The Blue Prince

Some short time after Armas had left, taking his aura of frustrated nervousness with him, another tap came on Gerulf’s door and he opened it to reveal Mrs Burry. The small, grey-haired woman bustled into his room as he stepped back to allow her entry, a sheaf of papers huddled in her arm.

He’d only encountered her for a short time at breakfast and his overall impression of her was that of the firm but fair type; she reminded him oddly of a Sergeant whose command he’d been under once, who was all pleasantries and routine until somebody did something stupid, at which point he’d have the rest of the unit cram the wrong-doer into an old ship barrel he kept in the camp, and roll them down the nearest slope. Given, the sergeant had been almost as big as Gerulf, wore moustaches and went carousing with whores, so he doubted there was any further similarity between him and Mrs Burry. But still, the comparison served to amuse him a little.

“Brought you some things, Sir. Help you to settle.”

“Much obliged, Mrs Burry. Thank you,” Gerulf replied.

She studied his face for a moment, nodded to herself and turned to leave, making a small hmph of approval when he opened the door for her. Short and to the point, he thought. Nothing not to like there.

Further inspection revealed the papers she’d left to be useful indeed. The greater part of the bundle was a large sheet of cheap paper, folded several times and worn with use. He unfolded it and, after a moments study, found himself to be holding a map of The Prince’s House. The annex was small but cleverly laid out, the map showing both floors, including the small cluster of rooms off the Prince’s landing that Gerulf took to be Armas’ suite. The kitchen, the laundry room, the storage room and the staff’s quarters were all on the ground floor, along with a passage off the kitchen that led, in a roundabout manner, out to a small stable yard. Worth investigating, he thought to himself. Long experience had taught him to always know the way to the stables, just in case a fast journey should suddenly be called for.

Also, there was usually someone decent to look at hanging around a stable, should the point ever come when the thought of the Prince couldn’t sufficiently excite him on his own merits.

Another sheet of paper was a timetable of various household events. Gerulf was fascinated to learn that the bedclothes were changed and laundered on a Monday, the butcher came by from the main palace every Tuesday and Friday, and oh look! Thursday was window washing day. Still, it could be useful to know, should he ever need to find another staff member. Unless they ran away from him.

The first Saturday of every month was marked ‘inspection’, in a slightly different hand to the rest of the writing. Inspection of what and by whom wasn’t stated, which made Gerulf feel somewhat uneasy. It was an ominous word, on its own.

The last paper in the pile was a little note, much folded. The handwriting, presumably Mrs Burry’s, was scratchy, as if it had been rushed.

Mr Gerulf,
Please that you should be aware, the maester, Master Rein, disapproves great strongly of the Prince’s men. Please to be aware that you should be wary of him, as he has been known by many to be much vengeful towards some as he disapproves of. Please be careful and not to keep hold of this letter.

Wincing at the grammar, Gerulf scrunched up the paper and – after a moment’s consideration – tossed it into the fire. He’d heard of this maester, the King’s advisor, but knew little of him beyond the fact that he was the official voice of the King, now that the man himself was bedridden. He wondered how bad it could possibly be.

Maybe he should find some excuse to lay low on the next ‘inspection’ day.

He spent some time, quite valuably, he thought, committing the little hand-drawn map to memory. Strong chance somebody would be wanting it back some day soon, if it was as old as it felt. He pored over it for so long it was almost a surprise when Zita knocked on the door to deliver a tray of food for him. She didn’t say anything about why he was eating in his room, but he wagered that it was for the best; he didn’t have to ask to know that the previous inhabitants of his room hadn’t eaten in the kitchen, probably not even once. To his surprise, he’d been given a truly good meal. He’d been half expecting to get the heel of the loaf and the scrapings from the pot, but not so.

After he ate, seated at his small desk, he considered investigating the stables, when there was yet another tap at his door. Popular today. He picked up the tray ready to hand it back to Zita, but when he opened the door, a fresh face came barrelling in.

“Gerulf, sir?” the mousy young woman asked briskly, dropping a small sewing box onto the foot of the bed. “I’ve been sent by Mistress Rin, sir, to take measurements.”

“Ah, yes. Mistress Rin would be the palace seamstress?” Gerulf asked.

“That’s right sir. Pop your jacket off, would you please?”

“And you would be?” he asked, sliding his jacket off his shoulders and draping it on the armchair. The girl was tiny, so he pulled the chair away from the desk in case she needed to stand on it.

“Marta, sir. I’m a junior assistant.” She said it so proudly, Gerulf guessed she had probably started her career doing something rather less notable, as a laundry maid, most likely. Nice enough girl, he supposed.

Marta briskly measured his waist, his legs, and his chest, then graciously hopped up onto the chair to check his arms and shoulders, all the time scritching down notes on a little pad that was attached by a string to the belt of her dress. Once she was done, she immediately packed her little case back up, said a polite ‘good day’ and headed for the door.

“One moment,” Gerulf said, as she put her hand out to turn the knob. “Don’t you ask what kind of clothing I need?”

She gave him an apologetic smile and replied “We’ve received our instructions, sir. We already know what you’re to have.”

Should have guessed; the misery had been the one to sic the seamstresses on him in the first place.

“Very well then,” he told her. “Just…whatever Armas told you, don’t make me look too much like him, alright?”

Clearly stifling a giggle, she nodded politely and left.

Gerulf sighed. The room, and its flow of people, was making him feel a little claustrophobic; time for a walk, perhaps.

*

The stables were warm and pleasantly smelly, the mingled scents of straw and horse bringing back fond memories for Gerulf. His days as an attendant at the camp, running errands and fetching messengers, his route taking him near-constantly through the stables, the noise of shifting hooves and jingling tack, the occasional whisper of illicit sound from a stall…

This stable was rather smaller and tidier than a barrack stable, but nonetheless, the familiarity of it was welcome. There were, perhaps, a half a dozen horses housed at the annex, judging by those that were present and the state of the remaining stalls, and the small group of animals was cared for by two jovial old fellows that Gerulf happily struck up conversation with. Timur, the more senior of the two, was a softly spoken old gentleman, an ex-blacksmith who had worked in various capacities at the palace for over twenty years, having finally been given what he saw as a ‘soft’ job in the years running up to his retirement. His second, Gostislav, had been a naval man, until an injury had ended that carreer, and he spent quite some time telling Gerulf the whole, long, meandering tale of how he’d ended up in the Prince’s House, his droning voice accompanied by occasional dry comments interceded by Timur. The two men were like a theatrical double act, quietly and competently overseeing their domain, almost as an afterthought to their amiable bickering.

Yes, the visit to the stables had been a good move. Gerulf returned to his room feeling the weight of the day lifted from him. It was dark by this time, the late autumn chill closing around the palace with the onset of night. Thus the sight that greeted him when he entered his quarters was especially welcome; somebody, presumably Zita, had been in and left him a bath. Steam rose off the surface of the water in the huge copper tub, beading drops of water on the window. Time to get ready for his duties, he supposed.

He undressed and climbed into the tub, taking his time to work out the best way to fit himself into it. It would have been roomy for most people, but he couldn’t fit his arms and legs inside it at the same time. Didn’t matter though. The novelty of a hot bath was very pleasant. He’d been in barracks and lodgings most of his life, which meant wash basins. All well and good, but there was nothing like a tub full of hot water to relax in.

The last time he’d taken a real bath must have been…hell, nearly four years ago now. It had been after his faction had left Olsora, once the border had been reopened, and he’d been asked along to a celebration that a group of officers were having in a town they stopped in overnight. Gerulf’s Captain and two of his fellows had found an inn which had one huge suite up above it, and had rented the whole thing, inviting every like-minded soldier they could find. It had been a good way to celebrate the end of a tricky tour. Hell, it had been a good way to celebrate anything.

When they got there, the inn keeper had set up two huge bath tubs in the middle of the room, between the fireplace and the beds, and Gerulf had happily taken advantage of one. He hadn’t been even remotely disappointed when, just a couple of minutes after he’d settled into the water, a lieutenant from one of the other units, a good looking, whipcord bodied man, joined him, making water slop over the sides of the tub. Tirta, that was his name. He’d had the strangest tattoo on his shoulder, something like a caterpillar curled around a paw print. Gerulf had asked about it and Tirta had just laughed, wrapped himself around Gerulf in the hot water, pulled his head down until Gerulf’s lips touched the tattoo, and with all the noise and activity in the room, suddenly all his attention was on the slight, slight difference in the texture of the inked skin.

Lieutenant Tirta’s body had been identified by that tattoo just a few months later, but that wasn’t the kind of memory he wanted in his head tonight. Better to think of how good it had been. Think of how good it would be, soon, upstairs in the Prince’s bedroom.

He scrubbed his skin carefully, then sat enjoying the water until it began to cool. No new clothes from the seamstresses yet, and Armas’ messenger hadn’t returned with his belongings, so it would have to be the same suit again. At least it was clean now, though slightly horse-scented…it probably wouldn’t matter.

By the time he was ready, it was almost nine. He glanced in the small mirror above the fireplace; he looked about as good as he was going to get. The heat from the bath had left his face a little flushed, which went some way to make the darker colour of the scar tissue less striking. His hair still wouldn’t lie flat, but that was nothing new. He found his way back to the staircase that led to the Prince’s apartments easily enough. The guard that stood sentry at the foot of the stairs recognised him, probably by description, and waved him up. As he reached the landing, it occurred to Gerulf that he had no key to the apartments and was suddenly struck with a conundrum; should he knock? Should he try to find Armas’ door and fetch him to unlock it? Or should he just try the handle?

This quandary became moot when the door opened and a woman walked out. She was beautiful, older than Gerulf by some ten or fifteen years, but no less lovely for it. Her modest but delicately tooled clothing and serene, unpainted face spoke of a lady, a real lady, one in both title and action. But what was a courtier doing here, if the Prince was so at odds with his family as to be housed in a different building from them?

Lost in her thoughts, the woman had allowed the door to close by the time she saw Gerulf standing there, and let out a small gasp of surprise when she set eyes on him. Immediately, he bowed low, the way General Andel had taught him so long ago.

“I apologise if I startled you, my Lady,” he said, feeling somewhat foolish at the formal language. “I’ve an appointment with the Prince.”

“Oh yes, he mentioned,” the lady responded, waving away his apology with a light gesture of one be-ringed hand. “You are Gerulf, are you not?”

“I am, my Lady.”

She came a few steps closer to him and studied his face. He was a little surprised at the closeness of her inspection; it was very unladylike behaviour, but then he supposed she wouldn’t feel the need to be polite around someone of his rank. Then he was surprised again when she, apparently, saw something in his face that satisfied her, and presented her hand.

“Adara,” she said, by introduction. “My mistress is her Majesty the Queen. I often bring messages to her son.”

Gerulf took her hand in his and bent his head over it, not going quite so far as to kiss though, not appropriate for a titled lady.

“I wonder,” she said, still openly staring at his face, “what do you think of our young Prince?”

Abrupt. Gerulf felt a little uneasy all of a sudden, like he was on shaky ground.

“I…don’t believe I’ve spent enough time in his presence, my Lady, to form an opinion.”

“Oh nonsense!” she retorted. “You’re a soldier, no? I’m sure you could tell everything important about me the second you saw me.”

“Not everything, my Lady.”

She raised an eyebrow, and Gerulf suddenly realised how that had sounded. “I’m not any kind of mind reader, though I can usually judge what kind of threat a person might be, if they became violent.”

She looked him up and down again, her expression lightening a little. “I suppose I’d be no threat at all, would I,” she mused quietly. “What I mean to ask is, how is his mood? I’m so immured to his…his malaise now that I can’t decide if he’s becoming worse.”

Her pretty face wore a mild expression of appeal; she was concerned for the Prince, and Gerulf found that he warmed to her, a little.

“As I say, my Lady, I don’t feel I know his Majesty well enough to form an opinion.”

“No, I suppose not,” she replied, sadly. She seemed to think for a moment, then looked him sharply in the eye.

“He’s lonely,” she said, “It’s a terrible thing for such a young man to be lonely, is it not?”

“It most assuredly is, my Lady. If it eases your concern at all, I shall do all that I am capable of to alleviate his loneliness.” That was what he was there for, after a fashion, anyway.

She gave him a small, coy smile. “You mean you’ll do as much as he allows you to do.”

“I mean, my Lady, that I shall do all that I am capable of.”

If he’d though her beautiful before, the radiant smile that now bloomed on her face wiped all previous ideas of beauty from his mind; she was stunning.

“Very good, Mr Gerulf. The door is unlocked, and I believe he is expecting you.”

With a small respectful bob of a curtsey, she sailed past him and down the stairs, with nary a look back. Gerulf wondered for a moment that such a prize of a noblewoman was carrying messages between the Prince and his mother, rather than gracing the arm of some sickeningly wealthy royal. But he sternly swept those thoughts away. She was concerned for Prince Mihai, and she wanted Gerulf to…what, precisely? Be his confidant? His companion? As far as he was capable, that was what he would be.

*

“You’re late,” came the Prince’s cool voice from the sitting room.

“I apologise, your Majesty, I encountered Lady Adara on the landing, and it would have been improper of me not to greet her.” He stepped into the doorway, and Prince Mihai turned in his chair to look at him. His expression, as before, was bland and unreadable. It struck Gerulf as a terrible shame that the only emotions he’d yet seen on that lovely face were blankness and anger. Perhaps it wouldn't be such a task to befriend this young man.

“You’re wearing the same suit as last night. How ridiculous. Why?” the Prince demanded in his expressionless voice.
Gerulf felt his jaw clench. Perhaps it would be a tricky task, after all.

“As yet, the messenger has not returned with my belongings from my previous home, your Majesty, so I must make do with the clothes I have with me. I apologise profusely if my attire offends you.”

He’d said that last with a little edge of sarcasm, and the Prince’s narrowed eyes told him he’d only barely gotten away with it.

“I hope you’ll have the matter attended to by the next time I see you. Have you bathed?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

The Prince sighed. “You sound unpleasantly like Armas when you address me by that title.” With a thoughtful expression, he rose from his seat and turned to leave the room, crossing the landing and once again pausing at the door to his bedroom, waiting for Gerulf to open it.
“It’s a fitting title for public, of course, but when we are alone, you may refer to me as ‘my Lord’. You understand?”

“Yes my Lord,” Gerulf replied. For a moment, he’d thought he would be instructed to call the Prince by name. Stupid of him.

He followed the Prince into the blue bedroom and closed the door, as the Prince turned towards the door to the bathroom. He turned in the doorway; “Undress, Gerulf. I’ll return shortly.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Gerulf replied obediently. It seemed that the Prince wasn’t going to take him to task on the previous night’s events, or at least not while he had the reassuring shield of his clothing. A brave man perhaps, or one who avoided difficult words.

Gerulf undressed and, not knowing what else to do with them, draped his clothes over the same chair as he had the last time. He stood naked with his back to the fire, listening to the sounds of movement from the bathroom, shifting fabric and the opening of a jar, the slap of a bare foot against tile. Was the Prince preparing himself? Did he have his fingers inside himself right at that moment? Gerulf glanced down at his stiffening member, and wondered if the Prince realised that he wouldn’t mind taking care of that job himself.

After several minutes, the Prince emerged, dressed in his robe, carrying the same small jar of grease. With barely a glance at Gerulf, he strode over to the bed, removed the robe, and knelt on the covers, the jar next to him on the mattress, the same as last night. He looked up and down Gerulf’s body, swallowed hard and made a dramatic, disdainful little sigh.

Gerulf waited.

“I wish to make something perfectly clear to you, Gerulf,” the Prince pronounced, with an affected air of calm.

“Yes, my Lord?”

“Last night, you broke every rule that I set in place for you, except for one. Know that due to your…success in your task, I have decided to allow your employment.”

Try not to smile, Gerulf told himself sternly. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“In future, I expect you to pay more attention to instruction. Do you understand?”

“Yes my Lord. Do you wish me to follow those broken rules from now on?”

A look of vague annoyance crossed the Prince’s face. “No, that…that seems…no, it doesn’t do to look back. Just…do not break that last one, you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord. Then what do you wish of me?”

“As you did last night.”

Not surprised in the least, Gerulf nodded and approached the bed. The Prince watched him for a moment, then curled over forwards, backside up, head down on his forearms. Gerulf felt a brief twinge of disappointment, realising that when the Prince said he wanted the same, he meant exactly the same. He’d rather hoped to fuck him face to face this time, to watch him when he came, but it seemed that wasn’t going to happen.

He could work on it.

And he really had no call to be disappointed, not when that sleek, beautiful body was there just waiting for him. He knelt behind the Prince on the bed and picked up the jar, screwing open the lid and scooping out some of the grease. With every movement he made, the Prince…flinched.

“My Lord?”

“…Mmm?”

“I’m not going to attack you, my Lord.”

No response.

“Did I hurt you last night?”

“No.” Firm reply.

Gerulf pushed two greased fingers into the Prince’s anus, shoving in deep, and was rewarded with a very definite flinch and a barely suppressed yelp.

“You’re sure, my Lord? I’d hate to be too rough with you and cause you pain.”

“Aah! It- yes! Yes it hurts!”

Gerulf eased his fingers out a little way and gentled his touch, rubbing softly inside the tight passage.

“Then I shall be gentler, if that’s well by you, my Lord?”

The Prince made a small noise of annoyance, then mumbled out;

“yss…”

Smoothing a generous amount of the grease down the length of his member, he shifted on the bed to place himself directly behind the Prince. The slender body was taught with irritation and nerves. Perhaps even fear of pain. But the Prince, to his credit, didn’t move when Gerulf placed his hands on the narrow waist, cupping the sturdy hip bones and rubbing soothing circles into the hollows behind them with his thumbs.

The tension eased a little, just a little, but Gerulf sensed that that was all the headway he was going to make. Taking hold of himself with one hand, he eased the tip of his penis carefully into the Prince’s body. The warm, slick flesh swallowed up the head of him with ease, and he had to pause for a moment and gather himself, lest he would have thrown gentleness to the wind and forced himself in in one stroke. As it was, he rocked slowly on his knees, using is grip on the Prince’s hips to keep the motion inside the younger man’s body smooth, easing himself in, inch by slippery inch, taking his time.

The only sound from the Prince was that of his breathing, deep and quick, not quite panting, and yet every intake of breathe ended with a hitch, practically a gasp. Behind his master’s back, Gerulf allowed a grin to stretch itself across his face. He’d break him down, all it would take was time. He’d make him scream.

He was in past the place the ribbon had marked now, and he could feel the Prince beginning to tense, to cringe away from the sensation. He spread his knees a little wider to make himself more stable on the gently rocking bed, then leaned forward and slid one of his hands around and up, sliding his finger tips up the Prince’s chest until he felt the peak of a nipple and squeezed it between the pads of his fingers. The body beneath him twisted, trying to escape his hand, but Gerulf pinched that little nipple again, heard the Prince’s soft grunt and pressed himself in a little deeper.

The Prince was making tiny keening noises in his throat, still barely moving, but the channel of his anus was flexing and twitching around Gerulf now; just a few more gentle pushes…a few more sleek, sliding thrusts…and he was buried to the hilt.

His hand still roamed the Prince’s chest, groping at the tiny peaks of his nipples, and the shallow pads of his pectoral muscles, and rocked in and out of his body in the smoothest, most perfect rhythm imaginable. The Prince was openly gasping now, no doubt sore and sensitive, but enjoying himself all the same, no matter how much he would try and act like sex, like being fucked, was beneath him.

That slender body was shaking like a leaf, close, getting closer by the second, and Gerulf slid his hand down, closed his fingers around the Prince’s smooth cock…and squeezed.

Little grunt, so small he barely heard it, but definitely there…

Hot, hard flesh clenched in his hand, throbbing…

The Prince’s hips moved, trying to turn the squeeze into a stroke, but Gerulf moved with him, keeping his grip firm. All attempts at gentleness were over now, he was fucking the Prince’s body as deeply as he was able, drawing out most of his length with each stroke and pounding back in hard enough to make the bed frame creak and rattle. He could feel the body under him tensing and squirming as it frantically tried to climax, but his grip was unrelenting; not yet, not yet…

He felt his own orgasm rearing up inside him, tensing his muscles, and he drove in deep, holding the Prince’s body against his, holding himself inside. His sweat-and-grease slippery fist pumped the Prince’s cock hard, and after barely a single stroke he felt the violent shudder of orgasm and the sloppy flow of semen over his fingers.

It was the worst torture in the world, but he grit his teeth and dragged his cock out of the deep pulsing channel. Pressed his length once again against the crease of the Prince’s pale backside and came, seeing gleaming lights at the edges of his vision.

He came back to himself on all fours, barely holding his own weight off the Prince’s body. He could see the spreading shape of his own semen, glistening against the milk-pale skin of the narrow back beneath him.

What a beautiful sight it was.

He heaved himself back, onto his knees and waited for the Prince to catch his breath.

It took a few minutes.

“My Lord?”

He was answered with a particularly annoyed sounding gasp.

“My Lord, are you alright?”

“I can’t…sit…my legs…”

Carefully Gerulf slid one arm around the Prince’s waist and lifted him slightly, righting him and helping him get balanced.

The Prince gave a little groan from between his teeth. “I want my bath.”

“Very well,” Gerulf replied, and got up from the bed. The Prince glanced at him, looking rather surprised, until Gerulf scooped him up and set off for the bathroom.

“What are you doing?!”

“Taking you to your bath, my Lord.” The sarcasm was back. This time he didn’t get away with it; the Prince slapped his chest, surprisingly hard.

“I didn’t mean you to do that!”

Gerulf stopped walking and tilted the Prince back slightly, so he could look him in the face. This only irritated him off more, it seemed.

“Put me down! Immediately!”

“Can you stand, my Lord?”

The Prince’s huffy silence answered that question for him.
Gerulf shook his head and kicked open the door to the bathroom. The ceramic bathtub was enormous, easily twice the size of the one Gerulf had washed in earlier. There was an ornate dressing table with a basin installed and a door in the far corner that he knew from the map led to a little water closet. The bath had a fitted cover over it, and Gerulf set the Prince down on the padded bench lid of a trunk before drawing the cover back, relieved to find the tub already full of hot water; he had no idea how to operate the complicated looking taps at the end of the bath.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Prince opening his mouth to speak. Without wasting a second, he scooped him up again and, as politely as he could, set him in the bath.

“You! You are the living end!” The Prince raged, as the water sloshed around him.

“Sir?” Gerulf replied coolly, settling into parade rest at the side of the bath.

“Why…you….what…Argh!” He swept one hand through the bath, sending water splattering across Gerulf’s upper body, and rather a lot of the floor.

Don’t smile, DON’T smile, Gerulf told himself.

“What exactly have I done wrong, my Lord?” he inquired with exquisite politeness.

“You know what!”

Gerulf tipped his head to one side, clearly indicating that, no, he didn’t.

“You…You-” the Prince pointed at Gerulf, then at various locations around the room that seemed to have equally offended him.

“Your legs and hindquarters were sore, my Lord, and you wanted your bath. So I carried you here. Was that incorrect?”

The Prince deflated a little, glaring steadily at the soap dish.

“Would you rather I’d called Armas, my Lord?”

The Prince appeared to suppress a shudder.

“No,” he ground out. “I’d appreciate it, Gerulf, if in future you’d be a little less free with how you behave around me.”

“Yes, my Lord?” Gerulf responded lightly.

The Prince turned his head slowly, and suddenly Gerulf was being subjected to that glare. He felt rather sorry for the soap dish. But the malice in the Prince’s eyes was only a thin veneer, covering up…Gerulf wasn’t sure. Worry? Pain?

Throwing caution to the wind, he knelt beside the bath, placing his hands on the edge, surprisingly disappointed when the Prince flinched away from him.

“My Lord, it’s not at all unusual for a man to find himself feeling weak after the act of sex.”

The Prince’s face flamed and Gerulf knew he’d reached the heart of the matter. The younger man cringed into the water and shifted his glare to the taps.

“Gerulf-”

“Especially so in the case of the man being fucked, my Lord,” he finished.

The Prince was still for a moment, then he frowned.

“I don’t believe I’m familiar with that word. Is it some sort of…countryside term?”

Gerulf thought for a moment, then chided himself slightly for using such coarse language. But the man was in his twenties, for the sake of Providence, why had he never heard it?

“Ah, no my Lord. It’s a common enough term but… rather rude, or so most consider it. To be fucked is to …take another into your body. To fuck is, well, the other side of things.”

The Prince’s eyes narrowed, still focused on whatever bit of the plumbing he was so fixated on.

“Did you just swear at me Gerulf?”

“Yes, my Lord. Several times, I’m afraid.”

“You aren’t afraid of anything. You’re a fool,” the Prince replied. He sounded a little worn out now and, apparently having said all he wanted to on the matter, he uncurled and reclined back in the bath, pearly strings of semen swirling into the lapping water from his skin.

“Are you still sore, my Lord?” Gerulf asked.

Another frown, though a smaller one this time.

“Gerulf, on no account are you to refer to any part of my person as ‘hindquarters’ again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Gerulf stared into the water, at the Prince’s pale thighs and softened penis.

“It’s a term for…cattle. Not for people, and certainly not for your employer.”

“Yes, my Lord. Allow me to make amends,” Gerulf replied equitably, and he reached into the water to cup the Prince’s sex.

“What are you doing?!”

“The pleasure will help to take the pain away, my Lord.” The Prince was starting to swell in his hand. Gerulf slid an arm around his back and held him gently, stroked the tip of his penis with his thumb.

“But…but I can’t!”

“You can, my Lord, believe me.”

“Uuh…” and that seemed to be the last the Prince had to say on the matter. He squirmed in Gerulf’s hands, slopping water over the side of the bath. Gerulf squeezed him with the arm around his back, leaning him against the side of the bath so he could get a better angle with his other hand. The Prince had his eyes scrunched shut, his teeth bared in a grimace of arousal. Gerulf tore his eyes away from his smooth, pink member and studied his face.

He was beautiful.

In what seemed like moments, he was shaking and panting in Gerulf’s arms, hands clawing at the rim of the bath, his toes curled up and his heels pressed down, and then he was coming, streams of semen ribboning out into the hot water.

Gerulf gently slid his hands off the Prince’s body, cupping his shoulders just long enough to settle him back in the curve of the bath tub. He was still shaking, his eyes wide now.

“Feel better, my Lord?”

“uh…”

He slid down in the bath until the water was up to his chin, his eyes drifting shut.

“My Lord?”

“yuh…”

“Is there…anything else I can do for you?”

The Prince shook his head, closing his eyes fully and leaning his head back so the water soaked into his hair.

“Shall I let Armas know that you’re bathing?”

A little nod.

“Goodnight, my Lord.”

He stood and walked to the door, then turned back to look at the Prince. His hair was soaking wet, droplets of water running over his face and closed eyelids. Gerulf slipped from the room and closed the door.

He put his clothes on, grateful that today the steam and splashes in the bathroom had cleaned him up a little, smoothed his hair down and left the room, left the suite.

Back in his room he cleaned up and went to bed. The last thought on his mind as he settled into sleep was of the Prince’s face as he came.


Notes : Thank you once again to my fab beta Paradox13. This chapter is dedicated to kylee, who 'died and begged and pleaded' for it in comments for another of my stories. Hope you enjoy it dear.