The Prince's Boy

THE PRINCE'S BOY: CHAPTER 51

51: Kenet

Something was going to happen. Something soon, it seemed, given the number of strategy sessions Roichal held among his top commanders, and the duration of them. One night they continued far past sundown, and I fell asleep sitting on the floor of the tent, leaning against a chest.

When I woke, Marksin was pulling my boots off. We were in his tent. From here, closer to the main camp, I could hear men singing along while one played a drum and another bowed a string. I tried to sit up, but he just twisted the other boot off and tossed it aside, his firm hands on my ankle.

"He's given orders for me to feed you," he said quietly. "And then I shall remain here as your guard."

"Do you think that's necessary?" I asked. After all, who would bother me if no one knew I was in the field marshal's tent?

"It doesn't matter if it's necessary," he said, kneeling close. "Those are his orders. Would you contradict them?"

"No! No, of course I wouldn't..." I trailed off as he slid a hand into my hair. I could not meet his eyes.

"It's all right," he said. "I've lived a lifetime of discipline. You're still learning."

"I still—"

He cut me off with his words, as he unbuckled his sword belt. "How would you like it?"

His milk, he meant. "Er, um..." It felt distinctly odd not to have Roichal there directing us in what to do. It seemed neither of us quite knew who was in charge. "Well, it's best freshest from the source...?"

He laughed. "Of course. I meant, what position should we adopt."

I sat up then and moved from the cot, urging him to sit or lie down. "Please. Let me pleasure you as best I can."

He sat and opened his trousers but did not remove any of his uniform. We did not enjoy quite the same privacy here as we did in the general's own tent. I had forgotten that. I knelt between his spread knees and took his damp ballocks in the palm of my hand, easing them away from the bunched fabric, and then lowering my mouth to the pendulous cock that hung from them.

He tasted musky, of saddle and sweat, and the scent brought my own prick to quivering hard while I teased him with the tip of my tongue. I did not tease him for long, however, and quickly I was taking as much of his considerable length down my throat as I could manage. He whispered to me then, how fast, how much to squeeze his sacks, how hard to suck... the result of which was he spilled quickly and efficiently.

When I had swallowed all I could, though, he pulled me up into a deep kiss, his tongue searching after the taste of his own musk, it seemed. When he paused, we were both breathless. His lips moved against mine as he spoke. "Thank you, Page."

"Tcha. Thank you, for the gift of your milk, as always."

He shook his head slowly, his forehead against mine. "It always feels more like you doing a service to me than the other way around," he said. "May I—?"

He broke off, no doubt just remembering the thing I then voiced. "I cannot come without him."

"Of course," he said, pulling back. "I don't know what I was thinking."

I kissed him on the cheek to show I had no hard feelings, and then got to my feet. "You were thinking of me and my needs," I said. "That is admirable. But although at one time I think perhaps any man's command to spill would have released me, I suspect that now, Roichal's voice alone will do. And besides..." I shrugged, then, not quite sure how to express what I was thinking without it sounding like a rebuke to Marks.