Prince's Choice

Jackson was out of me, off of me, and out of the room. Winterberry climbed on top of me in the position Jackson had vacated, thrust inside me, deep, and started banging me hard. He was good. Despite the embarrassment and fear, I lifted my pelvis to him and went with the rhythm of the fuck. After a few minutes he pulled out of me and rose from the bed. I looked up and into his eyes, which flashed a cruel intensity. He had picked the belt up from the floor and was snapping it against his leg. I moaned and turned onto my belly.

I jerked up my head and cried out, "Yes, yes!" as the stinging lashes rained on my back. I made an effort to rise again and he hit me with the belt again. Harder. With a deep moan, I sank to the bed on my belly, throwing my arms out to the side in submission. His arm went under my belly and he coaxed me up to my knees, my chest still flat on the bed, me panting heavily. When he remounted me and began to pump again, I was whimpering and begging him for the fuck, reaching new heights of pain-pleasure.

What he proceeded to do was to give a clinic on fucking a man, not only taking me in a variety of positions but testing my flexibility and endurance. He fucked and beat me until he broke me—until I was a whimpering puddle of pain, sexual satiation, and exhaustion. But when he left me, he declared me fit for duty in his unit, which I was to learn was high praise from the man.

* * * *

I was told it was the game room that I was ushered into and I didn't have any trouble figuring out what kind of games were played here. A large bed, covered in silken pillows of many vibrant colors, dominated one wall. Two French provincial arm chairs, with cigarette tables next to them, were set facing each other about four feet from the foot of the bed. Other than that, the room was dominated by BDSM equipment. I readily recognized a set of chains ending in wrist restraints hanging from a hook in the ceiling beside something that looked like a sawhorse, covered in black padded vinyl. A black leather sling was hung from the ceiling in one corner. To my left was a table with restraints on it, and a long table against the wall with an assortment of sex torture tools on it. And, intriguingly, there was what looked like a kneeling bench with the yoke of stocks on its rail.

The men who escorted me into the room were hard-bodied soldiers in physique and bearing and were in dress whites—white gloves and white tunics over black trousers. The prince himself, who rose and met me half way to the door I'd entered, was wearing camouflage fatigues, with heavy black combat boots. Two gold stars gleamed on either shoulder. The top two buttons of his tunic were unbuttoned. His hard chest was smooth, the pecs bulging. A Buddha image on a heavy gold chain nestled between his pecs.

"I wasn't sure you would come," he said in greeting. He spoke in a low, hoarse tone, but his English, as I had found on the tennis court was impeccable, with a British bent. He'd said nothing in the shower. He'd let his actions speak for him, and they had spoken volumes.

"You knew after our last meeting that I wouldn't be able to stay away," I answered, giving him a direct stare. He smiled at this flattery, this acknowledgment of his charisma, seductive in its own exotic—and scary—way, as I had already discovered.

"You are a connoisseur of physical pleasure . . . and pain . . . then, I am thinking."

"More a student," I responded. "I believe that you are the connoisseur. I am more a servant in these matters." This obviously pleased him as well.

"You are at my service then?"

"As you wish . . . what you wish."

"As long as I wish?"

I gave him a slight bow, lowering my head in submission.

He lifted an eyebrow and smiled again.

"This is my game room," he said, letting both of his arms make a sweeping gesture toward the room.

"Apparently," I answered.

"Are you afraid or put off? I would be disappointed, but I don't force men. I use them hard, but only with their submission. You can leave now if you wish." He ran the back of a hand down my cheek, ending with a thumb pressed under my chin, where I knew that, if enough pressure was applied, I'd be put out of commission.

"No, I'm not disappointed. Yes, I'm afraid. But I assume that's what you want."

"That's what pleasures me, yes. Men with magnificent bodies. Military men. Reduced to submission. Conquered. Vanquished. Completely open to me. Are you willing to submit all or do you wish to leave?"

"No, I'll stay," I said. Winterberry had not really given me an option. I wasn't sure the prince was giving me an option either. I strongly suspected I'd been given to him to do as he pleased.

"Your Mr. Shackleford tells me you are military. The Marines? An officer?"

"Yes. I'm a captain. But I am not in a regular unit." I had been given a military cover. It was important, I was told, for the prince's men to be military—and in special units.

"Tell me, have you seen hand-to-hand combat. Killed men in battle?"

"I probably shouldn't answer that."

"Have you endured pain on the battlefield?"

"Yes, certainly," I replied.

"And how did that make you feel, Jack? Did it scare you? Did it start your adrenaline pumping? Did it make you go hard? For some men, the fear and pain heighten the pleasure. It takes men to new sexual heights. I am such a man. Are you?" He was standing close to me now. He had one hand on one of my upper arms, but the other one was on my crotch. He knew that I was hard.

"Yes it makes me hard," I answered. "The pain and fear heighten the pleasure for me." I let my breath out in admitting that. It's what I would have to say, what I'd been sent here to endure. But I had to admit that it was true nonetheless. But the fallacy here was that I was quite sure that the prince wasn't saying that his pain would heighten his sexual pleasure. I was sure that it was my pain that would do that for him.

"We normally would have supper first," he said. "But I haven't been able to think of anything but you since this afternoon. I want you to strip down for me, Jack. I want for you to give me pleasure and I want to use you in a way that will make you feel alive. Take off your clothes for me—all of them. I am going to use you hard."

He backed off but just a few steps so that he could watch me as I undressed. Two hulky attendants stepped forward and took my items of clothing as I took them off. The attendants neatly folded them and placed them on an ottoman. I knew that later they would be returned without a crease in them. I would be the one to show the creases. The prince hadn't said he'd disrobe too, and he didn't. But he did unbutton the fly of his fatigue pants, worked his cock out, and was stroking it as I undressed.

While two of the attendants folded and took away my clothes another two stepped forward with objects in their hands. When I was naked, the prince stepped in close again, encased both of our cocks in one hand and began to frot them—stroking them together. His other hand went over my shoulder to the back of my head, where he dug his fingers into my scalp and pulled my head back painfully. Obviously it was the pain that was important to him, so I grimaced for him. Normally, I would fight that, but I decided he want to see it.

The attendants got busy. My arms were pulled behind my back and my wrists were bound together. Another attendant was at my feet, attaching a leg extender that bound my ankles and held my legs in a wide stance. Yet another attendant attached weights to my balls that pulled them downward and then, as I gave a little yelp, attached nipple clamps to my nubs. The clamps were joined with a metal chain, which, taking his hand from our cocks, the prince jerked down, causing me to yelp louder.

"Are you enjoying the pain?" he asked. "Can you feel the pleasure of it?"

"Yes," I whispered. And then I groaned as his fist closed over my balls and he squeezed them hard. I moaned and almost cried out, doubling up and going toward the floor with my knees. He let me go down on my knees, which put my face at the level of his cock, which he thumped against my cheeks until I opened my mouth to it and gave him head.

They put me on the kneeling rail, with my neck and wrists in the stocks and my knees on the pad. The prince was in front of me, feeding me his cock, and one of the attendants was behind me working my ass open with a lubricated dildo. There would be no condoms. One of the glories of the Agency's technical research was in inventing a pill to protect men from the known diseases of unprotected six. Winterberry had first used it with me, saying he abhorred rubbers. A package of the pills had come with me as a gift to the prince, and he had seemed to be delighted with them. For one thing, he said that such a gift dispensed with any pretense or preparation for why I was here.

When he felt prepared sufficiently, the prince came back around to behind me. He beat me, on the back and legs, mostly lightly, but with a few strokes of enthusiasm, with a wide leather belt. Tiring of this and as my cries of surprise and violation subsided into low moans and whimpering, he mounted my ass and fucked me to an ejaculation, edging me with his cock as he had done with his hand in the showers. The pain involved, of course, was all mine, and the dick work was the least of it. I had been opened up well, and, though he was thick, he wasn't long, and his rhythm was very military—a steady beat without invention that would surprise and make me gasp at being off cadence or more cruel than anything else he had done to me.

I couldn't say it was the best fuck I'd ever had—strangely enough Winterberry gave the best fuck I'd ever had. He not only was cruel and demanding but he also was inventive and could make me gasp with a change in cadence. But I couldn't deny that the domination and control of it—and the fear of what was to come—with the prince aroused me to unusual heights. He entered me strong and thick, and he understood how to punish the prostate with his bulb. I came before him—and then again with him.

His attendants, in their pristine white tunics and gloves, and well-pressed black trousers stood at attention around the room, seemingly not watching what the prince was doing to me, but ever ready to respond to his every whim. I wondered how many other young men he'd brought here and done the same with. And I wondered how many of those young men had walked out of here alive.

One thing I did know was that if they didn't, the prince's attendants would clean up and paper over everything—and that my handlers would just walk away. That knowledge alone should have frightened the shit out of me, but I was learning something about myself in this sexual torture chamber, something that frightened me even more—that this, all of this, aroused me more, made me harder and more sexually charged, than I'd ever been before.

* * * *

I might have thought the supper was downright civilized if I wasn't sitting in one of the French Provincial chairs with a folding table in front of me and still in the nude. It also would have been less worrisome if the prince hadn't said, "We'll resume after we've eaten." When I was freed from the stocks, one of the attendants had rubbed salve on my back and legs—although they didn't hurt as much as they stung after the salve was applied—and I was helped to the chair—which had been covered in a cloth that I hoped wasn't absorbent enough for the prince not to remember my visit with a bit of regret. No doubt the pillow they added to make me more comfortable did soak it all up, though.

He was without tunic now too, as were his attendants, his having been discarded when he got overheated in using my body. They all had good bodies. I must admit that I did some dreaming of more than one of the attendants fucking me too. But that didn't happen. I guess that would be some form of lese majesty here—taking sloppy seconds from their prince in his presence—unless, of course, that was one of the many kinks that turned him on.

The food was delicate and delectable. The drink was good Scotch. The conversation was a bit strange. He'd worked my body over and fucked me and, during supper, he was like a little kid with his toys in wanting to talk military hardware. He was totally oblivious to how he had degraded and used and abused me. What had been as intimate as it could have been for me to the point that the rest of the world had disappeared and it had become just the two of us working together as one grasping fucking machine striving for the highest arousal and release and balance of pain and pleasure possible appeared to be impersonal exercise to him. He prattled on as if we were sitting together at a seminar waiting for it to begin. He'd just had his dick inside me, pumping me with cum that I could still feel squishing around deep in my intestines, and had been licking blood off the welts on my back that he had put there, for fuck's sake.

He knew all of the guns used in the armies of the major countries as well as their comparable advantages and disadvantages. I couldn't keep up with him, but there was little indication he needed me to.

"I've inspected an M1A3 Abrams tank," he said enthusiastically. "I suppose you have seen it as well."

"No, I haven't," I answered. "I have specialized in commando operations and we don't see many tanks in that form of battle." I had a mission here. I needed to bring the conversation around to the Camp Perry special commando warfare course.

"My favorite attack helicopter is the Apache. I'm sure you've been in those in commando operations."

"Yes, of course," I said.

"I have flown those. I have qualified on those. Did you know that?" He was gushing now, his eyes flashing. He was attractive this way. I wouldn't mind going with him for a straight fuck. I wondered how he was in covering a true lover in a missionary position marked by heavy kissing and long, deep strokes inside a channel that had gone soft and spongy for him, caressing every inch of the most he could fill out to.

I suspect he'd never tried that. I momentarily considered trying to seduce him to that, but then I remembered I was here for a specific, short-term purpose. I couldn't become involved with this crazy man. I'd best concentrate on surviving him.

"No, I didn't know that," I said. But, of course, I did. I'd been told he'd inspected and been trained in every system that kept him out of his country and occupied with his toys. "Then you would be a double threat if you also had the commando training. You would be qualified to fly in and also to perform the mission."

"Would I?" he asked, clearly intrigued by this thought. It was time to strike.

"I've just been on an Agency training course on special commando operations. It was a terrific course. You have done that one?"

"No, I don't think so. A good course, you say?"

"First rate. Terrific. I think it would be just the thing for you. I could mention the possibility of you're being invited to do the course. I think one will be starting soon."

"Would you?"

"Of course, I'd be happy to." If you let me live, I might have added. Mission accomplished. I started thinking of a successful exit strategy. It had been fun, but . . .

The prince had other ideas. After supper, as two of his attendants were suspending me from the ceiling hook with the wrist restraints, another attendant was handing the prince a hand whip. He was fully naked now, and in erection. With a gleam in his eye, he was telling me how much fun we were going to have—new heights of pain-pleasure.

I was able to take this session more calmly, as there was every indication I would survive it. I had him hooked on the Agency course, and he thought that I would have to propose him for it for him to be invited to take the course. I couldn't do that if I was dead.

* * * *

I was taken directly from the palace to a private clinic that probably specialized in recovering the prince's pain-pleasure subjects and knew how to keep its treatment private. I, of course, wasn't charged for anything. There were no broken bones and the welts and cuts weren't even that serious. It was more a matter of keeping them from becoming infected. Either the station at the embassy wasn't told where I was, they didn't think it wise to let the palace know I was close to them, or they just didn't give a shit. No one visited me in hospital. I'd done my work. That was more important than whether I would survive the operation.

Four days later when one of the local country's military cars returned me to the hotel, Sam Winterberry was waiting for me with the news that the prince was delighted to accept the invitation to take the special commando course at Camp Perry.

"The Agency is busy building a course that will take three times as long as the normal one and finding the right students to take the course with the prince," Winterberry said. He was sitting in a chair by my bed, which I was lying on on my belly, as it would be a while before I wanted to lie on my back—or my buttocks, for that matter.

"Your next assignment, in case you wondered, will be as an assistant teacher of that course. The prince, of course, will stay at one of the camp's guest houses rather than at the student dormitory. He'll naturally bring attendants, but he was pleased when he was told you'd be involved in the course and could bunk in his quarters to help him acclimate to the camp."

"He was pleased, was he?" I said, accompanied by the semblance of a moan. "And I have an ongoing assignment, do I? You're not going to follow regs and drum me out of the Agency for having homosexual relations?"

"No, of course not," Winterberry said with a smile. "The regs are the regs, of course, and if need be at any time to separate you from the Firm, we can fall back on them. But, in fact, you did a bang up job of this operation and I head up a unit that uses talent such as yours. Some say that espionage is the oldest profession, while others say it's prostitution. We at the Agency are quite happy to marry the two. We've found the blend to be quite successful."

"What now?" I asked.

"Now I'd like to do an inspection of where we stand on your fitness for maybe an interim assignment before you return to Camp Perry." He stood up, came around to the foot of the bed, reached up and around my waist, and undid my belt buckle. He was pulling my trousers and briefs off, when I asked him what he was doing.

"As I said, I need to take a look at these welts to see how long they might put you out of commission." He had his hands on my bare buttocks and was separating the globes and blowing on my hole.

"Most of the damage is on my back," I said.

"We'll see to that eventually," he said cheerfully. "I also want to remind you who is in charge—who you work for and must please."

I groaned as he buried his face in my crack and went for my hole with his tongue.

As he came up on the bed, positioned himself over me, placed the bulb of his cock at my entrance and penetrated me, and started to pump, I groaned in the knowledge of who owned me now.