The Meal (Iramachio)
Elion slowly opened her eyes.
Dragons had never suffered from anything so mundane as sleep disorders, yet somehow her body felt utterly refreshed—almost as if she had shed a skin that no longer fit.
She lay prone on the floor of her nest, gazing toward the storeroom as she replayed the events of the previous night. (Unless they were particularly eccentric, dragons preferred to sleep in their true forms.)
That sensation of omnipotence dissolving into helplessness the moment the cuffs locked. The rough wrenching of her arms behind her back. The crushing pressure of Lowen’s cold fingers around her throat. Ah, maybe I should install heating modules in his hands. And those fingers that had relentlessly tormented her clit. The raw terror of possibly dying from lack of air, exploding together with the violent pleasure that erupted from deep inside her. The convulsions when climax after climax slammed through her. Fluid spilling across the floor, her entire body still trembling in the aftershocks.
And Lowen’s eyes. That indefinable flicker that had passed so briefly through those inorganic blue irises—surely it had been her imagination. The Lowen of now was still an incomplete golem, not even properly allocated the resources for emotional computation. Yet the gaze she had felt in that instant made her heart lurch. It frightened her, too. The creature that obeyed her every command had, for a single heartbeat, seemed to look down on her. She hated it… and at the same time it thrilled her. That contradictory emotion burrowed straight into her chest. Fear and pleasure tangled together until her body began to heat again.
Elion pushed herself upright and shook the idle thoughts away.
What the hell are you doing first thing in the morning, acting like a bitch in heat?
“Lowen. Bring breakfast.”
The golem who had stood motionless beside her all night answered in the same flat tone as always.
“Will you take it as you are, or in human form?”
“I’ll polymorph. Make a stew with that Beria beef you brought last time.”
“Understood, Elion-nim.”
Lowen moved without another word. Barely had the dawdling Elion finished shifting into her human shape when he returned carrying a tray laden with beef stew and sausages.
Hmm. I never mentioned sausages.
She reached for the spoon, then stopped. A far more entertaining idea had just occurred to her.
“Lowen. Let’s try eating a little differently today.”
“Is the food not to your liking?”
She shook her head.
“No. Today you eat first.”
“I do not consume food, Elion-nim.”
“That’s not what I mean…”
She closed her mouth mid-explanation, scooped a spoonful of stew, and held it to Lowen’s lips.
“Just eat.”
“…….”
Lowen swallowed the stew as though he had no choice. Elion smiled, satisfied.
“Now feed that to me with your pseudo-genitalia.”
Lowen was a golem, but he was Elion’s masterpiece. Naturally every detail had been realized—not merely the clothed exterior, but the essential parts as well.
Elion crawled beneath the table and dropped to her knees between his legs.
“Shall I simply discharge it like this?”
She had already spread his thighs and lowered the zipper. After a moment’s thought she said,
“No. Bind me.”
Lowen considered, then rose, stripped off his trousers, and fetched the handcuffs hanging on the nearby wall—magic crystal still attached. For an instant something that looked almost like disdain seemed to flicker across his face, but it must have been her imagination.
“Here.”
Elion obediently offered both wrists behind her back. Lowen locked them into the cuffs without hesitation. Cold metal kissed her skin; a sharp click sealed her wrists tight. Completely immobilized behind her, her hands could not so much as flex a finger. Elbows forced together, shoulders yanked back, her chest thrust forward and her spine arched like a drawn bow. She twisted her wrists experimentally; the cuffs did not yield. The strength-restriction circle activated, sealing away every scrap of a dragon’s overwhelming power. Once again she was weaker than an ordinary human woman.
Lowen helped her settle onto her knees under the table, then sat in the chair before her and presented his bare lower body to her face. The pseudo-genitalia had already risen hard the moment he decided. Elion opened her mouth and took it in.
Warm, wet stew broth mixed with chewed fragments of meat flooded her mouth.
“Mmm…”
She licked and swallowed. The taste of the food and the solid weight of Lowen arrived together. Her throat filled; breath caught for a second. She liked that.
Lowen moved slowly—pushing the food into her mouth, withdrawing, repeating. Elion drooled and sucked. Then she pulled free, panting.
“A little… more roughly would be better.”
“Understood, Elion-nim.”
His hand closed on her head. The gentleness vanished. He pressed the back of her skull and drove himself deep into her throat.
“Ghk…! Kuh!!”
The sudden violence startled her. Throat-blocking she had expected. But the instant stew broth slipped into her windpipe, the human cough reflex expelled the last air from her lungs along with the food, and in that same instant Lowen’s length sealed her throat again.
Anyone who has ever held their breath knows the difference between holding after an inhale and holding after an exhale is night and day.
The limit arrived far sooner than she anticipated. She tried desperately to stop him. Bound hands could generate no real force, so she kicked with her kneeling legs, trying to shove the chair away.
Lowen, as if he had foreseen it, only tightened his grip on her hair. He yanked hard enough to sting her scalp and dragged her face forward until her nose smashed against his lower abdomen. Escape was impossible. She was completely overpowered. The realization alone made her crotch flood with wetness.
“Urgh…! Grrk…! Kuh!!”
Nothing improved. Lowen kept working her head; her throat felt ready to tear. Residual food still clogged her airway, so every attempt to cough only drove the shaft deeper, choking off both cough and breath. Tears streamed. For the first time in her dragon life Elion tried to scream—yet nothing was permitted to her now.
Consciousness fraying, she flailed her legs again, trying to push the chair. As long as her hair remained locked in Lowen’s fist, her head could only slide back and forth along his length. The cuffs behind her back prevented any resistance, any turn of the head. She could only tremble amid the hard intrusion, the refluxing stew, and the suffocating agony.
“Kh…! Hngh…! Kuh! Kuh!!”
Like a machine, Lowen used her throat with merciless regularity until at last he stopped and spoke quietly.
“There is no more stew. How would you like to proceed?”
Elion gasped, tears and snot running freely. Several minutes passed before she could even steady her breathing. Head bowed, she finally lifted teary eyes to him and hesitated.
“…The sausages too…”
“Sausages are solid. Discharging them through the pseudo-genitalia risks functional failure. Is that acceptable?”
To the inorganic question she shook her head.
“Feed me the whole sausage.”
Without a word Lowen picked one from the plate. Cooking oil still glistened on its surface. He straightened her posture, then crouched to her eye level. One hand fisted her hair; the other forced the sausage into her half-open mouth.
“Mmmph…!!”
It scraped roughly down her throat. When it reached the entrance, gagging surged, yet Lowen had no intention of stopping. Mere human reflex could never halt a golem.
“Grrk…! Ugh…!!”
He kept pushing. As the sausage drove midway down her throat, her body convulsed on pure instinct. Bright yellow liquid began to spill between her thighs. On the urine-slick floor she kicked and tried to scramble backward, but the fist in her hair did not move.
When the sausage vanished completely, Lowen held her head fixed and used his fingers to press it deeper still. At last it lodged at the very base of her throat; he watched her Adam’s apple writhe as she swallowed it whole.
Only then did he release her. Elion collapsed onto the floor, coughing and gasping.
“Kuh…! Cough-cough…! Haa… haa…!”
Still expressionless, Lowen asked,
“What would you like to do now?”