A Catboy Prince’s Downfall

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Richard sat in his room. If he tried hard enough, he could pretend it was just another normal day. His desk was the same as it always was. Scattered papers from his tutors, pens and ink, blank sheets, history books. His bed was messily unmade on the other side of the room, with its four posters and all its cushions. His wardrobe was open, and a few outfits were strewn about around it. He was wearing the one he’d finally decided on. Just like yesterday, and the day before that.

But today, he could hear the sounds of shouting outside his room door. Outside his window, the normally-serene garden was strewn with loose branches, and as he watched, an armoured soldier ran across the field – an armoured soldier wearing foreign colours. There was no point in watching, he decided, and turned back to his desk. He opened up a random book. History of Tavelor, the title was. Alright. A good distraction.

He was just about to open the cover, when there was a knock at the door. “Crown Prince Richard?”

A bolt of fear shot through his chest. Deliberate apathy would only take him so far – had only taken him so far. There was little he could do to continue his current approach when the enemy was right at his door, unless he went from aloof to delusional. Perhaps he should, he considered for one desperate moment – driving oneself into insanity was preferable to being lucid when he met his fate.

But no. For all his internal terror, he was a prince – and a prince must act like a prince in front of his people, even when facing certain doom. It would not do for him to be seen wailing and gibbering, even in the palace hallways. So he inhaled, pointed his ears forward to hide his fear, walked over and opened the door.

His eyes first landed on a man’s broad chest. Oh. A tall man, then. His eyes travelled up, past pewter buttons, a blood-red cape, a broad and tanned neck, a wiry beard – then finally landed on a face. His summoner was a man in his forties, or thereabouts, it seemed. Thick black hair in a long braid over his shoulder, a piercing brown gaze, broad shoulders, a thin scar on his temple, a canvas pouch at his hip. Suddenly Richard felt rather self-conscious about his own willowy figure, and the fineness of his brown curls, swaying with each twitch of his golden ears. A prince should not lift a sword until he becomes a king, his father said, but now his home was being invaded, and he had no way of defending against people like these.

“Crown Prince Richard,” the man repeated. “May I enter your room?” Richard realised he’d been staring. He opened his mouth to apologize, but thought better of it, and simply stepped aside. The man strode into his room, and his boots tracked mud onto the carpet. Richard tried not to notice. His tail swished behind him, but otherwise, he managed that.

The man turned to him and straightened his posture. Richard realised that, even though this man was being outwardly civil to him, he’d never turned his back in the time he’d been here. He perceived Richard as an enemy. That was… understandable, Richard thought. But Richard himself had not raised a hand in this war. “Who are you?” he asked simply, with a carefully neutral voice. “And why have you come here?”

“I am King Byron of Havre,” he said, his voice deep and steady. “I’ve come to ask for your surrender.”

Richard’s eyes narrowed just a little, his tail straightening, and he sighed. The moment he’d been trying to avoid was in front of him – he was swimming in it. He could feel his chest tightening, burning, but he stood straight and stayed stoic.

“Before you answer,” King Byron said, and detached the canvas pouch from his waist. “I have something to show you.”

He tipped the pouch upside down, and Richard’s father’s head bounced onto his carpeted floor.

Richard brought a hand to his mouth. It was all he could do not to expel the contents of his stomach as the dead, glassy eyes of his father stared emptily up at the ceiling. It was remarkably bloodless – even so, he could feel his tail curling around his leg, his ears canting to the side.

He looked up at Byron with a questioning expression, and Byron clarified, “He was killed by my sword through his chest. I took the head a while after he had drawn his last breath.” He paused, and tentatively added, “He fought valiantly.”

He fought valiantly, Richard thought, and now he was dead. He couldn’t take his eyes off of it – the grey pallor of his father’s skin. The bone peeking out of the bottom. Trying to make it seem as natural as possible, he placed his hand on the desk, leaned on it a little, tried to collect himself. Tried to unwrap his tail from his leg, even though it stayed stubbornly attached.

“Prince Richard,” King Byron said. “I’ve killed your father. As the heir to the throne, if you refuse to accept my rule, I will have no choice but to send you with him.” His hand went over to rest on the hilt of his sword, which Richard noticed with a slight shallowing of his breath. “If you submit to me, you will be taken prisoner, but your life will be spared. So. Do you surrender?”

Richard gritted his teeth. Byron gathered the head back up into its pouch, but it did not matter to him, because the image was already burned into the backs of his eyelids. Survive, his father had told him. You are too young for the battlefield – your role is to learn from history, and to prepare for your own reign. You must survive.

He had no relatives, no cousins. The line ended with him. If his line was to carry on – he had to live on, no matter what that entailed.

So he nodded, his eyes on the ground. “I surrender.” When Byron eyed him, then glanced at the floor meaningfully, Richard grit his teeth – but he knew what that meant.

So his knees hit the floor, his head bowed, his ears pressed down submissively. “I surrender,” he repeated. “I accept your rule.”

He could feel Byron’s gaze on the back of his neck, across his back. He took his sweet time, thought Richard bitterly – there was a moment of silence, two, three.

Richard felt cold steel on his chin – pressing up. He let the tip of Byron’s sword tip his chin up to face the man, then felt it slide further and further in, slowly, until it pressed against his neck. His heart pounded, and his breath was as shallow as he could keep it, not wanting to inhale and nick him.

“You surrender?” King Byron repeated. “You’ll obey me from now on – you’ll become my prisoner, and submit to my will.” He seemed as though he was enjoying this, part of his former politeness fading away.

“Yes,” repeated Richard. “I– I’ll obey you.” This was becoming more and more foreboding, he thought, but for now he just wanted to live. He would agree to a lot if it meant seeing the sun rise tomorrow morning.

“Good,” King Byron said, and drew his sword back. Richard stayed where he was, not daring to get up unless the man changed his mind. “You may not have participated in the war – but you are the heir to this country, you carry the marks of royal ancestry,” he said, nudging one of the ears atop Richard’s head. “You will have to pay the price for your blue blood.” He reached over, and gripped Richard’s hair, firmly, unyieldingly, then pulled up. Richard staggered upright, letting out a shaky breath, glancing up at King Byron. No, he thought. Byron had said his life would be spared – he hadn’t–

But instead of chopping his head off, King Byron simply led the young prince staggering out of his room, down the palace hallways, past soldiers that cheered at the sight and servants that turned away. “Where are you taking me?” Richard asked, and “Let go of me,” he said, but to no reply. Byron simply kept walking, stony-faced – until they reached the palace gates, where throngs of commoners had gathered to see what all the fuss was about.

There, Byron threw him forward onto the cobblestones, and Richard landed on his arms, hissing as he grazed an elbow. “People of Leallis,” he shouted. “I, King Byron of Havre, have captured the castle and killed King Walter of Leallis. His son, Prince Richard of Leallis, has surrendered to me, and sworn never to ascend the throne.”

Richard looked up, shocked. He hadn’t– he hadn’t said anything of the sort. He’d only surrendered, but he still held hope that he might be able to retake the throne someday, upon this Byron’s death. But Byron, seemingly uncaring of his lie, continued. “I will display to you all that Havre rules over Leallis now, and will continue to do so until the end of time.”

He looked down at Richard, and commanded, “Strip.”

Richard stared back up at him, open-mouthed, as the crowd erupted in heated mutters. No way… he couldn’t imagine being naked in front of his palace servants, let alone a whole crowd. But Byron seemingly sensed Richard’s hesitance, and in a second Richard was feeling hands in his hair again, forcing him to hold Byron’s gaze. “You promised to submit to my will, Richard,” he said. Richard had never heard his name from someone else’s lips before, not without his title, not apart from his father. “Are you going to break your promise now?”

Richard glanced down at his clothed body, at his tail whipping back and forth with apprehension. He didn’t want to strip. He didn’t want to strip– but his life was at stake. The future of his family was at stake. “No,” he said, and unbuttoned his shirt collar with shaking hands.

The jacket went first – then the shirt, then his shoes, breeches and underwear, with increasing hesitance. The crowd stared on in shocked silence as, gradually, the body of the crown prince himself was revealed to him. He had the pale skin of somebody raised indoors, no blemishes that work might give him. A sheltered boy, clearly. And, Richard thought with dread, that life was over now. He flinched as Byron’s hand landed firmly on the back of his neck, keeping him in place.

“Look at this boy,” he said. “Nineteen years of age, and not a day’s work done, only study that is now pointless. The marks of a royal,” he said, wrapping Richard’s tail around his hand, loop by loop. “But behind all that – just a boy. Like any other. I will show you all,” he said, “that even the crown prince is nothing without the favour of a king.”

If he had been more in his own mind, Richard would have wanted to hide his body, bring his hands forward to preserve any little dignity he had left. But with the threat of death hanging over his head, this seemed… smaller. Byron threw him to the ground again, making him flinch as his bare knees hit the path, then gestured for two guards. “Take his arms,” he said, and they obliged. Richard moved away reflexively, but they were strong, and in a moment they had him spread-eagle on his knees.

Even forced to the ground like this, Richard could feel Byron’s eyes on him, hear each footstep as he circled his new captive. “Those honey-brown curls,” he said. “The same as your father’s, and your grandfather’s. I’m not cruel enough of a man to cut off your ears and tail, not when you’ve been so docile all this time. But,” he breathed, taking a curl in his fingers, “I think shearing you is a fitting humiliation for the crown prince.”

Richard’s eyes blew wide. “Please,” he breathed, “don’t– my father, he said–” Our hair is a sign of our heritage, he had said, just as our royal marks are. We keep it in this style to show gratitude to our ancestors, and to show pride in where we come from.

“Your father is dead,” said Byron. “If you would like to start resisting me, you can join him.” He held his hand out to another guard, who placed a pair of manual clippers in his palm. “I don’t like threatening you needlessly, so just stay still so that I don’t nick you. Or try to escape,” he exhaled, leaning down, “and I’ll know you don’t want to surrender after all.”

Richard’s throat burned, and he started quivering, his chest heaving up and down. What choices were these? Resist, retain his honour, but end his dynasty – or this. Submit to humiliation, but stay alive. Humiliation that was, as of yet, unknown to him. He was being held down by two guards, of course, but the threat of a swift elimination kept him still as Byron’s hand wrapped around his chin and jaw from behind. “Good boy,” he heard, deep and slow in his ear.

Then, he felt cold metal being pressed against the nape of his neck, and a *shnick*, and a clump of hair on the sole of his foot. Oh, god. He closed his eyes, feeling bile rise in his throat, but he stayed still as the clippers moved up. They were firmly against his skin, and Richard realised he couldn’t move his head one inch, not with how securely King Byron was holding onto his head. A question rested on his tongue, but he was scared to let it leave his lips, in case his fears were confirmed. But he had to try– he had to know.

Shakily, but as calmly as he could manage, he asked “How much are you leaving me?” He couldn’t see King Byron’s face, but he knew the man had heard his question by the way his fingers tightened on Richard’s jaw, by the feeling of King Byron’s shin pressed against his back. He could feel the man’s breath on the crown of his head, and those clippers paused before he answered. “You’re a prince, boy. Not just any prince – the crown prince. If I’m sparing your life, you had better believe that I’m not going to spare you much else.”

He closed the clippers again, and another clump fell, sliding down his back, onto his tail. Ancestors, give me strength, Richard thought, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. As the strip of severed hair on his head grew higher and higher, his ears twisted around, hearing the muttering of the crowd of commoners around him.

“I’ve never seen the prince before,” one said, “he’s so much smaller than I expected, somehow… he doesn’t take after King Walter, it seems. Maybe that’s why he’s still alive.” “Oh, come now,” another one said, in a scornful tone that made Richard’s tail twist apprehensively. “Do you really think this conqueror would have let the crown prince live without getting something back for it?” They lowered their voice to a whisper, but with his hearing, Richard could still make it out. “I think he offered up his mouth. Or his ass. Whichever this King Byron has a taste for. He seems like the type that’d be swayed by the promise of a good fuck.”

Richard let out a little whimper of fear at that, and King Byron noticed. He felt the large man leaning down again, and realised with dull shock that the clippers had reached the space in between his ears already. His hair… it was leaving his head, fluttering down around him, but he had other things on his mind as well. Other, more urgently terrifying things. “What is it?” he heard from the deep voice behind him, and felt as though he had to be honest. He had nothing to lose from letting himself be vulnerable to his conqueror, except perhaps his dignity. What dignity? He was already stripped naked, his cock hanging between his legs in front of the capital’s denizens, being shorn to the scalp. He had no dignity left.

“I heard someone say that you were the type to be swayed by lust – by attractive men,” he confessed, voice barely above a breath. “Is that true?” Only King Byron would be close enough to hear him from there, he hoped, even though he was facing who knows how many people. His eyes were closed for a reason. He didn’t want to look back at the people who were looking at him, didn’t want to see the contempt in their eyes. Didn’t want to see his former subjects looking down at him. Being in the dark was preferable to that.

And he felt the dark closing in on him as he waited for King Byron’s answer. He didn’t seem in a hurry to relieve Richard’s curiosity – of course he wasn’t – but it made Richard uneasy, his tail curling at the end, trying to tuck itself in between his legs even though it had no space to burrow into.

When King Byron did answer, though, it took him by surprise. “Of course,” he said. “What man isn’t?” The hand that had formerly held the clippers stroked down the bare fuzz in the middle of Richard’s scalp, slowly, deliberately. “You’re a very pretty boy, Prince Richard. There’s a purpose to this – to humiliating the son of the king in front of his former people. But if you hadn’t looked like you do now, well, perhaps I might have taken a less intimate approach.” He leaned in further, and Richard shivered with growing fear. “A more brutal one. So you should thank every god there is that you look as good as you do.”

Richard stayed silent, but Byron nudged his ear with his lips, and he realised with dread that his command had not been rhetorical. He felt his gut twist with disgust, but tamped it down and gasped out, “I thank– thank every god that there is– that I look good.”

He’d paraphrase, but Byron seemed not to mind, and kissed the back of Richard’s ear to his relief. “Good boy,” he said. “It looks like it won’t be too hard to train you to my tastes.” What? Richard opened his mouth to ask what that meant, but only got two of Byron’s fingertips against his teeth right afterward, as the man picked those clippers up again and resumed his cutting.

His grip was as strong as it had been previously. Richard strained his neck against that hand, but it didn’t budge at all as Byron sheared another line up Richard’s nape, steadily, heartlessly. He’s going to take everything from me, Richard realised. He finds me pretty – his hands have been all over me, he thought, and only god knows what he’s going to do to me next. A tear welled up, ran down his cheek, and he heard someone scoff in the crowd.

“Stop,” he begged, helplessly, and Byron had the mercy to ignore him. The first lock of hair landed in his lap from the front of his head, and he sobbed. It rested right next to his cock, soft and exposed and uncomfortable in the cold. Byron had taken his time with the first parts, but now it seemed like he wanted to finish this off quickly. He folded Richard’s human ear with a thumb and shaved off the curls on top of it. Richard felt them tickle the skin behind the ears as they slipped down, brushing his side. He felt as though he was being baptised in the remains of his own cut hair, in the signs of his fall from power.

He felt the cold metal run across every inch of his scalp, the bite of the clippers, the occasional tug where Byron was hasty. He swore his head was getting lighter with each snip of the clippers, even though his hair couldn’t have weighed all that much. He felt a cold breeze blow across the top of his head and shivered. Byron brushed a lock of hair off of the top of his head, and he shivered again.

After much too long, he heard Byron step back, and felt a sinking feeling at his huff of satisfaction. “There,” he heard. “All of your pretty curls, gone everywhere except your head.” Byron let go of his head, and Richard looked down to find that he was right. Brown curls were piled in his lap, around his sides – dangled off of his tail. He watched Byron pick up one lock of hair and rub it between his fingers, sending the individual hairs fluttering down one by one. “What a pity… you looked better before I did this to you. Your ears look oversized now,” he hummed, “juvenile. Although I suppose you are young.”

He reached over to Richard’s head, and Richard felt his rough fingers on his new stubble. It was shorter than he’d known people could cut hair, and uneven, he realised. As did Byron, it seemed. “I could have cut your hair more neatly,” Richard heard him say, “but I think this suits your current situation a little better.” He was right, Richard thought. Hair roughly hacked off, knees and elbows scraped on the cobbles – he was the picture of a prisoner of war. He grit his teeth at the realisation.

He was tired. He had had his hair chopped off, been stripped of his clothes in front of who knew how many people… he felt defeat seeping through his bones, and he bowed his head, his ears drooping to the side. It was over. The guards had let go of his arms at some point – he hadn’t noticed. He didn’t know where he would stay, but he could sleep, eventually.

But then Byron pushed his shoulders forward, onto the ground. Richard felt large hands on his asscheeks, kneading them, spreading them – and his eyes widened. “N– no,” he gasped. “Please.” His voice broke with unshed tears, and his throat burned. He couldn’t lose that too, not here. “Take me inside– please, I’ll show you to my room,” he begged. “Not here, not– out, in front of everyone.”

He turned his head back to meet Byron’s eyes, scraping his cheek on the stone, but all he saw was a light-hearted shake of Byron’s head, and Byron grabbed his neck, pressing his head down. “I’ve spared you your life, little kitten,” Byron growled behind him, “but I’ll spare you nothing else. If you want to survive from now on, I’d suggest you learn to accept that. I won’t punish you for begging, but it’ll do nothing to dissuade me.”

Richard heard Byron mutter something indistinct to a guard. He heard the man reach up, mumble some more, then crouch back down – and Richard yelped as a finger was shoved unceremoniously up his ass. The crowd had quieted down a little bit by now, but at seeing this they livened back up, some leaving in disgust, some shuffling to the front to see the young crown prince take his first man. Richard struggled, but Byron’s hand on his neck held firm, his finger probing the inside of Richard’s ass with a kind of curiosity.

His tail whipped out without him meaning to and started flailing – that made Byron let go and grab it, yanking it hard to press it down against Richard’s back. Richard yelped at the sudden tug, but Byron didn’t seem to care. “Relax, boy,” he breathed, and the sound of liquid reached his ears from behind him. He could feel oil dripping down his thighs, could feel the movement of Byron’s finger becoming smoother. “If you struggle too much, you’ll scrape away the oil, and you wouldn’t like that.”

Richard didn’t like this, but what else could he do? Trying to escape Byron’s grip would only lead to more suffering for him. After a minute or so, Byron pulled his finger out, poured more oil over Richard’s ass, then added it back along with another one. “I won’t prepare you too much,” he panted. “You’re a virgin – I don’t want to waste that.” And he had been telling the truth. Byron only scissored Richard’s ass for about a minute before he pulled his fingers out again, and Richard nearly choked at the sound of breeches being undone. He sobbed, but didn’t beg – he knew it was useless by now. So he didn’t struggle when Byron grabbed his hips, lined himself up, and speared him in one go.

He gasped, and felt another tear streak down the side of his face. Byron didn’t start slow. He had gone all the way in on his first stroke, but then pulled out until only the very tip was inside, then plunged all the way in again, making Richard cry out with a little strangled sound, to the soft laughter of the crowd. He was barely conscious of them by now – too much was happening to him at once for him to have enough energy for embarrassment.

“God, you’re tight,” hissed Byron behind him, those hands gripping Richard’s hips until they bruised. “So this is what it’s like to fuck a crown prince, is it? Desecrate the holy bloodline, stain the marks of a royal. Everyone!” he shouted, “I’m sure you were told this boy was some divine heir. Tell me – does he look like one now? All scratched up from the cobblestone, flushed and whining with a cock up his ass? I’ll bet not,” he breathed, and Richard could hear the grin in his voice even if he couldn’t see it.

Byron fucked into Richard sharply, one thrust, then the next, then the next, rocking him back and forth, slamming his balls against Richard’s taint each time. His cock was rock-hard, but he didn’t seem to be aiming for anything in particular. He hit a different spot inside Richard with each thrust – but then slammed into Richard’s prostate dead on, and he gasped, his ears popping up and his tail jerking against Byron’s hold. “Oho?” Byron pushed his hips that same way again, and again, and Richard’s gasps turns into whimpers, then into moans.

Richard’s cheeks burned with humiliation. Byron’s earlier description hadn’t been accurate then, but it was now, to Richard’s dismay – but oh, god, it felt good. He could feel his erection pressing against his stomach with how hard he’d gotten – and he was only getting harder. He was still crying, his chest heaving with sobs, but it was hard to tell if each sound coming out of his mouth was an anguished cry or a moan of pleasure, and Richard didn’t even think he knew himself.

He willed himself not to do this, not to get this much pleasure from his own violation, but as Byron continued with his steady fucking, Richard realised that it was no use. He shook his head, biting his lip, thinking that perhaps he could stave off his orgasm by causing himself pain – but Byron noticed, and let go of his tail to pull his head upward by the scalp. “What’s wrong, kitten? There’s no use in denying yourself pleasure, not when you have no title left anymore.” He laughed softly and shoved his cock into Richard a little harder, making him let out a cry that was nearly a scream. “Go on, boy. Tell me how it feels, and I’ll give you more.” Richard… well, what was the use in him trying to resist any more? He’d just had his virginity taken in front of a crowd of now-jeering bystanders, his hair lay scattered on the ground around him, and god, he was so close to cumming. “It– feels good,” he whimpered, his gaze low.

“What feels good, boy?” “Your cock– your cock in me, it feels good. Your fucking me feels good,” he breathed, and his ears drooped with resignation and he felt his orgasm approach. “I’m going to cum,” he said, one final surrender. “I want to cum,” he begged. “Good boy for asking,” the reply was. “Go on, then. Cum.”

And as he released onto his own stomach with a cry, he felt warm semen spurt out into his ass as well, Byron squeezing his hips and holding himself all the way inside him. “Fuck,” he heard, “that ass is going to milk me dry before long…”

The orgasm sapped Richard’s strength, and his legs relaxed. When Byron pulled out, he exhaled with a little wheeze, falling sideways to collapse onto the cobblestones. He knew he was dirtying himself, but he didn’t really care – his whole body was dirty already, in every possible sense of the word. He was lying in his own hair, in the filth of the road.

Behind him, he could hear Byron buttoning his pants back up again. “You did well, boy,” he heard. “But, well, since you came – clearly you enjoy being fucked, don’t you?” As Richard raised his head with alarm, Byron continued, “Everybody around you right now – I’m sure they’re dying to get a taste of you.” No. Surely Byron wasn’t suggesting what he seemed to be suggesting. Richard struggled up into a sitting position, where he saw Byron spread his arms wide to the crowd around them, and realised that he really was planning on what Richard had thought. “People of Leallis!” Richard’s face paled, and his eyes widened, his arms losing all strength. “Your former Crown Prince has been brought low – stripped of his crowning glory, of even his maidenhood. I imagine all of you would like a taste of him, would you not? Fear not. I will grant you that, so long as you make good use of it.” He turned to one of the guards, and this time, spoke loud enough for Richard to hear. “Keep anybody diseased away from him,” he said, “and don’t let any of them become too rough with him, or pull a knife on him. I don’t want my new boy to loosen out before I’ve had my fun with him.” A day ago, Richard might have screamed, might have begged for this not to happen to him – but what was there to lose now? He felt a woman’s hand grab his arm and pull him toward her. He’d been deflowered, he’d been humiliated. All of these people had seen him naked anyway, so this wasn’t much different, was it? The woman shoved two fingers in his mouth, and he suckled on them, placidly. He’d lost everything – the least he could do was allow his people to use him, rather than some foreign conqueror. Byron looked down at him, and smirked, evidently pleased to see Richard being used already. “Come up to your father’s old room when they grow bored of you,” he said. “You’ve done well tonight – you’ll sleep on the floor next to my bed.”

Then he turned his back and strode into the palace, as Richard felt another pair of hands fondle at his cock.

Richard was used. Over and over again, in every way he could imagine and some he had never before. A blushing maiden sat on his cock and squealed her climax out, a smug matron sat on his face and had him lick her cunt until his tongue was sore all over. Cocks met him everywhere – on his belly, in his ass, in his mouth, over the stubble of his head. Even the guards each had a turn fucking his face. By the time the crowd thinned and dumped him back on the ground, it was well into the night, and he was exhausted.

He stumbled his way back into the palace, past the throne room and through all the hallways, and knocked on his father’s bedroom door.

Byron, of course, answered. He looked over Richard’s body, glistening with cum and slick and bruises – and gave a simple nod. “Come,” he said, “let’s get you clean. I won’t have you dripping onto my floor.” Richard was in no mood to defy him, so he let Byron drag him into an adjoining bathroom, dump him into the bathtub, pour water over him until he was pale and shivering, then scrub him all over with his hands until he was red again. “God,” he said in that deep voice, “they really had their way with you. I’ll have to clean you out inside, at this rate.” And, to Richard’s dismay, he did have a way of doing that – a porcelain jug with a long spout, and lots of agonizing refills.

Finally, though, Richard was clean. It hadn’t taken as long as it would if he’d still had his hair, he thought with mild sadness. But Byron still looked dissatisfied. He was looking down Richard’s body, humming to himself. “Have you always kept your body hair untrimmed?” he asked. “…Yes,” he answered quietly. He looked down at himself, gaining a touch of self-consciousness. “Why?” “That won’t do, while you’re mine. I plan on showing your body off,” Byron huffed, “and I keep my things neat. Come, sit on the side of the bathtub.” He grabbed a razor from the side of the sink, and flipped it open.

Oddly enough, Byron crouched down to start with, and held Richard’s calf in the palm of his hand. If Richard hadn’t known better, he might have thought the man was genuflecting, but the events of the previous evening dissuaded him from that notion. Byron took some soap and rubbed it over Richard’s leg once more, then carefully scraped off the sparse brown hairs on the shin. “Why do you care how I look?” asked Richard. His voice was quiet, resigned – surprisingly calm for what he’d just been through. He was surprised at how calm he was. “Just now, you said it was fine that my hair was left uneven.” You’ve dragged me through the gutter, you’ve spat on me. Why are you going back on that now? Byron finished up Richard’s left leg, then his right, leaving Richard in a long silence before he answered. “You’re my prize from this conquest,” he replied. “I’ll take you back to Havre, once we’re done here. Have you on your knees next to me, while I take petitions.” He smiled up at Richard and stood. He supported Richard’s back with one hand, and shaved a slow line down his chest with the other. “Have you sit on my cock in council meetings, eat out of my hand and nuzzle me at dinner.”

Richard frowned slightly. “What makes you think I’ll nuzzle you?” he asked. He saw Byron’s smirk, and turned his head away – it was clear enough to the both of them that Richard would do everything he was ordered, everything else Byron had mentioned in that little speech. It was merely a matter of how enthusiastically he’d submit to this treatment. Another long silence followed, as Byron shaved Richard’s chest, his arms, his back. He lifted one of Richard’s arms, and replied, “You will. Eventually. You’ll learn that obeying me is the way to your own pleasure – and through that, you’ll grow to love me. By next spring, you’ll be purring on my chest and calling me Master.”

Richard blushed at the thought of that, as Richard steadily shaved one of his armpits. “You would just order me to call you– that,” he said softly. “If you were desperate for it. You’ve done worse to me.” He was looking in the opposite direction, and he felt as though he might blush soon.

“I don’t have to,” was the short answer, and Richard’s other arm was lifted to scrape away the hair there. “Now that you know it would please me… it’s only a matter of time before I hear it from your lips. You’re naturally obedient,” he smirked, “it won’t take long enough for me to get impatient. It’s the same with nuzzling me… and leaning on my calf as I sit, and licking at my cock when I’m bored in the throne room. They’ll all come in time.”

Richard’s mouth dropped open, and Byron took the chance to get down and spread the boy’s legs. Richard expected to be scared at that, at the thought of a knife near his cock, but Byron was quick and clean after he’d applied the soap. He realised that his cock looked a little bigger like this. “You won’t be using that,” was Byron’s mirthful reply to his glance. “Not on me, at least. Perhaps on a guard, if I’m feeling generous like today.”

Byron stood, and applied more soap to Richard’s head. His eyes widened slightly. “You’re shaving my head?” he asked, not nearly as shocked as he would have been just hours before. “Yes,” replied Byron simply. “If I’m going to have you next to me, I can’t have you looking untidy.”

When he touched the razor to the back of Richard’s head, though, he flinched, and Byron chuckled. “Nervous? There’s so little hair left on your head – it’s a wonder you care at all. If anything, you should be relieved that I’m doing this.”

“It’s cold,” was Richard’s excuse, but upon a skeptical glance from Byron, he continued. “Having my hair like this… is different from being bald.” He didn’t know how, logically, but it was different.

Byron didn’t seem to share his opinion, though. He shook his head and bent Richard’s neck down just a little, scraping away steadily at the stubble to Richard’s disappointment. “Your scalp was already showing through. The only difference there is is in your mind… and perhaps in the texture of it, on my hand. But I think it’d be interesting to feel a smooth head on you. Your ears are already fluffy… it’d make a nice contrast.”

Richard hated the idea of being bald. He hated the idea of losing every trace of his hair, from his head to his body, to this foreigner. But it was clear that he couldn’t resist… and he didn’t know if he wanted to resist. So he sat there, still and docile, as Byron carefully scraped every last trace of hair from his head, maneuvering around his human ears, his cat ears, one by one. Then, Byron was done. He placed a hand on Richard’s bald head, and he sighed. “I don’t like this,” he said, futilely, his ears pressing down on bare skin. “I know,” Byron replied. He put a hand under Richard’s chin, tipped his head up. “I do, though. You’ll have to get used to that from now on.”

Richard didn’t look into Byron’s searching eyes, but he thought he might get used to it faster than he wanted to.

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