They chained me to a rock. Again.
Left ankle, right wrist, both wrists, actually—whoever did the knotting had a bit of flair for symmetry. Not bad, honestly. I'd give them a six out of ten. Could've added a flourish. Maybe some velvet rope. A little effort, boys?
Anyway, there I was. Perched like a decadent little offering, at the wind-kissed edge of Mount "Insert Some Epic Fantasy Name Here," draped in what was once a dress and now qualified as a suggestion of silk. It had seen better days. So had I.
My legs were bare, toes freezing, nipples hard enough to etch poetry into the stone behind me, and there was a twig poking my ass. Of course there was.
Damsel. Distress. Cue dramatic clouds.
Let me be clear—I'm no maiden. Gods, no. I haven't been a maiden since I was thirteen and got paid in a loaf of bread and half a fig. But these people didn't need to know that. To them, I was the perfect sacrifice: skin like moonlight, lips like sin, hair like an oil spill with good lighting.
I looked every inch the tragic, sacred, oh-so-innocent beauty destined to be devoured or deflowered by something ancient, massive, and scaly.
They bought it, obviously.
Peasants always do. Superstitious, horny little creatures. All you have to do is arch your back, cry a bit, maybe moan something about destiny. Works every time.
The wind licked between my thighs and I rolled my eyes toward the heavens. Which, given my position, gave the villagers behind me a full view of my ass. You're welcome, lads. Tell your grandkids.
I was getting bored, honestly. My toes were going numb, and I really hoped someone would show up soon—preferably not a real virgin knight. They never knew what to do with their swords, and they always wanted to cuddle after. Ugh.
My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since last night, when I seduced that innkeeper for a bowl of stew and half a pickle. It wasn't worth it. He cried afterward. Called me "mother." That was awkward.
Anyway.
I waited. Breasts out. Legs parted just so. Theatrical misery painted across my face.
Something would come.
Someone always did.
There it was.
A step.
Heavy boots against stone. The sharp inhale of a man seeing a naked woman in distress and immediately deciding it's his destiny to fix her.
Gods, they're all the same.
He emerged from the mist like a sculpture come to life—sun-bleached hair, jaw like he chewed rocks for breakfast, the gleam of steel and righteousness. And, of course, the sword. Always with the sword.
"By the gods," he whispered, eyes wide. "You poor thing."
He dropped to his knees and started hacking at the chains. I gasped—partly for effect, partly because I'd been sitting on my foot too long and it tingled like hell. He cut fast. Desperate. Almost trembling.
"You're safe now," he said. "I'm here to slay the beast."
Oh, sweetie.
I collapsed into his arms. Soft sob. Shiver. Breast to chest. You know—the works. His mouth was on mine before the last chain hit the rock.
His hands were calloused, clumsy, reverent. I moaned like a grateful saint and kissed him like a whore who knew the value of a good performance. He was young. Eager. And very much getting hard under all that leather.
I pulled him down with me, into the furs someone had dramatically arranged beside the altar rock. (You think I don't plan these things?)
He fumbled. I guided. The toga was already halfway to nonexistent. The rest fluttered away with the wind. He entered me with a groan like a prayer.
Yes, he was inside me when it happened.
Over his shoulder, I saw a shape. A shadow. Wings spread like nightmares. Oh, finally.
My lips curled.
"W-we shouldn't," he gasped. "The dragon—"
"We have time," I whispered, grinding slowly, pulling him deeper. "Just a little more…"
And then came the roar.
His eyes snapped open. He turned, saw the silhouette in the sky, and panicked like a chicken with a sword.
"Shit! The beast!" he shouted, leaping to his feet, pants still halfway down. "I'll hold him off—"
"No, no, wait—" I tried, but it was too late.
His back was to me. Dumb move.
I grabbed the rock I'd been warming my hip against all afternoon and whacked.
He crumpled like a sack of potatoes with great abs.
The roar grew louder.
Wings beat the air. Dust rose. My hair whipped wildly.
And then he landed.
The Dragon.
Massive. Glorious. Slightly dusty. One scale missing on his left haunch, the vain old lizard. He folded his wings with a dramatic sigh and looked down at the unconscious pile of hero meat and then at me.
"What," I snapped, brushing a leaf out of my hair, "took you so long?"
He raised one elegant brow ridge. "Some of us are arthritic, darling."
I crossed my arms, still very naked. "I had to fuck him, you know. Mid-sacrifice. That wasn't the plan. I was improvising."
He sniffed. "And I appreciate your commitment to the craft."
I looked down at the hero. He groaned faintly.
"Should I do him again while he's out?" I asked sweetly. "Just for fun?"
The Dragon rolled his eyes. "You're insatiable."
"Treasure first," I said, grinning. "Then orgasms."
He nodded regally. "As always."
And like that, we got to work.
Two con artists. One scorched village. And a very sore, very unconscious paladin with his pants around his knees, cos you see, it's a scam.
A classic. Elegant. Time-tested. He scorches a few fields, flaps his wings over a granary, maybe singes a shepherd or two. They panic. They pray. They consult some bearded old fart with a staff, who says: Offer a virgin and gold to the beast.
Enter me. Saya. Virgin. Obviously.
It's always a hit.
My job is simple. Look tragic. Look pretty. Look like the kind of girl whose tear-streaked innocence gives rise to stirring quests and noble erections.
Sometimes, they just hand over the gold. No questions asked. Superstitious morons. But when a hero shows up, dripping with muscles and righteous intent?
That's when the fun begins.
Because while they're busy rescuing me, panting and puffing and trying not to bust too early, the Dragon comes in and... well. Handles things.
Today was textbook. Right up until His Scaled Highness got impatient.
I glared at him as he sniffed around the unconscious stud sprawled at my feet. "Seriously? Couldn't wait five more minutes? I was just getting to the good part."
The Dragon snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils. "He was about to get to the sword part, darling. I'm not in the mood for another stab wound this week."
"I had him under control!"
"You had him under you."
"Same difference!"
He gave me a long, tired look, then muttered, "I can shapeshift, you know."
I squinted at him. "You're gay."
He shrugged with his wings. "Fair enough."
I dropped down next to the hero with a sigh, tugging at the straps of his armor. "Shame. He was kinda cute. And dumb. I like them dumb."
"Your type, clearly," the Dragon said, helpfully extending a claw to help unbuckle his greaves.
We stripped him like we were peeling a particularly juicy fruit. Bits of gold-inlaid leather, engraved pauldrons, a rather fancy codpiece. Gods, even his underwear had embroidery. "We'll get a good price for this," I said, holding it up. "Might even pay off your gout medicine."
The Dragon scowled. "It's not gout. It's joint fatigue. Shapeshifting wrecks my cartilage."
"Yeah, yeah. Try flying in heels sometime."
The hero groaned. We both froze.
I leaned down, lips brushing his ear. "Sleep tight, braveheart. We'll leave you a nice legend."
"Don't be cruel," the Dragon murmured.
I stood and stretched, letting the wind rake its fingers over my bare skin. "I'm not. He lives. They all live. It's part of the game. We get the gold. We get the loot. He gets to say he faced the dragon and saved the girl."
The Dragon smirked. "He just won't mention the part where the girl robbed him blind and knocked him out mid-thrust."
"Exactly."
We gathered the loot into a bundle, armor clinking, coins rustling, and I gave the mountain one last wistful glance.
"Next time," I said, "let me finish first."
The Dragon rolled his eyes. "Next time, don't get attached."
"Oh, I'm not. I'm just saying—if we're gonna play damsel and dragon, I might as well get laid properly."
He snorted again. "Greedy little thing."
"Always," I grinned, flipping him a gold ring. "Now let's go. There's a tavern down the valley with a soft bed, cheap wine, and possibly syphilis. My kind of place."
And just like that, we vanished into the mist. A damsel and her dragon. Partners in crime.
And somewhere behind us, another hero would wake up dazed, nude, and utterly ruined.
They never talk about it.
Would you?