[b][center]Nezhakir’s New Bone[/center][/b] [center]By Kaydrien Iceclaw[/center] Immortality by way of undeath came with a few drawbacks. Perhaps chief among them that pleasures of the flesh were strictly limited without [i]flesh[/i]. This contributed greatly to Nezhakir’s boredom. Nezhakir’s boredom ultimately spared the idiot biped’s life. “Oh great bone-dragon Nezhakir! I come as supplicant before your might and offer tribute!” Intoned the intruder dramatically. [i]Who even ‘intones’ anymore?[/i], Nezhakir wondered. Outside of a world-shattering dark ritual, of course. That was only appropriate. Apparently it was time to acknowledge the presence of the meaningless vermin that had been skulking through her labyrinthine lair for the past half hour. A pity. Nezhakir had hoped she wouldn’t have to bother. She adjusted herself on the hoard that was her bed, ribs sending gems and gold coins tumbling down the pile, to turn eye sockets limned with sickly violet flame on the source of the noise. The ‘supplicant’ was swaying in a way it no doubt thought dramatic a few feet from the foot of her mountain of riches, dull brown robe swinging around it. Lowered hood excepted; the cloth covered most of its body. What was exposed was colored in shiny black with patches of startling red. This included the wedged oval face and thick tail that dragged behind it on the smooth stone, poking out from the edge of the robe. A newtling. “Why do you disturb me?” Nezhakir demanded. Her voice was the hissing chorus of a hundred dead souls chained to her will, bound by dark magic to her third cervical vertebra as a substitute for vocal cords long rotted away. She was still proud of that workaround. “I am Guzom!” The newtling wailed. “Mage of the third circle of the Order of Sharpened Dreams, master of the chant of N’loq, keeper of four keys.” The bone dragon had no way to roll empty sockets. She settled for flaring the cold flames in them high enough to shift the lighting of her hoard-chamber, momentarily drowning out the crackling gold of the eternal braziers carved out of the stone walls with purple. Her uncanny snarl of displeasure reverberated from the rock. “[i]Why[/i] do you disturb me, pest?!” Confirming her suspicions of his intellect, the pest did not appear overly concerned by this. “I come seeking knowledge, great Nezhakir! All know your mastery of death. I beg you to let me drink deep of the well of your knowledge!” “Ahhhh…” Her sigh was the wail of the host of the damned. Well. At least she knew where this was going. Someone had the idea every few decades. Most of their empty shells patrolled the upper halls, but she had spared the handful that had held her interest. Perhaps this would be one worth tutoring for a moon or two. It would be something to do. But a dragon has standards. “You spoke of tribute.” “Yes, mighty one!” Clearly overjoyed by the attention, the magician trembled with excitement. His audience of one felt that his enthusiasm would soon prove grating. “I have created a cunning spell for you. Three years I have labored on this to win your favor.” “And what could you create that I have not bettered in the ages of my existence?” Nezhakir scoffed, drawing herself up to her fifteen feet Hahn of bleached and rune-scored bone. “I am Nezhakir, master of death.” “A trifle.” Guzom admitted self-deprecatingly. He bowed deeply, the motion causing his hood to flop forward over his smooth head. “A mere trifle before your greatness. But a trifle I hope you will find of some small interest.” “Then tell me of this trifle. If it pleases me, I may spare your petty life.” “Great Nezhakir, I know you have conquered death. You are eternal and powerful.” The amphibian mage bowed again and groveled, stroking the long-dead dragon’s ego. She gave him an eight out of ten for execution. “This all know. I thought long and hard over how best to win your favor. I am not greatly wealthy, and have not the gold to make a suitable offering of that sort for your magnificence. Nor am I already so strong to wrest a demon of its essence and gift it to you, as Solgan did in the eighty-third year of the Tenaggal alliance.” Nezhakir thought she vaguely remembered Solgan. An elf, chubby for that twiggish breed. Crippling inadequacy issues. If she remembered rightly, he had been planning to use what she taught him to raise an army of the dead and set himself up as Dread Emperor Of All He Surveyed. Pretty standard, really. She wondered if he’d gotten anywhere with that. Guzom just went on with his melodramatic speech. “For a time I despaired of finding a tribute worthy of you. And then deep in my meditations I remembered that you had given up your body. Oh bone dragon, you have no muscle or sinew, no skin or scale.” “This is so.” She did not demand he get to the point. Not out loud. Too big a risk he would lose his flow and start over. “I had thought to offer you some of the pleasures of the living once more. For this I bent my will to study. I, Guzom, labored long over the tomes in the library of my Order. Glyphs and runes I spun, weaving words of power, building and rebuilding my dweomer. And at last I succeeded! I would offer you the fruits of my work.” Purple blazing not-eyes gazed down at the newtling. After a long moment he gave his first sign of nervousness, glancing away from Nezhakir’s regard and interlacing his fingers. ”…Unless s-such indulgences are beneath a being of your glory.” Nezhakir did not move. She only watched him with the stillness of the grave, a statue of osseus matter perched upon her mound of incredible riches. Even her jaw did not twitch as she finally responded, showing itself unnecessary. “…Which pleasures does your spell offer, little mage?” She would have thought her interest encouraging. But he seemed even more uncomfortable, stammering before he got himself under control. “-T-the, that is, the one r-related to… my s-spell gives the capacity for carnal intimacy. To those with no organs.” Nezhakir slid hurriedly down her treasure pile, skidding to a halt before the newtling magician with the tinkle of coin against coin against gemstone. He flinched back, cowering from the skeletal dragon that towered over him from far too close. The bone dragon took no notice, only pausing to flick away a silver vase that had caught between her left ulna and radius. “I accept your tribute.” Guzom mumbled something. It sounded a bit like ‘…what?’ “I accept your tribute as suitable.” She repeated, trying to pitch her eerie voices to something reassuring. The attempt failed miserably, but in her defense Nezhakir had seen no reason to practice. Intimidation had proven a more reliable method over a thousand-odd years of undeath. Now faced with something that she couldn’t just take, but interested her [i]very[/i] much, she slightly regretted not diversifying her conversational tactics. “Cast it.” The amphibian goggled at her, muscles loosening out of terror-stiffness on the lubrication of disbelief. “Now?” “Now.” “I-I-I was thinking of teaching it to you so that you could… use it yourself.” Nezhakir snorted. (Or at least she would have if she had lungs- she hadn’t provided for most nonverbal expression in her self-directed spellwork.) She wasn’t going to wait on this opportunity just because the little nuisance was prudish. “I will not waste my time in learning a spell of unproven value.” She improvised for the sake of her image. “Cast the spell, mortal. Then I will decide if it is worth sparing your life, let alone granting your boon.” “Ah… All right.” Still taken aback, Guzom took a half-step away from the bone-dragon whose exposed teeth were worryingly large up close. “Then I will begin.” Nezhakir didn’t bother herself about the mage’s reluctance as he shuffled, raising his arms and beginning to chant. Really, she should have been watching him carefully, observing and picking apart his spell for her own edification. She didn’t. For the first time in far too long, Nezhakir was out-and-out [i]excited[/i]. Her living days were a very long time ago. In truth she had only the vaguest memories, now, of how sex felt. Pleasant, definitely. The echo of the hunger drifted through her thoughts now again in her undying dreams. She had not bothered to think further on the subject for hundreds of years, since the first early decades after she had burned away her flesh with the cold fire of eternity. At that time Nezhakir had missed other things as well of course. Loss of taste had been surprisingly difficult to reconcile in the time before she discovered how delectable dining on mortal life force could be, for example. But somehow she had overlooked sex until she had lost the ability. With the newt’s offer on the table, she revisited the idea with a vengeance. Guzom’s chanting rose and fell. His spellcraft seemed solid, in the moments Nezhakir spared from her own giddy introspection. Though tawdry in purpose, the incantations were filled with power. Efficient. Barely any leakage of aetheric energy. He might genuinely be worth teaching. Tendrils of pale energy snaked from his gesturing fingers. Wispy at first and weaving into one another. Undulating in the air and rooted in his fingertips, the pale green-white glow condensing as it crawled through the air toward its intended target. The largest tendril slithered across the space, under the bone-dragon’s ribs, and curled downward to follow the curve of her lumbar vertebrae while she watched. Nezhakir had to stifle an unearthly giggle at the way it tickled its way down, lightly touching on each fragment of her spine as it searched its way to her sacrum. There it pressed in and adhered at the base of her tail. The glow gelatinized onto the surface. There formed a knot of pale grayish ectoplasmic flesh which the phosphorescent tendril coagulated onto, growing as a bizarre viscera that extended coiling filaments to root in her polished ilium. Thus secured the growth of otherworldly flesh began to expand in a writhing, stomach-turning mass. Nezhakir had no stomach to turn, and in any case was preoccupied. What would she do with this first? The undead dragon hadn’t even tried anything for… Was it really since she that time with Rizzkeleth Firebringer? It must have been. The handsome red drake had been willing to give snuggling her bones a try, but they had both had to admit that it didn’t really work. She had only even made the attempt out of the desperation of the early days. All she got for her trouble then was an evening of scraping the cum globs off of her ribs, and he claimed to have barely managed that with only her calcium to work with. Flattering (if disgusting) to know she had made an impression, though; he had later asked for a few embalmed cattle for his own use. Rizzkeleth was probably unavailable by now of course. Passage of time and all that. Although if this spell worked well enough on [i]her[/i], perhaps she could dig him up anyway... Closer to home there was that green male that had moved in a few mountains south a mere century back. He should still be young and randy. Haphazard memory didn’t recall him as ugly, at least- it wasn’t like she had paid much attention to that sort of thing at the time. She could drop in and pin him down, it’d be fun for both of them. Then again perhaps it would be best to start by trying herself out a bit. That sounded like a good plan. Rub her new cunt good and hard for a while, tease her new clit. She worked with corpses often enough to remember all the anatomy, even if some of the fine detail on operating the equipment escaped her. Yes, Nezhakir would try out the goods here first to see that the ridiculous newt hadn’t screwed anything up. “There!” Exclaimed the ridiculous newt in triumph. The last flicker of eldritch power swam away from his extended hands, lazily through the air to condense into the finishing touches on the meat that had coalesced into existence between Nezhakir’s legs. “The spell is complete!” The ecstatic bone dragon snapped from her reverie; head curled down on her neck’s vertebrae to look down at her newly acquired genitalia. And shrieked in polyphonic outrage. “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?!?!?” “…what?” The suddenness of Nezhakir’s fury must have been too much for Guzom to comprehend in a timely manner. He only stood there nonplussed, while the completely-rational panic took its time working its way up from his stomach. “The spell was successful, oh great-” “Successful. [i]Successful?[/i]” The ancient necromantic dragon howled in dozens of incensed voices, rearing back on her hind legs and clawing at the air. “[i]I’m female, you blockhead![/i]” The newt’s jaw dropped. “But that’s not- That is- The stories say-“ “Which. Stories. Say. What?” Nezhakir’s voices dripped with menace, each word carefully enunciated. “E-e-everyone says Nezhakir is the dread king of graves!” The words stumbled over each other in their haste to exit the newt’s mouth. “In the whole kingdom- nowhere I’ve ever been said queen, dragoness, I mean…“ Time froze. Which just goes to show that even time has a survival instinct where a creature like Nezhakir is concerned. Then she roared, letting loose a stream of corrosive lilac light from her maw to eat away at the ceiling. Guzom’s completely appropriate terror finally reached his brain and triggered his legs to take him [i]anywhere[/i], as long as anywhere meant away from the enraged skeletal dragoness. He didn’t make it very far. As he was sprinting out of the hoard chamber the sand pit, which he had dismissed on the way in as some sort of built-in doormat or reptilian architectural foible, unexpectedly grabbed him. The newt found himself restrained by dozens of gripping skeletal hands formed in instants from the bone dust that filled the pit and left him completely immobile. Luckily for him Nezhakir was too preoccupied with incoherent rage to direct it at any particular target. “They DARE!” Fumed the skeletal dragon, incomprehensible because her chorus of spectral voices were losing synchronicity in her agitation. How dare anyone mistake her for a male? Was she not named in the true speech for the loveliest of blossoms? Did not the tilt of her iliac crest plainly proclaim her femininity to any with an ounce of education? Were her bleached talons not the daintiest of digits? However cogent and indisputable these protests at the unfairness of public perception, none of them made it into plain speech. That honor went to the twenty-odd maledictions of death and damnation that scarred the walls and sent piles of coin exploding with the force of a mortar blast. The light flickered away, leached by the force of those incantations and leaving the room in pitch blackness other than the bone-dragon’s blazing eye sockets. She pounced in no specific direction, ripping into her own hoard on the tide of her ire and scattering yet more carefully counted gold in a tinkling cascade before scoring into the floor with her claws. And unexpectedly lost her balance. Obviously, Nezhakir didn’t spend the next few minutes catching her breath since she didn’t have any. She went still and reassessed, brought up short by the sudden shock. Evidently today was a day for experiences left unfamiliar from the passage of time. Excitement, rage, and now a movement that hadn’t been planned out in even the most rudimentary way… It was not terribly easy to hold onto strong emotions without any glands supplying the corresponding hormones, so keeping a rage going lost priority to evaluating a possible threat. She took her time devising a hypothesis. The most recent time she had lost her balance without outside intervention was, if she recalled, approximately six centuries ago. Discard that instance, having ever after been much more careful of spills when rendering living fat, and to be safe she had also made subtle enchantments of traction to her phalanges for a little extra grip. Go back to the instance before that, which would have been not long after her transition into undeath and the loss of her soft tissue. There had been a period where she had to adjust to weighing much less, with that weight distributed differently. Ah. That might fit. In the near-total blackness she rolled over. Cascades of precious metal sifted through her rib cage with the movement. She curled her neck, looking down to examine herself with eyes that did not see purely by the light of the world. There it was. The knot of spellwork made flesh that had been placed between her hips. In the blackness she couldn’t perceive much of the physical detail but the outline of the spell that had made it clung, and showed up well enough against her own animus-infused bone. She hadn’t looked very closely before. After all, she had only gotten as far as identifying it as a set of male genitals before reacting appropriately. But from the imprecise impression available to magic senses in the dark, the new addition was likely large enough to meaningfully change her center of gravity. Assuming, of course, a density similar to or greater than natural viscera. By application of Macco’s Scalpel, Guzom’s poorly chosen gift was a more probable explanation for her fall than some cunningly subtle assault by a dangerous enemy. Ergo, Nezhakir was most likely not under attack. With that out of the way, Nezhakir could grudgingly appreciate the work that had gone into creating corporeal organs from magic and ectoplasm (even if it was the wrong set of organs). She could also allow that the vast majority of living mortals might not have the linguistic acumen to identify her name as feminine. She might even be able to admit that few living mortals could boast a good look at her in several hundred years, and just possibly that most might not have reason to discern the characteristic subtleties in dragon skeletal structure that signified sex. Nezhakir [i]could[/i] do all that, but stuck to recognizing the misguided technical brilliance that had gone into her new parts. All dragons instinctively and habitually reserved the right to obliterate a town or two for irritating them. That could be done later. With this in mind she called a miniscule witchlight to inspect the acquisition. Whatever else it might be, new mass between her legs was indeed as sizeable as its magical signature suggested. The ponderous shaft was not a draconic taper, but a crass bludgeon. Modeled after some orc or human if she was any judge, if larger than any of those could plausibly sport. Larger, truthfully, than most dragons- perhaps Guzom had hoped to flatter Nezhakir, playing to (presumed) male ego. It rested flaccid and wrinkled at the moment, exposed to the air with no genital slit or sheath to contain it, unless you counted the skimpy flap of foreskin. The rugose skin was a deep grey tinted with pink, extending down the limp shaft and past to a sagging rumpled sack heavy with two great lumps. Nezhakir curled further upward to look closer at them. External testicles, obviously. Not that they could have been internal on her in any case. They gave the impression of not even trying. She could not really imagine them fitting comfortably inside her own skin even if she still had any, and immediately ascribed two thirds of her tumble to their pendulous swing. Testicles and penis alike were rooted in an irregular self-contained sack of organs she adjudged was meant to support them. The lumpy supporting tissue filled her pelvic cavity, pulsing. An occasional uneven twitch traveled through the organic mass and some sort of vessel pulsed in counterpoint, as if a slug made a regular circuit under that point. Nezhakir stretched one femur out to the side, trying to get a better view of this visceral attachment from the side to puzzle out its workings. The associated tibia, fibula, tarsals and etcetera of her rear leg had to follow, and as their outward swing disturbed an unstable pile of treasure. She shivered as the resulting coinslide flowed down over the bones of her hips and settled against her new male parts like a gleaming snowdrift. The bone-dragon started in bemusement. She had felt that. True feeling. Not the counterfeit she relied on as a substitute for pressure sense and equilibrioception. A moment ago she had been considering ripping the offending flesh off. Now, with the possibility of pain added to the equation, that didn’t seem like a winning idea. Of [i]course[/i] it had a sense of touch. There wouldn’t have been any point otherwise. But it was still startling to feel the chilly metal pressed against the side, tickling against the scrotum and auxiliary organs while the penis was pushed aside. There was something sort of satisfying about how it flopped over against her pelvic girdle. Nezhakir reached down with a foreclaw, sliding under the shaft to lift it on the backs of her knuckles. The male organ had a substantial heft to it. She let the corpus roll off the backs of her talons in the opposite direction to come to rest on the gold-drift. It twitched a little at the sensation, and she could feel both trigger and reaction. Curiosity, having washed out the dregs of annoyance by now, drove her to brush over the front of the uninvited cock. Metacarpals rubbed over the loose skin, rolling it this way and that. The meat came to life under her touch. Blood… or whatever fluid was pumping down there… began to flow and then surge into the callosum, limp dick flesh expanding into a full erection. Sensation changed as the spongy tissue inflated toward full size and left Nezhakir rubbing the looser skin over the hardening inner core, shifting and pulling with her claw motions. She pulled her forelimb away to look again. At full size, the hard-on was nearly five feet long. The wrinkles had mostly (but only [i]mostly[/i]) pulled smooth with the expansion. Its glans had popped free of the inadequate foreskin, showing itself a deep brick tone and roughly textured from meatus to the edge that was studded rough with bumpy papules. Those would scrub the insides of a dragoness, adding a ridge of friction and scraping against sensitive walls… Well. Nezhakir flicked that thought aside. Here and there on the shaft were a handful of warts- no, not warts. On closer inspection those were small lipomas. Little lumps of fat under the skin. They could have been an accident or a deliberate imperfection, setting off the veins that rippled down the sides. Overall, the penis was grotesque. Overall, the penis was intriguing. Nezhakir pressed on top of it once more, pressing flesh back and forth with that loose flap brushing against the bumps under the head for a sensation that would make a living dragon groan. She rolled the erection over its support structure and her own spine. Nezhakir curled a little further forward to take one of the nuts in her other set of phalanges, squeezing the tough skin over it and bouncing it. She reveled in it, the feelings changing and shifting and [i]squishing[/i], right up until she accidentally scraped over the side with the business end of one of her claws. The bone-dragon jerked the offending limb back, and shook her head. She realized she had been masturbating, and with the wrong set of reproductive organs. She couldn’t even tell when she had started, precisely. And she wanted to keep going. Was she [i]aroused[/i]? …Yes. Nezhakir was an ancient monster of bone and arcane mastery, and she was definitely aroused. Lust warmed her cold joints. For most of a thousand years hormones were something that only happened to other people, and now she was reexperiencing libido. And being centuries out of practice at controlling any such urges, they hit her hard. So naturally she didn’t have the patience to work out how to masturbate without scratching her penis to hell. A word of power brought the braziers carved into the walls of her sanctum blazing back to life. She rolled onto all fours, and discarded the notion that she might be able to hump against her hoard with the nasty maleness between her legs- Nezhakir already had a better idea. Meanwhile, Guzom had spent the last several minutes in terror. Within that first instant hundreds of bony fingers comprising dozens of bony hands had a literal death grip on him, in so many places that he couldn’t budge at all. The tumult of Nezhakir’s initial rage had stabbed into his ears before snuffing out the light, leaving him immobile with ears ringing in total darkness. Frozen as much by fear as the calcified traps he had shivered silently in the sightless void. Small noises seemed to intrude on his abused hearing, if those were not the creation of his own terror. A tinkling scrape. Then shifting metallic jingling. And a soft-edged squashing sound, too quiet to be certain of. Guzom’s jaw had begun to ache quite badly from the pair of skeletal hands wedging his mouth wide open by the time the light returned. Nezhakir’s feet clacked a dignified tread across the stone floor toward the immobilized mage. From his point of view her skull slid into his view, two burning pits peering down at him. The hands holding his mouth released to some invisible signal. “Pleasedon’tkillmeIdon’twanttodie!” Guzom’s rather predictable begging spilled out of his released maw. “ItwasjustanaccidentIpromiseI-“ The dragon cut him off with a claw, slipping into his open oblong mouth. The taste of blood filled his mouth where his terrified babbling had pressed the sharp talon edge to his tongue and left a shallow, surgically clean scratch. “I have a use for you.” Nezhakir chorused. “Unless you’d like to object.” Guzom shook his head furiously. “Good.” Usually it was hard to tell if a clean skull was grinning. Guzom thought Nezhakir was definitely grinning. He shivered. “This… organ is functional?” Guzom nodded. “Let’s test that.” The skeletal hands all began moving at once, ripping apart the robe the newtling had been wearing in seconds without ever letting any of his major joints flex more than a fraction. His underclothes suffered the same fate until he was bare to the cool cave air. “Hwa?” Was the newt’s reply garbled around the tip of Nezhakir’s foreclaw. If he had waited a moment Guzom would have had a better chance as she pulled it away to step forward over the tangle of articulated bone that held him. The shadows of her ribs passed in a lattice over his amphibian form, and then he was face to head with his creation. [i]Then[/i] he realized what the bone-dragon must mean. “I don’t-“ Bony horned head swung down, between the arch of her forelegs, eyes of lilac fire burning a hole in his remaining nerves. “I-I-I’m a male…” Guzom whimpered, looking back at the massive male organ that hovered over his bone-wrapped tail. It was less intimidating than those eyes (and the weird way Nezhakir could bend her neck without any muscles or tendons in the way- her face was still upright). “And I… I don’t- I’m not attracted to-“ On another day, Nezhakir would have been tempted to see if he could finish that sentence without digging himself deeper. “Tell it to a girl who gives a damn.” Nezhakir said, and shoved her hips forward. The battering ram of a shaft slid over his slippery torso until it slammed into his chin, which slammed his mouth closed with a clap that sounded mildly uncomfortable. The bone dragon would have to make herself a way to moan later, because the feeling of that slippery amphibian body felt against the monstrous member deserved it; cool and slick on the rough surface of the cock. Her new balls slapped against the knuckles clasped on his thick tail. Resting on him as it was the shaft looked even more enormous. It had to be nearly as tall as he was standing. Fully eager now, Nezhakir pulled back to start working her hips properly. Nezhakir didn’t notice the enormous glob of thick greenish pre-ejaculate that oozed out over him, but Guzom certainly did. The warm slime made him think he should have done more experimentation on the safety of the emissions… but he hadn’t really wanted to masturbate a half dozen mindless test skeletons to completion for it. In theory he should be perfectly safe. In practice it was glowing slightly. Probably safe. Regardless he didn’t have much thought to spare for the issue. The textured weight of the penis dragged back over his chest and soft belly, an unasked-for heaviness that rubbed over entirely too much of him before slamming forward again to tap his head forward repeatedly until he looked upward to avoid that harsh rap on the jaw. The balls he had bulked out were no less a load impacting against his tail. One aspect Nezhakir couldn’t have noticed (but Guzom more or less had to) was the smell. Newtlings might not be known for a strong sense of smell, but proximity and the fact that he breathed as much through his skin as anything else meant that there was no way he could miss it, with a considerable percentage of his body surface pressed right up against the eldritch flesh. It wasn’t ‘rotten’ per se… Fungal, perhaps. Weird and unnatural and organic, certainly. But it was undoubtedly male. He firmly believed that if anyone had ever bothered to distill testosterone for a taste test, they might have found his creation’s flavor familiar. Mixed feelings on that aside, the grotesque length rubbed and shoved over him, bobbing over his ribcage to this side and that while it drooled over him. He found himself pressed up into that weight by the hands restraining him, arms and legs forced up to its sides for even more contact. The lumps and wrinkles scraped over his delicate skin in a bizarre full body massage. Nezhakir was having the time of her unlife. The better part of a millennia with no outlet seemed to have been back-dated and delivered in full as a serious case of horny. Where a full set of instinct-driven muscles she might have pounded him into a fine paste, Nezhakir deliberately if roughly used him to catch up on every second of missed pleasure in eerie silence… barring his grunts whenever the magic maleness pressed against his ribcage, and the wet slippery friction noises, and the occasional [i]splat[/i] of the unnatural meat belching forth more greenish precum. So not very silent at all. Nezhakir humped and ground against her slimy sex toy, bathed in bliss. She savored the slap of her balls against him, picking up the pace. It didn’t take a necromantic genius to recognize the building tide inside her acquired nutsack and whatever passed for a prostate in that mildly worrying lump. She didn’t fail to notice when Guzom’s struggling against the skeletal hands had changed to his clutching against his creation, hugging it to him with arms and legs. It could have been resignation and determination to get the obscene act of quasi-necrophilia over with, or the mage getting into it (she had a sneaking suspicion that a male couldn’t put this much work into a cock and balls without having at least a trace of homosexuality in him). Nezhakir didn’t really care which. It worked her foreskin over the knobbly ridge around her glans in addition to the smooth slipperiness of the newt, and felt wonderful. She cradled the back of his head with one foreclaw to get that last little ounce of pleasure rubbing the head of her cock against his throat and chin, and came. Gob after gob of thick greyish-green sludge spat out of her on a backthrust to be smeared over him as she juddered back forward over his front, coating his black and crimson form in the stuff. The second sluggish shot cascaded over his head, cascading over the side of his head, as did the fourth when she came to a shivering halt. The gooey cumslide oozed over Guzom’s face and sides into the nest of reconstituted bone supporting him while Nezhakir shakily stepped to the side. She staggered to her hoard, lying down on her side with the still slowly leaking cock splayed out front of her. Half a dozen meters away the newt she had rubbed herself off on was a mess. The further up his body she looked the more of his distinctive red-and-black was concealed under a thick layer of globby green and grey until his head was mostly a single clump of ectoplasmic semen. And between his legs… Oh [i]ho[/i]. Some part of him had enjoyed that enough to add his cum to the morass spread over his front. The nondescript twitching spike of pink had emerged from his cloaca unnoticed and been rubbed to a finish against the fat cock that he’d been near-pinned beneath for several minutes. With a wave of a talon she made the bone trap prop him upright, where he stayed for only a moment before collapsing onto his front. The undignified heap of newt groaned in a put-upon sort of way. His eyes were glazed from orgasm (his and Nezhakir’s) and the battering (again, his and Nezhakir’s- if one took ‘battered’ in both possible senses). If he didn’t pick himself up soon he might find himself stuck to the floor. Oh well. Not Nezhakir’s problem. “Your blunder-” The [cum-drenched] newt flinched back from the first words spoken in several minutes, hands raised instinctively to protect his face. What his instincts thought that would do about the imminent obliteration he plainly expected was a mystery. “-is not irredeemable.” “I…” Guzom’s eyes refocused on the bone dragon, avoiding the length at her waist out of embarrassment. “I may live?” “Your mistake notwithstanding, this conjuration of yours is quite…” There she went grinning again. It was enough to make someone want to irrationally protect their throat, even when someone’s throat would have been too small to take a bite out of. “[i]Satisfactory.[/i] “Um.” “How long will it last?” “I calculated-“ Guzom gulped. Still, he was on firmer ground about this at least. “Perhaps a month. I- that is, with a sufficient focus of necromantic energy, such as yourself, in close proximity… Maybe indefinitely? If infused with more energy.” “I see.” The skeletal dragoness curled back on herself and nuzzled, actually nuzzled, at her new equipment. “We will begin with a study of bone structure vis-à-vis divergence in structure between male and female quadrupeds.” Stunned silence. (Except for Guzom’s panting and dripping.) “You will still teach me?!” The newt pushed himself to hands and knees, eyes brightening and cum glorping to the floor off his front. “Yes. I believe you will provide sufficient amusement to be worth my time.” The little flare of her eye socket fires put an emphasis on ‘amusement’ that made Guzom cringe momentarily (and his cock take a twitching pause in its retreat) but he brightened up quickly enough. “Oh. And you will craft a spell for female genitals in your time here.” “To replace my mistake.” Guzom breathed in understanding. “I can certainly-“ “Replace, nothing. [i]In addition to.[/i]” Nezhakir ignored the mild horror that flashed over Guzom’s face at the complexity of the proposed spellcraft. She was already thinking about how she could grab that green drake [i]and[/i] find Rizzkeleth’s carcass. Surely with hundreds of years of anatomy practice she could work out a few variations on an undead dragon sandwich. With newtling garnish. A dragon was nothing if not greedy. [center]The End[/center]