The Goblin’s Pet (18+) (Now a CYOA!)

Light seeps into my eyes as I slowly awaken.

Lying next to me, Snib's repulsive goblin cock dribbles precum onto the furs, and I can't help but whimper in disgust. Quickly, I roll out of the bed, trying not to disturb his slumber. His musk, usually so overwhelming, is fainter in the early morning air. I reach for my bottle of Moonshade potion, knocking back a gulp as I brace myself for the day ahead.

After wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I start the process of getting dressed. Bending over, I pick up my skimpy metal bikini armor from the floor, the cold metal a stark contrast against my warm, sweaty skin. My large breasts spill over the cups as I adjust the armor, the chain digging into my soft flesh. It's a struggle to get it over my chest, the armor clattering against my ribs. The bottoms, a high-waisted metal thong, wedges uncomfortably between my plump ass cheeks, and the belt cinches tight around my narrow waist.

Next come the tall stiletto boots, buckling tightly around my calves. They force me to stand on my toes, causing my hips to sway and my ass to stick out even more. It's demeaning, a mockery of my former armor, but it's all I have.

Stepping outside, I take a moment to breathe in the early morning air, trying to wash the taste of Snib's musk from my tongue. The Griznak Gobboree is a cacophony of sights and sounds, but in the early morning, it's a still sea of snoozing goblins, punctuated by the odd grunt or snore.

In the distance, a few goblins are still stirring, no doubt still drunk from last night's festivities. The smell of stale ale, sweat, and sex fills the air, making my stomach churn.

I need to focus. There's a wooden training dummy out back, set up for the day's events. It's there that I find my temporary weapon, a hefty wooden sword made from blackroot, a dense and heavy wood, much different than my precious Whisperwind. It's heavy in my hands, the unfamiliar weight making me clumsier than I'm used to.

Taking a deep breath, I square up against the dummy, trying to push all thoughts of my predicament from my mind. I need to adjust to this body, to this weapon, to this armor. Every swing of my sword sends a wave of jiggles through my tits, distracting and annoying. But there's no choice. I have to get used to it, have to become stronger, have to survive.

With every swing, every jab, every block, I feel a mix of determination and desperation. This isn't who I am, not who I want to be, but it's who I need to be. I am not Aldric the Great anymore, not the male hero of Eboncrest. I am Elise, the Goblin's Pet, forced into a curvaceous, humiliatingly voluptuous form.

The coarse sand beneath my high-heeled boots shifts and crunches with every movement I make. I focus on my footing, the unfamiliar tilt of my posture atop these ridiculous stilettos. I miss my flat boots, the kind that made my footing steady and agile during a fight. But now, I need to adapt to this new reality, this humiliating form of existence.

I bring the wooden sword to bear, the solid weight of the yew-root familiar and comforting in my slender hands. My breasts press against the metal confines of the bikini top as I engage in a practice lunge. The sudden jiggling of my chest distracts me, but I steel myself, focusing my mind on the task at hand. I draw in a breath, feeling my lungs expand and the metal of my skimpy armor dig into my skin.

An old routine echoes in my mind from my days as Aldric - pivot, lunge, parry, strike. My hips are wider now, my center of gravity shifted. As I move, the high heels force me to engage my thigh muscles more than I'm used to. I can feel the strain on my calves as well, as they try to compensate for the awkward elevation. My balance feels precarious, like walking on the edge of a sword, but I persist.

My wide hips sway with each movement, making my practice swings appear more like a dance than a warrior's drill. But there's power in that sway, in the shift of my weight from one curvaceous thigh to the other. With each twist, each step, each pirouette I can feel my ass tense, my thighs strengthening their grip on the ground. My movements become fluid, a stream finding its way around rocks and obstacles. A strange sense of pride wells up within me, as I continue to move, to adapt.

Now for the tricky part: evasion. As Aldric, I was an expert in dodging and weaving through enemy attacks. Now? It's hard to be nimble with these goddamned high-heeled boots. But I need to learn. The first few attempts are clumsy, the heel of my boot digging into the packed sand, causing me to stumble. I grit my teeth in frustration, but I do not surrender.

With each new attempt, I grow more accustomed to the lift and imbalance these heels provide. I experiment, seeing if it's easier to pivot on the balls of my feet or the heel. The balls of my feet provide more stability, but I can't discount the heel altogether. I'll have to mix the two, depending on my opponent's moves.

Sweat beads on my forehead and trickles down the valley between my breasts, the morning sun beginning to blaze. I focus on my form - maintaining a firm grip on the wooden sword, keeping my breasts from shaking too much with each vigorous movement, and making my ass and thighs work to keep me upright on these heels. I can feel the sand grating against the metal soles of my boots, my ankles straining under the pressure.

The sound of snoring goblins and their unfortunate slaves recedes into the background as I lose myself in my regimen. I'm not Elise, the goblin's pet, in this moment. I'm Aldric, the legendary hero. I'm a warrior, preparing for battle, adjusting to my new form, my new reality. Today, I won't be a goblin's plaything; I'll be a fighter in the pits. I have to be. For myself, for Elara. The thought of her stokes the fire within me, urging me to push harder, to endure.

As the sun continues its upward climb, painting the vast expanse of the Griznak Gobboree in a wash of bright, scorching light, I continue to train. My body screams in protest, but I push through the discomfort. I have to get used to this body, this alien yet familiar form. I have to fight. And by the gods, I will.

I start to transition from footwork to practicing my stances. My first move is to step into the basic guard stance, feet spread shoulder-width apart, one foot slightly forward, my sword extended towards an imaginary foe. But as I whip around to change direction, my long, black hair sweeps across my face, obscuring my vision. A curse escapes my lips. This was never a problem when I was Aldric.

Elara's lesson comes to mind. I halt my practice and stride over to the edge of the training area, where the rough canvas of a goblin tent flaps lazily in the morning breeze. With a quick, forceful tug, I tear off a long, thin strip of the coarse fabric. I collect my hair in a loose bunch at the nape of my neck, twist it around itself and secure it with the strip of cloth. It’s rough and nowhere near as elegant as Elara's delicate fingers could do, but it does its job. My hair stays off my face, providing me with an unobstructed view of my surroundings.

I go back to the center of the practice area, my high heels sinking slightly into the packed sand as I return to my fighting stances. I feel a renewed sense of determination, my large breasts secure within my metal bikini top, my ass flexing in my tight, metal bikini bottoms.

I take up the high guard stance next, my sword held aloft, ready to strike down. As a man, the strength of my shoulders and the breadth of my chest gave me an advantage. But as Elise, the center of my strength is lower, in my core, my hips. The sword feels heavy in my hands, but not unmanageable. I shift from the high guard to a side guard, my right hip thrust forward as I shift my weight onto my right leg.

Now for the hanging guard, a defensive stance. I hold the sword high and to the side, ready to intercept a blow. With the increased weight of my chest, I have to engage my core more to maintain balance. The armor bites into my skin but I ignore the discomfort. The grandeur of the warrior I once was fuels me, guides me.

I transition through the stances, adjusting for my wider hips and higher center of gravity. I practice swiftly changing my stances, experimenting with how the heels affect my stability. I move fluidly, my heavy chest bouncing slightly as I swing the sword. I ignore the stirring amongst the few waking goblins, their crude comments barely reaching my ears.

Then, as I am mid-swing, I hear a familiar, repulsive voice. Snib. The goblin's nasally tone cuts through the air, lewd and derogatory remarks about my 'performance' leaving his lips. His words are like ice water, a jarring reminder of my predicament. But I don’t let it break me. Instead, it fans the flames of my determination. I have a match later today, and I need to be ready for whatever creature I may face in the pits, be it orc or human. For them, for Elara, and for myself, I cannot afford to fail.

Shifting into the half-shield stance, I watch as Snib lumbers toward me, his oversized feet kicking up sand with each step. I resist the urge to cringe at his approach, my lips curving into a practiced smile instead.

"Master," I begin, my voice steady, "Do you know who my first opponent will be?" A look of amusement flickers in his beady eyes, the corners of his mouth stretching into a lewd grin.

"Wouldn't you like to know, pet?" he snarls, a gloating chuckle reverberating through the air. "It's a surprise." I watch as his gnarled hand wraps around his engorged cock, stroking it as his gaze roams over my scantily clad body.

As revulsion bubbles within me, I force myself to remain calm, to ignore his vulgar display. I return my attention to the training dummy, continuing my practice as I mull over my possible opponents.

Orcs are typically large and aggressive, often overpowering their opponents with sheer strength and size. I remember the scene from last night, the sight of that giant orc pinning a girl down, her pleas for mercy echoing in the night. I refuse to share the same fate.

With them, agility and speed would be my allies. My footwork would need to be impeccable, each step purposeful, and my strikes, precise. I would need to stay out of their reach, utilizing my lighter wooden sword to chip away at them. Bashing them in the head, the knees, the groin - any weak point exposed in their armor.

Humans, on the other hand, would be a different challenge. Some might be slaves like me, some could be former warriors, cunning and skilled. In these bouts, outsmarting my opponent would be the key. I'd have to remember to feint, to deceive, to always stay one step ahead.

My sword arcs through the air as I transition to the ox stance, my thighs flexing under the strain. I can feel my body adapting to the movements, my hips accommodating the high heels, the weight of my chest no longer pulling me off balance.

Snib's crude comments continue to flow, but they fall on deaf ears. My mind is elsewhere, strategizing, preparing.

The pit-master awaits, and so does my first fight. I can only hope that I will be ready when the time comes.

Once inside the pit-master’s tent, a gruff goblin pit master hunches over a large table strewn with scrolls and coins. He hardly spares me a glance as we enter, his attention fully on Snib. I can hear the crowd outside, the roar of anticipation growing as goblins filter into the sand arena. The clasp of my slave bracelet against my arm feels heavier than ever.

"Snib," the pit master grunts, pointing at a scroll. "Your pet's match is against the Wailing Widow. Won five matches so far."

The Wailing Widow? I blink, trying to make sense of the nickname. The pit master chuckles, leaning back to give a more detailed description.

"She was a warrior from the Northern Reaches, captured in battle. Gave our lads a hell of a fight, killed a dozen before they subdued her. Fierce as they come, didn't take to breeding. Broke a gobbo's cock the first night, so we threw her in the pits instead."

He laughs at the memory, his beady eyes flicking to me for a moment, assessing my tits as if they were prize melons. My stomach churns at his gaze, a nauseating mix of disgust and fear churning within me.

"Your tit-bitch won't last a minute," he smirks, turning back to Snib. "The odds are ten to one. But don't worry, even if she loses, you'll get your 150 gold."

The name hits me like a slap to the face. Tit-Bitch. The goblins' laughter rings in my ears, my cheeks flushing with shame. Snib cackles with delight, his rough hand reaching out to give my right breast a jostle. The cold metal of my armor bites into my flesh, a sharp reminder of the reality of my situation.

I swallow hard, forcing down the lump in my throat. "What does she fight with?" I find myself asking, my voice barely a whisper.

The pit master's laugh is a low, mocking rumble. "She fights with a spear, Tit-Bitch. Now shut your trap, the adults are talking."

His dismissive tone stings, my mouth going dry as I fall silent. I am not Aldric the Great here. I am just a Tit-Bitch, a spectacle to these beasts. But as the pit master and Snib continue their conversation, ignoring me entirely, a spark of determination ignites within me.

I am more than just a pair of tits. They underestimate me. And I will prove them wrong. I have to.

—

The roar of the crowd becomes deafening as I am led to the center of the arena, the sandy floor rough beneath my stiletto heels. The Griznak Gobboree pit is a crude circle of piled rocks, with ragtag wooden stands set up around it. Goblins fill the seats, their eager eyes drinking in the spectacle below. I can feel their leering stares, hear their crude laughter, taste their anticipation in the dry, dusty air.

"Introducing our first fighters of the day!" A goblin announcer shouts, his voice scratchy but loud, amplified by some magical means. "In this corner, we have the dreaded Wailing Widow!"

A murmur runs through the crowd as a woman strides into the pit. Tall, muscular, her gaze as hard as steel. She twirls a wooden spear in her hand, the point glinting ominously in the early morning light. Her eyes meet mine for a brief moment. I see a flicker of humanity there, buried deep beneath layers of survival.

"And in this corner," the announcer continues, his grin growing wider, "we have our fresh meat, the lovely Tit-Bitch!"

A mix of laughter and cheers fills the air as I shift uncomfortably, the straps of my bikini armor digging into my skin. I grip the hilt of my blackroot sword, the wood reassuringly solid in my hand. She has reach with her spear, but I have maneuverability, flexibility. If I can get in close...

"I won't hurt ya too much, Tit-Bitch," the Wailing Widow says, her voice rough and gritty. "Ya look more like breeding stock than a fighter to me."

I bite back a retort, instead offering a shy smile. Let her underestimate me. Let them all underestimate me. I step back, lifting my sword in what I hope looks like a dainty stance. The crowd erupts in laughter. I ignore them, focusing on the woman before me.

"Ready, fighters?" the announcer calls out. "Let the fight begin!"

As the Wailing Widow's battle screech pierces the air, time seems to slow to a crawl. Her charge is a blur of motion, spear pointed straight at me. My heart hammers in my chest, my mind racing to anticipate her movements.

She lunges, and I sidestep just in time. The spear whistles past me, missing by a hair's breadth. I barely have time to react before she spins, her spear arcing toward me. I bring up my sword, blocking her blow. The impact rattles up my arm, a harsh reminder of the strength behind her attack.

"Ooh, and the Tit-Bitch barely avoids a skewering!" The announcer's crude commentary reverberates around the arena, fueling the crowd's frenzied cheers.

My counterattack misses its mark, the Wailing Widow dancing out of my sword's reach with an agility that belies her bulk. I stumble back, the constriction of my metal bikini armor making my movements stiff and awkward. The weight of my chest strains against the cold metal, my breasts jiggling with each frantic movement, rubbing uncomfortably against my arms.

I barely see her next attack coming. She feints to the left, then strikes right, the butt of her spear connecting with a stinging blow to my ass. I let out a yelp of surprise, my heels sinking into the sand as I topple backward.

Her spear descends towards me, a deadly arc that I barely dodge. I roll away, feeling the coarse sand embedding itself between my breasts, as I rise back to my feet. My mind races back to the early morning training, the dummy opponent in the quiet, empty pit. I summon the rhythm of my practiced movements, focusing on the shifting sand beneath my towering heels.

In an unexpected flash of agility, I parry her first thrust, my sword meeting the shaft of her spear with a satisfying crack. My heart pounds with the adrenaline of the fight as I sidestep her second lunge, my wide hips swaying to the rhythm of the dance we weave in the sandy pit.

"Look at the Tit-Bitch move!" the goblin announcer screams, his crude words fueling the rising excitement of the crowd. "Is she fighting or dancing? Can't quite tell with those tits bouncing!"

I force a smirk, ignoring the vulgar commentary, turning my focus back to the fight. My sword connects again, knocking her third spear thrust aside. The Wailing Widow's eyes widen as she reels back, a flash of surprise breaking through her hardened demeanor. Her fourth attack comes faster, a desperate jab towards my stomach that I sidestep, and then her fifth, a sweeping arc aimed at my legs that I leap over, barely maintaining my balance in my restrictive metal boots.

I'm keeping up. I'm managing to hold my own. But the Wailing Widow is not to be underestimated. She takes a step back, a glimmer of newfound respect in her eyes. She changes her stance, assuming a more defensive position, her spear held ready. The pace of the fight changes, the Wailing Widow's attacks calculated, more precise.

"Oh, maybe the Wailing Widow was too hasty!" The announcer's voice rings out again, thick with anticipation. "Tit-Bitch got some moves, huh?"

"Would have been an equal fight," she taunts, a smug smile playing on her lips, "if not for those ridiculous heels of yours." The crowd's laughter echoes around us, their jeers fueling my resolve. The fight is far from over, and I intend to give them a show they won't forget.

Just as I begin to regain my footing, the Wailing Widow takes advantage of my precarious balance. She circles me like a predator, her spear outstretched, eyes analyzing my every move. With a swift lunge, she aims for my feet, not to injure, but to dislodge. A calculated strike hits the metal stiletto of my heel boot, sending me sprawling onto the sandy floor. My sword flies out of my grasp, clattering away into the distance.

"Stay down, Tit-Bitch!" she snarls, pressing her boot firmly onto my chest, squeezing the air out of my lungs. The cold touch of metal from her boot digs into my exposed flesh, squashing my breasts beneath its weight. Her words are a venomous hiss. "Look at you, flailing around in that obcene outfit. Maybe tonight, you'll finally find use for that body of yours. I bet you could nurse a litter of goblin whelps with those fuckin’ tits.”

A wave of disgust rolls over me at her words. The crowd around us roars with laughter, the crude jeers of the goblins ringing in my ears, echoing her sentiment. My heart pounds with a mixture of fear and determination, my mind racing to find a way out of this predicament.

As the Wailing Widow lifts her spear for the final blow, I seize my moment. “I’m sorry you don’t like my heels,” I say, a reckless grin spreading on my face.

In a sudden burst of movement, I lift my thick leg, the spear's downward trajectory landing right in the cleft of my metal stiletto. A swift twist of my heel and the spear is ripped from her hands, flying across the pit. I use the momentum to kick up my other leg, the hard metal boot connecting with the Wailing Widow's ribs with a satisfying thud. She stumbles backward, the air knocked out of her, her eyes wide with shock.

The crowd roars around us, the pit echoing with the crude goblin announcer's excited yells. "Did you see that? The Tit-Bitch fights back!" He hollers, excitement dripping from his words.

Both of us unarmed now, we circle each other once again, our breaths coming in ragged gasps. Hand-to-hand combat it is then. I shake off the sand clinging to my body, my eyes locked onto hers.

Feet grounded, heart racing, I brace myself as the Wailing Widow lunges at me, her muscled body a blur of motion. She aims a heavy punch at my chest, but I sidestep, my slender body barely avoiding the hit. I return with a swift jab, my small fist colliding with her jaw. She stumbles, but recovers fast, her eyes alight with a fiery determination. The crowd roars, their excitement palpable.

"Looks like Tit-Bitch's got some fight left in her!" The announcer's voice cuts through the noise, an edge of disbelief in his voice.

I ignore him, focusing all my attention on the Widow. My senses are hyper-aware, the physicality of the fight driving all thought from my mind. With a swift turn, I aim a high kick at her side. She catches my foot mid-air, twisting me around. My body flies across the pit, sand getting in places it really shouldn't. I wince as I land, a sharp pain lancing through my ribs.

"And she goes flying! Poor Tit-Bitch doesn't stand a chance!" The announcer crows, the goblins howling with laughter.

I pull myself back onto my feet, my body feeling too light, too weak for this kind of physical combat. But I push through, calling upon my knowledge and instinct as a fighter. I block the Widow's next blow, using her momentum to guide her past me. She stumbles, the crowd erupting in a roar of disbelief.

"Well, that's a new one. Did Tit-Bitch just deflect the Widow's attack?" The announcer sounds stunned, his words drowned out by the jeers and laughter of the crowd.

My eyes dart to the fallen spear, its wooden body taunting me from the sandy ground. I must get to it. A feigned punch distracts the Widow, and I use the moment to dart closer to the spear. But the Widow is quick to react. She slams her foot into my side, my body colliding with the sand, stars exploding in my vision.

"The Widow's not holding back now. One more hit like that, and Tit-Bitch's just another mound of sand," the announcer yells, his words a grim echo in my ears.

Pain throbs through me, my body no match for the Widow's muscled form. But I refuse to yield. Pulling myself up, I block her next attack, my arm colliding with hers. I manage to twist her around, her back to the spear. I can't let her reach it.

My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a throbbing echo in my ears. I wipe the sweat trickling into my eyes, a momentary respite as I assess the woman before me. The Wailing Widow smirks, her voice filled with scorn as she spits out a taunt.

"Better luck next time, Tit-Bitch."

But I see the weariness in her eyes, the same chains of servitude that bind us both.

With a deep breath, I tap into the reservoir of martial knowledge Aldric had honed over years. I launch into a fluid dance of kicks and strikes, my moves so swift and unexpected that they catch the Widow off-guard. My thick thighs whirl, my ass bouncing as I deliver a roundhouse kick that narrowly misses the Widow's head. She stumbles back, surprised. My fist connects with her stomach, then a swift jab to her jaw. The crowd watches in stunned silence.

"By the goblin gods, what the..." The announcer's voice trails off, shocked into silence by the spectacle.

But my triumphant display has cost me. My body, too soft and feminine for this kind of exertion, is tiring quickly. Off balance, I falter. The Widow seizes her chance, a powerful push sending me sprawling in the sand. I skid, grains of sand scraping against my skin, until my hand closes around something solid: the spear.

The Wailing Widow charges, too late realizing her mistake. I grip the spear, the rough wood scraping against my palms, and swing. It thwacks across her head, a resounding crack echoing through the pit. The Widow crumbles to the ground, knocked out cold.

The crowd roars to life, the goblins' lewd cheers filling the air. "Tit-Bitch is the VIIIIIICTORRRR!” The announcer yells, disbelief and excitement mingling in his voice.

I stand there, breathless and battered, my chest heaving with the exertion. I look down at the fallen woman, a fellow pawn in the goblins' twisted games. My victory tastes bitter on my tongue, a hollow triumph against another victim of the goblins' cruelty.

—

Still panting from the fight, I am escorted back to the pit master. He gapes at me, or rather, at Snib, unable to conceal his shock. But there is no praise for me, no acknowledgment of the skill and strategy that allowed me to prevail. I am just a pet, a novelty that exceeded expectations. Snib is the one who receives the respect, the admiration.

A heavy sack of gold is slid across the table, the jingle of coins ringing in my ears. I watch as Snib hefts it up, the weight of it causing him to grunt. It must weigh as much as a small child, I think, a hefty sum indeed. The pit master mentions an additional prize in the next room, a sign of respect from the goblin leader, Grokk. A flicker of recognition crosses Snib's face as he bows, his rough voice murmuring words of gratitude in guttural goblin tongue.

My heart sinks as the pit master details Grokk's desire to have the Wailing Widow removed. Despite her attempts to demean me, I still felt a sense of camaraderie with the fallen warrior. We are both victims of the goblins, humans reduced to playthings in their cruel games.

I follow Snib into the next room, my gaze taking in the decadence of the victor's pit. Velvet cushions are strewn around, the scent of exotic spices lingering in the air. Slaves with glazed eyes and swaying hips serve their goblin masters, their faces flushed with an unnatural rosy glow. The sight makes my stomach churn, the cruel manipulation of these women a stark reminder of my own situation.

Grokk's gift is a slender young woman, her brown hair tumbling down to her waist. She blushes under Snib's lustful gaze, her green eyes glassy under the influence of the goblin pheromones. Her breasts are barely contained by the thin silken garment she wears, her pert nipples visible beneath the thin material.

A glass of the goblins' favorite rotgut brew is handed to Snib by another slave girl, her voluptuous figure barely concealed by her scant clothing. The same is offered to me, along with a plate heaped with roasted meats and a strange mushy paste, a goblin delicacy no doubt. I nibble cautiously, my stomach rumbling in protest at the unfamiliar food. The slave girls watch me curiously, their eyes flickering with a glimmer of sympathy.

My side throbs relentlessly, a consistent echo of the fight, each breath turning the dull ache into a sharp stab of pain. The slave girls flit around me, their bodies moving with a grace they've perfected over time, their movements seeping sensuality.

A petite girl with fiery red hair and freckles across her cheeks and shoulders, one that looks barely out of her teens, gently removes my metallic bikini top. It lifts off my breasts with a small suction sound, my G-cup breasts jiggling as they're freed. My nipples harden instantly at the cool air, before the slave girl's warm hand cups them.

I cringe at her touch, waiting for the sharp stab of pain from the pressure, but it doesn't come. Instead, she applies a thick green paste to her fingers and rubs it around my nipples, her touch feather-light. The paste tingles as it makes contact with my skin, causing me to gasp. The sensation isn't painful, but a gentle warmth that spreads from my chest to the rest of my body.

A shiver runs down my spine as her fingers glide over the swells of my breasts, massaging the paste into the soft, tender flesh. I watch her as she kneads my mounds, her small hands making my tits seem even larger in comparison. The tenderness in her touch is surprising, causing a flutter in my stomach.

Meanwhile, a tall, muscular blonde woman, perhaps a warrior before her enslavement, applies a poultice to my ribs with delicate precision. The coarse texture of the concoction grates against my scraped skin, but the coolness of it soothes the sting.

Another girl, with dark, almond-shaped eyes and luscious brown curls, starts wrapping bandages around my scraped and bruised knees. I imagine she might have been a dancer, or perhaps a gymnast, her lithe body moving with an elegance that hints at her past life.

A gentle hand tilts my head to the side, a girl with big, brown doe eyes, her curly hair cascading down her back, applies a soft, cool cloth to my bruised cheek. A soothing balm follows, its sweet, floral scent filling my nostrils as it's rubbed into my skin.

Meanwhile, more slave girls surround Snib, their movements almost ceremonial as they attend to their grotesque master.

The 'gift' girl, a slender creature with delicate elfin features, kneels before him, her D-cup breasts hanging tantalizingly from her chest. Her hair, a halo of chestnut curls, falls around her flushed face as she looks up at Snib with reverence in her cloudy, lust-filled eyes.

"I am Liliana, Master," she coos in a soft, throaty voice, a flush spreading across her pale skin. "A gift from Grokk. He's offered you... my breeding rights."

Liliana waggles her ass provocatively, her full, perky cheeks displayed enticingly for Snib. The words tumble out of her mouth in a reverent whisper, every syllable dripping with anticipation.

A quiet gasp echoes in the cavern as another slave girl unties Snib's filthy loincloth, revealing his monstrous cock. Its length and girth are an obscene sight, veins pulsating beneath the skin. Hot, steaming pre-cum dribbles down its shaft, releasing a foul, musky scent that fills the room.

"Such a virile cock, Master," Liliana croons, her fingers gently tracing the throbbing veins along its length. "Tit-Bitch," she says, glancing my way with an impish grin, "could give you so many goblin pups."

I feel a wave of nausea, the harsh truth making my head spin. I swallow hard, struggling to keep the bile down, but a strange heat stirs between my thighs. I cross my legs uncomfortably, hating myself for the involuntary reaction to the debauched spectacle.

Snib chuckles, a guttural sound that grates on my ears. His beady eyes meet mine from across the room, his grin stretching across his warty face. "Cow tits," he addresses me, his voice grating like gravel, "was a mighty warrior. Breaking her in slowly," he drawls, "makes it all the more delicious."

His voice echoes around the cavern, his words seeping into my bones. The lewd scene unfolding before me is the twisted brainchild of this cunning goblin, the very epitome of his debauchery.

Liliana sighs dramatically, her nimble fingers exploring the obscene thickness of his cock. She glances down at his bloated balls, her eyes lighting up with perverse excitement. "Master," she purrs, her voice dropping an octave, "your balls look so full. Is Tit-Bitch not fulfilling your needs?"

I blush deeply, my cheeks burning at her insinuation. The atmosphere thickens with perversion and debauchery, the scene stretching on in all its appalling glory. The sight is sickening, their unabashed worship of his filthy, massive cock a mockery of everything decent.

Snib smirks as he grinds the swollen, veiny head of his cock against the wet, slick folds of "Elara's" cunt. She's shuddering, her lips parting in a moan of bliss.

"Oh, it's... it's incredible, Master," she pants, her back arching as she squirms against his hard length. "Your cock feels so... so big. Almost as big as Grokk’s!”

Her voice is airy, filled with a lewd sense of pleasure that's impossible to ignore. She's relishing in the perverse sensations, her body writhing in anticipation.

"I... I remember the first time I felt a goblin's cum inside me," she murmurs, her voice carrying a sensual, husky tone. "It's... it's like nothing else. Filling me, making me feel full... fertile. There's nothing... nothing better than being pregnant with goblin pups. Feeling them grow inside me."

My heart sinks in my chest as I watch the scene unfold. "Elara" is completely lost in her world of lewd fantasies, worshipping Snib as if he's a god. She glorifies the goblin breed, placing them on a pedestal above her own species.

"And goblins... they're so manly, so dominant," she whispers, her words punctuated with moans as Snib continues his lewd massage of her cunt. "Human men can't compare. Goblin and human women... it's the perfect relationship."

My heart beats painfully in my chest as she praises the goblins. My pussy pulses, and I grit my teeth against the building arousal. It's repugnant, this whole situation, but I can't ignore the heat gathering between my thighs.

"And then... then you feel them move. The pups," she breathes out, her eyes fluttering shut. "It's... oh, it's ecstasy. Feeling them... knowing they're growing inside you... it's indescribable."

With that, her words are cut off as Snib thrusts into her, his meaty cock plunging into her dripping pussy. I flinch as I hear the slap of their bodies meeting, my face hot and my pulse racing.

"Elara" squeals, her head falling back as her eyes roll up, pleasure overtaking her. Snib grunts, pushing himself to the hilt inside her, a satisfied grin on his ugly face.

I clutch my chest, the sight ripping through me, shredding any semblance of my will. The betrayal is too much, the heartache too profound. I used to be Aldric, the town's hero, and now... now I'm a powerless spectator to this vulgar spectacle. I was supposed to protect, to save, and instead, I'm forced to watch a human woman surrender to a goblin.

My body betrays me as my pussy clenches, throbbing with an arousal I despise. I bite my lip, trying to hold back the tears of shame, despair, and a twisted sense of longing that I can't understand. The moans of "Elara," the grunts of Snib, the slap of their bodies intertwine in a repulsive symphony of perverse ecstasy. And all I can do is watch, the heat of arousal a burning, shameful secret against my inner thighs.

The pace of Snib's thrusts increases, a rhythmic slapping that fills the room. Each powerful plunge is met with a lewd squelch, the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin. His little goblin body moves with an unholy energy, his big cock disappearing into Liliana over and over.

Then, suddenly, he thrusts all the way in, his balls slapping against her ass. He grunts, his face twisted in a grimace of pleasure. I see his cock bulging against her skin, his cockhead pressing into her from the inside.

My breath catches in my throat. One of the slaves next to me leans in, her voice a whisper against my ear. "He's in her womb now," she says, her tone half-admiring, half-jealous. "Goblin pre-cum can make a woman's cervix dilate. Lets their fat cockheads slip inside."

I can hardly believe what I'm hearing. It's horrific, an affront to nature. And yet, I can't deny the visual proof before me. The bulge in Liliana's lower stomach, the way she's gone wide-eyed and slack-jawed with pleasure.

Her body spasms as Snib starts to rock back and forth, his entire length buried inside her. Each thrust sends a wave of pleasure through her body, forcing a mewling cry from her lips.

"Oh gods," she gasps, her voice a choked whisper. "I can feel it. He's in my womb. He's fucking my womb."

Her body arches, her fingers clawing at the cushions beneath her. Her eyes roll back in her head, her tongue lolling out in a parody of pleasure. It's obscene, a display of absolute debasement that makes my stomach turn. Yet, I can't look away.

Around me, the slaves watch with rapt attention, their faces flushed with perverse delight. "It's so hot," one murmurs, her fingers dipping between her legs. "I want to be next."

I can't understand their enthusiasm, their eagerness to be violated in such a way. Yet, as I watch Snib thrust into Liliana, as I hear her cries of pleasure, I can't deny the throbbing heat building between my own thighs.

The tent echoes with the sounds of Liliana's moans, the wet squelching of Snib's thrusts, the harsh panting of the watching slaves. It's a grotesque symphony, a testament to the vile pleasures of the goblin master.

And I'm forced to watch, to listen, to bear witness to the horrifying spectacle. I feel the familiar throb of arousal, the hot flush of shame. The combination of horror and arousal is too much, a torturous conflict that leaves me breathless.

Snib's entire body tenses, his grip on Liliana's hips tightening. His green face contorts in pleasure, his teeth gritted. A guttural growl rumbles in his throat, echoing through the room, signaling the impending flood.

A shudder ripples through Liliana as the first rope of cum is unleashed inside her. The bulge in her lower belly pulses, the sign of Snib's obscene unload. Her body jolts, a gasping cry ripping from her throat. "It's... it's so much," she whimpers.

His balls twitch, each spasm signaling another heavy, gelatinous spurt of goblin cum. The sensation is palpable, even from where I stand. His cock twitches within her, each twitch signaling a powerful surge of cum. It's like a twisted biological fireworks show, a sequence of obscene eruptions, each followed by Liliana's whimpering cries.

The other girls gasp, eyes wide and faces flushed. "Look at her belly," one whispers, her finger pointed at Liliana. Her lower belly is slowly expanding, the skin stretching taut. I can see it, a slow, steady bulge that's growing with each passing second.

A low, guttural laugh tears from Snib's lips, the sound full of obscene pleasure. His body shakes, his balls twitching as they continue to pump load after load of his hot, putrid goblin cum into Liliana's womb. His laughter sends a shiver down my spine, a cruel reminder of the utter domination he wields.

Liliana's body convulses under the intense sensation. Her eyes roll back, her mouth opening in a silent scream. The sight of her, reduced to a drooling, twitching mess by the sheer force of Snib's cum, is enough to make my stomach churn. But I can't deny the heat growing between my own thighs, the way my own body responds to the obscene display.

As I watch, I see a dribble of white escaping from her. The sticky, bleachy smell of goblin cum fills the air. It's overwhelming, a sensory assault that makes me gag. But it's impossible to look away. The sight of her, leaking cum from her overstuffed womb, is burned into my brain.

His cock gives a final twitch, one last spurt of cum filling Liliana's womb. His laughter dies down, replaced by heavy panting. He pulls out, a string of cum connecting his cock to Liliana's pussy. The sight is obscene, a testament to his virile potency.

Liliana's body slumps onto the cushions, a whimper escaping her lips. Her belly is round, distended with his cum. Her face is flushed, her eyes half-closed. "I... I feel so full," she murmurs, a note of wonder in her voice.

Around me, the slaves watch with rapt attention, their faces a mixture of envy and awe. They whisper among themselves, their words full of admiration for Snib's potency. I can't understand their fascination, their obsession with the obscene breeding spectacle. But I can't deny the perverse attraction, the twisted allure of the breeding spectacle.

A slave girl next to me leans in, her whisper a hiss in my ear. "Now you see," she murmurs, her eyes glued to Liliana's distended belly. "Now you see what a real goblin can do."

As I watch Liliana's body slowly recovering from the breeding spectacle, I can't help but feel a perverse fascination. It's obscene, vile, a twisted violation of the natural order. But I can't deny the allure, the twisted attraction of the spectacle. The goblin's dominance, his virility, his utter control... it's a horrifying spectacle that I can't help but watch in awe.

Two of the slaves step forward, a gauzy piece of fabric clutched in their hands. It's a simple garment, not much more than a strip of cloth, but it serves a critical purpose. They ease Liliana to her feet, their hands gentle and efficient as they slide the cloth up her legs, tugging it into place over her freshly filled pussy.

The cloth sticks to her, saturated with the remnants of Snib's obscene load. It clings to her skin, sealing her womb, ensuring the potent goblin cum is trapped inside. Their hands are clinical, detached, moving with a practiced ease that only comes with experience. It's a mundane act, a simple task, but its implications send a shiver down my spine.

They finish securing the garment and step back, their eyes lingering on Liliana's swollen belly. I watch her, the proof of Snib's virility clearly visible. Her hands drift down to her stomach, fingers pressing into the bulging flesh. A soft sigh slips from her lips, her eyelids fluttering.

Once they're done, they carefully guide Liliana towards the tent entrance. She stumbles, legs shaky from the breeding. They catch her, their hold steady as they guide her out of the tent, their soft murmurs filling the air as they assure her she did well.

Snib grunts in satisfaction, a satisfied smirk on his lips as he watches her leave. The slaves return, this time carrying a new, more opulent loincloth. It's embroidered with intricate designs, a symbol of Snib's status and success. They present it to him, their heads bowed in respect.

"Thank you, Master Snib," they say in unison, their voices hushed, full of reverence. "Thank you for granting Elara your seed."

He nods, a simple gesture of acknowledgment, before putting the loincloth to the side. He’s still nude.

I stand there, more bandages than skin, the sensation of their touch still lingering. The slaves have done their job meticulously, wrapping up my scrapes and bruises, salving my aching muscles, providing a buffer against the pain that threatens to bloom anew. Despite the trauma of the day, my body feels oddly fortified.

Snib, my goblin master, slouches back, a disgusting splay of green skin. His body is a stark contrast to my bandaged one, rough and dotted with warts, a crude testament of goblin physiology. His frame is covered in a sheen of sweat and his fat, foot-long cock dangles between his legs, flaccid and dribbling with remnants of his recent release.

An odious musk, a blend of sweat, semen, and virility, hangs in the air around him, saturating everything it touches. It's a pungent reminder of his breeding with Liliana, a horrid olfactory assault that sends my stomach churning and, to my utmost humiliation, a faint slickness pooling between my thighs.

His eyes roam over my bandaged form, the smirk on his lips widening as he takes in the sight. "Ain't ya a sorry sight, tits," he says, his voice gruff.

His hand swings out, landing a firm slap on my ass. I wince at the contact, the sudden sting cutting through the numbing salve.

"Look at ya, all done up. Did ya have to go and get yerself all banged up?" he continues, his gaze focused on the swathes of bandages that litter my body. “Yer worth more to me in one piece."

He chuckles, a grating, guttural sound that grates against my nerves. My gaze flicks to the door, where the slaves are waiting, their eyes sparkling as they watch Snib's display of dominance.

Suddenly, one of them steps forward, her hands full of oils and cloths. "It is your duty to bathe Master Snib," she says, her voice steady. I grimace at the thought, but there's no room for argument here.

The slaves explain the ritual to me, the reverence needed, the care and caution to use. They guide my hands, showing me the gentle strokes to use, the places to avoid, the exact way to cup his balls, the method to clean his stinking schlong. Their voices are matter-of-fact, as if they're instructing me on something as mundane as cooking a meal, not washing a virile goblin cock.

"But can't you—" I start, but a firm shake of the head cuts me off.

"No. This is your duty," the redhead says, her eyes solemn. The others echo her sentiment, their faces serious. They emphasize the importance of this task, this subservient act of washing Snib, how it's more than just hygiene, but a ritual of respect, an act of servitude that solidifies my place as his property.

Guided by the enslaved women, I approach Snib. The stench of him is stronger now, but I push through my disgust. It's a dreadful task, yet my mind barely registers it as I prepare to bathe him.

The women’s voices, hushed yet determined, guide me through each step. "Start with his body," the brunette instructs, reverence in her voice. A wet cloth is shoved into my hand and I flinch at its damp coolness. My task is clear - to clean Snib's squat body. His skin, oily and slick with sweat, glistens under the low light, his gut protruding significantly. I grit my teeth, swallow back bile, and start.

Under my trembling hand, his warty skin is cold and wet, rough against the softness of my fingers. I try not to flinch as I drag the cloth over his bulging stomach, the folds of his flesh oily and unclean. I can hear the women whispering amongst themselves.

Next, they guide me towards his lower body. My breath catches as the redhead steps closer, her voice hushed as she explains, “Now, his c- cock." She stumbles over the word, a blush coloring her cheeks. But her gaze is unyielding, filled with a determination that leaves me with no room for protest.

I kneel in front of Snib's massive cock, my heart pounding. It’s an imposing sight, even in its flaccidity. My stomach churns as I reach out, my fingers trembling as they wrap around his massive, veiny shaft. The sensation of his slimy, cum-covered cock in my grasp sends a shiver down my spine.

As instructed, I clean it thoroughly, the slaves' whispers a constant murmur in the background. "Good, Tit-bitch. Don't forget the veins... And the tip... Yes, just like that..." They coo, their voices brimming with false encouragement.

A sour taste creeps up my throat as I run the cloth over his cock, wiping away remnants of cum and Liliana's juices. The feel of it in my hands, slick and warm, is enough to make me gag. His phallic flesh is heavy, intimidating, a symbol of my humiliation and forced servitude.

His cock is veiny, thick and vascular, a symbol of the raw power that he wielded so freely just moments ago. I’m reminded of Liliana, the woman he likely just impregnated. The humiliation of this task, this ritual, burns hot within me. The memory of being Aldric, once the hero of Eboncrest, is but a fading ember against the reality of my present circumstance.

Despite my horror, I continue with the cleaning, spurred on by the enslaved women's incessant whispers. My task is complex, each part of his grotesque body requiring a different care and attention. His cock, even flaccid, demands a certain amount of reverence, a detail the women emphasize over and over.

The entire process is incredibly surreal, every stroke of the cloth against his green skin, every crinkle of the skin beneath my fingers. The girls coo, pleased with my progress, but I feel only nausea and a simmering rage.

Meanwhile, I'm a ghastly spectacle, bandaged up, my tits partly hidden, my skin raw and red. My bikini bottoms are the only piece of clothing that affords me some dignity.

Amidst this ritual, my body betrays me. A heat rises within me, centered between my thighs, a heat that’s as unwelcome as it is uncontrollable. The scent of him, the musky, male scent, triggers an instinctive response in me, a base biological need of some kind. I shudder.

Through it all, the enslaved women's instructions never cease. Their tones are earnest, worshipful, they're under the goblins' sway, their minds clouded by months or years of the intoxicating pheromones. Their flushed faces, their wide eyes, they're entranced, lost to this world. And they want me to join them, to succumb to the goblins just like they did.

The women’s breathy whispers wash over me, their words echoing through the tent, a constant reminder of the humiliation and subservience. I am no longer Aldric, the hero, but Elise, the slave, the Tit-bitch.

Still, I clean Snib, my hands moving with a life of their own. His skin is clean now, no longer slick with sweat and filth. I have no doubt that this could very well be the first time in Snib’s life he was ever clean…

The women guide me through the next phase, a ritual I'm woefully unprepared for. With hushed whispers, they hand me a collection of bottles, each filled with oils and creams of different colors and consistencies. There's a reverence in their movements, a worshipful attention to each bottle as they explain their purpose. They're specific, exacting. This isn't just cleaning. This is conditioning, treating Snib’s cock with a respect that churns my stomach.

The first bottle is filled with a thick, golden oil, an earthy aroma wafting from it. One of the women, her voice husky with pheromone-induced arousal, explains it's for his shaft. “Stroke it in. Use your fingers, not your palm, like this...” She demonstrates on her own hand, her fingers moving in slow, sensual circles. It's instructional, clinical, but the erotic undercurrent is unmistakable.

Trembling, I pour the oil into my hand, the cool liquid pooling in my palm. My fingers, slim and feminine, curl around Snib's cock, the skin soft and warm against the rough, oily texture of the goblin flesh. The oil slicks his skin, coating it in a sheen that catches the light. My fingers move over him, massaging in the golden oil as instructed.

My stomach clenches, a heat stirring deep inside me as I work the oil into his flaccid cock. It twitches in response, starting to fill out, starting to harden. The sensation sends a jolt through me, an involuntary reaction to a primal part of my mind. The feeling is uncomfortable, unwanted, but undeniably present.

Next, the women hand me a bottle of green cream. “This is for his tip,” they explain, their voices breathless. They guide my hand, showing me how to apply the cream, how to massage it into the sensitive skin. The smell of the cream is rich, heady, an intoxicating scent that fills the tent.

My heart pounds in my chest, the scent of the cream stirring something deep within me. I can feel my body responding, my nipples hardening against the rough fabric of my bandages, a heat building between my thighs. I try to push the feelings down, to ignore them, but the physical sensations are overwhelming.

The cream melts under the heat of my hand, a sticky, slippery substance that adds another layer to the grotesque sensory overload. As I massage it into his cock, my fingers sliding over the sensitive tip, his skin pulses beneath my touch. His cock twitches again, and the sight of it, hardening, growing under my touch, sends a shudder of revulsion through me.

Another bottle is passed to me, a silver liquid shimmering within. The redhead instructs me in a breathy whisper, “This one's for his base, for the...uh, balls. You must be gentle, Tit-bitch. They're sensitive.”

I kneel between Snib's legs, his massive balls looming before me. The sight is a grotesque spectacle, one that has me swallowing back bile. His sack is heavy, the skin textured and rough, a stark contrast to the sleek, oiled shaft of his cock. I pour the silver liquid into my palm, the cool sensation a brief respite from the heat emanating from his loins.

As I apply the oil, I can't help but cringe. The sensation of his balls in my hand, the weight and texture, is nauseating. But I continue, driven by the whispers of the women and my own need to survive.

Their whispers fill the tent, their words echoing in my mind. They coach me, guide me, instructing me in the best ways to massage his balls. The process is meticulous, the attention to detail absurd in its intensity. My fingers move in circles, careful and precise, the silver oil making his sack glisten.

Throughout it all, my arousal grows, a slow-burning heat that tightens my belly and sends warmth flooding to my cheeks. The scent of the oils, the feel of his flesh beneath my fingers, the sight of his hardening cock, it's all too much. It's a terrible, awful sensation that I can't control.

There's a tightness in my chest, a sensation in my breasts. My tits, heavy and bandaged, feel fuller somehow, as if the heat is spreading, reaching every part of my body. I can feel my pussy dampening, my panties growing wet despite my disgust. It's a physical reaction I can't control, a base biological response to the male pheromones in the air.

My humiliation is complete as the women hand me a ceremonial loincloth, a token of Snib's victory. Their faces are flushed, their eyes sparkling with arousal as they guide me in draping it over his now glistening cock. The cloth is soft, a rich, deep red, contrasting starkly against the grotesque spectacle of the conditioned goblin cock.

The loincloth fits snugly, highlighting the size and girth of Snib's hardened cock. I adjust it, ensuring it sits just right, a terrible symbol of his victory and my humiliation. My fingers tremble as I arrange the cloth, the fabric rough against my skin.

I step back, taking in the sight. His cock is a monstrous thing, looming and grotesque, a symbol of my forced servitude. It's a sight that makes my stomach churn, but also sends a thrill of arousal through me, a reaction I despise. My body is betraying me, reacting to the male presence, to the goblin pheromones.

"Make way! Make way! Here comes Grokk the Grand, spawn of Griznak the Gruesome, fruit of the legendary loins of the original Griznak himself!"

Grokk, the unmistakable figurehead of the Griznak Gobboree, shoulders his way into the room, announced by the shrill, incessant proclamation of his personal scribe.

Grokk's larger-than-life figure fills the room. He stands head and shoulders above Snib, his barrel chest heaving, straining against the regal, gold-embroidered loincloth that leaves very little to the imagination.

Grokk's beady eyes lock onto Snib, his large green fist tapping his meaty thigh in rhythm with his words. "Snib, you enjoy my gift?" His guttural voice cuts through the cavernous space like a crude blade.

Snib bows low, exposing the top of his shiny, bald head. "Yes, Chief Grokk, the gift... very good."

The lascivious grin on Grokk's face deepens, turning his gaze on me. His eyes travel up and down my barely concealed figure, lingering on my heaving breasts and between my legs. The appreciative hum he emits sends a shudder of revulsion coursing through me, a feeling I can't suppress. My skin crawls under his gaze. I feel violated. Exposed.

"Your Tit-bitch fought well. Soft but... fierce." The lewd comment hangs in the air between us.

My cheeks burn. My blood runs cold.

"I propose a wager, Snib." Grokk continues, ignoring my discomfort, "Tomorrow, Tit-bitch fights my slave. Winner takes all. If your Tit-bitch wins, I give you 2000 gold. If she loses..." His lewd grin widens, his eyes glinting with naked desire as he trails his gaze down my body. "I claim the right to breed her."

My heart pounds in my chest. Breed me? My stomach churns, revulsion courses through me. I feel like a commodity, a piece of meat up for auction. A breeding sow. The iron collar around my neck feels heavier, my cheeks hotter, and I feel the distinct stirrings of something deep in my core. Something I despise but can't control.

Snib extends his gnarly hand, taking hold of Grokk's forearm in a firm grip. The room falls silent as the two goblins perform their traditional pact - a binding, brutish gesture signifying the gravity of their agreement. Grokk's loud, grating laugh fills the tent, echoing off the walls before he strides out.

The moment they depart, the deafening silence is broken by my outburst. "You can't just... just trade me like I'm some... some piece of property!" My words, raw and desperate, hang in the stagnant air.

Snib turns his warty face towards me, an uncharacteristically serene expression on his face. My collar tightens around my neck, constricting my breath. I choke, gasping for air. But Snib just watches me as I collapse onto the tent floor. My bandaged body quivers, weak and trembling.

"No! You can't... you can't do this!" I struggle to get the words out between gasps, my hand clawing at the cursed metal around my neck.

But my protests fall on deaf ears. Snib remains unmoved, watching me as I writhe on the floor, my voluptuous body heaving and jiggling in the scant armor. His green, veiny schlong even hardens at the sight, a glistening bead of pre-cum seeping out of its massive, shiny head.

"Enough, cow tits!” His guttural voice slices through my cries, "Only if ye lose! If ye care so much, don't lose!"

His words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the wind out of me. I'm on my hands and knees now, the collar slowly loosening its deadly grip around my neck. My chest heaves as I gasp in ragged breaths, my tears mingling with the dirt and grime on the floor.

"Master..." I choke out, "Master, please..."

As if I could ever expect any sympathy from this horrid goblin, regardless of what gold I earn him.

His laughter rings hollow in the silence of the room. "When receivin’ a proper challenge like this, from the chief no less, I HAVE ta agree." His words are sharp, devoid of any warmth or empathy. "Fight hard, bitch. Grokk's spawn... well, they have been known to be too much for slaves' bodies."

My heart thuds painfully against my ribcage, his words echoing in my mind. I fall silent, my body curling into itself as sobs wrack my frame. It's too much. It's all too much. I'm nothing more than a toy, a pawn in their cruel games.

—

The scent of animal furs fills my nose as I curl up on the far end of our shared bed, as far from Snib as possible. His raucous laughter echoes around the tent, his sick enjoyment of the day's spectacle clear as day. I'm wrapped up in bandages, feeling every ache and twinge in my body. I can't stop my mind from wandering to tomorrow, to what monstrous challenge I'll have to face.

There's also another, more insidious torment. It's been days since Snib forbade me to touch myself, and every nerve in my body is a tightly coiled spring. A hot, insistent throb pulses deep within me. I'm so wet, my pussy aching for some form of release. It's unbearable.

I swallow my pride, turning to face Snib. "Master... may I...?" I trail off, my cheeks burning with embarrassment.

"No." His voice is blunt, a cruel smile stretching across his warty face.

"But I... I need..." I stammer, my lower lip trembling. The weight of my humiliation, of my desperation, is almost more than I can bear.

He cuts me off, his laughter rumbling in his chest. "Only if I get to taste your little pussy."

Revulsion courses through me at his words, a shudder of pure disgust wracking my body. I feel bile rise in my throat, the thought of his thick, warty tongue on me... No. I can't. I won't.

"No." My voice is barely a whisper, but I can see his grin falter for a split second.

His eyes darken. But I turn away from him, a harsh sob ripping from my throat. "No," I repeat, louder this time.

My body writhes in the furs, caught in a torturous blend of desire and humiliation. I try to block out his grating laughter, his smug satisfaction. But it's impossible. It fills the tent, fills my mind, till there's nothing else.

There's a tipping point in every struggle, a moment when the burden becomes unbearable. I feel it. The moment shatters inside me like glass, and I crumble beneath its weight. There's a desperate plea in my voice when I finally say it, the words dripping with a shame I never thought I'd know. “…fine,” I whisper.

My heart races in my chest, thudding against my ribs with each beat. The dull throb between my legs transforms into a sharp, painful pulse, echoing my body's desperate cry for release. My throat is dry, and I swallow hard, tasting the bitter bile at the back of my mouth.

Tears spring to my eyes, the hot salty drops rolling down my cheeks. The back of my hand brushes against my nose, catching a tear before it falls. I want to scream, to shout, to lash out, but all I can do is curl up, my body shaking with suppressed sobs.

The image of Elara's smiling face flashes in my mind, and I feel a pang of guilt deep in my chest. She wouldn't understand, wouldn't forgive me. But the need is unbearable, a sharp, gnawing ache deep within me. It's a physical torment, a desperation so intense I can barely breathe.

A nauseating wave of self-loathing washes over me. I've been reduced to this, a needy, desperate woman begging a goblin for pleasure. The humiliation is scorching, an inferno that consumes me from the inside out. It's a new low, a depth of despair I've never known.

With a hideous delight, Snib drags me to the edge of the pile of furs. He lifts my ass, my body poised on my knees, my G-cup tits mashed into the animal hides. His rough, warty hands grip my wide hips, pulling my ass cheeks apart. I can feel his hot, fetid breath against my exposed pussy, the moist puff of air causing me to shudder in revulsion.

Every sensation is magnified, a tormenting symphony of disgust and arousal. The heat of his breath seeps into the folds of my pussy, tickling the sensitive flesh. My body betrays me, my pussy clenching and throbbing in response. I feel the wetness trickling down my thighs, a damning evidence of my body's betrayal.

The scent of my own arousal is musky and sweet, a distinct contrast to the earthy smell of the animal furs beneath me. It's a reminder of my base need, a physical manifestation of my desperation. I try to ignore it, to block it out, but it's as relentless as the throb between my legs.

His disgusting voice slices through the silence of the tent. "You're a needy slut," he sneers, the words slapping against me like a physical blow. His laughter ripples through the air, filling the space around me with his triumphant gloating.

Snib's rough, warty fingers dig into the pale flesh of my ass, pulling my cheeks apart again. There's an odd sensation of cool air brushing against my pussy, foreign and disconcerting. A humiliating gasp escapes my lips as the delicate folds of my cunt open to the frigid air. It's an intimate exposure I'm not used to, a breach of the masculine boundary I had once known.

"Never seen a cunt so wet," Snib cackles, the sound piercing the tense air like a wicked barb. His words fill me with dread, an awful sense of vulnerability that spreads from my exposed core to the rest of my body. I feel more like a woman in this moment than ever before, a pitiful contrast to my former glory as Aldric.

The feeling of having a pussy, a gap between my legs that yearns and aches, is alien to me. It's an unwelcome void, a vast chasm that echoes with the remnants of my lost virility. I remember the weight of my cock, the pride in my masculine prowess.

There's a noise that cuts through my thoughts, a wet, obscene squelch as Snib toys with my pussy, opening and closing it with his cruel fingers. The sound resonates in my ears, a lewd symphony of my disgrace.

My black hair fans out around me, strands of it sticking to the damp fur below. It clings to my face, an uncomfortable, foreign, feminine sensation.

My pussy ACHES, throbbing in rhythm with my pounding heartbeat. It's an alien sensation, a physical response to my forced femininity. "That's a lot of cunt-slop," Snib taunts, each word laden with depraved glee.

Then, the moment I've been dreading arrives. Snib's thick, warty tongue snakes its way up my pussy, sending a bolt of sensation shooting up my spine. I let out a low whimper, my voice muffled by the furs I'm pressing my face into. Each lick sends waves of unwanted pleasure rippling through my body.

The heat is unbearable. Sweat trickles down the curves of my body, beading at the tip of my nose and rolling off my cheek. My skin is on fire, a stark contrast to the cold air that teases my spread-open cunt. The chill makes me shiver, my large tits jiggling with the movement, mashing and wobbling amidst their bandaged confines.

"Juicy," Snib cackles, and my heart drops. My breath hitches in my chest. His vulgar words shatter any remnants of my dignity, reducing me to nothing more than an object of his pleasure.

Then his tongue licks up the length of my pussy, hot and wet and utterly revolting. A jolt of something — disgust, humiliation, but also a shameful spark of pleasure — shoots up my spine. I try to stifle a whimper, pressing my face into the furs. The softness of the fur against my cheek is a stark contrast to the rough, brutal treatment of my pussy.

Heat floods my body, flushing my skin as sweat trickles down my body. I can feel droplets rolling down my cheeks, pooling at the base of my neck, soaking into the bandages binding my massive tits. They're uncomfortably warm, mashed into the furs, a wobbling mass of softness in their tight confines.

My pussy throbs in rhythm with the licks of Snib's thick, clumsy tongue. Each stroke of his tongue sends sparks of sensation ricocheting through me, building a wave of tension. It's a lewd dance, an indecent rhythm that sends the blood rushing in my ears. The sparkles of pleasure are becoming a wave, a tide of tension that builds and builds within me.

Snib's cruel hands give my ass a harsh smack, the sharp sting causing me to gasp. My ass cheeks jiggle, my whole body trembling with the force of the spank. His face burrows deeper between my cheeks, his thick tongue delving further into my exposed pussy.

The sensation of his tongue against my folds is foreign and unsettling, a violation of a part I'm not used to having. Yet my body reacts, the tension within me winding tighter and tighter with every intrusive lick. A low moan escapes my lips, my voice muffled by the furs. The sounds I make are indecent, humiliating, yet I can't stop them. They fill the air, joining the squelching sounds to create a chorus of my submission.

Each lick, each slurp, sends a shockwave of sensation through me. The feeling is overwhelming, a whirlwind of emotions and sensations that leaves me dizzy. The pleasure grows, the wave getting bigger and bigger. It's a tsunami of tension, looming and threatening, promising to crash down and engulf me in its terrible, unwanted ecstasy.

The ferocity of Snib's assault on my pussy grows, his tongue lashing against my throbbing, wet folds. It's a relentless rhythm, one that spirals my senses into a vortex of obscene sensations. The heat is unbearable, a fiery pulse that matches the lewd cadence of Snib's tongue.

The sounds I'm making... God, the sounds! They're an echo of my submission, a symphony of carnal surrender. Each moan, each gasp, serves as a testament to my unraveling. They're the crude language of my body, raw and undeniable. I hear them ricocheting off the canvas walls of the tent, taunting echoes of my humiliation.

I can't help it, can't quell the torrent of moans that spill from my lips. They're a dam that has broken, releasing a flood of shameful, guttural sounds. They're primal, elemental, a fundamental expression of helpless female pleasure that I'm experiencing, truly, for the first time.

I understand now. The moans, they're a signal, an instinctual reaction to pleasure. They are a surrender, an invitation. I feel the concept fully now, an understanding that sears into my mind with every stifled cry and whimper that escapes my lips.

The pleasure consumes me, a tidal wave of sensation that swells with each invasive lick. I feel it in every nerve ending, a tumultuous storm that upends my world. It's an awful ecstasy, one I wish I could quell. But it's there, inside me, swelling, expanding, an orb of sensation that pushes against the confines of my body.

"Good girl," Snib leers, his voice a grim reminder of my disgrace. The compliment is like a slap to the face, a cold gust of reality that tears through the veil of pleasure. But it does nothing to halt the impending climax, the powerful surge of release that threatens to crash over me.

The pleasure builds and builds, like a symphony reaching its crescendo. It's a dizzying whirl of sensation, a carousel of lewd thoughts and unwanted arousal. I moan louder, my cries full, uninhibited. They fill the tent, haunting refrains of my fall.

With every lick, every thrust of his rough, warty tongue, the tension spirals higher and higher. It's a cruel crescendo, an awful climax that looms on the horizon. The wave is coming, and I know, with a shudder of fear and anticipation, that I won't be able to outrun it.

Suddenly, without warning, it strikes.

A crescendo of sensation, an explosion of pleasure that detonates at the core of my being. The sensation is so powerful, so intense, that my vision blurs, my eyes crossing as the earth-shattering climax takes hold. It's a physical shockwave, rippling outwards from my pulsating pussy, tearing through my body with devastating force.

The cry that tears from my throat is raw, primal, a squeal of surrender that bounces off the canvas walls of the tent. It's a testament to my defeat, my submission, my transformation. I'm no longer Aldric, the mighty warrior of Eboncrest. I'm Elise, the Goblin's pet, moaning and writhing in pleasure under the relentless assault of Snib's eager tongue.

As I convulse in the throes of the powerful orgasm, my heavy, G-cup breasts sway wildly under me, the bandages straining, tearing, and finally giving way. My tits spill out, bouncing freely, slapping against the fur with each violent shudder of my body.

The sounds are debauched, obscene, the kind of sounds no proud warrior should ever make. The squelching, the wet slurping as Snib eagerly laps up my pussy juices, the mewling cries torn from my throat, they all blend into a lewd symphony of my submission. My body betrays me, the powerful orgasm causing my pussy to squirt, the stream of cunt juice shooting out behind me, painting the furs beneath me.

My thighs tremble, the muscles straining under the violent shudders that tear through my body. They're slick with sweat, the skin glistening in the dim light of the tent, the muscles twitching with each convulsive wave of pleasure.

Every nerve ending feels alight with sensation, a barrage of feeling that threatens to overwhelm me. I feel every lick, every slurp, every gulp as Snib drinks me in, his leering presence a constant reminder of my disgrace.

My mind is a whirlwind of sensation, my thoughts consumed by the pulsating pleasure that seems to be tearing me apart from the inside. It's an unbearable ecstasy, a crescendo of arousal that leaves me breathless, gasping, mewling into the furs.

The climax is all-consuming, a tidal wave of pleasure that crashes over me, leaving me a quivering, gasping mess in its wake. I'm spent, utterly drained, my body aching with the remnants of the earth-shattering climax. I collapse onto the furs, my body heavy, the aftereffects of the orgasm still coursing through me.

In the wake of my climax, I'm a pathetic sight, my body sprawled on the furs, my once constricting armor replaced by torn bandages and glistening sweat. My thighs are slick with my own juices, the scent of my release filling the air. I feel hollowed out, sated yet defeated.

Snib's voice fills the tent, a grating, guttural sound that echoes in the stillness. "Ain't no hero no more, are ya, bitch?" he says, the cruel delight clear in his tone.

I can almost see the wicked grin splitting his warty face, the glistening eyes gleaming with sadistic joy.

"You're just a dumb cow, ain't ya? A dumb, jiggly cumdump. Squirtin’ everywhere."

His voice drips with mockery, every word a pointed jab at my fragile pride, a reminder of my debased state. I can almost see the triumphant smirk playing on his lips, feel his hot, rank breath brushing over my shivering, sweaty skin.

I can't find the strength to respond, my body still quivering from the force of my climax. My mind's still a whirling mess of thoughts, each more confusing and disheartening than the last. My only reply is a whimper, a weak, pathetic sound that just seems to fuel Snib's delight.

"What's that? Can't talk, huh? Good. I don't need you talking. You're here to obey, bitch. You hear that? Obey." His voice is low, menacing, the command leaving no room for argument.

I feel a shudder course through me, not from pleasure, but from fear. Fear of the control he wields over me.

"All that fighting in the pits, doesn't make you a warrior," Snib continues, his voice thick with derision. "You're just a bitch in heat. My bitch. And you're gonna start acting like one."

The thought is as horrifying as it is humiliating. I'm not a bitch. I'm a warrior. Or at least, I used to be.

"You'd better start behaving, you fat-assed tart. Until I release you from your curse, you're gonna obey me." His tone is matter-of-fact, as if he's merely stating the obvious. As if my servitude, my surrender, is a foregone conclusion. "The only reason I haven't bred you yet is 'cause I know you're gonna beg for it."

The denial springs to my lips instinctively. "No..." The word comes out as a whimper, a plea, hollow and empty in the wake of my recent climax. “…never.”

A vile chuckle, a pat on my fat, jiggling ass. The touch is almost comforting, in a twisted, perverse way. It's a promise. A prophecy. A harbinger of the debasement that is to come.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that, cow tits," Snib says, his words ringing in my ears as he retreats, leaving me lying there in a puddle of my own release, a pathetic, whimpering mess. As I hear the rustling of furs and the satisfied sigh of the goblin settling into our shared bed, I can't help but shudder, fear and loathing mingling with a perverse sense of satisfaction.

As I close my eyes, I can't help but think of the future, of the humiliations and degradation that surely await me. But I also think of freedom. Of Eboncrest. Of Elara. And I promise myself, I will resist. I can't let Snib break me. No matter what.