Follow-on from:
The plight of the dwarven people continues
Secluded in the foundry in the dark of the night, Boriol Steelbeater gathered his compatriots, all those dwarves he knew he could trust. There were fewer than he liked. Too many of his brethren had already sold themselves out to human men, accepting peace in exchange for giving pleasure to the humans who harassed their businesses daily. Traitors to their own people, each and every one. Shameless degenerates. Betrayers of their ancestors. Those dwarves would be the first to be thrown in the furnaces when Boriol’s revolution came.
His skin crawled as he looked at the butchered, beardless faces of his dwarven brothers arrayed before him. Not a beard or a bulbous nose between them. Kegs of strong mead had been supplied in the hope alcohol might stoke the flames of revolution in them, yet the atmosphere was funeralial, a wake to their manhoods as they stood around awkwardly, unable to meet each other’s gaze.
The great fan that cooled the foundry during the day stood silent and still in this late hour. Boriol climbed up onto it, calling loudly out to them.
“Mr brothers! Look at what the humans have done to us!” he roared, unbuttoning his overalls and allowing the loose garment to fall around hideously deformed body - the pert, perky little breasts and a grotesquely waifish waist expanding to childbearing hips - as if any dwarf had even borne a child! The dwarven men recoiled in revulsion at the sight of his exposed genitals even though they themselves harbored such a shameful organ between their legs.
“Mutilated us! Butchered us!” Boriol roared. “And they still expect us to work for them to create weapons to kill our own brothers? No, that is not what shocks me. It is that our dwarven brothers do it. Have they no honour? Once we called the humans allies, now we grovel at their feet like pets.”
There was a chorus of angry agreement, though Boriol saw uncertainty on some of their faces. Many held out hope that, when the war was over, the emperor would empty out his vault and return to them the manhoods he’d ripped from them. To even be holding this meeting was treason punishable by death. Or worse…
“Better to die as men than live as women! Better to die fighting our oppressors than live as slaves! Soon, brothers, the day will come when we rise up and overthrow them. When our clans gather outside, we will take the walls and raise the gates from inside. We will destroy the humans from within. But we must be patient, brothers. In the meantime, we do everything we can to subvert the human war machine. We must stockpile weapons of our own. And we must never submit ourselves to men!”
Others took their turns to speak. The kegs were drained. A blood oath was sworn in the dwarven fashion that none there that night would ever speak a word of it, or else be forever cast out by the ancestors. One by one, the dwarves staggered away, and Boriol was alone to gather the tankards and scatter sawdust over the spilled mead.
A human figure slipped out from behind a furnace. The tankard clattered out of Boriol’s hands. “A-apprentice Hayden,” Boriol croaked. “You… you’re working late.”
“You too, boss.” Hayden grinned. His eyes drifted over Boriol’s nude form with the look of a cat with a mouse. He stepped forward and Boriol stumbled back, his plump rear backing into the workbench.
“A-anything for the war effort.”
“You sounded like a real patriot with that speech,” Hayden said sarcastically. “Although I don't see any tools here,” he laughed, glancing down at the emptiness between Boriol’s legs.
The apprentice was barely a man even by the standards of the fleeting humans. A month ago, when Boriol had been as stout as he was tall, he would have posed no threat. Now, Boriol trembled before him.
“You humans will get what’s coming to you,” he hissed defiantly, trying to hide the quaver in his voice.
The apprentice shrugged. “Perhaps. One day. That doesn’t help you or your little friends here and now, does it?” He still approached, standing so close, their bodies were almost touching, pinning Boriol against the workbench. “Show me why I shouldn’t repeat everything you said to the guards.”
Boriol shuddered. Is it still shameful if I submit for the lives of my brothers? Slowly, praying his ancestors weren’t looking down on this, Boriol stretched up on his tiptoes, pressing his mead-scented lips to the boy’s. Hayden responded eagerly, an engorged human cock grinding against Boriol’s crotch. The apprentice lifted his master onto the workbench, spreading the legs without resistance and driving inside him. Boriol’s low groan of horror sounded more like a moan of pleasure as the shaft filled and stretched out the walls of his tightly sculpted womanhood.
“Good girl. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” his apprentice gloated, as he began to thrust in and out of his master. “You dwarves learn your place eventually.” The young human fumbled with the ancient dwarf’s pert breasts, excitement and inexperience making him clumsy. “As for your little tea parties, you’re welcome to hold them. Invite all your girlfriends if it makes you feel better. It’s cute. The only uprising you’ll ever achieve is in the cocks of the men that look at you.”