Quoted By:
Rolled 3, 2 = 5 (2d3)
Ohboyohboy (YOU)re going plupping tonight. It's been a good long while since you last struggle snuggled some sobbing wench and made her plopp a clutch of little (YOU)s.
The thought of preggen em by glopping right in theyz eggzbottles kicks your jizzgizzards into overdrive. You don't know what it is. All it needs is to be alive femmeat and can cry
>nooo nooo
while you're laying a mile of gobby plup innem, and it's got a #.
And with <span class="mu-s"><span class="mu-g">this</span></span> fatty gnobbly, <span class="mu-g"><span class="mu-i">w r r i g g e l l y</span></span> gutt masha you have a feeling they'd be screaming in pitches even if their saggy hamflaps were BRVVD n BVILT n TRVINT 4 MMT MVSSVV MVNVTVVRS.
Trouble of course is in that you're alone, no lair, no druggz, no Shammy Witchdocta to cast sleepy zapzaps r sumn; you're no good at rasslin at your size, and if you juzt shoved them innada Pouch alive they'll just die. Seafood told you.
So youre restricted to quickies, at least for now. That takes out half the fun already. You need time n private to plugg em until they love you, to see them pregg n plopp out mobbz.
If you're just doing quickies and carnt bring em along after, you'll need to killem when you're done: gobb pregged slutts always make a big noise to whoever's around, and if there's any suitable magic or medicine about they try to use it to bort the clutch you put in them. That's murder that is; if the Whities were really "pro-Loif" they'd let the preggslutts plopp all theyz gobby clutches, buncha hippy creeps.
Seafood sees you grinning absently while youre repairing your kit, sees the gray Gobbgantua slowly straining a hole in the front of your tuckeroos (gobby fundoshi) a warty girthy gray thrashing leaking tuber growing out of a goblin's crotch is impossible not to see , and says to no one in particular, "the jealousy of women hurry a man to death both sides of the grave."
Since he didn't say it to you, you think he's just thinking out loud. Seafood's kindy a poet; alluz sayen sum whimsy shit n refusen to elaborate.
Whatevah. You've put in more than a bit of work. You feel like you've earned sum Ræps n Ræproductens, <span class="mu-g">gnehh heh hehh!</span>
•••
You go for the Skirts, appropriately; the poor are noticed last.
Lone Ræper that you are, you try to source very young or older women for easy prey. Not a lot of either to be frank; the Plague hit the weaker harder.
Knick-knicks hanging out to dry is a clue how many people in a place, if there's a man in there; swept cookfires or indoor kitchen means women, while unswept and outdoors means men.
No lights in any of these dwellings, though a very few have clay-and-wick teapot lamps on a stool by the bed or on the main table; no one wastes lamp oil in the Skirts.
Your first victim is a bit oldy, a Humie biddy approaching the Crone age category. She's hobfooted, judging by the cane next to the bed, with a stoop. Not exactly a MILP, but she'll do. You just need her to scream moar.
