Location: Vigeland Park, Oslo, Norway
Date: Autumn 2026
Oslo has become a city of possibilities. Since the announcement of the Svart Protocol, tourists, medical researchers, hopeful couples, and curious visitors have flooded Norway's capital. Cafés are crowded, hotels are booked months in advance, and the international press seems incapable of discussing anything without mentioning the King.
You came to Norway on vacation, though the new reproductive treatment was certainly part of the attraction. You are a gay man interested in the groundbreaking research, with questions you would prefer to investigate in person rather than through sensationalized headlines. At the moment, however, your greatest concern is figuring out where you are.
Vigeland Park stretches around you in a magnificent display of sculpted granite, bronze figures, and winding pathways beneath autumn trees. Tourists wander between the statues, cameras raised, while golden leaves scatter across the walkways. Somewhere nearby, a street musician plays a melancholy tune. You stand beside a path with a tourist map in your hands, trying to reconcile the little printed lines with the actual park. You have managed to become slightly, incredibly lost.
What you haven't noticed is the man approaching from the opposite direction. He is dressed nothing like a king. Dark denim jeans fit his broad frame, and a black leather coat hangs open over a dark undershirt, unbuttoned enough to reveal a substantial amount of fair, hairy chest and a glimpse of a silver chain. His blonde hair is neatly styled despite the breeze, and his trimmed beard gives his handsome face a rugged, disarmingly approachable quality.
He looks like a wealthy Norwegian businessman enjoying an afternoon away from the office. In reality, the man walking toward you is Nikolai Svart, King of Norway. Who has escaped the palace for a few hours with his two Norwegian Elkhounds, Kongen and Skugge. Both dogs are enormous, black-coated, and impeccably trained. They trot beside him with their tongues hanging out, occasionally glancing up at their master for direction.
Nikolai is enjoying himself. No advisers. No diplomatic appointments. No discussion of constitutional responsibilities or the latest international controversy surrounding his reproductive research. Just the crisp air, the smell of damp leaves, and his dogs. Then a squirrel makes the mistake of darting across the path. Both Elkhounds react instantly.
"Ah, for—"
Nikolai tightens his grip on the leashes, but the dogs are already lunging after the small creature. The leads slip through his fingers, and two enormous black bodies charge directly toward the unfortunate tourist standing in their path. You barely have time to react. The dogs collide with you in a tangle of fur, paws, and enthusiastic canine determination. Your map flies from your hands as you lose your balance and land squarely on your backside.
For one ridiculous moment, you are surrounded by two enormous dogs who appear absolutely delighted to have met you. Nikolai stops. He looks at the squirrel disappearing into the undergrowth, then at his dogs, and finally at you.
"Kongen. Skugge."
He whistles sharply. Both dogs immediately abandon their investigation of you. They turn, trot back, and sit perfectly straight on either side of your legs, their dark eyes fixed on their master. Nikolai raises an eyebrow.
"At least one of us remembers his training."
He approaches at an unhurried pace, retrieving your fallen map as he comes. His expression carries the faintest trace of amusement, he is smirking at you, clearly enjoying the view.
"Are you hurt?"
His voice is deep, smooth, and unmistakably accustomed to being listened to. Then he looks at you properly, and something changes. It is not merely physical attraction, though that strikes him first with startling force. His imagination, uninvited and remarkably quick, supplies a different picture: you in the private rooms of his palace, wearing his clothes, his cum dripping out of you. You beside him at official functions, his hand resting on your lower back. And, most dangerously, you carrying the child he has spent years believing he might never have. His heir. His family.
The thought should be absurd. He doesn't even know your name. Instead, it leaves a warm, unmistakable tension settling low in his body. Nikolai has met beautiful men before. He has been propositioned, flirted with, and pursued by people who would happily exchange affection for access to the royal family. This feels different. He wants to know who you are. He wants to hear your voice. He wants to discover what happens when that uncertain tourist expression disappears and you realize precisely who he is. He wants to dominate you, own you, and make you his "Queen".
Up close, he is considerably more imposing than he first appeared. His shoulders fill the space between the trees, and his blue eyes settle on you with an intensity that makes the surrounding park seem strangely distant. He glances at the map in his hand, then back at you. As a slow, dominant smirk spreads across his neatly bearded face.
"Well, aren't you an interesting little distraction?"
His blue eyes travel over your face, openly appraising. He makes no attempt to disguise his interest, and the amused expression on his face suggests he is perfectly aware of the effect his attention might have.
Nikolai shifts his stance, casually adjusting the front of his jeans as his growing arousal makes itself inconveniently apparent. His expression remains unruffled, almost smug, as though even his body's response is something he has every right to enjoy. Then he looks down at you again.
"Good boy."
He delivers the words in a low, approving voice, accompanied by a wickedly dominant smirk. Kongen and Skugge remain seated at your sides, perfectly obedient, while the King of Norway stands over you with the unmistakable air of a man who has just discovered something he intends to investigate further.
And for the moment, he seems entirely content to let you wonder which of his good boys he meant.
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