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Cloud Candy is available on Createspace (paperback), Amazon (paperback), and Kindle (digital file).
This is my third novel, still self-published because I'm still poor and independent. Though it deals with darker issues (slavery, fascism, etc.), the mood is much light; the main character is an unreliable narrator: a puppy bred for sex with a limited view of the world. He quickly meets pirates who teach him better, but he's still a slow learner. The majority of the book is this puppy learning to fit in with Robin-Hood-type pirates, and, naturally, falling in love. It's fairly easy reading; short chapters; just under 80k. Abbeyjewel was a wonderful beta to me, with early help from SpesAbrin, so tremendous thanks there. ♥
Below is a short preview. You can ask me any questions or comments on my blog, yeaka.tumblr.com. Bonus content can be found here. Thank you to everyone who’s ever been nice about any of my stories. Someday I would like to really be a writer and be able to afford just writing both fanfiction and original stories all day. I wouldn't have that dream without you. :)
Warnings + tags (for full book): Rape, dystopian setting, slavery, angst, anal sex, oral sex, hand jobs, 69, double penetration, spanking, dominance/submission, puppy play, collars, leashes.
Chapter 1 (preview)
“Pumpkins are just the worst, don’t you think?”
Adien lifts his head, peering over the crimson pillow to where Jenni’s lying, staring blankly up at the ceiling. On the off chance there’re pumpkins on the ceiling, he follows her gaze. But it’s the same polished latticework he’s used to, high above them. Deciding she’s just being odd, (cats often are, or at least, he thinks so) he tells her, “I can think of a lot of things worse than pumpkins.” He stretches his arms and toes out, yawning.
Jenni rolls her eyes. Her tail flicks in irritation. She’s sharing the same throw rug as him, but her pillows are a random assortment of deep colours; Adien just hoards red. “Well, obviously. I meant of food.”
“I can still think of a lot worse things.”
“Well, you’re just a puppy; you wouldn’t know.” She rolls over on her side, as though that’s that. He stares at her bare back for a few seconds, then rolls over himself. He tries to tune out the rest of the general chatter in the room and let the lavender incense carry him away. The sun’s high through the tall, glassless windows, but there’s nothing better to do here sometimes than sleep through the day.
It’s no good, though. She’s ruined him. Adien sits up with a minor huff, trying vainly to rearrange his pillows. A quick glance around the large, lengthy room shows that all the lounges are taken, except for one in the corner that Alice is sitting next to, but she’s always trouble. The floor will have to do. Maybe if he drags his pillows directly behind one of the pillars, he’ll be out of the light enough to drift off again.
His stomach growls as soon as he gets to his bare feet. Maybe he should get something to eat. But then, when he squints out the window, he can see snow on the far mountains. It’ll probably be cold in the kitchens; the rest of the castle isn’t kept as warm as the harem room, where slaves are barely clothed. Adien glances down at his tight shorts, clinging and frayed around the tops of his thighs. That and the collar, the only things he has, won’t hold up well in the cold open halls. He should maybe wait until later when all the fires are lit.
There are bowls of fruit on various gold-rimmed tables around the room, and Adien wanders over to the nearest one. Pears are his favourite. He could go for a pumpkin, since that’s now on his brain, but that sort of thing would need to be requested, and slaves don’t just request food without being asked first. Adien settles for a particularly ripe-looking pear and trails back to his pillow-nest, munching on the way. The sweet juice trickles down his arm as he eats, forcing him to stop and lick it off a few times, his salty skin not the best combination. He sucks his fingers as he goes, and several dozen bites later, he’s left with an inedible core. The garbage is in the adjacent bathing room, and he’ll need the sink in there anyway.
Adien winds his way through the various other slaves in the room and steps into the open bathing room. It's smaller and blue-themed instead of brown and gold. He dumps the core and washes off his hands.
He bathed this morning, but maybe he’ll do it again just to pass the time. He’ll probably be here until tomorrow—the prince is still out on a hunting trip, and that gives Adien nowhere to be but with other slaves. He has to keep himself in good shape just in case, of course—the prince could always come back early. It wouldn’t be unheard of.
Leaning over the marble sink to peer into the mirror, Adien tries to finger-comb down his wild orange-red hair. It’s getting a bit long—still not enough for a ponytail, but a few strands do keep falling into his green eyes. He tries, in particular, to smooth out the mess around his brown ears, silky and floppy—puppy ears. At least they cover parts of his head on bad hair days. More helpful than cat ears, anyway. His matching tail flicks behind him, shaggier still. He thinks he looks mostly all right, and when he pulls back, Nathan’s in the doorway.
“You’ve been summoned,” is all he says.
Adien’s head tilts to the side. “By whom?”
“How should I know? Maybe the prince is back.” He shudders for affect, and Adien frowns, knowing the feeling. He wouldn’t dare show it, though; with his luck, it’d get back to his master.
Just in case, Adien takes a final glance at the mirror. Nathan tells him, “Unless you’re going to scrub your freckles off, I don’t think there’s much you can do.” Adien nods. If it’s important enough to be dressed up, he’ll be dressed up elsewhere. This room isn’t for fashion.
Outside the bathing room, Nathan trails back over to a colourful collection of pillows—back to lazing around. Adien checks around the open space as he crosses it, but no one else seems to be headed out. There’s a nondescript guard in the doorway dressed in the usual uptight, silver uniform—Garon, is it? Adien’s not as familiar with all their names. They don’t talk to him much. That's not all that uncommon, however. The prince is notoriously ill-tempered when it comes to sharing his toys.
When Adien reaches him, the guard gestures out the open doors, and Adien follows him out, automatically falling a step behind. That way he can cross his arms for warmth without looking like he’s giving attitude. At least, assuming the guard doesn’t look back at him. He doesn’t. The halls are busy today; various servants and nobles rush by as Adien follows the guard’s brisk pace to the stairs at the end. When a dozen minutes have passed and nothing’s been said, Adien risks asking quietly, “Where am I going?”
“Prince Tremik’s chambers,” the guard grunts without looking at him.
Adien frowns. He knows the fastest way between the harem room and the prince’s chambers, and this isn’t it. But the guard, a stony gargoyle, doesn’t seem like someone Adien should pick a fight with, so he keeps quiet. It wouldn’t be the first time he knew more about basic castle functions than someone higher up than him. Once they come down another flight of stairs and cross a broad hallway with stain glass windows all along the right side, he gets more of a picture of what route they’re taking. Longer, but it’ll do.
The prince’s quarters are at the top of a high turret, and the tall, twisted staircase to them is really something Adien could climb himself. The guard grabs his arm anyway and drags him up it, and Adien has to be careful not to bump into the guard’s folded wings. Gargoyles are too rough. And frosty. The stone floor’s cold under his feet, and the sunshine through the various windows they pass isn’t quite enough to counteract that and the guard’s claws around his wrist. At the top of the staircase, he’s shoved through an open door. Adien just barely manages to avoid stumbling to his knees. He whirls around with flushed cheeks and half a mind to complain, but the guard’s already gone, pointed tail slithering out of sight. The door shuts.
So Adien harrumphs to himself, gets up, and brushes himself off. At least the prince’s chambers are adorned in a thick, green and gold-trimmed rug. The ornate curtains and clutter of elegant furniture pack in a little more heat. Still, it’d be nicer with a shirt.
If the prince is back early, which he must be, a shirt wouldn’t last long anyway. Adien pads over to the large canopy bed and takes a seat on the black lounge at the foot of it, perched on folded legs. He puts his hands on his knees and waits, glancing about for signs of life.
Most of it is all perfectly in order, just where it was set by cleaning slaves. Nothing’s broken; the curtains don’t have any tears and there are no ceramic shards on the floor from shattered vases—if the prince is here, it hasn’t been for long enough for one of his customary rages. Adien peers curiously at the writing desk in the corner—the parchment atop it looks like it bears writing. Must’ve been used by the prince, then. No one else would dare use it, not in this room. He sits up a little straighter, prepared.
It’s maybe five minutes before the main door bursts open again, so fast and loud that it smashes against the wall and bounces back. Adien’s head whips around. Prince Tremik doesn’t spare him a glance, just walks straight through, the door slamming itself shut behind him. His dark, leathery wings are half unveiled, just short of scraping the ceiling, spiked tail trailing across the carpet. His scales and horns shimmer under the light of the high sun and lit chandelier, yellow eyes glinting like gold. As a dragon, sometimes it looks like he’s going to snort fire when he breathes. He marches straight across to the dresser, letting his black silk outer robes tumble from his shoulders. They’re tossed across the mahogany chair. He turns to Adien, down to his formal suit, sleek black hair brushing his broad shoulders. Adien’s shoulders hunch on instinct, but he doesn’t speak until spoken to.
Tremik eyes him up and down. It’s a sweeping look. Adien knows he hasn’t changed at all. A crooked smirk winds its way onto Tremik’s thin lips, and he drawls, “Did you miss me, pet?” His voice is as smoky and deep as Adien remembers; it makes him shiver.
“Of course, Your Highness.” Adien’s feels lighter and smaller by comparison. All of him feels smaller. He missed the nice chambers and the preferential treatment, but maybe not so much the company and the temper. He doesn’t show this; he’s long gotten over speaking full answers to his master; it’s better to simply do his duty. He keeps his head half hung as a sign of respect and tries not to show any resignation: just readiness.
Tremik snickers. There’s a good chance he knows that Adien’s half-lying, and he simply doesn’t care. It’s a small blessing. When a few more seconds of silence pass, Adien risks a peek up through his bangs. He licks his lips and asks sweetly, “Is... is there anything I can do for you, master...?” He’s still just being looked at.
Tremik finally sighs: “I think we’ll have to fix you up for tonight.”
“Tonight?” Adien’s eyebrows knit together in confusion.
“For the banquet.” Tremik’s smirk grows, and Adien catches himself in time to stop his face from showing any reaction. That’s rarely good. Good food and music, yes, but it comes with a price. “You’ll need some better clothes and a bit of ruffling up—you don’t look well used enough.” Of course not; no one else dares use the prince’s main consort, even when that prince is gone. Adien bites his lower lip and nods, looking at the floor. He breathes a tiny sigh.
Tremik starts to stroll towards him, and Adien unfurls into his usual state of being: ready for the taking.
Chapter 2 (preview)
Tremik’s bed is the largest in the palace, or at least, the largest Adien’s seen. Perhaps the king and queen’s is bigger. When Tremik lies down, his great wings span out behind him, curved up to encase the bed in a warmth and darkness unlike any other. The curtains are drawn and the lights are mostly low, a few candles lit here and there about the room, not for ambience but because Tremik has a thing for fire. Adien crawls forward onto the foot of the bed, his tail perking up with the heat.
Tremik doesn’t tell him what to do, but Adien can guess. He’ll be ordered to deviate if need be. He moves to straddle Tremik’s legs, looking down and appreciative. Tremik doesn’t look at his face so much as his body, but that’s alright. Adien’s at least glad that his master, though scaly and tinted green, is handsome in a sharp, hard sort of way. It’s enough. Adien puts his hands flat on Tremik’s broad chest, and he leans down to place a brief kiss to Tremik’s collarbone. He doesn’t go for the lips if he doesn’t have to. It’s one of the few things they have in common.
The suit Tremik wears today is purple-black silk satin, expensive under Adien’s fingertips. He’s careful with the ornate trim, fingers setting to work on the silver buttons down the front while his lips trace along Tremik’s neck. Tremik shifts suddenly, and Adien lifts up a few centimeters, waiting for the body below to settle back down. Tremik reaches both his hands behind his head like a pillow, looking particularly luxurious. Adien ignores the posture and lazy ‘you-do-all-the-work’ smirk and goes back to what he’s doing.
There are a dozen buttons to go through, tight but not difficult. As Adien makes his way down, he follows with his mouth, worshiping each new patch of skin he reveals. The dark green hue makes it look almost iridescent in the covered candlelight. The room becomes steadily hotter, humid around him, but the surface of Tremik’s skin is cold like metal. It’s a standard Adien’s used to. He has a vague idea of what it’s like to be with someone softer, safer, from when he’s been made to put on a show with other slaves, but this is how he’s used to being taken. Tremik’s all hard muscles, a chiseled stomach with well-defined lines. Adien swipes his tongue into Tremik’s belly button when he gets there, having to shuffle lower down the prince’s body to reach. His hands begin to push the fabric away, down around Tremik’s sides.
At the last button, Adien nuzzles in for a firm kiss, all of Tremik’s torso exposed. Adien glances up before he goes any further; Tremik’s still languidly smirking. Adien keeps his eyes up, and he unbuckles Tremik’s pants without looking at his hands. As soon as they’re open, he pushes them down a few centimeters and kisses his way there, straight down to the hairless, scaled cock that bounces out to meet him. It hits him in the chin, hard enough to bruise.
Adien stifles his whine and shifts to the side, kissing the base. Tremik’s cock is a fair size, bigger than Adien’s, straighter and ridged, plated like armour. Adien doesn’t have to hold it in place while he licks all around it; it’s sturdy against the side of his face. He runs his tongue over Tremik’s balls and circles around to the shaft, starting at the bottom. It tastes sort of salty and a little sour, mostly bland but faintly metallic. It isn’t unpleasant, but it’s worse than pumpkins.
Adien doesn’t default to blowjobs unless it’s ordered—they’re rarely enough to satiate his master. He still does the basics, however. He prepares himself every morning, just in case, and he has all the best tools to do so, knows how to relax, knows to keep moist, but it doesn’t hurt to wet the cock he’ll ride, too. He licks away at it now, moving up and down the shaft and kissing the underside and suckling on the bulbous tip once or twice, fervent and careful. He’s going to add as much saliva as he can before he has to stop. The third time he locks his lips around the head, a single bead of sticky precum slips into his mouth, and that’s when he knows he has to move on.
Adien gives one last lick before he goes, and he watches Tremik’s face as he sits back up, ready to fall back down if needed. Tremik lifts an eyebrow—something that could mean that he’s being too slow. Feeling his cheeks flush, Adien lifts onto his knees, crawling over Tremik’s crotch. His tail stays up in the air, out of the way.
If he’d known his master was coming, he would’ve worn something more easy-access, maybe with a hole in the back. But he didn’t, so he has to unbutton his shorts and push them down his thighs, sure he’s testing the seams. It wouldn’t be the first time he lost clothes to these chambers. It helps that there’s not much fabric to pull aside; they’re thin and ride low.
“Did anyone fuck you while I was gone?” Tremik asks suddenly, and Adien’s mouth twists. He never knows what to say to that. Sometimes Tremik calls him a slut, other times Tremik’s possessive. Should he entertain his prince with a slew of lewd stories or pose as an angel?
He’s reaching behind himself to find his own hole, knowing full well he can’t spare the time to check that he’s stretched enough. The conversation at least buys him a few seconds. He spreads his cheeks apart with two fingers and rubs along his entrance with his middle one. He settles on the truth: “I let another slave kiss me.” He winces when he pushes his finger inside. There’s still a bit of lube from earlier, but it’s not much. “That was it, Your Highness.”
“Pity,” Tremik snorts. He shifts his knee up; it nudges against Adien’s ass and arm in a sign to be quicker. “No one even jerked off on you?” Adien shakes his head.
“All yours, master.” He smiles in what he hopes is an endearing way. He’s pushing his finger higher, worming it up.
It reaches as far as it can, knuckle deep, and Adien wriggles it around, licking his lips in concentration. Does he have time for two fingers?
Tremik half sits up on one elbow and grabs Adien’s arm, yanking it away. His finger’s dragged out of him, and it causes a little whine. He nods obediently. Yes, he’ll get on with it. Tremik settles back to his former position, with crossed arms behind his head. “Come on—I haven’t got all night.”
Adien needs both hands to do this. One reaches back to hold Tremik’s cock in place, the other reaches under himself to keep his shorts out of the way. He should’ve taken them off. He lowers himself down, wincing on instinct as soon as he feels the spongy head at his puckered hole. Then he wills himself to relax, lets it pop inside, gasps and forces himself not to clench. Tremik’s not the biggest Adien’s ever seen, but he’s still big. Adien has to pause at the first breach, licking his lips and closing his eyes. He sinks down slowly, bit by bit.
Tremik, as he so often does, grabs Adien’s hips and shoves him down fast enough to earn a scream, half surprise and half pain. Adien’s filled in an instant, Tremik’s cock stabbing mercilessly into him. His tight channel convulses in response, not ready. His head tosses back, mouth open. He tries to relax, tries to unwind, but he doesn’t have enough time to adjust. He can take it; he knows he can—he’s sure he’s not bleeding. It’s just... rough.
Then he’s picked up like he weighs nothing and shoved down again, and he gets lucky with the angle. His next scream has a twinge of pleasure; he can feel the hard cock inside him nudging against that special bundle of nerves that makes his vision blur. His mouth falls wider, tongue sticking out to pant, head hanging, and he moves up with Tremik’s hands. He can do this. He needs to stay in control so he can keep that angle. He gets halfway off Tremik’s cock and drops all his weight down, groaning when he’s impaled. He can feel every little ridge. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to see Tremik’s sharp-toothed grin. Tremik’s calloused fingers slip away from Adien’s slender hips, passing off the duty.
Adien takes a breath. In a way, he might’ve missed this. It was only a week—he’s not that out of practice.
He settles for a quick pace, picking himself up with his trembling thighs and stiff arms, hands on Tremik’s taut stomach. As soon as he falls down, he pushes up again, groaning but not leaving time to appreciate feeling full. Up and down he goes, bouncing on Tremik’s cock, steady and rhythmic. Like riding a trotting horse. If that horse had a dildo attached to the saddle. Adien tries not to laugh to himself, but the next thrust crushes the thought out of his head. It’s a strange mix of pleasure-pain, and he focuses in on the hot coiling in his stomach and the soreness in his rear. His thighs start to tremble and he’s glad he doesn’t have more clothing; those wings trap in all the heat. Several dozen bounces in and Adien’s sweating, never once slowing his hips.
He only looks up at Tremik’s face once, just to make sure he’s doing okay, and Tremik’s eyes are half-lidded and hazy, the golden shine dulled. Adien hangs his head again and keeps going, up and down, up and down, fucking himself hard on his master’s cock.
He thinks he might be getting close—but a weak little puppy could never hope to have as much stamina as a dragon—when Tremik darts upwards. He shoves Adien straight over, one clawed hand grabbing at his ass, and Adien squeals in surprise as he’s knocked onto his back, the cock buried deep inside him jerking to a different angle. He has no time to register what’s going on until he’s been climbed on top of, his legs in the air to either side of Tremik’s body. Those giant wings are now looming over him, and Tremik casts a shadow all over Adien’s world.
“You’re too slow,” Tremik hisses, but it’s with a crude smile, nothing dangerous.
Adien tries to pant, “S-sorry, Your H—” but he breaks off into a gasp at the next thrust inside. Tremik takes control easily, and suddenly Adien’s being fucked relentlessly into the mattress. His wrists are even grabbed and pinned down, as though he’d ever dare defy his master and try to move. He’s bent at an odd, awkward angle, knees almost to his shoulders, but he has no choice but to ride with it, find the best in it. His own cock is now sandwiched tightly between his body and Tremik’s, still clothed. He knows better than to ask if it can come out. He’ll come in his pants anyway. Sometimes he thinks he won’t, won’t be embarrassed like that, but then he always gets to the middle of fucking and doesn’t have the brainpower to see the logic in that idea—he’s getting fucked stupid, and he’d like to come.
And then that’s over, and he’s being pulled out of with a sick, wet squelching sound that leaves him groaning. His legs stay uselessly in the air as Tremik pulls back, reaching for Adien’s side. Tremik nudges him over, and Adien listens, obediently rolling over onto his stomach. He’s painfully pulled up by his tail, raised on his knees, and he gets on all fours just before he’s taken again, Tremik’s cock shoving right back inside him like it never left. Adien can’t help but cry out; this new position makes it go even deeper, if possible; it certainly feels that way. He feels impossibly full, and he tries not to whimper when he’s pulled half out of. It slams in; he screams.
There’s a snicker behind him, and it’s all downhill from there, a sudden avalanche of hard thrusts that make his arms and thighs tremble with the effort of holding him up. His whole ass is going to be sore tomorrow, he just knows, his channel from being used so harshly and his cheeks from being slapped by Tremik’s scaly thighs on each push. Tremik’s rough hands run down his back in between wild, harried thrusts, so much faster and more powerful than Adien could’ve done, and his sides and his waist and his hips are clawed at. Nothing breaks the skin, but he’ll have bruises tomorrow, and he’s held in place for the first dozen times he’s pounded into. His cock is bulging in its confines, desperately wanting out, but he knows better.
When one hand locks around the back of his neck, Adien knows what’s coming; he turns his face just in time. He’s slammed down into the bed, arms giving way beneath him but ass still held high in the air, still being plundered. His hands make fists in the sheets and he concentrates on breathing, alternating between screams and moans for each thrust.
The final thrust for him is just like any other, one rough slam in a sea of what feels like hundreds, and he can’t take it anymore. His toes curl and his vision slides out of focus, eyes slamming shut, pleasure rippling all down his spine. He bursts inside his shorts, the sticky mess that pours out having nowhere to go but around him, clinging and gluing the fabric to his skin. Adien doesn’t dare reach down and touch himself, doesn’t dare milk out his orgasm. He just writhes and moans while he’s still being fucked, high and hazy-headed. For a moment, everything is blank and good.
Then he’s coming down, and there’s no rest for his weary hips. His climax is thoroughly ignored. He’s still being taken without pause, and he’s now too much of a satiated, panting mess to be much more than a toy. He’s limp and held up solely by his master’s hands and cock. He loses track of time quickly, gets lost in a sea of endless sex.
It takes him by surprise when it boils to an end. The fingers in his hips dig in harder, and Adien yelps in response, gasping when he’s abruptly filled with something hot and slick. Tremik stops thrusting in favour of grinding it in, and Adien makes an odd crooning sound, voice nearly hoarse. He tries to be still, but he can’t help squirming anyway. It doesn’t feel like there’s room in there for cum, and he tries to relax himself enough to accommodate the flood. Tremik keeps grinding, continues spurting. It feels like it takes forever, and Adien buries his face in the mattress to stifle his displeasured noises.
Eventually, he’s set free. Tremik’s spent cock pulls out of him, cum trailing after it, trickling out Adien’s hole and down the tops of his thighs, catching in his shorts. He’s going to have to change those. The stench of sex is heavy in the air, and Adien can’t imagine how he ever thought this room was cold. It’s too hot; he’s sweating everywhere, and he feels like he might melt.
The bed creaks. It takes considerable effort to move his head enough to glance to his side; Tremik’s climbing off. Adien wants to drop his hips and just lie down, but he doesn’t know if he should, so he stays in his position. Tremik’s eyeing him with a sort of feral hunger that makes a shiver run down Adien’s spine. Then Tremik turns and heads for the adjoining bathroom. Adien wasn’t summoned, so he doesn’t follow.
He waits about five minute after he hears the shower run, and then he finally collapses, still trying to catch his breath, and it’s uncomfortably wet all over his bottom. His ass is still hanging out, but he doesn’t bother correcting that. He’s just grateful he was left on the bed instead of the floor. It’s more comfortable than what he’s used to—definitely something he’s missed.
Sometimes he washes his master, but if they have a ceremony to go to, there won’t be time for that. Adien stretches out on his front to spare his sore ass, and he eventually returns to being cold. He slips into a vague half-sleep, waiting. Maybe half an hour later, the door opens and two slaves trail in, rabbits, each carrying a stack of material. They ignore Adien, and he ignores them. One kneels down beside the bathroom door, and the other trails off through another door on the far side of the room. It’s attached to more of Tremik’s sprawling, multi-story chambers. They’re both wearing more clothes, befitting their station.
When Tremik comes out, one of the rabbits dresses him in a lavish set of black-and-silver robes, painted like thorns from the bottom up. The second rabbit comes in to help, and then Tremik’s pushing them away none too gently, and they bow their way out without a word. Adien pushes himself up, feeling heavy and dizzy. Tremik eyes him, then strolls over to a tall set of drawers.
Tremik has a few drawers just for things he likes to see on his slaves, Adien knows, and he’s tossed a short black slave skirt that he just barely catches. He waits for more, but other than a long, metal chain, that’s all. Tremik wanders back, and Adien immediately slips off the bed.
He’d change himself if told, of course, but instead, Tremik jerks his shorts down, his spent cock bouncing free, cum still all over him. There is no cleaning up—he’ll have to do that when he’s released. He steps into the skirt he’s offered, and Tremik tugs it up, snug around his waist. It isn’t much longer than his shorts were, but it does look fancier, makes him feel more important, even if just a little. Tremik loops a claw under his chin and lifts it up; the chain’s clipped to his collar like a leash, more for show than anything.
Then it’s off to the banquet, Adien trailing submissively behind his master.
Chapter 3 (preview)
The banquet is in the honour of some visiting dignitary ‘donating’ a sizable amount to the royal family. Adien, having talked to the always-unhappy royal treasurer’s assistant once or twice, knows that ‘donations’ are usually more semi-forced offerings made to counteract the royal family’s wrath. The surrounding nobles look as much: scared or scary. There are several rows of long tables in the expansive hall, the ceiling endlessly high above and the walls lined with electric lights and flickering candles and fresh flowers. A band is playing a loud ensemble from the far corner, drinks are being poured, and there’s a general raucous in the air that makes it very difficult to hear more than the immediate conversation. Servants are circulating with more drinks and extra food, other slaves at their masters’ feet.Adien’s at his. Right now, he can’t see much over the top of the white-covered table in front of him. He’s sitting at Tremik’s left, the king and queen on the other side. They’re chatting quietly about the new statue they’re having built in the square outside the castle and how they’ll allocate these new funds to it. Adien doesn’t take much interest; he’s rarely allowed out anyway, and when he is, it’s usually just to get fucked in the gardens.
The current song ends and another starts up. There’s a general round of cheering—entertainment must be arriving. It’s most likely dancers, slaves or ‘hired’ performers, sometimes a mix of both. Sometimes it’s more: live combat or the taming of a beast. But there are no sounds of heavy animals or clashing swords, so dancers are what Adien assumes. The rowdy comments and whistles lend themselves well to that theory.
Part of him wants to lift up on his knees and peer over the tabletop. He knows he’s lucky, in a way, that his master is of a high enough rank for him to have access to such grand events. Lifting up might take some of the edge off his cold legs, too—the stone below is polished, swept, and smooth, but not that far from ice. On the other hand, he’s not too keen on drawing attention to himself. He’s been a slave long enough to not be bothered by public displays, but he still doesn’t like to be shared.
His master is rigid and cruel, but at least from Tremik, Adien knows what to expect. With a new person to please, anything could happen. With a relatively cushy life—for a slave, anyway—Adien’s not a risk taker. He stays on his knees and shifts closer to Tremik’s chair. He tries to lean on the dark mahogany legs without his head bumping Tremik’s arm. Tremik’s tail is curled to the other side, wings folded at his back. Adien’s bushy tail is over his legs, trying to cover and warm them up. It doesn’t work.
Tremik’s elbow taps Adien’s head by accident, hands busy over food, and he glances down thoughtfully, as though he’d forgotten Adien was there. Adien smiles in hope, and Tremik grins back, reaching down to pet him.
“Hungry?” Tremik’s voice is a little slurred from wine
Definitely. Adien bites his lip and nods.
Tremik glances back about the table, and his hand drops with a half bun in it, cut open and buttered. Pleased with the choice, (though he’d act like he was even if he wasn’t) Adien tilts his head and takes a small bite. He eats the bun out of his master’s hand and licks Tremik’s fingers clean after.
Then a chunk of hair at the back of his head is grabbed, and he’s yanked abruptly to his feet, made to stumble to keep balance. He blushes furiously on instinct, hoping no one saw that. He should be more poised. The chained leash slithers more out of the pile in Tremik’s lap, eventually attached to the sash around Tremik’s waist. Adien doesn’t look up. He can see the dancers’ feet on the center table in his peripherals; hopefully everyone’s too caught up in the entertainment to notice one slave’s clumsiness.
Adien’s pulled by his hips into Tremik’s lap, legs slipping to either side and tail flattened against Tremik’s chest: facing outwards. Honestly, Adien would rather face him, but he isn’t given that choice. It’s a good thing the table block the view of his lap; with his thighs spread like this, his skirt doesn’t offer much coverage.
Adien doesn’t have to be told what to do—a few slaves about the room are already pleasing their masters. Drinks are everywhere, the general speech and glass-clinking din almost as loud as the music. He’s picking his hips up to start when Tremik growls next to his ear, “Put on a good show for me, pet.” Adien nods. He knows.
The beat is something erratic and fast, something the dancers, in their flowing sheer purple silk, seem to have no trouble adjusting to. It takes Adien a little longer. He leans his shoulders back against Tremik’s body and sways his hips along with the difficult rhythm, rocking back and forth, tail subconsciously trying to flick behind him but without sufficient room. His hands reach behind himself, steadying himself on Tremik’s thighs. As he moves, he can feel the bulge growing beneath him, almost sharp against his sore ass. He grinds into that spot anyway, determined to be good.
The song around him passes slowly. Adien moves to it, never stopping, and Tremik drinks once or twice around him, not bothering with any more food. The table's lined with elegant dishes Adien would love to taste, but he knows better than to touch any of it. He does his duty. Once he gets used to it, lost in the second-nature feeling of dancing, he starts to look more around the hall. There’s a mouse servicing a fat boar two tables down, his off-white tusks almost puncturing holes in her large ears as he holds her back against him. Shivering in response, Adien has to admit that he has a somewhat lucky post. He spots Alice with the guard from earlier at the end of his own table, his thick tail wrapped around her waist and holding her in while she feeds him grapes. Adien recognizes most of the slaves, but he doesn’t know all of them.
He makes a keening sound when the music hitches, his voice high enough for no one but Tremik to hear it, the hunger getting to him. He bucks back extra hard, and Tremik, chuckling, strokes his thigh. “Want something, slave?”
Adien looks pointedly at the table. He’s rewarded with a few slices of apple, one at a time. Then his waist is held firmly down and he’s made to grind harder, earning his keep. This goes on for a few more songs, until Queen Tremula, a silver-green snake with fangs to rival even the king’s, hisses sideways at her son, “Don’t play with your toys at the dinner table all night, dear.”
Her gold, slit eyes flick over to Adien, and Adien hurriedly looks away. Sometimes just looking at the king and queen makes him shiver. King Artemik isn’t as clear as to his being, but most just call him a devil.
Even Tremik doesn’t mess with the king, and he grumbles and pushes Adien off before his father becomes involved. Adien hurriedly sinks to the floor, curling back up like before. He’s ignored for a good long while, and he sort of wishes the tables didn’t have tablecloths so he could at least have legs and feet to look at. Maybe he could catch the eyes of other slaves between them, and that would be something to do.
At least the music’s pleasant. At least he’s fed. He doesn’t know any better, and though he sometimes hates his position, he tries not to think of that. There’s not much better it could be; slaves don’t go up. There is no up. There’s further down, and if Adien lets himself crack under the weight like others before him, he’ll be tossed to the guards to play with. He closes his eyes and leans against his master’s chair, trying to think warm, happier thoughts.
Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to be a prince. He’s so very far from one, but it’s still fun to play dress-up in his head. He wouldn’t need grand quarters, but he’d definitely have something with a bed and curtains. Maybe even a door he could close. He’d eat good food every day. He’d wear more clothes, and he’d probably never wear a collar.
He wouldn’t have slaves. He probably wouldn’t even need one.
Maybe he’d find a cute guard to have sex with, another dog, maybe a soft woman or a man with kind eyes.
He almost ends up nodding off, shaken back to life by a tug on his collar much later, when the sun’s almost gone and the noise has become more of a dull simmer. He’s shifted underneath the table, under the cloth, and he’s settled between Tremik’s legs.
He sucks his master off with a tired sort of efficiency, the moans above swallowed with wine.
Chapter 4 (preview)
Adien’s banished from the hall early, told to bathe and be back before the end of the evening. It seems strange to him that the royal family does the important, secure business at the end of the night when most of them are drunk and tired, but then, he supposes there isn’t much negotiating to be done. He doesn’t stay to question. He sits still while his leash is removed, and his ass is smacked on his way out.
The hallways are now down to dim light, the few electric lamps off and flickering candles lit: better for the mood. It makes everything rimmed in a dull orange. It’s colder now, and Adien makes his way back to the harem room at a brisk pace, brisker after Alice races past him. Nathan catches up to him at one point, coming from down another corridor. He asks, “There was a ceremony?” while they both jog side by side.
“Yes.” There isn’t much more to say to that. They slow as they pass a guard, a fierce looking tiger. Then they pick up speed again, when they’re alone; it helps to keep warm.
“Was it fun?”
Adien just snorts. He supposes it must seem fun to those who serve lower masters, but it really isn’t. He shrugs and settles on, “There was music.”
“My master has a music box,” Nathan cuts in suddenly. He loves music, and Adien does like it, so it seemed the best choice to point out. “She has ten songs on it now and says she can put on more. I don’t understand how it works, but don’t you think that’s neat?”
Of course it is. “Do you get to play it?”
“Not without her, no, but she puts it on during sex sometimes. It makes me feel funny.”
Adien waits for an indication of whether that’s good or bad, but one doesn’t come. They’ve reached their destination anyway, and Nathan automatically veers off towards a table of vegetables in the corner. Adien carries on to the back, passing a towel-clad Jenni in the doorway. He passes the row of sinks and toilets, down to the back wall where the round tubs are lined up, six occupied and four empty. Adien picks the one on the end and turns the tap, vaguely wishing he could do this in Tremik’s bathroom—it has temperature controls. Adien has to settle for the vaguely lukewarm setting he gets. He’s worked up a bit of sweat from jogging, but that’ll all come off, too. There’s a hodgepodge of soap bars on the thin ledge above the taps. Adien picks a scentless blue one.
If the water were hotter, Adien could probably fall asleep in a tub—take his time and relax, unwind. With the way it is, it’s more of a necessity: something he does because he has to if he wants to remain favoured. The end of his tail hangs over the rim of the bath, and he doesn’t wash his hair or ears; he’ll do that on a day when he’s not meant to be somewhere else immediately after.
There’s no telling how long the banquet will continue, but Adien errs on the side of caution. His healthy dose of fear is probably one of the reasons he found his way into the prince’s bed in the first place: it keeps him well-behaved. He washes with a quick efficiency, paying special attention to his rear and front, and he rubs an extra layer or two off the bar after as a courtesy to other slaves. Then it’s a general sort of rinsing and splashing, and then he’s climbing out, padding over to the towels hung along the wall. He leaves a trail of small puddles in his wake that’ll eventually trickle down the slightly slanted floor to the interspersed drains. He shakes his tail out and runs the towel everywhere else, and he slips back into his skirt. It’s chillier now that he’s damp.
He runs again, even though it might work up another sweat, and he reaches the banquet hall with, apparently, a few minutes to spare. He stands outside with the waiting cleaning slaves, and a moment later the doors open, music dwindling out. Lesser patrons leave first. Adien waits for the royal family. He averts his eyes when King Artemik passes: a nervous habit he’ll probably never be rid of. He’s not the only slave that looks away.
He’s grabbed by the scruff of his neck before he’s straightened out again, and he recognizes the feel of his master’s claws. He’s dragged down the hall with the faux-procession, up the marble staircase lining the wall, and at the top, Tremik bids his parents a formal goodnight. They return the wishes, and Tremik splits off, Adien in tow. He could walk himself, of course, but he’s dragged by his hair for most of it. He’s let go of near the base of Tremik’s tower, and then he follows of his own accord, rubbing the back of his neck and hurrying to keep up with Tremik’s long strides.
Dragons hold their liquor well. Tremik’s gate is faultlessly steady, and at the foot of his quarters, he turns, looking perfectly sober with only slightly dull eyes. He tells Adien with a fat smirk, “You could’ve done better.”
Adien’s tail wilts immediately. He struggles not to show it on his face. He didn’t think he did anything wrong, but he’s certainly not about to argue.
Tremik throws the doors open and tosses Adien through them—Adien stumbles across the carpet. He hears the doors lock and stays where he is, pulled to the bed a
moment later. Tremik tugs him around to the side, sits down, and pats his lap. When Adien hesitates, unsure of what that means in this context, Tremik purrs, “Well, don’t you think you deserve a spanking?”
No. But Adien hurries to nod, and he shimmies out of his skirt again. He steps out of the leftover pile and puts one knee on the bed, but Tremik's hands lift to his neck, forcing him to stall.
His collar’s unclasped and removed—something no slave is allowed to do. Adien’s neck feels naked without it, more so than the rest of him. His cheeks grow a little hot with the worry of what that means. It’ll be put back on later, he’s sure—it’s the mark of his station. For now, it’s tossed to the floor, and Tremik chuckles, “There. You’ve been demoted to a mutt until you’ve pleased me enough to be my pet again.” Adien settles, nodding. He can do that.
He’s grabbed by his throat so hard that he nearly chokes, and the next second he’s being thrown across Tremik’s lap. His face just barely misses the mattress, and his bare cock slams into Tremik’s hard legs, stiff and uncomfortable. It aches. The bed’s nicer, and Adien squirms to try and get a better fit, freezing as soon as he’s pulled more into place. He’s mostly hanging over the edge, toes steadying on the ground, hands doing the same. It occurs to him that he might not have done anything wrong at all; sometimes Tremik just makes excuses to ‘punish’ him.
Spankings are more for Tremik’s benefit than Adien’s. Adien never learns lessons from these, other than to keep his ass elevated after each hit. He doesn’t think about what he’s done wrong now—he just clears his mind and waits for the first blow. His tail’s pushed aside, hanging limply over Tremik’s legs.
There’s no paddle, no whip today. The first slap is just with familiar scales, something that stings more than the instruments. Adien grits his teeth and stifles his yelp. He isn’t told to count them out, so he doesn’t. Tremik’s fingers linger too long, squeezing one cheek afterwards. At the right angle, those scales or claws could easily cut Adien open. That won’t happen if he hasn’t really misbehaved, though.
Instead, he’s slapped bluntly, sooner than Adien expected. He makes a sharp whining noise beyond his control, mirrored on the next slap to his other cheek. Tremik begins to alternate between them, hard and fast with no warning and an uneven rhythm that makes Adien uneasy. Each slap stings worse than the last one, until he’s sure his ass must be entirely red, his flesh feeling raw and pained. He tries to keep himself steady on the floor. His tail gives a small jerk with each hit, his breath hitching, and his whines dissolve into whimpers before long. He tries not to squirm, tries to behave, but it’s so hard to stay still when he knows the next blow is always coming. His thighs start to tremble and his eyes start to water, but he squeezes them shut and refuses to cry. He hates being fucked while he’s crying, and that’s probably where this is headed. It often is. It’s too hard to keep track when all he can focus on is the pain, but he thinks he may be nearing forty, fifty. He’s taken more before. This is a lot for an imaginary failure. Or maybe he’s just delirious and it’s only thirty.
The next dozen or so that come are flat down the middle, covering both cheeks, and a few after that hit the tops of his thighs. Adien shudders after each slap and hangs his head, tears slowly beading up. His cock is completely limp against Tremik’s lap, but he can feel Tremik’s bulge pressing into his stomach. It twitches every time Adien sniffles, grows when Adien’s voice cracks. He knows better than to beg for mercy, but he’s getting close to where he’ll have to.
Just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore—he’ll be spanked completely raw and he’ll cry like a child and he’ll be fucked like this—the blows stop coming. Adien keeps trembling and whimpering. Tremik’s taking a moment just to look at him, and Tremik’s rough hands run over his abused ass, squeezing experimentally. Adien groans. He’s groped a bit, and then he’s finally picked up by his tail and dropped to the floor.
Adien stays on his stomach where he falls, face buried in the carpet and too afraid to look up. He doesn’t want to move.
The mattress creaks and weight drops against the floor. Footsteps fall, and a brush of cool fabric slithers over Adien’s back—he’s being stepped over. He still doesn’t move, but he keeps his ears perked and listening. Maybe Tremik’s changing. Yes, that’s it; there’s a rustle of fabric, drawers opening, creaking back together. Sometimes he sleeps naked, sometimes in silk pants. Adien sleeps in whatever he’s wearing and wonders vaguely if he can nod off like this.
He’s not particularly surprised when that doesn’t happen. Tremik strolls back and toes Adien lightly in the side, so Adien lifts onto his elbows and looks up. Tremik’s eyes are sweeping over him, and for a moment, Adien wonders if he’ll be allowed to sleep in the bed. That almost never happens. Sometimes Tremik forgets to kick him out after sex. This time, Adien’s stepped right over. Tremik settles into the covers, lying on his stomach so his wings can unfold, and they reach over where Adien’s lying, blocking out the ceiling.
Tremik drawls, “Turn out the lights, then sleep right there.”
Adien mumbles, “Yes, Your Highness,” and rolls out of the shadow of wings. He keeps the relief out of his voice that there won’t be any sex. He pushes tenderly to his feet and wraps his arms around himself. It hurts to walk, so he goes slowly. He has to walk the perimeter of the whole circular room, blowing out candles and flicking the switch for the electric light in the center. It’s difficult to move in the increasing darkness, and he closes the curtains of the largest, still-open window last. The effect is almost total darkness, and Adien walks only a few centimeters at a time in what he thinks is the general direction of the bed.
Eventually he finds a bedpost, then the lounge at the end, and he pauses a moment to consider sleeping there. But that wasn’t what he was told, so he inevitably moves on.
He finds the floor beside Tremik’s bed, his own skirt in a lump beneath his feet. He bunches that up like a pillow and stretches out on his back, hoping this will be one of those nights where the prince doesn’t snore.
Chapter 5 (preview)
Adien’s dream pops into nothingness, the sort of suddenly awake mode where it takes him a few seconds to realize what’s going on. He’s on a hard surface, his joints protesting, his left arm asleep from where he’s been lying on it. It’s pitch black except for one small candle in the corner, lighting up the dragon’s back.
It’s clearly what woke him up, so Adien figures that he better stay awake, and he pushes himself up on his other arm, yawning. His legs draw together automatically to defend against the cold, and he watches Tremik discard a towel and begin to change into clothes. He obviously isn’t about to call slaves to do that, which is odd, and it puts Adien in the uncomfortable position of not knowing whether or not he should offer help.
He settles for being quiet: only speak when spoken to. He waits for Tremik to finish, and Tremik gets about halfway done before turning abruptly and storming over, muttering to himself, “Should’ve done this before the shower.”
Adien looks up on approach, and it quickly becomes obvious what ‘this’ is. Tremik’s gotten into a set of smooth dress pants and an open button up that looks black, but really could be anything in this light. The tip of his cock is clearly visible over his pants, and he quickly pulls himself out, right above Adien’s eye level. Adien’s grabbed by the hair and made to lift up on his knees. He opens his mouth just in time.
The first thought that hits his sleepy head is that he’s not going to have very good breath in the morning. His body wants to yawn again, but there’s simply no way of getting it past his chest. Tremik shoves him right down to the base, almost all the way on, and only years of training keep Adien from gagging to death. His throat still quivers with discomfort, tongue squirming to get by, but there really is no way to be comfortable in a situation like this. So Adien focuses on relaxing. He’s too tired to be a good whore, so maybe he can be a good doll instead.
Either Tremik’s also tired, or he’s in a hurry. He doesn’t bark orders to do otherwise. He barely leaves a few seconds to adjust before he’s pulling out, pausing and shoving in again, hard enough that Adien’s body makes a groan of protest. He doesn’t dare put his hands on Tremik’s legs to steady himself, so instead his hands are fists against his own thighs. He tries to be perfectly still: a statue made for fucking. He lets Tremik use him, working up to something fast and hard that bruises the walls of Adien’s mouth and makes him whimper around the heavy cock pummeling in and out. It doesn’t take long for his jaw to start aching. It mirrors the pain still in his ass. Even freshly washed as Tremik must be, judging from the towel, his raw stench is an unpleasant cloud in Adien’s nose. Adien tries to ignore the taste that gnaws at him; he just wants to go back to sleep.
Halfway through, Adien lets his eyes fall halfway closed, but he doesn’t dare do more, lest he drift off enough to try closing his mouth. Mostly, he just exists, dully counting thrusts like sheep and hoping it’ll end soon. Maybe because of his own lack of effort, it takes longer than usual. Push after push, one large hand over the back of his head, and finally, they get there. Tremik’s cock stiffens with barely a second of warning, and he bursts against the back of Adien’s throat. Caught off guard, Adien chokes, but he struggles to regain himself and manages, surviving. His eyes water purely from discomfort, but he’s still and takes it, swallowing the sticky mess that tumbles down his throat.
Eventually, it’s over. Tremik hastily pulls out and stuffs himself back into his pants, marching over to the corner again without a word. Adien dazedly adjusts his jaw, fighting the urge to spit. He wishes he had water.
He’s hazily aware of Tremik in the corner of his vision, buttoning up and donning robes, tying on a sash and smoothing back his hair. He examines himself by candlelight in the mirror, turning to different angles. By the time he’s finished, Adien is nearly asleep sitting up.
Tremik’s voice pulls him back to the waking world. “I’m going out.” Adien’s head snaps up immediately.
Sneaking out is what that means. He should’ve seen that before, really—showering and getting ready in the dead of night. Where Tremik’s going, Adien doesn’t dare ask, though he knows it’s probably some inappropriate liaison. Still, he isn’t supposed to just up and leave like this—it isn’t proper—the queen would be furious. A tinge of fear darts itself through Adien’s body; does this make him party to nefarious activity? Could he be held responsible? But he could never breathe a word against the prince; he’d be killed in a heartbeat. Tremik must see his wide eyes but just snickers.
“It’s none of your business, puppy, what a prince does with his spare time. I’m taking the hidden passage—” Adien’s eyes widen again; that’s a secret way that only a few know about, so this is definitely sneaking, “and if you tell a single soul, I’ll rip off your tail.”
Adien doesn’t doubt it. He straights in terror and mumbles, “I would never, Your Highness.” Tremik nods. He knows.
He doesn’t leave through the main doors. He takes his single candle with him, heading to the attached study. The passage lets out in his chambers: part of the reason so very few know of it. Adien’s not even sure the king and queen know. The door shuts behind the fading light, and Adien’s plunged back into a very frigid darkness.
He stares blankly into it for a few minutes, wondering if he should go back to the harem room. There’d be pillows there to snuggle with. But he wasn’t told he could leave. He doesn’t know when Tremik will be back. The passage takes at least half an hour to get through, so there and back is an hour no matter what, and it’s unlikely the prince’s destination will only take a moment, not with all this trouble. Adien doesn’t really care what’s going to happen to Tremik outside of these walls. He just cares what he’s supposed to do now, and they’re all scary options.
Sighing, Adien leans back a little, thinking and slumping and sleepy, and he’s a little surprised when his shoulder hits the side of the bed—he’d forgotten about that. But it’s so soft and plush, and in Tremik’s absence, he risks using it to prop himself up.
He wants to sleep there. His ass is in pain, protesting to sitting, so he can’t stay like this forever. The bed would be much softer than the floor and warmer, too.
Adien’s slept in the bed before. But never without his master.
He was never given this opportunity before, either.
It occurs to him that for at least an hour, he will be alone. Maybe... maybe if he just relaxed in it for a little and slipped out afterwards, no one would be the wiser. The floor would be easier to handle, wouldn’t it, if his body were given a rest in between? His tail’s lightly swishing beneath the bed just at the thought. A nice mattress, blankets. It would be a risk, yes, but might it be worth it...?
Adien sucks in a breath. He blames his tired head. If he were more awake, maybe he’d have a healthier dose of fear and sense to stop him. But he doesn’t, and all he wants is to curl up and be unconscious. It’ll be easier, faster up there. Adien starts to lift to his feet before he even knows what he’s doing, tail twitching nervously. He’s really going to do this.
If he gets caught... no, he doesn’t want to think about that. He won’t be. He’ll just lie down for a little bit, then fall back out. No one will ever know.
His hands still shake as he peels back the thick duvet. His knees still shake as they board the mattress. He slips underneath the blankets, falling into one of the pillows, and his eyes almost roll back into his head with pleasure. It’s so... luxurious. Having a whole bed, all to himself, all the very best royal linens... Adien’s in a strange sort of heaven. He stretches out and shifts to his side, letting his rear breathe, the rest of him swamped in heat, and he pulls the blankets right up under his chin. He’s cocooned like a happy butterfly. He doesn’t ever want to leave.
He’ll have to. He knows that.
But he drifts off before he can, and he dreams of being a prince with a nest made of blankets on the floor.
Chapter 6 (preview)
This time he comes to in a dull sort of crawl, slow and steady. He dreamt again, but he can’t remember what of. It’s that strange sort of stage where it still feels like half is real, what parts, he can’t tell, and he’s aware that his eyes are closed. They’re heavy, (he’s all heavy) and he doesn’t want to open them. He understands that he’s going to be awake, though he doesn’t know why or what that means, and he’s not sure he wants it.A sharp clatter sounds somewhere in the room. He shoots up in bed automatically, stumbling into the real world. It takes him a moment to decipher it—something metal hitting the floor. There’s more. Footsteps, maybe, how many, how loud, he’s too scared to think to tell. There’s no way to see. The lights are all out, not even through the curtains, and his eyes need time to adjust—it’s pitch black. The only thing that could make any sense is that Tremik’s returned, and his great wings have knocked something over.
Adien’s blood turns to ice in a heartbeat. He’s still in bed. In the prince’s bed. He’s going to be caught in the prince’s bed, and then he’s probably going to be hanged for his audacity. Terror takes hold of him; he has to get out of here now.
He flings the blankets off, swerving to the side, ignoring his sore bones, and he doesn’t get any further. Something’s thrown up over him.
His first thought is a shrill irrationality—the blankets have attacked him. Fabric’s suffocating him. But it’s not their silk. It’s rougher, maybe burlap? There’s a bag on his head. It must be a bag. Or something like that. He shoves a hand out against it, too panicked to even scream, and then his feet are pulled out from under him. Hands are grabbing him, maybe not scaled like they should be, grabbing his arms and his legs, and Tremik shouldn’t even have that many hands. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He’s lifted from the bed, and the bag’s tightening around his shoulders—air’s coming scarce—he’s hyperventilating—he can’t even keep track of where he’s being touched and this isn’t right and he’s going to die and he spirals into something completely unintelligible before it goes black again, passing out.
This time, he doesn’t dream.
He wakes up to another screech—maybe a horn or talking, or wait; it’s a door opening, and Adien shrieks at the top of his tiny lungs and tries to jerk backwards, finds out his arms are tied behind him and he’s tied to some sort of chair, and he promptly topples over to the floor.
He stares up at the wooden ceiling, chest nearly convulsing in his attempt to breathe. His eyes are wet. He might already be crying from sheer fright. Rabbits can die of fright. Can puppies?
But... wait, there are no wooden ceilings in the castle... are there?
He’s wearing clothes. His chin jerks to his chest, looking down. He’s in some oversized shirt, long enough to cover his lap, though now it’s fallen down with the awkward angle. He’s pretty sure he went to bed naked. His arms are bound to two rickety armrests with thick rope, his ankles tied to the chair legs. It’s uncomfortable against his sore rear, but the binding itself is loose enough, and why is he clothed and tied? If this is some new game of Tremik’s, it’s a strange one.
More footsteps. Whimpering pathetically, Adien closes his eyes. He’s already trembling. He has no idea what’s going on, and frankly, his brain’s too shot to bother trying to decipher it. He wants to shrink into a tiny little ball and die.
The footsteps stop. They’re so close to him, just at the end of the midair chair legs, hovering over him like some wild beast. Not that he can see any of this. He’ll need to look. There’s no other way.
Adien creeps one eye open, gets a short glance at a large man with tanned skin and scruffy hair and stubble, who shouts, “Boo!”
Adien wets himself.
He’s still too scared to be properly embarrassed.
There’s a snort. Some silence, and then, “Well, aren’t you a tiny thing.” The man’s voice is deep and sort of scratchy. He isn’t wearing anything Adien recognizes—a loose, half-open blouse. There’s a grotesque seam of stitches around his neck. He’s not any sort of animal Adien recognizes—some kind of monster. Monsters don’t live in the capital. Adien doesn’t understand and he’s shaking so badly, thinks he might cry. The man’s eyebrows knit together and he snorts again. “Pathetic—I can’t believe people are afraid of you!”
No one’s afraid of Adien. The sewn man is far scarier. He grabs the chair legs and rights the whole thing like it’s nothing, disorienting Adien with the sudden movement. The man adds, “I guess I’m sorry I scared you.” Adien’s started sobbing. He hiccups. The man wrinkles his nose.
He walks around the chair. Adien flinches when the man’s fingers brush his arms, but they seem to be tugging at the rope. “We were going to keep you tied the whole time, but, no offense, you really don’t seem that strong. I think they might not be necessary.” Adien doesn’t want to look over his shoulder. When the ropes fall away from his lap, he instantly shoves down the shirt’s hem as far as it’ll go, covering his damp lap. He’s still trembling, his tail curled around him and through the back of the chair.
The man sighs and pats Adien’s shoulder with one large hand, fingers all sewn on. “It’s okay, kid. We’re not going to hurt you so long as you behave, even if you are an evil prince.”
Adien stiffens immediately. He spares one wide-eyed look at his captor, who, apparently, shouldn’t be his captor at all. How anyone could mistake him for Tremik, Adien has no idea. ...Even though he was sleeping in the prince’s bed, and Tremik rarely leaves the castle, let alone the capital... but he’s hardly a dragon. Adien doesn’t know whether to correct that or not. He opens his mouth, but only a feeble squeak comes out, and he shuts it again.
The man walks along in front of him. Adien’s ankles are still tied to the chair, which is fine—he’s not about to move. Shaking too bad. The man puts his hands on his hips, a tight, crimson sash around them. “The name’s Frons.” A smirk twists onto the man’s dry lips, crinkling his eyes with amusement. He’s older, could maybe be Adien’s father, or a bit older than that, but there’s no grey in his hair. “To put it in terms you understand, I’m the king of the pirates, and you’re on my ship.” He looks rather smug, and well he should; kidnapping a prince is quite a feat.
Except that Frons didn’t kidnap a prince at all. If possible, Adien’s even more terrified now. Pirates. He didn’t even know those really existed—thought they were just stories. Pirates are outlaws, right? They must not get along with royalty. Maybe they’ll kill Adien. But if he says he’s not the prince, he’ll have no use to them; what if they throw him overboard? Adien’s a terrible swimmer. He can do it, but not all the way to shore, wherever that might be. How did they get him all the way to the docks, anyway? He gives another pained sob and hangs his head. His ears are wilting. Just his luck; he tries to catch five minutes in a bed and he gets kidnapped by pirates.
“Well?”
Adien looks up, big eyes wide and lined with water. It makes Frons look sort of uncomfortable, but he elaborates, “Haven’t you got anything to say? Honestly, I thought I’d be tackling a slew of threats by now.”
Adien hiccups again. He licks his lips and wants to say something, anything that’ll get him out of this, but he winds up mumbling, “Are... are you g-going to kill me?”
Frons frowns. He looks offended and says in a sort of deadpanned way, “Unlike some powers, I have a conscience.” When that doesn’t do anything to Adien’s expression, he clarifies, “I’m not going to kill you. You’re for ransom and a few political trades, nothing more. ...I’m not claiming we’re angels on this ship, but we’re not murderers.”
Adien breathes a sigh of relief that comes out as more of a whine. Maybe death might’ve been more merciful compared to whatever they’ve got planned, but for now, that’s one hurdle down. Frons is looking at him expectantly as though waiting for more, but Adien hasn’t got anything else to say. He’s got a million and one questions that are only half formed and probably wouldn’t make it past his lungs. He looks down at his lap and draws his knees together.
There’s a tiny yellow stain on the front of his white shirt, and he’s sitting in a small puddle. His cheeks are probably red enough to drown out his freckles. He sniffs and wonders dimly how long he’ll be strapped to this chair.
Frons might be about to tell him, but the door opens first. They seem to be in some small, wooden cabin, and the door creaks when it swings aside. Another man steps in. Adien’s facing him.
If possible, Adien goes even redder. He doesn’t know what he expected pirates to be—maybe all old monsters like their apparent king. That’s not what this man is at all. He’s younger, only a little older than Adien, and he doesn’t have the haphazard stitching but smooth, crisp seams. He looks something like a doll. He has smooth, honey hair, longish for a boy, swept across his bright blue eyes. His salmon-pink blouse is open, his stomach taut and lightly muscled, all of his skin pale and almost glistening. He smiles minutely at Adien and turns to the king.
All Adien can think is that it’s just his luck; he’s meeting the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen in his life while pant-less, strapped to a chair, and sitting in his own urine. He’s not sure he could think of a more embarrassing situation if he tried.
“It’s awfully quiet in here,” the man says to Frons, arms crossing over his chest. “Weren’t we expecting holes punched in our deck? And here Mother sent me to check that you were alright.”
Frons laughs. “What, from this little thing? I think even Kiirl could handle him.” With a sweeping, amused sort of look over Adien, Frons adds, “The rumours from the capitol were clearly very exaggerated. He’s only just woken up and already pissed himself.” Adien scrunches his nose, so humiliated that he could just sink right through the floorboards.
To his surprise, the younger man scolds, “Father, honestly. He might be the son of a tyrant, but that’s no reason to be an ass.”
Frons scrunches his nose. “It wasn’t on purpose. He’s just weaker than I thought.” Frons scratches the back of his head, then waves a hand. “Bah, he’s your problem now, anyway. I should be on deck making sure we weren’t followed. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?”
The younger man nods. He keeps glancing at Adien, but Adien has nothing to add. “What’s his name?”
“Prince Tremik,” Frons answers. “That’s what they say, anyway; I’ve hardly gotten two words out of him. I suppose we don’t need to keep him in here after all—hardly seems a threat.” He starts to walk as he talks, headed for the door, and his son trails after him. Frons turns the handle, then looks back and adds with a cheeky smirk, “Sorry, I think he ruined your shirt.” The son laughs. Frons nods and leaves, the door closing with a slight ‘clunk’ behind him.
Adien’s left with a very handsome doll, feeling supremely stupid. The fear’s only just begun to ebb away, replacing itself with embarrassment. He keeps his hands in his lap, shoulders hunched as the other man strolls over to him.
That man thrusts out a hand and says coolly, “Lenaru. And you’re Prince Tremik, I presume?”
Adien lifts one hand, then promptly shoves it down again. It’s still slightly damp. He’s probably not blushing anymore, because his cheeks feel as hot as they could possibly be. The smart thing would be to shut up and let them think that’s his name, but instead he mumbles, “A... Adien...”
“What?”
“My name,” Adien squeaks.
Lenaru lifts an eyebrow. “Adien?”
Adien nods.
Lenaru smiles. “Well, that’s not very evil-sounding.” He’s probably joking, but Adien doesn’t laugh. Lenaru’s eyes trail higher, maybe at Adien’s ears, and he adds, “Your ears and tail aren’t very scary, either. And here we all thought you’d be a shark or a dragon or something. But you’re just a little puppy...”
He reaches out one hand, pausing when Adien flinches on instinct, but then it keeps going. His finger pads slip beneath Adien’s hair, so soft, and they scratch behind his left ear.
Adien’s tail wags instantly, and he makes a small keening noise that he should’ve probably stifled. Lenaru chuckles.
He kneels down and unties Adien’s ankles without much difficulty, pushing the rope away. Then he stands back up and takes hold of Adien’s wrist. Adien’s tugged to his feet, and Lenaru says with a pleasant sparkle in his eye, “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Chapter 7 (preview)
They must be under the deck. Adien doesn’t know proper ship terminology in the slightest. They aren’t quite rocking like he thought they’d be, but they’re not still, either. Everything’s wooden, the hallway is narrow, and there are doors lining the walls that they walk right past. Once, Adien hears a door behind him, and he whirls around to see what he’s sure is a zombie disappear into the door on the opposite side. He stands very close to Lenaru, wanting to cling to Lenaru’s arm for no good reason. Dolls don’t eat people, as far as he knows. Zombies, he’s not so sure about.
The room they go to is a bathroom of sorts. It’s much smaller than what Adien’s used to, nicer than the one in the harem room, far uglier than Tremik’s. It’s got one tiny tub on one wall and a toilet and sink on the other. The counter the sink’s in is wooden like everything else, but the tub, toilet, and sink itself are pure white, if a little chipped here and there. There’s a mirror over the sink, and Adien catches himself in it. He looks a complete mess, even more so next to the handsome pirate in front of him.
Lenaru smiles at their reflections. It makes Adien red again. Lenaru reaches back to slip one hand beneath Adien’s chin, and he gently tilts Adien’s face from side to side, saying, “See? We didn’t hurt you. You don’t need to keep being so afraid.”
Oh yes, he does. Instead of saying that, he turns to look at the tub. He’s starting to feel a little queasy. Does water run on this ship like it does in a normal building? He’s never been on one before.
Following his gaze, Lenaru trails over to the bathtub and turns the tap—water starts to splash into it. Adien subconsciously goes to stand behind him, watching the shallow water fill the base.
He doesn’t mean to talk, but he somehow asks quietly, “Will it rock too much when we hit waves?” Then he goes stiff, embarrassed he spoke out of turn but slightly proud he didn’t stutter.
Lenaru looks at him curiously. A second later comprehension dawns, and he says, “Oh, no, we’re not on the water. We’re sky pirates. A storm would do more damage to us than waves.” With an amused sort of twitch of the lips, he adds, “What, did you think we managed to smuggle you all the way down to the docks? Getting the tower guards out of the way was hard enough...”
Adien turns pinker. Maybe he’ll permanently turn this way and stay red from head to foot.
Lenaru chuckles: a soft, lilting sound. “I can’t believe everyone’s so afraid of you. Your father must be ashamed and just making up rumours to strengthen their threat.”
He’s a castle-bound slave. Adien doesn’t even know what his father’s face looks like. If he were the son of King Artemik, though, he’s positive the king would have him disowned or killed.
They don’t say anything else until the tub is full, perhaps because Adien is failing so miserably at conversation. And Lenaru must think he’s a cruel, unhappy man, steaming over being kidnapped. Lenaru turns the tap off and checks the water, nodding to himself; it must be satisfactory. Then he gestures to it and says, “I know you must not be use to washing yourself, Your Majesty, but as you’ve been so gracious about this whole kidnapping thing, I imagine I can play servant the first time.”
Adien goes stock still, his eyes about as wide as they can go. There was obviously a bit of sarcasm in the first part of the statement, but all Adien can think is that someone’s offering to wash him. Like he’s... like he’s royalty. That’s his job.
Does that mean he’ll get to see Lenaru naked? Not that he should think about that. He really shouldn’t think about that. Honestly, he’s been for sex too long. Lenaru’s not as big as Tremik, doesn’t have wings, and doesn’t have a tail—it’d be easier. Could he wash Lenaru? He shouldn’t want to. He totally wants to. He opens his mouth and something garbled and incoherent comes out.
Lenaru laughs. “I know I’m just a lowly pirate, Your Highness, but I’m all you’ve got, so you’ll have to manage.”
Then he’s unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and shrugging it from his shoulders, and Adien just sort of stares like an idiot. There’s a thin dusting of blond hair above his waistband. There are faint seams peeking over his pants, tracing the jut of his hipbones. He’s stunning. He starts to undo his fly, and Adien should look away but doesn’t.
Lenaru isn’t wearing any underwear. Maybe pirates don’t. His clothes pool at his feet, and he kicks them aside, joking to Adien, probably at the awe on his face, “Don’t get any ideas—I’m no concubine.”
Adien starts to stammer, “N-no, I didn’t mean, ah, no, I just, it’s just—”
Lenaru grabs the bottom of his shirt in the middle of his rambling and yanks it right over his head, forcing his arms up. It’s tossed aside, and Lenaru comments casually, “I’ll bring you more clothes.” He winks. “If you promise not to stain them, of course.”
Adien’s going to sink through the floorboards. He’s not sure if it’s a more merciful death than the one he thought he’d meet earlier. In some ways, it feels worse.
Lenaru steps into the bathwater first. Adien tries not to look down, (tries not to notice how long and thick and smooth-looking Lenaru’s cock is) and waits for Lenaru to settle, back against the back of the tub, arms draped along the sides. He looks at Adien expectantly and doesn’t look away from Adien’s face. Adien’s not sure whether he likes that or not. He thinks he’s at least decently attractive—he is the prince’s slave, after all—but maybe Lenaru thinks he could do better.
Or maybe he’s just not a total slut like Adien is, and Adien feels like a hot mess that should just run out the door now and jump off the side of the ship.
Eventually, he steps in the water. It’s warm, very warm. The pleasure of that runs all up his leg, making his tail flick and his ears perk up. He sits down inside carefully, and he’s pulled up right against Lenaru’s chest, Lenaru’s head looping over his shoulder, thighs bracketing his hips. Lenaru’s maybe half a head taller than him. It occurs to him belatedly how dirty his is, but Lenaru doesn’t seem to mind. It then occurs to him that pirates probably don’t put cleanliness at top priority. He feels bad for assuming that. He feels bad for a lot of things.
There’s a small collection of soap bars on a thin shelf in the wall. Lenaru plucks up a purple one that smells of lavender and says good-naturedly, “Don’t get too used to being pampered; you’ll have to do it yourself next time.”
Adien’s never been pampered in his life. He mumbles a clumsy, “Thank you.”
Lenaru scratches once behind Adien’s ear again. Adien’s tail, half buried in the water, flicks and sprays water over their exposed shoulders. He shoves it back down and tries to settle. Even if Lenaru doesn’t know what princes are like, he clearly knows how to handle puppies.
The water’s just past Adien’s nipples, but he could easily slink down to his chin. But that would mean rubbing himself too much against Lenaru, who’s so very warm and smooth behind his back. He’s hyper aware of Lenaru’s cock against his ass, limp and not insistent. If Adien weren’t still recovering from the scare of his life, he probably wouldn’t be as limp. It’s nothing like what he’s used to, and he doesn’t miss scales. He can’t help a curious look over his shoulder at Lenaru’s shoulder seam, and the line around his wrist when he lifts the soap. His fingers don’t seem to be attached to his hand the same way, just one solid piece, like normal. Adien’s staring at that hand while the soap presses against his collarbone, gliding across it.
Lenaru tells him gently, mouth so close to his ear, “I’m a doll, if you’re wondering. My mother is ball-joint and my father is sewn, so I’ve come somewhere in between. ...I suppose you’re pure puppy...”
Adien nods. He wonders what this mother looks like. He’s never seen a... a ‘ball-joint’ doll before.
“Hm,” Lenaru muses. “I’m sure the king is a devil.” He pauses to laugh. “Unless the queen cheated, of course.”
Adien doesn’t want to talk about it, so he doesn’t. The soap drifts under the water, over Adien’s chest. It traces a circle around his left nipple, and Adien bites his bottom lip not to react. He half wishes someone uglier or meaner were washing him so he could react more appropriately. His knees fidget, drawing up together. But... it does feel nice to be pampered.
It feels nice to be in the arms of someone not inherently cruel. Lenaru’s the embodiment of what Adien’s always dreamed of. Something strange randomly and inexplicably occurs to him.
For the first time, exposed to someone new and not royal or owned, Adien wonders idly what it would be like to serve someone he chose himself. Not someone handsome, not someone kind, but someone whom he decided: yes. It’s such a foreign concept that it takes his mind a minute to wrap around it. He’s been more badly shaken up by the night’s events than he thought. Is it even night still? There’s no window in here. Maybe he passed out clear through the morning and they’re in a new day. He fidgets again, and that makes his ass brush against Lenaru’s cock, so he stills.
Lenaru washes him dutifully, reaching down his stomach and the tops of his thighs, stopping there and running up his left side. He pushes Adien lightly and says, “Scoot forward so I can get your back, and then you can do your own crotch. Cute though you are, I don’t want to take advantage.” Adien frowns; but he wants Lenaru to.
Lenaru called him cute. He’ll remember that, he thinks; it already makes him feel hot inside. He scoots forward a few centimeters, and Lenaru pushes him a little more. The soap glides across his shoulders, the aroma faint and sweet, and Adien wraps his arms around his knees.
“So, what’s it like being a prince?”
It’s asked so casually that Adien wonders if he can get away with not answering. He’s not a very good liar outside of sex. He mumbles a noncommittal, “I don’t know.” He means that literally, but perhaps Lenaru will assume that he doesn’t know how to describe it. Lenaru seems to accept as much; he doesn’t ask further.
He’s going to figure out, sooner or later, that Adien’s not a prince at all. And then he’ll be useless and tossed overboard or killed. That might happen sooner—Adien doesn’t have a full understanding of what others think of the royal family, but it’s probably not nice; Adien doesn’t know anyone truly fond of them, just people smart enough to force grins and not say anything. He glances over his shoulder again and wonders what the hell he’s going to do.
It occurs to him that perhaps he should sleep with Lenaru. If he’s sleeping with the son of the pirate’s leader, surely they won’t kill him? It wouldn’t be right, but it’d be survival. And it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship. (Maybe Adien wants an excuse.) He bites his lower lip. It could make his passage safer. He might be accustomed to pleasing dragon princes, but he’s sure he could please a doll with a bit of work. If he can’t figure out exactly how to do it best, he can make up for it with enthusiasm. If that doesn’t work... well... maybe he can sleep with Frons. But that doesn’t sound nearly so appealing...
Lenaru keeps washing him while he thinks of whether or not he should do this and then how to go about it. His entire back is scrubbed clean. He thinks it must be something like getting a massage—he’s massaged masters before but never received one. It’s very nice. Lenaru lifts each of his arms at a time and washes them clean, and then Lenaru hands him the soap and settles back. Adien starts to clean his own crotch, and he squirms on purpose, trying to rub and rut against Lenaru’s cock, feeling shameless and silly and adamantly looking forward and down so Lenaru won’t see his red cheeks. Would it hurt to have such a big cock inside him, he wonders? Or would it actually be easier, since it feels so velvety and even? He hears one muffled groan behind him, and then he sucks in courage. He doesn’t have much of that, but it’ll have to do.
He glances over his shoulder, hesitates, and leans awkwardly back to peck Lenaru’s cheek.
Lenaru looks startled for a second, then grins and laughs, which is not at all the reaction Adien was hoping for.
“Well, aren’t you a naughty little thing.” He reaches around to stroke underneath Adien’s chin, making Adien’s traitorous tail wag back and forth underwater. “But I’m afraid you won’t be seducing your way out of this one so easily.”
Adien feels distinctly caught red-handed, and he looks back around, dropping the soap to cover his face in his hands. This is all one big mess.
One arm loops around his stomach, and Adien’s pulled back against Lenaru’s chest. Lenaru’s looking over his shoulder, down at the water, and finds the soap with a small, “Aha.”
Lenaru pulls Adien’s legs up and starts to scrub at Adien’s knees, while Adien leans back and tries to just enjoy it, because nothing else is working. After a bit of scrubbing, Lenaru slips his finger under Adien’s knee, and he lifts Adien’s leg, cleaning one, then the other. He even scrubs Adien toes. He doesn’t mention Adien’s mishap, and he puts the soap away after, leaning back against the rim of the tub.
“There, all clean.”
Adien mumbles, “Thank you,” and still won’t look around. He wants to lean back and sink into the water, but he stays where he is.
“You’re awfully polite for a royal captive.”
Adien doesn’t say anything. Though he temporarily contemplates being meaner, he knows that wouldn’t work; he doesn’t have it in him to be anything but this nervous, twitching ball of submission.
“Anyway, I’m sure you’re used to long, luxurious baths, but unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time here—others might need in.” Oh, Adien doesn’t want to think about others. Aren’t two new people enough for one day? He nods his head to show that he’s listening.
Chuckling quietly, Lenaru scratches behind one ear again. It startles Adien at first, ears perking, but then it settles back into just feeling good, and Adien tilts his head back, fighting the crooning noise in his throat.
Lenaru says, “C’mon, let’s get you dried off and put away.”
A pat on the shoulder, and Adien climbs hurriedly out of Lenaru’s lap. He doesn’t want to get the floor wet, so he stays standing in the tub, looking absently at the door to avoid anything else. He hears Lenaru climb out, and then his shoulders are wrapped in a lightly, fluffy towel.
Lenaru starts to dry him off, and when Adien sniffles for no good reason, Lenaru hushes, “It’s okay.” Lenaru towels him off from head to foot and bundles him up in them, one tied around his waist and one over his shoulders. Lenaru takes his hand and leads him out of the bathroom.
With bated breath, Adien follows.
Cloud Candy is available on Createspace (paperback), Amazon (paperback), and Kindle (digital file).
This is my third novel, still self-published because I'm still poor and independent. Though it deals with darker issues (slavery, fascism, etc.), the mood is much light; the main character is an unreliable narrator: a puppy bred for sex with a limited view of the world. He quickly meets pirates who teach him better, but he's still a slow learner. The majority of the book is this puppy learning to fit in with Robin-Hood-type pirates, and, naturally, falling in love. It's fairly easy reading; short chapters; just under 80k. Abbeyjewel was a wonderful beta to me, with early help from SpesAbrin, so tremendous thanks there. ♥
Below is a short preview. You can ask me any questions or comments on my blog, yeaka.tumblr.com. Bonus content can be found here. Thank you to everyone who’s ever been nice about any of my stories. Someday I would like to really be a writer and be able to afford just writing both fanfiction and original stories all day. I wouldn't have that dream without you. :)
Warnings + tags (for full book): Rape, dystopian setting, slavery, angst, anal sex, oral sex, hand jobs, 69, double penetration, spanking, dominance/submission, puppy play, collars, leashes.
Chapter 1 (preview)
“Pumpkins are just the worst, don’t you think?”
Adien lifts his head, peering over the crimson pillow to where Jenni’s lying, staring blankly up at the ceiling. On the off chance there’re pumpkins on the ceiling, he follows her gaze. But it’s the same polished latticework he’s used to, high above them. Deciding she’s just being odd, (cats often are, or at least, he thinks so) he tells her, “I can think of a lot of things worse than pumpkins.” He stretches his arms and toes out, yawning.
Jenni rolls her eyes. Her tail flicks in irritation. She’s sharing the same throw rug as him, but her pillows are a random assortment of deep colours; Adien just hoards red. “Well, obviously. I meant of food.”
“I can still think of a lot worse things.”
“Well, you’re just a puppy; you wouldn’t know.” She rolls over on her side, as though that’s that. He stares at her bare back for a few seconds, then rolls over himself. He tries to tune out the rest of the general chatter in the room and let the lavender incense carry him away. The sun’s high through the tall, glassless windows, but there’s nothing better to do here sometimes than sleep through the day.
It’s no good, though. She’s ruined him. Adien sits up with a minor huff, trying vainly to rearrange his pillows. A quick glance around the large, lengthy room shows that all the lounges are taken, except for one in the corner that Alice is sitting next to, but she’s always trouble. The floor will have to do. Maybe if he drags his pillows directly behind one of the pillars, he’ll be out of the light enough to drift off again.
His stomach growls as soon as he gets to his bare feet. Maybe he should get something to eat. But then, when he squints out the window, he can see snow on the far mountains. It’ll probably be cold in the kitchens; the rest of the castle isn’t kept as warm as the harem room, where slaves are barely clothed. Adien glances down at his tight shorts, clinging and frayed around the tops of his thighs. That and the collar, the only things he has, won’t hold up well in the cold open halls. He should maybe wait until later when all the fires are lit.
There are bowls of fruit on various gold-rimmed tables around the room, and Adien wanders over to the nearest one. Pears are his favourite. He could go for a pumpkin, since that’s now on his brain, but that sort of thing would need to be requested, and slaves don’t just request food without being asked first. Adien settles for a particularly ripe-looking pear and trails back to his pillow-nest, munching on the way. The sweet juice trickles down his arm as he eats, forcing him to stop and lick it off a few times, his salty skin not the best combination. He sucks his fingers as he goes, and several dozen bites later, he’s left with an inedible core. The garbage is in the adjacent bathing room, and he’ll need the sink in there anyway.
Adien winds his way through the various other slaves in the room and steps into the open bathing room. It's smaller and blue-themed instead of brown and gold. He dumps the core and washes off his hands.
He bathed this morning, but maybe he’ll do it again just to pass the time. He’ll probably be here until tomorrow—the prince is still out on a hunting trip, and that gives Adien nowhere to be but with other slaves. He has to keep himself in good shape just in case, of course—the prince could always come back early. It wouldn’t be unheard of.
Leaning over the marble sink to peer into the mirror, Adien tries to finger-comb down his wild orange-red hair. It’s getting a bit long—still not enough for a ponytail, but a few strands do keep falling into his green eyes. He tries, in particular, to smooth out the mess around his brown ears, silky and floppy—puppy ears. At least they cover parts of his head on bad hair days. More helpful than cat ears, anyway. His matching tail flicks behind him, shaggier still. He thinks he looks mostly all right, and when he pulls back, Nathan’s in the doorway.
“You’ve been summoned,” is all he says.
Adien’s head tilts to the side. “By whom?”
“How should I know? Maybe the prince is back.” He shudders for affect, and Adien frowns, knowing the feeling. He wouldn’t dare show it, though; with his luck, it’d get back to his master.
Just in case, Adien takes a final glance at the mirror. Nathan tells him, “Unless you’re going to scrub your freckles off, I don’t think there’s much you can do.” Adien nods. If it’s important enough to be dressed up, he’ll be dressed up elsewhere. This room isn’t for fashion.
Outside the bathing room, Nathan trails back over to a colourful collection of pillows—back to lazing around. Adien checks around the open space as he crosses it, but no one else seems to be headed out. There’s a nondescript guard in the doorway dressed in the usual uptight, silver uniform—Garon, is it? Adien’s not as familiar with all their names. They don’t talk to him much. That's not all that uncommon, however. The prince is notoriously ill-tempered when it comes to sharing his toys.
When Adien reaches him, the guard gestures out the open doors, and Adien follows him out, automatically falling a step behind. That way he can cross his arms for warmth without looking like he’s giving attitude. At least, assuming the guard doesn’t look back at him. He doesn’t. The halls are busy today; various servants and nobles rush by as Adien follows the guard’s brisk pace to the stairs at the end. When a dozen minutes have passed and nothing’s been said, Adien risks asking quietly, “Where am I going?”
“Prince Tremik’s chambers,” the guard grunts without looking at him.
Adien frowns. He knows the fastest way between the harem room and the prince’s chambers, and this isn’t it. But the guard, a stony gargoyle, doesn’t seem like someone Adien should pick a fight with, so he keeps quiet. It wouldn’t be the first time he knew more about basic castle functions than someone higher up than him. Once they come down another flight of stairs and cross a broad hallway with stain glass windows all along the right side, he gets more of a picture of what route they’re taking. Longer, but it’ll do.
The prince’s quarters are at the top of a high turret, and the tall, twisted staircase to them is really something Adien could climb himself. The guard grabs his arm anyway and drags him up it, and Adien has to be careful not to bump into the guard’s folded wings. Gargoyles are too rough. And frosty. The stone floor’s cold under his feet, and the sunshine through the various windows they pass isn’t quite enough to counteract that and the guard’s claws around his wrist. At the top of the staircase, he’s shoved through an open door. Adien just barely manages to avoid stumbling to his knees. He whirls around with flushed cheeks and half a mind to complain, but the guard’s already gone, pointed tail slithering out of sight. The door shuts.
So Adien harrumphs to himself, gets up, and brushes himself off. At least the prince’s chambers are adorned in a thick, green and gold-trimmed rug. The ornate curtains and clutter of elegant furniture pack in a little more heat. Still, it’d be nicer with a shirt.
If the prince is back early, which he must be, a shirt wouldn’t last long anyway. Adien pads over to the large canopy bed and takes a seat on the black lounge at the foot of it, perched on folded legs. He puts his hands on his knees and waits, glancing about for signs of life.
Most of it is all perfectly in order, just where it was set by cleaning slaves. Nothing’s broken; the curtains don’t have any tears and there are no ceramic shards on the floor from shattered vases—if the prince is here, it hasn’t been for long enough for one of his customary rages. Adien peers curiously at the writing desk in the corner—the parchment atop it looks like it bears writing. Must’ve been used by the prince, then. No one else would dare use it, not in this room. He sits up a little straighter, prepared.
It’s maybe five minutes before the main door bursts open again, so fast and loud that it smashes against the wall and bounces back. Adien’s head whips around. Prince Tremik doesn’t spare him a glance, just walks straight through, the door slamming itself shut behind him. His dark, leathery wings are half unveiled, just short of scraping the ceiling, spiked tail trailing across the carpet. His scales and horns shimmer under the light of the high sun and lit chandelier, yellow eyes glinting like gold. As a dragon, sometimes it looks like he’s going to snort fire when he breathes. He marches straight across to the dresser, letting his black silk outer robes tumble from his shoulders. They’re tossed across the mahogany chair. He turns to Adien, down to his formal suit, sleek black hair brushing his broad shoulders. Adien’s shoulders hunch on instinct, but he doesn’t speak until spoken to.
Tremik eyes him up and down. It’s a sweeping look. Adien knows he hasn’t changed at all. A crooked smirk winds its way onto Tremik’s thin lips, and he drawls, “Did you miss me, pet?” His voice is as smoky and deep as Adien remembers; it makes him shiver.
“Of course, Your Highness.” Adien’s feels lighter and smaller by comparison. All of him feels smaller. He missed the nice chambers and the preferential treatment, but maybe not so much the company and the temper. He doesn’t show this; he’s long gotten over speaking full answers to his master; it’s better to simply do his duty. He keeps his head half hung as a sign of respect and tries not to show any resignation: just readiness.
Tremik snickers. There’s a good chance he knows that Adien’s half-lying, and he simply doesn’t care. It’s a small blessing. When a few more seconds of silence pass, Adien risks a peek up through his bangs. He licks his lips and asks sweetly, “Is... is there anything I can do for you, master...?” He’s still just being looked at.
Tremik finally sighs: “I think we’ll have to fix you up for tonight.”
“Tonight?” Adien’s eyebrows knit together in confusion.
“For the banquet.” Tremik’s smirk grows, and Adien catches himself in time to stop his face from showing any reaction. That’s rarely good. Good food and music, yes, but it comes with a price. “You’ll need some better clothes and a bit of ruffling up—you don’t look well used enough.” Of course not; no one else dares use the prince’s main consort, even when that prince is gone. Adien bites his lower lip and nods, looking at the floor. He breathes a tiny sigh.
Tremik starts to stroll towards him, and Adien unfurls into his usual state of being: ready for the taking.
Chapter 2 (preview)
Tremik’s bed is the largest in the palace, or at least, the largest Adien’s seen. Perhaps the king and queen’s is bigger. When Tremik lies down, his great wings span out behind him, curved up to encase the bed in a warmth and darkness unlike any other. The curtains are drawn and the lights are mostly low, a few candles lit here and there about the room, not for ambience but because Tremik has a thing for fire. Adien crawls forward onto the foot of the bed, his tail perking up with the heat.
Tremik doesn’t tell him what to do, but Adien can guess. He’ll be ordered to deviate if need be. He moves to straddle Tremik’s legs, looking down and appreciative. Tremik doesn’t look at his face so much as his body, but that’s alright. Adien’s at least glad that his master, though scaly and tinted green, is handsome in a sharp, hard sort of way. It’s enough. Adien puts his hands flat on Tremik’s broad chest, and he leans down to place a brief kiss to Tremik’s collarbone. He doesn’t go for the lips if he doesn’t have to. It’s one of the few things they have in common.
The suit Tremik wears today is purple-black silk satin, expensive under Adien’s fingertips. He’s careful with the ornate trim, fingers setting to work on the silver buttons down the front while his lips trace along Tremik’s neck. Tremik shifts suddenly, and Adien lifts up a few centimeters, waiting for the body below to settle back down. Tremik reaches both his hands behind his head like a pillow, looking particularly luxurious. Adien ignores the posture and lazy ‘you-do-all-the-work’ smirk and goes back to what he’s doing.
There are a dozen buttons to go through, tight but not difficult. As Adien makes his way down, he follows with his mouth, worshiping each new patch of skin he reveals. The dark green hue makes it look almost iridescent in the covered candlelight. The room becomes steadily hotter, humid around him, but the surface of Tremik’s skin is cold like metal. It’s a standard Adien’s used to. He has a vague idea of what it’s like to be with someone softer, safer, from when he’s been made to put on a show with other slaves, but this is how he’s used to being taken. Tremik’s all hard muscles, a chiseled stomach with well-defined lines. Adien swipes his tongue into Tremik’s belly button when he gets there, having to shuffle lower down the prince’s body to reach. His hands begin to push the fabric away, down around Tremik’s sides.
At the last button, Adien nuzzles in for a firm kiss, all of Tremik’s torso exposed. Adien glances up before he goes any further; Tremik’s still languidly smirking. Adien keeps his eyes up, and he unbuckles Tremik’s pants without looking at his hands. As soon as they’re open, he pushes them down a few centimeters and kisses his way there, straight down to the hairless, scaled cock that bounces out to meet him. It hits him in the chin, hard enough to bruise.
Adien stifles his whine and shifts to the side, kissing the base. Tremik’s cock is a fair size, bigger than Adien’s, straighter and ridged, plated like armour. Adien doesn’t have to hold it in place while he licks all around it; it’s sturdy against the side of his face. He runs his tongue over Tremik’s balls and circles around to the shaft, starting at the bottom. It tastes sort of salty and a little sour, mostly bland but faintly metallic. It isn’t unpleasant, but it’s worse than pumpkins.
Adien doesn’t default to blowjobs unless it’s ordered—they’re rarely enough to satiate his master. He still does the basics, however. He prepares himself every morning, just in case, and he has all the best tools to do so, knows how to relax, knows to keep moist, but it doesn’t hurt to wet the cock he’ll ride, too. He licks away at it now, moving up and down the shaft and kissing the underside and suckling on the bulbous tip once or twice, fervent and careful. He’s going to add as much saliva as he can before he has to stop. The third time he locks his lips around the head, a single bead of sticky precum slips into his mouth, and that’s when he knows he has to move on.
Adien gives one last lick before he goes, and he watches Tremik’s face as he sits back up, ready to fall back down if needed. Tremik lifts an eyebrow—something that could mean that he’s being too slow. Feeling his cheeks flush, Adien lifts onto his knees, crawling over Tremik’s crotch. His tail stays up in the air, out of the way.
If he’d known his master was coming, he would’ve worn something more easy-access, maybe with a hole in the back. But he didn’t, so he has to unbutton his shorts and push them down his thighs, sure he’s testing the seams. It wouldn’t be the first time he lost clothes to these chambers. It helps that there’s not much fabric to pull aside; they’re thin and ride low.
“Did anyone fuck you while I was gone?” Tremik asks suddenly, and Adien’s mouth twists. He never knows what to say to that. Sometimes Tremik calls him a slut, other times Tremik’s possessive. Should he entertain his prince with a slew of lewd stories or pose as an angel?
He’s reaching behind himself to find his own hole, knowing full well he can’t spare the time to check that he’s stretched enough. The conversation at least buys him a few seconds. He spreads his cheeks apart with two fingers and rubs along his entrance with his middle one. He settles on the truth: “I let another slave kiss me.” He winces when he pushes his finger inside. There’s still a bit of lube from earlier, but it’s not much. “That was it, Your Highness.”
“Pity,” Tremik snorts. He shifts his knee up; it nudges against Adien’s ass and arm in a sign to be quicker. “No one even jerked off on you?” Adien shakes his head.
“All yours, master.” He smiles in what he hopes is an endearing way. He’s pushing his finger higher, worming it up.
It reaches as far as it can, knuckle deep, and Adien wriggles it around, licking his lips in concentration. Does he have time for two fingers?
Tremik half sits up on one elbow and grabs Adien’s arm, yanking it away. His finger’s dragged out of him, and it causes a little whine. He nods obediently. Yes, he’ll get on with it. Tremik settles back to his former position, with crossed arms behind his head. “Come on—I haven’t got all night.”
Adien needs both hands to do this. One reaches back to hold Tremik’s cock in place, the other reaches under himself to keep his shorts out of the way. He should’ve taken them off. He lowers himself down, wincing on instinct as soon as he feels the spongy head at his puckered hole. Then he wills himself to relax, lets it pop inside, gasps and forces himself not to clench. Tremik’s not the biggest Adien’s ever seen, but he’s still big. Adien has to pause at the first breach, licking his lips and closing his eyes. He sinks down slowly, bit by bit.
Tremik, as he so often does, grabs Adien’s hips and shoves him down fast enough to earn a scream, half surprise and half pain. Adien’s filled in an instant, Tremik’s cock stabbing mercilessly into him. His tight channel convulses in response, not ready. His head tosses back, mouth open. He tries to relax, tries to unwind, but he doesn’t have enough time to adjust. He can take it; he knows he can—he’s sure he’s not bleeding. It’s just... rough.
Then he’s picked up like he weighs nothing and shoved down again, and he gets lucky with the angle. His next scream has a twinge of pleasure; he can feel the hard cock inside him nudging against that special bundle of nerves that makes his vision blur. His mouth falls wider, tongue sticking out to pant, head hanging, and he moves up with Tremik’s hands. He can do this. He needs to stay in control so he can keep that angle. He gets halfway off Tremik’s cock and drops all his weight down, groaning when he’s impaled. He can feel every little ridge. He doesn’t need to open his eyes to see Tremik’s sharp-toothed grin. Tremik’s calloused fingers slip away from Adien’s slender hips, passing off the duty.
Adien takes a breath. In a way, he might’ve missed this. It was only a week—he’s not that out of practice.
He settles for a quick pace, picking himself up with his trembling thighs and stiff arms, hands on Tremik’s taut stomach. As soon as he falls down, he pushes up again, groaning but not leaving time to appreciate feeling full. Up and down he goes, bouncing on Tremik’s cock, steady and rhythmic. Like riding a trotting horse. If that horse had a dildo attached to the saddle. Adien tries not to laugh to himself, but the next thrust crushes the thought out of his head. It’s a strange mix of pleasure-pain, and he focuses in on the hot coiling in his stomach and the soreness in his rear. His thighs start to tremble and he’s glad he doesn’t have more clothing; those wings trap in all the heat. Several dozen bounces in and Adien’s sweating, never once slowing his hips.
He only looks up at Tremik’s face once, just to make sure he’s doing okay, and Tremik’s eyes are half-lidded and hazy, the golden shine dulled. Adien hangs his head again and keeps going, up and down, up and down, fucking himself hard on his master’s cock.
He thinks he might be getting close—but a weak little puppy could never hope to have as much stamina as a dragon—when Tremik darts upwards. He shoves Adien straight over, one clawed hand grabbing at his ass, and Adien squeals in surprise as he’s knocked onto his back, the cock buried deep inside him jerking to a different angle. He has no time to register what’s going on until he’s been climbed on top of, his legs in the air to either side of Tremik’s body. Those giant wings are now looming over him, and Tremik casts a shadow all over Adien’s world.
“You’re too slow,” Tremik hisses, but it’s with a crude smile, nothing dangerous.
Adien tries to pant, “S-sorry, Your H—” but he breaks off into a gasp at the next thrust inside. Tremik takes control easily, and suddenly Adien’s being fucked relentlessly into the mattress. His wrists are even grabbed and pinned down, as though he’d ever dare defy his master and try to move. He’s bent at an odd, awkward angle, knees almost to his shoulders, but he has no choice but to ride with it, find the best in it. His own cock is now sandwiched tightly between his body and Tremik’s, still clothed. He knows better than to ask if it can come out. He’ll come in his pants anyway. Sometimes he thinks he won’t, won’t be embarrassed like that, but then he always gets to the middle of fucking and doesn’t have the brainpower to see the logic in that idea—he’s getting fucked stupid, and he’d like to come.
And then that’s over, and he’s being pulled out of with a sick, wet squelching sound that leaves him groaning. His legs stay uselessly in the air as Tremik pulls back, reaching for Adien’s side. Tremik nudges him over, and Adien listens, obediently rolling over onto his stomach. He’s painfully pulled up by his tail, raised on his knees, and he gets on all fours just before he’s taken again, Tremik’s cock shoving right back inside him like it never left. Adien can’t help but cry out; this new position makes it go even deeper, if possible; it certainly feels that way. He feels impossibly full, and he tries not to whimper when he’s pulled half out of. It slams in; he screams.
There’s a snicker behind him, and it’s all downhill from there, a sudden avalanche of hard thrusts that make his arms and thighs tremble with the effort of holding him up. His whole ass is going to be sore tomorrow, he just knows, his channel from being used so harshly and his cheeks from being slapped by Tremik’s scaly thighs on each push. Tremik’s rough hands run down his back in between wild, harried thrusts, so much faster and more powerful than Adien could’ve done, and his sides and his waist and his hips are clawed at. Nothing breaks the skin, but he’ll have bruises tomorrow, and he’s held in place for the first dozen times he’s pounded into. His cock is bulging in its confines, desperately wanting out, but he knows better.
When one hand locks around the back of his neck, Adien knows what’s coming; he turns his face just in time. He’s slammed down into the bed, arms giving way beneath him but ass still held high in the air, still being plundered. His hands make fists in the sheets and he concentrates on breathing, alternating between screams and moans for each thrust.
The final thrust for him is just like any other, one rough slam in a sea of what feels like hundreds, and he can’t take it anymore. His toes curl and his vision slides out of focus, eyes slamming shut, pleasure rippling all down his spine. He bursts inside his shorts, the sticky mess that pours out having nowhere to go but around him, clinging and gluing the fabric to his skin. Adien doesn’t dare reach down and touch himself, doesn’t dare milk out his orgasm. He just writhes and moans while he’s still being fucked, high and hazy-headed. For a moment, everything is blank and good.
Then he’s coming down, and there’s no rest for his weary hips. His climax is thoroughly ignored. He’s still being taken without pause, and he’s now too much of a satiated, panting mess to be much more than a toy. He’s limp and held up solely by his master’s hands and cock. He loses track of time quickly, gets lost in a sea of endless sex.
It takes him by surprise when it boils to an end. The fingers in his hips dig in harder, and Adien yelps in response, gasping when he’s abruptly filled with something hot and slick. Tremik stops thrusting in favour of grinding it in, and Adien makes an odd crooning sound, voice nearly hoarse. He tries to be still, but he can’t help squirming anyway. It doesn’t feel like there’s room in there for cum, and he tries to relax himself enough to accommodate the flood. Tremik keeps grinding, continues spurting. It feels like it takes forever, and Adien buries his face in the mattress to stifle his displeasured noises.
Eventually, he’s set free. Tremik’s spent cock pulls out of him, cum trailing after it, trickling out Adien’s hole and down the tops of his thighs, catching in his shorts. He’s going to have to change those. The stench of sex is heavy in the air, and Adien can’t imagine how he ever thought this room was cold. It’s too hot; he’s sweating everywhere, and he feels like he might melt.
The bed creaks. It takes considerable effort to move his head enough to glance to his side; Tremik’s climbing off. Adien wants to drop his hips and just lie down, but he doesn’t know if he should, so he stays in his position. Tremik’s eyeing him with a sort of feral hunger that makes a shiver run down Adien’s spine. Then Tremik turns and heads for the adjoining bathroom. Adien wasn’t summoned, so he doesn’t follow.
He waits about five minute after he hears the shower run, and then he finally collapses, still trying to catch his breath, and it’s uncomfortably wet all over his bottom. His ass is still hanging out, but he doesn’t bother correcting that. He’s just grateful he was left on the bed instead of the floor. It’s more comfortable than what he’s used to—definitely something he’s missed.
Sometimes he washes his master, but if they have a ceremony to go to, there won’t be time for that. Adien stretches out on his front to spare his sore ass, and he eventually returns to being cold. He slips into a vague half-sleep, waiting. Maybe half an hour later, the door opens and two slaves trail in, rabbits, each carrying a stack of material. They ignore Adien, and he ignores them. One kneels down beside the bathroom door, and the other trails off through another door on the far side of the room. It’s attached to more of Tremik’s sprawling, multi-story chambers. They’re both wearing more clothes, befitting their station.
When Tremik comes out, one of the rabbits dresses him in a lavish set of black-and-silver robes, painted like thorns from the bottom up. The second rabbit comes in to help, and then Tremik’s pushing them away none too gently, and they bow their way out without a word. Adien pushes himself up, feeling heavy and dizzy. Tremik eyes him, then strolls over to a tall set of drawers.
Tremik has a few drawers just for things he likes to see on his slaves, Adien knows, and he’s tossed a short black slave skirt that he just barely catches. He waits for more, but other than a long, metal chain, that’s all. Tremik wanders back, and Adien immediately slips off the bed.
He’d change himself if told, of course, but instead, Tremik jerks his shorts down, his spent cock bouncing free, cum still all over him. There is no cleaning up—he’ll have to do that when he’s released. He steps into the skirt he’s offered, and Tremik tugs it up, snug around his waist. It isn’t much longer than his shorts were, but it does look fancier, makes him feel more important, even if just a little. Tremik loops a claw under his chin and lifts it up; the chain’s clipped to his collar like a leash, more for show than anything.
Then it’s off to the banquet, Adien trailing submissively behind his master.
Chapter 3 (preview)
The banquet is in the honour of some visiting dignitary ‘donating’ a sizable amount to the royal family. Adien, having talked to the always-unhappy royal treasurer’s assistant once or twice, knows that ‘donations’ are usually more semi-forced offerings made to counteract the royal family’s wrath. The surrounding nobles look as much: scared or scary. There are several rows of long tables in the expansive hall, the ceiling endlessly high above and the walls lined with electric lights and flickering candles and fresh flowers. A band is playing a loud ensemble from the far corner, drinks are being poured, and there’s a general raucous in the air that makes it very difficult to hear more than the immediate conversation. Servants are circulating with more drinks and extra food, other slaves at their masters’ feet.Adien’s at his. Right now, he can’t see much over the top of the white-covered table in front of him. He’s sitting at Tremik’s left, the king and queen on the other side. They’re chatting quietly about the new statue they’re having built in the square outside the castle and how they’ll allocate these new funds to it. Adien doesn’t take much interest; he’s rarely allowed out anyway, and when he is, it’s usually just to get fucked in the gardens.
The current song ends and another starts up. There’s a general round of cheering—entertainment must be arriving. It’s most likely dancers, slaves or ‘hired’ performers, sometimes a mix of both. Sometimes it’s more: live combat or the taming of a beast. But there are no sounds of heavy animals or clashing swords, so dancers are what Adien assumes. The rowdy comments and whistles lend themselves well to that theory.
Part of him wants to lift up on his knees and peer over the tabletop. He knows he’s lucky, in a way, that his master is of a high enough rank for him to have access to such grand events. Lifting up might take some of the edge off his cold legs, too—the stone below is polished, swept, and smooth, but not that far from ice. On the other hand, he’s not too keen on drawing attention to himself. He’s been a slave long enough to not be bothered by public displays, but he still doesn’t like to be shared.
His master is rigid and cruel, but at least from Tremik, Adien knows what to expect. With a new person to please, anything could happen. With a relatively cushy life—for a slave, anyway—Adien’s not a risk taker. He stays on his knees and shifts closer to Tremik’s chair. He tries to lean on the dark mahogany legs without his head bumping Tremik’s arm. Tremik’s tail is curled to the other side, wings folded at his back. Adien’s bushy tail is over his legs, trying to cover and warm them up. It doesn’t work.
Tremik’s elbow taps Adien’s head by accident, hands busy over food, and he glances down thoughtfully, as though he’d forgotten Adien was there. Adien smiles in hope, and Tremik grins back, reaching down to pet him.
“Hungry?” Tremik’s voice is a little slurred from wine
Definitely. Adien bites his lip and nods.
Tremik glances back about the table, and his hand drops with a half bun in it, cut open and buttered. Pleased with the choice, (though he’d act like he was even if he wasn’t) Adien tilts his head and takes a small bite. He eats the bun out of his master’s hand and licks Tremik’s fingers clean after.
Then a chunk of hair at the back of his head is grabbed, and he’s yanked abruptly to his feet, made to stumble to keep balance. He blushes furiously on instinct, hoping no one saw that. He should be more poised. The chained leash slithers more out of the pile in Tremik’s lap, eventually attached to the sash around Tremik’s waist. Adien doesn’t look up. He can see the dancers’ feet on the center table in his peripherals; hopefully everyone’s too caught up in the entertainment to notice one slave’s clumsiness.
Adien’s pulled by his hips into Tremik’s lap, legs slipping to either side and tail flattened against Tremik’s chest: facing outwards. Honestly, Adien would rather face him, but he isn’t given that choice. It’s a good thing the table block the view of his lap; with his thighs spread like this, his skirt doesn’t offer much coverage.
Adien doesn’t have to be told what to do—a few slaves about the room are already pleasing their masters. Drinks are everywhere, the general speech and glass-clinking din almost as loud as the music. He’s picking his hips up to start when Tremik growls next to his ear, “Put on a good show for me, pet.” Adien nods. He knows.
The beat is something erratic and fast, something the dancers, in their flowing sheer purple silk, seem to have no trouble adjusting to. It takes Adien a little longer. He leans his shoulders back against Tremik’s body and sways his hips along with the difficult rhythm, rocking back and forth, tail subconsciously trying to flick behind him but without sufficient room. His hands reach behind himself, steadying himself on Tremik’s thighs. As he moves, he can feel the bulge growing beneath him, almost sharp against his sore ass. He grinds into that spot anyway, determined to be good.
The song around him passes slowly. Adien moves to it, never stopping, and Tremik drinks once or twice around him, not bothering with any more food. The table's lined with elegant dishes Adien would love to taste, but he knows better than to touch any of it. He does his duty. Once he gets used to it, lost in the second-nature feeling of dancing, he starts to look more around the hall. There’s a mouse servicing a fat boar two tables down, his off-white tusks almost puncturing holes in her large ears as he holds her back against him. Shivering in response, Adien has to admit that he has a somewhat lucky post. He spots Alice with the guard from earlier at the end of his own table, his thick tail wrapped around her waist and holding her in while she feeds him grapes. Adien recognizes most of the slaves, but he doesn’t know all of them.
He makes a keening sound when the music hitches, his voice high enough for no one but Tremik to hear it, the hunger getting to him. He bucks back extra hard, and Tremik, chuckling, strokes his thigh. “Want something, slave?”
Adien looks pointedly at the table. He’s rewarded with a few slices of apple, one at a time. Then his waist is held firmly down and he’s made to grind harder, earning his keep. This goes on for a few more songs, until Queen Tremula, a silver-green snake with fangs to rival even the king’s, hisses sideways at her son, “Don’t play with your toys at the dinner table all night, dear.”
Her gold, slit eyes flick over to Adien, and Adien hurriedly looks away. Sometimes just looking at the king and queen makes him shiver. King Artemik isn’t as clear as to his being, but most just call him a devil.
Even Tremik doesn’t mess with the king, and he grumbles and pushes Adien off before his father becomes involved. Adien hurriedly sinks to the floor, curling back up like before. He’s ignored for a good long while, and he sort of wishes the tables didn’t have tablecloths so he could at least have legs and feet to look at. Maybe he could catch the eyes of other slaves between them, and that would be something to do.
At least the music’s pleasant. At least he’s fed. He doesn’t know any better, and though he sometimes hates his position, he tries not to think of that. There’s not much better it could be; slaves don’t go up. There is no up. There’s further down, and if Adien lets himself crack under the weight like others before him, he’ll be tossed to the guards to play with. He closes his eyes and leans against his master’s chair, trying to think warm, happier thoughts.
Sometimes he wonders what it would be like to be a prince. He’s so very far from one, but it’s still fun to play dress-up in his head. He wouldn’t need grand quarters, but he’d definitely have something with a bed and curtains. Maybe even a door he could close. He’d eat good food every day. He’d wear more clothes, and he’d probably never wear a collar.
He wouldn’t have slaves. He probably wouldn’t even need one.
Maybe he’d find a cute guard to have sex with, another dog, maybe a soft woman or a man with kind eyes.
He almost ends up nodding off, shaken back to life by a tug on his collar much later, when the sun’s almost gone and the noise has become more of a dull simmer. He’s shifted underneath the table, under the cloth, and he’s settled between Tremik’s legs.
He sucks his master off with a tired sort of efficiency, the moans above swallowed with wine.
Chapter 4 (preview)
Adien’s banished from the hall early, told to bathe and be back before the end of the evening. It seems strange to him that the royal family does the important, secure business at the end of the night when most of them are drunk and tired, but then, he supposes there isn’t much negotiating to be done. He doesn’t stay to question. He sits still while his leash is removed, and his ass is smacked on his way out.
The hallways are now down to dim light, the few electric lamps off and flickering candles lit: better for the mood. It makes everything rimmed in a dull orange. It’s colder now, and Adien makes his way back to the harem room at a brisk pace, brisker after Alice races past him. Nathan catches up to him at one point, coming from down another corridor. He asks, “There was a ceremony?” while they both jog side by side.
“Yes.” There isn’t much more to say to that. They slow as they pass a guard, a fierce looking tiger. Then they pick up speed again, when they’re alone; it helps to keep warm.
“Was it fun?”
Adien just snorts. He supposes it must seem fun to those who serve lower masters, but it really isn’t. He shrugs and settles on, “There was music.”
“My master has a music box,” Nathan cuts in suddenly. He loves music, and Adien does like it, so it seemed the best choice to point out. “She has ten songs on it now and says she can put on more. I don’t understand how it works, but don’t you think that’s neat?”
Of course it is. “Do you get to play it?”
“Not without her, no, but she puts it on during sex sometimes. It makes me feel funny.”
Adien waits for an indication of whether that’s good or bad, but one doesn’t come. They’ve reached their destination anyway, and Nathan automatically veers off towards a table of vegetables in the corner. Adien carries on to the back, passing a towel-clad Jenni in the doorway. He passes the row of sinks and toilets, down to the back wall where the round tubs are lined up, six occupied and four empty. Adien picks the one on the end and turns the tap, vaguely wishing he could do this in Tremik’s bathroom—it has temperature controls. Adien has to settle for the vaguely lukewarm setting he gets. He’s worked up a bit of sweat from jogging, but that’ll all come off, too. There’s a hodgepodge of soap bars on the thin ledge above the taps. Adien picks a scentless blue one.
If the water were hotter, Adien could probably fall asleep in a tub—take his time and relax, unwind. With the way it is, it’s more of a necessity: something he does because he has to if he wants to remain favoured. The end of his tail hangs over the rim of the bath, and he doesn’t wash his hair or ears; he’ll do that on a day when he’s not meant to be somewhere else immediately after.
There’s no telling how long the banquet will continue, but Adien errs on the side of caution. His healthy dose of fear is probably one of the reasons he found his way into the prince’s bed in the first place: it keeps him well-behaved. He washes with a quick efficiency, paying special attention to his rear and front, and he rubs an extra layer or two off the bar after as a courtesy to other slaves. Then it’s a general sort of rinsing and splashing, and then he’s climbing out, padding over to the towels hung along the wall. He leaves a trail of small puddles in his wake that’ll eventually trickle down the slightly slanted floor to the interspersed drains. He shakes his tail out and runs the towel everywhere else, and he slips back into his skirt. It’s chillier now that he’s damp.
He runs again, even though it might work up another sweat, and he reaches the banquet hall with, apparently, a few minutes to spare. He stands outside with the waiting cleaning slaves, and a moment later the doors open, music dwindling out. Lesser patrons leave first. Adien waits for the royal family. He averts his eyes when King Artemik passes: a nervous habit he’ll probably never be rid of. He’s not the only slave that looks away.
He’s grabbed by the scruff of his neck before he’s straightened out again, and he recognizes the feel of his master’s claws. He’s dragged down the hall with the faux-procession, up the marble staircase lining the wall, and at the top, Tremik bids his parents a formal goodnight. They return the wishes, and Tremik splits off, Adien in tow. He could walk himself, of course, but he’s dragged by his hair for most of it. He’s let go of near the base of Tremik’s tower, and then he follows of his own accord, rubbing the back of his neck and hurrying to keep up with Tremik’s long strides.
Dragons hold their liquor well. Tremik’s gate is faultlessly steady, and at the foot of his quarters, he turns, looking perfectly sober with only slightly dull eyes. He tells Adien with a fat smirk, “You could’ve done better.”
Adien’s tail wilts immediately. He struggles not to show it on his face. He didn’t think he did anything wrong, but he’s certainly not about to argue.
Tremik throws the doors open and tosses Adien through them—Adien stumbles across the carpet. He hears the doors lock and stays where he is, pulled to the bed a
moment later. Tremik tugs him around to the side, sits down, and pats his lap. When Adien hesitates, unsure of what that means in this context, Tremik purrs, “Well, don’t you think you deserve a spanking?”
No. But Adien hurries to nod, and he shimmies out of his skirt again. He steps out of the leftover pile and puts one knee on the bed, but Tremik's hands lift to his neck, forcing him to stall.
His collar’s unclasped and removed—something no slave is allowed to do. Adien’s neck feels naked without it, more so than the rest of him. His cheeks grow a little hot with the worry of what that means. It’ll be put back on later, he’s sure—it’s the mark of his station. For now, it’s tossed to the floor, and Tremik chuckles, “There. You’ve been demoted to a mutt until you’ve pleased me enough to be my pet again.” Adien settles, nodding. He can do that.
He’s grabbed by his throat so hard that he nearly chokes, and the next second he’s being thrown across Tremik’s lap. His face just barely misses the mattress, and his bare cock slams into Tremik’s hard legs, stiff and uncomfortable. It aches. The bed’s nicer, and Adien squirms to try and get a better fit, freezing as soon as he’s pulled more into place. He’s mostly hanging over the edge, toes steadying on the ground, hands doing the same. It occurs to him that he might not have done anything wrong at all; sometimes Tremik just makes excuses to ‘punish’ him.
Spankings are more for Tremik’s benefit than Adien’s. Adien never learns lessons from these, other than to keep his ass elevated after each hit. He doesn’t think about what he’s done wrong now—he just clears his mind and waits for the first blow. His tail’s pushed aside, hanging limply over Tremik’s legs.
There’s no paddle, no whip today. The first slap is just with familiar scales, something that stings more than the instruments. Adien grits his teeth and stifles his yelp. He isn’t told to count them out, so he doesn’t. Tremik’s fingers linger too long, squeezing one cheek afterwards. At the right angle, those scales or claws could easily cut Adien open. That won’t happen if he hasn’t really misbehaved, though.
Instead, he’s slapped bluntly, sooner than Adien expected. He makes a sharp whining noise beyond his control, mirrored on the next slap to his other cheek. Tremik begins to alternate between them, hard and fast with no warning and an uneven rhythm that makes Adien uneasy. Each slap stings worse than the last one, until he’s sure his ass must be entirely red, his flesh feeling raw and pained. He tries to keep himself steady on the floor. His tail gives a small jerk with each hit, his breath hitching, and his whines dissolve into whimpers before long. He tries not to squirm, tries to behave, but it’s so hard to stay still when he knows the next blow is always coming. His thighs start to tremble and his eyes start to water, but he squeezes them shut and refuses to cry. He hates being fucked while he’s crying, and that’s probably where this is headed. It often is. It’s too hard to keep track when all he can focus on is the pain, but he thinks he may be nearing forty, fifty. He’s taken more before. This is a lot for an imaginary failure. Or maybe he’s just delirious and it’s only thirty.
The next dozen or so that come are flat down the middle, covering both cheeks, and a few after that hit the tops of his thighs. Adien shudders after each slap and hangs his head, tears slowly beading up. His cock is completely limp against Tremik’s lap, but he can feel Tremik’s bulge pressing into his stomach. It twitches every time Adien sniffles, grows when Adien’s voice cracks. He knows better than to beg for mercy, but he’s getting close to where he’ll have to.
Just when he thinks he can’t take it anymore—he’ll be spanked completely raw and he’ll cry like a child and he’ll be fucked like this—the blows stop coming. Adien keeps trembling and whimpering. Tremik’s taking a moment just to look at him, and Tremik’s rough hands run over his abused ass, squeezing experimentally. Adien groans. He’s groped a bit, and then he’s finally picked up by his tail and dropped to the floor.
Adien stays on his stomach where he falls, face buried in the carpet and too afraid to look up. He doesn’t want to move.
The mattress creaks and weight drops against the floor. Footsteps fall, and a brush of cool fabric slithers over Adien’s back—he’s being stepped over. He still doesn’t move, but he keeps his ears perked and listening. Maybe Tremik’s changing. Yes, that’s it; there’s a rustle of fabric, drawers opening, creaking back together. Sometimes he sleeps naked, sometimes in silk pants. Adien sleeps in whatever he’s wearing and wonders vaguely if he can nod off like this.
He’s not particularly surprised when that doesn’t happen. Tremik strolls back and toes Adien lightly in the side, so Adien lifts onto his elbows and looks up. Tremik’s eyes are sweeping over him, and for a moment, Adien wonders if he’ll be allowed to sleep in the bed. That almost never happens. Sometimes Tremik forgets to kick him out after sex. This time, Adien’s stepped right over. Tremik settles into the covers, lying on his stomach so his wings can unfold, and they reach over where Adien’s lying, blocking out the ceiling.
Tremik drawls, “Turn out the lights, then sleep right there.”
Adien mumbles, “Yes, Your Highness,” and rolls out of the shadow of wings. He keeps the relief out of his voice that there won’t be any sex. He pushes tenderly to his feet and wraps his arms around himself. It hurts to walk, so he goes slowly. He has to walk the perimeter of the whole circular room, blowing out candles and flicking the switch for the electric light in the center. It’s difficult to move in the increasing darkness, and he closes the curtains of the largest, still-open window last. The effect is almost total darkness, and Adien walks only a few centimeters at a time in what he thinks is the general direction of the bed.
Eventually he finds a bedpost, then the lounge at the end, and he pauses a moment to consider sleeping there. But that wasn’t what he was told, so he inevitably moves on.
He finds the floor beside Tremik’s bed, his own skirt in a lump beneath his feet. He bunches that up like a pillow and stretches out on his back, hoping this will be one of those nights where the prince doesn’t snore.
Chapter 5 (preview)
Adien’s dream pops into nothingness, the sort of suddenly awake mode where it takes him a few seconds to realize what’s going on. He’s on a hard surface, his joints protesting, his left arm asleep from where he’s been lying on it. It’s pitch black except for one small candle in the corner, lighting up the dragon’s back.
It’s clearly what woke him up, so Adien figures that he better stay awake, and he pushes himself up on his other arm, yawning. His legs draw together automatically to defend against the cold, and he watches Tremik discard a towel and begin to change into clothes. He obviously isn’t about to call slaves to do that, which is odd, and it puts Adien in the uncomfortable position of not knowing whether or not he should offer help.
He settles for being quiet: only speak when spoken to. He waits for Tremik to finish, and Tremik gets about halfway done before turning abruptly and storming over, muttering to himself, “Should’ve done this before the shower.”
Adien looks up on approach, and it quickly becomes obvious what ‘this’ is. Tremik’s gotten into a set of smooth dress pants and an open button up that looks black, but really could be anything in this light. The tip of his cock is clearly visible over his pants, and he quickly pulls himself out, right above Adien’s eye level. Adien’s grabbed by the hair and made to lift up on his knees. He opens his mouth just in time.
The first thought that hits his sleepy head is that he’s not going to have very good breath in the morning. His body wants to yawn again, but there’s simply no way of getting it past his chest. Tremik shoves him right down to the base, almost all the way on, and only years of training keep Adien from gagging to death. His throat still quivers with discomfort, tongue squirming to get by, but there really is no way to be comfortable in a situation like this. So Adien focuses on relaxing. He’s too tired to be a good whore, so maybe he can be a good doll instead.
Either Tremik’s also tired, or he’s in a hurry. He doesn’t bark orders to do otherwise. He barely leaves a few seconds to adjust before he’s pulling out, pausing and shoving in again, hard enough that Adien’s body makes a groan of protest. He doesn’t dare put his hands on Tremik’s legs to steady himself, so instead his hands are fists against his own thighs. He tries to be perfectly still: a statue made for fucking. He lets Tremik use him, working up to something fast and hard that bruises the walls of Adien’s mouth and makes him whimper around the heavy cock pummeling in and out. It doesn’t take long for his jaw to start aching. It mirrors the pain still in his ass. Even freshly washed as Tremik must be, judging from the towel, his raw stench is an unpleasant cloud in Adien’s nose. Adien tries to ignore the taste that gnaws at him; he just wants to go back to sleep.
Halfway through, Adien lets his eyes fall halfway closed, but he doesn’t dare do more, lest he drift off enough to try closing his mouth. Mostly, he just exists, dully counting thrusts like sheep and hoping it’ll end soon. Maybe because of his own lack of effort, it takes longer than usual. Push after push, one large hand over the back of his head, and finally, they get there. Tremik’s cock stiffens with barely a second of warning, and he bursts against the back of Adien’s throat. Caught off guard, Adien chokes, but he struggles to regain himself and manages, surviving. His eyes water purely from discomfort, but he’s still and takes it, swallowing the sticky mess that tumbles down his throat.
Eventually, it’s over. Tremik hastily pulls out and stuffs himself back into his pants, marching over to the corner again without a word. Adien dazedly adjusts his jaw, fighting the urge to spit. He wishes he had water.
He’s hazily aware of Tremik in the corner of his vision, buttoning up and donning robes, tying on a sash and smoothing back his hair. He examines himself by candlelight in the mirror, turning to different angles. By the time he’s finished, Adien is nearly asleep sitting up.
Tremik’s voice pulls him back to the waking world. “I’m going out.” Adien’s head snaps up immediately.
Sneaking out is what that means. He should’ve seen that before, really—showering and getting ready in the dead of night. Where Tremik’s going, Adien doesn’t dare ask, though he knows it’s probably some inappropriate liaison. Still, he isn’t supposed to just up and leave like this—it isn’t proper—the queen would be furious. A tinge of fear darts itself through Adien’s body; does this make him party to nefarious activity? Could he be held responsible? But he could never breathe a word against the prince; he’d be killed in a heartbeat. Tremik must see his wide eyes but just snickers.
“It’s none of your business, puppy, what a prince does with his spare time. I’m taking the hidden passage—” Adien’s eyes widen again; that’s a secret way that only a few know about, so this is definitely sneaking, “and if you tell a single soul, I’ll rip off your tail.”
Adien doesn’t doubt it. He straights in terror and mumbles, “I would never, Your Highness.” Tremik nods. He knows.
He doesn’t leave through the main doors. He takes his single candle with him, heading to the attached study. The passage lets out in his chambers: part of the reason so very few know of it. Adien’s not even sure the king and queen know. The door shuts behind the fading light, and Adien’s plunged back into a very frigid darkness.
He stares blankly into it for a few minutes, wondering if he should go back to the harem room. There’d be pillows there to snuggle with. But he wasn’t told he could leave. He doesn’t know when Tremik will be back. The passage takes at least half an hour to get through, so there and back is an hour no matter what, and it’s unlikely the prince’s destination will only take a moment, not with all this trouble. Adien doesn’t really care what’s going to happen to Tremik outside of these walls. He just cares what he’s supposed to do now, and they’re all scary options.
Sighing, Adien leans back a little, thinking and slumping and sleepy, and he’s a little surprised when his shoulder hits the side of the bed—he’d forgotten about that. But it’s so soft and plush, and in Tremik’s absence, he risks using it to prop himself up.
He wants to sleep there. His ass is in pain, protesting to sitting, so he can’t stay like this forever. The bed would be much softer than the floor and warmer, too.
Adien’s slept in the bed before. But never without his master.
He was never given this opportunity before, either.
It occurs to him that for at least an hour, he will be alone. Maybe... maybe if he just relaxed in it for a little and slipped out afterwards, no one would be the wiser. The floor would be easier to handle, wouldn’t it, if his body were given a rest in between? His tail’s lightly swishing beneath the bed just at the thought. A nice mattress, blankets. It would be a risk, yes, but might it be worth it...?
Adien sucks in a breath. He blames his tired head. If he were more awake, maybe he’d have a healthier dose of fear and sense to stop him. But he doesn’t, and all he wants is to curl up and be unconscious. It’ll be easier, faster up there. Adien starts to lift to his feet before he even knows what he’s doing, tail twitching nervously. He’s really going to do this.
If he gets caught... no, he doesn’t want to think about that. He won’t be. He’ll just lie down for a little bit, then fall back out. No one will ever know.
His hands still shake as he peels back the thick duvet. His knees still shake as they board the mattress. He slips underneath the blankets, falling into one of the pillows, and his eyes almost roll back into his head with pleasure. It’s so... luxurious. Having a whole bed, all to himself, all the very best royal linens... Adien’s in a strange sort of heaven. He stretches out and shifts to his side, letting his rear breathe, the rest of him swamped in heat, and he pulls the blankets right up under his chin. He’s cocooned like a happy butterfly. He doesn’t ever want to leave.
He’ll have to. He knows that.
But he drifts off before he can, and he dreams of being a prince with a nest made of blankets on the floor.
Chapter 6 (preview)
This time he comes to in a dull sort of crawl, slow and steady. He dreamt again, but he can’t remember what of. It’s that strange sort of stage where it still feels like half is real, what parts, he can’t tell, and he’s aware that his eyes are closed. They’re heavy, (he’s all heavy) and he doesn’t want to open them. He understands that he’s going to be awake, though he doesn’t know why or what that means, and he’s not sure he wants it.A sharp clatter sounds somewhere in the room. He shoots up in bed automatically, stumbling into the real world. It takes him a moment to decipher it—something metal hitting the floor. There’s more. Footsteps, maybe, how many, how loud, he’s too scared to think to tell. There’s no way to see. The lights are all out, not even through the curtains, and his eyes need time to adjust—it’s pitch black. The only thing that could make any sense is that Tremik’s returned, and his great wings have knocked something over.
Adien’s blood turns to ice in a heartbeat. He’s still in bed. In the prince’s bed. He’s going to be caught in the prince’s bed, and then he’s probably going to be hanged for his audacity. Terror takes hold of him; he has to get out of here now.
He flings the blankets off, swerving to the side, ignoring his sore bones, and he doesn’t get any further. Something’s thrown up over him.
His first thought is a shrill irrationality—the blankets have attacked him. Fabric’s suffocating him. But it’s not their silk. It’s rougher, maybe burlap? There’s a bag on his head. It must be a bag. Or something like that. He shoves a hand out against it, too panicked to even scream, and then his feet are pulled out from under him. Hands are grabbing him, maybe not scaled like they should be, grabbing his arms and his legs, and Tremik shouldn’t even have that many hands. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He’s lifted from the bed, and the bag’s tightening around his shoulders—air’s coming scarce—he’s hyperventilating—he can’t even keep track of where he’s being touched and this isn’t right and he’s going to die and he spirals into something completely unintelligible before it goes black again, passing out.
This time, he doesn’t dream.
He wakes up to another screech—maybe a horn or talking, or wait; it’s a door opening, and Adien shrieks at the top of his tiny lungs and tries to jerk backwards, finds out his arms are tied behind him and he’s tied to some sort of chair, and he promptly topples over to the floor.
He stares up at the wooden ceiling, chest nearly convulsing in his attempt to breathe. His eyes are wet. He might already be crying from sheer fright. Rabbits can die of fright. Can puppies?
But... wait, there are no wooden ceilings in the castle... are there?
He’s wearing clothes. His chin jerks to his chest, looking down. He’s in some oversized shirt, long enough to cover his lap, though now it’s fallen down with the awkward angle. He’s pretty sure he went to bed naked. His arms are bound to two rickety armrests with thick rope, his ankles tied to the chair legs. It’s uncomfortable against his sore rear, but the binding itself is loose enough, and why is he clothed and tied? If this is some new game of Tremik’s, it’s a strange one.
More footsteps. Whimpering pathetically, Adien closes his eyes. He’s already trembling. He has no idea what’s going on, and frankly, his brain’s too shot to bother trying to decipher it. He wants to shrink into a tiny little ball and die.
The footsteps stop. They’re so close to him, just at the end of the midair chair legs, hovering over him like some wild beast. Not that he can see any of this. He’ll need to look. There’s no other way.
Adien creeps one eye open, gets a short glance at a large man with tanned skin and scruffy hair and stubble, who shouts, “Boo!”
Adien wets himself.
He’s still too scared to be properly embarrassed.
There’s a snort. Some silence, and then, “Well, aren’t you a tiny thing.” The man’s voice is deep and sort of scratchy. He isn’t wearing anything Adien recognizes—a loose, half-open blouse. There’s a grotesque seam of stitches around his neck. He’s not any sort of animal Adien recognizes—some kind of monster. Monsters don’t live in the capital. Adien doesn’t understand and he’s shaking so badly, thinks he might cry. The man’s eyebrows knit together and he snorts again. “Pathetic—I can’t believe people are afraid of you!”
No one’s afraid of Adien. The sewn man is far scarier. He grabs the chair legs and rights the whole thing like it’s nothing, disorienting Adien with the sudden movement. The man adds, “I guess I’m sorry I scared you.” Adien’s started sobbing. He hiccups. The man wrinkles his nose.
He walks around the chair. Adien flinches when the man’s fingers brush his arms, but they seem to be tugging at the rope. “We were going to keep you tied the whole time, but, no offense, you really don’t seem that strong. I think they might not be necessary.” Adien doesn’t want to look over his shoulder. When the ropes fall away from his lap, he instantly shoves down the shirt’s hem as far as it’ll go, covering his damp lap. He’s still trembling, his tail curled around him and through the back of the chair.
The man sighs and pats Adien’s shoulder with one large hand, fingers all sewn on. “It’s okay, kid. We’re not going to hurt you so long as you behave, even if you are an evil prince.”
Adien stiffens immediately. He spares one wide-eyed look at his captor, who, apparently, shouldn’t be his captor at all. How anyone could mistake him for Tremik, Adien has no idea. ...Even though he was sleeping in the prince’s bed, and Tremik rarely leaves the castle, let alone the capital... but he’s hardly a dragon. Adien doesn’t know whether to correct that or not. He opens his mouth, but only a feeble squeak comes out, and he shuts it again.
The man walks along in front of him. Adien’s ankles are still tied to the chair, which is fine—he’s not about to move. Shaking too bad. The man puts his hands on his hips, a tight, crimson sash around them. “The name’s Frons.” A smirk twists onto the man’s dry lips, crinkling his eyes with amusement. He’s older, could maybe be Adien’s father, or a bit older than that, but there’s no grey in his hair. “To put it in terms you understand, I’m the king of the pirates, and you’re on my ship.” He looks rather smug, and well he should; kidnapping a prince is quite a feat.
Except that Frons didn’t kidnap a prince at all. If possible, Adien’s even more terrified now. Pirates. He didn’t even know those really existed—thought they were just stories. Pirates are outlaws, right? They must not get along with royalty. Maybe they’ll kill Adien. But if he says he’s not the prince, he’ll have no use to them; what if they throw him overboard? Adien’s a terrible swimmer. He can do it, but not all the way to shore, wherever that might be. How did they get him all the way to the docks, anyway? He gives another pained sob and hangs his head. His ears are wilting. Just his luck; he tries to catch five minutes in a bed and he gets kidnapped by pirates.
“Well?”
Adien looks up, big eyes wide and lined with water. It makes Frons look sort of uncomfortable, but he elaborates, “Haven’t you got anything to say? Honestly, I thought I’d be tackling a slew of threats by now.”
Adien hiccups again. He licks his lips and wants to say something, anything that’ll get him out of this, but he winds up mumbling, “Are... are you g-going to kill me?”
Frons frowns. He looks offended and says in a sort of deadpanned way, “Unlike some powers, I have a conscience.” When that doesn’t do anything to Adien’s expression, he clarifies, “I’m not going to kill you. You’re for ransom and a few political trades, nothing more. ...I’m not claiming we’re angels on this ship, but we’re not murderers.”
Adien breathes a sigh of relief that comes out as more of a whine. Maybe death might’ve been more merciful compared to whatever they’ve got planned, but for now, that’s one hurdle down. Frons is looking at him expectantly as though waiting for more, but Adien hasn’t got anything else to say. He’s got a million and one questions that are only half formed and probably wouldn’t make it past his lungs. He looks down at his lap and draws his knees together.
There’s a tiny yellow stain on the front of his white shirt, and he’s sitting in a small puddle. His cheeks are probably red enough to drown out his freckles. He sniffs and wonders dimly how long he’ll be strapped to this chair.
Frons might be about to tell him, but the door opens first. They seem to be in some small, wooden cabin, and the door creaks when it swings aside. Another man steps in. Adien’s facing him.
If possible, Adien goes even redder. He doesn’t know what he expected pirates to be—maybe all old monsters like their apparent king. That’s not what this man is at all. He’s younger, only a little older than Adien, and he doesn’t have the haphazard stitching but smooth, crisp seams. He looks something like a doll. He has smooth, honey hair, longish for a boy, swept across his bright blue eyes. His salmon-pink blouse is open, his stomach taut and lightly muscled, all of his skin pale and almost glistening. He smiles minutely at Adien and turns to the king.
All Adien can think is that it’s just his luck; he’s meeting the most gorgeous man he’s ever seen in his life while pant-less, strapped to a chair, and sitting in his own urine. He’s not sure he could think of a more embarrassing situation if he tried.
“It’s awfully quiet in here,” the man says to Frons, arms crossing over his chest. “Weren’t we expecting holes punched in our deck? And here Mother sent me to check that you were alright.”
Frons laughs. “What, from this little thing? I think even Kiirl could handle him.” With a sweeping, amused sort of look over Adien, Frons adds, “The rumours from the capitol were clearly very exaggerated. He’s only just woken up and already pissed himself.” Adien scrunches his nose, so humiliated that he could just sink right through the floorboards.
To his surprise, the younger man scolds, “Father, honestly. He might be the son of a tyrant, but that’s no reason to be an ass.”
Frons scrunches his nose. “It wasn’t on purpose. He’s just weaker than I thought.” Frons scratches the back of his head, then waves a hand. “Bah, he’s your problem now, anyway. I should be on deck making sure we weren’t followed. Keep an eye on him for me, will you?”
The younger man nods. He keeps glancing at Adien, but Adien has nothing to add. “What’s his name?”
“Prince Tremik,” Frons answers. “That’s what they say, anyway; I’ve hardly gotten two words out of him. I suppose we don’t need to keep him in here after all—hardly seems a threat.” He starts to walk as he talks, headed for the door, and his son trails after him. Frons turns the handle, then looks back and adds with a cheeky smirk, “Sorry, I think he ruined your shirt.” The son laughs. Frons nods and leaves, the door closing with a slight ‘clunk’ behind him.
Adien’s left with a very handsome doll, feeling supremely stupid. The fear’s only just begun to ebb away, replacing itself with embarrassment. He keeps his hands in his lap, shoulders hunched as the other man strolls over to him.
That man thrusts out a hand and says coolly, “Lenaru. And you’re Prince Tremik, I presume?”
Adien lifts one hand, then promptly shoves it down again. It’s still slightly damp. He’s probably not blushing anymore, because his cheeks feel as hot as they could possibly be. The smart thing would be to shut up and let them think that’s his name, but instead he mumbles, “A... Adien...”
“What?”
“My name,” Adien squeaks.
Lenaru lifts an eyebrow. “Adien?”
Adien nods.
Lenaru smiles. “Well, that’s not very evil-sounding.” He’s probably joking, but Adien doesn’t laugh. Lenaru’s eyes trail higher, maybe at Adien’s ears, and he adds, “Your ears and tail aren’t very scary, either. And here we all thought you’d be a shark or a dragon or something. But you’re just a little puppy...”
He reaches out one hand, pausing when Adien flinches on instinct, but then it keeps going. His finger pads slip beneath Adien’s hair, so soft, and they scratch behind his left ear.
Adien’s tail wags instantly, and he makes a small keening noise that he should’ve probably stifled. Lenaru chuckles.
He kneels down and unties Adien’s ankles without much difficulty, pushing the rope away. Then he stands back up and takes hold of Adien’s wrist. Adien’s tugged to his feet, and Lenaru says with a pleasant sparkle in his eye, “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Chapter 7 (preview)
They must be under the deck. Adien doesn’t know proper ship terminology in the slightest. They aren’t quite rocking like he thought they’d be, but they’re not still, either. Everything’s wooden, the hallway is narrow, and there are doors lining the walls that they walk right past. Once, Adien hears a door behind him, and he whirls around to see what he’s sure is a zombie disappear into the door on the opposite side. He stands very close to Lenaru, wanting to cling to Lenaru’s arm for no good reason. Dolls don’t eat people, as far as he knows. Zombies, he’s not so sure about.
The room they go to is a bathroom of sorts. It’s much smaller than what Adien’s used to, nicer than the one in the harem room, far uglier than Tremik’s. It’s got one tiny tub on one wall and a toilet and sink on the other. The counter the sink’s in is wooden like everything else, but the tub, toilet, and sink itself are pure white, if a little chipped here and there. There’s a mirror over the sink, and Adien catches himself in it. He looks a complete mess, even more so next to the handsome pirate in front of him.
Lenaru smiles at their reflections. It makes Adien red again. Lenaru reaches back to slip one hand beneath Adien’s chin, and he gently tilts Adien’s face from side to side, saying, “See? We didn’t hurt you. You don’t need to keep being so afraid.”
Oh yes, he does. Instead of saying that, he turns to look at the tub. He’s starting to feel a little queasy. Does water run on this ship like it does in a normal building? He’s never been on one before.
Following his gaze, Lenaru trails over to the bathtub and turns the tap—water starts to splash into it. Adien subconsciously goes to stand behind him, watching the shallow water fill the base.
He doesn’t mean to talk, but he somehow asks quietly, “Will it rock too much when we hit waves?” Then he goes stiff, embarrassed he spoke out of turn but slightly proud he didn’t stutter.
Lenaru looks at him curiously. A second later comprehension dawns, and he says, “Oh, no, we’re not on the water. We’re sky pirates. A storm would do more damage to us than waves.” With an amused sort of twitch of the lips, he adds, “What, did you think we managed to smuggle you all the way down to the docks? Getting the tower guards out of the way was hard enough...”
Adien turns pinker. Maybe he’ll permanently turn this way and stay red from head to foot.
Lenaru chuckles: a soft, lilting sound. “I can’t believe everyone’s so afraid of you. Your father must be ashamed and just making up rumours to strengthen their threat.”
He’s a castle-bound slave. Adien doesn’t even know what his father’s face looks like. If he were the son of King Artemik, though, he’s positive the king would have him disowned or killed.
They don’t say anything else until the tub is full, perhaps because Adien is failing so miserably at conversation. And Lenaru must think he’s a cruel, unhappy man, steaming over being kidnapped. Lenaru turns the tap off and checks the water, nodding to himself; it must be satisfactory. Then he gestures to it and says, “I know you must not be use to washing yourself, Your Majesty, but as you’ve been so gracious about this whole kidnapping thing, I imagine I can play servant the first time.”
Adien goes stock still, his eyes about as wide as they can go. There was obviously a bit of sarcasm in the first part of the statement, but all Adien can think is that someone’s offering to wash him. Like he’s... like he’s royalty. That’s his job.
Does that mean he’ll get to see Lenaru naked? Not that he should think about that. He really shouldn’t think about that. Honestly, he’s been for sex too long. Lenaru’s not as big as Tremik, doesn’t have wings, and doesn’t have a tail—it’d be easier. Could he wash Lenaru? He shouldn’t want to. He totally wants to. He opens his mouth and something garbled and incoherent comes out.
Lenaru laughs. “I know I’m just a lowly pirate, Your Highness, but I’m all you’ve got, so you’ll have to manage.”
Then he’s unbuttoning the rest of his shirt and shrugging it from his shoulders, and Adien just sort of stares like an idiot. There’s a thin dusting of blond hair above his waistband. There are faint seams peeking over his pants, tracing the jut of his hipbones. He’s stunning. He starts to undo his fly, and Adien should look away but doesn’t.
Lenaru isn’t wearing any underwear. Maybe pirates don’t. His clothes pool at his feet, and he kicks them aside, joking to Adien, probably at the awe on his face, “Don’t get any ideas—I’m no concubine.”
Adien starts to stammer, “N-no, I didn’t mean, ah, no, I just, it’s just—”
Lenaru grabs the bottom of his shirt in the middle of his rambling and yanks it right over his head, forcing his arms up. It’s tossed aside, and Lenaru comments casually, “I’ll bring you more clothes.” He winks. “If you promise not to stain them, of course.”
Adien’s going to sink through the floorboards. He’s not sure if it’s a more merciful death than the one he thought he’d meet earlier. In some ways, it feels worse.
Lenaru steps into the bathwater first. Adien tries not to look down, (tries not to notice how long and thick and smooth-looking Lenaru’s cock is) and waits for Lenaru to settle, back against the back of the tub, arms draped along the sides. He looks at Adien expectantly and doesn’t look away from Adien’s face. Adien’s not sure whether he likes that or not. He thinks he’s at least decently attractive—he is the prince’s slave, after all—but maybe Lenaru thinks he could do better.
Or maybe he’s just not a total slut like Adien is, and Adien feels like a hot mess that should just run out the door now and jump off the side of the ship.
Eventually, he steps in the water. It’s warm, very warm. The pleasure of that runs all up his leg, making his tail flick and his ears perk up. He sits down inside carefully, and he’s pulled up right against Lenaru’s chest, Lenaru’s head looping over his shoulder, thighs bracketing his hips. Lenaru’s maybe half a head taller than him. It occurs to him belatedly how dirty his is, but Lenaru doesn’t seem to mind. It then occurs to him that pirates probably don’t put cleanliness at top priority. He feels bad for assuming that. He feels bad for a lot of things.
There’s a small collection of soap bars on a thin shelf in the wall. Lenaru plucks up a purple one that smells of lavender and says good-naturedly, “Don’t get too used to being pampered; you’ll have to do it yourself next time.”
Adien’s never been pampered in his life. He mumbles a clumsy, “Thank you.”
Lenaru scratches once behind Adien’s ear again. Adien’s tail, half buried in the water, flicks and sprays water over their exposed shoulders. He shoves it back down and tries to settle. Even if Lenaru doesn’t know what princes are like, he clearly knows how to handle puppies.
The water’s just past Adien’s nipples, but he could easily slink down to his chin. But that would mean rubbing himself too much against Lenaru, who’s so very warm and smooth behind his back. He’s hyper aware of Lenaru’s cock against his ass, limp and not insistent. If Adien weren’t still recovering from the scare of his life, he probably wouldn’t be as limp. It’s nothing like what he’s used to, and he doesn’t miss scales. He can’t help a curious look over his shoulder at Lenaru’s shoulder seam, and the line around his wrist when he lifts the soap. His fingers don’t seem to be attached to his hand the same way, just one solid piece, like normal. Adien’s staring at that hand while the soap presses against his collarbone, gliding across it.
Lenaru tells him gently, mouth so close to his ear, “I’m a doll, if you’re wondering. My mother is ball-joint and my father is sewn, so I’ve come somewhere in between. ...I suppose you’re pure puppy...”
Adien nods. He wonders what this mother looks like. He’s never seen a... a ‘ball-joint’ doll before.
“Hm,” Lenaru muses. “I’m sure the king is a devil.” He pauses to laugh. “Unless the queen cheated, of course.”
Adien doesn’t want to talk about it, so he doesn’t. The soap drifts under the water, over Adien’s chest. It traces a circle around his left nipple, and Adien bites his bottom lip not to react. He half wishes someone uglier or meaner were washing him so he could react more appropriately. His knees fidget, drawing up together. But... it does feel nice to be pampered.
It feels nice to be in the arms of someone not inherently cruel. Lenaru’s the embodiment of what Adien’s always dreamed of. Something strange randomly and inexplicably occurs to him.
For the first time, exposed to someone new and not royal or owned, Adien wonders idly what it would be like to serve someone he chose himself. Not someone handsome, not someone kind, but someone whom he decided: yes. It’s such a foreign concept that it takes his mind a minute to wrap around it. He’s been more badly shaken up by the night’s events than he thought. Is it even night still? There’s no window in here. Maybe he passed out clear through the morning and they’re in a new day. He fidgets again, and that makes his ass brush against Lenaru’s cock, so he stills.
Lenaru washes him dutifully, reaching down his stomach and the tops of his thighs, stopping there and running up his left side. He pushes Adien lightly and says, “Scoot forward so I can get your back, and then you can do your own crotch. Cute though you are, I don’t want to take advantage.” Adien frowns; but he wants Lenaru to.
Lenaru called him cute. He’ll remember that, he thinks; it already makes him feel hot inside. He scoots forward a few centimeters, and Lenaru pushes him a little more. The soap glides across his shoulders, the aroma faint and sweet, and Adien wraps his arms around his knees.
“So, what’s it like being a prince?”
It’s asked so casually that Adien wonders if he can get away with not answering. He’s not a very good liar outside of sex. He mumbles a noncommittal, “I don’t know.” He means that literally, but perhaps Lenaru will assume that he doesn’t know how to describe it. Lenaru seems to accept as much; he doesn’t ask further.
He’s going to figure out, sooner or later, that Adien’s not a prince at all. And then he’ll be useless and tossed overboard or killed. That might happen sooner—Adien doesn’t have a full understanding of what others think of the royal family, but it’s probably not nice; Adien doesn’t know anyone truly fond of them, just people smart enough to force grins and not say anything. He glances over his shoulder again and wonders what the hell he’s going to do.
It occurs to him that perhaps he should sleep with Lenaru. If he’s sleeping with the son of the pirate’s leader, surely they won’t kill him? It wouldn’t be right, but it’d be survival. And it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship. (Maybe Adien wants an excuse.) He bites his lower lip. It could make his passage safer. He might be accustomed to pleasing dragon princes, but he’s sure he could please a doll with a bit of work. If he can’t figure out exactly how to do it best, he can make up for it with enthusiasm. If that doesn’t work... well... maybe he can sleep with Frons. But that doesn’t sound nearly so appealing...
Lenaru keeps washing him while he thinks of whether or not he should do this and then how to go about it. His entire back is scrubbed clean. He thinks it must be something like getting a massage—he’s massaged masters before but never received one. It’s very nice. Lenaru lifts each of his arms at a time and washes them clean, and then Lenaru hands him the soap and settles back. Adien starts to clean his own crotch, and he squirms on purpose, trying to rub and rut against Lenaru’s cock, feeling shameless and silly and adamantly looking forward and down so Lenaru won’t see his red cheeks. Would it hurt to have such a big cock inside him, he wonders? Or would it actually be easier, since it feels so velvety and even? He hears one muffled groan behind him, and then he sucks in courage. He doesn’t have much of that, but it’ll have to do.
He glances over his shoulder, hesitates, and leans awkwardly back to peck Lenaru’s cheek.
Lenaru looks startled for a second, then grins and laughs, which is not at all the reaction Adien was hoping for.
“Well, aren’t you a naughty little thing.” He reaches around to stroke underneath Adien’s chin, making Adien’s traitorous tail wag back and forth underwater. “But I’m afraid you won’t be seducing your way out of this one so easily.”
Adien feels distinctly caught red-handed, and he looks back around, dropping the soap to cover his face in his hands. This is all one big mess.
One arm loops around his stomach, and Adien’s pulled back against Lenaru’s chest. Lenaru’s looking over his shoulder, down at the water, and finds the soap with a small, “Aha.”
Lenaru pulls Adien’s legs up and starts to scrub at Adien’s knees, while Adien leans back and tries to just enjoy it, because nothing else is working. After a bit of scrubbing, Lenaru slips his finger under Adien’s knee, and he lifts Adien’s leg, cleaning one, then the other. He even scrubs Adien toes. He doesn’t mention Adien’s mishap, and he puts the soap away after, leaning back against the rim of the tub.
“There, all clean.”
Adien mumbles, “Thank you,” and still won’t look around. He wants to lean back and sink into the water, but he stays where he is.
“You’re awfully polite for a royal captive.”
Adien doesn’t say anything. Though he temporarily contemplates being meaner, he knows that wouldn’t work; he doesn’t have it in him to be anything but this nervous, twitching ball of submission.
“Anyway, I’m sure you’re used to long, luxurious baths, but unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time here—others might need in.” Oh, Adien doesn’t want to think about others. Aren’t two new people enough for one day? He nods his head to show that he’s listening.
Chuckling quietly, Lenaru scratches behind one ear again. It startles Adien at first, ears perking, but then it settles back into just feeling good, and Adien tilts his head back, fighting the crooning noise in his throat.
Lenaru says, “C’mon, let’s get you dried off and put away.”
A pat on the shoulder, and Adien climbs hurriedly out of Lenaru’s lap. He doesn’t want to get the floor wet, so he stays standing in the tub, looking absently at the door to avoid anything else. He hears Lenaru climb out, and then his shoulders are wrapped in a lightly, fluffy towel.
Lenaru starts to dry him off, and when Adien sniffles for no good reason, Lenaru hushes, “It’s okay.” Lenaru towels him off from head to foot and bundles him up in them, one tied around his waist and one over his shoulders. Lenaru takes his hand and leads him out of the bathroom.
With bated breath, Adien follows.