Inside the sturdy metal prison cell, Lark the bandit captain sat on the stone floor, facing the thick steel bars. He was enthusiastically devouring the feast set before him, shoveling mouthfuls with gusto. Outside his jail, the two hobgoblin guards stood stoically, their eyes watching him with impassive gazes.
"Hey, brothers!" Lark called out through a mouthful of mashed potato, spraying a few flecks onto the bars. "Tell the chief… or mistress, whatever… that you lads did good! This spread is fit for a king! Never had anything like it before!"
He speared another chunk of meat with his wooden fork and waved it in the air. "Seriously, what is this stuff? The potatoes are creamy, the bread is fresh… and this meat!"
He popped the chunk into his mouth, chewing slowly with exaggerated pleasure. "Tastes like beef, but way, WAY better! Juicy, tender… melts right off the bone! What beast is this from?"
He didn't wait for an answer, immediately tearing into a leg of roasted poultry. "And the wine! Smooth, rich… not that swill we brewed back at the camp. Who knew the dungeon had such fine tastes?" He belched loudly, a satisfied rumble. "Gotta say, captivity's looking up!"
Taking a long swig from his wooden tankard, Lark wiped his greasy lips on his sleeve. "So, which of you green gents can tell me the menu? I wanna know what to ask for next time!"
He leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering his voice. "And is there dessert? Please tell me there's dessert. A man needs his sweet fix after a feast like this!"
He grinned broadly, revealing a mouthful of stained teeth. "C'mon, don't be shy! Tell ol' Lark everything!" He continued to ramble on, his words punctuated by more belching and smacking of lips, seemingly oblivious to the guards' silent, watchful stares.
The sound of wooden utensils and the sound of enthusiastic chewing filled the prison as Lark kept talking, describing flavors, asking questions, and generally enjoying his meal immensely.
The hobgoblins seemed increasingly irritated by Lark's incessant chatter. Finally, the more serious one growled, "Shut yu-up!" It was a guttural, barely intelligible command, clearly straining the limits of his human language vocabulary.
Lark merely grinned wider. "Ah, you speak again! Excellent! Can you talk more? Great! Nice to meet you too! Now that we're pals, how about you unlock this door? I've eaten my fill, time to stretch my legs, maybe see the sights?" He waggled his bushy eyebrows suggestively.
The lazy hobgoblin snapped. With a snarl, he thrust the sharp end of his spear through the bars, aiming for Lark's gut. "Kill you!" he spat in broken language.
Lark yelped, stumbling backwards just as the spearpoint sliced through the air where his belly had been. He looked down at the torn fabric of his shirt, a hole now ripped through the cheap material.
"Whoa! Watch it, mate! Do you know how much this shirt cost me? A whole silver coin! That's robbery right there!" He seemed more concerned about his tattered clothing than the near-miss with the spear.
"Enough." A cool, feminine voice cut through the chaos.
Both hobgoblins immediately snapped to attention, their postures stiffening. Without a word, they turned and marched out of the prison area, leaving Lark alone.
"First, a feast fit for a king," Lark mused, still picking at the last scraps on his plate.
"And now… are they sending bitches to suck my dick? This dungeon life just keeps getting better and better!" He leaned back against the wall, a lecherous grin spreading across his grease-stained face.
A soft footstep sounded. Lark's one good eye widened as Lyssandra stepped into view.
She was breathtaking - tall, curvaceous, with impossibly large breasts straining against her tight black outfit. His jaw literally dropped open, a strand of saliva connecting his chin to his collarbone.
"Well, well, well… look what we have here," he drawled, pushing himself off the wall and swaggering towards the bars. "Ain't you a fine piece of ass? Come a little closer, darling. Let Lark take a proper look."
As he reached the bars, Lyssandra stood silently on the other side. Emboldened, Lark thrust a grimy hand through the gap, reaching for her ample chest. His fingertips grazed the smooth fabric of her bodysuit.
"Hands off, pig."
Lyssandra's voice was icy and commanding. The floor and walls of the cell suddenly rippled. Thick, red tendrils erupted from the stonework, snaking with blinding speed. Before Lark could even curse, they had wrapped around his limbs like steel bands, yanking him backwards.
He hit the far wall with a dull thud, his breath knocked out of him. The tendrils secured his wrists, ankles and waist, pinning him spread-eagled against the cold wall. He struggled uselessly, sputtering in shock and fury, but the magical bonds held fast. His leering grin had vanished, replaced by wary fear.
Lyssandra stepped calmly into the cell. Her expression was one of utter contempt as she surveyed her new captive.
She regarded the bound man coolly "Your name is Lark?"
But the only response from the wall was a muffled gargle. Lark's head was tilted back, his mouth stretched wide by a thick, fleshy tendril that had wormed its way deep inside. His eyes bulged with panic and fury, veins standing out on his temples as he struggled fruitlessly.
"Ah, silly me," Lyssandra murmured, a faint smirk touching her lips.
"Old habits die hard." She snapped her fingers sharply.
With a wet, visceral squelch, the tendril withdrew from Lark's throat. It left him gasping and retching, drooling ropes of saliva mixed with bile.
"Ptuh! Huff… Huff… What the FUCK was that?!" Lark coughed violently, spraying spittle.
He craned his neck, glaring at Lyssandra with his one good eye, a mix of fear and anger warring on his face.
"What the fuck are those things? Where are they coming from? Are you some kind of… some kind of monster?!" His questions tumbled out in a frantic stream.
Lyssandra's smirk vanished, replaced by a look of cold disgust.
"Such an uncultured swine," she stated, her voice dripping with contempt.
She raised one perfectly manicured hand.
"Listen here, you little bitch! I'll–" Lark began, but Lyssandra cut him off with another sharp gesture.
A second, thicker tendril lashed out. Instead of entering his mouth, it coiled itself into a dense, fleshy ball. With incredible force, it rammed straight into Lark's stomach.
The impact was brutal.
Air exploded from his lungs in a tortured grunt. His eyes fluttered wider than before as the contents of his recently feasted-upon meal were violently expelled. Projectile vomit erupted from his mouth in a hot, stinking stream.
Simultaneously, a wall of smooth, red flesh surged up from the floor between Lyssandra and the spewing bandit. It shielded her completely, ensuring not a single drop of foul liquid touched her pristine outfit.
Lark hung limply in his bonds, gasping for breath, his body shuddering. The acidic stench of vomit filled the cell. His face, now streaked with bile and half-digested food, was a picture of misery and humiliation.
"You will learn respect," Lyssandra said, her voice calm and terrifying in its certainty.
"Or you will learn pain. The choice, you pathetic piece of shit, is yours."
Lark hung limp in his bonds, his chest heaving in ragged, painful gasps. The violent retching had left him weak and dizzy, his lungs burning for air that wouldn't come easily. His one good eye remained fixed on Lyssandra, wide with a dawning, sickening fear.
"Again," Lyssandra repeated, her tone infuriatingly calm.
"Is your name Lark?"
Lark struggled to form words through his gasping breaths.
"F… Fuck… y… you…" he managed to choke out.
"Wrong answer."
Lyssandra's expression didn't change.
A nearby tendril lashed out, not towards his mouth this time, but towards his lower half.
With a sharp rip, it tore away the tattered remains of Lark's pants, leaving him naked and exposed from the waist down.
"W-what the fuck are you doing?!" Lark yelped, his humiliation complete.
He tried to twist away, to cover himself, but the tendrils held him fast.
A cold dread settled in his gut.
Lyssandra pointed a single finger at his groin.
Her aim was unerring: the small, shriveled sacs beneath his equally small penis.
A faint, crackling hum filled the air.
"Bad pigs get fried," she stated simply.