Chapter 6: The Court's Appetite
The scent of sex and sweat was still thick in the air of the prince’s chamber, a tangible record of what had happened. Aldric stood at a basin of scented water, washing himself with a methodical indifference. Valerion watched him from the bed, the silks drawn up to his waist. A new stillness hung between them, charged and different.
“They felt it, you know,” Valerion said, his voice softer than usual. “The court. When you… finished. A tremor in the realm’s pleasure. They’re already gathering.”
Aldric glanced over his shoulder, water dripping from his hands. “Good.”
“They’ll want a show. A… proper introduction.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Aldric said. He picked up a towel, rough fabric against his skin. He felt no shame, only a steady, low hum of purpose. The prince’s hole still burned a phantom memory into his cock, a welcome soreness that felt like a claim.
A chime sounded, delicate and pervasive, ringing from the very walls. Valerion straightened. “The summons. They’re impatient.”
“Let them wait a minute longer,” Aldric said, pulling on his leather breeches. They were tight, straining obscenely over his half-hard state. He left his chest bare, a tapestry of scars and muscle. Armor of a different kind.
They walked the luminous corridors, Valerion slightly ahead, his gait possessing a new, subtle stiffness. Word, or sensation, had indeed travelled. Fae lingered in arched doorways and on floating landings, their luminous eyes wide, fingers whispering to mouths. The hunger in their gazes wasn’t hidden now; it was blatant, physical. They stared at Aldric’s chest, his arms, the formidable bulge in his breeches.
The grand throne hall stole his breath for a second, not with beauty, but with scale. It was a cavity in a giant crystal, light fracturing into rainbows that danced over a sea of perfect, expectant faces. Hundreds of them. All slender, all beautiful, all watching him. The aurora swirling on the ceiling felt like a nervous pulse.
At the far end, on the throne of petrified moonlight, Valerion took his place. He looked regal, detached, but Aldric saw the faint flush on his neck, the way he didn’t quite sit flat. Five fae stood like guardians around the throne. Aldric’s eyes catalogued them instantly. The warrior-poet Sylas, with his auburn braids and challenging green eyes. The massive warrior Thorne, who actually had some substance to him, a smirk playing on his lips. And then there was the dancer.
Corin.
He seemed to glow with a different energy, a live wire of anticipation. His short blond hair was tousled, his amber eyes fixed on Aldric with an openness that was almost shocking. But it was the ass that held Aldric’s gaze. Round, high, perfectly shaped even under thin silk trousers. It clenched once, visibly, as if waving.
Valerion’s voice rang out, cool and clear, cutting through the whispering silence. “The knight Aldric has been welcomed. The realm has tasted his… vigor.” A ripple went through the crowd. “For the harmony of the court, he may choose a second to know his favor today.”
All eyes swung to Aldric. He stood in the center of the vast floor, a mountain in a valley of reeds. He let the silence stretch, let their anxiety and desire brew. He slowly turned, his gray eyes scanning the nobles in the crowd, then the ring of five around the throne. His gaze passed over Sylas’s defiant stare, over Thorne’s amused grin, and settled on Corin.
He didn’t speak. He simply crooked a finger.
A shudder ran through Corin. He stepped forward, each step graceful but tense. He stopped before Aldric, head slightly bowed, breathing quick.
“Look at me,” Aldric said, his voice not loud, but carrying.
Corin’s amber eyes lifted. They were swimming with nervous excitement.
“You’re the dancer.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Show me how you move.”
Corin blinked, then understood. He turned, presenting that spectacular heart-shaped backside. He bent forward at the waist, placing his hands on his knees, and performed a slow, controlled roll of his hips. The muscles in his buttocks clenched and released in a mesmerizing, isolated rhythm. The hall filled with a collective, soft intake of breath. It was obscene. It was an art form.
Aldric’s cock throbbed, full and heavy against the leather. He reached out and palmed one globe through the silk. Corin gasped, his rhythm stuttering. He was warm, firm, impossibly soft over tight muscle.
“Good,” Aldric murmured, for Corin’s ears only. Then, louder, to the hall, “This one.”
He took Corin’s hand—the dancer’s fingers were trembling—and led him not away, but to a raised, cushioned dais in the very center of the hall. A stage. Velvet cushions in deep purple were piled there. Aldric guided Corin down over them, positioning him on his knees, his perfect ass raised high toward the aurora, his face turned to the side, pressed into the velvet. The entire court had a perfect view.
Aldric undid the laces of his breeches. The release was audible. His cock sprang free, already fully hard, thick and veined and ruddy against the pale, trembling skin of the fae beneath him. A sigh, like a wind through leaves, swept the hall.
He used no oil, no spit. He guided himself with one hand, the other splayed possessively on Corin’s lower back. The dancer’s entrance was a tight, fluttering rosebud. Aldric pressed the broad head against it.
“Please,” Corin whispered into the cushion, his body vibrating with tension.
Aldric pushed.
It was a tighter fit than Valerion, more controlled, muscle trained for precision rather than passion. Corin cried out, a sharp, musical note that echoed. Aldric pushed deeper, feeling the incredible, clenching heat swallow him inch by inch. He bottomed out, Corin’s body stretched drum-tight around him. He paused, letting the dancer, letting the entire watching court, feel the sheer, impossible fullness.
Then he moved.
He fucked with none of the dark whispers of the morning, only with a brutal, demonstrative efficiency. Each withdrawal was almost complete, each thrust a full, deep slam that rocked Corin’s whole body forward. The smack of skin on skin became a rhythm track for the hall. Corin’s cries lost their shape, becoming a continuous, ragged stream of sound. He was hard, his own modest cock leaking a steady stream onto the velvet.
“You take it well,” Aldric grunted, not gently. A statement of fact. “Trained for this.”
“F-for the court—ah!—for pleasure,” Corin sobbed, his dancer’s control in tatters.
“This isn’t for the court,” Aldric said, driving deeper, making Corin see stars. “This is for me.”
He reached around, finding Corin’s slick, hard length. Three strokes was all it took. Corin came with a shattered scream, his body clamping down in violent pulses around Aldric’s shaft. Aldric didn’t stop. He kept pounding through the oversensitivity, through the helpless, twitching aftershocks. He watched the princes by the throne. Sylas’s lips were parted, his hand subtly pressed against his own groin. Thorne was openly adjusting himself, his grin wider. Valerion watched, motionless, his amber eyes dark.
Corin came again minutes later, a dry, convulsive thing, his voice gone hoarse. Only then did Aldric allow his own climax to rise. He grabbed two handfuls of Corin’s ass, spread him wider, and plunged as deep as he could go. He came with a low, guttural roar, pumping his release into the dancer’s depths, marking him inside where all could imagine it.
He stayed buried for a long moment, catching his breath. Then he pulled out. The sight was blatant: Corin, used and trembling, his hole gaping slightly, a trickle of white already seeping out onto his thigh. Proof.
Aldric turned, tucking himself back into his breeches, facing the silent, breathless hall. He looked at Valerion, then at the other four around the throne. His gaze was a challenge.
“Who’s next?” he asked, his voice casual, as if asking for a drink of water.
The silence that followed was hotter than any applause. It was the sound of a court realizing the game had changed, and the only player who understood the new rules was the monster in their midst.