A Damsel and Her Dragon

No immediate sounds of pursuit followed her, and she breathed a shaky sigh of relief. She had bought herself a moment; the strangers wouldn't know how to find her right away down here, or that was the hope.

"Thought you could hide from us, Princess?"

Laughter made her jump, the harsh, mocking bray coming from the top of the cellar doors at the far end of the basement. She looked up into the yellow light and saw the dark silhouette of a man at the end of the hall. It wasn't one that she had met yet, she didn't think, but he was distinctive for the black hair and scar that swept across his face. He was the first one of the group that she would consider ugly—though it was the black look on his face that made him most frightful.

"Oh, gods no," she whispered.

He was far, but still, too close. Yasmine had nowhere left to run. She had gone from the roof to the basement, and no matter where she turned, she was pursued. With so many men scouring the castle, it was no surprise that hiding was impossible. The man was speaking, mocking her, "We did as you asked—we freed you from the mighty beast. Where is our award? Why are you running, Princess? We rescued you."

Bile rose in her gut as she realized he was enjoying this. He turned his head, his eyes appearing glossy in the candlelight, and she saw that he had a flask in his hand. Celebrating their victory already? It all made sense, all her attempts to save herself were simply providing them with entertainment. Her flight was doing nothing but exciting them, like a hare fleeing a pack of hounds.

Lifting her chin, she decided she could no longer run. The men had bested her; if she played along then, perhaps, she would gain another chance soon to flee. If she continued to run then they would only catch her tired, and they would be angry at her for not honoring her word. If she complied, perhaps she would earn their goodwill.

The man's footsteps were heavy as he descended the old, rotting wooden steps that led into the castle's long-abandoned cellar. Each step creaked, and the black wood flaked away into the shadows beneath the stairs. He passed into the darkness of the basement, the yellow lights of the candles she lit every morning leaving him a dark silhouette before her; now she couldn't even see his eyes, but she felt them undressing her.

Voices at the top of the stairs told her that the others had come—some sounded angry, shouting at her for her flight, for embarrassing them. The men from the rooftop, she realized, her heart sinking. She should have let them take her there, at least then she would have been able to watch the clouds while they claimed their prize. Down here she had only darkness.

Darkness, and the leering eyes of the knights come to take her. Anything you want. She had agreed to this.

Hands were rough as the scarred knight reached her, towering over her in his fire-scorched armor. The cloth of her shift tore away too easily, the homemade stitches tearing in his greedy grasp, ruining the hours she had spent sewing the simple dress. He laughed, holding up the material. "You won't be needing these."

The cool air of the cellar brushed over her skin, clammy and cold, and her nipples hardened into buds. Yas's pale eyes clenched shut, unable to look the man in the face as his calloused fingers grazed over the soft, unblemished skin of her breasts. A gasp escaped her, slipping unbidden from between her lips, and a chuckle came from him as he overheard it. Shame filled her, and she clamped her mouth shut, teeth fastening into the lip until blood pooled on her tongue.

Four men surrounded her, five, eight. More and more dark, armored shapes whose faces were either cold and distant, or alight with excitement.

"That's better," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin, moist and smelling sharply of alcohol, "you're going to get fucked good tonight, Princess. And me, first, just like I like it." His fingers gripped her chin, lifting her eyes to meet his. They were brown, maybe black, and glassy from the drink she had seen in his hand earlier. She shuddered, wrenching her head free.

The coolness of the cellar seemed to retreat as more men pressed around her, the soft clink of metal and leather indicating that some of the knights were removing their armor. Nausea curled in her stomach, but she tried to focus on keeping her breathing still. You can do this, she tried to tell herself, but she could feel her body trembling against her will. If she went along with it, they might even allow her to enjoy it. How many evenings had she spent pushing fingers into herself, dreaming that it was her Hero doing it to her instead? Wishing that some dashing victor would come and slay the beast, fuck her, marry her, and then fall in love? In that exact order?

They had come to the second part of that dream.

A cry escaped her as calloused fingers twisted her nipples, the woman grabbing at the hand that assaulted her, trying to pry it away. As if the action had given courage to the others, suddenly hands accosted her from all sides, gripping and slapping at her slim, soft body, pulling at her thighs and breasts to expose the most intimate parts of her.

Pain blossomed, but also pleasure. She was surprised as a soft moan escaped her, and the men laughed as if they had seen this before. Some murmured to her, whispering what they would do to her, and she was ashamed as desire bloomed between her thighs. Long, thin fingers probed insistently at her entrance, and she moaned, letting her legs part slightly. Her breath came quickly, sharply, and she realized that the men teased her clit, stirring her to the same pleasures she often did to herself at night. She clenched her eyes shut, trying to imagine it was her own fingers that plundered her sex, not strangers, but her body would not be tricked.

A hand gripped her wrist, guiding her to grip something long and hard, though warm and almost velvet to against her fingertips. With shock, Yasmine realized what it was, remembering the violent and frenzied fucking of the knights at those parties so many years before.

"You feel that, Princess?" It was the voice of the scarred knight, the one who had found her hiding spot. "That's my cock, hard as a fucking rock for you. You need saved? Here I am, Princess, I've come to rescue you." The head of his cock pressed against her lips, and she tasted a warm, salty liquid on her tongue.

Her eyes opened for the first time since the assault began, and she found herself looking up into the dark, shadowed faces of a dozen leering, lustful men. Most were either nude or in various states of undress, playing with themselves and watching her as men thrust fingers into her tight slit. The scarred knight was kneeling over her, stroking himself against her mouth.

"Enough."

Yasmine's head whipped around, hearing the rasping, harsh voice of the knight she had originally offered herself to. The one from the roof, who had been so keen on her. The first. His voice was quiet at first, and when no one moved to follow the command, she wondered if she was the only one who had heard it. "Enough!"

The scarred knight froze, his resentful gaze turning over his shoulder to land on the blonde man. The other mercenaries paused, too, and Yasmine realized that the blonde man must have had some sort of position of power in the army, otherwise he never would have been able to stop their frenzy.

"She's mine, Erroc, and you know that." The blonde knight stepped forward, his mud-brown eyes not even acknowledging the nude Princess. He was still armored, even his gloves, and he gave no warning before he reached out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her against his cold, armored body. Several of the other men stepped back, their faces twisted in annoyance. The blonde didn't care, his dark gaze angry as he confronted his fellows. "We all agreed, I get her first."

The plate dug against her bare flesh, biting painfully, and she did her best to hold back the whimpers of pain. He held her too tightly, but he hardly cared about her comfort. His grip was possessive, and metal dug uncomfortable ovals into her wrist.

Erroc, the scarred man, stared at the blonde with undisguised hatred. Yasmine had never met him before, but she knew from the look he placed on the man who held her that he would kill his companion in a heartbeat. "Share," he insisted, his eyes landing on her bared flesh. He licked his lips, adding, "We always share."

But whatever they always did, the armored knight who held her didn't seem keen on following traditional. He didn't say anything, but she felt the jerk of his body as he shook his head sharply. "No. Mine first, alone."

For a tense moment, it seemed as if the two men wouldn't back down. Yas, held in front of the blonde man, felt like a fleshy shield. Finally, Erroc nodded, though more it was a short, sharp jab of his chin than a true nod of agreement.

"Fine, Derrin, only because you found her. Be quick, though, the rest of us don't want to wait long for your sloppy seconds." Erroc turned away, shaking his head in disgust. Yas overhead him say to another man, "Derrin is taking his piece first. Take it up with him."

Yasmine should have been happy to see the division within the group, but instead, she felt only dread. The other men in the troupe, sensing Erroc's battle lost, retreated to the other side of the cellar to wait their turn. With me, she realized, bleakly. Would it go one by one? She almost wished that the frenzy had followed through, that they had sated their appetites on her all at once, rather than individually as it appeared Derrin preferred. She didn't know if she could sustain this for hours.

The blonde man shoved her down, and when she went to stand, he shoved her again. "Stay down," he ordered, and she wished with silent spite that he had simply said that, first.

He stripped out of the armor quickly, his hands flying over the buckles and belts with practiced ease. In moments he had stripped out of the metal, and stood before her, wearing slimming black trousers and a white, sweat-stained jerkin. A thick black belt was wrapped around his waist, with a golden boar buckle glaring balefully at her. Derrin's brown eyes roamed over her prone form greedily, and she saw a bulge in his trousers that indicated he enjoyed what he saw.

"Do you remember me?" he asked, finally, and Yas looked up, surprised by the question, though she knew she shouldn't be. Of course, he didn't know that she recognized him, how could he? She hadn't exactly said as much when the three men had approached her on the rooftop. But she did—she'd recognized him instantly.

Licking her lips, mouth suddenly dry, she simply nodded.

He grinned. "Good."

Stepping forward, Derrin pulled the belt out from around his trousers. Fear overwhelmed reason, and Yasmine turned, a soft "no" slipped from her lips. Scrambling on her hands and knees to escape the man, Yas knew there was nowhere to run. Soil and rocks bit into her flesh, scratching and the uncalloused skin. A large hand wrapped around her ankle, stopping her attempt, pulling her backward. He was laughing, and the cold bite of the leather belt wrapped around her calves, binding them together. Another man offered his belt, and soon Yasmine found herself bound, the belts biting painfully into her wrists and ankles.

She had been a prisoner for most of her life, but still, she had never been so helpless.

Derrin had unlaced his trousers at some point, and his cock jutted upwards. He was larger than Erroc, both in length and width. He grinned as he noticed her attention, his hand wrapping around the base, allowing her to see the entire length—too big. He was going to tear her apart.

"I've thought about you, Princess," he said, his voice quiet and almost gentle in the cellar. She looked up at him, her pale blue gaze meeting his glassy brown one. His face was tight, and his breath was harsh. Some fantasy played out in his head, one that featured her. "When I heard your voice in the darkness, I thought you were a ghost, or an angel. And when I saw you, leaning over the walls?" He groaned, squeezing his cock in his fist, and she saw a bead of desire bloomed at the head of his cock. "Your tits, swinging? Mouth puckered? Whispering, I'll do anything? I've stroked off every night thinking about this moment right here. Where I'm going to take you, and fuck you, and it's all thanks to you."

Movement drew her eye -- one of the waiting men wandered upstairs, perhaps to check on the silent drake from the courtyard. She had not heard the beast's cries in several minutes, and she wondered if they had simply waited for his fire to burn low before killing him. For his sake, perhaps that was for the best. Dragon scales were worth a fortune, each dinner-plate-sized crimson scale fetching a bag of gold. An entire carcass? It would make these men rich beyond words. Kings of a landless kingdom.

A roar echoed, freezing the men where they stood and causing her breath to catch in shocked hope, answering her question even as it flitted across her mind. She knew that roar, but—it was close, closer than the courtyard. The men around her exchanged uneasy looks, and she was amused to see Derrin's impressive desire deflate in front of her eyes.

Her smirk caught the eye of the man, and his foot flailed out, catching her in the chin. Pain flared, and a cry burst from her. Bound, she was unable to do anything but spit the blood that pooled in her mouth onto the ground.

"Don't look so pleased," Derrin snarled, his lips twisting cruelly, "That beast is as good as dead, so you might as well give up on that hope. You won't be escaping your payment, Princess. I fully intend on collecting, again, and again, and again."

"You're a coward," she hissed, but his words were the most frightening thing he had said yet. The hope that this would be a one-time ordeal had been something she had been grasping to, afraid to mention it in case her hopes were dashed. As they had just been. "The dragon will eat you all, piece by piece."

The threat sounded weak, though, and she knew the knights weren't impressed. They had bested him once, and now they'd had the opportunity to rest. It was only a matter before they beat him again, this time for good. Derrin didn't even acknowledge her words, using his foot to push her over so that she lay helplessly on her stomach, her arms and legs bound behind her. She looked up at the men who re-donned their armor, their entertainment on pause until they handled the beast once and for all.

"Stay here, slut," one of the men said, spitting on her as he passed. She saw him fondle himself as he looked at her, dressing in the armor they'd all shed when they'd thought their prey contained. He had not lost his desire for her, and he made that evident to her before he disappeared. It was another stark reminder that Derrin was not her only attacker in all of this, and his cruelties were not the only ones she would face today.

Six men stayed with her out of the dozen that had been waiting for their piece, the rest ascending the stairs to the main floor of the castle. The one who had gone to check on the dragon had never returned, so the venturing party numbered five. In all of Yasmine's years in the castle, the dragon had always been too large to enter the castle, but the bellow had certainly sounded as if it had come from nearly directly above them. Inside the building.

In truth, the dragon had once before made it into her home, in his own destructive way. Shortly after she had made her plea to Derrin, a man had snuck into the castle under the shadow of dusk. He had climbed to her bedchamber and slipped into her room while she slept. She had been woken to the feeling of a man crushing her into her mattress, his hands roaming possessively over the prize he hadn't earned. The terror she had felt then had been comparable to what she felt now—helplessness, it seemed, was a recurring fear of hers.

The dragon's wrath had been immense when he'd discovered the trespasser. Yasmine had screamed when she'd discovered the intruder, only to have a hand clamped over her mouth by the thief in the night. It had been enough, though, because the golden gaze of her crimson guard had soon peered through her tower window, witnessing the intruder.

The man had fled, of course. Most did when they saw the drake. He had tried to escape into the western wing of the castle, but the dragon had torn it to pieces in its attempt to flush him out. It was still a ruin, and the man's carcass had never emerged. She thought the dragon might have eaten it, just for the pure pleasure of shitting him out later.

She didn't know if the dragon had torn apart her castle to get inside again, but in truth, she wouldn't mind. If the whole thing was a ruin, then she could no longer be a prisoner in it. All she had to do was survive, and she would be free.

And currently, six guards were a lot easier to survive than a dozen. The six men were conversing quietly, glancing towards the cellar stairs and then towards her. Derrin and Erroc were both still below, though it seemed as if Derrin was trying to get the scarred man to go up and help. The scarred man, on the other hand, was gesturing towards Yasmine, seeming adamant that he wouldn't go anywhere he could not watch her.

It was clear they were torn on if they should go help their allies or stay with Yasmine. After a few moments of gesturing and argument, she saw them gesture towards a rope and knew that they were going to come to their own decision soon enough. The leather belt was bad enough, if they bound her with rope, too, then she would never get free of her restraints.

The guards were approaching, Erroc's lips twisted in a victorious smirk, Derrin scowling blackly. They held the rope, and Yas shook her head back and forth, fighting the keen of despair that bubbled inside her. She wasn't going to be able to escape: she was doomed.

Screams from overhead drew everyone's gaze upwards. Human screams, not those of a dragon. The roof heaved and shuddered, shaking dust loose on the nude woman and her armored security. The guards exchanged uneasy looks; the rope hanging in Erroc's hands was forgotten, as no one seemed in a rush to head upstairs now.

Silence rang out, as sudden and sharp as if it were a noise itself. The absence of screams and conflict seemed harsh, and a strange ringing echoed in her ears. Her blood rushed, and she wondered if she was going to faint. That had to be the dragon attacking, but who had won? Everything was quiet, the castle itself holding its breath.

"Do not move, or I will kill you myself," a deep, rasping voice breathed across her neck, smelling sharply of spice and sulfur. It was a whisper, so soft that it felt as if it might have grazed across her thoughts. She froze, eyes wide, unable to turn her head to see who had snuck up behind her. The guards didn't look up from their discussion, and alarm flitted through her as she realized that the new man was not with the original dozen.

Another? She despaired -- who now?

On her stomach, she could not see the man who stood over her still form, but she felt as he pulled and tugged at the belts that kept her bound. In only a few seconds the leather bindings fell away. Before she could even begin to consider running, an arm slipped around her chest, pulling her off the floor and against a hard, warm surface—someone's chest, she was certain, though it was solid enough that it might have been armor. The voice sounded again, whispering into her ear, "I should have eaten you that first day, morsel, to avoid the years of annoyance you have inflicted on me since."

Morsel?

She turned her head at the words and met the amber gaze of her draconic captor, though he was no longer the beast she had known him as years. Instead, he appeared almost as if he were a melding of man and monster, with the bipedal form of a large human, but his skin was covered in the deep crimson scales that his larger, more bestial form had held. Twisted black horns raked backward, sweeping over his head and the swath of jet-black hair that covered his head. His amber eyes were the same, though, familiar and angry. In this half-man, half-beast form he was larger than any man she'd ever met, looming a head or taller over even the largest of the mercenary knights, and she felt dwarfed beside him. Flecks of blood glinted in the candlelight on his scaled skin, reflecting a shadowed crimson in the darkness of the cellar.