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The only thing more exhausting than the battle was the trek back home. The wagon, which the sellsword

pulled by hand, creaked and groaned under the weight of the hunt. Through hoof-trodden forests and

long, open plains, the kill was almost as difficult to carry home as it was to fight.

There were three of them: a lucky number, who went out to 'parley' with the great beast Effentor. Even

though he was summoned by forces beyond the veil of good and evil, his reign was short, and cut shorter

by the three adventurous heroes who were now lugging his unnaturally dense core back home. The black

dragon had clashed with kingdoms, and had left great clutches of unholy eggs and mistresses in his lurid,

debauchery-ridden wake.

But no sin could staunch the cold cut of steel, and like kingdoms he'd felled, Effentor was crumbled and

banished, leaving only powdered rubble in his remains.

“I'm going to cash in my coin for a new bracket of armour," declared the archer, whose freckled skin and

ember-bright hair, contrasted that customary green archers were drawn to wear. “My muscles," she

flexed, “are getting a little tight for this old, leather jerkin, and I think it's time I rearm with a new chest

plate to fit."

“I too could use a new rack of steel," insisted the sellsword, whose brutish size was outdone only by his

blade. His heroic cut-- both in hairstyle and jawline-- had been shaved close by the whirling of his edge,

and the scars that this reckless talent provided showed well against his sun-kissed, coffee-toned skin. His

blade, however, which now had an acidic burn melted along its side, was well beyond use; the tear in the

steel caused by the hot blood Effentor's vile hand when he cleaved it in two. “But, my blade-- she weeps,

and must retire, lest m' next fight also be my last."

Although everyone else seemed prepared to cash in on weapons and armour, it was the mage who looked

the most tired of it all. The adventurous spirit had died down a little, post-battle, and he, but a femmy,

short creature, was not yet ready for a second go. “I think I might just settle up in an inn for a while," he

considered, lifting the brim of his purple, velvet hat. His tousled, black hair caught the breeze as he

considered the group's prize, and he looked up at his comrades as if pleading for validation. “Do you think

the Brechen's Fire will let me stay for a few months?" he asked as he dusted off his robes and his lightly

battered armour, “You know, for helping with the dragon?"

“I'm sure they'll let you stay, little mouse," laughed the archeress, “if they can find a hole to fit you in!

Other than that, I imagine that we'll have to pay for a space like everyone else wandering through

Ostesbren."

“Oi, Ilgred, don't be so mean to the little guy. He's the only reason your head is connected to your body

still," chuckled the sellsword, “You seen' what that nasty old beast did to steel-- imagine what would have

happened if the runt hadn't put up that ward in time. You'd be bow-and-lassie soup!"

“Don't you fret, Tomril. We're all in good fun here," nodded Ilgred as he hoisted up her bow; the large,

heavy string crossing over her bosom. “Right, Azmir? All in good fun?"

Azmir nodded, and his feathered, magus's cap tilted over his face. “So long as that good fun involves a

long, much needed rest as soon as we're home. My tomes feel heavier than ever, even with all the ink in

them washed out."

By the time they made it back to the city, the covered wagon was practically on the verge of breaking, a

fact that was quickly forgotten with the fanfare and music. Ostesbren was all too happy to see the return

of their selected heroes, and the sky above gleamed with the orange glow of a setting sun, and glistened

with thrown petals and streamers. The flag of Ostesbren flew from every banner that sunset. From the

castle gates to the smallest of shanties, the flying dragon of Ostesbren was the only dragon that met the

sky that day.

The reward to the heroes three was paid out in full: more gold than any of them could carry. No amount

wagons could lug their winnings, and to top it all off, the stone heart of Effentor-- the glowing, purple

prize that was the mark of their victory-- was theirs to keep.

“What are we going to do with a pebble that weighs a thousand pounds?" asked Ilgred as they left the

castle lawn, pockets overflowing with gold and heart stuffed with pride. “It's shiny and engraved-- truly

beautiful and all; a real eye-pleaser, but..."

“--But is still the heart of a dragon," declared Tomril, who lugged much of their earnings in large sacks

flung over his shoulder. “You could mount it on a sword! Not that you'd be able to lift it, or perhaps forge

it into the heart of a great and mighty shield, and never worry about it buckling."

“Or," considered Azmir, “...I could fashion it into a pedant, and wear it around town. A few wards to help

lift the weight will help-- the court wizard wouldn't mind me borrowing some chanted chain to mount it

on, and if ever we find a use, we will use it then."

“Fine by me," agreed everyone, “but you have to wear it." And so it was. Tomril, Ilgred, and Azmir: the

three heroes who slew the beast Effentor, and wore his heart like a trinket, had won it all.

But there is always a side effect to defeating otherworldly beasts—some more personal than others.

“Wayhay!!" The collision of tankards sent a stream of foam and golden ale soaring through the air.

Upwards went the steely bottoms, and down went the drink, before, with a clatter, the mugs returned the

table.

Ilgred and Tomril, with glasses empty, watched as Azmir struggled to down his drink: the smaller

creature struggling with the 'giant-sized,' frothy drink. With both hands he chugged, feeling the honeyed

brew slink down his throat and into his belly, before setting it down with a splash.

“I can't--" he heaved, with only a small piddle of drink left in his cup. Azmir wavered, and with every

uneasy sway, the pendant around his neck swayed in kind.

“Gha! Can't ya' just magic yourself an extra tummy, magus?" Tomril teased, rattling his mug against the

tavern table and adding to the already deafening din of the Brechen's Fire inn. “It's a little drink, after all.

No daemon hearts or monster parts in it, I think!"

The Brechen's Fire wasn't anyone's first thought when it came to drinking. The most luxurious inn in the

province, a drink there was akin to swallowing your gold whole. Decorated in expensive silks and

furnished with foreign wares, it was a palace in the middle of a city, hidden under the arm of the great

castle Ostesbren.

The short, girly mage dropped back into his chair, nearly losing his hat in the process. “It doesn't work

that way-- I can make wards and shoot bolts, not create entire dimensions, you short-haired dolt."

“Hey! Don't make fun of m' short hair!"

Ilgred only laughed at the discord. “The mouse might have a tiny stomach, but it's better than having a

tiny brain like yours, Tomril!"

“Oi! My brain's reasonably sized and fully functional, unlike your flat, fuckin' tits!" Ilgred's face went

from delight to abject shock in a single breath. “I could hammer out a sword's edge on a surface like that-

-"

“Nay-- ay-- that's an arrow in your ribs where I come from, selly-boy," Ilgred barked, standing up and

nearly throwing the table over in the process. “If you keep up with that kinda talk, the only sword you'll

be selling is your short, stunted wingle between your legs--"

“Okay-- okay," Azmir interrupted, throwing his hands up and out to divide his party from each other. His

voice was nowhere near as loud, rough, or growly as the others, but his action had an effect all the same.

“Four tankards was probably a lot... Even for your guys. I think-- I think we should go upstairs and have a

good, long rest."

“Bah, you're such a buzzkill, Azmir, but you're right, and that's the worst part," Tomril sighed. He kicked

back for a second, “Maybe when the dawn's up, we can get back out on the field killin' monsters instead

of each other."

Ilgred nodded. “Your brain might be small, but ya've got a few right ideas in there kickin' around. I could

use rest."

As soon as the bar was paid, it was upstairs to the lodgings where rest could be had. No sultan, king, or

ruler would feel too far afield in the affluent, well-furnished abodes that the Brechen's Fire provided.

“Look at this, look at this!" Tomril exclaimed as he stepped foot into the great, open room. It was like a

lodge all its own, with individual rooms and a crackling fireplace for them to share. From draping, ruby

curtains and hanging skins of rare and wild beasts, to the cushioned seating and possibly in-room service-

• their stay at the Brechen's Fire would be one hard to match. “Ain't this the high-life! I feel like a real

king just standin' in here..."

“Ough, I can't wait to get my stuff off," the archer groaned, dumping her bow by the door before bee-

lining towards one of the separate rooms. “I hear they've got hot water here... hot water! I couldn't tell you

about the last time I had a hot bath."

“Likewise! This armour is bloody heavy!" agreed the sellsword as he threw his sacks of gold across the

central living space. “It makes me look handsome, yes, but I'm sure some of those tavern girls downstairs

want something more than just a man in armour, if ya' feel me!" The animal skin rug that caught his toss

became enveloped in a stream of rattling coin; coated in gleaming gold that caught the fire's crackling

warmth in their shine.

“You two can do that... I think I just need some rest," assured Azmir, taking all his belongings to a room

that he'd claim his own.

As soon as the mage was somewhere private, he sighed and dropped his belongings on the nearest table

with a rattle. “Finally-- I thought today would never end..." he exclaimed, putting aside his hat on a hook

before taking a seat on the nearby, comfortable bed.

Through the windows of his room, the pale blue of night crept in against the gleam of dancing yellows

and oranges. The latticed glass portal cast odd shadows, which was fought back by small candles fastened

to the wall. A bookshelf of nondescript tomes lived as decoration, while a finely carved table took up the

corner space with a view out into the city.

None of that mattered, however, for rest was the most important thing right now. If only, however, he

could have the promise of some extra privacy-- the door didn't have a lock, and as Azmir disrobed, he

only became more conscious of his desire for one.

Despite being the shortest of his crew, he was by no means a 'small fry.' His pale, sun-shy skin gleamed as

he removed his binding top, and was now down to his under-hosen, wherein an eye-fetching shape cast a

distinct, and hard-to-ignore-shadow in his wake.

Ten inches soft. Azmir wore robes for a reason, and his gourd-sized cum-pouch was one of them.

He tried not to touch his humanoid kit too much as he wobbled himself into bed. He needed a good

release, but with no way to clean it up and magic just too tiring to bother with, his more primal needs

would have to be put at bay.

Night came quickly, as did rest, but a comfortable sleep was harder to find.

Azmir tossed and turned under the blankets, unable to control himself as he was hurtled through his

dreams. His imagination conjured strange yet wonderful things: things that were as clear as memories,

and as vivid as the real world. His breathing was fast and hot, and no matter how he threw himself, he

could not shake his body awake.

It was not until Ilgred and Tomril returned that Azmir's situation was made more clear.

“You're jokin'... A foot and half? That's stupid. He's like... Five feet tall at most." The conversation had

drifted in a strange direction, lubricated by the ale.

“I'm not joking. The kid's probably asleep right now-- you can have a peek! I get you like to think you're a

big, strong man because you've got muscles, but he lacks in size, he packs between his legs." Ilgred

assured. “I've seen horses with smaller kit's workin' the farms. Trust me! Maybe he magicked it together,

but if that were the case-- if it was magic-- the court wizards wouldn't look like crunchy, old raisins now,

would they?"

Tomril was not so prepared to concede that his thick, pillar of a manhood was an inch shorter than their

magically-inclined twink, and with the alcohol speaking loudly in his ears, he declared-- albeit quietly,

“Fine! We'll go check, but I'll bet a fistful of coins that I'm bigger."

Ilgred had a smug, certain smile strung across her face as the two lumbered over to the magician's room.

Tomril set his hand on the door, but paused where he should have pushed.

“What's the matter, sellsword? Wet feet?"

“...No," he said with honestly on his tongue, “...I hear somethin'. It sounds like he's spinnin' around his

bed!"

“Spinning? Open the door--" the archer insisted, putting her hand on Tomril's shoulder, as if to brace him

against the wood.

The door leaned open with a near-muted groan; a sleepy croak from the hinges that were too quiet to

wake its occupants. Eyes peeked through the gap in the door, letting the light from the burning fireplace

inch around the shadow of their heads, which were stacked one behind the other before the yawning

portal gave way.

The mystery of the mage was solved as quickly as it had arisen. “Holy gods above..." Tomril said,

humbly; quietly. “You weren't joking...!"

“It's uh... Actually, I think I was wrong...!" Ilgred began.

Tomril entered the room, approaching the bed and spoke softly, “What do you mean?"

“Well... besides the obvious... I was wrong about the size," the archer noted. “It's a little bigger with the

covers on, I think."

Before them was the sleeping Azmir, flat on his back with his hands clasped around the base of his

member. Were it not for the blanket tented straight up in the air, Tomril and Ilgred might have had a full-

on-view of the magician's two-foot-long, magic dong. The pale-skinned boy was covered from the chest-

down, and it was clear to see that little bumps and goose flesh ran up and down his arms. A wet stain was

poking up at the tip of his wrist-thick member, the twitching beast oozing a virulent brew through the

cotton-woven fabric of the comforter.

“It's pissed," Tomril half-joked as he looked down in his pants to eyeball the difference. “I don't treat my

fella' that bad, where it's droolin' everywhere like a wild animal."

“Aye... I'd be pissed too if I was that big..."

“Take the covers off-- I wanna see it for real," Tomril added. “Maybe it's not his... You know-- after all?"

“What, do you think he just hides something there for show? Scare off the big men like you?" Ilgred

gawked. “Take it off yourself if you're so interested."

Tomril let loose a frustrated grunt at the rejection, but said nothing more as he reached for a dry part of

the blanket. He hesitated as Azmir's thrashing began again. Little moans and squeaks joined in with spurts

from his rod-- a rod that looked as though it was growing steadily taller with every spurt.

“...Did he...?" Ilgred considered, eyes wide as they met an equally as astonished Tomril. “...No... That

can't be..."

Not wanting to live in the limbo of things any longer, Tomril reeled back the curtain in one, swift flourish,

and underneath, they found something that neither of them were ready for.

His hosen had been split-- burst open by the sheer size of Azmir's penis, but it wasn't like any either had

seen before. “...Is that what a magician's shimmy looks like?" asked Tomril in stunned astonishment, to

which, Ilgred could only shake her head.

Neither of them had seen a thing like it: black flesh with three, defined ridges and a flaring head. It was

human-like in it's general shape-- that is to say, it wasn't blunted flat like a horse's, or tapered off like a

dog's, but it had a bulbous, fat knot at its base, and was scaled; segmented almost, like that of a... of a...

“Reminds me of a dragon, if you don't mind me sayin'," mumbled Tomril. “I've seen a few weird dicks in

m' life, but... This one takes the kitchen soup-- pot, hearth and all."

And his balls: large, almost melon-like, humanoid flesh seemed to meld with an almost scale-like

development. It was as if the underbelly of his huge, taut-looking cum-tanks had a 'shield' of sorts,

guarding its underbelly in the form of plating scales, scales that were a virulent orange with a fade to

black around its edge.

They flexed and clenched as ropes of spunk leapt straight up into the air. Lance, after lance, after lance,

growing only larger as Azmir's sleeping panic grew in intensity. He began to pant and huff; his hands

clutching the base of his two-foot cock, but not touching its tender, desperate flesh.

“Kid's gonna blow...!" Ilgred noted, taking a step back from the bed. She watched as his enormous nuts

swelled outwards, sinking into the bedding as they took on inches by the second.

“I'll say--!" Tomril said with a hiccup in his voice, startled to see cup-loads of ivory pour over Azmir's

sleeping form. He was drenched in a second, painted as if raided by a dozen other men. “Do we wake

him?!"

“No-- we-- I-- I don't know!" Ilgred panicked, eyes rising upwards as more and more cum began to rain

down over the bed, over its edges, and was soon touching the ceiling.

Azmir was cumming-- cumming for real, and harder with every subsequent pump. He moaned and

mewled, spasmed and bucked-- gentle motions for what could have been furious beats in his sleep. His

nuts grumbled, a low, angry bubbling, and that of all things felt like the cue for the other two to leave.

“Let's go—" Ilgred suggested, turning on her heel and guiding both her and Tomril to the door, but was a

few seconds too late. A sharp yelp from Azmir stopped them both. They thought he was waking up, and

the reflexive pause that followed was nothing more than instinct.

Their startled jump was not to their benefit, for no sooner did their attention turn away from the door and

back to their friend, did the splash of hot, white, goop meet them square across the face.

“Gah!" was all Tomril could get out as a bucket of spunk dashed him clean across the chops-- a splash

drawn from a climaxing, howling Azmir, whose draconic cock was blasting cum well out of his control.

Ilgred, shielded herself with her arm and felt huge, spools of dense, thick jizz rain down over her archer's

cloak; musky, damp and heady as it mushroomed off the ceiling in clods. Pump, after pump, after pump--

Azmir's nuts were like an infinite sac of cumming; a bottomless tank of jizz.

“He's like a bloody thunderstorm!" Tomril gawked, trying not to slip as he scampered out the door. Ilgred

followed, watching as the room began to lose its woody colours; replaced with a seeping, oozing ivory.

“What a stud--" Ilgred added, before pulling the door closed behind her, and sealing Azmir in with his

fate.

Panting, heaving, huffing-- the duo could still hear Azmir's climax pound against the ceiling, and his cum

splashing about as his flying ropes landed in their scattered and rising puddles. An ooze crept out from

under the door, and the pair looked at each other for a moment.

“...Why don't you cum like that, Tomril," Ilgred chided. “Why does the twink have to be the hung one?"

The sellsword frowned as he wiped his face. “Fuck off, archer."

=-=-=-=-=-=-=

...Swirling images possessed his mind, occupying every corner of his dreams. It felt as though he was in

this mental cage for years; for eons even, attempting to quench desires burned into his soul. His clawed

hands reached out, pinning some form of lesser kin. Pleasure would sear up his body next, exploding

through his nerves, and from his mouth an inhuman roar would escape. Odd colours and shapes dotted

this landscape: circular hills that reached beyond the clouds, all of which he knew was his own.

And still, despite even the greatest mountains having crumbled under his might, he still had to-- he still

had to keep on-- he couldn't stop because he was going to--

“C-cuh-- Nnngg!!"

Azmir felt the tension of his loins wind up as threads of his consciousness returned to the waking world.

His dreams, finally broken by a single, gleam of daylight, seemed to carry through into reality as he felt

his cock bulge, fatten, and then fire with cannon-like force.

Azmir had never felt anything like it before as his melon-crushing gonads clenched and squeezed a

barrel's load of jizz straight up towards the sky. His prostate felt hot and puffy, and it seemed to resonate

with his monumental climax as a rain of steaming, musky cum rained down over him.

His moans were loud, a lot louder than they should have been, and if only to try and stymie his wet

dream, a now partly-lucid Azmir clutched the girth of his rod-- only to find his hands unable to envelop

its circumference on their own. He felt bumps and ridges, with a massive knot at its base ballooned and

pulsing with the power of his orgasm. As his hands tried to strangle his erupting member, he could feel

the tension in his morning climax magnify as he jerked its seemingly endless length up and down.

Only weak, broken yelps could escape his mouth. His hiccups of pleasure were staunched mostly by his

own seed, for at every given opportunity, a mouthful of his overflowing virility would splatter itself all

over his face.

He came, and he came, and he came, thrashing and throwing his cock around in its ecstasy for what felt

like only seconds, but in reality, was nearly a quarter-hour of nonstop, high-power cumming. He jerked

and stroked, still barely alive, desperate to fight off the sensations inside him. One to climax, another to

simply drain his nuts, and one intense, searing desire to having his penis enveloped down to the hilt by

some lusting whore.

By the time it was over, only two of those needs were burned away.

The last spurt lanced two feet straight up into the air and rained down over his midriff: a midriff that was

now covered in a very literal pile of oozing, seeping cum.

With every out-of-breath pant, Azmir's lungs filled with the potent stench of his own seed, and only by

fighting the desire to stroke another one out, did he find the strength to sit upright.

He wiped his face, spit his cum out of his mouth, and hoped only to find that the mess he experienced was

but an exaggeration of the senses. But his eyes went wide as he saw the disaster around him. “...Wh-what

in the-- What in the--?!" his voice rose, breaking in a feminine 'squeak.'

He was up to his waist in cum. The whole room was sodden to its bone, and were it not for the lattice

windows having been burst open at some point in the night-- the only outflow for all his hot, doughy,

boy-batter-- he might have drowned in his sleep.

Azmir looked around himself and found his vocabulary lacking, and if it weren't for the enormous, black

shape jutting up higher than this head, he might have no clue who the culprit was to his room's

renovation.

He may have had a culprit, but the most important question still had yet to be answered. How.

Breakfast was complimentary and served in the tavern hall. While most were being summoned downstairs

by the enticing odours of a mighty, freshly-slain roast, Azmir was still shovelling spunk out the window

in hopes that he could find a clean pair of boots to bring down.

The suckling noise that accompanied every step was outdone only by the din of the hall itself, filled to

bursting with morning residents.

Azmir pulled at his clothes. His odour-ward would keep down the stink of his cum-soaked attire, a smell

that clung to the fabric despite him having fire-bolted the delicate weaves dry, and he could only hope

that his spell was strong enough.

At least something could be done about the stink-- nothing but goodwill could hide the absolutely massive

bulge threatening to part his robes. It bounced and bobbled with its contents, its abnormal shape grating

against his clothes. Ridges, knots, and barbs all considered-- it was the scales on his balls which seemed

to tingle the most as they rubbed tenderly against the soft silks of his underclothes.

At least Tomril and Ilgred were both sitting at one of the tables, blending in with the crowd with

astonishing normality. They were aloof looking without their third party member at the table, and they

noticed their mage as soon as he hit the tavern floor.

His dragon-heart charm bounced off his chest as he bounded towards them. “Good morning," Azmir

greeted, hoping for a reply, but instead was met by a cold, inquisitive stare from the two of them. “...Uh...

Is something wrong? It's not the smell, is it?"

The sellsword and the archer looked at each other, before Ilgred looked the mage dead in the eyes.

“Azmir, have you been seeing... people? Someone last night, perhaps?"

“P-Pardon me?"

“You heard her, lad," Tomril joined in. “'Ave you been see'n people?"

“No? I didn't leave my room last night, unless you suspect a doppelganger is about town...!"

“Well," Ilgred said, leaning back in her chair, “We suspect that... Well, you're... Ill." Azmir was confused,

until she pointed a pair of fingers downwards. His face lit up like a fireball. “Yes. You think all of that

'Magic essence' spilled all over your room was just going to not exist?"

“Couldn't go outside cus' it stank to high hell with it! Couple' a people even got doused in the shit!"

Tomril grumbled. “Boy, we're thinkin' you've got... Well... A bit of a dirty hand."

“Tomril does," Ilgred said, “but I'm more concerned about any curse you've picked up."

“C-curse?! Dirty hands?!" Azmir blathered. “My hands are immaculate," he assured, raising them up to

reveal his claws. He clapped them together; orange-padded palms rubbing together with a magician's

flare. “See? Nothing!"

The mage was confused, however, by the wide-eyed gawks of his comrades. His chest felt warm.

“Azmir-- I don't want ta' alarm you, but your fingers look a bit more like chicken feet than any typical set

of 'ands!"

The mage raised his palms, only to yelp-- “Wh-what the--?!" His words were cut off as the archer dived

over the table, silencing him with the fat of her hand, only to pull him torso, legs, cock and all over the

top and into her chest.

Azmir flailed as his face was shoved right into the archer's soft, armourless breasts. “Shut the fuck up--!

You see your hands looking like some sort of daemon, and the first thing you do is yelp?! Are you

daft?!"

“Come on--" Tomril gruffed, “let's head back upstairs and sort out the issues... Last thing I want is the

guard getting any funny ideas."

The sellsword got up, leading the way with heavy, proud strides. Up followed Ilgred, cradling the mage

and his obscenely large manhood like a child. “Say nothing," she instructed quietly-- perhaps at the worst

of times, for as Tomril stood 'guard' at the door to let her through, Azmir wished only to speak.

How, after all, would he tell Tomril that scales were growing up the back of his neck?

He kept his hands in his robes as Ilgred marched through the hall. Her strides were big and heavy, which

caused the boy much strife. Every step caused his hands to gently grate against his inner clothes:

unfamiliar claws pushed against his attire, even with his arms crossed over his chest, while his enormous,

pumpkin-sized testes sloshed and wobbled with their taxing load. He wanted so bad to hold his massive

mounds still, but felt that in doing so, he'd have a much bigger problem on his hands.

“Get the boy inside," Tomril said, briefly taking the lead to open the door to the room. Azmir had to bite

his tongue, for in the brief moment that the sellsword has crossed them, the mage could see the sheen of

something foreign spreading down his back. Those scales: brilliant black, but blue in the light, were hard

to miss, and even Ilgred seemed to pause for the briefest of moments.

No sooner did the band gain the privacy they wanted, did all eyes turn to Azmir.

“Pants down. Now," demanded Tomril, and faster than Azmir could think, Ilgred yanked at his robes.

“Gah-- hey, slow down!" the mage ordered, trying to remain calm as he was manhandled. Undressed and

undone, the archer gave one firm pull on his pants to reveal the beast hiding within.

What met them all was entirely different from last night-- from that morning-- for even Azmir was in awe

at the thing between his legs. “It's spreading," Tomril said, talking around the fact that the boy now had an

enormous, scaly sheathe where his junk should have been. An orange underbelly was spreading out over

his midriff before their very eyes, and black scales formed the bulk of the mage's new skin.

"What do you mean 'spreading'?" asked Azmir. "You mean you saw it before?!"

Tomril scratched his head, ignoring Azmir's complaint. “...Look at that..."

His balls had been completely transformed, and were now a nearly floor-touching sac of glistening,

shining scales. They looked heavy; felt heavy, and the air itself was pregnant with their radiance. They

made a slow, low churning noise, and seemed to buck and move all on their own, no doubt with the virile

happening inside.

Azmir touched his fat, head-swallowing cock-sleeve, only out of curiosity, and felt inside something

semi-firm, but soft. “W-what is it?" he asked as he kneaded the palm-overflowing mass. His scales were

smooth, and his hand-claws did little to agitate the tender, plush flesh, but instead, felt as though they

were points of pleasure.

“It's where your penis lives, little mouse-- stop touching it!"

“It's hard not to," Azmir admitted. “Tomril-- you've got scales. Tell her! It feels good!"

“What?!" the sellsword gaped, “Scales?!"

“On the back of your neck! Can't you feel them?"

Tomril's hand clapped to the very bald spot that Azmir was referring to, and as soon as he met the cold,

metallic scales, his eyes went stark wide. “Those are scales?! I thought it was just shingles! Ilgred--" The

archer's attention was drawn away from Azmir and towards the sellsword. “Are these--"

“Shit and stars-- you're growing a set of honest-to-god sheets on your back! It's like a coin-purse--"

Frantically, Tomril began to throw off his clothes. Light paddings and leather cups fell to the floor as he

desperately tried to get at his own body. What he found was worse than he imagined. His entire back had

been converted, and was beginning to show little black spines running up his spine.

“Ah, fuck!!" he cried out, twisting around himself to see how his new, navy-coloured scales shone. “I

look like a fuckin' rock!"

As attention turned to Tomril; those brief few seconds of chaos, Azmir's kneading turned more

pronounced. He was hypnotized by his own sheath, for it felt that with every touch, it pushed back out

against his palms. He could feel the tinglings of his member: that black, knotted beast stirring inside, and

yet somehow, he could tell that it was changing.

The transformation was picking up its pace as new scales formed down his thighs and up his chest. Azmir

mewled as his prostate, now gaining its own covering of glistening, amber skin, felt warm, hot-- bigger

even; massive for what it was. It seemed to thrum and pulse, and weigh his soul down with a supernatural

force.

His nuts began to touch the floor without him noticing, a change that was superseded by a tender pulling

at his tailbone. “I... Ahh-ah...." he mewled; his voice too soft to be heard over Tomril's panicked

scrapings. He reached back and felt something large and heavy in his hands. It swished and moved; cut

the air with its mass, and as his fingers coaxed it towards the front, it declared itself as a large, heavy tail.

A dragon's tail, to be exact.

It was all too much to bear; a sensory overload that was choking up Azmir's senses. He felt hot, as if on

fire, and his balls-- now too large to simply be housed in front of him, spilled out backwards around his

ankles. He grabbed his waist-width sheath and squeezed tenderly inwards with morphic, draconic palms,

and felt his touch ignite the beast within.

He massaged it closer to its opening, feeling the rush of pleasure invite his palms further in to explore. He

pulled at its mouth and felt the colder air of the room kiss his buried peen within. Fistfuls of sheath-flesh

overflowed his fingers as he gently explored its yawning maw, and with one hand, went deeper than he

ever expected to go.

He reached in, and not knowing what he'd find, touched gold. His cock lit up in delight: sleeping though it

was, the explosion of bliss was impossible to ignore.

A wave of white precum flowed out through his soft-scaled cum-sleeve, hitting the ground with a heavy,

muddy 'whack,' flowing around his arm as he rimmed the inside of his shaft-sleeve with his fingers.

Gallons of the stuff turned to barrels as the peeking head of a massive, black cock pushed through the

precum lubed opening, revealing itself to Azmir in all its glory.

In the background, the chaos was only rising. “You've got scales too, Ilgred--! It's all over your arms!"

Tomril exclaimed, unable to stop his own body from changing. He was shrinking; his body seeming to

retreat from itself with every new swath of scales.

“And you've got fucking horns," the archeress declared, unable to hide her own tiny set. "We've both got

problems!"

Azmir's tapered head was as big as his own, and as it grew outwards, more and more details became clear.

Barbs ran down its upper-half, large and soft to the touch, while large ridges ran along its top. They flared

and twitched as his torso-width member expanded in girth and length, passing two-feet, three-feet, and

then nearly four without even hitching. The hardest part to break out of his rod was his knot.

Pointing skywards now, Azmir ran his hands over his own cock, worshipping its size as it tried to push

that last bulb free, raining goop down over itself and its owner in messy, white sheets.

“Look at him!!" Tomril finally broke as the sound of Azmir's change overwhelmed his own despair. His

mouth was now like that of an alligator's-- or perhaps a crocodile-- and his stature fallen so far from his

muscled form, that were it not for the way he spoke, Tomril would not have been himself at all. “The kid's

a deamon! And he's turned us into them too!" he declared, staring up at the towering, black pillar of dick

that was how heaving cum all over the room.

“He's not a demon," the archeress noted with great concern, seeing for the first time the pendant still

danging around Azmir's neck. “He's a dragon-- and knowing that, that means-- that means--!"

“If you say fuckin' kobolds, I'm going to break you."

Half-transformed, Ilgred and Tomril could only watch and listen as Azmir's mewls began to grow in

volume. Balls as large as wine kegs grumbled and groaned, while the boy, jerking his cock off, was

blissfully unaware of the rest of his body.

His slender frame was packing on meat, growing with every pump of his arms. His tiny stature was now

double its size, and his head-- once softly shaped by his girly genetics, were now rough with the angles of

a brutish, male draco.

“Ahh-- I-I can't stop!" Azmir declared in a booming voice unlike his own, the six-foot dragon-morph and

his proportionally expanding cock flailing around as pleasure unlike anything ever felt before built up a

palpable presence in the room. Precum was now pooling at everyone's feet: a mixture that accelerated the

transformation and filled the air with a poignant stench.

His towering cock was growing once more, as was the rest of him as his once humanoid frame became

lost underneath his new, draconic visage. His hair became horns: a wreath of spectacular, fiery hues, and

his pupils turned to reptilian slits as they took on an equally amber colour. His stature, already magnified

by his dragon-like shape, began to double and triple in creeping, passing waves, throwing his head higher

and higher towards the ceiling.

Azmir's cock hit the high roof before his head did: the monolithic tower of power supported only by its

base: a pair of balls that now took up half the room. The churning, rumbling, and sloshing they made was

like standing next to a boiling ocean; the splashing tide coming from its fountaining head as a literal rain

of doughy-thick ivory crushed furniture and walls under its weight.

Ten-feet tall, twenty, thirty-- Azmir himself was a pillar of a beast as he fought for space in the shrinking

room. He roared then, as he put his hands on the ceiling, trying to keep his head and horns from impaling

the roof. The mage, now a dragon, fell forwards as his hands retreated away from their usual position. His

bipedal existence was now over as he fell onto his massive, caravan-flattening cock, and in its wake, he

had evolved into an untamable stud of a dragon.

“A-ahhh...! It's too much!" Azmir declared. His claws dug into the flooded floorboards, chewing up

fragments of wood and nails as he tried desperately to control his size. He backed up, trying to make

room for his multi-textured cock, only to shove his balls into the rooms behind him with a terrible crash.

Wood and stone caved like paper around the sheer weight of his nuts, whose cum-packed mass ballooned

around his haunches like a giant, puffy pillow. His tail swished to and fro, knocking ceiling decorations

from their fasteners while his front paws dug at his enormous, body-sized sheath.

“It's the necklace...!" Ilgred loudly declared, noticing the relatively tiny pendant still dangling from

Azmir's neck. “We have to get it!"

As the room flooded higher and higher, getting to Azmir's neck became a little easier. Pulling themselves

from the muck and onto floating and destroyed furniture, Tomril and Ilgred did their best to navigate the

rolling, roaring tide.

Ilgred made the first move, jumping from planks to forepaw-- using Azmir's moving parts to elevated her

higher. “I can't reach it!" she said, however, as she sank her feet into the dragon's soft, scaly sheath. She

tried to hold on, but her touch only agitated Azmir's movements. He moaned, and the tide rose several

feet upwards, submerging Ilgred in a wave of dense, thick ivory.

“W-what the--" she began, unable to comprehend a sensation that she could not discern. It felt amazing;

felt wonderful, but only when her belly began to swell did she realize that something was very, very

wrong.

“Ilgred-- you--" Tomril began, wanting to warn her of her own body's changes, but what was happening

to her completely escaped his imagination. Her scaly tum pushed outwards in staggering waves, rattling

gently as something inside seemed to take form.

She moaned, unable to speak, and fell backwards into the tide as her gut swelled beyond her arm's reach.

It then that she rose back up again, but not on her feet. Instead, it was her gut, and from underneath her

raised tail, an egg popped clean out of her sopping, cum-drenched cloaca. One followed another, and then

two, and then ten-- and before Tomril could even get his head on straight, Ilgred had succumbed to a

dragon's prime desire: breeding.

Eggs were everywhere in a matter of seconds, and Tromil still had to act. But with Ilgred now a

ballooning eggy mess, they were down a man, and Azmir was still growing.

His balls filled out more than half the room, and his cock curled partly around the front, encasing the

dragon himself in a hoard of his own size. He mewled and moaned constantly, unable to escape the

rapturous rush of his own ecstasy, and from his bloated, knotted cock, came ever more seed. It exploded

through windows-- the only vent that to the room-- but even as frames widened and the escaping volumes

rose, the tide was now well over ten-feet deep.

But it wasn't over yet.

Tomril could see a path to the necklace. From his place, he dashed ahead, using Ilgred's cum-stuffed body

as a first step. She mewled happily; stupidly, as he pulled himself up her egg-filled form, and Tomril felt

the numbers within rising exponentially as he yanked on her tail like a rope to help him climb.

He was only a few feet away from Azmir now: his necklace, strung tight around his chest. If not for the

magic, the chain would have shattered, but with a bit of force, Tomril hoped, he could break it free.

He steadied his footing-- as best he could, at least, for the room had become a whirlwind of flying cum

and a musk so thick it formed a fog thicker than he'd ever experienced before. As Azmir threw his head

back in ecstasy, letting free a roar that could part the heavens, Tomril took his advantage, and leapt for the

prize.

The blue-scaled kobold flew through the air, and reached out to touch Azmir's scaled, plated chest. He felt

his claws snag the pendant by only a hair's breadth, and then-- pop.

The world slowed as Tomril felt the cursed heart break free of its chain, a purple glow radiating as it left

its owner's chest. It looked like things would be okay.

...Until, that is, the glow did not subside. It grew brighter, brighter, and brighter, floating through the air

as it began to destabilize. Beams of energy shot out through micro-cracks in its stony construction, filling

the entire room with its ominous glow. More and more shone through the cracks, until the entire pendant

was but a single, brilliant light.

“...Shit!" was all Tomril could get out of himself before the pendant burst in a tiny, but palpable 'boom' of

energy. Particles of dancing light bounded throughout the room, but settled only when they collided with

Azmir's expanding form. He roared, moaned, and wailed as with every one added, his muscles pushed

outwards; his balls grew larger, and his dragonhood surged with lust and size.

It was filling him-- filling him to the core.

Tomril hit the waters below with a splash, and realizing his mistake, tried to paddle towards some sort of

exit. But he was trapped on all angles by a wall of dragon flesh.

The floor sank as the room began to disappear underneath a dragon's, cummy hoard, and Azmir, unable to

stop his barbed, ridged, knotted peen from expanding, mewled as the pressure pent up in his scaly, titanic

nuts reached their apex.

“I-I'm gonna!" Azmir cried out, “C-can't-- can't--!!"

“The boy's not--" the kobolded Tomril pleaded, neck-deep in cum. “He's not gonna--" He yelped as he

saw Azmir's crown flare. “Fuck me—!!" Tomril tried to paddle anywhere away, but found the newly

released layers of cum below too thick to move.

“Cuuumm--!!"

Karx Matieen was enjoying his late-breakfast brunch in the tavern when he saw his teacup shake. There

was a boom that caused it to rattle on its saucer; the honey-coloured contents dancing in his personalized,

engraved sipping glass. Accustomed only to the comforts of his distant home, the burly-- somewhat

portly-- explorer looked upwards, following the noise from above, only to be met with a wet, sticky,

explosion across his face.

“Gah!" he recoiled as a glob of something dense splattered across his entire person, drenching him from

his head down over his shoulders. It stole his hat and dumped his belongings all over the floor, leaving a

mess of infuriating proportions all around him.

He wasn't the only one, however, for as soon as he cleared the muck from his face, Karx noted another lad

a few seats down become drenched as the floorboard above gave way. It was as if they were under a pool,

and with wood planks not built to hold up bodies of water, it was giving out.

Just when things seemed like things weren't going to get any stranger, the boy who had been doused

began to change right before his eyes.

“Good stars above--!" The words fell from Karx's lips as, in mere seconds, what was once a man was now

little more than a waist-high kobold. His head had changed just as quickly as his clothes had fallen upon

him, like a curtain of a show.

He shrunk, scaled, tailed, and horned-- a change so rapid, that it could have been a magical attack. Then

another lady, and another-- and another began to change as holes in the ceiling belched this sudden wave

of slime.

As if the transformations were not enough, Karx backpedalled away from one of the fleeing kobold-

women, a lady who was only five seconds ago, was a beautiful and busty brunette. She tumbled over her

new heels, her short, thick-hipped frame too strange for her to sprint with, only to suddenly begin to bloat.

She mewled a pleasured, panicked yelp as her womb began to rapidly expand, only for her eyes to roll

back in abject and sudden pleasure, as an egg popped free of her cunt. And then another, and another, and

then dozens more still.

Perhaps now was a good time to leave.

It was only when he quickly tried to dawn his hat, to flee from the carnage now rushing through the

tavern, when he felt it deflect of something on his head. Karx reached up, and yelped when he felt

something rough and stick-like between his hands.

Horns.

His voice began to shrink, and the world started to grow as the foot deep-- ankle-deep-- knee-deep tide of

semen poured out around him. His manhood, imbued with a more draconic nature, felt heavy as the air

became chocked with a strange, and foreign scent-- pheromones, but somehow more inviting.

Karx still had to leave: this was not the first time in his adventures he'd been changed into something else,

and he hoped that if he could get outside, perhaps a passing magus could undo his change. He fumbled

through waist-deep flows, passing other panicking guests who were succumbing to their rapid, kobold-a-

fication. Some were collapsed, cumming their brains out as they bathed in the overflow of jizz, and others

so pregnant with eggs that their bodies were more circular than anything else.

As he neared the stairs towards the upper floors, wanting only to get out of the flow for a few seconds, he

felt the whole of Brechen's Fire shake with a sky-breaking roar.

There was a rumble-- a boom, almost, like a cannon whose blast refused to subside-- and what followed

was like nothing he'd ever seen before.

A wave of white ripped through the halls from above, crashing over and through the banister rails, only to

explode down the steps in an umbrella-like cascade. The smell hit only milliseconds before the tide: an

intoxicating aroma made entirely of pure, draconic manliness.

Perhaps it was the fact that that Karx had seen his fair shares of dragons in heat, or perhaps it was because

of the absolute viscosity of the cum. It might have been the rush of watching an entire tavern filled with

dozens of people turn suddenly into tiny, squawking, mini-dragons, but, in actuality, no matter how hard

Karx would like to avoid admitting-- the smell was familiar because of what he'd become.

His kobold existence would be total, and as the wave washed over him, filling the tavern floor from

bottom to top in dough-thick cumslide, he could not help but feel-- feel beyond all rational thought-- that

this was precisely where he wanted to be.

There was a terrible tremble from the heart of Ostesbren, and many were naturally confused. The

thunderous boom did not come from a storm, or even some sort of military disturbance. The day was

sunny, clear, and cloudless, and yet, there was a crash like that of a great meteor striking the land.

Eyes followed the noise, hearing it and feeling it echo outwards from its source. Windows shook, and

unextinguished lamp lights were blown out before curious faces emerged from their homes.

Only those within seeing distance of the Brechen's Fire would be able to tell what was going on, for the

building was bulging, creaking, crashing as something inside fought against its pillars and walls. The

multi-story inn belched enormous tides of white, through side-doors and windows in streaming, bubbling

torrents. The front doors had been blown well off their hinges, and the road around the inn was now

flooding with a waist-high tide of thick, muddy goop.

The panic started once people started changing: scales and tails were gifted to every person who was

simply splashed with the semen-scented liquid, and none who touched it were spared. Brutes and beggars

alike were turned into short, dragon-like creatures, and those unfortunate enough to be submerged in it

had it worst of all. Eggs-- eggs by the thousands began to form inside them, and the moans each lay

wrought were hard to discern. To the fleeing man, pleasure and pain could be easily confused, and when

the tide at your ankles was being supported by hundreds of eggs tumbling over each other, it would be

even harder to tell the pleasured cries from one's own.

It spread from street to street, alley to alley, and quickly-- even houses adjacent were overflowing: filled

to the ceiling with fresh, dragon kin, or bloated shapes stuffed to the point that all that escaped their

windows and doors were walls of inflated, scaly tummy.

As more people turned, the volume of liquid inside the inn grew.

Like a kettle set over the fire, more and more windows began to exhale that alabaster slime. Too much to

contain, windows and portals higher and higher up the enormous structure began to pop and explode

outwards with its contents, and the entire structure heaved outwards; bulging out in one, large circle, as

the volumes within pushed outwards.

The only windows that were not turned into white, cum jets, were those about the front: instead, a wall of

scales pushed outwards, pulsing, beating, thrumming with its contents. Wood-log pillars divided its

shape; held it back with jail-bar-like effect as it tried to break free, but it was clear that it would not hold.

Shingled strips of roof became pumping, blasting geysers, and chimney tops spewed streaks of hot spooge

instead of smoke. The cobble segments of the inn leaked and sputtered, as the planks of wood that held it

all together, burst and cracked.

Whatever was inside would not be contained for long, as something inside pushed up against its roof.

There was a clatter as a gleaming, amber surface broke through the top: horns of a most elegant design.

That structural failure was not meant to last, for as soon as the horns of this creature broke free, the inn

erupted outwards in one, loud, boom.

A dragon was inside-- released from its cummy prison, and from its cage, flowed a tidal wave of pregnant

kobolds, stuffed and expanding with the creature's goo. The black scaled beast was on its back, wrestling

with a member so large, it overwhelmed its quadrupedal shape and crashed into several houses just

beyond the inn. Its balls too could not be contained by the street, and the shapes-- as large as manor

properties, swallowed city blocks each as they met the open air.

The jet of cum that flew from the dragon's cock flew several miles clean through wood and stone,

spreading the transformation to thousands of others who were otherwise unaware.

Where streets ran white, they'd soon be replaced with kobold belly, and eggs as high as the rooftops.

Entire squares were swallowed by large, white eggs, and deep wells below the city were now nothing but

reserves for this black-and-orange tyrant's viscus, potent spoo.

It roared and flailed; used all its body in pleasuring its knotted, throbbing mass, whose size always

seemed greater-- was growing greater-- than its owner even as it stretched its mass across the city.

Buildings toppled like blades of grass under its expanding cumtanks, and with equal ease, towers were

levelled by the even gentlest brushes of its cocks many barbs.

The growing creature, whose horizon darkening nuts spewed lakes of cum across the walled city, was

flooding the entire capitol to overflow. The castle on the hill would become the only dry spot in a matter

of minutes, as a mile-huge dragon pumped from its cock a bottomless deluge of cloud-making, brood-

spawning jizz. So powerful was each cumshot, that were it not for the fact that some segments of the

enormous city were completely buried in his mud-like clutch-custard, the walls that contained it would

have been powderized on contact. Instead, the collision sent sprays of ivory shooting into the countryside.

The gates struggled to vent the flow, and some fully collapsed under the landslide of eggs, kobolds, and

dragon cum.

The castle would fall as the musky steam invaded its windows, converting the city's few remaining hold

outs into egg-laying, horny draco, and it would erupt in a cascade of kin just in time to meet its father.

Bliss was all that Azmir knew as he rubbed his member dry. Such strength; such power; such virility

contained in him-- it was just so much that even if he stopped jerking off his massive manhood, he would

erupt without even moving a finger.

His tail thrashed over flooded neighborhoods, churning up his almost solid cumloads as lakes more of his

spunk was added to the mire. His knotty, draconic bulb was fattened to the max as he climaxed: wide

enough to hilt the land itself and part the hills in two. It beat and pulsed with every minute-spanning

cumblast, as did the dragon's surging veins, which pounded with his lust-driven ichor.

His eyes rolled back and his tongue lolled as another mile-spanning cumshot lanced through the air,

landing in some distant province, no doubt impregnating millions of would-be subjects upon impact-- a

cumshot that was followed by thousands more, with millions yet to spray.

“More," Azmir demanded-- demanded as the world around him was smothered under his trove of

pregnant, expanding kobold mistresses. “More!!" he said again as his testes overwhelmed Ostesbren's

towering walls. “More--!!" he pleaded, begged, cried out to the gods above as his missile-like eruptions

exploded over sky-parting hills, sending waves of white miles up past their peaks.

The sky would part, as a scaly midnight moon rose high over one horizon, while in the other, a bestial

sight would split the sky in two. Where towns once were, hills as grand as any mighty mountain were

thrust up towards the heavens: filled with eggs and expanding exponentially as a tide of white ripped

across the known world. Mighty forests were flattened under their weight, while clouds dissipated under

the heat of an entire realm's orgasmic bliss. The smell of a million-soul orgy unstoppable replaced even

the most distant of forests' piny scent, and soon, even the oceans flood and turn white.

Azmir would not stop until his transformation was complete: a transformation into draconic godhood.

The world trembled. First, they would see darkness, and then, they'd see the white.

And soon, even the night would not be safe.

By the time the rush of it had slowed, the entire continent had changed. There was not much of it left, to

say the least. Azmir, now more sex than anything, as his nuts alone dwarfed the planet, and his cock

swelled well beyond the clouds. He lay sleeping upon his creation: literal moons of pregnant kin,

numbering in the millions, whose trove of eggs were beyond numerals and speculation.

The kingdoms underneath his back were but specs against his scales, and their tiny kobold inhabitants

would have to relocate to somewhere more stable... Like upon Azmir's insatiable manhood, for example,

where milking their overlord was the only reasonable thing to do to while away the orgies and hours.

Of course, even as a dragon sleeps, his mission is never done. The realm itself-- that is to say, the entirety

of existence had yet to be conquered.

The planet itself was lorded over, coated in a mile-deep glaze of white, and covered in pregnant bumps

greater than anyone world could hope to sustain, but it would soon prove too small for a single creature to

be satisfied with.

Indeed, only a draco such as Azmir could reach beyond the stars, and at the rate, his dragonhood was

growing, it wouldn't be long until a new realm would meet their new, ever-potent dragon king. Such is the

curse of victory: When one beats a god, one can only be expected to become one.