Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The dragon’s eyes held Clove in place, dominating him, until he could see nothing else.
Only then did it whisper, voice caressing his ears, “You wear these sigils more beautifully than I could have imagined.”
Speech concluded, it seized Clove by the ankle and threw him into the air.
The room rushed, a blur of darkness and sparkling candlelight, and for a moment, he was weightless.
It all happened so suddenly, he didn’t have time to react, to speak, to breathe.
One moment he was on the ground, then in the air, then landing on the bed, the canopy and flowers overhead.
He did not see them for long.
The dragon’s head invaded the space, looming over him.
This close, the intention in its eyes was unmistakable.
It didn’t just want Clove—it was starved for him.
The level of obsession, of possession, in its eyes was so dizzying, Clove didn’t think to fight. He stared up, his mind blank, his soul silent, everything empty.
Then the dragon lowered its head and pressed its muzzle to his mouth.
There was no kiss; a kiss was not possible. There were too many teeth, too great a difference in their size, their forms aberrant and incompatible.
Yet Clove felt the heat upon his tongue, upon his lips, and he tasted the sheer, carnal hunger of that mouth, and he cried out from under it. It should have been a sound made in terror, but it came out like a moan.
The dragon crooned against his lips, against his throat, as though pleased. It slithered partially up onto the bed, engaging Clove’s mouth with its own, then left his lips to nuzzle down Clove’s chest, his torso…
“Stop,” breathed Clove. “Wait. Don’t—”
The dragon’s mouth stopped to huff a scalding breath upon his stomach, then dipped just slightly lower, where it traced the sharps of its teeth along Clove’s sigils with surprising delicacy.
The runes lit up under its touch, and pleasure streaked through Clove’s body, violent enough to make him scream.
But the dragon did not stop. It caressed, and nosed, and purred against those marks, sending vibrations through the sigils.
Clove’s whole body pulsed with each one.
He cried out, clutching the dragon’s horns, tears racing down his cheeks in a sudden and uncontrolled rush, barely felt.
“No,” he pleaded, except he wasn’t pleading.
He was moaning.
“No, no, no—”
Moaning, back arching. Toes curling. Head falling back. Mouth open. Panting. The dragon’s muzzle pushing and mouthing against the evil magic, each new touch driving Clove further into overstimulation until something cracked inside of him.
Something filthy.
Something that wanted more.
When the dragon pulled its head away, Clove lay panting and shaking, face wet with tears and drool.
The dragon paused to look down at the mess it had made of the spirited little street rat, then knocked Clove’s knees apart with its nose.
“I’ve been waiting for this,” it rumbled almost absently, quietly content.
It then nuzzled between Clove’s thighs and drove its tongue between Clove’s legs in firm, hungry strokes.
Clove closed his eyes, but it only made the sensation more vivid and inescapable—hot, wet muscle teasing him. Slicking his skin. Pushing where it shouldn’t.
Slipping into him.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Clove let out a soft gasp as it slithered inside of him, then whined with reluctant pleasure when that thick, warm muscle eagerly thrust as far as it could go.
Pleasure coursed through Clove, and before he could stop himself, he rolled his hips, driving down onto the tongue that had stolen his virginity.
Out of his mind with the depravity of it, body acting of its own accord, Clove rode the dragon’s tongue as though he would die if he didn’t.
He’d spent his whole life with his legs jealously closed, refusing to share this part of himself even though doing so would have filled his empty pockets with coin, yet now he could not stop.
Every flex of the dragon’s tongue, every time it squirmed, and each punishing thump only made him want it more.
It was as though he’d been possessed.
Dazed and winded from his continued efforts, he opened his eyes and looked down, summoned unknowingly by the dragon’s gaze. Those fearsome eyes fixed upon him, held him, and ordered him without a single word spoken to watch as he was pleasured.
Breathlessly, Clove obeyed.
His gaze dipped, traveling beyond his shameful erection to fall between his legs, where the dragon’s tongue disappeared. It was obscene. It was wrong. Yet Clove couldn’t stop watching, panting, hips rocking and wiggling, as the tongue invading him steadily moved in and out.
The crude treatment continued until the dragon thrust its tongue and spread it, filling Clove so suddenly, he squeaked.
The dragon’s rumble of amusement went as deep as his spine.
Seemingly satisfied, the dragon withdrew its tongue and drew back for a better look at its pleasure slave.
It was a strange thing, to be suddenly empty.
Clove felt the absence of the tongue in him like he suspected one might feel the absence of an amputated limb.
He had never been aware of that part of his body before, but now he felt it vividly.
He couldn’t stop feeling it. Warm, wet, the whole deep channel shamefully slick from the dragon’s tongue—it contracted, squeezing, begging to be put back to use, and Clove felt every inch of it as its plea steadily grew more desperate.
A laugh.
Clove startled, and looked up to see the dragon watching him, visibly enjoying the show.
Clove’s cheeks heated, and so did his anger.
As much as he wanted the dragon’s tongue back inside of him, he remembered, too, that this was the creature who’d sent its servants out to purchase slaves on its behalf—who had collared him!—and did not deserve an iota of satisfaction.
“What next, now that you’ve defiled me?” he demanded. “Are you going to eat me?”
“‘Defiled’?” The dragon chortled, and the obsession in its eyes burned with a dark heat. “You’re not defiled yet.”
Clove’s lips thinned, but before he could argue, the dragon rose up and with staggering speed, plucked Clove out of the bed.
He was airborne before he could make sense of what was happening, the threat of sharp claws dimpling his hips and his back.
Below him, the dragon hauled a portion of its body onto the bed, coils upon coils, stacking like a snake preparing to strike.
As more of its body became visible, Clove glimpsed a patch of pale, iridescent white on the dragon’s belly cleanly split down the center by what appeared to be a slit…
Only for that slit to gape open as not one, but two long shafts peeked through.
The shafts were stiffly engorged and heavy in appearance. In shape, they resembled venomous serpents, each one topped with a dully pointed, arrowlike head. But the resemblance did not end there—as Clove looked on, wide-eyed, they began to move.
Gently undulating, they quested forward as if searching—as if each head knew what it wanted, and was trying to scent it out.
While Clove watched in horror, unable to struggle against the dragon’s grasp lest he be ripped to shreds by its claws, the dragon shifted its body, and the shafts disappeared into its mess of rippling coils.
It seemed, for a second, that would be the end of it, but then the dragon’s grip on Clove tightened, and it thrust Clove into the empty core at the center of its coils so that only his head and shoulders were free.
Around them, the sigils on the bedposts began to glow.
“Stop,” Clove gasped. He found purchase on one of the coils and scrambled to free himself from the dragon’s body, but before he could haul himself out, the coils wrapped around him and tightened, pinning his arms to his side.
The dragon’s body was pleasantly warm, like a long-slept-in bed on a winter’s morning, and its scales were silken and sleek, almost as soft as the bedsheets. “Stop! I—”
From somewhere within the coils, something sturdy and hot made contact with Clove’s thighs, and through the gaps in the dragon’s coils, a golden light shone from an unseen source. It didn’t take Clove long to realize the culprit: his sigils.
“Stop?” The dragon dipped its head, voice tender but expression dark with lust. “How can you tell me to stop when your body is begging me so? You’ve already opened your legs.”
“But I…”
Clove couldn’t finish the sentence. He couldn’t so much as finish the thought. Mounting arousal had seized control of his mind and shut down all rational thought.
His legs were open.
Wide open.
The things caressing his thighs crept steadily inward, and the closer they came, the less he wanted to keep them out.
Numbly, he lifted his head to look up at the dragon, and found its dark eyes fixed on him. Overhead, the flowers seemed to sigh, their petals unfurling, as their vines crept down the bedposts in slow spirals, dragging the blooms lower.
Closer.
Spreading their perfume.
Clove blinked drunkenly at the dragon. He parted his lips to speak, but said nothing. What he wanted, he couldn’t describe.
But somehow, the dragon understood.
It lowered its head and brought their mouths back together, and Clove, trembling with want, kissed it like it was a human lover.
He parted his legs wider, and within the mess of coils, one of the hot, heavy things questing up his thighs finally found his entrance.
It butted its tip against him, seeking entrance into him, teasing him with the promise of penetration as its twin wrapped around his thigh and traced up his belly. It pushed farther, traveling the length of his chest to his neck, and then finally to his cheek.
The very tip of it nudged pleadingly there until Clove stopped kissing the dragon and turned his head to face it.
It was what he knew it would be—the arrowheaded tip of one of the dragon's cocks.
The opening at its apex drooled a thick bead of precum.
Clove's eyelids drooped.
His mouth fell open.
Fuzzy-headed from arousal, he set his lips upon the tip and kittenishly lapped up the precum with his tongue.
“Do you see now?” the dragon asked in a voice thick with arousal, yet somehow edged with tenderness. Coaxing. “See how you want it? How you can’t help but beg for it, beg for me?”
Clove looked up at the dragon from beneath his heavy eyelids, breathing raggedly. Fixed under that overwhelming gaze. Transfixed by the tender notes in the beast’s murmuring.
“Show me,” said the dragon softly. Softly, but burningly. Full of fire. “Show me how much you want it.
“Suck me.”
There was no question of how to respond.
Clove could not suck the dragon’s organ as he might have sucked other things, but regardless, he sealed his lips and obeyed.
Lips strained, mouth open, tongue swirling, he took in as much of the tip as he could and sucked it to the best of his ability, moaning urgently, hips gyrating, pushing wantonly against the shaft that was still between his legs.
It was slick, too. Drooling in excitement. Slippery.
When it pushed now, Clove's body did not resist it.
It had made him slippery, and with each nudge it spread that wetness just a little deeper. Not quite inside—not yet—but close enough that Clove felt himself being stretched open.
Toyed with.
He was being prepared to take.
Against his better judgment, the thought stirred in him a great rush of arousal that stiffened his cock and flooded his head. Dumb from it, reduced to his most basic instincts, he redoubled his efforts.
Tongue caressing, hips grinding, he begged for something he’d always staunchly forbidden.
He begged to be bred.