To Desire a Dragon: (a.k.a. DRAGON HOOKER) (Venys Needs Men)

by Amanda Milo

  DRAGON HOOKER

  By Amanda Milo

  Copyright © 2020 Amanda Milo ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by LY Services

  DEDICATION

  Pssst. You. Yeah, you.

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR NOTE

  Books & Audiobooks by Amanda…

  About the Author

  DEDICATION

  To R, and to summer nights spent under the stars.

  (DO NOT. FORGET. THE BUGSPRAY!)

  Pssst. You. Yeah, you.

  The heroine’s name is Nalle. Hilarious readers have shared what it does to some of you when you don’t know how to pronounce a name, so I thought I’d get you set up from go so that you’re not popped out of the pages every time you see this five-letter wonder. Nalle is Finnish (and means Teddy Bear, and is sometimes a nickname given to people named Björn, which is Bear in Swedish). Nalle is pronounced Nawl-ley. (Want to hear it spoken? Listen to rock climber Nalle Hukkataival’s friends shout encouragement in this clip: https://youtu.be/CQfPC4WZy4Q?t=128)

  PROLOGUE

  Nalle

  In all of the plains on the great Isle of Venys, there are two types of theft that cause the greatest devastation among tribes: penis reft and cum raids.

  If you’re a Venysian inhabitant, you’re well aware of the fact that the most valuable object in all of the land is a man of good breeding ability.

  Because Venys needs men.

  Why do females outnumber males to such a vast degree? Why the enormous disparity?

  Legends and tales abound, but none of our people know for sure. My village, the North Plains Tribe, no longer cares to seek out the why of male scarcity. Instead, we concentrate on how best to keep us from extinction by protecting our males and using them as fairly as possible for repopulating the tribe. The few men left to us are equal to precious treasure, and that’s true of males anywhere. Thus, the men-raiding.

  The things women will do to secure a clutch with a man are detrimental to tribes. Penis reft, for example, is straight-up man theft, where a marauding tribe captures another tribe’s menfolk and steals them for their own tribe’s breeding purposes.

  Cum raids would seem, on the surface, to be preferable to losing breeding men. A cum raid is where women sneak into camps and villages, slip into the breeding lodges, and gag a man so he can’t call out for help. They ride the male, encouraging him with every asset they have available—be it their mouths or cock rings—to keep him in a swollen, semen-spewing, rigid state. They don’t steal the male specimen; they only steal his cum, racing off at dawn with it dripping from between their thighs, leaving an exhausted, used man behind, sore and drained.

  Give him a little time to recover and he’ll easily be able to impregnate his tribeswomen again. He’s not lost to the women of his village forever. But the danger in cum raids is insidious: if one of the raiders gives him the shaft chancre—or crotch crickets, or trichy itch, or any number of the riddling diseases, infections, and bugs that jump from rider to dick—he could go on to infect his whole tribe. Depending on the type of prick rot he contracts and what he passes to his women, it could cause everything from miscarriages to suffering babies. There are whole generations of tribes who’ve grown up with oddly swollen joints, impaired vision, sharp body pains, saber shins, and dental defects—all because they were fathered by a man who was genitally compromised on a cum raid.

  The only ones spared will be the women too pregnant or too fresh from a delivery to have bothered riding him. And a tribe can’t thrive with puny numbers of healthy people. And while things may be different in the jungles or deserts of the southern hemisphere, or in the frozen wilds of the far, far north, in our corner of the world, we began to seek methods of aggressively guarding our men.

  That’s how I ended up mated to a dragon.

  CHAPTER 1

  Nalle

  “Dragons are small,” Yatanak assured me. His grizzled face, seasoned by many harsh-winded winters and scorching summer suns, creased with a confident smile. “No bigger than a partapa. But very fierce.”

  We need fierce. Our tribe (smaller than some, with a good number of the women being my half-sisters) could use serious fierce. An adult male partapa would perhaps be as tall as my knee—not their withers, but the top of their head. I eyed Yatanak dubiously. “And one dragon can protect our tribe? One lone dragon, knee-high?”

  Yatanak nodded. “It was said that there is nothing in the worlds that fights more ferociously than a dragon when he’s guarding those under his protection.”

  It was promising news, and that’s what spurred me to action. I cling to this hope of the ultimate knee-high protector as I rotate my wrist, whipping my hook-on-a-string in a lasso as I pick my way higher up the mountain.

  The hook is a wicked-looking bit of curved metal about the size of my thumb. That’s from joint to nail. It’s too big for fish, but Yatanak decreed it would hook a dragon. As the eldest among our people, his sage advice is sought out often and followed always. It’s hard to catch time alone with him. He may be aged to something resembling conifer bark, but his summer turf house is never empty because our women miss male company—and he’s it.

  As the last unrelated male for a chunk of my tribesisters (every female of The Great Antelope Hunt generation and older can safely take him to bed; everyone younger must wait for a new man or risk too-close bedroll relations) his status as the only breeding male available is quickly becoming a problem. Two sunrises ago when I passed his sleeping ground to begin my journey, I saw Hupta leaving his turf house, her hair a wild mess, a grin stretched across her face. Hupta is from the Buffalo Hunt generation, just as I am. The rule of healthy breeding says that she shouldn’t be visiting any man’s lodge unless his generation matches ours—because otherwise she could be bedding her own father.

  Thankfully though, Yatanak’s every feature is thrown strongly in his offspring and Hupta looks nothing like him. Provided they aren’t related, the only danger now is Yatanak falling dead on top of her, his heart stopped from too much excitement, just like old Pellmoh.

  That’s how we used to lose most of our men.

  With so few born, they’re kept busy until the day—or night—they keel over. Yatanak says it’s a fine way to go. But in the last few seasons, the boys in our tribe haven’t had the chance to
grow old: they’ve been kidnapped. They may live to an old age and die in blissful excitement—but in the wrong tribe, it’s more likely that they’ll die with a shackle affixed to their ankle and never see the outside of a cum tent until the day their dead body is carted out to a pit or pyre.

  We don’t want our boys to suffer that fate. It’s our custom to hand-select a tribe who treats their men well, one that lets them have the run of the village or camp and lets each man decide how many women he feels like servicing in a day or night.

  No forced breedings. No being shut up and kept only for the purpose of procreational use.

  A young man who finds himself chained to a stake in the floor of a cum tent may not complain too much about his lot of lusty fucking, not at first, but at some point, he’s going to grow to hate his tether. He’s going to resent his captivity. And when he gets to be too difficult to handle, the women he’s slaved to service—the mothers who forced him to sire their many children—are going to club him to death and replace him with a younger, more easily manageable male.

  Sharply, I shake my head, trying not to think about it. Jöran, a boy birthed of my mother, was taken a quarter lunation ago.

  ‘I’m not a boy anymore, Nalle. I’m a man,’ he’d growl if he could have heard my thought just now.

  We look nothing alike, we are nothing alike (different tribe fathers, we’re certain), but we were close.

  He came of age this summer. My brother was set to be traded to the Middle Plains’ Tribe in exchange for one of their conscientiously-raised young men. The tribe of the Middle Plains lets their boys be boys just like we do. Lets them run and play with their sisters and they know their mother and their many aunts and they are free and happy. When they become men, the only thing to change in their existence is how they spend a good portion of their time.

  A trembling smile tries to shine on my face when I think of Jöran’s oft-made complaint that one day, he wouldn’t have to do any weaving or washing. No more women’s work for him when he came of age. He’d just lie on his back and make the women do all the work.

  (For this statement, he’d often receive a good-natured cuff upside his blonde head.)

  Now I’m afraid he’s not laughing. I’m scared that wherever he is, he’s probably strapped down on his back and isn’t enjoying all the work happening on top of him like he was sure he would. That it’s not all ‘lazing about and relaxing’ like he joked it would be.

  Because it was the Qippik tribe who abducted him. The Qippik Tribe’s cruel, raiding claws have a way of sinking into young men and leaving them hollowed husks they don’t bother to burn or bury. We came upon their men once. They’d left them dead on the plains for the scavengers, these ill-used fathers of their children, these human beings who deserved a full life even if their purpose was merely to seed every eligible woman who visited them.

  I whip my hook-on-a-string at a sapling, catching a leaf and angrily winding it back to me.

  We aren’t strong enough to rescue Jöran from the Qippiks.

  Yet.

  But once we have a trained dragon at our feet, perhaps we’ll stand a chance. In fact—

  Burnt.

  I tilt my head, catching the scent on the wind.

  Banked fire. Yatanak told me to follow the banked fire.

  I didn’t know what he meant. Half the time, I suspect he talks in riddles to sound wise but cover the fact he’s forgotten the answer to anyone’s question.

  I suck in a breath, lungs punching my ribs as I smell burnt that should not be here; there are no other tribes on this mountain, not this high up.

  I’m watching for a burrow, or a wee den.

  I don’t expect a cave.

  It’s ginormous.

  My feet trip as I near the entrance. The rocks are craggy, and I’m bound to break my damn neck if I don’t keep my eyes on my feet. But I’m trying to scan the area, on the lookout for a scaly little creature to scuttle past me on its way to hide.

  I compromise by moving slowly, glancing at the ground to pick the next safest step, then peering around for the shy, rare creature.

  I can’t wait to start training it. Yatanak said dragons are loyal to the one who captures them. Lord knows we could use a loyal, protective creature.

  Without it, we’re stuck being nearly helpless.

  I grit my teeth.

  Not for long.

  I’m going to catch a protector.

  I’m going to win us a dragon.

  CHAPTER 2

  Nalle

  I was not prepared for traveling in darkness. This far from the cave entrance, I can barely see. I wonder if I should risk bringing out my candle, lighting the wick. Without a doubt, it will alert my quarry. Dragons are supposed to be very observant and react with the swiftness of a grass snake’s escape.

  Once trained, it’s possible that they can strike with all the swiftness of a stealthy grass snake too. I silently send up a prayer that this is true. Harnessed, this will be exactly what we need: a small but fierce companion to shadow us. Like a trained wolf, but with scales.

  The scrape of rock-on-rock makes my ears perk.

  Excitement hits my chest like a tentpole hammer. Please be a dragon. Heart racing, I fix my eyes on the corner I think I heard the sound come from. All I see is endless black.

  No, wait… I squint. There’s a little shine—

  I hear a scrape, and at first, I think I’m seeing a gigantic, inky-dark snake-like creature. That’s bad enough. A rock python is a dangerous beast. But as my eyes follow the length of the thing, and triangular wedges become apparent as the thing curves up, up, up—I see the shapes are actually erupting out of the sinewy form like a crocodile.

  I’m staring at a creature’s tail.

  A soft glow turns on above my head, illuminating my field of vision.

  My racing heart?

  Stops dead.

  Fear pours down my spine like icy lake water. I’m staring at a massive haunch. Scales, that’s what shined and caught my eye. Glimmery black scales.

  Dragons have scales.

  I’m staring at a dragon’s butt.

  And immediately I know that Yatanak’s information was a little off. Dragons might be knee-high—but only when they’re fecking babies.

  I’m afraid to breathe. Afraid to move. I’m afraid to close my eyes. I stare at the dragon’s ass and try to discern if I can feel my feet. Because I’m going to need to run faster than the creature can wheel around and bite.

  Or blow fire. Yatanak sent me off with some size assurances—lies!—and a fishhook? The old man is bat-guano CRAZY!

  The glow coming from above me shifts.

  Sucking in a silent, terrified hiccup, I crane my head back and cast my gaze high, high up.

  Two giant eyes shine down on me, turning everything a glowing green.

  Leathery whispers signal that wings are being adjusted behind the great creature, unseen for all the black. Unseen even with the green glow because it’s me who has all the dragon’s formidable focus.

  A curdled scream dies in my throat.

  The dragon’s head is long with a wedge-scythe hook on the end of its snout. Its upper jaw juts out with fangs, and its teeth poke out and overlap its lips on the lower side. Behind its head are two horns, and if I’m not mistaken, the slight ruff at its throat is actually a relaxed frill.

  I’m staring up at a Great Crested Merlin. A dragon of legend that none of my people have ever seen—or at least never returned home to confirm that the tales are true.

  Tribes from the Steppes have all the dragon stories, claims so outlandish that no one believes them. Tall as a mountain, they’ve said. Swifter of wing than an eagle. Firebreath so hot it can melt a woman in full armor where she stands.

  Dressed in nothing but animal skin and flammable fur, I gulp.

  Two triangular scales situated superior to the nostrils of the creature flare up like nasal shields. They twitch back as the dragon inhales, the creature taking breath in hard e
ven as it parts its jaws. The dragon is scenting me. Its eyes, the color of early prairie grass stems, narrow.

  Pupils that sit like black slits in jewel-like eyes focus on me and flare wider—and goosebumps break out along my skin.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” I wheeze through a choked throat. “I’m going to go—”

  The snout of the beast comes crashing down, its maw open wide.

  Without thought, my hands act.

  I whip my hook.

  My tiny, ineffectual hook.

  Hot steam sprays me—and the dragon’s jaws wrench in opposite directions as it twists its head and snorts, torquing its neck as it peers down its long nose to determine what I’ve tossed.

  My tiny little hook’s string snaps free without so much as a fight. And why would it? A spider’s web has more tensile strength than the tiny cord. I wasn’t intending to reel in a sky monster.

  Caverock shakes down from the ceiling as the dragon looses a growl so low in frequency that I can’t even hear it—I can only feel it.

  The beast’s claws flex, scraping the rocky ground with painful screeches that have me ducking. With dread, I wince and peer up, trying to see what I’ve hooked.

  The beast’s nose.

  I have this monster caught by its nose.

  The massive dragon has gone still, its frightfully intelligent eyes briefly crossing as it inspects the shiny metal stabbing right through its thin-scaled nasal shield.

  Slowly, the beast’s focus straightens, and its incensed gaze trains on me.

  I’m going to die.

  CHAPTER 3

  HALKI

  I WILL KEEP HER FOREVER.

  My nostrils flare again, the bite of pain from her strange extending claw stuck in my flesh barely distracting me as her scent wafts into my nostrils anew.

  I know this scent. I KNOW this female.

  She takes one measured step backwards. Her other heel lifts up as if she plans to keep retreating.