Move. Move, damn you. I scream at my body, trying with everything I have to arch back against him, to show him how much I want this. My fingers. Move my fucking fingers. Twitch. Do something.Anything.
Nothing. Nothing but the same frozen stillness.
But I'm trying harder now. Every day, every time he touches me, I push against the invisible walls of my prison with more force, more desperation. I need to move. Need to touch him back. Need to show him that I want this, that I'm not just a doll for him to use.
The aggression of my attempts is growing. It's not just a gentle push anymore. It's a violent, desperate clawing at the magic that holds me. Like throwing myself against a locked door over and over, bruising myself on the unyielding surface. Break. Break.BREAK.
He's moving faster now, fucking me in the bath, and his hand comes up to wrap around my throat.
Yes. Yes, God, yes.
His clawed fingers tighten, cutting off my air, and this... this is when I feel most alive. When he chokes me. When those claws press against my vulnerable throat, and I can't breathe, and my body is screaming for oxygen, but also screaming with pleasure. The lightheadedness, the way everything narrows down to just sensation, just his cock inside me and his hand on my throat and the desperate, primal need for air. It makes everything sharper. More real.
I'm alive. I'm alive. I exist.
Over the last decade, I’ve grown to enjoy the stretch, the burn of him entering me. Afterward, he washes me gently. Like I’m precious to him. Important.
He's talking, calling me his good girl, his treasure, and then—
"You're such a desperate little slut for me, aren't you?"
Oh God. Yes. Yes, I am. Call me that. Call me your slut, your whore, your fucktoy. Tell me what I am.
I'm disgusted with myself for loving it. Disgusted that those words make me wetter, make my body clench around him with need. What kind of person gets off on being degraded by their captor? What kind of sick, twisted woman loves being called a whore while a dragon fucks her in a bathtub?
Me. That's who. This is what I've become.
"My perfect little whore," he growls, squeezing my throat harder, and I would moan if I could. Would beg for more. Would tell him yes, yes, I'm your whore, your slut, whatever you want me to be, just don't stop.
He releases my throat, and I feel the rush of oxygen, the dizzy pleasure of breathing again, and he's still fucking me, those ridges hitting every perfect spot inside me. The water is everywhere, warm and slick, and his scaled body is wrapped around me completely.
He bites my neck as my orgasm wracks my body. He always knows the exact right spot to bite me. When he bites me, I feel a pulsing heat vibrating through my body. It feels warm. Soothing. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I used to rebel against it, but over time it’s become stronger. More insistent and demanding as it pulses through my body.
He pulls out. No, don't stop! Then he's lifting me from the bath. He's drying me now, going through his ritual of care for me. Making sure my blonde hair is smoothed and braided. My skin soft with exotic smelling lotion. He dresses me then carries me back to bed.
I feel the strength in his scaled arms, the way his tail brushes against my legs as he moves. His tail always seeks me out. Like every part of him needs me the way I’m growing to need him. I feel the softness of the mattress beneath me, feel him caressing me. His hands linger.
"You're so beautiful," he says again, and I feel his clawed hand on my face, tracing my features with a gentleness that makes me ache.
I want to lean into that touch. Want to turn my head and kiss his palm. Want to look into those black eyes and tell him...what? That I love him? That I hate him? Both are true. Both are equally devastatingly true.
He's climbing onto the bed. His scaled hand is on my thigh, pushing up the fabric. I know what's coming. I always know what's coming.
I used to despise this part. Would scream into the oblivion of the space I exist in now. Now. Now I crave it. I want it so much it terrifies me.
He flips me over onto my knees, my heavy breasts pushed into the mattress. Exposed. Vulnerable. Displayed for him. He’s careful to make sure my face is to the side so I can breathe properly. He only puts his tip inside me.
His hands never stray from my hips where they grip me violently. I try to push back into him. Seeking more of him inside me. I can’t move. Not even the tiniest amount. Slowly, he builds me up, up, up into a frenzy of electricity pulsing through my body.
He's inside me again, and this time he's not gentle. He's rough, aggressive, and I love it. Love the way he takes what he wants. Love the way his claws dig into my hips hard enough that I feel the sting. Love the way he fucks me like he owns me.
Because he does own me. In every way that matters.
His hand is on my throat again, squeezing, and yes. More. Harder. Make me feel it. Make me feel alive.
"Do you love this?" he's asking, his voice rough. "Do you love being my little fucktoy?"
Yes. God, yes. I love it. I love it so much I can't stand it.
