“There’s
still half of it left, you know…”
Raymond
was peering into the iron pot. He inhaled deeply and made a great show of
relishing the aroma of its bubbling contents.
Will,
spent with exhaustion, raised his shoulders from the table. “No,” he begged.
“No more, please.”
“Surely
you’re not suggesting we waste a drop of this precious delicacy?” exclaimed
Raymond in mock-horror. “Besides, we do need to ensure you’re completely clean
inside… don’t we?”
His
tone turned harsher. “Come here, goat-shit. Now.”
Will
sighed desperately and staggered over to the hearth, a manoeuvre not made any
easier by the fact his white tights, lingering round his ankles, constricted
his movement as he tried to walk. His stomach, protesting still, gurgled as he
moved, and as Will reached the fireside, a wet fart bubbled out of him.
Raymond
sneered at his subordinate. “Don’t look so terrified. We won’t be using the
catheter this time.” True to his word, Raymond detached the twin balloons from
the tubing. Unsurprisingly, given what he knew of Raymond, this did not provide
Will with any particular comfort or reassurance. “How shall we position you
this time, eh? I think I’d like to see your arse high in the air, baby bitch.
So bend over and grab your ankles.”
As
ever, with no choice but to comply, Will did as he was bidden. Blood rushed to
his head and his bare bum was warmed by the flames. For the second time that
night, Will felt the unwelcome intrusion of the iron nozzle between his
buttocks, and for the second time again, Raymond mercilessly released the clamp
that presaged the depositing of the hateful fluid deep into Will’s bowels.
Vulnerable,
near naked and exposed, his bare bum bobbing in the air as he was dominated and
controlled by his new master, Will began to grow light-headed as the liquid
surged into him once more. As if reading his mind, Raymond taunted him: “You’re
mine to use as I wish, bitch boy. You don’t even have any control over your
most basic bodily functions. I control what precisely goes in and out of your
arsehole. And when.”
For
a second time, Will was forced to take the whole contents of the enema bag.
This time there was a moment of calm, as if his body needed a moment to
comprehend the fact that it was to be assailed all over again - and was
rejecting the notion with disbelief.
However,
with no balloons this time to impede the flood of emission, Will knew that he
had no hope in hell of retaining the enema for anywhere near as long before. It
was with a certain grim satisfaction that he realised Raymond’s fine grey
doublet and hose was in genuine danger of being spattered with the effluent
that would surely soon erupt from his arse.
As
always seemed to be the case with Raymond, the older youth was one step ahead
of him. With a pang of dismay, Will felt the familiar sensation of a nappy
being swiftly and deftly wrapped around his middle. Once the wadding was
secured, Raymond stepped back to admire his handiwork.
“Very
well, bitch. You can pull your tights up again now.”
Misery
etched across his face, Will tugged his pure white hosiery over his calves and
his thighs, pulling them up as far as they would go, over the new clean diaper
that he had been dressed in.
“How
smart you look. All fresh and clean in your new nappy and pretty white tights.
I do hope nothing happens to get them dirty, young Will,” smiled Raymond
solicitously. “Now, go and stand over there and let’s see you squat a little. I
want to see you sticking out that big diapered baby bottom of yours like the
humiliated sub slut you know you are.”
Gingerly,
Will went to stand in the corner that Raymond had indicated, acutely aware that
his insides were churning once more – less tolerant than ever of the fluid that
had once more flooded his guts. He tried to focus entirely on his sphincter
muscle, clamping it shut so that nothing could escape him.
“Oh,
I bet you really want to let all that
nasty stuff out, don’t you? I bet it hurts like hell having to squeeze your
arsehole tight to stop it exploding out of you.”
A
new cramp. Will gritted his teeth. Clenched his fists. He wouldn’t – couldn’t allow Raymond the satisfaction of seeing him shit
himself.
“I’m
in no hurry. We have all night long. But you will fill that diaper sooner or later. And I want to see the look on your
face when you do it.”
Idly,
Raymond began to rub his tights-covered groin with his jewelled palm. He
grabbed a nearby stool and stepped up onto it so his engorged cock now rested
level with, and mere inches from, Will’s anguished face. Raymond slipped his
rock-hard dick from the constraints of his tights and began to jerk it
urgently.
Suddenly,
out of nowhere, a cramp hit that felt like Will had been punched in the
stomach. There was no way that he could endure it any longer. He lost control
and as he did so, a gasp escaped his lips: “Oh God, oh God, no!”
“That’s
it, slave bitch!” crowed Raymond as he neared climax. “Let all that nasty enema
out into your nappy! I want to see it flood out of you!”
Raymond
got his wish as a torrent of thick, sticky, sickly sweet fluid gushed from
Will’s ass. Will shivered in shock and disgust as the mixture shot into his
diaper and filled it, rapidly swirling round his buttocks and genitals. But
there was no way on Earth that the meagre swaddling could contain the sheer
force and volume of that expulsion! As another wave of cramps hit and more of
the treacly liquid surged out of him, Will realised that his nappy had reached
its capacity, and was now overflowing.
“Oh
no, oh no!” he wailed, salt tears springing to his eyes as a foul, warm wetness
began to run out the bottom of the nappy and down the backs of his thighs. He
glanced down behind him, as if hoping mere willpower would staunch the flow.
But instead, all he saw was the ominous dark gloop staining the pristine
whiteness of his tights a tell-tale black: the initial trickle swelled and
became a free-flowing stream which started to puddle under his white-hosed
soles. The rich aroma of liquorice assailed his nostrils once more.
“What’s
happened?” demanded Raymond, fist still jerking furiously. “Tell me, bitch!
Tell me what you’ve done!”
“I’ve
shat myself,” Will sobbed in humiliation. “The enema has burst out of my ass,
filled my nappy and flowed down my tights-covered legs onto the floor!”
“That’s
right, bitch! How utterly humiliating for you to have to stand there flooding
your nappy with all that disgusting enema! Soiling your pretty white tights
with all that stuff from your ass!”
Raymond grunted and heaved,
his cock spasming and squirting its creamy ejaculate directly into Will’s
stricken face; the gloopy cum landed on the blond lad’s cheeks, lips and
eyelashes, and mingled with his salty tears.
Both
youths gasped deep lungfuls of air as they attempted to regain control of
themselves: the only sounds in the echoing chamber the steady drips of various
liquids hitting the stone floor.
Raymond
climbed down from his stool and walked up to the ravaged Will. He reached out
and squeezed Will’s nappied arse. As he squashed the padding, more of the
sticky enema fluid gushed out of the confines of the diaper, flooding over the
top and down Will’s tights. Will shuddered as the nasty liquid cooled against
his flesh.
“You
dirty little slut. You filthy bitch…”
It
was getting late, but, glancing up towards the highest tower of the castle, the
ever-observant Raymond noticed that candle-light yet flickered in the window of
the royal bedchamber.
He
had dismissed the whimpering slutboy, forcing Will to trudge the long corridors
back to the dormitory in his stained, sticky, ruined white hose. Raymond looked
around him at the brownish black blemishes on the walls and floors: some of
them several yards away from the scene of Will’s treatment. He smiled to
himself as he pondered which of his minions he would select to scrub the
offensive blandishments from the stone walls and floors. He glanced at the
dying embers of the fire and peered into the iron pot. A small quantity of sweet fluid
lingered at the bottom.
“Waste
not, want not,” murmured the new Steward, and dipping a tankard in the
simmering pot, he filled it three-quarters full of the creamy syrup.
“Enter!”
called the Prince languidly as Raymond identified himself from the other side
of the door.
Raymond
did as he was ordered, and entered the royal chambers to find Prince Felix
lying on his front atop the coverlets, bare chested and naked save for his
cream riding hose. In spite of his all-too recent sexual release, Raymond’s
libido gave a little tug of pleasure at the sight of Felix’s firm buttocks,
lying there so invitingly in their cream enclosure.
“What
do you want?” demanded the Prince.
“I
thought you might appreciate a sweet, milky drink before bed-time, your
Highness. I shall leave it here at your bedside.”
“I’ve
missed riding,” sighed Felix as he swang his legs round to take a sip of the
frothing libation. “And I find I’m a little out of practice. My back aches and
my shoulders are tense. Mmm, that tastes good. What’s in it?”
“My
own secret recipe, my Lord,” twinkled Raymond. “Perhaps I could try to massage
away some of your tension?” he ventured.
The
Prince did not reply, but merely lay down again on the bed, stretching out his
cream coloured legs, and making his smooth, golden back available for Raymond’s
ministrations. Quivering with the anticipation of once again placing his hands
on that perfect flesh, Raymond climbed onto the bed and straddled his master,
his own bum shimmering in its sheer grey tights, perched atop the cream
buttocks of the Prince.
Slowly
yet firmly, Raymond began to knead the bunched muscles in Felix’s shoulders,
and was rewarded with a long sigh from the Prince which encouraged him to press
harder. Raymond looked down at his own tights-clad thighs and squeezed them
slightly against either side of Felix’s back. He imagined the sensation of
feeling that fine mesh against one’s bare skin.
In
silence he worked, gently rolling his palms and fists against the knots in
Prince Felix’s upper body. Eventually, he found the courage to ask the question
that had been playing on his mind for the last few weeks.
“Your
Highness, you know my loyalty to you is without question…”
No
reply.
“Well,
I find myself curious. Will you tell me what exactly happened to my
predecessor? Where is Alexander Courcey?”
A
pause, and then Prince Felix turned his golden head and stared up at Raymond
with his devastating, dazzling blue eyes.
“By
all means, my most loyal servant. I believe the time has come for us to close
the final chapter on Alexander Courcey. In the morning, I promise to satisfy
your curiosity once and for all.”
How
astonished would Prince Felix have been to learn that, far from mouldering in
the royal dungeon, the disgraced erstwhile Steward of Castle Montford was now
in fact several miles away from his former home? Alexander had spent the past
week travelling by night and sleeping by day in secluded corners of the forest,
avoiding any fellow wayfarers lest they recognised him from.
Only
now, he mused, many days’ walk from the castle, dared he risk an encounter with
another human being. And just as that very thought occurred to him, the trees
parted to reveal a little stone cottage. The glow of candle-light from the
windows informed him that its inhabitants were not yet in their beds.
He
lowered his hood, ran a hand through his black hair in an attempt to make
himself appear a little more presentable, and rapped three times on the door.
It opened just a crack and a suspicious eye peered out.
“What
do you want?” demanded an uncouth male voice.
“I
am a weary traveller and I have been on the road for many a day,” explained
Alexander. “I wondered if you had a spare bed I could use for the night. I have
money and can pay you handsomely for your hospitality.”
“Who
is it, Stanley?” called another man’s voice from inside the cottage.
The
door was closed firmly in Alexander’s face as the first man entered into a
whispered exchange with the second. Minutes passed and Alexander waited
expectantly on the doorstep. The voices within the cottage seemed to be in
conflict, and the snatches of the argument that he could overhear suggested the
point of contention was over whether or not to submit this stranger into their
home.
Eventually,
the matter seemed to be resolved, and the door swang open wide. Alexander gazed
upon the tall, broad-shouldered young man before him. He was about thirty years
of age, with curly auburn hair and hazel eyes. His features were too plain for
him to be considered handsome, but his wide mouth was up-turned in a
good-natured and welcoming smile.
“Forgive
my brother,” he said. “These are dark times and he has a naturally suspicious
nature. But I say things have come to a pretty pass if we cannot offer our help
to a fellow man who reaches out in his hour of need.”
“I
am grateful to you, Sir,” said Alexander. “I am sure your kindness will be
repaid ten-fold.”
“Please,
welcome to our little home,” the man continued, ushering Alexander inside. “My
name is Arthur, and this is my younger brother, Stanley.”
He
gestured towards his sibling. Stanley was as tall and well-built as his
brother, and his hair the exact same shade of red. However, in contrast to
Arthur’s curly locks, Stanley’s fell straight against his forehead. Like his
brother, he was no great beauty, but his green eyes were framed with long, dark
delicate lashes which gave a queer and unusual sense of femininity, and
contrasted with the strong outline of his manly jaw.
Stanley’s
lips were pressed firmly together in an expression of disapproval, and his curt
nod in Alexander’s direction informed him that the visitor had been admitted to
their home against his wishes and over his protests.
“They
call me Olivier,” lied Alexander smoothly. “I am travelling south on family
business, and I find that there are no inns or taverns nearby in which I might
spend the night.”
“Ah,
no, good Master Olivier,” confirmed Arthur. “You won’t find such hostelries for
many a mile. But I am sure we can provide you with a comfortable spot for you
to rest your head before you continue on your way.”
Almost
unconsciously, Alexander had performed a quick inventory of the two young men
as prospective sexual conquests. Whilst neither were conventionally beautiful,
they were clearly manual workers and their bodies showed promise of fine, firm
muscles beneath their clothing.
Here,
however, as so often when he ventured beyond the confines of the castle and in
amongst the peasantry, Alexander found himself frustrated. Instead of
displaying their sturdy, muscular calves and thighs in colourful hosiery, the
two brothers were clad in leather jerkins and leather trousers that concealed,
rather than exhibited, their legs, bums and bulges.
Brother
Arthur invited him to take a seat at their table, plying him with bread, cheese
and fruit with an eagerness that would have aroused Alexander’s suspicions, had
he not been able to see for himself the lack of guile on the young man’s
broadly smiling face. He expressed his gratitude. After all, his own bag was
now empty of foodstuffs - save for a large bulb of fresh ginger that Will had
for some reason, best known only to himself, thought would be a useful
inclusion amongst the other provisions he had pinched from Mistress Olwen’s
supplies.
Arthur
chatted away as Alexander fell eagerly on the simple supper. It transpired that
the brothers were blacksmiths. They had inherited their trade from their
long-dead father. They owned one horse: a powerful black mare named Fallow, who
stabled out in back of the house. Yes, they had heard from their neighbours of
the onslaught of the terrifying giants from the North who, dispatched by the
evil Prince Felix, had mutilated many of their friends. It was fortunate that
they themselves had been spared: for a smith without hands is no good to either
man or beast!
The
good folk of the peasantry might quiver in fearful anticipation of another
bloody sortie into the countryside, but it was with relief that Alexander
learned that Odin and Ulfgar had now returned to the castle. Meanwhile, all
this time, Stanley remained silent, glowering at Alexander from the corner of
the room as his more loquacious sibling chatted away.
Alexander
tried to smother a tell-tale yawn, but the action did not go unnoticed, and at
once, Arthur was all apologies for having kept the weary traveller up so late.
He would have none of Alexander’s protestations, insisting that their
houseguest take his own bed: “I shall be quite comfortable on some blankets
down here. After all, I’ve not been sleeping in the forest for the past week!”
Half
an hour later, as Alexander found himself drifting off amongst the simple
blankets of Arthur’s truckle bed, the whispered conversation between the two
brothers floated up the staircase.
“Shame
on you, Stanley, seeking to deny our hospitality to the fellow.”
“I’m
just saying we don’t know who he is or what he wants, is all.”
“Well,
that’s his own business, and it’s up to him whether or not he chooses to share
it with the likes of us. But you can see from the finery of his garments that
he’s an important man. And you should show some respect to your betters.”
And
as the brothers bickered into the night, and as sleep gently overcame him, the
devious mind of Alexander Courcey began to devise a plan.
