CHAPTER 4
THE PRINCESS
I feel his clawed fingers in my hair, gentle despite the sharpness, almost reverent. He does this every morning, or what I assume is morning. Time has no meaning in the darkness. There's only the endless now, the eternal present of my prison.
He's lifting me now. I know this routine. Bath time. He'll undress me, wash me, touch me with those scaled hands in ways that make my silent body respond.
And God help me, I want it. I want it so badly.
I don't know anything except the darkness and his claws and his scales and the terrible, shameful pleasure that I've started to crave.
The water is warm. I feel it envelop me, feel him peeling away the nightgown with careful precision. Those claws could shred the fabric, could shred me, but he's always so careful. My breasts are exposed to the air, and I feel that too. The coolness, the way my nipples tighten in anticipation.
He's talking. He always talks.
He's a killer. A monster. He likely murdered my family. They must be dead by now, seventy-three years later. He kidnapped me. Cursed me. Trapped me in this darkness.
Another prince. Another murder. Another body in the courtyard.
This time two at once. His scaled hands are on my breasts now, soaping them, the texture of his skin strange and rough-smooth all at once, and my body responds immediately.
Heat pools between my legs. My nipples harden further under his touch, and I want more. I always want more now.
I'm so sick. So fucking sick for wanting this.
His clawed fingers slide between my thighs, and yes. Yes, please. Touch me there. Make me feel something. Make me feel alive.
He's washing me there, his fingers moving in slow circles, so careful with those claws, and my body, my desperate, starving body, grows wet for him.
It always does now. In the beginning, I was dry, resistant, my body fighting even when my mind couldn't. But over the decades, my body learned to anticipate. To want. To need.
And lately, I don't know why, I can't understand it; I've been craving him even more. Thinking about him between his visits. Waiting for his touch with something that feels dangerously close to eagerness.
He's getting into the bath with me. The water shifts, rises, and I feel his massive body sliding in behind me. His scaled chest against my back. His arms wrapping around me, pulling me against him. His tail coiling around my legs beneath the water as he flips me around so I’m straddling him.
"I can't wait," he's saying, his voice that deep rumble that I feel in my bones. "I need you now, treasure. Right here."
His cock, already hard, already impossibly thick, presses against my core, and my body clenches with anticipation. Yes. Yes, please. I don't want to wait either. I never want to wait.
He's positioning me, lifting me slightly in the water, and then I feel the thick head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
Even after all these years, even with my body trained to take him, that first push always steals my breath.
The water makes it different. Smoother, easier, but also more intense somehow.
I feel every ridge more acutely as he pushes inside.
"That's it," he groans, and I love that sound. Love knowing I make him feel this way. "Take me, Adelaide. Take all of me."
He's filling me, inch by impossible inch, those ridges dragging against my inner walls, and the water sloshes around us with each thrust. I'm completely at his mercy, held in his arms, impaled on his cock, and it's perfect. It's everything.
Move. Move, damn you. I scream at my body, trying with everything I have to arch back against him, to show him how much I want this. My fingers. Move my fucking fingers. Twitch. Do something. Anything.
Nothing. Nothing but the same frozen stillness.
But I'm trying harder now. Every day, every time he touches me, I push against the invisible walls of my prison with more force, more desperation. I need to move. Need to touch him back. Need to show him that I want this, that I'm not just a doll for him to use.
The aggression of my attempts is growing. It's not just a gentle push anymore. It's a violent, desperate clawing at the magic that holds me. Like throwing myself against a locked door over and over, bruising myself on the unyielding surface. Break. Break. brEAK.
He's moving faster now, fucking me in the bath, and his hand comes up to wrap around my throat.
Yes. Yes, God, yes.
His clawed fingers tighten, cutting off my air, and this.
.. this is when I feel most alive. When he chokes me.
When those claws press against my vulnerable throat, and I can't breathe, and my body is screaming for oxygen, but also screaming with pleasure.
The lightheadedness, the way everything narrows down to just sensation, just his cock inside me and his hand on my throat and the desperate, primal need for air. It makes everything sharper. More real.
I'm alive. I'm alive. I exist.
Over the last decade, I’ve grown to enjoy the stretch, the burn of him entering me. Afterward, he washes me gently. Like I’m precious to him. Important.
He's talking, calling me his good girl, his treasure, and then—
"You're such a desperate little slut for me, aren't you?"
Oh God. Yes. Yes, I am. Call me that. Call me your slut, your whore, your fucktoy. Tell me what I am.
I'm disgusted with myself for loving it. Disgusted that those words make me wetter, make my body clench around him with need. What kind of person gets off on being degraded by their captor? What kind of sick, twisted woman loves being called a whore while a dragon fucks her in a bathtub?
Me. That's who. This is what I've become.
"My perfect little whore," he growls, squeezing my throat harder, and I would moan if I could. Would beg for more. Would tell him yes, yes, I'm your whore, your slut, whatever you want me to be, just don't stop.
He releases my throat, and I feel the rush of oxygen, the dizzy pleasure of breathing again, and he's still fucking me, those ridges hitting every perfect spot inside me. The water is everywhere, warm and slick, and his scaled body is wrapped around me completely.
He bites my neck as my orgasm wracks my body.
He always knows the exact right spot to bite me.
When he bites me, I feel a pulsing heat vibrating through my body.
It feels warm. Soothing. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
I used to rebel against it, but over time it’s become stronger.
More insistent and demanding as it pulses through my body.
He pulls out. No, don't stop! Then he's lifting me from the bath. He's drying me now, going through his ritual of care for me. Making sure my blonde hair is smoothed and braided. My skin soft with exotic smelling lotion. He dresses me then carries me back to bed.
I feel the strength in his scaled arms, the way his tail brushes against my legs as he moves. His tail always seeks me out. Like every part of him needs me the way I’m growing to need him. I feel the softness of the mattress beneath me, feel him caressing me. His hands linger.
"You're so beautiful," he says again, and I feel his clawed hand on my face, tracing my features with a gentleness that makes me ache.
I want to lean into that touch. Want to turn my head and kiss his palm. Want to look into those black eyes and tell him...what? That I love him? That I hate him? Both are true. Both are equally devastatingly true.
He's climbing onto the bed. His scaled hand is on my thigh, pushing up the fabric. I know what's coming. I always know what's coming.
I used to despise this part. Would scream into the oblivion of the space I exist in now. Now. Now I crave it. I want it so much it terrifies me.
He flips me over onto my knees, my heavy breasts pushed into the mattress. Exposed. Vulnerable. Displayed for him. He’s careful to make sure my face is to the side so I can breathe properly. He only puts his tip inside me.
His hands never stray from my hips where they grip me violently. I try to push back into him. Seeking more of him inside me. I can’t move. Not even the tiniest amount. Slowly, he builds me up, up, up into a frenzy of electricity pulsing through my body.
He's inside me again, and this time he's not gentle. He's rough, aggressive, and I love it. Love the way he takes what he wants. Love the way his claws dig into my hips hard enough that I feel the sting. Love the way he fucks me like he owns me.
Because he does own me. In every way that matters.
His hand is on my throat again, squeezing, and yes. More. Harder. Make me feel it. Make me feel alive.
"Do you love this?" he's asking, his voice rough. "Do you love being my little fucktoy?"
Yes. God, yes. I love it. I love it so much I can't stand it.
I'm trying to move again, throwing myself against the walls of my prison with renewed violence. My fingers, just twitch them. My toes, curl them. My mouth, open it, make a sound, do something. The desperation is overwhelming, consuming. I need to respond. Need to show him. Need to break free.
And then I feel it. The smallest movement. My lips—did they just move? Did I just—
No. Impossible. I imagined it.
But he's still talking, still calling me his slut, his whore, his perfect little treasure, and the pleasure is building, building, that familiar tension coiling tighter with every thrust of his ridged cock.
"Come for me," he commands, his hand tightening on my throat. "Come on my cock like the desperate little slut you are."
Yes. Yes, I am. Your whore. Your slut. Your treasure. Your prisoner. Your love. Your victim. All of it. Everything. And I do come. I come so hard I see stars behind my sightless eyes, pleasure crashing through me in waves, and—
My lips part. I feel them move. And a sound—the barest whisper of a breath—escapes.
Oh God. Oh God, did that just happen?