Chapter 60 - The Pear Pops

 

    “Is baby ready for his din-dins?”
    Alexander smiled down at the Prince. What a truly ridiculous sight he was! Crawling on his hands and knees in his jester’s costume, diaper bulging through his blue and yellow tights. He knew that, inside, Felix would be howling with impotent fury. How he must long to hurl himself at his implacable foe, but all he could do was gaze up at Alexander’s log, shapely legs in their deep purple hose, and drool.
    At that moment, another agonising stomach cramp hit the Prince. He had been suffering for an hour or more already: his bulging belly must feel like it was stuffed with a concrete football, his arse crammed with that big, unyielding pear. Although he could not articulate speech, nevertheless Felix could not hold back an undignified howl of pain. And Alexander knew that no matter how hard he squeezed his bowels, there was no way that he could rid himself of the contents of his distended belly.
    “What’s the matter with him?” asked Queen Katharine, her lip curling in distaste.
    “He is hungry, your Majesty,” replied Alexander. “Perhaps you would care to feed him? I have his bottle of milk right here…”
    “Do you take me for a nursemaid, Master Courcey? I did not feed my own children when they were babes. I’m certainly not going to do it for my grown nephew.”
    “I will give our poor young Prince his dinner,” interjected Lord Geoffrey. “I am his godfather after all.”
    Geoffrey settled himself into a high-backed chair, spreading his firm thighs in their red hose, as Alexander scooped Felix into his arms and placed the Prince into Geoffrey’s lap.
    “There, there, little baby boy,” cooed Lord Geoffrey into the Prince’s flushed face. “Let’s get you comfortable.” And he shifted the young man’s muscular form so that his nappy-covered bum rested in Geoffrey’s lap, and his fabulous legs - one blue, one yellow - dangled inches above the floor.
    Alexander solemnly handed his master the over-sized baby’s bottle, fill to the brim with warm, frothy milk. “Now we should see some action,” he whispered in Lord Geoffrey’s ear. Then he took a step backwards into the shadows. Only he knew that the milk was not as innocuous a mixture as first appeared. In fact he had added a considerable dose of a powerful laxative, that when ingested would finally force Felix to expel the gallon of porridge that was tormenting his guts.
    “Here we go, young man, drink it all up now!” smiled Lord Geoffrey as he pushed the bottle between the Prince’s pouting pink lips, and started to pour the milk down the young man’s throat.
    Alexander knew the last thing Felix wanted would be to have his stomach filled any more, but he was powerless to resist: all the Prince could do was kick his tights-covered legs feebly, gurgling weakly as a milky residue dribbled out of the side of his mouth. Queen Katharine watched with barely disguised horror as her mind raced to assimilate this new development.
    Soon the bottle was empty. Lord Geoffrey removed it from his godson’s mouth and, as he did so, the Prince let out a big burp.
    “What a windy little baby you are!” declared Geoffrey, as he began to rub his godson’s bloated belly.
    The Prince grimaced with discomfort.
    “Ah goo-gah-gah!” he said plaintively. But Alexander knew that the tormented young man would not have to wait long for release.
    Almost immediately, there was a rumbling in Felix’s tummy. The Prince began to squirm, but Lord Geoffrey held the struggling body tight on his lap. The battle in the Prince’s guts grew stronger, and he began to kick his legs, so that his pointed jester slippers fell from his feet.
    “Ooh - aah!” he cried, and Alexander knew that the purgative had started its devastating work. He imagined he could almost see the tempest brewing in the young man’s belly, as the laxative began loosening the Prince’s clogged up guts. The pressure grew, and in that moment, an overwhelming spasm from Felix’s tortured bowels caused the blond youth to squeal in pain.
    “Aaaaaargh!” he yelled, and Alexander knew the pressure against the pear blocking Felix’s arsehole would be building now. The battle between that stubborn piece of fruit blocking the exit of all that nasty, lumpy porridge was being fought inside Felix’s very body. It was a delightful irony that the Prince’s tight, barely used arsehole was preventing the relief his body so desperately craved, but it was inevitable that, sooner or later, the hole would have to give way.
    Felix was sweating and panting now, in animal desperation: all inhibitions shed. Little could he care that he was dressed like a big baby, in a jester’s costume, big padded diaper and particoloured tights, wriggling like an infant on his godfather’s lap, whilst the Queen of Spain and the dignitaries of the Spanish court looked on in bewildered distaste. All he wanted was to experience the blessed joy of emptying his stuffed bowels, even if it meant that in the process his puckered anus would have to stretch wide enough to accommodate the expulsion of that juicy pear.
    He stared up into Alexander’s gleeful face, imagining the commentary that was running through the Steward’s perverted mind:
    “Yes, little baby bitch. You know you want to get rid of that horrible porridge, don’t you? That gunk that I forced up your reluctant hole an hour or so ago and that’s been torturing you ever since! Well you know there’s only one way that’s going to happen, don’t you? You’re going to have to push that fat pear out through your boycunt, aren’t you? It’s going to hurt of course - it’ll stretch your ring wide as wide can be, but there’s no other way of getting that oatmeal enema out of your body! Push, bitch! Shit that pear out of your boy pussy and fill your diaper. Once you’ve done that it will be easy. Imagine all that gunky porridge finally flooding from your hole! You know you want to! Imagine how good that will feel! Do it, bitch! Push that pear out!”
    Felix knew it would hurt. The blunt end of the pear nestled against the inside of his sphincter: there would be no gradual expansion: the bulb of the pear was far too wide. Would it tear him, he wondered. It had gone into his body, so surely it must be capable of coming out again?!
    In the end, the whole debate was wrested from his control. The impatient laxative delivered what felt like someone kicking him in the guts. The spasm was too powerful for anyone to resist. The pear - seemingly with a mind of its own - began stretching his boy pussy.
    “Ah! Ah! Ah!” he gasped.
    The pressure was relentless - and then his arse had stretched beyond the widest point of the bulb, and the pear was propelled - like an arrow from a bow - into the soft wadding of his nappy.
    The Prince screamed with the intensity of the sensation, as, as sure as night follows day, the oozing crud followed the pear out of his hole.
    “Ooh - ooh - ooh!” Tears sprang to the corners of his eyes: the utter humiliation of him, a grown man, the Crown Prince of England, helplessly shitting warm porridge into his diaper, even as the intense relief of finally being able to let all that lumpy slime out of his poor body.
    There was a lot to come and the laxative accelerated the process considerably. Felix felt the lumpy gook smearing itself down between his buttocks and accumulating at the bottom of the diaper. It felt warm and wet against his skin as it continued to shoot out of his hole. Soon his balls were coated, as the effluent went on erupting out of his chute. He felt it spreading in both directions within the nappy - warm wetness against his butt cheeks, and against his cock. Shit, he thought to himself. I’m hard! Why the fuck am I hard?!
    The farting noises emitting from Felix’s backside could leave the spectators in no doubt that the Prince was suffering the indignity of filling his diaper in front of a very distinguished audience. Again, Queen Katharine grimaced at the base level to which her nephew had descended.
    “You needed that, my boy, didn’t you?” smiled Lord Geoffrey, as he patted the Prince’s belly, wiping the tears from his godson’s flushed features. Geoffrey kept his palm resting on Felix’s swollen stomach and began to move it in a circular manner. “Any more to come?” he enquired innocently.
    Right on cue, a further torrent of porridge that had gathered higher up in the Prince’s body, gleefully flooded into the diaper. The sticky wetness engulfed Felix’s entire crotch, and the paralysed Prince began to panic that the diaper would not be large enough to contain the congealing ooze.
    “Let me see now,” said Lord Geoffrey, “How full is this nappy?” And he reached around to pat the seat of the bulging diaper through the stretched material of the silken hose.
    “Oh dear me,” he exclaimed. “You have given us a big deposit, your Highness! That’s one full diaper if ever I saw one.”
    The Prince winced inside at the humiliation of having his nappy-clad arse prodded and patted by his silver fox of a godfather. However, as he was still robbed of either the power of speech or any meaningful physical control of his limbs due to Alexander’s dastardly potion, all he could do was fume internally.
    He became aware of a low, murmuring, and soon he realised that his aunt was in whispered conference with one of her Spanish attendants. Felix recognised him as Conde Esteban, a close advisor to the Queen and a man rumoured to be her paramour. They were speaking in Spanish, presuming that neither Geoffrey nor Alexander were fluent in that language.
    “Don’t be a fool,” his aunt was saying. “What use is he to us now?”
    “The people might still flock to your banner,” replied the Conde. “He is the rightful heir - surely they will not submit to these power-hungry nobodies?”
    “Yes! Yes!” screamed the Prince. “The people will rise. Rescue me! Liberate me from these perverted traitors!”
    Unfortunately for him, his outraged cries could only echo uselessly inside his own head.
    “The people are fickle,” muttered the Queen. “They resent my brother-in-law’s foolish foreign skirmishes, and there is no great love in this land for my pampered nephew.”
    “Then why are we here? If the scheme is so hopeless…”
    “I had hoped to tutor my spoiled nephew in diplomacy. With his good looks and with wiser heads whispering in his ear, we could maybe have won round the waverers. Now I’m not so sure.”
    “Ack! Ack!” cried Felix: the only words of protest he could manage as he saw his hopes of liberation slipping away. For a moment his frustrations overpowered the distasteful sensation around his private parts as the warm porridge cooled into a grey sludge.
    “What’s the matter with him?” snapped the Queen, returning to her native tongue.
    “May I?” interpolated Alexander smoothly. “You will recall, your Majesty, the Prince did ever have a sweet tooth. Although he has regressed to infancy, the urge for sugary confections has not deserted him. He always insists on a sweetie after his din-dins!”
    Quick as a flash, Alexander produced a small red sweet from his doublet and pushed it between Felix’s unsuspecting lips. Before he knew it, the Prince had swallowed it. Unbeknownst to the Queen, Alexander’s education had included a smattering of more than rudimentary Spanish, and he had decided to add a final twist of the knife to the Prince’s predicament.
    Within mere seconds of swallowing the pill, a strange sensation began to overwhelm Felix. It started in the pit of his sore and abused stomach and slowly began to blossom outwards across his entire body. It was not unfamiliar to him, and just before it possessed his entire consciousness, he realised with dismay, that it felt very similar to the strange potion that Alexander had offered him to inhale all those months before when he had tricked him into his bedroom.    
    The Steward himself exulted silently: for as it happened, the pill he had fed the Prince contained the distilled essence of that very brew: and would, he felt sure, have an identical effect. He watched, entranced, as the Prince’s pulse slowed and his breathing grew deeper. Slowly, Felix began to writhe in his godfather’s paternal embrace, and helplessly, hopelessly, his crotch, buried deep between the soiled diaper and the particoloured tights, began to rise and fall with unfulfilled desire.
    “Hngh, hngh,” murmured the royal baby, and he scrabbled to try and roll over onto his front. Alexander knew exactly what was occurring: the primal urge to rub his engorged prick against something - anything - had sent all other thoughts out of the Prince’s intoxicated brain.
    Geoffrey raised a surprised eyebrow in his Steward’s direction as Felix eventually manouevred himself so that his belly lay on his uncle’s right thigh, and his thick, nappied groin rested on the trunk-like mass of the left one. There could be little doubt as to what the Prince was trying to achieve, as, hypnotised by the drug, his body began to undulate, rubbing his groin rhythmically against his uncle’s hosed leg.
    The Prince’s mind was overpowered by the single aim of climaxing: his cock rock hard, but it was buried deep in the gunk of the cold porridge, the soggy layers of the diaper, and the silky hosiery of his jester’s suit. All this ensured that there was nowhere near the friction necessary to achieve orgasm. Felix tried harder - like an animal, a mere bitch on heat, his hips rising and falling as he tried desperately to cum. But all was hopeless: his cock squelched into the gunk but it was like trying to fuck water: the hard muscle of his godfather’s hosed thigh remained tantalisingly out of reach.
    “Noooo!” he moaned as the need to cum grew ever more urgent: his big fat, diapered ass bouncing up and down in the air as he tried to gain purchase against Geoffrey’s leg.
    Once again, he imagined Alexander’s mocking monologue racing through his sex-obsessed brain: “Look at you, Prince Pussy Boy! Desperate to cum in your dirty diaper and your ridiculous tights. Forced to lie across your godfather’s lap and hump his legs just to achieve some kind of satisfaction! And you can’t even manage that. Little baby boys with little baby pricks don’t get to cum if they’re all wrapped up in their full nappies, do they? But how a horny little bitch like you must need it, eh? How humiliating for you!”
    Suddenly a brilliant idea penetrated the fog of sexual frustration: surely the hard wooden boards of the apartment’s floor would provide the necessary friction. Barely in control of his own limbs, Felix wriggled himself from Lord Geoffrey’s lap, and began crawling across the floor. With a great sigh, he sank gratefully onto his belly and again began to thrust his desperate crotch against this new surface.
    The monologue in his mind continued: “Yes! There you go, bitch boy! That’s all you’re good for! Humping your pathetic, rock-hard penis against the floor. Dressed like a fucking ridiculous fool, your blue and yellow tights pulled up high containing that big saggy, soggy nappy: all full of congealing porridge, coating your bum and your cock and balls. That big nasty pear that blocked your boy hole for so long, still sitting there too, pressing itself against your arse, wanting to go back inside you. And you want it back up there too! That hole of yours must feel mighty empty now that your big fruity plug has pushed its way out and all that porridge has flooded out of it. Maybe I should shove it back up there - pull your tights down to your ankles, reach into the waistband of your nappy, feel through all that wet mulch, find it, and force it back up your sore and aching boycunt. I bet a bitch like you would love that, eh?
    “Look at you now! Slamming that horned-up dick of yours against the floor like a fucking animal. That’s all you are. My slut bitch - to be filled up when I feel like it with whatever I have to hand - porridge, fruit: it’s all the same to me. And then I’ll feed you pills, get you horny and make you hump the ground just for my amusement. Fuck me, look at those legs of yours in your tights. Fucking ridiculous slut bitch, humiliating yourself just for my pleasure. Come on now, boy. I’ve waited long enough. I want to see you cum! Cum in your tights for me! Cum in your messed up diaper! Do it bitch! Do it! Now!”
    How was the fucker in his head like this, wondered Felix, tears springing from his eyes yet again at the sheer frustration of being unable to cum. Maybe that was another part of the fiendish pill he’d been fed? It made you horny but unable to actually climax.
    “Cum, you little cunt! Do it! Cum in your dirty nappy, tights slut! Do it!”
    His cock-head almost numb from being plunged against the floor, Felix finally began to feel the slow build in the very bottom of his balls that presaged an orgasm. Oh thank fuck, he thought. Finally!
    And yet, just as he was about to fill his diaper with his royal seed, his arm was grabbed and he found himself being rolled over onto his back. He screamed with frustration, as his arse once again squelched into cold porridge.
    “That’s enough of that, young man,” admonished Lord Geoffrey. “Your aunt is present. Have some decency.”
    The Queen’s expression was as icy as her blue eyes. “I think we have seen enough,” she said, as she swept out of the chamber, hastily followed by her grovelling retinue.
    “I must attend to Her Majesty,” said Geoffrey gravely. “I trust, Alexander, that I can rely on you to attend to the Prince.”
    Alexander bowed his head to his master. “Of course, Sir.”
    Soon he was left alone with his royal charge. Felix lay breathless, red-faced and frustrated on the floor.
    The Steward tutted with mock solemnity. “Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”
    The Prince’s hips continued to buck uncontrollably: the desperate urge to cum still unfulfilled.
    “Oh very well. I’ll take pity on you,” sighed Alexander, theatrically. He slipped his foot out of his leather boot and placed it on the royal bulge. “Hmm, I can feel that cock of yours rock-hard through your nappy, young man. I will rub it with my foot for precisely sixty seconds. If you don’t cum in that time, you will go back to the dungeon frustrated.”
    He began to press his hosed foot against the Prince’s straining cock.
    “I can feel all that porridge in your diaper, swirling around your private parts. And that pear must be resting in the seat of your tights too. Maybe that would give you a further thrill eh? Let’s have it back up inside you!”
    Quick as a flash, Alexander bent over and reached beneath the Prince’s writhing body. It took him no time at all to locate the hard lump of fruit nestling beneath the Prince’s buttocks, and he grabbed the firm bulb.
    “Back up we go!” And with all the force he could muster, he shoved the pear back inside the Prince’s ravaged hole.
    “Aaaaaargh!!!” screamed Felix as the hated object invaded him once again, stretching his hole as wide as it would go.
    “Come along, my royal bitch slave,” purred Alexander, as his frottage of the boy’s crotch became more vigorous. “Cum for me now. Cum in your dirty diaper. In those tights! Do it!”
    “Ah! Ah! Ah! Ahhhhh!” The manipulation of Alexander’s skilled footwork did its kinky work and Felix’s entire body convulsed as the orgasm overcame him. His poor cock pumped wave after wave of royal cream into his already sodden diaper. Oh the relief! That was all he could think of as he gazed into Alexander’s cruel smile.
    “Better?” inquired the Steward. “Now I wonder what your aunt made of that little spectacle, hmmm?”   

Chapter 59 - The Prince Takes His Lumps

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Chapter 58 - The Queen of Spain

“When do you want to leave?”

“As soon as possible, my Lord. I now know where the boy is. And I would like to waste no more time in retrieving him.”

Lord Geoffrey de Montford sat in consultation with his oldest and most trusted servant.

“I understand how you feel, Alexander, but I’m afraid I need you by my side a little longer.”

“He saved my life. Had it not been for him, I would have starved in your Lordship’s dungeon. I owe him my gratitude at the very least - and I don’t want to see him slip through my fingers.”

“Soon, my friend. Soon. But this - demands my attention, and I would as always value your advice…”

Geoffrey flourished a letter in the air, before flinging the parchment onto the table.

“My Lord?”

“It is from Queen Katharine of Spain. I might have known she would try to interfere in our affairs.”

Alexander nodded gravely. The Queen was an English noblewoman by birth and she - and her younger sister, Isabella - had been renowned as the greatest beauties of their age. Their arrogant father had decreed that only princes were fit to take his daughters as their brides, and indeed he had successfully forged royal marriages for them both: Katharine had been duly married off to the Spanish heir to the throne; Isabella to the Crown Prince of England.

“What does she want, my Lord?”

“What she says and what she wants are two very different matters, Alexander. She says she has heard about the kidnapping and ransoming of her brother-in-law the King of England, and she gathers that I am offering her nephew, Felix, the protection of my home. She says she is overcome with anguish, and as her sister died so tragically young, she wishes to offer her love and support to her poor nephew.”

“You doubt her motives, naturally.”

“The conniving bitch has shown no interest in Felix his whole life. If she had, he might not have turned into such a monster. She already rules the roost in the Spanish court - her husband is a notorious weakling. No doubt she wants to add power in England to her sphere of influence. She’s no fool, Alexander. We must tread very carefully with her.”

“What do you think she will do?”

“She wants to visit. I can hardly refuse her. Nor can I deny her access to Felix. But if she learns how the Prince has been treated here these past weeks - we’re dead men, Alexander. All of us.”

“What if the Prince were to succumb to some tragic illness? I hear the plague is abroad again.”

“Too risky. If we are even suspected of poisoning Felix, we could end up with a full scale Spanish invasion. Furthermore, my fellow barons are skittish as it is. They’re just about able to stomach the Prince as my prisoner. Our fragile alliance would fall apart if I murdered him.”

“It’s certainly a conundrum. Leave it with me, my Lord.”

“Thank you, Alexander. I knew I could rely on you. As for the page boy…”

“I’m a patient man. I’ve waited this long. I can wait a little longer.”




The Spanish entourage did not waste their time. Within a week, they had arrived at the Castle. Their wily Queen had clearly not wanted to give Lord Geoffrey too much notice of her arrival. Alexander watched from the window of his chambers. He had to concur that she did indeed seem a worthy adversary. Her retinue was significant, as befitted her status as wife to the king of one great nation, and sister-in-law to the king of another. There were just enough guards and noblemen accompanying her to suggest she should not be trifled with. A larger armed presence would have alarmed the common Englishman. Spain was viewed with suspicion at best, with outright hostility at worst. She would have to play her hand carefully not to be viewed as an armed enemy.

Alexander took a deep breath. Lord Geoffrey had trusted him to solve this problem for him. He only hoped his plan would work.




On the surface, all was smiles and bonhomie. Queen Katharine was still a beauty, even if her long auburn hair now owed more to her hairdresser’s skill with dye than to nature, and if a lifetime indulging in the luxuries of the Spanish court meant that she could perhaps do with losing a pound or two, her wide-set, pale blue eyes were still entrancing, and her porcelain skin remained flawless. Mistress Olwen’s culinary skills had once again not been found wanting, and the welcome banquet had been deemed a great success.

Lord Geoffrey had - as per Alexander’s instructions - successfully stalled the Spanish Queen’s insistent requests to be reunited with her dear nephew ‘at this tragic time’. But she could not be put off forever, and the moment of reckoning had now arrived.

Alexander had chosen his own chambers for the stage where his little comedy should play out, and he bowed low as the Queen swept into his luxurious main room, Lord Geoffrey following respectfully behind her, and a small gaggle of Spanish courtiers behind him. Alexander noted that Sir Antony and Sir Dominic were also stationed nearby.

Not wanting to be overshadowed by their glamorous continental visitors, all the Englishmen were decked in their finest garments: richly brocaded doublets, tightly-fitting silken hose encasing their muscular thighs, rounded buttocks and bulging crotches. Geoffrey, Antony and Dominic had carefully strapped daggers to their belts, just to emphasise that they were ready for action, should the situation require it.

“May I introduce my Chief Steward and most loyal servant, your Majesty,” said Lord Geoffrey. “This is Master Alexander Courcey. Master Alexander, Queen Katharine of Spain.”

Alexander bowed low before his royal guest. “I am honoured, your Majesty,” he said, gazing up at the Queen. He looked at her still handsome face and instantly recognised the beauty she had shared with her sister and which had been passed on to Prince Felix. But there was a wilfulness in those steely eyes, and a cruelty too.

When she spoke, her accent betrayed no hint of the many years she had lived in Spain. “I asked Lord Geoffrey why my beloved nephew could not join us for dinner, Master Alexander. He assures me that you will provide me with an explanation.”

Alexander nodded his head mournfully. “It is indeed a tragic tale, your Majesty. One which we hoped we could conceal from the outside world. Lord Geoffrey - as the Prince’s beloved godfather and indeed the man whom the King himself entrusted with Prince Felix’s safety when he went to war - sought to shelter the wretched young man from the scorn and mockery of the world. And indeed to protect his wider family from the shame of knowing what had truly occurred.”

The Queen’s blue eyes - the same colour as the sapphires at her throat and brow - sparkled dangerously. “Get to the point, Sir.”

“My apologies, your Majesty. I merely seek to ameliorate somewhat the anguish that this revelation will surely cause you. It is many years since you have visited this country, I believe, and you have not seen the Prince since he was a child. Even so, I’m sure you recall that he was ever a sensitive and highly-strung young man. He idolised your dear brother-in-law, the King, and so the news of his father’s capture by the heathens hit him badly. Very badly. Upon learning of the King’s imprisonment and the subsequent ransom demand, he rapidly began a mental and emotional decline. Our finest physicians have treated him, but they fear it is some inherent weakness in his character that has been triggered by this severe shock.”

The Queen narrowed her beautiful eyes. “Let me guess where this is leading. You are going to tell me that the Prince is incapacitated, and that his doctors have decreed that he is not to be visited by anyone - not even his closest family. So you expect me, having made the long journey from my home, to climb back into my carriage, and leave him here in your and Lord Geoffrey’s custodianship. Am I right?” She smiled. But there was no humour in her eyes.

“No, no, your Majesty. Far from it. I knew someone of your character and courage would not shy away from seeing the condition our beloved Prince has fallen into: no matter how distressing it may be. Please, follow me, but do steel yourself - you may be shocked at his disintegration.”

Alexander opened the door that led into his bedchamber, and his party of guests, both English and Spanish, followed him into the richly tapestried room.

In the corner of the room sat a large wooden playpen. The pen had bars along its sides, and there was a large pile of cushions on the floor. Queen Katharine’s bejewelled hand moved involuntarily to her crimson lips. There could be no mistaking the fact that it was indeed her nephew sitting in the centre of the cushions but whatever else she might have expected to see, it was certainly not this.

For some inexplicable reason, the Prince was wearing the costume of a jester. A large blue and yellow jester’s hat was fastened beneath his chin, and little jingling bells tinkled tunelessly at the end of the hat’s three ‘ears’. His tunic was a patchwork of blue and yellow, and his over-sized shoes were also adorned with bells, and their toes curled comically as in traditional Fool’s garb.

The Prince’s muscular legs were encased in snug tights - one leg yellow and the other blue, but where they met at the young man’s crotch, there was no sign of the rounded mound of his genitals. Instead, wadding bulged from beneath the thin hosiery: wadding encircling the Prince’s waist, buttocks and crotch. The Queen noted with distaste that her twenty-six year old nephew was clad in a baby’s diaper.

Her eyes flicked to the young man’s face, seeking some kind of explanation for the ridiculous costume and humiliating nappy. The beauty he had inherited from her late sister was there still: the cheekbones, the cruel jaw, the eyes as blue her own, but she saw with dismay that where hers were bright and vivid, his were dull and stupid. The young man’s jaw hung open slackly, his tongue lolled onto his chin, and drool dribbled onto his particoloured tunic. Alexander stepped forward with a cloth, and tenderly wiped the Prince’s chin for him.

The Queen remained speechless, unable to drag her eyes away from the spectacle of her once proud nephew, she gazed on in horror. In that moment, had she happened to glance across to Lord Geoffrey, she would have seen him give Alexander a conspiratorial wink.

“The news of his father’s plight seems to have sent the Prince into a kind of second childhood, your Majesty,” explained Alexander. “At first he was struck dumb, but then speech gradually returned to him. However, it seems that his mind had reverted to that of a four year old. He wanted only to play with toy castles and soldiers, and to dress up in different costumes. He most wanted to dress as the Royal Jester: so this outfit was swiftly made for him. It seemed to please his Highness. We had hoped that the malady would prove temporary, but sadly, as the weeks have progressed, the Prince has only lapsed further into infancy. He can no longer speak: communicating only by gurgling, he cannot feed himself, and - if you will forgive me the indelicacy of saying so - he has also lost command of his toileting, hence the necessity of a baby’s nappy…”

In that moment, the Prince seemed to become animated. A kind of desperation appeared in his eyes and a low gurgle erupted from his throat.

“Goo-goo, gah-gah!”

He started to rock on his haunches, until finally he toppled forward onto all fours. His tights-clad legs forced apart by the thickness of the fabric wrapped around his crotch, he nevertheless started to crawl forward on his knees.

Alexander swiftly moved to the playpen, and unlatched the door.

“How sweet! I think our young Prince has recognised you, your Majesty!”

The Queen took a step backwards as her nephew crawled towards her. “Is he - is it safe?”

“Hmm,” mused the Steward. “As yet, he has been as gentle as a babe, but with sicknesses of the mind, it does pay to be cautious.”

“Keep him away from me! Put it back in its pen!”

“Please do not distress yourself, your Majesty,” said Lord Geoffrey warmly.

“It is merely time for his dinner. He wishes to be fed, that is all,” explained Alexander. “I have his bottle of milk warming right here on the fireplace.” He crouched down and fixed the Prince with a smile. “Is Baby ready for his din-dins?”




If only the Spanish Queen could have been a fly on the wall of that very bedchamber an hour or two earlier, she would have had a very different perspective on the little scene playing out before her. She would have seen Alexander supervising the construction of the wooden playpen: Mortimer applying a little paint to the wooden poles, Humphrey delivering a pile of cushions, and Sir Dominic delivering the gagged and bound Prince Felix from his dank prison cell.

“You must be lonely down there, your Highness, now that your little playmate has been sent on his excursion to more exotic climes,” taunted Alexander. “I do hope you’re not missing the little rat too much.”

The Prince protested extensively.

“You really must learn to enunciate more, your Highness. I really can’t hear a word if you mumble like that. Now, I don’t anticipate any gratitude from you but you will be relieved to hear that you’re finally going to be cleaned up and giving some new clothing. You’ve been stewing in those soiled scarlet tights ever since our last encounter, haven’t you? All that gunk has become really quite unpleasant hasn’t it? Those plump marshmallows that were melted inside your hot royal arse-chute have hardened again, although I see they’re sticking to your flesh inside your tights. How uncomfortable that must be! And the cream from those delicious profiteroles has gone quite rancid. The smell is deeply unpleasant isn’t it? And you’ve been forced to sit in all that for quite some time, no? Well, have no fear, young man. We’re going to get you cleaned up and put in some lovely fresh clothes. Isn’t that wonderful, eh?”

And with no pretence at delicacy, Alexander ripped the saliva stained gag from the Prince’s mouth.

“I’ll fucking kill you, Courcey!” screamed the Prince, practically incoherent with rage.

“Hush now,” cooed Alexander. “You had the opportunity to do that on more than one occasion and quite frankly, your Highness, you blew it. Now, as I fear you are in no mood to behave like a gentleman, I’m afraid I’m going to have to use other means to make you more docile.”

Felix opened his mouth to begin another tirade, and as he did so, quick as a flash, Alexander popped a small yellow pill onto the back of the Prince’s tongue. Before he even knew what happened, the tablet slipped smoothly down Felix’s throat. The Prince’s mouth gaped in shock.

“Before you start panicking that I’ve poisoned you, young Prince Prick-tease (which, incidentally, is becoming a rather tedious obsession of yours), the tablet you’ve just swallowed is ordered from the same associate who brews my lust potion, and who concocted the sleeping draught which I fed you last time you visited my chambers.”

“And what does this do?” stammered the Prince.

“It’s a muscle relaxant. You will remain entirely conscious but you will lose all the strength in your limbs. I will then be able to undress you, bathe you and dress you in your new clothing, without having to worry about you trying to resist. Fortunately, it also affects the tongue, so I won’t have to listen to you rant either.”

“How long will it last?” demanded the gorgeous Felix, even as he seemed to feel a kind of invisible weight descend upon him.

“For a few hours you will be totally powerless. After that, the drug begins to wear off, but its side effects are most interesting. You will gradually begin to recover the use of your muscles, but it takes several days. And during that time, you will only have the physical control of a baby a few months old. You will be able to crawl a little, and make a few basic sounds. But that will be all.”

“Wh- why?” Already the Prince was finding it difficult to speak as the drug took hold of him.

“All in good time, my young Princeling,” smiled Alexander. “All in good time…”

Chapter 34 - Ginger Magic

            “What in God’s name has happened here?!”

            Mistress Olwen’s jaw dropped open as she surveyed her devastated kitchen. Rumpled towels lay strewn across the long breakfast table, her larder had been raided and the door left to swing open, and the entire room was splattered with suspicious black stains.

            She spotted a wooden bucket containing some water and a coarse scrubbing brush. A scrap of parchment was attached to the handle. It read:

            “Mistress Olwen –

            Make sure this room is clean and presentable by breakfast time. I shall be inspecting it thoroughly. I expect you to scrub it personally.”

            It was signed “The Chief Steward.”

            Her scream of frustration echoed around the kitchen’s stone walls.

            Meanwhile, in an altogether less grandiose kitchen, a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon was being finished off.

            “That was absolutely delicious,” declared Alexander. “My compliments to the chef!”

            Arthur the smith beamed his appreciation. “Father always said I could have been a cook had I not followed the family business.”

            His taciturn brother, silent all morning, chose this moment to speak. “What exactly is your trade, Master Olivier?”

            Arthur shot him a warning glance. “Stanley” –

            “My business is somewhat – out of the ordinary,” Alexander said blandly, “but whilst you raise the subject. I would like to make you a proposition.”

            “Oh yes?” inquired Stanley with a sceptical raise of his eyebrow.

            “I took a moment this morning to examine your mare. She’s a fine specimen indeed. How much would entice you to part with her?” He jangled the bag of coins at his belt meaningfully.

            The elder brother answered him. “No matter how much you offered, we’d turn you down, Sir. Fallow has a sentimental attachment for us both.”

            “Now, let’s not be hasty,” interrupted Stanley.

            “She’s not for sale,” said Arthur firmly.

            “Then I’ll respect your resolution and not badger you any further,” conceded Alexander amiably. “And as I’m sure you both have work to do, I’ll gather my belongings and be on my way.”

            Arthur smiled genially and began to clear away the breakfast plates.

            “Only, I find myself feeling guilty,” Alexander went on. “To have intruded on your hospitality and leave nothing in the way of recompense.”

            “I told you, Sir’ –

            “Hush, now, I beg of you, and let me speak. I have evaded your inquiries as regards my business in these parts, and I feel it is only fair that I give you an honest reply to the question of who and what I am.”

            He had their attention now. Both brothers looked at him expectantly.

            “My name is Olivier the Great. And I am a wizard.”

           

            The usual motley assembly of castle staff gathered in the kitchen for their morning meal. If anyone noticed that Mistress Olwen looked more out of breath and harassed than usual, none of them commented on the fact.

            Will appeared last of all. The others gawped at the spectacle of him standing there: his colossal white loincloth stained a sticky, inky black. His too-small tights bore witness to how the dam of the nappy had burst and the overflow had spread down his muscular thighs, ruining the pure whiteness of his hose. Will cringed with each step he took, the horrible stickiness like tar, ensuring the silky nylon of his tights clung uncomfortably to his skin.

            “I have instructions,” said Mistress Olwen through gritted teeth, “to clean everything in sight. I assume that means you too…”

            “A wizard?” repeated Stanley suspiciously.

            “We’ll have no truck with black magic,” muttered Arthur. “We’re God-fearing folk.”

            “No, no, no,” cooed Alexander in his most persuasive manner. “I practice only white wizardry. My potions and spells call upon the benign denizens of Heaven.”

            Mollified somewhat, Arthur asked ‘Master Olivier’ to elaborate.

            Alexander reached into his leather satchel and produced a small glass bottle. “Take this for instance,” he said. “Come, stand and face one another. No, closer, closer, my friends. So that your bodies almost touch.”

            The two muscular brothers, their doubts not entirely allayed, shuffled nearer so that they stood chest to chest.

            “Now, breathe deeply of the potion and see what effect it has.”

            Alexander uncorked the bottle and allowed the siblings to inhale its heady aroma. In moments, it was having an effect. Alexander watched as the two men’s faces grew rosy-cheeked, their eyes dilated and their pulses slowed. Their breathing began to become deeper and their bodies to undulate as their sexual desires were triggered and enhanced.

            Arthur began to droop and sway, falling against the body of his younger brother. And, as if in response to the physical proximity of the other man, Stanley opened his wide mouth and began to kiss him. Head swimming, Arthur responded, his tongue pressing urgently between Stanley’s lips. Both hearts pounding, the brothers’ hands started to roam over each other’s bodies: groping, pinching, stroking, pulsating. One leather-clad groin ground against the other, the one over-riding obsession of sexual gratification driving all fraternal thoughts from their minds.

            The effects of the potion began to wear off. Stanley recovered himself first, and with a cry of disgust, pushed himself away from his brother’s erotic embrace. A moment later, Arthur did the same, and the two of them stared in shock at one another and then at Alexander, unable to understand or to eradicate the incestuous moment of intimacy they had just shared.

            “What?” gasped Arthur. “What did we do?”

            “Calm yourself, my friend,” said Alexander soothingly. “’Tis a love potion for infatuated girls to snare the man of their dreams. And as you can see, the effects are temporary. Mere minutes after inhaling the potion, the ardour passes and you are as you were before.”

            The red-haired smiths were red-faced and discombobulated. Good, thought Alexander. That’s just how I want them.

            “But I’m sure good-looking lads like you are inundated with amorous young wenches and have no need of trifles like love potions. I’ve been pondering to myself and I reckon I may have a spell that will prove far more valuable to the two of you.”

            Alexander hefted his satchel onto the table. “What would you say if I told you I could give you the strength and power of a hundred men? So that you’d never need fear Prince Felix’s henchmen again! In combat you would be invincible! You would be renowned as twin Hercules. All men would tremble at your physical prowess!”

            “How, how?” – mumbled Stanley, but the trusting Arthur was already well and truly hooked. “What? What do we need to do?”

            Alexander issued his instructions and, in a whirl of excited activity, the requested items materialised before him: two lengths of thick, stout rope; a hammer and some nails; a large iron horseshoe; a wooden paintbrush; a carving knife; a pot of glue. To add to this incongruous collection of items, Alexander himself produced the large bulb of ginger from his leather satchel, along with a small glass jar of what appeared to be some kind of dried herb.

            “Just one more thing,” he told the credulous pair. “Do you, by any remote chance, have in your house, a large pair of tights?”

            Stanley had wavered at first: the naturally more sceptical of the two of them but Alexander’s convincing patter had won him round. They were both convinced now, and no matter how bizarre the request, would now willingly scurry away to do their visitor’s bidding.

            “Father had a pair!” declared Arthur triumphantly. “He kept them for best, remember? And he was bigger than either of us. I’m sure they are in the attic somewhere.”

            “Then what are you waiting for, my friend? Fetch them now and I can begin my magic forthwith!”

            The red-haired hunk bounded up the stairs, and soon he had returned, bearing a neatly folded pair of light brown hose. They were not, observed Alexander, of the best quality, but they would suffice for his purpose. And they were certainly large enough. The boys’ late lamented father must have been quite a titan!

            “Now, for the magic to work,” explained Alexander with assured patience, “certain tasks must be completed by the participants. To begin with, this horseshoe must be nailed into the ceiling just here, so that it forms a loop which will support the weight of a man.”

            “I can do that,” offered Stanley.

            “And, most importantly, this humble ginger root must be carved into a very specific shape. Each of you must shape one end of the bulb. I shall sketch the design for you, and oversee your work to ensure it is fit for the purpose.”

            Arthur snatched up the knife and the ginger and turned his big innocent eyes on Alexander as he waited further instruction. In his naivety, he saw only the smile of friendship and amity flickering around his new acquaintance’s lips.

            It did not take long for everything to be prepared to Alexander’s satisfaction. The horseshoe was fixed to the ceiling, the glue stirred, and the ginger root peeled and then carved into the desired shape: two peculiarly conical bulges at either end. The blacksmith brothers awaited further instructions on their route to superhuman strength: hope and faith glowing in their broad faces.

            “What I ask of you next,” began Alexander, “may seem a little unusual. But you must place complete and utter trust in me if the spell is to work. If you question me, if your confidence in me slips for even a moment, I promise you now, the magic will fail. Do you understand me?”

            Arthur and Stanley nodded solemnly to undertake whatever Alexander asked of them and swore they would do so unquestioningly.

            “You will be reborn, my friends, as you are imbued with your new physical potency, so it follows that during the casting of the spell, you must both be naked as the day you were born. Please remove your clothing.”

            The brothers exchanged a questioning look, but they did as they were told, unfastening leather waistcoats, and pulling off their trousers. Alexander’s cock twitched in his purple hose. The lads’ bodies were as impressive as he’d hoped. Both displayed bulging biceps and pectoral muscles, rock-hard, rippling abdominals, large sinewy thighs and big, meaty buttocks. Twin fuzzes of ginger hair nestled above heavy dicks and bollocks, that swang freely in the cosy cottage. They clearly felt self-conscious standing nude before the stranger and neither brother met his eye.

            “Don’t worry, my friends,” Alexander reassured them warmly, “you really have nothing to feel shy about.” He could scarcely believe that they had acquiesced so readily thus far, but he knew he would require all his powers of persuasion in order to carry out his scheme to a successful conclusion. He leaned over to the table and held the small glass jar up to the light. The brothers had no need to know that it merely contained a mixture of herbs that Mistress Olwen used to garnish meat and fish.

            “A powerful concoction of a most ancient and secret nature,” he announced mysteriously, as he sprinkled the herbs over the pot of glue. Taking the paint brush, he dipped it in the translucent gloop and stirred. “This concoction must be applied to your naked skin for the magic to do its work.” He neglected to inform them why it specifically needed to be their plump, white bum cheeks that had to be coated with the glue, and, conscientiously obeying his command not to question him, neither Stanley nor Arthur asked. They blushed a deep crimson as they stuck their bare arses out for Alexander to paint, and Alexander diligently swirled the brush over each of the four cheeks in turn, daubing them with the cool glue.

            Once he was satisfied that each pair of bottoms was sufficiently slathered with the glistening goo, Alexander spoke to the naked smiths, his quick mind racing ahead of his glib tongue as he rapidly invented explanations for his actions. “We will be drawing on three sources to give you the power you desire. First from the ancient stones of this very cottage: your home. Therefore we must forge a link between you and this house.”

            Swiftly, Alexander looped the first length of coarse rope around Arthur’s wrists, tying them together. Then he took the second piece and bound Stanley’s equally as tightly. Stanley threw a brief and mute appeal of consternation towards his elder brother: the sudden vulnerability of their situation, naked, bound and covered in glue, sinking in. However, Arthur hushed him with a warning glance.

            With both brothers now tied and helpless, Alexander threaded the two ropes through the curve of the horse-shoe that had been nailed to the ceiling and, for the moment, let the cord hang there loosely.

            “Now, I warn you, my friends, that the next stage of the spell will involve some mild discomfort for you. However, as I’m sure you must appreciate, nothing of any value is won without some hardship. And I feel confident that two fine specimens such as yourselves will bear the aggravation manfully.”

            The brothers looked apprehensive, but remained so firmly in Alexander’s thrall that they did not utter a word. Alexander picked up the curiously carved ginger bulb from the table. “This part of the process will forge a connection between the two of you, and permit your existing strength to be multiplied and shared between you.”

            He hefted the moist yellow root in his hand, and calmly came to stand behind Arthur. “You must bend over for me, my friend,” he informed the curly-haired peasant.

“What are you going to do?” Arthur’s eyes widened.

“You will be joined with your brother via your most intimate openings,” Alexander explained.

“You don’t mean – you’re going to push that ginger bulb into my ass?!”

“Ah, remember my warning! The slightest doubt may weaken the potency of the spell!”

Arthur nodded solemnly and, after only a moment’s hesitation, he braced his strong thighs and pushed his well-lubricated butt cheeks out towards the wizard. He screwed his eyes tightly shut as he prepared for the invasion of the ginger root. He felt the pressure of the peeled bulb’s pointed end against the nub of his arse, and his mouth dropped open in an astonished oval, as his virgin hole was penetrated for the first time in the thirty years of his existence.

            “Ginger is self-lubricating, which is helpful for us,” commented Alexander matter-of-factly, as he continued to push the home-made plug into his victim’s hole. Wider and wider it grew, and Arthur’s breathing grew deeper as he tried to accustom himself to this new and frightening sensation. Eventually, the flared base of the end of the ginger plug slipped inside him, and Arthur tentatively shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he attempted to get used to this bizarre intrusion.

            “Now comes your turn, Stanley.”

            This part of the procedure was trickier to accomplish. With one end of the ginger root lodged firmly inside the arse of the brother, Raymond instead had to manoeuvre Stanley onto the other end of the plug. He held the pointed cone steady and clasping his arm around the blacksmith’s naked waist he slowly pulled the scared and quivering hunk onto the double-ended dong.

            “It – it tingles!” gasped Stanley as the yellow flesh of the root made contact with his pink man hole.

            “All the better to transfer the magic,” Alexander improvised. “Now, step backwards gradually and push your body onto the plug.”

            He was able to gaze into Stanley’s gawping face as the naked young man obeyed his command and slowly impaled himself. Stanley flushed with embarrassment as he glanced down to see his cock beginning to harden from the unexpected sensation.

            Alexander smirked. “There’s no rule to say you can’t enjoy it, my friend.”

            A strangled cry from Stanley informed Alexander that the plug was now imbedded as deeply within him as within his brother. He noted with some satisfaction that the juice of the ginger plant was beginning to take effect.

            “Master Olivier,” stuttered Arthur. “My – I mean to say, I feel a burning sensation – back there.”

            “That’s quite usual,” replied Alexander. “The sap of the ginger root is strong and spicy. You will experience a feeling of intense heat as its moisture irritates the tender flesh of your anus. But relax and try to enjoy the feeling. It is proof that the process is working!”

            Arthur nodded as he accepted the wizard’s explanation, although he could not help but wince as his ring began to burn. Indeed, both brothers began to moan with the discomfort they were feeling from the cruel invasion of the ingenious double-headed plug. Surreptitiously, Alexander gave his purple-hosed crotch a rub. The morning was proving to be a delightful diversion from his flight from the castle.

            Next, he took the slack ropes that were hanging from the ceiling, and began to pull both of them taut, raising the brothers’ bound wrists above their heads so that their bodies were stretched tight: armpits exposed and ripe for tickling - had Alexander the inclination, and the time, for such entertainment. The other effect of this new bondage position was that the brothers’ bodies were pulled inexorably closer together, and with a resounding “squelch”, their glue-smeared bums made contact with each other. Their large, meaty arses were now stuck together, and Alexander thought to himself that it would be no easy matter to separate them!

            The red-haired siblings were truly helpless now. Tied fast, arms strung up above their heads, both speared by the double-ended butt plug, and their bottoms glued together. Did they truly believe that he was a genuine magician who would shortly grant their wish? Alexander wondered if they were now clinging desperately to that hope, because the alternative was too devastating to contemplate.

            He must get on, he said to himself sternly. As tempting as it was to ponder the prospect of remaining all day in the quaint little cottage to use and abuse the gullible young men, he needed to be on his way. Just one final touch…

            “Last of all, we will draw on the power and strength of your dear departed father.” Reverentially, Alexander picked up the neatly folded hose from the table. “His life essence. His power and his strength still clings to this garment. And it will imbue you with his force and vigour.”

            It was a good job their father was a big man, thought Alexander, as he expertly rolled the right leg of the pair of tights over Arthur’s foot. Once the elder brother had been encased up to his ankle, Alexander lifted the sole of the younger and inserted it into the same leg. He moved round to the other side of the bound and helpless duo and did the same with the left leg of the garment. It was no easy task to pull the hosiery up over the mammoth thighs of the auburn-haired siblings. For once, Alexander was grateful for that most abominable of clothing offences: baggy hose! These tights must have hung off the legs of their father. Perhaps, mused Alexander, he was one of those foolish individuals who felt embarrassment at having his intimate parts framed and exposed in the deliciously tight-fitting lustre of hosiery. However, with the garment now required to stretch over and encase two pairs of legs rather than one, the material strained under its task. But it fitted – just. Alexander pulled the gusset of the hose over the groins of both men: Arthur anxiously flaccid, Stanley still erect in spite of himself; and then took a step back to admire his handiwork. What a bizarre and ridiculous sight the two of them were! Arms aloft and tied to the ceiling, their upper bodies glistening with sweat and their faces masks of discomfort as the ginger juice continued to aggravate and inflame their tender arseholes. Their glued buttocks gyrated against each other’s and their legs shuffled and writhed, encased in the constricting bondage of their beige tights. They looked like some weird, two-headed mythical creature that threatened to burst free at any moment.

            Alexander took a smattering of the dried herbs from his little glass jar, and sprinkled them over the brothers’ heads, incanting as he did so: “Alacazar, alecazizi, mangana, mangini!”

            “It is done!” he declared. “And now, my friends, I must be on my way.”

            “What?” gasped Stanley, as he tried to turn his head towards their departing guest.

            “I beg of you, do not thank me. It has been my pleasure to be able repay you for your kindness and hospitality in this small way.”

            “But how do we get free?” Stanley demanded, with no little desperation in his voice.

            “Why, do you not understand? After a matter of mere hours, the spell will fortify your bodies to the point where you will positively explode with the energy and vigour of your new powers! You will be able to wrench your arms free, you will slip apart, and the ginger within you will disintegrate at that moment, leaving you virile and potent!”

            “A few hours?” repeated Arthur in bewilderment.

            “Well, yes. Although the longer you remain in this posture, the more your strength will ultimately increase. But remember, if either one of you harbours any doubt that the process will work, even for a moment, it will surely fail, and all my efforts and hard work on your behalf will have been for nothing.”

            Both brothers, still doing their little dance of discomfort, nodded their mute understanding of the procedure.

            Alexander drew his travelling cloak around him and turned to take a final look at his handiwork. The temptation was too much for him; he took a step towards the muscle-bound brothers and squeezed Stanley’s erect dick through the tights. “There’s a good lad,” he winked conspiratorially. “Farewell, my friends!” And then, he was gone.