Just couldn’t stand it, so I started writing right away…
As fair warning, there’s a scene that would involve a bit of blood in this chapter. I don’t go into the blood, but without wanting to give anything away for those who want to read it anyway, just be advised that the thing Bulkun promised to give Vales to help him show his devotion…might hurt a bit.
The ship erupts into commotion as the sailors all prepare to enter the harbor, but the cacophony of calls, shanties, and groaning ropes, wood, and sailors does nothing to distract you from your thoughts. You’re about to enter a foreign land and be surrounded by furs and customs you don’t know. You’re going to be paraded around, naked, and made to pleasure people you’ve never met. The thought makes you uneasy—sure, you just did that to all these sailors, but even over the course of just a few days, you feel as though you’ve found a sense of camaraderie with them. And at least you have the benefit that you’re all naked. You have to imagine that once in town, there will be people wearing clothes—at a minimum, the foreign diplomats you’re supposed to serve—and it has to be worse that way.
But no amount of worrying on your part does anything to speed or slow the ship’s progress. The land moves closer at a relentless pace, the ship closing the gap over the course of two agonizing hours. With the sailors all busy, there’s nobody for you to please, and so you sit kneeling at Bulkun’s feet and lost in thought.
There’s a sudden far-off sound of trumpets—a sound you’ve never heard before—and you look quickly over the gunwale towards the source of the noise. Hundreds—if not thousands—of people are flooding out of the city gates, streaming down the hill, and making their way to the docks.
You were right: almost all of them are wearing clothes.
“Suit up, lads,” the first mate says.
You look around behind you and gasp to see every last one of the sailors clad in a black uniform with a thick red band passing like a baldric down it. Above the red band is a thinner white one, and below the red band is a thinner green one. Turning your attention back to Bulkun, you’re shocked to see that he, too, has donned a suit of what looks like leather armor in the same colors as the crew. You gulp.
“Um, master?” you ask nervously. “I–I don’t have any clothes.”
“And none shall you wear, Vales,” Bulkun says, smiling and nodding. “It is fitting that the chieftain’s concubine should be dressed in a manner that makes it as effortless as possible for the chieftain to access what he wants.”
“But what you said about not wearing clothes to my tribe—?” you protest weakly.
“This is you resisting once again, Vales,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Put aside your humiliation and false sense of propriety. Search deep within yourself. Are you really afraid to be seen without clothes by those who wear them, or are you afraid of enjoying it?” He chuckles. “If it makes you feel better, I can have someone follow behind, giving you lashes every ten steps so that you can’t possibly enjoy yourself. Would you like that?”
You shake your head vigorously.
“Then say no more of it,” he says. “You serve the most use to me naked, I desire for the country to see you naked beside me, and that’s all that you need to know.”
At that moment, there’s a grinding noise, and several sailors leap overboard, landing smartly on the docks below. Other sailors toss heavy ropes to them, and those on dock moor the ship. A gangplank is fitted between the gunwale and the dock, and Bulkun straightens himself, checks to make sure that you are behind him, and strides down to a roar of thunderous applause. You do your best to hide as completely behind him as possible while on the gangplank, using his bulk to keep your nudity a secret as long as possible.
But as soon as he gets down to the dock, he reaches behind him and taps your hip, gesturing for you to move into position. Avoiding the eyes of the innumerable crowd, you follow him up onto a platform.
“Loyal subjects,” he booms, “I am pleased to say that our journey was a success!”
The applause starts up again. He waits for it to die down before continuing.
“I come bearing furs from the western tribes, clay vessels from the potters to the north, and breeding pairs of livestock from the gamekeepers to the south. This is indeed a prosperous day for our people!”
Another wave of applause.
“In addition, I have visited a great many new tribes, shown them the might of the Redelhorn, and made trade agreements and pacts with many. This time next year, you can expect to see great shipments of cereal grains and new spices—the likes of which you’ve never tasted before—all because I am your chieftain, you are my people, and we all deserve to have the very best this world has to offer!”
You look around and are amazed to see not only elk but many different species clapping, not in the polite way one might applaud a hunter who brought in a small kill, but in the frenzied, almost fanatical way of a people whose very way of life is reflected in the charisma and prowess of one great leader.
“And,” he says as he reaches down, grasps you by the balls, and gently pulls you over to his side, “I have brought a new concubine. I found him in one of the trapping tribes to the west. His submission is abject and his devotion is nigh-absolute; I am very pleased with him. And, I am delighted to say that he shall remain with us permanently. Through a series of events that took place at his village, he has pledged to serve me forever.”
He pushes down on your shoulder and whispers for you to pleasure him. You drop to your knees, painfully aware of how many complete strangers are watching you, and on his signal, part the flaps that conceal his malehood and take it into your mouth.
“His qualifications as a concubine are exemplary,” he says as he begins to thrust into your mouth, balancing himself by holding onto your head, “Look: see how he shows his devotion to me!”
There’s another round of applause.
Really? Applause because I get hard when sucking his dick? What a weird culture.
“And, the good news does not stop there,” he says, grunting as his orgasm approaches.
He thrusts a few more times and then fires into your mouth, pulling your face firmly into his belly while his spurts paint your mouth. You don’t fight it; the last week of breeding has made your throat and ass pliable and hard to upset. But feeling the tenderness with which he holds you to him, you feel tears come to your eyes. You close them, and the tears stream down your face as his seed runs down your throat.
“You see,” he says quietly, “He is more than a concubine.” He raises his voice again. “I am deeply pleased and humbled to say that I have taken him as my special relation.”
There’s a stunned silence, and then hysterical applause. It’s as if the whole city has won a lottery.
“Master,” you mumble around his cock, “I–I don’t understand. Why are they so excited?”
“Later, Vales, later.”
He waits for the applause to subside once more, and then his voice takes a graver tone.
“But not all was well,” he says, gesturing for you to stop pleasuring him and kneel, facing the crowd.
You release his cock and do as he bids, presenting your half-erect penis to the veritable wall of strangers. Something moves behind you, and you glance out of the corner of your eye to see Fyrodir being led up. You gasp on seeing him; his back is almost indistinguishable from ground beef; he’s received so many lashes and had so much blood clot on him that the boundaries between his matted hair and rent skin, skin and muscle have blurred.
“We had, among us, one who does not believe that all roles share the same importance. He, in spite of warnings from his fellow sailors, deigned to repeatedly insult my new concubine. And, as is well known: a slap to the face of my special relationship is a slap to the face of me. Therefore, I sentenced him to three hundred lashes and locked him in the brig.”
He turns and faces Fyrodir directly. “You have spurned my special relationship and in so doing have spurned me. Will you repent of your transgression, here, publicly before your country, or will you continue to spurn me, sticking true to your words and receive punishment for it?”
Fyrodir lifts his head slightly. “I–I apologize—”
“Speak up,” Bulkun orders. “Your country cannot judge your words if they cannot hear you.”
Fyrodir coughs and clears his throat. Then, in a louder voice, he says, “I apologize, chieftain. It was wrong of me to treat your special relation with such disdain.”
Bulkun nods in satisfaction. “Actions speak louder than words, Fyrodir. Will you demonstrate your commitment to a changed heart?”
Fyrodir’s eyes dart to you. He sets his jaw and nods. “Yes.”
Bulkun nods. “Very well. Then present yourself.”
A stone slab is brought forward, carried by half a dozen stout elk. They place it to your right, close to the edge of the platform. The guards who hold Fyrodir release him but keep careful watch as he sits and then lies on the slab. At first, he keeps his legs squeezed tightly together, but after closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he forces himself to spread them.
You look from him to Bulkun nervously. You’re not sure what’s about to happen, but since Fyrodir looked at you, you worry that you might be somehow involved without knowing it.
“Vales, as my special relation and the one whom Fyrodir’s words have harmed, do you accept his act of apology?” Bulkun asks.
You look from Fyrodir and back to Bulkun several times. “I–I don’t know what’s going on,” you say to your master. “Is something about to happen to him?”
“That’s not your concern, Velas,” Bulkun replies. “The question is whether you accept his act of apology.”
“But what is his act?” you protest.
“Do you forgive him for saying what he said to you?” Bulkun asked bluntly.
“Well, yes… I never intended for him to–to look like that!”
“The wronged has accepted the accused apology,” Bulkun proclaims. “Let the knife be brought.”
Your blood runs cold. Knife?
An elk approaches, bearing a sharp dagger. He presents it to Bulkun, who accepts it and turns to you.
“As the wronged party, you must make good on his act of apology,” he says. “Remove his testicles and free him of his aggression towards you.”
Your jaw drops. “N-no, Master, I”—your head whips towards Fryodir, lying there unbound, awaiting punishment. “Please, Master,” you say, turning back to Bulkun. “He has suffered enough. Please do not make me do this.”
Bulkun’s eyes narrow. “You resist me again, Vales,” he says thoughtfully. “What if I take him? Will that be better?”
You shake your head. “No. M–Master, please, can’t you see that the fire is gone from his eyes? Can’t you see how much he has bled? Please, for goodness’ sake, don’t hurt him anymore.”
Your master considers your words slowly and thoughtfully. “I believe you,” he says at last. “I thought that perhaps your fear of retaliation, of having to harm someone, of perhaps liking it might be driving your words, but in consideration of what you have said, I must believe that it is true compassion that drives what you say.” He nods slowly.
Turning to the crowd, he proclaims, “My special relation has begged clemency for the offender. This is testament to his worth as my special relation, whose role ought always to be to temper my righteous justice with mercy. Therefore, I will heed my special relation’s appeal.”
He turns to Fyrodir. “I hereby grant you clemency for your actions against Vales,” he says. “Go and resume your life as a free citizen. But as thanks for the sparing of your masculinity, give thanks with words and actions to my special relation, for he is your savior. Vales, stand up.”
You do as bidden. Dazed, Fyrodir sits up and turns to you. For a moment, he seems thunderstruck, and then in a rush of emotion, he moves forward, buries his muzzle in your crotch, and kisses, licks, and nuzzles at your half-erect penis and balls.
“Oh, thank you!” he says, desperately kissing your member over and over. “Thank you for sparing me!”
Your jaw opens and closes a few times, but you’re unsure of what to say or do. You look at Bulkun, who nods to the guards.
“All right, enough; your thanks have been made clear,” he says to Fyrodir, whom the guards have dragged away from you. “Now, go.”
Without hesitation, Fyrodir turns and runs off the platform, disappearing into the murmuring crowd.
Bulkun addresses his country once more. “I am glad to say that that was the only ill that befell us on the trip. With that out of the way, let us feast, my subjects, for today is a glorious day for the Redelhorn!”
Applause, cheers, and whistles deafen your ears as Bulkun concludes his speech and the rest of the sailors begin unloading the troves of precious cargo that you didn’t even know existed. Strange things like pottery and unfamiliar animals are pulled out of the hold with ropes and led or carried down the gangplank behind you while Bulkun turns to leave. You quickly get in step just behind him and to his right has he had bidden you to do while on the ship, and you make your way up the sun-bleached white-brick road into the city gates.
People throng about you on both sides. You try to ignore them as best you can, contenting yourself with the thought that they’re probably just wanting to get close to Bulkun, not you. But cries of “concubine”, “special relation”, and even the name Bulkun gave you keep filling your ears, and you can’t help turning this way and that as a new voice gets your attention. As you go, you feel people reaching out to take your hand or to pet your shoulder or your thigh. A bold few even get close enough as to reach forward and caress your penis as you walk by, shuddering at the way people so casually use your body.
The procession lasts at least an hour as everybody trudges up the paved hill. As you come to the city gates, you stare up in awe at walls so tall, you couldn’t throw a spear over them if you tried and so thick that you could lie across the top and not reach both sides. But if the gates were awesome, the city itself is stupefying. You’ve never seen buildings such as these, all packed tightly on top of each other and made of the same rocks that make up the road. There are people literally everywhere except under you: on every side and up above, there are people watching, conducting business, or just living out their lives. This is so vastly different from your village, whose total population might well be contained just in the people between you and the people to your right before the buildings start. You realize, just as you did on the ship, that you—and your village—are nothing by comparison, that if Bulkun wanted to, he could kill everyone in your village, raze the buildings to the ground, and make your whole tribe disappear without a trace.
It is a sinking feeling.
But as a flourish of trumpets announces your arrival at Bulkun’s palace, you forget everything else and just stare.
Twice as tall as the wall you thought was so tall, the front edifice of the palace seems purpose-built to make you feel small. Columns jut into the sky easily eight stories tall, gilded in gold and inset with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires that sparkle in the light, casting red, green, and blue reflections on the ground below. Atop the columns sit magnificent arches, gleaming white like pure knowledge sitting atop a foundation of opulence. The wooden doors that open as you arrive are two feet thick and span the full height of the columns by easily ten feet wide each. It must take a team of strong oxen to move each one.
You could march an army into here, you think. A thought crosses your mind, and you look back and gasp. That’s exactly what we’re doing.
Inside the palace gates, you had expected to see maybe a throne room or something like it, but it turns out you’ve only entered the palace courtyards. Majestic trees soar into the sky, and myriad birds of every color, most of which you’ve never even heard of, flit among the branches. Spring-fed waterfalls flow from opposite sides of the massive expanse, their waters joining in a lake in front of you before being split into twin rivers that flow along either side of the road you’re traveling.
Up ahead lies the palace itself. Obelisks of red and black sit to the left side, and of white and jade stand to the right, like four sentinels, each representing a pillars of virtue you have yet to discover. As for the palace, it glows with sunlight reflecting off its golden surface, dazzling and nearly blinding you. Its center is dome-shaped, and long halls extend on each side, terminating with rounded ends.
Crossing a massive stone bridge over the lake, you arrive at the mouth of the palace, for a mouth it seems. Cavernous and yawning, the opening into the palace seems to swallow Bulkun’s whole entourage into its smooth, marble interior.
A throne room? No, a massive foyer. A great, crimson carpet is spread before you with golden bands running parallel to your direction of travel. To the left and right open up vast expanses of space seemingly large enough to host half a continent. Candlesticks are everywhere: on chandeliers, on sconces, on floor-standing candelabra…there are more candle fixtures in this palace than there are people in your village.
Once again, you find yourself feeling very small and insignificant.
Twin staircases rise up from the floor in front of you, sweep outwards, and curve back inward to create a second floor catwalk that leads to who-knows-where. But you continue going forward, proceeding through the void between the staircases and into, at last, the throne room. The chieftain’s court stands at attention on either side of the room, bedecked in lavish garments that must consume half a mile of fabric to make. The colors used are bedazzling; in fact, in all your life, you have never seen some of the purples, teals, and oranges that greet your eyes now.
And before you sits the throne. For all the splendor of the palace, it is almost abject in its plainness, little more than a tall, stout, wooden chair with armrests. It is unadorned and looks shockingly out of place. But, with great pride, Bulkun ascends the stairs while the rest hang back. You hesitate, uncertain of what to do as he turns to face his subjects.
“Vales, come,” he says, beckoning.
You hasten to do as told, and he bids you to present yourself facing him at his feet to his right. This you do, turning your back to the crowd behind you. You’re glad for that, really; it’s easier not having to see how many are staring at you.
“Here you kneel before me now, Vales,” he says, “But soon, you shall join me at my side.”
You do a double-take as a round of applause reverberates through the echoing walls.
“For now, my subjects, let us feast!”
As everybody disperses to go about their business getting ready for the feast, Bulkun beckons, and you lean up so that you can hear him over the general hubbub.
“Before the feast, I want to give you something,” he says, “That way you can join me properly.”
You nod, and he beckons to a servant.
“Take Vales to get ready for the ceremony,” he says. “See to it that everything is arranged.”
The servant nods to him, nods to you to signal you to follow her, and then takes her leave of the chieftain. You bow awkwardly and follow her through a doorway to the immediate right of the chieftain. On the other side of it is an elegant hallway decked with rich tapestries and covered with a warm-feeling rug that tempers the sterile coldness of the marble. She leads you past several doors and then turns a key in one and opens it before ushering you inside.
Your jaw drops. The ceiling must be twenty feet high, and hanging down in billowing waves are tapestries and curtains of rich velvet. The floor is covered with a thick carpet. A great fireplace sits empty at one end of the room, unneeded this time of year. At the other end of the room is a large, four-poster bed with so many layers of mattresses and pillows and blankets that you think you could disappear into it and not find your way out for several days.
But the servant ignores both these things and leads you straight forward to a large basin.
“Will you please make yourself comfortable in the basin?” she asks politely.
You cock your head. “I–I’m sorry?”
“It’s for a bath, sir,” she replies.
You frown thoughtfully. You have never had a bath like this; for you, getting clean was always a matter of finding a stream and wading in. The concept of sitting in this… well… oversized bowl is very strange to you. But, not wanting to be rude, you do as she asks, climbing in and feeling awkward. Meanwhile, she goes to a table behind the basin, picks up a pitcher, and brings it to you.
“Is the temperature to your liking?” she asks.
You do a double-take. “The temperature?”
“Of the water, sir.”
You stare at her a moment, and then, not knowing anything better to do, dip your finger into the water. You smile reflexively.
“It’s perfect,” you reply.
“Very good, sir.”
With that, she inclines her head, and a half-dozen other servants join her in pouring pitchers of water onto your body. Where the water comes from, you have no idea, but the feeling of having a half-dozen showers of water cascading down you at once is exquisite.
Yet the servants have only begun. Now that your basin is about two-thirds full of water, they all reach in and begin scrubbing your fur, massaging your muscles, and rubbing your face and head. All of your fears melt away; it is impossible to remain uptight under such circumstances. A sweet but slightly astringent scent caresses your nose: it’s eucalyptus, and along with it, peppermint, tea tree oil, and lavender spices are mixed in with the water and kneaded into your fur by so many practiced hands. You close your eyes, feeling drowsy with relaxation.
A hand washing your thigh strays close to your groin, startling you awake. Before you can react, that same hand and its partner begin to scrub and stroke your sheath gently but just as thoroughly as the rest of you. You squirm at first, feeling uncomfortable having so many people—and especially females—in such contact with your private place, but they remain completely nonplussed, diligently moving from one place to the next.
By now, the water is a sordid shade of brown, and the servants, all wearing white caps and rolled-up sleeves, have turned bits of their attire brown, as well. Without any ado, one reaches between your legs to pull a stopper from the tub and then joins the rest in disrobing before you, discarding their soiled uniforms, and donning new ones from the cabinetry behind the basin. You watch all of this open-mouthed. Aren’t they worried about being in a male’s room with the doors closed? Aren’t they worried what people will think?
But with the same precision and diligence, they pour more water down your body, rinsing some of the sweet-smelling soap down the drain, and then they stopper the drain and proceed to wash you again, drawing water from a fresh set of basins delivered who-knows-how. Again they lull you into a light sleep with their full-body kneading, again they include your genitals in their attention, and again they drain the basin and change their uniforms. They repeat this process four times, until at last, the water is clear when they finish bathing you.
The one who led you into the room asks you to stand, which you do, and then the servants all proceed to use thick towels to pat you dry. One of them brings a brush and begins combing your coat out according to the direction it’s meant to go. When she’s finished, the first servant asks you to sit in a chair. As you sink against the luxurious fabric, you can’t help but marvel that anything could feel so comfortable. This is a far cry from your pallet onboard the ship!
But then the female elk take your hands and feet in theirs, and using files and strange clipping devices, proceed to trim your nails and your hooves and to massage your hands, forearms, and calves. When at last they finally finish with you, the one who brought you here holds up a mirror.
You gasp. The last time you saw your reflection, you were looking into a stream. Now, with countless years’ worth of grime removed, you look younger, visibly lighter, and almost…radiant. You look from the mirror to the servant, back and forth, speechless.
“Th–thank you!” you manage. “I—wow, thank you!”
The servants all smile, bow, and take their leave, leaving you alone in the room. The basin is gone, and wherever it drained has been covered up by carpet. Light comes into the room from behind the bed. Curious, you squeeze between the bed and the wall and move a thin veil.
Your jaw drops. Before you, glistening like a multicolored jewel on an ocean of white, is the whole city spread before you. The white sands seem to stretch out forever in one direction, and the deep blue of the sea spreads out the other way. There are no forests here, no little meandering streams into which you might gaze to see your reflection for lack of a better way. Below you are hundreds or thousands of furs of all types. Snatches of raised voices reach your ears, and you pick up on languages you’ve never heard of, let alone understand.
The door opens, and you quickly come out from behind the curtain.
“Vales, it is time,” says an aged elk with the bearing of a butler but the dress of a cleric or minister. “Come with me, please.”
He leads you out and further down the hall. You pass a great many rooms, some of whose doors are open while the staff cleans them. The views afforded by their great windows remind you constantly of the splendor of the city and of how small you are.
At last, the elk leads you to a door at the end of the long hallway. It leads immediately to an unadorned, winding staircase that seems to spiral downward forever. Following the elk’s lead, you begin descending into a cooler and darker part of the palace. The only light comes from sconces inset into the plain, white stones at about eye level. You reach the bottom of the stairs and follow another stone path through a stone corridor about ten feet wide and maybe ten feet tall. It opens into a large chamber, where Bulkun is already standing, awaiting your arrival. On hearing your hoofbeats, he turns, runs his hand through his hair—he has been bathed, too, it seems—and then clasps his hands behind his back. He is nervous, it seems, fidgety. You cock your head uncertainly, and he just smiles and sighs. You are standing on a round, raised, stone platform maybe twenty feet in diameter. All around the platform is a short fall into black water. The path you took to get to the platform bisects it, passing straight through. Aside from a small podium on which sits a wooden tray containing several disparate objects—a curved needle, some sort of thin, hollow tube, what looks like a smooth pair of pliers, and a white cloth—there is nothing here but you, Bulkun, and the elk who led you here.
Instinctively, you kneel before Bulkun, and both he and the minister take note, nodding satisfaction. Then, with a nod from Bulkun, the minister begins.
“Chieftain and concubine, at opposing ends of the ladder of power you stand, and yet here, in this place, will you be joined as one. The pleasure and pain of one become that of the other. To bear testament to this union, let the ring be produced.”
He turns to Bulkun, who nods solemnly and hands something to the minister. The minister holds it up, and you’re surprised to see that it is a ring, just as he said. Silver, unadorned, and oddly toroidal, it doesn’t look like any wedding band you’ve ever seen. You can’t tell for certain, but you think it might be a little big for your finger, too. But, that doesn’t seem to matter. The minister examines it minutely and nods his satisfaction.
“A fine ring, thick and heavy,” he says, looking at you and nodding as he says, “A fitting testimony to the heaviness of the burden this union places on you both. Do you,”—he turns back to Bulkun—”chieftain of the Redelhorn and admiral of the sea, take this concubine as your special relation, to command and protect him always?”
“I do,” Bulkun says, his voice choking with emotion.
“And do you, Vales of the Hvithale tribe, take this chieftain to be your master, to demonstrate to him your submission and devotion always?”
You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. You try again. “A–are we getting married?”
Bulkun smiles faintly. “No, Vales,” he says. “Marriage can be divorced or annulled. What we are doing, is permanent. You have sworn your fealty to me already,” he says. “This makes it official.”
You nod slowly. It all feels so…final. Yet as frightening as that sounds, there is also something comforting in it. Your penis slips from your sheath.
“I’m sorry,” you say—Bulkun starts—”But would you repeat the question, please?”
Bulkun sighs in relief.
Does he think I’m going to back out now? you wonder.
“Certainly,” the minister replies. “Do you, Vales of the Hvithale tribe, take this chieftain to be your master, and to demonstrate your submission and devotion to him always?”
You swallow hard. The minister is right; this is…heavy. You take a deep breath. Bulkun watches you anxiously.
“I do,” you say, nodding.
Bulkun sighs again, and the minister nods, satisfied. “Then, with this ring, I commit you to your humble life of servitude. May it provide you always with the means to show your devotion and to remind you eternally of the submission you have demonstrated.”
He nods to Bulkun, who kneels beside you, and the minister kneels on your other side. Uncertain of what is to come, you look to Bulkun for guidance. He responds by reaching down and stroking your partially erect penis. You gasp and let your hips spread a little wider, giving him better access. This is the strangest marriage ceremony you’ve ever experienced—the ring never even went on your finger, and you didn’t have to provide a ring at all—but if this means you might finally get to get off, well…it can’t be so bad, can it?
Bulkun continues to stroke you, and you feel yourself slide further out of your sheath. It’s strange, having him pleasuring you for a change. You can’t help but wonder what this will mean for the future. The idea of him taking you while also getting you off makes you fully erect, and precum drools liberally down your shaft and over his fingers.
“His submission is strong, but his devotion is unprecedented,” the minister murmurs. “That will suffice. You may hold him.”
You start. Hold me?
Bulkun positions himself, leaning over and into you, and grasps your penis firmly just above your sheath. Something suddenly feels very different.
“Uh, Bulkun? Wh–what’s happening?” you ask worriedly.
“I promised that I would give you a way to show your devotion more easily, Vales,” he says through gritted teeth. “This is that way.”
You don’t understand why he seems tense, but his being tense makes you feel tense, too.
“Cover your eyes, Vales,” he says. “It will all be over soon.”
“All be over? What do you mean?”
You look at the minister, who has taken down the tray. In one hand, he holds the tube. In the other, the needle.
“Look away, I say, Vales,” Bulkun says firmly. “I order you as your master; you would not disobey me, would you?”
The needle, the tube, Bulkun holding your dick in a vice-grip. Your pupils constrict.
“N–no, master, please! I–I’ll show you my devotion every day—every day, I promise!”
“It is too late, Vales,” Bulkun replies. “You have made the oath, and now you must complete the action that affirms it. I’m sorry, Vales, but not even your pleas can make me set aside tradition. Fates willing, may this be the worst day of your life.”
With that, he shoves his elbow hard into your chest, knocking you backwards and pinning you down. Your legs, still bent at the knees, complain at the unnatural position while thrusting your penis up into the hands of danger. You feel another hand grasp your cock.
“Wait,” Bulkun says.
The minister pauses. From your position, you can see his face but not what is going on.
“Vales,” Bulkun says, “There is no shame in screaming. If you feel the need, you have my permission.”
Then he nods, and the minister leans forward. You feel something long and slender push against your urethra and slide inside. You grit your teeth and let out a whimper as it pushes roughly down your sensitive piss-slit, your fists writhing and your hips coming off the ground in discomfort. It stops about a quarter of the way down your length.
“Will this be enough, my lord?” the minister asks.
Bulkun shakes his head. “No, let his devotion show more than that. It is fitting for him.”
The minister nods, and the awful tube pushes deeper into your dick.
“Like that, my lord?” the minister asks with the tube about a third of the way down your length.
“Yes. Yes, that will suffice,” Bulkun replies gravely.
“Yes, my lord.”
You feel yourself sweating all over, and whatever arousal you felt before, it’s completely gone now. Yet because of Bulkun’s death-grip on your penis, it is unable to retreat into the safety of your sheath. You don’t know what’s going to happen next, but you begin trembling on remembering that the minister held a needle in his other hand. You don’t even want to ask what purpose it will serve.
You don’t have to. A searing, pinching pain shoots through your penis, radiating outward impossibly fast. You let out a groan, which becomes a wail, which becomes a scream as the pain refuses to relent.
“Keep him still, my lord,” the minister says urgently.
Your eyes feel like they’re going to bug out of your head; your penis feels like it’s been cleaved with a hot sword. Your scream rises in pitch.
Abruptly, the intense pain stops, and you’re left with a dull ache. The minister sits back, panting, and wipes his brow with his forearm.
“That’s the first one,” he says. “And now the other.”
You scream again as the pain resumes, feeling as though it’s in the same place. Your voice goes hoarse, and tears stream from your eyes.
The pain stops.
“Don’t let go yet, my lord,” the minister says. “Three more steps.”
You feel the tube shoved up your dick being pulled out and wince, shivering all over. Then a sharp pain in your dick makes you yelp shrilly. You feel something cold against your dick, then a fleeting pain, then cold inside your dick, then another fleeting pain, and then, weight, as though someone added a lead weight to your penis.
“And now to make it permanent,” the minister says.
You feel a light tug on your penis. It’s uncomfortable but not quite painful. Then there’s a click. Then another. Then another. Then several more. The tug relaxes and then resumes, and you hear several more clicks.
“It is done, my lord,” the minister says. “You may let go.”
“Vales?” Bulkun says, “Are you all right?”
You nod, exhausted, panting, and sweating.
“Come, sit up and see.”
He helps you up, and you gasp. The ring that you thought was too big for your finger has now been hooped through your penis in the same orientation as a Prince Albert, but a third of the way down your shaft. Tears fall from your eyes again.
“Why, Master, why?” you sob, looking at your injured penis and the large, heavy burden it now carries.
“This is why, Vales,” Bulkun replies gravely.
He finally lets go of your dick, and without any arousal to keep it erect, it retreats swiftly back into your sheath. But as the ring encounters your sheath, it catches, making you scream once more as the momentum yanks against the ring and your tender flesh. You cannot breathe or speak. You can only feel that constant pull, that constant feeling of being torn. With jerking, anguished motions, you reach down to grasp your sheath. Bulkun lets you, and you gingerly pull it back, easing the tension on the ring and your penis.
“Now, your devotion will always be visible, Vales,” Bulkun says somberly, nodding with satisfaction. “You will be a fine concubine and a wonderful special relation.”
The only response you can give is a feeble moan.
“Take him to my chambers,” Bulkun says to the minister. “Get some servants to help you. I had hoped to have him present for the feast today, but I don’t think he will be ready.”
“My lord, it is tradition for the concubine to be presented at the feast,” the minister replies. “I’m sorry, but I cannot abide your order.”
Bulkun sighs, looking legitimately aggrieved at the pain he’s caused you. “Very well,” he says. “He shall be present, but give him something to ease the pain.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The minister disappears, leaving you resting in Bulkun’s arms, still grasping your sheath to keep it from pulling on your ring.
“I’m sorry, Vales. I would make this go away if I could, but even as chieftain, I am bound by tradition.”
“Why did you even suggest it?” you hiss. “Why bring it up and lead me to think it was something I should do if it was just going to leave me miserable?”
“You think too short-term, Vales. It is miserable now, yes, but once the minister returns, you will feel fine. After a few days, it will not hurt at all, and then you will never have to worry about showing your devotion again.”
He looks at you, pain etched on your face, your hand tense as it holds your sheath.
“Let go of your sheath, Vales,” he says.
You shake your head. “N-no, Master; it hurts too badly.”
“The pain will subside. Release your sheath. Endure the pain for a few moments before the minister gets back. It will help you in the long run, I promise.”
He rests his hand on yours and gently but firmly pulls your hand away. Your sheath slides up to the ring and begins pulling on it. You hiss and squeeze your eyes closed, but his fingers interlace with yours, and you feel him holding your hand.
“Breathe, Vales,” he says. “It will be all right. Just breathe.”
You take a breath, you chin quivering and your dick aching.
“That’s right. Embrace that pain, Vales. Think of how much it means to me, your master, to have you feel this way. Feel the weight of that ring I have gotten you. Know that that weight will always be yours to bear from now on—and yours alone. I do not wish for anyone else to be by my side, Vales, only you. And seeing you bear that weight, that burden, fills me with such unimaginable pride.”
And he says my tribe is backwards, you think bitterly.
The minister arrives at last and places a few drops of something bitter on your tongue. Within seconds, the pain has gone. The minister and Bulkun help you to your feet, and then the three of you proceed back up to the throne room.
The sound of applause welcomes you back to the throne room. The chieftain leaves you standing in front of everybody as he addresses the crowd.
“My subjects, today is better still! Vales has taken the oath and now bears his burden. You are all witness to this most historic day!”
There’s a wave of applause.
“And look at how devoted he is! See how even after such a painful ordeal, he can still demonstrate such fealty!”
Oh, come on! I can’t even retract my dick. This is cheating! I—
Looking down, you gasp to find that you’re fully erect. The weighted ring drags your penis downward, making it jut straight out, but it is fully erect nonetheless.
“To Vales!” the crowd echoes.
The feast begins, and you are put into a smaller version of the chieftain’s throne beside him. He insists that you keep your legs spread, showing off your devotion the whole time. The feast itself is extravagant, with more roasted boars, plucked pheasants, wild turkeys, and roasted chickens than you have ever seen in your life served just as the first course, followed by innumerable vegetables, pastries, pastas, fruits, and delicacies from all over the world. You eat very little, your hunger held at bay by the exhausting ordeal you just experienced. As the feast continues, a nearly endless stream of visitors to the chieftain proceeds before you. Each pays his or her respects to Bulkun, congratulates you both on your oath, and compliments your devotion. Some comment, too, on what a fine specimen you are or how the king has such good taste in concubines. While these might be genuinely intended to be compliments, they all just seem to rub in the helplessness of your situation. What a roller coaster this has been: groped in the street to bathed by a half-dozen servants to pierced against your will and now enduring the platitudes of the court! It seems as though the feast will never end, and you will have no end to the number of comments on how erect your limp dick looks since it can’t retreat properly.
But, around midnight, the feast does finally come to an end. The chieftain takes you with him to his room and shuts the door behind him.
“On your belly, Vales,” he says huskily, not waiting a moment. “I have wanted you so very badly today.”
“On–on my belly?” you ask weakly. “But, the ring—?”
“It is no matter, Vales. The pain will subside with time, but for now, you must do your conjugal duty and earn that ring you wear.”
I’d gladly give it up—if I could. The thought takes you aback. Is that how fickle I’ve become, how undependable? Does my word mean nothing if I’m already trying to break an everlasting oath I took only hours ago?
You sigh. You didn’t realize you’d be pierced, just like you didn’t realize you’d be serving the whole crew on the ship. It seems unfair to you to commit to something when new rules get added after you do. Still, you do want to do the right thing. You do want to please your master. You just…wish it didn’t have to be so painful.
Crawling up onto the bed, you cautiously lie down, careful not to slide your dick against the sheets.
Bulkun crawls up on top of you, and you feel his heat between your buttocks.
“Ah, Vales,” he says huskily, “I have wanted this so badly all day. Lift your ass up for me.”
You cautiously do as told, and he slides in gently and effortlessly.
“You’ve been practicing tightening up,” he says, the pleasure evident in his voice.
“This pleases me very much.”
He begins to slowly and methodically stroke, savoring the feel of your ass around him. While you’re able to anticipate most of his strokes, one occasionally catches you off-guard, and your dick slips against the sheets. Each time, you let out a soft whimper, and squeeze your ass closed the stimulation feeling painful on your over-exposed glans. This happens several times before Bulkun acknowledges it.
“Fear not, Vales,” he says as he strokes in once more while simultaneously mouthing and gently biting your neck, “In time, your penis will grow calloused, your sensitivity will diminish, and it won’t hurt anymore. Best of all, you will no longer be able to pleasure yourself. That distraction will go away, and you’ll be able to focus solely on the pleasure that I and others give to you. Won’t that be nice?”
You sigh miserably. “Honestly, Master, no,” you reply. Bulkun pauses a moment and then begins stroking again.
“Why is that?” he asks.
“Well, sir, I–I like being able to pleasure myself. It—it’s emasculating to be completely dependent on someone else for everything, especially when that even includes my own sexual gratification!”
Bulkun chuckles and presses the tip of his penis against your prostate. You moan in spite of yourself, whimpering with lust that you’re not allowed to satisfy.
“You feel helpless, do you, Vales?” he asks, drinking in the sounds of your frustration.
“You wish to cum?”
“That feels like a loaded question, sir. Anytime I agree to what seems like a good idea, something terrible happens.”
“Oh?” Bulkun asks, intrigued as he thrusts into you again, again deliberately grazing over your prostate as long as he can without breaking stride. “Do tell.”
“I agreed to accept Fyrodir’s apology, and you made me castrate him! I agreed to do this…ritual, and you put a giant ring in my dick! That was just today; should I go on…sir?”
Bulkun laughs. “You’re completely wrong, Vales! I did not make you castrate him; you convinced me to give him clemency, which spoke well of you and of me to the entire country. So, that was a net positive. And I did not put a ring in your penis; the minister did. You complain about it now, Vales, but I assure you, you will come to appreciate it, just as you will come to appreciate your life here. Think larger picture, and things don’t seem so bleak.”
You sigh. “So, what’s the ‘big picture’ with me wanting to cum?” you ask pointedly.
“Ah, ha, now you’re beginning to ask the right questions, Vales. But I don’t desire to answer you. Whether you want to cum or not, I wish for you to cum. You will submit to my desires, won’t you?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No. Well, yes, but no.”
“Well, you always have a choice, even if the choice is death, murder, or some other drastic, horrible thing. But, shall we say, comfortable and non-fatal choices…no, not really, no. If you refused me, I would make you cum by force.”
“Wait, what? How can you—never mind, I don’t want to know.”
“Oh, but now I wish for you to know.”
“Let’s have the pleasant one first.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so; roll over and face me.”
He pulls out and kneels, giving you just enough space to roll over. The moment your back is once again on the bed, he slides up between your legs and pushes up into your ass, lifting your butt off the bed a little bit.
“I love how much devotion you naturally show,” he says, reaching down to dip his finger into the pool of precum on your chest.
He begins thrusting again, his eyes gazing down at you.
“Look at me, Vales,” he says gently, but with quiet resolve.
You hesitate. You don’t want to disobey, but at the same time…
“I–I can’t, master,” you admit.
“Can’t look up? Why not?” His tone is amused.
You glance up at him but avoid eye contact. “The…the closeness. It’s just…” You huff, flustered. “Master, I already feel so vulnerable and helpless, and this, my inner thoughts—they’re all I have left. When I look into your eyes, I feel as though you’re looking into all of that, looking through me. I–I just can’t stand that feeling!”
“Try, Vales,” he says. “Even for just a second, try.”
You bite your lip. Why won’t he just let me have this—this one thing?
But he’s still watching you, still waiting for you to obey him. Reluctantly, you take a deep breath and let your eyes meet his. He looks back at you, his gaze piercing, yet… Tender. Non-judgmental. Even…loving? You shake your head and look away. He chuckles.
“Was that so bad?” he asks, thrusting up against your prostate and rubbing it a few times.
Your eyes roll back in your head, and you let out a plaintive moan, your cock drooling. He shifts his focus to your drooling, pierced member and smiles, running his fingers along the bottom of the shaft, avoiding the ring, and starting back up on the other side. You close your eyes, basking in the sensation. His fingers wrap around your girth, and he strokes slowly down as he thrusts in, then reverses. Your hips rise off his lap, your back arching with desire.
“Vales,” he says, pausing.
You start and open your eyes. “Hmm?”
“Was it so terrible to look in my eyes?” he asks.
You swallow. “I–in a way, Master. It’s hard to explain.”
“Well, it just…when I look into your eyes, I see so many different things, but some of them make me uncomfortable.”
He does a double-take. “You see something in my eyes?” he asks.
“What are they, Vales?”
“I’ll decide that.”
“Master, when I look in your eyes, I think you love me,” you blurt, your face reddening.
He frowns. “And that makes you uncomfortable?” he asks.
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Because… Be–because, I…” You huff, feeling trapped.
“Take your time, Vales. We have all night.”
Easy for him to say; I can’t even begin to figure out how to say that I don’t believe he could love me. I–oh…
“I… Master, I don’t believe you can love me.”
“Oh?” he asks, intrigued. “And why is that, Vales? Am I some horrible person, incapable of love?”
You shake your head hesitantly. “N–no. It’s just…how can you go from being so kind and compassionate to running a ring through my dick? How can you make me feel safe and cared-for one moment and like I’m nothing but a concubine the next? I—Master, I don’t know how to feel. You—you’re always so sure of yourself. I want to be sure of myself, but ever since I met you, I feel like…nothing. I think about how insignificant I am in comparison to your ship, let alone to this palace, this city, your empire! I think about how effortlessly you could wipe my family—my whole tribe—off the face of the planet, and it—it scares me!
“I feel helpless on so many levels right now: for myself, I’m in a foreign country with a master who controls every aspect of my life, right down to when I masturbate, where I look when we have sex, and whether my genitals will remain intact. The culture here is so vastly different from home; I feel lost, like I’m drowning at sea, without even the slightest familiar custom to cling to.
“Yet I fear more for my tribe—they may have exiled me, but I love them anyway, and they are home, backwards or not. They—they don’t realize the danger they’re in. They don’t know about this place, about the…the impossible might you have. We—my tribe and I—have warred with other tribes, but it was always evenly matched. With you, it…it’s like a mouse taking on a horse. My people are defenseless by contrast.
“Master, I—before the day you came, I never felt helpless a day in my life. I have fought bears and won. I have conquered buffalo by myself. I have engaged in countless debates with schoolmates and elders alike, and never once have I felt like I couldn’t win. I haven’t won every debate, but at least it felt like I had a chance. But with you…”
You trail off and look away, tears running down your cheeks.
Bulkun frowns, lost in thought for some time. His penis rests inside you, neither thrusting nor pulling back.
“You are despairing, Vales,” he says at last, sighing. “You think there is no hope at all, that I will inevitably move to crush your tribe, that you will forever have your independence stifled and crushed beneath my foot.”
You swallow and nod.
“Well, Vales, I have good news, and I have bad news.”
You gasp and look at him, terrified of what he will say.
“The good news is, I have no desire to crush your tribe. They are safe. And, I will go one step further since even though you haven’t expressed it, I know you are thinking it: there is almost nothing you can do, Vales, that would change my mind about that. You being rebellious or frustrating will not make me take it out on your tribe. They are responsible for your upbringing, but you are responsible for your actions. The only thing that would cause me to attack your tribe would be if they declared war on me first.” He runs his finger down the side of your face. “And surely you must know that they are not so stupid as to do that.”
You nod, feeling somewhat relieved, but still dreading the bad news.
“The bad news is, Vales, that yes, I will crush your independence, bit by bit, until you are completely captive and bound to me. A special relationship, Vales, demands that I do. How else are you to become an extension of my arm? How else am I to become the rock upon which you stand? Yes, I will pierce you to symbolize our union and to give you a permanent, constant reminder that you have a duty to perform, just as I have. Yes, I will force you to be open with your feelings, as you are doing now, because while I desire to be your rock, I cannot do that if I don’t know that there is a layer of sand under you that must be washed away before you can attain solid ground. Yes, I will push you, take away your control until you are completely unable to do anything but present your ass or mouth to me or to anybody I choose, because only by taking away all of your control can I set you completely free. You don’t understand that, Vales; I know you don’t, so I’ll try to explain. You hesitate with every action you take. A mental monologue is always playing in your mind: should I? Shouldn’t I? Will Master approve? Will the Matriarch? Will my parents? What if I don’t want to? Should I do it anyway, even if it’s against my principles? On and on and on it goes, Vales! It’s a wonder you can even breathe without contemplating the morality of doing so! By taking away your ability to choose, by dictating little thing you do, I am working to silence that incessant monologue. I am striving to allow you to exist without fear of letting someone down. But to do that, I have to break you first. One day, Vales, I will tell you to present yourself for the use of some prime minister, president, or chieftain, and there won’t be a question in your mind as to whether that’s what you should do. You won’t feel any humiliation over being “used”. You’ll feel only satisfaction at being useful and pride at being good at your job. That, Vales, is what I want for you: a world free of second-guessing and misplaced, overbearing shame.”
He pulls out abruptly and strides across the room.
“Come, Vales,” he says. “I want you to see this.”
You hesitate; he just threw so much at you all at once…
“Vales! Now!” he barks.
You jump, yelping as your dick slaps your leg, and go to him. He stands in front of a mirror, and as you come over, he points at your reflection.
“What do you see, Vales?” he asks. “Name the first thing.”
You glance at your reflection. Strange how you felt so good at seeing it earlier and how bad it feels now.
“A has-been,” you say.
“A has-been…what?” he asks.
“Warrior. Scholar. Upstanding member of the Hvithale tribe.”
“That’s all in the past now, Vales,” he replies. “Do you know what I see?”
You venture an inquisitive glance at him.
“I see a buck. Strong”—he puts his hand on your bicep—”loyal”—he moves to your chest—”with a beautiful coat”. He stands slightly behind you and lets his hands caress your sides from your shoulders to your hips. “I see a proud, strong penis that shows such exquisite devotion to me.” He leans over slightly to cup your balls and grasp your shaft affectionately. “I see my special relation—someone I care deeply enough about to claim”—his hand grasps your ring, holding you very still—”but who is struggling in his transition.” He lets go of your ring and returns his hands to your shoulders. “I want to help him, Vales. I want him to realize that when he doesn’t believe that I can love him, it’s not because he thinks I am incapable of love but because he doesn’t believe he deserves to be loved.”
You gasp. In saying what you thought you saw in his soul, you inadvertently gave away what was in yours.
And he noticed.
You shudder, a little at first, and then violently.
“No!” you cry, jerking backwards and yelping in pain as your dick once more slaps into you. “You cannot get into my head, too!”
He does a double-take. “Vales?”
“My name is not Vales! My name is—is…”
Your eyes widen, and you look at him wildly, panic-stricken.
“What is my name?”
He regards you a moment, then steps forward, wraps his arms around you, and pulls you into him.
“Your name is ‘Vales’,” he says, “And you have worth. You are my special relation. You are my concubine. I am proud of you for both of those things. You have a beautiful body, a kind heart, and a good head. But Vales, you have been hurt. Your head is good, but the things that are in it…are not. They hurt you, Vales, and when you hurt, I hurt. I don’t want to hurt. Do you?”
Tears run freely down your cheeks. You don’t remember being hurt, but his words feel painfully true. When did you come to feel so ashamed of everything you do? When did you come to feel humiliation for everything?
When did you come to believe you couldn’t be loved?
The feast. Your parents covering their faces as Bulkun fucks you. The Matriarch and the tribe turning their backs on you. You swallow. That’s it: that’s when you started feeling ashamed.
But…wait… No. When the Matriarch made you present yourself to her, that was when you started feeling ashamed. But…why? What about that moment made you feel ashamed when nobody else did? Or did they? It doesn’t matter whether they did or not. You did.
You gasp and look at Bulkun, who has his head cocked curiously.
“There’s that internal monologue, Vales,” he says, hugging you close. “Give it a rest for tonight; you will have plenty of time to sort yourself out. In fact, I make it my priority to get you sorted out. But for tonight, I want you to cum of your own free will, and then I want to demonstrate how I can force you to do it. And Vales…”
You look at him curiously.
“I want you to look me in the eye as much as you can stand. If it gets uncomfortable, look away, but then I want you to look again. I want you to see the value I place in you, and as we work, I want you to eventually claim that worth for yourself. Now, go lie on the bed, face-up.”
You retake your old positions, and the first thing he does after pressing into you is tell you to look at him. The care, compassion, and love for you comes back. You cringe and look away. He continues to thrust into you and then tells you to look again. As you do, he thrusts into you once more. You shiver, withering under his gaze, but you can’t seem to pull your eyes away. Intense emotion wells up inside of you, and you feel tears come to your eyes again.
“That’s it, Vales,” he says, lifting your head with one hand, stroking your penis with the other, and thrusting into you.
His thrusts become more insistent, and his gaze becomes all the more caring, so kind that it makes your heart ache to see it.
Yet at that very moment, he thrusts one last time, and his hand grazes over your ring. Instead of wincing, you close your eyes, your lips part, and you feel your testes contract. Your first orgasm is painful: the intimacy and connection feel stifling despite their warmth, and the ring partially blocks your urethra, making your cum back up inside of you as it dribbles feebly out of your prick.
Only then do you realize that he is cumming with you, that every squeeze of your anus on him milks out another spurt. He lowers himself onto you, and the two of you bask in the afterglow.
“Well done, Vales,” he says after a while, rousing himself. “But you know that essence is precious.”
He runs his fingers over your fur, collecting what few congealed blobs he can.
“Open your mouth, Vales.”
He presses his finger to your lips, you part them, and he slides inside. His finger presses against your tongue, and you instinctively reach forward to caress his finger, to lap around both sides, to transfer your cum from him to you.
“Mm, well done, Vales,” he murmurs, smiling. “You really are a natural.”
You shrug and smile helplessly.
“But I want you to cum again.”
You gasp. “Now?!”
“But—but I just—”
“Don’t protest, Vales. Just…for once, trust me, all right? I promise, I will neither give you more than you can handle nor demand more than you can give.”
You nod uncertainly, and he has you get into a strange position, leaning against him with your butt in the air and your head on a pillow. The awkward position has your dick dangling down towards your face; the weight of the ring tugs it downward and feels eerily pleasant.
“What a cute ass,” he says, making you do a double-take. “I have spent all my time with you right-side up, and it occurs to me that I’ve never actually seen your tailhole before. I think I’m going to enjoy this even more than I’d planned!”
He brings his nose down to you and mouths one of your testes. You shudder and gasp, not expecting him to touch there. He grins, his tongue trailing down your perineum, circling your anus, and then pressing against it. You cringe. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s an odd sensation having something so wet, firm but not hard, and dexterous pressing against your entrance. With a gasp, you feel him press inside and then shiver as his tongue slides inside, sending goosebumps up your back. Your hips buck involuntarily, making him chuckle.
“I thought you might enjoy that,” he says, pulling his tongue from you a moment before plunging back in.
You’re amazed how long his tongue is; he strokes it in a little bit, pulls out a little, strokes in deeper, pulls out a little bit, and he just seems to keep getting deeper and deeper, far deeper than you thought he should be able to go. His tongue rubs against the walls of your rectum, probing and fishing for something. As he slides up the side where your belly is, you feel him pass over your prostate; you let out a moan. He grins, and his tongue hones in on the spot, stroking, tapping, and circling your prostate, making your hands ball into fists and your back arch with confused pleasure. Having something up your ass isn’t supposed to feel this good, but it does! You begin to feel light-headed and antsy, unable to stop squirming around as his tongue constantly torments your sensitive spot over and over again.
“Cum, Vales,” he says without taking his tongue out of you.
You whimper, feeling a strange warmth that feels like getting off but not quite the same. Something wet drips onto your face. You open your eyes and do a double-take at seeing your dick drooling milky fluid. You’re stunned. Without even touching your dick, your master has made you cum!
“Don’t waste it!” he protests, and you quickly move to get underneath your dick just in time for it to drip another milky blob right into your mouth.
Suddenly it makes sense why he has you in this strange position.
Another drop of cum lands in your mouth. You whimper, your body going rigid from the prolonged sensation of intense orgasm as the drips from your cock become almost a slow, continuous stream of milky fluid that splatters into your mouth and tastes just like cum. Your eyes squeeze closed, and your hips begin grinding against his tongue, the sensation in your ass getting almost painful from overstimulation. Your whimper becomes a groan, intensifies into a moan, and then into a soft cry. Your body shakes and convulses, and the stream of prostatic fluid trickles, dribbles, and then stops. Only then does Bulkun pull his tongue from your ass and grin.
“I told you you would cum,” he says.
You nod, babbling incoherently as he lowers your body, moving you to one side of the bed to make room for himself.
“Sleep well, Vales,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and spooning. “And welcome to Redelhorn.”