So I'm REALLY liking this plot, OP. I was gonna do something short, but there's just too much potential.
This is my first fill as well as my first attempt at writing anything smutty, so here we go! ------------------------------
The slave hears much but, truth be told, he retains very little of it these days. The words wash over him, meaningless. It is as if he floats in water, his ears beneath the surface. The voices are distorted, muffled and muted. Even when he does understand what is being said, he finds he has very little interest. Troop reports, pockets of resistance, towns put to the torch, civilians slaughtered... None of this has anything to do with him. His task is to wait, his body aching, until His Majesty has need of him, and that is what he does. There are moments, though... little glimpses of lucidity when the gloom sharpens and he can see things as they are, remembers things and he's not sure if they are memories or figments of a fevered imagination. Those moments are far and few between, but when they do happen, they make him wish he had the means to slit his own throat.
He stares blankly, straight ahead. The slave has this notion that maybe, once, things were different, that he was something more than a toy, a pet, but most days its all he can do to keep his eyes opened and focused, much less ponder over things that may or may not be. Some days he cannot not even manage that. He can barely feel the flagstone beneath his knees, the itch of the rough-spun against his skin, the cold of the iron around his neck. He cannot feel much of anything anymore, except for His Majesty’s touch.
It isn't until the slave hears his master gasp that he rouses back nearer to the surface.
“You!" his master gasps. He sounds shocked, livid. “How is it you live?”
He came to realize that there was a man in front of the throne in chains, he had been dragged before the throne against his will. This was unusual, to say the least. Many came before King Washington, to ask for favors, to bend the knee and pay homage, to repent and declare His Majesty the rightful king, but there were scant few that came by force. The scene feels familiar—wasn't he brought forward in a similar manner? Just how long ago had that been? He can't recall, realizes that he hasn't the faintest idea what season it is, much less what month or year, and feels vaguely disquieted.
The man brought before His Majesty is broad across the shoulders, tall, dark-skinned, corded with muscle, dressed in animal furs and leather. A native, then. The prisoner doesn't answer King Washington—a dangerous tactic. Instead, he stares at the slave, slack-jawed, plainly horrified. Dark brown meets dark gray. The slave stares back, mildly disconcerted by the sudden attention.
“Haytham?” the native asks, voice tremulous. The slave frowns back at him. Haytham? It sounds familiar. Was that his name? It had been so long since he had last heard it. The slave did not reply. The last time he had spoken out of turn... well, that was hazy as well, but whatever had happened had left him in agony for days, and even the mere thought of speaking made something painful clench in his guts. He was never to utter a word, unless it was to beg.
His Majesty gives a short, harsh bark of laughter.
“Oh, you two are acquainted, are you? Tell me, how does a dirt-worshiping monkey come to know a British Templar?”
“Goddamn you, Washington, what have you done to him?” the native's voice is hoarse with fury, and he throws himself forward, nearly breaking the grasp of the two soldiers restraining him. The slave crimps his lips together, brow furrowed. It is difficult to be certain of anything anymore, but he doesn't think he knows the man, doesn't recognize him in the slightest.
Again, that mirthless laugh. “At this point, perhaps it would be better to ask what I haven't done to him.” The master idly traces the ridge of his slave's ear with his fingernail, and that he most certainly can feel, as sharp and urgent as a lick of flame, and he gives an involuntary, full-body shudder. “This is what happens to peons who presume to deny the power of the Apple.”
With his other hand, His Majesty raises his scepter, and the room pulses with golden light. The stone faces of the guards that hold the native soften in adoration, their faces the very portrait of bliss. The native roars in agony, writhing in their arms. He thinks—if he tries hard enough, he can remember the sensation: like being in a roaring oven, blood boiling in the veins, feels like the skull is fit to split at the fissures. It seems like King Washington holds his scepter for a long time, and then he abruptly lowers it and the native goes limp against his bindings, gasping for air, shaking violently. When he looks up again, his face does not mirror the guards. Rather, his his features are contorted with rage and he bares his teeth, stark white against his dark skin.
“I will feed you your own heart!” he shouts, and begins to struggle anew. His Majesty sighs, as if he were a benevolent schoolmaster and the murderous native was nothing more than an unruly, head-strong pupil.
“Ah. I see you've in need of a more... objective lesson.” The master rakes his fingers along the back of his slave's neck, near the collar, and this time it elicits a moan as well as a shiver. He leans into the touch and the sensation goes straight to his groin; the rough fabric of his trousers immediately feel uncomfortably tight. “You see, I have other ways to break a man to my will...”
His Majesty snaps his fingers, and the slave crawls on battered hands and knees between the seated man's legs. The slave's hands open his master's breeches with deft efficiency. His master is not wearing any small clothes, and his cock springs forth from confinement, already half-erect; using the Apple has that effect on him.
“Go on, show the savage how much you enjoy your captivity,” says Washington, and the slave dutifully takes the head of his master's cock into his mouth. He ignores the acrid taste. He's done this countless times, and he quickly swallows the man to the hilt. His master sighs in appreciation and runs a hand through his slave's gray hair, scraping the scalp with his nails. The touch is electrifying; his skin flushes and he moans around the shaft, bobbing his head enthusiastically, tongue lathing the thick veins, flicking the bundle of nerves beneath the head. He's completely unselfconscious of the fact that he has an audience, oblivious to how the the wet, sloppy sounds he makes with his mouth echo off the walls of the great hall.
“Stop this madness,” he hears the native demand.
“Why? Obviously, our mutual friend has no objections.”
“He is very clearly not himself.”
“No. I found that man to be most disagreeable. I—oh...” He sighs in pleasure, bucks his hips, pressing himself deeper. “I much prefer this version—Gentlemen, the mongrel has adverted his eyes. Correct him.”
There is a jingle of chains and the sound of a fist connecting to flesh. The native grunts but does not cry out. The slave does not concern himself. He concentrates on the feel of the hand fisting in his hair, the soft skin against his lips, the swollen head butting against the back of his throat. His master's thighs tense and there's that familiar little hitch in his breathing, and he knows he is close to his end.
“Touch yourself,” he growls, and the slave does not need to be told twice. His hand goes to his trousers and pulls out his own cock, already hard. He palms himself, his hand is a blur and he moans around Washington's cock. He's close himself—he's always so close, it only takes the lightest of caresses to set his skin on fire and make him gasp and squirm.
His Majesty grunts, holds down his slave's head, and he takes it all without any protest, feeling the king's seed flood the back of his mouth, and he swallows hard to keep up, and he barely registers the repugnant taste because he's coming himself, moaning and thrusting into his own fist.
King Washington sighs contentedly, stroking his slave's hair. “Clean up your mess,” he commands, and the slave lowers his head. He knows better than to use his hands; they still bear the marks from the last time he had made that mistake. He dutifully laps up his own seed from the stone floor between His Majesty's boots without a second thought.
The native makes a pained sound behind him. “You are a monster,” he hisses. “There are—I have no words to describe this... this...”
“This is justice. He, too, threatened my life. If you are so concerned for his well-being, perhaps you would like to volunteer to take his place?” At that, the slave turns his head, looking back over his shoulder. The native's face is flushed with embarrassment and now he looks more disgusted than angry. He meets the slave's eyes but quickly looks away.
“No,” he says, sullen.
“Good. Truth be told, I wouldn’t dare pollute myself with some feral animal, even if your features are... somewhat comely. No. I think I have other plans for you...”
FILL ---------1 of ? -------Enthralled
This is my first fill as well as my first attempt at writing anything smutty, so here we go!
------------------------------
The slave hears much but, truth be told, he retains very little of it these days. The words wash over him, meaningless. It is as if he floats in water, his ears beneath the surface. The voices are distorted, muffled and muted. Even when he does understand what is being said, he finds he has very little interest. Troop reports, pockets of resistance, towns put to the torch, civilians slaughtered... None of this has anything to do with him. His task is to wait, his body aching, until His Majesty has need of him, and that is what he does. There are moments, though... little glimpses of lucidity when the gloom sharpens and he can see things as they are, remembers things and he's not sure if they are memories or figments of a fevered imagination. Those moments are far and few between, but when they do happen, they make him wish he had the means to slit his own throat.
He stares blankly, straight ahead. The slave has this notion that maybe, once, things were different, that he was something more than a toy, a pet, but most days its all he can do to keep his eyes opened and focused, much less ponder over things that may or may not be. Some days he cannot not even manage that. He can barely feel the flagstone beneath his knees, the itch of the rough-spun against his skin, the cold of the iron around his neck. He cannot feel much of anything anymore, except for His Majesty’s touch.
It isn't until the slave hears his master gasp that he rouses back nearer to the surface.
“You!" his master gasps. He sounds shocked, livid. “How is it you live?”
He came to realize that there was a man in front of the throne in chains, he had been dragged before the throne against his will. This was unusual, to say the least. Many came before King Washington, to ask for favors, to bend the knee and pay homage, to repent and declare His Majesty the rightful king, but there were scant few that came by force. The scene feels familiar—wasn't he brought forward in a similar manner? Just how long ago had that been? He can't recall, realizes that he hasn't the faintest idea what season it is, much less what month or year, and feels vaguely disquieted.
The man brought before His Majesty is broad across the shoulders, tall, dark-skinned, corded with muscle, dressed in animal furs and leather. A native, then. The prisoner doesn't answer King Washington—a dangerous tactic. Instead, he stares at the slave, slack-jawed, plainly horrified. Dark brown meets dark gray. The slave stares back, mildly disconcerted by the sudden attention.
“Haytham?” the native asks, voice tremulous. The slave frowns back at him. Haytham? It sounds familiar. Was that his name? It had been so long since he had last heard it. The slave did not reply. The last time he had spoken out of turn... well, that was hazy as well, but whatever had happened had left him in agony for days, and even the mere thought of speaking made something painful clench in his guts. He was never to utter a word, unless it was to beg.
His Majesty gives a short, harsh bark of laughter.
“Oh, you two are acquainted, are you? Tell me, how does a dirt-worshiping monkey come to know a British Templar?”
“Goddamn you, Washington, what have you done to him?” the native's voice is hoarse with fury, and he throws himself forward, nearly breaking the grasp of the two soldiers restraining him. The slave crimps his lips together, brow furrowed. It is difficult to be certain of anything anymore, but he doesn't think he knows the man, doesn't recognize him in the slightest.
Again, that mirthless laugh. “At this point, perhaps it would be better to ask what I haven't done to him.” The master idly traces the ridge of his slave's ear with his fingernail, and that he most certainly can feel, as sharp and urgent as a lick of flame, and he gives an involuntary, full-body shudder. “This is what happens to peons who presume to deny the power of the Apple.”
With his other hand, His Majesty raises his scepter, and the room pulses with golden light. The stone faces of the guards that hold the native soften in adoration, their faces the very portrait of bliss. The native roars in agony, writhing in their arms. He thinks—if he tries hard enough, he can remember the sensation: like being in a roaring oven, blood boiling in the veins, feels like the skull is fit to split at the fissures. It seems like King Washington holds his scepter for a long time, and then he abruptly lowers it and the native goes limp against his bindings, gasping for air, shaking violently. When he looks up again, his face does not mirror the guards. Rather, his his features are contorted with rage and he bares his teeth, stark white against his dark skin.
“I will feed you your own heart!” he shouts, and begins to struggle anew. His Majesty sighs, as if he were a benevolent schoolmaster and the murderous native was nothing more than an unruly, head-strong pupil.
“Ah. I see you've in need of a more... objective lesson.” The master rakes his fingers along the back of his slave's neck, near the collar, and this time it elicits a moan as well as a shiver. He leans into the touch and the sensation goes straight to his groin; the rough fabric of his trousers immediately feel uncomfortably tight. “You see, I have other ways to break a man to my will...”
His Majesty snaps his fingers, and the slave crawls on battered hands and knees between the seated man's legs. The slave's hands open his master's breeches with deft efficiency. His master is not wearing any small clothes, and his cock springs forth from confinement, already half-erect; using the Apple has that effect on him.
“Go on, show the savage how much you enjoy your captivity,” says Washington, and the slave dutifully takes the head of his master's cock into his mouth. He ignores the acrid taste. He's done this countless times, and he quickly swallows the man to the hilt. His master sighs in appreciation and runs a hand through his slave's gray hair, scraping the scalp with his nails. The touch is electrifying; his skin flushes and he moans around the shaft, bobbing his head enthusiastically, tongue lathing the thick veins, flicking the bundle of nerves beneath the head. He's completely unselfconscious of the fact that he has an audience, oblivious to how the the wet, sloppy sounds he makes with his mouth echo off the walls of the great hall.
“Stop this madness,” he hears the native demand.
“Why? Obviously, our mutual friend has no objections.”
“He is very clearly not himself.”
“No. I found that man to be most disagreeable. I—oh...” He sighs in pleasure, bucks his hips, pressing himself deeper. “I much prefer this version—Gentlemen, the mongrel has adverted his eyes. Correct him.”
There is a jingle of chains and the sound of a fist connecting to flesh. The native grunts but does not cry out. The slave does not concern himself. He concentrates on the feel of the hand fisting in his hair, the soft skin against his lips, the swollen head butting against the back of his throat. His master's thighs tense and there's that familiar little hitch in his breathing, and he knows he is close to his end.
“Touch yourself,” he growls, and the slave does not need to be told twice. His hand goes to his trousers and pulls out his own cock, already hard. He palms himself, his hand is a blur and he moans around Washington's cock. He's close himself—he's always so close, it only takes the lightest of caresses to set his skin on fire and make him gasp and squirm.
His Majesty grunts, holds down his slave's head, and he takes it all without any protest, feeling the king's seed flood the back of his mouth, and he swallows hard to keep up, and he barely registers the repugnant taste because he's coming himself, moaning and thrusting into his own fist.
King Washington sighs contentedly, stroking his slave's hair. “Clean up your mess,” he commands, and the slave lowers his head. He knows better than to use his hands; they still bear the marks from the last time he had made that mistake. He dutifully laps up his own seed from the stone floor between His Majesty's boots without a second thought.
The native makes a pained sound behind him. “You are a monster,” he hisses. “There are—I have no words to describe this... this...”
“This is justice. He, too, threatened my life. If you are so concerned for his well-being, perhaps you would like to volunteer to take his place?” At that, the slave turns his head, looking back over his shoulder. The native's face is flushed with embarrassment and now he looks more disgusted than angry. He meets the slave's eyes but quickly looks away.
“No,” he says, sullen.
“Good. Truth be told, I wouldn’t dare pollute myself with some feral animal, even if your features are... somewhat comely. No. I think I have other plans for you...”