Arthur led her out of the city, the chains now gone, but the cattle-girl still followed close to him with the docile steps of a creature born to serve. Her hooves made a dull clop against the dirt road, and every sway of her hips emphasized the heavy, pendulous weight of her breasts. The sun caught the faint sheen of her skin, unhidden by clothing—her kind never wore any, and her voluptuous body was as much a natural marker of her breed as the short horns upon her head and the little tail swishing lazily behind her.
By the time they reached the farmstead, Arthur could already picture where she would belong. The stable was warm, its air thick with the earthy musk of hay and the sharper, rougher scent of goblin habitation. Merlin was there, pale but smiling faintly, hair disheveled as she leaned against the stall door. Behind her, goblins stirred restlessly, as though aware of the new presence arriving.
Merlin blinked when she saw the girl. "Arthur… what is she?"
Arthur's voice was calm, pragmatic. "A cattle-girl. Not a sow for birthing goblins—her use is different. She will be our cow. Her milk will feed them, and us. That's her role."
The cattle-girl stepped timidly into the barn, large breasts bouncing with each step, her breath leaving in soft, nervous Moooohs. She looked from Merlin to the goblins, then back at Arthur, finally lowering herself to her knees in front of him as if to prove submission. The tufted tail flicked once, her horns catching the lantern light.
Merlin tilted her head, her eyes scanning the girl's voluptuous frame, then Arthur again. "So… she will make the farm more fertile," she murmured softly, almost to herself.
Arthur gave a short nod. "Exactly. She will be the milk that fattens the goblins. You will continue your role. She will serve hers."
At that, the cattle-girl leaned forward, resting her hands on the ground and pressing her chest to the hay, the sheer size of her breasts spreading against it. She gave another low, docile "Muuuh…" as if affirming her place.
Arthur looked at her for a long moment. Yes. She would not be used like Merlin. She was something else entirely—an animalistic servant, a resource that would only strengthen the growing farm.
The goblins, watching with wide, hungry eyes, shuffled in anticipation. The farm was changing again.
Arthur's hands pressed against Rebecca's—Beca's—heavy breasts, testing them with a firm squeeze. His palms sank into the softness, fingers spreading as if weighing the promise of what she should provide. He pressed again, harder this time, searching for the vital yield. Nothing. Not a single drop of milk.
His brows knit, a flicker of frustration tightening his jaw. Dead weight, unless she gives. And yet… A traitorous part of him registered the sheer warmth and fleshly abundance in his hands, the animal vigor that radiated from her body. He forced the thought down, scowling inwardly at his own weakness.
The cattle-girl let out a soft, apologetic moooh, lowering her gaze to the hay beneath her knees, cheeks tinged crimson.
"Arthur…" she whispered with her halting, clumsy tongue, each word heavy with shame. "No milk… not yet. Cattle-girl… only give milk after… after sex. I never… before." Her horns dipped low, as if to shield her flushed face, the innocence in her tone making her seem all the more fragile.
Arthur pulled his hands away, expression carved into stone, but inside a storm began to churn—revulsion at the crude necessity, temptation at the idea of testing her claim, and above all the cold logic of what she represented: a resource that could not be wasted.
From the shadows, Merlin suddenly stepped forward. Her eyes glowed with a strange fire, equal parts jealousy and devotion.
"Then give her to the goblins," she said sharply, her voice trembling but resolute.
Arthur turned, startled not by her words but by the fervor that blazed in them. Merlin's pale face was taut, her lips parted as if the words cost her something. Her hands clutched her own chest so tightly her knuckles whitened, tremors running through her body. Yet her gaze never wavered.
"Arthur, if she needs that to serve your farm, then let them use her. She's only a tool. A cow. Nothing else."
The cruelty of her tone echoed in the stable. But beneath it, Arthur could hear something else: desperation. Obsessive, almost hysterical need. The way her pupils dilated, the near-glossy sheen of tears at the corners of her eyes—Merlin was trembling not from fear, but from a jealousy so raw it bordered on madness.
She would rather see Beca defiled by goblins, reduced utterly to livestock, than ever risk Arthur laying hands on her again.
Beca raised her head slightly, startled, her wide breasts rising and falling with her nervous breath. "M-Moooh?" she whimpered, the frightened, questioning sound breaking through the charged air, as though she had understood just enough of Merlin's venom.
Behind Arthur, the goblins stirred, claws scratching against wood, their throats clicking with eagerness. The sound was grotesquely alive, like beasts scenting prey.
Arthur's shadow stretched long across the hay as he stood silent, his expression unreadable. Inside, however, thoughts clashed violently. Merlin's zeal binds her to me—yet it twists her into something dangerous. The girl… she is helpless, her body begging to be used. And the goblins… they hunger for her already. Do I choose efficiency, cruelty, or temptation?
Merlin stepped closer, her voice cracking into a near-plea. "Arthur… please. Let them have her. She'll give milk. She'll serve your dream. And you'll never need to touch her yourself."
Her words trembled, but her eyes never left him, gleaming with the same obsessive fire that had driven her this far.
The cattle-girl's tail flicked nervously, her thighs pressing together as she shrank into herself, soft mooohs spilling from her lips. The sound was almost childlike in its vulnerability, jarringly at odds with the ravenous anticipation of the goblins.
Arthur exhaled slowly, the weight of choice pressing down on him. Disgust warred with amusement, practicality with morality. His silence held the power of a verdict not yet spoken, and in that stillness the entire barn seemed to wait, straining toward whatever fate he would decree.
Arthur's eyes lingered on the cattle-girl for a moment longer. Her soft moans, the way she curled into herself, the trembling in her limbs—it was all designed to provoke, to tempt. Merlin knew that. She was testing him.
He turned.
"Not now," he said, voice flat. "She's not ready. And neither are they."
The goblins stirred, confused. One tilted its head, ears twitching. Another pawed at the straw, letting out a low, questioning grunt. A third sniffed the air and gave a sharp yip, circling the girl with restless energy.
Arthur stepped forward, grabbing the nearest goblin by the scruff and hauling him upright. "We're going fishing," he said. "You want to be useful? Then act like it."
The goblin squirmed, then stilled, its claws twitching. The others responded with a chorus of grunts and snorts, some excited, some disappointed. One gave a long, plaintive whine, glancing back at the cattle-girl with a tilt of its head, as if asking permission.
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "No," he said. "She's not for play. She's for production."
The goblins lowered their heads, ears flattening. A few gave short, frustrated huffs, but none disobeyed. They knew his tone. They knew the rhythm of command.
He turned to Merlin, who still stood in the straw, her body flushed, her eyes gleaming with devotion.
"She'll be ready when I say she is," Arthur said. "Not before."
Merlin nodded, her smile soft and obedient. "Of course. I'll keep her warm. She'll be ripe soon."
Arthur didn't respond. He pushed open the barn door, the goblins scrambling after him like eager sled dogs, their claws clicking against the wood, tails twitching with anticipation.
Outside, the morning mist clung to the fields. Arthur strode ahead, eyes fixed on the treeline.
Behind him, the goblins yipped and bounded, their confusion already fading into excitement. One gave a sharp bark, another a rhythmic grunt, as if chanting the wordless promise of the hunt.
Arthur sat on the edge of the embankment, his feet firm on the damp earth, the fishing rod resting between his knees. The line cut the surface of the lake like a line of patience, motionless, silent. Beside him, Becca settled carefully, her knees together, her simple dress clinging to her body in the humid air.
"Moooh…" she let out, almost as a reflex, before speaking. "Thank you for letting me come."
Arthur didn't answer right away. He kept his gaze on the water.
"Tell me," he said, his voice low. "How did you end up as a slave?"
Becca looked at her knees, her fingers tracing a pattern on the worn fabric of her dress. "Moooh… my mother sold me." She said it plainly, without a hint of sorrow.
Arthur's grip on the rod tightened. "She sold you? Why?"
"Moooh… it is our nature, sir. My kind is not meant to live on our own. We are born to serve a master." Her eyes, large and sad, met his for a brief moment. "It is… our purpose."
He looked away, his gaze fixed on the water, but he heard her. He always heard her.
"Did they… did the other masters… ever abuse you?" he asked, his voice careful.
Becca looked at him strangely, a faint look of confusion on her face. "Moooh… no, sir. Humans do not see us that way. We are just… animals. Nothing more."
Damn… so I'm the freak for getting hard over her? No one else sees it? That body — sculpted, fertile, haunting. She's not just attractive… she's designed to be. And that's the part that twists the knife.
Arthur feigned a cough, adjusting his position. "And the other slaves?" he asked, his tone more conversational now. "Were they kind to you?"
"Yes, moooh… they were kind," she said, her expression softening. "It was good. But… I was always afraid. They… they were always talking about the corrupted creatures. The ones that roam the forests."
Arthur looked at the goblins, who were now chasing a large fish, grunting and splashing in the water. "Don't be afraid of these," he said, nodding towards them. "They are my tamed. They will not do anything I don't ask of them."
Becca smiled faintly, a small, hopeful curve on her lips.
The goblins lacked the same delicacy. Three of them had already launched themselves into the water with makeshift nets and bone spears, grunting and snorting as they dived, swam, and crashed into each other in search of movement beneath the surface. One of them emerged with a fish caught between its teeth, howling with satisfaction before throwing it onto the bank.
Becca flinched a little at the sight, but didn't move away. She looked at Arthur, her eyes large and moist, and let out another "moooh…" before trying to speak again.
"Moooh… they're… efficient, aren't they?"
Arthur nodded slightly. "They are. When they're not distracted."
One of the goblins, hearing Becca's voice, turned its head and grunted, swimming to the bank with curious eyes. Another followed, and soon two were approaching, sniffing the air, their spears forgotten for a moment.
Arthur intercepted them with a look. "No."
The goblins stopped, grunting in confusion. One of them let out a low sound, like a dog that doesn't understand why it can't play.
Arthur stood up, gathering the rod. "She's here to watch. Not to be a distraction."
Becca lowered her gaze, letting out an almost inaudible "moooh…"
Arthur looked at her, then at the goblins. "Get back in the water. I want five more before the sun sets."
The goblins obeyed, diving back in with grunts and splashes, like trained dogs returning to work.
Arthur sat down again, the rod firm between his fingers. Becca settled beside him, in silence.
"Moooh…" she said, after a while. "I like this place. It's calm."
Arthur didn't answer, but the line on the water remained firm. And all around them, the system kept working.
Arthur fished in silence, the rod firm between his fingers, the goblins diving like trained dogs—nets, spears, muffled grunts. Becca remained beside him, sitting with her legs together, letting out a timid "moooh…" whenever she tried to speak, but without breaking the rhythm.
It was the sound of slow, shuffling footsteps that broke the balance.
Arthur didn't turn around. He already knew who it was. The wooden staff, the shuffling feet, the smell of earth and smoke—one of the old men from Ashwood Hollow.
The man stopped a few feet away, his gaze fixed on the scene before him. The goblins, the timid girl, the man who was once just a village boy.
"So this is where you were," the old man said, his voice low, almost hoarse. "A cattle-girl and goblins. You're getting rich, huh, boy."
Arthur didn't answer. The fishing line cut the water, motionless.
"Merlin disappeared without a trace," the old man continued. "And you did too. No one knew where you went. Only the rumors were left. The whispers."
Becca let out a nervous "moooh…" shrinking a little.
The old man looked at her, then at the goblins who were throwing fish onto the bank with satisfied grunts. His eyes returned to Arthur, and there was something more there—not anger, not surprise. Just a silent mark of someone who had seen too much and spoken too little.
"We miss you guys," the old man said, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "You should stop by sometime. Old Tom has something set aside for you… or for Merlin. I don't quite remember."
Arthur nodded slightly. "Sometime."
The old man didn't answer. He stood there for a few more seconds, watching. The wind moved his beard, his eyes squinted as if recording every detail—not out of longing, but out of calculation.
Arthur remained in silence for a while, watching the fishing line move with the weight of a fish. The goblins grunted and splashed in the water, and Becca let out a low "moooh…", as if sensing the change in the air.
The old man was still there, standing a few steps away, his staff resting against his hip. Arthur finally spoke, without turning his face:
"Orlin."
The old man raised an eyebrow, surprised at the use of his name.
"What's the news from Ashwood Hollow?"
Orlin scratched his yellowed beard, his eyes squinted. "Ah… the same as always. The mill still turns, the iron still sings, and the dead are still buried. But there's always some gossip or another."
Arthur didn't answer, but the tension in his shoulders became visible.
Orlin continued, as if he didn't notice—or pretended not to notice—the weight of his words.
"Brenn still hammers iron, though his shoulders are slower. His hair turned silver, but he still has strength."
Arthur closed his eyes for a moment.
"Odran is still fat and red, as always. He lives laughing loudly, filling his mouth and his pockets."
Becca let out an almost unaudible "moooh…", shrinking.
"Caleb, the gravedigger… still talks to the dead. But now he also talks to the living..."
Arthur gripped the rod tightly. The bamboo creaked.
"And Tomas…" Orlin laughed quietly, without humor. "Old Tomas. The most devout of them all. He's looking for someone to help with things. They say he thought of Merlin. But she… disappeared, didn't she?"
Arthur let go of the rod, letting it fall onto the bank. The goblins stopped, as if they sensed the silence.
Orlin remained there, his staff resting against his hip, his eyes squinted as if still deciding whether he should say more.
After a long silence, he let out a sigh.
"You guys made the place feel lively, Arthur. The good conversations, the advice. And Merlin… ah, dear Merlin. Always so alive. So full of grace."
Arthur didn't move.
Orlin continued, with a nostalgic smile. "She had that way… you know? That filial sweetness. Always willing to help the old men. To listen. To give herself."
Arthur pressed his fingers against the rod, but didn't lift it. The bamboo creaked, subtle, as if it felt the weight of the memory.
He knew now what that meant. He knew what Orlin called "grace." He knew what the old men received in exchange for affection. And the image burned behind his eyes—Merlin, kneeling, smiling, serving.
Becca let out a low "moooh…", almost as if she sensed the knot in the air.
Orlin didn't notice—or pretended not to notice. "She was special. Still is, I imagine. If she's with you, then she's in good hands."
Arthur stood up slowly, his eyes fixed on the water. "She's fine."
Orlin nodded, the smile fading. "That's what matters, isn't it?"
Arthur didn't answer. The goblins fell silent, as if the silence had weight.
Orlin turned, his staff tapping against the earth. "If you stop by, tell her we miss her. The conversations. The graces."
Arthur stood still, his gaze lost in the lake. And inside, something broke—not out of longing, but out of disgust.