[Middle-aged woman]

Your eyes lock on to a woman, and you race. You know her name at a glance, Beatrice, the ̶h̶o̶t̶ kind widow who gave you bread when she barely had any, who stepped in like a mother after you lost your parents.

The gobs have already grown frustrated as the woman resisted their attempts to be unclothed and have her calves slapped by their green meat. It won't be long before they plunge their daggers into her.

Nearly there! Not that it guarantees anything besides more chaos, but hey... progress!

You remember how she would sit you at the table, like a mother would do, rubbing your shoulders and playing with your hair. The touches she stole at your collarbones, her finger slowly tracing down your toned arms and broad chest, again, like a mother would do. You'd often be caught looking where you shouldn't, sometimes in what you believed to be a trap laid by her. Calculated leans that showed her cleavage, moments where she would turn her body a certain way, only to check on you when you least expected it. Your eyes would meet, and she would smile meaningfully. A tease? An invitation? She brushed it off and you never dared take it for more than that in case it would trigger some moral dilemma.

"I'm checking your progress. You're turning into a reliable young man," she would say. By the end of the day, you'd be edged to the point of splitting a vein in your head, and you would have to milk your raging boner in the corner of your shitty shack.

...

By now, the playful expressions on the green faces have turned malicious. They pull with more impatience, cutting pieces of fabric from Beatrice's skirt and wounding her skin. Whenever she tries to brush her clothing back in place, they strike her hands, threatening more violent actions with swings of the blade through the air, the sharp tips aiming at her throat to discourage any more disobedience.

"Skree! Srex! Fruck! Nyeh-hee!" the group of three multi-lingual, green rats chant.

After repeated tugs, her blonde hair has become disheveled. The corners of her amber eyes have turned red from the crying. Luckily, you reach her before you can get cucked by the green horde.

The goblin's ears perk at the unusual sound coming from behind. It is urgent. Heavy...

They turn around just in time to meet your sword. Swift and deliberate. One swing sends a head flying and allows it to see its own body from behind for the first time, the remaining two greenskins launching themselves at the new-found threat.

"Kreech!" they hiss. Fury furrows their brows at the loss of their comrade. "Man stabr! Krill"

With one step back, you create enough distance for their wild slashes to miss. As they lose their momentum, they stumble, a great time for you to step back in with a powerful lunge. Your sword drives through one of the creatures' stomachs, blood erupting from its back in a violent spray. As its body is lifted off the ground, its expression turns into a mix of shock and horror.

"Grrkh!" it attempts to voice its pain, refusing to accept that the stab has robbed it of its ability to scream.

Finally, the last goblin realizes the disparity in ability. It hesitates in its attack, giving you enough time to toss the incapacitated one from your sword.

Slash!

The body lands by the last goblin's feet. Struck by the blood of his fellow, the last one apprehensively turns around. It then raises its voice to send a call across the field.

The shriek blasts through the trees like a drunkard's songs at closing time, causing multiple heads to snap to the source. Be it the ones balls deep inside defeated women or the ones wrestling the barely standing girls to exhaustion, they all sprint, weapons in hand. Some of the luckier fuck monkeys are furious at the interruption, and you fear those dripping erections that come swinging might punish you in unimaginable ways if you fail to hold your ground.

Brace for the swarm. That's what your instinct tells you. While the last goblin regroups, Beatrice steps towards you, seeking the familiarity of your back. Her shaking hands seek any place she feels wouldn't be too burdensome if she held on, unaware that her insistent back rubs turn into a boner fuel that splits your focus into two.

Across the field lies the aftermath of a vicious intercourse, some of the milder sights further fueling your erection and muddling your mind. Women worked beyond their ability, with not even the elderly spared. If there hadn't been bloodshed, perhaps the unsatisfied women would've discovered some exotic tastes. Alas, the men lost their lives blocking the entrance to their homes. If there is one saving grace, their efforts have paid off in protecting the barricaded children. The handful of people you knew? Dead. Beatrice is the only one left.

Yeah, it sucks. But you knew this was coming. You already knew this would happen so you steeled your heart in advance.

With the goblins closing in, an arrow finally arcs from the direction of the city gate. Fully-armored soldiers storm the scattered groups, pikes and spears in hand, bowmen lining up behind them. You count far more goblins than you first realized, but it shouldn't have taken the army this long to respond. Either the scouts must've been jerking off in their watchtowers or there is some other dirty business at play.

Your sentiment also seems to be shared by those still conscious, as they launch looks of resentment despite being saved. After a loud call to draw attention, they dump every insult their limited vocabulary has collected up to this point. Some fuck the soldiers' wives, others the daughters, and for good measure, the great-parents and even the dogs get dragged into it.

The leader of the watch remains unaffected, with a practiced, thick cheek that can repel even the vilest curses. The same cannot be said for the more undisciplined youngsters. Teeth gritting, they return fuck for fuck, though more selectively as not to make it unfair for those who suffered the most.

"What took you so long?!" one of the women scolds the tinmen, the shout cracking from frustration... However, at a better glance, this one doesn't seem as upset as the others... Rather, her feeling seems to stem from the fact that the action went on for longer than she preferred.

You give this one a little more attention. She must be somewhere in her thirties, with a noticeable lack of fieldwork toning, a headful of chestnut hair and hauling a cargo of breasts that could feed the whole community. Considering her condition, she must've been a favorite for the goblins. At some point her legs gave in, and since her collapse, there she remained at goblin level, ready to swallow anything that aimed her way. Her clothing is so damaged the missing pieces would be enough for the gobbos to take one each as a souvenir. Her large nipples peek from within her embrace whenever she switches the hand she uses to support herself upright, and there's a gloss all throughout her body as if it's covered in some kind of oil.

Oddly enough, she's the least wounded out of everyone, if at all. She's a little roughed up but that's the end of it. Where have you seen the woman before?...

...

The goblins are smart enough to realize they no longer stand a chance. A few were caught by the rain of arrow, now being finished in quick fashion. For once, you hear fear from their voices, a high-pitched howling that doubles as a beg for mercy. The ones who have more leeway in terms of distance look behind in heartbreak, burning the silhouette of the chestnut-haired woman into their minds.

"Woman. Nice. Happy..." one of them sadly whispers, taking to the bushes after the rest and blending with the grass.

...

It's over. The tension in your arms eases. The rushed breaths turn into long, deep ones that come with a stench of piss and iron. But at least you're safe. Beatrice is too.

Turning to her, you stutter as you think of what would be the proper thing to say. Her silence contrasts the boisterous woman you know her as. She feels fragile now. Her eyes avoid yours. She can't stand to look at the bloodied surroundings either. There's a guilt in the back of her mind, telling her others deserved your help more than she did. Or she's just looking at your dick standing on command... Of course, you try to ignore the tinier details.

So what would a reliable young man do in this situation? Check on her? Maybe he would reassure her?

"It's okay," you speak softly. You swing your sword one last time to discard the runny blood, then return it to its sheath. With the now free hand, you reach out to fix her hair. It is a moment too late that you realize your bloodied hand is only making an even bigger mess. "Oh..."

Her plump lips gather the strength for a smile. The fuckup seems to have scored some points with her.

"I'm already covered. Thank you..." she responds through a giggle.

You nod. Her clothing is in tatters, her chest almost exposed. Her corset needs the help of her arms to hold everything together. What's still there looks as if it had been splattered with a tomato. You can see bits of the muscles she gained through farmwork, which she bragged about numerous times. Her skirt had been split in two, her legs constantly pulling it apart like a pair of curtains. Knees, thighs... A little bit of her white underwear... Yeah, you've been had. There it is, that smile of hers, as if to call you out for being a naughty boy.

"Do not pursue!" an imposing voice resonates across the battlefield. "Return!"

The command snaps the two of you back to reality. You feel a headache forming upon hearing their instructions, the clanks of their armor further pissing you off as it silences beyond the city gates.

They came, did jack shit, then fucked off. End of day.

If the goblins return in larger numbers later to avenge their fallen comrades, you would be the only one to suffer. And if not for that, they will definitely return for that whore. All of this has to be some greater scheme planned by the bourgeoisie. You can't explain it otherwise. As ****, maybe you can capture some and release them in the palace. But for now, you have to give chase.

Quickly, you scan for any goblins you can still see, spotting a few unnatural rustles in the distance. With a turn of the body and a large step, you decide your next course of actions.

"Don't go..." Beatrice whimpers. Before you have the chance to take your second step, she hugs your arm. To further add to your indecisiveness, one of her hands slides up your skin and down your body, stopping just before the curve of your dick.