I Stopped Simping and the Heroines Lost Their Minds

The commercial district of Lornfell was a chaotic, sprawling hive of activity, but no place was louder than The Iron Anvil.

Arthur pushed open the heavy wooden doors, instantly hit by a sweltering wall of dry heat. The air inside the shop was thick with the smell of burning coal, oxidized iron, and pungent leather dye. The forge was operating at maximum capacity. Three burly apprentices were rushing back and forth, hauling heavy loads of raw ore and stoking the roaring furnaces.

And in the absolute center of the chaos stood Brokk.

The grumpy, soot-covered dwarven master-smith was stripped to his waist, his massive, barrel-chested torso gleaming with sweat. He held a colossal forging hammer in both hands, bringing it down upon a glowing slab of steel resting on the main anvil.

CLANG.

The deafening sound rattled the tools on the walls.

Arthur walked past the apprentices, stepping up to the front counter.

Standing behind the polished wood, desperately fanning her flushed face with a ledger, was Brunhilda. The dwarven shortstack looked absolutely spectacular. She was wearing her thick leather blacksmith’s apron over a thin, white linen chemise. Because of the sweltering heat, the chemise was completely soaked in sweat, clinging aggressively to her massive, heavy breasts. The dark pink silhouettes of her large areolas were distinctly visible through the sheer, wet fabric.

When the shop bell chimed, she looked up.

The moment her bright green eyes locked onto Arthur, her fan stopped dead. A violent, deep crimson flush instantly exploded across her neck and cheeks, rushing all the way up to the tips of her pointed ears. Her thick thighs involuntarily squeezed tightly together beneath her skirt. She hadn’t forgotten a single second of what he had done to her in the fitting room last week.

”V-Vance,” Brunhilda breathed, her voice completely betraying her professional facade. She nervously wiped her soot-stained hands on her apron. ”You’re... you’re here for your gear.”

”I am,” Arthur replied smoothly, leaning his forearms against the wooden counter. He let his dark gaze drop deliberately to her sweat-soaked cleavage before dragging it back up to her flushed face. ”Is it ready?”

”Aye, it’s ready, you impatient brat!”

Brokk’s gruff, gravelly voice cut through the noise. The dwarven smith plunged the glowing steel into a trough of quenching oil, sending a massive hiss of white steam into the air, before wiping his sweaty forehead with a rag and stomping over to the counter.

Brokk reached under the desk and slammed a heavy bundle of repaired dark leather onto the wood. Next to it, he placed a custom-fitted, dark iron sheath.

”That core you brought me,” Brokk grunted, pointing a thick, calloused finger at the sheath. ”Pure nightmare to fold. The dark mana kept fighting the hammer. But I beat the bastard into shape. Draw it.”

Arthur picked up the sheath. It was cold to the touch. He gripped the hilt and pulled.

With a soft, metallic hiss, the blade slid free.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed in genuine appreciation. The eight-inch hunting knife was a masterpiece of lethal craftsmanship. The blade was forged entirely from the shattered remains of the Death Knight’s Necrotic Core. It was jagged, pitch-black, and seemed to actively absorb the ambient light of the forge. A faint, toxic purple aura hummed along the razor-sharp edge.

”Perfect,” Arthur noted, twirling the blade effortlessly in a reverse grip. ”The balance is flawless.”

”Of course it is, I forged it,” Brokk scoffed proudly. ”But that blade is volatile. Don’t cut yourself with it, or the necrotic rot will take your hand off.”

”I’ll keep that in mind,” Arthur said, sheathing the dagger and attaching it to his belt. He looked at the repaired Shadow-Weave leather armor.

Brunhilda cleared her throat loudly.

”Brokk, the leather repairs are finished, but... the tension straps on the chest piece had to be completely re-stitched after the damage he took,” Brunhilda said, her voice slightly higher than usual. She kept her eyes glued to the counter, refusing to look at her husband. ”I need to take him to the fitting room to ensure the mobility isn’t restricted.”

Brokk waved his hand dismissively, already turning his back on them to head toward the roaring furnace.

”Yeah, yeah, go do your tailoring,” Brokk grunted, picking up his massive hammer. ”Just get him out of my way. I have three broadswords to temper before sunset!”

”Right this way, Vance,” Brunhilda squeaked, grabbing the bundle of black leather.

She turned and practically waddled toward the back of the shop. Arthur followed her, a dark, utterly predatory smirk spreading across his face.

They stepped into the cramped, dimly lit fitting room. It was nothing more than a tiny, enclosed wooden box tucked away in the back corner of the bustling forge. The air in here was stiflingly hot, smelling of sweet vanilla, leather, and female musk.

The moment Arthur stepped inside, Brunhilda pulled the heavy velvet curtain shut and violently threw the iron bolt across the wooden door, locking them in.

The heavy leather armor slipped from her hands, dropping to the floorboards.

She spun around, her chest heaving, her bright green eyes looking way up at him. Because of her extreme shortstack proportions, she was barely four and a half feet tall. Arthur, standing tall with his Troll-blooded physique, completely towered over her. She was literally half his size, her head barely reaching the bottom of his ribcage.

”I couldn’t sleep,” Brunhilda whimpered, stepping into his space, her thick thighs trembling. ”Every time I closed my eyes, all I could think about was last week. I’ve been rubbing myself raw waiting for you.”

Arthur didn’t say a word. He looked down at the desperate, sweating midget. The sheer size difference between them sent a massive, primal surge of dominance straight to his brain.

He didn’t lean down to kiss her. Instead, Arthur reached down and casually placed his large hands on either side of her incredibly thick, fleshy waist.

With his base Strength sitting at 40, picking her up required absolutely zero effort. He hoisted her completely off the wooden floorboards like she was a weightless doll.

”Ah!” Brunhilda gasped, her hands instinctively flying to his broad shoulders to steady herself.

Arthur held her suspended in the air, bringing her face perfectly level with his own. She was built like a brick house—incredibly thick, heavy, and voluptuous—but against his monstrous stats, she was entirely at his mercy. He manhandled her effortlessly, pinning her back against the wooden wall of the fitting room, keeping her feet entirely off the ground.

”You look like a child hanging from my hands,” Arthur murmured darkly, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her waist. ”A very thick, very dirty child.”

Brunhilda let out a breathy, stuttering whine. Her legs dangled helplessly in the air, completely rendering her dwarven strength useless. The absolute helplessness of being physically dominated, lifted, and pinned to the wall short-circuited her brain. Her incredibly wide hips instinctively rolled forward, seeking friction.

Arthur didn’t give it to her. He shifted his grip, grabbing the straps of her heavy leather apron and tossing it over her head. It hit the floor with a heavy thud.

She was left in just her soaked, translucent linen chemise. Her massive breasts were completely squashed against Arthur’s chest. He reached between them, grabbing the collar of the thin fabric, and effortlessly ripped it straight down the middle.

The linen tore, completely exposing her chest.

Her breasts were absurdly massive, entirely disproportionate to her short frame. They spilled outward, heavy and pale, tipped with dark pink, swollen areolas. Her nipples were already rock hard, pebble-sized, and practically begging for attention.

Arthur leaned in. He opened his mouth and clamped his teeth deliberately over her right nipple, biting down with a sharp, bruising force.

”SCREEE!” Brunhilda let out a muffled, animalistic squeal, throwing her head back against the wooden wall.

Arthur sucked the sensitive peak aggressively into his mouth, his teeth dragging across the hardened flesh, punishing the sensitive nerve endings. He reached his free hand down to her left breast, aggressively kneading the heavy, soft mound, his calloused fingers pinching and twisting her other nipple.

CLANG.

Brokk’s heavy hammer struck the anvil outside, shaking the walls, completely masking her frantic, sobbing moans.

”Please, Arthur...” she wept, her fingers tangling desperately in his dark hair as he devoured her breasts. ”It feels so good... you’re so strong...”

”I haven’t even started,” Arthur growled against her wet skin.

He let go of her waist, letting her slide down his body for a fraction of a second before catching her thick, muscular thighs. He hoisted her legs up, parting them wide, and effortlessly threw both of her incredibly thick thighs directly over his broad shoulders.

Brunhilda was now completely suspended, her ass hovering in the air, her entire lower half fully exposed and presented perfectly to his face.

Arthur grabbed the waistband of her skirt and the thick cotton of her panties, ripping them down and tearing them completely off her body.

The musky, intoxicating scent of raw dwarven arousal hit him instantly. Between her incredibly thick thighs was a dense, wild patch of crimson-brown hair. It was completely drenched. Slick, heavy strands of her own clear juices dripped from the swollen, dark pink lips hidden beneath the hairy bush, running down to her plush ass cheeks.

Arthur didn’t hesitate. Holding her effortlessly by her massive ass, he buried his entire face directly into her soaking, hairy pussy.

Brunhilda’s back arched so violently she almost slipped off his shoulders.

Arthur’s tongue was merciless. He dragged it roughly through the wet, crimson-brown curls, parting her slippery outer folds with aggressive force. The taste of her sweet, musky arousal flooded his mouth. He found her hard, aching clit completely buried in the wetness and clamped his lips over it, sucking it directly into his mouth.

”OH GODS!” Brunhilda sobbed wildly. Her hands flew down, grabbing onto his head, desperately trying to push his face even deeper into her crotch.

Arthur ate her out like a starving animal. His tongue darted deep inside her dripping core, penetrating her tight inner walls repeatedly while he ruthlessly sucked and bit at her clit. Her dwarven body was trembling uncontrollably in his grip. The sheer sensory overload of being suspended like a doll, her thick legs draped helplessly over his shoulders, and her pussy absolutely devoured, pushed her rapidly toward the edge.

Her internal walls began to spasm violently against his tongue.

”Arthur! I’m—I’m going to—!”

Before she could finish the sentence, Arthur abruptly pulled his face away.

”No,” Arthur commanded, dropping her thick legs from his shoulders.

Brunhilda hit the wooden floorboards with a heavy thud, her legs completely giving out beneath her. She collapsed to her knees, panting raggedly, her chest heaving as she stared up at him with tear-streaked, devastated green eyes. She was a dripping, desperate mess, completely denied the release she was just a second away from.

Arthur looked down at the miserable shortstack. He casually reached for his belt buckle, undoing the leather and letting his dark trousers drop.

His cock sprang free into the stifling heat of the fitting room.

It was a monster. Thick, heavy, and completely rock hard. But what truly shattered Brunhilda’s mind was the absolute, terrifying scale of it. Because she was on her knees, the massive, throbbing shaft was perfectly level with her face. It was literally thicker than her own wrists and longer than the entire width of her small dwarven head.

”Look at it,” Arthur ordered, stepping closer until the blunt, wet head of his cock brushed directly against her trembling nose. ”It’s bigger than your entire face, Hilda. And I’m going to stretch you completely apart with it.”

Brunhilda swallowed hard, a thick string of drool leaking from her parted lips. The sheer size of him, combined with the brutal, slow-burn denial, had completely broken the proud blacksmith into a desperate, feral masochist.

”Please,” Brunhilda whimpered, her hands reaching out to grip his muscular thighs. ”Ruin me.”