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Chapter 4 - Perched On a Nose

Steam rolled off the spring in waves. Warm, humid, brushing against my ankles and making them feel clean. I was still savoring the sting on my butt, refusing to let it leave me.

That green-skinned little boss, who was somehow still noble, had no qualms about putting her hands on me. It wasn't forceful, it was wanted. She could tell I was in rut.

"You get to cleaning that pot," she said, trudging off to do something. Something I'd look like an idiot asking about, best to keep my little mouth shut.

I nodded, bending over to slip off my heels. Her knife lay on a flat rock where I'd carefully placed it.

My hands drifted to my blouse-buttons. Should I? Too forward? What would my Masters think if they caught me getting split by some underling?

My uniform could use a good rinse anyway. I tiptoed stocking clad feet into the piping hot water.

It smelled of the salt that was caked on the edges of surrounding stones. 

It rolled my eyes. I liked getting rough and tumble, but this, this was the aftercare I needed and couldn't ask for. 

Upstream was a cleft, a gurgling waterfall pouring through it. Childhood trips to the springs around Salt Lake had taught me that's where it'd be hottest. If I had a chance of using Xar's rag to remove some grime from this disgusting pot, that'd be it. I began my trek. 

Smooth round stones shifted beneath me. I was treading carefully, in about half-calf.

I closed my eyes for a moment, taking in the lethargic babble. It was the first peaceful moment I'd had all day.

"Oh!" Something snaked around my ankles.

I yanked up a foot.

The shift in weight dislodged a stone, and I went crashing down, crotch-first, into screaming hot water, "Guahhh!" 

I couldn't decide what to fear more.

Whatever just touched me, or looking like an idiot in front of GM. I stole a glance over at her, tipping a stump onto its side, muttering something under her breath. 

Then there was my attention to the matter at hand. My ass, my mound, dimpled by river rocks, my sides, screaming hot, and something lurking underneath.

Okay, calm down, this is just the scene where you get "molested" my a kelpie or mer-goblin?

This is all you girl.

Relax.

Try to enjoy it.

But Jesus so hooooottt...

It didn't mash into my pussy.

Come on.

I tilted my head back, hole forward. 

Nothing.

Okay...

What is with consent here? Is everyone just nice, or am I too willing? 

Given previous role play sessions with Van I was expecting to be chased around by maiden-hungry perv-monsters. But that was not happening. 

Why isekai my ass if you weren't planning to take advantage?

A whirl of steam peeled around me, and when it passed, a watery proboscis hung in front of my face, thick as my fist.

It didn't have a mushroom tip. 

Am I supposed to...

It was going to be hot, scald the roof of your mouth hot.

"A kiss," GM called, "It wants a kiss."

A kiss?

Small bubbles ebbed through its shape.

"Mouth affinity, water, how do you not-"

Just a kiss?

It dipped, presenting its top to me.

No!

I slapped it. The thing recoiled, shivered, and shattered into a rain of pattering droplets.

Don't get me all worked up for a kiss.

Up near the tavern, GM wheezed, "You don't just... You could have had a spring spirit diligently lapping at your heels," she was doubled over, "It liked ya!"

Hmmph.

I was so fucking wet, and hot. This was supposed to be a relaxing dip. I'd ridden some sort of blue-skinned giant, come clean to a goblin, and now some watery try-hard wanted to be my pet.

I'll make a simp out of that roiling briny bastard.

Pulling myself to my feet, I grabbed the cauldron's handle and splashed my way to the waterfall. The temperature rose, my skirt dragging at my legs. I would feel this later, a day's worth of sunburn in 30 seconds. 

I forced the cauldron down into the stream.

"Here fucker! You like this!? Wanna lick my dirty dishes?"

I scrubbed and I scrubbed, Xar's rag knocking off clumps of crusted gruel. My knuckles screaming in near-boiling water. It was there, I saw it peeking just above the waves, a tiny crest.

Come on you little shit, get in here. Taste it.

GM was at the water's edge, looking at me like I'd gone mad.

It pooled at the lip, rose, and then tumbled inside. Circling the basin, it boiled.

Yeah, I know you like that.

Bubbles, years of misuse and caked grime bubbling and releasing, I tilted it down, letting it fill the cauldron completely. 

It's official. I'm a god-damn deviant.

That was enough. I tipped the pot over, spilling the spring-spirit back into its brink, and sloshed myself back to the pool's edge.

"If it would please you, Madame Goblin, I could quickly wash my hair,"

 

 

A quick dip later I was wringing out my freshly washed pig-tails. I sloshed back to shore, my skirt clinging tight to my thighs. She'd been watching.

GM had rolled a stump over and the knife was standing straight up, plunked into it, "If I can't teach you how to julienne an onion, you're a lost cause, just frolic back off to where you came from."

"Sorry Madame Goblin, but, julienne?" I asked in the politest tone I could muster, kneeling next to the stump and dirtying my wet stockings.

Those slitted eyes bulged, "Here, give me your hand."

Shouldn't she be kneeling for this.

I held it out, palm open, and she slid in the knife's weathered handle, positioning my fingers with his other calloused, clawed paw, "Don't let me catch you holding it any other way."

Mmhmm.

Grabbing an onion by its stalk, she slung into onto the stump, then clutched my wrist tight, and brought it hammering down twice. There was surprising strength in that frame. The onion's sweaty top and bottom had been revealed.

"Grab it." Her other arm came around my side, pointing at the onion, "Hold it vertical."

"Right, thank you Ma'am." my chest was tight, still sopping blouse cinched to it. I did as I was told, then he guided my wrist down like it was an extension of her own, with finesse, she scored a thin line across the onion's length. My wrist's pulse was pounding against her thumb.

She released me. "Now peel it, then chop it in half, length-wise, you should know that much." She was lazered on the onion, ready to punish me for any small mistake. How could something so simple feel so monumental? Freaking Goblin Ramsey here was itching to tear me a new one. My dungeon-master, Van, had watched way too much Hell's Kitchen and this is how she chose to express it? 

I tried to cement how my fingers were wrapped around the knife before I set it down, but my head was such a mess.

The onion filled both of my palms and more, I hooked my thumbnails into its slit and began to work back its skin. She was right there, beside my shoulder, pointed tongue picking at something caught in her maw of piranha-daggers. Another wave of cool spring-mist rolled over us and my skin prickled.

"Get on with it." She said, glib. It wasn't scolding, but it was the push I needed to get out of my head.

"Yes ma'am." I hurriedly yanked off the skin, ripping a couple extra layers in places. Snatching up the knife, I think it was in the right place, if it wasn't she was being merciful, and chopped it down and through the onion's core. 

Lightning quick, she discarded the onion skin, flipped the two sides on their flat ends, and had my wrist back in her hand.

She could make a killing at Three Card Monte.

Yanking me closer to the stump, she topped an onion half with two claws and began rapid jerking my wrist, and the knife, into the onion's side, cutting it into small slivers. We were rotating around it, her other hand dancing above the blade to hold things in place. One down, the slices were pushed forward, replaced with the other half, and the process repeated, "Got that?"

"I-"

I didn't.

"No ma'am."

Panic brewed in my gut, what kind of humiliation would she put me through next?

Another onion slapped onto the stump. She wielded me like a precision instrument. 

Trimmed.

Scored.

She peeled it one handed.

Positioned.

Split.

Julienned.

Set aside.

Again.

"Now?" She commanded.

Again.

I thought I had it, wanted to feign ignorance, let her keep handling me like this, "I don't know."

She didn't slow down, she sped up. She was showing off, and it was working.

Trim. Score. Peel. Position. Split. Julienne. Aside. Repeat.

A sharp smack to the back of my knife hand, and she said, "Last onion, you do it."

I was a knife being told to wield itself. Sure I'd been shoved through the motions, but there was no muscle memory. My elbow shook.

I slapped the onion down, and it rolled, into my lap. She didn't say a word.

"Sorry." I placed it this time, held it by its stalk. Her knife was beautifully sharp, I was going to lose a digit.

Slap. Slap.

Trimmed.

I grabbed it from the top, preventing a second escape, and inched closer. This required finesse, she'd rolled me, and the knife, over other onions' curved lengths.

It took no force, the onion simply came undone. I'd cut too deep at first. I steadied myself, and let my wrist bend to it.

A half-shrug from Gob-Mommy, a resigned admission of approval.

I felt emboldened, but wasn't about to peel this thing one-handed. After thumbing the top to separate the layers where I'd pushed too hard, it came free without a tear.

Slap. The onion split. Then came the hard part, the impossible part.

How in the world does he cut like that?

"Don't think about it. Just do it."

Those words held reverence for her. I could feel their weight, they were personal. She'd just shared a hard-earned truth.

"Yes Ma'am." 

But how do I- 

"It's not Ma'am, it's Chef."

My work was clumsy, unpracticed, some slices as thick as a finger, others paper thin. I made a mess of it, and it was the last onion.

"It's done, Chef. Sorry, Chef." I kept my eyes distant, trained on a red-bird in a fir. I trusted she wouldn't out me to my employers, but I still didn't want to disappoint her.

"It's onion soup, the guests won't be able to tell."

 

 

The onion-slices piled, we were back in the kitchen and ready to cook!

There was, thankfully, some chopped wood around the tavern's back. I made several trips, loading the oven, dreading the follow-up question I wasn't allowing myself to ask. How to start a fire?

GM was probably capable of it, but I didn't want to ask her. The implication here was that I'd whip up some maid-magic. It was an entry level ability anyone above with a D- rank in Hands could manage. Hands, associated with fire. 

I stood there like an idiot, eyeing the stove, as she whittled a stick. Fucking shoot me.

"They weren't lying about the appraisal, huh?"

She knows. Not just that I can't garden, or prep veggies. He knows that I'm trash, in every affinity.

"That's right." my still-damp dress was going frigid, the sun was setting and wind was our only other guest.

"I've got my work cut out for me then," setting his shiv aside he pushed to the edge of the counter, legs, and loin-cloth, dangling, "Boss said you'd need training, someone to milk for experience."

Is she? The fast-track. 

One of the other girls had suggested it, "Just go slut-crazy, that'll get you on track."

I wasn't opposed, I'd just not had the time. 

Especially with her, the way she handled me. I thought this was going to be a slog of monotonous labor. I'd have jumped her bone way earlier, but didn't know how the Mistresses might react.

But this was sanctioned. My own filthy goblin rod, an XP spigot, an ever-lasting gob-stopper.

"Use me."

Yes please. Put me to work Gob-Mommy.

"Heh, not going to make me beg for it?", she strummed clawed fingers across her nude thigh.

"No-no. You want it in my mouth? My pussy?" I opened my mouth wide, presenting my tongue and throat, and peeled up the damp cloth of my skirt.

Please say pussy.

"You forget you need to light a fire?" Her loin-cloth was moving to a beat of its own, rising, "You're using your hands." 

 My...Damn-it.

I lowered my skirt, tucked my tongue, "Yes Chef."

There was a grin trying to tug itself into existence on those cracked lips. I lowered my gaze.

Let her smile.

Then I approached her, draping her loin-cloth to the side.

It was rigid, a cock that belonged on someone three times her size. Easily eight inches. Green, with a pink frill and tip. I ran my fingers through the thick black mane at its source.

I needed something to fight friction, my hole was so wet, wanting to serve that purpose. The jar of lard stood at his side.

"Would Chef prefer I use the lard... or spit on it?" I kept my gaze low, removing myself from the space, from her decision.

"Oh you can spit, you can lick, but those hands are doing the work." Her pink pointer was bouncing. 

Thank you.

I wrapped my fingers through her fur, forming a circle around her base, and lowered to my knees, planting a wet kiss on his tip. Sweat, funk, musk, I inhaled sharp through my nose.

Haaaaaa...

Tuh.

Tuh.

Tuh.

Globs of spittle clung to her dusk-lit shaft, dripping lazily.

I worked my hand over the left side of her, and flicked my tongue up and down the right. Her taste was filthy, raw, that cloth hanging to the side as a banner for poor hygiene. My eyes rolled as I drew closer and closer to her musk-brush.

"Haah...There you go bitch, I'm slick, both hands now."

She wasn't the only one. I felt a drip. Pulling my tongue away, I praised her, "Yes chef," and clasped my other palm to her burning length.

I jerked her slow, veins ruffling under my fingers. She groaned.

She's enjoying himself, good.

My only wish was for a free hand to work my clit. Thighs squeezing, I rocked them, my drenched folds rubbing together, yearning for touch.

"C-chef... if it would please..." I didn't want to break composure, but the need, "Could I straddle you on the floor?"

Her chest puffed, "Making requests... and you still haven't served dinner."

God I would let her feast, drench her in onion-soup...

I picked up pace, squeezing her tight, "Fine-hah-fine," she said, "let me get down."

I released it, trailing a finger along her length, eyes still low, "Thank you Chef."

Her chest heaved as she slung herself off the counter and lay on the floor, eyes up my skirt. She could see the need rolling down my thigh.

I lowered myself, aiming to rock my clit against her shaft until we both came, but she grabbed my hips, pulling them back toward her maw.

She's going to let me ride face, what a-

"Oh!"

That long, hooked nose. It was there, its tip teasing the knot of my service-hole, "S-sorry Chef!"

She didn't let go. She pulled my thighs down. That down-turned hook pierced and nuzzled at my G-spot, "Nnngh-huh-huh."

I gripped her cock two-handed for stability, and began to jerk her again. 

Tuh.

She was getting too dry.

Tuh.

Tuh.

The size difference between us made 69 an impossibility, but I wanted to suck her. There was a wet lapping at my folds, that pointed tongue, searching, darting, and it found it, my call-button.

"Uaaagghh!" I screamed, I rode, I jerked, huffing, riding my spots against her points. 

Hot air steamed into me from her nostrils. She was getting close, her hips bucking into my palms, her cock throbbing.

"Ah-haah-Do it for me Chef, cum-all-over-me!"

That tongue, began thrumming side to side over my clit, teetering at the edge, my hips gave out. I fell back, impaling myself on her nasal-length. I shook, shuddered, and continue to jerk. Heat bloomed in my palms, hot enough to press a shirt, fire! 

"Fuuuu-haa-haaa-Aaaagh!"

I slumped forward off of her face, felt it shluck out of me, and kept jerking, draped across her. There it was, that tale-tell thrum, her pole turned to spigot, showering my back, "Someone- someone set off the smoke detector."

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