He did not stop.
Like an animal. Like a dog. His body continued— his hand on the maid, his hips thrusting forward, his groin pressing against her ass. The motion was instinctive. The motion of a body that is trying to fuck and that does not know that it cannot.
The maid cried.
She was on the bed. Her dress torn. Her panty torn. Her pubic hair pulled. Her body pinned. The prince— the vegetable, the thing, the screaming, convulsing, cockless ruin— was grinding against her ass. His scarred groin pressed against her. The friction— rough, painful, the scarred skin against her raw, pulled flesh.
"PLEASE—!" she sobbed. "PLEASE, KNIGHTS—! HELP ME—! IT HURTS—! HE IS— PLEASE—!"
The door opened.
"His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince!"
The announcement was loud. Formal. The voice of a herald. The words echoed in the chamber.
Everyone stopped.
The knights looked up. The maid looked up. Goliath— his body continued to convulse, but his head turned, his eyes— dull, unfocused— going toward the door.
The Crown Prince stood in the doorway.
He was dressed. White cloak. Sword. Boots. His dark hair was combed. His jaw was square. His eyes were cold. He looked at the room. At the bed. At the brother. At the maid. At the torn dress. At the torn panty. At the scarred groin. At the knights holding a convulsing man.
"My," the Crown Prince said. His voice was smooth. Amused. The voice of a man who finds the scene entertaining. "What a sight."
Goliath looked.
His eyes— dull, unfocused, the green irises lifeless— found his brother. His mouth was open. His jaw was slack. The drool was on his chin. His hand was still on the maid’s hip. His pants were down.
"Elder... brother..." Goliath whispered. His voice was a rasp. A breath. The voice of a man who is barely there. "Help... me..."
The maid cried.
Her face was in the mattress. Her tears were on the sheets. Her body was trembling. She looked up. At the Crown Prince. At the handsome face. At the cold eyes. At the white cloak. At the sword.
"Please, Crown Prince," she sobbed. "Save me. Please. He— he tore my dress. He tore my— please—"
Her eyes reflected the Crown Prince.
The handsome royal man. The square jaw. The cold eyes. The white cloak. The sword. The savior. The man who would rescue her.
Ten minutes passed.
The Crown Prince was seated.
On the couch. In the corner of the chamber. His white cloak was still on. His sword was still at his hip. But his pants were down. Around his ankles. His legs were spread.
The maid was on her knees.
Before him. Between his legs. Her torn dress was still torn. Her face was red. Her hair was messy— the brown strands falling from the tie, the knots forming. Her eyes were wet. Her lips were swollen.
She was looking at his cock.
Seven inches. The shaft was pale. The skin was smooth. But the head was— gone. The tip ended in a flat, scarred surface. The cock looked like a— a rod. A stick. A thing that had been cut. Not by accident. Deliberately. The scar was clean. Old. Healed.
She trembled.
She reached. Her hand— shaking, the fingers curling— went to the cock. She grabbed. Her fingers wrapped around the shaft. They did not meet. She stroked. Up. Down. The skin moved.
"Come on," the Crown Prince said. His voice was sharp. Cold. The voice of a man who is not asking. "Suck it."
She leaned.
Her mouth went to the cock. Her lips found the tip— the flat, scarred tip. She licked. Her tongue went to the surface. The scar was smooth. Different from the rest of the skin. Harder. Less sensitive. She licked. She kissed. She opened her mouth.
She took it in.
The shaft went in. Past her lips. Past her teeth. Onto her tongue. The taste— salt, skin, the faint bitterness of pre-cum. She sucked. Her cheeks hollowed. Her head moved— up, down, the shaft sliding in and out.
He pushed.
His hand went to the back of her head. His fingers tangled in her hair. He pushed. His cock went deeper. Into her throat. She gagged. Her eyes went wide. Her hands went to his thighs— gripping, pushing, the instinct to breathe.
He held.
His hand on her head. His cock in her throat. His eyes— cold, flat— looked across the room. At the couch. At his brother.
Goliath was on the couch.
The knights were holding him down. His arms were pinned. His legs were pinned. His body was still convulsing— the seizures continuing, the muscles jerking, the mouth screaming. But the sound was muffled— a cloth in his mouth, the gag that the knights had placed to silence the screaming.
The Crown Prince looked at his brother.
His cock in the maid’s mouth. Her head bobbing. Her lips sliding. The wet sound— SCHLUK SCHLUK SCHLUK— filling the chamber.
"So, brother," the Crown Prince said. His voice was conversational. Relaxed. The voice of a man who is receiving a blowjob and who is chatting. "I see you got messed up pretty well. And you are an idiot for doing that."
He paused. He thrust— his hips moving, his cock going deeper into the maid’s throat. She gagged. Her eyes rolled.
"Do you remember the face of the person?" he asked. His voice was the same. Conversational. Casual. As if he were asking about the weather. "The one who did this to you?"
Goliath trembled.
His body jerked. The seizures spiked. The muffled screaming— "MMMMMPPHH—! MMMMMPPHH—!"— intensified. His eyes rolled. His head whipped. The knights held him.
"Please— do not kill me— I beg of you—" the words came through the gag. Muffled. Broken. The same loop. The same memory. The same trauma.
"By the way," the Crown Prince said. He pulled the maid’s head up. His cock emerged— wet, slick. She gasped. She coughed. Her eyes were streaming. "Do you remember? Was it a woman?"
He looked at Goliath. At the dull eyes. At the muffled screaming. At the convulsing body.
"Think," he said. "Think hard. Was it a man or a woman? Did they have a sword? Did they have magic? What did they look like?"
Goliath’s muffled voice came through the gag.
"Violet..." the word was barely audible. "Violet... eyes... a man..."
The Crown Prince’s eyes narrowed.
"Violet eyes," he repeated. "A man. With violet eyes."
He thrust.
His cock went back into the maid’s mouth. Deep. Her throat convulsed. He fucked. His hips moved. His cock slid in and out.
SLURP SLURP SLURP—
"Hmm..." he groaned. His head went back. His hand tightened on the maid’s hair. "Good mouth. Warm. Wet."
He pulled out.
He threw the maid. Onto the couch. Beside Goliath. She hit the cushion. Her body bounced. Her torn dress rode up. Her torn panty was visible. Her pubic hair. Her thighs. Her tears.
She cried.
"Please—!" she sobbed. "Crown Prince—! Stop—! Please—! I— I cannot—!"
He pulled her panty aside.
His hand went to the fabric. He pulled. The cotton shifted. Her pussy was exposed— the hair, the lips, the pink. She was dry. She was not aroused. She was terrified.
He pushed his cock against her anal.
Not her pussy. Her anal. The ring. The tight, puckered opening. She had never— no one had ever—
"NO—!" she screamed. "Not there—! Please—! I have never—! PLEASE—!"
PAH—
He slammed.
"AAAAHH—!!"