Zog and Ellienneffie - Troll Elf Love - illustrated
Copyright© 2025 by CreepyUnclePete
Chapter 3
Poem Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Muses inspired an erotic poem instead of another stroke story. Please let me know what you think. I also created a new character type for fantasy roleplaying games, the Skank Elf.
Caution: This Poem Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Rape BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction High Fantasy Magic Gang Bang Orgy Interracial Anal Sex Double Penetration Exhibitionism Oral Sex Size Prostitution Illustrated
Ellienneffie spat, her voice a jagged rasp. “Hold the torch higher, you idiot, or we’re walking straight into a bog-cat’s mouth.” She wasn’t looking at the road, she was staring at the bruised purple horizon where the great spires of the High Elf capital used to be a distant promise. Now, they were just a memory of a betrayal. First, the High Elves had purged their Forest Elf kin like common vermin from the marble plazas. Then, in a fit of arrogance, the Forest Elves turned on their own, kicking the ‘Skank’ clans, those who dared embrace the dirt, the musk, and the raw hunger of the earth, out of the canopy and into the suffocating humidity of the Mire-Edge.
They were the leftovers of leftovers, huddled in lean-tos made of rotting wood and desperation. The land there didn’t give; it took. The soil was a sour, grey slurry that choked any seed they tried to plant, leaving them to forage for bitter tubers and fight off raiding parties of scavengers. Every day was a gamble between starvation and dangerous foraging which risked a monster’s wrath.
The silence of the swamp was shattered by a wet, ripping sound, the unmistakable noise of a perimeter guard being dragged into the bog.
Ellienneffie didn’t scream. She didn’t have the luxury of fear. She stepped over a pile of damp refuse, her leather armor smelling of old sweat and cheap oil, and looked toward the commotion. Standing there, drenched in swamp-water and blood, was Kael. He was a disgraced sentinel of the forest, a man whose grace had been replaced by a predatory, twitching hunger. His eyes, gold and slit like a reptile’s, locked onto hers. There was no war left to fight, only the crushing weight of biological need.
“You’re late, Ellie,” Kael murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to hum right in her gut. He didn’t move to help the dying guard; he just watched her, his chest heaving under a tunic that had long since lost its buttons.
Ellienneffie felt a sudden, violent surge of heat between her thighs, a sharp contrast to the damp chill of the swamp. She stepped closer, her boots sinking into the muck, until she could smell the salt and musk radiating off him. “I’m not late,” she whispered, reaching out to grip the rough leather of his belt. “I’m exactly where I want to be.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She shoved him back against a moss-slicked boulder, her mouth crashing onto his with a desperation that bordered on aggression. It wasn’t a romantic kiss; it was a claim. Kael groaned, a guttural sound of surrender, and hoisted her up, her legs locking around his waist with a strength born of survival.
“Right here?” he gasped, his hands roaming her curves with a frantic, bruising pressure.
“The guards are dead, the crops have rotted, and we’re probably going to die by month’s end,” she moaned, her head tilting back as he bit into the curve of her neck. “Do it. Now.”
Kael didn’t need a second invitation. He tore at the fastenings of her gear, his fingers clumsy with desire. He stripped her with a raw intensity, his eyes scanning the skin that had been shielded from the sun. He wasn’t just taking her; he was consuming her. He entered her with a sharp, sudden thrust that made her gasp, a loud, unfiltered sound that echoed through the trees.
“God, you’re...” Kael choked, his pace erratic and passionate. “You’re like a fire!”
“Shut up and keep going,” she hissed, digging her nails into his shoulders, pulling him deeper.
Their rhythm was chaotic, mirroring the instability of their lives. Every thrust was a defiance of the misery surrounding them. They were two broken things fitting together in a jagged, perfect puzzle. As the tension peaked, Ellienneffie felt a wave of purely physical ecstasy crash over her, a white-hot explosion that drowned out the sounds of the swamp, the painful memory of the capital, and the fear of tomorrow.
They collapsed together in the dirt, breathing in the scent of loam and sweat, momentarily forgetting that they were refugees in a land that hated them.
The Duke’s crown wasn’t gold; it was a rusted circlet of iron and dried blood, and it looked pathetic perched atop his severed head. First, the humans had come with their torches and their cold, calculating cruelty. Then the ogres had arrived, less interested in gold and more interested in the rhythmic crunch of bone. Finally, huge mobs of Goblins swept through, leaving behind a wake of shattered homes and the hollow, haunted eyes of women who had been repeatedly used as sperm buckets. The village of the Skank Elves didn’t mourn, they didn’t have the energy left for grief. They only had the lingering scent of burning homes and the heavy, suffocating weight of collective violation.
Ellienneffie didn’t inherit a throne; she inherited a slaughterhouse. As she looked at the survivors, the shaken raped girls, the broken penetrated men, the elders who had simply stopped speaking, she realized that purity was a fairy tale told by people who weren’t bleeding, weren’t starving. The High Elves had taught them that dignity was found in resistance, but dignity doesn’t stop a raiding party. Lust, however, is a currency that every creature understands. If they couldn’t fight the tide of violence, she would turn the tide into a flood of sleazy joy, instead.
“Why die for a patch of mud?” Ellienneffie had declared, her voice echoing through the ruins of the great hall. “If the world wants to devour us, let’s make sure they enjoy the taste and pay us. We invite the Orcs. We invite the Trolls. We don’t give them a war, we give them an invitation to bed. We let our new bodyguards feed and breed us, peacefully.”
The invitations were sent via terrified messengers, promising not a treaty, but a feast of flesh.
The horizon shifted. A sea of green and grey began to pour over the ridges of the Mire-Edge. Three hundred Orcs, screeching and shoving one another in a chaotic swarm, arrived first. They were brutish and slightly bigger than man-sized, with oversized ears twitching with anticipation. Behind them, the earth trembled under the weight of a dozen Trolls, massive, moss-covered behemoths with skin like weathered stone and breath that smelled of fermented swamp-root.
The guests nearly outnumbered the village. They didn’t arrive with swords drawn, but with wide, hungry grins, their eyes scanning the lean-tos and the shivering elves. The air grew thick with a new kind of tension, a predatory electricity. The Skank Elves stood in a line, stripped of their modesty and their fear, led by Ellienneffie, who stood at the front with a provocative smirk, her eyes dancing with a dangerous, calculated heat.
Beside her stood Glellennarra, her sister, whose beauty was as sharp and jagged as a broken mirror. While the other elves trembled at the sight of the Trolls, massive, hulking mountains of flesh and stone, the two sisters shared a secret lusty defiance. Their bodies didn’t just accept the Troll’s massive members, they craved the impossible scale of them. They became the vanguard of a new era, the only two souls capable of weathering the storm of a Troll’s desire without being broken apart. They weren’t just survivors, they were the architects of a fleshy peace treaty.
The tribe gathered in a wide, breathless circle, the atmosphere humming with a voyeuristic intensity. In the center of the mud-slicked plaza, Ellienneffie surrendered herself to a behemoth of a Troll, his skin the color of old slate. The crowd gasped as she arched her back, her expression one of raw, unadulterated triumph. With a flexibility that bordered on the supernatural, she welcomed him, her body stretching to an impossible degree as she took an enormous Troll penis in all three of her holes at the same time.
The next time a Goblin swarm arrived to cause mayhem, Troll chieftain Zog personally ripped nine of them apart, crushed a dozen beneath his tremendous boots, then ate several more. Other Trolls dismembered or devoured another hundred. For the promise of more Elven poon, the burly and aggressive Orcs stabbed or chopped up the rest.