Ten volcanic islands. Ten ancient dragons. One woman destined to ride them all — body, blood, and fire.
Extreme fantasy erotica • dragon riders • ritual breeding • violence • harem • blood play • 18+
They stripped her titles, branded the sigil of a broken crown between her shoulder blades, and cast her onto the black-sand shore of Ashfall Island with nothing but a dagger and a prophecy carved into her skin: “She who rides all ten shall rule all ten.”
Lira vomited seawater, laughed until she bled, and started walking toward the volcano that never slept.
The lava rivers glowed like arteries. She found the Ember Drake coiled in a cavern of molten gold — thirty feet of crimson scale and molten eyes. Instead of bowing, she walked straight between his forelegs, pressed her naked body to the furnace-heat of his chest, and whispered the old tongue against his heart.
He took her there on the burning stone, wings mantled, tail wrapped around her waist like a lover’s belt. His cock — ridged, molten, impossibly huge — split her open while ash rained like dark snow. She screamed, came, and drank the liquid fire that poured from him, sealing the first bond in blood and seed.
When she mounted him the next dawn, the saddle was her own skin. He launched into the sky, wings beating hurricanes of ember. Mid-flight he rolled, locked with her, and fucked her through free-fall, cum and lava streaking behind them like a comet’s tail. She learned that every dragon claims its rider differently — and none gently.
Second island. The priests demanded a tithe: one night in the pit with the Obsidian Twins — two sleek black dragons who shared everything, including riders. They pinned her between them for hours, one cock in her cunt, the other in her throat, then switched, then both in the same hole until she was a sobbing, cum-soaked mess. When dawn came she walked out wearing their twin brands on her inner thighs and their combined seed still dripping down her legs.
Third island was half-submerged. The sea-dragon rose from a whirlpool, coils thick as ship masts. He dragged her underwater, breathed air into her lungs with a kiss, and bred her on a bed of coral while sharks circled. She came up gasping, hair full of pearls, cunt full of something that glowed faintly in the dark.
Fourth island: eternal winter. The ice dragon froze her nipples solid, then melted them with his tongue, over and over, until pleasure and pain blurred. He took her on a glacier shelf while the aurora danced overhead, pumping her full of frost-fire that made her womb burn for days.
By the seventh island, the exiled princess was no longer alone. Seven dragons circled her like planets around a violent new sun. The reigning Queen — beautiful, ancient, terrified — offered a bargain: surrender the dragons and live as a pampered pet. Lira answered by fucking the Queen’s own royal consort on the marble throne while all seven dragons watched, wings spread, ready for war.
The final three islands fell in a single month of fire, blood, and relentless sex. She rode each remaining dragon into battle naked, breasts painted with war runes, taking them mid-air between volleys of flame. Enemy riders who survived the combat were given a choice: kneel and taste her, or burn. Most knelt.
On the tenth night of the tenth month, all ten dragons gathered above the caldera of the first volcano. They formed a living ring of wings and fire. One by one they took her again — some in human guise with impossible beauty, some in full draconic glory — until she floated in the center of the circle, pierced in every possible way, bathed in dragon seed that ignited into living flame across her skin. When the last roar faded, the brands on her body fused into a single crown of fire.
She descended to the capital on the back of the Ember Drake, belly already beginning to swell with the first of a new bloodline. The old Queen knelt and kissed her feet. Lira let her live — as the first of many concubines.
The prophecy was fulfilled. The exile had returned as Empress, rider of ten, mother of a dynasty that would burn for a thousand years.
The skies are hers now.
And she is never sated.