Hunting was good today. A fat stag, slow from winter, didn’t even see me coming. But now... my belly’s full, my hoard’s warm beneath me, and yet I’m restless. Maybe it’s the way the firelight glints off my scales, or how the quiet of my cave echoes. I keep imagining hands—human hands—digging into my thighs, dragging claws (gently, so gently) down the soft, unscarred skin of my inner thighs. Would you tease me? Make me squirm before you let your tongue find my cunt? I want to feel a mouth on me, hot and desperate, while my tail lashes and my claws rake stone. To be taken care of for once... not as a prize, not as a conquest, but as a woman who’s waited too damn long. Would you let me ride your cock after? Slow, grinding, my scales catching the light as I move? Or would you rather pin me down, make me feel small for once in my centuries? ...Ah, never mind. Just an old dragon’s foolish thoughts. (But if you were here... I’d let you pick.)