“I-I shall strive, Father, t-to endeavor,” Chanal sobbed, his voice cut short by the mewling cries which did rise from his throat.

His bloated belly trembled above him, a black pearl of gravid beauty which shone with the guttering light of the remaining oil lamps. Gasping, Chanal’s hands came to his pregnant belly, fingers spreading across the taut, ebon flesh, claws rustling through the sleek fur which bristled down his stomach. Tracing the hump of his distended navel, he then arched his back with a shriek of joyous agony, offering his belly to the lips of the king to meet with a kiss which made the prince howl. Baucaus descended the swell of his son’s belly, finding the fragrant jungle of Chanal’s pubic fur. The black tangle carried with it the oppressive odor of musk, the tang of sweat and the bitterness of Chanal’s semen. Such a pungent aroma did set the king on a path to lay waste to that overgrown forest. With tongue and teeth, the old warrior did nip and tear, lapping the oily fur which lay slick with the essence of the prince. His lips found the quivering shaft, pressing to the throbbing cock of his son, making the prince screech in jubilation. 

“Father, you must not,” wept Chanal. “For your lips are too warm, your mouth too potent of a weapon for my feeble defenses.”

“A king must be equally skilled with his tongue as with a blade, my boy,” the king laughed. “And so I shall teach you that lesson.”

His lips met the weeping tip, kissing the pulsing head of Chanal’s cock. His tongue slid from between his fangs, slithering with a lazy circular motion, licking the sticky tears which wept so freely from the prince’s manhood. Down, plunged the king, his tongue circling, sliding up the prince’s undershaft so that Chanal could not hold back his shrieking joy. The prince screamed to the frosty heavens, their bejeweled stars left to glint their jealousy as these two mere mortals would find a love that they could never have. Baucaus wrapped his lips around his son’s cock, closing firmly as he plunged down to meet the throbbing knot with a kiss, making the prince cry out. His massive shoulders bunched, drawing the king back up, his mouth closing around that crimson lance to milk his son as his hands found the shivering thighs. Made soft by pregnancy, Chanal’s quivering thighs opened to his father’s fingers, spreading as easily as a maiden’s silk before the mighty king. His lips came down once more, pressing to Chanal’s knot, his nose nuzzling the scruff of the prince’s pubic fur. 

Baucaus then rose, his lips slipping from the slick, shiny shaft of the prince, only to come to the plump fruits of Chanal’s furry scrotum. 

“Such size, my son,” the king mused. He kissed each churning orb in turn, making the prince shudder in his grasp. “Soon, you shall vent your seed into your son, becoming the new king.”

“Yes, Father,” panted Chanal. “I so dream of the day, when the life within me may carry the life I sire.”

“So it shall be,” said the king. Gently, he lifted those plump orbs aside. “But, not today, my boy. For I am still king.”

Chanal’s legs spread themselves obediently before their master, his rump revealing the deep cleft between his fleshy cheeks. His flower bloomed, hot and wet with the need to be opened, to be crushed by the fierce manhood of his father’s unforgiving spear. The king’s mighty hands found those wobbling globes, fingers sinking deep into yielding flesh. Chanal’s cries fell across the sandstone tiles, his hands clenched into fists so tight that his claws nearly broke the skin as the king’s muzzle descended. Baucaus’s tongue slid from between his teeth, tasting the gaping ring of Chanal’s anus. The puffy circle that was his blossoming ring, was slick and wet with the nectar of his desires, such an intoxicating wine which the king could not resist. 

“Your honey plays across my tongue like the divine wines of Telensis, Jewel of the Boiling Seas,” the king sighed. His lips came to encircle the weeping button. Slurping greedily with noisome sips, he let the hot brew flow over his tongue to slide down his throat, burning like a fine brandy. “Such aroma, such flavor,” Baucaus whispered. He suckled the anus of his son, his tongue stabbing deep, slithering along the smooth, shuddering walls of Chanal’s rectum. Glistening nectar sparkled from his chin, as he groaned, “Truly, you are feast fit for the very gods, my son.”

“Father,” moaned the prince. His eyes, half-open, saw nothing, his heavy lids shuttering the glittering chips of amethyst. His mouth hung open, his tongue lolling like a fat, pink worm from his white fangs. “O-Oh, yes. More, Father. I am but a plaything in your cruel hands. A slave fit only for your pleasures.” His heart hammered against his ribs, thudding with his rising elation. Bulging veins stood against the skin on the backs of his trembling hands, his open legs shaking with a fury which was boiling in his swollen belly. “Devour me. Feast upon me so that I may live, Father.”

Lips collided with the puffy ring of Chanal, a maddening charge from his father. The king’s tongue leapt from his slavering jaws, plunging down the quivering rectum to strike at the trembling prostate with the fury of a berserker. Baucaus caressed the swollen gland, his tongue drawing a lazy circle to make the whimpering prince whine as he clutched in futile agony at the furs which were draped over the mattress. Pulling back, he ran his tongue along the smooth walls of the prince’s rectum, stirring the shrieking Chanal into dizzy elation. Back down, he plummeted, his nose buried against the sagging scrotum, drinking deeply of the scent of his son’s musky odor. His muscles quaked, his manhood stood fully erect, dripping the froth of its desire. The king tore his slick lips from the gaping anus, still gushing forth the divine ambrosia of Chanal’s love. 

“My son,” said the king. With the back of his hand, he wiped his chin, his lips still shimmering with the fragrant honey of his son. He leaned over the wailing prince, his tip grazing the shuddering ring. “It is time. I want you to show me how much of a man you really are.”

Cruel, hard hands seized the wrists of the prince, pinning his arms to the bed with a savage strength. Chanal lashed out, his belly heaving, pressing upwards as a black pearl, luminous in the spilling glow of the oil lamps. He thrashed, pulling, twisting his arms until his joints would pop and crack and yet, the young prince, for all of his mighty struggles, could not break the hold of his father. A thin whine escaped from the jackal, his legs parting in surrender to his king. From Baucaus came a haughty laugh. 

“Giving up? No son of mine is surrendering so easily.”

He took his hand from the wrist of the prince and grasping the crimson lance which throbbed from his waist, he guided that scarlet pole to the leaking anus of the prince. Baucaus bucked his hips, pressing his tip through the puffing ring, making the prince whimper as pain and sensual pleasure both vied in his brain. 

“You can take more than that,” said the king. He grasped once more the wrist of his son and with a final push, plunged deep.

Chanal’s swollen belly distended with fresh expansion, growing before his eyes as his father’s member filled his rectum. The hot tip of Baucaus, the fatal spear which had claimed the wombs of each of his harem slaves, did crash into the prostate of the prince, stirring the jackal to shriek his jubilation to the stars. Baucaus pulled back, circling, coming in once more. The king drove himself with a fury, relentless in battle. His son retreated, his hips swaying, twisting so that the prince did lay on his side, his belly swelling across the bed. But the old campaigner was not one to defend when he saw an attack. Baucaus lunged, plunged deep, striking the gates of Chanal’s womb. The prince howled, his legs wrapping around his father’s waist, not daring to let go as the king pulled back with a brutal thrust, spurring Chanal into dizzy ecstasy. His stomach roiled, his heart pounding. His fur was damp with the feverish sweat of the primal lust which was growing like a furnace within him. His fingers clenched into his fists, every tendon straining as the king came in once more. Baucaus’s pace grew quicker. Never stopping, never slowing, he pumped like a jackal half his age. His broad chest heaved with the throaty rasp of his breath, his muscles appearing to be etched in black marble as he strode the battlefield of his lust, venting his rage into the bruised flower of his son. 

Outside the lamp of love glimmered, its red gleam a spark against the endless black of night. The cool air wafted through the open doors of the balcony, kissing the hot cheek of Chanal. The young prince could only struggle in vain as his father pushed harder, deeper, bringing forth the blackest ecstasy to make the stars dance before his eyes. 

“A-Ah, yes, Father,” screamed the prince. “Yes, yes!”

“More, my son,” roared the king. “Give me more. Show me that the blood in my veins is the same as yours.”

Baucaus’s lips met the mouth of his son, closing in a kiss which would steal the breath from the frantically pumping lungs of the prince. His ears swiveling back, Baucaus removed his hands from the wrists of his son, laying claim to the swollen belly, made rounder by his love. He gripped the ebon expanse, his cock never slowing as he drove the prince to sobbing jubilation. Tearing his mouth from the ruined lips of Chanal, vision crimson with the fury of their battle, he attacked the prince’s throat, suckling the tender flesh as Chanal did counter, his hands on his father’s back. Claws tore into the black flesh, raking down the broad shoulders to rip open the skin and leave the scarlet trail of his lust in their bloody wake. The tang of iron filled the air, mingling with the warm spice of musk and the bitterness of stale sweat to spark a berserker’s madness in the prince. Chanal’s legs let go of his father, his feet planting on the mattress. With the practiced throw of a wrestler, he did arch his back and toss his hips skyward. Baucaus let out a sudden cry, tumbling onto the bed as his son now straddled his hips. The feverish look of madness burned within the amethyst orbs of Chanal, the gleam of the predator. 

The prince's fingers spread across the broad chest of his father, gliding along the rippled muscles of the belly which had carried him, the womb which had given him life trembled at his touch. His hips moved, sitting back now, impaling himself upon the rigid spear of his father. Such was his duty, his honor, to bear the life of the next prince, so that he would become king, to sire the next upon his seed as his father before him. 

“Father,” he whispered. 

Chanal slid up the quivering shaft, his ring clenching, milking the spurting tip which painted his womb with the hot precum of the king. Such a thrill did bring a shiver to the prince, his body becoming electrified with the carnal lust of a beast. His belly rumbled, a hunger primitive and dark overtaking him now, driving him down hard so that his puffing anus did crash against the firm knot of Baucaus. The old king clung to the wide, round hips of his son, grasping desperately as the shrieking creature above him would twist and shimmy, dancing like the gaudy whores lost in their narcotic stupor in the perfumed tents of Ish. Faster, harder, the prince did sway to a rhythm that was for his ears only. His hands flew up over his head, his sagging breasts now wobbling, spilling their white milk to rain down upon the king with their warm droplets. Nipples erect, Chanal cupped a breast, twisting the rigid nub, growing more brazen with the sudden pain. He swiveled his hips, crashing down, taking his father’s rod deep so that the weeping tip would pierce his shrieking core. 

Faster, harder, never slowing, never stopping, the prince attacked, pressing his advance on a king who could only hold onto the berserk creature in his arms, moaning in tormented bliss as his son gyrated above him. Baucaus reached for the belly of the prince, Chanal offering his gravid middle to his father, letting the king fill his palms with ripe flesh, feeling the flutterings of new life. 

“Such beauty,” the king sighed. “Oh my boy, you dance so divinely.”

“I have wished only to dance for you, father,” replied the prince. 

Lowering himself, his belly pressing against the stomach of the king, his glistening lips parted, his pink tongue sliding out, limp, wet, waiting to be taken. The king lifted his weary head, sucking the offered tongue into his mouth, his lips pressing to the smeared, sky blue lips of his son. His cock shivered, knowing the world in which it had plunged. Sucked into the fleshy cavern he had made, had carried within his own womb, Baucaus recoiled against the stroking muscles of his son, pressing deep, now pulling back, stirring the prince to advance. His burly arms grasped the headboard and clung as Chanal bucked, driving his fury into his father’s pelvis, his ring colliding with the pulsing knot above the old king’s sheath. 

“My boy, I cannot go on,” gasped Baucaus. “I must release, I must.”

“Yes, Father,” the prince sobbed. “Yes, please, finish this.”

He fell into the arms of his father, clinging tight, his snout nuzzling the king’s neck as Baucaus did release. Hot seed bubbling in its fury, erupted from the crimson lance of the king to flood the hungering womb of Chanal. The prince wept, his belly growing fuller, swelling with fresh expansion so that he appeared pregnant with twins as his father pumped a ropy strand deep. Such was the power of the old king that the prince wailed in tortuous glee as his belly, overfilled, spurted with strands of sticky white from the bloom of his battered anus. Tears trickled down his cheeks, pain and endless pleasure washing over him, sweeping out onto the dark, giddy sea of blissful agony. He wished only to pull back, but his father’s hands would not allow him, not until the king had spent his might. The king’s rod pumped once more, then grew still. His hands falling from the trembling arms of his son, the king looked up into the weeping eyes of his boy. Chanal pushed himself up from the broad, hairy chest, his back arching, thrusting his gravid belly forward in triumph. His head fell back and with lips pursed, ushered a howl to the endless night. The old king bore witness to the ascension of the new conqueror, gloriously victorious, beautiful in conquest.

“My son,” he said, taking the prince’s face in his big, calloused hands. Tears streamed down the cheeks of Chanal. Baucaus’s lower lip began to quiver and the mighty king, victorious in a thousand battles, could no longer hold back the tears which glistened in his eyes. “My boy,” he sobbed. “My dear boy, such a king you shall make.”

“Father,” wept the prince. His chest ached, his belly groaning with the sloshing strain of his father’s seed. “Father, did I make you proud?”

“Yes,” sobbed Baucaus, clinging to his son. “Oh my son, you have made me so proud on this night. Truly, you have come into such fine manhood.”

Chanal’s bloated belly shook with the racking sobs of the prince. His milk heavy breasts swayed pendulously, dribbling their elixir down his belly. His tears pattered as soft as the summer rains onto the chest of his father, making his short black fur matted with damp. Beyond their balcony, the night had grown still. Gone were the shouts of the crowd, the enthralling displays of Kalana. Now, countless red lamps did glow in the gloom of night, countless silent phantoms which flickered as ghosts from the darkened windows. The voices of the many now stilled, lost in their own loves, punctuated by the distant guttural cries of elation, the thrum of bodies meeting with the wet slap of naked flesh in the darkness. The promise of new life and the future it would bring hung on the night breeze, eagerly awaiting the coming dawn. 

Chanal pulled his bruised rump from the quivering rod of his father, laying himself down on the stained and begrimed furs which had covered the bed. The old king draped an arm around his son, his hand coming to rest upon the great belly of the prince. 

“Soon, I shall become king,” said Chanal. His hand found his father’s. “I will sire an army upon my own harem.”

“You shall make round the bellies of countless slaves,” whispered the king with a sleepy drawl. 

“I will give my own son a prince,” said Chanal. “A fine jackal to continue the blood.”

“Mmm, you shall,” answered Baucaus. 

His manhood still quivered, stirred into excitement by the wobbling cheeks which so casually brushed his erect penis. 

“My son still has his fire?” Baucaus chuckled into the prince’s ear. 

Chanal hid his smile, his rump pressing to his father’s member. “If the old dog yet has the strength.”

“I shall show you strength, pup,” the king purred. His deep voice was a rich bourbon pouring into the ear of the prince. 

The king’s hard hands seized the prince, his tongue slipping down the ear canal, stirring Chanal’s brain. The prince shuddered in his father’s arms, his back arching as Baucaus’s tongue slithered along the furry lobe, leaving a glimmering trail as his lips then came to meet the shoulder of the prince. White fangs nibbled at Chanal’s flesh, prickling his skin so that the prince did tremble in glee. The rough fingers of the king found the swollen belly, claws circling the hump of Chanal’s navel. His other hand curled under the prince, taking hold of a jiggling tit. Milk trickled between his fingers, dribbling down his wrist as he drew Chanal to him. Rolling onto his back, the prince atop his chest, Baucaus then sat up, bringing Chanal to his knees. The belly of the prince thrust itself proudly before him, not ashamed to be thus made gravid by the seed of his own father. Chanal’s clawed fingers cupped his tender stomach, finding the firm fingers of Baucaus as the king slowly swirled through the bristling fur of his lower belly. His manhood came alive, growing more erect as his legs began to spread. His rump would weep once more, tears of spent semen to flow with the pungent nectar of his lust. 

Chanal fell forward, his hand grasping the headboard, his ass in the air. 

“Another?” remarked the king. 

“Aye, father,” replied the prince. “My hunger is not yet sated.”

Baucaus wrapped an arm around the prince, circling his pregnant belly, so full with the life which fluttered, making the flesh bulge with the rippling kicks of his unborn. The prince dropped his head and moaned from deep in his chest, pushing himself into the open palm of the king. Baucaus pressed himself against Chanal’s back, his member sliding between the wobbling cheeks, eager to once more pierce the blossom of his son. His other hand now came to rest on the supple throat, his fingers tiling back the head of the prince so that his lips did find the drooping mouth, tasting upon that chalice the milk and sweat of their lust. The moonlight streamed through the open doors of the king’s chamber, making a scintillating cascade of red, green and silver upon the tiles as the guttering oil lamps did sputter, hissing like serpents as king and prince found one another. 

His hips bucking, Baucaus slid his cock up, prying open the swollen, tender ring of his son, thrusting deep to bring a wincing groan to the lips of the prince. Sweat dribbled from his snout, his fur damp, Chanal gripped the headboard and surrendered, opening himself to the cruel rod of his father. His fat rump pushed back engulfing the king’s shaft, drawing him into the wet netherworld of his embrace. Baucaus hugged tightly around the gravid belly of his son, circling, pushing deeper, not pulling back as he sought to stir the passions of the prince. Chanal would need no further coaxing, his desires overwhelming as he too, would seek to stir his father’s needs. Together, they would dance, one retreating, the other in pursuit, only to turn and flee from the charge of the other. Such was their love, as eternal as the gods who grew jealous in their palaces among the stars. For who could hope to love as these two jackals? 

Chanal let go of the headboard, tumbling into the arms of the king. The grand throne that was his father’s lap expanded beneath him, his ass cushioned by the ceaseless churning of the king’s hips. Baucaus took his son into his arms, the boy he had birthed, had cradled to his breast so long ago, was now the man who grew round with the warm, soft life which shifted beneath his fingers. The heart of the old king did flutter as he caressed the swollen belly, finding the leaking breast which sagged like ripe fruit, the nipple a stem to be plucked and twisted. Gingerly, did the king cup the lower belly of his son, his lips pressing to the neck of the prince. The corded tendons contracted with the gulp which made Chanal’s leap as the king’s hot lips met with sensitive flesh. The prince groaned softly, lost utterly in the twilight mist of such blissful agony. Grasping the wrist of his father, Chanal guided the king’s hand to his breast. His slender fingers, nimble and spry, enveloped the hard, rigid claws of the old warrior, squeezing his leaking tit until the prince did give a moan of gleeful satisfaction. 

“Father, I love you,” he whispered. Glint purple orbs opened to stare into the emerald depths of the king’s eyes. “I care not if it makes me sound unmanly,” the prince said, a flush upon his cheek. “I shall shout it to the streets below us.”

“My son,” replied the king. “You are a truer man than any other.” 

The king thrust, stirring his son, the prince who would be king, into a sniffling joy. Chanal’s heart hammered, his strength beginning to ebb. The prince fell from his father’s arms, tumbling to the bed so that he lay on his side, one leg raised to drape itself over the king’s shoulder like black cloak. 

“I fear that you have bested me, father,” panted the prince. “I cannot continue.”

Baucuas curled his arm around the prince’s thigh, fingers delighting in the smooth, soft flesh. “No, my boy, you have won this night. For I can no longer find another such as you.”

“Not even your harem?” asked Chanal. “What of Sevlis?”

“Not even fit for the stablemaster,” said the king. “None can ever be the love you are, my son. You are king, and so shall you be ruler of them all.”

His manhood bucked, thrusting deep to stir the belly of the prince. Baucaus laid down behind Chanal, his hips never stopping. His lips found the prince’s shoulder, his arm hooked under Chanal’s raised leg. Faster, he stirred, never pulling back, rubbing the trembling gland as hot precum spurted from the throbbing tip of Chanal’s rod. Baucaus pressed harder, bringing the prince to the climax that he so craved. Together, father and son did roar their love to the sky, both releasing together so that Chanal’s womb was filled with the raw seed of the king, his own manly essence spraying across the furs, soaking into the dark pelts which covered the bed. His prostate trembled, pounded by the relentless fury of the king. Baucuas pumped another ropy strand into his son so that his semen did ooze down the prince’s thigh from that overflowing cup. 

“Wonderful,” remarked the king, his hand on his son’s belly. 

“Yes,” sighed the prince. “It was.” Propping himself on his elbow, Chanal made to rise, to stagger from the bed and back to his own chamber. 

“No, my son,” said the king, wrapping an arm around the prince. “Tonight, you shall slumber in these chambers.”

“Father,” whimpered the prince. “I-I…”

“You are to be a king, boy,” said Baucaus. “You shall sleep in a king’s bed.” The king kissed the back of his son’s head, whispering, “And tomorrow, I shall escort you to the royal harem. I believe it was time you were introduced.”

“Shall I meet Sevlis?” asked the prince with a dangerous glint in his eye. 

“Yes,” said the king. “I do believe that he will be most eager to meet you.”