Their duel raged for an eternity, but even eternity has its end.
Radgar had known that even his legendary skill would pale in the face of true draconic might, so it was not with surprise that he found himself crushed upon the high table of the hall, sword and shield discarded, helm long vanished, body battered and bloodied. It was rather with a surreal acceptance that he surrendered his will to the gleaming dragon above him, breastplate pressed against the table by a single draconic forehand, each of his arms pinned between two claws that were driven deep into the wooden surface.
Alatraxxa, victor, stood above him, staring down at her fallen opponent with an expression Radgar could not hope to comprehend. She spoke, softer than she had before, with what might have been a hint of some alien form of sorrow.
“Did you truly believe you could best me, human?” she asked.
“It mattered not,” he answered, breath difficult to draw beneath her crushing weight. “Your malice has gone unchecked for too long. Do or die, I was compelled to oppose you.”
“Malice?” she echoed, a brush of amusement upon her long, serpentine tongue. “What malice do you accuse me of, mortal?”
“Kidnapping. Ransom. Murder,” he replied. “The list is not counter to intuition.”
“Kidnapping? Of whom?” she asked. “Spoiled princesses playing at being queen? Members of a hereditary ruling class, perpetrators of a broken social system that utilises state-enforced economic inequality to maintain an unearned hegemony over others, sustained upon a feeble pretence of divine right? You make me laugh, human, if you think these despots are deserving of your sympathy.”
“You make bold denouncement, dragon,” Radgar said, “but can you claim meaningful difference? How does your accumulation of a golden hoard help those downtrodden by a class you claim to oppose?”
“Golden hoard?” Alatraxxa asked. “Pray, human, show me where I conceal such fantastic wealth. For I know of none in my keep.”
“You lie, dragon. Tens of thousands of golden sovereigns have found their way into your clutches, via the vile practise of ransom. Do not think to claim otherwise.”
“First serpent, now liar,” she hissed. “Your punishment shall be beyond cruel. The gold bled from your people is returned to your people, through me.”
“You...redistribute your wealth to the peasantry?” he asked.
“Gaze upon my glorious form, human,” Dread Alatraxxa commanded. “Behold my scales of divine grandeur. They are as diamond, mortal. By nature, they are of silver and scarlet. But I wish to carry upon my form the immortal histories of my people, for which only the most permanent of inscriptions will suffice. Think you it some meagre expense to infuse such eternal creations into the very essence of my form?”
“Hold, lady dragon,” Radgar implored, head spinning with disbelief. “Mean you to tell me that all you have done – the extinction of House Varamis, the conquest of their lands, the abduction and ransom of two score nobles – that all this, you have wrought for...”
Alatraxxa leaned in to him, fixing his gaze with her molten-gold eyes as she rumbled, long and low, her breath blasting the flesh of his face with a heavy heat.
“For sick ink.”
It was with this simple assertion, at the sheer magnitude of the changes this mighty being had inflicted upon the world in pursuit of something so simple, so personal, Radgar felt himself overcome by a wave of sheer, unmitigated awe at the true majesty of the Dread Queen Alatraxxa.
And though he would not admit it, not even to himself, he felt another, unexpected stirring. One he did not understand, but certainly could not mistake.
But whatever he might have been feeling, Alatraxxa began to draw back, a resigned expression spreading across her face.
“This has been amusing mortal,” she rumbled. “But our game now reaches its end.”
Her right foreclaw, the one she had not been using to hold him down, reached out towards him. An obsidian talon, sharp as a razor, idly danced across his throat.
“For all that you are impressive for one of your kind, you are only human. You are weak. Goodbye, Radgar of House Taelwyn.”
Feeling the blade of her talon beginning to press against his exposed flesh – and, paradoxically, his own flesh beginning to stiffen – he croaked out three short words.
“I am strong.”
She stopped, her crested head pulling back slightly, as though in surprise. Her talon lazily traced the contours of his neck.
“You are weak,” she repeated, more insistent this time. Every word was as a shifting of the earth.
“I am strong,” he replied, with equal resolve.
“You are dying,” she said.
“I am living.”
“You are soft.”
“I am hard.”
Alatraxxa cocked her head, and an amused smile began to spread across her face. Snorting – with the faintest tendrils of flame escaping her nostrils – she pulled her claw from Radgar’s neck and slid it downwards, curving beneath the waist of his trousers.
Slowly, curiously, with care that seemed impossible for a creature so grand, she drew the tip of her claw across the length of his rigid erection. His back arched as he gasped, the intensity of the savage stimulation pouring into his body through the sharp, cruel tip of her talon.
Smiling, she left the tip of her claw atop his shaft as she leaned down, drawing herself closer to his helpless, prone form, until the radiant heat of her lipless mouth brushed against his ear.
“You are mine,” she breathed.
His joy plummeted for a moment as her claw departed from his hardness, but it soared twice over as she reached up for the straps that held his armour in place. With short, deft motions, she cut away his breastplate. His greaves, his shirt, and his trousers followed with swift swipes, rendering his form wholly exposed to her majesty. His senses exploded as she began to trace his chest with her keen-edged tail, the pain all the more thrilling for his utter helplessness beneath her.
Alatraxxa extended her long, thin tongue, drawing its warm wetness across his body, sliding across every inch of his exposed flesh – except for the one place he desired her touch the most. His cock pointed straight up, unable to reach the stimulation it craved; a hammer unable to nail.
He gazed up at her. Alatraxxa. Powerful. Fierce. Dominant. He soaked in the sight of her divine form, the silver-scarlet scales of a goddess made flesh. The intricate markings that told a tale that a thousand human scholars could not hope to unravel. The might, the history, the grandiosity of this magnificent entity – he was blessed beyond comprehension to be permitted to witness it.
With a dismissive click, she scolded his wanton gaze.
“You are not worthy to look upon me, mortal,” she decreed. Her tail swept over to the clothes that lay discarded on the floor, slicing them with quick, knowing movements. With care that only reinforced his knowledge that she was beyond this world, she fashioned a blindfold and secured it about his eyes. All that remained was the sound of her rolling breath, the heat that radiated from every inch of her flawless body, the weight of her claw still pressing him, helpless against the table. And the slow, taunting motions of her long tongue, forever too far, but inexorably drawing closer and closer to where he needed her ministrations the most.
With a gasp, he felt her suddenly wrap it about his cock. Her tongue, deft beyond comprehension, wrapped itself about his testicles, enclosed his shaft in its entirety, and – ever so gently – dragged its fine-forked tip across the head.
And then it vanished, pulled away in a heartbeat. He cried out, unable to contain his frustration, but soon her lipless mouth was brushing his ear once more, whispering with a voice that bespoke aeons of sex beyond mortal comprehension.
“Say it, human. You are mine.”
His heart pounded with an intensity he had never experienced in all his years, his very soul exultant with ecstasy as he gave himself up to his mistress, Dread Queen Alatraxxa.
“I am yours.”
I write stuff at radhominin.com. It's not usually like this, I swear.