The goblin's pony girls

The air in the damp, moss covered cavern is thick with the stench of rot, unwashed skin, and the heavy, musky aroma of fermented fruit. It is a dark, claustrophobic place, lit only by the flickering, sickly green light of glowing fungi. In the center of this humid larder, the sound of wet, slapping footsteps echoes against the stone walls.

Clara and Elena, once a proud, fiercely independent lesbian couple who spent their days hiking the sun drenched mountain trails, are now something else entirely. They are no longer women; they are beasts of burden.

The transformation began when they were ambushed in the woods by a raiding party of goblins. But they weren't killed. They were "tamed."

Now, they move on all fours, their hands and knees calloused and stained with dirt. They are stripped of their clothes, their bodies glistening with a layer of sweat and the grime of the cave. Their eyes, once sharp and intelligent, have become wide, vacant, and glazed the "Bimbo Fog" that comes from constant, humiliating servitude.

"Hee haw! Move it, you useless mares!" a shrill, grating voice shrieks.

A massive, bloated Goblin named Grizlow waddles toward them. He is a grotesque mountain of pale, lumpy flesh, his belly swaying like a heavy sack of lard with every step. He is impossibly fat, his skin stretched tight over rolls of greasy adipose tissue. But the most terrifying thing about him is his constant, aggressive arousal. His cock, a monstrous, vein streaked pillar of dark flesh measuring a staggering 60 centimeters, hangs heavy and perpetually turgid between his thick thighs. It is a stinking, leaking thing, constantly dripping a thick, viscous, white semen that coats his legs and the cave floor.

Grizlow climbs onto their backs. He doesn't sit like a man; he sprawls like a heavy, suffocating weight. He forces Clara and Elena to stand on their hands and knees, their spines arching painfully under his immense, wobbling bulk.

"Giddy up!" Grizlow cackles, slapping Clara’s flank with a meaty hand.

As they crawl through the muck, the sheer weight of him presses their chests toward the ground. The most degrading part, however, is the constant contact with his filth. His massive, leaking cock swings rhythmically against their backs, smearing hot, stinking semen across their skin. It is a constant, humiliating baptism. The scent of him a mix of sweat, musk, and stale seed is all they know now.

The constant, repetitive motion and the overwhelming sensory **** of his presence have eroded their minds. Every time his heavy member slaps against them, a little more of their intellect dissolves, replaced by a mindless, heavy lidded stupor. They don't think about their old lives, their old loves, or their dignity. They only think about the weight, the smell, and the rhythmic, pulsing sensation of their master.

"Good... girl..." Grizlow grunts, reaching down to grab a handful of Elena's hair, pulling her head back to expose her neck. "Good, dumb, pretty little horses..."

Elena lets out a soft, senseless whinny, her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth. She doesn't even realize she's a human being anymore. She just feels the warmth of the slime on her back and the heavy, rhythmic thud of the fat goblin's heart above her.