Age Recommendation: 18+
A recently-freed dragon stumbles across a catgirl in heat.
It still hurt.
Reenhalla pulled at the collar around her throat, feeling it rubbing on her scales. The little golden bell marking that she was a citizen and allowed to travel freely rang, but she still hated the thing.
Just because humans were xenophobic shitheads shouldn't mean that she had to wear a godsdamned bell. She shouldn't have to tell anyone she was free. She especially shouldn't have to by having something compressing and roughly scraping at her scales.
She was a blue salamander.
Her scales were smaller than her red cousins, more fragile. They tended to bend and get stuck if she wore jewellery, which is one of the reasons she generally wore a cloak and little else.
She was careful when walked around the city, when she was still earning her freedom. Always keeping her face hidden, her tail out of sight. Now, she was a little less.
The hood was thrown backwards, revealed her bright and soft face, framed by her ice blue scales. Her bare skin was dark. Not to the midnight black of a succubus, or even the dark of a human desert tribe. She was a shade lighter than most of them, but still to dark to be called light.
She was used to standing out in a crowd, once people knew what she was.
This was no different.
People stopped and stared at her as she walked through the crowd. Most of them commenting on how they hated her, and the arrogance of an exotic to think they were an equal.
Not that anybody would dare to say that to her face.
Reenhalla smiled toothily as she imagined just how well that might go down. If a frail little human dared to hit her first, she would enjoy the hell out of what would follow.
It always gave her such a buzz, a warm and fuzzy feeling in her nether regions, when she was sucking marrow from broken bones. The excitement of dominating so effortlessly.
It might be more fun if she didn't eat them, and instead had something inside her, but Reenhalla was a virgin. She had yet to find someone willing to see her as a woman.
Didn't help that she was head and shoulders above even the average elf.
Most men weren't interested in fucking something the size of a Tauran. Even less at being ridden by something that could snap them like a twig, that had breath that would leave icicles on their face.
She could never have love, but she could have a decent meal.
Which was part of why she was flaunting her brand new bell. She wanted someone to pick a fight with her, so that the guards wouldn't care when she went and ate them.
She wasn't looking for a celebratory dinner.
She was commiserating with herself. She'd earned her freedom, and that meant that she now had no home, no prospects, and no gold. The only people interested in hiring her, would only do it if she gave up her freedom and signed a slaving contract.
She was exotic, and they all hated her for it.
Reenhalla stopped at an elf's stall, looking longingly at the earrings. She'd always wanted a couple of silver chains, hanging from the tips of her long and pointed ones.
Her previous master had been against the slightest blemish to his toys. The fact he had repeatedly sent Reenhalla into battle where she could end up covered in scars didn't matter. No piercings, and no tattoos.
The elf smiled nervously at her, a silver bell on their wrist indicating them as a slave ringing as they reached over to a set of gorgeous little chains. "These are wyvern made, in the fires of Finhalla."
That was a straight up lie.
The chains were finely made, but they weren't anything close to the skill of her cousin's race. Especially not the master smiths who lived on the volcano to the west.
All the same, they were extremely pretty. She wasn't going to grudge the woman for trying to shift some of her product. Reenhalla touched the metal delicately, and smiled sadly, "Sorry. Bought freedom, today. No gold. Just look."
The elf lowered the earrings, smiling understandingly, "Feel free. Business has been slow today, you won't be chasing anyone off. Well, not the right kind of business."
Her ears twitched a little, "Street?"
"Mmm." The elf said, afraid to comment on the suggestion that a street gang was working over all the owners. Sending the honest patrons to ground, as they walked around demanding a cut from everyone else.
You paid the gold, or the cut they took was from your flesh.
This was why Reenhalla had chosen this place. She knew that the razor gangs were common, and no one was going to give much of a shit if she turned one of them into a popsicle.
She smiled toothily at the elf with a flash of her fangs and raised an eyebrow.
The elf glanced around and then nodded sideways to a nearby alley.
© Copyright 2024, James Milne