Sale of Body. (Sylvan Varain and Cantarella.)

[Sylvan Varain]

It’s morning when the prince is roused out of bed, bathed, and dressed. The water is warm on Philippe’s estate, the room afforded to him nearly as comfortable and ease of living as the palace had been with a humble amount of servants waiting to serve him at a moment’s notice. The marshal had always been an austere man, a proper roundhead that pushed endlessly for the cutting of unnecessary expenses. Many had hoped for those qualities to rub off on the king’s son so that they might be spared yet another generation of failed promises and unpaid debts. Even with how much of a disappointment Morgan had been the old warrior had been at his side all the way to the end, hardfaced and steadfast all the way from the declaration of war to the chambers of the new sovereign of the realm, face flushed with rage at the disrespect shown to their rightful Lord.

That was probably why the prince enjoyed privileges uncompared when Philippe summoned him. He’s had clients with gentler hands and cocks than the soldierly aristocrat- he’s not much different than anyone else when he’s inside one of the prince’s holes, but the man always had a flare for romantic gestures. Morgan had spent three weeks with him, quietly sequestered away from his apartment at the whorehouse and brought to a faraway, quiet plot of land so that Philippe could enjoy his company.

The sun isn’t quite up when they meet on the cliff overlooking the man’s sharecrops; miles of sugar, salt, and cotton worked by sleepy men and women that had gotten just as little sleep as the prince had. Only Philippe looks fresh-faced, lounging in a chair he’d obviously dragged out himself, one that Morgan would’ve struggled to even pick up, much less carry what must’ve been for a half an hour walk. The man isn’t in the prime of his youth anymore, but he’s close, looking fit and glowing as the first warm breaths of the sun manage to reach them over the valley they now overlook. He has a coffee in one hand, holding one with so much carefulness that it’s obvious who it’s for. He’s practically glowing when he sees the prince, and it’s hard not to notice that he’s aroused with the way he’s facing, though he doesn’t seem ashamed of it. It’s obvious what he wants. He hadn’t chosen this place, at this time of day, for no reason. Already the laborers are taking notice of them, most tipping their hats in greeting to their Lord, and others casting curious look towards the boy they’d only ever seen in passing.

Philippe doesn’t order Morgan to suck his cock yet though or whatever else he’s planning. He enjoys playing games, whether it be when he’d taught the prince chess, or moments like these.

Instead, he only offers the prince a cup of what will undoubtedly be divine cafe, speaking after a clearly faked yawn.

“This harvest promises to be a good one. We should be seeing the last of the protests this year, Your Majesty.”

Food had been hard to come by after he’d been overthrown. With those two sentences, Philippe dashed the last bit of hope that the people would rise up and put him back into power.

 

[Sylvan Varain]

There it was, in plain speech: Morgan was unlikely to take his place back on the throne. The youth bitterly sipped his even more bitter drink, aching for at least that small bit of solace in the rush of caffeine, that eye-opening earthiness waking him enough for what he knew was to come on this most obscene of hours. He resisted the urge to loose a jaw-cracking yawn; indecorous of him to even consider it as the urge to splay his jaw wide niggled at him, like an itch yearning to be scratched.

Not that his jaw hadn’t been splayed wide before in the presence of the marshal. Not that Morgan hadn’t walked away many a time with a sore jaw, neck, head, ass, what have you.

Bathed in the shifting light and shadow of the coming dawn, the prince finishes his drink and levels his gaze at Philippe. Eyes squinting in the brilliance of the first rays of daylight, its fantastic pinks and bloody reds and gilded oranges, he’s resplendent, well-sculpted in the best approximation of a god. Or a sculptor’s best guess as to what a god should look like.

He’s gorgeous, gods damn him, and for all intents and purposes, the closest thing he has to a friend in all the world. If only he would let him cum too. Morgan frowned even more steeply at the thought, a sullen expression he did well to attempt to conceal as he took another sip of his drink.

“Most fortuitous, indeed,” he replies, trying to bite back the acid that threatens to spill over onto his tongue. He speaks in clipped sentences, trying not to let his dissatisfaction become even more evident, but the youth was far less adept at hiding his facial expressions. “This is a nearly unprecedented turnabout.” He adds.

 

[Sylvan Varain]

"There's been no shortage of those," he agrees, eyes distantly watching the laborers. "Demons. Elvish Barbarians on the Morning Throne. Barbarian, demon-worshipping elves on the Morning Throne. Weren't we told at sermon that there'd be trumpets when the end times came? He named himself Basileus, I heard."

The temporal title of the Sacred Haeres. A relic from the days of the Basilea when the Sacred Haeres were also the most powerful rulers in the Old World. Extraordinarily powerful because of their wealth and influence of the church, but lacking the authority to elect an Emperor or to raise armies- though they alone will coronate the next Vylinius. The new Autocrat had kept himself busy during the winter, no doubt building the war chest he'll need to finish his war. God's war now, it seemed.

His coffee goes down with only the faint roar of mint to keep him company. Except for Philippe, striking a spectacular image that would've made girls at his court twitch excitedly- and now him.

The barracks duke pats his knee silently, what he requests being a brazenly submissive act and one that would no doubt call the attention of those below, though he'd never paid any mind to spectators in the past. He always seemed to enjoy doing things in public, especially the most unsubtly 'innocent' things such as sitting in his lap.

"Chances are he'll scurry out and come up with something mad and win it all again. I'd rather not think that the Ogast will be the one to save us all."

Even if a foreign king overcoming their enemies would mean returning Morgan to his throne.

 

[Cantarella]

Morgan's ears pinned back in clear irritation, and he grunted in the depths of his mug, the minty coffee distorting his tiny expulsion of annoyance. The brew was bitter- bitter like the taste of having lost his crown, his throne, his previous life, with only the faint soupcon of mint to sustain him. It was cool on his tongue in the aftermath of the scalding heat of the coffee, a coolness that spread through his throat and chest. Bloomed in his gut.

It was a coolness quickly offset by the burning in his cheeks, his neck, his ears, and his eyes narrowed, one ear straightening and then the other, pinning back in turns. Why, had he been a touch more catlike, he might have hissed or spat his dissatisfaction, arched his back and puffed up his tail, but no. Not today, not right now. He figured his current bristling was already too evident for comfort, something made even more so when his pupils slitted at the sight of Philippe's invitation to crawl into his lap. The much smaller boy huffed and turned his head in that distinctly noble manner, as though glaring down his nose at the marshal's sheer temerity.

Temerity he knew was not feigned, and Morgan was more than aware that he'd pay for this brazen refusal later. Though, how much later, and how much he'd find he disliked the punishment was up in the air. After all, Philippe had earned it: both his rank and Morgan himself, the prince a prize that had been rightfully taken. The prince lowered the mug from his plump, pretty lips, working them to collect each residual drop of the minty coffee, enjoying what could be the last hint of pleasantness to be had for the morning, and to fully digest Philippe's words before he deigned to reply, even if in the same clipped manner that he had already replied in thus far.

"Mm," Morgan hummed, setting his mug beside himself, clean save for the ring of milky brown adhering stickily to the bottom of the mug to dry in the shape of a caramel crescent moon. "There are worse fates than new leadership, are there not? Loath as I am to admit-" Morgan wrinkled his nose, "-at least some milksop hasn't been placed on the throne in my stead, or some babe on the teat who would only come to power many years later, with a shadow government puppeting the realm in his name." Morgan nearly scoffed at that, more than familiar with the concept. "No, if I am to be ousted from what was rightfully mine, I'd rather someone competent take it. Even if it means I'd be painted as ineffectual at best by what once were my subjects." He sniffs, crossing one leg over the other.

 

[Sylvan Varain]

That seemed to entertain the Marshal, a corner of his lips raising in a shadowy smirk that went beyond merely agreeing lightheartedly with what the prince had to say. Morgan's refusal of his request goes unanswered, but it isn't unlike the man to do such a thing. The soldier enjoyed playing with his meals as much on the battlefield as he did with the prince, playing coy innuendos and banter until he decided he was tired of both and had the prince on his knees or bent over something. Once he'd pushed his head out through the window of his room in the brothel, one end of his body crudely hanging out the panel and overseeing the streets below to gawkers while being taken on the other side, having him announce all sort of... things. All because he'd failed to defer to the general with a proper title.

So far that rule didn't seem to apply this time around. But, from experience, Philippe's tastes only grew as his arousal did, and the tent he was showcasing was nothing compared to the rest.

Now he only seemed to be amusing himself with the sight of Morgan's ears, fluttering through the air like bats of a butterfly's wings and nearly just as delicate and sensitive to the touch, eyes traveling down in a way that was layered in too much pleasure to be merely platonic. He seemed to settle on the way he worked what remained of the coffee of his lips, resting his head on lazy fingers and enjoying a show the feline hadn't intended to give but was providing for the traitor all the same. It wasn't as if the mentor wouldn't enjoy the sight of him standing utterly still in chaste clothing anyhow.

"He did fuck us hard," Philippe admits, uncertainly. "We may have your puppeteers all the same though, My Glory. You know, of course, he aligned himself with the liberals and constitutionalists."

Each letter is cursed more than the last, the spite of it seeming even to surprise the older man.

"We're to expand the Diet and include two-hundred more members to it from the landowners. Merchants. We'll never be able to curtail them- he's sold us out."

Pain echoes in his voice. Morgan, when his father talked about the old wars, had heard the same distant, wounded pride in the stories he told. Philippe knows that he's lost the empire he'd spent his life trying to protect, and that he had nobody to blame except himself. Their soldiers had fought bravely, their allies came when they called, mustering all their strength, and their officers followed each order he'd given them to the last letter.

Philippe shrugs, the moment passing, and more pressing things coming to mind.

"I fell a tree just over yonder," he motions, the stump resting comfortably on the apex of the hill, just a moment's walk over and just barely taller than the two of them. "We'll meet here every morning henceforth- you'll be bathed, clothed, and I expect you to find you here waiting for me, bent over it and prepared."

He allows that to settle into the prince's mind but deters any interruptions when he adds, "I might fuck you there, but I've decided two-hundred swats for you each day will be enough, lest I decide on more. Not sitting where I told you will earn you a hundred more this morning. Good way to get you acquainted with the laborers, no?"

Swats. The word rings almost meaninglessly, its intent left unsaid until the muscles on the man's arms and hands flex when he takes the last sip of his drink and lays it down, putting on display each yard of perfect, hard-worked sinew. When he brushed off his hand, looking up curiously at the cat, glancing back down at his hand in thought, the meaning suddenly became crystal clear.

 

[Cantarella]

Morgan was not the type to be able to hide a thing, though he rightfully ought to have learned that skill by now, having been a prince. A fallen prince, bereft of his glory, the title Philippe bestowing upon him in that saccharine moment with the faint taste of mint on his tongue and facing the rising sun more of a formality than anything, but stinging all the same. The setting of his ears and tail gave it all away, each twitching and fluffing of velvety fur, each slitting of his honeyed eyes.

With the youth's rash and irascible nature, why, it was hardly a wonder that he had been replaced, even as well as his words would imply he was taking it. But words, after all, were merely wind, and the prince, despite having been supplanted by someone far more competent than he, was clearly grappling with the consequences of being stripped of the comforts of his past life...

Save for the comfort of Philippe's presence, such as it was. For all of the marshal's roughness, there was a sweetness to him. After all, he had had the honor to rescue the prince when he had been beset by bandits, fighting off the brutes and then tenderly making love to him in a field made gilded by sunflowers uncountable, on a languorous afternoon, warmed by the sun as though by its divine benediction.

It had almost seemed meant to be.

Almost.

The prince leveled his gaze at the marshal's impressive girth through his breeches now, his outline clearly visible against the fabric, and he swallowed heavily, finding his mouth had gone suddenly and inexplicably dry. He had known that his refusal had only spurred the man on, rather than dissuaded him, told him that the feline prince had no intention of being fucked raw this day. But the prince had not bargained for being spanked black and blue instead.

The prince's clawed fingertips traced a lazy and, more importantly, cautious circle on the rim of his discarded coffee cup, and he thought long and hard about what he was to say next. Politics was not the topic du jour- in fact, the importance of such had near fallen away in its entirety when Philippe had given what were the closest thing to orders that the prince had had in a long, long time.

And so he spoke, haltingly, giving each syllable the gravity he felt they so rightly deserved despite the shaking of his voice, the light squeak as the youth fought back the fear evident in his tone.

"... And if I refuse?" He inquired, his ears flattened like a frightened and more than a little miffed feline. His slitted pupils focused on the outline of the stump in the day's brightness, the wood stark and dark against the backdrop of green grass, and shadowed by the gilded rays of morning sunlight.

"I am no laborer, Philippe, though I will not claim anymore to be too high above one." His gaze shifts away from the stump, and his lips purse into a pout, those same eyes finding the hard, corded sinew of the marshal's hand and arm.

He could tell by looks alone his ass is going to be stinging soon, one way or the other. But how could he rightfully despair, when he could feel a stirring down below of his own, in spite of himself?

 

[Sylvan Varain]

"That would complicate things," his caretaker agreed with a sideways glance, clicking his tongue in a too carefree attitude. Complications had always meant trouble for him in his career, and it seemed they'd followed him past the prime of his service to the empire and into the prince's service to him. He takes a moment to consider what could happen if he were to lift the boy up and bring him over to the stump himself; falling down the valley to their deaths was an amusing thought. No doubt Morgan would protest all the while, hissing and snarling and scratching at him the best he could until he was laid down properly to be disciplined. Perhaps the cat would reach out with one dangerous claw and drag it across his neck- that one entertained him far less, although it stood out to him all the same.

He'd taught the prince how to defend himself if the occasion arose, and he'd always jested about fearing have to face himself. To say nothing of the impact on his soul, no doubt. Manhandling royalty would never sit well for him, and it took enough effort on his part to find something that the glands of the supernatural prince wouldn't pick up on. Philippe didn't care much for putting in even more energy just to get the brat bent over where he was supposed to.

What, was he supposed to sit and await until the drink took effect and had him begging on his knees to be slumped over? Hardly.

Morgan can see the slip of his smile like the moon taking the place of the sun without any of the beauty. It's almost painful, to see the hard wrought handsomeness carved by decades of struggle darken like it does. He'd seen the soldier turn enemies and traitors alike on their heels with a less baleful look than the one he receives, so brimming with unsaid thoughts that it's impossible to imagine him as the voracious 'gentleman' that came before him.

"Why," he snarks, his new smile a different creature entire, "I suppose any discussions of your being allowed to cum would be taken off the table, Your Highness. We'd have to instead discuss just how many swats your ass can take for a week. We'll start at three-hundred and twenty-five. I've always been a man to haggle."

 

[Cantarella]

Morgan's tawny cheeks darkened with anger. But even more, they went hot with humiliation as he felt himself stirring below, in complete spite of himself. With the reality of the situation dawning on the dethroned prince, he took up his spent cup with a flourish and stared into its depths, at that milky brown crescent moon he'd left in the bottom of the mug. He held it up to the light, eyes squinting, and found a trace of powder in the mug's depths, with a sheen like that of crushed pearls.

It was then that it hit him.

"Aphrodisiacs, Philippe? Really?" Morgan scoffed, slamming the mug back down with a huff. "You play dirty, and drive an even harder bargain." Rounding on the marshal, his tail all a-fluff much like the angry cat that the priceling was, he was stopped dead in his tracks by the darkening of the marshal's own handsome, rugged features in response to the prince's bristling refusal.

It stopped him dead. Morgan knew that look all too well, knew instinctively that very few saw such a change in his usual lackadaisical expression. The cat froze in place save for the increasing, and moreover, increasingly uncomfortable, stiffening in his own breeches.

"W-well," he found himself stuttering, and mentally kicking himself for such a gross display of indecorousness. He was full hard now, straining against his clothing enough that he was squirming slightly. He swallows thickly, attempting to gather himself enough for some cocksure retort, but finds that his mouth is dry, his tongue threatening to adhere to his palate. He fumbles, and eventually finds himself speaking slowly, emphasizing every syllable as though he was with his diction tutor.

"Well." He tries again. "If you will not take no for an answer, I suppose I am as cornered into this as much as I am with anything since the coup." He wills himself into ceasing the irritated flicking of his tail. He can only hope that in the marshal's denial of his pleasure, he would find something enjoyable in the pain sure to come. After all, did it not hurt to be taken on that gilded field, stretched beneath the sun like cloth of gold? Had he not taken pleasure in that stretching pain, that heavenly sense of fullness? He was to be denied the fullness, sure, but he could remember, and he could hate how much he wanted to drop to his knees and run his tongue along the shaft and head of the marshal's cock. He could hate, he could force himself into indignancy, but he could not deny, even to himself, the affection.

"Three hundred and twenty-five... to start." He ground out.

 

[Sylvan Varain]

"We'll... barter," the noble soldier started, stepping closer to the prince, sharing a smile with him that promised nothing good for him. This victory only fueled the need for conquest inside him; entrapping a brattish royal was one thing, hauling him and tossing him over a stump another, but to have them present themselves before him willingly, to bend deep and pull aside their smallclothes... It was a thing few dared to dream of. Perhaps he and the usurper had more in common than he allowed himself. If Morgan wasn't here, now, would he have ended up in His Glory Sylvan's harem of whores instead?

Perhaps. That thought didn't please him however, no matter how much of a fantasy it was, and so he decided to fill the vacancy it left in his pride. One moment he was looming over the royal, doing as he'd always done and appreciated the slim and perfect muscles that he made sure Morgan maintained- and the next, his heels were off the ground, bare toes gracing the soft grass beneath them as he was hoisted into the air. Morgan's lips met the older man's in one swift moment, the tangy taste of mint on both their mouths as he deepened it, turning his head to better reach the boy. His hands, now on his hips, made way to where they most naturally rested, filling themselves with the prince's ass to keep him aloft, appreciating the weight and fullness of them with one squeeze, then another, the man's large, calloused hands only furthering Morgan's knowledge of just how harsh over three-hundred spankings were going to be.

Philippe's lips make up for their thinness with experience and enthusiasm, pushing the barely balanced prince into a carnal defense; the choice of mint wasn't an arbitrary thing, and he takes no little joy in the strange game he'd played by having his pet's lips taste like his favorite treat. He gently nudges Morgan to bend backwards as the kiss intensifies, one hand stabilizing him with a grip on the bottom of his back while the other continues to mold itself to his tush that he can't seem to pull himself away from.

One thrust has their cocks drive across one another, reminding them both just how much of a miracle it'd been when he'd managed to fit the first time. A low growl in the back of his throat as him twitch his hips forward again, adoring the friction between them just from a moment of grinding.

 

[Cantarella]

A step forward.

With Philippe's advance, the cat prince made to retreat back a step, fully aware that he had surely bitten off more than he could chew. If the hungry expression that flashed darkly in Philippe's eyes was any indication, surely that forward step now had sealed his fate. But the stirring down below was incentive enough to keep Morgan's feet rooted to the spot.

He yearned for the ache and burn in his ass cheeks, he found, damn the marshal and his dirty tricks. It wasn't as though the cat prince hadn't been warned of the dangers of poisonings, especially as highborn as he was; he had merely let down his guard, and now look at what had become of him. Hard and leaking onto his smallclothes, his cheeks burning incandescently bright, all because of that powder in his minty coffee awakening dormant lusts.

Lust that the prince could scarcely conceal now, despite the stiffening of his formerly lax muscles once he found himself in the grip of the marshal, lifted bodily from the ground. Each pass of his callused hands would have drawn a gasp from the prince's mouth, were it not currently and wholly occupied with Philippe's own. He found his rough tongue meeting Philippe's, dancing around it in a pas de deux. The taste was divine, he found; even in the absence of the mint and the bitter tang of the coffee lingering on his tongue and palate, he found he craved that taste, the taste of Philippe's mouth, his thin and yet in no way passionless lips.

Morgan momentarily relished in these sensations, the current gentleness, the urgency, a harbinger of what was to come. Large, rough hands squeezing him most divinely, the prince finding himself wriggling in Philippe's grasp, a soft moan rising to his lips. He bent willingly, a dexterous arch to his spine, eyes glassy and half-lidded with the intensification of his carnal desires, a jolt passing through his musculature as their cocks pass each other, such a delicious sensation the brat prince could never quite admit that he craved.

Until now.

"More," he found himself gasping breathlessly, pawing, as it were, at Philippe. "More." It was not a request, either; this was a command, one befitting of a prince, but brought low as he was... an inappropriate one.

One, perhaps, that would earn him another dozen or so swats, but he cared not, for the words came tumbling from his tongue like water through a sieve.

 

[Sylvan Varain]

Each shift of the prince brought him closer to Philippe, to his cock, and to damnation. A fate that both of them wanted, it seems. For Philippe it was almost a simple matter of conquest and love; complicated feelings were beyond him now. His empire was lost, his position, and though the absolved prince was unaware, even his own lands. This was his last reserve. Even the laborers down below were no longer slaves, but freedmen, who eyes now lifted to watch the scene unfold before their eyes, confusion, annoyance, and pleasure spilling together as they took it upon themselves to decide how they felt. It mattered little to the general. Even as freedmen, what they thought meant little to him. His palms and fingers craved to feel the cracking, submissive ass of the prince as they punished him. He'd lost the right to discipline the legion of soldiers before him, but he still had this. And he didn't care.

Punishment would come soon, but, for now, he allowed them both this pleasure. Morgan's toes barely kept him aloft on the earth beneath him, but, with a heft, the soldier's hands filled themselves with the regal, practically legendary ass of the former heir-apparent, growling into the boy's mouth, nearly biting down on his tongue as the weight of it spilled between his fingers, lifting the boy in the air, dragging the cat's prick against his own and making his vision go white. The tension between them was palpable. He'd only fucked the royal once, but he'd become an addict on the spot, knowing that he could die happy so long as he went out filling him until then.

Fuck the Empire, then. Let the slave have it, so long as he could have this.

Philippe tightens his grip on both cheeks, giving a laugh as the prince shudders against him, his kitten-like claws drawing thin lines across his skin and shredding his shirt wherever his hands go, the gentle whining enough to please that wolf inside him. Just as he remembered, the prince's tongue is sweet even as its tiny hooks pull against him, reminding him of just how much of a unique experience it'll be to have it wrapped around him.

His cock jumps at the thought. There were too many things he wished to do, and the sun only spent so much time in the sky.

 

[Cantarella]

Love.

To some, an abstract concept, a feeling, quickly fleeting. But to Morgan, it was everything; it was all he had left, this inappropriate lust toward Philippe, who had sentenced the prince to three hundred and twenty-five strikes to his plush rear. To start, as the prince had dared to add. Anything to recreate the feeling he got in that field of sunflowers with Philippe, that magical first time with him right as things had turned sour for the cat prince. To Morgan, Philippe was the most charming man he had ever met, with his chiseled jaw, with his bright eyes and his...

Morgan swallowed, finding himself salivating a little. He could practically taste Philippe's mouth on his own, the salt of his flesh on his tongue. It mingled there, dancing as frenetically upon his palate as the mint from the coffee had just moments prior. It was a lewd thought, put there not entirely by the effects of the aphrodisiac, but by virtue of the prince's whorish nature. All he could think of in that moment was tasting Philippe again and again and again, to feel the sweet agony of the marshal inside of him, in his mouth or...

Another swallow, this one much thicker, but once again, Philippe's mouth was on his, conquering it, claiming it as he had claimed him in that field of gold, a lifetime ago, or so it seemed. The cat prince found himself purring, his tongue lapping along the marshal's, his round irises slitting with pleasure. He nearly moaned into Philippe's mouth, but restrained himself; that could come later.

He very nearly didn't even notice the freemen below watching them in that moment. He rightfully ought to be humiliated by this, by becoming a spectacle to be gawked at. But, in that moment, betwixt the aphrodisiacs and the sheer arousal running through him, becoming his very being, he found himself caring very little. In fact, spurred on by those watching, judging eyes, he decided, why not put on a show? It's not as though he had been humiliated enough in this short lifetime. It would have been a bitter thought, but not in this moment, when all of his consciousness had gone to the sensation in his cock and ass as Philippe groped it.

He broke away just long enough to whisper, sweet breath ghosting across Philippe's lips:

"Well, best get to it, then."

His toes grip the earth beneath him, to lower himself down and to the remnant stump of the felled tree, for his just desserts. To bend over it, to arch his back in that suggestive way, accentuating the flexible curve of his spine.

 

[Sylvan Varain]

Above him is a tree of a man, carved by some cruel god that had decided to decided to make Philippe a beautiful instrument. Like any lovingly crafted weapon, there's imperfections in the metal to be certain it can withstand pressure, and the odd scars and creases of skin do little to take away from the sculpture.

Below Morgan is a far more literal tree, this one shorn of its top and measured to perfectly fit him- once again, literally, as it seems his body is cradled by it as if he were born to be slumped over it, eagerly awaiting a spanking. And a fucking, if the way Philippe's cock pressed against him was any indication. The wood was cool despite the sun, which was a welcome relief on his burning skin, and it became impossible not to realize the sheer length that he'd gone about this project of his. Always methodical in war, he'd gone the extra length to be sure that the princeling would be comfortable on the stump, perfectly heighting it so that there'd be no cramp. For anybody else it would've been ludicrous, but for Morgan, drunk on love and cock as he was, it might as well have been the most tender anniversary present.

For his part, the marshal looks on past the boy for the slightest moment, appreciating the second most beautiful thing he would ever see. His father had worked this land half a century ago alongside his workers, sowing it and spending himself and his family into destitution to irrigate it and force the land to obey him. He had seen none of the reward, but Philippe reaped what his family had sown and thanked God for it. And him. The sun rose frightfully high, almost blinding him before he looked back down.

Now he saw the first most beautiful thing. Morgan, the boy's words still ringing in his ears, draped over the stump of the tree he had grown up with, his caramel skin lit by the burning horizon. Covered in silks that he had afforded, ass high and begging for him. He'd already fucked the cat-prince into a near orgasm before denying him already, spoiled his lips and rear and claimed them as his own, but it'd never make him shiver to see it again, tempting him. Even now, his cock dripped at the thought of being thrust inside that impossibly tight space, fucking away whatever thoughts still remained inside that clever head of his as his body eagerly accepted his plundering.

He could take his time now though. If the whore wanted three-hundred swats on that perfect ass of his, he'd have them.

Wide and proud as the boy's ass is, it's not surprising when the marshal's grizzled and well-used hands manage to encase them, molding onto them just as they had a moment ago, but with a new lazy purpose to them that came with bending over for a soldier. Like a floozy woman at a tavern, the warrior squeezes and weighs the prince's ass in his hands, treating him just as he felt at last - like a slut - and making sure each blemish and scar is seared into the cat's nerves.

It comes fast and hard. Morgan knew it would be a painful thing, but the Marshal seemed to decide it fit to make sure each and every one of the laborers below could hear the first spanking the boy had ever received; like a whip, the air shivers and his ass howls. One moment Philippe's hand is rearing back, the next, it's cracking down on his rotund ass cheek, pale flesh meeting tawny skin as he makes contact at last. Where his actions and lips brought pleasure and happy promises, his hands only seemed capable of what a soldier was meant for; and, just like that, his master grins, admiring the almost immediate handprint that begins to take shape on what was previously an intact ass.

 

[Cantarella]

Had Morgan not been bent over the tree that had been felled for the sole purpose of this very act, he would have marveled up at Philippe's powerful form, limned in sunlight like a halo, like a seraph wreathed in holy incandescence. To Morgan, Philippe was more than a mere man; he was something more, something divine perhaps, and Morgan would have gladly dropped to hands and knees in worship at the altar of his cock alone.

Morgan could even, perish the thought, call Philippe a friend in a time and place where he couldn't have called anyone else that.

But now, bent over base-assed over that felled tree, Morgan peered over one narrow shoulder at the man, not the seraph, and his slitted feline eyes offered a challenge.

Make me scream, I dare you.

The first of the strikes on his ass does nearly that; the impact of flesh on flesh, hard on tender, drags the breath from the cat prince's lungs in a quick rasp. His eyes briefly screw shut against the pain of it, knees buckling slightly from the impact. and most tellingly, his cock gave a hearty jump in his trousers, leaking sweet pre already as every inch of him screamed two words: fuck me. Breathing in quick gasps, the prince straightens himself, regains his composure, and displayed a sort of haughty decorum that only a prince could have displayed, practically preening and peacocking.

His head turns on his shoulder, and, staring a challenge directly into Philippe's ice blue eyes, he croaks out a sultry command.

"Again."

Oh but to feel the marshal's strong hands encasing the sweet supple skin of his plush ass again, to almost apologetically grope the skin there and warm it up for the next strike, to make it sting all the more when his hand came crashing against him. Morgan felt himself ache down below again, and a moan escaped his whorish lips, lips that were so well suited to wrapping around the marshal's shaft, a tongue masterful at collecting his seed, a slender throat so perfectly molded as though to be coated with white and swallowed down.

He tensed as though in anticipation for the next strike, and the next, and the next after that. The brat prince needed to learn his new place, draped in silks and fucked and denied and spanked like the common whore he had become. A place he was not entirely sure he resented being placed in.

 

[Sylvan Varain]

'There,' Philippe thinks to himself, letting the sound of the prince beneath him wash through the buzz in his ear. The youthful voice beneath him finally cracked, Morgan's guttural and nearly feral noise making him break out into an unseen sneer, the grip on the boy's ass tightening further. Each step they'd taken this morning saw Morgan take another step into an ocean he wouldn't ever be able to step back out of- no matter what name one cared to attach to it. Submission was his favored one. His former overlord had already agreed to give his body and orgasms to him, had already surrendered his virginity to the marshal, and drank from his cock like it was a drink he could never get enough of, and, now, he was draped across a fallen tree, receiving his hand on the boy's formerly perfect ass and begging for more.

And, God, would Philippe give it to him. He'd give it to the prince until every single thought had dripped from his mind and all he was left to think about was the next session of spankings and fuckings. If he wanted to scream, his voice would be hoarse.

"Eyes forward, slut."

The soldier's hand on his scalp appears quick and fast, patting down the feline's ears in a move that might've been pleasurable in any other circumstance- by now Morgan was more than familiar with Philippe's palms with how much time they'd spent on his ass, but the brief passing of pleasant friction passes when he folds his fingers into Morgan's raven black hair, forcing his eyes forward- towards the growing crowds of laborers, now exchanging chuckles and stares as his voice grows louder.

It comes fast and hard. As does the second, third, fourth, and then fifth. Mesmerized with the sight of Morgan's bouncing ass, the simple act of cracking his hand against a royal ass cheek isn't enough for him, or to hear the noises that crawled from the back of the boy's throat. Rapid and quick, he bounces his hand against Morgan's ass again and again, the hand in his hair tightening to keep him steady, huffing hard as the sight of rippling, dancing skin draws him in impossibly deep. He was almost as lost as Morgan was.

Except he wasn't the one convicted to over three-hundred spankings. That was a fate reserved for this defeated prince, and he was only five in and somehow his ass felt like it was on fire. Philippe had broken in horses and animals with that arm of his, and Morgan wasn't all that much different than either of those beasts. Philippe knew exactly how to deal with rebellion from them- crush it early and fast before it becomes a bad habit. And his pet had more than his fair share of those...

"Count them," he suddenly commands, leaning over, his hand that was torturing his ass going over to stroke his mistreated cock. The soldier is talented at this as well it seems, fiendishly teasing his tip with his thumb, rubbing circles around it while the length of his palm and fingers gingerly tease him, jerking him with a slow, firm grip that leaves his tip in tears. Not fast enough to make him cum, of course.

"Count each and every single one- announce them for the workers below. They're working so I can pay for your dyes and oils and silk and baths after all, pet. Count them, and thank your daddy for them."

 

[Cantarella]

A needy mewl escaped Morgan's parted lips with the command and the rough tug upon his backwards-folded ears and his tempestuous strands of mussed, jet-black hair, and he felt his cock jump and leak sweet pre onto his smallclothes.

"Yes, Daddy."

He spoke the words hoarsely, swallowing thickly. He tensed for the next strike, but it came before he was ready. A distinctly unmanly squeal wormed its way past his kittenish lips, and he squirmed slightly, swaying his hips from side to side as though to ease the ache. His balls and every inch of his manhood ached to be permitted to cum, but the cat prince knew that was expressly forbidden. Breathing steadily as he could with his ass being pummeled, one strike following the other in blindingly painful succession, he felt his ass cheeks burn and his cock aching for release...

Until the flat of Philippe's palm and his callused fingers found his tip, and Morgan could not stop the grunt that rose in his throat, the elongated, needy whine. Bent forward as he was against the log, he could do naught but throw his ass back and tilt his pelvis forward, begging for more, for faster stimulation, for another slap on the ass, anything.

He would have done anything, in that moment, to please Daddy. Anything to be allowed to cum, anything to have that tight ass of his filled, to feel Philippe battering his poor prostate.

"F-five." He mewled, hot tears gathering in his slitted, cattish eyes. His voice was hoarse and a touch higher than he would have liked, expressly unmasculine. He spoke it a little too quietly, and he knew that would not do. Clearing his suddenly very dry throat, he announced it again, loudly, his chin held defiantly up in the only way that would do for a sovereign. A sovereign announcing his debasement and debauchery to the smallfolk, for all that mattered anymore with his crown forfeit.

"Five."

 

[Sylvan Varain]

'God.' Philippe thought in a rare moment of unrestraint. 'How did I resist this before? How did anybody?' Each noise that escaped Morgan's mouth only seems to make the next blow on his royal ass come harder, the first series having been requests, and these ones having been demands. Demands for Morgan to break. Submit. Already the prince's ass has turned four different shades of angry red, blotchy and delightfully staining his natural hew of mahogany skin. His fingers massage the surface of his tortured skin, basking in the simple glory of a bent over royal mewling and begging for him, degrading and submitting himself lowly enough to call him him 'Daddy.' More whores than he could count had referred to him by that title, but none had groaned it out with such enthusiasm and willful platitude and enjoyment as Morgan had. Whether it was the drug-fueled arousing running through his blood, the need for an orgasm, or the impossible threat of nearly four-hundred swats had little weight on him. His beloved prince was here, bent deep at the waist, wiggling his ass back and forth in an unconscious command for more of what he'd already grown addicted to. They make for a strange pair on the hill to the spectators below, their labor long forgotten; his pale and muscular hand cup the carmine skin, blood flushing to the surface in urgent assistance to their assaulted host.

Except their host is in need of nothing except further discipline, more punishment, whether that come in the form of more cracks of his palm against his impossibly pleasant rear, or more drags against his dug-in ears. Morgan was proving himself an amiable learner; he'd always been a good student in their times together, having taken to swordplay and riding as well as any of his cadets. But he'd had a lapse, and there was only one resolution that Philippe could think of that might serve to instruct the boy beneath him.

He was already set to receive over three-hundred swats and clearly found himself enjoying them if the way the prince's cock shivered in his firm grip was any indication. Giving him more would be... counterintuitive, and true punishment needed to have weight to it.

The next strike is the most powerful yet, deliberately too strong to be truly pleasurable. The reason for it comes not long after the /crack/ settles. "I didn't hear a 'thank you, Daddy,' pet. So early on, and you're already misbehaving. You're to recite it after each one."

Cruel and unfair words considering that Morgan was on the verge of an orgasm just from five swats on his ass and a few stern tugs on his prick. How in the Hell was he expected not to cum once they started actually fucking?

"Enjoying yourself as you are, we'll need to be more creative with your punishment," he warns, which promises nothing good. Last time Philippe had been 'creative' he'd ended up becoming the man's free-use whore and lost his kingdom. The grip in Morgan's hair remains steady, not allowing him to see the smile playing at Philippe's lips as he looks up towards his free laborers. "I suppose I'll just have to fuck you here. We were going to return to the estate, but our spectators could do with seeing you properly fucked into submission until you learn how to follow instructions."

 

[Cantarella]

Now Morgan had gone and done it.

That little omission would cost him dearly and the cat prince knew it, but he could not help how his balls ached into his belly at the thought of more punishment. It must have been the aphrodisiacs, damn him- surely Morgan wasn't just an absolutely unrepentant whore. Surely the prince had not been brought so low as to be a fleshy cocksleeve and nothing more. Surely he was better than that-

Except he absolutely wasn't. He was practically drooling in want, from mouth and cock alike, just begging to be used and abused by the man who had taken him in the sunflower field what felt like a lifetime ago. He cared little for the dozens of eyes upon him now, the lowly everyman witnessing the debasement of the prince at the marshal's hands. He should have been humiliated, but he could only think of the way his cheeks burned, and what fresh, sweet hell awaited him.

The final strike against his ass draws a yowl like the prince not unlike a cat in heat, causing his hips to stop dancing sensually from side to side and instead leaving his back arching, the ache in his ass almost too much to bear. Tears sting his eyes hotly, pricking at the corners of his slitted eyes, blurring his vision and tearing the breath from his lungs. He nearly whips his head around to fix a glare upon Philippe, but instead, he wills his quivering knees to steady, leans a little further against the stump that cradled him like a lover.

His breaths are tortured and he utters another, further squeal, manhandled as he is with Philippe's hand entangled in his tempestuous, dark hair, his ears pinned on either side. He's salivating, practically begging in front of everyone, his dignity be damned.

"Yes, Daddy. Please, daddy, thank you, Daddy."

 

[Sylvan Varain]

It's the general's cock's turn to drip. Spoken from anybody else's lips and they would've been an easy way to rile him, but this was several steps above 'anybody' and he was already well past the point of just simple arousal. It'd taken time and hard work, but hearing those three, successive titles leave the royal's lips made every bit of coin spent on the effort worth it. His fingers dig in deeper, pulling back at just the right moment so that when Morgan pleads for him and begs for him, he does it with an upturned neck, practically looking up at the sky with a quiet hiss as the strands in his hair are pulled at the unfortunate angle.

Bent over as he is, Philippe considers simply dropping his trousers and at least fucking the feline. He's certainly willing, back arched and ass unconsciously shoved in the air like he was ready to be bred as if he were capable of such a thing. Every noise from his liege screams consent -- more than that, need. Need for his cock, mouth, hands. . . it's a strong possibility that Morgan might just die if he doesn't continue receiving more of the same punishment he'd already been receiving. Or something else.

That 'something else' being just as eager to pound itself into the nubile, tight, willing body beneath him as it was to receive. Philippe had already experienced the tightness of the cat beneath him and decided it was better than anything Heaven had to offer; the restraining, blistering heat engulfing his cock as he pillaged the man's body and fucked away his virginity and sanity into oblivion. They'd been in a hurry then, on the run from bandits and him covered in blood still. Hell, he didn't even have time to bathe or shave.

Morgan hadn't seemed to mind.

They could take their time now though. He could, at least. As absorbed into his submission as Morgan was, Philippe had no doubt that his pet would appreciate him taking his time no matter what he said afterwards. Philippe smirked.

Once the drugs wore off and he came down from his high, the prince would have nothing but heated words and hateful looks for him. Right now the adrenaline was keeping the worst of the pain from his ass subdued, but once it passed, he'd be limping for a week. Maybe it was a good thing that Morgan would be spending the next few weeks without an orgasm, if it meant he was just that more tolerable to the real agony he was going to be in once they properly started fucking.

"Good boy," he rewards, his voice the softest it'd been. Morgan had seen the older man talk the same way to pups he was training. The grip in his hair tightens. Slightly. "For that, I'm willing to let you decide how I'm going to fuck you." In truth, he was having a hard time deciding himself, and this seemed a fine compromise. "I can fuck you as you are now, crumpled over my new favorite stump, or I can sit down and you can ride my cock, pet. Keep counting while you answer."

Counting?

The next strike isn't as cruel as the last one was, but it's close. Philippe's the type of man to open strongly and loudly, and he seems to delight in the deafening crack of his palm against Morgan's ass especially, the painful twinge in the air reminding them both of his place -- and the opening of a new set of spankings. Only, this time, he doesn't stop. With no sequence or pattern, the man alternates his heavy strikes, one, two, three on his left, and then five on the right. Two, then one. The morning sun bakes the two of them, but the marshal seems entirely focused and intent on ruining the boy's ass alone, the air littered with the deafening sounds of Philippe's conquest. Only mere moments fall between each smack, leaving Morgan just enough time to properly announce his owner's punishment and to relay his decision.

 

[Cantarella]

Good boy.

Those two words had Morgan writhing and rutting his ass backwards against Philippe, hand entangled in his wild hair and all. His tail flicked at the tip, conveying his budding annoyance as the aphrodisiacs began to wear off, but still mostly in its throes, the rest of it ran along Philippe's crotch and up his belly, sliding suggestively between his powerful thighs enticingly. In that way, Morgan was torn between his annoyance and his need to be fucked right then and there. He was bowed backwards by the hair now, spine bent at an angle that would have been painful for a human, eyes and barbed tongue lolling, panting like a bitch in heat. A tiny mewl escaped his parted, kittenish lips, and...

And he began to purr. Rather loudly, in fact, the resonance vibrating the wood of the trunk beneath him. His claws dug in fractionally to the wood as he clung to it, and yet he found himself counting still all the same. He mustn't upset Daddy, now, not when he was so close to getting what he wanted.

He recites the numbers like a dutiful student being whipped for misbehaving, rapped upon the knuckles with a ruler or swatted with a switch, but each blow only makes him aware of how painfully hard he is, of the weight of his testicles. He felt like he could explode between the pain in his ass and the roughness of the wood underneath his paws, the heat of the sun beating down upon him, and the countless eyes watching the once future king being completely debauched and ruined by someone who had at once been so beneath him.

He couldn't turn his head to see Philippe's face, but from the sudden change, he was sure that he harkened to an aroused hiss from between Philippe's lips, and, bruised as Morgan was sure to be, as scratched and ruined and innards painted white as he was about to be, a corner of his lips lifted skyward.

He had won in the most important way. He was about to get exactly what he wanted. Everything and more.

"Thirty-one- Agh, right here, Daddy- ACK! Thirty-two... Please! Thirty-three... Mm, fuck me right here, against this- AH! Thirty-four... Fucking stump. Please, just- mmph! Thirty-five! Take me right here- AH! Thirty-six! And damn the eyes of all who- who look upon us!" He continued to count, each consecutive smack upon his ass causing him to writhe and utter squeals of pain and pleasure.

 

[Sylvan Varain]

There was no way he could survive the ruining that the soldier was putting him through. They weren't even halfway to a hundred and the stinging that stemmed from his ass was shooting all the way to his heart - and cock. Three-hundred of this? Every morning. It was enough to make him faint. Or cum. If Philippe had continued with that torturously perfect grip down below, there was no doubt that the boy would've fallen off the edge rather than simply be perpetually perched on the edge just from a spanking alone.

Just where Philippe wanted him.

When Morgan's claws begin to find purchase in the wood and clawing down it, Philippe grins, but when the distinctly kitten noises erupt not a moment later, it's all he can do but resist the urge to drag on the brat's adventurous tail, surrendering the grip on Morgan's scalp of hair or to slow the momentum of his swings. It's an impossible choice. He'd made harder calls when deciding the fate of his kin in battle; now he had to decide whether or not to give up on the catharsis of hearing this royal mewling and shifting and humping his cock while begging to be fucked.

Philippe hadn't expected Morgan to give in to the absurd request of being called 'Daddy,' but he's glad he asked. He's even happier that the boy found it in himself to admit exactly where and how he'd like his second time to be. Their first time had been intimate and sensual, if rough. He was looking forward to properly rutting and fucking the feline with an audience this time rather than off in in the safety of an obscure road.

"I will," he growls, just over the sound of Morgan's purring and his hand smacking firmly against that delightfully tight ass. "I will fuck you here, slut," Ninety-nine. His hand hovers over the curvature of the royal's behind, admiring the shades against his caramel flesh. "But not before I fuck that mouth of yours."

A hundred.

Morgan's announcement of it brings a distant, embarrassing cheer from the crowd below. The sun hits the clouds in a way that makes Philippe seem otherwordly as he pulls Morgan up by his hair, that hand of his, once reserved for killing Morgan's enemies, now massaging the tender and abused flesh as he pulls Morgan straight up, his toes given a moment of rest as his heels come to rest back on the floor. Once he's straight, Philippe's hand descends, grasping onto the submissive boy's throat and clasping it. Not quite hard enough for discomfort, but it was never a good thing for a soldier's gnarled hand to be around your neck. The bottom of Philippe's board tickles the top of Morgan's head, their height put on display once more as he leans down, tilting Morgan's head to the side as he presses dry kisses on the dark skin of his neck.

Not quite as dark as his ass, but. . .

"Not now. But soon. I look forward to seeing how well you can suck a cock, Your Majesty."

 

[Cantarella]

It was a battle of wits, one that Morgan was not sure he was winning. He had bratted his way to a black-and-blue ass, with no way that he would be able to comfortably sit for some time. But every morning? The cat prince had surely bitten off more than he could chew, but with each sharp inhale the marshal took, he was sure he was one step closer to winning. And he knew exactly what he wanted his prize to be.

Philippe could feel Morgan's cock throb as he gripped him by the shaft in one hand and by the hair with the other, contorting the prince sharply backwards. Each strike now causes the prince to yowl like a prowling tom, but they both knew he was about to be mounted and fucked like a queen in heat.

He was due to whoop in celebration, the growl from Philippe's lips causing his gut to leap in triumph, but what he said afterward gave him pause even as the strikes continued. His tail, which had coiled around Philippe's leg, had been lax up until now, and it tensed as the prince thought.

It was true, he had wanted nothing more than to take Philippe into his mouth, but in truth, he had never done it before. He was more than happy to drop to his knees right fucking now and to suck til his jaw ached, but the practice of it seemed daunting. Intimidating, even.

Turned about, his spine granted reprieve and his bruised ass now massaged almost kindly, though if anything it stung all the more to have the blood risen to the flesh, for the bruises to form all the quicker, Morgan's gaze catches on Philippe's own, and his features gave it all away. Each kiss, however, caused the prince to shudder in delight, his tail curling up, his purring growing all the louder.

"Show me." He breathed, swallowing thickly through Philippe's grasp on his throat. "How to do it, I mean. Show me how. I want to please you."

 

[Sylvan Varain]

Morgan feels the man's smile against his neck and the immediate reward of a hard bite that follows it shortly after. Philippe brings the young man's skin between his teeth, his thumb and fingers tilting the boy's head away to make room while his other hand placates him with a few more tugs on his cock after departing from his well-beaten ass. Morgan's skin tastes sweet, as he expected, and he makes sure to bite down just hard enough to draw another oh so sweet noise from the brat -- he seemed eager to discover every single noise the royal was capable of. Philippe's gnawing is hard, but not as unkind as it could be, lasting just long enough for it to grow painful before he swipes his tongue across it, not too much unlike a cat himself, before pulling back to admire the sight.

All of it. The caramel-skinned feline stood in front of him, back tall, black bangs matted with sweat, ass a rainbow of colors with his palm finely printed on each cheek, panting hard and his ears fluttering as his tail grasps him hard, nearly brushing against his own still clothed cock. All of his earlier worries had left him, replaced with a new obsession of seeing just how much he could ruin the man he had between his hands.

Philippe considers ruining his throat next, or his face. Morgan certainly seems willing, and his newfound sense of submission makes his cock throb as he begs for instruction. The boy was going to be the death of him, and it promised to be an amazing death. It'd be blissful agony for both of them, if this was how Morgan planned to act each morning. He had to reward his pillow prince now.

Still. You can't forget the fundamentals.

Philippe's hand cracks against Morgan's ass once, then a third and fifth time, in quick succession.

"Remember the rules, pet."

Daddy. Right. 'Please,' and 'Thank you,' as he'd been ordered.

"Rephrase that, and once you're done, sit down on the couch." He blinks, glancing down in a rare show of hesitation and awkwardness. ". . . On a pillow."

This was unexpected. Philippe was going to show him how indeed.

 

[Cantarella]

It was the bite that very nearly sent the cat prince over the edge. Philippe's perfect teeth nipping into Morgan's dusky brown skin was so overwhelming, so delicious in that moment that it caused his cock to leap and leak once more, and his knees buckled, drawing him even closer until he was practically draped across the marshal's chest. A guttural moan passed through his lips, unbidden, unwanted. And were he not so heavily influenced by the sweet pain in his asscheeks and the promise of a good fucking, he would have been ashamed, but the prince was beyond that now. So wholly and fully beyond it, and deep in the throes of subspace. His slit pupils had gone glassy and lidded, mouth thick with saliva and soon to be filled to the brim and painted white, should he be a good boy and do exactly what Daddy asked.

He should be grateful. Grateful for each smack upon his ass that causes every nerve to come alight with pain and delectable pleasure, grateful for the minty coffee that had elicited such want within the cat prince. And he vocalizes this, the prince practically mewling "thank you, Daddy" with each strike upon his rear.

He can practically picture himself now, as he wanted to be: draped on his belly, ass in the air, tail swept to the side invitingly and looking over his shoulder, eyes glinting in the gloom. And the thought of being mounted by the larger marshal invaded every thought, conquered every wrinkle upon his membrane until it was everything to him. His hair stood on end, and his tongue lolled. He pictured himself ruined: ass a kaleidoscope of different colors, bruises and strikes in various stages of healing, aching deeply and delightfully and dripping in cum.

But first, he had a job to do, had been bidden to ask for what he wanted without mincing words, without losing the respect due Philippe by virtue of his ownership over the cat prince in that very moment.

"Daddy," he squeaked, unmanly, his throat suddenly so cotton dry. "Daddy, please, teach me how to use my mouth in a way that brings you pleasure."

The following command threw Morgan off-guard. Sit down? Were the spankings done for now? What was Philippe planning?

He does not vocalize this, but rather, his features briefly contorted, brows drawn down over fever-bright eyes, kittenish lips askew.

"Daddy?" He asks.

 

[Sylvan Varain]

'Draped,' as Morgan thought to put it, was a horrible understatement. The boy's knees were useless now except for one purpose, and though the soldier-lord looked forward to making use them as intended, he was decidedly absorbed in the moment; the prince flush against his chest, his exotic beauty a sort of beautiful bruise across his own chest as Morgan's body molded into his own, desperate for stability, for sensation. Every inch of the other's body yearned for the other; more contact, more kisses, more biting and spankings and fucking. More than anything else, Morgan's mouth hungered for his cock, a fact Philippe wasn't ignorant of, but could never know the depths of. Even that shallow understanding pleased him though, made his cock throb with that limited knowing of just how deeply the young royal wanted to please him. Worship him.

Philippe had planted his cock in the mouth and throat of plenty of whores in his past, but there wasn't a single one that came close to how much he wanted to fuck Morgan's mouth. To see him kneeling in the dirt, smiling his little impish heart away as his ears folded and bobbed on his lap, tail waving in the air giddily as he worked to earn the one reward he'd asked for this this entire morning.

As submerged as Morgan was in his own submission, Philippe was just as muddled on power. Clearly, there was nothing more intoxicating than a young beauty begging for your prick -- except for, perhaps, a man in his prime looking to dominate you completely and utterly. In that, they were made perfect for one another.

Morgan's owner shuddered with each pant he made, but they damn near shook each time Morgan referred to him so casually and yet so reverently and lovingly by that title.

He'd made a good choice in having the prince call him Daddy. God. If he had a choice in deciding the only word Morgan could say the rest of his life, that'd be it.

They share a look, Philippe towering over the other, appreciating the half-nudity, glazed over eyes, and lovely, foreign skin on display with the perfect musculature denoting health without the means to stop him from doing just about anything he wanted. Thankfully, everything he wanted was everything Morgan wanted. Including this, though Morgan didn't know it yet, his usual cleverness clearly having been abandoned in lieu of arousal.

"I've always been a hands-on teacher, haven't I?" He leads, reminding him of countless sword and riding lessons that seemed a lifetime away. How time flied. "Sucking my pet's cock myself is hardly any different . . . so long as he knows not to finish."

Lord knows the punishment for failing that one cardinal sin at a time like that.