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Men need to be dominated. It is just that simple. Few would admit it, but most want to be put in their place. By reward or by the whip, it does not matter. I am prince. Their place is beneath my feet.

Prince Lionel's feet are idly pawing at the carpet during his reverie. The brown and cream of his fur clashes with the faded red of the heirloom carpet, as most of the imported cherry-wood interior does. His crimson mane is tied in a tight braid, which had fallen over his shoulder. He idly strokes it, lifting his green eyes to look through his royal chamber, which is not a place for public court, but for business and decision making. For leadership. But for dominance?

His advisor Vanaller, who had been his personal teacher before his rise to responsibility, had left him today for an errant of great import. Therefore, Lionel is currently guided by his own will and expertise. Shifting vellum from one stack to the next, he imprudently disrupts the neat order which Vanaller had carefully orchestrated over a long course of hints, recommendations and insistence. Some of the vellum hold maps and figures, others dense text, and the next bold letters. Not a single word crosses the threshold between Lionel's sight and his thoughts. He generally considers all affairs of state that managed to be placed on his desk a lost cause to begin with. Yet here they are, and he longs for a more pragmatic application of himself. His eyes find the small chair by the wall where he had discarded his robe of office, leaving him bare to the warm arid winds invading through the high windows, bringing with them the distant murmur of trade and city life, the song of birds and the river's pleasant smells. Perhaps he had been in no mind for paperwork the moment he set foot in his royal chamber.

The ring of a small gong announces a visitor. Momentarily startled, Lionel looks up towards its origin. The sound came from behind a heavy curtain made of handmade cloth, the servants entrance. "Yes," he replies, then clears his throat to quickly add, with more command in his voice, "Enter!"

A slim figure silently emerges, its careful grace barely setting the curtain in motion. He is a fox, naked but for a harness, which still exposes his nipples, backside and groin, although allowing to fasten rows of small cylindrical containers made of hardened papyrus. He is a messenger, whose pure white fur marks him as one of the royal family's personal staff. While approaching with elegant, quiet steps, he extends a scroll from one of his containers, kneeling down and presenting it to the prince with reverence - oblivious or unmindful of the latter's own nakedness. Lionel picks up the vellum to read. Then, as an afterthought, he puts a foot to the chest of the royal servant who obediently takes it into his hands and sucks at one of the toes. When even the small red of the fox's tip appears as if summoned, Lionel inwardly shakes his head in astonishment at the royal staffs' training. Nonetheless enjoying himself for a short while, and watching the fox go from one toe to the next, he eventually unrolls the message. It is signed by his majesty himself, Highlord Areku Al-Khemi.

---

"Dear Kory,

I thought of you recently while exploring the illustrious harems of a mutual friend. Among them I found a most extraordinary specimen. I recalled then your endeavour to improve your skills as dominus. The slave has never been properly trained, but his inherent libido, resilience and demeanor had inflamed the ambitions of previous owners. I don't believe he was ever discarded, but moved on to higher masters, as now from our friend to you. Under the condition that you, my dear, accomplish to subdue him. His name is Nathan.

Until tonight,

Areku"

---

For prolonged seconds Lionel stares at the message, until a shudder of pleasure crawls up from his foot, making him moan. The fox has worked his way from the toes to the sole, now applying, in generous licks, his tongue to the sensitive skin. His sheath had further swollen, but little does this tell about one of the messengers. Rumor had it they were constantly horny, caused supposedly by special containers for secret messages of state, stowed away more securely upon the runner-whores'... person.

"Tell me," interrupted the prince, "do you know the content of this message?"

The fox sighed, withdrawing himself from the hind-paw with apparent effort. His blue eyes look directly into the prince's, accompanied by a lusty smile. "Not for sure, my lord." Everyone is their lord, Lionel reflects, but the way they say it makes it seem earnest nevertheless. "But," the fox continus, "there was an exot like myself, some canine from the northern kingdoms, brought before your chambers by royal guards. I was ordered to deliver the message only after he arrived."

Lionel rises an eyebrow. Exots terms all species from the far north or east. By gesture of reward, he presses his still moist foot into the soft fur of the messenger, rubbing his chest while putting his other paw into his groin, making the fox shiver blissfully at the touch. He is rock hard within that sheath of his. Lionel smiles and prompts, "An exot, you say? Tell me more."

Despite his bodily display of pleasure and submission, his voice comes clear and firm. "A dog, my lord, with cropped ears and short fur. A doberman, if I am not mistaken, wiry muscled. He wore a collar and a leather harness, though not as delicate as mine, and a strange kind of cap, black and stiff. But his body was entirely exposed, like any servant of pleasure would be."

The last came with a hint of begging, or so Lionel is convinced. He smirks and applies a bit more pressure with both his feet, giving the fox a thorough, gentle rub. Before too long, though, he withdraws his feet and turns his attention to the stacks of vellum. "Thank you. You are dismissed."

With fluent motion, but with his hard-on now wholly unsheathed and throbbing, the fox stands up and bows. His leave is as gracefully silent as his entrance had been.

A sidelong glance from Lionel at his desk is but the dying flicker of what sense of duty he ever had. Then he returns his eyes back to the note in his hand. On the backside are two lists, neatly columned, containing all the vital information of likes and dislikes any master should have of a new pet. They are pretty much equal in length and without much beyond the average to expect. However, that says nothing about the character of the pet. Furthermore, one point gives him pause. "Intriguing," he purrs, while getting out of his chair, heading for the curtain to his receiving chamber.

The first thing to assail Lionel's senses was a thick odor, a smell of burning fermented leaves, clinging to the nose and catching in the throat. And when he arrives within his receiving chamber, next to two palace guards waiting by the entrance, this doberman is sitting on a bench, a stick of tobacco in his mouth. Dressed in harness and cap, just as described. He is obviously amused to see the slim royalty struggle with the heavy smoke he produces. "Spit that thing out!" Lionel commands, and the dog makes a point of biting out the cigarillo before spitting it into a nearby flower pot. The prince allows himself a soft growl, watching Nathan get up. By the reaction on the dobermans face, infuriating his temporal master was exactly the ambition behind his action.

Suddenly the prince is right in front of Nathan, slapping his cheek with the back of his hand. But the sounding crack is followed only by a bark of laughter. "Wow, bitch-slapping for dominance, are we? Oof!" An elegant kneecap grounding into Nathan's unprotected groin emphasizes Lionel's argument. Nathan sinks to his knees, temporarily disabled. "Cuff him." The guards tear his arms away from protecting his canine's bone and jewels, binding them together behind his back. The dog is grinning again, insolently ignoring what just happened - but his tip starts to show.

That escalated quickly, Lionel observes, slowly walking around the kneeling dog, toying with the note between the fingers of his left hand. He is a dom himself, trying to throw me off. His eyes measure the glint in Nathan's eyes, his snarling grin, the tension in his muscles and groin. Perhaps my highlord wishes to test me, and the cur is involved in it. That last thought thrills Lionel. It must have shown on his face, as something in the doberman's expression changes. I already enjoy the game.

"Get up." His order is cool, in stark contrast to the brief glimpse of fury a moment ago.

Nathan merely kneels, slightly wagging his tail. His insubordination makes the guards tense visibly. Lionel sighs, casually looking at his note. It is intended to let the dog see the two columns, and by the frown on the canine's face, what he sees diminishes some of his self-confidence. The reaction makes Lionel smile, showing his pointy teeth. Let's play, doggy.

Lionel leaves the chamber through yet another curtain, returning with a wooden paddle. Nathan swallows, still on his knees, opening his mouth as if to say something, but Lionel cuts him off. "You have some interesting preferences, pet." His arm strikes out in an upward curve, hitting between the legs of the doberman, just above the scrotum. The flat of the paddle slams into the sheath, summoning a gasp from Nathan's lips which quickly forms into a shivering whine. Immediately afterward a good portion of his length is growing out of its hiding.

Lionel watches this with no small amount of curiosity, though letting none of it show on his face. Exotic.

Nathan, in the meantime, steadies his breathing. He is now looking up at the prince with a sobered expression. Yet his tail is wagging, even a bit faster than before, Lionel thinks. And the member throbs in anticipation. He smirks inwardly. Anticipation of reward or the whip, I wonder?

"Get up."

His voice is calm, but sterner now. This time the dog complies. With a gesture of his hand, he signals the guards to leave. The show has obviously convinced them that the prince can handle Nathan for himself, though one of the two seems a bit reluctant to leave already. Ignoring them, Lionel tugs a finger under Nathan's collar, and together they go through the curtain from behind which he had taken the wooden paddle. A chamber reserved for exactly Nathan's kind of slave. Here all the tools and assets for the many games are at Lionel's disposal. Nathan's half hard-on bobs with every of his steps, but he is keeping a straight face. After entering, Lionel makes him wait by the entrance. Most of the insolence left the canine's features, yet his nose is held a bit too high, just so making his eyes look down on the little prince, who is standing in the middle of his playground. Tapping his chin with an index finger, Lionel wonders what best to start with.

"You don't know your place, stray," he says at length. Nathans ears prick up, eyes widen and he cocks his head, accompanied by a snarl. "What did you call me?"

Lionel turns around, his chin resting in the palm of his hand. "I call you what you are. A stray dog, picked up from some street." Nathan growls, but Lionel has only eyes for the doberman's manhood. Which is quite obviously throbbing harder, unsheathing further. Satisfied with himself for developing a sense for Nathan's tastes on the fly, the lion smirks, ignoring the doberman's insolence, for now.

One feature stands out among the room's assembly. A big chair is dominating at the far end, like a throne covered with leather and oiled to a luster. Even the floor around it is padded, and comfortingly soft, by the looks of it. Lionel, making his decision, walks to the throne and sits down into it. Looking at Nathan, he uses the paddle to indicate the spot before him.

"Kneel."

Despite his moody exterior, Nathan obeys. Lionel watches the dog's posture, his wired body walking like a trained soldier. Even as the canine kneels before him, with his kinky outfit and still throbbing hard-on, some of this impression remains. Exciting Lionel and making it all the more desirable for him to subdue such a specimen.

"Kiss my feet."

Nathan choses to snarl in response. A delicate right hindpaw immediately presses down onto canine orbs, while the foot's twin rises to Nathan's muzzle, toes resting against his nose, muffling a whine. Lionel does not bother to repeat the order. Instead, he is increasing pressure until Nathan gives in, kissing his prince's foot-sole. The pressure fades from his jewels, which now are caressed by the cat's nimble foot.

"There. That's better."

Nathan is still panting from the treatment, but licks this lion's foot-paw in submission. So far, the prince has positively surprised him. Among the masters he had had before, most would abuse his kink to enrage him, bring out the fierce hound who'll eventually turn onto his oppressor, bite them, push them to the ground and fuck them senseless. It is this unrestrained wild part of him they crave, playing at being dom only to become his sub in the end.

This princeling, however, is different. At first, he was sure Lionel would never even dare to play with his cock like this. Inflicting pain, even consensually, is anathema to many. Yet here he is, under royal order, under royal domination, under Lionel's royal feet. But he didn't conquer me yet, he resolves.

Nathan's cock throbs with need for attention. In a growling tone Nathan commands, "Rub my cock, prince." Lionel keeps his foot firmly placed on Nathan's balls while moving the foot over his pets muzzle, ignoring the order. Nathan growls again, more pronounced this time. "Do as I say, cat!" Toes curl around his nose, taking the air from him. Lionel kicks into Nathan's member, making it bounce of his tense belly muscles and the dog whines into the foot. His body is writhing with sensation. Another kick, making him moan. His red cock hardens, and pre-cum forms into thick drops on the tip, until they cross the precipice and cascade along the length into the folds of his sheath.

Lionel, while his right still holds the wooden paddle, the left now rests on his sheath, where he is massaging himself. He purrs, "Watching you thrills me, doggo." Lionel presses his heel against the doberman's chin. "Clean the sweat off my sole, pet. Show me you earn what you want." Nathan growls, and another kick is dished out, sending another overload of sensation through his bone, quickly fading into that tingling and not at all aching sting he so enjoys on himself.

Nathan inhales deeply, calming his breathing. A line is reached between them. No one master has stayed above him through any length of their own games. Not in years. His body is stiff, every muscle taut with excitement, of which only his wagging tail and throbbing member speak openly.

Lionel sighs, feigning boredom at his pet's misbehavior. The lower foot had been resting on his orbs between each kick. As he lifts it again, Nathan tenses, anticipating another kick that doesn't come. Instead, Lionel presses the heel into Nathan's the still sheathed knot, his sole along the member's length and his clawed toes playful touching the tip. Using his whole foot like this, he strokes the dog.

Nathan's chin is still resting against the top foot's heel. Interpreting the gesture as the result of his resistance, he grins, sensing his victory over the feeble prince. His eyes look up, looking for the surrender in Lionel's face. But what he sees makes him catch his breath. Lionel is smiling his royal smile, his eyes hard. Just as doubt creeps into Nathan's mind, Lionel delivers another kick. Nathan yelps, followed by a loud moan. The prince already put his foot back to the length, rubbing. Sharp claws play along the tip, threatening pricks that never come yet adding to the thrill all the same. Nathan pants. Another kick, followed by stroking. A stomp of his heel, catching Nathan's cock between foot and not so hard anymore body muscles. He shivers with bliss and excitement, his flesh growing more and more sensitive from the treatment, his whole body and mind reeling, all his juices boiling.

Something changes, forcing Nathan back from the exhilarating tides of pain and pleasure. There is still the other heel against his chin, using careful pressure to force his muzzle upward. There is still this smile, high above him, seen between the toes of his master. But the other foot is resting on his balls, merely touching, hardly rubbing him. Nathan wonders at the begging note in his own voice as he whines.

"More. Continue," he commands, or pleads.

Oh so little pressure lays down onto his testicles, yet his overwrought nerves make him gasp and close his eyes. Lionel enjoys the sight. The whole process was a wonder to behold, watching this tough dog melt between reward and punishment. It's been some minutes of silent observation, letting his foot do all the work down there, far beneath him.

"Clean my paw, servant."

Nathan swallows but once, and obeys. Carefully licking his master's sole, working his tongue from the heel upward and between the toes. Tasting the clean sweat, feeling the leathery texture, sniffing the prince's scent. In short, experiencing wholesomely his master and his elevated position above him. Only now does Nathan notice the salty musk of aroused manhood that does not come from himself. It humbles him to see this prince so much in control of himself. Perhaps, Nathan thought, this one is not at all like the previous masters.

Lionel allows himself a purr. One hand idly massages the base of his hard-on, which is constantly fueled with arousal from the wonderful sensations of a man under his feet's touch. The new pet does a very good job, haltingly first, then briskly exploring and now oh so sweetly worshipping the lion's hind-paws. A quick learner, that one. But far from where I need him, the prince appends. _I want more of his worshipping, but it must wait. For now I have to prove to Areku that I am capable of owning him._The prospect of Nathan's final seduction makes him harder, if that is possible. Recalling his duty to reward a service well done, Lionel kicks at the canine bone just to rub the anticipated sting into that sore, greedy flesh of the dog. Nathan moans, his knot slipping out of his sheath.

"Good boy," Lionel murmurs aloud.

Nathan continues his service, every now and then begging his master, asking him for pressure, for strokes or a slap to his manhood. His mind is riding the waves of amplified sensations hot-wiring his nervous system, hijacking his base instincts and riding them into higher and higher points of pre-orgasm ecstasies. It is better and worse than any edging could ever be, bringing him ever closer to and farther from that immortalizing threshold between hellfire heat and paradise release.

Finally, he can take it no more. He moans, almost barking, his body fully merged to the unspoken synchrony between his desires and his master's treatment. But the final stroke does not come. His body is aching for a stroke, a kick, a whip, anything to send him across the edge. He snarls, growling into the muffling hind-paw. It takes time before he is able to do anything but quiver.

Lionel stands up. The left foot, covered in saliva, moist and glistening, hovers over Nathan's tip. Very slowly, while his pet is still panting in anguish of denial, Lionel bents the hard length forward, making Nathan bow along until his face is right in front of Lionel's crotch and the canine's cock is touching the floor. Nathan's growl has lost nigh all it's power, a weak mask for the begging he is suppressing. "What are you doing?"

"Subjugating you." Lionel's moist foot presses down onto the cock, first letting gravity take over, then adding strength from his leg. Nathan whines. "No. You can't. I'm pen-master to the greatest harem of -NNNGG!"

"I don't care." Lionel rubs the cock without decreasing pressure. He can feel Nathan's flesh throb, the baculum at its core, the knot violently pressing against his toes. Before Nathan can cum, Lionel releases him, making the dog howl.

"Your ex-owner will be reimbursed for his loss, and your kinky subs will have to make do with another pen-master to fill their needs."

The couple remains still for a moment, one standing above the other. The later heaving, heat ebbing, needs revolting.

"Will you be mine?" Lionel probes. A weak, hushed word replies.

Lionel's foot, soft like a spring flower's petal, touches Nathan's member, making the doberman tense. "Are. You. Mine?" Only pressure, no motion. Nathan breaks. "Yes!"

Lionel shows a grin, wiping it from his face a blink later. _Stay professional a while longer,_he reminds himself. Aloud he says, "Good." He takes Nathan's cap, already threatening to fall off, and flings it away, so he can put his hand on his head and scratch behind his ears. "Good boy. Now, since you are mine, do you know where your place is?"

Nathan is panting hard, acclimating to the incredible tension in his manhood. Finally, he nods and utters. "My place is beneath you. Under your feet."

Nodding, Lionel reaches out with his other hand to stroke his new pet's cheek. "Exactly. I am proud of you." He smiles warmly. "Now, you look really pent up." Nathan's eyes shoot upward, just to avert themselves a moment later, his motives caught between an outburst of frustration and humiliating embarrassment. Lionel continues, untroubled by his pet's internal conflict. "So tell me, when you belong under my feet, where does that put your desires?"

The former pen-master looks up, confusion in his eyes, though covered by a thick fog of overwhelming needs. But Lionel smiles, benevolence incarnate. "Well. Let me show you."

His prince, taking him by the shoulder, guides Nathan to stand up. "Kneel there," he orders, indicating the throne where he himself had been sitting. He also spotts the wooden paddle, discarded on an armrest. Nathan obeys, but while he sinks into the throne, Lionel grabs between his legs from behind, guiding his raw, stone-hard member to settle under his pelvis, resting on top the dog's upturned hind-paws. Nathan shivers, though if by comprehension or sensation alone Lionel can not tell.

"Do you enjoy to be hit on your cock?" Lionel reaches around, taking the paddle.

Nathan swallows. Despite years of indulging himself in this, it was still hard to admit. Patiently, Lionel probes on. "Do you?"

After a deep breath, Nathan nods, ears neatly tugged flat against his neck. "Yes, master. I enjoy to be slapped on my cock."

Nathan feels the smooth wooden edge touch his member, making him shiver. It starts at the base, moving down his shaft to the tip, where pre-cum is constantly dripping onto his soles. Where it belongs, he can't help but to think.

"Should I hit you now?"

A shuddering breath visibly shaking his body, his shoulders tensing. It was hard to admit these things, to ask for them. He had done it before, not an hour ago, while worshipping the prince's hind-paws. But in this context, being asked in advance like this, is something else entirely. It forces him to accept his desires, and submit to them. So, finally, he is gives but the smallest nod before speaking.

"Yes. Please, hit me."

The wooden paddle comes down hard enough to cause a sharp, wet clapping from cock-meat and dog-paws alike. It isn't what Nathan expected, if his mind is still capable of forming any manner of precognition. He yowls, but a hand already rubs over his meat and feet, merging sensations into equivalents of lightning-strikes and fireworks. Another clap, another howling, but it chokes on overpowering arousal as he comes over the edge, a momentary moan transmuted into primordial roaring. His climax comes in tidal rushes, covering both his feet in one burst, half the throne's seat in two, and even more pent-up juices shoot out onto the leather floor.

Lionel backs off, watching with horny amazement while Nathan rides out his orgasm. It is so hard to not fall on his knees and lick these feet clean himself, ruining the symbolic meaning of the scene. His fur stands on end. It is too much. All this time, he had been stroking himself, hidden from Nathan's eyes. But now, his hand grabbing his own cock as surely as the other had grabbed the paddle during the last strike, he adds his moan to Nathan's, and his seed to the mess on the floor.

Nathan almost passed out. Leaning his forehead against the back rest of the throne, heaving with exhaustion, he has his eyes closed, inwardly watching the spectacle of emotions and sensations firing up and fading out, until the storm abates into that elysian state flatly called after-glow. A hand reaches for his chest and he half purrs at the tender touch. Then he hears a click and finally snaps back into full conscience.

Without thinking, he gets up from the throne, one motion accomplishing to see what got attached to him and to stretch his legs after kneeling for so long. His feet instantly soak with the cooled puddle of juices, but some dirty-minded inclination makes him enjoy it. A leash is now fixed to his collar. His eyes follow it to the hand and the eyes of the man who bound him, slightlywagging his tail.

"Welcome to your new place, Nathan." A snarl plays along the edges of the canine's lips and eyes, but if nothing else his wagging becomes more enthusiastic.

Lionel smirks. His mask of dominance cracking up, exposing the youthful, kindly nature so much more at home with his slender posture. "Come now, pet!" He exclaims, pulling the leash. "I'm so eager to show off my new toy!"