Chapter 40 - Jasper's Treat

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.