The Count of Monte Phisto
Paun’s arms ached with the numb pain of muscles too tired to cry. His back was a twisted welter of strained sinew and bruised flesh, and his abused legs would carry him no further than his chamber pot tonight. If they even gave him a pot, he was woefully unfamiliar with these peoples and their customs. That is, apart from the protracted punishments they reserved for anyone who trespassed upon their lands.
His escort gripped his wrist in both of her tiny hands, half-leading and half-dragging him down the endless corridor of vines and branches. She floated a full foot off of the mossy floor and still she had to look up to yell at him in that peculiar lilting language. Her thin diaphanous wings beat out an angry rhythm to accompany her inexhaustible whinging, which when added together made her seem more of a peeved songbird than a vicious jailor. He knew better however, so despite her unimpressive presence he continued to force one foot in front of the other lest he again be on the receiving side of her considerable displeasure.
At last they came to a thick wall of tangled roots and vines. With a wave of her hand the greenery sprang apart to reveal a dimly lit chamber, ominously enclosed from the outside world by the interwoven canopies of a dozen elm trees. She shouted one last string of what could only be obscenities, then hawked an unladylike amount of spit across his hooves and pushed him bodily into the cell. The vines constricted behind him and he was sealed inside.
The first thing he did now that he was alone was massage his plaintive prick. Not in any way that could be construed as arousing, there was no capacity remaining within his body at that moment for the slightest thought of carnal pleasure. He merely wanted to be sure it was intact. It was, but that didn’t stop him holding onto it like a blind man to a lamp pole in a hurricane.
The sound of feet scraping across the bark was how Paun learned he was not actually alone. Through the dim light he could make out the silhouette of a seven foot specimen of a man. The stranger appeared to have the raw physique of a mountain troll but the grace and poise of a ballerina troll. And the cock of a cock troll, hanging freely between his legs.
The thought briefly crossed Paun’s mind that maybe the welcoming committee was not done with him yet.
The strange man took another limping step into the light and Paun could at last make out his features. He was as handsome as his phallus suggested, and his taut skin was entirely red from horn to hoof. His eight vertiginous abs could have been used to grate a fine cheese, and not the cheap shit either; possibly that of a cheese troll.
His presence was only somewhat diminished by his sorry condition. He limped as if his legs refused to obey, and where his boundless muscles would usually bulge with the strain of his overwhelming manfulness they were now drained to the resemblance of a man-like jerky. It was as if something had been slowly sucking the life out of him, one day at a time, over the course of many months.
Knowing first hand the fastidiousness of his hosts, Paun could put two and two together.
The man finished his staggering walk over to where Paun lay sprawled, then collapsed to the ground himself. They both lay in silence for a few moments, the hoarse panting of their dual breaths the only thing to disturb the quiet. Then the stranger wheezed, “How did you hear about them?”
Paun had no energy left for deceit. “A fisherman’s wife went looking for her missing husband. Rumour is his corpse was grinning from ear to ear, and his prick had been worn down to a stump. You?”
“One of them died and went to hell. She’s now Head of Outreach for our BDSM division, she’s a real go-getter,” he said, before adding, “Name’s Mephisto by the way.” He held a shaky hand out in Paun’s vague direction.
“Paun the Faun, at your service,” he replied and brushed hands with Mephisto in an amateurish imitation of a manly handshake. It was about all either of them could manage.
With the niceties observed, and with breath once again to speak, Mephisto asked hopefully, “I don’t suppose I could convince you to leave?”
“Let me think about it,” Paun said as he thought about it. “An entire community of only female nymphs that for some reason think sex is the ultimate form of punishment, the kinkier the better, and conveniently despise trespassers enough to mete out death sentence levels of debauchery upon their willing bodies. Sorry, but I think I’ll stay.”
Mephisto thought that would be the case, but there was no harm in asking. With a resigned sigh he rolled painfully onto his side and slapped his hand down on Paun’s furry chest. He opened it to reveal a piece of parchment and a brass key. From where he’d retrieved them, Paun couldn’t tell. They were both naked as the day they were born.
“Maybe this will sweeten the deal. On the parchment you’ll find the address of my ex. She’s got a thing for satyrs and you’re close enough. She sucks a mean dick, trust me,” Mephisto said.
As kind as the offer was, Paun wasn’t about to trade one girl for fifty. “I’m going to need more than that. What’s the key for?”
Even the dim light burned fires into Mephisto’s eyes, so he squinted them shut and willed both the faun and the headache to be gone. “That key unlocks the fortieth floor of Zelda’s House of Fuckery. The things they do up there will get you drowned, burned, drawn, quartered, drowned again, and mulched in at least three different kingdoms. Tell them Mephisto sent you and you’ll get a complimentary lap dance,” Mephisto finished, trying to hide the hurt in his voice. He’d spent a year working his way through thirty-nine floors to earn that key, and here he was just giving it away.
Paun was sorely tempted to accept. If he was being honest, things had all gotten a bit too real for him after the pegging. But he knew there was something Mephisto was still holding back, something even better than an entire floor of whores and a fur-loving ex. “You’re holding out on me, spill it!” He wheezed.
With great reluctance, Mephisto held up his fist and made a strange hand sign. “In sex troll this means ‘is it hot in here, or is it just you?’” Paun’s flaccid member reacted immediately, reaching greedily for the sign like a baby for its bottle. A whimper escaped his lips, and a grateful tear rolled down the side of his face as he gave Mephisto a single manful nod.
A satyr without a cock was like a **GGG**: what's the point?