Taking stock

Stepping back into my cave, I feel a brief rush come over me; my home field advantage fills me, my muscles swelling with untapped power, my mind with rapacious daydreams, my cock with unbridled lust. My power boost is so overwhelmingly sudden that I no longer feel the once waifish elf strapped to my back. I figured she'd be too light to make a real difference to my muscles, but with this I come to another realization: my tentacles have no sense of touch. I can manipulate them like extra limbs, but that's about all they're good for. If these things are completely numb, that leaves me without crucial sensory information on my targets when I'm toying with them. As fun as it is to strangle some fuckmeat, I need to maintain a watchful eye or else I could do some permanent damage. What's more, I don't get to feel my tentacles filling a bitch's pussy, sliding down her throat, gripping her neck, pounding her ass. At that point, why bother getting creative with their application anyway?

I don't know how leveling up works or when it'll happen for me, but I definitely need to find a way to sensitize these slithering tools of mine. Not sure if it's a strategic move to prioritize that, but I really want to get the full experience out of these babies. But I really ought to get a good sense of myself before working on improvements. Remembering that I wanted to take a measure of myself, I find a nice, unremarkable section of cave wall to stand against. Lowering my sleepy slut while still latched onto her milky tits, I lean against the cold stone. It's almost soothing, a cool counter to the heat of the hunt. Lacking a knife or any reasonably sized blade, I elect to mark my height the only way a barbarian knows how: with my axe. Placing the flat side of the blade atop my head, I slam it into the wall with my powerful left hand and back away. Looks like a little over 9 feet; maybe 9 feet 3 inches. Nice; I'll be towering over even the tallest humans and elves.

Trailing her alongside me as I move further into the cave, I stop briefly at the combat room with my measly battalion of goblins and lesser orcs. They look upon me with respect and worship in their eyes, then their eyelines trail just beyond me to my elven prize. As primitive as my mobs are, they manage to stay remarkable restrained. They must instinctively know that their Jungle Queen dictates just who they can violate, and I've given no such permission for this little number. They drool disgustingly, though I can hardly blame them. I'm waving a fresh slab of meat in front of dogs who've yet to whet their appetite. I can even sense the muscles in their legs tensing, waiting for the instant I give permission for her to be buried in a pile of green flesh. Not this one, not today. I can't just hand them sluts on a silver platter. They want to pound some cunt? They're gonna have to claim it themselves.

Chuckling at the thought of the adventurers pitiful enough to fall to these jokers, I move in to the throne room. As I walk towards the literal seat of my power, torches light up in conjunction with my progress. Suitably dramatic, though perhaps a bit grandiose at this early stage. I look over the throne at the room's center: suitably simple, yet it at least looks like it was carved with great care. I know innately that this and all other furnishings will evolve as my dungeon develops, so I don't bother getting too attached or concerned. Sitting down, I guide the slumbering slattern to my lap, suckers still milking gently away at her swollen tits. I'm already at full health, but drinking your milk is good for you, so I keep at the rhythmic pumping.

Immediately upon sitting down, I feel a new kind of invigoration. Not in my mind or body, but something more intangible, undefinable. It's like my skills themselves are pulsing, if that makes any sense. I get the strongest pulses when thinking about Rage, Spirit Summoning, and Strangle Claim. I think that, when I'm seated here, I can spread those abilities to my mobs in the dungeon. Oh fuck, that'll be so hot. I can empower my goblins and lesser orcs and then let them claim their defeated foes so long as they **** them during the act. They'll form their own little harems (or, judging by their lower intelligence, a writhing fuckpit in whatever cavern will eventually be the **** pen), but since I own the mobs and all they own, it really means I get new mindbroken toys without having to expend any effort.

I grope my elf bitch, my left hand on her tits and my right gripping her dripping cunt. I gently rub her clit with my index finger while penetrating her with the middle, and I lick clean the fresh bite mark I left in her shoulder. If not healing, my saliva might at least have some numbing qualities; can't have her focused on her shoulder when she should be focused on serving me. The stimulation is enough to rouse her from her narcotic slumber, and she drowsily looks around to observe her new environs. "Mmm... where am I?"