ShatteredStories

	2,600 words	

Flightless Dragon

by Quinn Lovell

Tara hummed to herself as she plucked the berries from their homes in the bushes, her large, fluffy tail swishing happily behind her. It wasn’t a tune that anyone else knew—it could hardly be said to be a tune she knew, just a haphazard mixture of notes, staccato and legato all at once—but it was certainly a tune. She liked to pretend she was a dragon—rather than the red panda she had been born as—when she was on picking duty, a great and mighty beast plucking helpless creatures from the land. If Tara were a dragon, she would have the most amazing lair. It would be positively draped in finery, with grand tapestries hanging from the roof of the cave, the floor sparkling with gold coins. She would also have a fair maiden or two at her beck and call—Tara had decided she’d much prefer girl-maidens over boy-maidens—to wash her scales and give her kisses.
Tara continued thinking and humming as she worked, plucking innocent berry after innocent berry from the bushes along the lakeside. Sorry, little berries, but your time in the sun is over—forever! …Her mother said that she had too active of an imagination for her age.
“’You’re fifteen,’” she would snap. “’You’re not a cub anymore, Tara.’” At which point her mother would then smack her arm with a wooden spoon, or yank her tail, or storm off into another room of their small house in the village. To which Tara would offer a fierce roar in return, though usually just in her mind.
She supposed her mother was right, to some extent. Tara paused her abductions for the moment to look upon herself, reflected in the surface of the sapphire blue lake. Her short, dark-red fur swayed in the light breeze as she poked and prodded at her cheeks—a lighter color than the rest of her body, mostly orange with her snout fading to cream—chest, arms, stomach, and paws. Her body had been changing these last few years, and not just in height. 
Without even mentioning the demonic hex—for that was all Tara could think to call what happened to her once a month—her chest had been getting bigger, and she felt weird, like, all the time. As well, her fur in certain spots was growing thicker and more unruly—under her arms was the worst, with how itchy and uncomfortable it felt—which she was quick to pare with a knife.
She had found herself needing to bathe more often, too, otherwise she would smell. Dragons weren’t meant to bathe, that’s what the maidens were for. Tara could just lounge on her piles of gold coins and berries while her dutiful handmaidens rubbed her dirty scales clean. She lifted an arm and sniffed as she daydreamed, and wrinkled her nose in response. It hadn’t been that long since she had bathed, had it?
Tara sniffed again, at once repulsed and impressed that she had accrued such a potent aroma. It was a proper dragon-like smell. The stench of carrion and sweat and … fur? Wait, dragons didn’t have fur. It was then that she realized the stink wasn’t coming for her.
A shape appeared behind her in the lake’s reflection and a dirty, furred hand clamped over her mouth. Tara felt a thud, and all went black.
#
…Tara awoke to noise. Far too much noise. So much noise it made her ears ring and her head pound, enveloping her completely. At first the noise came to her in an indiscriminate blast, every sound blending together until it was just a droning cacophony. But as she listened, the cacophony unfurled, splitting off into distinct sounds. She could hear the padding of feet—almost like a dog’s paws—the growl and snarl of canines, the crackle of fires. And crying. Pervading the noises of what sounded like a well-populated camp was the persistent sobbing of someone, or several someones. Tara tried to open her eyes to see who was crying, to see if she could help, but there was a strip of cloth obscuring her vision.
She barely had time to feel a chill before the smell hit her, far worse than the stink she had smelled at the lake. Or rather, it was similar, just multiplied. The reek of sweaty, unwashed fur, burning meat, and rotting carcasses assailed Tara’s nose, causing her to gag audibly and start breathing through her mouth—or she would have, if there hadn’t been some kind of filthy cloth stuffed in it.
The young cub tried to reach down to remove the foul-tasting fabric, but found that her hands were wrapped in thick leather straps and rope, enveloping her hands to the point that she couldn’t even move her fingers—she thought she could feel her fluffy tail bound in that mess of straps, too. Tara tugged harder, but her arms were firmly suspended over her head. A quick test of her legs confirmed that they, too, were bound in the leather straps, tied together painfully tight at the knees.
Tara was about to begin struggling in earnest when she felt a cold claw graze gently across her fur, only just realizing that she had been divested of her simple clothing. The claw didn’t cut her, but it felt more than sharp enough to be able to, so the cub simply cowered in her bindings, a small whimper escaping her cloth gag. The unseen figure’s claw traced up her chest, across her collarbone, and across her neck. A gross, grimy hand cupped her cheek, then, and she recoiled almost immediately. Tara could feel the dirt and sweat of the invisible entity’s hand staining her face, and she let out another muffled protestation. 
Suddenly, the cloth blindfold was ripped away, and she had to shut her eyes to block out the painful onslaught of light that followed. Tara opened her eyes at a snail’s pace, letting her vision return to her little by little. As she did so, more and more of her surroundings were revealed to her. It appeared that her ears had been right, she was in what appeared to be a permanent encampment of some kind, with ramshackle tents and clay-brick walls all intersecting and diverging in what was clearly a failure to plan ahead.
Tara looked up and down, and confirmed that she was indeed tightly restrained, her body forming a kind of straight line with her hands and tail tied above her and knees bound below. It was then that her eyes alit upon the figure towering before her, at least two full heads taller than the scared panda. A gnoll. A rather intimidating one, at that—though Tara found all gnolls intimidating, from the stories she’d been told.
The creature was akin to an anthropomorphic hyena, complete with sharp claws and a terrifying snout. This particular gnoll had ash-grey fur spotted with circles of black, all underscored by various rashes and pockmarks. Mange and filth were caked into the gnoll’s fur, as if it hadn’t bathed in weeks—and judging by the smell, it hadn’t. The monster wasn’t armed, but Tara didn’t seem to be able to pose much of a threat, regardless.
It was at this point that Tara began to scream and thrash in earnest, the sight of the gnoll before her finally forcing the teen to face the reality of her situation. The gnoll delivered a swift, painful punch to Tara’s stomach as she did this, knocking the wind out of her and handily curtailing her efforts of resistance. Tears filled her emerald eyes as she hunched over as best she could in her restraints, glaring up at the gnoll. Didn’t he know she was a mighty dragon, not to be feared?
The hyena barked a few words in its savage language, and Tara felt herself recoiling again at the stench of its hot, fetid breath. Rotten meat and rotten teeth. Gods, did everything have to be so repulsive? Tara shook her head to show that she didn’t understand, but the gnoll let out a cackling laugh in reply, taking a step towards her.
Their bodies were almost touching, the tip of the gnoll’s mangy fur brushing against Tara’s nude stomach and breasts. Breasts which were quickly cupped by the monster. She let out a sudden cry of alarm at the unwanted contact, but the gnoll simply pulled its lips back in a canid smile, teeth yellow and bloodstained as it began to roughly squeeze.
Tara squirmed in her restraints, yanking and pulling with all her strength. All of her effort did little to stop the beast from groping her, however, the claws of one hand pinching her nipple as the other continued to paw and squeeze. The panda shook her head again, and again, hoping against hope that this was somehow a miscommunication. But Tara knew she was lying to herself. A miscommunication was what happened between a girl and a boy in a tavern, not a heavily-bound cub and a smelly monster.
Tara felt a sharp pinch and then a warm, wet sensation. She glanced down to see that the gnoll’s claws had pierced her flesh and that there was a small trickle of blood running from her nipple and down her breast, soaking into her fur. Her tears broke free at this, spilling down her cheeks in trails mirroring the blood leaking down her body. This only seemed to spur the gnoll on, the creature leaning in and dragging its foul tongue along her cheek, tasting her tears. Tara was so busy being repulsed by this that she didn’t notice one of the creature’s hands sliding down her body. Grazing her ribs. Cupping her hip. Rubbing across her thigh. Caressing her… no. No! NO!
Tara thrashed and struggled and screamed and shouted and sobbed, realizing what was about to happen. She was a wild dragon, chained unduly. But nothing could hold a dragon, not chains, and certainly not leather. Tara almost believed that she could feel the straps groaning and weakening, too. Then the gnoll punched her in the face.
The helpless dragon’s head snapped back, a thin stream of blood trickling from her nostril. Tara’s vision fuzzed and filled with stars, her head pounding to the point she thought it would explode. Dazed as she was, it wasn’t enough to stop her from feeling the gnoll rub at her inner thigh again. Its filthy paw gliding up, up, and grazing her folds.
Tara didn’t struggle this time, she hurt too bad. She simply let out a helpless, frustrated, scared sob of despair. The sound of a dragon’s dreams being crushed. The sound of a cub crying for her parents. The sound of a girl—a lost panda—making noise because that was all she could do. The only power she had in her situation. And she felt that soon her throat would run raw and even that would be stripped from her.
The creature’s stained digit rubbed more insistently, slipping and pushing upwards. Slowly, dreadfully, it parted her folds and began to explore her depths, the claw adorning the finger threatening to cut her from the inside. The gnoll’s finger was big, far bigger than Tara’s own. She had taken to touching herself down there when she was alone, but it was nothing like this. This didn’t feel good, it just felt wrong.
The beast continued to grope her breast with its other hand, its head leaning down to lap at her unattended one. She shivered in disgust at the gnoll’s hot, thick slobber matting her fur, its tongue gliding across her exposed nipple again and again as it began to move its finger in a steady rhythm.
Tara didn’t know how long the gnoll played with her like that. It could have been minutes, it could have been hours. All the while, the captive dragon glared at the creature, hate in her eyes, thinking of all the ways she was going to kill this beast when she was free. It would only be a matter of days, maybe even tonight. She would find a way to slip her bindings. Then, she would steal one of the weapons she saw gnolls in the background carrying, and run this hideous monster through.
They couldn’t keep a dragon for long…
#
…Tara barely moved, barely squirmed, barely made a sound as the gnoll wrapped a thick, muscular arm around her belly. Its fur was greasy and dirty, but so was hers. She was matted with mud, and sweat, and other fluids. Her fur’s natural colors tinted purple and green from healing bruises.
But she didn’t care. Not really. She had lost the capacity quite a while ago. She wasn’t sure exactly how long. At first, she had counted the days, each night trying to escape when no one was looking. Then she counted the weeks, her escape attempts growing more infrequent has her limbs grew stiff and sore, and the gnolls began to use her more roughly. Then she counted the months, but she lost track after three. Tara felt like it hadn’t been a year yet, but what did it matter.
They occasionally untied her and took her for walks, but they were infrequent. Most of the time Tara was restrained, her arms bound above her head, her knees tied tightly together. Occasionally they let her bend over, her wrists tied behind her back, or to a wooden stake in the ground with her in the mud and filth. It didn’t matter.
She felt the gnoll’s stiff, canine cock slide between her thighs, grinding against her well-used folds. It nuzzled and sniffed at her, the beast’s tongue gliding along her armpit and up her bicep. Tara thought she recognized this gnoll, and vaguely remembered it licking under her arms the last time, too. She noticed that certain gnolls liked to touch her in certain ways and lick certain places. There was one gnoll in the camp—its fur was naturally white with brown spots—that liked to slobber over her paws for some reason. It never touched her in a bad way, but it would touch itself while it’s canine-tongue glided between her toes. It felt weird—Tara didn’t like it much—but it was better than what some of the more hotheaded gnolls did to her. The bruises still ached along her dirty flesh.
But what did it matter? Painless, painful, weird, normal, it all blended together. Tara wasn’t going anywhere, and that fact had sunk in months ago. More and more she tried to tune out, to forget she was where she was and pretend she was where she wasn’t. Sometimes, she would imagine she was that dragon again, soaring across a cloudless sky. Her mighty wings beat heavily at her back, keeping her aloft as the wind rushed against her scales. She would let out a mighty roar, and all would know to fear her. She could do anything, go anywhere, and nobody would stop her…
…then the gnoll’s cock slipped inside of her, and the daydream was shattered, as it so often was. The dragon’s wings were clipped.