The Prince

“I don’t know...” And he didn’t. He didn’t know why he’d said “please,” didn’t know what he asked for. But he needed something from Søren.

Somehow Søren instinctively seemed to understand what Kingsley needed even better than he did. With a final thrust, he pushed into him and came in utter silence, his teeth leaving a bruise on the back of Kingsley’s neck.

Kingsley bit Søren’s forearm to stifle his groan of pain as Søren slowly pulled out. He grasped Kingsley by the shoulders and pushed him onto his back. By the light of the moon and stars, Kingsley watched as Søren unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. He folded it neatly, lifted Kingsley’s neck and placed the shirt under his head. Kingsley relaxed into the makeshift pillow and averted his eyes as Søren gazed down at him. Instinctively, Kingsley also knew he shouldn’t meet Søren’s eyes—not without permission. Right now he was less than human and didn’t deserve the same privileges as other people. Or perhaps Søren was more than human right now and therefore had the right to act like a god among men. Act? At this moment, with the moon on his shoulder and the entire world beneath his knees, Søren was God.

And God kissed him.

The kiss startled him at first with its utter gentleness. Kingsley’s lips parted and he breathed Søren’s air. Søren pushed Kingsley’s mouth open farther. Their tongues touched and intermingled. Søren didn’t just smell of winter, he tasted of it, too. Although warm, Søren’s mouth tasted like ice. It soothed Kingsley’s dry and burning lips. He wanted Søren to melt into his mouth so he could drink him.

When Søren moved his mouth away, Kingsley moaned in distress. The kiss…he could have lived in that kiss forever. But he sighed with newfound bliss when Søren pressed his lips into the panting hollow of his throat. And from his throat, Søren’s lips moved to Kingsley’s shoulder. The left one, then the right. Over his heart, Søren kissed him again. Then down his chest and over the hard, flat surface of Kingsley’s stomach. Had they been in a bed, Kingsley would have dug his fingers deep inside the mattress to hold himself steady. But he had nothing but rock below him. He scratched at it and found nothing to hold on to.

Søren seemed to sense his need. He took Kingsley’s hands in his and locked their fingers together. The intimacy of the act filled a space inside Kingsley’s heart that he hadn’t even realized had been empty. He wanted everything to stop right then and there so he could talk to Søren about it. What they were doing now, Kingsley knew, was as powerful as the millions of years of sun and wind and rain that had carved this plateau out of the side of the mountain. Every kiss eroded something of the old Kingsley and carved a new shape into him.

But Søren’s kisses moved lower and he took Kingsley into his mouth. And then Kingsley didn’t want anything to stop. This could go on forever. Dozens of girls had done this to him in the past and he always loved it, whether or not they knew what they were doing. The sight of those innocent girlish faces between his legs, with his c**k between their soft, angelic lips—the lips they kissed their grandmothers with…the deviancy of it alone was enough to get him off with spectacular success every time. But now that Søren did it to him, the entire meaning of the act changed. He felt unworthy of having Søren’s mouth on him. Before, with his girls, a blow job had been his right. He asked for it and received it. With Søren it felt like a gift he didn’t deserve. The pleasure was beyond anything he’d felt in his entire life. Nothing compared to it. Nothing ever.

Kingsley arched as wave after wave of sensation washed over him. His hips rose off the ground and his fingers clenched Søren’s viciously. He closed his eyes tight as Søren brought him to the very edge. Then, suddenly, his body felt a rush of cold air as Søren pulled away from him. Without warning Kingsley was forced over and up onto his hands and knees again. He couldn’t stop the orgasm, so when he came it wasn’t into Søren’s mouth, but onto the cold stone ground beneath him.

The sudden change in Søren’s demeanor shamed him. His se**n on the ground shamed him. Søren holding him immobile as Kingsley caught his breath shamed him. The last shudder of his orgasm passed through him and the pleasure he took in the shame shamed him.

Kingsley rolled onto his back and winced from the pain. What would it be like tomorrow? He already ached to see the welts and the bruises. They were gifts to him, gifts from Søren. Kingsley would treasure every moment he bore them, and when they faded he’d beg for more.

Absurd, wasn’t it? Treasuring bruises as if they were gold? Madness. And yet, so true.

Something welled up inside Kingsley. Something he couldn’t keep in. He opened his arms wide again as if to give himself over to the sky. And without knowing why, he began to laugh. The laugh filled him up and poured out of him. It rose into the air and expanded, slipping into the forest and echoing throughout the valley below.

And Kingsley heard something else. Another laugh. Søren’s laugh. Had he even heard Søren laughing before? No. Of course not. He would have remembered such a sound. So unlike him—so light and alive, but so weighty and real. If God laughed it would sound just like that.

Søren reached for Kingsley and dragged him close. Kingsley lay across Søren’s legs and relaxed into the heat of his body. Søren draped an arm over Kingsley’s back, and in silence they both stared out at the night. They remained quiet for five full minutes at least, until Søren spoke again.