Dragon Empress Vs Bull

Miao Ying growls. It is a low sound – a tired sound. It echoes in the vast chamber. Inky shadows and clouds of ash obscure its true size and all she sees through them are distant ember-lights of torches that flicker like blinking eyes. Chains of black steel shackle her limbs and smoulder with infernal runes that spark and burn when she tries to move; whatever magic is imbued within is strong enough that not even the might of her draconic body can overcome it. Her serpentine form is held firm – a curve of shimmering scales and snow-coloured fur that writhes atop the pocked, dusty stone.

A heavy gate opens behind her. Through the rhythmic clang of its rising, she hears more distant sounds – the grind of machinery, the roar of furnaces, and the wails of the enslaved. Closer – ever closer – is the beat of cloven hooves.

The chains hold her neck angled so that she is forced to see what stands beyond the swell of her hips. She sees the bull. It is a mountain of knotted muscle and corded sinews, stomping sparks and snorting fire – bat-wings beat at its side and obsidian horns crown its brow. It throws its head back and roars. The warbling bellow is more terrible and filled with more wrath than the clarion call of the trumpets of hell. This is no steer from her homeland, raised only for slaughter: this is a Bale Taurus, a daemon of corporeal flesh, and the chiefest symbol of Hashut, the God of Domination.

Miao Ying snaps her jaws and bares her fangs, but the bull only watches with empty eyes. It steps into the chamber.

The gate closes behind it.

The chains begin to pull. Gears crash and the chains rattle like a beating symphony of iron drums. One link at a time, they rise toward the ceiling, dragging her hips up with them. She snarls and tries to dig her claws into the stone but they slide through the soot-stained channels she's already carved into the ashen sands beneath. Up and out, the bondage pulls her legs apart and her tail aside – they hold her head down as she growls and bites at the acrid, empty air. Blue lightning dances in the darkness of her eyes but the infernal runes of her subjugators bind the roiling storm within.

It is all an illusion: every threat she makes and show of force she boasts are nothing more than that – boasts; lies; hollow displays of a helpless creature who can do nothing but wait for the inevitable to take her. She knows this and rages. She knows this and is shamed.

Through it all, the bull watches her. It stamps and snorts; it beats its wings and rakes its horns. It watches her with soulless, beady eyes – hungry eyes as black as embers that have burned so hot not even ash lies upon them – roving eyes that drink in the sight of her, taking in every inch of her bound, struggling frame, and so terribly, desperately ready to take again what it has taken so many times before – that soulless, wretched hunger just as ravenous as it had been the very first time.

Its nostrils flare. Its head sways as it catches a fresh scent in the air. Her scent. She feels no arousal – the only thing she wants from the bull is to feel its thick neck break beneath her jaws and guzzle its tainted blood like wine. Yet, her loins begin to weep. Each stomp of its hooves sends a shiver down her spine. Each breath it takes sets a tremble in her thighs and though she tries to close her legs, the chains hold them wide apart, and leave her utterly bare and completely open.

It lowers its head between her legs. It pushes its snout between her folds and its flaring nostrils spread her lips apart. Its tongue is rough and broad – it laps at her sex, lazily tasting the dew gathered on it. She jerks and pulls but the chains hold her firm and the bull follows each movement with fresh, nauseating attention.

She damns her captors and their fell god – she loathes them and their magics that have set her body aflame and stirred the aching emptiness in her core. It is not her want, she reminds herself. It is the work of devils.

The slaves of Hashut worship one god alone, yet the daemons of his lessers they bind to their terrible wills. In shackles around her wrists and neck, and runes carved into the scales of her belly, they bound them to her.

Chi'an Chi, the Changer: her own body was twisted against her, warped in unseen places into something fit for the seed of a monster.

Na Gou, Lord of Fecundity: what should have never taken root now flourishes in foul abundance.

Se Nie, the Dark Prince of Excess: the fruit of an unholy union ripens with unnatural speed.

Kong Nüe, the God of Rage: hers will never die. It will never burn out. No matter how long her imprisonment – no matter how great her torment or pain, she will never succumb. She will be just as insensate, just as wrathful as the day her subjugation began. She can find no peace in the tranquillity of surrender nor retreat into her mind and let the torment wash over her body as if it were another's. No matter how broken her will, she will be dragged back into a screaming rage, wide awake and forever conscious of each loathful second of her defilement.

Even after the bull has bred her, the bull returns, and the bull rapes her, and the bull leaves another one in her belly. In mere weeks she will be free of it, and in mere weeks she will be burdened again.

Today, she is free of it.

The bull mounts her. Its forelegs latch onto her hips, and it thrusts. Its shaft is already as stiff as the iron that binds her and though it finds no purchase in her sex it ruts into her thigh and stomach, smearing them with a thick, salty fluid that sticks to her scales and slaps against the floor. It draws back, and slides over her buttocks. The entirety of its rigid length slips through her folds and the wave of raw sensation that follows makes her eyes roll and her knees buckle just as the bull drives its cock forward.

The wide head catches on the tight ring of her entrance. Her eyes shoot open. The first thing Miao Ying feels is a bead of its arousal spurt into her sex. It is hot, sticky, and clings to her wet walls. The bull sinks its cock inside her. Her cunt spreads around every turgid inch as it slides deeper and deeper into her empty sex – her claws clench with every pop as the rings on its shaft slip past her entrance. She flexes her cunt in a doomed effort to force the thing out, yet she only seems to grip it tighter and coax it even further inside. She wriggles away and that only goads it on.

In seconds, their hips touch. A pervading sense of fullness takes her – the feeling that this foreign thing inside her is all that her body knows – as if she has been without something that its cock has just given. Then it pulls back, the aching emptiness returns, and it starts to fuck her.

The squelching of wet flesh mingles with the bull's heavy breathing and her hisses and snarls. She glares at the bull, pouring into that look all her malice and hate, but its eyes are vacant. It isn't even looking at her.

It rams it cock inside her, spreading her cunt and fucking her in a way no other being has – it defiles an immortal dragon, the daughter of the Dragon Emperor – and it acts as though she does not even exist.

Disgrace broils with shame in a storm that rages in her breast.

She can feel the beat of its heart through the pulsing shaft, as thunderous as its charging hooves. Yet, there is no passion – no joy in its eyes for the pleasure of mating or even a crueler kind for her pain. The bull feels only a mindless, animal need: a hunger to breed the female stretched around its cock – to pound the soft flesh of the cunt split on its length and flood it with gallons of hot, virile seed. Miao Ying is nothing to it except the hole it happens to be fucking today. She wonders how many others are locked away in sunless chambers deep beneath this blighted ziggurat. How many others are chained as she is? How many are kept for the same purpose? How many have this bull bred?

It's offspring – her offspring, she thinks with a trembling growl – blight the lands of fair Cathay. The lands of her brothers and sisters, of her subjects she swore to protect, and of her mother and her father whom she once promised to make proud. Miao Ying roars and lighting arcs in her maw.

The bull fucks her harder, then, without pretense or warning or the gloating pride of a dominant male, it pumps its boiling seed inside her cunt. Its heavy balls draw taught, sliding against her folds and across her clit and it is the closest thing to pleasure the beast has inflicted on her. Yet, as its release pools in her core – for her hips are held high and it can go nowhere else – the runes that bind her burn bright, and they force her own release upon her. She digs her claws into the stone and hisses and bites, but it does not stop the trembling wave that washes over her body, nor does it keep her sopping cunt from clutching tight the cock that plows into it still, milking the bull for every drop of its infernal seed.

It has more to give. Every flex of its length is followed by another spurt of steaming release that fills her as if her captor's foundries had poured a thousand gallons of molten iron directly inside her sex. She feels every drop of it pool in her depths, and she feels as its seed seeks out even deeper – once sacred – places to defile and make once more its own.

Though the bull's cock softens, it fucks her still until it simply pulls out and a bubbling stream of its arousal follows, staining her black scales and the stone beneath a shimmering white.

The gate opens behind her.

The bull leaves, drawn away by some compulsion she does not know. She tells herself that it was her wrath that scared the beast off. That lie is the only comfort she has.

The gate closes. She is alone again, left only with the memory of the bull inside her and the feeling of what it has left behind. She ignores the sense of emptiness in her core – the chill of its absence.

The chains hold her hips in the air and its seed inside her. No matter how she flexes her sex or wriggles her body, it has been fucked too deep, and she knows she cannot force it out before it takes root. Still, she writhes as it seeps deeper and deeper until hours have passed and most has dried on her buttocks, and thighs, and the stone between her legs.

But there was enough inside her. There is always enough.

It starts like a spark – a little flash of light that grows into the burning heat of the sun inside her belly – a warmth that spreads and fires the runes that bind her, and they force her climax again, and again as she can do nothing but feel the remnants of the bull's need claim her as if she were nothing but a cow, born to be bred.

The chains fall slack. Her hips fall with them. Miao Ying slumps onto the dark stone as memories of little calves wreathed in her own blue thunder flood into her mind.

She digs in her claws and carves fresh channels into the stone as she prays that this one will be easier to carry than its brothers.