Chapter 26 - Death to the Prince!

            They were ordered onto their hands and knees, and now all four youths, clad from tip to toe in their clinging pink bodysuits, arses raised high in the air, awaited inspection.

            The gooey yolk and albumen had started to dry in patches on his skin, and Will observed that the itchy sensation was not unlike the familiar feeling of spilled semen drying on his stomach. The gloop had run down the inside of his legs and pooled at his knees, and the eggs he had failed to smash nestled in the sagging gusset of his tights suit.

            He risked an anxious glance along the line to look at his fellows: all of them shamed by being forced into yet another obscene display in front of their royal liege. Damn it, thought Will to himself, why must I be the only one whose prick gets hard and spills his seed at being treated like this! What had happened to that innocent, naïve lad who had arrived at the castle all those months ago? And why should treatment which should in truth provoke feelings of shame and humiliation excite him in this delicious and unexpected way? Even now, posing like a dog, his back arched like a whore and his bubble butt pointing at the sky, he cursed his deviant libido, as his cock began to swell once more.

            Odin and Ulfgar moved along the line, conducting their bizarre stock take. And when they reached him, and when the thick fingers of Ulfgar the Viking began prodding at his backside through his pink tights, counting one by one the eggs he had failed to smash, the sensation of those masculine hands roaming over his gunky bum and groin aroused him even more. Will bowed his blond head as he felt a sharp smack from Ulfgar’s paddle-like hand, which smashed one of the previously unbroken shells right against the ripe and tempting target of his arsehole.

            “Ouch!” he gasped as the egg shattered with a powerful thwack.

            “You say something, boy?” grunted the Viking as his finger pushed into Will’s boy hole through the soggy material.

            All Will could do was shake his head.

            The results of the contest were delivered to the scarlet-hosed Prince Felix. Maintaining the suspense, he paused for what, to Will, seemed an eternity before addressing the cowering page boys.

            “We have our victor. Unsurprisingly, you with the fat arse have managed to destroy all but two of the eggs that were tipped into your costume.”

            Humphrey let out an involuntary blub of relief.

            “You did, however, destroy the stool in the process. Nevertheless, I shall prove to you that I am capable of leniency. Your reward will be to have the eggs scraped from the inside of your costume – and an omelette cooked from them!”

            Will noticed that Raymond grimaced with disgust in the direction of his fat neighbour.

            “Meanwhile the punishment for our loser” –

            Ulfgar placed his leather boot against Mortimer’s wet backside and with a firm kick, sent the skinny page sprawling onto his belly.

-       “will be to mop the floors of the whole castle…”

Odin appeared at the Prince’s side, two wooden mops in his fist.

“On your feet, worm!”

A disconsolate Mortimer did as he was bidden. However, the devilish Prince was not quite finished.

“You will be joined by this depraved little urchin, who has shown once again an utter lack of self-discipline.”

Will gulped under the imperious gaze of his new royal master.

            “It becomes ever clearer just what kind of licentious house was run here under Courcey the traitor. I am sure that my dear godfather will be shocked to learn the kind of degenerate beasts that have been under his roof and under his protection.”

            Will thought back to his first few weeks at the castle, recollecting the lascivious way the handsome, silver-haired Lord Geoffrey had allowed his hands to wander over Will’s blue-hosed bottom. In spite of the lip service paid to religion and the church, in truth, the Lord of the Castle had not only known of but actively encouraged the kind of wanton behaviour that Prince Felix seemed to deplore. Will recalled ruefully his shock at the way his body had been groped. He had been horrified at the time to have his private parts – his genitals and his buttocks – fondled and toyed with by another man. However, compared to his life now, those seemed to be positively halcyon days!

            Felix continued to issue his instructions:

            “The two of you can begin by cleaning up this eggy mess that you have made in here. Odin, Ulfgar – you know what to do.”

            Mortimer and Will reached out to take the mops from the brutish Vikings.

            “Not so fast, worms,” said Odin. “You’re not going to be mopping with your hands…”

            Of course it would not be so simple, thought Will, as the Prince’s bodyguards fumbled at the gussets of their garments. They tore holes in the sodden pink fabric, tiny splinters of eggshell falling to the floor. Will noticed that Raymond was not even attempting to conceal his contemptuous amusement as Will and Mortimer were instructed to “assume the position”. Mortimer and Will both as the thick wooden mop handles were inserted into their yielding bums.

            “How far in should we go?” asked Ulfgar in genuine puzzlement, slowly pushing the wooden stick further up Will’s arse.

            “As far as it will go?” suggested Odin.

            “Please, no!” cried a genuinely terrified Mortimer, anxious of suffering permanent damage to his bowels from the fearsome invasion.

            But Odin was merely jesting. The mop handles were pushed about six inches inside the boys’ bodies, and then left to protrude ridiculously from their bumholes.

            “What are you waiting for?” demanded Prince Felix. “Get cleaning!”

            Unsurprisingly, the procedure was hopelessly ineffectual. Will did his best, and experimented with a variety of positions and stances – from crouching, to squatting, to standing on tiptoe. However, as he was not permitted to use his hands to guide the mop, all he achieved was a painful prodding at his prostate from the blunt end of the pole.

            Both he and Mortimer were forced to wriggle their behinds in a ridiculous fashion in an attempt to carry out the impossible task they had been set. Will tried thrusting his pelvis back and forth to give the mop the required momentum. This singularly failed to get any cleaning done and merely ensured that he ended up fucking himself on the end of the mop.

            “You’d better be cleaning rather than pleasuring yourself, boy,” warned Odin in a dangerous tone.

            “Yes, Sir. I’m doing my best,” pleaded Will, desperately. That’s all he’d tried to do since the day he arrived in the castle, he thought to himself. And where precisely had it got him?

           

            It was after midnight. Will lay in his bed, every muscle in his body aching. His thighs, his back, his shoulders were all weary from the unusual positions he had been forced to adopt as part of Prince Felix’s unconventional cleaning regime. And though he should have been used to it by now, his arsehole burned from having been raped, hour after hour, by the roughly hewn mop handle.

            For the first time in days, he was not wearing the ridiculous pink tights suit. Prince Felix had observed that the stench of eggs would rapidly become obnoxious and offend his delicate sense of smell. So, after they had finally been permitted to cease swabbing the flagstones of the castle with their “arse mops”, Mortimer and Will had been instructed to wash the four stained and gunky bodysuits in the castle laundry. Consequently, for now, Will was clad once more in his customary blue hose.

            He lay there, listening intently to the gentle snoring of the other three exhausted page boys. He reached under his pillow to where the large dungeon key reposed, and then, noiselessly, he slipped from his pallet and embarked upon his latest clandestine mission.

            “You have returned, then, boy. I wondered whether you would.”

Alexander’s voice was hoarse and scratchy through lack of use. He drank in the sight of the cherubic young page boy, who had once again risked his life to bring food and water to the fallen Steward.

            “There isn’t much,” murmured Will, “but I brought what I could.”

            “You are back in your blue tights,” Alexander observed, as he fell upon the slim pickings Will had filched from the larder.

            Will’s face reddened. “Prince Felix made us smash eggs against our buttocks. The pink tights suits are ruined.”

            “I see. That must have been humiliating for you.”

            “It was, Sir.”

            “I wish I could have witnessed it. Did you – enjoy it?”

            Will, abashed, did not speak.

            “Well? Did you, boy?”

            “I couldn’t help myself, Sir. The feeling of all those eggs cracking against my bum, the explosion of goo and gunk inside my tights…”

            “You came, didn’t you, lad?”

            “Yes, Sir. I did. I don’t understand it! Every new humiliation. Part of me hates it, but part of me…”

            His voice trailed off.

            “Don’t fight it, boy. Embrace it. Maybe you’re learning that it’s what you’ve wanted and needed all your life. Maybe that day I came along and stole you away from your mother’s hovel was the best thing that ever happened to you!”

            Will nodded in the gloom. In spite of the tortures and mistreatment he had suffered during his time in the castle, he was starting to think Alexander was right.

            “But what’s to become of me? Of all of us?” he asked.

            “That, my boy, is in the lap of the gods. But one thing I know for certain. I must escape this place. Sooner or later, that bastard Felix will come to check on my progress. And by then, I must be gone. Will you come visit me again tomorrow night?”

            “If I can, Sir.”

            “Then steal an iron file from old Master Daniel in the blacksmith’s forge and bring it to me.”

            “Yes, Sir.”

            “Now, come here and let me kiss those pretty lips …”

            Alexander leant towards the lad and with open mouth, probed Will’s tongue with his own. Licking and lapping, the boy responded, his dick in his tights hardening as the older man plunged his tongue deeper and deeper into Will’s eager mouth.

            “Go, boy. If you come tomorrow and if you do what I ask, then I shall fuck that sweet bum of yours. That is a promise.”

             

            The next morning, the late spring sun warmed the stony buttresses of the castle in a hazy glow. Prince Felix strolled along the drawbridge and glanced down at the fish circling in the moat below. He reached the dirt track that led from the castle down into the town and yawned languidly.

            “Ulfgar – I shall go hunting this afternoon. Make sure my steed is prepared.”

            His henchman nodded. “Of course, your highness.”

            “Boy – a drink.”

            Raymond hurried to his royal master’s side, still glowing smugly from the honour of having been chosen – ahead of the other three pages – to accompany the Prince on his walk this morning. Clearly, Prince Felix knew class when he saw it. Raymond handed a goblet of ruby red claret to the Prince and bowed low.

            “The weather is improving. And I wish to spend more time outdoors.” He glanced at Raymond. “That may come as a relief to you, my little worm. A respite from your diet of humiliation?”

            “My only desire is to serve,” murmured the page boy humbly.

            “Is that so?”

            “My father was a gentleman, Sire. I understand the etiquette of court better than these village urchins who were dragged into service by” –

            He stopped himself, wary even of speaking Alexander’s name lest it enrage the Prince.

-       “By the former Steward.”

“I see. And how would you seek to serve your Prince, boy?”

“In any way I can, my liege. Truly and devotedly.”

            Ulfgar sneered at the page boy’s obsequiousness. Raymond didn’t care. He knew that the uncouth and lumbering Vikings were in thrall to the Prince and as dependent on the King’s favour and patronage as anyone in the kingdom. Raymond bowed again and withdrew to a discreet distance. He would need to continue to judge the situation carefully, but his father had been clever at judging the politics of court and in that way had won both favour and fortune. Raymond saw no reason why he should not do the same.

            The Prince continued along the pathway, his fine cape, trimmed with silver fur slung casually over his shoulder. His taut male buttocks, framed deliciously in midnight blue hose, shimmered with each stride he made. Raymond was not sentimental about sex. For him, it was a weapon to be used by the powerful against the weak. And the Lord knew, he had been used and abused by sexual predators enough in his short life to have learned that particular lesson.

            After his father’s premature death, the King, supposedly his guardian and protector, had crudely grabbed his family’s wealth, and delivered the fourteen year old Raymond into the hands of Lord Geoffrey. A pert and pretty lad like Raymond, all jet black curls and button nose, inevitably attracted the attention of the lascivious Chief Steward. And Alexander’s reputation for enjoying the domination and humiliation of handsome page boys was well-known.

            Raymond hadn’t even minded particularly. Alexander made it plain that Raymond was his favourite – his personal plaything. And the night the Steward robbed him of his virginity, his tights pooled round his knees and his pretty arse expertly plundered by his master’s impressive cock, had been a moment of revelation for him. He was not, by nature, submissive. A streak of cruelty ran deep within him. But he had the wisdom to know that teenage page boys are more likely to be on the receiving end of sexual sadism, and that he would have to bide his time, and rise through the ranks to achieve a status where one day he could be the dominant one.

            It had all been going so smoothly. His path to succeed Alexander as Chief Steward as the right hand man to the lord of manor had seemed assured. And then it all started to go wrong: all because of that stinking brat from the village.

            Unceremoniously demoted from his place at Alexander’s side, Raymond had focused all his hatred and envy on the simpering usurper. Innocent, naïve, little Will – completely unaware of how his perfect arse, wriggling inside his blue hose, drove all the men in the castle wild with lust. How he loathed him. And how excited he’d been to be given the opportunity to humiliate him and administer daily enemas to that plump, bubble butt.

            Then, Raymond had made a rare miscalculation. Of course, he should have known Alexander would never give up his sexy little fuckbitch. And so, Raymond had been the one condemned to weeks of the foulest degradation at the hands of the loathsome Sir Wilfrid. Raymond never forgot and he never forgave. And as he spent day after miserable day, scrabbling about in the old man’s fetid sheets, he had sworn revenge on both Will and Alexander de Courcey. And somehow, some day, he knew, he would have it.

            His daydreaming was interrupted by a flash of light in the nearby woods. Raymond narrowed his eyes and squinted into the distance. There it was again: the unmistakeable sight of sunlight gleaming off steel. He barely had a moment to think, but his childhood nickname ‘Raymond the Resourceful’ had not been for nothing. Instinctively, he launched himself at his royal master and with all his weight behind him, threw the blond Prince to the ground.

            Felix screamed in anger and shock. He and Raymond tumbled into the grass, and in that precise moment an arrow whistled through the air, right past the spot where only a second before the Prince had been wandering idly.

            Ulfgar gawped as the arrow arced, shy of its intended target, and planted itself harmlessly in the soft soil.

            “Death to the Prince!” rang a clarion cry from the woods. “Death to all pampered royalty who live off the fat of the land whilst we good folk starve!”

            Prince Felix, heart pounding as he lay sprawled on the ground, made to move and to respond to the insolent peasant.

            “Please, your highness,” whispered Raymond in his master’s ear. “Stay still. It is too dangerous.”

            Felix did as he was instructed, and Ulfgar, drawing his sword with a terrifying roar, charged into the woods, in hot pursuit of the Prince’s would-be assassin.

            Raymond stayed where he was, shielding the precious body of the young man who would one day be his king. Felix’s breathing was shallow and rapid, every well-developed muscle tense and straining. Raymond revelled in the sensation of lying atop this gorgeous specimen. His chest pressed down on the Prince’s beautiful back; their legs were separated only by the thin sheen of their tights, the silky material rubbing together most sensuously; and Raymond’s hosed cock – suddenly rock hard in the heat and the adrenaline of the moment – pressed against the twin mounds of Felix’s beautiful bottom.

            “Are you alright, my Lord?” breathed Raymond into the Prince’s ear.

            From the woods beyond, Ulfgar’s bass voice boomed: “Die, traitor! Die!”  

And a sudden, gurgling scream from the distance informed both page boy and Prince that the danger had passed.

            A little regretfully, Raymond rolled off Felix’s body.

            Eyes flashing furiously, the Prince, with as much dignity as he could muster, got to his feet and began to dust down his soiled doublet and hose.

            “Yes, boy, I am well. No thanks to that lumbering fool over there.”

            Raymond remained tactfully silent on that point. “A thousand apologies for placing a hand upon your royal person without your permission, your highness…”

            Felix raised a jewelled hand and mopped the sweat from his brow. “Under the circumstances, you are forgiven. It seems that your vow to serve me was not an idle one.”

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…”

Chapter 15 - Creamed Cock

15. Creamed Cock

“An egg?” called Lord Geoffrey. “Surely our proud cock cannot lay eggs?”

“Oh I think you’d be surprised, your Lordship, at just what might emerge from this creature’s talented hole!”

Darius quivered with shame to be described thus by his most hated foe.

“Come, chicken! You know what to do – show us how you lay your eggs…”

The Arab looked at the Steward helplessly.

“Very well, I shall aid you in your task,” and as he spoke these words, he ripped the tiny sliver of silky thong from the slave’s hips, so that it fell to the floor, exposing his considerable cock, which swung, large and flaccid from his groin. Then Alexander clutched the glossy feathers emerging from the slave’s ass. Tugging the fantasy tail, he pulled, until, with a loud plopping sound, the butt plug came free from Darius’ hole.

“Ahhhh!’ cried the exotic bird.

“No complaining, bitch! It will merely aid you in the laying of your precious cargo to have your ass muscles loosened a little… Now – squat for your masters and lay an egg like a good little chicken!”

The beautiful soldier whimpered in despair as he did as he was instructed, lowering his torso towards the ground, and pushing his arse out.

Will craned his neck to get a better view as a hush fell across the room. How, he wondered, could Alexander achieve this?

“Come, slut-bird,” taunted the Steward. “Force those arse lips apart and produce a big egg for us…”

Darius gritted his teeth, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead as he strained his muscles to produce his burden.

“The egg appears!”

And sure enough, the very tip of a large white egg began to appear as the slave bird’s hole began to stretch. Clearly, Will realised, with a slightly guilty thrill, Alexander had already inserted the egg into his slave’s butt before plugging it with the fantasy bird tail. The atmosphere in the large hall was electric. Everyone remained silent as they watched the obscene entertainment unfold.

The monstrous egg grew wider, porcelain white and coated in the sticky mucus of the Arabian’s arse. Darius the slave’s face grew redder with the shame and the exertion.

“And I’ll take a little clucking from you, as well!”

Darius the bird creature screeched in pain and shame, and as he did so, he let out a squelching fart sound as the fat egg was released from his gaping butt hole. It clattered to the floor with a heavy thud, and Will realised the egg must be of some considerable weight and must have caused the Arab much pain in attempting to retain it. Fidgeting in his tights, Will was reminded of the plug that had until recently permanently rested in his bottom. Will could only sympathise with the slave’s much abused arsehole.

A roar of appreciative laughter echoed around the Hall, and a derisive smattering of applause followed.

The slave collapsed onto his hands and knees, panting from the pain and exertion of producing his precious cargo.

Alexander crossed to the defeated and broken soldier and crouched down to whisper in his face.

“I’m proud of you, my peacock… You see how much better off you are stripped of that misplaced arrogance – and of your dignity! Do you see what you have become? A bird of fantasy. To be mocked and laughed at by your bitterest enemies. How does it feel to know all of these men are rubbing their cocks through their silken hose even now at the thought of you straining to produce a porcelain egg from your beautiful arse?…”

One final vestige of Darius’ defiance remained. Raising his dark, handsome head, he spat in Alexander’s face.

A shocked silence fell across the room.

Alexander rose to his feet and calmly wiped the spittle from his cheek.

He turned to his captive audience and smiled wickedly.

“I would now like to introduce a very special guest to you all. With all due respect to Mistress Olwen, our wonderful cook, I have invited a gentleman who is a true specialist in the art of cuisine. I give you the illustrious Monsieur Francois!”

The large doors swang open, and Will turned his head to catch a glimpse of the new arrival. The man who now entered the Hall was very short and very round: only about five foot in height – and very nearly the same size in diameter. His face was pale and doughy, with two little black beady eyes like currants. His doublet and hose were white, and he acknowledged the applause of the castle’s occupants with a self-satisfied nod as he waddled towards the platform at the end of the Hall.

Meanwhile, at the far end of the Hall, Alexander had ordered some of his servants to move a large wooden table into view. The table was covered with bowls, pots and other receptacles. And a heady aroma of herbs and spices emanated from its direction.

“Welcome, Monsieur Francois!” called the Steward. “You honour us with your presence!”

“Well, my friend” replied the fat little man, in a thick Gallic accent. “Yours was a most unusual request but I have never been able to resist a challenge! And to do so to celebrate ze birthday of Lord Geoffrey – how could I refuse?”

The greying Lord of the Castle raised his goblet in acknowledgment.

“All is as you requested, monsieur. I shall leave it all to your expertise…”

Will craned his neck to watch as the little foreigner took up a position behind the table.

“My friends!” he declared. “I am ze greatest chef in ze world! And you will have ze privilege of watching me work! Today I prepare a new recipe. It is called “Coq au Crème!”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“Now, I do require some volunteers for zis challenging dish. Four good strong men to help me in its preparation. Your Lordship, perhaps you would be so kind as to nominate your most trusted men…”

Lord Geoffrey smiled quizzically at the funny little man, and then indicated the four knights who sat closest to him. Will gulped as the four fantastic specimens of manhood rose to their feet – all of them chisel-jawed, with bulging muscles. Their colours of their tights ranged from grey to burgundy to black, but every one contained awesomely proportioned thigh muscles and engorged bulges, still excited from the sight of Darius the slave bird and his egg-laying trick.

“Now. Ze most important part of zis recipe is to find a really succulent piece of bird flesh. Would you gentlemen know where I could locate a fresh hunk of male poultry, per’aps?”

The knights shared a conspiratorial look and strode over to where the Arab slave lay, spent and exhausted on the floor. As he saw his enemies approach, a flame of resistance again seemed to leap in him, and Darius began to scramble to his feet. But there was nowhere for him to flee. Some of the black feathers became dislodged as the knights grabbed his muscular form, and they fluttered to the ground. One knight held the struggling bird of fantasy at each limb and dragged him over to the chef’s table.

“Bon. Bon. Tres bon!” purred Monsieur Francois. “A most delicious-looking specimen! And now to prepare him! First – he must be plucked!”

A raucous laugh from Master Yorick echoed around the hall.

“Non, non, monsieur! I said plucked!”

Darius’s eyes widened as the little chef produced from beneath the table a large (and very sharp) pair of shears.

“Now, gentlemen. You will ‘ave to keep him very still. I do not want to clip something off by mistake!”

Geoffrey’s handsome knights pinioned the terrified, sweating slave boy against the wall. Francois approached him slowly and slowly and sensuously ran the cold blades of the knife down his trembling body.

And then… snip… snip… snip… The chef began to strip the feathers from the young man’s succulent flesh. He was an expert and soon the soft black down lay at a pile at the Arab slut’s feet.

“And now – his hair must also be shaved!”

One of the knights reached over and removed the fantastical head dress from their captive’s head. And so soon, the glossy black mane of Darius’ hair also met its downfall. The chef took a step back so that his enraptured audience could appreciate the view.

Darius the slave stood like a bronzed statue: completely hairless from head to toe. His pectoral muscles glistened with sweat. His face was drawn with shame and humiliation.

“Excellent! Zat is more like it!” crowed Francois.

In spite of himself, Will found that his cock was rock hard in his tights. He couldn’t help himself. And blushing pink, he realised that a part of him envied the Arab soldier his predicament. How Will wished he had four gorgeous hunks, all clad in the slinkiest and silkiest of materials, all pressed against his naked body. Their muscular asses looked divine in their fine hosiery. And each of them was also turned on by having the beautiful slave at their mercy.

“Now, my friends! Bring ze chicken to ze table. We must prepare our bird for dinner.”

The delighted knights dragged the struggling slave to the large wooden table, grinning amongst themselves at the prospect of yet more humiliation for the unfortunate hunk. Between the four of them, they hefted the naked man onto his back on the table and then took up positions at each of the four corners, two at his wrists and two at his ankles, to ensure he could not escape.

“We must truss our turkey, gentlemen!”

Quick as a flash, the chef handed some sturdy pieces of rope to Lord Geoffrey’s knights. And the knights needed no further instruction.

Despite Darius’ struggles, his legs were raised and securely tied to his ankles. The captive bird’s feet pointed to the sky, and his ass lay inviting and vulnerable.

“Excellent! And naturally we begin with ze most important and tasty part – ze stuffing! We have all seen the capacious anal cavity that our bird possesses. It will take some stuffing to fill him all up, I think!”

A vast clay bowl appeared from nowhere, and Francois plunged his chubby hand into it, lifting out a pale brown, gunky substance.

“My secret recipe! A divine blend of breadcrumbs, egg yolk, butter, chopped onions, carrots, cranberries and herbs and spices give ze stuffing a gorgeous piquancy!”

Darius struggled against his bonds, but it was no use. He was stuck fast, helpless to whatever perverted treatment the Frenchman determined to mete out.

“Does everyone have a good view of ze bird’s bottom?”

A cheer from the throng assured him that this was indeed so.

“Bon. Zen here we go!”

The chef took a large handful of the gunk. “Would you be so kind as to part ze cheeks?” he asked two of the knights with excessive politeness. They did so only too eagerly; and skilfully, the chef began to push the stuffing into Darius’ swollen arsehole.

“Ahhhh!” the slave cried out, as he felt the gloop enter his backside.

“Ah,” said the chef. “Did I mention, I like my stuffing to be very spicy? I have added extra pepper, extra ginger and extra chilli to ze recipe! I fear my little bird of paradise zat zis will not be a pleasant experience for you…”

Half of the audience winced at the thought of the slave’s burning ass ring. The other half thrilled with the sadistic pleasure of what he would suffer. Will shifted uncomfortably as he realised only he was fantasising that he was the one lying there, naked and trussed up on the table in front of everyone, his bottom being abused in the obscene parody of a meal being prepared.

Darius’ hole continued to be stretched as Francois fed more and more of the slimy mixture into him. His fat little fingers pushed and prodded the stuffing deeper and deeper.

“I shall soon have you full to ze brim, my little chicken,” he cooed.

Will remembered how humiliating it felt to be filled with food. And now to see this once proud, noble warrior reduced to this demeaning position made him shake his head in wonder.

Darius was moaning as the spicy mixture was inserted into the depths of his bowels.

“My, my, what a noisy little bird, we have here! My friends, would you find something to gag zat mouth of his?”

One of the gorgeous young knights – the tall, well-built Sir Antony, rifled through the various bowls and containers sitting on the table and produced a fat yellow lemon. He rubbed the fruit casually against the crotch of his fine black tights.

“Will this do, Monsieur?” he smirked.

“Excellent!”

The lemon was pushed between Darius’ lips, into his mouth, and tied in place, effectively gagging him and ensuring that the only sounds he could make were muffled moans and sobs. Of which there were plenty…

The stuffing was just about gone. The whole bowl was wiped clean and its fiery, gunky contents were all now residing within the slave’s guts.

“Now, my little bird. We must make sure none of zat delicious stuffing leaks out, mustn’t we? Perhaps you would be so good as to pass me another of zose juicy lemons?”

The slave bird’s eyes widened as the considerable amount of stuffing, packed solidly inside his fundament was impacted even further.

“In we go…”

And the large, pimpled yellow fruit stretched the slave’s anus yet more.

“We are packed very full,” Francois smiled as the lemon met resistance at the slave’s swollen hole. But eventually, he succeeded and the bulbous citrus fruit penetrated the opening.

“Arrrgggh!!” screamed Darius.

Monsieur Francois was determined and adept. He worked away at the opening until the fruit went all the way in. The chef stepped back for everyone to appreciate his handiwork. Some of the breadcrumby gunk was smeared around the slave’s ass, and the presence of the lemon was all too visibly obvious. The slave’s asslips were parted just a little and the yellow fruit’s end protruded slightly for all to see. Darius moaned and whimpered through his lemon gag, his body clearly too stuffed for his arse to close over the intrusion completely.

A wave of amused applause came from the audience. Will could only imagine how the once proud soldier must feel to be on display, trussed up and exhibited in this fashion. His body abused for the entertainment and arousal of his enemies, who had prevented even his bumhole from closing properly.

Clearly, however, his torment was not yet over. The fat little chef was instructing his hosed assistants, and the four beefy hunks were now lifting the unfortunate slave-chicken from the table and into a large, shallow tin tub that Francois had produced.

“And now,” he chuckled wickedly. “Ze chicken must be oiled!”

A large green bottle of cooking oil appeared on the table and soon the sleeves of Sir Antony and his companions were rolled up as they eagerly got to work.

            Copious amounts of oil were poured into their willing palms, and soon they were rubbing, caressing, fondling the struggling body of the slave Darius so that every inch of that perfect form was covered in the oil – shimmering and sensuous.

            The gloopy oil ran down their captive’s long, muscular thighs, and the strong palms of the knights rubbed and massaged Darius’ massive pectoral muscles. Meanwhile, Sir Antony reached between the Arab’s still-tied legs and, with an oily fist, began to pump at their captive’s generous cock.

            “Our chicken is enjoying the attention!” he called out. “See how stiff his cock has become!”

            “Ah” – Francois interjected. “Ze most succulent piece of any chicken! We must make sure zat is given particular attention!”

            The chef made a great play of seasoning Darius’ cock with salt, pepper and herbs, rubbing them into the shaft and inserting a bay leaf into the man’s cockhole.

            Finally, Francois reached in to wrap the oily penis in a thin tin foil. Once again, the spectators in the hall burst out laughing to see the Arab’s erect cock wrapped in a humiliating shiny sheath.

            Suddenly there was a commotion in the tub as Darius began to rock back and forth in the oil, moaning painfully.

            “Ahhh,” cooed Francois. “Is it becoming painful, my little chicken, to hold on to all zat gunky stuffing? Your body must want to expel it very badly. And yet you cannot, can you? Zat naughty lemon is keeping it all tightly packed inside you! All for our amusement!”

            Will could only sympathise. He knew that full sensation only too well!

            “And now, my friends – for ze next part of ze recipe! Ze marinade!”

            The chef fetched another large crockery pot with a heavy lid.

            “We must make sure ze chicken is fully coated so zat he will be as tasty as can be!”

            Francois removed the lid and rested the pot on his considerable belly and stood at the head of the large roasting tin. Tantalisingly slowly he began to tip the pot forward.

            “Ze marinade is a thick gravy – wine, flour, onions, carrots, potatoes and chicken stock! All to be poured over our little bird here…”

            The viscous liquid began to spill over the edge of the pot and the crowd gasped with delight as some of it splashed onto Darius’ oiled chest. The marinade was cold and the slave shivered as it hit his body.

            “A little more I think is needed…”

            The gloopy brown fluid came more quickly now, and Francois ranged about the roasting tin so that it fell on the humiliated Darius’ legs and crotch. Chunks of vegetables plopped onto his writhing body and finally the chef emptied a generous amount right over the slave’s head. Darius blinked and choked as the gravy slowly slid down his face, over his eyes and down his nose.

            The little chef deposited the empty pot on the floor and then hefted the slave into a sitting position so that the whole room could see the cold, wet, miserable creature: his arse and mouth stuffed, his whole body stained with the brown marinade.

            More raucous laughter erupted, along with appreciative applause for the entertainment Francois had afforded them.

            “Bravo!” called Lord Geoffrey. “Bravo!”

            Francois bowed theatrically and then paused and frowned. In a pantomime gesture, he dipped one finger into the tin and licked the brown goo from it. He shook his head sadly.

            “I fear zat ze recipe is not quite right. It lacks one important ingredient.”

            He turned to the four knights who still stood with him.

            “Of course! How can I prepare cock au crème when I have not added any cream! My friends – would you be so kind as to oblige me and provide ze cream for zis most exquisite of dishes…”

            A moment of puzzlement, and then Sir Antony understood.

            “Why, monsieur,” he declared. “We should be delighted.”

            And with that he strode over to stand at the roasting tin. He fiddled briefly with the waistband of his tights, and soon he had freed his large, veiny cock from its slinky confines. His three compatriots did not hesitate to join him. And soon all four hunks assembled round the roasting tin, pumping away at their manmeat, their tightly muscled, hosed backsides clenching and unclenching as they worked their way to climax. And glancing around the Hall, Will could not help but notice the envious looks of the male spectators, all wishing they could be the ones wanking off over the gunged and humiliated slave bitch.

            A grunt and a cry suddenly erupted from Sir Antony and with a shudder that passed through his whole body, he ejaculated a thick stream of white cum into the air. It seemed to hang in space for a moment before splashing satisfyingly across Darius’ potato covered chest. Darius cringed as the man-cum hit his naked torso. The white slime mingled with the brown as it slowly ran down his glistening body. And soon it was joined by that of the three other knights: one gloopy strand hitting Darius right in the face, blinding him momentarily and then dripping onto his full lips, still forced permanently open by the lemon gag.

            At this, Alexander could restrain himself no longer. He leaped to his feet and joined the erotic tableau at the end of the Hall.

            “What a fucking site, slave bitch! Not so proud now, are you? Look at you! Stripped and shaved: arse stuffed with breadcrumbs, and a lemon pushed in either end of you to keep you well and truly plugged. And then coated in a savoury brown gravy, with an extra coating of real men’s cum! You must be so humiliated now. And to be exposed like this in front of all your enemies!”

            Indeed, Darius was now shivering with the cold and the humiliation of the experience. Will had never seen a man look so broken, so devastated.

            “Our thanks and gratitude to Monsieur Francois.”

            Once again the fat chef bowed to acknowledge the applause of his audience.

            “And only one thing remains. And that of course is this. Our “Coq au crème” must be cooked!”

            Francois looked a little puzzled. Clearly he had not anticipated this part of the entertainment. The chef’s bewilderment was echoed by the spectators, and a gasp of realisation escaped them, when two of Alexander’s lackeys from the dungeon rolled an iron stove on castors into the room.

            Darius’ eyes widened in terror as the implication of the stove began to sink in. Surely they did not intend to roast him alive? He tried to scream in protest but the lemon lodged between his teeth muffled the sound. With a flourish, Alexander flung the door of the oven open and Will could see glowing embers of firewood within to show it had been prepared and heated to a desired temperature.

            The crowd were hungry now – whipped into a frenzy, they wanted nothing less than to see the exquisite slave roasted in his exotic marinade.

            Will watched open-mouthed in astonishment as the four knights hauled the roasting tin, Darius thrashing impotently within, onto their shoulders and then pushed it into the stove.

            The audience were afforded a final glimpse of the desperate Arab before Alexander, with a wicked laugh, clanged the iron door shut and committed the slave to his doom.