INDIA, the late 18th Century

* * *

I was only a boy when the army took me. Don't ask me how old - my mother wasn't around to tell me. I grew up, an orphan, in the squalid rabbit warren that was St Giles, a London slum. I subsisted on what I could beg, steal or acquire by any other means, legal or otherwise, but I never had enough - now, at what I suppose might well be my 18th year, I'm small, scrawny, and I still have to pretend to shave.

Life as a street child is tough, but I was able to survive for two reasons - passers-by saw my cute, boyish face and took pity on me, and, as a result of my size, I could pinch the contents of people's pockets and nip away, through the crowds. But things have been getting harder - while I still look young, I am certainly no longer a boy, and those who would have dropped coins into my bowl now saw me as less needy, and therefore walked on.

Lacking money, I joined the East India Company a couple of years ago, the British corporation that traded in India, and was always on the look-out for soldiers to guard the areas under its control. I suppose I must have been around 16, and looked even younger, so I was not allowed to enlist as a private soldier: rather, I was given a different position until my coming of age.

So, I became what is known as a powder monkey - a boy who, among various other jobs here and there, must ferry gunpowder between its safe storage in the magazine and the great cannons, where it is used to rake the enemy with shells and grapeshot. I was shipped to India and stationed in an isolated fort, which was held by a half-battalion of British soldiers on a vital border. Rumour had it that war would soon break out between the British and an alliance of Indian states, led by the fearsome Prince Shakil of Suthlam among others, like the Sultan of Mysore and the Mahratta chiefs. Our fort stood in front of the mountain pass that the Indians would almost certainly have to use in order to invade British lands to the south.

* * *

The attack came at dawn, and was over in a moment. The sentries on the walls, lulled into a sense of security by the inactivity of the past few months, weren't alert, and didn't spot a scaling party ascend the walls. The guards were slaughtered and the gate was opened. A storm of cavalry surged through the walls, and the first that most of our men heard about the attack was when an armed Indian burst into their tents.

Me, I had some warning, since I slept near the magazine, at the centre of the fort. I didn't have time to get changed from my underwear, so I loaded my musket, fixed the bayonet, and waited. I shook with terror - I hadn't yet faced combat and I didn't know whether I could bear to kill a man. Especially since it would be utterly pointless - the next man would soon arrive and find me with an unloaded gun and unable to use a bayonet properly. Maybe I could surrender? Maybe these Indians were not so barbaric as to slaughter their prisoners?

Before I could think everything through, a man swept into my tent. Not an ordinary man - no, this was a prince. He wore shining, bejewelled armour, burnished to a dazzling glitter in the early morning sun, splattered with blood. He brandished a curved sword, a scimitar, inlaid with precious jems, dripping drops of scarlet to the floor. He wore a red cape, which fluttered in the gentle draught circulating through the thin canvas, and resting upon his head was a crown, no more than a thin ring of metal, really, since anything more would weigh him down in battle.

This dashing outfit, reminiscent of a mediaeval king, only enhanced his natural beauty. He stood six and a half feet tall, a giant in our age and appeared to me to be just shy of thirty. He cut a noble figure - I imagined the rippling, bulging muscles underneath his metal suit. And his face - oh, I had never seen anything like it. The prince had a deep, chocolate tone to his skin: smooth and unblemished, it was nothing like the grotty, scarred faces of his compatriots. His brown irises swam in a beautifully contrasted lake of white and lay above a strong nose and a set of thin, blood-red lips. His hair, like all his fellow countrymen, was a midnight black, which he wore long, in a single braid that fell down his back.

All this I absorbed instantly, as with my shaking hands I pointed my weapon at him warily.

To my surprise, he suddenly spoke in perfect English. "I know you won't pull that trigger, boy. I can see that you won't. That you can't." He began slowly to walk towards me, with a deadly grin on his face. "I am Shakil, Prince of Suthlam. Your bullet would bounce off my armour. Even if it didn't, my subordinates would ensure that you died a long and painful death."

I shook now with fear, as he approached me, but he didn't relent.

"You see, I hold all the power here. You have no choice. You will obey me. Now, drop the musket."

I hesitated.

"Drop it NOW!", he shouted, his voice rising suddenly from the snarl of a viper to the roar of a lion.

I obeyed. The weapon fell to the floor. Prince Shakil pounced, charging across the room, picking up my scrawny body with one hand around my neck. He dropped his sword and withdrew a knife instead, holding it against my throat.

"It's a shame, really, that I have to do this, but I have to make sure that the fort is mine before I think of anything else. But it's still a shame - we could have had so much fun together!"

He raised his arm as if to strike down with the knife, when suddenly an ordinary Indian soldier entered. I was quite a natural with languages, and had picked up some of the native language over the last year, so I got the gist of what the soldier told the fearsome Prince: that the stronghold was secure, the British all dead and the armoury captured.

The Prince dismissed the messenger and dropped me to the floor. "It seems that you are in luck," he said. "There is no longer any threat from your comrades. You, boy, are the last foreigner here."

I shook like something possessed and threw myself at Prince Shakil's feet. "Please, Your Highness, please! Please let me live! I'll do anything - just please, God, let me live!"

He considered this for a moment, standing tall above my prostrated figure, and said, "I know you will do anything. That is why I shall keep you alive and let you earn your keep. But it is not because you want to live. Your wishes are no longer relevant. They will never be relevant again. My wishes - they are your life now. You are alive only because it pleases me to have you alive. It pleases me to have a worthless white boy become my slut. It pleases me that I should enslave you and degrade you, humiliate you and transform you beyond any recognition. You may not understand it now, boy, but you are nothing anymore but my property. You live to obey, to serve and to pleasure me. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

I listened with growing dread to his speech. What was he proposing? What was in store for me? But I had no choice - I had to agree, or die.

"Yes, Your Highness - I understand!" I whimpered.

"Good. Your first lesson begins now. Strip off your underwear and kneel."

I quickly obeyed him. I took off my shorts and kneeled. I knew that I must look pathetic. Even when I stood up, I didn't quite reach five and a quarter foot. I was thin, and had very little muscle on me. I didn't shave yet, and what bodily hair I had stretched sparsely along my legs, above my groin and underneath my arms. My straw-blond hair was cut short above a soft face, youthful and quite feminine. My dick was nothing to boast about - it didn't even reach 4 inches when hard.

Prince Shakil was stripping off as I knelt before him, and the contrast between us was marked. His ruggedly handsome face rested, as I had imagined, on a body more amazing than any that I had seen before. Muscles bulged everywhere on his 6'5" frame - his arms were more than twice the width of mine and far longer. His torso was carved into a rippling six pack, falling in a graceful V-shape to the treasure box beneath. His legs, similarly, were like tree-trunks, and dense hair ran along them in a most virile way. Hair covered his body, in fact, sprouting dense thickets on his arms, in his pits, over his chest and, thickest of all, above his penis. His brown penis hung limply down, but it was still no mean size - longer by some margin than when I was hard. It rested above two dark testicles, covered in hair but similarly well-proportioned, more like oranges than chicken's eggs.

When I was younger, I had messed around with a couple of other boys, but nothing since then. I couldn't believe the effect the Prince's body was having on me. Kneeling before him, I felt his presence like a magnet, drawing me closer, nothing more important in my mind than the need to taste him, to savour him, even just to please him. Subconsciously, I opened my mouth, just a little bit, and turned my head upwards to gaze at my new master.

He laughed down at me, at this little act of submission. "You like what you see, eh? Don't worry, you'll get your chance soon enough. I see I misjudged you - there was no need for threats; you're a natural whore. Born a whore, living a whore, one day to die a whore. Maybe that's what I should call you, eh? Visha - that means whore in my language. That's your new name - Visha!"

I rolled the word around my mouth, and realised it wasn't too bad. It sounded quite nice, actually, and was better than being called the equivalent in English. "Yes, Your Highness," I replied, meekly.

"And you don't have to call me 'Your Highness' every time - 'Highness' will suffice, or plain old 'Lord'".

"Yes, Highness," I replied, my eyes now savouring the prize in front of them, which I desired so much now, despite myself.

"Ah, I see what you want now, Visha! Well, we'll get to the main course soon. But first, I'm rather sweaty from this little battle we had. I think I'd like a bath." He sat down on the wooden chair in the corner of the tent. "I think you should give me a bath. With your tongue."

These last words were not a suggestion, and I grasped his meaning immediately. I stood up, so that I could walk over to him. He jumped out of his chair and punched me on one cheek, then tripped me so that I fell onto the floor.

He shouted, "Did I give you permission to stand? Did I?"

I began to cry, and managed a whimper: "No, Lord, I'm sorry!"

He stood over me again, poised to strike, but relented and sat back down. I continued towards him, crawling this time, and he grunted his approval.

"Lick me clean," he ordered. "I want you to taste what a real man tastes like, you pathetic bitch."

With a tear running down my good cheek, I looked up so that I could start Prince Shakil's tongue bath. He gripped my head like a vice, and directed me to his right armpit. It stank of a man long in the field - not just sweat, but a myriad other scents which had accumulated since his last wash. To me, though, it smelt of manliness - an ideal I could never reach, but which Fate had decided it was my job from now on was satisfy in the shape of Prince Shakil, or likely face death.

I drove my face in, drinking deeply of the virile odour and licking clean the thick bush of hair that was there. I couldn't help myself, I found this incredibly erotic, my submission to a far greater power than myself, my new use as basically a human bathtub, and my dick sprang to action. As my face lay buried in the Prince's hairy pit, I instinctively dropped my right arm to massage my rock hard cock.

The Prince was amused. "It looks like you're enjoying this, Visha. Don't worry, there's a lot more to come!"

I washed both of the Prince's armpits along with his chest as he forced me downwards. Slowly licking down his treasure trail, I gasped as the Prince repositioned me from his flank to between his legs, where now, unseen, I felt his huge, semi-hard cock rest against my chest as I kneeled in front of him. I finally reached his pubes, and devoured whatever muck I could find so that I could be allowed to feed on the Prince's cock. I couldn't help it - I was bewitched. No matter what the Prince had done, or would do, or say, or whatever, I could only think about pleasing him.

Finally, the Prince lifted my head from his pubes, and stood up. His semi-erect dick rested on my lower lip. I looked up at him, plaintively, silently begging to be given this gift. He nodded down at me.

"You know what to do, Visha."

And I did know what to do. I opened my mouth as wide as I could and set to work. Prince Shakil's dick had grown to what I guessed was over 12 inches, possibly 13, longer than any I had seen before. It was uncut, but the foreskin stretched back over the head now that it was hard, leaving the purplish head uncovered by the delectable brown skin of my exotic Prince. The girth was enormous - my hand wouldn't go all the way around. The length was in a different league - I doubted that anyone could possibly fit it all into their mouth.

Nonetheless I tried. I engulfed the head easily enough and managed to get several inches into my mouth before it touched the back of my throat. I tried several times to go further, but each time I gagged and had to stop. I improvised instead, spitting on my hands and using them nearer the base where my mouth couldn't reach. I began to slide my mouth back and forth on the Prince's chocolate cock, with my two hands in tandem further up. Prince Shakil gripped the back of my head and helped me with the rhythm, building up to a fast, non-stop tempo, where I had to take care to breathe properly.

The taste was indescribable. There was the sweat, which was erotic enough, but also the residue of everything else that he'd used his dick for since the last wash, the precum, my own saliva - it all added up to a heady cocktail of delicious flavours. I couldn't believe my luck - to have been rescued from the monotony and friendlessness of military duty, to have been pulled back from the brink of death, to have been allowed this peek at what real manhood looked like, and to have been allowed to do my best to please the man who ruled India, my new master, Prince Shakil of Suthlam. Finally the pressure of all this got to me - I couldn't hold on anymore and, without touching it, my dick erupted all over the floor. Months, years of sexual frustration burst out of me like a flood from a faulty dyke in the form of torrents of cum - a rope here, a rope there, eventually forming a puddle between the Prince's feet.

I moaned into my master's cock as I climaxed. He took this for reluctance to go on any further, and decided to take over. He added a second hand to my head, and rather than helping it to move along his cock, held it still instead as I groaned in ecstasy. He began thrusting hard, deep into my mouth. He reached my throat but he didn't stop there. Ignoring my instinctive gag, he pushed his thick 13" member down my throat, until he bottomed out and my face was buried in his pubes, still wet with my saliva. He withdrew, until only the head remained in my mouth and I frantically gasped for air through my nose, before he began again, faster this time.

Prince Shakil's skull-fucking of me began in earnest now. Holding my head still, he thrust unrelentingly, over and over, penetrating deep into my gullet, while I gagged and wheezed and gasped in desperation. Those hairy brown balls of his, hanging like a sack of oranges beneath his fuck-stick, swung back and forth, hitting my chin with a satisfying slapping noise on the forward stroke. My hands were tightly grasping the Prince's ass-cheeks which felt like slabs of solid muscle, as I held on for dear life.

Finally, the Prince's manly grunts built to a crescendo. "I'm going to cum - swallow it all, Visha!" he roared.

I felt strong pulses along the Prince's dick as it slid in and out of my mouth. Suddenly he stopped his relentless assault, held his breath and paused with his dick the full way down my throat. He started to cum - rich, thick torrents of cum spraying my throat with distilled virility. After a few spurts, he withdrew it from my throat, then from my mouth, and continued jizzing onto my face and into my mouth, which hung agape.

The Prince had an enormous amount of cum to dump, presumably since he had been riding with his army away from home for so long. I took five, six, seven hits on my face before the flood began to subside. With rivulets of cum running down my cheeks, a mouthful swirling around on my tongue and a healthy dose in my eye too, I licked the deflating cock clean to get the last remnants.

I looked up to my master for approval. Surely he would approve? I had done my best, after all. Surely he wouldn't punish me?

Prince Shakil stared down at me, with a contemptuous look on his face, with his mouth set in a disgusted expression. Then, with ultimate distaste, he said, "You disgust me, Visha." and walked out of the tent. He met the sentry who had attached himself to the Prince and said, "Imprison this one. I want him alive." Then, he glanced back at me with a cruel snarl painted on his face, and continued: "But don't make him comfortable.".



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