breathless, his eyes fastened on the erotic sight before him. His eyes moved down, watching his
shaft disappearing into the boy's cleft, reappearing slick and red, only to sink into the depths
again. He reveled in the tightness, the knowledge that no other had ever known this passage, this
pleasure before him. His eyes narrowed in fierce possession.
Never would he let this one go.
The cries grew in volume—gasps, moans, whimpers—as Anyar began to thrash his head
back and forth, praying for release, praying for it to stop—or not. He could no longer think, only
feel. His body tensed until he thought he could not breathe, could not survive another moment.
The force of the wave rolled over him, drowned him.
He screamed—or was it only a whimper?—his body convulsing around the spear inside
him. And Vanyae threw back his head and shouted his triumph, his seed bathing Anyar deep
within, branding him with its heat, marking him as the prince's possession…
His slave.
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Chapter Five
Vanyae watched his little bedmate sleep; with gentle fingers, he traced the golden skin. He
had thought that maybe taking Anyar, satisfying his lust, would free him from the attraction he
felt. Instead, it felt greater, more potent.
He slowly pulled his hand away and rolled onto his back, his lips thinning as the younger
man whimpered and curled closer to his warmth. He stared up into the darkness and wished, for
the first time, that he had never laid eyes on the boy, for both their sakes. Some part of him
wanted more from Anyar than Nazarian culture would allow. Somehow, he had to get this boy
out of his system.
* * * * *
outside. Smoke from the fireplaces swirled about just under the roof, light from the torches
making it look like mist before it finally was sucked out the wooden vents.
Laughter and argument rose and fell, and servants rushed about to supply enough drink to
suit the profusion of lords and ladies who gathered that night for feast.
Slaves lined the walls, some kneeling, some standing, attentive to their masters' and
mistresses' needs. Favored ones knelt by their owners, often fed by hand, a sign of great favor.
Anyar leaned away from the hands that pawed at him, curling closer in on himself as he
half knelt, half lay between Vanyae's legs.
“Come on, Vanyae. I only want a quick taste of him. You've kept him to yourself for the
last bloody two months. Share a little.”
Hard hands grasped Anyar's shirt, pulled him from safety, and Anyar stared in terror at the
grinning face of the man who yanked him up, covered his mouth with his, and tried to penetrate
his clamped lips.
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He growled in sudden fury and bit.
The hold was loosened, and he fell back as his tormenter touched his bitten lip in open
disbelief.
Anyar pressed himself back against Vanyae, his master seeming a safe haven compared to
the brute before him. He growled again, unable to control himself, his eyes never leaving the
man.
Blood on his fingers, the man looked at him in shock, which soon turned to fury. He
reached, only to have his wrist taken in an unbreakable hold.
“Keep your hands to yourself, Bayner, and you will not know his bite. You provoked him.”
Vanyae's tone held steel.
“I thought you said he was tamed. The little bastard is a menace. A dangerous little
menace.” Bayner's voice vibrated with anger and a certain disbelief that the little Melanian slave
would have the guts to attack him.
“He is dangerous to those who mishandle him. Leave him alone and he will leave you
alone.” Vanyae grew teasing. “Use your own little slave, Bayner. He is more your type. I like
mine wild.”
Bayner touched his lip again and glared at Anyar. “So I see. You should keep him gagged
so he cannot bite another, my prince. They will demand retribution if it should happen. You are
lucky I am a friend. You should take his wings; that would settle him.”
“Any who touch him without my permission have only themselves to blame for what
occurs. I will warn others when they come, then, if you think it necessary.”
“Little beast,” Bayner muttered, casting a last venomous glance at the Melanian slave.
Vanyae only smiled, his fingers gently stroking Anyar's wings where they folded tightly
against his leg, where his little slave had taken refuge.
Their talk turned to other things, and Anyar began to breathe normally again, though he did
not move from his position. Vanyae's stroking was even faintly reassuring, and he had no desire
to move from his master and become a target for the drunken revelers who saw him as fair game
since he was a slave.
He winced at the thought, but he had grown bitterly used to the term over time.
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He
was
slave. Vanyae's slave. It was a gentler slavery by far than most he had witnessed,
but he longed for freedom, longed for Tanyan and home.
Vanyae stared broodingly into his wine, swirling it until his image disappeared. How had
he got himself into this mess? He had never really paid any attention to the slaves around him,
had never really wanted them in his bed. They were nonentities to him. Although he had taken
one or two for a time when the need could not be met otherwise, for the most part he had taken
lovers from free choice.
Now he had Anyar, and it pained him that he did not know if the boy enjoyed his touch or
endured it because he must. He could not understand how it mattered to him. A slave was a
slave. Somehow he had to stop these feelings, put the boy into the niche he belonged. Cared for
but not lov—
He growled under his breath and took a deep drink, then turned to Bayner as the man
spoke to him.
“I will take payment in kind. He drew blood; now he can soothe my blood. Come on,
Vanyae; I gave you Geralt for a week last time you wanted a slave. You cannot have him
believing he can get away with that kind of behavior.”
Vanyae looked down into fearful golden eyes, a coldness within him. The boy was a
slave—nothing more, nothing less. He had to remember that.
Anyar went chill with fear as Vanyae looked down at him, eyes distant, a thoughtful frown
pleating his brow. His heart sank utterly as his master looked away, nodding.
“Not in public, though. He is too rare for that kind of display. I will not suffer his being
shown to these people. Tonight, later.”
Anyar curled into himself more tightly, laying his aching head on his knees and shutting
his eyes against Bayner's triumphant grin.
A slave, only a slave.
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Chapter Six
Anyar gagged as Bayner's shaft hit the back of his throat, and he tried to move back
desperately, but impaled as he was by Vanyae, he had nowhere to go.
His master reproved his friend, much to Anyar's relief.
“He is new to this; go gently. I would not have him hate it so much as you would create.
He is good with his mouth: let him pleasure you without force.”
Anyar began to realize how kind his master was with him when he encountered the
brutality of Bayner. The man would have had no concern for him whatsoever if not for the
prince's admonishments. The young man fervently pitied any slaves this man owned.
Perhaps being the prince's slave was a better place than he had ever imagined.
The only escape from this intolerable situation was to have Bayner come as soon as
possible, so he applied all Vanyae's teachings to the moment: curling his tongue around the head,
dipping delicately into the slit and sucking gently there, rubbing down the underside, pressing
along the vein there, and then swallowing the whole shaft as deeply as possible, given the
enormous size. He tried not to think of what he was doing, only of its being over.
He felt the big man's shaking, his heightened breathing, and sucked more urgently, fingers
gently rolling the huge balls in their soft sac.
He gagged as cum hit the back of his throat but kept his tongue moving to ensure it would
be over as soon as possible. He let his mouth drop open quickly afterward to let the fluid drip out
of his mouth. He wanted no part of this person within him.
As Bayner sagged back to the bed, staring blindly, Anyar discreetly wiped his mouth on
the sheets, shuddering with distaste.
The encounter seemed to have pleased Vanyae, or perhaps awakened a possessiveness in
him, for his thrusts sped up, pounding into Anyar with ever-increasing force, his hand coming
down to work his slave's shaft.
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Anyar felt passion rise, as always, in his master's grip. He arched beneath the larger man,
eyes closed as he left out a soft gasp that soon turned to small keening noises as the sensations
rose to engulf him.
Vanyae kissed his neck and bit softly as he commanded, “That's it, little one, sing. Louder
now. Sing.”
He could not help himself. As his body tightened, he cried out, louder and then louder yet;
a passionate song of surrender and reluctant pleasure.
He and Vanyae came at the same moment, and he arched back as Vanyae curled forward,
his master swallowing his sounds, taking them into himself, utterly possessing even his voice.
Anyar collapsed then, with Vanyae curled about him, and he lay replete, actually enjoying
the feel of the prince's hand caressing his hip. After Bayner's touch, presence, Vanyae felt like a
haven.
As though Anyar's thoughts summoned him, Bayner spoke. “He is a wonder, my friend.
No wonder you do not wish him ruined by others. No wonder you keep him caged. No one could
hear his cries without wanting to possess him utterly. He is a treasure.”
“Yes,” the prince whispered, his tone warm and fond as he stroked his little slave softly.
“He is
my
treasure.” The prince knew in that moment that he could never do this again. Sharing
his treasure would not happen in the future. This would not drive the feelings from him. For
some reason, this was not the answer.
He laid a gentle kiss on the black hair and wondered with a type of dim despair where this
strange relationship could possibly take them.
* * * * *
the warmth of the sun. The wind blew softly across his bare body, and for the first time since his
capture, he felt a small amount of peace in himself.
Vanyae had lengthened his chain so that he could sit out on the massive balcony, still far
enough from the edge to suit his master's fears. To be outside… He sighed long and low and
closed his eyes. To be alone at last…
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He opened his eyes and, staring up into the sky, watched the clouds and envied them their
freedom.
The breeze ruffled his feathers, and he felt the sensation with a pang of sorrow, his peace
fading. The loss of flight was a nagging pain that never left him, a sense of loss. Would he ever
fly again, or would they simply keep clipping his wings?
A tear slipped down his cheek, and he wiped it away with a swift, angry motion. What use
were tears? They would not see him free.
He wondered about Tanyan and how he was faring with all this. Had his wings also been
clipped? Was he being used in the same manner, slowly broken day by day?
Gods, he hoped not. He hoped he was the only one they would treat in such a fashion. He
could not bear to think of the brave commander brought low. He held to his feelings for Tanyan,
as the last bastion against Vanyae, the last bit of his homeland that he could hold close and keep
free of taint, the only reason he could accept what was happening to him.
He felt the change in himself, felt that he was weakening, becoming what the prince
wanted. He fought less, obeyed more, worn and tired in his mind and body. Sometimes he found
himself recognizing a command before it was voiced and acting without question; he was
becoming a true slave.
Yet there was something else, some part of him that began to respond to the prince, began
to see him as a man, not his captor. During the periods when Vanyae was achingly gentle, there
was something in his eyes that Anyar could not really understand, and yet with that look Anyar
would feel emotion rise in him. Something warm and—
It sickened him…in the part of his mind still left. The rest of it simply conceded; anything
for a measure of peace, a lack of pain. His eyes squeezed shut as another tear coursed down his
cheek, but that was all he had to measure his inner grief.
He started violently when a finger wiped the tear away, his eyes flying open and his wings
stopping just short of buffeting Vanyae. The prince did not flinch at the proximity of the giant
wings, no doubt well aware that his little slave knew better than to harm him. He took the finger