Mounted 1

(18+) [This story contains the good stuff. To be enjoyed only by mature adults. Sorry.]

TAGS: Transformation, TGTF, Dragons, sex, straight, gay, oral, petplay, chastity, mental changes, submission/domination, trickery.

♚♡♦♚

The kingdom of Andranor buzzed with excitement. Flags fluttered from every window. Confetti and rose petals filled the air like snowflakes. Merchants, musicians, and prostitutes swarmed the streets in a mass feeding frenzy of commerce, and a legion of young, drunk soldiers, pockets bulging with pay and minds on celebration, flooded through the city's gates into her inns, taverns, and brothels.

King Andrew The Third's royal army had returned from campaign.

The Roost Tavern was the busiest it had been all year. Derek DeAmond sat at a large, circular table, one hand holding a stein of beer, the other gesturing dramatically.

"The mercenary had a hold of my stirrup, see, and he raised his dagger to deal a lethal blow," Derek explained to the woman sitting on the table in front of him. "Thinking fast, I yanked an arrow from my quiver and slipped it through his visor. Needless to say, he let go."

The lady gave a theatrical gasp and slid her foot up his thigh.

"Pah!" scoffed a musclebound soldier across the table. "Nothing a good sword and a strong arm couldnt'a done!" The pair of women sharing his lap giggled.

Heavy infantry. How Derek despised them, always shouting and throwing their weight around. This tavern was lousy with them. Before he could make a comeback, his own lady-of-the-night leaned between them.

"You must have been awfully scared," she said, turning Derek to face her with a finger on his chin.

Derek took a swig of his beer. "Naw. See." He pulled his sleeve up to reveal a tattoo of a violet, the royal flower, on his shoulder. The whore gasped, this time genuinely, and he smiled. "We who take the blood oath have no fear of death. Our lives belong to the King."

The heavy slammed his fist against the table. "Ah the King! Now there's a worthy warrior!"

"They say he stands seven feet tall!" shouted another brute.

"I hear he rode a gryphon into battle at Tergramesh!" cried yet another, pounding the table so hard a plank jumped and toppled Derek's beer onto his lap. He leapt to his feet.

"You spilled my brew!"

The table-slammer lifted a prostitute from his lap and stood. Had they been belly-to-belly, the tip of his beard would have tickled Derek's forehead. "Yeah? and what are you going to do about it?"

The tavern went quiet.

Derek clenched his fists. He bit his cheek, huffed, and sat. "Find my on my mount, then try acting tough."

"Well if I ever visit the stables, I'll give yah a wide berth," chuckled the heavy, sitting. His comrades laughed and clapped his shoulders.

The tavern keeper appeared out of nowhere and replaced Derek's mug with a full one. The beer was less bitter than he was.

Once again, his woman leaned to block his view of the others. "You're strong without your horse. Strong enough to hold me down." Her fingers trailed down his shirt toward his crotch. "Strong enough to use me however you want."

Derek sighed at the prostitute's attempt at seduction. If only she knew. . .

"If it's strength yah want, yah better let him bring his horse to bed!"

"Aye! I doubt he'd have it any other way!"

The infantry broke out in roarous laughter.

That did it. Derek leapt onto his chair. The infantry were laughing too hard to see him slip the bandanna from his head and fit it with a pebble. A flick of his wrist sent the shot flying, bearded heavy's mug exploded, showering the lot with beer.

Another silence.

"Grab that cavalry twerp!"

Derek ducked under meaty, grabbing arms, vaulted over a table, and rolled behind the bar. A fist aimed for him connected with the back of another infantryman's head, and soon the entire tavern broke into a brawl. Derek slipped out the back door and hustled down the cobblestone alleyway.

If starting a brawl was a victory, it sure didn't feel like it. He felt small and weak. He'd ruined his own night too, and the lingering arousal from the woman's touch only stoked his frustration. She was skilled, picking up on his desire for strength, but she'd missed the mark. The infantry were even further off-base with their mount-fucking jokes. Real original. Thankfully, he knew one place he could find the exotic brand of eroticism he craved.

The Bee's Flower had done its own dressing-up for the army's return. Fresh silks fluttered in the doorway, glowing with the warmth of a hundred candles. A pair of young women almost too beautiful to be whores welcomed Derek and relieved him of his cloak and boots. Madam Lune recognized this one. She whispered an order to a nearby courtesan, sent her off with a jerk of her head, and returned Derek's gaze with a knowing smile.

Derek glanced furtively, looking for other soldiers. He did not relax until a girl took his hand and led him to a private room. There he saw her.

"Precilla. It's been-"

"Did I say you could speak, boy?" Precilla interrupted. She was beautiful. Fair skin and golden curls down to her shoulders. She wore thigh-high boots and elbow-length gloves, all black leather. A tight corset lifted her breasts and guaranteed her posture.

Derek smiled and ran a finger over his lips.

"Good. Now sit."

He started toward the bed, but Precilla stopped him with a click of her tongue.

"Not there. Sit the way that suits you."

Slowly, he lowered himself to his hands and knees, sitting his bottom on the ground. Precilla nodded in approval, sashayed forward, and fastened a thick leather collar around his neck. A silver chain leash connected it to a loop in her hand.

"Good boy. Now get undressed. Clothes are for humans."

Derek undid his buttons, trying to stay seated on the ground like a good boy. He stripped off his pants, freeing his erection, and stole a few guilty strokes.

"No touching." Precilla hissed. "Not unless I say. Did you forget the rules while you were playing war?"

She tugged the leash, leading him to the bed. She sat on its edge with her legs crossed, then raised her right foot slowly, hovering her boot in front of his face a moment before pointing it over her head like a dancer. She set it down far from the other, opening her legs and revealing her sex. Its glisten betrayed how much she too was enjoying this.

"Lick. If you do well, I'll reward you."

Derek pushed his head between her legs and set his tongue to work. As he lapped the fragrant fluids from her folds, his unattended cock throbbed so hard it ached. He did not touch it. He was a good boy, after all.

Mistress Precilla coached him between moans: "Higher." "Slower." "Eaaaaasy."

His tongue made little circles around the hard pearl of her clit. She gasped, and the hand on the back of his head grabbed a fistful of his hair. "Keep going!" she squeaked. A toe-curling fit of pleasured spasms wracked her body. He still had it.

Precilla pulled his head away from her crotch. "Enough! Enough," she said between pants. Her leatherbound fingertips wrapped around Derek's eager penis. "It's time you were rewarded." She stroked his length twice, then withdrew. "But first, I have one more order."

He looked at her with puppydog eyes and gave a high-pitched whine.

Precilla crossed the room to a large object under a blanket. "No worries. This is an easy one." She pulled it away with a flourish, revealing a kennel. It was one of the ones made for the fighting dogs, with thick steel bars. "Get in."

Derek had no idea what twisted sexual games Precilla had in mind, but his cock demanded him to obey. He crawled inside. She closed the door behind him and threaded a heavy, iron lock through the latch. Click.

Precilla's coy smile melted into an expression of utter relief. She pulled a string on the back of her corset and breathed a heavy sigh as it sprung loose. Then, she gave a shrill whistle.

Something was very wrong here.

The room's door swung open to reveal a tall, thin man. He wore long, purple robes of the finest silk, trimmed with black and emblazoned with the sigil of a half-lidded eye. A matching fez was perched atop his bald head. His neck pitched forward in a wrinkled mass, giving him a distinctly vulture-like stance.

Mordred, the court sorcerer. Few had seen the man. Derek only recognized him from descriptions in terrible, frightful tales the soldiers whispered amongst themselves.

"What in the-" Derek sputtered, hands scrambling to both cover his erection and remove the collar from his neck. "Get out!"

Sinister eyes set deep in Mordred's bony sockets regarded Derek. He gave a sharp nod, and Precilla threw the blanket over Derek's cage, plunging him into darkness.

Mordred watched as his hooded minions wrapped the cage in wooden planks and hammered them into place. Soon, a plain crate sat in the center of the room, the cavalryman's muffled threats barely audible from within.

Precilla shook her head. "You'd better pay well, sorcerer. At this rate I'll soon be out of customers."

"Yes, as agreed." Mordred snapped his elbow, and a small leather purse fell from his sleeve into his hand.

"The other girls aren't going to believe this."

"Oh I think they might," he said, "and that is a risk I cannot afford to take." In a single, smooth motion, he flicked the bag at Precilla, showering her with a cloud of glittering green dust. The workers immediately stopped hammering and turned to watch.

Precilla waved her hands. "What the- aah- ahh- ahhSNT!" With the force of her sneeze, a long, furry tail erupted from her behind. She glanced over her shoulder at her new limb's fuzzy, flicking tip, mouth dropping open.

"I have a- aahCHOO!"

She dragged her wrist over her nose, now upturned and pink. The touch on her new whiskers made her eyelids to flutter reflexively.

"Achoo! AAhsnt!" Precilla fell to the floor, either from the unending chain of sneezes or because each left her body less human and more-

"A cat!?" she managed, staring in shock at the clawed paws she'd pulled from her gloves. Another series of sneezes. Precilla crawled toward the door, slender feline legs stepping out of too-large human boots. She cried for help: "HelllllllleeeeooOWWW," her voice pitched up as she rapidly shrank, ending in a pained yowl. A luscious coat of fur erupted from her skin in a wave, prompting her to arch her back in an unmistakably catlike manner.

The cat that had been Precilla made it to the doorway, paused, and looked around in confusion. She batted at one of the hanging silks and began licking at an unruly patch of fur on her leg.

Mordred wheezed a satisfied chuckle. His minions started, but he shot them a glare. "Did I say stop?"

They jumped back into action, carrying the rumbling, cursing crate out the back door to a wagon hitched behind the sorcerer's carriage. A pair of ebon-black mares spirited them up the main road toward the castle, splashing revelers with mud as they passed. Mordred smiled at the sight.

Castle Andranor loomed over the city from atop an imposing cliff. Three generations of the Andranor line called the white-bricked palace home. Mordred had served them just as long. "A necessary evil," told each king to his heirs. They allowed the sorcerer a lair, an obsidian orb that jutted from the cliff's face, hanging below the castle like a spider's egg-sack. This was where Derek would meet his fate.

♚♡♦♚

The cage dropped, and Derek grunted. The boards creaked as they were pried away. Footsteps shuffled, and, finally, the blanket was removed. He found himself in a large, domed chamber. A ring of green-flamed braziers cast flickering emerald light over the blackstone masonry. Mordred loomed beside the discarded blanket, grotesquely picking at something between his teeth with a bone needle. It was just the two of them inside the room.

"You are Derek, Lieutenant of the king's army, yes?"

"You know the name of your death," Derek spat. His voice husky from all the screaming. "Let me out so I can tear those bony arms from their sockets."

"How colorful." Mordred snapped his twig-like fingers and the kennel's lock fell to the floor. Derek jumped in surprise, then slowly opened the door and crawled out. He stood, hands covering his privates. There was an awkward pause.

"After careful consideration, I've decided to give you a chance to talk your way of your beating."

Mordred scoffed. "You've sworn the blood oath, and I am the king's agent. You wouldn't harm myself or the king, as much as we may deserve it. You're perfect."

Another of his threats challenged successfully. Derek felt incredibly stupid. "You deserve it. King Andrew is a venerable warrior."

"Venerable warrior!" Mordred snorted. "His father was respectable, perhaps. This king is. . . something else entirely." He sat behind a polished-oak table. "Come. Sit. I have a proposition for you."

Derek sat, grateful for the shred of modesty the tabletop provided. "If you wanted to see me, a simple summons would have worked."

"Yes, I am sorry about picking you up that way." The sorcerer's lecherous grin did not match his words. "But no one must know about this meeting. You see, the king, the royal prick, has made an impossible demand: He wants a dragon."

"A dragon?"

"A Dragon. He wants to ride it into battle. Ridiculous, I know."

Derek's face turned pale. "You want me to capture a dragon?"

"Don't flatter yourself! Even if you somehow managed to find a dragon, it simply would toy with you until it got bored and then eat you. Or worse. The damn things are impossible to tame. Immune to magic, impervious to harm, more prideful than the twerp king himself. It's preposterous! And the females are worse than the males! Did you know a dragoness can't be fucked unless she wants it? By dragons, no less!"

Mordred was so worked up, little bits of spittle flew across the table as he spoke. Derek wiped one off the back of his hand.

"So where do I come in?"

The sorcerer grinned, revealing a mouthful of crooked too-white teeth.

"I want you to be my dragon."

Derek blinked. "What?"

Mordred reached into his robe and produced a flask of glowing pink liquid. "This potion will transform you, physically, into a dragon. Your mind will remain, of course. You'll need it to act the part of a tamed beast."

Derek's mind tried to wrap itself around the insane proposition. "Me. A dragon. For how long?"

"The rest of your life. Centuries, perhaps. Dragons live quite a while. I imagine you'll be able to slip away once the king dies. Shouldn't be too long at this rate."

"And I'll be what, the king's royal steed?"

"Think about it," Mordred urged. "You'll still find glory on the battlefield. People kingdoms away will sing stories of your exploits!" He was getting excited, and the spittle was back. "You will fly! Imagine it, man. Flight!"

"Shut up and let me think! What if I refuse?"

"No one can ever know about this plan. So-" Mordred placed a second flask on the table. "Drink the blue potion and you'll merely wake up in an alleyway with a hangover and no memory of any of this."

Mordred watched the soldier's gaze flick between the two flasks. Sweat beaded on both their foreheads as Derek weighed his options. The strength of dragons was legendary. He would be the greatest warrior of the kingdom, perhaps the world. And if he happened upon those infantryman on the battlefield, well, mistakes are made in the fog of war.

But to spend the rest of his days as a beast!

Mordred chewed his lower lip. Finally, Derek extended his hand. His fingers touched the blue potion before flicking away. He grasped the pink potion and raised it to his lips. As the sorcerer watched the glowing fluid drain down the soldier's gullet, his face broke into a wolf's smile.

"Yes. Yes. Don't leave a single drop!"

It was like drinking freezing-cold oil, but he did as he was told. He slammed the empty flask onto the table like a stein of beer, and the blue potion jumped and clattered onto its side. Its contents spilled onto the table, erupting with a violent hissing and a plume of smoke.

Mordred tumbled off his chair and scrambled backwards. "Don't touch that!" he cried.

Derek leapt to his feet. The blue potion quickly ate through the hardened wood of the table and dripped onto the masonry below, disappearing into its own sputtering, smoking hole.

Derek looked at Mordred, realization dawning on his face. "You were going to kill me."

The sorcerer stood, adjusting his fez. "Well you drank the correct potion, so it doesn't matter, does it?"

"You traitorous spawn of Ogomoth!" Derek started toward the sorcerer, intending to wring his wrinkled, turkey-flesh neck. He stopped short. A deep grumble rose from the pit of his belly. He clasped his hands over his stomach and opened his mouth to unleash a belch so loud its echo lasted seconds.

"It's working!" squaked Mordred. "Your fingers! See?"

Derek lifted his hands before his face. They were heavy, and then he noticed the claws. Wicked spikes of bone pushed his human fingernails aside, curving and lengthening before his very eyes. His hands spasmed wide as they grew to match. Bones popped as his fingers swelled into thick, powerful digits, thumbs pulling backward down his wrist. His skin of his hands grew black and stiff. Seeing the blackness spread down his arms was like watching a hunk of meat burn in a fire pit. When the dark shell had replaced his last patch of human skin, it split- the sound of a hundred eggshells cracking- into a sheet of tough and flexible scales.

His vision pitched forward as his neck suddenly gained a foot of length, and he fell onto the table. Oversized, draconic paws caught his weight like a feather. Then everything started happening at once. It felt like invisible hands were tugging his body every which way, and it was impossible to keep track of all the sensations. They yanked his spine into a thick tail that whipped about and slapped the stone floor. His shoulder blades were pushed aside as two new limbs stretched from his back, popping like massive fingers as new joints formed. His skull felt like a balloon inflating inside a too-small mould, pressure so high he was afraid it would pop. Somewhere distant, a human scream grew into a bellowing roar as his muzzle cracked into place with one smooth motion.

Through all the chaos, one change shined through in perfect clarity. His penis, flopping freely between his legs, grew taught. One "hand" gripped some tubing deep in his groin and yanked his balls up against his body. His mouth fell open in a silent scream. Agony mingled with unexpected pleasure. The pressure increased. Just when he was certain he was going to black out, his testes slipped into his body with a pair of distinct pops. He came immediately. Jets of semen, pent up from his unfulfilling trip to the whorehouse, splattered beneath the table. Each orgasmic pulse pulled at his cock until he felt its head sink between the cold scales of his crotch and settle in a tight fold of flesh.

Mordred scrambled to avoid being crushed by Derek's expanding body. The table groaned under the weight and exploded into a shower of splinters. He grew until he was twice the size of Andranor's largest draft horse. Across the room, his massive, flailing tail sent a man-sized brazier flying, scattering glowing coals everywhere. Finally, the dragon shuddered in a full-body spasm as powerful cords of muscle bulged beneath his scales. He bellowed a mighty, bone-shaking roar and collapsed.

The transformation was complete. Laying where the human Derek once stood, was a massive black dragon. Wings large enough to fill the room stretched haphazardly to either side of the gasping creature, brushing against glowing embers without a hint of discomfort. The only hint of the creature's human origin was a splash of violet scales on its shoulders, arranged in a floral mimicry of Derek's tattoo. Beneath each eye, smaller patches of glowing pink scales echoed the accents on his shoulders.