Cinder had just finished scrubbing the stone entry way of his stepfather's manor when the royal messenger arrived in muddy boots to announce that the king and queen were planning a ball for their only child, Prince Egon.
"Officially," said the messenger, "it is to welcome him home from his studies abroad. But in truth, they want him married. Won't be easy, finding somebody to take on that temper. All available noblemen and noblewomen are invited to attend....but the women needn't bother, if ye know what I mean."
Hours later, after his stepfamily fell into slumber filled with dreams of a royal marriage, Cinder chided the messenger lightly for muddying the entry way, and found him surprisingly willing to pay a price. So he took the messenger across his lap and spanked his bare bottom, reveling in the hot flesh under his hand, the loud slaps that echoed through the barn, and the muffled cries of pain and excitement from the messenger. It took all Cinder's self control to stop when he knew it necessary.
"I can take more than that." The messenger's voice was almost a snarl.
"I've no doubt," Cinder said as he expertly massaged the reddened flesh. "But you'll need to sit your horse in the morning. You'll not thank me for more after a long day's ride tomorrow, and the king will not thank you if you fail to deliver his message."
The messenger nodded in reluctant agreement and slid to the floor on his knees. "Will you be going to the ball, then?" he asked, his voice muffled as he lowered his head over Cinder.
"Not likely." His voice came in a gasp.
"You're an eligible man, aren't you?"
"I'm not royal material." Cinder tangled his hands in the messenger's hair and tried to focus on the pleasure at hand.
But the words they had spoken had created a painful distraction. In truth, Cinder was indeed royal material. By birth, Cinder was Lord Orrick of the line of Drake, a fit match for any prince.
His early years had been full of joy and promise. But when he was not quite ten, his mother had perished. Grief-stricken, unable to bear solitude, his father had swiftly remarried a churlish widower with two equally churlish sons. While Orrick's father lived, they treated Orrick with grudging politeness.
But Orrick's father did not long survive his beloved wife. Thirteen-year-old Orrick returned from the funeral to find his stepbrothers tearing, wolf-like, through his father's belongings, arguing over what each should receive. When Orrick attempted to stop them, his stepfather delivered a beating that left him bruised and feverish for days.
When he recovered, he ran away. The local magistrate promptly returned him to his step-father, who beat him again. And again. And again.
Young Lord Orrick became a distant memory as he began to answer to the name Cinder, bestowed upon him by his stepbrothers when, in the coldest winter months, he was forced to creep from the barn into the manor house at night to seek warmth in the dying embers of the hearth.
Now, seven years after the death of his father, the naïve young lord he had once been was gone. Much as he wished it otherwise, the man he had become was not of the appearance or temperament to be welcome in royal circles.
The body servant, shaking and gibbering with terror, fled from Prince Egon like a virgin fleeing a dragon.
Egon, still uttering curses he had learned from sailors on his voyage abroad, threw a brush, a comb, and a golden basin after him. His scalp burned where the fool had all but yanked out a handful of hair.
"'Tis bad enough to have to attend this humiliating spectacle at all," he raged. "But to attend half bald?"
"Shall I send for another body servant, your grace?" his butler asked impassively, used to Egon's outbursts.
"Fools, the lot of them. I want that boy flogged."
"That decision will be left up to the king and queen, your grace."
A new smart, this time to his pride. At age twenty, a future king should have at least been granted the liberty of disciplining his own household staff. That he was not indicated to all that the king and queen placed no trust in his judgment.
Egon threw himself face down onto the bed and pounded the mattress like a child in the throes of a tantrum. Not for the first time, he feared he would not find a mate, even with all the eligible nobles in the country attending this farce of a ball.
He was handsome and an heir to the throne, so finding a noble willing to marry him should have been easy. He should have had his pick.
But his temper gave people pause. And this stung, for Egon did not intend to be a "boy tyrant" as the palace staff discreetly called him, or an "ill-mannered brat" as the royalty of other countries less discreetly called him. He always intended to be like his father, calm and firm, or like his mother, full of laughter and cheer.
But whenever he perceived the slightest wrong done to him, a red fog rose over his eyes, and his words and actions spiraled into threats and violence which made people flee in terror and avoid him forever after.
His servants, he could command into his presence. Nobility, he could not. Suppose they ALL chose to avoid him tonight? Suppose that out of all the eligible men in the kingdom, he could not find one willing to marry him? Could he ever withstand the shame?
Shrill cries from the whipping post caught Cinder's attention. Since his father's death, floggings at the manor were a daily occurrence. Contrary to what some of his lovers believed, Cinder did not enjoy such spectacles—delivering a few hard smacks to the bare bottom of a willing recipient was one thing; stripping the flesh from a screaming man's back was entirely another—but in self-preservation he had learned to turn a deaf ear and indifferent eye to the beatings.
This time, however, the cries seemed higher and more terror-filled than usual. Some almost-dead chivalrous instinct drew him close.
He found his elder stepbrother securing the hands of a boy who looked to be no more than eight or nine while the younger stepbrother slashed a wicked-looking whip through the air in vicious practice cuts.
"A severe punishment for such a small boy, sirs" Cinder observed, fighting to hide his outrage. "I hope he has done regicide at the very least."
"'Tis none of your business, but the cur spilled wine over my best doublet, the one I was to wear to the ball," his elder stepbrother said.
"It weren't my fault!" the boy's eyes darted back and forth wildly, those of an infant fox in a trap. He held up his bound hands, showing that the right one was twisted, deformed, likely by some previous act of torture. "I warned him I could not pour the wine. Truly I did."
"There's no reason to whip the lad," Cinder said soothingly. "Release him, and I'll see about removing the stain. 'Tis only the work of a moment."
"You'll remove the stain AFTER the little bastard takes his punishment."
Lord Orrick, whose duty it was to protect the peasants of his father's manor, warred briefly with Cinder, whose duty it was merely to survive. Unaccountably and for the first time in years, the lord he had once been won out. "You'll not do this. Release the child immediately," he said, with all the command he could muster.
The elder stepbrother swung his fist at Cinder, a half-hearted blow that he expected Cinder to accept without complaint. But Cinder sidestepped and drove a hard fist into the unprotected stomach. "Be glad that was only my hand and not a knife," he hissed as his elder stepbrother doubled over.
Cinder's younger stepbrother sprang upon him from behind. Cinder struggled for purchase and slung the younger man into a nearby mud puddle, even as he heard footsteps of the manor guard.
He punched one squarely in the jaw, raked his fingernails across the eyes of another, but the guards continued to pile on until fighting became impossible.
In moments, he was relieved of his shirt and bound in the same position the young boy had been in. The first lash of the whip ripped the breath from his body as surely as it ripped the flesh from his back. Cinder set his teeth against the familiar pain and refused to cry out as blow after blow tore into his skin and hot blood trickled down his spine. He lost consciousness before the beating stopped.
When he awoke, the blazing sun had gone down, and a cool wind had risen from the north to sooth his lacerated back.
The boy he had rescued earlier stood on a milking stool and fumbled clumsily with his good hand at the knots binding Cinder's wrists.
Cinder bit back a groan. "Leave off, lad," he whispered, his voice hoarse from pain and thirst. "If they catch you here, they'll flog you yet."
"No one will discover us," the child said, and Cinder noticed he did not speak with a peasant's accent or intonation as he had earlier. "Your stepfather and stepbrothers are gone to the ball, and the others are all asleep. And will remain so."
The knots came free at last. Cinder slumped to his knees in exhaustion. The boy moved behind him and put his good hand firmly on his back. Cinder tried to twist away, but the child held him down with surprising strength, and continued to massage the still-bleeding cuts.
The clumsy touch should have made the wounds hurt more, but to Cinder's surprise, the pain eased, then all but vanished. He put his own hand back, moving easily and without stiffness, and found the flesh whole. The boy's blue eyes seemed extraordinarily bright in the moonlight.
"No ordinary child...." he murmured.
"No child at all, nor mortal either," the child responded in a voice that was no longer in the least child-like.
"Then what....?"
"Descended of the wee folk. The fairies. In days of old, we were closely allied with your ancestor, Lord Drake. He, too, would have risked his life to save an innocent. And now that you have quite recovered, Lord Orrick, I believe you have a ball to attend."
As the hour grew later, Egon found his worst nightmares coming true. Half the invited guests had not arrived. The other half clustered in the far corner and whispered about him behind well-manicured hands. Oh, in truth, they had been friendly enough when they arrived, but a few gusts of his temper sent them scurrying like rats aboard a sinking ship, and though he had meant nothing by his words, spoken more in anxiety than true rage, they had not ventured towards him again.
As if intent upon making matters worse, the serving staff had picked this of all nights to exceed themselves in incompetence. Like the imbecile who had just now backed into one of the few guests who had dared approach the refreshment table.
Egon beckoned to the palace guard. "Arrest him!" he snapped, nodding towards the hapless servant who clung to his serving tray as if it offered protection.
One of the guards moved forward, but to Egon's astonishment, the guest who had been the victim of the servant's ineptness intervened. "There'll be no need for that," he said easily, in an accent rougher than Egon was used to hearing. "The blame's equally shared between this fellow and I, and I've no intention of spending the rest of MY evening in the dungeon. Unless your grace commands it of course." He smiled intimately, as if the two shared a private joke.
Egon stared. The guest was a tall, well-muscled man with the sun deeply inked in his face and bare arms. His clothes were made of silk, but simple, as if he did not appreciate fuss. Black unstyled hair curled down his back, and black eyes met Egon's gaze with something not unlike defiance in spite of their humor.
Egon, immediately intimidated, felt the familiar red fog rise in front of his eyes. "You show a true lack of respect, sir," he snarled, "to enter my house and eat my food without first presenting yourself to me. What is your name?"
The man's smile deepened. "My name is Cinder, your grace. And speaking of respect, you'd do well to show some to your guests and to those who serve you."
Egon's jaw dropped. "You dare speak to Prince Egon in that manner?" he demanded, so angry he almost choked on the words.
"I do, your highness. Unlike most of the lads here tonight, I'm here for the fun, with no ambition to marry royalty, so I speak as I choose."
"I could have you put from this palace. From this land!"
Another smile. "I have relatives I'd as soon never see again. If you banish me, I'll be forever in your debt."
"I could have you thrown in the dungeon and whipped!" Egon shouted.
That threat got a little more of a reaction. The man's dark eyebrows came together in a frown that was not quite anger and not quite fear but a close cousin to both. "I doubt you've ever tasted the lash, your highness," he said quietly. "If you had, you would know 'tis far greater punishment than is warranted by social indiscretion."
The red fog receded a little. Egon bit his lip. "Have you....tasted the lash?" he asked. He had known many nobles who had ordered whippings, but none who had himself been whipped.
"Aye, I have. I'd not wish it upon my worst enemy, no matter what his crime. And I'd not wish it on myself again, either, so I'll bid ye farewell." And Cinder bowed so low the gesture became mockery and disappeared amongst the other guests.
The fairy's magic, tempered by generations of inbreeding with humans, would not work for more than a few hours. Cinder had been sternly warned to leave the ball by the stroke of midnight and not one minute later, lest he find himself standing in front of the royalty and party-goers in his muck-covered work clothes.
He checked the grand clock in the dance hall, found the hour still lacked nine o'clock. Were he wise, he would spend his remaining three hours far away from the spoiled prince. Devil pity the ambitious nobleman who married him!
Yet, watching Egon, Cinder could not help but feel a twinge of sympathy at the half-pleading, half-demanding way he peeped at the guests through the fringe of blond hair across his forehead. The combination of arrogance and vulnerability attracted him as a flame attracts a moth.
"And like with the same result, too," Cinder chided himself under his breath. The prince's boyfriends were not known for being long-lived, and more than one had been rumored to depart by way of the stake. A moth to a flame indeed.
"He wants you," a voice behind Cinder observed. Cinder turned and found the guard whose duty it would have been to arrest the hapless servant had Cinder not intervened. The guard smiled. "I've never seen him change his mind about having a man arrested."
"I prefer to think he realized his order was a foolish one."
"I've known very few fools who could recognize foolishness."
Cinder smiled, enjoying the guard's boldness. "Is that quite wise, sir," he teased, "to speak poorly of the prince within the very walls of the palace?"
"'Tis done all the time." The corners of the guard's eyes crinkled. "But perhaps if you like it not, you'd care to....express your displeasure."
"Perhaps I would," Cinder said carefully. "And how might that displeasure best be expressed, do you think?"
He liked this part of the game best, the verbal jousting to establish that each sought the same thing.
"I've always felt a man learns best with his pants down," the guard suggested, his green eyes catching Cinder's black ones before dropping briefly to the front of his breeches.
"That's certainly how I do my best teaching."
A few more whispers to arrange the matter, then they adjourned to a private chamber where the guard disrobed and placed himself over Cinder's lap.
The chastisement was a long and noisy one, and Cinder was careful to administer an equally generous amount of consolation afterwards. It was nearly an hour before the guard left the room, the smile on his face belying his stiff walk and reddened and welted backside.
"He'll have a devil of a time keeping to his post tonight," Cinder thought, reclining on the tangled bed clothes. At least the man's job did not require him to sit for long stretches....
"Why did you....strike....the guard?"
Cinder sprang up with the speed of one whose survival depends upon quick reflexes and found Prince Egon lurking in the doorway. He had to fight back the urge to box the young prince's ears. Instead he reached for his breeches to cover himself. "I don't appreciate being spied upon, your highness," he said harshly.
"The guard....you said you would not wish such upon your worst enemy?" Egon's flushed face bore a wild-eyed, exhilarated look. He did not even challenge Cinder's right to rebuke him.
Cinder turned his back to the prince, letting him see the old scars briefly before he slipped on his silk shirt. "THAT is what comes of whipping, your highness. I did not whip or flog the guard. I spanked him. For his pleasure. And for mine."
"And is it....pleasurable?"
"Some men find it so."
"Would I?"
Cinder snorted. "I truly doubt it. Those who would most benefit from it seldom do."
"But if I wished to try....?"
Cinder could not contain a shiver of excitement at the thought of turning the handsome, arrogant prince over his knee, pushing back the elegant tunic to bare his perfectly-formed buttocks, lifting a work-roughened hand as the prince tensed and whimpered in anticipation....
But striking the heir to the throne was serious business. He forced himself to think with his mind instead of his _c_o_c_k_.
"'Tis treason to lay hands on you. I prefer my head connected to my body."
Color flashed into the prince's face. "I would not....There would be no charges."
Cinder finished rearranging his clothes and moved to the door. "We've spoken for just ten minutes tonight, your grace. In that time alone, ye've threatened me with banishment, imprisonment, and flogging. Forgive me if I trust you not."
"But I did not truly...."
Cinder was out the door before the prince could finish the sentence.
Egon had to adjust himself inside his tunic before he scrambled after Cinder. Some of his lovers had been quite gifted, professional even, but never had anything aroused him more than the sight of the guard, normally so strong and placid, twisting red-faced and red-bottomed underneath Cinder's relentless hand. Egon brought a hand to his own backside and had delivered a light swat, trying to imagine some measure of what the guard had felt. But he knew 'twas a poor substitute.
He had to experience these sensations for himself.
He caught up with Cinder in the ballroom and stood quietly at his side, fighting back his instinct to command Cinder to obey his wishes immediately.
After a moment, Cinder looked down at him and smiled. "I do prefer you quiet, your grace," he said.
And because he was trying so hard to be on his best behavior, Egon held back his angry response long enough to realize that Cinder merely teased him. Warmth flooded his body and unexpected tears rose to his eyes. Never, since he was a small child, had any dared tease him.
He reached out to touch the other man's arm, to assure himself that Cinder was real. His hand met warm skin and unyielding muscle. Muscle that could deliver a mighty blow....
"Cinder...." Egon whispered softly. "A name I've not heard before. How came you by it?"
"Given me as a cruel joke by relatives," Cinder said shortly, and Egon's heart skipped a beat as he saw the displeasure on the other man's face.
"The same who....whipped you?"
"Aye. The same." More displeasure. Cinder seemed quite on the verge of walking away from him again.
Egon waited for his own displeasure to rise in response, but it did not. He felt only anxiousness and a concern so rare it took him a moment to identify the emotion. He was unused to caring about the fate of other people.
"Come dance with me?" he said, not ordering, but offering, proposing a distraction. And could scarce believe his luck when Cinder's smile returned and he nodded yes.
Never had Egon passed a more wonderful evening. Cinder danced with him, and tickled his nose with feathers, and teased him, and showered him with compliments, and forced him into party games with other guests, who once more drew close when they realized the terrible temper had been quelled.
"I could love this man," Egon realized in disbelief. And then, even more unbelieving, "And I do think he could love me, too."
The only moment occurred when a servant accidentally let a cup of wine slide off his tray as Egon and Cinder danced past. The golden goblet did not break, but the liquid splashed on Egon's silver shoes. Egon broke away from Cinder and slapped the servant with the full strength of his arm. "You clumsy, ignorant, oaf...." he began.
Cinder's fingers closed around his arm hard enough to leave bruises. "Unhand me," Egon screamed, the red flooding his vision so he could no longer see properly.
He struck out blindly, tearing at Cinder's hair and face, but Cinder dragged him several steps away, gave him a hard shake, and said in a low, fierce voice. "The servant is but a young man overcome by the sight of his prince. End this farce immediately and tender him the apology he deserves."
"I will never...."
"Or you've seen the last of me."
The words were cold as ice driven by a Northern wind. They penetrated the fog. Egon's head cleared, and he saw in front of them not a calculating beast intent on ruining his evening with Cinder, but a teenager scarcely choking back tears. Shame and regret washed over him.
"Please forgive me," he gasped.
The young servant stared at him as if he thought Egon had suddenly been stricken quite mad. "Y-your grace?"
"I'm sorry. Truly. I behaved like a beast." Egon pulled one of the decorative gold buttons from his tunic and offered it to the lad. "Take this as proof that your prince owes you a debt," he said.
After the servant ran away, happy again, Egon turned apprehensively to Cinder. Cinder smiled, but his face was still stern. "At least some of your instincts are noble," he said. "With a little discipline, you could turn into a fine king indeed."
"Then discipline me!" Egon begged, burying his face in Cinder's chest. "Discipline me as you did the guard."
Cinder stifled a groan of desire. "It is hard to refuse you, my prince."
"Why refuse?"
"Because you still ask me to commit treason."
"You still believe I would betray you!"
Cinder lifted Egon's face gently in his hands. "You have never been spanked before, your highness, never removed your nether-garments and placed yourself across a man's lap. There is embarrassment involved, as well as pain. You may find you do not care for it. You may wish to avenge yourself upon the one who saw you at your most vulnerable."
"Not you! I would never....I find I cannot even be truly angry when you are near." Egon looked directly into Cinder's eyes, letting his face plead in a way words could not.
"I cannot go light upon you," Cinder warned. "Do we go to the chamber, we go for punishment. And it will hurt, prince, make no mistake on that count."
Egon swallowed. His _c_o_c_k_ was painfully hard, but his knees felt weak, as if some prankster had removed muscle and bone, leaving only soft, yielding flesh. He forced his voice to firmness. "I expect no less."
"I am mad to do this," Cinder thought.
Taking Egon's harm, he guided him discreetly from the ballroom to the chamber where he had trysted with the guard. Egon's muscles twitched under his steadying hand as Cinder fumbled with the door. "Afraid, prince?" Cinder asked.
"Of course not!"
He got the door open at last and drew Egon into the privacy of the chamber. The twitch became a distinct shiver. Pools of tears swam in Egon's clear blue eyes.
"I....I am afraid!" the prince blurted, clearly embarrassed by the admission.
Cinder placed a finger under Egon's chin and raised his head to kiss the tears away. "Fear is natural," he said. And then, remembering Egon truly had no idea what to expect, added, "However, do remember that though I will cause you pain, I'll not harm you. You're as safe as a babe in his father's arms, though the sensations will not be as pleasant. And now, my prince, the hour grows late. It is time we begin. Place myself across your lap."
He seated himself on the bed and beckoned.
A muscle twisted in Egon's throat. He looked ready to flee the room, but instead crossed the chamber in slow steps and, as slowly, leaned his body across Cinder's lap, flinching as Cinder slowly drew his tunic up and his undergarments down.
Egon's bottom was well-formed and well-muscled. The skin was soft, flawless, and glowed such a beautiful gold it seemed almost a shame to alter the color to red. Cinder ran a hand over the raised buttocks in sheer appreciation.
But he heard Egon whimper slightly and knew he was being cruel.
He raised his hand high and cracked his palm down directly in the center of the prince's trembling bottom. The swat produced a choked, surprised cry from Egon, as if the pain were more than he had anticipated, and left a perfect hand print on the soft flesh.
And then, before Cinder could strike again, the clock began to chime midnight.
Cinder panicked. If the prince learned it was not a noble at all, but a humble peasant over whose lap he lay, his revenge would be swift. And terrible.
Dumping Egon gently, if unceremoniously, on the floor, he raced for the window, vaulted himself over the ledge, and dashed away into the night.
By the time he reached the palace gate, his new silk clothes had disintegrated into muck-crusted wool, bitten through by moths. By the time he reached the horse he'd left tethered at the edge of the property, it had transformed itself back into a sad-eyed frog who gazed at him with curiosity but no sympathy. And by the time he was halfway home, the healing spell had worn off, too, and his torn back sent waves of agony through body.
He did not completely mind the discomforts. They kept him from remembering Egon's voice screaming after him.
"Please, sir, ma'am, I must find him."
The king and queen stared in disbelief. It had been years since Egon requested an audience instead of merely storming into the throne room when something was not to his taste. And neither of them could remember Egon ever using the address "sir" or "ma'am" before.
"Whoever he is, he's certainly influenced your behavior for the better," the king observed. "But be reasonable, my boy. You've no name but a nickname, no family to attach him to, not even an article of clothing that might be recognized. I'm very afraid your search is futile."
"That's not quite true, sir. I also have this." And turning around Egon lowered his breeches to display the perfect handprint on his bottom. "I will marry no man whose hand does not match this print."
The king gasped and lowered his eyes.
The queen, who was herself fond of such games, choked back a laugh. "So that's what it's like?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am," said Egon firmly. "That's what it's like."
It had been quite two months since the ball, and Cinder, whose strength had returned, was mucking out the barn and trying to banish thoughts of the prince from his mind when the royal party arrived. His heart missed a beat at the sight of Egon, astride a black stallion. The pitchfork slipped from his nerveless fingers. His first irrational thought, "He seeks me!" was quickly replaced by, "He seeks my death."
His step-father cuffed him roughly on the side of the head. "You're not worthy to look at him. Stay out of sight until he leaves."
Given Egon's temper, staying out of sight seemed the best of his options. He was no longer a member of the nobility—his stepfather had stolen the title rightfully his—and thus had not even the flimsiest protection from imprisonment, torture, even death should Egon wish it.
And it was not unlikely the young prince would wish it, he thought grimly. Tyrants seldom granted long lives to those who knew their secrets. "It's as I warned him at the ball," he thought. "I've seen him at his most vulnerable, and now I'll like as not die for it."
Wishing he had listened to his own advice, Cinder watched through a crack in the barn as his stepfather greeted the prince and assisted him from his mount. One of the royal messengers began speaking, explaining something. His stepfather's mouth dropped open in shock.
Then, while Cinder looked on in amazement, Prince Egon turned around and lowered his breeches. Cinder's handprint was still clearly visible across those magnificent buttocks.
"It must be magic or wizardry," Cinder thought, "since I did not strike hard enough to leave a mark that would last a day, never mind a month." Clearly, the handprint had been preserved to identify the one who inflicted it, but why? Passion or revenge?
He watched breathlessly as his stepfather awkwardly placed his hand on the prince's bottom. His fingers were too small to have made the print. Egon's shoulders slumped.
Cinder longed to lift his chin and kiss the sadness out of his eyes. But he held himself silent, unmoving. He still did not know what was in Egon's mind.
Each of Cinder's stepbrothers stepped forward and took a turn. The older one's fingers were too fat. The younger one's palm was too narrow.
His stepfather shrugged at the prince and shook his head. The prince mounted his horse, beckoned sadly to his guards, and rode out of the courtyard.
Too late, Cinder jolted into action. Even a death sentence would be better than watching Egon ride away for good without ever knowing his true feelings. "Wait!" he cried, scrambling down the ladder with such speed there must have been magic afoot to prevent him from breaking his neck. "Your highness, wait!"
He burst out the barn door, breathing hard, and saw Egon's horse stopped at the edge of the mill pond. A child, eight or nine years old with a mangled hand and extraordinarily bright eyes had grabbed the reins and drawn the royal horse to a standstill.
"Your grace, it is time," Cinder said. "Lower your breeches."
The words, spoken intimately, sent a shiver of fear and excitement up Egon's spine.
For weeks, they had been too busy to even consider the scene in the chamber which had been interrupted by the clock tolling midnight. There had been a royal wedding to plan, Cinder's stepfather and stepbrothers to punish, Egon's parents to win over, matters of state to discuss. But now all was done, and while the court celebrated their union in the great ballroom, Cinder and Egon secreted themselves away in a private chamber.
The lowering of his breeches was accomplished with little embarrassment. Egon had, after all, exposed himself many times in his search for Cinder.
But when it came time to lie across Cinder's lap and submit to the spanking, Egon found himself swallowing a lump of fear. The muscles in his buttocks contracted. He had not forgotten the mighty sting of that one slap Cinder had delivered the night of the ball.
"I fear the pain," he said shyly.
Cinder, sitting on the bed with his hair falling endearingly across his eyes, smiled. "Aye. But you also desire it."
Egon thought of the guard, red-faced, squirming, tears dripping from his eyes onto the carpet below. If Cinder could strike hard enough to bring a member of the royal guard to tears....
"Tell me what it will be like."
"I cannot. You must feel it. And you must trust me that I will deliver no more—nor less—than you can withstand."
Cinder held out his hand.
His breath coming in gasps, Egon took it, allowing himself to be guided to Cinder's right side. Gently but very firmly, Cinder pulled him down so that he was lying over Cinder's lap, his hips supported by Cinder's strong warm thighs.
Egon tensed the muscles of his bottom, trembling in anticipation of the first blow.
But the touch he felt was a caress. "So beautiful," Cinder murmured, stroking his buttocks with a touch that sent chills racing through Egon's body. "But they want color. Mayhap a soft pink, to begin."
The first slap fell, not nearly as hard as Egon had expected, but he was so on edge he cried out in spite of himself.
Cinder spanked him again. And again. Slow and steady, like metronome. His hand was heavy and he rested it for a moment on Egon's bottom after each loud slap. Each blow had a sting to it, but the sensation was more pleasant heat than pain. The sound of the loud, slow smacks and the unaccustomed sensations on his backside made Egon moan with pleasure.
"The gold is giving way to pink quite nicely," Cinder murmured after a few minutes. "But 'tis still not the right color. Perhaps a darker shade."
The next slap was harder, louder, shorter. The pain was real, and became even more real as Cinder delivered what felt like dozens of sharp smacks in quick succession all over his stinging backside. Egon yelped as his lover's hand found and tormented a particularly sensitive spot at the slope of his buttocks. He threw back a hand to protect the tender skin.
Cinder caught his wrist. "None of that, your grace. Take hold of the bed covers and don't let go until I say or it will go the worse for you."
"It hurts!"
"Where? There?" Cinder issued another burning slap to the sensitive spot. "Naturally it hurts. And will hurt more. But you shall have to be brave and bear it. And since you have attempted resistance, I fear I shall have to spank you all the harder."
Egon would not have believed it possible. It was.
Blinking tears from his eyes, he twisted his fingers in the cool bed clothes and gasped in pain as smack after smack, delivered with the force of Cinder's muscled arm, blazed across his burning flesh.
After awhile, he cried out. Sobbed. Kicked. Squirmed. Pleaded. Cinder, unperturbed, simply continued spanking until Egon let his body go limp under the punishing hand. And even then the spanking continued.
He was unable to guess how much time had passed before he realized that, while his bottom still throbbed and burned, there were no new impacts to add to the smart. Cinder had stopped.
Egon was too exhausted to do anything but bury his face in the covers and cry. He dishonored himself, he was sure. Just as he had always dishonored himself with his temper. "You—must—hate—me!" he gasped.
Cinder helped him turn over so that Egon sat on his lap. The pain of sitting on the newly-spanked flesh increased Egon's sobs, and it was some time before he was aware of Cinder speaking. "Of course I do not hate you."
"I disgust you, then." He looked deep inside himself for the rush of anger that had always delivered him from awkward moments in the past, but today there was no anger to draw upon, no red fog to cloud his thoughts.
"You do not disgust me."
"I....I wept like a babe. I weep still."
"As did the guard when I spanked him, if you will remember."
"There is no comparison. He was given a true punishment."
Cinder laughed and nuzzled his forehead against Egon's. "Rise and look in the mirror, little prince," he said.
Stiffly, Egon slid from Cinder's lap and limped to the looking glass. He stood with his back to the mirror, craned his head over his shoulder, and peered at his reflection. What he saw made him gasp. From waist to thigh, the skin was crimson and purple, swollen and well marked with bruises in the shape of Cinder's fingers.
"The guard was only red...." he whispered.
"Aye. You took more punishment than he did. And enjoyed it more, I think."
Egon started to deny the last thought, then realized he was fully erect. He laughed in spite of his tears, sunshine through rain.
Cinder held out his arms, and Egon rushed into them, knocking Cinder backwards on the bed.
"So, little prince," Cinder teased, "where is this famous temper I've heard so much about?"
"Perhaps I will have better control over it from now on."
"And perhaps it will be even worse, since the punishment for displaying it excites you so."
The old Egon might have become angry, might have threatened, or sulked, or had Cinder banished, or at the very least, stormed out of the room.
But this Egon had no energy left for petty displays, and anyway, Cinder's arms were around him, Cinder's lips that looked unyielding but weren't were kissing him, Cinder's body was pressed tight against his. He didn't want to go anywhere.
So he stayed, quiet and happy in Cinder's arms.
And even though (or perhaps, because) Cinder spanked him often, they lived happily ever after.