Cocks of the Kingdom: Mister Monday 3

Cocks of the Kingdom Book 1: Mister Moonday

A Keys to the Kingdom Porn Parody, detailing the Amatory Adventures of Arthur Penishankering the Insatiable Cockslut

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of Garth Nix. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended. This is a work of purely speculative fiction. It is not intended to infringe on any rights by and of the companies and/or individuals involved in the production of The Keys to the Kingdom series.

🙦𐐗 Chapter Three 𐐗🙤

Arthur was released from hospital on Friday afternoon. Dick and Ed hadn't come back to see him. Arthur didn't have their phone number, or their last name, so he couldn't find them on social media. The hospital had become increasingly busy throughout the week, and the nurses were stressed, having less time to tend to Arthur's `particular' needs.

His father picked him up. As they drove home, Arthur gazed out the window, thinking about all that had happened that week; about Mister Monday and Sneezer, and about the Key and the Atlas, which were securely wrapped in a pair of lacy knickers and stowed at the bottom of his bag.

When they were nearly home, he saw something that abruptly ended his musings. Down in the valley ahead of them was a massive, ancient-looking house. The vast building, which took up a whole block, was built from stone, uneven bricks, and oddly-shaped timbers of different colours. It looked to have been added to and built on without much care or planning, utilising an enormous variety of architectural styles from diverse eras and cultures. It had arches, aqueducts and apses; bartizans, belfries and buttresses; chimneys, crenellations and cupolas, galleries and gargoyles; pillars and portcullises; terraces and turrets.

It looked completely out of place, dropped into the middle of what was otherwise a modern suburb. And no wonder, Arthur thought. The whacky house hadn't been there when he left for school last Monday.

He placed a hand on his dad's thigh. `Daddy, what is that?' he asked, pointing.

`What's what, baby-boy?' said Bob, glancing where Arthur was indicating.

`That place! It's ginormous, and I'm sure it wasn't there on Monday!'

`Where?' Bob scanned the houses through his windscreen. `They all look the same to me, honeybum. Size-wise, that is. Oh, I think that one with the truck out front got a new fence put in. Maybe that's why it looks different.' He smiled at Arthur, and then turned his attention back to the road.

Arthur nodded dumbly. Clearly his dad couldn't see the huge, castle-like building they were driving towards. He could only see the houses that used to be there.

Or maybe they still are there, and I'm seeing into an alternate dimension, or something, Arthur thought. He would have assumed the hospital had messed up his medication, but he had the Key and the Atlas, and then there was his conversation with Dick and Ed. More than likely this house—or House, as Arthur instinctively felt it should be called—was related to everything that had happened.

As they got closer, Arthur saw the building had a ten-foot high wall around it. It was faced with smooth marble, and looked nigh impossible to climb. He saw no sign of a gate.

Arthur's own home was only another mile or so, on the far side of the hills that bordered the valley. It was at the outskirts of the city, beyond the suburbs, but not quite in the countryside proper. The Penhaligons had a large property, most of which was wooded, the rest sustaining the wild, tangled thicket of weeds and brambles that Bob affectionately dubbed `his garden'. The house itself was brand-new, finished only a few months before, and ultra-modern, having been designed by a famous architect. It was split-level, each storey cut into the hillside, like a set of steps. The bottom level was the largest, with two garages, a workshop, Bob's studio and Emily's office. The next level was all living rooms, kitchen and three dining rooms of varying impressiveness. The next contained the master bedroom and multiple guest rooms. Finally, the highest, and smallest level, contained Arthur, Michaeli and Eric's bedrooms, along with a single bathroom, which the two boys were usually locked out of. Fortunately, Arthur enjoyed showering with his big brother.

When they got in the door, their home's AI, Stevens, greeted them and relayed the latest updates from the other family members. Emily was held up at the lab, Michaeli was simply `out' and would be back `later', and Eric had a basketball game.

Arthur was in a clingy mood, needing a familiar touch after spending days being handled by strangers. So, after telling Stevens to order pizza later, Bob carried him to his studio, and sat down. He held the young preteen in his lap and cuddled him, smothering his face, neck and chest with warm, comforting kisses. After a while, he gently pushed the boy onto the floor between his legs.

Arthur knew the drill. He quickly got on his knees, while his dad extracted his cock from his jeans. Arthur dove in, tenderly nuzzling the as-yet quiescent organ and peppering wet, open-mouthed kisses along its rapidly stiffening length. The prepubescent cockwhore continued to worship his dad's baby-maker, all the while huffing the musky fragrance like a paint-sniffer, until the member stood fully erect—a respectable six and a half inches long, and thick as a can of coke. Then Arthur really got to work, enveloping the bulbous head in the wet heat of his mouth, and sliding his full lips up and down, leaving the stout shaft glistening with saliva. He progressively took more and more of the appendage down his throat, massaging the veiny flesh with his dexterous tongue, all the while his dad groaned and told him what a good boy, what a perfect, slutty little son he was. Eventually Bob's moans grew louder, and he began to thrust upward to meet Arthur's bobbing throatcunt until—jamming his fuckstick all the way in— he came with a rumbling cry. Arthur felt the first few volleys hit the back of his gullet, before he pulled back to take the rest of his dad's load on his tongue, where he could savour its salty-sweet taste.

Bob must have really wanted to work on his songs, because when Arthur finished swallowing—pulling off the broad shaft with a wet pop, and diligently lapping up any residual traces of man-juice—the man sent him off with a loving, but perfunctory, slap to the cheek. Not even a proper spanking, much less an arse-ramming. Frustrated, Arthur thought about being a brat to get his dad's attention, maybe spilling soft-drink on his keyboard or something. That ought to earn him a good beating.

Arthur loved it when men hit him. It was the next best thing to being fucked. It wasn't the pain, per se, that got him going. It was the dominance. Arthur loved how much stronger than him men and older boys were. He loved how, when they were breeding him, they could do literally anything they wanted. He loved the feeling of being completely at their mercy. A man who wasn't afraid to give Arthur a few slaps, pinches and punches before, during and after sex, was the cumslut's ideal partner. Each blow, or bite, sent waves of pleasure shooting through his body, and brought him that much closer to orgasm.

Sometimes, even that wasn't enough. If Arthur had been a particularly dirty whore that day, maybe getting railed by an exceptionally high number of men, or doing something especially filthy and debauched, he felt a restless need, thrumming deep in his bones. It was different from a nymph-fit, which was just a mindless thirst for cock/cum. It was a craving to be fucked up. He needed to be grabbed. Tossed around. Spit on. Bashed—until he was sobbing, his skin a patchwork of bruises.

Then, thrown on the ground, or against a wall, and viciously pounded—dry—with a hand clamped around his throat, until he was slipping in and out of consciousness. Only after, when he was drained and limp as a rung-out dishcloth, his body one dull ache, could he be kissed, caressed and cuddled, and told what a perfect little slut he was.

Later still, when he was masturbating (which was pretty much anytime he wasn't sucking or riding dick), he would dig his fingers into his bruises, and the flaring pain would make him shoot so hard he could see stars.

Arthur didn't know why roughness and violence turned him on so much. He did know that, by society's standards, it was messed up (not that anything about Arthur wasn't), but he couldn't help it. He guessed he was just wired differently. Unfortunately, it wasn't every man who could (or would) hurt Arthur in the way he wanted. Even at home, his dad was usually too tired, or too busy, and Eric's drubbings felt half-hearted at best. The best at it was Erazmuz, the eldest of the Penhaligon children, who was a major in the army, and had moved out before Arthur was adopted.

☞🖸☜

Arthur still remembered the first time Erazmuz came home on leave. The preteen had stood in the hall, staring lustfully at the young soldier's handsome square-jawed face, muscular broad-shouldered physique, and the positively obscene bulge in his military fatigues. Erazmuz, on the other hand, had barely given his adopted sibling more than a glance.

But that night, Arthur heard heavy footsteps outside his door.

The door had swung open—Erazmuz was just standing there, filling the entrance with his looming silhouette. The only sounds were the man's breathing, and Arthur's increasingly desperate whimpers. Arthur knew there was only one reason why Erazmuz would be visiting his youngest sibling's room in the middle of the night. He caught a whiff of heady, masculine scent and moaned aloud. Being this close to the hunky soldier made his entire body tingle with arousal and anticipation. He needed that military meat inside him! He tossed and panted on the bed, throwing off the sheets to expose his lithe, feminine body (Arthur always slept nude). Erazmuz made no response to his little brother's wordless appeals, though his exhales came quicker, and harsher. Finally, Arthur, unable to bear it any longer, let out a soft, pleading whine:

`Eraaaazmuuuuz.'

As if this was the signal he was waiting for, Erazmuz had pounced with a pleased-sounding noise, raising his arm to brutally back-hand the younger boy across the mouth, sending Arthur's head ricocheting off the headboard with an audible crack. Stunned, Arthur could only lay prone, and stare, slack-jawed and cross-eyed, as his brother reached into his boxers to expose his erection.

And what an erection! Arthur was no stranger to large cocks, but Erazmuz' mighty man-meat was on a different plane of existence from any schlong he'd encountered before. Jutting out near-horizontally from between two trunk-like thighs, the colossal phallus, which had to be at least ten inches long, and was thicker around than Arthur's arm, throbbed menacingly in the dim light from the passage.

As he had gazed at that near-foot of rigid muscle, its veins coursing angrily with blood, Arthur knew two things: first, he wanted that dick more than he'd wanted anything in his life. Second, being filled with his brother's cock was going to hurt like hell, possibly even worse than the awful emptiness he felt during nymph-frenzies. His flawless hole would be wrecked, perhaps forever.

But Arthur found he didn't really care about pain, or potential injury.

Which was a good thing, since, as it turned out, neither did Erazmuz.

Climbing onto the bed, which creaked under his weight, the man brushed the engorged purple glans over Arthur's pert, pink nipples. Then, shifting forward to straddle Arthur's stomach, he waggled his fleshy python in front the boy's face, observing, with a contemptuous sneer, how the twelve-year-old cock-addict's eyes tracked its swaying back-and-forth movement. Thwack, thwack! Erazmuz walloped Arthur once, twice, across the face with his prodigious manhood. Next Erazmuz rubbed his virile shaft all over the bitchboy's smooth skin, coating Arthur with his scent, before placing the swollen tip on the child's perfect bow lips.

Forgetting his pain, Arthur hummed excitedly, opening his mouth to receive the titanic member. But Erazmuz only sneered again, pulling away. Arthur keened in disappointment, and got another casual smack from Erazmuz' hand. Sitting back on his haunches, the man unceremoniously flipped Arthur over, as he prepared to split the nymphomaniacal nancyboy's arse in two.

`Wait—lube!' Arthur had tried to pant, but Erazmuz had ignored him, pushing his head down into the pillow.

Arthur felt the tennis ball-sized head rest against his tiny, trembling boypussy. For one, brief moment, the world stood still.

Now, dear reader, when introducing a small boy's delicate anus to a grown-up prick, it is best practice to proceed in increments, sliding in inch by slow inch, giving the child's overstretched colon time to adjust, all the while peppering his shoulders with soft kisses, and whispering soothing nonsense in his ear.

I'm afraid Erazmuz did none of those things.

With one hand on the boy's neck, pinning him down, the other firmly clasping Arthur's waist, the soldier gritted his teeth, swung back his hips, and

Thrust.

In.

In one forceful motion, Erazmuz sheathed his manhood, all ten inches, inside the tightest cunt he'd ever felt, a clutching heat so close-fitting, it took all his willpower, instilled through years of drill, not to bust his nut right then. He groaned rapturously, feeling the warm mounds of the preteen's boybutt snug against his groin.

And Arthur? The poor slut-child screamed, out of his mind with agony. A scream so loud, and so shrill, that it would surely have woken everyone in the house, had it not been muffled by the pillow. But Erazmuz heard the scream. Felt it, vibrating through the slight form beneath him, and sending tremors through his dick. And do you know, dear reader, when Arthur screamed that scream of incomprehensible anguish, the young man's turgid ten-inch flesh cudgel jumped where it was nestled, deep in Arthur's bowels.

Then, the anal destruction of Arthur Penishankering began.

Grunting, Erazmuz ripped his fat poker back out through the traumatised colon, until the flared mushroom-head caught on the rim of the boy's pussy. Then he pushed back in, pulled out and shoved back in again, picking up speed as he went, until Arthur's hole was on fire from the friction.

The boy could feel the thick pillar of burning flesh tearing up his insides.

Arthur wasn't just being fucked—he was being ravished!

Fisting one hand in Arthur's hair, Erazmuz jerked the preteen's head up, wrenching it back at a painful angle as he ploughed away, but allowing Arthur, who was close to passing out, to get his first proper breath in ages. Still the man pounded, on, and on. The intense discomfort never went away, but minute by minute, thrust by thrust, many of which (by accident, not design) hit Arthur's prostate, the pain was overwhelmed by blinding, toe-curling pleasure.

The boy tried to verbalise the sensations flooding through him, something most of his lovers adored. But he found that, with Erazmuz, speaking, or even moaning too loudly, gained Arthur a vicious open-handed slap to the side of the face, or a jab to the ribs.

Grunt—thrust, grunt—thrust.

Arthur could tell Erazmuz was close by how his deep growls at last gave way to words—low, strained epithets of `little faggot', `cumslut', `filthy fucking whore', and `disgusting little cunt'— snarled at Arthur in tandem with angry thrusts.

They were accusations, not endearments. Arthur sensed how furious it made Erazmuz that he, the disciplined soldier, was helpless to resist his prancing little bitch of a brother. This thought filled Arthur with secret glee, and made him clench the tattered shreds of his hole around his brother's colossal fuckclub— until Erazmuz was cumming with a roar, gripping Arthur's hips with bruising tightness, and shoving into him so deep, Arthur was surprised there wasn't jizz spurting out of his mouth. Arthur came as well, his dicklet twitching madly. Erazmuz stayed there for a good five minutes, his gargantuan prick embedded to the hilt and pulsating, as he flooded Arthur's guts with a veritable ocean of seed. Then, with a final heavy grunt, he pulled out abruptly. Delivering a parting cuff to the back of Arthur's head, he stalked out of the room, leaving the bedsheets stained with cum (and a little blood) and the boy himself a quivering, ruined mess.

Arthur supposed, on reflection, that Erazmuz' ferocity was a way of releasing all the pent-up aggression that came with the strict barracks regime. At any rate, when the family had sat down to breakfast the following morning (Emily made sure they all ate together when one of the older ones was home), Arthur's face, arms and chest—he had worn his most revealing pajama singlet for the occasion—were a motley black-and-blue, speckled with angry red welts. Emily looked horrified, but Arthur had cheerily explained that he fell out of bed.

`More like fell down the stairs, by the looks of it', Bob quipped awkwardly, seeming rather uncomfortable at how far Erazmuz had gone. Eric, who'd no doubt been watching (and wanking) along via the camera in Arthur's room, appeared slightly wistful. Suzanne and Michaeli looked disgusted, as they invariably were at Arthur's escapades with their male family members (Jealous bitches, Arthur thought carelessly). Erazmuz had just silently munched his toast, wearing a self-satisfied smirk, while Arthur gazed at him adoringly from across the table. And Emily, poor, innocent, oblivious Emily, had asked no more about it, only making Arthur promise to apply one or other of the innumerable ointments that she kept in her cavernous medicine cupboard (of course, Arthur did no such thing). For a hyper-intelligent Medical Legend, Arthur often thought fondly, his mother could be blindingly imperceptive.

Erazmuz' visits home became a lot more frequent after that, and even though he remained absolutely brutal in bed, not giving the boyslut so much as a peck on the lips, Arthur liked to think the young man had become rather attached to him. Possessive even, judging by how Erazmuz wouldn't let Bob or Eric lay a finger on Arthur while he was home.

☞🖸☜

Arthur came out of his reverie with a soft sigh and an aching cocklet. He briefly contemplated his dad, plinking away on a keyboard, before turning, and climbing the stairs to his bedroom. For all that he was sometimes inattentive to Arthur's needs, Arthur was fond of his dad (and fat daddy-dick and hairy balls). If the man really wasn't in the mood, Arthur supposed he would have to pleasure himself.

Arthur told his door to lock in case Michaeli came home (it would let in Eric in, if the older teen wanted to give his little brother a `welcome-home' present).

At the foot of Arthur's bed was a life-sized ceramic Komodo dragon. It was quite realistic, especially since Eric had superglued a dildo to the reptile's groin. Arthur liked to crawl under its belly, and fuck himself on the toy, imagining he was being taken by some ferocious monster. This time, the horny preteen made especially lewd noises, in case his dad was watching through the house's security system.

After he'd finished, he cleaned up the carpet and the toy (with his tongue, naturally), and then got out the Atlas and the Key, laying them on the bed. Without really knowing why, he gestured to turn off the light. The room was dark, save for a wan sliver of moonlight that shone through the open window. Then, both the Key and the Atlas started to emit a strange blue glow that shimmered like water. Arthur picked up the Key in his left hand, and the Atlas in his right.

Without Arthur doing anything, the Atlas flipped open. Startled, Arthur dropped it on the bed. It remained open, and Arthur watched in amazement as it grew, becoming longer and wider, until it was about the same size as his pillow.

At first the pages were blank, but then lines began to appear, as if drawn by an invisible artist. They spread across the page, swift and precise, until Arthur was looking at a picture of the House he had seen on the way home. It was so well-realised, it might as well have been a photo.

Under the picture, a handwritten note appeared:

The House: An Exterior Aspect as Manifested in Many Secondary Realms

Then, more words, in smaller handwriting. Arthur squinted as another note materialised, with an arrow pointing to an inked-in rectangle on the outer wall. Monday Postern, it read.

`Stevens,' Arthur said aloud, `what's a postern?'

The omnipresent AI responded at once, `Poster, noun: a large printed picture used for decoration.'

`Stevens, you utter fuckwit!' Arthur swore in annoyance. `What is a postern. P–O–S–T–E–R–N.'

`Postern, noun: 1. A back door or gate; 2. Any lesser or private entrance', Stevens supplied, more helpfully this time.

Ah! So that was how you got in. Arthur put the Key down on the bed, and then jumped. As soon as the Key left his hand, the Atlas slammed shut. In only a second, it had shrunk back to the size of a pocket notebook.

So you need to have the Key to open the Atlas. Interesting.

Arthur lay down, and put his head in his hands. The Atlas had shown him the picture of the House, and marked out an entrance. That seemed like an invitation. Someone...or something...wanted him to enter the House. But was the Atlas to be trusted? Arthur knew so little about what was going on here. Monday and Sneezer were enemies, that much seemed clear. But then, was it really Sneezer who was Monday's enemy, or that whirling type, those words which had taken over Sneezer and given the Atlas to Arthur? In a way, they'd given him the Key too, or at least tricked Mister Monday into doing so. But what was their—_its—_purpose?

There was only one way to learn more. Arthur would have to take a look at the House, tomorrow or Sunday, and try to get in through Monday's Postern. Depending on what he saw there, he'd let Ed and Dick know, and maybe enlist their help. They'd seen the dog-faced guys when the teachers couldn't, so they'd probably be able to see the House.

In the meantime, Arthur hid the Atlas and the Key in the hollow stomach of the Komodo dragon. The dragon's mouth was only just open enough for Arthur to slip his hands inside, so anyone with hands larger than a 12-year-old's wouldn't be able to get at the objects. Soon after, Stevens informed Arthur that his mum was home. Emily insisted that Arthur emerge from his room, and Bob from his studio, so they could have dinner together—a dinner that turned out to be substantially healthier, and less appetising, than pizza.

Emily was relaxed and cheerful, not only because Arthur was okay, but because, for the first time in ages, she wasn't working frenetically to research a cure for some new disease. Winter was coming, but looked to be a fairly quiet one in terms of sickness.

Arthur's plans to investigate the House were quickly dashed, however, when his mother categorically forbade him from setting foot outside. `You have to rest Arthur', she instructed. `At least for the weekend. No going out, and no having friends over. We'll review the situation next week.' By `friends' she meant the boys Arthur frequently invited back to his house. Emily was glad her son had an active social life (if only she'd known how active!), though she did wonder why his bedroom door was always shut when his friends were visiting. Still, she didn't object or peep via the camera—kids needed their privacy, after all.

Arthur pouted, though he knew better than to argue with Emily when it came to his health. It wasn't as though he could sneak out— Stevens monitored everything. He was going to go crazy, shut up indoors and thinking about the House all weekend. He couldn't even distract himself with porn, or a good VR gang-rape, since his mother had blocked anything of the kind from being accessed in the Penhaligon home. `For Arthur's sake', she had said at the time. `We can't risk setting off his condition.'

Arthur wished she hadn't bothered. He loved his mum, but wouldn't mind if she was a little less zealous about his wellbeing.

☞🖸☜

The weekend was a total drag, just as Arthur had feared.

Michaeli was busy with her usual mysterious activities and Eric would barge into Arthur's room early in the mornings, blow a hasty load down the throat of the still-drowsy preteen, and then vanish for the rest of the day. Emily's work lull hadn't lasted long. There was an influx of patients exhibiting strange symptoms, and she was called in to examine them. Bob had apparently had a spark of inspiration, as he spent the entire weekend holed up in his studio, so there was nothing doing there. Arthur knew not even sex could divert his father when the man was in the grip of his muse.

Come Sunday night, Arthur was bored and horny. He'd fucked himself on the dildo five times, and jacked off an additional eight. Eric had demanded another blowjob that evening, but had been too tired from sports practice for anything more, falling asleep as soon as he'd shot his wad.

Arthur tossed and turned, unable to sleep. He tried, fruitlessly, to search for explicit content in creative ways, so as to bypass the censor. He got the Atlas out again, to see if he could get it to draw porn, but it wouldn't show anything but that same image of the House, so he returned it and the Key to the Komodo dragon's belly. He jammed his fingers into his arse, and thought about the House, and what was inside it, and whether Sneezer fucked Mister Monday, and whether Ed had really been joking about Dick's acquaintance with dog peen...

When he did finally drift off, it wasn't for long. Something made him wake up—he wasn't sure what. `Time', he whispered into the darkness, and glowing green numerals appeared in the air above his bed: 12:01

One minute after midnight, on Monday morning.

There was a noise at his window. A scratching, like the scraping of a tree branch. But there was no tree in the garden tall or near enough to reach Arthur's bedroom window.

He sat up, and waved the light on. His heart pounded.

Control, thought Arthur desperately. Calm. Breathe slowly.

Look at the window.

He looked, and leapt back, falling off the bed. Hovering in the air outside the window, easily fifty feet above the ground, was a winged man. He was no angel. His wings were a dirty grey, and looked bedraggled. He wore an old-fashioned suit, and held a black bowler hat in one hand. His face was hideous—squat and jowly. A dog's face, Arthur thought in horror.

The man tapped on the window.

`Let me in.'

The voice was distorted through the glass, but it was low and husky and full of menace.

`Let me in.'

`No', Arthur croaked. That was how it worked didn't it? The monster couldn't come inside unless you invited it. Or was that just vampires... Vampires! In the movies they sometimes hypnotised someone to let them in—

Arthur saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Arthur jerked his head around, his heart stopping. Was that someone coming into his room? Had someone been hypnotised already? Oh God, they would let the dog-faced man in...

It was the Komodo dragon from the foot of his bed. It was moving.

Arthur scrambled back onto the bed, and pressed himself against the wall, shaking with fright. As if one monster wasn't enough to deal with!

`Let me in.'

The large reptile hissed, long, forked tongue darting through the air. It dashed forward on stubby legs, rearing up in front of the window. It opened its mouth and a beam of brilliant white light shot out, strong as a searchlight. The dog-man-thing screamed and flailed his arms. His bowler hat went flying, and his wings thrashed as he hurtled backwards. He disappeared in a puff of coal-black smoke.

The dragon shut its mouth with a snap, and the light went out. Then, it ponderously trod back to Arthur's bed, and stared up at him, unblinking.

`Good boy...' Arthur breathed. The lizard opened its mouth in what would have been a grin, if ceramic Komodo dragons could grin, and clawed its way onto the bed, advancing on the boy with a predatory glint in its eyes. He was a little apprehensive about being mounted by the big reptile, but it wasn't as though he hadn't shagged it before (though admittedly, it hadn't been alive then). Anyhow, it was no less than the creature deserved for saving him from the dog-man. So, the preteen cumwhore took a deep breath, steeled his nerves, and opened his legs.

The dragon's long, forked tongue flicked out of its mouth again, running over Arthur's body, and making the boy shiver. It brushed his miniature member, caressed his tiny, hairless bollocks, and then darted down to jab into his pink boy-cleft. The childslut squealed in delight.

The beast continued to move forward, tonguing Arthur's nipples, and covering the small boy with its 8-foot-long body. Arthur reached out to feel its skin. Surprisingly, its scaly torso was warm to the touch, though dry as paper and unyieldingly solid. He felt something poke his thigh and gasped. It too was warm, scaly and hard. It seemed the plastic dildo had transformed into a very real, and very erect, reptilian dong.

Arthur knew what came next, and turned his head to the pillow to muffle his cry of elation as the creature plunged into his tight opening. The beast mated him long and slow, ridged cock scraping the walls of Arthur's colon with every thrust, producing the strangest sensation of mingled pain and pleasure. Its warm bulk weighed down on the boy, making him feel owned, and safe. It didn't climax for a good half-hour, and stayed buried in Arthur for a further ten minutes after that, licking the sweat droplets and tears from his face with its sinuous tongue.

Finally, the Komodo dragon retreated to the foot of his bed, where it rippled once, and returned to inanimation.

Arthur slept soundly until the morning.

I realise my description of reptile anatomy was inaccurate, but there's no way poor Arthur (or my prose) could cope with accurate lizard genitalia (look up `hemipenes' if you don't believe me). Also, magic.