Page 23 of Henrikk’s Masquerade

Do not pity me.

And never, never…make me feel love.

His scalp erupted with pleasant tingles as Asher combed his hair with his fingers, momentarily distracting him from the giant force stretching his rear apart.

The simple act of Asher playing with his hair became the most precious thing. It transported Henrikk to a time and a place that only existed in his fantasies, one where he sat in a grassy field beneath a blue sky. Asher sat beside him, sunlight warming their skin. Asher played with his hair, except in the fantasy, Henrikk knelt on the lush grass, pleasuring him with his mouth.

The disgusting thought of submitting made Henrikk recoil, and the green fields vanished, replaced by endless darkness and the dim blue planes hinting at the snowy grounds below.

Panic rose from his chest to his throat, and he wanted to run, to fight, to flee. Except the infernal general had him pinned in place. Fury erupted, and Henrikk slapped Asher’s hand away from his head.

“Stop that. What do you think you are doing?” It was a ridiculous question, he knew that, but his mind was scattered like marbles, and he couldn’t think where to focus first.

“I am trying to be careful with you,” Asher murmured.

“Well, try harder,” Henrikk snapped. He immediately regretted the words, and the accidental innuendo. “You’re making a mistake, hurting your king.” Those probably weren’t the right words, either, but he couldn’t fucking think. He tried to straighten, but Asher didn’t let him, a firm hand pressed down on his back.

“Stay down. We’re not done.”

Henrikk’s core bubbled with rage and fear. “Get off me.”

Asher didn’t relinquish. “Not until I’ve had you. Besides, this is good for you, Henrikk. A taste of your own medicine.” The general then had the nerve to rock his hips forward, his full length pushing deep into his poor, tender ass.

The deep hump caused a short, dull ache to burst inside him. The feeling quickly faded, but the discomfort of being penetrated did not. Nor did his own erection.

Asher drew back, and delivered another measured, painstakingly deep blow, as if he were punching his insides in slow motion.

“Fuckkkk,” Henrikk rasped, the sound cracked and high pitched as it lingered in his throat.

“Not so good at taking your own punishment, I see,” Asher chuckled.

“It’s not funny!”

But Asher kept laughing. The large brute was inside him, his abhorrent cock entering him where no one had ever seen or touched him before, where no one should have ever been. And Asher was laughing at his expense.

It infuriated him, and had Asher released him for even a second, Henrikk would have whirled around, seized his thick, muscular neck, and choked him until he was within an inch of death.

Or so he told himself because the glimmer of retribution eased his suffering ever so slightly.

But only slightly.

There was very little that could make up for his current state.

This humiliation… This indignity…

It could not be borne.

How the mighty has fallen.

Words he’d thought of as he prepared to punish Asher for the first time in the Throne Room swept back to haunt him. Failure burnt through him like acid, seeping into flesh and bones and devouring everything in its wake.

“Here we go,” Asher announced.

Before Henrikk could speak, rough painful friction erupted through his ass as Asher dragged his cock back. He withdrew almost all the way, until his fat cock head rested tauntingly at his sphincter, stretching him to agonising proportions.

“Son of a—”

“Don’t fight it,” Asher said, his tone strangely reassuring as he pushed back in, slow but firm.