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THE WYVERN'S PUNISHMENT

by

Vrelvel Vurixen

This isn't fair! You think as you are forced to kneel before the Council, your wrists bound and held forward, precluding your ability to access the many pockets of your robes. The chamber is vast, the walls and even the ceiling covered in arcane runes. The mages had spared no expense on the grandeur of their halls, which were just as extravagant as – if not more than – the rest of the city that hosted them. The chamber is vast and lit by countless floating orbs, which cast elegant shadows cross the arcane runes that cover the walls and ceiling.

“We admit our disappointment in you," the head of the Council thundered, careful and even. “That one of our most treasured and promising apprentices, would do something so brazen is unthinkable. Thievery – thievery, of all things!"

You open your mouth to say something, anything, in your defense. Your intentions were pure! If only they would question the widow that had requested your aid, they would understand. It was only going to be gone for a short time and then replaced without issue! After all, the widow was in need! What was the purpose of magic if not to help others? However, before you can get out a single word, the voice of an elderly woman emanates from somewhere on the right side of the Council's imposing, curved table.

“Surely, we mustn't be so hasty? After all, he was on his way to return what he pilfered." Yes, YES! That was what you were doing! No one was harmed; everything was fine. All's well that ends well, right? T-that had to account for something!

“Madam," the head of the Council replied. “He stole one of the artifacts of the Aetherian Assemblage. Our laws are clear on the matter: punishment must be dealt!" You feel a cold stone sink into your gut. It was only one thing, and it wasn't used for anything nefarious! How could the laws be so immutable! “These two must face the repercussions for their offense."

The last statement filled you with no small amount of guilt. You look to your left, seeing Vaerin, the other mage —your accomplice, whom you hadroped into your heist of good intentions— held on his knees nearly 100 paces away. His job had been to simply distract the caretakers of the artifact vault and allow you enter when you needed to acquire your prize, and again when it as time to put it back. He wasn't supposed to get caught – after all, you only paid him to make simple, short-lived distractions, not stick around and be apprehended. You never did get a chance to ask him why he hadn't run once his tasks were complete, and you certainly couldn't now; the Council would have your head even sooner than expected should you interrupt their deliberation.

“If anything," said a gruff voice a few places to the left of the Council head, pulling your attention back to the deliberation at hand, “they have exposed deficiencies in our great city's Guardsmen. Because of them, the Regents are investigating the Order."

“And the report was finished just today," the woman immediately to the right of the Council head rejoined. “The investigation concluded that the Guardsmen are under-staffed. Furthermore, recruitment has slowed, and retirement has steadily increased in the years since our last conflict; they simply do not have the manpower to maintain every post and ensure that their skills are sharp." You see a few heads nod in agreement with that observation. That wasn't so bad, right? In a way, you did them a service!

“Regardless, it is clear that these two cannot be trusted with the ways of our magic!" yet another proclaimed, though you couldn't be entirely sure where the voice originated. “They must be made an example for all that may wish to so wantonly disregard our laws."

You see the Council head raise his hand to forestall further debate, and you swallow hard as you tremble with anxiety. You had done a good thing on the whole, and yet you were being punished for it. It simply wasn't fair! “No, it would be a mistake to expect them to pay with their lives. Instead, there is a way in which they can be made to pay for their transgression while also shoring up the deficiencies in the city Guard." A little hope swells in your chest. Maybe you would be able to make proper amends and then go about your life after all!

“You don't mean…" The voice of the mage directly to the right of the Council head trailed off.

“Just like the last Great War." The Council head nodded, “We swelled our forces while humanely decreasing our dissident populations."

You frown in confusion, not entirely familiar with the particulars of the last war that engulfed the lands from one sea to another. All you knew was that many called it the “Wyvern War," because of the vast use of wyverns throughout the conflict, and that such tactics were blamed for nearly eradicating all members of that species from every kingdom. Quiet whispers and murmurs filter into your ears as the members of the Council talk amongst themselves, and you again feel the ball of anxiety growing in the pit of your stomach. There was clearly some amount of discussion about whatever punishment they were considering. It had to be some form of community service, right? What else could it be? Something started to feel wrong, though, when the Council fell completely silent, having apparently reached a consensus.

“You are hereby sentenced to live out your days in service to the city and its Guardsmen." That… that was it? That really wasn't that bad! Actually, you fancy that you could do a lot of good working with the Guardsmen. You actually agreed with the one Councilwoman: had the Guardsmen been able to do their duties properly, you wouldn't have had to help that widow, and you certainly wouldn't have had the opportunity to acquire that artifact for yourself! A Guardsman mage had a nice ring to it. Maybe helping that woman had been worth it after all!

The Council head rises from his chair and extends his hands, fingertips aglow with energy as he begins to draw symbols of the arcane. Curious, you know that symbol: a common ideogram used in ritual magic that dealt with transfiguration. Odd, how could that possibly be of import? Actually, he draws the symbol twice, then a couple more symbols below each, creating two distinct columns of sigils. You aren't familiar with those ones. You're also not familiar with the third one in each column, though it is obvious that they are nearly perfect identical copies of one another. They also look impossibly complex to you; layered with multiple strokes that outstrip what you were taught by your professors. You are so enraptured by the motions that you miss the verbal components, and you are surprised when one arcane column rushes toward the other mage awaiting judgment. A moment later, the other set rushes your position and you feel a brief chill as they seem to pass straight through you. Did the Councilman cast a transfiguration spell on you? You don't feel any different. Still, it would behoove you to-, your eyes go wide with realization. Oh no…

You were going to protect yourself; a simple ward. A counter-spell, a basic protection that you would have been a fool to not use. Yet now, when you reach into your mind for the simple hushed words, your thoughts trip, slipping as if on ice; your mind's eye sliding right by the recitation with nary the opportunity to retrieve what you need. You try again, and – again! – what you need slips right through your mental fingers. H-How?

You look at your counterpart again and see the stone tiles illuminating with yet more arcane sigils in a circle. What was it that the Councilman had cast? Could they have been… the arcane symbols continue to inscribe themselves around your accomplice as you try, and fail, a third time to utter a simple counter-spell. Ugh, it was such a simple thing; you've done it hundreds of times, if not thousands, why couldn't you now!? You hear Vaerin gasp as the ring of arcane markings finish surrounding him, inscribing themselves upon the tile work. The sigils glow brightly as they layer themselves outward from your companion, and you slowly realize what the Council head performed: a spell macro. You've never performed a macro, usually requiring a long process of setup before use for all but the most skilled of mages due to the nature of layering and chaining spells together. You hardly even understand how they are made, but you do know one thing: every macro must have had their specific sequence of spells cast at least once before. You also know that sufficiently advanced ones would have basic protections against counter-spells built in, to shield the delicately interwoven multitudes of spells.

You see the bindings around Vaerin's wrists disintegrate into dust, carried off on the most gentle of air currents. Your companion is shivering, and then – suddenly – sweating profusely. Within mere moments,Vaerin is surrounded by a pool of their own sweat. He coughs, nearly choking as his hands rise to clutch at his neck. He looks at you, terror in his eyes and…accusation. Yeah, you probably deserve that on some level. He tries to scream out his panic, but it's so, so wrong.

The scream is jagged and raw, torn from a throat that shouldn't be capable of such sounds. As he struggles to breathe, you get the odd impression that Vaerin is growing in size; his tearing robes provide confirmation a moment later. The robes fall away from his body in tatters, leaving him naked and exposed. His nakedness allows you to see a pebbling of ruddy brown beginning to slowly cover various patches of skin. Another inhuman grunt leaves Vaerin's throat as he places his hands on the ground to steady himself. With his handsout of the way, you notice your companion's neck is almost crawling, reshaping into something new; elongating.

Vaerin's hair begins falling out in clumps as his face also lengthens, taking his nose with his jaws as they jut out impressively from his face. He breaths heavily – you can hear it clearly – as he tries to stand as if trying to escape, only to topple forward onto his chest. He tries to use his hands to push himself up, only for you both to realize that something has happened to those limbs as well. The webbing between his fingers has grown to nearly the full length of his digits, as the nails lengthen and grow dark. He groans as his chest pushes out, barreling itself while his entire body continues to gain size.

You watch, transfixed yet horrified as you watch those ruddy brown patches continue to grow over more of Vaerin's skin as if it were some sort of rapidly progressing rash. Soon, there is more of the brown than of Vaerin's pale skin and you get the impression that the texture is – yes, scales! They're scales! The next noise to come from the transforming mage's shifting body is more guttural as his changing hands slip on the tiled floor of the Council chamber. You hear a cracking sound as the other mage's legs fail him, his feet altering in time with the rest of the changes; bones reshaping to support a new form as his writhing succeeds in flipping him onto his back. The cracking sounds continue along with another distinct sound of tearing cloth as a tail emerges from his backside sealing the doomed fate of his loincloth amidst a low moan. Every new length of that growing appendage was accompanied by the sounds of stretching skin, and grinding as the vertebrae lengthened before snapping with loud cracks to divide and increase their number. The vertebrae closest to Vaerin's behind also grew thick like the trunk of a tree, powerful and supportive; while the most distant thinned until the end, terminating in a sharp, stinging barb.

The exposure of his most private of places shows you that they are also not spared any indignity. Growing and reshaping like clay in the hands of a master artisan, his manhood had an almost pointed shape at the end, the rear of the head flaring to a wider pitch of sorts. You watch the skin of his shaft become distinctly pinker, rippling as if it were the surface of a pond disturbed by a small pebble. The ripples grow a little; some defining themselves into ribs, others still growing out into multiple ridges. You could almost swear that the base was growing as well, before the entire thing begins to retreat against his groin, to be enclosed by a pair of lips covered in the same ruddy brown as the rest of his scales. It's only now that you realize that you had been staring with some perverse fascination at the other mage's changing genitals, but another sound draws your attention away easily enough as some leathery scent graces your nostrils.

Your accomplice closes his eyes and an inhuman but unquestionably discomforted hiss leaves his new muzzle. With your attention having been drawn elsewhere for the last few moments, you are surprised that his teeth have multiplied and sharpened, and his new muzzle ends in a sort of hard hook. His ears have shrunk into the sides of his head, and hard protrusions extend from the top of his neck and down over his skull, giving him a streamlined but dangerous look. You shouldn't be surprised, as by now it's pretty clear what Vaerin is becoming: a wyvern

You try to tear your eyes away from the feat of magical punishment taking place before you, seeing a few of the Council members talking in hushed tones to one another, while others busily scribble in notebooks and scrolls. However, without question, all eyes are on the mage they saw fit to punish with transfiguration. Some of the Council members watch intently, to almost too great a degree, while others sit back, reserved; a few, you could swear by it, seemed to have their attention drawn to the mage's groin almost a bit too keenly. While some seemed at least initially reluctant, others seemed all too eager to see this punishment doled out.

Another grunt escapes the almost-wyvern and interrupts your thoughts as he rights himself on his new hind legs, a leathery membrane growing and connecting to the outermost digit on his hand as both arms grow in length and strength. The digits of his hand also grow to impressive length, until they are the full and proper bat-like wings any wyvern should have. He stretches them out to either side, nearly touching your nose with one of the thick, black claws at the end of one wing digit – you think it may have been his ring finger. Despite Vaerin keeping his eyes tightly closed, you're almost sure you see a faint glimmer around his eyes. Tears, perhaps? Part of you couldn't help but feel somewhat responsible for the pain he must be feeling. After all, it was your coin that got him into this mess.

Something hanging underneath the wyvern catches your attention again, drawing your gaze to what remains of Vaerin's groin – if he could even be called Vaerin anymore. His scrotum expands, growing steadily larger, swelling impossibly as it increases to nearly twenty times its original size. Its growth is not due to just the increase in his body size; the mass itself grows heavier, as though each orb inside him carries a far heavier biological burden. His abdominal area ripples, the scales spreading quickly over the skin, transforming it into something distinctly reptilian just like the rest of his body. That massive gonadal mass, heavy and oddly alluring, pulls up and into his body, concealed within the same slit that claimed his manhood. But even after the outer transformation is complete, his abdomen continues to ripple – muscles shifting and reconfiguring, as if his body's internal structure is making room for the growth of such a virile nature. Anything else you could have possibly seen is obscured as the wyvern's large body moves to face away from you, and he howls his further complaint to unseen changes within. The weight of the shifting mage… well, shifts further, and he again falls prone, wings slipping as if their owner doesn't know how to use them for purchase on the ground.

Vaerin's breathing eventually slows, the tremors fading away. And then, when the last echoes of his agony and discomfort have quieted, he lifts his head. His eyes finally open again, revealing pupils that have become slits against brilliantly orange irises. His eyes settle on you and in that gaze – for the briefest of moments – you see recognition, only for it to flicker. That huge, toothed jaw works for a moment, as if trying to mouth something, before that recognition ultimately vanishes as if withering on some ephemeral vine, and any attempt to communicate slowly ceases. With a sudden, unexpected proficiency, the altered mage places the knuckles of his massive wing arms on the ground, supporting his new mass and lifting himself into a proper sitting – then standing – position on all fours. He snorts out a puff of warm air, and you are suddenly not sure if what is staring at you – and nonchalantly regarding the almost 80 other mages in the chamber – is really Vaerin at all. Surely it must be, you think; the creature before you doesn't act violently toward you or anyone else, despite all being the perfect size for a snack. Did it…he…know something? He lifts his head, tilting it toward the ceiling and letting out a loud, proud bellow. Any hope of Vaerin being in that body is dashed exactly one second later as the creature moves toward you with a hunger in those predatory eyes, only to be stopped by a shimmering red wall of magical force. The runic circle that had surrounded Vaerin glows, hums, and hisses as the new wyvern tries unsuccessfully to break through the barrier. You try to throw up your own magical force field in an attempt to save yourself from the monster, almost missing the fact that you couldn't seem to find the words you needed to complete that quick defensive spell. You do, however, manage to get to your feet and run. No one makes a move to stop you. So far, so good, as long as you cou-

Your head erupts in pain as you recoil off of an impossibly dense wall of air and fall backward onto the floor. A faint shimmer tells you that it was a magical barrier, much like that which kept Vaerin from eating you. You wonder why the barrier is keeping you in as well. After all, the Council said you were going to serve the city guard, right? Well, it is just a simple magical barrier, nothing too complicated. You know you could dispel it even with your hands tied as they are. You reach into your mind to gather the energy and steps required for your desired casting, only to come up short. The magic is there, and you can see the information right there, and yet, when you try to access it, it all simply slips between your mental fingers. You try again, and again, to no avail. How can all of your knowledge, all of your skills be right there yet so far away?

The bindings around your wrists disintegrates and that sinking feeling in your gut reminds you of its existence tenfold. One more try, you think, one more attempt at a counter-spell. Maybe you will get lucky. Surely it couldn't hurt? You dive into your mind once more, except this time you find nothing pertaining to the…what spell did you want again? Fuck, what was it? You knew what you wanted to cast a second ago! You look down in frustration, seeing – to your horror – that the same pattern that had encircled Vaerin is quickly inscribing itself around you. You stand, trying to ready yourself for…something… no a spell! Maybe if you used a spell to levitate you could…how do you do that again?

Too late, at any rate. You see your fingers curl a little and they feel a little stiff. You hold them in front of your eyes, watching as each of your nails lengthen and turn black. And sharp! You flinch as your curling fingers allow your growing claws – your claws – to ding into your palms. You have to exert effort, but you are able to overcome your flexing digits and extend them instead, though you regret it. Your fingers feel almost…sticky, like tar is between them. Extending and spreading your fingers, you see that the skin has somehow melted, creating thick strands that connect each digit to their partner – save for your thumb. Your throat feels raw, as if you were ill, and you try to rub your neck in an attempt of soothing the discomfort. The strands of skin between your fingers grow, becoming more like a frog's webbed feet; the strange sensation of your altered hands on your throat almost succeeding in distracting you from how hot your neck feels.

Actually, now that you think about it, it is quite hot in the Council chamber all of the sudden. So hot, in fact, that you are sweating profusely. How had you not noticed this uncomfortable heat before? And yet, it's almost as if you need more warmth. Hells, you're shivering. How could you be too hot and too cold at the same time!? You know a spell that would help with this, you would use it often in the winter when the snow, cold, and wind were too great a challenge for your winter robes. You reach for the spell, except… what spell was it again? What spell did you want to cast? It's so hot and so cold…

Your neck feels like it's bulging, like something is inside and will burst unless relieved. But your skin! When did your skin become so itchy! Trying to pry your hands away from the tightening and bulging feeling of your neck, you look at your arms, seeing the same ruddy brown, almost pebbly splotches sprouting on the flesh there. You scratch at your right arm with the elongating and deformed fingers of your left hand, the extra length making the motion to simply relieve an itch annoying and ungainly. Still, it doesn't even help; the itching continuing unabated. And, worse still, the splotches spread! No amount of scratching any of the offending spots soothes the irritation. The only sensation that is distracting enough for your attention is that welling heat and bulging in your neck. You need to stretch it, perhaps that is what it needs. So, that is exactly what you do: streeetch!

Suddenly your center of gravity shifts as your neck pops and lengthens with your command to stretch. Being entirely unprepared, you fall forward, striking your chin with a scrape, your chest landing hard enough to knock the wind out of you. You can't even focus on your struggle to breathe, though, as you get the distinct impression that everything around you is shrinking. No, not shrinking; you're growing. That becomes doubly clear when you feel your robes pressing against your body, a loud and unmistakable ripping noise reaching your ears as the seams fail to contain you. As your robes turn to tatters and fall away, the chilled sensation gets all the more intense as you are rendered naked by your own growing body. Well, almost; a wiggle of your hips confirms that your loincloth is still serving you loyally.

You manage to regain control of your breathing and take a gulp of air just as your tail bone begins to ache. You get another urge to…stretch…somehow. How are you supposed to- ohhh that's how. You manage to stretch your lower back and your tail bone, relieving pressure you weren't even aware of. However, as if powered by a manifestation of cruel irony, your loincloth pays the price for your relief and falls away from your hips, leaving you now wholly and completely exposed to the mages within the Council chamber. You'd feel embarrassed if not for the sensation that you need to stretch again. How could you resist? It feels so good, the relief from just… you stretch your backside again, especially your tail – your tail – as it slaps the floor. It's an odd sensation as you stretch your tail; the vertebrae snapping and breaking in two, then growing themselves before again dividing. And then the snaking, slithering as something wraps around your new spinal segments and makes your tail feel strong as the base grows and thickens with power and strength.

Your toes feel like you kicked them all into a stone wall repeatedly. You try to get your hands under you, malformed and unsuited for the task as they are, and manage to glimpse your feet as the nails on your toes

meet a similar fate as your fingernails: becoming long, dark claws.

The warring sensations are overwhelming, making your head spin a little. On one hand, this shouldn't be happening. The Council found you in the wrong despite you doing good and sought to take your form. And the itching! The itching is just the worst part, and it just won't stop. On top of that, the indignity of being naked at such a vulnerable moment before the Council was more than humiliating. On the other hand, though, you can't help but feel powerful, and it feels just sooo good to stretch; truly better than any bathhouse massage you've ever had, soothing to muscles you weren't even aware you possessed. Your face begins to itch, particularly your chin, reminding you that you scuffed it when you fell over just moments ago. You clumsily try to rub your aching mandible with your grotesquely elongate fingers, only for them to wrap around something as your nose, too, feels sore. You try to vocalize your discomfort, but only a raspy hiss escapes your undeniably changing throat, now over thrice its original length. Your entire face feels congested and yet you can almost swear that your sinuses are draining. It almost feels good…soothing, even, if it wasn't for the cracking and shifting that felt like someone breaking and rearranging your nose with a time slow spell. To your surprise – somehow – your hands get pushed out away from your face as your jaws lengthen into a snout. Actually, what was that spell again? Slow-time…time…slow… It's so hard to remember.

Your head itches, and you're fairly certain spreading patches of brown are to blame; still one of your widening hands leaves your contorting face to scratch at your scalp, only to encounter hair that gives way entirely too easily. It falls around you, your hair. It isn't by the strand – no, no – it falls out in clumps and tufts. You recoil from the sight, and try to scream from the panic and surprise, but all that comes out from between your jaws is an inhuman screech. To that end, your tongue feels fuzzy and fat, like it doesn't belong anywhere; every space inside your mouth feels new and sharp. Some places your tongue can't seem to reach and yet so desperately wants to reach. You feel that need again, only this time in your tongue: streeetch!

Your tongue, flatter and longer, happily brushes along the inside of your new maw – now full of sharp, dangerous teeth. The back of your head continues to itch and also begins to feel heavy. Your vision blurs as your eyes feel swollen, so you close them, looking for relief. If this were a cold, it would easily be the worst you'd ever had! Maybe a spell to dull the pain. Yes, you'll just cast aspect of fort… aspect… aspect of what…what were you going to cast? At least your scales aren't itching as much anymore, that lets you focus on… on what, exactly?

Your nose draws in air with a breath and you're suddenly aware of so many scents. Scents you could have never imagined before! There's a tangy energetic scent almost everywhere, all around you. And a leathery smell – two, actually – one right on top of you, and another a little further away. There's also a smell of salt? Sweat?

You try to push yourself up into a sitting position, but in your blinded state, you do nothing but manage to flop over onto your back. The stone tile feels cool against your back as the back of your head thickens and you feel some of your scales grow longer, outward, like stiff hair until they press against the stone. You stretch again and it feels so good! Both of your arms want to stretch so bad, and so you let them. You even splay your fingers and hiss again as you allow yourself full-armed stretches while bones crack, and muscle and sinew grow longer, supportive and strong. You open your eyes, only for your vision to remain blurry. You can fix that; you know a spell to do that… don't you? Frustrated, you close your eyes again, looking for something, anything to help you, only to come up short. You do know magic, right? What did you go to school all those years for?

Rrrr, so unpleasant to be on your back, but the stone feels good, until suddenly you can't breathe; the wind knocked from you once again, even though you haven't moved, let alone fallen. You wheeze, your ears picking up the sound of a raspy growl that gets deeper. Almost at the same time, you feel as though your chest lifts away from you, and you feel – and hear – your ribs popping and bending. Your ribs continue to press outward and you try to breathe, never feeling satisfied with any deep inhale even as your sternum surpasses your expanded ribs. It does begin to feel better after a few moments, and that is good. You need as much air as you can get so that you can… can… something…

Your legs ache too, now. Gods, why? Hsss, they have to stretch too. Streeeetch! You are rewarded with that calming, soothing feeling of relieved tension while your joints pop and rearrange themselves. It's almost like a torch traveling down your legs, but bringing only pleasure and some mild discomfort that's easy to overlook.

What's less easy to overlook is the light churning in your gut. You almost want to retch, but can't bring yourself to do so. You shiver…cold. It's cold. You want warm, away from the cold stone at your back. Tucking your arms, you roll onto feet that feel perfectly powerful, thick claws scratching the stone. You slip on your arms once, growling out a deep tone. Silly, there's only one way to use your wings – yes, your wings – when not flying. How could you have tried it any other way? You rest your weight on your knuckles, letting those long wing fingers direct their wing-skin up and behind you. You shudder as the scales along your back continue to grow, hardening and growing into protective plates that will be useful… useful for… what?

You open your eyes again, but your vision is still blurry. Rrrrrph, frustrating! Must see! Without really thinking much more of it at all, you command your eyes to not just open, but really open, and something mostly clear brushes along your eyes and then retracts. Everything becomes more clear, sharp. Good. Much sharper than you think you've ever noticed. Perfect for… hunting… yes, good…

Your groin begins to feel tight and you arc your head down, looking under that large keel of your breast, along the underside of your body. You see a fleshy rod protruding from between your hinds. For some reason you can't name, it doesn't seem right even as it drools pearly white fluid onto the stone tile floor. What you don't see is the sac that should be near that rod, even as you feel the sensation of something extending inside your body at your rear.; almost a strange sucking sensation that builds in pleasure as your shaft continues to drool more and more. And yet, for all the pleasure, it feels like it should be wrong. And then your drooling manhood begins to retreat and a moment of panic strikes you as you realize that it isn't retreating – it's shrinking. Now, that should definitely not be happening… or maybe it should, and that worries you. Helpless, you watch as your shaft steadily leaks milky-white goo while continuing to diminish in size. Your concern only mounts until, with a sudden jolt of pleasure, your shaft gives a forceful twitch that squirts the remainder onto the floor in a splash. A tingle travels through your frame from your groin that makes your quiver as your penis shrinks down until it is little more than a…

No…

The condensed nub of flesh is flanked and soon enveloped by a pair of scaly lips, leaving only a slit that glistens somewhat with residual fluid. No, you can't…

Yes…

You're a mm… you're a… mmm… you find it harder to think about what you are in that way – let alone at all – as another pleasurable shiver runs up your spine as something inside you continues to twist around you. You're sure something is growing in your belly; ballooning, branching. Meanwhile, you are dully aware of the last few scales growing into place on your body. But still what is… it's so hard to think!

…Womb…

Wh…that thought came out of nowhere – you think. You shift on your hinds a little, feeling more things shifting around inside of you. Hsss, discomfort! Even more uncomfortable is the growing, aching warmth in your core. You should stop it. You should, rrrr, how… how stop? Mmmmagic? Spellsss… It's so hard to fight; a lead weight shackled to your mind. You shudder as your body stops feeling like it should be human. It should be… should be… The sound of heavy strides captures your attention and you swing your head toward the sound, seeing the wyvern approaching you. Something was keeping him from you before. What was it? You can't seem to remember. The reason why also escapes you. It couldn't have been to eat you. After all, you are a wyvern, too. Wait, no… you're a rrrr…

Wyvern…

No! You're a hu…hhhhu…man. A man! A… human… male a… No, that's not right…

Fe-male… yes! That seems right, doesn't it? Wyvern… female…

The male comes closer, almost looming somehow; feeling larger, absorbing the rest of the room with his presence even though he doesn't seem much bigger than your sleek, strong, fertile body.

What? What was that last part?

The scents you've been smelling for the last few moments come crashing back into you. The leathery scents: you and the other wyvern. The other scents, human sweat; interest, fear? Arousal? Tingly magics, too, magics that feel so long forgotten…

That warm ache spreads further through your core, settling deeper… lower; between your hinds. And, with that spreading aching warmth, you feel something else: moisture between your legs. The warmth increases further until it feels like you're flushed between your legs. You shift yourself around slightly, testing, confirmation coming a moment later as more slick moisture leaks out. That previous thought comes back: fertile…

No! You can't be! You're a mmm… man, no, wyvern… male…you're male, dammit! Rrrr, male… fffffff…male…female… the other, though…

The other wyvern – the male – comes closer. You hiss; he's too close! You find yourself unsure of your surroundings, of yourself. Who are you? Your name, what was your name? It's right there, should be well within your grasp. You have a name. After all, you're… you're…

But wyverns don't need names. They have no use for them. You have your scent, that is who you are. And the male, his leathery scent is so thick, dark, almost smoky; strong and cloying in your senses. He smells so perfect to you Your own scent is also leathery, but lighter – almost sweet, with a hint of something else.

Fertility…

…No! You're nnnrrrrph!

Yes, fertile… heat… rrrr, you're in heat!

The scent of the male further fills your senses as he positions himself next to you. He nuzzles the side of your head and despite your refusal you can't prevent a low croon from rumbling up from your throat and escaping through that new muzzle. You want to push him away. This isn't the time for this, you need to… Need to what? Never mind, you shouldn't. You panic. You're in heat and the male's smoky, dark scent smells so damn…ssnnn…

…Virile…

You can't!

Rrrrf, why not?

You shouldn't!

…Shouldn't you? He's a wyvern, you're a wyvern. You're in heat, and he's here. He's willing. Need you've never known before begins bubbling up from deep in your belly, pulsing through your core. And with it: desire – need. No, don't! You don't want to, right? Rrrf, but he's right there, nuzzling your neck, and you've already crooned out your acceptance of his presence. Why shouldn't you allow him? You want him and he wants you. You need him, and he could provide everything you need right this very moment. You huff in consternation. Your name. What was your name? Who are you again? You're… someone. You are someone, were something… so hard to suss out. Harder than knowing what the male wants. He makes it obvious with his scent and his nudging against your head and neck. Rrrf, it's so obvious. And you want everything he is offering, too. He continues nuzzling your neck, licking between the spiky, protective plates. His tongue – wet, but not overly so, just barely not-dry. You croon again and hiss; his blatant desire feels so reassuring, but still, you forgot something, didn't you? It was something important; one of those things you're never supposed to forget. There's a place for it in your mind, or there was, wasn't there?

Rrrf, you know what you haven't forgotten, at least. Your body simply won't let you, what with that teasing wetness building up between your legs and getting warm just under your tail. It's not a thin wetness, either. It's clingy, cloying, just like your heat. Just like your scent. It says so much about you. Your scent screams out just how very fertile you are. Your instincts would never lead you astray, unlike whatever it was you forgot. Whatever it was – clearly – was unreliable. Hhhsss… You should… You need to… must…

Mate…

You growl softly and croon yet again as the male continues to groom and nuzzle your head and neck, even teasing around one of your sensitive ear holes. Before you know it, you're panting with desire, almost anticipating every new nudge from the male. You know what he's doing: testing, asserting; telling what he wants, and knowing that at least some part of you wants it as well. And yet, you hesitate; something blocking you from pursuing what you and the male both want. Some part of you is resisting what the rest of you demands. It's so frustrating!

You growl from the mixing of desire and resistance within you, even as you enjoy the continued advances from the male. He is being so patient, and every stroke of his tongue and insistent press of his muzzle makes it increasingly easy to ignore that nagging voice of resistance. After what seems to be an eternity, you are suddenly able to move beyond whatever was giving you pause. In that moment, there is no struggle, no panic or worrying about something so important that you've yet forgotten; there is only bliss.

Finally, with a sudden growing impatience that shouldn't have known any delay whatsoever, you move your head away from the male's attentions and lower it to the ground. With a little shuffle of your wings, your barreled chest also lowers to the ground at the behest of your perfectly reliable instincts. After all, you need to show the male that you accept him; you're ready for what you both must do. You're willing, you want this more than anything you could ever comprehend. A sudden onset of nervousness works its way through your mind as your hips sway, both as enticement to the male and as a natural consequence of widening your hinds. That nervousness virtually melts into giddy exhilaration as you lift your tail, arching its length up and to the side to provide your chosen male an unobstructed view of his target.

You hear the male almost make a show of sniffing the air to take in your obvious and extremely fertile scent and then chuff in what you know to be satisfaction. He approves, and it assures those all-important urges that what you need will happen. You hear the scraping of his claws, and the gentle padding of his wing knuckles on the stone tile behind you and you're unable to resist the temptation to look back and guarantee to yourself that the male is indeed making good on his promise. You huff as the building tension becomes nearly unbearable and you begin wondering what is taking the male so long. You looked back, and he seemed to be getting into position. Just before you can voice your discontented impatience with a rather strong and urgent hiss, you feel something wet and slimy press against your presented slit.

A growling croon ending in a pleased rumble escapes your toothy maw at the sudden onset of pleasure as your slit is finally touched, but not in the way your instincts expect. The touch is almost too wet, too flat, and yet also too broad. The touch moves upward toward your tail and you try to look behind you through an assault of flutters in your chest to see the male perched at your hinds, his muzzle buried under your tail while you again feel another wet sweep – of his tongue! – against your vent lips. Your eyes close and you croon to let the male know that you approve of the pleasure, unexpected as it is. You feel a part of you relax some, while your slit flushes itself further and provides more wetness for the male to taste as he continually tests your readiness. Much to your chagrin, however, it seems over before it starts, and the male's tongue retreats from your soaking wet undertail. You head swims for a moment; the only thing you're aware of is your urges suddenly demanding…more!

As if attuned to your body's needs, the male rumbles from behind you, the tone making you shiver with renewed excitement, and you wiggle your hips in an attempt to summon your male's muzzle back to your vent. The male returns, but in the most blissful way your estrus-stricken body would ever imagine. There is brief sliding sensation along the underside of your tail – that is still arched up and to the side – and then that same sliding against the scales of your back, followed by some amount of welcome weight as the male finally mounts your offered body. His hips work their way under your tail and you're soon treated to the poking and prodding of his drakehood as it probes for purchase between your vent lips.

It's almost frustrating in your heat-induced state, feeling him give you searching thrusts only to miss and smear a bit of his own wetness against your thigh. That's why it's even better when he successfully finds his mark. Your lips – swollen and already parting slightly from arousal – slide around his questing tip. The needs of you both are simply too immediate, and the male doesn't waste time; shoving himself deep as soon as the head of his drakehood spreads your scaly, needy lips. Your eyes open in pleased surprised as you're treated to the wonderfully… full feeling, as your walls are spread open by that virile girth, the ridges grinding into your sensitive nubbin of flesh positioned just outside of your vent, before driving in with the rest of the length. It's all so glorious to the needs of your estrus and you let all of the small, two-legged squish-things in this cavern aware of how pleased you are with a loud and lustful groan.

The male doesn't give you much time to savor the feeling, but with how your heat seems to drag out the event, you have as much time as you could ever want to enjoy it. With your walls so delightfully spread around your partner's shaft, you are deliciously aware of the smallest movements, even the most subtle of twitches made by that length of breeding flesh embedded inside you. It's warm – very warm – and very good; the most good you've ever felt. To top it all off, the very tip presses pleasantly against a barrier deep inside you, serving to only make you want more. And then, your partner begins to remove himself and you hiss in a mixture of pleasure and frustration. The ribs all along the length rub and tug at your walls and it feels so perfect! But, he is also pulling out! You are in HEAT! How dare the male remove himself!

Whatever offense your urges were taking are immediately mollified when the male ceases his withdrawal. The head of his penis is still firmly within you, and you don't remember why you were worried or angry. But you do know that you just need to mate, and so far this male is obliging. The male doesn't wait long, and re-sheathes his length back inside of you in one firm thrust! You growl out your pleasure, trying to tell the male how much you approve and wish for him to continue. He pulls back a second time, and you are dimly aware of his weight leaving your backside for a moment before he, again, rams himself back inside your needy, wet cavern.

Before long you also become aware of just how hot the male's member feels inside you; as if trying compete with the heated need under your tail. Or, maybe it's trying to assure you that it is perfectly attuned to your wishes and needs. It must be, after all, you and the male both know what you really want…

It doesn't long before the male is thrusting more regularly, driving his hips under your tail with singular purpose and smashing the tip of his length against that barrier deep inside you. The feeling is so right, and you make sure the male knows that by tensing and tightening the muscles that your instincts know are there. The result is a running, dragging pleasure that rocks to and fro in your core, keeping your nerves alight with pleasure. It's almost too much, but you can't complain – only able to purr and croon your acceptance of the act as if the male on your back were a pro. He was meant to do this, and you are meant to take him.

You allow your gaze to wander about the strange cavern you are in. So many of the two-legged squish-things around – all looking at you and the male as you seek to quench the burning need in your core. Some of the squish-things stare and show teeth in upturned mouths, while others have round, open mouths. Still others are split between downturned mouths and some that you can't tell. But your nose reveals all as you are able to spare a few breaths between the thrusts of the male and take in the scents of the squish-things. Pleasure, anger, fear, arousal… all of them and more. So many scents of various quality from so many squish-things! And they see you being mated by your male. Let them watch…

The male takes it upon himself to bend his neck down and nibble along the heavy, protective scales of your neck and back. Despite their thickness, you feel each pointed tooth in exquisite detail, though without any undesirable pain. If anything, the increasingly desperate biting only heightens the experience. And, with all of the vigorous thrusting, you are completely consumed by your body's needs and having them so thoroughly serviced by this male that you feel yourself becoming more wet under your tail. Every withdrawal of the male's drakehood is accompanied by a trickle of slick fluid running down of your thighs as it is dragged out of your needy slit by the male's movements. Even better is the ever-louder squishy, slapping sounds of wet scales on wet scales as your male continues.

The slapping sounds from under your tail almost seem to consume all of your hearing, your instinct-driven mind fixated on one thing and shutting out nearly everything else. You hiss and grunt and croon your pleasure; not caring if the squish-things all over the cavern are pleased with the act. All you care for is letting the male know how pleased you are of his work so far. He is also pleased, you know. He grunts and growls in hot, heavy puffs with each thrust he drives into you; every breath forced through the teeth locked on the back of your neck. You are dully aware of extra wetness collecting where he bites you, his tongue slathering happily against your scales with nowhere else to dump the energetic arousal that finds itself in his oral appendage. Still, you take every step to make sure he knows how well you like his performance: clenching your vent around his member at every chance you get. Before long, his drakehood rewards you, twitching with building urgency and spurting something warm and thin, but slick against your inner barrier. You clench again and again, being given more each time.

The male is surely as aroused as he could ever be. He pants and huffs, but he doesn't stop; you both know how important this task is. More twitches, more wetness that helps your friction-dried mating retain the needed moisture. Every new delivery of pre even amplifies the feeling of his shaft's ribs as they run across the grooves in your vent. You want… need to bear down on those ribs. Your instincts demand it and you can only oblige, not that you would want to ever refuse. You squeeze and clench and try your best to pleasure your aching vent along those ribs. You even raise your hips on each inward thrust, trying to catch his ridges on your clit, rewarding your both with more pleasure traveling through your frames and additional slickness pouring from the male's tip and into your passage.

The pleasure goes deeper, though. So deep that you aren't immediately aware until it is already well underway. With every tugging pull of those ribs on your walls, the rough insertion and drag of the ridges on your clit, and the squeezing you can only provide in response to the thorough mating you are receiving from the male, your belly begins to tingle. At first you, hiss, the feeling – though pleasurable – unfamiliar. But the tingling grows and continues unabated, making your hiss morph into something of a wanton purr. The tingling, low in your belly, splits into two distinct orbs of fuzzy excitement just in front of your flanks. The tingles grow, your instincts more and more satisfied with the growing intensity. Eggs. The actions of both you and the male serve to make you ovulate, the emerging thought being accompanied by anxiety and excitement. But that is what you want, and more…

Thankfully the male makes it clear that he intends on giving you as much more as your heat-addled mind could ever want. Each of his thrusts get progressively faster and firmer, reaching a pace nearly as heated as the desire under your tail. With each of the male's golden strokes, the base of his drakehood expands, and it isn't long before that swollen mass of mating flesh is pounding against the entrance of your vent, vying for entry. The male removes his teeth from your neck, only to reposition them at your wing's shoulder and continue his increasingly desperate thrusts that drive pants, grunt and moans out both himself and you. Even still, your vent and something else within almost feels as though it's weakening, but it doesn't faze you, other than to provide additional contentment. The male suddenly ceases his rhythmic rutting of your backside for a moment, nearly pulling his entire length out of you, before plunging himself back in as hard as he can manage. That swollen bulb of flesh at the base of his shaft meets resistance from your strained, scaly vent lips but they just soon gladly yield to the force and the knot slips in, swelling and locking itself inside. But that is nothing compared to the tip rooting around deeper within. The tip of the drakehood pushes against that barrier and that barrier, having been rapidly assaulted multiple times, gives in to the male's demands. The barrier opens, allowing the male entry to your most private of places – right where you need him to be.

There is nothing in the way at all, now. And as if to celebrate that fact, the male releases your shoulder from the grip of his maw and roars loudly – the sound so perfectly full of pride and satisfaction at knowing the last barriers have been worked away. As if taking the cue, the hefty log of flesh in your passage throbs and momentarily makes your breath catch. Nothing happens beyond, and you're momentarily confused – your heat demands satisfaction! But any doubts are washed away in their entirety one lustful heartbeat later when the male's shaft throbs again. It's as if the entire mass lurches from the base upward before you feel the first heavy gush of thick, virile warmth in your belly. Your toothy maw opens, your tongue flopping out uselessly as a loud croon builds deep in your throat.

More pulses through the male's length follow, and it's almost as if his entire weight is forced deep under your tail, right where you need it to be. Despite the warmth, the wet pulses are like an icy salve, cooling the demands of your estrus. Or, perhaps they're only encouraging. The pulsing doesn't seem to slow, and you quickly become aware of a swelling sensation in your belly, as if you're gorging on prey. The croon in your throat quickly becomes unstoppable as your chosen male gives you further proof of his virility. Every new pulsing throb of his shaft accompanies another stretching twinge that strains the leathery hide beneath the scales of your belly. It's almost uncomfortable, but definitely so, so right. You hear a few of the two-legged squish-things gasp in… your distracted and pleasure-soaked mind can hardly guess. Whether they approve of the male seeding you is of little concern.

What is of utmost concern, however, is how far the thick warmth of the male's essence spreads in your belly. It feels like it is going as deep into your core as anything could ever possibly venture. And, as it continues to trickle deeper with every forceful pulse from the male's shaft, a new feeling makes itself known. It starts almost as faint as that of a feather's touch upon your snout, but then building into a small, many legged creature that grows and grows within the swell of your belly, tickling and tingling your taut swell from the inside. You hiss between crooning breaths, panting as a feeling of utmost satisfaction overtakes your instincts and you know the male has not only provided proof of his virility, but verified it as the countless eggs you released for him are swept away, bathed in a wash of the male's potent seed. And, with each of the male's waning pulses of seed in your belly you feel his tail twine tightly with your own, your barbed tail tips touching as if an extension of the intimate moment. So good, so…perfect…The squish-things were hesitant once the male was done with you. Even after he was finished filling you with his seed, the male stayed within you and kept his mount over you for several wonderful hours. You aren't exactly sure, but the male may have threatened many of the squish-things with his teeth and claws. But you were too busy enjoying the feeling of new life taking root in your belly to care. You only began to care once the male withdrew and the squish-things moved in with glowing shapes and lights that all had a scent more acrid than lightning! You wanted to fight, but they quickly subdued you, taking you to another cavern that looked more right to your senses than where you had mated. And there they left you in the new cavern, but not far from where you had been. Left to your devices, you knew you needed to act fast — to build a nest your instincts were sure you'd need. Still, in the many nights since your forced relocation, you allowed the male to take you as often as you both wanted. Not that it was needed. Now, your belly is heavy, no longer filled with your mate's impressive seed, but stretched taut with the results of it. Your belly scales are spread so far apart by the clutch you're carrying that the hide underneath shows, a testament to how thoroughly your male laid his claim to you. All of the work you have done pays off, you know, laying in the impressive next of straw, cloth, and hides — anything the two-legged squish-things let you have. And, as you belly begins to cramp and your womb tightens, you know it's time to make use of what you have built. Your mate is not around: he is often taken by the squish-things during the day and only returns at night. Still, you let out a croon, happily proclaiming what you know is about to happen.

You position yourself, squatting so your vent is just above your nest. A hiss escapes from between your bared teeth as the first contraction hits you. There is no thought, no worry as your body does what it knows to do; slicking your undertail in preparation. A shiver runs up your spine from your vent as you bear down and push in time with the contractions, only satisfied when the first egg slides free from your passage as you croon. But, still more are on the way, and you can only follow your instincts as you push out another, and another, the pleasure working you into a trance. With each laying, a flicker of something rouses itself in your head. You were someone, you were…

The last egg leaves your quivering vent, and you groan at the conclusion of such a fulfilling moment. You turn and tilt you head down, seeing so many white shells beneath you. They are perfect. The flicker of thought fades. You are what you are. There is nothing else that could ever matter. Your eggs will hatch soon enough, and they will be good, strong hatchlings. And you, you will be as you always have been; what you were always meant to be…