Flash Fiction Friday: Dragon Queen
by Cade Michael Quinn
Chucky was a dragon. A big, scary dragon. That’s what Momma told him.
“Am I big ‘n’ scary?” Chuck asked Momma. He stretched his wings and dug his claws into the wood-panel floor and growled as big as he could. “Am I big ‘n’ scary, Momma?”
“Not now, Chucky,” his momma said, taking her mouth off the giant dragon cock she held in her claw. “Momma’s working.”
She slammed her bedroom door in his face. Chucky sat tail to the floor for twenty minutes, listening to oh-oh-oh-gods and fuuuuucks through the thin door. He ran to his bedroom when it was over, hearing claws scratch against floor.
Okay, maybe she hadn’t said he was big and scary. But he knew, if the bitch could see him now, she would see that he was the biggest, scariest, most fabulous dragon-queen in all the land. His eyes were painted lavender outlined with sparkle-gold. His lips were blowjob black. His green dress was tight enough to show off his curvy hip-scales without making him look fat. All the boys wanted him.
Momma would be proud. Too bad she’d died of deepthroating.
Chucky stepped onstage and the music began. It sounded like Trent Reznor and a medieval minstrel fucked and had a baby, and that baby fell into a giant vat of doom metal. Chucky loved it.
He began his routine:
1. Walk centerstage, pose.
2. Breathe fire left.
3. Breathe fire right.
And Chucky danced as if Sylvestra Scale, the most famous dragon queen in all of dragon history, was right in the front row watching him. In truth, it was only a bunch of fat, middle-aged gay dragons, one whom he recognized from the video store, and a couple friars who were obviously having a hard time admitting to themselves that all they really wanted was a fat dragon dick in the ass.
Chucky smiled and winked at a friar who crossed his legs, trying to conceal his boner. He went red.
The song sped up, screamed vocals over harpsichord and glitchy dance beat. Chucky danced faster. He tore open his green dress to reveal all his crimson scales and pale, soft underbelly, there for all to see. He flourished his wings like fanning a deck of cards around him. He spun around, giving the boys a glimpse of what they really wanted to see. The song cut out.
A few people stood up and clapped, and Chucky sunk back to reality. He was a B-grade dragon-queen at a back alley gay bar in the bad part of town. He picked up his dress and fluttered off the stage, racing into the back dressing room before he could see any looks of disappointment.
Chucky wasn’t nearly as big, strong, or fabulous as he wanted to be.
“I’m not big, strong, or fabulous,” Chucky said to the dressing mirror bordered by dead or dying light bulbs. He began to cry. Each sniffle shot a lick of flame out of his nose. He was a shitty dragon-queen. Momma would be so disappointed.
Chucky turned around. One of the friars that had been sitting in the front row during his routine leaned in the dressing room doorway.
“You were pretty good out there,” the friar said. “I’m Fukk.”
“Friar Fukk?” Chucky asked.
“My dad was a crack addict who never learned how to spell properly.”
“Sure,” Chucky said. “I’m Chucky. And thanks, but it wasn’t that good.”
“I thought it was,” said Friar Fukk. “I really liked it.”
Chucky sniffled and wiped his nose on the dress in his hand. He wiped his eyes with a claw.
“Thanks, Fukk,” Chucky said.
“So, uh,” Friar Fukk said. “You wanna get out of here? My room at the monastery is too small for a dragon, but there’s some room in the dungeon….”
Oooh, Chucky thought. Dungeon? Sounds kinky as fuck!
Chucky nodded happily. It had been a long time since he had gotten a good running-through, and Fukk didn’t seem like a bad guy. The tonsure on the top of his head was actually kinda cute.
“Alright,” Chucky said.
“Come on,” said Friar Fukk. He walked up to Chucky and took the dragon-queen’s claw in his human-size hand. He could barely hold two of Chucky’s claws, but the warmth on his scales made Chucky smile.
When they got outside, Chucky said, “Hey, I got an idea.” He got down on all fours. “Hop on my back.”
The friar hopped onto Chucky’s back with some difficulty, due to his middle-aged girth. Finally, he was sitting on the dragon-queen’s back. Chucky took to the sky, and the two of them flew to Fukk’s monastery while Fukk played his fingers around Chucky’s horns and whispered directions seductively into his ears.
In the dungeon, it was very dungeon-y. Just like Chucky had expected. All dark and dripping with chains and cuffs nailed to the walls and barred doors that creaked when you opened or closed them. Perfect for a little SM magic.
Chucky let Fukk chain him to the wall. Friar Fukk opened his robe to reveal a cock the length of a firehose with a spearhead tip. Chucky shuddered. The friar unraveled his penis and began to whip Chucky with it, scratching the dragon-queen’s scales and slicing his underbelly. Chucky’s heartbeat quickened. He began to pull himself off, his average-sized dragon dick a sapling to the friar’s redwood.
Friar Fukk cock-whipped him faster and harder until he was cement-hard, and then plowed into Chucky’s anus. Chucky’s tail twitched and spazzed in delight.
When they were done, Chucky laid his head on Friar Fukk’s chest and fell asleep to the sound of his blood dripping onto the cold stones of the dungeon.
When Chucky woke up, he was alone. He stood up and tried to walk away, but he was pulled to a stop by the chains that still bound him firmly to the wall. He looked back. Blood covered the stones where he had been sleeping.
He must’ve whipped me harder than I thought, Chucky said to himself. There was more blood than there should’ve been for one night of sadomasochistic pleasure.
Chucky looked down, seeing that he was wearing the green dress from the night before, even though he couldn’t remember having put in on after they had fucked. He felt full in his stomach, even thought he was usually ravenous when he woke and had to go gore a few city-folk before he even lit his first cigarette of the day.
Chucky put his claws on his stomach, expecting it to growl. Instead it made a sound like a man taking his last breath, paper strings tied to a fan.
What the fuck? Chucky thought. He reached over his shoulder and unzipped the dress, shimmying out of it as quickly as he could. He looked down at his underbelly.
Or where his underbelly should’ve been.
“Oh god oh fuck oh fuck oh god,” Chucky said. He was carved out like a fruit lost of its pit. His entire underbelly had been cut away and his guts taken out, replaced by the fetal shape of…
“Fukk?” Chucky said. “FUKK!!”
The well-endowed friar was curled up inside of him, unresponsive. Chucky carefully slipped claws inside himself and under Fukk, pulling the friar’s form softly out of his own. He laid him down on the floor. The friar had been seemingly mauled and then cooked like a turkey. His eyes had been dug out with a spoon and replaced by olives. His stomach was bursting full of apple stuffing. His hands and feet had been sliced off, and the stumps of his arms and legs tied together pig-wrangle style with his massive, chopped-off cock.
“FRIAR!” Chucky said, crying. “FUKK! WHY? WHO?”
He laid his head on the dead friar’s chest and filled his sliced open middle with dragon tears.
Why is this happening again? Chucky thought. He imagined all of his past lovers, who had also ended up cooked like turkeys. This was the first time Chucky had been carved himself, though. It wasn’t actually that bad. In fact, he kind of liked it. Getting over the shock of Fukk’s death, that wonderful pain leaked into him, a morphine drip for the soul. Chucky’s tail shivered.
“If I ever find out who did this, I’m going to fuck them so hard they shit sperm for a week.”
“That’s what I was hoping to hear.”
The voice was quiet, like a child finally admitting a lie.
“Who’s there?” Chucky asked.
The friar who had concealed his boner at last night’s show stepped out of the dungeon shadows. Now that Chucky saw him, he realized the man had been to his shows more than once.
“Who are you?” Chucky said.
The friar smiled and brought out a giant carving knife he had been concealing in his robe.
Cade is not a writer at all, but the sewer-dwelling ghost of someone’s pet ferret who haunts the plumbing of Seattle. When he’s not haunting sewers, he’s drinking at bars. Come say hi. Look for the