Chapter 39 - One Little Maid

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!”