Nott Tames a Gnoll

Caleb sat back against the tree, exhaustion finally overriding the knot of panic in his chest, one knee bent, his hands quiet at his sides.

Through Frumpkin’s borrowed eyes he sent his awareness creeping through the glade, weaving between underbrush and shadow. One by one, he found them: seven shapes crouched at the edges of the clearing. Yellow eyes gleamed, muzzles hung open, and every chest rose and fell with heavy panting. They weren’t charging. They weren’t fighting. They were watching their leader and the strange goblin who’d brought her low while their own extended members and dripping quims gave away just how “fixed” they were on the spectacle.

He kept a spell half-shaped in his fingers all the same, the old muscle memory of fear, thumb rubbing the smooth edge of a focus stone while he counted heartbeats. If the… “spell” of this lunacy broke, if the pack remembered what it had been chasing, he would light the clearing like a kiln and pay for the guilt later.

He dropped back into his own sight with a sigh, rubbing gritty eyes. Gods beyond the Gate, what a tableau he returned to.

Moonlight carved the glade into silver, painting Nott and the towering gnoll as if they were illustrations in some obscene bestiary. All pretense of clothing was gone. Nott’s coat, dress, all discarded and trampled. The gnoll had shed what scraps of harness she bore. What remained were two animals, utterly different and yet mated in rhythm. Nott, small, wiry, green, with that grotesquely massive cock like a third limb, mounted and directed a beast four times her size. The hyena-woman responded like a trained mount, growling when commanded, whining when denied, tail snapping up when Nott’s hand cracked against her ass.

Nott looked smaller without her ragged mass of cloaking clothes but not lessened, if anything, the naked sight of her was sharper, undeniable. Long green hair spilled down her narrow back in tangles, catching silver in the moonlight. And above it, those broad, blade-like ears jutted proudly to either side, twitching with each ragged breath. They framed her in a way he’d never considered before: a goblin silhouette, yes, but one strangely elegant in its outline.

And below, gods help him, her backside. He had never expected to think the word beautiful about a goblin’s ass, but the sight left him parched. It was small, yes, but perfectly rounded, taut in its curve, the kind of shape that drew the eye no matter how he fought it. Every thrust made it flex and ripple, firm globes that clenched and relaxed in an unholy rhythm. The moonlight traced across it like a hand. The absurd mass of her green scrotum hung well beneath, full and swaying, forcing her stance wider to accommodate the weight, and somehow making the roundness of her buttocks even more striking by contrast. A flawless geometry of filth and power.

This was something Caleb had never seen. Confident. Commanding. Not the jittery thief who masked terror in jokes, but a goblin rutting like she owned the world.

“Ha! Good bitch! Bounce on it! You’re so big but you’re mine now!” Nott cackled, voice ragged with lust, thrusting hard enough to make her own small frame jolt. “That’s it! Up, down, ride it like a fucking tavern stool, you big hairy slag! Look at you- pussy dripping like a burst wineskin, and all for goblin cock!”

It surprised Nott and froze Caleb’s lungs for a beat when the gnoll answered back. Not a bark. Not a howl. Words. Broken but clear.

“Harder. Fill me. Give it. Give it all.”

Caleb blinked, the world tilting a fraction. He had seen their weapons, their crude armor, but some part of him had filed the pack under beast, teeth and hunger, nothing more. Hearing Common spill from that muzzle, need shaped into grammar, was a shock.

Nott’s ears twitched like she’d been struck. Her jaw hung open, and then she let out a sharp laugh that pitched almost to hysteria. “Ohhh fuck! She talks! She fucking talks! Hah! And here I thought you were just slobber and tits, but no- you’re begging! Begging for goblin meat! Oh, gods, that’s rich!” She twisted her hips, burying herself deeper, the cock bulging against the gnoll’s belly. “Say it again! Say you want it! C’mon, bitch, say it or I’ll make you lick the mud off my balls!”

The gnoll snarled not in anger, but with a **** kind of heat, her claws gouging furrows in the moss as she arched her back. “Want it. Need it. Breed me, goblin.”

“That’s it! That’s the song! Breed me, goblin! Hah! Nott the Brave, Nott the Lewd, Nott the bitch-breaker! Ohhh, listen to you, fuck, I’m making you beg like a whore on payday!” She yanked her cock out slick and shining, and came around to slap it across the gnoll’s muzzle, smearing precum across her fur. “Suck it, then! Show me those teeth and then hide them, good girl, good bitch, use your tongue, yeah, like that!”

The gnoll obeyed, lips stretching around the obscene girth, her throat flexing as she took as much as she could. Between gulps she rasped, muffled but unmistakable: “Yours. Feed me. More.”

Nott threw her head back and cackled, high and wild, her sharp little teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “Hah! Oh, Caleb, d’you hear this? She’s talking back! I’ve got a big scary dog-bitch calling me master- fuck! and all it took was this nasty goblin cock!”

Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose, voice barely above a breath. “Ja. I hear. Loudly. This is… happening.”

And he was aware, mortifyingly, of how hard he was. As ‘extended’ as any of the watching males in the ferns, pressed hot and insistent against rough wool; harder, perhaps, than he’d been even in fevered nights with Astrid and Eadwulf. The shame of it made him reach, reflexively, for the cold refuge of thought.

The mind, in self-defense, slid sideways into taxonomy. Goblins, according to the cheap chapbooks passed around Soltryce dormitories, were “fecund pests.” The better compendiums argued a spectrum: hill clans, cave-bands, marsh-families; hunter, tinkerer, raider, trader. Most Imperials never met a goblin outside a Crownsguard story or the tail end of a cheap joke. It was easier to call an entire people “monsters” than to chart the machinery that stamped them into that shape: border skirmishes, famine, opportunists with sermons and knives.

The Dynasty made it worse, of course. The Kryn’s welcome of “goblinoid peoples” was a convenient shorthand for every fireside fear in the Empire. If the Dwendalian wanted you small and anxious, the stories obliged: goblins stealing children; goblins swarming caravans; goblins breeding like flies. He could hear the academy bullies quoting them, wine-wet and cruel: Lock your doors, little Bren; the green bastards will clamber through the chimney and lay eggs in your mother. He clenched his jaw and let the memory pass.

His eyes slid back, helplessly, to Nott. Even in sin and sweat she was… person. Not that this needed proving; he already lived in the proof every time she shoved a drink into his hand or stole him a book or knifed a bandit’s hamstring because he had frozen at the smell of smoke. She was a complicated little bag of traumas, yes, and he was a sagging sack of them himself. But complexity made a person, not the lack of it. Monsters were easier than responsibility. Easier than mercy.

And yet his brain, ever-itching, poked at a smaller question: Why like this? The length, the, ah, surplus. He had read anatomical notes on goblin males (slender; quick to arousal; plenty of potency but unremarkable in equipment). Females were footnotes at best; few scholars had sufficient access or nerve to write otherwise. Watching Nott now, gods help him, he was watching, he found an unlovely hypothesis unfurling: perhaps goblins were designed by culture and curse to breed outward. Not inward. To carry a tool that made other peoples’ wombs into their hearths. A strategy in flesh: when your neighbors call you vermin, seed them anyway. Survive in their blood.

He swallowed, throat dry. The tavern tales snapped into a grim kind of focus: adventurers “taken alive,” women “dragged below,” the lewd, jeering ballads soldiers sang on long marches. He had once dismissed them as ugly propaganda. But now, disturbingly, he found the notion arousing instead of disgusting, the sheer audacity of it, of a people surviving in the bloodlines of others, Nott’s obscene green cock turned from shame into weapon, into promise.

He thought of her accent. Marrow Valley through and through: the rounded vowels of farm-market stalls, the quick clipped ends of a woman who had bargained for turnips and twine and had to speak faster than the big folk to be heard. It didn’t match the caves-and-raids goblin of the Empire’s lazy myths. Raised by halflings? Ludicrous, he thought. Then again, so was everything else tonight. Her disgust at her own body had a shape he recognized too well, the shape of love miscast as loathing.

An hour passed in the glade.

The rut did not stay still. It sprawled across the little clearing, position after position blooming like obscene flowers under the moonlight.

The gnoll rolled to her side, lower leg straight, upper leg hitched high over Nott’s wiry shoulder. The goblin straddled the pinned thigh, tiny feet planted wide, her hips pumping with furious insistence. Each thrust bowed the gnoll’s belly outward, the black-lipped slit stretched wide around the green girth. Nott clung to the hamstring for leverage, snarling through her grin, while her huge sack dragged across the gnoll’s grounded leg, painting it in sweat and pre-spend.

Next, face-down in the broad raised roots of a venerable tree, the hyena-woman’s broad frame crunched into cedar knots, tail flagged high. Nott scrambled up like a squirrel on a trunk, planting her bare feet on two thick roots flanking the gnoll’s hips. From that precarious bridge she jackhammered straight down, green cock plunging to the hilt again and again, balls slapping wetly against fur. The gnoll’s muzzle squeezed into dirt and bark. Each downward slam ripped a barked grunt from the gnoll and sent Nott into high, ragged laughter.

Then she took her against the trunk. The gnoll crouched low in a squat, thick thighs spread and quivering as her cunt hung slick and open above the roots. Nott planted her back against the cedar, palms pressed flat to the bark for leverage, the whole length of her cock jutting straight from her hips. The gnoll lowered herself slowly, a strangled growl shaking out of her as inch after inch disappeared inside, her swollen lips stretching taut around the green girth.

Nott’s toes curled against the moss, her ass grinding back against the trunk for purchase. The posture made her look like a temple idol, small, taut, cock rigidly skyward, while the towering gnoll squatted to worship it with her own body.

“Yesss, that’s it,” Nott cackled, sharp teeth flashing, her voice ragged with delight. “Bring that fat hairy twat down, bitch! Hah! Stuff it full! Ride my pole like it’s the last stake holding up your mangy tent!”

The gnoll obeyed with gasping moans, heavy breasts bouncing and slapping against her own chest as she pumped herself down onto the goblin’s cock. Each drop of her hips swallowed Nott to the hilt, until her thick mound slapped against Nott’s thighs.

Another time she stood braced, legs spread, while the gnoll crouched low like a penitent worshiper, muzzle stretching to gulp the shaft as her claws dug furrows in the moss. Nott held her ears like reins, rutting into her throat with short brutal jabs until spit and cumwebs glazed the bitch’s chin. “That’s right! Lap at it, you big slut! Don’t let a drop go to waste!”

And at last, obscene and tender both, the gnoll curled on her back, legs spread and drawn high, a crude parody of maiden’s invitation. Nott mounted her with a growl, leaning forward on narrow arms, cock plunging home in a slow, grinding stroke. The gnoll whimpered and moaned under her, clawed hands stroking Nott’s thin back like she were some treasured stallion. “Breed me,” the hyena-woman begged again, voice breaking, “make me full.”

All the while Caleb watched, hands slack at his sides, mind churning with theory and shame. Each tableau seared itself into him: a goblin three feet tall bending a predator thrice her height to her rhythm, as if some law of flesh had been rewritten. The wet slap of bodies filled the glade; the gnoll’s yelps and Nott’s filthy brags tangled into one long chant.

And when at last the final climax came.

“Need it!” the gnoll yelped, hips slamming back against her. “Need seed! Fill me!”

“Ohhh fuck,” Nott gasped, driving harder, laughter going razor-bright. “That’s right! Nott the Brave, Nott the breeder! I’ll drown you in it, bitch!”

The final run came like a storm breaking. Flesh rang wet and brutal; her commentary and the gnoll’s begging braided into one obscene chorus. Then Nott plunged home with a noise like a fist into mud and gave.

The gnoll’s scream split the clearing as the flood hit. Hot, heavy seed pumped so thick it pressed back out around the seal of their joining, sluicing down dark thighs in pale rivers. Nott clung on, teeth bared, cackling through the cramps of release: “Take it! Take every drop, you dripping brood sow- take it. Take it! takeittakeit!!”

The gnoll’s body went to pieces beneath her, arching and clamping and squirting around the green column, not once but again and again, jets spattering moss as if something rancid and old were being hunted out of her. She howled until her voice broke and finally slumped forward, cheek in the wet, tail slowly settling, breath sawing in great, satisfied drags. Nott kept pulsing, ragged and stubborn, wringing the last ropes from herself until even her great sack had nothing more to give.

Silence arrived on soft paws. Only their breathing and the faint, rhythmic drip of spend into moss remained.

Nott staggered back a step, legs shaking, cock still jutting and giving tired, involuntary twitches that slung strings against her knees. Her arms came up around her ribs, small and suddenly herself again, eyes too bright, mouth working.

“Oh gods, oh fuck,” she babbled, shaking her head like a dog flinging off rain.

“That- she-! What did I- Caleb, I’m disgusting, aren’t I? I’m- oh, but gods, that was so good. Fuck, I’m a monster.” Her ears swiveled down hard; the manic grin cracked, panic rushing in to claim old territory.

Caleb was already moving. He crossed the moss with his hands open, careful as if approaching a skittish colt. Up close, the heat of the scene hit him: musk, iron, salt, resin, and the blunt, animal perfume of satisfaction. He put one palm to her shoulder, light and steady.

“No. No, hey,” he murmured, voice husky and earnest and a little stunned. “You did good. You-” He glanced, helplessly, at the collapsed mountain of gnoll, at the slow, obscene overflow fattening the puddle beneath her. “You saved our lives. With your… cock.” A breathless, incredulous laugh slipped out; he winced at himself and pressed on. “That is a sentence I did not expect to say today. But it is true. It was… good. It was brave.”

“Brave,” she echoed, hiccup-laughing, a tear cutting a clean line through the grime at the corner of one eye. “Nott the Brave. Nott the Filthy. Nott the… lifesaver by meat hose.” She snorted and then winced at her own joke. “Am I sharing too much? I’m sharing too much.”

“You are sharing exactly the correct amount for leaving,” he said dryly, thumb brushing once at her shoulder. “We should go. Before spectators remember teeth.”

Frumpkin, already prowling the ring, sent him a last impression: seven watchers, ears pitched forward, hands busy or trembling, none stepping over the boundary of the glade. One, a female, had slumped as if relieved by scent alone. The spell, whatever god or biology had woven it, still held. But spells end.

Caleb shrugged out of his coat and swung it around Nott’s shoulders; it swallowed her, hung to her calves, left her ridiculous pride jutting like a ship’s prow. She made a face, then hugged the lapels with both fists anyway, the way a child might clutch a blanket.

“Water,” he said, offering the dented canteen. She swigged, gargled, spat, then swigged again, cheeks puffing, eyes squeezed shut. “Thank gods,” she muttered, handing it back. “And also thank the part of me that is a problem.”

“We will itemize gratitude later.” He crouched long enough to snatch up her scattered things, mask, belt-pouch, the crumple of coat, dress and apron, and stuffed them into his satchel. He did not look too closely at the state of them.

“Do we- do we say goodbye?” Nott whispered, glancing at the heap of satisfied hyena-woman. Her ears tilted uncertainly. “Or leave a note? ‘Dear dog-lady, thank you for not eating us. Enjoy the… leftovers’?”

“I think we leave,” he said, and the old, iron tiredness crept back into his voice. “Quietly. With gratitude. And with all our limbs.”

They did. Nott, bare-legged under his coat, wincing a little because everything chafed; Caleb, shoulders hunched under the weight of satchel and responsibility, eyes on the dark between trees. Behind them, the glade breathed. A soft whine went up and was answered by a low, contented rumble that rolled off the leader’s chest. No pursuit came.

They slid into the brush’s obscurity. Twigs combed their hair; wet leaves kissed their shins. After fifty paces the night swallowed the clearing’s scent and sounds, and the forest was only forest again.

When his heart had come down from the rafters, Caleb found words. “Nott,” he said quietly, without looking at her. “This… we cannot keep doing this alone.” He gestured, a small, helpless circle that took in the whole mad evening. “Gnolls. Posse. Whatever is next. It is too much for two. In Trostenwald there might be… people.” A pause; he swallowed a shadow. “Like-minded. Or at least differently-minded in useful ways.”

Nott huffed, drawing the coat tighter, the lapels swallowing half her face. “A crowd,” she said, tentative. “Good camouflage.”

“Yes.” He allowed himself a thin smile. “Let us hide in plain sight. Eat hot food that is not us. Sleep. Maybe find friends.”

“Friends,” she repeated, as if tasting it. Then, with a small, crooked bravado: “And if they ask, we did not make a gnoll pass out from being bred like a farm sow.”

“No,” he agreed gravely. “We absolutely did not.”

They walked on. The moon shouldered up through a rent in the clouds, silvering the path ahead. Somewhere behind, a contented, bone-deep growl rose and faded, as if a great belly had turned in sleep.

Ahead, the road to Trostenwald waited.

Prologue End