Author Topic: Bye Bye frunds  (Read 4142 times)

Offline Vogue

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Bye Bye frunds
« on: July 21, 2005, 02:42:57 AM »
The sun earnestly tried to break through the dank fog clinging to the putrid surface of the Innouthle Swamp—and having about as much success as a dwarf escaping the vice-grip clutch of a hungry Troll.  Luckily, the thriving swamp life was not dependent on chlorophyll to survive.  Gnome scholars have debated the Innothule Swamp ecosystem for centuries without a consensus; however, the most commonly accepted reason it flourishes is the Filthcasium Carrionestea Effect; to paraphrase the one thousand page volume: put anything anywhere and it will find a way to survive.  The swamp was a smorgasbord of blood- sucking insects, flesh eating rodents, the constantly warring lesser denizens and on this occasion, an uba denizen, Vogue.

None of this mattered to Vogue as she trudge through the swamp, occasionally stopping to dig one of her stilettos out of the mud and cursing every two feet lost for every one foot gained.  Her makeup dripped from her chin onto her size 70 breasts; the waistband on her thong was so stretched that it no longer formed to her waist…the sweat keeping it clinging to her nether regions; her perm drooped and matted strands of sandy blonde hair stuck to her forehead; she had trench foot which sloughed off the sole of her foot about three clicks back…taking a nasty bunion and three corns with it; and she had to take a dump.  She chuckled, picking up the pace, and thought of the recently dead Jars Legola; whom met an untimely demise.  First, because his name reminded her of Jar Jar Binks and primarily, because he had the gall to comment on her breasts and something about if they hung lower they would be called knees.   It was the first time Vogue ever suffocated a person with a sloughed off sole of her foot, many a suitor and otherwise had been suffocated with her used thongs and breasts however.  Matter of fact, there is a little known dwarf guild called BDSM that regular requests Vogue for “appearances”.   A long gone but resilient dwarf named, Grishnor, was the only dwarf to actually have “outlasted” her studded Velium Brawl Stick studs…actually wearing the studs down and rendering the stick useless for advanced buttussle.    She stopped and whistled impatiently for Mabelline to catch up. 

“Good lawd, Mabel!  Tie it in a knot alreadee!”  Vogue hollered. She could just make out Mabel’s tail swishing to and fro, straddled over the booted feet of some poor soul that happened to cross path with Vogue’s forever horny life-mate.  She thought: Good lawd, I gonna miss the constant buttussles and forced humps.  Blug, no mattur, some frebaggin ass bard gonna keep the legend alibve wid Vogue and Mabel exploits told in tabverns throughout Norrath and gimp dorf parents will relate the same tales to dem kid dorfs too scare dem straight. She caught her reflection in the murky water and realized that she is a damn sight far prettier, even now, than any creature in Norrath.  “You homely bitches.” Vogue muttered.

The confused Kobold thought better of drawing its sword once it saw the size of the fingernails on Vogue’s left hand and her knee-bone sized knuckles on her right hand.  The Kobold scampered back into the swamp unaware of the honor bestowed on him—being used by Vogue to sop the sweat from between her breasts.  All of the lesser racers pay good money for that pleasure; matter of fact, a band of ingenious dwarfs purposely seeks Vogue out for the chance.  They have this idea of bottling the sweat and selling it in the Bazaar.  It is surprising how super absorbent dwarf beards can be.  Vogue enjoyed their enthusiasm for the freaknasty so much so that she gave them three thousand old thongs to wring out.  She heard those dwarfs made millions and retired from selling Auld Thong body splash.  You’re probably wearing it right now.

Mabel says, “Blug mistress Vogue, jus needed to get one more hump in before the hibernation.  Five years we been at this, huh.  I am calloused.”

Vogue nods in understanding, glancing down at the stiletto marks, boot marks, wild sword slashes, and backstabs in her breasts and nipples.  Troll regeneration works pretty well; however, each time the wounds heal, the sensitivity is diminished.  It takes Vogue damn near eight hours to get off from an erotic buttussle; however, watching Mabel and the one minute per inch rule gets Vogue pretty moist in about 10 minutes.

“Har har hur.  You rembur dat stoopid dorf dat kept dat keg of nipples?  He seriously beliebve dat you can bite a nipple off and it growd back.  He durn near dislocated him jaw tryin chew mine off.   Sure, it work fer Troll cause we heal like dat.  I hope he took dat ‘fetish’ of him back to Kaladim and tried it on one dem wretched dorf female.  Har har hur. Bet dat dorf habve it pretty hard tryin to pick up him teeth wid broke fingurs.”  Vogue says. 

“Yargh. Dorf may be stoopid but dey got a brown-eye dat…” Mabel starts to shiver with pent up excitement at the memory of her last dwarf hump.  Mabel balances on her front legs, tail and aroused penis for a good ten minutes until she calms down enough for her rear legs to touch the ground to catch up with Vogue. “We seriously hangin up the thong?”

“Yargh. I sore.” Vogue scans the cliff face for the boulder that marks her secret entrance into Troll home, the one she used to escape from the horde of fly infested froglocks that overran Grobb.  After the invasion, she didn’t care if she stayed or went and would likely have stayed, as supermodels have an air of distinction, allowing them to get things that the above average to homely crowd couldn’t even dream.  However, the reason Vogue left Grobb was because the flies repulsed her.  Wherever Vogue goes there is a ton of flies.  She constantly vows to keep better or cleaner company…but there is little you can do when you have a constant entourage of dwarfs and halflings.   A lose-lose situation.

It’s just me and Mabel right now; so where are these flies coming from? Vogue wonders.

Vogue drops her well-worn Bag of Evil-Eye on the ground with a groan.  Warder, Rivan Warder and Sling Blade all tumble out in a heap.  “You be my favorite, dorfs.”
The dwarfs look up at Vogue, bleary-eyed and still defiant after all these years, even as they sit on loose-swollen rumps, bowels and hemorrhoids. 

Vogue smiles and bats her eyelashes one last time before pulling off the dwarf beard eyelash implants.  She walks to the sink and pulls of her wig, plucks off her press-on claws, removes the base and rouge with sandpaper, and wishes she had some Epsom Salt to remove her lipstick.

“Howse Ogre.  Whur the hell you be you no good fer nothing sugar-Ogre?  Whun the last durn time you bought me something in bazaar?  Put in a batch dem Dorf Browns and get out here rub my feet.  I got some terrible bunions and corns.  You lucky some idgit suffocated on my left foots bunions and corns.  You best treat me right.  I a supermodel!  Entire Norrath knowds it but you…I liable leabve and nebver comeback if you not get you shits together!”

Howse Ogre tries to suck in his gut and blend into the shadows like a rogue, waiting for Vogue to begin to snore so he can take his leave through the tunnel he has been digging for the past 5 years—to freedom.

Vogue begins to loudly snore, humming the tune Hollaback Girl.

Mabel licks her lips and spies the still awake and defiant Warder, Rivan Warder and Sling Blade; who seem to have no intention of sleeping or dropping their guard. 

Howse Ogre grabs a couple Bologna Sandwiches, as rumor has it the “Real World” doesn’t know what the hell a Dorf Samich be.  He proceeds into the tunnel to see where it leads.
/e bats her eyelashes

In order of creation:
Rivan Warder
Howse Ogre
Sling Blade
Vogue and Mabel