Monster gloryhole. You’re on the dark side of the hole at a waystation that caters to goblins, orcs, trolls, ogres, minotaurs, and worse. Every visitor is different—cut or uncut, hairy or smooth, talkative or crude—and the narration lingers on shaft, foreskin, balls, and musk. Your job is to service them and fill a 10-gallon bucket with their loads. It starts empty. It fills slowly. They talk while you work.