The world had turned upside down,
thought Raymond desperately to himself. How could it all have gone so
desperately wrong? In less than a day, his prospects had plummeted
alarmingly: far from becoming a major power and influence over the
throne, he now found himself in a distinctly precarious position.
He sat miserably in his chair at the
end of the Great Hall: Alexander de Courcey’s hateful hand still
gripping his shoulder and reminding him that there was no possible
chance of escape. He looked up at the high vaulted ceiling where the
bound and gagged Ulfgar and Odin dangled in their humiliating
hosiery: the seams stretched to breaking point as they cut deep into
the Viking’s ass cracks.
However, the gawping guests had all
but forgotten about the savage giants, as the centre of attention was
now undoubtedly the beautiful but despised Prince Felix. The proud
young Adonis, desperately seeking to retain his dignity in spite of
his very public spanking, had been released from being bent over his
godfather’s lap, and now stood, panting heavily with rage and
frustration. He faced Lord Geoffrey.
“There may still be a chance you can
keep your head,” hissed the Prince, “if you kneel before me and
beg forgiveness for the treatment I have endured at your hands.”
The silver-haired lord nodded solemnly
as he appeared to consider Felix’s offer. The Hall held its breath.
Would Geoffrey yield in the face of his royal godson? Eventually he
spoke. “Perhaps I was a little hasty. It is, after all, a momentous
thing to overthrow a monarch. You want to become king, your Highness?
Well, a king must have a coronation, must he not?”
“You have finally regained your
senses, godfather,” snapped Felix.
Geoffrey gestured to the raised dais
where his ornate throne stood in the centre of the Hall. “It’s
not quite as grand as Westminster Abbey, but it will suffice. We
shall hold this most sacred of ceremonies here. You will indeed be
King Felix, God’s own anointed.”
Felix looked around him suspiciously,
noting the sinister smiles of Lord Geoffrey and his knights. The
older man stepped close to him, and placed his hand on Felix’s
chest. The Prince flinched and scowled.
“Hmm… it occurs to me that his
Highness is somewhat overdressed for the occasion. Alexander… would
you be so good as to divest him of his tunic?”
Alexander stepped forward, a mocking
smile playing about his lips. “It is good to see you again, your
Highness,” he said. “Although our positions are somewhat reversed
since our last meeting, wouldn’t you say?”
“How dare you? To even consider
laying a finger on me!”
“Oh I think that beautiful body of
yours is going to experience more than just a fingering.”
Crude laughter erupted in the Hall.
Alexander slowly circled the outraged
Prince. With the lightest of touches, he reached out to stroke the
royal butt cheeks, those forbidden, yet divine globes of muscle,
glistening and shimmering in their bejewelled hosiery. Felix gritted
his teeth as the older man fondled his bum, still smarting from its
spanking, but the threat of Sir Antony’s sword kept him still for
now.
“I seem to recall that the last time
I touched you, your Highness, you had me flung in prison under false
pretences. You flaunted your arse at me, and then, like some
prick-teasing whore, you whipped it away. Well you know what they
say, young man: everything comes to he who waits…”
Alexander stood so close to the Prince
that their tights-covered bulges practically touched. The Steward, a
couple of inches taller than Felix, breathed softly into the younger
man’s livid face and began to unbutton the Prince’s satin
doublet. Soon the jacket was unfastened and Alexander smirked openly
as he pulled at the sleeves and revealed the broad, smooth pectoral
muscles of Felix’s chest.
“Such a handsome young fellow, your
Lordship,” remarked Alexander. “You are wise to expose his body
for all to see.”
Felix fumed in impotent silence. There
he stood before his inferiors and his subjects, stripped of his
bolero jacket and naked save for his bejewelled tights and satin
shoes.
“Take off your shoes, boy,”
ordered Lord Geoffrey. “I want to see you in your stockinged feet –
standing before me in only your hose.”
Raymond rose instinctively. “Allow
me, your highness.”
Geoffrey shot him a warning glance.
“You stay where you are, boy. My godson needs to learn some
humility. He can bend over and take his own shoes off now.”
“Might I make a suggestion?” asked
Alexander. “The Prince should turn his back on his guests as he
removes his footwear. That way they get the best possible view of his
bum as he bends down.”
“Excellent,” replied Geoffrey.
“Well, Felix – you heard Master Courcey. What are you waiting
for?”
The Prince glared at his godfather,
but Sir Antony was weighing his broadsword particularly ominously and
ultimately the Prince had no choice but to bend over, his tights-clad
bubble butt presenting itself for the delectation of the gathered
throng.
“You see how straightforward life
will be if you continue to learn your new status, my son,” said
Lord Geoffrey amiably. “Now I wonder – for the sacred rite of
coronation, should the Prince be entirely naked?”
Felix blanched in horror at the
prospect. But he need not have worried as Alexander quickly
intervened. He had no desire to see the Prince divested of his
gorgeous and extremely tight-fitting hose. “Plenty of time for that
later, my Lord! But perhaps a tiny adjustment or two would be in
order.”
Raymond recalled how particular
Alexander had always been about the proper way for a man to wear
tights, and he was not surprised to see the Steward reach around the
Prince’s torso to grasp the waistband of his hose.
“We’d better make sure these are
pulled up as far as they can go, hadn’t we? Our friends Odin and
Ulfgar up there provide an excellent example of how one should wear
one’s tights, don’t you think?”
Felix squirmed as the clinging
material was yanked firmly up between the delicious curves of his
arse, neatly bisecting his plump butt cheeks.
“Much better,” said Alexander with
satisfaction, and he allowed his palm to linger against the Prince’s
buttock. “Ah – still warm from your spanking, your Highness. Is
your little bot-bot sore?”
“You’ll pay for your impertinence,
Courcey,” spat the Prince. “If it’s the last thing I do.”
“Come, come, Felix,” said Lord
Geoffrey. “There should be no rancour on a joyous day like today.
Now, it’s time for you to come and take your rightful place – on
the throne.” He gestured to the ornate chair. “You must process
through the Hall so that all your loyal subjects can pay their
respects – and then you may finally rest your aching buttocks on
that fine, velvet cushion.”
The Prince hesitated, unwilling to
take the demeaning walk through the snickering throng.
“Good Sir Antony - escort the
Prince, will you? He seems reluctant to go alone.”
Sure enough, the threatening form of
the fair-haired knight loomed at Felix’s shoulder, and the Prince
felt the sharp point of Antony’s sword prod the naked flesh between
his shoulder blades. Attempting to muster all the dignity he could,
the King’s son placed one white stockinged foot in front of the
other and made his way slowly, in his ultra-snug tights, to the
throne. The Hall rang with mocking laughter as he was paraded in
front of them, stripped to the waist - his indecent hose offering no
kind of protection to the lower half of his body: his glittering
crotch was on full display for the audience’s inspection and
amusement. He reached the throne and began to lower himself onto the
seat in preparation for what he knew would be a travesty of the
sacred coronation ceremony.
“Wait a moment, godson!” called
Lord Geoffrey from the top table. “Alexander, would you be so good
as to plump up the cushion so that it’s as comfortable as possible
for the Prince?”
“My Lord, it would be an honour,”
smiled the Steward, and clicking his fingers, Humphrey the fat page
boy appeared in the doorway from the kitchen. The lad was carrying
aloft a gigantic cake. Mistress Olwen had clearly gone to town here:
the fat sponge base was decorated with lashings of white chocolate
mousse and thickly whipped cream. Humphrey, practically drooling at
the delicacy in his arms, transported the cake to the centre of the
Hall. Then, he placed it carefully, as he had clearly been instructed
to do, on the seat of the throne. Felix watched with the dawning
realisation of what was going to happen next.
“Come along, your Highness,”
beckoned Alexander obsequiously. “Come take the weight off your
stockinged feet and rest your smarting bottom.”
“You’re mad,” declared the
Prince, “if you honestly think I’m going to sit down in the
middle of a giant cream cake!”
Alexander shook his head sadly and
glanced towards Lord Geoffrey, whose face became suddenly stern. The
Lord bellowed at his godson: “Do as you’re told, boy!”
The party guests began to clap slowly,
excitement gathering at the prospect of the handsome Prince being
forced to deposit his arse in the midst of the gooey cake. Felix
seethed, but the prodding point of Sir Antony’s sword was eloquent,
and the Prince had no choice but to position his muscular, hosed bum
over the cake.
The clapping continued and was now
joined by an excited chant: “Sit! Sit! Sit!” Gingerly, his face
grimacing in anticipation, Felix began to lower his buttocks towards
the waiting confectionary. The mocking laughter of the crowd rang in
his ears as his arse made contact with the cake, and he gulped back a
stifled sob as he felt the cold whipped cream touch the pristine
whiteness of his tights.
“Get on with it, boy!” snapped
Lord Geoffrey, and with an evil grin, Sir Antony slapped Felix's
naked shoulder with his palm. The sudden force plunged the Prince's
bum to into the very centre of the cake.
Splat! Thick cream spurted out
of either side of the throne and an anguished “Aargh!” slipped
from Felix's lips as he was overwhelmed by the humiliating sensation
of his tights-clad buttocks sinking into the cold, gooey wetness of
the velvety gateau. His breathing quickened as he heard the hooting,
mocking laughter of everyone in the Hall, and as the gunk seeped into
his tights. He wanted to leap up and flee: but he was going nowhere.
Sir Antony's strong hands kept him firmly in place. He began to
squirm in agony, desperate to be free from his predicament, but his
writhing served only to rub even more of the gungey cake into his
arse.
“Dear me,” tutted Lord Geoffrey.
“Have his Highness's nice clean tights got all dirty? Stand up,
young man. Let's have a look at them!”
Felix gritted his teeth in fury. Sir
Antony finally released his grip on his naked shoulder, and slowly,
he rose from his chair: dollops of gloop falling from his backside as
he did so. “You bastard...”
“Hush, boy. That's distinctly
unroyal language, don't you think?” Geoffrey smiled indulgently.
“Now, turn around and show everyone your filthy little arse.”
A snarling grimace marred the Prince's
beautiful features as he slowly shuffled to display his bottom to the
assembled throng. Alexander chuckled to himself. Sure enough those
peachy globes were now spattered with globs of moist chocolate cake
and streaked with gooey cream. The hooting laughter of his subjects
rang triumphantly in Felix's ears.
“You naughty boy – squashing that
delicious cake,” murmured Lord Geoffrey. “It's quite ruined –
as are your tights. How are they feeling by the way? Bet they must be
rather sticky against your boy bum”.
“When my father finds out what
you’ve done” –
“Ah, but that’s not terribly
likely, is it, Felix? You were quite prepared to leave him to rot in
his prison. And on this rare occasion, I’m inclined to agree with
you. Now, my loyal Alexander, what do you suggest next?”
Alexander winked at Lord Geoffrey,
“Well, your Lordship. The seat of his Highness’ tights have been
sufficiently messed up. In the interests of symmetry, it seems only
apt that the front of them should be too.”
“Excellent! What do you suggest,
Master Steward?”
Alexander’s eyes twinkled with
malice as he produced a large silver platter from behind his back. “I
was thinking – Mistress Olwen’s delicious raspberry blancmange?”
Felix, snarling with fury, spat at the
Steward, “You wouldn’t dare!”
“Wouldn’t I now? Do you really
think I wouldn’t dare tip this whole blancmange down the front of
your tights and rub that ice cold, fruity pudding into your princely
crotch? After all we’ve done to you so far, you learn perilously
slowly, your Highness. We know we’ve crossed a line now, and we
have nothing more to lose, isn’t that right, your Lordship?”
“Precisely, Alexander. We’ve all
gone this far. There’s point no stopping now. I have a feeling your
ritual humiliation is only just beginning, Felix. It would be far
simpler if you were to accept your fate.”
“Never!” declared the proud young
Prince. However, Lord Geoffrey merely shrugged.
“It makes no difference,” he said.
“You’re going to be gunged and messed up regardless. You can
waste your energy scowling and cursing if you wish. In fact, it’s
rather amusing to see.” He turned to Alexander. “In your own
time, my friend.”
Master Courcey came face to face with
the defiant Felix and fixed him with a devilish smile. The Prince
flinched as, with his left hand, Alexander grabbed the waistband of
Felix’s diamond-encrusted hose and pulled it towards him. He
glanced down and raised an eyebrow.
“Well, look at that pretty royal
cock lying there, all clean and perfumed and unsuspecting.”
Felix clenched his fists in
frustration.
“Are you ready, my Prince?” he
cooed. “Then down we go!”
And with that, he gently tipped the
platter towards the Prince’s smooth stomach, and the gelatinous
blancmange began to slide its wobbly way down the tray and towards
Felix’s naked flesh. The Prince held his breath as the dessert
slithered ever closer. Alexander paused, levelling the tray teasingly
and temporarily slowing the blancmange’s descent. Then, just as
abruptly, he tipped the tray vertically. The pudding plummeted
downwards, and, with a resounding “squelch!”, landed squarely in
the gusset of the Prince’s tights!
A deep, ragged breath escaped from
Felix as the chilly gunk made contact with his cock: he gasped as his
prickhead sank into the goo and the cool blancmange slowly fell in
glutinous blobs around his bollocks.
Alexander let go of the waistband of
the tights, allowing it to snap back into position against the
Prince’s torso, and then his hand moved south. He hesitated for
only a moment, before slowly, but surely, beginning to massage the
bright pink gloop into the Prince’s crotch.
“I knew that, one day, I would get
my hands on your royal meat,” purred Alexander in the Prince’s
shell-like ear. “How does that feel? You like the sensation, don’t
you? Me rubbing that gunge into your cock and balls. All cold and
wet. Lubing you up. You can grimace all you like, your highness. But
I know what I’m doing. And I know just how to manipulate a
submissive boy cock. I can make you feel sooo good. Breed you. Milk
you. Or I could keep you permanently and tantalisingly on the
edge of orgasm. Forever if I so desire.”
He continued to knead the milky
pudding into the young man’s groin. “Ah, there we are. You’re
starting to get hard, aren’t you? In spite of yourself, you’re
enjoying this. I knew you would, Felix. Shall we show everyone, eh?
Shall we reveal to all these people just how your throbbing dick is
straining against your soiled tights?”
He removed his hand away and stepped
to one side so that his eagerly expectant audience could enjoy the
view. Sure enough, crotch of the agonised young Prince’s white
tights was damp and stained with a blossoming bloom of lurid pink.
The outline of his cock was standing rock hard as it pressed urgently
against the constriction of that oh so tight, silken garment.
“What a messy boy!” catcalled a
lout from the crowd.
“Yes!” responded Alexander.
“Filthy young man – bright pink blancmange tipped down the front
of his tights. How humiliating for him, eh?”
Prince Felix blushed the same dark
pink as the pudding as the hall rocked with raucous laughter at his
shameful predicament.
Raymond couldn’t help but look. The
Prince’s body, which he had lusted after all this time was there,
exposed for everyone’s enjoyment. And crushingly, it was further
from his reach than it had ever been. How he wished he was in
Alexander’s place, the one fortunate enough to be meting out the
humiliation to the arrogant Felix, getting the chance to tip food
over his god-like body and embarrass him in front of all these yobs.
Raymond cursed the gods for his ill-luck, and, then, remembering for
the first time his pretty young sister, looked over towards the
kitchen. Jane had clearly anticipated which way the wind had turned
and, whilst everyone’s attention was fixed firmly upon the
spectacle of the humiliated Prince, she began to creep towards the
door. Raymond allowed himself a sad little smile for what might have
been. At least she might make her escape, he though to himself. But
at that very moment...
“Where do you think you’re
going, missy? Surely you’re not thinking of leaving us so soon?”
The buxom form of Mistress Olwen the
cook interpolated itself between Jane and the exit. Gripping the
girl’s wrist firmly, the older woman propelled Jane back into the
Hall.
“There’s a reckoning to be had,
madam,” she continued, her eyes flaring triumphantly. “And
neither you nor your brother are going to avoid it.”
Jane struggled, but Olwen was stronger
and the girl’s efforts were in vain. The cook threw a gloating look
in Raymond’s direction and his heart sank even further.
“Don’t I know it!” he murmured
to himself.
