’t lick her so much as envelope her. He drew her entire body into the warm, wet, musky cavern of his mouth. The world became dark, humid, and alive with the taste of orc—earth, salt, and raw power.
Honeymuff screamed, a muffled, ecstatic sound from inside the god’s mouth. He suckled gently, his tongue swirling around her, lapping at every inch of her tiny form. He could feel her frantic movements against his taste buds, the flutter of her wings on his palate.
After a moment, he withdrew her. She was soaked, dripping with his saliva, her body vibrating. “Now,” he growled, his voice thick. “The main event.”
He laid her on the flat stone of his other palm, a living bed for her. With his now-slick index finger, he positioned himself. The tip, glistening with her moisture and his spit, pressed against her. He didn’t thrust. He simply allowed his immense weight to settle. The fingertip pressed inward, an unstoppable, gentle invasion.
Honeymuff’s eyes rolled back. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as she was utterly filled, stretched to a breathtaking limit by just the fleshy dome of his fingerprint. He began to move, a shallow, grinding rotation of his finger. For him, it was the slightest of motions. For her, it was a world-rocking, all-encompassing fuck. Her tiny hips bucked against the immovable object. She chanted a stream of filthy, delighted pixie obscenities that were lost in the squelching sounds.
Scoffer watched her, his own breathing deepening. The leather posing pouch was straining, a massive, defined bulge threatening to burst its stitches. He worked his finger, in and out, now with more intent, the wet sounds growing louder. Honeymuff’s squeaks became shrill, desperate peeps. Her body clenched around him, a microscopic vice.
“Gonna… gonna plant my seed deep, little goddess,” he grunted, his orcish nature taking over. The careful god-mask slipped, revealing the brutal breeding instinct beneath. His finger pushed deeper, impossibly deep for her tiny frame, her belly distending slightly with the shape of him. Fortunately, pixie vaginas are dimensionally coherent, allowing them to expand into adjacent realities to accommodate cocks bigger than their own bodies.
With a final, guttural roar that shook dust from the ceiling, Scoffer shuddered. It wasn’t his cock, but the orgasm that rocked him was no less powerful. For Honeymuff, the result was cataclysmic. A warm, geyser-like flood erupted from the core of her cunt, drenching her, swamping her, filling every crevice. It wasn’t come from a cock, but it was pure sexual essence, thick and pungent and prodigious in volume. She was submerged in it, swimming in a sudden, warm puddle of orgasmic release on his palm.
He lifted his finger. Honeymuff lay in the pool, gasping, coughing, laughing, coated and utterly inseminated. She looked utterly, blissfully wrecked. “By the hive… that was… I think I felt my eggs get fertilized from here!”
Scoffer brought his palm to his mouth and licked her clean with one long, possessive swipe, swallowing. He let out a satisfied sigh, the tension draining from his enormous frame. “Fresh,” he declared, his voice a contented rumble. “Sweet as a sun-ripe berry. A good start. And we have a son, you say? I can't wait to meet him, I hope he takes after his old pa.”
He looked at the rest of the party, his gaze no longer desperately hungry, but contemplative and renewed. “Right. That’s the spirit back in the bottle. Let’s get moving. This god has a date with the sky.”