Chapter 39 - One Little Maid

Alexander did not have long to wait. The boy’s arse was now so completely free from sensation, the pitiful creature was at first not even aware of the guilty trickle of water dribbling from his hole. Then he felt the icy wetness dripping down the vulnerable, dimpled flesh of his ball sack.

“Oh no! Oh no!” gasped the unfortunate Wench. “I was trying so hard, Sir! I really was! I couldn’t help it!”

“Clearly your arse requires some vigorous training,” barked Alexander, “if it is unable to fulfil so basic a task as keeping itself closed shut when it is ordered to.”

“I was squeezing as much as I could!” gibbered the serving-lad. “It’s so cold! I can’t feel a thing back there.”

“Can’t feel a thing, eh? Well, that will never do! We shall have to rectify that straightaway, shan’t we?”

A fresh leak emerged from the boy’s puckered opening, dribbling down and dampening the tops of his stockings. Alexander circled the cowering youth and looked him straight in the eyes.

“I have just the remedy to restore some sensation to that frozen little pussy of yours…” And lowering the waistband of his tights, Alexander freed the coiled serpent of his cock, long and hard, and already glistening with precum.

Wench immediately went into a spasm of panic. “No, Sir! Please! I can’t! It’s too big!”

Why did slutboys always say that, wondered Alexander. Did they honestly think, that having complimented him on the size of his cock, he would be overwhelmed with gratitude, thank them for their kind appreciation of the length and girth of his manhood, and then tuck it neatly back inside his hose, leaving their tempting holes untroubled and unskewered, whilst he obediently trotted off in search of a less well-endowed individual whose prick they did feel able to accommodate?

However, rather than expressing this sentiment audibly, he contended himself with a menacing retort: “Whilst I’m paying for it, boy, nothing is too big! Besides, I warned you there would be a punishment if you failed in the task I set you.”

Wench’s body must be stiff, mused Alexander, from the length of time he’d been positioned, doggy-style, on the hard floorboards, so, grabbing him by a chunk of his pale yellow hair, he tossed the lad onto the narrow bed. The springs protested alarmingly as Alexander leaped on top of the terrified Wench, and gazing deep into the boy’s fear-stricken grey eyes, he guided his raging hard-on towards Wench’s numb hole.

The weeks of enforced celibacy had left his meat as purple as his hosiery, and it was with no little urgency that his throbbing cock, as if with a mind of its own, strained in the direction of the lad’s yielding orifice. He applied a generous fresh smear of grease to his mushroom-like cockhead, reminding himself with an unaccustomed concern for the quivering virgin pinned beneath him, that this was the boy’s first experience of being fucked.

He allowed the blunt end of his cock to rest there for a moment to give Wench a chance to prepare himself for the traumatising assault. The boy’s pale face seemed to grow even paler, and his thin body convulsed in shock as Alexander began the relentless pressure of impaling the powerless youth on his prick. He luxuriated in the obscenely intimate sensation of possessing another male that fucking gave, relishing the boy’s velvety arse pulsing and squeezing tight around his engorged dick.

“Jesus save me! It hurts so much!” babbled the lad, wriggling impotently beneath Alexander’s weight.

Alexander rolled his eyes. He might have known Wench would be a talkative one. “That’s good,” he said. “You can feel me inside you. You must be regaining some sensation down there after all!”

Further in he pushed, and his prick made contact with the watery remnants of the ice he’d inserted. He enjoyed the feeling of pushing himself into the cool liquid, and then withdrawing slowly. “You feel that, boy? You must be feeling very full now. All that melted ice water swishing inside your guts, and now my cock to churn it round inside you! That pressure must hurt, huh? Bet you really want to push it all out, don’t you? Expel all that water and get my dick out of your arse too? Well, not yet you don’t. Not till I’ve had my fun with you first, Wench!”

Alexander started to increase the rate of penetration, and as he did so, occasional spurts of watery discharge escaped from Wench’s backside alongside the backward thrusts. Back and forth, back and forth went Alexander’s tights-covered buttocks as his lunges became faster, rougher, more urgent.

Too much time had elapsed since his last sexual release for him to hold back the moment of ecstasy very much longer. The pressure in his balls began to build, the blood rushed to his face, and in an effort to delay that delicious anticipation a few moments longer, he pulled out of the boy’s ass completely. With the meaty plug withdrawn, an unexpected deluge of water flooded out of Wench’s hole, soaking the thin mattress.

The boy’s expression was one of dismayed humiliation at his loss of control – water flooding from his aperture as if he were some incontinent child. Without a moment to lose, Alexander slung the lad’s stockinged thighs over his own shoulders, leaving the boy’s calves to hang limply down his back, and with a powerful thrust of his hips, plunged his desperate cock all the way in to the hilt.

Wench howled in shock as Alexander spurted wave after wave of thick creamy jism into that slender body, and in spite of itself, the boy’s measly prick juddered as well, untouched and unloved, emitting a paltry dribble of translucent fluid across his hairless belly.

Alexander remained in place for several minutes, panting and perspiring. Then he withdrew his softening cock from Wench’s well-used arse, and rolled the boy away from him. With a startled cry, the mortified serving boy fell unceremoniously from the bed and onto the floor. There the boy lay, his pink-stockinged legs akimbo, saliva dripping from his gaping mouth.

Alexander sank onto his flank and then raised his head, resting it on one fist, to gaze over the side of the bed at the devastated youth. A flicker of amusement crossed his face as, with a hissing fart, his own, glutinous, white cum started to seep out of the boy’s abused hole and formed a tell-tale puddle on the floor. Chuckling to himself, he reached into the leather satchel lying by his side and withdrew a tarnished brass coin. He leant over and stuffed it neatly up Wench’s dribbling bottom. He watched Wench’s asslips close around the penny and then slapped his butt cheek.

“You can keep that one secret from your father,” he whispered confidentially.

The mattress was thin and none too comfortable and the room small and airless, but after nights of fitful slumber beneath the stars, it was the first bed he’d slept in in many weeks. Nevertheless, he could not allow himself to forget that he was still a fugitive, and so it was to the sound of the dawn chorus that Alexander awoke, his eyes snapping open with the alertness of a soldier.

He glanced down at the floor to see the prone wenchboy snoring gently in exactly the same position in which he had collapsed the night before. Alexander pulled back the covers and, with his hose-covered foot, planted a rebuking kick up the boy’s pale bum.

Wench opened his eyes lazily, looking around him in bewilderment as he tried to work out why his aching limbs had passed the night on the hard, wooden floor. Suddenly, the dried sticky patch beneath his arse, and the sensation of the little coin lodged inside him, caused the tribulations of the night before to flood back to him with a vengeance.

“I want some breakfast,” growled Alexander.

Wench staggered to his feet. Did the bargain struck between the elegant stranger and his father extend into today, as well? He thought better of asking the question and merely mumbled a subservient, “Yes, Sir.”

He stumbled round to the other side of the bed in search of his discarded shirt, shoes and britches. Bending over to collect the crumpled pile of clothing, he started in surprise as Alexander’s foot barred his way and prevented him from picking them up.

“No, no, no, Wench,” he said. “I think we need to find you more suitable attire for your station. Open that closet and look inside.”

The bewildered young man, bleary-eyed, with his pink stockings once again dropping in wrinkled folds around his knees, did as he was told. Inside, he saw Alexander’s fine hooded riding cloak hanging from a wooden peg.

“Don’t touch that,” murmured the older man. “In that bottom drawer – there.”

Alexander had performed an inventory of the contents of the closet the night before, and knew full well what the rickety cupboard contained. Presumably at some point in the inn’s past, this upper room had been occupied by a maid servant. He watched on in amusement as Wench pulled the drawer open to reveal some neatly folded linen.

“Go ahead, take it out,” urged Alexander, and the boy withdrew the white material and began to inspect it with bafflement. It was a short apron and a maid’s bonnet. Both were cheaply made and adorned with numerous lacy frills and flounces. Alexander murmured approvingly. “I think those will suit a serving wench like you very well, don’t you?”

Wench looked over at him with imploring eyes.

“What are you waiting for? Put them on.”

The only clothing of his own that Wench was permitted to retain were his pink stockings, and those only on the strict understanding that they remained pulled all the way up and were not allowed to sink down to his skinny ankles. The flimsy little maid’s apron was wrapped around his middle. The fabric fell to half way down his thigh, which at least gave him the modesty of concealing his cock and balls, but inevitably left his buttocks completely and humiliatingly exposed. The final touch was the frilly bonnet that Alexander himself placed on the boy’s head and tied under his smooth chin.

Alexander scooped up the lad’s own clothing and locked the garments in the closet with the promise that, provided he behaved exactly as Alexander wished and followed his instructions to the letter, they would be returned to him upon the occasion of his departure from the inn.

Having been given an extensive list of Alexander’s breakfast requirements, Wench was dismissed. The wretched creature gloomily made his way back down the stairs and into the embrace of his anxious parents. Alexander smirked as the lad’s pale bottom disappeared behind the closing door, the humiliating epithet “SLUT”, still scrawled in flaking red wax, visible down his back.

If Alexander were able to congratulate himself on a thoroughly well-spent and diverting night of entertainment, poor, luckless Will had no such consolation that morning. Like his former master, Will was awake early. Unlike him, however, Will had not spent the night in the comparative luxury of a bed in a hostelry, no matter how meagre the surroundings or avaricious the landlord.

Will lay on the dusty barn floor, tethered once more to the iron ring in the wall. His bruised and aching body felt tender all over and his arsehole was raw from the relentless buggery of the night before. This was by no means the first time he’d been abused as an unwilling fucktoy, at the mercy of those who saw him only as a pleasure-giving orifice in which to insert their cocks. However, the coarse brutality of Lunk’s gang of vagabonds had been a truly new and unwelcome experience for him.

He shifted slightly and tried to brush off the caked-on mud that clung persistently to his hair and skin. He looked down sorrowfully at his ruined tights. So much for his attempts to hang on to save them from his obnoxious sister-in-law! What was left of them clung to his muscular legs in shreds. Ladders, tears and rents marred every scrap of the fine material, and the previous lustrous blue was all but gone, with only the dull patina of claggy mud in its place.

His throat was dry, and he desperately needed a drink. But for that necessity he would have to wait for Lunk to awaken. Will looked over fearfully at the sleeping brute, snoring in comatose oblivion in his bed of straw. He wondered what his new life as Lunk’s pet and plaything had in store for him, and contemplated anew his strange existence, buffeted from one cruel master to another, with little apparent control or say in what happened to him from one day to the next.

You could not imagine a greater contrast to the morning spent by Will’s implacable enemy, the coolly resourceful Raymond StClare. Washed, perfumed and dressed in the glittering livery of a man of power and status, the Steward of Montford Castle joined Prince Felix for breakfast in the royal chambers. It had become something of a regular custom for them lately. Raymond would help the Prince to select his clothing for the day – one of the dazzling array of peacock-like outfits which Felix knew all too well displayed his gorgeous body to its absolutely most devastating effect. Raymond hadn’t appreciated the full extent of the Prince’s wardrobe: he seemed to have hosiery of every colour of the rainbow – from blood reds, through bright canary yellows, vivid greens and deep, deep blues.

As he spent time with the King’s beloved and only son, Raymond found himself getting to know more and more about the privileged young man. He, of course, already knew that Felix was vain, arrogant, pampered and spoiled; that he was quixotic, fickle, disloyal, spiteful and cruel. In addition, however, these weeks spent in the young Prince’s company had revealed that the self-obsessed royal was also lazy, easily-bored, with no facility or indeed apparent interest in political power, other than when it affected his desire to do precisely as he pleased, and indeed, ultimately, was rather dim.

This led Raymond to see distinct possibilities in his ongoing relationship with the Prince. He had not managed to get any closer to sexual dominance over the golden-haired young man – the Prince all too clearly regarded his beautiful face and body as divinely sacrosanct. However, Raymond had somehow, surreptitiously and imperceptibly, succeeded in insinuating his way into every aspect of Felix’s day-to-day life. He decided what the Prince wore, what he ate, whom he spoke to, and any financial and practical arrangements involved in the running of the castle.

The thought was ever-present in young Raymond’s quicksilver mind. Felix was one step away from the throne, and his father was a man constantly in the thick of battle, who any day might meet an untimely demise in a foreign land. Raymond’s ambition to become Chief Steward of de Montford Castle had been achieved at the startlingly youthful age of only twenty – younger than even he had dared hoped was possible. Given his stellar rise to power and fame, who would now scoff at the idea that one day Raymond could be de facto King of England?

All of this passed through his mind, unshared with Felix. The Prince would naturally have been horrified at the presumptuous young man’s train of thought.

“Is there any news of Odin and the traitor?” asked the Prince as he tucked into his smoked salmon.

“His latest message assures me he is hot on Courcey’s trail, your Highness. I feel sure he will soon be recaptured.”

Felix reached out impulsively to place his beautiful hand against Raymond’s cheek. “How did I ever manage without you, my friend?” he asked.

Raymond flushed at the royal touch, and Felix tenderly brushed a black curl behind the young man’s ear. Raymond gazed demurely at the breakfast table, his mustard-hosed cock twitching at the Prince’s intimate familiarity.

Impetuously, the Prince leaped to his feet and turned his back to his newly-appointed Steward. “Check my hose, Raymond. I want you to make sure it’s straight.”

Exhaling gently, Raymond rounded the table and, with the briefest glimmer of hesitation, reached out to lay his hands on the royal rump. Felix quivered slightly under his touch as Raymond luxuriated in the sensation of the finely woven magenta tights. He adjusted the seam so it ran precisely down the centre of Prince Felix’s arse, neatly separating the buttocks into two peachy globes. Then he took hold of the waistband and pulled it up, gently but as firmly as possible, so the material shimmered, as snug as can be, looking for all the world like a second, magenta skin encasing the Prince’s own golden flesh.

A frenzy of lust assailed Raymond as he once again contemplated the prospect of dominating that lush royal arse. Felix lingered there a moment, allowing Raymond to indulge his fantasy for that ephemeral instant. Then he pulled away, turning to admire his hosed rear in the full-length mirror.

“Much better,” the Prince murmured.

“Prick tease,” thought Raymond furiously to himself.

It was nearly midday and the sun was at its zenith by the time Lunk finally raised his pounding head from its straw-covered pillow. Blinking in the sunlight, the monosyllabic brute yawned and shambled over to where Will sat unhappily in his chains.

Lunk sank to his knees and slapped his plate-like palms against Will’s filthy thighs. He ran them up and down the tattered remnants of the blue tights with dull-eyed fascination. Will cringed from that monstrous touch, as Lunk loomed over him lasciviously, and with his lolling red tongue, licked Will’s mud-stained face from chin to forehead.

“Lunk’s toy,” he growled. “Last night fun. We have lots more fun soon!”

Chapter 38 - Wax and Ice

Earlier that same night, many miles away, in the far east of England, Alexander Courcey sat astride his stolen horse. He was taking a moment to wonder at what might have become of the blond page boy. He still hoped one day for another chance to kiss those full pink lips and fuck that pretty arse. Little could he know that Will had barely begun his long night spent being relentlessly fucked in a filthy puddle.

Swinging his legs out of the saddle, Alexander dismounted from Fallow and tethered the mare at the post of the ‘King’s Arms’ inn. She had served him well thus far, and many’s the time he’d offered up a private prayer to whichever god lurked up there in the heavens, to thank him most sincerely for the credulity of blacksmiths.

He’d ridden hard, seeking to put as many miles as possible between himself and the lackeys of the vengeful Prince Felix. Only now, after weeks of caution, planting false trails, doubling back on himself and employing a series of pseudonyms, did he feel he could start to relax. He’d even been particularly firm with himself and kept to a strict diet of celibacy, in spite of the occasional temptations laid in his path by cute farmhands and virginal village boys.

Alexander opened the inn door and took a look around. A mangy-looking mongrel raised its head from its basket, yapped half-heartedly a couple of times, and then settled back to dozing. The inn was sparsely furnished and even more meagrely frequented by customers. This may not bode well for the standard of the hospitality and the ale, he thought, but it suited his purposes perfectly: the fewer folk who could provide an accurate description of him to the local sheriff, the better.

A skinny woman of middle years, with a shock of frizzy brown hair, whom Alexander took to be the landlady of the establishment, beckoned him inside. “Come in, Sir, take a seat,” she cooed in a yokelish burr. “Someone will be with you forthwith!”

The couple of other drinkers, having raised their heads briefly to glance at the newcomer, returned to the solitary contemplation of their tankards. Alexander chose a small table in the corner of the tavern and waited. It did not take long for a door behind the bar to swing open, and for a young man in his late teens to emerge. The youth was slim, with hair so fair as to be almost white. His skin was equally pale and his grey eyes darted around him nervously. He wore an apron round his middle that had most probably been white at some point in the past, and his woollen britches ended just below his knees, displaying skinny calves encased in wrinkled pink stockings. He wasn’t the prettiest lad Alexander had ever seen, he mused to himself. Nevetheless, he might prove useful to while away a couple of hours with.

The young man approached the tavern’s newest customer. Fiddling with his grease-spotted apron and looking anywhere but at Alexander, he mumbled, “Ma sent me to ask what you want to eat and drink.”

Alexander leaned forward and gripped the lad’s cheeks between his thumb and forefinger.

“Ow!” squealed the pale youth. “You’re hurting me!”

Alexander ignored him. “Tell your mother I want a flagon of ale, a plate of beef and a bed for the night. And tell her that if she throws you into the bargain for my exclusive use for the duration of my stay, I’ll make it worth her while.”

He released the lad’s face and looking utterly stunned, the landlady’s son staggered back behind the bar to repeat the stranger’s offer. Sure enough, it was only a matter of seconds before a weaselly looking man, with a bald head and a long, quivering nose, emerged to make his way over to Alexander’s table.

“Good evening, Sir,” said the landlord in a wheedling tone of voice. “My son tells me you’re seeking a room here at our humble establishment.”

“Is that all your son told you?”

“You’re a forthright fellow, Sir. I admire that in a gentleman. He also said that you wish to…” The landlord coughed delicately. “How can I put this? To make use of him for the night.”

Alexander looked over at the boy, who had now reappeared and was standing on one foot, looking more anxious than ever. His mother hovered behind him, her eyes narrowing greedily as she kept her eyes fixed upon her husband.

“In return for your compliance and discretion, I’m prepared to pay you a gold sovereign, all in. Don’t bother wasting either of our time trying to haggle. That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”

The landlord moistened his thin lips with his tongue. He hesitated only briefly before breaking out in a wide, ingratiating grin. He nodded to the scrawled menu hanging on the wall: “We have a prime piece of rump, Sir, that I’m sure you’ll find just to your taste.”

Alexander was shown up to his room. It occupied the attic floor of the tavern. It was small, dingy and none too clean, but he’d slept in worse in his time. The grubby surroundings seemed appropriate from a couple who had agreed so readily to whore out their own son. Alexander ate his supper there, and then, leaning back in the armchair, he kicked off his leather boots, stretched out his long, tights-clad legs and drained the dregs from the tankard of warm ale.

A respectful knock at the door, and the frizzy-haired mistress of the house entered to clear his tray. “Was all to your liking, Sir?” she asked.

“Adequate,” he replied.

“And now?”

“You can send up the boy.”

She smiled obsequiously and without warmth. “I believe you agreed with my husband that payment would be in advance.”

Alexander reached into the leather satchel by his side and placed a gold coin on the tray in front of him.

“Now send him up.”

“As you wish, Sir.”

The lad stood in the doorway, wringing his hands.

“Come in and shut the door behind you,” said Alexander tersely.

The boy did so, and then turned slowly to regard the sophisticated stranger, with his jet black beard, lithe purple thighs and cruel face, reclining in the corner of the room.

“My name is” –

“I have no interest in your name,” interrupted Alexander. “I didn’t pay for your conversation. You’re clearly a snivelling little serving wench. So I shall address you as such. And you will show me proper respect and address me as ‘Sir’ at all times. Is that clear, Wench?”

The boy gulped and nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. Now come over here and let me see what my money has bought me.”

Alexander raised a flickering candle in the air, and Wench stepped into the light. His grimy apron had been removed, his mother had given his thin hair a quick brush, and wiped his face and hands clean, but all things considered, up close, he remained a fairly unprepossessing specimen.

“You’re a pathetic little creature, aren’t you, Wench? All scrawny and pale. Still, you’re the only slut on offer so I suppose you’ll have to do. Take your shirt off.”

“Sir?”

“I don’t expect to have to repeat myself, Wench. Do as I tell you or you’ll suffer the consequences.”

The youth raised his arms and removed his cotton shirt. His arms were skinny and smooth, and his ribs were visible through his limpid skin.

“Step out of your shoes.”

He did so, then stood waiting on the wooden floorboards in his stockinged feet.

“Good. Now – drop your trousers.”

Wench let out a long, quivering sigh as he unfastened his cord belt and let his britches sink to the floor. His flaccid pecker was as thin as the rest of him, and his crotch as smooth and hairless. He stood naked, save for the two wrinkled pink stockings on his slender legs. One was pulled up just above the knee, the other sagged around his calf. Alexander looked on in amusement as the lad’s breathing became shallow and rapid with fear.

“Turn around. Let me see your arse.”

Hesitatingly, Wench did as he was ordered, and displayed his little bottom, compact, dimpled and white, for Alexander’s approval.

“I’ve seen better,” said the older man dismissively, “but it will suffice for what I have in mind.” He rose and placed his hands on the lad’s slender hips. Wench flinched at his touch.

“Your first time, eh? The first time another man has placed his hands on your naked flesh?”

Wench nodded his mumbled affirmation of the fact.

“Try to relax. It will go easier for you if you do.”

Alexander’s prick began to swell inside his purple tights. Truly, the boy was no beauty, but there was something undeniably appealing about his tremulous reluctance. That, combined with that familiar, enticing power of forcing another man to strip and do his bidding; the manifestation of utter and ultimate domination over another human being; and the fact that he’d had no sexual relief since that final, illicit fuck with Will in the dungeon all those weeks ago: was it any wonder that Alexander’s groin was pulsating with anticipation?

“Pull your stockings up,” he commanded.

Wench did so, and as he bent over, his pale arse bobbed in the flickering candlelight. He caught the tops of the stockings, and smoothing out the wrinkles, pulled each tube of material up tight, so that they rested just beneath the smooth curves of his buttocks.

“Stay right where you are, bent over like that.”

Wench froze in that position, the blood rushing to his head as he felt Alexander’s smooth fingertips straying from his hips to caress the exposed whiteness of his buttocks.

“Now, get down on your hands and knees. I want to see you on the floor, like the mongrel dog you are.”

Wench obeyed tentatively, splaying his palms against the wooden floorboards, shifting his knees into position and displaying the soles of his pink stockinged feet to the peremptory stranger.

“Arse up,” commanded Alexander. “Higher. Higher! I want you to arch your back so that your lily white bum points to the ceiling!”

The boy tensed every muscle to try and achieve the position required of him, hating the submissive way it made him feel, and only too well aware the effect the posture was having on the arrogant stranger.

“Good, slut. You’ll be assuming this doggy-style position an awful lot during our brief acquaintance.”

Alexander knelt down between Wench’s stocking-clad calves and with his free hand, parted the boy’s upturned ass cheeks to reveal the smooth, puckered opening nestling between them. With practiced ease, he slicked up his finger and prodded at Wench’s asshole. Wench gasped in shock at the invasion.

“I said to point your arse to the ceiling! I want this candle pointing up nice and straight – we wouldn’t want to spill any wax onto your poor skin, would we?”

Sure enough, Wench realised with horror that Alexander had started to push the candle into his yielding butt. Desperately, he tensed his body and curved his back so that the lit candle would not slip and burn him.

“How humiliating for you, to have a lit candle pushed into your backside,” cooed Alexander. “You do look utterly ridiculous.”

He smiled as he took a step back to admire his handiwork. Sure enough, there crouched the frightened boy, the wax candle sticking obscenely out of his bum, the flame flickering in the breeze.

“Perhaps we should invite your parents to come and take a look at their son: Wench the candle holder!”

Alexander left the boy there for a couple of minutes and then slowly pulled the dripping candle out of Wench’s hole. He lifted it up high and held it there as he gazed down at the boy’s virtually naked body. He looked at the skinny kid’s stockinged legs, quivering with nerves, and very slowly, almost imperceptibly, he tipped the candle to one side, holding it at an angle, so that a dribble of hot red wax spilled onto Wench’s curved back.

“Oww!” yelled Wench as the molten wax splashed onto his naked flesh.

“Be quiet!” snapped Alexander, as he continued to trace a pattern across the lad’s vulnerable skin. Wench clamped his jaw shut to try and control himself, but each fresh burning droplet made him flinch. Alexander, for his part, watched with interest as the wax hit and then cooled against the serving-boy’s flesh. To amuse himself, he spelled the word “SLUT” out in large capital letters down the boy’s spine.

“Are you ready for this?” he said, as he dribbled a large dollop of burning wax directly onto the tempting target of Wench’s winking hole.

An agonised scream emitted from Wench’s lips as his body convulsed with the pain. Straightaway, Alexander clapped a manly palm over the boy’s mouth to muffle the cry.

“I’ve paid to use you however I see fit, Wench boy,” he hissed. “If you like, I can go and get my money back.”

Wench shook his head hurriedly, his terror of his parents’ wrath outstripping his fear of what Alexander planned to do to him.

“Did that burn your asshole, bitch?” purred Alexander in his ear.

“Yes,” stuttered the boy.

“Yes – what?” demanded the urbane traveller in a dangerous tone.

“Yes, Sir, yes, Sir!”

“That’s more like it. Well, shall we cool you down, boy?”

Alexander got to his feet and strode to the door. He peered out – only to glimpse the landlord loitering at the top of the staircase.

“Is everything all right, Sir?” asked the unctuous publican. “I thought I heard a cry. I trust my boy is providing satisfaction.”

“Everything’s fine,” Alexander replied curtly. “Now make yourself useful and fetch me a bucket of ice.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and returned to the garret room.

Wench crouched there, gazing up at him with mute submission in his eyes. He followed the contours of Alexander’s strong thigh muscles in their purple tights, all the way up to the throbbing bulge at the groin, which informed him, in no uncertain terms, that the dominant wayfarer had become aroused by treating him in this humiliating fashion.

A tentative rap on the door was answered by Alexander’s brusque “Enter!” and Wench cringed as his father bowed and scraped his way into the tiny guest room. The landlord could not disguise his sneer of contempt at the sight of his only son cowering on the floor, naked, save for his whorish pink stockings, dried streams of red wax criss-crossing the lad’s back, and spelling out the damning indictment “SLUT”. Wench recognised the scorn in his father’s eyes, and flushed a deep crimson: shame at being forced into this degrading situation, and anger that it was his father’s own greed that had put him here, at the mercy of the perverted visitor.

“Leave the bucket here,” commanded Alexander. The landlord did as he was told, and then withdrew in a similarly obsequious manner.

Alexander reached into the wooden pail and picked out a solitary ice cube. Wench watched fearfully as the older man padded round to stand in front of him. “This will cool and soothe you,” he whispered as he traced the melting cube across the boy’s furrowed brow, down his nose and across his thin, pale lips. “Open up, boy.”

Wench let his lower jaw drop open, and Alexander delicately popped the ice cube inside. Then he closed the lad’s mouth with his forefinger. “Keep that on your tongue and let it melt. I don’t want you to swallow it. Is that clear?”

What should he do? He couldn’t say “Yes, Sir” without opening his mouth and allowing the ice cube to fall from his lips, so Wench settled for nodding anxiously and hoped for the best. A mischievous smile played around Alexander’s mouth. He rose to his full height and returned to the wooden bucket.

The next sensation Wench felt was the heavy pressure of the older man once again kneeling between his stockinged legs. This time, Alexander was forcing his nylon-covered bulge against the boy’s waxy bum cheeks. Suddenly, he felt an icy tingling on his small pink nipples. Alexander, holding one freezing cube in each hand, gently swirled the lumps of ice around Wench’s sensitive tits, and they rapidly became pert and erect from the attention of Alexander’s teasing ministrations. Wench gasped in shock and as a consequence, inadvertently dropped the captive ice cube from his mouth onto the floorboards beneath him. Alexander tutted, wordlessly reached behind him into the bucket, and then leant forward to stuff two more cubes into the lad’s mouth to replace the one that had just escaped.

“We must see to it that you are cooled both inside and out,” Alexander murmured enigmatically. “Let me take a look at that sore little bumhole of yours.”

He shifted his weight and slid his smooth finger down the sweating crack of Wench’s arse. He used his fingernail to pick at the flecks of dried wax adhering to the boy’s aperture. “Mmmph!” whimpered Wench, as half a dozen hairs were plucked from his arse in the process. He at least managed to keep his mouth shut this time, although the melting ice was filling it with cold water. Soon he would need either to swallow or dribble onto the floor. And he wasn’t convinced he was allowed to do either!

“Let us see how many ice cubes we can stuff up that skinny little bum of yours,” Alexander proposed.

Wench’s body stiffened instantly in fear at the prospect, but he knew the beating he would receive at his father’s hands would be a fearsome one were he to displease the stranger, so he kept silent. Alexander tugged his cock appreciatively at the lad’s reaction to his kinky suggestion. Wench’s sphincter had clamped down automatically, so Alexander reached into his pack for a finger’s length of grease and quickly applied it to the opening.

“You make sure you keep this inside you nice and tight,” he said. “It will go ill for you if you cannot.” And with that, he began to push the frozen cube against Wench’s freshly lubricated slit.

The boy’s body quivered in response to the bitterly cold invasion but it could not fight against the relentless pressure of Alexander’s digits as first one, then two, then three cubes were slid into his unwilling anus. The icy chill at his arse was overwhelming, and it was at that moment that melting water began to dribble from his other end, as his mouth spilt some of its contents with a tell-tale splot onto the bare oak floor.

“You’d better have more control over your butt than you do over your mouth,” warned Alexander ominously. “We’re going to fill your chute with ice cubes, and if you leak at all – if even a drop of water escapes from you – you will make me so angry, I shall reward you with a punishment you will never forget.”

It was a hopeless task and he knew it, thought Alexander smugly. The ice he had applied to the boy’s anal muscles would numb them so comprehensively that they would be beyond Wench’s control. Once the solid cubes nestling inside him began to melt as a result of his body heat, he would be powerless to prevent any leakage.

A fourth cube, a fifth, and then a sixth followed the others in quick succession by disappearing into Wench’s rectum. The boy’s body was writhing, his toes flexing and unflexing in their pink stockings as the shock of the freezing insertions hit him in waves. It would be painful, Alexander knew, and the pain would be an unwelcome distraction from the urgent task of having to keep the melting ice trapped inside him.

A couple more cubes, and Alexander followed them with his own probing finger. He relished the sensation of those once solid blocks jostling inside the lad’s crowded back passage, and he prodded and swirled them around to encourage them to melt more speedily.

He withdrew his finger and gave Wench a smart slap across his pale buttocks. “That’ll do for now. Now you squeeze that arse as tight as you can. No leaks, remember, bitch. I want that water retained inside you until I tell you you can let go!”

And he settled back on his haunches to enjoy the view.