Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: Slimy Yet Satisfying (Patreon)

“We don’t need professionals,” said the widow.

“Yes, we do,” said her daughter.

They stood cheek by jowl on the basement landing. The older woman waved one calloused hand. The keys to the basement door jangled in her grip. “Your father showed me a thing or two, gods rest his poor soul. A few good thwacks and those silly slimes will slither off.” She prodded the cellar door with her off-hand weapon. But insofar as the weapon in question was a broom handle, it did not make for an especially intimidating display of martial prowess. Particularly not when several somethings on the far side of the door thudded dully against the wood.

“Your daughter is right to worry,” said Inquisitor. “They might not look dangerous, but even a slime can threaten low-level NPCs.”

Elderly nostrils flared. Matronly fingers jerked into a let-me-tell-you-a-thing-or-two point. “I haven’t lived long enough to earn my second hit die,” said the widow, “Just to be called ‘low-level’ by some—”

But the daughter had made her Sleight of Hand check, snatching the keys from her mother’s hand. The domestic dispute that followed was not pretty, especially not given the narrow confines of the basement landing. Ranger suffered several points of non-lethal broom damage before the widow could be persuaded to the top of the stairs.

“My Harold could have had that basement cleared in the first round!” shouted the old lady. “So could I for that matter! Why we should pay good coin for a bunch of so-called ‘adventurers’ to do my housekeeping for me….”

The tirade faded. The door shut. Whether the daughter had made a Persuasion or a Grapple check it was impossible to tell.

“She has a point,” said Magus. “This is beneath our paygrade.”.

“Do you want groceries this week?” said Inquisitor.

“Click,” said the key in the door. And they all trooped into the basement proper.

*****

Somewhere beneath the seething mass, Antipaladin squirmed. Fighter twitched and spasmed. Ranger’s tongue lolled, a heedless ribbon of drool mixing with the soft bodies that schlorped from wall to wall. All and sundry looked as if they were auditioning for an ahegao hoodie.

“The brewer’s yeast!” Inquisitor cried. “You guys, I made my Lore check! These things are attracted to the brewing supplies. It’s like a super-food for them! We’ve walked into a feeding / mating frenzy!”

“Moan,” said the other bounty hunters.

“Schlorp,” said the horny ooze horde.

“You girls need a hand?” said the widow. “I’ve still got my broom if you’d like some help.”

It was at this moment that the oozes finally managed to melt their way through Inquisitor’s breeches. Heedless of the dark elf’s flashing halberd, they swarmed around her, warm and soft and pulsating. Despite Inquisitor struggles they came on and on. So did she.

“Don’t come down here!” cried Quiz. “We’re doing fine. Definitely not getting TPK’d by slimes.”

“You sound out of breath.” called the widow. “Are you sure you don’t need an Aid Another action or anything?” She listened for a few moments more from the top of the stairs. The litany of battle cries, grunts, and calls to the gods made it clear that the battle was ongoing. In fact, it sounded rather as if the professionals were enjoying their work. And as the widow climbed the stairs, she reflected (not for the first time) how badly she missed her Harold. The man had been an incredible lay.