(great move, huntsman, now he’s going to have to punish you.)
-part 2 of this.
His voice echoes around the high vaulted ceiling of the throne room, eyes wary and piercingly white against the dirt on his face “I owe you my life, but you are not my king, and I do not serve you.” Brazen, foolish, simple creature, he knew what such impudence would invite and yet he thought himself above the repercussions. He was not of this Queendom, he was of the forest where he assumed things far more evil dwelled than a simple monarch; those came and went but the things in his damned woods… Obviously he had not yet met the Queen.
The Prince’s back straightened a fraction and he smiled that solicitous smile he wore for his politicians and advisors. They could say anything they wished, his will would still be done and it would be his, not theirs, the only person his monumental pride would bend knee to was his Queen. The courtiers and servants lingering in small throngs around and behind the ebony pillars were tittering to one another quietly, anxious and hushed but when the Prince spoke, their shocked silence was the perfect introduction for his words, “That is not what you swore the night before,” his voice was almost conversational, arms folded neatly behind his back, smile still firmly in place as he pivoted gracefully, stepping around the Huntsman. He was ludicrously pleased when his prey bird eyes followed his meandering step, daring him to continue under threat of death, so naturally he continued “when you were whimpering beneath me.”
As soon as the words leave his cunning mouth, he remembers.
Fingers squeezing into the meat of his hips and arse—such strength and purpose, no doubt leaving memorable bruises. His back was taut; everything was high strung and poised as if he expected a knife to the back as easily as he expected the next scorching wave of pleasure as he pushed himself down onto the cock he was riding. He could feel the vibrations of bone and muscle working as one, feel the dig of pelvic bone into his rear, feel he brush of supple leather against his finger tips where they were braced against the woodsman’s’ chest.
His own cock was a heavy, burning weight between his legs but he did not mind the lack of attention in that regard; he was far too pleased watching the varying emotions play across the other man’s face, his own mouth stretched in a smile so wide it rivaled a Cheshire and a good day. The Huntsman would not look him in the eye, anger or rage, even, deepened the constant furrow between his brows, his lips were a pinched line and if the Prince did not have physical evidence of the man’s pleasure inside him, he would think the woodsman was not enjoying himself.
The vivid memory lingered as a pleasant, slow burning heat in his gut and between his legs and when he stopped right before his Huntsman, he tried to search for any signs that a similar memory had over taken the man. That was perhaps why he was not prepared for the brutal weight of a calloused palm snapping his head to the side.
Instantly he felt the warm copper of blood in his mouth, his jaw ached and his eyes watered; he had just been slapped in front of the entire court. Rage mixed with his burning arousal and together they burned with such intensity that he did not know what to do with.
The huntsman was just the same, unchanging as a statue, but if that was not a sliver of satisfaction he saw in those damned eyes he would pluck them from his skull.
“Well,” he said voice thick with blood and his bruised jaw and the smile that would not dissipate even though it stung mightily “That wasn’t very nice.”
OOPS B)