"Don't give up! Don't let her knock you about!" The young man's cry was drowned out by a hundred others, the arena cramped with spectators- jostling and bustling, elbowing and shoving each other with almost as much fervour as the two combatants below.
Two beefy, ridiculously well-endowed tauren females were battling it out for the amusement of the crowd. For some in the audience, this was their first taste of the enormous bovine bipeds and their way of fighting- huge sluggish fists swung with the power to pulverize bones, antlers and horns locked into stalemates, hooves kicking the ground and tearing up great chunks of earth. What little clothing they'd been wearing at the start of the duel had been torn off, both women fighting it out in the nude (which was half of the pull with shady events like these anyway).
"Show her what you're made out of!
Come oooon!
Beat that smug cow into the dirt!"
The reigning champion, a hulking brute of a woman, had a winning streak as impressive as her bust. Gigantic milk jugs swung and jiggled with a lagging momentum all of their own, a separate entity almost from the rest of her body. When the she charged, the heavy hangers came jostling after, great sagging sacks of flesh that came up like weights to slap and batter her opponent. To be struck across the face with a literal keg might've resulted in less punishment.
Not that the challenger was a slouch in that regard either- fuzzy coconuts to rival the size of the arena's favourite, her mega-mammaries bouncing into the opponent's wall of meat and fat with loud thunderclaps, heaving breasts bruising and pummelling one another.
"No, no, no- stand up! Fight! FIGHT!" His shouts of encouragement were growing ever more desperate as the outcome of the match was becoming clear. This would be yet another bloody beating, the queen cow firmly entrenched in her position as number one. Would be a long, painful bout- she liked to take her time with her victories, make the song of suffering all the sweeter for it.
A gnarled, green hand was placed on the young man's shoulder, belonging to an aging orc with a toothy grin. "Yer always rootin' fer' the underdog, aintcha boy?" He squeezed and the boy winced, but there was no malice in it. "Dere's guts in dat, pup. You jus' keep on cheerin', an' one of dese days, dat big bad bitch is goin' down." The orc peered down at the combatants, tongue running over a pierced lip. "Betcha must 'ate that champion tho, eh? Not been beat all year' or more, hah! Best not be placin' any bets!"
The human slumped, shoulders sagging. "Yeah... yeah, she's the worst."
----
Mop lugged the cart behind him, mop in hand. The thing rattled, one of the wheels always going astray, giving the bucket of water and the bottles around it a good shaking. The duel had ended not too long ago, and now he was down here, pulling out of one of the small side grates, lurching into the arena floor. In the seedy underbelly of Booty Bay, you took what kind of jobs you could- and he'd been mopping the tiny arena for so long that that's what people called him now. Mop. Mop the mop-boy.
He didn't like it much at all, there was no respect in a name like it, but what could he do? He was Mop, and mopping was what he did. Didn't have the guts to become a bandit (nor the desire to lose said guts either, for that matter). Didn't have the sea legs to become a pirate, and he certainly didn't have the patriotic streak necessary to enlist in the army! Practically suicide that, with so many wars on top of one another. So, what else was there? You had to making a living, had to eat, didn't you? Took what you could get your hands on.
And on that topic...
Over yonder, slumped against the opposite wall, was the tauren challenger. She was sitting with her back against the stone wall, drooping forward, looking as if she'd just decided to have a little nap.
Not much fighting spirit left in the end, Mop reckoned. The champion was a vindictive bastard alright, a sadist no doubt- and had taken great pleasure in drawing out the defeat, in beating and pulping the would-be usurper thoroughly. She'd ended it by grabbing the hazelnut-furred thick chick by her antlers, holding her struggling up in the air and delivering a mighty hoof-kick straight to her stomach, which had sent her flying and tumbling, only coming to a halt when slamming into the arena edge.
Where she was now.
Mop sidled closer, taking a zig-zag pattern towards her, trying to be discreet about it as he half-heartedly dragged his swab across the floor, soaking up the blood, sweat and snot from the fight. There was no one left in the stands, the place eerily empty, the torches put out and the doors closed. Just he, and the loser- and it wasn't like she had much of a choice, knocked out cold and all. Both of them losers, really.
... was she knocked out cold?
Mop looked about one more time, just to make sure, and then scurried off towards her, cart creaking and protesting. Up close, she was even bigger than he'd imagined- sitting as she was, the female was as tall as he (antlers not included)! Boy, she'd been beaten bad too- bruises were the norm, not the exception, and he had to look real close to find a spot that wasn't miscoloured. Her huge, bloated tits were blotchy with black, blue and red, peeking through the thick brown fur- her face a bloody mess, one eye swollen shut and one big tooth missing.
That was the thing with these desperate gladiators, though. No insurance, no backup, no seconds to haul them off to some half-decent doctor even. They took their chances in the ring, probably hoping that the kind of all-or-nothing situation that they'd put themselves in would give that mental edge to come out on top.
A dumb idea to begin with- and most came out a great deal dumber yet, what little brain cells they had left behind on the dirty floor along with blood, spit and teeth, no doubt.
One person's bad luck is another person's good luck, though! Mop knows that much.
"Hey... you awake?" Mop didn't say it too loud, at first. When she didn't respond, he dared to peek at her lower body, marvelling at the sheer absurd size of her thighs, equal parts muscle and fat- and all bruised. He recalled seeing some particularly vicious punches and knees coming that way, and winced at the recollection, remembering- his eyes darting straight to her crotch-
And there it was, the hoofprint that framed her enormous twat, the V-shape of a cloven limb imprinted on her mound, the loving kiss from a champion hell bent on humiliating her foe. The audience had howled in empathic pain and lust as she'd held the defeated tauren's legs wide, -stomping down- on her snatch- all the while laughing uproariously as the poor prone cow had bellowed like the beast she was
Mop thought he could hear the echoes of that howl still bouncing about in the rafters, shuddering.
Couldn't keep his eyes off her pussy though, all the same. Thick, black cuntlips framed by so much curly pubic hair, a twat big enough to fit his arm (and more) in. He glanced up to see if the dumb cow was conscious, gave her leg a careful prod with his toe. "Hey, I gotta clean up your mess." Still, she didn't move- and he grew bolder yet. Mop sidled closer, mouth dry, clenching the handle with one hand while the other reached out for an enormous furry tit, fingers trembling as they closed about a nipple the size of an apple. He squeezed tight, felt the heat and the dried sweat on it, the flesh pleasantly yielding and soft, much softer than he'd imagined she would be.
She didn't as much as flinch.
His fingers circled the nipple, running little laps around her areola, tickling the teat. "Up and jump, miss moo!" He pinched it- hard!
Still she remained completely immobile, save for a long, thin string of drool dripping out of an open mouth.
Mop's heart was beating so fast he thought it alone might be enough to wake her- but she wasn't stirring. He leaned in, watched one of her eyes, glassy and distant, probably off dreaming about distant mulgore pastures or whatnot.
The coward's boldness burgeoned him in then, the type where you're never so brave as when in front of someone defenceless. Mop felt that familiar heat in his loins, the tent in his pants being hoisted at record speed. When was the first time he'd forced himself upon some unknowing woman? He couldn't quite recall! Had it been that orc savage with her chainmail thong so invitingly slid to the side, face semi-buried in the dirt? Or that elven blonde bitch who'd pranced about only to get the sense smacked out of her? He could vaguely remember her unseeing stare as he humped her smooth snatch.
No, he couldn't remember when he'd started it- and he had to admit, the fights became a lot more exciting when he knew that he might catch a private one-on-one meeting afterwards, assuming the knocks to the head had been plentiful enough (as they often were).
What he could remember, however, was that he'd never had the chance to have a go at a tauren before- and that made him giddy with excitement, like a boy opening his presents during winter's veil.
He slapped her across the face, pinched her nipple again, made rude remarks and sounds- nope, nothing, zilch. No reaction.
His pants dropped to the floor with practiced ease, cock springing free. It was rock hard, poking him in his stomach, turgid and thick, painfully throbbing. Mop tossed the mop to the side, reaching for an unmarked brown glass bottle on the cart, and squirted out the contents into his hand. Palm-scented oil, slick and shiny. He kneeled between her legs, began to massage the fluid into her beige cow cunt, making it more slippery than a goblin salesman. He worked quickly, deftly- hands reaching into the nooks and crannies of her cunt, digits slipping between her sausage-fat pussy lips to smear the slop inside. With what's left he gives her puckered anus a stroke or two, just to give it a sparkly shine, but his interest really isn't in the ass. Who knows where she's been, after all?
Still, he couldn't get over how freaking big she was. On his knees as he was, she towered above, sour breath washing over him. Placing his hands next to her cunt, he tried to imagine just what kind of monstrosities the tauren males carried with them to fit that hole- literal totem poles, perhaps, to pound pussy with? Eager fingers ran laps around her labia majora, the fur smooth like silk on the border- he licked at it, ran his tongue along the path his fingers had made, imagining this great giant of a woman walking about, talking, interacting with others in a week's time- never knowing he'd had his mouth on her cunt, tasting her. His victory over her, a secret one. He hoped he'd see her in the streets one day, to be reminded he had that over her.
