No going back now. I’m strapped in—face down on the padded bench, legs wide apart, wrists cuffed softly to the sides. My ass completely exposed, the cool air kissing skin that’s already prickling with anticipation. I can’t see him. He can’t see my face. Perfect anonymity. I breathe heavily, my heart hammers in my ears. Please be the gentle giant type.
The door behind me opens and slams shut with force. I wince. Guess not.
Heavy footsteps. My pulse spikes harder. I was questioning my decision before. But now it’s real fear, cold and slimy, crawling up my throat like bad sushi. Should I pull out? Is this even safe? Drakoni in rut are known to turn violent—that’s the whole point of the program, giving unmated Drakoni a partner during the rut to stabilize their temper. Ensuring that they don’t turn feral.
I’m officially in full meltdown mode: Macie, you absolute clown. You could’ve taken the lycan gig, less chance of death-by-dick. But nooo, you saw the dollar signs and thought, “Sure, let’s let a dragon-man rail me into next Tuesday for financial security.” Brilliant. Truly Oscar-worthy decision-making.
He draws in a deep breath, slow and deliberate, the sound wet and primal—like a predator savouring the first hint of dinner. Then he smacks his mouth once, twice, tasting the air the way someone might test a fine wine before deciding it’s worth the price.
“I can smell your fear. No need to be afraid, little one. I won’t hurt you.” He pauses, seeming to weigh his words. “Unless you ask me to.” His voice is low and thick with rut.
My brain flatlines for a solid second.
Excuse me?
Did the seven-foot something dragon-man just drop a consensual violence line like it’s small talk at a barbecue?
I swallow so hard my throat clicks audibly. “Please don’t,” I manage, but my voice wobbles like a drunk toddler on roller skates. I inwardly curse myself. Not very professional to show fear.
Another pause—longer this time, heavy with whatever calculation is in his head. The air shifts as he steps closer.
“You’re… smaller than I pictured,” he says, and—holy shit—is there actual awkwardness in his voice? Like he just realized the toy he ordered online arrived in child size instead of deluxe. “First time here?”
I almost snort.
First time?
Buddy, this is my first time being strapped ass-up on premium veterinary padding while a horny dragon-man critiques my dimensions like I’m a used car on the lot.
But I manage to scrape together something resembling composure. “I’m not a virgin,” I say, proud that my voice only cracks a little. “Just new to… this whole ‘thing’.”
A low sound rolls out of him—not quite a laugh, more like distant thunder deciding whether to commit to a storm. “Good. I’d hate to break someone who’s never been touched.”
Whoa. Who said anything about breaking?
Silence stretches. My stomach chooses that exact moment to growl—loud, embarrassing, traitorous.
He stills.
“Hungry?” The word comes out sounding almost soft.
“I… yeah. A little.” Understatement of the century. I skipped lunch in my pre-clinic panic, and now my body is staging a full revolt. I could probably eat a family-sized pizza and still ask for mozzarella sticks on the side.
Rustling in the room. Then a huge clawed hand appears beneath the bench. Scarlet scales softly gleaming in the dimly lit room. In his claws, a perfect ripe peach slice.
“Open,” he commands, voice rough velvet.
He’s… feeding me?
While I’m strapped down, ass-up and spread for him.
I open my mouth anyway.
The peach hits my tongue—sweet, cool, bursting—and at the same moment, one huge, warm hand settles on my ass. Not grabbing. Not squeezing. Just… resting. Then slow, firm caresses, alternating with gentle kneads that make my thighs tremble.
He feeds me another slice.
Then another.
Sticky juice runs down my chin as I greedily accept every piece, too stunned—and too hungry—to care about dignity.
A thick thumb brushes the corner of my mouth, wiping the drip away with surprising gentleness.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
My cheeks burn hotter than the rest of me.
Praise kink activated.
His hand leaves my ass. I miss the contact immediately, like someone yanked a blanket off me in winter.
Fabric shifts—he’s undressing. Then nothing but his breathing, deeper, rougher.
Heat radiates from his body as he steps between my bound, spread legs. His hands settle on my thighs—claws pricking but never breaking skin. He drags them upward, slow and deliberate. Then his fingers curl under the undersides of my ass and he spreads me open.
Cool air rushes between my legs, and I have to bite my lip to keep from whimpering. Exposed doesn’t even cover it. I’m on full display, every fold, every tremble, every embarrassing drop of arousal laid bare for a stranger who could probably bench-press a sedan.
I wonder what he thinks.
I’m not the tight, perky fantasy most guys chase at the bar. I’m softer, fuller, the one they circle back to only after the lineup thins out. The backup plan with extra curves and stretch marks they pretend not to notice.
I brace for disappointment. For a grunt. A sigh. A polite “well, this’ll do.”
Instead—
“Look at this pretty little pussy,” he says, voice wrecked and reverent at the same time. “So wet for me. Begging to be filled.”
Heat floods my face, my chest, lower. I’m not sure whether to die of embarrassment or come on the spot from the sheer filth of the situation.
“But you’re not ready for me yet.”
Before I can process that threat-promise combo, his tongue makes contact.
A gasp rips out of me as he buries his face between my legs and drags his tongue straight up my slit, spreading my folds with his tongue. He groans like I’m the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted—the low vibration shooting straight through my core. Heat floods low in my belly. Another long, hard lick—flat, firm, dragging from my clit all the way up to my ass, where he presses just enough to make me clench.
“I could eat this pussy for days.” He says, his lips dancing over my soaked skin as he speaks.
He keeps going, tongue pushing against both my openings, teasing and tasting with slow, deliberate flicks. Then he drives it inside me—long, agile, and unmistakably split at the tip—and stars burst behind my closed eyes.
The forked end parts as he pushes deeper, each half moving independently: one curling high to press and stroke my front wall, the other sliding lower to drag along the opposite side. It’s like two tongues at once, coordinated and wicked, hitting every sensitive spot in perfect tandem with a smooth yet faintly rough texture that sends shivers racing through me.
My hips jerk uselessly against the restraints, ass pushing back as far as the cuffs allow, greedy and shameless, chasing more of that impossible, alien pleasure.
Not missing a beat, he starts fucking my pussy with his tongue—slow, deep thrusts at first, then faster, those split ends working me like they were custom-designed for this exact crime. It’s obscene. It’s unfair. It’s the best thing that’s ever happened between my legs.
He eats me out like he’s starving and I’m the last edible thing on the planet—hungry, greedy, zero hesitation. Growls rumble against me with every plunge, vibrating straight through my core, and I’m helpless to do anything but take it.
Every muscle in my body locks up tight, coiling like a spring about to snap. My thighs start trembling uncontrollably; toes curl so hard they cramp. I grunt and moan shamelessly—raw, broken sounds I’d be mortified by if I had any brain cells left to spare.
The pad of his thumb finds my clit and my walls clench, exquisite pressure building low in my belly and I erupt. A scream tears up through me as I spasm so hard it feels like it’s trying to push him out and pull him deeper at the same time.
Hot, liquid rush surges forward—unstoppable. I feel it burst out of me in a powerful gush, splashing against his mouth. Slick patter against skin and tile floor. The filthy sound of my own release—and the humiliation of it only makes the next contraction stronger.
I can’t breathe right; my screams twist to ragged, broken gasps and sobs of pleasure and shock. I’ve come plenty of times before, sure, but never like this. Never so hard I gushed everywhere, soaking his face, my thighs, the bench, probably the damn floor. Was that squirting? It felt too much like pissing myself mid-orgasm, and the humiliation hits harder than the aftershocks still rippling through me.
I want to curl into a ball, hide under the nearest rock, and bolt from the room all at once. But I’m strapped down, dripping, helpless—nothing to do but lie here in the wet, sticky mess of my own mortification like some kind of pornographic crime scene.
He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even pause to gloat. Just stays there, breath hot against my soaked folds, letting me tremble through the comedown while his tongue gives one last slow, almost tender lick—like he’s savouring the evidence of how thoroughly he wrecked me.
He pulls back just enough to speak, his breath scorching hot against me. “You taste divine,” he rasps, voice gravelly, thick with need that’s clearly hanging by a thread.
My shame spikes like a fever.
He came here for help managing his rut—that’s literally what he’s paying for, damn it. Not to turn this into some gourmet tasting menu where I’m the main course. He doesn’t need to be doing this for me. I’m supposed to be the relief valve, not the one getting the five-star treatment.
A long, deliberate lick drags from my clit all the way to my entrance—slow, possessive, unhurried—like he’s staking territory with every inch of tongue. Fresh aftershocks rip through me; my poor clit throbs violently, oversensitive and screaming for mercy it doesn’t actually want.
I bite my lip so hard I taste copper, trying to swallow the whimper that wants to escape.
Get it together, Macie. He’s in rut. This is biology, not romance. He’s not doing this because you’re special—he’s doing it because his hormones are currently driving the bus, and you’re the only stop on the route.
But god, the way he groans against me—like I’m the best thing he’s ever put in his mouth—makes it really hard to remember that.
“Can’t wait to pump you so full of my seed,” he growls low.
Another slow, claiming lick, tongue flattening to coat every inch.
His claws dig deeper into my thighs, possessive. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you want my fat cock stretching you open, breeding you deep. Say it…” The last words dissolve into a guttural growl.
“Yes,” I gasp, voice trembling, broken. “Please. Please—yes. I want it. I want your cock. Fill me.”
That’s all it takes.
He rears up. I feel the tip of him pressing against my entrance—huge. Whatever last brain cell I have left after those world-shattering orgasms registers that the sheer size of him will wreck me from next week to Thursday… good thing the program’s insurance covers any damages sustained.
This is the best bad decision I’ve ever made…
submitted by /u/Wh1skeyS0ur_
[link] [comments]
Leave a Reply