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Marty and Malsen (Ch. 1)

7 votes, average: 4.00 out of 57 votes, average: 4.00 out of 57 votes, average: 4.00 out of 57 votes, average: 4.00 out of 57 votes, average: 4.00 out of 5 (7 votes) (4.00)

Miretta arched an eyebrow. “Martin, two things – one, you’re not formally allowed to call me by that name. Most dragons wouldn’t even consider you worthy to know it. I was nice enough to introduce myself given my sympathies for the troubles you had been through when we met, but you still call me ‘Your Highness’, unless you want me to kick you through the floor. And number two; I’m sorry, are you running things here? A bit of an admonishment, a lecture, a slap on the wrist – and you think we’re done!”

She rose to her feet, letting the whip hit a trophy in front of her with a near deafening crack that echoed across the chamber. “How charming,” she leered, as the noise settled, one half of the trophy skittering across the floor of the balcony and landing at Martin’s feet. “Perhaps you think this mistake will end up drawing positive attention to you.” She said, leaping towards him and gliding gracefully to a stop meters away. “Perhaps you think this is something I might even come to forget.” She bent down, then, casually grabbing the half-trophy and tossing it roughly back into the gold pit before seizing Martin by the collar and pulling his nose to hers. “You are wrong, Martin.” She hissed, venom in her voice, in her breath, in her scowl. “I expect far better.”


In Transylvanna Ch. 1

31 votes, average: 4.68 out of 531 votes, average: 4.68 out of 531 votes, average: 4.68 out of 531 votes, average: 4.68 out of 531 votes, average: 4.68 out of 5 (31 votes) (4.68)

In the smoking undead metropolis of Transylvanna, anything can happen. And as Owen, our protagonist, is about to find out, that’s scarcely a good thing. Meandering into the cutthroat world he thought he knew in search of breathing space, Owen soon finds himself, along with the local gang of indentured misfits that call themselves the local press, entangled in a plot most fowl.

Sylphie didn’t respond. Then, quietly, she asked, “Do you like it here, pet?”

Then, “What?”

“In Transylvanna.”

Owen was silent, staring downwards. Below them, next to Sylphie’s booted foot, was a thigh high stocking. It belonged to Sylphie. But it was in Owen’s room. And it was, for lack of a better adjective, crusty.

It had been the classiest wank Owen had ever had. He never came. He arrived.

“I’ve never seen outside.” Owen muttered, slowly trying to push it under the bed.

“My mother bought you young.” She said quietly. “From a slave trader. For me. You were to be my human playmate. It’s an, uhm, tradition. That’s where you came from. That’s why we met.”

Owen was quiet. Slowly, he said, “I didn’t know that.”

He couldn’t see Sylphie’s face in the dark. He could see her eyes, red and womanly. It made him feel strange, like he should be scared, but he wasn’t. He felt safe. For a moment, he wondered how red eyes floating in the darkness could be seen as a bad thing. The stocking was under the bed now, but it could be further under the bed. She could still notice it. She could smell it. How had she not smelled it?

“You were meant to be my personal slave. You did everything I said, because that’s how you were taught. More recently, you appear to have forgotten that.”

Something buried in the back of Owen’s mind began to resurface. Had he displeased her? This wasn’t good – “S-Sylphia, I’m really sorry if-“

“I’m glad you’ve forgotten.” She whispered. “It must be terrible, being a slave.”

“Yeah.” Owen responded, after a moment, still trying to push the stocking away. “It must be.”

“O-Owen?” She asked, her searching glare losing its focus, looking off somewhere into the darkness behind him as she released his hand. Owen heard his own name, but didn’t quite process it. No, that couldn’t have been Sylphia. Sylphia wouldn’t say-


“Would you like to kiss me?”