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This meeting was taking forever and Sylvain wasn’t even sure what it was about anymore - some time between “Fraldarius ports” and “current economic growth” he clocked out mentally. There was a brief lunch break, but that had been hours ago, and the sun was starting to cast slanting shadows across the meeting room. Dust floated in the beams of light, twinkling like glitter across the animated faces of his friends and countrymen. This place was so old - the wallpaper faded from years of sun exposure, the velvet on the seats threadbare. Sylvain could never figure out if they didn’t keep up appearances because of money or tradition, but the entire castle could use a makeover. Even the huge dark oak table was worn from time, the surface pocked with the occasional knife mark.
Dimitri had been casting sideways glances at him as he fidgeted in place, and Sylvain ignored them; people’s expectations of him were low enough. He did his job, and he did it well, and he was here now more out of obligation than any sort of need.
Resettling himself, Sylvain sat upright, stretching his long legs under the table and fidgeting with the edges of his fraying leather notebook. All this droning and the uncomfortable oak chairs was exhausting him - he needed to stretch his legs, take a piss, and have a snack. A little nap sounded good, too, before he wandered off to terrorize his friends for the evening.
Sylvain looked around the room - everyone’s attention was fixated on Dimitri, tense as if waiting for a command to release. Unbelievable. He knew it would be rude to interrupt the King, but surely everyone else was sitting here tired and cranky.
How could anyone pay attention this long? Sylvain tried to catch a dust mote, earning a rude glace and a kick from Ingrid. Rolling his eyes, he leaned back in his chair, pouting. The sun was catching up to him, and he made funny faces at his shadow, pulling at his hair, which earned him an even harder kick from Ingrid.
He refocused - Some old man was making sounds, human speak that meant nothing to Sylvain, some garbage about income disparity in some unknown territory. And, by goddess, he had to pee, and if someone wasn’t going to stop talking soon, he was going to pee on them.
Sylvain shifted, leaning from one side to another. Between the hard back of the chair and his extremely full bladder, his back was really starting to hurt. He kept his legs crossed, fidgeting his feet to try to distract himself. If he squeezed his thighs together, he could maybe relieve a bit of the pressure. Even sighing seemed to hurt, his stomach expanding with his breath and pressing down. If he just could wait a bit more, he coached himself, then he’ll be free to go and do whatever he needed to do.
The sound of chairs scraping woke him up from his meditations, finally signaling the end of the day. The sun had escaped past him, the room dark with incoming dusk. The low murmur of people chatting bounced off the high ceilings, and Sylvain straightened his posture, stretching his shoulders by pressing down on the arms of the chair.
“Margrave Gautier.”
Dimitri appeared behind him. How could a man so tall sneak up behind him so fast? Sylvain sat up quicker, fixing his posture at the detriment to his aching bladder. He knew he should stand, but he wasn’t sure his poor abdomen could take it. He hoped nobody noticed the transgression, hoped his friend would be lenient on him today.
Sylvain nodded with a short smile, “Your Majesty.”
“Please stay a moment, I have something to talk to you about once everyone leaves.” Dimitri said curtly.
Fuck. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Dimitri had gone back to saying goodbye to people filing out of the room, so he couldn’t even tell him he would have to talk later. Ingrid stiffly walked by, shooting him a questionable glance before walking out, all smiles.
Sylvain leaned forward, hunched over the table, his head resting on his hands. This sucked. Somehow just waiting made his urge to urinate even worse, the feeling stronger, like he was going to be sitting here for eternity waiting to be let go. Tapping his foot as a distraction wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.
“Margarve Gautier.”
Startled, he sat upright again. Dimitri. He plastered on his most charming smile.
The look on Dimitri’s face was all too familiar - a mix of concern and disappointment. Sylvain didn’t have the time nor the desire to listen to him get lambasted today, his belly aching and cramping.
Big stupid smile, he reminded himself, and you’ll be free.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Come now, Margave. You should be standing when I speak to you.”
Sylvain giggled, embarrassed.
“I...can’t. I mean, I can, just not right now.” Sylvain said tightly. His hands slid into his lap, covertly cupping his lower belly.
Dimitri seemed unimpressed, one eyebrow raised in judgement.
“You...cannot.”
“I can’t.”
“So you planned to sit here for the rest of the evening?”
“Yep.”
A bead of sweat dripped down his neck, and he held his hands closer to himself. This was becoming inane, and Sylvain felt his patience wearing thin.
“You seem awfully distracted today.” Dimitri treaded carefully, “And not only that, distracting my counsel too. I can’t have you here if you’re going to cause problems. I thought we were over that. You promised me you would do better, Sylvain.”
Dimitri’s palm cupped his face, the heat from his hands burning hot against Sylvain’s clammy skin. Sylvain startled at the intensity of it - there was intention behind it, a cruel suggestion that Dimitri hid behind a thick veneer. Sylvain idly thought that there was nothing safe about being cradled by the hands of a man who could snap your head clean off.
“You know you can tell me anything.” Dimitri whispered, and if Sylvain didn’t know better, it sounded poisonous. If it wasn’t for the growing desperation and fear of wetting himself, he would have sunk into the fear.
Sylvain slouched down in his chair, bumping the back of his head on the high wooden back. He spread his legs, long and langurious, and Dimitri resettled between them. His hand never moved, their eyes losing focus and then catching again.
“Anything?” Sylvain said, feeling awfully small.
“Anything.”
Sylvain was going to burst, he was going to scream and pee and also maybe his heart was going to explode. He could trust Dimitri. It’s not like having to piss was a well kept secret between people.
“Well, the meeting was so long and -.”
“And?” The King’s hand threaded through his hair, and it felt like ownership, like claiming. Sylvain loved it and was terrified of it at the same time.
“And you told me to stay -.”
Something hard pressed between the junction at his legs, but Dimitri was leaning over him, pulling him by his hair to force Sylvain to look up at him. From this angle, all he could see was Dimitri - his curious scowl, the way his hair fell in a cascade looking down at him, his lone blue eye, questioning with a hint on cruelty. Dimitri shifted, and so did the object against his crotch, pressing against his soft dick, pushing his balls up into his body. His bladder screamed, and his breaths were in shallow staccato. With startled shock, he realized that was Dimitri’s knee up against him, and that if he didn’t move he was going to piss on the King of Faergus like a goddamn animal.
“Excuse me, Your Majesty -,” Sylvain croaked out, feeling himself crack in two with panic. Dimitri dug in harder - he wasn’t going to last. He was so full, and it hurt so bad. He felt like a wineskin, overfermented, bubbling, ready to pop.
Sylvain gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles white. A cold bead of sweat travelled down the divot in his back, as if mocking him for his current predicament.
“What is it now? I thought you liked to be indulged” Dimitri was saccharine like spun sugar. He wasn’t inherently wrong; Sylvain loved their secret trysts, their kisses in hidden concaves, the games they played on the march. Right now, though, Sylvain was more like a cornered animal than a coddled pet.
“I do! Goddess, I do, I just -.”
Dimitri’s knee was so firm against him. It hurt so viscerally, a thread of pain starting in his balls and unravelling up into his back. He was approaching his breaking point quickly.
“Can you-, Dimitri, please, can you get off-!” Sylvain wavered, but Dimitri just ignored him, pressing harder, harder, his cock being crushed under his knee as his balls helplessly attempted to draw up into his body, only to have no place to go.
“Will you regret it when you let go, Sylvain?”
Dimitri was looking at him with such intensity, pupil blown with arousal. Sylvain gasped - Dimitri knew all along what was going to happen. He wanted it to happen. Everything about Dimitri was goading Sylvain to piss on him - his knee against him, pinning him in place, the stupid, mundane questions.
Sylvain choked on panicked breaths, his world shrinking and his body reduced to nothing but base feelings - each place of pain a locus anchoring him in reality. His belly ached so bad, his hands shaking. Self-preservation willed him to hold on, and his pelvis clenched down as he weakly tried to curl in place.
Dimitri’s knee shifted again, perhaps to readjust himself, and it landed firmly on Sylvain’s bladder, pressing down with the full weight of Dimitri’s body.
Sylvain couldn’t bear it anymore. The pain was excruciating, the pressure unbelievable. Unwillingly, he surrendered.
The relief was instantaneous, his bladder spasming as he finally let go. He felt the wetness soak his underwear, seep through his pants, oversaturating the fabric and dribbling down his leg. He could hear it - oh, the humility of it all, as it dribbled down and drip-dripped onto the floor.
Perhaps in this moment he finally had died - Dimitri’s unwavering gaze on his face, red hot with shame, his breath stalling in his chest. Only his heart continued to beat in it’s cage, like a frantic bird trying to escape.l.
He swallowed, ignoring the smell of piss that was starting to permeate. He was 25 years old and he wet himself. And not only that, but he pissed on the King. Nothing in his entire life would have ever prepared him for the absolute shame of this moment. He felt like a specimen, trembling under a microscope.
“Sylvain.” Dimitri said firmly, but his voice wavered at the end. Sylvain whimpered, high in his throat, his eyes shut. His face was on fire, flushed all the way down to his chest.
“Sylvain, look at me.”
Sylvain swallowed audibly before slowly opening his eyes. The room was unreasonably dark, sconces along the wall casting an ominous glow across Dimitri’s features. Something hot was streaking his face, and Sylvain pathetically realized it was tears. Sylvain felt so small, like a child unable to control himself.
Dimitri’s hand moved to his throat, pulling his neck and fixing his posture so Sylvain was forced to look upwards. He was boneless in the chair, and like a poorly stuffed and overloved doll.
“Oh, poor thing…” Dimitri was unusually patronizing, and Sylvain gulped as more tears spilled over. “Is that what you were trying to tell me?”
”I…” Sylvain tried to speak, but his mouth felt like it was stuffed full of cotton.
“You’re always so brave.” Dimitri placed a chaste kiss on Sylvain’s cheek, and under normal circumstances he would have melted under Dimitri’s gentle touch. “We all make mistakes. Would you like to make it up to me?”
Sylvain knew he was attempting to nod, but he couldn’t feel his body anymore. Is this what it was like to finally die? To feel nothing but your heartbeat until that, too, disappeared?
“Give me your hand.” Distantly, he felt Dimitri grab at him, gently stretching his fingers out one by one. They tingled at the tips like lighting magic building up, and he faintly felt Dimitri try to massage the stiffness out. The feeling traveled up his arm, tickling his elbow and electrocuting his shoulder.
At no point did he lose eye contact, at no point did he look away.
Sylvain let himself being moved, but his body felt like lead. His palm was on the soft linen of Dimitri’s pants, but he couldn’t place what part. He tried to curl his fingers around the fabric but couldn’t seem to grasp it. Dimitri moved him again, this time against something hot and firm and -.
Sylvain kicked his feet out, trying to regain any feeling, anything, something. His suspicion was correct - Dimitri was aroused by this. Aroused by him, his filthy, useless body. In all their years together Dimitri never mentioned his proclivity for this, but in retrospect it made some sort of sick sense. His length was hard and huge, and when he dug his fingers in he felt it throb.
Abruptly, Sylvain was let go, left to slouch down in the soggy chair cushion. His tears had dried to salty tracks on his face, the skin stretched tight, and his nose was clogged from crying.
“Do you understand now? Take it out. Tell me you’re sorry.” Barely a whisper, but it was a command Sylvain would never miss.
Sylvain’s hands felt like wood as he fumbled with the ties on Dimitri’s pants, tight against his straining erection. Dimitri’s hand rested on the crown of his head, like a beloved pet dog. He was desperate at this point - desperate to make it up to him, desperate to be told everything was ok, desperate to get the hell out of here. If the King wanted his cock played with, well, he could do it and do it well.
The laces broke free, and Dimitri’s cock sprang out of its confines. Nobody was really ever prepared to deal with the King’s massive cock, let alone when it was erect and dripping in his face. It stood straight and proud, flushed the color of Dimitri’s cheeks after sparring. The head was partially covered by his foreskin, and Sylvain so desperately wanted to run his fingers over it, pull it back and engulf his mouth over the crown.
Instead, Sylvain stared down at it, like a barrel of a gun, distantly aware that his pants were soaking wet and he was kneeling in a puddle of his own piss. It was so close to his lips he could feel the heat radiating.
He waited for his command, his release, like a hunting hound. Channel his anxiety into sex was what he was good at, he only needed to be told.
“Go.”
Sylvain surged,his hair pulled as he strained forward. His lips kissed the tip, salty, sticky pre-cum coating his mouth as he whined to get closer.
“Slow now, Sylvain.” Dimitri groaned.
His mouth was watering, and he felt like a horse chomping at the bit.
With intent, he opened his mouth, making a show of running his tongue up along the shaft. Another bead of precum dripped out and he caught it with his lower lip, tongue darting out to collect it. He chased a prominent vein along the bottom with his lips alone, admiring how soft and velvety Dimitri’s cock felt despite being so hard. Placing gentle kisses along the base, he leaned forward to rub his nose in the coarse blonde hair. Dimitri sighed, Sylvain forgot that he just urinated all over himself for just one moment..
“Very good.”
Sylvain’s tongue darted out, kitten-licking at the slit before making a swooping motion downwards to the base before kissing his way back up. Eagerly he waited for a response, but there was just silence above and the own sound of his labored breaths.
“Your Majesty.” Softly, Sylvain pleaded, “Dimitri. May I use my hands?”
The laugh Dimitri responded with was condescending and worn. “Margave Gautier, I thought you were the most talented slut in the Kingdom?”
It was impossible to deny such an accusation, and Sylvain whined. He just wanted to get his hands around it, feel the solidity of it, know that something right now was real and not made up.
“Mouth only. Get back to work.”
Scowling, Sylvain wrapped his mouth fully around the head now, tongue sneaking under his foreskin before giving a hard suck.
“That’s right, you’re doing so well. All by yourself.”
Excited by the prospect of more praise, he dipped lower, flattening his tongue and sucking on his way down. Dimitri softly moaned, and Sylvain took it as a win. As he ascended back, two hands settled on the back of his head. He knew what this meant, this wasn’t his first time.
”Your face when you wet yourself was spectacular.” Dimitri sighed, and his cock flexed in Sylvain’s mouth.
Gentle pressure on the back of Sylvain’s head guided him forward. Sylvain swallowed, trying not to choke the deeper he went. Each inch earned another dirty comment or praise, and Sylvain whimpered like a scared and desperate man. He couldn’t take it, the humiliation, the praise, the combination of them both poking and prodding at this primal part of him where he truly believed he lived only to serve.
“You’re so filthy.”
Sylvain sobbed around his length, trying to nod. He was disgusting, useless. But most of all, his King - no, Dimitri - wanted it from him, and he provided willingly.
Dimitri’s coarse pubic hair rubbed against his sore and runny nose as Sylvain engulfed him entirely, retching against the massive length. Tears sprang up again, retracing the dried tracks across his weary face as he forced himself further down. Instintively, he dug his heels in, bracing against the lack of oxygen as he choked.
“You love this, don’t you? Love being full, love being used.” Dimitri was starting to pick with shallow thrusts that hit the back of his throat. The grip on the back of his head tightened, and Sylvain opened his eyes to look up.
Flushed red from arousal, Dimitri’s teeth were gritted and his eyebrows knit in concentration. It was clear he was holding himself back, prolonging his pleasure and Sylvain’s struggling. Soft whisps of hair framed his face, and his gaze was focused on his cock barely sliding in and out of Sylvain’s mouth. An unexpected jolt of pleasure shot through Sylvain, and he moaned deep in his chest. Saliva bubbled out with the noise, dripping in a heavy rope onto the floor, and Dimitri watched that, too, chuckling deep.
“You come into my court and urinate on me like a dog.” Dimitri punctuated each word with a quick, sharp thrust. “Then, you suck my cock like the cheapest whore in town and you are so. Exceptionally. Good at it.”
Frantically, Sylvain whimpered and whined, his vision narrowing in as he choked and gagged. His fingers were tingling and numb, but a weak fire still burned inside of him, Dimitri’s degradation and praise only fanning the flames. Sylvain’s cock was making a pathetic attempt to get hard, the wet fabric of his pants working harshly against him.
And like this, nothing in the world really mattered anymore. The heady feeling of weightlessness that came before passing out encroached him, and if he had to sit here and be used forever, he would be fine with. Deserving of it. A man would be able to control his body, control his base and repulsive thoughts, and Sylvain was unable to do any of that. Sylvain was not much of a man.
Dimitri’s cock got harder in his mouth, and his thrusts got faster, and Sylvain desperately tried to relax so he could take whatever the King was going to blow down his throat. Dimitri grit his teeth harder, groaning, pulling out to fill Sylvain’s welcome mouth with his cum. Dutifully, Sylvain swallowed, cum and drool spilling out to stick against his shirt.
Abruptly he was pulled off, coughing and sputtering, landing hard backwards onto the wet spot on the carpet. Wiping the um away with his sleeve, he spat onto the already soiled carpet. Dimitri made a disgusted sound, mumbling about how disrespectful Sylvain was.
”You’re disgusting, Sylvain.” Dimitri toed his crotch with his boot, and Sylvain jumped, unprepared.
“You liked it.”
Dimitri’s withering glare had Sylvain cowering, his boot pressing ever so harder onto Sylvain’s crotch.
“I kept you back to tell you there is a meeting tomorrow in the Rose Room at 3pm. I expect you to be presentable. And, please, Margave Gautier, go to the bathroom before the meeting.”
The soft sounds of boots on carpet disappeared, and it felt like the room had lost 50% of its mass, silent and empty like a mausoleum. Sylvain felt like perhaps he had been there on that floor, sitting in his own piss, for an eternity. Entombed in this dusty old conference room, the perfect example for future Margraves. Here sits Sylvain Jose Gautier, humiliating son of House Gautier.
He could almost swear, under the deafening sound of muffled silence, the endless thudding of his stupid, worthless heart, that he liked whatever just happened between him and the King.