A Warrior's Respite

Story by Gruffy on SoFurry

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A Warrior's Respite


Oh my, a rare foray into fan fiction from me, and I do hope that this will pique your interest in sufficient ways to attract some attention...do tell me how you liked it! *smiles*

Live long and prosper!


Federation Starbase Deep Space 9

Bajoran Sector

Stardate 51825.4 (2374 CE)


"DISTANCE TO TARGET!" boomed Captain The'leth of the Imperial Attack Cruiser Marash, his voice deep and echoing throughout the dimly lit bridge.

"10,000 KELLICAMS AND CLOSING!" came the reply from the Tactical position of the bridge, as prominent as any on a ship that was exclusively built for war.

The occupants of the bridge eyed the subject on the viewscreen with suspicion. Its strange spindly shape, combined with the presence of starships of many alien designs was not the most reassuring sight for them, but at least they knew that they were in what for the moment was non-hostile territory.


One of the Klingons mulling about the bridge snapped into attention in his leathers and regarded the bearded, long-haired grizzled warrior occupying the throne-like command chair.

"CAPTAIN!" replied the officer, all-business.


"YES, CAPTAIN!" replied the officer, who gave a quick snarling look at a fellow officer manning another station on the back of the bridge. A hailing frequency was opened and the operator yelled a brief stream of Klingonese into subspace.

"ROMULAN P'TAHKS!" the First Officer hissed while he eyed the looming presence of a Romulan Warbird attached to one of the extensive pylons of the space station slowly growing larger upon their viewscreen. "EXPECT THEM TO STAB THE PUNY FEDERATION IN THE BACK THE MOMENT THEY SHOW ANY WEAKNESS!"

The Captain chortled, but did not seem too opposed to his First Officer's comment.


The comm officer gave his reply to Officer Bragh, who then took the honor of delivering it to the Captain himself.

"CAPTAIN!" yelled the mighty young warrior. "THEY ARE..."

He held a distasteful pause.

"WELCOMING...US TO USE THEIR STATION'S FACILITIES, CAPTAIN!" Officer Bragh finished his disposition.

"HELM! BEGIN DOCKING PROCEDURES!" the Captain waved his hand.

"YES, CAPTAIN!" came the brusque reply.

In a few moments, the vessel slid into position on one of the upper docking pylons of Deep Space 9 base, alongside the disruptor-scorched hull of a Federation Excelsior Class starship. With power umbilicals in place, the Klingon warship could finally power down for some essential reactor off-line maintenance. With little to do for the non-engineering crew besides to scrub the graviton plating on the decks, the Captain knew that the best way to avoid a total collapse of crew morale once the bloodwine began to flow was to outsource the ensuing brawls to the hands of someone else.


Two hours later, Lieutenant Bragh, the Assistant Gunnery Officer, had enjoyed a slice of bloodpie at a Klingon restaurant,, gotten into a staring competition with a Bolian, and received suspicion from not only two Romulans in their ridiculous checkered uniforms but a strange man wearing a security uniform and whose face looked like it had partially melted away. The so-called Promenade section served as the social and economical hub of the station but offered a few amusements for the Klingon not planning to do any particular shopping for food, trinkets, or new non-issue leather pants for cozy off-duty wearing. No, the only good thing he'd decided on so far was the fact that at least it was large enough that he could wander around without constantly running into drunken junior crewmen from his own crew. Bragh expected that at least some of them would have to be returned to the ship from the station's brig by the time their off-duty hour was over.

He wasn't really in the mood to be one of them, not that Lieutenant Bragh would've ever shied away from a good fight. All these humans in their pajamas-like uniforms seemed like soft targets, however. The Romulans had thicker skulls, but throwing a punch was not a particularly favored activity for the pointy-eared folk. They also liked playing dirty, and a dirty fight was excessively dishonorable.

Loud laughter and bursts of cheering and rhythmic beeping gave him a signal for another direction, however, to walk towards and establishment he could spot even far away when the number of drunkenly walking officers of various ranks and allegiances started to grow during his approach. The doors were open and the telltale clatter of gambling machines told as much as the sign that announced this place to be called the "Quark's Bar, Grill, Gaming House and Holosuite Arcade". The informative title brought a pleased scowl to the Klingon's face and encouraged him to walk past a myriad of Pakleds crowding the entrance and to elbow himself into the actual bar with determination.

The place was as busy as it sounded from the outside, and even more so, likely, considering the presence of several Klingons whose level of inebriation seemed to be quite close to them starting to break out in spontaneous choruses of one Klingon opera or another. They weren't from Marash, Bragh could tell as much. He hadn't seen other Klingon ships in the vicinity, but the station did have some standing Klingon personnel as well, to coordinate the refueling and resupply of Defence Force ships at the Federation station. The heavy smell of bloodwine in the air told him that their posting to the station had been accompanied by a copious supply of the beverage, and it flowed freely from behind a counter manned by a Ferengi wearing something extraordinarily loud. The presence of the strange big-eared race made the Klingon feel mild distaste, but considering the state of things in the galaxy at the moment, those pointy-teethed p'tahks were a minor nuisance. Besides, they seemed to be running this joint, too. An establishment solely dedicated to everything that was bad for you surely didn't fall under the jurisdiction of the humans that were in great populace even inside the bar.

Bragh sauntered his way through the floor and over to the bar where he lodged himself against the counter next to a huge, ponderous man whose face looked like the surface of Praxis after the polar energy station explosion. The Klingon slammed his leather-clad fist against the lit-up counter.

"BLOODWINE!" Bragh made his order to the barkeep with the patience of a Jem'Hadar awaiting for an overdue fix of ketracel white.

The fussy Ferengi man wearing clothing that seemed to come in all colors of the visual spectrum did not seem particularly impressed by the Klingon's manners. A tankard duly appeared, along with the beverage in it, and the payment was duly done with a flick of a thumb. Bragh retreated from the crowded counter and found a spot on the second floor, away from the yells of 'Dabo' and the group of unknown Klingons trying to start a little sing-along of The Mighty Conquest of Tal'bok. He was not in the mood for song, even if the second integral half of normal Klingon jolliness was being produced by the alcohol he drank. The taste had a definite replicated lack of edge to it, but at least the drink had not been made entirely pointless by replacing its wonderful spirits with that ridiculous Federation synthehol. It seemed that the Ferengi's replicators could produce at least a palatable imitation.

Sitting around in the noisy room, drinking and listening to laughter while the alcohol warmed his belly was almost comforting for Bragh. Quarters were tight onboard the cruiser, despite its huge size - most of the internal space was dedicated to weapons systems - and seeing the same faces of his raucous, boisterous warriors every day could become unnerving even for a proud Lieutenant like Bragh. Being posted onboard the attack cruiser was seen as a practically sure express ticket over to Sto'vo'kor, and much of the crew seemed to hold such an attitude. While Bragh was keen to build his own reputation and honor through glory in battle, he also held the opinion that earthly valor should be given at least something of a chance for mundane enjoyment as well, before it was time to enjoy the endless battles of the glorious afterlife.

The long-haired warrior spent half an hour drinking down three tankards of bloodwine before he felt buzzed enough to make his next move. He stood from the small chair he had occupied next to a bizarre man with a transparent skull (which was somewhat morbidly fascinating, but didn't make him want to eat Gagh any time soon), and after gaining his space legs again, he walked over towards one of the Ferengi waiters wafting around to fulfill orders on the tables or delivering empty glasses for reprocessing.

"You," the Klingon slurred.

"May I help you sir?" the diminutive man questioned. He had to look up to see the fierce bearded male's face properly. He seemed to be holding the tray in his small hands as a kind of a protective shield against his chest. Bragh was sure he could have felled the man with the smell of his breath alone.

"Any holosuites free?"

The Ferengi's eyes twinkled with greed.

"Oh yes, sir, they go at 2 slips for half an hour - "

"I pay for two hours!" Bragh replied. He was not in the mood to haggle.

The waiter pulled out his PADD and the exchange was made without further notice.

"Now, do you have a program in mind, sir, or shall I - "

Bragh pulled out a holographic isolinear data rod from his uniform pocket and showed it to the Ferengi on his palm.

"I bring my own," he said.

"This way, then, sir, the computer will instruct you on how to load your data, sir," the waiter said.

Bragh managed to keep his temper in check during the few steps it took for them to move about into the hallway and then for the door into one of the bar's holosuites. The doors opened with a buzz and revealed the inactive grid within.

"Enjoy your - "

The Klingon's sneer cut the Ferengi off and he was left to his own devices. Bragh moved over to the command panel on the wall, as the doors closed behind him with a buzz.

"Paid customer recognized," the annoying voice Bragh recognized as the station's Cardassian computer spoke up, "please select program for simulation."

Bragh poked the isolinear rod into a receptacle lit up in yellow which then turned green with the insertion of the data device into its slot.

"Accessing program," the computer said.

Bragh stomped the floor with his booted foot and snorted. It felt like it was taking way too long for comfort.

"Program, Bragh Three ready," the computer voice said.

Finally they were talking business!

"Run...scenario 16...and replicate outfit...number four!" Bragh made his additional commands for the computer to handle. "Restore normal attire at end of session!"

"Settings are saved."

"Execute program!" Bragh yelled.


"Walk, prisoner!"

The disheveled Klingon's bare feet shuffled along the stone floor as he was dragged roughly by two guards, one on each side as they tried to move their captive along the corridor lit with torches. The Klingon between them was obviously not a willing participant on this stroll, considering the guards were practically carrying him with them. Their prisoner's hands were tied behind his back with metal cuffs and the uniform he had worn before had been replaced by tattered, rough rags.

His guardians were imposing men - reptilians of some sort, with long snouts, tall, proud heads and clawed hands that were rough on their prisoner's arms. Their uniforms were thick, black leather, and they carried jagged, curve swords on their hips that swung with their movements as they moved the prisoner through the dimly lit stone hall.

"I will not...surrender..." Bragh growled as he struggled against his guards.

One of them punched his back with a fisted claw. It sent a flash of pain, followed by a dull ache that throbbed in the thickly corded Klingon muscle. Bragh's lips curled over his pointed, yellow teeth when he snarled at the treatment.

"Pathetic creature!" the other reptilian guard growled. "You'll regret the day you were captured!"

Bragh tore at his captors' grips by moving his shoulders rapidly from side to side in the hopes of causing them to loosen their hold, but his only reward for this attempt at breaking free were fresh scrapes along his arms.

"P'TAHK!" Bragh yelled.

"Puny Klingon!" the guard retorted in displeasure. "You'll see the error in your ways..."

The struggling warrior was brought to a door, which the guards opened and the Klingon was ushered into a room, decorated in countless trophies of war - shields, swords, pieces of armor, lining all the walls in the chamber mostly lit by light coming from a large rough stone fireplace off to one side.

"Bring him to me!" a voice barked out from the darkness.

"Yes, My Lord!" one of the guards grumbled.

The Klingon was taken over to the source of the voice towards one corner of the room and made to stand in front of a shape seated on a high-backed chair, watching the prisoner.

"Kneel before him, Klingon!" one of the guards tapped the captive's back.

"I will never do so!" Bragh replied roughly.

The guard elbowed him and sent air out of one of the Klingon's three lungs. It still took both of their strength to force him to kneel on the bare floor, while his head still hung low, refusing to meet the eyes of his would-be captor. He breathed heavily, with the guards' claws still held on each of his shoulder, holding with such firmness that it hur.

"You have been captured and brought for me..." the dark shape spoke from his throne-like seat, "do you understand what that means, Klingon?"

Bragh only hissed in frustration, but did not speak. He would not dishonor himself in such a manner. His dishonor in being a captive was his own, and giving his prison wardens any indications of the shame was only going to encourage them on. That pleasure the Klingon was not going to give to them.

"You will be made to understand," the seated male said. "Oh yes you will..."

"Ha," the Klingon sneered.

"Put him up for me," the seated figure ordered.

The guards hauled the Klingon warrior up from the floor, struggling or not. A rough slab of wood hung from the ceiling, suspended in the air by several thick, dark chains. Bragh's resistance was futile when it came to trying to stop them from clamping even heavier metal cuffs on him, to secure him on the slab with his arms tied onto the slab, his ridged neck resting against the rough wooden surface. The chains and claps dug onto his arm even where the ragged cloth still existed on what remained of the prison shirt he wore.

"Leave," the voice spoke once again.

The guards bowed in deferration of the speaker and departed from the room, which left Bragh alone with his chief captor. The dark shape in the shadow moved and stood up before walking onto the cone of light reaching into the room from above.

He was a reptilian creature, a dragon, with piercing yellow eyes, a horned head covered in green scaled and rounded, bony nubs, truly a magnificent, yet terrifying sight in his leathers. His body was muscled, yet relatively compact, although he was easily as tall as the Klingon, and then some. The uniform he wore was a splendid one, with many metal clasps, thickened armor plates, almost like an extension of his own rough skin. His gaze was sharp and unkind, and his jaw, bony and forked, only added to the sneer of contempt he gave for his captive.

"Klingon..." the dragon said.

Bragh refused to be stared down by his captor. He faced the eyes defiantly, and maintained a stern look on the dragon. The red drake seemed unperturbed by his prisoner's behavior, however, standing there with his tail slowly swaying about behind him.

"You will break...I believe you will," the dragon said, "none have yet prevailed."

"There is only dishonor in torture," Bragh rumbled. "You will not gain any insight into our defences from me. We stand tall and proud, and unbroken."

The drake let out a sneering trill, one loud enough to make the Klingon's ears ring. The drake stepped even closer, heavy steel-reinforced boots clinging on the stone floor, as he stood right in front of the Klingon.

"We'll see."

The dragon drew a blade from a holster on his hip. Bragh only saw the flash of metal before the blade was brought on him, and tensed himself in expectation of the pain of the steel cutting into his skin and muscle, but the only immediate reaction was a tearing noise, and tugging, where the knife cut onto the fabric of his clothing followed by the dragon's claws pulling at the tatters he tore away from the Klingon's meager garb. The pieces fell to the stone floor and left the Klingon nude on the stock - dark skin, thick muscles, his long hair, ridges, everything on full sight and bare now. The warrior did not appear to find embarrassment in his state of undress, yet he continue struggling against his bindings. The sturdy chains meant that there was very little freedom of motion. That didn't stop the Klingon from trying. The feeling of his muscles tensing while he put his strength and weight behind the move was...exhilarating.

The Klingon's captor observed him from a step away, taking in the shapely, naked form of the warrior in front of him. He had holstered his knife, and now the dragon's paws were inactive, resting against his thighs while maintaining a stark gaze at the alien male.

"Tell me the Klingon defense plan of the Go'Kor system, Bragh," the dragon said.

"I know nothing," Bragh sneered.

The dragon began to pace from side to side. His heavy boots clipped and stomped on the stone slabs underneath his soles.

"Tell me about the Go'Kor system," the dragon repeated.

"Hmhmhmhprh," Bragh harrumphed.

"You seem...unwilling to cooperate," the dragon said.

"I will not speak," said the Klingon.

"Tell me about the Klingon Defense Force garrison at the Go'Kor system," the dragon said.

I will not - "

The dragon lunged forward and struck the Klingon over the face, hard enough to cause his jaws to snap together. Bragh let out a deep growl at the pain, the flash of agony followed by the more full, dull ache that spread along the bones and tendons. The dragon stood in front of him and watched the snorting, naked creature with interest. Bragh growled and spat blood and saliva onto the filthy floor.

"I will not speak," the Klingon said.

"And you just did," said the dragon, "although you did not speak about the current manpower stationed at the Go'Kor system. That is disappointing."

"P'tahk," the proud Klingon Lieutenant hissed.

The dragon struck again. This time his gnarled, scaly claws swiped across the Klingon' muscled chest. It was hard enough to send air out of the Klingon's lungs and leave smarting welts in its wake. The dragon interrogator had managed to hit him at full strength without losing his balance, as if it was no effort for him at all. His gnarling captive snorted and growled heavily, the pain still strong and potent over his body.


"Is that Klingonese or not?" the dragon sneered.

He did not wait for the Klingon to reply. The dragon turned about and stomped over to one of the numerous weapons racks adorning the room. He chose an elongated item, from a selection upon the wooden shelves and returned to his captive, the object held on his claws and with its tip pointing down towards the toes of his boot.

"I have my ways of extracting the information from you, Klingon," the dragon said. "The defence of the Go'Kor system."

"You...wish!" Bragh sneered proudly.

The dragon wielded his crop with deadly precision. He delivered harsh, resounding snaps over the Klingon's thighs and arms before Bragh even had the chance to perceive of the nimble crop flying through the air.

"Arghhhh!" groaned the warrior under such an onslaught.

"Go'Kor," the dragon said.


The crop lashed against the Klingon's hairy belly and smacked those strong, chiseled muscles that formed his abs. He tensed and yelled, struggling under the onslaught while his captor come tormenter let the crop fly again and again onto the warrior's burning flesh. His head was thrown up high when he howled out, in frustration and pain, a proper true Klingon yell that had the strength to rattle the walls of the interrogator room if needed.

Once the dragon stopped, Bragh's head swung down and he panted, roughly. The corners of his mouth foamed with spittle, and his hair had fallen over his darkly flushed face. His breathing had still not steadied from the cropping that had been hard enough to break bones on someone with a body of lesser sturdiness. For him, it had barely scraped his skin and made the muscles sore. The worst part at the moment was the stretching of his arms, forced into the position as they were, spread to the maximum to the sides so that the chains dug to his arms while his shoulder blades pressed together.

"Hmmmpph," mused the dragon, whose heavy boots stomped on the ground again, "I can see that we are finally having an effect...isn't that so?"

He moved his crop again, but manipulated it slowly now, and brought it up, holding his claws close to his hips while the rounded tip of the crop approached the apex of the Klingon's thighs. It made contact with the leathery sack of his groin, thick skin parted with the rough ridges that drew the skin more taut and flowed along the curve of this particular part of the body and towards the Klingon's taint.

"I think I see it now..." the dragon said.

He moved the tip of the crop slowly, skillfully, to trace the shape of one large testicle. It was not a touch designated to inflict pain, rather, to simply find the Klingon's 'nads and test their heaviness.

"A true Klingon..."the dragon mused with a narrowing of his golden eyes.

Bragh was hard. His stout erection stood up from his groin, a length of great thickness and covered in the same ridges that made the Klingon forehead appear with such distinction. The organ had swollen to its full hardness, despite the rough treatment of the dragon's crop all over his body before.

"...blood awakened by the pain..." the drake murmured, "such heat..."

The Klingon's cock only throbbed when the crop slid along the ridges on its underside, reached the tip, and was finally withdrawn. Brah let out a surprised gasp when the contact was lost, yet his dick pulsed even further once the crop was gone. The deeply burrowed slit on the top oozed out a drop of slick fluid that ended up dribbling down onto the stone floor, while the dragon watched all this occur, in the firelight.

"Pain is pleasure...pleasure is pain..." the dragon stated.

"Pain is...of no consequence..." Bragh growled, spittle flying out of his mouth.

"And yet you enjoy it..." the dragon drawled.

The crop moved, but instead of another smack, it brushed up over the Klingon's left thigh and pushed back, to lift his heavy sack and then slide along the ridged curve of the perineum and towards the parting of the warrior's buttocks. The cool, round tip slid easily on the sweaty skin, and the entire crop bent while the dragon forced it further down, up to the crevice of the warrior's rear while his balls rested lopsided over the shaft of the crop.

"...oh, enjoying it so much, Klingon..."

The drake nudged the tip of the crop into the most forbidden of territories, against the Klingon's furrowed opening and nudged it, like a finger teasing upon its wrinkled, rippling ring while he maintained eye contact with the panting Klingon on his stocks. Bragh's teeth were clenched into a grimace, and despite the treatment of the crop on him, his erection remained as big and imposing as ever. It had certainly not wilted.

"N-no..."the Lieutenant grunted.

The dragon laughed, a trilling, snorting noise that echoed off the walls of his dank chamber lit by the numerous torches.

"Your blood speaks otherwise..."

He withdrew the crop, and rounded the stocks, to put his eyes on the sight of the Klingon's muscled back and the well-shaped rear that jutted out amidst the mess of the Klingon's hair above it, and the flares of the man's hips and then his thigh legs, spaced wide apart for balance, to better withstand the crude interrogation at the claws of the predatory drake who now stood behind him.

The leather-clad soldier eyed the nude, bound man, and smirked ruthlessly, as the crop was raised once more.

"Perhaps you will find it in yourself to speak soon...slave..." hissed the dragon.

The dragon held nothing back this time around. There was so much supple, bare, sweaty, dark skin yet unblemished but for the row of ridges going along the spine of this bound man, it aroused the dragon's primal impulses and left him no choice but to proceed with fulfilling such a craving. He wanted to own the flesh that trembled under the repeated lashes from his crop, each hit making a slapping noise that made the dragon's ears fill with joyful sounds. The Klingon's groans, grunts and snorts of discomfort only egged him on and gave purchase to the dragon's rough pleasure in battering the Klingon's body.

Bragh did not hold his sounds back. He writhed under the beating he received, his body pouring with sweat while his muscles worked intensely to take the repeated smacks from the dragon's heavy crop. From his neck to his thighs, welts were forming under the rough swats coming at almost zero intervalls. The dragon was truly in a frenzy, abusing the Klingon's flesh with abandon.

The pain was intense, and so was the shame of defeat, of being captured and beaten like a puny slave, unable to fight against any of the actions that were being taken against him. IT was not honorable.

His cock was remarkably hard thoughout it, spitting and drooling pre-cum onto the floor. That part of the Klingon brain that turned pain into pleasure seemed to have no trouble projecting the shattering impulses coming from the smacks on his back into surges of electric-like energy that coursed down along his sturdy spine and then into the nerves in his groin and the pit of his belly. HIs cock pulsed and leaked, and the Klingon's heavy balls churned with desire to be unloaded in a spectacular mess of sperm flying out of his proud warrior's stalk. Getting his ass spanked by a dragon warden didn't seem to hinder his pleasure in that sense in the least. His head was hung low, hair plastered and glued onto his face with sweat, and his low growls of pain mixed with pleasure made his whole throat tingle. His guttural Klingon curses had no effect on the dragon, whose crop slammed down on his ass again and again in a dance of smarting lashes.

The warrior's cold-blooded captor hadn't even broken a sweat despite the heavy physical exercise of the smacking he had inflicted on the Klingon warrior who now hung practically limp from the stocks he was tied to. His back had darkened, with purple bruises spreading under the skin after the dragon had been through with him. He held his crop down, resting against a boot, while the power-hungry dragon stared at his handiwork with pleasure.

"Obviously we are only starting here..." said the dragon.

He did not hurry, as he returned the crop back to its place on the wall racks. Upon his return to the side of the warrior, he found Bragh standing again, although his head remained hung.


The dragon grasped the Klingon's cock unto his bony hand and squeezed, hard, strong enough to make the purple glands bulge when blood was forced into them with newly increasing pressure. Bragh let out a deep growl at the rough sensation, but his cock only pulsed harder for it. The dragon smirked, let out a pleased trill, and licked his lips.


He twisted the ridged shaft in his hand and gave it a hard yank before he let go, though the Klingon's respite was only a momentary one. His balls fell prey the next, into one draconic palm that proceeded to twist and yank the leathery orbs away from the growling warrior's steaming body.

"ARhhheehhhhh..." the Klingon brayed.

"Klingon..." the dragon smirked.

He twisted even harder, and the warrior's swollen member released a pulse of pre-cum. The juice flowed down his heated shaft and onto the dragon's knuckles, spreading strong musk into the air already permeated with the scents of blood, sweat, violence and sex.

He might've as well been spraying the room with a potent perfume from a bottle of Klingon aphrodisiac.

"Arghhhh..." growled the warrior.

"You aren't any better than the rest I have broken..." the dragon spoke dangerously.

He moved swiftly behind the Klingon again, and this time grasped his organs of generation with a clasp reaching from the rear. The warrior grunted, his tool once again in a firm, scaly grip, but even worse was to come. The dragon's other hand dropped lower and began to stroke over the smarting, bruised buttocks of his rear, the captor trilling softly while he felt the curves of flesh he had beaten only moments before.

"Good Klingon..." the dragon murmured.


The drake delivered only a few extra blows before he dropped his clawed, curled fingers into the cleft of the Klingon's rear and pressed onto the muscles there. The Klingon lieutenant let out a surprised gasp, and tried to pull away, only to be tugged back by his dick, literally so, and that had the added effect of pushing the dragon's fingers deeper into the hairy valley of his ass.


The dragon's finger twisted and turned and bore against the Klingon's puckered, pursed opening. The strong muscle clenched, as powerfully as the rest of the body did in reaction to the sudden touch on his secret opening. His rough grumble was only amplified with the stroke of the drake's claws over his shaft, to coax even further pre-cum from his overworked 'nads.

"Little fuck toy..." the dragon's voice became an even deeper slurr while he toyed with the Klingon's cock and his asshole simultaneously.

Bragh was beyond answering. His body stood rigid, as unwielding as ever, but the drake was a man of many means. His pointed finger gained ground and slipped into the warrior's hole, so that the drake could stroke his rough fingertip around the interior of the muscled rim of this forbidden hole. His claw, round and unyielding, pressed into skin that would have broken on any non-Klingon. For Bragh it was simply a sharp sensation that emanated from his rear with the dragon's rough exploration of his hole.

"Yes...you'll take it good...." said the dragon as he drilled his finger into the clenching interior of the Klingon warrior's body.


"You are ready..." the dragon announced.

His claws yanked a panel of leather away from the outrageous armor he wore and exposed a terrifying, ridged, bright red cock covered in ridges that put the Klingon's own shape into shame. The entire cock glistened with pre-cum he had been leaking into his uniform ever since he had put his claws on his captive.

"Now you are mine," the drake said.

The dragon poised himself at the Klingon's boarded up gates and lurched forward to drive his angry cock against the warrior's hole. He resisted, even through the painful contractions of the muscles in his rear being forced open by the rough pressure the dragon exerted on his anus.

"I'll take you now..."

The dragon squeezed painfully on the Klingon's shaft and forced himself into the tight, exceptionally tightly wound hole into the Klingon's rear tunnel. He howled when he was speared, skewered by his captor, the dragon's powerful hips slamming forward so that he impaled the once proud warrior on his cock.

"And now you are mine...all mine..."

The chains shook and rattled under the pounding that began as soon as the dragon bottomed out in the Klingon warrior's depths. Harsh, ridged balls slapped onto the Klingon's plundered rear and played a beat of rough fucking rhythm, an earthly, raunchy tune punctuated with gasping growls from the Klingon who got pounded hard from behind. The dark, slick member pushed its way into his guts with incessant power, stroked back and forth through its slimy grip, withdrew momentarily to return with an even harder thrust into the helpless warrior's rear.

The burning continued for ages, it seemed, the Klingon suspended in air by the chains and the strong body hunching into him roughly. His growls were immaterial, the pain nonsubstantial, his mind gone into another place, beyond the pain. His ragged breathing, his hair being thrown around by every motion that rocked his body forward, the grip over his swollen, leaking cock that threatened to burst any second -

He came in a remarkable burst of seed, the orgasm burning deep inside him, his body clenching upon the intruder that stroked so deep within his body, possessing him, owning him, throwing the Klingon's very notions of honor aside as he abandoned himself into the throes of submission. The musky cum sprayed the floor, stained his thighs, and filled his nose with its earthly scent.

"NNnooowww..." the dragon hissed, his own voice growing into a loud trill when his own balls exploded with remarkable force and poured pints of liquid heat into the Klingon, churned within him until the excess began to leak out of his possessed hole and down his shuddering legs.

"My little slave..." the dragon hissed as he licked the Klingon's sweaty cheek, their bodies glued together in one single cummy mess.

"Aghhhhh..." the warrior hissed.


..."programme has now been automatically terminated."

The Klingon warrior collapsed onto the floor and landed on his sore rump. The stocks he had been tied into had faded out of existence, having been nothing but a mere projection of colored light given the perception of solidness and mass through forcefields. Now that he had nothing to support his upright posture, not even the dragon standing behind him, he flopped to the ground. He let out a grunt at the pain shooting up his spine, which was not of the good kind.

Bragh hissed a Klingon curse and rubbed his sore arm with a bruised hand. Obviously the programme had been as rough as usual, he thought, with a little mirth, as he assessed the damage. Everything smarted, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. His cum-stained cock and abdomen were more of a concern.

"Holosuite, replicate a wet towel."

It appeared next to him on the floor. He picked it up and hissed when the cool cloth stroked over his ridged, spent organs.

"Ahh..." the proud warrior rumbled.

He knew that his time in the holosuite was coming to and end. He'd have to find other ways to amuse himself, now that one particular craving had been sated for the moment.

"Computer, restore uniform."

There was a shimmer of light when the holosuite computer transported the Klingon's uniform back onto the warrior, right down to the last piece. It felt surprisingly heavy after his two hours spent undressed in the holosuite, and he grumbled when he got up and felt further twinges of soreness course through his body.

"I need more bloodwine," the Klingon warrior declared.

He also wanted a turn with a dermal regenerator, no matter how un-Klingon that might be. Having a few bruises from brawling was nothing compared to having sex-related injuries marking his entire body, and that was not very professional.

Neither was the fact that the proud Assistant Gunnery Officer's deepest secret fantasy was to submit to a stronger male and to be made his...

...what else would a proud Klingon dream of, anyway?


Thank you for reading! I hope you had an interesting time, and I look forward to your feedback!

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