FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Fatuum, Lord of the Seventh Peak, roared his victory bellow, the reverberations of his mighty screech endowed with sufficient power to cleave free the icy façade of his mountain. He observed the subsequent avalanche with cold satisfaction, as if the thunderous rumble of it were applause for his preening, acknowledgement of his flawless triumph.

The lofty perch of his overlook had served as battleground, the canvas framed by the entrance of his vast Lair a pristine view of the sprawling Savage Wilds, barbarous lands beset by the undulating warp of Elemental Chaos. Though to him, the ruin of ancient Magic broken across the world was naught but a pretty lightshow, and the struggles of the warring mortals that dwelt there entirely beneath him. What care had he for those small creatures that crawled upon the earth when his was an existence which bordered upon Godhood?

His hoard was the greatest of the draconic fiefdoms scattering the Black Mountains, his treasure flowed in rivers of gold, and lakes of jewels, presided over by a vast slave army of worshipful Kobold. Their subservience pleased him. Fatuum liked it when the petty mortals knew their place, and if he was forced to acknowledge that these lesser creatures existed at all, then it was only proper that they press their heads to the floor in joyful reverence when graced with the majesty of his presence.

Unlike the head that was currently being crushed into the polished stone of his porch by his own clawed foot. Fatuum twisted his heel and drew from the defeated male a pained whine, the stuttering ululations an appropriate outcry for the defeated, hopeless and pathetic. He had expected more from his blood. Yes, this whelp was one of his, he knew that by scent and verified it by Magic, though the Lord of the Seventh Peak had only the vaguest recollection of the mother. A shapely thing, that much he remembered at least; she had proved fine entertainment, with more allure than many of his conquests of late.

In the Fortune Dragon pinned beneath him, he observed a similar figure. Jade scaled and armoured in an assortment of Magic Items, lorica for a gauntlet, a Giant’s cuisse for a vambrace, the barding of a Gryphon for a gorget, and soft underbelly shielded by a waistcoat of liquified gold. His proud horns were festooned with rings and brooches, his wings reinforced by the battlestandards of long-fallen nations, and the glaive of an ancient Hero affixed to his tail. Each was a treasure endowed with powerful enchantments, and all had proved worthless in the face of his wrath.

The beaten had no right to such trophies, and their presence shrouded from Fatuum the nostalgic form of that old memory; and so, he released the broken male from the crushing pin of his foot and stripped the stunned whelp of his equipment, casting the artefacts aside to better appraise his defeated challenger.

The dawnlight drew from his foe’s verdant hide a soft glimmer far more lovely than the gold with which he had encased himself. The armour plate of his scales was only lightly defined, lacking the rigidity appropriate for a battle-hardened male, his body was soft and yielding to the press of his sire’s mighty claw. White horns gleamed, polished to perfection, claws and fangs clean and sharpened, the scutes of his haunches supple with care. Such graceful figure was more appropriate to a Mage, or for a breeding Dragoness, not for a usurper Warrior come to claim his legacy.

Though, Fatuum appreciated such vanity. It was proper for a Dragon, after all. His memory was returning, yes, this one’s mother enjoyed such things as well. She would have the Kobold slaves rub her down with scented oils frequently to keep her natural armour pliable, and it was by the lubrication of those same concoctions that he had visited upon her the humiliation of being bred in the wrong hole. He’d kept her as a plaything for several days, finding her egotism rather amusing to tear to pieces, though ultimately, she was cast aside as any other Dragoness would be after his enjoyment had run its course, and he was sure that his seed had taken root.

“Are you come to avenge your mother’s dignity, whelp?” He pondered, asking the question more of himself than the lesser male he had now again pinned beneath his heel, the crush of his clawed foot now set upon the prone Dragon’s chest, “I think not. You did not fight with the spirit of such lofty cause. No, you are naught but a fool come here to plunder my mountain of treasure. Or perhaps you thought to claim my Lair for your own?”

The lesser male squirmed beneath him, and it called to Fatuum’s scaled lips a sadistic grin. His guess was indeed accurate – though it would perhaps be a little misleading to call it a guess. Fatuum was an Omen Dragon, gifted with the foretelling of prophecy. Naught could escape his sight, no thought beyond his reading, and no attack outside of his predictions. Fate twisted to align with his intent, and misfortune dogged his enemies. Thus, was the terrible might of Fatuum, and it vexed him that this whelp had so greatly underestimated his legend as to dare challenge him.

Death was the typical outcome. But the Lord of the Seventh Peak imagined that death would be far too meagre a punishment for so great a crime as wasting his time with this meaningless fight. A far grander humiliation would better suit so vain an opponent. Dragons were hearty creatures, and despite the thorough beating that he had given this whelp, they had already almost fully recovered, now looking up at him with proper clarity in their eyes. Naturally, he decided to torment his prey, “What is your name, fool?”

The Fortune Dragon wore a mixed expression of terror and defiance, only now truly able to behold his sire in full. Fatuum was an entire size category larger than him, a vast Dragon of azure scale with antlers, claws, and whiskers of regal gold. He wore no equipment, for he considered no mortal craft to be worthy of him, and was suspicious of any Godly relic to be chanced upon (and those meddlesome Duodecim had placed quite a few in his path over the centuries). He boasted a musculature beyond the typically lithe form of an Omen Dragon, and the lattice of gold woven into his being granted him remarkable dexterity, his forelimbs ended in appendages more akin to hands than the grand paws of more feral kin. This was an Archdragon which could stand upright if he so desired, and perhaps even wield a sword were there a single weapon in this whole world that was worthy of him.

“I… am Viridise…” The compression of his chest made speaking difficult, but the force of the power holding his life in hand demanded that he answer, “Captain… of the Fifth Peak… Servant of…-argh!?”

Fatuum rumbled his dissatisfaction, “I care not for your meaningless titles.” A small shove imposed his weight onto the lesser male and crushed the declaration from him, “Viridise, yes? It feels the sort of name that she would pick for you. That you have not outgrown it and claimed something greater in your century of life demonstrates well the limits of your potential.” He snorted, exchanging annoyance for amusement, “Yes. Your challenge was neither vengeance nor calculated. Simply the desperate move of a failure hoping to validate their existence. It is irksome that my blood flows through the veins of such a pathetic example of dragonkind…”

The Fortune Dragon cringed. He knew well that this was his sire, and of his own limitations. He had hoped that equipping himself with a few pieces of his Dragonflight Leader’s armoury would be enough to win him this fight, but now those relics were stripped of him, precious treasures taken without permission now added to the hoard of a rival. Should he return home now in disgrace, only death awaited him. If Fatuum were to spare him, then the best that he could hope for would be to flee south, beyond the gauntlet of Swiftpass and into the Kingdom of Dest, where questing Knights would surely hunt him as a reaving Dragon. His life was effectively over, but his own draconic pride demanded that he cling to it all the same.

Fatuum invoked the subtle Magics of his race to look into the mind of his quarry, finding the turmoil within a delightful thing to witness. This was the world playing out as it should, a failure of a Dragon making one final effort to redeem himself, and in defeat left with no destiny but one of ruin. He could see the fate of Viridise, the future which awaited him after his desperate flight beyond the Black Mountains, and a humiliating end at the hands of mere mortals. His wings would be the sails of a ship, his blood and organs used for Alchemy, claws made into daggers, bones into spears, and his skull mounted upon the wall of some petty noble.

He would have had no problem with allowing things to proceed in accordance with fate, had this whelp’s effeminate form not reminded him of those distant days of passion shared with that vain Dragoness, a female almost as narcissistic as he was. Her arrogance is what made his domination of her so satisfying. Well, such self-aggrandising pride was the right of any dragonkin, and that this whelp shared in his mother’s hubris was not without allure. To tear it all down would prove quite an entertaining diversion from his usual meditations.

So, he weighed his options, envisioning the moves that he could make in this moment, and observing the subsequent fates to their conclusions. Fatuum was not a creature without desires, and it had been some decades since he had enjoyed the services of anything but a mob of horny Kobold; and as much as he found their worship adequate pleasure, there was no substitute for a true Dragon. He smirked as the outline of a lewd destiny blossomed into existence inside of his mind, and with authority appropriate to the victor of their fight, he chose to force that future onto his son.

“You are so weak. So pathetic. It is hard for me to tell if you are male or female.” The clenching of teeth below him and shamefaced look told Fatuum that he had pointed out something which the lesser male had doubtless heard before. That knowledge only deepened his grin into a lecherous smile, “When I am challenged by a Dragon, I tear out his throat and cast his corpse into the valley for the barbarian tribes to pick clean. When I am challenged by a Dragoness, she is my toy until I tire of her, and then she flies free with a clutch of my eggs in her belly. Tell me, Viridise, fool whelp who dared to challenge the mighty Fatuum… which are you?”

His eyes widened. His sex was obvious, if not by sight, then by the tone of his voice, by scent, and by Magic. A Dragoness was lesser than a Dragon, and to declare himself as one in defence of his life would be a humiliation so grand that it may be better to die. So deep was the pride of the Black Mountain Dragonkin. The Fortune Dragon heaved against the weight of his sire, a fruitless effort to free himself which earned him only the twist of the heel which slammed down and pinned his core to the frosted stone beneath him. His voice quivered, “I am… your blood… am I not owed… respect?” Viridise gasped out the words.

“Respect?” The Omen Dragon responded coldly, “You surrendered the right to be treated as my guest when you greeted me upon my porch not with a gift of treasure and the bowing of your head, but with your Breath Weapon. I see now not my blooded hatchling, but a defeated foe unworthy of mercy.” His claws pricked at his son’s underbelly as he allowed his foot to rake down slowly, leaving bloody furrows in its wake and the threat of a brutal disembowelment, “I ask again, and for the last time. Fool whelp. Foul invader. Lesser being. Be you Dragon, or Dragoness?”

Viridise scrunched up his face in dismay. Even a lowly Kobold had some measure of draconic pride, that vital arrogance integral to all species of Dragonkin, and to surrender it would be the ultimate disgrace. How could he have been so foolish as to pick this fight? Better to have continued to live bowing and scraping below his Dragonflight Leader atop the Fifth Peak than be forced to debase himself by playing the part of a female. To live would be to do so with a stain upon his Soul, one which would never wipe clean, a defect which any other Dragon would be intrinsically aware of. Lesser being. He would be exactly as his father called him to all kin, a craven creature that would abandon his pride as a male to keep his life.

“I…” It took great effort to compel his tongue to obey his will, “am… a Dragoness…”

The claws upon his belly flexed with malicious intent, “Louder.” Fatuum commanded with sadistic glee, “Louder. Daughter.”

The Fortune Dragon squirmed pathetically, his tail lashing, chest shoving upwards, but his strength was meagre in comparison to the might of his sire. He could feel that dark weight upon his ego, the metaphysical wound that came with defying his nature as a proud Dragon. And yet, he would not escape without speaking the words with conviction, “I…” The claws again flexed, and that was the final encouragement required of him, “I am a Dragoness!”

“Yes, you are.” Fatuum affirmed, “To have cunt rather than cock between your legs is no great debasement. There are plenty of dominant females out there. It is the act of capitulation which makes you a lesser being.” He laughed, his voice a hollow mockery of mirth, “A Dragoness in surrender is nothing but an egg factory, a breeding sow to be owned and impregnated until her Master tires of her – but in that she retains some merit. To bear young is her biological impetus. Be joyful, Daughter. For were you a male bowing so willingly, it would be with no purpose other than pleasure, making you a tail-raising bitch. Absent pride, absent ambition, absent power. Such a creature could not be acknowledged as a Dragon.”

Fatuum was measured in his rhetoric, here his prelude to the erosion of his son’s dignity. His tone was dry and uncaring, “It is such wilful surrender which makes one the lowest of all Dragonkin, regardless of sex. Even the Kobold slaves have honour in their worship. To cast aside the virtues of pride and dignity which make us the grandest creatures of this Sphere is to be lower even than the barbarians.” He leered down, “Say it. You are glad that you are a Dragoness. For if you were a male then you could not be a Dragon.” And he allowed the pretence to continue, “Speak the words, Daughter.”

His body shook with shame and rage, “I am… glad that I am a female.” The cold glare of his sire demanded more, and he had no choice but to continue, “No male could submit like this… and still be called a Dragon.” His wings twitched beneath him, but it was no longer an attempt to free himself, but the cringe of seeking to be cloaked by them, “I’m sorry… please let me go…”

“Pathetic.” Fatuum made clear his scorn, “Already, you beg? Did you not come here with will steeled to usurp and slay me? Perhaps it would be better if you were a male after all, for one so shameless is not worthy to carry my eggs.” He saw in that declaration a brief glimmer of hope in the lesser male, which he allowed to linger for only a few heartbeats before smothering it, “Which is why I shall be dumping my essence beneath your tail.” The Omen Dragon smirked as despair again set in, “I am going to be rough with you, Viridise, my fool Daughter.”

He lifted his leg, releasing the prone Dragon from his grapple. And then everything went precisely as his predictions foretold.

Viridise immediately rolled onto his feet, sweeping his wings as he sprang towards the overlook ledge in hopes of making his escape, but there was no besting the strength and speed of his sire, the gap in Level was simply too great a gulf between them. Fatuum pounced, his weight landing upon his son’s back, the delicate looking lattice of gold about his wings proving strength far beyond appearance as it shielded them into a roll which placed both males on their side, smaller facing away from larger.

About his son’s chest, he had encircled an arm which pinned their forelimbs in the grapple of an embrace, wings trapped between them, and the entwining of his tail about that of the lesser male making the restraint complete. He’d a free arm, and far more dexterity in the hand-like paw at its end than most species of more ferally configured Dragons, and this he swept down the exposed belly of his conquest, his fangs nipping at the neck and shoulder presented before him.

“Let me go!” His captive demanded, “Father! I am of your blood! I am above such disgrace!”

Fatuum cared not for such pathetic mewling, and as a cacophony of hopeless begging echoed out over the mountainside, he took the opportunity to properly take measure of the lithe creature inside of his grasp, groping at him without shame. Each of his own paws, both fore and hind, sported a three-digited appendage, slender at his hands for grander dexterity, and akin to talons at his feet for traction and the tearing of his foes. It allowed him to make use of many tools and even engage in delicate finework like the turning of the pages of a book, without needing to change his form or have one of his Kobold slaves hold his tomes for him.

Now that dexterity was turned to making sport of his son.

He growled out a satisfied rumble, his chest reverberating gently. There was no taboo around incest for Dragonkin, and yet the thought of an impending breeding with his offspring still brought with it a distinctly debauched feeling. Well, it was not as if he could impregnate a male anyway, for their pretence did not alter reality. By Alchemy, he could have forced Viridise to become a Dragoness for true, yet doing such a thing would blunt the humiliation suffered by his conquest by pretending at being a female. Then again, how enormous would the shame be to having this fool whelp carry eggs for his sire? Perhaps that might be a thought worth dwelling on another time…

His questing paw found the slit it was seeking, the press of scales by which males sealed away their equipment, though even the master of prophecies was surprised to find that the yielding flesh had already parted, and inside his grasp was the first few inches of a hardening cock. This had exceeded the bounds of his prior predictions. Curious. So much so that Fatuum could not help but engage his Magic, and delve into the mind of the struggling whelp.

“Hahaha…” Now his mirth was genuine, and with it he concluded the farce, “You are a liar. My claws find not the grasping cunt of a Dragoness, but the cock of a male-bitch that is far more eager to be bred by his father than he allows himself to admit!”

“N-no! I’m…!” His ridged length had emerged now in full, sensitive to the touch of the grander male toying with him. From a pointed spade-like head, six jutting plates gave his exotic cock the look of an armoured limb, soft pink in colour, and from only a few pumps of his sire’s paw, already clear precum ran from the tip to slicken the motion. He could not help the humiliating moan which crawled up his throat, nor the slight shift of his hips into the unfamiliar pleasure.

A Dragoness’ cunt typically had quite low sensitivity, and as pleasure encouraged ovulation, males tended to sport quite varied and esoteric offerings between their legs. Depending upon the heritage, ridges, barbs, and even knots, were all on the table – and compared to the chimerical maleness which could be found on some Dragons, a neat row of womb-scraping ridges was actually quite plain. Since it took so much effort to impregnate a female, a male tended to cum hard and often, with especially copious orgasms, one of which Viridise was already well on his way towards, the opening salvo which would provide the lubrication of true rut.

This was a real surrender. Fatuum had gathered that much from the skimming of thoughts in which he had indulged, finding that this was not merely acceptance of the impending breeding, but something wilful. Being overpowered by a larger and stronger male had triggered some instinctual submission in Viridise, and as much as he denied it with his words, and squirmed away in desperation to escape, it made no less clear the vision which his sire had glimpsed inside of his mind. For one such as him, a failed warrior, a failed usurper, a failed male – this was his correct place.

“Fate plays out precisely as it should.” The Omen Dragon voiced his sagacity, “Yes. You are right to think as you do. Having discarded your draconic pride, this is what you are for.” The rumble of his satisfaction intensified, the feeling like victory, “You are no Dragoness. You are certainly no Dragon.” He gripped tightly the leaking cock in his palm, and with the squeeze he cut off the denials of the lesser male, “You’re a bitch. And from now on, you are my bitch. An owned toy that I shall keep for as long as you continue to amuse me. A lesser being, who pretends at being my Daughter. But worry not. I shall have you deny your manhood until that lie becomes close to truth!”

He pumped at the twitching cock in slow and powerful strokes, “I have been bored in my meditations of late. I do not imagine that it shall be a great loss to take some time from my schedule to see you properly trained. Perhaps if I display you as a slave, it shall start a fashion amongst our kin? It has been too long since last I visited a neighbouring Court, and it would do me well to grace the Lairs of my rivals with something to show off to them.” Fatuum mused idly, “Yes. I have always thought it a waste to slay those males that fail in challenge. Now that I lend it some thought, I realise: Why take your lives, when it is far more amusing to take your dignity and see you bred subservient? The ego of a Dragoness can withstand submission, for it is their nature to produce a clutch, but a male made to bow is broken forever. To make a show of you will be fine deterrent to others that may think to disturb my prophesying.”

Fatuum nipped at the Fortune Dragon’s neck, forcing the lesser creature cowed into silence to make his attention known with a small gasp of pleasured pain, “You do not hate the thought of it. I see that in your mind. A place and purpose. Though somewhat different to the one you imagined, it remains all that you have ever sought. From now on, you shall live for my pleasure. I have made that choice by my whim this day, and in it you have no right. Now, demonstrate your gratitude for my magnanimity… and show me how a bitch cums.”

That voice was poison. A deep and masculine rumble which reverberated through Viridise’s body, incomparable to his own lightly feminine tone. He didn’t understand it. His pride had been crushed, the life ruined already by his defeat to his father further desecrated in a surrender which denied his masculinity. He hated it. He struggled against it, fought to flee, cried out his nonconsent, and yet for some reason, the grapple of a larger, stronger male, the binding of a muscled arm, the musky scent of him, the roaming paw which ignored his every protestation and took what it pleased – the force which had made him submit compelled his cock to harden before touch had even come to it.

He'd cringed with shame, twisting away to hide his blush, but in doing so only better exposing his neck to his sire, and the wind of his breath and clip of his fangs made his body shiver. What was wrong with him? It was not uncommon for Dragonkin to form hierarchies, yet wilful submission was antithetical to what it meant to be a Dragon, grandest of all creatures. The powerful presence of his sire, his father who toyed with him, he described a world to which it would be so easy to surrender. A world which he should reject. And yet, some warped instinct told him that it was his father’s right to claim him in this way, and only proper that he allow it.

No, not merely allow it, but take joy in it.

“N-nooo…!” He whined pathetically, the remnants of his will coalescing in that wail of denial. But it was only with his words that he would not give his father the gratitude that was demanded of him, for he still reached a pitiful climax just as he was bid. Viridise was a virgin, and in his century of life had known no relief but his own muzzle. His Dragonflight Leader would not allow him to make use of the slave Kobold which specialised in pleasure, and in his weakness there was no prospective mate that would even glance at him. Perhaps that played some part in how quick to arousal he had been when the prospect of sex had taken root in his mind, even if his part was to be that of the yielding bitch.

This was the first orgasm that he had ever experienced at the hands of another, and the force of it had his twitching cock leap in his father’s paw, unloading thick and creamy ropes of steaming draconic seed. He was unable to hold back his moan, the pitch heightening further when that cumsoaked grasp continued to pump his defeated maleness, “Too much! Father! Please! Cease this humiliation, I beg you!”

Though, his sire showed no signs of relenting, accompanying the steady rhythm of masturbation with another nip at the line of neck and shoulder, hot breath in his ear, “That’s how a bitch cums. Not with the proud roar of a dominant male, or the grateful outcry of a seeded Dragoness. You bitchgasm in pathetic shudders, whining and whimpering and begging, your impotent cock emptied of essence, and the hole beneath it twitching with the need to be filled.”

Fatuum made his declarations entirely unilaterally, entertained that there was still some fight left in his son. The whelp was inexperienced and weak to pleasure, bowled over by the first touches of sexual contact, overpowered by a superior masculinity and feminised by the rhetoric forced upon him. The lesser male still struggled, but now the efforts were half-hearted, mere token gestures done in effort to shield what remained of his ego from collapsing. A look into his mind told the Omen Dragon that his son was now eager to be bred, and that was a thought which terrified the whelp.

And so it should. Fatuum was a solitary Dragon, with enough power to rule his fiefdom of subjugated Magical Beasts, Monster races, and slave Kobold without the need of a Dragonflight of peers about him. His engagement with the rival peaks was sporadic, and his visitors few; and he made a point of avoiding those nouveau riche fools fled of fallen Draconis-Eden. It had been decades since his last challenger, and a few more since his last Dragoness, and he hadn’t noticed the slow rising of a need which his Kobold devotees were not equipped to handle until he realised the vulgarity infiltrating his usually refined speech. His own lusts were taking hold of him, and much as he revelled in that release, he disliked as well the loss of control. From now on, he would no longer neglect himself. For the sake of retaining his own sense of mental clarity, he would probably keep this lowly male-bitch around for a while. Perhaps forever.

His son was much smaller than him, the size difference enough for the lesser male to be fully encapsulated by the greater, the gap in strength demonstrated by his grappling of the whelp with naught but his non-dominant arm. A little more pushing, and he would see this plaything reshaped, first in mind, and then in body.

“You are going to be bred until you crave it.” He murred into his son’s ear, “Over and over again. Until your insides have been bludgeoned into the shape of my cock so thoroughly that no Spell of healing will put you to rights.” He continued to pump the lesser male’s leaking masculinity, conscious of the small twitch which came in the wake of his words, “You will be trained to become hard at the sight of me, and raise your tail to take the proper mating position at my approach. You will bitchgasm, untouched, at the taste of my seed in your muzzle. And you will carry my essence within you when I empty my cock beneath your tail, so that all may see the mark of my ownership leaking down your thighs as you adorn my Lair, a pretty ornament to show off to my guests.”

“You will learn how I best enjoy my pleasures.” Fatuum lent further force to the masturbation, knowing that his son was already chasing a second unwilling orgasm, “You will practice the tending of my cock with your maw, how to ply your tongue against it, and to sublimate the reflexes of your throat that you may take me to the hilt. You shall commit to memory the rhythm of riding in my lap, back and forth, leaning away so that when you bitchgasm, it is only your own belly which is defiled by your impotent seed.”

He growled out his demands, “You will shape your bearing to my pleasing. Speaking to me in sweet words of deference, studying how best to entice me. The Kobold slaves that are now your peers shall teach you proper worship. Pleasure is now your sole purpose. Empty your head of all thoughts but those of my enjoyment. This shall be your sole ambition, your future as my male-bitch son, the failed Dragon on the brink of another orgasm to this shameful fantasy of submission! Now, surrender to me! Fool whelp! Lesser being! Daughter!”

“Father!”

Degraded and feminised, beaten and humiliated, his shuddering climax was yet another submission to the grander male that even now continued to mercilessly pump at the overstimulated ornament of his impotent cock. Impotent not for any defect in his seed, but because through this encounter alone, Viridise had come to acknowledge that his maleness would never fulfil its purpose of impregnating a female. His heated essence steamed as it leaked beyond his father’s grasp to pool upon the frosted stone beneath them. That was where the essence of a bitch belonged. Upon the floor, across his belly, or perhaps inside his own muzzle.

Viridise flinched away from that terrible thought of submission. The allure of it was like a sickness spreading through his body, a heat in his core quite unlike normal arousal. It was a want for something, a surrender that the Dragons of the Black Mountains looked upon with pure contempt, and his undertail twitched for the desire of it, his half-spent cock throbbed for that grander release. It made his cheeks flush with shame, his expression caught between pleasure and humiliation, lust and defeat.

His father’s prophecy of his future as an owned male-bitch had been the fantasy which had fuelled his orgasm, but what was most ruinous of all was the feminisation of being treated as if he were not son but daughter even when his dragonhood were in the grasping paw of the one denying his masculinity. Viridise was undeniably male, and it shocked him to find that the warping of his identity was so arousing to him. To be so under the sway of his sire, that the reality of his existence was being overwritten. To be forced to pretend at being a Dragoness, raising his tail as a male-bitch that begged for the cock of his better while his own streamed useless beneath him – there could be no greater shame, no grander torment, an absolute humiliation.

Why? Now that his pride was broken, it was as if a seal had been lifted, and the thought of falling further still, degraded to a lesser being, lower than the slave Kobold, lower even than those barbarian Mortals upon the twisted plains below, it made him whine and squirm in his sire’s grasp. Reality was indeed setting in. There was no escape for Viridise. This grander male was going to ruin him forever, and the consequences of his failed challenge would be to live out his life as a devoted cocksleeve to his own father, a pretty little thing to be trotted out and shown off when real males came to greet his sire in conference.

He moaned out hopelessly. Really? He had imagined himself as a ‘pretty little thing’? A vision of that version of himself flashed before his eyes, and his sire affirmed, “Yes. I shall dress you up exactly like that. Bedecked in treasures, body draped with fine silks and golden chains. All that look upon you shall indeed assume that you are my daughter – until they sense the truth by scent or Magic and know your shame. Or perhaps the sight of your ornamental cock dripping beneath you shall give you away from the very first glance?”

Fatuum scoffed, “How easily you were brought to the brink of surrender. It took for me naught but martial supremacy and raw presence to have you squirm at my breath in your ear. A few half-wrought fantasies and the molestation of your useless cock, and now you barely hold onto your dignity.” He rumbled that dominant reverberation which had his son shudder, “You crave to be bred by your father. Do you know why, my false Daughter? My owned male-bitch slave-to-be?”

The Omen Dragon deepened his tone, endowing it with the authority of foretelling, “I have viewed your many fates, Viridise. And from the moment of your defeat at my hands, most ended in death. But every last one which did not, concluded with your submission. It is your nature. It is what you are, and always have been, for.”

He cackled his amusement, “I watched you return to your Dragonflight Leader, so meek and pathetic in your genuflection that he could not help but drape himself over your back to teach you your true place. Stripped of all rights and dignity, you served him as a free-use whore, cocksleeve to him and every one of your once-peers in his Dragonflight.” Fatuum murred, “I have seen you brought low by Dragonrend Knights, force-fed a Serum of Sex Shift, and kept as their prisoner to birth for them half-breed mounts. It does not take long for you to become addicted to the humiliation of passing eggs for those lowly Mortals, and soon you are joyful in bondage.” He licked at the lesser male’s cheek, “There are futures in which you surrender yourself to the Kingdom of Dest, begging for mercy, and even in those, your tale ends with you as the self-proclaimed pet of some Goloma Baron, or part of a Kitsune Duke’s harem of devoted wives, your face buried in the cunt of his Amurrun lover while his knot drives you to shuddering bitchgasm.”

The motions of his paw never stopped, merciless in the forced masturbation of his son, “I have seen you as the Animal Companion of a Kholo Druid, the Summon of a Human Witch, and in one timeline, even the mount of the King himself. In every path, Viridise, you bow to someone. And I now strip from you now the privilege of choosing your Master. I deny you those potential destinies, with the guarantee that life as my slave is your most joyful fate. Such is the depth of the magnanimity of the mighty Fatuum, Lord of the Seventh Peak!”

The Fortune Dragon in his arms had ceased his struggling, cringing into himself like a kicked Kobold as he internalised his sire’s words. Before this fight, he would have called them lies, but so easily had he surrendered, so natural had been his submission, that he could no longer refute them. If it was indeed his destiny to be owned by someone, then perhaps it should be his father? His sire was vast and powerful, potent in might and magic, with a grand vault of treasure and vast fiefdom of subjugated Magical Beasts and a whole warren of devoted Kobold slaves. Within the fortress of his mountain Lair, there was a whole civilisation of Mortals to which he was a God King. Of all fates, to be a polished jewel of his hoard, could not be called the worst of them. As a devoted cocksleeve, even a lesser being like him, false-daughter and lowly male-bitch that lusted for his own father, could have place and purpose.

Viridise entertained the vision of it, picturing that future in his mind’s eye. Again, he saw his body draped in finery, festooned with treasure, bedecked in jewels, made into an expression of wealth and power for his father to show off to other Dragons and have them know the great Fatuum to be their better. He imagined himself in service, clambered into the lap of his reclining sire atop a nest of gold coins and scattered relics, to lower his feral form into a posture unnatural for a quadrupedal creature, that he may moan into the grander dragon’s chest and indulge in his scent, and the sight of a superior masculinity at leisure, as the doubtless-perfect cock hollowed out his insides and drove him to shameful climax.

His third orgasm was timed to his fantasised surrender, the flood of his seed again captured by his father’s paw, and the continued forced masturbation had come to carry with it an obscene sound, the wet shlicking of his essence pumped into froth, and the slap of scaled fist against abdomen at the base of each stroke. Entirely helpless, his struggle now ended completely, the grasp of his forepaws against his father’s restraining arm now holding him for support rather than straining for freedom. He was overstimulated to the point of pain, yet the feeling gradually numbed into the same molten pleasure that had come in the wake of his last two climaxes. Most Dragon males could last through a good half-dozen peaks with no refractory period required, staying hard throughout. He imagined that his sire would still make use of him even should he be so spent as for his impotent cock to have fully retreated back to his slit. Perhaps then, when what was between his legs came to resemble a cunt, his sire would fuck him there as well, and he could continue to play the part of Daughter?

But now, the motions of his father’s paw had at last started to slow, and as they ceased, Viridise could not prevent the humiliating bucking of his hips into the grander dragon’s fist as he fought to continue the pleasure, a needy whimper in his throat. But, Fatuum was quick to stiffen the binding of their entwined tails, making sure to properly immobilise his son’s lower body. His overworked cock was finally released, and as those powerful digits draped lower, a Spell of cleansing was uttered, the masterful work of a Magic user capable of purifying only his undertail, while preserving the mess of seed pooled in shameful rivers atop his thigh and the stone below.

Of Fatuum’s three digits, slender for one of his frame, but enormous to a creature a size category below him, the central and largest demonstrated its dexterity by finding the indentation of his son’s undertail, blunted claw pressed to the rim and gently tracing a circle about it. He looked down over the lesser Dragon’s shoulder, pleased with the instinctive flex that his motion invoked.

Another gentle circle. Another. Never penetrating. Only teasing. And then came his voice, “It does not take the gift of prophecy to know what you desire.” The great mess of cum which had accumulated in his paw was allowed to drape down and pool atop the indentation of his son’s opening, stirred by the encircling digit, “But you shall not have it until you speak it. Tell me, male-bitch on the brink of surrender, he who fantasises of riding his father’s cock, he who hopes to be garbed as a Dragoness and covered by his better as though he was one for true, slut, whore, slave, lesser being: What do you want?”

The voice rumbled through him, further sublimating his fractured will. What greater shame could there be than those his sire had already sifted through in invasion of his mind? The claws of his hindfeet flexed as his legs came to naturally spread, “I… want…” A small growl behind him demanded conviction, “Touch me, please. Father, more…” Viridise was not so far gone that he did not still cringe from the humiliation of such begging. But he had no time to dwell on the further grinding down of what was left of the shattered pieces of his draconic pride, as his father indulged him.

The teasing encirclement advanced to a small pressure against the opening of his cumslicked undertail, the vast abundance of his own essence collected here by the cant of his hips and used as lubricant for the slowly invading digit. It did not hurt as much as he had expected. The whine he had allowed himself in expectation of pain instead reached a shuddering peak in time to the twitch of his cock as some toxic pleasure rocked his body when pressure was plied to one specific spot inside of him.

“Hmph.” His father made an expectant noise, “As anticipated, you are weak to such pleasures. I think you have some practice… your tail perhaps?” That remarkable dexterity again made itself known as Fatuum took up a slow rhythm, back and forth, deep enough to provide the fulfilment of a stretching penetration, and then returning in a slow scrape over that spot which made his cock twitch and leak with every passing. His tone turned ponderous, “I see. So, that is why in my visions, it was I with whom you were most satisfied…” Cryptic words, for now at least. But, Viridise was not able to comprehend his father’s musings.

That pleasured whine had evolved into feminised moans, his heightened voice escaping in pathetic gasps and groans, and from behind, his father continued, “Already, you tighten about me, clamping down to each press of the spot inside of you that makes you a born submissive. You clench and massage my paw like a Dragoness milking the cock of the one claiming her. Perhaps Daughter was an accurate epithet after all?” The motion slows, and he makes his demand, “Ask me to make you climax as a female.”

This time there was no hesitation, “Please, Father! I want to cum like a girl!”

It took only two more strokes, and then the stern press of his bitch button, for that climax to come to pass. Held in his father’s arm, his body spasmed in the strongest orgasm of his life, stars behind his eyes as he screamed out his pleasure in not a masculine roar – but a truly feminised wail. His impotent cock twitched, a small jolt to each of those two thrusts of the paw, and then quivered in a full-bodied bitchgasm along with the rest of him as his internal balls emptied out their seed in vulgar stripes of pathetic male submission over his thigh.

And of course, just as when his sire had made sport of his cock, his motions continued through the climax, into the overstimulated time beyond, merciless. Viridise could no longer hold himself back. His expression was one of glazed-over pleasure, his tongue draped from the side of his muzzle and drooling, every exhalation a high pitched moan, his mind filled with debauched fantasies of submission, and his hips in their limited motion, grinding against the digit reaming his undertail. His abandoned cock leaked a steady stream of precum, the ornament of his masculinity remembered only when his father required more lubrication of him, more essence to shlick into his body and draw from his insides that lewd sound as impotent seed was churned to froth.

That made four orgasms, and a fifth was already swift in the making, so weak he was to penetration, a destined submissive already craving something grander than a mere paw. In that buildup, Fatuum demanded more concessions of his feminised son, “It is time for you to give voice to your surrender.” He instructed, “Tell me, how shall you serve me henceforth?”

“I… I…” The white-hot sear of pleasure had melded in his heart with the joy of surrender, and with the ruin of his pride, there was nothing else to which Viridise could adhere. No future was left open to him, but one as his father’s owned slut, a pathetic male-bitch that played the part of the Dragoness for his sire, thirsting for the cock that spawned him, “I submit to you, Father! I reject my manhood! I want to be your male-bitch slave!”

He took in breath in a great heave, “I want to live with no purpose but to satisfy you! I want to learn how to entice you! How to best suck your cock! How to have you under my tail! I need you to breed me as if I were a Dragoness! I want to show every other Dragon my submission to you!”

“Pervert.” His sire chided him, “Masochist. Shameless whore.” With each insult, he reamed the presented undertail deeper, “Not even an hour since you bared your fangs at me, and now you proclaim yourself my living cocksleeve, and speak of such as if it were a thing of honour. You should be ashamed.” His chest rumbled with a growl, “You are lower than a Kobold slave. Absent draconic pride, I can no longer call you a Dragon. It would be offensive to regard you as the same species as me.” He nipped at the scales of his son’s neck, “But, you do not need to be a person to serve as my plaything. So be it. My bitch son, who pretends at being my daughter. I strip you of all agency.”

“Thank you, Father!” Reduced to the lowest slave in his sire’s possession, shorn of his dignity and identity as a Dragon, somehow that absolute humiliation felt more reward than punishment. Viridise no longer needed to think for himself. The struggle of his life was over. His machinations had come to nothing, his desperate gambit in challenging his father had failed, but there was no longer any need to make such efforts. Because now he existed within the aegis of his sire, and even if he were now something akin to an item, it was treasures such as that of which a Dragon built their hoard.

His fifth orgasm came to this erasure of his being, an even grander climax than the last, he bitchgasmed fiercely and fainted clean away, slumping in his sire’s grasp as his pathetic cock erupted in an aching climax of feeble spurts of impotent seed. Submission had overwritten pride, and now he basked in the joy of complete satisfaction, the security of being owned by a grander masculinity.

This time, Fatuum did not continue to make sport of the whelp through the aftermath of his orgasm, scornful as he bore weakness to his son collapsing from the sheer pleasure of surrender. What a truly hopeless bitch. If not for the confirmations of Magic, he could not have believed that this was his blood. He released the Fortune Dragon and stepped back, casting the lesser male to the cold stone to shatter the frozen pool of essence which had collected below him.

Well, it would be foolish for him to have expectations of a creature whose sole purpose in life was to bring him pleasure. To judge Viridise as if he were still a Dragon, and not a male-bitch cocksleeve playing pretend at being a Dragoness, would be to do him disservice. Could he hold a Kobold or a Barbarian to his own proud standards? Of course not. Fatuum was their racial superior and no mere Mortal his equal. So, he would now measure his new plaything by his capacity to please him, looking at him as he would a masturbatory tool rather than a person. A pity that he had much to do with his day, and now that his failed male of a son had collapsed from the exhaustion of chained bitchgasms, he would not be gauging their capacity until the evening came.

And so, Fatuum summoned his Kobold Seneschal, and demanded that his porch be cleaned of the blood of their fight and cum of the aftermath. The relics stripped of his son were to be quarantined and identified (for what fool would add an item of unknown enchantment directly to the treasury?), and the as for the male-bitch himself…

Fatuum sublimated his lecherous grin into a dignified mask, and then gave some very specific instructions.

… … …

… …

…

The Fortune Dragon was fitful in his slumber, the Magics of sedation which had extended his pleasured fainting into a sleep of hours having finally run their course, and now the time of awakening was at hand. He stirred, and with his uncoiling came the ringing sound of scattering coins, along with the vague chorus of several dislodged artefacts. It was not an unfamiliar noise to Viridise, for he slept upon his own meagre hoard; and for a moment he imagined that he was still inside of the small cave that he called his Lair, partway up the Fifth Peak and far more open to the elements than he would have liked.

No. That could not be. His hoard was gone, the collection of ancient coins and lesser Magic Items melted into the waistcoat of his armour, his defences buoyed by the relics he had stolen from his Dragonflight Leader. He had been so confident. So proud. He was going to take the Seventh Peak for himself, and prove to every rival that thought him lesser that he, Viridise, was mightiest of all! Every Dragon in the Black Mountains would fear him, and every Dragoness swoon at his gaze! No more would he be mocked for his feminine figure! No more would he be scoffed at by those females he dared not even approach!

And then his sire had felled him in a single blow.

He’d been stripped of his pilfered equipment and toyed with by the grander male, helpless against the arm which had restrained him and forced to climax himself into surrender by naught but poisonous voice in his ear and the ministrations of a single paw. Tormented by fantasies of submission, his lusts had betrayed him, every quivering bitchgasm proof that he was everything that the Dragonflight thought him.

Viridise whined in humiliation, refusing to open his eyes as he thrashed around in the treasure pile upon which he had been laid to rest. He felt pressing down on him the weight of his shame, the Soul-wound of one in defiance of their racial nature, his draconic pride discarded that he may keep his life. No, not discarded. Torn from him by his sire, and through his father’s seductions, he himself had been the one to grind what fragments remained into dust. Daughter, he had been mockingly called, and the word had made his useless cock throb. Lesser being. Male-bitch. He had wilfully cried out over the mountainside his desire to be his father’s living sextoy, lowest of his slaves.

“Awaken, Viridise. You have slept long enough.”

A voice, small in volume but large in severity. The unfamiliar command rang out as clear as a bell, and Viridise could not help but slowly open his eyes to behold the speaker. It was a Kobold slave, small and blue, scarcely as tall from the ground as Viridise’s elbow – even if you counted those especially overwrought antlers the diminutive creature was sporting. He wore elaborate golden robes, and carried in his arm a Grimoire, the hefty tome close to his chest. The Fortune Dragon had never before seen a slave so well presented, dressed in finery, with claws carefully manicured and scales oiled to a perfect sheen, bright blue eyes glinting behind horn-rimmed glasses. And surprising as well was the aura of command antithetical to such a lowly being.

Naturally, Viridise rejected their presence as a dream. Or perhaps a continuation of his nightmare. His eyes closed and he curled back up, hoping to next awaken back in his own Lair with all that had happened to him nothing more than a fantasy brought on by his delusions of grandeur. Yes. The presence of such a ridiculous thing as this proved it. He had dreamt the whole thing, and when he awoke for real, a dream is all it would be.

But, the reality of his situation refused to be denied. Again, the voice spoke, “Rise, lowest slave of the mighty Fatuum! Rise, possession of the Lord of the Seventh Peak! Rise, male-bitch whose sole purpose is his sire’s pleasure! I compel thee – RISE!”

An Arcane force levied its power against him a second time, and now Viridise had clarity enough to recognise the Magic for what it was, “Impossible…” His body shook as he was ushered to his feet, every fibre of his being resisting to no avail, “I am a Fortune Dragon! A Master of the Arcane! What trickery is this!? How are my resistances so breached!?” He raged at the indignity of it, “Dispel this Magic at once!”

The Kobold observed him with a mildly annoyed expression, ignoring his raving while launching into an introduction, “Silence.” And Viridise was robbed of voice, “I am Custose, and I serve the Almighty Godking as manager of this hoard, of which you are now a part. I shall be keeping you in my thrall for the foreseeable future. Just as it is my purpose to see every gemstone inside the possession of my Master polished to perfection, you as well are to be made properly obedient and presentable for Him.”

He strode to the heart of the cavern, a large space hemmed in by jet black stone, the floor a carpet of gold coins so deep in treasure that even for Viridise’s flailing, the bottom had not once been revealed. Magic Items were scattered around, works of priceless art entombed in the pale light of stasis spells, and by the glowing gemstones which illuminated the hoard, all things seemed to shimmer and shift in the light. It was a hoard far greater than even the amassed pile of loot upon which the Lord of the Fifth Peak slept.

“This is Vault Seventeen, the smallest treasure pile. It is where the Almighty One keeps his least valuable coinage, arts, curiosities, and Magic Items, and it shall henceforth serve as your Lair.” He then adjusted his glasses, “Oh, forgive me. Dragons have Lairs. I suppose for a lesser being such as you, this would perhaps be your… Nest?” There was only a moment of cutting quiet, before the voiceless Viridise lunged at his tormentor for the insult, “Down!” And he could not help but throw himself prostrate in the ocean of coins.

Custose adjusted his glasses, “Ahem. I must admit, I find my present tasking to be quite novel. The honoured Kobold Seneschal has bid me make a show of your obedience training this evening, and the Almighty One shall be watching. This is an excellent opportunity for me to demonstrate my aptitude as the Steward of His seventeenth hoard!” The Kobold could not help the enthusiastic sway of his tail behind him as he took to pacing back and forth, his claws dancing atop the sea of gold coins, “I expect that you are ready to express your joy. You may now speak.”

The vast creature remained pinned down by the compulsion to prostrate himself, and considered perhaps unleashing his breath weapon against this annoying creature. But, something told him that doing so would be a bad idea. And that was something he couldn’t help but question, “How does a mere Kobold slave defy a-…” He swallowed the word ‘Dragon’, “One such as I?”

His blue-scaled head tilted in confusion, “Well, if you were a Dragon, then my racial instincts of subservience and natural reverence to such lofty beings would have my head pressed to the floor.” He then smiled slowly, “But the Godking Fatuum, my honoured Master, says that you are not a Dragon. In fact, you are the very lowest of His slaves, an item which he owns. You are not a person, Viridise. You are a male-bitch in the shape of a Dragon but devoid of what makes a Dragon what it is. Why would I prostrate myself before a lesser being such as you? It would be like bowing to a chamberpot.”

Viridise took a breath to unleash a roar, but was quickly cut off by another command, “Shut.” And his jaws clamped down in sublimation of his fury, “I am quite surprised that you are being so resistant, especially while under the thrall of my Domination Spell. Considering how exuberant you looked bitchgasming into the Almighty One’s paw, I expected you to be quite pleased to find that your place here is precisely the one you screamed out your longing for all the Black Mountains to hear. This is your life henceforth, Viridise. You are one of your father’s many treasures. You live solely for His enjoyment. And you shall be tamed by myself to ensure that the pleasure that you provide your sire is adequate. Although I have no experience with such training myself, I have reviewed the notes of the Kobold Courtesans and shall endeavour to do my best with you.”

“You are going to be taught proper submission, Viridise.” The Kobold advanced, placing his foot atop the bowed Dragon’s head and looking down his nose at the mighty creature, “You are to worship the Master with the same zealotry as a Kobold. He is not just your Sire. He is not just your Master. He is your God.” He licked his lips, and then blinked as something came to mind, “Oh, but you shall continue to call him ‘Father’ when he breeds you. Especially when in public. It pleases the Almighty One that the sextoy that he will be pouring his essence into is also his son.”

Custose brought his fist to his chin, looking ponderous, “His tastes have been the subject of chatter for us Kobold all day. It seems that our esteemed Master has developed a taste for breeding his blood-kin. Perhaps one day, he shall come to honour us half-breed sons of his with his seed as well? I can only hope.” The crew of Kobold Courtesans allowed to tend to Fatuum’s carnal urges were greatly envied by the Warren, and they had kicked up quite a fuss for the Seneschal at the idea of Viridise entering the Master’s service. Thus, not only the job of keeping the failed male, but training him in pleasure as well, had fallen to Custose. Dealing with those craven whores would surely be trouble, but he would deal with that later. The Kobold stepped back, “You are released from my hold.”

There was no need for him to make a threat regarding further misbehaviour. A half-breed son? This Kobold was his half-brother, and potent in the Magic of their sire. How could such a creature be more powerful than him? Surely, it was the presence of his father’s superior blood – but if that were the case, then why was Viridise so weak? Seething and impotent, there was nothing that he could do but obey, “What is going to happen to me?”

As a Fortune Dragon, to be a treasure amongst a hoard so great as this (even if it was apparently the least impressive of seventeen piles of loot), was not an entirely terrible prospect. In fact, to be kept in such a way would be rather appealing to a Dragoness of his subspecies that had been taken as a more long-term mate. His heart had already surrendered, and only the last vestiges of his pride balked at his new place as lower than a Kobold, though that was a shame already dulling.

This was indeed his new reality, and at the very least, he would be safe here from the vengeance of his Dragonflight Leader for the stealing of artefacts from his hoard. Although under the effects of a Spell of Domination, catching this Kobold offguard and slaying him did not seem like an entirely impossible prospect. Even if the little creature was nonsensically stronger than him, the element of surprise would mitigate that advantage. And then, free of his bonds, Viridise could escape... then again…

He cringed at the thought. Had not his father’s prophecies demanded that in every possible future outside of his aegis he was either slain or made the possession of another?

Cowed by the fear of fates in which he would be owned by something as low as a Mortal, he decided that for the moment, it was in his best interests to play along. Age was no foe to a Dragon, and thus he thought to bide his time and plot. Perhaps eventually, even the Soul-wound which marked him as one in defiance of his nature would heal as well. And if in that time he were allowed to swim in a vault of treasures, and enjoy such pleasure as that already visited on him, then-

“You are making quite a lewd face.” The Kobold jibed, “Regarding your question – as for what will happen to you… In the immediate, we have some hours before you are to be presented to the Almighty One. I intend to use that time to have you tour the Seventh Peak. It is one thing for me to compel you to worship Him, but I believe that in bearing witness to His Domain, you shall come to bow of your own accord.”

He turned his back and began to walk towards a vast stone doorway, a slab so vast that it could be mistaken for a wall slowly grinding aside with a great rumbling sound, “And more long-term, you are to be trained in techniques of pleasure and made receptive to the touch of your Master. You shall be beautified and properly dressed for Him, and be learned enough in his tastes as to appeal to your sire. You shall put on shows for Him, grand displays of carnality to excite the senses and draw your Lord onto your back. And you are to demonstrate proper submission and deference when you are trotted out before His honoured guests.” Custose patted his Grimoire, “You shall be something like a Courtesan. Though, as you are an item whose sole purpose is to provide Lord Fatuum with pleasure, perhaps it would be best to think of you as a masturbatory aid with legs? To give you such a lofty title as ‘Courtesan’ would offend those Kobold that have been trained for such service since their hatchday.”

More insults, but now Viridise only scowled rather than launch himself at his foe. The Kobold smirked, “Yes. You understand your place now. It is not only your pathetic excuse for a cock which is impotent, Viridise.” Inside the Dragon’s mind, he imagined tearing this arrogant fool to pieces, and made a mental vow to one day see it done. Yet Custose was not finished with his provocations, “I would be quite embarrassed if you were to misbehave while I am leading you around. So, I shall tell you in advance – if you cause me any dishonour today, I shall take you to the latrines, see it packed with all the kin that can be mustered, and we shall together watch the creature that used to be a Dragon eat shit.”

That was sufficient enough threat for Viridise to stay his growl. The Kobold beamed, “Very good. Now, do be sure to match my pace. In public, you are to walk behind me and a little to the side when there is space enough; behind me directly when these is not. You are not to speak unless spoken to, and even then, are not to respond if I do not give you a nod of approval first. Oh, and you are henceforth to refer to me as ‘Brother’. I am your better, but I am not your Master, and true deference belongs only to the Almighty One. Do you understand?”

“Yes…” An expectant look was levelled against him, “Brother.”

The Kobold sighed, “I expected more enthusiasm. Honestly, it pains me to share blood with a mere cocksleeve such as you. That I am allowing the lowest of all Slaves to refer to me as kin is truly evidence of my magnanimity. Since you are so ungrateful, perhaps we should start our tour at the latrines after all-”

“Brother!” Viridise bowed his head, “I-…” His teeth ground together at the concession of further lowering himself to acknowledge a Kobold slave as peer, “I am proud to be called your… kin.”

That won only a smirk in response, and the moment that Custose turned away, the Fortune Dragon made a face at his back. He was going to kill this Kobold if it was the last thing he did! All grudges against his father were forgotten as every ounce of his ire turned to this purpose, and he indulged himself in several rather gory fantasies while making exit of Vault Seventeen, the wall grinding back into place behind them. Ahead was a tunnel onto which several other vast stone doors were placed, the pathway more than broad enough for two Dragons of Fatuum’s stature to walk side by side.

There was considerable traffic, mostly Kobold, and his cheeks burned with shame as he noted that rather than throwing themselves prostrate as such lowly creatures should, they instead ogled him as if he were naught but an exotic curiosity. It seemed that Custose’s statement that the tastes of his sire had been the subject of much gossip for the day had been no understatement, and none present even seemed slightly surprised to see him.

Following the tunnel for some time, eventually the winding path brightened, and Viridise could not help but marvel at the sight of his father’s Kingdom as from an overlook, all was revealed before him. The heart of the Seventh Peak was hollow, the outer walls dotted with countless tunnels, and the space at the core a vast palace. The design was exotic, white stone and golden spires, sprawling gardens and elaborate waterworks, it looked the abode of a Sultan of eastern Vale, as opulent as the castle of the Djinn which held that distant nation in iron grip.

Great walkways spanned the gap, skybridges and winding ledges about the rim, and the population here was dense enough for the Mortal races to call it not merely a Kobold warren, but a full Township encircling Fatuum’s seat of power. Several races were on display, from mercantile Ysoki Ratfolk, to barbarous Orcs, and even a small enclave of Drow Elves, all living in – well, something close to harmony – despite any conflicting racial instincts or proclivities.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Custose paused to make his comment, “We are every one of us a slave, though within the aegis of the Godking Fatuum, we are safeguarded from the terrors of the Dark Below and the ruin of the Savage Wilds, and we are well kept indeed. Diverse of species, but common of culture and worship. We are united in submission to the Almighty One.”

Viridise squirmed. On the one paw, the opulent realm of treasures before him looked quite utopian. On the other, the scattered dust that remained of his draconic pride balked at the idea of such wilful submission. There was an Orc, smiling and laughing as he broke bread with a Drow. Ridiculous. The racial instinct of one was savagery, and the other sadism. Did they not care for the Soul-wound of defying one’s true inner nature? They were all neutered. And it struck him with fear to know that by his own subjugation, he was now one of them.

Though, on the note of food, his stomach rumbled. Not only had it been some time since he had last eaten, but the purification Magic used by his father had erased the contents of his belly and bowels as well. Now that the sights and smells of a marketplace struck him, he could not help but yearn for a meal. Wait, how could slaves have a marketplace?

Custose was quick to connect the dots of his confused expression, “We are slaves only while we are within the Domain of the Almighty One. Free to come and go as we please, we adopt the title only when we are inside of His protection and pay a tithe for the honour of it. We partake of expeditions abroad, engage in trade, and live in a quite civilised manner. Only a very few of us are true possessions of Lord Fatuum, as you and I are. Though I suppose, as we all bow to Him, that is merely a matter of semantics. So deep is our worship that if he were to command any of us to die, then we would surely do so.”

“Only Mortals could live in such a way.” Viridise gave his haughty dismissal, “It is pretty to look at, but I do not see any grander majesty than that.” He huffed, unable to hold his tongue, “You are like dolls, posed in a diorama, a facsimile of a Mortal Kingdom. It is all hollow.”

The Kobold sighed, “We are fervent in our devotions, Brother. In this place, the Orc sets aside his savagery to measure himself not by the skulls of his foes that he has taken, but by his worship of the Almighty One. His power unities us. We need not His management, only His protection.”

Viridise sublimated his scowl into a more neutral expression. What was described to him here was a very Kobold way of thinking, and the idea that his sire had even managed to dominate species so wilful as Drow Elves into such subservience merely by virtue of his presence was… well, looking at it as a Dragon, it was rather impressive really. To rule in such an absolute manner without really lifting a claw was only proper for their superior race. But as one of those subjugated, he could not help but grind his teeth together. He had hoped to be greeted with some litany of horrors which he could reject, the sort of thing which would allow him to cling to some small speck of hateful pride when his father covered him. Instead, he was faced with luxury and comfort, a common cause of which he was now a part. The place that he had yearned for, much as he would not admit it to this Kobold.

He hated that. He hated how the sight of his father’s Domain made his knees weak and his undertail itch. Viridise was one of the few possessed by the Godking worshipped by this sprawling mass of people, and though he be the lowest slave of his sire, that so grand a male found him attractive enough to lay such a claim felt… good.

Fine. He could afford to be more measured, “I shall hold my judgement. For now. Brother.” He swallowed, and again his stomach rumbled. It was a sound which Custose could not ignore, and after descending to the lower paths and displaying a golden tablet to one of the many roadside merchants, the two were soon served meals and Viridise sated with enough meat to fill his belly to brimming.

It pained him to have so little attention paid to him. Even as the lowest of the Fifth Peak Dragonflight, a proud Captain in name only for he had no minions of his own, whenever he showed himself to mere Mortals of that mountain, they would all fall prostrate. Yet here, he was treated as though he was nothing special. He overheard snippets of conversations while he ate: Was he a Dragon? No, that was impossible, for the Godking Fatuum said that he was not. So deep was their zealotry that the word of their Master was enough for all to deny the evidence of their eyes, and suppress even racial instincts of deference to his grander species.

Terrifying.

And again, Viridise was struck by his own idle fantasies of surrender. The thought of giving himself over to this greater power was intoxicating. This whole Kingdom was a hoard, and he could be a prized jewel of it, his Lair (because he refused to use the word Nest on principle), was a vault of treasure beyond anything he had hope of amassing by himself, and to enjoy it he needed do nothing more than accept his place, allow himself to be feminised and made docile, a submissive toy for his father to empty his seed into.

“Your slit is parting.”

Viridise was jolted from his musings by that direct observation uttered loudly enough by his warden for several Mortals feasting about him and Custose to hear, and he could not help but press his hindlegs together in embarrassment. The Kobold sadist would not let it go, “Tell us all what you were imagining to beckon the ornament of your cock from its sheath, Brother.”

They had taken their meal at a roadside eatery, placed on one of the many routes spiderwebbing from the central palace within this vast chasm, and not only were there quite a few Kobold in audience, but a gaggle of Dwarves, and a passing Amurrun Catfolk, along with a few others, some species he couldn’t even name. He fought to keep his maw closed, but the Spell compelled him speak, “I… was… fantasising about my father.” Custose tilted his head, as if to say, ‘go on’, “I was wondering what his cock would… look like… smell like… taste… like…”

He swallowed as his own continued to pour from his slit, closing his eyes to the humiliation of being watched by those that passed them by, “I thought…” The Magic of Domination forced him to continue, “That I would enjoy this… using my muzzle on my sire… fulfilling my… purpose… as his… male-bitch… toy…” The Dwarves were sniggering, the Amurrun scandalised, and the growing audience of Kobold mocking him openly.

Custose cleared his throat, and they quieted, “Could a creature so absent draconic pride really be called a Dragon? See how pathetic his submission is. We Kobold are proud in our service! This living sextoy that is so ashamed of his surrender to the Almighty One is lesser than us!” He grinned, “Make sure everyone knows it. The male-bitch called Viridise is no esteemed Courtesan. He is a lowly whore that cannot even proclaim his desire to set his maw upon the Almighty One’s cock without stuttering through it! Open your eyes, Brother, and look into mine!”

The order was followed, much as he was unwilling, “You are not a person. You’re just a creature of adequate size for our Master to sink his divine masculinity into. That’s all you are. A fucksleeve big enough for Godking Fatuum to be satisfied with without needing to adopt a Humanoid Form small enough for a Kobold Courtesan. Say it. Perhaps with enough conviction you may be promoted to honorary Kobold!”

“I…” The words tore at his throat like razorblades, words that had come so easily atop the mountain, now so deeply shameful to an audience of onlooking Mortals, “I… am a living cocksleeve. I yearn for my father’s cock.” His own throbbed, and further submission poured from his muzzle, “I want… to raise my tail for him… I want him to breed me… I want him to mate me until I am spent and broken… and so full of his seed that I choke on it… I’m… his male-bitch… lowest slave… lower even than a Kobold…”

His warden licked his lips, and with a nudge indicated that Viridise part his legs further to display his erection, “Look at it. How quickly you are aroused! This quivering ornament on the brink of bitchgasm from nothing but fantasy and the humiliation of our eyes upon it! Come! All of you! Tell this lowly whore what he is!”

Voices chimed in, the outcries of myriad races speaking the broken Draconic that was the common tongue of Fatuum’s Domain. “Slut!” A passing Halfling shouted. “Male-bitch!” Another voice rang clear. “Are you Serious? Right in front of my salad?” Because not everyone was a pervert. “Faggot! Faggot! Faggot!” A gang of Kobold chanted the word. Insult and slur rained down upon him, and the humiliated former-Dragon squirmed impotently, Custose’s threats denying him any retaliation. The rumbling purr of the Amurrun was a raucous laugh, “Look how his tailstar flexes! This whore is about to spill his seed!”

Viridise moaned, a pathetic feminised wail. How could this happen to him? What was wrong with him? Admiration of his father’s power had turned to lust for the grander male, and now humiliation twisted his debauched fantasies into something ruinous. What sort of Dragon got off on such shame and degradation, insulted by lowly Mortals? Perhaps his sire’s edict was no denial of reality at all. Maybe he really was so low that he should be honoured to be called Brother by even a Kobold?

His bitchgasm came with a pathetic shudder, his impotent cock striping the black stone of the floor with thick and creamy streaks of draconic submission, all to the laughter and jeers of those that had gathered to watch the humiliation of the lowest slave in all the Domain. But, his ordeal was not yet through, for the sadist at his leash had more to do yet to break down his will. After all, Viridise was not even on the level of a Kobold until his submission was joyful, and that would require the complete obliteration of the ego that once made him a Dragon.

“Lick it up.” Custose commanded, “I am sure you are used to your own seed in your muzzle, yes?”

“Yes…” The broken male-bitch affirmed, responding to the order before the Magic could even compel him. He fell to the ground and his tongue draped over the polished stone, “Every time…” He couldn’t help but volunteer, “That I masturbate…”

The Kobold’s sneer intensified, “Tell us more.”

Viridise swallowed the dripping essence, lapping up his spent masculinity, “I take my own cock… into my muzzle… and… I use my tail to… I put it inside me…” He cringed at the admission, “I would think about… a pretty Dragoness… or the Pleasure Kobold that serve the Dragonflight Leader…” He shuddered, “It is always hard… to keep away the thought of… another male on my back… but my tail… feels too good…”

Custose scoffed, “Do you imagine that any Dragoness would allow you to breed her? They are a superior species to you who are lower than a Kobold. And no Courtesan would allow such a pathetic thing as you to taint them.” He finally seemed to be about done with the show, “Your inferior race seed has not even the right to stain the earth. From now on, whatever is fucked out of your impotent cock, you shall devour. Why should we Kobold clean up your mess?”

“Yes… Brother…”

Forced to lap up all that had leaked from his retreating maleness, Viridise was finally led away from laughing crowd, most already having lost interest and moved on themselves. His cheeks burned with humiliation, the small clarity of post-orgasm lessening the fugue of lust to self-awareness enough for him to be horrified at what he had done. He’d looked his Brother in the eyes, and by degradation had been led to climax, mortifying admissions, and declarations of his own racial inferiority.

Another new discovery about himself which he had sooner never known. It was not the Magic of the Domination spell which had made him disgrace himself, no command had been issued that he climax, and half of his utterings had been voluntary. He’d wanted that to happen to him. He’d enjoyed it. And the waters of shame in which he now swam had such a delectable flavour.

Those males that had watched him – they were his betters as well. If he was attractive enough for his esteemed father to desire him, did they find attraction as well? If he were to take on his own Humanoid Form, would it bring his sire honour for him to be brought low in the street by that large Amurrun and be bred to quivering bitchgasm by barbed feline cock? Or have his muzzle forced into the crotch of a barbarous Orc? Would that be proper for the lowest of all slaves?

And what of the Kobold? He looked at his Brother, whom not an hour ago he was fantasising about slaying. This blood-kin was his better as well. And to his betters, he should show deference. He should-

Custose raised his hand, and the train of thought was dispelled as they were brought to a halt. A good thing too, for the burgeoning fantasy of surrendering himself to the tiny male was a ruinous thought that threatened another unwanted erection. Pleasure was making his mind pliable, the virginal former-Dragon overwhelmed, the pride that was the bedrock of his ego broken, and now that he had begun to fall, his descent was picking up speed. Viridise was becoming a true slut, and it had taken only a little prodding to help him along. All things in accordance with proper destiny, as his father would put it.

Having traversed the roadways of the hollow mountain Domain, they had come to stop at an outfitters for beasts, holding here as a small parade of creatures passed them by. A few Goblins atop great white wolves, proud creatures large enough to serve as Mounts for their small stature. Viridise couldn’t help but imagine himself lower even than those domesticated hounds. But – to show deference to a mere animal would be beyond the pale! Y-yes! Even he was not so far fallen that he would be taken by the fantasy of being brought low by jaws at his throat while the knotted cock of an unthinking beast-

“You are far too easily aroused. I understand that you are a pathetic virgin that has never known the touch of another, but this is getting ridiculous. Was the sexual awakening of your father’s paw on you so grand that you now cannot even look at another male without imagining them breeding you into the dirt?” Custose spoke with an exasperated tone, “Well, I suppose that is what you are for. While your father demands claim of your virginity, the Almighty One is not so small as to demand exclusive use of a mere sextoy. If you were a person, it would be different, I imagine. But as a lowly pleasure-aid, I think I shall have others cover you quite frequently as training.”

Custose licked his lips, “Yes, I might accrue a few favours from my peers if you become skilled in pleasure. And I find your humiliation quite entertaining, so I think I would enjoy that as well. The Direwolves are short of bitches at present, and it would be amusing to see what sort of face you make when one of them covers you.”

To that, Viridise could not help but cringe, “I…” He wanted that, so much so that he needed to bite his tongue to deny his tormenter the affirmation of it! He ground his teeth together, “I am not so base! Whatever trickery you are using to seduce me… I reject it!”

“Hmph. Trickery? I have cast Domination, and you are compelled to follow my commands, but I do not control your mind. You, Viridise, my fool Brother, are simply a slut. You’re a male-bitch, a lowly whore, most worthless of all slaves. And you are this not because the Almighty One made you that way by edict. All that your father has done is inform you of your true nature. He called you what you are. And I don’t much care whether you come to accept that by the time I am done with you on your first day as His possession, or if it takes a hundred years of being fucked through your mewling bitchgasms.”

He advanced a step, “Now, come. The Tailors need your measurements.”

Bowed, but not yet completely broken, Viridise followed, spending the next hour with a gaggle of Ysoki Ratfolk crawling over his large body, making note of the scale of everything from wingspan to cock girth (and the less said about what Custose taunted him with to achieve that erection, the better). He was presented with a collection of jewellery, low-grade replicas of the true treasures which would adorn him when outfitted in full; his body wrapped up in silks and finery which ran from his haunches in a transparent trail of feminine pink.

He was then made to transform, and found that the Magics of shapechanging came to him surprisingly easily inside of his father’s Domain. As a Humanoid, he was a lithe creature indeed, his emerald scales glimmering in the light of the magicked gemstones which illuminated the interiors of the hollow Kingdom. His height was only twice that of the Kobold, and after his measurements were taken, Custose had loudly commented that his own cock was the better despite that difference, “How pitiful. Lesser than a Kobold in all ways when you are reduced to comparable proportions. And it looked so impressive earlier when you painted the stone.” He taunted, “No matter. You were never going to use it anyway.”

Orders were made, along with the promise of delivery by dusk as the rodents set to work. And Viridise, reduced to a daze in the flurry of activity, returned to his true form and was led back to Vault Seventeen. It was there that he was permitted to sleep for some hours (for all Dragons enjoyed their naptime), before he would be collected for the evening’s entertainment. According to Custose, he would not even be touched by his sire, and was there solely to show off the finery and progress of his training – if the day’s humiliations could be called such a thing. All that he needed to do was lie back and present himself. And he should have known from the Kobold’s smirk, that there would be a catch…

… … …

… …

…

Viridise woke to an unfamiliar forest, the scent of mountain pine in his nostrils and the dull pressure of an oncoming storm levelled against his senses. The dusk sky was ablaze in orange and red, the gathering clouds casting their final shadows of the day as they advanced overhead, channelled into the valley in which he had found himself. Before him was a vast lake, and it was only when he reached the shore of it that he realised that he was dreaming, captured in an Enchantment.

A Fortune Dragon was well attuned to Magic, and quite resistant to it as well, enough for him to recognise the manner of power which had overcome him. In his slumber, someone had invaded his mind and seized control of the Dreamscape, guiding him into this vision of an imagined paradise. The water before him was still and clear, absent waves despite the enormity of the pool, reflective enough to reveal him as perfectly as a mirror. Other inconsistencies mounted up, the surrounding peaks looking unnatural in their formation, the scent of the forest a little too intense, the grass too well-kept. But, he was still taken in by his own image.

His proud white horns were adorned with golden rings and draping finechain. At his shoulders, a mantle of flowing pink silk draped over his emerald body, his wingtips adorned with gold, claws dipped in platinum, a regalia of gemstones about his neck. His scales were polished and oiled to a perfect sheen, his fangs shone, and he emanated a natural majesty, feminised though his state of dress was. He knew that it was a dream, a vision manipulated and foisted upon him, but he could not look away.

“In reality, you are about a third of the way there, Brother. The Tailors finished your silks, but the jewellers are still busy refitting some of the horn adornments, and the keeper of Vault Twelve is being very clingy with the diamonds I want for your regalia chain. Your scales still need some care, and your tailstar has yet to be fucked into a well-used coinslot shape.” The voice of Custose came from everywhere and nowhere, “I have been given permission to assemble quite the wardrobe for you. Personally, I think you deserve nothing but an iron collar, lesser being as you are…”

Viridise blinked, and his finery was gone to be replaced with exactly that, a thick iron band about his throat sealed with a melted rivet in the most classical expression of slavery. It was an affront to his vanity, appropriate though the bondage was to his station, and he growled, incensed, “What meaning is there in showing me this? How are you so powerful as to walk in my dreams?”

“I’ll answer your second question first.” His voice was always so smug, “The power of the Godking Fatuum suffuses His Domain. I, one of His chosen kin, am permitted draw on His energy. It expands the remit of my Spells. Nothing too extreme as far as power goes, but it does let me colour outside the lines a little. This Spell should cast you into a lucid dream, and is designed to quicken the retraining process of a man that might be tinkering with his Spells and Proficiencies. But I have amended the Magic to place me in control. And I am quite wakeful in the real world as well. It is a curious sensation to be conscious in two planes.”

“As for the meaning of it all, that is to do with where you are in reality. You’re quite the deep sleeper even without soporific Magics, and slumbered even through the jostling of a team of Kobold dragging you to the Grand Lift. You are now again at the peak of the Seventh Mountain.” A little laughter echoed through the valley, “At present, you are on your back, your limbs helpless in the air, your wings spread, your tail extended below you, your throat exposed in submission. I have my hand upon it.” Suddenly, Viridise felt a little uncomfortable in his breathing, and again laughter came from the sky, “You’re only imagining that. Do you think that I could press enough weight to rob you of breath?”

“O-of course not!” Viridise steadied himself. A dream was quite a suggestible place, and even if the Kobold was steering things, he could find himself in some trouble if he let his imagination run away with him. But, to be so helpless prickled his ego, and he could not help but cry out, “Does it please you to play at being a God? After such lofty words of submission to my father, you dare to occupy a place so high?”

The sky rumbled in a very biblical response, but the words which followed were quite restrained, “Do you think to provoke me, Brother? You play the part of the brat hoping that I shall be driven to punish you. I have explored your mind in your sleep, and I know your true nature, Viridise. I have seen the fantasies that you desperately veer from when you fuck yourself with your tail, fearing to imagine that it is a better male than you on your back. You’re a faggot and you know it. You have always known it. You are a male that submits to other males, and delights in being besmirched as a Dragoness because it makes the whole thing feel just a little less shameful. You’re pathetic.”

“Do those days seem far away now? The times that you would reject that truth, face your reflection and demand yourself a strong and dominant Dragon with a quiver in your voice? No, Viridise. You have always been your father’s sextoy in waiting. It just took a few bitchgasms for you to speak the words. And now you believe them.” The Kobold’s smug tone resounded from everywhere, “You’re a slut. A lowly whore. A living fucksleeve that gets off on humiliation and shame. The scorn of your betters makes your toeclaws curl, and your feeble ornament of a cock throb.”

Viridise shivered, but not entirely with rage. Admonished by the voice of his superior, his slit had parted, and he closed his hindlegs to shield the sight of his burgeoning arousal from the heavens. Custose continued, “You are His lowest slave. You are a lesser being, inferior even to a Kobold. It astounds me that a creature so worthless as you is even capable of feeling shame. It is offensive that you have enough pride for that. As a fellow Dragonkin, you are an insult.”

Though in truth, Custose would probably be quite disappointed if that last bit of ego were to be stripped from his Brother. He was finding his task in taming the former Dragon to be quite satisfying, and polishing the slut to a perfect sheen for his sire was much more entertaining than counting coins and servicing Magic Items all day. He wanted to break Viridise. But not irrevocably. It would be like taking an interesting toy apart and reassembling it. Over and over. Much more enjoyable than having this pathetic slut bitchgasm himself into mindbreak and the fun be over for good.

“I have revealed this to your sire, and he finds it quite amusing. The Godking Fatuum is a magnanimous ruler, and offers you up to His slaves as reward for our dedications. He shall be taking the first taste of your unworthy boycunt, but from then on, you are to be free use for any slave of the Seventh Peak to enjoy. Under my management, of course. You are an expression of His wealth and power. Not just to His draconic peers, but to those Mortals that owe Him worship as well.” The hidden voice cackled, “You are going to be fucked every day, Brother. Your inexperienced little male-pussy is going to be the sheath of every male that fancies a go at it, and I shall throw you to monsters and beasts as well for entertainment.”

“You will learn to love it.” He hissed, “I know that from how hard your cock is, already dripping over your belly in reality, as much as you try to hide your arousal in this Dreamscape. You want this. You want to be the whore of the savage orc who slaps your ass while mating pressing your Humanoid Form into wailing bitchgasm. You want to be violated by Magic as a show for the Kobold, molested by an army of spectral hands with fingers pressed into your pleasure buzzer. You want to be collared to a post, blindfolded like an unruly animal, while some Gryphon or Direwolf is draped over your back.”

“Yes…” The word came from Viridise unbidden, and then more with it, “It’s… what I’m for…”

Custose scoffed, “That is only the beginning, Brother.” The reflection before the former Dragon shimmered, the water distorted, taking on a new shape, an extending torrent up into the sky which coalesced into a tendril. It lashed out, before Viridise could react, capturing him by the slave collar of his throat and dragging him forth. He struggled desperately, digging in his claws by instinct to draw furrows into the earth, biting at the length, unleashing his Breath, but to no avail, and soon he was dragged into the lake.

More tendrils erupted about him, restraining his wings, spreading his limbs, his belly faced upwards towards the stormy sky, and his head forcibly bowed to observe the shame of his erection. He was suspended above the water’s surface, the churning torrent from which a great many tentacles had erupted to wave about him. They bound up his large body in innumerable restraints, and he was forced to watch the growing threat of violation as the tips of a dozen of them, as small as Human fingers, adhered to the scales about his undertail and pulled back to present his tailstar as a darkened hole.

One azure lash corkscrewed about his cock, finding the ridge between each of the six plates which formed his maleness and sinking into them to apply pressure in an undulating motion which ushered a steady stream of precum from his drooling tip. Anticipation swelled within him. He knew that something like this was going to happen from the moment that he’d understood that he was inside a Dreamscape under the control of his sadist of a warden, and he didn’t hate the thought of submission to the whims of the Kobold. In this realm, they were akin to a God, just as he had jibed, and the pointlessness of resistance gave justification to his surrender.

“Pathetic.” The voice scoffed, “You take any excuse to raise your tail. You marshal neither the Magic to dispel the Dreamscape, nor the will to wrest control of it from me. Because, you want this. Your every resistance is nothing but muscle-memory from the time you were a Dragon.” The corkscrew tendril about his cock undulated once more, a flowing motion which squeezed his maleness from base to tip and milked the dull pink length of further pleasure.

Viridise moaned hopelessly. At last, he was touched again by something grander than himself, and just as he had reacted to the overpowering presence of his father, his submission to Custose was instinctive. The loss of control was intoxicating, the sweet surrender of being made helpless, rendered into a state in which anything could be done to him. His insides were a dull pink as well, the soft flesh of his undertail revealed by the spread of the tentacles pulling at his scales to expose his tailstar to the chill night air.

Forced to look at himself, forced to acknowledge the male-cunt into which his father would sheath a cock far grander than the pathetic ornament drooling over his belly, his cheeks burned. Yes. This is indeed what he was for. His body was far too receptive to this sort of pleasure, the feeling of being toyed with like this far greater than the peaks he had extracted from his own cock by means of his muzzle and pumping tail.

He had no business with any female. And unable to bear eggs, he could claim no biological imperative to his submission. This was nothing but pleasure, his own true self as a lowly slut that wanted to be bred hard and deep by better men. His own Father best amongst them. And his Brother a close second.

A large tentacle ascended from the water below, making a show of presenting itself to the captured former-Dragon, its proportions not dissimilar to his own tail and clearly chosen for the familiarity of that penetration. It formed an arch above him, for the tip to be able to drape down over his lower body, sliding past his own bound-up maleness, to flick a slow circle about the exposed flesh of his tailstar, just as Fatuum had done with his clawtip.

The anticipation of it was unbearable, a gentle teasing into which he could not even move enough to thrust up his hips. Viridise whined, his voice a feminine need unworthy of a Dragon, the slutty desperation of a whore far removed from even a proud Dragoness. It was the mating call of a living sextoy, a fallen plaything that used to be a person, now made a receptacle for pleasure.

His imagination started to run away with him, fantasies of surrender playing behind his eyes, but before he could get too carried away with himself, the tendril wrapped about his cock squeezed hard, stymying a burgeoning climax as he was brought back to the present. His attention was made to focus on the tentacle before him, the semi-transparent azure length now finally pressing against his undertail.

“Thank you…” The end of his torment came with words of gratitude that he spoke unconsciously, “Brother… more… please…! Ah!”

His tail was not so dexterous as the length burrowing into him, the tip twisting to grind against his bitch button as the penetration deepened. He watched at his abdomen a bulge grow, and that expansion advance deeper into him as in a single mighty stroke, the tentacle fucked him deeply. He shuddered, forced to watch, able to partially see through the probing length to see his tailstar stretched wide about it, his insides clamping down like the massaging inner-muscles of a grateful Dragoness pussy.

That was enough. There was no squeeze of his cock harsh enough to stop his climax after his mind made that comparison, his body shuddering pathetically as the thought of his male-cunt sent him into quivering bitchgasm. Conscious of his thoughts, Custose’s laughter echoed around him, “You look so pathetic in reality, your undertail twitching, your impotent cock emptying itself out over your belly! Your face is twisted into such a shameful wince of pleasure while you cream yourself!”

The tail-proportioned tentacle drew back, and Viridise was forced to watch the retreat of the bump of its presence, that which he had always closed his eyes to avoid acknowledging when masturbating. Now there was no ignoring his violation, his insides clamping down gratefully on each backstroke as the undulating mass began to fuck him in earnest.

“So… good!” He moaned out his delight, “My… male-pussy feels so good!” Viridise would have ground his lower body back against it if he could, the obliging God of the Dreamscape pairing the flowing motion of the corkscrew tentacle about his cock to the pounding of his undertail to play him like an instrument. He didn’t doubt that his body would have cut a humiliating sight in reality, the bitchgasms found inside of his slumber a pathetic expression of his sensitivity to pleasure.

“Oh. Your honoured father arrived some time ago.” Custose commented, “And He has your former Dragonflight Leader in his company.” His voice took on a sadistic edge, “The Godking Fatuum demands that a debt has been incurred by your invasion. And you are amongst the items to be sold to pay reparations for it.”

“The Relics that were seized from you, and you as well, are the Almighty One’s compensation. But that is not enough to right the wrong of your assault. He commands the Lord of the Fifth Peak take responsibility for you as well. And now, while your father watches your squirming bitchgasms, He has the muzzle of your former Dragonflight Leader about his cock.” Custose cackled, “I knew not that the Lord of the Fifth Peak was also an Omen Dragon. He was bid, ‘look into the future and see what becomes of you if you do not swallow my seed like a good girl’, and now he suckles at the cock of his better with such a hateful look upon his face!”

The tentacle pounding under Viridise’s tail increased its pace, “That is how a real Dragon responds to being brought low. He does not surrender. He is shamed, but does not abandon his pride like a lowly whore as you did. Were you in such a position, I imagine that just the scent of your father’s cock would have you spill your seed on the stone beneath you!”

“Y-yes!” It would have done, and Viridise would not deny it. His toeclaws curled as he found another wailing bitchgasm of his own, his arousal peaked by the thought of his father watching him. He was nothing but a sideshow for the act of domination playing out in reality, an exotic surrender for the one that owned him to observe while teaching a lesser Lord his place, “Watch me, father! Watch Brother make me cum like a girl!”

His male-cunt clenched down hard on the tentacle as his second bitchgasm chained into a third, the growing force of rut now enough to make his own pathetic excuse for a draconic cock slap against his belly as his whole body was rocked. The pitch of his voice had changed completely, beyond feminisation, beyond the pathetic whimpers of a broken male, he now met every twisting penetration of the tentacle pounding his insides with a humiliating squeak more worthy of an Ysoki Ratfolk.

No Dragon should ever make such sounds, and it pleased Custose to behold this affirmation of his Godking’s decree that the creature before him was no Dragonkin at all. Unworthy of respect, this lesser being was nothing but a toy, and it was about time for the Kobold to have some real fun with him. He slowed the pace, and then stopped completely with the tentacle hilted to the former Dragon’s utmost depths, allowing the failed male some small respite from the ruinous pleasure which had driven him to such shameful squeaks.

Within the semi-transparent tentacle advanced a small object, perhaps the size of Custose’s fist, pure white and stark against the shimmering blue. It was an egg. Although quite minor compared to the girth of the tail-like mass currently plugging Viridise’s undertail, there was a certain debauchery to the vision of the egg flowing past his tailstar and into his body, a foreign mass made ever more apparent as it advanced to the thinnest tip of the tentacle, and then was expelled inside the former Dragon.

Viridise moaned as it settled inside of him, hard and strangely hot, his wail dripping with anticipation as a second egg began its journey down the tentacle. No, not tentacle. It was an ovipositor. The breeding tool of a monster summoned from the Kobold’s imagination, a writhing Water Elemental mass designed to capture and impregnate any creature regardless of sex. How many eggs would it manage to stuff into this slut before he popped?

The full feeling was tremendous already just from the tentacle, and as two solid masses now settled inside of him with a third on the way, already Viridise was twitching in some feeble attempt to kick his legs in resistance. That wasn’t allowed. And so, the Kobold Mage renewed the restraints, and added a binding tie to seal closed the muzzle of this pathetic male-bitch as well, releasing his impotent cock to make use of the corkscrew seal there instead. He would be allowed to do nothing but watch, his untended maleness already streaming with renewed essence of surrender.

A third egg, and now the bulge of his abdomen was quite noticeable, the supple scales of his soft underbelly now presenting three distinct peaks. A fourth, and now he was stuffed tightly enough for its advancement into him to press hard against his bitch button, forcing him to shuddering climax. His nostrils flared, the exhalation of his bitchgasm an impotent whining sound like a wounded animal. Appropriate, thought Custose, for this living sextoy was lower than even the beasts of his father’s stables.

The fourth egg came with more impotent twitches, and the fifth settled against his joy buzzer immovably, with every pathetic twitch of the former Dragon serving only to grind it all the harder. With each deposit, the tentacle had withdrawn to clear space; now only the tip remained, and towards it flowed the final egg, a mass more proportioned to the fist of an Orc rather than a mere Kobold.

Custose loosened the restraints, but only slightly, for the sadist in him delighted in the pathetic struggle that was sure to come. The mass pressed against the tailstar below, forcing it wider, a grander penetration than even the hilted tail, and he cackled while the pathetic creature he sought to impregnate thrashed around pathetically. But, the ovipositor would not yield even an inch. The whine became a wail. The wail became a scream. And as the bonds of Viridise’s muzzle slipped, the scream became a roar. But, the egg had passed its widest point, and now with a humiliating ‘shlup’, it settled into the boy-cunt, maintaining a spread wide enough for the white of its shell to still be visible.

Viridise came so hard that he saw stars. The explosion of seed from his pathetic ornament of a cock was projected with force enough to splatter over his face and upper body, leaving no doubt that he had endured an equivalent bitchgasm in the real world as well. The imagined sight of his father acknowledging his surrender with a masculine huff of affirmation only deepened the pleasure. Creaming himself like a good little sextoy was the sole point of his life, after all. He would be made properly receptive to pleasure, grateful for his ruin, and through submission better serve the cock that sired him by climaxing around it on call. His boycunt would be trained to be the perfect cocksleeve for his father, and his peaks were naught but entertainment for the grander male, applause for the domination of his body and evidence of his gratitude for being possessed.

The object that used to be a Dragon again squeaked that humiliating series of whines as every breath impacted on his bloated insides enough to grind the largest egg against his bitch button, his fourth orgasm extended into a twitching ruin which had seed leaking over himself in an expression of raw surrender. But, the humiliation was far from over.

His bloated belly, sufficiently distended to bury his stiff cock in the mass of it, twitched. Something was moving. Something inside of him was moving! A sensation like the caress of fingers deep inside of him, the splitting of a soft shell to unleash the creature within whose straining has once made the surface hard. One by one, each of the five lesser eggs were hatching, and within his body now writhed the squirming masses of tentacles that each contained.

“A-Ah-Ah-Ahhh…!” Unable to find words, Viridise felt something inside of him break, the sight of his bulging belly shifting as indentations appeared from the inside was too much for him. Inside the Dreamscape, anything was possible, and that he had not ruptured was only because the thought of such a gory fate was beyond his imagination. It seemed however that being impregnated and forced to birth a half-dozen tentacle monsters was well within the bounds of his fantasies, even without Custose keeping everything on rails.

“Because you would hope to carry eggs in reality as well.” The Kobold delivered his verdict to the wailing former Dragon, “It’s almost a pity that the Godking prefers you as a male shamed by playing the part of a female, rather than one in full. Or perhaps after He bred a clutch of eggs into you, you would give Him a worthier son!”

The final egg, the largest which sealed the entrance of his battered boycunt, had started to tremble, and the vibrations preceding its hatching was already pleasure enough against Viridise’s bitch button to have him wailing in ecstasy. And then, quite suddenly, with a lewd shlorping sound, a writhing mass of blue tentacles erupted from his undertail, spreading his male-pussy to be birthed.

He watched in dazed ecstasy as one by one, the half-dozen creatures crawled from his defiled tailstar, each birth accompanied by a small orgasm of his own wrought not from the sensation of them pummelling his insides, but from the sheer depravity of it. His vision was dimming, and Viridise was faced with the strange paradox of falling unconscious while already unconscious. Below him was a splash. One of the creatures had fallen to the lake. Another. Another. Six resounding splashes. And then, he was the seventh, and all went dark.

… … …

… …

…

He woke hours later in the confines of his Nes- Lair! Everything came rushing back immediately, and Viridise wailed his humiliation while rolling around on the pile of treasure that was his bed. So easily he had fallen once more, even inside of a dream he had found the smallest excuse for surrender, and lost himself to the depraved pleasure of it. He was trapped in a cycle, to rage in defiance, to be conquered by pleasure, and then cry out his impotent shame in the aftermath. Brought low by his Father, and now chain-bitchgasming himself into loss of consciousness by the ministrations of his Brother as well – it was one thing to be beaten by such a mighty Dragon, but to be made cum until his mind snapped by a mere Kobold was beyond the pale!

“I am quite pleased to see you restored. It is quite amusing that your submission never completely sticks, isn’t it? I suppose that is proper. You are not a Dragon anymore, but you were once a mighty creature.” The smug voice of the Kobold came from across the room, and Viridise made no move to acknowledge it, digging himself deeper into the hoard of golden coins and scattered relics until he was completely buried, “How pitiful. Is this not the reality that you yearned for? Do you even remember licking the bitch cream from your chest before I allowed you to sleep last night?”

Viridise had no such memory, but had been in so broken a daze that he believed the words to be true. The Kobold had promised after all that every ounce of his impotent seed would be lapped up by his own tongue. Another humiliation to scorch his cheeks. And one compounded as the memory of what he had endured inside the Dreamscape came to weigh on him in full. Violated by a monster, impregnated, and forced to birthgasm out the creatures that had spawned inside of him – all the while mocked by his warden, his feeble orgasms playing out in reality to be observed by his father and his guest, while he was bartered over and bought like the item that he was.

“Don’t reflect too deeply, or you will find that toy between your legs erect again.” Custose spoke as if reading his thoughts, “You truly are pathetic, Brother. Those pitiable squeaks you were making while having your insides rearranged came out of you in the real world as well, and even your Dragonflight Leader looked ashamed to have had a creature so pathetic as a subordinate. After he was made swallow the Godking’s seed, he looked at you with such scorn before retreating back to his mountain. It was such a wonderful expression of hate. Majestic. As a Dragon should be. Not at all like your melted surrender, eyes misty, tongue lolling, wailing and panting, a wanton slut.”

He smirked, “Though, you should rejoice. The Lord of the Seventh Peak thinks it appropriate that such noises and expression accompany the bitchgasms of a lesser being such as you. A fine compliment. It bodes well that the Almighty One enjoys the sounds of pleasure that you make. I imagine that when He breeds you, He shall fuck you until you are completely spent for naught more than the melody of your submission.” Custose licked his lips, “I hope it hurts. I hope that He mates you until you are so spent of your unworthy seed that every orgasm melds pleasure with agony.”

“You pervert! Foul sadist!” Viridise called out his own feeble insults from beneath the mountain of loot, “How do you find such pleasure in my misery!?”

The Kobold cackled, “Misery? When you affirm that to be used as a male-bitch by your betters is what you are for with your own words? When you beg for more when placed into a position of surrender? When you achieve a quivering bitchgasm to the humiliation of a few Mortals calling you a faggot?” He lifted his glasses to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes, “Oh, that is rich. Yes, Brother. I do enjoy it. If our Father ever tires of you, rather than see you discarded, I think I might keep you as a pet all for myself. I’ll have you adopt a Humanoid Form of appropriate size for me, and you shall never again take so grand a shape as you have now.”

His cruel grin deepened, “So, you had best please your sire well. You had best be so wonderful a receptacle for his pleasure that he never casts you aside. For it is only because you are his possession that I restrain myself from doing permanent harm to you. Personally, I think that your arms, legs, wings, and tail, are all superfluous for you taking cock. My first act as your keeper would be to see them all removed. And then, I think I would take my time destroying your mind until pleasure was all you knew.”

In truth, that was a bluff – though perhaps one which he would force the former Dragon to live through inside another Dreamscape. If Custose ever did end up with possession of his Brother, he would make of him quite the minion, for a nice beast of burden would be very beneficial to his work. Work which would require his body whole and his mind unbroken. Though, Viridise did not know that. He believed the Kobold completely, and now equated failure to being stripped of his limbs and made a living cocksleeve in form as well as function.

“Please, no…!” He sobbed pathetically. The proud Dragon which had announced his challenge against his father with the unleashing of his Breath Weapon was no more, and in his place was nothing but this pitiable male-bitch. Viridise wormed his way out from beneath the treasure pile and bowed his head, “Brother… teach me how to serve!”

“Oh? You have ambitions to be more than a passive fucksleeve for your Father, after all?” Custose mocked, “Kobold serve, Brother. And you are a lesser creature than us. You are not a proud worshipper dedicated to the pleasure of the Almighty One as a Kobold Courtesan would be. You are a lowly slut. A whore whose ruin is found by the Godking to be amusing.”

Viridise cringed, “Then…” He flexed his claws into the gold coins below them, slowly lowering himself, “Please, Brother. Make me a better slut.” The former Dragon couldn’t help but lower his face, not in deference, but to hide the extreme shame of his request. And of course, to conceal his lower body behind his bow, for the humiliation of his torment had drawn out his cock to have it leaking over the treasure pile.

“Hmph.” Custose scoffed, “I do not need a lesser being to tell me my duty.” The Kobold coldly assessed the prostrate creature before him, brought low without even the need for a command under the Domination Spell, “Take on your Humanoid Form.”

There was a moment of hesitation before Viridise did so, his body reshaped by his own native Magic, a smooth shift which rendered him upright to a height of approximately twice of Custose. He was lithe and mildly effeminate looking in this shape as well, and as a press of scales at the crotch normally obscured the genitals, it was considered to be quite difficult to tell male from equally breastless female when Mortals without additional senses beheld Dragonkin of most types – especially so for him. Or, it would have been, were he not showing openly the evidence of his own arousal.

He squeezed his eyes shut, a slight movement of his head having his proud white horns whistle through the air, his arms hugging his emerald hued body. His tail was long, and he kept his wings as well, the vast span of them folded neatly behind him. Custose did nothing to hide his lecherous observation of the lesser male. It was almost a shame that the Godking had been first to claim this submissive creature for his own for Viridise was quite the prize, he motioned to the exit, “You shall accompany me into the Domain in that form today.”

“Will… I not be allowed some robes at least?” Under normal circumstances, the press of his scales would allow him modesty, and he knew that in many Mortal Kingdoms scalekin were permitted to walk in a state of undress. But, Viridise did not trust himself to withhold his arousal, considering the sort of treatment that he had endured so far and the effect that it had on him. At least as a true Dragon, he had the obfuscation of his hindlegs!

“Of course not. Most Kobold walk in a state of undress, and you shall do the same.” He then smirked, “Oh, as a creature lower than a Kobold, to compare you to us is not appropriate. What I should have said is, the wolves and lizards that the Goblins and Ysoki Ratfolk ride are not garbed, are they?” His smile deepened, “Yes, that feels more apt. As the lowest slave of the Almighty One, to liken you to His labouring beasts is more proper. They too, eat, shit, and breed, when directed by their handlers. The list of similarities mount up, don’t they?” And then the smile turned cruel, “Say it, Brother. You are as low as a Direwolf mount’s breeding bitch.”

Viridise shuddered, his cock throbbing as he imagined himself in the position that he was being equated to. In this form, he would fit quite neatly beneath one of those hounds, and to be bred by a lowly animal would strike against the fragmented pride he so desperately tried to shore up after each act of submission. Of course, such a thing was probably inevitable. He was going to be forced to reply, and it was better to say the words now than invite his Brother’s ire by the Kobold making it a command, “I’m as low as a feral bitch.” He swallowed, “I’m not a person. Satisfying better males is what I’m for. I should be grateful to even be mated by an animal…”

“Yes. As the lowest slave, you are practically an animal yourself. Which is why at the times when you are not dressed in the finery appropriate to the presence of the Almighty One, you are to be nude, whether in Humanoid Form or not.” He sighed, looking pensive, “The Godking has demanded your virginity for himself, but after that seal is broken, I will not forget my intent to have you spend a day in the beast pens. To be as one animal amongst many would be a fine demonstration of your place, since that seems to be a thing you must be taught daily.”

And with that merry promise in mind, Viridise was made accompany the Kobold out of Vault Seventeen, forced to layer his hands over his crotch in a feeble attempt to shield his arousal from view. Their walk was enough for his cock to gradually retreat, but he doubted that he would be allowed to maintain his dignity for long. Striding in the wake of his Brother (and slightly to the side, as he had been instructed), he could not help but pay attention to the Kobold that was his keeper.

Proud and majestic in his robes, Grimoire held to his chest, antlers bobbing to each smooth step, he cut a regal figure far more appropriate to the son of one so great as Fatuum. Comparatively, Viridise’s gait was slovenly, his head lowered as the pride was beaten from him, cowed and broken. He hated that knowing that he was under the command of his better felt strangely reassuring. To belong to his Father and be managed by his Brother, it felt safe, not at all like his frantic manoeuvring on the Fifth Peak in hopes of amassing power and attracting a Dragoness.

It was his second day stripped of his personhood, and he loathed to admit that it was… comfortable.

A strange yearning was growing in him. A hope to be acknowledged by his betters. If he was to be nothing but a living sextoy on the same level as a working animal, it would at least be nice to be a beloved one. Not a copper piece of his Father’s hoard, but a polished gemstone.

Viridise cringed away from the thought, the Soul-wound of his defiance of Draconic pride deepening as such a submissive line of reasoning layered itself over him. No. Despite everything, he was still a Dragon! Even those times that he had tricked himself into following along with the idea that he was lower than a Kobold, that was all just… confusion! The domination of his Father, the Kobold’s Spell, his own newly awakened sexuality, he blamed his addled thoughts on all of them.

Or, it could be, that they are right. You are a lesser being. You are a male-bitch. And you like that. You want that. You’re so relieved to be collared by your Masters that you grin like a fool!

His hand came up to his face in the wake of that thought, covering up the smile that he had been unable to sublimate by will alone. Damn it all. What sort of Dragon looked at a lowly Kobold with such lust that it made his undertail twitch? In this form, he would be just the right size to offer himself to his Brother, on his back with his throat exposed in draconic surrender, able to wrap his limbs intimately about the Kobold and lie back, demonstrating his submission with each chained bitchgasm to paint his belly.

Sex had not been the peak of his concerns before yesterday, and now it seemed all that he could think about. His newly discovered carnality was the defining feature of his life from this point forth by edict of his Father, and there was far grander appeal in this than the struggle of life before his sire brought him low. Would it really be so bad to allow himself the dazed smile of his lust-drunk thoughts? Was it not the proper order of things for a being so lowly as him to serve his betters however they saw fit? If his Father and Brother said he was not a person anymore, then…

Viridise blinked away the thought with a scowl, his draconic ego rebelling against every last inch of it. Back and forth, over and over, falling into the abyss of submission, and then dragging himself free of the ultimate surrender that came with true and Soul-deep acceptance of his place. Just as Custose had said, his submission never seemed to entirely stick, and perhaps that was a good thing. After all, if he ever did abandon his draconic pride completely, surrendering even the particulate matter to which it had been ground, he would not be able to experience the humiliation which, for reasons he could not even begin to comprehend, was a sensation potent enough to have brought him to an untouched bitchgasm yesterday.

Yes, without pride, there could be no humiliation.

That shameful pleasure, now that he had tasted it once, Viridise was not able to throw it away. His Father had looked to the future and told him that every possibility ended with him slain or enslaved, and he now fully understood that such enslavement would be willing. Never mind being owned by some Mortal as an Animal Companion or Summon; at this rate he would not find the prospective destiny of going to the cave of a pack of feral mountain wolves and submitting himself to them as their breeding bitch to be distasteful. A proper place for a failed male that was as low as an animal, raising his tail for them as well was only natural.

“We’re here.” Custose’s exasperated declaration cut through his reverie, and the former Dragon returned to awareness to find that they had again come to the roadside eatery at which he had been disgraced the day before. It was a simple space, and being underground required no roof. A firepit at the centre upon which several spitted carcasses slowly rotated, and a large rounded oven for the flatbreads upon which the meats and sauce would be layered. Surrounding this was a counter lined with stools, occupied already by several slaves of the Godking. They showed him only mild interest.

There was no day and night underground, and even such heavy meals as this were always available. Custose flashed his golden tablet to the Minotaur worker, a titanic male that was not present the previous day, and the bovine behemoth huffed as he beheld Viridise, “So, this is the one?” His voice was deep and powerful, “This used to be a Dragon?”

“By decree of Godking Fatuum, he is a Dragon no more.” Custose responded idly, “Do you see even a hint of majesty in this male-bitch? He is the lowest of all slaves, as meagre as an animal, below even a Kobold such as I. Not a person. An item, and not an especially valuable one. A thing to be owned.”

“You are right.” The Minotaur affirmed, “If the Almighty One says that it is so, then it is so. My species also birth race-failures every once in a while as well. We have them gelded, and the Chieftain keeps them as servants of the house.” He huffs again, “Yes. My instincts do not react to this boy. I do not feel the pressure of a Dragon. The sense is more like livestock.” His expression softened slightly, “We should be kind to the animals, Custose. My tribe thinks that the way we treat our lessers is how the Gods measure us.”

Now the Kobold scoffed, “I need no God but the Almighty One, Wain. Besides, this pathetic male-bitch is so far fallen as to find enjoyment in his degradation.” He pulled himself onto one of the stools, “I have worked through the night, and in the mood for something hearty. I want meat. I want ale. And I want this lowly whore on his knees with my cock in his muzzle while I feast.”

Wain raised an eyebrow as the former Dragon balked, “It is unlike you to take your pleasure in the open, Custose. Is this your training method for the Almighty One’s plaything?” He looked the Kobold up and down, looking to take the measure of him again, and then smiled, “So be it. I cannot refuse the carrier of a golden tablet. In truth, I am pleased to see you so bold. You’ve been somewhat antisocial of late, my friend. It would do you well to spend more time breeding this faggot with your comrades and kin, rather than cooped up in your Vault. Perhaps you might find an evening to bring him to the underground springs? We could enjoy some libations while the Iruxi Lizardfolk keeping the place fuck your ward broken. If such things as this are to his liking, then I see no need to hold back.”

“You should not care if they are to his liking or not. I say again, my Brother is not a person, Wain. I appreciate that it is the way of your people to show your lesser courtesy, but do you bow to your chamberpot before its use as well? Viridise here is so lowly as that, and should he ever defy me, his likening to such a thing will cease to merely be a metaphor.” With a shift of his jaw, Custose bid his charge advance, and to an audience of several Kobold fresh from their day of tunnelling, and a few other assorted males, Viridise fell to his knees astride the tall stool, his head at the level of his Brother’s crotch. He continued, “My work has kept me busy. And just as I finish cataloguing the last of the latest batch of plunder, I am assigned the duty of seeing this lesser being made an appropriate vessel for the Godking’s pleasure. I think I might join you for a bath sometime soon, though. Those scalekin always seem to manage to cram both of their cocks into their whore before they’re done, and it would entertain me to observe what face this male-bitch makes when they tear his tailstar.”

Wain huffed, taking a glass bottle from a chest from which a distinct chill emanated, and serving both that and a small meal to the Kobold, “I find such sadism distasteful.” He then smirked, “But, that is not your only flavour, Custose. Abrasive as you are, you have never had a problem with more gentle lovemaking. I recall you being rather intimate, that time we-”

“Ahem!” Custose cut him off, “That was mere training, Wain. If my Father ever decides that he wishes to make use of me, then I must at least be able to handle a mere Minotaur.” He scowled, “It astounds me that the Kobold Courtesans consider you to be good practice for the Godking. You are far too gentle to be the equal to a Dragon of any variety! And it is offensive for any to be compared to the Almighty One at all!”

The large bovine male let out a booming laugh, and then, “Perhaps they come to me for a good womb-stuffing because I am gentle? I had one of them last night, and they are most displeased with you. Your Sister, Ampluss, is on the verge of mastering the Dragon Form Spell and is not happy to now have a rival in that whore nuzzling your hip… Come to think of it, now is a good chance to ask.” He looked down to the former Dragon, “Tell me, boy, is it true that when a Dragon is in Humanoid Form, their pleasure is lesser?”

Viridise had followed the conversation, first ashamed to be brought low in public once more, then astounded to imagine his Brother riding the lap of this Minotaur, and now jarred to response. He almost spoke immediately, but remembered just in time to look to Custose for permission, and after a small nod, “In Humanoid Form, every sensation is duller. It’s why…” He swallowed, “It’s why I only masturbate in Dragon form, using my muzzle and my tail. Because when I am in this humanoid shape, my hand is not… as satisfying.”

“And still a little degradation is enough to have his cock throbbing even in this body.” Custose curled his flatbread around the sauced meat he had been served and took a bite, “I imagine that he’ll bitchgasm untouched from naught but the joy of my seed over his tongue. That’s the sort of whore that he is, Wain. I invaded his dreams and saw the lay of his mind. My Brother is a slut that yearns for his Father’s cock under his tail, with fantasies of being a free-use sextoy for the whole Domain, his legs spread for everything from Orcs to Riding Lizards.”

Custose exhaled over his steaming meal, “As for my Sister; Ampluss is dedicated, but she has not the skill with Magic to hold a Dragon Form when skewered by the Almighty One’s cock. She chases a pipe dream, yearning for a Spell beyond the ceiling of her power. All the more reason for me to put full effort into training this sextoy into a dedicated male-bitch for Him. Godking Fatuum never keeps a Dragoness for long before tiring of her. At least now, he shall always have an appropriately sized fucksleeve on hand, one which will not fall pregnant and become irksomely territorial.”

“And there is more to a Kobold Courtesan than only sex, anyway. Even if He does take to draining His cock into my Brother more regularly, a lesser being such as him could never provide cultured conversation and entertainment as my kin do. My Sister and the others have nothing to worry about...” Custose’s offhand came down to casually rest atop Viridise’s head, as if he were petting a dog. Though, only for a moment, before he curled his thumb about a horn and took grasp of it, dragging the former Dragon beneath the hem of his elaborate robes. He wore nothing beneath them, and with perfect darkvision, his Brother was drawn level to the sealed slit of his unaroused kin.

“Get to work.” He commanded, and then turned his attention back to the Minotaur, continuing his conversation as a few other slaves moved closer to join them. Viridise was no longer following along. The seam before him was the first layer of protection for both male slit and undertail of the Kobold, and he could not help but swallow in anticipation. This was to be his training? It seemed oddly tame to be commanded to do nothing more than swallow his Brother’s seed while he was partaking of his breakfast, and that there was sure to be more to this heightened his arousal for the unknown.

His head beneath the hem of the robe, he could see nothing but the azure inner thighs and crotch of the other male, each intake of breath bringing with it the distinct scent of the Kobold which had in less than a day twisted his fantasies from hopes of slaying him to a desire to serve. He wanted this cock. Almost as much as he wanted his Father’s cock. And he wanted as well to be affirmed for it. To be told that he had done a good job. To be made understand that this was his place, and all was right in the world.

The seated posture made it impossible for him to access the lowest point of the seam where the undertail was concealed, but he had been commanded to focus on the burgeoning masculinity of the Kobold anyway, a maleness which had begun to emerge from the plying of his tongue to the slit in tentative lapping. Viridise was quite confident in oral, for though he had no experience with any other male, he’d had plenty of practice on himself. So, he parted the scaled seam and the male slit, the pointed tip of his pink tongue burrowing into the soft flesh before him to entwine about the head of the hidden cock within, and slowly by the warmth of his lash, draw it out.

“Good boy.” An unexpected affirmation came from above, and it make his wings quiver in delight. The scent playing upon him subtly infiltrated his senses, the smell of a creature like his Father, suffused in the Occult Magics of Prophecy. Sharp, and with a pressure to it like those moments preceding a thunderstorm, each intake of breath seemed to wash through his mind as much as the sinuses. The head of the maleness was drawn into his muzzle, a spade-like tip not too dissimilar to his own, divided from the shaft by a deep ridge. And then another. And then another. He counted them as the Kobold cock slowly stiffened into a full erection, finding that while the maleness before him was a near copy of his own, there was one stark difference. Not six ridges, but seven. When reduced to comparable size (if his double height could be called comparable), he was outclassed by his brother by a whole segment of cock.

Lesser being. Those words resounded in his head again. Yes. Lesser in will, lesser in power, lesser in Magic, lesser in masculinity, and even lesser in size of manhood. Dominate was a Spell of the same tier in Magic as Dragon Form, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the Kobold invoked such a power, what his superior cock would look like then. What it would smell like. What it would taste like. How it would feel in his muzzle and under his tail. It was a thought to have his own impotent dragonhood leaking precum, his male-cunt twitching in the hopes of being filled.

All Dragonkin were copious in the production of sexual fluids, and just as his own flowed in small rivulets down his aching cock, the maleness which filled his muzzle offered up its own ambrosia to him. Viridise had never found the taste of his own seed to be particularly enticing, and could not say that the bitter flavour of any male was something that he’d like to bottle and chug, yet the act of submission which was devouring the essence of his betters made that musky taste something truly delectable. It was the flavour of his own submission, proof of his failure as a male, his role as an owned bitch whose life was now service. No, service was perhaps too strong a word for him. He was not to serve as a proud Kobold Courtesan would. He was to be used. He was a passive whore, a collared slut that did as he was told and moved absent agency.

And his current instruction was to swallow his Brother’s superior essence, and prove true his predictions of his own plastering his belly in a pathetic untouched bitchgasm.

His body shivered in time to his moan, the humiliating whine of submission that only a male bitch that had surrendered to cock could possibly make. He rubbed together his knees, wishing that he could capture his own maleness between his thighs, or even bring his hands to it, but knew instinctually that such initiative would displease his Brother. He wanted his incestuous seed in his belly. Under his tail. Perhaps one day, a Serum of Sex Shift would be forced on him, and after bearing eggs for his Father, he would be allowed to give the Kobold a clutch as well.

Whatever he birthgasmed out of his lower species cunt would undoubtedly be as defective as he was. Mayhaps they could surrender to be used as well? He could give his Brother and Father a whole harem of inbred whores to serve their every whim, born sluts to serve as both their relief, and gratification to the whole Domain of the Godking Fatuum.

Or, maybe not. After all, such competition would lessen the amount of dick available for him, and there was a certain status to being the sole free-use slut of the Seventh Peak. Why should he share? And however satisfying it may be to fantasise about cumming around an egg while pushing it out, there was a grander humiliation to the failure of his manhood. To raise his tail as a female was a biological imperative. To be a Dragon… former Dragon… that lifted his tail for another male, and did so not by coercion but by his own wilful submission, that made him a bitch. And each sissygasm that his betters fucked him through affirmed it. His own untouched cock, his defective masculinity, emptying out over his belly while his tailstar was stretched and his insides pumped full of the essence of a real male – that was a sight far more arousing than his birthgasming pussy squeezing out an egg. Yes. He was undeniably a male. If he wasn’t a male, then he couldn’t feel this addicting shame so keenly.

Well, it wasn’t his choice to make anyway.

The cock in his muzzle had a wonderful warmth to it, each thick plate slightly yielding to the roof of his mouth, each ridge receptive to the coil of his tongue. The spade-like tip leaked endlessly, precum pooling in his muzzle and then gulped down, the massaging motion of his swallowing aligned to the slow bob of his head. Custose’s hand still rested on one of his horns, not forcing him, not even guiding him, just reminding him what his place was. And it made his toeclaws curl.

“You always look so smug when you’re about to cum, even when you’re in my lap.” The voice of Wain rumbled from above, but Viridise was deaf to the comment on his Brother’s expression. The cock in his muzzle was throbbing, the grip on his horn tightening, and as the first thick ropes of vulgar Kobold essence stiped his tongue, the sheer joy of bringing a creature so superior to him to orgasm was enough to trigger his own impotent bitchgasm, his pathetic dragonhood erupting over his belly as he leaned back, what seed continued to flow dripping over his thighs.

The hand at his horn pushed him away, for the final jets of Custose’s orgasm to settle in lines across his muzzle, clinging white over jade scale, he was removed from beneath the superior male’s robes for all in audience to bear witness to him. Along with the light came the watching faces of the Minotaur beyond the counter, several curious Kobold, an Orc, Ysoki Ratfolk, Drow, and more; and before that audience he whined pathetically through the echoing pleasure of his own untouched climax, his cock twitching as it dispensed one final spurt of seed over itself.

Custose gave a deep sigh, sounding to be quite satisfied, “Six out of ten.” He commented coolly, “More finesse than expected, but somewhere around the middle, he became so lost in his own submission that it all became sadly robotic. Though, the bitchgasm at the end was quite amusing.” He’d finished his meal, and having done with pleasure as well, he hopped down from his stool, “Well, then. I had best go and see Ampluss and smooth things over.”

The former Dragon, quickly leaned down, trying to use his hands to scoop up his own cum from his thighs to devour so that he would be allowed to move, “No. You will be staying here. The Godking Fatuum will be claiming your virginity, but your muzzle is open for use, and I have organised a queue while you were occupied.” He smirked, “Today, you will not be cleaning up the mess of seed with your tongue as you would usually be bid to. When I come to collect you in a few hours, we shall be returning to Vault Seventeen with the cum of as many males as you can service plastering your scales. If you are not completely sodden with the essence of better men by this evening, then I shall punish you.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the boy.” Wain rumbled from behind the counter, “Unlike you, I am kind to the animals.” That won something close to a scowl from Custose, and with a small harrumph, the Kobold was soon on his way, abandoning the roadside eatery to meld into the crowds passing it by. Viridise was left with no opportunity to speak up before the seat once occupied by his Brother was then filled by the same Amurrun Catfolk which had mocked him the previous day.

By frame, he was almost as large as the Minotaur, tawny furred and of the Leonine subspecies, his proud mane obscured much of his upper body, and he carried the physique necessary to swing the enormous sword leaning against the counter beside him, more blunt hunk of iron than blade. A Barbarian of the Savage Wilds, one of the myriad Mortals that made up the clans endlessly warring through the Elemental Chaos for scraps of briefly habitable land before the inevitable shift and flow of ruin forced them to move once more.

Perhaps he was an outcast, perhaps a prisoner, or even a wilful convert, or collaborator. In the Seventh Peak, it didn’t really matter. All that stood within the mountain, be they permanent resident, or merely passing through, King or chattel, all were slave to Fatuum. The Lion wore naught but a loincloth of tartan fabric, which he stripped without fanfare and hung from the pommel of his sword, turning on the stool towards Viridise with a slight spread of his legs to present surprisingly well-groomed nethers, a little pink already peeking out from his heavy sheath.

“Have at it, whore.” He growled, “The sort of lowly slut that bitchgasms to the taste of Kobold seed has no right to my name.” The Amurrun spoke with a haughty tone, imbued with a sense of privilege despite his savage trappings. He was a Mortal, lesser in strength and magic than Viridise, and yet, the former Dragon could still not help but see this man as his better. Presence. Majesty. He carried with him attributes sorely lacking in the male-bitch which could not help but yield to them.

Viridise rose, and from his knees was again brought level to the crotch of the one sitting at the barstool, a creature now large and furred rather than small and scaled. The scent was very different, slightly musty, but with a sense of warmth to it, like a meadow after the rain. Before him was a sheath unlike his own draconic slit, and the external balls were quite the source of curiosity to him. So, this was to be his day? To use his maw to pleasure every male scheduled, and be forbidden to clean his scales of the cum they would shower him in?

He swallowed. To be seen in such a state, strings of white drooping from his horns, his wings defiled, scales shining with the essence of his betters – would be yet another humiliation, one of many sure to follow it. What would be next? His undertail would not be offered up to the beast pens until his Father had properly enjoyed his virginity, and who could say what assortment of depravities would be forced upon him in the interim, nor what humiliations would follow.

Now was not the time for idle thoughts. He brought his muzzle to the Lion’s crotch, breathing deep that scent, musty, meadow, sunbeam, it was a smell to invoke such vivid imagery, dominance, superiority, masculinity, these too washed over him. The opening of the sheath was broad, and Viridise was quick to trace it with his tongue, keen to take advantage of these moments before cock emerged from it in full, for only now might he infiltrate it with his lash.

“Enjoying that, bitch?” He taunted, “You kiss my sheath like an unbloodied village girl, and you swoon like one, too.” Viridise had come to rest his hands on the inner thighs of the larger male, granting himself some small amount of leverage as he leaned in deep, drawing the growing cock into his maw while his tongue worked its way into and around that potent leonine sheath, “Don’t get too eager, boy. Your handler wants my cum over your body, much as we all know you’d prefer to swallow.”

The Minotaur across the counter huffed, “All the good girls swallow.” He placed a tankard before the Lion, who plucked it from the wood and drank his fill of bitter ale, “Boys like this are useful, though. Breed a male as hard as you like, and he won’t get pregnant. Fuck him long enough, and he surrenders in spirit and becomes a bitch. They make for excellent servants, gelded or not. I’ve kept a few leashed faggots myself out in the Savage Wilds.” He gave a small shrug, “Though, rare does one surrender so quickly as this. Not unless they want to. Because they were a slut from the start.”

Viridise was only half paying attention. The feline cock was replete with small barbs, every one of them only just pliable when met with the press of his tongue, yet firm enough to scrape the inside of his muzzle when he bobbed his head. He shivered again, remembering how good the tentacle under his tail had felt, and now imagining how these same barbs would feel grinding against his bitch button.

Precum was flowing, but not as copiously as from Custose, and he imagined that the lack of lubricant would combine with these barbs to make sex with an Amurrun quite a rough and painful affair, and this male was strong enough to come with the promise of pinning his Humanoid Form and fucking him until his insides were a complete mess saved only by his own draconic fortitude. Would a bit of pain really be so bad, though? The sharpness of such sensation would only better remind him of his place, a whore, a slut, a toy for real males. Every cock here was better than his own, no matter the size, shape, or adornments of them, because his own was not really a cock at all – it was just an ornament, a toy, an impotent thing there solely to show his betters how grateful he was to offer up his unworthy body to them.

The Amurrun Barbarian finished his ale, placing down his tankard and adjusting his posture to now properly face Viridise. He took each horn in hand, “Six out of ten? The Kobold rated you far too highly. I have places to be today, whore.” And with that, he forwent any further foreplay or buildup to slip himself from his seat and begin to brutally fuck the lesser male’s muzzle.

A moan rent the air, but it was not the Lion, it was Viridise. Dominated and used, the sense of serving as the cocksleeve which was his purpose was enough to have his own ridged cock twitch, his throat flexing as he swallowed the precum pouring into his belly, the roof of his mouth aching as the barbs dragged over it, his heart fluttering as the inevitability of his own orgasm became apparent. Heavy feline orbs slapped against his chin, a lewd and sloppy sound filling the air as the former Dragon’s drool melded with essence he’d been unable to swallow, and after a few more thrusts, the Amurrun dragged free his cock to unleash his orgasm over the male-bitch below him.

As thick ropes of creamy cat jizz plastered his face, Viridise reached his second untouched bitchgasm, whimpering pathetically as he doused his thighs with male submission. It was a sensation duller than when he would cum as a Dragon, the constraints of his Humanoid Form blunting the sensation, but that only made his ability to still achieve an untouched climax more humiliating. Perhaps he should touch himself after all? He wasn’t used to using his hand, but he was very familiar with his tail, and there was more than enough cum in his lap to properly lubricate it.

The Lion was already refastening his loincloth, scarcely sparing him a glance as he dropped a few scrips onto the counter and shouldered his enormous sword. Well, that was only proper. Custose had likened the former Dragon to a chamberpot, and it was right for him to be paid as little respect as one. Nothing but a place for grander males to relieve themselves, Viridise was their living sextoy, and nothing more. But that did not mean that he couldn’t enjoy himself as well. After all, his every orgasm was applause for their domination of his lesser species body.

In his Humanoid Form, his tail was far less dexterous than that of his true draconic self, but there was still length and flexibility enough for him to shift his body until he was sat upon his heels, capturing the coiled length below him between his thighs for the tailtip to emerge in front of his cock. Viridise had sufficient quantity of his own bitch-cream pooled in his lap to see it properly lubricated, and by capturing the top third of his tail in the grip of one of his footclaws, he was able to position the tip upwards.

He gave a small wince of pleasure as his tailstar yielded to the length below him, Viridise rocking himself into the wet feeling of his own impotent cum slicking the advancing length. The former Dragon leaned back, baring his throat, grasping at his lower legs as he arched up his belly to show off the small bulge behind his abdominal muscles, and the effect that it was having on his own twitching cock, a small jolt to every inch of progression, and a steady leaking of male surrender.

To the submissive Viridise, the thought struck him that this was like a mating dance, a lewd showing off of his body to entice a worthy male to have sport of him, like a female canine raising her tail to present a swollen spade in need of a good knotting. Though, the wolf bitch that he had associated to his fantasies a few times now morphed into a vixen when the next male that took up the stool before him was revealed to be a Kitsune.

An obvious Mage, adorned in purple robes beneath the concealment of a leaf-green hooded cape in a garish clash, he flicked the copper crozier he was carrying into some extradimensional storage space, and his clothes were whirled away to the same motion. The colouration of his fur was the classic orange and white, marred with a small amount of black about the cuffs, tailtip, ears, and muzzle. From his crotch was already presented quite a modest erect knotted maleness, very light pink with a slight slant to the head and soft furred orbs below.

But, it was not his cock that was presented to the male-bitch slowly fucking himself with his own tail. The Kitsune gave a small smirk before turning on the spot; rather than seating himself upon the stool, he leaned over it, raising his brush with an enticing flick to show off the indentation of his undertail. His voice was fair, doing nothing to dispel the common stereotypes of perversion associated with the vulpine species, “I used Magic to purify myself. Custose promised the full service and I see no reason not to indulge. Oh, and you can call me Hastal.”

Had Viridise not been so lust-drunk, he might have remarked that it was odd for a Kitsune to have a draconic name, for Hastal followed their Black Mountains custom of a Celestial word with one letter added, removed, or both. But, with the prospect of some new humiliation presented before him (quite literally), no superfluous thoughts to his task were forthcoming. The sensation of pleasure from his tail was a dull ache, and while still inferior to the heights of ecstasy that he could experience in his true form, the idea of pressing his muzzle against the undertail of a better male was decadent enough to have him whimper pathetically.

He hesitated. Viridise had plenty of experience using his tail on himself, but he’d never plied his tongue to that spot, always choosing to instead suckle the submission from his own cock while trying not to imagine that it was a real Dragon fucking him. Of course, Magic for purification was the basics of the basics, but there was still a certain sense of depravity, especially when it was a Mortal showing off their undertail to him so expectantly. Still, he couldn’t help but cringe with shame. This was not a dominant male to which he was bowing, he could tell that from the mildly effeminate nature of the fox beckoning him. To draconic sensibilities, a male which submitted to the same sex wilfully, for naught but their own pleasure, was the lowest of all. A Kobold Courtesan got a pass for the service of the act, and a Dragoness for biological imperative. Were Viridise still a Dragon, he would have called this Kitsune a faggot and scoffed.

But, he was no longer a Dragon. He was lower than a Kobold, lowest even of the animals of the Beast Pens, not a person, a mere sextoy. What right had he to scorn this fox? No, this was another male that was above him, and one worthy of proper deference. To dragonkind, Viridise was as much a faggot as this Kitsune – and to be fallen from the heights of his superior race, he was lower even than that. He unclasped his hands from his calves, leaning forwards as he transferred his grasp to the presented vulpine buttocks, his muzzle pressed to the base of the flickering brush, and his tongue traced the soft pink tailstar.

“Never thought I’d live to get my ass eaten by a-… former Dragon.” Hastal was sure not to forget himself, for the edict of Fatuum was absolute, “A pity that toy between your legs ain’t nothing but an ornament, or I’d be asking you to gimme a good breeding. There’s nothing like the feeling of the cum of a powerful and dominant male leaking out of my boycunt while I’m going about my day. That masculine scent soaks into my fur, and I can’t get enough of it.” He grinned over his shoulder, wagging his tail, “But all you smell of is bitch. Even a boyslut like me can tell that.”

Wain chimed in with his masculine huff, “Dragonkin look down on whore males like you, Hastal. It’s a humiliation to serve you. Which is why the masochistic whore nuzzling your undertail looks like he’s about ready to pop again.” The Minotaur sounded amused, “Never seen a thing like it. Even a Kobold keeps their pride when they take cock. But look at this race-failure, grinding on his tail while he puts his tongue into you. Whimpering like a maiden having her cunt bloodied for the first time. No wonder the Godking decrees that this isn’t a Dragon. Such acts as this are all that he is good for. Just as a cow is for labour, milk, hide, and meat. This living sextoy is for us to use. I don’t think that Custose is right in likening him to a chamberpot, but he’s not a person. He’s livestock.”

Admonished and humiliated, Viridise whined, his hips twitching as his tailtip flickered over his bitch button, that small jolt of his body forcing him forward enough for his scaled lips to kiss the presented hole of the other male. There was no foul scent, only the perfumes by which the fox spiced his fur, and the dull trace of the dominant creatures that had topped Hastal recently despite his purifying Magic. His tongue advanced into pink warmth, his slit-like nostrils huffing at the tailbase so frequently doused in the seed of worthy men, his chin rubbing against the back of those modest orbs while the vulpine prick beyond them drooled enjoyment.

All else faded for Viridise, and he forgot even to rock back against his own tail, his mind and senses given over to the task before him. The flicker of his tongue would draw different reactions from the fox, from an undulating massage of his lash, to small throbs, to the lightest shudder as he plied pressure to that inner spot of male submission. The taste was salty sweet, the scent a spectrum from the feminine spice of the femboy fox to the musky odour of those males to have claimed him. Back and forth, Viridise indulged himself in full, but where a Kobold might have felt the pride of service in the few little shudders which indicated Hastal’s impending climax, the former Dragon could feel only shame.

There was no sense of accomplishment in bringing the fox to orgasm, only the humiliation of being used as a sextoy by a male grander than himself, shame deepened by the obvious proclivities of the one he was servicing. He lowered himself instinctively, his tongue tracing against the back of those vulpine orbs before drawing them into his muzzle, and he suckled the pulsing balls gently while holding up his cupped hands to capture all that erupted from the twitching cock beyond them. It was only when the climax was absolutely complete that he pulled away from the Kitsune with one final kiss to the undertail, and after leaning back, he raised up his cupped hands and poured the lewd cascade of creamy vulpine cum over his own face and chest.

“Gods damn. They don’t make whores like this in the Emerald Isles…” Hastal panted, slumped over his stool. His undertail was slightly gaped from the lashing of the former Dragon’s tongue, his knees weak from the pleasure of being tended to so long and attentively. Viridise had not noticed the time pass at all, nor realised that he’d been edging the faggot fox for over an hour before orgasm had finally slipped past him. And in that time, quite a queue had formed…

With Hastal scooped up by a passing Nagaji Snake promising that the mewling femboy would spend what was left of the day bitchgasming in his coils, the stool was then taken up by an Iruxi Lizardman, and Viridise presented with twinned malenesses to serve. Here he learned to ply his hands to the enjoyment of his betters in the sort of masturbation that he never really indulged in himself. It wasn’t long before both spires of masculinity had emptied themselves of seed over his back.

His wings were defiled by a collection of Ysoki Ratfolk, who found the sight of him on his knees suckling down the orgasm of their leader arousing enough to form a small circle around him to be brought to climax in sequence. Viridise was improving his skills, now with an experience of an array of esoteric cocks, and males whom he started to learn how to read – what they liked, what they didn’t, what ushered them to quick climax and what drew it out to churn up a thicker and creamier load to be plastered over his scales.

He dug into Tengu Birdfolk cloacas, plied his tongue to the slender cocks of Elves and the broad mating rods of Dwarves; he was taken by the horns and muzzlefucked vigorously by a Beastkin Wolfman, forcefed the cum of a rampaging Orc, and had his head cradled by an Undine Merfolk who stroked his cheek and called him a good girl for rubbing his briny load into the scales of his belly.

Several hours had passed, and the return of Custose was imminent. In that time, Viridise had been reduced to a lust-dazed state, kneeling beside the eatery counter as a free-use muzzle-slut for patrons to enjoy as they willed, the supple jade scales which were his pride and joy, now corrupted by the sheen of male seed, and no shortage of the thick clinging pearlescence of several dozen cumshots marked him.

It was now that Wain finished his shift and thought to make himself the last male of the day, the Minotaur guiding Viridise into his lap for his Brother to find him hard at work pleasing a better male upon his return. He was gentle, more so even than the Undine which had shown Viridise such compassion, yet while Wain treated the former Dragon which he thought of as a mere animal with care, there was a definitive air of command and no shortage of force. The bull had to him a deeply masculine scent and taste, more potent than any other male of the day, and it was this which overpowered and defeated Viridise completely.

In the end, he gulped down the thick bovine seed plastered over his muzzle in defiance of Custose’s directive that he cover his scales, and the chain of submissive bitchgasms which came in the wake of such potency made the former Dragon faint clean away, collapsing into a heap of his own defilement. The last thing he heard was the laughter of the bovine male that had mastered him, and the dismissive scoff of his Kobold handler.

… … …

… …

…

In what was likely going to become a common occurrence for Viridise, the former Dragon again woke atop his treasure pile, remembered the previous day, and with a groan of complete humiliation buried himself in the mound of gold coins in hopes of hiding away from the world. His mind rejected the reality of what he had become; a lowly male-bitch driven to climax from naught but the eroticism of pleasing greater men, their essence crusted to his scales and the taste of them still upon his tongue even when returned to his true form; he was so needy a slut that he’d even come to masturbate with his own tail to fulfil the twitching need of his submission. Pleasure had started to shape him as the living sextoy that his father had declared him to be, and by each depravity visited upon him, bit by bit, all that was superfluous to his role was being cleaved away.

His consent to this was defined not by his hopeless resignation to that fate, but for the yearning for it that his voice so often denied (at the start, at least), and his heart entirely succumbed. The Kobold had the right measure of him – every time, he would search for an excuse to surrender, some justification for his lust, and Viridise was self-aware enough to know and hate this fact. He liked it. He liked the humiliation of it. He liked to be used. Not to serve – to be used. To be a thing without agency, owned, an object, livestock, as worthy of respect as a chamberpot. He was nothing but a greedy muzzle and needy boy-cunt, dressed up in finery to increase his appeal, but ultimately nothing more than a pretty little thing for his betters to drain their balls into.

Buried in gold, surrounded by trinkets and treasures, the heavy male scent layered over the former Dragon intensified, his throat bobbing as he swallowed down the lingering flavour of his scaled lips. It made his head feel fuzzy, this heavy musky odour and bitter taste, he loved it not for the reality of what it was for the flavour was foul, but for the sense of raw submission that the idea that it sparked in him. Knowing that he had been used to the satisfaction of his betters, and knowing that he would be used again, it made his virgin undertail throb with anticipation.

How much longer would his father keep him waiting? For how many days would he have naught but the humiliation of his open muzzle and the stunted pleasure of his tail and the Dreamscape? He wanted more. He needed more. To be cast down, the jaws of his sire at his throat, bred by his superior male, his owner, his Master, until his own useless cock was so emptied of seed that each orgasm came to be agony, just as Custose had prescribed.

The thought was excitement enough to have brought his impotent maleness to a precum-streaming erection already, his whine of humiliation escalating into the needy warble of a shameless whore. Though it was not sound enough to overcome the familiar scoff of the Kobold who shared Vault Seventeen with him, “How pathetic. To what low fantasy do you raise your tail to now, Brother?” Custose observed the shifting mound of the treasure pile and the elevated hindquarters within it, “I wonder, whom do you imagine upon your back this time? Do you submit in your mind to the Almighty One? Is it I? Some Mortal male? Or is it a fellow animal that breeds you?”

Today was the regular day in which the treasure hoard would be cleaned and purified, and it was solely for this reason that Custose allowed his defiled Brother to wallow amongst the contents of the vault in such state as he was in. Still, he could not deny that the sight before him was a wonderfully erotic one, here a male bitch of a cum-basted former Dragon upon a bed of gold, thrusting up his hindquarters to show off the drooling adornment that was his impotent cock, and the small pink flex of a tailstar so eager to be filled. If not for his absolute worship of the Godking Fatuum and consideration for his Sister, he might have considered invoking the Dragon Form Spell and pouncing upon this feminised whore to claim his Brother’s virginity for himself.

He sighed. Well, after this slut was claimed in full by the Almighty One and became a free-use toy for the whole of the Seventh Peak, as Viridise’s manager, he would have his own turn. Daily. Custose’s sadistic proclivities delighted in the vision of ruin before him, the creature that used to be a Dragon now made slave to his own pleasure. His Grimoire vibrated in his arm, and he opened it to find a new message scrawled upon one of the infinite pages within, “Rejoice, Brother. I have been informed that your attire is complete. It appears that your display yesterday was sufficient to convince the custodian of Vault Twelve that you will be an enjoyable toy for us all, and he has released the materials that I was hoping for. Provided that I add him to the turn order.”

Custose drew a quill from the spine of his tome, scribbling back a message, “The gem setting was finished this morning. A welcome surprise for us both. You shall be dressed, and tonight surrender to your Father.” He mocked, “I wonder, is the prospect of that sufficient to send you into heat? Perhaps Wain’s likening of you to livestock was accurate after all. Do you yearn to carry a clutch for your sire like some animal bitch overcome by breeding instinct?” He shook his head, “No. As much as being called Daughter by the Almighty One makes you cringe with pleasure, your maleness is undeniable. You have no feminine yearning to be impregnated as excuse. You are nothing but a whore, so weak of mind as to have succumbed to pleasure. Now that you have known submission, you are addicted to it. How arrogant to have ever imagined that you deserved free will!”

His rhetoric had been consistent ever since Viridise had passed into his keeping, a constant deluge of affirmation that this was the proper place for the former Dragon, his degradations frequently repeated and amended to suit the mood of proceedings. It seemed that having woken up plastered in the dried essence of his betters had been objectification enough to skip the usual wearing down of resistance required to draw out his Brother’s true nature, for the feminised male was already clearly lust-addled.

“I’m a little disappointed, if I am to be entirely honest. It is quite entertaining for me to indulge in your torment.” Custose pouted slightly, looking a little annoyed. For a Kobold, he had in him sadism more typical to a Dragon, his father’s blood strong in him, “No. Given thought, this will not do. I shall not stand for it even on your special day.” And with that he lifted up his Grimoire and by engagement with Fatuum’s Magic, cleansed both Vault Seventeen and its occupants of all filth, purifying Kobold, former Dragon, and treasure, inside and out.

The scent and taste of grander masculinity diminished, and the heat of lust from Viridise’s cheeks as well, but only for a moment before the warmth returned in a blush of shame. What the Hells had he just been doing? He looked over his shoulder to find that he’d been brazenly presenting himself to his Brother, and after making eye contact with the particularly smug looking Kobold, he was sent burrowing into the treasure pile and moaning with shame all over again.

“Yes, that is how I like you best, Brother.” He screwed up his face slightly, having captured himself in that same purification ritual and now feeling oddly empty, his scales sterilised, his insides cleansed. It had been by intent, of course. It would be arrogant to the extreme for Custose to imagine that his honoured sire and Godking might wish to make use of him as well, but it would be an even greater sacrilege for the Kobold to not be prepared for every possible eventuality. His own Omen Dragon blood was not so potent enough for him to predict the future, but he still prided himself in accounting for whatever reasonable fates may await him.

“Really, to see what a useless thing you are, and to share blood with you, the indignity of it weighs heavily upon my shoulders. What did Wain call you? A race-failure? It does seem appropriate. But, I do not believe that the Godking is capable of making a mistake such as you. Obviously, you were hatched solely for this.” He grinned, smugly, the idea that Viridise had been taken as a whim unimaginable to the devout worshipper, he leapt to his own conclusions, “It makes perfect sense. The Almighty One devised your fate before you were even conceived. Your century of life has led to this moment. Those Dragonesses which flit in and out of the Seventh Peak come and go, and now He has for Himself a male bitch of a sextoy by which he may relieve Himself at any time. None are worthy to serve as a true mate to the Godking, but he remains an Archdragon with needs. Needs which you shall henceforth tend.”

His expression darkened to cruelty, “You are so low that there is no chance of you challenging Him. And that you have impotent cock rather than fertile cunt removes the annoyance of keeping a chained Dragoness temperamental in her pregnancies. Truly, there is no limit to the schemes of the Almighty One.” The Kobold looked joyous to be in service to such a being, “All is as He wills it.”

Viridise scowled into the treasure pile, incensed despite his debauched nature, “Do not… think that I cannot overturn fate.” He couldn’t help but raise his hackles when told that his whole life was spent dancing in his Father’s paw.

“Perhaps you can. But the fact remains: You do not want to.” Custose rebuked, “I am the second-strongest denizen of the Seventh Peak, and there is quite a gap before the third, provided that one does not count that outcast, Arte. It would not be unreasonable for you to find a moment when both the Almighty One and I are otherwise engaged to flee into the night, and none save for us could stop a former Dragon in rampage.” He licked his lips, “But you don’t. And you never will. That is why I do not use the Domination Spell to command your bondage. I need only correct your feeble aggression with it as a safety measure, and nothing more.”

“You want this.” He repeated, and then, the Kobold smiled, “Yes. I love that face you make when your pride is again crushed… I think I have changed my mind. The Godking did not set any particular time limit for your taming, and time means little to a mighty Archdragon. I think we shall spend a few more months training you before you are allowed to receive His cock. Perhaps I shall grow bored and complacent in that time, and perhaps you might escape with what remains of your dignity intact-.”

Viridise cringed, unable to prevent his words from spilling out, “N-no!”

“No?” He smugly responded, insufferable in tone, “Is that not what you want? Could it be that even with the fog of lust cleared from your mind, you still hope to raise your tail for your sire?” The former Dragon before him cringed, “Go on. Say it. Tell me how much of a shameless whore you are and how much you yearn to be bred by the Godking, and perhaps we’ll go and pick up your dress so that you can look pretty for Him after all.”

The large creature buried in the treasure hoard could not help but writhe impotently, kicking out his limbs, sweeping his wings and tail, thrashing around as if hoping to squirm away from the question itself. But, there was no escape, “I… want it…” He glanced over his shoulder at the Kobold looking expectant, another nod of his head, another silent ‘go on’, “I’m a living sextoy… I’m Father’s cocksleeve, and the only thing I should be thinking of is how to be a better pleasure tool for him…” He swallowed, “I’m a slut that likes being owned by him! Every time I think of being mounted, my undertail clenches up, and my useless cock leaks all over the gold!”

“I want him to use me more than anything!” The floodgates opened, “I need Father to fuck me broken, and then throw me to his slaves for their enjoyment! I’m not a person! I’m just a fucktoy whore for real males, real people, to empty their cocks into! I’m a lesser being!” He found himself panting, out of breath from screaming out something so shameful, “I hate this! I hate how easily you made me into some cockhungry boyslut! I hate that when you tell me that it’s my true nature, I can’t refute you! I hate my Father for not even bothering to tame me himself, and I hate you for breaking me in his stead! I’ll never forgive you! If the pleasure of raising my tail for Fatuum is anything less than I am promised, then I swear, I’ll kill you!”

Custose erupted into laughter, “Hahaha! Good! Good! So, this is why the obedience training never sticks? You are so obstinate that it is engraved into your Soul!” He removed a small handkerchief from his breast pocket and shifted aside his glasses to dab at his eyes, “Such greed is appropriate for one that used to be a Dragon. You don’t give a damn for service. All you care for is your own pleasure. It’s irresistible to you now that you have tasted it. Proper, I think, for an untrained sextoy comparable to livestock. No, Wain was wrong after all. I stand by my first assessment of you. You are less animal, and more cumrag.”

The Kobold scoffed, “But, you have convinced me. I will see you properly prepared, and tonight you shall submit to your Father. And if you are anything less than worthy of His pleasure, then it is I who swears to be the one that shall kill you.”

What followed then was a day of furious activity. The Spell of Purification was only the beginning of the process of cleansing his body and beautifying Viridise. First, he was led to the underground hotsprings and fussed over by an Iruxi Lizardfolk matriarch and her minions, the collection of scalekin seeing him soaked in volcanic pools, his claws carefully manicured, his fangs brushed, his hide scrubbed, filed of burrs, and oiled, until his whole being felt supple to the touch.

He was then brought to the Ysoki Ratfolk tailors, and after standing in a queue alongside mere animals awaiting the donning of defensive barding for some unknown campaign in defence of the Seventh Peak, Viridise eventually found himself clambered over by the small furry mammals. To have placed fixtures of gold about the neck and wingtips, he was draped in flowing pink silk, light and precious to near transparency. The gossamer mantle flowed over his back and sides, bound up at the joints of his fore and hind limbs with more golden bands.

It was awkward to walk when wearing such finery, and the former Dragon found himself almost prancing on his clawtips like a horse at dressage by the time he moved on to their third stop. At Vault Twelve, a rather surly looking Kobold with a machine arm and false eye saw him adorned in precious treasure, his upper arms clad in bangles to match the hoops which supported his garments, his horns ringed and draped in gold finechain, his tail banded in segments, and a bejewelled breastplate affixed to his chest.

A collective of Kobold Courtesans placated by Custose through some hidden deal, then took their turn fussing over him, waxing lyrical on their sexual exploits in service of the Godking (with no shortage of self-aggrandizement). They imparted onto him the knowledge of what his Father enjoyed – when in his Humanoid Form at least, for that was all these Kobold could manage – and Viridise listened carefully. He had been warned of their leader, his half-Sister and her jealousy, in advance, yet both she and Custose vanished off somewhere together for the duration of his briefing.

He'd later learn that the concession that Custose had made to Ampluss had been a promise to give her an egg, and he’d been quite busy making sure that his incestuous seed took while the former Dragon was occupied with the Kobold Courtesans.

Properly cleansed, beautified, adorned, and informed, it was at last time for Viridise to be presented to his father, and as evening fell (though one would struggle to tell the time inside the hollow mountain), he found himself walking behind and slightly to the side of his Brother along the broad avenue leading to Fatuum’s palace.

To either side of the stone-paved road, sprawling gardens and neat hedgerows flourished even without sunlight to nourish them, the flowers dispensed their heady scent, statues stood as proud sentinels and ornaments glittered in the firelight. Rather than rely on the magicked gemstones which illuminated much of the hollow Kingdom, vast bronze braziers of burning oil cast their flickering light over the white walls and golden trappings of Fatuum’s palace. Against the alabaster, their shadows danced, and in the polished metal their forms were reflected, a two-man (if Viridise could still be called one) procession beyond the yawning portal of an entry gate and into the inner keep.

As opulent inside as out, the interior was where Fatuum showed off his favourite treasures, the foyer more museum than entry hall, lined with carefully curated relics and masterworks from as far back as the early First Age. As an Omen Dragon who spent much of his time meditating on the grander fates of this Sphere, it was well within his purview to nudge destiny along every once in a while, making sure that the right Mortal found the right Legendary Sword at the right time. Better his meddling than the capricious Gods, as far as he was concerned, he trusted not Their relics and had none of them in his hoard.

Though, such elevated thoughts were beyond Viridise. To preserve his claws and clothing, he was forced to prance on his pawpads, the bobbing of his body sufficient to have his trinkets jingle with every step. He knew that Custose was smirking, but tried his best to keep his own expression neutral. He’d not the skill in servility to change the look on his face so quickly as a Kobold, and wanted to make the best impression that he could should he have a chance meeting with his Father in the hall.

They advanced through the palace interior, ascending a sweeping staircase vast enough to match the form of one so large as Fatuum himself, with a secondary walkway to service those so small as even a landbound Dragonet, and eventually their labyrinth navigation advanced into the private rooms of the Godking.

Immediately, Viridise winced. The first thing to hit him was the scent of his sire, the concentrated presence of the one that owned him. He had likened before the scent of his Brother to being akin to the prelude of a storm, that strange feeling of pressure which washes over the senses and seems to weigh as much on the mind as the sinuses. If he were to compare it to his Father’s smell, that was like standing at the eye of a cataclysmic hurricane, or perhaps flying into the Elemental Chaos of a collapsing Demiplane of Wind.

His heartrate quickened and he swayed, lightheaded, addlepated, dominated. It felt as though a paw had been placed upon his shoulder to force his head to bow low, and now he knew for sure that if not for the whirling gale which stripped such a scent from the mountaintop at which he had challenged Fatuum, he would not have dared even to approach. No. He still would have done. But he would not have flown. He would have crawled.

“Your slit is parting.”

A familiar warning from the Kobold leading him, and it took tremendous effort for Viridise to subdue his own arousal. His Soul-wound throbbed, yet the defilement of his own racial instinct did not much trouble him anymore. To bow to a power such as this was only natural. To be owned by so great a being was comforting. His lust was justified. His want vindicated. This is indeed what he was for. So what if that made him a race-traitor defiant to his own species nature? Fatuum was owed his subservience by right of this scent alone.

The Magic of an Omen Dragon was not the greatest of all Dragon subspecies, yet so deeply was his Domain within the mountain suffused with his essence, that the air of the palace at the heart of it felt electric. To Viridise, unattuned to this power, it was like wading through a swamp, a heat inside his lungs that made breathing difficult. How could he have been so arrogant as to even call himself a Dragon when this is what his kind could be? Little wonder that his kin warred for the Twelve Peaks if to claim one and undergo apotheosis led to this.

He trembled to the confirmation of his own lowness. His Soul-wound scorched him. And now made meek by the overbearing presence through which his Brother strode fearlessly, he lowered his head further still and advanced as if bowing into a gale. Up. Up. Up. More corridors. More staircases. The interior was impossibly large, space itself warped, but it was impossible to get lost. The way to go was obvious by feel, and their journey towards that majestic presence unceasing.

At the heart of it all was not a throne room, but a treasure hoard. The collection of wealth which belonged to a Dragon was as much defined as what was absent as what was present. Here was no minor trinket, no coin or gemstone less than perfection, no relic or work of art out of place, and no item blessed by the Divine. All that was unworthy of him was banished to the outer vaults, and that Viridise thought even the least of them in Vault Seventeen to be a transcendent hoard made the revelation of these riches before him all the more stark.

The vault was huge, and from the centrepoint of the ceiling flowed down great tapestries foretelling war epics past and future, they extended to the walls and draped low to cordon the bedchamber at the heart of the treasurepile. Here reclined the meditative Fatuum, majestic amongst his many riches, he had made for himself a throne of ancient coins engraved with the visage of the Sorcerer King Ahriman, and sat here atop his hoard to look down with distant eyes upon his approaching sons.

As was proper for a species so low as a Kobold, even if bound by blood to this sire, Custose approached on his hands and knees, crawling with his face to the floor in a demonstration of absolute servitude. Viridise thought to do the same, yet after a moment of hesitation he realised that his body was like stone, his knees weak, and with only one step his legs gave way beneath him, leading him to fall to the ground in a shower of coin and trinkets.

Fatuum blinked, and the distant look in his eyes focused as he was drawn from his meditations, myriad prophecies retreating back into the ether beyond his contemplation. The azure Dragon tilted his head, whiskers and antlers of gold stirring the heavy air as he surveyed the two before him. Custose. A familiar Kobold, one of his halfbreed sons, powerful in Magic and ambition; a vague inkling of some fate to his own advantage had been what had prompted Fatuum to place so worthy a pawn into so meagre a position as the keeper of his lowest vault. Perhaps now that choice would pay dividends.

His gaze then reached Viridise, the former Dragon, a failed male from which he had stripped personhood and decreed an object. It was irksome that this creature as well carried his blood. Were destiny a just thing, then Viridise would be the Kobold, and Custose the Dragon. Though, were that the case, then Fatuum would be without the enjoyment of making a trinket of this whore. Perhaps, with enough polish, this living sextoy would be worthy enough treasure to adorn his personal hoard.

Maybe after a few centuries of service, and with insides thoroughly moulded into the shape of his cock.

“I am Custose, Steward of Vault Seventeen!” The Kobold bellowed into the golden coins below him, never breaking from his bow, “I bring into your honoured presence your lowest slave! The male bitch that lives solely for your pleasure! False daughter! Race-failure! Owned possession of the Almighty One! I present this former Dragon, the one called Viridise, for your use!”

“Use?” Fatuum rumbled, peering down at the emerald-hued former Dragon cringing into his hoard, “Yes. To serve is something done with pride. To serve is what a Kobold does. To be used is the providence of this lesser being. To be used is what objects are for.” His expression remained stern, “You have done well, Custose. All proceeds as fate dictates, and you have arrived when I am of want for a distraction from my ponderings with amusement in tow.” He spoke as if Viridise were scarcely present at all, “Tell me, have you been entertained by the feeble defiance of this swooning whore?”

“Yes! He is most obstinate, Almighty One!” Custose was loud in his confirmation, “He awakens from his domination at the following dawn, and wails his humiliation in memory of it! The last vestiges of draconic pride within him are unassailable! Is it now the desire of the Almighty One for your lowly servant to shatter the mind of this toy!? Say only the word and it shall be done!”

A slow smile, observance of the fearful quiver of the lesser male before him, and then an answer, “That will not be necessary. Without pride, there can be no humiliation. Without ego, the stripping of personhood lacks bite. I think that he understands that as well.” He shifted his wings, a small beat to clear the air, “To break this whelp to pleasure atop my mountain was entertaining. It pleases me to know that his ruin may be repeated without end.” The grander dragon gave a small huff, “And it is apparent that if I am ever not in the mood for such games and require naught but relief, it takes only my scent and a focusing of my presence to have him addled.”

“There is no being that could stand in your presence and not surrender to you!” Half-blooded as he was, Custose could not deny his own Kobold proclivities towards sycophantism. Normally so composed, he had in his voice now a slightly frantic tone, though as another wingbeat stirred the air further, the heaviness of the atmosphere began to lift. A soothing force suffused the power weighing upon them as Fatuum altered the composition of Magic in the air, “Thank you, my Lord! I am unworthy of your considerations!”

“Hmph.” The Omen Dragon gave a small sigh, “It is I who decides who and what is worthy of me.” He spoke frankly, and Custose cringed, “I shall not have you overwhelmed by my presence before you are granted reward for your work…” To be served was the expectation of the Godking, and the offering of a reward something highly irregular. But, his fortune telling had told him much of his halfbreed son, and Fatuum would not hesitate to capitalise on it, “For now, you shall raise your head and observe what is to come.” His attention turned to the former Dragon, “Rise as well, whelp. The leaking of your impotent cock is soiling my treasure.”

Viridise found his daze to be lifting, and the address of his sire fully snapped him back to attention, the lesser male springing onto his feet in a scattering of coins and trinkets. He’d barely been able to follow along with the conversation thus far, his heated body drowned in bone-deep arousal, his mind filled with fantasies of submission.

“How pathetic. So small a push has sent you tumbling so far. My presence drives lesser creatures to submission, but I shall have you observe that while Custose bows with reverence, you do so with your haunches thrust up and your tail raised, the adornment between your legs dripping your feeble seed before it can even be mated from you.” One final sweep of his wings, and then they came to be still, draped over his shoulders like a mantle of majestic azure and gold, their weave shining, “This is because you are a whore. Your very nature is that of a slut. It is in your core. Your essence. You were hatched to be my cocksleeve, and your whole life’s journey ending here in your proper place. That is why it took naught but the molestations of my paw and a few sweet words to make a male bitch of you. That is why a mere Kobold was able to have you tamed in only a few days.”

He advanced a step, the coins jingling to every footfall, “You are not a person, Viridise. I deny your dragonhood.” His tail swept neatly behind him, “You are a failure in every function of our species but this. Too weak to fight. Too feeble in Magic to be worthy of such power. Too fractured of will to lead. Your sole value is thus – that I find your form pleasing to the eye, and I prophesize your body to be receptive to my cock. You exist henceforth solely for my enjoyment. You are a vessel for my pleasure. A thing which I use to relieve myself. A toy which I offer up to my slaves and guests at my discretion. You are scraps from my table, and nothing more.”

Closer, step by step, he descended from the peak of his golden hoard, “You shall never breed a female. You shall never even sheath your cock into the undertail of a fellow male bitch. The only thing that the toy between your legs exists for is to ejaculate your submission as applause for the grander being having use of you at that moment.”

“You love the feeling of cock in your muzzle. You reflect now on the throbbing heat of those that you have enjoyed. You remember their mastery over you, and the surrender of accepting their essence, across your face, upon your scales, swallowed down by your greedy maw.” There was no spell beyond his words, and yet Viridise still whined as if hypnotised, “And as you serve your betters, you yearn only to be further used. Further defiled. Further shamed. Your low-class male cunt feels so empty. It aches with the need to be filled. You have a yearning which your tail cannot sate. And now, you shall put into words what it is.”

He stopped before his son, the humiliated lesser male with gaze lowered to the carpet of treasure, nor forced to look up by the guidance of his sire’s dexterous forepaw, “Speak, whelp. Whore. Slut. False-Daughter. Lesser being. You shall again affirm what your purpose is. Now. Before the addlement of lust takes you. You’re going to inscribe upon your Soul what you are. And then, I am going to fuck your muzzle.”

The promise of his impending usage made Viridise’s cock throb, and he parted his hindlegs slightly in hopes of sparing his silken mantle the soaking of his defective seed. His father had lessened the pressure of his Magic, and yet the memory of that power still remained, the consciousness that this superior male was so far beyond him. He wished that he could blame his submission on that alone, yet the fact that even the lowest animal of the Godking’s mountain was of such greater status that the former Dragon would raise his tail for it was now irrefutable.

Viridise had sworn his submission before, affirmed the accusations set against him for both Brother and Sire, but this time felt different. Even if his ego would recover from this submission and he would be found the next dawn wailing and thrashing in humiliation, this surrender still felt like it was crossing a line. It was the sealing of a covenant. The declaration of an oath. To speak the words here and now would be an act from which he would never come back from. Rejection of his Father would be impossible, escape unthinkable. He would always struggle, he would always resist, but his fate would be ironclad, his destiny resolved.

His life would be nothing more than service as his Father’s fucktoy, his owned plaything, a bauble of his hoard, a masturbatory aid. To call such a creature a Dragon would be offensive. To accept this would truly be to divest himself of personhood, to deepen his Soul-wound, and cleave away something which he would never again acquire. Former Dragon. It would no longer be a falsehood levelled by zealots of the Godking, words which he himself paid lip service to. It would become fact, an undeniable reality. That his body had the shape of a Dragon would make him no more one than a Wizard under the effect of Dragon Form, or a Shapechanged Druid. His identity would be that of an object, a collared slave, a male bitch in surrender, a slut in heat, not only in lust, but at all times. Forever.

“I am your lowest slave.” Viridise did not even hesitate, “I’m not a Dragon. I’m not even a person. I’m a thing that you own. My worth is like that of your most blackened copper coin. I am an untrained cocksleeve, unworthy of your use.” He swallowed, “But… I want it. I want to be used. I want to be shaped. I want you to claim me, Father, I want to be your favourite whore, I want to be your false-Daughter slut. I want you to polish me until I shine like one of your most valuable jewels!”

His body trembled, “I wanted to defy you. I wanted to oppose you one last time. I wanted to keep what was left of my pride!” Viridise took a shuddering breath, “But now that I face you… just breathing in your scent makes my legs tremble. The feeling of your Magic makes my tail raise up all on its own. Hearing your voice makes my toy of a cock leak. These things… would not happen to a Dragon! A Dragon is a proud and noble creature! Someone like me – to claim to be the same species as you would be sacrilege!”

Viridise cringed into himself, “I do not even have the pride of a Kobold! I do not serve, I seek only to be used! I am addicted to that pleasure, that humiliation! Even now, to speak these words of submission, I’m going to- I’m going to- Father!” His cringe became an impotent squirm as with a bucking of his hips, the former Dragon managed to drive himself to bitchgasm by nothing but the surrender of his own words. His feeble cock twitched beneath him, divested of thick ropes of pearlescence to defile the coins below.

A heavy forepaw came to rest atop his head, and by the force of it he was slammed down, the mess of his seed soaked into the scales of his belly and his muzzle brought level with the crotch of his sitting Father. The weight of the grander male allowed him no movement, but even if he were allowed such a thing, Viridise did not want such agency. He wanted to be used. He was not a Kobold to be commanded to suck cock and to do it with reverence. He was a thing to be controlled to the satisfaction of his betters.

Before his eyes was a press of azure scales, usually near imperceptible, here the defences which locked away both male-slit and undertail for protection in combat. But Fatuum was already sufficiently aroused for that press to have parted, and for a little crimson to breach his slit. The colour of his cock was much more vibrant than the soft pink of his sons, the red hue of blood and the maleness much more exotic in configuration.

It was common for traits in dragonkin to skip generations, and sometimes accumulate, the mixing of blood quite common between various draconic species, and thus Fatuum had for himself quite the chimerical cock. The heavy forepaw held his son’s muzzle to the side of it, not allowing him the joy of suckling upon the growing maleness, but forcing upon him the humiliation of feeling it advance against his cheek. The head was spadelike and tapered, as one would expect of a Dragon, and it bore as well the segmented design for ten ridges. Yet, at the base was a hefty knot, revealing some distant Fey Dragon heritage, and adorning the grander length were small barbs to betray some Liondrake blood. Apex of the Omen Dragon species though he was, not even the Godking Fatuum was pure of blood. In scale, his cock was a masculinity no less than twice the size of the modestly endowed Viridise, grander than his tail, and as titanic in receipt as it would be for a Kobold to be fucked by a Minotaur. And he had no doubt that his father would not be anywhere near so gentle as Wain would have been.

Finally met with the sight of the maleness that he had been lusting for so desperately, the former Dragon began to pant, his each exhalation a pathetic wheeze, his nostrils flaring as he desperately inhaled the scent of his sire, his tongue lapping to the side of his maw to drape the barbed and knotted spire of ridged and tapered perfection. This was the cock which he’d dedicated his life to, and no matter who he was let out to be bred by in future, this was the masculinity that would forever own him.

It was a thought to make his toeclaws curl.

How would that feel? Ridge by ridge, each segment a new stretch for his owned tailstar, the knot a seal which would demand the swelling of his belly in a faux-pregnancy of cumflation. This is what would make him climax like a girl, over and over, until all that made him a man was spent upon the floor, and his every bitchgasm a dry peak of twitching impotency. He knew that fate instinctively. After his Father, to be bred by any other male would be the same subdued pleasure he would find when in Humanoid Form, as if the sensation of it were blunted. He would surely still cum like a bitch for his betters, but no climax would be so good as one under his sire.

In his heart, he surrendered to the cock that his father now forced into his muzzle, until the mass of his knot and the gag of his throat allowed no deeper entry, and in that surrender, his Soul Wound cleaved from him his dragonhood in full. The male-bitch called Viridise warbled his pathetic lust into his sire’s crotch, and the grander male took his head in both forepaws, and with no further fanfare, began to muzzlefuck his race-failure son.

Each thrust drove the tapered tip against the roof of his mouth, the press of each segmented ridge to follow. Every backstroke brought with it the dragging of his barbs, stiffer than those of the Amurrun he’d serviced before, these promised a wombscraping to induce ovulation in even the most insensitive Dragoness. The knot was a bludgeon against his scaled lips, too large to breach his muzzle, as the throatplundering head of his cock defiled him roughly enough to induce a gag on every hilting.

His muzzle was slickened by his own drooling want, and the expected abundance of draconic precum expected of the species. Though, for one so potent as Fatuum, this pre-ejaculate was so heady that already his son was overwhelmed by it. The deep musk washed over him, tasted with both tongue and mind, as sharp as lightning, it cleared his sinuses and lightened his consciousness. He was close to fainting from the pleasured defilement of it, the humiliating ‘gluck’ing sound of his own sloppy muzzle being so vigorously bred, the wet ruin of it, the splash of male essence onto the treasure below, the panting almost-squeak of his own breathing.

He hadn’t even noticed the warmth of a second deluge of seed against his belly, another male surrender reached before he was even able to taste his Father’s orgasm. So weak to pleasure that only words had brought his first climax, and now the penetration of his maw a second, it was undeniable that this lowly whore had a hair-trigger, but perhaps that was appropriate for one whose bitchgasms were there only as affirmations for his betters.

Custose thought it quite appropriate, the observant Kobold having observed as he was bid and attentive enough in doing so to have not missed the second climax of this lowly male-bitch. His Sister had described to him well the majesty of their sire’s cock, yet this was the first time that he’d been granted the honour of the sight of it, and he beamed with pride to know that the Godking was finding satisfaction in the muzzle of the whore that he had helped shape.

He shivered. In His true form, the enormity of the maleness presented here was too large for a Kobold to even wrap their arms around, and even if the Godking were to take on a Humanoid shape, Custose understood well that not one of his kin, not even his especially talented Sister, would be capable of accepting the knot. This was the failure of his species, for there was no Kobold Courtesan able to offer grander satisfaction than to be fucked to the lowest ridge in the form in which Fatuum would find all pleasure to be slightly dulled.

No wonder He wanted this male bitch as a pet. Custose could not help but shrink into his own guilt. Zealot though he was, the Kobold had enough Dragon blood in him to have some aspects of his sense of self outside of servitude. In truth, he had mastered his own Dragon Form Spell, and by tapping into the Magic of the Domain, could probably hold it long enough to withstand a breeding from the Godking. But, he had kept quiet, not offering himself up on the assumption that the all-knowing Almighty One would request him should he want it of him. It was done out of consideration for his Sister, Ampluss, who trained so diligently in that same Spell, but who was not grand enough a Mage to ever hope to master it.

Should not a Kobold such as he be more proactive in service? Or would it be offensive to offer up to his Master something which already belonged to him, and he was surely already aware of? The conundrum was paralyzing.

The former Dragon before him was a true race-failure, devoid of the majesty of his species, his expression was one of bliss, the strength of his father engaging much of his upper body to follow the forced bob of his head against the shaft fucking his muzzle. He had been seized in both forepaws, the metallic lattice-like digits coiling about lower jaw and over horns, their adorning treasures jangling with every thrust. Fatuum showed his own eagerness by the upwards movement of his own lower body, leveraging the might of his superior weight into what was becoming a proper throat-breeding.

Of course, Custose could not help but find the scene playing out before him arousing to the extreme, his eyes stinging as extreme zealotry had him forgo the act of blinking. It would be unforgivable to miss a fraction of a moment of this. He viewed now his God in rut, and looked upon his Brother with jealousy. The Kobold as well yearned to receive his father’s cock, and as the scents, sights, and sounds of sex intensified, his own lusts were starting to build. His maleness strained against his robes, hidden only by his continued bow, but he’d no doubt that his sire was aware of it as he was of all things.

Fatuum allowed himself a small rumble of satisfaction, what was a soft growl for him, a powerful reverberation to wash over his sons, “I expect you to spill not a drop of my seed, whelp.” And then a slightly sadistic smile, “Not that I shall allow you to.” He dragged his cock free of the lesser male, and with a sweep of his tail he took Viridise’s legs from under him, dropping the former Dragon onto his back. His fine silks tangled his body, his finery knocked askew for one draping length of the semi-transparent pink to capture his impotent maleness against his belly.

The lesser male’s throat was exposed, his gaze cast upwards as he was knocked prone, and his father resheathed himself with the ability to look down the exposed body below, limbs fruitlessly skyward, wings spread against the treasure pool. Now he could watch the bulge at Viridise’s neck slowly advance, inch by inch, the upwards jut of his cock now grinding over tongue rather than roof of mouth. He continued until again the mass of his knot proved too large to be taken into Viridise’s maw – without considerable effort at least – and was satisfied at the sight of the lump he had sunk into that serpentine throat.

The leverage he had now was different, and he leaned over the smaller male, grasping his head with only one forepaw for the other to land upon his son’s chest. Now, each thrust could bear more of his weight, and he shifted his hips down and forward, resuming the steady rhythm which was building to inevitable climax. That rumbling satisfaction again was ushered from his core, dominant, possessive, Fatuum claimed that which was his, this owned slut of a son made into his sextoy. For a Dragon, orgasms were as potent as they were plentiful, and it would not take much longer for him now. Time passed in a fugue, and the Omen Dragon gave himself over to the feral act of muzzlefucking his ruined progeny.

He proclaimed his orgasm with a majestic roar, and with it came the full brunt of his weight, a force grand enough for him to sink his knot at last into the desperately suckling muzzle below. Viridise spasmed, robbed of air as his father knotted his maw, the armoured shaft pulsing in deep and potent throbs. He could feel his sire’s essence pouring into his belly, denied the opportunity to taste his cum, he was still conscious of the voluminous cascade of incestuous seed, a torrent vast enough to make his stomach ache.

Denied breath, he was unable even to squeeze out his usual pathetic whining as his own silk-wrapped cock erupted over his slightly swollen belly. The heat of his father’s essence was too intense, a pleasure which washed over his body, rebounding to the extremities of his limbs and then back again. His vision went white, pure pleasure overwriting all else, the most potent orgasm of his life aligned to the sheer joy of servicing his sire and swallowing down the seed that made him.

His undertail twitched, his cock throbbed. It was a perfect bitchgasm, the peak of male surrender to a grander masculinity, the spilling of his own pathetic essence to the swallowing of that ushered from his better. Another spasm rocked him, his body shifting as his father dragged back his hips uncaringly, barbs scraping over the inside of his throat in a wonderful pleasure-pain, thick pearlescence in the wake of the cock pulled free of his maw for Viridise to at last have the opportunity to properly taste.

Fatuum unleashed what remained of his orgasm over his son’s muzzle and chest in a lewd mess of fatherly domination. This is what his false-daughter had been hatched for, and it amused him to see this lowly sextoy bitchgasm to the taste of his seed. It was affirmation to his prophecy, a reaction induced not from the excitement of impending pleasure or the sensation of being used as the previous two male surrenders had been, but a true confirmation of his son’s place. This former Dragon was now his living cocksleeve, a thing to be used, and nothing more.

“My Lord! My God!” An unexpected voice interrupted his triumph, and Fatuum looked up from his cumdrunk son, the pathetic whore scarcely conscious from the pleasure of his own submission. Before him was an unfamiliar Omen Dragon of comparable size to Viridise, a proud creature of azure and gold, crowned with majestic antlers, and with an identity given away not only by their distinct aura, but the glint of spectacles still adorning their face.

Custose was no longer able to restrain himself, observing his race-failure brother, he feared that he would disgrace himself as a Kobold if he did not offer up all that he had as well. He apologised to Ampluss in his heart, but his resolve was firm, and thus he had cast the Dragon Form Spell and now leaned upon the latent power of Fatuum’s Domain to extend its duration, “Father! Please… with your permission…” His gaze drifted down to the cum-basted length against which Viridise was nuzzling pathetically, “Might I show this male bitch how a Kobold’s service compares?”

The Kobold was quite the sadist, a dominant male taking after his father much more than the former Dragon, that feeble creature blissed out on his back, a hindleg twitching and tongue lolling out like a dreaming dog. He gave his submission only to his Godking… though, if he were forced to swear upon the name of his Lord, he did quite enjoy those times when he rode intimately in the lap of his Minotaur friend. He’d rather die than ever admit that fact to Wain.

He held the gaze of his father for a few moments, the true Dragon eyeing him with some small measure of amusement, before an intoned spell shifted the mounds of treasure about him into a pile he was able to recline against. His cum-basted cock jutted forth, a proud spire, and Fatuum tilted his head in a gesture, “Proceed.” He responded calmly, “You may consider the honour of servicing me your reward, my Son.” His tail clipped the false-daughter below him, “And you shall now observe the difference between a lesser being like you, and a proud Kobold.”

It was unclear whether or not Viridise was in any state to even understand what had been said to him, but Custose couldn’t care less. To be openly acknowledged with the title of Son, and to be granted this opportunity to taste his father’s superior essence, there was no greater honour for a Kobold halfbreed such as him. His magicked form was akin to a younger version of the Godking himself, appealing to the vanity of a true Dragon, he showed himself off as he advanced a few steps and bowed his head to nuzzle against the cock that had made him.

Fatuum made no move to take control of him, simply lying back to present his cock to the transformed Kobold. This was the great difference between his two Sons – both his slaves, but while one was an object, the other was a servant. The lesser male extended his tongue, and it posed a pleasant electrifying sensation from the base of his knot to the spadelike tip of his cock, a motion crowned with a small kiss of pure worship before the head was engulfed to the first ridge.

Custose had spent long in practice for this moment, using his tongue to manoeuvre the weight of a cock that as a Kobold would have been broader than his shoulders, he formed a seal with his scaled lips and suckled gently, allowing himself only a few pulls to siphon the final remnants of his father’s orgasm before drawing back to savour the incestuous seed pooled upon his tongue. His own cock throbbed with need, and his undertail clenched, but he was not the same sort of shameless whore as his pathetic male bitch of a brother. The pleasure of his father came first, and his pride demanded a superior performance.

Ten ridges and the segmented plates between formed the stairway his tongue would trace from tapered tip to engorged knot, and Custose was diligent in the process, his lash coiling about each indentation to clean it of the clinging draconic cum, and each plate gifted with a small kiss when finished with. He inched closer to the base, the large knot licked clean by his serpentine tongue, down to the male slit from which it protruded to briefly dip into it and taste the deepest well of his father’s male musk.

His toeclaws curled into the treasure below, and Custose needed to steady himself for a moment before continuing, lest he bitchgasm like his race-failure companion. Such pleasure for himself would only be permitted when he was chewing on his father’s thick and creamy load, and if he wanted that any time soon, he had work to do.

“Yes. You are unlike this meagre slut. You are not used, you serve. You are not so low as to be a creature surrendered to pleasure.” Fatuum murred, sounding quite pleased, “I find this contrast to be quite amusing. Your dedications make stark how pathetic this former Dragon watching us is.” The transformed Kobold again formed a seal about the topmost ridge of his cock, the spadelike tip in his muzzle, his tongue slowly lapping about it in a slow circle, reverent in worship, “You have impressed me, my Son. You have the skill of a Courtesan.”

He again rumbled his satisfaction, but paid no further compliments at present, knowing that his affirmations may push the servile creature sucking his cock over the edge should he be praised too excessively. As Godking and Father both, he was not without his own responsibilities, and it would not do to ruin the pride of this useful Dragonkin. He did not doubt that he could pin down Custose and fuck him broken, making of him the same lust-addled whore as his other Son, but what would be the point? He had a toy already, and now another male of appropriate size for him to breed in his true form with an entirely different aesthetic for him to enjoy.

And enjoy him, he would. At present, it was difficult for him to decide which of his Sons was most to his tastes. With Viridise, he had been able to control the pace, and without care of the lesser male, he had pursued his pleasures as he willed, advancing to climax in short order to the amusing sight of the bitchgasming faggot below him. It was feral and efficient, with a keen thrill of defilement as he made sport of and ruined that pathetic race-failure, exploiting his newly formed addiction to his own father’s cock. With Custose, it was different. The Dragon Shaped Kobold was working on him as a Courtesan would, worshipful, but not so excessively as to forget that they were there for his pleasure. The buildup was slow and purposeful, ensuring not to cross the line into frustrating teasing, he could feel already that the orgasm which would crown Custose’s achievement would be much more potent, if a lot longer in the making. His draconic aesthetics leaned towards Custose as superior, but his sense of debauchery could not entirely write off Viridise…

Well, there was no requirement for him to make up his mind immediately. In fact, he might not even make up his mind this millennium. Viridise had a Dragon’s lifespan (even if he could not be acknowledged as one), and Custose was too valuable a pawn for Fatuum to allow old age to claim him. There were several Artefacts that could confer immortality presently languishing in his Vaults that he might put to use. The Omen Dragon pondered myriad fates, looking into a great many futures to find the one most enjoyable to him, and then decided, “It is my right to have you both. And I shall have you together always. As often as I please. As rigorously as I fancy. My devoted Son, and slut false-Daughter. A most delectable contrast you shall be.”

He made his judgement, and by his authority sealed the destinies of the two lesser males before him. Fatuum was not a creature without desire, and his appetite was more than his Kobold Courtesans and the occasional visiting Dragoness could fulfil. He’d a full Dragonflight of subordinate males, but their warpower was too vital to his reign for him to break them into faggotry, so they remained off the table as well. Custose had worked his way deeper down the length of his sire’s cock, now suckling at about half of the length and softly bobbing his head in a pleasant rocking motion, and Fatuum amused himself in the viewing of several futures involving these two, daydreams of his wanton harlot and dedicated consort.

There was no need for him to announce his orgasm, and it was equally pointless to demand that Custose not spill a drop of it, for such things were simply to be expected. His rumble deepened in tone, and advanced to a roar. It was not necessary to make such a vocalisation each time, but to a true Dragon, voice and breath were sacred, and that primal roar an expression of his own masculinity. He looked down to watch Custose suckling hungrily at his cock, the transformed Kobold having moved to hold only the tip in his mouth, his cheeks bulging slightly, only to clear with each bob of his throat as he drank down his father’s potent seed jet by jet.

Custose shuddered, the taste washing over him, the raw sense of submission and pride in his service, he shifted his body to the side and lifted a hindleg to show off his own seven ridged cock, the dripping length jumping against his belly as he achieved his own quivering bitchgasm. He moaned, but his rumble was not the same pathetic whine as his brother, but a thrum of satisfaction, as if he were a hatchling communicating that they had eaten something delicious and were in want of more. And that want for something greater was made obvious by the small twitch of his tailstar, and the completely clean mouth that he held open to demonstrate that he had rendered his father’s cock completely free of cum.

The sound of scattering coin drew attention, and both father and son looked aside to see what had become of Viridise. Partway into that worshipful oral, the unrepentant slut had come to his senses, and now had thrust his chest to the floor, raising his haunches and putting up his tail to present himself for use. His wings vibrated, parting the veil of pink silk draped over his back to frame the needy hole at the base of his male-slit, the adornment of his cock already leaking a strand of precum to connect the tip of his dragonhood to the coins below.

“Please, Father…!” He moaned, “Please fuck me… use me…” The former Dragon whined, “My inferior species male pussy feels so empty… it aches… I can’t think – all that I want is you!” The look in his eyes was truly pathetic, a teary desperation melded with absolute lust, excitement bordering on panic and melted pleasure, “I’m not a Dragon… I’m just a thing for you to sheathe your cock into! Please! Make me cum like a girl!”

“Silence, whore.” The elder Dragon shot back, “You do not have your Brother’s right to speak unbidden. You beg for my cock when I give you leave to, and not before.” He leaned back into his throne of coins, relaxing into the great mound of treasure of which he had made his backrest. To overindulge in pleasure was beneath Fatuum, and he was in no hurry to jump onto his mewling faggot of a Son’s back. This false-daughter, the male-bitch called Viridise, would now face disgrace.

Fatuum looked to the transformed Kobold, his worthier Son already bowed before him as was proper, “I have decided that I no longer want the virginity of this race-failure. He does not deserve that honour.” He tilted his head towards the lesser male, “You do it. Fuck your brother, Custose. I shall appraise you by the number of bitchgasms you breed from him before you plant your essence beneath his tail.” He smirked, “Entertain me.”

“Yes, Father!” Custose indulged that closer title, and found his gambit paid off with a nod of approval. What better chance to demonstrate his superiority could he have hoped for than this? He was perceptive, and had not been blind to the pensive look of his Father weighing up which pleasure he liked best, and now was his opportunity to well and truly put the inferior being before him into his proper place, “Rejoice, Brother. You shall play the part of Dragoness for me, before our honoured Father ruins you for all cocks but his.” A little showmanship was required, and so Custose imbued his words with a vulgar passion, “I’m going to fill your unworthy male cunt with the same forbidden siblingseed that has this day already put an egg in our Sister.”

He advanced on the other male, equivalent in size in his transformed state, yet his body had a grander dexterity than the more stocky feral configuration of limbs which made up the Fortune Dragon before him, “Be thankful that you are a male whose feminisation the Almighty One finds amusing. If not for the adulation of your bitchgasming clit-dick, I would have borrowed the gelding tongues from Wain and had you unsexed.” Each footfall stirred the treasure below in a resounding sweep of coin and trinkets, “You will show your gratitude for that by emptying out that ornament between your legs in full. This halfbreed Mortal is going to fuck you to surrender. You’re going to give up your virginity to a lowly Kobold.” His smile turned to sneer, “What are you, Brother? In this moment, what is your purpose?”

Viridise cringed into the hoard, but could not stop his voice from tumbling from him, “I’m your fake-Dragoness, Brother! I’m your sextoy! I’m a race-failure slut that’s not even a person, just an object pretending to be your breeding whore!” He caught his father’s eye, and a heavy blush forced his head down, “Watch me, Father… please watch Brother fuck my inferior species male-pussy full!”

“Hmph. Still he speaks out of turn.” Fatuum scoffed, “Make him scream.”

There was no need for Custose to vocalise his affirmation. Having drawn close to the lesser male, he allowed a dexterous forepaw to fall upon the broader haunches before him, his claws sinking into supple scales ill-fitting the stockier feral frame. The bangles of Viridise’s silk-draped hindlimbs provided some small anchorage for him to better his grasp, and with a small heave, he dragged his brother towards him, deepening the presenting bow of the former Dragon as his body stretched out.

Before his eyes now was a parted male-slit, drooling cock and winking tailstar, soft pink against vibrant emerald green, the colour and formation of his brother’s equipment was not dissimilar to his own (though, Custose was one ridge grander in mass and with more girth). Yet, there was nothing masculine about this presentation at all. Nor was there really any feminine allure either. This was nothing but the submissive hole of a needy boyslut, a shameless whore in want of pleasure, without care from where it might come. Pathetic. Custose almost pitied him.

The purification spell still lingered, and after a day of fasting, there was naught inside his Brother but a bloat of his father’s cum, thus as he advanced and took in his scent, he could detect naught but the slight musk of the failed male, a little leathery, a little salty, all melded with the dull aroma of arousal. If he was to meet his Father’s directive to have Viridise scream, then wails of pleasure would be sweeter music than outcries of pain, and the latter would be assured if this whore’s virginity was taken without further preparations. The grander male wanted theatrics, and he would have them.

His tongue extended, a quick lick from the base of the parted male slit, along the press of scales which concealed a Dragon’s equipment, and then about the indentation of his brother’s undertail, drawing from him the immediate reaction of a slight whimper, “Sensitive. But that is proper for a hopeless slut like you. Even a Kobold like me can hold their climax until they taste the seed of the Almighty One, but you needed naught but a sniff of His cock before you were creaming His hoard.” He tormented the lesser creature, shifting himself to one side and plying a slight bite to a thigh, enough to demand attention, “I like my mates to be polite, Brother. I like to be asked nicely to sink my cock into the seed-hungry cunt or clutching undertail of my lover. I like to be thanked for the honour of them taking my essence, and for every orgasm they enjoy as well. I like my whores grateful.”

He drew back, grinning cruelly, “You are not my lover, Brother. I can scarcely even call an object like you a whore. But, you will pay me the proper respects. You will beg me sweetly for my cock. You will say ‘thank you’ every time you bitchgasm. And when I add my seed to our Father’s honoured load in your core, you will properly express your gratitude. Is that understood?”

“Y-yes!” The former Dragon quickly affirmed, rewarded with another strong lick over his undertail, “Please, Brother! Please mount me! My cock is useless, yours is so much better! Please breed my unworthy fucksleeve male-pussy! A-ah!” He moaned, unable to hold back his voice as Custose pressed his lips to his undertail and with his kiss imparted a Spell to slicken his insides. The male-bitch squirmed impotently, conscious of the strange feeling within him, excited at the inevitability of finally being filled.

Custose harrumphed, not wanting to look too considerate of the mewling fuckslut he shared blood with. He advanced a heavy step, now fully leveraging his weight over the former Dragon as he draped himself over the silk-mantled back and shifted his hips to shove their waving tail aside. As an Omen Dragon (by means of his Spell, anyway), he was a little smaller than the (former) Fortune Dragon, but the grander dexterity of his form allowed him to grip at his haunches with fingered forelimbs, and it was not difficult to properly line himself up despite his relative inexperience in this form.

With Viridise prone, he’d not the leverage to thrust himself back, and as an object he’d not the right to. The tapered tip of his Brother’s cock caught the indentation of his undertail and held there, tormenting him, “P-please… Brother… I need it… I need you to mate me…!” He begged piteously, “I’ve been fantasising about it from the moment that you mastered me… I want to be your favourite sextoy, as well! I want you to keep telling me what to do! I’m just a stupid whore, I’m a useless slut that’s only good for serving better males! I can’t even figure out how to do that unless you tell me! I never want to have to think for myself again! Please, fuck me! Breed me! I want to be Father’s treasure, but only you can make me shine for him!”

Any more begging than that would be gratuitous, “Lift up your leg when you bitchgasm so Father can watch you climax.” He shifted forwards, slow in his advance, sinking his cock to the first ridge into the silken vice of his Brother’s race-failure cunt. The lesser male whimpered pathetically, a needy warble in his throat, one which increased in pitch as Custose continued his penetration. Ridge by ridge, until three of seven were forced into him, and now the slickened tailstar stretched and gripped to accommodate each one to pass through it.

The mass of his cock did not exceed the heft of Viridise’s tail, but the segmented nature of it was a thrilling pleasure very unlike the uniform expansion of his lash. Each plate was a stretch, each ridge a contraction, and each ground down hard against his bitch button as they pressed past. His body already felt a little bloated from suckling down only one of his Father’s orgasms, and given how voluminous Dragons were in seed, he couldn’t help but wonder how he might swell by the time these two grander males were done with him.

There was a wonderful sensation of fullness, a great warmth that his body was allowed a moment to acclimate to in the wake of each segmented bulge of the superior cock forced under his tail, and while the final mass was no knot, it was still grand enough to have him whine a high-pitched pleasure, raising his leg as he was bid, “I’m- I’m- Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” He repeated his gratitude over and over as the hilting of his Brother’s cock demanded his climax, “Thank you for being my first!” His quivering bitchgasm rolled over Custose’s maleness in a grasping ripple of his insides, and he rumbled his satisfaction in a tone not dissimilar to that expressed by their watching Father. The deflowered former Dragon was moaning sweetly beneath him, showing off his ornamental cock as it spewed its seed, and his look was one of ruinous pleasure, and the relief of a needy male finally having lost his virginity. And there was something else, too.

Viridise looked over his shoulder at his Brother with such an expression of longing, that the transformed Kobold could not help but scoff, “Hmph. How easily you are conquered. All it takes is the hilting of my cock, and now you look to me with the eyes of a Mortal maiden in love! My second sibling of this day to surrender so!” He drew back his hips, each ridge teasing at the stretched tailstar, his own precum adding to the abundance of magical lubrication, and with the next thrust, that gooey and sweet look his Brother was giving him was sublimated entirely in the pleasured wince of a whore in the throes of passion.

Perhaps one day, he might be tempted to humour his Brother as he had his Sister, but at this moment there was no space for such feelings. This whore was to be taught his place, submission was to be engraved into his Soul, the relationship between object and owner made absolutely clear. Viridise could bounce back as often as he liked, rebel with all his heart, but the reality was that he was tamed, a docile creature that could not be called a Dragon. And the ruinous pleasure of this night would make sure that he never forgot it.

It was Custose’s first time partaking of sex in a form that was not his own, and he came quickly to understand the quandary of the Godking as he set himself to the steady rhythm of breeding his race-failure Brother. The sensation was a little dull, not quite so sharp as when he fucked as a Kobold, like masturbation when his cock was not entirely hard, the promised orgasm beyond it less pleasure and more simple relief. Of course, one so sensitive and pathetic as Viridise could still chain his bitchgasms into fainted ruin in such a state, but for one of more refined tastes in pleasure, Custose could not say that it was entirely satisfactory. Though, his role in this was to prove his dragonhood to his Father, and with that goal in mind, the blunted sensation did much to advance the stamina by which he would bring his Brother to fucked-dry pleasure.

Viridise himself was blushing furiously, his cheeks burning with shame as the final chastisement of the male on his back brought back some small sense of awareness. It was one thing to be conquered by pleasure, to swear allegiance to the grander masculinity to which he was a mere male-bitch, but quite another to be caught with the misty-eyed look of a Dragoness beholding her chosen mate. His feelings towards Custose were… complicated. Not like the complete submission to which he felt towards his Father, and still a confusing quagmire. But, affection? Yearning? For a Kobold? Really?

It was hard to comprehend the humiliation of it, difficult to even focus when his body was being rocked by such sublime pleasure. He returned from his brief fantasy of accepting the alchemy that would change his sex, being impregnated by his Brother, and birthgasming out his eggs, to find that his moans had again taken on the form of embarrassing squeaks, each a little high pitched whimper timed to the thrust of the cock that was dominating him. He brought his forelimbs to his face, crossing heavy paws over his muzzle, but the whines expelled through his nostrils were even more embarrassing and he quickly chose to just cover his face instead.

His leg lifted automatically as pleasure began to peak once more, the former Dragon thrown into yet another quivering bitchgasm, his adornment of a cock jolting hard to divest half of his cumshot over his own scaled belly before the rest striped the treasure hoard below, more words of thanks on his lips. These last two orgasms had been particularly sharp, driven from him by the ecstasy of penetration, affirming his place as the plaything of the two grander males, a lowly sextoy for them to make use of as they pleased.

The transformed Kobold on his back was tireless, abundant enough in precum for the mess stuffed under his tail to have already washed out the magicked lubricant, churned up into a froth of pearlescent white to slicken his inner thighs and flow down his legs. It brought with it a sense of corruption, the feeling of being marked, conquered. He was not a female that would have use of his Brother’s essence to impregnate him – but a male bitch who accepted the flowing precum as nothing but a prelude to a futile seeding, a bloat of cum with no purpose beyond pleasure. As a male bitch, this was his proof of submission, evidence to his failure to the draconic races, absence of his pride to do naught but allow himself to be used as an aid to pleasure.

Another ruinous climax washed over him, his voice a feminised wail of slurred gratitude to accompany the divestment of his useless essence. His own scent was now the strongest, grander than his Father whose seed had been suckled down, his Brother who withheld the honour of his orgasm – the heady smell of male surrender upon the treasure beneath him was now potent in the air, and it was not missed by the grander male upon his back, “You smell like a bitch, Brother.” Custose purred into his ear, “Like a heated female Dragonkin desperate for a clutch.”

The futility of his want was a confounding humiliation, and Viridise let out a throaty whine to accompany the lewd shlicking sound of his reamed male-cunt. The air resounded with the sloppy sound of his breeding, the slapping of scaled thighs to the impact of each hilting thrust. His leg shook now when he lifted it up to reveal his third chained bitchgasm, this climax hot on the heels of his previous one and not quite so copious. His head was swimming, attention drifting into and out of his fantasies of surrender, brought to reality by some barb from Custose only to again wander into thoughts of his own ruin. He came again. And again.

His own stamina was fading, his fifth orgasm since his Brother had impaled him onto his superior cock having only moments ago decimated him, and now finally the movements of the grander male were slowing, each penetration now deep with a grind at the hilt, the final approach to Custose’s own climax, “Please…! Fill up my unworthy male-pussy…! Brother…!” He begged, moaning into the treasure pile, unable to find the strength to even lift his leg to show off what was sure to be his sixth peak, “I… Need-…!”

Jaws clamped down on his neck.

His breath was denied, the sacred source of draconic power, the suppression of which was emblematic of complete domination. For a male-bitch like Viridise, there was only one response to such a thing when coupled with the swelling of his Brother’s cock to pump him full of a hefty load of incestuous draconic seed, and that was to cum so hard as to immediately white out. His body spasmed as if in seizure, his eyes rolled back, and his own feeble cock completely emptied itself of his third-rate cum as the bottommost segment of Custose’s shaft plugged his undertail to have his abdomen bulge to the cascade of superior essence poured into his core.

“Whore.” The voice was muffled by the bite, followed by a deep growl of pleasure as the transformed Kobold basked in his own relief, blunted though it was by the changing of his shape. He could feel a mild pressure about his cock, and levied the weight of his lower body to counteract it, conscious that the intense volume of his cumshot was completely inundating his Brother’s insides. All the better to slicken his male-cunt for the true mating that his Father would soon bestow upon him – and with the knot of that grander male brought to bear, it would be no surprise to see Viridise coughing up his sire’s orgasm after only one proper filling.

It was a few minutes before his climax ceased and the flow of his seed yielded, and Custose made quite some sport of dragging free his segmented cock from his Brother’s well-creamed male cunt, showing off the hefty gape and waterfall of cum flowing from defiled insides. Even only half-conscious, it was defilement enough for Viridise to curl his toeclaws to the slick sensation of his well-bred hole clamping down onto nothing, a mess of creamy white leaking from his stretched tailstar for his Father to view for his amusement.

“A passing mark.” Fatuum rumbled his affirmation. Leaning back against the mound of treasure, his own maleness was proudly settled against his abdomen, slick now with the precum of his anticipation. The sight of it had Custose swallow, the mass over twice the size of his own and entirely appropriate to one so large as the Godking, against which he himself looked like a juvenile. Every Kobold had some ingrained racial knowledge appropriate to so industrious a species, and for a moment he imagined the embedding of a nail into a beam of wood, so that when it was extracted and a stake driven into the hole, the material did not split in half. Perhaps that was all his own satisfaction had ever been, a mere prelude to ensure that the male-bitch was not rent cunt to gut by penetration alone. The grander Dragon continued, “I would hear your thoughts, my Son. How do you grade your false-Dragoness?”

Custose was quick to reply, “This untrained fucksleeve is barely adequate pleasure, Father.” He passed his judgement with a sneer, “I understand now the dissatisfaction of mating in a form not my own. It is the greatest shame of my species that we are not large enough to provide you with cunt worthy of the sheathing of your cock into.” His eyes lingered on the enormity of it still, the knot alone so grand that the broad muzzle of Viridise had barely managed to hold it while the length ruined his throat. It suddenly seemed unimaginable that it might fit inside the lowly whore astride him, nor his own slightly smaller false Omen Dragon form.

Not that it would stop Fatuum. He would make it fit. Neither Viridise nor Custose had any say in that matter, “Flip him.” The grander Dragon made his command, pushing himself from his throne of treasure to advance on his lust-drunk Son rendered onto his back by the worthier of the two. Dazed, he could only moan weakly, forced to endure pleasure in which each newly discovered peak became the grandest orgasm of his life, he knew that his Father would soon break him in completely and his gaped tailstar flexed to the thought of it.

The size difference was too much for this mating to be face to face – more face to chest. Fatuum advanced over his downed Son, the larger Dragon outclassing him entirely, he allowed a cock with proportions at least double those of the male-bitch to rest against the adornment of his crotch, “Attention, false-Daughter.” He demanded clarity, “I do not care to hear the praise that your Brother so enjoys. I don’t care if you enjoy this. I don’t care if you hate it. You’re nothing but meat for me to sheathe my cock into.” His chimerical length ground along his Son’s belly, “Look down, whore. That’s what you belong to from this night forth.”

Viridise whined pathetically, again on his back by his Father’s preference. He’d gotten a close enough look at the superior maleness when he’d had its knot forced into his muzzle, but now with it lined to his midriff he was able to see just how deeply he was about to be penetrated, with a full hilting potentially sinking that cock right up to his midriff. A little fear mixed with his anticipation, terror to the lust, but his impotent squirming was put a stop to when his sire’s large forepaw came down to rest upon his neck, claws spread the press beneath his jaw forcing him now to see the world upside down as the top of his head sank into treasure.

“You do not have my leave to beg. You shall be grateful to be allowed even to breathe.” He drew back his hips and allowed the heft of his draping cock to slip against his Son’s undertail, the barbs teasing against softer flesh as Custose’s orgasm slickened the shaft. His taped tip caught, and with no further ceremony, Fatuum leveraged his weight to sink his cock into his squirming progeny, ridge by ridge.

He rumbled softly, “Yes. He is barely adequate. Made tight by our difference in size, but not by skill. I expect the fluttering of a grateful male-cunt in future, and you shall make sure that he is trained appropriately.” The Omen Dragon idly instructed Custose, “Ensure that he is always bred before you present him to me. Your essence is worthy lubrication, and you may have the gemcutters make a plug for you to keep this whore ready for me. Something large. Something to keep him stretched. It is tiresome to break him in like this, and so lowly a whore is hardly worth the effort.”

Objectified, Viridise could only whimper as the vastness of his Father’s cock forced its way into him. His heavensward limbs kicked impotently against the larger Dragon’s underside, his wings twitching, body squirming, but it was all to no avail. The sense of fullness was overwhelming, the heat of the superior maleness like a raging inferno, pain and pleasure melding as his insides were stretched to their limits. His breath came in pathetic pants, each intake of air difficult, his muffled voice barely managing, “Too- Too much!”

The barbs scraped his insides, and each ridge brought with it a lewd flumph sound as his cum-basted tailstar settled around their passing. Each segment was larger than the last, six of them now forced into his male-cunt, and Fatuum leaned back to look down at his handiwork thus far, smirking to the sight of his cock’s outline beneath his Son’s abdominals. He ignored their pleas for mercy, “I saw from the start that your most joyful future was as my possession, and in a moment you shall discover why that is.” He growled softly, thrusting down hard to advance another two ridges, the lesser male unleashing a muffled squeal as his insides were rearranged around his sire’s cock, “Pathetic. I can feel you bitchgasming around me. Once when I pressed the tip under your tail, and now again before I am even hilted.”

Viridise’s pink cock twitched again, yet it had only a few droplets of unworthy cum to divest itself of. He’d not even noticed his climaxes, all feeling melding into one as the sheer magnitude of his father’s cock overcame his every sense. Another ridge sank home, and again he let out a shrill squeak, squirming and bucking, trying desperately to accommodate the inevitability of the grander manhood, and then, with one final thrust, he felt the knot kiss his undertail, the ten ridges preceding it finally engulfed.

And he immediately knew what his Father meant by his prophecy.

“Ah- Ahhhh!” He spasmed fiercely enough to almost dislodge his sire’s pinning forepaw, raw electricity cascading through his body. The sense of fullness was absolute, the sharpness of his barbs allowing him to keep his wits despite the overwhelming pleasure – for the final and largest segment settled perfectly into his undertail, and crushed his bitch button into complete submission, “I’m- I’m cumming!” His ornamental cock strained in a dry orgasm, the reverberation of his climax chaining into repeated bitchgasms, “Father…! Father…!” His mind was a daze, and he fought to squeeze out the words, “I love your cock!

“Of course you do. That’s what you’re for.” Fatuum affirmed, mildly amused. He’d seen from the start that the mass of the final segment of his cock was grand enough to force an unwilling bitchgasm from his Son at the base of each thrust, and thought it a fine pleasure to feel the lesser male clench down and massage his length. Inexperienced insides, virginal until he had allowed Custose to take that honour, clamped down rhythmically as the lesser male’s hips quivered, his defective cock twitching as pure pleasure forced another thick rope of vulgar essence from it.

Thus was the impact of his lowest and grandest ridge. The knot beyond that, Fatuum did not need the powers of prophecy to know what ruin would be wrought upon his son when that mass was brought to bear and allowed to crush his bitch button entirely. The compatibility of their bodies was absurdly high, and he knew for a fact that Custose was similarly configured. He too would earn the knot in time, but tonight was to be the claiming of Viridise, and to rush into pleasures which aught to be savoured would be unbecoming of the Godking.

To watch the bitchgasming cock of the lesser creature beneath him divest its essence once was enough to satisfy Fatuum’s curiosity, and he now leaned forwards to leverage more of his weight unto his upper body, one latticed paw upon the treasure hoard of coins, and the other laying itself to rest upon the treasure that was his son. The golden digits of his paw rested upon Viridise’s throat, “You are unworthy of my bite.” He spoke dismissively, “I shall not have your neck in my jaws, and you will not know the joy of such surrender to me until your unworthy male pussy is elevated to a state of my liking. Your brother will be fucking you daily to get you there, the mounts of my warriors will have you in the Beast Pens, and you shall in your Humanoid Form be the fucktoy of my supplicants.”

Viridise whined beneath him and he continued his ponderings, “Yes, perhaps after a few decades of your belly bloated with male essence you might prove worthier. You shall learn the taste of every cock under my mountain, serve as the relief of every slave and every beast, and know that I am supreme above all, for there is no better fit for you than this cock that made you.” Slowly, Fatuum began to withdraw his maleness, “Your Brother shall teach you this. I shall allow him to present you to whomever he pleases for what favours befit his station.”

The Fortune Dragon could only whimper, the decades of his life to come becoming more clearly defined in his minds eye as the Godking’s edict made directives of fantasies. By his father’s decree, he would be the sextoy of gangs of Kobold slaves, chained astride their workstations for free use. He would be the interior of the breeding mounts used by the Direwolves and Riding Lizards of the Beast Pens; presented to the affiliates of Custose for the Vaultkeeper’s own advancement, and perhaps even offered up as a sextoy for the barbarians of the Savage Wilds for them to sate their animalistic lusts upon.

Arousing thoughts all, but none more than his present station, upon his back and impaled by the cock that owned him, the knot coming to rest against his undertail with each slow thrust but yet to penetrate him, every strike bludgeoning his tailstar just a little wider. His Father was relentless, each thrust of his blood-kin cock making his own lurch against his belly in its own small orgasm, this endless chain of feminine climaxes pumping from him his essence, drop by drop, and by its divestment Viridise felt like his own maleness was being fucked out of him. All that he was, his pride, his dignity, his identity as a Dragon and as a man, was dripping from his defective cock, and he knew in his heart that when it ran dry, so too would he. The words that he had spoken into reality, the yielding of his heart and Soul, would be followed by his body and his fall made complete.

“Yes! Father, please! Use me, break me, put me back together and break me again! I want to fall over and over and over again! This is what I’m for – I’m the lowest of your slaves, the plaything of Kobolds, the chewtoy of beasts, a game for your guests!” His voice fluctuated against the press of the Godking’s palm, “I was hatched to be yours, Father! I’m a race-failure! I’m your faggot bitch!”

True to his word, Fatuum turned up his nose at his son’s surrender, aloof and above the pathetic wailing of this mere object. Though he did leverage more strength into the downwards force of his thrusts, the lesser being beneath him burrowing into the treasure hoard to cant upwards his lower body and better present his cumsloshing male pussy to the cock that made him. There was a slight cumbloat to Viridise already, enough of his Father’s seed drank and his Brother’s beneath his tail as to put a little swell to his belly, and it was this which Custose watched lurch back and forth as he observed his family in rut.

The whimpering squeak of a faggot under his better heightened into a pitched keen as the knot of Viridise’s sire pressed for entrance, the inexperienced tailstar fluttering as every ridge dragged back over his battered bitch button. Each thrust drained the stamina of the false-Dragoness as intensely as the combat which days ago had sealed the fate of this mewling faggot and exhaustion was quickly claiming him. Worn down by the addlement of his Father’s presence, the mind-fog of his scent, the hypnotic taste, and then fucked hard by his Brother, he could barely keep his consciousness while now finally receiving the cock he’d been lusting after.

And now at last, he received it in full. With a great ‘plop’, the knot sank home and was tightly sealed, father locking his cock into his son’s undertail to drive his progeny to a writhing bitchgasm, their roars twinned, one deeply masculine and the other entirely feminised, Viridise achieving a dry climax as every ounce of what made him a person had already been fucked from him, and the Godking Fatuum unleashing a great deluge of incestuous essence.

Locked by the knot, the enormity of Fatuum’s cumshot swelled his son’s belly into a faux-pregnancy, crawling up a throat under the grasp of a pressing paw to make the lesser male choke on the combined flavour of Father and Brother combined within him.

Viridise fainted.

… … …

… …

…

He awoke in a familiar pile of treasure, and as memories of the previous day assailed him, Viridise burrowed deep into the collection of coins and Magic Items to hide himself from the world in unmitigated shame. He’d no memory of how he’d made it back to Vault Seventeen, his consciousness dissolving into white in that final dry orgasm about his Father’s cock, his belly swollen by the cascade of seed poured under his tail and his throat sealed by the seizing paw which demanded his submission. No… parts of his memory were returning in flashes. He remembered reviving to the pain of Fatuum tearing his knot from him, the shameful sensation of a waterfall of cum pouring from under his tail and the humiliation of those noises that had come of him when Custose had been bid to press weight onto his abdomen to empty him of it.

He remembered sharing a kiss with his Brother about their Father’s cock, his eyes glazed and his spirit diffused. He remembered the Kobold Courtesans being called in to serve as an audience, and before them all he had been made sing again by Father and Brother both. When Fatuum had finished with his diversions, he had been carried from the chamber on Custose’s back, a trail of cum leaking from beneath his tail in sufficient quantities so as to leave a trail through the Seventh Peak, and all those passed on the journey had mocked him for his faggotry.

The Soul-wound upon him was complete, his draconic pride broken and his being transformed, and yet from the ashes of it enough of his sense of self could still be gathered together for him to keenly feel the humiliation of his surrender. Viridise would forever be denied the release of simply giving up and resigning himself to his fate, forced to again and again repeat this cycle in which he would be shamed, restored, and brought to ruin again.

Though, as he looked up through his veil of treasure to see his Kobold Brother watching him awaken with the sort of smug expression which made clear that he had an especially scathing remark ready to start his morning with… Viridise found that this new life of his… well… perhaps it wasn’t so bad.

~ SevenWingedDragon ~

Ahoy! I hope that anyone making it this far enjoyed this story! This piece takes place inside a Pathfinder 2e game that I run, and I intended to hold it back until the Search/Popularity function returned to Sofurry so that I don’t feel like I’m kicking it into the void… but my Players have just reached the foothills of the Seventh Peak, so I want to put it up and give any of them that get around to reading it an idea of what’s lying in wait for them. Honestly, it took a lot of work and I’m quite proud of it. The hardest part was bringing the story to a close, since if I’d not brought it to a stop here then I’d end up doubling the length by illustrating Viridise earning his way to offering up his neck to the Godking the next time he’s called before his sire.

Maybe I should do a part two one day to cover exactly that? The Beast Pens are waiting for him, along with Savage Wild tribesmen, travelling Adventurers, and maybe even my Players. Well, that depends on how well this piece does. What sort of depravities would be fun to visit upon Viridise next? I rely on your comments for inspiration, so let me know what you’d like to see if this story continues!

I’m very grateful to anyone that took the time to read this piece. And of course, thanks as always for every fave, comment (especially), feed post, pm, and follow. I’m currently writing some books in the same sort of vein as this (though a touch more vanilla) and working on these stories here really helps me refine my writing. Though, I really miss most of all the sort of back and forth that I’d have in series like the Pokemon Breeding Guide where the comments could decide on the next creature and theme.

I have a few things in my queue for stories to work on. I want to do an instantloss story for a bandit attacking a hero (What race/sex should the bandit be?), I have a spiritualist style story where some poor guy ends up the keeper of a Kitsune he needs to keep satisfied in both its humanoid and feral forms (Should it be male or female? I’ve not decided yet), and a bit of a comedic thing where I want to play on the whole ‘the Princess that the Knight rescued is actually a boy’ trope. Oh, and another Kobold incest story which I was stuck on for a while but recently had a breakthrough and… ugh. Too much to work on. What would people like to see next? I miss Journals where I could lay out these sorts of questions more clearly. I hope those eventually come back. Anyway, I should be done with my rambling here. Thanks again for reading.

Have a most excellent day.