Rotneedle and the Demon King in The Midriff Madness

Rotneedle!" Out in the bailey of the Obsidian Keep, the Demon King roars. “What is the meaning of this?!”

A goblin attendant scampers up in a little butler’s outfit. “Yes Sire?”

The Demon King points to a row of full-plate clad soldiers standing at attention. “What in Abaddon’s Ass happened to my Terror Knights?”

Forged from voidsteel, the armor of a Terror Knight is renowned for its jagged cruelty—much like its wearer. Razor-edged pauldrons flare at the shoulders, gauntlets taper to clawed fingertips, and the helm bears a crown of dark gleaming briar. And yet, in the case of the dark knights standing before their vexed dark lord, the cuirass of each—the very centerpiece—was curiously missing, and, where breastplate should have stood, guarding vital organs, there was instead the exposed milk white bellies of young, lithe women, with curtains of onxyite chainmail draped precariously over their full, bare breasts.

“Oh,” says Rotneedle. “New armor, Sire.”

“New armor?” The Demon King blinks. “What was wrong with the old armor?”

“Tactile considerations, Sire.”

“𝑇𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑒 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠?”

Rotneedle nods. “Too frightening. The enemy wouldn’t stop running away.”

“They’re supposed to run away!” The Demon King sputters. “They’re Terror Knights!”

“Yes, but the Knights complained it was exhausting to chase down and butcher the fleeing serf soldiers. There are so many, Sire.”

“That’s what the abyssal steeds are for!”

“Even so.”

“What porn-brained idiot came up with this design anyway?”

“The Terror Knights did, Sire.”

“What?”

“They train six days a week in the Hell-Pits. You can’t blame them for wanting to flaunt the fruits of their labor.”

“I can absolutely blame them! They’re supposed to be my Dread Company, my bloodsworn reapers of feeble mortal flesh, not a bunch of string bikini OnlyFans cosplay e-thots!”

“Sire, since the armor change, enemy casualty rates are up 500%.”

“500%?” The Demon King staggers. “How?”

Rotneedle shrugs. “They don’t run away.”

The Demon King squints. “What do you mean, they don’t run away?”

“Sire, your average serf soldier is a conscripted peasant. A pressman. The most beautiful woman he’s ever seen is probably some snaggle-toothed, boil-faced hag, fresh off her third round of leprosy and the clap.”

“My Plaguemancers have been working over time,” the Demon King mused.

Rotneedle gestures to the knights. “At the sight of these immaculate, silk soft bellies, most peasants drop to their knees and start gooning, right on the battlefield.”

“Diabolical.”

“As the Terror Knights march up to finish them off, the last thing they ever say is stuff like ‘Step on me’ and ‘Mommy, mommy, can I tongue your belly button?’”

“Eugh.” The Demon King recoils. “They don’t actually let them do that, right?”

“Oh no, Sire,” Rotneedle says. “They bash their brains in.”

“Satan’s Snatch.” The Demon King marvels. “Rotneedle, this is your most devious machination yet.”

The goblin bows. “Thank you, Sire.”

“I daresay, a promotion is in order. But there’s something I wonder.”

Rotneedle cants his head. “Yes Sire?”

The Demon King leans in and whispers. “Have the Terror Knights always been women?”

“Of course Sire. We found that only women have the capacity for cruelty to carry out your dark will.”

“Really?”

Rotneedle nods. “We keep giving them shitty boyfriends.”

“Ah, that makes sense. Even so, I still can’t believe their all women.”

“Only the baddest bitches for your legion Sire.”

“And all with the exact same triple D cup size.”

“Oh,” Rotneedle glances at the Knights. “I never really noticed.”

“Regardless.” The Demon King stands tall, raising his voice. “I shall ride with my Knights. Rotneedle, strip me of my cuirass!”

“S-sire?”

“If my Terror Knights ride bare breasted into battle, so shall I!”

“Right away, Sire!” Rotneedle scampers up. “The enemy will cower at your cum gutters!” Ω