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 Seventy: Jorin
We passed along the edges of blighted fields the next night, where the crops had already been plowed under when they should have been in full fruit. We ate well enough of spawning fish the next day, though, while resting and watering our horses. I knew little of how to survive off the land and I wondered where Sergetten had learned it, but I did not ask.
I also did not ask, when we stopped to get some sleep in the hour before dawn, when we would next attempt a spell. Instead, I held my tongue, and waited for him to say.
We set up a small shelter in the trees in case of rain, suspending an oiled cloak slantwise above is, another below us on a bed of leaves and ferns. He slipped from his clothes and then asked for mine, stowing them in the dry pack and then beckoning me into his arms.
I found myself easily coaxed into lying under him, my cock coming to life against his belly as he kissed and sucked at my neck, then bit just above the collar, not hard enough to truly hurt, but enough that I felt his teeth, as well as his possessiveness. My cock jumped as he licked at the spot.
My nipples, too, were subjected to the sensual torture of Sergetten’s teeth, teasing, nipping, never so much that I could complain…
And then he slid lower, kissing his way down my belly. He sucked on my milksacks, and mouthed them, tugging a bit on loose skin, which then tightened as my arousal heightened. I could not help but jerk my hips as his mouth wrapped around the head of my cock. He did not seem to mind. There was no tooth now, just velvet heat, and I moaned like an animal, sinking into the sensation.
He lifted his head. “You aren’t planning to come without permission are you?”
“No, sir, of course not,” I answered. “I’m not close yet. It merely feels too good to keep quiet.”
He crawled up my body then and kissed me. “I was wrong when I predicted you would be a stoic one.”
“For pain, not for pleasure,” I said.
He chuckled. “You are not stoic for pain either, sura’an. You are every inch responsive.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“Say my name, Jorin.”
“If you say so, Sergetten.” He nipped me on the ear then and my cock twitched again.
His whisper was moist in my ear. “I’m going to fuck you now. I want to feel you come while I’m inside you.”
“Yes, Sergetten!” I felt him reach for something in the dark. Cock grease.
He slid a perfunctory finger into me, just making sure the way was slick, but not stretched. I put my arms around his neck, preparing myself to accept him, and to cling to him as I rode out the pain of being breached suddenly.
But he pressed the head of his cock against my hole again and again, firm but gentle, pushing and pushing but never plunging in, until my flesh was as warm and malleable as well-worked dough and my need for him had built to a peak.
I opened my mouth to beg for him to take me, but didn’t even speak a word before he pushed in, just an inch or two, his hips rocking as he fucked me with just the head. To say it felt good is wholly inadequate. I knew a thousand kinds of pain, but receiving simple pleasure felt strange to me. I remembered what he said about Willim, who had difficulty accepting pleasure for pleasure’s sake.
He slid deeper then, all the way to the root, and I groaned it felt so very right to have him buried in me. Now my cock throbbed on the verge of spilling and I sucked in a breath to hold it back.
“Spill if you can, Jorin,” he murmured, as he set to fucking me slowly with deep, thorough strokes. “If my cock is enough for you.”
It was more than enough. Slow as it was, the build was no less inexorable, just more gradual, but it was not more than a dozen thrusts later that I cried out as my cock spilled plentifully onto my own belly.
He pulled out of me then, and lapped up my milk, and then kissed me with the flavor of my own musk, his tongue demanding my mouth’s surrender to him.
When at last he released me I was entirely limp, every muscle languid and my cock deflated. To my surprise, so was his. My hand cupped his soft cock and balls and I made a questioning noise, quite sure he had not come.
He kissed me on the forehead. “You have satisfied me very well, sura’an,” he said. “Thank you.”
I pulled him down to kiss my mouth once more, then asked, “What does that word mean?”
He settled on his side, spooning me to him. “I think you know.”
“Well, I can guess. It feels like… ‘beloved slave.’ But I don’t want to presume.”
He gave a short bark of laughter. “Well, you are close enough. It is a word in the old tongue. I’ve seen it translated in the ancient texts as ‘special one,’ but always in reference to a slave by his master.” He kissed the back of my collar. “It seemed to suit you.”
I fell silent at that, lulled by the warmth in his arms. I think he, too, knew our time together would soon be at an end.
He must have had some magical means of keeping me asleep. For when I woke, face down in the leaves, he had already dismantled the shelter, set the horses free, dressed, and taken the pack onto his own back. All without rousing me.
And now he had me pinned by the point of a dagger between my shoulder blades, the pricking point of which was the first thing I felt on waking. He made a sound of warning—if I tried to move I would impale myself on it.
“Reach back and spread your cheeks for me,” he said, his voice low with menace. “Carefully. Very carefully.”
I did as he commanded, my hands shaking a little. I was used to him battering me with hot anger, and this cold, steely, dispassionate demeanor was unsettling.
I pulled at my arsecheeks until I could feel my hole stretching slightly. Then I jumped as I felt the point of another equally sharp dagger trace a burning line from my tailbone down to that sensitive pucker of flesh.
He teased me with it then, as he’d teased me with his teeth I suppose, and I trembled from the effort of trying to hold still.
“Blood makes poor cock grease,” he said as he plied the wicked steel against me. “But it is all you’ll have.”
I do not know why I spoke, but I did. “I cherish your cock inside me, Sergetten, any way you will deign to give it to me.”
That set off a growl, and I felt the blade push in briefly, replaced a moment later by the head of his cock.
He did not lie. Blood is thin and burns. But neither did I lie. As he breached me I held my breath, hoping that this would not be the last time.
“Come as soon as you can, sura’an,” he growled, tossing the other knife away and gripping me by the hips, “and I promise if you feel you cut our fucking short that I shall make it up to you later.”
That was all I needed to hear. I came screaming, on all fours, my hands digging into the earth under me, as he pounded into me like a stallion. I seeded the spot with my milk as the ground moved under us and I knew that magic was taking us to our next destination.
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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.