Dragons and Unicorns
     

     Here's a story I wrote and posted some time ago.  The sequel is
new, though, and it's next.



     The life of a caravan guard consists of stretches of boredom
attentuated by the necessity of alertness, punctuated with frantic,
life-threatening activity.  I spent most of my time on the road
training and keeping in combat form, so when the inevitable attack came,
I could take out enough of the bandits with my fists and hooves to
pick up a hearty slave bounty, or use my horn and just bring in the
heads off the corpses.  I had originally intended to be a knight, as I
was one of those later sons of large noble houses.  I had had
disagreements of several kinds with my sponsor, however, finally
culminating in me being tossed out with all the necessary training,
but no armor, weapons, or title.
     Mercenary work was the obvious career choice for me.  It paid
well, but I missed out on the perks of the nobility that I would have
had were I dubbed knight.  Merchants were the next step down the
social ladder; they had money, money meant trade, trade meant
caravans, and caravans meant bandits.  That's where I came in.
     The weather had been horrible for the last two days.  Solid,
spattering, dark rain making it impossible to see even to the next
hill.  We were only three hours from Shastar, our final destination,
when nightfall came.  It was difficult to keep to the road in the
sliver of moonlight, but the owner wanted desperately to press on and
spend the evening in the city rather than miserable out here.  I
couldn't blame him.
     I heard a ragged howl arise in the distance, some canine baying
at what little moon remained.  I swivelled my ears forward, catching
the wolf's howl being half-cut-off and stifled, presumably by others
near to that one.  I tuned out the rain gradually, catching harsh
whispers of orders of some kind, rasping sounds carrying through the
rain to my aerial equine ears.  It was a wolf pack, most likely;
lurking close to the city because of the weather but far enough away
so that their criminal doings would not be noticed.  I decided that
I'd rather we were well-prepared for the upcoming ambush, slowed the
caravan and warned the other guards.  Personally, I took out my tower
shield, strapping it lightly to an arm so that I could rid myself of
it quickly.  My fur is short, save at mane and tail, and gleaming
white all over; in this darkness I made the only possible target for
arrow fire.
     We walked on, waiting for the wolves to spring their ambush.
They broke from the trees howling and screaming and waving their
ill-made weapons.  Our five archers let loose a volley, dropping one.
It was good shooting for such a night.  I stepped out from the
caravan; no missiles came towards me so I lowered the shield and
picked out their pack leader.  The wolves and dogs were mostly of
mottled black and chocolate brown, their leader was a big, dirty
white, some sort of polar wolf.
     I steadied myself, raised my power within me and initiated The
Unicorn's Charge, an instant of speed carrying me the hundred yards to
the pack before they could blink at the white blur.  Just before the
magic of my charge began to falter, I slammed into the leading three
wolves with my shield held crossways, splattering them away helpless
and broken into the mud.  I careened to a stop in the mud, getting my
hooves under me directly in front of the pack leader.  I was
surrounded, so I tossed away my shield.  It would only get in my way.
     He swung his sword at my head.  I caught it in a spiral of my
horn, took his wrist, and slammed him over my hip onto his back.  He
scrabbled in the mud with no purchase while I put my horn to his chest.
     "Surrender and tell them to drop their weapons, or you die," I
said.  He was brave enough to wait until I jabbed my horn in up to the
first spiral.  Then he cried like a hyena, and begged his pack to drop
their weapons.  Their pack mentality made them obey, and it wasn't
long before we had them tied up and guarded in one of the less full
wagons.  Three more hours and we entered Shastar, turned in our
prisoners at the yellow Slavers Guild pavilion, and collected the
bounty.  We split it, and our pay, and went our separate ways in the
city.
     Most of the others went straight to the guild of mercenaries for
their first night in the city.  The fame of Shastar's great baths drew
me, however, and I decided to stay my week here in the Cerulean, the
largest inn and bathing house in the entire city.  It sprawled several
stories above and belowground, covering many acres.  It was a castle
of itself, devoted to many of the finer pleasures of life, and I
planned not to leave it for the entire week.
     Though I was tired, I didn't want to sleep with all the grit and
grime of the travel and fight on me.  After I checked in and let a
chunk of my money disappear, I stripped off my cuirbolli and sodden
tabard, going to the nearest heated marble pool to soak.  At this
early morning hour I was able to find a room-sized bath and have it
all to myself, leisurely awaiting service from those in the employ of
the Cerulean.  Two bath-kittens, yawning from naps, quickly came by to
work me over with their scrub-brushes.  They combed and brushed out my
tail, scraped my hooves, stretched me out and punished every inch of
my hide until the usual glossy white of my velvet-short fur had
returned.  They left me to soak just as quickly when I dismissed them,
and I fell into a warm doze floating free.
     I awoke easily when the dragons entered.  They weren't very quiet
and fifteen dragons made quite a crowd, mostly greenish, two blacks, a
mottled white and a big red.  They closed the door behind them
politely, stowed their towels, and started splashing amongst
themselves.  Sixteen people in the room crowded things up, but I'm not
prejuidiced against dragons of colour such as theirs, so I just sat
back to watch and sweat in the heated bath.
     They bathed and horseplayed, rarely glancing at me as the
interloper, daring me to disapprove.  All of them except the mottled
white and the smallest black had grace and skill about them, trained
warriors.  The white disdained the strained scale-on-scale tussling of
the wrestling games, preferring to sit near the red and let the blue
tiles of pool glitter and reflect the sun from his scales.  The red
was a monster, relaxed as a cat in the water, seven feet tall at his
bulging shoulder with two more feet of thick, whipcord neck before his
sculpted, snakelike head.  My eyes met his for a moment, slitted,
reptilian, unblinking and I locked into them, until the black dragon
obstructed my view.
     He was the smallest of the dragons, only some six feet tall from
tip to tail.  That still made him a foot taller than me sans horn, and
he was looking to take advantage of it, swaggering over to me.  I
could smell the caustic stench of his breathing when he spoke.
     "Hey!  Unicorn!  What's your name!"  he shouted, working himself
up to his most belligerent pose.  I merely looked up at him from my
reclined position.
     "I like to know whose balls I rip off and fuck down their
throat!"  The greens all laughed uproariously at this cleverness.  I
reached up and broke his little finger.
     He looked confused first, as the pain hit, and then indignant.
He took a deep breath and reared back his head, telegraphing his
intent to spit acid.  I stepped up, locked his arm, and forced his
head underwater where he could spit all the acid he wanted.  While he
flailed around and choked, the other fourteen rapidly unified against
the common foe.
     I broke their charge by tossing the one I had into them.  One of
the greens forgot that they were in an enclosed room and clouded me
with chlorine gas, spillover hazing the room in green smog.  The white
and red staggered over to open the windows while I jumped spinning up
out of the water to knock the green unconscious with a hoof to the
side of the head.  It was all he deserved for trying to poison a
unicorn.
     The melee degenerated.  They slowed down to attack me in twos and
threes while I'd throw one against another and land punches until
another group rescued the first.  The larger black gave me a little
trouble, taking a pounding and forcing me to dislocate his shoulder to
calm him down.  The mottled white was cowering, dragging the fallen
over to the side to make sure they didn't drown.  The only one left
was the red, stalking in towards me at the center of the pool.
     He was almost as fast as I was, and had a foot of reach on me.
Every time he threw a punch and I blocked, it just blew right through
and pounded me.  I threw him twice, but he rolled lightly in the water
and came to his feet unharmed, too fast for me to follow up.  His
style was brutally solid, taking my hits on his gut and chest without
slowing down.  He faked left once, and I raked the tip of my horn
across his gut from my watery crouch, opening a line of dark red blood
on darker red scales.  This gave him pause, pause enough to rumble in
his deep, firey voice.
     "I am Syrin, unicorn.  I would have the name of so fine a warrior."
     "My name is Luagha," I said, relaxing slightly.  His eyes became
incinerators, and it was clear that he intended to continue this to
a conclusion.
     "It won't be your name for long," Syrin said, and advanced into
another flurry of blows.  We both blocked and took hits, his footwork
hampered by the water more than mine.  I went for a high punch to his
head, but his snakelike neck eluded me, setting me up for a full-power
slam into my chest that flew me up out of the water and across the
pool.  I staggered up out of the water and launched myself
hooves-first into his oncoming charge, bowling him over and back,
knocking the wind out of him while we both lurched painfully to our
feet.
     I stared at him transfixed as he walked up to me, fist reared
back to strike.  Though I strained to move my arms to block, somehow I
couldn't, I was paralyzed in stance.  I strove to break my lassitude,
to no avail.  Syrin noticed that I had stopped moving, halting his
strike, and looked over to the mottled white dragon.
     I marshalled my will, trying to push my innately high resistance
to such magics to break the spell, but nothing happened, the spell
didn't even crack.  I figured the white to be an archmagus at least to
defeat my defenses like that, until I saw the long, white horsehair
tangled about his fingers.  He had used the law of sympathy to affect
me, using my horsehair as a link to me to give his spell enough power.
I hate shedding.
     "Let's kill him and dispose of the body, Syrin.  I can hold him
for long enough," the magedragon said.  Syrin laughed a husky laugh.
     "Oh no, V'heress, this one we keep.  He'll make a valuable
slave."  His voice was somewhat pained, so at least I had the
satisfaction of knowing I'd hurt him.  It seemed that my fate was
going to be similar to those I had captured just last night.  It
certainly explained what he meant when he said that I wouldn't have my
name much longer.
     Syrin dispatched some of them to fetch their things quickly.  They
tied me and gagged me with rope and cloth while I was held in the grip
of the spell, and then put me in their laundry bag to smuggle me out
of the Cerulean.  They held tight to the bag as they walked through the
streets, so I couldn't struggle or shout.  No one was going to hamper
a gang of dragons such as these walking through the streets of
Shastar.
     They let me out of the bag onto the carpeted floor of an
expensive inn.  The decor was that special shade of yellow reserved by
the Slavers Guild, and any hopes I had of an easy escape were put to
rest when the ropes were replaced by manacles, chains, and a
well-fashioned gag.  Syrin's broad chest was now enclosed withing a
yellow tabard with stripes of rank on the breast, and he wore a bright
topaz signet ring on his left hand.  This marked him not only as a
slaver, but a Guildmaster as well.  He easily wrestled me to my
stomach, and locked the chain from the manacles about my wrists to the
chain of the manacles about my ankles, hogtying me.  Crouched over me,
still musky and wet from the Cerulean bath, he slithered his tail
under me, encircling my chest, and flipped me to my knees.  I could
only kneel before him, back arched and chest puffed out to keep my
wrists close enough to my ankles for the short chains.
     Syrin held the steel collar before my eyes for a time.  It was
plain, the locking mechanism built in, and hinged at the front.  It
had four rings welded cleanly to it for attachment purposes, and that
was all.  It had a simple clarity of function, even more so when Syrin
slowly closed it about my neck.  Syrin gazed down at me, pressing into
my eyes with his.  The lock caught, and as a slave I had no more name.
     He laid me carefully on some cushions on my stomach, and covered
me with a blanket.  After taking the precaution of leashing my collar
to a ring on the wall he slept, leaving me hogtied through the long
day.  After testing my bonds, I slept as well.
     Syrin fitted me to a bit and bridle when evening fell, a silver
one fashioned with no beginning and no end.  Such a crafted thing was
proof against a unicorn, I couldn't remove it even had I my hands
free.  The Slavers Guild knew how to hold unicorns.  The gang of
dragons smuggled me out that night in one of their caravans, piled
under blankets in Syrin's wagon and well-muffled so I could make no
sound.
     I spent the evening and the next day of travel either sitting up
or lying down in Syrin's wagon.  He had bound me with a locked leather
belt around my waist to which my wrists were manacled so I would be
comfortable on the journey, but hobbled my hooves together with very
little chain so I couldn't run even if I managed to remove the collar
which was chained to the side of the wagon.  I was still wearing the
bit and bridle, and the only way to remove that was to have someone
remove it for me.  My clothes, weapons, and armor were in a cubbyhole
in the Cerulean.  Escape was a pipe dream.
     That evening, as they were making camp and tending to the rest of
the slaves in the caravan, Syrin came into the wagon where I sat and
took off the bridle so I could speak, even though it wasn't feeding
time.
     "How are you feeling, slave?" he rumbled, a toothy grin on his
face.
     "As well as might be expected."  His glare began to intensify, so
I quickly added, "Master."  That satisfied him.
     "Good," he said, grabbing the chain that held my legs together
and dragging me along the blankets, pushing me back so that I lay
down.  He straddled my waist, sitting on me, sliding his long, thick
tail between my legs.  I had no idea what he was going to do to me,
leaning over me, reaching with his clawed fingers for my chest.
     He cupped his hands over my flesh, and rubbed down with his
scaled palms, making circles over my bruises, slowly adding the great
strength of his huge frame.  The powerful massage increased blood
flow, bringing back faded pain and deep relief.  Ordinarily the
bruises from my fight against Syrin would have been healed by now, but
being unable to move and exercise, and being magically bound with the
bridle had slowed my recovery to a more normal rate.  Syrin's caress
loosened my barrel, rubbing the taut horsehide over my stomach and
waist, his muscles knotting to force their way through my nervousness
at his touch.  He was strong with me, but not rough, encircling my
arms and rubbing down to my wrists, making me recall each painful
block.  I tried to remain silent, but could not avoid whimpering when
Syrin brought his strength truly to bear.
     He moved down to manipulate my legs, stretching them at the
joints and feeling the stocky muscles there with probing claws and
coiling tail.  Then he carefully turned me to my stomach, sitting on
my legs.  The blankets were not nearly cushion enough in my sensitive
state.  My back was not pained, but it melted under his skill and
power and his claws encircled my flanks, gripping and squeezing and
spreading them.  He ran his fingers through my tail, and massaged the
scalp of my mane all the way to my horn, lying with his chest atop my
back so that I could feel his entire weight holding me down, and his
hot breath on my forehead.
     "Are you feeling better now, slave?" he whispered, curving his
neck so as to speak directly into my ear, no matter how I turned it.
     "Yes, Master," was all I could say.  He turned me over to my
back, covered me, and let me sleep.
     The next morning the dragons did not immediately break camp, but
instead set V'heress, the magus, to watch the slaves while they held a
combat practice.  I sat up in the wagon to watch as Syrin drove them
harshly through their paces, and most of them threw angry stares in my
direction for bringing his anger onto them.  He drilled them for an
hour and a half before leaving them to spar amongst themselves, coming
over to me.  He went through the usual precautions a slaver would go
through when transporting; undoing the hobbles so I could walk,
attaching a heavy chain leash to my collar, and manacling my hands
behind my back.  Syrin hoisted me into the air with one arm, setting
me down on my hooves, and walked me into the practice area.
     He drove a long metal spike into the ground and chained my leash
to it, so I had about twenty feet of radius in which to walk.  Then he
freed my arms.
     "Stretch out and warm up, slave.  Now we have some time to see
how good you really are," Syrin ordered.  I complied, watching my
odds.  I was still wearing the bridle, so it would be very hard to use
any of my magical powers.  If I killed Syrin, the dragonmage would
hold me while the others would close in with their spears and kill me
off.  Syrin didn't give me any time to think about working the spike
out of the ground.
     I came out of the match a singed mass of bruises.  Syrin, like
all dragons, took too long and was too obvious about breathing fire.
His flames never more than licked me while I flipped aside and inside
his guard to stab at him.  Once he quit bothering with his fire, his
style of fighting was just too solid for me to defeat; he had too much
reach over me, too much strength, and enough speed and skill to be
invincible.  He pinned me once, honestly, at about twenty minutes into
our fight, his needlepoint teeth pricking my neck until I slapped the
earth.  He pinned me again once by yanking on my chain, but at the end
of the match, panting for breath, he almost walked right into my horn
and I had to pull back to keep from killing him.  That ended combat
practice for the day while V'heress went about cleaning up the nicks,
scrapes, and punctures the dragons had accumulated.  At least I knew
that if I could tire Syrin out by somehow surviving the first half
hour of combat, I might win.
     He washed me that night in a basin of water and massaged me
again.  Even though he was dotted with bandages from the
half-magically-healed horn-wounds, his technique did not falter.  He
had me crying and begging for him to stop and continue alternately.
He halted only when my wounds were fully treated and I was limp and
unmoving in my bonds.  Grinning down at me, he tucked the blanket over
me, and went off to his own bedroll.
     The next day was punctuated only by a minor slave revolt, quickly
quelled with a few words by V'heress, and the skirting of a small city
towards evening.  By the Firebird mountains just now coming into view
ahead of us, I determined that the city must be Peaceknot.  It was
primarily a trading point, but the Slavers Guild was not welcome
there.  If I was to escape and reach it, I would be beyond Syrin's
taloned grasp.  I tested my manacles as quietly as I could that night,
but they were as binding as they had been before, and I dared not make
the noise that breaking them would cause, were I even able to do so.
     The morning brought another combat practice to the band of
dragons.  They drilled in even more earnest this time, as Syrin had
threatened to throw any slackers into the ring with me.  I strove to
remain relaxed, not hint of my plans through body language as Syrin
removed the hobbles and chained my hands behind my back.  He attached
the chain, and set me on the ground again, while I concentrated
desperately against the silver bridle.  Syrin slowly walked me as I
gathered up my power, fighting the damping, and unleashed The
Unicorn's Charge.
     It took almost two seconds for me to cover the hundred yards of
the charge, yanking the chain and spike out of Syrin's hands.  He
cursed and set off after me while I ran for Peaceknot.  Magic touched
me but I made it out of V'heress's range, dashing and gulping air.
The other dragons slowly came after, a few staying to guard the other
slaves.
     I led Syrin on a chase for over three miles, and if I had not
been running with my arms chained behind my back and twenty feet of
heavy chain trailing behind me, I would have outdistanced him easily.
His long legs gave him enough speed to finally catch up and grab the
chain, hauling me down to earth.  He boxed my ear once to quiet my
struggles while he wrapped me in the chain and slung me over his
shoulder.  Miffed, he carried me back to camp amidst the hissing
chuckles of the other dragons, amused at the mighty Syrin almost
losing a slave.
     I caught a look at his eyes; they had his incinerator
intenseness, but it wasn't anger that I saw.  No doubt he saw my
defiance in my eyes as he stared at me.  He broke off, looking around
at the rest of the dragons who were packing up, and ready to begin the
days travel.  He spoke quietly, to make sure the others would not
overhear.  
     "I cannot blame you, slave, for your actions.  I would have done
the same in your position.  Still, you must be punished, so that you
will learn who your master is."
     With that, Syrin tossed a chain over a tree branch, hauled my
arms above my head, and locked the cuffs about my forearms to the
chain so that only half my weight rested on the downward-straining
tips of my hooves.  The whip he uncoiled was more like some heavy vine
made of leather, and he took the time and care to caress my cheek with
it.  Syrin demonstrated to me what a Guildmaster of the Slavers can
do with such a weapon.
     He beat my back and legs, leaving dark red stripes that turned
black on my white hide.  The whip was too heavy to crack, it did not
warn me of its approach no matter the vast strength Syrin put behind
it.  I was determined not to cry out, counting the strokes, but it was
hopeless.  Syrin crisscrossed the lashes, layering pain upon pain,
never too much at once to inure me to it.  I grunted and bit my lip
after twenty, uttered cries after thirty, and bawled like a child
through the final ten; dancing and dangling until Syrin stopped at
fifty.
     Syrin took me down and lay me on my stomach in his wagon for the
day's travel, secured as before.  The pain sharpened with each rock
the wagon struck.  My every heartbeat forced blood through the crushed
places and jolted me painfully awake; I could not sleep to avoid the
pain.  It took me an hour before I could manage a stony silence during
Syrin's drive.
     Evening came and we continued to travel, for the mountains were
near.  Syrin left the road, uncovering a secret trail large enough to
drive the wagons down it single-file, and soon enough we came flat up
against one of the Firebird Mountains.  V'heress came to the fore and
opened the magical passageway, closing it behind when all the slaves
had been dragged through.  The interior was unlit, yet all the dragons
knew the place by heart; I listened to them make their way easily
about, dragging the clumsy chained slaves down separate corridors.
Gradually the other dragons split off, taking side passageways while
Syrin merely drove his loaded wagon down and down.
     It took an hour of driving, twisting and turning in caves that
seemed large by echo of sound, now deep beneath the earth.  I had
heard no other sounds of travel save our own for the past ten minutes
when the cart stopped suddenly.  Syrin got out and began to unload the
other goods he had brought with him, pushing them off on some kind of
roller, leaving me alone in the dark, in pain.  I thought of a
thousand hatreds and tortures and escapes before Syrin returned, torch
in one hand, leash in another.
     This time he locked the short leash to his wrist as well as my
collar, and led me into his high-ceilinged cave.  I walked on stone at
first, but soon fine inlaid tiling as we entered his home proper; a
simple, elegant series of interconnected passageways and rooms that
dwarfed the Cerulean in their opulence.  Collared slaves bustled about
at Syrin's return, going about bits of upkeep that they might have
neglected in his absence.
     Syrin led me ever towards the center, slapping his tail on my
back to correct my direction when necessary.  We slowed only upon
reaching his bath; large enough for several, deep enough to reach
Syrin's chest, and with a floor all of gold in the dim torchlight.  He
lowered me into the slowly flowing water, crooning reassuringly to me
as I jolted and winced, my welts sensitive even to the touch of the
warm water.  Syrin entered after me, wrapping his fist about the base
of my horn to dangle me vertically in the water in the water from it,
the bottom perhaps a foot away from my hooves.  He took my chin in his
palm, and forced my head fully above the water, to look into my eyes
as he gently removed the silver bridle.
     My power and my mouth were freed, I could heal and I could speak.
He sat me in his lap in the bath and washed me, exquisitely gentle
with my back as it slowly revived.  The massages and bathings Syrin
had previously given me had relaxed me to the feel of his heated
scales upon my fur.  The dim light of the torch served to make my
milk-white fur a moon of reflected light, glittering off Syrin's
scales and the gold of the pool.  Syrin fondled my body against
himself with the familiarity of ownership, finally removing me from
the bath, drying me, and brushing my mane and tail into flowing glory
as if I were his expensive doll.
     Syrin carried me bound into his bedchamber, a cozy, warm cave
with silken and satin cushions and blankets making a bed atop gold and
jewels.  He laid me out reclining, and lie beside me, curving over me
in the undulatory way his neck had, his thick tail snaking in to
coil about one of my ankles.
     "You are beautiful, slave.  From the moment I saw you, I had to
own you, I could not live without owning you, taming you."  Syrin
spread my legs, sitting between them while I lay back with my hands
bound at my sides, collared and enslaved.  His leather-rough hands
stroked up the insides of my thighs to enfold my hanging balls and
stroke my sheath.  I tried to relax, not yield to his caresses, but he
lowered his head to my crotch and insinuated his thick, black, forked
tongue within my sheath to lick across the hidden head of my cock.  I
could not resist his skill and he coaxed out my length, telescoping
in his hands as his tongue flickered.
     He aroused my passions slowly and intently, rubbing with his
palms and tongue until I hung on the edge of a gentle climax, holding
me down with his legs and tail so that I could not thrust my hips
against him and quicken my pleasure.  He held me there, milking me
slowly, lashing his tongue across the rounded head of my alabaster
cock whenever his gripping red claws squeezed sweet spoor from me.  I
begged for surcease, desperately tried to rock my hips and force
myself to completion; Syrin merely backed off, let me calm, and then
heated me to his desired temperature again.  Only in his own time did
he drag his claws upon my cock and encircle it with his tongue,
catapulting me into climax while he fastened his jaws about me to
catch and drink every exploding pulse until my gripping balls were
spent in his claw.
     Syrin gave me a few moments to rest, licking me clean.  He was
the fountain of my pleasure and I could not deny that I owed him my
life, the life he already owned.  He pressed his hard, scaled lips to
mine, forcing them open and driving inward with his tongue, treating
me with my own taste.  He pressed forcefully at the back of my throat
until it too surrendered to him, opening and swallowing, allowing the
length of his tongue to penetrate.
     Slowly, he broke the kiss, controlling my head by a grip at the
base of my horn and moving it between his legs.  His cock was a dark
red length, it did not glitter like his scales, soft and turgid as he
stroked it against me.  I worshipped it, took it in my mouth as he
pulled my head forward inexorably in his grip, filling my mouth with
the soft thickness.  It forced my mouth open further as it stiffened,
Syrin pumping my head upon it like a piston.  I used my wide, strong
tongue as best I could upon it, slavering with my desire to serve my
Master.  Syrin angled my head and neck, penetrating my throat and
hanging his cock down my neck, finally bringing my mouth flush with
his crotch and holding me between his thighs for as long as I could
stand not to breathe.
     He released me from that torment, leaving me gasping, and made me
oil the now-gleaming red length that I had fully swallowed.  Preparing me
for what was to come, Syrin oiled his tongue and flicked it beneath my
tail, sliding it inwards to open and ready me.  He massaged my flanks
to relax them, spreading my legs wide, resting the great head of his
cock against me as he lay atop me.
     The gentle strength of his entire weight pushed me open, slowly
bringing himself to rest his sleekly muscled stomach on my draft-horse
back.  I was barely able to contain the thickness of his cock and its
length filled me more than completely, twinging into pain at the apex
of his taking.  Syrin's crotch came flush with my opened flanks,
rippling agony of stretching and of servitude sliding though me.  He
began to ride me, made me his steed through the long hours of the
night, and I submitted to the ineffable sliding and pushing, each
thrust grinding the breath from my lungs.  His tail slid up under me,
encircling my hanging cock and balls, and Syrin's tongue slid inwards
to tantalize my inner ear, shivering me almost to unconsciousness with
the sensation.
     Breathless, Syrin brought me again to climax beneath him, my
release serving his in my throes of pleasure gripping underneath him.
His thrusts speeded, slamming into me with the force of a volcano, and
with the explosion of his fire gushing into me, I knew how well I had
served my Master.  After he had expended himself into me, he lay atop
me, keeping me full and wet with himself, pinning me with his weight
until he saw fit to release me.
     Syrin chained me to sleep at the foot of the bed, with weak,
shaking legs from the force of his lovemaking.  Slowly, the lather of
my exertions dried, and my life in Syrin's service begun.


---
Snake Owner's Safety Tip #3: 
      Never, EVER say, "Do da wittle snakie-wakies wanna come out to pway?"
anywhere near their cage.
---



Unicorns and Dragons, the Sequel

     I found myself questioning my loyalties as the black, powdery
fumes flooded the room and the gentle, to me unmistakable sound of
padded hooves approached.  My steel collar was chained to the foot of
Syrin's bed with about five feet of slack, and my wrists in leather
cuffs were linked directly to the leather belt locked around my waist.
For the past four months I had spent my nights in variations of this
bound position, at the whims of the hindclaws of my dragon master
through the night.  I lay still, only focusing my wide-angle vision
and swiveling my ears to affix upon the entrance to the bedchamber.
Inwardly, I cast back through time, trying to make my decision.
     Syrin would often let his feet run over me through these nights,
as if to assure himself of my continuing presence and inability to
resist his touch.  The balls of his feet would begin moving in circles
on my side and chest, waking me.  Once he had my attention, he would
rub in circles, enlarging his pattern and moving it either up or down
my person.  He could mesmerize me with the actions of his feet
lowering from my chest to my stomach with patterns of rounded
pressure.  If I became unattentive, a well-placed scratch of his
taloned toes to the nipples of my chest jolted me into full awareness;
he wanted my complete attention when he rubbed into my waist, opened
my thighs, and unbidden aroused me.  Teasing touches of his tail
tortured the tip of my engorging sheath while he cupped my balls in
the arch of a foot and held my length down, captive, to rub with the
other.  Soon, he would allow me to calm, merely holding his feet
against my crotch so that I would curl about them and warm them with
my body for the rest of the night.
     Otherwise his feet would travel up, loosening my collarbone and
sometimes my shoulders.  He would use the balls of his feet to rub
down my wide, angled neck, taking clear delight in the feel of mane
twining silk through his toes as he stroked the back.  Eventually he
would coddle my the solid length of my head between his calves, tail
rubbing beneath my chin and toes twirling about my ears.  He would
gradually slide away from me, letting the sides of his feet circle my
muzzle so as to caress my forehead before the horn, the ridges of my
eyes, and the slight jowls of my cheeks; until he was rubbing about
the very tip of my nose and muzzle.  My duty then until Syrin again
slept would be to nuzzle and lick his feet.  Since we always bathed
before bed they were clean, nothing hampered my direct taste of his
flesh.  The scales here overlapped, always strong and thick.  They
became calloused, rougher with time until Syrin shed, after which they
became lustrous and smooth to the tongue.
     
     Two shadows, black upon black edged through the opening into the
expansive bedchamber clouded with the oily poison dust.  Syrin's feet
were before me, yet I felt their taste, their sensation fill my mouth.
My tongue had cleaned those talons and I had tasted just how sharp
they were at their tips.  Each toe had its own overlapping pattern, a
mildly different taste depending upon how much scale and how much
flesh could be tasted through the many nights of my efforts.  The
highest I was allowed to lick was the hollows about his ankle, and I
knew that there my tongue could ease the strain of his day's travel
upon the strength of his tendons.  Most of all, however, I recalled
his quiet trembling when I put the strength of my wide tongue to the
inner arch of his foot, whether rough or smooth or shedding in my
mouth.  It would fill me with the taste and feeling that now swept me
as I recalled weakening the lapping of my tongue to the relaxation of
the giant muscled beast into sated quiescence for the rest of the
night.
     The assassins had some forty feet to cross before they reached me
at the foot of the bed.  Through lidded eyes the approaching shades
became equine, shrouded in clothing of bluish-black.  They could only
be of the race of Nightmares, who most often used their magical
talents of spirit travel and dream-riding for the purposes of
assassination.  If their tactics ran true to form, the most skilled of
their team would even now be attacking Syrin through the inescapable
dreams of his drugged sleep.  I could only guess that my horn, proof
against poison, lay hidden amongst the cushions for they assumed me
asleep from their poison gas.  One held a heavy, chopping sword at the
ready and the second a loaded repeating crossbow as they hovered
forward, standing now three feet from the edge of the bed.
     The first move was mine and I took it, rolling to crouch upright.
I planted my hooves and though unable to use my bound arms for
balance, thrust the entire length of my horn through the cloth,
chainmail, breast, heart, and back of the nightmare, brought up short
only by the choke of my collar at my five foot limit.  Her crossbow
discharged into the ceiling and ricocheted oddly as she fell back and
twisted, destroying my balance but freeing my horn.
     The second spun to me, striking with the falchion a slow,
butcher's blow with all her strength behind it.  It was aimed
somewhere on my head, but my fall caused it to impact just at the base
of my horn.  The power of it crashed my head to the side and knocked
me airborne through my fall.  Had I not been turning as I fell it
would have knocked my throat through the collar, but as it was the
strain was on the back of my neck.  I flipped to land painfully on the
ground next to the bed, my collar at the extent of my chain.
     She now held a short, jagged-edged blade; her falchion had broken
against my horn at the point of impact.  I reared my legs back and
kicked her hooves from under her before she could recover.  She fell
upon my chain and we struggled against the side of the bed.  Though
she gashed me many times with her broken blade I did not let her
escape the ground.  She could not stab me with the flatness of the
broken tip, or it would have been the end of me.  With my hands bound,
all I could do in the mad tussling was set aside the pain and kick
until I finally took her through the throat with my bloodied horn.
     Had Syrin chosen to have me wear my silver bridle that night,
restraining my power, I would surely have bled to death.  Instead, my
wounds healed in moments, leaving me gasping and slathered with my own
blood and the blood of the nightmares.  I knew I could not drag
Syrin's huge body over to the edge of the bed without my hands, yet I
had to waken him to save him from the spiritual assault.  I was forced
to clamber up and lie upon him, making the expensive bed rapidly into
a sodden, bloody mess.  I put any possible punishments I might receive
out of my mind to let a healing trance slowly overtake me.
     I laid the blunt side of my horn, unmarred by the falchion's
blow, against Syrin's neck to feel the sluggish, weakening flow of
blood.  First, and easiest, I cleansed his system of the poison.  His
breathing eased, but the continuing weakness of his pulse spoke of the
damage the nightmare must be wreaking within his mind.  I began to
pour energy from my horn into him, letting him borrow my vigour, the
tirelessness of a unicorn's regenerative healing.  Syrin strengthened,
but far too slowly.  My healing was outstripping the nightmare's
damage, but I could not know which of us would tire first.  Would I
awaken Syrin and force the nightmare to flee, or would my healing
become exhausted and leave the nightmare free to finish his
assassination?

     Instead, I awoke on the sandy floor of an arena I had come to
know well during my four months beneath the earth.  As usual in this
arena I wore only my collar.  It was the largest of the Slaver's
arenas, and as usual quite crowded with muted cheering multitudes.
Syrin was fighting at the center of the arena, his opponent a giant
black horse who dwarfed him in size as Syrin dwarfed me.  I had fought
Syrin to the limits of his fatigue before and I knew the punch-drunk
stumble he now effected.  Their fight was oddly mutable; sometime with
blades, sometimes with mauls or maces and shields, sometimes unarmed.
There was no visible shift of putting down and taking up weapons.  As
the fight progressed, Syrin's blows had little effect on the shadowy
horse-shape, while it opened ragged new wounds upon him.  Yet, I could
feel my power flowing into him and revitalizing him even as he was
repeatedly hurt, most of the serrated cuts were scabbed over and very
little blood flowed.
     With every step I took towards the center of the arena the form
of the menacing nightmare became more transparent, until I stepped in
front of Syrin and it dissipated.  The true dream-body of the
nightmare stood some ways off, apparently slightly scratched from his
illusionary battle with Syrin.  He was taller than I, perhaps a bit
over six feet, and muscled in the thin, angular way of the
thoroughbred.  His hide was the midnight blue of the moonless sky
littered with tiny, glowing specks of starlight and he stood casually,
confident in his powers.  The male to female ratio amongst the
nightmare race is reputed to be around one to thirty; very few of
their stallions bothered to assert themselves and be allowed any
activity besides stud service.  He would have to be very strong in
this realm to be allowed to go on an assassination mission and take
the dangerous position of assaulting through the dreams of the victim.
     He laughed at us, whinnying, too high to be truly impressive.
Syrin rested his hands on my shoulders from behind, leaning his tired
weight against my shoulders.  I tried to speak to him, but something
about the dream kept me silent and I could not inquire what had
happened.  I felt that he was trying to speak to me as well, but I
could not hear him, only some motion towards my ear where his head
rested.  Only the sounds of the cackling horselaugh could fill the
silent arena of dreams.
     I felt strange, as if insects were crawling through my mane.  The
nightmare split off a shade from himself, unwounded, but it could only
walk a pace towards me before it faded away.  Another scratch appeared
in the midnight sky of his hide, another tiny wound reminiscent of the
many Syrin had given him.
     "Well, well," said the nightstallion, in cultured but not deep tones.
I thought I was dragging some healer-mage into the dream but it seems
I get a hornyhorse.  Illusions don't seem to work around you so I can't
just slay you by proxy as I was doing to the lunk you're carrying."
He paced back and forth once, thinking, while in the dream I could not
move.  

     I was locked in mortal combat with the long-limbed nightstallion,
clashing heavy broadswords.  He whirled dramatically and I opened up
his midsection.  He howled and screamed while I drove the point of my
sword into the bone of his hip.  Again I stood with Syrin leaning on
my back and the nightstallion ten paces away, though now he spurted
gouts of blood from the two gaping wounds I had given him.  I was
forced to listen to him hurling invectives upon me as he staunched his
blood flow. 
     Nothing seemed intermediate in this realm of abstractions.  I
felt as if we did not actually compete at swordplay, but had merely
compared skills and his were found wanting.  Real wounds were the
result of any such test.  That explained the harm done to Syrin, and
the minor wounds that the nightmare had taken when his illusion was
incapable of fully shielding him from Syrin's effect.  My master's
weight was less on me as he regained his strength.  The nightmare
recovered to the point of no longer gushing blood and stood up,
affixing his dark eyes on me.
     "I see that collar on your neck, slave!" he cried.  "He's got you
under his thumb, doesn't he?  A tame unicorn!  I never thought I'd see
the day one of YOUR kind bent over to a dragon.  Whether on one knee
OR at the waist!  What does he do, keep you for his hareem when he's
tired of little scaly boys?"  I could not resist his jeers.
     I felt a small wound open on my own chest, and not merely because
of his tauntings.  It was because I had no defense against them, I
could speak now but I had no answer.  Here I was, a slave, held
against my will night after night and yet I was still trying to save
the life of my captor.  The nightstallion sensed his advantage and
pressed, deadly close to the point.
     "Come on then!  I offer you a chance at freedom, unicorn.  If you
step aside I can easily kill the dragon, Syrin.  If you aid me it will
be over in moments!  With him dead I will spirit-travel to where you
are held and free you, and you can make your escape.  What do you say
to that, slave?  Or shall I call you by the name you had before you
were taken?  Luagha?"
     I hesitated, and a larger wound racked me.  The nightstallion
grinned, and cracked his knuckles in anticipation.
     "Ah, I see your weakness now.  If I must kill the dragon's slave
before I complete my mission, then I will simply be one horn the
richer.  You have the power of truth here, so it is with the truth
that I will destroy you.  We shall play the memory game, review just
how the dragon broke you to his will, and make you mine instead."

     The day after I had slept bound at the foot of Syrin's bed for
the first time, my training began in earnest.  Syrin spent the
beginning hours of the day with a whip at each hip; one, a light,
stinging flickerwhip, and the second the murderous, uncrackable
bullwhip last used after my failed escape attempt.  He began by
teaching me to stand, kneel, and follow behind him in several
different ways depending on his orders.  When I complied, I was
briefly rewarded with a stroke on the mane, chest, or tail.  When I
failed, I would receive one of the two whips.
     In those first hours Syrin demonstrated to me his skill.  He knew
when I failed due to not hearing him aright, or due to the quantity of
commands I needed quickly memorize.  Those instances would be rewarded
by swift strikes of the flickerwhip, exactly one for each failing
until I performed correctly.  Syrin also knew when I was rebellious.
When I refused to comply with a command, he quickly spun me against a
wall and laid on ten strokes with the bullwhip.  Tears of pain
clouding my eyes, I was returned to stand before him, and follow the
command given.
     The hours of conditioning continued.  Something in me cried out,
and a second time I stood resolute, the pain of the first beating
momentarily forgotten.  Random, hobbled flight would be useless
through the unknown caves.  Syrin placed me against the wall and layered
twenty strokes upon my back and flanks.  I knew the third refusal
would gain me thirty, and I staggered back with his aid to kneel
before him as ordered.
     Syrin was also able to gauge how I became bored in the haze of
followed commands.  As time dragged on, I only gradually noticed how
my rewards came longer and stronger.  Syrin would enfold me in his
arms and press me against his broad chest so that I was surrounded by
his strength, or take my muzzle beneath his arm so all I could see or
scent was the red heat of his scales while he rubbed his palm over my
exposed stomach.  When I struggled in his grasp, all that I managed
was attracting his tail to slide up between my thighs to encircle and
squeeze.
     After that I knelt with my arms crossed behind me as ordered,
and felt them manacled as that was the purpose of the pose.  Ears
cocked for the next command, I received it and stood before Syrin.  He
faced away, gave the order to follow, and walked me right out of his
house and into the mazes of passageways that led to his underground
home.
     Before I had only walked circles and figure-eights behind Syrin;
now he seemed to be trusting me enough to follow him through the dimly
lit caves.  It was not the trust of feeling that I would not escape; I
was cuffed, collared, hobbled, and bridled with the silver bridle.  It
was the trust he had that I would not fail in my newly-trained duty
and make him look foolish.  Indeed, I carefully measured my pace
within the hobbles and followed.  Yet, the moment I took the focus of
my eyes from his heels and the tip of his tail, ostensibly to chart
and map the corridors in my mind, the flickerwhip snapped back and
caught me on the tip of the nose.  I had no idea how he knew.
     We walked through a cave with low benches and cubbies near the
floor; it was all I could see of my way.  There were others in the
place, but from the sound they were all scurrying from Syrin's path.
All I was able to see once was the furred hoof of a bull plodding away
before we arrived.
     "Stop."  In that tone, it was the signal that he was very soon to
halt.  I stayed in step with him two more paces and stood, precisely,
as he stopped.  No whip came.
     "Stance."  I set my hooves at a shoulder's width apart and stood
up straight, finally able to raise my eyes from his feet to his chest.
     "Center."  I stepped to a single pace in front of him, and
resumed stance.  Though I would be whipped now if I were to look up
into his eyes, at this distance I could feel his very presence alone.
     "Kneel."  My eyes went to his feet again immediately.  I arched
my back and, leaning backwards slowly, lowered my body until my knees
touched the sand.
     Looking up at Syrin, I could now see the rest of the area we had
entered.  Save for the fact that we were within a cave, it was similar
to dozens of the practice arenas I had fought in.  Areas were cordoned
off for drilling and duelling, and larger ones for staged group
combats.  Padded weapons were plentiful in evidence, and most wore
armor.  With most gorgets locked on to do double service as collars,
it took little to figure that this was a place in which slaves for
arena games would be trained by special coaches to fight for the glory
of their masters.
     "Since here is a place you excel, slave, here you shall serve me.
You will be able to win me much in the arena, and you will be rewarded
for your performance."  I felt certain that half my reward was not to
be bored with inane training about how to stand and kneel and follow,
and I was sure Syrin knew it as well.  He smiled an easy smile down at
me as he removed my cuffs and hobbles.
     We stretched and worked our way through a dozen weapons, Syrin
cataloguing my skills.  As it turned out, I could readily score upon
him with a greatsword, using a ricassa style unfamiliar to him.  His
grin grew ever broader each time I came inside his guard, striking his
club away, and whirled mine from its downward-pointed position over my
shoulder into his midsection, thigh, or neck.
     Wearing the bridle, I tired over the hours.  Syrin ordered a rest
break so I followed, again under orders.  He led me to a bench and set
me to kneeling at his feet in one of my newly-trained poses, back
straight and head up so I could fill my lungs and recover easily.
Syrin again cuffed my wrists behind my back, and then ran his claw
through my mane while he rested.  Soon, he waved his hand and an
errand cub dashed over with a tureen of water for him.  My own thirst
was apparently evident, for he easily caught my reproachful look as he
drank..
     "You think I have forgotten you, slave?  Look again."  He seemed
to be indicating down, so there I looked.  Placed in front of my knees
not a moment ago was a small trough of water, lying on the ground.
Syrin's hand was well placed to immediately grip around the base of my
horn and force my head down to it.  I could only resist with my back,
and kneeling I had no leverage.  The strength of his shoulders and
arms slowly lowered the end of my muzzle into the water until I
spluttered.  He eased up, letting me breathe, and dunked me again and
again, controlling my struggles until I gave in and quietly lapped my
water out of the bowl at his feet.

     It was the nightmare's hand forcing my head into the water.  He
stopped over me, both hands now on my horn, forcing me down and
emitting shrill screams of stallion dominance.  Cool wetness and pain
erupted a wound on my back.  I felt the shock of a potent thump
channel through me, but I had not been struck.  The force of it rolled
me out of my kneeling position and onto my back on the sandy floor of
the dream-arena.  I leapt to my hooves immediately from the pain of
sand filling my bloody wound.
     Syrin had managed to kick the nightmare off me.  He caught me as
I staggered, and held me up.  I was again surrounded by his arms, as I
had been so many times before; their power taking sway over me.  I
regained my bearings, and we were again facing the nightstallion.
     "You are a master of your craft, Syrin." he bowed in mockery.
"I like this game we play.  We shall play more."

     In the dream within a dream Syrin commanded me to rise and we
returned to finish the combat practice.  I could briefly feel Syrin
fighting the nightstallion over his place in the unfolding events of
memory, but that sensation was soon lost in the reliving.
     V'heress arrived as Syrin wound down the practice with laps
around the arena.  I kept to a pace of three laps per Syrin's two, and
we would engage and spar for a few moments until I managed to
disengage and pass him again.  V'heress nodded approvingly at noting
my following Syrin properly once the practice was declared over.  He
fell in with Syrin to chat as Syrin led me back through the caves.
     "Council meeting tomorrow night.  I think Dramyn is going to take
Chenar's seat from him.  That will raise our numbers to three of
seven," said the mottled white draconian.
     "I've had my fill of Chenar's non-interventionist policies.  We
have the structure for several thousand more slaves down here.  I see
no reason the pens shouldn't be filled to capacity."
     "Well, you have my agreement.  Care to make a sale on this one?"
     "Sorry, he's not yet fully trained and broken."  I flipped my
ears back and instantly Syrin's flickerwhip waved in the air.  It
convinced me not to break my hobbled step.
     "I'd be more than happy to break him in for you, Syrin."
V'heress looked me up and down with a peripheral glance.
     "I believe I'll reserve that pleasure for myself.  Perhaps I'll
loan him out to you sometime."  Something in Syrin's voice intimated
that sometime was never, and V'heress heard it as well.  I was
reassured, but V'heress was annoyed.  I knew he still had that length
of my hair, so Syrin was the only thing keeping him from using it.
V'heress looked at me as if I were some sort of trinket.  Syrin's gaze
was different; it spoke.  It was as if he never wished to look away.
     We split off from V'heress and entered Syrin's private caves
again.  As before, we went first to the dim, central baths.  I was
lathered from the practice, and relished the thought of the coming
bath.  The routine of stopping, standing, centering, and kneeling to
be freed was becoming commonplace, but my closeness to Syrin during
this brought his scent into sharper focus.  The exertion had given him
a brazen smell, but not one of brass.  He smelt as if I stood next to
an old, recently banked forge; with the odor of steels smelted clean
after his exertion.  His chest brushed my nose as he reached around to
undo my cuffs, and I desperately wanted to lick and taste him in this
state, but didn't dare.
     "The day draws to a close, slave.  We shall always bathe before
we sleep, and your duties in the bath are ones you must learn from the
beginning."  With that, Syrin motioned me into the gilded pool, and
then followed.  I knew the expertise in his hands when they had
caressed me; both in this bath and on the road.  I could not match it
though I tried in soaping and massaging every part of his body beneath
his orders.  He would correct me with a harsh word or a flick upon my
ear, and reward me with a word of approval when I worked him
correctly.  It was my opportunity to explore his body, required as I
was to handle each part of it.  His calves and hamstrings were taut
and rocklike, and I soaped and cleaned the entire length of his thick
tail, massaging it into realms of flexibility I hadn't known it
possessed.  I climbed atop his thighs and braced against them with my
knees to work his chest and the front of his arms.  I had to be
careful not to rub against the grain of his scales, only crossways,
especially on the lighter, horizontal scales of his stomach.
     He was taut everywhere, skin firmly molded over muscle.  It made
my duty one of directly pitting the strength of my shoulders and
wrists against each bulging thew, without layers of fat to slide me
away.  I locked my legs around his chest to slide my hands around his
two feet of throat, too wide for my hands to meet.  It was as flexible
as his tail, and stronger.  I took his great head in my hands; his
eyes covered by a waterproof nicticating membrane as I learned the
mild ridges of his almost soft, mostly flat snakelike head.
     He was languorous now, as I began on his back.  I had not
received any punishment in some time, only murmurs of approval.
Muscles striated in his back and shoulders whose actions and size and
I could hardly fathom.  The strength it took to ease them intensified
the ache of my arms, pained from the swordplay.  I ran my nose over
the small of his back, the round of his hips, the beginning and base
of his tail as I soaped, for I could not stop myself.  Finally I
stretched his hamstrings and took his crotch in my hands, rubbing
slick at the base of his tail and the insides of his thighs.  He was
unsheathed by this time, hanging out at length but still malleable in
my hands, and beneath that both hands were full when rubbing him
clean.
     He held me to him in the dark waters of the pool, mimicking the
rewards of his closeness he had given me earlier in the day.  He now
took up the soap and worked me over quickly and effectively with a
scrub brush.  Again, I was his doll, and he was washing an owned thing
so as to enhance its value and the aesthetic pleasure it gave.  I
followed him up the pool's steps, my hooves making a wet clinking
against the porcelain-like tiles, to feel his claws padded by towels
again take every part of me with rough scrubbing.
     Moist, he led me again to his bedchamber.  On came the leather
belt to which my hands were cuffed comfortably.  A clip, and my collar
was chained to the nearby hook on the wall.  Syrin began to roam his
claws over me, scraping them across my chest and nipples and taking my
bridled head in his hands.
     "You have learned well today, slave.  Tonight your lessons
continue."  I laid in his lap and Syrin pulled my ankles effortlessly
together, and cuffed them flush with leather bindings.  I had no idea
at what I was being trained until again Syrin took hold of my horn and
pulled my head between his legs.  He kept a hand beneath my chin,
forcing my nose to nuzzle against his crotch.  He massaged his cock
against my cheeks, nose, and mouth to ready me, and then slid his claw
over my nostrils and covered them.  I instinctively parted my lips to
inhale, but received my master's dark red length instead of air.  The
clean taste of his flesh filled my stretched mouth, but this time
Syrin did not begin to piston his cock through my throat by his grip.
Instead, with my lips an inch from the hilt of his cock, he attached
three leather straps to the silver bridle and threaded them around his
waist and between his legs.  Pulled taut, my head could move only
forward, not back to free my mouth of him, and his hard length filled
my mouth to the back of my throat making any thought of pushing him
out with my tongue absurd.
     "Your mouth needs training, slave.  You will spend the night
gagged in this way, and if you please me, you will be allowed to
drink."  He laid on his side, with my head prisoned to his lap.  He
closed his thighs along the length of my head, covering my eyes.  All
that remained was the darkness and the scent of my head enclosed in my
Master's flesh, and my tongue moving as best it could in my full,
gagged mouth.
     The night was long, for I slept little.  My mouth and tongue
learned and practiced motions pleasing to my Master and whenever I
sufficiently aroused him, he would roll me to my back and thrust down
his remaining length into me, burying my muzzle hard into his crotch.
I would feel his entire weight driving his cock down through my full
mouth and I desperately worked to please him until his liquid fire
exploded from him and was thrust down my throat.  The taste of his
reward lay on my tongue with his flesh through the night.

     In my dim realizations of elsewhere through the recollections,
the nightstallion was flung aside in the arena.  Syrin had gained the
upper hand, and each thrust of the dragon's length into my mouth
stabbed the nightstallion as if with the sharpened tines of a long
fork.

     My trainings continued for the next week, after which Syrin began
placing me in actual arena bouts.  He was always present at my bouts
and though he never cheered me, I learned his approval through his
postures.  Though I never lost, not at the low ranking at which I
began, he would chide me for errors in form or for a lack of cinema;
crucial to the bouts.  My performance in the arena each day would
determine whether I earned the privilege of being ridden long into the
night until I could bear the sensation no more, or was merely chained
to attend to the pleasure of his feet.
     Syrin was fond of furthering my training with surprises.  He
would change the my situation and then reward or punish me depending
on the correctness of my action.  For two weeks we arose and proceeded
directly to the arena, I trailing hobbled in step behind him, with no
change in pattern.  The fifteenth day, however, Syrin continued to
walk beyond our usual entrance to the place of practice.  I faltered,
broke step and almost turned.  Syrin had me against the wall
immediately.
     "Like a horse to water, aren't you, slave?"  Syrin hissed in my
ear.  He stepped back from the position he had me in, the solidity of
his weight pressing my shivering body against the cold stone of the
cavern wall.  In a few moments he had my arms, usually cuffed behind
my back on our walks, lashed over my head to a convenient
torch-bracket on the wall.  His flickerwhip sang and struck my flank
with a hard, stinging blow.
     "I decide where we go each day, slave."  Syrin spoke slowly, and
then lashed me again.  "You follow me."  Another strike fell.  "Your
eyes are to remain on my heels, and your ears are to be listening for
any orders I might give."  The fourth strike was soft, a readying
blow.  "Do you understand?"  He laid the fifth one across both my
flanks, the pain echoing the crack of the whip down the misty caves.
     "Yes, master."  I felt stupid and chastened.  Syrin let me down
from the wall, refastened my wrists behind my back, and ran me through
a series of commands before commanding me to follow him again.  We
passed all the possible entrances to the practice arena and came into
caves that I had never been led into afore.  I kept my eyes firmly on
his heels as the stinging in my flanks slowly faded.
     The caves became smaller and more dusty; we walked for at least a
half an hour.  Eventually I trailed behind Syrin into what looked like
a small, auxiliary sandy pen.  A few barrels stood lonely, accompanied
only by a sort of rickshaw.  The place looked long deserted.
     Syrin led me to the rickshaw, and walked about letting his tail
stroke me up and down as he removed the leather cuffs from my wrists
and the hobbles from my ankles.  He ordered me to stretch, so I hung
to the side of the light cart and loosened my muscles, pushing against
it to warm up my ankles and legs.  Syrin then took me before and
between the handles of the rickshaw, hauling up a tangle of tack from
the seat.
     The straps were thick and padded, but too large and required
tightening.  The main fastenings were about my shoulders and chest,
yoke-fashion, but more steadied and locked at my waist.  My arms were
completely free.  Syrin eyed the fit critically, then took my head in
his hands and added the rarely used bit to the silver bridle.  I was
normally not allowed to speak, but Syrin liked to keep my mouth free
for other things.  Once the bit was firmly in place in the hollow
behind my teeth, Syrin attached the reins to the silver bridle and
climbed up into the rickshaw.
     With a shake of the reins and a crack of his lunge whip in the
air, Syrin convinced me to set my weight forward and pull the chariot.
The tack tightened, and the bridle and reins kept my head in a proper
upright running position.  The start was difficult, and I had to dig
my hooves deeply into the sand for purchase to pull the five
hundredweight of chariot and dragon.  Once done, though, I walked it
at a level pace until Syrin pulled back lightly on the reins.
     Lightly for Syrin's strength was more than enough to pull the bit
back against the gap in my teeth and bring me rearing back to a halt.
He gave me a moment to regain my balance in the harness, and started
me forward again.  This time, he kept me going forward until we came
close to the side of this cave.  I wondered if he was going to walk me
into the wall to test my loyalty, but instead he pulled left on the
reins, moving my head in that direction.  I tried to turn the chariot,
but fell down in the traces as my hooves slipped in the sand the
beginning of the chariot's turn.  The whip cracked again, next to my
ear, and I scrambled back upright to turn the chariot.
     Syrin began to guide me in circles, starting and stopping me,
teaching me the commands of the reins with occasional help from his
long whip.  The bit was tight in my mouth, and I couldn't ease the
pressure on it with my tongue.  I could feel Syrin's hand on the reins
through the bit and the constant pressure in my mouth.  Two shakes
meant to speed up, a slow pull to slow down gradually, and the reins
on the side of my neck, pulling at the bit, controlled my turning from
gentle curves to sharp angles to figure-eights around the standing
barrels.
     Syrin began to urge me to speed, until I had the chariot going
almost as fast as I could run.  Tunnel vision from my exertions hit
me, as if I were wearing blinders.  All I could see was the groove in
the sand ahead of me, following it as demanded by the gentle pull of
the reins.  The familiar sensation of my mane fluttering in the wake
of my passing merged with the steady pressure of the padded yoke and
tack on my chest, waist and shoulders; the oiled wheels of the chariot
bumping over small hills in the sand.
     The bit pulled back slowly, but with strength, searing my newly
tender mouth.  I had to stop, but the chariot was going too fast and I
could not stop running.  I nearly doubled over backwards in the
traces, but my hooves kept plowing the sand until Syrin leapt from his
seat and hauled me aloft.
     I panted for breath in Syrin's grasp, legs kicking as he hoisted
me aloft with a hold beneath my arms.  His grip, the vicious control
of his strength, calmed me, forcing me to return to the self Syrin had
made of me.  I dangled in his arms as Syrin jogged, then walked
forward, letting the chariot behind coast to a stop.  I managed to
quit running in the air, and just let my aching legs dangle.
     Syrin disentangled me from the traces of the chariot, and removed
the solid silver bit.  He pulled it down and away, leaving my mouth
open to breathe, without brushing it upwards and paining me in the
slightest.  He kept my mouth pried open with his thumbs and examined
my teeth, looking carefully for any damage that might have been done
by the tight motion of the bit.  Only when he seemed satisfied that no
true damage was done did he lay me down onto the cool sands of the pen
and minister to me.  His strong hands flexed my legs at the knees and
ankles, loosening my joints while the sand I lay in stuck to my sweat.
His entire weight drove behind his palms into the back of my thighs,
assuring that I would not pull my hamstrings due to this exertion.
Yet, he worked slowly up and down my legs, as if pondering speech.
     He had spoken little to me save through his training me and his
orders.  I knew something of his life and station from attending him
in the high council meetings of the Slavers Guild.  He was quiet by
nature but expressed himself physically, and the others in the council
heeded his words when spoken, in fact, too much so.  It seemed to me
from their reactions that he kept holds of some sort over most of
them, and they were frightened of crossing his opinion.  He did not
use this power often or flagrantly, but held it in check, as he might
hold a long leash on me and let me range some small distance.
     "Perhaps you wonder, slave, why you lie here in the shadow of
this chariot.  You have earned this explanation of me, due to the
danger I am to have you face."  Syrin's candor startled me.  Until
now, I had been taught that it was not the slave's duty to know, but
the Master's.
     "It amuses us to make beasts of burden out of our slaves, and as
such things grow, eventually we began to hold races.  I and those I
owned were active in the chariot races when I was quite young.  But a
another trainer by the name of Dramyn had managed to capture and break
a minotaur of great strength.  None could defeat him, and using him to
pull her chariot she won many races and thus, many wagers.  She took
several of my best slaves from me as her winnings.  However, it was
not only her minotaur that won her races, but her other methods as
well.  I do not care to awaken one morning to find your tendons cut,
or your throat."
     Syrin gathered me up in his thick arms and slung me over his
shoulder in the same way that he had carried me after my attempted
escape some months ago, on the outside.  Whereas before I had felt
anger through his grip, now he curved his neck over my side and rested
his head on my lower back comfortingly.  He kept an arm locked around
behind my knees, and stroked his claws through my sandy tail as he
walked me back to his private caves.  That night he bathed and curried
me, chaining me in his bed for a final rubdown as he spoke.
     "You have a strong, wide back, my slave.  You strain well in the
traces, and you are very, very fast.  Our practices are being kept
secret, and we shall be entered in the final steeplechase, the final
race.  We will be ready when that day comes, " his voice brooked no
denial, "and if we race to victory on that day, you will be rewarded
as never before!"  Syrin clutched me to his chest, and rocked back and
forth before relinquishing his hold, and placing me at his feet for
the night.
     I trained with Syrin over the next few weeks until I became an
extension of Syrin's hand on my reins.  With time, I became partially
inured to the pain of the tight bit.  I would relish Syrin's hands at
the beginning of practice, when they would slide over my lines as he
strapped me in my traces, and caress my bridled head to coax me into
taking the bit.  All day I would pull, only the reins and the bit and
the weight telling me my master sat behind, and only when I was
released would I be able to see the dusky glitter of his scales in the
dim light.
     Syrin paid many bribes out of his hoard of treasures, both to
enter us in that final race and to keep that entrance a secret.
Silence fell over the assembled crowd in the viewing arena when Syrin
cantered me out to the starting line.  The wheels of the chariots,
well-oiled, made no sound as I stopped cold next to the hulking
minotaur at the starting line.  His traces had more of a yoke to them,
and less strapping; yet his arms were free like mine, the better to
run.  He loomed huge over me, a musclebound oaf, starting to pump and
paw the ground, snorting.
     I began to feel small, weak, and confused next to him.  I tried
to look back into his chariot to avoid the dwarfing comparison of his
hugely hanging bull's penis to my own.  The Dramyn that haunted my
master went cloaked, sitting at ease.  All I could gather was a sense
of slim, light green scale before the minotaur again captured my
attentions.  He seemed so powerful, a rough beast hardly chained.
What hope could I have against him, so huge and with a lighter load to
carry?
     Syrin came around to my front, startling me out of my reverie of
depression and worthlessness, and caught me by the muzzle.
     "The minotaur is as magical a creature as you are, slave," he
hissed.  "His power is confusion and misdirection, and he works
through your senses.  Remember who your master is."  With that he
ripped off my silver bridle and slammed his hard scaled lips to mine.
His claws roamed my body, replacing my cold fear with his ferocious
heat.  Again he took my head in his hands, strapping on a taut leather
bridle and making me take a cold steel bit.  I could only see Syrin
now, only look straight ahead.  He had put me in blinders so that I
could not see the minotaur.  My master held my sight safe in his
possession.
     A magical thunderclap started the race, and a snap of the reins
lurched us forward.  The minotaur pulled ahead faster, having less of
a load to break out from the dead stop, and continued to increase his
lead as we climbed a steep grade in the beginning of the course.  The
race was soon down to only two chariots, winding and turning.  The
minotaur kept a fast pace, but was nowhere near my speed.  In
addition, he tired as his mistress urged him to greater speeds than
that to which he was accustomed.  I, unbridled, felt no fatigue
whatsoever.  That same guiding hand on his reins kept his chariot
squarely in front of me, however, making it impossible to pass.
Finally, the minotaur's greater strength pulled them ahead upon every
steep incline where Syrin's weight dragged me back.
     Syrin kept my nose to the back of Dramyn's chariot as we exited
into the final arena, the final mile of clean, flat straightaway.
Syrin curved me wide and around; and Dramyn could not turn her tired
beast fast enough to block.  I pulled even with her wheels and then
ran neck and neck with the stumbling minotaur, Syrin's taut shaking of
the reins coaxing me on.
     The crack of a salted whip laid open my back.  The whip fell a
second time, and I knew it could not be my master.  I ran, ignoring
the raw pain, and pulled ahead.  As the third blow fell there were two
cracks of the whip, and no pain.  The two chariots swayed together,
tied by tangled lengths of leather and the two dragons each pulling at
the other's whip.  Syrin's greater strength and skill wrested her whip
away, leaving her empty-handed and cursing at her impotent, exhausted
bull.  Again the wind of my passing flowed in my mane, and I fairly
flew, the ending sliding into view amidst the dull, echoing shouts of
the crowd.
     I did not know at first why I stumbled in my traces, until I felt
the wetness running down my side and the scene began to swim before my
eyes.  I dared not look down to see the crossbow bolt I knew was
imbedded there, lest the shock end me then and there.  I tried to
regain my gait, but I could only stagger in my harness and not be
dragged by the momentum of the chariot.  Dramyn's chariot whipped
past, scattering clots of the bloody sand I left in my wake.
     Syrin loosened the reins, giving me my head.  He did not coax or
command, but I knew his wishes.  I would not fail him.  The blur of my
unicorn's charge spattered red instead of flowing white, and we were
past the finish line victorious in an instant.

     My wounds in the dream-arena mimicked events past, as did my
treatment.  Syrin again broke off the feathered half of the arrow
jutting from my side.  I felt him for the second time press his lips
to the wound and ash the wood within with a breath.  The pain, blunted
by shock, became a searing cauterization.  Syrin's weight atop my
chest held me still, and I did not thrash at the fire and tear the
wound open.
     With the deep bleeding stopped, the wound began to heal at its
full rate.  My breaths were short and gasping, but they eventually
deepened as my strength returned.  Syrin was now unharmed in this
dream-battle, it seemed, having been slowly healed by me during the
entire course of the battle, and never again wounded.  The
nightstallion contrasted him, slim arabian lines a welter of stabs and
whip-gashes incising down into the bone.  I could not see how he
managed to breath, especially with his crushed legs that looked as if
a chariot had clattered over them. 
     These dream-battles became more pyrrhic with each continuing
memory, yet Syrin buoyed me and prevented the nightstallion from
twisting the memories solely to his advantage.  He and I were healed
again by my power, but I had begun to reach the limits of my
endurance.  The nightstallion's chest still tortuously rose and fell,
the affliction of his dream-self hopefully some indication of our
success or failure.  We could not awake however we tried.
     Syrin said, "Let us put an end to this battle, slave," clapping a
hand to my left thigh and raising me to my hooves.

     Syrin calmed the thronging crowd with a snap of his lunge whip,
clearing them away from me.  He attended to my treatment with an
exhalation and then stood over me, guarding my healing as he shouted
commands.  About the time I regained the ability to stand, Dramyn was
dragged before us in chains, and forced to kneel.  Someone from the
crowd tossed the discharged hand crossbow into the circle.
     The murmur of the crowd rose in a tide.  Dramyn had committed
some sort of mortal crime in this society, and only the anticipation
of Syrin's personal punishment kept them from tearing her apart.  Her
crime seemed to be defined as a mix of cheating and still losing, and
harming the property of another without leave.
     Syrin took the blunt tip of Dramyn's mouth in a cruel grip.
     "I believe the customary sentence for your crime is exile, with
full confiscation of your wealth.  That is, if you are allowed to
leave here alive."  Dramyn's head nodded slightly in his grip.
     "Do you remember our first wager?  It was some time ago.  I lost,
could not pay the price, and so you had me for a time.  I was not
treated at all kindly, and thus was my debt paid.
     But now, were it not for this small error, you would soon ascend
to the Council.  You might still, if your debt to me is paid.  I shall
have pick of your treasures and leave you more than enough still to
ascend to the council, and you will be mine for as long as you had me.
Do you accept?"
     The choice burned in her eyes.  Retain her honor but lose the
work of her life?  Syrin offered her a momentary disgrace and a return
to her power.  She took it, casting her eyes to his feet.
     I walked wreathed ahead of Syrin through a grand processional,
unbound save my collar.  My hooves trod on rose petals, and mine was
the adulation of the racehorse.  Now Dramyn hobbled chained behind
Syrin triumphant, who allowed his lunge whip to fall upon her
devil-may-care.  Syrin was led to a throne of honor for the great
fete, and sat me in the lower chair at his side, Dramyn at his feet.
     He fed me tidbits from his claws, to the delight of the crowd who
marvelled at the tamed unicorn.  V'heress fended off the gawkers who
attempted to press business, allowing only the high councillors near
to share in the warmth of Syrin's successes.  Syrin dropped gobbets of
meat to the ground near Dramyn's muzzle, the threat in his eyes enough
to flick her thin, forked tongue around them and draw them back into
her mouth.  Syrin magnanimously accepted gifts to his estate from
those factions approving of Dramyn's humbling, arranged for
deliveries, and collected his successful wagers with a signature of
flame.
     For myself, the time passed in a whirlwind.  I knew I was not
allowed to speak, but even to be in the presence of conversation after
so long exhilarated me.  Syrin, however, rapidly grew tired of the
celebration and festival; it seemed to me that he had been through
such many times before.  With consent from the other councillors,
V'heress provided an illusionary distraction allowing Syrin, Dramyn,
and I to board a concealed carriage and be driven back to Syrin's
apartments.
     I followed Syrin through the familiar tunnels as I had been
trained, but tonight he dragged a chained dragon behind him on a short
leash.  He was sure to pick his two favorite training whips from the
wall as we walked to our destination.  Upon reaching the bath, Syrin
threw Dramyn in his pool with a tug and a kick.  She fell in without
grace and took some time, bound, to get her nose above water.  Syrin
snapped his fingers.
     "Slave, get in there.. and prepare your mistress for the night
ahead."  I was startled, but it seemed that Syrin was not speaking to
me.  At his command, I felt as if I should jump to some action, but
what it was, I did not know.
     The minotaur rounded the corner from the drying-room further on,
and stood to Syrin's attention.  I understood, now, Syrin's meaning,
and more fully why Syrin gave me the blinders earlier in the day.
Here in the dim, golden light of the bathing chamber, the minotaur
plainly bulked more even than Syrin, despite being shorter.  He exuded
an aura of menace to which it seemed the minotaur's collar made Syrin
immune.  Revenge lit a lambent flame in his deep brown eyes, and he
cracked his knuckles loudly upon descending into the water to his
mistress.  
     Syrin held me on his lap to watch as the minotaur began to exert
his power upon Dramyn.  He punished her frame and twisted his fingers
and his tongue upon her at every opportunity during her cleansing.
Dramyn snapped at him once, needle-sharp teeth arrowing for his neck;
but Syrin's heavy whip clouted her across the head before she could
reach her destination.  While she was stunned, the minotaur wrapped
his hand around her muzzle to hold it shut and dunked her to sluice
the lather from her scales.
     Syrin bathed me again that night as he had the first night I lay
captive here, requiring no service of me as yet.  He coaxed and
rewarded me with the stroking of his scaled palm and taloned fingers,
holding me in a slithery embrace.  His draconic, toothy smile stayed
wide upon his face as he pressed his lips to mine.  The passion of
retribution burned through his chest to mine.  He put his hand on my
fading bolt-scar to draw me from the pool to the bedchamber where
Dramyn lay trussed and waiting.
     She did not lie peacefully for long after Syrin's entrance.  In a
trice, he had her hung by her manacled forearms from the sturdily
constructed lantern bracket.  Her feet and tail hung a foot above the
floor.  Dramyn did not cry out.
     "It was many years since we were last opponents, Dramyn, many
years since the night our positions were reversed.  Unlike you, I
shall take my vengeance quickly."  Syrin hefted his flickerwhip, and
stroked it about her neck.  "This is for your scalpel."
     Syrin lay into her quickly and unrelentingly, blurring the
strikes one into the next.  She jerked, hanging, but made no noise.
The sound of the whip was not that of leather striking scales but I
could not exactly determine it.  It was not until Syrin ceased his
strokes that I could see the blood slowly welling from a hundred tiny,
precise incisions and could discern the small, bright red strip of
metal woven at the whip's tip.
     Syrin cast aside that toy and uncoiled his second whip, letting
her taste it.  It was the heavy whip that I had felt upon my attempted
escape; the whip too long and brutal to crack, in Syrin's hand
striking like a python weighted with brick.  I could not bear to watch
after the first few seconds, for I knew the feel of that whip upon my
back.  Dramyn whimpered and growled and screamed, dripping poison
uselessly against the wall.  No matter the frenzied thrashing of her
tail, it never parried the incoming blow whether it was to land on her
exposed back or svelte flanks.  Syrin slowed and ceased only when she
begged his forgiveness at the edge of her consciousness.
     "That was for your crossbow."
     The minotaur lowered Dramyn to the ground at Syrin's command,
whereas Syrin swiftly set upon her.  I as well had felt that painful
massage after one of Syrin's beatings, the returned flow of blood
pounding heightened pain with each heartbeat.  It would save her many
days of pain following, but it cost her now in the faltering of her
resistance and she had not the strength to struggle when he secured
her wrists to the back of the collar at the base of her sinuous neck.
     Syrin's gaze alit on me and I quickly cast down my eyes,
momentarily caught.  I caught Syrin's tailtip-flicker and glance
behind me, so I was not surprised when the minotaur's massive fist
caught around the base of my horn.  I might have been able to elbow
and throw him, but that was not Syrin's wish so I held my strike.  He
followed up by overbearing me to the cushions, sliding his other hand
down my shoulder to grip my wrist and wrapping his legs over mine to
push my legs together at the fetlock with his heavy split hooves.  I
planted my one free hand and tried to lever and roll out from under
him, whereupon I discovered exactly how much he outweighed Syrin.
     The minotaur's magical power flowed over me again, making my
struggles weak and useless.  They served only to rub my short,
velvet-furred back against the longer, coarser fur of his midsection.
He engulfed my ear in his mouth, and gently incised at the base while
letting his wide tongue play with its captive.  Held thusly, feeling
the minotaur slide and unsheath his cock between my thighs, it was the
work of a moment for Syrin to affix upon me my nightly, useworn
bindings.  Once secured, Syrin dismissed the minotaur from his
position and hauled me into his own grip.
     "It would be a boring night if you were only to watch, slave,"
Syrin chuckled into my wet ear, giving it a flick.  "Dramyn!"  he
called, "Alas, though I train this slave assiduously, there is yet one
skill in which he remains only barely adequate.  However," and here
his voice dripped sarcasm, "I know from the last night we spent
together that you excel in that particular ability.  I believe that
you shall be teaching this slave a lesson he richly deserves."
     With that, Syrin spread my ankles with a bar and lashed me
upright against the wall.  Dramyn was brought before me kneeling and
cuffed; a touch of the flickerwhip coiling her neck to bring her head
down to my crotch.  Her forked tongue was definitely thinner than
Syrin's and was not long in coaxing me from my sheath, into which I
had partially retreated.  She retracted it often to moisten it and
coiled it about my cockhead deftly; using the soft, yet scaled tip of
her nose to rub and stroke.  She seemed fond of twining her tongue
around my balls in the manner of a tight harness, surprising me with
the strength of her pull.  I observed her capable technique carefully.
     All at once, she opened her jaws and engulfed me; warm, but not
constricting.  I could barely feel the delicate pinpricks of her
needle-teeth at the root of my cock until her tongue again began to
ply my length.  By feel, my cock-head rested near the opening of her
throat and the beginning of her tongue's flicker, deep in her maw.  No
longer constrained only to use that part of her tongue as could
flicker forth, she lashed and gripped and stroked in dizzying
patterns, stiffening my length so that I could not help but burgeon up
to my stomach.  Dramyn used the coil of her neck to follow, the tip of
her nose pointing down as if to delve into my depths.  I rolled my
head back against the wall awash, marvelling at her skill.  Under her
tutelage, I could feel my cock-head flare in her mouth, and she held
me in that pleasurable state for as long as she wished.
     I began to feel something strange about the head of my cock; the
stroking had slowed and been replaced by an intrusion.  It grew
deeper, as if I was being softly poked, then partially withdrew.  At
each thrust it seemed to grow thicker and slide further, an entirely
new sensation.  As it grew deeper I realized what it must be; Dramyn
was slowly sliding her thin tongue down inside the length of my cock.
The deeper she got, the longer the strokes of her tongue became,
squirming tightly down and then sliding slowly and smoothly back up.
I would have lurched away from the ever-intensifying sensation, but I
was tightly bound and could only moan and tear.  Soon enough, her
tongue extended all the way down my cock and some unknown curve
beyond.  She then stroked her tongue back and forth some inches, a
wet, thick interior sliding anchored at the tip and base.  Dramyn
continued without relent, agonizing me with the intensity, my cock
surrounded, held, and invaded both.  I bore it as long as I could, my
eyes pleading with Syrin until he nodded and gave me leave.
     I gave myself over to the climax, my balls clenching and the
damnable stroking continuing full-tilt.  Nothing could escape my cock,
plugged as it was with Dramyn's tongue.  The pounding climax would not
end, redirected into some reservoir in which the forked tip of
Dramyn's stroking tongue gaily flickered.  It exhausted and empowered
me oddly, the force of it making me feel alien to myself.  The final,
long, outward stroke of Dramyn removing her tongue was too much for
me, and I collapsed into Syrin's waiting arms.
     He had unbound me as I was wracked by Dramyn's pleasures. Syrin
knew well their force, and had been in the proper position.  He awoke
me from my stupor with a gentle kiss, his own thicker tongue invading
to caress mine.  From the corner of my eye I watched the minotaur,
like clockwork; heft Dramyn, secure her legs and tail, and fasten her
against the wall in the position I so recently left.  Meanwhile,
Syrin's stroking palm brought to my attention that my flared erection
had not subsided as a result of the plugged climax.
     Syrin stood me up facing Dramyn, my arms bound to my sides and my
legs spread.  He took a full-handed grip on my balls and sidled me
closer, using it to effectively curtail any motions I might attempt as
he stroked my cock along the scales of her inner thighs.  Syrin
gradually rubbed me against her opening and shoved me forward, my
widened cock-head pushing harder and harder against her until she
opened to accommodate it.  Dramyn hissed suddenly, and reeled.  Syrin
rocked me forward and back, thrusting me partially into her while her
head thrashed whiplike.
     Dramyn's neck was almost two feet long, similar to Syrin's, and
overall she stood eight feet.  I, however, was only a little over five
foot tall, though my horn tops seven feet.  All this meant that
standing before Dramyn, only the first few inches of my cock were
engulfed.  My eyes widened as Syrin's talons began to stroke wetly
underneath my tail, and I realized his plan as he partially crouched
behind me.  His oiled cock began in its own familiar way to force me
open and slide into its tight, oft-used sheath, working me open with
his thrusts until his whole length could slide home.  Impaled to the
hilt, I rested partially in Syrin's lap.  He wrapped his arms about me
to hold me in place and rose with a buck of his hips, thrusting the
remainder of my length into Dramyn and crushing me between them.
     Dramyn accepted the stroke tightly, reamed by the unnatural
thickness at the top.  Suddenly, I was pinned between the two dragons,
surrounded by scales green and red covering and sliding over my flesh.
My hooves dangled helplessly as Syrin began to pump his hips, keeping
me locked between he and Dramyn.  Each thrust not only invaded me with
his stroking thickness, but shoved my length powerfully against the
grasp and play of Dramyn's interior.  Syrin rode me hard, screwed me
with all of his strength, using my slave cock as an extension of his
to torture Dramyn with irresistible pleasure.
     Her helpless contractions rose and ebbed; Syrin's neck and hers
coiled above me.  Finally, as I felt the heat of Syrin's chest on my
back and his fire begin to spew into me with the force of his thrusts,
Dramyn's pulsating grip upon my cock coaxed, then threw me over the
edge.  The scales became an sea about me into which I sank unknowing,
surrounded and held yet brutally invaded.  I came to my senses again
only as my climax ended, Syrin weakly thrusting my gushing cock into a
Dramyn slickly overfull with my seed.  We collapsed to the cushions of
the room, and I rested in Syrin's arms.
     Syrin indicated Dramyn's limp, hanging form to the long-awaiting
minotaur.  "Take her down, and she is yours for the rest of the night.
After that time she is free and you are mine, to prevent any reprisals
for your actions."  The minotaur, frighteningly excited from the show,
untied her and easily hefted her over his shoulder into the room of
the bath.  Were Syrin and I not so fatigued we might have heard their
cries throughout the night; but as it was, Syrin merely placed my
muzzle beneath his arm had me sleep beneath and beside him.
     We awoke the next day and retired immediately to the bath; Syrin
ordered his menial servants to clean the bedroom which we had left in
something of a mess.  Syrin was gentler than usual today, smiling
warmly and without teeth.  He was careful in the bath to caress every
part of me, mane and tail and all, a lengthy massage such as he might
do after a particularly hard-won bout in the arena.  He seemed very
at peace with himself, and the mood was infectious.  Afterwards, he
had me oil and rub him, leaving a light gloss; and he took brushes to
me, short-bristled and soft for every inch of my velvet-length fur,
and long and gentle to comb out my mane and tail until they hung
flawlessly.  He buckled on my bright silver bridle, and even polished
my hooves.  Afterwards, Syrin had me stand and turn for him, on the
tile of the bath, and his warm smile grew even warmer.  He bade me
kneel, and he took my head in his hands.
     "Did I not promise you, slave, that if you won the race I would
reward you as never before?  That day has arrived.  Stand."
     I stood, and followed him with my eyes never rising above the
swinging of his tail.  Syrin needed no longer to carry the flickerwhip
to punish my errors.  We passed the arenas and gradually came to more
populated areas, turning heads as we went.  Our fame and our mien
gradually accumulated a following, soon becoming so large as to be a
parade.  Syrin gave me the warning-word, and turned into the gate of a
large shop.  I followed seamlessly, and he led me around to the side
of the building where stood a strangely built small platform and a
hollow metal apparatus.
     A glance from Syrin halted the crowd at the gate, and they fell
silent.  He indicated that I should mount the platform, and so I did.
Once there, Syrin locked lightly padded wooden stocks about both my
hooves, and again just below my knees.  Finally, he brought the third
tightly around my waist.  It looked as if the wooden stocks were
removable from the platform, so as to be specially fitted whenever
necessary; I could think of no other way to acquire such a sculpted
fit.  Syrin took a hold of my right and left legs in turn, attempting
to shake them and move them in their bonds, but to no avail.  From the
waist down, I was more than merely bound.  I was immobilized.
     "In all my many years of life," Syrin began, "there has never
been one about whom I so cared enough to give this gift.  It is a gift
of dragon's fire, and all who see it will know its meaning.  Moreso
even than the collar you wear, it seals you to me, forever."
     Syrin began to breathe fire into the hollow of the metal
apparatus.  Only wisps of smoke exited.  His flame was a thin,
directed, yellow-orange cone, none spilling onto the ground, halting
only when he drew in breath.  Syrin increased his pace until his lungs
pumped swift and steady, belching fire again and again into the
aperture.  At last, he reached in his hand and drew out the
short-handled branding iron.
     He raised it aloft and held it before my face.  The figure at the
tip was a reversed, stylized 'S,' and it wavered, glowing bright
orange, in the radiation of its own heat.  He held and rotated it for
me in the vast silence as it cooled to a cherry red.  I examined the
metal and knew my fate, a quiet smile creeping over my face as I
looked down at my master.   
     Syrin lowered the iron to the side of my left flank and pressed
with the sure strength he had always possessed.  The smell of my own
burnt fur wafted past with the searing pain, continuing as Syrin made
sure the mark and then cleanly pulled away the iron.  It muted slowly
into a weaker throbbing, echoed by the cheers of the thronging crowds.
Syrin released me from the stocks and lifted me down from the
platform, placing an airy gauze bandage over my wound.  I knew I would
be wearing his silver bridle for the next few weeks, while the burn
healed into an indelible scar which I would wear for the rest of my
life.  I cried, enfolded in Syrin's arms, but not from the pain.

     The nightstallion gurgled his last as Syrin and I watched on.
His battered spiritform burst into flame at the side of his left
flank and was consumed into ash.  As it fogged the dreamscape, we
awoke into the familiar bedroom clouded still with lotus fumes.  I
kept the side of my horn on Syrin's throat, cleansing his breathing as
he picked me up, unchained my collar, and carried me from the room.
     Once clear, he unbound me.  I followed him down familiar pathways
to the nearby apartments of V'heress, the small white dragonmage.
Unsurprisingly, we were entering his apartments just as he was leaving
in haste.  Syrin lengthened his stride and I flanked him.
     "You are responsible for the magical security of my apartments,
V'heress.  I seem to have had an intrusion," Syrin said as I blurred
to the next exit, cornering the mage in his audience chamber.  Both I
and Syrin noted that V'heress was wearing the hair of my mane tied
about the base of his finger, as a ring.  It sealed his guilt, for if
he had wished to control me after Syrin's death, he would have to use
it to affect me with his spells.
     V'heress was faced with a difficult choice.  A spell that would
affect Syrin would not affect me, and a spell that would affect me had
to use the hair, and so would not affect Syrin.  He chose me in his
final instant.  My vision dimmed to a haze and I began to swim through
molasses.  I heard him beg with Syrin, and then I heard his arm break,
and then his neck; for actually, there had been no choice left for
V'heress at all.

--- 
Snake Owner's Safety Tip #3: 
      Never, EVER say, "Do da wittle snakie-wakies wanna come out to pway?"
anywhere near their cage.