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 Fifty-Four: Jorin
54: Jorin
I have likely been remiss in relating what being beaten is like. There is quite a difference between being struck with a fist, as in a fight, and being strapped or whipped, as in the punishments I accepted, first as Kenet’s ladra’an, then as Sergetten’s bound slave.
There is no less violence in the whip, and indeed, far greater intensity of pain in the burn of leather across skin than in the mere crunch of knuckle or bone against flesh. A man is much more likely to scream upon a single touch of the strap than he would upon being kicked or punched.
I am not singular in this regard.
The punishment lash, though, does little damage when compared with a fighting blow. It raises a welt, perhaps draws blood, and it may leave a bruise, but the damage it does is largely to a man’s pride rather than his flesh. That is, unless one’s ability to withstand a beating is one’s main source of pride.
As mine is.
This was why Sergetten could whip me until his arm was tired and yet leave me relatively unaffected.
I cannot say the same of sexual matters, though. Though Sergetten called me the fucktoy of the Night Riders, I am no whore. (Am I? I think back to the warmth of Pashal’s hand around my prick as he held me steady to piss, and of him visiting my bed in the night. Of Kan finding me under the tinglebush, naked and seized with erotic dreams. Of me taunting the riders into taking action. Of desiring Kenet, and being ever ready to pleasure him, to bring him to peak after peak, night after night, in the secret confines of our bed…)
Perhaps, though, I could be said to have a sensual streak. If so, however, it did not feel like much help to me when I was faced with the task of mounting Sergetten with my eyes blindfolded and my hands bound behind my back.
I inched forward until my chest bumped the side of the sleeping pallet upon which I knew he lay. I got to my feet, and feeling with my toes, found the soft surface atop it and then climbed carefully over one of his legs, to settle between his knees.
He said nothing, made no sound but a pleased grunt as I brushed my lips against his inner thigh and kissed my way toward his prick.
His milksacks were damp and doughy, and I tugged them gently with my lips, feeling his shaft begin to fill. Oh yes, he liked that, and I took to licking the furred balls until another sound escaped him. I kept licking until I moved up the shaft itself, all the way to the leaking, salty tip. From there it was a simple matter of suction to pull the bulbous end into my mouth, and I was gratified to feel him quicken. I was the one who groaned as he came to full size in my mouth. I sucked and licked him, recalling that if he had wished it, I could be in an agony of need now, desperate to get him inside me. But he had kept his promises, so far, about not allowing the bond spell to rule my lusts that way.
I wondered if it might have been a blessing in disguise in this case, to want him that badly, rather than to be speeding clear-eyed toward an inexorable end in which I would take him into my body and milk him with my most intimate place, merely because that was the task set for me.
“There is a jar of unguent by my hip,” he said, and I heard, or imagined, an edge of amusement in his voice. “When you have had enough of a taste of my flesh, you may wish to coat me with the stuff.”
I nodded, flicking my tongue against the most sensitive spot I could find and making his hips jerk. I might have been smiling just a little as I twisted to get the jar of cock grease in my hands and opened it behind my back. I dug my fingers into it and then moved so that I was kneeling astride his chest, my hands behind me grasping that hot flesh, sliding up and down with the grease.
I then pushed my fingers into myself as best I could, which was not very deep or very well, but at least I too, was greased. I rubbed the pucker of my hole against his shaft and gasped as unexpectedly intense pleasure sent sparks across my skin.
I hesitated, though, when I seated the spongy head against my hole. This would be a pain neither like a punch nor the cut of a lash. I had never received a spear wound, but after the way Kan had taken me that very first time, and how Gresh had shown me no mercy either, I could only imagine that it might feel similar.
No, actually, a spear is probably less painful, because its sharp point makes it easy to breach you. The blunt end of a cock, however, is something else entirely.
“Steady,” he said, his voice soft. Almost kind. I wondered what his face looked like just then.
“I’m trying,” I heard myself say.
“I know.” I felt a caress down my chest, a finger circling one nipple but not not pinching it or pulling it directly. His next words were a goad, but a gentle one. “I thought you feared nothing, Weltskin.”
“When did I claim that?”
“You certainly do not fear pain,” he continued.
At that I bit my lip. “Not all pain… is the same,” I said, pressing down and then slipping off target, despite my fingers trying to guide him in.
“Indeed,” he agreed, giving one of my nipples a short pinch. “This will be a worthwhile pain, though, will it not?”
I reminded myself that by doing this I would earn his promise to protect Kenet.
“And it will not all be pain,” he added, and I felt a hand tug at my cock. I grunted, as desire only tightened everything in me. “I am large, but I am confident you can accommodate me without injury. Your insides will not tear. Merely hurt.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said, but he was distracting me with steady strokes of my cock now and I might have said that to anything. In fact, I could not concentrate enough to finish what I was doing. “Please, Sir, leave my cock alone… for a few moments… if you would? I… I don’t mean to presume to tell you what to do with me, I just… please. I will do as you ask now.”
His only answer was to leave my cock alone.
Very well. Nothing left to wait for then. I pressed and pressed and pressed, and then quite suddenly my weight sank down and I screamed at the sudden burn of intrusion.
But like the lash, it was only sharp for a mere moment, and then the pain ebbed to something more bearable.
He gave me only a moment to adjust before he said, quite sharp, “Fuck me.”
I moved slowly, but I moved, lifting myself up and then lowering myself down, taking him deeper each time, the pain now a kind of bearable ache that made me tremble all over. A pain that I controlled by my slowness, never becoming harsh again, but instead a steadier sensation…
I groaned, beginning to doubt it was pain at all. A fine sheen of sweat had broken out across my skin, and he blew on my nipples, making my entire torso quiver. I began to rock forward and back more quickly then, seeking more of that sensation.
I was quite unprepared for him to yank the blindfold away, unprepared for the brightness of the light and for the expression in his eyes, which was some kind of awe. Although as our eyes met, the spell did something—or Sergetten did—and so I may well be confused. In that instant I saw my own face, eyes round with surprise, cheeks utterly flushed with passion and lust, my lip aquiver with emotions I could not name.
“Spill, Weltskin,” he whispered. “If you can.”
He reached for my cock, but it was already twitching with expelled milk as he did so, shooting up his chest, one ambitious streak reaching his lips. He licked what landed there with relish and then pulled me down into a kiss, his cock snapping upwards into me, as he emptied his milksacks inside me.
His hands stroked my sweaty back and down my rump, and I realized he had released the binding on my wrists when I had gone limp against his chest.
We lay like that for a long time, my face buried in his hair where it was overlong on his neck and shoulder, our hearts and breathing gradually slowing.
I felt a twitch; he was still inside me. He whispered into my ear, the oath no less formal for the intimacy of the way the words were spoken: “Lightning strike me if I lie, but my heart, my spirit, and my body entire are forever dedicated to the royal line and the rule of Maldevar.”
“Thank you,” I whispered back.
“No thanks are necessary, sura’an,” he said, kissing my temple. “You earned it well.”
I had never heard the word he addressed me by before, and yet I knew in my heart what it meant. Not just “slave” but “my slave.”
I was not sure how to feel about the fact that I had seemingly earned his affection, too. It felt good, though, that much I cannot lie about. It felt good to have him kiss me and hum with praise.
I eventually levered myself up and was surprised to find him still quite erect inside me, though I could feel the slippery issue of his milk as well.
“You look surprised,” he said, a small smile on his face.
“I am accustomed to men going limp after they spill,” I explained.
“I am no ordinary man,” he said, settling his hands on my hips and thrusting upward into me. “Someday Kan, too, may learn enough Night Magic to keep stiff, but for now I am one of the few men within Trest’s borders who can do this. Lie back.”
He eased me onto my back, never coming free of my body, and then fucked me slow and gentle, both of us savoring every thrust. I had no desire to spill again myself, but his ability to remain erect apparently allowed him to come again, too. As he drew close to his release he could no longer maintain the languid, controlled rhythm and fell to a sudden, savage hammering.
I savored that, too. It felt good and right to accept his lust that way, and there was no pain at all, only explosions of sensuality across my skin and in my center.
He pulled free rather abruptly upon finishing, though, cock still dripping, and for a moment I wondered what I had done to displease him. Then I realized he had leapt from the low bed to answer an urgent knocking on the door. A voice was calling for him, claiming to have a message from the king himself.
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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.
