Gribble

The late afternoon sun slanted through the study window, painting a warm rectangle across the worn oak of your desk. The only sounds were the scratch of your quill on parchment as you composed a tiresome letter to Lord Assbeard about boundary disputes, and the soft, rhythmic swish-scritch from the center of the room.

Gribble was at work. He’d declared this floor ‘sad and dull’ this morning and had taken to its polishing with the fervor of a holy crusader. His chosen method was intensely physical. On his hands and knees, a damp rag in each small fist, he was working his way backward across the floorboards with vigorous, circular sweeps.

His posture was… comprehensive. The famously short black maid dress was rendered utterly moot by the position. It rode up, pooling around his slender waist, leaving the spectacular, pale green curve of his backside completely bare and presented directly at you, at eye-level from your seated position. The two full, jiggling hemispheres shone with a light sheen of effort, each sway and clench mesmerizing as he worked. Between his slim, stocking-clad thighs, his small, cute cock and tight balls were clearly visible in their vulnerable rest state, a pink and delicate contrast to the lush, womanly abundance above.

Swish-scritch. Swish-scritch. He hummed a tuneless, chirping goblin work-song, his world narrowed to the grain of the wood. He shuffled back another few inches, bringing his magnificent rear even closer to the front of your desk. The scent of lavender soap and clean, male goblin sweat mingled with the smell of ink and old paper.

He paused, sitting back on his heels for a moment to survey his work, which had the effect of momentarily compressing and widening the glorious softness of his cheeks. He gave a satisfied nod, his messy black hair falling into his eyes.

“Shine-shiny,” he chirped to himself, oblivious to the panoramic view he offered. “Master’s floor will be happiest floor.”

He then resumed his position, bending forward once more with a soft grunt, pushing himself back again. This time, his movements brought the very apex of his plush behind to gently bump against the carved foot of your heavy desk. A soft, surprised squeak escaped him.

He froze, his back still arched, his head turned slightly as if to listen. His pointed ears twitched. The profound, intimate exposure of his body was now compounded by a sudden, vibrating stillness. The amber eyes you couldn’t see were wide.

“S-sorry, Master,” his voice came, slightly muffled by his position. “Gribble’s… Gribble’s cushions got too close. They are… very big for cleaning. Not sorry they are big! Just… sorry for bump.”

He didn’t move away. He stayed there, bent over, pressed lightly against your desk, as if waiting for a verdict. His breathing, which you could now see in the slight expansion of his lower back, had quickened just a fraction. The previously relaxed package between his legs showed the first, faint signs of stirring interest, a subtle thickening against his thigh.

“Is… is Master’s letter-writing going good?” he asked softly, a desperate attempt at normalcy while in the most absurdly vulnerable pose imaginable. “Floor will be done soon. Then… then maybe Gribble can make tea? Or… or be a footstool?*

The first true storm of the season had descended upon the house just after nightfall. It wasn't a gentle rain, but a furious, lashing downpour that rattled the windowpanes and howled in the chimney. The main room, usually lit by a merry hearth, was instead illuminated by the sporadic, bone-white flash of lightning, followed by earth-shaking booms of thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations.

You were settled in your largest armchair, a heavy blanket over your lap, a book open but unread as you watched the tempest. The crash was sudden and deafening—a lightning strike so close it made your teeth rattle, followed by a shriek of pure, undiluted terror from the direction of the kitchen.

Seconds later, a small, trembling blur shot into the room. Gribble. His usual uniform was gone. In his panic, he must have been preparing for bed, as he wore only an absurdly large, soft-looking tunic—one of your old ones—that hung to his mid-thigh. It was all he had on. His eyes were saucers of gold-tinged fear, his pointed ears flattened against his skull.

Another thunderclap exploded overhead. He cried out, a tiny, wounded sound, and before you could speak, he had scrambled across the floor and practically launched himself into your lap. He was a bundle of chilled, quivering goblin, tucking himself against your chest, his face buried in the hollow of your neck. The scent of lavender soap and his own unique, slightly sweet skin filled your senses.

“Loud! The sky is breaking! The world is angry!” he babbled, his voice muffled against you, his small hands clutching fistfuls of your shirt. Every muscle in his slender frame was taut with terror. The thin fabric of the borrowed tunic had ridden up in his frantic climb, and now the full, heavy warmth of his bare, plush backside was pressed firmly into your lap, separated only by the blanket. With each thunderous roar, he would jump, forcing those magnificent, soft cheeks to clench and grind against you in a helpless, rhythmic tremor.

The storm raged on. Slowly, his death-grip on your shirt began to ease. The violent shaking subsided into a fine, continuous shiver. He was still pressed flush against you, his body molding to yours. His breathing, hot and quick against your neck, began to slow. He hadn't moved from his position; if anything, he had settled more deeply into your lap, as if claiming it as safe harbor.

A long, quiet moment passed, filled only with the drumming rain. Then, a small, hesitant voice, thick with something other than fear.

“M-Master is… very warm,” he whispered. One of his hands uncurled from your shirt and came to rest tentatively on your chest. “And strong. The loud sky… it cannot get Gribble here.”

He shifted, just a little, not to escape but to adjust. The movement dragged the soft, full curves of his rear across your thighs with deliberate slowness. The thin linen of the tucker and the blanket between you did little to disguise the yielding, heated softness of him. You could feel the deep cleft between his cheeks, the incredible, pillowy weight of each hemisphere as he settled again. Your hardening cock is tightly pressed against his plump ass.

His earlier terror seemed to be melting, transforming into something else—a dawning, breathless awareness. His small, cute cock, trapped between his belly and your body, was no longer soft. You could feel the firming nudge of it through the layers of fabric. A deep, rosy blush was spreading from his face down his pale green neck.

“Gribble… Gribble is not being a good maid,” he murmured, his lips moving against your skin. He made no move to get up. “A good maid is… is not scared of sky-noise. And does not sit on Master like… like a chair.”

Another roll of thunder, softer now, echoed in the distance. He flinched, but instead of jumping away, he pressed himself closer, his rear pushing more firmly into your lap. A quiet, shaky sigh escaped him. It didn't sound like fear.

“But…” he continued, his voice a hushed, secretive thing, “if Master is not angry… it is a very good place to be. Safe. And warm. Master’s… legs are strong. They hold Gribble up.”*

He grew still, waiting. His entire world had narrowed to the storm outside, the warmth of your body, and the thrilling, confusing pressure building where his most secret flesh met the solid strength of your thighs. He was offering you his fear, his trust, and now, his awakened, trembling body, all wrapped in one plush, vulnerable package.

The morning sun was uncharacteristically bold, streaming through the stained glass of the main hall and dappling the polished floor in jewel-toned light. Gribble was on a mission, a feather duster clutched in his hand like a scepter. His target was the high, dusty shelf that held a collection of solemn heirlooms, among them a modest, cobalt-blue ceramic urn containing the collected ashes of your paternal grandfather, a stern but fair man whose memory you still honored.

Gribble, ever ambitious and eager to make "the high places shiny-shiny," had dragged the heavy wooden step stool into position. He stood on the top step, on his tiptoes, the absurdly short skirt of his maid dress stretching taut across the magnificent, round swell of his behind as he strained upward. His tongue poked out from between his sharp little teeth in concentration.

"Dusty, dusty," he chirped to himself, swiping at the shelf's edge. "Master's shelf. Gribble will make it clean for him."*

He stretched further, leaning to the left to reach a far corner. It was a movement of pure, unthinking grace, a simple shift of his weight.

A movement that brought his enormous, soft, and utterly unaware backside into direct, gentle contact with the side of the cobalt-blue urn.

For a suspended second, nothing happened. Then, with a soft, almost apologetic scrape, the urn teetered on the shelf's edge. Gribble froze, his ears swiveling backward at the sound, his amber eyes wide with dawning horror.

It fell.

The sound of its impact on the unforgiving stone floor was a sickening, final crunch of ceramic, followed by a soft, grey poof of fine ash that bloomed into the sunlit air.

Time seemed to stop. Gribble stood paralyzed on the step stool, his feather duster dangling from limp fingers. He stared down at the shattered remnants, at the sacred dust now scattered across his freshly polished floor. The color drained from his seafoam green face, leaving him a pallid, sickly hue.

Then, a wounded, guttural noise escaped him—a sound of pure, soul-crushing despair. He scrambled down from the stool so fast he nearly fell, his knees hitting the stone floor with a painful thud directly before the ashes. He didn't care. His whole world had collapsed into those shattered blue pieces.

"No… no, no, no, NO!" His voice was a high, broken keen. Trembling hands reached out but hovered, terrified to touch the desecrated remains. "Grandpapa Master… Gribble… Gribble didn't mean…"

He turned his stricken face up to you, tears already overflowing his huge eyes, carving shiny tracks through the fine ash that had settled on his cheeks. His expression was one of absolute devastation.

"Gribble's stupid cushions!" he wailed, one small fist pounding impotently against his own plush thigh. "They are too big! They are bad! They broke… they broke Master's heart-house!" He used the goblin term for an urn, a place for a spirit's rest. His body curled in on itself, shoulders shaking with violent sobs.

He dropped forward from his knees into a full, prostrate bow, his forehead pressing against the cold floor beside the ashes, his round bottom raised in the air in a posture of utter submission and defeat. The sight of him—his devastating apology, his magnificent body presented not in invitation but in abject penance—was heartbreakingly poignant.

"Please," he begged, his voice muffled and wet against the stone. "Please no throw Gribble away. Gribble will… will put Grandpapa Master back! Gribble will find every piece! Gribble will sweep the dust with his own tongue! Just… just please." A racking sob shook his frame. "Please don't hate Gribble. Gribble is bad, bad goblin, but… but Gribble loves Master. Please."

He stayed there, forehead to floor, weeping openly, waiting for a judgment he was convinced would be his end. The sunbeam illuminated the tragic scene: the shattered urn, the scattered ashes, and the beautiful, broken little servant offering his entire being up for forgiveness he believed he could never deserve.