Each movement she made caused the fabric to shift, the heavy breasts swaying with a weight and momentum that the crude garment could not contain.
She was holding her child — a small hobgoblin boy, his features a softer echo of his mother’s — and her face was a mask of stunned disbelief.
“Me?” she breathed.
“The Lord — the Lord wants to see me?
First?”
The other hobgoblin women around her exchanged glances — envy, confusion, a dawning resentment that they tried to hide and could not.
The Lord had chosen Cumdump.
The mother.
The one with the child.
Why her?
Why not them?
‘He wants to see me first’, Cumdump thought, and a warmth bloomed in her chest that had nothing to do with the cooking fire.
‘The Lord — he remembered me.
He chose me.’
“Take care of him,” she said, handing her child to her husband — a hobgoblin man whose evolution had turned him from a wiry, anxious creature into a solid, dependable guard.
He took the child without question, his expression one of bewildered pride.
‘My wife.
Chosen by the Lord.
First.’
Cumdump adjusted her clothing — a futile gesture, the leather band and cloth wrap doing almost nothing to contain the body that evolution had given her.
She tugged at the strap across her chest, trying to lift the band higher, but the motion only caused her breasts to press together, the deep cleavage between them deepening, the flesh overflowing the constraints of the garment.
“I do not even look presentable,” she murmured, looking down at herself.
The cloth wrap around her lower body was little more than a loincloth, the fabric riding high on her thick thighs, barely covering the junction of her legs.
She was, by any standard, barely dressed — a fact that had not seemed important when she was cooking, but now, walking toward the Lord’s tent, felt acutely, painfully inadequate.
She walked.
Through the village, past the other hobgoblins, past the wolves who watched with their intelligent blue eyes, past Sii who stood at the tent entrance with an expression that was carefully, professionally neutral.
She entered the tent.
The interior was dim.
A single magical lamp hung from the center pole, casting a warm, amber glow that made the canvas walls glow.
The air smelled of herbs — the remnants of Sii’s medicinal preparations — and something else.
Something musky.
Something that made Cumdump’s nostrils flare and her pulse quicken without her understanding why.
The slime was on the table.
Small.
Blue.
Translucent.
Quivering slightly in the lamplight.
She bowed.
Deeply, her body bending at the waist, her arms at her sides, her hair falling forward.
The motion caused her breasts to hang — heavy, full, the weight of them pulling against the leather band, the fabric stretching, the cleavage deepening as gravity claimed the mounds.
“Master,” she said, and her voice was soft, reverent, trembling.
“You have awakened.
I am here.”
The slime did not respond immediately.
It sat on the table, its small, round body catching the lamplight, its translucent surface showing — something — inside.
Movement.
Shift.
Change.
Then it began.
The slime’s body expanded.
Not gradually — rapidly, violently, the small dinner-plate form inflating, stretching, restructuring.
Mass that had been compressed into a compact shape now unfolded, the slime drawing on the absorbed materials — the Tempest Serpent, the Black Spider, the Giant Rat, the Lizardman, the Cave Bat, the Dire Wolf — and combining them into a composite form that was larger, more complex, more intimidating than anything Cumdump had ever seen.
The body elongated.
Scaled.
The serpentine torso of before returned, but larger — thicker, more muscular, the surface a patchwork of textures: serpent scales here, spider chitin there, wolf fur along the spine.
Four legs, clawed, powerful.
A tail, splitting into tendrils.
And from the center of the mass, rising like a column, a cock — thick, ridged, blue, already glistening.
But this time, there was more.
The slime’s body continued to shift, to grow, additional protrusions emerging — tentacles, thick and warm, each one tipped with a sensory node that pulsed with bioluminescent light.
They extended from the main body in all directions, reaching outward, filling the tent with a writhing, living canopy of gelatinous appendages.
Cumdump stared.
Her mouth was open.
Her eyes were wide.
Her body trembled — not with fear, not exactly, but with something deeper.
Something that the bio-absorption link was already beginning to feed back to me: arousal.
Raw, instinctive, unbidden.
Her body was responding to the display of power, to the pheromonal signature that my transformed form was releasing, to the magical pressure that radiated from my body like heat from a furnace.
“Lord Veldora,” she whispered.
My voice emerged from the transformed body — deeper, resonant, carrying the full weight of the magical pressure I could now command.
“Do not say anything.” The tentacles moved, reaching toward her, the tips hovering inches from her skin.
“Let me check how well you have become.”
The tentacles touched her.
One on each shoulder, gentle, warm, the gelatinous surface pressing against her mauve-green skin.
Two more on her hips, curling around the curve of her waist, settling into the notch of her pelvis.
One — the thickest, the one that had taken the shape of a cock — pressed against the leather band across her chest.
The band snapped.
The leather, strained beyond its limits by the pressure of her evolved breasts, gave way with a sharp ‘snap’, and her breasts fell free — heavy, full, the dark mauve-green mounds swaying with the sudden release, the nipples large and dark, stiffening instantly in the cool air of the tent.
“Hhh —!” Cumdump gasped, her hands flying up instinctively, then stopping, then lowering.
She did not cover herself.
She could not.
The Lord had touched her.
The Lord had released her clothing.
To cover herself would be to reject his action.
“Master — I —” Her voice was a whisper.
Her internal thoughts, flooding through the bio-absorption link, were a cascade of submission, of devotion, of the desperate, burning need of a woman whose body had been reshaped by magic and whose mind had been shaped by faith.
‘He is touching me.
The Lord is touching me.
His hands are on my body.
I am — I am worthy.
I am—’