Liora's Story [pt. I]

Liora Felderbrook was not the kind of daughter Felderwin fathers prayed for. She had the hips and backside of a broodmare, true, and every matron in the village whispered that she’d be the mother of a dozen sturdy babes someday. But her eyes were too sharp, her smile too sly, and the way she swayed her wide, generous rear was not the gait of a “proper” halfling girl.

It was a dare.

She was compact at the middle, waist tapering into a lush spill of curves that seemed extravagant for her small frame. Her breasts were modest but round and soft, freckles dotting her sun-warmed skin. Thick auburn curls crowned the cleft of her sex and matched the hair she kept unruly on her head, sometimes letting it fall in her eyes just to irritate her father’s scolds. Her thighs were pillowy, her calves firm from long farm days, her feet broad and furred in the rustic halfling way. What set her apart was how she carried herself: unapologetically fleshy, earthy, and ripe, but with a playful tilt of the chin that turned rustic curves into provocation

She had never been content with what was expected of her. Where most Felderwin girls settled into orderly lives - chores, husbands, children - Liora chased something messier. Sex, for her, was adventure. First with the boys of the village, behind barns and under haylofts, quick fumbling couplings where they moaned her name and she bit her lip to hide her disappointment. Then with travelers, the tallfolk who stopped at the tavern. She pulled shifts just for the thrill of it, serving mugs of cider and slipping into the storeroom with human farmhands or caravan guards.

The first time a human man lifted her skirts, she gasped at the stretch and thought she’d found the real secret of life. Later, she even bedded a half-orc Righteous Brand soldier on leave, thick and blunt and laughing in her ear while he rutted her against a stable wall. Liora’s curiosity was as bottomless as her need to prove that she could take more, handle what other halfling girls wouldn’t dare.

This was her rebellion: not cruelty, not crime, but pleasure. She would not be her father’s tidy, proper daughter. She would be the girl who spread her thighs wide to the world and came back grinning.

And then came that day in the fields, when a goblin with gold eyes and a ridiculous Felderwin lilt crashed into her. When she pulled him into the hay and let herself be split wide by something no man had ever given her. When she came with straw in her teeth, her wide hips clapping back against a wiry, **** body, and felt a heat flood her belly that her bones whispered was different.

Liora didn’t know it that morning in the straw, but the moment that goblin’s hot, endless load spilled into her and stayed there, her life was already bent off its rails. She felt it for weeks afterward. Her pussy wetter than ever, her belly warm, her thighs tingling whenever she remembered how thick he’d been, how her big halfling ass had jiggled when his wiry green hips hammered her.

And then her moons stopped.

And soon enough she started to show.

Her father scowled. Her brothers whispered. The neighbors shook their heads when her skirts tightened over a belly that grew rounder by the month. She never said a word about the father. Why would she? He was long gone, and she couldn’t stop fingering herself at night remembering the way her little stud’s heavy green balls had slapped against the backs of her thighs.

Two days later fate delivered a solution in a vest and a wagon: Dankin Barrelstock, broad-shouldered, decent, blue-eyed, the kind of halfling a father could approve. Salt, lamp oil, cloth bolts stacked neat. Liora met him at the gate too happy by half.

“You’re a sight,” she murmured, fingers lingering at his forearm. He went pink.

“I, uh- heard you needed salt.”

“Salt first,” she said, stepping close enough he could smell her, straw and sweat, a little cider. “Then me.”

In the storeroom she barred the door, kissed him hard, unbelted him faster than he could gasp her name. For a halfling, he was hung like a bull. An honest six inches, thick and eager.

But even as she spread her pillowy cheeks and felt him nudge in, she knew the truth: a monster in Felderwin was just a tallfolk average and nothing at all compared to the goblin log that had already claimed her.

“Do it,” she ordered.

He did, groaning as her hot, wet pussy swallowed him whole. Workmanlike pumps, hips slapping her big fleshy ass, breath hitching each time she clenched down. She milked him shamelessly, took his finish deep, then squeezed her thighs together like the lie needed help to stick.

They walked out mussed and pleased and hand-linked “by accident.” Her father saw the faces, did the math he could live with, and the banns were posted inside a week. The wedding was quick: field-flowers in her hair, Dankin in his best vest, neighbors drinking and counting on their fingers. No one said a thing out loud.

They moved out.

Farther than her father liked, toward the Ashkeeper Peaks where the hedges go wild and the air tastes sharper. “Too far,” he grunted, “Wolves.”

“Exactly far enough,” Liora said, and meant it in her bones.

They raised a house plank by plank. Dankin cut beams, hauled stone, hammered with the patience of a man who expects things to take time. Liora planted a kitchen patch, hung jars, set a big bed where the light fell sweet at dusk. They christened the floorboards half-nailed: her on her back on a blanket, Dankin kneeling between her wide-spread thighs, driving home in steady, grateful strokes, sweat dripping off his jaw onto her bouncing tits. She hooked her ankles around him and rode the last inches with a low laugh. Good man. Good tool.

When Tamber came, he came fast and loud: gold-flecked eyes, green-tinted skin, the softest scrap of hair like moss. Liora put him to her breast and felt something fierce and right settle into her hips. Dankin kissed her forehead, kissed the baby, and said nothing at all about color or ears. He just held them, and she loved him for it.

Dankin did his part each night with farmerly devotion. After supper and washing up, he would slide behind her, hand finding her breast, cock nuzzling between her thighs. On his back, she’d climb aboard and sink down with a happy hum; on hers, he’d set into that ox-steady rhythm, thick halfling meat working her open, fuzzy pubes bumping her clit in a simple, dumb-perfect cadence. He was a groaner, face buried in her neck, sweet and sweaty and grateful. He always finished inside, shuddering, whispering her name like a thanks he meant.

She praised him, meant it, but still her moons stayed regular. One month. Two. Three. No quickening. Liora started paying attention to her body close: slippery mornings, tender breasts, heat days that made her thighs slick just from walking. On those nights she’d ride Dankin hard, use him, pin his wrists, grind down until his eyes went wide and he spilled fast and thick. Then she’d roll onto her back, hips propped on a pillow, ankles crossed, fingers keeping him plugged in so not one drop leaked.

Nothing.

Frustration gnawed. The Felderwin aunties prided themselves on five or six; Liora wanted fifteen, a yard full of cribs, a house that sounded like a festival. If her hips were “made for childbearing,” then by gods she was going to prove it.

She did not stop loving Dankin. She did start touching herself more. Washing up, a wet hand would slip lower, two fingers circling that slick spot while she remembered being stretched in straw by a green cock that had made her squeal into chaff. She’d come quick and guilty, thighs shaking, then put the stew on like nothing happened.

On heat days she got shameless. She’d bend over the table and say, “Help me,” already spreading. Dankin would grunt happily and mount her, steady pumps, big hands full of her bouncing ass. She’d push back, greedy, but the edge never came; that deep, shocked oh of being filled past sense; and when he finished with that warm flood she’d press a palm over her belly and feel only the ache of want.

Nights: his steady duty, her gentler praise, the lamp swaying on its hook. Mornings: her thighs still slick, her smile tight. She started waking to a scent in the hedge when the air was still: smoke and stew, faint and sweet.

She didn’t say a word to Dankin. She kissed his jaw after he came, wiped herself on his thigh with a wicked grin because he liked the mess, and thought about green until her teeth ached.

Tamber got bigger, golden eyes alert, gums flashing a cute little bite when he latched. Liora hoisted him on her hip and paced the fence line barefoot, hair wild, skirt swaying around that big fleshy ass, looking toward the darker green where the track bent out of sight. The wilds pulled at her like a hand between her legs.

Her father visited, looked around at the tidy paddock, the straight fence, the distance, and said, “You’ll come back in a season.”

Liora smiled like a woman with a secret lover. “No, Da. I’ll be busier than ever.”

That night she climbed onto Dankin and rode him hard, hands on his chest, tits bouncing, thighs slapping his hips. He panted, “Gods, Lio.” and came with a helpless moan, cock kicking inside her, hot and good and still not enough. She slid off, straddled his face, and let him eat her until she shook; then, after he slept, she tucked two fingers inside herself and fucked the memory she couldn’t name, sweating and biting her lip until the bed creaked.

The moons kept coming. The itch kept growing.

One cool morning, with Tamber on her back in a sling and Dankin splitting kindling, Liora tied her hair back, and stood at the edge of the yard where the grass gave way to brush. The hedge breathed at her, stew and smoke and something like welcome, and the pull in her belly lined up with the ache between her legs so perfectly she laughed.

“I’m taking the boy for a walk,” she called, casual as you please.

Dankin glanced up, smiled that honest smile, and kissed her when she passed. “Don’t go far.”

“Just to the bend,” she lied, and stepped off the proper path, hips rolling, bare feet whispering in the grass.

Liora walked past the last hedge and kept going. The track thinned to deer paths, the grass got tall, the air went quiet in that good way that isn’t empty. She should’ve felt exposed with a baby on her back and no one within shouting distance. Instead she felt… watched and welcome. Like the woods knew her and had decided she wasn’t trouble.

That was when they found her.

Goblins. Half a dozen, leather-clad, wary but not cruel. Their faces startled her only for a moment before recognition struck: they were like him. Broad gold eyes, quick, sharp movements, even the way their voices trilled in the back of the throat. These ones did not speak her tongue, but they laughed when her child gurgled, and they crowded close with the warmth of kin. One took her hand; another offered dried meat. Soon they were guiding her along a deer-trail, into the folds of their hidden village.

They took her in, not like quarry but like a guest who’d finally arrived late. The village wasn’t anything like the stories. No heaps of carrion, no stink of shit, no snarling mobs with greasy hides. Instead the hollow had a quiet order to it, rough but purposeful.

Homes were dugouts cut into the slope, doors low and rooflines hidden under turf so they looked almost like bumps in the earth until you stood close. Smoke slipped from stone chimneys instead of **** the air. Trenches ran where the rain wanted to run, keeping the paths from turning to swamps. Blackberry hedges grew thick around the edge, thorn and fruit both, and tall sunflowers leaned along the main track as if they had been planted to show the way.

There were racks strung with drying fish, neat bundles of reeds waiting to be woven, nets hung wide to catch the sun. Children tumbled in the grass, shrieking with laughter, their ears twitching sharp as foxes’. A woman with her belly round as a harvest gourd bent over a small field scratched into the hillside, checking the green shoots pushing up from the furrows.

The smell in the air wasn’t rot or filth, but stew, smoke, and soap-ash. Goblins passed her with quick, sharp glances, some smiling wide with yellow teeth, some wary, but none of it was the cackling, blood-smeared menace she’d been raised to imagine. It wasn’t civilized, not the way the Felderfolk built towns, but it was a village: alive, busy, and clean in its own way.

It didn’t take long to see who ran things here. The women moved with the easy authority of habit, their voices cutting across the hollow to set children scattering or men shifting loads without protest. A pair of hunters padded in with rabbits strung on a line, and it was a grandmotherly goblin who inspected the catch, counted it, and sent them off again with a flick of her wrist. Even the young warriors lingering near the hedge fell quiet when a scarred notch-earred female snapped at them to fetch water. No one argued. The rhythm of the place ran on the women’s breath and the children’s laughter, and the men seemed only too glad to fit themselves into the spaces left over.

The women found her. They swarmed with hands and coos and fast, interested eyes, tugging at her sling, Mother? Mother? in their tongue, which she felt in tone if not words. One with heavy milk-breasts and a soft middle made a questioning noise, and Liora understood perfectly. She slid Tamber from the sling, and the goblin maid popped a green nipple into his mouth like she’d been waiting for him. He latched greedy, little fists kneading. The women clapped and laughed and patted Liora’s arm like she’d finally brought their nephew home.

Another tapped Liora’s hip with the back of her knuckles and patted the fire-warmed earth. Sit. Eat. Stay.

They chattered in a tongue she didn’t share and made themselves understood anyway: the pleading arc of hands when they pantomimed a cock so big; the rude, delighted cackles when Liora answered with her own hands and a grin that admitted everything. Someone rolled a keg out and thumped it with pride. Liora knew the brewer’s mark and didn’t tattle.

Liora drank and let the edge come off the day.

They tugged at her clothes, curious as cats. She let them strip her. Blouse off, skirt down, drawers peeled, all of her out in the open. No shame. They poked and cupped and admired like she was a prize sow and a festival queen at once. Her ass got the most attention. Big, soft, heavy; they slapped it and whooped when it bounced. She climbed onto all fours and shook it for them, a wicked grin over her shoulder, then spread her thighs just because she could. They oohed at the tuft of auburn curls and the fat, meaty lips beneath, one auntie tapping Liora’s clit with a knuckle and laughing when Liora jumped.

She laughed at their delight, warmth coursing through her chest and belly. This was freedom. This was what she had longed for when she’d daydreamed of leaving the quiet path of halfling womanhood.

Tamber burped, milk-drunk and happy, and the nurse slid him to her other breast without missing a joke. It was a women’s crush of bodies and laughter, and Liora in the middle feeling like she’d stepped into the right room at last.

The men had been watching. Of course they had. A stone flicked from a matron’s hand chased them back twice. The third time the women let them keep their ground. Liora looked up, and there they were: green, lean, scarred, cocks already standing, darker than their skin, heavy and slick at the tips. Not the impossible length of the first one who’d ruined her in straw, nothing was that, but a solid range that put halfling boys to shame. Each one wore the kind of proud, uncertain grin a man gets when the women have clearly decided and he’s just hoping not to mess it up.

Liora’s heart beat faster. She smiled without hesitation, an unspoken invitation. The first was no taller than Dankin and wiry as a gnarled root, but his cock was longer, his balls full and pendulous in a way that made her womb ache. It wasn’t her lover’s monstrous size, no, but it dwarfed what she had known in her halfling husband’s bed. And wasn’t this the secret dream she had carried since girlhood? Not one man, bound by vows and routine, but many, one after another, the pleasure unending. Creampie after creampie, the kind of fullness and heat she had only imagined until her pregnancy awakened the hunger fully in her.

Liora crooked a finger. “Come on, then.”

They didn’t barter. They didn’t make it complicated. She took two steps onto a sweep of packed earth warmed by the day, turned, planted her hands, stuck that big rear up like a banner, and wiggled until the first hunter’s eyes went glassy.

He knelt behind her, hands gentle on her hips like he was handling something valuable, and pushed in. Thick head, slow pressure, then the stretch she’d been missing, a grunt punched out of both of them at once when he seated past the tight ring. He groaned. She laughed breathless. “That’s it. Deeper.”

He gave it to her. Steady and deep, balls slapping her clit each time, a thunk that made her breath hitch. Her pussy took him like it remembered the shape, clutching and fluttering on the downstroke, slick squelch on the up. The women around them hooted encouragement; one knelt in front to stroke Liora’s hair back and kiss her sweaty forehead, another squeezed her breasts like she was checking for milk. Liora didn’t care who was touching what. She arched and shoved back and let the sound come out of her mouth like she was paying the woods back for the welcome.

“Fill me,” she said over her shoulder. “Inside.”

He did. He swore in a voice that went tight and high, pulled Liora back hard onto him, and poured. Hot. Heavy. The good kind that hits the cervix and tells the rest of your body yes, this. She moaned and kept that angle, greedy, so nothing spilled until he softened and slid out.

Another was already there, grabbing her hips before the first’s cum had finished drooling. He pressed in and hissed at how wet and hot she was, how full. Liora pushed back like she could swallow him to the root and then bounce. Her ass rippled; the women cheered; Liora grinned into her forearm and came hard, the fast, bright kind that yanks a sound out of your throat. He followed, shuddering, dumping a second load into the first.

They kept her. One after another. Positions changed when her arms shook; they rolled her onto her back and hooked her knees over shoulders to get that deep angle that makes you see sparks. They sat her in a lap and lowered her onto a fat shaft inch by inch, her asscheeks dimpling when he bottomed and her eyes going wide. They took turns. They shared. Someone held her hand and someone else licked her nipples and called her Mother in a tone that punched heat through her whole body.

Liora was shameless about it. She asked for inside every time. She begged for more when a cock twitched empty inside her. She laughed when hands slapped her ass and asked louder. She talked them through it,“there, there, deeper, don’t be shy, I can take it, yes like that, dump it”, until even the shy ones shook and spilled and slumped against her shoulder, grinning like idiots while the next one took their place.

When her thighs started to tremble, she flopped onto her side and let two more use her: one between her legs, slow and deep; one in her mouth, not rough, just grateful, her hand cupping his balls and milking him until he spurted on her tongue and she swallowed happily. The first bottomed out and finished inside her with a sob; she wrapped a leg around his hip and hugged him into the flood.

It wasn’t hours. It felt like all afternoon. At some point the nurse padded over with a sleepy Tamber, and Liora, panting and smeared with slick, kissed her son’s forehead and let him be carried off to nap under hands that would raise him like he belonged. Then she rolled back onto her stomach, stuck her rear up again, and took two more for luck.

When they were done, when the men had nothing left and the women were laughing and clapping, smacking her ass because it was the funniest, sexiest thing they’d seen that week; Liora lay on warm dirt, belly heavy, pussy leaking, hair stuck to her face, and felt an ache deep and satisfied that Dankin’s good, steady rut never gave her. She wasn’t comparing. She was counting. One more crib. Two. Ten.

They rinsed her at a water barrel, fed her more bread and fish, pressed a second cup into her hand, and draped a woven reed wrap over her shoulders. The matron with the hatchet face tapped three pebbles into a row and nodded like she’d finished a chore that mattered.

Liora kissed cheeks and laughed at jokes in a language she didn’t know and didn’t need to. Then she slung Tamber to her back, thanked the nurse with a squeeze of the hand, and let two hunters walk her to the hedge.

“Tomorrow,” one said in rough Common, hopeful.

“Soon,” she said, and meant it.

She made it home before the lamp needed lighting. Dankin was stacking cut wood; he looked up, smiled at the sight of them, and crossed the yard to kiss her. She kissed back soft, warm, full of secrets and also not, because the smell of stew clung faintly to her hair and his hands knew her body was happy.

They ate. They laughed. After, Dankin did what he always did: kissed her neck, pulled her onto the bed, slid into her with a grateful groan. She rode him slow and sweet, told him he was a good man, came for him because his hands were gentle and his heart was tender, and held him after like he was the best thing that ever happened to her and like she had a whole world to build.

Her moon didn't come.

She didn’t tell anyone a story about it. She didn’t need to. The homestead would hear before the neighbors did, Dankin from her mouth, the hedge from her smile, the woods from the way she walked.

Pregnant again. Right on schedule.