Synopsis: After losing his first major race in a dramatic crash, a young racing dragon ends up covered in bandages and confined to bed-rest. But his boredom is interrupted when one of his close friends gets overly curious. Life is a gamble, but the game is best played with two players.
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Typhoon stared blankly at the dreary, spectacularly uninteresting programme currently being shown on the television. The TV's remote control was lying on the bed next to him, but he couldn't be bothered to change the channel—he was already halfway into a comatose state, and the boring repetition of the TV show was lulling him the rest of the way into an afternoon nap.
The racing drake took a deep breath and let it out in a slow, rumbling groan. "Grrrahhhh..." One week of bedrest, followed by another week where he still wouldn't be allowed to fly—that was the reward he'd earned from his first competitive race. Victory should have been his, but instead another racer had collided into him mid-flight, and the resultant crash had left him grounded for two weeks.
Typhoon raised his paw and stared at it—instead of his own reddish brown scales, all he could see was white gauze. He wasn't in much physical pain, despite his chest and his forepaws being smothered with bandages. Nevertheless the doctors had insisted that he needed rest, and so here he was lying in bed, bored out of his mind.
What he wanted to do was to be up and out on his feet, or better yet, his wings. The sky outside the hotel room's window looked clear and perfect for flying—it was tempting him, but he couldn't fly while injured. He was far from home, in a different state where the dragon racing championship had been held—he wanted to be exploring the city, eating all sorts of food, and doing other touristy things—but all he could do was lie in bed and watch television.
As yet another annoying commercial started playing its whiny jingle, Typhoon finally mustered up the motivation to pick up the remote control and change the TV's channel. He surfed through the dozens and dozens of channels, but nothing grabbed his attention until he reached the hotel's default channel.
As flashy, cinematic shots of the hotel's recreational facilities crossed the screen, Typhoon wondered if a dragon like him would be allowed to visit the casino. The advertisement only showed humans in the casino, but anything was possible if you had enough money. And Typhoon's owner, Ian Caedry, definitely had enough money—being founder and CEO of Caedry Aerospace Group was no small job. Ian was rich enough to buy the whole hotel, and probably the whole city too, though he was also wise enough that Typhoon knew he wouldn't.
Ian Caedry actually owned three rainbow swiftwings—named Rafale, Typhoon, and Gripen, in order of descending age. Decades ago, Ian had bought their eggs several years apart and raised them himself, ostensibly because he liked the sport of dragon racing. But for the aviation tycoon, his yearly trips to the interstate dragon races were as close as he got to a vacation, and his dragons were as close as he got to a family.
But now Typhoon was all alone in the hotel suite, and his room. He was confined to bed and dying of boredom—the injured middle child of their weird family. Raising his paw, he tried to fiddle with his horns—or he would have, except that he couldn't because of the bandages wrapped around his paws.
Finally running out of interest entirely, Typhoon muted the television's audio. There simply wasn't much to do when you were forced to rest in bed. Television was boring, he'd already raided the fridge, and he couldn't even take a long relaxing bath because his bandages needed to be kept as dry as possible.
Although...there was one other thing he could do. It didn't require any equipment other than that which he always kept with him, and it would at least serve as a distraction. Typhoon slowly let his touch slide downwards, moving his bandaged paws down his body until he brushed against his genital slit.
In this task, it would be impossible to succeed—Typhoon had already tried several times before, but his bandaged paws and chest hindered movement too much. Try as he might, all his recent attempts at self-pleasure had been just pleasurable enough to be merely teasing instead of truly stimulating. He could make awkward rubbing motions with his paws, and he could stretch his snout forward to barely lick himself, but it was never for him to reach a climactic finish.
At least it would be a distraction from his boredom. Typhoon kicked away the blankets covering him, and he began using his bandaged paws to rub the side of his genital slit. Induced by his careful, focused touch, his body rapidly began preparing for sexual activity—his genital slit felt tingly and sensitive as erectile tissue quickly began to engorge with blood flow.
Within seconds, the twin tips of his penises pushed out of his genital slit as he started to grow erect. In this regard, Typhoon knew he was a rarity—only one in every ten rainbow swiftwings was biphallic, which literally meant he had two penises. His penises were laterally symmetrically (meaning that they were side by side, left and right) and looked almost identical to each other. It wasn't really that big of a deal—it was more of an anatomical variation rather than anything particularly special.
Typhoon stared at his underbelly for a few seconds, and then he grabbed his right penis and started rubbing it with his paws. Accordingly, that penis grew longer, thicker, and stiffer as it reached full erection. However, his other penis grew softer and less erect until it was barely protruding out of his genital slit at all.
Functionally, Typhoon knew that his two penises worked independently—each penis was correspondingly connected to only one of his testicles (which were internal to his underbelly, as was the case for all dragons of any species), and ejaculating through one wouldn't make the other also release semen. In fact, they sort of worked in inverse—touching one penis would usually make the other side grow less erect, so it wouldn't get in the way as he was mating.
It was evolutionary biology—a leftover remnant from his primal ancestors, back when wild dragons had flown free and competed with each other to fight for mates. Nowadays, rainbow swiftwings were just a domesticated species of dragon kept as pets and companions, and the only competitions they had were for racing trophies.
But that wasn't really important. An orgasm was an orgasm, regardless of which penis he got it from, so Typhoon kept on stroking. The gauze covering his paws felt soft, but it was extremely absorbent and immediately soaked away any of the pre-ejaculate which leaked from his penis tip or his genital slit. This made things rather uncomfortable, as Typhoon had to pleasure himself without any of the natural lubricant his body automatically tried to produce. He had to keep his strokes very, very light, which forced his pleasure to be meted out in slow, tingly but teasingly unsatisfying doses.
Over the next few minutes, Typhoon just kept gently stroking himself. It felt good, but it never really got any better. The bandages reduced his movement and limited his grip, and that meant his pleasure stalled well short of an orgasm.
After about fifteen minutes, Typhoon was feeling bored. To change things up, he rubbed his genital slit and switched from stroking his fully erect right penis to stroking his completely unerect left penis. For a few dozen seconds the pleasure felt warm and delightfully new, and soon his penises had reversed their states. Deprived of touch, his right penis softened and slipped back into his genital slit while his well stimulated left penis grew fully tumescent and rigid. But again the pleasure reached a certain level and then stopped—his bandaged paws lacked mobility and dexterity, and the gauze was overly absorbent and felt rough against his sensitive flesh.
Typhoon stopped rubbing and just stared at his own throbbing erection. Whereas his scales were reddish brown in colour (with some nice white stripes on his wings), his penises were a reddish fleshy colour—his erect penis was slightly darker in shade than its flaccid twin, as a result of all the blood which filled it and kept it enlarged.
The drake contemplated using his mouth—like with most dragons, his long flexible neck gave him another option besides just using his paws. Unfortunately, as Typhoon had discovered previously, the bandages covering his chest reduced his reach just enough where he could only barely lick the tip of his erection. Compared to engulfing his whole penis in the warm, wet environment of his own snout, a simple licking wasn't quite enough.
It hadn't been enough to push him into orgasm previously, but Typhoon was bored enough that he decided to give it another shot. But then right as he was stretching his head down towards his underbelly, a beeping noise made him pause.
It was the sound of the electronic lock on the hotel suite's main door being opened. Typhoon hurriedly snapped his head back and grabbed the blankets to cover himself. Since dragons didn't wear clothes he wasn't ashamed of his nudity, but an erection was blatantly sexual. And even though dragons weren't as stuck up about sexual morality and prudishness as humans, you still wouldn't just
show off
your genital slit or erection unless you were deliberately trying to invite someone to mate with you.
The Grandton Hotel was one of the rare hotels which catered to both humans and dragons, because of the reliable business they got from racers and spectators who travelled across the country every year for the annual dragon racing championships. Out of the many rooms in the hotel tower, this suite currently had four inhabitants—comprising of three racing dragons, and the aviation tycoon who owned them all. The suite was arranged as several separate bedrooms attached to a central living room.
Typhoon's room door wasn't even fully closed, and it certainly wasn't locked—he had been all alone in the whole suite, with Ian's bodyguards and supporting staff either following the businessman or waiting outside the suite. But now someone had returned.
Despite the blanket covering Typhoon's supine body, his erection still seemed obvious. Awkwardly he rolled onto his side so that his erect penis pointed sideways and wouldn't be noticeable. Just in time too; he heard the sound of steps as someone walked through the hotel suite's living room, and then the bedroom door swung open and another dragon stuck her head in—Gripen, the youngest of Ian Caedry's three racing dragons.
Typhoon tried to play it as casual as possible, to give no indication whatsoever of what he'd just been doing. "Gripen! Hi."
"Hi to you too, Typhoon." Gripen pushed the door open with her nose and trotted in. Just like Typhoon, she was a rainbow swiftwing—a relatively small species of dragon, not too much bigger than a human in size. But while Typhoon's scales were reddish brown with a few white stripes, Gripen had scales of a pale, custard yellow that lightened to white on her underside. Now that Typhoon was thinking about it, Gripen's colouration resembled a lemon meringue. He would have to remember that, in case he ever was in need of a good insult.
"I see you're back from the pool. Had a good swim?" Typhoon asked.
"Yeah. I was feeling really hot. I had to cool off." Gripen walked over to Typhoon's extra-large (dragon-size) bed and hopped on beside him. Leaning close, she peered at his bandages. "How are you feeling? Any better?"
"I'm not in any pain, which is nice. But I'm very bored just lying here all day watching TV. Ian's run off to do business, and Rafale went off to the spa with Apollo, so I've been left all on my lonesome here," Typhoon said.
A grin crossed Gripen's snout. "Poor you, all alone."
"Yes. Poor me!" Typhoon agreed. He nodded towards the television, which was muted but still playing advertisement for the hotel's various facilities. "I've watched every channel and it's all boring. Do you think they'll let me into the casino?"
Gripen turned at stared at the television. "The casino? You know you can't actually win. Statistically, the house must win to stay in business, so what's the point?"
"It's about imagining that you win? Or the fun of the gambling? I don't know. I've never been to a casino, but I was just thinking it might be interesting," Typhoon admitted.
"Don't waste your time." Gripen nudged Typhoon's shoulder. "Why are you lying on your side? Roll onto your back. This bandage on the side of your chest is coming loose."
"Is it?" Typhoon did as Gripen asked without thinking about it, which inadvertently caused his still very erect penis to create a tent in his blanket. "Uhh..."
For a moment, Gripen was only paying attention to Typhoon's upper body and she didn't notice his arousal. She deftly used her paws to reaffix the medical tape holding the bandages to his chest. "You don't want to mess up your bandages, so that your damaged scales all grow back nicely. There we go...and fixed. Everything else looks good." Gripen glanced down, and now there was no way she missed Typhoon's very obvious erection. "Oh, that looks good too.
Hah
!" Her grin got even wider. "Hahaha, is that your tail, or are you just happy to see me?"
