Sunday, 16 March 2014
It was a triumph far beyond his imagining: beyond anything that Alexander Courcey had ever managed to organise. Raymond looked around the Great Hall as he processed slowly through the ranks of birthday guests. A couple of paces in front of him strode Prince Felix, dressed head to toe in his new finery. He glittered with gems all over – looking every inch the King. Raymond’s eyes couldn’t help drifting downwards to the royal ass: that perfect bubble butt, encased in sequinned white tights. Raymond’s fingers itched to stroke, to caress, and, yes, to spank those inviting globes. But that was for later. There was much to enjoy before that delicious moment could arrive.
He glanced around the Hall, at the brightly coloured banners hanging from the rafters and the equally brightly coloured musicians he had imported for the occasion. The fanfare of their trumpets rang in his ears, heralding the entrance of the Prince. All the guests rose to their feet. Admittedly, some of them did so rather reluctantly, but they all knew better than to show their dislike of their royal master too openly. Indeed, some of the merchants and squires Raymond had invited had chosen to stay away all together, so he had been forced to fill some of the lesser seats with a cartload of tourists from nearby Dunchester.
The Prince strutted proudly through the throng, waving a ringed hand casually at the gawping non-entities. No sign of Odin or Ulfgar, Raymond noted with irritation. Their noses were clearly out of joint at having been supplanted as the Prince’s chief confidant. Raymond nodded to his sister, who was on her feet, applauding, looking radiant in a golden gown. He himself had chosen his attire carefully – a new doublet of black velvet, and the particoloured hose he favoured: one leg jet black and the other creamy white. Felix was the sun and he the moon, content to bathe in the reflected radiance of the godlike Prince: in public at least. In private, he thought to himself, it would be an entirely different matter!
They arrived at the long table at the far end of the room where Lord Geoffrey stood waiting, bathed, refreshed and dressed in deep scarlet robes and hose. His handsome companions, the strapping Sir Antony among them, applauded gravely as the Prince approached. Felix swished around the table and reached the throne in the centre. He turned to his godfather on his right hand side and offered his hand. Geoffrey sank to his knee and kissed the Prince’s fingers.
“Welcome, subjects!” declared Felix. “Welcome and share in the joyous celebrations of my birthday! You may be seated.”
The Prince gestured for Raymond to sit on his other side and said to his Steward, “So, tell me, Raymond, what do you have prepared for me?”
Savoury pastries, venison, fish courses, pies and rich cream sauces all appeared from Mistress Olwen’s kitchen, served up diligently by Mortimer and Humphrey, who both wore a new silver livery in honour of the occasion. The best wine flowed, and for a while, even those who had no reason to love the Prince began to enjoy themselves. Olwen hovered expectantly, as the multitude of puddings and desserts she had prepared were carried aloft and deposited onto the tables.
However, at this moment, the Prince rose to his feet. “Loyal subjects!” he announced. “Twenty-five years ago today the Earth was blessed by my arrival. And for this it is right and proper that you celebrate. But there are further reasons for jubilation on this glorious day. Due to the indisposition of my father, I must tell you that before the week is out I will be leaving you to travel south to London. There I will take the throne as regent. You are looking upon your new monarch.”
Raymond rose to his feet to join his master. “Three cheers! Three cheers for King Felix the Beautiful!”
The assembled guests looked from one to another in confusion. What could this mean? What had happened to the old King? Could they truly celebrate the accession of this arrogant young man to the throne?
A frown of vexation crossed Felix’s handsome features.
“Three cheers for the King, you scum!” declared Raymond.
Both Prince and Steward turned in astonishment to look at who had spoken. There, sitting as calmly and gravely as ever, was Lord Geoffrey.
Felix was almost speechless. “What – what did you say?”
“I said no, godson. You will not become king. I will not allow it.”
The Prince’s face flushed an angry shade of puce. “Explain yourself this instant. And you had better make it good!”
Lord Geoffrey rose to his feet. “I speak for the barons and nobleman of England. We have suffered under twenty years of your father’s rule. His reign has seen the exchequer stripped bare and the slaughter of England’s best and bravest men in his obsessive pursuit of war and territory. We are not prepared to sit back and watch the throne go to his spoiled brat of a son.”
“Godfather or no, you will hang for this!” sputtered Felix.
“I think not, godson. You’ll find no friends here or anywhere in this land. Your arrogant behaviour has seen to that.”
Raymond’s heart began to pound. In an instant, he saw all his hopes and dreams begin to crumble before his eyes.
The Prince looked around him urgently. “Guards! Servants! Arrest this traitor!”
Nothing happened. All the guests, the staff, the musicians sat as silently and immobile as each other.
“You will all perish for this insult!” screamed Felix. “Odin! Ulfgar! Arrest them all!”
You could have heard a pin drop.
“Your bullying thugs cannot help you, your Highness,” said Geoffrey in those same measured tones. “I anticipated that you might seek to seize the throne for yourself, so I decided to take some precautions. Still, I have no doubt your Viking friends wish to pay their respects on this special day.”
Geoffrey smiled knowingly at the strapping Sir Antony, who winked back at him and made his way to the corner of the Hall. There, he grasped the iron crank that was used to raise and lower the massive wooden chandeliers which, when filled with candles, illuminated the great room. As Antony began to turn it, the spectators in the Hall looked up to the ceiling and were greeted by an exceedingly curious sight.
The chandeliers had been removed and instead, attached to the stout ropes, now being lowered towards the ground, dangled none other than Ulfgar and Odin. A titter ran round the guests seated below. Then some of the spectators began to giggle. Finally gales of laughter erupted from the throng. The Vikings had been stripped of their sinister black leather jerkins and trousers. Each of the massive men were bare-chested, their vast, hairy torsos glistening with sweat, and both had cloth gags shoved into their mouths to prevent them from making any sound. Their hands were tied behind their backs and their ankles tied together. But the laughter was provoked by the fact that each of the two men were wearing matching pairs of pink and yellow candy-striped tights!
The stretchy hose encased their bulging thigh muscles and made their large, round buttocks look immense. The outlines of their gargantuan cocks and balls were all too apparent through the revealing hosiery. And most humiliatingly of all for the hardened warriors, was the fact that the ropes they swang from had been cunningly fastened to the waistband of their tights, in such a way that the material was stretched as taut as possible. It cut deep into their arsecracks, and gave each of them excruciating and very obvious wedgies.
Raymond looked up as the two giants were lowered from the rafters, his mouth suddenly dry. At any other time he would have joined in with the laughter erupting around him. After all, the bullying brutes deserved a reckoning, and Raymond knew just how much they would be hating being dressed in the clinging hosiery. The two terrifying ogres had been turned into clownish buffoons – their faces red with shame, their bodies on display, and their humiliation plain for all to witness. Odin and Ulfgar struggled in their tights bondage, tears in their eyes as the material splitting their arses in two caused them excruciating pain. Their eyes bulged with shock at being bundled into this terrible position. Their tree-trunk-like, hose-clad legs wriggled, which only increased the painful effect of the wedgies. Raymond’s mind was racing. What should he do? Stay loyal to the Prince or try to ally himself with Lord Geoffrey and turn against his royal master? He glanced across at Felix, whose chiselled features were deathly pale.
“Release my bodyguards, now,” the Prince commanded in a dangerous tone of voice.
But Lord Geoffrey shook his head implacably. “You’re no longer in a position to issue orders, godson.”
Felix looked around him. With the exception of a distinctly queasy-looking Raymond, he saw no friends – only hard faces lined with hatred. In a split second, he made his decision. He vaulted athletically over the long dining table and began to sprint down the hall to the oak doors at the far end. He ran for his life, like a beautiful, white, glittering stag. His lungs burst with desperation, and he had nearly reached the doorway when a booted foot stuck itself out casually, blocking his path. Felix tripped, and went flying through the air. He landed face-down on the floor. His jewelled diadem skittered across the flagstones, and his muscular white legs splayed beneath him. He barely had a moment to recover himself, for Sir Antony and Sir Dominic grabbed him under his armpits, and hauled the panting young man to his feet.
“Surely you don’t intend to leave us so soon, your Highness?” asked the handsome Sir Antony. “These are, after all, your birthday celebrations. You’re not going to desert your own party?”
“Get your filthy hands off me. I am of royal blood,” hissed the Prince.
But Sir Antony merely smirked and gripped him more tightly. “You seem to be without your usual escorts, Sire. Allow us the honour of taking their place.”
Antony and Dominic manhandled the struggling Prince back to the table. Felix tossed his golden locks and looked at his godfather defiantly. “You are making the biggest mistake of your life,” he said.
Lord Geoffrey ignored the threat. “You have been busy in my absence, godson. In little more than six months, you have dismissed and made destitute the bulk of my household, mutilated the local peasants, stolen my possessions, slandered and falsely imprisoned my Chief Steward, and caused the death of my dear uncle, Wilfrid.”
“Says who?” sneered the Prince.
But Raymond knew already the answer to that particular question, and as the drapes behind him parted, his heart sank as he heard the smooth baritone of a familiar voice.
“I have submitted a full report to Lord Geoffrey. The timing of his arrival was most fortuitous. I’m afraid that whatever entertainments we may have tonight to celebrate your birthday, Prince Felix. My demise will not be among them.”
Felix could have spat with fury. There in all his former finery, as smug and handsome as the devil, in a burgundy doublet and sleek black hose stood Alexander Courcey. The Prince made to lunge at the Steward, but between them, Sir Antony and Sir Dominic held him fast.
“You bastard, Courcey!” declared Felix. “I’ll see you in Hell!”
Lord Geoffrey, as calmly stoic as ever, tutted to himself. “Your language, godson, is most unbecoming. That’s no way to address my most loyal servant – particularly whilst you are staying under my roof – and under my protection.” He turned to Antony and Dominic. “Fetch him here!”
Geoffrey’s knights did as they were bidden, dragging the blond Adonis over to their lord and master. The guests in the Hall stared in disbelief at the scene playing out before them, and the apparent fall from grace of the all-powerful Prince.
“It seems to me, Felix, that I have a duty as your godfather to instil some manners into you. You’ve behaved like a spoiled brat since the day you arrived mewling and puking into this world. And because your Father believed the sun shone out of your beautiful arse, you were never once reprimanded or disciplined. Well, I feel responsible for this omission, and I intend to rectify it immediately.”
Geoffrey sat down in his velvet throne and spread his hose-clad legs wide. “I’m going to give you your first spanking, young man.”
Felix blanched. “You wouldn’t dare lay a hand on my body!”
Geoffrey sighed wearily. “This evening is rapidly going to become very tiresome if you keep repeating that same old mantra. Let’s just accept that I have dared. I have dared to depose you, and I am daring to teach you a long overdue lesson, boy.” For the first time, Geoffrey’s eyes flashed dangerously. In that moment, Felix saw the fierce warrior beneath the sophisticated exterior. “Let’s have that pretty little tights-clad bum of yours over your godfather’s knee and you’ll feel the force of my palm!”
Raymond had had enough. He could not see how the Prince could possibly extricate himself from this predicament. Whilst everyone in the Hall was focused on the confrontation between the lord and the prince, he began to slide surreptitiously out of his chair.
Suddenly, a hand clamped firmly down on his shoulder.
“Where are you off to, Master Raymond?” asked Alexander. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your appetite for partying as well!”
The Steward pulled up a chair next to his usurper and placed a ringed hand high on Raymond’s hosed thigh.
“You’re going to stay and enjoy the fun, aren’t you, lad?”
“It seems I have no choice,” replied Raymond through gritted teeth.
It took the combined strength of both Sir Antony and Sir Dominic to position the struggling Prince over his godfather’s lap, and Felix continued to rage and curse as they did so. The Prince was forced into this new humiliating position, his head dangling and his beautiful bottom, vulnerable in the sparkling, white material, was arranged to Geoffrey’s satisfaction. Sir Antony slid his sword from its scabbard with an ominous scraping sound.
Geoffrey gripped the Prince’s golden hair in his fist and bent to whisper in his ear. “You will take your spanking, boy. If you do not, Antony here will be forced to pierce your smooth flesh with his weapon…”
Raymond couldn’t be entirely sure whether the threat was literal or metaphorical, but either way, he knew the Prince had no choice but to submit to his godfather’s instructions.
Felix screamed with rage but Geoffrey ignored him and instead addressed the rapt spectators. “Young Felix here has been a very naughty boy, my friends. He is to be punished. And his punishment will be prolonged, public, and very humiliating. After all, it is long overdue.” Felix flinched as Geoffrey began gently to caress the royal arse. “This hosed bottom, plump and perky as a peach, lying across my lap is going to get a paddling like you wouldn’t believe!”
The Prince began to writhe and struggle in protest. “If you dare lay one hand on me...!” he gibbered. But Lord Geoffrey merely laughed and raised his arm to administer the opening blow. “You’re never too old for a good spanking, boy!”
Felix gasped as his godfather’s palm made contact with his exquisitely muscled butt. It wasn’t particularly painful, for it was a mild slap at best. It was the utter shock that his divine body had been unceremoniously tipped over his godfather’s lap and his bum spanked like a child. It was utterly inconceivable. It couldn’t truly be happening to him, could it?
“Keep still now, boy, or I’ll spank you harder,” warned Lord Geoffrey as his hands roamed freely over the Prince’s tights-covered, muscular legs and butt. “It must come as a shock finally to be put in your place and given the treatment you’ve deserved for so long!”
Felix was excruciatingly aware of the gaze of the sniggering audience, drinking in the sight of his sacred body lying powerless as he was spanked. “No! No! No!” he cried as his bum began to feel warmed by the paddle-like slaps administered by his godfather.
“You’re no longer in a position to issue commands, Felix - as you will soon realise all too well. Yes, you go ahead – you kick your legs in your pretty white tights, you wriggle your hosed arse and press that lovely cock of yours against my leg. That bum of yours is getting nice and red and warm now, isn’t it? I can feel it heating up nicely through this fine silken hose,” Geoffrey chuckled. “And I think you need to learn some manners, young man. I think I’ll take a “thank you, Uncle Geoffrey” from you as I spank you. Are you ready? This one’s really going to hurt. One, two, three…”
“Owwwwww!!!” cried Felix as Geoffrey’s palm thwacked against the sensitive flesh of his buttocks. “Damn you! I’m a Prince of the realm and I will never plead or beg or grovel to a traitor like you!”
An ominous hush fell across the hall as Geoffrey paused in his use of his godson’s lithe body.
“You know, your Highness. I do believe you’re right. What am I thinking putting you across my knee? You are royal and you should be treated royally. You wanted to become King Felix? Then we should grant your wish. What say you, Alexander?”
Felix raised his head and gazed up at his foe – a baleful expression in his sparkling blue eyes. Alexander ignored the glaring young man and instead, bowed to his lord and master. “I quite agree, my Lord. I believe the time has come for the Prince’s coronation…”
Monday, 24 February 2014
The morning of Prince Felix’s twenty-fifth birthday finally arrived. The golden-haired prince woke early and looked out at the world from the top of his tower in the very centre of the castle. He was as eager as an infant for the day to begin and for the treats and pleasures that lay in store for him to unfold. He could tell from the secretive and anxious scurrying of the castle staff, that his loyal Steward had planned something rather special for the occasion. This, he knew instinctively, was going to be a highly enjoyable day!
He rolled out of bed, naked, and conducted his usual inspection of himself in the looking-glass: yes, he looked as glorious and gorgeous as ever. He wrapped a crimson robe around his bulging arms and the rippling muscles of his chest and stomach. The next moment, a knock on the door announced the arrival of the faithful Raymond. “Enter!” called the Prince breathlessly.
Raymond, dressed in a fabulous powder blue ensemble of doublet and hose, bowed low before his master. “May I have the honour of being the first to wish your Highness felicitations and praise for this most glorious of days!” he grovelled. “And may I present you with the first of your birthday gifts!”
The Prince cocked his beautiful head to one side as Raymond clicked his fingers. At once, Mortimer and Humphrey entered the royal chambers, huffing and puffing as they struggled to carry a massive, richly wrapped box between them. Beads of sweat ran from the brows of the skinny page and the fat one, as, with immense relief, they laid their burden on the floor. It looked more like a coffin than a gift box, thought Felix with amusement.
Without uttering a word of appreciation or gratitude, the Prince fell hungrily onto the box, and tore the red, velvety covering from it. He opened the latch, and pushed back the lid to reveal its mysterious contents. There, in the bottom of the box lay a man. The man was folded up in order to fit in the bizarre cabinet, so his hosed legs were pressed uncomfortably against his naked torso. The prisoner’s hands and feet were bound with lengths of scratchy rope and a black hood covered his face. The final adornment was another piece of rope, tied in the shape of a hangman’s noose, which was secured ominously around the anonymous victim’s neck.
An exhilarating hope leaped in the Prince’s breast. Surely, after all this time, it couldn’t be…? He leaned into the box and snatched the fabric hood from the man’s head. There, his mouth securely gagged with a filthy scrap of fabric, gazing balefully up at him, lay the vile and traitorous Alexander Courcey.
Felix clapped his hands with glee. “This is an excellent gift, Raymond! Odin found him at last, I take it?”
“He did indeed, your Highness. I’m sure he will tell you more of his escapades when you see him this evening at the banquet.”
“We must take care that the slippery little snake does not escape from us a second time.”
“There is no fear of that, your Highness. You see the gibbet standing waiting in the courtyard? It is to provide us with our after dinner entertainment. Master Courcey will hang from it tonight.”
The Prince was visibly delighted with the first of his birthday surprises. But it was destined to be the first of many.
An hour or so later, as the rest of the castle’s inhabitants bustled around the place, attempting frantically to make the place ready for the evening’s extravaganza, Ulfgar slouched lazily on the sunny parapet. He squinted into the distance. He couldn’t be sure, but his sharp warriors’ eyes seemed to make out a cloud of dust appearing on the horizon. He waited a minute or so. Yes, he was right. It was a group of men of horseback. And they were heading straight for the castle!
Soon, others had spotted the oncoming visitors. And it was the keen-eyed Mortimer who was the first to identify them.
“I recognise the standard! It’s him. I know it is. It’s Lord Geoffrey. They’re back from the crusades!”
It was true. And within half an hour, large as life, the handsome, silver-haired Geoffrey de Montford, still dusty from the road, and weary from months of combat, sat in his private chambers of his home. However, arrangements at Castle de Montford seemed very different from how he had left them all those months before.
Reclining casually in Geoffrey’s own throne-like armchair, was his arrogant young godson and Prince of the realm, Felix. And hovering at his elbow, occupying the position and even the wardrobe of Alexander de Courcey, was the youthful and ambitious Raymond StClare.
“I am quite dumbfounded, your Highness,” said Lord Geoffrey in his sonorous bass voice. “I had no idea that you were residing here at the castle. Your Father’s decision to hide you here was kept a secret even from me. Had I known, I would never have dreamed of arriving without a birthday gift!”
A flicker of annoyance crossed the Prince’s beautiful face. “You mean you haven’t brought me a present?”
“I have news of our campaign in the East and of your beloved Father. I hope they will suffice until I have chance to remedy the oversight,” the diplomatic Lord Geoffrey replied.
The Prince smiled, instantly mollified. “I trust you will be comfortable in some other suite in the castle?” he said.
“Do not concern yourself, my Lord. My knights and I give thanks that we are home. I would gladly sleep in the stables in the knowledge that I have my own roof over my head after these months of campaigning.”
Prince Felix nodded approvingly. He certainly had no intention of vacating Lord Geoffrey’s exquisite chambers.
“You are looking more regal and more handsome than ever, your Highness,” Geoffrey continued. “I take it my staff have fulfilled all your needs during your sojourn with us?”
“Their attentions have been, for the most part, adequate,” sniffed the Prince. “And good Master Raymond here has been an exemplar of loyalty and fidelity.”
Geoffrey turned to look at the curly-haired youth. “I am overjoyed to hear it. Although I’ll confess, I find myself a little bewildered to discover him occupying the position I would have expected my own loyal servant, Master Alexander, to be standing in.”
I wondered when you’d get on to that topic, thought Raymond to himself.
“Your loyal servant?” spat Felix. “Forgive me for speaking harshly, my dear Godfather, but I’m afraid your sense and your judgement was elsewhere on the day you appointed that treacherous scoundrel to be your right-hand man! He is discovered to be a traitor, an embezzler, a sexual pervert and – most damning of all – he plotted against my very life!”
Lord Geoffrey’s face paled in astonishment. “Your Highness, your words leave me desolate beyond belief. To think a servant of mine could be guilty of such villainy! I beg your forgiveness.”
Raymond narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. Had Lord Geoffrey really accepted Alexander’s guilt so easily? Then he smiled. Whether he did or not made no real difference. Geoffrey was a sufficiently skilled politician to know that if the Prince made those charges against him, his Steward was doomed. His only hope of avoiding the scaffold himself was to swallow the accusations whole and pray that royal vengeance would not spread to include himself into the bargain.
“Thankfully,” said the Prince, “the matter is now finally at end. Alexander Courcey is to be executed this very night.”
“I could wish him no more deserving end,” said Lord Geoffrey gravely.
Felix seemed satisfied with his godfather’s stance of meek submission. “Now, my Lord. I am eager for your news. How went the campaign against the infidel?”
Geoffrey’s tanned and handsome features composed themselves into a sombre mien. “Your Highness, I will confess. I have news for you – both good and bad.”
Prince Felix nodded curtly. “I am no longer the pampered child you visited in the royal nursery, Lord Geoffrey. You need not spare me the details, but in honour of this special day, give me the good news first at least!”
“I will indeed. And that centres on the campaign itself. It was hard fought and bloody, but we were victorious and have vanquished all the territories that your Father desired. England’s dominions now spread deep into the barren deserts of Arabia!”
“Why, that is truly wonderful news. And what is the bleak flipside to this report?”
“Your Highness. It is with desolate sorrow that I must be the one to impart these tidings. The fighting concluded, and our men and horses packing up ready for the long journey back home, one dark, terrible night, a secret Arabian mercenary crept into our camp.”
The Prince’s fist clenched in anticipation of what was to come.
Lord Geoffrey took a deep breath and continued with his tale. “And using poisons and black magic, he kidnapped your father!”
“No!” gasped Felix.
“I fear it is true. The Sultan holds him even now in his pleasure palace. He demands a ransom for the King’s return, and gives us a choice of one of two equally outrageous options.”
“For the safe return of your father, the Arabians want either the return of all the lands we won from them in this campaign and a promise to renounce our claims on them forever, or else the tidy sum of one million gold sovereigns!”
“Quite, your Highness. The latter choice is quite impossible. England’s exchequer has been stripped bare by the cost of these foreign wars. And I truly believe that your father the King would rather die than see his hard-won lands simply handed over to our dastardly foe!”
“Then what are we to do?” demanded the Prince.
“There is no immediate urgency, my Lord. We have the Sultan’s oath that his majesty will not be harmed as long as he remains his prisoner. My fellow barons and I have already initiated discussions about how best to proceed. Naturally we will follow your wishes whatever you decide.”
The Prince passed an elegantly jewelled hand across his forehead. “This sad news has distressed me on what should have been a joyful day. And you must be tired. Leave me now, to think further on what must be done.”
Lord Geoffrey rose to his feet and bowed low to the Prince. “Your wish is my command, your Highness.”
Down in the kitchens, the air hummed with gossip. Naturally enough, the cornerstone of all the conversations was the loquacious Mistress Olwen.
“So his Lordship is home, safe and sound, as are Sir Antony, Sir Marcus and Sir Dominic. Is there news of Master Yorick the hosier?” she asked.
“The rest of the army is still further south,” Humphrey informed her. “Lord Geoffrey rode on ahead to report to Prince Felix. So it’s only his party who we know about.”
Mistress Jane swept into the kitchen in a low-cut deep blue gown, catching the tail end of the fat page’s report.
“Which means we have a further six mouths to feed at the Prince’s birthday banquet this evening!” she declared sharply. “So I suggest, Mistress Olwen, that you spend less time gossiping with page boys, and more time working. Do I make myself clear?”
And Raymond’s younger sister turned on her heel and went on her imperious way.
Meanwhile, her elder brother was locked in conference with the birthday boy himself. Prince Felix stalked his borrowed chambers in irritation.
“It’s typical of this damned place! My birthday ruined! All because of Father’s stupid obsession with conquering the Arabs!” he complained. “What on earth am I to do, Raymond?!”
Raymond, waiting patiently, the cogs in his devious brain whirring at double speed, chose his words carefully. “Well, your Highness, let us consider our options. Neither of the choices presented to us by the Sultan are feasible.”
“So what are we supposed to do? Leave my Father to languish in a stinking Arabian prison?”
“We may have no choice – for now. And if that is indeed the case, the question of a regency arises, does it not?”
“England needs a ruler. If the King is absent, then someone must take his place. You will be king in your own right one day, your Highness. You are the obvious choice to take the throne.”
Prince Felix caught his breath. His blue eyes glittered like sapphires. “So that would mean,” he whispered, “that to all intents and purposes, I would be King. With ultimate power. No more having to answer to my Father or be dictated to by his whims. I would rule outright.”
Raymond nodded in ready agreement. “And whilst you are installed on the throne, you could prioritise the raising of funds for the King’s ransom.”
“Yes, perhaps,” mused Felix. “Although I don’t know that that would necessarily need to be a very high priority. After all, didn’t Lord Geoffrey say that my father is perfectly safe where he is? It might take years to raise all that money. Or we might not manage it at all.” He giggled at the notion.
“The kingdom of England must come first, your Highness,” said Raymond. “You would merely be doing your duty.”
“King Felix the First!” announced the Prince, flinging himself down on a velvet-upholstered chaise longue. “My, this really is the birthday that keeps on giving, isn’t it?”
“Indeed it is,” agreed Raymond smoothly. “Speaking of which, I have another gift for you.” He opened the royal closet and produced his latest salvo to secure Felix’s affections: something guaranteed to delight the Prince – new clothes.
Like a child with a new toy, the handsome Prince fell upon the present. “They are … exquisite, Raymond!” he declared.
“My pleasure, your Highness. I thought perhaps you could wear them at this evening’s celebrations?”
Felix held the gorgeous costume before him. “These are garments truly fit for a King!” The ensemble was made from the finest white satins and silks: a tight-fitting bolero jacket of the type he favoured most, would frame his broad shoulders perfectly, he mused. The fabric was intricately woven with gold and silver thread, and massive diamonds ran down the sleeves of the fabulous garment.
The shoes were softest buckskin, white as well – a slight heel which would emphasise the rounded muscles in Felix’s beautiful calves – and the surface decorated again in glittering jewels.
But of course, the Prince’s principal concern was the hose. He gasped in awe as he ran the thinnest, sheerest, silkiest, most divinely lustrous white tights that he had ever touched, through his manicured fingers. “Where did you get them from?” he wondered in astonishment. “The artistry!” Somehow the skilled hosier had managed, without causing the slightest run or ladder, to weave sparkling gems into the diaphanous material of the hose itself. Diamonds chased one another up the outside of each leg, culminating in a kind of diamond encrusted codpiece at the crotch. Felix imagined gleefully the effect this adornment would have on his audience: drawing even more attention than usual to his bulging groin. Neither was the rear of the garment neglected. The Prince’s fingers traced their way over the delicate fabric that would that very evening enclose his royal buttocks. The gossamer thin material was artfully intertwined with silvery sequins that would shimmer off the surface of his buoyant arse, making the whole creation a perfect fusion of visual beauty.
“There is this as well, your Highness, should you desire it,” added Raymond, apologetically gesturing to a glistening cloak made of cloth of gold.
“You know me better than that, Raymond,” said the Prince scornfully. The last thing he wanted was to deny all his new subjects the delicious sight of his tights-clad bottom by covering it with a floor-length cloak!
“Then, perhaps this final touch is more apt under the circumstances…” And from a mass of tissue paper, Raymond delicately unpacked a thin silver diadem, encrusted with yet more diamonds and priceless gems. “The crowning glory, one might almost say”.
“Yes, Raymond. Come here and place the crown upon my royal brow.”
Raymond approached solemnly. Suddenly he had a premonition of the near future. King Felix the Beautiful sitting on his royal throne, dressed in these very garments that Raymond had purchased for him. A fat foreign princess sat next to Felix as his queen: a necessary choice for diplomatic reasons. Yet, there at the King’s right hand, the true power behind the throne, his trusted counsellor, and the man he looked to for all advice, stood he himself: Lord Raymond StClare!
Back to reality, and he gently lifted the glittering circlet and positioned it atop Felix’s golden head. Felix looked into Raymond’s eyes, breathing deeply. Was this it? Was he truly about to…?
The Prince leant towards his Steward, his face bathed in the ecstasy of power and triumph. He opened his full pink lips, and kissed Raymond firmly on the mouth.
Raymond’s heart (and his cock) leaped for joy. He had done it! He had won the Prince, heart, body and soul. He had succeeded where Alexander Courcey had failed. And that night he knew he would be sharing the Prince’s royal bed. And then, oh what a birthday surprise his royal master would have in store for him!
Raymond responded, parting his lips and tentatively kissing that glorious face, knowing instinctively that he was the first and only person on Earth that Felix had ever kissed in that way. One hand reached round Felix’s muscled frame and rested gently on the plump, firm arse, fingertips brushing against the silken hose.
Suddenly, Felix withdrew, a cat-like smile on his lips. “We have much to do, Raymond. I must speak to Lord Geoffrey and inform him of my plans to assume the regency. And then we have your fabulous party to attend. But tonight…”
He gazed meaningfully towards the door of his bedchamber.
Tuesday, 22 October 2013
“You finally found me then! Though you took your time. I thought I was never going to see the inside of the castle again!”
“Lest you forget, my sweet, I’ve had an awful lot to occupy myself with. The Prince is a very demanding master. And I didn’t know where you’d gone.”
It was the first time in many months that brother and sister had been able to speak to each other. And if they were brutally honest, more than once they’d resigned themselves to the fact that they would never see each other again. However, after weeks of inquiries, Raymond had finally found his younger sibling. He had located her, engaged for a paltry fee by a moderately wealthy merchant, forced to skivvy for the lazy wife and daughters. Raymond had extricated her from the arrangement with a minimum of fuss and a great deal of threats. Now she was back where she belonged, her peasant rags burned and a rich velvet gown hanging from her slim body. Her soft brown hair was piled atop her head, and adorned with an ivory comb.
“I’m very impressed, brother,” said Jane StClare. “I never thought you’d install yourself in the Steward’s rooms quite so quickly!”
“What happened to the rest of the servants you were flung out with?”
“Scattered to the four corners of the countryside. Some like me were lucky and got taken in. Others…” she shrugged.
“What about that foul old Sir Wilfrid?” Even now, the mere mention of the name made Raymond shudder at the remembrance of his ordeal.
“Dead,” said Jane curtly. “You’ll be devastated to learn that he fell into an an apoplectic fit as a result of being thrown out of the castle. Don’t worry, they’ll never be able to force you to suck his miserable penis ever again.”
“You have no idea how happy that news makes me, sis,” he grinned. “Now, on to day-to-day matters. We need to find you something to do. How does the post of housekeeper appeal? You’d be answerable only to myself and to the Prince.”
Jane smiled maliciously. “Won’t that put me in charge of the kitchens? I”d even be above Mistress Olwen!”
“Why I do believe you would, you know. Is that a problem?”
“Her former kitchen-maid suddenly ordering her about! She won’t like that at all…”
“Oh, I can assure you, Jane darling,” purred Raymond. “She will hate it!”
There was plenty to do. Prince Felix’s birthday was fast approaching, and Raymond was determined to celebrate it with an extravagance that Castle Montford had never before dreamed of. Night after night, he sat up late with his sister as they plotted the most luxurious banquet they could imagine. Mistress Olwen’s harrumphing protests that “it couldn’t be done” on the budget they’d allowed her and with the meagre staff she had been allocated were rebuffed, and Jane calmly and bluntly told her to get on with it and do as she had been ordered.
Meanwhile, Raymond oversaw the new carpentry project he had commissioned from the capable young Mortimer, gnawing his fingers desperately in the hope that a successful Odin would return to the castle in time for it to be put to its intended use.
One late summer morning, as he sat poring over the ledgers in his chambers, the door opened and Jane, her dark eyes flashing with excitement, burst in.
“He’s done it!” she declared. “He’s back – and he’s not on his own!”
Raymond tripped down the stairs two or three at a time as he raced from his tower-top chambers to the courtyard below, his pretty sister following at his heels.
There, astride his sweating steed, weary and dusty from long hours on the road, sat the shaven-headed form of Odin the Viking. Alongside him, strapped to a beautiful black mare, in the time-honoured position reserved for prisoners and those being transported in extreme disgrace, was Alexander Courcey.
“You’ve ridden hard, Odin,” said Raymond coldly. “May I congratulate you on a successful conclusion to your quest? You certainly took your time but, like the tortoise in the story, I suppose you made it – in the end. However, I’m afraid you can’t stay here at the castle. At least not yet. I will arrange instead for you to lodge at a nearby hostelry.”
Odin glared at the arrogant young man but held his tongue. Meanwhile, Raymond, barely able to contain his glee, crossed to where Alexander, head dangling, hands tied together with coarse ropes, his purple-hosed bum hoisted high in the air, was secured.
“Welcome, home, Master Courcey,” sneered Raymond, slapping Alexander’s arse firmly. “It’s been quite some time, hasn’t it? We have all missed you.”
Ulfgar shambled into the courtyard, and greeted Odin with a firm handshake. Raymond turned to the bearded brute. “Have Master Courcey moved to my chambers at once. You know what to do.”
“Of course, I would have had you thrown into the dungeon,” explained Raymond casually to the recaptured prisoner. “But unfortunately there’s a big hole in the door now. Besides, in the past you’ve exhibited an inconvenient talent for escaping from dungeons. So I thought there might be something rather appropriate in your spending your final days on earth in your old chambers. With me.”
Alexander regarded him with cool indifference. He may have to suffer the indignity of being manacled to the wall of his former bedroom but the last thing on earth he intended to do now was to allow this impudent little shit the satisfaction of seeing him lose his composure in any way.
“Cat got your tongue?” taunted the younger man. “You should be thanking me really. It’s only down to me that you’re still numbered among the living. The sole reason you’ve not been impaled on Odin’s broadsword already is that you’re to be my birthday gift to his Highness.”
“Look out the window,” he went on. “See that scaffold they’re building? That’s just for you. On the evening of Prince Felix’s birthday banquet, you’re going to be swinging from that coil of rope like the filthy traitor you are.”
Master Alexander was back! The gossip spread like wildfire around the castle. And they could all hazard a very well-educated guess that he wouldn’t be around for long.
Prince Felix, curiously perceptive for once to the attitude of those around him, tackled Raymond one morning on the increased level of agitation amongst the servants. They had finished their customary ride through the forest, and Raymond was pulling off his royal master’s boots. Raymond inhaled the musky, manly scent of Felix’s tights-clad feet, mingling with the smell of the leather.
“Is there something I should be aware of?” asked the Prince as Raymond’s fingers came to rest lightly on his hosed calves.
“Nothing at all, your Highness. The staff are merely excited by the prospect of your forthcoming birthday celebrations.”
“And there’s still no news of Odin?” demanded Felix petulantly.
“I fear the traitor Courcey is proving devilishly hard to hunt down,” Raymond sighed theatrically. “With luck and by the grace of God, we will have news soon.”
“That’s what you said last week.”
“It’s to be a surprise, you see,” confided Raymond to his captive. “Just imagine how thrilled the Prince will be to see you dangling from a noose on his big day!”
He’d been hanging there for a week, fed scraps from the table, forced to piss into a pot, but still Alexander maintained his silence.
“Why don’t you speak, damn you?” shrieked Raymond suddenly. “Why don’t you beg for your life? You know I could grant it if I wanted to!”
Alexander looked at him calmly, and cleared his throat to speak. “What happened to the boy?” he asked.
“What did you say?”
“The junior page boy. Will. What happened to him?”
Raymond began to laugh. “Of course! I might have known that the little slut and his pretty arse was the uppermost thought on your mind! Jesus Christ, Courcey, you really are obsessed! If you really want to know, I dumped the brat back in the middle of his stinking village with a plug up his ass. I imagine the local peasants have been making pretty free with his holes. That’s if he’s still alive…”
Alexander nodded calmly but would speak no more.
“Why do you even care?” Raymond demanded. “What did he have that the rest of us didn’t? That I didn’t? You’ve fucked thousands of boys in your time – willing and unwilling. What was so special about that simpering little shit?”
He grabbed the waistband of Alexander’s purple tights and yanked them unceremoniously down to the older man’s knees. Alexander’s exposed cock bobbed there, as full of dark and forbidding promise as Raymond recalled. He grabbed Alexander’s pendulous balls and squeezed hard. Still barely a flicker of acknowledgment from the man he had supplanted.
“Well I’m in your position now. I’m the one with the power. And I’m not going to waste it messing around with unworthy little peasant bitches. I’ve got my eyes on the very top. You might have failed to get your hands on the Prince’s arse but he’s going to be all mine soon. And I’m going to be such a bastard to him, you know. I’m going to pay him back for all those days he spent humiliating me, prick-teasing: making me crawl about in his pink tights suit alongside the other page boy scum!
“And I’ve not forgotten you either. How you abandoned me to that disgusting pervert Sir Wilfrid! You know he’s dead now, don’t you? He was flung out in the cold. Maybe the two of you will be enjoying a reconciliation soon – in the fiery pits of Hell! I imagine it’s rather warmer down there, don’t you think?”
Raymond raged furiously back and forth.
“Say something, you bastard! Don’t you dare just stand there ignoring me!”
He gave Alexander’s balls a vicious twist, but his stoic prisoner resolutely refused to speak. Raymond dashed to the finely carved table and snatched up a bunch of bananas from the fruit bowl.
“You’re rather fond of bananas if I remember correctly,” he declared triumphantly. “Let’s see how you feel about them now the shoe is on the other foot and they’re going up your ass!”
Almost beside himself with rage, Raymond grabbed the yellow fruit and tried to rip it from its skin. However the uncooperative stalk would not snap and yield its pulpy contents, and so Raymond dashed it angrily to the floor. He snatched up another and managed to peel this one successfully. He positioned it carefully between Alexander’s firm butt cheeks and, staring straight into the other’s eyes, rammed it forcefully upwards. But the banana was too ripe, and Alexander’s hole remained resolutely closed, so all Raymond’s sole achievement was ending up with the mushed up mess smeared over the sleeve of his splendid doublet.
He went over to a wooden cabinet and took a glass bottle from within. He uncorked it and tipped a liberal amount of white, creamy unguent into his right palm.
“This will lubricate you nicely, Master Alexander!” And he smeared the lotion over his prisoner’s buttocks and up and around his arse crack. Alexander flinched slightly as the youth dared to manhandle his genitals and bum.
On the third attempt, Raymond succeeded in propelling the phallic fruit up Alexander’s backside. His eyes glinted madly as he crowed over his manacled victim. “How does it feel to be on the other end of the treatment, you bastard? Feel good, does it, having your fuckhole filled with bananas? Let’s stick another one up there, shall we?”
Raymond matched his words to his actions, and with Alexander’s hole now lubricated and loosened by the invasion of the first fruit, his arse swallowed up the second banana far more easily.
“You feeling full, Sir? You feeling stuffed from those nasty bananas I pushed inside you? I bet you’re dying to beg me not to shove any more up your cunt, aren’t you? Then beg me, you bastard! Why don’t you fucking beg?!”
A third banana was inserted, this one requiring more prodding and persuasion as Alexander’s anal cavity became dangerously over-crowded, but still the disgraced Steward remained silent and stoic, not even deigning to glance in Raymond’s direction.
His hole pulsed with the effort of retaining the fruity mush inside. Some of the gunky residue that still clung outside Alexander’s hole, mingled with the lubricating lotion, and dripped into the gusset of his purple hose, stretched tight below. Raymond noticed the spillage, and with a livid sneer, yanked Alexander’s tights back up around his waist.
A fresh idea occurred to him, and the snub-nosed youth dragged Alexander’s heavy, throne-like chair over from the far side of the chamber, and pushed it between the tapestried wall and his shackled victim.
“Sit down!” he ordered him.
Alexander sighed manfully and, manifestly taking his own time, he rested his hosed backside onto the padded seat.
“Now do you see who is the master?” gloated Raymond. “Now, do you understand who is in charge? You have lost, Courcey, and I have won. And here is your ultimate proof.”
He slipped out of one leather boot and wiped his stockinged foot against Alexander’s bulging crotch.
“Now shit yourself, you bastard! Sit on your fine, golden cushion on your priceless, oaken chair and shit those bananas out. Those bananas that I pushed up your hole. I – Raymond StClare, the boy whose virginity you took in these very rooms. The boy you dared to fuck and use and humiliate all those years ago. I swore I’d have my revenge. And look at us now! Me the master, and you the slave! You naked save for your purple tights encasing your strong, manly legs! Your asshole full and desperate to unload all those huge bananas crowded inside you. Shit yourself, Courcey you disgusting pervert! Shit yourself in your tights for my pleasure and my entertainment! Do it!!”
A slow smile spread across Alexander’s dark features. “It’s not at all an unpleasant sensation,” he murmured in a husky baritone. “I have no idea what you boys were complaining about.” And with a satisfied groan, he expelled the liquefied bananas into the gusset of his tights, staining the golden thread and red velvet of the cushion.
He should have felt exultant in meting out the same humiliating treatment that he himself had suffered, but instead Raymond was curiously dissatisfied, vexed by the slightly smug expression on Alexander’s face. Finally, the former Steward spoke.
“Let me give you a word of advice, young Raymond. To dish out humiliation to another man and consequently to be a truly successful master, it takes a special, very distinctive quality. And I’ll tell you for nothing, you don’t have it. That is the difference between us, Master StClare.”
Raymond glared at Alexander with complete loathing. “I disagree, Master Courcey. The difference between us is that in two days’ time, I shall still be alive…”
Friday, 11 October 2013
So, as regular readers of this blog might anticipate, with Alexander recaptured, the story is approaching its climax (pun absolutely intended).
With this in mind, I thought it might be fun to set up a couple of polls to find out what you'd like to happen before the story of "The New Page Boy" comes to an end.
I certainly never intended it to be this much of an epic, but I've enjoyed writing it and I hope you've enjoyed reading it as I share some of my kinks!
So the first poll is to discover who you'd like to see feature most heavily in the story's final chapters:
With this in mind, I thought it might be fun to set up a couple of polls to find out what you'd like to happen before the story of "The New Page Boy" comes to an end.
I certainly never intended it to be this much of an epic, but I've enjoyed writing it and I hope you've enjoyed reading it as I share some of my kinks!
So the first poll is to discover who you'd like to see feature most heavily in the story's final chapters:
And the second poll is about the activities you'd like to see occur:
Hope this all works technically! If not let me know, or anything else you'd like to add, just put it in the comments box.
Many thanks and I'll have the next chapter up as soon as I can!
Tuesday, 8 October 2013
Breakfast done, Alexander slipped back into a contented mid-morning doze. He must be more tired than he realised, he thought when he awoke again in the stifling little room. He flung the casement window wide open, and ventured downstairs. Then he took up the same place in the corner of the tavern that he had selected the previous evening. Although it was earlier in the day, already the place was busier than the night before. Apparently Wench’s new uniform had excited some comment in the local area, and the landlord’s friends and neighbours were crowding in to catch a glimpse of the unfortunate young man.
The boy’s parents nodded to Alexander uncertainly, as if fearing that he might demand that they be similarly attired. Alexander merely glanced at them contemptuously and waited for Wench to reappear from behind the bar.
When the teenager did shuffle out to serve the throng of clients, he was met by a chorus of responses: from sniggering whispers, through to throaty guffaws. Truth be told, thought Alexander, he did present a truly ridiculous sight: the delicately feminine cap balanced on his lank, pale fringe, his skinny chest naked save for the occasional greasy fleck of wax, and the pretty lace apron barely concealing his naked genitals as it wafted daintily above his bright pink, stockinged legs.
Wench’s father rolled his eyes in exasperation, hoping that a show of bravado would exclude him from sharing in his son’s humiliation, as his friends and neighbours openly mocked the miserable youth. The landlord walloped his son’s naked backside with a twisted tea-towel and, laughing tentatively, commanded: “Get on with your work, girl”, even as his eyes darted from one customer to another, desperately seeking their camaraderie and their approval.
Taking their cue from the physical familiarity of the boy’s father, and invited by the shameful soubriquet “SLUT” branded in wax along Wench’s back, others became bold enough to manhandle him as he made his way among them. The lad tried to dodge their degrading assaults, but there were too many of them, and he resigned himself to having his pale, naked arse slapped, groped and pinched by the inn’s patrons, men and women both.
The plastered-on smile of the frizzy-haired landlady faltered briefly as comments, some whispered, some uttered rather less discreetly, reached her ears. “Spread-legged whore!”; “Mewling little bitch-boy!”; “Arse hanging out for all to see!”; “I’d die of shame rather than see my brat parading himself in public!” “Fancy pimping out your own son like that!” She consoled herself with the knowledge that their takings that day already easily outstripped the amount of cash that had crossed the bar over the past two weeks.
“I should be charging you commission, woman,” muttered Alexander darkly in her ear. He reached down to tickle the head of the sleeping mongrel at her feet, who woke briefly and then rolled onto his back to encourage further attention.
Alexander watched the tavern fill up even more and he lingered a while longer to enjoy Wench’s ever-increasing distress. Then he informed his hostess that he would be taking his leave of them in an hour or two, but that he had certain requirements prior to his departure. He issued his instructions to the bewildered woman and then retired to his room to wait.
Fifteen minutes later came a timid tap on his door, and Wench appeared, still dressed as before and looking more mournful than ever, a loaded tray balanced on his one arm.
“Come in, lad,” said Alexander. “Put the tray down on that table.”
The serving-boy did so, and then asked, “Did Ma get that right? Is that really how you want them?”
“Your ‘good’ mother has done exactly as I ordered.”
Alexander paused, the confirmation serving only to increase Wench’s confusion. Finally, he broke the silence.
“How goes it, boy?”
Wench’s bottom lip quivered. “I don’t think they’ll ever let me forget it, Sir. I’ll be known as a bare-bummed slutboy for as long as I live…”
Alexander nodded sagely. “You’re probably right. By the way, do you still have that coin I gave you tucked safely up your butt?”
“I haven’t had chance to take it out and hide it yet. Ma and Pa have been watching me the whole time.”
“Would you like to earn another, Wench?”
“Do I have a choice?” the boy whimpered.
“You see, you’re not as stupid as you look! Come over here and lie on the bed. No, on your back. That’s right.”
Wench glanced nervously around him with his large grey eyes, as Alexander swiftly fastened his bare wrists and stockinged ankles to the four corners of the bed. Once Alexander was satisfied that his spread-eagled victim was safely secured, he turned to the tray he had requested, and the plate which rested upon it.
There they lay: fat, pale and pink. The grasping landlady had supplied Alexander with the string of thick pork sausages he required, and, furthermore, she had not dared to question his adamant insistence that they be raw. Next to the plate stood a pottery jug of spicy, tomato relish. Alexander dipped his finger in and tasted the condiment. Not bad, he mused, not bad at all.
He picked up the string of sausages and weighed them in his hands. There must be about four pounds worth, he thought to himself. Next, he fetched a thin piece of twine from his capacious leather satchel and tied it securely to the last sausage dangling at the end of the string. Carrying the porky bundle over to the bed, he climbed on top of the mattress and knelt between Wench’s wide spread thighs.
“What are you going to do?” asked the bewildered boy, fearing that having been subjected to anal invasion by a candle, ice cubes and Alexander’s monstrous cock, the raw sausages might well be the next humiliating thing pushed up his butthole.
“Didn’t I tell you only to speak when spoken to?”
“Yes, Sir, I’m sorry, Sir.”
Alexander proceeded to loop the spare length of the twine around Wench’s flaccid penis, tying the cord tight around the boy’s cockhead, and knotting it there. The lad’s pathetic prick looked feeble and wan next to the healthy plumpness of the sausages, and it was half the length and half the girth into the bargain. Alexander continued his strange task, carefully arranging the rest of the sausages, now safely secured at one end to Wench’s helmet, in a neat line that ran down between the boy’s legs and dangled over the end of the bedspread.
Alexander returned to the tray and this time selected the jug of relish. Starting at the final sausage in the row, he began to pour the thick sauce over the raw meat. Dollop after dollop of dark, red liquid sploshed onto the phallic tube. Once the first sausage had been coated to Alexander’s satisfaction, he moved onto the second, and then the third, until eventually, the entire string of them was covered in the stuff. An occasional lump of tomato or some other unidentifiable, but presumably edible, chunk splashed out of the jug, marring both the blanket and Wench’s stockinged legs with greasy stains.
He paused and looked knowingly into Wench’s frightened eyes. “You know what comes next, boy, don’t you?” he smirked, and he triumphantly upended the jug’s dregs over Wench’s crotch.
Wench gasped as the cold gunk hit his prick and balls and oozed down into the crack of his arse. Alexander worked a little of the spicy sauce into Wench’s cock slit. “It stings!” cried the lad as it seared the sensitive flesh.
“Ah yes, chilli seems to be one of the ingredients. That’ll burn a little but my, it’s tasty!” said Alexander, smacking his lips greedily. “In fact, now I think of it, I know someone who will really enjoy a little treat like this!”
Wench raised his head with a panicky premonition as Alexander left the room. The boy had no choice but to lie and wait for whatever humiliation he would be forced to endure next. He tugged at the bonds at his wrists, but it was hopeless. The domineering stranger was clearly too experienced in this kind of thing to give him the slightest chance of freeing himself. He wiggled his toes in their pink stockings, but they wouldn’t budge either. He looked down at the sticky mess covering his genitals, and the humiliating way his prick had been treated: just another sausage in a row, coated in the same jammy gunk.
Alexander left the lad there for half an hour or so to contemplate his predicament, and to allow the sausages to marinade properly in the tomato sauce. He ordered a tankard of ale and took his time over it, watching in barely concealed amusement as the desperate husband and wife tried to staunch the steady flow of customers leaving the inn, all the while issuing confident assurances that their shamed son would be back soon to provide them with further entertainment.
At long last, he decided to put Wench out of his misery. Alexander once again climbed up the winding staircase to the garret room. However, on this occasion, he did not go alone.
Wench heard the panting at the door first, and when it opened to readmit his saturnine tormentor, he was puzzled as to why Alexander had brought the family’s pet pooch with him. The eager mutt was straining at the leash, but the mongrel soon paused as his sensitive nostrils were assailed by the heady aroma of fresh, raw meat.
“What’s his name?” asked Alexander curtly.
“We call him Jasper. Jasper, Sir,” Wench replied.
“The poor creature looks half-starved.”
“Pa says he can eat well if and when we do, Sir.”
“I think we should do something to remedy that, don’t you, Wench?”
“What – what do you mean, Sir?”
“I reckon he deserves a reward for having to dwell with grasping misers like your parents. I think some juicy sausages would go down a treat, don’t you?”
The dawning horror of realisation spread across Wench’s face as Alexander’s intention sank in. He began to thrash weakly in his bondage, wailing “No! No, please, Sir! Not that!”
“Now don’t you be so selfish, boy,” he admonished. “Go, on, Jasper, there’s a good doggie!”
Alexander loosened his grip on the leash, and the excited animal leaped enthusiastically onto the first, tomato-coated sausage dangling over the end of the bed. Within moments it was gone, and Jasper’s sharp teeth began chomping down at the second meaty morsel.
“Please, Sir!” gibbered Wench in terror. “Please no! Please don’t let him bite my cock off!”
“And why on earth not?” asked Alexander innocently. “What possible purpose could a little serving-wench like you have for it? Far better for it to be put to good use!”
Two down, the slathering mongrel crawled his way further up the bed and set to work consuming the third sausage. Wench threw himself into a desperate frenzy, limbs flailing, as he tried to get free from the bondage into which Alexander had put him - but it was hopeless.
“Do you honestly think any man or woman on this sweet Earth will want to have that pathetic excuse for a prick shoved inside them?” Alexander pulled his own considerably larger cock from the waistband of his purple hose and began to stroke it firmly. “Pull your trousers down to show that embarrassment to anyone and they’ll laugh right in your face! Believe me, you’re better off without it!”
Jasper, tomato relish smeared over his face and whiskers, swallowed the final bites of the third sausage and, eyes rolling in delicious ecstasy, launched himself onto the fourth. The horrified lad looked down at his pet, to see the dog joyfully working his way with carefree abandon towards the vulnerable pale flesh of his cock.
With no hope of mercy from the insane traveller, the youth began to squeal commands at the animal instead. “Stop, Jasper! That’s enough! No more. Bad dog! Greedy dog!” But the mistreated animal, more used to kicks and blows from humans than love and affection, showed no intention of abandoning his feast. There was no evidence in his eyes that he understood for a moment Wench’s frantic orders, and if he did secretly understand them, there was no chance on earth of his obeying them.
Alexander gazed down, laughing openly at the hilarious sight, rubbing his cock as he watched the anguished writhing of the serving-lad. “Soon your dear Ma and Pa will have the little girl they always dreamed of,” he exclaimed as Jasper moved on to take a hungry bite out of the fifth sausage. “Just one more now, Wench! One more pork sausage remaining before your little doggie sinks his teeth into and gobbles up your very own precious meaty package!”
Wench was now sobbing in terror, incoherent with the horrific anticipation of emasculation at the jaws of the family pet. He knew it wasn’t much of a cock, but it was the only one he had!
He risked a final look. Jasper was onto the final pork sausage and now mere inches away from Wench’s own marinated wiener. The famished creature’s pace had not slowed once, and Wench screwed his eyes tightly shut as he prepared for his manhood to be cruelly snatched from him, and then suffer the indignity of disappearing down that mangy creature’s throat. He waited as he felt the first, slobbering licks of the animal’s tongue, the suggestions of sharp teeth pressing against his penis. Tensing every muscle of his body tight, he waited for the moment that Jasper would clamp down and puncture his tender skin, leaving him mutilated and deformed for the rest of his life. But, tantalisingly, still the strike refused to come. Instead, Jasper’s tongue seemed to be swirling round his defenceless prick, sucking on it, teasing it, squeezing it into semi-hardness. In utter astonishment at the dog’s behaviour, Wench risked opening one of his eyes and, in an instant, his sobs of anguish became ones of relief.
The mouth sucking his dick and the head hovering over his crotch belonged not to his dog, but to the tall, dark stranger. Jasper, meanwhile, was contentedly belching in the corner of the room, licking traces of tomato relish from his whiskers.
Alexander left off sucking Wench’s penis and looked into the lad’s red and tear-stained countenance.
“After those fine, plump, meaty sausages, do you really think a connoisseur like Jasper is remotely interested in a pathetic little winkle like yours?”
He really should have been on his way there and then, but the cringing lad was amusing, his own cock was hard again, and he wanted to unload another deposit of cum into Wench’s unwilling cavity. So, with the promise to the landlord of a second gold sovereign to match the first, Alexander stayed another night at the insalubrious tavern.
He decided he would head off in the morning, be at the coast by mid-afternoon, and then set sail for France and the safety and security of his family there, far away from the merciless clutches of Prince Felix.
Next morning dawned bright and clear. A newcomer pulled up outside the tavern and tethered his steed alongside the black mare grazing there already. A grim smile crossed the man’s face. He turned the door handle and, ducking to avoid banging his head on the lintel, made his way inside the hostelry. He shared a brief conversation with the publican, who directed him to a narrow back staircase.
The traveller climbed the stairs, his vast shoulders brushing the sides of the walls. At the very top, he gently turned the door handle and cautiously pushed against the door. He stepped into the room and exhaled with deep satisfaction. Finally, his quest was at an end. There, sleeping soundly in the morning sunshine, lay the traitor Alexander Courcey. A pale, skinny youth slept alongside him, his head resting on Courcey’s chest and his hand entangled in the older man’s black hair.
Advancing on the slumbering duo, the intruder drew his sword and gently placed it under Courcey’s chin. Alexander’s eyes flickered open with a start.
“Rise and shine, Master Courcey,” growled Odin. “It seems I’ve tracked you down at last. And not for the first time have I interrupted you molesting a boy in your bed. Although you seem to have lowered your ambitions somewhat since you attempted to ravish the Prince.”
Alexander lay completely still, and when he spoke, did so calmly and steadily. “Will you let the boy go? He’s done nothing wrong.”
In spite of himself, Odin was impressed by Alexander’s composure, but he merely said, “The Prince has no quarrel with whores. Wake him if you wish.”
Wench squealed in abject terror as he opened his eyes to see the evil-looking ogre towering above him, and did not have to be told twice to scram.
“Are you to stab me in my bed?” asked Alexander.
“That would be my personal preference, but I have instructions to return you to the North so that his Highness may administer a more lingering demise.”
“I recall that you yourself once suggested that for me rather than a short, sharp death.”
“You’ve given me plenty of time to regret making that suggestion over these past few weeks,” Odin snarled. “You’ve led me on a right royal goose chase. Now, you have thirty seconds to gather your belongings. Move!”
The publican and his wife clung together as their mysterious guest was marched at swordpoint out of the inn by the leather-clad giant. Wench stood trembling and naked, save for his pink stockings.
The landlady, glaring at her cowardly husband with contempt, followed Odin and Alexander out of the door. “Wait! Wait!” she screeched. “He owes us for an extra night! We’re due a gold sovereign!”
Odin, without pausing or even turning, pulled a coin from his pocket and tossed it on the ground. She pounced on it with alacrity. Another thought occurred her.
“And those sausages didn’t come cheap either!”
But she’d pushed her luck far enough. Odin bound Alexander’s wrists together, sat him on Fallow, and holding the reins of both his own and his captive’s horses, disappeared in a cloud of dust.
The landlady stamped her foot in frustration and, as her husband and her son arrived to join her on the pathway, she welcomed them with a fierce glare. Suddenly, there was a hissing, farting sound followed by a metallic tinkle as a small brass coin slipped from Wench’s arse and hit the ground.
With as much dignity as she could muster under the circumstances, the mistress of the house bent down to retrieve the slimy penny. “That’ll pay for the sausages,” she said as she wiped it clean on her pinafore and placed it decisively in her pocket. Jasper the mongrel gambolled up to the three of them, joyfully oblivious to the events occurring around him, and started lapping contentedly at the remnants of tomato relish still clinging to Wench’s naked arse.