From Goblin Slave To Giga-Daddy: A Goblin's Guide to Getting a Harem-Chapter 42: Spread Em’ Like Butter On Toast (2)

Her brown cheeks weren’t blocky like her lithe, battle-hardened frame suggested—they were deceptively plush.

Not quite as bouncy as Alice’s, but soft enough that Rae swore his palms could melt right into them.

And nestled between them... her divine little brown star, tight and twitching ever so slightly.

She was trembling.

Oh, she’s feeling it now. This wasn’t some cutesy petting zoo game anymore. This had evolved. This was territory. Dangerous, sinful, delicious territory.

His fingers twitched. Gods, what happens if I touch the star? The curiosity was brutal.

But the moment he entertained it, he noticed something else—his health bar was draining faster.

Just pressing those cheeks had accelerated the Life Drain effect.

’Tch. No time for indulgence. Gotta finish the mission and claim the prize.’

With a reluctant sigh, he pulled his hands away from the pillowy temptation. Lyra raised a brow, confused.

He hadn’t even squeezed yet—what was he doing?

But then he chugged another potion like a man on borrowed time, and she just rolled her eyes and rested her head again.

She felt his tiny, trembling hands on her cheeks once more.

Like last time, that same electric tingle danced up her spine, spreading goosebumps across her back.

The moment his skin made contact, her nerves lit up as if struck by lightning wrapped in silk.

She sucked in a breath.

The urge to moan pressed against her throat like a bubble ready to burst, but she clenched her jaw.

No. Not again.

She wouldn’t give in this time.

She couldn’t be moaning—shouldn’t be moaning—for a gremlin.

Then she felt it.

He leaned forward. His slight body pressing in, dumping his weight into his palms.

She could feel it—the shift, the warmth, the faint tickle of his breath, and then... his hands sank into her cheeks like they were made of warm dough.

And then came the first squeeze.

"Mhm~"

It slipped.

The moan escaped her lips like a prisoner fleeing its cell. Her body betrayed her—again.

She bit her lip, hard, eyes squeezed shut. Shame crawled over her skin like ivy, wrapping around her chest, her stomach, her face.

Why... why does this feel so good?

All these years.

All those failed massages.

Dozens of hands, some trained, some eager, some pathetic.

None of them could make her feel anything beyond the usual dull ache of disappointment.

She’d even gone so far as to fully undress for some—desperate for sensation, for relief—but nothing had ever stirred her body. Or her soul.

Until now.

Whatever Rae was doing, however he was doing it—those clumsy-looking but strangely precise little hands, the almost reverent way his palms cupped her like she was made of something sacred,

the way his eyes had practically worshipped her curves—it was like he was communicating with her body directly.

Speaking to it in a forgotten tongue. Unraveling something ancient and buried.

Something was waking up inside her. fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

Something slow. Something dark. Something... hungry.

Unbeknownst to her, it wasn’t just physical pleasure.

It was her dormant succubi blood stirring at long last. Stretching. Smiling.

Ready to feed.

His tiny hands unclenched once more, fingers twitching as they returned to their sacred post.

Then, with a slow, deliberate grip, he spread her cheeks wider than before—wider than she thought possible.

The stretch wasn’t just skin-deep anymore; she could feel it. Feel the gentle tension at her rim, and even deeper, the faint tug at her divine little flower, puckering shyly in the open air.

It was a new kind of pleasure. Subtle, sharp, and utterly humiliating... yet addictive.

Never had she imagined feeling this from someone else’s hands.

Not like this.

Not from someone who touched her like she was a mystery, not a conquest.

Her body trembled again, warmth blooming in places she had thought long dead.

Then his hands relaxed, fingers gliding over her slick, warm skin.

They traveled inward, circling the center of her cleft like a pilgrim orbiting a shrine. Reverent. Patient. Dangerous.

He cupped again—this time lower, cradling the sides of her crack. His fingers dug in just enough to claim, but not enough to bruise.

A perfect, greedy handful. Then, without warning, he spread them apart again—wider this time.

A stretch so deep, it tugged at nerves she didn’t even know existed.

"Aaaah~!"

She moaned, loud and raw, her voice laced with shock and pleasure.

Her hands clawed at the bed below, knuckles white as she bit down into the fabric—half to muffle herself, half to keep from screaming again.

Her body arched on instinct, trembling under him like a harp string pulled taut.

What the hell was this gremlin doing to her? And why did it feel so good?

She didn’t know the answer. But she knew one thing:

She didn’t want him to stop.

It was now two moans down.

Victory in the air. He puffed out his tiny gremlin chest like a goblin war general basking in the glory of battle.

"Whooooaa..."

He exhaled, dramatic and breathless, like he’d just climbed a mountain made entirely of forbidden ass.

A thick wad of sweat rolled down his forehead like a fat drop of shame and triumph mingled together.

He wiped it away with a single, overly serious swipe of his sleeve.

"Dhat’s dwo squeezes... Dang, you madame... got premium-grade boody."

She chirped in response, a soft sound, almost amused. Lyra didn’t say anything else.

Just a quiet, barely-there nod of her head, her face buried in her arms.

Because how could she admit it?

How could she say out loud that she wanted more?

That the sensation—the pure, electric, soul-stirring release—had been unlike anything she’d ever experienced?

Even with Bryce. Especially with Bryce.

This massage... it was doing things. Forbidden things. First-time things.

For the first time in her long, storied life, a massage was actually working on her. Not just poking nerves or fluffing muscles.

No, this was different. This was touching her.

He didn’t bask long.

With all the grace of a perverted monk chasing enlightenment, Rae chugged down another glowing vial of potion like it was holy nectar and rubbed his hands together.

Three moans to go.

’That’s it.’

He thought, grinning wickedly.

He had cracked her shell. She knew now—his hands weren’t just hands.

They were divine instruments of ass-based salvation. And once you’ve tasted magic fingers, there’s no going back.

She was sensitive now. Her nerves were singing like temple bells. Which meant...

Advantage: Rae.

He dove back in, this time switching it up. His tiny, deliberate hands began gliding along her legs.

Starting at her calves—firm, muscled, but smooth—he pressed and squeezed gently, like he was kneading sacred bread dough.

Every press, every climb of his hands upward, felt like he was drawing out tension like poison.

Inch by inch, up the slope of her toned legs, past the tender backs of her knees, and onward—always onward—toward her luscious upper thighs.

With every pass, he felt her body quiver. Not from the cold. Not from the rain.

But from anticipation.

Raw, hungry anticipation.

And she was silent now.

No more banter.

No sass.

No biting jokes.

Just quiet.