The Prince of As-Datan

Though somewhat discouraged by his lack of success, he looked towards the third and final vault. Surely that was where his objective lay, the greatest of the treasures hidden in this last and greatest vault. By this point, he had grown almost used to the stares his body drew, nearly accustomed to the propositions and unwelcome comments. Oh, the guards scrutinized him all right, but never with any suspicion.

Almost, he made it to the vault's passage unopposed, but alas, it was not to be.

"You! Girl!" A voice called from behind. He paused, looking around helplessly, the words were calling for someone else.

"Yes, you! Come here," he turned, finding a stocky, hamfisted woman in royal livery. A sinking feeling in his stomach, he tried to stall as he considered his options.

His first instincts were towards battle, seeking ways to overcome his adversary without alerting the ever present guards. Yet the moment the woman's thick hand closed upon her dainty wrist, Aman realized how futile that would be.

It was almost laughable. Just an hour earlier, this woman would have been nothing for him, an unimportant functionary that would prove absolutely no challenge whatsoever if he wished her removed. Now, though, her grip was like iron, and Aman's finely tuned warrior senses told him that she would easily overpower him if he tried to resist.

"Come, girl, your king desires your service."

"Me?" Aman asked, supposing that he had been mistaken for the serving girls whose garb he wore. "There must be some kind of mista-"

Her slap bit into his cheek. It was heavy and full handed, its impact sending Aman reeling. Only the grip on her wrist kept him from falling to the ground.

Anger blossomed inside Aman, an utter and complete outrage that this lowborn servant had dared lay hands on him. He would kill her, destroy her. Frail body or not, he would show her that size was not the only determinant of prowess when he... called down alarm and attention onto himself. He could end her, but he could not do so quietly, and once he did, the mission would be over. Failed, because he had to revenge himself over some petty slight.

Anything for your people. The words ran through his head once again.

Unwilling to risk his still uncertain voice, Aman nodded demurely. What other choice did he have? Any other path would risk discovery, and at least he would get a chance to spy upon his hated enemy.

To his horror, the woman brought out a collar, and before Aman could do anything she had snapped the band around his throat. Shuddering, he could not help but let out a high pitched squeak of protest. The woman ignored it, taking hold of the leash and dragging him onwards. Trailing behind like a prized pet out for a stroll, he marched helplessly to the king's observation box.

With a sharp snap of finality, the chain clicked shut against a latch on the king's chair. He gave it a quick tug when he thought no one was looking, but it was no use. He was stuck here, with no chance to slip away until they were finished. Someone thrust a large fan into his hands- a sprawling, ornate thing made from the multicolored feathers of some exotic bird - and ordered him to keep the King cool as he watched the spectacle below.

There were two others with him, not counting the guards and various other attendants. High officials of some sort, judging by their dress. The one on the right looked vaguely martial, while the lefthand's garb was clearly civilian of some sort. It was possible he knew of them by name or reputation, their sources within the Usurper's kingdom were solid, if incomplete, but he had no way of recognizing them by sight.

The king, by contrast, was immediately recognizable. It wasn't just the small throne he sat on, though it raised him a full head over his companions. It wasn't even the crown, a relatively thin circlet laid across his brow. No, there was something about him, a sense of power, of innate regality. Perhaps it was something in his bearing, or some manifestation of the power Aman knew the Wizard King wielded. Aman had no way of knowing.

Under the guise of dutiful obedience, Prince Aman carefully scrutinized his enemy. As with so many men today, Aman had to remind himself that the king was no giant, just a regular man viewed from his newly diminutive perspective. Though the King's face was beginning to show weathering from the many months he spent campaigning, Aman was surprised by how young he looked. Throughout Aman's life, it seemed like the Wizard King has always been present in the background. A distant, omnipresent threat that had existed in perpetuity. Though he should have known better, Aman always pictured someone like his father, an elderly warrior consigned to dispatch armies he was no longer hale enough to join. Instead, he found a man in the prime of his life, mid to late thirties at most. It was easy to forget that the Wizard King had been but a youth on his first military outing when he had stumbled across the spells that would let him conquer nations.

Though the King conversed pleasantly with his ministers, it was clear that his heart was not in it, and even less so in the lavish games that played out below. He stared absently, as though distracted by some intractable problem.

Aman wished he would speak. What use in being so close to the King if he learned nothing worthwhile? If he had to be bound and chained to the throne of his greatest enemy, at least let him learn something. Alas, whatever had occupied the king's thoughts, he chose not to share anything besides meaningless pleasantries. From time to time, he played with the small ruby ring worn around the pinkie of his right hand, but of the spellbook there was no sign.

Aman's dainty arms soon grew tired from waving the massive fan, but there was little he could do but grit his teeth and continue. The hot sun overhead beat down against his bare skin, a constant reminder of how scantily clad he was. It warmed the exposed top of his breasts, a further reminder of his unnatural changes. He still burned with shame at being in public dressed like this, exposed in front of not just the King and his ministers, but a crowd of thousands.

He told himself that nobody was actually paying attention. Their focus was on the games, not on some random girl waving a fan for their king. Indeed, the ministers had paid him little mind when he entered, and the king even less. To them, he was nothing but furniture, another background element. You might display passing appreciation for a well caved table, after all, but you would never make it your center of attention. So too with him.

In a way, that rankled more than his transformation. Well used to being the center of attention, a part of him demanded acknowledgement from the people he was being forced to serve. Some word of appreciation for him, or for the service he provided. He knew it was a silly impulse and tamped it down. He was here a thief, attention was the absolute last thing he needed.

Yet he felt it all the same.

On the bright side, he was able to see the tiger horses perform after all. They proved handsome beasts, interesting and exotic, but were also ill tempered and unfit to the harness. The people loved it, and he had to admit that it made for an interesting spectacle. Even if a team of third tier racehorses would have easily put them to shame.

The fatigue in Aman's arms finally relented when a group of attendants came bearing trays of appetizers for the officials to dine on. Though this brought an end to the prince's toil, it came at the cost of new indignities to his pride. Although the ministers were expected to simply reach over and take what they desired from the trays, that was beneath the Wizard King. Instead, the prince was expected to hand feed him bite sized pieces of whatever caught his fancy.

It proved a disturbingly intimate experience. After pointedly ignoring Aman for so long, the King now turned towards him, tugging on the prince's chain until he found himself seated on the Wizard King's lap.

Their forced proximity drove home how much Aman had changed. The King absolutely dwarfed him now, making the prince feel childlike and helpless as he sat atop the King's lap. But there was nothing at all childlike about the way his arm wrapped possessively around the prince's bare midriff, nor in the way his fingers casually caressed her smooth skin.

He sat through the next round of races, answering each wave of the King's hand with another morsel delivered straight to his waiting lips. As the King grew sated, his urges turned increasingly playful, much to Aman's chagrin. Instead of simply taking the food as offered, he would slowly nibble at it, forcing the prince to stay close while he ate. When the King was finished, he didn't simply let the prince leave. No, he took hold of Aman's dainty fingers, bringing them to his mouth as he cleaned away the last of the lingering crumbs.

As the King nibbled on his slender fingers, Aman felt a sudden jolt. His body tingled, first down his arm, but soon all over. Most especially, he felt it gather in his chest and between his legs. A raw, insistent sensation that drew plaintively at his focus. Suddenly, the prince was very aware of the large, powerful hand wrapped around his midsection. Noticing in great detail how rough and strong his fingers felt against the Prince's smooth skin.

Stop that! He told himself, cursing his traitorous feminine body for responding so inappropriately to his hated enemy.

When he lifted the next delicacy, the King chose not to eat it. Instead, he lifted it from her hand and brought it up to her own surprised mouth. Unsure of what to do, the confused prince accepted the morsel, his grateful stomach reminding him that it had been hours since he'd last eaten. The food was sweet and delicious, a flavorful confection made with honey and some undiscernable spice. His gratitude waned when the King insisted that Aman lick his fingers clean, but he had come this far and it was only a small indignity to lap the remaining honey up as the King demanded.

While he was licking the Wizard King's meaty fingers, the King's other hand moved its way up her belly until it rested on his bosom. Casually kneading his breasts, the King forced a very unwelcome gasp of pleasure from Prince Aman. The tingling had returned tenfold, bringing with it a renewed awareness of how close their bodies were. Despite his most fervent desires, Prince Aman felt himself responding to the ministrations.

This is madness, he thought, I am a man! A warrior! Not some blushing maiden to be disarmed by a single caress.

The king's fingers left Aman's mouth with a soft pop. He realized that they had been clean for a while now, but he had continued to suck out of habit. Through the insubstantial material covering his ass, Aman felt the Wizard King's member stir to life. He felt disgusted. Sullied not only by the touch, but by the anticipatory reaction it evoked from his body. Though Aman had never imagined such a thing in all his worst nightmares, his body knew where it belonged, and readied itself for that emptiness to be filled.

Though Aman had hoped to escape once the Wizard King was finished with his food, the King had other hungers for Aman to sate. Taking hold of Aman's chain, he motioned to his lap.

"Now it is time to put your mouth to better use. Pleasure me, my sweet."

Aman recoiled in disgust, wishing now to flee, but held tight by the chain that bound him to his enemy.

"H-here?" he said, looking uncomfortably at the curious ministers who sat on either side of the King.

"Did you not hear my orders, slave?" the king asked dangerously, and once again the Prince was reminded that this was a man who had conquered lands and scattered armies before him. "Obey!"

With another tug, Aman was pulled to his knees. Looking up, he found himself between the Wizard King's splayed legs, a look of bored expectancy on his enemy's face that grew more displeased by the second. Afraid of giving himself away, Aman reached out for the King's lap, pushing aside his robes of state and untying the laces of the Wizard King's trousers.

I can't do this, thought Aman, This is wrong! I am a man, it is obscene, I cannot-

For your people, Aman reminded himself. They would suffer far more than this, if the mission were to fail. Was this so much to ask, for their sake?

Reaching into his pants, Amam pulled his member free. It pulsed at his touch, and Aman could feel the heat radiating from it. Almost, he balked, but his purpose prevented him. Held in his dainty hands, the beast seemed monstrous, the large, turgid organ like some creature from a frightening tale. Up close, he could see all the small details that had been so easy to ignore when he'd still possessed one of his own.

Aman leaned forward, bringing it ever closer to his face. This all seemed so unreal. Veins pulsed along the shaft, the hole in the front seemed to gape endlessly. There were only inches separating him from it, and the King was growing impatient. How had it come to this? It was madness! Absurd! They couldn't possibly expect him to-

Your people, he thought again. This was all for their sake, and he couldn't let it be for nothing. Like it or not, he had a duty to fulfill. Swallowing his pride, the prince's opened mouth moved forward.

It was not the horror he had anticipated it to be. In truth, Aman wasn't sure exactly what he had expected, but he had always pictured something more dire. Some stark, defining moment where he forever changed from a normal man (albeit one under a terrible enchantment) into a willing cocksucker. Now, the difference seemed far less clear. In a way, it was little different from sucking on the finger that had been forced into his mouth, although the King's tool was quite a bit larger than those had been.

In a way, it was almost enjoyable. The act itself proving almost relaxing, letting his head bob and suck almost by reflex as the King's hand absently stroked through his lengthy hair. Everything about this made him feel soft and feminine. The long, smooth hair tickling his back, the summer breeze blowing onto his smooth legs, the everpresent feel of his breasts, bound and contained within his silken top. The hard cock pulsing in his mouth.

To Aman's surprise, he found himself almost enjoying it. As a proud warrior, he knew he should detest it, every last bit of it, and yet he did not. What was wrong with being a little girly? Why not let go a little, and enjoy the frilly, feminine softness that had been forced on him.

"So, my liege," said the minister on the King's left. "I hear that we are nearing an end to our little Datian problem?"

Aman nearly froze at the mention of his people, and only the fear of discovery kept him from reacting. So they were going to attack, then? So long expected, the news still shook Aman with a sense of impending doom. There was little hope for his people this time, not unless they had some means of combating the Wizard King's magic. Aman listened carefully, hoping for any news that would help his people prepare, futile as it might prove if he failed in his task.

"Oh yes," the King said cagily, not quite admitting to the impending attack. "I have a wonderful little surprise in store."

Just tell me your plans, the Prince inwardly raged, mentally begging for some useful scrap of information. They already knew that an attack was in store. What was this secret?

The King would not say, however, and Aman's unspoken pleas went unanswered. Never before had he felt so powerless. The fate of his entire people was being discussed, their ultimate doom being pronounced, and all he could do was meekly slurp away at his enemy's cock.

Coming to his senses, Aman was overwhelmed by shame at the memory of his reaction. That just a brief moment ago, he had actually been enjoying himself, that the situation had excited him. Now he remembered the true horror of his situation, his stomach wrenching at the degradation he had participated in.

Yet at the same time, he was forced to continue. Too terrified of giving himself away, he had no choice but to continue pleasuring his worst enemy, even as he laughed about the fate of Aman's homeland. The king still held his grip on Aman's hair, forcing him to gag helplessly as the King guided Aman's head up and down the length of his shaft.

"Are you ready to swallow, pretty slave," the Wizard-King said, laughing has he looked down at Aman.

No, this couldn't be happening. The prince tried desperately to think of a way out. To stall, to get away from the King. To do anything besides suffer yet another indignity, but it was too late. Though he tried to struggle, the King's hand held him fast, forcing his full length past Aman's dainty lips. Just when he thought he could take no more, it was over.

Something broke in Aman as his mouth filled with the torrent of hot, salty fluid. Sobbing, he wanted nothing more than to expel it from his body, erase all evidence of his terrible shame, but there was nowhere for it to go. Tears trickling down his pretty face, Aman allowed the warm liquid to flow into his stomach.

The King withdrew from Aman with a final wet slurp, forcing him to look down and see the flaccid shaft he had so recently fellated, still wet and slick from a mix of saliva and cum. Spent and hurting, the Prince did not resist as the King pulled him closer, taking his limp cock and wiping it clean on the flimsy material of Aman's top.

"Guard! This slave has proven adequate and I will have more of her later. Clean her, and send her for special training."

The prospect of "training" should have terrified him, Aman knew, but it was hard to care next to the indignities he had just suffered. If nothing else, it would get him away from the clutches of his hated tormentor and from the place of his humiliation. Surely he could escape once they were out of sight, or failing that, at least he could be man enough to bear it. Once they had finished he would be free to escape and continue his all important quest.

Unfortunately, escape proved impossible before reaching the palace's dreaded dungeons. They led him deep into the bowels of the structure, into places so old and twisted that there was no map to guide the way. Into the oldest, darkest foundations, long forgotten by the softer generations that followed. Aman did his best to remember, planning to add it to their knowledge after he escaped with the spellbook.

They took him to a large room deep within the earth. Dark and cut from the rough granite bedrock, but not so damp as the newer places above. His arms were gripped in two high chains, raised up above his head until he could scarcely stand even on his toes. His legs they left unfettered, all but dangling as he tried in vain to support himself. Four blank-eyed slaves knelt against the wall. Like Aman, they were scantily dressed, wearing little more than loose black loincloths around their waists and a thin strip of cloth holding their breasts. One clap of the guard's hands, and they rose silently, circling Aman on all sides.

Without a word, they moved in and began tugging away Aman's pantaloons, soon leaving him bare from the waist down. This time Aman did react, struggling and screaming at them, but with his arms secured over her head there was little he could do. He cursed them, demanding that they release him, but the black clad servants refused to speak. In a way, that was far more unnerving than if they had responded to his shouts with threats of their own.

Never before had he felt so helpless. Even when he was leashed and bound to his enemy's throne, the prince had possessed the freedom of his hands and feet. In theory, he could have fought back, attacked his oppressors, even though his body and their numbers made it a futile gesture. Here, he was truly and utterly helpless, his feminine body completely exposed to his captors, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.