The Frost King’s Secret Rites
After the grand feast in the great hall of his ice-carved citadel, King Harlan slumped into the shadows of his private chambers, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced mead still clinging to his fur-lined cloak. The winter winds howled outside, rattling the frost-laced windows, but inside, a fire crackled low, casting flickering orange glows across the stone walls. Harlan’s massive frame, broad-shouldered and scarred from endless border skirmishes, ached for release. His dark beard, streaked with silver, itched under the weight of the crown he’d just discarded. Tonight, like so many before, he’d summon his devoted thralls—loyal shadow-folk bound to his will by ancient oaths. Their eagerness always stirred the beast in him, that raw hunger that no battlefield victory could sate.
He raised his thick wrist, where a rune-etched obsidian band gleamed dully. With a gravelly whisper, “Attire,” the band pulsed with cold blue light. A lithe figure materialized from the ether, a young thrall named Lir, his skin pale as fresh snow, clad in nothing but a spiked collar and a harness of black iron chains that bit into his slender chest. Lir’s eyes, wide and adoring, locked onto Harlan’s as he dropped to one knee, arms extended like an offering.
Harlan grunted, peeling off his sweat-soaked tunic, the fabric heavy with the musky tang of his day’s exertions. He tossed it onto Lir’s waiting limbs, watching the thrall’s lithe body tremble slightly under the load. Next came the boots, caked in mud from the frozen trails, thudding heavily as Lir caught them. Harlan’s pants followed, unbuckled with deliberate slowness, revealing his thick, hairy thighs and the bulging outline of his arousal straining against worn leather undergarments. Finally, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of those undergarments—stained, ripe with the salty scent of his unwashed groin—and slid them down, kicking them free. The air filled with that potent, earthy aroma, making Lir’s nostrils flare.
“Press this against your face, boy,” Harlan rumbled, his voice like grinding ice. “Inhale your king’s essence while you store the rest. It’ll be your pillow tonight.”
Lir’s breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping as he draped the undergarments over his nose and mouth, the fabric muffling his reply. “Yes, my liege… thank you.” His caged manhood, a cruel device of twisted thorns and silver locks, twitched futilely, a bead of clear fluid seeping onto the flagstones. He gathered the pile with reverent care, backing away on all fours before vanishing into the swirling mist of the summoning portal.
Harlan stretched, his muscles rippling under a pelt of dark chest hair, and padded barefoot across the chilled floor. The need to relieve himself burned hot now, a wicked pressure building. He tapped the band again. “Receptacle.”
Another thrall appeared, this one bulkier, named Torv, dressed in ragged furs trimmed with bone beads, his mouth already agape in anticipation. He sank to his knees before Harlan, hands braced on the king’s powerful calves, eyes gleaming with fanatic devotion. Harlan gripped the base of his thick shaft, foreskin peeling back to expose the swollen, veined head, and aimed it unceremoniously into Torv’s waiting maw.
A hot, acrid stream gushed forth, filling the thrall’s mouth with the sharp, bitter taste of his master’s waste. Torv gulped greedily, throat working in rhythmic swallows, not a drop escaping to stain the stones. The sound of it—wet, insistent—echoed softly in the chamber, mingling with Harlan’s low sigh of relief. When the flow tapered, Harlan shook off the last droplets against Torv’s tongue, then shoved deeper for a moment, savoring the warm, slick suction.
“Good pup,” Harlan growled, withdrawing with a wet pop. “Swallow it all and begone.”
Torv rose, lips glistening, a blissful haze in his eyes, and dissolved back into the ether without a word.
Alone now, Harlan’s cock hung heavy, semi-erect from the thrill. He lumbered to a massive oaken throne carved with snarling wolf heads, its cushions worn from years of use. “Pedestal… Ember,” he commanded into the band.
First came Pedestal, a wiry thrall with callused knees from endless service, naked save for padded guards and a gleaming plug of crystal lodged deep in his rear. He crawled in on hands and feet, positioning himself before the throne, back arched to form a sturdy rest. Harlan swung his legs up, heels digging into the thrall’s sweat-slick skin, the weight pressing down with satisfying firmness. Pedestal held still, a faint groan escaping him, his own denied arousal leaking steadily.
Ember arrived next, slinking to Harlan’s side on silent feet. Clad in a soot-streaked vest open at the front, revealing pierced nipples and a golden cage that matched the jeweled intruder in his ass, he knelt with a brass tray balanced on his upturned face, secured by straps that forced his jaw wide. Harlan leaned to a nearby brazier, selecting a fat, aromatic pipe stuffed with rare mountain herbs that burned with a sweet, smoky bite.
He packed it deeper with his thumb, then lit the bowl with a flint striker, drawing in a lungful that made his chest expand. The smoke curled out in lazy rings—coiling serpents, blooming flowers—dancing in the firelight before fading. Harlan chuckled, the vibration rumbling through Pedestal’s frame. “Feel that, thrall? My laughter’s your massage.”
“It honors me, sire,” Pedestal murmured, voice strained but fervent.
Ember remained silent, tray steady as Harlan tapped ash into it, the flecks sizzling faintly on the heated metal. The pipe’s draw grew harsher, filling the air with a heady, resinous fog that clung to Harlan’s beard and made his skin tingle. When the bowl emptied, he dismissed them both with a wave, watching Pedestal crawl away first, then Ember, who licked the tray clean before departing.
The relaxation seeped into Harlan’s bones, but a deeper itch remained. He rose, crossing to a wall of enchanted mirrors that served as scrying portals, their surfaces rippling like liquid silver. With a gesture, he activated one, peering into the depths of his citadel’s undercroft where his thralls slumbered. Most lay curled in their alcoves, dreams twisted by the runes of submission, but one caught his eye—a lithe scout named Ryn, restless in his bunk, hand slipping under his covers.
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Chapter 1: Shadows of Submission
Ryn’s movements were furtive at first, his fingers wrapping around his uncaged length— a rare privilege for scouts—stroking with increasing urgency. The mirrors captured every detail: the way his lithe body arched, pale skin flushing pink, the soft pants fogging the glass in the vision. Harlan’s own arousal surged, his heavy cock thickening as he watched, one hand drifting down to grip himself. He pumped slowly, matching Ryn’s rhythm, the foreskin gliding over the sensitive ridge with a slick whisper.
In the undercroft, Ryn bit his lip, eyes squeezed shut, imagining his king’s touch. His free hand roamed upward, pinching a flat nipple until it pebbled hard. Harlan mirrored it unconsciously, rolling his own thick nub between thumb and forefinger, a jolt of pleasure shooting straight to his groin. The air in the chamber grew warmer, heavier, scented with Harlan’s rising musk.
Ryn’s strokes quickened, hips bucking, a low moan escaping as he neared the edge. Harlan leaned closer to the mirror, breath fogging the real glass, his fist flying now, balls drawing tight. They climaxed together—Ryn spilling ropes of white across his belly with a choked cry, Harlan erupting onto the stone floor with guttural roars that echoed off the walls. Cum splattered hot and sticky, the scent sharp and salty filling the space.
Panting, Harlan tapped the band. “Scour.”
A new thrall, Vex, appeared—stocky, with a tongue piercing that glinted as he dropped to all fours. He lapped at the mess without hesitation, the wet slurps obscene in the quiet, savoring each drop like nectar. Harlan watched, spent but stirring again at the sight. Vex then fetched a steaming cloth from a hidden pouch, wiping Harlan clean with gentle, worshipful strokes that lingered just enough to tease.
“You’ll savor this later, won’t you?” Harlan said, smirking as Vex tucked the cloth away, eyes alight with promise.
“Every drop, my king,” Vex rasped before fading away.
Harlan’s gaze returned to the mirror. Ryn lay sated, but Harlan’s mind raced with plans. Training for the scout would begin at dawn—breaking him further, molding him into perfection. For now, though, the night called for more indulgence. He moved to his bedchamber adjoining, a vast space dominated by a four-poster of wrought iron, draped in furs soft as sin.
But sleep evaded him. The fire’s embers glowed 🔥, mirroring the heat building anew in his loins. He summoned one more—not from the band, but by a hidden bell pull. This was Elow, his favorite, a curvaceous thrall with curves that defied the lean builds of the others, her body a feast of soft flesh and hidden piercings.
Elow entered on silent feet, her sheer silks whispering against skin that smelled of lavender and desire. “How may I serve, sire?” she purred, kneeling at the bed’s edge.
Harlan beckoned her closer, his voice rough. “Straddle me, wench. Ride until I forget the cold.”
She obeyed, climbing atop his massive form, her wet heat enveloping him in one fluid descent. The sensation was electric—tight, velvet walls clenching around his girth. Elow rocked her hips, breasts bouncing with each thrust, nipples grazing his chest hair. Harlan gripped her ass, fingers digging into plush flesh, guiding her harder, faster. The bed creaked under them, the air alive with slaps of skin and her breathy gasps.
“Deeper, slut—take all of your king,” he snarled, thrusting up to meet her.
“Yes… oh gods, yes, fill me,” she moaned, nails raking his shoulders, drawing thin lines of blood that only heightened the frenzy.
Their coupling built to a fever, sweat slicking their bodies, the taste of salt on Harlan’s lips as he captured her mouth in a bruising kiss 💋. He flipped her beneath him, pounding relentlessly, the furs muffling her cries. Release crashed over them in waves, Harlan flooding her with his seed, hot and copious, while she convulsed around him, milking every pulse.
Exhausted at last, he collapsed beside her, the chamber silent save for their ragged breaths. Tomorrow’s rites would demand more, but for now, the frost king’s secrets were sated.
Chapter 2: Whispers in the Frost
Dawn broke with a pale light filtering through the citadel’s narrow slits, painting the stone floors in ghostly hues. Harlan stirred, Elow’s warm body curled against his side, her scent—a mix of sex and sweetness—lingering like a drug. He pushed her gently aside, rising naked, his morning erection bobbing heavily as he stretched. The air bit at his skin, crisp and invigorating, carrying the distant clang of forges where his warriors honed blades.
Today marked the start of Ryn’s deeper initiation. Harlan dressed minimally in a loose robe, the fabric rough against his still-sensitive flesh, and made his way to the training pits below. The descent was a spiral stair of black ice, steps echoing his heavy footfalls. At the bottom, the pits opened—a cavernous arena ringed by torches that sputtered with green flame, the smell of damp earth and old sweat thick in the air.
Ryn awaited, bound to a wooden frame, arms stretched high, legs spread wide by iron shackles. His body glistened with oil, every muscle taut, eyes downcast but flickering with anticipation. Other thralls milled about, preparing whips and oils, their own cages glinting in the low light.
“Look at me, scout,” Harlan commanded, circling him like a predator. Ryn’s gaze lifted, pupils dilating at the sight of his king’s robe parting to reveal that imposing hardness.
“Sire… I dreamed of you,” Ryn admitted, voice husky, a flush creeping up his neck.
Harlan’s laugh boomed, low and mocking. “Dreams are child’s play. Today, you taste reality.” He signaled to a thrall handler, who approached with a flogger of braided leather, tips beaded with metal.
The first strike landed across Ryn’s back, a sharp crack that drew a hiss from the scout. Red welts bloomed instantly, the scent of heated skin rising. Harlan watched, stroking himself lazily, the thuds and yelps building a symphony. “Count them, boy. And beg for more.”
“One… thank you, sire. More, please,” Ryn gasped, body jerking with each impact.
By the tenth, sweat poured down Ryn’s form, mixing with the oil to create a slick sheen that caught the torchlight. Harlan stepped closer, pressing his cock against the thrall’s thigh, smearing pre-cum in a sticky trail. “Feel what you do to me? Earn it.”
The flogging paused, and Harlan unbound Ryn’s legs, forcing him to his knees. “Suck,” he ordered simply.
Ryn’s mouth engulfed him eagerly, lips stretching around the girth, tongue swirling over the salty head. The wet suction was divine, slurps echoing as he bobbed, throat relaxing to take more. Harlan tangled fingers in Ryn’s hair, fucking his face with controlled thrusts, the thrall’s gags music to his ears. Drool spilled down Ryn’s chin, pooling on the dirt floor, the taste of musk overwhelming his senses.
But Harlan pulled back before release, leaving Ryn panting, lips swollen. “Not yet. You’ll spill only when I command.”
They moved to a new apparatus—a sling of chains suspended from the ceiling. Harlan secured Ryn in it, ass exposed, the crystal plug from before removed to reveal a gaping, eager hole. With a vial of warming oil, Harlan coated his fingers, probing deep, curling to hit that spot that made Ryn arch and whine.
“Tight little whore,” Harlan murmured, adding a third finger, stretching him wide. The squelch of oil and flesh was lewd, Ryn’s cock leaking profusely onto the ground below.
“Please, sire… fuck me,” Ryn begged, voice breaking.
Harlan obliged, slamming home in one brutal thrust. The heat, the clench—it was exquisite torment. He rutted like an animal, hips snapping, balls slapping against Ryn’s skin. The sling swung with each pound, creaking rhythmically. Ryn’s cries filled the pit, raw and desperate, until Harlan roared his climax, pumping deep, marking his thrall inside.
Ryn followed seconds later, untouched, seed jetting in arcs as shudders wracked him. Harlan withdrew, watching it drip out, then summoned a cleanup thrall to lap it up—Ryn’s and his mingled essence devoured with sloppy enthusiasm.
As the session ended, Harlan clapped Ryn’s shoulder. “Good start. But we’re just warming up.” The scout nodded weakly, eyes glazed with bliss and pain, the frost’s whisper promising more trials ahead.
Chapter 3: Flames of Forbidden Hunger
The midday sun struggled over the mountain peaks, its weak rays barely penetrating the citadel’s gloom. Harlan retreated to his solar, a chamber lined with maps of conquered lands and shelves of arcane tomes that smelled of aged leather and dust. His body hummed from the morning’s exertions, muscles loose but mind restless. He needed something fiercer, a release that burned hotter than the pits.
Pouring a goblet of dark wine—tart and heady on his tongue—he activated a hidden rune on the wall. This summoned not a single thrall, but a pair: twin sisters, Mira and Lira, bound to him since their village’s fall. They appeared hand in hand, identical in their lithe grace, raven hair cascading to waists pierced with silver rings. Naked but for collars linked by a chain, their bodies were canvases of faint scars from past games.
“Kneel,” Harlan barked, settling into a high-backed chair. They obeyed in unison, the chain clinking softly, kneeling between his spread legs. Mira’s hand reached for his robe, parting it to free his reawakening cock, while Lira leaned in to nuzzle his balls, inhaling deeply.
“You smell of conquest, master,” Mira whispered, her breath hot against his shaft as she licked a slow path from base to tip.
Lira joined, their tongues dueling over him, wet and insistent, the dual sensation making Harlan groan. Saliva dripped freely, coating him in shine, the slurping sounds obscene. He gripped their hair, guiding them—one deep-throating while the other sucked his sack, teeth grazing just enough to sting.
“Fight for it, sluts,” he growled. “Who gets my load first?”
They redoubled, moans vibrating through him, hands roaming his thighs, nails scratching lightly. The competition fueled them; Mira gagged as she took him to the hilt, Lira lapping at the overflow. Harlan’s hips bucked, pleasure coiling tight, until he erupted into Mira’s mouth with a bellow, thick spurts that she swallowed hungrily, some dribbling to Lira’s eager tongue.
Not sated, Harlan pulled them up, bending Mira over the table, her ass presented high. He plunged into her without preamble, the slap of flesh immediate and brutal. Lira watched, fingering herself, then climbed atop the table to straddle Mira’s back, offering her breasts to Harlan’s mouth. He suckled hard, biting until she yelped, all while hammering into her sister.
The room filled with their symphony: Mira’s muffled screams into the wood, Lira’s whimpers, Harlan’s grunts. He switched, taking Lira next, her walls fluttering around him as he chased another peak. They came in a tangle—Harlan flooding Lira, the twins shuddering through their own releases, juices soaking the maps below.
Collapsing in a heap, sweat-slick and panting, Harlan dismissed them with a lazy wave. “Clean the mess. And each other.” They obeyed, tongues exploring intimately, the sight stirring him faintly as they left.
Alone, Harlan sipped the last of his wine, the tartness cutting through the lingering taste of skin. The afternoon loomed with council meetings, but his thoughts drifted to evening’s deeper rites—a group ritual in the great hall, where thralls would serve the court. The frost king’s hunger was insatiable, a flame that thawed even the coldest nights.
Chapter 4: Echoes of the Pack
As twilight bled purple across the snowfields, Harlan gathered his inner circle in the hall—a vaulted space alive with the crackle of a massive hearth and the murmur of low voices. Torches lined the walls, their smoke weaving patterns in the air, carrying notes of pine resin and roasting venison. The thralls moved like shadows, serving ale in horns, their bodies on display, cages and plugs glinting.
Harlan sat at the head table, flanked by his lieutenants—hardened warriors with eyes like steel. But tonight, the focus was indulgence, a pack rite to bond and unleash. He raised his horn. “To victories past and pleasures ahead!”
Cheers erupted, and the thralls swarmed, kneeling to offer laps as seats, mouths for drinks. Harlan selected Vex from earlier, pulling him onto his thigh, the thrall’s weight a welcome press. “Dance for us,” Harlan commanded to the group.
The thralls obliged, bodies undulating in a hypnotic rhythm, hips grinding air, hands caressing denied flesh. Ryn, freshly marked from morning, moved with a limp that only added allure, his welts glowing in the firelight. Elow joined, her curves swaying seductively, drawing whistles.
Harlan’s hand slipped under Vex’s harness, fingering the plug’s base, twisting it to elicit gasps. “Tell me what you crave, thrall.”
“Your cock, sire… buried in me while they watch,” Vex breathed, grinding against Harlan’s growing bulge.
The king obliged publicly, bending Vex over the table amid the feast’s remnants. He oiled himself quickly, then thrust in, the penetration drawing cheers. Vex moaned loudly, pushing back, the table rocking with each slam. The scent of arousal mingled with food—musk and meat—a heady brew.
Lieutenants paired off with others; the hall devolved into an orgy of flesh. Grunts and cries echoed, bodies writhing on furs strewn across the floor. Harlan fucked Vex relentlessly, then passed him to another, taking Elow next, her legs wrapped around his waist as he lifted her, impaling deep.
“Harder, my king—break me!” she cried, nails in his back.
He did, pounding until she squirted, soaking his thighs, her taste flooding his mouth as he kissed her fiercely. Climax ripped through him, seed spilling inside, then withdrawn to spray across her belly for a thrall to lick clean.
The rite peaked in a circle of shared release—thralls on knees, mouths and hands working the warriors, cum painting faces and chests in sticky webs. Harlan stood at center, stroking to finish on Ryn’s upturned face, the scout’s tongue darting to catch every drop.
As the fires died low, the pack sated, Harlan surveyed his domain. Bonds strengthened, hungers fed—the echoes of their pleasure would linger through the winter’s long nights.
Chapter 5: Thawing the Eternal Ice
Deep into the night, with the citadel hushed under a blanket of fresh snow, Harlan wandered the battlements alone. The wind whipped his cloak, carrying flakes that melted on his heated skin, the cold a stark contrast to the warmth he’d stoked within. Below, the valley slumbered, pines bowing under white burdens, but in his mind, the day’s indulgences replayed—touches, tastes, the raw surrender of his thralls.
Unable to resist, he returned to his chambers, summoning one last servant: an elder thrall named Kael, wise and enduring, his body a map of silver hairs and faded tattoos. Kael entered bearing a basin of warmed oils, his movements slow, reverent.
“Massage me, old one,” Harlan said, shedding his cloak to lie face-down on the fur rug. “And speak of the old rites.”
Kael’s strong hands worked the oil into Harlan’s back, thumbs digging into knots with expert pressure, the slick glide soothing aches. The scent was herbal, earthy, easing the king into relaxation. As he kneaded lower, brushing the cleft of Harlan’s ass, Kael murmured tales of ancient kings who bound spirits with ecstasy, their thrones built on waves of pleasure.
Harlan rolled over at Kael’s urging, his cock rising under the thrall’s touch. Kael straddled him, pouring oil over both, then sank down, enveloping slowly, savoring the stretch. They moved together unhurriedly, a gentle rhythm building to intensity—Kael’s prostate milked by each thrust, Harlan’s hands roaming the elder’s chest, pinching grizzled nipples.
“You’ve served well through seasons,” Harlan grunted, hips rising to meet him.
“And will until the ice cracks, sire,” Kael replied, voice strained, riding harder now, the slap of oiled skin wet and rhythmic.
Their pace quickened, breaths mingling, the rug bunching under them. Harlan sat up, wrapping arms around Kael, thrusting upward as the thrall bounced, inner walls clenching like a vice. Release built slowly, cresting in shared groans—Harlan pulsing deep, Kael spilling across the king’s belly without touch, hot seed mixing with oil.
They parted gently, Kael cleaning with a soft cloth, his touch lingering in aftercare. As the thrall departed, Harlan lay back, staring at the ceiling’s frost patterns. The eternal ice of his realm felt thawed, if only for a night, the rites weaving strength into his rule.
Tomorrow would bring new battles, new summons, but the frost king’s secrets ensured his fire never dimmed. In the quiet, with wind sighing like a lover, he drifted to sleep, visions of submission dancing in the dark. 💋
