Disclaimer: this story contains graphically described sexual acts between two men in a romantic setting. If this is illegal or offensive to you, why are reading stories in the archive?! Author: Jamiwilsen@hotmail.com Warning: this is an unredeemable piece of romantic fluff. But it still has hot sex, so it's up to you, I guess!
The Prince Regent
As the horses clattered past him in the cobbled streets, he wondered, not for the first time, at the wisdom of entering the city. The romance of being an outlawed and hunted man had quickly worn away, what with the cold, running water of the rivers, cooked rabbit, the occasional hedgehog and the soft beds of moss in the treetops in lieu of the usual, familiar royal amenities he was used to. It was also incredible how great a strain was placed on old loyalties once one was deposed.
Acquaintances and previous subjects were now even more dangerous than bounty hunters. He grinned mirthlessly to himself as he reminded himself of the Duchess of Iole who, having flirted shamelessly with him at the last ball at his father's court, once his father had been killed and he'd taken flight from the palace, had gone straight to the usurper and with fluttering eyelashes had betrayed his hiding-place in her attic. He'd barely escaped when the guards burst into her manse.
And now here he was, a prince in hiding, returned from his education at the Academy in the far south of his realm to find his father dead, his crown sitting on another's head with a price on his own and his likeness plastered on reward posters across the land. Luckily, it was still summer which guaranteed his relative safety in the hills and villages scattered along the great Asharall River which cut across the kingdom like a silver sword. Had it been winter, he had no doubt he would have eventually frozen to death or been turned in by some farmsteader once he was recognised. The man responsible for the king's demise and his current furtive state was the Duke of Elsing, from the neighboring kingdom of Brighelsen, in the north. The Duke, Stephan Elsingen the Third, was a warmongering, land-hungry and ambitious man who had already seized and stolen a number of adjacent duchies on the Asharall border prior to his takeover. It had been embarassingly easy for him to swoop into Asharall itself and wrest it from King Dantor's ancient grasp. The self-styled and dour warrior-duke now had complete control and was quick to endear himself to the Asharall populace by encouraging an influx of trade and imported items from the adjacent countries in his little empire. According to reports, Duke Stephan had charmed the more difficult and competent kings across the continent and they didn't have a problem with him snapping up these bloated and complacent tiny kingdoms like Asharall. A nobleman by birth, the man was not only a reputable fighter and tactician but sharp and cruel with very little patience for folly and frivolity. Wryly, he pictured Duke Stephan sitting upon his father's throne, meting out swift and cold commands, replacing all the old nobles with his own governors and adjutants. He would bet that the Duchess of Iole would be disappointed. The Duke was not renowned for his flirting with women and indeed found them silly and far beneath his notice, objects of pleasure only.
Actually, most of the women at his father's court that he himself had known had evoked a similar response and he hoped that Duke Stephan had cleared them out, too. He'd never actually laid eyes on the Duke but peasants and bandits he'd met in the wild had described him as a tall, terrifying figure whose icy fair hair, deadpan countenance and cold eyes had a way of giving his smiles another meaning and those who had seen him up close during the first few days of the invasion had talked of stone-hearted, implacable judgements and a cutting sarcasm impatient with dithering and dallying. Certainly, he had made quick work of the dead King's closest advisors and toadies once the old man had given up the ghost. His father. Cristin wondered if he'd died quickly. The old man had finally entered senility not three months past; probably Duke Stephan's sign that he'd been awaiting while building up troops all along the mountain border in the north of Asharall. King Dantor and his nobles had not been inactive during this obvious military threat but the Duke's move, when it came, had been so fast and deadly that he'd gained control in less than ten hours with the King dead, his men all over the city, Prince Cristin running home from schooling and then for his life and the top three generals and the Captain of the Guard executed the next day.
He put his head down as another horsed cavalcade swept past in the Duke's livery of black and silver. Hooded though he was, he knew his countenance was not easily disguised, his face too well-known. Prince Cristin, once beloved of the realm and now the rightful heir and prince-regent to the Crown held by the Usurper Duke, continued on his way deeper into the city. He didn't realise it but only the neutral green hood and cloak of a forester that he wore, as a Keeper of the Asharall Woods and Royal Park, kept him safe from being recognised by any number of good citizens as it shadowed his face. His bearing and carriage was too dignified, too elegant to be any other but himself and his features too handsome and refined to be that of a simple forester. He didn't realise the danger he was in from these, his own people. The reward for his capture was too high, his position already compromised by Duke Stephan's rather nefarious and successfully smooth transition from one ruler to another instigated with much foreign gold and new and interesting riches flooding into the country.
He passed by vendors proclaiming leather goods and silken tapestries, vials of questionable liquids and even rare, exotic birds and female slaves, a sight not seen for many years since King Dantor's rather conservative taste had forced slavery to go underground and most female slaves had been only available through the blackmarket. A hurried glance behind him showed the horsed guards had not given him even a thought but his eye caught the flash of sudden movement as someone stepped behind a merchant's tent erected against the wall. He was being followed.
No need to panic. He'd evaded similar shadows previously and under more difficult circumstances. In crowded streets and in the city at noon, it was unlikely they would be able to keep sight of him for long. Sighing, Cristin ducked his head down and quickly melted into the shuffling press of the street. He knew the city well, it was his capital of Ashar, after all; he'd grown up here and knew every street intimately. He had to get to the Thieves Guild's headquarters which he knew to be on the other side of these busy streets; having a few contacts there, he hoped to build up a network of spies and possible allies so that he would not be so defenceless and idle. Although he managed to lose his shadow down one of the alleys in which he fled, he knew there would be others. He had to lose himself now, he was far too suspicious-looking and there was only one with his description that people were looking for. He had cut his hair and let his stubble grow but he needed the aid of his friends in the Guild to truly disappear.
The castle dominated the city, built on a hill in the center which overlooked the sprawling buildings like a fort; its white stone and battlements made it quite a formidable and beauteous architectural structure. Arriving at last in front of the innocent-looking stone wall that comprised the lowest level of the castle courtyard and ran around the base of the castle grounds, he removed the brick at neck height and accordingly, there was a grinding sound as a hidden winch-system pulled the disguised door back and revealed a dark cavernous opening down which he quickly entered, remembering to shove the brick back into place behind him and thus activate the closing mechanism. Taking a small torch from the wall, he felt around in his little pouch at his belt for some tinder and stone and lighting it, made his way carefully down under the castle's foundations and into the hillside. He'd advanced perhaps five hundred feet when a hiss reached him from the darkness just ahead and a rasping voice said, "Who's there? Is that you, Galdirn?" Raising his torch higher, he saw the glow of another and replied, "No, it is I, Cris. I've come to see Bryan. Is he about?"
The man was short and sallow-faced, with a squinty expression like a ferret.
He stopped short and whistled. "He said you'd end up crawling down here with us before too long. Said to bring you if you made it. Come along." He turned and went before him. Chewing his lip thoughtfully, Cris followed, wondering if Bryan, the head of the Thieves Guild and a self-styled ex-merchant and pirate now grown soft and contemplating early retirement and leaving his affairs to his son, was trustworthy. Certainly, Cris had nothing left worth stealing, having been dispossessed of his inheritance, his crown and his birthright. Duke Stephan had unfortunately brooked no delay in his coronation and had proclaimed Asharall a member of his new empire only days before. Cris had decided against seeking the help of the Assassin's Guild; that lot were decidedly cold-blooded and though it would have been only fair to fight fire with fire, he had never liked any of the representatives of that bloodthirsty group.
The Thieves Guild at least were kind to beggars and nobles alike, and downright charitable to those in need. Easy come, easy go, seemed to be their motto. After all, if one were so lucky as to heist a treasure chest of five thousand gold pieces from some rich bastard's chambers, what was a couple of hundred gold pieces spread around the slums for public relations? The ferret thief led him down the maze of the dug-out warren; Cris shook his head with a smile yet again at the original Guildhead's humour in creating a nest of theft and crooked living directly beneath the seat of government and rule in the capital. The Guild had many good laughs at the expense of the fat nobles and corrupt officials directly above them. Unknown to any of the castle guard except those in Bryan's pay, the deepest levels of the dungeon had exits leading right into the jaws of the Guild, whose members made nightly raids in the castle proper.
In a large cavernous room, the ferret guide led him up to the top where he saw Bryan sitting, looking rather bored with a young woman rubbing his feet with a salacious glint in her eye. When he saw Cris, he sat up straighter in surprise and sent her away. "Aha. I said you'd show up here, in due course. Sit down." He offered a glass of wine.
Cris gratefully accepted it and settled himself in front of his colleague. "I always knew it would pay off to join the Guild, eventually." Bryan shook his head. "I must admit, I never thought you would make a good thief, let alone a rebel and outlaw. Your reputation has spread like wildfire in a drought. The Duke's got men out looking for you across the land."
Cris shrugged. "I'd expect no less. But tell me, is there anything you can do? I need to disappear. I need a new face and name. Can you help? Obviously he will have my liver on a plate if I show my face and I need to be someone else for at least a year before I can do anything. He would not expect me to just sit about while he takes my throne, and I certainly can't just let him have it, being alive and well."
Bryan raised his eyebrows. "You want to stage a rebellion from here? In my Guild?"
"No, no," he said, impatiently, "of course not. Just to have something to do while I plan where to start from. I'd never do that to you, my friend." Bryan took a breath. "Well, if I could do anything to help you, I would. Unfortunately, Stephan's no fool and he came down here in person not a fortnight ago to offer various negotiations on many issues. One of them was you. I'm sorry." And Bryan made a motion with his hand. Cris was promptly surrounded by ten large men. He inhaled sharply, wondering if he dared to run for it, realising in the next second that he didn't really know his way out of the Guild's dark corridors and that they'd seize him the moment he jumped up. He relaxed, and said, "Really, Bryan; I didn't think you had it in you. After all we've been through together. Tell me, what's your cut? What'd he give you for this?"
Bryan had the decency to look a little ashamed. A little. He waved a hand again, and the men did grab him, hoisting him to his feet. "Life-clemency for myself and all guildmembers - barring you, of course - and the release of all of my thieves currently held in the upper level of the prison. I've been wanting them out for some time now, your father being the old flatulent tyrant that he was, and the good Duke soon saw the benefits of the Guild's cooperation and goodwill. Much as you did, actually," Bryan added. "It's too bad you were away at the Academy for so long. You might have done much to undo Dantor's injustices. I shall miss you, Highness. But the Duke's in control here and I'd be a fool to strive against him when I have all to gain by cooperating. I have dependents. I am sorry." He inclined his head and motioned for his removal. He was hustled away and out of the large room down a corridor which soon went up several flights of stairs.
Cris's mind quickly darted down any number of possible avenues of escape, bribery and flight but he could do nothing with his hands firmly bound him and several burly men firmly gripping him as they escorted him up into the dungeon. Emerging from a dark hole, they sought the attention of a prison guard who quickly summoned help and he was handed unceremoniously over to them as though the whole affair was prearranged. Which it was, he knew now.
He'd simply walked into the trap set for him without a single doubt or suspicion. He cursed himself for a fool. And wondered if his head was soon to leave his shoulders. Bryan's betrayal was not the first and he could only wait now, to face the notorious Duke.
He was placed in a cell and a dark, damp hole it was, with many rats. He slumped down into a corner, his back against the far wall. He'd expected no less. But he did not expect to wait a mere quarter of an hour before he was brought out again and taken up out of the dungeon altogether. The guards were silent and marched him swiftly along up to the roomy chambers where previously guests were quartered when visiting the King. Before the best apartment they finally arrived and one of them knocked. Soon there was a reply; the heavy wooden door opened and there stood the new Captain of the Guard, who said, "Your Grace, he's here; they've brought him." His heavily-bearded, impassive face looked him over with eyes like stones.
Beyond him, behind a table, sat a figure in black velvet and trimmed red with black fur lining. The man's expression was devoid of emotion as was his voice. "So bring him forward."
Cris was shoved inside and would have tripped if they'd not such a grip on him. He brought his eyes up to meet those of whom he guessed was the Duke's. As their eyes met, he felt the man was sizing him up as would a cat a small member of the rodent family. The man's gaze was calculating, swiftly assessing him. He looked away, defiantly, refusing to rise to any challenge in that stare and choosing instead to ignore it. Inside, he knew it was too late. The Duke already had the upper hand because Cris was the first to break their locked gaze.
"Leave us." The quiet command had all the force of a barked order, yet he'd not even raised his voice.
He found himself standing his ground on his own two feet, with his hands unbound, as the door closed firmly behind. For some reason he found himself regretting he was in his travel-stained guise of a forester and wished he was wearing clothes befitting his station for this showdown. He firmly squelched any feelings of self-consciousness or shame; for heaven's sake, he was the rightful heir and had every right to be in his own castle, anyhow. But the way the Duke's gaze slid down and then back up the length of him made his heart quail for no good reason. There was a rather self-satisfied proprietary attitude in the man's behaviour that did much to undermine his confidence. Cris was the younger man and this Duke did not have a reputation for being cold-blooded for nothing. He lifted his chin slightly and pressed his lips disapprovingly together. He still refused to meet his eye.
At length, the Duke commented, "I'm almost disappointed. I expected a harder chase from someone of your calibre, Prince. I was looking forward to a battle of wits, not a simple arrest. But I guess it's easier this way. Please, sit down." He indicated a chair to Cris's left. "Are you hungry? Have you eaten today? It can't have been easy, living hand to mouth as you have been."
He'd obviously thought of everything, a tray with food and drink was on the table and, unfortunately, it was far better fare than Cris had indeed had for many a day since his flight from this same man who now offered it and Cris found himself sitting down in the chair and moving to help himself to the meal before he remembered himself. He was in the act of pouring a glass of the clear wine and stopped, his hand holding the carafe poised over the glass as his eyes met the Duke's. But the Duke only lifted a brow. "By all means, pour me some and I shall drink first. I have no need to poison you, here, now, when I could have you killed outright. Believe me, it would prove no useful purpose. I have no intention of killing you. Not immediately, now that I have seen you for myself, that is."
His cryptic comment suggested nothing to Cris but he found it unsettling, nonetheless. He raised a brow himself, mockingly, saying, "Oh? I would have thought that would be your aim in bringing me here, from what I have heard of you. Do the honours yourself, and all that."
The Duke's face was unreadable. He settled back in his seat and regarded him as Cris helped himself, finally, to the plate. "I was told you were an accomplished young man, a heroic, dashing figure who caught ladies' eyes and a fine fencer, a good blade. I was awaiting a larger-than-life character convincingly playing the outlaw and rogue but I was not prepared for looks that would be better suited on a desert-paramour. A son ready to avenge his father's death, a prince fighting for his throne, yes, but not - this," he said lightly as he indicated him with a negligent hand in his direction.
Cris found both his brows lifting, this time. He decided against dissecting the man's meaning too fully at the present. He swallowed, and carefully replied, "I, too, was not expecting such gracious hospitality from one who so easily murdered my father, friends and lords, proclaimed me an outlaw in my own land and stole my crown, my castle and everything I had. Perchance you are considering returning to me what is rightfully mine?"
"Pretty speech, my prince, and fairly spoken, considering you are right. To the last. If I had a conscience I might do so, but I don't and you are far too valuable to waste after all - so I can't have you executed right now, either." He paused. "I have an offer, a suggestion for you. No doubt you will wish I had waited until you were finished eating if I tell you now, so I'll wait, impatient though I am."
Cris shrugged. "Don't worry about me; nothing would surprise me right now."
But in truth he was shocked. There was a carefully-suppressed tension in the man that denied all his words, a deep and unspoken river of emotions and Cris suspected there was more here than met the eye, more than Stephan wanted him to know or realise. Though how he could expect Cris to remain ignorant of it was beyond him. The impression was that of a rushing tidal wave that the Duke was barely able to keep back. So much so that Cris found himself admiring the man's self-control. He was positively bursting with unspoken things and Cris found he really wanted to know what they might be.
The Duke regarded him sardonically. "Indeed? Well. You will no doubt also have heard that I have very little patience with regards to female coquetry and games. The tiresome Duchess of Iole, for one. Her ilk and their wiles bore me ferociously. I find it much more to my satisfaction to watch those who claim to despise me eventually beg for my attentions on their knees. Against their own principles and better judgement. Their own nature, even. That is the only conquest that I find fulfilling. I have seen too many men and women grovelling before me to imagine you would be any different... but I digress. My offer is thus: remain here as my personal slave and willing captive or submit to eventual summary execution as a threat to me, in your position as the rightful heir come back to claim his own."
Cris stared at him. Surely the man knew his pride would remain firmly intact even though he lay at his feet, claiming servitude? That he would never forsake his freedom and possible future restoration for one moment, and would be willing to do anything merely for the chance of claiming his land, his crown and his castle back once more? And how could he possibly expect Cris to be seduced by a man he did have every reason to wish dead? He regarded him, suspiciously. Such was the threat that it only remained one and he could no longer take it seriously. What did Duke Stephan know that he didn't? He couldn't have his measure of him so quickly. In fact, neither knew the other well enough to gauge even the most basic responses, yet. He must be bluffing. So thinking, his thoughts whirling, he swirled the wine in his glass. "Do I understand you to mean sexual attentions? Or perhaps something darker? Forgive me, I am not well-acquainted with the customs and habits of the wealthy notaries of Brighelsen." He was buying time, and Duke Stephan would know it.
Indeed, the Duke's lips twitched slightly in recognition. He stretched, and got up from his chair to pace the floor slowly, holding his hands behind his back. "Come on, your Highness. Surely you recognise an impossible position when it is staring you in the face. You really have no choice at all. If I find you amusing, you end up chained to the wall for my amusement anyway. And if not, your head will grace the block your father's did." He stopped, obviously wishing he hadn't said that last. It probably was a graceless thing even for him to have said. He was betraying his own nerves and realised it. Cris barely managed to hide his own grin which threatened to show at the chink he now saw in Stephan's so-implacable veneer. Stephan should not have let himself be so obvious, that he wished he'd not sounded so crude. He settled back in his chair, allowing his muscles to relax, finally. Stephan found him interesting, in the very least. He could afford to play this out a little longer, and though the thought of the Duke forcing him to submit to any kind of servitude at all was abhorrent, he found the situation curious. He'd never considered this possibility. He was firmly a ladies' man and ever since he'd discovered them, though he found them silly and tolerated their actual company, was not inclined towards men, himself. Could it be possible that his looks could save him? Anything was better than outright death: even... He looked over at the pacing Duke, regarding his form with a slightly altered expression.
Stephan had not even noticed. Cris realised he was getting sloppy in his nervous state. He obviously found him attractive. He almost laughed aloud.
This was going to be too easy. Beloved enemy, mine, to have and to hold... to submit. He said nonchalantly, "I don't think my head would look any better on the block than it does on my shoulders, so I can't imagine why you'd want it there. Tell me, since I have no choice: is my slavery to be a public statement or a private diversion of your own? You must understand, I would find the former more humiliating, of course."
Stephan had stopped pacing and now came up to stand behind his chair. Cris still held his glass and sipped from it but became very aware of the Duke's presence now that he could not see him. Stephan's voice was lower. "That depends on you, doesn't it? You do have that choice, surely you can see." He placed his hands on Cris's shoulders and rested them there.
Unwelcome though this gesture was, Cris found himself resenting the warmth of Stephan's touch. He felt confused by the intimacy of it and resisted the urge to shrug him off, stand up even. He took a sharp breath, replying, "Not from where I'm sitting. Seems to me that I'm at the mercy of your whim. I'm guessing that you hope I will not volunteer myself so that you can have the questionable pleasure of humiliating me before my own people."
To his horror, Stephan did not draw back but instead leaned down closer to speak into his right ear, his voice even more quiet, his breath actually moving over his skin. He barely suppressed a shiver (was it revulsion?) as the Duke said, "Nothing could be more humiliating for you, I think, than submitting to me; whether in public or private is irrelevant." The warmth of his hands was matched only by the warmth and promise in his tone of voice, now, and Cris was understandably confused. And still Stephan did not pull back but continued, slowly, "Your choice is actually only one of voluntary submission or no, because I will have you and it is only up to you whether you would find this easier if you were forced. Rather than give in. Indeed, I'd find it more pleasurable if you would struggle against me," he leaned down so close that he now whispered in his ear, "and I'll warrant you would, too."
Cris stood up, wrenching himself away. Furiously, his face flushed with more than anger and they both knew it, he turned to face him, the chair still between them, his back to the table. "Seeing as I have no choice at all, only death, else, I shan't give you the pleasure of answering such a sordid and unnatural suggestion. You murdered my father and others - I can never dismiss that. To join with you in unholy union and to share with such as you the riches and fairness of my kingdom, I would have to be sick, truly. Impossible position - ! You have indeed placed me in one."
Stephan looked far from triumphant in his role of seducer and corrupter; in fact, Cris could have sworn he was chagrined and even embarrassed. Which made him dangerous. And Cris would have found him splendid in his magnificence of presence and vulnerability if it were not for his deeds, as he had reminded him. Stephan's hands were placed lightly over the back of the chair. He looked at him, directly; no artifice or hypnotic intimacy evident in his tone now. "Quite. Very well. Which would you prefer, that I call in my men and have you stripped and laid out before me on the bed behind us, or put you there myself?"
Cris barely contained a bark of laughter. "Oh, please. That sounds so -so unseemly of you. Really. Are you going to wrestle me to the floor? I'm actually rather fit, despite my recent fall from grace at your invasion and I believe I could take you on." He indicated him. "You're taller, but I think I'm the stronger. Let's put it to the test." He shook his head, now.
"No, far better perhaps to have your men do it lest you suffer my overpowering you and escaping in your clothes."
Unfortunately, calling his bluff didn't work, as Stephan's expression didn't waver; he seemed to have regained his resolve. "Very well. You are right, I don't want you getting away. That would be humiliating for me, and besides, I can't risk losing you."
He turned and went to the door, opening it and ordering the guards outside to enter. Cris found himself backing away with several large guards advancing on him while the Captain of the Guard folded his arms across his chest and stood in front of the doorway like a thick tree. They made short work of his clothes; before long he was completely devoid of them and standing with gooseflesh, hands bound before him and wearing nothing but his reddened cheeks and irate countenance.
"Nice," commented the Captain of the Guard. "You want we should go, now?" Cris was uncomfortably aware of the whiteness of his bare skin amidst the men gathered, in the confines of these chambers.
Stephen tilted his head, slightly, appraising the new state of his prisoner.
"I think that would be best. He is recalcitrant."
Several of the guards smirked and Cris bit his lip to not retort as they left, closing the door firmly behind. The thought of the Captain standing on the other side, listening, galled him, no matter the door was very shut and probably not much sound would get through it. He'd stood at these same doors often enough as a child, hoping to hear something and never getting even a peep. He cast his eyes to the ground and refused to look up, but not before he noticed the bulge in Duke Stephan's trousers that had been growing ever since his disrobement.
Stephan muttered something Cris could not quite hear and then approached him, coming to stand before him. Without warning his hands spun him around and shoved him in the direction of the large bed, a necessary furniture Cris would have been most appreciative of in any other circumstance. As it was, he found himself on one knee at its foot before Stephan came up behind him and, bringing him up, pushed him forward and face down onto it. The Duke's hands were already at his trousers and pushing them down as he fell foward to join Cris, atop him. Cursing, Cris did struggle but Stephan's weight upon him helped to keep him confined in his position as he held him still. He was now laying full length upon him and merely held him there while once more speaking into his ear. His left, this time.
And it was maddening, for his voice was low and gentle, only for him: "Don't worry, I know it's your first time. I'll go easy on you; I want you to like it."
Cris renewed his efforts to get out from under him, but to no avail, and now Stephan was treated to a number of eye-opening soldier's curses - he could not imagine where the prince could have picked them up. But he managed to grab the small vial of ointment he had nearby and scoop a small amount onto his fingers.
"Keep struggling like this, and I swear, I'll have the guards come back and hold you down for me," he promised.
Cris finally obediently ceased bucking so furiously, his face hot and his eyes shut, tears of shame threatening to leak forth at the knowledge that Stephan knew he was finding pleasure in this, even despite himself. And it was flattering, after all, despite the attention was coming from a man. He'd never considered such a lover, let alone his worst enemy and the fact made him hard, harder than he'd ever been. He could not account for it. It was not that he was unused to attentions from men and women previously, by no means. But they had always taken the form of either blatant leering or shy stammers.
He was suddenly very glad that he was pressed against the sheets and that Stephan was unaware of his painfully aroused condition. But that was lost in the following seconds as he felt Stephan's cool fingers upon his heated skin and moving between his legs to nudge against his clenched buttocks. Shaking, he tightened. But Stephan's fingers were covered with the ointment and simply slipped between to press against his tight opening.
Panicking at this threatened invasion, he tried to move away and ended up moaning instead as Stephan slowly moved his finger inside him, just the tip; only to withdraw... And a moment later, repeat it - only this time, thrusting slightly deeper. As the Duke moved his finger in and out, loosening him, he murmured soothingly to him, "Don't worry. I don't want to hurt you. I want to show you pleasure you never thought could exist and give you sensations you've never dreamed of having. I'm going to love you as no-one's ever loved you before." As he pressed his lips to the back of his neck, Cris almost writhed under him at the unexpected erotic tenderness of it. He was shaking as he felt a rivulet of sweat run down from under his arms to the sheets.
Stephan now added a second finger and as Cris felt himself being stretched he began to feel an intimation of what was to come. He was filled with the unbearable desire to struggle even harder, against bonds and the weight of the Duke holding him down even though he knew he couldn't escape: somehow the thought of it made him even more aroused.
But soon, his personal reverie in his new sensations were brought most coldly back as Stephan removed his hand from his ass and felt around him, to grasp his cock which was, of course, hard and dripping wet, to his utter mortification. He was glad his face was in the sheets and he pressed further to bury his eyes against the bed. But Stephan's knowing chuckle was rich and husky in his throat as he felt the length of him, firmly. His hand left his cock, but only momentarily, as he maneuvered his own to nestle between his crack and return to grip him.
Gasping, Cris realised Stephan had stopped moving. He went very still, himself. And waited, his skin burning. This was interminable, this waiting. With Stephan's cock pressed against him and holding his in the most intimate manner... Why didn't he finish it? And then Stephan was speaking, again, gently and tenderly even, as his hand, never leaving him, began to oh-so-slowly rub him up and down. "Before I have you, I want you to know that this is a fantasy come true for me. I saw you years back when I travelled with my father to visit the Asharall court - and your father, five years ago. I remembered you then, always. You were like an angel, so beautiful, so unattainable and unapproachable. The pampered princeling. I tried to speak to you and you were lofty and so above it all, above me. I will never forget those days I spent here, in your house, wanting you! I swore then that I would have you. Your father snubbed mine and I never forgot it. You were all so much better than us. But I knew you would be mine, one day. And now, my dear, I am going to have you. I shall take you, like this, struggling like a little boy under me, as I fuck your sweet ass. Yes, cry, my little boy, while I take you like a common whore. God, I have wanted to fuck you now for so long, have dreamed of fucking you!"
He inexorably thrust now right into Cris, slowly, penetrating deeply inside of him, all the way in, as far as he could go, his hard organ filling him up. He wanted it to go and on and on... Cris cried out, his voice strange in his own ears, unrecognisable. Was he crying out with pain or pleasure, or both? This seemed to arouse the man inside him even more. "How does that feel, boy? How does it feel to be taken like a boy? Do you like being fucked?"
He withdrew, suddenly, leaving Cris gasping for breath as sensations pinwheeled around his head and left him faint, little stars showing behind his lids. He had never felt like this before in any encounter previously. He had to open his eyes, and his breath was coming short. He couldn't stop feeling the build-up as it grew now inside of him. Though he fought against it, the very action of struggling against Stephan made the pleasure and the pressure climb to an ever-greater height and now Stephan began moving faster inside him.
He no longer cared, having gone past the desire to escape this, this rape... even though it had become somewhat more than that, particularly with Stephan's impassioned admission. The constant thrusting in and out was too much for him though and as Stephan fucked him harder and faster, slamming into him now, as they both cried out, he felt Stephan's hands grip convulsively on his cock and he came, against the sheets, over and over and over and over...
The world was hot and black and he gradually came back, with Stephan's weight on him. He then realised that Stephan was weeping on the back of his neck, tears running down and tickling against his skin; he was holding him close, his legs tightly clasping him. His heart sank inside as he thought about it. About what Stephan had said. Gods, was he in love with him?
"I'm sorry; I'm so sorry," Stephan was whispering. "I had to. I had to do it. I spent so long planning it. I was committed to it. It's all I've thought about, for so long. You have no idea, how hard it is, seeing you again."
"Wh-what?" he managed. "When? When did you see me, again...?"
Stephan was quiet. Then he said, "The summer that you visited the Earl of Marlsden, at the Festival in the city of Jadpur. Three years ago. I was there. You were even more beautiful than I remembered. You didn't even recognise me. I tried to stay out of your way but that was too easy, for you didn't even notice me." He sounded bitter.
Cris let out a deep breath and moved against him, beneath him. "Why didn't you ever say anything to me? It didn't have to come to this!"
"Oh? Who are you to talk of impossible positions - you who are so above everyone? Don't you know what people say of you? You are the unattainable one who everyone may worship from a distance but not touch, oh no, never touch." The sarcasm dripped from his voice but the self-mockery in it moved Cris in a way he didn't think possible.
"I rather expect this is an impossible position for the both of us," he said, dryly. "If you let go of me, I promise not to run. I can't right now, at any rate." Stephan's arms tightened possessively about him, however. He didn't speak.
Cris continued, "If you want the truth, I can be honest with you; I have never had an experience like this before. You were right. But I would rather make it last and enjoy it to the full, not break off suddenly, with you having your guards clap me back in the dungeon. My own dungeon." He let enough worry colour his voice that it might play on the Duke's sympathy. It worked. Stephan abruptly pulled away from him and rolled him over, facing him. At first, he couldn't meet his eyes but when Cris didn't turn away he finally did, with a hoarse mutter. "Beautiful. I never -" He stopped.
Cris frowned up at him. He could see now that what appeared at first to be cold indifference was merely the shell or shield of a vulnerable heart who had all-too-desperately gambled on his return and his princely sense of duty. "You never what?" Stephan sighed. "I never thought to actually have you. I thought you would hate me. I thought you did hate me!"
Cris stopped, wondering. "Yes, so did I," he replied, puzzled, "I don't know why I can forgive you so easily. Maybe it's because you have somehow rationalised your actions and behaviour in my eyes, insane as that may sound. If I may, I should like to kiss you. But this time, with you on the bottom."
Unsure, with a dramatic drop in confidence, Stephan allowed him to reverse their positions, Cris now propped over him on one elbow, leaning swiftly down to claim his mouth. As their lips met, there was an undeniable current of electric heat that zinged from one to the other and back again in a circuitous arc. Forgiveness and, surprising himself, love melted in Cris's heart as he realised what had happened. He did have a very vague recollection of an ardent young man, many years ago, staring up at him with a perpetually-wounded expression... and it was true that his father had snubbed many a noble who had passed through to pay their respects. Dantor had been known by his love of pomp and circumstance and aggrandisement. Rather brutally, he faced the truth, that in actuality, one possible view on the Duke of Elsing's invasion was that it allowed Dantor a way out without losing face: people had already begun to talk of his increasing-senility. He sighed again, wearily.
Stephan was still wary, however. "What? What is it?" His eyes held such a look of vulnerable hope and fear that Cris laughed. And bent down to kiss him once more.
"Nothing, my love," he murmured, and laughed deep in his throat again as that one flinched with surprise at Cris's words, completely and clumsily tangling up his attempt to gracefully return the kiss with his tongue.