Unfinished Jobs
By Kaydrien Iceclaw

“You really don’t have to test this yourself, Your Nastiness.” Kamek pleaded. The blue-robed magikoopa would never outright contradict his boss, but he was tempted to put his foot down in this instance.
“Why not? I have complete faith in your design.” Bowser, the Koopa King, Scourge of Mushroom Kingdom, and all-around Bad Dude was excited about this one. You could tell by the way he showed his fangs. 
The magikoopa gulped from where he sat atop his trusty broomstick, surveying his grinning superior’s face as it emerged from the business end of the brand new Koopa Accelerated Deployment System 3000 (KADS for short). It was, really, pretty much just a massive cannon. 
Kamek really only ever intended the gizmo for quickly delivering expendable minions- that is, valued assets to wherever they were needed. But once King Bowser got wind of the thing he insisted on getting the first test flight. As an inventor, or at least supervisor of engineers, he had almost as much confidence in the design as his ruler did. Almost. He just hoped he wasn’t going to get lynched by his coworkers for splattering their beloved Lord of Wickedness over a mile of landscape.
“If you insist, oh King of Gnarly.” Bowing to the inevitable, he moved on to proper procedure. “Please remember to tuck and roll when you reach the target zone.”
“Tuck and roll it is. Let’s do this!” The king snapped his safety helmet onto his horned head with a meaty thunk before settling back into the barrel of his new toy. He had high hopes for the KADS 3000. High hopes that involved the lovely Princess Peach, and the doom of a red-shirted Italian plumber.
“Yes, sir sinisterness.” Kamek agreed unhappily. He puttered around to the rear end of the machine where a helpful goomba held the oversized matchstick. Someday he was going to devote a few months to working out how a mushroom with legs held anything, but that could wait. “Begin the deployment procedure!”
“Aye-aye.” The goomba saluted with the red-tipped stick. It struck the match against the grey stone of the castle floor, and lit the fuse. “Deployment in 5… 4… 3… 2…”
“Woooo!” The enormous bang sent the large green-shelled tyrant sailing into the vast, labyrinthine, quite-possibly-non-euclidian grounds of his castle, whooping enthusiastically. Kamek breathed a sigh of relief; whether or not the Boss of Bad News landed in one piece, he’d at least left the barrel that way.
“Right. I’m off to the target zone then to check the calibrations. You’re on break.” He told the squat brown firing technician, who saluted again (without hands) before running off to do whatever it was goombas do when they aren’t firing comically oversized cannons or being stomped by plumbers.
The magikoopa swooped off through the corridors toward the area where Bowser would hopefully be landing. Only when he got to the largest single platform in the castle, crudely-painted bullseye bedecking its center and no King Koopa in sight, did he wonder if he’d remembered to adjust the propellant charge from the original twelve koopa troopa’s worth after his boss forced the change in plans.
***
“I’m telling you, man, jelly shrooms are the best.” Green Koopa #623, the Gster (‘jee-ster’) to his friends, insisted.
“And I’m telling you, jelly on mushrooms is just plain wrong.” Retorted Red Koopa #427, who preferred to be called Crimson Carnage but everyone actually referred to as Crash (in reference to a number of incidents he wished they would stop bringing up). “It’s jelly. They’re mushrooms. How is this not obvious?”
Goomba #1248, who was nicknamed ‘Double’ for reasons that he wished anyone would explain to him, waddled along on his stubby brown legs. He was beginning to get very tired of this discussion, which had been raging between the other members of patrol #103A for at least ten minutes. “Guys? Can you slow down? And maybe talk about something else? Anything else?”
“What, is something wrong?” Gster asked, turning around to walk backward ahead of the other two and meet Double’s gaze. Someone who didn’t spend all their time in Bowser’s castle might have been nervous to do this on a handrail-free bridge over molten lava, but folks can get used to anything.
“Just that your legs are almost as long as I am, and you’ve had this conversation three times in the last week.” The goomba puffed between steps. “Can you at least find a different topic for a while?”
“Like…” Crash scratched at his yellow head thoughtfully, and pointed past his green-shelled counterpart with his other hand. “Who or what that is in the wall over there?”
He nearly ran into the Gster, who’d stopped abruptly and spun around to find out what the heck his friend was talking about. Embedded in the wall was a rather large individual, of which only the back half was visible to patrol #103A. Yellow-scaled legs and tail waved helplessly in the air. The underbelly of their owner was pressed up against the rock floor of the platform, at the end of a long skidmark scraped into the stone by tough stomach-scales on entry. A spiked green shell topped the whole, wedged into the form-fitting hole in the wall which blocked any view of the trapped individual’s upper half.
Since investigating anything unusual was, technically, part of the patrol’s job, the three minions jogged over to the larger creature.
On the other side of the wall, the front side of King Bowser was nursing a headache. The koopa overlord had a pretty thick skull, but even so he was feeling the recent impact. He shook off the fragments of the safety helmet (the helmet had been in the unfortunate position of being between Bowser’s rocklike head and the actual rock of the castle wall, and had not survived the experience) at about the same time the patrol caught sight of his other end. “Ugh. My landing needs work.”
A tentative prod against one of his feet startled him into banging a knee against the stone floor. “Ow!”
“Sorry about that dude. You okay?” Crash’s voice sailed distantly over the top of the wall more than it penetrated through. It was still comprehensible enough despite the detour.
“Yeah.” Bowser pushed against the wall ringing his middle experimentally. Caught on his spikes and general bulk he didn’t manage to budge an inch. That was probably just as well, since on this side of the wall there was nothing under him except a long drop into one of the castle’s lava moats. Even better, there were no witnesses on this side to ask if he’d noticed that before or after the attempt. 
Eh. He’d survived worse.
“I’m just a little stuck.” The big koopa raised his voice to carry to whoever had just poked at his foot.
“Hold on a minute.” Bowser felt two pairs of hands close around his ankles and pull. About three attempts moved him no more than the give of the connective tissue and muscle between his midsection and legs allowed, and after that the anonymous hands of patrol #103A released to let their owners take stock of the situation. “You’re stuck pretty good there.”
“I don’t know if the wall would stay up if we got him out.” Another voice, this one belonging to the Gster, added after a moment’s thought. “We need to call a work crew.”
“You do that then.” Bowser shouted back. “On the double. I got things to do.”
“Wait, wait. Remember patrol handbook chapter two, section one?” This was a third voice. Addressed to the other two, Bowser had to strain his ears to catch it all. “We gotta say the thing. We were supposed to say the thing before anything else.”
“Oh, right.” Voice #1 (Crash) replied. Then it raised higher to call back to the trapped monarch. “Who goes there?”
“…What?” 
“I said, ‘Who goes there?’” Louder this time, to make sure he heard.
“I’m Bowser you morons!” The king yelled back, voice tinged with annoyance. “Get that work crew immediately!”
“Holy cow! Crash, you’re the fastest, go get help.” Voice #2 this time, and thinking quickly enough that Bowser decided he might just promote him. Or at least not drop him into the lava with the other two idiots.
“Don’t be gullible, G.” Crash insisted, just audible to the ticked-off-tyrant. “Since when does the king come all the way out to our corner of the castle? Or hang out in walls?”
“It’s me you worthless cretins! Get me out of here!” Bowser roared. Definitely the lava for these guys.
“He does look kinda like King Bowser. What I can see, I mean.” At least one of the voices, ‘G’, wasn’t blind. Bowser took pride in his craggy handsomeness. It damn well ought to be recognizable even from the waist down.
“I gotta side with Crash on this one.” The one who knew the regs objected. “It’s wayyyy more likely to be a lookalike. Besides, I don’t think Bowser is carrying that much flab.”
***
On the minion’s side of the wall, Gster alternated between looking at the renewed struggles of the large rear end and the certainty of the goomba’s expression at waist height. They were all collectively ignoring the outpouring of audible rage spilling over the wall. “I dunno, Double. Is there anyone who looks that much like the King?”
“Sure there is. Cosplayers everywhere these days.” The goomba assured him sagely. “You should see Rocky- you know, from barracks C?- in his getup. It’s totally surreal how much he looks like Princess Peach.”
“Uh…” Gster was a little skeptical about just how much an anemic blooper could possibly look like the ruler of Mushroom Kingdom, but decided he trusted Double’s judgement. “If you say so, I guess.”
“I say so.” The brown mushroom-esque minion nodded.
“If you guys are finished settling the blindingly obvious-“ Crash started from where he was standing, closer to the trapped bulk of the obvious impostor, waiting until both patrol-mates were looking back at him to go on. “-We’ve got an intruder to deal with.”
“I still think we need a work crew to get him out, anyway.” Gster insisted. “He’s really wedged.”
“Sure, whatever.” His red-tinted teammate waved that off. “We still gotta punish him for trespassing.”
“That’s in the handbook.” Double agreed helpfully. “Page 72. And we gotta punish him for impersonating the king.”
“That’s in the manual?”
“No, but it makes sense right?” The goomba shot back at their reluctant third patrolminion with a reasoning that probably would have met with Bowser’s approval under other circumstances, and if he could have heard it over his own shouting. “We can’t have guys running around pretending to be the king.”
“I guess that’s true.” Gster scratched at his scaly head thoughtfully. “…And for wrecking the wall too, I suppose. Okay, you got me”
“Anyway-” Crash broke the word into two annoyed syllables, glad to finally be done with that segue so he could get to what he really wanted to say. “I’ve got the perfect idea.”
He risked stepping closer to the stuck sovereign’s back end, and indicated it dramatically. Now that Bowser had stopped thrashing his legs to put more effort into his verbal tirade, he could do that without getting punted off the platform. With this backdrop, he made his pitch: “Wouldn’t you say we’ve got pretty good access here?”
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.” Gster rubbed at the bridge of his beak disbelievingly. “For starters, he’s a dude.”
“For starters,” Crash echoed mockingly. “If that’s anyone’s line, it’s mine. Maybe Double’s. Or was the thing with Terry in E barracks a fluke?”
“How do you know about…” The outed koopa turned pale, then bright red where his shell didn’t cover.
“Terry told everyone. For weeks. You must be pretty impressive, you know.”
“I thought he was a chick!” Gster wailed mournfully. “He’s always painting his shell pink, for crying out loud! I only found out when- when-”
“Going by his side of the story that didn’t stop you.” Crash smirked, turning back to survey the handily accessible backside. It was thicc, that was for sure. A wide expanse of yellow scales under the (comparatively) short tapered tail, studded with one star of clenched anus, and under that the pair of hefty scaled balls and thick soft cock that were the object of his friend’s whining. No butt-cheeks per se as a matter of body structure, but to a koopa the sight of the bare flesh between shells was considered incredibly sexy. Bowser had a lot of bare flesh down there, no anterior shell to cut off any of the view, and unlike his standard minions some juicy exterior fun bits to ogle. “Hey, I ain’t gonna make you do anything. But I’m going to.”
“Not to butt in here.” Their fungoid third member chimed in. “But I don’t work like you guys. Do I-“
“I know, Double. We all know what freaky stuff you’re into. You’ll get a turn.” The red-shelled koopa said reassuringly before turning his attention back to Gster. “Live a little, dude. When was the last time you got laid?”
“Well…” Gster couldn’t answer off the top of his head. He had a worried suspicion that the last time had been Terry. 
Fortunately for him, Crash didn’t seem to want a real answer. The brash koopa just turned and shoved his beak against the booty handily available to him.
***
Bowser was furious. Flab?!? He was all muscle. The koopa king sprayed his rage and frustration at not being able to reach the cheeky underling who apparently couldn’t tell good looks from a hole in the ground. His tantrum was so loud and enthusiastic that he missed the rest of the conversation, and his first warning about Crash’s plans for him was when the lusty koopa’s beak pressed under his tail for a long sniff.
“What the fuzz?” It only barely stood out of the tide of anger that preceded it by virtue of added confusion. “What do you think you’re doing yo-OOOUCH!”
“Think you can get away with impersonation, huh?” The king felt the breath of that raised voice against balls that had been given a firm smack. They were probably as nigh-indestructible as the rest of his body, but sensitive was still sensitive. “We’re going to teach you a lesson, ‘Bowser’.”
He tried to kick out at the mouthy pipsqueak manhandling him. “I’m going to rip you apart wretched-“
This time his cry was a little higher pitched as whoever was back there, ‘Crash’ or whatever the heck his name was, squeezed Bowsers left nut hard enough to scrape up his shell-clad spine. 
“Mouthy fakes don’t get to talk, and they don’t get to kick.” He could hear the smug smirk, wished the koopa troopa- it sounded like a koopa, with the way they neatly clipped off the ends of their ‘k’s with those beaks- would choke on his smugness. The hard beak he’d suspected nibbled against his sack where it met his perineum as if to emphasize just who was in control. “Be a good boy for us and this will be a lot more pleasant.”
Either Bowser’s rough-edged wheeze of all-consuming fury didn’t count as talking or it wasn’t quite loud enough to make it over the wall, for he got only a much lighter and more comfortable squeeze to his other nut for symmetry’s sake. 
Stuck impotently hating the troopa behind him, Bowser could only try not to move as he felt the hot breath against his rear exit. He did twitch once when something warm and wet dragged over his pucker, and a moment later pushed in. What the huff is that guy doing?
***
Crash was getting acquainted with the ass he intended to fuck. He started by nosing around the musty-smelling scales that textured most of the ‘fake’ Bowser’s back end, getting smaller toward that hole and disappearing entirely into wrinkled skin at the anus itself. It was pretty clean back here, all things considered, and he had to wonder if that was because of easier access for cleaning (what with the different shell and all) or because this intruder came hoping for some action. 
The red koopa didn’t consider himself gay, but mostly because he just never cared enough to put a label to his changeable tastes. He only teased Gster because he knew it would get his friend’s gulpit to bring up the assignation with Terry. 
Crash had his fair share of fuckbuddies and knew enough to form opinions about the different merits and quirks that could attach to the nether regions of others. This butt wasn’t as yeasty as he liked, but it would do. Virgin to boot, or he’d eat his shell. Before long he couldn’t resist the urge to taste it too.
“Gross.” Gster commented, sounding uncertain. He had one and a half eyes covered, as if he couldn’t decide whether to watch or not. His blush had died down a little after the mention of past escapades, but stabilized halfway from the show.
“Just let him do his thing.” Double chided. If the goomba had any hands, Gster didn’t think they’d be blocking anything. A look down at the fungoid minion revealed that his eyes were fixed on their other patrol member with fierce intensity.
“…You’re pretty into this, aren’t you?” He sounded as if this was a revelation to him.
“Sorta. Not as much as he is.”
Double was obviously right about that. Crash had moved on from just licking at the outside to drilling his tongue into the ass in front of him, eyes closed to better appreciate the taste. He obviously didn’t think it was gross, pulling back out once to lick over the outside as a palate cleanser before drilling back inside the pucker.
“I can see that.” It was a little mesmerizing. Maybe it was just how long Gster had gone without any sort of intimate companionship, and longer without any sort of (non-counterfeit) female companionship. Something from a little bit earlier bobbed to the surface of his mind and he grasped at it as a distraction. “So… What ‘freaky stuff’ are you into?”
“You don’t know?” The goomba was surprised enough to look away from the rimming for an instant to make eye contact with his friend. “I thought everyone did by now.”
“No. Should I?” Gster asked hesitantly. “I mean, it’s no big deal if you don’t want to say.”
“Nah. Just figured you’d have heard by now. Some of the guys love to rag me about it, but I don’t really care you know?” All of Double’s attention was back on the increasingly steamy scene at the wall. “You’ll see in a minute if you stick around.”
Not really listening to the back and forth behind him, Crash was still busy. He was making some rather disgusting noises in the course of deliberately forcing some spit into the butt he was lavishing with attention, the better to lubricate it. 
Sometime during the session he’d gotten hard, the oddly shaped turtle penis (smooth veiny shaft in a mottled purple, with a wider trowel-meets-chanterelle-mushroom shaped head making up nearly half of the length) everting from his cloaca. He was handling it mindlessly while he continued to work on Bowser’s rear, squeezing the sensitive head before grinding its concavity over one of the imposter’s generous balls. 
All the more evidence this was just a fake, he figured. Bowser was supposed to be king of the koopas,  and this poser was built like some mammal, not that there was anything wrong with that, not at all. He could cup part of an orb in his tip this way. So hot.
That wasn’t what he had in mind though. He wanted to get into this rear, and damn if he hadn’t slicked it up enough by now, so he pulled both tongue and cock away from their points of contact. Both trailed a string of stickiness back to the guy stuck in the wall while Crash hauled himself up by a couple of the shell-spikes so he could line himself up. One foot accidentally struck the side of that plump ballsack, not hard, but enough to make the scaly scrotum wobble enticingly and the impostor try to kick out once more.
“My bad, that one’s an accident.” The koopa called up over the wall. “Try to relax, bud. I’m sure you’ll enjoy this.”
***
Bowser was just inexperienced enough that it took him most of the time Crash spent working his backside to realize quite what was going on. Confusion and disgusted curiosity had to overwhelm blind rage first, and he still didn’t really believe it even after that.
As a Wicked Ruler (not to be confused with some punk emo Dark Lord), he enjoyed a good round of ass-kissing once in a while. Having someone literally kissing, licking, and fondling his ass with a gusto was totally different.  At his most inventive he might possibly have thought to order something like this as a punishment and delegated the receiving end of things to some underling with poor hygiene. If he had, that clearly wouldn’t have worked on this guy.
This guy, who literally had Bowser by the nuts. The King of Koopa was going to have to end him for that. But the weirdest thing was, he couldn’t make up his mind if the tongue-work would have warranted the same sentence. He wasn’t a huge thinker, so this one could take a while. Unlike the finer details of the latest Mushroom Kingdom invasion plan he didn’t feel it would be dignified to delegate the question.
As an alternative to thinking about it while it was still happening, he started counting stones in the wall, losing track every time the weirdo back at his other end changed his approach. The most startling of which was when the koopa started shoving mouthfuls of spit inward, totally gross. That took the number one spot from the first moment the tongue pushed inside, and handily put the subsequent soft press of whatever-the-heck that was on his left nut in third.
Bowser reached ninety four stones on his last count right before the molesting minion pulled away, and sighed. Great, the weirdo is done. I can get out and barbecue this goon soon en-
The comforting thought got bisected by the new flash of pain when a medium-hard kick to the family jewels made him gasp a fireball out into the empty space.
“My bad, that one’s an accident.” It felt like the jerk (a trait Bowser was reevaluating as desirable in an underling, evil or no) was trying to climb up his tail. May the jolly-sounding freak put out an eye on a spike. “Try to relax, bud. I’m sure you’ll enjoy this.”
Something new, not a tongue this time, prodded at Bowser’s spit-drenched tailstar, a flat mushy point pressing in. A frustrated growl/groan got caught in his teeth, clenched tight to prevent him saying anything his balls would regret. He had a suspicion what that was, except… What is up with that shape?
***
Crash moaned happily. This counterfeit Bowser’s ass was fantastic. Loose enough to be letting him in after some thorough tongue-fucking, tight enough to be squeezing in the edges of his turtle-dick’s wide head. He took his time getting that in, pushing a bit to savor the how it compressed his fleshy edges, pulling back a bit so the folds caught on the stretched pucker in repeating waves back out. If it weren’t for the old reproductive instincts insisting he get all the way into this wet hole he could do this all day.
He held out admirably though, teasing himself for at least three minutes before he couldn’t stand the tension anymore. The koopa pulled himself in by the spikes of the caught intruder against the weight of the thick tail pressing against his chest. He shuddered with the sparks of pleasure the struggling sphincter touched off by squeezing unbearably around his sides at their widest, forcing the flesh to bend for entry.
“Fuck that’s good.” Crash was enjoying himself too much to play at being upset at the haphazardly restrained noises of confusion and growls of discomfort from the other side of the wall. He had his cockhead in, and that totally changed the nature of the sensations. The soft walls of the impostor’s innards caressed the folds and edges of his oddly-shaped and quite sensitive phallus, he could feel some of the blood vessels in those inner walls and all of the contours, plus the clenching ring around his shaft proper pulling up against the back of the head.
The koopa settled his feet against the spread thighs of his unwilling lover for more leverage against the inflexible tail pressing into his chest-plate, breathing hard staccato with the way it moved the rear and erection against each other. Thus readied he made the first real thrust with all four of his limbs.
The Gster had given up his pretext of not watching his blissed-out comrade get it on with the Bowser lookalike. Two guys or not it was a steamy sight, easily enough to make him feel the tightness building in his own lower shell. He almost popped out entirely when, a few thrusts in, Crash made a throaty rapturous grunt.
“Jellyfish on a stick, this slut’s clenching on me.” Crash sighed. Without breaking his rhythm he let go of one spike to slap the side of the trapped trespasser’s hip. “Hey, you like that ‘Bowser’? Like me railing your fake ass?”
Gster couldn’t decide if the growl climbing over the wall was fuelled by wrath or lust. Crash evidently favored the latter, humping roughly into the ass with an exhultant whoop.
“Crash? Crash, buddy? Can I start now?” Double had been almost forgotten by his green-shelled teammate with the libidinous scene taking place in front of them, and likewise by the red-shelled koopa buried in one of the best tailholes he’d ever had the pleasure of breaking in. That was totally fair since Double had forgotten about Gster, too. 
“Dude. I’m a. Little. Busy.” The answer was broken up by grunts of concentration and effort with each humping motion, almost all of the backstroke provided by the weight of the yellow tail. Gster was almost sure he could see the thick cock of the trapped male starting to swell up, maybe even pulsing a bit larger each time Crash bottomed out. Maybe the fake really was enjoying this.
“I’m going to spore, Crash. They’re so hot.” The goomba’s voice was wheedling, pleading for advance permission to do… something. Edges of his cap visibly trembling, the guy looked wracked with need. “I’m gonna spore all over the paving without ever getting a chance to do anything. Don’t do that to me Crash.”
“Fine. Just.” Crash paused his desperate humping to adjust his footing; he’d nearly come out on that last one. “Pick whichever is downwind, Dubs. I got fucking allergies.”
“Language.” Gster reminded automatically. He probably would have said that earlier if the primal sex weren’t taking up all his attention. He also needn’t have bothered, since neither of the other two patrolminions acknowledged it.
“Awwww yeah.” Double kicked up dust with the speed he made his waddling run over toward the pair. The last uninvolved teammate might have predicted the goomba to make for the no-longer-floppy penis of their victim (‘victim’?), or maybe the voluminous balls above. He’d said ‘they’, right? But no.
Double made a dead sprint toward one of the feet Bowser was no longer trying to kick with, and skidded to a stop. Tentatively, as if expecting it to vanish, he extended his tongue to make one delicate lick of the insole.
Gster remembered something about the goomba corps. From the yelling of a mushroomy brown drill-sergeant during training and the callback. ‘What’s our mission, sol-jers!’ ‘March directly into the boots of the enemy, sir!’
“…I guess that explains the ‘freaky’.” No wonder Double got teased about it.
***
Bowser was trying to cope with the weird sensations emanating from under his tail. The tongue thing, with this koopa for all intents and purposes making out with his ass, had squicked out His Nastiness royally, in a sorta okay tolerable sort of way. He could maybe have seen getting used to that, or something, if he totally lost his mind and felt the need to try.
Now some random troopa was, if he hadn’t missed his guess, having sex with his butt. Not totally ignorant of sex in general, Bowser just didn’t really care enough about it to know a lot of the intricacies. World domination, revenge on plumbers in general and Italian ones in specific, and one particular pretty princess were much more interesting. Bowser Jr’s hatching was the result of a barrel of celebratory mushroom tea (During one of the early and extremely temporary princessnappings), a weekend nobody could quite remember (not quite true, but the few who could declined to make that information available; only meeting secretly with each other once a month to commiserate and mumble ‘the slippers, the slippers’ while rocking hollow-eyed on the floor), and who knew what mother (which, when your species lays eggs a day or two after the event, can and occasionally does remain unknown). 
As a result, while Bowser was a loving if unconventional father, he was also arguably a virgin and rather fuzzy on most of the more exotic ways two or more creatures could entertain each other. He could have learned a thing or two from the magazines Junior kept hidden in odd corners of his bedroom.
The first step, the wedging of whatever the heck that koopa was packing into his spit-drenched rear end, was quite strange enough. Something going into that hole rather than out of was freaky as heck, especially the way the guy (probably a guy, Bowser figured from his limited experience) kept moving it around, going in only to pull back. 
The organ sort of rippled free of the opening on the way out. The flat shape pressed hard to both sides as it compressed its way in. Taken together, it wasn’t at all like, well, anything else back there.
And the thing was, other than a little burn whenever this dead-koopa-walking went further than before and stretched him out, it wasn’t uncomfortable. Hurt maybe, like a good workout hurts just outside comfort. Or possibly he had that backwards and it was uncomfortable but didn’t hurt. Either or, the way even that wasn’t quite bad was freakiest of all.
“It’s just that I’m fuzzing bored, so anything’s got to be interesting.” Bowser mumbled to himself, hopefully too low to carry and buy him another kick to the delicates. “I’ve been here for at least… Who cares.”
Probably about twenty minutes, including the inane discussion between the morons who were soon to be fired in more ways than one. Regardless, there was nothing interesting to see except the lazy bubbling of the lava down below and the unmoving gray stone. So of course his logic was infallible.
Maybe Peach had something with the nice paint on plaster, flower gardens, all that. Totally indefensible, but maybe it could count as a fortification against boredom.
Not a deep thinker, but a fairly talented multitasker, Bowser mused over all this while also speculating on the exact shape of the organ in his rear and taking in every iota of sensation it induced. The presses were getting deeper, and along with that gave an increase in the pressure on his ring where the edges pressed against it. Just when he was getting to think that this could be tolerable for however long the pipsqueak managed to last, and simultaneous with his formulating a fairly accurate mental picture of the first third of Crash’s cock, that pressure increased drastically.
Still concerned by the threat to his more tender regions Bowser managed to keep his audible response to this spike of actual real pain as his sphincter was briefly pulled too-wide open nonverbal and down to a literal dull roar. 
“Fuck that’s good.” Crash’s vaguely complimentary statement, barely audible but comprehensible nonetheless, didn’t go any better (or rather, any differently) with injury than an insult would have. At least not to Bowser’s enraged ears.
“Enjoy it while you can, twerp.” The king muttered under his breath. He would definitely be killing this cactuar-cuddling cretin for that, after shoving a bar of soap into the moronic beak. Didn’t these guys even read the chapter on decorum in the minion’s handbook? Only he had rights to the good curse words, and he was saving them for a real emergency.
That was only a means of distracting himself from the mass in his rear exit though, until he could get free and do it. Once past the constricting entrance the meaty petal/shovel/whatever shape unfurled flat again, and he could tell it was angled downward compared to the shaft it was on. As a result the edges were being hugged all the way around by his gut, even as his anus closed back around the more comfortable width of the narrower shaft it was mounted on.
It rammed in further while he was still getting used to the shape, then out, the base of the spread pulling against his entrance. Just like everything else about this so far that was a bizarre sensation, but he tried to hold that wide part in just so it couldn’t stretch his entrance unpleasantly once more. The koopa troopa didn’t fight to pull it back out though, only plunging back in once more. Now that he was over the first shock he could feel how the wide head forced everything around it to move when it did.
That and the very tip just nudged… something. Bowser wasn’t sure what, and he didn’t know how to classify the sensation either.
Reaching around mentally for any possible ideas for getting out of this humiliating predicament, the king koopa was coming up short of things that he could actually do, at all. Like any self-respecting tyrant his first option was to call on his minions for help. Only three of those were available, and they were the problem. Fire- his fire breath was also aimed the wrong way, along with his rakishly handsome good looks, not that the plebeians could have appreciated them. 
Raw muscle seemed to be the only thing left, and that too was limited. Jaws and hands, also wrong side. Abs sexy as ever, but wedged up to the stone too hard to do anything. Legs couldn’t reach at this angle, and would just buy his jewels more abuse. Tail… Don’t talk to Bowser about his tail. The chump under it was using it to help his backstroke.
Under it though…. Hmm. Bowser was the baddest of the bad dudes, if anyone could manage it, he could.
So he embarked on the absolutely brilliant gambit of trying to crush Crash’s koopahood to a pulp with his tailstar.
“Jellyfish on a stick this slut’s clenching on me. Like that ‘Bowser’? Like me railing your fake ass?” Bowser heard that. Between that and the slap to the king’s rear, Crash the koopa troopa of patrol #103A, came within a molecule’s width of being the first individual in the history of the Mushroom Kingdom and environs to die from the sheer weight of anger directed at him.
The molecule’s width of saving grace was located right in the backside he was enthusiastically plowing, where the king’s experimental clench brought the koopa’s funky wedding tackle into slightly harder contact with that one spot, and drove Bowser over the edge into classifying that feeling as pleasure.
He did like it. And this ‘Crash’ could live for just a little bit longer if he kept on providing. The king kept up the clenches on beat, right along with the continued thrusting as the turtle-cock swabbed his insides thoroughly. He focused on that to the exclusion of the swelling at his groin (incidental) and low conversation of the minions (irrelevant).
That meant that when the goomba tongue reached his sole, it came without any warning at all.
***
“Mmmm.” Double, now that he was up close and personal with the clawed yellow stompers, was as much in paradise as Crash. He tasted the insole greedily, taking in the dust and reptile taste that he liked so much. Most people, koopas, shy guys, you name it, wore shoes and that was a distinct flavor all its own. The sweat and dirty sock blended for an excellent bouquet, and one the fungoid foot-fetishist knew pretty well. 
Someone who went barefoot was different. A subtler taste. Part the foot, part where it had been, a mingling that only a connoisseur could appreciate. Double was a connoisseur. Butts were fine, balls were fine, dicks and pussies were okay. Breasts- as a mobile mushroom he didn’t get those, but whatever floated mammalian boats.
These were great. He traced around the inside of the arch, and he could feel the owner’s concentrated rhythmic motions in the tensing and untensing of the muscles. It got his gills trembling. No way was he going to last, especially with the show from earlier; Unlike the Gster, he’d been watching toes curl and uncurl meditatively as the impostor was trying to wait out Crash’s attentions, probably totally unaware of the motion let alone what it was doing to his audience.
Even better, he thought the interloper was pressing that glorious foot toward him for more. Imaginary or not he took full advantage, swirling his way down to where the ball of the foot would be on a differently-constructed model, and kissed each of the toes one by one.
Then, at the last moment of his endurance and with Crash yelling his own orgasm to the sky a few feet away, Double gave the middle toe one hard suck and spored.
***
The part of Bowser not preoccupied with the cock in his tailpipe had a moment of déjà vu. Much like with an underling kissing his ass, he enjoyed a much less literal groveling at the feet. And once again, here was someone doing more than groveling. Here was a minion so subservient that they would make out with the very feet he walked on.
Maybe it was just the spillover from the things happening in his lower half, but unlike the rimjob he decided he liked this immediately. His ego approved it, and it was pretty soothing.
Most of his attention remained on Crash’s humping, however. Bowser had gone from deciding to kill the koopa for raping his tailhole, to thinking about killing him for not doing it hard enough. The irregular head was scrubbing at that one wonderful spot every time he clenched along with the thrust, which wasn’t always because he’d never thought to exercise that part of his body to the finely-tuned brute force of the rest of him and it was hard to concentrate under the barrage of sensation.
Nontheless, he felt himself getting closer and closer to some peak, one he really wanted to climb and roll all the way down it again. Between his rear and his foot and a tiny part of his brain that was quietly getting off on the helplessness against his underlings’ ministrations, it wouldn’t be too long now.
He didn’t get there.
“Holy fucking hell!” That was his no-longer-rapist shrieking at the sky. Bowser felt the hot goo pouring out of the weird shape in his back passage, filling it up with the virile slime. The warmth of it washed over that same one spot which he had been enjoying getting battered.
And it was good… Except for how, now that the rough assfucking had abruptly ended, Bowser felt himself start to slide back down the slope.
***
The roar Crash heard from the other side of the wall as he pulled out of the loosened butt with a literal pop was almost as satisfying as his climax. He knew darn well that was the sound of a total bottom bemoaning the end of a rough pounding.
He let himself fall back to the stones, smugness dripping from the edges of his beak. When he impacted the ground though, the red-shelled koopa lost his footing immediately as his shoe slipped across the damp, slippery yellow powder that coated the stone next to the hard cock of his catch where it drooled its own fall hazard at the tip. Crash landed partly on that hard maleness and partly on one of the impostor’s legs, weight of his shell pressing out another spurt of the precum that had been oozing steadily out.
“Holy fucking hell.” Crash repeated, surveying the wide blast radius of spore-covering around where Double was still nursing one of Bowser’s clawed toes. “How the hell long has it been since your last time, man?”
“Mmm. Thoo lomg.” Double mumbled around the toe crammed in his maw, eyes heavy-lidded in the wake of recent release. “Wath fnkn amashing.”
“Uh, yeah, I can see that.” The reckless red covered his nostrils as he scrambled back to his feet and away from the dirtied cobbles. “I’m going to need a whole box of tissues. For my nose.”
“Thorry.” The goomba’s voice was completely lacking any hint of repentance. Crash accepted that as good enough and turned to regard their third companion.
“Oh good you’re still here. I thought you might cheat yourself of a great piece of ass by running off early. How about you get over here and-“ His eyes expanded to the size of dinner plates as he looked over the nervously shuffling Gster. He repeated himself for a second time. “Holy fucking hell. Why’d you never tell me you were packing that monster?”
The Gster was well endowed. Very well endowed. His garden trowel was probably huge enough to really garden with, assuming it had been made of metal.
“Uh.” His friend shuffled, looking down at the erection he hadn’t realized had sprouted until just a second ago. “Why? Is this big?”
“No shit. G, you’ve seen mine and I’m pretty respectable. How did you not know you were fucking enormous?”
“I thought you were small.” Gster clapped his hands over his beak too late to catch the thoughtless statement. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“Dude, just get up there and wreck that ass.” Thick-skinned enough to shrug off the faux pas, Crash ran around to push his friend by the shell toward their helpless toy. He muttered other things after that, softer so Gster couldn’t make them all out. “Absolute monster. Thought Terry was exaggerating; how did he take that freaking thing…”
Propelled by his teammate, the hung koopa found himself pushed close to their ‘catch’, Double having moved to the other foot. Apparently he found the kingly feet deeply appreciable even spent: The goomba was doing his level best to fit the entire heel into his mouth, and surprisingly the impostor seemed to be not only allowing that but trying to help him along.
“Get in there.” Crash shoved him face-first toward the used backside, voice still tinged with a mix of shock and annoyance from the late surprise. “I pumped enough in that ass, even that thing of yours ought to be able to get in.”
It was true. The ring that spastically twitched open and closed on empty air was dripping one long gobbet of koopa cum from his friends ecstatic nut of a moment ago. Gster could actually see a vein on the inside of that back passage when it opened all the way.
He still hadn’t been sure about the whole ‘doing a guy (on purpose)’ part, up until the last second. But seeing that hole begging to be filled up again, right where he could reach up and touch, pushed something inside him all the way to doing more than touch. Gster leaned forward and licked up that falling white rope of cum with one long lap.
Behind him, Crash rolled his eyes as he stepped away to watch from a safe distance, out of the spores that were already making his eyes itch. Gster wanted to claim he was straight, he could stay in that closet.
Like a koopa possessed the green-shell slurped up every gobbet of cum that had leaked from Bowser’s abused tailstar, and then shoved his tongue as far as it would reach to get a little more. The unpuckered pucker welcomed it with aplomb, hugging his organ of taste as he swirled around the outside. 
Gster hadn’t realized how much he needed this and it wasn’t long before he hauled himself up to the same spikes Crash had been using as handholds, and shoved his oversized Tab A into the needy Slot (or slut) B, all in one go.
***
Bowser’s fury at being deprived of the glorious peak he had sensed earlier was muted slightly by the endorphins flooding his system. He needed something up his backside, and he needed it now. Even if he had thought of it in the middle of the ass-centric haze, the king koopa didn’t have enough give to hump his own shaft against the stone. It would stay hard and wedged pointing backward against the rock, ignored by its owner and his tormentors and just as trapped as the former.
His roar of frustration carried into the open space his front was suspended over. Whether the impact against his cock (barely noticed) was a punishment for that or the accident it turned out to be was irrelevant. 
The continued attention to his left foot, then the right, was a measly consolation prize. But it was something, so he just languished lazily in it. He savored the little suck on each toe, the licking of his heel. If whoever that was could just keep that up, maybe throw in a little outright foot massage until someone came and got him loose, they could live. This would be their new job. 
And when he got loose, he would track down that koopa troopa, throw him onto the ground, and ride that worthless protuberance of his hard enough to pulverize his lower shell to dust. He’d- Oh. That was promising.
Someone was licking at his rear again. Either the quick shot he was just thinking about hunting down, or one of his two buddies. Bowser thought the technique was different, so he’d have put coins on it being either the memorizer-of-regulations, or the halfway sensible one who’d brought up the work crew. Whichever wasn’t currently working on his leathery stompers.
Either way he liked this rimjob a lot better than the last one. It didn’t reach the spot, not deep enough for that, but now he was over the hurdle of thinking of the area under his tail as a source of enjoyment it was quite nice in its own way. Better, it might mean that there was more coming.
He was ecstatic to find he was right. The koopa king howled out at the pain of a much, much larger cock filling him all at once, no waiting around while his hole was teased a bit at a time. The new one had a head big enough to stretch his inner walls wide, wide enough to be a heck of a sensation all on its own, and the owner? The owner seemed as impatient to ram it in as Bowser was to get rammed.
This bigger koopa put his hole body into forcing his meat in and out of the king’s back end. With the size he was easily pressing over the best spot over and over and over, without Bowser needing to do any work at all. He panted and moaned out over the lava as he felt that peak coming slowly back into view, and then almost there…
“Your Ghastliness! Are you all right? I came as quick as I could after I worked out the calculations.”
***
The prim, servile voice carried up over the wall, down the other side, and to the ears of Patrol #103A, where it crystallized time. All three of them traded glances in nanoseconds; Gster from where he was frozen mid-thrust in his sovereigns anus, Double on his second survey of the left insole, and Crash at the edge of the yellow-tan spored patch (eyes watering, fondling his slowly rehardening cock, and just a moment ago speculating about the possibilities of a second round).
Gster looked at Double. Double looked at Crash. Crash looked at Gster. And vice versa three times over.
They knew that voice. That was Kamek. Bowser’s right-hand assistant and purveyor of numerous cloying compliments to ‘his Ghastliness’. Kamek didn’t talk that way to anyone else. Which meant the impostor stuck in the wall was actually….
“Oh.” Started Double around a mouthful of foot.
“Crap.” Finished Gster from his perch against the broad tail of their absolute leader.
“We’re fucked.” Agreed Crash.
As one minion they ran for it, Crash first, Double behind, and trailing behind at a distance dictated by the time needed to extract his massive hardon from the ass of the Koopa King was Gster, rapidly softening under the assault of fear. 
They needed to book it, fast, preferably to another continent or better yet planet.
***
“I’m terribly sorry, oh High-and-Mighty-Malevolenceness!” Kamek barked crisply. He could only assume the way his ruler was clawing at the wall and furiously spewing fire, raving wordlessly in towering rage, was a result of his less-than-smooth flight courtesy of the KADS 3000. “An error in the propellant calculations. The minions responsible will be punished most severely!”
That was 110% untrue. Kamek did all the math himself. He’d be punishing some flunky chosen at random from his research staff, as per their employment contracts. 
“I don’t give a kaboomba’s keister, Kamek.” Bowser roared, stunning the brown-nosing magikoopa where he floated atop his trusty broom by volume and surprise. “Find a work crew to pull me out of here!”
A good idea was a good idea, after all.
“Right away, my Viscount of Viciousness.” Kamek pivoted in midair, ready to zoom off immediately.
“But FIRST!” This authority-laden howl brought him up short.
“…Yes, sir sinister?”
Bowser’s burning eyes pinned him to the thick air over the lava pit. “Find whichever patrol takes the morning route on the other side of this wall, and march them right to my quarters. They’re to stay right there until I can deal with them personally.”
“That would be patrol number…” Kamek made the mistake of taking too long to dig the squad rota out of his memory.
“IMMEDIATELY!” It was a yell to end all yells and promised death for the lackey who dared disobey.
“Right away your….” Whichever title Kamek had been about to use was lost to the doppler effect in his haste to comply.
Bowser growled, and settled in to count the stones in the wall again while he waited.
Crash was right. Patrol #103A was fucked. 
No one blue-balled King Bowser.

The End