The Prince’s Boy: Chapter 48

Welcome to The Prince’s Boy by Cecilia Tan, a tale of a prince and his whipping boy ensnared in a plot of dark erotic magic. Warning: explores themes of dubious consent and situations of sexual jeopardy. NSFW.

A new chapter appears every Wednesday. This week is Chapter Forty-Eight: Jorin

48: Jorin


I dream of Kenet. I dream that I roll over in the night, and feel him there. I know it is him, by his scent, by the sound of his breath—so familiar it nearly makes my heart break like some half-remembered lullaby. My hand slides along his ribcage and he whimpers, pressing against me, nestling close in the crook of my arm.

I know what I will find when I slip my hand over his hip and then to his crotch. I will find him warm and moist, perhaps not fully hard yet. I hope I will find him half-flaccid so that the pleasure of him coming alive in my hand can be mine.

It is. I stroke him slowly, so slowly, that fresh whimpers issue from his throat as his hips jerk with impatience, nudging at my hand like a horse’s head eager for a carrot.

“Shhh,” I soothe. “Let us not rush.”


“Hush. Have I ever left you unsatisfied, my prince?”

He shakes his head and hides his face in the softness inside my upper arm, the lifts it once more, his breath mingling with mine as he speaks. “It’s just been so long since you touched me this way.”

I chuckle. “And have I lost my touch?”

“No! It’s just…”

“Just what?”

He closes his eyes in shyness. “I am so very close already.”

His cock feels like fine-polished wood enclosed with velvet as I tighten and loosen my grip, slowing the pace even more, then letting go completely, to cup his face with both hands and pull him to me for a kiss. His mouth is soft and yielding, his breath sweet.

My breath catches as his fingertips brush my own cock, which until that moment I had been able to ignore. Now, though, the throb of desire borders on painful. I feel a rush from groin to head as I realize the surest cure for this pain is to bury myself in him.

“Kenet,” I breathe, kissing across his cheek, his ear. I know with all surety that what I am asking him is to take my pain for himself. I know now what it is to be breached by the urgent thrust of a lover, especially that first time. “May I?”

His fingers continue to tease, as does his voice, breathy with anticipation. “May you what?”

“Lie with you as a man does a maid. My thorn, your rose.”

His laugh is shy and musical, like a frit’s call in spring, but I can hear the note of fear in it.

“I must hear you say yes, my prince.”

His answer startles me. “Never once were you asked whether you agreed to be beaten in my stead.”

I shake my head, trying to find the words to explain. “You, or your father, never need ask, for what was I but yours to do with as you wished? You plucked me from the dirt for that purpose.”

His fingers close around my cock with an urgent tug. “But you were never asked whether you considered that fair exchange.”

“Tcha, don’t be foolish, Kenet. I was yours as surely as your shoes. Do you ask their permission before you walk upon them?”

His stroking becomes more urgent still. “You understand, then.”

“Understand what?”

His voice is a moist whisper in my ear. “Why you mustn’t ask me for permission to prick me.”


“Because I am yours, Jorin. Yours as surely as anything is anyone’s.”

I cannot help myself. His hand has brought me to a fever pitch and I flatten him under me, crazed with need for him. But my mouth is still arguing. “But— but you are a prince. I am nothing. I own nothing.”

“Nothing but me,” he says, wrapping his legs around me. “Yours.”

And there I am, still trying to slow everything down, trying to protect him from the pain, trying to protect him from the ravishing my own body wants to deliver to his. “Kenet. It will hurt like this,” I try to explain.

But the word “yours” seems to echo in my ears, spilling again and again from his lips, an insistent spell that cannot be denied. His lips are sweeter than any fruit and I realize with a sudden bolt of heartbreak that this is only a dream. A moment later and my entire body is rudely awakened by a searing jolt of pain as a strap of leather catches me on the buttocks.

Sergetten pulls my head back by the hair. “You’ve slept long enough.”

When I struggle to fight back tears, he must think himself so cruel to inspire them. Or perhaps he thinks me soft. I resolve to prove otherwise.

* * *

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About the author: Cecilia Tan is the award-winning author of many erotic books and stories and the founder of Circlet Press.


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