Prince Sol's Fifth Kidnapping
By Musuko

Prince Sol loved the sunlight up here on the high moors. The heat of it felt glorious on his face and neck and mane. He loved to sit tall upon his horse and bask, looking out across the wild stretches of the kingdom.
	He was not supposed to venture up here without escort. He couldn't imagine why. Neither could he truly understand why his eyes always ventured to the horizon, trying and hoping to see the movement of another soul up in this lonely place. Not that it mattered; this hope swam as a deep current underneath the sunny surface of his thoughts, invisible and inaudible to his thinking mind, except as a faint temptation to nudge his actions.
	Prince Sol was not alone.
	Bent over, hunched and feeble, frail and slow; the woman trudged over the peak of the shallow hill, bent double by the bundle of firewood that was larger than she was. Were Prince Sol prone to introspection, he would have wondered why he felt a sudden burst of delight at the sight. Were he more observant, he might have noticed the long and luxurious tail swishing behind the old woman's drab cloak. He might too have noticed that the shallow hill and the grassy cleft behind it did not offer enough concealment for such a figure to spring up without warning, unless that figure had been laying prone in the grass. There are many things in life that escape notice when your subconscious is actively trying to ignore them.
	He trotted his horse over to her. The pace of his heartbeat rose, though he couldn't think why. The old woman's head stayed bowed, her face hidden under her cloak's hood. He could see a canine nose, and the hint of canine teeth. He didn't really think about the incongruity of an old woman having perfect, straight, white teeth.
	She stopped in front of him and tilted her head fractionally upwards.
	“Oh, young man,” she said in a quavering falsetto. “Could you help me carry my burden?”
	Prince Sol's smile grew wider. Did she not recognise him? Was she blind to the regal garb he wore? Perhaps she was actually blind, or as near as makes no difference. How could he refuse to help an old, feeble, blind lady out on these lonely moors?
	He swung out of his saddle and landed with a soft thump of his boots on the mossy ground. Closer, now, he could see the old lady more clearly. Her hunched-over body wasn't as frail-looking as he thought. And the hands that gripped the sticks on her back were big and powerful. The hard life of a peasant must have made her strong, he thought.
	“Let me take that from you,” he said, hearing the purring charm in his own voice. What a gallant Prince he was, caring for his people, willing to shoulder their burdens just as they do. He reached for the bundle as she bent towards him. He did not notice her hands sliding down into her cloak. The bundle began to roll down her back as she straightened upright, and he fumbled to catch them.
	“Hey, hold still!” he cried, diving towards the scattering sticks.
	She unfurled her cloak and threw it behind her. She stood upright, taller than he, and lunged forwards, those great big hands reaching for him. He gasped in surprise and tried to leap backwards, catching his boots amongst the sticks. He tumbled to the ground and jarred his hipbone against the dirt.
	“You're no woman!” he cried. The wolf grinned at him. He knew that face!
	“You!” he cried.
	“Me!” shouted the wolf, grabbing for him. Sol flung a foot up to protect himself. The wolf grabbed his ankle and wrenched it to the side, out of the way. His boot slipped off and tumbled away into the grass.
	“Let go!” cried Sol. “Help me!”
	“Nobody here but us,” said the wolf. Sol kicked again, and this time the soft and expensive silk of his sock raked across the tips of the wolf's claws, leaving three long slits that exposed his sole. In the turmoil of grabbing hands and kicking feet, a calm voice in Sol's head said; well...now you're in trouble; father won't be pleased to learn you've ruined yet another of your finest clothes.
	“Stop it!” cried Sol. “You won't get away with this! You won't get what you want!”
	The wolf brandished a cudgel, blunt and heavy. And the voice inside his head said; oh no, not again. Sol groaned, knowing what was coming; it was a dance they'd played out before. He tried one last attempt to free himself, twisting away to the side and clawing at the ground, while the wolf held fast to his ankle, dragging him backwards. The stones in the dirt caught and tore at his tunic, yanking free a fine brass button and splitting a seam under his arm. Any moment now, the cudgel would come down hard on the back of his head, on that sweet spot that would knock him out into sweet oblivion without too much pain or damage. He heard the swoosh of air and felt the thud.
	Ah, he thought. There it was. All too familiar.

When Prince Sol opened his eyes and saw the wolf standing over him, his first thought was this; never trust an old woman when she asks for help carrying firewood. Because, as he had discovered, the old woman might turn out to be a well-known villain in disguise; a villain who would kidnap you and hold you to ransom.
	This newly-learned knowledge joined a small, but growing, library of things Sol knew now never to trust; never trust wizened old farmers who ask for help shifting a cow stuck in a bog, never trust the sound of a child's voice crying for help from the bottom of a well, never trust witchy old crones who offer you magic beans if you'd just come inside their cave.
	I'm far too easily tricked, thought Sol.
	“You're far too easily tricked,” said the wolf with a chuckle.
	“Am not!”
	“Are too.”
	“Hmmph!”
	They stared at each-other for a moment, the lion pouting, the wolf grinning. Slowly, though, Sol began to grin too. He glanced around. He knew this dungeon alright; those wet stones, that flickering torch, those creepy bones in the corner that he knew were just old cow bones laid there for effect, and not the bones of former prisoners as he had once thought. He knew the shackles that held his wrists to the wall above his head. He knew the wetness of the dirty rush-covered floor soaking his knees. It was the dungeon of wily old Wolf; just Wolf, no other name. Wolf the wolf. He was not an imaginative villain.
	“I'm going to escape, you know,” said Sol.
	“Are not.”
	“Are too.”
	“Are not!”
	Sol sighed and rolled his eyes. “I've escaped this place four times already. Come on, you don't really think that you're going to manage it the fifth time, do you?”
	Wolf the wolf dragged over a wooden stool and seated himself.
	“We shall see,” muttered Wolf. His eyes gleamed, and Sol felt the first twinges of uncertainty. What if the fifth time really was the one where the Wolf would win? What if the old game of temptation and defeat didn't work this time? Sol thought it best to try and test it; slowly, he shifted his legs, rolling over onto his hip and sliding his feet out from under himself. He sat his rear down on the straw and stretched his legs out in front of him. He sighed as if in relieving his discomfort. Sol wiggled his booted toes and splayed the toes of his unbooted foot.
	Wolf's eyes flicked downwards. Just a glance, nothing more.
	Wolf coughed and turned away, swivelling on his stool. He busied himself with a hide sack, but Sol didn't pay attention. He shuffled his rear forward on the dirty rushes and reached the limit of range the shackles gave him. The position wasn't exactly comfortable. His socked foot nudged against the leg of the stool.
	Wolf dropped an arm down. Sol felt a fingertip against his sole. He could have pulled his foot away, but he didn't. Why? He couldn't say, even if he gave it some thought. Perhaps it wasn't worth trying to wriggle away. Where could he go? He splayed his toes and nibbled his lip. Slowly, almost hesitantly, the fingertip stroked its way down his sole and caught against the ragged edge of one of the torn holes. Sol's splayed toes curled and his soles wrinkled. He bit his lip and stifled a squeaky noise. This was how it always started. This was what he expected from the villainous Wolf. No matter how hard he tried to concentrate on holding his prisoner captive and getting the ransom, the wolf would always fall back to his wicked ways. Sometimes it would be spanking. Sometimes it would be tickling. Sometimes it would even be flogging with thin tree branches. Always, though, the Wolf would get wrapped up in the depravity, helpless against the allure of a helpless captive.
	The finger curled in under the torn silk and scraped a claw against his sensitive, princely sole. Sol could not hold the sound in now; he let out a shaky giggle and jerked his leg. The claw stayed still, catching against the silk and hooking it. The sound of tearing silk was loud inside the tiny, dank room, as the hole ripped wider, exposing more of Sol's delicate pink sole to the cool air. Loud too was the murmuring grunt from his captor. The sock was hooked by Wolf's claw, and Wolf was hooked by Sol's cunning. All was going as it should.
	Then Wolf span around on the stool to face Sol. Sol's foot dropped to the floor. He moved to lift it back up again, then froze.
	“What is that?” he blurted.
	Sitting in Wolf's other hand was a small patch of silvery chain-mail. As Sol stared, Wolf lifted it up to show it off. It was sized as if to contain a small fist, and Sol could see a gleaming steel wire running threaded around the open end.
	“Nice purse,” said Sol. “Shiny.”
	“It's not a purse,” said Wolf.
	“Armour for a small mouse?”
	“It's not that either.”
	“Looks pretty though,” said Sol. “Expensive. If you can afford that, why do you need to kidnap princes for ransom, huh?”
	“Call it an investment. Do you want to see what it is? What it does?”
	Sol hesitated. He gave a gentle tug against the shackles holding his wrists. Yup, they were snug and secure. He wasn't going anywhere. And this whole thing with the purse was new. It didn't fit into the plan at all!
	“Uh...no?” he said.
	Wolf started to grin. And that, for Sol, started the first cold chill of fear in the back of his neck.
	“That isn't the right answer, my prince,” said Wolf. “Try again.”
	Sol clamped his mouth shut and shook his head.
	“Well, I'm going to show you anyway.”
	Wolf brandished the claws of his free hand and lunged. Sol shrieked and leapt backwards. Or, at least, that's what his body tried to do, momentarily ignorant of the stone wall and shackles that made that plan somewhat doomed from the start. His head cracked unpleasantly against the stone and his wrists wrenched in the shackles. He tried to kick, too late; Wolf was already upon him, knees straddling his hips, pinning them together. The strange chain-mail object rested in one palm while the other hand settled onto Sol's quivering tummy.
	“W-what are you doing?”
	Wolf's fingers bent. The claws pricked down through the fine fabric of Sol's tunic. With a twitch and a tug, he tore four noisy rents into the material.
	“Hey! Stop that!”
	Wolf just grinned and held his hand steady. Sol tried to writhe away, but with his wrists shackled and his legs pinned, there wasn't very far he could go. Each struggling movement just tugged the ruined tunic harder against those sharp claws, finally bringing their points in contact with his naked tummy. Sol whined and went still, sucking in his stomach, keeping clear of those awful claws.
	Slowly, relishing every inch, Wolf eased his hand downwards and carved a ragged furrow through the prince's clothes. Sol shut his eyes and turned his head away, awaiting the rising shame.
	“Well well,” said Wolf.
	“S-shut up,” stammered Sol.
	“So soon too,” said Wolf. Sol shook his head and whined. “And so big. Are you growing, prince?”
	Sol risked opening an eye. Wolf's fingers were hovering over Sol's naked crotch, dancing in the air around his engorged length, not touching it. Sol shivered...and waited. Maybe this wasn't so bad after all; if Wolf was rushing towards the final play in their little game, all the better for Sol. It just meant quicker release, in more than one sense.
	“J-just get it over with, you fiend!”
	“Oh I plan to.” Wolf's hand moved.
	Pain.
	So much pain.
	Sol couldn't even scream. His voice had clamped up in his throat.
	“Oh I'm sorry, prince,” said Wolf. “But it is necessary.”
	Sol choked out a weak, wordless whine. There was nowhere he could go and nothing he could do. His struggles only ground the back of his tunic against the rough wall and the filth of the floor, ruining it further. It did nothing to get Wolf's hand off his balls. Nor did it stop him from squeezing so hard.
	In moments, Sol's erection was gone, ruined by the pain. Wolf let go.
	“T-thank you,” gasped Sol through tears. Then came the hot flush of shame; why the hell was he thanking him?!
	Wolf didn't answer. Not with words, anyway. He brought the chain-mail pouch down towards Sol's soft cock and bruised balls. And now Sol realised what it was.
	“No! Don't!”
	Wolf chuckled. And then he laughed. He laughed hard and loud as the cold chain-mail closed in over Sol's manhood. He laughed as the steel wire pulled tight, clenching mercilessly around the base of Sol's cock and balls, compressing them tight within the pod. And he laughed hardest of all when he inserted the heavy padlock into the two loops at the ends of the steel wire and, with a pause to relish the moment, clicked it shut.
	“Now,” said Wolf. “I've had a lot of time to think since our last happy meeting, and I've come to a few realisations.”
	Oh no, thought Sol.
	“I wondered why I wasn't succeeding in my ventures,” said Wolf. As he spoke, he idly stroked a claw over Sol's exposed tummy, nudging aside the tattered strips of his tunic. “And I realised it was because my desires were conflicting. On the one hand,” and here he held his free hand out, palm up, and stared at it as if it contained something other than empty air, “I had the desire for gold, which could only be satisfied by holding you prisoner until the King pays up. And on the other hand...”
	Wolf dug his fingers into Sol's tummy, seeking and finding the tender tendons that ran just under the peaks of his hip bones. Sol jerked and shrieked laughter.
	“...I have the desire to do wicked things to my prisoner while I have him. Now, surely these shouldn't conflict, right? But time and time again, I find myself losing both because I tried to enjoy one while waiting for the other.”
	Sol could barely hear him. He shuddered with laughter, barely audible through wheezing gasps for air. He shook helplessly, and each shake made those claws twitch against the screamingly ticklish spots.
	“So I would capture you, get you bound and secure, locked away in my secret little dungeon. My ransom demand would reach the king, and I would wait. All good so far, right? Then you would start your little teases...”
	Wolf lunged and grabbed Sol's ankle, yanking his foot up and twisting himself around and back to reach it. Still the tickling continued, and Sol looked through tear-rimmed eyes as Wolf pressed his nose against his foot. Sol felt the cold and wetness touch against the smooth cleft between the pads of his sole and his toes. He felt heat in his cheeks and ears. He curled his toes, trying to push Wolf away, but that only trapped his nose there...and his tongue. Sol yelped as the lick slid in through the ragged silk, slathering over his sole.
	“And I would fall for them like a total sucker,” said Wolf. “I would do all these things to you, and you would protest and cry and laugh and scream. And, for a while, it'd be good; I'd be having fun, and you'd be far too distracted to think about escaping.”
	“It's n-not true!”
	Wolf's fingers finally relented in their tickles, and he dropped Sol's foot down. Now both hands came down on the shining chain-mail, squeezing and kneading through the mesh. Sol tensed and groaned, suddenly realising how small the pouch was...how little room there was inside to expand.
	“And then your shameful body would get just as aroused as mine. I've got an excuse, you see; I'm a villain. But you're a prince. You're not meant to enjoy this.”
	“I d-don't enjoy it.”
	“Your body says you do.” Wolf squeezed and Sol moaned, shaking his head in denial. “And before long, you shoot your seed somewhere; over my wrist, or against my leg while I'm beating your little princely rear, or onto the floor while I'm running my fingertips up and down your sides, getting in under your clothes and in all those sensitive spots.”
	Wolf grinned and raised an eyebrow, squeezing against the straining bulge inside Sol's chastity pouch, as if gloating that his point was proven.
	“And then, I realised, is where I end up failing; while I'm still all heated and fogged up in depravity and lust, you're fresh-headed and clear of thought, having loosed your load and cleared your mind of distraction. And that's when you get me, when you trick me, when your devious little fingers find the key, or the weapon, or the tool that'll get you free.”
	Sol bit back a whimper. Oh no...
	“Now, though...” Wolf chuckled. He pressed his fingertips against the hard metal links, feeling the straining, bent-over shape of Sol's constrained and denied erection. “Now you get to stay nice and foggy and distracted...while I get to have my fun and get the gold.”
	“N-no,” moaned Sol, shaky and scared.
	“Oh yes,” said the wolf, with the biggest grin Sol had ever seen, and with two great big hands, fingers spread and hooked, claws twitching and ready, descending down towards his naked tummy and exposed sides.
	There is no sensation in the world like the merciless onslaught of furious tickling fingers roaming the helpless sides of a trapped lion. Were Sol able to grasp the concept of harnessing lightning and turning it towards such a nefarious purpose, he would liken that experience to the one he felt now. It was like a sudden cold bath in an icy stream. It was like being kicked awake from a pleasant slumber. It was like being thrown into a pit of agitated insects. His screaming filled the tiny dungeon. His lungs rasped and ached, trying to keep up with the impossible task of expressing such an unbearable, incomprehensible sensation.
	His cock ached under the chain-mail. His precum oozed out through the mesh links. The torrent started as a trickle, but a torrent it would soon become; the prince's heir-makers were notoriously productive. So many grand banquets had been cut short by furtive escapes to the bathing rooms to scrub at precum-soaked clothes.
	Wolf's teeth shone in the torchlight. His strong thighs held Sol's legs in place. The heavy shackles refused to budge, no matter how Sol fought and struggled. He was pinned, exposed and helpless, while Wolf's fingers roamed at will in the soft, warm fur of his exposed sides. They danced up and down his tummy. They counted his ribs. They probed right up under his arms and teased through the downy fur of his armpits. One moment they would be soft and gentle, feather-light, dancing across the tips of the lion's fur, making him yelp and shiver. The next they would drive in deep, knuckles grinding against his flesh, bringing out the screams, the begging pleas for mercy, the choking gasps and coughs as he fought for air amongst the laughter.
	His tunic was in tatters. The wolf tore at it, splitting it up the middle. The fabric protested loudly as it split to his neck. It hung down his sides and offered no protection; the wolf had him, square and true, a victim at his mercy. And he knew it. He knew it well. That grin never left. Even as the sweat cascaded down the wolf's body, soaking through fur and clothing, even as the wolf's fingers grew tired.
	“Please”, begged the lion. “Mercy”, he moaned. “I'll do anything”, he cried. Nothing worked. Not a single one of his pleas were heard. His voice was useless, as helpless as the rest of him. True helplessness felt like this. He wished for oblivion; to pass out, to sleep, to gasp for air and find it lacking. But nature offered him no mercy. Even when he held his breath, stubbornly hoping to escape; the wolf just found a fresh spot on his sides and drove his claws in hard, just hard enough, with just the right amount of pressure to make his body jump and struggle, to force his lips to part and his throat to offer another scream for the wolf's pleasure, to force him to gasp another breath of air to keep him trapped in this ticklish hell.
	Only one escape was left, but this too was denied; the chain-mail squeezed against his cock, denying it its full engorgement. Perhaps, Sol thought, he could get it free if he had his hands free; he could tug hard enough against the mesh so that the tight ring around its opening would slip free from his cock. His erection would spring free, and he would wrap his fist around it and pump; once, twice, three times would be all he would need. His seed would splatter over his stomach and the fog of lust would fade. He would think clearly and he would trick the wolf; find the key, get free.
	But his hands weren't free. So his cock would never get free. And with his cock imprisoned, he too remained imprisoned. The cruelty of his predicament almost took his breath away. Almost. He was nowhere near blessed enough for that longed-for escape.
	“Oh yes,” breathed the wolf. “This is how this should be. The princely prince brought low. No power. No freedom. Nothing. I decide everything for you. I control your every movement. I command what sounds you make. I prod here, and you squeal. I stroke there and you gasp. And I dig my fingers in here, right in these spots, where the curve of your hips arch in towards your struggling cock...”
	Sol screamed. It was the only thing he could do. The sound was raw and ragged. His throat burned like he had drunk scalding liquid. Tears streamed endlessly down his face. He had no energy left. No power. No control. Nothing. Even his misery-laced eyes could not beg mercy from his captor.
	“And these,” said the wolf, roaming his fingers up Sol's quivering chest. Sol squealed and shook his head. “These pretty little nipples. So pink. So tender. They always show through your fur, don't they? Two little targets for me to do this to...”
	Wolf pinched each little nub. He was gentle; far too gentle. Had he squeezed painfully, that would be one thing. But these were tender, kneading rubs. They made him gasp and shudder. They halted his struggles and turned him into a weak, mewling kitten. The shame burned!
	The wolf's face was a mirror in opposite to his own; where Sol laughed in uncontrollable misery, the wolf beamed in delight. How much worse it was to suffer in the presence of someone who was enjoying himself, for whom the suffering was fuel for that enjoyment! Sol looked further, glancing downwards, just once, and saw the wolf's tented clothing in contrast to his own confinement; his erection wasn't constricted. It stood proud and hungry, soaking its own juices into the fabric, filling the air that Sol gasped and fought for with the stink of the wolf's arousal. Maybe there'd be one release; when the wolf finished with his own pleasure and left his seed all over the lion, perhaps then he would stop?
	No mercy. No hope. The tickling to his sides and stomach ended, leaving him quivering and aching, a tingle lingering everywhere the wolf had touched. The wolf lifted off of his sore and tired legs, and for a moment Sol thought he was free; not from captivity, but perhaps from the torture.
	But it didn't end; it merely changed, like the constant and unpredictable shifts from gentle, teasing strokes, to hard and fast jabbing pokes, to grinding, pressing fingertips right into his most sensitive spots; the wolf dragged the stool into a better position, sat down, and lifted Sol's limp and exhausted legs up, placing his heels onto his lap.
	“No,” gasped Sol. “Please...”
	A puddle was growing underneath Sol; a wet patch expanding in the rushes, soaking through and leaving its permanent musky mark. It trickled out through the mesh like a mountain spring. He always was a copious leaker; an embarrassment at the best of times, and this was not the best of times. Oh the shame, and no way to hide it.
	One hand gripped around his ankles, squeezing hard, holding them in place. It was utterly unnecessary; Sol could no-longer command enough energy to even move them. The only energy he had came when those fingertips began their torment again. A finger was all it took to bring him down; it slid in through the tears in his sock and scraped slow and gentle across his sole. His screams came anew as virgin skin met the onslaught of fresh tickles.
	“Such pretty little feet you felines have,” said the wolf. “So soft and smooth and princely. These feet don't weather the harshness of long miles trekking through the mud and dirt and stones. They don't grow callouses and sores. They luxuriate inside smooth silks and  exquisitely-crafted fine boots. You've kept them lovely and fresh and sensitive for me. What a wonderful thing that is.”
	“Please,” gasped Sol. “Mercy. I'll give you anything. Gold! Silver! I'll be your slave! I'll do anything you desire! Just please, don't...”
	The wolf's finger formed a hook and dragged upwards against the ruined sock. Sol felt it slipping down his ankle, felt it crest the curve of his heel, felt it slide gracefully up the indent of his arch and over the rounded edges of his pad. Then it was free, and his foot was naked, feeling more vulnerable than anything he could ever imagine.
	“And just think,” said the wolf, as he stroked his claws over that exposed sole, making Sol twitch and jump and shriek. “You have another one just like it, waiting inside that boot, stewing inside that silky sock, softening with your sweat. I think I'll save that one for later. We have an awful lot of time to spend together. And I plan to pace myself...”
	Sol choked out a weak sob. A moment of dreaded anticipation lingered. He watched as those stroking claws lifted away, curled into a mimicry of a bird's talons...
	“No!” he cried.
	The fingertips drove in hard against his sole and danced there. Sol's body quaked and felt like it was shattering apart. He yanked as hard as his aching muscles could allow, but could not break the iron grip of the wolf's hand on his ankle. His toes splayed and curled, in a frantic reprise of his earlier teasing. Why did he have to tempt the wolf so? Why had he been so stupid? Why had he wanted this? This was torture! This was hell!
	But still his cock strained for release. If only it would rest. If only it could get release. He could be free of this. His traitorous body condemned him to suffer, and the wolf knew it, and he knew exactly how to control the lion now. He was never getting free, not until the ransom was paid.
	Sol clung to that one last desperate hope, as he squealed in uncontrollable, trembling, unbearable misery; that he need only wait for his father to pay the villain, and then it could all end...

The king sighed as he read the parchment.
	“The fiend can't even spell,” he muttered.
	The messenger boy said nothing. He waited patiently at the foot of the king's throne.
	The king sighed again. “This is the fifth time my idiot boy has got himself caught.”
	The messenger boy bit his lip. It wasn't his place to speak. But...
	“He escaped the last four times,” said the messenger boy.
	The king raised an eyebrow. “This is true. He does have a talent for it, does he not?”
	The messenger boy said nothing, merely nodding.
	“Hmm,” said the king. “I think we need not trouble my men with a pointless search. The prince will emerge from his adventure in due time, with a fresh tale to tell in court no doubt. My ledgers will remain untroubled by a drain of gold, and all will be right with the world.”
	The messenger boy nodded. The king handed the ransom note back to him.
	“We will just wait for him to figure out his escape on his own,” said the king. “I'm sure it won't take him too long...”