FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Mounted

By: Xerox2

twitter.com/XeroxToo

.furaffinity.net/user/xerox2

(18+) [This story contains the good stuff. To be enjoyed only by mature adults. Sorry.]

????

The kingdom of Andranor buzzed with excitement. Flags fluttered from every window. Confetti and rose petals filled the air like snowflakes. Merchants, musicians, and prostitutes swarmed the streets in a mass feeding frenzy of commerce, and a legion of young, drunk soldiers, pockets bulging with pay and minds on celebration, flooded through the city's gates into her inns, taverns, and brothels.

King Andrew The Third's royal army had returned from campaign.

The Roost Tavern was the busiest it had been all year. Derek DeAmond sat at a large, circular table, one hand holding a stein of beer, the other gesturing dramatically.

"The mercenary had a hold of my stirrup, see, and he raised his dagger to deal a lethal blow," Derek explained to the woman sitting on the table in front of him. "Thinking fast, I yanked an arrow from my quiver and slipped it through his visor. Needless to say, he let go."

The lady gave a theatrical gasp and slid her foot up his thigh.

"Pah!" scoffed a musclebound soldier across the table. "Nothing a good sword and a strong arm couldnt'a done!" The pair of women sharing his lap giggled.

Heavy infantry. How Derek despised them, always shouting and throwing their weight around. This tavern was lousy with them. Before he could make a comeback, his own lady-of-the-night leaned between them.

"You must have been awfully scared," she said, turning Derek to face her with a finger on his chin.

Derek took a swig of his beer. "Naw. See." He pulled his sleeve up to reveal a tattoo of a violet, the royal flower, on his shoulder. The whore gasped, this time genuinely, and he smiled. "We who take the blood oath have no fear of death. Our lives belong to the King."

The heavy slammed his fist against the table. "Ah the King! Now there's a worthy warrior!"

"They say he stands seven feet tall!" shouted another brute.

"I hear he rode a gryphon into battle at Tergramesh!" cried yet another, pounding the table so hard a plank jumped and toppled Derek's beer onto his lap. He leapt to his feet.

"You spilled my brew!"

The table-slammer lifted a prostitute from his lap and stood. Had they been belly-to-belly, the tip of his beard would have tickled Derek's forehead. "Yeah? and what are you going to do about it?"

The tavern went quiet.

Derek clenched his fists. He bit his cheek, huffed, and sat. "Find my on my mount, then try acting tough."

"Well if I ever visit the stables, I'll give yah a wide berth," chuckled the heavy, sitting. His comrades laughed and clapped his shoulders.

The tavern keeper appeared out of nowhere and replaced Derek's mug with a full one. The beer was less bitter than he was.

Once again, his woman leaned to block his view of the others. "You're strong without your horse. Strong enough to hold me down." Her fingers trailed down his shirt toward his crotch. "Strong enough to use me however you want."

Derek sighed at the prostitute's attempt at seduction. If only she knew. . .

"If it's strength yah want, yah better let him bring his horse to bed!"

"Aye! I doubt he'd have it any other way!"

The infantry broke out in roarous laughter.

That did it. Derek leapt onto his chair. The infantry were laughing too hard to see him slip the bandanna from his head and fit it with a pebble. A flick of his wrist sent the shot flying, bearded heavy's mug exploded, showering the lot with beer.

Another silence.

"Grab that cavalry twerp!"

Derek ducked under meaty, grabbing arms, vaulted over a table, and rolled behind the bar. A fist aimed for him connected with the back of another infantryman's head, and soon the entire tavern broke into a brawl. Derek slipped out the back door and hustled down the cobblestone alleyway.

If starting a brawl was a victory, it sure didn't feel like it. He felt small and weak. He'd ruined his own night too, and the lingering arousal from the woman's touch only stoked his frustration. She was skilled, picking up on his desire for strength, but she'd missed the mark. The infantry were even further off-base with their mount-fucking jokes. Real original. Thankfully, he knew one place he could find the exotic brand of eroticism he craved.

The Bee's Flower had done its own dressing-up for the army's return. Fresh silks fluttered in the doorway, glowing with the warmth of a hundred candles. A pair of young women almost too beautiful to be whores welcomed Derek and relieved him of his cloak and boots. Madam Lune recognized this one. She whispered an order to a nearby courtesan, sent her off with a jerk of her head, and returned Derek's gaze with a knowing smile.

Derek glanced furtively, looking for other soldiers. He did not relax until a girl took his hand and led him to a private room. There he saw her.

"Precilla. It's been--"

"Did I say you could speak, boy?" Precilla interrupted. She was beautiful. Fair skin and golden curls down to her shoulders. She wore thigh-high boots and elbow-length gloves, all black leather. A tight corset lifted her breasts and guaranteed her posture.

Derek smiled and ran a finger over his lips.

"Good. Now sit."

He started toward the bed, but Precilla stopped him with a click of her tongue.

"Not there. Sit the way that suits you."

Slowly, he lowered himself to his hands and knees, sitting his bottom on the ground. Precilla nodded in approval, sashayed forward, and fastened a thick leather collar around his neck. A silver chain leash connected it to a loop in her hand.

"Good boy. Now get undressed. Clothes are for humans."

Derek undid his buttons, trying to stay seated on the ground like a good boy. He stripped off his pants, freeing his erection, and stole a few guilty strokes.

"No touching." Precilla hissed. "Not unless I say. Did you forget the rules while you were playing war?"

She tugged the leash, leading him to the bed. She sat on its edge with her legs crossed, then raised her right foot slowly, hovering her boot in front of his face a moment before pointing it over her head like a dancer. She set it down far from the other, opening her legs and revealing her sex. Its glisten betrayed how much she too was enjoying this.

"Lick. If you do well, I'll reward you."

Derek pushed his head between her legs and set his tongue to work. As he lapped the fragrant fluids from her folds, his unattended cock throbbed so hard it ached. He did not touch it. He was a good boy, after all.

Mistress Precilla coached him between moans: "Higher." "Slower." "Eaaaaasy."

His tongue made little circles around the hard pearl of her clit. She gasped, and the hand on the back of his head grabbed a fistful of his hair. "Keep going!" she squeaked. A toe-curling fit of pleasured spasms wracked her body. He still had it.

Precilla pulled his head away from her crotch. "Enough! Enough," she said between pants. Her leatherbound fingertips wrapped around Derek's eager penis. "It's time you were rewarded." She stroked his length twice, then withdrew. "But first, I have one more order."

He looked at her with puppydog eyes and gave a high-pitched whine.

Precilla crossed the room to a large object under a blanket. "No worries. This is an easy one." She pulled it away with a flourish, revealing a kennel. It was one of the ones made for the fighting dogs, with thick steel bars. "Get in."

Derek had no idea what twisted sexual games Precilla had in mind, but his cock demanded him to obey. He crawled inside. She closed the door behind him and threaded a heavy, iron lock through the latch. Click.

Precilla's coy smile melted into an expression of utter relief. She pulled a string on the back of her corset and breathed a heavy sigh as it sprung loose. Then, she gave a shrill whistle.

Something was very wrong here.

The room's door swung open to reveal a tall, thin man. He wore long, purple robes of the finest silk, trimmed with black and emblazoned with the sigil of a half-lidded eye. A matching fez was perched atop his bald head. His neck pitched forward in a wrinkled mass, giving him a distinctly vulture-like stance.

Mordred, the court sorcerer. Few had seen the man. Derek only recognized him from descriptions in terrible, frightful tales the soldiers whispered amongst themselves.

"What in the--" Derek sputtered, hands scrambling to both cover his erection and remove the collar from his neck. "Get out!"

Sinister eyes set deep in Mordred's bony sockets regarded Derek. He gave a sharp nod, and Precilla threw the blanket over Derek's cage, plunging him into darkness.

Mordred watched as his hooded minions wrapped the cage in wooden planks and hammered them into place. Soon, a plain crate sat in the center of the room, the cavalryman's muffled threats barely audible from within.

Precilla shook her head. "You'd better pay well, sorcerer. At this rate I'll soon be out of customers."

"Yes, as agreed." Mordred snapped his elbow, and a small leather purse fell from his sleeve into his hand.

"The other girls aren't going to believe this."

"Oh I think they might," he said, "and that is a risk I cannot afford to take." In a single, smooth motion, he flicked the bag at Precilla, showering her with a cloud of glittering green dust. The workers immediately stopped hammering and turned to watch.

Precilla waved her hands. "What the-- aah- ahh- ahhSNT!" With the force of her sneeze, a long, furry tail erupted from her behind. She glanced over her shoulder at her new limb's fuzzy, flicking tip, mouth dropping open.

"I have a- aahCHOO!"

She dragged her wrist over her nose, now upturned and pink. The touch on her new whiskers made her eyelids to flutter reflexively.

"Achoo! AAhsnt!" Precilla fell to the floor, either from the unending chain of sneezes or because each left her body less human and more--

"A cat!?" she managed, staring in shock at the clawed paws she'd pulled from her gloves. Another series of sneezes. Precilla crawled toward the door, slender feline legs stepping out of too-large human boots. She cried for help: "HelllllllleeeeooOWWW," her voice pitched up as she rapidly shrank, ending in a pained yowl. A luscious coat of fur erupted from her skin in a wave, prompting her to arch her back in an unmistakably catlike manner.

The cat that had been Precilla made it to the doorway, paused, and looked around in confusion. She batted at one of the hanging silks and began licking at an unruly patch of fur on her leg.

Mordred wheezed a satisfied chuckle. His minions started, but he shot them a glare. "Did I say stop?"

They jumped back into action, carrying the rumbling, cursing crate out the back door to a wagon hitched behind the sorcerer's carriage. A pair of ebon-black mares spirited them up the main road toward the castle, splashing revelers with mud as they passed. Mordred smiled at the sight.

Castle Andranor loomed over the city from atop an imposing cliff. Three generations of the Andranor line called the white-bricked palace home. Mordred had served them just as long. "A necessary evil," told each king to his heirs. They allowed the sorcerer a lair, an obsidian orb that jutted from the cliff's face, hanging below the castle like a spider's egg-sack. This was where Derek would meet his fate.

????

The cage dropped, and Derek grunted. The boards creaked as they were pried away. Footsteps shuffled, and, finally, the blanket was removed. He found himself in a large, domed chamber. A ring of green-flamed braziers cast flickering emerald light over the blackstone masonry. Mordred loomed beside the discarded blanket, grotesquely picking at something between his teeth with a bone needle. It was just the two of them inside the room.

"You are Derek, Lieutenant of the king's army, yes?"

"You know the name of your death," Derek spat. His voice husky from all the screaming. "Let me out so I can tear those bony arms from their sockets."

"How colorful." Mordred snapped his twig-like fingers and the kennel's lock fell to the floor. Derek jumped in surprise, then slowly opened the door and crawled out. He stood, hands covering his privates. There was an awkward pause.

"After careful consideration, I've decided to give you a chance to talk your way of your beating."

Mordred scoffed. "You've sworn the blood oath, and I am the king's agent. You wouldn't harm myself or the king, as much as we may deserve it. You're perfect."

Another of his threats challenged successfully. Derek felt incredibly stupid. "You deserve it. King Andrew is a venerable warrior."

"Venerable warrior!" Mordred snorted. "His father was respectable, perhaps. This king is. . . something else entirely." He sat behind a polished-oak table. "Come. Sit. I have a proposition for you."

Derek sat, grateful for the shred of modesty the tabletop provided. "If you wanted to see me, a simple summons would have worked."

"Yes, I am sorry about picking you up that way." The sorcerer's lecherous grin did not match his words. "But no one must know about this meeting. You see, the king, the royal prick, has made an impossible demand: He wants a dragon."

"A dragon?"

"A Dragon. He wants to ride it into battle. Ridiculous, I know."

Derek's face turned pale. "You want me to capture a dragon?"

"Don't flatter yourself! Even if you somehow managed to find a dragon, it simply would toy with you until it got bored and then eat you. Or worse. The damn things are impossible to tame. Immune to magic, impervious to harm, more prideful than the twerp king himself. It's preposterous! And the females are worse than the males! Did you know a dragoness can't be fucked unless she wants it? By dragons, no less!"

Mordred was so worked up, little bits of spittle flew across the table as he spoke. Derek wiped one off the back of his hand.

"So where do I come in?"

The sorcerer grinned, revealing a mouthful of crooked too-white teeth.

"I want you to be my dragon."

Derek blinked. "What?"

Mordred reached into his robe and produced a flask of glowing pink liquid. "This potion will transform you, physically, into a dragon. Your mind will remain, of course. You'll need it to act the part of a tamed beast."

Derek's mind tried to wrap itself around the insane proposition. "Me. A dragon. For how long?"

"The rest of your life. Centuries, perhaps. Dragons live quite a while. I imagine you'll be able to slip away once the king dies. Shouldn't be too long at this rate."

"And I'll be what, the king's royal steed?"

"Think about it," Mordred urged. "You'll still find glory on the battlefield. People kingdoms away will sing stories of your exploits!" He was getting excited, and the spittle was back. "You will fly! Imagine it, man. Flight!"

"Shut up and let me think! What if I refuse?"

"No one can ever know about this plan. So--" Mordred placed a second flask on the table. "Drink the blue potion and you'll merely wake up in an alleyway with a hangover and no memory of any of this."

Mordred watched the soldier's gaze flick between the two flasks. Sweat beaded on both their foreheads as Derek weighed his options. The strength of dragons was legendary. He would be the greatest warrior of the kingdom, perhaps the world. And if he happened upon those infantryman on the battlefield, well, mistakes are made in the fog of war.

But to spend the rest of his days as a beast!

Mordred chewed his lower lip. Finally, Derek extended his hand. His fingers touched the blue potion before flicking away. He grasped the pink potion and raised it to his lips. As the sorcerer watched the glowing fluid drain down the soldier's gullet, his face broke into a wolf's smile.

"Yes. Yes. Don't leave a single drop!"

It was like drinking freezing-cold oil, but he did as he was told. He slammed the empty flask onto the table like a stein of beer, and the blue potion jumped and clattered onto its side. Its contents spilled onto the table, erupting with a violent hissing and a plume of smoke.

Mordred tumbled off his chair and scrambled backwards. "Don't touch that!" he cried.

Derek leapt to his feet. The blue potion quickly ate through the hardened wood of the table and dripped onto the masonry below, disappearing into its own sputtering, smoking hole.

Derek looked at Mordred, realization dawning on his face. "You were going to kill me."

The sorcerer stood, adjusting his fez. "Well you drank the correct potion, so it doesn't matter, does it?"

"You traitorous spawn of Ogomoth!" Derek started toward the sorcerer, intending to wring his wrinkled, turkey-flesh neck. He stopped short. A deep grumble rose from the pit of his belly. He clasped his hands over his stomach and opened his mouth to unleash a belch so loud its echo lasted seconds.

"It's working!" squaked Mordred. "Your fingers! See?"

Derek lifted his hands before his face. They were heavy, and then he noticed the claws. Wicked spikes of bone pushed his human fingernails aside, curving and lengthening before his very eyes. His hands spasmed wide as they grew to match. Bones popped as his fingers swelled into thick, powerful digits, thumbs pulling backward down his wrist. His skin of his hands grew black and stiff. Seeing the blackness spread down his arms was like watching a hunk of meat burn in a fire pit. When the dark shell had replaced his last patch of human skin, it split-- the sound of a hundred eggshells cracking-- into a sheet of tough and flexible scales.

His vision pitched forward as his neck suddenly gained a foot of length, and he fell onto the table. Oversized, draconic paws caught his weight like a feather. Then everything started happening at once. It felt like invisible hands were tugging his body every which way, and it was impossible to keep track of all the sensations. They yanked his spine into a thick tail that whipped about and slapped the stone floor. His shoulder blades were pushed aside as two new limbs stretched from his back, popping like massive fingers as new joints formed. His skull felt like a balloon inflating inside a too-small mould, pressure so high he was afraid it would pop. Somewhere distant, a human scream grew into a bellowing roar as his muzzle cracked into place with one smooth motion.

Through all the chaos, one change shined through in perfect clarity. His penis, flopping freely between his legs, grew taught. One "hand" gripped some tubing deep in his groin and yanked his balls up against his body. His mouth fell open in a silent scream. Agony mingled with unexpected pleasure. The pressure increased. Just when he was certain he was going to black out, his testes slipped into his body with a pair of distinct pops. He came immediately. Jets of semen, pent up from his unfulfilling trip to the whorehouse, splattered beneath the table. Each orgasmic pulse pulled at his cock until he felt its head sink between the cold scales of his crotch and settle in a tight fold of flesh.

Mordred scrambled to avoid being crushed by Derek's expanding body. The table groaned under the weight and exploded into a shower of splinters. He grew until he was twice the size of Andranor's largest draft horse. Across the room, his massive, flailing tail sent a man-sized brazier flying, scattering glowing coals everywhere. Finally, the dragon shuddered in a full-body spasm as powerful cords of muscle bulged beneath his scales. He bellowed a mighty, bone-shaking roar and collapsed.

The transformation was complete. Laying where the human Derek once stood, was a massive black dragon. Wings large enough to fill the room stretched haphazardly to either side of the gasping creature, brushing against glowing embers without a hint of discomfort. The only hint of the creature's human origin was a splash of violet scales on its shoulders, arranged in a floral mimicry of Derek's tattoo. Beneath each eye, smaller patches of glowing pink scales echoed the accents on his shoulders.

Slowly, the creature began to stir. Derek craned his elongated neck around to view his altered form. He tentatively flexed his wings and tail. Even these unsure movements had incredible power behind them, like a coiled spring, ready to snap and lay waste to any who dare oppose the king.

"Derek? Is that you in there?" ventured Mordred. The sorcerer seemed so small standing down there.

"Answer me, dammit!"

Derek snapped his head at the little man and roared as loud as he could. Mordred fell backwards onto his ass, great ropes of slimy dragon-saliva splattering his robes. Derek huffed a deep, draconic chuckle at the sight.

"You ass," Mordred muttered.

Derek lifted his long, ridgid lips into a smile. Perhaps he had made the correct choice after all.

????

Mordred scurried around Derek's hind leg, wrapping it in a ribbon of runed parchment. His front legs and tail were already "secured" in place by the "magical" paper. Mordred had prepared miles of the stuff, all painstakingly covered in handwritten symbols that glowed a pale blue-- ink harvested from the light-sacks of deep squids, no mysticism required.

Derek's tail twitched. The unbreakable paper tore in ten places and fluttered to the ground. Mordred groaned and repaired the damage. The dramatic arcs of paper affixing him to the chamber's walls and the mystic-looking circle on the floor made for a convincing-enough summoning scene.

Mordred wrapped Derek's muzzle and pierced a final sheet of parchment, this one much larger and more ornately inscribed, onto the pair of tiny spikes between Derek's nostrils.

"There. Finished." Mordred grabbed hold of one of Derek's horns and hovered his face right in front of Derek's eye. "But remember: if the king so much as suspects you're not a real dragon, both our heads will be mounted on the wall. No slipping!"

With that, the sorcerer spun about and exited the room. An itch immediately appeared in Derek's nostril slit. He was never any good at this subtle spy stuff. He resisted the urge to scratch, focusing instead on preparing himself for his first audience with King Andrew The Great and Honorable.

A few minutes later, the door burst open, and a dozen knights in full plate armor filed into the room. Their armor buzzed with nervous shivering. Why were they so on edge, Derek wondered? Oh right. He was a dragon.

After the knights came Mordred, a pair of viziers, and then, finally, the king himself. He would have been easy to pick out even without the spotted fur cape, jeweled crown, and glittering sceptre; he was the only one not quivering with fear. No, the young king, early in his second decade, walked with the confidence of a man twice his size. In fact, he was a smaller than Derek expected, but all the humans looked small now.

The king gazed at Derek, face alight with wonder.

"Magnificent!" he announced, handing his cape to one of his attendants. He circled Derek, gingerly stepping over his parchment chains. "Such power, so perfectly balanced by a subtle grace. Death and beauty made one."

The king's voice was shrill, his tongue flicking to perfectly shape each syllable. "It's an alluring juxtaposition, don't you think?"

His attendants nodded vigorously. "Quite right, my liege! Well put." They chattered, dabbing the sweat from their brows and huddling near the door.

"You have truly outdone yourself, Mordred. She is a gorgeous specimen. Truly a dragoness fit for a king."

Derek's eyes shot wide.

"I live to serve, your grace," Mordred said, bowing so deeply he had to hold his fez on his head.

"I shall name her. . . Violet."

The attendants blathered praise for the king's choice of a most patriotic, feminine name. Mordred caught Derek's glare and offered a tiny shrug. Derek huffed a mighty breath that rattled the parchment on his nose. Everyone jumped.

King Andrew giggled at the room's fearful reaction. He approached Derek's head cautiously, from an angle, with his hand outstretched. It was a motion Derek had used to gain the trust of countless horses, but being on the receiving end was truly bizarre. The room held its collective breath as the king's palm gently touched Derek's snout.

"Perhaps we would all feel more at ease if the matter of loyalty was settled," he said.

King Andrew's gentle, blue eyes locked with Derek's, and he began to speak the blood-oath. Although Derek had already taken it, hearing the weighty words spoken in the king's own royal accent made his massive heart pound in his chest.

The king's narrow, slightly crooked nose, prematurely white hair, and pale skin gave him an otherworldly quality, but not the one Derek expected. He wanted more than anything to believe that this king was the fearsome warrior from all the stories, but the soft-palmed pretty-boy standing before him seemed no different than the fragile aristocrat youths he and his fellow soldiers ridiculed. Was his confidence merely the result of never facing true danger once in his life?

If this king was not a fierce warrior, to what kind of man had he pledged-- was he pledging-- his loyalty? He grew nervous.

"-- so long as blood runs in your veins," finished the king. The oath demanded Derek speak "I do," but his mouth was bound. "You may also nod," amended the King.

Derek nodded. What choice did he have?

The king flashed a perfect grin to the rest of the room. "Well there you have it! They say once a dragon gives its word, it can never be broken."

Mordred raised a cautionary hand. "That is only a story, your grace. There is no proof--"

King Andrew ripped the parchment from Derek's muzzle. Behind him, the sorcerer rolled his eyes. The king delicately brushed the scraps of paper from Derek's face and cradled his large, scaled head in his hands.

"Yours will be a pleasurable life, Violet my dear," he breathed so only Derek could hear him. "That is my oath to you."

The king spun and made for the exit, barking orders as we went. "Alagure, get Violet cleaned up and take her measurements. She is to be brought to my throne the moment she is ready for her first round of training."

"Yes, your grace," said the fattest of the attendants, swallowing.

"Excellent work, Mordred. Your rewards will be forming by the end of the week."

Mordred gasped. "So soon!"

King Andrew reached into his robe and flashed the sorcerer a small spritzer bottle. "A special gift from Tetragal the Ranger. One week."

"Ooo," Mordred cooed, bowing again. This time his fez really did fall. "My eternal thanks, your grace."

The king stopped at the door. "Oh, and Violet?" he said, turning to face Derek. "Be good and follow the commands of Alagure here. No biting, fire breathing, or destruction of any sort, you hear me? That's a good girl."

Hearing that phrase sent a thrill down Derek's spine. His eyes popped wide. Oh no.

The king left and Mordred followed, pausing just long enough to flash an encouraging smile at the worried dragon. Alagure fastened a leather collar large enough to encircle a horse's midsection around Derek's neck.

"C-c'mon now yah b-big bugger. Let's go," he said, tugging on the silver-chain leash.

Derek followed. Each stumbling, unsure step made the fat man flinch.

He liked that.

????

In the castle's courtyard, Derek was set upon by a hoard of terrified servants. They buffed the paper remnants from his scales, polished his claws with wax, and puzzled over how to take his measurements. Alagure, now seeming more confident, shouted words of encouragement from below.

"Easy, girl. That's it, Violet! Steady. . ."

Each word made Derek's blood run hotter and hotter. How dare this pale blob call him such demeaning, feminine names?

But perhaps it was understandable that the king had mistaken his gender. Whatever beastial totem of masculinity he no doubt now possessed was hidden away inside the scaled vent between his legs. Still, he had to resist the urge to toss Alagure across the courtyard.

One of the servants polishing the grey scutes of his belly brushed against the sensitive crease of Derek's vent. He jumped and snarled at the man, reducing him to a quivering husk that had to be carried away. That made Derek feel a little better. He looked forward to his upcoming lessons with the king. Shredding some practice dummies would ease his nerves.

Castle Andranor's great hall was the most magnificent room Derek had ever seen. A series of polished columns, high as a cathedral's steeple and wide around as the largest wagon wheel, suspended an arched ceiling covered with paintings so lifelike, Derek thought they must have been made by magic. Still unused to lumbering about on all fours, Derek craned his neck a little too high and slipped. Catching himself, his claws carved deep furrows into the marble floor.

Seeing Derek, the bored king perked up in his throne. He made a sweeping gesture with his wrist. A pair of guards grabbed the commoner in audience, dragging him past Derek and out the door.

"Ah, Violet!" the king cried, leaping from his throne. "Your scales shine with ferocity. Fabulous!"

Derek attempted a bow. The king's praise summoned a flash pride that sent his great tail waving back and forth. It struck a priceless porcelain vase, obliterating it. He pivoted, and his tail crashed into a guard behind him, sending the man sliding across the floor. A dozen of the king's guardsmen drew their swords as one. Even as a dragon, the sound sent a spike of terror through Derek's stomach.

"At ease, at ease!" cried the King. "Violet is merely here for her training, and it seems desperately needed."

The man who was apparently King Andrew The Third, took the leash from Alagure and led Derek past the throne. His shoes clicked five times for each step Derek took. The king had a way of carrying himself that commanded the room. And his smell! Derek hadn't noticed it before, but each breath he took caught a waft of chemical oil and blood. Something deep in his mind told him it was a powerful, dominant smell. At least the king, whatever kind of man he was, behaved like a worthy owner.

His owner. He was owned. An animal. A mount. Derek's swallowed at the thought, and his saliva carried the scent down to his stomach and lower. The heat of it came to rest between his legs. He faltered.

They came at last to a vast ballroom. "Leave us!" the king commanded, and it was done.

King Andrew glanced furtively about ensuring they were alone, then deflated. His posture collapsed from its royal pride into an exhausted slouch.

"Privacy at long last," he sighed, voice now free of his kingly accent and painstaking enunciation. "My back is killing me, standing like that all day!"

He looked at Derek, and the edges of his mouth lifted into an honest smile. "No need to keep up appearances around you, Violet. You are my pet. A magnificent pet, mind you, sensual curves and rippling muscle married in an exotic beast, a forbidden fruit, plucked and presented. But you are my pet."

When the king said it, he believed it. The heat in his groin returned with a vengeance. Was he getting turned on by this? Derek cursed his kinky mind. Now was not the time! What would happen if his cock got the message and slid free from his vent? Talk about arousing the king's suspicions! No true dragon would find such humiliation sexy.

"But!" the king said, stepping back. "No pet of the king can be quite so. . . unrefined. The people must be terrified of what you could do, not what you are doing."

King Andrew threw off his cape, placed his crown and scepter on the ground, and started training Derek. These were not the combat drills he pictured. Instead, he was tutored on the motions expected of a "proper" dragon.

"Stand with your back straight," The king directed, sliding his palms under Derek's belly. "If I have to do it, so do you. Chin up! Look dignified."

The king guided Derek's unfamiliar body, teaching him how to sit with his tail curled; how to walk, lifting his talons with each step; how to lay with his neck raised so he could peer down his muzzle at the humans below.

"Excellent," announced the king. "Now. Bow."

Derek lowered his head.

"No no, like this. Chest touching the ground," the king said, running a hand under his wing. "Hindquarters up." A slow stroke up Derek's thigh. "Tail lifts up, up, up, up!" A tickle at the base Derek's tail. The king's body pressed against Derek's backside. His breath chilled the moisture gathering in Derek's vent. A fingertip grazed a wrinkle of Derek's asshole, causing it to twitch.

Derek's tail lifted until the fanned tip hung in front of his eyes. The king stepped back to gaze upon his handiwork. There was a long pause. Derek could not see the king. He felt terribly exposed. He bit his tongue, hoping the pain would quench his arousal enough to keep his cock bursting forth before the king's very eyes.

"Incredible," the king said, voice no more than a whisper. He stepped around Derek, giving his ass a firm, parting smack that made the violet scales on his face burn a deep red.

"Tomorrow, you will join me in court, my most precious pet."

The king donned his regalia and whistled for a servant. "Show Violet here to my private stables." His immaculate pronunciation had returned.

The terrified servant took Derek's leash. His heart sank at the thought of being separated from the King. He glanced behind as the servant led him away. King Andrew caught his eyes and gave him a subtle, parting wink that seemed to say "I know." Know what, Derek wasn't sure, but it sent a chill down his spine to the tip of his tail.

Derek scolded himself. These bizarre thoughts and feelings were not worthy of the most fearsome military weapon in the kingdom's history. The training's pageantry was odd, but it made some sense. He was simply being conditioned to obey battlefield orders immediately and without hesitation. He made his way to the stable, walking with a half-prance just as the king taught him.

The king's private stables were a tile-roofed, wooden structure tucked away behind the castle's keep. The word "menagerie" might have described it better. A jaw-dropping collection of fantastic beasts occupied its generous pens. His own enclosure was the largest of them all yet still humble for a dragon. A fresh thatch mattress and a small stream of drinking water were its most noteworthy features. The rest of the floor was covered in straw to make it easier to muck out.

The attending servant ushered him through the iron gate. "Now just stay here. Don't bust out or nothin'." The moment the gate was closed, he ran, leaving Derek alone for the first time since his transformation. He collapsed on the thatch mattress, exhausted.

He was crazy for accepting this offer, but he hadn't slipped. Yet. It had been close back there with the king's scent in his nose. Perhaps male dragons could control their erections. He rolled onto his side and examined his underside for the first time. Using his long neck, he was able to bring the tip of his muzzle right up to his privates.

Derek's asshole sat a few inches down his tail and, other than its size, was quite the same as ever. He was more interested in the vertical crease a few inches above it. A strong scent of reptiles and spiced fish emanated from the moisture glistening between its delicate scales. He tried to will his cock to emerge from its home, but he only succeeded in squeezing opening tighter. What was going on down there? If only he had the hands to give himself a proper examination!

Then he had a brilliant idea. He slid his tongue between his needle-like teeth, past his scaled lips into the open air. The slick muscle drooped, then slapped between his eyes. He returned to his slit and slid his forked tongue up and down its crease. Its twin prongs wriggled independently across the surface of his scales, seeking entry like a pair of frantic worms. The sight made Derek's stomach turn, but he was too curious to stop. Finally, he took a deep breath, relaxed, and his probing tongue slipped inside.

His vent massaged his tongue's meat with a brine of exotically spiced fluids, making it tingle like it had fallen asleep. Still he pressed deeper, searching for the shaft he knew was hiding inside.

Thoughts flashed of the king's touch and that rust-and-oil scent, and he began to find a sexual satisfaction in his tongue's exploration. The way his vent twitched and squeezed around its length, each movement lighting up patches of deep, unfamiliar nerves. It made him crave something else, something larger, perhaps the size of a man's arm. Muscular vent clenching around pale and supple royal flesh. . . . Derek shivered. His breathing came in gravelly huffs.

He ran out of tongue before it found the end of his passage. The impulse to delve deeper pivoted into a search for the most sensitive patches of velvety insides. The tines of his forked tongue tickled up and down the crevice, feathering like crazy any time they found a moment they could milk for pleasure.

It snuck up on him. The clenching of his passage passed out of his control. His wings unfurled. His talons sank into the oaken wall. Pure sexual bliss, the world's most unrelenting sensory feedback, washed his mind clean. A moment of stillness. Pure pleasure. Then the crashing wave of rhythmic pulsing, involuntary shuddering. His sentience returned with a label: orgasm.

Realization dawned. How could he orgasm without finding his cock? Unless. . .

He slurped his tongue back into his mouth, tugging it free of the still-gripping muscles of his pussy. He stared in horror as the break in his belly-scales closed reluctantly, like a flower blooming in reverse, hiding the deep purple inner-flesh and leaving only a blush of pale violet nestled in a moist crease. His pussy.

Derek recoiled, stretching his head as far from the terrible truth between his legs as he could manage. A gryphon was staring from the stall opposite his own, beak pressed between the bars. He roared in fury, and it turned tail with a shrill skree.

Dinner that night was a goat. Not goat. A goat. They tossed it in through a hatch on the wall, and for a little while Derek thought the poor, bleating creature was to be his room-mate. It wasn't bad.

Compared to leaving his humanity behind, leaving my sex behind should be easy, he pondered, crunching the goat's bones like croutons. And yet, despite his newfound strength and favor with the king, the thought of the female sex between his legs made him feel so very vulnerable.

King Andrew visited after sunset.

"Ahh, Violet. How are you? Enjoyed your dinner, I see," he said, speaking in his relaxed, informal manner.

Derek regarded him coldly from the back of his stall. The king's expression was a curious mix of hunger and restraint. It made Derek feel like a not-quite-ripe fruit. The gryphon in the opposite stall chittered at the king and nuzzled its head against the bars. Andrew ran his fingers through the feathers on its forehead.

"Jealous Arlie? Interested in a little late-night ride?"

Arlie the gryphon squealed and turned in a small circle. King Andrew opened her pen and looped a ribbon lead around her neck.

"Rest up, Violet. I want you looking your best tomorrow!"

The gryphon followed after him, chin up, lifting its legs high with each step, just as the king had taught Derek. Its tufted tail flirted upward, and Derek caught a glimpse of its fuzzy lioness's sex as it disappeared from view.

So the tales of the king's gryphon-riding were true. And he was skilled: he'd left the beast's tack and saddle hanging by its pen. Most impressive. The scent of the king reached his nostrils, and Derek's own pussy flushed with unwanted heat. He refused to give in and indulge his pussy with another tonguing, so he endured the throbbing heat between his legs.

An attendant returned the gryphon some time later. It smelled of the king, sweat, and a musk that, while familiar, he couldn't quite place.

????

The next day Derek sat with the king in court. On the walk over, he was terrified he'd mess something up and be discovered for what he truly was. It turned out, all he had to do was lay on a massive cushion next to King Andrew's throne and simply look intimidating. Occasionally the king would command him to fan him with his wings or growl at some foreign dignitary. Derek loved the way the proud ambassadors shrank before his rumbling. That's what he'd signed up for.

What he hadn't was his horniness stalking him throughout the day. The heat in his nethers grew each time the king called him a "good dragoness" for completing some basic task. Sitting close enough to constantly smell the King's alluring scent only made matters worse. At least he didn't have to worry about popping any awkward erections. That was one meager upside to being female, he supposed, but it did nothing to make his arousal more bearable. King Andrew's constant whispering and touching only made matters worse. His mind filled with thoughts of dirty thoughts of how the king's slendy body might look without his robes. It got so bad, Derek had to resist the urge to sneak a lick of his burning slit. What was happening to him? He wasn't attracted to men.

Finally, the king bid him farewell with a long stroke of his neck, and he was returned to his stall in the stables. The second the attendant was out of sight, Derek curled into a ball and began tongue-fucking himself. In that moment, he didn't care about his female body, the indecency of the act, or even his strangely erotic fantasies of the king. All he wanted was sweet, sweet relief.

He came three times that night.

The next day was even worse. The court tailor had his four legs and tail fitted with tight pink lace. The rear stockings attached to a sort of girdle around his tail, leaving his body and crotch uncovered. A thin, diamond-studded collar completed the look.

He despised the trappings. They made him look like a pampered pet. Or worse, some sort of monstrous courtesan. The king did not share his opinion.

"You look dazzling! He gushed. "When people look at you, they see only a terrifying beast. I want them to see what I see: An elegant, sensual creature."

Andrew commanded him to bow to each person who came to court. Following the king's touchy tutelage, this meant raising his backside to the king and lifting his substantial tail in the air. The king got a front-row seat to his ever-moistening vent throughout the day.

"Good girl," he said, every time. A jolt of pleasured pride.

It would have been an easy life for almost anyone else, but not Derek. Not someone cursed to find eroticism in such routine degradation. And this was so much more intense than a mere bedroom fantasy. He was living it! Everyone saw him as nothing but an inhuman pet.

Why had Mordred chosen him?

Derek pleasured himself deep into the night. He lost count of the orgasms. He was so lost to his own self-pleasuring, he didn't even hear the visitor until the stall's gate rattled.

Derek's head shot up. His tongue pulled free with a wet slurp.

"Having a little midnight fun, are we?" the king asked, raising his eyebrows.

Derek flipped onto his feet as quick as he could, sending straw flying everywhere. He landed in a deep bow.

"No, no. It's too late for that," said King Andrew. His face was severe, arms crossed over his chest. "Come with me."

The kingdom's ruler tossed a chain around Derek's neck and led him from the stables. Derek followed, trying his best to do the prancing walk while half-paralyzed with fear. The king led him to a small building with a large doorway. It opened onto a stone staircase that spiraled down into the earth below.

"Masturbation. True it is an act of self-love, but it's far too desperate, far too needy for a dragon. Such autoeroticism smacks of the lesser creatures. Of humanity."

Derek's heart beat so hard its thudding echoed off the walls. Where was the king taking him? To Mordred? To an army waiting to execute him? He was convinced of his doom, and yet he followed obediently, loyal to the end.

A hundred feet below the surface, they came at last to a heavy, arched doorway. King Andrew unlocked it with a small key concealed in his sleeve.

"I understand why you did it. It is lonesome being a king without a queen. You must feel the same, the only dragon around. You're isolated. Our sort must find creative ways of satisfying the base urges."

Here he opened the door.

The room beyond was looked like a cross between a bedroom and a torture chamber. Smokeless torches cast the room in a shifting oil-slick rainbow of light, illuminating a collection of cushions and chains. A massive bed, draped in the finest silk sheets, dominated the space and stood in stark contrast to the shiny steel manacles and cages lining the walls. Derek stood, stunned by the alien juxtaposition of luxury and terror.

"Welcome to my sanctuary," he said, grinning. "Come in, please! Make yourself at home."

Derek's claws caught on the lush carpeting. His wing brushed a large X-shaped steel frame with straps and sent it rattling. He startled.

"No worries," said King Andrew, steadying the device with a hand. "The real instruments of torture are in the castle dungeon. These devices were never used on a soul who wasn't pleased to be here. They've sat in disuse for quite some time. My tastes have, shall we say, evolved since those days." He flashed a mischievous smile toward Derek and gestured to a field of pillows. "Please, sit."

Derek, his mind still reeling, latched onto the simple command. What was happening? Why was the king showing this to him? The soft touch of the cushions eased his nerves somewhat. King Andrew turned away from the chains, then seeming to suddenly remember something, turned back to pluck a leather-tipped riding crop from a hook on the wall. He advanced on Derek.

"Paws back. Neck up," the king said, thwapping each body part with the riding crop to correct its position. Derek barely felt the blows, but his muscles tightened with each snap. That scent, the King's oil and rust, began to overpower the room's incense.

"Good girl," said the king as he removed his cloak and shoes. "Lay down."

Derek did as he was told. King Andrew placed his hand on Derek's flank. It was hot against Derek's cold-blooded scales. The king paced a lap around his body, maintaining the touch and thwipping him with the crop as needed. Each blow made Derek's nethers twitch with a growing, terrible need.

"Good girl. Now there is the matter of your punishment. Masturbation, as I said, is a human act. Luckily for you, I happen to enjoy seeing bits of myself in my pets." He chuckled to himself. "So I only ask that you resume your self-pleasuring, as you were before I so rudely interrupted, and allow me to watch."

Derek hesitated. Was this a test? A dream? A nightmare? He could hardly believe any of this was actually happening. True, he was horny, but pleasuring himself, in this body, before the king himself. . . It was all too bizarre.

"Your king has given you a command. Are you a dragoness or a shrew?"

Derek shifted onto his side. He wanted this, didn't he? Both the growing moisture of his vent and the king, his master, begged him to give in. Why did he hesitate? He bent his head down to his crotch, now a familiar motion, and let the needy scent of his sex mingle with the kingsmell.

King Andrew dragged a barrel-sized pillow close to Derek's face and plopped down. A puff of goosedown feathers escaped from scratches in its surface, made by the claws smaller than Derek's but no less sharp. The king unclasped his trousers. His erection bobbed free, inches from Derek's fist-sized eye. The king's cock was modest in size but perfectly shaped, a graceful curve and bulging veins, like an artful ivory carving.

"I'm waiting," he said, fingertips playing up and down his length.

The sight of the King's penis collapsed the last of Derek's defenses. His tongue slid from his lips and worked its way into his sex. Sweet relief. The awkwardness of the situation melted under a sun of sexual pleasure. He started getting into it, thrusting his wriggling tongue deep inside of himself with loud slurping and sucking sounds. The king stroked himself openly as he watched, gasping and clutching fistfulls of the pillow.

The king came with a squeal. Jets of semen, glittering like strings of pearls, splattered onto Derek's muzzle, his vent, his tongue. It had a salty, bleach taste. There was that ever-so-familiar scent from the stables, now forceful and forward. The sheer degradation sent Derek over the edge of his own orgasm. His vent clenched around his tongue so tight it was almost painful. Finally, his sex loosened its grip enough for him to pull free. Yet his arousal remained as strong as ever. He wanted more.

"Fantastic," sighed the king, sinking into his cushion-seat. He watched through half-lidded eyes as Derek eagerly lapped up runny globs of the cum. "You appear quite insatiable, my finest beast, but I am spent. Thankfully, I have a solution." He crawled through a sea of pillows to his robe and retrieved a glass vial filled with a red, swirling liquid.

"This is a special gift from that vile creature, Mordred. According to him, it shall grant me the form of a mighty drake for a single night. Not a true dragon like yourself, mind you, but enough to satisfy your needs. I hear the males of your species are quite vigorous."

Derek's eyes shot wide.

"So how about it? Would you like to return to your stall fully satisfied?"

Derek's scales twitched in a wave up his body, the reptilian equivalent of hair standing on end. Did he want to be fucked by a dragon? He couldn't believe he was even considering it! It was madness! Yet, the heat in his nethers burned with inhuman intensity and inhuman desire. A drake, a handsome beast, a powerful, dominant male. . . What were these alien cravings? An image leapt to mind unbidden, a muscular winged lizard, half again his size, pinning him with his teeth, thrusting savagely into him, filling him with a cock that would kill a lesser creature. His muzzle opened to draw heavier breath. He gazed into the King's eyes. All he had to do was nod.

No! What was he thinking? He was a man. More than that, he was a human! This was no brothel fantasy. It was real. To say yes would be to throw away everything that he was. The thought chilled him to his core. He shook his head.

King Andrew's smile disappeared. His hand tightened around the crop.

"If that is your wish," he sighed, tucking the vial away. "I won't force you into it. I couldn't, anyway, if the rumors of dragonesses are true. But don't underestimate me. I am a king. I've been practicing persuasion since the day I was born."

He opened a heavy chest near the door and lifted a large harness of steel and leather. "I had my stablemaster make this especially for you. Now bow as I taught you, like a good girl." The King heaved the contraption over Derek's tail and tugged the straps tight around his hips. A series of tiny locks snapped into place. He stepped away, and Derek's heart sank. The device was unmistakable. It was a chastity belt.

"There. Don't think I haven't noticed how eagerly you follow my commands, how your vent moistens throughout the day." The king rapped his fingertips on the hard leather cup covering Derek's pussy. "I'll remove this when you're ready to be properly fucked. When you beg."

With that, he led Derek back to his stall and left without a farewell.

So that answered the question of what kind of man King Andrew was. He was a mount-fucker, and he had his eyes set on Derek.

The locks on the harness jingled with each of Derek's movements. It was too heavy with the king's scent for his arousal to subside. He searched for a weakness in the device. The tiny holes in the main cover only admitted his forked tongue's narrow tines far enough to tickle his tender scales.

All night he tossed and turned, dreaming horny dreams. At one point, he grew desperate enough to try tonguing his asshole, but there was no relief in the awful act.

Derek attended court the next day, still strapped in the humiliating device. No one dared question the king about it, but he saw them pointing and whispering. The king behaved as he always did in public, speaking in that kingly, perfect voice, going about his business and treating Violet as a pet, an afterthought. Any commands were insidious and humiliating.

"Violet, let me ride you to my meeting with the duke."

"Violet, show the duke your training harness."

And later:

"Violet, massage my feet with your tongue."

Derek's kinks betrayed him again and again throughout the day, twisting what should have been awful, dehumanizing experiences into hopelessly sexy acts of submission. By the end of the day, draconic femlube dripped from the holes of his chastity belt. Oh how he craved relief! His mind turned constantly to thoughts of the visit to the plush torture room, of what pleasures might await him tonight, if only he gave in. It was sheer, sexual torture. He had to stay strong.

????

King Andrew, exhausted from a day of tedious ruling, entered his private stables. He pulled the ranger's spritzer from his robe and puffed the few remaining sprays of drake's musk onto his neck. It was now or never.

On his way to Violet, he visited the stalls of his previous exotic conquests, reminiscing about his first time with each of them. Gulra, the warg, had started it all. She initiated. Powerful heats, those of the wargs. He hadn't expected the ride to end that way. Only a beast's advances could be so brazen: nuzzling his crotch, presenting her swollen sex. The thought had his cock straining against his trousers.

He was ready to take a new mate.

He found Violet hopelessly licking her chastity belt. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes shot his direction. She leapt to her feet, faced her backside toward the gate, and lifted her tail. She squealed and rumbled, begging.

Yes, she was ready too.

Violet followed him into the courtyard, her muzzle glued to his neck, huffing breaths that whipped his hair. He eyed the doorway to his sanctuary. The privacy would be nice, but didn't laying a dragon warrant something a bit more dramatic?

King Andrew pulled the stopper from Mordred's potion and downed it one swig.

A bolt of heat shot from his stomach straight to his cock. Though he was already fully erect, blood rushed into his organ. The fabric of his trousers groaned under the strain, and he only barely managed to yank them over his hips before his growing penis burst a seam. Big. That was the only word that crossed his mind at the sight of it. It swelled as it throbbed, each beat of his heart was like a breath inflating some jester's lewd balloon. Already the base was too thick to grasp. Its purple head advanced toward his face, changing shape. Mushroomy human curves streamlined into a wicked spire of angry red flesh. Ridges and spines lifted in a spiral up the length. Below, his testicles grew to the size of oranges before being pulled up into his widening pelvis.

So entranced was he by the scene of his shifting cock, Andrew completely forgot about the rest of his body. By the time he heard the first seam rip, it was too late. His fine silk clothing exploded from his growing body. Violet leapt backward to give him room. His hands cracked into massive talons that left deep furrows in the lawn. His spine stretched into a heavy tail that whooshed wildly through the air. Wings burst from his back. His face pushed into the ferocious visage of a dragon. His head was too heavy to lift until his neck caught up. A human scream broke into a deep, bone-chilling roar.

Derek watched the King's body twist with anxious desire. Right here in the courtyard? Was he insane? The shreds of doubt that remained clawed their way back until he caught a whiff of the true smell. It was purer, fresher. By the time King Andrew's skin had finished splitting into a sheet of azure scales, Derek's mind had surrendered to the lizard brain. Mate. She had to mate!

The blue dragon lifted itself onto all fours, glanced at the female, and licked his lips. Then he ran. The first few steps were wobbly, but soon his strides turned to bounds. Massive wings unfurled with a whump, beat the air, and lifted his heavily muscled body over the castle wall.

Finally, she would have her chance to fly.

Her takeoff was more graceful. A single leap and beat of her wings carried her over the cliff's edge. Falling, catching the wind, soaring. It came to her like second nature. The instincts eclipsing her rational mind knew how to fly. Especially if it involved pursuing a mate.

She caught sight of him climbing high and launched into pursuit. When the clouds obscured her vision, she tracked the sound of his wings. She burst from the cloudbank right on top of him. He gave a shriek and twirled into a dive, trails of mist streaming from his wingtips. They plummeted toward a forested hill below, falling faster than either of them had ever moved before. He pulled up early. She slammed him into the hillside.

Trees crunched and popped, splintering as they caught the crashing beasts. There was some pain, but only enough to energize Violet. The drake flopped on the ground, disoriented and dazed, and she used the opportunity to reach back with her dagger teeth and and rip the pathetic human contraption from her pelvis. A flash of the male's red cock. She pounced, pinning him on his back, wings splayed and flapping beneath him. He nipped his larger jaws at her neck. A lethal blow to humans, it merely tickled the scales of her neck.

Violet ground her freed pussy against the hot spire of the male's penis, searching for the right angle. The pointed tip caught between her folds, and she forced herself down on the length. It stretched her passage, but the shock of each ridge popping into her depths only reassured her that she had won. This was no delicate lovemaking. It was pure fury and passion, a fitting fuck for a dragon.

Finally she felt him swell within her. They screeched in unison, a cloud of heat blossoming in the depths of her belly. Victory.

They had each other several times that night, experimenting with various exotic positions. They were insatiable. It was the best sex either of them had ever had.

????

Mordred found the king on the castle's cliffside wall, gazing over the expanse. Shafts of sunlight tickled rolling green hills stretching distantly into atmospheric haze. All of it was King Andrew's domain. Andranor was a Kingdom formed by innumerable political deals, funded with the spoils of distant wars, and secured with fear. Fear of the King's knights, army, and recent rumors of a pet dragon.

A crowd of peasants, mere specks at this range, explored one hill's new bald spot.

"Good morning, Mordred," said the king without turning. "You are looking positively dreadful today."

Mordred bowed and tugged at his hood. "I'm afraid the sun is not as kind to me as she is to you, your grace."

"Perhaps you should make a salve. I imagine you could mix something that would moisturize even that awful, papery flesh of yours using a dragon egg."

Mordred's scowl broke as realization dawned. "You don't mean--"

"Indeed. The seed of your reward has been planted, as promised. And I shall require a refill of this." He pulled an empty vial from his shirt and tossed it to the sorcerer. "In fact, make a few."

"Yes, your grace," Mordred said, turning to leave. The king stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

"I am curious how you managed to convince a dragoness to swear the blood oath."

Mordred's wrinkled throat rose and fell with a hard swallow. "As a condition of my bargain with the beast, I swore never to tell a soul of the conditions of its capture. However, if your grace demands it. . ."

The king released him. "No, that is quite alright. You're dismissed"

The sorcerer nodded, silently uncoiling from sheer terror. He once again started to leave, then paused. "Oh, one more thing, your grace, if I may."

"Yes?"

"Have you considered bringing the beast on campaign? She would make a most fearsome weapon on the front lines."

"Send Violet to war? What a curious idea," the king mused. "No, I don't think so. Her savagery is a refined sort, not suited for the battlefield. She will be happiest living here as my pet."

Mordred grinned. "Yes, your grace. Quite happy indeed."

The End

Author's note: Thanks for reading! Please consider leaving a comment with your thoughts :)