297: A Goat’s Bulge

297: A Goat’s Bulge

“Ah~! The arsenal of the Forge of Champions on full display!” the announcer moaned with orgasmic delight as she watched Number Forty’s desperate struggle to stay alive for even a couple of seconds against overwhelming odds. “Several of these weapons saw service all the way back in the Third War—YES!!”

The announcer let out a biased victorious cry when she saw the goat-like beastkin slam the girl into the ground with his giant gauntlets. The goatkin, Number Thirty-seven, was covered in gray hair and had black hooves instead of feet. One of his twisted horns had nearly half its length missing, broken and rotting at the edges. His long goatee was damp and moldy and he had a crazed look in the eyes.

“Argh!” Number Forty squirmed trying to break free from the iron grip of the beastkin that was on top of her. But the gauntlets did not budge. The goat-like beastkin locked his gauntlets behind the naked girl’s back and squeezed tight, pressing her naked breasts against his hairy chest.

“You’re maaaa-ine now!” the goatkin cheered while salivating with his tongue out, drooling all over the girl’s face.

“The Huggers were well known for their ability to crush a Demonling’s head like a melon in the right hands!” the announcer explained Number Forty’s predicament. “A tiny human girl that doesn’t even weigh a hundred pounds can’t even dream of breaking free! The only question we now have is: whether she will die a quick death or a long and painful one?”

“Maaaa-ybe a pleasant one, egheee?” the goatkin licked his lips and stood up while holding Number Forty. He then lowered his grip to the girl’s waist to arch her back and expose her pink nipples toward him.

“Pain or pleasure?” the announcer asked and giggled, getting back into her former demeanor now that her revenge was secured. “What do our dear spectators have to say?”

“Fuck her first, obviously!”

“Just kill her and be done with this! I came her or the entertainment booths!”

“Kill her slowly like the old guy!”

“Fuck her to death!”

“Hm, hm, hm,” the announcer tapped her finger on the lower edge of her black mask where her chin would have been. “The crowd seems divided. Then the answer is obvious! Pain and pleasure must be combined! I’ll even throw in some bonus rewards for a particularly torturous death at the end! Oh, and no time limits for this one, so no hurry!”

“Heeeee,” the goatkin breathed through his mouth on Number Forty pressing his rising bulge against her. However, with both hands occupied with holding his opponent, the goatkin had trouble releasing his rising goathood from its containment in his pants.

“Having trouble?” Number Forty asked and kneed the goatkin right in his bulging groin.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

However, the goatkin did not even so much as blink.

“You think you’re the first to kick me in maaa~ dick?” the goatkin with a shit-eating-grin. “I’ve been getting maaa~ balls and dick punched, kicked, stomped, chewed since before you were born! This was barely a love tap! But if you play nice, I’ll be gentle with—MAAAA!?”

The goatkin jumped into the air just before a stream of flames engulfed him and his captive.

“A sudden surprise attack by Number One!?” the announcer exclaimed. “What is the meaning of this!?”

“Are you all ill in the head!?” Number One, the elderly catgirl, cursed while she reloaded her flame-spewing weapon by sliding a fresh cartridge into the loading port. “Why are you playing around with her? That young lady killed a man and wounded another with a single attack! Kill her or be killed with her!”

“Ah, I see,” the announcer chuckled. “We have another participant vying for a night with Princess Mary! A prize that will go only to the one that kills Number Forty! I did not expect that some old cat-hag would care for such things.”

“Yeah, grandma! Aren’t you too dried up for such things?” a female gazellekin shouted, holding a boomerang in her hand.

The old catgirl let out a manly spit and said, “That’s how much I care about any of the princesses! I’m here to win! I don’t care who kills her, but she dies now!”

“She has a point,” the unkempt, hairy hobo shrugged and pointed his crossbow minigun at the goatkin just as the old lady aimed The Roaster in the same direction.