Dragon’s Tooth

Part III - Molar

by phonyphanty
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Raggas chugs the rest of the mead down, his heart beating in his ears, his belly
resting over his braies, the jug ready to slip between his two paws and onto his soft
cheeks. He gasps for breath and lets his arms and the jug fall onto his belly, and an
uproarious cheer erupts from the other patrons in the Fisherman.
"Yes, Rag!" cries a knight who he barely recognises.
"Get 'im, big boy!" says a lizard with a tankard of splashing ale in his hand.
There's growling, and a whistle. Raggas grins, his chest heaving and mead
trickling down his chin. In the noise, his mind is a blank, easy flurry of warmth and
excitement. The only thing he is thinking about is how much he just drank, and how
big all the men think he looks, and how everything just makes his dick throb
underneath his fat.
A big bear steps over and takes the jug from his paws. "Let's see you standing,
ay?" he gestures.
Raggas nods, eager to comply when his stomach is full. He leans forward, his
heart pounding, and eases himself out of the creaking chair. He underestimates his
weight and has to brace a foot in front of himself to regain his balance, but then he
stands upright and faces the crowd. Another uproar.
"He's even bigger than before!"
"Look at that thing hang."
Raggas rubs his belly and breathes heavily. He feels good. He never got this
level of attention when he was spry. While he would frequently get head in the
alleyway behind the tavern, and some would get pawsy with him when he was in his
armour, there was never a resounding celebration of his form. He is a symbol now, a
symbol of the extreme wealth and power of Incisor, of the growth that the King has
brought to the city. He doesn't come here often—up at the castle, the food is better
and the seating is more comfortable—but when he does, food and mead is shoved
into his face from every direction. People want to feed him. People want him bigger.
Dragon’s Tooth phonyphanty

Claws squeeze his ass from behind. He looks over his shoulder to see a leering
wolf who has become a regular customer of his dick over the past month.
The wolf's eyes are sharp, his smile lustful and menacing. "You are becoming
such a big, big man."
Raggas clumsily squeezes the wolf's inner thigh with his paw. He is too
exhausted to flirt. "Ay," he says.
"I think I'm feeling nearly as hungry as you." He tip-toes his claws across
Raggas' belly.
The delicate tapping of the wolf's claws against his engorged stomach sends
ripples up the fox's spine. But he brushes the digits off with his paw. "I've got to get
back to the castle for supper."
The wolf sighs into the fox's neck fat and rests his chin on his shoulder. "That's
so very responsible of you." He smooths his paw down the fox's belly and underneath
his shirt, feeling his overhang. He used to pick it up and weigh it, but the fox is far too
big now. "Will you be back next week?"
"Ay, of course."
"I'm eager." He pulls his chin and paws off the fox. "See you, big boy. Eat
well."
Raggas drags his paw lazily across the wolf's toned arms. Then he turns and
lumbers away. He shuffles sideways out of the door, his belly and shoulder-blades
brushing against the frame.
Green-frills is waiting at the bottom of the steps, leaning against the signpost
swinging gently in the wind. "There he is. People were cheering in there like you ran
a marathon, Raggas."
"Ay." His shirt rode up as he was squeezing through the doorway, letting the
cold in, so he pulls it back down over his belly with a quick tug. "They like me," he
says. Then he tilts his head and perks his ears, noticing something in the near-
distance.
"Sure sounds like it," says green-frills. He leans off the signpost, brings his
arms behind his back and rests his paws idly on his asscheeks. "You ready to get
back? The sun's going down. I'm sure Galder is pining for you."
Raggas squints. He's staring at two knights patrolling across the square in the
low sunlight. The one in front has noticed him and is walking toward the fox and the
dragon with eager, clinking strides and a venomous smile. It's Wendall.

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"Well hello hello," he says chippily. "Good evening Farrow. And good evening
Raggas," he says, appraising the fox. "My, my," he says, his slitted eyes widening.
"Hasn't it been an age."
"Evening," says green-frills, crossing his arms. He glances between the two
knights and the tensed-up Raggas, trying a smirk. "What brings you two knights
here? I hope you're not slacking on your patrol."
Wendall laughs, but steps back, almost bowing. "Of course not. I simply saw
an old friend and wanted to give a brief hello."
Green-frills opens his mouth. "Do you, uh, know these two, Raggas?"
The fox is clenching his paws. "Old friend, lizard? Old friend?"
Wendall places a casual hand on his knapsack. "Come on now, Raggas. It's
been months. I'm merely extending an olive branch." He opens his mouth to say
something, but smirks, evidently thinking better of it. "We have had plenty of time to
change. I hoped that you had become a... bigger person."
Raggas growls. He turns to the knight standing behind Wendall. "What are
you doing with this asshole?"
The other knight sighs and steps into view. Marlow's eyes and muzzle are
determined above his shoulder-blades. His face has lost all the weight he gained
during his brief foray in the castle, and by the graceful way he fits in his armour, he
looks to have gained muscle. He stares at the fox with less recognition than mature
irritation, like he is telling off a child he cares for.
"We're on shift, Raggas," says the bear.
"You're on shift? With him?"
Marlow rolls his eyes. "Yes. This is what I do, Raggas. This is my job."
"I'm still furious, you know." He wants to move forward and talk to his face so
he knows how angry he is, but he doesn't want either of them to see him walking. "If
you hate me so much, you should have just been a man and told me. You didn't need
to make a show out of leaving."
"I don't hate you? Rag, genuinely—" he takes a step forward "—I don't care.
About you, about whatever you want to do. Your life isn't mine. You belong in the
castle, I belong in the Maw."
The fox lumbers forward a few paces, his belly shaking jiggling underneath his
shirt. He stops, watches the bear's face. But Marlow doesn't seem to care—he looks

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sternly into Raggas' eyes, unflinching. Having nowhere to direct his frustration, the
fox is becoming out-of-breath. "Ay. But why did you leave."
"I keep telling you, Rag, but you're just not listening." He stares, and shrugs
helplessly.
His lips pursed, the bear turns and walks back. Wendall grimaces at the fox,
his eyes widened in mock disapproval. Then he turns to stroll by Marlow's side as
they leave the square and continue their patrol.
Raggas stands on the concrete and glares at the light leaving the distant
jutting mountaintops, his chest heaving, the wind lifting up the hem of his shirt. With
a huff he tugs his shirt down again and again, but the wind is more persistent than
him. He braces against the cold cutting against his overhang.
Green-frills walks over and stands by his side, his tail perked and still. "Rag is
a cute nickname. Can I call you that?" But the fox doesn't seem to hear him. The
dragon pats his shoulder. "Best get you back to the castle. Don't want your supper to
go cold."
Raggas lowers his ears and sighs. "Ay."
The fox lifts his arms up and green-frills stands behind him, his body close
and his breath warm. He spreads his wings, bends his legs and hooks the fox by the
armpits, the poor fit around the fox’s shoulder causing his shirt to pull up to his
belly-button. Then the dragon braces himself, and takes off with a grunt.
The flights have been growing slower and rockier these past few weeks.
Inversely however, Raggas' willingness to climb up and down the hill bridging the
castle and the city square has been decreasing. There is no use in a trip down to the
Fisherman if it is bookended by breathlessness and his legs being ready to collapse,
the fox reasons. So he tends to ignore the dragon's grunts and the gradually
weakening thrusts of his wings, and close his eyes. These flights are the only
moments when he enjoys the bitter wind coursing against his fur. It makes him feel
as if he is flying.

———————

Raggas sits at the dinner table, his ass supported by two cushioned chairs and his
belly hanging between his thighs as he leans forward and takes a sip from his fish
soup. Minutes ago he was scarfing down his second bowl, slurping and grunting the
small, idle noises that have become commonplace for him, but now he almost seems

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to be pacing himself, the only noises in the chamber the clinks of his and Galder's
spoons against their ceramic bowls.
There is a big tub of steaming, garnished soup in between them with a ladle
positioned for easy access from Raggas. Galder's eyes look over the rim, the icy-blue
irises as penetrating as always.
He holds his spoon underneath his nose and breathes in the smell. "Are you
okay, Raggas?", he says, and slips the spoon into his maw.
Hearing his voice somehow prompts the fox to swallow another spoonful of
soup. "Ay. Why?"
Galder savours the piece of halibut on his tongue. He plays with it between his
canines, then his molars, and swallows. "You seem to have... slowed?"
"Ay." Raggas twirls the soup with his spoon. "And?"
"Are you not hungry?"
The fox shrugs. "Maybe I'm not."
Galder blinks. He leans his head to the side of the tub, holding the tail of the
spoon in his paw. "You aren’t hungry?"
Raggas shrugs again, his twirling spoon scraping against the bottom of his
bowl.
The dragon tilts his head. Then he places his spoon down and slides the tub of
soup over to the side with one paw. "What happened today?" he says, the two now in
full view of each other.
"Nothing. Nothing happened."
"Did you eat something?"
Raggas frowns. "Obviously. I eat everything you give me."
"Did you eat something bad?" he clarifies.
"It's your food, you would know."
Galder considers him, his head tilted up slightly. He taps a claw on the table.
Raggas keeps scraping the spoon. "Why do you care about what I did today?"
"What else are we to talk about? You don't ask about my kingly duties, and
you've never shown interest in the happenings in the rest of the city."
"Maybe I don't ask about your kingly duties because all you do is sit on your
big chair and read letters all day."
The dragon frowns. "I say that objectively, Raggas. I prefer to hear about your
day than to talk about mine."

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Dragon’s Tooth phonyphanty

"Why? I do less than you."

"You lead a compelling life, Raggas."
"What is compelling about sitting in a chair and eating all day?"
Galder leans forward. "You lead a life that many would be happy to have.
Eating all day makes you very, very happy. It is comforting to spend time with a
happy person such as yourself."
Raggas throws him a mean look and looks back down at his soup.
The dragon purses his lips. He taps his claws on the table, then leans back and
crosses his arms. "What is this actually about? Hm?" He puts on a diplomatic smile.
"Is this that bear again?"
Raggas' scraping of the spoon becomes a grinding. "Why would it be him?"
"The only other time I've seen you dissatisfied was when he left."
"Marlow is a stuck-up, arrogant little man. I have no cause for concern with
him."
Galder hides a smirk. "Don't insult him. He's doing quite well for himself. He's
already working his way up the ranks."
"Doing what? Watching the empty countryside? Walking in circles in the city
square?"
"He does plenty for this city. People like him are the reason citizens trust the
Maw."
"Based on your bar for quality, which isn't saying much."
Galder's smirk drops. "I beg your pardon?"
"You're a kind dragon, Galder, but you're far too generous for your own good."
The dragon's wing twitches. "This is disturbingly familiar. Are you sure you
didn't bump your head on something this morning?"
Raggas drops the spoon in the bowl. "You think you're such a good king that
everyone must be clamouring to say nice things about you."
"I believe no such thing."
But Raggas is already easing himself out of his seat. The dragon is usually
there to pull his chairs out when he is too heavy and stuffed to do so himself, so the
fox ends bumping his belly against the table, shaking the cutlery. He grips a chair for
balance as he squeezes himself out and onto his two feet.
Galder's maw is open, his incisors showing. "You're hungry, Raggas."

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"I'm not hungry," says the fox. He lumbers off, his bare feet-paws slapping
against the stone.
By the time he shuts the door behind him he is already in regret. He slides his
paw over his forehead and squeezes his fur, imagining the King's ice-cold eyes from
inside of the chamber freezing the wood. He goes to turn the doorknob, but he is
afraid of frostbite, so he turns himself around instead and starts walking aimlessly,
his feet habitually directing him to his bedroom.
Raggas waddles down the warm, golden corridor, his bare feet-paws landing
soft and firm on the rug. He is new to the feeling of waddling. It has been gradually
growing more pronounced over the past month, but it is only recently that he has
noticed it. At first, embarrassed, he tried to correct it by moving his legs more stiffly
and by sucking in his full belly as much as possible, but as with all things, once he
realised his efforts were futile he quickly became used to it. Admittedly, he has even
grown to like the sensation. After supper, it is nice to move his belly around to help
the contents of his stomach settle, and the way his overhang bends against his thighs
and tries to push his balance off-kilter makes him feel heavy, powerful, and, as he is
increasingly coming to terms with, horny.
There is something hot about all of this, he thought to himself several days ago
after a particularly gluttonous supper, his chest filling with the same strange, self-
conscious arousal he felt months ago after his spit with Will. There is something
manly about having a roll of fat around his neck and eating enough for two kings. He
licked his lips, the saliva slicking his muzzle.
But he stops now next to a balcony, his empty belly aching and making him
feel exposed and small. Down below, several knights trudge along the rug, flanked by
two draconic servants. Where they are going, Raggas doesn't know. He feels so
distant from the Maw now—when Marlow and Wendall approached him earlier, he
genuinely didn't know why they were in the city square. The concepts of work, of
protecting a place, and of responsibility are ancient ideas with no definition. His lack
of understanding sparks fear in the back part of his brain that lets the cold in, the
unscratchable part that fired when Will insulted his weight, and when Marlow left
him, and just this afternoon when the bear appeared again, impossibly happy and
mature, his voice without anger or spite or condemnation. He feels all three as he
grips the railing, but he is beginning to realise that he has no idea where they come

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from. The men at work leave for the cold night and the fox continues his slow
journey.
His lumbering takes him to the corridor with his bedroom, where green-frills
waits outside the door. The final trek across the rug is silent and easy, but his pace is
unbearably slow. Green-frills watches him approach. When he sees how long he is
taking, he smirks. Raggas can't meet his stare for too long before he feels that self-
conscious arousal in his chest again.
Green-frills meets him at the last few paces. "You made it. I was beginning to
think you slept at the table."
"I just—" he clears his throat "—I took it slow."
"All good, buddy. You take it as slow as you want." He pats Raggas on the
shoulder and leads him inside, into the dim. "Let's get you undressed. Arms up."
Raggas lifts his heavy arms and the dragon pulls his shirt up over his head and
arms, his crotch and stomach bending against the fox's belly. Raggas can do this
himself, it's just easier with another set of paws. He also likes having the dragon
around, brushing up against his fat, dressing and undressing him with his muscular
arms. Now that his belly hangs so low and his crotch has fattened so considerably,
there is no need to worry about his dick tenting his braies. It feels like the fatter he
gets, the less things he needs to concern himself with.
Green-frills tosses the shirt on the floor and Raggas lowers his arms. It took
him a while to get used to how they are cushioned by his moobs now—it feels like
they should be able to press down further. Occasionally it frustrates him and he tries
to bend his moobs to his will, but he always realises that it is far more comfortable to
let his arms hang by his sides, like they are floating.
"You good, Raggas?" says the dragon.
"Yeah."
He taps his belly with his knuckles. "You sure? You're looking a bit thin
tonight."
Raggas feels that self-conscious arousal again. He goes to frown, but purses
his lips instead, not wanting green-frills to see his discomfort. He takes a deep
breath, his chest puffing. "Are you making fun of me?"
The dragon bursts into laughter. "Jesus, of course not. I mean it seriously.
Have you lost weight?"
"I didn't eat much tonight."

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"No, I mean—" The dragon stops himself. "Oh, right. You really eat that much
on the usual, huh?"
Raggas is silent.
"Look, it's all good. We just need to be able to have frank conversations about
this sort of stuff, Raggas. Lift yourself up for me?"
Through his indignation, Raggas picks up his belly. He needs to bend forward
to pick up anything more than his sides, and even then he struggles to gain a hold on
the front.
Green-frills bends over slightly and reaches his paws underneath his fat to
untie his braies. "You're a big fox, Raggas," he says gently. His knuckles brush against
Raggas's underbelly. "It's getting harder to transport you. If you're going to keep
getting bigger, we're going to need another dragon to help me carry you around."
Keep getting bigger. The thought sticks to Raggas' brain like a burr. He hadn't
imagined himself as any bigger than he is now. But speaking honestly, he hasn't
imagined growing bigger at any point during this experiment. His hands get sweaty.
"Would that be... okay?" he asks, feeling his grip on his belly slipping.
"Oh, of course. When dragons work together, they can move mountains," he
says, missing the point.
Just as green-frills unties the braies, the fox's belly slips out of his sweaty paws
and collapses onto the dragon's arms, causing him to buckle underneath the weight.
Green-frills grimaces, clearly unexpecting how heavy he would be. Raggas tries to
grab his sides, but his paws have gotten so comfortable not having to lift heavy
objects other than jugs of mead that his efforts are fruitless. The swelling in his chest
is becoming unbearable.
"Oof," says the dragon, regaining his composure. He grabs a firm hold on the
front of Raggas' belly with a paw and lifts it. "You're a heavy fox, too." Gently, the
dragon lets the fox's belly rest back on his crotch and thighs and, kneeling down, he
squeezes his braies down over his legs with both paws. "Feet," he says, his face inches
from the fox's belly-button.
Raggas clumsily lifts one leg out of the braies and lets it fall back onto the
floorboards before he can lose his balance. He does the same with the other, now free
from his clothes. He feels most comfortable naked now—his clothes are always tight
in the wrong places.

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Green-frills throws the braies onto the shirt, making a shockingly large pile.
"Good stuff," he says, appraising the fox. "That was a bit more difficult than usual. I
suppose we should come to expect that." Raggas looks away. The dragon tilts his
head and tries to catch his eyeline. "Hey. I don't mean anything by it. We all think
you're cute, you know that? Our big fox." He taps Raggas' belly. "I have to go and
help prepare Galder for his flight. I'll see you."
“His flight?”
“He didn’t tell you? He’s travelling to Molar for a diplomacy meeting, or
something. To be honest, I don’t understand what he’s talking about half of the
time.”
“When will he be back?”
Green-frills smiles. “Soon. Don’t worry. You’ll be kept well-fed, fox.”
Green-frills turns and walks out of the door, his lean legs moving confidently,
his arms swinging easily by his sides.
Raggas stands there, staring at the light of the empty doorway. He remembers
a time when being naked around another man was an entirely erotic experience.
When he would eat up the feeling of his own body just as much as he would the
other. When did this shame consume him? When did he start to be embarrassed by
his size? Was it when Will teased him in the knight's quarters? Was it when he grew
out of his first set of armour? Was it when green-frills forced that sweetcake into his
mouth, and he accepted it? And ultimately, consuming all those questions, when did
this all start turning him on? The answers seem to loop around themselves, like a
story with no end.
The fox eases himself onto his bed, the frame creaking under his weight. He
lifts his right leg onto the blankets, and then, with significant effort, drags himself
backwards towards the headboard. He is already out of breath. Grunting, he moves
his right leg further to the side, and with the extra room he pulls his left leg up and
onto the bed. He adjusts himself with a gaping, breathless mouth, this time moving
his entire weight forward. Satisfied, he spreads his legs and collapses onto the
blankets and pillows, his chest heaving and his stomach jiggling.
Despite his breathlessness, he feels comfortable. This is the most comfortable
thing he has ever slept on, and it has supported his weight gain admirably. He
thought it was ludicrously big when he first saw it, but now if it was any smaller he
would feel claustrophobic.

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He bends his head forward to look at himself, his neck fat creasing. He grabs
the sides of his belly, his paws sinking into the fat, and gently shakes it. It heaves
back and forth, stirring the penis surrounded by his fat and shortening his breath. It
feels empty. He sighs, beginning to regret the lack of food he ate at supper. But it is
too late now. Even if the table downstairs wasn't cleared, he wouldn't have the energy
to walk down there and continue eating anyway. Yes. He is far too comfortable. He
considers masturbating instead, but reaching around his belly for his dick would just
make him breathless again. So he just lies there, idly enjoying the feeling of himself,
listening to his own heavy breathing in the dim silence and thumping his tail against
the front of his belly.
"You look tired, fox," says a voice.
Raggas' heart leaps. He takes his paws from his belly and looks to the
doorway. "Galder."
The dragon juts a silhouette into the empty doorway, his crossed arms gilded
by light and his eyes blaring his ice-blue. "I thought I might check up on you after
your display at supper."
"Oh. Uh, thank you." He has never been naked around Galder. He doesn't like
how the dragon is a silhouette and yet he is in full view. "I can dress."
"No." Galder's head is still. His eyes are glowing with an intensity that Raggas
has never seen, but that the fox can't confirm without seeing the rest of his face. "You
made me upset earlier, Raggas. You weren't yourself."
"Ay," he says, looking away. He decides it would be better to face him, so he
pulls himself up into a sitting position and gradually turns to face him, his belly
pooling onto the bed. Galder's stance is still stiff. "I'm sorry, Galder. I didn't mean to
upset you."
"But you lie." He sighs. "Did anybody tell you that you could lie to me?" Galder
stares. "Hm?"
"N-no. Nobody told me that."
"And yet you lie to me." He closes his eyes, the ice-blue vanishing, and lowers
his head. Then he pivots on his feet-paws and exits the room. A moment later he
returns, wheeling a shaky wooden cart with various objects scattered on its surface
that Raggas can't quite make out.
The fox inches himself forward and lets his legs dangle off the edge of the bed.
Half of him wants to get closer to the King so his apology sounds more genuine, but

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the other half wants to be in a less vulnerable position. He feels exposed and
immobile when he lies in bed.
He clears his throat. "Ay, I admit I needed to let my anger out. But I didn't
mean it, what I said. It wasn’t for you, speci—"
Galder flings the cart across the floorboards and it barrels to a stop against the
frame of Raggas' bed, narrowly missing his feet. Now that the cart is closer, he can
see that it is filled with platters of various sweet pastries, steaming pies, cakes, and
bottles of honey. Despite his fear, his stomach grumbles and his mouth immediately
waters from the smell.
He leans forward to stand clumsily on his two feet and gain some sense of
agency, but Galder has already stridden forward and held a strong, hot paw to the
front of his belly. With the centre of his gravity held in place, Raggas is pinned.
"Lie down, fox," the dragon says. Raggas breathes hard, the feeling of his belly
bending against Galder’s unmoving paw both frightening him and turning him on.
Galder pushes his digits into his fat. "Lie down."
Raggas obeys, pulling his fattened body onto the bed by the same routine as
before, but now under the watch of the dragon, who has proceeded to undo the
buttons of his own doublet. With Galder's ice-blue eyes boring into him, the weight
and corpulence of his body is made all the more apparent. He can feel his wide
moobs shifting, his furry underbelly brushing against the blankets, how the thickness
of his thighs stops him from pulling his legs too close together. He comes to the
realisation that the bigger he has grown, the more exposed he has become, in or out
of clothes or armour—every part of him draws attention to itself. Pre-cum dampens
his crotch, and the swelling in his chest grows unbearable. He doesn't want to lie
down completely, so he props himself up on his elbows and watches the dragon
undress.
Galder pulls his buttoned shirt behind his wings and tosses it onto the doublet
he has already thrown onto the floorboards. Streaks of translucent skin break up the
scales on his torso, revealing the pit of fire building in his stomach. His pendant
forms the hollow black centre to his chest. He is perfectly-sculpted, the broader
cousin of Adonis—a bull's neck, wide biceps, hard breasts and red nipples. There is
not a single pound of excess fat on his torso or arms, despite his years of ruling in
luxury. Raggas, having had access to the castle for less than half a year, is coming to
terms with just how weak his will really is.

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The fire in the dragon's stomach is churning, arrows of hot-blue spinning

through the translucent streaks and blowing small puffs of smoke out from his
nostrils. He begins untying his braies with his careful fingers. "You lie about many
things, but most offensively, you lie about not being hungry. Do you think I don't
know that you're hungry just by looking at you? I said lie down."
Raggas pulls his elbows out from under him and lies down. From this
position, defenceless and comfortable with his head on the pillow, it is as if the
dragon has twisted the world onto its diagonal.
Galder lets his braies fall to the ground and slips out of them easily, his cock
already half-erect and out of his sheath, hanging down his thighs. Then he lifts his
left knee up and over the inside of the fox's left thigh and, with an easy rocking
motion, lifts his right knee up to rest on the outside. Raggas' leg is fat enough for him
to straddle.
His dick bending against Raggas' thigh, he kneads the fox's belly with both
palms, the soft fat plying easily under his digits like clay. Galder squeezes the fat roll
under his moob, slaps it, and smooths his palm back on a diagonal along his side to
hook a thumb inside his belly-button. "You're so empty." The dragon shakes his belly.
"Surely you regret not eating. Don't you?"
Raggas is frozen, his dick and heart pulsing under his fat. Now that the dragon
is straddling his thigh and touching him, the swelling in his chest is loosening and
giving way to the underlying warmth of utter arousal.
The dragon sighs. "I wish you'd just say so. Silence won't get us anywhere." He
leans over, his dick poking against the front of the fox's underbelly, and pulls the cart
closer to him. Before it even stops rolling he has a sweetcake in his paw. He nudges
Raggas' belly. "Open your mouth."
Raggas tightens his lips, desperately trying to catch his breath through his
nostrils.
"Come on, fox," he says shortly. "It'll be easier to breathe anyway. You can
catch your breath as you chew." He tilts his head. "Do you really need me to open
your mouth for you?"
Raggas opens his mouth.
Galder smiles at the lazy smacking of his lips. "There we go." He leans
forward, his stomach brushing against Raggas' belly and his pendant bending against
the fox's moobs. He pulls Raggas' jaw down further with his left thumb and pushes

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the sweetcake into the fox's maw with his right. Raggas grunts. The dragon rubs his
soft neck. "I suppose you've never had the chance to eat lying down, unless you've
been sneaking food into your room. I think that you'll like it. Just don't choke."
He sits up straight again, watching Raggas chew and catch his breath. He rubs
the fox's belly idly. "So. As I was explaining earlier. You made me upset, Raggas. Your
behaviour pushed you ten steps backwards. I thought that you'd become a better
person, but then you decided to say those awful things about me and claim that you
didn't want my food." He slaps Raggas' belly-button, palms it, and shakes, watching
the fox grunt as he tries not to choke on his sweetcake. "And by the way, fox, you
have a very basic view of royalty. Do you really think that all I do all day is sit on my
throne and read letters from dignitaries? I hoped that someone who grew up around
royalty would be a bit smarter than that."
The dragon cuts a quarter-slice of cherry pie, leans forward and holds it in
front of the fox's mouth. Raggas, his mouth still busy with the sweetcake but eager
for what has become his favourite food, lifts his head and takes a bite, the dragon
pushing him to take more. His mind spins, blank and yet consumed by lust and
hunger. He doesn't think. He only eats, and listens.
Galder stays in his leaning position, Raggas gaining a full, indulgent view of
the dragon's pecs, armpits, and flexed arms as he chews, his stomach and tongue
already thanking him for the food.
Another bite from the dragon’s strong paw, the fox's mouth stuffed with
cherry and chocolate sauce. "I'm going to be blunt, Raggas," he says. "I know better
than you do what you want. And, truthfully, it's not demeaning other people because
you think that you can manipulate them." He breathes smoky breaths that tickle the
fox's eyes and make them blink. "You're a lot like Marlow, you know. You're an eager
little fox with a lot of big, inarticulate ideas about how the world should work. You
think you are king. You think you are royalty. You think that everyone should bow to
you." He lowers his head. "I'm telling you that I don't agree with you. I think that
inside you are just a selfish, greedy fat glutton whose eyes glaze over at the smell of
food. I hope that you won't even try to argue with that at this point." Raggas opens
his mouth to submit to the next bite of the pie, already struggling to keep up. "That's
what I'm telling you, but I am also telling you that, speaking as a king, I am obligated
to help you understand what you believe and let you achieve satisfaction. And,
speaking personally... what I want is to help people." Raggas feels the dragon's now-

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erect and wet dick resting warmly against the cusp of his belly. "That is satisfying to
me."
Watching the fox struggle to chew everything in his mouth, Galder decides to
cap it off. He takes the remaining bit of crust and hovers it in front of Raggas' mouth.
Like a big, obedient fox, Raggas opens his jaw to take it, and the dragon slides it in,
the sticky pastry filling his tight mouth with a slick, wet noise and a groan from the
back of his throat. Galder massages his moob as he breathes unevenly through his
nostrils and struggles to find the energy to continue chewing. His body and his dick
are indulging in the feeling of a stuffed mouth, but he needs his mouth to be able to
breathe properly, so, his growling muffled, he forces his exhausted jaw to move.
Galder squeezes the fat of the fox's upper right arm and shoulder, his left paw
splayed on the blankets next to Raggas' head. "As a king, I am obligated to help you
understand what you believe. Let me tell you in precise detail so you don't get
confused." He slips his right paw onto the blankets as well, and leans further down,
his face and spread wings consuming Raggas’ vision. As he chews, the fox heeds the
words coming out of the dragon's muzzle, the pendant resting chillingly against his
heart.
"Raggas,” says the dragon, “you believe that no one else is worth a damn, and
that deep down, neither are you. You know that you bring no value to the world
whatsoever, and instead of lying to yourself that you do, you want to exploit that
knowledge by minimising decency and maximising the amount of selfish, individual
scraps of pleasure you can shove into your mouth." The fox is lulled by the dragon’s
quick, hot muzzle. He is so articulate, he thinks. His maw animates with such
purpose and clarity. Raggas watches Galder's red tongue curl, feels the occasional
strings of saliva pull like taffy, break, and fall onto his cheek. He looks deep into the
dragon's maw and sees his molars, dull and wet and reflective, far and yet accessible.
And behind even those lies a screen of thin smoke, disguising the uvula and hiding
the throat.
Galder leans down further until he is inches from the fox’s face. "You believe
that no-one else is worth a damn. The only thing you think matters," he says,
slapping the fox's belly and rubbing it, "is this thing. And you don't ever want to stop
because it makes you feel too good. And that's okay," he says, holding a paw to
Raggas' bulging cheek and stroking it. "You don't need to demean other people to
achieve that. Everything that is worthwhile to you is right here." He grinds gently

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Dragon’s Tooth phonyphanty

against his fat. "Feel your worth, Raggas. Go on, feel it." The fox lifts his heavy arms
and paws at his belly, heaving it so that it rubs against the dragon's dick. Galder
grunts and smirks, hot smoke spilling out from between his teeth. He splays both
paws on the blankets, arches his back and flexes his wings. "That's it. Everything is
right here. You are the fire, and the fuel is your food. And you are so warm..."
The dragon squeezes Raggas' moob, then takes the fox's paw in his own and
traces small circles with it over his belly. "Tell me that's what you believe. Come on,
fox."
Raggas swallows the last of his mouthful. In between his gasps for breath, he
responds croakily. "That's what I believe, ay."
Galder smiles and tilts his head. "And tell me that I know you better than you
know yourself."
"Ay, you do."
He clenches Raggas' paw into a fist and draws slow, heavy lines with it across
his torso. "And say to me that you will follow my better judgment, loyally and without
limit."
Commitment slips as easily over his tongue as a slice of cherry pie. "Ay."
King Galder leans down, his paw on Raggas', and kisses the fox on his sugar-
dashed lips. He sinks into his fat, the dragon's muscular tail curling around the fox's
fat one that lies heavily in between his thick legs.
The fox groans. King Galder releases his mouth and pulls himself up while
Raggas hacks up great plumes of smoke. The dragon chuckles and pats the side of his
belly. He likes to surprise people with that. "Good." He sighs. "You're a good fox,
Raggas."
King Galder glances at the cart and picks up a bottle of honey. The fox is too
busy coughing to look at what he's doing. He goes to open it but decides against it,
putting it on the blankets instead and letting it slide down to rest against the fox's ass
instead. He likes knowing that Raggas is unable to see it from this angle—that he
creates blind spots in his vision with his own body.
For the next minute or two, King Galder focuses on massaging Raggas' belly as
the fox coughs out the last of the smoke in his stomach. He is still coming to terms
with just how obese he has gotten. He knew Raggas would gain weight—of course he
did, he could see it in the fox’s eyes when he sat down to eat that first supper—but to
this extent, and at this rate? After only months, the fox is so heavy that he is

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breathless getting out of his chair. He would feel bad for him if it wasn't clear that he
was enjoying himself so much. He loves that about the fox. He can be so shameless,
so unrestrained in his indulgence to the point that requiring transport to move more
than 100 feet becomes desirable to him, or more likely, arousing. So shameless, and
so proud.
"These past few months have been unbearable for me, Raggas. Watching you
fatten yourself so thoroughly and so unreservedly has been utterly unbearable." He
smooths his paw down the sides of his belly and picks up the bottle of honey that is
threatening to wedge itself underneath the fox's fat. He pops off the cork stopper and
slowly pours a heaping dollop onto his paw. "In the beginning, you have no idea how
many times I wanted to tie you down and feed you until you passed out. There was so
much I wanted to help you with."
"Why didn't you?" Raggas says dryly, the remainder of the smoke out of his
system and his eyes bloodshot.
"You hated me," he says. "If I forced you then, you wouldn't have grown as
dependent on food as you are now. I say that in appreciation, of course. Watching
you eat yourself into a fattened stupor simply out of your own greed became the
highlight of my day."
"Your food is..." The fox searches for the word, but his mind is as liquid as
mead. "So good," he mutters.
King Galder laughs, sharply and sweetly. He helps the last of the honey dribble
onto his palm with a few short shakes, and then puts the bottle onto the cart. "The
way you've fattened up on my food has been 'so good'. And delicious. And addicting."
"Is that for me, my lord?" asks the fox. He has noticed the honey in the
dragon's paw and is absentmindedly licking his lips.
The dragon pauses. "It can be. My first request is an appeal. It is the only
request I do not expect you to fulfil." He adjusts himself on his leg and then, picking
up his pulsing, erect dick in one paw, he slathers it with honey with the other. The fox
can only feel the King's balls dangle against his thighs, but he can tell what is
happening. His heart pounds against his chest. "I have helped you so completely,
Raggas," he says, the slathering of his dick soft under the fox's heavy breathing. "If
you could help me, just this once."

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Dragon’s Tooth phonyphanty

Raggas grunts as King Galder climbs on top of him, his ass and balls resting
against his belly, his pulsing, glistening, honeyed cock stiff between his moobs and
inches from his thick neck.
The dragon clenches his paw beside the base of his shaft. "If you help me, I
promise that I will only serve you going forward. All the food you want. You won't
have to lift a finger." He sits up off of his belly, his ass slick with Raggas’ sweat.
"Massages, feeding, sex. Anything."
The fox smirks. The King's eyes are glowing—not in intimidation, but in
desperation.
Raggas grabs hold of his muscular thighs and squeezes the sides of his
asscheeks. "Does your dick breathe smoke?"
"No," he says breathlessly.
The fox relaxes his neck. "Feed me, then."
The dragon climbs over him and, gripping the headboard with his paw, sticks
his dick into the fox's open mouth. Raggas splutters. The dragon is big. But the fox's
mouth is flexible, his throat soft, and the honey sweet. He quickly recovers, relaxing
into the blankets and kneading his King's asscheeks under his fat paws.
The honey is like the syrup of distilled mead. It coats his teeth, the roof of his
mouth, his eager tongue. He believes it is one of the best things he has ever tasted—
though he believes that anything that comes from King Galder is worth tasting. After
only a few moments he has sucked all the sweetness from the base of the dragon's
shaft. Except for the small trickles of honey his tongue catches as the dragon thrusts
inside of him, his balls slapping against his chin and his muscular arms shaking
against the headboard, Raggas can only taste his lord now. The dragon groans and
shudders, his engorged dick shooting load after load of white-hot cum over Raggas'
tongue, past his incisors, his canines, his molars, his uvula, straight to the back of his
throat. The fox consumes him, all of him. He is finding that he doesn't need the
honey anymore. He is finding that he likes the taste of the King.
King Galder tilts his head up and sighs raggedly, clouds of smoke spilling out
from his nostrils and maw. He relaxes his body, and, tightening the grip of his right
paw on the headboard, he uses his left paw to help pull his softening dick out of
Raggas' mouth. He lets it lie on the fox's neck fat and watches Raggas lick the cum
and honey off his muzzle. He chuckles. "Big, hungry fox," he says, massaging Raggas'
moob. They are both breathless.

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The dragon lowers himself into a sitting position on the blankets by the fox's
left side. There is barely any room. He reaches behind him, his wings knocking a
bottle of syrup off of the cart. He awkwardly cuts a big slice of cherry pie and props
himself up on his side facing Raggas, the fox's weight distending the mattress and
causing the dragon to fall into him.
King Galder rests his left arm, the one with the pie, on Raggas's belly. He
stares at the fox, the side of his head in his palm, the lids to his icy-blue eyes lowered
and his mouth in a lazy smile. "You must have lost a few pounds from all of that
exercise."
The fox sighs deeply, his inflating belly lifting the dragon's arm. "I must have,
my lord."
"Yes," he says, moving his pie-paw over to rest in front of the fox's mouth.
"Open."
Raggas opens, and King Galder inserts the pie. The fox takes over half of it and
begins chewing, breathing through the few empty spots in his mouth, the sweet
pastry and the warm cherry melting on his tongue. In want of something to do, his
fat digits squeeze the sides of his belly. He is used to two-fisting food or cutlery—it is
nice to be able to feel his weight as he eats.
In between chews, he stops to ask a question. "What is that... that green-frilled
dragon..."
King Galder rubs the side of his pie-paw in wide circles over the fox's belly.
"Farrow."
"Ay, him." He swallows a portion of the pie in his mouth and keeps chewing
the rest. "What is he going to do? Isn't he waiting?"
"I let him know to cancel the flight. My relationship with you isn't exactly a
secret between my staff, you know."
He swallows. "I was never told that."
"You never stopped to listen." He holds the remaining third of the pie in front
of Raggas' lips. "You don't need to talk. Just enjoy yourself, Raggas."
The fox settles deeper into the blankets. "Ay, my king," he says, the tail-end of
it trailing off as he opens his mouth for the stuffing.
As he eats, Raggas comes to the dull realisation that, despite the howling wind
creeping in through the corners of the windows and the lack of a lit fire in his
bedroom, he is warm. He believes that even without the hot touch of the dragon

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beside him, he could lie here, sweating, and not feel the cold. There is a warmth in
his belly that spreads through his crotch and arms and chest when he feeds it, an
inner comfort that he believes he could take out into the night to prove himself
invulnerable to the wind, and the dun that it flattens, and the jutting mountains it
shapes. He believes that maybe he isn't as exposed as he might seem. He believes
that his fat is a kind of armour that shows everything and yet reveals nothing, and
unlike steel, it has not a chink, not a flaw.
He wraps his tongue and teeth and lips around the pie-crust as the King
massages his belly and stares at him, his irises rings of blue fire under the red flames
of his horns and frills. The fox tastes and he swallows, his stomach murmuring in soft
agreement. He closes his eyes shut to a complete dark. ●

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