A Glorified Clerk (Author: LittleMate)

You stretch, muscles rippling with unrestrained release as they quiver out the last dregs of sleep from your body, loosening in a languid, sinuous cadence. Your eyes slowly blink, drinking in the warm, honeyed rays of sun that seep through the thick, brocade drapes, their embroidered serpents seeming to writhe as light touches them. Dust motes drift and eddy in the air like lazy spirits, gilded by dawn, and the sight pricks at your temper. I will have to punish one of the maids for her lack of diligence. The thought unfurls through you like a ribbon of heat, a silken promise coiling tight, your tongue flicking unconsciously as you imagine what ‘punishments’ you will inflict, drawn out into the velvet hours of night.

Slinking free of the warm blankets and layered furs, you slide from the bed with a whisper of scales against silk. The air bites cool against your skin, a sharp contrast to the cocoon you leave behind, and the polished wooden floor chills you further, each inch of contact sending a faint shiver through you. Sibilant curses slip from your mouth, soft and venom-sweet, as you glide toward the mahogany vanity at the far end of your chamber. The room smells faintly of incense and old lacquer, a noble scent clinging stubbornly to bitter exile.

You settle before the vanity, the polished silver mirror catching the light like a still pool. It greets you with a flawless reflection, its surface slightly warped from hand-hammered craft, lending your image a subtle, shifting grandeur. Tilting your head, you study yourself as though you were a priceless relic unearthed from some ancient tomb.

Your undying beauty reflects back at you.

Hundreds of small golden scales stipple your fine visage, each one gleaming like a drop of molten sunlight cooled upon your skin. They catch the light differently as you move, a living mosaic that shimmers with every breath. As your gaze drifts downward, the scales grow larger, more pronounced, each plate the size of a pence, overlapping with meticulous perfection across your lithe yet wiry torso. Your form is both elegant and predatory, inviting admiration and fear in equal measure, and you bask in it without restraint. After all, who wouldn’t?

At your waist, the scales broaden further, heavy and opulent, like fat gold coins pressed into your flesh by a jealous god. You turn slightly, admiring the seamless transition into the long, powerful coil of your snake-like lower half. Ten feet of sinuous muscle stretches behind you, each subtle shift sending a quiet susurrus through the room, the sound as soft as whispered secrets in a court of intrigue.

Perfection incarnate.

With a slow, deliberate twist, you return your attention to the mirror, examining every detail with ritualistic precision. This had been your morning rite for years, an anchor of identity that endured even now, far from the gleaming halls of the Imperial Palace. Once, that reflection had been framed by marble columns and ruby-veined walls, attended by servants who dared not breathe too loudly in your presence. You were, after all, a prince. Sure, it was your great-grandmother who was the Empress-Potentate, but it was your grandfather who was Crown Prince! Lineage mattered! It had to matter, even with the suffocating press of one hundred and fifteen relatives ahead of you in the endless turmoil of succession.

You snort softly, the sound sharp and dismissive, scattering those thoughts like chaff. Petty concerns. Beneath you. The blood of the Qaina Dynasty runs through your veins, ancient and sovereign, an inheritance no decree could strip away. Your family, your so-called betters, had exaggerated their accusations, cloaking envy in outrage. So what if you had put a clutch of eggs inside the wife, mother, and daughter of your chief rival while his weak-willed son had been gargling your fat nu- err, coiled around your finger? Power is meant to be taken, not begged for, and his failure to hold what was his was a weakness I had merely exploited!

Anger stirs within you, a restless serpent awakening in the depths of your being. It nipped at your honour, venom seeping into every thought. Whatever faint, inconvenient traces of guilt once lingered are drowned beneath a rising tide of righteous indignation. How dare they banish me?! I will fight my way back with fang and claw! I will put a hundred clutches of my brood in every female!

Your breath deepens, your chest rising as that inner fire kindles something more primal. The feel of your manhood filling with blood as it swells. The long, pointed cock swayed heavily up and down with each beat of your heart. You could even feel the heavy churning within those finely-scaled nuts of yours. A drop of pure male essence beaded at the head of your crimson cock.

You hesitate, caught between indulgence and restraint. Do I take care of it now or later? Currently, there were only old servants in the household, everyone else having left to do their duties. Your two favourites, a curvaceous treat of a human woman and a slender twink of an elf, were gone. Running errands that you had immediately regretting sending them on yesterday. Alas, you were bereft carnal release unless you deigned to dip your wick into a dusty old box.

You could not contain your shudders.

With a long, measured sigh, you **** the tension from your thoughts, letting it dissipate like smoke. There are more important matters than fleeting indulgence. Reaching for your robe, you draw the exquisitely tailored garment over yourself, the fabric whispering across your scales. It is cool and smooth, decorated with fine patterns that echo your lineage. The cool air nipped at the top half of your exposed cock proudly poking out of the robe, but what was there to do otherwise? You had been in the throes of puberty the last time you had ever touched yourself in that manner and that was decades gone. You were a prince! Not some peasant pauper!

With ingrained routine, you slither toward the door, your movement fluid and soundless save for the faint glide of scale against wood. The thoughts of the day to come slowly brought you out of your mercurial melancholy. You were so close! You could taste it! As if to validate your thoughts, your forked tongue flicked out as if by rote memorization. Your well-established regimen was halted when something shifts within the folds of your robe, subtle yet unmistakable, brushing against your senses like the first hint of a hidden blade.