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-Nine: Kenet
The following day, Roichal was thrown as we were skirting the edges of the camp, along the eastern woodlands. I was riding beside him, the field marshal just ahead, and two regional commanders just behind, when something spooked the mare he was riding that day. She reared and then rolled. My own horse shied and bolted aside and I wondered if there had been a viper in the road, but by the time I turned the mare back toward him, the others were off their horses and helping him up. There was no sign of any snake that I could see. The mare was standing still and shivering, as if in fear, but also nuzzling at him as if in apology. The general spoke soothing words and remounted without much difficulty.
So, I thought, his leg is truly not bothering him. In fact, he had hardly mentioned it at all in several days. Marksin and I exchanged a glance and I wondered if he was thinking of sending the general back to the tent to rest, or to be examined. I shook my head slightly. He wouldn’t take kindly to being babied and Marksin knew so.
We finished that day’s rounds quickly, though, not seeing all the men, but collecting lists of their names from their commanders. The war had been going on for years, but the army had never gathered so many fighting men at once before. I made no pretense of taking the evening meal with the others, and retired to the tent with the lists as quickly as I could.
My heart leapt to see a “Jolan,” wondering for a moment if that could be him, mispronounced? But no, the man was listed as having two brothers, and hailing from east of Maldevar; it could not be him. I went over the lists twice, then began looking through the older rosters.
I blinked suddenly as if blinded by lightning, as a thought seared me. What if…? Please, no. What if the reason his name did not appear was because he had already been killed?
I knelt and threw open the low, wooden chest that held some of the other records, an entirely different set of names, my heart pounding, even as another thought came to me—what if he dared not use his true name? Whether from the shame of his banishment from the castle, or fear of Seroi finding him and exacting revenge after I had fled? I might not find anything…
“Ho there, Page, are you in need of something?” Marksin stood in the tent entrance, one flap still lifted on the back of his arm, a lantern in his other hand. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
I had been so deep in my thoughts that I hadn’t even heard him approach, and now I must have looked every bit as guilty as I would have if he had caught me stealing cakes from the kitchen. (Jorin had received quite a beating the one time I had.) “I, um, just…” I shrugged and sat back on my heels with a sigh.
He came in and set the lantern down on the larger chest we used as a table, the one that had the wooden box inside it with the general’s odd knickknacks. He regarded me, but in the end he said nothing, neither an accusation of spying nor a question about what I was doing, although I could almost see him yearning to ask it.
Instead he turned away and began to unfasten his jacket. He stripped out of it and everything else with a brusque efficiency that made me think, under it all, that perhaps he was angry with me.
He faced me again and I could see some kind of emotion clouded in his eyes, too well tamped down for me to discern what. I had not moved from where I was on the canvas floor.
“What are you waiting for?” he snapped. “The general will be here any moment.”
Oh! I froze for another moment, as the realization sank in that Roichal had sent him here to await him. So that we could both await him!
I stripped out my things hurriedly, my heart racing. What if someone else came to the tent and found the two of us there, naked? The consequences could be dire… and yet I found myself only all the more thrilled, my blood surging. When I knelt beside him by the pallet, my prick stood up from my lap like a snake rearing to strike.
I could not help but look at Marksin’s, lying quiet on the black mat of his curls like an obedient dog. I wondered which the general preferred, the rampant stallion barely held in check or the well trained pet?
Time went by and neither of us moved. I could not help but go over what Marksin had seen me doing, trying to come up with a plausible story I could tell him. Could I tell the partial truth… that one of my guards had gone into the army and I hoped to know of his fate? But wait, how could I tell them I had guards if I had decided not to speak of being prince? Bah.
I had come to no conclusion when the tent flap opened suddenly and the general stepped in, securing the flap behind him so that no one else could barge in. He had not even looked at us, so far as I could tell, and he acted as if he were alone, whistling to himself as he unbuckled his sword and hung it within reach of the pallet, then undoing his jacket and hanging that as well.
When he turned his attention to us, he was in breeches only, and I could see some silver hairs mixed with the darker ones in the well of his chest. He looked at us, standing a few feet away, and merely held out his hands, palms toward us, and cocked his head slightly.
I have no idea which of us moved first, Marksin or myself; perhaps we truly did move together. We crawled forward quickly, each kissing one of his palms and licking his fingers, salty and rough. His calluses rubbed over my cheek as I nuzzled at him. “Good boys,” he said, as if to a pair of hunting dogs, moving to stroke us each on the hair. “Turn around. Shoulder to shoulder. Show me your tails.”
We did as he bade us, and then I sucked in a breath as the light touch of one finger ghosted over the pucker of my hole. I think he did the same to Marksin. Then he reached under us both and his hands were taking hold of my prick and milksacks, not in a teasing way, but almost as if he were measuring their weight.
Then he let go and moved back from us, but neither Marksin nor I dared a look over-shoulder to see what he was doing.
Then the feather-light touch to my hole came again, and again, teasing and teasing.
Marksin was the first to let out a moan.
“How long has it been?” the general asked, from close behind. He must have been sitting or kneeling behind us.
“Sir?” Marksin asked, as if he hadn’t understood the question.
The touch disappeared from my rear and he asked again. “How long, Marks, since you felt something… here?”
I heard the gasp as he did something to Marksin, but I dared not look.
“Yes, here,” the general went on. And then I heard the sound of a cork coming out of a bottle, and smelled the scented oil.
Marksin groaned again, his arms shaking. He gave up trying to stay on all fours, and let his head sink to the canvas, not incidentally angling his arse upward.
I was looking without even realizing it, at him pressing one cheek to the ground while arching his back as the general did something that sounded quite wet. This prompted a higher pitched groan followed by another low one. Long strands of dark hair obscured part of his face.
“Defy me by failing to answer,” the general said, his voice even more gentle in his threats than usual, “and I will have Page flog you until you cannot ride and then send you back to your tent alone and unsatisfied. Which will mean Page will go hungry, as well.”
Marksin’s gasp was closer to a sob this time. I think truly the threat to be sent away was more than sufficient to cow him. “I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t mean to defy you. It’s merely that it was long enough ago to be difficult to remember.”
I stared openly over my shoulder, my self-imposed discipline forgotten, as Roichal’s arm moved back and forth, fucking Marksin with his hand. There was no rebuke, so I kept watching, wondering how many fingers were in him.
“Surely,” Roichal went on, “if it were such a rare event, you would recall it better. If you cannot recall how long ago it was, you can at least describe the circumstances to me.”
Marksin colored deeply, as if choking for a moment. “Yes, Sir,” he finally went on, a bit breathless. “It was at least four years ago, near the Pellon border. A… a tavern whore.”
“Oh? And how, pray tell, did a tavern whore satisfy your needs? Surely just one finger was not enough for you?”
“No, Sir…” Marksin said, then grunted as he was pushed forward slightly. I surmised that Roichal had just added a second finger to the first. “Although she did begin that way, as she thought I had never… taken pleasure there before.”
“But of course. What upstanding model of our citizenry would dare to?” He chuckled at his own sarcasm. “Continue.”
“She said her mother was from Pellon and she had lived there for a time, so she knew things most of our women do not,” he said. “She had a phallus made of steel. She said a swordsmith had made it as a joke for a Pellonese noble who had bragged too much about his prowess…”
“And men do tend to sometimes confuse their swords with their pricks. Go on.”
“Yes, well. She… she bade me put it into her first, to warm it up and make it slick, and then… and then… ungh!” He grunted as the general added another finger, and then poured some oil from the bottle for good measure. I had half expected him to open his breeches and pull out his cock at last, but no, it was just his hand.
“Steel can be so unforgiving,” Roichal said. “Could you really take pleasure from it, when what you crave pulses with lifeblood, hot and just yielding enough for your muscles to grip…?”
Marksin made a cry of dismay, muffled quickly by his arm.
“How long since you had a man’s thorn?” Roichal asked, his voice soft yet merciless.
“How long, Marks?”
Neither of us could make out the answer the first time, but then he moved his arm aside and spoke it clearly. “Ten years, Sir.”
Ten years! I thought of how it had been ten years since Roichal had come.
Ten years of war.
I shivered, wondering if Roichal would give in at last and grant Marksin what he so very clearly desired. Would I witness the moment, or should I excuse myself?
“Page,” Roichal said, never taking his eyes off the place where his fingers were moving in and out of the field marshal, “Oil yourself.” He held the bottle to me and I took it, breaking pose completely. “Your prick,” he added, realizing that the command might have been unclear to me.
I did as he asked, my cock looking red and dark in the lantern light, but I could not help but ask a question of my own. “Sir? I… I’ve never done this before. That is, if what you’re asking me to do is…. is fuck the field marshal.”
He chuckled. “Yes, Page, I’m asking you to ‘fuck the field marshal.’” He punctuated his sentence with a few extra hard thrusts of his hand. “He needs it so very much, don’t you see?”
“Oh, Sir, I would never dream of denying him. Or you. I just… don’t know if I can serve him well.”
He grinned at me. “Oh, your part shall be easy and painless. After all, I have stretched him out fairly well, so your cock will not hurt him too much.”
“Hurt him?” I blurted out the question before I could stop myself.
“If it has truly been as long as he says,” the general went on a bit more soberly, “even with his adventure with the cold steel phallus, he will be nearly as tight as if he had never done this. The first time hurts the most, they say, but I am not so sure about that. I think when we are young perhaps our bodies have a certain natural elasticity that we lose as we age. A man tightens up more and more over the years if he does not keep in shape.”
Marksin whimpered, which I took to mean he agreed with this assessment of himself.
“Not only that,” Roichal said, as he patted Marksin’s rump with his free hand, “but the field marshal here won’t be able to relax in the slightest. Oh, the way would be easier, perhaps with no pain at all, if he could just relax. But he won’t. Because of a few things. One, because it is hardly his nature to relax. Two, because I require that he not spill until you are able to catch it in your mouth. Three, because I wish to see the exquisite look of agony on his face when you breach him.” With that, the general moved around to sit on the edge of the pallet, gesturing for me to take his place behind Marks. He leaned over and took a fistful of Marksin’s hair, lifting him up onto all fours again. “Oh, and the fourth reason. Because he will be so disappointed if we go too easy on him, Page. This I know.”
“Look at me, Marks,” Roichal whispered, cradling his chin. “Now, Page. As deep as you can go. Now.”
Marksin was silent, but I felt the tremor run through his entire body, even as the intense shock of being enveloped in squeezing heat ran through me. We held that pose, both quivering, for an eternal moment.
Then Roichal spoke, his eyes still locked with Marksin’s, but the command was for me. “Deeper now.”
I pulled on Marksin’s hips, until my balls rested against him. My own cock throbbed inside him, twitching madly like a trapped thing, and I held my breath, knowing it would ruin all if I spilled now.
“Now pull out very slowly,” Roichal said. “As slow as you can. All the way out.”
I kept my hands on his hips as I eased myself backward, gasping as it felt like the grip of the tightest fist I had known slipping off the most sensitive part of my cock as we parted. I was a little amazed to see how his body closed up as if I had not just been in there. Marksin whimpered.
“Do you want more?” Roichal asked him.
“Yes, Sir, please.”
“Then tell me what you want.” He caught my eye for a moment and winked at me, as Marksin bowed his head for a moment. But Roichal would not let him get away with that, lifting his chin again. “Tell me.”
“I want… I want you to fuck me, Sir,” Marksin said, his chest shaking, and I realized that every word he spoke came forth with the force of a confession.
“And I am,” Roichal said, gesturing me to press forward again. “Do you like my prick? It’s a long one, isn’t it? It stabs you deep.”
“Yes, S—!” Marks did not finish what he was saying as my thrust went all the way in, making him suck in a sudden breath.
“Do it again like that, Page, a few more times. Let him catch his breath in between, and then give him the entire length to the hilt.”
“Yes, Sir,” I answered, watching again as that tiny, brown rose tightened anew. “Is each time like the first time if I do it this way?”
“He will get used to it eventually,” Roichal said. “For those who like pain, it is one of the more sublime ones a man can experience. For those who do not, well, they are unlikely to seek out such pleasures as this. Do you know what the pepperroot is, Page?”
“I know it is quite spicy,” I said, as I punctured my way back into the field marshal’s body.
“In its raw form, when first dug up, it is about the size of my fist,” he said. “Do you know what one of the punishments for desertion of one’s post is in the military?”
“No, Sir.” It was hard to pull slowly out. Now that my cock had accustomed itself to the task, the urge to thrust and thrust and thrust was building.
“We peel a pepperroot, and push it into the deserter, yes, right up his arse, and put his breeches on, and then put him on his horse with his hands tied to the saddle. One sharp crack of the whip and he’s off on the ride of a lifetime.”
I thrust in just then. “Does it kill them?”
“Oh goodness no. The horse always comes back, looking for food and his companions, but the dear soldier is, well, you know the burn of the pepperroot on your tongue? Now imagine that inside your guts. Not to mention the fact that it probably tore you a bit, as we insert it none too gently. And passing it back out again is the only way to alleviate the burning, which can go on for many days before the spice is exhausted.”
“But… but does it always hurt?”
“Oh. No, I mean… this,” I said, then corrected myself as he raised his eyebrow at me. “I mean fucking, Sir.”
“No, Page, fucking does not always hurt. I daresay the next time I put your prick into Marks, he won’t be quite so tight. Which is not to say he isn’t gaining pleasure from this. You should see the trail of slime he is leaving, as if a great slug is hanging between his legs.”
I shared a wicked grin with the general then and I reached around to feel the slime myself, running my hand up and down Marksin’s hot prick. He shuddered and made a whining sound.
“That’s enough of that, Page,” Roichal said in another gentle voice. “Especially if you want that milk for yourself.”
“Yes, Sir.” He continued to direct me, how fast to thrust, how deep.
Eventually though he asked, “What do you think, Marks? Shall I spill in you or on you?”
“In me, Sir,” Marksin answered without hesitation. “In me, and I shall lick your cock clean after, if you wish it.”
Roichal laughed at that, but with joy, not scorn. “Oh, you are a dirty, dirty thing.”
“Only because it is you,” Marksin said, his tongue now as loose as his arsehole was becoming. “I would lick your boots clean, as well.”
Roichal laughed again. “But then I would not want to do this,” he said, pulling Marks up to him for a kiss. I shuffled forward, staying in him with some effort.
“Finish in him now, Page,” Roichal said, between kisses. “I think if I hold him like this while you come, I may find release myself.” Marks was up on his knees, his own crotch pressed close to the general’s, and there was just enough space for me to keep my hips moving. Roichal pulled him tight, his tongue plundering and claiming Marksin’s mouth.
I did as I was told, thrusting and thrusting without needing any more exhortation to finish what I had begun. When I spilled, the pleasure of moving in him only increased, slick and hot, and I slammed up into him more, the pleasure sparking all over me like rolling thunderclouds.
I slumped against Marksin’s back, then slipped to the floor, utterly spent.
But not quite sated. I licked my lips as Marskin turned toward me then, his cock dripping with anticipation.
“Fuck his mouth until you spill,” the general said simply, and Marksin leaped upon me, eager as ever to do his bidding.
* * *
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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.