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From: "Russell Hoisington" <hoisingr@hushmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Forgotten Helms 02: Heathens {Hoisington} (MF oral anal bd best rape magic humor)
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Date: Thu, 18 Aug 2005 03:10:02 -0400
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                    THE FORGOTTEN HELMS SAGAS
                        SAGA 2: HEATHENS

                       Russell Hoisington

  ************************************************************

This is an erotic fantasy. The characters and the situation are
purely imaginary, and this story is *NOT* intended to be a guide
for actual behavior. Any similarities between this story and
actual people, or between this story and actual events that you
should be ashamed of, are purely coincidental. If it is illegal
for you to access and read erotic fiction, or if you don't like
sex stories, then stop now.

This story is copyright 2005 by Russell Hoisington. You may
post freely to non-commercial (free) sites, or in the "free"
area of commercial sites as long as you do not remove the author
information or make any changes to this story. This does *not*
mean that it is in the public domain, nor does it mean that I
give permission for you to use it in spam advertising. I reserve
the right to determine what is "spam advertising" by *my*
definition, not yours or anyone else's.

Thank you for your consideration.

                              ~ ~ ~

Thanks to Uncle Sky and the Night Hawk for their assistance.

And my apologies to Frank Downey for what I did to his beloved
Beatles.

  ************************************************************

     Human ranger Anton Burger's pleading eyes scanned the
other Knights of the Merkin at the large, round table in the
Eveready Inn. His second-in-command, the dwarven fighter,
Gryphon Lehrer, was concentrating on sharpening his dagger,
which he'd named Pimpsticker in commemoration of where he'd
found it.

     The Knights of the Merkin includes two elves who think
they are second-in-command instead of Gryphon. The blonde elvish
thief, Mistress Jeanette, had her red leather boots on the table
and was balancing her chair on its two back legs as she
alternately tapped the generous amount of exposed, creamy flesh
of her large, firm bosomic affectations with the tip of her red
leather wand, The Angel of Pain. Each tap caused an electric
spark that made the succulent orbs dance within the red leather
cups that covered less than a quarter of their smooth, pale
surface. The other elf, thief/mage Mistress Darra Ravenclaw, was
similarly seated and combing the slender gloved fingers of one
hand through hair that matched the midnight blue/black of her
second-skin leather catsuit. Her violet eyes carefully studied
the imprint on one of the local coins held in the other hand.
Her Angel of Suffering dangled from a leather thong about her
wrist.

     I, Parquierre, Mage Extraordinaire of Erotic Magic and
historian of the Knights of the Merkin, continued to polish my
Phallus of Eternal Release, which was the name given to my magic
staff by a high-ranking magician. A high-ranking but naive
magician who had foolishly left it where Mistress Darra could
borrow it while he diddled a young elf maiden a few decades ago.

     And Father Lardas, our Cleric of the Church of the
Reformed Baptist, and the one who had caused this situation,
poured himself yet another goblet of wine, eased his bulk back
into a slouch, and feigned deafness at Anton's question.

     How had he caused this situation?

     It began on a rainy day in late spring, when we determined
we had healed from our injuries and departed the halfling town
of Graybeard in the Forest of Trees in the eastern part of the
western region known as the Land of the Forgotten Helms.

     The Land of the Forgotten Helms attracts a significant
number of adventurers from the entire continent of Stormrune as
well as from other parts of the world of Aber-Cadaver. But you
can spend months in the wilds of the area and never see another
adventurer because of its size: from the frozen latitudes of the
Icecold Bier in the north to the temperate reaches of the
Meditative Empire of Om to the semitropical lands of Tethyrball
and Calumny in the south, and from the coastal waters of the
Billy Ocean in the west to the desert of the Baron's Waistland
and the western shores of the Inorouter Sea in the east.

     Like ninety percent of the adventurers in the area, our
quest was to find the Forgotten Helms, a task made difficult by
the fact that nobody remembered anything about them except that
they had once existed. Description, size, composition, use,
exact location--nobody remembered any of that, nor could any
records be located anywhere by anyone. But everybody knew that
they had once existed somewhere in the area. Since nobody knew
where to look, anyplace was as likely a choice as anyplace else.
So naturally, the Knights of the Merkin being who we were, we
had sat in the Graybeard Inn and argued over what was the best
"anyplace."

     Gryphon Lehrer and Mistress Darra had wanted to travel
northwest to the vast Nattily Wood.

     Father Lardass and Mistress Jeanette had wanted to travel
south to Bene Hill.

     Anton and I, each over six feet tall, had just wanted to
go anywhere that we didn't have to worry about accidentally
stepping on the local populace and squashing them into pink jam.

     "Look," Lardas had argued, "we were headed to Bene Hill
when the, the, the _difficulties_ arose."

     "What _arose_ was what _caused_ the 'difficulties,'"
Mistress Jeanette replied in a quiet, icy voice while making
cat's cradles with her garrotte. She made a cup and saucer. "If
you hadn't tied up that silly twat while committing the even
stupider mistake of leaving the damned door unlocked...."

     Er, perhaps I should explain.

                              ~ ~ ~

     The Knights of the Merkin had left the coastal city of
Watereddrinks and traveled southeast down the Goenmei Way to
Dragonsbreath Castle. From there we had continued southeast
using the local roads along the edge of the Uppity Moor to
Middenheap on the north bank of the Krimea River. We had planned
to hire a boat to take us upriver to a point northeast of the
Dryad's Forest and then travel cross-country to Bene Hill.

     I knew we would have problems the moment we walked into
the inn, because the first thing I heard before my eyes adjusted
to the diminished light was Lardas saying, "Wouldn't the tits on
that redhead look great framed in white cotton rope?" In
hindsight, it was stupid of Anton to suggest staying there a day
or two after that statement, and it was even stupider of the
rest of us to agree. But we had grown lazy while researching the
Forgotten Helms in the vast libraries of Watereddrinks and were
out of shape. By the time we reached Middenheap, we were little
more than the zombies we had slain halfway from the castle to
Middenheap.

     Lardas had charmed the wench--at least, I _think_ he used
a charm--I'm not that good at detecting some clerical magic--
back to the room when we thought he was headed for the pissoir.
A few minutes later the Innkeep approached us with an offer to
hire us to resolve a local problem that was factionalizing the
community's populace. The payment was to be a map of the ruins
on Bene Hill. Gryphon wisely suggested we discuss the matter in
our room instead of in the taproom where anyone could listen in.

     We had another round of wine with the Innkeep while
waiting for Lardas to return. When he was still missing
afterward, Mistress Darra mused, "This could take a while. I
think he had his book with him." The Innkeep naturally assumed
she meant his prayer book, while we knew she meant his
illustrated book of bondage stories, _The Betty Pages_. The
Innkeep left instructions with his wife, and we adjourned to our
room, where Anton opened the door and waved the Innkeep in first.

     The elves had imbibed too much wine, and their ears were
tired from the raucous merriment in the taproom. They didn't
realize what they were hearing until the door was open, and then
it was too late. I thought the redhead's large, firm mammic
hemispheres _did_ look exceptionally splendid framed in white
cotton rope, particularly when accented with gold nipple clamps,
but her father the Innkeep apparently disagreed.

     Or maybe he did agree, but he wasn't pleased with the
sight of her naked body wrapped in an array of lines and knots.
She was suspended by her wrists from a ceiling beam with more
white rope, and her ankles were wrapped with still more and tied
apart to the bedposts. She tried to scream in orgasm through her
gag while Lardas rapidly worked the juice-slicked handle of
Mistress Jeanette's quirt in and out of the red-thatched love
chamber with one hand and pounded his merkin-stuffer with the
other.

     Or maybe the Innkeep just didn't understand what he saw,
though I sincerely doubt it.

     We will never know because Mistress Darra caught him in
the back of the head with a swift blow of her blackjack,
rendering him unconscious long enough for us to gather our
belongings and flee. All of our belongings, that is, except for
Father Lardas' white cotton rope that was in use. He bitched
about that for a week.

     The next thing we knew, a mob of armed villagers was in
crazed pursuit. We had inadvertently solved the Innkeep's
problem by uniting the village against a common enemy: us. We
fled northeast into the southern reaches of the Uppity Moor.
When it became apparent that they weren't going to give up, we
turned north, into the heart of the moor. Seven days later we
lost them, but found the first band of the Moor Gnolls. They
drove us eastward, despite the numbers we killed, out of the
moor, across a plain, and into the Snapping Turtle Swamp of
Gamera. The Swamp Gnolls took time to eliminate their rivals in
some kind of internal power struggle and then came at us with a
vengeance excelling that of the Moor Gnolls. The only thing
gnolls like better than killing members of rival factions is
killing humans, elves, and dwarves. We slaughtered over two
hundred before we lost them, left the swamp battered and bloody,
and stumbled into Graybeard

     Thus it is understandable that Mistress Jeanette was livid
with Father Lardas: he had used her quirt without her
permission. It's easy to tell when Mistress Jeanette is livid:
she becomes absolutely emotionless and quiet, as if she's
storing up energy for the explosion to follow.

     Her fingers had moved and the cord formed a hangman's
noose. "I would rather travel east through the Mickey Fen and
continue across Baron's Waistland without water than go south
along the edge of that swamp again."

     Lardas chose that moment to appeal to Anton for a
decision. Anton's eyes had assumed that glazed look that
characterizes the people of Luzania when they are attempting to
think. "Ya know," Anton mused, "I never heard of anybody
searching in the Mickey Fen for the Forgotten Helms. Maybe
Jeanette has the right idea."

     That had scared the unscareable elf so much that she
forgot to remind him, "_Mistress_ Jeanette."

     Lardas had realized we were in serious trouble, which is
the usual result when Anton cogitates a thought, and immediately
offered a solution: "Why don't we let chance decide? I'll flip a
coin," he said, withdrawing a silver piece from his purse.
"Heads we go south to Bene Hill, tails we go northwest to
Nattily Wood."

     We were three days south of Graybeard before Gryphon
realized that Lardas had stashed his two-headed silver piece in
his purse instead of its usual pocket behind his belt.

                              ~ ~ ~

     At the Narrows, which is the closest approach of the dank
gray of the Snapping Turtle Swamp of Gamera on the west and the
red-green of Carter's Little Liver Hills on the east, the gnolls
found us. We had walked into their ambush and were surrounded by
twenty of them. Another twenty took to a small rise to the west
and began plying us with arrows. A third score quickly swarmed
over that hill and rushed at us. Anton, Gryphon, Jeanette, and
Lardas formed a box around Darra and me while we prepared our
spell. Anton's bastard sword, Suppository, danced an intricate
silver pattern in the sunlight, a silver pattern that reddened
as gnoll blood coated the blade.

     To Anton's right, Jeanette used her brown triangular
shield to block incoming arrows while her red leather Angel of
Pain whipped about in its own pattern, barely slowing when it
touched an enemy and imparted uncontrollable arousal. As always,
the enemy touched by the Angel immediately dropped his metal
weapon and grabbed his fleshy one, screaming with the agony of
release that would not cum. Whether they stood there flogging
their rampant erections or tried to mount each other, they were
easy prey for the insertion of Anton's Suppository.

     To Anton's left, Lardas was effectively plying his mace,
Pepperspray, with the speed and grace of a man two hundred
pounds lighter. His black-and-gray beard was steadily growing
redder with the splashed blood of the gnolls. With each kill he
chanted in his liturgical language, "Forgive me, oh child of the
Gods, as you go to rot in Hell." Fortunately for him, it was
only four short words.

     To Anton's rear, across from us, Gryphon Lehrer had
decided against using his axe, Lucille, and stood holding the
handle of his long sword, Hymenbuster, in both hands as if it
were a two-handed sword. Actually, for the dwarf, it was a two-
handed sword. The tip wove a lazy "8" pattern above the dwarvish
master swordsman's head until he was ready. It was a blur as it
either thrust or slashed, and then it returned to it's upright,
weaving position, trailing blood down its length.

     And then we were ready. Mistress Darra and I had prepared
three Na'Palm spells. I cast the first on the archers as an
arrow evaded Mistress Jeanette's shield and caught Mistress
Darra in her upper left arm. The air shook with a loud rushing
screech and then sticky fire wiped across the archers' hilltop
from right to left. With a louder screech of fury, Darra pulled
her bow from her back and strung it, ignoring the arrow sticking
from her arm. I cast the second Na'Palm spell on a knot of
gnolls in front of Father Lardas, who was getting the greatest
pressure from the incoming gnolls. Again the air shook with the
loud rushing screech and again sticky fire rushed across gnolls.
Three escaped the flames and fled toward the swamp as the last
of the gnolls facing the other three died.

     Darra held two fire arrows in the her left hand along with
the body of the bow. She chanted as she strung the third arrow
and drew the string back. The gnolls suddenly shrieked in terror
and turned about, fleeing back toward us as if we weren't there.
Whatever illusion she had cast, she had also made them believe
the space we occupied was empty. With the efficiency of a master
carpenter driving home three nails she shot the three fire
arrows into the hearts of the returning gnolls. Fire enveloped
them as they fell.

     And the only sound heard was crackling flames, gasping
breaths, and Father Lardass bitching because his bushy, unkempt
beard had been singed. Some people can be so ungrateful when you
save their lives.

     Mistress Jeanette turned and saw the arrow sticking forth
from Darra's arm. Her blue eyes took on their familiar glassy
look at the sight. She released the Angel of Pain, allowing it
to dangle from the red leather thong attached to her red wrist
cuffs, and stepped forward to gaze at the stream of blood
staining Darra's blue-black leather suit. Darra's violet eyes
also went glassy. Her left arm dropped, holding the bow parallel
to the ground, while her right hand struck like a blacksnake,
grasping the back of the taller elf's head and pulling her face
downward. While their tongues writhed and wrestled, Jeanette
took the shaft of the arrow in her right hand and jerked it out.
She dropped the arrow and seized Darra about the waist, holding
her up while the smaller elf's body convulsed with a massive
orgasm.

     Jeanette eased Darra to the ground and looked up at
Lardas. "When you're through showing your ingratitude you can
heal her."

     While the obese cleric plied his healing spells, with
Jeanette and her Angel of Pain standing over him to watch where
he placed his hands, Anton, Gryphon, and I searched the bodies
looking for any unburned, useful information. And any valuables
in need of liberation.


                              ~ ~ ~

     By the next afternoon we could see the Eveready Hills,
named for the town set in a depression in the western side of
the cluster of small mountains, where the flat plain swept
inward like a bay in the ocean of grass. The opening of that bay
was protected by a string of fortifications containing arbalests
and mangonels and ballistae as well as mounted and foot
soldiers. The hills themselves were cursed with powerful spells,
and no intruder survived trying to cross them to attack the town.

     As we topped a gentle rise, following a trail that was
barely worth dignifying with the term, we heard the unmistakable
sounds of battle erupt to our front. Anton drew Suppository,
waved it overhead, yelled, "_Chaaaaaarge!_" and took off on a
dead run toward the sounds of the fracas.

     The rest of us were carrying the spoils of our adventure
and were quickly falling behind. "Drop it!" Gryphon ordered, and
we cast down our burdens. We caught up with Anton at the top of
a rise overlooking the action below. The fighting was over. A
party of clerical missionaries and their security guards had
been attacked on the Abbey Road by seven man-sized and vaguely
human-looking creatures--human looking if you ignore the extra
pair of arms--covered in armor-like blue-black chitin the color
of Mistress Jeanette's leather catsuit and hair. Three of the
creatures were dead, which qualified for certification as a
miracle by every major religion on the continent. The other four
had the surviving missionaries, two men and a woman, bent over
the back of their cart. Three were furiously humping the
survivors' bare posteriors while the fourth beat out a cadence
on the helm of one of the dead guards. Twin pairs of antennae,
sprouting from mop-like hair above the smooth, shiny faces of
the rapists, bounced around like reeds in a storm. They all
screeched their lust in complex four-part harmonics.

     Buggerers.

     Sixty gnolls were child's play by comparison. We withdrew
to plan our strategy.

     "We prepared three Na'Palm spells," I said. "I still have
one available if we can separate them from their victims."

     Mistress Jeanette snorted in derision. I knew what she was
going to say next. "Magic is for pussies."

     Anton tried to intervene. "Let's remember that our enemy
is the Buggerers, not each other."

     "I haven't forgotten," she said in a voice as frigid as a
professional virgin. "That's why Darra is going to cast the
spell I have in mind, and maybe we can avoid any fighting at
all. Unless you _want_ to fight them. If so, go ahead. Better
take some butt grease with you. We'll come down and bury what's
left of you after they're through."

     Illusion spells are fired by silver. Mistress Darra
normally carries a number of silver pellets and a few small
silver coins for larger spells in the belt of her catsuit, in
hidden pockets in the top of her boots, and even in the lining
of the palms of her gloves. Which is why, when she finished
outlining the spell to Darra, Mistress Jeanette asked, "How much?"

     Darra could tabulate silver faster than the Watereddrinks
whores on Fish Market Street. Not that I would know from
personal experience, of course. I had to rely on the knowledge
and vast experience of someone else, who I will not name out of
regard for avoiding personal embarrassment to one of our party.

     I didn't have time to blink before Darra answered. "Thirty
silver coins."

     "Damn!" muttered Lardas. "That sure would rent a lot of
whores."

                              ~ ~ ~

     The Buggerers paid scant attention to our approach,
continuing to pound their victims in time with the 4/4 back-beat
being pounded by the fourth mop-topped creature. Why should they
worry about us? Six weapons-bristled adventurers such as
ourselves could be invited to the party after they disarmed us.
Or the survivors could, if some of us wanted to be snooty about
whom we partied with. We descended the hill with Darra and me
behind the line of the other four, where we might work our
magicks more or less unnoticed.

     The fourth Buggerer waited until we were twenty feet away
and didn't miss a beat as he shouted, "Hey, Jude! Get back!"

     "I am Anton Burger of the Knights of the Merkin. Might I
have your name, good sir?" Anton could almost pass as a
gentleman when the situation required it. No doubt Mistress
Jeanette had made him a promise that required it.

     The woman suddenly realized that there were other humans
present and began shrieking for help. The two men remained
silent. We ignored the victims for the moment, not out of lack
of compassion but out of necessity.

     "Rn'ngo," the Buggerer replied. He nodded to the Buggerer
pumping the woman's ass. "Ch'on," he said and then, in time with
his beat, nodded toward those humping the two men. "P'ol.
Ch'orch."

     "Do you have any idea who that woman is?" Anton asked as I
began coughing to hide the sound of Mistress Darra's conjuring.

     Rn'ngo shrugged his upper shoulders as his lower arms
continued to pound the beat. "Lady Madonna?"

     "Eleanor Rigby?" asked Ch'orch.

     "Michelle?" asked P'ol

     "My Bonnie!" said Ch'on as he held her hips with his lower
arms, groped a breast with one upper hand, and used the other to
smooth down her hair He lowered his black-mopped head alongside
hers. "Please please me," he said to her in what was probably,
for a Buggerer, a gentle, pleading voice.

     In response she shrieked even louder and loosed a most
unmissionary-like stream of invective at the creature invading
her anal cavity. Ch'on glanced back over his right shoulders,
his mandibles forming what must be the equivalent of a grin.
"Ain't she sweet?"

     Anton seemed a little flustered by the unexpected reaction
of the Buggerers. Nevertheless he managed to keep most of his
assorted brain cells functioning. "That," he announced, pointing
to the woman, "is High Priestess Ponderosa Cartwright of the
Order of the Merkin."

     "What the fuck are you talking about, you idiot?" the
woman shrieked. "I'm Saint Kyrole of the Frisbeetarians! Do
something to help me!"

     Mistress Jeanette gave Anton a look that clearly said,
"Let's not waste silver on this fool and get out of here."

     Anton didn't notice, as he was momentarily flustered.
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't recognize you from this angle. That
must be the High Priestess over there." He nodded to one of the
corpses.

     "We're all Frisbeetarians, you fool!" Saint Kyrole
shrieked. "Get this asshole out of my asshole!"

     P'ol and Ch'orch began to twist and shout in orgasm while
Anton's brain searched for a thought.

     "You have to stop that now," shouted Gryphon in his best
command voice, sounding like a teacher silencing a room of
twelve-year-olds. P'ol and Ch'orch stopped as their orgasms ended.

     Ch'on didn't stop. "Tell me why?"

     I stopped coughing and cleared my throat.

     "Because," said Anton, cutting off the dwarf's response,
"I am Anton Burger and Commander of the Knights of the Merkin.
We order you to stop or else."

     Ch'on laughed, a frightening sound when made by a
Buggerer. "I've got a ticket to ride."

     Thirty pieces of silver vanished from Darra's fists. A
company of mounted knights who wore polished armor that sparkled
in the sunlight , and who carried brown triangular shields and
their weapons at the ready, crested the hills on three sides.

     Rn'ngo stopped pounding the helm. "Help!"

     Ch'on's hips stopped thrusting as he surveyed the numbers
arrayed against his four. "Let it be!" he cried. "We can work it
out!"

     The Buggerer stepped back and to one side. We were
treated, if you insist on using that word, to the sight of a
"brown-eye" slowly closing back to normal between two large,
flabby buttocks set atop stocky, lumpy thighs above calves to
match, while the slick, black, chitinous phallus of the beast
shrank and withdrew under a flap in the creature's carapace.

     None of the others in our party noticed that our cleric
was gaping in open-mouthed wonder at the woman.

     As she yanked her skirts down and turned around, Anton
said to the other two, "Release those men unharmed."

     P'ol and Ch'orch gave us those eerie mandible grins below
those smooth faces. "Do you want to know a secret?" Ch'orch asked.

     "What?"

     The two creatures turned, their hands holding each man
about the shoulders and hips. As one they released their
victims, who folded forward and then slid off the long, black,
bloody phalluses and lay still on the ground as blood pooled
beneath them. "They're already on that long and winding road,"
said Ch'orch.

     "On that magical mystery tour," P'ol added, "to strawberry
fields forever."

     By this time Saint Kyrole had determined which face looked
the friendliest, if not the handsomest, and rushed to the side
of Father Lardas.

     Ch'on nodded at the cleric. "She loves you."

     P'ol nodded. "Yeah!"

     Ch'orch nodded. "Yeah!"

     Rn'ngo nodded. "Yeah!"

     Saint Kyrole slapped Lardas' hand away from her extremely
ample butt.

     "I was just straightening the skirts," he grumbled.

     Ch'on slowly approached with his hands at his side, palms
outward and empty, stopping before Mistress Jeanette. He stood
there several seconds as she surveyed his smooth face the way
she'd survey a roach she was about to squash.

     "What do you want," she asked.

     "I want to hold your hand," he said, reaching forward with
his lower right one.

     The Angel of Pain spun into her hand. She pressed it into
his wrist.

     The Buggerer fell backward, its phallus almost exploding
from beneath its carapace. But to the amazement of us all, the
Buggerer's black bung-banger suddenly released a fountain of bug
juice as it shivered in ecstasy. The Angels of Pain and
Suffering were magically crafted from the penises of cloud
giants and were supposed to cause intense, uncontrollable
arousal while preventing release. No creature had ever been able
to achieve orgasm while under its effect.

     While Ch'on sighed in contentment, Rn'ngo rose and
protested that he was the only one who hadn't cum yet. He held
out a hand to Mistress Jeanette, who ordinarily would have
ignored him as punishment for his insolence. Jeanette, however,
had to know if Ch'on's reaction was a fluke, and thus pressed
the rod to the second Buggerer's wrist.

     Rn'ngo writhed in exquisite agony for a full five seconds
before he, too, released his own fountain of jism. He lifted his
head to look at Mistress Jeanette and said, "I feel fine!"

     Anton warned the creatures that we were going to retrieve
our provisions and continue our journey southward. Any attempts
by them to leave the area before we were safely away would cause
the company of knights to attack. "Now," he concluded, "just
where do you plan to go?"

     Ch'on looked at the company arrayed around the hilltops.
Buggerers were very fast, but not as fast as horses. They'd be
ridden down in minutes, no matter which direction they chose to
flee. "Nowhere, man."

     Saint Kyrole suddenly harped, "What about my companions?
What about Saint Eva Marie? Saint Simon? Saint Templar? What
about our guards? Are you going to just leave them there for the
buzzards to eat?"

     "Good point," said Mistress Jeanette through gritted
teeth. She looked at Rn'ngo and said, "They're still warm. Happy
buggering." She started to turn aside as the four mop-topped
creatures began chittering in their own language, their antennae
gyrating.

     Rn'ngo stopped her and pulled a rolled parchment scroll
from beneath a section of his carapace. "From me to you," he
said. He bowed as she took it and then rushed toward what must
have been the mortal remains of Saint Eva Marie.

     Saint Kyrole began to shriek in protest, but, apparently
overcome by her ordeal, suddenly fainted. Only I saw Mistress
Darra's blackjack. I mouthed a silent thanks to her. She was
obviously incensed with herself that someone managed to spot her
maneuver, but she knew I'd say nothing. She licked her lips
while looking at my crotch. My silence was to be rewarded later.

                              ~ ~ ~

     Saint Kyrole awakened as we were retrieving our packs,
cheating Father Lardas out of his anticipated pleasure of
reviving her. She immediately began shrieking protests of the
treatment of her companions, ignoring our pleas to listen to the
explanation. She did not ignore the daggers in elvish hands that
pressed points against either side of her throat, below her
third chin. In carefully measured words, Darra explained what
would happen when the illusion collapsed and the Buggerers
realized they had been tricked. Mistress Jeanette explained that
she wouldn't hesitate to leave "one more Frisbeetarian
Missionary Behind" to be bugfucked again. "Do you have any
questions, or do you want to go with us?"

     Unfortunately, as it turned out, Saint Kyrole opted to
travel with us.

                              ~ ~ ~

     We were perhaps a mile from the tall stone markers that
marked the outer range of the batteries of arbalests, ballistae,
and mangonels when Darra announced that the illusion had just
failed. We quickened our already exhausting pace, knowing that
the Buggerers would pursue as soon as they noticed. We spotted
them as we reached the outermost markers of Eveready. Darra was
ready with three fire arrows and sped them skyward in rapid
succession.

     Eveready's observers were proficient. They calculated
where the Buggerers could be engaged closest to the firing line
without endangering us and relayed the information to the
weapons with semaphore flags. As the moment approached, they
raised yellow and white flags aloft. When they dropped them, the
Eveready batteries released their charges.

     It's possible the Buggerers never knew what hit them.

                              ~ ~ ~

     We were expected to pay for the missiles used in our
defense. Have I mentioned that the favorite pastime of Eveready
is usury? But, just this once, we were lucky to have Saint
Kyrole with us. She launched into a sermon about helping one's
fellow man--and elf and dwarf--that started at the battery
Captain's tent and ended in the city council's chambers. Lardas
claimed she shamed them into lowering the price to reasonable.
Me? Call me cynical, but I think they gave in just to shut her up.

                              ~ ~ ~

     We rented an eight-bed chamber in the Eveready Inn. As we
were stowing our gear, Mistress Jeanette finally looked at the
parchment Rn'ngo had given her. "By the sacred teats of the
Mother of Trees!" From the awe in her voice you'd have thought
the Mother of Trees had just blessed her personally. She sank to
sit on the edge of a bed, eyes fixed on the parchment.

     "What is it?" Darra asked, wiggling around a pile of gear
in her way.

     "A map!" Mistress Jeanette whispered. "The interior of
Bene Hill." She tapped a spot with a long, slender finger. "It
conceals a vast underground series of tunnels and chambers
unrelated to the ruins atop it. There's the Helm room."

     Saint Kyrole's head snapped around. "Helm room? You mean
for the Forgotten Helms?"

     "Certainly, my dear," said Lardas before anyone else could
think of a plausible lie. I glanced at Anton. Even he was smart
enough to realize that our cleric had screwed us while plying a
wishful chance to screw our "guest."

     Saint Kyrole verified that by saying, "Then you must
retrieve the Helms for me."

     Lardas was clearly about to agree. Mistress Darra spoke
first. "For _you?_ Why you?"

     "Well, not for me, but for the Frisbeetarian Church to
sell. The church needs the money for our missionary work. We
will use it to save heathen sinners such as yourselves."

     "I've heard of many religions, " Father Lardas said with
what he hoped was a fetching smile that sent a score of
cockroaches scurrying out under the door, "but I've never heard
of the Frisbeetarians. What are your tenets?"

     Saint Kyrole's face changed to that of one bringing The
Truth to The Heathen. "We believe that when you die your soul
flies up to the nearest roof and is stuck there for eternity
unless you have accepted Frisbeetarianism, which means you sell
all your earthly possessions and give the money to the High
Priests at the Opulent Frisbeetarian Cathedral in Coriander and
then do missionary work spreading The Word to the masses of
Unsaved Heathen Sinners. You could hear those final capital
letters in her voice. In return, you are declared a Saint of the
Church immediately--no waiting for decades the way some churches
do it."

     "What happens to the soul when the building collapses?"
asked Gryphon without looking up from a frantic search through
his pack.

     For a moment Saint Kyrole looked flustered. "Well, it
moves to the next closest building, of course."

     I caught the sly glance between Mistresses Jeanette and
Darra. The latter asked, "What happens when all the buildings
collapse?"

     Saint Kyrole looked stunned. "Well, that won't happen. One
building will remain standing so that all of the souls will have
a place to remain stuck in this world."

     Mistress Jeanette wiped her lips with thumb and
forefinger, which meant she was trying not to smile. "But will
one roof hold that many souls? Will it be large enough? Can it
support that much weight?"

     Saint Kyrole looked positively flabbergasted. Obviously
nobody had ever questioned her about her beliefs before.
"Well.... Of course it will. It will have to."

     Lardas interrupted. "And what happens to all that money
sent to the Cathedral? The High Priests use it to pay you
missionaries to do your work?"

     "Oh, no! We have to learn poverty and humility, so we must
beg for what we get. The High Priests use some of the money
obtained from our possessions to improve the Opulent Cathedral,
and then the hoard the rest of it for future needs."

     Mistresses Darra and Jeanette exchanged surprised glances.
"All that money just... piles up in the some room in the
cathedral?" asked Darra.

     Saint Kyrole shrugged, causing ripples to cascade under
her attire. "Well, minus what they need to spend for the daily
feasts of celebration, of course. But that isn't much because
the local populace donate food and wine to them."

     Before Mistress Darra could voice her next question about
the mass of cash, Gryphon found the wine bottle he was seeking.
He held the neck toward Saint Kyrole and asked, "Care to
celebrate your liberation with me, Kyr... uh... well, uh... Your
Saintliness?"

     I hadn't seen a look of horror like that since the time
Anton discovered that the tart he'd saved from a pack of zombie
was rewarding him with a bush full of lice. "_CERTAINLY NOT!_
Frisbeetarians to _NOT_ participate in _ANY_ earthly pleasures."

     "A... a... any? You mean.... 'any'?" Lardas sounded like a
baby pleading for another teat. Which, now that I've thought
about it, could be a rather apt analogy.

     She nodded. Firmly. "Any. It is a distraction from our
missionary work." And with that she launched into her first
nightly sermon to the Unsaved Heathen Sinners, meaning, of
course, us. It lasted maybe a quarter-hour. None of us knew
exactly how long because we all tuned her out after the third
word.

                              ~ ~ ~

     Mistress Darra's opulent orbs of superbly soft succulence
may not be as spectacular as Mistress Jeanette's, but that
doesn't mean they are any less delightful. She brushed one
nipple on my nose till I awakened and tilted my head to suck it
in. She purred as I swirled my tongue around it and pulled aside
my blanket. She wasn't surprised to find me naked beneath it,
waiting for her.

     Her lips moved to my ear. "You won't tell anyone what you
saw me do?" she asked. Only it didn't exactly sound like a
question.

     "Not for as long as we are members of the Knights of the
Merkin," I promised as one of her hands cupped, then softly
closed around, my balls.

     "Good," she whispered. "I'd hate to have to remove these."

     Before I could break out in a cold sweat her hand slipped
upward and wrapped around my erection, which seemed to be having
second thoughts after the threat. She squeezed and pumped,
giving it third thoughts, and it returned in all its glory. She
threw a leg over me and sat, sending my nose straight up her
tartish tunnel of heavenly delights. At the last instant my
highly attuned senses detected the faintest hint of Mistress
Jeanette's fragrance. Obviously my face was the second to enter
the Gates of Heaven that night. I listened and heard the faint
sounds emanating from Anton's bed. Seems the two elves had
warmed each other up for subsequent performances. I stopped
thinking about that two seconds later as she leaned forward and
put the sword swallowers at the Watereddrinks Autumnal Equinox
Faire to shame.

     Except for three or four of her orgasms, I noticed nothing
else until she swallowed the results of her efforts. She humped
my face until she got off one more time, then snuggled beside
me. "Get it up again, and I'll fuck your brains out," she
whispered

     The problem with both of our elves is you never can be
entirely sure whether that's a promise or a threat. I decided to
gamble on the former, but before I reply her fingers pressed
down on my lips. _Silence!_ was the implied message. She pointed.

     In the darkness I could just barely see Father Lardas
lifting the hem of Saint Kyrole's skirt so that he could slide
his hand up it. Then I had no trouble seeing as his hand burst
into flame, illuminating the room. He stifled a scream and
shoved it under his pillow to smother the fire. After a few
seconds I heard him chanting a healing spell and grinned to
myself. He'd be up for a couple of hours praying for restoration
of that spell to his memory.

     I lay back and pulled Mistress Darra to me. I was ready to
test whether she was promising or threatening. The sight of
Mistress Jeanette, illuminated by the flames in all her naked
glory, writhing under the assault from Anton's huge phallus, had
returned steel to my flesh. As it sank into Jeanette's warm,
wet, caressing depths I regretted that it wasn't as large as
Anton's--I'm told his is somewhat large even when compared to
the prodigious tools of most Luzanian men--in order to give
Darra more sensation. Then I remembered that Gryphon once said
that "Anton" must be from the Luzanite word meaning "Hung like a
horse, brain like a bat." Darra found brains more exciting than
brawn, the opposite of Jeanette. I sighed contentedly and let
the world shrink until I noticed only the areas where we were
joined.

                              ~ ~ ~

     For two days we rested and provisioned for the journey
ahead, adding items we would need based on our study of the
Buggerer's map. And for two days we listened to a steady stream
of sermons, lectures, pleadings, and threats from Saint Kyrole.
It was very much like the incessant buzz of a mosquito that was
hovering about, waiting to suck out your blood. Late that second
day we had some measure of relief when we sent Saint Kyrole to
acquire horses. We knew she would get the best price because she
would haggle the sellers down to the lowest possible price--more
money left over for the church to save us Unsaved Heathen
Sinners, you know--because the sellers would eventually take it
just to get her to leave.

     After she departed, we found Lardas moping dejectedly amid
several empty wine bottles in the inn's tavern and adjourned to
a private room, where we gathered around the large round table. 

     "Look," said Anton, "we have a problem. If we don't take
Kyrole with us, she'll find someone else to come after us, steal
the map, and the take the Helms from Bene Hill. If we do take
her, we'll have to watch her like bees at a jousting tournament."

     We blinked at each other. That was a new descriptive
phrase from Anton, and it made as little sense as any of the
others we'd heard from him. Naturally he was oblivious to our
questioning looks.

     "She'll take off with the Helms the first chance she gets,
and I wouldn't be surprised if she'd kill one or more of us in
our sleep in order to make good her escape. So the question is,
what do we do with her?"

     And that takes us back to my opening scene.

     There was no reason for Gryphon, the elves, or me to
speak. Anton already knew our common solution. Lardas finally
tossed down the remainder of the goblet and rumbled in a slurred
voice, "I will not shtand shtill for killing her. She's a human
being and a missionary position. A missionary person. It is
againsht my moral temenentsh... my mortal tenshetsh... I won't
fuckin' shtand for it. And you may quote me."

     Gryphon tested the edge of Pimpsticker with his thumb.
Still squinting at a spot on it he said, "But she's a
Frisbeetarian. A different faith. As a Baptist, you can't allow
her to live, can you?"

     Lardas lifted the wine bottle and found it empty. He
attempted to place it on the edge of the table and missed. He
watched it bounce on the floor and slurred, "Not if I wash a
gheneric Baptisht. But I'm a Reformed Baptisht. We hav...." He
hiccuped. "We have to be more tolermant of frigid bitchesh."

     Gryphon looked at me in surprise. We nodded at each other.
Lardas, we suddenly realized, had finally replaced his white
cotton rope.

                              ~ ~ ~

     Wasn't that just our luck? All those miles across mostly
open country and not one damned ambush, not one damned raiding
party of gnolls, not one damned Buggerer. Not one excuse for
Saint Kyrole to accidentally step in front of one of Mistress
Darra's fire arrows or to move too close to Hymenbuster weaving
about over Gryphon's head. And every lousy, stinking inch of
journey was accompanied by Saint Kyrole's non-stop sermon about
the needs of the Frisbeetarian church and our duty, even as
Unsaved Heathen Sinners who weren't Frisbeetarians, to help her
meet those needs. Even Father Lardas, who had finally resigned
himself to the realization that his new white cotton rope was to
go unused, was also growing sick of hearing her as we arrived at
the hidden entrance to the tunnel late one afternoon.

     Mistresses Jeanette and Darra had managed to translate
some of the symbols and annotations on the Buggerer's map. They
had correctly identified the entrance as being behind a large
boulder, in the face of a sheared-off section of the hill. They
were uncertain about the meaning of some of the symbols because
the language used in the margin annotations was an obscure
dialect of an ancient and difficult elvish language. Things were
further complicated by handwriting that was as muddled as the
alleged thoughts in Anton's head.

     We decided to postpone entering the chambers until
morning, giving the elves time more time to work on the map's
symbols and notations.

     Saint Kyrole was livid. She wanted us Unsaved Heathen
Sinners to continue the mission forthwith.

     Darra pointed with her Angel of Suffering. "See that huge
boulder, the one with the stain that looks like an upside-down
tree? The entrance is behind it. Have a nice journey. When you
get to this point," she indicated a spot on the map, "then we'll
know if Jeanette's right and it's a well, or I'm right and it's
some kind of trap."

     Saint Kyrole's eyes grew almost as wide as her behind.
"Trap?"

     Mistress Jeanette grinned like a wolf about to devour a
lamb and spoke in a voice dripping with honeyed sweetness while
she tapped the map. "According to the notes in the margins, the
symbol in this outer chamber means either 'yegovan,' which is
'fresh water,' or 'segovan,' which is 'deadly water.' That's
'poison' in our tongue. We'd be ever so grateful if you'd find
out for us."

     "If it is poison," Mistress Darra added with equally fake
sweetness, "we are certain that the symbol in this small chamber
just over here," she pointed at the diagram, "is for this word
here," she pointed at the notations, "which is 'ahndagovan,' or
'healing water.' In our words, 'antidote'." Saint Kyrole
withdrew in abject horror and attempted to fine solace in the
company of our own stout cleric, where she resumed her
lecturing, begging, and sermonizing.

     "You should have let her go in. That might have solved our
problem," I whispered.

     Mistress Jeanette shook her head. "You know that Lardas
wouldn't let her go in alone. He'd have us all going in with
him, too, or we'd be sorry later. You know how petty he can be
when he doesn't get his way."

     Since I enjoy breathing through my nose and have no desire
to do begin doing so through a new opening in my throat, I
conveniently forgot to say, "Yes, he can be just like you at
times." Instead, I asked, "So what do we do about her tomorrow?"

     Mistress Darra shrugged. "One more night of listening to
her and it might be Pepperspray which solves our difficulty
instead of Suppository or Lucille." She pointed with a tilt of
her head.

     I glanced at the pair of clerics. Lardas looked as if
Saint Kyrole was demanding that he burn his white cotton rope.

     As I look back on it, I now realize that perhaps she was.

                              ~ ~ ~

     The rest of this account was obtained from Mistress
Jeanette. It seems that Mistress Darra was unfortunately
correct: the outer chamber symbol indeed meant poison, and it
was located on the tips of tiny darts that fired when we were in
the middle of the chamber. How they avoided even nicking the two
widest members of the party, Father Lardas and Saint Kyrole, was
beyond comprehension. Mistress Jeanette also avoided injury,
though through skilled elvish reflexes on her part. The rest of
us were unconscious in less than a minute.

     Jeanette was livid that she had missed finding the
trigger, but she now knew what to look for. Which was fortunate
because there was another symbol meaning "trap" along the sole
passage between the outer chamber and the nearby room marked
"antidote." Both Father Lardas and Saint Kyrole had memorized
Slow Poison spells in case Darra had been correct. While they
cast them on our unconscious forms, Jeanette scouted the route
to the antidote chamber. When Lardas was finished he left us
with Saint Kyrole and moved forward.

     He knelt beside Mistress Jeanette as she explained. He
squinted at the narrow hallway's floor mosaic beyond the arrow
she had placed across the path. "I don't see it," he confessed.

     Mistress Jeanette carefully indicated the faint line with
the Angel of Pain. It stretched from wall to wall. Lardas slowly
nodded and asked, "Is it fatal?"

     "As best as I can determine, you step anywhere in this
area and sixteen fireballs from these locations," she pointed in
several directions with her Angel, not all of them to the front,
"will converge there faster than you can evacuate the room."

     Lardas gathered his beard in his fist and smoothed it with
a downward pull. "I'd call that as fatal as Parquierre's Davy
Crockett spell. Can you disarm it?"

     She shook her head. "I can't even tell how it's linked to
the fireball release points on this side, though it does seem to
be a single-use trap. One burst and it's gone. But I can't find
a way to bypass the trigger. We _must_ get to the antidotes
beyond that green door in the next quarter hour or the poison on
those arrows will kill Darra, Gryphon, Parquierre and Anton.
But, the only way to do so is to disarm the trap."

     She rocked back, lifting her knees but remaining squatted
on the floor. "The only way I can see to do so is to trigger it.
But if we stand here and throw something heavy enough into the
trigger zone, the fireballs from behind will hit us." She
sighed. "Even if we ducked, the fire would cook our gooses
before we could get behind the safety of those columns."

     "Geese," mumbled Lardas distractedly. Jeanette looked at
him and saw _that_ look in his eye--he was formulating a plan.

     Lardas picked up her arrow and handed it to her. He
grunted in effort as he rose. "Fortunately, Saint Kyrole can
provide the solution."

     Red leather creaked as she rose beside him, puzzled that
the human missionary could solved a problem that she, a
professional thief and pure elf, could not.  She followed Lardas
through the row of columns to their emergency camp at the rear
of the outer chamber. There, Saint Kyrole knelt beside the
unconscious victims, praying to regain her Slow Poison spells
even though the victims would be dead before they could be
rememorized. Lardas called Saint Kyrole's name and then motioned
for her to join them at the entrance to the hallway.

     Mistress Jeanette looked puzzled. "What...?"

     Father Lardas silenced her with a look as the
Frisbeetarian approached. He pointed at the far door with his
mace and said to her, "Saint Kyrole, beyond the green door lie
Unsaved Heathen Sinners in need of immediate spiritual guidance."

                               END

Copyright Russell Hoisington 2005

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Russell Hoisington
State of Confusion

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