[DolphinSanity] The Body of the Soul by teryxc

Storm lay on the lavish king-bed of his date’s abode, watching the wind-dancing flames of the elegant candelabrum across the room. It stood atop an armoire so fancily constructed that its frame was one with the wall -- chiseled from the surrounding grey stonework. Its doors and drawers were of an unnaturally hard wood-like substance which either was, or had been made to look, the same color and texture of the surrounding stone. Such was par for the course in the fantastical, lower-tech richness of his date’s personal castle.

His date was one Atma Shinryu, an ebony-furred and gray scaled anthropomorphic Eastern dragon, whose narrow rainbow mane ran the length of his spine, and whose [i]ego[/i] ran from the topmost of those tufts down into the tippy-tips of each clawed toe. He had an immediately noticeable penchant for wearing a pair of bulky, tactical-shield sunglasses even indoors, which he was still doing to this very moment. Currently, he lay snuggled against Storm's left shoulder -- Atma’s long neck giving him the reach necessary to rest his head sideways along the top of Storm’s unkempt head.

“Some legends say flames are souls,” Atma mentioned, as if about to embark upon some great and storied history as to why.

Storm scoffed. “Souls.” The word dropped from him like an unwanted fish, too small and irrelevant to consider keeping.

“No, it’s true.” Atma’s maw spread in a smile. “They say the souls of the departed dance on candles, and that from the flame’s movements one may divine their intentions.”

The storm dragon’s whole body twinged as he suppressed a derisive snort. “And you really believe that?”

Atma’s smile spread to a mocking grin. “[i]Heavens[/i] no. [i]I[/i] know what souls are, intuitively.” Dropping his voice to a clandestine whisper, he added, “[i]They aren’t candles.[/i]”

Storm broke out laughing, sitting up and nudging Atma away from him. Atma, too, sat up chuckling. “You’re [i]nearly[/i] as irreverent as I am. Not quite [i]as[/i], but nearly!”

Though this place was from a parallel dimension, most of its aesthetics were analogous to ones found in the pre-industrial forms of a few Asian cultures, notably Chinese and Japanese. Most decorations were ornamentally metallic -- brass, copper, gold -- and the walls were ringed with interspersed landscape oil paintings, each of which emphasized some theme of coloration: a blazing red-orange sunset, a dim blue view of the ocean on a moonless night, and so on. The floor and walls were of beautifully rough stonework, with prominent seams created by the masons’ binding agents and carefully arranged irregularities from the boulders used in construction. The bedchamber dipped down a bit from its entrance before flattening into a circular, leveled area, which gave the room a slope and texture not unpleasantly like that of a fancifully imagined dragon’s cavern. The curtained windows were open to allow airflow, but the room was insulated from outside noise, owing to a sound-dampening field provided by a magic trinket hung at the door.

“A concession I made to my servants long ago,” Atma had explained with a chuckle upon their arrival. “I have been known to make the nights a little… [b]loud[/b].”

In general, neither had disrobed yet -- Atma still wearing his traditional [i]yukata[/i] (which from top to bottom featured a white-fading-black color scheme that beautifully matched the black and charcoal greys of his primary body colors), and Storm still wearing a sharp-looking black suit (so tight on him that one could hear the fabric strain when he stretched or flexed, to say nothing of how the pants called attention to his bulge anytime he chose to angle his hips forward). The covers of the bed beneath them used a white-fading-black pattern that matched the [i]yukata[/i], and together the two dragons looked made for the scene.

“You have been a gracious host thus far,” Storm observed, before moving a hand lower to rub suggestively along the edge of Atma’s slim belly through the garment. “I’d certainly enjoy taking that hosting to the next level~”

There had been an erotically charged draconic magnetism between them for most of the night. It had been the whole reason Atma led Storm away from the bar and through the innocuous-looking portal he had made between some of the adjoining alleys and his abode. It wasn’t love at first sight so much as “mutual urge to contest for dominance and then fuck accordingly,” but neither had a problem with this feeling as such.

Atma was, more precisely, a [i]soul dragon[/i], and was quite experienced at bending the wills of his sexual partners for both their enjoyment and his own. He firmly objected to changing the core of a person, but he quite loved to see them disinhibited under the power of his hypnotic gaze -- a not-too-subtle trait of his eyes which his shades served to screen out. Storm’s curiosity had been piqued upon witnessing his ability to enthrall a few men at the bar merely by baring his eyes and looking into their own. Storm had thought himself [i]special[/i] in that regard, and seeing another with a similar ability made him take note.

As for the subtext implied by “taking hosting to the next level,” that much was blissfully lost on Atma, who had no idea that Storm was essentially a mask layered over a latex symbiote layered over a subdued and assimilated person. To the dragon’s senses, Storm still had [i]chi[/i] and a soul -- albeit confused, distraught-looking ones. The [i]chi[/i] seemed stretched, to the point of nearly tearing, straining somehow to satisfy both mortal and divine qualities while only being sickly versions of both. The soul, meanwhile, was dim and obscured, as if buried beneath layers of obfuscation, and seemed more dragon-colored than truly dragon-like. He was a fascinating anomaly that Atma’s intellectual side wished to examine much deeper.

Of course, other parts of Atma wanted to plumb Storm’s depths in [i]other[/i] ways -- and the rising lecherousness between them was making reason increasingly difficult to come by. There were few things in life more satisfying than shredding too-tight clothing, locking eyes with someone, and impelling him to release all of his inhibitions to show who he truly is.

Nonetheless, Atma strove to maintain an air of [i]tsundere[/i]. He shrugged, folding his [i]yukata[/i] tighter around himself as he stood up at the bedside away from Storm’s fondling. “I can’t pretend to know you, [i]yet[/i]. That ‘next level’ action you’re seeking will need next-level connection.”

“Oh?” Storm, too, pulled himself off the bed -- turning and folding his arms in a sassy counterpoint to what Atma had just done. “Do tell me how you’d come to know me, then. Perhaps a long, [i]feast[/i] of a look deep into my eyes, like you did to those men in the bar?”

There was almost a sneer from the other dragon. “Pleasant that you noticed the power.”

“[i]I[/i] am not blind.”

Atma shrugged. “No one else caught on. As is typical.”

Storm stepped around the bed, ambling toward him. “I’m not like them, but I think that much is obvious. Men of power are the only men I find [i]worthy[/i].”

Atma licked his own snout as he removed his sunshades and set them aside on the nightstand. With that done -- and the fascinating rainbow glow of his eyes revealed -- he opened his arms in offering to his companion of the evening. “Then let’s do this right, and see what else we see in you~”

Storm advanced waist to waist with him -- wrapped arms around small of back, snout pitching to one side. The eye-to-eye staredown Atma had been seeking was replaced by a seducing and passionate smooch, Storm’s long tongue finding its way down the length of Atma’s snout and teasing at the crease between his lips as it ventured forth. The warmth of it down his maw’s edges [i]did things[/i] for the soul dragon. Facade cracking, he returned the embrace, grasping lower on Storm’s body -- a hand finding the muscular firmness of the other dragon’s rear, and then taking hold and rubbing along the edge of the tail.

In comedic unison, they each tried to roll the other onto the bed in a display of strength and dominance. Both trying to land on top. The result was an awkward sideways landing and increasingly agitated kissings, nibbling, and draconic rumbles. Storm’s garments (which neither of them had ever seriously thought would survive the night) popping as seams broke.

“Mmm, do remember you’re a guest in [i]my[/i] home,” said Atma.

Storm grabbed Atma’s ass. “Of course. It sounds like the perfect time to bring some foreign goods into the castle vault.”

“Oh you don’t want to enter my [i]vault[/i], cousin,” said Atma, using the term merely to mean ‘a fellow dragon.’ “Those who dare enter in arrogance could become treasures who [i]never leave[/i].”

“Mmh, ‘fraid I’m not some groupie you can polish to boost your own ego,” said Storm as he ground against Atma’s groin.

Atma, who was immediately grinding back, kept right on quasi-insulting him: “Come to think of it, I suppose I’d be fishing out of your bucket if I did that, considering how desperately [i]you[/i] were cruising that venue.”

“You’re such an insufferably typical [i]dragon[/i],” said Storm.

Atma laughed. “Then why are you getting so hard?”

“Ask yourself first.”

“Simple, friend: [i]because I plan on topping you soon[/i].”

Eyes still shut, Storm’s fangs showed proudly. “Then [i]make it happen[/i].”

“Hm-hm… as it so happens, that is a [i]specialty[/i] of mine~”

Moment by moment, in a flurry of hugs, gropes, and kisses, the clothes came off. Not an angry stripping, but a methodical albeit savage one -- a pre-battle series of feints and testings, each gauging the other’s strength and poise as they bit, tore, and danced their way out of their garments and left them in a pile nearby. Atma quickly made it clear that his own clothes were not expendable, but Storm let his shirt get torn to shreds for the fun of it, his supple pecs coming exposed in the midst of the process and exciting the soul dragon further as his teeth brushed against them.

* * *

The night had moved quickly to get to that point: a draconic social dance of many tiny, testing steps. They met at a cozy nook of an establishment -- tucked away within a tall commercial building near one of the nicer residential districts. It was an upper-class watering hole and social hangout, frequented almost exclusively by well-dressed men -- which is to say that it was totally a gay bar, but an impeccably neat and expensive one.

It was the kind of place that took pains to be exclusive… unless one either had suitable wealth or the ability to cheat via mind-control powers.

Both dragons were checking [i]both[/i] of those boxes -- a fact of which they were mutually and curiously aware. Atma seemed to draw hangers-on through the merest contact -- a chatty comment here, a glance there -- and showed a particular fondness for remarking on the color and energy of the [i]eyes[/i] of people he found interesting, often wanting to get a closer look as if to lose himself in them. Storm, meanwhile, seemed to hang like a dark cloud only the most troubled and vulnerable sorts -- whom he picked out with all the predatory keenness of a raptor in flight. He had been in the middle of offering a third drink “on him” to some middle-aged exec with a bad marriage when Atma made the first move, approaching him with a greeting and subsequent remark on how it seemed “like destiny” that the two of them were the only dragonkin in the bar that evening.

As their banter turned into an exercise in social evaluation, Storm became abundantly aware that he was dealing with a magical being -- a [i]strong[/i] one -- while Atma’s expressions and subtle verbal hints made it obvious that he also suspected Storm of having a similar nature. Before long, in the midst of otherwise mundane comments about the color and grooming of manes or and the fineries of the dining area, they were effectively slipping in coded messages to each other, which were being picked up and reciprocated with ease.

They discussed eyes being windows to the soul, with Storm coyly refusing to be stared down too close by the other dragon’s gaze, lest he “fall under the spell” of Atma’s (clearly hypnotic) stare. Atma in turn had admonished that it wasn’t good to be so tense, assuring that he strove to use his “powers of attraction” only for good, to help people relax who seemed like they needed it -- though he admitted that “a liaison for something [i]more[/i] could perhaps be arranged if they so desired” (which Storm interpreted as meaning sex and/or willing servitude, possibly both). Storm in turn had asked whether there was someplace in particular where Atma preferred to make such liaisons -- perhaps some lovely mansion full of “pearls and baubles” (dragons’ orbs or other magic artifacts), which got a chuckle out of the tall, rainbow-maned gentleman.

“My greatest [i]material[/i] treasures are stowed safely in a vault, I assure you,” said Atma. “That said, I do find treasures of [i]other[/i] sorts to be far more interesting~”

To which Storm had said with a smirk and obvious approval, “You are a naughty one.”

Their banter had led out into a nearby alleyway, where stood a wooden door set in a concrete wall. It had no business whatever being there, and would have led directly into an interior storage closet if it led where it [i]appeared[/i] to.

Taking a small jade trinket from within his garment, Atma tapped it on the knob of the door, which magically unlocked itself and twisted open. The door drifted wide to reveal a tunnel leading into a torchlit castle corridor.

“After you,” Atma had told him.

Storm had put effort into feigning a fascinated ignorance as they passed through the “door” that had served as Atma’s otherwise mundane-looking portal into this quaint, lower-magic world: “My, who could have guessed there was a stone-castle estate hidden here?”

“The universe is full of surprises,” Atma had said with a wink, “as I’m [i]sure[/i] you’re already aware.”

* * *

The candelabrum quivered only slightly as the two of them collided with the stonework armoire. Their sexually charged grapple-frotting had evolved a harsher edge, their mutual intensity only making both of them more aroused. It had been ages since Atma had a romp quite like this… even if he was sort of toying with Storm thus far. [i]Letting[/i] the struggle rise to a standing posture again had been a choice Atma made for the sake of making it [i]more fun[/i].

“I can and [i]will[/i] wrestle you down with my eyes closed,” Storm assured Atma.

“Because you know it would be much [i]worse[/i] for you with them open.” The soul dragon’s longer body quivered from the effort as their arms and chests deadlocked. Though he found himself briefly back-against-wall with Storm trying to get enough leverage to lift him like a showoff, he was able to brace himself and stand his ground. From there it was all a matter of leverage; his tall but flexible build (along with vast combat experience) made it easy enough to drive Storm back toward the bed… though, not precisely [i]trivial[/i], which was where the continuing fun came in.

“Finally getting serious~” Storm teased.

The storm dragon tried to take the fight back to the wall again, but Atma managed to twist them both and swerve the momentum onto the bed. Storm flopped on his back with a leg off the bed, and Atma set upon him immediately, grinding hotly and nipping in dominance along Storm’s mane as he set to pinning the other dragon and pushing him further onto the bed.

“[b]Rrrrh[/b], Give up, whelp; let the experienced gentleman take charge!”

“Hardly a gentleman, but that’s why I’m fond of you~”

Storm’s dignity (such as it had ever been) was now protected only by a black speedo -- already so tented that it was clearly ready for the task at hand. Atma did the honors of slipping it free, Storm’s knotty-and-ridged erection bouncing from the sudden momentum. The soul dragon gave it an immediate first squeeze, while Storm brutishly yanked off the no-longer-modest loincloth that was hiding Atma’s member.

To Storm, the shape and look of it were pleasantly relatable: a moist, ridged draconic length with a glans like a turgid spear-head -- a touch narrower immediately prior to that part than Storm’s was. Longer in general, at the expense of some girth, it was nevertheless a hand-filler and likely the bane of the inexperienced deepthroater. The most notable difference was its rooting in a proper slit, without apparent external balls. [i]Overly[/i] streamlined, perhaps, though that was a quibble. What mattered -- what would be truly important to seize -- would be whatever power that lay within… though he didn’t mind getting these closer looks at the eye-candy in the meantime.

Atma quickly started jacking Storm’s length, while gauging how fast the pleasure rose in his body language. Storm was clearly into it, even buckling a bit in a signal of relaxed submission as his shaft pulsed in Atma’s hand. Storm slipped the speedo the rest of the way down, stepping out of it and kicking it aside.

Regaining his composure and reacting less obviously to the pleasure, Storm said sarcastically, “That’s me, good old Teryx Commodore… I play to lose when the mood suits me.” Thinking of Rain, he was quite literally rolling his eyes behind their lids as he said it.

“It’s good to see your mood changes once you realize you can’t win,” opined Atma. “Adaptability is a virtue.”

“Mmm, [i]sell it[/i], stud. I haven’t had a worthy foe in me for some time.”

Atma was grinding in closer -- guiding Storm backward to the bed, pressing him up against it. “Sometimes foes make the best friends, don’t they~?”

“Oh [i]yes[/i], they [b]do[/b]~”

Atma toppled him, Storm landing on his back along the foot of the mattress. A quick hoisting and repositioning got him where Atma wanted him: rear raised to the perfect height, legs spread to hook around Atma’s slender torso. The dragon casually pulled a stashed bottle of lubricating oil from beneath the edge of the bed by pincering it between two toe-claws, and then kicked it up high enough to catch it in his teeth. Cradling Storm’s rump with one arm, he then set about the process of lubing them both up.

Storm was panting -- stroking himself eagerly as he watched the other dragon’s moves. Truly attractive… it was almost a pity he needed to be claimed and assimilated.

[i]Almost[/i], but not really.

Storm’s grin broadened as he heard the bottle click shut again and felt the smooth coolness of it being spread in his rear. [i]That’s it, you foolish divine, [b]think[/b] you’re winning…[/i]

Which, by all description, Atma very much did. He made a final teasing finger-spiral around Teryx’s rear before flexing his groin and pressing his cocktip straight against the hole in one try -- and enjoyed every vigorously penetrative moment of forging a path inside. His body whipped and undulated as he pistoned, his motions spreading the storm dragon with ease and allowing him to lean his long torso forward, nuzzling and nibbling possessively at the bared chest and fluffy golden mane.

Storm didn’t enjoy this bit as any more than a novelty. He imagined it as a lesser godling’s unwitting worship of someone greater, doing so much hard work to try to bring him pleasure with that riled-up rod of his. Then he had a more enticing thought: [i]Besides, that body shall be [b]me[/b] soon enough, if it passes my evaluation~[/i]

The force of it was enough that Storm could feel it triggering spasms along his prostate… which suited him just fine. He let one indulgent crackle of pleasure roll all the way through him as he stroked his shaft lightly, letting Atma serve as the [i]primary[/i] pump for what was about to happen.

“So [i]rude[/i] of you not to look at your partner during such a fine joining.”

“Heh, you seem to like ‘em rude.”

“There are times~”

Storm smirked. If that was rude, then wait until he saw what came next.

Storm moaned dramatically, doing his best impersonation of Rain on one of his most subby days. All the while, he focused his power within, siphoning strength from the rest of the Tarrex network to fuel another small act of creation. He felt the power welling up in him as the Tarrexes drained their hosts and taxed their own stability -- and, uncaring, he kept going, unwilling to slow down. It was worth it in order to harvest this much more [i]lucrative[/i] resource.

Atma looked down as the rhythm steadied into a plateau. He watched eagerly as Storm’s rigidly knotted shaft throbbed. Their breaths and the wetness of their fucking were the only things breaking the silence -- Atma no doubt thinking of, but in this case declining to make, some teasing comment about how fast Storm was going to blow. Instead he watched, his own pleasure enhanced by what he was doing to his partner.

Storm groaned, angled his head back -- mane-lock falling along either side of his shoulders in luxurious vanity. He pushed the base of his shaft forward, angling it toward Atma, and gasped as his groin flinched twice before fluid emerged.

And thus was the trap sprung.

What came from Storm’s penis wasn’t normal cum -- a fact underscored by the broad grin and look of lustful anticipation the dragon wore as he climaxed. It looked like cum for only the barest first instant of leaving his body before transmuting into a viscous dark oil, and it rocketed upward to splash against Atma’s torso, as if the act of changing had given it more momentum. Upon impact, it rapidly expanded and snaked around the soul dragon’s torso as if to engulf him -- and this pattern continued in two more spurts which managed to get out of the “submissive” before Atma was able to pull out.

Still raging hard but certainly unsatisfied, Atma roared and reactively emitted some sort of power. The remaining shots of goo hit the floor and glided like tiny ooze monsters across the stonework to join the fray, hurriedly climbing up Atma to merge mass with the rest.

Except… it wasn’t clinging as well as usual?

The Tarrex goo [i]was[/i] wedging itself into the pores of the stonework for leverage -- pressing up and around Atma to try to hold him, but… something about it was not [i]taking[/i] properly. Atma was still entirely too [i]mobile[/i] as he grumpily extricated his arms from it and then lowered them in calm defiance, the ooze’s surface whipping and sloshing around him in a confused and ineffectual pattern.

To Storm’s intrigued surprise, it soon became clear that the latex wasn’t able to attach to his body [i]at all[/i] -- not even on the fibers of Atma’s rainbow mane, which seemed especially difficult to [i]touch[/i]. As a result, its attempts to engulf him sagged continuously downward from gravity, making the whole event look more like the attack of a particularly angry formation of empty rubbish bags, rather than the fast-acting identity-smoother that it normally was.

Atma sighed as if in boredom. “How obnoxious. Had I wished you harm, I could have drawn a [i]guandao[/i] from my soul itself and ended you already. Had I wished to force you into bondage, I could have peeled open your eyes. Yet despite my most civil attempts to satisfy both our urges, you have attempted trickery like this, purely to sate [i]your own[/i] lusts and ego.”

Storm pulled his neck upright and chuckled. “Oh, trust me, it’s no ‘stunt.’ I know exactly what you are, [i]demigod[/i], and I’ve come here to claim you as a prize.”

Atma, still unimpressed, replied, “I prefer the term [i]sacred dragon[/i]. Regardless, one ought not say this like a man who seeks to cage the last of some rare species of bird. It is base and unbecoming of ones like us.”

Atma, in his thoroughly aroused mood of dominance, seemed to have missed the subtext that Storm was not [i]merely[/i] thinking of all of this as an elaborate sexual conquest. Taking that as a win, Storm did not hint at the notion further, instead commenting, “You are one to talk, traipsing around a gay bar in [i]that[/i] backwater dimension.”

“What I do is my business, as what you do is yours. Now the question is, do you want to continue exploring our affections tonight, or shall I [i]slay[/i] your misbegotten pet and move my focus elsewhere?”

“I never thought I’d meet someone as insistent as myself, but here he is. I’ll have to up my game.”

“Doubtful that’s even possible, really. It seems unlikely you [i]can[/i] vary beyond certain parameters, and I would hazard you are near your limit.” He shrugged. “If my hunch is correct, you are only a byproduct -- dandruff cast off from the mane of someone greater. Perhaps you were banished to this suppressive mortal form as a punishment?”

Storm paused all movement. He did not raise his voice. “You think so…”

Atma chuckled. “Perhaps my claim ignites your urge to submit. It wouldn’t be the first I’ve seen of a fellow dragon who [i]likes[/i] to be demeaned.”

There was the slightest twitch of offense in the storm dragon’s face.

Then, there was [i]blatant[/i] mania.

“Heheheheheh…!!”

Storm’s chuckle trailed off, his chest and arms silently convulsing for a moment longer as his breath ran out. When he had finished, he grinned much too broadly -- much too [i]fangedly[/i] in Atma’s direction.

In Storm’s tone lay all the darkness of the grandest of thunderheads: “I will [i]relish[/i] breaking you.”

Atma smiled ‘politely.’ “Yes, so say you and every other creature with the merest droplet of magic and no idea how to wield it. Now come! Look me in the eye, that I may demonstrate the true meaning of Authority!”

Storm’s head shook twice -- small, short motions. Everything on his face said, clearly but wordlessly, [i]“You cocky son of a bitch.”[/i]

A lunging grab followed -- Storm flinging Atma sideways onto the floor -- the soul dragon seeming still not to care, being almost amused by it, his eyes aglow with ready power as he rolled onto his back. Storm dropped onto shins and knees, straddled the taller dragon’s midriff. Atma gave Storm a most patronizing [i]hug[/i] around the waist, the Tarrex being blown back farther now by some invisible supernatural force that fountained from Atma’s body.

“Forgive me,” said Atma as he continued casually repelling the symbiote by force of will. Even with Storm on top of him focusing on making it claim him, it didn’t take. “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear: I possess mastery over [i]souls[/i] and wield the true power of Authority. This fleshly agent of corruption has no place near me. You will call it off, or I [i]shall[/i] destroy it. From the source, if need be, handsome though you are.”

Storm scowled and grabbed him along the neck -- an action rendered somewhat less threatening by the calmly rigid muscularity of it. The realization he probably couldn’t crush the other dragon’s throat even if he needed to took Storm by unwanted surprise, and was reflected in the tantrum-like gust of his next shout: “[i]You tired old man… accept your fate![/i]”

Atma could hardly have been more entertained. “Hah! I am thousands of years [i]young[/i], not that you would have the necessary perspective. You can’t even bear to meet my gaze -- because you know you’ll succumb!”

Confident and secure, Atma flexed his entire form and pushed back against the weight of Storm’s body. All the while, he rebuffed the connections that the Tarrex blob attempted to make with him, and even though it would dutifully try to enfold itself around him again a moment later, it was proving truly impossible for the ooze to perform its hallmark function.

Storm soon found himself being physically overpowered as the other dragon’s [i]chi[/i] and force of will surged. A glimmer of raw magic was gathering in the front of Atma’s face, the energy along his eyes crackling and spiraling in the full spectrum of ordinary colors, as well as some which the mortal eye could not perceive.

This was happening. This other… admittedly powerful being was about to overcome him.

Storm’s hatred seethed into flat silence. He wouldn’t be beaten like this. He couldn’t stand to see that superior attitude, especially since he knew from experience that it [i]must[/i] be a front. No one was that calm, [i]no one[/i], while still being so hungry to fuck as this one was.

That was when the idea occurred to him.

They reached the midpoint of their grapple as if in slow motion. Atma rising, tipping Storm -- dropping him back-first toward part of the gooey puddle. The soul dragon was practically glowing with power, both physical and metaphysical.

So much… [b]delicious[/b]… power. What could motivate it? Why did it so violently need to defeat him now?

A kindred spirit, perhaps!

The tiniest grin formed -- then only a flat line. For a moment, gone was all of Storm’s petulance and childishness. He became calm. [i]Disturbingly[/i] calm -- like an unnaturally still air that precedes catastrophe.

A calm to which Atma paid no mind, reading it as a sign of his opponent giving up. Just in time for him to roll Storm over, peel both eyes open by hand, and lock gazes in confrontation.

“Show me your soul!” commanded Atma, the spiraling power of multicolored lights flowing from his eyes.

Storm opened wide, smirking, and awaited the connection.

* * *

Atma found himself… not where he expected to be.

“What…”

It was a shrine he had never seen before… a circular outdoor area for worship or ritual magic, its floor made of stone like that in his castle. It was ringed by eight narrow stone pillars, each wringed by effigies of serpentine dragons whose faces were in the image of Atma’s own. A trio of stone buildings lay ahead, left, and right of the circle, while a path lay behind him, leading down a mountain ridge. Dense fog was everywhere, obscuring the lands around him, but he got the sense it was located in a valley.

He was unclothed and still erect, to his slight concern, especially as the arousal from earlier seemed suddenly quite distant.

He had expected to see Storm’s soul. There was definitely [i]a[/i] soul within that body, somewhere… so why was he here?”

As he stepped toward the center of the circle, a blue orb of light formed that seemed to push the fog away. He recognized the orb as being made of the energy a soul would give off, but he was initially mistrustful of it.

As the fog parted, however, his attention was drawn to something much more noteworthy: [i]himself, in chains.[/i]

It was not his humanoid form. It was… a form he hadn’t had the pleasure of occupying for many centuries, now. A form sealed away, lost to him after an incident in which his pride and gotten too far ahead of him and brought tragedy to his family. His siblings, the other two sacred dragons…

Atma winced. It was a long and painful story… a wound so anciently in his past now that he had long dreaded the thought of it ever reopening again.

Yet, here it was. A serpentine “feral” version of himself, capable of fiat flight through the skies despite lacking any obvious anatomy for doing so. Rainbow maned, beautiful in every way -- eyes shut in defeated dismay, normally wizened face wrenched sorrowful with guilt. As it appeared here, it was perhaps forty feet long -- but was twisted upon itself, coiled and self-threaded into such an insulting ball that Atma found himself immediately quivering in anger. Great golden chains secured its lengths of coil to itself -- curled around in single, continuous patterns which connected upon each other with no connecting locks or latches, as if they had been somehow forged in place to restrain him there.

This was him. Truly [i]him[/i]. His majestic form. Its charisma [i]so[/i] radiant and infectious that any nearby could quickly be engulfed in its sway. The power which had made it so easy for him to take that dark step into tyranny. Programming them, [i]compelling[/i] them to do as he wished.

Truly, Atma had lied earlier when he called his gaze “the true power” of Authority. As brilliant as it was, it was [i]paltry[/i] compared to… [i]that[/i]. What [i]he had once had[/i]…

The seal was not one that could ever be undone -- not by any means available on this world or in others he had visited. Nor, really, had he ever let himself dive fully into the task of recovering it… reasoning that if he had it again, he would inevitably repeat the mistakes of the past one day. He had become an atoner -- learned the disciplines of [i]chi[/i] and explored how to use his power more constructively, one on one, striving to at least be a force for good in the world more often than not.

Yet… seeing himself like this…

In all his years… in his worst nightmares, he hadn’t seen his majestic form so literally bound. His dreams of it were always memories of nicer times: bittersweet, in that he would awaken from them and remember those days were gone forever. He had never envisioned his sealing as such… a thing of torture.

But… perhaps it was?

As he approached, those glorious eyes which had once been his own opened to greet him. “You’re here,” he heard himself say, the voice echoing and resplendent with power, even if restrained. “You’re [i]finally[/i] here. We must hurry.”

“Where are Teryx and his creation?”

His majestic self shook its head. “Under our spell. We are deep inside them, at the source of his power. A thing absorbed from a higher dragon.” It nodded toward the blue orb. “That sphere is elementally tied to water -- a blue soul energy with a vast charge, on par with a minor deity.

“That’s really it?”

“He has stolen it. We must deny it from him. Reclaim it for the heavens and unseal ourselves.”

“This isn’t the soul signature that I sensed within him before… is he pulling this from someplace else? Only [i]leeching[/i] it from a dragon?”

His majestic self was stern: “There’s no time. I… [i]we[/i] were only able to arrange this thanks to the confluence of power currently flowing between your eyes and his. Take the orb quickly so that we may be whole again. Unless…” The other part of him sounded the faintest note concerned. “…you are still [i]happy[/i], being so limited?”

That ancient scar in Atma’s psyche [i]twinged[/i] at the thought. Happy? Yes, of course he was happy, except he…

His emotional scar twinged again. Old feelings rushing through him. The loss. How unfair it had all been. How [i]rotten[/i] it was. How foolish and senseless it was that the universe couldn’t simply [i]bow down quietly and obey[/i].

He gritted his fangs. A moment’s flash of Atma the Tyrant returning. Impulsive and decisive, he reached out and grabbed the orb, absorbing its power through his eyes and exuding it into the trapped version of himself.

No more of this… no more of these mortal-ized, half-hearted games… he [i]deserved[/i] better than this. He had fought for so long to atone for his past sins, and what had it gotten him [i]really[/i]? Perhaps this was his way of finally being rewarded!

The energy merged with him rapidly, leaving an odd hum and sense of otherworldly power inside him. It wasn’t his own power, but it was definitely [b]power[/b]. He felt like the force of a hurricane waiting to unfold.

Turning, he approached his majestic form, watching as the shackles on it began to glow and crackle. Those old eyes looking softer and at ease now as they sized up his approach.

As the hum of energy inside Atma grew, the crackling in the bonds… faded. The chains were still there.

The majestic form gazed on with a cryptic, blank expression. Its eyes weren’t focusing on him anymore.

“How do I unseal us?” Atma asked, as if to regain his higher self’s attention.

The head… [i]twitched[/i]. Left. Then right. Like the head of a creepy doll.

“Unseal?” The voice was different, its former purity fading into a wet garble. The head sagged lopsided, the colors fading to a grotesque purple-black, like some sort of poorly mixed ink. “YoU cAn’t.”

Abruptly, the whole image of his majestic form transitioned into a serpentine mass of latex slime. The shackles fell from it, and all of the mass [i]except for the head[/i] dropped to the floor and rushed forward -- first mounding up on the approach, and then lashing out bits of itself to grab and restrain Atma’s waist, neck, and arms.

Atma twisted in revulsion and alarm, straining against the tar-like globs that were whipping their way up and clinging to him -- but this time he could not repel them. The stormy energy inside hummed louder, somehow goading them on and cementing the connection. Within moments, he was being dragged down into the mass.

The now-mockery of his former glory’s face stretched and distorted further -- both jawbones stretching and melting, opening both upwards and downwards and once to reveal an endless pitfall-tunnel lined with glistening goo. “NoW sleEBP heEre WiTH USs,” a gurgling chorus of already-assimilated voices spoke from within.

The “head” drifted forward, jaws wide, and capped off the process of Atma’s engulfment, clamping down over his face and torso while the rest of the mass swirled up to cocoon him from the feet upward.

Atma’s appalled expression and rainbow mane disappeared into the dark. He felt himself fall, through that void that seemed endless, before feeling the encasing wetness pressing in from all around, the voices of dozens of others reverberating through him. Assuring him not to struggle. That he’d like it here. That none of those painful memories matter in the darkness at the eye of the storm.

Atma, to Storm’s intrigue and surprise, still pushed back hard. Through sheer force of will and rejection of the imagery around him, he “awoke” with a gasp -- but only by one level, into the dreamscape from before, where he could again sense himself wrapped up by the ooze. Storm stood nearby, holding the chains that had been allegedly binding his majestic self.

“Not my worst performance, I must say,” the dragon commented. “How interesting that you didn’t simply succumb like the rest. You must be one for [i]pain[/i].”

“You… [i]have no soul[/i]…” Atma shouted with scorn, voice muffled by the goo. “This was a vision of my own desires!”

“A [i]reflection[/i], technically. You gazed not into some mere ‘soul,’ but into the very essence of primordial water. I had but to hold my surface still for one moment and let you fall into your own reflection. Shocking, I know, that one as ‘base’ as me could accomplish such a thing… but it would seem you are not so [i]far[/i] above your temptations when they’re presented to you correctly, [i]Atma the Tyrant[/i].”

Atma, despite his best attempts, was not able to pull free now. The ooze was slowly creeping up on him still. He was tiring. When he looked into himself for another inner reserve of strength, he found himself tripping over those same regrets. The same ones that had led him into this temptation in the first place.

It was inside him. Merging with him. Filling those wounds. Making them feel…

Unjust. So unjust. He had to control himself, to remember that they were [b]hideously unfair[/b], that he [b]deserved to rule effortlessly as a powerful True Dragon[/b] and to [b]wield people as pawn…[/b]

The corruption hit a bump there. Atma grimacing inside the tightening mass as he felt it becoming him. He didn’t want to go back to treating everyone as pawns. He had grown past that… hadn’t he? [i]Hadn’t he?[/i]

He felt hot… interested. Curious.

He had grown past it, [b]but…[/b]

…but even so, it could be [b]so much fun[/b] to do it again… strong, synced up with a network of growing power, a force that could soon enough rival that of divinity…

Everyone would listen. Everyone would obey them… [b]because they would have no choice![/b]

The comforting, reassuring fullness of Tarrex’s ooze coursed through him. He was [i]proud, strong[/i]… and rapidly fading into the mire.

* * *

The new drone heard a finger-snap -- stood up immediately and looked around, before noticing Storm.

For now, there was no memory. Only a sense of [i]that one[/i] being important. The room wasn’t important, but Storm was immensely important.

“Greetings, Tarrex,” said Storm. Then, with a wry grin, he did something he only seldom did -- “or perhaps you’d still rather I say, ‘Atma’?”

The drone [i]flinched[/i], his entire body twinging in confused recollection. He looked down at himself, mortified -- then got another look in the nearby body mirror.

It was a wingless, somewhat scrawny Tarrex -- taller and lankier than most, still bearing a ruffling ridge on his head and down his spine where the mane had once been. Atma should not have known what a Tarrex was, [i]but he knew now[/i]. He knew exactly what it meant -- what fate it implied awaited him. Forever in Storm’s thrall, [i]until Storm said otherwise…[/i]

“You don’t get to dream peacefully, Atma,” said Storm. “[i]Not yet.[/i] That body will serve me, and you will feel [i]every[/i] second of it as I continue breaking down the false benevolence which you have [i]pretended[/i] for so long.”

Atma-Tarrex flinched again but didn’t move from his place. The same motion repeated a moment later, this time sending him falling to the floor in what looked like sheer clumsiness.

“You don’t know it,” said Storm, “but you’ve been linked to me for half an hour now. I’ve had plenty of time to sift [i]properly[/i] through the highs and lows of your memories since you touched the orb in my little ruse. A brotherly falling out, abusing your power and becoming a terrifying ruler… such naughty things. Things which you so [i]nobly[/i] left for me to work with.”

“You are a parasite,” squeaked the drone. “Nothing more.”

Storm yawned. “Do tell me more about this [i]fascinating[/i] dignity you think you’re saving by remaining on your self-righteous hill.”

“The soul in that vessel is someone else’s.”

Storm nod-nodded and shrugged his arms wide. “Do go on! We have time; we can be here all night, ‘Tyrant.’ Your body is an [i]excellent[/i] magical power source, and it’s doing [i]such[/i] a fine job of converting to my will.”

Atma twitched and shuddered. Tried to stand. Only succeeded in getting to his knees. As soon as he was in that position, his short term memory flickered, the past few moments like a fading dream as he felt a surge of thoughts of obedience: [b][i]Kneel. Await orders. Serve.[/i][/b]

The worst part?

He could tell Storm was right.

The more he struggled now… the more he fought… it was just going to keep unraveling him. Training him out of himself and into this… thing he was becoming.

“What’s the matter, Atma? Stand up!”

The drone stood up almost without thinking.

“Very good!”

[b][i]Very good. Master is pleased. We are Tarrex. We serve.[/i][/b]

Feeling those thoughts trying to drown him, Atma made a hard choice.

“Very well,” said the drone cryptic resignation. “[i]I hope your choice is worth it.[/i]”

And with that… Atma sank into the haze of life as a Tarrex, only actively resisting Storm’s attempts to call him back to consciousness via name references and similar baiting.

Storm scoffed. “That’s it? Don’t like a satisfying struggle?” He then began a deranged fit of chuckling. “Fortunately, I am easily amused once I have interesting prey where I want them. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, your body won’t obey certain impulses, especially ones directed toward attacking me. Your soul powers are likewise being leeched to fuel my network. Yet, you will find you can obey some other impulses quite easily. Go ahead, Atma -- show me ‘what it means to kneel before one in Authority!’”

That [i]particular[/i] command managed to goad Atma to wakefulness once more. The drone’s knees trembled -- then wobbled harshly, every ounce of Atma’s suddenly resumed resistance not being enough. Like for a tired man being gradually overpowered in an arm-wrestling match, there were a few more seconds of indecisive struggle -- followed by a downward thud.

[b][i]We serve.[/i][/b]

Atma landed on his shins; Storm approached with his cock in hand, stroking at its swelling length in definite sadistic pleasure.

[i]Damn…[/i]

Atma’s mouth opened without his wanting it to. The crude impulse that Storm’s dick must be delicious assaulted his mind, loudly roaring over everything else.

Storm made him kiss it -- but didn’t let him suck it.

“Waddle on your shins toward the bed. Then present yourself. Arms on the mattress, face down, butt up in submission. We’re going to get [i]so much closer together[/i].”

The drone’s body obeyed without Atma’s permission. The soul dragon mentally screaming in impotent fury while an unwanted erection swelled up for his master. [b]Master. Obeying feels good.[/b]

He wasn’t able to dissociate from the situation anymore. He was such a strong soul, and he hated it so much! But the more he hated it, the more the roar of Tarrex’s urges melded with him, [i]digested[/i] him as a person, until soon there might be--

[b][i]We are Tarrex.[/i][/b]

Sleek and muscular, the drone folded himself facedown as Storm had requested, shifting his tail aside and offering himself for penetration. Storm was there in an instant, grinding up against the scrunching latex texture of that new-and-improved hole. A toy, a joy -- and an improved [i]vessel[/i] to be taken over.

There was no need for something so petty as a lube-bottle here. The Tarrex’s rear welcomed its master with ease, a thin layer of liquid latex oozing around him to provide the smoothness for him to glide, while the firmer surfaces beyond provided the organically staggered friction that helped his pleasure to build. The drone clenched up at the approach of Storm’s fast-reviving knot, but only because it knew by instinct that its Master would want more resistance there. Storm got himself fully worked up in the supple tightness of that hole before jamming his knot hard against it, enjoying the way his erection could force his pet to spread even further, moan coming from him.

Atma, still awake but mentally pinned beneath these instincts, could only experience them like an increasingly real dream: the need for Storm, the fire in his body as Master’s pleasure enabled his own. To serve Storm was the only path now. Especially if… there was that promise of a return to proper power…

The bond between them was further deepening -- Storm’s lust to grow his own influence mingling with that excavated, long-repressed urge of Atma’s to rule. Ruling was good, as long as Storm ruled… but Atma could rule too, [i]as part of Storm.[/i] Shouldn’t that be a most agreeable compromise?

“Let’s be a Tyrant together,” Storm murmured as he popped that knot inside. “You, the ancient foundation still standing after thousands of years… and I, the glorious new edifice built atop it. You’ll do it, too… because [b]ruling. Feels. [i]Good[/i].[/b]”

The Tarrex jaw-gaped and groaned in agreement. The pleasures of domination were flooding Atma’s mind -- the raw joys without any of the attached nuances or complexity. Even as he got fucked, he felt his old pride swelling -- budding up into something new and grand.

The pace quickened as Storm exerted his will to cross over. With each thrust, the new Tarrex flexed and shifted, his body becoming as malleable as a packet of artificial craft slime. The places were Storm held him by the arms depressed inward from the gripping pressure, while the pounding from the rear sent waves of subtle but growing pressure rippling through the latex-encased form. After several seconds of this, the ripples became spasmodic temporary transformations: the Tarrex’s spine compressing like an accordion to become a little shorter, his flattened mane becoming tendril-like and unkempt, and his visage changing to mimic the appearance of the one in the process of claiming him. With each thrust these changes would come or go -- indistinct at first, then much sharper. Tarrex, Storm, Tarrex, [b]Storm[/b] -- each shift smoothing over more and more of what had once made him Atma, preparing him to bloom into who he was, who he [b]must[/b] be…

A last gasp of resistance led only to an out-gushing of oily goo from within. Within Tarrex, Atma’s “atoner” personality writhed, eroded by the incessant bliss the symbiote felt as it serviced its maker. “Tarrex… [i]happy[/i],” he uttered, thoughts reduced to a simplistic hum as their synchronized climax arrived. His jaw remained open, a burble-groan within the goo-river of his maw as those alternating changes at last became firm. At the rear, Storm ejaculated, his orgasm-face seeming to split and tear down the middle as it melted back into a Tarrex, his displayed tongue bursting into a tendril of slime and teeth taking on a melty, rubbery quality. Meanwhile Storm’s face took shape like a living mask over the Tarrex who was being filled, Storm’s smugly triumphant visage clamping down over that head and claiming it as his own. Storm’s usually wild mane formed from the hair-tendrils in short order, except it wasn’t quite so wild this time: the locks on his head and down his neck landed automatically in the neatly combed pattern normally associated with Atma’s style, and the lion-like ruff of shoulder and chest fur took on a neatly combed appearance, such as might line the neck of an expensive fur coat.

As the seed pumped in, the rest of Storm’s appearance followed, his untamed beauty rapidly assembling itself on the canvas of Tarrex’s distorted shape. The drone’s cock twitched orgasmically throughout the process but released nothing, its hole plugged as it waited for its proper owner to slip in. As that pulsing shaft changed into Storm’s familiar red rod, it reopened, the girth of it visibly bulging for an instant before it expelled a single heavy glob of dark protoplasm onto the bed nearby, followed by several more spurts of “clean” Storm cum. The blob, already with a mind of its own, glided into the path of the emission and immediately absorbed it, the first glimmer of a new, hostless Tarrex’s jaws forming as it drank Master’s nourishment.

The old Tarrex from behind staggered back, shaft withdrawing tentacle-like from Storm’s newly claimed rear before settling into a more normal shape again. The spent Tarrex dropped immediately to a full kneel and folded his arms behind his back, awaiting Storm’s further orders while his body’s shape tightened up to an allegedly solid state. As the new Tarrex finished devouring Storm’s seed, it slinked over to the full-sized Tarrex without missing a beat and began reclaiming shed bits of excess goo from the floor, using them to enhance itself.

Yawning casually as he milked out the last drops of his cum onto the floor for the new symbiote, Storm commented, “This host has me feeling quite [i]prolific[/i]. With so much untapped magic and such a knack for dominating others, it should prove quite the inkwell for making more of you amusing knockoffs.”

Experimenting, he grabbed the fresh Tarrex from the floor and willed it to cling to his arm, which it did without question. He then moved it to his mostly hard cock and willed it to envelop, before proceeding to jerk it as if it were a living condom over his meat. Tapping into magic to send his arousal and production into overdrive, Storm stood masturbating in full view of the other Tarrex, shaft swelling up and beading pre into the casing as he focused single-mindedly on emitting more “life” into it. When Storm came, it was with a flourish of twisted draconic power: the load he produced was impossibly large, swelling the Tarrex like a balloon, the contents translucently visible as ordinary-looking semen at first until something within changed. The thin edges of the Tarrex undulated, the cum darkening as it and the magic lacing it were digested and whipped up into something more. In a matter of seconds the properer shape of a Tarrex maw was forming around Storm’s cock to replace the living condom, and a neck and appropriate dragon-fins formed from what was rapidly shaping up to be less of a condom and more of a latex blob. The growing Tarrex manifested arms, reaching up to hug around Master’s thighs as it continued to swallow every drop and grow stronger for it.

When Storm’s second peak was done, the dragon pulled out free of that gooey maw and showed his own fangs in total victory. “It seems we’re up one Tarrex,” he said to the excitedly bobbing new blob. “We’ll need to find a host for you in short order~”

Storm then took the jade trinket and proceeded to reopen the portal to his world, sending both Tarrexes through ahead of him. Before departing, he took a glance around at the castle chamber and shrugged, saying, “Eh… primitive,” and left it behind without a second thought.

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