Chapter 2: A Drunken Beanbag
The journey back was a slow, sloshing pilgrimage. Aldric moved in a drunken, hiccupping daze, the world a gentle blur of grays and reds. The chain around his neck was a familiar pressure, a tether to the only solid point in his universe: the shimmering crimson shape ahead of him. His belly, that monumental sphere of liquid, was a constant, swaying presence. It led his every step, its weight dictating his balance. Each hiccup sent a shockwave through it, a deep BLUB-GLORP that echoed up into his throat. He’d giggle every time, the sound wet and empty.
Vexis said nothing. She simply led, her tail swishing with a lazy, satisfied rhythm. The cacophony of The Dragon’s Tooth faded behind them, replaced by the whisper of sulfurous wind through narrow, twisted canyons. The path inclined, winding up towards a jagged fissure in a cliff face that looked like a scar against the dark rock.
They entered the mountain.
The air changed instantly. The dry, scorching heat of the volcanic plains gave way to a cool, damp stillness that smelled of deep earth and forgotten things. The passage was wide enough for Aldric’s colossal girth, but only just. His scaled sides brushed against smooth, worn stone, and the sound of his belly sloshing filled the narrow space, amplified by the walls.
He didn’t think about where they were going. Thinking was a distant, impossible concept. There was only the pull of the chain, the cool air, the pleasant, numb fullness inside him, and the funny jiggles.
The tunnel opened abruptly into her lair.
It was a cavern of velvet darkness. Light seeped from clusters of faintly glowing moss clinging to the high ceiling, casting everything in a dim, phosphorescent green. The floor was unnaturally soft, a thick carpet of the same moss that gave way underfoot like the finest mattress. It absorbed sound, rendering his clumsy footfalls and internal gurgles into muffled, intimate noises.
And there, arranged around the edges like grotesque trophies, was his past.
His armor. The polished steel plate he’d worn as Sir Aldric the Unyielding. It was all here, but it was wrong. The breastplate had been twisted into a bizarre, corset-like shape, the pauldrons crushed into abstract lumps. His helmet was impaled on a stalagmite, its visor bent into a permanent, screaming ‘O’. His greatsword was nothing but a rusted spine, snapped in two and laid across a rock like a dead serpent. The sight should have been a lance of agony through his soul.
He blinked at it, his drunk, vacuous eyes scanning the familiar shapes. A faint, fuzzy recognition flickered. A feeling, like a word on the tip of a tongue made of wool. Mine? But before the feeling could coalesce into anything resembling a thought, a massive, rolling hiccup seized him.
HIC-OOOORP!
His entire sphere of a belly convulsed. The jiggle was spectacular, a wave that traveled from the core to the surface, making the thin, taut skin of his underbelly ripple like a pond after a stone drop. The sensation, intense and absurd, vaporized the fuzzy recognition. He giggled, a drooling, breathy sound, and the past was gone again.
“Home, sweet home,” Vexis murmured, her voice a soft song in the quiet.
She unclipped the chain from his collar but left the collar on. It was part of him now. She moved to the center of the mossy floor, a clear space that seemed purposefully maintained. Then she turned to look at him, her yellow slits gleaming in the low light.
“Come here, darling.”
He obeyed, shambling forward. The moss was so soft it was difficult to walk on. His legs, designed for hard stone, sank in slightly. It made his belly sway even more with each step, the sloshing sounds dampened but incessant.
When he reached the center, she placed a claw on the curve of his stomach. “Stop.”
He stopped. He stood there, a monument of sloshing, drunken flesh, waiting for the next command, the next sensation.
Vexis didn’t command. She simply coiled herself and then, with a graceful, deliberate motion, leaped lightly onto the apex of his spherical belly.
Her weight, though slight compared to his mass, was perfectly distributed. He felt it immediately—a soft, definitive compression. The liquid inside him, under such direct pressure, had nowhere to go but sideways and up. A long, bubbling, wet BRRRAAAAAP of trapped gas and mead-fumes erupted from his snout, echoing in the cavern. The belch seemed to go on forever, a bass note of profound digestion.
Aldric’s eyes crossed. The sensation was incredible. The pressure, the release, the way her body sank slightly into his taut skin. He let out a shaky sigh, then another helpless giggle.
“Good boy,” Vexis purred. She settled down, arranging herself as if on a luxurious, living cushion. She stretched out, her slender red form lying along the curve of his belly, her chin resting on her claws where they dug gently—not enough to break the skin, but enough to dent the stretched scale—into his side. She let out a contented sigh, her eyes closing.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing and the low, liquid churn inside him. The Gutter-Mead was doing its work, a warm, buzzing narcotic flowing through his bloodstream. Consciousness wasn’t slipping away; it was dissolving, molecule by molecule, into a warm, dark soup.
A fragment tried to surface.
It was a memory of hardness. Not of armor, but of posture. Standing straight. A staff, vertical against a dawn sky. The concept of uprightness. Of not being a soft thing to be lain upon.
Sir Aldric… the… the Un…
His belly gave a tiny, involuntary clench. A muscle memory of that old rigidity.
The slight tension was enough. Vexis, seemingly asleep, shifted. Her tail, draped over his side, twitched. The spiked tip flicked against the sensitive, stretched skin of his lower flank.
A jiggle. Small, but profound.
Gluuuurggle-glik.
The sound echoed in the hollow of his gut. The fragment of memory, the ghost of a staff, shimmered and broke apart like smoke. The warm, dark soup welcomed the pieces back. He sighed, the tension leaking out, replaced by the beautiful, empty warmth. His eyes, which had narrowed in faint, confused concentration, drifted shut.
Sleep took him. A black, dreamless sleep.
But his body wasn’t done. The five barrels of Gutter-Mead were a kingdom of chaos inside him. His digestive system, simple and robust, worked at its own pace. An hour later, a deep, rolling cramp passed through his intestinal tract, a seismic event far below.
He shifted in his sleep. A leg moved.
The movement rocked the great sphere. A wave sloshed from one side to the other.
Vexis, still perched atop him, slid an inch to the side. She didn’t wake. But her claws, in a sleep-instinct to grip, tightened slightly.
They punctured.
It wasn’t a deep wound. Just the very tips of her sharp claws breaking through the thin, overstretched scale of his pale underbelly. No blood came. Just a tiny, precise release of pressure.
Pffftssssss…
A thin, constant stream of warm, mead-scented gas began to hiss out from the four tiny punctures. It was a slow leak, the sound barely audible over the other gurgles.
The pressure in his belly equalized. The taut, drum-like sensation eased just a fraction. In his sleep, Aldric moaned in relief. The sphere softened from perfect rigidity to a state of firm, jiggly fullness.
The leak continued, a quiet, flatulent sigh that would go on for hours.
Dawn, or whatever passed for it in the subterranean world, arrived as a gradual brightening of the glowing moss. Aldric woke slowly.
The first thing he was aware of was the headache. A dull, throbbing ache behind his eyes that felt like a distant cousin to thought. The second was the overwhelming, sticky-sweet stench of fermented honey and dragon musk that filled the lair. The third was the weight on his belly, and the warm, sharp points of contact where Vexis’s body met his.
He opened his eyes. The world was clearer than it had been last night. The blurry edges had receded. He could see the twisted armor on the walls with a horrible, crystalline clarity. He knew what it was. A cold, sick feeling, entirely separate from the hangover, pooled in his gut—what was left of it.
The sphere had deflated. It was still enormous, still a ponderous pear-shape, but the insane, pregnant tightness was gone. It rested on the moss, a heavy, gelatinous mass that sloshed wetly with his every breath. The leak from the claw punctures had finally sealed, leaving four tiny, shiny scabs.
And he could think.
Not well. Not clearly. But in simple, painful sentences. I am Aldric. That is my armor. She is sleeping on me. I am a dragon. I am… cursed.
The horror was a cold knife twisting in his chest. It was the clearest he’d felt since the crater rim. The mental fog had burned off with the mead, leaving behind the naked, terrifying landscape of his reality.
He had to get up. He had to move. If he could stay still, if he could think, maybe… maybe…
He tried to tense his abdominal muscles, to lift his bulk and dislodge her. It was a Herculean effort. The muscles were atrophied, buried under layers of fat and the sheer weight of his gut. He strained.
A slight tremor went through the flesh beneath Vexis.
She stirred. A low, sleepy sound escaped her. Her tail, which lay across him, moved in a languid stretch.
The tip of her spiked tail dragged slowly, almost caressingly, across the most sensitive, stretched part of his lower belly.
It was an accident of sleep. It was everything.
The touch was a lightning bolt of sensation. It wasn’t pain. It was a shocking, electric friction against the tight, thin skin. A direct line to nerves that had never been meant for such attention.
Aldric froze. A sound escaped him—not a giggle, but a sharp, choked gasp.
The gasp made his belly bounce. A small, quick jiggle.
Glug-gurgle.
The fog didn’t just return; it crashed over him like a warm, filthy wave. The clear, cold horror was smothered in an instant. The thinking stopped. In its place was a rush of something else, something physical and overwhelming. A heat that had nothing to do with shame or anger. It was a deep, instinctual fire, stoked by the mead’s aftermath, by her proximity, by that accidental, exquisite drag of her tail.
His body reacted before what was left of his mind could protest. From a hidden slit beneath the base of his tail, his cock, a thick, tapered length of dark green flesh, began to unsheathe itself. It was a draconic organ, ridged and blunt, now swollen and urgent with blood.
Vexis’s eyes snapped open. She hadn’t been fully asleep. She felt the tremor, heard the gasp, and now she saw the physical proof of his reaction. Her yellow slits widened, then narrowed into crescents of pure, predatory delight.
“Well, well,” she whispered, her voice husky with sleep and sudden interest. “What’s this? Is the empty vessel not so empty after all?”
Aldric whimpered. He couldn’t form words. The conflict was tearing him apart. The fading echo of Sir Aldric screamed in silent revulsion. The dominant, physical reality of his dragon body throbbed with a need that drowned out the scream.
Vexis lifted herself off his belly, sliding down his side with a sinuous grace. She came to stand beside his hip, her gaze fixed on his exposed cock. A drop of clear pre-fluid beaded at the tip. The sweet-rotten smell of the lair intensified, mixing with the sharper, muskier scent of his arousal.
“You’re full of surprises,” she cooed. She reached out a claw and traced one of the ridges along his length. Not a stroke, just a touch.
Aldric jerked as if branded. A full-body shudder wracked him. His belly sloshed violently. GLOORSH-SPLASH. The jiggle was massive, a quaking that traveled up his spine.
The last remnants of clarity vanished. Obliterated by the belly-movement, buried under the avalanche of raw sensation. Sir Aldric was gone. Only the beast remained, panting, needy, its eyes glazed and fixed on the red dragon beside it.
Vexis laughed, a low, wicked sound. “There he goes. Much better.” She leaned in, her snout close to his. “You want something, don’t you? You ugly, stupid, sloshing thing. You’re aching for it.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She moved again, positioning herself behind him. She mounted the moss beside his enormous haunch, her own body lower than his due to his grotesque proportions. Her own sex, a vertical slit of darker, slick red scales, was exposed beneath the base of her tail.
“This is what you’re for now,” she hissed, her mock-sweetness gone, replaced by a raw, dominant hunger. “You’re a toy. A living, breathing fuck-toy. Your mind is syrup. Your body is mine. Let’s see if this part still works.”
She reared up slightly and guided the blunt, leaking head of his cock to her entrance.
The contact made him roar—a hollow, desperate sound that echoed in the cavern. It was too much. The sensation was a white-hot brand of pleasure, so intense it was agony.
Vexis slammed herself back onto him.
She took him in one brutal, sheathing motion. His thick girth stretched her, a tight, demanding fit. She let out a sharp, gratified sigh, her claws digging into the moss on either side of his hip.
And then she began to move.
She set a ruthless, rolling rhythm, using her powerful haunches to drive herself onto him again and again. Each thrust rocked his entire massive frame. Each impact sent shockwaves through his soft, heavy center of gravity.
His belly became a disaster zone.
It wasn’t just jiggling. It was a chaotic, liquid tsunami. With every drive of her hips, the immense weight of his gut would slam forward against the moss, then recoil back, then slosh violently to the side. Slosh-SLAM-glug-WOBBLE. The sounds were obscene, a wet, slapping, gurgling percussion to the slick, rhythmic noise of their coupling. His underbelly, with its fresh scabs, slapped against the soft moss with wet, meaty thumps.
He was mindless. There was no pleasure, not as a conscious experience. There was only a overwhelming current of sensory overload. The incredible tight, hot friction sheathing him. The monumental, uncontrollable convulsions of his own body. The air filled with the sounds of his degradation: the sloshes, the gurgles, the squelching of moss, Vexis’s ragged, commanding breaths, and his own broken, wheezing pants.
“That’s it,” Vexis grunted, her rhythm becoming frenzied. “Fuck, yes. Jiggle for me. Slosh for me. Empty your fucking head out through your cock, you worthless beast.”
Her words were sparks on tinder. His body, divorced from any governing mind, hurtled towards its climax. The pressure built, a coiling spring in his groin that was somehow tied to the chaotic sloshing of his belly. It felt like he was going to burst, to dissolve into a puddle of sensation and hot release.
Vexis felt him swelling inside her, his ridges locking tighter. She let out a feral cry, her own climax hitting her like a seizure. Her inner muscles clenched around him in violent, rippling spasms.
It triggered his.
His release was not a single event but a catastrophic system failure. His cock pulsed, jetting his seed deep inside her with thick, hot pulses. At the same moment, the final, convulsive jerk of his hips and the clamping of every muscle in his lower body created a perfect internal storm.
The massive, liquid contents of his belly, agitated beyond endurance, erupted.
He didn’t vomit. It was a seismic regurgitation. A flood of half-digested, foul Gutter-Mead, bile, and stomach acid surged up his throat and exploded from his mouth and nostrils in a torrent. It splashed across the moss in front of him, a reeking, yellow-brown deluge. Simultaneously, the other end gave way. A violent, liquid diarrhea, pressurized by the same muscular convulsions, sprayed from his vent, soiling the moss beneath his tail in a hot, sudden rush.