>>Gentlemen, I love shortstacks.
Gentlemen, I… love shortstacks.
Gentlemen. I… SO LOVE SHORTSTACKS.

I love human shortstacks.
I love goblin girls.
I love imps.
I love gnomes.

I love dwarves.
I love halflings.
I love kobolds.
I love fae-folk barely reaching your chest.
I love beastkin no taller than your sternum.

In the taverns, in the alleys, in the bedchambers, in the market stalls, in the backrooms, in the forest camps, in the burrows, on the ship’s deck, on the warm grass, in the straw of the barn, in the softest moss beneath the moonlight.
I cherish each and every form these delicious little creatures can take in this world.

I love the way their eyes widen when they tilt their head back to meet your gaze, pupils shining with heat. My heart races when they stand on tiptoe, their soft curves pressing against you just to reach your lips.
I love the weight of thick hips in my lap, the way plush thighs squeeze when they straddle you, the warmth of their bellies pressed to yours. It sets my soul aflame when a goblin girl giggles in that sharp, mischievous way while grinding against you.
I love when a halfling lass pouts, hands on her hips, only for that pout to melt when you pull her close and feel her shiver. It moves me when I see a gnome woman blush so red she hides her face in her hands, peeking through her fingers like she’s peeking through barred gates at some forbidden feast.

I can barely contain myself when I imagine a dwarf lass leaning back in her chair, thick legs spread as if daring you to do something about it. And it is ecstasy when a kobold’s tail curls tight with need as she growls low in her throat, her breath hot enough to make your own stumble.
I remember vividly the scent of earth and smoke on a shortstack’s skin after a night by the campfire, the taste of mead on her lips, the heat of her breath when she whispers something filthy only you get to hear.