Little Pink Starfish

“Lord Amon, ah, it hurts……”

“I’ll make it feel good soon.”

Amon once again took the now-warming earlobe into his mouth, wetting it as he whispered.
Soon, the half-slipped-out member slid back in roughly with a thud! sound.
A scream burst from Nyne’s mouth.
Amid the pain, a lightning-like pleasure struck the crown of his head.

His mind, already hazy from just waking up, became completely clouded.
“Ah… ah!” Moans that sounded like he was out of breath spilled from between his parted lips.
Each time the weapon violently stirred and thrust deep into his belly, the pain of his insides being forcefully opened slowly turned into pleasure.
After a few struggles, Nyne, melted completely in the sensation, gave up on pushing Amon’s thigh away.

“Good boy.”

Praising the gesture, Amon grabbed between Nyne’s legs.
Unlike the sharp pleasure that made his spine tingle, Nyne’s member hung limp.
Like his skin, the space between his legs was soaked from countless climaxes.
As Amon’s hand touched him, Nyne’s body twitched and reacted sensitively.
With the delicate caress, his head snapped back and he gasped for breath.

The thick shaft and tip rubbed against the soft, wet flesh, making lewd sounds.
Held tightly in Amon’s arms, Nyne writhed in a mix of pain and pleasure.
Knowing well that the peak is higher when pain, like a sweetener, is mixed in with pure pleasure, Amon grabbed his chest with his other hand.

As he continuously sucked and bit, twisting the sore nipple between his fingers, a high-pitched cry escaped.
Amon savored the scent of arousal as he left bite marks wherever his mouth touched.
He pressed his nose hard into Nyne’s nape and inhaled deeply, almost flattening it.
The other’s scent alone stirred arousal and pleasure in Amon.

“Ah, ah! Aa—ah, Lord Amon, hhk, … no, don’t!”

From the intense thrusts and relentless stimulation, Nyne’s perineum and thighs trembled as if in spasms.
It was a dry climax—nothing came out.
The focus faded from his golden eyes, and his lips, no longer able to even moan, only moved faintly.

Amon pushed his long tongue into the parted lips and kissed him.
He licked inside with wet, obscene sounds—sak, saak—then suddenly furrowed his brow.
He had noticed that the other’s tongue was drier than usual.
Thud, thud, thud! Nyne’s body shook violently under Amon.
After the dry climax, an even higher one surged through him.
The moans, which had stopped, returned once more.

“Ah, aaah! Ahk!”

The extreme pleasure resembled pain, and Nyne let out a tormented scream as he thrashed.
Though his eyes were open, his vision dimmed, and the overwhelming pleasure raked through his entire body.
Like someone falling into the abyss, he flailed his hands, desperate to grab onto anything.
Holding him down, Amon let out a satisfied, languid sigh amidst his own pleasure.

In the aftermath of climax, Nyne trembled intermittently and went limp.
His sweat-drenched hair clung messily to his forehead and nape, but he didn’t even have the strength to brush it away.
When Amon pulled his slick, swollen member out of the red, swollen hole, a gush of white semen spilled out and soaked the blanket.

“Water.”
“Yes, Sha.”

When Amon gave the command, the voice of a priest responding was soon heard.
While Nyne remained dazed in the lingering afterglow, Amon took a cup from the priest and drank.
Then, lowering his head, he brought his lips to Nyne’s.

As the sweet water with a hint of herbs slowly moistened his tongue and lips, Nyne finally realized just how dehydrated he was.
Amon kissed him again and again, passing the water between their mouths until Nyne was fully satisfied.

Once his thirst had eased, the priests approached carefully with linen cloths soaked in warm water.
Kneeling without daring to lift their gaze, they began to cleanse Amon’s body.
Then, they turned to Nyne, lying limp on the bed.
From his sweat-soaked face, to his semen-smeared skin, down to his feet, they washed him with devoted and delicate hands.

Blinking blankly, Nyne’s awareness slowly returned.
Like someone surfacing for air after a long dive, he finally took a deep breath.
Whether because of the lingering effects of their union or not, some time passed before a question surfaced in his mind.

“…How did I come to Lord Amon’s holy chamber?”

“You brought yourself—while asleep.”

At Amon’s answer, Nyne barely recalled the night three days prior.
After completing the Osen Iyad ritual, Nyne had been resting in bed when Amon came for him.
Due to the ritual’s effects, his drowsiness had been deep, leaving his memory vague.
And ever since entering Amon’s sanctuary, they had been together without pause, night and day.

Even after being thoroughly cleansed by the priests, Nyne remained weak and limp for a while.
Only after eating a small piece of bread and a few slices of melon did he finally regain some energy.
As he pieced together his memory, he asked Amon:

“Did your beast hunt go well?”

“As always.”

Amon replied while gently stroking Nyne’s hair.
His black strands slipped softly between Amon’s fingers.
After running his fingers through them a few more times, he gave an order to a priest:

“Bring a comb.”

“Yes, Sha.”

The priest responded with a deep bow and soon returned with Nyne’s ornate, personal comb.
Amon took a handful of Nyne’s hair and began combing from the ends.
Nyne remembered how, the first time Amon had combed his hair, the priests had been visibly unsettled.
Now, none of them seemed fazed.

Amon set down the section he’d combed and took up another, continuing methodically.
As he did, Nyne’s eyelids began to grow heavy.
Though he told himself not to fall asleep, his consciousness soon plunged into deep slumber.

When he came to again, the sun was already dipping below the horizon.
The breeze, tinted with the warmth of sunset and the coolness of dusk, stirred the long linen drapes hanging from the ceiling.
Awakening from deep sleep, Nyne watched the fluttering white cloth and listened to the sound of beautiful music.
Whoever was playing the lyre was clearly skilled.

Nyne turned his head and blinked in surprise—the person playing the lyre was none other than Amon.
Upon seeing that Nyne had awoken, Amon stopped playing and came over.

“Would you like a meal?”

“Yes. Um, but… your playing was truly beautiful.”

“Was it.”

Amon gave a faint smile and caressed Nyne’s cheek.
Even the golden eyes that always seemed as cold as metal held a faint warmth, and Nyne gazed up at him, mesmerized.

He was someone Nyne couldn’t fully understand—someone he feared.
Yet, precisely because of that, the fact that someone as ruthless and merciless as Amon cherished only him was intoxicating.
Feeling safety in fear, Nyne gently rubbed his cheek into Amon’s palm with reverence and affection.

Amon sat at the edge of the bed and set down the lyre.
Though the lyre used by Ruga was a fine one, it couldn’t compare to this instrument.
Amon’s lyre was made from rare white wood, intricately engraved with beautiful patterns, and topaz gems sparkled where the strings were fixed.
Nyne reached out and lightly touched the strings.
As he hooked his fingernail and gave a slight tug, a faint di-ring echoed.

“But I’ve never heard that song before. Was it composed by a new ritual priest?”

The melody was unlike the usual priestly music—its tone and mood completely different.
It was certainly Nyne’s first time hearing it, yet it somehow felt familiar.
Where had he heard it before? As he tilted his head in thought, Amon replied:

“No, it’s a song played by someone who once lived somewhere.”

“Someone who lived… somewhere?”

Nyne asked in confusion.
Had he heard it while out hunting beasts?
The lyre wasn’t limited to the High Temple; commoners also played it.
Amon understood Nyne’s question and answered plainly:

“A person who lived by a riverbank where the plovers cried noisily.”

Even after hearing the reply, Nyne was still puzzled.
Amon normally never showed interest in others’ music.
Nyne tried to imagine Amon approaching someone living by a loud river to learn the lyre.
It was strange—utterly unlike him.

“Did you meet this person during your most recent hunt?”

“No. …Ah, yes, that must have been about five hundred years ago now.”

It was rare—very rare—for Amon to fall into reminiscence, and it startled Nyne.
At the same time, waves stirred in his heart.
If Amon still remembered someone who played the lyre five centuries ago, that person must have held some meaning for him.
Was it really just about learning to play? Or… was there more?

He had believed himself to be Amon’s only one.
But if he wasn’t…?

As such thoughts stirred in Nyne, Amon handed him the lyre.