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Save Point: A Beautiful Spring Day On The Ice

Somewhere Beneath The Arctic Ocean

The Dragon is walking across the underside of the arctic sea ice.

If it needed to breathe, there would be trouble, but by opening the ventral collimation slits across the front surface of its body, it can easily set up a number of reactions with the seawater that yield acceptable energistic outputs. The parts of its physiology that maintain local compatibility with the macroscopic environment are satisfied by the exchange and do not complain. It could bypass these limitations entirely, but the other limitations of sanity apply. Occasional bubbles trickle out of its mouth, shimmering out of sight sideways along the ice until they find an opening and escape into the chill.

It is just before sunset, and the water is actually slightly less than freezing, but the eyes of the Dragon see the water as a beautiful deepness of glowing lambent blue, and its skin, resilient like leather and impervious, detects the currents as pleasantly warm breezes. This of all places most reminds the the Dragon of its ancient home, a beautiful spring day in the abyssal embrace of the gravitational tides. Snow falls upward from the bottom of the arctic sea, barely defined granular water that has just started to turn to ice, rising to join the thin cracked layers above that have only just recently thickened enough to take the Dragons buoyancy and allow it to go water-walking.

Monstrous arctic toothfish circle about in the depths, larger than the Dragon itself, huge and covered in ancient layers of gnarled accretions and armoured scales. The Dragon finds them almost unbearably cute, as the warm snow falls on its hide like spring rain. They flick their gills at it and it flicks back, attempting to make friends. The toothfish are suitably disdainful and are not particularly impressed, swimming outward in larger circles to maintain their distance. The Dragon has not thought to bring any food to bribe them with, and so it is unlikely any of them will veer close enough to allow themselves to be stroked and their scaly hides scratched.

Although the view is beautiful, the Dragon concludes regretfully that it will probably have to breathe again sometime in the next half hour, and so it sets out for home again, strolling across the ice on all fours with a flick of its twofold tail, which is after all much better adapted for spatial media denser than air. The high conductivity of the metal rings pierced through its ears and tail is the only reminder that it is in fact slithering through an environment of deadly cold and ice, the rings through its nipples making them hard and stiff. The slit between its legs is variably dilated, allowing the water entering through the ventral slits to be expelled by magnetic hydromancy and gracing it with a certain maneuverability as it claw-leaps its way across the slick waterscape.

The Dragon comes at last to a convex uprising swell of metal, into the centre of which is set a circular well that descends upward into the ice, watertight bulkheads retracted almost beyond the radius of the circle, marked with abraded painted stripes of black and yellow. This is the hatch upwards into the moon pool of the Niche Maru, a converted former arctic fishing trawler turned science and research vessel. The current captain and still owner is a just as formerly north Korean mariner who had the good sense to get out whilst outside territorial waters, and who speaks any number of necessary languages in a manner that is purely practical. Thus the deliberately ironic name of the ship, which seems to mean something different in every language depending upon just how you spell or pronounce it.

"All boats are called something Maru, and this one has a niche in every language," is how the captain put it over shots when Cleo was talking to him in a water front bar, trying to persuade him that they would essentially like to borrow his ship whilst it was still at sea, using the scheduled interval between different research projects to cover their own little underwater exercise. "And of course we have our own moon pool, which creates a unique sort of niche in the hull. We used to catch toothfish from inside the ship with a long line, which saves you the trouble of hauling them up over the edge, and keeps everyone else from knowing whether or not any unreasonable local fishing quotas have been exceeded. That of course was before I became wealthy and was able to persuade several relevant groups it would be better to refit her out as a research vessel."

Significant things were not being said by both parties during this conversation. The captain made a point of not asking exactly what Cleo was intending to do, suspecting perhaps that it was some sort of covert or military activity. Cleo made a point of not asking just how a former north Korean sailor had gotten rich enough to own his own research vessel, suspecting that perhaps it was through just such covert or military activities. Once a suitable rate of exchange in terms of cash for ignorance had been established, a grand total of three people found themselves with exclusive access to a state of the art research vessel in the arctic sea for almost two entire days.

The Dragon climbs out of the icy water on the expected aluminium ladder, the rungs of which are widely spaced where it would normally be descended by divers wearing up to and including full body hard suits comprised of interlocking plates. It pauses halfway up to vent all excess water out of its chest cavity, releasing a brief burst of white blazing light through the apertures to instantly turn any remaining seawater to steam, before the ventral slits lock back into place and seal themselves closed. Stray radiation from the burst has dried out stripes like shadows across the floor and roof of the moon pool, but the effect is not immediately noticeable and the surfaces will be damp again soon, the steam dissipating rapidly in the cold.

Suitably lightened by around twelve kilograms of water, the Dragon shakes itself dry like a wild creature, droplets spraying especially from the rings of its ears, and decides to be a Dragon for a little bit longer, just enough to visit Cleo and say what it has found. It is confident that it can avoid the few remaining researchers and all the members of the fixed crew with any number of bizarre techniques from its bag of tricks. And should it get caught, well, that just adds to the fun.

Cleo is up on the external top deck, looking out over the rail at the sort of bright, high latitude sunset that never actually quite seems to finish. For their arctic expedition she has adopted a different sort of look, hair dyed deep brown and snarled caught-up crazily around her ears, fixed into seemingly random plaits that hang low over her collar, some of which are held with silver clasps or braided with small symbol-charms and pieces of silver wire. She looks sort of like an Alaskan sled dog or its dirty arctic fox girlfriend, complete with all the yiff. She is wearing white designer thermal gear which resembles some sort of very lightweight spacesuit, made all in one piece to closely fit the curve of her body and the shape of her haunches, with a high collar built into a sort of reinforced kevlar tabard to protect her chest and keep her muzzle warm. Detachable carrying pockets and holsters are velcro'd and strapped about her outer thighs on both sides, and additional kevlar plates are incorporated into the forearms and shin-guards of the suit, where it laces into the matching gloves and boots.

As an expensive designer foible, it neatly distracts attention from its underlying purpose, which is to allow her to disappear easily into the snow and ice whilst providing both high mobility and a moderate level of impact resistance. Once some snow had collected on her hair, you'd never see her coming, unless of course she was getting off.

The Dragon slides up behind Cleo and introduces itself by rubbing the length of its black steely cock along the inside of her inner thigh, where a triangular overlap of the thermal suit is held over her crotch only by double-duty velcro, and can be pulled all the way back to allow her to relieve herself into, or wipe herself clean with, fresh snow. Cleo looks down, says nothing, only unfastens the flap to reveal her bare little pussykin and no panties, then grasps the rail firmly with both hands and stands a little further apart.

The Dragon is cold_._She shivers as it slowly forces its burningly chilled cock up inside of her, and stretches her out wide in the process. When she involuntarily clenches her hips, the Dragon flicks the back of its claws painfully across the left side of her ass, and her instinctive flinch allows it to slide all the way in, pressing insistently up against her insides. She looks about and still there's no-one watching, so she'll have no excuse to take this inside. Cleo realises that it is up to her to take charge of this fuck, to make it good for both of them. "I'm going to warm you up," she tells the Dragon in a slurred but passionate growl.

Flexing her haunches is hard at first, but soon they both start to warm up, the Dragon from the friction of Cleos pussy clenched tightly around its cock, Cleo from the refreshing painfulness of this cold penetration and the warm juices it spurs from her. Her urgency becomes greater and she starts to feel desperate to come, but there is no way the Dragon will let her off unless it's mutual. She tries harder, and the Dragon curls around her, seeking warmth and comfort in the curve of her breasts against its muzzle and the exposed skin between her legs, pressing itself up against every part of her body it can reach.

Suddenly, a hot wetness blossoms deep inside her in a painful rush, and the Dragon strokes her belly, and she comes herself senseless against a suddenly flexible cock that is no longer cold. "That was good," she purrs incoherently, rubbing herself backwards up against the Dragon like a house cat. "Stay in me for a while."

They stay curled up together for a minute or two until the afterglow fades, then the Dragon retracts its cock back into its sheath and Cleo wipes incandescently white come that reeks of the sea off both of them. She licks what she can off her fingers and cleans up the rest with her cleaning cloth. More is still trickling out from inside her, but she pulls the folds of her thermal suit back forward into place anyway. "A souvenir of you," she suggests. "The wetness between my legs will keep me hot for hours. Honestly," she demands, draping her arms around the back of the Dragons neck and looking into its black gold serpent eyes, "I don't know why you always have to make fucking you such a challenge."

The Dragon takes her in a six-inch kiss of intertwined tongues, and she realises as always that she loves the challenge, and the difficulty, and the pain, and that she would do in fact literally anything for it.

"Now tell me what you saw," she insists, trying to clear her mind, as soon as her tongue is free.