Arthur lay sprawled on his narrow bed, one arm across his forehead, the other slack over his chest. The candle beside him had guttered low, shadows crawling across the walls like restless thoughts.
The words he had spat came back to him, sour on his tongue: Then be my goblin's brood sow. Cruel. Thoughtless. A curse meant to drive her away.
But she hadn't recoiled. She had obeyed. With tears, yes—but also with that wild, fevered gleam in her eyes.
She may deny it. But I saw the truth — the way her body responded, the flicker of joy in the devastation.
Arthur turned his face into the pillow, groaning. Somewhere beyond the walls, in the dark of the stable, she was still with the goblin. The thought stabbed him—and twisted. He saw it too vividly: Merlin's flawless body, her desperate devotion, her soft curves yielding to that brutish, grotesque thing rutting without hesitation.
Watching her wrecked in front of him, part of the breeding ritual.
Revulsion surged, but so did heat.
His hand drifted downward before he could stop it.
He cursed himself, even as his pulse hammered. He pictured her tearful face turned upward, gasping, radiant in her shame.
The grotesque and the divine tangled, burned into his mind.
"Pathetic," he hissed through clenched teeth, stroking harder. "She's in a stable with my tame… and I—" his voice broke into a snarl "—I'm hard over it."
The bitterness only drove him further. Release came sharp, muffled, spilling hot across his stomach. He collapsed back, chest heaving, the smell of sweat and seed thick in the air.
Silence pressed in. He wiped his hand absently on the sheets, mouth twisting into a bitter smile.
"Look at me," he whispered to the empty room. "A man who couldn't keep her… who gets off on his own woman being fucked by a beast." A laugh slipped out, low and hollow. "What business is that to run?"
But the images clung. Merlin—beautiful, broken. The goblin—tireless, grotesque. And himself—split between hatred and hunger.
Seeing the goblin like that unsettled him. There was a strange echo inside, a flicker of connection — as if he were the one moving, the one lost in the ritual.
It was almost as if he could feel her wrapped around his length.
He rolled onto his side, staring at the flickering candle. The flame danced like a mocking spirit, casting long shadows that stretched across the floor like grasping fingers. He hated the quiet. It made him think. It made him feel.
And he didn't want to feel.
When morning pried through the shutters, Arthur rose with a sour taste on his tongue. His sheets were a wreck. His mind, worse. He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, and sneered at the floor.
"Brilliant. Send her to the goblin, she obeys, and I sit here tugging like a stable boy. What's next—charge admission?"
Yet even as he mocked himself, the grotesque began to reshape. Shame bent into thought, thought into numbers, numbers into schemes.
One goblin. One breeder. One Merlin.
The rules of summoning echoed in his mind: only one direct summon. But lineage… that was different. Offspring weren't bound. Breed once—reap endlessly.
His stomach turned, but excitement sparked beneath. Goblins for labor. Goblins for muscle. A self-sustaining horde. Grain was slow, cattle costly—but goblins multiplied like weeds.
He stood at the window, eyes on the damp fields of Hamlet.
This miserable hamlet that had laughed at him.
With goblins, with power, he could turn the balance.
And Merlin…
His grip on the sill whitened. She was still in the stable, clinging to her delusion that she was earning her way back to him. That desperate shine in her eyes haunted him, both pitiful and powerful.
"Pathetic girl," he whispered—yet heat tinged the word. "Pathetic… and useful."
The grin that spread across his face was thin, cold.
Shame had been repackaged. Last night's fool was gone. In his place stood Arthur the schemer.
"Let's see," he murmured, amused now, "how deep one goblin—and one woman's desperation—can stretch."
He dressed slowly, deliberately, the fabric rough against his skin. The morning air was damp, clinging to his neck like guilt. But he didn't flinch. He had a plan now. And plans didn't care about guilt.
He sat on the low stone step outside the barn. The bread was coarse, yesterday's, torn in half with quiet fingers. He didn't rush. Each bite was slow, deliberate — like he was chewing through thought, not food.
The chickens clucked. The wind stirred the tall grass, brushing against the barn like a whisper — not of peace, but of something watching.
At the barn door, he paused. He didn't enter. He didn't need to.
He knew what was inside.
He knew what she had become.
He could almost see her — naked, her skin was slick with sweat and cum, pussy swollen and sore, surrounded by green limbs and hungry eyes.
Maybe the goblin's cock was still inside her.
Once again, the image returned — the goblin's length disappearing inside her, her body reacting, trembling, accepting.
And she had done it for him.
No — she did it for herself.
He turned away, heading toward the old shed where he kept his tools.
There was work to be done. Fences to reinforce. Feed to prepare. Space to clear.
The farm was changing.
And Merlin… Merlin was already part of it.