Scaly Dominants

If you love that scaly texture, these boys can make you squeal.

Caesinirthos e’Kethend (Dragon)
Setting: Fantasy, Swords & Sorcery
Sexuality: Homosexual
Dominant Style: Wealthy/Elegant, Playful, Commanding, Nesting, Experimental
Key Kinks: Size Difference, Cum Inflation, Master/Pet, Kidnapping, Dub/Noncon, Breeding/Impregnation, Master Worship

The Chatelaine who received you treated you with barely-concealed disdain.  He handled you like an object and snapped a crop against your ass if you didn’t move fast enough for his taste, giving orders in sharp monosyllables.  You’ve been scrubbed, your hair and nails trimmed, your skin made hairless with a spell that fizzed and popped as it traveled your body.  You’ve been decorated with jewelry that would have cost a lifetime’s earnings, with ticklish strokes of paint that itch now as it dries on your cheeks.  The metal cuffs on your wrists and ankles have shimmering inscriptions and a single chain link each.  And worst, or maybe best, is the collar resting around your neck - metal backed with leather, embossed, with a large ring hanging against the hollow of your throat.  A wrap of the thinnest cotton barely preserves your modesty as you kneel, waiting, nervously mapping a bed big enough for a small army and the… acrobatics… that implies.

You knew.  You were told.  But you still tremble, and the primitive part of your brain wants to melt into the floor when he makes his appearance.  His feet are elegant and move softly on the stone floor, like a cat’s.  His scales are finely textured, a glorious swirl of every shade of green imaginable from near-black fading into gold.  He moves with graceful deliberation, unbelievably huge and yet completely self-contained; a master of his environment, an effortless predator.  The curtains flutter behind him, flicked by the passing of his tail. 

He could pick you up with one forepaw.  Your entire body, head to knees, would fit in his mouth.  His wings rustle as he preens, neck arched proudly, settling on a bed you now realize must fit a small army just to be a comfortable size for him.  Finally, when he has settled, forelegs neatly crossed and one claw tapping idly against the furs, he regards you with a gaze that holds the weight of centuries.  His voice shakes you down to your bones, thrumming against the stone walls and floors like summer thunder.

“I am Caesinirthos e’Kethend.  Your life is now mine.  You have many duties, but each day your most important job is this: convince me you are more valuable as a servant than as a snack.  If you fail, I will eat you and move on to the next plaything.  If you succeed, you may find comfort and satisfaction here beyond your wildest dreams.  I am a generous master,” he purrs, and one pale claw as long as your forearm extends, flexes, and settles under your chin.  He forces you to lift your head, claw digging into the soft flesh under your jaw.  His eyes are like the sun through spring leaves - elemental, endless, and wise.  You cannot look into them for too long.  Your knees shake violently, and a drop of blood wells around his claw as you sag against his touch.  “But I am not a patient one.  Speak, so I know you understand.”

Even if you wanted to struggle, there is only one thing you can say in the face of a creature like this.  Only one response could possibly be right.  From far away, as if through deep water, you hear yourself whisper.

“Yes, Master.”

Diem (Merman, River Trout, Feral)
Setting: Flexible
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Feral, Wild, Possessive, Minimally Verbal
Key Kinks: Mating/Rut, Taming/Domestication, Dub/Noncon, Beauty & Beast Romance

The summer night is alive with crickets and cicadas, stars spread above you like a thousand diamonds.  Despite the thinness of the moon, you can see enough to make your way down the embankment at the edge of the lake.  Your feet slide once or twice in the mud, cheap flip-flops failing to keep a firm grip, but the water will wash away all sins.

The cooler in your hand is heavy.  Your knuckles whiten on the handle as dead leaves slip under your feet, announcing your presence.  Fireflies dance in the undergrowth, their tiny lights calling to their mates.  And you… it’s time for you to call yours.

There’s a log at the water’s edge, soft with age and decomposition.  You sit there, tucking the thin fabric of your long shirt under your ass.  He’s torn enough pants off you by now, you know better than to wear them.  You dangle your feet in the cool water, disturbing tiny little minnows who flee from your toes in silvery, darting schools.  You wonder if he’s watching you even now, if he heard your approach or tasted your skin in the water.

You shiver.

The first raw fish hits with a gulping splash, hollow as it displaces the water and sinks into the blackness.  You wait, heart tripping over itself, gooseflesh rising on your arms and legs - he likes to say ‘hello’ by grabbing your ankle from out of the darkness.  He’s scared the shit out of you that way more than once.  When nothing grabs you, you lob the second fish.  This one spins a little and skips across the lake’s small, rippling waves before sinking.

This time, you see it - a shivering disturbance in the water.

You toss an anchovy a dozen feet out or so.  The water ripples underneath it.  You dangle a second under the water, primed to snatch your hand away fast - his teeth could snip your fingers off cleaner than a surgeon’s bone shears.  But it isn’t his teeth that meet your dangling hand.  Cold, clammy, wet fingers slide against yours.  The webbing between them pulls tight over your knuckles.  You let go of the fish, but he doesn’t let go of you, and your shirt billows around you like a jellyfish as you slide into the water.  You kick for buoyancy, but his arm slides around your waist, holding you tight against his cold, hard-muscled body.  His head breaks the water, bone-pale hair gleaming wet in the darkness, eyes black as the lake.  His mouth is full of razor-sharp teeth.

When you wrap your legs around his hips, the bulge at his sheath is swollen against your groin.  He’ll be ready in no time, and you’ve been ready, craving his carelessly strong grip, the texture of his impossibly fine scales, the soft, clicking growl-purr as he leans in to scent your throat.  He only knows a few words in your language.  He doesn’t know any of the traditional niceties of courting or foreplay.  What he knows is this: you smell like heat, like a mate.  He knows if he pins you down in the shallows and ruts you, you’ll give sweet cries of satisfaction and undulate beneath him, and take all the seed he can spill.  He knows he wants you, and you keep coming to him, and that means you are his.  He knows you are fragile, that he can break your bones with a twist, that he could tear chunks out of you with his teeth.  He knows you can drown.

You know those things too.  You know he is a creature of instinct, and he may forget one night, and be too rough, and leave you just another of the lake’s hidden dead.  You know, and you come anyway, and you whimper when his teeth find your shoulder and drag raw grooves into the skin.  You gasp when his back fin chafes your ankle, when the supporting spines jab your feet.  You’ll go home scratched and bruised, waterlogged, your hair a sodden tangle, your eyes wild.

It’s worth it.  It’s so, SO worth it.

Erynion (Snake-Person)
Setting: Fantasy, Swords & Sorcery, Sci-Fi
Sexuality: Homosexual
Dominant Style: Cruel, Sadistic, Creative, Arrogant
Key Kinks: Non/DubCon, Master/Slave, Piercing, Restraints, Sexual Training, Humiliation, Psychological Torture

The width of the O-gag bites into your mouth, bruising your palate and the soft flesh under your tongue.  You want to pad it with your tongue, but the ring is too big, and your jaw already aches from being forced so far open.  Drool trails down over your chin, dangling in disgusting strings, and there’s nothing you can do to stop the humiliation - your arms are tied, your legs are hobbled, and your knees grind uncomfortably against a polished wood floor.

His hands slide through your hair, brushing it back from your face.  He’s gentle now, because you’re not fighting him.  You thought, in the past, that if you stopped fighting he would go easier on you.  That if you gave in, if you tried to please him, he wouldn’t leave you bruised and aching, stomach full of acid, limbs cramped and head throbbing when he was done with you.

You were wrong.

His sheath is puffed, and you can see the twin penii tucked inside writhing against each other, pushing glistening slick out of the opening.  The musky scent of them fills your nose and mouth, and he pulls you in, silently commanding you to lick that swollen flesh.  It’s fine.  The taste is fine.  You can do this part.  It’s what comes later…

You know it’s time when his grip on your hair tightens, pulling at the roots.  You can’t help whimpering as those cocks, now half-emerged, push through the ring and into your throat.  Relax, you tell yourself.  Relax, relax… if you relax you don’t need quite as much air.  If you relax, you’re less likely to black out.  If you can relax, and endure this, and just take it passively, he might not suffocate you with his cocks.

And you try.  Gods, you try.  You swallow and choke, you whimper, and he fucks your throat with abandon, bruising your nose against his hips, cutting off your air, stretching your esophagus with the squirm of his pricks until your stomach threatens to rebel.  When he cums down your throat you try to swallow, but there’s so much, so fast… it spills out the corners of your mouth, gets pushed up your nose by your reflexive cough, and hits your stomach like acid.  Your ears fill with tears.  You sway on your knees, trying SO hard to keep it together, to please him, to be good… but he doesn’t pull back, and your lungs convulse, and black spots crawl around the edges of your tear-stained vision.

When you wake, the O-ring is at least out of your mouth.  Your face has been cleaned, but you can still taste his cum everywhere - in your mouth, your throat, your nose.  Your nose aches like someone punched you.  Your throat feels like he fucked you with sandpaper.  His scales are warm under your cheek, and his fingers move in your hair, and you take a moment just to be grateful… you MUST have pleased him, if he’s being this nice to you.  You must have made him happy for him to let you rest, to rub your neck the way he’s doing now, like a good pet.  An obedient slave.

You shift your un-hobbled legs, betraying your return to awareness.  Your hands are still cuffed behind you.  And that collar, the one he forced onto you on that first day, when you still had fight in you - his fingers toy with it, slipping underneath it, tugging and rubbing it.  He likes that physical symbol of his ownership.  He likes to gloat.

“Welcome back, slut,” he says, voice dancing with a manic, playful glee.  “Did you like your breakfast?”

Unable to summon words, you nod, cheek rubbing against the glossy softness of those scales. 

He’s not that merciful.  His fingers knot in your hair.  “Oh, no you don’t, pet. You know better.  What do we say?”

You shudder, hacking, shuddering at the globs of deep-throat mucous and semen that come up.  You have no choice but to swallow it back down, managing only a cracked whisper.

“Please master, may I have some more?”

Evarke (Shadow/Serpent Demon)
Setting: Flexible
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Cruel, Playful, Humorous, Cuddly, Possessive
Key Kinks: Extreme Size, Bulging Belly/Cum Inflation, Face-fucking, Restraints, Master/Pet, Tail Sex, Sexual Exhaustion, Worship

Far-away screams echo off black stone walls, but they can’t hold your attention.  Nothing could, when he’s in the same room - tall and sinuous, easing across the floor with the soft hiss of dragging scales.  His body is at least eight times as long as yours, black as ink from horns to tail.  Four powerful arms hang casually as his body winds toward you, muscle rippling under night-dark skin and scales.  Gold adorns his horns like a crown, wraps around his chest, arms, and wrists, so he can’t truly be called ‘naked’.  But it’s the place he isn’t covered that draws your eye.  Several inches below the line where scales turn to flesh, a vivid red slit has swollen open, glistening with natural lubrication.  Near the top, the very tip of a bulging, triangular cockhead peeks free of restraining flesh.

His bed is big enough for an orgy.  Ringed with stone columns, you spot cuffs and lengths of chain dangling from hitch points, a silent promise that he knows more about what to do with your body than you do.  More hitch points decorate the domed ceiling, and a few still have straps dangling for ease of restraint.  It’s all so quiet, waiting like a dangling web for a hapless fly to bumble along.

His smile is heaven and hell, the gleam of white teeth marked by small, slender fangs.  “There are three types of people here,” he murmurs, his voice a purring thrum.  “My soldiers, my pets, and my prisoners.  Which would you like to be?”

Ryder Tremain (Merman)
Setting: Flexible
Sexuality: Pansexual
Dominant Style: Strong & Quiet, Grim, Privately Soft, Protective, Passionate
Key Kinks: Rough Sex, Mating/Rut, Multiple Orgasms, Electricity, Biting/Scratching/Bruising/Marking, Water,

His hands slide around you as you look out over the ocean.  Gray and turbulent, the water is as dark as the clouds, and the surf pounds the cliffs like a drum.  You have shelter in this little pavilion built of stone, but if the rain drives hard enough, it will soak you even here.  That thought brings no fear as his heat presses against your back, hard and muscled, breath warm against your neck.

The electricity in his body mimicks that of the storm.  Far away, thunder rolls across the horizon and your heartbeat echoes it.

“Here?” you whisper as his fingers slip between your thighs, lighting up your nerves.

“If you’ll allow,” he murmurs, a low rumble against the soft skin behind your ear.  “The storm won’t hurt you while you’re with me.  And I want you…”

He would back off if you asked him to.  He’d take you somewhere warm and dry, make love to you on a bed and hold you while you sleep.  But that would take the wildness out of his gray-green eyes, and that wildness sizzles like lightning along your spine.  If you consent, he will be rough.  He will be wild.  There will be stone at your back and ache between your thighs, and the storm will swallow your cries.  Your wrists will bruise in his hands, and your thighs will bruise against his driving hips.

You shiver in the salt wind, and turn to nuzzle a broad, strong chest.  “Please, Ry… ”

A soft, predatory click rattles in his throat.  And you are off your feet, wrapped around his body, crying out as his teeth find your throat and his hands grip your ass.  Your back hits the stone, his hand behind your head to protect it, and you smile at that hint of thoughtfulness even as your clothes tear at the seams.

You’ve got to stop wearing expensive things to the cliffs….