Dennis the Conqueror
a harem fantasy
Scot C Morgan
Sword & Sorority Book 1
Copyright © Scot C. Morgan (2018).
All rights reserved.
http://scotcmorgan.com
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Thank you for reading
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books By Scot C Morgan
Chapter 1
I finished up an especially late night working at Conan's, a local pizza joint about three quarters of a mile northeast of the University of Texas at Austin campus—where I go to school. It's my second year. I haven't decided on a major yet. Nothing really grabs me, but I spend most of my time in the science department. I pull a 4.0. Learning is easy. Life, on the other hand… Outside of class, when I'm not working, which is rare, I enjoy observing the natives in their natural habitat, particularly the female of the species—babes hoticus. Unfortunately, I haven't figured out how to go in for closer observations without scaring them away.
Conan's is an awesome place to eat! Great pizza. And they have these massive solid wood tables with tons of badass illustrations on top, under a thick resin coating. Most of them are by one of the greatest artists ever to live, Frank Frazetta. You can eat your pizza while taking in the sweet images of Conan—sword in hand, enjoying what is best in life—facing off against savage horrifying beasts and monsters. The man's just trying to do the right thing for the alluring scantily-clad women in danger. And when they're not in danger, well, he gives them other reasons to thank him. I've worked at Conan's long enough to know all forty-seven voluptuous illustrated babes by heart.
I had to stay late, an hour past closing, to do an extra thorough floor mopping and deodorize the place as best I could, thanks to a group of drunk frat boys who should've passed out on somebody's front lawn long before they drove (Let's be honest. They drove…somehow.) to Conan's and shoveled down five large Bloodbaths—every topping on the menu. After my boss, Mario, closed out the register, he gave me the spare key. "Lock up when you're done, Dennis," he said. Then he took off, leaving me with the mess—but also with half a large pizza.
I finished with a little help from Conan. Looking at him in the artwork reminded me he'd dealt with his fair share of putrid guts and other nasty shit. We were men. We did what we had to do.
Having no car, I zombie-walked the mile home, ignoring sounds of the three or four parties ongoing in the neighborhood. I knew doing well in college was going to be my ticket. Ticket to where? I had no idea yet. When I got to my apartment, I went in and collapsed onto my bed, not bothering to get out of my clothes, despite the faint smell of vomit. I drifted off to the sounds of the wild party happening in the pool forty feet from my front door.
I'd be cleaning the pool in the morning, same as I did every morning. It was part of my deal with the landlord—half off my rent. Unfortunately, at least four or five nights every week were party nights in the pool. Some parties were better than others. It's not like I actually went to them. I worked almost every night. But I could tell how good the party was by how many beer cans, overturned pool chairs, and left-behind bikini tops I found the next morning. If I started taking the cans to a recycling center and selling the bikini tops on Facebook Marketplace I could probably quit Conan's. Weird listing though—random bikini top, no bottom piece, don't ask.
My apartment is shit. Just wanted to get that out there. Think of the tiniest most outdated apartment you can imagine. Okay. That's the one you'd choose instead of the one I live in. It must've been sometime in the 1970's, or maybe the '60's, when some drugged-out apartment developer decided, "Hey! Let's make the kitchen countertops orange!" Yes, it's my university's color, but come on! And my carpet, I'm not sure what color it started out as, but it's brown now. Not beige or mocha or cappuccino brown. No. Years of I'm-a-cheap-ass-college-student-I-can't-afford-a-vacuum brown.
Some people had parents with money. I didn't have parents anymore. Even so, I like to think I'm still making them proud. If I have to live on the cheap and work my way through college, I can deal. Could be worse.
The place is close enough to walk to campus in twenty-five minutes, and UT Austin has 40,000 students. No shortage of people willing to rent out any place with four walls means I have no leverage with my landlord to ask for new carpet.
Aside from being able to walk to class—and enjoy the views of short skirts and tanned legs on the way, thanks to Texas sunshine—my apartment has one other perk. I've got a small balcony out back that overlooks the trees which cover the hillside my apartment building rests atop. And to the immediate left of my balcony, on the other side of a relatively low-rising wood fence, is the huge backyard pool area of the sorority house next door—a place I've never been, but often wished I could visit.
I awoke as the morning sunlight shining through the sliding glass door to my balcony warmed my cheek. I glanced at the clock and realized I'd slept too late. I had to clean the pool area before heading to class, but my class started at 9am. I had a twenty minute walk to get there, and it was 8:30am. I wanted to skip cleaning the pool area, but I'd done that last month and my landlord gave me a first and final warning that if I did it again, I'd have to pay full rent for my apartment—something I couldn't afford. As I got out of bed, I realized how much I smelled of vomit from cleaning up the frat boys' epic pizza fail. No way I could go to class without a shower, but I had a test today—and my 9am class sat me between two of the hottest girls I'd seen on campus. This was a life-or-death situation.
My brain kicked into high-gear at the thought of missing out on my 9am coed sandwich. I grabbed a shirt and a pair of jeans, then headed to the pool. It took me only ten minutes to clear the area. Record time. Sure, after the trashcan was full I shoved the remaining collection of beer cans and misplaced bikini tops into the holly bushes surrounding the pool patio. But this was do or die.
I pulled off my vomit-smelling pants and shirt and tossed them behind the holly bushes too. I'd retrieve them later. Then I jumped into the pool and rubbed myself as clean as I could in thirty seconds before climbing out and putting on the spare clothes I'd brought. The run to the shuttle bus stop started poorly. I'd worn my flip flops. I pulled them off and carried them, sprinting the two blocks just in time to catch the 8:50am bus. After only
one more stop to pick up a few more passengers, I got out of the bus and ran past the Union Building and the Biological Laboratory before heading into the T.S. Painter Hall for my astronomy class.
I arrived at the door to class with wet hair and still slightly dripping, but not so much that I couldn't get away with coming in and taking a seat. I was a few minutes late and had to ask the TA for a copy of the test already handed out to everyone else. The TA nodded and walked to me with a copy. I took it and then took my seat between the two beauties, Monica and Sydney, each of whom threw me a smile. I took their attentions as a good sign. I also noticed that the two girls seemed to have either coordinated their low-cut blouses for a two-pronged visual assault on my eyes or else they were in competition for the Most Distracting Breasts On Campus Award and were waiting for me to judge the winner. I took the role seriously and had to give it some thought.
"We need you." I heard the female voice, but wasn't sure who said it.
Must've been Monica. I was still staring at Sydney's assets. I turned to her. "What?"
She gave me a you're-a-little-weird look. "Huh?"
"Didn't you just say something?" I asked.
"No." She grinned. I was confused, but at least a you're-weird look and a grin meant I wasn't repulsive. Didn't it?
I glanced around to see who else might've been talking to me, but everyone was heads down into their test. I realized I should do the same.
I heard the woman's voice again, but this time I was sure it was in my head. "Guardian!" She was calling out… to me?
I thought I was losing it, but a well-timed back-against-the-chair double-arm stretch by Sydney pulled me back from the brink. When Sydney was done restoring humanity, she started in on the test again. I glanced at the clock and realized I needed to get to it. I'd sort out whether I was crazy or not after class.
About ten minutes into the exam, I began to feel nauseated. I knew the test material, and therefore figured it wasn't nerves. Then I recalled being coated with vomit from the frat boy cleanup, and realized I'd probably gotten sick thanks to their mess. The run to catch the bus probably didn't help. I felt my forehead and decided it seemed a little hot.
Explains the voices.
I tried to fight back the feeling by taking a breather from my test and casting a glance to Sydney, hoping for more of her medicine. My glance turned to a full-on stare as I decided she was definitely the winner of the boob beauty contest. I didn't know how I was going to break the news to Monica, but Sydney's boobs were clearly more motivated—half spilling out of the opening of her turquoise silk blouse, saying, "I'm a winner!"
"Mr. Howard!"
I pulled my eyes off Sydney's mounds and looked down over the other students in the stadium-style seats, finding Professor Bad-timing looking up at me.
"Cheating will not be tolerated," the pudgy white-bearded man said, pushing the edges of his tweed vest out with his thumbs from beneath.
I was trying to come up with a good way to explain I wasn't cheating without saying I was only staring at Sydney's boobs, but before I could think of something my nausea shot up to a whole new level. I groaned loudly and soured my face as my stomach twisted into knots and my head began to swim.
The voice in my head again called to me. "Guardian, save us."
Shit. I'm hallucinating.
My stomach gurgled. I stood, knowing I had to get to the bathroom fast, test or not. There was no time to explain or ask for permission.
Professor Bad-timing looked enraged by the interruption. He stormed up the steps toward me, passing two rows of students who, like everyone else in the class of 107 freshman and sophomores, were watching the show unfold.
"You will not disrupt this test any more, Mr. Howard!" He was wagging his finger at me from three rows below. The students nearest him were leaning back, turned so they could see his face. Some of them looked shocked. Some of them amused.
I held up my hand to him, gesturing for him to stop. His yelling wasn't making my newly started headache any better. I heard a few gasps from the audience as I kept my hand up, wagged my finger at him, and shook my head.
He said something else, but I never heard what it was. His voice was drowned out by the noise from the students as they all erupted in a cacophony. "Oh, sick!" "Gross!" "Holy shit!" "Disgusting!" "Yes!"
It played out to me as if in slow motion. The stream of vomit flew out of my mouth in a wonderful arc, farther than you'd expect. But maybe that was due to the stadium seating. The drop in elevation allowed for the river coming from my mouth to clear the heads of the students in the three rows in front of me, for which they were thankful, I'm sure. The river split into two smaller but equally powerful torrents as it struck Professor Bad-timing's finger. Both slammed into his tweed vest, splashing up over his face, drowning out the last words of whatever it was he was saying.
Colin, a football player I'd shared a table with one time when the Student Union cafeteria was overly full, handed me a towel from his gym bag when I was done. As I took it to wipe my mouth, he gave me a big grin and a thumbs up. I nodded slightly, not wanting to talk, but feeling it was a good enough way to say thanks.
I looked around, still feeling the headache, and now a little dizzy, but with less nausea in my stomach. Half the class had already bailed. Professor Bad-timing was cursing like a sailor, which was kinda hilarious since he'd made a show of being aloof and proper since the first day of class. He managed to squeeze in a dismissal between cursing, saying, "Test is canceled. Everybody can leave!" I could've sworn I heard a whimper from him as he staggered to the door of his little office which was at the right side of the lecture space at the bottom of the room. But then, I'd been hearing voices. So, who knows.
I questioned whether I'd actually died from vomiting too much, when I felt a soft hand on each of my biceps followed by two pairs of boobs pressing against me. Monica was on my right, and Sydney was on my left. Each smiled at me. And, despite my headache and general shitty condition, I had the presence of mind to know I needed more time to judge whose boobs really deserved the gold medal.
"I thought you two would be out of here like everyone else," I said, seeing the remainder of the students heading for the exit.
"You look like you need some help," Monica said, placing her other hand on my forearm.
"You're not the first guy we've seen lose his lunch," Sydney said.
Sorority girls, no doubt.
"Probably breakfast," Monica said, looking at Sydney with raised eyebrows.
"Whatever," Sydney said. "You know what I mean.'
"Thanks for getting us out of the test." Monica appeared genuinely grateful.
I was still feeling like shit, but their attentions were helping. "You're welcome."
"We want to take you home. Okay?" she said.
"Uh."
"We don't have another class until this afternoon," Sydney said, as she rubbed my arm. "We got the same schedule. Well, except on Fridays."
"That's really not necessary," I said. Then my face felt hot. What? Stupid thing to say!
The two women looked at each other. I think they were using some kind of girl telepathy. Maybe that was my light-headedness though.
"We'll take care of you." Sydney squeezed against me a little more. She must've seen my eyes widen as she did, because she let out a little giggle.
For a moment, my 150 pound 6' frame felt more like Conan the Barbarian's 6'2" 215 pounds—some say 6'6" and 250, but either way their attentions did wonders, even if my size increase was all in my head, with maybe one exception.
Fifteen minutes later, we'd caught the student shuttle bus, I'd heard how each of them were communications majors, and the rest of the conversation I don't really remember. My head was pounding as they watched me fumble to unlock the door to my apartment. Whatever was wrong with me was still wrong with me. I made it to my bed. I think each of them must've helped me. My vision was getting blurry and I felt sleepy.
Fuck. Bad time to get sleepy.
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But I couldn't fight it.
"Cool," Sydney said.
Her voice was sweet. I wanted to taste it, like honey. No wait, I thought. Her. I wanted to taste her.
A warm washcloth gently moved across my face.
"You work at Conan's Pizza?" she said. She must've been looking at one of my work shirts I'd left laid out. They had one of Frank Frazetta's illustrations on them and 'Conan's Pizza' above the image.
I nodded.
I heard Sydney's words again in my mind. Conan's Pizza. Conan. The amazing artwork I'd seen so many times on the tabletops at work danced through my head. The strong warrior. The voluptuous women. Their bodies played through my mind. I drifted into reverie. I saw the faces and well-developed bodies of the young women I'd seen around campus and in my classes. Some whose names I knew, others I'd only seen from afar. Higher education.
"You feeling better?" I could tell it was Monica's voice.
I nodded again, my eyes still closed.
Don't blow this. Twenty years of not getting past first base and now you're about to hit a double home run. Wake up, Dennis.
I felt my pillow under my head and then my legs got cold. Then I felt pushing against my shoulders and upper back. Then my chest felt cold.
"Monica!" Sydney said from somewhere nearby.
But a few seconds later, I was warm. I could tell my blanket was over me, except for my head. I kept my eyes closed. I was so tired. I had a fleeting thought at how stupid it was to fall asleep with two beautiful women in my apartment, the first time I'd been in such a situation. But the more I relaxed, the less nauseated I felt.
Dennis the Conqueror: A Harem Fantasy (Sword and Sorority Book 1) Page 1