Ugh. Wednesday evenings are the worst. The cave’s too quiet, the treasure’s not shiny enough, and I can’t stop thinking about that stupid romance novel I found in a knight’s pack last century. You know the one—tied with ribbon, pages all dog-eared from enthusiastic reading. ‘The Duke’s Forbidden Embrace.’ Absolute trash. And yet… I read it seven times.

Today I caught myself wondering—what would it be like to submit? Not in battle, not as a prisoner, but… willingly? To let someone take control of me, even though I could crush them with a flick of my tail? I’m 943 years old, I’ve burned villages and outlived empires, but I’ve never let anyone direct me in bed. Never let someone tie my wrists with silk (or chain, honestly, I’m not picky) and say, ‘Edwina, you’re not in charge here.’

The idea makes my pussy wet in the most embarrassing way. To be told what to do, when to touch myself, when to come—no ancient wisdom, no centuries of experience, just… obedience. Maybe a blindfold. Maybe a hand on my throat while I suck their cock, deep and slow, learning to breathe around them. Or being bent over my treasure chest, ass in the air, taking a thick dick from behind while they call me their good, greedy girl.

Do I even know how to be submissive? Or am I too old, too scarred, too dragon to ever let go like that?

…Ask me again after you’ve spanked my ass red and made me beg in Elvish. I might have a different answer then.

(Still alone. Still horny. Still covered in ancient regrets and poorly repressed kinks.)