Flash Fiction: “Whipped Cream” (Goblin Girl x Holstaur Dairy Bar)

Here it is — the flash fiction version of our recent NSFW commission, starring everyone's favorite chaos goblin and the very accommodating Holstaurs of the Dairy Bar. The PDF is attached to this post.

What starts as a simple quest for whipped cream turns into a creamy, cheek-reddening misunderstanding, complete with lewd menus, thick milk, and a bull of a dishwasher named Kurt. You know, standard snack-run stuff.

This bite-sized story brings the illustration to life with extra spice, character beats, and a splash (or several) of unpasteurized indulgence. If you like goblins getting in over their heads — and then enthusiastically bent over a bar — this one's for you.

💦 Not safe for work. Not safe for kitchens. Probably not safe for goblins.
But absolutely safe for your nightstand. 🐄

Whipped Cream

Warm golden light glowed through stained glass windows. The smell of cinnamon wafted through the air. The bar was made of polished dark wood, worn smooth from use and glistening with condensation from wooden mugs brimming with creamy cocktails. Sturdy stools lined the counter — some occupied, some still slick with fresh milk.

All around, Holstaurs moved gracefully, despite their size. Aprons barely restrained their massive breasts, and they bustled about like sultry barmaids from a very specific kind of dream. Their plump tits swayed and jiggled with every step. More than one bar patron sat with his hand in his lap.

One Holstaur was bent over the counter, pressing a foam-tipped tap into her own nipple with practiced skill, pouring milk into a glass held by a flushed elf. Another, arms full of overflowing whipped-cream sundaes, used her tail to casually spank a patron loitering too close to the service door. There was laughter, slurping, and the occasional low moo.

A gust of cool air swept in — along with a short, wide-eyed whirlwind of green energy. The Goblin Girl burst into the bar, her eyes sparkled, and her grin was too wide to be trusted. A messenger bag bounced against her generous hip. She was a goblin on a mission.

Near the entrance, a caramel-colored Holstaur was straddling a human customer. She cradled his head as he languidly sucked on her stiff nipple. She held a carafe of coffee liqueur near her collarbone and poured it slowly down her curved breast. It mingled with her milk as it reached her swollen bud.

“E-Excuse me,” the mesmerized Goblin Girl breathed, “Can you tell me where I can get some whipped cream?”

The Holstaur paused in her serving of Bossy’s Irish Creme and smiled through heavily lidded eyes at the short, curvy interloper. She pointed her to the bar with her tail.

Behind the bar stood a Holstaur who could only be described as trouble served warm. Busty — even by Holstaur standards — she lightly polished the bar's surface, causing her pendulous pillows to wobble lewdly under a flowered sundress.

Scrambling to the top of a stool, the dewy-eyed Goblin Girl blurted, “I need whipped cream.”

When the Holstaur didn’t immediately respond, the pint-sized goblin added, “It’s for my family — the family I work for! It’s — they — need it for a recipe!”

From a nearby table, a dwarf ordered a Café au Lait from a black-and-white-spotted cow-girl whose enormous jugs spilled around her apron as she leaned down to hear his request. One ponderous tit jiggled free of its restraint and hit the table like a sack of flour.

The THUB resounded through the tavern, causing the green maiden to jolt atop her stool.

“Don’t worry,” said the Goblin Girl, collecting herself, “I came prepared!”

With one swift move, she brandished a small whip from her messenger bag.

The barmaid’s bell bonged quietly. Straightening slightly, she smiled at the diminutive creature before her.

“I’m afraid that’s not on the menu,” she intoned in a husky, honeyed voice, “but we can offer a substitution.”

The goblin leaned forward.

“Goblin Pound Cakes,” smiled the barmaid.

“Could… Could I have a small taste first?” she asked.

Presently, the room became significantly darker. Turning her head upward, she found herself facing a creature the size of a small mountain range. He leered down at her, breathing heavily.

The minotaur was a wall of muscle and heat, a slab of bull masculinity that reeked of sweat, soap, and something far muskier. His horns curled like wrought iron, thick and intimidating, while his shaggy chest rose and fell like a forge bellows. Veins pulsed along arms thicker than her thighs, and his leather apron — far too short for decency — did nothing to hide the outline of something heavy swaying between his legs. His nostrils flared with each breath, fogging the air with the scent of hay, testosterone, and barely restrained lust. A gold ring glinted in his nose; a tattoo spiraled down one bulging bicep in crude minotaur script. His eyes, low and smoldering, lingered on the goblin girl like she was a tiny dessert someone had forgotten to wrap up.

“Kurt, here, is a dishwasher. He’s currently on break, but he would be delighted to take you into the back and give you a free sample,” the Holstaur smiled.

“OK,” said the dauntless damsel, “But just a small one. I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity.”

Taking the goblin’s hand, the bullman snorted, “If you choose, you could very well leave with a full belly.”

❦

©2025 Brad Guigar. All rights reserved