known, never conceived of.
His hips moved of their own volition, no matter how hard he tried to control them; they
thrust in time with Vanyae's movements, and he felt himself tightening, hardening, ready.
The fingers pulled out, and he collapsed, panting, wide-eyed, unable to move when Vanyae
came over him and lowered his hips into the cradle of Anyar's trembling thighs.
Something nudged at his body, then began to push inside, and he arched with the pain,
fighting.
Vanyae was patient; he held there until Anyar's muscles shook with strain, relaxed that tiny
amount. Then he thrust just within.
46
J. C. Owens
The young guard screamed, began to fight like a wild thing, thrashing and writhing
beneath his captor's body.
Vanyae rode it out, watching, waiting…
When total exhaustion claimed Anyar, when he collapsed back to the bed, then Vanyae
patiently began pushing in farther, a bit at a time.
Anyar bit his lip until blood ran down his chin, the pain too shocking to even move against.
He fought the whimpers that wanted release, fought the urge to beg for mercy.
At last the movement stopped, Vanyae seated totally, and Anyar could feel his tormenter's
very heartbeat through the spear of flesh that lay within him.
Vanyae did not move but commenced kissing gently over Anyar's face and neck, his hands
stroking Anyar's hair and smoothing down over his chest, tongue bathing away blood from the
bitten lip.
“Ssh, it will ease, young one. Just breathe. Breathe.”
Anyar shook with pain, trembling with shock.
Vanyae stroked his cheek, made him meet his eyes. “You make it worse, Anyar. Breathe. It
will ease. This I swear to you.”
Desperation fueled Anyar's obedience, anything to make the pain stop. He drew in a
quivering breath, let it out in a rush.
“Deep and slow. Deep and slow,” Vanyae whispered.
Anyar obeyed; golden eyes locked with green.
“Gently. Breathe for me. The pain will lessen.”
Anyar found himself obeying the power in those eyes, and to his amazement and relief, it
worked. The throbbing was still there, but the sharp, stabbing pain stopped, as did his
involuntary spasming against the intruder.
Only then did Vanyae begin to move, slow, gentle, short movements, rocking.
Anyar's mind whirled, his body shook with sensations he could not interpret nor stop. It
hurt, but it was also strange, a fullness, a stretching. Then the prince changed his angle, and the
Anyar cried out as the column of flesh rubbed over that point in his body.
Wings
47
Shivers raced over his skin, his body arched without his knowledge, his toes curling with
almost unbearable sensation. He panted, eyes wide with disbelief, and Vanyae bent his head to
capture his mouth, possess his very breath.
The thrusts deepened until Anyar could not tell pain from pleasure; it became one, his
body writhing on his impalement, breath coming in harsh pants, his senses hurtling toward some
conclusion he could not imagine, only that it became desperation to reach it.
This was nothing like his own fumblings, his self-gratification; this was on another plane
altogether, and he both feared and anticipated the end.
Vanyae leaned on one hand, spread his knees wider to brace himself, and used the other
hand to grasp Anyar's shaft, beginning to stroke it hard and fast, squeezing.
The young guard arched further, a keening cry leaving his throat.
“That's it, my beautiful one. Sing for me, only for me…” Vanyae's voice was harsh and
breathless, his eyes fastened on the erotic sight before him. His eyes moved down, watching his
shaft disappearing into the boy's cleft, reappearing slick and red, only to sink into the depths
again. He reveled in the tightness, the knowledge that no other had ever known this passage, this
pleasure before him. His eyes narrowed in fierce possession.
Never would he let this one go.
The cries grew in volume—gasps, moans, whimpers—as Anyar began to thrash his head
back and forth,
His hips moved of their own volition, no matter how hard he tried to control them; they
thrust in time with Vanyae's movements, and he felt himself tightening, hardening, ready.
The fingers pulled out, and he collapsed, panting, wide-eyed, unable to move when Vanyae
came over him and lowered his hips into the cradle of Anyar's trembling thighs.
Something nudged at his body, then began to push inside, and he arched with the pain,
fighting.
Vanyae was patient; he held there until Anyar's muscles shook with strain, relaxed that tiny
amount. Then he thrust just within.
46
J. C. Owens
The young guard screamed, began to fight like a wild thing, thrashing and writhing
beneath his captor's body.
Vanyae rode it out, watching, waiting…
When total exhaustion claimed Anyar, when he collapsed back to the bed, then Vanyae
patiently began pushing in farther, a bit at a time.
Anyar bit his lip until blood ran down his chin, the pain too shocking to even move against.
He fought the whimpers that wanted release, fought the urge to beg for mercy.
At last the movement stopped, Vanyae seated totally, and Anyar could feel his tormenter's
very heartbeat through the spear of flesh that lay within him.
Vanyae did not move but commenced kissing gently over Anyar's face and neck, his hands
stroking Anyar's hair and smoothing down over his chest, tongue bathing away blood from the
bitten lip.
“Ssh, it will ease, young one. Just breathe. Breathe.”
Anyar shook with pain, trembling with shock.
Vanyae stroked his cheek, made him meet his eyes. “You make it worse, Anyar. Breathe. It
will ease. This I swear to you.”
Desperation fueled Anyar's obedience, anything to make the pain stop. He drew in a
quivering breath, let it out in a rush.
“Deep and slow. Deep and slow,” Vanyae whispered.
Anyar obeyed; golden eyes locked with green.
“Gently. Breathe for me. The pain will lessen.”
Anyar found himself obeying the power in those eyes, and to his amazement and relief, it
worked. The throbbing was still there, but the sharp, stabbing pain stopped, as did his
involuntary spasming against the intruder.
Only then did Vanyae begin to move, slow, gentle, short movements, rocking.
Anyar's mind whirled, his body shook with sensations he could not interpret nor stop. It
hurt, but it was also strange, a fullness, a stretching. Then the prince changed his angle, and the
Anyar cried out as the column of flesh rubbed over that point in his body.
Wings
47
Shivers raced over his skin, his body arched without his knowledge, his toes curling with
almost unbearable sensation. He panted, eyes wide with disbelief, and Vanyae bent his head to
capture his mouth, possess his very breath.
The thrusts deepened until Anyar could not tell pain from pleasure; it became one, his
body writhing on his impalement, breath coming in harsh pants, his senses hurtling toward some
conclusion he could not imagine, only that it became desperation to reach it.
This was nothing like his own fumblings, his self-gratification; this was on another plane
altogether, and he both feared and anticipated the end.
Vanyae leaned on one hand, spread his knees wider to brace himself, and used the other
hand to grasp Anyar's shaft, beginning to stroke it hard and fast, squeezing.
The young guard arched further, a keening cry leaving his throat.
“That's it, my beautiful one. Sing for me, only for me…” Vanyae's voice was harsh and
breathless, his eyes fastened on the erotic sight before him. His eyes moved down, watching his
shaft disappearing into the boy's cleft, reappearing slick and red, only to sink into the depths
again. He reveled in the tightness, the knowledge that no other had ever known this passage, this
pleasure before him. His eyes narrowed in fierce possession.
Never would he let this one go.
The cries grew in volume—gasps, moans, whimpers—as Anyar began to thrash his head
back and forth,
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