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When I unlock the heavy door to the dungeon room, the captive jerks where it’s crammed itself into the far corner, slender body curled up to hide its nudity.
We got it as a youthful, prissy thing, just having reached full age—according to our contact in the castle—despite its retained boyish looks. It’s already serving a more useful purpose with us than it ever had, surrounded by pomp and regalia. Its embroidered clothes had been the first thing to go. Creatures like this—with beautiful slender bodies and curly blond hair as soft as lamb’s wool, with heart-shaped faces and round blue eyes—they were made to satisfy, not rule. Why insist on having the boy memorize Latin and etiquette for diplomacy when it could simply drop to its knees? My cock twitches at its delicate limbs and begging mouth.
“Come here, jordan.”
The pet whimpers, standing weakly, hands not even bothering to cover its privates anymore. Its eyes plead.
I keep appreciative eyes on its pried-open mouth. When we got it, while it had still been unconscious, I’d worked a strong ring of iron behind its teeth to keep its jaw gaping, carefully welding shut the buckles of the harness across its skull so the attached gag couldn’t be removed. The leather straps cross artfully over the boy’s cheeks and forehead, pressing into soft skin to leave behind pressure marks that won’t ever see the light of day.
The first time it had woken up and panicked, I hadn’t been able to resist pinning it down and forcing my cock down its mouth, my spend dribbling from its stretched lips as it retched afterward. It’s a skittish thing, unlike Sewell Goodwyn’s headstrong one, but locking it here alone has made it more responsive to when I do visit, bringing overly-salted mash and water every couple of days and training it to beg to wet its mouth. It’s true the thing has lost a little weight in the two weeks it’s been here, but this isn’t permanent. It’s been just enough to make it delirious for the relief I bring.
It doesn’t protest when it gets close enough for me to hook a finger in its cheek and yank it against my body. It practically falls into my chest, panting raggedly, parched throat clicking emptily. Its lips are slightly chapped. I’ll have to rub beeswax on them again soon. But the flesh of its mouth, its lips, its tongue, is bone-dry and so soft that I can’t stop fondling it, tilting its head up to look at me, cock thickening in my trousers at its hooded eyes.
I bend over its mouth, and desperation sparks in its gaze. It sticks its tongue out all the way, whining, my hand on its chin the only thing keeping it from buckling and falling to the floor.
“Very good,” I purr. I let the saliva gather in my mouth. A ball of it stretches slowly down from my pursed lips, before I spit it into its mouth.
It gurgles, the back of its tongue dancing as it attempts to spread my spit around. The thick liquid shines behind its teeth, bobbling over its molars and tonsils, and then the pet can’t help but reflexively swallow, and it disappears.
The boy moans hopelessly, shoving up on its tiptoes, thrusting its tongue out for more.
I laugh. “Greedy today.” It’s been longer than usual since I last came, so I indulge, because its eyes are feverish and wanting, and it’s obedient enough to not pull away when I rut easily against its stomach.
I gather more saliva, both of my hands framing its tiny face—not that it would pull away—as I spit again, this time in the back of its throat so that it’s forced to swallow immediately, barely getting any relief.
Its throat clicks, then clicks again as it swallows. Small hands clench at my shirt.
“That’s enough for now,” I say, and it moans in dismay. “Come along. We’re going somewhere special.”
I guide it into the hall, fingers hooked into the back of its head harness in case it tries to bolt, but it stumbles alongside me, pressing into my side and almost tripping me as it tries to beg for any drop of liquid to wet its dry mouth.
“In a moment,” I promise it fondly, turning the handle of another door and guiding it inside.
This room is far bigger than what had been my pet’s cell, home to all manner of equipment. Aside several kegs of beer, at the center of the room, is Goodwyn, tending to his slave. The boy is of the same age as mine, nearly identical with its blond hair and blue eyes. It’s expertly bound, its naked body supported by two short tables: one under its thin chest, and the other strapped under its legs. Its hips are left between, soft penis dangling toward the ground. Goodwyn holds a funnel buried in its mouth, pouring a cup of beer into it until the slave chokes, liquid spattering around its lips.
Goodwyn sighs in disappointment and lets up, pulling the funnel away and allowing his slave to cough desperately, its whole body shaking, excess beer slipping to the floor. Goodwyn has been plying it with liquid for hours, and I can tell that—although the alcohol isn’t strong—the sheer quantity that’s been forced into it has a muffled haze setting into its eyes. It pants for breath, penis twitching fetchingly. Just above the hanging flesh, the slave’s bladder punches out in the shape of a hemisphere, hard as a rock. The skin over it ripples in strain, but the slave’s either piss-shy or too uptight to let it out despite its agony.
My pet whimpers as I guide it further into the room, dancing nervously. Goodwyn slams back the rest of the mug, and my pet’s eyes glaze over at the sloshing of the cup, watching as liquid runs down Goodwyn’s beard, no doubt imagining licking it off him.
When its eyes dart to the boy on the table, it whimpers, jerking back against my grip.
“Lucian!” the slave cries.
My pet whimpers, shivering, but mostly stays where it’s put, recognition barely sparking in its eyes. The boy’s eyes are fixed on the slave, breath coming harsh and ragged from his parched throat, his thin chest heaving.
“Let him go,” the slave on the table moans, struggling, not realizing it’s not in a place to bargain. “Let him go, please! I’ll do anything!”
A drop of urine collects at the tip of its bare penis, beading, then falls, fat and glittering, to burst on the ground. My pet can’t look away. Its tongue pokes out and swipes the air unconsciously, the boy already straining in my grasp, toward the other.
I give it a little push.
It gasps, stumbling quickly toward its companion, who moans pathetically at my pet approaches.
“Lucian,” the slave cries, trying to look anywhere but at the other boy’s harnessed head, straps crisscrossing its face and forcing its mouth grotesquely open. “Lucian, get out of here, please!”
My pet falls to its knees. It ignores the other’s begging entirely, hands on the ground before it looks back at me desperately.
“Go on.”
It crawls beneath the table at the boy’s head, wriggling its body, while the other boy calls out for its companion desperately.
“It never shuts up, does it?” I ask. “You should gag it.”
He grunts in annoyance. “Too sloppy that way.”
The slave yelps as my pet’s hand encircles its penis, guiding the soft flesh toward my pet’s mouth, its dry tongue immediately seeking out the slave’s pisshole.
“What are you doing!” the slave shrieks, thrashing hard enough that one of the tables budges.
My pet digs its tongue under the slave’s wrinkled foreskin, the soft organ dexterously swiping around the head of the slave’s penis, collecting the next drop of urine desperately.
“Lucian! Stop!”
The boy’s eyes fix on the other’s bulging bladder, and it presses slim fingers cautiously to the hard protuberance, still holding the penis over its mouth readily.
The slave squeals, bucking violently. “No! Stop this! You’re not in your right mind!”
My pet shoves harder at that taut bulge, first with fingertips, and then with its whole palm. The slave is wailing in response.
“Stop, stop, stop! I can’t hold it, I can’t hold it, I can’t—I don’t want to—”
My pet’s tongue curls desperately around the spout of its brother’s penis, and with a particularly impatient hit to the drum of the slave’s bladder, the first slave squeals—
Piss, hot and acrid, gushes straight into the awaiting chamber pot of its twin’s mouth.
My pet chokes, and then gurgles. Pungent, clear urine spills over its face as it aims the slave’s stream over its own tongue, its palate, its teeth, drenching its mouth as much as it wishes for the first time in weeks. Urine fills the whole cavity, splashing out as the slave on the table moans, hips shaking uncontrollably as its weak mind finally submits to what its body needs, no longer able to clench shut its urethra and trap that endless liquid back inside itself.
My pet moans in ecstasy, tongue waggling adorably, lashes clumped with tears, wet hairs clinging to its forehead.
Its desperation is beautiful. As the slave strapped to the tables keeps excreting urine helplessly, deep into its chamber pot, my pet finally establishes a rhythm and begins to gulp down the slave’s piss with frantic, sloppy noises that go straight to my cock. The elder of the two can’t stop pissing euphorically now that its stone-hard bladder is finally losing some of its mass and relieving its bulging torment, and the younger can’t stop worshipping the soft spigot from which it gratefully guzzles the liquid its shriveled body demands.
“I’m sorry,” the slave on the tables moans, eyes rolling back drunkenly at the sweet pain of emptying its overstuffed bladder, even as the tight bulge at its abdomen barely shrinks. “Ohh— ohh— I need it—”
The room echoes with its moaning, high and wanton. Urine hisses from the slave’s tight urethra, streaming below messily. The drenched workings of my pet’s throat slurp and gurgle deafeningly as piss spills from its stretched lips, its teeth shining. It loves this. Its hands grasp the slave’s hips and pulls them down, lifting its head at the same time so it can latch onto the boy’s penis like it’s a swollen, plush teat.
The slave howls, eyes flying open unseeingly as it spasms. My pet lunges upward fiercely, not about to lose its prize. Stuffed snug, its cheeks hollow from the suction as it nurses; I can only imagine how the fat penis lays over its flexing tongue, rippling and molding to the clamping tightness of its mouth, drowning in drool and piss alike as its hooded head worms into the entry of my pet’s throat, gaping urethra jetting urine so powerfully into its stomach that it doesn’t choke when it forgets to swallow in its ecstasy. My pet is palpating the slave’s bladder, provoking incoherent, drunken begging.
“Lucian,” the slave moans, tongue poking out of its mouth. Drool is slipping from the corner of its mouth, head hanging uselessly, its eyes hooded with orgasmic relief.
Goodwyn cards his fingers through the unresponsive boy’s hair as it gurgles. “Finally comfortable enough to piss with your brother here, eh?”
The slave shakes. My pet’s mouth slips off its penis to gasp for breath—slips off a much longer penis than I remember, firmer and thicker, too, though still drizzling a thin stream of urine that splashes over my pet’s face, rivulets tumbling over his chin and cheeks and forehead like a shower. The penis swings, meaty and heavy, drooling over my pet’s head, soaking it entirely.
Goodwyn smirks at me. “I thought this one would explode before the end of the day.”
My pet dives back onto the slave’s penis, brow furrowing at how much larger it is, at how the trickle of urine is slowing despite the still-obvious bulge that the boy massages impatiently.
“Might explode still, in another sense,” I point out wryly, and Goodwyn takes a peek below the table.
My pet is bobbing its head up and down the thick penis, rucking up its foreskin, ruddy, glistening mushroom head jerking to a halt behind the gag, so swollen now that it’s trapped behind my pet’s teeth.
Goodwyn laughs, and pulls the slave’s head up by its hair. “You’re hard, bitch,” he purrs in its ear. “Your cock is in your brother’s mouth and you’re about to cum.”
“No,” the boy warbles, but its eyes are rolling back stupidly.
Its penis continues to grow, and despite its slurred protests, the slave’s hips are canting regularly. My pet slurps and glucks, the other boy’s penis shining with spit halfway down its throbbing length. Its bladder still strains, yet piss barely dribbles into my pet’s urging mouth.
“Lucian, stop, stop,” the boy slurs. “This isn’t natural—it’s not right, you have to stop this, I can’t help myself—”
My pet, frustrated, reaches up and yanks the slave’s testicles viciously.
The boy yowls and, with a sharp thrust, sheathes its erect penis into its twin’s throat, locking them together. My pet gurgles, gullet unexpectedly stuffed, the large penis carving space out for itself and bulging from its neck just below its Adam’s apple, even the head defined through the boy’s flesh. My pet itself is hard. Its penis twitches between its slender, twisting legs. Unlike its brother, the younger boy is smaller, barely half the same length. Even when I wrap my fingers around the erection and try to coax it to full mast, it doesn’t fit my hand.
My pet mewls, hips twitching sporadically in all directions, like it doesn’t quite know how to thrust, while Goodwyn is unbinding his slave’s legs and setting its knees on the floor on either side of my pet’s head, guiding its hips and encouraging long, powerful strokes of its erection deep into to sloppy maw of my pet, oozing and webbed with viscous precum and throat slime and and urine and drool. Goodwyn’s slave is whining gutturally as he lets go and watches it keep punching its wet, straining erection in and out of its perfectly aligned receptacle, hips swinging automatically, the boy’s mind overtaken by the primal urge to breed its twin.
“I’m weak, I’m weak,” the slave groans, eyes screwing up. It moans, full testicles slapping my pet’s forehead regularly, reddening the skin there, fine pubic hair clumping with goo. “I can’t stop!”
The boy’s throat squelches and slurps, precum frothing at the corners of its lips and oozing down its face into its ears, tiny bubbles crackling and popping. Wiping my hand through the mess, I let go of my pet’s pathetic penis—still half-soft—and coax open its legs, slotting a finger deep and easily into its hole.
It responds immediately, a choked cry struggling from its straining mouth as it clenches strangling tight in surprise.
The slave cries out. “You—oh, Lucian—do that again, again—”
“Good, isn’t it?” I tease. “Are you liking it?”
Both boys are gasping for breath, hips bucking, past any point of control and edging into animalistic mindlessness.
“No need to tell me,” I purr. “I’ll make you like it. I can always tell.”
Oh, and they’re easy, not fighting but instead embracing it, as if they’d thought of doing this many times before the younger’s mouth felt itself molded around its brother’s erection. It’s easy to find my boy’s prostate and then target the smooth, rubbery flesh, stroking gently and urging its undulating hips to some form of civilized humping. Its soft penis bounces over its hips, beading with shining fluid. As I beckon at the pet‘s insides, digging my fingers into that spot. Silvery ejaculate drools from the penis’s slumped foreskin, dribbling dots between the jutting bones of its hips. It leaks eagerly as I gently work in a second finger, my pet moaning and keening when I press both fingers in hard, chasing its hips up and not letting it pull away from the overstimulation, the friction getting too much to fuck it into submission.
Above it, the slave’s thrusts have turned fast and careless, tears leaking from its eyes, before it buries itself in its brother’s throat, mouth wide on a shattered cry. Its meat clenches, each pulse visible through my pet’s throat, swollen flesh squeezing against the pet’s gag into a cock ring. Its testicles clench and release spasmodically, pumping ejaculate deep into its brother’s stomach.
My pet whines, exhausted, hips shaking as I give its prostate a few more punishing jabs, milking the last cum from it. The boy’s face is a mess, splotched red from exertion, swollen, streaked with tears and urine, eyes bloodshot and puffy. Its mouth strains around the ring gag, leaking cum.
The slave on the table is crying in deep, jagged sobs, chest heaving, as its penis softens, slipping from its companion’s mouth. The last dregs of milky sperm quickly give way to dribbles of clear urine that rinse my pet’s face, the thin stream slowly gathering strength once more as its urethra untightens. Goodwyn is going back to his beer barrels, rolling one closer to continue what he’d started before I’d brought my pet along.
“I’m going to give you a choice,” I tell my pet. I press into its prostate and it jerks, tongue flicking out and brushing the slave’s penis. “Are you listening?
“You can go back into your room and our old routine—” it jerks involuntarily, “—or you can remain here with your brother for company. What’ll it be?”
“No,” the slave on the table moans. “Not more of this, please.”
“Shut up,” Goodwyn snaps. There’s a brief struggle as he forces his slave’s mouth open, inserting a horizontal spigot between its teeth before binding its jaw shut so it can’t spit the metal out.
“Which will it be? One?”
Goodwyn twists the spigot, and beer rushes into the slave’s mouth, giving it no choice but to swallow or choke. It gulps frantically, losing focus on trying to regain control over its still-stuffed badder, piss gushing over my pet’s face, some slipping into its awaiting, permanently open mouth.
“Or two?”
My pet grunts frantically, and—its brother’s penis sliding over its cheek—twists its head to stuff the meat back in its mouth, as if nothing will be enough to completely erase the weeks it spent in confinement, slowly drying out.
“Two, then.”
My pet’s eyes are empty with relief, with the promise of something to suck on that will keep its mouth from returning to that painfully dry state, of something that will regularly release liquid down its awaiting gullet.
In the meantime, the slave’s beer belly will expand, its bladder will inflate, and it will dribble piss and cum into its twin’s stomach until its brother decides it’s had enough. Maybe there will even be a time where it can only piss if its penis is nestled in its twin’s hot mouth.