Overlord's Harem Part 4: Helga the Dwarf (Patreon)

My tower's been much more noisy lately, but I find it comforting. I grew up in a town, after all, so a big empty tower didn't feel right to me from the start. A quiet place to study, sure, but it's pleasant to catch bits of Baruun trying to shape up the lesser skeletons or Nitka busying herself in her off time by filing down the various stone walls or statues that were uneven. It takes a bit to establish boundaries with None, who either doesn't know when to approach a goddess or when to follow me like a dog. I've taken to showing her some more advanced magic, which she seems to enjoy when she can keep from ducking under my robes and helping herself to a quickie.

Marcus tends to act as the messenger at the tower entrance more often than not. With the girls handling their own races, he's got less running around to do. It's always interesting to see how the skeletons behave in their down time. little personalities developing between the magic and what was their human spirits. Marcus was a bit more involved in his creation, from when I built him as the commander of my skeletons. He's more passionate and talkative than the rest, but if he has nothing to say or do, he just... waits for more orders.

This was one of those days. Marcus had scheduled a visit to the dwarven part of my territory, and they were kind (or meticulous) enough to tell me to show up today in the evening. I take a late lunch with my company of sexy advisors and while Syrus (one of the lesser skeletons) readies the carriage.

The other races and the former overlord's journals were calling it Dwarf Town, but some basic research found that it was actually called Vilda. The dwarves are by and large the most civilized settlement on my land. They have full blown carts, cottages, two-story houses of wood and brick, smiths... it lives up to the Town part of the nickname more than the goblin mud huts and the kobolds with their beds inside their tunnels.

The dwarves do have a few things in common with the goblins: they're a little more than half human height and no matter where you go in the world, they're pretty much the same as people expect. They're hardworking people that always seem to have the sound and smell of of metal on metal about them. The men have beards as big and ridiculous as all the stories, all of them in shades of black or red. They're husky folks, thick in chest and limb that makes them ideal for lugging around heavy weapons, armor and loads of supplies. They're like the donkeys of men, especially on being stubborn. They're all busy with something, even their chubby little children running about with buckets of water or some tools for their fathers.

I step out of the carriage, and the passing dwarves give me curt little tilts of their heads. Polite nods to acknowledge me before going about their business. Definitely not the screaming and worshiping goblins, but I had definitely set some ground rules when I'd arrived with a couple of elder dwarves. Simply, the old overlord is dead. I'm in charge of this place now. There were very few questions.

"Excuse me, son," I say to the nearest approaching dwarf. There was some early confusion when I established my control, but apparently it's just like calling someone "brother" to the dwarves. Even the highest king is a son to something. The approaching dwarf is a black-haired gent, his beard still smoking slightly at the tips from whatever work he was doing, who gives me the same busy nod.

"Can you tell me who's in charge around here? I have a meeting."

The dark-haired man scoffs a bit before wiping some spit from his beard and keeps waddling off. I roll my eyes and give a little twirling motion with my fingers, magically lifting him off his feet. There's a clattering of metal as his armor shifts, and he swiftly grabs his kilt to keep it from falling as I turn him upside down.

"Let me rephrase that," I say calmly. He lets out a small storm of curses, some of which I even recognize.  It's the bread and butter of their language, I understand, as a species that frequently works with hammers, fire and picks in close proximity to fingers. "I'm in charge. Tell me where I can go to meet the head dwarf."

"There ain't one!" he sputters in their chick-tongued accent, suddenly a lot more cooperative. A few dwarves look up with interest, but never for very long and often still working their craft. None try to stop me.

"Pardon?" I ask with withering patience on my face.

"There's no head dwarf," he explains, face going red with the help of embarrassment and gravity rushing the blood to his cheeks.

"Why? Is he dead?"

"Never was one, sir! Yer grace!" He's trying polite on top of helpful, which is an improvement.

"I happen to recall meeting several village elders about a year ago," I remind him.

"Oh, sure. They were elderly, is why." Gods damn you, linguistics.

"If I may, sir." Another dwarf approached carefully; redhead, clad in leathers and with a much simpler axe than some that suggested he was just a woodcutter. "What exactly did you need help with?"

"I was told to come about local issues," I answer him, turning to face him while still hovering the first guy for good measure. "I'm trying a new... public outreach program of sorts to keep problems at a minimum." I pause and then flick my wrist to right the first dwarf and let him land on his feet. "For all of us."

The new one nods and itched his fat moustache thoughtfully. "Oh, aye. Local troubles... yeh, then you'd do best at the inn. Ask fer Firebraid."

"Thank you," I say, snapping my fingers as Syrus drives off to park the cart and tend the horses. "Would you be so polite as to show me the way?"

The place has an open front (no doors necessary) and a low ceiling, but I only need to stoop my shoulders to keep the hood of my cloak from scraping. Even the bar's busy. I don't even mean that it's crowded, but that even when they're drinking and eating, the dwarves are keeping busy. A few talk sternly about what appears to be business or perhaps a bet. An old gray one whittles on what might be either a whistle or a pipe. A woman sharpens her wide sword at a table, taking breaks from it to fill her mouth with bread or meat just to sharpen while she chewed.

The guiding dwarf doesn't scour the crowd for long before shouting in a particular direction over the low ruckus. "Ey, Firebraid! Comp'ny for ya!"

"Ah, fuck yeself, old mahn! Lemme get me shit straight and get these whiskerless fuckers fed!"

Firebraid is actually a little misleading. Instead of the stereotypical bright red, she has thick hair the deep color of a freshly oiled wooden door. A mysterious and bright mix of brown and red. She has a thick apron on, splashed by stains of beer and grease (I think) over a short green and white dress just around the knees. She passes off a few plates of fatty meat to a couple along with a few tall mugs before she shoved the tray in her armpit and walks over. "Aye? Whatcha need?"

My guide nods over at me. "The man's got business. Says he's needin' to know about any local troubles." I look from him to the barmaid quietly. Looking her over, body hair is not a major concern. She doesn't have a beard like some of the jokes claim, but there's bold red hair down her arms and legs as thick as I've seen on more rugged human men.

"I understand that there's no leaders here," I say patiently to the man who led me here. "But you're literally passing me off to a waitress? You have to have a mayor or even a quarry manager who..."

"Knows that Ein and Angus are havin' trouble at home with their babe gettin' ta sleep?" Firebraid has her arms folded against her apron, pushing up her wide and solid chest. She sniffs casually with her thick freckled nose. "Or Denan bustin' his leg in the mine when the tunnel gave out? Or the farmers havin' trouble keepin' the moose from wreckin' up the fences by the goat pens?" I frown at her as she smirks back fearlessly. "Ye're the man what sent the skeleton, right? Ye'll be wantin' words with me, then. If folks are gonna bitch to anybody, it's when they're good an' pissed."

I keep up my quiet frown to seem indigent for a moment before I sigh. "Thank you, sir. I think Miss Firebraid will be able to handle it from here."

"Helga," she corrected before turning and shoutin over her shoulder. "EY, FINN! I'm goin' on me break! Might be a while! An' fetch me the talkin' ale!"

She takes me back to her place, a small house just behind her tavern. It's a bit larger than a nice room at an inn. She lugs a small barrel and some tall mugs with her, dropping them by the low table by some short but cushy chairs. "So," I say, leaning forward in my seat so I don't lose any semblance of dignity by sinking into this oh-so-fucking comfy chair. "Tell me about this 'talking ale."

"It's fer business, aye?" Helga loses her apron, showing a set of wife and full breasts beneath her greasy work clothes. She hammers a tap into the keg and starts filling one of the mugs with some dark brown drink. I think I smell apples on the stuff. "You always negotiate over a drink. Old dwarf tradition. If you're sharin' thoughts, you're sharin' gifts."

"Generous of you all," I note as she slides the first mug over to me. I drink gingerly for the first taste, but drink deeper the second. It's warm and sweet, and like most dwarven drink, I could probably start a fire with it, so I don't go overboard.

"Ain't generous. It's fair," she says almost firmly. "So what brings ye over to our end? Lookin' fer some armor or a war machine or somethin'?"

"Oh gods no," I assure her. "I was offering to see-"

"Too bad. Cuz yer wagon's lookin' to start ta rust soon, an' yer skeleton's armor's seen better days."

I hesitate as I hold my mug in front of me. "That's because they're skeletons. They don't need much for armor."

"Don't mean they don't have dignity!" Helga huffs.

"It literally does," I sigh. "I tell them what to think and feel, and for most of them, that's not much."

Helga gives a little huff as she takes the seat beside me, taking a few gulps of her mug. "Do ya now? Right impressive. Explains yer terrible social skills."

I try to look cross with her, but I let out a crack of a snicker. She's not entirely wrong. "Point taken. But I think I'm leagues more polite than your last overlord, thank you."

"An' I'm prettier than a goat's arse. Not th' best for comparisons, aye?" She drinks again and sighs as downing most of her mug gets her warmed up. "Know your first problem? Ye don't realize it yet, but ye don't rule over us."

"That's funny," I say and spare a grim little smile. "I own this land my rules of 'might makes right.' I'd made that very clear when I blew up anyone who threatened my position those months ago."

"Oh, of course. Ye own the land, we live on it, and that's right generous of ya. We give ya back as you do us. But ye're a real piece, aye?"

"A piece of what?" I ask, smirking at the implication while I work on my drink.

"A piece of the machine. We're all pushin' and pullin', an' some more than others but everyone in different ways. You think you're just sittin' thar, tellin' us what to do when you want it, but ye're also... what's that? Finger wigglin' and blowin' up troublemakers. Scarin' off traders that'd take away our business. Keepin' the nastier nasties out there while we can at least stomach the orcs and kobolds." She pulled herself up in her seat to punch me in the arm. It's not a light punch. "Ye give more than think. Ye're one of us, and that's right fuckin' beautiful of ye, brother."

I chuckle a little and get near finished with my first mug. "So that's how you all work so hard? Dwarves are all ants in a colony? Cogs in a machine? All without a king or a figurehead to tell you to keep at it?"

"Ye don't have human kings telling you to go and fuck off sleepin' all day, do ye?"

"We do. It's called holidays," I correct her. "It's usually when the king wants his people to stop stressing and think less about starting a revolution."

Helga shook her head. "I need ta show  you a dwarf calendar some time. The real old stone ones. The dwarves have a holiday every single day of the year." I look at her with an amused smirk, which seems to rile her up. "It's fuckin' Dargrel's day today! Mark my life it is! Every October tenth!"

I break into a snicker as she keeps defending the logic of her holiday. I refill my mug while I start to steer her towards the local problems she'd mentioned. The dwarves sound like they're doing pretty well for themselves, but it's still good to know. All I really offer directing the orcs a bit further into the forest on their hunts to see if they feel like having some moose meat to keep them out of the dwarves' farms. She sounds pretty satisfied with that.

Some folks say that there's no place more comfortable than a halfling's home. I've never been myself, but a dwarven house with some dwarven ale and a stocky little beauty for company is doing me just fine. I let her ramble about the problems the locals have been going through, and that eventually goes into her own troubles. Firebraid seems like the type that doesn't need the beer to complain or tell you that you're wrong, but it makes for a handy excuse when she does it. I'm entirely fine listening to her go off because of just how colorfully she does it through her accent and vocabulary. Both grow worse the more she has.

"Fockin' shithead comes in bleedin' and is like 'Oi, I'll need a pint.' Fucker, ye need a doctor! Y'ain't toastin' to yer missin' fockin' leg, ya fuck! Couldn't find shit in 'is own arse, the pube-faced li'l cunt. Shouldn't be wavin' around his nan's feather duster, let alone a bloody battle axe. A few smacks in the skull woulda kept the scruffy little turd from gettin' 'imself hurt and leavin' me fuckin' scrubbin' blood off me floors 'til the wee hours! If he'da been a scrawny thing like you, he'd be missin' half that giant body o' yours."

I'd been nodding along for a while, enjoying another sip. "Well, Helga, I do think you're the last person left alive to have called me scrawny." Baruun had called me "undercooked" and "spindly," but not quite the same. I smile at her and set my mug aside for a moment. "Are you involved with anyone yet?"

"Nah, none of the lads are to my tastes around here," she muttered. "Thick-headed and ugly bunch of clans out here. None that I'd think were the marryin' types."

"Isn't that most dwarven men?" I ask, letting it slip with a smirk from my drunken tongue.

She still snorts with amusement at that as her red-haired arm tips back her mug again. "Ain't humans all such paper-boned lightweights ye can fly if ye flap hard enough?"

"Is it true a dwarven mother lactates egg nog?" That gets a full cackle out of her as she slaps her knee. "I heard if you cut the beard off of a dwarf, the beard will grow a new dwarf." She keeps snickering until she tries to drink, but I keep peppering her with what off-color jokes I heard from taverns and upper crust wizards. I'm not surprised she hasn't heard any of them before. Nobody would normally say one to a dwarf's face. Even if they wouldn't punch or axe your face in,

"Oh, I like you, human!" she giggles as she wipes away the beer she'd snorted out her nose.

"It's William, if you please," I add.

"Then you're gods-damned lucky that I please," she chuckled, tugging at her collar to cool herself off from all the laughing. It makes her wide breasts bounce in a fabulously active fashion.

"Well I like you too, Helga. I can use more honest and concerned voices around me to keep my head on straight."

"Then you're a mighty bright one, brother Will. It's not many people realize just how big a fuckup they can be."

"No offense taken. So what is it you want in life, Helga? You're clearly not very happy out here."

"I'm washin' dishes and servin' workaholic drunks, brother. It's simple but it's necessary work."

"You're not answering the question," I remind her.

She sighs and sinks down into her seat, tapping out the last drops of her mug into her mouth. "I'd like ta be more than the clan's fuckin' babysitter some day. Do me bloodline proud with somethin' better."

"Like a leader?" I offer, and she hesitates. "Or something in between, of course. I'm a powerful man, in many meanings of the word. A representative of your people in the castle of a man that owns the ground as far as his tower sees?" She drums her fingers thoughtfully on her mug. "Stop me any time if this sounds like too much for you."

"I don't rightly think that far ahead," she admitted. She set down her mug and strode over to me. "What'd I be doin'?"

"Occasional trips between your people. Reminding me of your customs when I consider large-scale plans. Filling one of the empty beds in my castle."

Helga looks me up and down, smirking. "Why? No space in the full ones?"

"I can make some room," I reply with my own grin to match.

Helga sets down her mug as she keeps up her smile. "You done good by me, Willy," she says, running her thick hands under my robe and over my thighs. "It's my duty to remind ye that it's custom to repay that in kind."

I pull her into my lap, kissing her with a drunkard's passion as Gilda and I start to help each other out of our clothes. She's passably human at a glance, but dwarf skin is really quite different from ours. It's thick and rough like leather, but the freshly cut kind rather than a smooth and properly prepared belt. It's surprisingly to feel over a woman's hips and hear a dull scraping sound. Her body hair's something I can easily get over, especially when I find it to be rather soft to the touch instead of coarse. It's more comfortable to touch the hair that thinly runs down the legs and back of her arms than some of the rougher bits of her skin. I find myself stroking over her thick arms as much as I am squeezing her ass.

Her breasts are wrapped in a bra that's this masterwork of leather and industrial-grade elastic, and the squat beauty is even more busty than I had imagined. They're easily bigger than her head, sagging with the weight and still pushing outward like half-filled potato sacks. Their bras are clearly there for very practical reasons, because there was no way Helga could see her toes without it. And forget about the idea of blacksmithing with those giants bouncing around.

"Ye gonna stare at em like a wee boy or are ye touch em like a man?" she urged in her low voice, and I gladly take up her challenge as I squeeze as much as I can fit in my hands. Her nipples are hard and of a softer texture than the rest of her, but her skin is subtly pocked like the brail that older wizards used in their books. It makes her nipple feel like a thimble as I rub against it, drawing whispered curses and blasphemes from her lips.

There's a bit more fumbling to get inside of her. We have to lift her off my lap when she's done grinding through my pants, the heavy drunk woman already sweating but never slowing as a testament to her dwarven endurance. Even when we're both nude in my armchair, it takes a while of fumbling around the pubic hair that runs from thigh to thigh before I find her entrance. She lets out a huge, almost horrified-sounding groan before she mutters some sort of praises in broken dwarvish and finds her rhythm.

To be fair, I simplified it as a grunted "Holy fucking shit." There's something special about having a dwarf riding your dick. There's a lot of sensations going on at once. Her strong thighs squeezing against my legs. The soft, red peach fuzz of her legs rubbing my skin. The tickle of her silky bush against my stomach. Her huge, fat breasts tracing their semi-rough skin over my chest with every wobbling thrust. Her kisses tasting like apples and honey with the hint of strong beer. Her thick, short arms sliding around my neck to steady herself. And of course, her warm and smooth pussy bouncing onto my cock.

I think most noticeable is the sheer density of my lover. She weighs more than a normal human woman, even close to Baruun in sheer weight. However, her four-foot body has it packed into a much smaller package. She has the muscle to move it with some surprising speed, and I find my sex-clouded mind comparing it to a getting a handjob from a super strong giant hand. Every erotic thrust of her pussy comes with a dense, soft impact against my pelvis and chest like a dropping weight. I can't possibly hold out for long with her going like that.

I cum inside of her after some period of time, and she slides back enough to hold my cock between her powerful thighs. "An' everyone talks about how great dwarven stamina is," she chuckled with a weary smile. "They don't count on havin' ta masturbate for hours at a time if ye want to break yer seal, let alone get yerself a coupla babes."

She slides off of me, and I can read her disappointment as her bush appears to have swallowed my cum and kept it inside. I raise a suspicious eyebrow and raise a hand in a firm gesture. Helga gasps and freezes, pawing at her crotch. Of course she can't grab anything, but she can feel the firm around of force I'm putting on her clitoris.

"I know that humans have a reputation as much as the dwarves," I say as calmly as I can when drunk and still in the afterglow of my orgasm. "And we do enjoy a challenge. Now, there are orders of mages that think chastity will keep their mana pure and properly flowing. I think they just can't get laid for their lives, because I always feel my powers invigorated after sex."

"Ya sneaky little AH! Fuck!" Helga doubles over, clutching at her crotch as my projected magical hand continues to finger her.

"Now get back over here," I say more firmly. "We aren't leaving until you've cum. Because you did right by me, and I mean to return the favor." That might have been what she said before. I'm too drunk to be certain, at that point.

I apply a bit of telekinesis as I get her on all fours on the bed. Helga's shouting curses in every language that I know as her big red-brown braids bounce along her back. I let the unseen hands roam over her body, making her feel like I'm not only fucking her from behind but that a half dozen hands are exploring her many folds and curves. She loves when I pinch and pull down on her nipples or thumb her lip until she drools. "Ohh, ya great bloody tallfellow..." she babbles weakly when she seems to run out of curses. She crumbles onto her chest, panting as she spreads out her thighs to take me better and deeper. I smirk as her seemingly boundless endurance gives way to let her collapse in front of me, still no orgasm out of her. Like I said, though, I enjoy the challenge.

"Easy there, Helga. If I fuck you any harder, I think you'll run out of gods to curse," I chuckle.

"You ain't got the stone in ya to do me right, ye cockless no-beard fuck," she says, but there's a hopeful squeak in her dumbly grinning defiance.

"I'll take that as an invitation. I pull out, cock still wet with both of our cum as I spread her freckled ass cheeks and slide it into her rear. It's tight from the solid weight of her cheeks squeezing around it, engulfing my ass as she lets out a long and wordless howl. She sputters and sprays beer and spittle over the bedsheets, as if unable to talk. Like I've fucked the words out of her. I run my hands through her silky bush and stroke and pinch the fattest parts of her clitoris, finding through her almost psychotic screams of pleasure that Helga shows more than a casual interest in anal. The combined teasing of my cock and hands finally make her squirt over the bed, as if I'd tapped the keg that she'd drank earlier and released a big messy orgasm of its contents onto the bed.

"Oh... oh, grandfather's axe through his fuckin' beard," she panted witlessly. "Fuck a shit-eating cunt... ohhh never nuffin' like that." Dwarves apparently don't orgasm much, but when they do it's a real mindblower for them.

"I'm glad you like it," I say as I pat her on the ass, pulling out and rubbing my wet cock's head against her asshole. "Because you'll like the second one even more."

"There's more than ONE?!" she blurts, starting to squirm on the bed. It makes her ass jiggle and her thighs clench as the sweaty hair shifts on her legs. "I... no, I couldn't... never..." She almost sounds afraid of the idea.

"I like those odds," I say with a devilish grin, sticking back inside of her and getting another passionate howl out of her.

Helga Firebraid makes a welcome addition to the castle. She's more worldly and modern-thinking than the other girls, and gladly speaks her mind. She likes the cool air of the lower tower, so she takes one of the old guards' rooms. I think it used to belong to the captain, or maybe the head torturer. Anyway, it was one of the weirdos I'd banished or killed when I took over. I introduce her to the rest of them, and they get to work arranging the orc hunters to go after the moose and swapping mining plans with Nitka.

I decide to just go to my throne room, catch up on a little reading and get to bed. All the sex and drinking's left me exhausted, and I'd hid it as best I could on the trip up the tower. I slump into my throne where Marcus guards dutifully.

"Marcus?" I ask with a yawn, the ale still loosening my tongue and mind.

"YES, YOUR GREATNESS AND WISENESS!?" he blurts readily.

"Are you happy?" I gestured messily at the skeleton. "Like this?"

"ABSOLUTELY, SIR! WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO SMILE MORE OFTEN, SIR?!"

"You... literally can't, Marcus. Don't worry about it."

"VERY GOOD, SIR! I SHALL BEGIN NOT WORRYING ABOUT IT IMMEDIATELY!"

"And Marcus?"

"ANYTHING YOU MAY NEED, MY LORD?!"

"I'm sorry. Just... that'll be all for tonight." Marcus nods curtly, whether her understands or not. He salutes hard enough to leave a crack I'll have to fix later before he stomps off for more duties.