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To say that the place was a dive would be an insult to generations of dives. If the place had once had standards they had long since slunk away in shame, leaving behind what it was and, probably, always had been, deep down, a watering-hole for every person who wanted something, no questions asked, no excuses expected. A sign, long since defaced by wind and weather, swung lazily over the door in the evening breeze and through the cracks around the door came the sound of revelry, carousing, shouting and general good times being had by people desperate to have them. The rest of the town was little better than the alehouse, a collection of several dozen cottages clustered around a crossroads and a bridge over a minor river, one or two a little larger or in better condition, with a church at one end of the main road and a single three-storey stone building set back a few yards from the muddy roadway at the other. A few small shops, windows long since shuttered for the night, offered the usual kinds of supplies, from meat to produce, from lamp oil to nights with 'virgin' daughters.

The evening's entertainment had just reached the third verse of "What Shall We Do with the Drunken Nurker?" when the door flew back on its hinges and slammed against the wall. All noise stopped on the instant and all heads (even those that were otherwise engaged) turned to see what was going on. The heads that had swivelled around so promptly then turned steadily back, following the graceful parabola of another head that was flying across the open bar space, rotating mildly on two axes as it flew, the expression of surprise on its face having doubtless precious little to do with its current circumstances. With a loud thud the head bounced on a table, caromed off a couple of tankards and landed in the lap of the local eremite and taxidermist (part-time), who, despite his hobby, promptly vomited.

For those who looked back at the door, there was a sight out of one of the lesser pits of Hell awaited them. Silhouetted by the light of the watchfire was a tall, broad figure, which, as it advanced into the room, heavy armoured boots stomping on the old boards and raising dust of ages, revealed it to be almost seven feet tall, covered from head to foot in overlapping plated armour that concealed every part of its body except for the golden eyes that seemed to glow behind the visor. On its back was strapped a long polearm whose blade shimmered with an aethereal light but neither overhung nor trailed on the ground. The plates were covered with gore and ichors in several clashing shades of red and green, mixed with dried mud and what looked - and smelled - like shit; not just any kind of shit, either, but the special kind of shit that only certain people encounter when they go looking for it and are not disappointed.

The figure stamped its way across the room to the bar. "I want your best room, your best bath, your best meal and your best drink. In that order, and right now." Its tone was deep and gruff, with a strange growling hitch on one or two consonants and a sibillant hiss on one in particular. It didn't move, just standing, looking down at the barkeep who stared back up at the monstrosity's visored face and tried not to piss himself.

"Uh... we... you... uh... a room?"

"A room." The visor gave the voice a slightly echoic quality and stripped some of the upper range from it. "Your best room. Your best bath. Your best meal. Your best drink. Right now." Through the breathing-slits in the faceplate the barman saw two thin lips curve upwards to reveal bright, sharp fangs behind. "Or do I have to boot your head, too, to get your attention?"

"N-n-no, sir! No, sir! A room, a bath, a meal and drink... the best in the house, coming right up! This way, sir!" Stammering obsequies, the barkeep led the figure through a door at the back of the public room into a corridor, up some stairs, down another hallway and through a door into a room of surprising luxury. The four-poster bed was made with clean linens, there were curtains at the window and general furniture around, and the floor was within three degrees of level. "Will... will this do, sir?"

The helmet looked left, then right. The two thick arms reached up and released two invisible fastenings on the mask, letting the faceplate fall free from the casque. The barkeep fought for control of his bladder a second time as the pointed face of a gold dragonborn was revealed, crest jutting proudly from behind the broad skull. The eyes which he had only glimpsed before were fully upon him now, giving him the kind of look the eremite gave to a boy he suspected of fucking his sister. The barkeep swallowed as the dragonborn took a couple of steps into and around the room, considering. "It will." The points of its tongue flickered over its lips as it spoke. "Now get me my bath, and fuck off."

"Yes, sir! Your bath, sir! Right away, sir!" A scant minute later the barkeep and his eldest son manhandled a large copper bath, evidently made out of a mash tun (whose provenance, even now, remains a mystery), into the centre of the room. The dragonborn stood with his back to them, standing on the small balcony outside the main window. "I'll have it full for you in a few minutes, sir," offered the barkeep, but answer came there none, so he just hurried downstairs to chivvy the maids (his daughters) into getting the water heated and up to the guest room. So anxious was he to get things done that the bath was half-full in a scant quarter of an hour, the water still more than hot enough for an extended bathe.

The warrior had watched the goings-on with a jaundiced, cynical eye. When there was enough water to cover him to his hips he had begun to remove his clothing, taking off the bloodied and beshitted armour piece by piece and laying it carefully down on the floor next to the long-handled axe that continued to glow. Once disarmoured he slipped the chainmail over his head, then the leather jerkin and britches and, finally, just as the elder daughter entered the room with another jug of water, the linen undershirt and drawers.

"Sorry, sir!" she said, gasping and turning away but not before she had seen -- well, everything. Because he had made sure that she would. Grinning to himself he stepped lightly across the room and almost unsplashingly into the bath. The water came to just above his hips... perfect. The handle of his gouge was just within easy reach... perfect. And she, as she stepped over to pour more water into the bath, was... well, she was human. But he could live with that. The golden eyes in that pointed head twinkled as he saw her trying not to look yet again and despite herself looking. He was a sight, after all: almost seven feet of strong, muscular, bipedal, anthropomorphic dragon, tail curled easily around his hips as he sat in the bath. Her tits juggled a little as she bent over, and despite the discrepancy in species he felt his loins tighten and his sheath begin to swell. It had been a long time, after all. As she scurried away with promises of more hot water, he lay back and began to relax.

He was sprawled back in the bath when she returned, ewer in hand. "Shut the door," he growled, eyes lidded heavily.

"Sir, I --"

"'Shut the door,' I said, wench."

Blushing, she complied, kicking it closed with an ankle. The latch snapped into place in the tongue with a rattle. "I have the last of your water, sir, I -- oh!"

The dragon grinned up at her as she stood and stared at the sight before her. Ten inches of thick, black cock jutted out over the water, dripping lightly onto the golden scaled belly of the beast. Water sloshed a little as he moved, causing the length to bob and twitch. "Come here, girl."

"I - I need to be going..." stammered the flushed-face girl, pouring water heedlessly in the general direction of the tub and the male - very male - dragonish creature occupying it. The stream splashed down his front, coursed down and bifurcated around that impressive shaft. He growled a little, deep and satisfied.

"I said, come here, girl..." The dragon creature moved slowly, muscles rippling beneath the scaled hide. Slowly he stood, and the girl found she couldn't look away from that mass of male body; eyes drawn to the sheer confidence and charisma he exuded, she watched him as he stepped out of the bath and placed two strong, four-taloned feet on the ground. "Do you have a name, girl?"

"Uh... uh... Elanor, sir..."

"Mmm. Elanor. Kneel down, Elanor."

"But --"

"Kneel. Down."

Elanor's knees slowly bent, and the shaft rose in her view. It was long, black and glabrous, the head pointed and the shaft tapered towards where it emerged from the sheath. Without realising she found herself panting slightly, her flush everything to do, she repeated to herself, with her proximity to the hot bath. And then without warning the dragon stepped forward, reached down with one scaly hand to hold her head and slipped the glans between her parted lips.

A low growl came from somewhere above her as she closed her eyes and began to suck on what she could of that length. The head she could manage, and some of the shaft behind, but it was so long and thickened steadily, forcing her jaw wide when he began to rock his hips and fuck her face with it. Elanor reached up, ewer forgotten, and wrapped her hands as best she could around the large dick that was invading her mouth and squeezed, to be rewarded by another growl from the lustful male in front of her. More and more thick precum drooled from its tip, musky, sweet, salty and almost as hot as the water she had been carrying. Another hand gripped her head; a moment later the dragon began to thrust firmly and in earnest into her mouth, fucking her face steadily, banging the tip against the back of her mouth, making her jaw ache with what it was required to accommodate. His growls became snarls, hitches of pleasure and satisfaction that increased in pace as his thrusts became faster. Against her own will she could feel her body responding to this beast's bestial treatment of her, warmth spreading down through her to her loins, dampness beginning to seep.

He snarled, low and deep at the back of his throat, and pulled his cock free. For a moment she knelt, looking up at him looking down at her with those cold, golden eyes, and then he was kneeling in front of her, pushing her forcefully onto her back and lifting her dress. Elanor couldn't help herself, in another second he was on her and his thick cock's pointed tip found her slit and shoved in. He didn't wait for her to become used to the size but merely started to ride her, braced on hands either side of her shoulders as her legs were akimbo his hips. A line of drool trailed from his lolling tongue onto her cheek, an obscene kiss, but somehow it didn't seem to matter, the warm slickness of it made her feel even more aroused. His tail waved steadily with each of his deep, rhythmic thrusts, the thickness of his dick hitting every part of her insides with each movement, stroking, caressing, encouraging, pushing her on and on. Even though he seemed to have been close to orgasm moments ago, he seemed to show no sign of it now.

The dragonborn's tongue lolled from his muzzle, but he didn't care: this was no high-born dragoness, no elegant courtesan from home. Though, in his belief, some of the females from his home city should be fucked like this, it might give them a proper appreciation for sex. No, she was just a serving-girl, and not even his own species, the body not strong enough to take all the force of his thrusts or deep enough to accept all his length. Still, she was better than nothing, definitely, even though her snatch could take only three-quarters of his erection, which meant that his orgasm was, for now, postponed. It was both delightful and frustrating, satisfying and irritating, but his body was at least having some pleasure, and it was worth it. He fucked steadily, shoving his hips in and drawing them out, in and out, black draconic dick moving against the slick walls of the girl's pussy.

Elanor had never had a male like this: her experience of sex was quick fumbles with horny adolescents in the back of a hayloft, with human males whose cocks, when they managed to get inside her, were smaller and not nearly as hard or as deeply penetrating. The regular shoves into her were bringing on wave after wave of pleasure that stacked up on each other again and again and again, more and more and more as she reached out, grabbed the creature's shoulders and cried out in orgasm. Her cunt splashed wetness down his length and across the threadbare carepet, and still he kept fucking her, pounding in again and again, and the pleasure began to build again as he leaned back, turning her to take her from behind, covering her like a stallion taken to a mare. His hot breath panted down the back of her neck and over her shoulders and it felt as though he was going deeper still, that hard prick filling her again and again, more and more, and her arms shuddered and gave way as another orgasm ripped through her.

His own orgasm was approaching now, there was nothing he could do about it, nor wanted to. As Elanor clenched around him for the fifth time and she finally cried out, gasping, panting, squealing with delight, he let himself go. The tingle in the back of his mind set the fuse for his limbic system and, at last, he started to fuck her as close as he thought she could stand to the way one dragon fucks another: hard, hard and fast and deep, without thought, without concern, without propriety, without restraint. His length slammed into her with increasingly violent bucks of his hips, his tail a-wave behind him. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven more thrusts, each harder than the one before, more desperate, and finally it happened, he pulled out, grabbed her tightly and pulled her in to him as he shoved home and bare her bodily to the floor as his orgasm hit and he tipped up his head to roar in triumph. Hot, thick jism flooded from him into her in long pulses and splattered out onto the carpet in a backwash of lust, his long-unsated balls finally emptying.

A moment or two after the last of his cum had dribbled into her he eased his cock free with a sticky splortch, stood with a touch of slow care and looked down at the girl as she lay on the floor and tried to lift herself in turn, and failed. Another grin lit his muzzle as he got back into his bath, cool now, and eased back with a sigh. Light tremors of pleasure ran through him as he wiped himself clean of their mixed fluids before he cocked his head over at her. "Elanor... Girl. This water is almost cold. Get more." The grin widened as he watched her stumble around the floor on all fours, dress still hiked high and giving a perfect view of her well-fucked snatch, grabbing at the ewer and almost tumbling to one side as she lifted a hand from the floor. At last she got a good hold and crawled over to the door, grabbed at it and climbed unsteadily to her feet. The latch rattled and she was gone.

Some time later, after a prolonged bath and a good repast that left him feeling well-fed and mellow, he stood once more on the balcony and stared out across the houses that made up the bucolic little shanty where he had found lodging. The sound of carousing downstairs had increased, and if he wasn't much mistaken the fights were due to start in the next few minutes. Naked as the day he hatched he yawned wide, head tipping up towards the quarter-moon and arched his back and tail in a profoundly gratifying stretch, then stepped one foot away from the other into a nice steady stance, glanced down at the muddy road below and then looked back across the rooftops. The sound of water dripping into mud quickly became that of a stream splashing into a puddle, piss arcing out from his up-pointed sheath in a heavy stream that broke as it fell to spatter across several feet of the road below. "Aaahhh," he breathed, uncaring of who saw or whoever might exit the tavern and be caught in his spray. His bladder voided in a steady, smooth clench that brought soft waves of pleasure lapping through his body: it had been weeks since he had been able to release without worrying who - or what - might be watching or listening. Pissing in the wilderness is not a matter of pleasure. But here, now, all the many quarts of ale and metheglyn he had consumed could pour out of him, out into the half-dark hovel street, and he could enjoy it. Eventually the stream trailed back towards his feet, spattering on the edge of the balcony and dripping down, and with a soft grunt he forced out the last, shook himself off and went back into the room, closing the door behind him.

He looked around the room carefully, checking everything was in place. The bath, cool now, stood near the window next to the table that bore the remnants of his meal. His armour was downstairs, being washed by a boy with threats of violence and promises of money for work well done. And there, by the bed, his long axe; a couple of steps brought him to the bedside, and he slipped his hand under the pillow -- yes, his holdout weapon, another axe, was there, as was his money pouch. After another glance around he drew back the covers and eased himself into one side of the bed, careful not to tear anything, not out of consideration to his host but because torn bedding is uncomfortable.

Years of combat experience had made it easy for him to sleep almost anywhere and to fall asleep in moments, so he when he did not, he knew something was wrong. Beside him the slender, lovely body reclined in gentle repose, worn out from work and a good fucking, and snored quietly, breath coming in easy draws. Something wasn't right, something wasn't in place; the dragon could not place what it was but something was definitely amiss. With a soft grunt of frustration he settled down once more and tried to court sleep to come.

Outside the unshuttered window, a small figure squatted on the balcony, peering through the casement. It watched the large dragonborn sit up and look around the room, turning its head about as though questing for something, and then lie it back down. The figure crouched patiently, not even the twitch of its slender tail betraying any anxiety. Only after a number of minutes had passed did two small foreclaws reach for the hinges with a small bottle and apply oil to the rusty hinges before rubbing it into the metal. More minutes passed before it moved again, this time to reach between the casements with a long thin blade, snag the latch and slowly, silently, ease it up. Presently the catch was free and one claw grasped the free side and eased it open for the figure to slip liquidly, darkly, into the room beyond.

Silently the tiny figure crept around the room, head sweeping from side to side. Occasional stray moonbeams glittered on two bright eyes deep in the back of a cowl from which peeped a slender, pointed face. Finally, after several more minutes of exploration, the little figure reached the side of the bed where the large dragon warrior lay. It rested there for just a few seconds as eyes darted about and then reached with delicate expertise for the pillow.

"GLURK!" said the figure a moment later as a single massive hand reached out without warning to grab it by the throat and lift it bodily from the floor. Petite three-taloned hindclaws scrabbled madly at empty air as its foreclaws clamped around the lifting arm. Two pairs of eyes, one fear-struck, the other angry, regarded each other at a distance of not quite three feet.

"A little sneak thief... I knew something was wrong," the dragonborn growled, low at the back of his throat. Behind him, on the other side of the bed, the figure stirred a little, groaned wearily and settled back down. "And I was right. What's your name? Who do you work for? Who told you I was here?"

The figures thrashing caused its cowl to fall back, exposing the slender face of a frankly terrified kobold. "Glrrk... gkkk... kkkr... krr... Kiirak!" it squeaked, high-pitched and swift. "And... nobody! Don't work for nobody! Don't even know who you is! Kosha! Kosha, I swears!"

"So you really don't know who I am?"

"Not... glrrk! Not a clue! Kosha, swears!"

The bed creaked as the dragonborn leaned over, bringing his muzzletip close to the kobolds. He inhaled, nostrils going wide, taking in its - ah, her - scent. "Does the name Issthkaor mean anything to you, little thief?"

"Issthkaor?" Kiirak shook her head, or maybe just thrashed a little more. "Never heard o' ya! I swears, I never heard o' ya!"

"Oh? You've never heard of Issthkaor, son of Qenetzaraon?... High Protector of Mirliva?..." His eyes narrowed still further. "Issthkaor of Calufrax?..."

Kiirak's eyes went as wide as Issthkaor's had narrowed. "Issthkaor of Calufrax!?... You're... you're him?!" Her legs kicked frantically as she wriggled, trying to get away, but the grip held tight.

"That's right, little kobold thief. I'm Issthkaor of Calufrax. And you just tried to steal from me." The muscles in his fist bulged slightly as his grip tightened once again. "That doesn't please me, you know. I feel quite insulted. Not only do I have my room invaded by a thief, but a bad one at that."

"Not -- not a bad one! GAACK! Grrrk! Just -- just -- tonight -- an unlucky one! Ghrrrk!"

There was a pause, and a moment later Issthkaor's lips lifted in a grin and his eyes glowed briefly with genuine humour. "Yes, you are... unlucky. Because now you owe me, Kiirak. You owe me for this insult. So how about I propose a trade: I let you live, and you pay off the insult."

"How?!" Kiirak's voice squeaked again. She could smell the reek of the dragon's lust still lingering in the room, and tried not to imagine --

"Well, you're a little small to fuck... How about you be my servant for a while? A talented thief is rare, and useful where I'm likely to be going."

"Do I.... do I got a choice?"

Issthkaor smiled, but this time without humour. "Of course you do, little thief; of course you do."

Kiirak stared at the huge muzzle bare inches from her own. Issthkaor's breath, sweet with herbs and ale, fruit and honey, washed over her face. "I... Okay. Okay, sire." Issthkaor continued to regard her steadily, unblinking eyes looking into her own for many long seconds. She sighed. "Kosha, I swears... Yes, I work for you now, sire, kosha! kosha!

"... you can put me down now?"

Slowly and deliberately, Issthkaor bent his arm from the shoulder and allowed Kiirak back onto the solidity of the floor. Trembling, swallowing past her bruised throat, she tried to gather her wits and check if she had lost any of her equipment. The bed creaked as the large drake swung himself free before striding to the door and bellowing for the innkeeper in a battlefield voice. Less than a minute later the terrified man was nodding, shaking, relieved that it was no crisis more complex than a dragonborn warrior requiring another room for a mysterious colleague... a room, a bath, food and drink. "Now."

"Of course, sir dragon sir! Right this instant!" The human flopped away in his nightshirt.

Issthkaor eyed Kiirak thoughtfully as the little kobold grinned up at him. "Kiirak," he rumbled, "you had better be here in the morning."

She nodded, still grinning. "Kosha," she said and scampered away, tail streaming, towards her own room.

Issthkaor went back into his own room and closed the door. Too wakeful for sleep, he went back to bed and leaned over the figure in his bed, muzzletip close to the exposed ear. "I'd put that back if I were you," he breathed.

Shocked, the figure rolled onto its back, revealing a fistful of gold coins glinting in the moonlight held in the grasp of an open-eyed, open-jawed young man. "Nothing gets by you, does it?"

The dragonborn's talons removed the coins with fastidious dexterity and set them on the table at the side. "No. That's why I'm still alive." One hand went under the sheet, dipped low, grabbed; the boy's eyes went wider still for quite another reason. Issthkaor felt his sheath swelling again, barely less urgently than before. "Mmm... Now then, be a good boy and say, 'Master.'" Scaled fingers squeezed and tugged.

"Master!"

"I can't hear you, boy." More of Issthkaor's black length was spilling out now, swelling with each heartbeat. He leaned further over, down, and licked a nipple before pushing the bedclothes down with his tail.

"Master!"

"I still can't hear you." Rolling atop the youth, he felt his cock slide down between slender, hairy legs, its natural upward-pointing form easily finding its way towards its target.

"Master! Master, I -- nnngh! _MASTER! MASTER! _"

"Hnh... heh." The bed began to creak. "Now there's a good boy."

"Master!... Master!... Ohhhh, ohhhh -- ooohhhh, MASTER!"

"Good boy."