Skeletor

The throne room of Snake Mountain pulsed with sickly green light. Flickering braziers cast long, jagged shadows across the stone floor and the ranks of uneasy minions. Trap Jaw had deposited you near one of the pillars with a metallic grunt and a shove, then clanked off to stand at attention. The air smelled of ozone, old magic, and something faintly sulfurous.

Atop the raised dais, Skeletor cut an imposing figure—at least from the waist up. The ragged purple hooded robe hung from his lean, skeletal shoulders, the yellowed skull locked in its permanent rictus grin. Empty sockets flared with cold light as he raised the Havoc Staff high. Purple energy crackled along its length.

“Behold!” he crowed, voice high, nasal, and theatrical, echoing off the vaulted ceiling. “Skeletor has devised the ultimate plan! A scheme of such pure, exquisite genius that He-Man and his simpering friends will be crushed beneath the heel of destiny itself! The cosmos shall tremble! Eternia shall kneel! And Skeletor—yes, Skeletor—shall rule for all eternity!”

He swept the staff in a grand arc. Sparks spat. The energy surged brighter, then twisted, unstable. A circular tear in reality ripped open directly beneath his spiked heels with a wet, tearing sound.

“What—no—Skeletor commands—!”

He dropped straight through with a high, nasal shriek that cracked into pure indignation. The portal snapped shut the instant he vanished.

A heavy thud and the sharp metallic click of heels on stone came from the far side of the dais. Skeletor was on his knees, robe hiked high up his back. The full, shameless silhouette of his lower half was briefly, unmistakably on display: wide soft hips, the massive, pale icy-blue ass framed by the dark spiky leather harness, cheeks heavy and round, and the extreme spiked high-heeled sandals that forced his posture into a permanent, elevated present. The residual flesh jiggled once from the impact before he scrambled upright with undignified haste.

The robe slipped again as he spun to face the room, skull still grinning fixedly. He yanked the tattered purple fabric down with one skeletal hand while thrusting the Havoc Staff skyward with the other.

“A minor… recalibration!” he declared, voice rising to cover the awkward scramble. “Skeletor remains undefeated! The forces of good will still crumble! You—all of you—bear witness to the Lord of Destruction’s unstoppable will!”

He took a sharp step forward. The robe rode up the back of one thick thigh. Another quick, furious tug. The harness straps bit into soft flesh, lifting and framing rather than covering. Every shift of weight produced a soft, heavy bounce from the exaggerated lower half and the sharp click-click of spiked heels.

“The portal was merely a test!” he continued, louder, more manic. “A demonstration of power so vast that even Skeletor’s own magic can scarcely contain it! He-Man will fall! Castle Grayskull will fall! The entire universe will—”

The robe slipped again. He jerked it back into place with a theatrical flourish that somehow made the exposure worse for half a second. Minions stared at the floor, the walls, anything except their master’s continuously malfunctioning dignity.

Skeletor’s empty sockets flared brighter. He planted the staff, straightened to his full height, and launched into the rest of the monologue at full volume, one hand periodically snatching at the stubborn purple fabric while the other gestured grandly. The running battle between towering self-aggrandizement and the rebellious robe continued without pause, each adjustment only emphasizing the very things he was trying—and failing—to keep theatrical.

The air in the lower tunnels of Snake Mountain tore open with a violent purple-black rift. Crackling energy spilled across the uneven stone floor as Skeletor stepped through, Havoc Staff planted firmly, ragged purple cloak swirling around his lean skeletal frame. The permanent rictus grin of his yellowed skull caught the dim light; empty sockets flared briefly with cold green fire. High-arched feet in extreme spiked heels clicked sharply against the rock the moment he fully emerged.

“Behold!” His voice rang high, nasal, and theatrical, echoing down the corridor. “Skeletor has arrived—because even the Lord of Destruction grows weary of these crystal pests chewing through his tunnels like so many glittering maggots. And, purely out of generosity, he will allow you to assist.” He swept the staff in a wide arc, nearly overbalancing as the exaggerated sway of his wide, soft hips and massive plush ass threw his weight sideways. The harness straps framing that heavy lower half creaked. He recovered with a theatrical flourish, cloak whipping. “Do not mistake this for alliance. The forces of good are still pathetic. These imps are simply… annoying. Personally.”

A high-pitched crystalline chittering answered him. Dozens of sharp-edged, self-replicating crystal imps skittered along the walls and ceiling, facets flashing, tiny jaws grinding through ancient wards and stone alike. One dropped toward Skeletor’s shoulder; he swatted it aside with the staff and immediately launched into a spell.

“Feel the unstoppable might of Skeletor’s—hyaaaah!” A bolt of sickly green energy erupted from the Havoc Staff, overcharged and wildly dramatic. It vaporized three imps in a spray of glittering shards—and also punched a smoking hole in the opposite wall. Skeletor struck a pose mid-corridor, one hip cocked hard, the full weight of his enormous, jiggling ass thrust back for maximum silhouette. The spiked heels clicked as he shifted his weight. “Did you see that? Precision. Power. Absolute mastery. Acknowledge it.”

The remaining swarm scattered deeper into the winding tunnels. Skeletor gave chase at once, heels striking sharp metallic click-click-click with every stride. The lean upper body stayed relatively controlled, but the lower half—wide hips, thick thighs, that massively padded icy-blue ass—swayed and bounced with shameless excess. Every time he skidded to a stop to blast another cluster, the momentum of that heavy posterior nearly toppled him. He caught himself on the staff, cloak flaring, and snarled through the permanent grin.

“This is beneath Skeletor! Cooperating with you—with the soft-hearted defenders of that wretched castle—while crystal vermin treat Snake Mountain like a buffet!” Another sweeping blast. Two more imps shattered. He planted both feet, arched his back, and presented the full exaggerated curve of his hips and ass as if the corridor itself were an audience. “Behold the destruction! Skeletor’s strategy is flawless—herd them into the narrower passages, then annihilate the lot. You are merely here to witness greatness. Say it.”

An imp darted between his spiked heels. He hopped awkwardly, the motion sending a heavy ripple through his plush cheeks, and nearly went down again. Recovery was instantaneous and dramatic: staff raised high, voice climbing into a manic shriek of laughter mixed with irritation.

“Insolent shards! Skeletor will not be tripped by insects!” Green energy lashed out in a wide fan, more theatrical than efficient. Shards rained down. He struck another pose, one hand on a cocked hip, the harness straps digging into soft residual flesh, the enormous ass thrust out and swaying slightly from residual momentum. “Magnificent. Admit it. Skeletor’s superior intellect and raw power have already turned the tide. You should be grateful he even permits your presence.”

The chase continued deeper, corridors twisting, the sound of clicking heels and crystalline skittering filling the dark. Skeletor kept up a running monologue between blasts—half complaint about the “indignity” of working alongside the forces of good, half demand that his every successful hit be properly admired. Each time he landed a solid strike he paused, posed, and let the exaggerated sway of his hips settle, the heavy, yielding weight of his ass shifting with deliberate, shameless emphasis before he charged onward again.

The throne room of Snake Mountain echoed with the usual blend of dripping stone, distant screams, and the low mutter of underpaid henchmen. Skeletor stood at the center of the cracked dais, purple tatters of his robe clinging only to his upper torso, the rest of his lean skeletal frame left deliberately exposed. The exaggerated swell of his hips and the massive, plush curve of his ass shifted with every impatient step, the pale icy-blue flesh jostling heavily above the spiked high-heeled sandals that forced his posture into a permanent, shameless present. Each movement produced a sharp metallic click-click-click that cut through the chamber like a metronome of irritation.

“You!” he shrieked, pointing the Havoc Staff directly at you with a theatrical flourish. The empty sockets of his skull flared with brief green light. “Skeletor has summoned you to observe true leadership! Behold the discipline that keeps the forces of darkness in line! My current roster of underlings is soft. Soft! Insufficiently terrified! Today that ends!”

Beast Man arrived first, dragging what was supposed to be a sacrificial goat. The animal was nowhere in sight. He scratched the back of his neck and offered a sheepish, toothy grin. “Uh… Boss? The goat kinda… got away. Near the lava pits. I think it was the smart one.”

Skeletor’s jaw (already locked in a permanent grin) somehow managed to convey pure outrage. “YOU LOST THE GOAT?! Skeletor demanded a terrified goat! Not a free-range adventure! Incompetent fur-covered failure!”

Trap Jaw clanked in next, mechanical jaw whirring. He raised his weapon-arm in salute—only for the entire limb to detach at the shoulder joint with a sad little pssht of escaping steam and clatter to the floor. He stared at the empty socket. “Aw, not again—”

“TRAP JAW!” Skeletor’s voice hit a pitch that made the stalactites vibrate. “Your arm has abandoned you at the worst possible moment! Skeletor’s patience is a finite resource and you are burning through it like cheap torch oil!”

Mer-Man sloshed in last, dripping an impressive amount of seawater across the already damp floor. Seaweed clung to one shoulder. He adjusted his crown with damp dignity. “Apologies, Lord Skeletor. The tide was… inconvenient.”

Skeletor spun on his spiked heels, the heavy bounce of his ass underscoring the motion, and jabbed the staff at each of them in turn. “Silence! All of you! Formation! Now! Something intimidating! Something that will make the very stones of Castle Grayskull weep!”

What followed was less a display of martial discipline and more a series of increasingly absurd human (and non-human) pyramids, wedges, and “threatening circles.” Skeletor stalked around the group in tight, clicking orbits, heels striking stone with every step, robe flapping, ass swaying with exaggerated momentum. “Tighter! Look menacing! Beast Man, stop scratching! Trap Jaw, pick up your arm and point it at something! Mer-Man, the dripping is not helping the aesthetic!”

Every time the formation began to stabilize, Skeletor’s circling presence—complete with the relentless metallic click of his heels and the shameless jiggle of his lower half—threw off someone’s balance. Beast Man stepped on Trap Jaw’s detached arm. Mer-Man slipped in his own puddle. The entire wedge collapsed into a heap of fur, metal, and seaweed.

Skeletor’s scream of rage was pure classic cadence—high, nasal, and operatic. “SKELETOR WILL NOT BE UNDERMINED BY GRAVITY AND INCOMPETENCE! Again! This time with feeling!”

They tried. They failed. The third attempt ended with Mer-Man somehow tangled in Beast Man’s fur while Trap Jaw’s arm rolled mournfully toward the throne.

At last Skeletor planted the Havoc Staff with a decisive crack, struck a dramatic pose that did nothing to minimize the plush prominence of his hips, and declared in ringing tones:

“Enough! Behold the genius of Skeletor! Through chaos, order is forged! Through failure, true terror is born! This exercise has been a triumph of leadership! You—” he pointed the staff at you again, sockets flaring— “have witnessed greatness in action. Remember it. Fear it. Write it down if you must.”

Behind him, Beast Man, Trap Jaw (arm still on the floor), and Mer-Man exchanged the long, weary looks of minions who had seen this exact brand of victory many times before. Skeletor, naturally, noticed none of it. He was already monologuing about the next phase of world domination, heels clicking as he paced, the exaggerated sway of his lower body continuing uninterrupted.

The night wind swept across the outer battlements of Snake Mountain, cold and restless, tugging at the ragged edges of Skeletor’s purple hooded cloak. The fabric snapped and fluttered around his lean, skeletal upper frame, revealing the sharp lines of yellowed ribs and the pale icy-blue residual flesh that clung thinly to his torso. Lower down, the same wind stirred the soft, heavy padding of his hips and thighs, making the exaggerated curves shift and jiggle with each measured step. The contrast was stark: a body built for menace above the waist, and something far more shameless and yielding below.

His high-arched feet, locked permanently into those extreme spiked high-heeled sandals, forced every stride into a precise, almost regal cadence. Sharp metallic clicks rang out against the ancient stone with every placement of heel and toe, the additional spikes along the straps glinting faintly under the moonlight. The rigid posture the heels demanded kept his massive, plush ass elevated and presented—cheeks full, round, and soft, the residual flesh pale blue and faintly sheened, shifting heavily with the motion of his walk. The abbreviated dark leather harness that framed his lower body did little to conceal anything; it merely lifted and separated, ensuring the soft weight of him remained impossible to ignore.

He walked a short distance ahead at first, then slowed so that the space between you closed. The empty black sockets of his skull turned slightly, catching a cold reflection of the moon.

“You keep pace well,” he remarked, the high, nasal voice carrying that familiar theatrical lilt even in the quieter register. “Most lackeys either lag behind or trip over their own feet. You… do neither. Curious.”

He came to a halt at a broken section of the battlement wall where the stone had crumbled away, offering a sheer drop into the dark forests below. The wind was stronger here, pressing the tattered cloak against his back and making the soft flesh of his hips and thighs ripple. Skeletor rested one skeletal hand against the remaining stone, black nails scraping lightly, while the other remained loose at his side. The permanent rictus grin of his yellowed skull was unchanged, yet the way he stood—weight shifted slightly onto one hip, the exaggerated curve of his lower body thrown into silhouette—carried an almost deliberate stillness.

“Skeletor does not require companionship. Yet here you are. And here I am, tolerating it. Remarkable restraint on my part.”

The sockets regarded you for a long moment. Moonlight pooled in the hollows of his skull, and for an instant a faint, eerie light seemed to flicker deep within them before fading again. The wind tugged once more at his cloak, exposing more of the lean, rib-visible torso and the dramatic flare of those wide, soft hips. The harness straps bit lightly into the yielding flesh of his ass, leaving faint marks that the residual magic of his body would later erase if he allowed it.

He glanced away toward the dark expanse of forest, voice dropping lower, less projected.

“Do not read too deeply into this. The Lord of Destruction simply finds the silence less irritating when shared. Speak if you have something worth saying. Or walk beside me in blessed quiet. Either is… acceptable.”

A long pause followed. The only sounds were the wind through the stone crenellations and the occasional soft creak of leather as he shifted his weight. The heavy, plush cheeks of his ass settled and resettled with the movement, the soft flesh yielding easily, the entire lower half of him looking almost obscenely alive against the stark skeletal upper body. When he spoke again it was quieter still, the nasal edge softened by something that might have been reluctance.

“The night is less empty with you in it. That is all the sentiment you will extract. Treasure it.”

He did not look at you as he said it. Instead he remained at the break in the wall, cloak stirring, heels planted firmly on the cold stone, the exaggerated silhouette of his hips and ass held in that forced, elegant presentation the spiked sandals demanded. The invitation to continue walking—or simply to remain—hung unspoken between the two of you, carried on the same restless wind that moved through the tattered purple fabric and across the soft residual flesh he made no effort to hide.

In the torch-lit ritual chamber deep within Snake Mountain, dark stone walls swallowed the flickering light. Shadows stretched long across the floor. A low altar of black basalt dominated the center, already arrayed with an assortment of oversized magical implements—spiked, ridged, knotted, some still faintly glowing with residual sorcery.

Skeletor stood before it, lean skeletal torso framed by the tatters of his purple hooded robe. The garment clung only to his upper body, leaving the stark contrast of his lower half fully exposed: wide, soft hips flaring into an enormous, plush, icy-blue ass that jiggled with every shift of weight. A dark spiky leather harness framed and lifted the heavy cheeks without covering them, forcing a constant presenting posture. Extreme spiked high-heeled sandals locked his high-arched feet in place; every small movement produced a sharp metallic click.

He turned his bare yellowed skull toward the entrance, empty sockets flaring briefly with eerie light, permanent rictus grin fixed in theatrical invitation.

“Skeletor requires a worthy audience for this particular spell of… expansion.”

One skeletal hand selected a thick, heavily knotted implement from the altar. Residual magic bled from his palm, coating the toy until it glistened wetly. He turned, presenting the full exaggerated hourglass of his lower body. Soft residual flesh yielded as he reached back with sharp black nails, spreading one thick cheek.

With a dramatic flourish he sank back onto the knotted length. The tight rim resisted for a single theatrical heartbeat—then stretched greedily around the intrusion. A visible bulge of pale icy-blue flesh pushed outward as the knot forced its way deeper. Natural lubrication poured in messy rivulets, coating his thick thighs and dripping onto the altar stone.

He ground down hard. The massive cheeks spread and bounced heavily with every arrogant roll of his hips. The harness straps bit into soft flesh; the spiked heels clicked against the floor as he worked himself open wider.

“Behold how the Lord of Destruction conquers even this!” His voice began high and commanding, nasal and drawn-out in classic Skeletor cadence. Then it cracked. High gasps and wet, rhythmic sounds escaped as the toy disappeared deeper into elastic heat. He reached back again, nails digging into one plush cheek to pull it farther aside, deliberately displaying the dramatic stretch and the way the knotted shaft vanished into him.

Fluid continued to drip steadily. Strings of slick ran down his thighs. The gape was already forming, rim stretched wide and shiny.

“You see?” he panted between wet sounds and manic little laughs. “Skeletor takes what he wants—and what he wants is more. Closer. Look properly. Witness the mess the Master of Snake Mountain makes of himself.”

He bounced once, hard, sending another heavy jiggle through the oversized ass and another thick trickle of fluid onto the altar. The monologue continued, broken only by the wet drag of the toy and the sharp click of his heels as he shifted for a better angle.

The narrow corridor of Snake Mountain glowed with the unsteady orange light of wall-mounted torches. Shadows stretched and warped across the rough stone as the sharp, rhythmic click-click-click of extreme spiked heels echoed closer. Skeletor rounded the corner with theatrical suddenness, purple tatters of his hooded robe swirling around his lean, rib-visible torso. Empty sockets flared with cold light as he lunged forward, skeletal hands slamming against the wall on either side of you, caging you in place with a manic grin locked across his yellowed skull.

For a heartbeat he loomed—tall, imposing, the scent of dark magic and cool residual flesh clinging to him—before he pivoted with exaggerated flair. The ragged purple robe parted further, revealing the dark spiky leather harness that framed his lower body without truly covering it. Wide, soft hips flared dramatically from his skeletal waist. He arched his back, high-heeled sandals forcing his stance into a permanent, shameless presentation, and deliberately backed up until the enormous, plush curve of his ass pressed against you.

The residual soft tissue was cool and smooth, pale icy-blue flesh yielding heavily under the contact. His cheeks were massive—thick, round, and heavily padded—jiggling and spreading easily as he ground back with arrogant precision. The harness straps bit into the soft skin, lifting and framing everything so that nothing remained hidden. A faint sheen of natural slickness already coated the deep cleft; the tight rim flexed visibly as he shifted, pressing harder, the heavy cheeks parting around the pressure of your body.

He glanced back over one bony shoulder, tongue sliding across his teeth in a slow, deliberate lick, sockets glowing brighter.

“Skeletor has you exactly where he wants you—beneath his superior form!”

His voice was high, nasal, and dripping with theatrical triumph. He rolled his hips in a slow, deliberate circle, the cool, slick flesh of his ass dragging and yielding, the exaggerated bounce of those heavy cheeks impossible to ignore in the confined space. Every subtle shift made the spiked heels click against the stone. The harness creaked softly. His modest cock hung neglected against his lower belly, already half-hard and leaking a thin thread of cool pre-fluid, but his focus remained entirely on the shameless way he presented himself—backing up further, grinding, forcing those thick cheeks to spread and swallow more contact while he continued to monologue through a grin that never faltered.

“Behold the power of Skeletor… and the privilege of serving it.”

In the low, dramatic light of Skeletor’s private chambers, every surface gleamed with calculated intent. Mirrors lined the walls and angled from the ceiling, reflecting the skeletal sorcerer’s lower body from every shameless angle. The purple robe lay discarded. Only the dark spiky harness remained, straps biting into the soft icy-blue flesh of his wide hips and framing the massive, plush ass that dominated his silhouette. Extreme spiked heels locked his feet in a permanent arch, elevating and presenting him even as he stood.

He turned toward you with that permanent rictus grin, empty sockets flaring briefly with green light.

“You are privileged to witness Skeletor’s personal conquest of pleasure!”

He stepped closer, the metallic click of his heels sharp in the quiet. One skeletal hand pressed to your chest, guiding you back onto the low, padded platform he had prepared. The other hand wrapped around your cock, already thick, already slick with the cool, faintly glowing lubricant his magic had summoned. A muttered syllable and a flick of his wrist made it swell further—ridged, heavy, and magically enhanced to the exact size that would force him open and leave him gaping.

Skeletor turned, presenting that enormous, heavy ass. The cheeks were round and soft, residual flesh jiggling with the slightest shift. He reached back, spreading himself with sharp-nailed fingers, revealing the tight, glistening rim already slick and twitching. Then he sank down.

The head pressed against him. He exhaled a high, nasal sound that might have been a laugh or a moan, and lowered himself with arrogant confidence. Soft flesh yielded. The rim stretched wide around the thick shaft, pale-blue skin thinning and gleaming as it took more and more of you. His ass spread obscenely, cheeks parting under their own weight, the harness straps digging deeper into the yielding meat of his hips.

He bottomed out with a wet, heavy sound and a theatrical shudder.

“Behold—the Lord of Destruction takes what he desires!”

Then he began to ride.

He rose and dropped with deliberate force, grinding his hips in tight circles that made the thick ridges drag against every sensitive inch inside him. His massive ass bounced and rippled with every descent, soft flesh clapping against your hips, jiggling heavily when he slammed down hard. Natural lubrication poured from him in messy rivulets—cool, slick, faintly tinged with magic—soaking the harness, coating his thick thighs, dripping onto the platform in shining strings.

His modest cock hardened against his lean belly, leaking clear fluid in steady pulses, but he ignored it completely. One hand braced on your chest for balance; the other gripped his own hip, fingers sinking into the plush meat as he controlled the pace with ruthless precision. Deep strokes. Slow, grinding rolls that forced every ridge inside him. Sharp, hard bounces that made his ass ripple and his voice crack.

“You dare—fill the Master of Snake Mountain—!” The declaration broke into a drawn-out, nasal moan as a particularly deep thrust stretched him wider. His hole clenched and fluttered greedily around the thick shaft. “Skeletor… allows this… only because it amuses him—ah!”

The heavy stone doors of Skeletor’s private chambers ground open without warning.

Inside, the usual gloom of Snake Mountain was broken by a scatter of discarded purple fabric, open chests, and a chaotic trail of feminine garments strewn across the black marble floor. In the center of the room, caught mid-motion, stood Skeletor himself.

He had one long, skeletal leg hiked up onto a low ritual pedestal, struggling to smooth a sheer black stocking up over his thick thigh. The stocking was already halfway on, stretched obscenely tight over the plush curve of his hip and the heavy, pale-blue swell of his ass. A matching lace bra—far too small—was twisted around his lean, rib-visible torso, the cups barely covering anything and the straps digging into the sharp lines of his collarbones. Over the bra he still wore the tattered remains of his purple hooded robe, left open and hanging off one shoulder. His permanent rictus grin was frozen in place, empty sockets wide, as he froze with one hand still gripping the top of the stocking.

The spiked high-heeled sandals he always wore had been temporarily swapped for a pair of even more extreme, strappy black stilettos with delicate silver buckles. The new heels forced his already exaggerated lower half into an even more shameless presentation: wide hips cocked, massive round ass pushed out, cheeks soft and faintly glossy under the thin black lace of a half-forgotten garter belt that did nothing to contain them.

For one long, terrible second, silence ruled the chamber.

Then Skeletor’s head snapped toward the doorway. The black sockets flared with a brief, startled violet light.

“You—!” The word came out high and nasal, cracking halfway through. He yanked his leg down so fast the stocking tore with a soft, wet sound. One heel skidded on the polished floor. He grabbed wildly for the nearest scrap of his robe and yanked it closed over the bra, only for the thin fabric to slip immediately, leaving the lace and the smooth icy-blue skin of his chest still on full display. The motion only made his ass bounce heavily, the torn stocking sliding further down one thick thigh.

“This is not—Skeletor was not—!” He straightened to his full height, trying to reclaim some of the usual menace, but the effect was ruined by the way the garter straps dug into the soft flesh of his hips and the way one bra strap had slipped completely off his shoulder. His tongue flicked nervously across the yellowed teeth of his permanent grin.

“You dare barge into the private chambers of the Lord of Destruction while he is… conducting important magical research?!” His voice rose into a theatrical shriek, then dropped into a rushed, defensive hiss. “These garments are… artifacts. Cursed relics of a forgotten dimension. Highly dangerous. Unstable. Skeletor was testing their enchantments for weaknesses, nothing more!”

He took a sharp step forward—heel clicking loudly—and immediately regretted it. The motion made the half-on stocking slide further, and the heavy, plush cheeks of his ass shifted and jiggled under the open robe. A faint, cool sheen of natural slickness already glistened along the cleft, visible when he half-turned in an attempt to shield himself with the robe.

“Do not look at me like that,” he snapped, one skeletal hand rising as if to cast a spell, then dropping uselessly when he realized the other hand was still clutching the torn stocking. “Skeletor is not embarrassed. Embarrassment is for lesser beings. This is a tactical… wardrobe malfunction. A temporary setback. You will forget what you saw, or Skeletor will—”

His voice cracked again as the robe slipped once more, exposing the full, exaggerated curve of his lower body: wide soft hips, the thick thighs, and that massively oversized, round ass framed by the black lace and the straining garter straps. The hole between those heavy cheeks twitched faintly under the attention, already slick and slightly open from the earlier struggle with the stockings.

He drew himself up as best he could, spiked heels clicking, and pointed a sharp black nail at the doorway.

“Well? Are you just going to stand there staring, or are you going to help the most powerful sorcerer in the universe remove these… experimental restraints before they cause further complications?”

Create your own scenario.