Chapter 6
Chapter Six
What had been a normal man’s cock had shrunken in size and retreated, meekly, into an alien little chamber, like an eel lurking in a cave of flesh.
When he rested his hand upon the ‘chamber,’ he could feel the small lump of his cock underneath.
The resultant mound was not like that of a woman, but it was nothing like the proud, bare cock of a man!
Clove’s chief emotion was rage.
That beast had done this to him, he thought, furiously gritting his teeth together. It wasn’t enough to have a slave for fucking! It wasn’t enough to buy, enslave, and use him. No, that beast wanted…
This.
But what exactly was ‘this’?
Clove could not resist the horrible, visceral curiosity that rose up within him.
Shuddering with trepidation at what he might find, Clove slowly, gingerly slid his fingers down to explore.
He found that the ‘cave’ his cock had retreated into was not really cave-like at all. It was more like a tight, warm sheath, snugly enfolded around both head and shaft. Snugly enough, in fact, that it resisted his initial attempts to thwart it.
He pressed his fingertips to the entrance and persisted, trying to fish a way inside, hoping to peel it back.
Intent on his goal, he didn’t realize at first the change in feeling.
The cowl over his cock seemed to grow fuller, warmer. If it had not been dark, he would have noticed the skin of the sheath flushing, color deepening to a dark pink.
Clove pulled at it, feeling his cheeks warming with the effort, and it grew thicker and softer under his hand, the rigidity of his hidden shaft more obvious. He began to shudder.
He burrowed more urgently at the tip. Unaware that he was panting. Unaware that he was being watched.
All of a sudden, his fingertips slipped past the taut seal of the cowl, and he was inside.
He let out a high gasp.
With no recollection of his original intent, he sank his fingers greedily deep into the passage. He found it extremely tight—the outline of his fingers inside was easily visible—but slick enough to penetrate. It didn’t occur to him that the slickness was his own precum.
The tip of his cock bulged against his fingers. It was hard now, but still unmistakably smaller than it had been the night before.
Clove forgot that he had originally meant to free it.
Instead, he fucked the cowl vigorously with his fingers, panting raggedly.
The inside of the passage was deliciously sensitive and flexible—as Clove fingered, he found the sheath gradually yielding more and more, allowing him to pound it more roughly and with more fingers, especially as increasing precum made it sloppy.
The end came so quickly, he hadn’t time to prepare.
Pleasure crashed through him like a cliff collapsing into the sea, the onslaught so swift and brutal that he was left panting, rigid, aching. Head thrown back. Toes curled. He opened his mouth to cry out, but his throat seized, preventing him from making a sound.
The only other time he had ever felt like this had been last night, but the reality of those experiences was uncertain, surreal, and shrouded in a haze of chemical lust.
This was concrete reality.
What he felt was real.
Gasping for breath, he reclined on the rock behind him and kept pumping his fingers, prolonging the pleasure for as long as he could before its pulsing ripples gave way to quiet bliss. Cheek plastered to the rock’s cool surface, Clove closed his eyes and focused on catching his breath.
Slowly, so as not to reawaken the lust that had just consumed him, he withdrew his fingers from himself and held them up, cracking an eye open to examine them.
They were coated in a clear, glossy substance that stretched into strings when he parted his fingers in a V.
He couldn’t recall the last time his precum had been so clear, but rather than be concerned, he found himself gratified… then aroused.
Without thinking, he brought his fingers to his mouth and fed them between his lips.
Sweet.
A shiver ran through him, and with it a longing to taste himself again.
Clove parted his fingers from his lips with a pop and reintroduced them between his legs, running them over the strange mound to the place where his cock had gone to hide.
He rubbed over the slit, feeling the head of his own shrunken member begin to protrude, when the reality of the situation caught up with him.
He had been mutilated. He should be furious! Disgusted!
If only the mutilation didn’t feel so good…
No!
Clove wrenched his own fingers from his body and slid back into the water, where temptation would not be as great. He could not allow himself this distraction, nor could he allow himself to enjoy what had happened to him. He had to stay angry. What had been done to him was repulsive!
But try as he might, he couldn’t quite wrestle his mind in that direction.
He tried, and tried fiercely, yet his fingers, unable to resist, continued to explore this strange new territory between his legs.
After coming, both cock and cowl had reduced somewhat. He could more easily draw back the sheath, allowing his contracted cock to poke meekly out into the warm water. He followed its length down to the root, a shiver gliding down his spine at the sensation, and went on.
Over the meeting point of his thighs.
Past his altered sex.
To the smooth valley between his legs.
But the smooth valley was gone.
Instead, his fingers encountered something strange.
It was… almost like a mouth. He could discern the barest hint of something like lips. Two extremely soft lips which came together, their meeting point forming a gentle closure over something more.
He very slowly, very cautiously—dread and excitement rising both together again—parted the lips with one fingertip and probed lightly.
Experiencing no barrier, he pressed on with his finger and found that there was not a barrier, but flesh which parted.
A throat beyond the strange new mouth.
Of course, Clove was no fool. He knew it was no mouth. No lips. No throat.
A loud bell of horror rang through him. A wave of rage crashed in his belly. He gritted his teeth in fury.
He understood now what had been done to him.
Clove was as male as he had ever been and would never be anything but, yet now he was distorted. Made fertile. Transfigured in such a way as to best accommodate a man’s cock.
Yet he did not shrink back from the touch. He did not climb out of the pool and run back to his clothes.
He pushed inward with his finger, questing further, enraged, yet enthralled.
The interior of this new hole was slick, the ‘throat’ even more so, and it swallowed his finger with hungry ease… and took Clove’s second finger just as greedily.
With those two fingers, Clove began to explore himself, sinking in and out of the slippery, grasping squeeze.
He could feel it.
Not just on his fingers, but from the inside.
The ‘mouth’ was his, the ‘throat’ was his, and the whole passage throbbed with a pleasure that rivaled his strange new cock and cowl.
All these new parts of him should have been terrifying, overwhelming… yet he found he knew exactly what they wanted.
And he wanted it, too.
Clove was so preoccupied, he did not notice the stirring of movement in the shadows opposite his side of the pool, and did not realize he was not alone until a rich chuckle rippled out over the water.
Immediately he yanked back his fingers and froze, staring into the dark.
“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” said a low, deep voice with a smile in it. Not a virtuous smile. “I was enjoying the show.”
“Who is that?” snapped Clove. His face was searing hot at being witnessed—not just glimpsed naked, but observed while he whimpered and moaned and fingered himself with the wantonness of some vulgar concubine.
His sense of humiliation was quickly tempered by apprehension as a figure emerged from the deepest shadows and squatted at the edge of the water, his long, dark robes pooling about him and his hair hanging like curtains before it.
The light from the bedroom caught like twin stars in his eyes, but as dim as the room was, Clove could see nothing more.
“The beast will kill you for looking at me,” Clove snapped, doing his best to project arrogance while fear continued to mount in his stomach.
He swam until his back hit stone, putting as much distance between him and the figure as he could, but it was no use.
The figure shed his robe and dropped into the water, snaking through it with such crocodilian speed and efficiency that Clove had no opportunity to clamber up the ledge and escape—before he could do more than put his hand on the ledge, the figure was there, surfacing and dripping water and seizing him by his lifted wrist.
“If the beast will kill me for looking at you, I wonder what will happen if I touch you?”
The voice was rich, mocking.
The owner was grinning.
It was a man—a man whose long dark hair now clung to his shoulders and fanned out around him on the surface of the water like an ornamental fish with its fins spread.
He was handsome, tautly muscular, with a delicately pointed chin and elegant, aristocratic features.
Features that were slightly crooked due to a strange blend of youthful playfulness and cold, cunning severity that felt very old.
He did not appear quite human.
Even before the obvious, he was just a little too pointed in the chin, the nose, and the ears.
Clove would have thought him elvish, but that wasn’t quite right, either.
From a distance it would be easy to mistake him as such, but not from up close like they were—so close that Clove could read the true emotion behind the man’s friendly bright eyes.
They looked upon him with hunger.
Clove’s initial relief—that the man was only a man, and not some shadow-birthed monster—was immediately replaced with the indignant fury of before.
“Release me,” he snarled. He did not try to yank his hand away.
He could already feel that the man’s strength was much greater than his, and any physical struggle would be fruitless—and more than that, probably enjoyable for his assailant.
“Release me or he’ll castrate you slowly, just to start, and then boil or skin you alive.
If he’s in a good mood, maybe he’ll let you pick which ball you want severed first! ”
The man’s smile only grew wider.
“Is he often in a good mood?” he asked. “Your beast, the dragon Sobell?”
As he spoke, he raised a hand to caress Clove’s damp hair back from his cheek, and the gesture was so intimately familiar that Clove knew him at once.
“You!” he exclaimed.
The dragon Sobell, now in the form of a man, paused; his slick grin slackened, his expression suddenly betraying surprise and seriousness.
The seriousness lasted only a single odd, poignant breath before the playfulness returned.
“You know your love well,” said Sobell. He raised Clove’s hand to his lips and kissed his palm. The gesture was overly sweet—mocking. The gleam in Sobell’s eyes made it clear that his intentions went far beyond sweetness.
There was no magic on Clove now, and the guise of a man repelled him automatically.
“You’re not my love,” he sneered.
Sobell cocked his head to the side. “Is that so?”
Abruptly, the dragon-man’s hand moved with that great speed again. It scooped between Clove’s thighs and cupped Clove’s mound in its palm, driving two fingers inward and plunging unerringly into the slick, hot mouth.
Clove seized Sobell’s wrist with a gasp.
He shuddered.
He tried not to moan.
Sobell’s fingers were larger than his, and produced an intense sensation of spreading—a sensation that made Clove viscerally aware of the extent of this new passage. He felt strange new muscles ripple in him deeply. Eagerly. As if they would suck Sobell’s fingers inside if they could.
“Not your love, am I?” asked Sobell softly.
He pressed Clove against the wall of the pool, adjusted his hand, and did something new with his fingers.
This time Clove could not hold back the moan—he could only bite the end off it, terminating the sound in a pathetic little whimper that made Sobell smile.
“Wet as summer rain,” said the dragon-man. “Tell me, love…” He leaned down, putting his lips against Clove’s jaw as the smaller man turned his head stubbornly away. “…if all this isn’t for me, then who is it for? I’d like to meet the man who can scale these walls and hide himself away so neatly.”
His fingers sank deeper.
Clove could not even speak, let alone contest Sobell’s words. All he could do was try not to humiliate himself completely.
It was an effort doomed to failure.
His body clutched at Sobell’s fingers, shuddered in response to Sobell’s breath on his cheek. He could feel the throb returning to his cock, heat welling up once more in the cowl surrounding it.
He was helpless. Too weak to resist.
And he did not want to be strong.
Clove all but let his body give out as Sobell abruptly lifted him, perching him on the shelf of the pool wall once more in order to spread Clove’s thighs. In order to push up his now erect sex, to thumb apart the edges of Clove’s soft-lipped lower mouth and watch it drool all the more.
Dazed, hot-faced, hard-breathing, Clove looked down with no will to act.
And then he saw what proximity, shadow, and rippling water had concealed.
Sobell had had two cocks in his dragon’s form.
And he had two of them now.
Human in appearance, but monstrous in size, both shafts bowed out from Sobell’s groin with flushed, twitchy anticipation.
Clove did not have time to do more than gasp incredulously, just once.
Because then Sobell leaned down.
He wrapped his mouth firmly around the soft-skinned bundle of cowl, cock tucked safely inside, and began to slowly take Clove’s mind apart.