Dragon sweat

Chelinde was standing behind the straw pile, visible from the hips up and wearing nothing but her necklace of painted wooden beads. Her expression was one of pure mischief as she rubbed a piece of soap over and around her large tits, showing particular care to the dark plums on the tip of each wet and wobbling mound. Behind her was Caelia, not even wearing as much as a necklace, and grinning at Hal as if he were the castle fool. He stepped towards the straw, mouth agape, hardly knowing what he was doing. Caelia laughed in delight at his obvious stupefaction, then reached around Chelinde and began massaging the trails of soap on her sister’s breasts into a lather. The front of Hal’s breeches jerked upwards as quickly as a disturbed viper rousing itself. Both of the girls giggled anew at the visible proof of their effect on him.

“Come on, Hal, time for your wash as well,” Chelinde called out. “We’ve water enough left for you.”

He stumbled forward, as dazed as a man hit with a club in a tavern brawl. The more he tried to undo his jerkin, the bigger the toggles seemed to get and the smaller the leather loops. But when he was behind the straw pile the girls crowded close to him, each taking on the task of loosening his clothing. And neither of them wearing a stitch.

The smell of the soap on their warm bodies was the finest aroma ever in his life’s experience, even better than roasting pork. And when he found four pillows pressed against him, four pillows of white flesh sprinkled with freckles, pillows softer than any on the King’s bed, he nearly fainted.

The sisters had no more interest in teasing Hal’s weaknesses though, only in exposing his strength. Each of them held onto a sleeve of his jerkin as they removed the dirty garment, and then Caelia pulled his shirt out of his breeches as Chelinde undid the wooden buttons at the neck.

“Ha, you’re too tall for us, Hal,” she chuckled, her breath caressing the hair at the base of his throat. “Kneel down, dragon master.”

He would have jumped into a bonfire if they’d asked if of him — even into the moat, perhaps. On his knees in the damp sand, he held up his arms again and his shirt was lifted high and over his hands. Directly in front of his face as this happened was Chelinde’s loins and the blonde patch of hair set above her sweet cleft. Hal pushed his head forward and his tongue further forward yet, the tip of it not quite reaching its target as Chelinde laughed and retreated half a step, keeping her hands clasped around Hal’s raised wrists.

“La, Caelia, this monster is as fearsome as his dragon. He wants to eat me!”

Her sister squealed in mock alarm: “Odin save us! What are we to do?”

“Never fear. I shall sacrifice myself to save you. Hal, lie down and roll over on your back.”

He did so, stared up with bulging eyes and saw Chelinde appear over his face, each of her feet almost touching one of his ears, her smooth legs and exquisitely shaped thighs wide apart, right up to the furrow of the delectable man trap between them. She brushed some strands of loose hair away from her knowing eyes, then looked along the length of his body to Caelia.

“Sister, while I hold him down, do you remove his breeches and wash him most thoroughly.”

Caelia giggled: “How can you hold down such a beast?”

“Watch and learn.”

Chelinde lowered herself, putting a knee where a foot had been before. The entrance to the promised land filled Hal’s gaze, and then nuzzled against his lips. He snorted in delight and tongued away her hot flesh like a cat at spilt milk. The fat bulges of Chelinde’s rump quivered in response, pressing the join between them down onto his nose, until he was compelled to put a hand under each buttock to help support her weight.

It was something like death Hal decided, in some far corner of his mind which still had a measure of calm. The last rites of pre-burial washing and cleaning being performed on the body he could no longer see but still feel. Half suffocated, blood pounding in his ears, and above him the moans and lamentations of a grieving female. Well, moans anyway, and warm water splashing over him, and a feeling beyond compare of four busy little hands rubbing soap all over his grimy skin.

They went everywhere they could reach: chest, stomach, legs, feet, Caelia washing his soles as Chelinde bounced up and down on his face, scratching at his flanks with her finger nails. Until all that was left uncleaned was his jutting cock and tight drawn balls. Then the ladle was emptied over his parts, soap swiftly applied by twenty vigorously active fingers and thumbs, all of them seemingly rubbing his foreskin simultaneously and Hal was writhing as if he was on hot coals as Chelinde rode on the tip of his tongue. She let out a great cry, and another, and another, and then a fearful scream. Suddenly the girl off his face, sprawled on the sand, knocked there by a push of the dragon’s head, and Josephine’s eyes were staring into Hal’s, seeking assurance that nothing was amiss. A string of filthy curses came from Chelinde’s mouth in her anger at being interrupted during her moments of satisfaction.

“Damn your eyes, be quiet, girl. You’ll upset Josephine. Patience for only a few minutes more, my lady, and we’ll fly.”

“Damn you and damn your vile dragon,” snapped Chelinde in a spat of temper. “Get down on your hands and knees, Hal, and seek my forgiveness.”

Hal knew better than to argue with any girl gripped with the sort of passion that Chelinde was in right then. He did as she bade him and was instantly gripped with passion himself as she knelt behind him, put a hand between his legs and rubbed his cock as if he were a stallion being put to a mare.

“Wash his back, Caelia.”

“Wash his back yourself. I want to hold him by the tupper — ’tis my turn.”

Chelinde laughed: “So be it, sister. Here, get down by his side and take whatever you may seize on.”

Caelia crouched down, put her hand underneath Hal and caught hold of his shaft. She stayed there, holding him like a groom holding a waiting horse as Chelinde poured more water over Hal and rubbed soap over his back and legs. The effect of the dragon sweat was passing into his own body now, and every time the younger sister moved her tightened fist up and down his cock he scratched out holes in the wet sand and wailed. Caelia was delighted with the power she had found in the palm of her strong little hand.

“Ah, Hal, you men may be masters most of the time, but not always, hey?”

Again, in that faraway corner of his mind, Hal wondered at being called a man. Surely he was still only a boy in age, even if he had a man’s lusts? But whatever he was, this was no time to think about it.

“Let me go, Caelia. ‘Tis time we flew.”

“Rinse him off, Chelinde.”

The older girl emptied the two buckets over Hal’s back. He shook the water from his hair like a dog emerging from a stream, then staggered to his feet.

“Bring your clothes.”

He grabbed up his own, ran to the side of the dragon, pulled out the side of the bottom net and dropped his filthy rags into it. Then he took Chelinde’s clothes from her hand and did the same with them, followed by Caelia’s.

“Chelinde, show Caelia how to get into the net.”

The naked girl moved against the dragon’s side, in front of the left wing root. She reached up and seized handholds in the top net, put her feet into mesh holes on the bottom net and scrambled upwards with the nimbleness of a squirrel climbing a tree. As soon as her feet were at the upper edge of the lower net Hal bit her lightly on each side of her rump. Chelinde stopped moving and hung giggling as Hal pulled out all the slack in the net and guided her feet into the narrow gap. His hands reached up, underneath her arms and helped her to slip down between the belly net and Josephine’s smooth scaled side. Once inside the net she lay on her back on top of the row of sheepskins, her face and teats scarcely half an arrow’s length below the belly of the beast.

“Caelia, do you still want to fly?

The pink and swaying girl almost elbowed him aside in her eagerness to follow her sister into the net. Only this time, after Hal had nipped at her buttocks like a playful dog, he left her in place as he put his hand up between her legs and rubbed his top finger along the outer lips of her maidenhood. Caelia’s knuckles went white as she wriggled around with the feverish energy of a landed fish.

“Hal! Hal!” she cried out.

A hand came out of one of the net holes. It squeezed Hal’s rod, then rubbed it.

“What are you doing with my vexing sister, Hal?”

“Why, nothing but returning her a favor and showing that master-is-as-master-does. Down you come, Caelia.”

In a few seconds the belly net was full of girls. Full enough for Hal’s modest wants anyway, as overwhelming as they were. He rushed towards the door, Josephine following behind on tipclaw, with squeals coming from beneath her as the slung net bumped on the ground a time or two. Hal removed the bar from the doors, pushed one open a head’s width and then looked out and about.

There was no one else in sight. Only the glint of a polished helmet on top of the Keep where a sentry stood guard. Hal partially opened the doors, but not much, being careful to keep his nakedness from view. Josephine needed little enough room to slip through anyway, she was as lithe as a stoat. When he returned to her side flickers of purple along it showed her eagerness to lift off.

With the skill of practice he hauled himself up, wriggled his toes and then his feet into the belly net and let himself down handhold by handhold. But as his waist slipped past the top of the net a warm palm moved up the inside of his left leg and then held his cock. Something damp and warm slithered around his cock’s helm as if it were testing the taste of it. Probably it tasted of soap, but whether or not, the flavor must have been deemed acceptable, for a mouth followed the tongue. A mouth that spread itself around the helm and lower yet, sucking at him fiercely. Hal gasped and clenched at the top net. Somebody was paying him back in his own coin, and he had little doubt who it was. He could see a string of muscles behind Josephine’s left front leg tighten as the dragon trembled with eagerness to fly. Trying to tell her to wait further was like ordering a dog to sit still as a coney ran past.

“Let go, you silly bitch!”

Josephine took a step, a leap, a bound, a girl’s voice squealed, his cock was unmouthed and unhanded, he slipped into the net, down and sideways, on top of warm and trembling bodies which hung onto him as if they were possessed, the net flexed upwards as Josephine cleared the hut and leapt into the air, his head hit the dragon’s belly, a curly haired head bounced against his chest in turn, a soft belly rising up to slam against his cock and balls, a groan was forced out of his mouth by pain, the great wings lashed at the air.

Then, as suddenly as the dragon had first lunged forward, the net steadied and swung as gently as a hammock slung between two oak trees. A breeze blew in along the dragon’s belly like water flowing down a river bed, the great wings appearing and disappearing on either side in upward and downward beats. As they swung down into view with the regularity of sails turning on a windmill harder gusts of wind simultaneously slapped into the net from either side, the wind waves clapping together as though applauding Josephine’s efforts.

Staring down, Hal could see that the beastling’s boasts about being able to lift the weight of all three passengers seemed well founded. Already the ground was as far underneath him as it would be if he was standing on the castle ramparts. Both of the girls were squealing in fear and delight and Hal cursed them as the dragon passed over the town huts: men, women and children alike stopping and lifting their faces upwards like frogs surprised in a well.

“Be quiet, you silly bitches, they can hear you down there,” he snarled, trying to quiet his passengers as quietly as he could himself but probably still too loudly.

Hal knew well enough how easy it was to hear even the smallest sounds from the ground when flying low above it, and also, he supposed, that the opposite was true. The only small mercy was that Josephine was still beating her wings, so perhaps the voices had been muffled by their drum roll. At least none of the staring eyes below could pierce the bottom covering of sheepskins which he and the girls were lying on.

But worse was to come as Josephine’s wings stiffened and she began turning in a tight circle as if chasing her own tail, one wing tip high up, the other held low, akin to a man stooping sideways with a yoke across his shoulders to hook on a bucket. As Hal stared along the underside of the lowered wing the thatched roofs it pointed at seemed to turn in circles as though they were on a giant potter’s wheel.

From some of them the smoke of cooking fires was still rising from holes in the roofs, roofs still so close below he could not only see the smoke but taste it in his mouth as well. Then the dragon’s shadow was moving away from the huts as Josephine kept dancing widdershins in the air, slowly getting higher, and moving just as slowly across the ground as she followed the air currents — back towards the castle.

There was nothing Hal could do about that. A dragon could not be ridden like a horse, nor yet guided like one. To even try to tell the beastling how to lift herself into the sky would be like a blind rider trying to follow a path by pulling on his mount’s reins. Josephine alone decided when to circle and when to fly straight — and only when she was high and flying straight could he seek to alter her destination by tapping on her belly on the side he wished her to favor. Down here amongst the sparrows she had no interest at all in his desires, she flew entirely according to her own mind. And whatever it was that was going on in the dragon’s mind, at least he she wasn’t being distracted as much as he was, because Chelinde and Caelia had already become used enough to flying for the dragon sweat to regain its power over them.

One of the girls still partway underneath him had wriggled her way down to his loins and was forcing him to lift himself up by nipping at his sides with her sharp nails. Her tongue had started licking around his balls as her sister had begun licking Hal’s feet.

Again that distant part of his mind which was still unaffected by the dragon’s sweat and by Chelinde and Caelia’s enticements warned Hal to stay low lest the girls were seen by the sentry atop the Keep. It was sensible advice and as capable of holding back his dragon sweat raised lusts as a toddler was of penning a mad bull. He rolled over onto his back and Caelia was dragging herself on top of him in an instant.


Her mouth was against his, her tongue into his throat like an hedge hog sucking out an egg, the pressure of her body forcing him deeper into the sheepskins as she more than filled the gap between him and Josephine. Odin, keep those lashings secure! Caelia’s tits were so squashed between his body and hers that he could feel their softness spilling out onto his arms, yet even so she writhed against him as if she was a mating snake, his straining cock rubbing uselessly against the girl’s cleft. And then a hand took hold of it and did his work for him — Chelinde was guiding him into her sister’s cunt.

Hal took his mouth from Caelia’s, gasped, and felt himself slide all the way inside her, every tiny muscle clamped around his cock holding him tightly and rubbing against his flesh as though it was plunged into a sack of baby eels. The boy shouted out his delight as Caelia squealed and jerked herself against him even more frantically. One of the sheepskins was pulled aside and Hal saw they were a little higher than the Keep but hardly more than a short arrow shot from it and the sentry.

He was a tall, thin man with his hand shielding his eyes and the pinhead speck of reason still left in Hal’s head cursed as it recognized the figure and stance of Will Spearshaker, a long limbed, long sighted and long tongued fellow who delighted in spreading gossip around the town. He was a particular nuisance because the less facts there were for his stories, the more imaginative he became in devising them. Thank the Gods nobody had ever taught him to write or he would have been dangerous.

But all this trivia went out of Hal’s thoughts as Caelia’s cunt caressed him even more tightly than Chelinde’s ever had. Then all his thoughts turned into fading vapor when Chelinde’s fingernails scratched underneath his balls and as Caelia screamed triumphantly, knowing she was no longer a girl. The sweat from her face was falling on his, her eyes were wide open, perhaps seeing him, perhaps not, and her hands were clenched into the netting above his shoulders as she slapped her belly against his. Then he knew his seed was spurting and he clutched Caelia’s shoulders as his loosed himself into her like an overdrawn long bow. Another scream and her mouth was by the side of his throat, biting into him as every muscle in her body went as rigid as Josephine’s wings. Eventually she gave out one last cry, sprawling on top of him as if she was a doe exhausted unto death by hunting dogs.

The net swayed and groaned itself in the lashings as Josephine’s wings leveled and she flew towards the mountains. The advantage in height she had gained was being quickly whittled down as the rising ground came closer. Hal eyed the mass of approaching treetops with fear but also with great pleasure. Pleasure, of course, from what had happened between Caelia and himself, and how she had been dealt with so satisfactorily, but perhaps even more purely distilled pleasure from simply being alive, in breathing the pure, pine scented air and seeing the world in a way no other mortal could. Happiness seemed to be springing from the depths of his soul as naturally as the streams he could see below were trickling down the hill sides. Then Josephine’s left wing dipped and she was turning and rising once more, at the same moment as Chelinde began licking the bottom of his feet again.

Surely, he thought, surely nothing could spoil an experience like this?

Unfortunately for Hal, the answer was yes, something could spoil his flight, his day, and his life and it was coming towards him from over those blue-misted mountain peaks which made a perfect backdrop to the summer’s day scenery of Giant’s Pass.

A golden eagle circling amidst the highest of the peaks was the first to see the interloper. As black as a raven’s wing, flying as fast as a diving hawk, zig zagging between barren rock outcrops as if for the pleasure of the twists and turns, now rapidly growing in size until it could be seen to be as big as the eagle itself. The king of birds was also emperor of the mountains, a fierce eyed defender of its territory from anything which flew, even if it was something unlike anything in the eagle’s previous experience. The giant bird prepared to stoop down in challenge. Prepared, then hesitated. Unlike a great many other monarchs it had very sharp eyes and a well developed sense of preservation. And there were things about this strange black creature which suggested that it was much better left alone.

The eagle had no words to shape its feelings exactly. But had it possessed them, ‘evil’ and ‘dangerous’ would have been the ones which would have been uppermost in describing them. Strongly coupled with another feeling that things which managed to fly without wings were an abomination to nature.

So the majestic bird decided on an alternative course of action. It looked away from the black thing and decided not to look back until there was every chance that it had flown past and disappeared. It even ignored the distant whine of the passing broomstick. Which in some ways it was a pity, for it was masterpiece of its kind.

To operate a witch’s broomstick requires many years of training in both symbolic magic and in a deep understanding and continuous mental control of extremely complicated algorithms designed to keep reality at bay. There is no way in which any outsiders can learn such algorithms unless they become practicing witches or politicians.

The broomstick itself must remain in some way reminiscent of its origins, but can be much modified to suit the owner’s personality. This one had the pillion seat sized bundle of twigs but a broom handle much cut down in length. A special edition H-D (Hag-Driven) chopper with customized high rise crossbar handles carved from a hangman’s gibbet.

This brush was being flown solo, but carried a bed roll and two massive leather saddlebags with brass studs marking out the owner’s initials: ‘MlF’. The very same letters which Sir Tristan had indicated so discreetly to the Master-At-Arms. It would not be true to say that the witch’s name was well known to her friends, for she had none. But her many enemies knew all about Morgana le Fay. And perhaps the greatest reason for her multitude of ill-wishers was evident in the words marked out with more brass studs on the back of her leather jacket: “COVEN CHEATERS”.

It was Morgana’s dykie gang which had led a revolt against the established order of witch precedence in their own coven. A revolt which had attracted many supporters: promotion is slow in an organization where senior members live many hundreds of years. But in the final battle tradition and numbers had won and most of Morgana’s faction were now settling down to even more discontented lifestyles as bats and mice. Morgana alone had fought clear and was realist enough to know that a lot of melted snow would have to flow down these mountains before she could begin another campaign in the witch wars. In the meantime she would amuse herself by making life as miserable as possible for as many mortals as possible, especially the male ones.

The body she had handcrafted for the purpose was ideally suited to its task, designed to attract the absolute best of that breed to her like hounds smelling blood. After all, there was no longer any point in bothering with female lovers if she was going into a world run by men. But Morgana was far too clever simply to make herself look beautiful. Beautiful she was indeed, but that was only a part of the presentation, for everything about her newly minted body was a walking challenge to the male ego. And never had she encountered male egos as inflated as those dressed in armor, wielding swords and calling themselves knights.

These were men who had never known anything but submissive damsels dressed in hampering gowns, silly hats and wimples. Women brought up from birth to believe themselves as something rather less important to men than horses or hounds. Women who knew — knew absolutely — they existed only to serve, whether God as nuns, or their men as child carriers and domestic slaves. This was the state of the world, and at the first sight of Morgana the men who ruled it were dumbfounded. The largest of them stood lower than the top of her vivid red hair, none of their shoulders were as wide as hers, and the sight of her tightly cut leather jacket and breeches dropped every jaw. Firstly, that any woman would dare to dress in such style and, secondly, because she had created for herself a figure which could lure a saint down from out of a stained glass window.

Every one of those proud knights was scandalized and outraged at Morgana’s dress, her presence, her style, her insolent manner of speech and — above all — because of her powers. Easy enough to accuse an harmless old woman of being a witch and pass a pleasant afternoon dunking her in a cesspit or rolling her through the streets in a spike lined barrel. But a real witch, a witch who could knock down a war horse with one punch, or tie a man’s entrails into knots without even touching him, well, that was a curse of a different color. So the knights muttered in anger and, deprived of the use of their swords, turned to the only other weapons they could think of to conquer an overly proud woman who challenged all their beliefs.

It was a game which Morgana delighted in playing. Any man who was good looking enough was welcome to share her bed and if he satisfied her, he was allowed to walk — or stagger — away from the tournament. There were few such winners though, and nailed along her broomstick handle were a growing collection of small shriveled objects which had once been the most treasured possessions of fiercely proud knights who had jousted with her: jousted, but not satisfied, and had forfeited their manhoods as the price of disappointing Morgana le Fay. Not for nothing had Morgana carefully studied the standard treatise on witch-mortal relationships, “The Male Eunuch And How To Make Him Into One.”

Over the mountains but very far from over the hill, Morgana dipped the nose of her customised broom and gathered speed in the direction of Giant’s Pass Castle. She knew a lot about many things. What she didn’t know were how the fates were chuckling at the rendezvous they’d appointed for her.

Nor were the fates alone in chuckling. Hal was as near to heaven as he ever expected to be whilst still breathing, as far above his normal stinking life as a privy emptier as the King was above him. The King! Hal wouldn’t have changed places with the Emperor. The trees which had seemed so close had shrunk to the size of porcupine quills, the rushing mountain streams to silvery snail tracks. The entire length of Giant’s Pass was his to look at in a single leisurely glance from over Chelinde’s right shoulder as he thrust his cock into her with equal leisure.

With one sister already shagged he was now calm and relaxed enough to spin out the task of giving the other long, steady strokes that had Chelinde sobbing in gratitude. Not that Hal wasn’t grateful in his turn to Caelia for the way she was busily licking his balls as he fucked her sister. It was exactly the kind of family support which helped families grow.

Hal changed his position slightly, grunting as he found a new angle at which to plunge into Chelinde’s welcoming loins. Now he was looking over her left shoulder and could see the dragon’s midday shadow almost directly below, skimming over cultivated fields as Josephine glided along the line of the valley. A minute more and she would be directly over the castle. A vision came into Hal’s mind’s eye, a vision in glorious detail, a vision of that bastard of a Master-At-Arms shouting and bullying everybody in sight, and totally unaware that two of his daughters were being fucked directly above his head by one of the Shitbucket clan!

So inspired was Hal by the thought that he suddenly found himself on the short strokes, the net flexing like a rope bridge underneath a galloping horse and heaving Chelinde back up against him until his own back was thumping against Josephine’s scales. Like a village dance fiddler Caelia instantly changed her own timing to meet Hal’s new pace, licking him feverishly and her fingers scratching at his rump.

“Pull out and put down!”

The movement in the net instantly stopped, except for the momentum left in the net. Three heads flicked over in gaping disbelief. Hal’s brain simply refused to accept what he was seeing, a tall man in tight fitting leather clothes with long black hair streaming back from underneath a silvery helmet decorated with wings. Then Hal saw the arched eyebrows, the glittering eyes, the perfection of nose and mouth and knew he was looking at a woman — he knew it even before his eyes were seeing the massive curves of her breasts. A woman on what was a broom, as strange a broom as could be imagined but a broom, flying along as though it had every right to be in the sky with all the creatures which Odin had given a home there. A witch! A real witch, a witch beautiful beyond words and so close to him he could see the very dimple in her chin.

“Put down!”

She appeared angry, her eyes apparently aimed directly at Hal. One of her hands jerked down towards the ground, as though indicating that she wanted Josephine to land. She also seemed to be having trouble flying one handed, wobbling from side to side, the handle of the brush gradually lifting higher as though it was uncomfortable at the dragon’s slower pace. Hal had another sudden vision, of an accidental collision between Josephine and the witch. The dragon’s wing might be damaged, or the net torn. He suddenly realized he was more terrified of the death drop below than of anything else, even a flying sorceress.

“Fuck off, you stupid witch!”

It was from there that things went very wrong very quickly. The witch aimed her hand at Hal with fingers extended. A flicker of light showed around them like a glimpse of summer lightning and Hal was writhing in agony, as if a thousand red hot needles were jabbing all over his body. And as he screamed he heard the girls screaming too. And Hal also heard Josephine bellow in pain.

Witches travel a lot on broomsticks but rarely use them as fighting platforms. Which is understandable. Just persuading a broomstick to fly from A to B with U on it is hard work enough, without trying to make the task more difficult by encouraging other broom jockeys to knock you off what is a pretty precarious

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