Текст книги "The Mist and the Lightning. Part 15"
Автор книги: Ви Корс
Жанр:
Классическое фэнтези
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 3 страниц)
Arel also stirred, his black face and protruding lip depressing Kors. He gently stroked his head, through his silky hair, and, laying on his back, carefully peeled off the strips of plaster from his eyes and removed the gauze swabs:
“You see?”
Arel blinked often, his eyes with black whites were watering, but the eye that was implanted into Arel from the unclean looked at Kors quite meaningfully, the second was still defocused and looked past.
“I see a little with the eye of the unclean,” said Arel.
“This is good, I'm sure in a couple of days you will see with your own eye, and the dye will start to come off.”
Arel’s black eyes looked creepy, and at the same time there was something beautiful about it. They reminded Kors of the Demon’s true face, his bottomless black eyes. Kors again hugged his prince, whom he loved, but could never protect from bullying, only from time to time picking up more and more broken and disfigured Arel after others and playing with him after all. Arel responded to the hug, he was young and strong. Kors felt it:
“I want you,” he whispered, “take me. I will do whatever you want.”
And Arel readily crushed him under him, leaning against him.
“No, wait,” exclaimed Kors, dodging, “I can't do that, let me put a mask on you. Your spoiled face bothers me now. I cannot obey a disfigured slave.”
Arel let him at once. Kors got up, went to the bag and took out his mask, put it on Arel. So he was almost the same prince, with a strong and beautiful body, and Kors could obey him. Arel immediately inserted his cock into his ass, and, lifting his face, obscured by a mask, looked at him, at his reaction. Kors endured, and Arel's unclean eye, his iris, lit up somehow strangely, becoming from dark brown more and more bright orange, and the pupil in front of the astonished Kors’ eyes stretched out into a vertical strip. Kors screamed with delight and fear, feeling now from Arel the same demonic energy that the Demon had.
“Speak!” Arel gritted his teeth.
“I allow you to come!” Kors immediately said in his mind, and Arel wheezed, in the mask he didn’t have enough air at all.
“More, more,” whispered Kors, it was delight.
“Lick,” Arel ordered hoarsely, lifting him and bending to his crotch, his low voice, distorted by a mask, was a stranger. Kors realized that this action was unacceptable, but complied.
He bowed obediently, Arel watched him, looking down from above with his inhuman eye. Kors gently ran his tongue along the side of his thigh, along his scrotum, feeling that Arel’s balls were drawn in with pleasure. Kors took them in his mouth, Arel threw back his head and groaned. He grabbed Kors by the hair on the back of his head, pulling him slightly and directing him to his cock, forcing him to swallow. Kors barely suppressed his gag reflex, fortunately, feeling only the smell of the prince’s semen and its salty taste. It was not as disgusting as he feared, even pleasant, because Arel groaned and guided him so proprietly, holding his hair, that Kors fully felt his subordinate position and new emotions from this. To be like this under the fallen prince, to suck him after himself was a violation of all taboos, and it was exciting. Arel knocked him over on his back, sat on his face. Kors closed his eyes and plunged his tongue into the soft, easily accepting, gouged hole, feeling the stretched walls and also scars, old scars. Arel inside was torn, and the tongue could feel these places where the skin was not so elastic. Kors stroked a clearly palpable scar with the tip of his tongue. Who did this to Arel? Leonardo? King? The demon would surely have healed Arel immediately, not leaving wounds, which then healed into such scars. Arel got off him and, putting his cock in his mouth, said:
“Swallow!”
Kors, who didn’t expect this at all, felt an elastic stream of warm salty urine flow into his throat, he instinctively tried to escape, but it didn't work.
“Swallow!” Arel growled, continuing.
And Kors, choking, involuntarily took several sips, urine flowed down his chin.
Arel stopped, Kors looked at him, wiping his face. The bed was wet too.
“I didn’t humiliate you like that,” he said, getting up from the bed with resentment, he no longer looked at Arel, didn’t want to meet his eyes.
“You can do it if you want,” Arel shrugged.
“I don’t want to be like Leonardo and others,” said Kors, and without looking at Arel, he rushed into the bathroom.
Arel very quickly came to him, went down to the pool. Kors no longer took offense at him, responded to the gentle touches.
“Take off the mask, I miss your face,” said Kors, “even if it is awful.”
Arel silently opened his face.
They started kissing again.
Chapter four
When Vitor Kors and Prince Arel, tired and satisfied, returned to the room, they found a servant-slave in it. In their absence, he brought a tray of dinner and remade the dirty bed. All the servants wore a helmet-mask on their heads, which completely covered their heads and faces. Thin, short, hunched over, it was clear from the proportions of the body that this slave was male. In a simple black clothing, a work robe and a long jacket over a shirt, gloves closed at the wrists with wide steel bracelets, while doing his work, he moved carefully, but without fussing.
Kors approached the table, lifted several heavy lids from the plates, examining what the slave had brought. Involuntarily, he poked his finger into a strange jelly-like dish, which easily swayed from the touch, and immediately restored its shape, as if there were no dents from the finger.
“Hey, come here!” Kors called the slave in unclean language. He immediately reacted and, leaving the scraper with which he was cleaning the floor near the massive candlestick counter, approached him. He stood in front of Kors with his head lowered. The slits for the eyes in his mask were obscured by an additional shield – only a narrow strip at the very bottom remained for vision. The slave could look at his feet, see his hands, the table, the floor, but he couldn’t look straight ahead, much less look up. Kors understood that the slave didn’t see his face, but saw only the thighs wrapped in a soft towel.
“Bring more of this wine,” said Kors and slipped the bottle under the slave’s nose so that he could see it, “do you understand? Answer me!”
The slave nodded his head, falling at Kors’ feet.
“Don't lie here, do you understand me?” Kors raised his voice.
“I don’t think he can answer you,” Arel observed, watching this scene, “most of the slaves are mute.”
“Mute?”
“Uh-huh,” Arel sat down at the table and, taking his knife in his hand, cut off a piece of meat, began to chew lazily.
“Go, do it!” Ordered Kors to the slave and sat down at the table to Arel. “I seem to be hungry,” he smiled, “why is there such a small sight in his mask?”
“The slave only looks down,” Arel shrugged his shoulders indifferently, he took a big sip from the glass and Kors thought it was not in vain that he ordered more wine.
The servant was not long in coming.
“Strip!” Kors ordered him. “Take off your clothes.”
And Prince Arel almost choked on another piece, bursting with laughter:
“Kors, are you nuts? Why do you need him?”
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