The Ride of the Horse-Lord

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.

*****

Prince Thalaeryan tossed his silver braid in frustration. It was bad enough that he had to reclaim his kingdom with the help of savages without those savages subjecting him to every form of slight and disrespect. When I come into my kingdom, he thought, pacing in his tent, I will exterminate every one of them. He didn't care if the great khan had an army of hundreds of thousands. He would use that army, then he would destroy it.

At least tonight he would have some modicum of revenge. It was well past the hour of the witch, and they were expecting his sister's brat to be born any minute. But that was not why he was waiting. Hang the girl and her half-breed bastard. Even if she doesn't get him a son, he still owes me my army.

He was pacing before the brazier when the pasty slave came bowing in.

'It is d-done, Great Prince,' he stammered in broken common tongue. Thalaeryan grinned a grin sadistic. The manservant would not dare reveal his plan, or his master would find as many terrible ways to tear his body apart as he would the prince himself if he suspected what he had done. These savages were not ones for mercy. In that, at least, he respected them, if in a strange sort of way.

'You put the poison in his cup the way I showed you?' he said, looming over the stooped slave.

'Aye, Master Prince.'

'And does the khan sleep?'

'He does, your grace...'

'Good,' he said with a practiced smile. 'You've done well. Your reward is forthcoming.'

'Your Grace did indeed p-promise a r-reward...' Thalaeryan smiled wider and spread his hands in front of him.

'Your life.' The slave looked puzzled. Of course, it only made sense. Why should he reward a deed that was the logical thing to do for the worm to save his own skin? Should he be found consorting in the prince's plot, he would be killed. If he refused, well. Slaves died all the time, and in horrible ways. Thus, it only made sense for him to do as he was told and slip the sleeping draught into the khan's fermented mare's milk.

'M-my life?'

'Don't spend it all in one place,' the prince said with bile, pushing past the ragged manservant and through the tent flap. He moved briskly through the night. He did not want to risk the midwives intruding upon his plans. With his sister on the birthing bed, all the khan's household, except the khan himself, were attending the ceremony. Piss-swilling, blood-smearing and barking at the moon for a boy-child, he thought. Only Dragho, Great Khan of the Endless Steppe, remained in his manse, praying to the heathen gods and drinking that rotten swill they called a beverage in the hopes that the Mare-Mother would bestow a squalling bastard on him for all the wretched goats he'd sacrificed to her.

When he reached the khan's tent, he saw that there were no guards, no callers—just as he had suspected. The khan was more than a match for even his strongest lieutenants, thus few would challenge him alone. But if they knew what state he was in now, they might flock to slaughter him and gain his vast mobile empire of nomadic warriors.

Thalaeryan reached for the silken flap, but hesitated. What if the little urchin lied? he thought. He seldom doubted himself, but suddenly he was paralyzed by just that. How would he defend himself after intruding on the khan's sacred silence on the night his son and heir is to be born if his plans had backfired? Oh, pardon me, you were supposed to be drugged! He loomed there under the moonlight, listening to the wolves in the distance, the sigh of night wind across the steppe. He heard no shuffle of feet from inside, no ululating prayers such as the savages make. A cry rose up somewhere and chilled him to his core. A cry of agony.

It's just the birthing bed, he realized. Those cries were his sister's.

Straightening and tossing his silver braid behind his shoulder, the prince swept the curtain aside with an arrogant flip of the wrist and strode inside. No one. His purple eyes scanned the massive tent's antechamber. Gold figurines, jade statuettes, boxes of carved bone filled with treasures of trampled cities lay piled about for his visitors to see and for the khan to gamble away or give to visitors and supporters. The wealth in this mere receiving room would do to purchase him a fleet of ships capable of retaking his throne, and the khan gave such things away as largess as though they were naught but useless trinkets.

It is easy to be generous when you have no concept of worth, he thought. Savages appeared to be generous in the same way they appeared to be skilled warriors—it was appearance only, born of ignorance. The smell of saffron and something else—lilac maybe?—teased his nose. It was feint, not like the manse of a khan, which was usually smoky with the most precious incense. He pressed forward to the curtain of gems that made for a door into the Dragho's chamber. When he parted a washed of the beaded threads, he realized he was sneaking. Like a common thief, he thought with disgust. He straightened himself, took a deep breath and dashed the curtain aside, stepping into the Khan's bedchamber like a prince and not a mouse.

There was a brazier crackling in the middle of the room, and the silk walls were hung with all manner of rare pelts and priceless tapestries that his sister had requested from the khan's horde. Chimes hung from the graven rafters and tinkled pleasantly, and incense curled wan filaments of smoke in their cool burners, some snuffed, others almost so. The khan had been alone for some time, he thought. There was no one but himself to keep the incense burning. His eye followed the rich red carpet on the floor to the massive bed, piled with silks, furs and fleeces.

There Dragho lay, propped on his pillows, legs spread casually. Asleep. Thalaeryan realized he had been holding his breath and gasped in a breath and let it out just as quickly. His legs felt wobbly, but he steadied himself. It worked, he thought. He always knew it would. When did his plans ever fail?

Dragho lay on his back, massive arms at his sides. Naked above the waist and bare-legged, the khan's lap was covered in a few twists of a scarlet cloth, such as served him for nightwear. His bronze chest and shoulders were smeared with ceremonial blue paint in the likeness of tiger stripes, and both wrists were clapped with huge gold bracelets. Thalaeryan stepped forward cautiously, half suspecting a trick, until he noticed the tipped goblet on one of the ebony tables, its sour-smelling white contents spilt. He knew then that his plan had worked. An evil pride filled him then. The humiliations he had suffered at the hands of the savages would be avenged. Or at least soothed. He looked back to the sleeping khan, his deep belly breaths swelling and contracting his hard stomach.

He even scowls in his sleep, he thought. The khan's long, black braid lay draped over one shoulder, and two long mustachios bound with little gold rings framed his cruel, but full, lips. His beard was oiled and braided into a hundred complex twists, and each of those bore a little jewel, ringlet or charm of some sort. His heavy, angular brows were nicked cosmetically with handsome scars, and his kohl-blacked almond eyes were closed, but he knew that behind them rolled lustrous, dark irises.

His eye trailed down the massive chest, each huge pec larger than a head and capped with a small dark nipple. He wet his lips despite himself. A thin, white finger rose to undo the first button of his jerkin, but froze there. Instead, with his other hand, the prince snapped once—sharp and loud. The khan did not stir. He snapped again. Nothing. He continued to unbutton his jerkin.

Prince Thalaeryan pulled the laces of his shirt and shrugged out of it, slipping his belt down and onto the floor with a thump as well.

'Great conqueror,' he said, his nerve returning, 'tonight you fall.'

He leaned forward onto the feather bed and resting a knee close to the khan's foot. He was a mountain of a man—beautiful and dark, muscled like a bull, but still lithe for all that. Long and strong, one of the tallest men he had ever seen, but well proportioned—not a bit of him ill-made. Truth be told, he had wanted the khan the moment he laid eyes on him. He was truly made for his reputation. His immense skill for violence was only the sufficient condition. The crueler Dragho was to him—giving him the sickest slaves, spoilt food, scrawny horses, endless gibes, worthless dowry gifts for his sister's hand—the more he wished to conquer his body, to show him how a prince pays his debts. In future, when Thalaeryan had no need of him, he would do away with Dragho and his horde, but tonight he would have revenge of a sort. He would have his due.

The prince's heart raced as he extended a hand to light on the inside of the khan's humongous thigh. When the warm, taught flesh spread beneath his palm, a shuddering breath escaped his lips. The heat was astonishing—and the skin softer than he would have guessed for a rider, warrior, a man more given to sleeping rough under the moon than in the silks his sister demanded of him. Thalaeryan's heart raced. He tried to still it with a few conscious breaths, but they did not calm it completely. He was tickling the lion's tail, he knew. If he were caught, or if the khan woke, he would be made to watch—to count each digit, each limb that was removed before they buried his still-writhing torso in a fire-ant mound. That is precisely why it is worth doing, fool, he thought. Princes were bold—and there were none bolder than the men of his line. Silver hair and fair looks were not all that his dynasty had produced.

He brought his other knee up onto the bed, and now poised himself between the khan's legs. He swallowed hard, and the flutter of his heart gave way to the ache in his loins. Sliding his palm along the substantial thigh, slowly, heat growing more intense as it slid toward the red loin-wrapping, the prince felt his heart beating in his burning ears when his thumb reached the tight crux where sinew and muscle converge in the grotto of the loins. He let his other hand explore likewise, caressing the bulging calf, stroking the inner thigh. At this intimate proximity, he could smell the perfumes the khan's slaves brushed into his oiled beard—sandalwood and myrrh, lilac, and something else—a smoky spice. I ought to take him like I take slaves, he thought, trying to recall that wonderful malice he kept so close to himself—that healthy hatred for the crude barbarian and his wretched horde. I will leave this tent with his dignity. And no one but me will know it was gone.

With a somewhat renewed purpose, Thalaeryan seized upon the loin wrapping, grabbing the tabard-like length that hung between the khan's legs, and pulled. The simple twists came undone like a bow, and the prince tossed the long, scarf-like scarlet cloth aside. He blinked at the sight before him. The fire in his heart—the anger, the lust for revenge—felt far away again when he saw the khan's manhood. It was as powerful and well-proportioned as the khan himself.

I sleep in a drafty tent, suffer insult upon insult, and my useless mouse of a sister beds down with this at night? Even flaccid, Dragho's cock hung heavy and large—nearly the width of Thalaeryan's wrist by the look of it, and half as long as his forearm. The dark, weighty balls were like those of a stallion, each nearly the size of a goose's egg. The prince's own manhood subsided a bit at the disappointment. He had held out some vain hope that he would find a man not up to snuff. Instead the khan was truly the picture of man. If the gods were good, there was no way such a creature could not sire a race of world-conquering monsters. Unless of course his sister was the weak link.

He slid his own breeches down his thighs. The friction brought him to life again, and his half-standing cock sprung out, pale and well-proportioned, but dwarfed by the immensity of the khan. His eye trailed the Adonis belt, rode the valley between Dragho's hard abdominals, lighted on a dark nipple. Slowly he leaned in, situating himself to straddle the khan's expansive lap. The draught he had acquired was powerful—'dead sleep' the old hag had called it—but still his own trepidation muted his enthusiasm. As he bent over his victim, his length brushed against the soft curve of the khan's manhood and Thalaeryan gasped despite himself. He looked down, between his pale, lithe body and Dragho's huge, copper one, where their two privates kissed, crowned by wisps of silver hair and a tangle of jet black. He began to move the hard curve of his cock against the warm softness of the khan's. The exquisite, silky friction made him sigh. His eyes rolled back to his target, the brown nipple atop the mound of muscle. Three of the blue tiger stripes terminated in jagged smears across the khan's pecs, and Thalaeryan started there, setting down his tongue and swirling some of the paint. It tasted of clay and dear spices, and not ones he wished to taste. He moved over, inch by inch, trailing his tongue across Dragho's chest, its slow rising and falling setting a sumptuous tempo. He would think of where to go next afterward, but for now, he wanted to taste the dark mammilla. So often had he been teased by the bare-chested khan on the march, so often resisted watching the curve of his back in the saddle, the bounce of the breast, the way the saddle pressed his perfect, round buttocks together. Slowly he eased himself down onto the khan's chest, laying against him, feeling their heat mixing.

When the nipple passed over his lip and into his mouth, his cock ached and twitched, his hips moved against the khan, and he moaned huskily into Dragho's breast, circling the brown mammilla, sucking, smacking, cupping the soft muscle in his hand, pressing it against his face, worshipping it. Salt and spice were the notes that swam on his tongue, the taut nipple hardening in his mouth.

He broke from the khan's teat with a gasp, head swimming. He ground his pelvis once more against the khan's flaccid member and soft bush, then kicked out of his breeches completely. Thalaeryan lifted himself up to straddle the hard stomach. Looking down on that cruel face, he remembered that vicious energy with which he had concocted this plan and smiled as he sat against Dragho's rising and falling abdominals.

'What's the matter, my lord?' he cooed at Dragho's heavy lids. 'Dragon got your tongue?' He swooped down and took the Khan's mouth in his, forcing his tongue past those lips still sticky with the honeyed alcoholic mare's milk. He smacked on the Khan's limp lips, bit, tugged, scooped a hand behind his head and lifted. When he did, Dragho's mouth fell open, giving his tongue free reign. So long did he probe the horse-lord's unwilling mouth that the man began to snore and snort. Hot, alcohol-tinged breath blew onto the prince's face when he parted, a tendril of saliva connecting them for but a moment. I'm suffocating him, he thought with pleasure. It would be so easy to end the great khan then, he knew. A pillow, nothing more. But a pillow wasn't what he was about to stuff in Dragho's face.

Thalaeryan adjusted himself once more, drawing his hips forward. He slid his cock between the khan's pecs for a moment, then straddled his chest, bringing his cockhead to rest amidst the soft plaits of Dragho's beard. He smiled down at the great khan, trampler of cities. Sucker of royal cocks.

He slid one of the silken cushions from behind the khan's head and tossed it aside. Instead, he seized on one of the tasseled bolster pillows and lifted the khans's head, sliding the cylindrical cushion under his neck. When his head came to rest, the position was such that the chest and neck were higher than the head, and thus Dragho's mouth opened slightly as airy breaths whistled in and out. Thalaeryan circled the khan's full lips with a thumb, took a breath, then slid his hips forward, hissing as his precum-slicked cockhead met Dragho's warm lips.

Tharlaeryan shuddered. His heart began to race, as giddy as his first time. He placed a palm on the khan's forehead and forced it back into the silken covers, opening the mouth further. With a small thrust he breached the khan's lips and sunk into hot wetness. He felt the grate of pearly teeth, the slide of silky tongue, and the hard and slick roof of Dragho's mouth. He moaned, pulling out and sliding in, again and again. Each time the prince went a little deeper—and each time the khan's breath built up behind the obstructing member and rattled against it, making his body shudder. As he went deeper, Dragho's soft pallet, heavenly wet and warmer than a woman's cunt, enveloped him. Feeling this, he drove home once and Dragho coughed, his throat contracting around Thalaeryan's dick with a wet lulk!

He drew back, afraid he had awakened the man, but when he gathered himself outside Dragho's mouth, the khan lay sleeping, deep belly-breaths puffing out, deep belly-breaths sucking in. He went in again, this time with less abandon. Past the teeth, against the tongue, past the pallet and the tonsils—Dragho gagged around him, twisting his throat about Thalaeryan cock. The prince had never felt anything like it. He groaned, trying to keep the palm on the khan's forehead, and steadying himself with the left hand, but it was just too much. He thrust again and again, losing himself in ecstasy. Dragho coughed and spat reflexively, phlegm and slaver popping out in ropes around the prince's shaft, but Thalaeryan didn't care. Dragho could choke to death for all he cared at this point.

Glulk! Glulk! Glulk! He was practically pounding now, his pale balls burying themselves in the khan's luxuriant beard, Dragho's head and shoulders jerking as his gag reflex was primed again and again. Thalaeryan let go of Dragho's forehead and the khan's jaws closed around the shaft, sending a wonderful mix of pleasure-pain down his spine, into his loins, tightening his balls. Thalaeryan threw back his head and gasped as the fire rushed out of him and down the khan's throat, convulsing and sputtering, Dragho rejected Thalaeryan's seed as soon as he ejected it, coughing up ropes of pearly cum, slathering the prince's twitching cock, cheeks puffing.

Thalaeryan did not remember pulling out, but when he next became aware, he was collapsed on top of Dragho, huffing into his scented neck, his cooling erection circling the khan's belly button. It was everything he had hoped and more. When he propped himself on an elbow to view his masterpiece, he smiled cruelly. His cum streaked the khan's beard, and kohl-blackened tears striped his face, the result of his powerful gag-reflex.

He consigned the image to the highest spot of honor in his memory and composed himself to continue. He slid down the khan's belly to the valley of his legs, lifted them up, and gazed down at the hairy hole between the two immense globes of Dragho's ass. The only thing more powerful than the sweet anticipation of the khan's tight asshole was the bitter reminder that this was his only night to taste it—elsewise, even if he could acquire a similar potion and somehow find the khan without his retainers and his servants, then he would needs have to get rid of his sister.

He let his hands roam over the bulging thighs for a moment, then scooped them up behind the knee and pressed forward. His cock was standing again already, but the angle was ever so slightly off. He reached for the cushion he had thrown aside earlier and propped it under the khan's ass. Just right, he thought.

Thalaeryan positioned himself for entry. He entertained the thought of a lubricant of some sort, but decided against it. This is my enemy, he thought, not my lover.