Sparks popped in the great hearth, spewing up a swarm of embers to flutter like fairies into the chimney. Tycho lay upon the shaggy rug of love, his fur damp with sweat, with the pungent aroma of their lovemaking. His swollen belly had become a massive orb of gravid flesh, bloated to the size of twins. His navel, distended atop that wobbling mound, glinted with the golden piercing which the king did hook a finger into. The burly arm of the lion took Tycho to his breast, the little snow leopard placing his face to the hard pectorals, inhaling the rich scent of his master’s fur. The odors of sweat and semen filled his nostrils, of steel and of tang of blood. The king’s scent was intoxicating, all the more for the love which they had just shared. The lion’s muzzle sought the delicate ear of his love, kissing the snow leopard, his lips tracing the furry cheek to find those eagerly waiting lips. 

“You were exquisite,” said King Omirom. He met the black lips of Tycho, stirring the snow leopard to offer up a soft moan through his nose. 

“So were you, master,” replied Tycho. He lowered his mouth to the lion’s bull neck, his lips gliding along the corded muscles, pausing at the Adam’s apple. “But, such is the prowess of the king.”

The king cupped the back of Tycho’s head, his fingers rustling through the steel grey fur. “I am nothing without you, little one. I could not be the lover I am without having you at my side.”

“Master flatters me,” said the snow leopard. “I am but a humble passion slave. You have so many in your collection. Surely, one of the others would suit you just as adequately?”

“Yet none bear the collar which is around your sweet neck,” answered the king. His fingers played at the band of platinum. “Such is for you alone, my little one. You alone, would I wish to carry my seed. No other.”

King Omirom placed his lips to Tycho’s neck and then, laying the snow leopard on the rug, would rise to stride proudly across the bedchamber. 

“Master,” wept Tycho. “Once more do you wander away from your slave. Must I always be on the verge of death?”

“My greedy little one,” laughed the king. “You simply have no patience.”

Tycho rolled onto his side, displaying a curved hip. His swollen belly sagged across the rug, his unborn shifting in his womb, making his stomach rumble and bubble as tiny feet lashed out against his gravid flesh. The snow leopard winced, placing a hand on his belly to soothe his brood. His ears swiveled, catching the faint sound of water being poured into a basin. He turned his attention to the lion, seeing the king return with a large copper bowl in his great hands. The faint scent of rose wafted on the clouds of steam which spiraled in lazy circles from the water which filled the bowl. As the king placed the copper basin down on the rug, Tycho noticed the crimson petals which floated on the clear surface. The water itself was tinged with pink, rose oil, he realized. 

“Oh, master,” he said. “Hot water treated with rose oil! Surely, that is too much for a simple slave.”

“It is far too little,” replied the lion and produced a rough scrubbing cloth. 

This he dipped into the basin, squeezing the dripping cloth in his hand as he raised it up before Tycho. The snow leopard reached for the wet cloth, but his wrist was seized by the lion. The king gently brought the cloth to Tycho’s arm, the heat of the water, pleasing to his fur as the scents of rose filled the chamber. 

“M-Master,” Tycho stammered as the king slid the dripping cloth up his arm. “You must not reduce yourself to such a meager task. I am but a slave. Surely you would wish for me to bathe myself.”

“Are you telling your master what he can and cannot do?” the king asked. 

Tycho averted his gaze, but did not fail to catch the flicker within those golden eyes, nor the hint of a smile on the lion’s face. His black lips curled, and the snow leopard began to relax, allowing the great beast to run the wet cloth down his arm. Dipping the cloth into the basin once more, the king laid his love upon the rug, careful to place Tycho somewhere dry, and proceeded to run the warm, wet scrubbing cloth over the little feline’s body. Up the slope of Tycho’s belly, he rose, circling the distended navel with perhaps more care than was necessary. Tycho did not protest, but laid his arms above his head, drinking in the pleasant scent of the rose water, relishing the warmth of the wet cloth which scrubbed the grime and crusted seed from his fur. He raised a shapely leg, the bells on his ankle chiming merrily to the king who grasped his fine calf. The cloth came to meet the back of his thigh, running down to his fat rump, squeezing so deliciously as the king would wipe away the loose strings of white seed which still slathered his jiggling cheeks. Tycho closed his eyes and bit down on his lower lip, his mind growing dizzy with the sweet caress of his master’s touch. 

“Master, I do not deserve this,” he sighed. 

“You deserve so much more,” said the king. The lion slid the wet cloth up Tycho’s leg, turning so as to slip along the snow leopard’s knee, gliding down the thigh to come to the wide, round hip. 

“Mmm, master,” Tycho giggled. “Your words are so very sweet. I fear that if they were delicacies, I would grow so very fat.”

This brought a resounding chuckle to the lips of the lion. “My little one, you have already grown fat.” He placed a hand on Tycho’s gravid belly. “Though I long to make you fatter if I could.”

Tycho opened his eyes slightly, gazing out from thin slits at the lion. He could not repress the smile that grew broad across his face as the king brought the dripping cloth to his withered nethers. This time, the snow leopard did not pull away when the king did place the cloth to his furry sheath. Gently, the lion began to scrub, wiping away the trickling, sticky precum, leaving the crimson bud shimmering and smelling sweetly of rose. So too, would he take his thumb to Tycho’s shriveled balls, circling the tiny bump with the cloth. The warmth, the gentle strength of the king’s touch, such would make the snow leopard arch his back with a contented moan. The king plucked the dripping rag from Tycho’s groin, and placing a hand on the damp, swollen belly, he raised himself up, bringing the scrubbing cloth to the snow leopard’s milky breast. Bloated with fresh milk, it still leaked its white elixir, spilling in thin rivulets down the slope of Tycho’s wobbling breast. 

“I fear that I may not be able to clean this,” King Omirom laughed. 

He placed the rag on Tycho’s right breast, cupping the pendulous orb in his hand. His fingers squeezed, turning, his thumb circling Tycho’s erect nipple. The snow leopard let out a sigh, his arms, shimmering in the firelight, wrapped around the king’s neck, his fingers tangling into the golden mane. His love would caress his bloated flesh, seeking more than to simply clean the grime from his fur. The king circled his swollen mammary, slipping the rag away so that he may place his lips to the weeping tip. There, he suckled gently the white trickle which would not cease to flow. The sweetness of Tycho’s milk played on his tongue like fine mead, rich and heady. He then took the left breast, scrubbing the crusted remains of their love from Tycho’s fur, leaving his spotted hide shining in the firelight. Slowly, the king then came to Tycho’s face, dabbing carefully at the soft cheeks, running the sweet smelling cloth along Tycho’s lips. 

“Master,” murmured Tycho. “Am I sufficiently clean for you?”

The lion returned the cloth to the steaming basin and took up a purple blanket. Woven of fine velvet, the lion then wrapped the blanket around Tycho, drawing the snow leopard into his arms. 

“You are so very beautiful,” he whispered. “I fear that should I touch you, I would only make you dirty again.”

“Master may dirty me as much as he wishes,” said Tycho. His hands came to grasp the wrists of the lion. “But, master, if you are so hesitant to take your willing slave, then perhaps I shall dance for you instead.” 

With great strain, Tycho managed to shove himself upright, stepping away from the kneeling king. The blanket, he kept clasped around him with both hands. The grey swell of his pregnant belly emerged from the purple folds, the fabric hugging the wide curves of his maternal hips as he turned then to face the king. The orange-red glow of the fire was behind him, framing his gravid figure, while before him, the silver moonlight streamed through the window to make his glacial eyes glimmer with volcanic intensity. Tycho’s heart pounded in his chest as he placed one leg forward, the bells on his ankle jingling. The king watched, stupefied, as Tycho slowly slipped the blanket from his shoulders. His foot came up on his toes, the golden bells shimmering in orange and silver. His heel came down, rising up, tapping a slow, purposeful rhythm which rapidly grew faster as he let his eyes fall closed. The pace quickening, that jingling tattoo became a beat. 

Tycho spread his arms, opening the blanket before the king, revealing himself to his master. He sank down, his front leg bending as he fell into the pace of that mad song. His wide hips swayed, shimmying faster, growing dizzying in their rhythm as his leg darted out, snapping like a whip to return, setting the bells to chime. His other foot shot to the side, pulling his pregnant belly with it as Tycho bent in half and with a sudden flurry, spun on his heel, his fat rump facing the lion. He lowered the blanket down his back, revealing the base of his tail. The top of his soft buttocks was laid bare, stirring the heart of the king, though he had seen all of Tycho only moments before. The snow leopard continued to sway, his fur damp with the rose water, now growing wet with perspiration as he fell into that maddened dance. His body undulated like that of a serpent, twisting and swirling to dizzying new heights which would make the lion respond with the lust of the male. Such was the slave dance, practiced for generations to make hot the loins of those male watchers, to stir in them the desire to take these wanting creatures into their arms and to their rugs where such passions would be held. 

Tycho kicked out, his ankles chiming and the snow leopard let the blanket fall to the stone floor. Slowly, he raised his arms above his head, their wrists crossing, fingers interlocking. From the corner of his eye, he saw the tawny fur of the king approach and a smile bloomed upon his face. None had ever refused the call of Tycho’s dance. The powerful body of the king was against Tycho’s back, those mighty hands placing themselves on his swaying hips. Still, he did not cease in his gyrations. The king’s breath was hot upon his neck, the muzzle gliding along his fur. 

“You dance divinely,” said the king. 

“I am a passion slave, master,” said Tycho. “It is my duty to dance in such a way.”

His great claws coming to cup Tycho’s gravid belly, the king then said, “But it would not be right for you to dance alone.”

Tycho lowered his arms behind himself, his fingers coming free to seize the shaggy mane of the lion. The king’s muzzle rested on his shoulder, the lion’s hands rising up the swell of his belly as Tycho laid his head back. 

“You would prefer to dance with me, master?” Tycho asked. 

His answer was the hand of the lion coming to his sagging breast. With thumb and forefinger, the king pinched Tycho’s black nipple, twisting so that the snow leopard let out a sharp gasp. 

“Oh, I see, master,” he laughed. He playfully drew a knee up, his foot tucking beneath his rump to make the golden bells jingle merrily. 

That same foot would strike out, the bells jingling before the fire, glimmering with the flicker of the orange flames. Tycho lowered his leg, his foot resting on the ball. The snow leopard arched his back, his rump pressing against the king’s sticky manhood. His hips began to sway, moving rhythmically in time to the beat which only he could hear. Slowly, his hips circled, rubbing the king’s throbbing rod, stirring the lion’s passion so that the great beast did lower his muzzle, groaning softly. 

“O-Oh, ugh…”

The muted grunts of the king were like a thick syrup pouring into Tycho’s ear. The snow leopard shivered gleefully, his cheeks hugging the crimson lance of his master. His buttocks rose up against the king’s pelvis, falling once more to stroke that scarlet pillar. King Omirom dropped his hand from Tycho’s swollen belly, his fingers curling around what remained of the cat’s male sex. This time, Tycho did not try to pull away as he felt the powerful hand close around his withered cock. Those fingers, so strong, so hard, found the furry sheath, the shrunken scrotum. The king, still cupping the snow leopard’s breast, then began to play with Tycho’s groin. His claws stroked, stirring the tiny nub to spill its bitter precum into his palm. With one finger, he caressed what remained of Tycho’s balls, the sensation making stars burst in the feline’s eyes. The snow leopard suppressed the urge to scream in joy, his fangs glinting from his bared lips as the king would run his thumb along Tycho’s plump perineum. Such was the utter jubilation which Tycho felt, that he nearly toppled to the floor in a puddle of whimpering gelatin. 

“O-Oh, master,” he groaned. “Your touch is so wonderful.”

The king gently ran his fingers up Tycho’s breast. The rasp of the steely fur sounded in the tawny ears as he traced the path along Tycho’s sternum, coming to play his claws on the collar of bright platinum. His hips moved in time with the snow leopard’s, his feet shuffling as Tycho would lift a leg, circling his belled foot in the air to chime joyously. 

“My little one,” said the king. His fingers ran along the slave collar, feeling with his fingertips the runes etched into the metal. “Tell me true, do you despise what you have become?”

Tycho stopped in his dance, his blue eyes opening, staring into the fire. His mouth hung open, yet no words would come. For how many years had he loathed the life of a slave? To be nothing more than the property of another?

“I…” He could not form the rest of that sentence. 

Tycho’s mind flashed back to when he first bowed before the king. His body quivered, experiencing the rough touch of his master. The taste of the feminizing nectar splashed on his tongue, robbing him of his masculinity. He knelt at the feet of leering guards, prostrating himself before the free cats who would treat him as little more than a toy to be played with. How he had yearned to claw at their eyes, to scratch the smug grins from their faces. Tycho lowered his hands, taking the strong wrists of the king. His head fell to his breast, his chin resting on King Omirom’s broad hand. 

“Master, I… I…” he stammered. Then, turning his face up, he would gaze fully into the eyes of the king, seeing the golden orbs which swirled with their bright, amber light. Flecks of bronze flowed within those pools of liquid gold, radiant as he would look back with eyes like that of glacial ice. “No, master,” he finally said. “No, I do not despise what I have become.” 

The king’s golden gaze widened. “Truly? You have no regrets?”

“No, master,” said Tycho, nuzzling his cheek against the king’s shoulder. His breath was wet and warm on the shaggy mane which fell from the king’s neck. “Truthfully, I do not. For had I not been your slave, then how could I have been with you?” 

His hand came to his swollen belly, feeling within his bloated womb the life which stirred. 

“Master,” he whispered. “I love you.”

Tycho did love the king, he realized, as only a slave could truly love his master. The hard hands which took him night after night, clasping him to the powerful chest. The thrum of that heart which beat in the stillness of the night, only for him. He saw the laughter, the tears, everything which the king could not show before the eyes of the free cats. For a slave was not an individual, but property. The king could only truly be himself in the arms of Tycho. The snow leopard then placed his fingers to the collar on his neck, feeling the script which proclaimed him to belong to King Omirom. Once, such a collar brought him nothing but shame. Now, he understood, it was a symbol to be gloried. For he belonged to the king, to someone. How many of these so-called free cats belonged to anyone? Necks bare, with no soul to claim them as their own, none to truly love them as Tycho was loved by the king. 

He pressed his rump against the king’s pelvis, feeling the erection of his master. “Oh, but master’s sword is still sharp, I see. Tell me, master, does it still possess its edge?”

The king returned a hearty laugh, seizing Tycho in his arms. “You find that its prick is still deadly.”

With a flourish, he scooped the gravid feline into his arms, holding him to his chest like a bride. Tycho’s pregnant belly rose before his face, obscuring all but the steely grey pelt which smelled faintly of rose water. 

“My little one,” he said. “I do believe the hour is late and we should both be in bed.”

“Master? Would prefer that I take my rest here with you tonight?” asked Tycho. 

“I never said anything about rest,” laughed the king. “But, we shall be taking to the bed.”

He turned from the hearth and began to step across the shaggy rug. 

“Master, you do not place me upon the rug?” Tycho turned an eye to the floor and then back to the king. “Surely, you do not wish us to couple upon the dusty stones?”

“No, my sweet,” said the king. “I have a far better place for us to lie.”

He came to the great bed, its sheets of silk and satin shimmering in the moonlight. Tycho looked upon that vast plain of glimmering fabric, and at once, his heart did leap into his throat. His face became twisted in horror, his eyes growing wide as the king began to lower him towards the mattress. 

“Master,” he shrieked. He clawed at the king’s shoulders, hugging himself to the broad chest as his heart thumped in terror. “Master, a slave cannot lay in the bed of a free cat. This is… This is not done. Oh, please,” he wept. Please, do not do this to your little one. Please, I do not wish to be beaten.”

His sobs would spur the life within him to lash out in protest, kicking his bladder so that the snow leopard would quake in the arms of the lion. 

“Master, please do not place me here,” Tycho wailed. 

But the king would ignore the pleas of the snow leopard, lowering Tycho upon the great bed. In the light of the moon, the dark navy of the sheets glowed in molten silver. The immense pillows were of violet, fringed in golden thread. The great headboard was a slab of polished mahogany, expertly carved by the finest woodworkers of the kingdom. Such a bed was fit for a king, but not for a meager slave. The passion slaves always slept upon the iyak rug at the feet of their master’s bed, never in the bed itself. Such was unheard of and to do so was to meet the bite of the whip. Tycho shrunk in the king’s arms as his back touched the cool smoothness of the sheets, his eyes glimmering with tears. 

“Master is so cruel,” he wept. “Why must he torture me so?”

“Hush now,” said the king. He placed Tycho on the bed and then rested on knee on the mattress. Stuffed with the finest down, the bed groaned softly beneath his weight. “None shall find reason to harm you.”

“But, master,” Tycho sniffed. 

The king took the snow leopard by the wrist, tugging Tycho upright. He then reached behind his neck, fingers seeking the seven locks which clasped the ornate collar around Tycho’s neck. 

“You are correct,” he said. “That a slave cannot occupy the bed of a free cat. Therefore--”

A metallic snap sounded in the gloom and Tycho gave a start as a weight was removed from his neck. Cautiously, he brought a hand to his throat, and for the first time, he felt only soft, steely fur. He gulped, his eyes not daring to look down, yet he could not stop himself. There, upon the sheets, glowing like an ember of cold fire, was the slave collar. It was so delicate, yet so heavy around his neck. Bands of twisted platinum, spiraling together to form a plate which bore the script that proclaimed him property of the king. He reached for the opened ring, taking the warm metal into his trembling hands. Slowly he ran a finger over that runic script, mouthing the words in stunned silence. 

“Master?” he stammered. 

“Not tonight,” said the king. “For tonight at least, you shall not wear the collar of a slave.”

Tears streamed down Tycho’s cheeks and the snow leopard dropped the collar onto the bed. His shoulders quaked as his gravid body became racked with sobs which set the mattress to shake beneath them. His sobs rang out on the dusty stones, echoing in the vast bedchamber. 

“For tonight,” said the king, taking up the collar. “I grant you this freedom.” He dropped the ring of platinum to the floor, where it rang with a metallic ping. “You may choose to do as you wish.”

Tycho rubbed the water from his cheeks and looked up into the golden eyes of the king. Drawing both legs beneath him, he knelt with his pregnant belly sagging between his thighs. 

“Do as I wish?” he said. “Then, I shall do what I most wish for.”

With a cry, he flung himself upon the lion, bearing the king down to the mattress in a flurry of passionate kisses. 

“My little one,” gasped the king beneath the onslaught of black lips. 

“No,” snapped the snow leopard. “I have a name. I want you to say it.”

The king opened his mouth, beginning to speak, when Tycho’s finger silenced him. 

“As a free cat, I want you to shout it. Scream my name, my love,” Tycho hissed. “I’m going to make you say it as loudly as possible. So that my name will ring out across the kingdom.”

Proudly did Tycho sit astride the broad waist of his love. Soft thighs quivered with ecstatic desire, their plush flesh hugging the hard muscles as Tycho’s plump buttocks pushed back against the throbbing pillar of the lion’s crimson manhood. His fingers splayed themselves upon the great chest, feeling the panting breath of the king, his pectorals heaving as the lion would stare up into those glacial orbs, his eyes wide. Golden they were, swirling with the depthless amber which drew Tycho deeper into their fathomless void. The pregnant snow leopard was falling, plummeting into that molten pool. His belly came to rest on the rippling stomach of his love, their unborn lashing out, pummeling Tycho’s kidneys to make the cat wince. 

“So fierce your young one is,” he whispered. 

The great hands of the lion came to cup that swollen orb, his fingers caressing the bloated flesh as those clawed feet would kick out, pressing against Tycho’s belly. 

“So he is,” laughed the king. “Such a strong son we have made, my love.”

“Your love?” Tycho leaned further down, his belly rolling across the lion’s abdominals. His bloated breasts sagged atop the king’s chest, wet with the milk which would not cease to flow. “I am your love now, am I?”

Those glistening, ebon lips grazed the quavering mouth of the king, the lion lifting his chin to claim the elusive mouth which suddenly snatched itself back with a tinkling laugh. 

“You were always my love,” said King Omirom. “Would that I could truly make you free. That you could belong to me as a companion and not as a slave.”

Tycho sat back, his mouth pulled down into a frown. “But there are some things that even a king cannot do. It would not be politic to wed a former slave.”

“I did not know that my slaves were so educated,” replied the lion. He reached up, taking Tycho’s slick breast in his fist. His other hand rested on the snow leopard’s wide hip. “But enough of such talk. Tonight is a time for love, not for loss.”

“I agree.” Tycho’s smile broadened across his steely face. “And my love has yet to cry my name.”

Tycho leaned down, placing his lips to the mouth of his king. Their kiss would steal the breath from his lungs, the lion’s burly arms quick to wrap around his gravid frame. Crushed to the iron hard body of the king, Tycho could not hope to suppress the squeal of joy which burst from his flaring nostrils. His slender tail would curl behind him, swaying as a serpent in the light of the silver moon. The bed shimmered in that liquid radiance pouring over them both to set the snow leopard to sparkle as something ethereal. Tycho’s tongue slithered from between his lips, racing to dive deep into the hot, wet mouth of his love. There, he explored the red gums, letting his wandering tongue seek the smoothness of the white fangs, to rub itself along the ridges of the king’s palate. The great body beneath him shuddered, a deep groan bubbling up from the furry throat as the king’s clawed fingers slid down Tycho’s back. Sharp claws sank deep into yielding flesh, making the snow leopard jump as the lion seized his fat rump. 

“Oh, my love,” said Tycho. The cool night night which blew in from the open window kissed his damp, hot flesh, caressing the weeping ring which emerged between the spreading cheeks. “So you do not wish for me to continue with our foreplay?”

The snow leopard’s lips pulled back from the mouth of the king, his muzzle instead finding the broad, tawny ear which thrust itself from the tangle of the lion’s mane. With gleaming fangs, he would nibble that supple flesh, stirring the beast to knead his buttocks with both hands. Those thumbs, so strong, would press deep, circling as the king’s fingers squeezed hard, prying apart the jiggling cheeks to reveal the weeping blossom, shimmering with its pungent nectar. The white of spilled seed flowed from the gaping ring, seeping into Tycho’s fur as the king raised his lips, finding the slender throat of his love. 

“My little one,” he sighed. His lips met the neck of Tycho, for the first time kissing the furry flesh without the cool tang of the platinum slave collar. “For so long I have wanted to kiss your neck, unbound by that collar.” 

His lips glided along the curve of Tycho’s throat. The snow leopard lifted his head, swallowing, so that King Omirom nuzzled the slim throat as the corded muscles contracted, guiding him to the hollow of Tycho’s collarbone. 

“How I’ve wished to fill this sweet cup with my kisses.” He placed his lips to Tycho’s clavicle. “And now, I can.”

“Oh, my love,” Tycho whimpered. “O-Oh, yes. Fill me until I am overflowing.”

His rump trembled in the lion’s hands, his maiden flower eager to be taken, to be made full with the throbbing pillar of the king’s manhood. Tycho’s womb, stuffed with the seed of his love, with the life which stirred within him, yet desired more, much more. His body grew hot with anticipation, wishing for nothing else but to be made use of. The lion draped an arm around Tycho’s back, his other hand still on the snow leopard’s ass. With a sudden push of his powerful legs, the pair rolled. Tycho lay upon his back, his legs still around the lion’s waist. The golden bells jingled softly as he would cross his legs, not daring to allow his love to escape. The lion’s mouth hovered so deliciously close to his ebon lips, that Tycho nearly reached out to claim his love, but the beast would move, his maw seeking the valley which quivered between the milk heavy mountains of Tycho’s breasts. Their peaks wept with glistening white, pouring down the steely slopes of those wobbling hills, making sodden the furry canyon that the king did come to place his mouth to. 

Gently, he would suckle the warm damp of Tycho’s fur, growing ever more intoxicated on the fragrance of sweat and musk, of the snow leopard’s natural scent. He lifted his muzzle to ascend a fat slope, his lips encircling the black nipple. Lapping, the king drank of Tycho’s milk, letting it fill his mouth, pooling deep in his belly to stir his arousing passions. His cock spurted a stream of shimmering precum, glittering on the silken sheets in a darkening stain as he raised his panting face to look his love in the eyes. Glacial orbs shone in the moonlight, swirling with vibrant bands of pink and silver. So beautiful they were, like jewels in the night. No treasure in his vaults could ever compare to those perfect gems which looked back at him, eagerly awaiting the fateful thrust.

The king’s manhood demanded that he submit, to impale the wanting creature beneath him. His tip came to meet the quivering ring, sliding against Tycho’s battered flower. 

“My love,” said the snow leopard. “As a free cat, may I ask you to spare your vicious rod?”

The king stopped, taken aback by such a request. “My little one, you do not wish for my spear?”

“No, my love, it is not that,” replied Tycho. “I simply wish to be the one on top.”

The king chuckled, low and mirthful. Taking Tycho to his breast, he rolled onto his back, allowing the gravid feline to once more straddle him. Tycho’s fat cheeks hugged the king’s cock, their soft flesh rippling along his crimson lance to make the lion shudder. 

“My love,” said Tycho, bracing himself upon the lion’s chest. “I would like to dance for you again.”

Sitting back, Tycho would drop his wide hips down upon the king’s pelvis. The lion seized the maternal buttocks, lurching as the snow leopard would impale himself so proudly upon that scarlet rod. Tycho’s anus clenched, grasping that shuddering lance, drawing it into himself as he slid down the crimson flesh. His rump came to rest upon the king’s pubic bone and there, Tycho would smile, closing his eyes as he did so. His slender arm came up from King Omirom’s chest, rising into the air above his head as the snow leopard would begin his sensual dance. Thumbs and middle fingers would meet, tapping together as if with ghostly cymbals as the snow leopard hummed a low, sweetly haunting melody. Gently at first, his wide hips would begin to rock, swaying to the beat which only he could hear. 

“O-Oh,” groaned the king, his head falling back upon the bed.

Tycho’s pace began to quicken, his movements flowing into a sensual rhythm. His hips rose, tilting, falling back down, flowing with the undulations of his pregnant belly. The king grasped the fat buttocks, clinging for life as the snow leopard swiveled his wide hips. His breasts flopped against his gravid middle, the wet slap of fresh milk sending droplets to sparkle in the moonlit air as the slick crimson of the king’s rod would emerge from between his plush cheeks. Those dimpled globes would fall with a slap, driving the king’s member deep, piercing his wailing core. The snow leopard’s humming rose into a keening shriek as the creature began to twist in the gloom. His hips moved, gyrating madly, his belly clenching, sending his unborn into a frenzy. Panting, King Omirom slipped his hands from Tycho’s rump, his fingers finding the swollen belly. HIs palms, filled with gravid flesh, would slide up the pulsating orb that was the snow leopard’s stomach, claws rasping in the steely fur. 

“Say it,” shrieked Tycho. “Say it, my love.”

Faster, he crashed down upon the pelvis of the king, the lion groaning. Driven into the madness of lust, the king could not speak, could not form the words as his mouth opened to emit a slow, long moan of jubilation. His eyes were squeezed shut, his hips bucking in time to Tycho’s wild pace. His cock spurted, ready to burst, yet the lion, so proud in his strength, would not let go. 

“Come, say it,” Tycho whispered. 

His arms twisted in the air above his head, his hips circling. That gaping ring would contract, closing hard around the king’s member, stroking him with each circle of Tycho’s hips. The snow leopard rose up, sliding along the slick, red flesh until only the lion’s tip remained within his blossom. On his knees, he danced, circling, dipping so that his belly sagged upon King Omirom’s stomach. The great lion clung to his lover, his strength waning. He could not breathe, but only to give himself to the gyrations of the snow leopard. Tycho sank back down, his fat cheeks resting on the king’s pelvis. His anus clenched, drawing the lion into that wet, alien world, his muscles like so many fingers on that shivering rod. 

The king’s balls, fat with fresh seed, churned, demanding to release. Precum spurted, hot and shimmering, painting the walls of Tycho’s rectum as the beast would tilt his head back and cry out. 

“O-Oh… Tycho,” he screamed as the snow leopard tilted his hips. “Tycho… Tycho…”

“My love,” Tycho wept. “My king.”

The lion arched his back, no longer able to hold back the flood of his virile essence. Tycho’s womb expanded with the fountain of life, swelling rapidly to bloat as one pregnant with triplets. Fresh seed sloshed within his swollen womb, eagerly being lapped up as the king shuddered, releasing another ropy strand to flow deep. Loose strings of semen spurted from Tycho’s broken flower, seeping into his fur and trickling down into the wiry pubic fur of the king’s tawny body. His hands on the lion’s chest, Tycho would lower himself into those great arms, his belly spreading across the king’s stomach as he lifted his aching hips. This ass came free with a wet pop, seed flowing from his gaping anus as he laid against his love. The silver moonlight enveloped them, their bodies glimmering in the afterglow of their love. 

“My king,” Tycho sighed. “You were simply sublime.”

“My little one,” said the king. “Tycho, my love. You have been all that I desired and more.”

He rolled onto his side, allowing Tycho to lay on the silk sheets. His arms enfolded around the snow leopard, drawing him to his chest so that Tycho lay with his back against his king. The fearsome claws of the lion were around his belly, fingers gently rustling through the dappled fur. Laughing to himself, Tycho would take the king by the wrist, guiding the lion’s hand to his lower belly. 

“Here,” he said. “You can feel him moving.”

“So I can,” replied the king. His lips grazed the back of Tycho’s ear. “I fear that I have become quite attached to you.”

“Is this how a mere slave may claim a king?” asked the snow leopard. “If so, then perhaps you should wear the collar. One which says that ‘I belong to Tycho.’” 

His body quaking in hearty mirth, the king would kiss Tycho behind the ear. “Come the morrow, you shall again be made to wear the hated collar of a slave.”

Tycho nodded, but did not speak. 

The king’s lips came to his cheek, following the slope of his jaw to plant a kiss upon Tycho’s bare neck. 

“But, when the night falls and you next enter my chamber, you will do so as a free cat.” He held the snow leopard tight. “For I shall love you as a free cat and not as a slave.”

“My king,” Tycho whispered. 

“For it is I,” said King Omirom, “who has become the slave. For I cannot live without you, master of my heart.”

Shimmering tears made damp his cheeks and Tycho could not hold back the trembling of his sobs. His slender hands gripped the great arms of his love as if they should disappear with the fading of moonlight. 

“My love,” he said. “We shall always have the moonlight.”

“And the fire.” The king’s fingertips glided along the swell of Tycho’s belly. “And the golden bells which tinkle so merrily when you dance.”

“I dance for you, my love,” said Tycho. 

“My little one,” the king whispered. “My Tycho.”

Their lips met beneath the moonlight, fingers clasping, twining as their souls would find one another. A king and a slave, bound in platinum and red silk.