The tutor left the room to fetch the cane and the Prince came over to
the positioned, tethered whipping boy, his face pale and guilty.
"You shouldn't - I wouldn't have if only you'd let me last night - Why
didn't you -? You know I love you, know how much I hate it when you
make me punish you -"
And the whipping boy turned his head and stared at the map of the
kingdom and the provinces the Prince knew off by heart and had recited
wrong deliberately, stared in silence.
He felt guilty, too. Guilty that he'd denied his Prince what could not,
by law, be forced from him; his mouth, his hole, his hands, so that he
could have this for himself.
Because he loved to serve his Prince - on his knees, oh, yes, so many
ways of serving when he was kneeling - but sometimes, oh, sometimes
even a whipping boy could be selfish
And the tutor was so very good at what he did, wielding the cane, the
slender, swift and savage cane, with an artist's hand, and after, when
the Prince had gone to his luncheon, eyes tear-bright, mouth trembling,
the tutor would touch him harshly, kindly, fingers pressing welts,
tracing half-healed marks, and the whipping boy would cry out softly,
revelling in his stolen pleasure.