The smuggler

by BRK   

Ardin is one of the best smugglers in the Seven Realms, and the heist he has planned to steal a valuable heirloom from the unsuspecting (and impossibly handsome) Prince of Kossh should be a piece of cake. What he’s not counting on is finding something else in the Prince’s treasure-room: an artifact evoking a mythical cock-themed beast that brings with it a sexual need so intense Ardin is unsure it can ever be quenched.

The compound was still. Overhead the ten million stars watched with silent stares as Ardin, swathed in black from his soft boots to the dark cloth that hid all his face but his legendary sapphire-blue eyes, slid soundlessly over the inner wall and into the most private sanctum of the noble Prince of Kossh, peer of the Seven Realms.

Landing gracefully, Ardin dropped into a low crouch beside the high wall, scanning his surroundings warily. He had been able to case the outer areas and the approach to the sanctum by posing as an anonymous member of the contingent of Harrinnian merchants (paid well for the privilege with a night of beer and dance in the capital’s best-known bawdy-house), but from here on he had only the second-hand reports of an old retainer to guide him. And it seemed those reports might not be worth the silver half-crown he had paid for it, unless the Prince had impulsively decided to convert his private stables into an arboretum and hadn’t told anyone.

Ardin straightened and began moving like a shadow through the small thicket of pear trees, just now bearing fruit. At least the little grove smelled nicer than a stable, he thought, and for the moment the presence of the trees meant he was masked even from the meager starlight. Anyway, his information might be askew but he still knew which way was in toward the center of the private preserve… and the prize he had come to claim.

He spotted a dark wall ahead and he moved toward it, his pulse quickening. The sides of the late, long-dead dowager Princess’s personal quarters, now used for the storage of regalia and private keepsakes, were famously blood red, as had been all her raiment, her jewels, her eye-shadow, and even her burial shroud, or so it was said. It was difficult to be sure in the starlight even with Ardin’s unsurpassed night vision, but he had a hunch he had correctly found his target, errant stables or no. He reached the edge of the grove and dashed across a wide stone-paved walkway, flattening himself against the small building, which stood alone, detached from the others in this quiet corner of the sanctum.

All was silent for a long moment. He was about to move again when he heard the scuff of heavy, booted feet on smooth stone. Pressing himself as close as he could he peered through the darkness toward the front of the building where the walkway opened onto what looked like a small courtyard with a fountain. Suddenly a massive figure lumbered into view—a man nearly twice his height, and with a mountain-hewn build that would have dwarfed the strong but lithe Ardin even were he of a comparable stature. A Stone Giant, and wearing the livery of the Prince’s guard! Now Ardin understood why the Lanxians had hired him instead of sending one of their own spies. No one risked going up against a Stone Giant if they could help it, and certainly not the notoriously runty Lanxians. Not that being a few inches taller would help Ardin much if his presence were exposed.

The Giant slowly turned his head, peering this way and that. Ardin watched anxiously, trying to secrete himself into the hard, slatted wood of the old Princess’s quarters. The Giant’s movements were reassuringly methodical and routine, not at all like the hunt for a reported infiltrator, and after a moment he moved off, stumping past the fountain and disappearing behind the large outbuilding beyond. Ardin released a long breath and began inching the other way, down the side of the building toward its rear and, he hoped, a way in.

Sure enough, on the back of the building, near the corner closest to the grove, was a narrow door. He slipped inside, closing the door silently behind him.

He paused to catch his breath and accustom himself to the space, as he had been trained. It was dry and musty in here, but pleasant. He could still smell the grove. The Princess must have liked it here, he thought, unless she hated pears.

The room he was in was as black as the soul of a Sea-Leviathan, as they said in Ardin’s village, but for Ardin this was a good sign. No light at all meant the building was completely enclosed and he was free to do what he did next, which was to pull a small, fist-sized glass sphere from an inner pocket and, holding it in both palms before him, whisper the words “Be lit” in the Islander tongue. A warm, amber light emerged at the center of the little sphere, slowly blooming to fill the entire orb. Ardin glanced quickly around, long enough to confirm that he was amongst relics and heirlooms rather than, say, barrels of rice or uncannily noiseless horses, then retrieved a small, dark torus from the same pocket. Finding a small open space atop a nearby well-made set of copperwood shelves, he set down the little ring and placed the sphere atop it.

He lingered for a moment, regarding the waxing light of the sphere with a familiar fondness. In his travels through the Seven Realms, and especially in Kossh, Ardin had learned to his amazement that most in these lands had become skeptical that magic still existed in the world, and that the hybrid races like the Stone Giants and Centaurs were the only remaining relics of a primordial age before the old magic had died other than a lot of old stories told to children. All of that was changing now that a Huuman had come to Scarfe, and with him many remarkable sights and tales; but in the countryside many were still dubious that any magic lived in the world of men. Ardin couldn’t understand such talk. Among his people, the island folk who traded with the Seven Realms but had remained independent of their rule for five thousand years and more, enchanted artifacts still aided the elite families who preserved them, keeping magic alive even if the mages were no more. If he could somehow part with it his family glowsphere would probably be worth fifty times the take he’d get from smuggling the bronze-cast Belt of the Lanxian Firstking out of its hiding place among the keepsakes of Lanx’s onetime conqueror, Kossh. It would be more useful, too. No one cared about the ancient history of Kossh and Lanx before they had become part of the Seven Realms except the Lanxian Prince himself, who, Ardin suspected, fancied pretending he was a proper king like his ancestor when no one else was around. Of course if Ardin gave up his glowsphere his matriarch would kill him twice over—once for stealing the thing when he’d disappeared from the islands five years previous, and a second time for allowing it to pass to another outside the clan. If he were going to be killed over the glowsphere, he’d prefer it be only once.

Ardin turned from the sphere and studied the wide, high-ceilinged inner chamber revealed by his trusty ancient artifact. Whatever it had once been, it resembled a Princess’s lush boudoir no longer. Instead, the space was filled with row upon row of the same kind of heavy, copperwood shelves, all chest-high and emanating a faint coppery luster in the soft, growing light. His initial reaction was to hope that this meant that the items stored here were all lying about on the shelves, and he could pick the heirloom he was looking for as though he were at a bazaar choosing cookware, but his heart sank as he saw that all the shelves were packed with identical, finely crafted thin-sided wooden boxes, of various sizes but all white-painted and unmarked.

Without thinking he almost looked up at the sky to check the hour, then rolled his eyes at himself. He knew how much time he had, anyway—not much. He got to work.

He knew the size the belt was supposed to be, which might offer him some help, so he started with the smaller boxes, which were mostly on the upper shelves. There was some organization, it seemed; on finding that the small boxes in one row seemed to be mostly various sorts of mundane costume jewelry he quickly moved to the next row. One row seemed to be gifts and keepsakes from other realms, including the tooth of a Ramian sabercat and even an inscribed Islander bone-knife, but the Lanxian Belt was apparently not among them.

As he was closing a box half-full of strange coins from another era, he thought he heard a noise outside the building. He stiffened, glancing at the main door and ready to move, but there was no further sound, and after several pounding heartbeats Ardin resumed his search, making every effort to be even more silent than before.

At the fifth row the contents of the boxes started to get strange. One contained a cache of amber-sealed Kortian spider-eggs, which figured in some legend Ardin had mostly forgotten. Another housed the skull of a fish with four eye-sockets—Ardin closed that one very quickly. And one contained, seated on an azure satin pillow, a huge, exquisitely crafted pink-porcelain human cock in the form of a dragon. It was half curled about itself with three little sets of legs spaced along its length starting halfway back from the head, and pair of partly-extended wings, as if the sculpted creature were poised to take flight at any moment.

Ardin, who as it happened loved both men’s cocks and dragon mythology, stared at the artifact in awe. Unable to help himself he lifted the thing out of its little box and set it on the top surface of the set of shelves he’d found it in so he could truly appreciate its craft. As a man’s cock it was a thing of beauty—thicker even than his own, and prodigiously long as well despite not being depicted in a fully turgid state. The head, which had no dragonly features and was exactly like a (generously sized) human cock, was wide and inviting—so much so that, were it a real cock and directly before him like this, Ardin would have had a difficult time keeping himself from wrapping his mouth around it and feeling its heft and girth with his zealous tongue. Even knowing it was not real Ardin felt a strange urge to bring its head between his lips, so evocative was the craftsmanship involved. His body was instinctively reacting with warmth and arousal to the thing, and his own heavy cock was thickening on its own inside his snug, black trousers.

As a cock it was impressive, and as a dragon it was… arresting. Ardin moved his head to either side of the thing, considering it from every angle. Was this merely the work of fancy, or was the sculptor depicting an actual creature, whether real or mythical? Was there such a beast as a Cockdragon? His matriarch had told him many long stories of the various Kinds of dragons—the huge, reclusive Rock Dragons; the spritely, impertinent Indigo Dragons; and the ferocious, destructive Red Dragons—but never had she mentioned Cockdragons. But then, his soft-hearted matriarch had spoken often of romantic love, in stories and among the living, but had never frankly broached actual sexual congress; Ardin had had to learn about that not long after he came of age from a handsome young pantryman, the first in a long line of men to appreciate up close Ardin’s loose waves of sunshine-yellow hair, his famously bright sapphire eyes, and, if they were both lucky, other remarkable parts of him as well.

So either his matriarch had been too embarrassed to mention Cockdragons, which was possible, or the sculptor had created a work of singular imagination—also possible. He tried to remember other dragon-related stories he had heard in the real world. He’d gotten the impression that the vicious Red Dragons, at least, were pure myth, thankfully; but up in Scarfe, which was nearer the mountains, there were tales in the inns of encounters with surly Rock Dragons, and even here in the Kosshian capital city Ardin was sure he had seen a pair of Indigo Dragons wheeling in lazy circles over the Great Amphitheater, watching the sweaty men below engage in mock combat while the populace cheered.

He continued looking over his find and smiled. “No one’s ever mentioned one of you,” he cooed to it in a low, soft voice, speaking in his native Islander. He gently stroked its pink, porcelain back along its length with his index finger—it was wide enough for his fingertip to easily pass between the scapulas of the wings. He felt strangely drawn toward the thing. It was startlingly realistic, the sculptor having used his skills to capture what in real life would be a truly compelling beast: a huge, flying, self-willed cock, frozen, perhaps fortunately, in a moment of its being. Ardin bent closer, still smiling, admiring the lovingly crafted detail in its thick foreskin, its thin but strong-looking legs, and powerful, half-furled wings. “What havoc would you wreak,” he murmured, stroking its back again, “if you were to awaken?”

As if responding to that last word, the Cockdragon stirred and lifted its head toward Ardin, its slit seeming to stare directly at him.

Ardin recoiled a step, shocked and astonished. The Cockdragon shook itself, suddenly no longer hard porcelain but warm, pink flesh. It curved its head back as if to look itself over, despite having no eyes or any other features. Experimentally, it spread its wide, almost translucent wings, testing their movement with a couple of slow flaps. It shivered again, taking on a rosy hue as if flushed with a sudden wash of blood, and at the same time Ardin felt himself all at once becoming extremely aroused. He stared at the thing, wide-eyed, as powerful, sweltering need came over him. His mouth watered, and he licked his lips involuntarily, tasting the thin black scarf he’d half forgotten he had wound around his head.

The Cockdragon abruptly turned and looked right at him again. Ardin took another step back. He wanted desperately to taste the clear liquid pearling along the Cockdragon’s slit, but he was too unnerved to overcome his basic flight instinct.

He took another step back. The Cockdragon flapped its wings majestically and took flight, aiming directly for Ardin.

Ardin was on the verge of panic and about to run mindlessly for cover when he was arrested by the too-deep voice of a Stone Giant just outside the main entrance to the building. “See there, Prince,” the Giant said. “There is soft light under the door.”

“I see it,” a gentle baritone answered. “Wait here.”

Ardin froze, all of his experience as a smuggler suddenly forgotten amid the colliding disruptions to his careful plans. The Cockdragon, meanwhile, took a quick glance over its shoulder and altered its trajectory, sailing over Ardin’s left shoulder and wheeling in a tight curve to hide behind him. It settled on his back, surprising him with the gentle press of its claws into the fabric of his shirt with only the faintest brush along the skin to either side of his tingling spine. Furling its wings, the creature climbed a few inches higher up his shirt, then began to nose under the black scarf and make contact with the bare skin on the back of his neck. Warm, messy liquid smeared shockingly along his sensitive nape, almost forcing a moan from Ardin’s lips as pleasure and need roared through him like a hot wind. He was impossibly aroused, more than he had ever experienced, as though his libido had been dangerously amplified by a single brush of the Cockdragon’s precum. He was achingly hard and in desperate need of cock, beyond anything he had ever felt before.

Even as all of this was registering with Ardin, the main doors were pulled open, and the most beautiful man Ardin had ever seen stepped into the space. It was Gueron, Prince of Kossh, and Ardin was instantly overcome with an overwhelming need to suck this man’s mighty cock and taste his amazing seed.

He had heard rumors of the young prince’s gifted appearance, but none did him justice. He was so impossibly handsome, with his honey-dark skin, smooth, planed face, and clear, light brown eyes, that Ardin could credit the gossip that said his line retained some trace of Elfin blood, though most strains of Elves were not dark like Gueron but fair, like Ardin. The Prince’s thick, mahogany hair was worn loose and long, reaching well past the Prince’s strong, bare shoulders, with a few locks brushing his firm, hairless chest. Ardin gaped as his eyes drifted lower—the Prince was built like no pampered Seven Realms noble he had ever seen. If anything he more closely resembled a young, hard-trained prize-fighter, though one whose unblemished dark-gold skin certainly bore no sign of any man’s fist that Ardin could see.

As he stared, the Cockdragon nosed persistently along his neck again, smearing its fluid into his skin, and Ardin was almost lost his senses to raging lust.

With some shred of reason Ardin realized he needed not to be thirsting for the Prince’s chiseled torso just then. He wrenched his gaze up to meet light brown eyes that locked with his for a long moment. Then those eyes seemed to tighten. The Prince raised his arm and pointed a hitherto-unseen dagger directly at Ardin. “Thief!” he cried.

That was enough to bring Ardin back to himself; he recovered his ability to move all at once, as if, like the Cockdragon, he had been unfrozen by a single word. Like lightning he sprang around the row of shelves and dived behind, into the next row and out of sight.

“Come out,” the Prince called calmly. Ardin tracked the movement of the voice as the Prince stalked cautiously along the far end of the room. “I promise you a fair hearing,” Gueron was saying, “but you must surrender.” His tone was coaxing and stern at the same time, a master with his trouble-making pup.

Ardin needed something to create a diversion. Crouching low, he grabbed the nearest box at random, pulling it out with swift, silent stealth and snatching out his contents, intending to throw whatever it was down the aisle to misrepresent his position. The object he grabbed was cold, round and flat, and when he gave it a good look he was unable to believe what he saw. Of all the heirlooms to have grabbed by chance, it was the Belt of the Lanxian Firstking—the one object in this room he couldn’t use in the way he had planned.

Ardin pocketed the Belt and threw the box instead. It smashed at the shadowy far end of the long row and burst into pieces. As footsteps pounded toward the crash Ardin ducked out of the row like a mink and was out the rear door almost before his heart beat again.

He tore through the pear-tree grove, ignoring its heady scent, his own raging erection, and the Cockdragon still clinging tightly and effortlessly to his back. Shouts rose up behind him, but evading pursuit was one of Ardin’s most innate gifts. In moments he had slid over the inner wall and into the main compound; soon he was out of the Prince’s complex altogether, melting into the shadows of the slumbering, starlit city.

He stood against an alley wall, catching his breath and chastising himself for leaving the glowsphere behind like the greenest tenderfoot. It seemed the matriarch would get to kill him twice after all.

After a while he started moving again, still waiting for his body to calm itself. But his adrenaline did not ebb, and as Ardin passed from shadow to shadow he knew he was hungrier for cock than he had ever thought it possible to be. The Cockdragon felt warm and solid against his back. It seemed bigger, and thicker, too, as though profound arousal had caused in it the same effect he himself experienced in his trousers. Its nosing against his neck was more aggressive, and wetter than ever. Now that he was away from the pear grove he could smell its messy ooze—it was heady and redolent of musk and men.

Ardin unwound the scarf from his head and draped the thin cloth over his shoulders. He could not hide the beast, but he could at least ensure its most obvious attribute, the rosy, drooling, cocklike head, was concealed from view.

The creature pressed harder against Ardin’s spine and neck, reacting to the attention, and Ardin was flooded with a new and even stronger wave of desire. He had thought to find his lodgings and try to separate the beast in private, maybe try to soothe it into sleep if he could, but now his mind was rudderless and totally submissive to his towering arousal, which had gained full and uncontested possession of all his faculties. Half-drunk with need, Ardin headed for the all-night district, hoping he could sate his desire there… if satiation of a desire so potent and primally aggressive was even possible in this world.

Ardin’s mind rolled around contentedly in luxurious semiconsciousness. All his senses flooded him with deep, carnal pleasure. The musky, heady scent of man and musk and cum was all around him, gently leavened by a cool, fresh breeze from the window he’d cracked the night before. Strong arms and legs lay draped possessively across his naked flesh, warm and heavy and very agreeable. Soft snores reached him from stubbly jaws nuzzling his neck and chest, while hard cocks rutted slowly against his hips in a somnolent, hypnotic rhythm. His own thick, raging cock and heavy, churning balls, though still protesting a fathomless and unquenchable need, nonetheless radiated the happiness and gratitude of repeated, sustained release.

A fever-hot, messy-headed cockhead nuzzled against his cheek, leaving a smear of slick precum he could feel and smell against his skin.

Ardin opened his eyes.

It was still dark. He was in his rooms at the inn. Two powerfully built, smooth-skinned laborers enveloped him from either side—very comely ones, if his swirling, almost abstract memories from the night before served him at all. Another chorus of snores reached him from the floor beside his bed: two more men, at least, maybe more.

He had had his pick. Every man wanted him, and none could resist the heedless passion for him he kindled with a single look, a smile, the brush of a finger against a handsome, swarthy cheek.

He turned his head and gave the Cockdragon a bleary smile.

As his need had increased and he lured more of the men in the tavern into a kind of shared, gestalt state of building, intensifying arousal, the Cockdragon had left his back and taken wing in the tavern, soaring and gliding in circles overhead as Ardin’s remarkable eyes and augmented scent almost effortlessly seduced all the most sexually desirable men in the crowd of suitors vying for his attention. The mass of lovelies was so entranced and Ardin-intoxicated they did not notice the obscene beast as it grew and swelled, fed somehow by the welter of mounting, increasingly desperate masculine ardor. When Ardin drew those he wanted most home with him, kissing and groping their way through the silent, slumbering city streets, the Cockdragon had followed close behind; and as they all fucked and fucked with reckless, towering abandon and a near-animal desperation the Cockdragon had stopped circling overhead and dove into the writhing conglomeration of hard, sensual men, sliding slickly among them, his crazed admirers seemingly heedless of its enormous presence. Even stranger, its limitless precum seemed to find only Ardin, smearing his skin and seeping inside him as if his pores were thirstily drinking it down like ale at a pub; and when the men came like a cracking thunderstorm the Cockdragon erupted, too, in torrents of spend that again somehow painted Ardin alone, covering him over and over with impossible quantities of hot, slick, intensely aromatic seed… all of which seemed to melt directly into his heated flesh, taking the other men’s spend with it along with his own.

Now the other men rested in deep, post-orgasmic sleep, his arms wrapped around broad, sun-darkened backs as the three men cuddled close in a kind of blissed-out repose. The Cockdragon, like Ardin’s own aching, fat, unsated cock, remained awake and in need. He stared at the beast in wonder. It was truly huge now, perhaps the length and girth of his arm, its slit filled with clear liquid as they watched each other. Ardin’s own cock jumped against his belly, dappling his abdomen and the brawny arms of his two insensible lovers with warm, slick dots of dick-fluid.

Ardin licked his lips. The Cockdragon edged closer, its huge head inches from Ardin’s mouth. The exhilarating smell overcame him, and he parted his lips, breathing it in through his mouth like the dreamy vapors from a medium’s censor. His tongue twitched with a need to touch what he saw. Several times during the exertions of the night before Ardin had tasted the beast’s copious spend as it half-smothered him in pelting sprays of hot cum, and he had found it unique, savory and stimulating. Now, in this moment, he could think of nothing else but tasting it again.

He reached his tongue past his lips, stretching it hungrily toward the Cockdragon’s wide, slippery head. It crept forward and, deliberately, placed its head against the flat of Ardin’s tongue. Ardin shivered, and his two snoring lovers stirred, their unconscious sleep-rutting against his hip quickening slightly in its pace.

Ardin lolled his tongue slowly around the nearly fist-sized cockhead, taking in its manly taste. The Cockdragon’s slit flowed with precum, as did Ardin’s own erection. Arousal surged in him. The Cockdragon nosed closer, a finger’s breadth from Ardin’s mouth, and Ardin strained his tongue to taste more of the head and shaft. His hot panting breaths gusted across the Cockdragon’s reddened head, its precum now almost spurting along the length of Ardin’s eager tongue. Unable to delay any longer he pushed out with his mouth and met the heated, velvet surface of the enormous cockhead, but the dragon moved forward at the same time, just as keen, and Ardin felt a rush of excitement as the brunt of the cockhead pushed between his grateful lips. He swirled his tongue around it, and the Cockdragon bucked and moved again, rudely shoving itself between Ardin’s lips.

Now the whole head was in Ardin’s mouth, his jaw straining to accommodate its inhuman size as delicious precum covered his palate and slid in rivulets down his throat. Ardin wanted more. He moved his head forward, wrapping his lips around the very upper end of the girthy shaft below the mighty cockhead, and the beast thrust forward too, pushing itself as far as it could into Ardin’s inadequate mouth, then pulling back. Then again, forward, back, forward, back. His own erection bounced against his belly as he unconsciously hugged his lovers tighter against him, all his attention on the enormous erect cock now rocking itself rhythmically into his mouth, matching the sleep-rutting of his two muscular lovers at first before quickening to a faster pace, driving Ardin and the dragon together toward a massive orgasm.

Ardin held his release back as long as he could, but the impossible pleasure of the massive, majestic cock fucking itself on his mouth as if he alone could satisfy it sent Ardin flying over the edge. He and the Cockdragon burst free as one, both of them erupting inhuman amounts of cum in uncounted gushes as if they had not been cumming again and again all night together. Ardin’s mouth quickly filled and the Cockdragon pulled back as Ardin swallowed all the cum he could. He was still cumming, and the two muscle lovers were cumming in their sleep, their stubbled lips moving against his neck and chest as they came, but all Ardin felt from within his soaring pleasure was constant orgasm and the hard smack of hot spend against his face as he and the Cockdragon came and came and came.

When Ardin stirred again his room was awash with a bright, cheerful morning sunlight… but not, as had been the case the night before, men. Only the two sleepy well-built stonehaulers who’d shared his bed with him remained, still snuggling happily against him, their hard cocks rubbing minutely against the smooth angles of Ardin’s hip. This time they roused with him, trading happy, drowsy smooches with him as they stretched against each other.

Eventually they rose from the bed, and, though the cum that should have covered him from head to toe was mysteriously gone, the two men—Kuro and Dara, hard-muscled and very handsome twin brothers from the outlands who’d come to the capital for the excitement and hot men a bustling city had to offer—insisted on washing Ardin with slow attention and extreme thoroughness, using the tepid water and rags supplied by the inn to its more expensive rooms. Kuro started at one end with Ardin’s shoulder-length hair while Dara worked his way up from Ardin’s feet, the two brothers eventually meeting in the middle after long and careful ministrations. Ardin reciprocated with equal diligence. The brothers’ dark, short-cropped hair was dealt with rather more expeditiously than his own, but the careful lathing, scrubbing, and rinsing of their broad, thick-muscled everything else made up for it. Then, after the washing, they shaved each other, an experience Ardin found surprisingly intimate and endearing.

Throughout all of these attentions Ardin kept an eye out for the Cockdragon, but there was no sign of it anywhere in his lodgings. He considered whether it might be sleeping or perhaps once again inert, but these possibilities seemed unlikely. Ardin conceded he didn’t know anything about Cockdragons beyond what he’d experienced in the last ten hours; but the beast’s state of arousal, he felt sure, was now somehow tied to Ardin’s. And his own cock was still—still!—as stubbornly, indefatigably hard as ever, and his blood still ran hot with ten times as much lust as he had ever felt, like he could cum for days and still want to come some more. If he was right about his gut feeling that the dragon had bound itself to him, that probably meant that the beast was not far away and might even be, at that moment, just as needy and aroused as he was. He wondered what the Cockdragon wanted, beyond the shared orgasms they had felt again and again throughout the long, cock-filled night.

By midday the three men, dried and dressed at last, had managed to make it downstairs to the inn’s common room. The landlady greeted them with a smile and a raised eyebrow, and Ardin, abruptly self-conscious of coming down late and well-scrubbed with two still-ardent admirers and maybe a love-bite or two, blushed a little at her knowing look. The three men breakfasted together on seasoned hen’s eggs fried over chopped pork and fresh bread, washed down with the dark room-temperature tea they drank in the mornings in these parts. The stonehaulers stayed close the whole time, their hands ceaselessly roaming his thighs and back and arms even as they ate, always in contact with him as though they could not get enough of him, ever. Ardin was honestly glad of the attention, not least because it seemed his libido had grown so intense and so powerful he might just need the ongoing help of two doughty, lust-drunk lovers to handle it.

They meant to return upstairs after the meal but only made it as far as the foot of the main stairwell, and then the brothers had him sandwiched against a wall and, with him pressed tightly between the two larger men, started kissing him hungrily on the mouth and neck, their cocks pushing hard against him through their soft trousers from both sides while his did exactly the same thing.

He was lost in pleasure, barely aware of anything but mouths and hands and cock and the delightful press of strong bodies against his, when he realized he was feeling something that did not fit: a polite tapping on his right shoulder.

He turned away from Dara, the twin whose tongue he was exploring with his own, and the mouth in question slid instead down his freshly clean-shaven jaw and onto the opposite side of his neck from the one Kuro was pleasuring. Ardin opened his eyes languidly. He expected to see the landlady or one of the maids, perhaps wanting to ask him to take the spectacle to his rooms.

Instead Ardin saw the last thing he expected: clear, light-brown eyes, staring straight into his own as if they could see his very soul.

The most beautiful face Ardin had ever seen blossomed into a wide brilliant smile, the white teeth so exposed forming a striking contrast to smooth, honey-dark skin. The only thing missing to perfectly frame that ravishing smile was the cascades of mahogany chest-length hair Ardin had seen the night before, but for this meeting Gueron had donned a dark, nondescript cloak and a deep hood, as if he wished to conceal his identity.

It didn’t matter. Ardin was flooded with a powerful tidal wave of arousal just at seeing that face, and being in the presence, hidden or not, of that arresting, inexplicably athletic body he had glimpsed so briefly amid the shelves of forgotten heirlooms. His body tried to arch, his fat, heavy, iron-hard cock pushing directly against Dara’s massive truncheon through their inadequate clothes. The two brothers grunted and kissed his neck and shoulders with even greater passion, rocking into him gently from both directions.

Ardin, meanwhile, could do nothing but stare back at Gueron. He knew what the Prince’s smile meant. It was not the first time his distinctive sapphire eyes had betrayed him.

What he did not understand was why Gueron was not flanked by a detail of the Prince’s Guard. He looked past the cloaked Prince, then scanned the common room behind him. There was no sign of the Guard, no robed magistrates, certainly no Stone Giants—just Gueron, his appearance cloaked and secret. Had the Prince had someone quietly dig up where Ardin was staying only to come here alone and incognito?

He met the Prince’s eyes. They were dark now, as if a storm of lust had rolled in out of a clear and sunny sky. When he spoke, however, his voice was steady and sure, a Prince’s voice, as if he were greeting an honored ambassador or a commander back from the front.

“I have something of yours,” the Prince said in that sweet, pulse-quickening baritone, his smile still wide and genuine. With a pang, Ardin remembered the glowsphere he had left behind like an irresponsible child. He had never been so reckless and so inept before—but on the other hand, he had never been adopted by a randy Cockdragon in the midst of a heist.

The Prince held his gaze. “And you,” he continued, “have something of mine.”

The twins finally surfaced from their lust, enough at least to be aware of an intruder in their midst. “Who’s this?” purred Dara in his ear, thrusting his cock against him fractionally as if to emphasize where Ardin’s attention ought to lay. Whether because he sensed the movement or because he was in sync with his brother, Kara pushed his cock against Ardin’s ass at almost the same time.

Between Ardin’s sudden craving for Gueron—a feeling Gueron’s darkened eyes seemed to mirror back at him—and the escalating sensual pleasure of the last several minutes, Ardin was nearly pushed to sudden, massive release, but with a monumental effort he pushed the climax back. He swallowed and, meeting Gueron’s eyes, answered Dara’s question: “He’s a friend.”

Rich, well-groomed mahogany eyebrows lifted in response to that, but the Prince did not contradict him. Instead he said, “Meet me tonight at my house, same time as our last meeting. You can use the main entrance this time, though. You’ll have free passage to my chambers—I’ll make sure the Guard has your description.” His eyes darted to the twins and his smile twisted wryly. “Bring your friends, if you like.”

Then the Prince turned and stalked nonchalantly out of the inn, disappearing out the main doors and out into the busy street.

Ardin stared after him. The twins returned to their neck-kissing, gentle thrusting, and smooth, sensual groping. He was not being hauled away in chains, and it didn’t sound like the Prince had anything… official planned for that night, either. Did he simply want to trade the sphere for the Belt, or did he want something more? And how did his errant Cockdragon fit into all this?

Ardin gave up after a moment or two and turned back to Dara, resuming their passionate kiss from before it was interrupted. He would know more in a few hours. In the meantime, he had to cum. Again. And then again, and again, and again. He could fill this inn with cum, and there would still be more endless orgasms than that. Ardin grinned into his kiss, and Dara and Kuro groaned with a need almost as strong as his own.

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