All boys with long hair must be tied up

Content warning contains explicit sexual content.

 

The door to the room I am kept inside slides open. How long had I been here? They had put me in a room no natural light penetrated so I could only tell how many days I had been kept here. The changing of the guards and the burning of the candle was my only hint at the time that had passed.

I lost count of the guards changed after the second dozen. They had fed me very little and lent me little water for sustenance. I could feel my muscles atrophy beneath the ropes that cut gashes into my wrists and skin.

My ears had grown attuned to the silence, letting the rhythm of my heart’s drum fill my ears with the sound of blood pumping around my head. I still could not make out the words said between the figures that entered my cage and the guards.

The two guards left, their shadows bowing as they were replaced by three tall feminine figures. Two flanked the first. These two are Servic-Qor, “foreigner slaves” in my tongue. It was a tradition that children of the enemy were taken and raised to serve their new masters. It wasn’t accidental that the Servic-Qor chosen to tend to my confinement were both from my kingdom.

Their hair was long, brushed straight and tied back in the fashion of their masters. It was made to resemble a horse’s tail as a reminder of their nomadic past. The slaves were naked, except for the thin veil that covered them. Their skin was smooth and pale like mine, just as their hair was the same golden hue. I had been told once that these features made my people some of the most valuable slaves at any auction.

These two would have been especially valuable. They were more beautiful then any of the debutantes at my father’s court. I suppose it was my court now. Or even the Khatun’s court now she had usurped my inheritance.

Looted jewellery adorned the Servic-Qor’s smooth, porcelain skin, piercing their chests and hanging from perfectly formed ears. An embroidered collar wrapped around their necks. The only other thing they wore was a pair of softwood sandals that clicked against the marble floor of the grotto.

They lit a series of lights around me, illuminating the room. It was large but the darkness caused it to feel intimate, the ceiling and carved marble walls cast in shadow. The walls and ceiling felt close, preventing the grotto from becoming cavernous.

Now the room was lit I could recognise the slaves, through the thin fabric veil that was only visible in its natural pleats. Though I already suspected they were the same Servic-Qor who bathed me and tied my ropes. My skin had been shaved bare and washed in sweet scented ointment, while braided ropes were brought tight so they could constrict my form.

My arms were forced behind my back, tied tight at the wrists and my elbows, forcing my shoulders to lock into a rigid, unnatural shape. Individual splits were placed between my fingers. My legs were tied together at the ankle, then the knee, then the thigh. Then they were folded back on themselves so the ankle and thigh could be strung together. Only my penis was unbound.

My head was then placed in a harness, its straps containing a gag that forced my mouth to drool around it. Combined with how little water I had been given that made my throat dry, tasting like salt. The final touch was a rope between the back of my head and my feet, short enough that it forced me to push my head back as far as it would go at all times. That is how I was left here for the countless shifts of the guard.

My bones were sore, and weak, and numb. I couldn’t tell how much of my body I could still feel. On the first day I had wondered if it would be better to die, preserve the honour of my house as the last of the ruling line. Or even to save myself from a fate worse than death. But I no longer had that option. These people were more than happy to keep me alive against my will.

My father had taught me not to fear, taught that as long as there is a light at the end of the tunnel there is no time for doubt, or fear, or cowards. But there was no light. I had been locked into a labyrinth with no way out and only one question. When do I stop running from the Minotaur.

My attention was drawn to the third figure. She was new, when the slaves had tended to me before she had not come, and the guards had stayed. So either this third woman was strong enough to act as a guard or they believed I was in a weakened enough state that I had no chance of escape. Both were probably true.

The woman stepped into the light, I recognised her, the young Khatun. We had crossed paths once when my father had failed to barter a peace between our nations. He had insisted that this woman was too dangerous for me to join the consort despite being the same age as me. News travels fast of the fourteen year old girl who slew her two older brothers in single combat. Or who called hunting trips to lure out assassins sent after her.

A decade later she stood in front of me. The same hunting eyes and hungry lips. She stepped out of the shadows, leaving the cape of purple silk she wore to slide off her skin as she did so. It was a warrior tradition she mimicked. Men would show their naked forms, so they were only clothed in the scars of their deeds. She mocked them.

Not a single blemish dared to touch her. The young khatun who had killed more assassins than she had seen cycles of the season. And who had slew more of her own blood in ritual combat than she had fingers on her hands. And yet not a single blade had crossed the sanctity of her skin.

She stood tall, basking in her own nudity. Not a single jewel embellished her. Not a crest or a crown or a ring to speak her nobility. But never had a woman seemed so regal. Her head was held high, and her gaze firm. A waterfall of dark black hair cascaded down her back. Hers was the face of a conqueror, and the body of a goddess. I could mistake her for a nymph had her mind not been so indiscriminately hers. Here was a woman to whom my kingdom was a flower and my bloodline a weed to be plucked.

“Bring him to me.” Her voice was firm to her Servic-Qors but lightened as her gaze devoured me. “Your father never let us talk.” She said, her voice nymphlike, sweet and normal and nearly able to make me forget what she did to that father. “But now we are free of him. I am curious.” The soft steps of her bare feet stopped before me. “What might you say?”

Her slaves brought a woven mat that their Khatun sat on, crossing her legs. Then they turned to me grabbing onto me, by my bound wrists and my long blonde mane of hair. Dragging me across the cold marble floor, friction burning my flesh, and deposited me in the young Khatun’s lap. Pulling my hair, so my eyes looked up at her.

She stroked my hair and my braids, a shadow of a smile on her lips. Her fingers almost seemed to soothe me, while the warmth of her thigh rested against my ear. I hadn’t even realised I was shivering.

“Oh what a beauty you are, little thing.” She stroked her hand over my forehead again and again. Brushing back my hair and braids. “No wonder your father never let me get a grip of you.” Her slender fingers grasped my hair as she said that. “I would have razed his dominion just so I could call you mine.” Her fingers returned to mocking a gentle lover’s touch again. “But he was right.” She leaned in and her voice softened. As if the words she spoke were sweet. “You aren’t a man meant for war and politics.” Her ducked and kissed my cheek. “You were always destined for… a higher cause.”

She took my head in her fingers. And loosened the harness around my head. She took the gag from my mouth and handed it to one of her slaves.

The muscles beneath the straps felt like agony. They had been sore before but now they burst like a tornarkit had been torn from a severed limb. I gasped in the horror of the pain, but I did not allow myself more then that.

“Prince” her voice was tender. As much as the hand with which she cupped my cheeks or the thigh on which I said.

“Khatun” I wanted more. More words to come to me and to leave from me. But I was sore, my mouth dry and burned in pain like an old willow cloaked in a wildfire’s ash. This demon incarnate waited for more, maybe expected more. But her title was all I was capable of.

“Is prince the right title. Of course, you have no crown, no kingdom, no coronation. But by rights you are a king, all exccept the right of conquest”

No rebuke came to me. She could kill me, end my claim but she kept me alive and brought me here. To suffer this indignity. But no words for that could leave me. Not an idea could form inside my mind.

Fear. Cold, stern fear. I thought back to my father’s saying, it had shielded me from fear. My blanket of privilege had taught me I could not fail, that I could sink into a hole and no matter the depth I could claw out. But not now. I was not in the tunnel anymore, I was in the labyrinth, face to face with my Minotaur. And another sensation, her fingers brushed my chest and I felt her. The warmth in her filling my chest, not with warmth, but a strange unwelcome fire.

“No words for me.” This predictor’s claws traced the skin her Servic-Qors had shaved and washed. They had wanted me to suffer but not squalor. “I thought you would have many, given all I had done.” She adjusted my body on her lap. “Tell me what troubles the prince’s mind.”

The labyrinth, behind every turn another, terror awaited. Another memory of what this woman, my Minotaur, had done. I wanted to scream.

“Water.” I croaked in a hoarse cry.

“Very well.” She smiled and waved at one of the Servic-Qor. The woman turned, her face still bare of emotions, and activated a marble tap, shaped like an outreached Valkyrie, in the back of the grotto. It was a cruel joke. To keep my body parched while so close to the spring they used to bathe me.

The woman lifted a heavy ceramic pail between her arms and brought it to her master. She lowered herself to her knees and brought the liquid to my lips. She had added fragrant leaves, citrus, chopped cucumber, and more I didn’t recognise to the liquid. I knew they likely drugged it, as was the way of the Khatun, but I still allowed it to ease my parched lips’ pain.

I couldn’t stop them. Not just was my body bound, by rope and the gentle touch upon my crown. My mind was bound. This body’s natural instinct to survive invited her in. I opened my life and closed my eyes. The simple scent of water a glimpse of land to those marooned at sea.

“Drink up.”

The pail met my lips and my head was tilted so it flowed into me. It felt rich. With minerals that made it heavy and the mild aroma of cucumber that swished as it went down. I felt the intoxicating remedy too, an aphrodisiac that smelled bitter, and sour citrus drawing out the moisture from my pores. A numbing sensation dulled my nerves as the water fills me. Some spilling from my cheeks, onto my captor’s thighs, but I still continued to drink.

I felt little and heavy. So starved the water bloats me like a thick soup but my mind is not in this place. My eyelids dropped as their heavy weight became too much for me to hold. While my thoughts became light dancing in my head like the fingers dancing in my hair. Failing to form into a coherent something I could say.

“You remind me of your sister.”

My sister was dead. A raid had killed her nearly twenty years ago when this war started. My father’s twenty year quest for peace was a Sisyphean cowardice. One that had cost us many allies. We never found the body.

“My father gifted her to me when I was seven. A Servic-Qor of high blood is very valuable in our culture. Father wanted my first slave to be an object of obsession. And what is more cursed and coveted than royal blood.”

The slave lifted the pail away from my lips. I recognised her. Not consciously, she was gone before my memories could become permanent, but I knew her. She was my sister.

“You have her eyes.”

They were our mother’s eyes. Freckled brown like polished cedar wood. And warm like my recollection of her.

My sister would not have those joy filled memories. I looked at her now, a face blank without character of her own. I studied her, wanting for more. For heat like on which I rested but she was cold to me, like the liquid that numbed my mind.

She had likely known who I was to her when she had come to shave and bathe me. Her hands, though raised by foreigners, knew the ways and braids of my people. But she was not our own. I wondered if a parallel culture existed among the Servic-Qor of the Khanate.

I traced the smooth curves of my mother, and the rugged beauty of my father on her face. But this woman was a foreigner to me. I pitied her, her childhood would have been without love, without connection, without security. And I hated myself because I could not provide it now. My little sister, who had our mother’s eyes. She had been so sad she had never spoken her name to me. None of our family lived who remembered her name. Did she know it? Or did she have none other then Servic now. Any hint of her culture brushed away like her pin straight hair.

I tried to say something to her. But nettles in the water had stung my senses and I could not. Everything was numb.

The young Khatun brushed her hand through my long blonde hair. “I do love the braids your people weave.” She picked one out and ran her finger through it. “Tell me what is their significance.”

I didn’t answer her. She turned to my sister.

“My people’s…” those words stung me. “Ancient ancestors created their first language from braids and knots of a woven rope. They believe it was taught by our false god.”

She spoke in the same voice as my… our, mother. I thought I would never hear her again.

“My people braid our hair in the language of these gods, the braid over the left ear.” She pointed it out on my head. “Contains the matrilineal family name while that on the right.” Her hand moved to the other side of my head. “Contains the paternal family name. Other braids can symbolise other aspects of an identity. Titles, jobs, and tasks can be written in the braids.”

“Thank you, my darling child.” The young Khatun said and my sister smiled. The drugs oozing through me suppressed the hatred that smile evoked.

She lifted a finger from my hair to my sister’s chin, pulling her veil from her own face. They seemed to perform their nudity. Perfect bodies with skin that seemed to glimmer in the candlelight. It reminded me of sunset by the lake over father’s hunting lodge.

The finger brought my sister closer to her master. Their flesh almost asking to be consumed by the other’s warmth in this dark place. My sister, leaning over me, reminded me of both women’s nakedness. The exposed necks and her collar, the curves of their chests and hips, firm flesh of their thighs and breasts. The skin of their fingers and faces smooth and tender. They allowed their warmth to spread into each other and it craved each other in the cold, dark intimacy of the grotto.

They kissed.

My sister in a mechanical motion, as if she was trained to. But the Khatun did so with passion. Her hunger bit into my sister as she used her to harm me. Their lips parted, save for a strand of saliva between their lips. Before she bit into her again. And I watched the mechanical motion with which my sister kissed her back. How she laid herself bare for this show.

This was a show, of cruelty and power. Because when she was finished, her attention returned to me. Stroking my hair and the cheek that drooped from the numbing nettles.

My attention remained on my sister. She stayed waiting from where her master had parted their kiss. Her expression as blank as her body’s language. Awaiting her next order.

My eyes traced her. The twin jewels that fell from the ear closer to me, mimicking the shapes of hanging banners but formed of embellished metals.. They had been stolen from my people, I don’t know if it was right or wrong or fitting that they fell from her ears now. Then I moved my gaze, followed her face’s familiar contours to her hair. Brushed back and tied in a simple band, so that it hung as if it was a single thick tail. She did not wear the braid of our father’s royal house. Nor the matrilineal line to which she was sole heir. A tear rolled over my cheek.

The Khatun turned back to her and whispered something in her ear. Before leaning away. “Can you do that?” She spoke aloud.

“Yes my grace.” She sat on her knees beside her. Away from where I lay tied upon her thighs.

Then the young Khatun snapped her fingers and the other, forgotten and less important, Servic-Qor returned to her side. A cushion in her hand. Her master lifted a knife from the cushion after which the slave walked around us and laid the cushion on the ground between me and my sister. She then retreated into shadows knowing she was not part of what was to come.

Her hand once again mussed my hair while her other lifted the long, curved, hunting dagger she had taken. “I have thought much of your realm.”

Her fingers gently mussed the long blonde locks of my mane. I realised my sister did the same with the Khatun’s.

“Of how best to rule my newest possession. Many of my hussars suggest fear. But fear is a tool of war not government.” She stroked my through the soft hair atop my forehead. “My dragoons say I should take you as a trophy. Rule with your legitimacy. But I don’t believe names changed the will of men.”

She paused to think. Her hand touching my face as she rubbed away the handful of tears that I could spare. My eyes still followed my sister as she passed a brush through the long dark hair atop her master’s head. I could speak now, but I could not. My mouth not scarred by thirst or nettles but by fear.

“One of my skirmisher commanders suggested I drive out your population and replace it with our own. But we do not have the men to do that. And it would defeat the point of the conquest, don’t you think?”

I forced my eyes shut and my mind away from the present. I couldn’t escape the fear in my hand or the hand soothing me with fresh terrors. But in my mind in the darkness I was in the labyrinth. Hiding in the dark where the Minotaur could not find me.

“No I have chosen a different way. A way of terror and kindness and power. I shall give the lords and the people a choice. About what Khatun they get. They cannot defeat me disunited. My seer bade I kill your line but a martyr is sometimes more dangerous then a man. And I could not part with my favourite muse.” She lifted her hand from my scalp to stroke my sister’s cheek. “So I choose a different path. Your house shall became a symbol to all men. The young Khatun can break houses, not just kill them. You must become an example to your old domain. I wish you were young enough that I could have taken you as a Servic-Qor like your sister. Perhaps if you are as meek as my horsemen say you still are, but their are many ways to break a man.”

Her grip firms around the hair at my scalp and pulls hard. The shock caused a frightened moan to leave my lips.

“Aw the little prince can speak.”

She yanked the hair higher. Moving her hunting dagger close to my scalp.

“Does the little prince have anything he wants to say?”

“No…” I groaned, only drawing a smile from her. Then she sawed the blade into the hair she grasped a finger’s width from my scalp.

I winced from the pain of her tugging on it, and felt the pressure release as she cut the hair away from my scalp. The thick fistful of my hair hung from the hand of this smiling, cruel women.

She laid it on the cushion next to her and returned her hand to gripping at my scalp. Failing to slide between short lengths.

A silent stream of tears rolled down my cheeks to pool on her thighs. I didn’t know why I was crying. My mind could barely focus on anything but the scent of numbness on my breath. Not the incredible pain my muscles were in or the her hand grabbing at my ancestral braids. I could barely focus on my sister.

It was strange. How she moved, and looked. Little mannerisms she observed reminded me she was blood, while others made me aware of our differences. She didn’t smile like our mother, her face seemed carved without the joy or warm I remembered of her. But the little movements reminded me of our kin. She moved her fingers in tender practiced motions. I couldn’t stop seeing my mother’s hands as hers while she picked out strands of golden blonde hair from the cushion and interwove them into her master’s shimmering black locks.

The knife was brought to my head again, near the roots of one of my braids. It sawed away the connecting tendrils. Until she was able to toss the braid next to the diminishing pile of hair on the cushion beside her. My sister moved with the delicate tender hands as she lifted more of my hair from the pile and braided it into the Khatun’s scalp.

“I admire your people’s fashions.” Her grip was firm on the back of my head as she grasps more of my hair up and severed it. “You are lovers of all things beautiful. Your people’s hair.” She took another braid and severed it. “It is a civilised custom. You teach your children patience, how to nurture something beautiful, and the importance of something we love.”

As she spoke I realised what she was making my sister do. Her fingers began to form a braid from the hair on the left of her head. The midnight silk seemed darker, even than the shadowed, lightless corners of the grotto. But it still glimmered in the candle light. My sister interwove golden locks of my hair into it and I recognised the braid she was forming. It was my… our… braid. That of our matriarchal inheritance sewn into another’s hair.

“My people are not like yours.” She picked out and severed another section of hair as she spoke. “Once we reacted in anger as our enemies labelled us barbarians. But now.” She stroked more hair together to cut. “My people seem to take a sick pride in their barbarism. We install leaders for their martial virtue and wonder why we infight. We wear dirt and grim, as if it is something to be proud of. We have had the strength to leave the steppe for more fertile soils for six generations, but we did not. Instead old men talk of weak men and hard times as if they are not the weak men. They speak like wise men but act like fools, blinded by their egos.” She slashed away another section of hair. “I will not be guided by the will of blind men. I will chart a new path. And you.” She gripped a my final braid and slipped her knife between it and my scalp. “You will help me guide the way.”

Her hands gripped at my scalp again and she severed my mess of hair again and again until she could grip the short strands no longer. Not enough length remained to be able pinch a strand between her fingers.

I was barely conscious now. Whatever they had given me was only growing in strength. I spared a final glance at my sister before passing out.

 

 

When I awoke my body was unbound. Though any rope would have been unnecessary.

My limbs hung limp and groggy, as I lay sprawled across someone’s warm lap, probably the Khatun’s. I had moved, or been moved. There were people around, lots of people. I could feel their presence, the warmth of breath, and the sound of distant chattering. Although their conversations cannot form into sentences in mind.

I cannot form anything in my mind. At first I thought it is the same grogginess that keeps my heavy eyelids shut, but it feels stronger. I can’t seem to control it. Thoughts ideas just seem to bounce away like skimming stones. My brain and body just feeling like goo.

A long finger strokes a gentle path against the length of my spine. I’m naked, I was before but I feel it more so now. Naked and exposed sprawled out across my captor’s lap. She touches me again. A spot behind the shoulder bone and I’m surprised by the reaction. Tired muscles, consumed by my hungers atrophy, tensed and flourish with new life. I couldn’t explain it in my mind, but I could feel the strange uncomfortable warmth in my body.

I strain to open my eyes. Their lids heavy like iron, but I was able to force them open. My entire body was screaming at me. Begging me to let it fall limp and return to unconscious bliss. I spent all I had in a bid to stare forward but the floor of my father’s throne room remained an unfocused blur. That didn’t work. My eyelids fell shut again and I continued to fall limp.

My master’s fingers traced up the back of my neck and into my nape. She scratched the little that remained of the hair that had been the symbol of my house and my people. Strands not even a finger’s width brushing against her skin. A shudder filled the space between the skin and my skull.

Tears filled my wincing shut eyes. I tried again to move. My body failed me as it refused my orders to roll of her. I tried to move my arm and then my hand, then a finger. Begging for a glimpse of hope within the labyrinth of her control.

I found none.

The crowd silenced and I felt a hundred eyes turn to her. And me. She flipped me onto my back so I lay sprawled out and limp like a statue of marble recounting an ancient tragedy. She turned my head to the crowd, and called one of her Servic-Qors over.

Most of our audience was her soldiers. But many were also my people. Those who had refused my father’s call. Those who had found ways to be absent when his dragoons met the vanguard of the Khatun’s bull formation. And those who betrayed me as I attempted to scrape together a defence. They couldn’t look at me then, but they looked at me now. Nervous at the conquerors brandishing arms beside them.

My master leaned in to kiss my cheek before whispering into my ear so only I can hear. She is naked again, except for a scarf that covers her hair.

“Do as I say. Or your sister, your servants, your people, I will not hesitate to massacre them all.”

She kisses me again. I do not doubt her. Yesterday I thought my family dead. Today I know my sister lives but tomorrow she could be taken away again.

The Khatun stands in silence and I fell off her lap. Onto the stone floor below me. I try to stand but my head was overcome by a sudden bout of dizziness overtakes me and I fall to my knees beneath her. As if to prove her power she makes her slave bring another pail of liquid to my lips. The acrid sting of the liquor burns my lungs. I try to scream in pain but the Khatun yanks my head back and the Servic-Qor spills more into my lungs.

She stands solemn to this as the crowd watches and says nothing. It is a tradition of her people. On the steppe they call home it is said the judge of a man is his actions. That oratory is the tool of con men and cowards so they make their speeches in silence. To those watching, this is a speech of her power but I know she is smarter than that. This speech will ensure her reign.

She can’t kill me, dead I would become a martyr to rebellions against her. But she can’t allow me to live, my claim to the throne she takes is too powerful. I am dangerous alive. So she makes a third choice. She will break me. I will become a symbol yes, but not a rallying cry. I must become something no man can follow, I must become a tale to inspire nothing. No pride, no hatred, no mobs or legions. Only curiosity at a man none could look up to.

The Khatun removed her headscarf to a murmur of the crowd. The inky wine-dark strands of her hair hang down her bare form. But intertwined with the darkness exists strips of gold. The thick strands that had once been my own now seemed slightly as they were drowned into her darkness. But within that lake where four braids. Taken from strands of black and gold and written in the language of the gods.

Servic-Gahr, taker of slaves, conqueror of people. The braid hung down over her left eye and beyond her breast in a six strand braid.

Hussar-kree, master of horses. She used our language of horse master to her tongue where that meant the master of her tribe. The braid sprung from her nape and wrapped around her throat like a snake.

But the two braids that made the crowd gasp were those she wore over her ears. Nchlaah my maternal braid and Fraahkree my paternal braid. Not a man of my court would not have slew her on the spot for the insult a month ago. Today they stand nervously, watching what the Khatun’s warriors do.

She gestured to another of the naked Servic-Qor, as she steps forward I recognised my sister.

“May all assemble bare to be my witness.” I wonder if those who knew my mother can hear her voice like I can. “That I, Ikah, last of Nchlaah declare. My titles, my blood, my name. Forfeit. Yours for all eternity.” The Khatun bowed, still in silence.

Those of my people stand in shock within the crowd. While her warriors howl their victory chants. Another Servic-Qor hands my sister a dagger which she uses to slash off her own ponytail at the base. I then watch my sister, her hair falling around her in a ragged mane parade around us. Showing all the trophies of her master. The cut hair she holds high and the naked body she does not hide.

The crowd roared with laughter and approval, but I can only think for her. Ikah, that was the name my mother couldn’t bare say. I want I struggle to look away as every step she takes breaks another section of my heart. Is this it? The Khatun touched my back with her toes to tell me it is my time to speak.

My voice is meek. It took three attempts for the crowd to be quiet enough to hear me. Two slave girls lifted me by my shoulders so I could stand. “May all assemble bare to be my witness… That I, Anzure… Last of Fraahkree. Declare… My titles, my blood, my name. Forfeit. Yours for all eternity.”

With that I was dropped to the cold stone floor. The slaves who would hold up a prince, unwilling to hold up a fellow slave. The whole room felt frigid around me. I was shaking, whether from cold or high or withdrawal I didn’t know, but I was light headed and felt as if I would collapse. I couldn’t muster the strength to stand but I knew I had to move. My weak arms dragged myself to the only place I knew was warm and offered some comfort.

She was sitting in my father’s seat when I reached her. My head bowed into her naked lap for the warmth it provided. The crowd laughing behind me, but I didn’t care, I only cared for her reaction.

She smiled and I felt a warmth inside me. I leaned into her lap, pressing my head against her thigh. Those same warm comforting fingers that had tormented me mussing my short brush of hair. She lifted my chin and I felt a cold leather collar wrap around my throat.

“My people.” She spoke in what was meant to end her ‘speech’. “Today we celebrate.”

I watched as the room descended into an orgy of alcohol and excess. The Khatun strokes my hair as she gave gifts to those in her army who had shown bravery. My servants were taken as slaves, those who weren’t made the wives of the men who had been first onto my walls. My family’s fortune and relics were handed out in a manner that seemed haphazard, but I realised that tactically security her court. Even the traitors of my people were given gifts. I watched my sister grinding against the lap of the first of our lords to jump ship. She moaned, sliding up and down on his lap.

I shook, but I knew it was from fear this time. She called over a slave holding a mask with an attached long dark brown ponytail. She brought it to me and I felt it against my head. They secured the hood and pulled it so tight the leather felt like a second skin. It had no holes for me to see through. The dry hair of ponytail it gave me tickling my bare skin at the shoulders.

“Rishkhan.” She called to a face I could not see. “Care to help me break the prince.” By the ponytail I was dragged to the floor. I was on all fours. Then from behind me I heard the Khatun call one of her slaves to give her her strap.

I was beginning to process this when my head was yanked up by the ponytail again and a section of the hood by my mouth was opened. My mouth gasped for air but as I did so I felt a penis invade my mouth.

I hiccupped as it hit my gag reflex and slid inside my throat. “Suck.” His voice wasn’t cruel or commanding so I obeyed, without a moment’s hesitate I found myself slurping on his cock.

Just as I began to question why I felt a pair of soft hands part my cheeks and the Khatun’s strap teasing me from the other side. She motioned the head of the strap around the rim of my hole before slipping it inside. Impaling me from both sides.

I tried to compose myself, but their thrusting touched new spots inside me. Places I had never felt. Tears built up in my eyes, unable to escape the mask.

“Lick me.” The voice said after a while and I did. He came filling my mouth with a sticky mess that clung to my teeth.

Just then the strap found my prostate. Thumping into it with such force I found myself moaning and my own penis standing erect. She continued to thrust until I was holding back my own orgasm.

I couldn’t for long. I came onto the stone floor of my father’s throne room. Even as I did she did not stop thrusting, the penis in my mouth was switched for another but I know I wouldn’t be granted any release until she is satisfied I am broken and spent.

 

Fin