Page 55 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Forty

Rosomon

F ury rages inside me as I stare at my uneaten food. My chambers are now a prison, and I’m trapped far more than I ever was in my father’s castle. The klericks placed guards at my door to keep watch.

I’ve long ago kicked off my boots, and I pace across the space, trying to burn off my anger, my fear, my frustration. Any happiness I felt for Tynan when he bonded with a dragon, was pulverized by his betrayal. Our kiss was… transformative , until I remembered we weren’t alone in that field.

Tynan promised to keep my secret and broke his pledge.

My anger toward him is massive, but pales in comparison to how I feel about Saxon. The dragon master’s betrayal was more predictable, but cuts even more deeply, because I once believed that Saxon truly cared for me.

Tynan, on the other hand, cares nothing for me.

His cock is the only part of him interested.

He feels lust, but he only wants to drill me to get revenge for what I did to his family.

Or perhaps to exact revenge on his family—fucking the bride meant for his grandfather.

I finally understand the meaning of the word cuckolding.

Leaning against the mantel, I draw deep breaths. I need to calm down. I need to make a plan. I escaped from the fortress of my father’s castle; I can escape from here too.

The thing is, I don’t want to escape. I longed to leave that castle, but I want to be here. I want to continue my quest to ride dragons and help to defend the Seven Kingdoms. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

Shrugging off my jacket, I toss it to the floor and then stare at the lump in one of the pouches. The sphincter trainer.

Even if the dragon masters forbid me from continuing at camp, I now know where the dragons live and have already learned a great deal. Plus, according to Roule, a good part of dragon riding is based on instinct and forming a bond with the beast.

Those things can’t be taught in the classroom. And while I may not be strong at wrestling, or fist-a-cuffs, I had mastered the proper use of most of the weaponry used here, before I even came to camp.

The only thing that remains is determining whether my bum hole will accept a dragon’s pommel.

The unopened tin of bear grease, left here before my secret was revealed, sits next to my untouched meal. I fetch the trainer from my jacket and run my fingers over it, trying to imagine it being inside me. Inside a part of me I’ve always assumed was only an exit.

Last night in his room, Tynan threatened to drill ‘all my holes.’ I wasn’t sure what he meant, but his words now give me hope. Perhaps that part of one’s body isn’t as different between men and women as I thought.

Reaching behind me, I slip my fingers inside the gap in my breeches. When I first donned this uniform, I assumed these openings existed to facilitate vacating one’s bowels, but I now understand their greater purpose.

I smear a generous amount of bear grease on the polished marble object. It looks far too large to go inside any part of me, but I remind myself that I did not believe Saxon’s rod would fit into my cleft hole—until it did.

How do I do this? I stare at the object, the grease on it glistening in the soft firelight. At its widest part, the trainer is thicker than one of Saxon’s fingers, but perhaps not as thick as two together. And it’s certainly smaller than Saxon’s rod.

When Tynan mounted his dragon, he sat back onto the pommel. Perhaps I should place the trainer on a chair?

I set the disk on the seat, the trainer’s pointed end up. Holding open my flaps, I slowly sit back.

The trainer tips over, and it merely grazes my bottom.

I turn and stare at it. A dragon’s pommel is fixed in place. This object is not.

Taking it in my hand, I aim it over my back exit and twist it against the tight hole.

The grease at its tip is cold but the sensation is oddly pleasant.

The way Tynan and the others have talked about drilling bum holes, using it as a threat, I’ve assumed it would be excruciatingly painful for the one being drilled.

But so many of my assumptions have proved invalid.

Gathering courage, I bend forward to more fully part my bum cheeks, and then press the disk firmly.

I gasp as the tip of the object slips inside me. It wasn’t as painful as I expected, so I push it harder, but don’t get very far. The object’s girth expands quickly from its tip, and I’m not sure my arm has the power to push it in from this angle. Or perhaps I lack the courage to try.

Getting an idea, I shuffle to the wall beside the fireplace. Bent over, I back up, so that the base of the trainer is against the wall and I feel the pressure of its tip pushing more firmly inside me.

My breaths come quickly, mostly from fear, but I need to try this. It’s the only way to know if Saxon is right. The only way to know if I should give up my dream.

Using the force of my legs, I push back. The bulbous part of the trainer stretches my opening, and I wince at the burning pain. I stop for a moment to breathe slowly, to decide whether or not I dare progress.

As I get used to the pain, I decide to give it one last try. I push back, and the entire object invades my body. In fact, once I get past a certain point, it’s as if my sphincter sucked in the trainer.

I gasp. Burning pain radiates but quickly subsides, replaced instead by an intense sense of fullness. Still bent forward, I’m filled with awe and then glee. I did it . If this trainer fits inside me, perhaps a dragon’s pommel will too.

Slowly, I straighten my body, and the object adjusts to the new position. Having the trainer inside me is oddly arousing—almost as if I can feel the pressure against my cleft channel, which is starting to throb and dampen.

Standing straight, I consider how long I should hold the trainer inside me. Roule instructed us to wear it for as long as we could tolerate.

Well, I can tolerate it all night if it hastens when I can first try mounting a dragon. Something I’m going to do, even if the dragon masters try to exile me from camp.

I step forward, tentatively at first and then more quickly, walking back and forth across the room, getting used to the feeling of the trainer inside me. My bottom feels full, and yet I’m not uncomfortable—not exactly. And as I move, the motion is undeniably pleasurable.

The only part that gives me any discomfort is the disk at the trainer’s end, pushing out against the flesh of my bottom, but as I walk it settles into a comfortable place, no longer pinching my flesh.

It must be there to facilitate removal—especially given how, once my body yielded, it sucked in the egg-shaped stone.

I pace the room many times, becoming used to the fullness, and becoming more and more aroused by the pressure it’s transferring to other parts of me.

My arousal adds to my confusion about my own body, and adds to my irritation that I wasted so many years of my life without any knowledge of the pleasures of sex.

Nurse should have taught me. Father should have ensured someone taught me.

Lowering myself gingerly onto the chair, I try sitting back on it.

One sits on a dragon’s pommel, after all.

The disk feels uncomfortable between my ass cheeks, so I move to the bed to try against something softer.

On the mattress, I tuck up my legs and roll forward and back, feeling the added pressure each time I roll over the trainer’s end.

My arousal continues to rise. Snapping open the front flaps of my breeches, I slip my hand inside, finding my cleft damp and sensitive. I slide a fingertip over my button. It’s the first time I’ve touched this place since Saxon revealed its magic.

Closing my eyes, I imagine it’s not my finger playing with the sensitive nub.

And I imagine that, instead of a trainer lodged in my bottom, there is a hard cock sliding in and out of my cleft hole.

I don’t want to include the face of the man wielding this rod, and yet it alternates between Saxon and Tynan.

I hate both men, and wish I could imagine someone else, anyone else.

But each time I try, the face switches back.

Fires between my legs build, until a small explosion detonates inside me. My head tips back and I cry out. My body spasms, heightening the pleasure I’m receiving from the trainer inside me.

But my pleasure’s interrupted by a knock on the door.

Without awaiting a response, Tynan rudely bursts into my room.

I bolt off the bed, the trainer still dug in my backside, and I smooth the front of my breeches, grateful I only loosened my flaps, leaving the garment on.

Did Tynan see what I was doing? Can he tell I’m aroused? My animosity toward him expands at his rude interruption, and it’s fueled by my embarrassment.

Tynan on the other hand doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed or sorry.

The only thing I see flashing in his eyes is joy.

He’s grinning ear to ear, his cheeks are reddened, his hair wind tousled, and his firm body presses out against his riding uniform, as if wanting to escape the leather’s confines.

The tempting masculine display activates a strong stab of longing inside me.

My body clenches around the trainer, and my cleft channel pulses.

My cheeks are flaming like I’ve been doused in scalding water, but I’m not certain whether embarrassment, anger, or arousal is most to blame for that particular affliction.

But my undeniable physical attraction just makes me angrier. How dare he entice me so? How dare he look so handsome and happy after what he did to me today?

“What are you doing here!” I snap.

Tynan’s massive grin fades, and he bows his head slightly. “Forgive my intrusion. I just returned from the veil, and you were the first person, the only person, I wanted to see or talk to about it.”