Chained by her chubby wrists to the great granite slab perched above the gaping gorge, Princess Imogen was reflecting upon the demands of noblesse oblige. She did not of course entertain doubts that she was doing the right and proper thing, but she had thought that the blue blood that ran in her veins might perhaps have spared her some of the indignities of her ordeal. The golden manacles were she felt not strictly necessary; they chafed rather, and she honestly had no intention of shirking her civic responsibility. Nor did she quite grasp why it was so important for her to be presented, so to speak, unwrapped.
The white ceremonial robe she had donned for the ascent of the ancient carved steps had been impractical enough, the long hem causing her to trip as the Exarch tugged impatiently at her chains, but at least it might have afforded some protection from the elements. On the coastal strip below the morning mists would be clearing as the fields baked in the July sun, but up here among the crags a cool breeze funnelled down from the col above, making it distinctly nippy. Imogen's pale ample flesh was tinting to a delicate rose as her vessels dilated, while the light hairs that downed the rather stout arms and legs were raised upon goosepimples. Her large, drooping breasts were crowned with nipples that in the chill air protruded from the saucer-like aureoles like the pommels of a pair of basket hilted rapiers. They could, she felt, very easily have someone's eye out. Her only defence against the fearsome sacrifice that awaited her was, it seemed, a pair of fiendishly stiff titty toppers.
The disrobing had been simply humiliating. The Exarch, the oiled curls of his beard glinting like enamel in the dawn light, had unsheathed his hooked dagger and in one slow deliberate action drawn it down the linen cloth, unloosing the swinging breasts and exposing the belly that hung over the thick thatch of fuzz between the sturdy thighs. The freckle-faced young sergeant in charge of the detail had not known where to look, but as his men smirked openly at her discomfiture, Imogen could only think indignantly that, had she known she was to be stripped bare and spreadeagled against a sacrificial stone, she would have taken more care to watch her weight.
But of course she had not known. The risk had been there of course, or so she thought, but there had been many young women in the Kingdom and Imogen had not been overly concerned. The sacrifice of the occasional virtuous young maid to preserve the security of their homes and crops and herds had seemed an eminently sensible precaution, and when the Exarch had hesitatingly put the proposal to the appalled council, she had swung the day by gamely putting herself forward for the lottery. The odds had seemed reasonable enough. But then her doting father had mucked things up by trying to protect her. Once the rumour came to her ears that her name had been excluded from the draw she had confronted the King. Tearfully the old man confessed. In a rage Imogen had stood before the Exarch in the great vaulted council chamber, and before all the great of the land, her bosom heaving with emotion, she had demanded that she should be allowed to erase her father's error. She would put her self forward for the sacrifice, that none might be in doubt of her honour or her father's justice.
His great bushy brows beetling, the Exarch had looked down thoughtfully upon the princess, bristling with indignant virtue, and with a nod consented; she would be led to her death in the morning. The end of a sleepless vigil had seen the Exarch and his escort come for her before first light, to lead her through the deserted streets and up the winding path to the ancient place of sacrifice, unused in generations. While a firm believer in all things traditional, the Princess could not help but think that perhaps some customs were best unrevived.
The rustle of thousands of leaves sweeping through the valley below shook her from her reverie. Twisting her head as far as her restraints allowed, she strained to peer down the steep tree-sided gorge, but could see nothing. Then the sky darkened above her. She steeled herself to look, and there he was, hanging in the air, the great leathery wings riding the thermals as he hovered with the ease of a kestrel. The yellow eyes with their vertical black pupils gazed down the long snout with the flared nostrils, contemplating the morsel set before it, and the forked purple tongue flicked across the dagger sharp row of teeth. The barrelled chest was a cloth-yard broad and, like the rest of the body, armoured with fish like scales, that glinted and changed colours as they caught the light; the upper limbs, attached to the wings, were of not much more than human length, though tipped with razor sharp claws; the haunches huger than those of a horse rippled with muscle; and between them, above two great wrinkled sacks, protruded a crimson column as long as her father's sceptre, deeply ridged and thickly veined and studded with all manner of fearsome knobs and spurs, its artichoke-lile tip throbbing white-red like iron drawn from the fire.
Only now did Imogen truly grasp the enormity of the sacrifice being asked of her; wide-eyed she flailed in her chains, each large breast swinging to all points of the compass as she tried hopelessly to free herself. With a thud the baleful creature landed perhaps twenty feet in front of her, and began hobbling awkwardly, half-hopping towards her, the glistening helmet of the evil-looking member seeming to perform a dance in the air as it approached. Averting her gaze Imogen felt a blast of hot air upon her left cheek as if an oven door had opened, then winced as a rough tongue was drawn up along her collarbone and neck, the forked tip tickling her ear. The tongue withdrew only for Imogen to feel its sandpaper like touch on her teat. With a surprising delicacy the strop of purple flesh circled her left breast, flicking out against her belly. The gentle exploration continued, the coarse papillae sampling each inch of bare skin, the pudgey flesh rippling under the purposeful probing.
Feeling flushed despite herself, Imogen began to see a chink hope. "Good beast", she murmured as each fork of the tongue curled itself about a nipple. "Wonderful beast. What skill you have." The monstrous apparition gazed up at her, the slotted eyes inscrutable. Imogen coughed hesitantly, "I should very much like to please you also."
The beast swung its huge head, the rough tongue slapping against Imogen's breasts like a tawse. She sucked in her breath at the stinging blow, but the pain was quite bearable. Another slap landed on Imogen's belly, then the tongue lashed against each haunch, before returning to the breasts again, and repeating the sequence a further three times, each blow leaving a red welt. The onslaught ended with slaps on the inside of each thigh which had Imogen squealing.
Choking back sobs, Imogen drew herself together. "Oh thank you beast, I did enjoy that." The creature tilted its head quizically. "I am sure there is so much I could learn from you," she added, and not entirely untruthfully. Obviously he was a foul laathsome worm, but she could not deny to herself that he had succeeded in awakening certain stirrings in her . Imogen had not been much stirred before; when she went riding the groom tended to rest his hand on her bottom a little too long when helping her to mount, and of course there was the rubbing of the saddle. But on the whole she had been puzzled what all the fuss could be about. She had to admit that her ordeal was proving rather educational, or at least it would be if it was not sure to end in her agonising death.
