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From his place at the right side of the throne, Loki gave Thor a tiny nod.
The king turned back to the young man who stood before him. He leaned forward, a stern grimace to rival Odin’s at his most displeased. “You think to lie to your king? In this very court?”
The man cringed—took a step back. “No, your majesty—I—”
“Enough.” Thor glared at the man. Matthias, his name was—still young, out of adolescence but not yet married. Comely, auburn-haired, and tall and lithe in the way Loki himself was built at that age. He’d come to court to ask for Thor’s forbearance on tribute, claiming his crops had suffered from an inexplicable drought. In Matthias’ words, Loki had heard only sloth and carelessness.
“Are you aware, Matthias, of the punishment for lying to your king?”
The way Matthias blanched and began turning a fetching shade of pink, he was well aware. Indeed, he nodded.
Thor signaled to an attendant, who quickly brought him the thick paddle kept ever near the throne. His expression was stern, tight with determination. Loki quashed a smirk that threatened to twist his mouth. He knew how his brother truly felt about these punishments.
“Fifty strokes, then. Strip.”
Loki’s eyebrows raised minutely. A particularly harsh sentence—Thor must have need of it … and Matthias might in fact be paying for his slight resemblance to the younger prince, Loki mused with a hint of smugness.
Averting his eyes from Thor and Loki, back turned to the gathered men and ladies of the court, Matthias did as bade, his face reddening further and blinking away the tears that collected in the corners of his eyes. First tunic, then shoes, then … Loki only cocked his head as he assessed the younger man—Thor truly would enjoy this one. He was the same age and figure as Loki when Thor began trying to curtail Loki’s lies by the same means. He’d never succeeded, but they both enjoyed the effort.
After taking two steps up to the throne, Matthias had been pulled roughly over Thor’s knees. From his angle, facing the court, Loki could only see the man’s arse, the backs of his thighs. Others—the guards and some of the collected members of the court—would get the pleasure of watching his face as he broke.
Still, Loki’s schooled expression hid his enjoyment. One of his favorite entertainments, this was, seeing his elder brother—now king—taking out his irritation and, indeed, deviant pleasures on the flesh of the most deserving among his subjects.
Thor made the man count out each blow before it fell.
Loki pretended he wasn’t avidly watching the transformation of the punished buttocks as the wooden paddle fell and fell again—from cream to a flushed pink to a brutalized red. He hid the arousal that rose in him as Matthias’ counting started in a shaken voice, soon overcome by choked-back sobs. Thor’s hand on Matthias’ back, holding him down, was likely the only thing keeping the young man from struggling away. Ultimately, Loki gave up the pretense of not looking, watched as the lean thighs twisted and flexed, saw the man’s sac exposed and then hidden as he squirmed from the blows.
Loki wondered how quickly Thor had realized his own desires when he’d had his younger brother over his knee centuries before. The first punishment ended with Loki stalking from the room sobbing almost as loudly as Thor’s current penitent, but soon …
Soon the spankings were followed by a gentle hand between his legs, greased fingers exploring his opening, and a tight grip around his cock that caused Loki to rut into his brother’s lap until he climaxed. That first time, and each time since.
Loki’s lies had only become more blatant.
Matthias, and the people of the court, knew nothing about that, of course. Thor had kept his discipline—and use—of the younger prince between the two of them.
This time, Loki smirked. Over Thor’s lap, Matthias was moaning his way through the thirties. It was a humiliating product of having the god of thunder and fertility as their king; Matthias was finding that the torment placed upon him was priming his body in a way he didn’t expect—and was no doubt already mortified by. When he would stand, after, his cock would be stiff and swollen, as red as the globes of his ass, and would remain so while he was lectured one last time by his king. Then he’d be allowed to gather his clothes and return home to reflect on his trespasses—and think of a way to make reparations to the treasury.
Unlike Loki, he would be careful not to try to deceive the king again.
Some of the ladies and men of the court would excuse themselves, as well. Loki knew which ones, those who shared Thor’s predilection—who would return to their own rooms and homes and find pleasure with the image of young Matthias, writhing in extremis as he counts ever higher, behind their eyelids.
Thor, meanwhile, would signal his brother to follow him into a private chamber off the throne room. Loki would fall to his knees or be pushed over a table, and Thor would reveal his own erect cock—give it over to Loki to find satisfaction. And Loki would smile up at his brother openly, or secretly into the surface of the wood, picture the men and women who earned Thor’s most personal punishment, and begin to plot his next lie.