In Service of Magical Science

Prince Minrath’s servant, made monstrous, ruins his holes.

Rated E, M/M, 3.7k. Prince Minrath, a passionate apothecary, has been asking his favourite of the royal retainers to test potions for him — one day, Aen drinks the wrong one.

Minrath is intersex with a small cock and a shallow vagina and mention is made of him dilating.

Transformation, breeding and pregnancy dirty talk / threats, degradation, power dynamics with age and class difference, huge come inflation, all-the-way-through with some come vomiting, huge size difference, anal sex, vaginal sex, overstimulation, gaping, some mild consent issues with the situation, but Minrath and Aen are both very much having a good time.

Prince Minrath had always been a beautiful boy, and then a beautiful youth.

Aen remembers him at twelve or thirteen, the first time he made his debut in full armour and how he had delighted in the praise he received on his burgeoning good looks, his bright brown eyes, his handsome jaw, his thick waves of alabaster hair.

As he’s grown older, come into his youth, he’s grown all the more handsome — as a young man, he’s breathtaking, though what remains unfortunate is the fact that he knows it. He’s an arrogant young sod, charismatic, intelligent — he’s going to be a good and worthy king some day, and Aen knows it.

At first, he’d explored his growing sexual appetites with others of his age cohort — had the usual escapades with fellow aristocrats, a few tousles and trysts with servants and staff, and naturally, he fucks and plays about with local warriors, adventurers, members of the royal guard. His tastes have diverged, multiplied — he likes older men and women, increasingly, although Aen has his suspicions he simply enjoys playing with power differentials.

Aen faintly recalls his highness’ youthful interest in Aen himself — when he was fourteen, he’d fallen on the palace stairs and sprained his wrist, and Aen had been closer than any of the palace healers, had gently set the sprain and then healed it with a burst of magic.

Minrath had been boisterous in his gratitude in the way some young people could be, showing their affections for an older man or woman, had been clingy for a little while, overcomplimentary, had stared. As time’s gone on, he’s evened out a little, has become more moderate, but he’s retained some evident attraction to Aen, him more so than any of the other royal retainers, from what Aen has gathered.

Minrath is often eager to spend time alone with him, is flirtatious when the two of them are alone together — asks that Aen be assigned to any work Minrath is devoted to within the palace halls or the broader keep, favours him over others of his retainers.

This, though?

This is new.

Minrath’s new potion hobby is impressive, to say the least — he’s been studying under various apothecaries within the royal city over the past few years, but his new focus is not merely on brewing or preparing and curing ingredients, but on designing and creating new potions.

Aen has seen some of them in action — growth supplements that have been used for the palace gardens, variations and improvements on existing potions and magic-rich composts, some longer-lasting magical dyes, but these current experiments are… new.

“Are you asking me, sire, or ordering me?” Aen asks, standing to attention to one side of Minrath’s potions laboratory, and Minrath looks up at him, his hands folded in his lap, his smile devastatingly and dangerously sweet.

“I love it when you call me sire,” Minrath purrs, and Aen suppresses the shudder that wants to run up his spine, the twitch of his hole and his cock at once as he considers giving the young prince precisely what he would like, and bending over for him.

People have written poetry about the young prince’s beauty and his charm, of course, but all of those poems talk about the glint off his ceremonial armour when he fights in bouts in the arena or when he rides through the palace streets; they talk about the waves of white hair that cascade about his shoulders or the shine and glint of the buttons on his royal uniform.

Aen finds him most enticing, most tempting, when he’s like this, grime on the side of his handsome jaw and on his arms, his acid-stained leather gloves hanging from his belt, his hair tied up in a high bun with a few stains discolouring it. Sitting back in his rolling chair with his gold-rimmed glasses low on his nose, looking up at Aen, he looks quite picture. It might be easy, like this, to forget he’s what he is, to forget he’s the crown prince, one day to inherit his father’s throne.

It might be easy to think of him as just one more cool-headed, filthy-handed apothecary with burns on his fingertips, and all the more attractive for that.

“Would you position yourself in the way of magical science, Aen?” Minrath asks, raising his eyebrows. “You’ll have the afternoon off, a fat little pouch of coins in your pocket, and of course, my undying gratitude.”

There’s a sultriness to his voice as he says it, leaning forward and looking up at Aen solicitously, and Aen exhales slowly and looks at the slate board Minrath had set aside for him, the questions written on it — Please describe the sensations or effects the potion makes you experience. Describe the length and intensity of each sensation or effect.

“What effects should I expect?”

“The point is that you don’t expect any of them,” Minrath says simply, spreading his hands. They’re lovely hands — they used to be so unworked and untested, pale and pretty, but now his long fingers have callouses on them, his palms roughened, and Aen can’t help but wonder what the shiny burn on the underside of his left palm will feel like if he ever lets Minrath’s hand stroke him as it wishes to. “I hardly want you anticipating or imagining effects that aren’t there, do I?”

The coin pouch resting on the desk does look rather full, and Minrath does look so very enticing.

Aen picks up the steaming chalice awaiting him, looks at the bubbling pink liquid within, and then brings it to his lips.

That’s the first time.

* * *

The first time is an aphrodisiac, a strong one.

Minrath does his best to entice him into staying, flirts and teases, but Aen excuses himself when he feels his skin burn under his clothes, and he spends his evening sweating on his back in his bed, tugging himself raw, fucking himself with his fingers and then with a toy that doesn’t feel like it’s nearly enough.

He makes his notes on the sensations, and he answers Minrath’s questions, later on — Prince Minrath’s slow and focused questions, making notes with one hand, stroking himself through his protective breeches with the other.

There are other potions — every few months, a new potion, a new set of notes, a new interview.

A potion that hugely enhances sensation, such that when Aen touches himself he feels like his orgasm might well make him go blind it hits him with such impact; a potion that temporarily enhances his output, leaves him coming what feels like gallons as he touches himself in the bath; a tingling balm that lets him keep his arousal even as he fucks through every whore in the brothel.

“When are we going to stop playing these games, Aen?” Prince Minrath asks when Aen joins him in his laboratory, and Aen looks across at him — he can see the other man from the waist up, glistening with moisture where he’s scrubbed himself clean from his day’s labours. “Why don’t you come join me in the shower?”

“Perhaps I’m in the mood for another experiment,” Aen murmurs, and Minrath chuckles.

“Please,” he says. “Try the one on my desk.”

Aen approaches Minrath’s desk, the one with papers laid out and spread across it, an inkwell stoppered and waiting with a pen in the tray alongside. He studies the young prince’s array of diagrams, recipes, research notes, and sees no waiting chalice, no glass or cup. He glances to the prince, who isn’t looking back in Aen’s direction — he’s towelling off his handsome white hair, bent over so that Aen can see the marks on his body, old burns, a few scarred wounds from training in the arena.

Aen looks to the other, longer desk, where a still is dripping into a beaker, and a set of vials are resting in their stands, but here is another beaker.

The liquid inside is a deep, thick red, and it’s bubbling slightly: when he touches the side of the glass with his fingertips, he finds it warm to the touch. Minrath’s notes are written in a beautiful, looping hand, but they’re in one of the academic languages that are significantly beyond Aen’s ability to make sense of.

There’s a pipette beside the beaker, droplets of red liquid in a glass tray, a few magnifying glasses and scopes within reach. His hand twitches, his fingers stroking over the brass casing of the closest magical scope — but why magnify the liquid? Why examine it?

There is one apothecary in this room, and Aen is here not to rival him for his expertise, not to learn about his craft, but to hand over his body to him. To serve him in a way beyond their positions as prince and retainer, to allow the prince to modify him, adjust him, experiment on him.

Aen doesn’t know, of recent, which makes his cock harder — the potions he’s been drinking, or the thought of young Minrath brewing them for the purpose, of him stewing in his laboratory, making his notes, thinking of how best to torture Aen next.

Aen picks up the beaker, brings it to his mouth, and drinks: the potion inside is sweet but astringent, and it bubbles on his tongue as though about to congeal against the surface and then in his throat as he swallows.

“Ye gods,” he mutters after he drains the beaker, feeling the thickness of it slide and slither down his throat, feel almost like he’s attempted to take a living beast down the length of his neck, some manner of warm snake or worm or something like it. He imagines he can feel it dripping into his stomach, a mirror to what’s dripping from the still into the other beaker.

“Put the stopper back once you’ve drunk it,” Minrath says. “It’s a reactive mix — I like to wash all my containers and stoppers separately.”

Aen lays eyes on the stoppered bottle to his right, resting on a coaster on the edge of the desk, and as his skin abruptly ripples under his clothes, his stomach giving a sudden lurch, he says, “Ah.”

Minrath’s hands are resting on the side of the counter, his hair damp around his shoulders, and his eyes are wide as he looks across the room at Aen. “Did you drink the red one, or the blue one?”

“The red,” Aen says, his voice coming out in a harsh rasp. His teeth feel like they’re elongating, his jaw seeming to grow, his throat vibrating, his heart pounding fast in his chest.

Minrath slips on the tile in his haste to run away from him, and Aen is giving chase on an urge that comes from nowhere.

* * *

Minrath’s bare feet pound hard against the marble floors — his laboratory is down in the cellar halls of the palace, and even as he runs, he splits off down the side corridors to avoid the palace guard. He doesn’t know why he thought he might be able to outrun the other man — Aen runs every morning, does laps around the arena ground, even without this potion running through his veins.

Minrath doesn’t hear him pounce — he feels it.

Aen’s claw-like hands, double the size they had been, shove him down onto cool spread of the stone floor, and Minrath has the wind knocked out of him. He’s wet already, had been touching himself in the shower before Aen had come down to speak with him, but he’s not prepared for this, had been working up to this as a potential.

The potion’s not even done, isn’t fully refined — he can hear Aen’s clothes tearing as his body bulges with more meat, more muscle, more thick, fur-like hair. Minrath lets out a yelp as Aen flips him onto his back, and he stares up at the older man’s face, at how it’s changed without elongating fully into a muzzle, the snarl on his lips.

“You,” he growls, his eyes aglow, and his hands pin Minrath down onto the stone, his thumbs digging into his shoulders. Aen’s always been a comfortably large man, square and muscled underneath his uniform, but now he’s exploding with muscle and bearish brawn, and clothes are tatters as they fall aside.

Minrath’s seen Aen’s cock before — he’s seen him in the public baths in the arena, seen him strip off his clothes after coming in from the rain; he’s not seen him hard unclothed, but he’s seen the bulge of it under his breeches.

Now, it’s a gargantuan thing, falling on top of Minrath’s belly and dwarfing his own cock — it’s slick with pre, the stuff dripping off of him, and he rethinks the work he’d been doing to calm that down in the potion’s refinement, because even as wet and open as he is, he feels he’ll need all of that lubrication to allow for the size of this thing inside him.

“You little whore,” Aen growls down at him, and Minrath shudders beneath him, his head pressing down into the floor. “Experimenting on me, touching yourself to the thought of me. You wanted to fuck me, didn’t you?” He laughs and it’s like a dog’s bark, his huge cock sliding slick and eager against Minrath’s own, against his belly, up against his chest, fuck, it’s so big. “You’ve been dreaming of it since you were old enough to hold your cock in your hands, having me bent over for you, haven’t you, your highness? Sire?”

“Aen,” Minrath says, “this potion is a work in progress, the — the anger you’re feeling, it’s a side effect — ”

“Anger?” Aen repeats, and laughs, his tongue lolling out of his suddenly sharp-toothed mouth. “I’m not angry with you, little prince. Even though you made it clear what you wanted, and then tried to run.”

The word comes out in a ragged growl, and Minrath’s trembling hands try to go to touch him — the fur that’s sprouted from Aen’s shoulders, his heavy chest, is surprisingly soft, although its growth is patchy and incomplete — there are bald patches over his thighs and his belly, leaving him oddly bare in the middle.

He thrusts his cock suddenly between Minrath’s thighs, and Minrath howls at the thickness of it, at the shove of it between his legs and how it forces them apart. It’s so slick it goes easily, and he feels the threat of the head against his cunt — his cunt is naturally shallower than most, and he’s been working on his capacity, has been dilating, but this thing, this?

His capacity will be irrelevant: this thing is going to fuck right into his womb, pump Aen’s prodigious come directly into him, and he’s whimpering, anticipating it.

Then Aen’s cockhead drops between his legs again, lines up not against his wet and open cunt, but against the tighter, smaller furl of his arse, which he’s not been training recently at all.

“Wait,” he says urgently, and he tries to scramble back, but one of Aen’s huge hands lands heavily on his sternum and holds him still. “Wait, Aen,” Minrath says, and he hears the quaver in his own voice. “Wait, wait, that’s, you can’t — ”

“Aren’t you tired of waiting?” Aen asks him, his voice a rumble, his eyes flashing. His teeth are dripping with saliva, and some of it is dropping down onto Minrath’s chest. “You didn’t want to play these games any longer, you said — don’t you want the games to finish, hm, sire? Don’t you want me to make use of this potion you’ve given me and fuck you as hard as you deserve?”

“Aen — ”

Aen’s cockhead forces its way past the ring of Minrath’s asshole, and Minrath’s scream echoes through the corridors, his back arching off the ground — his cock aches as it jumps, and he can feel the pressure in his cunt as Aen’s ridiculous prick slides inside his arse.

It feels good.

It hurts, but with how slick Minrath’s prick it is, with how its dripping with lubricant, it scarcely even burns, just forces his hole open and then slicks the way, and he’s whining uncontrollably as Aen rocks his hips and forces his transformed prick deeper and deeper into him.

Minrath’s belly is bulging with it before Aen’s even halfway inside him, and he stares between them at the jump and swell of his own once-flat stomach, feels how much wetness is pouring into his guts and at the same time feels his empty cunt throb with the indirect sensation, and the want to be filled.

His own cock is dripping, and he tries to pull himself away, tries to crawl on his back, but Aen’s bulk is inescapable even before he leans over him and slides the flat of his made-bestial tongue from Minrath’s right tit all the way up the side of his neck.

“This will be it from now on,” Aen growls in his ear, and Minrath shudders, arches his back into the slide of Minrath’s tongue, the surprisingly gentle nibble of his frightening teeth at the base of his collarbone. “You want my services in future, princeling, you will have them — you’ll service me in kind. That tiny little cock of yours won’t find its way into my arse until you’ve birthed a few babes for me — or should I say, litters of pups?”

Minrath’s cock jerks powerfully, and he’s trying to shake his head, trying to mumble out a protest, but he’s moaning desperately, whines eking out of his throat as he scrambles uselessly at the floor. Aen’s cock is spearing him, is pumping deep into him, and he can feel his guts filling with the warm, slick burst of it, of Minrath’s come.

“I’ll keep you down in the cellars where you like to be, brewing your potions, brewing my seed in you, brewing milk from that flat chest of yours,” Aen tells him, nips the side of his ear, and the sensation goes through him like a sudden spark of magic, his whole body spasming. His cock feels about ready to burst, his hips rocking back down against the monstrous prick spreading him open, forcing him open. “You wanted a beast to fuck you, a monster to pin you down and ravage you? Ravaged you will be, sire, ravaged until I make a sow of you as you’ve made a beast of me.”

Aen suddenly howls, his head thrown back, and Minrath stares helplessly down at himself as his belly bloats with it, as he feels Aen’s balls churn and pump and pump into him, a veritable hose of come into his guts.

He’s so full he’s ballooning with it, and his cunt still feels so empty even though the rest of him is so full, his cock now grinding against the straining, taut flesh of his bulging gut, and Aen is still thrusting, still thrusting.

Minrath’s stomach gives a little lurch as Aen’s cock keeps pumping, thickens and shifts inside him, jerks and jumps, and Minrath realises what’s hitting him all at once, turns his head to the side and gags. The royal servant’s come spatters onto the tile beside them, vomited out, and Minrath sputters and tries to swallow, tries to keep it down as the pressure within him keeps on building. He can feel his insides sloshing with it, feel himself made ripe as a berry on the vine, and it’s inescapable.

He’s coming.

His cunt feels so agonisingly empty, being rubbed at from the outside and how he wants it, how he wants it to be filled, to feel Aen’s huge cock forcing it open and filling his womb, Aen’s tongue, even his clawed hands, but he’s still coming — his cock is jerking, his own come spurting against his own aching, overfilled belly.

He’s reached his finish — and Aen, it seems, has not.

“Please,” Minrath chokes out between a mouthful of Aen’s come, spitting it out, feeling it dripping down his chin, and Aen laughs.

“Please what, sire?” Aen asks, and Minrath’s body lurches, feeling like he’s received a shock directly to the prick. “Your cunt next, your mouth? I’ll get to those as soon as I’ve finished my business here. You wanted my attention, my service to magical science: you have it.”

Minrath gags again, spews out more of Aen’s come as he stares powerlessly down at the ballooning spread of his swollen belly, and hears his whine as if it comes from another man as Aen’s tongue swipes once more up his neck.

* * *

In the aftermath, Minrath lies on his side on the cool tile of the floor in a thick puddle of come, and Aen stands over him, breathing heavily. It leaks out of his gaping cunt and gaping arse, more on the side of his mouth — there’s come in his hair, such a similar colour it’s almost as though the prince’s own white hair has turned all to liquid, and as Aen looks down at him, his highness’ cock sputters weakly.

The fever is passing now.

Aen’s teeth ache as they continue to shrink, his body aching and exhausted, his cock returned to normal size — most of the fur has fallen away from him, although he’s certain he has more hair on his back than he did.

“What would the other potion have done?” Aen asks, his voice hoarse from howling, from transforming, from all of it. “The stoppered one you meant for me to take?”

Minrath laughs blearily, and coughs out another mouthful of Aen’s spend. “Made your nipples bigger, made them throb a bit,” he mumbles. “Made them — puffy. Nice mouthfuls. You’d have been able to come from them alone.”

“Sounds nice,” Aen says softly. “Next time, perhaps, sire.”

His highness’ laugh is soft and eager and so full of want that Aen’s head spins with it. He’ll feel guilty about this later, certainly — for now, he looks on the ruin he’s wrought of the boy, the mess he’s made of him, and feels powerful, feels good.

“Next time,” Minrath echoes, and his eyes flutter closed as Aen retreats down the corridor in search of someone to help him hose the young man down.