Chapter Text

Chapter One - In Which Jared Claims a Slave

Jared enjoys victory. This one in particular has been hard fought and well deserved. The long campaign of war against Regidar is over, and in defeating the Regidarians, Jared has bought his own people riches, pastures, gold and peace.

Before him kneels the last remnants of the Regidar royal family – the King and his three children. Jared has listened to the King’s pleas for terms of surrender – but it is all too late. The war has been won, and the time for negotiations is over. Jared is about to pass his judgement of execution, when the youngest of the royal children shakes free of the soldier pinning him on his knees and makes a wild dash to free his father. Two soldiers subdue him quickly enough, but in the tussle young Prince Jensen’s clothing has been tugged askew, revealing to Jared glimpses of pinkened skin taut over a collarbone, and the vulnerable valley between belly and hipbone.

Returned to his knees the young prince continues to struggle, vibrant green eyes flashing with hatred and contempt, glaring defiance. Jared watches the boy’s lithe body writhing and straining against the soldiers holding him. Jared watches; his heat rising, his heartbeat quickening. He reassesses his strategy.

To the surprise of all he orders the King and the princess to be exiled, banished forever into anonymity far from the lands of their royal birth. The older prince, once heir to the throne of Regidar, will be worked in the fields, hostage against any wrongdoing by the rest of his family. And Jensen, young Prince Jensen, Jared will claim as his own personal slave.

His people applaud and cheer for their compassionate and clever ruler. Jared bows extravagantly and allows the tearful family their final farewells. The ex-King and his daughter are led away; and the older ex-prince, now just Misha, is shackled at wrist and ankle, and dragged away.

‘Welcome to your new life, slave,’ Jared says to Jensen. ‘Your brother’s life depends on your obedience. You will learn fast if you wish him to live.’

Jensen has gone pale, his face blanched with shock and horror. His family has gone and he looks like he will collapse without their presence. He looks in no state to understand anything around him. He looks … devastated.

‘Take him to my chamber and await me there.’ And Jared turns back to his people to announce joyous times to come, the commencement of celebrations planned and hoped for, and a new era of prosperity for their victorious country.

***

‘He escaped, my Lord.’

Jared blinks in disbelief.

‘He was quick and agile and slippery, my Lord. We have all the household staff on alert and soldiers are searching the palace. We will find him, my Lord, it is only a matter of when.’

‘You lost him,’ Jared looks from one trusted soldier to the other. Both have been with him since birth. Bonded by the experience of war, by the passing of fathers, by women and song and drink, he can’t believe they have lost him his new slave already. ‘He’s an untried boy, barely of age, a second son, spare to the heir, and you lost him?’

Christian and Steve look at each other, gauging Jared’s temperament. They guess right when all three burst out laughing, Jared’s the loudest laugh in the room.

‘He’s mine,’ Jared pouts. ‘And you lost him.’

‘He kicked me,’ exasperation clouding Christian’s words. ‘I didn’t stand a chance.’

Jared sends them out to search, offering a sweetener. ‘Return him within the hour, and you may both assist with his punishment.’ And he laughs again at the sound of their hurried boots pounding down the corridor.

***

So sure the runaway will be quickly found, Jared has the punishment equipment set up in the soldiers’ barrack’s courtyard. He arranges for the Kennel Keeper to bring the dogs; for the Head Gardener to return with the ex-prince Misha; and for the Head Slave Trainer to be in attendance.

He has time for a shower, a change of clothes, and a leisurely walk to the courtyard. And there, waiting for him within the allocated time is his slave, flanked by his two smiling friends.

Jared snaps his fingers and Misha is bought forward.

‘Your brother ran from me. This disobedience will be punished. It will cost him pain. It will cost you your left hand.’

Jensen screams in denial, trying to throw himself at Jared. ‘I’m sorry,’ he sobs, ‘I’m sorry! I’ll never do it again! Please, please don’t hurt him!’

But Misha’s arm has already been immobilised across the chopping block. And the axeman is already practicing his swing. Misha himself is too dumbstruck to react. He’s looking at Jensen as though his world has ended, disbelief and betrayal warring for dominance.

Jared nods, the axe falls, and Misha faints away as his hand thuds to the ground amidst a spray of blood. Jensen’s screams of denial can still be heard above the cheer of the crowd of soldiers who have gathered to watch, and the excited barking of the dogs.

‘Thank me for my mercy, slave,’ Jared commands his sobbing slave. ‘Thank me for my mercy now, or I’ll take his other hand.’

Jensen’s eyes are gummed with tears, his throat is stripped from screaming, and it’s clear that his heart has broken. He stutters hoarsely and repeatedly ‘thank you, thank you’, but it is clear he does not understand why.

‘Your disobedience cost your brother his life. But in my mercy I took only his hand. With one hand he will still be useful in the fields. But he cannot afford to lose the other. Do you understand? I have given him the gift of his life. Thank me for my mercy.’

‘Thank you, thank you,’ Jensen sobs, as he watches his brother’s limp body removed from the courtyard.

‘Thank you Master, for your mercy,’ Jared coaches.

‘Thank you Master, for your mercy,’ Jensen repeats.

‘Remove your clothing. Every piece. Now.’

Jensen’s guards let him go, and he sways before he makes the effort to stand on his own. He knows he can’t afford the cost of disobedience. He removes his shirt in one swift move, revealing milky skin over a slight but muscular physique. Jensen’s body ripples with tremors, but he balances carefully and removes his boots and socks. He reaches for his waistband and slides trousers and pants off together. He swipes at his eyes with the backs of his hands, denies himself the need to cover himself, and stands waiting for his punishment.

Jared’s heart is in his mouth. The beauty of the body before him is astonishing. He steels himself to get through the punishing so he can get more quickly to the ravishing.

‘Secure him for the dogs.’

Jensen starts to fight through pure instinct as the soldiers move in with rope and poles, but quickly remembers himself and submits. He fights waves of dizzy nausea instead as he is forced to his back, spreadeagled and tied firmly onto two long poles, one stretched above his head and one at his ankles.

Jared comes to inspect the bondage. He snaps his fingers for a knife and carves notches on the poles a full hand-span’s measure wider at each point where Jensen is secured. The soldiers release and readjust Jensen’s body, stretching it wider, even more open, hitching the ropes into the new notches.

Jared denies himself the opportunity to run his fingers down Jensen’s spread body. He resists pinching and twisting the soft dusky nipples. He holds himself back from dragging his nails through the light thatch of hair at Jensen’s groin. And he refuses himself the touch of his fingertips over Jensen’s soft little cowering cock.

Just when Jensen thinks that he will break and beg for mercy for himself, a large ball is pushed into his mouth and secured with a cloth gag. He panics for a moment, unable to breathe through his blocked mouth, unable to tell them that he can’t breathe, can’t breathe, can’t breathe, when he realises that Jared is insistently tapping on his nose. Oh, he thinks, and drags in air shakily through his nose.

‘Kennel Master, are you ready?’ Jared’s voice is loud above the sounds of the crowd and the yipping and barking of the excited dogs.

***

Jensen thinks he is about to be executed; about to be ripped apart by the dogs. He whimpers, swallows convulsively, and prays for a quick death. Four soldiers position themselves, one at each end of the long poles, and lift, raising his spreadeagled body off the ground. The strain on his wrists and ankles is beyond pain, rope rubbing roughly on tender flesh. The soldiers work hard to keep his body from bowing at the middle, keeping him stretched long and wide.

They move as one to carry him over to the waiting pack of dogs.

With a shrill whistle the Kennel Master quietens his five assistants who are each holding six leashed dogs. The dogs sit instantly, sniffing curiously at the bound man hovering just above them. As Jensen’s body is lowered slowly amongst them, the Kennel Master starts repeating one word over and over in a sharp command.

‘Scent!’ he says. ‘Scent!’

Jensen understands now why he was gagged. He realises that the sound of his terrified screams would have spooked the dogs into biting him instead of what they have been carefully trained to do at the command of ‘Scent!’ Fortunately the gag prevents his screams from being very loud at all, even though he makes them and they are full of his terror.

The dogs swarm his spreadeagled body, held taut and stretched wide by the poles and the strain of the soldiers. Jensen hovers a scant foot above the ground, but it’s enough to allow the dogs to walk under him, reach over him, and access every part of him. They jostle each other in their efforts to sniff and lick him, memorising his scent. Taller dogs lick his face; hot tongues over his nose, over his stretched gagged lips, trying to pry open his tear-salty eyes. Others are sniffing his armpits, licking up and down his arms, insistent tongues trying to unfurl his clenched fingers. He can feel wet noses and warm air along his crack, over his anus, then warm wet tongues trying to taste him. There are hot, hairy, dog-bodies between his legs, licking his thighs, his taint, behind his knees. His feet are twitching in response to tickling tongues between his toes and up and down his instep.

He’s lowered further, so that the warm bodies squirm out from underneath him, and the Kennel Master is still calling ‘Scent!’ In his terror, Jensen wets himself, the warm urine sparking a frenzy of yipping as every dog tries to lick his cock and his thighs and crack, where the urine has flowed down. He is responding, unwillingly, filling slowly under the lavish attention of so many warm tongues and cold noses. The assistants strain on the leashes, ensuring no dog forgets his training and accidentally bites off Jared’s prize.

Finally the Kennel Master is satisfied and the dogs are called off. As an excited pack, they return to their kennels, licking noses and lips, savouring the scent and taste of Jensen.

Jensen is beyond terror now, hanging limp and unresponsive in his bondage, his skin slick with cooling dog saliva.

***

Jared is filled with pride over the good behaviour of his dogs. He loves them all and has spent much time with the Kennel Master ensuring their care and training is top rate. He’s proud and pleased with their display of obedience and their dedication to the task of scenting Jensen. He saw no nips or bites, the greatest risk for his new slave, only lots of licks and sniffs. Perfectly submitted to their master’s command – exactly what he expects from his personal slave.

Jared gestures the soldiers to carry the poles and their bound burden over to the designated punishment area. They gently lower the poles; the one at Jensen’s wrists is stretched above his head, and secured to the ground with two u-shaped pegs. While the soldiers position Jensen’s body so that his back is straight and stretched along the ground, and the pole holding his feet is raised skyward, Jared carefully removes the saliva soaked gag and pries the large ball from his slave’s mouth.

Jensen’s head lolls and his eyes flutter, but don’t open. Jared slaps Jensen's face lightly, one way then the other; then slowly but relentlessly pours a large jug of water over his slave's face. Jensen startles back into consciousness, spluttering and snorting, as he fights against the feeling of drowning. He can’t move, not a millimetre, so securely tied and stretched is he. His skin is cool and sticky and he can’t even feel shame at his nakedness. He recalls wetting himself, but can’t care enough for even the slightest blush. His fear has abandoned him, and he’s left feeling disappointed that he’s not dead.

A face looms above him. No. His Master’s face looms above him. Jensen manages to catch some of what Jared is saying, but really, he doesn’t need the words. He’s not stupid. He gets that the dogs know him now, know him intimately. Should he be foolish enough to run away again, his brother will die, and the dogs will simply track Jensen down. Yes Master, I get it.

By the time he realises that he has been moved, and the vulnerable position he has been moved to, Jensen can do nothing to stop the tears that leak from his eyes.

Continued in Part Two

Chapter Text

Chapter Two - In Which a Slave is Punished

Jared has Jeffrey, the Head Slave Trainer, cleanse Jensen’s cock of dog saliva, dog hair and dirt. Jeffrey pays it careful attention, cleaning with minimal fuss. Jensen barely notices.

Jared motions to Christian and Steve to begin the punishment. Each collects their implement – light strappy canes - and make some practice swings, whooshing the canes through the air. The crowd has grown and they bustle for the best vantage points, looking forward to seeing the new slave suffer.

Jensen is laying on his back on the ground. He is spreadeagled; tied firmly at wrist and ankle. His body bends at the hips, the pole his ankles are tied to has been raised so that his feet are in the air. His legs make a wide V shape. Jeffrey steps forward and lays a red, fringed mat on the ground right in front of Jensen’s displayed arse.

Jensen tries, but fails, to faint. His body is shaking with fear, and his breathing is hitched and noisy. He is terrified.

‘One hundred,’ Jared says to Christian and Steve. ‘Stop at every twenty. Begin.’

The canes fall in unison, striking the soles of Jensen’s feet, Christian at his left and Steve at his right. The strokes are forceful, but not vicious, and are evenly paced. They begin at his heels, continue down his instep, then focus on the balls of his feet. Then back again. And back again. They sound the count softly, together, each stroke matched for speed, strength and timing.

The first stroke startles a grunt from Jensen. He tries to stay silent, but by the eighth stroke his feet are glowing with fire, and he cries aloud as each blow falls. By fourteen, pain is radiating up his calves and his feet feel hot and swollen. Each stroke now lands atop of already inflamed skin, and at stroke seventeen he screams ‘stop, stop’ over and over. At twenty they do stop, and his chest heaves through the absence of strike twenty-one.

Jeffrey moves forward quickly, lies on his belly on the mat, and slurps Jensen’s soft cock into his mouth. Jensen is shaking his head in disbelief, he has never heard of, never imagined, such a thing. Jeffrey’s mouth is warm and wet and his tongue is roaming up and down and round Jensen’s cock. Jeffrey lays his tongue long and flat around the hardening cock and suckles.

Jensen instinctively tries to wrench himself away, but his fight against his bondage is useless. The pain of his feet fights for dominance with the sensation of having his cock sucked. He’s getting hard and a pool of heat is building in his groin. He is screaming his denial, his desperate ‘no’s keeping rhythm with the sucking of his cock. He is fully hard now, the first time ever in another’s company, and he sobs in realisation.

Jeffrey has been carefully noting the slave’s reactions to his ministrations. When the slave’s thigh muscles start to twitch, straining from their effort to thrust, Jeffrey applies greater suction to the hard cock filling his mouth. He times his withdrawal perfectly, just this side of the brink of the slave’s orgasm. The slave’s hips work to find something for his cock to rub against but he is defeated by his bondage. Jeffrey slips away to wait out the next count of twenty.

Jensen looks wildly around for Jared. ‘Please. No. Please. Stop. I’ll never…’ but the first double strike hits the soles of his feet, and his screams become incoherent. Sharp pain slices through him, enough to wipe away all thought of the pleasure a man’s mouth could bring.

The soldiers fight to keep the pole steady against the power of Jensen’s struggles and the relentless fall of the punishing canes.

Jensen sobs his way through the next twenty strokes. Tears, snot and sweat soak his pink-stained face. His feet feel like they have lost the top layer of skin and he imagines they are drenched in blood. His entire body aches with exhaustion at being held at straining point for so long. When Jeffrey takes his soft cock and sucks it hard again, Jensen strains to tip over the peak his body is reaching for, but fails again when Jeffrey withdraws as he hovers near the edge.

‘Please stop,’ he yells to Jared. ‘Please. I understand. I’ll never run again. There’s no need …’ but the next twenty strokes begin, and his words are lost in agonised groans. With each stroke of the cane he feels as if they have burst through skin and muscle and tendons and are breaking each and every bone in his feet. Agony laid on top of agony.

It takes longer for Jeffrey to get him to hardness this time, but with skilled attention to tonguing and sucking and swallowing, the slave is there again, panting out a rhythmic beat of groans. Jeffrey simply listens this time, lets the level of desperation in the slave’s ruined voice tell him the exact moment to withdraw.

Jensen loses himself after the first stroke of the next twenty. He knows that they are still beating his feet, knows that he is being sucked to the edge of pleasure, but he just cannot bear it anymore. He can’t stop it, can’t fight it, can’t escape it. He can only endure it. Survive it. Submit to it. He can’t stop his own agonised groans and he can’t stop his body’s need to twist and writhe and thrust. But he can ride above it, lost in adrenaline and endorphins, in pain and pleasure.

The sound of the count reaching ninety-nine then one hundred has the crowd erupting in cheers. Jeffrey swallows the slave’s soft cock, undulates his throat and sucks with a strength and rhythm that has Jensen on the edge so swiftly that it hurts. Then in a white hot blur of pure pleasure Jensen comes, Jeffrey withdrawing in time to guide the ropey white dollops to fall over Jensen’s belly. Overcome by sensation, Jensen’s body finally gives out on him and he faints into unconsciousness.

When he comes to, the soldiers have untied him and have left him laying on the ground. Two step forward and lift him between them, his arms over their shoulders. He faints again mid-scream as gravity forces blood back into his feet. He’s roused with a splash of water and is carried over to Jared.

‘Thank me for your punishment,’ Jared commands him.

‘Thank you Master,’ Jensen responds immediately with a voice destroyed by his screaming.

‘You will follow me back to my chambers. And with each step you will promise never to run away again.’ Jared takes a lingering look, noting the mix and swirls of sweat and saliva and come and drool and dirt. To the soldiers he adds, ‘Hose him off thoroughly before entering the palace.’ And with that, Jared flicks his cloak, waves good night to his people, and starts a leisurely, regal walk back to his chambers.

The soldiers slowly lower Jensen onto his feet. They wince at the agonised scream that croaks out of Jensen’s devastated voice. They hover near him ready to catch, as Jensen faints three times before they even cross the front courtyard. They offer silent support for the young slave’s determination, and they catch his lips moving as he silently repeats his mantra ‘I promise to never run away again’ on each step.

It takes them over an hour to get to Jared’s chamber, and that’s only because the soldiers lift Jensen up the grand staircase, rather than risk him toppling senseless down the stairs.

Jared doesn’t mind – he’s had time to shower again, change into comfortable house clothes, eat a light supper, and plan the evening ahead.

***

Jared’s breath catches when the soldiers arrive with his slave. Jensen hangs between them, lifted high enough by his arms draped round their shoulders that his feet are not touching the ground. Jensen is cold and shivering from the hosing he endured. He is scrubbed raw, pink and glowing, his skin prickling in goosebumps, and already gleaming with a soft sweat from his efforts to protect his feet. He seems barely conscious, but his eyes are fever-bright and track Jared immediately.

‘I promise…’ he croaks, through parched, cracked lips, barely loud enough for Jared to understand. ‘Master, I promise…’

‘Good. That’s good, pet.’ Jared soothes, then he turns to the other man in the room. ‘Alistair, this is the one.’

Alistair is the foremost leatherworker in all the land. Since Jared’s urgent summons, he has been taking instructions for a special order. Alistair minds little that he has been pulled away from the horse harnesses he had been working on - Jared’s patronage will be worth the time away from his current projects. Jared demands quality, precision, uniqueness, discretion and haste. Alistair will deliver on all counts.

‘Oh yes,’ Alistair gives the slave a long appraisal. ‘This is an excellent acquisition, my Lord. May I begin the measurements now?’

At Jared’s nod Alistair measures every part of the slave. Scratching notes and numbers in a small book, Alistair is thorough and precise, taking extra care to touch Jared’s possession only in the most minimal and professional way.

As they walk to the door of Jared’s chambers, Alistair assures him that he will personally deliver the order the moment it is completed. He bows his head deferentially and very quietly risks a delicate offer. ‘My Lord, I have a range of other items that I produce for other very discrete gentlemen of the town who have acquisitions such as your own. Specially designed items for the enhancing, adorning, or perchance, chastising, of one’s acquisitions. Perhaps, if you were interested, I could bring a selection with me when next I call?’

Jared glances back at Jensen.

‘Everything,’ he manages to say to Alistair. ‘Bring everything. I want it all.’

‘Furniture pieces, too, my Lord?’ Alistair offers, knowing when to push. ‘I have designed several… for the displaying of your acquisition, or ….’

‘Yes, yes,’ impatient growl because he wants the items right now, right now, to chastise, and display, and adorn…. ‘Everything.’

Alistair acknowledges the need for haste. ‘Of course, my Lord, I will work swiftly for you,’ he assures, as he takes his leave, flaps of his jacket flying as he rushes away.

***

When Jared sends the soldiers away Jensen sinks to his knees, unable to stand on his traumatised feet. He is trembling from cold and shock so severely that Jensen can barely stay upright. The soldiers hadn’t been content with simply hosing off the grime and various bodily fluids marring his skin, they had set the hose at its highest setting and bombarded him with water. They had scrubbed him with the stiff wire brush usually used by the servants to scrape mud and dirt from boots. And when the water had run clear, they had walked him through the palace, dripping and limp.

Jensen has never known pain in the way that he knows it now. His life as the spare royal prince had been one of comfort and ease. He’s never known hunger, never been apart from his family, never been beaten. Never urinated in public, never been touched intimately by another, never walked naked through public corridors. Never been a slave. Until now.

Jensen stifles a sob, just wants to collapse and start again tomorrow. He’ll be the best slave he can be, once he knows the rules, the expectations; but he’s just too tired tonight. He needs a good night’s sleep, a hearty breakfast, and he’ll be just fine to get it right tomorrow. Perhaps if he explains this to his… Master… perhaps he will understand…

‘This way,’ Jared informs him without a glance, and walks into his bedchamber.

Jensen crawls on hands and knees, trying to keep his feet from touching the ground.

Jared too is exhausted from a long day. He has won a war, exiled an enemy, punished a prince, and taken a slave. He has ensured that celebrations will continue throughout the city under the watchful eyes of his soldiers. He plans some well-deserved sleep, but first he must fuck his slave. Claim him, mark him, own him, at last. His slave. His personal slave. His. Mine.

He picks up the temporary collar that Alistair has loaned him, and the chain attached to it.

‘Mine,’ he says as he places the collar around his slave’s neck.

He drags Jensen by the chain over to his writing desk, and while he is moving aside various papers and inkpots, he hands Jensen a small pot of salve and tells him to quickly prepare himself.

‘Prepare?’ Jensen’s trembling fingers hold the little pot, but he does not know what he’s meant to do with it. Maybe it’s meant for his sore feet, but the pot is quite small and he thinks he would need a lot of salve before they would feel any better. ‘I… I don’t ….’

‘Foolish boy,’ Jared snatches the pot back. ‘You think you don’t need preparation. Another choice you'll soon regret. Up, now.’

Jared grabs him and pulls him up onto the desk, belly down, arms and feet flailing. Jensen is yelling ‘no’ and ‘stop’ but Jared is too busy winding the chain around Jensen’s wrists and securing it to a table leg.

‘Never say no to me, slave,’ Jared growls, resting his fully clothed body atop of the writhing nakedness of his laid out slave.

The cool smooth timber of the table gives Jensen nowhere to go. Jared has him pinned on his belly, his wrists chained, and the edge of the table digging into his hips. His feet dangle freely and every movement feels like sharp knives slicing open his soles. He has no idea what is going to happen, or what he is meant to do. He’s trying to swallow against the pain of his shredded throat, trying to look over his shoulder at his Master, trying to understand why he is draped over a writing desk in such a way.

Jared knows this is going to be fast and dirty. He just needs too much to bother with any finesse. His beautiful slave lays beneath him, a carnal invitation in every wriggle, every hitch of hips. His hands are holding those bony hips and he presses his thumbs into the roundness of the boy’s arse cheeks, pulling them apart to see the tiny, tiny hole hidden between. He can feel his control slipping further and further away. He undoes his trousers with one hand and pulls out his hardened cock. The foolish boy may think he doesn’t need prep but Jared doesn’t want a dry fuck, so he smothers himself liberally with the salve, then wipes his fingers along the boy’s crack, smearing more around the tight, little hole.

Jensen screams at the touch of Jared’s hand where no-one ever has touched before. It’s hard to get enough air in his lungs, he is pressed so hard against the table by the body weight leaning down on him. He’s yelling ‘no’ and ‘don’t’ and ‘stop’, but the sound comes out hoarse and he knows his Master is not listening. He is panting in fear, knowing that whatever is going to happen next won’t be good. There is no stopping his scream when he feels a finger smoothing down his crack and around his hole. He can’t imagine why he needs salve there, nothing there hurts.

Jared rests the head of his cock right at the boy’s entrance.

***

Jared wants to go slow, slow, slow – but his need is an unstoppable force pounding a pulsing beat in his hardened cock. The beauty of the boy’s bowed back is breathtaking. He watches soft skin, creamy white under the pressure of his fingers, blossom into darkening ruby when he releases his grip. He leans over and presses wet tongue-filled kisses across the nape of the boy’s neck, then follows them up with suctioned teeth-filled bites.

The slave bucks in agony, and Jared relishes the friction of the boy’s arse rubbing against his slick throbbing cock.

Till he can take it no more.

With a final slathering of salve, Jared grips his slave’s hips and thrusts straight through the barrier of the tightly clenched sphincter. Three more forceful thrusts and he is fully sheathed in a tight warmth that feels like home. His home. His, by right of ownership. His, to languish in, to pound in, to luxuriate in. His. Home.

Jared groans long and deeply, then gives free reign to his passion. He pounds with an urgency he’s never felt before, body reaching for a peak so high he can’t wait to get there. Every blood cell in his body has raced towards his cock, and his balls feel like they’re drawn up and hugging him tight just to stop being slapped against his slave’s arse. He’s holding on like his life depends on it; burning drag out, fiery thrust in.

Till he comes with a roar that he can’t hold back, and his eyes roll, and his body peaks with an intensity that obliterates every other fuck he’s ever had. He’s pumping and pumping, filling his slave with come. He slows, overtaken by exhaustion, and just wants to sleep right there on top of his boy, buried deep in him. He rocks in and out for a while, slick and sensitive, then pulls out. He swipes his damp cock across the back of his slave’s legs, and stumbles to his bed, shedding shirt and pants.

Too tired to bother with his bedclothes, he pulls up his blankets against the chill of the night and snuggles sleepily. He adjusts his pillow so he can watch his own come drip from the red puffy hole of his slave, still bound and softly sobbing over his writing desk.

He thinks it’s been a perfect day, and finally succumbs to the deep sleep of deserving victors.

Continued in Chapter Three

Chapter Text

Chapter Three - In which a slave is milked dry.

Jared’s slave is returned to him by the Healer four days later.

Four mornings earlier, Jared had been woken by his nursemaid …

‘What happens, My Lord,’ her soft voice waking him gently in the early morning light, ‘what happens to our toys when we don’t put them away properly?’

‘They get broken,’ Jared mumbles with the long-learned answer from his childhood. ‘They get broken, and Amy-nan throws them away.’

‘That’s right, My Lord,’ Amy-nan agrees angrily. ‘Is that what I’m meant to do with this,’ pointing to the slave’s cold silent body laying limply over the writing desk. ‘Just throw him away?’

The household staff have been agog with the news that a slave has been lodged in the infirmary, cared for by the Household Healer himself.

Jared has spent his time since, attending to the ruling of his expanding realm with a ruthlessness that has shocked even the oldest of his allies. He pushes out his peacetime plans with harsh determination, backing them with threats that he will simply go to war again just to enforce them.

He has stalked the palace hallways through the daytime and prowls his private chambers by night. His temper is red hot; and his demeanour is ice cold. He is lightning waiting to strike. He is a hurricane waiting to unleash. There is no one in the palace who wants to be near him when he does.

All prayers are with the Healer, that he is able to return Jared’s slave soon.

When his slave finally hobbles through his chamber doorway, Jared instructs him to remove the clothes he has arrived in. Jared gathers up his papers and takes them to the large couch that sits in front of the glowing fireplace. He puts one of the soft cushions on the floor. And he gestures for his slave to sit on the cushion, at his feet, naked, in front of the fire, while he reads his papers of state. Occasionally, Jared will reach out, without pausing in his reading, and smooth his hand through his slave’s hair.

And Jared relaxes for the first time in four days.

***

There’s a problem with his slave, and Jared doesn’t know what to do about it. It’s a flaw he hadn’t really noticed at first, delighted as he was with all other aspects of his slave. But this flaw has grown in importance now, and sometimes it is all that he can see.

His first thought was to dispose of his current slave, and to seek out another with more consideration than he used in choosing the first. One, well, not flawed.

But then, when he looks past the flaw, looks perhaps at those expressive green eyes and luscious full lips, looks maybe at the absolute beauty of that body arched taut in pain or in pleasure, he knows he can’t do it. Can’t be without his slave. This slave. Can’t not-own him. This one, the one he chose, the one who was made, and is being remade, just for him.

And so he will need to find a way to live with the flaw. Or, he shivers with a thrill of possibility, maybe find a way to have it fixed …

***

Jared has been very pleased with the quality and variety of items that Alistair has so far delivered. So pleased in fact, that he has cleared the chamber above his own private rooms, just to house his new items … and to create a space to play with them. Reached by a tight spiral staircase at the back of his rooms, it had previously housed his own childhood furniture, toys, and outgrown clothes. All this has been removed to a dingy basement at the other end of the palace, leaving him with a considerable space for his newly acquired adult furniture, toys and play clothes.

The chamber has been scrubbed clean and repainted, the plumbing has been reconnected to the small bathing area, and the dust-thick velvet curtains have been laundered. The fireplace has been swept out, the chimney cleared, and the woodpile stocked high. Bars have been placed across the windows, and locks have been added to the only other entrance door. Cupboards have been added, some tall, others for their bench space and drawers.

Several heavy pieces of furniture have already been placed – a large t-shaped cross in a solid frame, and a large x-shaped cross that can be raised vertical and lowered horizontal as required. A solid leather armchair and thick cosy rug are in front of the fireplace.

Jared has allowed Alistair to organise the placement of chains and hooks and pulleys, and has been quietly, darkly, heatedly, thrilled with the possibilities they represent. He is utterly impressed with Alistair’s workmanship and attention to detail.

For example, the piece he is using right now, is utterly exquisite.

His slave is on his knees. Each knee rests on a lushly padded leather-encased cushion. The cushions are attached to small squares of wood that slide on the frame and can be locked into place close together or at any width apart. At the moment, they are stretched wide enough to only be mildly uncomfortable for his slave, the inner thigh muscles nicely stretched. Padded leather straps hold the knees in place, designed for firm restraint not painful constriction. The slave’s leather ankle straps have been clipped together too, and fastened to the frame.

Kneeling up tall, his slave’s leather wrist straps clip high into the corners of the equipment’s wooden frame. There are various positions down the sides of the frame, for different effects, but today the slave’s arms are stretched wide too, high above his head, resting in their leather cuffs. And here’s the little attention to detail that has so impressed Jared – such a little thing, but adds so much to the overall function of the piece. Little grip bars have been provided for in the design. Even though the wrists are firmly restrained, the slave’s hands can grip, or not, the little bars. And it is really only when the slave is in extremis that the perfection of the addition of the grip bars can truly be appreciated. Whether straining to reach for his pleasure or to reach away from his pain, the grip bars give the slave something to strain against, enhancing beautifully the stretch and arch of his displayed body.

Jared has turned the armchair away from the fireplace, so that, with the warmth of the fire at his back, he can recline and watch the glorious sight that is his slave. He has given a great deal of thought to fixing his slave’s flaw, and has planned this day together before the attempt is made.

‘I can’t hear you,’ he taunts, voice low, consequences fluttering behind the words.

He’s pleased with the response - a series of moans, soft vocalisations made on each panted exhalation. Judging by the pace and resonance of the moans, Jared feels it will still be some time before his slave climaxes again.

Jared reaches for his book, a dry tome on the religious doctrines of his defeated enemy. It is only bearable because of his slave’s voice in the background cueing him when to take a break and look up and watch his sublime suffering or supreme ecstasy.

***

Jensen has learned to dread the trip up the spiral staircase. Sometimes, just looking at it causes his breath to catch, choking with fear-filled anticipation. It seems each time he has ascended the stairs some new horror awaits him.

He has had a difficult time adjusting to his slavery. That his brother is hostage for his actions is the only reason he has not attempted escape again. Freedom, either through escape or death, is his only dream, his only hope.

He cannot believe that any person, no matter into what station of life they were born, could ever hope to survive being his Master’s slave. He prays he will do something that will so anger his Master that he will be given away or put to death or locked in a dungeon to rot. He prays that some new young thing will attract his Master’s attention and that he, Jensen, will lose his Master’s favour and be cast aside. He prays his Master will forget his own strength, or tie him too tightly, or use him so harshly, or whip him without restraint, until, through blood loss or asphyxiation or brokenness, his body just gives up and dies.

He doesn’t understand his own traitor body. They way it moves without consent, the way it feels without thought, the way it yearns without learning. Was a time, before, when his body was his own – his own to protect, to train, to strengthen and to privately explore. Now it is weak and vulnerable, easily marked and broken, trained to endure pain and to seek pleasure. Exposed and naked, laid out on display like a public proclamation. Now it belongs to another.

He thinks …

‘I can’t hear you,’ his Master’s voice taunts him, deep and low, consequences fluttering behind the words.

Startled back to the present, Jensen allows his own voice to reveal the state of his body. His Master has instructed him to vocalise his every feeling in every moment, a constant litany of sound, laying him open and leaving him totally exposed. Each time he falls silent his Master has struck him. Jensen has already felt three strokes of what he thinks must be a cane – sharp, white slice of pain fading into a crisp fiery line of hurt. A thick black blindfold has removed his sight and it is only his sense memory of the implement that makes him think it is a cane.

He is bound on his knees in one of his Master’s new contraptions. With one of his Master’s new toys pushed deep inside of him. It seemed a small thing at first, compared to his Master’s length and girth, but it has revealed itself to be just as cruel. Long twin metal prongs joined at one end to a thick metal bulb and encased within a thin but sturdy layer of leather. One of the prongs has a bumpy knob on the side, measured and placed specifically for Jensen, causing the leather there to stretch tight. It’s a tricky toy to insert, because the lubricating oil used sometimes by his Master diminishes the effect, so Jensen must breath deeply, relax as he can, and allow the slow dry entry of this obscene item.

In the blackness behind his blindfold, lost in the sensations of his own body, he loses conscious awareness that his voice is broadcasting his deepest feelings. His moans are a rhythmic melody, with his whimpers and sobs providing harmony. His pulse provides the beat, and his keening can reach a pleasing tone before it breaks into harsh guttural grunts. Sometimes he is able to form words – no! please! Master! – and whether they are gasped or groaned or begged they simply add to verbal self-portrait he is creating.

The toy has magical properties – it must have, because Jensen tried to think its functionality through earlier on when he was first introduced to it. Of course it was such a short period of time though before the overwhelming sensations of his body, echoed through his voice, prodded by the cane, heightened by his blindfold, chased all ability for conscious thought away.

With the prongs nestled in his body, the bumpy knob lined up just so, it seems that the rounded metal bulb, which sits just outside his tightly clenched hole, is the key to the device. His Master showed him the ornately decorated little metal hammer that is the final piece of the toy. Using it to tap the metal bulb, firmly but not forcefully, three times only, sets off a cycle of vibrations that robs Jensen of control over his own body and mind.

His body responds to the first waves of intense vibration as if he is suffering seizures in reaction to unbearable pain. As the vibrations mellow slightly they dissipate directly through his prostate as tingling shivers spreading through his body. Wave after wave, as he sings the bright biting bliss, till they crash on the shore of his cock, filling it, filling it, pulsing for release. And this goes on and on until he breaks and begs his Master - begs with his moaning, whimpering, sobs; begs with his straining, yearning, body; begs with his blinded, tear-stained, face; begs for permission and forgiveness and consolation – begs for release.

He has come, in this way, three times now, and is cycling up towards his fourth.

***

Jared thinks this is one of his most favourite toys. But then, he’s thought this about each toy he has tried so far.

Three short sharp taps on the carefully placed toy, and his slave is released from himself, free to be a pure expression of sex. Body, mind, voice – all working together to be a perfect portrait of pleasure. After each release, Jared has sponged his slave’s sweat-soaked hair, soothed his quivering body, given him sips of tonic-tainted juice, and fed him sticky slices of fruit.

Then tapped thrice the toy again.

In truth, he has managed to read very little of his book. Which is a shame really, because he enjoys reading.

Nonetheless, he has enjoyed his slave’s performance too, and it has been a gift for both of them, given the ordeal his slave will face on the morrow.

‘Master, please, please Master, please, I beg Master, please, I beg …’

Jared walks over to the wooden device framing his slave’s pain and pleasure. He kneels down behind his slave and slowly starts removing the toy. Jared has learnt a lot about the vulnerability of his slave’s body, and the amount of time it takes to repair. A little bit of care keeps his slave available for continued use: one of the more excellent lessons in life that he has been putting to good use.

‘Beautiful, my pet,’ Jared soothes as he pulls the toy free. ‘One more time, my pet, one more time just for me.’

His slave’s head is turning blindly, trying to follow his Master’s voice. ‘Please Master, please.’ And Jared can’t tell if his boy is begging his acceptance or his denial.

Not that it matters.

‘Soon, my pet, soon.’ Jared has freed his own cock and is stroking on oil with long slow pulls. He lines up at his slave’s twitching gaping hole and thrusts in. And he groans and his eyes close without volition as he is gripped in the tight slick warmth of his slave’s body. 

He’s kneeling up snug and close, belly to back with his slave, rocking in rhythm with his slave’s querulous whimpers. Jared sets a slow pace, hips moving gently, his cock breeching rim tenderly and pulling out carefully. He oils his hand and reaches round to give his slave a sheath to thrust into, pushed forward and dragged back by the impetus of Jared’s cock.

‘Let me hear you,’ Jared’s mouthing the boy’s neck. ‘Loud, pet. I want the guards in the downstairs hallway to hear you come.’

He bites down hard, suckling and teething a vibrant mark, smiling at the volume of his boy’s screams. ‘Yes, that’s it. Shout it out, pet, shout it out loud. Let the whole palace hear!’

Jared knows his boy will need to fight for his release. His slave’s last orgasm, his third in a row, was simply a bit of exhausted twitching and only the tiniest spurt of release. This fourth one will need some encouragement.

Jared guides the boy’s hands over the little grip bars, hold on he warns, and he starts pumping his hips, fast and hard, rocking the wooden frame despite both their weights.

He is spurred on by the yells of his slave echoing in the room - moans and groans, desperately, earnestly, begging for release, for surcease.

He’s tugging on his boy’s prick, urging it, coaxing it, demanding it climax. And his own heat is building, from the bottom of his spine, deep and low, and surging forth so he can come, come, come.

Til he does, cock pulsing in his boy’s body, breath scorching on his boy’s neck, heart pounding on his boy’s back, sweat dripping on his boy’s skin.

His boy is still screaming though, screaming please! and Master! and I beg! White knuckled grip on the bars, body arched forward taut against his bondage, arsehole clenched tight gripping hold of his Master’s cock. In his frozen yearning for release he is unable even to thrust his prick in his Master’s hand.

So Jared does it for him, adding more oil, his hand blurring as he pulls up and drags back and rubs right up over the head. His own cock still pulsing, he’s stroking his slave so fast he can only tell by the sharp cry that breaks into screamed sobs that his boy has come. From an over-stretched bowstring, his boy’s body has collapsed to a loose bag of bones held intact only by the fragile layer of his skin, impaled on his Master’s cock. Not one drip of release is expelled, and his boy sobs in wretched pain with each pulse.

As his boy’s sobs slowly soften, Jared feels such a sense of pride and accomplishment. His skill with his toys, and his mastery of his slave, has resulted in a perfect prelude to the trials of tomorrow. There is some trepidation of course, but if it results in the correction of his slave’s flaw, it will be worth the risk.

Though there is much to do, plans to put in place and preparations to be primed, Jared pauses, and allows the undulating ripples of his slave’s body to caress his cock a last few times.

Continued in Chapter Four...

Chapter Text

In Which a Slave Cries

Chapter Text

In Which a slave is used

Jared adores the warm fuzzy feel of his own smugness. It fills him up, sets him aglow, tilts his smile and puts sparkles his eyes. His rightness, his cleverness, his excellence in choice; and all so obvious, so visible, so irrefutably evident.

His slave kneels before him – a perfect picture of submissive surrender, hands clasped at the small of his back, arse raised, forehead to the floor.

Jared can’t stop himself from looking back to the Healer, who hovers in the open doorway. He wants to say: See? Do you see? See his beauty? His perfection? Wants to say: I chose him. I saw his potential. I enslaved him. I created this.

But he is only the Healer after all, and Jared simply dismisses him.

‘Please My Lord,’ the Healer manages before he leaves. ‘Please remember my advice. Any… swelling, er, or… tumescence of the area of the wound will certainly mar the healing that has so well begun. The Blessed One too, My Lord, advised that the crisp detail of the tattoo will be lost if the site is disturbed overly much…’

‘You may go, Master Healer,’ Jared annunciates clearly, adding a layer of royal righteousness to his tone. ‘Your work has been excellent, as I insisted it must. I have heard your advice twice now before, and am starting to wonder if it is my intelligence that you are insulting or my person. It matters not which, of course, as both are treasonable offences, punishable by death at my command. I would advise that you leave now, Master Healer, before I hesitate and give another moment’s thought to your unwise behaviour.’

‘My King, no! You misjudge me!’ Jared listens with pursed lips to the Healer’s apologies. ‘It is only that I know the value of your property, and my duty, My Lord, my duty to ensure its perfection. Forgive me, sire, please, I beg forgiveness…’

‘Leave,’ he commands, with a dismissive wave.

And he is finally alone with his perfected slave.

Jared walks round his slave, observing him from every angle, secretive smug smile still tingling along his lips. He sinks into his favourite leather chair, adjusts his hips, and sprawls his long legs wide.

It has been a trying time, waiting on the return of his long-absent slave. To have missed a slave simply does not capture the truth of his feelings. In fact, he cringes away from the concept, dismissing its complexity. To have missed the use of his slave – now that sits much more comfortably. He nods, pleased to have clarified the distinction.

‘Stand.’ His slave’s collar and cuffs are still so new that they draw Jared’s eye every time – perfect colouring, perfectly symmetrical, perfect fit. He watches the bob of his slave’s throat as his boy swallows nervously, the way his collar rides the movement – just tight enough to be a constant permanent reminder that every breath his slave indulges in, is by his Master’s grace.

Jared undoes the fastenings on his own shirt, embroidered silk catching on the calluses of his sword hand. Runs his fingertips over his chest, slowly, slowly, round and round. Round and round his taut dusky nipples. Slowly, slowly, one side, then slowly, slowly, the other.

‘Back straight.’ Jared’s hand teases round his own tingling nipples, round and round, ever so slowly.

‘Straighter.’ He glides his hand across his chest, over the contours of his musculature, down the dip of his sternum.

‘Shoulders back.’ Rubs little massaging circles with two fingertips just under his clavicles, round and round.

‘Spread your feet.’ Trails down over his pecs, palming slow rolling waves over his tight, tight muscles.

‘Wider.’ Back again to teasing round and round his nipples.

‘Wider still.’ Licks his fingertips, arches his hips to adjust his swelling cock, and sinks back into the creak of comforting leather.

‘Hands behind your neck. Interlock your fingers.’ Touches his moist fingertips right to the tip of his tight, erect, throbbing nubs.

‘Push your elbows back.’ Pressured attention to his nipples now, over and over, teasing round and round, then friction right over the tips.

‘Further.’ Licks his fingers again, waits a moment as his saliva cools, and hisses as it hits his fiery heat.

‘Push your hips forward.’ Pads of his fingers gliding over each nub, light catch of his nails back.

‘Stay.’ And Jared drops his head back, and touches, teases, massages, palms, grips, and scrapes, till his hips twitch and a ragged groan tears from his throat.

With a long lingering look at his boy, he forces himself to stop, another groan escaping uncensored.

‘Stay,’ he repeats, and he palms his own dick, pushing his erection down, opening the fastenings of his pants to relieve the pressure.

‘You may answer. Does it hurt?’ His boy’s cock is still recovering, though Jared can tell already that it will be beautiful when it’s fully healed. Smooth and unveiled and marked as his. His breath catches at the thought, and his lips stretch with his smile.

But he’s under orders of course not to hinder the healing.

‘Yes.’ Jared’s eyes widen at the soft sullen answer.

‘Master,’ he coaches, flavouring the word with just the right amount of menace.

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Louder.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘You have earned five lashes for your tone and volume. To be delivered when you are fully healed. Would you like to add to your tally with more insolence? Or will you answer properly?’

‘Properly, Master.’

‘Acceptable. I will add five lashes more each time your response is inadequate in any way. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Then thank me...’

‘Thank you, Master.’

‘For what are you thanking me?’

‘I don’t know, Master.’

‘Five additional lashes for a foolish response.’ Jared sees his boy quiver, struggling to hold his position.

‘Thank you, Master.’ Voice wet and wavering.

‘For what?’

‘For… I don’t know! For… wanting to hurt me! Thank you, Master.’

‘Five more.’

‘For correcting me, Master! For punishing me when I’m wrong. For telling me how to be better!’

‘That’s acceptable, boy. We will spend more time on this lesson when I have you leashed to the whipping post. We will test your pleasure under the lash, long and leisurely, when your body allows. For now, you will answer me. Does it hurt?’

‘Yes, Master. It hurts.’

‘I can see the wound is clean and repairing well. The hurt is diminishing, yes?’

‘Yes, Master. The hurt is diminishing.’

‘Good. Good.’ Jared stands and moves closer for a better look.

‘My Mark is healing well. Does it cause you discomfort?’

‘Yes, Master. It hurts and itches.’

‘Ah. Well, at least you know you must endure the itch. The Mark is mine and you will not touch it.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘The Healer has warned me that you must stay soft. An erection will stretch all the healing and ruin it.’

‘Yes, Master. He explained all that to me, too.’

‘Good. You are to take exceptional care of my property. If you feel yourself hardening, I will expect you to let me know. Immediately. I will solve the problem for you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘Good. You may lower your arms, return to your knees, crawl to me, and suck me till I come down your throat. Now.’

His boy crawls delicately, thighs spread wide to allow his balls and wounded cock to hang free. It’s only a short distance after all, and Jared knows that he will indulge in this fantasy more often. Perhaps as an exercise for his boy, to help him to build up his muscles again – out in the yard on his hands and knees, chasing a ball, retrieving a stick, crawling for his Master. Oh, yes…

He sits patiently through the fumbling at his groin as his boy works to remove his pants – lifts his hips obligingly, so they can be pulled away. He even hitches one of his knees over the high arm of the chair, leaving his thighs widely spread, his cock and balls fully exposed.

Jared tilts his head back, and finally relaxes – relaxes into the familiarity of a much-missed routine. Oftentimes, Jared has had his slave service him in this position – not only for the pure pleasure of his boy’s efforts, but it is a good position so that, with the help of a stinging cane, he can train and direct and improve his slave’s performance.

He’s so fucking pleased with his slave’s progress, and groans an approving yes! Those slick, saliva soaked lips slide up and down his length at just the right pressure and pace. That plush, plump tongue pleasures and pulses along his rock-hard shaft. The sucking, swallowing, moaning, and humming – all part of his slave’s practiced and refined repertoire of techniques.

And as he lays loosely in the leather chair, gently, slowly, humping into his boy’s mouth, Jared’s eyes close and he sighs contentedly, and he runs his hand over the prickly regrowth on his boy’s scalp.

He’s moaning good boy and yes and fuck, and his boy caresses his balls and massages his taint, and he feels the windup, feels the tension build. He fights to stay languid, fights against his body’s want to tense up and power up and come in a face-fucking frenzy.

There’s tongue tasting at his slit, and fingers teasing at his hole, and he looks down to watch his cock slide between those drooling lips. And Holy fuck! His heart skips a beat, and his breath catches, and his hand caresses, and his hips jolt – because he’s captured by the intense green eyes of his slave, wide and watching, looking up at him.

And he can’t look away. He comes gently, floating on the waves of his orgasm, suckled softly and held safely till he softens. Watched by expressive green eyes – eyes he needs all his strength to look away from.

‘Good boy,’ he says, awkwardly, realising with a start that he truly means it. He stands abruptly almost tipping his boy off balance, so he can quickly move away and fix his clothing and fuss with his hair.

When he looks back, his slave has settled back into his kneeling position, hands at the small of his back, arse raised, forehead to the floor.

And it escapes before he can stop it, murmured praise that both warms and chills his heart – good boy – said on a smile, before he can bite his tongue to hold it back.

***

‘Did you stay soft?’

Jared’s surprised that his slave did, given that much of his training involves keeping his slave hard and wanting, open and responsive, sensitised and needy, to any and every permutation of pleasure and pain.

‘Yes, Master,’ the answer puffed out as the ex Prince Jensen crawls behind him as they move into the bedroom. ‘There were a few times… but I managed to stop.’

And there it is again, Jared finding himself hovering on the edge of saying good boy. He decides that too much praise cannot be a good thing, and refrains, with effort, swallowing the words back down.

‘I have something that will help you for the rest of the night.’

‘Thank you, Master.’

‘Go, empty and cleanse yourself. Return immediately and kneel at the foot of my bed.’

Jared has discussed his predicament with Alistair, seeking help and advice – that his potent and vital slave will be returned to him under strict instructions that the slave stays soft. Jared, of course, will need the use of his slave, especially after such a long absence. What to do?

Alistair’s first suggestion – a metal cage to fit over his slave’s cock – proved unsuitable once Alistair realised that there’d also be a healing tattoo around the base of the penis, exactly where the device would need to tightly fasten. Jared purchased it anyway, breathing slowly to hide his raging pulse, to put away for a later time.

Fortunately, Alistair proves his worth once again, with a little vial of violet potion. Jared’s shaking it now, just as instructed, mixing the active ingredients.

‘What…? What will it do to me?’ his slave asks on his return, kneeling at the end of the bed.

‘Five lashes more. It is not your place to ask.’

‘Master,’ tears well in his boy’s eyes, ‘please, no. I was just curious…’

‘It’s not your place to be curious. It is your place to say yes Master and to obey instantly and submit perfectly, and to not ask or wonder or think.’

Jared’s fingers tremble as he pours the potion into a small golden cup. Alistair has warned him of all the potential side effects, and despite the risks, Jared has decided to go ahead. There’s worry, of course, given the amount of time he has spent training his slave – he’d be annoyed to have to start again with another. But the tantalising effect of the potion is too much temptation, and Jared holds the cup forward and orders his slave to drink.

His boy kneels up high to sip from the rim of the cup, collar gleaming, hands clenched behind his back, and drinks it all down.

Jared watches him carefully.

‘What do you feel?’

‘Scared, Master…’

‘What else do you feel?’

‘Nothing, Master, nothing different.’

Jared frowns, moves about his rooms, attends to his own bathroom needs, returns and disrobes. He removes his gem-encrusted rings and brooches, and is locking them in their keepsafe box, when he hears a thud and his heart shocks into a pounding beat.

The potion offers much – the use of his slave, while ensuring that his mark and the repair remain undisturbed to continue their perfect healing. But the risk, maybe it was too…

He kneels down and checks for breath and for pulse, and his heart thumps with relief when he finds both – strong and steady. Strokes his boy while he adjusts limbs that have landed awkwardly. Lays his boy out flat on his back and leans over to look into confused green eyes.

‘Mm… mma’err…’

‘Shhh, shhh,’ he croons. ‘Beautiful boy. Breathe for me, just breathe nice and steady.’

His strokes linger, lighter, longer, over throat, chest and belly. He lifts up the dead-weight of his boy’s arm, lets it go, and watches it thud, uncontrolled, to the floor.

‘Move for me,’ and he looks in his boy’s eyes with avid fascination, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. There’s confusion, and anger, and defeat, and bloody murder, all there, looking back at him through sparkling, aware, green eyes.

‘Caa’aah.’ His boy’s losing consonants and slurring vowels. And not moving.

Leaning down, he suckles and tongues his slave’s left nipple, watching all the while, watching eyes that flare with pleasure, long lashes fluttering. He bites down hard, chews and grinds the hard little nub, and sees pain-filled eyes brim with tears. And through the pleasure and the pain, his slave’s body stays slack, loose and lax. Not a flinch, spasm, or quiver. No movement toward, away or into. Only the beat of his heart, the blink of his eyes and the swallow at his throat.

Jared’s smile crests like a sunrise.

***

Jared carries his boy up the stairs. Light and fragile in his arms, and so, so vulnerable in his drugged state. Totally aware, still sensitive and responsive – but with all ability to move suppressed. All so his boy’s cock will not harden during Jared’s use of him and compromise the healing tattoo or wound of his repair.

Jared has prepared the leather sling for his boy’s positioning – a long length of strong black leather, suspended from the ceiling on chains, providing cradling support for his boy’s neck and back. Two separate smaller slings, set higher and wider, will enable the uplifting and spreading of his boy’s knees. He finds when he manoeuvres his slave’s body into place that he needs to clip his boy’s wrist cuffs together to prevent his arms from flopping all over the place.

There’s a table with supplies, and a pitcher of wine. There’s flickering of the fire, and the glowing of lit candles. There’s salve and grease, and soft clean cloths.

There’s his boy laid out like a feast.

Jared greases his fingers, works his boy open and ready. He strokes himself, firm and long, hard already from the pure physicality of manoeuvring his boy into place. Listens to the pitch of his boy’s moans as he enters him – high and fluttering as Jared rocks himself home, deepening to gruff groans as he fucks him hard. Clattering of chains, creaking of leather, moaning of slave. A musical delight that Jared loses himself in.

‘Fuck, boy, but you’re tight.’

He runs his hands over sweaty thighs, grips behind his boy’s knees, and tries to brace the lax body. Gives up, and winds his hands round the rattling chains. Such power in the act of taking – such mastery. He grinds into the hot tight hole, balls slapping, hips flexing. There’s heat in his belly, his skin is on fire, and every part of him is ready to explode.

He catches his boy’s gaze – green eyes flashing with pain, with pleasure, with fear – and he fucks forcefully, furiously, right on over the point of inevitability, slamming into his orgasm, emptying himself deep, deep inside the receiving body of his boy.

As the echoes of his roar of release diminish, and his breathing reduces back from desperate heaving gasps for air, he leans over his boy, shaking his head, sprinkling his boy with a rain of his sweat.

‘Fuck! Fuck, boy! So fucking good!’

Pulls out with a plop and watches a string of his essence stretch between them, delaying, postponing, the moment of their separation.

‘Still soft, boy! Fuck!’ Leans forward, licks a flat tongued line from his boy’s chin, over sweaty slack lips, up over his nose, and ends with a kiss, wet and sloppy, on his boy’s forehead. ‘Did you come? Did your body shudder and thrust and pump your release? Did you, boy? All trapped inside, imprisoned in your motionless body. Remember how it felt, boy, memorise it now – I’ll want to know, every detail, a bedtime tale, when your potion wears off. Fuck, that was good!’

Unable to make sense of his boy’s moans, Jared steps back, reaches for a cloth and wipes himself clean. He glides his finger through his own essence, slowly leaking from his boy’s body, and scoops some up. Smears it over his boy’s lips, and kisses it off of him. Scoops up more and rubs it over his boy’s teeth, and licks it all up. Once more, over his boy’s tongue, and he sucks it all back. Uses two fingers, runs them up and round his boy’s hole, capturing more, and massages it over his boy’s bobbing tongue, over his gums and his inner cheeks.

‘Such a gift I give to you,’ he says, wiping his fingers off on his boy’s sweaty chest, ‘my very essence boy, inside of you. You belong to me more than you can ever know. Princesses are crying themselves to sleep as we speak for want of my seed, for want to be my Queen. That which I anoint you with so generously will create princes of the realm one day. You should thank me more often, boy, more than you do.’

His fingers are drawn back to his boy’s hole, sliding round his rim, slipping in and out. There’s something so special, so stunningly glorious, about having his boy so open and pliant and powerless. Sure, he loves conquering his fighting, defiant boy; and he loves encouraging his lust-drunk, needy boy; and he loves taking his defeated, unwilling boy… But this, this is something special too…

He rubs his fingers into the grease once more and pushes them back and forwards into the warmth of his boy’s hole.

‘Was gonna do this another time…’

Adds another finger, four now, curled in on each other, sliding in and out.

‘When I could tease and torment and torture and tantalise…’

Drags his whole hand through the grease.

‘When I could feel you trying to squirm away, trying to bear down to prevent it, trying to deny me entry…’

Tucks his thumb into his fingers and slides them all in, in and in, and beyond his dreams, and over the hump of his knuckles, and up to his wrist in his boy’s body. His awe escapes him in shaky grunts, mesmerised by the sight of his arm inside his slave.

‘When I could hear you scream and beg and cry…’

And deep within his boy, inside his boy, he curls his fingers and thumb into a fist, and slowly, slowly, works it back and forwards, back and forwards. And he glories in the pain in his boy’s eyes, relishes the tears falling freely down his face, adores the agonised moans filling the room.

‘When I could fist you inside, and fist you outside, and make you come on, and with, my fists…’

The moans change cadence, become sharp horror-filled grunts and groans, harsh and hoarse and wrecked. Jared tilts his head in wonder. Slowly, slowly, fisting his boy, watching as, without flexing a muscle, without a movement that can be seen, cock soft and motionless, his boy comes, leaking his essence in slow pulsing streams from his soft, soft cock.

‘Fuck…’ Jared’s voice is full of awe and wonderment and amazement. ‘Fuck…’

And he has to lower his head. He leans forward, touches his forehead to his boy’s forehead, murmuring good boy and my beautiful boy, and blinks away the tears stinging his eyes.


To be continued in Part Six…

Chapter Text

In Which a boy is Farewelled.


'Your brother is missing,' Jared says.

He has planned just the right moment to say the words. Waited till his cock is slowly, sliding along his slave's tongue, till it's hitting the roof of his slave's mouth, back, back, into the tightness of his slave’s throat, being firmly massaged by his slave's attempts to swallow.

He watches his slave's eyes startle wide, fear and shock answering questions Jared has not yet asked. He moans, tips his head back in pleasure, as his slave tries to speak – throat undulating in his efforts to make sounds, tongue laving as it tries to make consonants.

He forces himself to hold still, to simply luxuriate in his boy’s oral distress, then starts up again, slowly rocking, gently thrusting, cock sliding through slick saliva.

But his boy's lost his concentration, lost the rhythm of his breathing, and in his panic, is choking and gagging. It’s a disappointment – it had been an exemplary blowjob till then – and Jared pulls out in annoyance.

'Not one word,' he commands, and his lips twitch with an unexpected smile when his boy moans desperately, denied his words.

He pushes the large cock shaped gag into his boy's mouth, soothing along the fragile line of his jaw, securing it firmly. He knows his boy hates this gag – hates suckling and drooling and tonguing around it. Hates that it leaves him only with shapeless groans and moans and squeaks and rumbles. Hates the strain of his jaw, the ache of the muscle there, and the stretch of his lips.

Of course, there are many things that his slave hates though, and really, this is just one more that he will need to endure.

'Missing for two weeks now,' he informs his boy, as he lifts him up and slams him belly down onto the bed. The butt plug slides out easily, slippery and slick with grease. He lines his cock up and thrusts in, one forceful plunge sliding straight through loosened barriers, surging home.

He sets a rhythmic pace, hard enough to lift his boy's hips right up off the bed, rough enough to force muffled groans from his boy's throat.

'Disappeared in the dead of the night, bed stuffed with pillows in his shape.'

He drags his hands over the spikes of his boy's hair. It's a mistake he will never make again, shaving his boy's head, misses so much the anchor it gave him, the feel of it gripped in his fist.

'Not a trace, nor a trail, nor a track to be found.'

Slides his hands over his boy's eyes.

'Not a sight.'

Slides the palms of his hands over his boy's ears.

'Not a sound.'

Traces a finger round and round his boy's stretched-wide lips.

'Not a word.'

Trails his fingers down his boy's back, then tugs at his hips with a bruising grip.

'Vanished.'

While he rocks his own hips gently forwards and back, it's his boy's body, guided by Jared's own grip, that's forcefully fucking itself onto his cock.

'When I am finished with you, the Captain of my guard will interrogate you. You will tell him everything you know about your brother's plans.'

He slows the momentum of his boy's hips, slows so that just the head of his cock is caressed by his boy's rim, in and out, shallow movements firing up the coiling heat in his belly.

'You will answer him truthfully, and you will tell him everything.'

Speeds up his boy's movement again till the room echoes with the sound of his balls slapping against his boy's arse.

'One word of a lie, one hesitation, one moment of doubt – and I will have you taken to the dungeon master to complete the interrogation in his chamber, with his implements.'

No longer able to suppress his own body's need to thrust, balls high and aching, he gives in to the chase for pleasure.

'Do you understand, boy?' he pants. 'You will… tell… my Captain… everything...'

And as he surges and spasms through his orgasm, he realises that his boy is lax and limp, unaware and unresponsive, and he wonders briefly exactly when, during the fucking, his boy lost consciousness…

***

Jensen kneels silently as his Master confers at the door of the royal chambers with the Captain of the guard.

He is horrified with shock and weary from the questioning.

He is naked; his Master's essence still moist in his loose hole, so freshly fucked is he.

He is shamed and humiliated; dragged straight from his Master's use direct to the Captain's presence. His skin is still creased from his Master's bondage, bruised from his Master's hands, and shimmering with his Master's sweat.

His brother is gone. Dead? Missing? Escaped? He knows not.

He knows nothing.

His brother did not confide in him.

He is awash with so many emotions – so much fear, so much sorrow. So much despair, to have been left behind.

He has desperately made his voice loud and strong, fearful that a weak word, or a wavering tone, will be interpreted as a reason to send him to the horror of the dungeons.

He has begged his Master to believe him.

When the Captain leaves, he immediately crawls to his Master. He kisses his Master's feet, rubs his head along his Master's calves, then sits back on his heels, head hung low, awaiting his fate.

He licks the corners of his mouth, still sore from being stretched for so long round the fake cock. He's stretching his jaw, easing the ache, when he is beckoned to follow. He crawls behind his Master, stops when indicated, in front of the full-length mirror in his Master's dressing room, and waits.

His brother is lost to him.

He is caught between relief that his brother has managed to escape, and selfish regret and anger that he has been left behind.

Fine trembles still run through his body, reaction to the threat to torture him for information about his brother's plans. Would Misha have realised that his escape could result in such repercussions for his brother? He quickly shies away from that question.

His Master stands side-on to the mirror, fully dressed, cock hanging out, one hand stroking slow and steady along its length.

He hears 'suck me' and he shuffles round, at once appalled both at his thoughtless obedience and his confidence in his skill. He's using all his techniques, licking and sucking just so, plush lips sliding and tongue curving. His Master's hands are on the back of his head, firm pressure, guiding depth and angle.

He looks up and realises his Master is watching them in the mirror. Watching a slave on his knees, hands gripped behind his back, sucking and slurping and drooling – servicing the cock of his Master.

The hands slowly release his head, and push him back. He's dragged to his feet, and his Master positions him in front of the mirror. His feet are kicked wide, and his arms are raised to grip the top of the ornamental frame of the mirror. His hips are pulled back, feet shuffling with them, till he's a stretched arch in front of the mirror.

He avoids looking in the mirror – he's not looked in one since his Master had him altered – just hangs his head and picks a spot on the floor to keep his attention.

He feels a blunt finger rubbing round his arse-hole, probing over his rim, pushing past his sphincter. Pressure in his hole, enough grease and come still in there so that it's not a totally dry drag. Then it's his Master's cock filling him, and he's thinking that it's not a hard way to be fucked, leant as he is, the frame of the mirror a solid anchor.

His Master's hands roam over his body, sliding over belly, rubbing over ribs, dragging over nipples, right up to his neck and back down again. He feels the coarse fabric of his Master's trousers against the back of his thighs, the cool leather of a boot next to the heel of one of his feet, a sharp fastening on his Master's open belt rubbing a hot spot on one of his arse-cheeks, scratchy wool along the expanse of his back, and the rub of the soft cloth of shirt-sleeves along the sides of his body.

'Look at the mirror,' his Master commands.

'Yes, Master,' he murmurs.

And he sees his Master, taller and broader than himself; his Master's hands, large, long-fingered and weatherworn; his Master's hair, long, floppy and silky-clean; his Master's face, stern, strong and unsmiling.

'You are mine.'

'Yes, Master.' He's concentrating on his Master's left hand, the ring finger, the nail cracked in half from tip to quick.

'You will never belong to another.'

'Never, Master.' Follows the finger with the cracked nail, as it moves over his body, claiming all that is beneath it. Up over his collarbone, pausing as it taps over his jugular vein.

'Mine.'

'Yours, Master.' Follows it as it slides down his body, dragging over his nipple, down and over the line of a new red scar left by his Master's whip, sweeping over his belly, going lower.

He averts his eyes, finds a new focus.

He cries aloud at the first touch of his Master's hand on his cock. Moans his distress, loudly, helplessly. Jerks back, as if he can move away, as if he is not impaled on his Master's cock, as if he is not framed by his Master's strength.

'Look.'

And he's startled enough by the command that he looks in the mirror at the reflection of his Master's eyes, sees hazel, and possessiveness, and heat, and darkness, and power, and he whimpers for having looked and he whimpers for having been seen.

'Look at yourself, boy. Look at yourself being claimed by your Master. Your hair too short, your face so flushed, your chest mottled with heat, your nipples peaked and pinched, your belly full of my seed, your arms bound by my will, your feet placed by my want. Your cock repaired and marked as mine.'

He's open and exposed to his Master in every way - unable to escape, unable to hide.

'Yours, Master,' he cries, even as he jerks and squirms and spasms under his Master's touch. His cock, tattooed and so newly bared by the removal of his foreskin, is so sensitive that just the lightest touch, just the nearness of touch, is enough to send him cringing in shock.

'Watch, boy. Do not look away.'

And he watches as his Master spits in his hand, grips his slave's sore, sensitive, shrivelled cock, and stokes him to the rhythm of his fucking.

He watches as his own hands spasm, white-knuckled, to keep grip of the mirror-frame. As his body fights to escape the grip on his cock. As he arches in agony against the relentless stoking, and thrusts in ecstasy at the pleasure coursing through him. As he screams incoherent sounds, knowing even in his extreme suffering to not say 'no!' or 'don't!' or 'stop!'.

He watches till his eyes fill with tears and his reflection becomes blurry. Till his broken, panted, screams becomes one long cry. Till his pain and pleasure stop fighting each other, and he comes, when told, in a mixture of both. Till he blacks out, and sees no more.

He rouses quickly enough, nudged by the boot of his Master as he lies in a heap in front of the mirror. A mirror now smudged with his own spendings. The flushed heat takes him by surprise, unaware that he could be shamed by anything new. He's struggling to his knees, fresh come sliding from his sore body, when he's picked up and stood back in front of the mirror.

'I leave to hunt your brother,' his Master's voice is harsh. 'While I am gone, you will answer to my Slave Trainer as you would answer to me. He speaks to you, in my absence, with my voice. Do you understand?'

'Yes, Master,' he manages, fresh tears falling at mention of his brother.

He trembles as his Master locks weighted chains around his ankle cuffs. He shivers as his Master locks a string of little bells around each ankle. He moans as his Master fills his ass with a sizeable new plug.

He stands before the mirror – and sees a marked, collared, belled, plugged, chained slave, owned by a strong, confident, regal Master.

'While I am away, my slave, you will think of me. You will remember the sight of me fucking you as you came on my cock, the sound of my voice in your ear commanding you to come, the feel of my hand on your dick, the smell of my sweat on your skin, the taste of my come on your tongue. You are mine.'

'Yes, Master.'

'Take a good long look, boy. For it will be the last thing you will see until my return.'

His eyes close reflexively as a black padded blindfold is placed firmly round his head, and bound in place.

He stays exactly where he is left; afraid to move in his blindness, until eventually ira-Jeffrey speaks at his side. With a hand at his elbow, he is guided from his Master's chambers.

And as he makes his slow, slow way through the palace corridors, the weighted chains heavy on his slender ankles, every tiny movement accompanied by the ringing of his bells, he prays fervently for the safety of his brother.

Continued in Chapter Seven ....

Chapter Text

In which a Master is welcomed home.


He slams his bedchamber door behind him, leans back into its vibrating comfort. Eyes closed, chest rising and falling too rapidly, breath hitching. His throat aches, as he tries to swallow down his anger, grief, and pain.

It has been over three months since Jared was last in his palace, and in that time his life has changed.

By chance and by choice.

Changed forever.

He takes long, slow breaths, ragged and rasping, to bring himself back under control. It has been so long since he has had the privacy to allow his true emotions. With a shove against the door, he pushes himself forward, forward into the welcome familiarity of his chamber.

And comes to an abrupt stop as he catches first sight of his slave.

Three long months have passed. Three months since he has seen his boy – since he has tasted, fucked, marked, hurt, pleasured, broken, soothed, mastered. Three months without his boy's moans, cries, whimpers, howls. Three months since he's had the pleasure of his boy's mouth, arse, cock, balls, fingers, lips, tongue, teeth, thighs, hair, eyelashes.

He's missed it so much.

His eyes sting.

And he wants it all again.

Now.

Wants to cleanse himself in the purity of his boy's tears, bathe in the nectar of his boy's sweat, deafen himself in the clarity his boy's screams, lose himself in the honesty of his boy's pleasure and pain.

His kingship has cost him too much. Taken too much. The things he's had to do, the things he has gone through, the things he has to live with. Battles lost and won, plans victorious and thwarted, costs paid and yet owed.

But before him, on his desktop, kneels the one thing that he alone truly owns. Only his, never to share, always to belong. His, by right and ownership. His, by claim and possession. His alone.

Mine. Raw, primal, ferocious. Mine.

He crosses the room, drags his desk's chair back away from the spectacle on his desk, and sinks into the comfort of the soft padded leather. Feasts on the sight of his boy, giving himself the pleasure of time, to simply watch and relearn his boy's beauty in his suffering.

***

Jensen has been led to his Master's bedchamber for the first time a very long time.

He doesn't know how long it has been, because, lost in the darkness behind his Master's blindfold, he has had no way to keep track of the passing of time.

At first he had relied on ira-Jeffrey, but then, of course, he had learned not to trust his Master's slave trainer.

It had only been a short time ago that he had very nearly lost himself totally to despair – believing that his Master was never going to return. Believing he'd been trained to within an inch of his life to pleasure a man who no longer wanted him. Believing he'd endured so much pain and suffering for a man who would never enjoy the results.

ira-Jeffrey had been kind to him then, trying to drag him back from his sorrow and grief, insisting that the King, his Master, would return soon.

His despair had deepened, dangerously, so disbelieving was he of ira-Jeffrey's claims.

And so had begun a new round of potions, and rewards, and punishments, and pleasures. Even lost in his drugged haze though, he'd been aware of the severity of ira-Jeffrey's concerns, when the slave bells locked on his ankles were muffled with cloth during his sleeping periods.

They're not muffled now, even though he can't hear them himself.

He knows he's been placed, kneeling, on top of his Master's desk. He ponders for a time about just how much of his body's fluids have been absorbed into the wood of the desk in the time that he's been his Master's slave. Polished with his come and sweat and pee and drool and tears, the desk feels smooth and homely to him.

He keeps having to make constant efforts to keep his heart rate calm and his breathing steady. The only reason for him to have been brought here, for him to be displayed as he is, the only possible reason can be, that his Master is home.

He's scared his heart will burst with the power of the pulses of his anticipation.

He has a false cock stuffed up his arse. It's thin, slender, well-greased, and when he kneels up tall it rests just within the pucker of his hole, teasing and tantalising, tickling his sensitised nerve endings. Of course, the longer he waits, the more he trembles in fatigue, the lower he sinks onto the cock, moaning his progress.

He worries at the ball in his mouth, yearning to suck while he's slowly fucking himself on the slick, slim cock. He's used to the desperate sensation of pressure in his own cock – tall, erect, fully repaired now, tattoo gloriously stretched at the base, just above a tight ring. A ring that he knows from long practise will hold him thick and straining, hold him back from yearned-for release.

His wrist cuffs are clipped together, attached above his head to a chain hanging from a ceiling beam. He uses it for leverage when he wants to squirm his knees just a bit. Just a bit, though – not enough to be seen, not enough to be punished for.

His nipples are tight and tingling. New for his Master are his piercings – small golden rings in each nipple. And around each nipple is a small device Alastair has used several times during his training – a hoop of drug-dipped little needles, all delicately poised, awaiting a touch to the tip of the device, which will plummet the needles into his areola, gifting him with the pain of the multiple prickings and the surprise effect of whatever drug has been used.

He imagines he hears a noise, stretches himself tall and perfect, breathes deeply through his nose, trying to keep up with the pounding beat of his heart. Taut and tremulous, blind and deaf, he waits on a knife-edge for his Master's presence.

He scrunches his shoulder, just a bit, just enough for his collar to caress his neck. All's well, all's fine.

He can wait.

Wait for his Master's return.

At last.

***

Jared watches.

Watches the muscles of his boy's thighs as they strain to control the depth of his impalement on the fake cock. Watches his boy's own long hard cock bobbing with the movements of his body, throbbing for release. Watches a slender slick of pre-come stretching down to pool on the desk. Watches the glistening sweat on his boy's gloriously naked, hairless body. Watches the drips of drool leaking from his boy's mouth, stretched wide round the sodden ball gag. Watches the fragile fingers of his boy's delicate hands, raised high in their bondage, twitching and stretching and scrunching, an outward expression of the inner rhythm of his boy's pain and pleasure.

He watches avidly, not wanting to miss one single movement.

He listens.

Listens to the tinkle of bells as his boy moves his ankles ever so slightly. Listens to the creak of the leather binding his boy's wrists high. Listens to soft clinks of chain as his boy's arms twitch. Listens to the wet squelch of his boy's hole clenching and releasing around the slippery intrusion. Listens to the delectable sounds his boy is making, muffled and muted by his gag, emanating from deep in his boy's undulating throat. High melodic whines, rough gurgling groans, short sharp pants, long lingering moans.

He holds himself still, still and silent, so he doesn't miss a single one of his boy's sounds.

He sees.

Sees his black blindfold, padding over his boy's eyes and ears, wound round his boy's head. Sees his boy's hair, longer now, grippable, yes. Sees the marks of his ownership – gleaming cuffs at wrist and ankle, exquisite collar at neck, delicate tattoo at base of cock. Sees the new piercings, glittering gold circles embedded in each hard nipple. Sees the little circles of needles, poised for release at his touch to their spring. Sees his boy's beautiful skin, pale beneath its flush. Sees his boy's chest, rising, falling, breathing in, and out, in, and out, in and out…

And he loses himself in the precious life sounds of his boy – in, and out, in, and out – and closes his eyes – in, and out, in, and out – and sleeps.

***

Jensen's lost in a world of agony.

He has been kneeling on his Master's desk for so long his knees are numb, his muscles are cramping, his raised hands feel thick and bloodless, his hole hurts, his cock hurts, his jaw hurts…

He's thirsty.

He's tired.

He hurts.

He hangs limply now, fully impaled on the fake cock, no longer able to lift and rise.

He's tried all the little techniques he has learned from ira-Jeffrey to be able to endure his prolonged torture – controlled breathing, focussed muscle movements, visualisations, mantras, submission – but he has moved beyond their help now.

He rests his head against his upraised arm, leans heavily, heavily, till his head slips forward, jolting his neck, and he jerks back upright. Till his head becomes too heavy again, and he rests it against his upraised arm… and repeats the process again. And again.

Till the effort of jerking upright can no longer be matched by the energy left in his body. Till he hangs limply, head lolling forward, and the red-hot agony of his suffering turns white, then black, and he is free.

***

He comes to as his arms are released and lowered, and he screams himself hoarse, so lost in his pain that he doesn't know who has touched him, before he loses consciousness again.

***

He awakens slowly this time, and instinctively recalls ira-Jeffrey's lessons – breathes slow and deep and doesn't move, just takes his time in his sleep-pretence, trying to work out where he is and what his best move might be.

He assesses his body to determine what trauma it has suffered, what has been done to it. The tiniest flex of his ankle feels like he has kicked his foot ceiling-high – the weighted chains have been removed! He aches deep in his muscles, and clenching reveals that he possibly has salve in his hole. But other than that, he feels fairly intact and undamaged.

There's the weight of the cloth across his eyes, but the padding has been removed from his ears. He's unsure if he's bound. He's laying naked on a soft, soft bed, uncovered and exposed, still blinded.

And a large hand rubs gently through his hair.

'I know you're awake, boy. Stay silent and still while I check my property.'

And he smiles, and releases every bit of tension in his body, presents himself loose and open for his Master. And his Master's hands touch him everywhere. They cup his head, rub through his hair, slide down his arms and legs. They pay attention to his cock, rub his tattoo, stroke his unhidden length, thumb over his slit. They glide over his ribs, over his pecs, under his arms, and come to rest, palms over his collarbones, fingers round his collared neck.

His Master's voice is deep and compelling and rough and intense, and it's been so long since he has heard it, yet he'd know it anywhere, forever, intimately, and without sight.

'What will happen, boy?' he's asked. 'What will happen when I press these? What potion have they been laced with?'

His Master's fingertips rub large circles round his chest, and he realises that he's still wearing the Needle Hoops.

'Master,' he's trying so hard to keep the tears from his voice. 'Master, I know not. It is not for me to know, only to feel. I beg to move, Master. I beg to touch you, to know that you're real. Please Master…'

'Oh, you'll know I'm real soon enough. You may move…' and there's a light pressure at this chest and he has a moment to brace before his Master presses on the spring, releasing a circles of needles into each of his nipples.

He screams in pain, arching his back, thrusting his chest out, as if he can escape from the needles imbedded in him.

He hears his Master murmuring 'so beautiful' and then he's being kissed, ravaged, as his Master swallows his cries, licks out his whimpers, and suckles on his moans. His head is crushed into the pillows by the power of the kiss, his mouth forced wide as his lips are bitten and sucked and his tongue is tasted and laved. He's trying desperately to breath through his nose, still needing to give voice to the stabbing pain in his nipples. His Master's arms slide under the arch of his back and pull him up, one hand going up to cradle the back of his head, holding him in place, holding him tight as he is kissed and kissed by his Master.

It doesn't take long for the potion to hit his bloodstream, and he moans when he recognises which one he has been dosed with.

The strength of his Master's hold keeps him arched, and his scream as the needles are pulled free is muffled and muted by his Master's mouth. Then it's his Master's mouth at his nipples – warm of lips and slick of tongue, licking and sucking, chewing and biting, and tugging on his nipple rings.

'What potion?' his Master demands, breath hot and moist against his skin, and he cries 'Stamina, Master!', and his Master laughs and laughs and sighs, 'Thank the Gods!'

Jensen moves confidently in his blindness, his Master making no move to release his blindfold. It still feels odd, the weights and bells removed from his ankles, and he fervently kisses his thankfulness into his Master's skin. He feels heavy binding round his Master's knee, whispers 'Master…?' and is told roughly 'Tomorrow'.

The potion has warmed his blood, his heart is racing, and he knows he will taste like a sugary sweet. It will allow him release, then have him hard and wanting again within moments. It will give him stamina to last and last – he wore out Alistair on one horrifically memorable occasion – and at the thought he presses his Master with new kisses of heartfelt thankfulness that he is home at last.

He moves his body, gracefully and swiftly, anticipating and accommodating his Master's needs. He leans into his Master's bruising grip, cries aloud his pain when roughly handled, and pants his pleasure at his Master's touch. He drools for his Master's cock when he is pushed down, whimpers in remembrance of its size, moans his yearning for it to fill him once again.

His first fucking is brutal in its speed and strength, and he's hoarse from the ragged groans ripped out of him with every one of his Master's forceful, furious thrusts. The room still echoes with his plaintive screams, 'Please Master, please! Please, I beg, Master, I beg! Please Master, let me come, please!' and his cries of release when permission is granted.

The next is just as harsh, flat on his belly on the edge of the bed, face squished in the linen, his Master standing behind him. This time it's his Master's groans that fill the room, and he gives himself over to the force of his Master's desperation, arching into his thrusts, taking him deeply, clenching around him. When his Master demands, 'Come, boy, now!' he does, his body jerking in spasms round his Master's cock, triggering his Master's own harshly groaned release.

He rides his Master to their next orgasm, his Master flat on his back on the big bed. He sets a slow rhythmic pace and relishes the unseen touches as his Master plays with his piercings, his cock, and his balls. The muscles of his thighs are burning from the controlled pace of his impalements, and he only needs to beg once, a softly sighed, 'Please, Master…' and they come together, Master and slave, in gentle rolling waves of release.

His Master falls asleep for a while, so he dozes lightly, still straddling him, head on his chest, half-hard cock held gently within him. With his Master's first signs of waking, he rolls his hips, welcoming him awake and they're hard and panting, gripping each other close, thrusting and rocking, kissing and licking, and moaning their need in unison. He glories in the sound of his Master coming first, then breaks apart beautifully for his Master's eyes when he's at last given permission.

When they awaken again, he changes the sheets while his Master uses the washroom. He trips on an unseen pile of discarded clothing, and stubs his toe on an unexpected plant pot, but manages well enough. His Master has just returned, when he hears the sound of the chamber door open. He immediately drops to his knees, head pushed to the floor, hands clasped at the small of his back.

A woman's voice fills the room.

'My love, I've been waiting…' her breathy seductive tone is interrupted by a harsh, sharp gasp of shock, and continues as a shrill regal demand. 'Who is this, and what… what is it doing here?'

'This is…. ' and there's a moment's silence, as Jared clearly tries to grasp for a name and comes up empty. 'This is my slave, my personal slave, and he is of no concern of yours. As to what he is doing here, again, this is of no concern of yours. Get out, now. These are my private chambers…'

'… surely not private from your wife, my Lord…'

'I am unused to repeating myself in my own Kingdom, let alone my own bedchamber. You will leave, wife of mine. Now. Or I will have my guard remove you.'

'Will you be joining me soon, my Lord? My bed awaits you.'

'Get out! You will make yourself available, and I will join you at my leisure.'

'As you wish, my Lord.' And even Jensen winces at her simpering tone, and at the slam of the door as she departs.

From his place on his knees, forehead to the floor, he waits quietly while his Master rages round the rooms. He hears 'fucking bitch' several times, and the thud of Master's fists against the walls.

When his feels his Master's rage is spent, he quickly goes about finishing off his preparation of the room for the night – and all but whimpers in delight at being dragged back into his Master's huge bed.

He is snuggled, back to his Master's tummy, tightly held, warm breath of his Master in his hair.

'My name is Jensen, Master,' he whispers on a smile.

'Your name is mine, slave,' his Master slurs just as sleep takes him.

***

To be continued in Part Eight.

Chapter Text

Part Eight

In Which a Slave Hears News From Home

He knows who she is.

Julianna de something-or-other, daughter of a lesser official – a distant, distant relative – in his father's court. Ex-court, Jensen corrects himself. Dated Misha for oh, about two months, before Misha cast her aside. She'd wailed and cried, plump tears dabbed with her lace kerchief, to all and sundry, avowing her love for Misha and assuring all that she was his true destiny.

'A few wanks short of a completion!' was Misha's summation of the positives of her character.

This was back, of course, back when his brother was the Crown Prince of Regidar, and he was the spare heir. Back when he had a castle for a home, and a kingdom to nurture and protect. Back when he supped nightly with his family, and slept peacefully and safely in his own bed. Back when he was whole.

They'd teased her relentlessly, back then, after the break-up – two royal brothers conspiring together to ridicule and humiliate her – all in good fun, of course, all to pay her back for her exhaustive campaign to reunite with Misha.

Now, though, he knows better. He has long learned, intimately and exquisitely, the pain of endured shame. True, hers were but trivial little things – her gown splashed with vegetable peelings, her childhood dolls displayed in the courtyard, her hairpins tugged from her coiffed red hair… Also, the campaign had only lasted a week or so, till Misha had fallen for the charms of his next true love…

Now, she is his Master's wife – Queen of both kingdoms.

His castle, his home, his and Misha's and his da's and his sister's, is now hers. Filled with her family and relatives, and a full battalion of his Master's finest. Her sister has been married off to his Master's Commander, and together, they rule his lost kingdom, in the name of his Master.

And, she has told him, eyes glittering with concern for how he'll hear her words, locked in the basement dungeons is his maimed brother. Captured trying to raise an army to reclaim his inheritance, tried as a traitor, tortured for information, publicly whipped for punishment, then locked away for the future safety of the kingdom.

She's especially disappointed, she shares with him, her mouth twisting in annoyance, because the day after her wedding, the day she left Regidar to follow her King in her place as his Queen, she had visited Misha in his dungeon cell.

But he had not recognised her. Too lost in fevered pain and infection, he had been oblivious to her presence.

So she had left him one of her prized dolls to keep him company.

Later, Jensen prays fervently through his tears that his brother found the strength to toss the wretched thing out his prison cell's window.

***

He's a quivering needy boy, fucking himself on his Master's cock.

He has permission to come, but only if he does so without a touch to his own cock and before his Master releases. The race is on, because he knows his Master is exhausted and wants simply to find peace in his release and then to sleep. And though it is his task to ensure his Master's wants are fulfilled, he knows that his Master particularly enjoys watching his slave come apart at the peak of orgasm. So he feels justified to put effort into both – to come, and to be come in.

He's working hard for it. Sweat from his sodden hair drips down, down his hot red face, splashing onto his Master's belly. His hands are splayed on his Master's ribs, giving him leverage to push himself up the full length of his Master's glorious thick cock, and slide straight back down again. He fucks himself forcefully, rhythmically, moaning aloud, pulling answering groans from his Master.

He's listening carefully to the cadence of his Master's moans – too many times lately they have been pain-filled sounds, short and sharp, long and lingering, helplessly and unwillingly revealing the agony of the injury to the royal knee. The accommodation of his Master's worsening wound has become a priority in all he does – and he handles it with such grace and gentle care to ensure his Master remains unknowing of his efforts.

Fully seated now on his Master, his body arches back, neck corded, eyes fluttering, skin mottled and marbled, hips slowly rolling. And his Master, flat on his back, star-fished on the bed, groans, hands clenching, hips straining to thrust.

He leans over, dripping sweat onto his Master, and licks a slow slick slide, up and over his Master's hard tight nipples. Worries them lightly with his teeth, one then the other, suckles and slurps them, tongue flat and moist and warm.

Sits up again, and he clenches round his Master's length, all the way up, gripping him tight. Then slow release down, relaxed and fully sheathed. Gripped tight all the way up, and slow relaxed slide down. Over and over, till he hears his Master's tells – knows he's building to release.

His own cock is bouncing and bobbing, pulsing with need. One touch, one little touch, is all he needs. He's moaning in unison with his Master now, high pitched, cut-off little sounds, riding the rhythm of the fucking. Straining with his need to come, and his want to wait – holding back, reigning in, pulsing and leaking and readyreadyready.

There's the gasped intake of his Master's breath, and he knows it for the sign, and he drags himself forward, pushing down, his Master's strength solid against his balls, and it's all he needs. He has time to seat himself fully, and clench as tight as he can. And he looks into his Master's eyes before he loses the power to think, and screams out his release, body shaking uncontrollably, spurting helplessly, riding his Master relentlessly, as his Master breathes out on a ragged groan into his own release.

He drapes himself over his Master, head tucked under his Master's chin, and listens to his breathing, slowing from great heaved gasps of breath to slow calm and measured sleep. Assured of the depth of his Master's sleep, he gently lifts himself up and away, tiptoes silently to the washroom, and returns with a warm cloth. He gently, carefully cleanses his Master, soothing comfort with soft words, kissing thank you, Master and sleep, Master onto his cooling skin. He quickly wipes himself off, and delicately crawls back into the bed, pulling up the blankets, snuggling himself into his Master's embrace.

Once he's assured that his Master sleeps deeply, he closes his own eyes and seeks his own rest.

***

He knows she watches him.

He feels it like a grimy smear on his skin.

He belongs to his Master, not to her.

***

The King, Jared, fucks into his wife, straining with his urgency to come – for fuck's sake, just get it the fuck over, and, gods please, just fucking come.

She's face down over the bed, torrent of tears and cacophony of cries muffled into her mound of lace-trimmed pillows. She's fully clothed; her panties simply stretched aside allowing him entrance.

When he finishes he thrusts slowly and deeply, urging his seed forward, willing it with all the force of a royal decree, all the supplication of a true believer, all the desperation of his own begging slave – please gods please, grant me a babe – a boy babe. A son. My heir.

A reward for the endurance of this act… again…

He uses her bed linen to thoroughly wipe all trace of her off of his cock. Tucks himself away and swiftly strides for the door.

Ignores her whimpered 'this time, my Lord, I can tell already, I promise, my Lord…' and her pleading 'stay but a bit, my Lord, please, stay…'

Slams the door behind him with such finality, stalks through the corridors, suppressing his pained limp, his panted plea, 'never again, dear gods, please, never again', providing the pace.

***

It happens in the space between one blink and the next: in the sliver of darkness between.

One moment he's standing before his Master, chest yearning forward as his Master clamps heavy, weighted, golden bells to his throbbing erect pierced nipples; knees barely keeping him upright as he readies to sink to the floor; pink tongue spreading glistening moisture over his lips; salivating, drooling, for his Master's cock.

He thrills to the timbre of his Master's voice – 'Suck me, boy' – the command, the authority, the ownership. And he glows with his responding submission, his obedience, his belonging.

His eyes well with tears as his body absorbs the agony of the nipple clamps, the pull and stretch of the weights, and he looks up into his Master's eyes to expose his pain.

He sighs, 'yes, Master', and makes a small movement forward.

And it's in that moment – the darkness mid-blink, the tiny tinkle of a bell – that his breath shallows, his senses muffle, his heart slows, his body stays upright, and his mind blanks out.

His vision tunnels rapidly till it ends in black darkness and he feels the phantom pressure of cloth over his eyes. And in the darkness, the overwhelming blackness, with the echo of a bell's tinkle filling his ears, he loses himself in a memory more real than his present.

He is a piece of furniture – a tabletop for an afternoon tea for ira-Jeffrey and Alistair. He's on his hands and knees, each spread wide enough to give him stability. In addition to the weights and bells at his ankles, he is especially decorated – little bells clipped to his collar, his nipple piercings, and looped round the head of his cock. Audible evidence should he disobey his instructions to be strong, still and silent.

He has four liquor-soaked strawberries stuffed in his mouth – not to be chewed, not to be swallowed, but to be held gently and delicately to avoid damage to the precious fruit – and his jaw aches from his efforts to obey. A steady little stream of strawberry-tinged drool leaks from lips held open by a strawberry, by a tongue weighed down by a strawberry, and by cheeks each bulging with a strawberry.

He needs to concentrate hard so as not to gag on the sickly sweetness of the fruit and the bitter bite of the liquor.

His back provides the surface for various crystal bowls – their cold bases burning ice rings into his fevered flesh. Bowls of strawberries, of course, and cream for dipping, and dripping.

ira-Jeffrey and Alistair have taken turns stuffing strawberries into his hole, teasing each other over who will the one to make his bells ring. Who will win the right to choose his punishment.

Not for the first time he has wished with all his heart that his Master would return, so that he could run to him and hide behind him and cry to him all the hurts he has suffered in punishments while he has been away. Cruel torturous punishments, harsh beyond any need – surely his Master would be furious that one of his treasured possessions had been so horridly used…

'Strong, still and silent, boy,' ira-Jeffrey's voice is calm and deep. 'This is your lesson today. Obey the will of your Master, not the want of your body. Submit openly and beautifully to all that is done to your body, in absolute and exquisite obedience to your Master's will. Today, it is your Master's will that you be strong, still and silent. Do not earn a punishment, boy, your delightfully well-practiced begging will be for nought.'

He hates crying into his blindfold… hates that he's on his hands and knees… hates that his arse is on display, hates that his cock hangs so vulnerably, hates the smell of strawberries, hates that his Master is away, hates that Misha is not with him, hates that he is a slave, hates that his father has not rescued him, hates that he is alone…

Hates that…

And he feels it then, cream dripping onto his back, startlingly cold splashes in little puddles, in a pattern now though, a straight little line of drips, pauses for the strawberry to be dipped again, more little drips right down…

'My turn,' he hears Alistair laugh.

And there are drips of cream rolling down his arse, cold little trails of cream dribbling down his crack, following the contours of his body. He strains not to clench his arse, full as it is of strawberries, and he glistens with sweat for his efforts.

And then a tongue is there, warm and moist, flat-licking at the trails of cream, slurpily sucking at the puddles, and it's not ira-Jeffrey, and it's not Alistair, because he can still hear them talking, muffled now behind his acute horror, because who could it be, licking and sucking, and the sweat on his body crystalises at the chill that sweeps through him, because he knows where this is going, where he'll be pushed, no matter how hard he tries, and who could it be, who, who is suckling on his cream-coated balls, licking along his cream smeared cock, how will he know who it is, what if he passes them in the hall tomorrow, should he survive his punishments enough to be able to walk tomorrow, say he passes them in the hall, and they know, and he's trapped behind his blindfold and will never know, it could be anyone, he'll never know who it is, anyone…

And a moan gurgles deep in his chest and he tries with all his heart, all his mind, all his soul, to be strong, still and silent.

But there is cream being poured slowly down his crack, and there is someone tonguing him, licking him, nibbling him, sucking strawberries from his hole.

After a while, the strawberries in his mouth turn to mush, and spill from his open mouth in a slurry of drool and juices.

After a while longer, his screams turn to sobs when he comes, and his bells ring and his body collapses and the bowls fall and the remaining berries and cream spill and the room fills with raucous laughter and the echoes of bells…

He comes back to himself confused and disorientated, finally becoming aware that he is being bound to the end of his Master's bed. Spreadeagle, wrists up high and wide on each of the corner posts, ankles spread wide and securely bound. He's facing his Master's bed, back to the room.

He's not sure what's happened in the time he was lost to the memory, and he knows by the pounding of his heart and the panting of his breath that he would collapse to the floor if he weren't bound upright.

He screams and sobs and begs his way through six strikes of the cane, wielded forcefully and furiously by his silent Master. Screams again when the weighted clamps are ripped from his nipples. He hangs limply as his body echoes his agony, undulating and quivering with a will of its own.

Watches as his Master lies back on the bed and jerks himself off. Cries when his Master's release is wiped over his face, when he is forced to lick the remainder from his Master's fingers.

Endures the night watching his Master sleep, with the taste and smell of his Master a constant reminder of his failure. Hanging in fiery agony in his bondage.

Whispers variations of 'sorry, Master' and 'forgive me, Master' and 'I beg to suck you, Master' over and over, all through the long cold night.

Till morning comes, and he's fucked where he hangs.

And, instead of spending the morning busily assisting his Master in readiness for the day, instead of preparing himself to accompany his Master through the day's long meetings – to sit at his Master's feet poised and ready to attend to his Master's every need – he's left bound to the bedposts.

His Master's voice is rough when he finally speaks, as though he too had suffered through a night choking on strawberries.

'I'll send the queen to get you. You can spend the day with the women.'

And he's left alone – hanging bound to his Master's bedposts, body frozen and cramped in pain, his Master's pleasure dry and flaky on his face and thick and moist dripping from his gaping hole, arse cheeks stripped with fiery welts from his caning.

Door left wide open.

Waiting for the Queen….

To be continued in Part Nine…

Chapter Text

Snippet - Wherein a Slave is Trained

'Please Master, please,' his throat feels like it is lined with gravel grit, sharp edges rubbing him raw. He swallows convulsively, as if to choke down rivulets of blood, but there is nothing there, nothing at all. Bone dry. Parched.
 
'Please, Master. I beg to serve, Master. Please, may I suck your cock?'
 
He would cry, in fact probably is crying, but his tears have dried up.
 
'Please Master, I beg to suck you,' dry rasping coughs. 'I beg, Master, please, I beg of you. Please. Please may I kiss your cock? Lick it, Master? Suck it? Please, Master.'
 
He understands more of begging now. Not the foolish attempts he had made in the early days of his slavery. Simply saying the words, as if to win some favour, some reprieve, from his Master. He realises now how lenient his Master had been, to have allowed such feebleness, such insincerity, from his lowly slave. He must remember to thank his Master appropriately – perhaps press his lips humbly and gently to his Master's feet, to glow with the purity of his appreciation of his Master's leniency, to offer himself, wholly and openly, in recognition of his Master's grace.
 
Now, his begging comes from his heart and his soul. He has deconstructed it, right down to its primal core.
 
His begging unveils himself, in total transparency, before his Master – in his desperation, earnestness, longing – in his humble imploring for the gift of his Master's attention, his Master's notice, his Master's permission. 'I beg, Master.'
 
He's hovering on the edge of delirium.
 
Sliding, sinking, slipping away.
 
But never quite escaping.
 
At the edge of blissful release, he is jerked back to his ordeal. Moaning at the agony of strained shoulders, cramped tummy, numbed knees. Remembering to turn his moans into begging supplications to serve his Master.
 
Under the watchful eyes of his Master's slave trainer.
 
He'd been led – blinded, shackled and belled – through the corridors of the palace, trembling, shuffling, tinkling, still dripping with his Master's spendings.
 
Led by ira-Jeffrey. Till they stop, and he is put to his knees. The weighted chains about his ankles are snapped to bolts on the floor. His wrists are raised above his head, cuffs locking into a chain above him. His blindfold is not removed. He is told to think about pleasing his Master. He is told to imagine his Master is watching him. He is told to beg for cock.
 
And he is left. For what feels like days. Without food. Without water. He has been sponged clean many times, the floor beneath his knees hosed down more times than he can remember.
 
He moans, then begs, then pants through a cramp, then moans again. He hurts. Everywhere. A throbbing hurt that beats with his heart, underlying the flares of agony that keep bringing him back to lucidity. Like when he rocks minutely on his knees, trying to shift the pattern of numbness. When his body collapses, only to be caught by his bondage, jarring wrists and shoulders. When his head falls forward, till the strain on his neck sparks along his spine. When he is silent for too long and he feels the lash of a whip across his back, prompting him to speech again.
 
'I beg, Master. Please.'
 
ira-Jeffrey's voice startles him so badly that he swings limply by his wrists, rocking on his knees, till he brings himself back to stability.
 
'Please, Master,' he implores, voice hoarse and whispery, 'I beg to be of service.'
 
There's a moist pressure sliding across his mouth, and he instinctively opens his lips to welcome it in. He tongues it all round, embraces it with every part of his dry mouth. Blindfolded, he can only guess at what it is – and he gives thanks with ragged moans deep in his dry throat. He licks and sucks at the wet cock head, as though it has been dipped in water, yearning for every drop of moisture.
 
A hand smooths his head, and ira-Jeffry soothes him, 'Good boy, little slave, good boy.'
 
Jensen is crying in thankfulness, tearless and sightless and silently.
 
'That's right, that's right – beautiful boy, well done – worship it as if it were your Master's cock.'
 
He has no way of knowing whose cock it is, all he knows is that he worships the cock – sucking, licking, tonguing – with cracked dry lips, rough parched tongue, sore raw throat. And every now and then, a few drops of precious clean fresh water drip and slide their way down the cock onto his lips, his tongue, and he moans his thankfulness and he redoubles his efforts and endures for a few drops more.
 
He's following ira-Jeffrey's instructions and corrections, trying to excel, trying to maintain concentration, when he is startled once more, this time enough to throw himself totally off course, losing the cock and swinging aimlessly by his wrists. He struggles quickly to regain his balance and focus. His mouth is open wide, tongue flat and stretched out, and he's mewling plaintively for a cock to fill it.
 
There's an odd sensation at his groin and it takes a while for him to realise that there is someone sucking him off. His body is just too distraught for it to mean anything, so he focuses on the cock in his mouth and the moisture he so desperately needs.
 
He endures for what seems like a never-ending forever - days? nights? - he'll never know. He is never without a cock in his mouth, or without a mouth on his cock. It all mixes together, his need for cock, his need for water, the pain of his body, and the pleasure of his sex. He sucks water droplets off of delicious cock, he thankfully and blissfully drinks down rivulets of come, and he arches helplessly, needily, responsively - though never comes himself.

ira-Jeffrey speaks to him only to tell him what a good boy he is, to run a soothing hand over his head, to point out an improvement in technique. He cries at the praise, tries to memorise it because it feels so good and he wants to keep it secretly stored away for later, in case he never hears nice things again.
 
Till, finally, he can endure no more. Behind his blindfold he panics as everything starts to waver. He has time to hope fleetingly that there'll be more cock/water if he wakes up. Then he sinks so deeply unconscious that his left shoulder dislocates when his body sags.
 
Jeffrey smiles proudly.

It has been a while since he has trained a pleasure slave. Ah, but he still has the knack, yes indeed. Though the pressure is on, because no-one is sure when the King will return, he will at least return a better trained slave than he was left with. A slave who has learned to suck cock.

Exquisitely.

To be continued in Chapter Nine

Chapter Text

Part Nine - In Which the Queen Finds Good Use for a Slave

'There now, baby,' she sighs, softly, serenely, a soothing sussuration. 'There now, don't you worry. Just sleep, just sleep. That's right, just close your eyes. You're all tucked in now, safe and sound. Time to sleep, baby, time to sleep...'

And a warm arm snuggles him, and a slow rhythmic hand strokes his head, and soft, soft lips kiss his forehead, and his eyes close and he relaxes into sleep.

He dreams of a strong woman crying in horror. Of her feather-like finger-tips fluttering fearfully over his fragile skin. Of her stringent voice as she orders him to be cut down from where he is bound to his Master's bed-frame. Of her gentle care when he'd screamed in agony as they'd moved his cramped and pain-filled limbs. Of her calming murmurs as he'd been carried to her rooms.

He dreams of cloudy concoctions choked down, and cooling creams caressing his skin. Crisp sheets and comforting pillows. Quietness and calmness.

And his Queen's capable, compassionate, care...

***

'He is a harsh man - your Master, my husband, our King.'

He's laying on his belly, only just awakened, and the Queen is gently rubbing cool cream into the welts on his hot back.

He dares not reply.

'He has many responsibilities, many worries, many to care for.'

He vocalises a sigh to indicate he's listening.

'He has many sorrows too, many pains to endure, much unhappiness to bear.'

He shifts his shoulder slightly, leading her soothing fingers to more of his hurts.

She sits back, and he sees her hands hover uncertainly till they come to rest in her lap. She's not looking at him now, just staring out into the room.

'I liked you once, long ago, back when you were simply younger brother to my lover. Then I scorned you for your part in his foolish pranks. I sorrowed for you in your captivity, rumours carrying word of your abominable plight. Since my marriage, though, I have hated you. Hated you with all my passion. You have been the blame for all my worries, all my unhappiness, all my failures. If he were not with you, he would be with me, and we would have the babe he so wants.'

She sounds so regal to him, so grave and august. As though she weren't revealing to him her most intimate thoughts. So unlike the girl of his memories...

'But now I have seen you. Seen what he does to you. Your role is very different to mine. I understand this now. I would make him stop hurting you if I could. I would do that for you Prince Jensen, if I could.'

He startles at his former name, and she pauses to run her hand through his hair, soft fingertips guiding loose strands from his forehead.

'But,' she continues, her voice a sorrowful whisper, 'I have no voice of authority here. I'm sorry Jensen, so sorry. I cannot save you from him. I do not have that power. I am here to solely to provide him with his babe. Naught else - he neither needs or desires me. Not for companionship nor friendship. Not for love nor satisfactions of the flesh.'

She withdraws her hands, and he can feel how she squares her shoulders and forces her voice to be more audible, less tremulous.

'And so, we will make the most of this unlikely situation. I need, more than anything, to have his babe, and you need, more than anything, someone to care for you. I... I am not yet with child, though I have tried and tried. There must be something... I must need to prove my worth, I think - to show how good a mother I will be. I believe that that's why you're here, Jensen. Why you've been given into my care. You so need someone to care for you. I will do it. For you, my baby. I will care for you. The King will see how good I am, how perfect I will be for motherhood. He's seen my with my dolls, I know, not understanding how I was practising - practising till the real one came along. I understand it now - he has given you to me to practise with. To demonstrate my good skills. There, I am sure that's it! It all makes perfect sense! For all else that he is, he is clever too, is my Jared, my husband, your Master, our King. So clever, it is not always clear to me... But this, oh yes, this I understand!'

She turns to fuss over him, smoothing his hair, adjusting his pillow, straightening his sheets.

'There there, baby,' she croons, 'sleep now some more. Sleep your worries and hurts away. Beautiful dreams, my baby, I will be here when you awaken...'

And she kisses him on his cheek, and kisses her fingertip and touches it to his nose. And he closes his eyes and prays to not dream.

***

'Stop squirming! Bad baby, bad baby! You know you have to wait. Good girls know how to wait. Good baby-dolls sit quietly while their mummy finishes her sewing. Nearly done now, nearly done. Show me how good you can be...'

And he fights back the tears that threaten to give him even more grief, and he concentrates on sitting still, sitting quietly.

He squeezes and flexes and rides a wave of fierce urgency, knowing that one small lapse of concentration, one tiny escaping drop, and he will not have the strength to hold back the flow. Sweaty and nauseous, he cringes into himself, straining for control.

Sometimes she likes it when he cries and begs. Other times she punishes him. He does not know what differentiates her responses - and after trying to find a pattern, or a sign, he's come to the belief that it's as random as a lightning strike.

At first he'd thought it was a welcome relief, to be left in her care during the daytime. Far better than the humiliation of sitting naked at his Master's feet, suckling his Master's cock, kissing his Master's boots, licking his Master's toes, bound immobile, displayed, blindfolded, gagged - whichever, whatever, suited his Master's pleasure - while budget meetings and planning meetings and military meetings all happened around him.

But like so many aspects of his life of late, he is thankful he has no choice. For to choose between time spent with his Master and time spent with the Queen would be no choice at all. Each is filled with their own unique horrors - each filled with unwanted pain, and unexpected pleasure, with unbearable humiliation, and unfathomable expectations. Best for him not to be given a choice, not to develop a preference, never to have to pick one over the other. His inability would surely be punished. Better to surrender and submit. And endure...

'That's enough! One thing. One thing is all I ask. For you to be still. And quiet. While I finish my sewing. It's not much to ask, is it? Is it? One little thing!'

He freezes in place.

'You've made me miss a stitch - all that wiggling about. I'll have to unpick it now...'

He's shocked at the strange sound that escapes him - a whimpered sort of groan - unaccountably loud when he's so used to being quiet. He knows it was too loud because she slams down her embroidery frame and jumps up from her seat. Awash with fearful trepidation he trembles where he sits.

'Bad girl, you're such a bad girl today. You've interrupted when you're meant to be quiet, and now I've made a mess of my sewing. What's daddy going to say?'

Somewhere along the way, somewhere in the past few weeks that Jensen has been left in her daytime care, somewhere during his time as her practice baby, his Mistress has decided that she doesn't just want any baby - she wants a girl baby. And each morning following his arrival, he has been transformed more and more into the baby girl of his Mistress's dreams. First it was a simple bow in his hair - an odd extravagance of tickley lace, long tails flowing down his cheeks. Booties followed, to keep his cold toes warm, and soft luxurious mittens for his hands, little lace drawstrings bound over his wrist cuffs. His Mistress's maids were kept up all hours of the night sewing his delicate sleepgown - snowy white linen and lace edgings and embroidered floral embellishments. From the very first time she dressed him in it, her absolute delight could not be contained! He wore his sleepgown daily, until more specially fitted baby garments began appearing - pinks and lilacs, lemons and pale pale greens, silks and satins, linen and lace - frocks and pinafores and tops and petticoats and bonnets and bibs.

He's never been around babies much, can't recall the last time he held one, doesn't know what they do all day. Maybe he makes a really good baby - obedient and well-behaved and only cries when he needs to or when he's told to or when he's made to. He has nothing to model his behaviour on - but he tries hard to please his Mistress. To be a good baby. A good baby-doll. To be a good girl...

He doesn't know if all babies are made to drink so much. From the moment he walks through her door and is dressed by her for his day, he is plied with drinks - water, sweetened water, watered-down juice - glasses and glasses full choked down, and then more suckled all morning from bottles with soft nipples on them. He still has his automatic association whenever he drinks water - cock hungry, arousal flaring, his own cock filling, wanting. He yearns to be sucking his Master's beautiful cock, instead of the oversized baby bottles she gives him. And he stays half-hard from the thought and the sense memory of his training.

He doesn't know if all babies wear sleek, soft, silky, satin panties - rows and rows of frilled lace at the back. And are left to squirm and squirm and try to hold on. Knowing, as the urgency to pee builds and builds, despite his cries and his groans and his pain, even knowing that it happens every day, without fail, as he cramps with desperation till he has no choice - and he tries to be a good girl, he really does, but there's nothing he can do, nothing he can do, to stop being bad, bad, naughty.

And he cries, every single day, with abject humiliation so all-encompassing that he can do nothing but cry in desolation and despair, as he pees in his pretty pretty panties and suffers his Mistress's punishments...

'... are you even listening to me?' She's grabbing him by his ear and forcing him to crawl along the floor, knees slipping on the frills of his dress, pulls him up by the ear, to stand in the corner.

It's a familiar corner to him, and he clenches his tummy muscles tight fighting cramps and bright urgency, and stands in his corner, facing out to the room, legs spread wide, hands behind his back, before he's even told. A good girl, see, I'm trying hard to be a good girl. Mercy, please Mistress, mercy... She straightens his dress, smooths the creases from where he was sitting, ruffles the frills back into place. She adjusts his bonnet, reties the bow at his neck, and thumbs his tears from his cheeks.

'You will just have to wait now, wait till Mummy fixes her mistake,' and she walks back to her sewing. 'Now be a good girl, a quiet and still baby-doll, and after your nap we'll do something special before your daddy comes to get you.'

He doesn't know if his Master knows what happens while he is with his Mistress. He doesn't know if his Mistress tells his Master what she does with him. But then, he's pretty sure his Master doesn't tell his Mistress what he does with him either. He thinks that if they spent more time together, than they did each individually torturing him, then they might create this baby that they both so desperately want.

Though, in all honesty, the thought of his Mistress looking after a real baby is truly horrifying to him - just the thought of a wee innocent babe being left in her care gives him chills. He thinks he only survives because he is so far from innocent...

His distraction has cost him. He moans loudly, body quivering, eyes fluttering, clenching hard, spread feet and knees and thighs giving him no chance against the desperate urgency piercing his groin. His body is so lost, so confused, tantalising pleasure mixing with the pain. He doesn't even know if he wants to pee or to come. He rocks on his heels, trying, trying to be good, moaning and moaning, then short sharp intakes of breath, trying to hold it in, hold it in. Spiking pleasure and biting pain. Then, of a sudden, all his struggles are for naught.

His cock twitches and it's such a small dribble, warm in his panties, and it's past the point of stopping, and he groans loud and deep and long, and releases unwillingly. And pees himself, deeply, thankfully relieved; mortifyingly, horrifyingly humiliated. Tears fall down his face, but he dares not unclasp his hands from behind his back to wipe them away.

'Baby girl! What have you done?!' she shrieks, slamming down her embroidery once again. 'Why didn't you hold on? You'll never grow to be a big girl if you don't learn to wait. Oh, bad, bad girl.'

Between sobs he manages 'sorry Mistress, sorry' and tries to wipe his snotty nose on the shoulder of his dress.

'Naughty girl, naughty bad, messing all over the floor. Look at your dress - just look at it!' She twists her face in disgust, and he just can't understand, can't comprehend the futility of the ritual - if she'd just let him go to the toilet, none of this, not a bit, would be necessary.

'Elsie, Hazel,' she calls her maids, 'she's done it again, bad naughty girl! Come at once! Elsie, prepare her bath. Hazel, clean up this floor.'

She smacks him hard across the face, and it seems more of a shock to herself than to him. 'Look what you make me have to do. It's just not right,' she's muttering. 'When will you learn to be a good girl? My real dolls, my good dolls, never do this. You're making it so hard for mummy to like you. I try to teach you to wait, like a big girl, but no, you're just incapable - have to make a disgusting mess, just can't learn. It's all that thing's fault, isn't it? Get to the bathroom! Go on, now!'

Drops to the floor, hangs his head, crawls to the bathroom - stupid dress getting caught under his knees and making him slow.

Elsie is still running his bath, hot steam filling the room, mirrors fogging up. 'Do you want bubbles today, ma'am?'

'Yes, not because she deserves them though. Look at her poor dress,' lots of tut-tutting, 'what a state! Doesn't appreciate the good things given to her.'

He hates crying in front of the maids, hates that they have to clean up his pee, hates that they snigger behind his back when the Mistress isn't watching. He just can't stop the hot flush of mortification that he tries to hide by bowing his head low. Can't stop the hiccupped sobs still racking his body. Can't stop the way his wet dress clings to the fronts of his thighs as he waits on his hands and knees for his Mistress's will.

His Mistress waits for her maid to leave before she beckons him to his feet.

'Such a naughty girl, look at all these tears. It's hard to learn something new, isn't it? I know, I know. You'll learn soon though, and be a good girl, not a naughty girl.' She's undoing the ribbons of his bonnet. 'A good mummy helps her baby girl by teaching her a lesson when she does the wrong thing. I'll be a good mummy, I'll be good at teaching my baby girl a lesson, even if it's hard.' She has him turn round so she can undo the big ribbon round the waist of his dress, then all the little buttons down his back. 'It's not the mummy's fault if the baby is naughty. You're a naughty girl, but it's not mummy's fault, not at all. It's your thing's fault, isn't it? Nasty, dirty, thing. Naughty girl for having a thing, naughty, bad girl!'

He drifts a bit, having heard all this before, and he wonders what his Master is doing, whether he's finished his day's meetings, whether he's visited the Healer about his inflamed wound, whether he's out with his dogs in the wild windy weather... It's difficult, being out of his Master's presence, in ways that are confusing to him.

His dress puddles on the floor, and his wet panties are peeled off his body, sticking to his thighs, tripping over his feet. He bows low so his lacy singlet can be pulled over his head. He waits for it, 'oh, poor baby, poor baby girl, to have such an ugly thing. Don't worry baby, mummy will clean it out, don't you worry.'

And he does worry, because he thinks she's crazy-mad and he can't stop her.

'Over here, baby, that's right, up on your change table,' she's all business now, leading him over to the small table in the bathing room.

He's laying on his back, silent and sorrowful, fearful and frightened, dried tear tracks on his cheeks. Ever since the first time, when he'd lashed out without thought, he is now bound, wrists high over head, pulled down and his cuffs fastened to the table; legs splayed either side of the table, ankle cuffs secured together underneath.

She lays a lace trimmed pale purple towel over his chest and belly, and another drapes over his thighs. Leaving his tattooed cock uncovered.

'Good girl,' she croons, 'no fighting today. Good girl.'

Methodical and efficient, she unwraps her roll of tools, cleans each one as she pulls it out. He tries not to listen, chest rising and falling, breath hitching in his throat, but there's only the sound of her crazy-crooning voice, her unbelievable justifications, and her earnest and organised preparations.

'There, there. It will be all over soon and you'll be nice and clean. Good girl,' and she pats the towel over the strained muscles of his thigh, a soothing gesture he thinks, and he moans unresistingly in response.

'Do you need your dummy, baby girl? Do you want me to ask Elsie to bring in your dummy?' she's peering down at him as he shakes his head and bites his tongue. 'No? Well, you'll know then to be quiet. One more sound and we'll fill that naughty mouth with your dummy. Be good now, quiet and still, and it will soon be time for your nice bath. Did you see all the bubbles waiting for you? Good girl, won't be long now and you'll be all clean...'

He stays quiet and still, less afraid now than the first time, for now he knows that he can survive her ministrations whole and relatively unharmed.

She selects the long thin curved length of shiny metal and dips and coats it in the thick sticky gel. She uses a pair of tongs, with little cotton pads on the ends, to grip his soft little cock and hold it ready.

'Good girl, let's get this thing all clean now. Nice and still,' she murmurs, intent on her task.

He watches her as best he can, neck stretched up from the table, arms straining, chest heaving. Watches as his cock twitches to escape the tongs, the tattoo at its base moving like a wave. Watches as she uses the metal to smear the cold moisture all round the slit of his cock. Watches as she dips the metal once more, then slowly lowers it towards his body.

But he just can't do it - just can't lie there and allow her to do this to him. Body convulsing uncontrollably, hips thrashing to try to move away, escape, table creaking and groaning, and he moans and begs and 'no Mistress, please no Mistress, have mercy Mistress, please no. Even knowing that he can survive it, even knowing that there's pleasure to be had beyond the pain if he just endures, if he just acquiesces, if he just submits.

'Elsie! Elsie!' she screeches. 'Bring the baby's dummy!'

And he groans in mortification, begging 'sorry Mistress, I'll be good Mistress, your good girl Mistress, sorry, sorry' even as his ankle cuffs clatter under the table as his body continues its frantic attempts to escape.

She sits like a mad surgeon - hands raised, one with the tongs, the other with the slender metal spike. Waiting.

Smirking Elsie arrives with his specially adapted dummy. Nipple pink, nipple shaped, enlarged and engorged, behind a bright pink stopper. She checks for permission first, then rubs it lightly across his pursed lips. He moans his 'no!no!no!', shakes his head from side to side, but she follows his lips easily, pressuring him to open, open wide. Till she prods him in the sensitive spot of his jaw and he opens unstoppably in a wounded cry, and she shoves hard till it fills his mouth and straps it tightly round his head. So big, lips stretched round its base, tongue flattened under its roundness, helpless not to suckle as his mouth fills with saliva.

Elsie curtseys and leaves and he moans and moans and his Mistress kisses him on his forehead.

'Right then, let's get on with this,' she's saying, and his head slumps back onto the table and he's concentrating on a spot on the ceiling, and he's trying hard to be relaxed, and he's sucking and swallowing and choking on his dummy. Moaning his misery, keening and quivering, displaying his distress.

He feels the padded tongs on his fragile cock, shivers at the cold of the gel, screams as the ice of the metal sinks slowly surely into his slit. Cries as she admonishes him to 'stay soft, baby girl, stay soft', and he nods blindly as he chokes on his own spit. Winces at the pressure, filling him, filling him, pushing ever downwards, inside him, inside his body. Grunts as she secures it in place, more metal round the head of his dick.

Shivering in reaction, body tingling with an overload of sensation, horrifyingly stretched. His eyes burn, and he sucks deeply on his dummy, and his muscles ache like they're weary. His cock is aglow, awash with too much, too much to feel, unnatural pleasure and echoing pain.

He looks up only to torture himself, wanting to know which of the remaining tools she will use on him today. She catches his eye, annoyed, and so selects the thickest metal plug, knobbled and weighty and curved. No need to watch anymore, and he closes his eyes and listens as it is squelchingly smeared with gel. His ankles are uncuffed, attached to the ends of long poles, then raised high and stretched wide. His hips slide forward to compensate, the towel over his thighs whisked away, and his hole is left exposed and available.

He's thinking of his Master as he is slowly, unrelentingly breeched. Of the passion and power and sheer strength of his Master. Of the ownership and the belonging and claiming, of his own succumbing and submission and surrender. With his Master there is always the fire of want, the heat of need, the scorch of desire; whether in a rant of rage or an exalt of ecstasy; tearing and torturing the responses from his boy's body, or soothing and seducing them forth.

No such passion with his Mistress, though, as the huge, heavy plug pushes home. Cringing with the cold of it, straining from the stretch of it, trembling from the tease of it. With dispassionate care, she thrusts it in and out, twists it round and round, jabs it short and sharp, slides it long and deep.

'That's right baby girl, won't be long now, won't be long,' she's crooning to him, voice a soft lullaby, while she fucks him mechanically, steadily, persistently. All work, all relentless rhythm. In and out, twisting it round and round, jabbing it short and sharp, sliding long and deep.

'We'll have you all bathed and beautiful again soon now, won't be long,' and she doesn't miss a beat. 'Get this thing all cleaned out, then straight into your bath. Good girl's can play with the bubbles for as long as they like.'

He's moaning loud rounded sounds, throat open, lips loose around his dummy, moaning with the pleasure of the fucking, with the pain of his invaded cock. His legs are straining to move, ankles twitching and pulling and rattling in their bondage. His arms are stretched, using the strength of his restraints to flex and wrench against. His hips are dancing, familiar feeling of urgent need to meet and greet the pleasure and reflexive need to evade and escape the pain.

The pain is winning though, building in his cock and filtering out in waves of throbbing hurt. He's groaning now, loud clenched sounds, throat choking, teeth gnawing around his dummy, groaning with the pleasure from his pulsing prostate, with the pain of his cock unable to reach hardness - stopped by an unrelenting spike of fiery hot metal.

His body is lost to his Mistress's endless rhythm - breath, voice, muscle - all working with her to push him to a fevered frenzy of potent intensity.

The table lurches under the thrashing of his body, sound ricocheting in the enclosed space. His head is rocking back and forth, wordless evidence of his no,no,no, and he thinks that even if he had words he wouldn't be unable to use them - no, take it out, take it out; no, don't make me come; no, don't stop, don't stop; no, I don't want to cry; no, let me come; no, stop, please, stop; no, where's my Master; no!no!no!

'Ready now, baby, ready to empty all that badness? Look what it's doing to you, causing you all that hurt. Are you ready baby? Mummy's going to make it all better now.'

He screams when she uses her tongs to hold his cock, knowing all that's to come is inevitable and unstoppable and inescapable. She removes the spike, tantalisingly slow, and he strains to keep still and strains to hump air. His body overloads with sensation - so lost he doesn't know if he's going to pee or going to come. His cock is being stroked by the padded tongs, filling and hardening and throbbing and straining. There's so little pressure, just soft cotton pads stroking softly along his steely hardness.

'That's it baby, push it all out. Push out all that badness. Now, baby,' and she pushes in hard and deep with the huge metal plug, then pulls it straight out. His hips stutter in reaction, and the tongs rub over the head of his cock, and he slams into his orgasm - body elevated off the table, rigid and taut, as his cock fountains his come. He's flexing into the waves of bliss, spurting and straining, her tongs milking him. She pushes the plug back into his loose body, rolling it, knobbly bits caressing his pulsating prostate. He arches again in response, more spurts of come, eyes rolling back in his head. She leaves it in him, and uses the tongs to milk his cock, last few drops dribbling out as his body collapses on the table. He's in total reflexive response when she continues to rub the tongs up and down his oversensitive cock, ensuring he is totally empty. Without volition, his body twists and turns, attempting escape, arching and humping and cringing from her touch. He's screaming and sobbing, choking round his dummy, wordlessly begging for mercy, begging for her to stop.

'Good baby, my good baby girl! Aren't you lucky you have such a good mummy?' and she puts the tongs down and removes the plug and goes to wash her hands in the sink. 'Yuk! Look at all that mess. Good girl for getting it all out. There, there. Mummy knows how hard it was. No more tears now - let's get you in the bath so you can wash all that badness away.'

And he lays on the table, bonelessly, body awash with echoes of pleasure and pain, twitching and tingling, crying softly, suckling on his dummy, waiting for her to release him, and give him his bath.

***

Bath-time's over and it's early afternoon and she's sewing again.

He's sitting cross-legged on the floor near her feet, clean and baby-powder fresh. The satin ribbon of his bonnet is tied in an oversized bow at his neck. The frills of his petticoats and the lace of his dress are spread in an artful circle around where he sits. He has a teddy bear in one hand and a pink-nippled bottle of milk in the other. Though the lace on his silky panties is making him itch, he is keeping still and quiet. He is being a good girl for mummy.

There's a commotion at the door, one of the maids gasping in surprise.

'You're early, Your Highness, the Mistress is not expecting you!' He's pretty sure it was Elsie, speaking loud enough to be a warning for the Queen.

But it is too late anyway, and as his Mistress slowly rises to her feet, he lowers his head, chin to his chest, staring down at an embroidered pink flower on his dress, pretending invisibility as his Master enters the room.

'My Lady,' he hears his Master say. 'I trust all is well.'

'Yes, my Lord...'

'No, don't get up - continue your sewing. I am here only for my slave. Where is he?'

'My Lord...'

There's a long, long pause, in which he hears the shaky, fluttery little intakes of his Mistress's breath, and the grunted out expulsions of shocked breath from his Master.

'What...? Fuck! Is that...? Fuck!...'

'Let me explain...'

'What the fuck!?'

'Please, My Lord...'

Footsteps carry his Master to him, booted feet stopping right in front of the cloud of his dress.

'Boy?' His Master's finger under his chin, tilting his head up, up. 'Jensen?'

'Yes, Master,' he whispers, looking up beyond the brim of his bonnet into his Master's astonished hazel eyes.

'Fuck, boy,' a slow smile blossoming on his Master's face, igniting him. 'Fuck yes...'

Continued in Part Ten!

Chapter Text

Part Ten - In Which an Ordeal is Endured

'Beautiful boy,' he sighs, softly, slowly, soothingly.

Waits till his boy's sobs subside, till his boy's breathing subdues, till his boy's body submits.

'Beg for ten more,' he commands.

And waits. Watches.

Waits as his boy breaks once again into harsh sobs. Watches as his boy's body shivers and twitches.

'Please, Master,' his boy's voice, wrecked, hoarse, a rasping sound in the quiet playroom.

Waits while his boy struggles to obey.

Such a thing of beauty.

The gifts his boy gives him are beyond measure.

'Master....'

But again, his boy's voice breaks, and is lost to whimpered sobs.

He watches while he waits.

He sees the effort his boy makes, the flex and release of quivering muscles, the wrinkle of brow in the spaces between sobs, the ragged intakes of raspy breaths. And his own heart stutters, his own eyes sting, because there is such honesty in his boy's struggles, such vulnerability in his boy's efforts, such transparency to his boy's determination. All so openly revealed, uncompromisingly displayed. All for him, his Master.

Jared blinks quickly, breathes deeply. There is so much pleasure to be had in the power of his ownership...

'Master, please, I beg...' His boy's body strains within his bondage. 'More, Master, please. Ten,' he chokes on the word, splutters, and recovers. 'I beg for ten more lashes more, Master. Please...'

He steps forward and rubs his hand through his boy's sweat-soaked hair. Slides it to the nape of his boy's neck and gently rubs the tight muscles there. Whispers, 'Ten more lashes, plus one additional lash, for taking so long to respond to your Master.'

'Thank you, Master. Sorry, Master,' fresh tears fall, 'I beg forgiveness, sorry...'

Jared places his hands on his boy's shoulders, then slowly runs then down his boy's back. Over skin hot and glowing - burgundy, claret, plum-wine-red - bright colour for bright pain. Down over paleness of hip to the radiancy of his boy's butt-cheeks, burning with colour so richly royal - vermilion, scarlet, ruby-red. He starts at his slave's shoulders again, firmer pressure this time, riding the ripples of his boy's muscles. Then, drags the soft pads of his fingers, ten white lines, down, down, to the beat of his boy's punched out breath. Lets his nails drag this time, slow and paced, no words now from his boy, only pained cries and bound writhing.

He walks round to the front of the whipping frame, leans in to lick and kiss and swallow his boy's sounds. Pushes closer, deepening his kisses, lips sliding, tongue teasing and tasting. One hand now at the back of his boy's head, the other pushing their hips together, and he kisses his slave with all his passion, long and hard, moist movements, hot panted breathes, his own soft moans. Grinds their hips together, his boy's naked body stretched and taut in his bondage, soft material of his own clothing between them. Grips his boy's wet hair, twisting and pulling it, wrenching and kneading it, demanding more. And kisses and kisses his boy, suckles his tongue, teeth clashing, lips tingling, smearing saliva, noses knocking. Eyes closed, hands grasping and ungrasping, pulsing to a rhythm he commands.

He slows the kiss, but is unwilling to step away. Raises his knee between his boy's stretched legs so he can rub his thigh up and down his boy's burgeoning cock. Greedily swallows his boy's cries and groans and whimpers. He loses himself in the pleasure of his boy's body, kissing and touching and rubbing and holding, his boy giving himself unreservedly, utterly.

'When I've completed your eleven lashes,' he murmurs against his boy's spit-sparkling, swollen lips, 'you will beg me to fuck you, right here where you hang; whipped and beaten and begging to be fucked.'

And he groans deeply and kisses lingeringly in response to his boy's glazed-eyed, 'Gladly, Master. This boy begs to be fucked by his Master...'

'Imp,' he sighs, continues around soft kisses, 'I said after your eleven lashes.'

'I beg Master,' his boy slurs, 'Please lash me Master, whip me hard and fuck me harder. This boy begs to be fucked, Master, begs to worship your cock, Master, please...'

'Good boy,' he says, stepping away slowly, 'my beautiful, good boy.'

When Alistair had first delivered the array of whipping instruments, he and Jared and Jared's slave had spent much time in the playroom as Jared learned and became proficient in each. Recent times have kept Jared busy though, and it's been rare the times he has been able to spend such time alone with his boy. He's at the closing stages of renegotiating much needed alliances, an afternoon free while his closest ally's emissary is examining the final amended documents. All around him his palace prepares for an evening feast to celebrate renewed vows.

But here, here with his boy, he has made time to celebrate more privately.

'Eleven, boy,' he picks up the leather whip and circles behind his boy. Gives him a gift, 'You need not sound the count this time.'

He paces out, swings the whip loosely, and steps forward with the delivery of the first of this, the final for today, set. There are no blank spaces left on the canvas of his boy's back and bottom, for his boy has already endured twenty lashes. Jared had intended a total of forty, but his own need to be inside his boy has reduced that now.

His boy grunts through the first three, screams and sobs through the next three, and bonelessly whimpers through the next three. He delivers the last of the ten begged for by his slave, to a boy so lost in his pain his body barely responds, a boy whose lips move only to make a whispered, breathless plea to be fucked by his Master.

He steps back close to his boy and presses the sweat soaked handle of the whip across his boy's mouth.

'Hold this,' he says, and waits for his boy's ragged breathing to ease enough for the handle to be gripped between his teeth.

He pulls and pinches his boy's nipples, rough enough to over-ride the pain of his whipping, rolls the hard little nubs with their golden piercings round and round, twists and turns them, tickles over the peaks. Continues playing with his boy's nipples with one hand, and reaches the other to his boy's half-hard cock. Groans loudly as his boy's body, filled to the edge of endurance with the pain of his whipping, responds instantly to the touch of his Master's hand on his cock, swelling and hardening in his hand. He jacks his boy, fierce and fast, heady with his own pleasure and power.

'One more to go, boy, one more for making your Master wait. Do you think you can come under the lash boy? Come for your Master under the pain of his whip? Do you think you can thank your Master with your pleasure for giving you a whipping you deserved? What say you?'

He gently removes the now sweat and saliva soaked whip handle and waits while his boy tongues his lips, spreading leaked drool over dry spots.

'Please Master...permission...come...fuck me... beg...'

'Good boy,' he says, swipes up leaked drool from his boy's chin and swiftly pulls on his boy's hard cock. He judges by his boy's moaned panting when to stop and quickly steps behind to deliver the final blow.

'Ready boy? Come under the whip, or you won't be coming at all...'

And he delivers the final lash with all of a Master's strength, right across the centre of his boy's bottom. The room rings with his boy's scream, echoes with a rough harsh groan, then slowly falls silent.

He puts the whip aside, pushes down his own unattended cock, knowing he can wait awhile, and walks round to his boy. He reaches his own hands up and gently wraps them round each of his boy's bound wrists. He stretches his own legs wide, his ankles aligned with his boy's bound feet. He shuffles his body forward, snuggles it in, as close as it can get, to his boy's sweat and semen soaked skin. Nuzzles his shoulder under his boy's lax head till he supports it's weight entirely. Rocks himself, softly, gently, slowly, against his boy.

Sighs, 'My beautiful boy...'

***

The Emissary from neighbouring Rovansee, charged with sealing the negotiations for the alliance, has been accompanied by a guard of ten warriors. Rovansee breeds their men strong and tough, burly fighting men, large in stature and well-padded with muscle. Their sheer size on a battlefield is daunting enough, and their battle-fired blood-lust is legendary. Mighty foes to be feared, and strategic allies to be wooed - Jared has worked long and hard to ensure their loyalty. The treaty has been signed, the feast underway, and the celebratory whores are mingling behind curtains, sneaking peaks at potential bedmates once the feast has finished. The guardsmen have eaten their fill and drank the fine wines lustily.

Jared sits with the Emissary throughout dinner. A dour man, tightly held and tightly controlled, he has managed the negotiations with dignity and deliberate attention to detail. Jared fought hard for and won a previously denied boon, safe passage through the north-east corner of Rovansee, and by long-held traditions of treaty-signings is required to offer an ostentatious gift to honour the boon.

He glances down at his slave, kneeling quietly, head bowed, still and silent in the noise-filled room, and knows it is the most precious gift he can give. He has judged the Emissary carefully, knows the power of the honour that he is about to bestow, knows the treaty will be strengthened by the gift he will give.

A hardens his heart and closes off whatever unacknowledged emotions may lurk there. His slave after all is entirely his own property. To do with as he will. His to own. His to keep. His to dispose of. His to give away.

He hands his boy a cup of juice and when it is about to be returned still half-full, he waves it back, waiting for it to be emptied.

His property. To do with as he will. His to own. His to keep. His to dispose of.

His to loan.

What greater gift to offer the emissary, as an expression of sincere respect for negotiations hard-fought and well-signed, as a public acknowledgement of the faith he has in their new responsibilities towards each other, as an expression of trust in a loyal ally? What greater gift than his own personal slave. Impeccably trained. Perfectly obedient. Beauty personified.

He reaches down, forces his boy to look at him. Leans down to speak softly.

'Make me proud boy. Serve me well. You are mine. Mine to do with as I please. You will serve me this night, and you will serve well. Do you understand boy? You will obey instantly, perfectly,' he turns away then, unable to hold his boy's eyes. 'Make me proud,' he finishes.

'Yes, Master,' his boy says, simply. 'I will obey.'

All previous trace of his good humour has vanished. Now that the time is here, he does not want to go forward. He glances at Christian, at ira-Jeffrey, who were both present during the council discussions that had pushed for the offer. Christian smiles grimly, and nods his head, acknowledging his King's hesitancy.

The commitment has been made though and with stoic determination, he stands to make his treaty acceptance speech, and to offer his slave's use to the emissary in celebration.

***

Jensen kneels quietly at his Master's feet. Head bowed, he is calm and centred, and doesn't fidget at all. Even at the light fabric of the shift that he is wearing. So used to the frills and bows of the Queen's special outfits for him, he's feeling quite lost in the simplicity of the chaste style and cloth.

His body aches with a burning throb, back and bottom fiery hot, muscles overworked from the strain of his bondage, and the ferocity of his Master's fucking.

But his mind is at peace, clarified and cleansed by his pain and pleasure.

He has zoned out for most of the feast, accepted the tidbits of food from his Master's fingers, and drank the juice from his Master's cup. He is wondering if it would be alright if he slid under the banquet table, hidden under the thick linen of the tablecloths, so he can suckle quietly on his Master's cock.

But that thought ends when his Master stands and the speeches begin. He bows low, forehead to the floor, and loses himself in the rich sound of his Master's voice.

He rejoins the world at the sound of excited applause, shouts and whistles, a shrill and strident voice calling out, 'Well done, my King, a rich gift indeed!'

His Master snaps his fingers and Jensen jumps up briskly, stifling a groan, to be by his side. At another gesture from his Master, he knows to drop to his knees again.

'One night, Emissary Feldon. With my most favoured. Accept this honour in celebration of a treaty well-signed.'

Jensen runs the words through his head again, comes up with the same result. A chill sweeps over him, dowsing the burn of his whipping. Pale and shaky, he struggles to balance on his knees. 'Make me proud', he remembers.

The dour Emissary Feldon stands. 'You honour me muchly, my Lord. It is well-known across the region of the quality of your property and the regard in which it is held. Being now so close to it, I will ever be happy to testify to the truth of the talk. I accept your gift, my Lord, in the full knowledge of its rarity and in full acknowledgement of its value. I thank you, my Lord and trusted ally.'

He has been given away. Mine, his Master said. Mine. But mine means something different here. Mine means mine to share, mine to give away. He shivers with the cold. 'Make me proud,' his Master had said.

'It is with much sadness though my Lord, that I must confess to you and to your friends gathered here, so that there be no misunderstanding, that I am unable to enjoy your gift. A war wound, my Lord, has damaged me beyond repair.'

He alone, because Jensen knows him the best, he alone hears the faint smile in his Master's reply, 'A true tragedy, indeed, Emissary Feldon. To have to forgo the bountiful pleasure of my slave. A tragedy indeed...'

'However, if you would allow the honour, my Lord. Whilst the wound has destroyed my physical ability to experience pleasure, I am still fond of the aesthetic qualities of beauty and passion. In the spirit of accepting your gift, and honouring the success of our negotiations, may I offer a compromise, my Lord?'

Jensen frowns, unable to understand where this is leading. He wants to look at his Master, seek reassurance, get some sort of cue for what this all means. He's being given away, to someone who can't use him... 'Make me proud,' but how?

'The aesthetics of beauty and passion. Nicely said. Speak then, what is your proposal?'

'To experience the pleasure you offered me with your slave, my Lord, I would need to watch. View, my Lord, the slave in the throes of his passion. I yearn to do so, with all my heart. It is a vision I can but barely imagine myself fortunate to behold. Grant my guard the use, my Lord, so that I may enjoy fully this gift you have so honourably offered.'

Silence, and for a brief moment he imagines his Master refusing the request. Announcing to the court that his slave is his alone. His. Only his...

'So be it,' he hears the deadened quality in his Master's voice. 'Here on their feasting table, for our viewing pleasure.'

'The extravagance of your gift, my Lord, will be a thing marvelled at by all across our allied Kingdoms. You honour us, my Lord, my thanks.'

He is lost to waves of nausea, feels sure he will pass out. Feels the chill of fine sweat on his forehead. Has he understood? 'Make me proud.' He has seen the men of the emissary's guard. They will destroy what little is left of him. He shudders, whimpers, eyes filling with tears.

Jumps at his Master's finger snap though, swiftly to his feet, though unsteady and wavering, pale and clammy.

His Master leans close to him, fumbling uncharacteristically at the ties on his shift. Then the simple cloth is ripped from his body, and he stands naked before his Master, displayed before the court, unveiled for the emissary, exposed for the guard.

'Obey perfectly. Ensure my hall echoes with your sounds - your pleasure and pain. Everything. Sing them to the Emissary. Make me proud.'

'Yes, Master.'

As the ladies of the court leave the feasting hall, and the whores of the court begin circulating with more wine, Jensen remains still while the King and the Emissary make themselves comfortable.

Then his Master's voice fills the room, commanding him, 'Run, boy! Run to the guard and beg to serve them. Run!'

And he runs across the hall, kneels in their presence and begs, loudly, to serve.

***

He screams till his voice breaks, till his sounds are ragged rasps, rough and raw.

They are big men, the guards, and they use him thoroughly. By one, by two, by three and by four, he has served them well.

The tainted juice, fed to him by his Master, has helped.

He has responded helplessly till the juice kicked in, mindlessly in its potent cradle, and despairingly now that it has nearly worn off.

He has served on his back, on his belly, on his feet, on his knees, on his hands and knees.

He has served thrown over the table, on the floor, on a chair, supported by guards, on laps, and over knees.

He has displayed his own pleasure wantonly, spurting freely, arching lustily, pulsing blissfully. And he has paraded his pain truthfully, writhing wretchedly, howling distressingly, groaning brokenly.

He has served beyond his barrier of pain, beyond his ability to express pleasure. He has served in ecstasy and agony, both now fading, out of focus, lost to haziness.

Only the muscles that keep him breathing are still working. He is a boneless receptacle for the cock in his mouth and the cock in his arse. His head lolls, eyes glazed and unseeing. His body flops where it is not gripped and held by a guardsman. His breathing is splintered, loud and guttural, then wet and gurgling when the cock in his mouth spurts.

When finally finished with him, the guardsmen roll him onto his back on the table they've just fucked him over, arrange his sprawled lifeless limbs comfortably, and cover him with the linen that had once been the fine tablecloth.

They thank the King warmly, and there is much back-slapping as the guard make their exhausted way back to their rooms. They support the Emissary, who had fallen into contented sleep half-way through the night's entertainment.

He does not see the look that passes between his Master the King, and ira-Jeffrey the slave master. Does not hear the quiet strength of ira-Jeffrey's, 'Go. I will bring him to you.' Nor the slow way his Master walks from the room.

He is barely conscious as ira-Jeffrey has him taken to the slave's training rooms. There, he is thoroughly and meticulously cleansed of the layers of semen that cover his entire body. He has no control to properly take his enemas, but, though the first two are simply cleansing, it's the third that carries that carries the necessary medicinal potions. With no participation of his own, his teeth are cleaned, though he chokes piteously on an odorous curative for his damaged throat. A variety of salves and ointments are used, this one for his cock, that one for his hole, another for his whipped butt cheeks. He winces occasionally, moans breathily, but is mostly unresponsive.

ira-Jeffrey himself carries him to his Master's bedchamber. There are murmured instructions, but the moment he lays his burden on the King's own bed, on the prepared lush linens and plumped pillows, ira-Jeffrey bows low and is quickly gone.

He can sense his Master on the bed next to him, can feel his Master's breath on his skin, can hear his Master wetly jacking himself. He tries to reach out, to take the task that is his own back to himself, but his feeble hand is gripped by his Master and pushed back into the pillow under his head.

He drifts away, comes back to the familiar smell of his Master's release. Smiles, faintly, brokenly, when he is anointed with his Master's come - his Master's hands smearing it from his belly where it had landed, through his hair, over his face, around his lips, into his mouth, over his nipples, down over his belly, stroking along his cock, pushed into his hole, dragged down his legs and over his toes.

'Thank you, Master,' he croaks.

'Sleep, now,' his Master soothes.

And, by his Master's command, and the soft kiss on his forehead, he does.

Continued in Part Eleven

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven - In Which a Slave Exercises Agency

He seeks out Jeffrey, quietly, secretly, begs for a vial of potion, begs for supplies for the night. He’s seen a short time later, skipping lightly through the corridors, a small package clutched to his chest.

He prepares the room, subtly, simply, a suggestion for his Master, nothing more.

He needs to wait only a short time, peeking out from the doorway, keeping watch for first sign of his Master’s approach. He dashes back to the room, lights the many candles, places the silver ice bucket in easy reach, checks his selected array of implements, and smiles. He places the emptied vial right next to his Master’s cane.

By the time his Master walks into the room he’s kneeling on the floor, sitting back on his heels, knees spread as wide as he can, cock hard and leaking, back arched, hands gripping his ankles, pierced nipples puckered and peaked, head back, collared neck long and exposed. Draped across his closed eyes is the long stretch of black cloth favoured by his Master for use as a blindfold.

He is an invitation – a way to the means of his Master’s pleasure.

An invitation accepted.

He loses himself to the bliss of his body, the bliss of his mind; the bliss of pleasure, the bliss of pain. His blindfolded potion-enhanced body shudders when he is filled with ice, quivers when he is dripped with wax, and undulates when he is lashed with the cane. He screams for his Master, cries for his Master, begs for his Master – all for the pleasure of his Master. He worships his Master’s cock - kissing, licking, swallowing, sucking; riding, grinding, humping, bucking. He opens and welcomes and glories in everything, anything, gifted to him by his Master.

And when his Master finally sleeps, he extricates himself from where he is snuggled, and, moving slowly and carefully, still in the blindfold his Master did not remove, he gently wipes their bodies clean. He tugs the soft blanket up over his Master’s shoulders, smooths it lingeringly over his Master’s long body. He worms himself back under the blanket and finally falls asleep, soothed by his suckling on his Master’s soft cock.

***

He dreams of his blood burning with the fire of the aphrodisiac he has drunk. It blazes through his body, electrifying his nerves, detonating his need. It flares through his mind, igniting his yearning, inflaming his arousal. He lusts, purely, intensely.

He dreams of his skin burning with the cold of the ice as it touches him. It chills through his body, freezing round taut nipples, shivering over terrorised cock. It melts into his body, arctic trail over his taint, penetrating bite as it fills him. He desires, wantonly, shamelessly.

He dreams of his body burning with the heat of the wax as it drips onto him. It pierces his body, searing his inner thighs, scorching his under arms. It brands his body where it falls, radiating stinging agony, smoldering seething pain. He craves, salaciously, carnally.

He dreams of his rear burning with the bite of the cane as it slashes him. It slices through his body, convulsion of hurt, spasm of shock. It bruises his body with each strike, red burning fire, white numbing ice. He needs, fiercely, desperately.

He dreams of his being burning with the blast of his orgasm as it rips through him. It explodes through his self, alighting with rapture, radiant with ecstasy. It blasts his body with each convulsion, a conflagration of pain and pleasure, illuminating his completion.

He dreams…

***

Later though, he wakes to a nightmare.

Can't interpret the sounds around him. Can't work out why there are people in his Master’s rooms. Can't see how many there are. Can't think with all this wild movement happening around him. Can't understand what is going on.

If it is truly morning and he's still in his Master's bed, then he should stay where he is - mouth around his Master's cock, suckling softly till he feels his Master stir. He’ll tongue and suck and swallow till his Master groans his need, then mix in some deep-throating and humming till his Master comes. Then he’ll simply wait for his Master’s instructions to begin their day.

But he’s sure it's not yet morning – even snug under the blanket, even blinded still by his Master’s cloth.

So he stays in the bed in the dark, making himself as small as possible. If he waits in stillness and silence maybe it will all pass over him, and leave him to tend his Master when it’s gone.

But the blankets are whisked away, and he hears his Master's gruff voice, the sound of urgent whispering, and feels his Master dragged from the bed. He remains kneeling low on the bed, forehead to the mattress, hands over his ears, shivering with fear, waiting for his Master to explain.

Though there is movement all round him, no-one touches him. He's so aware of his naked back exposed and vulnerable. He wants to reach for his Master, to be comforted by his Master's touch, to be guided by his Master's voice, to be protected because he is his Master's property.

A woman's voice - not the Queen's, not one of the maids, not one he recognises at all - rises above the whispers and murmurs. Though her words are muffled as he cowers on the bed, she sounds calm and strong and commanding. It feels to him like everyone is leaving, and he whimpers at the thought of being left alone by his Master.

In the silence of the room she speaks a word, softly, gently.

'Jensen,' she says.

And the room fills with the richness of meaning in that one quiet word.

He trembles - too scared to know, to confirm the absence of his Master. Too scared of this woman who says his name like it is a benediction and a prayer.

'Jensen,' she repeats and he feels her come nearer. 'Jensen, do not be afraid. It is me, your sister, come to take you home.'

He whimpers in the dark, confused and bewildered, unable to comprehend.

'Jensen,' she soothes, calmly, softly, 'you're safe now, my brother, safe at last. Here, let me remove this blindfold so you can see. It’s me, your sister. I've come to take you home...'

He moans voicelessly 'no, no, no', grips convulsively to his blindfold lest she rips it from his face.

'Jensen,' she's so close to him now, his skin tingles with it, 'we must leave. Now. We cannot linger. Jensen, please...'

'Master,' he calls, voice wispy, needy, feeble, raising his head only slightly, blindly searching. 'Master?'

'No, Jensen,' the bed next to him moves as she sits, she dares to sit on his Master's bed. 'You are free now. We have come to rescue you. This,' booted footsteps on his Master’s floor, 'is Mark. He is my most loyal man. I would trust him with my life, and with yours. Please Jensen, we must leave now. I must let our army commanders see that we are safe. Come now, you are safe to leave here.'

He feels her hand as she reaches out to touch him, and he cowers away, falling backwards, backwards, off the bed. Lands hard, scrambles backwards, backwards, till he feels the solid wall at his back. Follows it to a corner of the room, and crouches there, trembling hands stretched before him, away, they say, keep away.

He rocks on his heels, calling plaintively, pleadingly, for his Master. Even so, he can hear her tears as she whispers his name, Jensen, no, she cries, please, don’t be afraid. Remove the blindfold, my brother. See me. See your sister come to rescue you.

But it isn't her who comes for him, and it isn't his Master who comes for him. It is the man, Mark, her loyal and trusted one. He screams and screams, in terror and horror - because he knows this man is going to take him away; away from his Master. He screams and screams, and fights with all his might - small and fragile, naked, pale and thin – against the creaking leather of the layers and layers of the man’s heavy protective clothing.

When his blindfold is pulled from his face he keeps his eyes closed and screams and screams for his Master, till a moist pungent cloth is pushed against his nose and he breaths in too many times, and falls into blackness.

***

Jared regains consciousness to discomfort and pain. His hands are bound behind his back, fingers fat and feelingless. His ankles too are bound, but given the agony of his long-wounded knee, he doubts he could walk anyway.

His eyes are sore and puffy, not only from the several beatings he has endured, but because he is grieving, sorrowing for his lost friends, lost comrades, lost home, lost Kingdom. His tears have been hot and harsh, shed in the few brief moments of privacy he has had, hidden when he loses that too.

He is being transported away - to where, he does not know.

He had known of the threat to his Kingdom, was working with his advisors in preparation. Spies had conveyed word of troops amassing at his borders, but timelines were sketchy and details few. They thought there’d be more time. More time to prepare. More time to take action.

He realizes that his carefully worded and costly treaties have been for nought. Where were his supposed allies - their promised troops, their promised forewarning, their promised protection? Together, they were meant to be strong, undefeatable.

Instead, he has lost everything. Lost the kingdom he ruled, the lands he had accumulated, the people he cared for, the projects underway, the wealth of his gold, the comfort of his home, the support of his guard, the vision for his future. The woman who was wife, and the child she would bring. The one he had owned…

He sits awkwardly on the floor at the feet of six Regidarian soldiers. They are silent, proud, victorious. Their heavy boots add to his bruises at random moments. They travel together in a rocking carriage - he thrown about unable to brace against the treacherous pace, they sturdy and solid shoulder to shoulder, triumphant brothers-in-arms.

They are escorting him to his death. Of this he is sure.

The Princess Warrior - the little princess he himself had given safe passage out of his kingdom and into exile, the delicate little girl he’d allowed to live – has orchestrated the end of his world. And she has vowed that she will not make the same mistake he did. She will not leave her defeated enemy alive. She will show no mercy for the one who maimed her one brother and enslaved the other.

Fortunately at that moment he is subjected to a barrage of blows from a bored guard. It enables him to hide his tears of sorrow amidst his tears of pain. He must empty himself of his feelings so that he may face his own death with courage and acceptance.

He must prepare himself to walk bravely to the arms of his ancestors.

But before he can begin that work, he is booted in the head with a bit too much enthusiasm and crumples into unconsciousness once more.

To be continued…..

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve: In Which a Slave Mourns.

Warnings: slave!fic, non-con, aphrodisiac, drugs, threesome,

His brother, the maimed Prince Misha, says Jensen should be kept in the private chambers of the palace. Away from prying eyes. Protected in the home of his family. Surely then he will learn to feel safe again. Learn to smile again. Learn to speak again.

His father, the restored King, says he should be kept in the infirmary. Too broken now for the real world. Too fragile yet for his family. Surely then he will learn to repair himself. Learn to recover. Learn to heal.

His ex-Queen, the with-child Julianna, says his rightful place is with her. He needs her loving care and devotion. Needs her mothering touch. Surely then he will learn to be a good girl again. Learn to obey. Learn to behave.

His Master, the imprisoned ex-King, states, without fear or hesitation, that he is owned. Property that can not, will not, be returned. Surely then he will resume his true place. On his knees, begging. In pleasure and pain, bound.

His sister, the warrior princess, says he should go to the priests. He needs their counsel and prayers. Needs to repent and be absolved. Surely then he can be purified. Learn to renounce his sins. Learn to be innocent, once again.

She wins, of course. No-one can deny her. No-one dares. She escorts Jensen herself, flanked by her man, Mark. She leaves him in the safe arms of the High Priest himself, confident and assured in her righteousness. Here, he will seek solace and forgiveness. Here, he will be cleansed of corruption and defilement.

She is unrelenting to his tears, unyielding to his pleas, unflinching to his whimpers. She is steadfast in her compassion, knowing what is best for him. She does not waver when he swoons, knowing they will care for him. She walks away without looking back, knowing her heart is true.

***

When he hears of her decision, Jared’s bellowed curses echo through the dungeon, his despair and denial chilling all who hear.

***

He has no other task than to eat. Meats, fish, vegetables, fruits. Pastries, cakes, biscuits, dainties. Candies, jellies, chocolates, toffees. Though Jensen has no appetite and has no sense of hunger, he eats. Though he has no impulse to reach for one thing over another, he eats. Though he has no care of choice between one thing and another, he eats. And though he can sense no difference in flavour or aroma between one thing and another, he eats.

He has no choice. This is the first thing he learns as he is whisked through the temple, down, down to the lowest chambers, led deep, deep to an open cell, seated on the floor at a low, low table. A table lavishly spread with an assortment of foods, the array of which he has not seen before in his life – oh, and he is skewered, gutted, by a brief memory of his Master’s feast hall - the first thing he learns is that if he does not feed himself, then someone will simply step forward and force feed him. If he does not lift a slice, or a piece, or a spoonful, or a forkful, or a cube, or a morsel, to his own mouth, then a slice, or piece, or spoonful, or forkful, or cube, or morsel, is lifted to his lips for him and pushed till he opens to eat.

He responds by chewing appropriately and swallowing uncomfortably. And the Brother who tends him will wait but a few moments, silently urging him to feed himself, but then quickly reaching forward to make a selection for him if needed.

Without the prompts of light of day and dark of night, he sleeps fitfully in an exhaustion that encompasses his body, mind and soul. He sleeps when the need takes him, till he is nudged awake long enough to eat once more. He has not washed since his arrival, and his once white linen shift is now stained with spills and drips and his body’s own perspiration. He lurches unsteadily to his feet and shuffles slowly to the facilities when needed, sometimes remembering to splash his face with water when he washes his hands.

He thinks that the Brothers take turns to assist him to eat. But his memory of them as individuals is so elusive he’s not sure if they are one and the same, or a whole host queued and ready to turn-take.

He eats. He never leaves his cell. He sleeps on the matted floor he sits on, whenever he tilts over too far and simply doesn’t reopen his eyes. Awakens; eats some more. He makes no special effort to speak, and in no other way does he acknowledge the presence of a Brother seated by his side.

He rubs his now naked neck, over the faint scar they’d made when his sister had removed his collar. Insensate under forced sedation, unable to continue to fight her – she’d bought the blacksmith to ‘free’ him. She thought it a celebration. He thought it an amputation. He weeps for its loss, throat thick, tears trickling, heart hurting.

He mourns for his Master. Yearns for his Master. Longs for his Master. Cries, sobs, wails. Murmurs little messages for his Master. Begs for his Master.

He dreams of his Master. Has nightmares of his Master. Daydreams of his Master.

He asks for his Master. Makes demands for his Master. Begs for his Master.

But he receives no response. The Brothers have not spoken to him. Not once since his arrival. He remembers hearing the High Priest speak with his sister, but they were the last voices he heard. All else has been achieved through gesture and mime. Go here, wear this, sit here, eat…

No-one comforts him when he cries. No-one soothes his nightmares when he screams. No-one reassures him when he grieves. No-one explains when he fears.

Then, one day, he awakens to his cell being totally empty of food. The floor is immaculately clean, the low table is clear and polished to a shine. He pushes himself to stand and staggers to attend to his needs. He has no reaction when two Brothers step forward and beckon him to the small shower. He has no inclination for blushes as he is assisted to disrobe and cleanse himself. He pulls a fresh, clean shift over his still dripping hair and returns, when prompted, to his seat at the low table.

This time, it is tea. Hot, bitter, salty tea. A fresh teapot always at the ready. His small handle-less cup always kept full. He sips, and gulps, and drinks it down. Cup after cup. After cup. After cup.

He spends more time sleeping now, he thinks. It’s hard to track the passing of time. He tries to judge it by the change in the Brothers – maybe they change shifts every six hours? maybe twelve? maybe every hour? - but he can’t seem to remember one Brother as being any different to another – maybe they are all the same? maybe there’s only one?

And as he sleeps, his dreams take on new life. Crisp details, vivid colours, fresh scents. Serving his Master’s every desire, enduring his Master’s every pain, exalting in his Master’s every pleasure. No more nightmares now. He wakes to sip his never-ending supply of tea, willing time to pass enough for him to soar back into the seductive succor of his dreams. Back to where he had sense and purpose. Back to where he was loved and needed. Back to his Master.

***

‘He will be ready tomorrow, Father. He has had nothing but the tea for the last month. Though his mind has not roused as we had hoped, with our God’s blessing, his body has. In his dreams, he moves to the ritual rhythm. His sounds are a sensual hymn. And he seeps with the essence of life. He is ready, Father, as you foretold.’

‘Thank you, Brother Poe, your work has been exemplary. Pass on my thanks to your fellow Brothers. Our God’s love has rewarded our adoration and service with a heavenly gift beyond our worth. We will humbly and thankfully accept this blessing of our God, and will fulfill the rituals as recorded in the Holy of Holies Book. Brother Poe, we have been abundantly gifted and must make our praise-filled gratitude exuberant and bountiful. There is much to be thankful for, and we will be humble and sincere with our benedictions. Ensure all the Brothers are well rested this night, and preparations are in place for the morrow.’

‘It is exciting times, Father. Never did I think our little cloister would receive such a profound gift. It is all thanks to you, Father, to your pious loving guidance. Thank you, Father, thank you. And thanks be to our God, that we have been blessed so generously. Good night, Father. I will pass on your blessings to my eleven waiting Brothers.’

‘Thanks be to our God, may he bless our rest this night. Goodnight, Brother Poe.’

***

In his dreams, Jensen moans loudly, unrestrained. He undulates his body along his prone Master, a serpentine slithering of seductive sensation.

‘Tell me,’ his Master demands.

‘Yes, Master,’ he moans breathlessly. ‘Always yes, Master.’

‘Tell me, boy.’

‘I... I need, Master. I need. My body,’ his voices hitches, and he slides himself along his Master’s hip bone, moans long and low before he can speak again, ‘burns for you. I am aflame, Master. Every part of me, all of me, craves you, Master.’

‘More, boy, tell me more.’

‘My thoughts, Master, are all for you. All I think… it’s hard for me to think, Master… all I think is need, need, need. Need you so much. Need… ohhh, Gods… need to please you, need to touch you, need to taste you. And as my thoughts think it, my body burns for it – your pleasure, Master, your touch, Master, your taste, Master. I burn for it. I need it so much, Master. I beg, Master. With all that’s yours – my heart, my soul, my flesh – I beg to serve you… I beg, Master, please… please…’ He loses his breath as he pants his way through his body’s convulsions of need, pushing into this Master’s hip, balancing on the edge of release, unable to come without his Master’s word.

‘Perfect, my boy. Perfect. You will serve me well. No more words now, boy. Voice your need, your pain, your pleasure – loud and long, I want to hear it all, a never-ending expression of your sensations, sung to me on the sound of your voice. But no words, boy, not a single one…’

‘Master?’ he whispers, a yearning for the word that fills his drug-flurried mind. And he jostles lightly in response to his Master’s chuckles.

‘All right, little one. Just that one word. How can I take that away from you, hmmm?’ His head is stroked by his Master’s firm hand. ‘But none others, boy. You will answer to the lash for all others. Do you understand?’

And he’s long used to his Master’s ways now, long used to the pain of punishments, the ease of earning them, and the lessons he’s learned. He nods his understanding, soft tendrils of his hair brushing his Master’s belly, and he moans his want, open mouthed kisses and dainty licks of tongue on his Master’s precious skin.

His wrist cuffs are linked together behind his back. Thick padding goes over his eyes. His ears are plugged and padded too. Long cloth is wound round and round, secured strongly, leaving him deaf and blind. He’s begging with a canticle of consonant-less vowels, fear and need too meshed and tangled to ever be untwined for him again. He’s awash with drugs of potency and passion, too dear and familiar to ever be unwanted by him again.

He’s lifted, cradled to his Master’s body, carried, carried, and placed gently on a soft bed. He raises his head, mouth first, soft moist lips open, pink tongue ready, seeking his Master’s taste. He raises his body, cock first, head shiny and leaking, tattoo animated by throbbing veins, seeking his Master’s touch.

He moans deep down in his throat as he’s kissed ferociously, claimed, his lips throbbing under the pressure, nipped and bitten, licked and plundered, teeth clicking and clashing, tongue sipped and sucked.

He’s a bound, blinded, drugged, deafened boy, full of devastating desperation. He has only anticipation and reaction; when all he truly wants is the freedom to adore his Master in ways he knows and loves.

He tilts his head, glorying in the firm comforting pressure of his collar, enjoying the biting sting of his Master’s teeth as they worry their way down his exposed throat. He arches his back, offering his pierced nipples to the pain and pleasure of his Master’s dangerous mouth. And all the while, as he humps air and convulses helplessly, he sings to his Master his need.

He’s tipped onto his belly, strong grip at his hips, positioning this way then that, then it’s just right, and he’s filled with Master’s cock, stretched and spread, whimpering and wailing his want. Then his own cock is in his Master’s grasp and he bellows his shock, hips uncontrollably bucking, body writhing with a will of its own. He’s soothed to stillness by his Master’s strong hands, knows he’s crying and crooning in time with the thrum and the throb of his need.

He’s lifted again, and this time when he is pushed to his belly, it’s not the bed he lands on. Without his sight, without his hearing, without his words, without his hands, without his mind, he cannot process what is happening. He can only experience it, ululating his responses for his Master’s pleasure. He’s fucked forward a few times, spread wide by his Master’s thick thighs. He’s being manoeuvred, positioned, primed, his cock stroked slowly, firmly.

Then his hips are rocked forward and his cock, guided by his Master’s hand, breeches tightness and is engulfed in heat and moisture and slickness and sliding and tightness and oh, god, he is both – the impaled, and impaler.

He keens, and grunts, and groans. His Master’s cock, thick and throbbing, slowly and gently pulls back, back, then thrusts forward. And he rocks between his Master above him and the person below him, his own cock pushing in and pulling out with the momentum built by his Master. His own carnal instincts take over, blissed as he is in his body’s sensations, and he yearns forward to thrust and hump and pummel and fucking come. But he is not the one in control and he follows the rhythm of his Master, and he moves in response to his Master, and he is pleasured by the will of his Master.

And he screams when he comes, nestled deep in another’s body, his first ever experience of this. Master! Master! Master! His sounds are filled with awe and wonder and thankfulness, thick with tears, slurred with sobs, before his vision fades and he sinks away. He awakens thrice more to the twin pleasures of give and take, where he is pushed and pulled till he comes within the warm wet slickness of another’s body. The final time, exhausted beyond the point of even holding himself up, crying and croaking his Master’s name, he slides forward onto sweat streaked skin, and snuggles, sated, sleepily, still sobbing softly, into the soft abundance of familiar feminine breasts.

He awakens to his grim cell, is assisted by a Brother to sit himself up at the low table, then, trying to shake the vivid memory relived in his dream, he sips at fresh tea still hot and steaming, more bitter than ever in the retreating glow of his dream.

***

Once a day, four guards enter Jared’s prison cell. They haul him to the back wall of his cell and chain his wrists high and his ankles wide. They stand at the four corners of the cell, even though Jared is so securely chained that his muscles cramp from the strain.

They are good guards, Jared thinks. They never fail at their task – never once does he have a moment where he thinks he can escape, or overwhelm them, or grab a weapon, or end his life. And when their King enters, they bow low and stand wary and steadfast, watchful and alert, without appearing in any way to witness their King’s conversation.

Jared begins with his usual question, ‘Why am I still alive?’

The King responds with his usual reply, ‘Because I may have need of you yet.’

‘What care do you take of my people?’

‘All care they are due as an invaded people.’

‘Is he still with the priests?’ He spits the words in disgust and despair.

‘Tell me again why you invaded my lands, after all the years of peace under your own father’s treaties. What did you plan to achieve?’

And so they continue – a chess game with no visible pieces, back and forward, honesty tested, strategy assessed, goals cloaked. Every day - the same conversation, the same questions, and the same responses.

Until one day, the King breaks the pattern.

‘Tell me,’ he says, ‘tell me what you know of our priests.’

And Jared does, outlining his research, his reading, and his spies’ reports. He argues his case, chained to a wall, in the same worn sleeping pants he’d been wearing the night of his capture. The King leaves in silent thought that day.

It goes on for the next, and the next, and the next of many visits. ‘Tell me again what you know of our priests.’

Till Jared explodes in a fury of rage, ‘Yet, you do nothing, old man! Have you broken their cults? Have you stopped their corruption? Have you rescued my boy? No! You do nothing, while he suffers…’

‘Enough!’ the King steps forward and growls in his face. ‘You forget you live only by my whim. You have no right to speak to me of suffering! No right! You, who have altered the destinies of each of my children - maimed my oldest son, enslaved my youngest son, and made my princess into a warrior. You will understand more, when your child is born. You plan a future for him – happiness, strength and fulfillment – and then someone comes along and rips it to shreds. Talk to me then of suffering, and only then will I listen as if you understand.’

As he leaves, the King turns to his guards. ‘I am done here. Chain him to the whipping post and have Anderson administer thirty of his very best. I want to hear his screams while I enjoy my tea up in the throne room. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Majesty. You will not need to strain to hear him, of that I promise.’

***

Jensen is so weak he can barely move. He has not had food for so long now, and they stopped giving him his tea since… yesterday? last night? this morning?

Two Brothers come to assist him to attend to his needs and to cleanse him under the shower. They call a third to help, so enfeebled is he.

They dress him in a fresh, crisp, clean, white linen shift.

They lead him from his cell, one Brother at each shoulder, strong hands of support, without which he surely would have simply slumped to the floor. They need to stop halfway along the hallway, while he retches at the pain cramping his stomach. The third Brother steps forward with a wet cloth to wipe his face, then they continue on their way.

They enter an ornate candle-lit room, paintings and sculptures glittering in the flickering candle light. Off to one side, a brazier gives off heat, coals red and glowing, a long slim length of iron resting in the pot.

He is put to his knees on a sturdy prie dieu. His stomach spasms, cramps biting deep, and he grips the sides for support. He’s sweaty and shaky, fever flushed and pained.

There is ritual happening around him. A small part of him is aware of the twelve Brothers standing in semi-circle around him, and the Father – the High Priest - leading the beat. He clutches his stomach and cries out in distress. Beads of sweat trickle down his face, and the flicker of the candles causes his head to swim.

The chanting resonates in the small room, filling all the empty spaces. He hears the words now, repeated over and over. Chanted by the thirteen; deep voices in unison, a constant rhythm, an unwavering cadence. He gags and retches, but nothing comes up, and he slumps over the kneeling bench, dizzy and cramped. The repeated words are forming a pattern, though he has no understanding of the whole.

Behold the Vessel of God’s Glory,
Be cleansed in the habit of devotion,
Be emptied of self to make room for his gifts,
Be filled and refilled with the essence of his love,
Be exalted as you pour out your life in his service,
Be marked to bare rapture’s true witness,
Behold the Vessel of God’s Glory.

The chanting comes to an abrupt end. The room fills with expectant quiet.

There is a sharp intake of breath, and a faint rustle of cloth. The High Priest moves to the brazier and pokes the coals with the iron stick. He speaks in the silence.

‘Exalted Vessel,’ he says to Jensen, ‘in the glory of God, you may begin your service.’

And the first Brother steps forward.

To be cont’d…

Chapter Text

Part Thirteen - In Which a Slave is Unknowing, then Awakened

Warnings: slavery, non-con, rimming, somnophilia, puppy!play, puppy!Jensen

His boy has suffered much in the hands of the priests, enduring much pain and horror. When he was first rescued, it was thought by most that the damage was too much, too lasting, too deep.

But Jared knows better.

He slides his tongue down the ruins of his boy's back. Takes his time to worry each knobbly bone along his spine. Places soft gentle kisses on the rows of little brands that the priests had seared into his boy's unprotected flesh. One branded mark for each night his boy was forced to endure their heinous rituals. They are healing well, though slow, as brands do, and Jared can already envision the tattoo he will commission to reclaim this part of his boy. When the time is right.

He kisses his way up to the nape of his boy's neck, takes a moment to mourn the loss of his boy's first collar, sucks a little row of bites right where the collar should be.

He slides down the length of his boy, careful in his movements, rubbing his hands over his boy's pale skin. So thin, so frail. So vulnerable.

Perhaps, had he not been sent to the priests, his boy would be on his knees now, begging for more of his Master's pain, or yearning to devote himself to his Master's pleasure. Perhaps his boy's eyes would be full of adoration, or clenched closed in fear, or maybe blown wide in blissful release. Perhaps his boy's body would be strong in its torment, or arched taut in its pleasures, or maybe flushed and mottled with its need. Perhaps his boy's voice would beg for mercy, or plead desperately for release, or maybe whisper, wrecked and wretchedly, for more. Perhaps his boy's hands would be reaching to caress his Master, or clenched white-knuckled in agony, or maybe bound to a ceiling hook, feet dangling. Fuck, yes.

But not yet, he reminds himself, not yet. Not while his boy still recovers from his ordeal. Instead, his boy is laid out on his belly on the big bed, face turned to one side, limbs starfished.

Jared kneels at the end of the bed, a bit off-centre - his own heavily bandaged knee needing careful protection - and picks up one pale delicate foot. Suckles each toe, tongue sliding under and around and between. He presses firm little thumb pressures to the arch of his boy's foot while he licks and kisses the bony bridge. Rubs circles around each ankle, round and round. He kneads his way up the small soft calf muscles, lavishing them with wet sloppy kisses.

He gnaws on the big tendons at the back of his boy's knee, while gently pushing and pulling at the kneecap, pressing into the all the little muscles that hold it in place. Then it's up the back of his thigh, long licks and and swirling circles with his tongue. He repeats his ministrations on his boy's other leg, then moves up the bed into the space between his boy's spread legs.

He massages each small little arse cheek, grabs them in his hands and rolls them. Kisses the scars he himself has placed there. Raises red-purple bruises as he suckles his way along the juncture of thigh and arse. He slides another pillow under his boy's hips, raising him just right. Spreads his boy's legs just that little bit wider.

He slides his hands underneath his boy, one below each bony hip, and lifts, gently, carefully, and he lowers his head to mouth his boy's round little balls, sucking them, tonguing, teasing, rolling and slurping them, faint scrape of teeth, tenderly worrying at them with restrained teeth. He sucks sharp little bites along his boy's taint, licking along its smoothness, bruising its unguarded openness.

Till he can wait no longer. With a harsh moan, a sound full of lustful longing and unleashed need, he pushes his thumbs deep into his boy's arse cheeks, then between them, then pulls them apart, skin stretched bloodless. He licks long and wet over his boy's revealed rosy wrinkled hole, drooling as he goes, long tiger licks, tongue flat and wide. His eyes flutter closed as he relishes his boy's familiar taste, more precious now than the memories he's had to live on for so long.

Sounds escape him - rough and harsh. He rolls his tongue, long and strong, short little jabs to only just breach the welcoming hole. Wriggles his thumbs closer, to pull and stretch the tiny opening. He laps into the small hole, pushing it open with the pressure of his tongue. Digs his tongue in just a little further, long forceful licks to push the rim open. He suckles the wrinkles of the rim, tongue worrying over the faintest little lines of old scar tissue, evidence of his ownership of this most intimate part of his boy.

Spit soaked and drool drenched, his boy's hole loosens, rosy wrinkled resistance opening, welcoming its owner home. He lavishes it, a feast of taste, of texture, of tender torment. French kisses it, tongue licking at all the inner places it can reach, lips caressing like the kiss of a lover. He breathes deep, sucks in the delicious scent of his boy.

The urgency of his own need hurries him on. Sliding up his boy, he slips his cock home, spitting generously onto his boy's hole, helping it accept its Master's demanding cock. Short shallow jabs, long lusty thrusts, his own groans echo around him, deep and husky. No attempt to hold back, no hesitation to slow the chase of his release, no restraint, no reserve, no repression. The bed shakes like it's about to fall apart, his boy bounces like a freshly caught fish, and he fucks like a man unleashed. Has to grab his boy's hips, deep bruising grip, guiding his boy's hole to be right there, fuck, right fucking there, taking it, accepting it, receiving it, welcoming it - a receptacle for his Master's cock.

His orgasm rips through him, violently, forcefully, a blaze of power from head to toe to cock to boy. Body clenched, taut, frozen, then released to satiety, lax, loose. He heaves in great drags of breath, groaning on the exhale, needing to voice his release. Slaps his boy's arse cheeks, great thudding whacks, fuck, yeah, perfect, fucking perfect.

In fact, he can't wait till his boy is not so heavily sedated, so he can do it all over again.

***

'Did you fuck me last night, Master?' His boy's voice is husky, soft, a damaged whisper in the quiet room.

'Of course, foolish boy. You are mine to take as I wish. Also, you'd been away for so long. Unavailable for your Master's use. I need to catch up.'

He reaches over, slides stray strands of sleep-mussed hair off his boy's forehead. Fingers linger, and he slides them over his boy's eyebrows, soothing, gentle pressure, stroking softly.

'I beg forgiveness, Master.' Watches as his boy swallows, painfully, slowly, forehead wrinkling in distress. 'I...

'Hush, boy,' he wipes away falling tears, big rough fingers over fragile, delicate skin. 'I know it was not your fault, to be away from your Master for so long. Your task now is to recover.' Runs his fingers over his boy's forehead, comforting, calming, smoothing away the worry-lines. 'Rest and recover. I need you well, boy, well and healthy.' Pets his boy's head, slow, soft, gentle swipes, smoothing his boy to sleep. 'Your Master needs you boy, whole and hearty. My body yearns for use of you. My whip withers for want of you.' He leans down, forehead to forehead with his boy, breathes their shared air, whispers, 'rest, recover, receive me. That's all you need to think about, all you need to do.'

'Thank you, Master,' his boy mouths, fluttering eyes closing, as he drifts back into sleep, 'gladly, Master.'

***

Jared walks the long corridor of the villa. It's a slow walk, more of a stagger really, his limp is pain-filled and pronounced this morning, after the vigour of his fucking his boy the previous night.

The Regidarian healers have done their best - removing damaged and infected tissue, fusing cracked bone, reducing over-stretched tendons. It has resulted in a knee barely usable - swollen, stiff and sore, wrapped in thick supporting bandages.

Perhaps there will be some improvement over time, they say. But more likely, not.

The damage was extensive, and had been left poorly treated during his long imprisonment. Also, the rescue of his boy - the long ride to the church, the brief but fierce battle with the Brothers, the swift return back to the palace bearing his burden with care - completed the final wreckage of the joint. Not till he'd handed over his fragile boy to the care of the King himself, did he allow the excruciating pain to finally drag him into unconsciousness too.

And now, months after those initial surgeries, he walks again - sure it's slow, pained and with a severe limp - but they saved his leg when they could have simply removed it. When they could have simply left him untreated. When they could have simply left him to die.

But there were promises in place. Bargains, heavy and costly, negotiated long and painstakingly.

What price a Lost Prince? A prince hidden by priests, kept, and not returned?

A father's pride? A prisoner's freedom? A sister's defeat? A brother's guilt? A church's loss? A country's faith questioned?

A Master, returned?

The Regidarian King, the Lost Prince's own father, unwilling, unable, to send his country to war against the church. So instead, sent a defeated enemy to rescue that which could not be rescued otherwise.

Bargains and promises. Heavy and costly.

And he had honoured his; and they had honoured theirs.

And so, he walks the long corridor of the villa, never to be King again.

He has a new title now, known to all of both kingdoms.

A title he wears with some humour, some smugness, and a whole lot of private pain.

He will never be King again.

He did not die in their prison. He did not die by their Church's curses. And he did not die under their Healer's knife.

He will live in peace, bide his time, hatch new plans. Secretly. Carefully. For he did not bring all he knows to the bargaining table. And there are things he knows that will bring him power once again.

Till then, he will make the most of this peace, nurture his plans, and reign upon his boy a life of pleasure and pain beyond anything he's known before.

The Lost Prince is lost no more. Rescued, returned, recuperating.

And his once again.

Privately, of course, he will be forever more titled 'Master' to his boy. Publicly, though, he wears his new title haughtily, laughingly, tauntingly. Just enough to mock those who know better. Just enough to humour those who think it true.

No longer The King, no longer The Enemy, no longer The Prisoner.

He has a new title now, known to all of both kingdoms.

For now, he is the Prince's Pet.

***

How to repair a broken boy?

Gently, said the King.
Faithfully, said the sister.
Carefully, said the brother.
Patiently, said the Healers.

How to repair a broken boy?

Lovingly, said the Master.

***

'Did I say you could move, boy?'

'I... I didn't...' Hoarse, harsh whisper. His throat must be paining him today.

'Did I say you could speak, boy?'

'I... you didn't...'

Ah, sometimes it is so easy, too easy... He smiles, fondly.

'Are we not now in our private chambers?'

He waits, just long enough, till his boy makes the slightest movement of his lips, before he pounces.

'Silence, boy! No words, no sounds! That,' pointing angrily at his boy's throat, 'is mine. You are hurting my property every time you speak, and I will not have it. Not today. You are to remain silent, do you understand?'

He laughs in surprise when his boy sees the trap and does not step into it. Smiles 'good boy' at his boy's nodding head.

'I repeat,' he makes an effort to continue to sound menacing. 'Are we not now in our private chambers?'

Another nod.

'Then, why are you not naked and kneeling at my feet?'

Watches as his boy quickly disrobes and kneels gracefully, silently, at his feet. Such beautiful form - hands clasped behind his back, shoulders strong, head bowed just right. He drinks in the sight. Submission so devotedly given has such a dangerous flavour. It tantalises him, terrifyingly so.

'Present yourself, for my inspection.'

And just as gracefully, his boy rises from his feet, stands before the big mirror, legs spread, hips forward, back straight, fingers interlaced behind his neck, elbows spread wide, head lowered. The deep red flush rapidly blooming on his boy's skin reminds him of the humiliation his boy feels, examined so. But it is his right to do so.

And he uses these times to remind his boy just how beautiful he still is.

'Your hair is just right this length now. I can grab handfuls of it when I fuck you, and look how it drapes your face when you lower your head. Perfect. It's lost some of its shine though. We'll need to get outdoors more often, get you out in the sunshine.'

He continues his inspection, his commentary simply for his boy's ears, checking off all the things Jared finds fine and beautiful about his boy. He runs trembling fingertips over the brands on his boy's back, tries to keep the shaking out of his voice.

'These are repairing well. The Healer's new ointment is making a big difference. They are clean and not as raised as they once were. The time will come soon enough when we can obliterate them with a new tattoo for you.'

He finishes his thorough inspection by pointing out, yet again, that his boy is still so thin, and reminding him that his Master needs a strong robust boy who can endure all his Master needs him to endure. He accepts the nodded promise that his boy will eat more.

He slicks his fingers and works them into his boy's hole, takes his time to stretch him thoroughly.

'Close your eyes,' he tells his boy, and he fetches a new toy from the cupboard.

Slicks the end, wet and moist, and pushes it firmly, carefully, into his boy. It's a good fit, not so big as to be uncomfortable to walk, not so small as to accidentally slip out. He turns his boy side on to the mirror, kisses each closed eye, and tells him to open them.

His boy smiles questioningly - wriggles his butt, causing the fluffy fake dog's tale attached to the butt plug to wag.

'That's right, good boy!' he laughs, surprising himself and his boy. 'Today, I'm in need of a puppy. A cute puppy, who'll keep me company, maybe do a few tricks for me, who'll be a fun and happy puppy, silent though - no barking! I miss my dogs from home, boy. A new puppy will be just the thing to cheer me up. What do you think? Are you ready to be my puppy for the day?'

He thinks he loses his boy at that moment - thinks it'll be another day of trembling terrors, and another night of sedated sleep. He reaches out a strong supporting hand and smooths it over his boy's head, pets his puppy's head, assuring his puppy he's a good boy, yes you are, a good boy...

Smiles thankfully as the cloud lifts, and his boy's eyes sparkle to life again. He laughs at his boy shaking his butt so the tail wags jauntily. Grins as his boy drops to his hands and knees and rubs his head on his Master's leg.

And he croons, 'Good boy.'

***

Jensen remembers his Master's dogs - their insistent wet noses, their lapping slick tongues, and oh, god the sharp menace of their teeth. He remembers his terror, his horror, his overwhelming humiliation. He remembers how helpless he was - the shock of how his life, the very movement of his body, was totally at the mercy of his Master. He remembers how utterly innocent he was - innocent of all the things that could be done to him, of all the things that he could be made to do, of the enormity of the feelings he could have and yet still live. He remembers laying bound and naked, stretched wide and open, as his Master's dogs sniffed and licked and scented him.

Shivering and shaking, he knows he's losing himself to the memory. The scent of the dogs, sticky saliva on his skin, the heat of hairy bodies, the sound of yipping and yapping, the smell of dirt and his brother's blood...

'... good boy, yes you are, a good boy...'

He startles, thinks desperately, yes, that's right, I am a good boy...

He remembers the joy of the dogs, their yips of glee, their wagging tails. He remembers how happy they were, full-bellied and well-exercised. He remembers their health and vitality, clean and unscarred. He remembers their obedience, total and complete, instant and unfailing. He remembers their devotion, loyal and faithful. He remembers their leashes, collared and owned.

His heart clenches, and a small distressed sound escapes.

He wants that.

He wants it so much.

Wants to be happy and whole and devoted and clean and unscarred. Wants to be a good boy. Wants to be his Master's good boy. Wants to be collared and leashed. And owned. Wants to be anything his Master wants him to be.

He's thought he'd lost it all. The weight of his brokenness is immense. The weight of his family's disapproval is overwhelming. The weight of his doubts is frightening.

But his Master has no doubts. His Master is uncaring of other's disapproval. And his Master nurtures and exploits and owns all the broken pieces of his once-slave.

As it should be.

As he, himself, wants it, so desperately, to be.

He embraces his want, entrusts himself to his Master's want, blinks, and awakens himself to the joy of serving his Master.

He looks at himself in the mirror. Sees a naked, scarred, broken boy. Blinks. Sees an obedient, devoted, submissive slave. Blinks. Sees a happy, loyal, lively puppy. Smiles.

He shakes his butt to watch the tail wagging. Drops to his knees, and rubs his head against his Master's leg. And all is well.

They play outside in the private courtyard, the warm rays of the sun colouring him pink. He's a playful puppy, fetching and catching and chasing. He's a loving puppy, licking and nosing and rubbing. He's a sleepy puppy, snoozing and napping and dozing. He's a messing puppy, lapping and splashing and sloshing.

He's a lustful puppy, lain on his back, belly exposed, heels tucked up to his butt, knees splayed wide, hands behind his head. Cock teased and tugged, pulled and pampered, gentled and jacked.

He comes uninhibited, unrestrained, uncontrollably.

And he understands in that moment the true nature of helplessness, the true freedom that's at the heart of utter helplessness.

He smiles.

He may no longer be a slave, but he is still owned by his Master.

***

To be continued

Chapter Text

Wherein a precious gift is exchanged

Warnings: slave!fic, non-con, exhibitionism, humiliation, collaring

They're walking back to their rooms, the Lost Prince and his Pet. It is just after nightfall, soft lanterns lighting the way.

The guards, who really only need to follow them when they leave the grounds of the villa, are over-zealous in their duties this night. They accompany them back through the villa gates, along the winding path, right up to the large sliding glass doors.

One guard, new to Jared's eyes, new to his guarding duties, gestures to the doors.

'Well,' he has the gaul to address Jared. 'Get the door for your Prince, Pet.'

Jared sighs. A lesson to be taught. He rarely needs to teach it twice.

Scathingly, he says to the guard, 'I am the Prince's Pet, for him to command, not you.' Turns to his boy. 'Command me, my prince.'

'Fuck me, my Master.'

'With vigour, my prince.' He steps forward, removes the shirt from his boy's surrendered body. Turns back to the gaping guards, 'You may stay and watch, if you wish, though you should be warned, my prince is extremely wanton when he is being fucked. I assure you, he will not notice you standing there. Watching. Will you, my prince?'

'Unless it is your desire, my Master,' his boy's voice is husky still, soft in the quiet of the night, 'that I see them watching us.'

'What a deliciously tempting thought, my prince, knowing how much it distresses you to be on display...' he listens for his boy's soft whimper, and is not disappointed. 'When you've opened the door for us, you will step inside, strip naked, remove your plug, place your hands on the glass of the door, high, and brace yourself to be fucked, hard. If the guards are still here when I breach your fucking hot little body, you will look them in the eye as I fuck you. If they are gone, back to their proper place at the villa gates, then you will simply imagine them standing there still. Watching your every flush of pleasure, every moan of pain, every sigh of need, every scream of release. Every part of you displaying how fucking much you love being fucked by your Master.'

'Yes, my Master,' eyes fluttering with need, and shame, and desire.

And they watch the prince as he hurries to open the door and do his Master's bidding.

Jared turns to the guards once more. They are poised, unsure what to do. But he knows he holds the winning card. And he always will. He takes his time, sizing them up, examining their insignia.

'Think on this as you turn away from my boy and leave.' He looks over his shoulder, slowly, sees his boy through the glass, spread and ready for his Master. 'For every insult I endure, every sleight, every sneer, he will bear the punishment. Out there, beyond those gates, he is your Lost Prince, and you are to guard him with your very lives. But here, within the privacy of our sanctuary, he is my responsibility. Do you understand?'

'Yes, my Lord.'

'Good. Now, turn the fuck around! And never step beyond those gates again!'

He stalks inside, adjusts his boy's stance, opens his pants enough to pull his ready cock out, and slides it home, in one firm, driven thrust.

Though he knows they're long gone, he's whispering, 'They're out there, boy, watching you. Watching you dance on your Master's cock, body rocking, eyes blown, skin flushed. Watching your nipples, puckered, peaked, and pierced. Watching your cock bounce and bob, long and slim, purple and weeping. The only cock like it in this kingdom, circumcised, tattooed, decorated for your Master's pleasure. Remember boy, the pain your endured for your Master's pleasure? They're watching your mouth boy, the way you stretch it open as you moan your need, pink tongue licking your lips. They're watching your balls, can see them full and high, pulsing with the need to release. Can you feel their eyes on you, boy? They're watching the wanton way you wiggle your hips, bouncing and riding and grinding yourself. They'll listen now, listen to your groans and grunts, listen to you begging for your Master's touch, begging to come. Will you scream your release to them? Let them know just how much pleasure's to be had being fucked by your Master? Look at them boy, let them see you, see you arching, panting, urging, yearning. Show them everything boy, how you're quivering with need, how you're dripping with sweat, how you're begging for more. When I tell you to come, you'll shout your release, let them hear how fucking much you love coming on your Master's cock. That's it, shake your hair back, let them see your need-flushed face. Look at them boy, tell them now, show them your bliss. Come, boy, now...'

And his own voice is drowned out by the harsh screams of his boy in pleasure. They're beautiful sounds, even roughened as they are now by the damage the priests did to his boy's throat. He listens a moment to enjoy them, before urging himself to his own release.

'Remain there,' he says, speaking over his boy's soft sobs of mortification. 'Do not move. I want you to think on all the ways you have just pleased your Master. Think on how beautiful you looked, how lovely you sounded, how perfectly you moved. Your obedience, your submission - you bring me such joy. Remain there, boy, and think on that.'

He pulls out and wipes his cock across his boy's butt, tucks himself away. Watches the slow dribble of his come as it leaks from his boy's hole. Sees the strain of his boy's shoulders as he leans against the glass of the door, palms slippery and sweaty. Sees the glass fog under the heat of his boy's teary panting breath.

He takes his time, runs them a bath, prepares the towels, lays out water for his boy, a platter of light snacks they can enjoy together as they bathe.

Deciding the time is right, he picks up the gift he has purchased and returns to his boy.

'Fuck, boy, you are so pleasing to the eye. Stretched and open, displaying yourself so wantonly. Freshly fucked and dripping still.' He stands behind his boy, big and dressed against his boy's frailty and nakedness.

'You are mine, boy, mine to decorate and alter as I wish,' he reaches round and lightly touches his marks on his boy. 'But... there is something missing. Something precious to us both. Isn't there, boy?'

'I'm sorry, Master,' his boy's voice is wrecked from the strain of screaming his release, 'they took it from me. I couldn't stop them...'

'It is my sorrow to bear, boy, that I was not there to stop them,' he says firmly, strides the room, shakes the anger away, returns once again.

'I present you now with a new collar. No, do not move from the glass. When I wrap it round your neck, I want to do so in full view of the entire kingdom. So that they all may know that you belong to me.' He unwraps a circle of thick gold chain.

'When you are with your family, you will wear it like this.' He puts it over his boy's head, so that it hangs loose around his neck. 'It marks you, and claims you, as mine. A sign, for any who looks upon you, to know that you are owned. Do you like it, boy?'

Through his tears, his boy mumbles, 'Beautiful, Master, thank you.'

'But, when you are in my presence,' he reaches for the clasp on the chain, 'I will undo this clasp, and wrap the chain once more around your neck.' When he does so, the chain is a snug fit, bobbing on his boy's swallow. 'And I will join the ends with this padlock, the weight of which you will wear joyfully, and lock you within.' The padlock clicks loudly, and a shiver runs through his boy. 'Mine, boy. Marked as mine. Collared as mine. Owned, boy. My own.'

'I beg to move, Master. Please...'

No sooner is his permission past his lips, then his boy whirls round, drops to his knees, hands gripped behind his back, and lowers his head to lavish his Master's boots with kisses. He's never before been served in this way, and his heart catches at the unasked for intimacy. He waits patiently while his boy worships his boots - kissing, licking, sucking, soft little hums of happiness, deep little moans of pleasure.

He thinks of their waiting bath, hot and steaming, perfumed and bubbled. Decides he can always heat it up again.

'Perfect, boy,' as his boy kisses his boot laces, sucks on the ends, 'Fucking perfect.'

To be continued

Chapter Text

Part Fifteen - Wherein the Tale Concludes

Jensen's on his knees at his Master's feet.

He wears only his collar - tight about his throat, cool against his skin, heavy with the weight of its meaning.

He's listening carefully.

His Master is working on important papers, but is not having an easy time of it.

He waits patiently, though attentively.

Head lowered, back straight, hands clasped behind his back - he kneels beautifully, for his Master's pleasure.

He hears it again, his Master's rough sigh of frustration.

'Master,' he says softly, still keeping his perfect form, 'I beg to serve. If it pleases you, may I bring you tea?'

'Perfect, boy. Just what I need...'

'Thank you, Master.'

He can't stifle his small smile as he rises ever so gracefully and moves to their kitchen. Just for his Master's viewing pleasure, should he happen to be watching, he adds a wiggle to his step.

He's preparing the tea, humming lightly to himself, when he remembers the last of the lemon dainty biscuits. His Master's favourites.

He lays out the tray, adds a small plate of the biscuits, and carries it with care to offer to his Master.

There's a small clink of china tea cup rattling on its saucer as he sets the tray on his Master's desk. There's the sound of pouring perfectly seeped tea, and the ring of the spoon as it swirls a small sugar cube to melt away. There's steady hands that place the tea cup by his Master's papers, and the little plate of biscuits enticingly within easy reach. There's the soft sound of the cloth napkin being shaken out then refolded just so, placed just to the side of the tea cup.

He adjusts the tea cup's handle, so it's perfectly placed for his Master's hand, moves the biscuit plate to better display the crystal sugar sprinkled atop the biscuits, and straightens the napkin to perfect symmetry.

Returns to his place, on his knees, head lowered, back straight, hands clasped behind his back.

Listens contentedly while his Master takes his tea, crunches a biscuit, wipes his fingers on the fine cloth of the napkin.

Smiles.

***

Later that afternoon, the Maimed Prince arrives unexpectedly, bringing with him the Princess Eliza.

Jared nurses her briefly, checking she is healthy and happy, then hands her off to his boy.

His boy adores his Master's daughter, and has spent much time visiting the child. With her, his boy is tireless and patient, gentle and loving. He plays and laughs and prepares her treats. He helps with her bathing, and dresses her with flair. He has, after all, intimate knowledge of baby dresses, and petticoats, and lace socks, and bonnets.

Jared and Misha loathe each other's existence, but endure their time together peaceably, for his boy's sake. The first time they had fought in his presence had been the last. His boy's black depression, screaming nightmares, and inability to eat, had lasted three full weeks afterwards, and Jared vowed he'd not put him through that again. Misha agreed, and a strained, fragile truce was formed. It is, apparently, good for his boy that his Master no longer kills or maims his relatives.

While Jared lounges back in his big leather chair, the brothers sit on the floor, playing with the child. Eliza is standing on wobbly legs, his boy's supporting hand under her padded butt, her fingers gripping the carved wooden hand of his boy's brother.

'There is concern in the palace,' Misha explains carefully, 'that your wife is... losing interest in the child.'

His boy's shocked gasp startles Eliza so much she loses her grip on Misha's false hand, flails with bunched little fists, and falls back to land with a gentle plop on her butt.

'There's no need to worry, boy,' Jared assures him. 'Eliza is well looked after by her nannies, as well you know. Everyone in the palace loves her, including your doting father.'

'It's true Jensen,' his brother assures him. 'I only mention it because I know you've spoken of having her and her carers move into the little cottage by the villa. It may be time we start clearing it out, and getting it ready.'

'Master?' his boy, is wide-eyed. 'She will live with us?'

'In the cottage, boy, right next door. The one with the lavender bushes and the roses.'

'She'll be happy there, Master. We could visit her every day.'

'Yes, we could, when she's not having her lessons, or her naps.'

'Lessons, Master? She's too little for lessons!'

'Nonsense, my boy. She's a bright, clever girl, of course she'll soon start her lessons. Music and art and dancing. Weaponry and exercise and defence. Never too young to start learning!'

'She can't stand up yet, Master!' his boy laughs. 'You have wonderful plans for her...'

'Oh course,' he glances at Misha. 'She is, after all, the Princess of my homeland, born to the legitimate Queen, her bloodline is impeccable, and undeniable.'

'A country that no longer...'

'I think she's hungry, Master,' his boy's voice is strained. 'Will you hold her while I prepare some tea?'

***

Jared restrains himself as he sips his tea.

There will come a time when he will not need to.

He will watch over Eliza as she grows. She will learn and prosper and become well-connected.

One day, when the time is right, he will reveal her true parentage.

For never has he fathered a child. Not in all the trysts he enjoyed in his youth, not in all his attempts with his wife. Only when his slave was abed with them, did his wife conceive a child.

One day, when he is Royal Consort instead of Royal Pet, all his plots and plans will come to fruition.

For one day, the King will die.

The Maimed Prince cannot rule. The tragic Lost Prince cannot rule. The disgraced Warrior Princess cannot rule.

But the Princess Eliza, true daughter of the Lost Prince, beloved by all in the kingdom - she will take up the crown.

And he, Royal Consort and trusted confidante of the Princess, will be the Power behind the throne.

He will rule once again.

***

After dinner that night, his Master returns to his desk to continue pouring over his documents.

Jensen kneels in his place at his feet.

Listens, waits.

For just the right moment to make his offer.

'Master,' he says softly. 'I beg to serve. If it pleases you, may I kiss your feet?'

'Perfect boy. Just what I need...'

He reaches for his Master's boots, spends some time kissing and licking the leather. Removes them and the socks too. Places them neatly aside and bends to begin his worship.

Time passes.

He is lost to his task, kissing and licking and sucking and tonguing and nibbling and adoring his Master's feet. His mind is there, because he feels the pain of his cramped muscles, and the pleasure of his beloved service. But it is elsewhere as well. Far from the expectations of his family, from the needs of his Master, from the loss of his once-life, from the joy of his new life.

Far above all these - he floats. Floats where the experience of his body, the thoughts of his mind, and the feelings of his soul, are well muffled below his awareness. Floats and soars. Free. Free in joyfulness and happiness and contentedness. Free to be who he is, where he is, what he is.

After a while, he is drawn up into his Master's arms and kissed so ferociously he all but swoons.

‘Mine,’ he hears his Master groan, and there's his hand at his throat, caressing the chain of his ownership, attaching a chain leash, and he arches into his Master's touch.

He's leant against the writing desk, while his Master is moving aside various papers and inkpots. He's handed a small pot of salve and told to quickly prepare himself.

‘Prepare?’ his trembling fingers hold the little pot, but in his hazy, floating state he does not know what he’s meant to do with it. ‘I… I don’t ….’

‘Foolish boy,’ his Master snatches the pot back. ‘You think you don’t need preparation...'

'Ah, Master,' he sighs, words still slurring, 'I don't need more salve, I'm already ready for you...'

He's grabbed into another fierce hug then pulled up onto the desk, belly down, arms and feet flailing. He squeaks in surprise, but his Master is too busy winding the chain leash around his wrists and securing it to a table leg.

‘As you should be, slave,’ Jared growls, resting his fully clothed body atop of the glorious nakedness of his laid out boy.

The cool smooth timber of the table gives him nowhere to go. His Master has him pinned on his belly, his wrists chained, and the edge of the table digging into his hips.

He sighs and whispers, 'I beg to serve, Master.'

***

Jared knows this is going to be fast and dirty. He just needs too much to bother with any finesse. His beautiful boy lays beneath him, a carnal invitation in every wriggle, every hitch of hips. His hands are holding those bony hips and he presses his thumbs into the roundness of his boy’s arse cheeks, pulling them apart to see the tiny hole hidden between. He can feel his control slipping further and further away. He undoes his trousers with one hand and pulls out his hardened cock. Though he knows his boy will be well prepared, he smothers himself liberally with the salve, then wipes his fingers along his boy’s crack, smearing more around the tight, little hole.

His boy moans at the touch of Jared’s hand, groans with want as he's slicked up, pants with need when Jared rests the head of his cock right at his entrance.

Jared wants to go slow, slow, slow – but his need is an unstoppable force pounding a pulsing beat in his hardened cock. The beauty of his boy’s bowed back is breathtaking. He watches soft skin, creamy white under the pressure of his fingers, blossom into darkening ruby when he releases his grip. He leans over and presses wet tongue-filled kisses across the nape of his boy’s neck, then follows them up with suctioned teeth-filled bites.

His boy bucks in pleasure and pain, and Jared relishes the friction of his boy’s arse rubbing against his slick throbbing cock.

Till he can take it no more.

With a final slathering of salve, Jared grips his boy’s hips and thrusts straight home. Forcefully, determinedly. Home. His home.

He groans long and deeply, then gives free reign to his passion. He pounds with an urgency that's so familiar to him now, body reaching for a peak so high he can’t wait to get there. Every blood cell in his body has raced towards his cock, and his balls feel like they’re drawn up and hugging him tight just to stop being slapped against his boy’s arse. He’s holding on like his life depends on it; burning drag out, fiery thrust in.

Till he comes with a roar that he can’t hold back, and his eyes roll, and his body peaks with an intensity that obliterates every other fuck he’s ever had. He’s pumping and pumping, filling his boy with come. He slows, overtaken by exhaustion, and just wants to sleep right there on top of his boy, buried deep in him. He rocks in and out for a while, slick and sensitive, then pulls out. He swipes his damp cock across the back of his boy’s legs, and stumbles back to fall into his chair.

He sits awhile, catching his breath, watching his own come drip from the red puffy hole of his boy, still bound and softly moaning over his writing desk.

He slides the chair closer, reaches forward and kisses each displayed butt cheek. Drags his tongue over his boy's soppy, open hole. Laps it, light and tingly, deep and pressured. Sucks round the rim, slurping up his own come, licking and smoothing his way.

He can hear his boy's sounds - harsh panting, long moans, begging and pleading.

Reaches under his boy's body, takes his raw need in hand, and jacks him till he comes. It's quickly done, so ready was his boy, and he soothes him through the convulsions and shudders of his bliss.

He unchains his boy from the desk, but leaves the leash wrapped round his wrists. Carries him up to their sleeping chamber, lays him on the bed. Disrobes quickly, and settles them both, comfortably together.

'Love you, Master,' his boy whispers, voice still wrecked from his screams of release.

And it slips out before he can censor it, so naturally did it fall from his tongue. 'And I you,' he says.

'Will you unchain me, Master, before we sleep?' his boy continues, unaware of Jared's profound shock.

'Not this night, boy,' and he adjusts his boy, so that his chained wrists are raised over his head and clipped to the headboard. 'This night you will sleep in my chains, dream in my chains, awaken in my chains. You are mine, boy, bound to me like none other. In all things. In all ways. Bound, boy,' he kisses him passionately, then bites his boy's lip sharply, 'body, mind and soul. Bound for pain and pleasure.'

And his boy smiles, and closes his eyes. 'Yes, Master,' he agrees.

The End.