I Stopped Simping and the Heroines Lost Their Minds

Arthur raised his arms, keeping his face perfectly neutral.

Brunhilda stepped right into his personal space. Up close, she smelled like hot iron, woodsmoke, and sweet vanilla. Because she was barely four and a half feet tall, taking measurements on a guy Arthur’s size required some creative maneuvering.

”Chest first,” Brunhilda hummed.

She reached her thick arms around his torso to pull the measuring tape tight. To get the leverage she needed, she pressed her body flush against his. The soft, incredibly heavy weight of her massive boobs completely crushed against his lower ribs.

Arthur let out a slow, controlled breath. The heat radiating off her shortstack frame was intense.

”Thirty-eight inches,” she muttered, quickly jotting the number down on her parchment.

She moved behind him to measure his shoulder span.

”Hold still,” she instructed.

She reached up, stretching the tape across his shoulder blades. Due to the height difference, she had to stand on her tiptoes and press her entire front firmly against his back to reach properly. Arthur could feel the distinct, heavy mounds of her chest pressing directly into his spine, shifting deliciously every time she moved her arms.

With his newly leveled perception and the lingering, high-adrenaline buzz from the dungeon, his body reacted instantly. Blood rushed south. A very heavy, very noticeable erection instantly pitched a tent in his spare uniform trousers.

God damn it, Arthur thought, keeping his breathing steady. Troll-blooded stamina is a double-edged sword.

”Shoulders look good,” Brunhilda chirped, stepping out from behind him. ”Now for the trousers. Legs apart, handsome.”

Arthur shifted his boots a little wider.

Brunhilda dropped to one knee on the wooden floor.

She grabbed the end of the yellow tape and dragged it up his inner thigh, measuring the distance from his ankle to his groin. As her hand reached the top of his thigh, the back of her knuckles brushed directly against the thick, straining bulge in his pants.

Brunhilda stopped moving.

Arthur held his breath, looking down at the fiery-haired dwarf.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull her hand away in a panicked apology. Instead, she deliberately pressed the back of her hand against his rigid erection just for a second, testing the weight and density of it.

A slow, wicked smirk spread across her face.

She looked up at him, her bright green eyes glinting with mischief.

”My, my,” Brunhilda purred, her voice dropping to a low, teasing whisper that couldn’t be heard over the ringing anvil next door. ”Looks like you’re packing some heavy artillery down here, aren’t you? Didn’t know archers carried broadswords.”

Arthur didn’t break eye contact. He didn’t blush or stammer like a kid. Instead, he subtly shifted his hips forward, adjusting his stance so the thick, throbbing length pressed even more aggressively into her hand, putting it completely on display.

”I believe in coming well-equipped to the battlefield,” Arthur replied smoothly, his gaze dropping to her lips. ”Good gear is an investment.”

Brunhilda let out a soft, throaty laugh. ”Careful, hunter,” she teased, starting to pull her hand away. ”My husband is right in the next room. He has a very heavy hammer.”

”I haven’t done anything,” Arthur pointed out, a slow smirk forming on his lips. ”You’re the one taking liberties with the tape measure.”

As she tried to pull her hand back completely, Arthur reached down. His fingers wrapped firmly around her thick wrist. He didn’t pull her up. Instead, he flattened her open palm and pressed it deliberately over his rigid length.

Maintaining dead eye contact, he slowly forced her hand to drag up the thick, hard shaft through his trousers, giving her a very clear, very deliberate stroke.

Brunhilda’s breath hitched. Her eyes instantly darkened, a spark of genuine, heavy heat flashing through her playful facade.

The deafening CLANG of Brokk’s hammer hitting steel echoed from the forge just fifty feet away. The sheer danger of the moment—touching another man’s rock-hard cock while her husband worked in the next room—sent a visible shiver down her spine.

Arthur released her wrist. ”But if you’re ever looking to appraise that equipment properly... you just have to say the word.”

Brunhilda swallowed hard. She was a merchant’s wife, chained to a forge and a grumpy, soot-covered dwarf who clearly cared more about folding steel than satisfying his gorgeous wife. Arthur was planting the seed exactly where it needed to go.

She quickly stood up and smoothed out her leather apron, forcing her cheerful merchant persona back into place, though her cheeks were flushed a deep pink.

”You’re a bold one, hunter. I’ll give you that,” she said, walking quickly back to the counter and marking down the final measurements. ”But bold hunters usually die young. Focus on surviving your next dungeon.”

”I always survive,” Arthur said, zipping up his empty duffel bag.

”Thursday evening,” Brunhilda said, sliding a written receipt across the counter. Her voice was steady, but her eyes kept darting back to his waistline. ”Your custom Shadow Wolf armor will be ready. Try not to get yourself killed before then. It would be a shame to waste perfectly good leather.”

”See you Thursday, Brunhilda.”

Arthur took the receipt, gave her one last, predatory look that made her thick thighs squeeze together under her skirt, and walked out the heavy wooden doors.

He stepped into the cool evening air of the commercial district, a dark smile spreading across his face.

She’s starving for it, Arthur noted, slinging the bag over his shoulder. It seems the blacksmith is fantastic at hammering metal, but terrible at hammering his wife.

If he played his cards right, he wouldn’t just be getting priority orders. He would be getting exclusive, entirely off-the-books discounts. It would take some time, a few more visits, and some well-placed gifts to completely reel her in, but the foundation of corruption was perfectly laid.