Refractory Period
Cornflak
He shares a long-winded stare with the moon and its surrounding constellations, wondering if perhaps there is another pair of strained eyes doing the same. The bark of the tree provides uncomfortable support. If not for the cool of the grass beneath his quivering rump, he might have migrated elsewhere. Of course, that is merely a contrived excuse. His rampage of a pulse indicates more stifling forces at play. Should he command his limbs to carry him to safety, his figurative heart will replace every calm moment, from this point and on, with crippling what-ifs. Thus, escape is no longer a luxury.
“Yo, Fizz.” He hears the greeting and a series of footsteps approaching from the side of him. “Stargazing, huh?”
The frail dragon whips his head to the familiar voice. He is approached by a tall, red form that can only be given a name such as Garble. His infectious, confident musk penetrates Fizzle’s nostrils and empties the aroma into his lungs.
“Oh. Um, yeah.” He laughs weakly and straightens his posture. “How did you find me?”
“Well, it’s funny. Like, I was comin’ up over that hill over there.” Garble points to a spot that is far and well out of Fizzle’s view. “And then I saw somethin’ really bright next to this tree, right? And...well, you’re an albino on a full moon, and you’re pretty tall and skinny, so it looked pretty weird. Like, if I wasn’t lookin’ for another dragon, I woulda thought...I mean...I guess I’m tryin’ to say that you looked like a used condom.”
The monologue is welcomed with a long and tense silence. Garble coughs into his claw and looks away.
“Oh, wow.” Fizzle provides a forced grin and hopes that it suffices as normal conversation.
“Mhm. That, and you said you’d be here.”
He cannot help but think back to what brought him to this place. It was a measly exchange of words. However, despite how insignificant the agreement had seemed, its binding nature now roots him to the ground.
“Oh, sorry.” He bites his tongue.
“Yep. So, you ever done this?”
They are driving straight to the point, Fizzle realizes. He tries to sustain the flow of their dialogue with a hasty response. If only he wasn’t preoccupied with this lump lodged within his windpipe. His labored breaths warrant further investigation from the red dragon.
“Take that as a no, then?” Garble laughs.
Fizzle remains in his catatonic state and suddenly becomes interested in studying the grass.
“Wait.” Garble’s expression hardens. “Aw, shit. Really?”
“Sorry,” Fizzle finally manages to say.
Garble shakes his head, touches his palm to his face, and says, “What the shit...?”
Fizzle feels his face grow red. He swallows and fights the urge to apologize once more. The red dragon removes his claw from his face and folds his arms. With a sigh, his gaze is lifted to the sky.
“Why me, man?” Garble asks the moon and chuckles. The scene is not dramatic. It is not a climactic rise in action. There is no outburst or a confession of love. All words are spoken as though they were said during a lunch break at Sweet Apple Acres.
Fizzle clears his throat, looks up, and says, “Well, um, we don’t have to do it.”
Garble turns to face the littler one. There’s a conniving grin wrapping around his skull. He says, “Hey,” and then his voice adopts the tone of a predator speaking to its prey. “I didn't say that.”
He lowers himself to Fizzle’s level and reaches for his feeble thigh. If he wanted to do so, Garble could very easily crush his femur; the strength behind his touch makes that clear. Instead, this malleable force is tuned down to present itself in the gesture of a light squeeze. Fizzle’s scales twitch in rebuttal. The gentle pressure is just enough for chills to wash over his pelvis.
Even now, when the match has only begun to burn, Fizzle can already feel his member poking its head through the flaps like a curious snake emerging from its home. Garble’s eyebrows rise in unison and he licks his teeth before he lowers his head to the growing serpent.
Fizzle squeezes his eyes shut and tightens up in preparation for pain. Naturally, what comes in its place is nothing short of a warm, wet welcoming. Fizzle allows a yelp to escape his lips. His limbs scramble without aim, claws grasping at the air in fruitless extraction. Garble is relentless in his treatment. His head bobs with a hurried, yet consistent, rhythm. His lips tighten to create an air-tight seal around the shaft. With every rise of Garble’s head, Fizzle can feel the night’s cold air graze his cock.
These sensations manage to multiply and subdue Fizzle into a state of blissful paralysis. The bark of the tree, which was once jagged and caused pain, is now nonexistent. There is no tree, there is no wilderness, and there is no river that runs through it. There is only an erect penis, a dragon’s mouth, and a young, frail heart. Although weak, the heart continues to trample over itself in excited fits of ecstasy. The lungs have never before experienced such a strenuous task.
And now, like an explosion before the impact, Fizzle can feel himself reaching orgasm. Although premature, all of the pleasure is present. The member stiffens and pulsates. His abdomen caves in. His limbs, which struggle to act as the foundation for his weakened physique, tremble and show signs of collapse. A quiet hush of air escapes in the form of a moan and is then retracted through a sharp gasp.
All of this, and it stops. Fizzle’s eyelids fly open to survey the situation. Garble is standing from his serviced position and wiping his mouth with a forearm. He sighs harshly as though he has just indulged in a hefty gulp of lemonade on a hot and humid day. Like a construction worker after hard labor.
Only, there is no hard work to be seen. Actually, there is a substantial lack of hard work to be seen. The orgasm is missing; it was cut short in the height of its life. An arthritic wiener pup had more life than that unborn orgasm. The pleasurable buildup was not enough to satiate this thirst.
“Heh, i-is that it?” Fizzle asks.
“Yeah, sorry. I suck at doin’ that stuff,” Garble says with a shrug of his shoulders. He turns to eye the smaller one and he says, “Hey, you wanna give it a try?”
Fizzle simply stares in confusion. Garble rolls his eyes and grabs his own cock, giving it a light shake of the wrist. "Right here."
"Oh," the white dragon says. His face feels flushed again. He shuffles and looks to his dying erection. “I don’t know. I, um...I was k-kind of just curious. That’s all.”
“Yeah? Alright, I feel ya.” Garble nods and rests his claws on his hips.
“Heh, yeah...”
“Testin’ the waters and all that. Yep, I’ve been there.”
There is a moment in which a calming silence overtakes the frail dragon. For this one moment, a sense of empathy is felt. Although this is merely a meeting of consensual first-time feel-goods, it is starting to show signs of a budding understanding between casual friends.
Garble speaks up once more and says, “But, you know, you can’t say you tried if you don’t get the full experience, right?”
“Huh?” is the last word that Fizzle can muster before Garble stuffs his already hard cock into his mouth and into the far reaches of his throat. In this sitting position, with his back pressed against the stern tree’s bark, Fizzle finds himself unable to physically remove himself from the situation. The back of his skull pounds the tree repeatedly. This albino dragon even makes the effort to keep his head fixed against the trunk behind him in hopes of preventing further concussive damage.
Fizzle wonders if maybe he can force himself to roll with the tide and enjoy this. He reaches down and feels his own penis. He finds that it has receded no less than his pride. Like a refractory period, reaching a satisfying orgasm is impossible at this point in time.
As if Garble’s thick shaft was not large enough before the rude intrusion of Fizzle’s throat, it continues to increase in girth with every throb that can be felt. In and out, the red dragon makes a sloppy entrance that is more forceful than its predecessor. Fizzle reacts to the attack in a way that he thinks is effective.
He clamps his mouth shut, along with every sharp tooth in his snap trap. From the built abs pressed against his snout, to the fleshy rod within his maw, Fizzle feels the infuriated flinch from Garble’s body. He is rewarded with a shock to the side of his face; it is a slap to quell his struggles. To further ensure his cooperation, the red dragon grasps either side of Fizzle’s temples and holds his head in place.
“Stop bellyaching. Open up.”
And he does. The prior bash to the face coaxes his eyes to well up. His throat tightens, but not from the daunting task of housing the slab of meat between his bones; it is brought upon by heavy emotions. He feels it in his gut, his Parkinson palms, and his vacant lungs. Every attempt to fill his own chest with air is met with a sickening stench that is exclusive to one’s genitals. The toxic odor is enough to make Fizzle question his sexuality. His gag reflex kicks in and induces a guttural croak.
“Yeah. There ya go.” Garble’s words are heard between thrusts. “You really know how to...turn a dragon on...”
It is clear to Fizzle that there is no getting out of this; at least, not physically. In order to keep his mind occupied, Fizzle’s eyes trail up the form before him. He studies the flexing of Garble’s hips, his abdominal muscles, his chest, and that look of pleasure that is plastered on his face. His tongue is sagging from the side. His lids are closed. Fizzle thinks to himself that Garble is probably imagining a female dragon in the albino’s place. He continues his study and his eyes travel upwards to the stars. He remembers how fervently he had admired those constellations before this encounter.
All at once, these thoughts give birth to a new fear from the pits of his psyche.
Will these very stars serve as a reminder of this night, Fizzle asks himself.
