The black of night stretched its onyx wings across the gloaming sky, a bed of felt upon which dazzled the stars, blazing in the heavens like the jewels which encrusted the king’s fingers. Leaning upon the railing of the balcony carved from the raw sandstone of vast golden desert, he turned his ebon muzzle to the sky, watching the three moons skate across the empty darkness. First would come the Hunter, full and bright to illuminate his jet black fur, to make his muscles stand out in blue relief as the jackal shifted his gaze to the raucous din which chorused in the streets below. The night was alive with the fires of Kalana, the festival of life and love. Here and there came the cries of the elated people, the flowing of wine and the red lamps of love which glowed from the windows of a sleeping town, marking those who found another on a night dedicated to such joys. From the thronging streets below, illuminated by the flickering torches of the crowd, came the wailing lilt of a flute, alien in its strange melody, carrying with it the scents of spilled wine and the oppressive, rousing odor of many a sweaty, thrusting body.

The Archer was next to follow and King Baucaus would turn his attention back to the sky, watching the smaller, green orb race after its companion. The Hunter and the Archer, together always. The pair were inseparable. Held delicately within the king’s calloused fist was a glass goblet, sloshing with the rich, heady wines of the royal vineyards. This, did the king place to his lips as the third moon, that of the Spearman, red as blood, would cast its baleful gleam upon the glittering sands which rested just beyond the high walls of the city. The old jackal lowered his goblet, tapping one clawed finger on the shimmering glass, his thoughts returning to the pleasures of his seraglio. Clad in only the brief loincloth which he had so worn that evening, Baucaus strode proudly from the balcony, leaving the peasants below to their revels, for his own desires had yet to be fulfilled. His chamber was vast, as befitting a king, carved of sandstone tile, the ceiling held up by pillars of marble, white, veined with black. A dresser of elegant almwood sat by the wall, this he would place his goblet on and, his palms spreading over the polished surface, would then look upon the deathly scimitar sheathed in a scabbard of gold. Set with the sparkling jewels which glittered brighter than the stars themselves, the fiery blade had won him great renown, earning him the moaning slaves which filled his harem. Bellies distended in pregnancy, each a prince of his own kingdom, now reduced to the mewling pleasures of the barbarian king who sat so arrogantly upon the peacock throne. 

His lips, black and shimmering wetly, did curl as he felt once more the fleeting caress, the whimper as his hard, strong hands held firm the jiggling flesh of his most recent prey. Young Sevlis, prince of the northern kingdoms. So proud was he upon his war steed. Baucaus only grinned, for the young prince had grown round and so very appealing. How his breasts, bloated with fresh milk, did trickle at his coming, seeing his master looming above him. His belly was a vast, gravid orb, the flesh bubbling at the king’s touch as his unborn did lash out in furious protest as he claimed his slave, taking him forcefully from behind so that Sevlis did shriek his elated cries to the jealous heavens and make envious the others who knelt with bellies swollen, their cheeks flushed with the excitement of the king’s lust and the desire that he should look upon them and claim them for his own. 

Baucaus would only laugh, for such was the manner of the barbarian king. With a fist he smote the dresser with a resounding thump which echoed throughout the chamber. 

“By the gods, it is good to be king,” he swore lustily. 

“So it is, my king, came a voice at once rich and melodic, yet filled with the rasping groans of a barely contained lust. 

The old jackal whirled to find framed within the doorway of his chamber another of his kind. Like the king, his fur was dark as spilled ink, glistening with the sheen of blue which flickered in the dim radiance of the torches which wobbled from their sconces of gold, thrust into the iron bands which held them to the walls beyond the king’s chamber. 

“Chanal,” said the king. “I wondered when you might appear before me.”

The younger jackal glided into the room on feet contained within slippers woven of gold. His sleek, ebon fur was stretched taut over the ripe swell of a belly distended in pregnancy. Breasts made heavy with warm, rich milk swayed above his bloated abdomen, held in place by little more than the sheer fabric of the long, open gown which flowed down his shoulders and trailed behind him like a bridal train. The diaphanous material shimmered like smoke, clinging to the jackal’s supple frame to rub gently on his wide, round hips. Such hips did the king lay his emerald eyes upon and his manhood at once was stirred into throbbing life as the younger canine placed one leg, the thigh full, soft with his maternal padding, before his other, his manhood revealed as a ruby pillar which was just escaping from a sheath of black. A pair of firm, plump globes descended from that shaft, clad in the black scruff of the jackal’s pubic fur. His fingers, long and slender, sparkled with the golden rings which denoted him as no mere slave. 

“Father,” said Chanal. “I have waited for you all evening.”

“My son,” the king spread his arms wide, his lips parting in a wide smile which was infectious, “you must know that on such a night as this, I am to be detained by my many duties.”

But Chanal crossed his arms beneath his heaving breasts, resting his shapely elbows upon his belly. His lips were full and shining in the light of the guttering oil lamps which offered their meager illumination from the sconces above the great bed of the king, painted a vibrant sky blue which contrasted so deliciously with the black of his fur. His eyes, a deep violet, glared from hooded lids dusted with the same powdery hue as his pursing mouth. 

“Mmph,” huffed the prince. “No doubt spending the night among your treasures, Father?”

The king gave a hearty laugh and came to place his hands upon the swollen belly of the prince. “I am a king first,” he said, circling his fingers around the distended navel of his son. “And a father second.”

“A father who has neglected his children,” protested the prince. He seized the wrist of the king, massive compared to his delicate arm and brought his father’s hand to rest in the center of his gravid belly. Slipping the king’s hand to his lower belly, letting his father’s palm be filled with the raw flesh of his bloated womb, he then said, “Both of us.”

From within the belly of the prince there stirred the faint flutterings of new life. Baucaus ran his other hand up the curve of his son’s belly, delighting in the strong, purposeful kicks of his unborn. 

“Do any of your harem slaves carry such a strong life?” asked Chanal. 

Finding the heaving breast of the prince, its nipple erect and firm, the king answered, “No, my son, but they do not possess the blood on both sides as you do.”

Chanal shuddered as his father’s questing fingers slipped beneath the gossamer folds of his flowing gown, caressing the tender flesh which was warm as the desert sands. Fingers made rough by sword and the leather reins of the saddle were quick to pluck that hardened stem, flicking the firm numb so that the first beads of white, fresh milk began to well upon the nipple of Chanal. The prince let his eyes close, his lips pursed, pressing outward so that his gleaming fangs did glisten as he leaned into the arms of his father. 

“Mmm, Father,” he moaned. “Your touch is so very bracing. I know why all the slaves of the seraglio do quake in ecstasy just to see you.”

His hands, glittering with the gold and jewels of his house, found the hips of his father. Nimble fingers, accustomed to the string of the lute rather than the grasp of the sword, soft and delicate as a virginal maiden’s, slid across the rippling muscles of the king’s belly, delighting Chanal in the way his father’s stomach did shiver at his touch. His belly heaved in rapt desire, his flower blooming between the wobbling orbs of his fat, round ass, opening to spill forth its sweetly fragrant nectar. Such aroma did tickle the flaring nostrils of the king, inflaming his senses to set his manhood to grow erect beneath the confines of his loincloth. His cock would rise, a pillar of throbbing scarlet, straining against the rough material. His rod screamed to leap free, to pierce the bloom of his son, the prince who carried his child, as he had carried his own son, sired by his father before him. 

“My son,” Baucaus groaned in a throaty whisper. Heat bloomed in his cheeks, stirring the lust which made his throat constrict.

“Father,” sighed the prince. 

Clutching at his gravid belly, Chanal fell to his knees before his father, his lips hovering so deliciously, dangerously close to that manly bulge, that quivering pillar of masculine power which throbbed beneath his loincloth. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, his gleaming fur damp with the cold perspiration of one utterly prepared to vent his carnal fury upon the one he desired. With trembling hands, he met the rippling belly, rising upon his aching knees to press his blue lips to the ebon fur of Baucaus’s stomach. His mouth did claim the wavy expanse, his tongue slithering from between his teeth, a pink worm which curled in languid repose to slide down the king’s stomach, to slither into the deep well that was Baucaus’s navel. 

“O-Oh, my son,” groaned the king. He clutched the black head of Chanal, not daring to allow his son to escape him. “Mmm, you are such an attentive boy.”

“I am more than any mere boy, Father,” said the prince. “For my belly grows heavy with the heir of your kingdom, soon to be brought forth into this world.” 

“He shall be [i]your[/i] heir,” replied the king. His fingers beneath the pointed chin of the prince, he tilted Chanal’s face up to meet his eye. “To be made pregnant in his time with the blood of our line, just as you have been.”

“And just as you carried me,” said Chanal.

He turned his gaze from his father, seeing faintly the thin, white lines which adorned the rippling muscles like scars. One by one, he did kiss the marks which had been left by his birth upon the flesh of his father, his tongue leaving a shimmering trail as it rustled in the short, sleek fur. The scents of sweat and of his father’s raw musk filled his nostrils, mingling with the faint and much more delicate odors of the slaves. The perfumes of rosewater and sandalwood offered their fragrance to the rich tableau which tingled in the flaring nostrils of the prince. His heart did quake with a pang of jealous hatred for those whimpering sluts who grew fat on the seed of his father. His ears did droop, rattling the delicate rings of gold which were set in the soft lobes. Yet, his mouth did soon curl with the evil knowledge that when he ascended the throne, those same slaves would become his. His to make fat with the flutterings of the life which churned within the plump orbs between his full, sleek thighs. Chanal’s manhood stirred, slipping from its sheath as his desires grew into boiling lust, his fingers taking hold of his father’s stout, muscular legs. 

Claws dug into the unyielding flesh, nearly breaking the skin as the prince drove his muzzle into the rough fabric of Baucaus’s loincloth. 

“I simply must,” he cried. “Father, I cannot stand it any longer.” 

He looked up into the imperious gaze of the king, his eyes growing wide. His sky blue mouth was swollen in lust, fragrant with the spice of cinnamon and the pungent aroma of the panga berries, which gave a  sweet, chocolate odor. His purple eyes glistened as chips of polished amethyst, twinkling in the twilight gloom which had stolen across the king’s chamber. His cheeks were fiery with the desire which made his heart pound against his ribs. His pregnant belly, a vast hump which swelled over his lap, concealing his thighs from view, did roil with the tormented fury of the life which grew within him. With every breath, his heaving breasts did shudder atop his gravid stomach, set to wobble with their seductive motion, threads of fresh milk running freely from his aching nipples to spread forth in two dark stains on the gossamer fabric which held them in place. 

“Rise, my son,” laughed the king. He bellowed in lusty glee, raising his gravid son to his slippered feet. His arms, massive as tree trunks, wrapped themselves around the squealing prince, drawing the pregnant jackal to his broad, powerful chest. The prince’s swollen belly shook with the protests of his unborn, lashing out in blind rage as it found itself squeezed too tightly. 

Chanal winced against the torturous rapture which kicked within him, his body surrendering in the arms of his father. His head fell to the broad chest, his ear thudding with the steady thrum of that great, powerful heart. Black fingers glimmering with their rings of gold spread across the ebon expanse, finding the iron muscles of the old jackal, relishing in the firm grasp of a calloused fist which had slid beneath his gown to clasp his jiggling buttock. Fingers sank into dimpled flesh, painfully ecstatic so that the prince did open his mouth in a howl of jubilation. 

“Such a prince,” said the king. “The hot blood of your ancestors runs within you.”

He claimed the prince’s mouth, his lips of glistening ebony coming to enfold themselves around the plump, bright mouth of the prince, stealing his very breath in a bruising embrace. The prince’s ears fell, his eyes closing, losing himself in the arms of the king, the one he loved. His hands slid up his father’s chest, closing around the great, bull neck of the powerful warrior and king, drawing his father to him that he may not pull back. His lips pressed against the mouth of his father, Chanal’s tongue did squirm from between his fangs, seeking the path through the gates of Baucaus’s teeth to explore the red gums, to caress the ridged palate of the elder jackal. His slender tail swished beneath the folds of his gown, his nipples now flowing with the rich milk which poured forth with the mounting lust which would overwhelm the young jackal. His cock shivered, the first opalescent glimmer of precum like a jewel upon his scarlet tip. Secreted between those flabby cheeks, flesh dimpled with their maternal padding, his flower blossomed, gushing with the fragrant honey of his desires. 

Chanal plunged between the parting fangs of the king, darting along the smooth, white teeth to curl back against the king’s front fangs. Baucaus, his hand behind the prince’s head, brought his tongue to bear as if it were a saber. He rubbed the underside of Chanal’s tongue, tasting of the panga berries which the pregnant prince had become so fond of. In his youth, Baucaus had taken to the bitter fruits of the sa’vata when he carried Chanal. Such were the memories, he thought as his tongue did mount a counter thrust upon his son. He plunged with reckless fury into the waiting maw of the prince, finding the slick gums of Chanal’s mouth open to him. But, Chanal was equally adept at war as at love. Eager to show his father, he curled his tongue, twisting around the king’s rough tongue to slip down the throat of the old jackal. Baucaus let out a moan from deep within his chest, his belly growing hot with the need to take his son right then and there. His cock wept the bitter tears of lust beneath his loincloth, the fabric grown dark with the sticky stain of the king’s own shimmering precum. 

Tearing his stained mouth from the lips of his father, the prince sobbed, “Father, I simply must. I cannot wait any longer.” His sky blue paint was smudged into hopeless ruin, his once fine makeup running bright rivulets from the corners of his eyes and down his cheeks, rendering him the look of the mad slayers of Kha’resh, who went into war with faces painted like those of demons, howling their insanity as blades glistened in the sun. “Please, take me, my king.” His arms gripped feverishly to the iron hard biceps of Baucaus, his body trembling against his father. 

The king lowered his hand to the prince’s back, his other hand releasing the jiggling rump to trace a finger along the throbbing rod of the younger jackal’s manhood. “Yes, my son,” said the king. His fingers curled around the weeping member as if it were the hilt of a sword, stroking slowly, rousing the shuddering desires within the trembling body of his pregnant son. “I can see that you have such a strong need to be conquered.” He lowered his head, his lips grazing the curve of the prince’s supple throat. “But, as my son and my heir, do you have the desire to conquer in turn?”

“A-Ah, yes,” wept the prince. “Yes, Father. I do so desire.”

Baucaus’s mouth found the indent of his son’s collarbone, his lips filling that empty chalice as his hand quickened, growing more furious with his pumps which brought forth the salty tears to sting at the eyes of Chanal. 

“Then show me, my son,” said Baucaus. Glimmering precum spurted from the prince’s crimson tip. “Show me, boy, that you have the blood in you.”
Chanal clung to this father with a strength which was becoming hysterical. His heaving lungs did pump like a bellows, his breath rattling in a throat suddenly constricting with the intensity of his mounting desires. His cock pulsed in the hand of the king, the muscular knot quivering as his shimmering essence wept from his crimson tip. The black, gravid belly of the prince ballooned with Chanal’s sobs, the distended navel grazing the furry stomach of Baucaus. 

“Yes, my son,” purred the king. “Show me.”

With a surprising show of strength, Chanal did fling himself from the arms of his father, stumbling backward on the sandstone tile. His eyes were as great disks of swirling amethyst, feral in their gleam as his slender fingers did grasp the gossamer fabric of his gown. A golden clasp was set at his breast, nestled between the milk heavy globes which so tantalized the eye of the king. The prince grasped at his gown, tearing the delicate fabric as if it were made of tissue. The golden clasp, both halves still locked together, did clatter upon the floor between his slippered feet as the prince threw off his meager garment. The remnants of his gown fluttered in the air around him, caught on the cool breeze which blew in from across the sandy expanse to caress his naked form. His fur glistened slick with the damp of sweat, his chest heaving, nipples as black as midnight and erect with the need to be plucked, leaking their precious white flow which coursed down the slope of his gravid belly. Chanal’s wide, round hips were spread wide, his legs revealing themselves in their shapely glory. Trim calves ascended to full, soft thighs, opened to let sag the pendulous balls, contained by the crinkled scruff of his pubic fur. 

The prince’s tongue lolled from his open mouth, the young jackal panting in his lust. The slender tail wagged behind him, his body eager to leap into the arms of his father, yet instead, he would rush with all haste for the dresser. 

“My son?” called Baucaus.

“Father,” replied Chanal. “We simply must join in the revelry below. It is the festival of Kalana afterall.” 

The king laughed, shaking his head. “Still a child, my son.”

Ignoring his father’s laughter, he dug into a drawer, producing a shade of red silk. The prince, in spite of his fetal girth, one hand clapped to his swollen belly, then made for the bed. Taking one of the oil lamps, he placed the shade over the guttering flame. 

“We simply must,” Chanal said once more. “It is only right.”

This, he would then take to the balcony, placing it upon the rail so that it might join the thousand embers of crimson light which shone from every window on this night of love. He whirled in place, resting his wobbling buttocks against the rough stone. One clawed hand, he did place upon his breast, fingers spread, while his other he did raise, extending towards that of his father and king. The moonlight shone radiant upon his sleek, ebon fur, bathing the prince in molten silver. The green of the Archer formed a scintillating chorus with the blood red light of the Spearman, setting their gleam upon the shoulders of Chanal as he did glare with an imperious eye at the king, daring the old warrior to at last unsheath his fearsome blade. 

Feeling the throbbing ache in his swelling manhood, the king filled the open doorway, a shadow carved in onyx to set his gleaming eyes on the haughty prince. “Yes, my son.” He spoke in a voice barely more than a whisper, every breathy word punctuated by a feral lust. “The night in which is lit the red lamps of love.”

The alien wail of the distant flutes carried up from below, joining with the thrum of the murmuring crowd, lost in their night of ceaseless passions. Swaying bodies convulsing among the flickering glow of the torchlight threw their undulating shadows across the sprawling walls of the city, shimmering with the sweat of their lust. The faint scents of wine and the odors of carnal delight drifted upon the wind, teasing the nostrils of the king and the prince. 

“Come, Father,” said Chanal. “Let us show the people what such a night truly means.”

A colossus wrought of purest jet, the king strode upon the balcony, dominating the quaking, gravid form of his son. The prince gripped the rough rail of the balcony, worrying his lower lip. His body trembled, not with fear, but the unbridled urge to leap upon that pillar of many beauty, to sink his slavering fangs into the hard flesh, to taste the virile tang of his father’s seed upon his tongue. 

Such would drive the prince from the balcony in a mad explosion of fury. Tumbling towards the king, Chanal’s hand shot for the rough loincloth which swaddled the hips of his father, tearing the garment from Baucaus. Letting it tumble from his fingers, the young jackal then let out a gusty laugh, his hands laying claim to the powerfully built hips of his father. The crimson lance of the king thrust itself proudly, free from the confines of the rude cloth which had girded it for so long, now quivering in the open air, trembling at the kiss of the night breeze. Veins of black and azure punctuated the scarlet flesh like that of a marble pillar, swollen, pumping a web of ivy which grew towards the triangular tip, weeping its bitter tears. 

“My king,” he wept. “I must give my utter obeisance.”

Overcome by such masculine majesty, the prince was brought to his knees there on the balcony, in the presence of the very gods themselves. His claws feebly clung to the hips of his father, his eyes smarting with the crystalline tears which trailed down his blue-stained cheeks. His pregnant belly, the life within him stirring, ballooned over his knees, nearly scraping upon the rough stone as the prince did place his lips to that crimson rod. Such a small peck, the most meager of displays, yet the king did groan as if in torment. 

“Such honor you give, my son,” moaned Baucaus. “What an example you set for the people.”
The sky blue lips approached once more, planting themselves on the undershaft of the king’s scepter, the kisses of Chanal traveling lower, tracing the plumping flesh to come to the quivering knot. The scents of sweat and the pungent aroma of musk drifted into the nose of the prince, setting his mind ablaze with the fragrance of his father. Such a scent did tease his senses, like a heady wine which flowed into him, making him giddy, dizzy with a growing elation. 

He kissed the firm knot, relishing in the trembling of the king in his hands. Fingers slithered around the muscled hips, finding the hard, boxy cheeks of his father’s rump. Once, thought Chanal, his father would have possessed the soft, roundness of his own ass. In his youth, when he too did kneel before his father, the previous king, to kiss the crimson rod which would bless his womb. Clawed fingers sought the cleft which dipped between those two mounds, plunging down into that musky canyon to caress the taut ring of the king’s anus. Baucaus moaned softly, his hands upon the shoulders of his son. 

“Oh, my boy,” he sighed. 

Two fingers plunged into that opening bloom, caressing the pulsing gland to make the old jackal groan. Chanal’s lips did come now to the weeping tip, made sticky and shiny by the flowing of the king’s precum. He licked that gaping urethra, his tongue stabbing at the opening which flowed unceasing. His lips parted, wrapping around the throbbing penis, his tongue slithering down the fat pole. The salt of sweat and the bitter tang of his father’s precum danced across his tongue, playing along his gums like a fine brew to make him intoxicated on the lust which boiled hot in his belly. The prince plunged down that pulsing rod, his lips closing around the red flesh. His muzzle nuzzled the fragrant pubic fur, black splashed with the white of Baucaus’s years, made oily by the musky sweat of the king. Chanal inhaled the fragrant aroma, his fingers stabbing with ruthless fury at the quivering prostate. The king shuddered, his cock releasing a sticky spurt of bitter precum to fill the waiting mouth of his greedy son. Chanal shivered in his excitement, gulping with glee the first droplets of his father’s essence. 

Now the prince did pull back, lips closing hard around the crimson lance of his king and love, leaving behind the sky blue stain of his mounting lust. His paint was smeared, a hopeless ruin upon his wild face, rendering him the countenance of a demon as he looked up with wide, glimmering eyes at his father, begging him to give forth his rich and virile essence. The prince’s fingers probed, rubbing at the quivering prostate, demanding that the king release. Baucaus’s body was racked by the sensual thrill of his son’s mouth, the cruel play of his fingers upon his trembling gland. Bravely, the old king did stand, not allowing himself to be taken so early in their battle. His muscles surged, strength flowing through those mighty thews, he would with a roar fling his arms around the giddy prince. Chanal plucked himself from his father’s member with a shrill scream, toppling in a feigned gesture of fear towards the looming king. One hand was raised in feeble supplication, a futile defense as the mighty Baucaus did scoop the prince into his arms. 

“A most impressive opening, my son,” said the king. He held the prince with both arms, cradling the younger jackal. “But, your father will show you why he is still the master.”

“By all means, teach me,” whimpered the prince, with his arms around the king’s neck. 
Baucaus turned from the balcony, from the radiant moons in the black sky and strode back into his chamber, carrying his son like a conquering general towards the great bed which sat as a monarch among the furnishings of the room. A slab of stuffed down made up the mattress, adorned not with the silks of so many perfumed nobles, but the furs of wild beasts which lay piled up like a thick carpet. The king let the gravid prince tumble from his arms, casting the squealing Chanal to flop heavily upon the bed with a laugh. The prince lay on his back, his fingers spreading through the sable fur of a mosk skin, the enormous ungulate which roamed the southern plains. He reached behind himself with his other hand, feeling now the short, bristling pelt of the ravenous largon, fearsome predator of the forests of Kelgithon. His swollen belly was a vast orb of black which rose before his eyes, masking the sight of the king who moved with a patherish grace to clamber onto the bed. Calloused hands were placed upon the knees of Chanal, fingers strong as iron, cruel, hard hands which then glided down the insides of his thighs, opening his lap to the lustful eyes of the king. 

The prince sighed, arching his back, his hips swiveling in the manner of a comely tavern wench, bringing the fat globes of his rump to bear, the dark crease between his cheeks opening only slightly, the warmth of his body radiating the youthful vitality of the haughty creature who laughed in the arms of the king. Baucaus gently pressed down the quivering thighs, their muscles swimming beneath his fingertips, denoting the supple strength of the prince. The red pillar of Chanal’s manhood did thrust itself from the black sheath, throbbing above the knot of trembling firmness, ready to burst its virile essence at the slightest touch. Touch, the king did. His fingers fell to that pulsing rod, caressing the hot flesh of his son. Chanal whimpered at his father’s touch, his hands grasping at the furs which were draped over the mattress. His body shuddered, every muscle grown suddenly tight, tendons rising on the backs of his hands as the king did slide his fingers down to the bulging knot. Rising once again, the king did circle the weeping tip with one finger, setting the prince to choke out a sobbing cry. His hand then rose from the trembling shaft, coming to graze the lower belly, mounting the slope of Chanal’s gravid stomach. 

The rasp of sleek fur in his ears would bring the king to meet the swollen flesh, to place his lips to the belly of his son, feeling therein the stirrings of the life he had sown, as life was once sown within him. His belly clenched with the memory of expansion of the blessed pains of maternity which swelled his belly and made heavy his aching breasts. Such would make the king groan in tortured ecstasy, his lips spreading across the tender flesh of his son. The prince could offer only a contented sigh, his belly rising against the kisses of his father, his chest swaying before him as the gentle green fronds of the palm did sway in the sun, nipples thrust to the heavens, leaking the white droplets of his love to tempt the lustful king. Baucaus’s tongue extended from his muzzle, leaving a shimmering trail of slick saliva to glisten on the belly of Chanal. His eyes, green as the sea, were luminous twin moons which glimmered as they gazed into the amethyst jewels which shone their radiance from the ebon mask which was twisted in such ecstatic agony. As a great stalking beast, he did crawl, arms upon the bed, his knee coming to rest between the quivering thighs of the prince. His erect cock, dribbling its hot precum like the melting wax of a tallow candle, splattered its glittering droplets onto the prince’s belly as his rod did come to cross with the shaft of his son like dueling blades. 

“Ngh,” moaned Chanal. The delicate touch of his father’s cock pulsing so strongly against his veined shaft, their flesh shimmering and sticky, was enough to make the prince yearn for the blessed oblivion of release.

A hungering mouth came to greet the right breast of Chanal, the prince crying out as a rough, wet tongue did circle the bumpy areola. Chanal flung his arms around the neck of his father, his fangs clenched in torment, giddy with the sweet jubilation as that mouth did wrap itself around his breast, the cunning tongue lapping at the dew which trickled from his tit. As a ripe fruit, Baucaus bit down with savage elation into the jiggling flesh, tasting of the tang of sweat and the sweet juices which burst upon his tongue. The trickle of Chanal’s milk became a flow, filling the eager mouth of the king, his black cheeks bulging with the intoxicating elixir. White dribbled from the corner of his mouth, trickling down his chin to patter in glimmering droplets upon the swollen belly of his son, but Baucaus gulped down the warm mixture, thirsting for more. His belly grew hot with the sloshing of his son’s milk, suffusing his limbs with a dull warmth which made his head swim. His tongue played with the erect nipple, flicking the leaking bud so that the prince would howl his father’s name, weeping with the fierce tears of his shuddering love. 

The ruby pillar of Chanal throbbed, demanding that all should pay their worship. Shimmering precum drooled from the sobbing tip, making his cock sticky and shiny. Such a rod did the king claim, his fingers curling around his son’s member, stroking the prince into a paroxysm of sobbing cries which would rock the very foundations of the palace. With a cough, Baucaus tore his white-stained lips from the trickling fountain of his son’s milky breasts, letting that black orb still flow unceasingly with the albin trail which descended the slope of his breast like a waterfall to cascade down his belly. His muzzle snuffled gently between the heaving breasts, drinking deeply of the scent of the whimpering prince. His hand, the tendons like those of steel, conditioned for the swing of the sword, the clever turn of the wrist to parry and counter, now plied its strength to a new blade. Up, the king’s hand came, sliding along the throbbing, crimson flesh. Down, he slid, finding the muscular knot which pulsed from its sheath. 

The king’s lips traveled the valley which shuddered between those quaking mounds, kissing the sleek fur, damp with sweat and milk, tasting of the raw vitality of the prince. Chanal flung his arms from his father’s neck, his fingers gripping deep into the skins which covered the bed, as if they alone would save him from being swept away on that giddy sea of carnal jubilation. His head tilted back, exposing the taut cords of his supple throat, his face a grimace of pain and ecstatic pleasure. Beyond their chamber came the wailing cries of the city, the festival reaching its climax as the peasants roared their love to the silent moons above as the lilting, whining frenzy of the flutes piped their alien song through the narrow, crowded streets. Chanal’s cock shivered, spurting its precum into the air, glistening like the sparkling droplets which fell from the oasis of Al’Akshasa. 

“Father,” wept the prince. “Father, please.” He dug his shaking fists into the furs. “I cannot take it any longer.”

“No son of mine is going to surrender so easily,” roared the king. He pumped with a renewed fury, stoking the fires which burned molten in the swollen belly of the prince. “Come, my son. Show me that you are indeed worthy to be king.”