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Rain dropped onto the hinterlands, hitting the coniferous and fauna alike. Its presence dimmed the sunlight, abated the scents track, turned trodden paths into muddy pits. Even flowers seemed to have closed themselves, hiding and kneeling beneath the grand deluge.

One Lykaen did oppose by stepping through the pines, contesting the slippery ground as he trudged on. The weight of his armor didn't help either: intertwined ramifications harnessed around his chest and shoulders, winter branches encircling his hips and lower legs; neither did help the package he carried through the forest. His bundle-stiff was heavy with concoctions and plants he aimed to use in his next endeavor further north. To help a community of elves and humans displaced by the Triumph of the Horde over the Alliance and the slow encroachment of the army onto the leftovers settlements.

A terrible situation the Worgen aimed to salvage by- CLANK!

The sound echoed through the glade, silence. The Druid muffled his whimpers and looked down. In his walk and daydreaming, he had encountered a bear trap whose jaws had not only closed on his legs but clearly pierced through his armor and skin.

From the fangs flowed rivulets of blood, few drops mixing with the soil and mud. Lykaen was no fighter, he was a druid and a healer... The sting of the wound made him almost turn white.

And pitifully mewl.

"What- Who... My leg."

He whimpered by kneeling on the dirty ground, taking pain to staunch his tears and blood while not moving his legs nor exacerbating the wound. The teeth kept twisting in his wounds. The contraption was old, made of steel but showing signs of wear. Dried bloodstains covered one of the jaws he tried to pry open. In vain.

The Ivory-haired Worgen was of dry muscles, used to a strict regimen of travel and effort. In spite of this, he couldn't break the trap. He was in an unknown territory, potentially to be involved with the Horde expansion. With a bag brimming with prized medicines for the needy.

Still, he tried and tried to open the trap and free himself from the pain. He squirmed, he yelped, he crumbled in a pathetic howl: "I-... I-" he repeated to himself, his breath short while thoughts escaped.

CRACK!

This time, it was not the sound of metal closing on his legs. But something hiding in nearby bushes, a living being stepping on twigs. Lykaen's ears turned toward the sound, as well as his blue eyes with the fright of prey. Only to witness a Forest Troll. He was bigger than the Worgen: both in height and width. The creature possessed the green skin of his kin, along with the tusks splitting his mouth in a grin. His attire was of a hunter: a leather harness adorned with variegated feathers, osseous shoulder pads, dyed bracers, and a belt retaining a vulgar loincloth. But he bore no weapon. The Troll exposed his open hands in his approach.

"Hey 'mon! Ya understan' me? Dat trap, ya stepped on'? It mine. Le' ya man' get ya out."

Lykaen blinked while listening to the Troll's thick accent butchering the Common. The Worgen's face was discomfited but didn't halt the Hunter's approach with outstretched arms and open palms. This stranger took slow, deliberate steps before he shuffled through the feathers on his belt and produced a small flask once he was close.

"Take dat for de pain. If ya cry, ya will alert da horde," said the Troll confidently.

"I- I have medicaments in my ba-"

"Too long 'mon. 'Take dat, ya need it," contested the Troll, much more assertive, while entrusting the vial. The flask was small, able to fit between the thumb and the index, but the liquid inside shimmered of a bright pink color. From the uncorked concoction emanated a suave perfume Lykaen inhaled before the expectant Troll. Those golden eyes, that split grin, that skull painted over the face, this crimson hair kept in a mohawk. Lykaen had no reason to trust that stranger... And yet.

Lykaen grumbled but emptied the vial in one go. It tasted like a mix of rotten meat and flowery alcohol, nearly making the worgen retch and vomit. But he kept it together despite his stomach's rebellion, he kept a straight face while looking down at the Troll. With a single hand, he undid the trap by relaxing the jaw until Lykaen could lift his foot. Before he stumbled on his back, unable to retain his balance.

So heavy... Too heavy. His body had become a weight.

Heavier than everything he had lifted. Heavier than a mountain.

Even his eyelids were impossible to bear.

CRACK!

The crepitating sound snatched Lykaen from his stupor. It forced the Worgen's eyes to accommodate the dim lightning around. There was no light but from the stony fireplace set before him, with few lugs at their life's end. Above, the ceiling was of untreated wood, walls of whole logs were closing on him. Around him, every furniture was of similar material, crudely shaped and decorated. Each piece bore either a wax-covered skull, whether human or beastly, while fragrance of hung herbs assailed Lykaen's nose. Looking to his right, he saw a massive but messy bed, and his left had a table with a vial. And he... Lykaen looked down at himself. He had been seated on a chair with a wool blanket sprawled over him with his feet poking through. The left one was intact, as expected, but a bandage had been cinched over the right and limp foot.

Moving the latter proved painful to the Druid, especially from the resisting tendon. But he stood up.

And witnessed his absence of clothing. Instead of his armor intermingled of wood and leather, the worgen was fully exposed. Ivory hair covered his lean form, underlined his muscles and strength within his arms. His pectorals could be delimited with a finger, and all abs accounted onto his skinny belly. His body was fit, and he shouldn't have been ashamed of it...

Except for two facts: One standing in the form of a leather collar cinched around his neck. At least, he estimated from the touch. However, the same touch could not find its ties or any buckle, leaving him at the mercy of the eerie and strangling presence.

For the second, it was his lack of underwear that exposed his bits out: An oversized white sheath concealing his very manhood and two plump orange-sized testicles snug in a velvety pouch, something he had been praised for. Yet, each of them felt absurdly heavy as Lykaen attempted to take a step forth.

The pain from his right foot stole the Druid a wince, but he was able to press on it while taking another step. Then a third, a fourth. Slowly, he left the fireplace and chair for what seemed to be the only door in this room, a crude larboard he pushed without encountering any resistance.

"Ah, doggie's awake! Be a good bitch for da man."

The thick accent was unequivocal: it was the Hunter. Through the light of the dying day, despite the man standing in front of the sun, Lykaen noticed that lean body and some tinges of the green skin.

An observation he couldn't pursue as he stepped forth. Without caution, without fear, without any reason. He advanced clumsily despite the churning in his guts or the intense desire to run free, away. He stepped to a close, so close he observed the absence of his "savior"'s harness, before he turned.

His movements accorded with an unknown purpose, yet devoid of constraint. He could not fathom why he turned his back and bowed nor why he extended his arms. But blood rushed to his face when his clawed digits grasped his asscheeks and squeezed them. The flesh was more sensitive than he remembered, and plump. The sensation of pulling each asscheek apart both pleased and ashamed Lykaen. He was flashing his host, showing his butthole like a whore. But the Troll had not yet turned.

For minutes, the Worgen kept the pose while clenching that tight pink pucker or dangling his hefty testicles toward a male he had met not long ago. And... It was arousing.

"Ah, good bitch. Ya did good," crooned the Troll, satisfied. And to Lykaen's shame, he jolted in excitation from the praise. It was like a fire creeping from his head to his spine, chest, belly... And groin, concluding in a slight tug on his sheath.

"Wh- What happened to me? Where am I?"

"Ma home ya are! Ya leg was 'most done. Mah I healed dat. May ask for da prize!"

"What-? What prize?"

"'lways wanted one good doggy."

Lykaen glanced above his shoulder with a shudder, just in time to see his host turn to face him. The troll had removed everything except for his crude and bulging loincloth. More than that, he held a mortar in his hand. The stone piece seemed filled with a jelly that gleamed in bright orange in the dying daylight. It wobbled, it moved, it seemed... Alive.

The "Hunter" grinned while taping the Worgen's left cheek. It sent jolts through Lykaen, no different than electricity coursing through his lower back and into his groin, enough for him to feel his dick poking his slim belly. He didn't have to look to see what it was: a 9-inch-long shaft ending with a bulbous tip, a monster of bright red flesh pulsating with life and energy. Whose base remained hidden within the sheath, a canine knot he always hid from anyone despite it bulging through the thin skin.

"I- I am not a doggy!"

"Na, nat yet. But ya good."

The Troll was smug, disrespectful even by waving the jelly-stained pestle. The stone tool was still coated, and without regard to Lykaen's wellbeing, he pressed its coated tip against that tight pucker.

To the touch, it was akin to ice being rubbed on the hole, followed by the coarse texture of the tool being forced against the relaxed orifice. Relaxed to the point Lykaen could not clench his muscles around the pestle when the troll pushed it inside. The roundish shape slid and wedged within Lykaen before sharp wiggles shook the tool and the Worgen through them.

Contrary to what he had expected, it wasn't painful. Everything felt dull, senseless... He sensed a slight pressure but nothing more. Besides the humiliation... The impotence. He thrashed... In vain.

"Nah, bad doggy. Ya can't move with da collar. Little gift of me ta ya."

"Le- Let me go! Please!"

"Nah... Heard goblins south want ta pay lotsa' gol' for doggies like ya. 'Pretty and useful. And look at ya, ya're liking dat!" roared the Troll.

Lykaen had to admit that he was rock hard, his dick pressing against his soft belly. Though he wasn't helped by the Troll playing with that pestle inside him... But then... PLOP!

"But ya're not a softie! Goblins like dey doggies softies. 'Ganna help dat," commented the individual.

The cold breeze caressed Lykaen's gaped orifice and stole a whimper. What did that Troll mean by saying Softie or help? Lykaen wanted to leave, to flee. He tensed his legs. And yelp.

Something cold was poured inside his ass. Something icy to the point he nearly tipped forward from the reaction. Behind, the Troll emptied the substance within the gaped orifice and was now triturating Lykaen's hole like another mortar. He was not, and through his action, he painted the Worgen's balls and ass in another shade of orange until everything was cold and numb. And it didn't stop there. It didn't stop at the pestle's reach. Lykaen felt it. Something wiggled inside him: it moved, shifted, then coiled. He raised his brows, then crumbled when he felt his guts punched by that slimey creature.

"Hahaha! Yeah doggy! Dat sum slime! How dat feel?"

Lykaen mewled. The slime crept further by bouncing left and right inside his orifice. From one direction to another, it kept progressing inside him and exploding in icy pinpricks, slowly overtaking his belly and body. It spread, grew, and upturned as cold became warmth when it spread over his cock and ass. Below his round belly, Lykaen felt the spurt of precum hitting and matting his fur while his wobbly legs barely bore his weight. It felt like cumming, but without the pleasure, without the release. And his cock burned. It burned so badly, but he couldn't touch it. He-

Whack! The druid whimpered when something massive smacked his hairy ass, something just as hot.

He glanced. The Troll grinned while teasingly hitting Lykaen's butt with his cock. A mace of green flesh ending in a mushroom-shaped purple tip, a shaft covered with veins and folds. Folds... That cock was bigger than Lykaen's, and it was not fully erected.

"Here's sumthing dat make doggies happy. Bark!"

"Gnnn-No-AH!"

Lykaen had tried to be valiant and restrain himself, to not give in to the jest or the heat spreading over his body. Only for his composure to crack, then break when that enlarged cocktip pressed against his orifice. Compared to the icy numbness, the Troll's cock was of molten iron whose warmth burned, seared, thrilled.

The Druid bit his lips, tasted the iron at his tongue tip. The pervert pushed inside.

"AHHHHH!" screamed the Worgen, impaled by that massive mast. Only for his voice to fall flat as he felt... No pain. There was no suffering, no pang, no sting. How was that possible?

The second after, his expression mollified as the Troll pistoned his hips further and prodded Lykaen's insides. From the discomfort remained the alien feeling of being filled. Something pale in comparison to that soothing and sultry spreading and spearheading within his guts. That cock was so massive the Worgen did not have to hold his asscheeks spread anymore. But he could not remove them.

He kept his chest lowered, his fingers digging and anchored into the glutes while the Troll pressed in.

Squelch! Squelch! Squelch!

Lykaen listened to his slime-coated orifice giving in to the assault, of the tender rim no longer retaining the poured substance. It fell and tumbled on the ground, mixing with the puddle of precum he was wading in, sticking to his paws and fur by the second. He weathered the assault, his body rocking back and forth from the assault of the rough Troll. That pervert had gripped his hips and was grinding his guts. And... It was wonderful.

He experienced his own sphincter clenching around the cock like hoops of warmth; He felt his guts opening up under the burning assault of that cocktip; He distinguished the presence of the Troll's precum mixing with the Slime's fluid. It was a fire, a brazier in his guts, that overwhelmed his mind.

There was no pain or pressure, only warmth and cold.... What was numb and pleasing. What was terrible and delightful. And the troll, his cock inside him, was something he needed... Again. Again. Again.

Saliva dripped from Lykaen's mouth as he lost himself within that balance, embraced the moment of the Troll's groin hitting his backside: of those immense testicles beating his plump rump raw. When he hit, his body reacted to the shock by gripping with his sphincters. From it, all sensations heightened until it felt like every part of him wrapped around that cock.

The Troll kept accelerating, kept thrusting, kept hitting those guts and softening them. Without a glance, Lykaen knew the Troll's cock bulged through his belly, making him look heavy if not gravid. His soft ass, so big and round, was smacked and swacked by that pervert whenever the Worgen had to yelp.

And yelp, he had to.

"Ah! Ya will be round and soft for the south, doggie!"

The voice brought Lykaen back. The Worgen swallowed his saliva despite his sore jaw and saw it. The Troll was slowing down, came to a stop. His hands were tightly gripping the Druid's ribs, almost crushing them. And then... then... The Troll hilted himself entirely.

The halt was welcomed, later desired. From that turgid cock spewed a flood of semen that invaded, pervaded, repainted the Worgen's guts in white, and swarmed his body with blissful shocks.

Lykaen didn't cum, or so it was not like it. However, he had to fight the weakness overtaking him. His legs were wobbling below him, his arms were desensitized. His eyelids fluttered, and those glassy eyes barely focused on the cabinets filled with vials and flasks, portending with promises. Then his face fell, drool dripped from his agape mouth. He observed the growing puddle of viscous precum, adulterated and saturated by another liquid: white and reeking.

It came in dribs and drabs, tainting and soiling the ground as much as his backside... Before the Troll pulled out in a sigh. From that movement, a torrent escaped and kept flowing.

"Good doggy. Gotta reward ya."

The Troll spoke and steps followed behind the Worgen. Lykaen heeded some shuffles, but he felt the need to breathe, exhale. To clench his squelching buttocks to halt his round belly from emptying itself.

"Up," ordered the Hunter with an added snap. The Druid sprung back and straight, wincing at the backside's soreness after keeping such a position. There. He noticed the changes done to him: his belly looked heavier, if not gravid, and his arms seemed more... Thin. For lack of a better word.

He kept his observation: his soft cock stood in the open rather than in its sheath, the skin having taken a pinkish tone devoid of any folds, of any turgor at the base. His tummy was soft, and so round he had even popped his belly button out from all that liquid sloshing out. As for his chest, he saw green hands pass a pink-laced fabric over them: a brassiere whose presence would support his fattened chest.

When it was not that hand pressing and massaging them, or the other onto his belly.

"Whos' me good bitch?"

Asked that thick voice, right into the Worgen's ears.

And asked that Troll, as Lykaen had to take other positions. Each time the Troll spoke, he had to order and follow, he had to serve and swallow what he was given. This became a routine for the Worgen, who, by the day, he felt his muscles wilt and weaken. His cum-filled round guts became normalcy as his... Master... kept filling, breeding, teaching him how to behave.

Never would he know the name of the Troll who had captured him, but each night he begged him for release. Not outside, but of pleasure. His body had adapted to his duties, as proved by his stocky frame. One he came to be proud of as his Master praised his prim asscheeks and forms. Forms embraced by the gifts his master handed him: laced bracers, fishnets stocking, and arm sleeves. Their bright pink color did hurl against the Worgen's ivory fur. But neither Master nor Dog did criticize the choice. The former enjoyed the sight of such a beast wearing those cute garments. The latter embraced the glances he received from the Troll.

"Who's me good bitch? Who's gonna please de goblin and bring me gol'?"

Asked his master while pulling on those pink panties. With his paws raised and on his backside, Lykaen tried to look cute in the eyes of his Master so he could get a reward.

His clitty, so limp and cold, always itched him. It kept leaking into his beautiful panties and making a mess. But tonight, the troll untied the little knot keeping that tiny nub hidden and revealed it. It had become so small and puny, Master could not hold it with more than two fingers. But that was enough to pinch and tease his cocklet. Only real males like his Master should have a cock. Doggies only had dicklet to tease and play with, adorable little nubs to mess with until they spurted and sprayed their weak semen in a pathetic mewl. Gasping, his breath short, Lykaen looked up at his master.

Yes, he was a cute soft Doggy. And he wanted his reward: his asshole was cold again, and he hated it.

"I- I am, Master."

"Good Doggy," whispered the Troll, eager to fatten that Worgen more.