The Blacksmith and The Prince

A 18 year old Prince weilds his authority. A rugged Blacksmith weilds something much bigger.

The morning sun crested the eastern walls of Greenhedge Castle, gilding the spires in false gold that matched the kingdom's empty coffers. Prince Eli sat astride his white stallion—a beast worth more than the annual wages of fifty commoners—with his spine straight and his nose tilted toward the clouds. He was eighteen as of last Tuesday, finally a man by royal decree, and his father had decided that his first act of manhood would be to collect delinquent taxes from the rabble who thought themselves above the crown's law.

Eli had heard the stories, of course. Everyone had. The Mad Smith of the Eastern Ridge, a giant who had gone feral after the red fever took his family. They said he ate wolves raw and drank rainwater from the hooves of his own horses. They said he hadn't spoken a word to another human in four years, that he'd killed three tax collectors before Eli's father stopped sending them. They said the iron he forged was cursed, that it never dulled because it was quenched in blood.

Eli didn't believe a word of it. Superstitious nonsense spun by peasants who wanted to excuse their own laziness. The man was a blacksmith who'd stopped paying his tithe, simple as that. Probably spending his coin on whores and drink like the rest of the lowerborn filth. Eli's lip curled at the thought. His father had saddled him with this task to "build character," to "connect with his subjects." As if Eli needed connection with people whose entire purpose was to serve him.

"They should be grateful," Eli muttered to himself, his voice carrying the particular nasal quality of someone who had never been told no. "Grateful that their taxes pay for the walls that keep them safe. Grateful that men like my father deign to rule over their squalid little lives. If they starve, it's because they're lazy. If they suffer, it's because they lack breeding."

He adjusted his red velvet doublet, the fabric embroidered with gold thread in the crest of the crown. The garment had cost more than a village earned in a year. His white hair—platinum, distinctive, the mark of the northern bloodline—was swept back from his pale forehead, and the birthmark on his left cheek, shaped like a crescent moon, seemed to glow in the morning light. He was beautiful, he knew. Beautiful and superior and destined for greatness. Let the commoners rot.

The ride to the Eastern Ridge took three hours, each mile taking Eli further from the castle's protection and deeper into the wild lands where the crown's authority grew thin. The road became a path, then a trail, then little more than packed dirt between ancient trees. Finally, he saw smoke rising from a stone chimney, and the sound of hammer on anvil rang through the forest like a war drum.

York's forge was a ruin. The roof sagged, the walls were blackened by decades of soot, and the yard was littered with rusted horseshoes and broken plowshares. A pig rooted in the mud near the entrance, and the smell—Eli wrinkled his nose in disgust—was a mixture of animal filth, unwashed flesh, and the acrid stench of the forge.

Eli dismounted with practiced grace, though his thin legs trembled slightly after the long ride. He was tall, six-foot-one, but weighed barely one hundred and forty pounds. His bones pressed against his skin like a bird's wing beneath silk. He had never worked a day in his life, never lifted anything heavier than a silver spoon, and the muscles of his arms were nonexistent, pale and soft as a child's.

He strode toward the forge's entrance, his riding boots crunching on gravel, and ducked beneath the low lintel. The interior was worse than the exterior—a cave of smoke and shadow, the air thick with heat and the smell of hot metal and sweat. And there, silhouetted against the orange glow of the furnace, was York.

The man was a giant. Six-foot-four at least, his body a mass of corded muscle and scarred flesh, his skin darkened by soot and sun to the color of old leather. He wore only a leather apron over his naked chest, and his trousers were filthy, stained with oil and grime and god-knew-what-else. His hair was a wild mane of black curls, matted and tangled, and his beard—a thick, untamed forest of hair—reached nearly to his chest. He held a hammer in one hand, the head the size of a man's skull, and the muscles of his arm rippled as he brought it down on the anvil, shaping a glowing bar of iron.

Eli cleared his throat, attempting to project authority. "You there. Blacksmith. I am Prince Eli of Greenhedge, and I—"

"Fuck off," York said, without looking up. His voice was gravel and rust, deep and broken from disuse. He brought the hammer down again, the sound ringing through the small space. "No time for royalty."

Eli's mouth fell open. He had never been interrupted. Never been dismissed. His pale face flushed crimson, the birthmark on his cheek seeming to pulse with his indignation. "How dare you," he sputtered, his thin fingers trembling as he reached into his doublet and withdrew the royal scroll, sealed with his father's wax sigil. "How dare you address me in such a manner, you filthy, ignorant—"

"I said fuck off," York repeated, finally looking up. His eyes were grey as storm clouds, hard and empty and old beyond their years. He set down the hammer and straightened, and Eli took an involuntary step back as the blacksmith's full height became apparent. The man was massive, towering, his shoulders broad enough to block out the light from the furnace. "Leave. Or else."

Eli's heart hammered against his ribs, but his pride was stronger than his fear. He was a prince. He was the blood of kings. This animal could not intimidate him. He unrolled the scroll with a flourish, his voice rising to carry over the hiss of the forge.

"By order of King Aldric of Greenhedge, you, York, blacksmith of the Eastern Ridge, are hereby commanded to pay the sum of four hundred and sixty-two gold crowns in back taxes, or face immediate seizure of property and imprisonment for the term of—"

"Done?" York asked, when Eli's voice trailed off. He took a step forward, and Eli took a step back, his spine hitting the rough stone wall. "You finished reading your paper, little prince?"

"I—yes, I—this is a royal decree, you cannot simply—"

"Leave," York said, his voice dropping to a whisper that was somehow more terrifying than his shout. "Last chance."

Eli should have run. Should have mounted his horse and galloped back to the castle and never spoken of this humiliation. But his pride, his terrible, poisonous pride, would not let him. He looked around the forge, at the filth and the ruin, and his lip curled again. He noticed the small shrine in the corner—a crude carving of a woman and a child, with dried flowers that had long since turned to dust. The red fever, he remembered. Four years ago. The smith's wife and child.

He turned back to York, and his smile was cruel, the smile of a man who had never known loss. "I see now why you live in such squalor," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "I had heard your family perished in the red sickness. Looking at you, covered in filth, living like an animal... perhaps it was a kindness they died. Spared them the embarrassment of being associated with such a creature."

The words hung in the air like smoke.

York went very still. His grey eyes, which had been empty, filled with something dark and terrible. His massive hands, scarred and calloused from decades of work, curled into fists. The muscles of his jaw clenched, the beard bristling.

"What did you say?" York asked, his voice barely audible.

Eli's courage failed him. He opened his mouth to apologize, to stammer some excuse, but York was already moving. The blacksmith crossed the space between them in two strides, his hand shooting out to grip Eli by the throat—not choking, just holding, lifting, his fingers wrapping completely around the prince's slender neck. Eli gasped, his pale hands flying to York's wrist, his thin fingers unable to close around the corded muscle.

"Please," Eli whimpered, his voice high and breaking. "I didn't mean—I was only—"

"Bedroom," York growled, and dragged him toward a door in the back of the forge, a space Eli hadn't noticed, dark and small and smelling of straw and old sweat. "Now."

Eli struggled, his boots scraping against the stone floor, his thin frame no match for York's strength. He was thrown into the room—a crude space with a pallet bed and a single window—and the door slammed shut behind them. York locked it with a heavy iron bolt, then turned to face him.

Eli scrambled back against the wall, his red velvet doublet catching on the rough wood, tearing slightly. His white hair had come loose from its tie, falling across his face, and his eyes were wide and green and terrified. "Please," he begged, his voice cracking. "Please, I apologize. I spoke in haste. I spoke from anger. Please, forgive me. I'm the prince, my father will—"

"Your father," York interrupted, his voice cold as the iron he forged, "can kiss my ass. Three tax collectors he's sent. Three. First one, I warned. Second one, I broke his arm. Third one..." He smiled, a terrible expression that didn't reach his eyes. "Third one didn't go back at all."

Eli's blood ran cold. He pressed himself harder against the wall, his thin chest heaving, his breath coming in short gasps. "Please," he whispered. "Please, I'll leave. I'll tell them you paid. I'll tell them anything. Just let me go. Please."

York began to unbuckle the leather apron, letting it fall to the floor. His chest was massive, covered in dark hair, the muscles rippling beneath skin stained black with soot and years of forge work. He was filthy, covered in sweat and grime, and the smell of him—male and musky and angry—filled the small room.

"My wife," York said, his voice distant, almost dreamy, "died four years ago. The fever took her in three days. Took my daughter in two. It's been that long since I've lain with a woman. I vowed to never touch another woman in this life. A pretty boy prince though..." He stepped closer, his hands going to the laces of his filthy trousers. "A pretty boy prince is fair game."

Eli's mind reeled. He didn't understand—not at first, not until York's trousers fell and he saw what the man was, what he intended, and then he understood all too well. "No," he gasped, his voice rising to a scream. "No, you can't—you wouldn't dare—I'm the prince—"

"Not here," York said, and grabbed him.

The first thing Eli felt was the filth. York's hands were rough, calloused, covered in soot and grease and years of accumulated grime. They tore at Eli's doublet, the red velvet ripping like paper, the gold embroidery shredding beneath York's strength. The garment was stripped away, leaving Eli in his white linen undershirt, which was immediately torn open, baring his pale, skinny chest. His ribs were visible, his stomach flat and soft, his skin creamy and unmarked and untouched.

"Please," Eli sobbed, tears streaming down his face, his white hair plastered to his forehead. "Please, don't—I'll do anything—I'll pay you—I'll make you a lord—just please don't—"

York silenced him with a backhand across the face, not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to stun, to silence. Eli's head snapped back, his cheek blooming red, and he slumped against the wall, dazed, his mouth open in silent shock.

"On your knees," York commanded, gripping Eli's thin shoulders and forcing him down. The prince's knees hit the dirt floor, his red velvet trousers—tight, fashionable, ridiculous—already torn at the knees. York's massive cock was inches from his face, and Eli gagged at the sight of it, at the smell—musky and unwashed and thick with the stench of a man who hadn't cleaned himself in days, maybe weeks.

It was enormous. Ten inches at least, thick as Eli's wrist, the head dark and leaking precum that was already forming a bead at the slit. The shaft was veined, pulsing with York's heartbeat, and it smelled of sweat and piss and male arousal. The pubic hair was matted, tangled, filthy.

"Open," York commanded, gripping Eli's jaw with fingers that could crush stone.

Eli tried to resist, tried to clamp his jaw shut, but York squeezed his pressure points until his mouth opened in a gasp of pain, and then York thrust forward, filling Eli's mouth in one brutal motion. The taste was immediate and overwhelming—salty and bitter and filthy, the musk of unwashed flesh filling Eli's senses. He gagged violently, his throat convulsing around the intrusion, his eyes watering as York's cock hit the back of his mouth and kept pushing, forcing its way into his throat.

"Choke on it," York growled above him, his hips beginning to move, his hands gripping Eli's white hair and holding him in place. "That's it, your majesty. Choke on my cock. Take it deep. Take it all, you spoiled little shit."

Eli couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only feel the hot, heavy weight of York on his tongue, the bitterness of precum leaking onto his taste buds, the musk of him filling his lungs. York set a brutal pace, fucking Eli's face with deep, punishing strokes that made wet, obscene sounds echo through the small room. Each thrust drove Eli's head back against the wall, his skull rattling, black spots dancing in his vision as he struggled to breathe around the invasion.

York's grip in his hair was iron, holding him in place, using him like a sleeve, a hole, a thing. Eli's hands came up to push against York's thighs, but they were like stone, immovable, corded with muscle that didn't yield. The blacksmith's balls—heavy and hairy and smelling of sweat—slapped against Eli's chin with every stroke, leaving a film of grime on his pale skin.

"Look at you," York panted, his thrusts becoming erratic, his massive body tensing. "Fucking look at you. Pretty little prince with his mouth full of filthy cock. You like this, don't you? You like being used like a whore. Like the cum pig you are."

Eli couldn't answer, couldn't do anything but take it, his throat working convulsively, tears streaming down his face and mixing with the drool that spilled from the corners of his mouth, coating his chin, dripping onto his torn red velvet doublet. The fabric was ruined, stained with spit and precum and the soot from York's fingers. Eli was drooling uncontrollably now, his body's response to the invasion, the gagging, the lack of air. York was swelling in his mouth, getting thicker, harder, and Eli knew what was coming.

"Swallow it," York commanded, his voice a growl, his hips a blur. "Take it all, your majesty. Every drop. Don't you dare spill a fucking drop, or I'll make you regret it."

He thrust deep one final time, burying himself to the root in Eli's throat, and exploded. The first pulse hit Eli's gag reflex immediately, making him choke violently, but York held him in place, forcing him to take it. Hot, thick cum flooded Eli's mouth and throat, pulse after pulse, copious and endless. It was bitter and salty and overwhelming, filling his cheeks, backing up into his sinuses, spurted from his nose in white streams mixed with snot and tears. Eli gagged and choked, his body convulsing, but York kept cumming—six, seven, eight thick ropes of seed that Eli had no choice but to swallow or drown in.

When York finally pulled out, leaving Eli's mouth with a wet, sucking sound, the prince collapsed forward, gasping, coughing, cum spilling from his nose and mouth onto the dirt floor. He was covered in it—his face was a mask of York's seed, white and thick and dripping from his chin, his white hair matted with it, his red velvet outfit stained beyond recognition. He retched, his stomach heaving, but there was nothing to vomit up except the cum he'd been forced to swallow, which he gagged on again, his body rejecting the violation.

York didn't give him time to recover. He grabbed Eli by the hair again and dragged him up, throwing him face-down onto the crude pallet bed. Eli's red velvet trousers were torn away with a single brutal yank, the fabric shredding, leaving him naked—pale, skinny, his ribs visible, his hip bones sharp, his ass white and untouched and clenching in terror.

"Fuck," York breathed, and Eli felt rough hands spreading his cheeks, exposing him completely. "Look at that. Smooth as a baby's. White as milk. Virgin hole. I'm going to ruin you, your majesty. Gonna stretch you out so good you'll never shit right again. Gonna tear you apart."

"Please," Eli whimpered, his voice hoarse from screaming, his face pressed into the rough straw mattress. "Please, it's too big. You'll kill me. You'll tear me in half. Please, I can't—I can't take it—"

"You'll take it," York growled. "Or you'll die. Your choice, prince."

There was no preparation, no gentleness. York spat on his hand—once, twice—and rubbed it over his massive shaft, which was already hard again, angry and dark and glistening with Eli's saliva and his own cum. He pressed the head against Eli's entrance, and the pressure was immediate, overwhelming, like being crushed by a boulder.

Eli screamed as York pushed forward. The pain was instant and blinding, a tearing, burning agony as his virgin hole was forced open, as the tissue ripped and bled. York wasn't entering him—York was splitting him in half. The head of his cock, thick and flared, forced past the ring of muscle, and Eli felt the slow, wet ripping of his own flesh, felt his insides being displaced, pushed aside to make room for the impossible invasion.

"Fuck, you're tight," York grunted, his hips pushing forward, relentless, inch by agonizing inch. "So fucking tight. Like a vice. Like a virgin cunt. Scream for me, prince. Scream like the whore you are."

Eli screamed. He screamed until his voice broke, until he was hoarse, until he was making sounds that weren't words, just animal noises of pain and terror. York kept pushing, kept filling, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust, his heavy balls slapping against Eli's pale thighs, his pelvis pressed against the soft give of the prince's ass. Eli could feel it—the impossible fullness, the way York's massive cock was rearranging his guts, pushing against his organs, filling every available space within his skinny body. It felt like York was in his stomach, like the thick shaft was pressing against his spine from the inside, filling him completely, owning him from within.

"Please," Eli sobbed, his voice broken, his body shaking violently. "Please, stop. Please, it hurts. It hurts so much. Please, I'll do anything. Please, just stop—"

York began to move, pulling out until just the head remained, Eli's rim clinging to him, pink and swollen and beginning to bleed, the blood slick and warm. Then he slammed back in, and Eli screamed again, feeling fresh tearing, feeling his body being destroyed from the inside out. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the small room—wet, filthy, obscene—mingling with Eli's screams and York's grunts of pleasure.

"Take it," York commanded, his hands gripping Eli's sharp hip bones, his fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. "Take it, you little slut. Take my cock. Feel me in your guts, your majesty. Feel me owning you."

Eli's body bounced with every thrust, his sharp hip bones rattling against the pallet, his head hanging down, his face pressed into the straw. He was drooling, his mouth open in a permanent gasp of pain, his pale skin flushed red where York's filthy hands gripped him. He could feel blood now—warm, wet, mixing with the spit York had used, making each thrust slicker but no less painful. His anus was being destroyed, the muscle torn and swollen, the tissue raw and bleeding, his insides being ravaged by the blacksmith's massive cock.

"Going to fill you up," York growled, his thrusts becoming erratic, his massive body tensing. "Going to breed you, prince. Going to cum inside you and mark you. Make you my personal whore. My cum dump."

"Please," Eli sobbed, his voice barely audible, his face wet with tears and snot. "Please, no more. Please, I can't take anymore. Please, I'll die. I'll die—"

York roared, a sound like thunder, and buried himself to the hilt. Eli felt it—the hot flood of seed filling his destroyed guts, pulse after pulse, York's massive cock throbbing inside him, claiming him from the inside out. The cum mixed with the blood, creating a warm, wet mess that began to leak from Eli's gaping, ruined hole immediately, running down his pale thighs in thick white rivers.

But York wasn't finished. He pulled out slowly, watching Eli's hole cling to him, watching the mixture of cum and blood leak out, watching the prince's insides try to follow his cock. Then he flipped Eli over onto his back, the prince's body limp and trembling, his face a mask of pain and tears and the cum that had dried there from earlier.

"Clean," York commanded, and dragged Eli down to the floor, forcing him onto his knees. "Lick my ass, your majesty. Your dinner. Show me how grateful you are for my mercy."

Eli stared at him, his eyes wide with horror, his mind shattered. He couldn't. He couldn't do it. But York grabbed his hair and forced his face between his muscular cheeks, the smell overwhelming—sweat and musk and the raw scent of a man who hadn't washed in days, the dark hair matted and filthy. York's hole was tight, wrinkled, pulsing with heat, and Eli gagged as his tongue was forced against it, as he was made to lick, to clean, to worship the blacksmith's most intimate place.

"That's it," York groaned, his hand stroking his own cock, which was hard again, angry and demanding. "Lick it. Clean it. Good little prince. Good little whore. You were made for this. Made to serve me."

When York was satisfied, he stood, towering over Eli, and aimed his cock at the prince's face. "Open," he commanded.

Eli opened his mouth automatically, his body responding to the command even as his mind screamed in protest. York began to piss, a hot stream hitting Eli's face, his hair, his open mouth. The taste was acrid, bitter, overwhelming, and Eli gagged, the urine spilling from his mouth, running down his chin, mixing with the cum and blood and tears already coating him. York pissed on him for what felt like an eternity, marking him completely, covering him in his waste.

Then he spat, a thick loogie hitting Eli's cheek, sliding down to mix with the rest of the filth. And finally, he stroked himself rapidly, his hand a blur, and came again, shooting thick ropes across Eli's face, his tongue, his eyes, coating him completely in seed until he was unrecognizable, a canvas of cum and piss and spit and degradation.

York looked down at him for a moment, at the broken, ruined prince kneeling in the dirt, covered in filth, his hole gaping and leaking, his eyes empty and shattered. Then he raised his hand and brought it down in a sharp blow to Eli's temple, knocking him unconscious.

The world went black.

---

When Eli woke, he was chained.

He was naked, his pale body covered in bruises and dried fluids—cum, blood, piss, his own tears. He was in the corner of the bedroom, a heavy iron collar around his neck, attached by a chain to a ring in the wall. His wrists were bound behind him, his ankles shackled together. He was filthy, covered in the grime of the floor, his white hair matted and tangled, his birthmark standing out livid against his pale, bruised cheek.

He tried to scream, but his voice was gone, ravaged from earlier. He tried to move, but the chains held him. He was trapped. Broken. Owned.

Outside, he heard voices. York's gravelly rumble, and another—deeper, unfamiliar.

"Fine horse," the stranger said. "Royal stock, by the look of it."

"Formerly," York replied, and Eli heard the clink of coins. "Prince won't be needing it anymore."

The door opened, and York entered, alone. He looked at Eli in the corner, at the broken, filthy prince chained and naked and ruined, and he smiled—a terrible, satisfied smile.

"My dear flower," York said, his voice soft, almost tender. "You look like you need a fresh watering."

He crossed the room, his heavy boots crunching on the dirt floor, and knelt before Eli. His hand reached out, rough fingers tracing the bruises on Eli's pale cheek, the dried cum in his white hair, the chafed skin where the collar sat.

"First," York murmured, his eyes dark with renewed hunger, "let's see how tight that little ass still is. Been a few hours. Bet you've tightened up again. Bet you're ready for another round."

Eli's eyes went wide with terror, with the realization that this would never end, that he was York's now, completely, forever. He opened his mouth to scream, to beg, to plead for mercy one last time.

The scream that tore from his throat was high and broken and endless, filling the small room, filling the forge, carrying out into the wild lands where no one would hear, where no one would save him.

And York began again.