Mounted

Slowly, the creature began to stir. Derek craned his elongated neck around to view his altered form. He tentatively flexed his wings and tail. Even these unsure movements had incredible power behind them, like a coiled spring, ready to snap and lay waste to any who dare oppose the king.

"Derek? Is that you in there?" ventured Mordred. The sorcerer seemed so small standing down there.

"Answer me, dammit!"

Derek snapped his head at the little man and roared as loud as he could. Mordred fell backwards onto his ass, great ropes of slimy dragon-saliva splattering his robes. Derek huffed a deep, draconic chuckle at the sight.

"You ass," Mordred muttered.

Derek lifted his long, ridgid lips into a smile. Perhaps he had made the correct choice after all.

♚♡♦♚

Mordred scurried around Derek's hind leg, wrapping it in a ribbon of runed parchment. His front legs and tail were already "secured" in place by the "magical" paper. Mordred had prepared miles of the stuff, all painstakingly covered in handwritten symbols that glowed a pale blue- ink harvested from the light-sacks of deep squids, no mysticism required.

Derek's tail twitched. The unbreakable paper tore in ten places and fluttered to the ground. Mordred groaned and repaired the damage. The dramatic arcs of paper affixing him to the chamber's walls and the mystic-looking circle on the floor made for a convincing-enough summoning scene.

Mordred wrapped Derek's muzzle and pierced a final sheet of parchment, this one much larger and more ornately inscribed, onto the pair of tiny spikes between Derek's nostrils.

"There. Finished." Mordred grabbed hold of one of Derek's horns and hovered his face right in front of Derek's eye. "But remember: if the king so much as suspects you're not a real dragon, both our heads will be mounted on the wall. No slipping!"

With that, the sorcerer spun about and exited the room. An itch immediately appeared in Derek's nostril slit. He was never any good at this subtle spy stuff. He resisted the urge to scratch, focusing instead on preparing himself for his first audience with King Andrew The Great and Honorable.

A few minutes later, the door burst open, and a dozen knights in full plate armor filed into the room. Their armor buzzed with nervous shivering. Why were they so on edge, Derek wondered? Oh right. He was a dragon.

After the knights came Mordred, a pair of viziers, and then, finally, the king himself. He would have been easy to pick out even without the spotted fur cape, jeweled crown, and glittering sceptre; he was the only one not quivering with fear. No, the young king, early in his second decade, walked with the confidence of a man twice his size. In fact, he was a smaller than Derek expected, but all the humans looked small now.

The king gazed at Derek, face alight with wonder.

"Magnificent!" he announced, handing his cape to one of his attendants. He circled Derek, gingerly stepping over his parchment chains. "Such power, so perfectly balanced by a subtle grace. Death and beauty made one."

The king's voice was shrill, his tongue flicking to perfectly shape each syllable. "It's an alluring juxtaposition, don't you think?"

His attendants nodded vigorously. "Quite right, my liege! Well put." They chattered, dabbing the sweat from their brows and huddling near the door.

"You have truly outdone yourself, Mordred. She is a gorgeous specimen. Truly a dragoness fit for a king."

Derek's eyes shot wide.

"I live to serve, your grace," Mordred said, bowing so deeply he had to hold his fez on his head.

"I shall name her. . . Violet."

The attendants blathered praise for the king's choice of a most patriotic, feminine name. Mordred caught Derek's glare and offered a tiny shrug. Derek huffed a mighty breath that rattled the parchment on his nose. Everyone jumped.

King Andrew giggled at the room's fearful reaction. He approached Derek's head cautiously, from an angle, with his hand outstretched. It was a motion Derek had used to gain the trust of countless horses, but being on the receiving end was truly bizarre. The room held its collective breath as the king's palm gently touched Derek's snout.

"Perhaps we would all feel more at ease if the matter of loyalty was settled," he said.

King Andrew's gentle, blue eyes locked with Derek's, and he began to speak the blood-oath. Although Derek had already taken it, hearing the weighty words spoken in the king's own royal accent made his massive heart pound in his chest.

The king's narrow, slightly crooked nose, prematurely white hair, and pale skin gave him an otherworldly quality, but not the one Derek expected. He wanted more than anything to believe that this king was the fearsome warrior from all the stories, but the soft-palmed pretty-boy standing before him seemed no different than the fragile aristocrat youths he and his fellow soldiers ridiculed. Was his confidence merely the result of never facing true danger once in his life?

If this king was not a fierce warrior, to what kind of man had he pledged- was he pledging- his loyalty? He grew nervous.

"- so long as blood runs in your veins," finished the king. The oath demanded Derek speak "I do," but his mouth was bound. "You may also nod," amended the King.

Derek nodded. What choice did he have?

The king flashed a perfect grin to the rest of the room. "Well there you have it! They say once a dragon gives its word, it can never be broken."

Mordred raised a cautionary hand. "That is only a story, your grace. There is no proof-"

King Andrew ripped the parchment from Derek's muzzle. Behind him, the sorcerer rolled his eyes. The king delicately brushed the scraps of paper from Derek's face and cradled his large, scaled head in his hands.

"Yours will be a pleasurable life, Violet my dear," he breathed so only Derek could hear him. "That is my oath to you."

The king spun and made for the exit, barking orders as we went. "Alagure, get Violet cleaned up and take her measurements. She is to be brought to my throne the moment she is ready for her first round of training."

"Yes, your grace," said the fattest of the attendants, swallowing.

"Excellent work, Mordred. Your rewards will be forming by the end of the week."

Mordred gasped. "So soon!"

King Andrew reached into his robe and flashed the sorcerer a small spritzer bottle. "A special gift from Tetragal the Ranger. One week."

"Ooo," Mordred cooed, bowing again. This time his fez really did fall. "My eternal thanks, your grace."

The king stopped at the door. "Oh, and Violet?" he said, turning to face Derek. "Be good and follow the commands of Alagure here. No biting, fire breathing, or destruction of any sort, you hear me? That's a good girl."

Hearing that phrase sent a thrill down Derek's spine. His eyes popped wide. Oh no.

The king left and Mordred followed, pausing just long enough to flash an encouraging smile at the worried dragon. Alagure fastened a leather collar large enough to encircle a horse's midsection around Derek's neck.

"C-c'mon now yah b-big bugger. Let's go," he said, tugging on the silver-chain leash.

Derek followed. Each stumbling, unsure step made the fat man flinch.

He liked that.

♚♡♦♚

In the castle's courtyard, Derek was set upon by a hoard of terrified servants. They buffed the paper remnants from his scales, polished his claws with wax, and puzzled over how to take his measurements. Alagure, now seeming more confident, shouted words of encouragement from below.

"Easy, girl. That's it, Violet! Steady. . ."

Each word made Derek's blood run hotter and hotter. How dare this pale blob call him such demeaning, feminine names?

But perhaps it was understandable that the king had mistaken his gender. Whatever beastial totem of masculinity he no doubt now possessed was hidden away inside the scaled vent between his legs. Still, he had to resist the urge to toss Alagure across the courtyard.

One of the servants polishing the grey scutes of his belly brushed against the sensitive crease of Derek's vent. He jumped and snarled at the man, reducing him to a quivering husk that had to be carried away. That made Derek feel a little better. He looked forward to his upcoming lessons with the king. Shredding some practice dummies would ease his nerves.

Castle Andranor's great hall was the most magnificent room Derek had ever seen. A series of polished columns, high as a cathedral's steeple and wide around as the largest wagon wheel, suspended an arched ceiling covered with paintings so lifelike, Derek thought they must have been made by magic. Still unused to lumbering about on all fours, Derek craned his neck a little too high and slipped. Catching himself, his claws carved deep furrows into the marble floor.

Seeing Derek, the bored king perked up in his throne. He made a sweeping gesture with his wrist. A pair of guards grabbed the commoner in audience, dragging him past Derek and out the door.

"Ah, Violet!" the king cried, leaping from his throne. "Your scales shine with ferocity. Fabulous!"

Derek attempted a bow. The king's praise summoned a flash pride that sent his great tail waving back and forth. It struck a priceless porcelain vase, obliterating it. He pivoted, and his tail crashed into a guard behind him, sending the man sliding across the floor. A dozen of the king's guardsmen drew their swords as one. Even as a dragon, the sound sent a spike of terror through Derek's stomach.

"At ease, at ease!" cried the King. "Violet is merely here for her training, and it seems desperately needed."

The man who was apparently King Andrew The Third, took the leash from Alagure and led Derek past the throne. His shoes clicked five times for each step Derek took. The king had a way of carrying himself that commanded the room. And his smell! Derek hadn't noticed it before, but each breath he took caught a waft of chemical oil and blood. Something deep in his mind told him it was a powerful, dominant smell. At least the king, whatever kind of man he was, behaved like a worthy owner.

His owner. He was owned. An animal. A mount. Derek's swallowed at the thought, and his saliva carried the scent down to his stomach and lower. The heat of it came to rest between his legs. He faltered.

They came at last to a vast ballroom. "Leave us!" the king commanded, and it was done.

King Andrew glanced furtively about ensuring they were alone, then deflated. His posture collapsed from its royal pride into an exhausted slouch.

"Privacy at long last," he sighed, voice now free of his kingly accent and painstaking enunciation. "My back is killing me, standing like that all day!"

He looked at Derek, and the edges of his mouth lifted into an honest smile. "No need to keep up appearances around you, Violet. You are my pet. A magnificent pet, mind you, sensual curves and rippling muscle married in an exotic beast, a forbidden fruit, plucked and presented. But you are my pet."

When the king said it, he believed it. The heat in his groin returned with a vengeance. Was he getting turned on by this? Derek cursed his kinky mind. Now was not the time! What would happen if his cock got the message and slid free from his vent? Talk about arousing the king's suspicions! No true dragon would find such humiliation sexy.

"But!" the king said, stepping back. "No pet of the king can be quite so. . . unrefined. The people must be terrified of what you could do, not what you are doing."

King Andrew threw off his cape, placed his crown and scepter on the ground, and started training Derek. These were not the combat drills he pictured. Instead, he was tutored on the motions expected of a "proper" dragon.

"Stand with your back straight," The king directed, sliding his palms under Derek's belly. "If I have to do it, so do you. Chin up! Look dignified."

The king guided Derek's unfamiliar body, teaching him how to sit with his tail curled; how to walk, lifting his talons with each step; how to lay with his neck raised so he could peer down his muzzle at the humans below.

"Excellent," announced the king. "Now. Bow."

Derek lowered his head.

"No no, like this. Chest touching the ground," the king said, running a hand under his wing. "Hindquarters up." A slow stroke up Derek's thigh. "Tail lifts up, up, up, up!" A tickle at the base Derek's tail. The king's body pressed against Derek's backside. His breath chilled the moisture gathering in Derek's vent. A fingertip grazed a wrinkle of Derek's asshole, causing it to twitch.

Derek's tail lifted until the fanned tip hung in front of his eyes. The king stepped back to gaze upon his handiwork. There was a long pause. Derek could not see the king. He felt terribly exposed. He bit his tongue, hoping the pain would quench his arousal enough to keep his cock bursting forth before the king's very eyes.

"Incredible," the king said, voice no more than a whisper. He stepped around Derek, giving his ass a firm, parting smack that made the violet scales on his face burn a deep red.

"Tomorrow, you will join me in court, my most precious pet."

The king donned his regalia and whistled for a servant. "Show Violet here to my private stables." His immaculate pronunciation had returned.

The terrified servant took Derek's leash. His heart sank at the thought of being separated from the King. He glanced behind as the servant led him away. King Andrew caught his eyes and gave him a subtle, parting wink that seemed to say "I know." Know what, Derek wasn't sure, but it sent a chill down his spine to the tip of his tail.

Derek scolded himself. These bizarre thoughts and feelings were not worthy of the most fearsome military weapon in the kingdom's history. The training's pageantry was odd, but it made some sense. He was simply being conditioned to obey battlefield orders immediately and without hesitation. He made his way to the stable, walking with a half-prance just as the king taught him.

The king's private stables were a tile-roofed, wooden structure tucked away behind the castle's keep. The word "menagerie" might have described it better. A jaw-dropping collection of fantastic beasts occupied its generous pens. His own enclosure was the largest of them all yet still humble for a dragon. A fresh thatch mattress and a small stream of drinking water were its most noteworthy features. The rest of the floor was covered in straw to make it easier to muck out.

The attending servant ushered him through the iron gate. "Now just stay here. Don't bust out or nothin'." The moment the gate was closed, he ran, leaving Derek alone for the first time since his transformation. He collapsed on the thatch mattress, exhausted.

He was crazy for accepting this offer, but he hadn't slipped. Yet. It had been close back there with the king's scent in his nose. Perhaps male dragons could control their erections. He rolled onto his side and examined his underside for the first time. Using his long neck, he was able to bring the tip of his muzzle right up to his privates.

Derek's asshole sat a few inches down his tail and, other than its size, was quite the same as ever. He was more interested in the vertical crease a few inches above it. A strong scent of reptiles and spiced fish emanated from the moisture glistening between its delicate scales. He tried to will his cock to emerge from its home, but he only succeeded in squeezing opening tighter. What was going on down there? If only he had the hands to give himself a proper examination!

Then he had a brilliant idea. He slid his tongue between his needle-like teeth, past his scaled lips into the open air. The slick muscle drooped, then slapped between his eyes. He returned to his slit and slid his forked tongue up and down its crease. Its twin prongs wriggled independently across the surface of his scales, seeking entry like a pair of frantic worms. The sight made Derek's stomach turn, but he was too curious to stop. Finally, he took a deep breath, relaxed, and his probing tongue slipped inside.

His vent massaged his tongue's meat with a brine of exotically spiced fluids, making it tingle like it had fallen asleep. Still he pressed deeper, searching for the shaft he knew was hiding inside.

Thoughts flashed of the king's touch and that rust-and-oil scent, and he began to find a sexual satisfaction in his tongue's exploration. The way his vent twitched and squeezed around its length, each movement lighting up patches of deep, unfamiliar nerves. It made him crave something else, something larger, perhaps the size of a man's arm. Muscular vent clenching around pale and supple royal flesh. . . . Derek shivered. His breathing came in gravelly huffs.

He ran out of tongue before it found the end of his passage. The impulse to delve deeper pivoted into a search for the most sensitive patches of velvety insides. The tines of his forked tongue tickled up and down the crevice, feathering like crazy any time they found a moment they could milk for pleasure.

It snuck up on him. The clenching of his passage passed out of his control. His wings unfurled. His talons sank into the oaken wall. Pure sexual bliss, the world's most unrelenting sensory feedback, washed his mind clean. A moment of stillness. Pure pleasure. Then the crashing wave of rhythmic pulsing, involuntary shuddering. His sentience returned with a label: orgasm.

Realization dawned. How could he orgasm without finding his cock? Unless. . .

He slurped his tongue back into his mouth, tugging it free of the still-gripping muscles of his pussy. He stared in horror as the break in his belly-scales closed reluctantly, like a flower blooming in reverse, hiding the deep purple inner-flesh and leaving only a blush of pale violet nestled in a moist crease. His pussy.

Derek recoiled, stretching his head as far from the terrible truth between his legs as he could manage. A gryphon was staring from the stall opposite his own, beak pressed between the bars. He roared in fury, and it turned tail with a shrill skree.

Dinner that night was a goat. Not goat. A goat. They tossed it in through a hatch on the wall, and for a little while Derek thought the poor, bleating creature was to be his room-mate. It wasn't bad.

Compared to leaving his humanity behind, leaving my sex behind should be easy, he pondered, crunching the goat's bones like croutons. And yet, despite his newfound strength and favor with the king, the thought of the female sex between his legs made him feel so very vulnerable.

King Andrew visited after sunset.

"Ahh, Violet. How are you? Enjoyed your dinner, I see," he said, speaking in his relaxed, informal manner.

Derek regarded him coldly from the back of his stall. The king's expression was a curious mix of hunger and restraint. It made Derek feel like a not-quite-ripe fruit. The gryphon in the opposite stall chittered at the king and nuzzled its head against the bars. Andrew ran his fingers through the feathers on its forehead.

"Jealous Arlie? Interested in a little late-night ride?"

Arlie the gryphon squealed and turned in a small circle. King Andrew opened her pen and looped a ribbon lead around her neck.

"Rest up, Violet. I want you looking your best tomorrow!"

The gryphon followed after him, chin up, lifting its legs high with each step, just as the king had taught Derek. Its tufted tail flirted upward, and Derek caught a glimpse of its fuzzy lioness's sex as it disappeared from view.

So the tales of the king's gryphon-riding were true. And he was skilled: he'd left the beast's tack and saddle hanging by its pen. Most impressive. The scent of the king reached his nostrils, and Derek's own pussy flushed with unwanted heat. He refused to give in and indulge his pussy with another tonguing, so he endured the throbbing heat between his legs.