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[Editor's note: the following has been taken from the memoirs of the former seaman, Mister Giaco Bernat of Port Nou, Laonetia, which I have faithfully transcribed herein. It contains explicit descriptions not appropriate for children or dragonets. If the reader is a human under the age of eighteen, or a dragon under the age of thirty-five, he is obliged to cease reading immediately. Otherwise, it is my hope that the he finds this account to be of interest.]

“Batten 'er down!"

“Aye!" I nodded to the coxswain, and slammed the hatch shut. Warm drizzle slickened the deck, but I pattered along the sloping surface to the next opening like it was dry land. More easily, in fact, since those days I spent more time on water than on dirt. “Watch your fingers, Pérès," I said to the swarthy, striped-shirted sailor who was scrambling up the ladder beneath me.

Pérès hauled himself topside and I hammered the hatch down behind him.

“Shivering bilge rats!" Pérès sucked in the steamy, fetid air of the Dracu Coast. “It fucking stinks down there."

“Arr, going to stink even worse in an hour or so," I said, as my shipmate joined me in sealing the vessel for the upcoming downpour. “Just thank Neptune's barnacly balls you aren't the cargo."

Pérès grunted, hot rain soaking the rag on his brow, and said no more.

Neither of us wanted to be on that ship. I don't think anyone on it did.

There were several dozen of us hands on duty at the time, and we set about our work on the wide, ponderous vessel with fervent haste. The bright turquoise sea rolled us about as we scrambled about on the moist planking like a gang of carpenter ants. We had to, because discipline was rather nasty on that disgusting old tub.

The mercenary marines the captain had hired shot envious glances at our sweaty activities, shivering in the wet despite the hot temperature. Droplets misted on the oilskin covers of their peaked morion helmets, and they huddled miserably against upward-pointing carronades, scanning the sky on the horizon. The lateen sails of a Laonetian warship loomed like grey mountains in the drizzle a few hundred yards to our aft.

We were a good many leagues away from 'enemy' waters, though even this far out there was still the risk of marauding dragons. They'd torched seaside towns and devoured villagers much further up the coast than our current location. Few had forgotten the fate of the town of Pont-de-Cotilla, wiped out to the last child in a storm of fiery breath not three years earlier. The fight went both ways though, and in the Merchant Republic of Laonetia, captured dragons were more valuable than dead ones. Dragon slaves had many uses, you see, for those few who could afford them. Administration, domestic work, labour, transportation, and, well, other uses. And, if the reader hasn't guessed yet, that was our cargo.

We'd completed a milk run to every shitty little outpost the Republic had, picking up fresh lines of drakes and dragonesses, shackled snout-to-tail, as well as the occasional second-hand pickup from the markets. It was a far more sordid business than I had expected. You must understand, dear reader, that in Laonetia proper, a captive dragon's life was more valuable than mine. Getting a first-hand view of how they got their start was an eye-opener, I'll tell you. Crew retention on dragon ships was low for a reason. In fact, sometimes I wondered whether the mercenary marines were there less to keep an eye on the cargo, and more to keep an eye on us.

After we'd finished sealing the hatches, I and a few of the lads took the opportunity to catch our breath. We leaned on the gunwale, too sweaty to be bothered by the spray. I was attempting to light my pipe when the sound of bare feet on wet planks interrupted me.

“Mister Pérès, Mister Bernat." The coxswain, whose name was Rossell, approached us. His weathered face distorted into an apologetic grimace. “First mate wants us three this time." He spat out the words 'first mate' like a weevil from a chunk of hardtack.

Pérès' fist tightened on the cutlass thrust through his belt. “That red sonofawhore."

“Aye," I mumbled, my stomach cold. “I'll be there. Got to go to the heads first."

The first time I'd heard of the extra duties the crew were required to perform, I'd refused to believe it. It was as humiliating as it was obscene. But it was in the contract, apparently. Not that I could have had any idea, since I'd signed the paper with an 'X' and hadn't read a word of it. I still can't read that well, and lest the reader get the wrong impression of my degree of sophistication, I'm sure my editor and transcriber has greatly neatened and embellished the language of this account. [Editor's note: I have done so. While Mister Bernat's actual manner of writing might be considered 'charming' or 'colorful', it would not make for an easy read.]

Anyhow, that's just the way it was in the Free Republic, where any man was 'free' to cheat, swindle and exploit his way to the top. And if you stayed at the bottom, like me? Well, it was your own fault for not having been savvy enough, and you deserved any dirty tricks that came your way.

A few minutes later, I made my way through the cramped lantern-lit belly of the ship, thick with the scent of smoke, timber, and nervous reptile. At the end of the corridor, under the quarterdeck to the aft of the ship, was a hatch as wide as a man was tall, just enough to squeeze a dragon through, provided it kept its forelimbs tight to its sides. I hesitated, then forced a neutral expression as I pushed the portal open.

Inside the spacious cabin, against the near wall, stood Pérès and Rossell. Both men were staring up at the overhead. Lined up facing them were a trio of fresh, bright-scaled young dragons, twenty feet long, collared, leashed, and shackled to the deck wing-to-wing. In the centre, a stunning dark-scaled dragoness, slitted eyes afire with orange. To her left, a pretty golden-scaled female, muzzle held low. And, to the right, a teal-coloured 'drake': a male dragon, his long snout aflush. Pleasure slaves, all three of them, destined for the high-class brothels and private harems of the Republic.

And they were going to practice on us.

“You're late, Bernat." The hissing, gravelly sound came from the flickering gloom behind the three dragons. A sharp, crimson-scaled muzzle cracked open in a sneer, under reptilian eyes as blue as polished sapphires. Lounging belly-down on a ten-foot hammock, his winged forelegs crossed lazily in front of him, was a red drake fit to knock you right overboard. The handsomest wyrm any of us seadogs had ever laid eyes upon.

And the nastiest.

His name was Natcytaryx, and he was the First Mate.

I'll remind the foreign reader that in normal circumstances, Laonetian dragons wear clothes just as we do: loose-fitting garments, tied at the throat and buckled around the tailbase to preserve their modesty. The red drake's were of the finest cloth, dark as night and hemmed in crimson to match his scales, the gold-plated collar on his neck more a piece of jewelry than a functional restraint.

As the personal property of the captain, he outranked everyone else on board, and he knew it. That's just the way things worked in the Republic's bizarre hierarchy, and us common men joked about it quite a bit. Wild dragons ruled the mountains, so we said, and enslaved dragons ruled Laonetia. It wasn't quite true, but it was close. The lizards called us 'roughfeet': men too poor to afford a dragon to do the walking for them, and they looked at us like dirt between their talons.

“Take your placcce." Natcytaryx's ropelike tongue flicked out the last syllable, and his thick tail thumped the deck underneath the creaking hammock. “Double-time. I don't have all day."

I stifled a sigh, and moved over to join my shipmates, snatching up a braided dragon-crop from a slot in the bulkhead as a went. I'd already been punished for my lateness: Rossell and Pérès had taken the spots in front of the dragonesses. They'd left the male for me, the salty bastards. Yes, yes, I can already hear the 'sailor' jokes in the reader's mind, but if I was going to have to perform an act as depraved as this, I really would have preferred one of the 'nesses. But that wasn't going to happen, so I took my place in front of the drake.

It might be hard for the reader to wrap his head around, but a dragon is mostly made of wing. Theirs were folded tightly to their sides, but nonetheless took up the majority of the space in front of us. Between the two wings, which were attached to their dexterous forelimbs, each wyrm had a low-slung, snakelike body about as bulky as a draft horse, sprawling reptilian hind-legs, and a thick tail ending in a triangular paddle.

Long, finely-scaled throats of gold, ebony and turquoise shone in the lamplight. Two glinting chains ran down each powerful neck and back, connecting the dragon's collar with the shackles on its hind legs and preventing it from stretching out far enough to fly. Their fetters were in turn stapled to the deck with short lengths of chain, just long enough to allow them to turn about when commanded to.

By Neptune, I thought miserably. They could have at least covered up the green drake's second set of horns and let me pretend he was female. No such luck, of course.

“Now now, Missster Bernat," Natcytaryx sneered in mock sympathy. “You're all going into the same hole anyway. Neither of these ventsluts has an eggslot worth selling."

The golden dragoness dipped her mighty head and grinned abashedly. Her dark-scaled neighbor gave a sulfuric snort. Oh! But of course, I should have recognised the latter, I'd seen her before. 'Upventers' we called them: female dragons that specialised in providing pleasure without using their conventional entrance, and who did their training together with the males.

“Let'sss start with the front end then," Natcytaryx rasped, twiddling one set of claws nonchalantly through the weave of his hammock. He gave the overhead a sharp rap with the other.

Fetters rattled. The dragons lowered their forequarters in unison, and touched their chests to the deck board, necks coiled in an S, snouts held demurely at crotch level. The male's warm breath was enough to make me stiff in spite of myself.

Natcytaryx hissed something in Draconic.

Running chains jingled as three sets of scaled crests surged forwards.

Pérès grunted beside me as 'his' black-scaled female took him all the way, her neck chain clinking taut behind her.

'My' dragon was the slowest to move of the three. The aquamarine reptile balked for a moment as the tip of his tongue wet my head. Then, he narrowed his yellow eyes to slits and proceeded, inch by careful inch, until his neck scales bulged around his collar. I was tempted to reach out and put a hand on his crest, to help him forward, but they were supposed to do everything themselves.

Lucky for him, I thought, Natcytaryx didn't catch any of that.

I felt a thick, somewhat dry tongue slide down my length to cup the underside of my dick. Firm, scaly lips touched my belly, and hot (and I mean very hot) breath wet my pubes. I could feel waves of burning air rush past my length each time the dragon exhaled, and he did so rapidly and irregularly, the deck creaking under his chest. That was the part I never got used to. Dragon breath was pretty much exactly what you expected, and I don't mean that in a good way. I didn't really like any of it, but getting blown was my least favourite part: it was like sticking your bits into a coal oven.

It had to have been worse for him, though. My crotch must have stank like death after all that work I'd been doing topside. It was hard not to feel sorry for this hapless, chained wretch of a creature stuck with his proud snout up against the belly of a common sailor like me. It would have been enough to make me flaccid, but for the knowledge that if he failed to keep me upright, he'd have to present his tail for a flogging.

Too bad, I thought, looking down at him. He was quite a pretty dragon. Of course, I supposed that's why he'd been frillmarked for courtesan training. His smooth scales shimmered between green and blue in the dank lamplight, like a coat of emerald and sapphire. His snout was long and slender, with protruding, tear-drop shaped nostrils at the end, and the hint of a down-turned hook at the tip of his upper jaw. Fine blue spines ran along the top of his muzzle and met a spiky, frilled crest at the back of his head, from which protruded four rearwards-pointing horns. He'd fetch a decent price, once we hit port.

The dragon must have sensed that I was studying him. He glanced up at me, and for a second, I met his eyes. The creature flicked his gaze away just as soon, cheek-scales flushing a darker blue. Deep shame burned my own face, and I stared down at the deck beside his shackled forelimb. I couldn't look at him. I never could look at them.

“Mister Bernat," came the sharp, grinding voice of a dragon imitating human speech.

I stiffened. “Skyclaw!" I barked, addressing Natcytaryx in the manner us common men before the mast reserved for dragon slaves of higher rank than us.

“If that whore breaks eye-contact one more time," the red dragon hissed, “give him three of the best. And if I catch you staring at the deck again, I swear by my mother's tailspade I'll have you up against the mainmast."

I gripped the braided switch in my right hand, as if to snap it in two, and nodded, grinding my jaws to keep the churning hatred from my face. By the Doge's rotten teeth, I loathed that cruel, arrogant lizard. We all did.

Not having much choice in the matter, I looked back down at the long, scaly face that held my dick. Despite Natcytaryx's outburst, or perhaps because of it, the green dragon returned my gaze less fearfully than before, his side-frills held loose from his neck. Maybe he understood now that I was closer to being a peer than a master. That I didn't want to be there any more than he did. In fact, it might have been the dim light, or the grog I'd had the hour before, but I could have sworn I saw a flash of pity in the creature's eyes. Pity for me.

Natcytaryx rapped a fore-claw on the beam above him, and rumbled something in Draconic.

Fetters rattled anew as the three dragon slaves coiled their powerful necks and slid their muzzles back, eyes fixed dutifully up on ours, horned frills side by side under the low beamed overhead.

I felt cool air on my shaft as the tongue slid away, and the slightest prick of the dragon's hooked beak on my tip. Then, the smouldering heat returned, and the smooth, dry scales of his snout pressed into my abdomen yet again. As he began to bob back and forth alongside the females, he rolled his tongue up and around me in what I supposed was his manner of drinking. They were trained to do that: it was well-known that dragon mouths got uncomfortably hot. The tongue shielded you a bit.

Iron links chimed and sang as the merchandise practised their work on us. Pérès's ebony-scaled dragoness undulated her whole body in time with her neck as she took him in her maw, and her golden neighbor lapped dexterously under Rossell's balls. The aquamarine dragon assigned to me hugged my length firmly in his folded tongue, its strong, semi-wet hold pumping me like a silken glove, his alien, membraned eyes locked firmly up on mine as he moved his crested head with increasing speed.

Maybe a bit too fast. My loins were starting to burn, and it wasn't just from his breath. If I came now, the young dragon would have a rough day, especially the tail end of him. As much to spite the hated Natcytaryx as anything, I decided to take a risk. A crazy risk, that could get me in a boatload of trouble. I waited until a particularly large wave caused the whole of the ship to groan around us. Then, I spoke.

“Hey, matey," I whispered, heart pounding, “you understand Laonetian?"

The wyrm's eyes widened in surprise at being addressed. I felt a momentary pressure on the top side of my dick as the dragon gave a single, minuscule nod of his head. Given how busy his mouth was, he couldn't have answered verbally even if he had wanted to.

I waited until the next loud creak of the ship's hull, and kept the corner of my eye on Natcytaryx's swaying hammock.

“Slow down," I said under my breath, at the next opportunity. “I go off already, you're fucked." Well, I thought, as soon as I'd said it, that might not have been the best choice of words.

The dragon got my meaning well enough, though. His pace slowed, and the leash on his neck slackened to chime in tempo with that of the ebony dragoness beside him. I felt my heart drum with less intensity, and the fire within me cooled. His tongue loosened its hold and separated from my dick for a fraction of a second.

“Thankth," the dragon whispered, sending a fresh cloud of scalding air past my sensitive bits.

I winced, trying to hide my pain from Natcytaryx, and forced a friendly wink. “Put that tongue back," I said, as quietly as I could, sweat beading on my brow like I'd caught a fatal case of the grippe. “Seriously. Please."

The dragon gave me a cockeyed look like I'd just announced I was his uncle, no doubt at the politeness of my request. Then, he winked back. “Yethhir", he said, and returned to his work.

“Don't 'sir' me," I replied, gripping both hands on my tar-stained shirt. “I work for a living. Sorry about the smell."

It might have been the grog again, but it almost looked like the corner of the dragon's maw had curled upwards. “Not tho bad," he said, just as quietly, his meaty tongue wobbling around my length as he spoke. “I've thmelt worth." His face flushed deep blue.

In any case, my warning hadn't been a moment too soon.

Natcytaryx hissed a new instruction from his hammock.

The tongue stopped. Dank, chilly air of the hold wafted around my cock, almost arctic in comparison to what had been there a moment before. The three dragons pulled away and stood, face to face with us, wings folded, serpentine bodies slung low to the floor.

Behind them, Natcytaryx barked a single Draconic syllable. With a thunderous clatter, his three trainees turned about, squatted down on their haunches, and threw their tails to the side.

I suppose now's a good time to familiarize the reader with what the business end of a dragon pleasure slave looks like. First of all, dragons don't really have ass cracks, at least, not like a human. As I've said before, their bodies are rather snake-like, and their torsos transition to tails pretty smoothly. Between their hind legs they have a sort of horizontal slit that they can open up at will. All three of the wyrms in front of us had done so, naturally.

The two dragonesses, gold and black, presented fleshy, V-shaped inner vaginas, more than wide enough to take a man (or two). Though, judging by the particular specialization Natcytaryx had assigned them to, neither would be doing anything of the sort any time soon. More relevantly, above their neglected eggslots sat thick, protruding, somewhat wrinkled rings of muscle that marked their anuses, not entirely unlike those of horses. It was pretty clear why these two in particular had been selected to specialize exclusively in anal: their vaginas were pretty ho-hum by the standards I'd seen, but their tailholes were rounder, better-proportioned than most, and attractively plump.

As for the greenish male in front of me, well, as they said back in my Navy days, 'an ass is an ass is an ass'. His was pretty much the same as theirs, though maybe a bit bigger. Like those of the dragonesses, the male's undertail had a dull shine to it in the dim light. Undoubtedly all three had been well prepared and lubricated prior to our arrival. Below, he had an inner slit that might almost have passed for the cooch of a dragoness, had the ridged, triangular head of his penis not been poking out of it.

Such was, as I had learned from Natcytaryx, the ideal, 'by the book' way for a male dragon to hold himself when receiving from a human owner. Just the tip out, to show his maleness, but no further than that. That said, even that obnoxious stickler of a red dragon had admitted that it was a high bar that mostly existed in fantasy. Only the best-trained, most experienced males were able to maintain the posture throughout the entire act. It was acceptable, if not ideal, for the dragon to drop. Depending on his owner, he was sometimes allowed to become erect during penetration as long as he didn't ejaculate (which was a big no-no). [Editor's note: Mister Bernat may not have been aware of it at the time, but it is nonetheless considered 'good form' to allow the drake to finish himself immediately following anal sex, though, of course, not in the presence of his man.]

On that note, my crewmates and I had quickly learned that angling downwards made it much harder for the drake to stay limp, and if you weren't careful, would even cause the poor creature to squirt. One of the lads, in a moment of particular cruelty, had even done this deliberately some months earlier, and had earned his hapless partner a thorough striping. Of course, the crew would never engage in any form of illegal retribution, but the deck did get awfully slippery at night. Nobody ever tried that again.

“No touching," Natcytaryx said to us, a sneer on his toothy maw. “They'll do the work today, not you." Then, he spat out something in Draconic.

In drilled unison with the dragonesses, the blue-green male took a pace backwards, turning his head to guide himself. He placed his hind legs on either side of mine and split his stance to bring his rump level with my crotch, his belly low.

From this perspective, I could make out the individual scales on the rim of his vent, the spines on his (as of yet) perfectly positioned cockhead, and the fine wrinkles on the star above it, hardly an inch from the tip of my dick. I could see that I'd been right: his thick, protruding ring of flesh was definitely puffier than either of the females'. This young drake had been on the receiving end of things many a time before, though that was hardly surprising.

As for us sailors, we knew the drill as well. I crossed my arms, and braced myself on the wall behind me. As Natcytaryx had said, they would be doing the work this time, not us.

Gold, black, and green, the dragon slaves turned their muscular necks and looked back at us, each one studying the man who would, at least for a short time, claim ownership of its valuable hind passage. Their loud, heavy breaths clouded the cramped air, our own breathing the only other sound in the foggy cabin. I couldn't get a read on the females' expressions, but the male studied me with the trepidation of a virgin dragonet, blushing bright blue, his neck frills tight over his collar.

The ropes of Natcytaryx's hammock groaned. He snapped something at the golden dragoness. Then, at the man standing behind her, a single word: “two".

Off to my left, I heard a sharp crack, and the jingle of chains. Then another. The female's tail shot higher.

“Relax," I whispered, while the red wyrm's attention was away from us, trying to keep the nervousness out of my own voice. If he didn't, this was going to hurt for both of us.

The green dragon glared at me like I'd suggested that it would be easier for him to stay alive if he breathed. “I know what I'm doing," he hissed back. His gaze flicked down my body, however, and his scales flushed. “Yours is . . . bigger than usual."

Oh, so that was the problem. I smiled, and risked a slight bow, fist to my chest like I was saluting the Doge himself. “Why, thank ye, sirrah," I said, in a mock aristocratic accent. Anything to get this poor wretch to relax, I thought. Might as well make light of the situation.

The black-scaled dragoness beside us snickered. I guess I must have been a strange sight there, buck naked, a striped rag around my head, tarred togs at my feet, trying to cheer up some shackled dragon worth my year's wages right before I fucked him in the ass.

“Madam," I mouthed at her, and bowed again like a million-ducat actor.

Pérès rolled his eyes.

The green dragon made a sound like air escaping from a buoy, one eye bulging as he fought to keep a straight face. “Don't make me laugh, you moron," he hissed, shooting a terrified glance in the crimson-scaled overseer's direction. “He'll kill me. Oh- here we go. Shhh."

It was time for the main course.

Still perched on his swinging hammock, Natcytaryx coughed, painting the flickering overhead with a cloud of smoke. Then, he rapped a single digit on the beam before him.

With a great sigh and a clatter of iron, the dragons pressed back. Slightly.

I exhaled, and steadied my breath as the green drake's moistened rim hugged the sides of my tip -and just the tip-, trickles of warm oil sliding down my length. If I had to describe it, I'd say it was kind of like wrapping a melting cord around the head of my penis. Yes, if the reader hasn't clued in already: dragons are hot inside, and that includes their rear ends. I could feel the pulse in his tender flesh, and the tremors of his small muscle movements as he adjusted his tail, slinging it to the side almost at the feet of the man next to me in order to provide me better access to his vent. The smooth, cool scales of the tail's wide base pressed against my naked belly.

“Back," Natcytaryx growled (in Laonetian now, for whatever reason, perhaps to give them more practice with the language).

For a moment, the drake's outer ring resisted, squeezing tight against my head, hot just under the point of pain. Then, the shackled reptile ground back hard, and surrendered.

I entered him. A searing, oily heat throbbed snug around me with a heartbeat that wasn't my own.

“Ummf." The dragon jerked his muzzle and gave a tiny, high-pitched grunt. A line of steaming spittle flew from his maw. It sizzled as it hit the wooden overhead.

I could feel the ring of muscle spasming loosely around my shaft, just behind the tip, as the submitting dragon fought to keep his back exit relaxed and ready to receive the rest of me. I glanced down past the scaled lips of his vent to see his tailring stretched thin and taught, a quarter of the way down my length.

It had to have hurt, even with the oil. Despite that, other than his one initial grunt, only the faintest of hisses escaped the dragon's mighty jaws as I spread his undertail wide. It seemed that 'my' male had been decently broken-in, in body at least. Definitely better than the golden dragoness had. The female moaned loudly and batted a wing as her own rump was opened up, and I heard another sharp crack of leather on scale a moment later. She was a work in progress, I supposed.

“You alright, matey?" I whispered to the green dragon. I leaned forward over his back so that his folded wings hid my face from any onlookers, and also served to muffle the sounds of our conversation. “Sounded like it hurt."

“Yeah. A bit." He shot a cautious glance to where Natcytaryx was busy examining the golden-scaled female's hindquarters. “Won't be so bad, once we get going."

“You don't mind?" I asked, perhaps a bit too loudly.

The wyrm glanced in fear at the red drake, who, thankfully, was still occupied. “I don't like taking it up the tailvent from random strangers," he shot back at me, scowling indignantly, “if that's what you're asking."

“Sorry." I felt blood rush to my cheeks, and wished the ship would spring a hole beneath me. What a stupid, stupid thing to ask.

The drake's long snout cracked open, then closed again, like he wasn't quite sure what to say. His expression softened. “Don't be."

I stifled a gasp as he seized down on the end of my dick. A spurt of warm oil ran down the base of my shaft, his luscious muscles soft but deceptively strong. My legs wobbled for the second or so that he hugged me, and my heart beat double-time. The dragon relaxed once more, and cocked the side of his frill. “Now stop talking, you clown, before we get in trouble."

“Aye." I glanced down. “If I'm getting close again . . ." I tapped the inside of his ankle with my foot, hoping he'd get the message.

The dragon dipped his snout in the tiniest of nods. His front claws skittered for a moment on the hardwood as he stretched his forelegs up and out, and he dutifully gripped the deck in preparation for what wouldn't be his first harsh breeding.

Natcytaryx had finished with the golden dragoness by then. He growled a few final words to her in Draconic. She huffed a steaming cloud and dipped her head, opening her jaws and presenting her tongue, over which the red drake fitted a steel muzzle and felt gag. He snapped it shut, took up the chain attached to the muzzle's underside, and tossed it to Rossell. Then, he returned to his hammock.

“Let's get this ssstarted then," Natcytaryx said, ropes squeaking under his weight. He gurgled something in his own language.

Timber and dragon groaned as one, as the three pleasure slaves impaled themselves on the men behind them. The green male's heavy tailbase shoved back hard against my chest, and I felt his trembling ring slide down my cock. Behind the tight tailring followed the looser, throbbing heat of the dragon's innards, which lightly caressed me deeper within. And yet deeper.

The receiving dragon hissed through gritted teeth and shifted his hips as he felt my full length, every last sweaty inch of it, glide into his oiled pussy. He didn't hesitate, of course, not even as he pushed himself right to the hilt. A cute, wide-eyed drake like this one took whatever his man gave him, and did so without complaint.

On the far side, the muzzled female huffed a cloud of smoke and slathered a forked tongue under her bit as a human cock breached the filthy depths of her undertail: not for the first time and certainly not for the last. To my sympathetic relief, I did notice she'd managed to keep her wings still and hold in her yelping.

Beside her, the black dragoness gave a masculine grunt, frills out and eyes afire. She wiggled her rump proudly once she was all the way back, her shapely button stretched wide and tight under her tail, Pérès' balls flush against her empty, somewhat lopsided vagina. The young 'ness clearly knew which of her holes was fit for use, and she was already bracing her hind legs, more than ready to take another of the thrice-daily anal matings she'd been getting since her purchase.

As for the blue dragoness? Well, I say 'dragoness' because he squeaked a fair bit higher in pitch than either of the females when his stretched-out pucker kissed my belly. And I say 'blue' because that was the colour every last scale on his body turned to, right to the tips of his wings, once I was fully within him. Oh, he clenched and blushed like something else once he'd been claimed to the hilt, tail up and collared, lined up wing-to-wing with two panting females. I mean, the whole thing made me feel damned awkward, but objectively speaking he fit the part quite well.

Anyway, neither she-dragon wasted any time putting her pretty little tailstar to the use it had been hatched for. I heard groans from the men beside me, and the soft jingle of chains, as the female slaves began to work themselves back and forth.

Not to be outdone, 'my' drake set his hind feet, shot me a determined look, and slung his belly low. The movement forced my cock tight against the soft upper wall of his rectal passage, and my head jammed snug against the slight downward curve that all male dragons had deep within.

We both gasped.

Then, he pulled his hindquarters down and away. I felt every last sizzling inch of the dragon's slickened insides glide along the top of my dick, each throb and twitch of his heartbeat, while his powerful hind-muscles gripped down and tugged at my length until only my head remained inside him. Then, hips and belly almost to the deck, plump rim hugging my tip, the serpentine creature undulated his entire body to reverse the motion, pressing into me.

“Mmm. Mm-mmm!" The drake let out a halting moan as he sunk back around me. I felt the firebreather's passage lightly stroke my length until my head pressed snug against the inner curve. He whined softly as the sensitive flesh of his inner vent met my belly with a muted plupp, and the rough outer lips of his cloaca kissed my abdomen yet again. He bowed his head, and chuffed.

Then, he slung himself down, and away.

And up, and back.

Plupp. Plupp. Plupp.

The dragon settled into a moderately-paced fuck, rocking back and forth and rolling his long blue-green body like a wave on the sea. Chains danced lazily above him, chiming in time with those of the females. He'd been taken in this way many times before, I had no doubt, and though he did whimper quite a bit at my greater-than-usual size each time he slapped back into me, he seemed to manage it all right.

He was managing better than I was, in any case. I felt my legs weaken almost immediately, and I braced myself against the wall behind me. I tried not to make any noises louder than his, which wasn't easy. The dragon gripped my cockbase like a velvet gauntlet and massaged my whole length, over and over, his tight tailring hugging and caressing my cock-top each time his searing insides pulled away.

As was expected, the submissive male kept his crested neck turned, frills low, sharp muzzle presented obediently to the rear for my admiration. The watery yellow orbs under his ridged brows fixed me with a determined gaze, widening, but not once faltering, each time the glistening wrinkles of his hole patted against my belly.

That was the way they were trained, you see. When it came to regular old vaginal no one seemed to care much, but it was thought attractive for a pleasure-dragon to present its face and look its owner straight in the eye while it was made to submit to more degrading forms of intercourse.

As I've said before, that was the worst part for me. I'd like to tell you that it was easier with this green drake, having spoken to him, however briefly, but somehow it made it even harder.

“Psst. Clown." The dragon's ragged, breathy whisper brought me back to my situation. “Are you -uhh!- alright?"

Well, I thought, shiver me fucking timbers. He must have seen my expression.

“Ah- aye," I whispered, trying to keep my voice steady as his plump exit slowly tugged down my shaft. “y-you?"

The wyrm whimpered as he brought himself back to the hilt, the unscaled flesh of his inner vent taut and warm against my belly. Teeth flashed in the corner of his maw. “Heh. You're a -ummff!- pain in the ass."

It was easier to look at him after that.

Naturally, the leisurely, deliberate pace we started out with wasn't all we did. A dragon's anal opening was well-suited for sex: soft, comfortable, but at the same time, thick and tough, and able to accept a lot of punishment. And these weren't just any dragons. These three wyrms had top-tier rumps that were expected to be able to take the kind of ruthless pounding that even others of their kind couldn't. And that, dear reader, is exactly what we practiced. I will do my best to describe the scene as it was a few minutes later.

Over on the left, the golden dragoness had her pretty eyes wide, her tongue out over her gag, and was getting her gorgeous asshole railed like only a slave's ever could be. From where I was, I could actually hear the rapid ploploplop of the coxswain's flesh striking the creature's slack pucker each time she slammed her scaly haunches back against him, even over the furious chiming of the running chains. Twin tendrils of smoke rose from her nostrils, her muzzle-chain swinging wildly between her piping snout and Rossell's clenched hand.

The rocking, undulating reptile moaned brokenly at each hard slap into her most private, most hidden, most shameful of places. Nonetheless, she pressed back into her breeding as just a young slave-dragoness was expected to, holding her vent wide open and angling her body and legs to practice providing any onlookers a good look at her vacant eggslot. I never really understood the attraction of that, but some in Laonetia enjoyed watching a 'ness twitch and drip futilely while she got rammed up the tail.

I guessed she was a recent capture, but make no mistake: Natcytaryx had trained her well. A few weeks into her new life and the novice pleasure-dragoness could already take a mating in the upper hole as sloppily as other 'nesses could take it in the lower, with only a couple fresh stripes on the tail to show for it. A bit of jewellery on her headfrills, plus a few rings to beautify her snatch, and she'd make for a competent enough anal-only specialist.

At the centre though, the black-scaled she-dragon was showing her how it was done. The scaly slut rolled her haunches smooth as a morning ripple, working her guts at a merciless pace that had taken weeks to break her to, her mighty head thrown high and back with a rakish skew to her frills. Yes, I definitely remembered her now: the fiery-eyed female had been a virgin when we'd taken her on (still was, in a technical sense), and she'd bellowed like something else the first few times she'd had her tail hugged. Now, the only noises that came from her lolling maw were low, rumbling moans: pleasure and pain, pride and shame, submission and rebellion, all melded together in a positively filthy sound that you never really got to hear from a dragoness who was getting her cunt spread.

She didn't appear to share any of her golden-scaled neighbor's delusions over how attractive that cunt was to the eye, either. I couldn't help but notice that once she'd gotten to work, she'd let her lower vent-lip close up a bit, the pink of her forgotten gash tucked almost carelessly behind it while her anus remained exposed and available for breeding.

“Is that cock up your eggslot? No? Then get that snout down. Lower." Natcytaryx lifted his nose and puffed. “Remember my demonstrations with the Captain. We are always to show proper humility when a human mounts us, and that goes double for an eggless shitvent-slut like you." The red drake watched as the lower-ranking slave changed her posture, still rocking back onto Pérès at a breakneck pace, grunting in time with the wet plaps to her rear. “There, that'sss better. Keep that tail hiked. Up, up, nice and high. Relax and let him in. Don't clench when you push back or you'll wear yourself out. Good, good." He sneered and flicked his tongue, a glint to his wicked eye. “Not bad, not bad at all, for a female. Ssseen worse. One stroke, Mister Pérès."

The 'ness let out a stomach-jiggling grunt as the leather dropped, though her eyes shone no less brightly than the fresh line on her ebony tailbase. That was just about the highest praise Natcytaryx ever gave.

Scurvy seasalt, I remember thinking, give the lass a break, she's doing her best.

Anyway, I'm sure the reader is most interested in what I and the green drake were up to. Now, the midnight dragoness might have been putting on an impressive show for Natcytaryx, but 'my' dragon was no amateur. What he lacked in speed and smoothness he made up for in raw power, cramming himself around me straight to the hilt, all-the-way-in, all-the-way-out, making full use of his inner curve to pummel my cock with the poise of a seasoned ventwhore. Yes, I was completely sure now. There was no way my acquaintance was new to lifting his tail. Not a shrimp's chance in the desert.

The green dragon was in his element all right, frills low, snout flushed ocean-blue, a rope of steam thin as twine rising from his nostrils as he gave me all his vent could offer. There was no point trying to talk to him now. I don't even think I could have if I'd tried: I was starting to fear I'd have to give him the signal to slow down. I won't lie: he really did feel wondrous, though it was always a bit disconcerting to have such a large creature throw back on me. A tad less finesse and the dragon's hindquarters could have splattered me over the bulkhead like spilled skilly.

“Told you I- guhh- knew what I was d-doing," he whispered, with a smug puff, the next time Natcytaryx was far enough away. “Not -oof- joking any more, huh c-clown?"

I think I might have moaned, or something. Neptune's beard, how the dragon could still chat while he was getting hammered like a stuck nail was beyond me.

The next time I looked down though, I noticed that something had gone wrong. Very wrong. Dangerously wrong. And, in a matter of seconds, at least one of the other five pairs of eyes in that cabin was going to start noticing too.

I delivered a swift tap to my scaly partner's ankle, my foot shaking so hard I thought I'd go keel-up.

Give me a response, you dock-swabbing lizard, I thought. Give me a response, for fuck's sake!

The dragon's gaze was half-lidded, an oddly contented look on his reptilian features.

I gave him a second, harder kick.

His eyes snapped wide.

I nodded downwards as furtively as I could.

He bared his teeth, and slowed to a rolling grind. “Guhh! Already?"

“Not me," I hissed back, “you!"

Now, dear reader, you must understand that the problem wasn't that the drake had dropped all the way out. No, that was expected. It wasn't even that the spire of unused dragonflesh wagging below my cock was rigid as a bowsprit. That was worrisome, for sure, and worth a few stripes, but it was not nearly as concerning as the dark spot on the plank below it. Both issues were practically trivial compared to the thin string of precum which whipped about in between, sparkling with beads of fire in the lamplight.

A lax owner might allow that, but an overseer like Natcytaryx sure as fucking firebreath woudn't. And he wasn't the only one to worry about. I glanced to the side, cold sweat on my forehead. Rossell and Pérès were right there. Surely they'd see it as well. I had a sudden, much unwanted vision of a very, very slippery deck.

“W-what do I do?" the dragon breathed, eyes big as melons.

“Aw, fuck matey," I whispered back, veins pounding, trying to keep the panic out of my own voice. “Aren't you supposed to be the expert?"

“This doesn't happen-"

“Think of something boring."

“Not. Working."

“Disgusting then. Think of something disgusting. No, boring and disgusting. Like- like politics."

The dragon made a desperate squeak. “Now you're going soft!"

I groaned in horror. “That's because I thought of it."

“You idiot."

“Missster Bernat."

I froze, my blood even colder than that of the individual who had addressed me. That I didn't wilt like a dead eel then and there was a testament to the sheer skill of the lithe, aquamarine drake still dutifully grinding his snug tailvent back on me, though Neptune only knew how he managed it. I made a mental note to compliment him on that later if I got the chance, though I wasn't sure how he'd take it.

Natcytaryx's hammock creaked as its occupant slid off it, his forelimbs landing with a thump on the deck, hind legs following a moment later. The red dragon's reptilian body swung from side to side as he padded over to stand in front of his shackled kin, his snout brushing the green male's collar. “Are you two having a conversation?" he rasped, fixing me with a vicious glare. “A little chit-chat? Discussing the weather, are you?"

I gave him the most confused look I could fake, pressing my loins as close to the green dragon's rump as I dared, anything to hide what was going on beneath. “D-don't savvy what you're talking about, skyclaw."

Natcytaryx's brow ridges hardened. “Is that ssso?"

The palm of my hand went slick with sweat. I could feel it dribbling down over the whip still gripped within. By Neptune, if he made me use it…

All of a sudden, Natcytaryx reared up and planted his forequarters on the green drake's back. I caught a momentary glimpse of a whole three feet of ridged dragonflesh, swinging greedily from a gap in the overseer's garment. My partner gave me a resigned look, then, without needing to be told, faced forward and tucked his head below Natcytaryx's belly. I couldn't see what was going on down there, but a lurid slurping told me all I needed to know.

“Well, Missster Bernat," The First Mate rasped, his crimson snout close enough to kiss. “I certainly hope nothing untoward was going on. You're here to test the merchandise, not get friendly with it."

“No, no, I mean aye-"

“And as for you," Natcytaryx said, turning his flexible neck to the suckling sounds beneath his hind legs, “the only thing roughfoot scum like this should say to you is 'yes skyclaw,' or 'no, skyclaw'. Preferably the former." The red dragon followed the remark with a sharp thrust.

“Grrrk!"

I could feel the green drake trembling and clenching as he got spit from both ends, rolling his body back onto my dick and forth onto Natcytaryx's. By Neptune, what a hero: the poor lizard had had enough trouble when he'd blown me, and it must have been a real struggle for him to eat such an enormous pole of dragoncock, especially while getting his tailhole resized at the same time.

Thankfully, Natcytaryx didn't stay in his snout for very long. With a final sharp thrust, he slid from my gasping partner's front with a wet thump and padded over to the black-scaled female, muttering something disappointedly in Draconic. The very instant he mounted her forequarters, the fiery-eyed dragoness gaped her maw and took him right to the throat. A brief snoutfuck later and she was gulping down every last ounce of an absolutely massive load, even as her shithole got rutted like the loosest, most fertile cunt.

“Phew." The green dragon looked back at me with a relieved expression.

“That was close," I whispered.

We'd gotten clean away with it, I thought. We really had. Thank Neptune, the red bastard hadn't noticed!

“'Discussing the weather?'" the dragon mouthed, a mocking tilt to his frills.

“'A little chit-chat?'" I mouthed back.

“What a dickhead."

“Harr, you'd know."

“Pfff." The reptile rolled his eyes, widening his stance, and picked up his pace with a nice, meaty slap.

Anyway, soon it was clear that all three of us sailors were on our last legs, and I mean that literally. I could barely stand my feet were shaking so hard, and my thighs burned like something else, though that might just have been the rash from my partner's hind-scales. I was close. By Davy Jones, I was close, and I wasn't the only one. By then both dragonesses had already squirted humiliating orgasms all over the planking, which was fine, since cumming from anal was considered an acceptably submissive act on the part of a she-dragon. Few could manage it in any case, unlike drakes, who invariably went off like primed cannons if you hit the right spot. Or so I heard.

Speaking of which…

“Let'sss conclude, shall we?" Natcytaryx finished humping his spent shaft into the midnight ness's gullet, and rapped a foreclaw to the deck.

The singing of chains finally quieted. The three pleasure-dragons waited, frills down, ready to be told in what manner they would practice receiving what they'd worked for. This, dear reader, would be the only part of the training where we'd be 'active', so to speak. A dragon didn't decide when it got its fill. Its man did.

At Natcytaryx's instructions, Rossell pulled out of the golden dragoness's ravaged, beet-red anus. She lifted her muzzle from the deck, presented it, and took the coxswain's load across the snout. The reptile blinked and snorted a jet of steam as a second spurt painted the spiny crest above her eyes. Ropes of human cum hung from her gag and bit, though she knew better than to lick it off without being told to.

“Mmmm, that'sss a good whore," Natcytaryx rumbled. “Frills up, head up, show it off. You're a performer. Never forget that."

The black-scaled 'ness was next. Pérès took his cock out of the proud female's widened tailhole with an audible pop, and managed to shoot a couple strings straight down her gape before it closed once more, snug and tight and ready for her next use. The rest of the spunk ended up painting the thick wrinkles of her button, dribbling down over her weeping vagina and dangling in gobs over her cloacal lip.

“Keep that tail in the air," Natcytaryx grated. “Let him sssee it."

When our turn came, there wasn't much point listening for Natcytaryx's input. The custom was well-established when it was a male dragon with his tail up, and my scaly partner knew it as well as I did. As a reminder that he had the same subordinate sexual status of a dragoness, he would almost always be expected to take the load deep in his belly. And, sure enough, that was exactly how the green drake got it.

There wasn't much else for it, dear reader. I hugged his tail, set my stance, and finished with a few firm pumps. The dragon's claws squeaked on the planking, and his chains clinked ever so slightly. Only faintest of whines escaped from his clenched maw as he touched his bluing snout to the deck. His worked-in cunt clamped down, keeping my cock in place while I held him to his female role and ground every last drop of my load up his sopping, barren undertail.

The dragon gave me a wry look as I pulled out of him, leaving a rope of cum dangling from his gaped tailstar down over his cockslit. He perked his snout. “Not so bad," he mouthed, and winked reassuringly, though he panted and blushed something fierce.

I risked a quick pat on his flank, though I couldn't quite meet his eyes.

Natcytaryx puffed, seemingly unaware of the exchange. “Hmph. Three years in a brothel and you ssstill can't manage a 'purr' when you're filled. Well, at least second-hand tailwhores still go for a few ducats in the outer islands." The First Mate flicked a speck of wood dust from his garment. “Ssseems we're done here." He waved a claw. “Out."

And that was that.

Pérès and Rossell shuffled to the hatch, hiking their trousers. I followed, shakily, my head down, the guilty euphoria of orgasm already melting into a dreary puddle of regret. Thank Neptune that's over, I remember thinking to myself. Time for some grog. Minus the lime. I stabbed the braided dragonwhip back into its holder.

“Where are you going, Missster Bernat?" Natcytaryx's voice was soft as mink. “We need to talk."

I stopped, still facing the hatch, like a lad caught in his schoolmaster's wine cellar. Pérès gave me a sympathetic shrug and ducked out of the cabin, leaving me alone with the four dragons.

The red drake rumbled like faraway thunder. “Do you think I didn't notice what you were up to?" His jaws brushed my shoulder, his blistering breath on my cheek. “Do you think I cracked my shell yesterday?"

My mouth went dry as a desert island. I tried to speak. Nothing came out but a strangled croak.

“It was my fault," came a barely audible whisper from across the room.

Both I and Natcytaryx must have jumped a good inch off the planking. The red drake's horns just about smacked into the overhead. He swung around, nose piping with fury. “Who sssaid that?"

The green drake stared him down. “I spoke to the roughfoot first," he said, just as quietly as before. “He was only doing what I was telling him. Leave him alone, I'll take the stripes for it."

No, shut up, I thought, you stupid landlubber of a dragon. Scurvy scuttling seacrabs, he was only going to make things worse for both of us.

“I'll deal with you later," Natcytaryx rasped back at him. The First Mate turned and fixed me with his icy blue eyes. “Bernat, you're fired."

It took me a few moments to digest what I had heard. I must have stood there for a good five or six seconds, with my mouth wide as a whale shark's, before I finally stammered a response.

“But my contract was for-"

“Don't worry." Natcytaryx tilted his head and purred in the least reassuring manner possible. “You'll get every last ducat once we hit port." The dragon ran a crimson paw along his golden collar. “Oh, just don't expect to do any more sssailing any time soon. My master knows every merchant captain in Laonetia, and I'm sure he'll feel professionally obligated to warn them about any roughfoot seascum who like to help the merchandise cheat at training." His long face split into a wicked leer. “I'm sure a man of your sophissstication and means has other options. Perhaps you could take up dentistry?"

By Davy Jones' rotten legs, what an asshole.

“How do you do it?" I growled at him, shaking with rage and humiliation, my vision clouded as red as his scales. I didn't care any more. I was going to give that hunk of boot leather a piece of my mind. I looked at the trio of shackled dragons, then back at Natcytaryx. “I'd rather die than do what you do."

For the first time since I had been unlucky enough to meet him, all those long voyages ago, the crimson fiend betrayed the tiniest, ghostliest hint of an emotion I'd never thought I'd see on him: shame. At least, I think he did, for the expression lasted less than the blink of an eye before he was back to his usual scowl.

“You don't know dragons, Mister Bernat. You don't know dragons at all." Natcytaryx looked past me. The swinging lanterns sent wild shadows flickering over gold, ebony and emerald. “Every one of those monsters would do far worse to you if the positions were reversed. They'd cook you finger by finger, limb by limb, and eat you alive while you screamed. Your pity is wasted on them." The scales below his sky-blue eyes wrinkled ever so slightly, and his gaze lengthened by a hundred miles. “Dragons are cruel, Mister Bernat."

The green drake shrunk, his wings over his face.

Natcytaryx's tail came down onto the decking with a mighty crack. “Now get out of my sssight."

I ducked through the bulkhead and scurried out of there like a singed rat, without even the heart to steal a final glance at the green dragon. I couldn't look at him. I never could look at them.

A pewter jar awaited me at my berth, tucked behind my crewman's chest. A half pint of rum, neat and undiluted, pooled together from the rest of the mens' rations. Those chosen for the First Mate's business always got one. I hopped up into my hammock, tipped the jug of burning forgetfulness down my throat, and hated myself.

[Editor's note: thus ends the first part of Mister Bernat's memoir. The second will be published in Dragon Ship: Part II, soon to available at Laonetian Republican Press, and in Draconic translation at Port Nou Press. The editor apologizes profusely for leaving the reader with such a dismal state of affairs: one may be assured that the story ends in a satisfactory manner for both Mister Bernat and the green dragon!]