Fighting a war on two fronts, the Empress Rais Aracelis commits to negotiate Diviny’s peaceful surrender. Miserable while witnessing his nation signing away their pride, a Diviny honour guard finds a LaGattan soldier with the strength to humble him, and the skill to make him enjoy it.
part 5 of Imperial LaGatta
Strung along his periphery, a silvering binding cord of the LaGattan's sweat or spit, dangle becoming a drip. Such chains to meld them closely, the echoing sound of smacking, sucking flesh that resounded not in unison, but as two great mismatched bulls pulling harness in tandem to a single goal.
Basil ejected profanity along with his restraint across the lacy LaGattan sheets. Beyond the sensation of orgasm by the sheer glut of weight, effort, striving continuing, as all LaGattans would, without any respect for a body so suddenly emptied of desire, which no longer wanted to be filled. Barbarian, barbaric, crude. The LaGattan's practiced palm planted in Basil's spill and immediately returned to Basil's flesh to wrench a second, pained erection, fist lingering only until Muir assured the response.
Those fingers tormented him. Pinched and twisted nipples and even kneaded teats to a bruised and swollen shapeliness, went to his mouth still sticky. The worst of this, Basil savoured, sucked, foreign fingers and foreign fucking, filled two to one.
Behind him the LaGattan laughed, echoing in those great lungs as though the soldier were still clad in plate armour and alien mask. Half an hour wasted, Basil recalled, getting the gear off to reveal what he had known lay beneath. The LaGattan brute could paint himself in colours of so-called civilisation, could laud his so called city as a city; Basil was Diviny, he knew the only truth in the form of word, God-King and place. But Basil was also flawed in only the way a Diviny could be. Self-knowing, he knew the form of a beast, recognised in passing this particular LaGattan's chaos matched his own. Let them crave together the foreign stink of each other's sweat.
'Suckle, like a child.' Muir pulled Basil's head back and tormented his spine, fingers thrusting to seek the vulnerability of throat, the score of a jagged nail which had likewise stingingly blooded his hole before, sharp and threatening. 'Ah, do you feel it? Feel your arse open when I raid your throat, wide mouth and wide hole; you'd take it even now, wouldn't you, suck me clean of you? What would your King's pretty-speaking diplomats say to witness this, your own diplomatic tongue licking clean the taste of a Diviny's arsehole from a LaGattan's hand?'
The words sculpting this mix of coiled rage and shame into desire, to make him harder than the handling before. Shame, too, that Basil's ascribed duties could be cast aside at the sight of shoulders unexpectedly broader than his, the decadent lips and roving eyes wanting nothing more than flesh bent, willingly unwilling. Shame, too, and contradiction, that the release which would come from this would be so powerfully derived from shame that the force would eradicate all thought of embarrassment.
Basil could not even blame his lust on having seen the ridges of Muir's overbearing muscle. He fantasised about the man's form for the days of his designation, standing silent guard in the LaGattan hall, surprised to find in foreign LaGatta what was impossible to discover in Diviny: that cracked armour could reveal a fantasy so well constructed the truth was no surprise. Muir was huge, a sign beyond signs that Basil could not, would not win dominance no matter his striving. Only so could Basil strive freely in the battle before the fucking, honestly vying for control. Trusting that he could never win what he did not want.
Groaning at the reminiscence, Muir's purring words, fucking back hard enough to throw Muir's weight howsoever briefly. Basil freed his mouth for speech, clenched his teeth to cling to his smile. 'Them? Those apologetic curs? They would say please, LaGatta, may I watch.'
'That's what you think? You roll and bare your belly where they fight over each word of the surrender. How many times am I going to make you give it up before you limp back home? I'll bet fifty, a hundred. Until you're crawling from want of remembering how to walk.'
A broad slap to Basil's arsecheek like a blow. He could not help but clench around the thick intrusion to which he would not accustom himself. Muir clucked his displeasure at Basil's lack of control. You will be open for me, Muir had said when he won the desperate fight, as open as mouth of a chick gaping for food.
Muir flipped him, with ease as if he were the blackfeathered chick he was explicitly not. Knees shouldered past shaking and into instant shocked cramp, brutal fingers forced his mouth wide, four and a thumb this time, then the other hand at his hole, the head of Muir's cock nosing in bluntly beside a hooked thumb, too wide. Tears blinded Basil, choking on fingers. With his hands free he punched, doing little but making Muir's laughs and groans hiccup, the muscled ribcage absorbing every blow, until Basil could only cling, clasp desperately those incomparable shoulders, shaking and stretched like the strands of slaver even now speckling his face, as Muir leaned in, claimed his mouth, his jaw, his throat. Too heavy at one end and too light at the other. Breaking, broke.
When he came back to himself, he ached, feared Muir still filled him. But the LaGattan simply stood, short hair awry, lips swelled and eyes black, blacker than a true Diviny night. The houserobe hung open over muscle so rigid Basil still doubted the reality, even having laved inches clean of sweat with his tongue.
Muir held a towel, with which he wiped Basil's face clean, then his belly and thighs. He offered wine. Barely sane enough to cough his thanks, Basil drank.
'I thought you were too old to last another round,' Muir said at last, cheerfully, and sat on the bed. The frame protested his presence, their presence. LaGattan furniture was not made for big men. 'I sought only to tick my own tally off that second time.'
'Your right to pursue. You won, after all.'
'Just.' Muir sounded admiring. 'An unexpected pleasure, that you found your own to match.'
A sip only. Basil's throat was ravaged, he could barely sit upright for long enough to swallow. Even standing at guard on the morrow would be torture, cored like this, waiting to knot like a bruise. 'I have learned to hoard against leaner times.'
'Leaner times? Leaner men, perhaps.'
'In truth,' Basil almost stuttered, 'friend.'
Grinning, they shared, what a strange sharing, a choked expression which was nearly a laugh, a comradely understanding, then Basil shook his head to relieve himself of the urge to relax in his enemy's bed.
November 2009. For the Harlequin prompt: "X throws caution to the wind and allows Y and their hot body to make this fling even hotter!"
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