The Morning After
Supple lips traced the kings buttocks, hands creeping up his chest, caressing his pert nipples. The soon to be king's back arched, pressing his erect cock out. A spray of semen flicked from his head, dousing the eager audience. Nails pinched around his nipple.
Prince Seralion woke, heart pounding. The high mage had told him there'd be side effects, but they hadn't prepared him for the wet dreams. He peeled the sticky mass of his blankets off his loins, untangling them from the knots he'd woven writhing in his dreams. His bruised-plum colored glans pressed out of his foreskin, a thick bead of pre-cum forming on it. He was still throbbing, the thought of his unnamed vassal preparing him for entry still bringing his eight inch shaft to full attention. The prince ran his hand down his member, cupping his tight, full scrotum before pushing a finger down the length of his sensitive taint.
The prince was of two minds as he squeezed his penis, watching the bead of pre-cum expand before breaking. A trail pooled over his foreskin and began to run down over his fingers. On the one hand, the High Mage had encouraged him to void as much of his prostate as possible before the rituals. This would ensure the last of "his" essence was expunged when he consummated his coronation at the end of his long journey. On the other hand, he wasn't sure if he was ready to be this turned on by the thought of another man at his back gate.
His cock, however, had other ideas. The mere thought of penetration was enough to send a shiver through him. The pre-cum flowed hot and sweet over his hands and he was overwhelmed by the urge to bring the clear, viscous liquid to his lips. He tasted like honeydew and salt, with an intoxicating essence of man he knew at once would never be far of his mind again. The ritual would be long over, the Son of Ten Kingdoms produced, and Seralion would be on his knees. The prince squeezed his cock again, thinking of all the men who would help him father his heir.
There was Lord Gabriel of the Hunt. A broad-chested bear of a man who was said to have wandered out of the woods one day wearing only a loin-cloth, sweat and oil dripping from his burly chest as he fought his way through the succession trials of Heawood. Stroke. King Gerald the Wise, a wiry man most at home in his tower, with a penchant for all manner of potions, ungeants, and balms. What would it be like? Bent over his table, materials and tools strewn everywhere, looking out over the Moors while the king spread untold stimulants over him. Stroke. Baldur the Gold, his tawny treasurer who rumor said was most adept at pleasing a man. Seralion's hands lingered on his glans just as Baldur's eyes had always lingered, everywhere. Gareth, his best friend since childhood, he'd seen the Master of Horses's horse cock half a dozen times. Iit was good he was towards the end of the tour, give him time to work up to that. The thought of being filled by his best friend nearly drove him to climax, but there were still five kingdoms to consider.
Seralion eased up, his cock pulsed and threatening to unleash all over him. Pleasure washed over him. Before the ritual, there had been bloodshed, each family vying for control over the entire empire and almost causing it to crash a dozen times. Now, there was peace, prosperity, the only fluid white and creamy. The only field a succession of bedspreads. No soldiers lost in a battle of egos. Only steam, and dear friends drawn closer by knitted limbs.
With the threat of premature ejaculation at bay, Seralion turned back to his musing. James of the Mountain Homes, their master tactician, who had put himself second in the line up right after Hadrian. He was tall and lanky, with a small face and bottle lens glasses that devoured half of it. Stroke if he treated the male body the way he treated any other subject Seralion could only dream of the orgasm he'd be brought to. If Webber Ironwood's title was an apt euphemis, then Seralion wished he was higher up the tour, that hard, glistening shaft burrowing deep inside of him. Stroke. The Fae Glen had produced a pair of twins again. Aaron and Adrian, by custom Seralion would have to pleasure them both, not at the same time, but a newly turned king could dream. Stroke, Stroke. Quinn Erasmus ruled in the Burnt Deeps, a land of lava floes and emerald mines that produced hard men and half the riches of the Great Kingdoms. The thought of his gnarled, permanently hot hands gripping his hips, probing for ore deep in his chasm, made him glad only one kingdom remained. Hadrian, whose lands at the periphery had been the only to try and break from the ritual in centuries. "It did not do for a kingdom to be so beholden to sex magic, what if the outer lands became aware and saw it as weakness" they'd cried. What then, did it mean for Hadrian to visit the very night Seralion undertook the first rite. The thought of the man sleeping next door, stirred from slumber by Seralions headboard hitting the wall between them with every stroke was enough to bring him to finish.
Seralion's cock hardened further in his hand. A quiver from deep within sent it straight as the first rope of cum shot out of him. "Good," a low voice growled, the masculine pleasure and pride in it sending Seralion's pleasure to a crescendo. Two more ropes, and waves of glory washed over him before he began to wonder who was in his doorway. Assured privacy in self-pleasure was a right he was long accustomed to. He was still a lord, after-all. It wasn't enough to cut through the haze of lust, there was still more pressure within him begging for release. Let the man come, and bask, let him drop his leather pants to the ground and show Seralion what it was truly like to suck a cock.
At last the prince was able to open his eyes in full, and see whose heavy breath and tight legs lingered in the door. The man was short, with a bit of a paunch, and mid-length salt and pepper hair that curled around his handsome face and broad soldiers. Hadrian, of course. Seralion spread his legs wide and beckoned.
"Ah Prince," he laughed. "The Lord Strategist has designed a tour with the most demanding attention to detail. It won't do at all if I jump ahead in place," Despite his words, the Lord Defender still walked closer to him, his hand resting jat the bedpost, just out of reach from Seralion's still ravenous loins. "Besides, I would not dream of denying Baldur his long awaited conquest," That was enough to bring Seralion down to earth. There was a process to this, he threw his legs back beneath his sheets. The silk pulsed against his still erupting cock, exhilaration intense enough to border pain bloomed from his frenulum. He pushed himself up on shaky arms.
"Then why have you come? If not to share my bed as dictated by the Rite of Ten Kingdoms, these are still my chambers, and I, still my own man," his voice still shook, but its tone had been written over entirely.
"Of course, Lord Regent," Hadrian was now all business, any teasing stripped from his placid, oily voice. "I will restrain from such actions in the future, particularly while you remain in such a ...delicate... state," there it was again, a type of judgement absorbed from too much time spent on the outskirts of their empire. Outside of a realm where mastery over the cosmos had revealed sex and sexuality to be just as malleable as iron under the right conditions, how must such artifice look?
Perhaps, as king, Seralion would see to expanding their understanding to the rest of Andrabanan. A wry smile formed on Hadrian's face. Of course... it had been his lips on Seralion's cheek moments ago, his touch that had sent Seralion's hands beneath his hips. "What have you done?" he asked. It didn't matter there was cum still dripping from his softened head, or that from sternum to crotch he was wet and glistening. Seralion pushed himself out of bed and glowered over Hadrian. Nevermind the rites screamed this was one of the nine cocks he must take, nothing could be further from his mind right now. To bastardize the ritual in this way? Hadrian may as well have strode into his bedchamber last night and took him, let Baldur and James and the whole rite be damned.
"Magic belonged to us first, we let your people borrow it when you washed upon our shore, freezing and starving," the man said, flickering, a hint of his true form peaking out. He about towered over Seralion now. "This ritual was a compromise, a way to stop your people from devouring from devouring ours. But our kingdom's very DNA must change if we're to survive the next wave of humans from the across the sea, and the only way to do that is to change the DNA of the heir we plant in you. You will see this in time, and when next we meet, all will be revealed," With that, the man strode out, his human limbs hanging like ripped sleeves from long, stalk-like appendages. The Lord Defender, one of the original Magi, it seemed, had managed to stitch himself back together by the time the door slammed behind him.
Galdur was last on the tour. Would Seralion have to go through his princes, one by one, all the while knowing nothing of what they might unleash upon the world? Or was he going to make another surprise visit before then, sliding up into his dreams like it was just another hole for another man's will? The thought at once chilled and titillated him. That decided it, a long, cold shower was what he needed. Followed by an even longer emergency council meeting, an appearance at court and a visit to his betrothed.
And then his journey would begin, and he could finally become who he was meant to be. The water rushed down his shoulders, washing the glaze from his body.
