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-Seven: Kenet

47: Kenet

Marksin could tell the moment he stepped into the tent that something had changed. I felt my own pulse pound in my ears as he sank to his knees with perfect grace in front of us. I felt like an unruly beast myself in comparison, but perhaps that was true. I was a barely broken-in yearling, while he was a prized war mount.

“Do you wish to see the rest of him?” the general asked me, as if I had not already seen all of him before. That was the thing, I suppose. Each time was a new time.

“Yes, Sir,” I said.

“Go on and take his shirt,” he urged in a low voice.

I circled around behind Marksin, who stayed perfectly still on his knees, and reached behind him to lift the garment over his head, baring his stomach first, and then the rest of his upper body, revealing him to the man who sat on the edge of the sleeping pallet.

The muscles of his bare shoulders and neck were beautiful to behold and I ran my lips along them, catching the scent worn by the camp whore he had just come from, pungent as incense.

“Tell me, Marks,” Roichal said, as embraced him from behind, stroking his flat stomach and teasing the nubs of his nipples. “Did you please her well?”

“I did, Sir,” he answered, and I could hear his answer vibrate through his chest as I had my cheek pressed against his back. “Two of them, in fact.”

“Oh, indeed? Was there enough milk to go around?”

“Oh, yes, Sir,” he said. “I ploughed them each in turn, and then they shared a drink from my fountain, tongues battling for every drop.”

This image, I admit, made my own loins twitch. I imagined myself and Jorin doing the licking, though. Or Marksin and Jorin licking me. Or me and Marksin licking the general…

“You’d best set his prick free, Page,” Roichal said then. “I believe the field marshal’s description has roused us all.”

My hands worked at his uniform trousers, and he stood so that I could pull them down, helping him to step out of them before he knelt again. My own prick pressed against his back, while my hands reached around him to massage his sacks and ensure that his prick was as eager for us as it had been for the women.

Marksin moaned. “Did I do well, Sir?”

“Yes, field marshal, I would say you accomplished my orders beyond any reproach.”

Marksin bowed his head. “I have found I enjoy having two bed partners,” he said quietly, and Roichal chuckled in answer. Indeed.

“Page, do you remember what we talked about?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Let the field marshal come to me then, and I shall hold him for you.” Roichal gestured to Marksin who hesitated a moment, then settled in the spot between Roichal’s legs where I had sat before. Roichal urged him to press close, Marksin’s back against his chest, and his legs spread wide, his cock stiff but so pendulous that it still hung downward.

“Lace your fingers behind your neck,” Roichal said, then peered at me over Marksin’s shoulder. “Pick up the flywhisk.”

I took up the horsehair whisk, the braided leather handle warm in my hand. Marksin’s eyes were wide for a moment, but then he shut them.

“I can feel him trembling,” the general told me. “And you’ve yet to even let him feel it.”

A ragged breath escaped Marksin at that.

“Quiet, now,” Roichal murmured into his ear. “The next tent is not so very far away, you know.”

I swung the whisk a few times, this way and that, then remembered that the general had let me feel its caress before its sting. I brushed it up and down Marksin’s thighs, and the tremble increased enough that I could see it.

I began to whisk very lightly at his inner thighs, but kept catching the tip of his cock with it. Roichal then lifted his cock, holding it against Marksin’s belly, leaving his plums hanging as a ripe target.

Roichal’s other hand ended up over Marksin’s mouth, holding him fast and silent, while the general egged me on with looks and sporadic words. And then quite suddenly the general moved from merely holding Marksin’s cock to pumping it with his hand. “Page,” he said, and needed say no more for me to drop to my knees and open my mouth, awaiting what milk might come.

“Come for me, now, Marks,” the general said, into his ear. “Spill for Page, spill for me.” And as commanded, the milk came forth, and I suckled the glistening head while the general pumped drop after drop. Marksin’s hands had come loose and his arms hung at his sides, limp.

“Very good, Page.” Roichal kissed Marksin on the neck in the same spot I had. “Now give as good as you got. I can see your prick would like some attention.” He tapped on Marksin’s lips and Marks opened his mouth without opening his eyes.

I fed him my cock slowly, and he made a muffled and hungry sound as he suckled.

I could not miss seeing the general’s eyes, the look on his face, given that his chin rested upon Marksin’s shoulder. “Sir?” I asked. “Would you… like a taste?”

“Aye, Page,” he said. “Just a lick or two.”

And so I withdrew my prick from Marksin’s mouth, glistening with spittle, and pressed it between the general’s lips. This time it was me who made the needy sound.

The general had a hand on my hip then, encouraging me to pump in and out, in and out, then pulling me out and nudging me back to Marksin’s mouth. They shared me that way, five or ten pumps into one mouth, then into the other, then back again, and it was not long at all before I was on the edge off spilling once again.

“Sir?”

“I’m ready, Page,” he said, holding tight to the man in his arms. “Push and push now, and I’ll tell you when to spill down his throat.”

I fucked Marksin’s mouth then, with my hands in his hair, until Roichal gave the word, and then I had to bite my lip to keep from shouting as I came.

And I felt it this time, like a spasm in the air itself, as Roichal came, too. Marksin must’ve also, for his eyes flew open.

“Thunderclouds roll,” he swore, then, sounding exhausted, but happy.

I encouraged the two of them to merely collapse on their sides, still pressed together like spoons, while I lay down alongside. I could not have told you which of the three of us was asleep first.

I awoke in the middle of the night—no, it was just pre-dawn, the hour that the camp first began to stir. And I could hear a whispered argument going on just outside the tent.

That’s the thing about tents, isn’t it? Nothing so solid as a door, and I could hear the whispers perfectly well, though no one down the hill could.

It was the one word, said with such urgency it bordered on fear, that woke me. “Sir!”

“You needn’t worry, Marks.”

“But Sir! This is no trivial matter!”

“Page has been entrusted to our care.”

“By circumstance, not by royal decree! And even so! The penalty…! Striking the royal flesh is punishable by castration!”

At that Roichal chuckled, low and deep in his chest. “I would hardly call brushing his skin with a flywhisk ‘striking’ him.”

“The crown may not see it that way!”

“Hush, Marks. Will you be the one to tell them?”

“Of course not! But the pr—”

“Hush, hush. Do you agree he is safer with us than anywhere else in Trest?”

“Yes.”

“Then do not worry. He would no more betray me than you would.”

“You seem so sure of that. Yet he is bound by night spells of some kind.”

“That he is. Please, Marks, leave the worrying to me. It is none of your responsibility. Now please assure me that these concerns of yours are truly over the identity of our charge, and not that I have overstepped my bounds with you at last?”

There was silence for a moment, and I feared that perhaps we had been wrong and pushed Marksin too far, but the next thing I heard was the tent flap being pushed aside, and although I continued to feign sleep, I peered through slitted lashes just enough to see Marksin had knelt at Roichal’s feet, his head bowed and accepting the stroking of the general’s hand down the sleek blackness of his hair.

So, they knew I was the prince. I wondered how they knew, and for how long. But they did not know that I knew, and I was, as they said, safest playing the role of Roichal’s page. Perhaps so long as I did not do anything but play my part, I would be able to stay as I was until I could find Jorin. There were still men arriving from the west; surely one of these battalions would be his.

* * *

Can’t get enough of Kenet and Jorin? Visit The Prince’s Boy fan art gallery on Cecilia’s website!

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