Arthur pushed open the heavy wooden door of the stable, its hinges screaming with the weight of years.
A wave of humid, suffocating air struck him immediately—thick with the musk of sweat, the acrid tang of seed, and the animal heat of bodies grinding together.
The torch he carried flickered, its glow trembling across the beams, and with it came the revelation of a sight that rooted him in place.
Merlin was there, collapsed forward on all fours in the straw, her pale skin flushed with feverish red, her hair plastered in damp strands to her face and shoulders.
She was trembling violently, her body glistening, her voice torn apart by sobs and cries. And yet, despite her exhaustion, she was not alone.
A goblin crouched behind her, his clawed hands gripping her hips with savage greed, thrusting himself into her with desperate, animal rhythm. His guttural growls echoed against the rafters as if he were claiming her again and again, each sound tearing into Arthur's ears.
But worse—behind him, Arthur saw a line. An endless line stretching back into the shadowy corners of the stable.
At least a dozen goblins shuffled restlessly, their glowing eyes burning with impatience, their snarls growing sharper as they watched and waited for their turn. It was obscene, grotesque.
Arthur's throat tightened. He wanted to feel nothing but disgust, to turn away in fury. But something twisted inside him—something he refused to name.
His chest constricted as his gaze fell upon her, and he realized she was not just enduring. She was shining. Even in the filth, even in the exhaustion, her body seemed radiant, her spirit ablaze with something that both horrified and enthralled him.
Merlin lifted her head. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her lips trembling, but when she saw him in the doorway, her eyes—clouded as they were with strain—brightened. They found him, and only him, as if all the snarling beasts surrounding her were invisible. Her lips parted into a fragile, luminous smile.
Arthur's gaze swept past them—to the line. A dozen goblins waited in the shadows, eyes glowing, claws twitching, their hunger barely contained. The sight was obscene, yes—but it was also productive.
He stepped inside, slowly, his boots crunching straw. Merlin lifted her head, her eyes finding him instantly. Despite the tears, despite the strain, she smiled—soft, radiant, proud.
"Arthur…" she whispered, voice trembling. "I'm doing it. I'm useful, right? I can give you so many… I want to."
Arthur nodded once, his expression unreadable. "You're doing well," he said. "The system's working. You're keeping pace."
The goblin behind her snarled and spilled, her body shuddering with the release. Another stepped forward, impatient, and Merlin braced herself, arms trembling, lips parted in a breathless moan. But her eyes never left Arthur.
He moved closer, standing just beyond the torchlight. "You're not just useful," he said quietly. "You're reliable. That matters more."
Merlin's smile widened, even as her body was claimed again. "I'll keep going," she whispered. "I'll give you everything."
Arthur watched, arms folded, his gaze steady. There was no lust in his eyes, no shame—only calculation, and a flicker of something like pride.
He turned toward the door, pausing at the threshold. "Rest when you can," he said. "Tomorrow we start training the new batch."
Behind him, the goblins snarled and shifted. Merlin moaned softly, her voice laced with devotion.
Arthur didn't look back. But his voice carried, low and firm:
"Good work today."
The goblin buried in her snarled and spilled, her body convulsing with a choked cry as warmth poured into her.
He yanked himself free, and before her shuddering form could recover, another shoved him aside, forcing himself into her with reckless urgency.
Merlin gasped, her arms buckling, fingers clawing weakly into the straw as her body was stretched open once more. Yet her gaze never wavered.
She clung to Arthur with her eyes, her lips quivering into a desperate, radiant devotion, as though this degradation was a sacred duty.
She looked at him not with shame, but with pride—lips trembling, gaze steady, radiant with purpose.
Arthur's jaw locked.
The goblin behind her snarled and spilled, Merlin's body convulsing with a sharp cry as warmth surged through her. She gasped, arms buckling, fingers clawing into the straw.
Another goblin stepped forward, impatient, shoving the first aside and claiming her with reckless rhythm. Merlin braced herself, her breath hitching, but her eyes never left Arthur.
His fists curled so tightly his knuckles whitened. His mind screamed at him to leave, to slam the door, to cast her aside and never return.
And yet—he did not. He stood there, caught in the grotesque rhythm of the scene before him, his heart lurching painfully against his ribs.
His gaze lingered—too long. And then he felt it.
And shamefully, horribly, he felt himself hardening, arousal swelling swelling where control should reign.
A heat rising in his chest, unwelcome and sharp. His breath caught, his jaw clenched. He was supposed to be above this—above the distractions of flesh, above the pull of desire.
But his body betrayed him.
He shifted in place, fists curling at his sides. Not from lust, but from shame. The system was working. She was working. And yet, something primal stirred beneath the surface, mocking his control.
He stepped deeper into the stable, watching the rhythm of the cycle unfold. The goblins moved with instinct, but Merlin moved with intent. She was the center of it all—the engine of his ascent.
She moaned softly, her voice laced with strain and devotion. "I'll keep going," she whispered. "I'll give you more. As many as you need."
Arthur nodded once, his voice calm. "You're doing well. Keep pace."
He turned, boots crunching straw, already calculating the next hunt, the next cooldown, the next wave of growth.
Behind him, the goblins snarled and moved. Merlin gasped again, her body already preparing for the next.
Arthur didn't look back. He didn't need to.
The system was working.
He drew back into the shadows, hiding his face so she could not see the heat burning in his eyes. His lips twisted in disgust—at himself.
"Pathetic…" he muttered, voice low and bitter. "I need a woman of my own, or this lust will keep humiliating me."
Still, he did not look away.
POV Merlin
The rhythm was endless. The wet slap-slap of flesh against flesh, the guttural snarls filling the stable. "Grhhhnk… khraaagh… shrrrk!" Goblins pressed closer, claws scraping against the straw, their breath hot, their bodies slick with sweat. The air reeked of musk and heat, every sound a chorus of chaos.
Another finished with a shuddering "Urrrhhhn… ghhak!" as his heat spilled inside me, and I screamed through clenched teeth, my body jolting. My arms nearly buckled, but before I could collapse, another was already there—claws seizing my hips, shoving into me with a brutal rhythm. My cry split the air, half sob, half moan, drowned out by his panting growls: "Rhhghhh! Hrhhhaaghh!"
And still, through the haze of pain and frenzy, my thoughts drifted. To another time.
I remembered evenings by the fire, Arthur's hand brushing mine, the quiet strength in his eyes when he looked at me as though I might be more than his servant. As though I might be his. A partner. His equal. His heart.
But that was gone. Lost. Now my body trembled under the weight of them—every thrust, every guttural snarl, every bruise—"Uuughrrnn… ghhhrrrhhhhnnkhhh!"—was proof that I could still serve him. Not as his beloved, but as his weapon. As the vessel that would build his army.
My head jerked, hair plastered to my face with sweat. Through blurred eyes, I saw him—Arthur—standing in the doorway. Watching. My chest swelled with frantic joy, hotter than shame, stronger than pain.
"Arthur…!" My voice cracked, spilling into a moan as another slammed harder, my cry blending with their "Grhhhnk! Khrrraaghh!" "See me! I'm useful, aren't I? I'll never stop… I'll never fail you again!"
Another clawed goblin shoved close, his slick weight pressing against my lips, growling "Ghhrrnnkhhh!" as he forced me open. My gagging gasps were swallowed by his thrusts, my throat trembling with "Ghhhhhkkhhhnn! Urrrrhhh!" Still, I clung to him, desperate—not for them, never for them—but for Arthur's gaze. For him to see me give everything.
Behind me, the line shuffled forward, endless. "Hhhrrrhhk! Ssshhhkrrhh!" The stable echoed with their snarls, their panting, their animal frenzy. My body was theirs. My soul his.
Once, I dreamed of his hand entwined with mine. Now, I was the vessel through which his empire would be born.
And with every trembling breath, every guttural snarl around me, I knew—it was enough.
The stable was alive with sound. Not just the slap-slap of wet flesh, not only the crash of claws against straw—but a savage chorus, a primal chant of guttural growls that rose and fell in waves. "Ghrrrhhhhn! Khhhrrraaghhh! Ssshhrrrkhhh!" Dozens of throats roaring, snarling, grunting in rhythm with their thrusts, until it felt like the walls themselves trembled.
My body was fire. My skin slick with sweat, hair plastered against my cheeks, lips raw from gasping cries that blurred into broken moans. Every time one spilled his heat into me, another was already clawing forward, seizing, pushing, claiming. Their stink clung to me, their sweat dripped onto me, their growls filled my ears.
And still—I clung to the thought of him.
Arthur. His name echoed in my head louder than their snarls. My chest swelled as the ache in my core twisted into something darker, something shameful: pleasure. A molten current racing up my spine, breaking free in breathless moans. "Ahhhhnn—! Hhhhhnnnhhh—!" My cries blended with their guttural chants, as if I were one more voice in their savage choir.
For a heartbeat, I felt it consume me. The rhythm, the brutality, the burning rush of being filled again and again. Pleasure clawed at me, fierce and undeniable, and I wanted to fall into it. To drown. To be nothing but flesh, trembling and dripping, a vessel split open.
But even in the storm, even as my voice broke into whimpers of twisted ecstasy—"Aaahhhhnn—gghhhhnnnk!"—I forced the image of Arthur to the front of my mind. I was his. Always his.
"Arthur… Arthurrr…" I sobbed between thrusts, my voice muffled by the thick weight pressing into my throat. Goblins snarled, rutting against me with animal urgency, "Rhhhkkhhhnn! Ghhaaarrhhhnnnk!" but my words were not for them. My body might quiver under their claws, but my soul bent only toward him.
My heart screamed as loudly as my voice: See me. I'm giving everything. Even this pleasure, even this surrender, it's for you.
The chorus around me rose, a frenzy of panting and growling, their thrusts faster, harsher. My moans blurred into them, indistinguishable—an offering, a confession. And in the haze of sweat, pain, and shameful bliss, I knew the truth:
Once, I dreamed of Arthur's hand in mine. Now, I offered him my body's ruin, my moaning devotion, my corrupted pleasure.
And if this was how I could serve him, then even in this filth, even trembling and broken—I was whole.
The air was thick with heat, the stable a furnace of sweat, seed, and musk. Every thrust drove sharp, wet sounds from my body—shlk, shlk, slap, slap—while the goblins' guttural growls surrounded me.
"Grhhh-kkhhrrhh… hrrrkkk-rrraaahhh!" one snarled behind me, claws gripping my hips as he hammered into me, his chest slick and heaving against my back. Another crouched in front, his rough panting filling my ears—"Hhhhrrkkhh… grrhhhaaahhkk…"—before his cock forced past my lips again, muffling my cries.
"Ngghhhkk—hhkkhhfff—mmfffhh!" My gagging moans blended with their bestial noises, so close I couldn't tell if it was them or me anymore. My body betrayed me, shaking, quivering, drowning in waves of heat that made me whimper and arch for more. My cries grew louder, desperate, echoing in the same savage rhythm as theirs.
And still—still, deep in the haze, my mind clung to him. Arthur.
Even as my throat worked around the goblin inside me, even as another slammed harder into my soaked, stretched cunt with a roar, I thought only of him. I wanted him to hear me through the chaos, through the filth.
"Ahhh—Arthhhurrhh—hhkkkfffhh—!" The name tore from me between choked moans, rising like a prayer above the snarls.
The goblins' voices surged, a chorus of animalistic hunger:"Rrrhhkkhhrrhh… hrrraaaghhh… gggghhkkhhrrrhh!!"
And my own sounds—wet, broken, trembling—answered them, fused with them, until I was no longer sure if I was begging them or him. My hips moved to meet their thrusts, my throat opened to take them deeper, but my heart… my heart belonged only to Arthur.
I was their toy, their vessel, their endless use. But with every growl, every spurt, every obscene slap of flesh, I whispered his name inside me, clinging to it like the last fragment of who I once was.
Because no matter how lost I became in the pleasure, no matter how much my cries echoed like theirs—
every drop, every bruise, every surrender was for Arthur alone.