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.
Tuesday, 1 October 2013
Alexander did not have long to wait. The boy’s arse was now so completely free from sensation, the pitiful creature was at first not even aware of the guilty trickle of water dribbling from his hole. Then he felt the icy wetness dripping down the vulnerable, dimpled flesh of his ball sack.
“Oh no! Oh no!” gasped the unfortunate Wench. “I was trying so hard, Sir! I really was! I couldn’t help it!”
“Clearly your arse requires some vigorous training,” barked Alexander, “if it is unable to fulfil so basic a task as keeping itself closed shut when it is ordered to.”
“I was squeezing as much as I could!” gibbered the serving-lad. “It’s so cold! I can’t feel a thing back there.”
“Can’t feel a thing, eh? Well, that will never do! We shall have to rectify that straightaway, shan’t we?”
A fresh leak emerged from the boy’s puckered opening, dribbling down and dampening the tops of his stockings. Alexander circled the cowering youth and looked him straight in the eyes.
“I have just the remedy to restore some sensation to that frozen little pussy of yours…” And lowering the waistband of his tights, Alexander freed the coiled serpent of his cock, long and hard, and already glistening with precum.
Wench immediately went into a spasm of panic. “No, Sir! Please! I can’t! It’s too big!”
Why did slutboys always say that, wondered Alexander. Did they honestly think, that having complimented him on the size of his cock, he would be overwhelmed with gratitude, thank them for their kind appreciation of the length and girth of his manhood, and then tuck it neatly back inside his hose, leaving their tempting holes untroubled and unskewered, whilst he obediently trotted off in search of a less well-endowed individual whose prick they did feel able to accommodate?
However, rather than expressing this sentiment audibly, he contended himself with a menacing retort: “Whilst I’m paying for it, boy, nothing is too big! Besides, I warned you there would be a punishment if you failed in the task I set you.”
Wench’s body must be stiff, mused Alexander, from the length of time he’d been positioned, doggy-style, on the hard floorboards, so, grabbing him by a chunk of his pale yellow hair, he tossed the lad onto the narrow bed. The springs protested alarmingly as Alexander leaped on top of the terrified Wench, and gazing deep into the boy’s fear-stricken grey eyes, he guided his raging hard-on towards Wench’s numb hole.
The weeks of enforced celibacy had left his meat as purple as his hosiery, and it was with no little urgency that his throbbing cock, as if with a mind of its own, strained in the direction of the lad’s yielding orifice. He applied a generous fresh smear of grease to his mushroom-like cockhead, reminding himself with an unaccustomed concern for the quivering virgin pinned beneath him, that this was the boy’s first experience of being fucked.
He allowed the blunt end of his cock to rest there for a moment to give Wench a chance to prepare himself for the traumatising assault. The boy’s pale face seemed to grow even paler, and his thin body convulsed in shock as Alexander began the relentless pressure of impaling the powerless youth on his prick. He luxuriated in the obscenely intimate sensation of possessing another male that fucking gave, relishing the boy’s velvety arse pulsing and squeezing tight around his engorged dick.
“Jesus save me! It hurts so much!” babbled the lad, wriggling impotently beneath Alexander’s weight.
Alexander rolled his eyes. He might have known Wench would be a talkative one. “That’s good,” he said. “You can feel me inside you. You must be regaining some sensation down there after all!”
Further in he pushed, and his prick made contact with the watery remnants of the ice he’d inserted. He enjoyed the feeling of pushing himself into the cool liquid, and then withdrawing slowly. “You feel that, boy? You must be feeling very full now. All that melted ice water swishing inside your guts, and now my cock to churn it round inside you! That pressure must hurt, huh? Bet you really want to push it all out, don’t you? Expel all that water and get my dick out of your arse too? Well, not yet you don’t. Not till I’ve had my fun with you first, Wench!”
Alexander started to increase the rate of penetration, and as he did so, occasional spurts of watery discharge escaped from Wench’s backside alongside the backward thrusts. Back and forth, back and forth went Alexander’s tights-covered buttocks as his lunges became faster, rougher, more urgent.
Too much time had elapsed since his last sexual release for him to hold back the moment of ecstasy very much longer. The pressure in his balls began to build, the blood rushed to his face, and in an effort to delay that delicious anticipation a few moments longer, he pulled out of the boy’s ass completely. With the meaty plug withdrawn, an unexpected deluge of water flooded out of Wench’s hole, soaking the thin mattress.
The boy’s expression was one of dismayed humiliation at his loss of control – water flooding from his aperture as if he were some incontinent child. Without a moment to lose, Alexander slung the lad’s stockinged thighs over his own shoulders, leaving the boy’s calves to hang limply down his back, and with a powerful thrust of his hips, plunged his desperate cock all the way in to the hilt.
Wench howled in shock as Alexander spurted wave after wave of thick creamy jism into that slender body, and in spite of itself, the boy’s measly prick juddered as well, untouched and unloved, emitting a paltry dribble of translucent fluid across his hairless belly.
Alexander remained in place for several minutes, panting and perspiring. Then he withdrew his softening cock from Wench’s well-used arse, and rolled the boy away from him. With a startled cry, the mortified serving boy fell unceremoniously from the bed and onto the floor. There the boy lay, his pink-stockinged legs akimbo, saliva dripping from his gaping mouth.
Alexander sank onto his flank and then raised his head, resting it on one fist, to gaze over the side of the bed at the devastated youth. A flicker of amusement crossed his face as, with a hissing fart, his own, glutinous, white cum started to seep out of the boy’s abused hole and formed a tell-tale puddle on the floor. Chuckling to himself, he reached into the leather satchel lying by his side and withdrew a tarnished brass coin. He leant over and stuffed it neatly up Wench’s dribbling bottom. He watched Wench’s asslips close around the penny and then slapped his butt cheek.
“You can keep that one secret from your father,” he whispered confidentially.
The mattress was thin and none too comfortable and the room small and airless, but after nights of fitful slumber beneath the stars, it was the first bed he’d slept in in many weeks. Nevertheless, he could not allow himself to forget that he was still a fugitive, and so it was to the sound of the dawn chorus that Alexander awoke, his eyes snapping open with the alertness of a soldier.
He glanced down at the floor to see the prone wenchboy snoring gently in exactly the same position in which he had collapsed the night before. Alexander pulled back the covers and, with his hose-covered foot, planted a rebuking kick up the boy’s pale bum.
Wench opened his eyes lazily, looking around him in bewilderment as he tried to work out why his aching limbs had passed the night on the hard, wooden floor. Suddenly, the dried sticky patch beneath his arse, and the sensation of the little coin lodged inside him, caused the tribulations of the night before to flood back to him with a vengeance.
“I want some breakfast,” growled Alexander.
Wench staggered to his feet. Did the bargain struck between the elegant stranger and his father extend into today, as well? He thought better of asking the question and merely mumbled a subservient, “Yes, Sir.”
He stumbled round to the other side of the bed in search of his discarded shirt, shoes and britches. Bending over to collect the crumpled pile of clothing, he started in surprise as Alexander’s foot barred his way and prevented him from picking them up.
“No, no, no, Wench,” he said. “I think we need to find you more suitable attire for your station. Open that closet and look inside.”
The bewildered young man, bleary-eyed, with his pink stockings once again dropping in wrinkled folds around his knees, did as he was told. Inside, he saw Alexander’s fine hooded riding cloak hanging from a wooden peg.
“Don’t touch that,” murmured the older man. “In that bottom drawer – there.”
Alexander had performed an inventory of the contents of the closet the night before, and knew full well what the rickety cupboard contained. Presumably at some point in the inn’s past, this upper room had been occupied by a maid servant. He watched on in amusement as Wench pulled the drawer open to reveal some neatly folded linen.
“Go ahead, take it out,” urged Alexander, and the boy withdrew the white material and began to inspect it with bafflement. It was a short apron and a maid’s bonnet. Both were cheaply made and adorned with numerous lacy frills and flounces. Alexander murmured approvingly. “I think those will suit a serving wench like you very well, don’t you?”
Wench looked over at him with imploring eyes.
“What are you waiting for? Put them on.”
The only clothing of his own that Wench was permitted to retain were his pink stockings, and those only on the strict understanding that they remained pulled all the way up and were not allowed to sink down to his skinny ankles. The flimsy little maid’s apron was wrapped around his middle. The fabric fell to half way down his thigh, which at least gave him the modesty of concealing his cock and balls, but inevitably left his buttocks completely and humiliatingly exposed. The final touch was the frilly bonnet that Alexander himself placed on the boy’s head and tied under his smooth chin.
Alexander scooped up the lad’s own clothing and locked the garments in the closet with the promise that, provided he behaved exactly as Alexander wished and followed his instructions to the letter, they would be returned to him upon the occasion of his departure from the inn.
Having been given an extensive list of Alexander’s breakfast requirements, Wench was dismissed. The wretched creature gloomily made his way back down the stairs and into the embrace of his anxious parents. Alexander smirked as the lad’s pale bottom disappeared behind the closing door, the humiliating epithet “SLUT”, still scrawled in flaking red wax, visible down his back.
If Alexander were able to congratulate himself on a thoroughly well-spent and diverting night of entertainment, poor, luckless Will had no such consolation that morning. Like his former master, Will was awake early. Unlike him, however, Will had not spent the night in the comparative luxury of a bed in a hostelry, no matter how meagre the surroundings or avaricious the landlord.
Will lay on the dusty barn floor, tethered once more to the iron ring in the wall. His bruised and aching body felt tender all over and his arsehole was raw from the relentless buggery of the night before. This was by no means the first time he’d been abused as an unwilling fucktoy, at the mercy of those who saw him only as a pleasure-giving orifice in which to insert their cocks. However, the coarse brutality of Lunk’s gang of vagabonds had been a truly new and unwelcome experience for him.
He shifted slightly and tried to brush off the caked-on mud that clung persistently to his hair and skin. He looked down sorrowfully at his ruined tights. So much for his attempts to hang on to save them from his obnoxious sister-in-law! What was left of them clung to his muscular legs in shreds. Ladders, tears and rents marred every scrap of the fine material, and the previous lustrous blue was all but gone, with only the dull patina of claggy mud in its place.
His throat was dry, and he desperately needed a drink. But for that necessity he would have to wait for Lunk to awaken. Will looked over fearfully at the sleeping brute, snoring in comatose oblivion in his bed of straw. He wondered what his new life as Lunk’s pet and plaything had in store for him, and contemplated anew his strange existence, buffeted from one cruel master to another, with little apparent control or say in what happened to him from one day to the next.
You could not imagine a greater contrast to the morning spent by Will’s implacable enemy, the coolly resourceful Raymond StClare. Washed, perfumed and dressed in the glittering livery of a man of power and status, the Steward of Montford Castle joined Prince Felix for breakfast in the royal chambers. It had become something of a regular custom for them lately. Raymond would help the Prince to select his clothing for the day – one of the dazzling array of peacock-like outfits which Felix knew all too well displayed his gorgeous body to its absolutely most devastating effect. Raymond hadn’t appreciated the full extent of the Prince’s wardrobe: he seemed to have hosiery of every colour of the rainbow – from blood reds, through bright canary yellows, vivid greens and deep, deep blues.
As he spent time with the King’s beloved and only son, Raymond found himself getting to know more and more about the privileged young man. He, of course, already knew that Felix was vain, arrogant, pampered and spoiled; that he was quixotic, fickle, disloyal, spiteful and cruel. In addition, however, these weeks spent in the young Prince’s company had revealed that the self-obsessed royal was also lazy, easily-bored, with no facility or indeed apparent interest in political power, other than when it affected his desire to do precisely as he pleased, and indeed, ultimately, was rather dim.
This led Raymond to see distinct possibilities in his ongoing relationship with the Prince. He had not managed to get any closer to sexual dominance over the golden-haired young man – the Prince all too clearly regarded his beautiful face and body as divinely sacrosanct. However, Raymond had somehow, surreptitiously and imperceptibly, succeeded in insinuating his way into every aspect of Felix’s day-to-day life. He decided what the Prince wore, what he ate, whom he spoke to, and any financial and practical arrangements involved in the running of the castle.
The thought was ever-present in young Raymond’s quicksilver mind. Felix was one step away from the throne, and his father was a man constantly in the thick of battle, who any day might meet an untimely demise in a foreign land. Raymond’s ambition to become Chief Steward of de Montford Castle had been achieved at the startlingly youthful age of only twenty – younger than even he had dared hoped was possible. Given his stellar rise to power and fame, who would now scoff at the idea that one day Raymond could be de facto King of England?
All of this passed through his mind, unshared with Felix. The Prince would naturally have been horrified at the presumptuous young man’s train of thought.
“Is there any news of Odin and the traitor?” asked the Prince as he tucked into his smoked salmon.
“His latest message assures me he is hot on Courcey’s trail, your Highness. I feel sure he will soon be recaptured.”
Felix reached out impulsively to place his beautiful hand against Raymond’s cheek. “How did I ever manage without you, my friend?” he asked.
Raymond flushed at the royal touch, and Felix tenderly brushed a black curl behind the young man’s ear. Raymond gazed demurely at the breakfast table, his mustard-hosed cock twitching at the Prince’s intimate familiarity.
Impetuously, the Prince leaped to his feet and turned his back to his newly-appointed Steward. “Check my hose, Raymond. I want you to make sure it’s straight.”
Exhaling gently, Raymond rounded the table and, with the briefest glimmer of hesitation, reached out to lay his hands on the royal rump. Felix quivered slightly under his touch as Raymond luxuriated in the sensation of the finely woven magenta tights. He adjusted the seam so it ran precisely down the centre of Prince Felix’s arse, neatly separating the buttocks into two peachy globes. Then he took hold of the waistband and pulled it up, gently but as firmly as possible, so the material shimmered, as snug as can be, looking for all the world like a second, magenta skin encasing the Prince’s own golden flesh.
A frenzy of lust assailed Raymond as he once again contemplated the prospect of dominating that lush royal arse. Felix lingered there a moment, allowing Raymond to indulge his fantasy for that ephemeral instant. Then he pulled away, turning to admire his hosed rear in the full-length mirror.
“Much better,” the Prince murmured.
“Prick tease,” thought Raymond furiously to himself.
It was nearly midday and the sun was at its zenith by the time Lunk finally raised his pounding head from its straw-covered pillow. Blinking in the sunlight, the monosyllabic brute yawned and shambled over to where Will sat unhappily in his chains.
Lunk sank to his knees and slapped his plate-like palms against Will’s filthy thighs. He ran them up and down the tattered remnants of the blue tights with dull-eyed fascination. Will cringed from that monstrous touch, as Lunk loomed over him lasciviously, and with his lolling red tongue, licked Will’s mud-stained face from chin to forehead.
“Lunk’s toy,” he growled. “Last night fun. We have lots more fun soon!”
Monday, 23 September 2013
Earlier that same night, many miles away, in the far east of England, Alexander Courcey sat astride his stolen horse. He was taking a moment to wonder at what might have become of the blond page boy. He still hoped one day for another chance to kiss those full pink lips and fuck that pretty arse. Little could he know that Will had barely begun his long night spent being relentlessly fucked in a filthy puddle.
Swinging his legs out of the saddle, Alexander dismounted from Fallow and tethered the mare at the post of the ‘King’s Arms’ inn. She had served him well thus far, and many’s the time he’d offered up a private prayer to whichever god lurked up there in the heavens, to thank him most sincerely for the credulity of blacksmiths.
He’d ridden hard, seeking to put as many miles as possible between himself and the lackeys of the vengeful Prince Felix. Only now, after weeks of caution, planting false trails, doubling back on himself and employing a series of pseudonyms, did he feel he could start to relax. He’d even been particularly firm with himself and kept to a strict diet of celibacy, in spite of the occasional temptations laid in his path by cute farmhands and virginal village boys.
Alexander opened the inn door and took a look around. A mangy-looking mongrel raised its head from its basket, yapped half-heartedly a couple of times, and then settled back to dozing. The inn was sparsely furnished and even more meagrely frequented by customers. This may not bode well for the standard of the hospitality and the ale, he thought, but it suited his purposes perfectly: the fewer folk who could provide an accurate description of him to the local sheriff, the better.
A skinny woman of middle years, with a shock of frizzy brown hair, whom Alexander took to be the landlady of the establishment, beckoned him inside. “Come in, Sir, take a seat,” she cooed in a yokelish burr. “Someone will be with you forthwith!”
The couple of other drinkers, having raised their heads briefly to glance at the newcomer, returned to the solitary contemplation of their tankards. Alexander chose a small table in the corner of the tavern and waited. It did not take long for a door behind the bar to swing open, and for a young man in his late teens to emerge. The youth was slim, with hair so fair as to be almost white. His skin was equally pale and his grey eyes darted around him nervously. He wore an apron round his middle that had most probably been white at some point in the past, and his woollen britches ended just below his knees, displaying skinny calves encased in wrinkled pink stockings. He wasn’t the prettiest lad Alexander had ever seen, he mused to himself. Nevetheless, he might prove useful to while away a couple of hours with.
The young man approached the tavern’s newest customer. Fiddling with his grease-spotted apron and looking anywhere but at Alexander, he mumbled, “Ma sent me to ask what you want to eat and drink.”
Alexander leaned forward and gripped the lad’s cheeks between his thumb and forefinger.
“Ow!” squealed the pale youth. “You’re hurting me!”
Alexander ignored him. “Tell your mother I want a flagon of ale, a plate of beef and a bed for the night. And tell her that if she throws you into the bargain for my exclusive use for the duration of my stay, I’ll make it worth her while.”
He released the lad’s face and looking utterly stunned, the landlady’s son staggered back behind the bar to repeat the stranger’s offer. Sure enough, it was only a matter of seconds before a weaselly looking man, with a bald head and a long, quivering nose, emerged to make his way over to Alexander’s table.
“Good evening, Sir,” said the landlord in a wheedling tone of voice. “My son tells me you’re seeking a room here at our humble establishment.”
“Is that all your son told you?”
“You’re a forthright fellow, Sir. I admire that in a gentleman. He also said that you wish to…” The landlord coughed delicately. “How can I put this? To make use of him for the night.”
Alexander looked over at the boy, who had now reappeared and was standing on one foot, looking more anxious than ever. His mother hovered behind him, her eyes narrowing greedily as she kept her eyes fixed upon her husband.
“In return for your compliance and discretion, I’m prepared to pay you a gold sovereign, all in. Don’t bother wasting either of our time trying to haggle. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”
The landlord moistened his thin lips with his tongue. He hesitated only briefly before breaking out in a wide, ingratiating grin. He nodded to the scrawled menu hanging on the wall: “We have a prime piece of rump, Sir, that I’m sure you’ll find just to your taste.”
Alexander was shown up to his room. It occupied the attic floor of the tavern. It was small, dingy and none too clean, but he’d slept in worse in his time. The grubby surroundings seemed appropriate from a couple who had agreed so readily to whore out their own son. Alexander ate his supper there, and then, leaning back in the armchair, he kicked off his leather boots, stretched out his long, tights-clad legs and drained the dregs from the tankard of warm ale.
A respectful knock at the door, and the frizzy-haired mistress of the house entered to clear his tray. “Was all to your liking, Sir?” she asked.
“Adequate,” he replied.
“You can send up the boy.”
She smiled obsequiously and without warmth. “I believe you agreed with my husband that payment would be in advance.”
Alexander reached into the leather satchel by his side and placed a gold coin on the tray in front of him.
“Now send him up.”
“As you wish, Sir.”
The lad stood in the doorway, wringing his hands.
“Come in and shut the door behind you,” said Alexander tersely.
The boy did so, and then turned slowly to regard the sophisticated stranger, with his jet black beard, lithe purple thighs and cruel face, reclining in the corner of the room.
“My name is” –
“I have no interest in your name,” interrupted Alexander. “I didn’t pay for your conversation. You’re clearly a snivelling little serving wench. So I shall address you as such. And you will show me proper respect and address me as ‘Sir’ at all times. Is that clear, Wench?”
The boy gulped and nodded. “Yes, Sir.”
“Good. Now come over here and let me see what my money has bought me.”
Alexander raised a flickering candle in the air, and Wench stepped into the light. His grimy apron had been removed, his mother had given his thin hair a quick brush, and wiped his face and hands clean, but all things considered, up close, he remained a fairly unprepossessing specimen.
“You’re a pathetic little creature, aren’t you, Wench? All scrawny and pale. Still, you’re the only slut on offer so I suppose you’ll have to do. Take your shirt off.”
“I don’t expect to have to repeat myself, Wench. Do as I tell you or you’ll suffer the consequences.”
The youth raised his arms and removed his cotton shirt. His arms were skinny and smooth, and his ribs were visible through his limpid skin.
“Step out of your shoes.”
He did so, then stood waiting on the wooden floorboards in his stockinged feet.
“Good. Now – drop your trousers.”
Wench let out a long, quivering sigh as he unfastened his cord belt and let his britches sink to the floor. His flaccid pecker was as thin as the rest of him, and his crotch as smooth and hairless. He stood naked, save for the two wrinkled pink stockings on his slender legs. One was pulled up just above the knee, the other sagged around his calf. Alexander looked on in amusement as the lad’s breathing became shallow and rapid with fear.
“Turn around. Let me see your arse.”
Hesitatingly, Wench did as he was ordered, and displayed his little bottom, compact, dimpled and white, for Alexander’s approval.
“I’ve seen better,” said the older man dismissively, “but it will suffice for what I have in mind.” He rose and placed his hands on the lad’s slender hips. Wench flinched at his touch.
“Your first time, eh? The first time another man has placed his hands on your naked flesh?”
Wench nodded his mumbled affirmation of the fact.
“Try to relax. It will go easier for you if you do.”
Alexander’s prick began to swell inside his purple tights. Truly, the boy was no beauty, but there was something undeniably appealing about his tremulous reluctance. That, combined with that familiar, enticing power of forcing another man to strip and do his bidding; the manifestation of utter and ultimate domination over another human being; and the fact that he’d had no sexual relief since that final, illicit fuck with Will in the dungeon all those weeks ago: was it any wonder that Alexander’s groin was pulsating with anticipation?
“Pull your stockings up,” he commanded.
Wench did so, and as he bent over, his pale arse bobbed in the flickering candlelight. He caught the tops of the stockings, and smoothing out the wrinkles, pulled each tube of material up tight, so that they rested just beneath the smooth curves of his buttocks.
“Stay right where you are, bent over like that.”
Wench froze in that position, the blood rushing to his head as he felt Alexander’s smooth fingertips straying from his hips to caress the exposed whiteness of his buttocks.
“Now, get down on your hands and knees. I want to see you on the floor, like the mongrel dog you are.”
Wench obeyed tentatively, splaying his palms against the wooden floorboards, shifting his knees into position and displaying the soles of his pink stockinged feet to the peremptory stranger.
“Arse up,” commanded Alexander. “Higher. Higher! I want you to arch your back so that your lily white bum points to the ceiling!”
The boy tensed every muscle to try and achieve the position required of him, hating the submissive way it made him feel, and only too well aware the effect the posture was having on the arrogant stranger.
“Good, slut. You’ll be assuming this doggy-style position an awful lot during our brief acquaintance.”
Alexander knelt down between Wench’s stocking-clad calves and with his free hand, parted the boy’s upturned ass cheeks to reveal the smooth, puckered opening nestling between them. With practiced ease, he slicked up his finger and prodded at Wench’s asshole. Wench gasped in shock at the invasion.
“I said to point your arse to the ceiling! I want this candle pointing up nice and straight – we wouldn’t want to spill any wax onto your poor skin, would we?”
Sure enough, Wench realised with horror that Alexander had started to push the candle into his yielding butt. Desperately, he tensed his body and curved his back so that the lit candle would not slip and burn him.
“How humiliating for you, to have a lit candle pushed into your backside,” cooed Alexander. “You do look utterly ridiculous.”
He smiled as he took a step back to admire his handiwork. Sure enough, there crouched the frightened boy, the wax candle sticking obscenely out of his bum, the flame flickering in the breeze.
“Perhaps we should invite your parents to come and take a look at their son: Wench the candle holder!”
Alexander left the boy there for a couple of minutes and then slowly pulled the dripping candle out of Wench’s hole. He lifted it up high and held it there as he gazed down at the boy’s virtually naked body. He looked at the skinny kid’s stockinged legs, quivering with nerves, and very slowly, almost imperceptibly, he tipped the candle to one side, holding it at an angle, so that a dribble of hot red wax spilled onto Wench’s curved back.
“Oww!” yelled Wench as the molten wax splashed onto his naked flesh.
“Be quiet!” snapped Alexander, as he continued to trace a pattern across the lad’s vulnerable skin. Wench clamped his jaw shut to try and control himself, but each fresh burning droplet made him flinch. Alexander, for his part, watched with interest as the wax hit and then cooled against the serving-boy’s flesh. To amuse himself, he spelled the word “SLUT” out in large capital letters down the boy’s spine.
“Are you ready for this?” he said, as he dribbled a large dollop of burning wax directly onto the tempting target of Wench’s winking hole.
An agonised scream emitted from Wench’s lips as his body convulsed with the pain. Straightaway, Alexander clapped a manly palm over the boy’s mouth to muffle the cry.
“I’ve paid to use you however I see fit, Wench boy,” he hissed. “If you like, I can go and get my money back.”
Wench shook his head hurriedly, his terror of his parents’ wrath outstripping his fear of what Alexander planned to do to him.
“Did that burn your asshole, bitch?” purred Alexander in his ear.
“Yes,” stuttered the boy.
“Yes – what?” demanded the urbane traveller in a dangerous tone.
“Yes, Sir, yes, Sir!”
“That’s more like it. Well, shall we cool you down, boy?”
Alexander got to his feet and strode to the door. He peered out – only to glimpse the landlord loitering at the top of the staircase.
“Is everything all right, Sir?” asked the unctuous publican. “I thought I heard a cry. I trust my boy is providing satisfaction.”
“Everything’s fine,” Alexander replied curtly. “Now make yourself useful and fetch me a bucket of ice.”
Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and returned to the garret room.
Wench crouched there, gazing up at him with mute submission in his eyes. He followed the contours of Alexander’s strong thigh muscles in their purple tights, all the way up to the throbbing bulge at the groin, which informed him, in no uncertain terms, that the dominant wayfarer had become aroused by treating him in this humiliating fashion.
A tentative rap on the door was answered by Alexander’s brusque “Enter!” and Wench cringed as his father bowed and scraped his way into the tiny guest room. The landlord could not disguise his sneer of contempt at the sight of his only son cowering on the floor, naked, save for his whorish pink stockings, dried streams of red wax criss-crossing the lad’s back, and spelling out the damning indictment “SLUT”. Wench recognised the scorn in his father’s eyes, and flushed a deep crimson: shame at being forced into this degrading situation, and anger that it was his father’s own greed that had put him here, at the mercy of the perverted visitor.
“Leave the bucket here,” commanded Alexander. The landlord did as he was told, and then withdrew in a similarly obsequious manner.
Alexander reached into the wooden pail and picked out a solitary ice cube. Wench watched fearfully as the older man padded round to stand in front of him. “This will cool and soothe you,” he whispered as he traced the melting cube across the boy’s furrowed brow, down his nose and across his thin, pale lips. “Open up, boy.”
Wench let his lower jaw drop open, and Alexander delicately popped the ice cube inside. Then he closed the lad’s mouth with his forefinger. “Keep that on your tongue and let it melt. I don’t want you to swallow it. Is that clear?”
What should he do? He couldn’t say “Yes, Sir” without opening his mouth and allowing the ice cube to fall from his lips, so Wench settled for nodding anxiously and hoped for the best. A mischievous smile played around Alexander’s mouth. He rose to his full height and returned to the wooden bucket.
The next sensation Wench felt was the heavy pressure of the older man once again kneeling between his stockinged legs. This time, Alexander was forcing his nylon-covered bulge against the boy’s waxy bum cheeks. Suddenly, he felt an icy tingling on his small pink nipples. Alexander, holding one freezing cube in each hand, gently swirled the lumps of ice around Wench’s sensitive tits, and they rapidly became pert and erect from the attention of Alexander’s teasing ministrations. Wench gasped in shock and as a consequence, inadvertently dropped the captive ice cube from his mouth onto the floorboards beneath him. Alexander tutted, wordlessly reached behind him into the bucket, and then leant forward to stuff two more cubes into the lad’s mouth to replace the one that had just escaped.
“We must see to it that you are cooled both inside and out,” Alexander murmured enigmatically. “Let me take a look at that sore little bumhole of yours.”
He shifted his weight and slid his smooth finger down the sweating crack of Wench’s arse. He used his fingernail to pick at the flecks of dried wax adhering to the boy’s aperture. “Mmmph!” whimpered Wench, as half a dozen hairs were plucked from his arse in the process. He at least managed to keep his mouth shut this time, although the melting ice was filling it with cold water. Soon he would need either to swallow or dribble onto the floor. And he wasn’t convinced he was allowed to do either!
“Let us see how many ice cubes we can stuff up that skinny little bum of yours,” Alexander proposed.
Wench’s body stiffened instantly in fear at the prospect, but he knew the beating he would receive at his father’s hands would be a fearsome one were he to displease the stranger, so he kept silent. Alexander tugged his cock appreciatively at the lad’s reaction to his kinky suggestion. Wench’s sphincter had clamped down automatically, so Alexander reached into his pack for a finger’s length of grease and quickly applied it to the opening.
“You make sure you keep this inside you nice and tight,” he said. “It will go ill for you if you cannot.” And with that, he began to push the frozen cube against Wench’s freshly lubricated slit.
The boy’s body quivered in response to the bitterly cold invasion but it could not fight against the relentless pressure of Alexander’s digits as first one, then two, then three cubes were slid into his unwilling anus. The icy chill at his arse was overwhelming, and it was at that moment that melting water began to dribble from his other end, as his mouth spilt some of its contents with a tell-tale splot onto the bare oak floor.
“You’d better have more control over your butt than you do over your mouth,” warned Alexander ominously. “We’re going to fill your chute with ice cubes, and if you leak at all – if even a drop of water escapes from you – you will make me so angry, I shall reward you with a punishment you will never forget.”
It was a hopeless task and he knew it, thought Alexander smugly. The ice he had applied to the boy’s anal muscles would numb them so comprehensively that they would be beyond Wench’s control. Once the solid cubes nestling inside him began to melt as a result of his body heat, he would be powerless to prevent any leakage.
A fourth cube, a fifth, and then a sixth followed the others in quick succession by disappearing into Wench’s rectum. The boy’s body was writhing, his toes flexing and unflexing in their pink stockings as the shock of the freezing insertions hit him in waves. It would be painful, Alexander knew, and the pain would be an unwelcome distraction from the urgent task of having to keep the melting ice trapped inside him.
A couple more cubes, and Alexander followed them with his own probing finger. He relished the sensation of those once solid blocks jostling inside the lad’s crowded back passage, and he prodded and swirled them around to encourage them to melt more speedily.
He withdrew his finger and gave Wench a smart slap across his pale buttocks. “That’ll do for now. Now you squeeze that arse as tight as you can. No leaks, remember, bitch. I want that water retained inside you until I tell you you can let go!”
And he settled back on his haunches to enjoy the view.