Sale of Body. (Sylvan Varain and Cantarella.)

[Cantarella]

With the cessation of Philippe's hand crashing down on his ass, keeping a steady staccato beat, Morgan was left with a sweet, burning ache that kept tempo with his heartbeat. A continual throb that kept his head fuzzy, although he were in a dream. He was content to simply be, melded against Philippe's chest, his heartbeat strong and lively against his bruised skin. And he could glean that simply the act of smacking Morgan on the ass until he was a mewling mess, cock leaking and leaping and aching for more, elicited something in the marshal, because he was shuddering and breathless too, though Morgan was unsure if it was from anticipation or the effort of smacking Morgan so many times.

He didn't want to right himself in that saccharine moment, so content was he, but he had received an order from Daddy, one he knew better than to disobey. Morgan forced his nerveless legs into action, settling down on his bruised rear on the stump, knees wobbling the entire way. Settling on his ass was shockingly painful, enough to drag the breath from his lungs, but in the presence of that white-hot pain, he was helplessly aloft; it dragged him into wakefulness just in time to see Philippe beginning to kneel before him.

He made a soft quizzical noise in his throat, a query of "Daddy?" rising to his kittenish lips again. For once, the brat prince was a little less the mule, beholden to courtesy to the marshal. But, upon hearing of Philippe's intentions, he lets out something between a whine and a moan of want, his brilliant green eyes sparking and pupils blowing wide and predatory, feeling that knot of arousal in his belly that he wanted to unravel more than anything.

"Yes, Daddy, please, show me how. I-I promise, I won't cum..."

Pathetic, he internally admonished himself for coming apart so easily, so ruinously. For begging for something so lewd, but even still, that effected part of himself from the minty coffee rejoiced, exuberant. Some slutty little part of himself that the beverage awakened.

 

[Sylvan Varain]

Nowhere in the universe God had made was there a more perfect sight than that was splayed out before him. Morgan was an otherworldly beauty on any normal day, but it was something else entirely to watch him now, slowly unfurling his back as the muscles in his small body strained against the tension that had begun to set in after so many long minutes. When fully amast, Philippe was treated to the glorious view of his half-conquered ass, once a shade identical to the rest of his lovely shade, now transformed into so many hues of red in the form of his palm that his breath hitched.

Half-conquered only because he hadn't fucked the tight hole into submission yet unlike the rest of the royal.

Properly turned to face him, Philippe let his eyes wander, taking in the view of the now heaving, red-faced prince struggling for air as he hoists himself on top of the stump. His stump.

'God,' he thinks. 'Thank you.'

It's a ridiculous thought. God certainly had nothing to do with what they were doing this morning, but religion was the furthest thing on his mind when he had this submissive would-be whore perched on his favorite view with the sunlight hitting just the right spot behind him to make the skin of his body glow deliciously.

Maybe God did have something to do with it if even nature was allowing itself to be used to further compliment the prince.

His eyes trail lower, down to the fully risen cock he'd promised to take into his mouth, heart skipping a beat at that unrequested reminder of Morgan's permanent, unending command to never orgasm. It fills the older man with something terrible to hear his charge say such a thing out-loud, unwarranted.

"Good boy," he praises once more, moaning and laughing all at once as he comes forward, pressing their lips together once more in a sudden kiss, a hand planting itself on a high while the other cradled his spine, smoothing over it tenderly while Philippe raises one leg upwards, deepening his mouth's embrace of the full, welcoming pair of lips that would soon be wrapped around his cock.

 

[Cantarella]

Perhaps Philippe wasn't too far off in his assessment of the situation. Even if God Himself had nothing to do with the debauchery these two were taking part in, the pleasure of it was heavenly. Holy, even. And the sunburst behind Morgan, wreathing his body in incandescent light like a halo, did little to dismiss that assertion. The cat prince was almost angelic in that heated moment with his fine features, his youthful charm. Like a cherub or some other innocent, ethereal thing, ripe for corruption. And, with his ass in multicolor, he was halfway there.

Halfway, because he had not yet done what he was ordered. Halfway, because he had not yet been fully claimed as the marshal's. Bratty as the prince was, he wanted nothing more then, spurred on by the minty coffee's aphrodisiac hold on his cock and balls.

If only he were allowed release in the way he truly wanted it, but he'd take being edged over nothing at all. Especially by Philippe.

Still perched painfully on the edge of the stump, Morgan quit his wincing as soon as Philippe's lips collided with his own. His pain momentarily forgotten, he yielded beneath his touch, mouth opening for the marshal's probing tongue. The touch invigorated the pain-addled prince, and he felt himself leap and leak even more in anticipation, even if he would not reach his fulfillment. Not this time, or potentially ever, but that was a small price to pay.