Only Where It Counts

The smell of roasting meat breaks through the white flare that had overtaken you first, followed soon by the formless chatter of a crowd. By now you've regained your senses enough to realize your hand is wrapped around a mug, and the sudden realization that you are thirstier than you have ever been brings you to blindly fumble it towards your lips and take the **** pull of a dying man.

It's definitely beer, coarser and darker and tasting significantly more of dirt than any you've had before, and as far as you're concerned it is pure nectar. You take four massive gulps, and when the fifth only draws in air you grudgingly accept you've drained the glass. Somewhat sullenly, you agree to try cracking open your eyes and peek out at whatever the fuck is going on.

Well, you're in a tavern. Wait, you're in a tavern? When did....why the fuck are you in a tavern? Your thirst and throbbing headache already forgotten, you sit up in the massive chair you had apparently sunken into. You've been swiveled in front of a huge fireplace, the head of a proudly-antlered buck staring imperiously down at you. It looks like you're being given a wide berth, because you have to crane your neck around the side of your chair to get a glimpse of what's all the commotion is.

It's a tavern alright, like something from the start of a truly banal Dungeons and Dragons campaign. Men in tunics and half unbuckled armor crowd the place, quaffing drinks and roaring genially for the fat little innkeeper behind the bar to hack them off a hunk of the venison being basted in the kitchen that pokes out from behind the corner. There are easily a half dozen games of dice and cards going on, and the barmaids that deliver drinks while poured into delightfully tight bodies pleasantly giggle away the near endless marriage proposals lobbed their way as they wiggle to and from the kitchen. And it doesn't escape your notice that any time one of the men happens to catch your eye he stiffens, gives you a respectful yet tentative nod, and then quickly looks away.

You pull back around, slumping down into your chair again as your brain begins to catch up with your eyes. Wait...are you on the job? Is this it? Did they really find you passed out in the orientation room and decide "Oh, well, this guy's totally ready; just go ahead and just cart him out! He can have the BIG chair"? You fan your fingers out across your temple, making a mental note to contact Human Resources as soon as possible when a soft voice hesitantly murmurs at your side.

"Um, my lord, do you, ah, need....more ale? I'm s-sorry we couldn't find a big...um, a b-bigger mug..."

Furrowing your brow, you turn first to look at the mug in your hand. Oh wow, it is massive; you drained this thing in four gulps? Staring up a bit as you idly ruminate on how thirsty you must have been, your eyes catch your reflection in the mirror strung up on the wall beside you. You notice with a mixture of appreciation and discomfort that they even went so far as to dress you; you are shrouded in a massive sable cloak, a big burst of silvery gray fur framing your....face. Wait. You lean in closer, brow furrowing further as the voice at your side says something you entirely ignore. Did they actually dye your hair black? And put contacts on you? You aren't a doctor, but as a doctor you are QUITE confident your eyes didn't used to be a nearly amber brown.

"My lord, I could, ah...um..."

It suddenly dawns on you that it's not just the hair and your eyes, you're actually handsomer than you remember being. Like, significantly handsomer. You're still recognizably you, sort of, but in the sense that an incredibly good-looking movie star might be slightly made up to resemble you in the movie of your life. And so manly, it wouldn't surprise you if a face like this could instantly grow a beard through sheer **** of will. As you deliriously consider whether you'd been given plastic surgery on the sly, you stand up from your chair...and up, and up and up. Okay, you know for a FACT you were not this tall. Your hands lightly touch your stomach. Or this ripped; you don't know what sort of pack that is, but it's left the standard sixpack in the dust.

"I - you're, you're busy - I shouldn't have bothered you! I'm so sorry, I just...I just, ah..."

You look down, your cloak having slid from your jaw-droppingly broad shoulders as you stood. You're dressed in one of those...you don't know, prince shirt-vest things. Doublet? Whatever it is, a pair of pecs you could forge horseshoes on make themselves plain through it. Your eyes dart past the belt to the snug tights the instant you become aware of all that business going on between your legs. Holy shit. A bulge the size of a...what. A cantaloupe? A...a...who the FUCK knows which melon, but all you know is that where what you are intimately aware has always been an aggressively average dick should be, instead you've got a dome that you could bludgeon a bear to **** with. No way this shit is real.

"M-my lord...."

You finally whip your head around towards the voice, finding yourself staring into the wide blue eyes of a quivering young barmaid, her arm frozen mid-reach for your empty mug. She's petite, though you suppose everything is petite to you right now, but with an overripe, freckle-dusted shelf of a bosom that seems to bubble out of her too-snug bodice towards your face. Wait no, she actually shook her long curls of auburn hair away from her chest and is thrusting her tits towards you, seemingly without realizing it; you can plainly see her plump nipples doing their best to bore straight through her flimsy top and leap directly into your mouth. Her pretty face seems almost helpless as she tries once, then twice to find something to say, but she apparently finds it nearly impossible to articulate the words while locked in the gaze of your honey-colored eyes. She finally manages a go at it on the third attempt.

"S-should I...the mug, my l-....do you want...do you w-want-"

"...Yes. Yes, I do want."

You'll take the time to be surprised at how it sounds like someone mixed your voice up with a velvet avalanche later. Because right this moment, the little barmaid in front of you bites her pouty lip, whatever she wanted to do with your mug transforming into a low sound of keening female need. Her outstretched hand snaps back to squish one fat breasts into her chest, and your flaring nostrils predict that splotch that is suddenly staining her skirt a second before it actually happens. The final straw is the massive twitch that shoots from what you were convinced was an absurd codpiece, your leggings audibly groaning with strain. This is real.

Holy Shit.