Dragonel Read online

  Dragonel

  Tiegan Clyne

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living, dead, or undead, events, places or names is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or transferred in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the authors. Uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without a permission of the authors is illegal and punishable by law.

  Text copyright © 2019 Tiegan Clyne

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover Design by Mayflower Design Studios

  Chapter One

  He drifted into consciousness in fits and starts, his head throbbing. He was dimly aware that something was wrong, but he could not put his finger on what it was. He could remember nothing about how he got here, where “here” was, or even what had made his head hurt so badly. His jaws ached, and he realized that he had something hard between his teeth. He tried to push it out with his tongue, but it was secured somehow and would not move.

  As his head began to clear, he tried to open his eyes, but he was tightly blindfolded. He tried to reach for his face, but his motion was stopped before it could start. That was when he became aware of the shackles.

  He was suspended face-down by multiple thick straps of leather around his arms, legs and torso. His body was being held in a spread-eagle position, as if he was a mighty bird soaring over some dark and unseen landscape. He was cold and wet, and the more he became aware of his situation, the more he was also afraid.

  He heard a distant electronic sound, not quite a beep, and then the scraping of metal on cement. The sound of soft footfalls reached him, as if someone was walking in soft-soled boots. In his disorientation, he could not determine where the noise was coming from. He tried to lift his head, but the motion was halted by a stiff rod attached to the back of his blindfold, immobilizing his neck.

  A man’s leather-gloved hand fell onto his thigh, squeezing the muscle between two of the leather straps that held him suspended. “You’re waking up.” His captor sounded pleased with the situation, and it made him shudder. “You’ve been a very bad boy. We almost didn’t catch you this time. Do you remember running?”

  He couldn’t have answered if he’d tried, and he suspected that the question was purely rhetorical. He stayed still and held his silence.

  The hand on his leg squeezed once more, and he realized that he was naked in his bindings. His private parts dangled in midair, cold and exposed. He flushed with sudden shame, and his captor chuckled.

  “Well, no matter. You will remember your transgressions in time... and you will learn the price of disobedience.” There was the sound of retreating footsteps, and then everything was silent again.

  He either passed out or fell asleep; he wasn’t sure which. When he became conscious again, he was lying on his back on a canvas cot. He was still blindfolded, and he was still cold and naked, but he was no longer wet. He was bound with restraints at his wrists and ankles. His hands were over his head and resting on the cot’s pillow, his arms flat on the mattress. His shoulders were sore from holding that position for too long. His head was still pounding, a constant throb that made his whole body ache. His hips were almost at the bottom of the bed and his legs were spread wide so that his knees were bent, and his feet were flat on the cold concrete floor.

  The man had said he’d been running. Running from what? Running where? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even remember his own name. The only memory he had was of being suspended from the ceiling. He tried to bring his hands down, but the shackles were tight, keeping him immobilized. He didn’t understand what was happening. Fear and frustration roiled in his stomach.

  With his eyes still blinkered and his body confined, he was reduced to the senses of hearing and smell. He listened hard, but the only sound he heard was his own breathing. He was no longer gagged, which was a small blessing, but his lips were dry, and when he tried to lick them to assuage the discomfort, his tongue was just as arid. The place he was in smelled of concrete and dirt, with a musty undertone that made him think of basements or storm cellars.

  A glimmer of a memory rose in him, the barest suggestion of something that had happened in the time before now, but it shattered and spun away before he could see it. Something about storms. Something about wind and rain and fear.

  Fear was beginning to look like something of a constant.

  He lay that way for hours, or possibly days. He drifted in and out of consciousness, his head swimming and muddy. On the fifth awakening, his mind felt somewhat sharper, and he heard someone approaching. He turned his head toward the sound.

  A door latch opened, and then there was the metal-on-concrete scraping sound that he remembered from his first visitor. The steps that approached were faster than the man’s had been, with the telltale click of high heels. He smelled the light floral scent of cologne or perfumed soap. This visitor was a woman.

  She leaned over him, and he felt a needle sliding into a vein in his left forearm, injecting something that burned. She pulled the needle back out and left the room again.

  He waited while the burning subsided, expecting some sort of reaction to whatever she had put into him. Nothing happened, at least not at first. Then he began to feel heat spreading through his body, a tingling sensation that pulsed with every beat of his heart. He began to sweat. The heat gathered in the pit of his stomach, then moved lower. He felt his sex hardening and rising to stab into the air above his hips. Need washed through him, and he struggled with his bonds. Disappointingly, they held.

  The drug-induced desire pounded through him, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He could feel his flesh vibrating with it, making him ache for release. He found himself squirming on the cot, barely able to move, but desperate to find some way to relieve the pressure in his body. He needed an orgasm like he’d never needed anything else. He was panting with the pain of it when the door opened again, and he flushed in shame to be discovered in such a state. Hands in latex gloves took hold of him and roughly attached something to the tip of his sex. It was warm and plastic, whatever it was, and lightly lubricated. It extended down his shaft, nudging against his balls. A rolling cart was brought into the room, and the person working on him began attaching wires and hoses to the sleeve around his cock. The hoses were then attached to a machine on the cart, which beeped to signal successful connection, and the jostling sent a rush of pleasure crashing through him.

  He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry, and he could make no sound. He could only moan, which made his tormentor chuckle. It was a man’s voice.

  The gloved hand returned, slick with lubricant. Without preamble, two fingers were pressed inside his anus, reaching as deep as they could, pushing insistently against a spot within him that made him shake. There was a click from the machine, and then the sleeve over his cock began to squeeze in rhythmic contractions, milking him with an inexorable and absolutely precise rhythm. He writhed in pleasure and dismay, trying to dislodge the probing digits, but every move seemed to bring a new torment of unwanted physical delight. His bonds held him too securely, and for his efforts, he was rewarded by those fingers moving deeper and faster, making white stars erupt behind his closed eyelids.

  He did not last long. The physical ecstasy was too complete. With a broken sob,
he climaxed, and his semen was sucked away into the machine on the cart. After his captor was certain he had given everything he could, the fingers in his anus pulled away and the suction was turned off. The man went to the machine, investigating what he had produced, and he was left to catch his breath and slow his heart.

  If he had hoped that the experience would now be over, he was disappointed. He did not go soft, and the need for more thundered through him still. The machine was merciless, and so was his captor. The probing fingers returned, and they continued to thrust in and out of his body, rubbing the nub inside of him. The machine began to suck again, and his spent member quivered back to life despite its extreme post-orgasmic sensitivity. He groaned in pained protest, but his complaint fell on deaf ears. The man with the fingers in his ass only doubled his efforts, moving hard and fast, and with his other hand, he pinched and twisted the hard buds on his chest, tormenting his nipples, too.

  The whole process was repeated three more times. With every forced orgasm, with every climax that he both fought for and against, he lost another shred of dignity. He was shattered when the machine was finally turned off for the last time. The fingers pulled out of him, and then a man standing by the door spoke. It was the same man who had taunted him before.

  “We have ways of getting you to give us what we want.”

  The machine was disconnected, he was roughly cleansed with a plastic cloth, and then he was left alone again.

  Hours later, when his body had once again become quiescent and the drug had run its course, the door opened, and he received another unwanted visitor. This one entered with soft-soled shoes and a cart that rattled as it rolled closer. He tensed, fearing the return of the machine.

  Someone sat beside him on the cot, and then a warm, wet cloth began to wash his sweat away. The hands holding the cloth were small and gentle, and despite his humiliation, he was grateful for the kindness.

  “You shouldn’t have resisted them,” a woman said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “The Countess is very cruel when she’s defied.”

  She washed his chest and abdomen, the water pooling in the hollows between his muscles. With a swipe of the cloth, she wiped it away. She began to wash his arms.

  “Your lips are chapped. Are you thirsty?”

  He nodded.

  The woman left the room, then came back to sit beside him again. She gently put an ice chip into his mouth, and he pressed it to his palate with his tongue. It melted immediately, granting him a few droplets of blessed moisture. She gave him a little more ice, then returned to washing him.

  She finished with the innocuous parts, then changed cloths and turned her attention to the area between his legs. He flushed with shame as she wiped away the lingering remnants of lubricant still clinging to his puckered opening. He turned his head away and shuddered.

  The woman who was attending him mistook his shudder of revulsion for something else, and she said, “I’ll get you a blanket. They wouldn’t want you to freeze.”

  She rose, and before she could leave, he finally found his voice. “Who…?”

  “Who are they?” she guessed. “They’re the Countess’ Privy Council.”

  He shook his head. “Who am I?” Silence fell heavily, and he could feel her staring at him. He repeated his question. “Who am I?”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  The words hurt him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Despite his efforts to conceal his despair, a tear rolled free of his eyelashes to be absorbed by the blindfold. The woman left the room, only to return a moment later with the promised blanket. She put it over his body, covering his nakedness and tucking it in around him as if he were a child.

  She sat beside him again, and after a long moment, she removed his blindfold. The light from the overhead fixture was blazing, and he winced. He squinted up at her, and she leaned closer, blocking some of the glare. The brightness of the room and his difficulty focusing made her a nimbus-crowned dark shape hovering over him. She fed him the rest of the ice, and he began to feel less parched.

  “Can I do anything else for you?” she asked kindly.

  “Untie me.”

  “I can’t do that. I’m sorry.” She brushed a hand through his hair, then pulled back as if she had transgressed. Perhaps she had. “They will be coming back soon. Rest while you can.”

  Hours passed. The lights stayed on, burning brightly enough that he almost wished he could have the blindfold back. Somehow, he managed to sleep.

  He woke to the door scraping open, and this time he could turn his head and see who was approaching. A man in a military uniform came in, all black wool and gleaming buttons. His boots were highly polished black leather, but with rubber soles. He wore black leather gloves and a peaked cap emblazoned with a silver eagle insignia. He stopped when he saw the blanket over his body and the blindfold lying on the floor. His face folded in rage and disgust.

  “Who comforted you?” he asked.

  Behind the man, an orderly rolled in a machine studded with hoses and a plastic-encased sleeve. He closed his eyes and turned away.

  The uniformed man grabbed the blanket and ripped it away from him, exposing him to the cold once more. One leather-gloved hand grabbed his jaw and forced him to meet his gaze. The officer’s eyes were an icy blue, barely more than a shadow in the white. They were unnerving.

  “Who comforted you?” he repeated.

  He kept his silence. The officer backhanded him, splitting his lip, then struck him a second time. The officer raised his hand again, but this time he stopped himself and turned away, grimacing. He saw a flash of something in the officer’s face, something familiar, but then it was gone, and the memory it had almost brought up dissolved into unrecoverable smoke.

  The officer stormed toward the door, commanding the orderly, “Keep it up until he begs you to stop. Make it as painful as possible. Use the electrodes if you must. Suck him dry.”

  “Yes, Lord Ashmar.”

  “And put that blindfold back on. I can’t stand his eyes.”

  The orderly came forward with a hypodermic needle filled with something blue. He jabbed it into his arm, and the burning heat returned. He whimpered in the back of his throat in spite of himself. The last thing he saw was the orderly’s lascivious grin as he put the blindfold back into place.

  The sleeve was put onto him again as before, and before the drug had even taken effect, the orderly set the machine’s suction in motion. He heard a spurting sound and assumed that the orderly had applied lubricant to his hand again, but he soon learned that his assumption was wrong. Something hard and painfully thick was forced deep inside him, deeper than the man’s fingers had been able to go. Electric shocks sparked from the plug, and he cried out in surprise and pain. His body twitched in response, and then the electricity was turned off. The plug remained.

  Hours of misery passed. The orderly was true to his instructions to inflict as much pain as possible. He writhed in his shackles, trying hopelessly to escape the machine and the thick probe that had been inserted into him. The orderly fucked him with the probe while the sleeve did its duty, and orgasm after orgasm was compelled from his body. When he thought he had run dry, the probe was pushed back in as far as it would go, and the electrodes snapped back to life. He bucked his hips, his body spasming around the intrusion, and when he climaxed again, he openly wept. As a point of honor - the only one he had left - he refused to beg for the torment to stop.

  When his body could give no more and the orderly finally disconnected the machine, he asked in a hushed whisper, “Why are you doing this?”

  “Countess’s orders,” the orderly answered casually. “You refused to breed when you were told, so she’s taking the choice away from you.” His mouth dropped open in shock, and his tormentor chuckled. “You should just learn to enjoy it. I know people who would pay good money to be milked this way.”

  “Sick…”

  The man only laughed and pushed the cart out of the room.
/>   Chapter Two

  He slept, exhausted, yearning for the oblivion of dreams. The opening of the door once again woke him, and the sound of a rolling cart made him shiver. Paradoxically, it also elicited a momentary surge of arousal, and he found himself growing hard without benefit of the drug. He was filled with disgust at himself. He was apparently extremely susceptible to conditioning.

  This time, there was no milking machine. Instead, an IV line was put into his arm. The person who was working on him did not speak, and her hands were quick and efficient. When the IV was placed and the bag hung somewhere beside his cot, she left him alone again.

  Whatever they had dripping into his vein was making him logy. He was still aware of the discomfort in his body, but now it was a distant thing, like a cloud on the horizon, barely real. His mind wandered through images and half-thoughts that were scattered and disjointed, too disconnected from his current state and from each other to be at all informative. He drifted.

  He floated through fragments of memories, slivers of time that he couldn’t identify. Green fields on a sunny summer day. The bark of a dog. The scent of a wood fire. A hand on his cheek, gentle and familiar. Purple crocuses blooming amid a dusting of snow. They were only illusions, shards of places long forgotten. He recognized nothing, and yet it all seemed too familiar.

  Hours passed, or maybe days. He was distantly aware that the milking machine came and went so often that he lost track. The drug that kept him somewhat sedated made his body even more responsive, and without his mind to squelch the pleasure, his orgasms came easily, and he welcomed them happily. Someone came to see to his IV from time to time. They threaded a feeding tube into his stomach through his nose while he was unconscious. Once when he woke, the blanket was back covering him; when he woke next, it was gone. The officer came and barked orders at the nurses, but he could not make out the words. Everything was foggy and surreal.