Chapter Text
Isadore’s heart fluttered like a caged bird as Sothis guided him through the labyrinth of corridors. The prince’s steps wavered on hard, unfamiliar ground, his breath shallow beneath the silk blindfold that caressed his face—a whisper of indulgence against skin. Beyond the darkness, torchlight flickered, casting shadows that danced unseen.
“Careful, my sweet,” Sothis murmured, his large hand a steady warmth at the small of Isadore’s back. “Slowly now.”
The deep, gravely timbre of his new husband’s voice filled Isadore with a chary weightlessness, as if he might float or collapse at any moment. Only hours had passed since their wedding, an opulent affair of gilded splendor, a sea of expectant faces. Yet it had all felt distant, unreal, like a dream from which he had yet to wake.
His mind conjured a reflection of himself, turning in a gilded mirror to scan the delicate lace-framed cutout on the back of his wedding attire. The prince’s skin, smooth and pale as fresh cream, peeked from beneath ivory velvet. Isadore had always been smaller than his peers, his frame slight, almost fragile—features bordering on the ethereal, with short ashy-blonde locks and doe-like eyes the color of pale green beryl. A beauty delicate as a moth’s wing. In his heart, he had long believed that his dulcet allure was all he had to offer the world.
The youngest of seven, Isadore lacked the cunning of his elder siblings, the might of his warrior brothers. No gift of sorcery sparked in his blood, nor did the gods grant him their favor. His hands had never held the weight of a sword, drafted the intricate dance of courtly intrigue, or summoned even the faintest flicker of magic. The prince was a lamb—soft-spoken, timid.
So when news of his betrothal reached him, there had been no surprise, only a quiet dread. The king of a neighboring land had sent for him—a man renowned for his strength, his measured rule. Isadore knew little about King Sothis, only familiar with him by his moniker of war: Wolf Rayet. The name carried weight: a warrior general whose brilliance on the battlefield burned cold and merciless, a sovereign who ruled with both steel and clemency.
Isadore had begged otherwise, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. His parents reminded him of duty, of the kingdom’s future, of the gentility for which Wolf Rayet was known. He would be safe, they assured him. He would be treated well.
“My gratitude… Milord.” The prince's voice was soft, barely above a whisper as they made their way through the corridors. His heart raced with each step. Even with the man’s reputation as a just king, fear lingered—a quiet thing, nestled deep.
Thoughts drifted to their first meeting, only days before their wedding. The memory unfurled like a fragile bloom.
Isadore had waited in the grand reception hall, his frame near swallowed by the opulent surroundings. Sunlight spilled through stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in jewel-toned fragments. His fingers plucked at the embroidered sleeves of his formal attire, breath caught as the great oak doors groaned open.
Then, he entered.
Sothis filled the entrance like a force of nature, a colossus of a man whose presence swallowed the room. He was easily a head taller than any noble present, his broad frame clad in obsidian and shimmering gold velvet. Atop his head sat a heavy aureate crown, its matching filigree-laced arches rising into jagged peaks adorned with black sapphires that gleamed like pools of water under a moonless night. Salt-and-pepper hair cut short on the sides framed a stout, handsome face lined with the marks of experience, softened only by an expression of quiet warmth. His beard, peppered with silver, lent him an air of wisdom—distinguished, imposing.
Isadore had barely drawn breath before the king strode forward, kneeling on one knee before him. A large, calloused hand closed around his own, disquietingly firm.
“My most fair Isadore,” Sothis had crooned, pressing bristly lips to the delicate skin of the prince’s wrist. His canthal-line-kissed gaze lifted, glacial blue eyes gleaming with something wistful yet uncanny. “It is my highest honour that we finally meet. I welcome thee to your kingdom.”
Lost in the dwam, Isadore’s fingers brushed over the silk blindfold, tracing the wispy lace, seeking comfort in its texture. Then, the floor dipped—a subtle step he hadn’t anticipated. His breath caught, a sharp inhale of surprise as his foot faltered, finding nothing but empty space. In an instant, his balance wavered, the world tilting as he lurched forward.
Before he could even gasp, burly arms encircled him.
“There now,” Sothis soothed, tone betraying the slightest hint of worry. One arm wrapped around Isadore’s waist, the other steadying his shoulders, cradling him as if he were spun from glass. “I’ve got you…”
Isadore’s breath came fast, his hands splayed against the broad plane of Sothis’ chest. Beneath the thick layers of royal embroidery, he felt the solid warmth of the man who now called him husband. His heart hammered, the sudden moment of weightlessness leaving him dizzy.
“I—I didn’t see the step,” he murmured, frustration creeping into his voice at his own helplessness.
A deep chuckle rumbled in Sothis’ chest, a rich, indulgent sound that curled around Isadore like the heat of a hearth.
“Of course you didn’t, my love. That is rather the nature of blindfolds.”
Despite himself, Isadore’s cheeks warmed. He bit his lip, embarrassed by his own clumsiness, but Sothis only tightened his hold, his touch as reassuring as it was unshakable.
“There’s no need to fret,” the king continued, his voice dipped in fond amusement. “You are safe with me. Always.”
Isadore swallowed, the word settling somewhere deep in his chest. Safe. A promise, simple and steady.
A gloved hand rose to his cheek, fingertips grazing lightly along his jaw. The touch was scarcely perceptible, as if testing the weight of the prince—the reality of him. Sothis traced his thumb across Isadore’s lower lip.
“You’re trembling,” Sothis observed, his voice quiet. Concern, not reprimand.
“I—” Isadore swallowed, unsure of how to explain the rush of emotions that threatened to unmoor him. The fear. The uncertainty. The strangeness of belonging to someone he barely knew.
Sothis exhaled softly, a slow breath that ghosted over Isadore before his lips brushed against the prince’s temple—a whisper of contact, barely a touch. He lingered there a moment, seemingly granting Isadore the time to pull away, to refuse. But when the prince remained still, his breath quick but unresisting, Sothis pressed forward. His bearded lips tickled a gentle path down to the arch of Isadore’s cheekbone. Each touch was airy, measured, and unsettlingly languid.
“It’s… cute,” Sothis whispered, his voice touched with sheepish admiration. His warm breath ghosted over his husband’s cheek, the scent of wedding cake and red wine still barely perceptible.
Isadore stiffened at the word. Cute. It was not an insult, nor was it entirely unwelcome. Still, something about it prickled him. Cute was a word for children, for small, delicate things that needed to be coddled. It felt unseemly. And yet… Sothis had said it with such warmth, such quiet appreciation, Isadore couldn’t find it within himself to fully resent it. It was not mockery, nor a dismissal of his dignity. No, there had been obeisance in that whisper. What Isadore found shameful in himself, Sothis seemed to find charming. The thought filled his chest with something embarrassingly pleasant. Against better judgement, his fingers curled into the fabric of Sothis’ sleeve.
“…Apologies,” Isadore murmured. The sound was softer than he intended, painfully shy. He could hear the smile in Sothis’ hum of approval, the subtle shift of his stance as he resumed their slow journey forward. His grip on the king’s sleeve remained for the remainder of their procession through the castle. Before long, echoes of their steps softened as they entered a new space. Quieter. More intimate.
Without sight, Isadore’s other senses heightened. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax candles and something earthier—incense, perhaps, with notes of sandalwood and myrrh. A fire crackled softly nearby, its warmth caressing his skin. In the distance, he could hear the faint whisper of wind through stone corridors.
Sothis’ touch at his back shifted, not guiding but steadying. And then, with care, he eased Isadore onto something soft. A bed, the plush of the silken sheets beneath his fingertips confirming it.
“I hope this will suffice for our first night together.” The king’s voice was a low thrum, barely above a whisper.
Isadore's face burned with embarrassment as he understood the implications of his husband's words. Consummating their marriage on their wedding night was expected, but for the vestal prince, such acts were daunting and unfamiliar concepts. He had not given much thought to the intricacies of sex before now—especially between men. It all felt far too uncomfortable to navigate.
He listened as Sothis' footsteps retreated, followed by the ominous creak and thud of a heavy door closing. The sound reverberated through the chamber, leaving an unsettling silence in its wake. Isadore shifted with unease, his fingers twisting nervously in the silken sheets beneath him.
As the prince sat trembling on the edge of the bed, a subtle shift in the air alerted him to Sothis' approach. The king's footsteps were nearly silent, an unexpected grace belying his imposing size. Isadore's pulse skipped as he felt the brush of fabric against his arm—Sothis settling beside him, the mattress dipping under his weight.
"My beautiful Isadore," Sothis murmured, his voice a low, honeyed rumble. "You've been so brave today."
A heavy hand cupped Isadore's cheek, the touch rugged and firm. Against judgement, the prince’s head leaned into it, some instinct to seek an anchor in this unfamiliar environ. His husband’s gloved thumb traced idle patterns along his jawline, each stroke sending tingles.
"So very brave," Sothis repeated, his tone dipping lower. "I know this has been… difficult—for you. The ceremonies, the… obligations.” He paused briefly, the motion of his thumb slowing.
“You needn’t worry anymore,” he continued, “I’m going to take great care of you."
Before Isadore could process the words, he felt Sothis shift beside him. There was a soft clink of metal, barely audible over the crackling fire. At first, confusion furrowed the prince's brow beneath the silk blindfold. Then, horror as his mind registered the cold sensation enveloping his neck, and a sinking dread filled him—the faint sound of a chain rattling adding to his growing panic.
Instinctively, his hands flew to discern the object. Hard. Cold. A collar? A startled gasp escaped him as his fingers traced its coarse metal, only to recoil when a sharp spike sliced his index. Throbbing flared, followed by the unfamiliar warmth of blood settling in his touch.
With disorienting immediacy, Sothis’ hand clamped around his wrist, jerking it forward with a force that sent a soft rattle through the collar chain. Isadore’s mind splintered under the duality of qualm and asperity, reeling as the king’s lips brushed over his bleeding finger. Then… a flicker of damp heat.
Isadore shuddered as Sothis’ tongue pressed into the cut, the sensation both stinging and cooling. Before he could wrench away, the king took the injured digit fully into his mouth, sealing it behind the heat of his lips. The soft scrape of the man’s beard against delicate skin only amplified the discomfort. A low, breathy sound rumbled within Sothis as he suckled, deeply indulgent, his grip remaining tight.
What the fuck.
“D-dearest consort,” Isadore stammered, his voice thready with alarm. “What’s happening?”
Sothis' tongue danced along his husband's finger, before slowly drawing back. His voice was filled with dreamy contentment as he softened, his breath still humid against the prince's hand.
“You’re going to make me say it?” The king’s voice was almost bashful, playful even. “We’re going to make love. Surely this isn’t a surprise…”
As Sothis' hand wandered over his body, Isadore's panic grew. He reached out for the chain dangling aside him, hoping for some sense of control or escape. But when the prince tugged on it, he realized with dread that it was securely attached to something unseen, trapping him.
"What is this?" Isadore's voice trembled as he struggled against the restraint. Fear and confusion swirled inside him as he desperately tried to understand what was happening.
“Oh, my sweet,” Sothis hummed, his tone dripping with affection. “It’s my gift. It keeps you safe.” He brushed his fingertips up Isadore’s arms. “My heart could never bear the thought of you coming to harm.”
Isadore’s stomach churned at the tenderness. There was a disconnect between the king’s gentle words and the cold biting into his flesh. His thoughts froze, unable to reconcile the disparity.
“But I… I don’t understand,” Isadore whispered, his voice quavering.
“You will soon,” Sothis chuckled, his thumb tracing the delicate silk of Isadore’s blindfold. “Would you like to see?”
Isadore hesitated. It felt like he was in a free fall, the moment surrounding him devolving into what felt like a nightmare made alive. He wasn’t sure whether or not having sight returned to him would put him at ease, or worse, throw him into a panic.
“I—” the prince stammered, audibly swallowing a lump in his throat. “Yes.”
Sothis obliged with an almost dainty precision, thick fingers loosening the silk enough for it to descend delicately into the prince’s lap.
As Isadore’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, a room of macabre opulence materialized before him. Ebony and gold dominated every surface, creating a garish contrast of grandiose tenebrosity. The windowless room was vast, its vaulted ceiling lost in the shadows. The walls were draped in heavy black velvet, embroidered with intricate aureate patterns that writhed in the hearthlight. Ornate arasses depicted scenes of conquest and subjugation, their figures frozen in eternal conflict.
Isadore was seated upon a massive four-poster bed that dominated the space, its frame wrought from black iron. A great hound was etched into the wooden headboard’s relief, poised into a playful bow, yet its fangs and claws—sharpened with a menacing edge—hinted at something far less innocent. Dahlia black sheets and grey furs spilled across the mattress, soft as petals and offset by a mountain of plush pillows.
The footrest of the bed held a polished mirror set into the metal frame, reflecting a silvered image of the prince—his wide, fearful eyes, the cold metal collar clasped around his throat, and the chain binding him to an iron ring welded into the post. Secured upon his blonde tresses rested the coronet he had received only hours ago, a wedding gift of gilded latticework and black sapphires matching his husband’s, its delicate arches now a cruel contrast to his captivity. It should have marked him as a consort, a sovereign in his own right, yet now it appeared as nothing more than another shackle. A glint from the nightstand caught his eye, and he snapped his head toward it.
Laid out on a gleaming silver tray were an assortment of garish instruments, some appearing to be tools of pruriency, while others resembled devices of torture. A golden ring, about the size of the prince’s palm, with two thick leather straps attached on each end. Paddles and iron manacles, worn and tarnished from frequent use. An amber glass bottle of mysterious liquid, sealed with a cork. Shiny polished rods and plugs, some made of brass and others made of fine glass, their purpose undoubtedly for insertion.
Horror seized Isadore as he processed the grotesque tableau before him. He scrambled backwards on the bed, only stopping when the chain attached to his collar clinked ominously, pulling taut as he reached its limit.
"No, no, no," he whimpered, his trembling fingers clawing at the metal collar. The spikes bit once more into his skin, drawing pinpricks of blood that trickled down his neck. He yanked frantically at the chain, the iron bedpost groaning but refusing to yield.
Sothis watched with warm fascination, a slow smile spreading beneath his scruffy, salt-and-pepper beard.
"Careful, my love," he purred. "You'll hurt yourself."
Isadore's panicked struggles ceased as Sothis began to disrobe, the man’s movements languid and heavy. The king's kind, euclase eyes never left Isadore's face as he unfettered the clasps of his ornate doublet, letting it fall open. His husky muscles rippled and flexed with each movement, vowing gruesome strength.
"I hope you'll forgive me," Sothis murmured, a hint of bashfulness coloring his tone. "It's been... quite some time since I've done this."
He loosened the black dress gloves from his hands, calloused from years of wielding sword and scepter. As he fumbled with the laces on his shirt, Sothis let out a quiet chuckle, poking fun at himself as he worked at a particularly stubborn knot.
"Ah, there we are," he said triumphantly, finally freeing the last tie.
Isadore’s eyes widened in fresh terror as Sothis let the last of his clothing fall away, standing before him clad in nothing but his crown. The king's body was a map of scars and coarse hair, muscles rippling beneath sun-weathered skin. But it was what hung between his crinite thighs that made Isadore's breath catch in his throat.
Sothis' cock was monstrous—easily as thick as Isadore's wrist and almost as long as his forearm. Even while flaccid, it boastfully protruded from a thicket of dark, wiry hair that trailed up his torso, the shaft marbled with thick, blue veins. At its base, the king's scrotum hung heavy and full like a ripe plum.
Jaw slack in stunned silence, Isadore's gaze raked over the king's massive physique, lingering on the grotesque appendage between his legs. A strangled sound escaped his throat, halfway between a gasp and a whimper.
"Oh darling," Sothis murmured, a hint of color rising to his cheeks. "You're too kind." The king's hand came to rest on his nudivigant chest, fingers splayed across the expanse of scarred flesh.
"I know I'm not as young as I once was,” he continued, his voice tinged with grateful modesty. "But to find out that I can still capture the attention of a shy heart like yours? It's quite an ego boost.”
Isadore recoiled as Sothis approached. The prince's hands scrabbled at the furs and sheets, trying to put distance between them, but the chain pulled taut, holding him in place. Sothis smiled indulgently, as if amused by a child's antics.
"Now, now," he chided gently, settling onto the bed, "there's no need for such fuss."
The mattress dipped beneath Sothis’ weight as he leaned toward his husband. With deliberate slowness, Sothis reached for the fastenings of Isadore’s wedding attire. The prince jerked his hands up in protest, weakly batting at him, but Sothis caught both delicate wrists in a single, unyielding palm. The resistance was meaningless—effortless to subdue.
"Shh," Sothis hushed, his voice a velvet caress. "I'll be careful with you." The words carried a deceptive gentleness, a softness that did nothing to quell the tremor building in Isadore's chest. Sothis' grip remained firm, his hands moving with unerring precision as he peeled away the prince's ivory finery. With effortless strength, he held Isadore in place, maneuvering his arms as though he were nothing more than a delicate marionette. Occasionally, one of Isadore’s hands would break free, flailing weakly in a futile bid for escape. Sothis paid it no mind, his focus unwavering as he continued his ministrations, only bothering to seize the limb when he switched hands.
The first touch of those calloused fingers against his collarbone sent a quake through Isadore. He despised it—loathed the heat Sothis' thumb left in its wake as it scraped lightly along his shoulder, the slow, methodical way he worked the clasps at his throat. The embroidered fabric gave way beneath his husband's touch, falling soundlessly, layer by layer. A warm palm pressed against the small of his back, guiding him forward just enough for Sothis to strip away another barrier, his roughened fingers rasping against Isadore's ribs, drawing a deep, twisting discomfort in his gut.
Each moment stretched unbearably long, excruciating in its intimacy. Sothis was neither hurried nor careless. His patience was unnerving, his touch deliberate. Isadore’s fingers clenched uselessly in his lap, breath shuddering as the last layers settled around his waist, his chest left bare. Shame burned hot in his throat, thick and suffocating, but beneath it lurked something colder, something far worse: helplessness.
At last, he sat before the king, stripped to nothing but his undergarments and coronet. His cheeks were stained with the flush of humiliation, his body tense with fear—but deep within the pale green depths of his eyes, there was still a spark of defiance, flickering, unextinguished.
"Please," Isadore begged, "don't do this. I'll do anything you want, just please don't—"
Sothis silenced him with a kiss, one hand still holding his wrists captive while the other tangled in his hair. As he pressed his lips against Isadore's, Sothis pulled him onto his lap. Firm and invading, he deepened the kiss, wheedling Isadore's tongue with his own. The head of Sothis' flaccid cock rested against Isadore's inner thigh, warmth and weight heavy against his skin, accompanied by thick, prickling pubic hair.
Isadore's body betrayed him, responding to Sothis' touch despite his protests. He could feel himself growing erect beneath his undergarments as the king pressed closer against him. After what felt like an eternity, Sothis pulled back slightly to look into Isadore's eyes. A soft smile played at his lips as his gaze settled on the tent forming in the prince's undergarments.
"Oh my," he murmured, his voice tinged with bashful delight. "You flatter me."
Isadore's face burned with shame as Sothis' heavy hand hovered over his growing arousal.
"Ah, to be young again," mused Sothis, his eyes twinkling with wistful gaiety. "I remember when I was your age, how only the slightest touch could set me aflame."
Isadore trembled as Sothis' hand descended, his breath hitching as those thick fingers traced the outline of his arousal through the fabric. The prince squirmed, torn between revulsion and unwanted pleasure.
"No, please," he whimpered, his voice cracking. “St-stop!”
Sothis paid no heed to his protests. The king's hand cupped Isadore fully, stroking and squeezing with brusque fervor. His other hand released his husband’s wrists and snaked around the prince's waist, pulling him flush against his broad chest.
"Shh shh, my sweet," Sothis hushed, his beard tickling Isadore's ear. "Everything’s okay. It’s natural—nothing to be embarrassed of.”
Isadore's body convulsed with increasing desperation as he writhed against the staunch grasp. He clawed, kicked and punched, desperate to break free from the man's overwhelming might. But Sothis only chuckled softly, his grip loosening just enough for Isadore to barely escape and scramble to the opposite edge of the bed.
With a playful smile, Sothis followed slowly, like a child enjoying a game. The prince's heart hammered as he inched away, fear flooding his veins. No pleas or bargaining could sway the king's intentions. He seemed deaf to Isadore's protests, his desire unrelenting.
Suddenly, without warning, Sothis lunged again and captured Isadore in his massive arms.
“Got you!” he teased, breathy with mirth.
The prince continued to fight back, but it was futile against this behemoth of a man. Each strike only served to tire him out further, the imbalance in their strength humiliatingly evident.
The cycle continued endlessly; Sothis would hug Isadore in a vice-grip until he could barely move, then release him just enough for another round of hopeless struggle. And as the minutes dragged on, the prince felt himself weakening under the weight of fear and exhaustion. This game between predator and prey left him eneverated, both physically and emotionally.
“Here,” Sothis spoke softly, reaching for the manacles on the nightstand. With a slight grin on his face and a glint in his eyes, he motioned towards Isadore once again. “Allow me to assist you.”
Isadore's heart raced as he watched Sothis approach with the metal restraints in hand. He instinctively recoiled, fear evident in his eyes.
"Stay away!" he cried out, his gaze fixated on the cuffs within the king’s grasp.
But Sothis only smiled wider, almost giddy with excitement as he closed the distance between them.
"Help!" Isadore screamed, desperation creeping into his voice. But who would hear him? This was Sothis' castle, and everyone inside belonged to him. After all, the servants were probably the ones who set up this very room.
Again, Sothis lunged, his massive form colliding with Isadore and sending them both sprawling across the furs. The impact stole the prince’s breath, forcing it from his lungs in a sharp gasp as Sothis’ sheer weight bore down on him, pinning him face-down into the pillows. Panic surged through him, but even as he thrashed, his struggles were swallowed by the overwhelming presence of the king—his broad chest, thick with coarse, fleecy hair, rubbed against Isadore’s bare skin, the rough texture an unbearable contrast to his own untouched softness. The sensation pooled a strange heat in his stomach, something primal and suffocating. Isadore twisted, desperate to escape, but Sothis’ iron grip held firm.
"Shh, my love," he crooned, easily subduing Isadore's frantic movements.
Sothis moved with ruthless precision, capturing Isadore’s wrists and yanking them behind in a swift, unrelenting motion. A sharp cry tore from the prince’s lips as his shoulders twisted into an unnatural angle, tendons straining against the brutal force.
"Please… stop," Isadore whimpered. But Sothis showed no mercy, only snapping the manacles with an audible and horrid click.
With a satisfied grunt, Sothis seized Isadore's shoulders and flipped him onto his back once more. The prince gasped as the manacles dug sharp into his spine, his bound arms trapped beneath the weight of his own body. Before he could catch his breath, Sothis descended upon him.
The king’s shoulders eclipsed the shadowed ceiling as he loomed over Isadore, his sheer bulk pressing down with an unrelenting, suffocating weight. It felt as though he were being crushed beneath a mountain, the air squeezed from his lungs with each shallow breath. The manacles bit deeper into his back, the unyielding metal searing against his skin as Isadore struggled to shift, his arms trembling with the effort to relieve the agonizing pull on his shoulders. Every movement sent fresh jolts of pain through his joints, a cruel reminder of his bondage.
Heat unfurled from Sothis, thick and stifling, wrapping around Isadore like a second skin. The coarse curls covering his broad chest grazed against the prince’s bare flesh, accompanied by the weight of his heavy cock languidly brushing against Isadore’s thigh—an ominous vow of future torment.
A shudder wracked through Isadore as Sothis nuzzled into his cheek, the scrape of his beard an unbearable prickle against his already overstimulated nerves. Every brush of his husband’s body only deepened the sense of entrapment, the overwhelming reality of being claimed settling over him like an iron shroud.
"There we go," Sothis murmured, his hot breath fanning across Isadore's face.
Isadore's body squirmed, heat rising in his throat as a mixture of horror and dismay gave way to indignancy and rage. He desperately wanted to curse and insult the king for his actions, but he found himself unable to speak, held back by an inexplicable reticence.
The king's initial nuzzles blossomed into wet kisses, gradually trailing down Isadore's form. Each touch and gentle nip sent euphoric tingles through his body, causing his stomach to lurch. The prince's lips were pressed together in a facsimile of horror. Sothis continued lower, his massive hands settling possessively on Isadore's delicate hip bones as his tongue traced an agonizing path towards his pelvis.
As Sothis reached the prince's loins, he hesitated for a moment, seeming almost trepidatious. Isadore's face remained stone-still as he watched, though his wrists continued to struggle against the manacles binding him. The king’s lips were loosely parted as his eyes took in the outline of Isadore's panties, and with a hint of hesitation, he pressed his bearded face into the prince's crotch. Inhaling deeply, he wrapped his arms around Isadore's thighs and locked them around his own head.
Sothis' pupils rolled back in abstruse indulgence as he continued to huff the prince's musk, gently rocking his face to burrow even deeper. His lids closed, lost in what appeared like intoxication.
“Gods,” Sothis gasped, his breath muffled in the fabric. The voice came out ragged, edged with something desperately needy. A quiet, trembling puppy-dog whimper escaped him. “You smell… so good.”
Isadore's mind was spinning with a maelstrom of emotions as he felt Sothis' hot breath against the thin fabric of his underwear, sending shivers throughout. He couldn't deny the physical response his body was having to the king's touch, despite everything inside him rebelling against it.
Sothis continued to nuzzle and nuzzle at Isadore's crotch, his scruff rubbing against the delicate skin until his thighs were flushed pink. Isadore bit down on his lip, trying to hold back the moans that threatened to escape him. He refused to give Sothis the satisfaction of knowing he was enjoying this in any way.
His fervor deepening, Sothis pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses against the thin fabric that barely concealed Isadore's arousal. Each nip of his teeth sent sharp jolts through the prince's body, a visceral mix of fear and helpless awareness. The cloth did little to dull the scrape of his canines, cruelly teasing against the sensitive flesh beneath. Low, desperate whimpers spilled from Sothis' throat, raw and bestial, vibrating deep in his chest as he rutted his face hungrily against Isadore's groin.
The king's massive hands kneaded Isadore's thighs, fingernails pressing deep enough to leave tiny pinpricks of blood beneath his touch. Isadore swallowed down a pitiful whimper as sharp stings flared where Sothis' grip lingered. Humid heat curled around him as the king's tongue dragged slow, heavy strokes along the outline of his cock. The damp fabric clung obscenely to his skin, every shift amplifying the unbearable friction. His trembling legs on either side of Sothis’ ears quaked—frail and unsteady, like newborn livestock struggling against its own weakness.
Sothis let out another soft, prolonged growl, the vibrations traveling through Isadore's loins as he continued to explore the prince's arousal with pinching lips. Isadore's face remained stoic, though his breaths came in ragged pants as he tried to ignore the grotesque mix of pain and pleasure.
With a low grunt, Sothis wrenched the prince's legs apart, folding them back towards Isadore's chest. The position was horridly unnatural, straining muscles and tendons not meant to stretch in such a way. Isadore yelped, his bound arms twisting uncomfortably beneath him.
Sothis' coarse beard rasped against Isadore's inner thighs as he lowered his face, nuzzling into the cleft of the prince's ass. A mortified shudder wracked through the prince as he felt his husband press his nose against the thin fabric covering his perineum. His body tensed, squirming instinctively, but the king's hands held him firm as his mouth continued its unbearable ravishment.
Biting harder into his lip, Isadore tried with desperate fervor to dissociate himself from the sickening rhapsody rumbling through his groin. He attempted to envision being anywhere but this moment, the thought of giving in to pleasure at the hands of this man as repulsive to him as rot; however, his efforts were tragically futile, every soaked lap of Sothis' wide tongue anchoring him in the present like a punch to the gut.
Sothis rumbled a bassy growl before sinking his teeth into the soft curve of Isadore’s cheek. The prince jerked with a sharp, startled cry, shock ripping through him as the bite pressed through the delicate fabric of his underclothes. Fear coiled tight in his gut, a suffocating knot, as the razor-sharp tease of Sothis’ canines lingered—hovering on the precipice of breaking skin.
He wanted to push Sothis away, to escape this assault, but he was trapped—the walls of his reality closed like a cage. Despite his disgust, Isadore could feel himself losing control little by little as the king continued to nuzzle and nip at him.
Sothis' tongue teased around the edges of Isadore's panties before sliding inside. His teeth scraped against skin as he slowly, deliberately began to tear at the prince's undergarments. The delicate fabric yielded easily to his sharp canines, threads snapping one by one with quiet pops. Isadore shuddered as the cool air hit newly exposed, wet flesh, goosebumps rising across his thighs.
The king worked with methodical slowness, ripping tiny holes that gradually expanded under the force of his jaw. His hot breath gusted over Isadore's most sensitive areas as he nuzzled and gnawed. Occasionally his tongue would dart out, tasting bare skin through the growing gaps.
Isadore continued to squirm in frenetic distress, face burning with humiliation when Sothis reduced his last scrap of modesty to tatters. The manacles bit into his wrists as he instinctively tried to cover himself. His breath hitched in frantic, shallow pants as his husband’s ministrations grew more frenzied, the king's tongue laving shamelessly at the prince's exposed, rosy hole. The soaked organ pressed deeper, heavy and desperate, tracing quick patterns that sent jolts of unsavory euphoria through Isadore's trembling abdomen. The sensation was just enough to trawl stifled, choked, and whimpering moans from the prince’s chest, his lips pressed into a tight, miserable line. Sothis growled low in his throat, gravelly and satisfied, the sound vibrating against Isadore's skin as he nuzzled deeper.
Suddenly, without warning, Sothis' teeth sank into the soft flesh of Isadore's right buttock. The prince cried out in shock and agony as razor-sharp canines pierced his skin, tearing through delicate tissue. Blood welled up around Sothis' mouth, staining his salt-and-pepper beard scarlet. More warmth trickled down Isadore's skin from the bite wound, while the king continued to gnaw on him.
Isadore twisted and jerked, screaming louder as Sothis' teeth sank deeper, effortlessly puncturing and tearing through muscle and tissue as if biting into a delicate pastry. Isadore's cries turned into desperate sobs, hot and ragged, his chest quaking with each choked breath as he struggled against the king’s hold. Everything was happening so fast, the pain and humiliation collapsing on him like an avalanche.
For a while, Sothis held him in place, whimpering soft and desperate as his tongue traced along the punctures where his teeth sank into. Isadore continued to sob, his mind fracturing at each flick of a wet sting against his torn skin. Gradually, the king loosened his grip on his husband's legs, his touch lingering for a moment before he withdrew, shifting back with ease. Blood dripped from his mouth as he rose to eye Isadore, lips curled into another uncannily playful smile. It was outright baffling how that innocent, almost goofy expression could so easily muddle what appeared as ignorance of the agony he was inflicting upon his husband.
Isadore frantically scrambled backward, desperate to put distance between himself and the king. His entire body trembled, wracked by waves of excruciation that pulsed from the fresh wound, each throb synchronized with the same frantic rhythm of tremors that quaked in his loins. A shuddering breath escaped him as he curled inward, his form wilting beneath Sothis’ gentle gaze. His wide, tear-glazed eyes locked onto his husband, raw with desperation—a silent, broken plea for mercy. But Sothis only lunged forward again, grabbing onto his ankle and dragging him back towards him.
"Please...” Isadore’s voice rose barely above a whisper, shaking with the weight of his fear. Tears streaked hot down his cheeks, his breath coming in uneven gasps as he struggled to make sense of what was happening—why it was happening. His mind spun, grasping for logic, for reason, but all he found was the cold, crushing certainty that he wanted to escape. His fingers curled into trembling fists, his body tensed as though to flee, though he had nowhere to run.
Sothis, determined to keep him there, continue tormenting him without mercy, leaned forward once again, his blood-stained mouth hovering dangerously close to Isadore's face. He paused, his bushy brows upturning as he gazed softly upon his love's tear-streaked mien. With unexpected tenderness, he reached out to brush away a glistening droplet from the prince's cheek.
"Oh, my darling Isadore.” Sothis’ voice was low, barely a whisper, and rich with heated affection. His thumb traced the curve of Isadore's trembling lower lip, smearing a faint trail of blood, the subtle scent of iron melding with his sweat. “You look... so pretty when you cry."