Impregnated by the Pigman

Hey hey! Alexa here, back with another installment from the "Wild World" series. Follow our heroine Robin as she tries to navigate a city of hungry, horny beastmen.

Hope you enjoy! ;)

...

semi-annual poker party in need of serving-girl. must send front and back photos and measurements. must be willing to wear outfit. $40/hour paid at completion. if interested contact through site with info and attachments

Robin read through the post twice, pausing on $40/hour as she bit her lip. Her landlord had raised her rent, and she was searching for a way to earn a little extra cash before the month was through. She wasn't familiar with the role of "serving-girl," but it sounded easy enough.

Still, Robin was hesitant. While the pay was appealing, she wasn't sure about sending pictures of herself, and wearing an "outfit" was a touch too vague. What did the person who wrote the online ad mean? She figured it wasn't something wholesome or modest, given the context. There weren't any suit-and-tie poker parties in her part of town.

But $40 for an hour's work was just too good to pass up. Depending on the length of the job, she could make over $100 doing little more than topping off beer steins and refilling bowls with peanuts. Robin read the post again, her blue eyes lingering on the line, "must be willing to wear outfit." It was intentionally ambiguous, she was sure.

With a sigh, Robin lifted the laptop from her legs and swung off the bed. She grabbed her smartphone as she stood and walked to the table in her kitchen. It took her several minutes, but she finally found a position where the phone's camera captured her entire body. Leaning it against an empty vase, she set a timer and stepped back into the frame.

Robin moved to collect her phone and check the picture. Her hair was a little messy, and her white top and blue jeans didn't reveal very much, but it met the requirements of the ad. She set the timer again and repositioned her phone, then stepped back to her previous spot and turned around just in time for the second flash. A moment later, she was back at her laptop.

...

The conversation moved quickly. She'd sent an email in response to the post with the information and attachments it asked for. Though it felt kind of uncomfortable typing in her dimensions, her eyes constantly returned to that $40/hr and her reluctance instantly vanished.

Robin received a response that same evening.

...

your perfect. the partys on the tenth of this month at eight o'clock. send me your number and i'll send you my location. it's where the party is

signed Al

...

Sure thing! My number is xxx-xxx-xxxx.

signed Robin

...

Half an hour passed before Robin's phone buzzed in her hand. She paused in walking to the fridge to sit, cross-legged, on the arm of the couch. The message was from an unknown number, showing a red pin stuck in a map. She recognized that part of town. It wasn't great.

R: Hey! So I had a few more questions if that's alright?

A: what do you need

R: I was just hoping you'd clarify something. What did you mean by outfit?

A: white blouse and green skirt as a tavern maiden might

R: Ah, I see.

So the stranger wanted her to dress as a tavern wench. His use of "tavern maiden" was polite, but she knew what that type of outfit looked like, formalities aside. As she wondered what other things he was leaving out, another question came to mind.

R: Also, if you don't mind, I was curious if you or your friends were nonhuman? I know certain species are allergic to skincare and cosmetic products so I thought I should ask

A: we're satyrs most of us except Donnie

A: he's a pigman

R: So it's the tenth of this month at eight o'clock?

A: yeah and you can buzz we'll let you up

R: Looking forward to it then! :)

As soon as Robin sent the message, she leapt from the arm of the couch and returned to her bed. Crawling beneath the sheets, she brought up a web browser on her laptop and entered "satyr" which instantly yielded thousands of results. She clicked the photos filter.

Robin scrolled through picture after picture, the glow of the screen reflecting in her glossy eyes as she viewed hoofed men with beards, horns and goat ears. Most of them were naked from the waist up with hairy bellies and broad chests, their red, ruddy faces twisted with drunken grins.

On reputation alone, she knew satyrs were sex-crazed deviants. Most of them remained in the countryside, content to serve as farmhands and ranchers in rural areas of the state. But they'd recently started to migrate into the city, and with their arrival, the population had exploded. It was more than the satyrs themselves, but their tendency to fuck any woman they could find.

Robin evaluated the situation. As she saw it, there were three options. The first option involved speaking with her landlord and submitting to his implied requests. She would service the horseman on a monthly basis to lower her impossible rent.

The second option involved dressing like a tavern wench and bringing drinks to horny men at a poker party. It certainly paid well, but she was confident her responsibilities would include more than pouring beer and heating appetizers in the oven.

The third option involved vacating her apartment.

Though none of the three options were especially appealing, Robin decided to move past her hesitation and choose the poker party. It's not something to dread, she mused to herself. They might be perfect gentleman and I'll have a great time.

Nursing that thought in her head, she entered "tavern maiden" into the search bar and grimaced at the results.

...

Robin crossed her hair in copper braids and tucked them into a bun. She darkened her lips with lipgloss, then touched up the rest of her makeup quickly. The car she'd ordered was going to arrive any second, and unless she hurried she would show up late. Technically, she would show up on time — at eight o'clock — but she wanted to get there ten minutes before to put on the much anticipated "outfit."

She thought about the outfit on the entire ride to the party. The driver didn't make much conversation, bobbing his head as he listened to the radio. Robin barely heard the song as she immersed herself in her own inner dialogue.

What if the outfit is way too small? It seems like something that would happen. What if it's so small I can't fit in it and they refuse to pay me?

"Hey, we're here," the driver said.

"Ah, thanks," Robin murmured. She left the car and felt her phone buzz. As she pulled it out, she looked up instead of down. The state of the building immediately caught her attention. It was an old, brick apartment with graffiti in the alleyway over. She stepped around a spilled trash can and walked toward the gate. A brief moment later, she pressed the button for Al's unit.

The gate buzzed, and Robin pulled it open. She moved through the dim entranceway and started climbing the stairs. No elevators, of course, and by the third story, Robin cheeks and chest were flushed with exertion. Finally, she arrived at unit 545.

A moment later, when she had caught her breath, Robin knocked on the door. Hoof-like clopping grew louder and louder until the lock clicked and two separate latches slid free. The door opened, though little light passed through. A broad satyr was blocking the doorway with his hairy bulk. He extended a large hand and said, "I'm Al," with a wide grin.

"I'm Robin," she replied, taking the satyr's hand.

He gave it a firm shake, then ushered her into the apartment. "Just follow me, then."

The room was spacious and sparsely decorated with a poker table in the middle. Beside the chairs, and the sofa, there wasn't much to say.

Robin walked through and followed Al into the bedroom. He turned around with something in his hands: the outfit. Robin raised her eyebrows and tilted her head slightly, then looked up at Al who said, "What d'ye think? Nice, right?"

"Mm hm," hummed Robin as she nodded her head. The dress would show almost all of her cleavage, and its hem would fall just below her mid-thigh. Tavern "maiden" be damned.

As she stepped forward, Al handed her the dress and left her alone with a nod and a smile. After a few seconds of silence, Robin turned to the door, then back to the dress. She set it aside and pulled her shirt off, then bent over to drop her pants. They fell to the floor.

Robin slipped into the tavern wench dress and adjusted her bosom. It was certainly a "bosom" now, pressed tightly together and upward, rosy, freckled, and practically bursting from the neckline. The skirt rode up her thick thighs and settled just beneath her butt.

In truth, she liked the way she looked. As she drew the slender side of her hand down her bare neck, she bit her lip, smiled a little at her reflection and turned.

Sudden voices from the next room startled Robin and her thoughts vanished. The feelings didn't. She was still smiling slightly, warm and excited. She left the bedroom without hesitation to greet the new guests. Two satyrs and a heavyset pigman stood beside Al, their attention immediately turning to the "tavern maiden."

"Well, look," said one of the satyrs with a wide grin. "Here's the wench now to fetch our ale."

Robin approached the men, embracing her role with a warm smile as she said, "What can I get for you?"

"Whatever Al here has in the fridge," the satyr responded and slapped his friend on the arm.

"A Suds, then," Al said, and the other satyr nodded.

"I'll get one a'the whiskies," the pigman said. He scratched his pink belly beneath the fabric of his undershirt and leered at Robin with his thoughts almost visible in his dark, glossy eyes. She looked back at him, slightly hesitant.

"Above the sink, for the whiskey," Al added as he and the other men went to sit at the poker table. Robin turned and entered the small kitchen, separated only from the living room by a low partition. She collected the pigman's whiskey first, then opened the fridge as the men began to talk amongst themselves. The pigman's name was Donnie, Robin remembered. Donnie.

As she rifled through the fridge, she felt the hem of the dress ride up her pale thighs and sharply tugged it back down. Robin breathed hard as she hid her face behind the refrigerator door. With the whiskey in one hand, she tried to collect two bottles without exposing her breasts.

"C'mon," called Donnie. Robin withdrew from the fridge and carried the drinks to the table. The men smelled of sweat, smoke and must, staring at her with lewd grins.

The "tavern maiden" set the bottles down on the table, then turned to the kitchen to collect the glasses. As she passed Donnie he reached out to swat her ass. Robin jumped in surprise as the fabric fluttered, raising her short skirt for a clear view of her lace panties and large, round asscheeks. As the men laughed, she gave a weak, "Hey."

Her libido had been strangely high the entire day, burning like a small flame inside her core. The sudden contact was a splash of oil, spreading the fire. It climbed through her flushed chest as she looked through the cabinets for glasses, collecting them eagerly.

When Robin returned to the table, one of the satyrs had already started to shuffle the deck, saying, "Yeah, Donnie, tell me about that woman of yours."

"Same as yours, Mack," he replied. "Good at giving head."

The men rocked with laughter as Mack began to deal out the cards. He was bigger than Al, with a larger beard and longer horns. As Robin looked at him, she instinctively clenched her legs together. With a small start, blinking, she turned away and walked back to the kitchen.

Get that out of your head, Robin thought to herself. You can't have sex right now. You don't even know these people. Though with your track record, you'd probably spread your legs and let them all take a turn at you—

Robin shook the image away and lifted her hand to refrigerator door. If she could focus on making something, anything, she'd keep her thoughts in check. She found a box of mozzarella sticks and stepped to the oven. As she read the side of the box, she could hear Al from the other room.

"She's nice, then, isn't she? Found her on an ads site. Even gave me'r dimensions."

"How big are those tits?" Donnie asked.

"Almost as big as yours."

More raucous laughter, and Robin couldn't help but blush. It was impossible to hide, an unfortunate consequence of her pale skin. She busied herself with preheating the oven, pressing the buttons as she continued to listen.

"Does she work for tips?" Mack asked.

"What kind of tips y'talking about," Donnie replied, earning a brief snort from Al as he swallowed his beer.

"Really though, think she'd take tips for something a little extra?"

Excitement flared in Robin's stomach. She didn't know how she'd react if she were propositioned. A part of her wanted to find out. Another part of her — the more reasonable Robin — wanted to keep things strictly professional.

"Hey, girl!" Donnie shouted, and Robin raised her eyebrows, turning. "Why don't you come over 'ere and keep us company? The oven can take of itself, I'm sure."

"Of course," Robin replied in a friendly tone.

"Was thinking you might like to try something with us."

"Sorry?" she answered.

"Donnie, c'mon, then," Al said.

"A minute, Al, let me get to it. It's a fun idea," Donnie responded as he turned his attention to Robin. "We mostly play for money, which is fine enough. But playing for money all the time can get old. I was thinking we could play for something else."

"Like what?" Robin asked, hotly anticipating his next words

"How about this. All the proceeds tonight go to you," Donnie said, and the men rose to rebut the suggestion. "All the proceeds tonight go to you," Donnie repeated, "...long as the winner gets to take your pussy as their prize. How about that? Sounds fair to me."

Robin opened and closed her mouth, but no refusal was forthcoming. Finally, after a moment, she found herself nodding her head. Almost surprised by her own response, she looked away in embarrassment as the laughing men whooped in triumph.

"Alright," Donnie said. "Now come over 'ere and keep us company."

...

She didn't know how exactly she ended up that way, but Robin was planted firmly in Donnie's lap just a few minutes later. He laughed as he talked with the other men, an arm around her waist and a hand on her thigh. With every boom of laughter from the big-bellied pigman, he'd jostle her against his growing member, making her inwardly groan.

This is going about as well as expected, Robin thought. She could feel Donnie's thick cock through the material of his sweatpants, rising up into the crevice of her asscheeks. I'm practically giving him a lap dance. At least he hasn't gotten too handsy...

Donnie's hand slipped from Robin's thigh into the valley of her legs, searching them out until his fat fingers found her panties. She gasped a bit as Donnie grinned, the satyrs arguing over the last of the whiskey in the bottle on the table — all but empty.

As they squabbled, the pigman said in a low voice, "Bet you're good for one, aren't ya' sweetheart. I know an easy tell." He slipped his thumb the frilly fabric of Robin's panties and her warm, yielding flesh. She was wet, undeniably wet, and Donnie nodded in recognition. "Yeah, there she is. Can't wait to get a cock in her. I've half a mind to bend you over the table and ride your big ass until I bust. But I think I'll save that for later. Still have to win."

Robin barely heard him, heart thumping in her chest as she squeezed her thighs around the pigman's hand. Whether she did it to keep him there or keep him out, she didn't know. Either way, the game couldn't end soon enough.

...

Robin returned to the kitchen half an hour later, hot and somewhat frustrated. She regained her composure as she sorted through the refrigerator for more beer, collecting three bottles for the men at the table. The drumsticks in the oven were done so she double-tasked her way back to the table with the food and drinks.

On arriving, she noticed that Mack had a strange look in his eyes. He sat back in his chair and took the plate of drumsticks from Robin, setting them aside with indifference as he continued to look at her. "Y'take tips, girl?"

"Tips? Well, yeah, yes, of course," Robin said.

"How does an extra fifty sound?" He asked, and Robin immediately nodded. "Eager, aren't ye'," the satyr laughed. "You'd have to earn it, y'know. More than just the standard service."

Donnie chuckled, then lifted his beer to his lips.

"What do you mean?" Robin prompted, though she had a fair idea what he wanted.

"Get on your knees and I'll show ye'," Mack answered with a smile. His confident command, broad build and imposing posture were difficult to defy. Donnie had taken the last of Robin's resistance, and now, she was quick to sink to the carpet between the satyr's legs.

"Hah!" Al laughed, and Donnie shook his head as he smiled.

"Good girl," the satyr replied as he started to undo his belt. His ragged trousers fell to the floor and he kicked them off with a wave of his hoof. A heavy set of swinging balls the size of apples rested between his hairy legs, his shaft rising as Robin sat on her calves, wordless.

"Just like you to blow yer load early, Mack," Donnie said. "I'm saving my nut."

"You do that," Mack replied, "I prefer to take my bitches from both ends." His hand found the back of Robin's head as he pulled her forward. His fist tightened in her red hair as he pressed her freckled face against his cock. "Go on, slut."

The dark, mottled skin of Mack's cock felt warm against Robin's cheek, and she turned to look up at its imposing flare. It was already starting to leak a stream of pearly precum.

"Not used to a satyr's cock, I take it?" Mack laughed, his fingers still curled in Robin's hair.

"No, I didn't think—"

"I'm not looking for a conversation. Put that mouth to work, slut."

Mack pressed Robin's face to his shaft again and she opened her mouth. She tasted salt and sweat as her wet tongue trailed an unsteady path along the underside of his shaft. A bead of precum enflamed her senses, saltier than his skin, slightly bitter. Robin followed the rivulet to its source, then captured Mack's flare in her puffy lips, sucking hard.

"Ah, that's a good girl," the satyr said. He joined the other men in resuming the poker game as Robin bobbed her head up and down in his lap. His large hand was a heavy weight, but Robin struggled to take more than half of him. Still, he persisted, and soon enough he forced his flare into her protesting throat. He left it there as her muscles spasmed and massaged him.

When she began to slap his legs, the satyr pulled her from his member. Robin gasped for air, trailing a strand of saliva. Her pupils were dilated, face flushed, and before she had a chance to speak Mack pushed his cock into her mouth. She relaxed her throat, easing the satyr's passage as he pressed deeper. Eyes watering, she met the satyr's stare.

"Now you have it," Mack said. "I'm about to blow my load, and I don't want y'to waste a single drop, y'got it?" he asked, though Robin couldn't answer. Her mouth and throat were wrapped tight around the satyr's cock. "Think I'll shoot it straight into yer belly at this rate."

Mack lifted Robin's head and she slid from him with a loud, lewd slurp. When his flare left her lips, she swallowed, her throat sore from his rough treatment. Robin could taste that same salty, bitter flavor in the back of her mouth, and she knew there was more to come. No longer hesitant, she felt excited at the prospect, eager to make the satyr finish.