Chapter 5: The Corridor Conquest
The communal showers were a steam-filled cavern of echoing tiles and dripping pipes. Dean stood under the punishing spray, hot water sluicing over his scarred shoulders, the sting barely registering against the deeper ache in his ass. Silas’s fingers, Voss’s inspection – they’d left him raw. The air hung thick with cheap soap and the musk of a dozen naked men. Low murmurs bounced off the wet walls, tense, knowing. Carter stood a few stalls down, scrubbing himself furiously, eyes darting nervously towards the high, frosted-glass windows lining one wall. Everyone knew. The Prince was watching. The unseen gaze was a physical weight, pressing down on the humid air.
"Fuckin' circus," muttered a guard with a thick Slavic accent, vigorously soaping his armpits. He glanced pointedly at the windows. "Like animals in a zoo."
"Better than Gamma chamber," another countered, a wiry man rinsing shampoo from close-cropped hair. "Least here, he just looks." He shuddered visibly. "Voss's fingers… Christ."
Dean kept his eyes on the grout lines between the tiles. He lathered his chest, the coarse dark hair matting under his hands, then worked the soap lower, over his abdomen. He avoided touching his cock, still half-hard from the residual humiliation and the phantom pressure of Carter's throat. He felt the collective awareness, the subtle shifts in posture as men angled themselves, unconsciously or not, towards the opaque glass. Some puffed their chests. Others hunched. Dean just stood, letting the water pound him, presenting nothing but weary endurance. The Prince wanted vulnerability? He’d see scar tissue and stoicism.
Later, dripping and wrapped in a thin, scratchy towel, Dean stood with the others in the humid change room. Sergeant Voss entered, clipboard in hand, his granite face impassive. "Listen up, maggots. Diplomatic dinner tonight. Ambassador from Veridia. High protocol." His eyes scanned the damp, towel-clad forms. "Rhodes. Carter. Petrov. Singh. Davies. You're on the inner perimeter. Full dress uniform. Assemble in the West Hall annex in thirty. Dismissed."
Carter shot Dean a fleeting, terrified glance before scurrying away. Dean dressed mechanically: crisp black trousers, stiff white tunic, polished boots that clicked sharply on the marble as he moved. The uniform felt like a cage. He joined the others in the annex, a small, wood-paneled room smelling of lemon oil and old paper. The portraits lining the corridor outside seemed to leer through the open door.
The State Dining Hall was a cavern of glittering chandeliers, polished silver, and hushed conversation. Dean stood rigidly against a tapestry-covered wall, near a discreet service door. His position gave him a clear view of the head table. Prince Leto sat at its center, resplendent in deep blue velvet trimmed with gold. He was leaning towards the Veridian ambassador, a silver-haired woman, his smile dazzling, his gestures fluid and charming. He looked every inch the polished heir. But Dean saw the subtle flicker in those dark eyes, the way they occasionally swept the room, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on the guards stationed around the perimeter. Once, those eyes met Dean’s. A spark of recognition, cold and assessing, before flicking back to the ambassador. Dean held the gaze, jaw tight, before snapping his own back to a neutral scan of the room. The Prince’s gaze felt like a brand, hotter than the shower spray.
The dinner crawled. Courses came and went – delicate soups, glazed meats, intricate pastries. The air thickened with the cloying scent of roasted game, expensive wine, and perfume. Dean tracked movements: servers gliding silently, diplomats laughing too loudly, the Veridian ambassador’s aide whispering intently in her ear. He noted Carter, stationed near the main doors, shifting his weight nervously. He noted the Prince, refilling the ambassador’s glass himself, his fingers brushing hers, his smile deepening. Seduction in every gesture.
As dessert plates were cleared and liqueurs served, Prince Leto excused himself with a graceful nod. He moved towards a side exit near Dean’s post, flanked by two senior aides. Dean saw his chance. As the Prince passed, mere feet away, Dean murmured, low enough only for Leto to hear, "Your Highness requires an escort?"
Leto paused. He didn’t turn, but Dean felt the full weight of his attention. The aides hesitated. "No," Leto said, his voice smooth as velvet, dismissing them with a slight wave. "Guard Rhodes will suffice. See that we are not disturbed." The aides bowed and melted back towards the dining hall. Leto finally turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto Dean’s. That faint, predatory smile returned. "This way, Rhodes."
He led Dean not towards the royal apartments, but down a narrower, dimly lit corridor lined with ancient-looking bookshelves. The scent of aged parchment and dust replaced the dining hall’s opulence. Portraits of long-dead monarchs watched their progress with painted indifference. Leto stopped before an unassuming oak door, unlocked it with a small key from his pocket, and gestured Dean inside.
It was a small study, dominated by a massive oak desk piled high with books and scrolls. A single lamp cast a pool of warm light. The air was still, thick with the smell of leather bindings and ink. Leto closed the door softly behind them, the click echoing in the sudden silence. He leaned back against the desk, crossing his arms. The charming facade was gone, replaced by a cool, appraising intensity. His gaze traveled over Dean’s uniform, lingering on the medals pinned to his chest, then down, slowly, deliberately, to the bulge straining against the tight black trousers.
"Sergeant Voss filed an interesting report," Leto began, his voice a low purr. "Remarked on your… structural integrity. Deep capacity." He uncrossed his arms, pushing off the desk. He took a step closer, invading Dean’s space. Dean could smell the expensive wine on his breath, a hint of sandalwood. "Silas Thorne speaks highly of your endurance. Says you take cock like a soldier takes orders." Another step. Dean stood rigidly at attention, eyes fixed straight ahead, but his pulse hammered in his throat. Leto’s hand came up, not touching, just hovering near Dean’s scarred jaw. "But endurance is common. Obedience is rarer." His fingers brushed Dean’s cheekbone, feather-light. "Kneel."
It wasn’t shouted. It was a command delivered with absolute certainty. Dean’s knees hit the thick Persian rug without conscious thought. The rough wool scraped against the fabric of his trousers. He stared straight ahead, at the intricate gold embroidery on Leto’s velvet trousers, right at the prominent bulge tenting the rich fabric. Up close, the sheer size was daunting, even hidden. Ten inches. Bjorn’s wrecked ass. Carter’s terrified whisper.
Leto didn’t rush. He watched Dean kneel, his expression unreadable. Slowly, deliberately, he unfastened the ornate clasp of his trousers. The button popped. The zipper hissed down, loud in the quiet room. He pushed the velvet and fine linen down over his hips, freeing his cock.
It sprang out, thick and heavy, already fully erect. Carter hadn’t exaggerated. Ten inches of thick, veined flesh, flushed a deep ruddy purple at the broad, smooth head. A bead of clear pre-cum glistened at the slit. It curved slightly upwards, imposing, regal. The scent of musk, clean skin, and something uniquely male filled Dean’s nostrils. He kept his eyes fixed on it, his breathing shallow.
"Look at it," Leto commanded softly. "Look at what you’re going to swallow."
Dean lifted his gaze, meeting Leto’s dark eyes. There was no cruelty there, not yet, just a chilling intensity, a scholar examining a fascinating specimen. "Yes, Your Highness," Dean rasped.
"Open," Leto said.
Dean parted his lips. Leto didn’t touch him. He gripped the base of his own cock, guiding the swollen head towards Dean’s mouth. The heat radiating from it was intense. The broad crown bumped against Dean’s lips, smearing pre-cum. Dean opened wider, letting the thick head push past his teeth, onto his tongue. The taste was salty, musky, primal. He closed his lips around the shaft, sucking gently, his tongue swirling over the sensitive ridge beneath the head.
Leto sighed, a low sound of pleasure. "Good. Now deeper."
Dean obeyed, pushing his head forward, taking more of the thick length into his mouth. He felt it press against the roof of his mouth, stretching his jaws wide. He breathed harshly through his nose, focusing on relaxing his throat. He’d done this before, taken big cocks, but this… this felt different. Sovereign. Demanding.
"All of it," Leto murmured, his voice thickening. His hand tightened on the base of his cock. "Take it all, Rhodes. Show me that deep capacity."
Dean braced his hands on his own thighs. He tilted his head back further, opening his throat. He pushed forward, forcing himself onto the massive cock. The thick head pressed against the back of his throat. He gagged violently, his eyes watering instantly. Saliva flooded his mouth. He pulled back slightly, gasping, spit stringing from his lips to the glistening shaft.
"Don’t stop," Leto growled, his composure slipping a fraction. He pushed forward, shoving his cock back into Dean’s mouth, deeper this time. "Take it! Swallow it, you fucking cocksucker!"
Dean choked, the thick intrusion overwhelming. Tears streamed down his face. He forced himself down again, fighting the convulsive gag reflex. He felt the head breach his throat, the incredible stretch, the suffocating pressure. He pushed harder, burying his nose into the dark curls at the base of Leto’s cock. He was impaled, ten inches of royal flesh crammed down his gullet. His throat bulged obscenely around the invading shaft. He couldn’t breathe. Spit and tears dripped onto Leto’s boots. He held himself there, trembling, eyes squeezed shut, his body screaming for air.
Leto groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction. He looked down at Dean’s face buried in his groin, at the thick cock stretching the guard’s throat wide open. "Fuck… yes…" he breathed, his hips giving a minute thrust, grinding himself deeper into Dean’s choking heat. "That’s it… take your Prince’s cock… choke on it…"
He held Dean there for agonizing seconds, savoring the desperate convulsions of Dean’s throat around him. Then, slowly, he pulled back, dragging the slick, spit-coated length out until only the head rested on Dean’s tongue. Dean gasped, sucking in huge, ragged breaths, coughing, drool dripping from his chin.
"Again," Leto commanded, his voice rough with lust. He shoved forward brutally, hilting himself back down Dean’s abused throat in one savage thrust.
Dean gagged, choked, tears blurring his vision. He was used again, a living sheath for the Prince’s pleasure. Leto began to fuck his face in earnest, slow, deliberate, deep strokes that buried his entire cock each time. He set a relentless pace, holding Dean’s head steady, using his mouth and throat like a warm, wet hole. The wet, gurgling sounds of Dean’s choked breathing, the slick slap of flesh, filled the quiet study. Dean’s hands clawed at his own thighs, his body straining, his throat forced open again and again. He focused on the rhythm, on the salty taste flooding his mouth, on the impossible stretch. Endurance. Obedience. This was the test.
Leto’s thrusts grew harder, faster. His breathing hitched. "Gonna fill that throat…" he grunted, pistoning his hips. "Swallow it… swallow every fucking drop…"
Dean felt the cock swell impossibly thicker within his throat. He braced himself, forcing his throat muscles to relax, to accept the coming flood. Leto slammed home one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and roared as his orgasm ripped through him. Hot, thick pulses of cum erupted deep in Dean’s throat, flooding his esophagus. Dean swallowed convulsively, gagging but forcing the salty, viscous fluid down. Rope after rope pumped into him, filling his throat, coating his tongue. He swallowed desperately, tears streaming, until the pulsing slowed.
Leto held himself buried for a long moment, shuddering, before finally pulling his softening cock out with a wet pop. It glistened with spit and cum. Dean slumped forward onto his hands, coughing violently, strings of saliva and semen dripping from his lips onto the rug. He gasped for air, his throat raw and burning, the taste of Prince Leto thick on his tongue.
Leto looked down at him, panting slightly, his eyes dark and satisfied. He tucked himself away, fastening his trousers with deliberate slowness. He watched Dean struggle to regain his breath, the soldier’s shoulders heaving, his uniform rumpled, face a mess of spit, tears, and royal seed.
"Impressive, Rhodes," Leto murmured, his voice regaining its smooth composure, though slightly breathless. He reached down, not to help, but to trace a fingertip along Dean’s scarred jawline, smearing a droplet of cum. "Deep capacity indeed." He straightened, adjusting his velvet jacket. "Report to my private chambers at midnight. Dress uniform. We’ll test that endurance Silas praised." He turned and walked to the door, pausing only to glance back. "And clean yourself up. You’re dripping on the ambassador’s favorite rug."
The door clicked shut behind him. Dean remained on his knees, trembling, the Prince’s taste and command echoing in his raw throat, the midnight summons hanging in the air like a sentence. The portraits on the study walls seemed to watch his debasement with cold, ancient eyes.
The portraits’ painted stares lingered on Dean’s bowed shoulders, cold witnesses to the wet mess on the rug and the raw ache in his throat. He spat, a thick glob of saliva and residual cum joining the stain, the Prince’s taste stubbornly clinging to his tongue. Wiping his mouth roughly with the back of his gloved hand only smeared it. He pushed himself up, knees protesting, the formal wool trousers scraping against skin still sensitized from kneeling. The ornate study felt suddenly suffocating, thick with the scent of Leto’s release and old paper. He needed out.
The guard chambers were a brief, functional stop. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh after the study’s lamplight. Other guards milled, changing shifts, their chatter a low drone Dean tuned out. He moved with deliberate economy. At a sink in the corner, he splashed cold water on his face, scrubbing roughly, trying to erase the feel of that thick cock stretching his gullet, the salty tang flooding his senses. He rinsed his mouth, spat again, the metallic tang of blood faint beneath the Prince’s musk. His uniform, thankfully, showed only minor rumpling; the dark fabric hid the dampness near his fly where spit had dripped. He straightened his tunic, adjusted his belt buckle, the familiar weight of the pistol holstered at his hip a grounding counterpoint to the violation humming beneath his skin. Midnight loomed. He slipped out a side door into the palace’s deeper shadows, boots clicking softly on marble before fading onto thick runner carpets.
The corridor leading to Prince Leto’s private wing was deserted, lit only by sconces casting long, wavering shadows. Dean moved like smoke, hugging the walls where the portraits’ eyes seemed widest, most accusatory. The air smelled of beeswax and something faintly floral, expensive and cloying. He stopped before the heavy, dark oak door, indistinguishable from others except for the subtle crest carved near the handle. He knocked twice, sharp raps echoing in the hushed hallway.
The door opened silently. Leto stood there, bathed in warm lamplight from within. He’d changed from the velvet dinner attire into dark silk trousers and a loose, open robe that revealed the smooth planes of his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his dark eyes held a predatory gleam. "Prompt," he observed, stepping back. "Enter."
Dean stepped inside. The Prince’s private chamber was opulent yet intimate – deep carpets, low lighting from multiple lamps, shelves laden with books and curiosities, a massive four-poster bed dominating the far end. The scent here was richer, sandalwood and leather overlaying the Prince’s unique musk. Leto closed the door with a soft, final click. He leaned back against it, arms crossed, his gaze traveling over Dean’s uniform with unnerving slowness. "Strip," he commanded, his voice low and devoid of inflection. "All of it. Now."
No preamble. No seduction tonight. Dean’s jaw tightened, the scar tissue pulling taut. He obeyed mechanically, fingers working buckles and buttons with soldier’s efficiency. The stiff tunic came off first, revealing the dense hair covering his chest and shoulders. The medals clinked softly as he laid the garment over a nearby chair. His undershirt followed. Then the belt buckle clattered, the black trousers pooling around his boots. He kicked off the boots, peeled away socks. Finally, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his regulation briefs and pushed them down his thick thighs, stepping free. He stood naked before the Prince, the cool air raising gooseflesh on his scarred skin, his cock hanging heavy and soft between his legs. The fluorescent bleach of the inspection chamber felt a lifetime away, yet the vulnerability was sharper here, under Leto’s burning gaze.
"On the bed," Leto ordered, pushing off the door. He walked towards Dean, circling him slowly, much like Silas had, but with infinitely more dangerous intent. "On your back. Legs up. Show me what Sergeant Voss found so structurally sound."
Dean moved to the immense bed, the silk sheets cool against his back as he lay down. He lifted his legs, bending his knees, spreading them wide, exposing himself completely. The position felt obscenely vulnerable, his balls drawn tight, his hole presented openly under the lamplight. He clasped his hands behind his head, elbows out, staring at the canopy above, forcing his breathing steady. Leto approached the foot of the bed, his gaze fixed on Dean’s exposed ass. He didn’t touch him immediately. He just looked, a scholar assessing a rare specimen. "Deep scar tissue," he murmured, echoing Voss’s clinical tone, but his voice held a dark heat. "Kandahar. Tell me how you got it."
Dean swallowed, his throat still raw. "IED," he rasped. "Convoy hit. Shrapnel tore through the seat, ripped into my ass cheek, buried deep. Field hospital dug it out."
"Painful," Leto stated, not a question. He finally moved, climbing onto the bed between Dean’s spread legs. His hands, cool and smooth, gripped Dean’s hairy thighs, pushing them wider apart, spreading him further. Dean felt the cool air directly on his hole, making him clench instinctively. Leto’s dark eyes met his, holding his gaze. "Relax," he commanded, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "Relax… and feel."
Then Leto bent his head. His mouth, that mouth made for sin, pressed hot and wet against Dean’s exposed perineum. Dean gasped, a sharp intake of breath. Leto’s tongue, broad and incredibly skilled, licked a firm, slow stripe upwards, from his balls right over the tight furl of his hole. The sensation was electric, shocking in its intimacy. Dean’s hips jerked involuntarily. "Fuck," he breathed, the word escaping before he could stop it.
Leto didn’t pause. He pressed his face deeper into Dean’s ass, his tongue circling the tight ring of muscle with deliberate, wet pressure. He licked and probed, swirling over the sensitive nerves, teasing the entrance Dean had been forced open for inspection only hours before. It wasn’t clinical now. It was possessive, hungry. Leto groaned against him, the vibration traveling straight up Dean’s spine, making his cock twitch and thicken rapidly. "Tastes like soldier," Leto murmured, his voice muffled against Dean’s skin. "Tastes like mine." His tongue flattened, pressing insistently against Dean’s hole, demanding entry.
Dean forced himself to relax, to yield. The muscle resisted, then gave way under the insistent wet pressure. Leto’s tongue breached him, hot and slick, pushing past the tight ring. Dean groaned, low and guttural, his hands gripping the silk sheets behind his head. Leto fucked him with his tongue, deep and slow, probing the hot channel Silas and Voss had violated with gloved fingers. This was different. This was liquid fire, intimate and devastating. Leto’s tongue explored him thoroughly, curling, pressing against his prostate with unerring accuracy. Pleasure, sharp and unexpected, jolted through Dean, stealing his breath. His cock surged to full hardness, slapping against his belly, pre-cum beading at the tip. "Oh god," Dean choked out, his hips lifting off the bed, seeking more of that devastating tongue.
Leto pulled back slightly, breathing heavily against Dean’s wet skin. "Feel good, soldier?" he asked, his voice thick with lust. He didn’t wait for an answer. He dove back in, his tongue plunging deeper, fucking Dean’s hole with relentless rhythm. He alternated deep thrusts with broad, flat licks over Dean’s balls and perineum, his mouth hot and demanding. Dean was panting now, sweat beading on his forehead, his thighs trembling uncontrollably. The pleasure was building too fast, a terrifying pressure coiling low in his belly. He tried to hold back, to maintain control, but Leto’s tongue found his prostate again and pressed hard, rubbing over it with expert precision.
"Fuck! Fuck, sir!" Dean gasped, his back arching off the bed. The coil snapped. His cock jerked violently, untouched, and thick ropes of cum erupted from him, splattering hotly across his own hairy chest and stomach. Wave after wave pulsed out of him, his body convulsing with the sheer, unexpected force of it. Hands-free. Just like Carter said Bjorn had described. He collapsed back onto the bed, breathless, stunned, his hole still fluttering around Leto’s relentless tongue.
Leto lapped at him, cleaning the sensitive rim, his tongue delving deep again, seemingly unfazed. "One," he murmured against Dean’s skin, the vibration sending fresh shivers through Dean’s oversensitized body. "Just the beginning." He reached for a crystal decanter on the bedside table, pouring a generous amount of clear, slick oil onto his fingers. Dean watched, dazed, as Leto coated his own cock, already thick and hard again, the broad head glistening. Then Leto’s slicked fingers returned to Dean’s hole, pressing in alongside his tongue. Two fingers, thick and demanding, stretching him wider than the tongue, probing deep. Dean gasped, the stretch intense, but the lingering sensitivity from his orgasm made it a confusing mix of pain and renewed, shocking pleasure. Leto scissored his fingers, working Dean open with brutal efficiency, his eyes locked on Dean’s face, watching every flinch, every gasp.
"Ready for me?" Leto asked, withdrawing his fingers and tongue. He positioned himself, the slick, swollen head of his cock pressing firmly against Dean’s stretched, wet opening. Dean braced himself, legs still spread wide, hands gripping the sheets. He nodded, a tight jerk of his head. "Yes, Your Highness."
Leto pushed forward. Slowly. Deliberately. The thick crown breached Dean’s hole, stretching him impossibly wide. Dean hissed, his breath catching, his entire body tensing against the invasion. It burned, a deep, visceral stretch that eclipsed Silas’s fingers, Voss’s inspection. This was claiming. Leto held himself there, buried just past the head, watching Dean’s face contort. "Breathe," he commanded softly. "Take it."
Dean forced air into his lungs, forcing his muscles to relax incrementally. Leto pushed deeper, an inch at a time, the thick shaft filling Dean, stretching him open with relentless pressure. Dean felt every ridge, every vein. He felt stuffed, impossibly full. His thighs shook violently. Leto bottomed out, his hips flush against Dean’s ass, his full ten inches buried deep inside. Dean groaned, a long, ragged sound torn from his chest. The pressure was immense, a constant, deep ache centered on his prostate, already sensitized beyond belief.
"Fuck," Leto breathed, his own composure slipping. "So fucking tight… even after Bjorn." He pulled back slowly, dragging his cock almost entirely out, then thrust forward again, hard and deep. Dean cried out, the friction igniting sparks along his nerves. Leto set a punishing pace, slow but deep, each thrust grinding against Dean’s prostate with brutal accuracy. He fucked him with absolute control, his hips pistoning, his gaze fixed on Dean’s face, watching him unravel.
The pleasure-pain was overwhelming. The deep, rhythmic pressure on his prostate, still hypersensitive from his first orgasm and Leto’s tongue, built terrifyingly fast. Dean’s cock, still slick with his own release, jerked against his belly. "Oh god… no…" Dean gasped, trying to fight it, but his body betrayed him. Another orgasm ripped through him, untouched, his cock spurting weakly as his hole clenched viscerally around Leto’s invading shaft. "Two," Leto growled, his thrusts never faltering, his cock pumping relentlessly into Dean’s spasming channel. "You’re made for this."
Dean was trembling uncontrollably now, sweat soaking his hairline, his chest hair plastered to his skin. He was adrift on sensation, the deep, rhythmic fucking short-circuiting his control. Leto shifted slightly, angling his hips, driving his cock harder against Dean’s prostate with every deep stroke. The pressure was constant, unrelenting. Dean whimpered, a broken sound. The coil tightened again, impossibly fast, a third orgasm tearing through him with shocking violence. His body arched off the bed, a silent scream on his lips as his cock pulsed dryly, his hole milking Leto’s cock in frantic pulses. "Three," Leto hissed, his own breathing ragged now, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, losing some of their deliberate control. "Such a good fuckhole… taking it all…"
Dean was beyond words, reduced to panting gasps and choked whimpers. His vision blurred at the edges. The deep, grinding thrusts continued, the thick cock pistoning into his ravaged hole, the friction a white-hot brand on his oversensitized nerves. He felt Leto’s rhythm stutter, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more frantic. The pressure inside Dean built again, a terrifying inevitability. He couldn’t stop it. A fourth orgasm detonated, weaker but no less overwhelming, a final, shuddering convulsion that wracked his entire frame as Leto slammed home one last time and roared, his cock swelling and pulsing deep inside Dean, flooding him with hot, thick cum. Dean felt the wet heat spreading inside him, the final violation, as darkness threatened to swallow him whole.