Chapter 25 - A smashing time

            Alexander lay alone in the filthy dungeon, reliving every exquisite moment of his mastery of the farmhand. Even years on, and with so many similar experiences that he could call to mind, the tormenting, torturing and humiliation of Peter of Mickelsfield remained a highlight. Such a perfect physical specimen - combined with the pure, dumb innocence of the lad. At any stage, he and his friends could have resisted, even overpowered him completely. But Alexander’s confidence – his arrogance - had overwhelmed them. And he’d persuaded an entire village to do his bidding.

            Alexander recalled the salty tears pouring down the face of the broken Peter, as the younger man regarded his reflection in the looking-glass. In mere hours, Alexander had reduced the village hero to a humiliated queerboy, grovelling on his back in the dirty straw, tights-covered legs spread wide, arse stuffed with a rope of weighted, leather balls. The last of the balls stuck out obscenely and ridiculously from Peter’s pouting pink pussy lips.

            Alexander beckoned the barmaid, Griselde, to the front of the group of spectators. He saw the confusion and distaste on her face, and the realisation on Peter’s that she would never be able to look at him in the same way again.

            “Come, fellows,” he ordered Peter’s fellow farmworkers. “Your friend needs your assistance. The final part of his forfeit. You have all seen how aroused he has been by the games we have played this delightful summer evening. His manmeat is straining for release. It seems only fair that we allow him this satisfaction, after the entertainment he has provided for us all, don’t you think?”

            One of the thick-headed peasants – Martin? Rodney? – stumbled forward, and Alexander guided the callused and clumsy hand towards their friend’s veined and rigid penis.

            Peter began to sob audibly at the humiliation of being jerked off – roughly and inexpertly – by his reluctant friend. But even attention as crude as this must needs excite a horny young man, and before long, precum began to drool from the tip of Peter’s fine prick. His breathing became rapid and shallow, his fine muscular body began to tense: Alexander was experienced enough to recognise the signs of imminent climax.

            “Stop now!” he commanded, and instantly, as if scalded, the peasant withdrew his fist. The wanking ceased and Peter’s cock was left, bobbing in agony, denied its final, pleasurable reward.

            Alexander allowed the danger to subside, and then nodded for the yokel to begin his ministrations once more. A second time Peter approached orgasm, and yet again, Alexander frustrated him.

            Clicking his finger at the other farmhand – Rodney? Martin? – Alexander guided him to where the fourth anal ball still nestled provocatively, half-in, half-out of Peter’s gaping anus, and to the small metal ring at the end of the leather rope.

            More wanking, and now Peter the handsome farmhand was moaning and begging for release from his torment.

            “What was that? You want to be allowed to cum, do you? Now that I’ve reduced you to a dirty little whore, lying on your back in the straw, legs spread, arse stuffed with my wicked little balls, you think you deserve sexual satisfaction, do you?”

            “Look at you – your pathetic cock being milked by your fellow farmhand in the same way as he milks his cows! That cock that’s been rock hard ever since I dressed you in those delightfully sissy yellow tights. Showing off every muscle and bulge of your fine slaveboy physique!”

            “Do you see what you have become? Do you see what I have made you into? My hosed slut. My tights-wearing bitch boy. I’ve cleaned out your arse, transformed you into my slave, and stuffed your pussy with my degrading rope of anal balls. The whole village is gathered to see the humiliation of their ‘hero’. And all you can do now is beg me to allow you to come? Is that right? Well then, beg me, bitch. Beg me and I might just allow you to spurt your seed all over these fine yellow tights that you have soiled with your sweat and your filth!”

            Insane, desperate now, his mind filled with nothing other than the primal need to achieve climax, Peter had begged. Oh, how he had begged! Alexander had heard well-practiced slut boys, the best actors you had ever seen, beg for sexual satisfaction, but none had even approached the urgency, the desire, the desperation of that rough, gorgeous diamond of a hunk in that unprepossessing little village.

            “Please, Sir, please, Sir, I beg you. I need it so badly. Please, please let me come!”

            And as the sweat-soaked, muscular body began to tense and buck in the throes of orgasm, Alexander had given the signal, and the farmhand’s friend tugged at the little metal ring. The four leather balls were yanked from inside that beautiful body in one sharp movement. A primeval scream of agony and ecstasy rang out as the balls evacuated Peter’s swollen, quivering and well-stretched hole. And simultaneously, great, warm, wet arcs of thick, white cum sprayed into the hazy evening air, splattering over the young man’s chest and legs, staining his yellow tights. Globules of semen landed on that manly jaw, full lips, bronzed cheeks, and long eyelashes.

            Alexander had not hung around. The spell was broken, and he was all too aware that things could now turn nasty. Most of the villagers had been drinking, and, aroused by the spectacle they had witnessed, a heavily, animalistic lust seemed to hang heavily in the oppressive heat. He gathered up his bulb douche, along with the anal balls, still wet and dripping with the gloopy lubricant and the anal mucus from Peter’s arse, and he strode away to his horse.

            He glanced back once, only to realise his caution was unnecessary. The men of the village were gathered in a circle around the prone and exhausted form of their erstwhile hero, each of them now wanking enthusiastically over the humiliated and broken young man.

            Alexander slipped around the corner and freed his own rock hard prick from the constriction of his fine, grey, silken hose. A snort from his precious glass bottle, and soon his cock was also pumping its creamy jism onto the dusty ground.

            And then, his reverie broken, Alexander was forced to contemplate his current predicament. In the grim and filthy dungeon of de Montford Castle.

            Would he ever experience mastery of another man like that again, he wondered ruefully. Or was he truly now as powerless as that poor, beautiful, broken farmhand had been? Alexander did not know, but as he lay there that night, he knew hope had been rekindled by the unexpected bravery of that sexy little brat he had plucked from obscurity all those months before. He could not explain the lad’s loyalty, given the sexual humiliation he had dished out to the new page boy. Maybe it was no such thing. Perhaps it was merely Prince Felix toying with him again – raising his hopes only to dash them once more. All he could do was acknowledge that for once, he was not in control of his own destiny. And that for now, all he could do was wait.

* * * *

It had been like a dream. Now in the cold light of day, Will could scarcely believe that he’d had the nerve to carry out such a desperate scheme.

Even a moment to reflect on the madness of his plan and he would have stayed safely tucked up beneath his blanket. But the moment had presented itself and his vague feeling of outrage that Prince Felix was condemning Alexander to a particularly cruel demise had taken over. And it was done now. There was no going back.

As he went about his morning chores - the mundane fetching and carrying - he relived it all: the dash across the courtyard, all the time fumbling with the dungeon key as he removed it from its fellows on the key-ring; the relief to find that, upon returning to the dormitory, Mortimer was still fast asleep and Humphrey nowhere to be seen, whilst Odin still grunted and ground away at Raymond’s arse. The precious key was now well hidden in Will’s bedding and all he could do was hope and pray that its theft would go unnoticed.

Breakfast that morning was an ill-humoured affair. Mistress Olwen was still smarting from her confrontation with Raymond the night before. Raymond and Humphrey both sat at the breakfast table rather gingerly, each of their unfortunate bottoms still smarting from the abuse they had suffered during the night. Raymond, naturally enough, was too proud to admit to the other pages what he had been subjected to. (Although Will thought it was faintly ludicrous  to attempt to maintain one’s dignity in a pink bodysuit that made one resemble a prawn.)

Of course, Humphrey had no such compunction and spent the entire time complaining about the torture his guts were undergoing, and the fact that his arsehole was burning from the traffic it had experienced all through the night. It would almost have been enough to put Will off the egg he was eating, had he not been so ravenous. An egg for breakfast these days was a rare luxury, after all.

“Don’t you dare tell a soul!” warned Mistress Olwen. “I’m supposed to be giving you all bread and gruel. And Lord knows that’s what I should do given the respect you boys show to me. But look at this! Eighty fresh eggs ordered by his Highness from Lord Geoffrey’s estate. And not even he and his goons can eat that many, I’ll wager!”

Lingering outside the Prince’s chamber that afternoon, Humphrey was feeling especially sorry for himself.

“It’s all right for you. That’s two contests in a row that I’ve lost. Anything athletic I don’t stand a chance,” he whimpered.

Quick as a flash, Raymond grabbed the boy’s balls through the clinging pink tights.

Squeezing hard, he hissed in Humphrey’s ear. “Shut the fuck up, fatboy. I’m sick of your whinging.”

“Owww!” squealed Humphrey.  “You’ve always thought you were better than the rest of us, Raymond!”

Raymond glared at him contemptuously. “That” – he spat – “is because I possess a brain as well as a body. And I intend to use it.”

And now it was that time again. Prince Felix sat resplendent in scarlet tunic and hose, magnificent leather boots reaching all the way to mid-thigh. He looked the four pages up and down. Will and the others stood in front of him in his humiliating pink suit.

“Pull down your hoods, worms,” ordered the Prince.

Like the others, Will did as he was instructed, slipping the pink hose-hood back, to reveal his tousled blond locks. With the familiar fluttering sensation present in his stomach, he wondered what might be in store for him and his fellow slaves today.

Will shifted from one hosed foot to the other in fear, hoping against hope that the theft of the dungeon key and his desperate attempt to save Alexander’s life had not been discovered.

However, nothing in the arrogant Prince’s demeanour indicated that it was to be anything other than business as usual for the hapless page boys.

“Don’t look so terrified,” sneered the Prince.

Was the removal of the hood a pre-cursor to their pink suits being taken from them all together, Will wondered. He realised, with a little surprise and no little shame, that a part of him would be sorry if that were indeed to be the case. He had to admit that a part of him did enjoy being on display in this fashion: his muscular thighs caressed by the pink tights, his pert arse, jutting out – vulnerable and exposed in the thin layer of shiny material.

“Boys, you are to stay perfectly still and on no account are you to turn around,” continued their Adonis of a master, an amused expression on his face. “As it will soon be Easter, today’s contest takes a seasonal theme! Odin! Ulfgar! Bring in the eggs!”

            The Norse brutes appeared, dragging between them a basket heavily laden with the freshest hens’ eggs. What was this latest dastardly and kinky game devised by the haughty young prince?

            Soon all became clear.

            “It’s all very straightforward. You will each have twenty fresh eggs slipped down the back of your tights suit,” announced Odin.

            Ulfgar placed the familiar, crude wooden stool in front of Will and the other pages.

            “Your task is simple: you must each try to smash as many of the eggs as you can in one go by sitting down on this stool – as hard as you can. Each of you will have one chance. The remaining eggs will be counted and whichever of you has smashed the fewest will be dubbed the loser. Is that understood?”

            Will shuddered as, one after another, fresh brown hens’ eggs were rolled down his back inside his pink garment. One by one, they accumulated at the gusset. Glancing at Raymond, he noticed that his cunning nemesis was subtly shifting the eggs into the crack of his bum to enable more to be cracked when the moment came. Will wriggled slightly and endeavoured to do the .

            Soon all four pages’ suits had been stuffed with the eggs, and each of their arses bulged with lumps and bumps. Will found himself feeling more ridiculous than ever at the heaviness clustered around his backside.

            Odin spoke again.

            “At my signal, one by one, you will each sit down on the stool behind you. Are you ready?”

            The four unfortunate lads nodded miserably.

            “Then begin.”

            The leering Viking first pointed his callused finger at Mortimer, and the skinny lad, sighing heavily, sat down firmly on the stool. His face contorted into a grimace as the sound of smashing eggs filled the room. Will noted, with dismay, the gloopy goo of the yolk and white started to seep through the pink material of the tights.

            “Next!”

            Raymond, his face as hard and stoic as ever, thrust his egg-laden arse down on the stool. He bit his lip as the shells cracked and splintered, but otherwise registered no reaction.

            Then it was Humphrey’s turn. Will could well imagine that Humphrey’s discomfort was only exacerbated by the notion that the eggs clustered around his bum were going to be wasted, when they could have found a happier home in his hungry stomach. The pressure as the fat boy’s bottom plummeted downwards was too much for the little wooden stool, and Will winced as its flimsy legs gave way. The sound of numerous eggs cracking was joined by a resounding rattle as Humphrey’s bottom bounced on the floor. The plump page emitted a sorrowful little sob.

            Prince Felix rolled his eyes languidly, as he turned his attention to Will, the fourth and final victim.

            “And now for the horny little bitch,” he said. “How many eggs can you smash? And I did say eggs – not the furniture.”

            Will screwed his eyes shut and with all the strength he could muster, sat down firmly on the stool. Instantly, he felt the eggs’ thin membranes beginning to crack. Sharp little splinters of shell dug into his young skin, and their viscous, liquid contents exploded against his flesh. The sensation of the cold, wet fluid on his bum, round his balls and bursting against his arsehole was sudden, shocking, and terrifically arousing. And to Will’s horror, the feeling of the gunky goo staining his tights caused him, once again, to lose control. He cried out in astonishment as, quite spontaneously, untouched and unbidden, his hard boy cock bucked and pumped creamy cum into his pink bodysuit. His body shuddered and shivered with the power of the orgasm, as humiliating as it was unexpected.

            Sinuously, the feline form of Prince Felix rose from his throne and slowly stalked over to the quivering page boy. The height of the low stool ensured that Will found himself squatting directly in front of the Prince’s bulging scarlet crotch. His muscular thighs tensed in his hose, the material stretched tight over those divinely proportioned limbs.

            “You dirty little boy. Once again you have defiled yourself. You squat there in those broken eggs, the goop and goo oozing round your groin and buttocks. You are filth, bitch. And you know it…”