Sawing at a cake of beef in gravy, Sir Jocelin questioned the laborers hunching around him. "How are the cattle? The fairest maidens Holtham has to offer?"
"All unmolested, sir," said a tall, gaunt man. "It's only the oldest trees in Dunclea Woods he wants. Stripped of their branches. Snapped halfway yet left standing."
"And, uh, the other thing?"
"Thickly coated in that foul ichor, the nature of which we dinna ken."
Sir Jocelin nodded sagely. "Say no more, good fellows. As long as you've the coin,"—he paused, glancing meaningfully at a stout man, who slid over a burlap pouch jangling with metal—"then you'll have my sword and my talents, first thing in the morning." He dug into a potato while the men admired his buckler. It was emblazoned with the silhouettes of four reptilian figures, seeming to writhe in the light of the fire, each one representing his uncanny conquests in defense of Holtham.
Belly full of eggs and rashers, the late morning sun beaming upon his armored shoulders, Sir Jocelin felt all was well with the world. For all these laborers knew, Holtham was plagued with migrating dragons, returning each year like geese to menace the countryside, and for all they knew, Sir Jocelin was the only man who knew how to rectify their problem. That worked out well for him, in the off-season between His Majesty's quests and crusades, when paying jobs were otherwise thin. The gold, of course, was just the icing on the cake, but the villagers weren't to know that.
Sir Jocelin struck up a hasty bivouac at the foothills of Mount Forsteyn. Far from any human gaze, he undressed to perform calisthenics. Great lumps of muscle and rock-like bones worked fluidly against each other; his skin drank the rays of the sun and his feet communed with the soil. This done, he rolled up his chain mail armor and cloth padding and stored these in his rucksack. He left his sword and buckler strapped to his saddle, for his intelligent horse was trained to attack any would-be thieves who approached in his absence. Dressed in nothing but his tunic, carrying nothing but a small bottle, Sir Jocelin carefully picked his way up the slope.
An hour later he reached the lip of the expired volcano. It was here the dragons retired each autumn in remembrance of the elemental fires that once burned, the villagers supposed. Only Sir Jocelin knew the least precarious path down into the pit of the volcano, where lay the vast cavern that wound deep into the mountain's bowels, having been here many times before. Within, the dragons bedded down to be cooled by the earth and sheltered from the sun's harsh rays, waiting for dusk to abuse Dunclea Woods in their peculiar way.
The caldrea's volcanic glass would have torn the knight's bare feet into shreds, but years ago he mounted broad flagstones into the ground, and these he quietly followed to the dragon's lair. The only light afforded him down here came from fissures and pinholes in the rock, and his eyes required several minutes to adjust to this. Soon enough he heard the slow and rhythmic breathing of the great wyrm in slumber. He paused before the final turn to pull the cork of the small bottle.
"Down the hatch," he whispered, dumping the oily fluid down his throat, where it tingled and stung. His muscles felt as though a fire were kindling in each fiber, and he flexed and breathed deeply to withstand it. The herbalist assured him it was the best thing for strength and endurance, and acrid as it was, he couldn't argue with its results.
When his body's trembling abated, he crept around the corner and found himself face to face with the mighty beast that so affrighted the villagers. But who wouldn't be terrified of this enormous creature, with eyes larger than church windows and teeth longer than swords? Only someone who knew better.
He gave the long snout an affectionate caress, then walked along the beast's sinewy, scaly neck to her sternum. Tremendous breasts bulged before him, one round and planetary as it lay flattening its twin, each banded in mustard yellow platelets. He licked his lips, then stepped forward and cautiously wrapped his arms around a breast several times his size. The dragon's cool blood began to drain the sun's warmth from his body, but her ventral scales were glossy and soft. He swept his arms over her huge tit in broad, contemplative strokes, reaching to grab as much of her as possible. He rested his cheek against her, his thick beard rasping over her plates.
Kneeling, Sir Jocelin ran his face around the wide arc of her tit until it bumped into her nipple. He smiled to himself and jammed his head hard into it. Immediately it began to stiffen against his face; he dug his feet into the cold dirt and pushed his skull into her breast. The large, blunt nipple thickened and stiffened, shoving him back until he conceded defeat.
Chuckling quietly, he crept around to her cleavage and attempted to crawl inside. Her breasts were pliant enough, but they were massive and heavy, and as strong as he was, he could only insert one arm or leg at a time. Still, to wedge himself between this beast's huge breasts at all was a great thrill. With his arm plunged deep between her breasts, he rested and listened to her much slower, much deeper breathing, roaring quietly behind her natural chest plates.
"I could live here, I think." His gaze ran up from where her arm draped behind her, down to each swelling breast, and on into her cleavage. "I could build a small cabin right in here. You could wear it like a necklace, carry me around from country to country." It would've been fascinating to tour the world with a flying beast, of course, but what he was imagining was the motion of these magnificent breasts in flight, watching them swing through the air, feeling them heave around him.
But the herbalist's distillation wouldn't last forever. Reluctantly he tugged his arm free of the huge tits and climbed over them. Their slick surface wouldn't have allowed this, but he could very carefully grasp the seams between her platelets and haul himself upon one breast like a hillside. From here it was much simpler to crawl up to her ribs and inch his way down her side. Her dangerous hourglass figure made a steep slope to her waist: struggling to balance himself and remain upright, he still had a formidable hip to crest.
Sir Jocelin tugged his liege's tunic over his head and flung it aside. It fluttered in the darkness down the dragon's belly, piling in the cold dirt. He drew a long breath through his nose and rubbed his hands together. His eyes glittered in the darkness, and with a grunt, he ran down the dragon's waist and sprang up with every muscle and tendon in his body. His chest smacked against the rim of her pelvis, but he quickly found handholds in her scutes and pulled himself up.
With bare soles he felt his way down one leg. As she lay on her side, her knee on top bent forward and drove into the ground. Access between her thighs there would be blocked: even with his potion, he was not strong enough to move this dragon's thigh to any appreciable degree. "Oh well," he said, grinning in the darkness, "guess it has to be the rear entrance." The knight ambled over her hip, bracing him against the base of her stout, serpentine tail where it jutted from her pelvis and ran along one bulging buttock. He lay himself flat against her buttock, stepping down upon its twin, and cautiously descended between her powerful thighs.
The darker green scutes ran down the exterior of her legs, giving way to paler, glassier green scaled paneling molding around her inner thighs. These were pleasant to the touch, and Sir Jocelin would have liked to take his time about exploring these gargantuan limbs. Even in slumber, the dragon's body radiated vast potency, as though every sinew and tendon hummed with power. He could only hope that these dominant trunks wouldn't suddenly scissor around him, whether due to her dreams or as a reaction to the work he had to do.
Sir Jocelin shouldered his way beneath the upper thigh and pressed into the lacertine valley. The dragon's meat lay cool upon his back, but his labors would serve to warm him back up: he began by kneading his fists into the immense dragon's labia. Normally lean beneath a hardened protective shell, this dragon was in a cycle of arousal that drew her to Dunclea Woods, where the oldest—and stoutest—trees grew. She destroyed these by fucking herself with them, to the detriment of Holtham's prosperity, but that's where Sir Jocelin came in. In her heightened state of arousal, her labia bulged into turgid rolls, easier on his fists as he ground into them. He drew tremendous gulps of air and put his shoulders into his work, slowly but steadily churning into her labia so as not to disturb her until her milky fluids began to seep from within. This, he slathered upon his arms, shoulders, chest, and worked into his hair and beard. Taking one more deep breath, he burrowed his entire body deep into the monster's reproductive canal.
The dragon purred in her sleep, her head so far away from where the knight's brawny body squirmed into her pussy. His sturdy legs kicked and tucked inside her labia just as her thighs tensed and stretched, closing together. His hands dug into the tender inner tissues, pulling himself deeper by traction, powering his way through her clenches. His world rocked back and forth, the clenches grew more insistent, and more fluid oozed around him from all sides. The air in his lungs began to burn and one of his eyes stung, but he gritted his teeth and pushed for space with his arms, shoved the vulvic rings open again with his bent legs. The dragon's pussy bore upon him, constricting him, thrashing his little body around, but Sir Jocelin persevered, shoving the chilly, milky walls away and riding out the storm. Deep within her hips, he couldn't tell if she was upright or charging around on all fours. He only struggled inside of her, fighting her back until the last terrible tremors rose with a gush of juices. His arms shuddered as he fought to not be squeezed to death, and then the walls raced over his skin and he was forcibly ejected from the inner sanctum.
The knight lay gasping and sticky in the dirt. The dragon was up now, her scaly hands planted on either side of his robust frame, her elongated face hovering just above his nudity. In the darkness her eyes were large, smoldering rubies.
"My darling Sir Jocelin." She chuckled. "You delicious little morsel. Holtham sent you again?"
He nodded, reaching up to tenderly stroke her snout. "I thank you deeply for sparing more of the old-growth trees, and if Holtham knew, they'd thank you too."
"I suppose it's time for me to take off for another cycle, then."
"Did I scratch milady's itch?"
"More than, my lord. More than." She lapped her own moisture off his meaty, bulgy little body, doing a thorough and attentive job. He stared up into her throat and watched her long tongue dancing before him. He told her how much he'd missed her; she laughed and promised to take off as soon as the sun went down. They cuddled and tickled and teased each other until then.
Back at the Bronze Cooper, he got shit-faced drunk while the limner painted another dragon upon his buckler,with a little red heart between her legs.