Christopher’s mother settled upon the side of her five year old son’s bed, right next to where she forced him to lay upon his belly. Dressed in a charcoal gray shirt that contrasted against the white of his briefs; red and yellow cartoon trucks dotting the exposed cheeks of his little cotton-swaddled bottom in a childish pattern; the boy rested his muzzle upon his colorful pillow as he had been made many times in the past, squeezing it with his arms and claws in anxious anticipation of the discomfort his mother carried from the bathroom with her. He understood he was going to be “punished” for not listening and doing as told, and that he was “getting the water under his tail” – one of mother’s trusty enemas, and the thing that calms a boy who’s gotten too rowdy.

A rolled up towel was placed under his pelvis, snug up against the thin boyish mound the front of his undies made. Wiggled and positioned, his mother made sure his butt jutted out “just right.”

Beneath his short, dusky brown hair, the cub blinked warily in trying to watch over his shoulder, but he ended up seeing little beyond the thick of his mother’s tail along his bedding with him before a tugging sensation came upon his own. The short length of reptilian tail erupting from the seat of his underwear was taken into claw and lifted out of the way; fingers dipping under it, across his smooth green scales to its cotton-covered base. Without effort, the elastic of the little boy’s briefs stretched as his mother’s claw hooked into the bottom of the hole his tail came from, baring its private underside and the much lighter green that graced Christopher from his chest to just beyond his tailhole, pulling the garment’s hole open down the valley of his backside. His seat of red and yellow trucks wrinkled up against the crease of his legs, and from the light his ceiling fan cast, a deeply pink, furled divot appeared in the exposed tuck of his tail’s anatomy, nestled right against the underside of its very base.

Surrounded by the creamy gradient of his lighter scale melding into darker, the five year old’s tight pucker of anal flesh and scale gnarled softly inward, forming a faint hollow that closed up cleanly upon itself as a dragon. That faint, boyish little bowl was met by a gob of cold jelly that flowed in a splash through every wrinkle, just as a rounded enema nozzle tip married to its warm recess. The abrupt sensation made the little boy jump from the hard poke of plastic, but seeing as his mother wasn’t the slow or gentle type, he right away sucked in a harsh, sharp and whiny breath through his nostrils at the push that came firmly with it, forcing its jellied, adult-sized length through the squeeze of his tailhole and deep into his rectum. Clutched in his parent’s claw, the frosted, flexible plastic bottle sloshed and splashed with sudsy, frothy water as she watched its bright red nozzle and all its clear, slimy jelly rush through Christopher’s reflexive grip, running the loose lubricant through the cleft of his tail and backside; cheeks hugging the punitive medical instrument.

Its thick tip a hard lump far within the boy’s rear, hugged upon by delicate and silken walls, it spurt a slurry of heated, foamy cleaning water with a squeeze of his mother’s claw. The rush coming as soon as it jammed up Christopher’s arse, the little boy squeaked a whimpering, mildly tearful boyish sound from his curled, tightened muzzle; gripping at his pillow.

“Mommy! It’s hot!”, he promptly mewled for her, but the welling stream of water didn’t pause. If anything, it briefly poured into him faster, striking deep within his anus like a jarring jolt.

“It’s warm, Christopher.”, she pressed in scold, despite it being only half-truth. She did turn the temperature of the water up a tad for the whelp’s misbehavior, helping the sudsy water bite its initial cramp sooner, and tighter – a well-warmed baseball of fluid lumping into the little boy’s tail and tummy both, washing through his colon with each passing second of her idle squeeze.

The froth within the frosted bottle descended gradually, coating its walls the same as it did the little dragon’s insides, leaving the boy to huff, whimper and grunt out his nagging discomforts. Christopher’s belly tightened and his bottom swelled, deeply waterlogged as far as his backside could go, all as the milky fluid clutched within his mother’s claw funneled into the nozzle penetrating his babyish hole. It being a lot for a cub of merely five, and expected to lay there for the whole thing, Christopher sniffled and tepidly hiccuped with his damp eyes, squirming his toes against one another. His tail curled awkwardly, having trouble keeping still.

“Nnnn-’nrumph!”, the little boy whined softly against his pillow, grunted childishly from his throat as the enema bottle ran dry; its bubbly remnants sinking toward the mouth of the nozzle within, given pressure until every drop of water disappeared from his mother’s sight.

From the opening in his underwear made by his mother’s tugging claw, Christopher’s tailhole quivered faintly in its vicing grip around the thick finger’s-width nozzle. Its typical virgin gnarl was stretched into shallow wrinkles around the hard instrument, shimmering wetly from the mess of jelly his mother enjoyed using; now as warm as he was, and runnier as a result. The cessation of the water’s dutiful flow into the confines of his bottom made him feel full and want to go right from the start, bringing the base of his tail to flex uncomfortably downward to guard his draconic anus.

“Stop your fidgeting and calm down. I’m going to pull the tip out, so stiffen your tail and hold your water, okay? No accidents. It needs to stay in there for a bit.”, his mother made it clear that his punishment wasn’t over, and reprieve wouldn’t be coming soon enough. But, he did want that huge feeling rock of a nozzle removed from his taut little hole, and in his particularly five-year-old-themed whimpers, nodded his frowning muzzle against the pillow he clutched.

Feminine fingers pressed against both sides of his anus, sinking faintly into the soft of his scaled bottom’s valley as they left his underwear and braced him instead. With their assistive pressure and inward squeeze grasping at the nozzle within him; surely making his tailhole sore in the process; the adult-sized rod slid out of him much more gingerly than it went in, gliding like butter through the remnants of his mom’s sloppy jelly. A quiet, faintly squishing sound slapped and smacked wetly as it went, stroking lubricant through every fold and wrinkle he had until the sound of a lip giving a single smack coincided with the nozzle’s very tip coming free of his anus’ grasp – a stickier strand of the jelly forming a goopy arch between the lemon-puckered recess of his hole and the enema bottle, not breaking until the elastic of his briefs snapped back around the hug of his tail. The strand’s remnants landed against the base of his thighs and the dip of brief between his legs, leaving a trail across his colored trucks that sucked into the vice of his butt cheeks, clenched as tightly as they were over the prop of that rolled-up towel.

Such disquieting strain reddened Christopher’s muzzle; a hearty huff escaping his nostrils.

“Alright, come on. Up you go.”, a claw appeared before his damp, squinted eyes, stroked through the short strands of his brown hair.

Though he was being made to get out of bed without being able to steel his senses after that quick, filling enema, Christopher was glad to be able to lift his groin and tummy off the towel. The weight of his belly came apparent as he did, and without the towel’s pressure, all the fluid within him sloshed and shifted as he gingerly toddled his way about getting his footclaws to the floor; beckoned by his mother guiding his shoulder. His toes reached the carpet with a stiff dance, curling into the fibers as his hands pawed about his hips with the most animated of squirms.

“Mommy!”, Christopher cried, reaching back under his butt-plastered little tail to the seat of his briefs; claw gripping the cotton fiercely, just as his other pulled at the hem of his shirt.

“I’ve nev’ur needed to potty suh’ bad in my whole life!”, the curled rim of his maw mewled pathetically, reaching levels of melodrama that only a five year old could.

Christopher’s mother stifled a loose ‘snrk!’ to hearing such a childish declaration, crouching in to get close to her son while maintaining her typical tasteful modesty while in a lack of dress. It wasn’t common, but every so often she preferred to go bottomless; her soft yellow-green belly scales coating the entirety of her naked pelvis beneath the drape of her shirt, with legs kept close enough together to veil the puffy, adult form of her vulva. She was good at it, even if her little boy never batted an eye to seeing her bits and parts when he was well aware what a girl was, and what his sister Claire’s junk looked like, as much as a seven year old accidentally flashed her environment on any given day. It left them snout to snout with her doting kneel to his height, there at the base of his boyish bed; a calm, pleasantly domineering mother’s smile to Christopher’s teary, tense face, looking to her for pity and rescue.

“Let’s see if you have a tummy after all that… ”, she wondered aloud with a motherly vocal twinkle, lifting the little boy’s shirt from its loose perch atop his excessively todder-ish brief bulge. Sure enough, the dancing, cross-footed little boy was certainly holding a lot within the backside he pawed at as a waterlogged sag pressed against the rim of his underwear’s elastic waistband from a distended belly. The weighted hump of swollen, full bowel was pretty obvious when Christopher usually had a boyish, shapely tummy, and she couldn’t help but touch the sack of water thoroughly assaulting her son’s clenched muscles.

“You sure do have to go, but not until mommy says.”, she affirmed of his punishment, stroking her claw across Christopher’s young scales to his groin.

Just as he never batted an eye to her genitalia, he didn’t his own either – even when blatantly touched, as her gliding, intrusive fingers chose to do. They cupped the warm, cotton dome of his brief’s front, and her thumb and forefinger separated alongside the peak of that bulbous shape of colorful trucks and seams. It was hardly but a couple of seconds of groping, but she felt up along the sides of her son’s tiny nub of a penis, palpating gently for firmness while her other fingertips and claws brushed the tight pouch beneath, reaching between his legs ever so faintly as he stepped, swaying to and fro. Looking into Christopher’s eyes, the purposeful molestation lent no impact upon his expression when conditioned to accept such things; squinting and whimpering with awkward breaths in protest about his bottom alone.

“Must have a lil’ tummy-ache too. I would have expected a stiffy from that ‘big-boy’ nozzle, but you’re baby-soft.”, she pointed out from her examination through his briefs, seeing as such probing rectal instruments often had uncontrollable, intrusive effects upon his body at his very young age – sometimes left sticking out when he cried after a small, yet thorough session of discipline.

“Mostly.”, his mother quipped in correction, caressing the faint chub beneath her thumb; her claw sliding into the seam of his colorful, little-kid’s underwear’s front flap, with one fleeting stroke of her digit down the stub of his foreskin-swaddled phallus.

“Yeah!”, Christopher confirmed of the harsh, punishing jabbing within his abdomen as his insides churned and bubbled, pressing upon all the buttons that told his body he needed to run to the toilet very quickly. A claw left the wiggle of his clenched bottom and gripped at the tummy she had a peek at before, even if her thumb was stuck inside the front of his underwear, poking about like a grown, bony rod.

“I can’t hold it mommy, I can’t!”, a knee flexed, making a footclaw smack the carpet in a little boy’s desperate stamp.

He didn’t get a response too quickly when his mother took her time finishing her doting of his brief bulge, feeling light, pulsing squeezes from his base to his tip, as short as that run of fleshy, thin scale ultimately was. She even ensured his brief’s pee-flap was settled properly back into place, tucked up against his rugae and boyish protrusions before his whiny sounds got any further acknowledgment; all that calm contrasting against his desperate pleas.

“Well that’s just going to be too bad, Christopher. You’d get in big, big trouble if you don’t.”, his mother warned as she got out of her crouch and back to her feet, never showing more than the simple flat curves of her bare groin below the frills of her shirt dangling at her upper waist with her careful leg motions.

Her voice didn’t sound threatening; never one to fret over doling punishment; but Christopher knew when she meant business, closing his eyes with a sobbing, tantrum-like kicking of his feet against the floor where he stood, muzzle inches from the split of his mommy’s thighs. Already enduring incredible strain and inner discomforts, being told he’d not be permitted to potty finally made him break down and cry more audibly, letting the tears his eyelids had been holding loose onto the cheeks of his muzzle. It was a frustration his mother was pleased with, and wanted to see more of before she’d let her son go to the bathroom as the frothy fluid within him demanded.

“Over there.”, she commanded aloud, pointing long enough across the expectedly unkempt space for Christopher to open his eyes and see her motion for the empty spot between his dresser and the door, across from his bed, “Nose to the wall, and stand there to hold your water.”

Christopher being little more than a big toddler, it took the whelp some moments to begin moving while his inner being spun with pressure and laments. With the thick of his short tail plastered against the playful and still yet dry seat of his cotton briefs, the sobbing boy turned with a slow, wobbling shuffle to the wall he had been ordered to place his snout against, stepping around the strewn toys he had only so earlier been playing with. His claws gripped the cheeks of his bottom dearly, bracing the clenched-solid base of his rear beside the tuck of his tail on each side, and continued to do so even once his toddling ceased with the cold, smooth touch of the baby-blue wall to the very end of his draconic muzzle.

And while those scales stayed in place as he had been trained since he was in diapers, the rest of him kept no semblance of still. Footclaws scuffed the carpet in sweeping tamps, and his frame twisted with the strain upon his hips and thighs to retain the volatile, heated weight of the water punishing his tailhole. The whiny whimpers, grunts, and teary squeals that came with his boisterous dancing fell upon a captive audience when this particular part of his comeuppance was the one his mother had been looking forward to since filling his enema bottle. Behind the short brown hair of Christopher’s head, unbeknownst and out of sight, the grown dragoness had relaxed the formality of her bottomless seating posture to allow the air of her son’s bedroom to crest over the curved, chubby shape of her nether-lips. She idly brushed along the length of her thinly scaled slit with two fingertips, slyly enjoying the tearful urgency she forced her boy to endure upon forbidding his due trip to the bathroom.

The secret, parting strokes of her peeking folds could only go on for so long – but she knew that, really. Christopher barely made it three minutes before he cried out more sharply in his infantile fit, stiffly stretching his tail out behind him.

“My tail ‘gon-na leak! Ma’!”, his pitch upped in shameful desperation at the feeling of hot wetness creeping through his tiniest of wrinkles; his bottom and gripping claws coming to tremble on the verge of an accident. From behind, he got back a drawn out sigh, and with perhaps a spark of hope, the sound of his bed frame creaking.

“Well, if you’re giving up, we’ll go to the potty now.”, the voice of his mother approached with the tone of relent, and while the punishment-familiar little boy didn’t think he was getting off scot-free, tapping out as he was, he could hardly care about the consequence of his choice at his age once his tail was taken to the sweet relief of the bathroom.

It took some time to get every ounce of his punitive enema out of his belly, but the little boy managed to do it with only a faint rosy blush down his green-scaled muzzle, being watchfully loomed over. The twisted knots of his bowels eased into the sensation of exhaustion, still left reeling by the time his footclaws slapped the cold tile and he was thoroughly cleaned and dried; his nub of a penis bouncing and jiggling with the coarse terrycloth shifting the base of his tail about. His wrist held firm, all he could stare at during the rough, unnecessarily long dry-scrubbing of his sore tailhole was his underwear slid across the bathroom, kicked aside as if he wasn’t going to be getting the garment back. Upset and growing worried as to what else he now “owed” his mother, his deep, breath-catching panting continued to sputter lightly in wake of his enema until his wrist was released and he discovered what sort of trouble he was in.

It came in the form of his mother’s pearly claws scooping up a faintly sullied, occasionally dampened box off the counter containing a used bar of soap – and not just any bar of soap. The light blue bar she slid into her grasp was solely used for Christopher’s routine punishment, complete with the irregular valleys and divots created by his teeth and fangs, holding it within his maw for as long as he would be sentenced. It left him biting at his fingertips as he was brought out to the living room and stripped of his shirt; nearly nose to nose with his mother when she finally broke the tension of silence.

“There’s more than one way to give a bad boy a tummy-ache. This’ll be your make-up punishment.”, the womanly dragoness eluded to her torturous intent, stopping short of providing any details.

With dutiful haste and a sultry saunter to the rub of her thighs; bottom swaying with her tail in stride; she took her bare-scaled five year old son to the family recliner despite the hesitant pull she could feel from his arm. She threw the length of her grown tail over the plush seat and sank all the way back into it, guiding her boy up to sit upon her left thigh once the footrest was kicked up; legs coming to a relaxed, slight splay. Quickly cuddled against his parent and the chair’s big armrest, scale to scale in her lap for all the wrong reasons, the one-track-minded cub dreadfully watched the soap she carried like a hawk.

“Open up.”, the casual firmness of her voice within a session of discipline returned once settled, offering the full length of the bar to Christopher’s muzzle; all mere inches from her own, with an arm around her son.

As much as her young son vehemently hated everything about having his maw soaped, the stiff-jawed boy stretched his mouth agape enough to allow the soap past his front teeth; trained, again, since he was but a baby, getting slivers to melt upon his tiny tongue with his snout calmly gripped shut. The frowning quiver of his maw curled with the wrinkling of his muzzle, clenching his misty eyes to the dry, pungent glide of the bar across his awaiting tongue, shoved right up into the back of his mouth without delay. Bumping against the back, close to his throat, Christopher reflexively caught the bar of soap in the grasp of his teeth, dipping their pointy tips into familiar ruts within the cakey substance as his mother let go of it. Chalky against his reptilian lips and growing slimy against the saliva of his tongue very quickly, the potently fumy, detergent taste made the lad grimace no matter how many times he had experienced it.

“A perfect fit, hmm?”, the motherly dragoness teasingly admired of Christopher’s bowed-out cheeks, catching the same overpowering scent of flowery perfume that was unpleasantly flaring his reptilian nostrils; meekly holding his baby-blue bar like an obedient whelp for her. It was a lovely look for the boy, quietly staring at her with the most pathetic of faces.

Trapped beneath her fiery thumb, aroused and entertained as she was, the dragoness took the moment to enjoy the imprint of Christopher’s warm bottom against her bare thigh; cheek cleft and tail-base hugged against her scale as softly as a five year old’s could. Her eyes wandered downward with her claw, brushing down the creamier colored scales of her son’s boyish tummy with the backs of her fingers until they fell right down into his lap. Unable to restrain her immodestly seductive little smile, feeling as if there was no need with her innocently ignorant youngest child, the mother cupped his hip gently as she toyed about with his inner thighs, sneaking glancing, stimulating strokes of his immature, coin-pouch scrotum’s numerous wrinkles. It was quiet and serene when the boy was forced to sit perfectly still and endure the burning, choking creep of velvety lather mixing with his saliva; allowed to do nothing else but let her meandering digits touch him as they pleased, as meaningless as the sensations were to his mind. Becoming less coy, the dragoness reminded him that he had a pair of testicles, gently rolling them about between her thumb and forefinger to see how those tiny marbles were coming along, giving his sac enough of a warm workout to soften its tight, body-snugged shape into the cup of her fingers.

“This might seem a lot easier than holding water, but… ”, she spoke as her fingertips scooped up the flaccid, foreskin-covered tip of Christopher’s penis from its resting place against his balls, “Be a good boy, and keep still for mommy.”

Vaguely alluding to her intentions with the sensuous allure of her voice, sounding loving yet threatening to Christopher’s childish interpretation, the touch of polished claws slid carefully by the thinnest of his scales as his little nub was corralled into the grasp of his mother’s fingertips. Without his underwear to veil his creamy green, silken-scaled hose any longer, his mother watched his furled knob attentively as she rolled the babyish folds of his foreskin over his nary one inch of spongy length, playing with it purposely. Between her thumb and the side of her right forefinger, she lightly stretched Christopher’s foreskin at the rim of its tip, watching his tiny scales go taut without a single wrinkle before easing her light pull with a mindful stroke back down all those exposed little nerves. It was difficult for the boy to watch, having that bar of soap protruding from his snout, but those wiggling, strange motions of feminine fingers against his lap quickly turned to a steady rub, feeling this back and forth stroking as his mother’s knuckles seemed to bounce down there; flesh and scale rolling loosely.

But, even for such a young lad, the looseness gave rise to a swelling tension; that nub extending into a short, self-standing boyish rod that grew easier to be massaged, lifting to erection from what Christopher could see around the doting diligence of his mother’s fingers. Keeping his head down brought a hint of soapy, finely bubbled spittle to his lower muzzle-lip as it threatened to trickle upon his chin, but the more those attentions went on, the more of something the boy could feel welling up inside of him. The idle tugging came across as pleasantly tickly, and a faint hint of pink appeared at his very tip as his foreskin tightly gripped his head. He couldn’t explain why his mother’s claw danced the way it did, feeling up every ridge and shape beneath his foreskin once his penis grew hard, but this sort of “whipping” wasn’t the worst punishment he-…

The shock of a claw snapping around his muzzle made Christopher gasp, breaking him out of the trance of his short attention span much too late to keep his bar of punishment soap from slipping free of its ginger perch atop his draconic teeth. It dropped half way out of his mouth in gravity’s pull toward his lap, but a firm, sudden squeeze of that claw over his snout caught the bar for him, forcing his front teeth and fangs increasingly deeper into the wet, softened surface of the soap; craters cresting with blue mush as his pearly whites sank in, bringing a squeal of protest from the curled, disgusted maw it so duly punished.

Distracted, and merely five, the little dragon failed to notice his mother’s other claw had stopped cradling his hip in midst of all the cock-tugging.

“M’-mmrruuum!”, Christopher tried to cry out from around the bar as his mother squeezed his muzzle harder and harder, painfully cutting his teeth into the drier, solid mass of the soap; all the pressure combining with the race of his heart, and the increasingly foul flavor of the slurry his maw held, now being ground against his tongue.

“Still! I said a tummy-ache, didn’t I?”, the dragoness’ prior words became unpleasantly clear, even as his cubbish prick stood at attention between the squirm of his thighs, bouncing and swaying with an occasional slap against his mother’s scrambling, pawing fingers.

Christopher fussed and bucked, grunting all sorts of toddler-like, shrill whines. Trapped in his mother’s lap, legs across her own; footclaws kicking the opposite armrest; the poor boy endured a few more moments of the incredibly harsh clamp of his maw until the soap reached his gums, and the strong bite of his sharp little teeth brought the bar to break with an audible, crumbling crunch. With shavings caked copiously between his teeth, the remainder of the soap tumbled into his firmly restrained maw while the rest fell free of his muzzle-lip, bouncing off his hip with a dull smack.

“You are going to chew that half of the bar, and then eat it, understood?”, his mother’s firmness reached the level of her claw’s binding squeeze, holding his son’s snout the same as she did when he was but a hatchling. Such an incredible order, as much as Christopher couldn’t stand soap, made the boy cry with desperate, pleading hysterics, even if he couldn’t utter a single syllable of how much he couldn’t do such a thing.

“I’m not letting go until that maw is empty and your teeth are licked clean!”, she dashed any hopes that she’d let him off if he held out long enough, dealing with his jerking motions by showing how easy it was for her to hold his muzzle shut despite, and still yet follow his little cock with her other claw.

At first his jaw was frozen in his young urgency to cry, stiffly sobbing through his sealed muzzle, but as the mush of soap filled the entirety of his mouth and threatened to outright make him sick, Christopher forced himself to begin chewing the soap as if his belly depended on it – and, as he did, the attentions to his stiff boyhood sped up into a purposeful, diligent jerk. The crunching, smacking clicks of the bar getting mashed were easily heard and felt through his mother’s claw, giving him just enough leeway to part his teeth for the task she forced upon him with punitive glee, ever so glad she had at least Christopher’s wriggling to bump up against the bare of her pelvis if nothing else. She did enjoy a good tease, just as she stroked off her boy in the middle of fretfully eating a whopping half a bar of soap; that tip of his pointed straight up, caught in the brisk whisking of her fingertips. Her son tried coughing, nauseously convulsing his stomach hard enough that blue slime appeared in the crease of his muzzle, but all she had to do was tighten her squeeze and coo for the tearfully ailing lad, encouraging him with such a boyish flavor of stroking massage; rock-solid up to his dry cock-tip, no matter the harrowing ordeal bearing down upon his throat from undoubtedly both ends.

In time the little boy huffed shakingly from his nostrils, eyes gnashed shut. He made a faint sound around the slurry of inedible soap-slime that filled his maw all the way back, scorching and bitter, and after a few moments of weak, tantrum-like squirming; hips hugging his mother’s pawing fingers; Christopher audibly gulped, treating his mother to a slow, horribly hesitant roll down the front of his throat that upped his fight once it fell into the twisted confines of his belly. It made him cry out again, and the urge to spit all the soap up spurt a few watery bubbles out of his forcibly closed maw; footclaws again stamping, far more like a true tantrum in the mix of other more… surely sexual whimpers and whines, between all those tears.

“Good boy. Swallow the rest.”, the mother dragon purred for him, intentionally slowing her pawing to a mere teasing brush of her thumb down the length of his bottom-side; something his body quickly reacted to, squeezing his thighs together from the sudden lack of milking. So immature and inexperienced, his body required so little stimulation – but she knew she needed it at this point as a boy, if not to be left uncomfortably hanging.

Christopher sobbed more pitifully at what must have washed over him, and like clockwork she again felt his tongue at work beneath her grasp – her fingers gracing him with the return of a more proper stroking as a nurturing reward for them both; that stiff, pumping little rod given just enough to make the ache of abstinence go away.

And it went on. Sick, soapy burps puffed from Christopher’s nostrils. Horrible, slimy gulps slithered down his throat. Hiccups, sputters, sobs – the whole gauntlet of what a five year old could make from a closed maw, right down to the sharper sounds that came with his kicks, fidgets, and hovering groin, wiggling and waving about with some unseen sensation that might have been “pleasure” on a different day. Whenever his butt would lift a tad, putting weight onto his back with any semblance of a guttural grunt or cubbish gurgle, the mother dragon would slow her strokes, edging the poor boy’s confused mind and genitals – and, each time, delightfully treated to the sight and feel of his penis locking up, lifting up as high as it would go in a useless, pitiful pump of nothing. It was written all over Christopher’s tear-soaked face that he was on the verge of a complete meltdown, breathing and swallowing so helplessly, and for more than one reason he didn’t even comprehend at his age. There was a knot between his legs; sharp, intense, and flowing, and he couldn’t bear to gulp down so much as one more dollop of tongue-whipped lather. His tummy ached, just as he was promised, and he couldn’t.

All his mind could do was distract, and it was that short attention span of a five year old that served him in the moment. When a spark appeared within his small pelvis that felt surprisingly nice, his focus drifted into that fervid, tense sensation at the base of his shaft. With little left in his maw but half-melted flecks and shavings of soap and a sea of bubbling saliva, trying to get it down his resistant gullet fell to the wayside as he desperately wanted the good feeling there – the one making the claws of his toes curl, scratching the fabric of the chair he shared. His eyes cracked into watery slits, far more slouched and tense than when all this began, and tried watching his mother’s claw rubbing up and down his “stiffy” as his parents always called it when it stuck up for no reason. There was something about watching it that made him want to dip his thumb into his maw, but he settled for tucking his longing digit next to it and his mother’s clamping fingers. It was just a few seconds at best, but as that zippy spark got bigger he moaned awkwardly and pushed his hips… just for his mother to ease up, making the base of his muzzle wrinkle with ignorant sexual tension. His bottom came off his parent’s thigh, thrusting his hips weakly up into her claw, but all she did was brush tepidly at his heated, reddening little scales – that spark tightening inside of him, making the little boy whimper and growl like a straining hatchling; cock thrust right up into the air beneath his mother’s watchful snout.

That’s when the spark teasing the base of his shaft eased into a wet sensation that crept up his penis, and with a needy-yet-comforted scrunch to his face, worked it out with the squirming of his thighs in his unwillingness to let it slip away. It could have become the memory of his first orgasm, if not for the fountain-like eruption of a yellow stream wholly unrelated to what the boy thought was a part of the pleasure building up within his crotch, soaking everything it crossed as it lifted. The feeling of abruptly urinating made Christopher jump out of shock, but not before an unfortunate aim caught his mother right across her smirking muzzle; sprayed right across her face, and straight up into the air to rain a musky scented warmth all over.

“Pfff-!”, the dragoness spat the hint of salty, torrid urine that suddenly spattered into her mouth, recoiling more from the surprise and audacity if anything – not exactly adverse to watersports when she was as fired up as she was.

“Chris, are you kidding me right now?!”, she was still entirely bewildered and taken aback none the less, snatching the little boy’s bladder-purging erection as she let go of her son’s muzzle, darting that claw to her brow to smack away a trickle of urine before it got in her eye.

“A-accide-… !”, Christopher’s stammering didn’t even get to finish its declaration of  “accident” before his jaw was vised; grown thumb and forefinger squeezing his cheeks.

His blue-streaked teeth and remaining soap lather was promptly diluted by a body-temperature, clear yellow soup sprayed straight from his own tap; the mother dragon giving him a literal taste of his own medicine if he was going to piss himself at his age, not grasping that it was born from a confused little boy wanting to have the first dry cum of his life, before even knowing what such a thing was. The insult to injury being so unexpected, the clench of Christopher’s muscles actually made him pee with more force the moment the stream smacked across his lips; the sound of the stream hitting the back of his mouth and sudsy, pooled soap slurry being so snappy and sharp, like peeing in a small cup. Hot, pungent, and soured, the cub grimaced, making quite the cry of protest as he kicked and tried to back away, but with purchase over his maw and his penis alike, his mother kept the fountain from his foreskin’s parted rim on course, making a urine mess spill from his mouth until it weakened enough to trickle down his chin and crest his chest.

Once his mouth was let go, Christopher gagged and spit in his crying fit, ending up with soap bits and pee running all down his torso and lap. It had splashed all over his mother’s shirt, and much to her personal endearment, dribbled down her pelvis to the hidden, tucked away parting of her feminine lips, forming an unseen cocktail of girlish moisture strands and watery little-boy-urine.

“I-i-it w-w-as… acci-dent!”, his urine-bathed mouth cut to the chase in his mewling, so embarrassed and unwilling for any further punishment. Christopher unintentionally exemplified his point when he ‘urp’-ed again, swallowing the soap that bubbled up back down with a choking, uneasy series of overly-punished sobs.

Honestly the first thing that came to his mother’s mind was spanking him outright, but the poor thing was already half in hysterics, and those last fleeting pumps of his cock spurting little squirts of piss all over his groin were one of far too many “pleasant surprises” for her to keep teasing herself the way she had been. As a drip of that urine fell from her vulva, trailing down her thigh for the seat cushion, her inner passage rolled a needy clamp of her own, loosing some more of her natural juices to rinse Christopher’s away. As much as it pained a part of her mind to let her son get away with peeing all over her and their living room recliner, all the boy got as he shamefully lamented what happened was the calm, cleaning wipe of his mother’s shirt across his muzzle, relieving his lips of the sullied fluids.

“Alright. Punishment’s over… but you have to help mommy scratch a grown-up itch if you want her to stop.”, she hesitantly relented after she had soothed his tears, offering a reprieve on a condition that was outside of her typical comfort zone to indulge upon. While the context of her words made her feel bashful, blushing from her snout to her groin in its brazen, immodest nature, Christopher was all aboard for anything that could offer him forgiveness and allow him to rest his battered, tired insides – even if all that meant on the outside was a quiet, teary-eyed nod of his head like he wanted to be laid down for a nap. It was the look of a properly “sorry” hatchling.

With enough excitement within her loins to go through with using her son for what she had in mind; going beyond merely being a punitive toy when in trouble; the motherly dragoness lowered the recliner’s footrest and helped Christopher to his feet without jostling his upset, churning tummy. She took off her urine-trailed shirt and tossed it back over the wet spot of where they had been seated, letting her own lighter, creamier breast scales touch the open air in the boy’s presence for the first time in what felt like forever; still hardly catching much of a glance, if not simply curious as to why her nipples were so stiff. From the side table that sat beside the chair, she reached far into the back of its drawer and pulled out a small bottle of something clear and watery looking after a brief hunt.

Standing with his thumb in his maw and a found lil’ plush friend of his he snatched up from the living room table while she was busy, Christopher looking up at her with the softest of bloodshot eyes; his scales shimmering in patches and streaks from his accident. It was hard for the likes of the sexual disciplinarian to not smile at the “cuteness” of the boy’s outer demeanor, as submissive and calm as his whole ordeal had made him, right up to his half-mast chub jutting out in its lonesome. He cried so quietly with that plush toy tucked between his arm and sternum like a security blanket, just letting his eyes leak in the wake of all his aches and pains, there before the very parting of her legs.

“This won’t be bad… maybe just weird. I just need you to stand there, like a big boy, and mommy can feel some of the things she made you feel in your ‘thing’, down there.”, the dragoness explained as if this was something at all normal, flicking the plastic cap of the bottle open with the sharp, tapered hook of her thumb claw.

Again, her son nodded acceptantly in exhaustion; his thumb barely moving from its comforting place within his maw.

For a moment the woman stared, but ever so fueled by her son and the drive within the lowest depths of her feminine belly, she dripped four raining drops of lubricant from the bottle right onto the top of Christopher’s draconic muzzle. It was chilly and caused the boy flinch, but he made no fuss as the loose jelly was rubbed across the smooth sheen of his scales from his snout-tip to the bridge of his muzzle. At the end she even pet her fingertips down the boy’s snout, tickling it to make him feel a little better if she was to take advantage of him as she was.

Without fanfare or so much as an utterance of verbal guidance, afraid she might lose her chance, the crafty dragoness set her lustful imagination to work with the uncharacteristic parting of her thighs; ever so used to walking with complete vulva-hiding dignity, even in front of her daughter, Claire. As she did, a strand of feminine grool joined the puffy, aroused shape of her lips to the creases of her legs, fanning out until the shimmering, sticky sheet melted apart before Christopher’s nose. It was different getting to see what mommy’s flat-yet-sloping front did once he could see between her legs, looking so unlike Claire, but he quickly got an even closer look than he thought he would – so close he ended up in the darkness of her shadow, and had his senses struck by so many unfamiliar things all at once. A sweltering, steamy moisture sizzled against the nerves of his lube-brushed snout as it smoothly ground against silken flesh and scale alike, and with it, the musky, sultry scent of that parting of “girl scale” he saw before his eyes were up against the zenith of her cleft, staring at a shadowy hint of blushing pink peering out.

His mother had stepped forward and straddled the entirety of his childish muzzle between her legs, running her claws through his thin, boyish hair to guide his snout along the feminine length of her lips. Becoming wedged between her thighs nudged his thumb clear of his mouth, hugging his plush fox friend tight to not lose him, but his anxious-yet-inquiring young mind found little distressing over the gentle touch and all-encompassing warmth of his mother, fitting snug and perfect at his young height. The act made no sense at all, but for some reason he felt okay with it; his chubby, half-flaccid erection lifting with a few ticking twitches in step with the beating of his heart. It wasn’t like he hadn’t gotten a face-full of his father’s groin in the midst of their often “touchy” wrestling play, and this grown-up sort of smell was almost better, in a way – one that stirred his curiosity, and made his nostrils test the air gingerly to the sensation of that thick fluid seeping against his snout.

Fearful of Christopher squealing and leaping away, his mother held his head steady in anticipation only for that shaky puff of air from his nostrils to cool the smattering of female moisture along the back end of her slit. His breath trailed over the bowl-like marrying of her lips before the curves of her bottom began, tantalizing her into getting onto the tips of her toes to wedge the lad softly deeper with the press of her claws. The touch of his snout-tip came to her tail, curling it at its base to draw him into the embrace of her tailbase’s tuck from below; his hair tickling the swollen hood of her clitoris; but it wasn’t a moment before the dragoness’ blissfully closed eyes came back open – the stillness broken by Christopher.

“That’s ya’ tail-spot on my nose!”, the big resilient toddler muffled underneath her, playfully objecting to the silliness with a once-teary giggle when his nosy nostrils caught the scent of a grown woman’s tailhole amidst all the other private aromas; his mother right away feeling the air of his laugh lighting up the shape of her anus.

She ‘yeep!’-ed and stretched the ends of her maw shyly, withdrawing the over-reaching motion her hips had made in shoving her boy up against the next hole one would find on a dragoness’ sloping anatomy. For someone who was innately familiar with the likes of administering enemas and shame-bringing discipline, the dragoness could hardly believe the heat of the blush that erupted straight down her snout from her overzealousness, feeling awfully fortunate that little boys found amusement in “butts” and other uncouth matters.

“Yep, that was a bit too far back, huh?”, Christopher’s mother humored if he was going to treat this the same as his father’s play-wrestling, trying to stand still with the cub’s muzzle movements innocently rubbing its top-side all over her glistening muff.

“I’m just… going to rub this, here-”, she leaned upon her excitement to say aloud, curling her maw back into a gleeful, naughty smile as she held her son’s head and rocked her hips forward, humping her arousal right along Christopher’s lubricated muzzle, “… right up against your snoot, to feel good.”

It wasn’t the simplest of affairs when Christopher treated that “silly play” with more worn-out sputters of bemusement, still contending with a foul-flavored maw and soured stomach, but his motherly dragoness found enjoyment in trying to follow the motions of his face in order to grind herself against him. From her vulva’s first parting to its trailing closure between her legs, a thrust from her pert, shapely bottom would separate her lips against her son’s immature draconic snout, treating the both of them to the deeply moistened allure of smooth, thin folds of feminine skin against identity-defining snout scales. Face-fucking her child felt exhilaratingly filthy, using his muzzle as a firm, stout appendage to grate her fiery crotch against when Christopher had little else to offer; taking such advantage of her youngest little toy. From the sheer sexual arousal of using his snout to the vibrations of all his sounds, huffing and muffling all sorts of things into the recesses of her thighs and nethers, it took so little to split her maw open into hushed moans, essentially masturbating with something so much meatier than her own claw – the lad becoming a little girl’s bedpost, the way she was getting off against him.

Between the messy lube and her own slick ejaculate, the hearty, constant humping got louder beneath her laboring breaths, slapping wetly with the clap of muff and tender scale; the nub of her clitoris swelling in unrestrained lust beyond the lips of her thinnest scales to scrape against the faint ridges of her own son’s muzzle-bridge. For the well-punished boy, keeping his stuffed friend tight to his sullied chest helped him stand straight with his maw perpetually cracked into a funny little face, experiencing the incredible heat and humidity with every jarring bump along his snout. Those pink, scaleless streaks of skin felt so much different against him than his parent’s scale always did, sort of like her private parts were licking at his nose with how the musky, thickened fluid collected along his muzzle to drip in slow, heavy beads toward his lips. While he couldn’t see anything but her pelvis and crotch bearing down upon his face, to and fro, his mother’s elicited sounds of approval made him feel better after having been in so much trouble.

“Your thing feel good, mah’mee?”, Christopher wanted to ask, sounding small and curious as that delicate-looking parting of scale to flesh kept coming at his vision, no matter how his muzzle turned or tipped beneath her bigger stature; the light of the front window lighting her inner folds into such a gloss ahead of her shadow.

“It likes this.”, the dragoness replied sheepishly while the rest of herself so acceptantly enjoyed the fruits of her dignity-dropping decision, steadying her fingers in Christopher’s hair to keep from slipping as she tried on purpose to screw her outer sex against the boy’s nostrils; a drooling strand of girlish cum easing down the very back of her slit to be caught by his snout-tip in the motions, right over his maw and chin.

When Christopher came to make a more chipper sort of sound, his mother thought he was just treating the sloppy “touches” with more of his air of play, but sometimes a grown-up took for granted the sorts of things they could teach their little ones, and the enthusiastic, child-domineering parent was no exception.

Familiar with the difference between a light, edging stroke and an honest one from how he had coped with his teasing cock-rubbing earlier; once again naively erect between his legs, standing straight out with a tight, pert lift of his tiny sac; Christopher took her positive response and tipped his head back, intentionally firming his snout up against the mush of her well-aroused lips. The bright lad had a cub’s moment of inquisitive deduction, and from it his mother bit her lip softly, getting that much more out of every rock of her body once her son began to push back against her. His young snout became a ride, copiously slathered with her drippings; treated to the scents of her darkest vaginal recesses as that unseen hole quivered and pushed outward in rolling, needy pulses against her hatchling’s nose. Christopher gauged that he was doing well in helping from his mom’s enthusiastic response, and the discomfort in his neck paled in comparison to what he was saving his tummy from, he knew, catching a growling gurgle from all the soap he swallowed after a seeping hint of his mother’s slimy spunk made it through his lips. It wasn’t his cup of tea, as piquant as an adult’s fluids could be, but his mom was surely having fun, smashing her muff against him more feverishly. It reminded him of that spark he felt before, and how his legs ached trying to attain it.

He wasn’t wrong, as it wasn’t long that he had to huff the nooks and crannies of her sex like an obedient boy that her shaking breaths squeaked out an unfamiliar sound to his virgin ears. A splash erupted against his snout, looser and runnier than the thicker goo that came out all throughout her rubbing; his muzzle fucked as diligently as the dragoness’ hips could muster amidst a standing orgasm, pumping her passage and the ridges of its nerve-laden lining as hard against her son as she purposely could. Christopher wetly chuffed, trying to clear his nostrils of the deluge as his head was held, but as hard as it had become to breathe in the tight, sexual squeeze of his mother’s legs, the little dragon instinctively began gasping for his breaths from his maw, giving him more intrusive flavors and scents than his ailing belly wanted to deal with after getting sloshed about by his mother’s fervent grinding.

Stiff and happy with her muscles sore from her efforts, the dragoness eased herself back and let Christopher’s snout slide from her crotch, forming short-lived strands of feminine ejaculate between herself and his face. She did so in time to catch his lips trying to bubble out traces of her cum that had leaked in, wadding against the rim of his maw to be wiped by a claw, only to make more sticky, gooey ropes. His comforting plush had drips streaked down it, and the boy himself was an absolute mess – one she was actually rather proud of, knowing that was a lot for her to have produced.

She just knew where she wanted to put it, was all.

But, in all the boy’s motions, he lifted his sullied fox toy up enough for the mother dragon to notice his stubby, excessively immature erection sticking out like a sore thumb; foreskin taut as could be since Christopher wasn’t old enough for it to let go of his head. That paper-thin rim of foreskin that opened up at his pink tip pointed right up at her, hard as a teenage boy’s, even if her son failed to give it the attention his little balls unknowingly wanted. All she could smell was the musk of wet muff and the sweeter notes of her son’s urine-drenched scales needing showered off, though as the dragoness panted through her nostrils and came down from scratching her sexual itch, she couldn’t help but look at Christopher and still feel one left unfinished.

When his mother eased herself down to her knees in front of him, Christopher ceased the stretching of cum-strands between his fingers he had come to toy with and clutched his dampened fox plush under his arm, preparing his attentions for some kind of talking to. Their eyes met only momentarily however in the passing of his mom’s still-sultry gaze; the dragoness leaning forward to get lower without a word or hesitation, taking him by the hips. Her grown, feminine fingers extended around the little boy’s figure to grope his backside; thumbs braced into the small shape of his pelvis; and before Christopher knew it, a shrill flitter of pleasure kissed him right at the end of his half-forgotten cock. The sensation of a moist embrace took the very tip of his foreskin, and just as fast as the boy’s chest could twitch in surprise, drawing in a breath, the spongy, hot stroke of tongue cupped him all the way down his short, little-boyish length.

“Ma’… Wha’… ?”, Christopher tried asking what she was doing in his confusion, so suddenly looking over his mother’s long black hair atop her draconic head, but her mouth did not deviate from its attentions for the sake of his inquiry, seeming to pulse and suckle the entirety of his penis even as he tried to get his syllables out.

Her lips and maw clipped and clapped in tiny, rhythmic sounds as she sucked his tiniest of scales clean of urine and lost, fallen feminine cum, taking in the flavors to whisk them away without complaint; the mixture becoming a gentle salty-sweet. Experiencing the same sort of intense steamy heat that was just against his face, the feeling of his mother’s mouth made Christopher embrace his plush fox with both his dirtied claws, bowing his knees slightly to what flowed through his whole lower half, urging his hips and legs to shift about.

“Momma’?”, Christopher outright childishly huffed, given something so much stronger and foreign than the stroking of a claw; his tail taking a swing, brushing his mother’s fingers.

All his wiggling and pleasured notes made the mother’s doting muzzle grin, closing her maw firm with a gentle push of her nose into her son’s little crotch, forcing his barely two-and-a-half inch rod as far into her snout as it could go; balls just barely able to touch her lower jaw, as small and high as they hung. She gave his whole shape a hearty squeeze just to feel it, barely touching her sharp, pointed front teeth along the top and bottom of his shaft’s base before catching it in her draconic muzzle-lips, drawing herself back to stroke down his rod until she felt the rim of his cock-head beneath his foreskin. She barely had to move her head, as short as the five year old dragon’s boyhood ultimately was, but it was her boy’s, and that made it feel that much bigger as she treated it to the talents of her maw, whipping her tongue against his tender underside as she sucked him off like a grown lad.

“Un’f!… Ah!”, the boy elicited from his snout with a higher pitch that could have been whiny or tearful in a different circumstance, but that just happened to be how the five year old grunted and moaned to the sexual feelings as all those wondrous, new sensations returned from his prior jacking off – and then some.

His footclaws tamped about the carpet, wobbling from side to side only to be guided back center by his mother’s claws; sometimes pulling his crotch away, as overwhelming as oral sex was when all he needed was the accidental brush of a fingertip to get unintentionally hard at his age. It all went with a cacophony of blissfully vulgar sounds, slurping and sucking with a sloshing, deeply wet tune around Christopher’s outstretched cock; caught again and again by the firm tugs of his mom’s lips, and the silken embrace of her maw. It was still wonderful despite the pounding of his heart and the razor-edged sharpness of his singing nerves, so when the boy’s child-like arousal pressed to the point of indignity, squeaking and squealing until his legs stiffened, his mother followed the retreat of his footclaws as he slumped back against the table his lil’ fox had come from, leaning further forward on her knees to keep him within the cradle of her tongue; tail slowly trailing in a wag behind her.

Squeezing his soft toy fox with his claws until their sharp tips threatened his friend’s very cotton fibers, Christopher’s face scrunched and reddened to the peek of dragon fang; his mother’s bobbing speeding up as his back went taut against the table. His pelvis quaked and writhed, and for the first time, felt to his mother like a futile attempt at humping her snout, as lost in the neediness of wanting to finish as his instincts urged him to be. All the while his erection came to be nothing more than this soft, babyish finger within her mouth, right up to the point the lad’s prior “spark” rushed up and jammed its way through the base of his cock before he even knew it was coming.

“M’rrrf!”, Christopher squeaked as a massive clench of muscles shot through the entirety of his being, sailing right up his length to its tip; his five year old phallus jerking in his mother’s maw, lifting quickly up and down in firm, heavily pumping rolls.

There wasn’t so much as a bead of watery anything to spill with the boy’s stiffened ferocity, cumming dry as a bone, but the ever familiar pulsing of a cock in orgasm was clear to the dragoness, loosening her grip upon Christopher’s penis to let it do as it wished as she kept up some gentle attentions beneath its slapping drum. The lad’s plush ended up shoved up against his snout, covering his maw as he came; this time feeling nothing but a blinding aura and nary a spurt of pee – his cock as swollen as a five year old’s could hope to be, glowing in its bath of saliva and nursed like a tiny teat.

Christopher’s first-ever orgasm loosened to a quivering, still-pumping end with Christopher’s taut belly easing back outward before his mother’s eyes, right in step with the little lad gasping for a hearty breath. His whimpering, whining sounds of gratification were soothed by the release of his spent rod, though his mother happily watched its shiny, wet sheen bounce up and down with every post-orgasmic pump of his shaft, occasionally catching its tip in her lips to kiss it like a loving tease. As the sort of disciplinarian she was, raising Christopher under a philosophy of tit for tat, it was only right that she’d give him the finish he helped provide her – and besides, as the dragoness nosed and nuzzled the toddler’s softening cock, she couldn’t claim that she didn’t particularly enjoy the time.

“Good?”, she peered up from his pelvis to ask, just like her son asked her; penis resting between her nostrils. With a thumb having flown to his maw like a magnet, Christopher’s tired, glowing face nodded approvingly above the silent stare of his plush fox companion. A hint of cum stranded across the toy’s eye made the dragoness let off a restrained, hushed little chuckle.

“Glad, because we really need to wash up. Kayla too, by the looks of it.”, she reached up and tapped the fox’s nose before doing the same to her son’s cock-tip, one last, silly time.