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.

Chapter 37 - Dunked by Lunk

Weeks passed, and July bled into August, the lazy summer sun bringing sultry, hot days to the countryside. It had now been so long since Will had ejaculated, his balls ached terribly, and at night he found himself dreaming desperately of being wanked off by Alexander, so that he awoke scrabbling around in his narrow pallet, sobbing with frustration at the horrid metal device that perpetually denied his cock from becoming hard.

Very occasionally he ventured outside on some errand, and whenever he did, he heard the sniggers and whispers of the villagers, his former friends and neighbours. The boys he had grown up with, now toughened farm hands, hissed and whistled at him, and he had to hurry to avoid their callused hands, reaching out to grope his hosed legs.

The atmosphere inside the little hovel became more unbearable as the temperature increased. Will may have had no choice but to endure barbed insults about being a “tights-wearing sissy boy” and a “slutty little fuck whore” when he was working in the castle, but he saw no reason to have to put up with them from his acerbic new sister-in-law. One evening, over a plain supper of bean stew, the tension finally broke.

“A travelling preacher passed through the village today,” Lizzie ventured conversationally. “I paused to listen to him for a while. He said that there’s a special circle of Hell reserved for sexual perverts - where the devil torments them all day and all night long by poking his trident into their arseholes.”

“Lizzie, not while I’m eating,” grumbled her husband.

“What do you think of that, Will?” she ploughed on, regardless. “How do you feel, knowing that one day virtuous folk like Jack and me will be residing On High with your dear Mother and Father, while you’re scrabbling in your own filth in the cesspits of Hell?”

Will stared into his bowl and resolutely carried on eating.

“Although,” she giggled mischievously, “knowing you, you probably can’t imagine anything sweeter than Satan’s prong skewering your flabby cunt!”

“I bet it’s not as flabby as yours!” Will shouted, and, without pausing for breath, he flung his wooden bowl in his sister-in-law’s face. Lizzie shrieked as the tepid stew ran in greasy rivulets down her greying hair and pallid features. She was on her feet in an instant, hands reaching out in front of her to claw at Will’s face.

“I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him!” she screamed.

But her husband was too swift for her. Bellowing furiously, Jack grabbed his younger brother round the waist and dragged him to the wooden armchair in the corner of the hut. Planting his backside firmly in what was once their Father’s chair, Jack pulled his struggling younger brother across his lap.

“You’ve been asking for this ever since we took you in!” he said, his voice quivering with fury. “And ye Gods, you’re going to get it now!”

Will was transported in an instant back to the beatings he used to get in this very chair: principally from his stern and forbidding father, but occasionally, if they felt like it, from Jack or Daniel as well. His tights-covered legs wriggled against his elder brother’s strong thighs, and his head hung upside down, his blond fringe falling in his eyes.

Thwack! The first blow from his brother’s heavy palm landed on the tempting target of Will’s hose-clad arse. Thwack! A second thundered down on his upper thighs. Thwack! Smack number three on his bum again. Already Will could feel the blood begin to rise to the surface of his skin and his tender bottom cheeks reddening from the spanking.

He kicked his heels in the air in futile frustration, looking and feeling just as he did when he was five or six, suffering a vicious smacking session from his stern father. Unlike the delicate eroticism of a spanking at the hands of Alexander, this experience was hard, brutal and without mercy. Soon the tears were flowing, and Will was bawling like an infant, kicking and screaming as Jack used one hand to hold him firmly in place, even as the other belted his younger brother’s buttocks over and over.

At long last, both of them were spent. Jack pushed Will roughly off his lap and rose to his feet. He caught his sobbing younger brother by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to the doorway. He opened the door of the little hut and whispered in Will’s ear.

“Get out and stay out. I never want to see or hear from you again. You’re as dead to me as the rest of our sorry family!”

Will got a sharp kick up his tender backside and was sent sprawling into the dust. He heard the door slam behind him, and coughing, and spluttering, he raised his face from the dirt.

The first thing he saw in front of him were two large feet, clad in heavy-soled, mismatched leather boots. His gaze continued upwards, taking in two solid calves, bare-legged and covered with coarse hair. Above them hung a home-made, hessian tunic – in actuality only a sack with holes cut into it for the wearer to push his arms and head through. Bare arms appeared, as thick and hirsute as the legs, and floating above them all, over six foot in the air, one of the ugliest faces Will had ever seen on either man or beast. A wide, flat nose, broken in at least two places; thick lips grinning inanely to expose yellow and chipped teeth; large, cauliflower-like ears that stuck out like jugs from either side of the face; and two eyes - one hazel, one brown - that looked in completely different directions.

The gargoyle bent down, lifted Will onto his feet, peered into his puppy-like brown eyes and asked with some degree of fascination: “What have we here, then?”

Without pausing for a response, he scooped Will up in his arms and carried him, as if he were as light as a feather, down the dirt track that led out of the village. At one point, Will found his position being shifted onto his abductor’s broad shoulder, and there he balanced, his head drooping down the big man’s back, his rosy bum, still smarting from the spanking, bouncing along. The kidnapper’s flat palm rested across his hosed buttocks to keep him in place.

On he strode, and after they had gone a mile or so, they reached a ramshackle old barn. They entered the building and Will raised his head to look around. It appeared to be abandoned. In the corner lay some stacked up bales of hay and a rough blanket, which Will assumed was where the thug slept at night. Suddenly, and with no warning, Will was pitched down from his precarious position on the man’s shoulder and he tumbled into the straw.

He lay there, momentarily stunned as a dirty fingernailed hand reached out to stroke his hosed legs. “Mmmm,” he said. “Feels nice. Feels very nice.”

The filthy hand began to grope Will’s vulnerable balls through his bright blue tights.

“Who are you?” stammered Will, and he tried to scrabble away as he felt his nylon-covered testicles squeezed and released, squeezed and released. The ape-like young man ignored the question and fixed him with one of his squinting eyes.

“You gonna be my pet, boy. Lunk gonna play with you good.”

So this was Lunk, reflected Will trepidatiously. He’d heard of him, of course. Everyone in his village had. When he’d been born, so the story went, his mother was so horrified by the sight of the twisted little goblin she had introduced to the world that she fainted dead away and could not be revived for two days. As the child grew, it transpired that its mind and behaviour was as deformed as its body. By the time he was ten years old, the boy was taller than his father and utterly ungovernable. At eleven, he was cast out to make his own evil way in the world.

The barn was his den, and Lunk survived on whatever scraps of food he could pilfer, steal or bully out of whichever unfortunate folk happened to cross his path. He was the unofficial leader of a pack of half a dozen degenerates who had joined forces to share their spoils and more effectively terrorise the weak and vulnerable. For now, however, it was just the two of them: Will was alone in Lunk’s clutches.

Lunk gave a cursory inspection to the thin cotton shirt that Will was wearing – the replacement for his embroidered tunic, but Lunk seemed unimpressed with the plain garment and, grabbing it in his clumsy fist, he ripped it from Will’s body in one sharp movement. He tossed the torn shirt to the ground, leaving Will’s smooth chest naked and exposed.

However, the monster seemed far more fascinated with the iridescent fabric sheathing Will’s muscular thighs and arse. He turned Will this way and that, grotesque palms luxuriating in the feel of the bright blue tights. He squeezed the twin globes of Will’s bum, and then rubbed his stubbly cheek against them, licking and lapping at the tender flesh and moistening the silken garment.

Will shifted uncomfortably at Lunk’s silent ministrations. What would he do next? What were his ultimate intentions, and the meaning behind the ominous pronouncement that he intended to “play with him good”? Will knew he had no hope of over-powering or out running the frightening bandit. For now, all he could do was, as so often seemed to be the case in his turbulent young life, submit to the whims of a man stronger than he.

Lunk started to examine Will’s crotch more carefully, and a slow, wicked grin spread across his imbecilic features at the sight of the artfully constructed cock cage. “What this?” he asked.

Will swallowed hard. “It’s a chastity device,” he explained. “It stops me from getting hard.”

“Ha!” grunted Lunk. “Bad luck!” He plunged his meaty fist under the skirt of his hessian sack and began to tug at his own prick. “Nice to get hard.”

Lunk appeared to consider something for a moment, and then he delved into the waistband of Will’s hose and started to yank at the steel cock cage.

“No! No!” gasped Will as he struggled to free himself from Lunk’s grip. “It’s locked in place! You need the key! You can’t just pull it off!”

Thankfully, Lunk seemed to understand, and somewhat sorrowfully, withdrew his hand. Will let out a sigh of relief that his long-frustrated cock had survived being torn from him altogether.

Lunk sat on the bale of hay, apparently urging the slow-moving cogs of his brain into a new plan of action. Then he lumbered to his feet and made his way over to the jumbled mess of items that lay in the far corner of the barn. He returned with a thin coil of rope. Taking one end, he made a loop and knotted it. Then he slipped the loop over Will’s head and pulled it tight. Grasping the other end of the leash, he tugged Will over to where an iron ring had been fixed to the barn wall. With a sinking feeling of inevitability, Will found himself tethered to the ring.

“Lunk go out. You wait here. We play – later.”

That evening the weather broke, and a thunder storm brought some relief to the late summer humidity. Will crouched in the straw, listening to the relentless thudding of the rain on the barn roof, and offering up thanks that his patch of straw did not lie directly underneath one of the many rotting holes that peppered the dilapidated wooden structure.

He crouched on the dirty floor, arms folded around his naked torso, stray pieces of straw sharply pricking his bum and feet through the thin fabric of his tights.

Two or three hours after Lunk had left him, Will heard a noise from outside the barn. There it was again: the sound of men’s voices, raised in jovial banter. The barn door crashed open and Lunk’s unmistakeable silhouette was framed in the doorway. He held a large glass bottle in his clenched fist and was swaying slightly.

“Come!” he bellowed. “Come see Lunk’s toy!”

Lunk lurched into the dusty barn, and hot on his heels followed a ragbag of tattily dressed scoundrels. Lunk barrelled over to where Will sat and quickly untied his leash from the iron ring.

“What is he?” called out a voice.

“Where’s he from?” queried another.

“Must be from up at the castle, by the looks of him!” answered a third. “No honest man parades himself in tights like those!”

“Honest men like us, you mean?!” cried the first speaker, setting the drunken rogues a-hooting with raucous laughter.

Will suddenly found himself gripped in a vice-like head lock, and the neck of a glass bottle was forced between his lips. Will’s nostrils were assailed by the strong fumes of what smelt like pure alcohol.

“Take a drink, boy! You may as well. I’ve a feeling that with what Lunk has planned for you, you’re gonna need it!”

The bottle was tipped up and its contents flooded over Will’s face. He gulped as some of the fluid slipped down his gullet and then set to coughing as the boozy drink seared his lungs.

Will’s spluttering reaction provoked yet more laughter from the gang of roughs, but he was given no time to recover himself as a booted foot planted itself against his plump arse and propelled him out of the barn and into the moist night air. The rain had stopped but the ground was wet and his stockinged feet were quickly soaked from the puddles he stumbled through.

He found himself pinched and prodded from all sides. Crafty hands reached out to slap his tempting bottom or tickle his naked chest, and all the while he was plied with more and more of the liquor that made his eyes water and his head start to swim. However he twisted or turned, there was no escape.

“What a peach!” shouted one of his tormentors.

“I had a girl as pretty as that when I was in my youth!” lamented another.

“I don’t usually fuck boys, but Jesus, I’m gonna make an exception in this one’s case!”

“Does he know what a temptation that cheeky arse of his is, I wonder?”

“’Course he knows. You can tell from that look in his eyes that the innocence is all an act. He’ll have been well and truly rogered by those perverts up at the castle! I shouldn’t wonder if he’s not more well-versed in how to fuck than any of the street whores in Dunchester or Catchford!”

“I bet that’s why they stuck him in that cock cage. Stop him enjoying it too much. I don’t like it either when they enjoy it too much. Spoils the fun if they’re not squealing and begging you to stop!”

“Well I don’t care about that, the way he sticks his butt out in those blue tights makes me want to rape his sweet cherry right here and now! My prick is calling for it and my prick don’t take no from anyone – not least from slutty little bitches like this!”

Round and round, Will span, manhandled by the loutish crowd and passed back and forth between them. Thick, drunken fingers began to tug at the waistband to his tights, and he clenched his buttocks tight at the prospect of the gang bang that he was surely about to experience.

But then a sudden interruption forestalled the lustful frenzy.

“NO!! Lunk’s toy. Lunk want play. Bring Lunk’s toy here!”

Grumbling under their breath at the opportunity denied them, Lunk’s cohorts dragged Will’s drunken, faltering body over to their leader. Barely aware of what was going on around him, Will nevertheless felt a thick leather belt being fastened around his waist. It locked into place and the disoriented lad glanced behind him to see that fixed to the belt was a large metal hook. Lunk smiled maliciously and yanked Will’s body backwards, attaching the hook as he did so to something just out of Will’s line of vision.

There was a sound, a protesting creak of wood against wood, not dissimilar to that made by the turn of the rack handle. And with a sudden jolt, Will felt his feet disappear from under him, and he fell onto his knees. Another creak, and he fell onto his face, and then he gulped as his whole body was lifted about a foot into the air.

Hoots of jeering laughter rang out in the darkness, and Will, frightened and disoriented, tried to maintain his balance. Yet another creak and his body rose further, horizontal and parallel with the ground beneath him. He looked around him urgently and only then was he able to see what was happening to him.

The hook was attached to a rope, which was in turn threaded through a tall, wooden apparatus. Will guessed it was some old piece of farm equipment used to transport bales of hay from the ground to the rafters of the barn and back again. A handle attached to a winch enabled the operator to lift his load into the sky with relatively little effort or exertion. Now Lunk stood, happily turning the handle, and Will was his human burden.

Will’s head for heights was not wonderful at the best of times, and with the strong liquor coursing through his veins, there was every likelihood of him being violently sick. He could not imagine the raucous gang beneath him would appreciate being vomited on from on high, so he desperately fought to keep his head clear and steady, even as his body was lifted higher and higher into the air.

Precariously Will dangled there, naked save for his blue hose, his legs wriggling impotently for the entertainment of the criminals assembled on the ground below. Lunk gave a final turn of the winch, and Will was now as high as he could go, the hook in the small of his back pulled up taut against the wooden arm of the winching device.

However, the apparatus was in fact more ingenious than Will had so far appreciated. Lunk released a brake mechanism, and was then able to roll the wheeled machinery around at will. “Now we have some fun!” Lunk declared gleefully as he pushed the entire device, with Will dangling from it, to another quarter of the long-deserted farmyard.

Will looked beneath him to see he was now positioned above a wide, deep trough of dirty water.

“Dunk the slut!” called out one of the vagabonds, and this set off a merry chant of increasing volume amongst the drunken louts: “Dunk him! Dunk him! Dunk him!”

“No! Please! Please don’t!” Will cried out. He was not at all confident that Lunk and his associates would not leave him there to drown. But his desperate pleas were all in vain. To the steady rhythm of their chant “Dunk him! Dunk him!”, Lunk slowly and teasingly lowered the wriggling Will towards the surface of the water.

Closer and closer he plummeted towards the murky tank, as Lunk slowly unwinched the rope. Suddenly, mere inches above the scummy liquid, Will’s defenceless body came to a shuddering halt.

Will breathed a deep sigh of relief in the realisation that it had all been a game to tease and to test him. And then, with a sudden cry of “Lunk’s toy get wet!”, his brawny new owner gave a sharp and vicious twist of the crank, and Will’s entire body was plunged into the trough.

He was only beneath the surface for a moment, but Will was spluttering with cold and shock as his dripping body was hauled once more into the sky. The crowd of onlookers shrieked with mirth as the drenched youth rose once more into the air, his blond hair matted with the fetid water, and his fine silken hose soaked and clinging even more closely to his arse and legs.

Higher and he went, so his next ducking occurred at a faster speed and caused a tidal wave of water to splash over the sides of the trough and soak the onlookers. This seemed to serve only to amuse them further, and some of them reached into the tank to splash their companions with the stagnant water.

Up and down, in and out, Will’s nose and ears filled with the foul water when he was lowered, and then, when he was lifted up, his skin shivered with goose pimples as the chilly temperature of the liquid cooled on his naked body in the night air: the decorative sheen of his hose, so appealing to look at, offering no warmth against the evening breeze.

His limbs began to sag and the leather belt to press painfully into his flat stomach. Surely his tormentors must grow tired of their game soon?

Eventually, Will’s wishes seemed to be answered, and to a great, regretful “Awww!” from the drunken spectators, Will swayed in his harness as he felt Lunk pushing the farm machinery away from the water trough.

“Now, do we get to fuck him?!” yelled a desperate voice.

“Dirty!” came Lunk’s enigmatic reply.

“What’s that you say, Lunk?”

But that was all the thief would repeat: “Dirty! Dirty! Dirty!!”

Will’s heart leaped. Could it be, after all, that Lunk intended only to play games of a more innocent, child-like nature with him? Sure, the dunking in the trough was unpleasant, uncomfortable and initially frightening, but Will would happily accept that humiliating experience over the prospect of being ravished all night by a gang of intoxicated thugs. Would Lunk actually end up protecting him against the sexual advances of his companions, dismissing talk of his being used by them sexually as “dirty”?

Just like the infernal winching machine, as quickly as they had soared, Will’s hopes plummeted once more. He realised that the apparatus, and him with it, had merely been wheeled over to a new patch of ground, which was seething with thick, black mud.

The new chant took hold. “Dirty! Dirty! Dirty! Dirty!” and even faster than before, Will felt his exhausted young body descending towards the bog. With a splattering thud, he hit the mud and sank into its oozing wetness.

He lifted his face, smeared and soiled, to breathe, even as he felt the clammy filth seeping over his body and tights-clad legs. Pairs of booted feet splashed towards him through the gunk, and he felt the iron hook being ripped from the leather belt around his middle.

He was rolled onto his back, so that every part of him, from head to hosed toe, was now coated in the gloopy mulch. Strange hands roamed over his body, rubbing oily mud into every orifice, filthying his once fine tights, and using it as a lubricant.

“Filthy bitch!”

“Let’s really get him covered in mud!”

“Dirty up his tights and his pretty face!”

Then that oh so familiar sensation: his legs were raised, his hole speared, and the frenzied night-time orgy began in earnest.