The Prince’s Boy: Chapter 61

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 Sixty-One: Kenet

61: Kenet


What was that unfamiliar rushing sound? I could not name it, but it came and went, even as the familiar sensation of Roichal’s hand stroking me told me all was well.

Or was it? I opened my eyes to find him leaning over me, swearing and then pulling me close, crushing me to him. Then he let me go, and I collapsed back onto the blanket.

We were no longer in the cave where we had sheltered. A damp wind touched my face and I could see in the sunset glow that I was lying in a shelter the looked for all the world like someone had built only half of a house, leaving one side completely open. I sat up partway and could see the beach sloping gently away from us, toward the water. The rushing sound was the waves, I realized, as I watched them roll, one after another, up the sand. No one had ever told me the sea would make a sound. A particularly large wave came then and it sounded like thunder.

“Where is Kinsall?” I asked.

“He is safe,” Roichal said, as he knelt beside me. “Do you remember nothing of today?”

I tried to recall. “Nothing particular,” I said.

“You slipped from his back a few hours ago,” he said, reaching out to run his fingers through the hair at my forehead. “I feared you might not wake. I fear it still. I dared not try to revive you…” And here he gave a few short tugs on my cock that made me gasp. “…until we were somewhere safe.”

“Where are we?”

“Close to a fishertown where Kinsall is stabled, but I could not very well carry you into their midst without rousing suspicion.” He let out a determined breath. “We are no more than a few hour’s sailing to the Pellonese shore, and we would be safer there, but I fear you will not last until we could reach there. I must find someone who can feed you. I will. You must stay here.” He let go my cock, unbuckled his sword, and laid it next to me. “I will bring you someone.”

“And what of you? Will you be able to find food for yourself in the town?”

“I will keep my strength up,” he said, “for if I weaken, you are surely lost.” He moved to stand, but I seized his hand in mine.

“Kiss me before you go,” I said. “Please?”

“For luck?” he asked with a smile.

“Something like that,” I answered. “In case… in case anything happens. To either of us.”

He nodded, grave now. In case this was a goodbye kiss. His hand found my cock again as his tongue plundered my mouth hungrily. When he pulled back, it was only far enough so he could speak, his breath still mingling with mine and his lips brushing mine as he said, “It would seem for now that rousing your passion is enough to wake you, but I fear even that may lose its effect as you go hungry. But I worry if you are discovered here touching yourself by any man with a hunger of his own, that you will be too delectable a fruit to resist plucking.”

“I will keep one hand on the sword,” I promised.

“Good.” He kissed me on the forehead then, a proprietary mark of his lips, and then pulled away quickly as if resisting the temptation to do more. His boots crunched over the beach as he hurried away.

I sat up, but felt dizzy and lay back down. I crawled to the edge of the shelter, which was raised about the height of my knee above the beach. I reached down to touch the sand only to find it was not sand at all, but many tiny stones and shells.

The light was fading fast, and I went back to the blanket, which was all the way in one corner of the shelter, and settled myself under Jorin’s cloak.

I did not sleep, afraid that if I did, I might not wake if an intruder came. So I was awake when the sound of someone walking across the shells toward me sent gooseflesh over my arms and back. I propped myself against the corner, the sword at my side. The step was softer than Roichal’s, so either the general had taken off his boots, or it was someone else. I could see the light of a torch flickering on the damp beach as they approached, though I dared not peek out of the shelter to see the person carrying it.

He appeared soon enough, whistling as he stuck the torch into the shells a few feet from the open side of the shelter, and set about arranging some sticks and wood he had been carrying. He did not appear to have noticed me. I kept silent, watching him build the fire and then light it from the torch.

When he did step up onto the platform of the shelter, though, he caught sight of me in the growing glow and said, “Oh, hello, mind if I share the shelter for the night?”

When he spoke I realized that I knew him. Jort, the soldier who had skimmed from the delivery to Roichal. He had no uniform on now at all, but there was no mistaking him, sharp cheekbones and crooked smile.

“Stay on your side,” I said, gripping the sword. I was not sure I had the strength to lift the blade. “Don’t come near me.”

“Why, are you poxed?” He stepped closer, his face now in the shadow from the fire, but I could read his insouciant posture well enough.

“Just stay back, I said!” I tried to lift the sword enough for him to see what it was, but that was a mistake. I was too weak to do anything more than pick it up an inch or two and dropped it.

He laughed and pulled the torch from the sand again, bringing it close. He laughed again and kicked the sword to the side, out of my reach. “So it’s you, little whoreslave! Did some soldier make off with you when he deserted?” He laughed once more, stuck the torch into the sand again, and then grabbed me as I tried to crawl to the sword. “Uh-uh, none of that. Or did you run off on your own, taking that pigsticker with you? I don’t blame you. There’s deserters and draft dodgers everywhere now.”

He was half atop me already, and I could smell alcohol on his breath. What could I say? Could I delay him long enough for Roichal to return? Or even do as I did once before, and sate him with my mouth? The mere thought was making me salivate now.

“Why, you’re as weak as water. Are you starving without a master to look after you? I’ve some food I could share with you in exchange for a little pleasure. Oh, you’re a sweet piece,” he said, and I could feel the hardness of him pressing against my leg. “Funny I should run into you again. Never did have a full taste of you.”

“You’re confusing me with someone else!” I said, as I tried to struggle.

“Ha. Someone else with a green cloak of fine Parvainian fiber?” he gloated, as he flattened me under him, my cheek against the blanket. “Someone who was mute as a tongueless frog?”

“No! I mean, yes!” But my struggles were useless. He worked my trousers down and then off, and pushed his knees between mine. His cock lay heavy against my tailbone and I could feel his heart beating in it. Or perhaps I only imagined that.

I had to try something. “I… I’m not alone!”

“Indeed not. You’re with me, now,” he said, as he held me down with one hand at my neck. He spat into his other hand and stroked himself. “Come now, it’s not a bad trade. You take care of my hunger, I’ll take care of yours.”

“I… I’m with a soldier!” I insisted. “And he’s… he’ll be very jealous if you do that. Very, very jealous.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. What soldier wouldn’t know a thousand other cocks have had this arse already?” He slapped me on the buttock then and I cried out. “Besides, you’re a terrible liar.” I heard a slurping sound as he sucked on his own fingers then.

I cried out again as he thrust the wet fingers into me. “The truth? You want the truth?”

“No, not particularly,” he said, digging them into me and twisting them around. “What I want is to fuck this sweet arse. Thunder’s roll but you’re tight for a whoreslave…”

“That’s because a thousand cocks haven’t had me,” I said, gritting my teeth and bearing down as if I could expel the intrusion. “I’m not a whoreslave at all.”

He clucked his tongue. “No, just dressed like one.”

“I’m the Prince of Maldevar.”

He laughed hard at that. “And I’m the Queen of Frangit!” He slurped at his fingers again and pushed them in, more of them this time as this time it hurt.

“I’m serious!” I insisted. “I’m Kenet, and if you don’t unhand me immediately I’ll have you castrated!”

I was beginning to hate the sound of his laughter. The next thing I felt was his cock, pushing hard at my hole. I was weak but I twisted as best I could, and he slipped aside, missing the mark. He cuffed me hard on the back of the head, dazing me slightly while he pried my arsecheeks apart with his fingers and tried again.

I heard the thump of a boot against the platform half a moment before the weight on my back disappeared and Jort rolled away from me with a cry.

Roichal stood over me, the sword in one hand and the torch in the other. “Are you well, my prince?” he asked.

“Yes, general, if by well you mean unbreached.” I could not catch my breath, but my voice was clear as I said, “Don’t let him get away.”

Jort was in no position to flee, however. Roichal had kicked him off me and he had landed on his back in the other corner of the shelter. “Prince? General?”

“His name is Jort,” I said, pulling the cloak over me. “He’s the one responsible for bringing me to the encampment in the first place. He skimmed a few barrels from that shipment and, from what he’s said, has since deserted the army.”

“Is that so?” Roichal said. “Did I describe to you the punishment we have for deserters, my prince?”

“Yes, general, I believe you did. I also promised him castration, for he struck me. However…”

“He struck you?”

“Yes. However, I believe we should keep him intact while he can be of use to us.”

Roichal grunted in agreement. “Strip,” he barked at Jort. “Show me you’re unarmed. Yes, everything. Now, on your knees. Face to the wall.”

Soon Roichal had Jort’s arms bound behind him by strips of his own shirt. “Look at this pig,” the general said. “After all that, his cock is still as stiff as a pike.” He bound the man’s eyes then, as well.

“Perhaps he would enjoy the pepperroot treatment,” I tried to joke, but my voice was a weak rasp.

“My prince, shall I milk him for you? You need not touch him if…”

“No, general, no, I had best not waste a drop, distasteful as the thought might be.”

“Bide a moment.” Roichal went and rummaged through the pack Jort had left by the fire. He returned with a flask, opened it, and splashed Jort’s cock with the whisky. Jort made a surprised and dismayed cry. Roichal took a swig from the flask and said, “There you are, my prince. That’s as clean as he’ll get.”

I had to smile at that, but then I could wait no longer and I bent my head over Jort’s lap and suckled the glistening cock there. The fumes and flavor of the whisky only added to how dizzy I was, and it seemed as if their voices came from far above me.

“What are you doing?” followed Jort’s surprised gasp.

“No questions, deserter. Your life is in our hands now.”

“Yes, but… but… ahhhhh. Is he going to bite it off? He said castration.”

“Later. We’ll bring you back to Maldevar and string you up in front of the assembly and let the king do it with a carving knife. Right now, you will do exactly as we say, or I will not hesitate to simply kill you.”

“Bit of a harsh sentence for…”

“Skimming, smuggling, desertion, assault of the royal flesh, not to mention attempted rape?”

“Roichal, you don’t really believe this Frangi-haired whoreslave is Prince Kenet, do you?”

“My prince, may I cut out his tongue?”

I lifted my head for a moment. “No, general, though you may gag him if what he says offends you. Jort, when was the last time you spilled?”

He sputtered in surprise at being addressed so. “Er, um, a few days ago.”

“Good. Your milk will be potent. Spill into my mouth now, if you please.” I did not wait for any reply before I lowered my mouth again to the throbbing flesh. I bobbed up and down, not entirely sure what the best way to bring him off was. I had grown accustomed to Marksin, to his shape and the way he liked it. I massaged Jort’s bollocks with one hand, encouraging them to empty for me.

He gave a sudden shout, and then I was swallowing greedily. I continued to suck until he was soft and then I kept licking at the slit for every meager droplet that oozed forth for several minutes. It was only when I realized he was whimpering in pain that I stopped. He sighed with relief as I lifted my head.

Roichal and I looked into one another’s eyes. He raised an eyebrow as if to ask “now what?” I stretched and yawned, as suddenly sleepy as an infant who has fed on mother’s milk.

“Don’t kill him,” I said as I curled onto my side.

“Yes, my prince,” he agreed, and that was the last I heard before sleep claimed me.

* * *

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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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