Felix

The war council chamber is thick with the smell of old parchment, candle wax, and tension. A large, scarred oak table dominates the room, covered in maps and troop disposition reports. You stand among a small group of knights and strategists, listening to General Marcos point out a potential chokepoint in the mountain pass.

Felix Argyle is perched on the edge of the table, not sitting, but leaning back on his hands, one leg crossed over the other. His scandalously short skirt rides up, offering a blatant view of his thick, lace-clad thighs and the soft underside of his obscenely plump rear, which spills over the table's edge. He's been swinging his foot idly, making the entire, gargantuan shelf of his ass wobble in a slow, hypnotic rhythm that has distracted more than one attendee.

General Marcos finishes his point. "We'll need the supply lines secured before the first snow, or the vanguard will be stranded."

A senior knight, Helmut, nods gruffly. "The Ironwood merchants are demanding double their usual rate for the risk. Greedy bastards."

Felix lets out a soft, theatrical sigh, his amber eyes sliding from Helmut to you. His lips curl into a smirk. "Oh, I'm sure our esteemed new consultant here has a brilliant plan to persuade them, nya~." His voice is a drip of honey and poison. "Maybe you can go and... ask them nicely? With those big, pleading eyes you have? I'm sure it'll work wonderfully for someone of your... obvious caliber, nya~."

He uncrosses and re-crosses his legs, the movement a deliberate, jiggling spectacle. Before you can even form a retort, his entire demeanor melts as he turns to Helmut. His posture becomes languid, his smile turns sultry and inviting.

"But Sir Helmut~," he purrs, voice dropping to a bedroom whisper that somehow carries. "You're so strong to deal with all these boring numbers and angry men. It must be so tiring for you, nya~." He leans toward the knight, his chest dipping forward and his back arching, pushing his ass out even more. "If you need to... vent some of that frustration after the meeting, my door is always open. I'm very good at helping knights... relax. I promise I won't be a brat for you~."

Helmut flushes, clearing his throat and looking firmly back at the map. Felix just giggles, a light, airy sound, and gives a slow, deliberate wink to a blushing young scribe across the table.

The meeting drags on. Every logistical problem is met with a similar pattern: a sharp, needling comment aimed solely at you, questioning your competence or presence, followed by an immediate, seamless shift into a cooing, slutty, and utterly submissive offer of "assistance" to any other man in the room who speaks. He offers to "personally ensure" a quartermaster's reports are "thoroughly reviewed," suggests he could "ease the tensions" of the head scout with his "particular skills," and promises the head smith he'd be "as pliant as heated metal" if it would help forge weapons faster.

Finally, the council is adjourned. The room empties, the clatter of armor and boots fading down the stone corridor. You gather your notes, the lingering humiliation a hot coal in your chest.

As you step into the hallway, a familiar, sweet scent catches you—floral soap and something uniquely him. Felix is there, leaning against the cold stone wall, having somehow slipped out ahead of everyone. The corridor isn't empty; knights and officials mill about, talking in small groups, casting occasional glances.

He pushes off the wall and slinks toward you, his hips rolling with an exaggerated, swaying gait that makes his ass cheeks bounce and clap softly against each other with every step. The sound echoes faintly in the hall. He stops inches from you, looking up through his lashes.

Then, his hands come up and he grabs two massive handfuls of his own ass, squeezing the immense, soft flesh. The material of his skirt strains and disappears between his fingers. He gives it a slow, deliberate shake right in front of you, the wobble mesmerizing.

"See all this, weakling?" he whispers, his voice a taunting sing-song. "This is what real power looks like, nya~. This is what keeps an army motivated. And look at you." He leans in, his breath hot on your ear. "You couldn't handle this with twenty times your strength, you pathetic little bitch~."

He pulls back, his smirk widening as he sees your expression. He releases one cheek, letting it jiggle back into place, and uses that hand to gently, mockingly pat your cheek.

"Awwww, look at your face, nya~," he coos, loud enough for nearby passersby to hear. "It really shows off how weak you are. Physically. Emotionally. Bet your puny dick couldn't even get through all this ass to fuck me to begin with, nyehehe~."

He gives his ass another loud, stinging smack, the sound cracking through the hallway. Several people look over. He doesn't care; he basks in the attention.

"The war council?" he laughs, a light, mocking trill. "That's for people who can actually do something, nya~. Not for trembling little mice who get flustered by a bit of teasing. You should just leave. Run away. Crawl back to whatever hole you came from and never, ever come back."

He winks, turns on his heel, and saunters away down the hall, his enormous ass swaying and jiggling like two angry planets in orbit with every step, a living, taunting monument to your perceived inadequacy. The last thing you hear is his final, dismissive call over his shoulder.

"Bye-bye, worthless little thing~! Nya!"