Her head snapped up.
Her eyes — dark, wide, glistening with unshed tears — found me.
Me.
The small, blue, translucent slime on the rock.
The slime that had — that had —
“Master?” she whispered.
“Follow — you mean — to—”
“To Dwargon.
You are coming with us.”
She looked behind her.
At her husband — the hobgoblin man standing near the cooking fire, their child in his arms.
His face was complex — pride, fear, jealousy, resignation, all fighting for space behind his eyes.
He nodded.
“You can do it, wife,” he said.
His voice was steady.
His hands, holding the child, were not.
“The Lord has chosen you.
Go.”
Her tears fell.
Silent, heavy drops that rolled down her cheeks and landed on the cloth bunched against her chest.
She did not understand — not the choosing, not the command, not the willingness of her husband to send her with a being that had done — whatever it had done — to her the night before.
But she followed.
Because the Lord had commanded, and because some part of her — the part that was still throbbing between her legs, the part that flushed warm at the memory of ridged gelatin pressing into her — wanted to follow.
‘He chose me.
Out of everyone.
He chose me.’
The journey through the Jura Forest took the better part of a day.
We moved at a steady pace — Ranga’s massive form clearing the underbrush ahead, Gopta and Galmund and Hakurou and Gobta flanking me, Cumdump trailing behind, her eyes on the ground, her hands clutching her makeshift covering.
The forest was alive around us.
Birds called from the canopy.
Insects hummed in the undergrowth.
The magicule density fluctuated as we moved through different territories — thick near the old dragon’s cave, thinner as we moved west toward the mountains.
I could sense creatures watching us from the shadows — Dire wolves, forest lizards, a family of Black Spiders — but none approached.
Ranga’s presence was enough to keep them at bay.
We talked as we walked.
The hobgoblins were curious, eager, their newly evolved minds hungry for information.
“Lord Rimuru,” Gobta asked, his young face open and earnest, “what is Dwargon like?”
“A kingdom built inside a mountain,” I said.
“Dwarves live there.
They are short, bearded, stubborn, and they are the best craftsmen in the world.
They can build in a day what would take us a year.”
“Shorter than us?” Gobta looked dubious.
He had been a three-foot goblin.
Now, evolved, he stood nearly five-foot-six.
“Shorter than I was?”
“Shorter than you were.
But stronger than you are now.
Do not underestimate them.”
“And they will help us?” Gopta asked.
“Just like that?
We are monsters.
Humans and dwarves do not—”
“They will help because I will make them help.
Leave the negotiation to me.”
I did not elaborate.
I did not need to.
They accepted it with the blind faith of followers who had seen their lord dissolve a wolf’s head in three seconds and name an entire village into evolution.
Night fell.
We made camp in a clearing near a stream, the fire casting dancing shadows across the trees.
The hobgoblins ate — dried meat and root vegetables, washed down with water from the stream.
Gobta fell asleep first, his back against a log, his mouth open, snoring within minutes.
Hakurou followed, the old goblin’s eyes closing mid-chew.
Galmund kept watch, his hand on his sword, his eyes scanning the tree line.
Gopta sat by the fire, staring into the flames, his expression thoughtful.
He was the most intelligent of the group — the village head, the leader, the one whose mind had been sharpened by evolution into something capable of strategy and planning.
“Lord Rimuru,” he said quietly.
“The woman — Cumdump — she has not eaten.”
I looked toward the edge of the camp.
Cumdump sat alone, away from the fire, her back against a tree.
Her cloth covering was still clutched against her chest, her knees drawn up, her face hidden behind her hair.
She had not spoken since we left the village.
She had not eaten.
She had not moved.
“She will eat when she is hungry,” I said.
Gopta looked at me.
Looked at her.
Looked back at me.
His expression said many things.
He said none of them.
“I will take the watch,” I said.
“Sleep.”
He nodded.
Lay down.
Closed his eyes.
I waited.
An hour passed.
The fire burned low.
The hobgoblins slept — Gobta snoring, Hakurou murmuring in his dreams, Galmund finally succumbing to exhaustion, his sword still in his hand.
Gopta’s breathing had deepened into the slow rhythm of true sleep.
I bounced.
Toward Cumdump.
She was awake.
Her eyes — wide, wet, reflecting the dying embers of the fire — tracked my approach.
Her body tensed, her hands tightening on the cloth against her chest, her legs drawing closer together.
“Master,” she whispered.
“I —”
“Follow me.”
I bounced toward the forest.
Into the darkness beyond the campfire’s reach, into the shadows between the trees, where the moonlight filtered through the canopy in pale silver fragments and the air smelled of moss and wet earth and the musk of sleeping creatures.
She followed.
Her bare feet made almost no sound on the forest floor, her body moving through the dark with the instinctive grace of a hobgoblin — a creature of the forest, adapted to shadow and silence.
I stopped in a small clearing.
A natural space, ringed by ancient trees, the ground soft with fallen leaves and moss.
Moonlight fell in a single bright column through a gap in the canopy, illuminating the center of the space.
“Bend,” I said.
Her breath caught.
A small, sharp sound — the gasp of a woman who had been hoping, against all evidence, that the night would pass without repetition.
“Master, I —” Her voice trembled.
Her hands shook against the cloth.
“Please — I am still — from last night — I am still sore —”
“Bend over.”
She bit her lip.
Her lower lip disappeared between her teeth, the flesh whitening under the pressure.
Her eyes glistened.
A tear tracked down her cheek, catching the moonlight.
She bent.
Slowly.
Her body folding at the waist, her hands releasing the cloth — which fell immediately, her breasts swinging free, heavy and full, the dark nipples stiffening in the cool night air.
Her hands found a tree trunk, her fingers gripping the rough bark, her back arching, her hips tilting upward, her thick thighs parting for balance.
The cloth at her waist — the loincloth — was the last barrier.
I extended a tendril, hooked it under the fabric, and pulled.
The cloth fell.
Her body was fully exposed — the curve of her ass, the glistening folds of her pussy, the tight ring of her ass, the heavy breasts hanging beneath her, swaying with each trembling breath.
I transformed.
After all, a bitch needs a dog, and a thick bitch needs a hound…
to get fucked by.