Chains Broken by shmoopsy

Chains Broken

shmoopsy, Bondage, Domination/Submission, Gag, Kobold, Lizard, M/F, Nudity, Rape, Slavery, Straight, Violence (Not In Yiff)

#3 of Trials of a Kobold Paladin

The final chapter in Isma's harrowing ordeal!

Hello everyone!

Sorry it took so long. I like to wait until just about all of my watchers have given up on me before posting another story. I don't know why I do this. Just kidding; I know exactly why. Every time I think "Oh, I'm going to sit down and write the last chapter to the story", I instead sit at my computer and jerk off and then I don't want to anymore. Funny how that works.

But! At long last, the conclusion to my story that has so far been 95% kobold rape. If kobolds being raped isn't your thing, then maybe these stories aren't for you. Unlike my others, this one has optional rape. You'll see what I mean. Enjoy!

Xyver sat in front of his fireplace. Outside, he could hear his guards screaming and shouting and generally doing the exact opposite of what he'd paid them handsomely for. He wasn't all that angry about it; he knew he'd bought their services on a hope slimmer than a hair's width. Isma was coming. And not in the good way.

He'd fetched a brandy from his cellar for the occasion. Why did he own so much of the stuff. He'd stood there in the dank recesses of his nice home and gazed upon the scores of unopened bottles. Here, he was going to die, and they would never have been touched. Would he have had the time to drink them all anyway? When one's mortal existence could be measured in hours or minutes, it had a way of focusing one's attention on the smaller details, on the silly elements of what had seemed at the time so important.

He wore his nice smoking jacket. Armor would have been practical but it would have also given a great deal of false hope. So the rich, powerful lizardman slavemaster sat in his nice chair, in front of a nice roaring fire, enjoyed a nice glass of brandy, and waited for death.

He'd sold her nearly two years ago. It had been a bad call; he'd regretted it almost instantly. She wasn't fully ready. She was completely broken, but that doesn't mean anything. She was broken to him. Nobody else. He could see it in her eyes. He could have kept her for as long as he liked without incident, but with a master lacking in his skill and attention, her old habits were sure to come back to her. It had taken only sixteen months. He didn't know anything about what had set it off. He'd only heard that she'd escaped, killing her 'new' master and his entire household. Then, she'd found and killed the mercenaries who had initially captured her, down to the last man. And now she was coming for him. Save the best for last.

Things got quiet outside. Either his guards were all dead, or those smart enough to flee had done so. He was alone. His heart was beating quickly. It was a torturous thing; knowing you were going to die, accepting the fate, but the body never gave up. The body didn't listen to the mind all the time; it wanted to live. Which was why it had fetched the long dueling blade from above the mantle and placed it on the table beside him.

The front door creaked open. He heard steps. "I'm in here, Isma," he said, draining the rest of his glass and setting it down.

She stood in the portal to the living room, breathing heavy in the door frame. His former little kobold slave. She was former a lot of things; one of those things was a renowned paladin, those skills having apparently served her quite well this night. She was covered in blood, and Xyver could see that very little of it belonged to her. She was wearing patchwork armor, scavenged from her fallen enemies. In her little hand, a short blade; scaled to her size it was a serviceable longsword. And there was... one more thing. He noticed it and smiled. Well, that might come in handy later.

"You've been a bad girl," he said. He knew it was the wrong thing to say, he could see it in her eyes. Her blood was up, she was drunk on war and killing, and that line had just offered her another shot of whiskey. He quickly added, "It's nice to see you've come into your own."

"Don't patronize Isma," she snarled at him, stepping into the room and leveling her blade at him.

"Sorry," he said. "I'd offer you a brandy but I don't think you're thirsty."

"You should have hired more guards," she growled, still advancing, a little to the right to circle around the furniture in the room.

"Would it have made a difference?"

"No."

He nodded, his tail nervously flicking behind him. "I don't suppose there's any talking you out of it."

"You must be mad," she said. "After what you did to Isma?"

"You cannot truly say I was the worst."

"Wrong!" she barked at him, bouncing on her little toes, her tail snapping suddenly. He flinched, his eyes on the tip of her red-soaked blade, hovering five or six feet away. "The others abused her, raped her, humiliated her, but you stole her from herself! You took Isma and you put her in a little box and locked her far, far away! Isma spent all this time finding her again! You are the worst!"

"Are you sure she's found?" he asked, carefully. May as well spend that last chip. She was moments from running him through. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the dueling blade. It was within reach. He knew picking it up meant death. When was the last time he'd practiced? A decade ago? He wasn't a killer. She was.

"What do you mean?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Feel your neck."

There was an empty, quiet moment. She looked for a moment like she would defy him, but why not humor him? She had all the power in the room. So she carefully, slowly, felt her neck. And the collar that was wrapped around it.

He caught the surprised look in her eye. It was now or never. "You killed him, your new master. He was unworthy," he said, his voice dropping into the calm, commanding tone he'd always used with his slaves. "You armed yourself. Clothed yourself. You've gone to war and you wear the costume of war, but in all that time, the collar stayed on. You've bathed, I'm sure. You've had quiet moments to yourself. You could have taken it off at any moment. I imagine you never thought to."

Her eyes were open wide, staring at him. He had her off script. Her moment trodden on, he took advantage of her hesitation and stepped forward. It meant giving up on the blade on his table. Not that it would have made any difference anyway.

"You know why its there. Because it's mine. You're mine. I put that on you to show one and all who you belonged to. You still belong to me. That's why you never took it off. Because you know, deep down, that you're my property, and you don't get to make that decision, without my permission."

"You're wrong, Isma... She..."

"Enough," he said, standing tall, right in front of her. "Drop the sword. You've been a bad girl, but you made a good decision coming back to me. I can make it right. It was a poor choice to sell you. Don't worry, little one. You'll stay here, this time. Now... do as I say."

She stared at him, her eyes glassy, mouth open. the sword wavered; there for a moment, there was a weakness. All of the men who had stood before her and him up until this moment were naught but piles of dry leaves to be kicked apart. This was different. He was staring right at her. Right through her. She'd left the collar on. She'd left it on!

It was time to take it off.

The blade passed through him smoothly. It was a fine weapon and offered almost no resistance, sliding into his reptilian body and out the back; a textbook, routine thrust. Xyver grunted, stepping back, as hot fire spread through his belly. He looked down at the weapon, the handle the only thing he could see, jutting from his middle. He let out a long sigh. "I almost had you." She didn't respond; she only stared at him. He suddenly decided to make himself more brandy. He turned, but the world spun and he found himself slumped against the chair. What was nice was that the pain was turning more into a cold sort of numbness. What wasn't so great was that he knew he was dying, while it was happening.

"Ism-mmph," he said, the collar sliding over his snout. She cinched it tight, staring him in the eyes as she did it.

"Enough," she said. "You've been a bad boy, master."

********

The heat of the burning mansion behind her warmed her back. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She was alone; the only sound the dull roar of the flames consuming her old world. Consuming all that had come before. It was all behind her, burning up. Turning to ash, eaten away in a violent conflagration. And when it was over, there would be nothing but burnt, empty vacancy. In front of her, a fresh day, a new start.

And slung over her shoulder, a huge, heavy bag stuffed with money.

Her clawed feet dug into the earth as she started to walk. She had places to be. She reached up and felt her bare neck. It felt naked, without the collar. But that was burning now, too. Naked was a good feeling; she was naked when she emerged from the egg. Perhaps this was a new birth. Time to learn how to walk again.

What follows is an entirely optional ending to this story. I should stress that the ending above is my initially intended ending. It's 'canon', for those who want it to be. But I know there are some people who, in their dirty little heart of hearts, kinda want a darker ending. Why should everything end nicely? Or, perhaps your 'nice' ending is the dark one? Well, if that's the case, I've got you covered. Scroll down for the dark ending to this story.

BE ADVISED: IF YOU LIKED THE ENDING ABOVE, I SUGGEST NOT SCROLLING DOWN. IF YOU LIKE HAPPY ENDINGS, ENJOY THAT ONE.

Okay, here we go!

"You're wrong, Isma... She..."

"Enough," he said, standing tall, right in front of her. "Drop the sword. You've been a bad girl, but you made a good decision coming back to me. I can make it right. It was a poor decision to sell you. Don't worry, little one. You'll stay here, this time. Now... do as I say."

"Drop the sword," he said. "I will not say it again."

The weapon clattered to the floor. She looked at her hand in surprise, as if it had betrayed her. But it didn't have a mind of it's own. She knew why she'd dropped it. "Mast-"

"Silence," he said. "Who told you to put on those horrible rags? Take them off. All of them."

Isma hesitated. She knew how the night was supposed to go. She'd spent all this time! She'd killed all those-

He caught her hesitating. He raised his voice. "Strip, girl!"

Her hands flew to her top. She unbuckled, untied, unbuttoned. With a clank and a metallic shuffle, the armor came off. Then the shirt. She didn't look at him. She couldn't meet his eyes. He showed no mercy, staring hot daggers at her as she worked off her leggings, stepping out of them. She stood naked in front of him, save for the collar. Funny; she felt more natural without clothes than with them...

"What is my name?" he asked her.

She looked up at him. He had untied his robe, revealing his naked body underneath; she could see his cock growing from between his legs. She could clearly remember its taste, the feel of it in her mouth. It was all coming back to her, suddenly. Old routines. "Master," she whispered.

"Good girl," he said, slipping his robe the rest of the way off. "Present." Isma turned, head down, and slipped down to her hands and knees. The motions felt almost more natural and regular than fighting. She spread her knees, flicked her tail up over her back, and arched her hips. Like he'd taught her. She yelped when he grabbed her wrists, pulling them behind her back and binding them

"Master?" she asked, before she found her speech impeded, a steel rod placed in her mouth and tied off behind her head, a bit gag. She whimpered, cowed by his fierce glare.

"I have to re-train you, Isma," he said to her, using his knees to move her legs further apart. "You've been allowed to develop a lot of bad habits. So we're starting anew."

She gave a sharp little feminine cry as he penetrated her. He groaned, feeling that familiar, tight passage open for him. His body flooding with relief, he got down to the happy business of fucking her, slapping his scaly hips against her rump. As he listened to her whimper and yelp throughout the fucking, he made a mental note to consider spending less money on brandy he might never get to drink.

The End

One Way Or Another

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