Lunchtime!

Your stomach answers for you, growling like a high dragon in heat. After that grueling morning of getting blown by beautiful women, you find yourself feeling rather famished. With Josephine off delivering your message, now is the perfect opportunity to sneak away to the Herald's Rest.

You tap Morrigan on the forehead to get her attention. "I'm going to lunch now." you declare.

"And what about me?" the witch asks expectantly, dragging her mouth off your rigid shaft.

"Of course..." you smirk, threading your fingers in her raven hair. "How inconsiderate of me."

A look of unease flashes in the witch's amber eyes just before you, once again, slam her head onto your crotch, stuffing her throat with cock. The witch's head is nothing but a darkish blur as you relentlessly hump her face, drool spilling from the corners of her lips with every thrust.

At such a frenzied pace, it's only a matter of time before you feel your loins begin to tighten.

'"Lunch..." you growl, lurching forward as you drive to the back of her throat. "...is served."

Throwing your head back, you fire off ropes of creamy spunk down the witch's hungry gullet, pumping her stomach full of your man-porridge. As the flood of cum finally begins to subside, you release your grip on Morrigan's head, letting her come up for air and collapse at your feet.

Heaving yourself from the throne, you're careful to step over the sputtering witch as you tuck your wet prick back in your trousers before heading for the main doors. Just before you leave, you look back one last time to see your guardsmen slowly forming a circle around Morrigan.

You smirk, the sound of belt buckles striking the floor filling your ears as you exit the hall.

After a short walk, which with your low level of fitness manages to leave you slightly winded, you reach the entrance to the Herald's Rest. Pushing the door open with magic, you enter the tavern in your typical bombastic fashion. You draw a few people's eyes but most simply ignore you as you lazily pull up a chair at the nearest open table you could find.

“Hey!" you call out. "What’s the Herald of Andraste gotta do to get some food around here?”

"Oi, Inky!" a familiar voice answers from above you. "I got somethin' you can eat right 'ere!"

You look up to see Sera leaning over the second-floor railing. As soon as she has your attention, the mouthy elf spins around, yanking down her checkered tights to flash you her hindquarters.

"A little bony for my tastes..." you reply, appraising Sera's pale backside. While the elf is busy snort-laughing at her own crude joke, you take this opportunity to try and recall that ice spell you learned about back in your days in the Circle, the one for conjuring the perfect snowball.

“Aaah!” Sera yelps in surprise as you nail her right between the cheeks with a frosty projectile, sending her tumbling forward. The elf’s fingers dive to her icy slit, frigging herself for warmth, spouting a litany of colorful obscenities as she scampers back to her room like a rabid squirrel.

You laugh heartily but the distraction is short-lived as your stomach gives yet another growl. Lucky for you a comely barmaid soon arrives with a hot plate of food and a frothy mug of ale.

Your meal for today consists of braised Golden Halla with roast potatoes. The Dalish clan would probably never forgive you once they hear you've eaten their most sacred animal but Vivienne needed the beast's blood for her potions and well, you couldn't let good Halla just go to waste.

You waste no time digging into your food, feasting like a Mabari loose in his master's larders. Your table manners leave quite a bit to be desired as you forgo the fork and knife in favor of simply using your hands, shoveling food into your face in the most slovenly fashion possible.

Utterly engrossed in your own eating, you fail to notice as the adorable rogue Scout Harding wanders into your tavern. Upon seeing you, she waves and approaches with a cheerful smile.

"Hiya, Inquisitor!" the dwarf greets you warmly. "Lovely weather we've been having, hm?"

You offer an unintelligible response through a mouthful of food, crumbs flying everywhere.

“Oh, about five minutes ago,” she answers, somehow understanding you. “Leliana asked me to scout the caves for any old escape tunnels so I..." she suddenly trails off, eyeing your plate of food like you normally eyed busty barmaids. "Boy, that Halla sure looks tasty," she drools.

"Hungry, scout?" you give a mirthful chuckle, chasing that last bite with a generous swig of ale.

"Huh?" she says, snapping out of her trance. "Oh, I'm starving. We forgot to pack the trail mix this morning and well, long story short, I'm pretty sure I could eat a whole Bronto right now."

"Fresh out of Bronto, I'm afraid," you smirk. "Maybe I can interest you in a nice, thick sausage?"

"Sure, sausage sounds really good right about now," she says, licking her lips. "Where is it?"

"It's hidden under the table." you wink. "Why don't you crawl down there and scout it out?"

"Yes, sir!" the chipper dwarf nods.

Dutifully crawling under your table, Harding roots around on her hands and knees in search of her promised sausage. The longer this goes on, the more painfully obvious it becomes that your attempts at innuendo have sailed over the dwarf's head. Perhaps it was just her intense hunger or the throne's magic making her more naive but you almost feel guilty tricking her. Almost...

"Found it yet, Harding?" you ask playfully, massaging the obnoxious bulge in your trousers.

"No sign of any sausage..." the scout reports. "It smells more like Orlesian cheese under here..."

"Keep looking, scout," you smirk, savoring another juicy bite of Halla. Re-doubling her efforts, Harding continues her search for imaginary meat logs while your real one goes unappreciated.

You feel something graze your inner thigh, causing your loins to twitch in excitement before Harding pokes her head out from between your legs. "I can't find it, Your Worship." she pouts, a hint of frustration in her normally sugary voice. You can sense the genuine disappointment in her green eyes, peering up at you from the perfect angle between your outstretched thighs.

"Here," you smirk, wiping your hands clean off on your trousers. "Maybe this will help you..."

Leaning back slightly in your seat, you begin to unbuckle your pants. In one smooth motion, you free your half-hardened cock, letting it flop forward directly onto Harding's freckled face.

SMACK!

The dwarf's eyes widen in surprise, staring cross-eyed at the thick slab of man-meat obscuring nearly half her facial features as she takes in the scent of your unwashed, throbbing fuck-stick.

"Oh..." she squeaks, cheeks burning red as things finally click into place. "That kind of sausage."

"Well, don't just stare at it," you chuckle, dragging it across her lips. "Give it a taste already..."

Harding slowly reaches out, grabbing the base of your thickening cock with both rugged hands, her stocky fingers coaxing your prick to its full mast. Lowering her mouth down onto your lap, the dwarf licks the underside of your swollen shaft, her nimble tongue traveling up your length like a winding mountain pass, mapping every meaty inch with a thin trail of dwarven spittle.

"Enjoying my sausage, scout?" you ask, rather rhetorically at this point. The only response you hear from Harding is a muffled moan as she bobs her ginger-haired head up and down your lap.

This goes on for the next several minutes while you finish up your meal. With a contented sigh, you push your empty plate towards the middle of the table. Your lovely barmaid soon returns, this time offering you dessert in the form of an Inquisitor-sized slice of fresh-baked spice cake.

While you indulge your sweet tooth, Harding continues bouncing her head on your thick cock, sliding more of your spit-soaked length past her tonsils and into her throat. Whereas most girls would feel a sense of accomplishment taking even half your length, Harding seems determined to take you all the way, drawing her freckled face closer and closer to the base of your shaft.

Whether it be scouting the Hissing Wastes or deepthroating phalluses the size of her own face, you really have to admire the can-do attitude that shines through in all Scout Harding's work.

Fighting back her gagging reflex, Harding eventually manages to **** down your entire cock, your matted pubic hair tickling her nostrils as she pushes her freckled face flush with your lap.

"Maker's balls!" you hiss through gritted teeth. "We might just have to promote you, scout."

Reaching down, your hands find the back of Harding's head, grabbing her by the ginger braids as you begin to guide her mouth up and down your throbbing pole. The scout's rhythmic gags amplify as you plunder her throat, her spasming throat only working to milk your cock faster.

By now, your balls feel like they're packed with Gaatlok powder. Primed and ready to explode, you buck your hips, hilting yourself balls deep inside Harding's collapsing throat and let loose.

You watch Harding's eyes grow to the size of dinner plates as her tiny cheeks begin to puff out. Thanks to the Throne, your loads put most Qunari to shame. Gripping your thighs for support, Lace swallows hard and fast but some of it inevitably spills from her mouth and down her chin.

After what must have felt like ages for your diminutive friend, your orgasm starts to subside. Just for fun, you pull your cock back and let the last few ropes of cum splash against her face, splattering her freckled cheeks and button nose in your gooey seed as she pants breathlessly.

"Whoa..." Harding gasps. "That was the most-filling meal I've had in this tavern in weeks!"

"Glad you liked it." you chuckle, giving your spunk-filled scout an affectionate pat on her head as she courteously cleans your softening cock. With a kiss to your tip, she tucks your manhood back into your trousers, smoothing the ruffled fabric with her hands before crawling out from beneath the table. With a grin, she ponies up to the bar for a tall ale to wash down her "meal."

Your stomach now full and your balls now empty, you're ready to handle today's business.