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Irfan walked the streets of Uisdain, his dark paws tapping on the ancient stone streets with poise. In just a few weeks, the place had grown on him. These people had resurrected centuries-old ruins, and from glowing vines to the mists that swirled with intent above the swamp water, living magic suffused the city.

The heat here was wetter than in his homeland of the Titan’s Delta, but he’d begun to change his wardrobe to account, wearing only a simple linen skirt wrapped tight over his loincloth, and a loose sash across one shoulder.

The humidity, however, wasn’t the most obtrusive thing in his new home. As Irfan approached the Blue Roost Tavern, a cozy low-lying thing built into the stone shell of a long-gone tower, his thin jackal ears flicked at the sound of a sultry crocodilian bellow flowing out of the window.

He smirked at a hastily-made sign on the door: Adults only tonight. Prince Raghnall had become something of a regular here, and his visits—as with all else about the ‘heavyset’ crocodile—left little to the imagination.

The men inside didn’t notice Irfan’s slim figure at first as he slipped through the door. Their focus was on something else.

At a table in the center of the room sat Prince Raghnall, his immense girth spilling haphazardly over a chair that was itself obscenely large. The crocodile’s flesh shuddered and shook as he filled his fat-stuffed chest with ragged breaths, His emerald scales shone in the light as the prince’s clothes were strewn on the floor. He would have been entirely naked, if not for the head of a gray-furred horse concealing his genitals. So, at least there was a bit of modesty.

The leanly-muscled horse gripped the prince’s flanks, or at least some of the overstuffed rolls flowing upon them, and pressed his snout deeper. He dug into the genuinely impressive pad of fat between Raghnall’s legs that had graciously left the prince with a good few inches of his admittedly-thick spear. Wet, dedicated sucking sounds emerged from between the two men, as the sheen of precum painted Raghnall’s thighs and the horse’s snout alike.

“Erm–” A dark-furred bull, thick with a blacksmith’s muscles, caught sight of Irfan standing by the wall with officious posture. “My prince,” the bull stammered, “I think… the new advisor…” his deep voice trailed off.

Raghnall planted a palm on the back of the horse’s head, though it seemed the equine wasn’t listening anyway, and forced his eyes open. The prince’s brow-ridges drew up, and as he took in Irfan’s presence, a surprised grunt escaped his snout. His legs tensed, proving the existence of muscle sunk far beneath that blubbery ocean, and his eyes snapped shut again. Another bellow burned out from his thick, wobbling throat, and beneath it Irfan could just make out the desperate gulping swallows of the horse.

Despite his half-buried rod, the prince did have quite a pair of jewels in his pouch. Well, more like mangoes, given how much nectar they seemed to produce.

Though the horse pulled away, ears flicking, and drew his face stark in embarrassment as he noticed Irfan, Raghnall himself only let his fat tongue loll out of his mouth in satisfaction. “Irfan,” He purred. “Did you hear about our little party?” With a stretch of his arms, Raghnall showed off the weight of his opulent breasts.

“No, my prince.” Irfan wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of even a moment’s pause. Instead, he simply walked forward as if the horse—or any of the other near-naked men—weren’t there at all. “I thought I’d let you know that King Aksel’s journey through the Glass Mountains was hindered by summer storms. He’ll be diverting his path, and arriving for his visit to Uisdain ahead of schedule— early in the coming month.”

“Yes, very good.” Raghnall leaned his shoulders back against the chair, making it creak painfully. “But you can’t fool me,” He grinned that fat, stupid grin of his, “I can see you’ve been showing more hide lately, and coming all this way just to find me... you know I’d be happy to give you some of my attention.” He shifted his hips in what might have been a suggestive thrust, if not for the fat weighing them down, reducing it to a mere nudge. Though, it did take Irfan a frustrating moment to look away from the prince’s dick.

Even without clothing, it was far from bare. Raghnall’s foreskin smothered his head in folds so thick that, if Irfan didn’t know better, he would have guessed were full of fat as well. But no, the drooping, luscious skin was just that, and caught the light particularly well wetted with precum and saliva. “It’s quite hot and humid in this city.” Irfan met Raghnall’s cocky gaze. “I suppose you must be used to steaming in your own sweat, Your Grandeur, but I prefer not to have my clothes smell inextricably of musk.”

None of the common men dared intercede in their verbal sparring. Raghnall reached down and fondled his foreskin with pretend thoughtfulness, before something ‘fun’ dawned on his scaled face. “You know, I think everyone else has had a turn with our game. Why don’t you and I play a match?” He gestured to the tabletop, where a familiar board of Crossing sat, wooden tokens waiting amidst a number dice and miniature bridges. “This is a betting game, of course.”

Irfan glanced at the gray horse, who was still wiping a bit of royal seed from his snout. Raghnall seemed to have no shortage of the stuff, like the flooding river of Irfan’s home. And as Irfan looked at the prince’s arrogant face again, an intriguing thought came to his head, spurred by the memory of his people, and a peculiar form of discipline they used. Irfan had always considered it a bit cruel—if secretly titillating to see—but there was no man more deserving than this obese, sex-drunk crocodile.

“Yes, alright.” Irfan stepped forward, as Raghnall was momentarily silenced in surprise. He stalked around the prince and caught sight of his ass, overflowing the chair’s seat like unattended dough. Upon those massive cheeks had been painted thick, white fluid, already drooling down the edge of the chair. And that wasn’t the end of it. Trails of cum rolled down Raghnall’s face, trapped in the folds of his chins and throat. Not to mention on his chest, where one clearly-enthusiastic man had spread himself all across Raghnall’s decadent breasts. How many times had the prince lost? But then, of course, why should Raghnall care to play a game he was good at? It all seemed to be a win for him.

And if these common men could best Raghnall at Crossing, as evidenced by the shed loincloths that a bull, alligator, crane, and even the boar tavern-keeper tried to hold in front of their wetted cocks, then Irfan would not shy from the challenge.

Raghnall’s expression had bloomed from surprise to giddy excitement. The prince ogled every slender inch of Irfan’s slightly-curved form as the jackal pulled out a chair across from him.

“Standard library rules?” Irfan asked, as he inspected the tokens between his short, well-trimmed claws.

“Sure,” Raghnall leaned forward, his hot breath filling Irfan’s nostrils with oily meat and some common man’s sexual essence. “But what do you want to bet?” His tail shifted quickly behind him, sweeping the floor with its breadth.

“If you win—” Irfan began separating the tokens, even giving Raghnall the favored dot-marked set, “I’ll take you in my mouth, since you seem to enjoy that.” He watched the prince’s eyes widen in anticipation. And though Raghnall’s belly had easily smothered his dick as he leaned forward, Irfan could practically feel the hard desire in it. “I might even try to add your testes, if they fit.” That much was just a fantasy; those overripe fruits were beyond his narrow snout.

Raghnall’s feet tapped on the floor, lust shining on his face. And… something more, too. Irfan peered at him. It was a simpler, happy, almost innocent excitement.

Raghnall’s voice picked up like a rolling boulder, “Yes, and if you win, I’ll—”

“If I win, Your Grandeur,” Irfan cut him off, “then I will choose one thing that you must wear, every moment, for a week.” He noticed the obvious willingness in Raghnall, and amended, “actually, let’s say a month.”

Raghnall laughed, a deep and sonorous thing softened by hundreds of pounds of belly fat insulation. “That’s what you want?” He didn’t even spend a second thinking. “Deal!”

“Good.” Irfan smiled, and handed the dice to Raghnall. “Best of luck, my Prince.”

It was more difficult than Irfan expected.

Prince Raghnall was treated to lucky rolls and, despite appearances, he played like he knew what he was doing. He was aggressive, confident, probably having gone easy on the common men whenever he actually preferred the rewards of ‘losing’. But clearly, he wanted very much to have Irfan’s head between his legs, smothering it in those obscene thighs.

Unfortunately for the prince, Irfan had played against far better in the Titan’s Delta—scholars who whiled away most of their leisure time with games of strategy rather than food or fucking. And after he figured out Raghnall’s unorthodox playstyle, it wasn’t too difficult to move a few pieces into place to undo it. He let the prince trap himself, before swiftly closing off bridge, after bridge, after bridge.

Despite the prince’s greater numbers of tokens, the game was over before he even realized it.

So, Raghnall stared at the board, still trying to figure out exactly how Irfan had won.

“Good game, Prince Raghnall.” Irfan planted both elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands.

The prince’s padded shoulders drooped. But, to his credit, that disappointment didn’t turn to anger or pouting. “Good game.” He sighed.

“You’re driven,” Irfan began, pushing his chair from the table, “but, as usual, too focused on the prize in front of you.” He rubbed his jaw, pretending it was sore.

“Alright,” Raghnall leaned back and crossed his arms in a huff. Irfan almost laughed at the sight of him, with the thick bands of fat around his arms and neck squeezing against his breasts in a puffy reptilian mass. “What am I to wear?” His eyes narrowed. “Something more modest?”

_ _

Irfan chuckled. “I have to get it commissioned. Shouldn’t take too long though. And I think you’ll actually find it… exciting.”

The disappointment of a loss melted quickly from Prince Raghnall, as his pudgy face filled with curiosity—and perhaps a bit of hope.

Irfan looked forward to dashing that.

***

A few days later, Irfan walked into a small smithy with subdued excitement. The blacksmith, Filib, had required a few revisions and extra details on the design, having been wholly unfamiliar with the Deltan implement Irfan wanted.

Although it went against Irfan’s taste for discretion, the work had gone much faster once he explained to Filib what exactly a tamping cage was.

Thankfully, there hadn’t been any further questions. The dark-furred bull had been in the tavern during the game, but it wasn’t like Irfan could go to the palace smithy, not unless he wanted rumors flying around. Irfan had pretended not to have recognized him, and Filib was happy to leave it at that.

Filib greeted him today with a simple, inelegant bow. “Sir.”

Irfan nodded to him. “Is it finished, good bull?”

Setting his hammer to the side, Filib beckoned him to the back of the building. He pulled a small leather pouch from the wall and reached in to produce a wonderfully familiar mechanism. “Is it to your liking, Sir?”

“Oh yes.” Irfan inspected the device. Tight rings of metal, forged together on long, shiny strips, made the shape of a thick tube. At the end, a broad cap left only one small slit-opening into the thing. He held it up to the light and gauged the binding ring, set perpendicular to the tube. It was wider than any Irfan had seen before, but then he didn’t want to actually hurt the prince— particularly not where his royal lineage was concerned.

Finally, he tested the hinges and their little lock, finding that it moved smoothly and remained solid under the pressure of his fingers. “Very impressive. If I didn’t know better, I’d say a smith from the Delta made it.”

Filib smiled at the praise, but scratched the back of his head with uncertainty. “Do you folks really use them as punishment? Poor young men… that’s not gonna start happening to our soldiers, is it?” He paused. “My boy’s in the Queen’s army, and he’s a bull, you know—”

“No, Filib, you needn’t worry.” Irfan took the pouch from him and dropped the cage back into it. “This isn’t a prototype. It’ll only be tamping down one young man.”

“Oh, okay.” Filib shifted his feet, the gears in his head clearly turning. But he had some sense in him, and knew better than to ask who. Really, though, he should have figured it out—at least the man was good at putting literal pieces together.

“Have you ever worn one?” Filib asked suddenly.

Irfan scoffed, surprised. “No, good bull.” He hesitated on the next few words, not being a natural liar. “I’ve always been in control of myself.” The smith didn’t need such a personal story. “But for those men who can’t push down their own hungers, the tamping cage is quite effective.” He held his hand out for the key. “I’ll admit this much: I was once involved with another jackal who earned himself one. For a few months, too.”

“Gods,” Filib muttered.

“Well, he was quite proud of his endowments, so it did remove a big distraction from his troop.” Irfan shrugged.

After a moment’s hesitation, Filib dropped the key into Irfan’s palm. Stowing it with the cage, Irfan set a small coin purse on the smith’s table.

“You, um,” Filib had to force himself to continue, “you already paid, when you commissioned it.”

“Yes, but you did such fine work. And I trust you to be discreet about it, after all.” Irfan trailed a sharp glance across him.

Knowing what was best for him, Filib nodded.

“Pleasant day, blacksmith.” Irfan sauntered out of the smithy, unable to resist the thin smile on his face or a slight bounce in his steps. The morning was bright and beautiful, a perfect way to ring in the first of the month. It would be an interesting one.

***

Irfan walked briskly down the royal chamber halls, pouch held under his arm, sincerely hoping he wouldn’t run into Queen Seonag.

After only a few weeks in her court, he’d found her to be a clever, curious woman, a pleasure to speak with. But Irfan could feel the large metal contraption in his pouch, and it would be uncomfortable to greet her today, given what he was about to do to her son.

The jackal’s ears twitched in thought. The physical resemblance between them was unmistakable—the same vibrant green scales, wide frame, prominent nostrils—but Seonag didn’t seem to be a bottomless pit of gluttony, lust, and entitlement. Perhaps Raghnall was simply spoiled. Or, perhaps, Seonag simply hid it better.

When a crocodilian snout appeared around the corner to Seonag’s chambers, Irfan’s pace staggered. But thankfully the man who followed it was clearly neither queen nor prince. This crocodile was swathed in blue-green scales, darker and duller by far than the royal emerald shade. He might have walked a bit like Raghnall, with a swagger that made his vast tail slither behind him, but his air of confidence made him seem untouchable—a far cry from Raghnall’s habitual swaying of his overfed hips, inviting any hot-blooded man to imagine debasing him. And while this man had his fair layer of heavy fat—being a crocodile—he didn’t have to huff with exertion as he walked, and Irfan could actually make out the shape of his impressive muscles beneath.

The man’s hand rested easily on the hilt of a blade, and a thin emerald cloak trailed behind his shoulders, matching a set of fine robes girded at the loins and completed with shiny bronze limb-guards.

Irfan allowed himself only a scant glance between the man’s legs, finding an impressive but clearly dormant bulge.

As he took in the image of the man, Irfan easily combed through the many names he’d learned before setting off to join this powerful court. The crocodile’s description was hard to miss.

“General Dugald, I had heard you would be returning to Uisdain today.” Irfan stood upright, firm, and with his head tilted only as far upwards as absolutely necessary to meet eyes with him.

Dugald stopped a few paces away, but even so his size cast Irfan in shadow from the torchlight. His mouth curled across his snout for a moment as his ash-gray eyes took in the slim jackal before him. “You must be that new trade advisor.”

He let the sentence hang, clearly waiting for Irfan to finish it for him.

Irfan would never let it show, but that did sting in his chest a bit. “My name is Irfan.” He chose to leave off his family name. Irfan’s house had… degraded quite a long way over the past few generations. Even among those in this palace who would know it, his name hardly carried any real weight anymore. Better he be known here for his own accomplishments.

“The Queen only has a few minutes, if you were planning on talking to her.” Dugald had the decency to look Irfan in the eye, but that didn’t change his haughty tone. Clearly, such a small and unimpressive creature as Irfan would have to earn any importance to the renowned warrior.

“Thank you, General, but I’ve something to discuss with the Prince.”

Dugald cocked a scaled brow, scanning over Irfan once again. “That so?”

Irfan held his pouch slip subtly behind his back, and just couldn’t resist a snarky answer, “I don’t imagine he keeps himself very busy.”

It was halfway between a grunt and a short laugh that fell from Dugald’s chest. “Depends how many people come to his bedchamber.”

Irfan was sure he could see a mocking smile on the corner of Dugald’s snout. Vindicating, perhaps, that the Prince had earned a reputation for all his whoring. But Irfan had to be careful not to be tainted by it himself. He no longer had the privilege of honored birthright that Raghnall so clearly took for granted. “I don’t intend to stay long,” he droned.

Dugald let his curious gaze drop and stepped past Irfan, leaving him with only a brusk “Welcome to the Saltlands, jackal.”

***

“Morning, Sir.” The guard outside Raghnall’s chamber doors stood upright as Irfan approached. His soft gecko scales were bare across his chest, with only metal guards strapped across his legs and tail, and a short skirt about his waist.

“Good morning. I trust the prince is awake?” Irfan stood with his hands behind his back, carefully palming the pouch.

“Well, yes…” The guard hesitated.

Irfan beckoned to the door. “I’d like to speak with him, then.”

The guard cleared his throat. “His Highness is having breakfast right now.”

“I’ll not distract him from such important work for too long.” Irfan smirked. “I know how seriously he takes it.”

The gecko was clearly still reluctant to let him in, but even more so to argue with one of the queen’s advisors. He opened one of the heavy doors.

They were pale wood, carved with intricate designs of aquatic folk and the nearby shoreline—were it the door to anyone else’s chambers, Irfan might have considered them a sign of appreciation for local artistry. He doubted Raghnall was capable of appreciating anything he couldn’t pleasure himself with.

As he stepped through the door, Irfan couldn’t help but think of his old chambers back home, appointed with sparse furnishings that left the large room open for the desert winds to blow through. However, standing atop a flight of broad, shallow stairs, Irfan stared wide-eyed at the opulence below him.

The grand chamber was adorned with equally massive furniture, with one wall dominated by a bed that could have comfortably fit a dozen men. Fine, thick furs piled atop it, strewn haphazardly alongside numerous cushions. Rich, beautiful tapestries hung from the ceiling, waving gently with the far-reaching breeze of the ocean. Irfan counted no fewer than three lounges, some smooth, cool marble, others smothered in soft cloth.

A full third of the room was recessed down and filled with clear water—the size of a public bath, all to Raghnall himself. Not that he even needed it, considering how close he was to the palace springs. In fact, the far wall of the prince’s chambers opened wide onto one of the verdant terraces. Most of those gardens and springs were open to anyone in the palace, but Irfan had wondered about the few levels blocked off behind metal gates.

Irfan could have marveled at the grandeur of it all for hours. But, of course, the room paled in comparison to the grandeur sitting at the large table near the center.

The air was filled with the sounds of tearing meat and wet chewing as Prince Raghnall gorged on an entire turkey. The thing was covered in crispy skin and fried batter, but even that wasn’t quite enough fat for the prince, as he ripped a leg free and dunked it in a great bowl of melted butter.

He couldn’t even be bothered to let the fat stop dripping before he stuffed his mouth. From the folds of his multiple chins, along the ungodly collar of blubber around his neck, and all the way down to the bunched-up rolls of belly fat in his lap, the prince was stained with shiny grease. So, perhaps it was for the best that he was only dressed in a loincloth, having clearly not been able to wait for his breakfast long enough to put anything else on.

At the thought of clothing, Irfan’s fingers curled around the pouch behind his back, and he smiled.

Raghnall let out a soft bellow and blurted through a mouthful of thigh meat, “Press harder, Firk, I like more pressure.”

Irfan narrowed his eyes, and realized that he’d missed the presence of an entire other person. Well, Raghnalls’s tremendous width did a good job of hiding him, at least until Irfan padded, quietly, just far enough down the stairs to get another angle.

Firk was a sea otter, the sandy fur of his face giving way to a brown coat that crested over his plump belly and backside. A simple, flaxen skirt clung to his hips, held up easily by his thick tail. The otter’s paws were covered in oil and moved in slow, consistent motions down Raghnall’s back, which was such a vast expanse of glossy scales on fleshy rolls that Irfan had to imagine the otter had been at it for minutes already.

“Of course, Highness,” Firk mumbled, his ears flicking urgently to the prince’s demand.

Raghnall, of course, wouldn’t even slow his feast for the sake of speaking, and had already returned to tearing apart the second turkey leg. As he smacked and licked his chops, he grabbed the bowl and tipped it over his snout, pouring a thick stream of melted butter right into his gullet. Even once he swallowed the meat, he let more of that liquid fat flow down his throat—and, given his carelessness, down the sides of his snout and across those overstuffed cheeks.

Irfan’s own snout curled at the sight. It was no wonder Prince Raghnall couldn’t sit in normally-sized chairs without ending up flat on his ass. Raghnall’s chest—or, the pillows of sloshing lard that had buried it—heaved with the prince’s breaths, as he huffed—huffed, from the ravenous effort he’d spent on his meal.

Raghanll leaned heavy on the table. As he caught his breath, his eyes shut and he rumbled out, “Yes, there, keep rubbing there.”

Firk had reached Raghnall’s lower back, where the base of his tail gave way to the largest cushions in the whole palace. The otter pressed his pawpads into the oiled top of Raghnall’s ass, which was itself larger than the whole of Firk’s body. “Like this, Highness?” He made deep depressions in the blubber, finding it supple under the pressure, especially where his cheeks bulged out of the top of his loincloth.

Raghnall merely grunted out in pleasure, too busy sticking his sausage fingers in his mouth and lapping at the remnant fat to speak.

Irfan had already spent longer in Raghnall’s chamber than he’d intended to, and it wasn’t like this disgusting display was rare, but… it was rather intimate. Irfan forced himself to look away and focus on the feeling of the cool stone on his paws. He could feel the faint half-hard stirring between his legs, and would not be approaching the prince with any chance he might notice it.

Of all the ways Irfan’s body had ever betrayed him… finding this greedy beast alluring was easily second to worst.

When he looked back at Raghnall, Irfan’s nostrils flared.

The crocodile had one arm on the table, his cheek resting lazily on the pillow of fat around his bicep. But his other arm was reaching into the wet, dark cavern that his belly made of his lap, claws just barely visible toying around inside the front of his loincloth.

Firk’s ears perked and flushed a deep red as the sound of wet, slick motion drifted out from between the prince’s thighs. And yet, the otter continued his work, rubbing oil along the base of Raghnall’s tail.

Raghnall began huffing again, and it was easy to tell why. His own belly fat draped across his forearm, making for a barrier of pounds and scales that he struggled to work past. And yet, he was gradually building to release, his chest rattling with growing pleasure.

Irfan gripped the pouch and stepped down the rest of the stairs, coming into clear view as he approached the table.

Raghnall had his eyes shut as he continued to huff and strain against his own fat, but the otter nearly leapt out of his skin as he caught sight of Irfan past Raghnall’s cart-sized flank.

“A-ah, my prince,” Firk stammered.

Raghnall growled softly. “Why are you stopping—” he peeked an eye open, then the other as his snout split into a bright, surprised smile. “Irfan! There you are again! Did you want to join me for breakfast?” He asked with a genuine tone. His tail swished eagerly, nearly knocking the poor otter off his feet. He tapped a claw on the bone-strewn platter before him. “I’ve always got room for more.”

“I can tell,” Irfan said. “No, Prince Raghnall. I’d rather not spend all my morning here.”

Raghnall lifted his hand out of his loincloth and let both arms slump on the table in front of him, wobbling as they did so. Irfan couldn’t help but notice the slick, shiny fluid on his fingers. “I suppose my mother keeps your busy. What do you want then?” He asked, head sinking down a bit.

“I hope you’ve not forgotten our bet so quickly.”

Raghnall’s smile returned with a mischievous slant. “Oh?”

Irfan allowed himself a satisfied little smirk. That heaving, spoiled mountain of blubber clearly had no idea what was coming. “Perhaps, my Prince, you might like to speak alone for a moment.”

Raghnall struggled to look over the fleshy breadth of his shoulder, smothered as his neck was in that collar of fat. “Firk’s not done yet.”

“Apologies, Highness,” Firk squeaked out.

“No, I like when you take your time,” Raghnall purred.

The otter’s face flashed with a wavering smile.

Irfan cleared his throat. “I’m sure he can continue in a few minutes.” He beckoned for Firk to leave. Irfan was not about to be seen doing anything related to Raghnall’s manhood—even if it was just to bind it.

Raghnall huffed, a great wave of air flowed across the table to break and coil about Irfan’s chest. Irfan tried not to react to the heat of Raghnall’s breath on his exposed nipples.

“Fine.” The prince beckoned lazily towards the stairs. “Irfan can come tell you when we’re done.”

Irfan’s brows furrowed. But he kept his smile by feeling out the shape of the tamping cage in its pouch.

As soon as Firk was gone, with the heavy thudding of the door behind him, Raghnall leaned far across the table and peered at Irfan. The crocodile’s breasts squished out beneath him, smothering a great swath of wood. “Let me guess… anything big enough to cover me up all modestly would probably take longer than that to weave together. So, maybe it is something fun.” His tongue drifted lazily along the side of his snout. “One of your loincloths?” Raghnall wiggled his ass into his seat.

Irfan indulged the prince for a moment, letting the warmth build between his own legs now that a table hid his crotch from view. “Surely that would rip many times over before it could cover your royal hips.”

“Some guard’s belt, so you can tell everyone how many extra holes you had to cut into it before it fit me?” Raghnall’s tail drifted back and forth behind him, sounding smooth and oily on the floor.

“We’d run out of leather.” Irfan could tell this was riling up the prince’s loins—but for once, that was all the better.

Raghnall hummed in thought, then glanced down at the moobs he was using as a cushion and chuckled. “Not a breast girdle, surely?” His wide eyes held a glimmer of naughty excitement in their deep, rich blue. Given Raghnall’s apparent aversion to covering his wetnurse-worthy nipples, Irfan imagined he’d struggle to hide such a thing.

“And make all the women of the palace yet more jealous of your… bountiful chest?” Irfan shook his head.

An impatient growl started to grow behind Raghnall’s voice. “A cock ring?”

Irfan stepped closer, just a few feet away from the prince’s great snout. “Closer, my Prince.”

Raghnall’s breath picked up, even more audible than it already was.

“How about this, Your Grandeur,” Irfan gestured generously at Raghnall’s vast bed. “I can see it’s somewhat… tiring for you to reach yourself there. Why not lie back, and I’ll put it on you myself.”

Irfan knew Raghnall couldn’t refuse the offer, the chance to get Irfan’s hands on his meat.

It would, of course, be the only time.

Raghnall didn’t even answer with words, merely lurching up and stomping over to his bed with an excited speed Irfan wouldn’t have expected him capable of. The great crocodile fell onto his back, turning his entire front into a show of jiggling rolls for a moment.

Once the pounds of vast fat settled on Raghnall’s royal frame, Irfan dared closer. Even from a foot away, he could feel the heat radiating from between Raghnall’s thighs—each of them wider and heavier by far than Irfan’s entire body. They pooled on the edge of the bed, looking half melted.

He had to be careful not to tread on the swath of tail swallowing up the floor, though he doubted it would have hurt the prince anyway, with such meat and padding filling it out.

Raghnall shimmied, dark claws gripping at the endless fat of his belly, clearly trying to hold it back. All the natural strength of a crocodile, dedicated to handling his gluttonous excess.

Irfan traced the prince’s loincloth with his eyes. It was finely woven, clearly soft, although it pressed grooves into the yielding flesh of his thighs. Despite his slovenly nature, the cloth was pristine white—save for the fresh stains of sweat and oil on the edges, and the much greater dark spot at the apex of his… remarkable bulge.

“For once, my prince,” Irfan struggled to keep his voice cool as he stared, “you’re overdressed.”

“Oh?” Raghnall played with the question, feigning an infuriating tone of innocence. “Well, since I’ve already got my belly out of the way, I suppose I could give you permission to undress my royal hips.”

Irfan took a slow step, right up to the yawning cave of Raghnall’s legs. He set a foot on Raghnall’s tail for sheer lack of space to stand, trimmed claws instantly swathed in crocodile flesh. He brought his free hand closer to Raghnall’s loins than ever before.

His eyes lingered on Raghnall’s thigh, until he finally let his fingers indulge in their curiosity. A life of comfort, ease, and sweet oil had left his outer scales glossy and beautiful—and his inner scales tender. Irfan’s fingertips sunk into his great swath of blubber with barely any pressure. A sudden itching instinct nearly made his hand close around it all, but the thought of Raghnall’s teasing voice stayed his fingers.

As it was, the crocodile had enjoyed Irfan’s touch quite enough already. His pudgy toes curled as his titanic hips tried to shiver. Irfan could feel a rumble in Raghnall’s chest vibrating out all the way to his thigh. “Have you touched a lot of men like that, Irfan?” Raghnall asked, voice softened by the tide of breast and chin fat smothering his throat.

“No,” Irfan answered. The vulnerability in an honest answer raked at his scruff until he mustered a quick addendum, “I’ve never met a man fat enough to be touched like that before.” He tried to keep a sharp tone, lest the crocodile think he was admiring him.

For a long moment, Irfan could thankfully work in silence—at least, as much silence as Raghnall’s great huffs of breath allowed. He grabbed the prince’s loincloth, trailing a finger across until he found where one end had been tucked to secure the fabric between his legs. Hand shaking between disdain and the warmth of desire, he tugged the cloth free and began to unwrap it.

“You like it though, don’t you?” Raghnall’s sudden question stopped Irfan’s movements. There was honesty in it, even vulnerability if Irfan wasn’t imagining things.

“Your thigh?” Irfan muttered, working until he reached the cloth trapped under Raghnall’s ass. He was not about to press his hand under all that heavy meat.

“All of it. My heft. I’ve seen you staring at me.” Raghnall managed a weak laugh. “It’s difficult to read your expression.”

Irfan was well practiced in hiding his sentiments. It was valuable in his work. In his life. If he let that slip now, proved that Raghnall’s overabundance of masculine flesh did remind his loins what they were made to do, Irfan couldn’t take it back. And Irfan was sure Raghnall couldn’t keep a secret.

“Can you lift your hips, Grandeur? I need to pull the cloth under your backside.”

Raghnall grunted as he moved his hands. His belly fat sloshed back into place with such momentum that Irfan nearly flinched back from the coming tide. The crocodile planted his forearms and feet on the bed and somehow lifted those hundreds of ponderous pounds, swaying just a bit with the effort.

It dawned on Irfan that Raghnall had buried more muscle than most men could ever hope to have. Where was the justice in that?

“Irfan—” Raghnall growled, straining.

Irfan quickly pulled the cloth around Raghnall’s hips, though he had to yank it out from beneath the breadth of Raghnall’s unrestrained belly now. Until, finally, it all came away in Irfan’s hands.

There was enough cloth for Irfan to use as a robe. Not that he ever would, of course, as he carefully avoided touching the stretch soaked with precum.

When Raghnall dropped back onto his bed, the whole floor shook enough that Irfan had to reach out and catch himself—on something wonderfully soft, and warm.

The prince’s belly had eagerly swallowed Irfan’s hand in its lower crest. Irfan yanked it back out.

“Well?” Raghnall asked in his quiet, winded voice.

Irfan swallowed the truth and merely responded with a curt, “Well what?”

Raghnall started to speak, but hesitated, letting the words slide back down his tongue. After a moment in his new, quiet demeanor, the prince cleared his throat, laid back with his hands behind his head, and let his legs drift even wider open. His brash cockiness had returned, though it sounded forced. “What do you think of your prince’s sword?”

Irfan let out a tense breath. It was easy to pretend he forgot Raghnall’s first question as his eyes settled on the space between the prince’s legs.

There was so much blubber stuffed beneath his creamy under-scales, thigh and hip and belly all fighting for space. And between them, of course, was his pad of fat like a pillow, glistening with sweat and the dribbled butter from his feast. By all rights, Raghnall’s overindulgent life should have swallowed up any vestige of manhood the crocodile possessed.

And yet.

It would have been long. Very long, on another man. A good few inches of proud crocodile rose freely from Raghnall’s loins. But seeing it so close, it was the girth of the thing that rendered Irfan speechless for a moment. He wondered if any men had dislocated their jaws trying to please him before.

Irfan gripped the cage behind his back with ever more fervor. He’d debated whether his memory could have been correct when he designed the size for it, but it seemed he’d remembered just fine.

“I’ll admit—” Irfan shifted his tongue to wet his mouth again, “you’ve got quite the impressive equipment, Raghnall.” This much was easy to say. It was nothing to do with Irfan—it was merely fact.

Raghnall let out a soft, pleased… relieved bellow. His dick twitched, and glistening fluid gathered on the ridge of his lavish, overhanging foreskin.

Irfan imagined using those thick folds to pleasure himself, and the faint heat of his loins pulsed. His own cock, half-hard, pressed against his loincloth with a hunger that came rarely to him these days. It just all fit Raghnall so well, this fat, indulgent spire of hot blood and glistening, pleasurable skin, framed against the scenic mountain of blubber behind it.

“So…” Raghnall began, nervous but excited. “What now? You know, you could get a little more familiar with your prince before you put on whatever you’ve brought.” His tail swished, making Irfan hop to avoid being knocked off his feet. “Or after.”

“How would I do that afterward?” Irfan asked casually. His heart started pounding in his chest. He pulled the cage from its bag, but of course Raghnall couldn’t see what was happening anyway. He’d eaten far too much for that anymore.

“What do you mean?” Raghnall asked.

“I wonder if you’ve heard about these before.” Irfan spoke slowly, while he leaned forward and examined the prince’s genitals. That beautiful manhood of his, and beneath it, balls to match. Those fat ripe mangoes. He could practically hear Raghnall’s royal seed churning inside them, eager to pump out after a morning of playing with himself.

“Irfan?”

The jackal opened the cage beneath the shadow of Raghnall’s belly. He could hear the prince trying to adjust himself so that he could see what Irfan was doing, but it was no use for a man his size.

He moved Raghnall’s balls with a careful, focused touch. His chest tightened unexpectedly at the feeling of them, hot, heavy, slick. It had been a long time since he’d felt a man’s balls in his hand. He shook off the thoughts in his head and fed the neck of Raghnall’s sack between two of the cage’s rings.

“Ah—it’s cold,” Raghnall complained, an edge of worry creeping up on him. “Is… is that metal?”

“Metal?” Irfan lowered the main body of the cage into place. Raghnall had softened a bit over the last minute, but Irfan still had to compress down on his length until it receded enough for the cage to cover entirely. “Of course it is. It’ll warm up soon enough, don’t worry.”

Raghnall shuffled uncomfortably. “Irfan, that’s tight!”

Irfan carefully inspected the connection points, ensuring that none of the prince’s scales got pinched. Thankfully, although Irfan had left a generous gap for Raghnall’s balls to hang from, the base of the cage rested securely in his fat pad, ensuring every accessible bit of his manhood would be sealed away. He inspected the slit in the front, finding that the prince’s abundant foreskin had just barely enough room to fit, folded tight—its own sensitive insides just as locked as the head it covered.

“It’s only for a month, my Prince,” Irfan reminded him, to the tune of a solid click.

_ _

“What was…” Raghnall went silent for a moment. With Irfan finished, the prince heaved himself backwards, struggling to sit up. Were it not for his legs already planted beneath his bed, he probably wouldn’t have managed. He reached a clawed hand under his belly, lifting it not enough to see his manhood, but enough to grasp it with his other paw. As his fingers explored the metal, his sapphire eyes widened enough to catch the light in a disbelieving reflection. “This… did you put a tamping cage on me?” The words were fragile, barely getting out on an unstable foundation of shock and horror.

Irfan stepped back from the behemoth before he lifted a hand—with a small key hanging on a thread from his knuckles. He smiled brightly.

Irfan expected a sputtering demand, or a bellow of authority, or at least for the crocodile to loom up above him and show his teeth. But instead, the royal indignation drifted off of Raghnall’s face easily, replaced by a tentative glint of mischief. “Well… then… what would I have to do to get you to unlock it?” He leaned back to reveal as much of his body as he could.

“Wait thirty days.”

Raghnall just stared at him for a second, then blurted out, “You’re not serious.” His expression seemed to be on a steep precipice, looking down. “Nothing? Irfan, you can’t just leave me like this.” Already, the crocodile was exploring the cage, trying to find a way to play with his foreskin, or tug his length, but finding a well-crafted barrier before every attempt.

What was the prince expecting? That Irfan would let him trade sexual favors for a night of freedom? Whoring himself out to other men was hardly a punishment for the lust-drunk beast. “We made a bet, didn’t we?”

“But—”

“Your word must mean something, my Prince.”

His shoulders slumped. “Of course it does…”

Raghnall stared at the floor, clearly processing the reality of his situation. He tugged anxiously at one of the furs on his bed. Irfan had to imagine the prince hadn’t gone more than a few days at most without satisfying his urges since he became a man.

“How am I supposed to last a whole month?” He moaned.

Irfan slipped the key around his neck, and looked over his clothes to be sure he hadn’t gotten them wet with Raghanll’s sweat—or other fluids. “I suppose you’ll have to find some other way to occupy your time, Grandeur.”

Before Irfan could turn to go, Raghnall lifted his head. His face was still a mask of dread, but it was beginning to thaw around his eyes, which fixed on Irfan with a look of soft eagerness. “Well, then… would you like to play Crossing with me again?”

“Why, so you can try to play your way out of your first bet?” Irfan smirked.

“No,” Raghanll sighed, “I’ll keep my word. No betting, I just… I had fun, and we have a big, beautiful board for it in the palace library.”

“I’ve seen.” Irfan tried not to let Raghnall catch the nostalgia cross his face. There was a lot to miss about his home, but the cool nights in the library stung worst.

Raghnall’s tail swished as he waited for an answer.

Irfan had not, in fact, been stained by Raghnall’s sweat. But that didn’t mean his fur was clean of his scent, nor that he hadn’t been in the prince’s room for quite a while. The loss of his home fresh in his mind, Irfan felt keenly the words that would undoubtedly be whispered about him from servants to courtiers to nobles—were he to start waltzing around the palace beside the open-legged prince.

“No, Prince Raghnall.” Irfan clasped his hands behind his back and stepped away. “I’ve spent enough time in your royal presence for a good while.”

As he marched back through Raghnall’s chambers, he waited for some mocking dismissal—Irfan was only an advisor, after all, speaking to a prince like that. But it never came.

He opened those great carved doors and, glancing back over his shoulder, found Raghnall still sitting on the end of his bed. He stared absently at the expanse of his own great stomach, and rubbed one of his sleeping furs softly between his fingers.