The dank, musty air of the dungeon surrounds us, pervading our lungs. The prince of mischief kneels upon the floor before me, shackles over his calves and ankles to keep him that way. His wrists are chained to a bar above his head, leaning him slightly forward. He wears his scaled leather pants and nothing more, save the muzzle of Asgardian steel that seals his trickster's lips shut.
His hair is tousled, green eyes glaring up at me above the silver metal. I am his follower, of his army. But I am not his servant now. And he is not mine. I do not want him to give me his submission. I will earn it, myself. I wish to see him broken by my hands, and he has allowed me the chance to try.
I have whipped him, clamped his nipples, scored lines in his flesh, clawed his skin both gently and not gently at all. My nails have raked over the black leather stretched upon his legs, attacked his thighs and bare soles vigorously, earning struggles, snarls and cries of infuriated laughter. Poor ticklish prince. His back and shoulders are a canvas of angry red marks, and it is soon to get worse. Over him, where he cannot see, candles are lined, and soon, colored wax shall spill upon him as they burn, their droplets searing hot upon Jötunn skin lying beneath an Æsirian shell.
And through it all, a hated desire burns in him, masochistic, loving what I am forcing upon him. His cock is hard, straining in confinement as I rub the heel of my hand over his length. His grunts and groans of both protest and pleasure come muffled by the steel. When I free his shaft, his desire beads at the tip.
I stand before him, tall and unmerciful. I love my lord, but I shall see him undone this night. I know he can see my indulgence in his state, all but smell my arousal from how close I am to him, and practically taste me upon his tongue. I know he craves me. Oh, I can see how he wishes to tear free and unleash the beast I am building within him back upon me. How he yearns to push me down and teach me what happens when one plays in the court of the God of Mischief, his copies surrounding me, his magic engulfing me, bringing such pleasure and madness as to leave me screaming...
He is not broken yet.
"What will you do, dear prince, to earn your release?" I ask him. "Would you make one of your proxies for me, if I asked it? Another you, same yet separate?" I trace his jaw with my fingers, and then grasp his chin, leaning down to his ear. "And shall I take this metal from your lips, only so that I may see your mouth filled by his cock?" He closes his eyes, growling in equal measures anger and lust. "Your own shaft between your lips, you own fingers fisting in your own hair?" I whisper, grasping his raven locks myself. "How positivelydecadent..." I pull away from him, and his eyes find mine in a seething glare.
Then, the burning wax begins to fall upon his skin, and he lets out a strangled yell as the drops of fire kiss his stinging back. His hands tighten into fists, nails biting into his palms. His breathing comes harsh and fast, and he growls loudly in frustration as I kneel down and resume caressing his aching cock. My eyes half-lid as his own flash in defiant heat.
He is not broken yet, but the night is young. The prince of two realms shall be laid low this eve, and I shall see him tremble and shake before me, whispering pleas made indecipherable. I shall see the seed of royalty spilled shamefully upon this dungeon floor, forced from him by a dominance from which he balks, and pain and pleasure for which he aches.
And it will not stop until he bows his gorgeous head...
And tells me I have won.
