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Gargamon's Elf
"Still, the girl is thin," Lord Uls pointed out. "For adequacy and advantage, a female needs proper amplitude." Duke Cypris gave qualified agreement. Gargamon, King of the Trolls, sat down heavily (unavoidable in his case) on his throne, sighed deeply while rubbing his crotch, and then clapped his hands for his Vizier, the inestimable Kargoon. The grotesque (grotesque even by troll standards) Vizier bowed low before the throne, swept his arm around in an extravagant gesture (extravagant, for a troll, that is), and grunted, "How may this servant fulfil his duties, Lord?" Gargamon spoke, in the basso rumbling that was the mark of his dynasty. "I'm sick of poking those trollops in the Royal Harem. I want an elf." Kargoon looked up sharply. "And not just any old elf wench. I want a little girl, say, about fourteen ... blonde hair... a cute little elf maiden for my bed tonight. And make sure you find ALL of her weapons this time!" he snarled, stroking the badly-healed scar that ran down the side of his large, lumpy nose. "Either that, or make sure that she's securely bound." Kargoon nodded, bowed even lower and backed out of the throne room. Once through the doors, he muttered to himself, "Shite and onions. That old pervert is getting worse every minute! What next, the Queen of the Elves herself?" He strolled down the torchlit corridor that led from the throne room to the Slaver's Quarters, hands clasped behind his back, occasionally pausing to kick one of the human servants out of his way. "Hmmmn yes, it's only a short step from prepubescent elves, to sheep, and thence to rabbits ..." He stopped at the huge iron-bound doors of the Slaver's Quarters, and rapped five times with his staff. There was a short delay - not long enough to be annoying, but just long enough to say 'I know that you're the King's confidant, Kargoon, but don't forget who supplies him with his toys.' - and then the doors began to part. Impatiently, Kargoon kicked them open, hoping to fetch Bargeld a cruel blow, but the short, almost dwarven troll was too quick for him. "Ha ha haaaaaa! Missed me!" he chortled, hopping from one foot to the other in glee. By way of answer, Kargoon whacked him across the head with his staff, which bonged on Bargeld's metal skull-cap, making the Slave-master's head ring like a carillon. "The King wants an elf." Kargoon began without any preliminaries. "Female. Fourteen years old. What have you got?" Bargeld rubbed his resonating head with his left hand, stroked his chin with the claw that substituted for his right and stared off into space, deep in concentration. While he was completely absorbed in doing this, Kargoon looked over the cages in the Slaver's Quarters. Pickings were slim; a few bedraggled humans, an old nag of a centaur, a were-jaguar with fleas and something that resembled a ten-foot-tall shaved ape that sat in the corner of its cell, making 'ook ook' noises. "Oooh, nah," Bargeld opined, examining a rough sheet of paper marked with the cryptic symbols he employed to keep a tally of his slaves, being as he was illiterate even by the undemanding standards of the Trolls. "Ever since the Elves beat us at the Battle of Kirkweed Pass, there hasn't been much of a market in elves. If it's really important, I can arrange an elf-napping for you, but I'll need a signed order from the King, along with an Order number, a Work Group, a Cost Code, and a Risk Evaluation report from the Tactical/Diplomatic Bureau, as well as - ack!" Kargoon pushed Bargeld up against the damp rock wall of the cells, with his staff across the smaller troll's throat. "Listen, short-arse. I'll be back after lunch. If you don't have a fourteen-year-old elf for the King to poke by then, you are going to be in serious trouble. And if you want an idea of what 'serious trouble' entails, just pop up to the battlements and say hello to Battle-Captain Hirnsage. He's the one impaled on the flag-pole." With that, Kargoon allowed the Slave-master to drop to the floor, and stalked out, slamming the doors behind him as usual.
Making his way to the banquet hall, Kargoon's ponderous brow was furrowed with the effort of thought. It did no good to intimidate the Slave-master (even if it did make him feel better); there simply were no elves to be had, given the current political climate. He would have to sort this out by himself. He sat at the end of the banquet table, swept the remains of the previous diner's meal onto the floor, and smashed his staff against the table a few times, shouting, "FOOD! FOOOOOD!" A harried-looking human male stumbled out of the kitchen, burdened with a black iron platter the size of a bath-tub, which held an assortment of greasy, smoking haunches fresh from the ovens. He dropped it in front of Kargoon, who absently swiped at him with his staff, and tucked into the meat. While he tore strips of rancid flesh from the heavy bone grasped in his right hand, he scraped the inch-long fingernails of the other hand against the platter, making a hackle-raising screeching sound which soothed him as he made the unaccustomed effort of concentrating on his problem. He considered visiting the witch in the nearby human village with a view to having a simulacrum made up, but then recalled that the humans had burned her for stealing babies which she sold to the elves as changelings. "Stupid bloody humans," he muttered. He then considered stealing a human girl from the village and slicing her ears open at the top ... He discarded this idea when he realised that even with magical assistance, her ears wouldn't heal before the evening. And besides, once the King got stuck into her, he'd notice the difference ... elven girls had an unusual anatomy, able to accommodate even the unfeasibly large generative member of King Gargamon. A nasty smile crossed his coarse features as he remembered what was left of the last human girl that the King had put it to. Someone put their hands over his eyes from behind, and grunted in strangely-accented Trollish, "Guess who?" Kargoon's response was to push his chair back suddenly, which would have caught any troll a nasty blow to the shins; whoever it was jumped nimbly, keeping their hands over his eyes, landing on his broad shoulders and giggling. He gave a deep, rumbling sigh, reached back and easily picked up Mariy, a young human female who was something like fourteenth under-apprentice assistant cook, and a barely tolerated nuisance. He placed her on the table next to the platter, which was filled with bones coated with cold grease, and examined her. She was about the right age, but her hair was short, shag-cut and that unusual bronze colour that some humans had. She stood on the table, hands on her slight hips, regarding him with a mischievous gleam in her eye. "Wanna see my new magic trick?" she piped. Kargoon remembered then that she had aspirations to be a witch. He raised his eyes in exasperation and said, "Not unless there is an easy way of preventing it." She pouted and replied in a hurt tone, "Well, I am going to show you anyway. I've been working on this for weeks." She sat down on the table, crossed her legs (and Kargoon found his attention straying to the smooth expanse of leg she displayed), closed her eyes and hummed something in one of the High Tongues. She made a complicated pass with both hands; the humming rose in pitch; she clapped her hands; there was a flash of golden light, and when the after-image had faded from his watering eyes, Kargoon beheld an Elf-maiden sitting where Mariy had been. His eyes widened in surprise, and then narrowed again in crafty anticipation. The elf-maiden grinned, and said in Mariy's voice, "Isn't that neat? The effect lasts for an hour, but I can't change into anything else until that hour is up, and I have to wait for four hours afterwards before I can do it again." Kargoon smiled slowly. "That is very impressive, Mariy, my dear. Now, I would like you to take a message to Bargeld Slave-master." His smile broadened when he saw her expression at this news; Bargeld had a taste for young human girls and had probably laid a lewd hand (or claw - whatever Bargeld had at the time) on her previously. He took a scrap of parchment from his pouch, and scrawled in Pre-Knophritic Trollish runes (which he knew Mariy could read but not understand):
Bargeld: Here is your girl elf. Arrange an audience for her with Bjerin Alchemist and myself, one hour before sunset. Be there also. Kargoon, Viz. He handed her the parchment, and said gravely, "Take this and read it out to the Slave-master; return then to your quarters. You are relieved of your regular duties for the rest of the day. Do not practice any more magic today; this is very important. You could soon be moving up in the world, my dear," and he gave her his most pleasant smile (which still looked pretty revolting, with grotesque fangs denting his upper lip and tapping against his nose-ring). She accepted the parchment, bowed and jumped off the table. His gaze followed her lithe form as she ran off. He wondered if the King would object to him having a go afterwards.
"He's late, as usual," grumbled Bargeld, sitting on a stool at the end of the table in the War Room; the only one available that evening, the other conference rooms being taken up with the King's Looks Like We Beat The Snot Out of the Humans - Again celebration. Bjerin, a tall, nervous Troll with battle-axe earrings, muttered something placating and took another toke of the foul-smelling herbs in his pipe. Mariy, dressed in her shapeless grey kitchen-smock, sat quietly in the corner, puzzling over the message she had delivered for Kargoon (she had memorised it). Bargeld hopped off the stool and scuttled towards the door, which suddenly swung open, catching him a violent blow on the head and knocking him off his feet. Kargoon stood in the open doorway, seething. "You stupid bastard ... next time you hold a conference, be as good as to tell me which room it's in? I've been through just about every room in the palace except the privies." Bjerin snickered at this, quickly sobering his expression when Kargoon glared at him, and saying, "That would have been the first place I'd've looked." Kargoon regarded him balefully. "I can imagine. All right, let's get this show on the road. Girl! Front and centre!" Mariy jumped up, smoothed her smock, and stood to attention before Kargoon. He stalked around her, eyeing her like a general inspecting his troops before a battle, prodding her with his staff. "This magic trick you showed me ... how much control over the details of the transformation do you have? Such as, hair colour and the like?" Mariy replied proudly, "Complete control, my Lord. I can even make myself as tall as you if I want, or as short as the Slave-master," she said, pointing to Bargeld as he sat on the floor, rubbing his head. "I'm not short," he snarled, "I'm just ... not tall." Kargoon took a parchment from his pouch, unrolled it and held it up for her. It showed an artist's impression of Lysa-Ryed, the young daughter of the Elven King. "Can you duplicate her?" Kargoon asked. "Here and now?" Mariy swallowed nervously, took the parchment and glanced at it. "I - I think so, given a few moments to study this." Kargoon waved his hand. "Take your time. We don't have the time to correct any mistakes, so I want you to get it right first off." Mariy sat down, carefully examining the parchment. She tore a fragment off one corner, chewed it thoughtfully. She hummed the incantation, made the passes, clapped her hands. Kargoon had the foresight to avert his eyes and thus avoided the blinding flash, but Bjerin and Bargeld were not so lucky; the latter more so, his dizziness suddenly becoming a full-on headache. Kargoon regarded Mariy's new form with interest. It was the Elven Princess down to the smallest details, her delicately pointed ear-tips poking through masses of flowing blonde hair. He admired the budding breasts which pressed against the front of Mariy's kitchen smock. "Very nice," he murmured, signalling Bjerin, who was still rubbing his eyes from the effects of the flash. "Bjerin? If you will." The Alchemist stepped forward and pressed a damp sponge against the Mariy's mouth for a moment. She maintained a look of surprise for three breaths, then rolled her eyes up and collapsed to the floor. Kargoon stepped forward and caught her. Consulting the twenty-four-hourglass, he noted the time and told Bargeld, "Now, to the King's Private chambers. We have but an hour."
Gargamon beheld the shapely form which was trussed securely to the four corner-posts of his bed, resting face-down on the matted, malodorous furs. He grasped her foot, ran a filthily-clawed hand down the lissom length of her leg, stroked the thigh, pinched her buttock. "Okay, get the hell out," he growled to Kargoon and Bargeld, who cowered near the doorway. Kargoon tugged at the collar of his tunic, and said imprecariously, "May I remind my Lord that the duration of this enchantment is limited to the space of one hour, after which the original form will-" "GET OUT! OUT OUT OUT!" Gargamon bellowed, throwing a pillow at the pair, wishing he had something a bit more weighty, like a mace. They ducked, fleeing the Private Chambers. The Troll King returned his hungry attention to the pseudo-elf-maiden, drooling slightly.
"What do you suppose will happen when the hour is up?" Bargeld said, holding up a pair of his fur leggings, regarding them and then tossing them aside. "I imagine she'll resume her human form, with a resulting decrease in the dimensions, flexibility and general accommodatory properties of various orifices." Kargoon glanced about for the case which contained his razor-sharp letter opener, spotted it and placed it in his sack. Bargeld nodded, folding up his rank-smelling collection of undergarments and pushing them into a chest already overpacked with his other personal belongings. "Could be painful, particularly if he's right inside her when she does it." Kargoon winced at the thought, and then, as he packed his collection of Elven thigh-bone nose-flutes before fleeing the Troll Kings' domain, said thoughtfully, "Mind you, some might enjoy that sort of thing." "Serves the old pervert right," Bargeld snickered.
Gargamon was, indeed, buried almost to the hilt. He kneeled on the end of his bed, grunting hoarsely as he thrust, the bedposts creaking as the ropes were strained to their limits. He ignored the whimpering noises that came faintly from underneath the pile of furs that covered Mariy's head, subsuming them in the halting rhythmic grunts that, together with the creaking bedposts, became an almost martial marching tune (the King being in a military frame of mind after the evening's celebrations). He drew back, relishing in the slick feel of elven labia over his warty, knobbed member, and slowly, cruelly, entered again. This thrust elicited a wail of distress from her, prompting Gargamon to lean over and paw her tender breasts with his leather-tough hands, saying "Now, now, my only! What cause for distress? As the human empire is on its knees, I will have plenty of time to attend you!" He withdrew, loosened the ropes at her hands, untied her feet and whipped the furs from over her head. He grasped her waist, turned her over so that her arms were crossed over awkwardly. She glared at him, still slightly dazed from the fumes Bjerin had drugged her with, mouth working at the gag that had been fixed into her mouth. He smiled fondly, taking the ropes attached to her feet in either hand and drawing them back. Her eyes widened in panic as he ground his hips forward, lifting the ropes around and over his shoulders, her knees tucked under his arms. The broad head of his erection pushed at her entrance for a moment, and then haltingly slid in, to the accompaniment of her muffled cries of distress. He gyrated wildly, eyes half closed, shaking the bed and emitting pleasurable moans of such volume that he didn't notice her hiccough and sudden silence. He also failed to see her pale tresses take on a copper lustre and he entirely missed seeing the pointed tips of her ears twitching. Her hour was almost past, and the spell was beginning to fade. Gargamon's rampant thrusts began to decrease in frequency, while increasing in passion. His fanged mouth opened in ecstatic epiphany; a Troll Orgasm is such an infrequent thing that the trolls learn to experience them to their fullest, and as Gargamon's moment drew near, he became aware of a sensation of constriction around his member. He thrust once more, shaking the bed and roaring louder than a wounded basilisk as his rancid semen shot up his twisted shaft and pumped into Mariy, whose form was quivering with the suppressed magical energy of transformation. He leaned back, lifting her hindquarters from the bed, the ropes crossing her hands snapping simultaneously. She balanced precariously on the end of his rigid shaft, impaled much in the same fashion as Battle-captain Hirnsage was (if not on a marginally more comfortable instrument). The outlines of her body wavered as if viewed through the haze of a kitchen fire as her vagina began to return to human proportions; the motion squeezed Gargamon's erection painfully as she pushed herself inexorably upwards, sliding on the foul lubrication that he had imparted to her. She sat for a moment on the broad head of his penis, then slipped off, gasping, to fall in the puddle of fluid that had accumulated beneath. Gargamon kneeled there for a moment, his turgid lance held over her like a victorious battle-standard. He laughed, regarding her in admiration and removed her gag. "You elves! Is there nothing to which you won't stoop in order to engage one's desires?" Mariy lay there for a moment, then realised that this was to her advantage; Gargamon had often taken elves as his personal favourites. Kargoon had been belatedly right. "My Lord," she murmured in Elvish, smiling sweetly. |
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