The straw pricked against her bare feet, the air thick with dust and the sour tang of sweat and beast. Merlin's heart pounded so violently she thought it might burst, yet her body obeyed, trembling but still moving forward, because she could not—would not—lose Arthur.
Her eyes flicked toward him in the shadows, hoping, begging for even the smallest trace of warmth. But he only leaned there, silent, cold, his arms crossed, watching as though she were nothing more than a spectacle. The hollow in her chest ached deeper than the shame burning across her skin.
The goblin's breathing was ragged, each sound scraping against her nerves. She could feel its gaze on her body—hot, hungry, feral—and it made her shudder. Not because of the creature itself, but because Arthur did not stop it. Because Arthur had commanded it.
Her throat tightened, tears stinging her eyes. This isn't sex. It's not. It's… it's something else. Something I can endure. The words rang hollow inside her, desperate lies whispered to herself as she clenched her fists, willing strength into her shaking frame.
She wanted to scream that she wasn't dirty, that everything she had done before, all those nights, had never been betrayal. She wanted him to understand that every smile, every touch she'd given was still his, only his. But Arthur's silence crushed the words before they could leave her lips.
The goblin edged closer, the straw crunching beneath its clawed feet, its shadow merging with hers. She swallowed hard, her whole body locked between terror and a strange, bitter hope. Because if this was the price—if this was the only way to stay by Arthur's side—then she would pay it.
Her tears spilled silently as she lowered her gaze, whispering only to herself:
Don't look away. Don't falter. Endure this, and maybe… maybe he will let me stay.
Merlin sank to her knees, the straw clinging to her skin.
Her breasts were full, pushed forward, heavy under pale skin.
Her waist was narrow, exaggerated by the wide flare of her hips.
Her backside was large, firm, tilted upward with practiced ease.
Thick thighs parted naturally, streaked with dirt and sweat.
Her stomach was smooth, with a faint softness below the navel.
The skin was pale, marked by scratches and pressure lines.
Every curve was pronounced, shaped to be seen, shaped to be used.
There was no modesty in her posture. Just exposure.
Her hands pressed into the dirt, shaking, as she forced herself down on all fours. Every fiber of her body screamed with humiliation, but her lips trembled as she whispered—more to Arthur than to the goblin:
"P-please… if this is what it takes… don't cast me away…"
Arthur's eyes remained sharp, detached, his presence heavier than the dim lantern light. She could almost feel his judgment on her bare back, like a blade resting against her spine.
The goblin shuffled behind her, its panting rough and uneven, hot breaths striking her thighs. When she felt the sudden press of its body, she gasped, fingers clawing into the hay.
The hand settled firmly on the hips, fingers closing with precision, like gripping something built to fit.
The skin gave under the pressure, molding to the palm with practiced ease.
She didn't pull away. She didn't resist.
Something pressed forward—not violently, but persistently. A blind force, guided by instinct, pushing against the warm, hidden center of the kneeling form.
His cock pressed against her pussy, poised to enter.
"Ah—hnn…! W-wait…" Her voice broke, high and trembling.
Her body betrayed her—the years of being used by the men of the village had left her too honed, too sensitive. Even the anticipation made her thighs tremble, heat pooling low in her belly. She bit her lip hard, trying to smother the shameful sound threatening to escape.
She felt her precious place grow wet and aching with anticipation.
"Don't look at me, Arthur…! P-please… don't…"
The goblin growled low, impatient, its claws gripping her hips. With a sudden push it drove into her, forcing her forward with a wet, obscene sound.
His big cock entered her inch by inch.
"AAHhh—nghhn!" Merlin cried out, eyes wide as tears streamed down her cheeks. The sensation burned hot, overwhelming, far too intense. Her nails scraped across the wood beneath her palms, her body jerking with each brutal thrust.
She felt every nerve, every throb, the shape not unnatural, deeply embedded.
Every nerve lit up, every throb counted. The form fit — not foreign, just deep.
Her voice fractured into broken cries, half-suppressed sobs and shameful moans.
"Ahh—haa… n-no… it's too much…! Ahhnn…! P-please, Arthur, I… I'm still yours—only yours!"
Her pussy clenched, trying to feel better — and it did. Her toes curled with the sensation.
But Arthur gave no reply. He only watched.
The goblin's rhythm grew harsher, its guttural grunts filling the stable, each violent movement shaking her body forward.
He didn't move slowly.
He drove the full length in, hard, deep.
He wasn't thinking about feeling — only about doing more. Each thrust between her hips made a new sound.
He gripped her round ass with both hands, fingers sinking into the soft flesh until it gave.
He held her firmly, with purpose, adjusting her from the base. The angle was right. The patch of hair framed the center like a mark.
Her breath scattered in ragged gasps—"hahh, ahhh, ahhhnnn"—until her own sounds mixed with the creature's in a grotesque chorus.
She had never felt anything like it. Never this kind of intensity. Never this kind of hunger.
Nothing had ever felt like this. Not this deep. Not this desperate.
It was new. Violent in its depth. Starved in its need.
Merlin's thoughts blurred, drowning between her shame, her desperate pleas for forgiveness, and the unbearable sensitivity of her body.
"D-don't… don't leave me, Arthur… I'll endure anything… anything for you…!"
Her cry rose with another sharp thrust, her body quivering, betraying her devotion with every broken moan.
She felt his spit land on her back — another texture, another sound. The pressure was constant, unrelenting. His length emerged only to vanish again seconds later, driven with force and savagery.
The sound was obscene — wet, fast, and constant.
He was practically slamming into her, each brutal thrust making her body jolt. Whenever she shifted away from the angle he wanted, she felt his hands grip her hips and force her back into place.
He guided her through the savage rhythm, and she felt shame for wanting it.
A mhmp... broke from her throat — muffled, clenched, half-swallowed. It wasn't meant to be heard, but it slipped out, shaped by pressure more than choice.