Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: The Games of Chaos, Part 7/8 (Patreon)

The words still rang in her ears. They played on a loop behind her eyes.

"You better not break her heart, Fighter."

The buxom blonde could not see beyond the glare of the stage lights. Even so, she could feel Inquisitor’s smug and knowing smile. A thousand torments lurked within that smile. And if she didn’t play nice, the countless humiliations of her cursed existence would be known to all!

Fighter’s frantic mind flashed upon scene after scene of degradation. If anyone knew... If anyone found out... they might think she'd actually enjoyed it all. She could still hear the rapid-fire slapping as her dumptruck ass took its punishment from that accursed machine. The smell of Don Corneo’s aftershave haunted her, intermingled with badly translated dialogue and flagrant FFVII references. She thought of the slimy press of black tentacles swarming over her…  into her… The taste of Succubus’s love juices… The feel of Hetwa the Twice-Blessed filling her to bursting, each step and jounce upon the stage pushing her overstuffed body past the brink and into another mind-shattering—

“Aaaahhh!” shrieked Fighter.

“Ding,” went the bell.

“I think she’s going for the high score, folks!”

The protean thing called Kek Tarley winked at his non-existent audience. Said audience hooted and jeered.

Fighter peered through the vast acreage of her cleavage at the half-orc between her thighs. At least Ranger was an ally. She certainly wouldn’t spill Fighter’s secrets, and gods knew that she was giving this contest her all. Despite the tusks, that tongue of hers wasn’t tied at all when it came to this particular game. Fighter could feel herself getting close again. Upon reflection, not everything about joining Team Bounty Hunter had been unpleasant. Ranger was a pretty legit teammate. Her damage-per-round nearly matched Mr. Stabby’s. She seemed to acknowledge that Fighter was a generally buff and studly dude. Plus she didn’t go in for that tedious dramatic roleplay crap. As Fighter worked her hips and tweaked her nips, seeking one last O to ensure the victory, she could feel something very much like… affection…? for the silent half-orc staring up and into her eyes.

“EEEeeeee!” went a buzzer. It nearly broke Fighter’s concentration.

“Uh-oh! There goes our zone of truth detector.” Several of Kek’s slinky black coils slithered into frame. “Was someone faking it? Looking at you Purple Magic.”

“I resent the implication!” cried Thief. “I have never faked an 'O' in my entire life.”

“EEEeeeee!” went the same buzzer.

“I have several pressing questions on this matter,” said Wizard, coming up for air.

Fighter tried to ignore the marital spat. It was all well and good for Wizard to become a vision of feminine loveliness. She’d started out as an elf, which was more than halfway there in the first place. Plus she was a magic-user: not exactly the manliest profession in the multiverse. Not like Fighter. Not like the most macho martial babe magnet in all of Handbook-World. Fighter tried to recall the image of her own well-muscled form; to remember the feel of the firm pecs and beefy biceps that had once been hers. That surely would be again! She imagined Ranger’s pretty mouth wrapped around her manhood, that talented tongue licking and sliding and—

“OOooohh!” screamed Fighter, hitting a high note that most soprano bards only dream about.

“Ding,” went the bell.

Hells yeah. Still had it. She was still a stone cold stud.