Prince Val’s Persuasion

When young Prince Val’s castle is in danger of being taken over by an enemy army, he captures the muscular older enemy king and uses a unique technique of persuasion to convince the king the give up his conquests. (Image Included!)
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Prince Val’s Persuasion
By J.O. Dickingson

Standing on the parapet of the High Tower, Prince Val had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he surveyed the two scenes before him. Below, the peasants from the surrounding farms were still streaming through the main gates with their worldly possessions. There were far too many, and far too few were bringing food or water. Brass candlesticks and one’s finest dress were not going to be of much value when one is starving. Prince Val raised his eyes to the horizon to the far East, to the growing cloud of dust, the cause of the stream of peasants entering the castle. The size of the cloud confirmed scouts’ reports of an army of two score ten times over, a formidable force considering his situation.

“I’ll have the new peasants settled and then send them for more stones to cast upon the enemy when they storm the castle walls.”

Val turned to look at Galain, the Commander of the Royal Guard. “No,” the young prince said after a moment. “That will not be necessary. I do not think they will trouble themselves to risk their lives by challenging our defenses.”

“They will lay siege, and wait for hunger and thirst to do their dirty work, like cowardly vultures,” spat Galain, well aware of military tactics and the honour of the attacking forces.

“Yes,” said Val, looking up at the cloudless sky. Thirty days without rain had dried up many of the crops, and had left the water level in the castle lower than he’d ever known. It was only midmorning and already the stones on the parapet were warm to the touch. By this afternoon you would not be able to lay a bare forearm on them. “King Falcyn might be a barbarian, but he is no fool.”

“And a worthy opponent on the field of battle,” observed Galain. “He has earned the title Falcyn the Fierce. It was dark day for this world when his father died and that tyrant inherited the throne of Valkyre.”

Val studied the approaching cloud a few minutes longer, and biting his lower lip, made a decision. “Gather a triad of your men, the slightest of build and the fleetest of foot, and have them darken their bodies and leathers with suet and meet me at the offal gate in an hour.”

“My liege?”

“And the same number of the swiftest horses in the castle plus one besides my roan.”

Galain thought for a moment and then bent his arm, fist to his heart. “Yes, my liege, that is the wisest decision. And we will put forward a valiant defense while you make your escape.”

“Escape!” exclaimed the prince, his young voice rising like a child’s and making his wrath sound more like a tantrum much to the eighteen-year-old’s dismay. “Escape!” he repeated in an only slightly deeper voice. “Who has spoken of escape?”

“But, my–”

“A Lankanshire does not run from danger,” he snapped angrily, his eyes narrowing and his smooth, handsome face flushing as red as a poker in a smith’s forge.

“No, of course not, my Prince. I only thought–”

“When your lord is in your presence, it is not your role to think, only to obey his commands,” Val snapped. “You have your orders.”

“Yes, my liege, right away my liege.” Galain bent low and backed away.

Although three times the boy’s age and a veteran of more battles than the prince could count on his fingers and toes combined, Galain obeyed the order without question, and accepted full responsibility for his reprimand. The prince was right, a Lankanshire would never retreat, no matter how great the risk to him personally. Regardless of his age, the prince was of royal blood, and at the moment, in charge of the castle. He should have known better than to presume.

As Prince Val watched the seasoned warrior descend the stairs, he was immediately sorry for his words. ‘When your lord is in your presence. . . .’ How pompous. Galain meant well, and was a wise Commander and loyal retainer. Not only had he been needlessly sharp, but his words were wrong. It was a foolish sovereign who did not seek the counsel of his senior officials, at least those who would give their honest opinion, and whose counsel was for the good of the kingdom and not for their own welfare. Galain was one such man, and his kind was becoming fewer.

Well, what was done was done. He could not change what he had said. The young prince turned and headed for his private chambers.

As he put on his stiff leather tunic and leather wrist protectors and drew on his boots, he wished there was someone he could discuss his plan with, but there was no one. His father, with the best knights of the kingdom, was with the High King fighting the infidels beyond the Aeryan Sea. Elderly Sir Marcus, left behind in charge of the home defenses, was fifty leagues away pushing back the barbarians that had invaded the northernmost border of the kingdom. Prince Val had no doubt that the invasion had been encouraged and probably even given financial support by King Falcyn to draw the army away from the castle. That left only the Royal Guard and the small company of soldiers kept behind to patrol the surrounding lands. Squatting before the fireplace, Prince Val ran his hands over the blackened stone and smeared the suet on his face and on his bare arms and legs.

An hour later, he led his three men, who had similarly blackened their bodies, out of the small back gate used to dump the offal from the castle. He had told no one of his plans, and had left instructions only for the two he trusted the most. He had informed Galain what to do when King Falcyn approached the castle, and he had taken aside squire Helvar, the grandson of Sir Marcus, and posted him on the parapet above the offal gate. Leading their horses and keeping to the densest brush and gullies wherever they could, they circled around the castle to the base of a hillside half a league away from the castle and in direct line with the advancing army. There in a small copse of alders they buried themselves with branches and forest debris and waited.

Soon the ground trembled with the advancing army and Prince Val’s heart rose in his chest. Suppose he was wrong? Suppose they were spotted? He was depending on the army being in too much of a hurry to reach the castle to pay much attention to the land around them. He was also counting on their overconfidence, hoping they were of the belief they would have sent any able man fleeing ahead of them to the castle, making it unnecessary to check every clump of bushes for opposition. The first of the army thundered past. The four did not raise their heads but they could tell by the sound and the dust in the air what was happening around them. It seemed to take hours before the last of the army had reached their hiding spot.

As the rear of the army was passing Val and his three men, the head was advancing on the castle, King Falcyn in the lead, his black armour freshly oiled and polished and his black war horse prancing and snorting, ready for battle. The army spread out around the castle with practiced precision, totally encircling it. King Falcyn slowly rode out from the circle. The six-foot-four, fourteen stone warrior stood up in the stirrups, an impressive figure of might and power.

“Prince Val!” he thundered upon reaching the castle gate.

The men on the parapets did not move.

“Prince Val!” he called out again. “I know you can hear me!”

There was still no response from the castle.

“Prince Val! You cannot ignore me! Let us talk.”

“Tell me what it is that you wish to say to our liege, and I will relay your message,” Galain finally responded.

“To whom am I speaking?”

“Commander Galain, of the Royal Guard.”

“I would speak directly to your prince.”

“My liege is occupied at the moment. He has sent me to speak on his behalf.”

“Occupied? His castle is being laid siege to and he is otherwise occupied? Doing what? Has he shit his tunic in fear and is busy cleaning it himself so nobody will know?”

The men in the field laughed at the insult while those on the parapets bristled. Where was their Prince anyway? Why was he not with them? That was not like a Lankanshire. A leader should be there with his men, as the Commander was. The men said nothing, but silently to themselves many questioned what a mere boy was going to be able to do anyway.

“He has important matters to deal with.”

“Important?” snorted King Falcyn, well aware of the implied insult. “I insist on speaking with him, now.”

“Insist? And who are you to insist anything of my liege?”

“I’m the man who has his castle surrounded, you fucking idiot!” thundered King Falcyn, never having been known for being a patient man. If there was a battle, and if this commander survived, he would particularly enjoy his torture. “Tell your idiot, snot-nosed prince I am here to accept his surrender.”

“I will relay your message.”

While King Falcyn and his men sat upon their horses in the hot afternoon sun, Galain made his way from man to man, assuring him that Prince Val had purposefully not shown himself so as to insult Falcyn the Fierce, and make him think he was not concerned about the siege. It would make King Falcyn think twice about their provisions and their defenses. Besides, their prince was relying on the hot summer sun to aid them in wearing down the enemy. The men were cheered by the news, and many praised the wisdom of one so young. Others proclaimed that such wisdom was only natural, being of royal blood. Squire Helvar, circulating among the men with a bucket of water to relieve their thirst, smiled and held his tongue. He knew very well the wisdom of Prince Val, and of other, secret talents as well.

Biding his time, Galain did not reappear on the parapet of the high tower for an hour.

“My lord, Prince Val, regrets he cannot speak to you at this time,” he finally called out. “But if you tell me your terms, I will relay them to my liege.”

“Terms!” spat King Falcyn angrily. “There are no terms other than his surrender. You tell your arrogant little snot I will have his head for this! Open your gates now and let us in and we will go easy on the rest of you.”

“That is what I am to tell my prince?” Galain asked, playing out the role Prince Val had assigned him.

“Tell him I wish to avoid needless death on both sides. Tell him I know you are outnumbered, and I know your food and water are low. We need only sit out here in the fresh air and make merry while we wait for you to starve, and then climb the walls and sweep your dried bones from the castle.”

“Your information is wrong. Our larder is full, and our well deep,” replied Galain.

“That is a pile of fucking shit,” King Falcyn retorted, his face flushed and hot both from the sun beating down on his black armour and from the temper welling up inside him. “Lies just as sure as your Prince is too much of a coward to even appear before me.”

“Prince Val does not see the value in wasting his time discussing what is evident. Your siege is futile, so you might as well depart for your own lands.”

“Prince Val is a child still hiding behind old women’s skirts.”

And so it went for the afternoon and far into the evening, King Falcyn becoming angrier and angrier and his men becoming more and more incensed as they wondered how long their leader would tolerate these insults from a mere stripling. Galain remained steadfast even though he knew that the enemy’s words were beginning to have effect on the men in the castle. Not rushing to the parapet to meet Falcyn the Fierce the moment he had arrived had made sense, but to not appear the entire day did not. Even they did not believe the lies he was saying about their liege being otherwise occupied and being of the opinion the siege was too trivial for his attention. His father the King would not be hiding in his private chambers and letting the Commander of the Royal Guard do his speaking. There were even rumors that the young Prince had taken a select group and had fled the castle. That was a far better explanation for his absence, and it did not sit well with those left behind.

At last as night began to fall, King Falcyn, disgruntled, streaked with sweat and his face black with anger, turned and headed back into the encircling army and the enemy began to set up their tents. Still Prince Val and his men waited until the moon was high in the sky. He’d wished for a cloudy night to hide the full moon, but such was not going to be his luck. Finally he decided it was time. Most of the army had gone to sleep, anticipating a long, hot day in the sun again tomorrow. They skirted the few tents of soldiers still up, mostly young warriors on their first campaign drinking and bragging what they would do to the cowardly Prince Val if they were the ones to corner him once they stormed the castle.

Slowly they made their way to the tent of King Falcyn, easily identified by its extra size and the standard of the Kingdom of Valkyre. There were two soldiers sitting at the entrance and two more sleeping by the smoldering campfire, ready to take messages from their king. Prince Val slipped to the back of the tent and silently cut an opening with his short sword. The full moon proved to be to his advantage, there being sufficient light shining through the opening to easily spot the king stretched out on a pallet directly before him. It was a hot night and he slept above the blankets, dressed in only a pair of linen breeches.

It was not a glorious capture that minstrels would be singing about. Falcyn the Fierce was knocked out cold by a blow to the head with his chamber pot, which Prince Val noticed too late had not been emptied. Quickly binding his arms and legs with strips of the blanket and gagging him with the lining of his armored codpiece, Prince Val’s men slipped him out of the tent and began carrying him to their horses while the prince searched the tent. Finally locating what he was after, he slipped it into his pouch and picked up King Falcyn’s helmet and sword.

Even the flight back to the castle was uneventful. The few soldiers that did notice the troop were simply told they were scouting the perimeter in case any in the castle were trying to escape, especially the cowardly prince, which brought laughter and encouragement. In that they were heading to the castle and not away from it, the soldiers had no reason to be suspicious, and they kept the horse carrying their captive in the center of their small band so nobody could see the body draped over it. Arriving at the offal gate, Prince Val gave the signal to the young squire, three calls of a hoot owl, and the young squire quickly opened the gate for the adventurers and then ran to get Galain. Fortunately the blow to his thick head had been heavy, and King Falcyn had only begun to awaken.

“We will put him in the dungeon under extra guard, my liege.”

“No,” said Prince Val, “Lock him in one of the cells below the Royal Apartments.”

Galain stared at the young prince, unaware the boy even knew of the special cells that his father had built for his personal enjoyment. Raising his fist to his chest, he turned to obey.

Prince Val accompanied his Commander and the two guards, and saw to the chaining of his enemy in an alcove in the corner cell directly below his own apartment. In their escape the king’s breeches had been torn, leaving only a tattered rag about his right leg. Telling them to leave, Prince Val finally removed the struggling king’s gag.

“So, this is the way of the Lankanshires,” spat the man. “Sneaking in the night like cowardly dogs.”

“I think our minstrels will remember it more as a daring excursion into the heart of the enemy camp and capture of the enemy king. However, it does not matter. What was needed to win has been done.”

“Win? Win?” thundered the naked captive.

“Whatever made you think you have won, youngster? When my men find out what has happened they will be furious. They will storm the castle and kill every one of you in revenge.”

“Then we had best negotiate before that happens,” observed the young prince softly.

“The time for negotiation was this afternoon, stripling, not now.”

“Well, we will see.”

“You will see your men slaughtered because of your infantile little prank, you stupid little snot nose,” Falcyn railed. “But then I should not have expected anything more than ignorance from a mere child. Release me and we can at least save the lives of your men, even your own if you cooperate.” He glared at the youth standing before him. His face, body and tunic blackened with suet and his right hand and arm streaked and sticky from the contents of the chamber pot, he had the wide-eyed, excited look of a dirty street child playing sheriff and robbers, not the solemn face of a negotiator and noble prince.

“I will release you when you agree to my terms,” he said softly.

“Which are?” Falcyn the Fierce asked in disbelief.

“You will send a message to the north, telling the barbarians you are withdrawing your support. You will take your men and return to your castle. And you will cede the farmlands south of the Koryn River to me in payment for your release.”

King Falcyn snorted. “Never will I agree to such terms.”

“You will agree,” said the young prince.

Retiring to his private chambers, he called for a tub of hot water and plenty of soap and someone to clean his tunic. As he bathed, he considered how he was going to break the man in the cell below him. Falcyn was a brave, husky warrior and a proud and fearful king. He, on the other hand, was still untried in battle and merely a prince. It would take exceptional means to break the man, and he did not have much time. The castle needed the meager provisions it had for its own occupants if they were to last out the drought and could ill afford to feed the hordes who had sought refuge there. Besides, it would only be a matter of time before King Falcyn’s men stormed the castle.

Half an hour later, he stepped from the tub, having worked out a strategy of persuasion. The sun would be rising in a few hours at which time he would hold council with Galain, but first, he would hold council with Helvar. He sent his personal attendant to fetch the young squire, and the boy did so hastily with a wide smile on his face. It was not the first time he’d been sent to fetch the handsome young squire. Young Helvar had best not be planning on sitting for a while the boy thought with an impish grin. His Prince was going to celebrate his capture of the enemy king.

Dressing in his freshly oiled and cleaned tunic, and wearing his leather wrist protectors and his dress helmet with the stiff royal purple crest, Prince Val met several hours later with Galain, and then together they stood upon the parapet and addressed the commander of the army assembled outside the castle gates.

“By now you will have discovered your king is missing,” called out Prince Val. “Let it be known that I, Prince Val of Lankanshire, have captured your king, and he is at this moment in our dungeon.”

“How do we know this is so?” called the Commander of the surrounding army.

“Yesterday you would not even show your cowardly face.”

“Here is your proof,” the young prince replied, tossing the king’s helmet and sword from the battlement above the castle gate. “Your king and I are in negotiation regarding this siege. Tell your men so. And tell them this: if you try to rescue him, before the first man can reach this parapet I myself will put a dagger through your King’s heart.”

With that, he turned and told Galain he would begin his negotiations with the captured king, and that he was not to be interrupted under any circumstances. Carrying a cat-o-nine-tails and wearing his short sword with a pouch tied to his belt, he walked briskly past the men on the parapet, and they smiled as they pictured the tortures that their young prince had in mind as part of his negotiations.

The past few hours had done nothing to improve King Falcyn’s temperament. He had spent the first two fuming about the indignity of having been plucked from the middle of his army by a mere cub of eighteen years. Then he had spent the next two devising the most exquisite tortures once his army stormed the castle and overcame the stripling. He was imagining just that when his young captor entered the cell.

“So, you have brought your cat-o-nine-tails,” the warrior glowered. “Well, it will do you no good. You can whip me with all the strength your puny body can muster and I will not give in to your demands.”

Val studied the man closely. There was no doubt in his mind that the man spoke the truth. At six-foot-four and weighing fourteen stone, he towered above the boy by a hand span and a half and he outweighed the youth by at least four stone, all of it solid muscle. King Falcyn might have been of royal blood, but the thirty-four-year-old man was no pampered royal. His shoulders were broad, and his upper arms, four hand spans in circumference, were as hard as the stone to which he was bound. His chest was broad and muscular too, sparsely haired as if too hard for hair roots to penetrate, and with prominent nipples. Val’s eyes paused there in admiration before passing down over the rippled torso and solid abs to the man’s crotch. He had a massive, circumcised cock, thick and meaty, the shaft almost as wide as the fat helmet, and he had a nut sac the size of twin plums.

“Even if you were to whip my member, you would not succeed in obtaining my agreement to your terms,” the warrior king said, noticing his endowment had attracted the boy’s attention. “Go ahead and try. I’m sure you are the type of man who would whip a man’s organ if for no other reason than out of envy.”

Val dropped to his knees, his right hand reaching out under the man’s impressive jewels and his tongue slipping between his lips as he eyed the massive cock. King Falcyn looked down at his cock, and then at the boy. “What, are you a poof, besides a coward? You swoon before my manhood as a woman would swoon?” he heckled. “Well, have your way with me if that is what turns you on, boy, but you should know that there is nothing I despise more than those who would lay with their own sex.”

“I have a fourth requirement for your release,” the boy said, ignoring the caustic comments and his eyes remaining on that thick, smooth skinned member. It was by far the largest member he had ever seen and beautifully sculptured, having a smooth, pale pink shaft with a single thick blue vein running the length of the underside and a bulbous, slightly ruddy knob.

“I have already forgotten the first three,” sneered the king.

“You will send a message to the north, telling the barbarians you are withdrawing your support. You will take your men and return to your castle. You will cede the farmlands south of the Koryn River to me in payment for your release.” Val looked up at the man. “And you will beg me to spill your royal seed on the dungeon floor.”

“Never,” the king spat. “To spill one’s seed on the ground is a sin even greater than to lay with one’s own sex.”

Putting down the cat-o-nine-tails and removing his helmet and placing it on the ledge between the man’s outspread legs, Prince Val opened the small leather sack he’d brought with him. From it he extracted a horsehair brush and two feathers, a soft downy feather from the chest of a hawk, and a long, stiff tail feather from an eagle.

“What sort of toys are those?” snarled King Falcyn.

Taking the soft feather, Prince Val ran it along the man’s stomach just barely touching the solid, muscular abs. The man drew in his stomach and gritted his teeth as he tried not to laugh.

“What is this? Some child’s play?” he sneered, using his sharp tongue to fight back the natural reflex the feather was causing.

Noticing the man’s reaction, Prince Val continued to gently brush the man’s taut stomach, causing the man to tense until he felt he was going to snap in half. Then slowly raising his hand, the young prince gently touched the man’s ribs with the feather.

“Go ahead,” King Falcyn challenged, inhaling sharply as the feather danced across his ribs, “play your childish game.”

The feather continued, up to the man’s hairy armpits where it made tight little circles inside one and then the other pit.

“Hnnghm,” the husky man grunted, fighting desperately to stop the laughter that wanted to erupt as he grasped the iron chains fastened to his wrist clamps and pulled down with his outspread arms.

As the feather moved along the warrior’s underarms, he grunted and strained just as strenuously, so the boy paused to tease for a minute. The man threw back his head and scrunched shut his eyes, but held back his laughter. He was a warrior king. This was a game children played in their nurses’ care. The soft feather danced over the muscular biceps and triceps twice the size of the young prince’s even though the boy trained daily with both short sword and broad as evidenced by the cords of muscles in his forearms. Around to the neck, up over the coarse stubbled cheeks and square chin, and then down over the broad, sparsely-haired chest to the nipples skipped the downy feather.

“Hunnngh.” The air whooshed from the six-foot-four giant like a gust of wind as the feather brushed against his nipple. The feather touched again, just barely making contact. “Agggh, you little prick,” he cursed.

His nipple began to get hard and the boy tarried there, gently brushing one and then the other until both protruded fully erect and the man’s chest heaved with each touch. King Falcyn’s face was red with fury. This was an obscenity, to arouse a man’s teats so. This was something a man did to a woman’s dugs, if he wished to amuse himself before the ride, or perhaps something a young maiden might be expected to do to heighten the arousal of her lover. It most certainly was not something a man did to another man. To be subjected to such an obscenity was outrageous, but what bothered Falcyn the Fierce even more, was that his nipples had actually become erect at the hands of another man, and that they were causing him to feel the beginnings of lust.

The feather continued, down to the man’s belly button. It protruded in what was commonly referred to as having an outie. As the feather touched the protruding button the man inhaled sharply but held his tongue. The feather moved on relentlessly, down to the broad, muscular thighs, twice the thickness of the young prince’s biceps. As Prince Val brushed the feather along the inside of the man’s thighs he jerked back and tensed and he constricted the opening of his cock. Prince Val repeated the feather-light touch and the king’s body repeated the reflex. The young boy persisted and the man’s massive member began to stir.

Falcyn the Fierce stared down at what the boy was doing in disbelief. What madness was this that his member was beginning to rise, as if its attention had been caught by a fair maiden? Even considering it had been a week and a half since he’d lain with a woman, having been informed by the wisest doctors that having sex weakened a man before battle, that was insufficient reason for it to react so. Inhaling sharply, he concentrated with all his strength, willing his member to cease its swelling. It did not work.

Satisfied, Prince Val continued down to the hollow behind the knees. The slightest touch of the downy feather caused the man to buckle as he muffled a laugh. The feather touched again.

“Fuckin’ shit,” the man cursed in order to prevent the laughter about to peal from his lips as he pulled on his shackles, trying to escape the persistent feather.

The young prince continued his investigation.

The calves, thicker than Prince Val’s thighs, showed no reaction to the feather, and the naked toes, hard and calloused, showed only a minimal response. Putting down the feather, he picked up the cat-o-nine-tails again and considered his next move.

King Falcyn looked down at the youth crouched there before him, relieved the boy had put down the feather, but uncertain what his intentions had been. Whatever they were, he had emerged the champion, making him confident that he could handle whatever else the boy had planned.

Prince Val worked his mouth, like a rabbit munching a mouth of grass, and then leaning forward, he stuck out his tongue. A stream of spittle flowed down the middle of the U-curve of his tongue and then dropped down from the tip in a long pendant. He bent closer, allowing the pendant to drop on the base of the man’s soft cock.

“What in the fuckin’ names of the seven hells!” he cursed as he drew his hips back, banging his ass against the cold stone behind him. The boy had to be insane.

The warm, slimy spittle oozed down the man’s shaft, down to the bulbous helmet where the slightly wider ridge dammed the flow. Another stream began at the top just below his thick, curly hairs, oozing down the shaft, following the path of the first, and then down around behind the ridge to the funnel slit underneath the helmet. The accumulated spit flowed down the funnel to the tip, where the spittle hung as a slimy pendant.

“You fuckin’ son of a whoremaster!” the mighty king cursed. “Spitting on a royal monarch, on his family jewels none the less! What in the name of God do you think you are doing?”

Prince Val said nothing as still another slimy flow oozed down the furrow and off the tip of his tongue and down to the shaft. He moved ever so slightly so that it formed a new path beside the first. Slipping his hand under the man’s genitals, he collected his spittle in the palm of his hand as it oozed off the man’s thick cock. Drool after drool flowed out of his mouth, and as the warm, slimy ooze flowed over the man’s shaft and around his helmet, to King Falcyn’s horror, his member began to swell. He shut his eyes and tried to will it to stop, but as the warm slimy spittle oozed around the ridge of his bulb, his cock continued its growth.

Continuing to work up a flow of spittle, Prince Val reached down for the horsehair brush with his left hand. Wetting the end with the spittle he had collected in his hand, he reached up and began to paint the king’s balls, the stiff brush and the wetness causing his nuts to roll in their sack and his cock to swell even more.

The king cursed and thrashed, but could do nothing to prevent what was happening to him. He tried to think of something else. He thought of his army commander and what he must be doing at this very moment having discovered his king was gone. He tried to think of the most distasteful things he could think of, a full chamber pot, a man decapitated in the midst of battle, a prisoner screaming as his limbs were pulled from their sockets on the rack. None of them could compete with the itch around the ridge of his helmet and the growing desire in his loins. His member grew until it was standing upright, shiny and slippery with the young prince’s spit.

Putting down the brush, Val reached over to the upright organ and took the bulb between his thumb and first two fingers. Never had he held such a huge organ in his hand, and he wished he was doing so under other circumstances. As he thought of that, there was a stirring between his own legs, and he savoured the delightful feeling of growing arousal and swelling man flesh. Remembering a few moments later why he was holding the hot, erect cock of his enemy, he squeezed the bulb to open the pee slit.

“Now what do you intend on doing, you poof? You want to go down on my member like some wanton slut? Well go ahead. Find out what it is like to have a real man’s cock in your mouth and not the little prick of one of your young fag attendants. I’ve heard of perverts such as you!”

Another pendant of drool began its descent from the extended tongue and Prince Val dangled the pendant over the opened pee slit. The droplet of drool stuck the opening and began its natural descent down the channel.

“Fuck! Oh shit, you little poof!” King Falcyn cursed as he felt the boy’s spittle oozing down the core of his erect cock, causing an uncoiling deep in his groin in response. He drew back and then jerked his hips forward, but he could not shake the boy’s hold.

Continuing to squeeze open the tiny muscle that guarded the entrance to the man’s member, Prince Val slowly dribbled more of his spittle into the pee slit, and then working up a mouthful, he generously coated the bulb with his spittle. Picking up the brush once more, Prince Val again dipped it in the pool of spit in his palm, but this time the tip of the wet brush touched the king’s belly button. The man grunted as he thrust out his hips, causing his cock to jerk and the spittle to spray from it like a dog shaking its coat after a swim. Prince Val ignored his thrusting and continued to spit-paint his outie with the brush.

“Hahahaggh, Agggh, stop!” the king cried as he constricted his stomach.

The wet brush struck again, spittle now oozing down the flat stomach to collect in his curly hairs.

“Hahahaaaahh, no, stop!” he cried, half in pain and half with a chuckle.

“You will send a message to the north, telling the barbarians you are withdrawing your support.”

“Never!”

Reaching behind the man, Prince Val wiped the remaining spittle off on his buttocks as the king’s eyes flashed angrily. The mongrel pup would pay for this when his men freed him. He could feel the spittle oozing down his ass cheek and down the back of his leg.

Picking up the long tail feather, Prince Val touched the tip to the man’s ribs. Falcyn the Fierce twisted, the muscles of his well-toned body contracting and as he quickly forgot the discomfort running down the back of his leg. He thrust out his hips causing his spit slick member to bounce, he cursed, and he began to laugh, unable to stop the natural reflex of his body.

“You will take your men and return to your castle,” Prince Val ordered, withdrawing the feather.

“No,” the king gasped.

The feather moved up to his arms where it gently stroked the underside and then made circles in his hairy pits, barely touching them. The mighty king twisted until the metal cuffs were cutting into his wrists. He grunted and snorted as he tried not to laugh, but he could not stop it.

“Aaahahahaha, aggghhh, aahahahah, oh, ah, fuuuuh, ahhahahah!”

With the first chortle it was like the breaking of a dam, and he roared as the feather attacked relentlessly. The strange combination of laugher and screams of agony echoed down the stone corridor and up to the prince’s private apartment. Commander Galain, passing past the high tower to check the western battlement, paused to listen. He had heard of plenty of cries of pain and agony, both on the battlefield and in the torture chambers, but nothing like what he heard coming from the private cells below the royal apartments. He didn’t quite know what to make of it, but his liege had said he was not to be interrupted.

“You will cede the farmlands south of the Koryn River to me in payment for your release,” Prince Val said, withdrawing the feather to allow the man to respond.

Falcyn the Fierce panted and gasped to catch his breath before replying, “Fuck you, you mongrel cub. Never!”

That was not the response the young prince wanted. The feather touched one, and then the other nipple. The man jerked and squirmed and his cock waved in the air. The feather continued its caresses, causing the man’s nipples to burn with arousal and his cock to ache.

“Annnhuh, aaaghh, ahhhhuuuh,” he gasped as the itching became unbearable. Sweat began to bead on his forehead and at the V of his neck.

The feather continued to caress his irritated teat relentlessly, the itching causing it to burn fiercely and the stimulation causing his groin to ache for satisfaction unlike it ever had before. Even the most beautiful maiden spread out before him, offering herself for whatever bauble or reward the mighty king might choose if she did well, had not made his groin ache as this beardless youth was doing. Had Falcyn the Fierce been able to dwell on that mystery and the implications it had about his own sexuality it would have caused him much anguish, but at the moment, he was unable to concentrate on anything as his body twitched and ached with an arousal he’d never imagined in his wildest fantasies.

“You will beg me to spill your royal seed on the dungeon floor.”

“Never would I do such a thing,” Falcyn swore although at that moment his body was begging for just that to happen.

The feather swooped down and struck the hollow behind the man’s right knee.

“Agggh! Ahhhhahahahaha, agghhh,” he cried out as his need to cum was combined with the acute pain of being tickled in one’s most ticklish place. “Ahhhhahahahaha!”

The prince smiled as he worked the feather, knowing from his earlier investigation that hollow was the fearsome king’s most vulnerable spot. The mighty warrior twisted to the right and to the left. He pressed his body back against the cold, damp stone wall and he thrust his body outward. He pulled down on the chain fastened to the rings just above his head causing them to creak, and the muscles of his thighs bulged as he pulled up on the ankle clamps holding his naked feet to the narrow ledge of the alcove. The feather moved from right leg to left and back again, causing the man to buckle and scream and laugh at the top of his lungs.

His voice carried through the grate high above his head and out across the courtyard.

Peasants who had gathered in small clusters and had been discussing what their fate would be if the army outside attacked the castle stopped their gossip and looked up at the high tower, bewildered by what could cause a man to laugh from the pit of his belly and scream with pain from the depths of his soul at the same time. The soldiers on the battlements glanced at each other, just as mystified as to what type of torture their young prince was employing.

“You will send a message to the north, telling the barbarians you are withdrawing your support.”

“Hahaha, agggh, unnngh,” panted the king even though the feather was no longer touching the hollow behind his knees. “Never.”

Once again the prince crouched before the gasping man and began to work up a mouth of spittle. King Falcyn’s cock, engorged and aching to come, twitched and jerked as the hot spittle oozed down it, wishing it was its hot cum instead. The stiff horsehair brush ran along the underside, stroking up and down with brief strokes, slowly working closer and closer to the tip, finally reaching the sensitive funnel under the glans.

A droplet of pre-cum oozed out of the slit and Prince Val quickly flicked it up with the brush and applied it to the king’s right nipple, causing him to jerk and curse angrily. The next drop of pre-cum to ooze out was applied to the other nipple, and the third and fourth to his belly button. The man jerked and laughed and cursed the boy, using every epithet he knew. Those in the courtyard and on the battlements were perplexed, hearing only the bellowing of Falcyn the Fierce, neither the slash of a whip nor the grinding of a chain.

The brush ran along the ridge of his helmet, causing another copious flow of pre-cum. This the young prince allowed to flow unhindered down the funnel under the helmet, and down the shaft to collect in a globule in the hairs of the man’s nut sack. As the brush continued to stroke his helmet ever so gently King Falcyn felt his seed beginning to churn in his nuts. Falcyn the Fierce struggled with the thoughts wrestling in his head.

He did not want his seed to be wasted on a dungeon floor, but he did not want the boy to stop either. To waste one’s seed by one’s hand was a mortal sin, but he had to have an ejaculation or the tension was going to drive him out of his mind. His breathing became labored as he concentrated on the burning sensation around the rim of his helmet. His mind fought against the sensation, trying to prevent the inevitable from happening, trying to will away the desire. At the same time a voice in his head was urging the boy on, waiting with anticipation for that delightful feeling when a man feels his seed racing up the core of his cock and spurting out of his body. Finally the desire to cum overpowered the moral objection. Any second now he reasoned. Any second now. At least he had not begged the boy for this. Again he had been the superior in their battle. His body tensed. He inhaled deeply, relishing that moment before ejaculation. Just as he was sure he was going to climax, the prince ceased stroking his cockhead with the brush.

King Falcyn the Fierce did not know what to think, or what to do. He had dreaded the vile act of spending his seed on the infertile floor of the dungeon and was relieved the boy had stopped, but at the same time his body had wanted it so badly he felt dismay knowing that it was not going to happen. An errant thought reminding him the boy’s fourth demand was that he beg him to spend his seed was quickly vanished from his mind.

“You will take your men and return to your castle.”

“Never,” King Falcyn declared, glaring down at the boy. For the first time the King noticed the stiff cock jutting out below the boy’s brief tunic.

“This play has turned you on, boy,” the King sneered, using the boy’s poofery as a defense for his own physical reaction.

The boy was aroused, but he said nothing. The eagle feather attacked, this time striking the outie button. The man trembled and twisted and as the boy persisted he began to howl. Over and over the feather struck the man’s belly button, caressing, probing, tickling.

“You will cede the farmlands south of the Koryn River to me in payment for your release.”

“Never!” the king gasped.

The feather attacked the hollow of his legs once more and the proud and fearful king pulled and strained against his fetters as once again peals of laughter erupted from his throat until it was raw. He screamed with the combination of pleasure and pain, the pit of his stomach aching and perspiration now dripping down his forehead and into his eyes. As he twisted and squirmed and laughed and cried, sweat trickled down his chest and down his thighs. His sides began to ache.

An hour later Prince Val retired to his private apartments and called for Squire Helvar. The tormenting of King Falcyn had left him hotter than he’d ever felt in his eighteen years, and as he waited he pulled up his tunic and began to stroke his swollen member. It felt so good.

In the dungeon below, King Falcyn twisted and strained against his restraints and struggled even more with the thoughts that were combating in his mind. His manhood was finally limp once again and his balls were still full of his seed. He was the victor, but what had happened troubled him greatly. He had steeled himself to withstand the most horrible of tortures, but for a moment he had almost given in to a mere boy armed with nothing more than a feather. He had over the years prepared himself for any number of imagined tortures from husbands incensed by his dallying with their wives to being caught by any number of enemies and thrown to the mercy of the dungeon torturer. Never had he imagined what he’d just gone through.

It was more than just the physical pain of the tickle torture. It was the indignities the boy had committed on his body. His pits and nipples were crusted with dried pre-cum, his pre-cum, and his abs and ribs were sore from laughter. His cock, though now limp, had been sensitized to the point that a trickle of his own sweat would cause it to begin to swell. That was a problem. Despite the barred window above him, the air in the cell was stale and in this drought the cell was like a baker’s oven. He was sweating profusely, and some of it was sure to run down his member.

That evening he was fed scraps from the royal table, better fare than the regular prisoner, and indeed better fare than many peasants, but then he was a king. Besides, Prince Val wanted him to remain in good health. His stomach full, King Falcyn was dismayed to see the prince enter with his small pouch. He tensed as the feathers and brush were removed. Once again the prince knelt before him in his leathers and began to work his mouth.

“No,” pleaded the king.

“You will send a message to the north, telling the barbarians you are withdrawing your support.”

“No.”

Once more the boy’s warm, slimy saliva did its trick to the dismay of the prisoner. Once more the naked warrior-king felt his cock rise and his testicles begin to ache for release of their pearly contents. Once more the fine horsehair brush coaxed out his pre-cum. Once more his nipples and pits were painted with the royal fluid of his nut sac. Once more the eagle feather made its rounds from belly button to hairy pits, from tortured cockhead to the sensitive hollows behind his knees. His massive, muscular body quivered and ached as he howled with laughter, and as the sweat poured down from his forehead and ran in rivulets down his sculptured torso, all he could do was scream and laugh and ache.

“You will take your men and return to your castle.”

How could a mere boy design such a torture? How could such a simple thing as tickling reduce to a quivering, aching mass a man who had fearlessly faced hordes of enemy and who had slaughtered hundreds of men without the slightest qualm? Of even greater concern, how could a virile stud who could ride a woman all night, and frequently did, become sexually aroused by a slip of a boy? What did the erection of his cock mean? He did not like one of the possible answers, an answer he was beginning to realize was the most valid of his choices, the answer that it was possible for a man such as him to be turned on by a smooth bodied boy. He vowed he would not let it happen again. He could not let it happen. That was what he resolved, but each time the boy entered the dungeon cell, it happened.

Falcyn the Fierce was strong, he was proud, and he was defiant. Despite the constant pain and the aching desire in his loins, he refused to meet the boy’s demands. Prince Val, however, matched him. The boy was patient and persistent and he was certain of his victory. Five times a day, for three days Falcyn the Fierce withstood the unique torture. As the iron door to the private cells clanked open on the morning of the fourth, he braced himself for another two hours of torture.

Kneeling before his naked captive, the boy in his stiff leather uniform removed his purple-crested helmet and placed it between the man’s outspread legs. He untied his pouch and laid out on the dungeon floor the horsetail brush and two feathers. Still holding the cat-o-nine-tails, he worked his cheeks and stuck out his tongue, forming a U-shaped furrow. The same ritual, five times a day, for the past three days. The warm, slimy spittle ran down the meaty cock, and it immediately awoke and raised its head, ready to crow. After three days of repeated arousal and unrealized satisfaction, and it being a fortnight since the warrior king and last lain with a woman, his cock responded almost instantly.

“Well, we are a horny old man this morning, aren’t we now?” the boy said with a grin as he looked up at his captive.

The sharp retort and curses that comment would have elicited three days ago no longer flowed from the king’s lips. He stared down at the boy with eyes dulled from lack of sleep and constant stimulation. He was horny, more desperately horny than he had ever been in his entire thirty-four years.

The horsehair brush began to stroke the underside of his massive, erect cock, following the blue vein from his ripe nut sack to the ruddy bulb, moving with agonizing slowness farther and farther up his engorged shaft until at last it touched the sensitive rim of his helmet. His royal pre-cum oozed out of his slit in the false hope of lubricating his shaft for a much needed ride. He grimaced and laughed readily as the brush flicked up the clear fluid and painted his belly button, no longer able to hold back the natural reflex. His body ached as he twisted and his massive member twitched as the brush applied his pre-cum to his nipples, already coated with fifteen prior applications. He knew the boy was waiting for him to give in to his demands, but he would never give him the satisfaction.

“You will send a message to the north, telling the barbarians you are withdrawing your support.”

The proud, fearsome king clamped his lips shut and braced himself as the eagle feather approached his flat, taut stomach.

“No, neeeeever, ah, nnnahhhh, ahahahaha, ahhhh, fuuuahahaha.”

He could not hold back. The eagle feather flicked repeatedly against the sensitive belly button, barely touching it but sending the mighty warrior into a fit of convulsions and laughter. The mere touch of the feather was like a dozen needles pricking his protruding button. It was mid morning but already sweat began to bead on his forehead and collect in the hairs at the V of his neck.

“You will take your men and return to your castle.”

In response to his silent glower the feather skipped up along his ribs to his hairy pits where they inscribed tight little circles, and then danced out along his underarms and then back into the hairy hollow. He screamed and laughed with that tortured cry of the damned, with the cry of one relentlessly tickled. His biceps bulged as he twisted and pulled down on the iron rings and the iron camps cut freshly into his wrists, renewing the red blood stains from where they had cut into his wrists the time before. The pain went unnoticed compared to the shocks of combined pleasure and pain ripping through his pits and underarm. The glowing tip of the torturer’s forge-heated iron could not cause a pain more severe. Over and over the feather skipped along the underarms and hairy, sweating pits.

“Aaaahh, ahahahha, aggghahahahah, aahahahaha,” he sang as his body danced the tickle dance.

“You will cede the farmlands south of the Koryn River to me in payment for your release.”

To agree would finish this never-ending torture. A simple nod of the head and this combination of pleasure and pain ripping through his aching muscles sharper than the lash of the cat-o-nine-tails would cease. If the barbarians to the north had been unsuccessful by now, withdrawal of his support would not be unreasonable. It had been three days and his army had not scaled the castle walls, for whatever reason. That was not his fault. He could always blame the commander of his army. He was planning on doing so anyway. The farmlands were a different matter. They were in a choice location with rich soil and plenty of moisture. Their yield was regularly abundant year after year.

“Never,” he snapped, his body immediately reprimanding his tongue for its quick answer as the feather advanced like a viper and stuck his right nipple. “No, don’t, oh fuuuuuuahahack, ahahaha, agggahahahahaaa.”

The touch of the feather was worse than the bite of a viper. It sent ripples of stimulation down to his groin, causing his cock to once again twitch and his aching nuts to pump forth another stream of pre-cum. As the feather skipped to his ribs, his body thrashed with laugher, causing his thick, meaty cock to sway in the air and his pre-cum to fly in long sticky strands. Sweat poured down his body in sour rivulets, leaving trails in the dust and grime as it traced the outline of his bulging, contorted muscles. The tickling pain of the feather tip and the burning pain in his cockhead demanded satisfaction.

“Yahahahaha, yahahahah, hahahaha, yeahahahth, yeahahtthh!”

“Yes to which?” Prince Val asked quietly as he pulled the feather away. Only years of royal training and lectures on the decorum of his position prevented him from following his impulse to cry out with the juvenile joy of having triumphed.

“Yes to them all,” Falcyn the Fierce replied with a gasp, his throat raw from constant screaming and laughing. “Yes to every fucking one of them. Enough!”

Reaching into his pouch, Prince Val pulled out three documents, already written and waiting for the royal signature. Taking out a bottle of ink and quill, he paused, and then with a wicked smile, dipped the stem of the eagle feather into the bottle and held it up with the first document. The king’s signature was shaky, and it was awkward with his wrist chained to the wall, but it was legible, and legal. He did not even bother reading the three documents. Taking out the small box he’d searched for in King Falcyn’s tent the night he’d captured him, he opened it and removed the royal seal and candle. Sealing each of the documents with a bit of wax and stamping them with the seal, he called for Galain and handed him the documents.

“That leaves only the last of my demands to be fulfilled,” Prince Val said with a slight grin.

“Yes, yes, do it.”

“Do what?” the boy asked, looking up at the tortured face of his enemy.

Falcyn the Fierce glared at the boy. He’d given in to the first three demands. The withdrawal of support to the tribes to the north would take years of bartering to regain the mutual friendship they’d developed. Withdrawal of his army was an ignoble defeat that his men would long remember, and the loss of the produce-rich farmlands would hurt the royal coffers of Valkyre. Surely that was more than enough. This last demand, the most humiliating of them all, was the hardest to accept, but he knew to resist would be futile.

“Do what?” the boy repeated.

“Spill my seed on the dungeon floor,” the proud fearsome king said softly.

“Me, a poof, spill the seed of Falcyn the Fierce?”

“Yes,” came the reply through gritted teeth.

“You will beg me to spill your royal seed on the dungeon floor.”

“Yes. Yes, dammit, you fucking cub! I beg of you to spill my seed.”

The man’s cock having become limp during the signing of the documents, the boy squatted down before him, churning his cheeks and slowly sticking out his furrowed tongue. His warm, slimy saliva quickly brought the massive member back to life and once again it raised its eager head. As the final wad of spittle oozed down over the ruddy bulb, Prince Val picked up the eagle feather. It gently touched the irritated nipples, causing them to immediately itch and grow firm until they were burning with a pain worse than being struck with boiling oil. The feather descended to the towering, thick member, and began to caress the underside, following the blue vein up to the sensitive bulb and caressing the ridge, coaxing out once more the clear droplets of royal pre-cum. The feather flicked up each droplet with precision and deposited the clear fluid on the inflamed nipples and in the hairy hollows of man’s arms, and the feather tarried there a spell to gently caress the sensitive pits and tender underarms so conveniently exposed.

Gales of laughter echoed through the stone tower. The thrashing of chains and the cries of a man in pain could be heard throughout the courtyard. Behind the locked door in the special cells under the royal apartments thrashed a man, cock erect and dripping with a boy’s spittle, his nipples glistening with pre-cum and sweat trickling down his sides from his hairy pits as a feather worked its magic. It ran along the underside of his shaft and caressed the ridge of his helmet, causing the man to groan with the impending and long awaited climax.

“You will beg me to spill your royal seed on the dungeon floor,” the boy said softly.

“Yes, yes, oh fuck yes! Spill my seed!” cried the mighty, proud king, Falcyn the Fierce.

The feather dropped to the hollow behind the man’s knees and touched the skin with a gentle, almost imperceptible touch.

“Aggggahahha, ahahahahaha, ohhhfuuuuahahahaha,” cried the mighty warrior, his body thrashing and the iron rings in the stone of the dungeon creaking as he pulled on them with all his strength.

The muscles of his legs and arms bulged as he strained, convulsed with laughter and aching to release the load building up in his nut sac. He strained and pulled and screamed like a man being stretched on a rack as the feather danced along the ridge of his bulb bringing him within seconds of climaxing, and then darted to tease his pits and underarms with a pleasure just as intense. Then it was back to the underside of his helmet, the tip of the feather tickling the sensitive skin at the mouth of the funnel and following it up to the pee slit. The man’s seed began to churn in his nut sac and his massive member throbbed with his hot, royal blood as he felt his cum finally begin to rise up the core.

At the same time the downy feather from the breast of a hawk began to gently brush the hollow on the inside of his knees. The man howled and laughed as his legs buckled under him and his balls contracted, sending a rope of his royal seed shooting across the dungeon. The man wailed and howled and quivered with laughter as rope after rope of his pent up cum spurted from his jerking, burning cock and as shocks of pleasure and pain caused his legs to spasm uncontrollably. The rim of his helmet and the opening to his throbbing member burned with the sweet pain of ejaculation and the eagle feather attacked one last time, sending shocks of sweet pain through his pits and underarms and gales of laughter from his raw throat. The mighty body of the brawny warrior danced the tickle dance one last time as the final rope of royal seed swung in the air from his thick cock before dropping to the barren dungeon floor.

An hour later Prince Val stood with Commander Galain on the parapet of the high tower, the two watching the peasants leaving for their homes and the army packing their tents. In the royal chambers was a deed, leasing the lands south of the Koryn River to Lankanshire. Two letters had been dispatched two hours earlier to the north, one with the royal seal of King Falcyn to the barbarian leader, and one with the royal seal of Prince Val to Sir Marcus. Another letter had been dispatched to the Commander of the Army telling him his King had agreed to a truce and to begin withdrawing the army. At that very moment that very proud and fearsome king was being helped through the castle gates. The enemy troops, and his own men, were amazed to see the mighty Falcyn the Fierce walk through the castle gates on weak, wobbly legs, drained of all energy and supported by two soldiers. He had been provided a pair of linen breeches in the interest of modesty, and to show everyone that there was not a mark on his body. The wisdom of Prince Val was now combined with an awe how a mere stripling could cower a mighty warrior, and could have arrived at the three concessions that he had wrung from the powerful king. There was, of course, a fourth concession that only the prince, and eventually a very select few, would ever know about.

Claiming weariness after four days of negotiating, Prince Val left Commander Galain in charge of overseeing the return of the peasants to their farms. The bounce in his step and the smile on his lips as he retired to his private chambers were not, however, what you would expect from someone who was weary.

Life in the kingdom of the Lankanshires returned to normal.

 

J. O. Dickingson

 

1 Comment

  1. Avatar of cockworshipper

    cockworshipper - February 10, 2018, 2:30 pm

    great story….goes to show you a little can go a long way…good job

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