Rifledrake: Bent Over, Blood-Spattered
People on the concourse moved away as she came through. All through the uncomfortable flight, she'd had her run of the aisle. The taxicabs at the airport gave her no trouble at all when she jumped the queue. Nobody even came running when she'd boarded the flight and put her bags through the scanner, setting off warning sirens. All she'd had to do was cock her head and flash an ID.
There were pros and cons to being a rifledrake. On the one hand, it gave her diplomatic immunity in any UN member state, ambassadorial status sufficient to let her stuff a loaded AK-47 in her carry-on, and God help the TSA official who lifted a finger. On the other hand, 7-foot-tall lizards aren't meant for plane travel, and orange hide is hideously itchy in the Southern sun.
Rifledrakes tend not to leave their tribal home, the Middle Eastern hellhole of Brigantania, without excellent reason. Hers was business, instead of pleasure. She was after the hookup.
"Motherfucking Bitsa better be there," she growled to herself at intervals all the way from the airplane to the cab, to the train station, to another cab, inching closer to her destination all the time. Why the little dickwad couldn't have arranged for a deal in the airport itself bemused her- it wasn't like anyone would arrest her, for Chrissake- but he had the goods, so what he said went.
The cab finally let her off on what was undoubtedly Main Street of a dusty, flyblown little town. She got out and nearly doubled in height, back popping extravagantly, and shuffled off down the sidewalk. The driver honked at her, but all she did was adjust the AK on its shoulder strap and keep on walking.
This place looked like it was out of one of her goddamn pulp novels, she reflected darkly as she walked past the one-story police station and past a string of desolate little businesses. Hardware store, burger joint, chicken joint, vacant lot... her earfans, cartilage woven between rigid vanes, flickered open to help shed the heat as she walked. It was a bitch of a hot day.
Nobody was on the street. She was damn sure she'd seen them, coming out of the cab, but Americans got real wimpy around assault-rifle-toting strangers. Didn't stop her from feeling their eyes as she went along.
By the time she got to the edge of town, her clawed feet were sore and her hundred pounds of baggage were really weighing on her, so she went the direct measure. The next lonely cabin she passed, she kicked in the door and jumped inside, AK out and in hand for clearing...
...absolutely nothing, she saw. "Lame ass," she grunted. Still, it meant she had dibs, at least till the owner came back. The sun was already burning low and swollen-red on the horizon.
She'd never actually been in a non-drake's house, so she dicked around with the stove, flicked with the lights a little, and then stacked her gear under the wood table in the middle of the room. She peeled off her desert fatigues and stretched out naked on the bed, the better to shed head, dropping her rifle and closing her eyes. Time to catch some winks.
She was woken by a six-D-cell glare in her eyes, reflecting off three revolver barrels. Khaki, was all she could see in the first bleary glance. Goddamned civ police.
"Rise and shine, asshole. Time for you to get on up that table and let us welcome you to Alameda County." It was a thick voice, something almost as tall as she was. She sighed heavily and rolled over with a crackle of spine, more annoyed than anything else.
The act failed, as three hammers snapped back in unison as her hand brushed the AK's strap, so she gave up acting sleepy and just glared at them. They were all wearing the same dopey uniform, but one had a shiny star on it, a horse- something brown, was all she knew. The other two were more conventional muscle, a pumped-out wolf and a wiry little fox who were both grinning at her in more than the sheriff's mocking politeness. "What do you civs want? I'm an ambassador, just waiting here in town for the night. Nobody was home. Cut me some slack, go get a warrant or whatever you Americans do."
The sheriff just smirked at her and shook his head. He whistled, the fox hit the room lights, and he finally put the damn flashlight away. They were all still covering her. "Can't say as I'm leaning that way, missy. We've never been too fond of what Washington says, down here in Alameda. We trust ourselves. And if there's anything we don't trust, it's a goddamn candy-orange lizard comes in here and starts telling us what we can or can't do on our own territory. Now get on up that table before we get drastic."
Her earfans twitched, but against three revolvers at point-blank, the cop had a good point. She slowly moved to sit on the edge of the table, quietly hoping they didn't go through the rest of her luggage, it'd get them properly pissed. The wolf grabbed the AK as soon as she was out of kicking range and did a quick breakdown, yanking out the firing pin and stuffing it in his pocket. She snarled. "That's a cultural-"
A wood baton slammed onto her bare foot, breaking toes. The 'drake twisted around and fell stomach-down on the table, trying immediately to rise again. All three officers joined in clubbing her, aiming for knees and elbows, every hit crunching ligaments and bruising tendons until she had no choice but to lie still and submit. They hadn't broken any bones. Drake bones are tough to shatter.
"All yours, Benny." The sheriff gestured with his truncheon, slamming it almost in afterthought into her snout. The fox, apparently the Benny in question, grinned with blackened teeth and slid over behind the naked drake. Her tail was a solid lump of muscle, kangaroo-thick and able to break bones.
Not that it helped. The first swing she took with it, the sheriff held his revolver to her left eye, grinding it in until she saw stars, as the other two bound it to a table leg with loops of piano wire. It cut deep enough to bleed. The fox withdrew a bright foil packet and tore it open, sliding the rubber down over an alarmingly thick length that bobbed with eagerness.
She couldn't see it. She could hear the crinkle and guessed what was next. "You fuckers. My man's coming, he's got a car of muscle, and-" She yelped as the fox plunged into her ass, nothing but the lube on his condom protecting her from a fat, twitching vulpine cock, and took another slam of hardwood to the jaw.
Double rows of shark-teeth gritted until they squeaked, oozing blood though the multiple empty sockets. Inarticulate shouts of rage and fury sprayed it in a fine mist over the attackers' faces, redolent of ancient tropical bacteria. They laughed at her, truncheons cracking repeatedly over her skull, one breaking off against her snout and leaving a patch of raw muscle underneath.
The fox kept raping her up a tight and seldom-used tailhole, his bony hips knocking against hers in a constant pounding rhythm. She felt his length start to bruise and tear her up inside, ten veined inches reaming her open. His sack, fuzzy and hanging loose, slapped between her legs with an increasingly wet splat as the lube dribbled down his cock. Vulpine claws hooked into the base of her restrained tail, drawing blood.
She wasn't betrayed by her body. It hurt like hell, and there was no pleasure involved as he stuffed himself to the hilt, hips blurring in need. The other two backed away, shaking their wrists to ease the ache of such an intense beating, sniggering encouragement to their comrade. His tongue lolled out as he clenched his fingers, twisting claws in her flesh, every pounding slam of his cock burning her with the pain of torn flesh.
"Shit. No blowjobs from this bitch, she gotta jaw like a Ginsu. Can't knock 'em all out, it'd take hours." The sheriff prodded her with his truncheon, thumping experimentally at a few loose teeth, which fell on the table in a pile of red drool. "Guess we're taking turns, Al."
The wolf grinned. "Dibs on the cunt. I always wondered what my kids would look like." She snarled at him, a wordless growl of fury, and got a baton cracked over her skull in return. Blood began to leak from one earfan.
Before she could snap at the baton and yank it from his grip, the fox rammed his hips forward and held them there, violently jerking her tail to feel its muscles spasming around his cock. He squeaked excitedly as he stayed hilted, perking up on his toes and grinding his length inside her, condom ballooning with sticky fox seed. She could feel it swelling inside her and groaned in disgust.
When he pulled out, the sheriff was right behind him, boots thumping on the wood floor. The fox had barely pulled out before the tip of the horse's pre-slobbering flare pressed under her tail. "Say goodnight," he announced with a smirk, thickly calloused hands grabbing the 'drake by the neck to keep her from doing anything to the wolf crawling under her. He laughed in mockery as the 'drake gave another growl, choked off by those tough hands half-crushing her windpipe.
Even 'drake stamina has its limits. Bruised and bleeding in a dozen open wounds, the reptile could only choke and spit out teeth as the two officers took their positions. The wolf didn't believe in the protection the fox had. His bare, unwrapped cock jabbed hard at the puffy slit in her scales, explosively jumping forward in one thrust with a howl, spreading her tunnel apart with a wet squish of pre against female juices.
"Fuck! She's tight, sir." The three officers weren't talking as much now. They were too intent on their work. The fox peeled the rubber from his still-turgid prick, swishing it as if to weigh the contents, juggling his revolver in his other hand as he kept an eye out the window.
The horse kept his hands around his victim's neck, keeping enough heavy pressure to make her breath rasp in her throat, bent low over her. He took his sweet time cramming himself in, over a foot of throbbing horsecock not much thinner than a soda can squirming into her torn rectum. Not that he cared, of course, the blood made it sweeter, an added double-sweetness of lube and extra humiliation for the woman they were making their bitch.
She groaned and pulled away, leaning forward, only to get a sharp yank on her throat and an extra pounding from the wolf beneath her. He'd already settled in, claws punching through her hide and leaving jagged wounds along her shoulderblades, giving him better anchorage for his wild thrusts, his pre churning into a thick froth that dripped down his length and puddled on his crotch as his back arched with each slamming pound.
"Bitch ain't settled in yet," the fox announced. His attention kept wandering to them instead of the window, and who could blame him? The tod grinned, stepping over to the unwilling threesome. He winked at the sheriff, who grinned back at him and started his slow, rolling pistoning of the lizard's tight asshole, and neatly upended his rubber. Lukewarm semen poured out to splash on her back in a thick puddle.
She didn't vomit or try to kill him. She just spat blood and dug her fingers into the table, the ones that weren't already broken, feeling streaks of the red stuff from her earfan, her mouth, her nostrils... and down her thighs as their endless pounding took its toll. Already the wolf was speeding up as the reptilian heat inside urged him to his peak.
The two of them had almost synchronized now, rocking her on all fours with a constant pulse, the horse whinnying excitedly and wolf grunting as his hips knocked forward. A swollen knot pounded against her split lips, demanding entrance, soaked with the sexual juices that trickled onto the wolf. The horse, less gentle by far, fucked her like a living jackhammer, pulling almost halfway out and thumping home again; his subordinate officer had no choice but to deal with the massive, churning ballsack swinging between the drake's legs and slamming fleshily into his cock. The wolf was vigorous and hung enough to bruise her cervix.
Drakes fuck a lot. Rule of nature. She had never before been pumped full of filthy foreign semen before, though, especially with a revolver barrel pressed to her forehead. The horse came first, finally breaking over the edge with the deep, tight squishiness only the extraordinarily hung can find, deep enough to cause internal bleeding. He leaned down, shirt almost stained with the fox's spilled cum, and bit her neck with flat vegetarian teeth to mark his dominance. His balls jumped as everything in his supply squirted free, flooding her bowels with creamy white.
He was still squirting ten seconds later when the wolf finally howled and popped his massive knot into her, plugging himself in place with a body-wide shiver to start pumping his fertile semen into the helpless drake. Fingers curled, raking the marks on her shoulders, as she yelped in helpless pain. Her abused, sore cunt wasn't meant to hold something the size of two interlocked hands.
Then headlights shone in through the window. The fox yelped and hurried to get his uniform back in order. The horse withdrew easily, half-shrunken already in alarm, leaking a dribble of seed to match that seeping from his victim's gaping tailhole. "Goddamnit, Luke! Witnesses!" the sheriff bellowed to his subordinate.
He whimpered and tried to lever his way out of her, but the knot refused to obey. "Listen, you don't know what it's like to have one of these! It-" He cut off suddenly as the horse grabbed him by the ankle, pulling him bodily free with a wet pop, barely even recognized by the dazed drake.
"The bitch was right. Listen up boys, general withdrawal. Out the back- fuck!" A second set of lights blasted through the window. The three officers, still adjusting buckles and toting their armaments, hauled their asses out the back door. The wolf was the last one out.
The other two were still running free. He was the one with the presence of mind to twist around, scrunch one eye closed, and pop three bullets into the half-conscious rifledrake's chest before running out with the rest of them to regroup at the station.
Ribs chipped, blood gushed freely, and the reptile jerked back to consciousness with a scream. The cars, townies who had only pulled into the driveway to turn around, screeched away from the sounds of violence within. Blood spurted extravagantly from the three holes in her chest for a wild few seconds before she rolled over to put her weight on the wounds.
For minutes, she hyperventilated and bled, leaking white from both abused holes. Nothing else happened.
Her yellow eyes began to film over. The sticky membrane slid fully over, and her lids closed over it. The blood to her wounds, claw, teeth, truncheon and bullet, slowed and nearly stopped.
The trouble was that she was a rifledrake. Rifledrakes don't die from bullet wounds. They get war stories. The bleeding stopped not from death, but from scabbing over.
"I'll kill them."
Leaking and shivering, the 'drake rolled up, feeling bone click inside her chest. She spat blood with the words.
"I'll fucking kill them."
She stumbled from the table, gouged with claw marks, and set her feet on the ground. The lizard stood, her legs buckling just as she thought they would, scratching the table again as she hauled herself back to her feet. Teeth gritted in effort, the loose ones falling free, she got to the stove and immediately cranked up the burners.
It took her a few minutes to bend and arch enough to cauterize every open wound over the flame, but she was patient.
Douching herself, front and back, was less pleasant. She would still walk funny for a while. But it rinsed her clean, even if the wolf might have already knocked her up. She rinsed the blood and semen from her hide, rinsed her mouth with saltwater, bound the charred flesh of her wounds with the bedsheets. Only then did she bother slipping back into her fatigues. They felt like a balm after the unbridled humiliation, the ridicule, the torn and ruptured orifices.
Shaking slightly, hands and feet adorned with splints, she gulped down a handful of pep pills from her luggage. The flip clock in the corner read 11 PM. She didn't want to waste any time in catching up with the bastards.
The useless rifle was still on the ground. She didn't need it. Her bags held a few useful items that would never need triggers. She flung aside filthy wads of American currency cushioning her other toys.
A heavy axe, well over eight pounds of limb-cleaving might. A thick sledge, positively Norse in its steely heft, two-handed for any but a rifledrake. A sealed bottle of jellied gasoline with strike-anywheres thoughtfully taped to the side.
They would die. Not just the officers. The whole fucking town.