Tiber was built like a secret: long limbs, sinewed muscle, and a face too pretty for his own good. Some whispered he was an old soul displaced in time. Others swore he was just a restless twenty-something with a tendency to unhinge powerful men. No one knew where he came from, who had claimed him first, or what era would hold him next.
But everyone agreed on one thing.
Tiber stirred people—especially men in power.
Maybe it was the way he moved.
Maybe it was his ass.
Or maybe it was the kind of package that made kings hesitate before sentencing him, just long enough to imagine what they’d do if they didn’t.
Wet and Netted
He wasn’t new to being wanted. Women had tried to tame him—draped themselves over his lap like tribute. He’d let them. He’d smiled. He’d performed. But none had ever reached the part of him that craved something else. Something more.
His last lover, a crown princess from the icy North, was a lesson in contrast—flawless, stunning, and utterly forgettable. He’d slept with her under jeweled sheets. Woke up numb.
Nothing. Not a flicker. Not a moan. Not even a twitch of curiosity.
Some say that was the moment his misadventure began.
His first documented anomaly—the one recorded in fragments and whispered about in bathhouses—was in a lush, river-fed kingdom just above the equator. A place ruled by devotion, water, and ritual punishment.
Osyrra.
And Tiber arrived like a ripple in their sacred pool.
***
One sun-soaked morning, Tiber arrived at a gate carved from riverstone and ivory. It stood half-submerged at the edge of a delta, its arch twisted into the shape of two interlocking serpents—one made of water, the other of bone. A shimmer hung in the air just beyond it, like time itself bent differently on the other side.
Tiber didn’t hesitate. He was parched, dust-coated from travel, and ready to abandon any sense of modesty. With a shrug, he passed through.
Osyrra unfolded before him like a hallucination—lush, humming, divine.
The river ran so clear it glittered like cut glass you could see the sandy bed. Along its banks, women and men bartered for hand-carved charms, silver-threaded silks, and fresh fish still writhing in woven baskets. But what caught Tiber’s attention wasn’t the noise or the market or the smell of sweet oil in the air.
It was the palace across the water.
A towering structure of spires and glass-veined stone, resting atop the river like it had grown from its depths.
“Welcome to Osyrra!” called a vendor beside him, holding up a dripping, silver-bodied eel.
Tiber nodded coolly.
“Fresh catch, sir?” the man added. “Eel meat soaked in saffron. Good for stamina.”
The vendor’s eyes dipped lower, unapologetically.
Tiber glanced at the slick creature, its skin iridescent and alive in the sun. “No, thank you,” he said.
He wandered along the river’s edge, further and further from the market noise, until he reached a secluded cove where the trees leaned close and the water turned deep sapphire. This part of the river didn’t move. It pulsed—still, watchful, waiting.
No one was around. So he stripped.
Naked, he slid into the water with the grace of something carved from marble and forgotten in time. The coolness hugged his skin. He swam. He floated. He bathed in silence.
He didn’t know he was being watched.
Two of the king’s guards crouched behind a flowering screen of reed-bush and wild citrus. They had only meant to patrol. Instead, they found a vision. A man unlike anything bred in Osyrra—dark hair, dark eyes, and darker heat trailing from chest to navel to the waterline.
Osyrrians were pale, golden-haired, river-born and fair. This man was other.
And it was ruining them.
They tried not to look at each other.
They failed.
One’s breath hitched when he saw the other’s trousers bulge. The second pretended to cough.
And then Tiber rose from the water.
What the river hadn’t revealed before now dripped before their eyes: thighs carved like ancient statues, taut abs glistening, and a cock that made both men choke back a sound. Thick. Veined. Long enough that even soft, it stirred questions about divine origin.
The guards were already moving.
They sprinted back toward the palace, tore through the outer corridors, and threw themselves onto the riverstone floor at the base of the king’s throne.
“A stranger, Your Highness,” one said breathlessly.
The king’s eyes narrowed. “He’s sent by my enemies?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
“He’s come for my crown?”
“Not that we know of.”
“Then what?” the king barked.
“He’s... not like the others,” the second guard said, still flushed. “His body is... a reversed triangle. Shoulders like a war god. Thighs that could snap a man.”
“And?” the king growled, impatient.
“And he’s hung, Your Majesty,” the first guard blurted. “Like, terrifyingly hung.”
There was a long pause.
The king's knuckles went white around the armrest.
“How many inches?”
They looked at each other.
“Eight,” they said in unison.
The king exhaled like a man stabbed between the ribs. The last time he'd had an eight, it was with Refassa—a living statue now, paraded at parties but useless in bed. Couldn’t bear punishment anymore. Couldn’t even stay hard.
“And soft,” the guard whispered. “That was soft.”
The king stood. A shudder of want rippled through him. His voice was low, trembling with desire and madness both.
“Bring. Me. The river-born god.”
***
Night fell like a silk sheet across Osyrra’s hills. Tiber had found shelter in a modest guesthouse near the cove—quiet, unassuming, and well-placed. He hadn’t known it was a trap. That the smiling innkeeper was under royal command. That the king’s guards had been watching all day.
That tonight, he was fated to be taken.
Tiber thought the day had gone well. The market had charmed him, the river had cooled him, and the palace had intrigued him. Whether he would stay—he hadn’t decided. A good night’s sleep might help.
He stepped into the stone-tiled washroom, peeled off his dust-covered clothes, and slipped under the heated water of the basin. The earlier river dip had rinsed the grime, but this was for more… personal hygiene. He lathered the soap between his hands, trailing it slowly over his thighs, his shaft. A low, involuntary moan escaped him as his cock stirred under his touch.
It didn’t grow fully erect. Not yet. But it thickened. Hung heavier. And when the guards crept in through the hidden door, what they saw stopped them cold.
He was ten inches. Not fully hard.
The guards, hidden behind carved stone screens, stared—stunned, shameless. Their cocks stiffened beneath their armor in perfect, agonizing sync. It wasn’t just lust. It was reverence. It was envy. It was the ache of wanting something they could never deserve.
Things were already unraveling between them. Glances lingered too long, breath hitched in armored throats. So they moved quickly.
Tiber didn’t have time to react. They were on him—hands rough, breath hot, strength overwhelming.
“By order of His Majesty, you are hereby seized.”
“What—? I didn’t do anything!” Tiber protested, still wet, still naked, still halfway hard.
“That’s for His Highness to decide.”
Tiber twisted in their grip, and in doing so, his cock bumped one of the guard’s thighs. It bounced—hard, defiant, shamefully aroused.
“Oh gods,” one of the guards whispered.
“We can’t parade him like this. The public mustn’t see it—only the king.”
They fumbled for cloth, wrapping him in a makeshift loincloth that barely covered his length. It did little to hide the curve of him, the way his shaft twitched from stress and indignity. He was paraded through the streets of Osyrra in the dead of night. Eyes followed him. Whispers spread. Some men stared outright, bulging with desire. Others bowed in reverence. He was not just a prisoner. He was an omen.
Tiber burned with humiliation.
The moon above was the color of ash. The palace loomed, now shadowed and cruel. The guards dragged him through the dungeon—a corridor of despair where prisoners groaned behind bars. But as they passed, even the condemned fell silent.
Tiber's presence stilled them.
His loincloth clung damp to his skin. The bulge beneath it silenced cries for mercy. And when he was locked in a cell alone, he tried to steady his breathing.
Just a night. Just a misunderstanding.
He was wrong.
Moments later, a cloaked figure entered—tall, graceful, bearing a bowl of fragrant water and a sponge.
“Remove the cloth,” the figure said softly.
Tiber backed into the corner. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Clean you. Prepare you. The king requested it.”
The cloth slipped off easily. His body was bare again. The man removed his hood, revealing soft features, flushed cheeks, and… nothing between his legs. A eunuch.
The sponge touched him like worship. Over shoulders, arms, chest—down his thighs. It circled his cock with practiced reverence. He grew hard beneath it, hips twitching as moans left his throat.
Then came the leather. A pair of black, fitted panties laced with silver chain and a tiny lock at the crotch.
“Put them on.”
Tiber hesitated. “No. No way—”
But the eunuch gripped his balls. Hard. “Put. Them. On.”
He did. The leather barely fit. He tucked, winced, shoved his length down with trembling fingers. The eunuch panted softly at the sight.
A click sealed the prison around his cock. Chains snapped to his wrists.
He had been cleaned. Bound. Displayed.
And now he was ready.
The walk through the palace was slow and shameful. Guards opened doors. He passed gilded halls and firelit chambers until the final pair of doors opened to reveal the royal bedchamber.
And the king.
He sat on a low throne beside his bed—blonde, sculpted, wrapped in a gossamer gold robe. A bulge pressed obscenely beneath a shimmering thong.
Everyone bowed. Tiber didn’t.
“What am I doing here?” he demanded.
A slap cut across his face. “You speak only when spoken to.”
The king raised a hand. The guards unlocked the chains from his wrists, but left the leather in place.
“Leave us.”
Now alone, the king rose, circling him like prey. His eyes locked on the leather bulge, licking his lips as if imagining the process of unwrapping.
“Your name?”
“Tiber... Your Highness,” he added, reluctant.
“What brings you to Osyrra?”
“Just visiting.”
“Did you know the river is sacred?”
“Not until now. I—I didn’t mean to offend—”
“The punishment is drowning,” the king said coldly.
Tiber paled. “No. Please, I’m sorry—”
“But,” the king interrupted, “I’ll spare you... if you spend the night with me.”
Tiber hesitated. Surely, the king only meant companionship, warmth, and sleep; that bed looked large enough to ensure their separation. However, the longer he gazed at the king’s almost otherworldly handsomeness, the more strange feelings stirred within him.
What if…
He wondered, and wondered, until, without thinking, he decisively said, “Of course, Your Highness.”
The king was already pulling the knife from his belt.
Tiber was shoved onto the bed, face down. The blade slid between the leather and his cheeks, slicing it apart. A warm hand cupped his ass. Another gripped his cock.
Tiber gasped. “Please… Your Highness… I—oh—please…”
He was flipped onto his back. The king’s robe hit the floor. He was hard—thick, flushed, pulsing with hunger.
“Eight inches,” the king murmured, “they said. But they were wrong.”
Tiber’s cock swelled fully. Eleven. Maybe more. The sight of the king’s powerful physique and regal bearing unexpectedly stirred him, a reaction that surprised him.
The king devoured him with his mouth, no hesitation, moaning around the shaft. Tiber writhed, helpless. His moans turned to pleading, then to wordless cries.
And still, the king wasn’t satisfied.
He used Tiber like he used his other concubines—
Only harder.
Deeper.
With the kind of intensity that broke most men.
Tiber had never been with a man. But this? It was obliteration, yet strangely, he didn’t want it to stop; it was exhilarating.
Even in his beautiful predicament, he maintained the illusion of being a ladies’ man, rejecting the harsh reality of his servitude to another man. He struggled to contain his unexpected delight, but eventually, he gave in as the king shamefully made him come.
He lay spent in the king’s bed, used, flushed, weak.
And somewhere inside the humiliation, he knew—he’d never felt anything like it before.
***
Morning came. Tiber awoke drenched in sweat and the king’s seed. The bed was empty. The king was gone.
The eunuch had returned.
He cleaned Tiber again—gentler this time—and wrapped a length of white linen low around his hips. Sacred, symbolic, and thin enough to hint at what it barely concealed.
“Time to hear your punishment,” the eunuch murmured.
“What?” Tiber blinked, heart lurching. “The king… he said I wouldn’t be—”
But two guards stepped in before he could finish. They seized him by the arms and dragged him out into the morning light, toward the high court where the full council of Osyrra waited.
The king sat at the head of the dais. He did not meet Tiber’s eyes.
“Tiber,” the lead councilman intoned, “you violated the First Law. You defiled the Cove of Osyrra.”
Punishment was expected.
“Therefore, by sacred decree, you are to be drowned.”
“No!” Tiber cried. “Please—”
“Wait,” the king said.
The court turned.
“Perhaps there’s… another way.”
“Your Highness,” the lead councilman said carefully, “the First Law cannot be broken.”
“I’m not breaking it,” the king said, rising. “I’m interpreting it.”
He gestured to the guards. “Remove the cloth.”
They pulled it away.
The council gasped. Tiber stood nude before them, vulnerable and beautiful—his cock thick even in its rest, his body glistening with ritual oil.
One of the council murmured, “He’s too exquisite to drown.”
“Let the people witness his punishment,” said another. “Let him writhe on a sharpened stone, pleasuring himself before the crowd.”
“Or tie a stone to his ankles, drag him beneath the surface, and pull him up before death.”
“Let the river decide,” said another. “Let the fish taste him.”
The king raised a hand. Silence fell.
“All fine ideas,” he said. “But I have a better one.”
He stood.
“Tiber…” He smiled. “It’s time.”
The crowd erupted.
Tiber was dragged from the court—struggling, shouting—but no one listened. Down through the city, toward the bustling riverfront. Merchants cheered. The eel vendor appeared with a long ceremonial net.
Guards wrapped Tiber’s naked body tightly in its weave, binding his arms and legs, leaving only one hand free—pressed against his cock in a final shred of modesty.
But then they pulled the net tighter.
Too tight.
That free hand now clutched his cock, locked in place by the mesh. He could no longer hide it. The crowd gasped as his shaft thickened, rising out of fear, shame, and memory of the night before.
One end of the net was tied to a royal boat. The strongest rowers of Osyrra took their places.
“You shall be dragged,” said the lead councilman, “until you’ve made your offering to the river.”
Tiber paled. “What… offering?”
The net jerked forward. The boat began to move.
A guard leaned down and pressed a hand to Tiber’s trapped grip. “You know what to do.”
Tiber’s eyes widened.
His right hand, forced by the guard against his manhood—it wasn’t for modesty after all. He was to masturbate—bound in net, dragged beneath water, forced to climax for the people of Osyrra.
The crowd jumped into the river, swimming alongside the ritual. Osyrrians, engineered or evolved for aquatic resilience, held their breath far beyond what any human could endure. Dozens dove beneath the surface to watch him squirm.
The current pulled at his restrained limbs, the ritual pressing in from all sides. Tiber should’ve fought it. Instead, something primal in him answered. And for once, he didn’t resist. He was willing.
He rubbed. Twisted. Wrenched. But the net was too tight, the water too cold, his grip barely functional. Still, his cock grew harder—his hips bucked with instinct and shame. But the pressure built until his body gave out.
He blacked out.
The crowd booed. The council panicked.
“He must finish!” came a cry.
The king, flushed with arousal aboard his royal yacht, barked his order: “Slice the net—just at his loins. Nowhere else. Let his cock breathe.”
A priest sliced the weave at Tiber’s groin, releasing his swollen shaft. The crowd gasped. A few men came on the spot, undone by the sight.
Tiber was lowered into the water again—exposed now, hard and helpless.
“Oh, not again… Please, Your Highness…”
The thought of being dragged through the current, cock bound and aching, filled him with dread and anticipation. His scream was swallowed by the river, his voice breaking into muffled gargles.
Submerged in the cool depths, an electrifying urgency surged through him. He recognized his primal need to reach completion, driven by a relentless instinct. As a man, he was bound to conquer every challenge that lay before him.
He stopped fighting and rubbed himself with desperate fury, twisting in the water like a spawning beast. Men all around him stroked themselves in sync. The king gripped the edge of his throne.
Then it happened.
A shadow moved beneath Tiber.
The colossal eel of Osyrra undulated with an otherworldly elegance, its iridescent scales shimmering beneath the surface as it glided through the depths.
The spectators gasped. They only knew the beast was a myth, but here it was.
Tiber pressed himself against the net, heart racing, feeling the creature’s slick body brush tantalizingly close, yet it refrained from sinking its teeth into his skin. Instead, its sinuous form found its mark, coiling around Tiber’s loins, capturing him in a grip.
Then it struck—latching his mouth onto his throbbing cock, sucking hard. Tiber’s scream bubbled through the river. He thrashed violently, the eel clinging, pumping, milking him.
He tried to resist. But the stimulation was maddening.
The monster wanted him to cum.
So did the crowd.
Three of the most capable Osyrrian fishermen intervened. The eel was yanked away with great effort, and Tiber floated—cock pulsing, purple with need, his whole body slick with river and slime.
The king raised a crimson flag.
Somehow Tiber knew it was a sign for him to give the river all of him.
He twisted in the net, gripped his cock, and released—once, twice, over and over—thick streams vanishing into sacred water.
The crowd roared.
Then he collapsed.
***
When Tiber reawakened, the sky was bruised with violet dusk, and the music—a low, serpentine ululation—curled through the air. Fires guttered in brass thuribles, their smoke laced with crushed resin and narcotic pollen. The scent clung to the inside of his lungs.
He was naked on a stone altar, too weak to move.
“Your eel,” someone rasped—a voice slick with reverence and glee.
They laid the thing across his thighs: a blackened carcass, seared and cracked, flesh still steaming. Tiber recognized it straight away. That thing had slithered into his body during his netted torment. People lined up to eat from him—pulling hot, flaky meat from the body of the creature that had tried to breed him.
He didn’t cry. He didn’t speak.
Some licked their fingers before touching him. Some didn’t. Some lingered to secretly dig beneath the eel’s flesh to reach his. Tiber writhed from the touch, and the guard noticed. Soon the unruly diners were moved on.
Later, when the last fire died, and the crowd slept in a daze of wine and lust, Tiber Tiber rose. Quietly. His strength returned just enough for flight. Over the hills. Through the gate.
He would never return to Osyrra.
But beneath the surface of the river, something still pulsed. Something unclaimed. Something coiled in the sediment of his leaving.
And rivers, unlike men, never forget.
