Page 14 of His King Enslaved

His consort fumbled for his cock, his breath hissing between his teeth as he took himself in hand. After three quick strokes his hips jerked and he came. A few drops of royal cum dotted the sheets, but he caught most of it in his palm as commanded.

“May I touch you?” his consort breathed. “May I help? Please...”

“No,” Ardor said evenly. “Hold out your hand.”

His consort shuddered, his cock twitching as more seed dribbled into his palm. When he mastered himself, he held out his cupped hand. Ardor dipped his fingers into the pearly white gathered there and slipped his hand beneath the sheet.

His consort made a helpless, horny noise that Ardor tried to ignore as he slipped two slick fingers into the narrow opening of his pulsing, eager flower. His flower was warmer and more welcoming than it had ever been; his fingers sank well and deep.

He was momentarily startled by the strange sensation of his own body gently pulsing against his fingers. Even in its broken state, his flower sought to draw anything that penetrated it inward. His body was alien to him in that moment. His flower milked his fingers of its own accord, greedy for seed, and pleasure slithered up his spine.

He quickly withdrew his hand.

He repeated the process twice more, and each time his hand dipped below the sheet, his consort’s eyes remained there, as if he might somehow see that starved, greedy flower through the fabric. A flush spread quick and hot over Ardor’s body.

For a fleeting moment, he wanted to draw the sheets back and reward that heated gaze. The urge quickly passed as reason took hold. He was getting caught up in his consort’s besottment. If this man saw his ruined bloom, his attraction would vanish, and breeding would become a grueling and humiliating chore once more. Better to let him fantasize about whatever he thought lay beneath those sheets.

“Please,” his consort whispered. “I ache for you. Your beauty haunts me. I want to get to know you. Dine with me. I want to know everything you’ll tell me.”

Ardor’s face burned hotter still. “No,” he said, taking a final swipe at the royal cum offered in his consort’s trembling cupped hand. “I have what I need. You may leave.”

“Please,” his consort breathed, and Ardor realized his mistake. The impostor craved orders. Ardor hadn’t given a direct command.

“Beg all you want, it won’t change anything. You said you’d do anything? Prove it. Leave.”

His consort unlatched his hand from the sheets and backed off the bed, his face low. He kept his distance this time, and did not caress Ardor through the sheets. When he rose, an attendant quickly wiped his hand clean while another draped his robe around his shoulders.

“Eminence,” his consort said, bowing. “Send word if I may ever be of service.” And with that, he left.

Ardor slipped his fingers into his flower a final time, now accustomed to the gentle pulse of the bloom’s contractions. It was a weak echo of the contractions of a proper flower, no doubt. He kept the sheet over his lap as he waited for the petals to withdraw. When they had, he ran a finger along the crooked, pursed seam to confirm his bloom was closed before he gathered his robe around himself and rose.

“Your Eminence,” Leya said, her eyes bright as she hurried to his side. “The king seems so very taken with you!” After several months of observation, he was certain Leya was not a spy. The steadfast little acolyte spoke openly of her childhood in Amar. The Lady of the Hallowed Halls was deeply devoted to Ruth and her children, and Leya exemplified her teachings. She prayed to Ruth five times a day, and washed her scarred left eye with the same fragrant waters used to anoint Ardor’s body every morning and evening. She was a true believer, and living proof of the power of religious propaganda. The religion that secured and protected Flowers had determined every aspect of her life.

It was impossible not to like her. Flowers were only allowed to make friends with other Flowers, but the little acolyte veered dangerously close to “friend” in his internal categorization.

She didn’t know about the switch. Of that he was certain. The impostor easily fooled those who were not intimate with Xandar, and the king had few intimates. Ardor might very well be the only person who could tell the difference.

“Your Eminence,” Jain said, bowing. “Well done.”

As the three of them walked to the clinic, Leya chirped excitedly beside him, overcome by these fresh developments.

“I knew it was only a matter of time, Your Eminence. The king simply had to open his eyes and see you properly, and so he has! Surely this makes things easier, doesn’t it?” Her single brown eye was hopeful.

Ardor smiled, quick to reassure. He did not like to see her worry, and this past month particularly, she had worried a lot. “Yes. It does.”

* * *

ARDOR SAT ON the examination table as he always did, but this time he studied his champion as she peered into the microscope. She nodded, pleased. “It’s only a matter of time now, Eminence.”

“Something has changed.” He observed her expression as she checked another slide. “I know it sounds incredible, but that man isn’t the king.”

Jain looked up. “What are you talking about?”

“He looks like the king. Uncannily so. But he doesn’t act like Xandar. There’s a softness to him. An eagerness, a willingness to yield. And the change in motility... it coincides with when he began acting differently.”

Jain wet her lip. It was an old mannerism. She was uneasy. “But—why would they replace him?”

“At first I thought it might be a trap, and they meant to get me pregnant by an outsider so they could claim breach of contract. But... no. They’re too desperate for heirs. They’ve replaced the king with someone who can impregnate me. They intend to pass the child off as Xandar’s.”