A sleep heavy daze doesn’t obliterate from my memory every salacious moment of the past day and night. I still vividly recall tucking female goblin after female goblin under an arm and carrying each in turn into my cabin and servicing them. Their squeals of delight soothing my feeble internal human-side protests even though in the cold light of day I would need to own the ramifications of these repulsive done deeds, at the time beyond my control and the truly scary part. After this event I get that the female goblins on the Farm belong to a culture which expects this service from their tyrant Lord Hob. In fact, any objections from the male goblins are either held back due to fear or accepting of the current state as they are inadequate – no male goblin Farm resident can service a female goblin to give birth. Simple solution to all this I decide, I must accept without guilt my role as Farmer Hob, forget ramifications as I wasn't fully aware - plausible deniability. Even so, the outcome perfection of course, the Hunter Hob will have a new gaggle of goblins to sacrifice on his next incompetent hunt for a start. The Smith Hob will acquire more miners and “sniffers” to seek out ore seams, the Head Hob will acquire additional civic helpers and the remaining creatures will tend the Farm. The natural order of things … a well-developed plan?

I feel used.

A mix of emotions grab me and in protest I push against the tangle of female goblin flesh on top and around my sleeping position and haul myself upright. They murmur in subtle protest and their bodies tumble to fill the void I create with my change of position and I don’t care. Swinging my legs out, pushing against several sets of goblin legs I use my hands upon the bed frame to steady my current posture, planting both feet firmly on the cabin floor. The wooden planks under my feet provide further reassurance I am at least in my own bed and therefore in my cabin. My eyes enhance the struggling final flickering firelight from the dying fireplace as dark night is still upon the Farm revealing a multitude of female goblins carpeting the cabin floor, their smiles leaking drool as a final testament to my inhuman act.

This display of satisfied flesh initially repels me and yet as I glance from one body to another an overwhelming level of satisfaction creeps over me, my flesh goosebumps with the pleasure of a job well done assailing my humanity, conquering my revulsion. In fact, despite myself I savour the rewarding affirmation and in so doing lap up a deeper hidden bubbling smugness, the taste of which – sours my naive celebration. I know now. My hands squeeze the frame of the bed, the creaking wood calls upon me to stop. This body contains latent behaviours, raw, primitive, and deep – of Hob nature in fact. The smugness is from conquering me, or to be more exact my humanity. In that moment, a deeper truth becomes apparent. My throat runs dry throttling my attempt to scream leaving me impotent to decry this treachery. I resort to nursing my face in my hands theorising instead, trying to logic myself out of this pit of despair because I realise, I am no longer in control, my self-determination can be highjacked by Hob instinct or worse, latent intent at any time.

Hobs aren’t native to this planet. The fact there are no female Hobs is evidence enough and something obvious to any Agent of several missions, yet I was so caught up in the situation, the mission, I didn’t take a subjective look, ignoring suspicions not seriously considered until now.

Hobs are flesh vessels and readily accept Spirits. Human Spirits not a designed fit to be sure, although the flesh provides enough compatibility if nanorobots encourage the outcome. If true, then what Spirits are they designed for?

Hobs are pre-programmed to conform to roles – deep within their being, down to the instinct level. Once specific criteria are met a Hob’s role will change which leads me to conclude within this one flesh vessel is the potential for all the roles, otherwise I would never be able to become Head Hob. The reasoning? To design, develop and deploy multiple versions expensive, error prone and time consuming, much simpler to start with a common flesh vessel base and then engineer in trigger-based directives dependent upon external stimuli.

Hobs are an addition to the natural inhabitants to ensure a specific outcome … I whisper these words to myself trying to confirm if such an interference can happen – there are rules and governance yet none of that matters on this planet. Then there is me …

For this to work each role must be formulated, ingrained to override any transplanted Spirit’s personality or morals to ensure the completion of specific functions. Like myself these past days, out of control and deep in a frenzy of inter-racial breeding against my free will.

I drag in a deep calm breath and my Hob nature withdraws, a … a tangible ‘thing’ and most unexpected. Did it grin? How can that be? Yet I can’t deny the comfort upon me, the return of self-control the instant after my humanity re-surfaces. Still, my stomach churns due to the flashes of memory recounting the bestial like functional application of what should be a consensual intimate union, in other words I think I am about to puke.

Heaving myself upright my large bare feet edge away from the bed needing to shuffle in between and under limp green limbs as I take step after step towards the cabin’s secured door laying in shadow. I am certain several of my steps aren’t ‘clean’ and yet such is their state my victims moan a feeble complaint and are content after I reposition. I consider the quick exit, applying my strength and dragging the door open against the tide of flesh. Instead, without significant effort I lift several bodies away trying to place them between others instead of stacking. With their change in diet, I expected healthy filled out bodies, instead disappointment, at best they exhibit a lack of skin and bone. It will take months to restore them to some semblance of health if this is a truism for all the goblins on the Farm. ‘Grr … forget about goblins for now …’ I berate myself, remembering I don’t care.

Fresh night air hits my naked body and I breathe in long and deep stretching my arms high until my hands grab the cross beam holding up the patio of my cabin. I lean in, arching my back for a moment. The Farm sleeps, my inspecting gaze revealing nothing untoward until I spy upon several tents erected near the Farm gate. My wives and the prisoners are nowhere to be seen so a possible location … also, where my wives are, I have no doubt with them I will find my clothing and gear. Yet, returning to my wives is somehow … my priority, my stomach goes from wanting to puke to fluffy butterflies in an instant. Human relationships take many forms, one to one, one to many and many to many with the mix of male and female completely organic. While double zero five and I cherished our one-on-one relationship, her succumbing to temptation by going native frees me to explore other relationships … accept the notion of many wives. I don’t know for certain if this is under the influence of my Hob nature or not. I think not, Hob don’t value goblin.

As I approach the impromptu accommodation my thoughts turn to warm embraces, simple cuddling, and skin contact without any further expectation; I yearn for genuine affection. Construction of the tents though, in a word superb, nearby flickering torchlight reveals cured hides sown together with pegs and rope holding them in shape over a beam … then a large crack sounds in the still night air as first one then another twig breaks underfoot. I inspect the ground underfoot to discover a haphazard line of twigs surrounding the three or four tents.

A multitude of goblins in varying states of dress boil out of the tents, spears in hand pointing in my direction.

I show them the palms of my hands while slowly raising my arms. “My wives aren’t sleeping here then,” I whisper.

Four of the many goblin males step forward and I can’t help noticing them assessing my loins, in particular the swinging appendage between my legs; one gulps, another stutters to silence, and the other two go wide-eyed in response. I get the sense I need to speak, crossing my arms before I start, hoping the movement will attract and redirect their eyes.

“Who would you be to camp on my Farm?”

“I … we.” The bravest of the four waves his arms towards the others. “We are the hunters sent to free our taken, eventually tracking them here. Your Speaker of Law permitted us to camp and await … erm the completion of your sowing.”

His eyes hold mine, chin up, possibly enjoying a slight advantage, spear in hand and at least his loins covered by a cured hide lap lap, whereas I challenge naked and without a single weapon.

I scratch my head to delay. “Well, right. My Speaker of Law is wise, so upon sunrise we will discuss this further.” I swivel and stroll back to my cabin. None call out and shortly after I hear the shuffle and fuss of my welcome committee returning to their tents. The butterflies in my stomach flit about for another reason, where are my wives?

At the cabin door I pause. No point in trying to sleep in there, which means … the kitchen cabin, the former abode of my first three wives, there is no warmth in my heart for them I only hope to find my current wives.

I semi sleepwalk towards my last possible refuge, my mind trying to remember any cruel and unforgivable deeds of fornication, ponder how to take advantage of the visitors and wonder about the whereabouts of my wives and gear, all the while contemplating the promise of sleep. My arms and legs are heavy, I blink my eyes, somehow my physical and mental energy drains from me with each step.

“Did you disturb our visitors?”

The half-curious, half-mocking tone of those words clear in a voice I recognise even with my tired mind on other things. Opening my mouth to speak I fail to say a word before Milga Stone Blood continues.

“Was it your huge presence or wonders of wonders your huge weapon which disturbed them from their sleep?”

Ears assisting, my eyes locate my cheeky partner swinging in a hammock strung between the furthest two of the four poles holding up the sturdy wooden awning out front of the kitchen cabin.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Dammit, I need to improve my pathetic responses … at least try to match her wit. Wake up brain!

She swings her legs over the side of the hammock and leaps out in one smooth confident motion preserving the night’s silence. “You disturb not only our guests but also light sleepers like myself, and anyway partner, at times like these I thought you would appreciate my help.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Clothes where? Wives where? Prisoners where?”

She thumbs in the direction of the kitchen cabin door. “All in there, which is why I am out here.”

“What if the prisoners free themselves?”

A soft laugh and shake of her head. “They are tied to a bench and I let them know if any one of them misbehaves they will all be punished and since four think they are about to be returned to their tribes I believe everyone is safe.”

I grunt and lurch towards the doorway of the kitchen cabin. Instead of resistance the leather throng bound wooden door opens by itself. Why did Milga say think? From the shadows within two female goblins leap upon me and like air from a stomach blow the question I asked myself flies from my brain.

“Husband,” they whisper, each claiming an ear to fan their hot breath into as they speak. They giggle as my body shudders in delight.

I wrap an arm around Koria and Luda and step over the threshold and into the cabin proper. The gentle firelight from the fireplace illuminates the bedding situation, my wives are in a cleared centre of the dining area while benches line the walls, a prisoner tided down to each. I accept my wives’ invitations and lay amongst the various furs making up their shared bed without disturbing Duzsia. Before my wives can take the initiative, I embrace both, forcing them to lay beside me. With their warmth settling over me I fall into a safe sleep.

---

My hearing picks up on Duzsia’s tone of disappointment as she asks, “Is it broken husband?”

My eyes blink open. With the other two sleeping wives acting as dead weights upon my arms, I lift my head slightly to appreciate a naked third wife straddling my lower thighs, her small green hands feverish in their efforts to bring my ‘weapon’ to life.

“Fetch my clothes wife,” I order.

If Duzsia is awake, then I assume morning has broken and I am certain at least some of the prisoners are awake yet feigning sleep. My inspection of the prisoners distracts me from ogling Duzsia’s nakedness as well as Koria and Luda’s for that matter ensuring my pecker doesn’t spring to life.

“We are naked husband.” She pouts. “It seems a waste to clothe you?”

I pause in thought, is my attraction to female goblins Hob base instinct? I am permitted to favour certain characteristics – smaller noses for example, yet scant other features seem distasteful … my jaw drops.

Curious now, purely as an experiment of course, I scan Duzsia’s pert youthful body, seeking out a discrepancy, an undesirable feature ...

I lick my lips and recover my jaw. If I excuse my recent debauchery as a Hob trance, beyond that ‘programming’ I am allowed choice and my humanity celebrates this tiny victory because I must face the fact when the Hob instinct kicks in, I am unable to offer any resistance or recall all the detail … then again is the fact I am permitted to favour goblins with small noses really a noteworthy demonstration of my independence?

I roll my arms, rocking Koria and Luda awake. “We have guests, so I must bargain with them.”

Crunching my abdomen to raise the arm pillows they lay upon force my two waking wives into an upright position and once satisfied they will stay; I climb to my feet and allow Duzsia to begin dressing me. My limbs position to assist while my eyes lock upon her naked flesh, hips swivelling, firm young breasts jutting out, nipples stone hard …  a haze of lust gathers within me. Her face is straight, doing her husband’s bidding yet her lips curl at the ends.

My three wives bend over in front me taking considerable time to fetch the rest of my clothes, armour, and weapons. Three smooth firm posteriors wiggle. I take a deep breath; fortunate my loin cloth restrains my awakening below and alerting me at the same time. I shake my head and fling my lustful haze away with an ease I have never experienced before now – a hang-over from Hob fornication?

Their eager lips draw thin and the hope in their eyes dim as they turn ready to finish the task of dressing me, not expecting to after their seductive display.

“Hurry.” The one word escapes my lips, sharp and crisp with my eyes shut. Not to resist further temptation, trying instead to comprehend how, after a full night of rest I am able to calm my libido.

Three sets of hands and naked bodies labour across my physique taking every sensual opportunity to stoke my lust. Each layer of clothing and armour they dress me in isolates my flesh from their temptations although in my sated condition their efforts are a waste, my pecker sleeps while my flesh trembles and eyes appreciate.

Finally, ready and with great effort my lustful eyes seek each wife in turn before I speak. “Armour and weapons and then escort each of the four prisoners out, placing one in the care of Milga when you do.”

I swivel about immediately and with haste exit the kitchen cabin eager for cool air fighting off an inkling in the back of mind; my pecker might be done and done.

---

The early morning rays of sunlight glisten off the dew upon the green shoots of the farm’s growing crop and my attempt to sneak up on Milga fruitless, her hammock, empty.

“Do you need to break your fast Lord?” asks Zeb as he and Milga stride towards me from the Silo.

My sluggish mind registers his words. An overnight rest and yet my thinking strays still, an effort to sort through and organise my thoughts, lust which should translate, a nothing, impotent?

Milga slams a water skin into my midriff. “Expending so much seed, can be dehydrating partner, so drink.”

I catch the edge of a smirk, her lips quick to transform into a friendly helpful smile. I drain half the water skin and then splash my face, feeling the better afterwards. I take Milga’s offer of bread and meat devouring both in quick time and without asking she offers another portion of each. This second portion disappears into my mouth slow enough for me to savour the offering.

I rest a hand upon each of their shoulders and smile. “Alright, let’s go meet our guests.”

Dropping my arms, I turn and stride out towards the Farm gate.

“Lord?” whispers Zeb. There is a quiver, timidness to his voice.

Both he and her, partners in some plot I am sure, have held their ground and I need to turn about to face them.

“Aren’t we just going to present the prisoners back to them and earn some goodwill, perhaps arrange for some trade …”

Milga’s hands make a fist each and her eyes glance skywards before leveling, while Zeb opens his arms, palms up wearing a sympathetic face.

“We should seek more advantage Lord …” he half whispers.

I fold my arms across my chest and deliberately snarl. “Go on.”

Milga steps forward, waving her hands at me. I suspect a great deal of restraint as I didn’t receive the slap which her piercing eyes fervently thought I needed.

“You must perform your life thing with one or more of them. Impress the hunters with your magic.”

Zeb quickly adds, “You must be more than Farmer Hob to win the tribal goblins loyalty. One is a chief and the other three are sons of chiefs or tribal heirs. The four females you have rescued aren’t ordinary in the eyes of their tribe, Lord.”

They work in tandem, two hungry birds in a nest tweeting for food or in this case to achieve an outcome. I drink the last of the water skin and with that the final tendrils of a fog, which I wasn’t aware of, lift from my mind. I quirk an eyebrow at Milga. Perhaps sowing seed more thirsty work than hungry work.

The four females could or could not be important and yet I can’t help feeling this is all about a bigger picture.

“How about this,” I offer to them. “The kidnappers take a prize female to be almost certain of luring significant members of their tribe out to try a rescue, the four tribes fight amongst themselves and are weak by the time they reach the pass and are easily taken or if the tribes don’t fight, they are ambushed once through the pass?”

Milga and Zeb steal a dubious look at each other, with Zeb umming while Milga replies.

“Before, on the trail, didn’t you suspect the Hobs in the valley over simply wanted the females for breeding? Why make their capture more, I don’t know … just more of a big deal than it needs to be?”

I couldn’t confess to a hunch based solely upon one anomaly, the Ranger Hob, so I shrug instead.

“You need to take them as wives Lord Hob.” Zeb swallows as he finishes speaking. He is a brave goblin to suggest a course of action to a Hob … I suspect he is becoming more comfortable in his position, with me.

I rock back on my heels. “Do I now …?”

“Yes, you do,” replies Milga. “But don’t appear eager to do so.” Fingers play across her chin. “How much grain do you think your cropping will provide?”

Casting my eyes over the crop, assessing the strike rate … “We will probably need to build another Silo as I haven’t yet added Boar slops or tested goblin droppings yet. Why do you ask?”

“Tribes hunt, sometimes they have enough for the snow months and sometimes they don’t. When they don’t, the weakest are usually the first to starve, such as the elderly or newborns. You could perhaps offer them grain for such times, the arrangement sealed with a marriage?”

My wives march the prisoner coffle out of the kitchen cabin disturbing our conversation. All are present and I feel a scowl fall over my face as I need to settle this mini revolt without countless witnesses.

“Lord,” pleads Koria. “We thought it best they remain together upon seeing Milga with father and yourself.”

I accept the interruption by breaking off my frown as I need to attend to a promise and stroll along the coffle line with purpose, stopping at Zoria, my hand firmly cupping her chin. “Are you ready to prove your loyalty?” I release my grip.

“Yes, Lord. I will fetch the ransom and return.”

I glance along the line to number four, her eyes cast down, body still, although not tense, expectant?

“Duzsia return her weapons and armour. Provide food and water for three days for two and send them on their way.”

“Yes husband.”

Duzsia cuts number four from the line and ties her to the nearest kitchen cabin post. Once done she releases Zoria and escorts her into the kitchen cabin. My remaining wives hold the coffle of prisoners in good order while Zeb and Milga observe offering no comment. So far so good then, I have their approval, wanted or not or they also don’t wish to air any disagreement in front of our guests.

As I look across to the farm gate, four groups of goblins gather and I must assume observing us while waiting, possibly the real reason Milga and Zeb didn’t show any dissent after giving their initial advice. Advancing to the head of the coffle, level with Koria I take a water skin from her and guzzle down more water.

“Right, follow.” I step out first, Koria leading the coffle a pace behind me, Milga keeps pace on my left, Zeb following back further. I don’t spare a glance to check assuming Luda follows behind the last of the coffle. My head twitches, Rexa, where is Jotor’s daughter?

“Rexa?”

“With her father, Lord Hob,” whispers Koria. “She is being inspected.”

---

There are some filthy looks upon the faces of my guests, a few restraining others. My guess is they don’t appreciate how I present my prisoners, yet I am a Hob and more than a match for them. I almost inwardly chuckle as I observe the Ten Spears running practice drills nearby, I assume pre-arranged by Zeb as extra intimidation.

Four armoured goblins of importance step away from their respective groups, spears and shields left behind. The chief is fond of bones, a throng of them around his neck, his waist and one piercing each ear. I am certain the display offers a genuine hint of his name.