This erotic story features anthropomorphic (furry) characters, intelligent humanoid beings with both animal and human characteristics.
"Dragon Clan Mother"
SHORT STORY
New blood. Strong blood.
Those words swim in my head, tantalisingly so. They whirl and swirl, echoing through my skull in the manner of a splitting headache; instead of pain, pleasure emerges. They spell out my concerns, my needs. The clan's needs.
New blood. Strong blood.
As the Clan Mother of the dragons of the Southeast, I am (rightfully) the most powerful specimen of our race to be found for hundreds of leagues. I rule, as matriarch, supreme. Nowhere in these mountainous wastes does such a prominent outpost of our kind exist than the hewn-rock halls I call home. This demesne, it is mine — and mine alone.
I open my eyes, rising from the boiling steam of the volcanic baths. My vision is misted from the vapour. Heat, well in excess of the tolerances of non-dragons, fills the room. Slowly, it clears, and visibility is returned. I raise a scaled hand and motion for my attendants to come forth.
Casting my gaze around the room, I see the fine craftsmanship of the chiselled walls bent to serve us. I can barely remember those who built this place. The name of their kind, or their appearance. So very long it has been since my ancestors drove them from their mountain realm in a storm of death and flame. All I can remember is my mother's tales — handed down across generations — of the capture. My favourite was the one that described their taste: how my ancestors gorged themselves on the fat barrel-like folk, growing fat themselves, for their flesh cooked well under dragon-breath and retained a juicy, succulent quality even under the harshest burning. I paid no heed to many of the other stories, and what they documented, because what greater pleasure is there in life than a good meal?
Hmm...there is another, but I digress...
My attendants are here now, awaiting command. I stand, the waters coming up to my belly, and turn to the female beside me.
"Alyss, proceed to my chambers. Once there: tidy it, in preparation for tonight." I speak with a commanding tone. The small dragoness obeys. She knows her place.
"Yes, Mother-Of-All."
She departs. I lift myself from the bathing pool and stretch my wings. A dark, imposing shadow is cast on the far wall, where the fine stonework meets the invading chaos of natural rock formation. The black silhouette moves with me, its wings extended to their fullest. Looking down into the pool at my feet, I see my reflection and can't help but admire it...
The goddess in the waters stares at me with emerald-green eyes. Her ashen lips curl into a proud smile, revealing a mass of pointed teeth which fit together almost perfectly. Two large horns protrude from the back of her head, affixed to her skull and continuing under the skin until her brow — dotted with ridges of bone along the way. Red scales, in pristine condition, flow across her body. Not a single scale damaged or missing. I watch the reflection move closer, as I stride forward. She glowers back in admiration. Her naked body shines in the torch-light. Solid shoulders, covered in harder scales, coloured a duller crimson. They lead on to impressive arms, muscles tightly wound beneath the draconic exterior, terminating in well-maintained claws. I lift an arm, my admirer mimics the action. I watch the black-tipped digits flex and curl, a bunch of razor-sharp talons, forged from heated fibre and bone. Perfect for slicing and cutting and dismembering. How I miss the feel of terrified prey, a hand gripping their torso, and the screams they make when I start to squeeze. Some races last longer than others, some are a tougher kill than others. It matters not in the end.
I catch her giddy with excitement, the water's reflection attracting my attention once more. She lowers her arm in time with mine. A large pair of breasts sit on her nude chest, well-rounded and heaving. She cups them, so do I. The smooth feel of underbelly scales in my hands is most welcome. Soft, plump, ripe for feeding hatchlings. They tingle under my massaging, nipples swelling and hardening into tough, leathery nubs.
Scratch this!
I try to ignore the burning need, there will be time enough for that tonight...
I see a thick core, rippling with strong muscles, in the pool. Still covered with lighter, tenderer scales as the upper chest was — one would be foolish to think a dragon is vulnerable there. Hopefuls get only a single chance to prove their slaying skills, and have yet to land a blow on my body. Are all lesser beings such fools? Ah, my mind wanders again. I am in no hurry. The goddess in the waters gazes at me still, eyes locked onto my stomach. It is a pretty stomach, no shame in admitting this fact. Voluptuous. Below it lies a hidden treasure: a thin, barely visible slit between the legs. Our kind are streamlined for flight, therefore our organ's profile is minimal, emerging only when the time is right. Males carry theirs in a tight sheath, which loosens when aroused. Females' lips present themselves when stimulated. My hand wanders, finding its wayward way to my entrance. I force a finger inside, roughly, eliciting a gasp. I clamp shut my jaws, keeping the sound from escaping. It would be uncouth to moan in the presence of a servant.
Extracting it hastily, I feel a slight
pop
as my talon is removed and my womanly gate shuts. I check that my other attendant hasn't noticed. He stands there, head bowed, a submissive clan-drake.
I spare another look at myself. Vain, I know. But who wouldn't be with such a delicious figure? Broad thighs flank the source of my fading pleasure. The rest of my legs are covered in the same red scales as before — they drip with condensation and water from the bath. Imposing foot-claws tap on the rock floor, feet capable of crushing wooden houses, thatched dwellings, and to an extent castle walls. Beautiful. Yet fearsome.
New blood. Strong blood.
Again I hear myself repeating those words. As I admire my form they come in force. Shouting inside my head. The need grows.
My long, spiny tail strikes the ground, cracking the stone floor. It is restless. I am restless.
I sniff the air, clearing my head. Clarity of purpose returns; I must be ready. Extending my wings to their fullest I inspect them in the liquid mirror. No pockmarks or scratches on the grey membrane. Good. Care of one's wings is perhaps the most important part of a dragon's daily routine. For if one cannot fly, one cannot hunt, one cannot survive. We take care of our own, but there are limits to hospitality. I study them closer, and call for the attending drake to assist. He bows and approaches cautiously, tip-toeing. Then he checks the rear of my wings for blemishes. I sigh and close my eyes, leaving him to work.
Since the passing of our last Clan Mother, it has fallen to me to ensure the survival of our clan. It has been my duty for three years now, and the harsh times we have found ourselves in have done nothing to improve the situation. Clans traditionally raid the lands of plenty to the North and East, and feed off the spoils. My mother led our kind to glory, allowing the clan to flourish and grow huge — well beyond what the land could support, it seems. Starving dragons make unruly subjects. I have broken many rebellious dragons to keep order. I see them sometimes, limping through the halls of our mountain fortress. Pitiful, weak creatures.
Pitiful...weak...
It is an unfortunate truth I find myself uttering those words with frequency. I look back on my serving-drake, who has completed his inspection. The last few droplets of moisture evaporate from my hide.
"I am dry. Bring my jewellery."
"Yes, Mother-Of-All."
Our kind wear little in the manner of clothing. We see no purpose in hiding our divine bodies from the eyes of our prey. What fascinates us, however, is splendour: jewels, precious metals, and opulent materials. Finery befitting our status as the greatest creatures to walk the face of the world. I, as the Clan Mother, have claim on the best and most magnificent pieces of adornment. Dragon-smithing is a talent many possess, but masters are few and far between. My mate — when he soared in the skies — was one such master of metals. His breath melted gold, silver, and bronze without scorching or ruining their lustre. He was possessed of great control over the bounty of the deep earth. It was he who gifted me the jewellery I wear to this day. I see it being brought to me now, in the hands of a pathetic drake — an insult of the highest order to even suggest he belongs to the same species that produced my late lover.
What has become of us, that we are bereft of quality males? Some curse from foreign lands? The poor returns of our raiding parties this past decade? I watch him approach. He is thin, nothing but skin and bones, diminutive in size and weak in form.
Bundled in his arms is my apparel. "Mother-Of-All," he murmurs, showing me the items he carries. I nod, and he begins to dress me.
Mother-Of-All.
I think on that title. A humorous affectation, for I have borne but one child in my lifetime. That will change, of course. That must change.
Mother-Of-All...Mother-Of-One suits me better...
I remain still while I am dressed by my attendant. He starts with piercings, a fashion many dragonesses adore. First: my breasts. He can barely reach them, so I hiss and bend my knees to let him place a golden bar through each nipple. The cool sensation of the metal sends shivers down my spine and tail. He pushes them through the flesh, averting his gaze when he can out of respect and fear. Once done, he caps each end with rubies, sparkling in contrast to the dark aureolae surrounding them. Second: my nether-regions. A line of gold rings to decorate my secluded entrance. Third: my skull. So shapely, he cannot help but pause to admire it. The encrusted adornments he places bring a touch of gaudiness to my appearance — but with that comes
dominance.
