Noblesse Oblige

Chained by her chubby wrists to the great granite slab perched above the gaping gorge, Princess Imogen was reflecting upon the demands of noblesse oblige. Not for a moment did she entertain doubts that she was doing the right and proper thing, but she had thought that the blue blood that ran in her veins might perhaps have spared her some of the indignities of her ordeal. The golden manacles were not she felt strictly necessary; they chafed rather, and she honestly had no intention of shirking her civic responsibility. Nor did she quite grasp why it was so important for her to be presented, so to speak, unwrapped.

The white ceremonial robe in which she had been garbed for the ascent of the ancient carved steps had been impractical enough, the long hem causing her to trip as the Exarch tugged impatiently at her chains, but at least it might have afforded some protection from the elements. On the coastal strip below the morning mists would be clearing as the fields baked in the July sun, but up here among the crags a cool breeze funnelled down from the col above, making it distinctly nippy. Imogen's pale ample flesh was tinting to a delicate rose as her vessels dilated, while the light hairs that downed the rather stout arms and legs were raised upon goosepimples. Her large, drooping breasts were crowned with nipples that in the chill air protruded from the saucer-like aureoles like the pommels of a pair of basket hilted rapiers. They could, she thought, very easily have someone's eye out. Her only defence against the fearsome sacrifice that awaited her was, it seemed, a pair of fiendishly stiff titty toppers.

The disrobing had been simply humiliating. The Exarch, the oiled curls of his beard glinting like enamel in the dawn light, had unsheathed his hooked dagger and in one slow deliberate action drawn it down the linen cloth, unloosing the swinging breasts and exposing the belly that hung over the thick thatch of fuzz between the sturdy thighs. The freckled-face young sergeant in charge of the detail had not known where to look, but as his men smirked openly at her discomfiture, Imogen could only think indignantly that, had she known she was to be stripped bare and spreadeagled against a sacrificial stone, she would have taken rather more care to watch her weight.

But of course she had not known. The risk had been there of course, or so she thought, but she was just one among many young women in the Kingdom, and Imogen had not been overly concerned. The sacrifice of the occasional virtuous young maid to preserve the security of their crops and herds had seemed an eminently sensible precaution, and when the Exarch had hesitatingly put the proposal to the appalled council, she had swung the day by gamely putting herself forward for the lottery. The odds had seemed reasonable enough. But then her doting father had mucked things up by trying to protect her. Once the rumour came to her ears that her name had been excluded from the draw she had confronted the King. Tearfully the old man confessed. In a rage Imogen had stood before the Exarch in the great vaulted council chamber, and before all the great of the land, her bosom heaving with emotion, she had demanded that she should be allowed to erase her father's error. She would put her self forward for the sacrifice, that none might be in doubt of her honour or her father's justice.

His great bushy brows beetling, the Exarch had looked down thoughtfully upon the princess, bristling with indignant virtue, and with a nod consented; she would be led to her death in the morning. The end of a sleepless vigil had seen the Exarch and his escort come for her before first light, to lead her through the deserted streets and up the winding path to the ancient place of sacrifice, unused in generations. While a firm believer in tradition, the Princess could not help but think that perhaps, upon reflection, some customs were best left unrevived.

The rustle of thousands of leaves sweeping through the valley below shook her from her reverie. Twisting her head as far as her restraints allowed, she strained to peer down the steep tree-sided gorge, but could see nothing. Then the sky darkened above her. She steeled herself to look, and there he was, hanging in the air, the great leathery wings riding the thermals as he hovered with the ease of a kestrel. The yellow eyes with their vertical black pupils gazed down the long snout with the flared nostrils, contemplating the morsel set before it, and the forked purple tongue flicked across the dagger sharp row of teeth. The barrelled chest was a cloth-yard broad and, like the rest of the body, armoured with fish like scales, that glinted and changed colours as they caught the light; the upper limbs, attached to the wings, were of not much more than human length, though tipped with razor sharp claws; the haunches huger than those of a horse rippled with muscle; and between them, above two great wrinkled sacks, protruded a crimson column as long as her father's sceptre, deeply ridged and thickly veined and studded with all manner of fearsome knobs and spurs, its artichoke-shaped tip throbbing white-red like iron drawn from the fire.

Only now did Imogen truly grasp the enormity of the sacrifice being asked of her; wide-eyed she flailed in her chains, each large breast swinging to all points of the compass as she tried hopelessly to free herself. With a thud the baleful creature landed perhaps twenty feet in front of her, and began hobbling awkwardly, half-hopping towards her, the glistening helmet of the evil-looking member seeming to perform a dance in the air as it approached. Averting her gaze Imogen felt a blast of hot air upon her left cheek as if an oven door had opened, then winced as a rough tongue was drawn up along her collarbone and neck, the forked tip tickling her ear. The tongue withdrew only for Imogen to feel its sandpaper like touch on her teat. With a surprising delicacy the strop of purple flesh circled her left breast, flicking out against her belly. The gentle exploration continued, the coarse papillae sampling each inch of bare skin, the pudgey flesh rippling under the purposeful probing.

Feeling flushed despite herself, Imogen began to see a chink of hope. "Good beast", she murmured as each fork of the tongue curled itself about a nipple. "Wonderful beast. What skill you have." The monstrous apparition gazed up at her, the slitted eyes inscrutable. Imogen coughed hesitantly, "I should very much like to please you also."

The beast swung its huge head, the rough tongue slapping against Imogen's breasts like a tawse. She sucked in her breath at the stinging blow, but the pain was quite bearable. Another slap landed on Imogen's belly, then the tongue lashed against each haunch, before returning to the breasts again, and repeating the sequence a further three times, each blow leaving a red welt. The onslaught ended with slaps on the inside of each thigh which had Imogen squealing.

Choking back sobs, Imogen drew herself together. "Oh thank you beast, I did enjoy that." The creature tilted its head quizzically. "I am sure there is so much I could learn from you," she added, and not entirely untruthfully. Obviously he was a foul loathsome worm, but she could not deny to herself that he had succeeded in awakening certain stirrings in her. Imogen had not been much stirred before; when she went riding, the groom tended to rest his hand on her bottom a little longer than strictly necessary when helping her to mount, and of course there was the exhilarating rubbing of the saddle. But on the whole she had been puzzled what all the fuss could be about. She had to admit that her ordeal was proving rather educational, or at least it would be if it was not sure to end in her agonising death.

"Dear beastie, if you were to free my hands I could employ them in your pleasure. Should you not like that?"

To her astonishment the beast laughed, a gravelly guffaw. "And what could you do to please me with those pretty little hands?" it asked in a guttural hiss.

"I could use them," replied Imogen thinking hard, "to stroke your cock." She hoped cock was the right word; she had not much experience of this sort of talk.

"But you don't need your hands to stroke my 'cock'," he seemed to emphasise the word sarcastically. "That is what your cunt is for."

Blushing at the language, Imogen found her shoulders clutched in powerful claws. "Please no," she sobbed.

"Yes, yes," hissed the beast, it monstrous appendage probing against her parts, a hot sticky secretion tingling as it dribbled down her thighs.

"I shall please you in anyway you wish," cried Imogen, biting back her horror at the mailed member. "Only unchain me first that I might give myself to you freely."

With a reptilian smile, the beast ran a claw down the side of her right breast, drawing a bead of blood. "Foolish girl. Do you think if I free you, you shall be able to escape?"

"I should not run." replied Imogen smiling as prettily as her tear blotched face would allow. "I want you to take me. In the... cunt. With your wonderful big... cock." She emphasised the words purposefully, daring his derision. "But first I want to get down on my knees and caress the mighty organ that is going to give my virgin cunt such wonderful pleasure."

The beast gave a snort, licking Imogen's shoulder with flame. Encouraged, Imogen ignored the painful burn. "I want to shower the head of your cock with wet kisses, and hold it in my mouth, tasting it with my tongue, then I want to run my mouth up and down the length of your cock, feeling each ridge and nodule with my tongue and drawing them in with my lips." Sensing the beasts's interest she ploughed on. "And I want to take each of your huge balls into my mouth, sucking on them until I choke." The beast was breathing hard now, wisps of smoke snorting out of the narrowed nostrils. Imogen strained her invention. "Then I want to lick behind your balls and run my tongue slowly up your crack.” Desperately she added, “And then, and then, I'll push the tip of my tongue right into your arsehole..."

"Traitress!" the beast roared, puffs of flame singeing the girl's hair. With that the beast dug his claws remorselessly into her shoulders, and pulled himself against her, his wings encircling her. The monster cock probed past the fleshy thighs, the bulbous head forcing apart her labia, obliging the virgin opening to part before it.

Imogen squealed, "I don't understand," as the huge penis tore through her hymen, inch after painful inch pushing itself into the moist tunnel.

"You know the secret", the beast hissed, thrusting into her. The monstrously thick cock throbbed with an unnatural, agonising heat; her whole body seemed to become suffused with a feverish delirium.

Pain and pleasure coursing her body in alternate waves as the huge, obscenely warty cock thrust back and forth, Imogen still had the presence of mind to ask, "What secret?"

"The secret of the dragon's one vulnerable spot," the beast sneered. And with that the creature's eyes turned backwards in its head, and his cock slid free of her. He staggered for a moment and then collapsed. Behind him was standing the freckle faced sergeant; the sergeant's sword was protruding from the beast's rectum.

"He's pegged it," the sergeant observed laconically. He prodded the corpse with his toe, and to Imogen's horror the still rock hard penis erupted, spurting forth a white hot magma that sizzled as it dissolved the rocks on which it fell. Imogen shuddered. As the last drop of superheated semen trickled out, to her astonishment the body before her began to transmogrify. The mighty chest and haunches shrank to human size, the claws retracted to become nails and the scales dark body hair; the wings drew into the body, and the long snout shortened to a hook nose beneath dark bushy brows. The Exarch!

Collecting herself, Imogen noticed that the sergeant's trousers were around his knees and his cock erect. "I thought that was you in the bushes," she observed. The sergeant had the decency to blush. "You may free me now," she said imperiously.

The sergeant did not move, and nor did his erection show any sign of subsiding. With a lick of his lips, the young man stroked the engorged member. Oh well, she thought, at least this one is of a more manageable size; rather cute in fact. "I don't suppose you would like to untie me first?" she asked.

The sergeant shook his head. "Very well," sighed Imogen, "but what is it with you men and chains?"

The End