Chapter 4: The Inspection
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bleaching the stark white walls and the cold tile floor beneath Dean’s bare feet. Silas Thorne circled him slowly, his polished Oxfords clicking a precise rhythm, his eyes like chips of flint scraping over every scar, every contour of muscle, every dark hair curling across Dean’s chest and trailing down his thick abdomen. "Look at you, Rhodes," Silas murmured, his voice low, devoid of warmth, "Built like a brick shithouse, yet built for this." His gloved hand, cool black leather, landed heavily on Dean’s shoulder, the grip firm, proprietary.
Dean stood rigid, jaw clenched so tight the scar tissue pulled, eyes fixed straight ahead on his own distorted reflection in the one-way mirror. He didn’t flinch as Silas’s hand slid down his arm, then over the hard swell of his pectoral, fingers briefly tracing the puckered scar just below his collarbone. The air smelled of antiseptic and stale dust. Silas completed his circuit, stopping behind him. Dean felt the man’s presence like a physical weight. "They see the soldier," Silas said, his breath a cold whisper near Dean’s ear, "The operative. The hardened killer." A gloved finger traced the groove of Dean’s spine, down past the dimples above his ass. "They don't see what you really are."
The finger dipped lower, probing the cleft between Dean’s firm buttocks. Dean sucked in a sharp breath, his stomach muscles tightening. The cold leather tip found the tight, furled knot of his hole. "You’re not just a soldier anymore, Rhodes," Silas growled, the pressure increasing, blunt and insistent. Dean felt the muscle resist, clench instinctively, then yield under the persistent, invasive pressure. The latex-clad fingertip breached him, just past the rim, a cold, shocking intrusion. Dean hissed, his hands balling into fists at his sides, knuckles white. "You’re his new toy." Silas thrust his finger deeper, knuckle-deep, twisting. "His personal fuckhole."
Dean’s breath hitched, a low groan escaping his tight throat. His thighs trembled slightly, the muscles in his legs corded with the effort of staying upright, of not fighting the violation. Silas worked the finger deeper, probing the hot, clenching channel. "And you better be ready," Silas continued, his voice a harsh rasp, curling his finger inside Dean, searching, "To take that royal cock whenever he wants it." He found the small, sensitive bundle of nerves and pressed hard. Dean jerked, a choked gasp tearing from him, his cock thickening despite himself, slapping against his belly. "Whenever," Silas emphasized, adding a second slicked finger beside the first, stretching Dean brutally. "Wherever. However hard he wants to shove it up your ass." The burn was intense, sharp, making Dean’s vision blur at the edges. "You understand? This tight little hole," Silas twisted his fingers, stretching wider, "Belongs to him now. It’s your primary mission objective."
"Fuck," Dean ground out, the word thick and raw. Sweat beaded on his temples, tracing paths through the dark stubble on his jaw. He could feel the stretch, the ache, the cold wetness of the lube Silas must have used. His hole felt raw, exposed, forced open. Silas scissored his fingers slowly, relentlessly, working Dean open with clinical detachment. "It’s not about endurance this time, Rhodes," Silas said, pulling his fingers out with a slick, obscene sound, leaving Dean gaping, empty and vulnerable. He stepped back, stripping off the black glove with a snap. "It’s about obedience. Absolute, unquestioning obedience." He tossed the glove onto a stainless-steel tray. "Get dressed. Your transport to the palace leaves in twenty. Make sure that ass is ready." Silas turned and walked out, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, leaving Dean alone under the harsh, unforgiving lights, his body humming with violation and a terrible, necessary readiness.
The cold tile bit into Dean's soles as he grabbed his worn fatigues, the ghost of Silas's fingers still stretching his ass. He dressed with mechanical precision, each buckle and zipper sealing away the violation as a junior op slid briefing documents under the door – infiltration protocols, guard rotations, the single objective underlined: Attain 24-hour proximity to HRH Prince Leto.
The coarse fabric of his fatigues rasped against his still-tender hole, a constant reminder of Silas's invasive assessment. Dean snatched the briefing, his movements economical, silent, his face an impassive mask as he absorbed the details, the ache a low thrum beneath his skin confirming his readiness to obey.
The palace corridors were a suffocating contrast to Silas’s sterile room – gilded mouldings, plush carpets swallowing sound, air thick with the cloying scent of jasmine and old money. Dean’s fatigues, deliberately worn thin at the seams, marked him as new meat amongst the polished, silent guards in their immaculate uniforms. His ass still throbbed dully from Silas’s brutal fingering, a constant, intimate reminder of his purpose. He found the West Guard Post, a small alcove off a grand hallway lined with portraits of stern ancestors.
"Rhodes, yeah?" The guard leaning against the marble wall was younger, early twenties, with close-cropped blond hair and eyes that darted nervously. His nameplate read 'Carter'. He offered a wary nod, taking in Dean’s scarred jaw, the dense hair visible at his open collar, the compact power coiled in his stance despite the humble attire. "Heard they brought in fresh blood for the Prince's detail. Tough gig."
He met Carter’s eyes directly, saw the slight flinch. "You been on this detail long?" Carter swallowed, glancing down the empty corridor. "Six months. Longer than most." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Prince Leto… he gets bored easy. Likes new toys." His eyes flickered pointedly over Dean’s body, pausing at his crotch, then lingering on his ass. "Seen a few come and go. Some leave walking funny for a week." A nervous chuckle escaped him. "Bjorn, the big Dane? Lasted nearly two months. Said the Prince liked his hole tight, liked making him scream when he bottomed out." Carter shook his head, a mix of awe and revulsion. "Fuckin’ wrecked him. Got shipped back to Copenhagen lookin’ like he’d gone ten rounds with a truck.
Dean absorbed this, filing the name – Bjorn. Confirmation. The Danish contractor Silas mentioned. The ten inches. His own ass clenched reflexively. "Anyone else stick?" Dean asked, his tone casual, bored almost, but his gaze sharp.
Carter shrugged. "Nah. Mostly just Bjorn for any length. Others… quick fucks. Couple nights. The Prince likes variety. Always sampling." He leaned closer, his breath smelling faintly of mint. "Heard he made Marco, from the East Wing detail, suck him off in the armory last week. Just bent him over a crate, shoved his cock down his throat till he choked. Marco’s still jumpy." Carter’s eyes darted to Dean’s lips. "Word is the Prince likes it messy. Likes seeing the mess he makes."
Dean pushed off the wall, the movement fluid, predatory. He stepped into Carter’s space, crowding him back against the cool marble. The younger guard’s breath hitched, pupils dilating. The air crackled, the distant murmur of the palace fading away. Dean could smell Carter’s cheap cologne, the faint sweat beneath it, the sharp tang of nervousness. "You ever sample the goods, Carter?" Dean’s voice was a low rumble, rough as sandpaper. His hand rested lightly on the guard’s hip, thumb pressing into the firm muscle just above his utility belt.
Carter’s throat worked. "N-no, sir. Not… not like that." But his gaze dropped to Dean’s mouth again, then lower, to the thick outline of his cock straining against the worn fatigues. "Just… heard things."
"Things," Dean echoed, his thumb sliding lower, tracing the seam of Carter’s trousers, pressing deliberately against the hardening bulge beneath. Carter gasped, his hips jerking forward. "Like how he likes his toys broken in?" Dean’s other hand came up, large and calloused, and cupped Carter’s jaw, forcing his head back. "Tell me what Bjorn said about taking that royal cock."
"He… he said the Prince likes it rough," Carter stammered, his own cock pulsing under Dean’s touch. “Most men can’t handle his cock though, so they say.”
"That so?" Dean murmured. His hand on Carter’s jaw slid down, fingers wrapping around the guard’s throat, not choking, just claiming. Controlling. His other hand yanked Carter’s belt open, the buckle clattering, then popped the button on his trousers. The zipper rasped down. "Show me how he likes it sucked."
It wasn't a request. Carter whimpered, a high, desperate sound, but his hands fumbled at Dean’s fatigues with frantic urgency. He dropped to his knees on the plush carpet, the velvet soft against his uniform trousers pooled around his ankles. Dean’s cock sprang free, thick, heavy, already fully hard, the dark bush of hair at its base glistening with a bead of pre-cum. Carter stared, wide-eyed, at the veined shaft, the broad, flushed head. He leaned in, tentative, licking a shaky stripe up the underside.
"Use your fucking mouth, guard," Dean growled, tightening his grip on Carter’s throat just enough to make him gasp. "Like the Prince would. Deep."
Carter obeyed, opening his mouth wide, taking the head in. He sucked, wet and clumsy, his tongue swirling. Dean shoved forward without warning, burying half his length down Carter’s throat in one brutal thrust. Carter gagged violently, tears springing to his eyes, saliva dripping down his chin. Dean held himself there, feeling the convulsive squeeze of the guard’s throat muscles, the muffled choke. "Deeper," he commanded, his voice thick with lust. He pulled back slightly, then slammed forward again, forcing more impossibly deep, the thick head bumping the back of Carter’s throat. Carter’s nose pressed into Dean’s hairy groin, his throat bulging obscenely around the invading shaft.
"Fuck yeah," Dean hissed, watching Carter struggle. "Just like Leto wants it. Take it all, you little cocksucker. Choke on it." He began fucking Carter’s face in earnest, short, brutal thrusts that denied him air, that made his eyes roll back. Spit flew, slicking Dean’s balls and Carter’s chin. The guard’s hands scrabbled weakly at Dean’s thighs, his body trembling with the effort not to fight. Dean set a punishing rhythm, hips pistoning, driving his cock down Carter’s throat again and again, the wet, guttural sounds of Carter’s gagging filling the alcove. He could feel Carter’s desperation, his surrender, the frantic pulse in the throat he held. "Good bitch," Dean grunted, his own balls tightening. "Take that fucking dick." He pistoned harder, faster, using Carter’s mouth like a toy, chasing the raw, brutal sensation, the power, the vital intelligence it promised. Carter’s muffled cries were music, confirmation he was on the right, filthy track.