Chapter 26 - Death to the Prince!

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

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

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

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

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

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

            All Will could do was shake his head.

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

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

            Humphrey let out an involuntary blub of relief.

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

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

            “Meanwhile the punishment for our loser” –

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

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

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

“On your feet, worm!”

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

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

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

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

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

            Felix continued to issue his instructions:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

           

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “It was, Sir.”

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

            Will, abashed, did not speak.

            “Well? Did you, boy?”

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

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

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

            His voice trailed off.

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

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

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

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

            “If I can, Sir.”

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

            “Yes, Sir.”

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

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

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

             

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

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

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

            “Boy – a drink.”

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

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

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

            “Is that so?”

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

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

-       “By the former Steward.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 25 - A smashing time

            Alexander lay alone in the filthy dungeon, reliving every exquisite moment of his mastery of the farmhand. Even years on, and with so many similar experiences that he could call to mind, the tormenting, torturing and humiliation of Peter of Mickelsfield remained a highlight. Such a perfect physical specimen - combined with the pure, dumb innocence of the lad. At any stage, he and his friends could have resisted, even overpowered him completely. But Alexander’s confidence – his arrogance - had overwhelmed them. And he’d persuaded an entire village to do his bidding.

            Alexander recalled the salty tears pouring down the face of the broken Peter, as the younger man regarded his reflection in the looking-glass. In mere hours, Alexander had reduced the village hero to a humiliated queerboy, grovelling on his back in the dirty straw, tights-covered legs spread wide, arse stuffed with a rope of weighted, leather balls. The last of the balls stuck out obscenely and ridiculously from Peter’s pouting pink pussy lips.

            Alexander beckoned the barmaid, Griselde, to the front of the group of spectators. He saw the confusion and distaste on her face, and the realisation on Peter’s that she would never be able to look at him in the same way again.

            “Come, fellows,” he ordered Peter’s fellow farmworkers. “Your friend needs your assistance. The final part of his forfeit. You have all seen how aroused he has been by the games we have played this delightful summer evening. His manmeat is straining for release. It seems only fair that we allow him this satisfaction, after the entertainment he has provided for us all, don’t you think?”

            One of the thick-headed peasants – Martin? Rodney? – stumbled forward, and Alexander guided the callused and clumsy hand towards their friend’s veined and rigid penis.

            Peter began to sob audibly at the humiliation of being jerked off – roughly and inexpertly – by his reluctant friend. But even attention as crude as this must needs excite a horny young man, and before long, precum began to drool from the tip of Peter’s fine prick. His breathing became rapid and shallow, his fine muscular body began to tense: Alexander was experienced enough to recognise the signs of imminent climax.

            “Stop now!” he commanded, and instantly, as if scalded, the peasant withdrew his fist. The wanking ceased and Peter’s cock was left, bobbing in agony, denied its final, pleasurable reward.

            Alexander allowed the danger to subside, and then nodded for the yokel to begin his ministrations once more. A second time Peter approached orgasm, and yet again, Alexander frustrated him.

            Clicking his finger at the other farmhand – Rodney? Martin? – Alexander guided him to where the fourth anal ball still nestled provocatively, half-in, half-out of Peter’s gaping anus, and to the small metal ring at the end of the leather rope.

            More wanking, and now Peter the handsome farmhand was moaning and begging for release from his torment.

            “What was that? You want to be allowed to cum, do you? Now that I’ve reduced you to a dirty little whore, lying on your back in the straw, legs spread, arse stuffed with my wicked little balls, you think you deserve sexual satisfaction, do you?”

            “Look at you – your pathetic cock being milked by your fellow farmhand in the same way as he milks his cows! That cock that’s been rock hard ever since I dressed you in those delightfully sissy yellow tights. Showing off every muscle and bulge of your fine slaveboy physique!”

            “Do you see what you have become? Do you see what I have made you into? My hosed slut. My tights-wearing bitch boy. I’ve cleaned out your arse, transformed you into my slave, and stuffed your pussy with my degrading rope of anal balls. The whole village is gathered to see the humiliation of their ‘hero’. And all you can do now is beg me to allow you to come? Is that right? Well then, beg me, bitch. Beg me and I might just allow you to spurt your seed all over these fine yellow tights that you have soiled with your sweat and your filth!”

            Insane, desperate now, his mind filled with nothing other than the primal need to achieve climax, Peter had begged. Oh, how he had begged! Alexander had heard well-practiced slut boys, the best actors you had ever seen, beg for sexual satisfaction, but none had even approached the urgency, the desire, the desperation of that rough, gorgeous diamond of a hunk in that unprepossessing little village.

            “Please, Sir, please, Sir, I beg you. I need it so badly. Please, please let me come!”

            And as the sweat-soaked, muscular body began to tense and buck in the throes of orgasm, Alexander had given the signal, and the farmhand’s friend tugged at the little metal ring. The four leather balls were yanked from inside that beautiful body in one sharp movement. A primeval scream of agony and ecstasy rang out as the balls evacuated Peter’s swollen, quivering and well-stretched hole. And simultaneously, great, warm, wet arcs of thick, white cum sprayed into the hazy evening air, splattering over the young man’s chest and legs, staining his yellow tights. Globules of semen landed on that manly jaw, full lips, bronzed cheeks, and long eyelashes.

            Alexander had not hung around. The spell was broken, and he was all too aware that things could now turn nasty. Most of the villagers had been drinking, and, aroused by the spectacle they had witnessed, a heavily, animalistic lust seemed to hang heavily in the oppressive heat. He gathered up his bulb douche, along with the anal balls, still wet and dripping with the gloopy lubricant and the anal mucus from Peter’s arse, and he strode away to his horse.

            He glanced back once, only to realise his caution was unnecessary. The men of the village were gathered in a circle around the prone and exhausted form of their erstwhile hero, each of them now wanking enthusiastically over the humiliated and broken young man.

            Alexander slipped around the corner and freed his own rock hard prick from the constriction of his fine, grey, silken hose. A snort from his precious glass bottle, and soon his cock was also pumping its creamy jism onto the dusty ground.

            And then, his reverie broken, Alexander was forced to contemplate his current predicament. In the grim and filthy dungeon of de Montford Castle.

            Would he ever experience mastery of another man like that again, he wondered ruefully. Or was he truly now as powerless as that poor, beautiful, broken farmhand had been? Alexander did not know, but as he lay there that night, he knew hope had been rekindled by the unexpected bravery of that sexy little brat he had plucked from obscurity all those months before. He could not explain the lad’s loyalty, given the sexual humiliation he had dished out to the new page boy. Maybe it was no such thing. Perhaps it was merely Prince Felix toying with him again – raising his hopes only to dash them once more. All he could do was acknowledge that for once, he was not in control of his own destiny. And that for now, all he could do was wait.

* * * *

It had been like a dream. Now in the cold light of day, Will could scarcely believe that he’d had the nerve to carry out such a desperate scheme.

Even a moment to reflect on the madness of his plan and he would have stayed safely tucked up beneath his blanket. But the moment had presented itself and his vague feeling of outrage that Prince Felix was condemning Alexander to a particularly cruel demise had taken over. And it was done now. There was no going back.

As he went about his morning chores - the mundane fetching and carrying - he relived it all: the dash across the courtyard, all the time fumbling with the dungeon key as he removed it from its fellows on the key-ring; the relief to find that, upon returning to the dormitory, Mortimer was still fast asleep and Humphrey nowhere to be seen, whilst Odin still grunted and ground away at Raymond’s arse. The precious key was now well hidden in Will’s bedding and all he could do was hope and pray that its theft would go unnoticed.

Breakfast that morning was an ill-humoured affair. Mistress Olwen was still smarting from her confrontation with Raymond the night before. Raymond and Humphrey both sat at the breakfast table rather gingerly, each of their unfortunate bottoms still smarting from the abuse they had suffered during the night. Raymond, naturally enough, was too proud to admit to the other pages what he had been subjected to. (Although Will thought it was faintly ludicrous  to attempt to maintain one’s dignity in a pink bodysuit that made one resemble a prawn.)

Of course, Humphrey had no such compunction and spent the entire time complaining about the torture his guts were undergoing, and the fact that his arsehole was burning from the traffic it had experienced all through the night. It would almost have been enough to put Will off the egg he was eating, had he not been so ravenous. An egg for breakfast these days was a rare luxury, after all.

“Don’t you dare tell a soul!” warned Mistress Olwen. “I’m supposed to be giving you all bread and gruel. And Lord knows that’s what I should do given the respect you boys show to me. But look at this! Eighty fresh eggs ordered by his Highness from Lord Geoffrey’s estate. And not even he and his goons can eat that many, I’ll wager!”

Lingering outside the Prince’s chamber that afternoon, Humphrey was feeling especially sorry for himself.

“It’s all right for you. That’s two contests in a row that I’ve lost. Anything athletic I don’t stand a chance,” he whimpered.

Quick as a flash, Raymond grabbed the boy’s balls through the clinging pink tights.

Squeezing hard, he hissed in Humphrey’s ear. “Shut the fuck up, fatboy. I’m sick of your whinging.”

“Owww!” squealed Humphrey.  “You’ve always thought you were better than the rest of us, Raymond!”

Raymond glared at him contemptuously. “That” – he spat – “is because I possess a brain as well as a body. And I intend to use it.”

And now it was that time again. Prince Felix sat resplendent in scarlet tunic and hose, magnificent leather boots reaching all the way to mid-thigh. He looked the four pages up and down. Will and the others stood in front of him in his humiliating pink suit.

“Pull down your hoods, worms,” ordered the Prince.

Like the others, Will did as he was instructed, slipping the pink hose-hood back, to reveal his tousled blond locks. With the familiar fluttering sensation present in his stomach, he wondered what might be in store for him and his fellow slaves today.

Will shifted from one hosed foot to the other in fear, hoping against hope that the theft of the dungeon key and his desperate attempt to save Alexander’s life had not been discovered.

However, nothing in the arrogant Prince’s demeanour indicated that it was to be anything other than business as usual for the hapless page boys.

“Don’t look so terrified,” sneered the Prince.

Was the removal of the hood a pre-cursor to their pink suits being taken from them all together, Will wondered. He realised, with a little surprise and no little shame, that a part of him would be sorry if that were indeed to be the case. He had to admit that a part of him did enjoy being on display in this fashion: his muscular thighs caressed by the pink tights, his pert arse, jutting out – vulnerable and exposed in the thin layer of shiny material.

“Boys, you are to stay perfectly still and on no account are you to turn around,” continued their Adonis of a master, an amused expression on his face. “As it will soon be Easter, today’s contest takes a seasonal theme! Odin! Ulfgar! Bring in the eggs!”

            The Norse brutes appeared, dragging between them a basket heavily laden with the freshest hens’ eggs. What was this latest dastardly and kinky game devised by the haughty young prince?

            Soon all became clear.

            “It’s all very straightforward. You will each have twenty fresh eggs slipped down the back of your tights suit,” announced Odin.

            Ulfgar placed the familiar, crude wooden stool in front of Will and the other pages.

            “Your task is simple: you must each try to smash as many of the eggs as you can in one go by sitting down on this stool – as hard as you can. Each of you will have one chance. The remaining eggs will be counted and whichever of you has smashed the fewest will be dubbed the loser. Is that understood?”

            Will shuddered as, one after another, fresh brown hens’ eggs were rolled down his back inside his pink garment. One by one, they accumulated at the gusset. Glancing at Raymond, he noticed that his cunning nemesis was subtly shifting the eggs into the crack of his bum to enable more to be cracked when the moment came. Will wriggled slightly and endeavoured to do the .

            Soon all four pages’ suits had been stuffed with the eggs, and each of their arses bulged with lumps and bumps. Will found himself feeling more ridiculous than ever at the heaviness clustered around his backside.

            Odin spoke again.

            “At my signal, one by one, you will each sit down on the stool behind you. Are you ready?”

            The four unfortunate lads nodded miserably.

            “Then begin.”

            The leering Viking first pointed his callused finger at Mortimer, and the skinny lad, sighing heavily, sat down firmly on the stool. His face contorted into a grimace as the sound of smashing eggs filled the room. Will noted, with dismay, the gloopy goo of the yolk and white started to seep through the pink material of the tights.

            “Next!”

            Raymond, his face as hard and stoic as ever, thrust his egg-laden arse down on the stool. He bit his lip as the shells cracked and splintered, but otherwise registered no reaction.

            Then it was Humphrey’s turn. Will could well imagine that Humphrey’s discomfort was only exacerbated by the notion that the eggs clustered around his bum were going to be wasted, when they could have found a happier home in his hungry stomach. The pressure as the fat boy’s bottom plummeted downwards was too much for the little wooden stool, and Will winced as its flimsy legs gave way. The sound of numerous eggs cracking was joined by a resounding rattle as Humphrey’s bottom bounced on the floor. The plump page emitted a sorrowful little sob.

            Prince Felix rolled his eyes languidly, as he turned his attention to Will, the fourth and final victim.

            “And now for the horny little bitch,” he said. “How many eggs can you smash? And I did say eggs – not the furniture.”

            Will screwed his eyes shut and with all the strength he could muster, sat down firmly on the stool. Instantly, he felt the eggs’ thin membranes beginning to crack. Sharp little splinters of shell dug into his young skin, and their viscous, liquid contents exploded against his flesh. The sensation of the cold, wet fluid on his bum, round his balls and bursting against his arsehole was sudden, shocking, and terrifically arousing. And to Will’s horror, the feeling of the gunky goo staining his tights caused him, once again, to lose control. He cried out in astonishment as, quite spontaneously, untouched and unbidden, his hard boy cock bucked and pumped creamy cum into his pink bodysuit. His body shuddered and shivered with the power of the orgasm, as humiliating as it was unexpected.

            Sinuously, the feline form of Prince Felix rose from his throne and slowly stalked over to the quivering page boy. The height of the low stool ensured that Will found himself squatting directly in front of the Prince’s bulging scarlet crotch. His muscular thighs tensed in his hose, the material stretched tight over those divinely proportioned limbs.

            “You dirty little boy. Once again you have defiled yourself. You squat there in those broken eggs, the goop and goo oozing round your groin and buttocks. You are filth, bitch. And you know it…”

Chapter 24 - Alexander's anal balls

Alexander led the devastated farm hand out into the stables.

“It gives me no pleasure to have to do this to you,” he lied glibly. “But we did make a deal.”

Peter nodded dumbly as he traipsed along, naked save for his clinging tights: his cock remaining inexplicably proud and causing an embarrassing tenting effect in his yellow hose.

“Now, let’s see what else I have in my satchels to use on you, my farmer boy…”

Peter watched, alarmed, as Alexander reached into his bag and produced an instrument the likes of which he had not seen before: a thin glass tube with a hole at one end and a rubber bulb at the other. Alexander congratulated himself on having acquired the portable douche for a bargain fee at the last market he had visited. He’d hardly dared hope to find a use for it so soon!

“Fetch me a pail of water,” he ordered imperiously to one of Peter’s friends. The fake bonhomie had evaporated. He was in the role he was accustomed to adopting – the boss.

Nervously, Rodney pottered off to do as he had been bidden.

“Now, if we’re going to play, my young farm hand, I want you to be clean. Lord knows what filthy diseases you may have picked up from all those animals you work with.”

“Clean, my lord?”

“Bend over that wooden hurdle there. I want your arse high in the air where I can get to it easily.”

“My - ?”

Alexander sighed. “Remember your agreement, Peter. You agreed freely to submit to me. Do you really want me to spread the news that the word of the men of Mickelsfield cannot be trusted?”

Peter shook his head sorrowfully, and duly assumed the position Alexander had demanded.

“Delicious,” murmured Alexander as the two muscular globes of Peter’s bottom rose high into the air, his head dangling beneath his two canary yellow butt cheeks.

“Wh – what are you going to do to me?”

“All in good time, my friend. I’m going to have some fun with you. And you’ll co-operate, won’t you? Or I’ll be forced to fetch the delightful Griselde from behind the bar to witness your humiliation as well.”

“No, please, Sir,” begged Peter. “Anything but that.”

“Then you’ll be quiet and merely submit. Although if I were Griselde, I think I would insist on you wearing tights all day and all night long. Bodies like yours should be on display, not hidden away beneath unflattering smocks.”

Peter flinched as Alexander’s hand made contact with his tights-covered rump, caressing the taut flesh through the fine hosiery. It was a novelty for the Steward to have such a prime specimen of masculinity quivering beneath his touch.

Gently he began to roll down the waistband of the yellow hose to reveal the farmhand’s cheeks, pale against the tanned flesh of his torso. Peter trembled  as his impressive bottom was exposed to the imperious stranger.

“Ah-ha! And here is the pail of water – perfect timing!”

The bucket was deposited on the floor, and Alexander squeezed the douche’s bulb to fill it with the cold fresh liquid.

“This will feel strange,” he warned the nervous young man. “But it’s not necessarily unpleasant. Some men even find they are aroused by the stimulation of being douched. Although it’s clear from the bulge in your tights how much you’re enjoying this predicament – whether you know it or not.”

Peter shook his head adamantly. “I don’t understand – why?”

“Best not to fight it,” came the patronising reply. “Sometimes we are turned on by things we never even knew we needed.”

Alexander applied a little grease to the tip of the douche and then slowly inserted the device between those inviting arse cheeks. Peter shuddered as his hole was invaded for, what Alexander imagined was in all probability, the first time in his life.

“First time, eh, boy? Don’t tell me you’ve never been tempted to diddle your boy cunt whilst having a wank?”

Alexander placed one hand on Peter’s sweating back, as if calming a skittish colt.

“Now I’m going to fill you up, boy,” he whispered. “Nice clean water to flush out your dirty hole. Are you ready?”

As he squeezed the bulb, the water flooded up into the hunk’s body.

“No – please – no!” begged poor Peter.

Alexander turned to look with contempt at the farmer’s yokelish friends. The two bumpkins were clearly ashamed to see their idol forced into such a humiliating position, having his bottom fondled and filled by another man.

The douche delivered three more doses before Alexander decided that sufficient liquid had been deposited up Peter’s backside.

“Hold it in now, boy,” he warned. “I don’t want to see you embarrassing yourself any further by spilling any of that water.”

Alexander picked up the wooden pail and tipped out the remainder of the unused water. Then he tossed it to Martin. “You. Come round here.”

Stepping to one side, Alexander instructed the overwhelmed young man to take up a position about four feet behind the hurdle over which his friend was currently bending.

“Your task is to catch the shitty water Peter here expels. I need hardly point out to you that you will not want to miss any – especially if it splashes onto you.”

Martin gulped in apprehension at his allotted task.

“Very well, Peter. You may release your bowels. Get rid of all that nasty water inside you!”

Alexander smiled as he watched Peter’s face flush a deeper shade of red: whether through shame, exertion or the fact that his upper body had been hanging upside down for some time, Alexander neither knew nor cared.

Peter screwed up his eyes and, with some relief, water began to squirt from his puckered butt hole. The fluid arced through the air and Martin shuffled forwards to try and catch it before it splattered to the stable floor.

“What a sight you are,” crowed Alexander. “Shooting dirty water out of your arsehole for your friend to catch in a bucket! Maybe we should set you up in the village square as a kind of water fountain. The whole village could see their resident strongman reduced to spraying water from his man cunt!”

Eventually, Peter came to a shuddering, quivering halt as he finished emptying his bowels. The reluctant water carrier, Martin, stumbled over to join his other friend at the side of the stables: a look of intense distaste on his face. Alexander saw that the farm hand had not been entirely successful in his endeavour to catch all of the water expelled by Peter, and there were damp patches on his hessian smock.

Alexander was unconcerned, however. Instead, he crouched down so that he was level with where Peter’s head dangled.

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it? After all, I could have done almost anything to punish you, couldn’t I? I could have cut your balls off. One little purge like this is nothing for a brave young man like you, surely?”

The farm hand started to lift his head, clearly believing his ordeal was at an end.

“You must submit to me for the whole evening,” Alexander reminded him sternly. Peter’s head drooped in despair. What further humiliation did this domineering devil have in store for him?! He was to find out before long as Alexander withdrew yet more items from his pack. A looking-glass about three foot long was produced, followed by a fabric bundle tied with a pink ribbon.

“Come over here,” ordered Alexander.

Peter rose gratefully and began to pull up his tights around his damp bum.

“Oh no. I didn’t tell you to pull up your hose, did I, boy? You keep that proud, bouncing cock of yours on full display now. I want your tights left precisely where they are.”

“Now,” he went on. “Down on the floor with you. I want you in the straw, sitting down with your legs stretched as far apart as you can. I want to see your hosed toes pointing to the two corners of this stable.”

Alexander placed the looking-glass against a wooden post.

“I want you to see every moment of this, so the image of your humiliation is forever emblazoned on your memory, boy.”

“Why – why are you doing this?”

“Because it amuses me, boy. And because I can.”

Peter helplessly did as he was bidden, his bare bottom resting on the prickly straw. He flushed to see himself in this embarrassing predicament: naked apart from the tight-fitting bright yellow hose still covering his legs like a pair of stockings. His thick uncut cock still resolutely pointed towards the ceiling, red and throbbing – inexplicably so to the poor, humiliated farmer. He looked up at his friends, the respect they once had for him slowly ebbing away.

“You heard me!” snapped Alexander. “Point those little toes of yours now, bumboy…”

“Please, no more!” begged his victim.

Alexander ignored him, and instead, placed the fabric bag down beside the handsome young man. He untied the ribbon and the spectators were finally able to see what was contained within.

With a flourish, Alexander produced a long rope of twisted leather. At intervals along the rope hung a heavy leather sphere – four in all. The leather ball at one end was maybe two inches across, with the diameter of each globe increasing until the final one was fully five inches wide.

The uneducated fools gawped in confusion, clearly failing to understand the implications of the toy. For Peter, at least, realisation dawned as Alexander knelt in the straw, his luxurious grey tights resting alongside, almost touching the yellow silkiness of his slave’s hosiery.

For a second time, Alexander withdrew the small pot of grease from his jerkin, and coating a couple of fingers with the pungent lard, he reached between the sweating arse cheeks of the farmhand. Smooth, he thought to himself. Barely a hair nestled in the obscene crack between those beautiful bum cheeks.

Alexander looked deep into the boy’s eyes and saw his victim flinch as his long finger stroked the puckered flesh of Peter’s anus. Tense and frightened, the muscle was squeezed as tight as tight could be. Delicately, Alexander deposited a coating of gloop around the sphincter. And then gently, almost tenderly, he began to push his middle finger into the hole.

“Ah – ah – ah!” gasped the masculine specimen.

“Just my finger, pushing its way into your boy pussy. And it’s only the beginning of how I intend to truly possess you…”

More grease was applied, so that now a liberal coating of gunk nestled in Peter’s arsehole. His two friends seemed horrified and fascinated in equal measures by the humiliation of their one-time idol. And Peter’s helplessness increased as by now, a small gathering of onlookers from the inn had joined to partake of the view.

“Onto your back,” ordered Alexander.

The farmhand reluctantly shuffled to lie in this new position.

“Now, lift your feet off the ground and tuck your knees against your chest.”

With a deep, ragged sigh, Peter did as he was bidden. And as his hosed thighs came to rest against his broad and sweating chest, he knew only too well just how exposed and vulnerable this left his arse.

In his deepest and darkest fantasies, Peter had imagined the perky Griselde in this very position: sluttish and feminine, ready to open to him and his thrusting ardour. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that he would face the public humiliation of adopting this pose himself, naked saved for the silkiness of these hateful yellow tights, now pulled down to just below his arse cheeks. And still, his fucking, fucking prick was as rock hard as ever. Could it be that on some demeaning level, he actually desired to be used in this depraved and devastating fashion?

The stranger must be some kind of powerful wizard, Peter reckoned, to have achieved mastery of him with such ease. Peter looked up to see the dark Mephistophelean features of Alexander gazing upon him, ill-disguised lust written across the older man’s face.

And then, the sensation began. At first, it was a dull pressure at Peter’s arsehole as the smallest of the leather spheres was pushed against his tensed sphincter. He gritted his teeth. The humiliation, the subjugation, the pain was too much. He could not allow this devil to invade his body with this obscene sex toy.

But the pressure was relentless.

“Don’t fight it,” whispered Alexander. “Open your arse to it. Take it. One way or another it’s going inside you. You may as well co-operate.”

“No, no. It’s filthy. It’s wrong.”

“I know a way to make it feel better,” cooed the older man.

And then an odour unlike any Peter had ever smelled assailed his senses as Alexander pushed his little glass bottle under the farmhand’s nostrils.

“Breathe. Breathe deep, bitch.”

The hulk of a man had no choice but to do as he was bidden, and as he was flooded with the intensity of lust, his breathing deepened, his heart pounded and all his senses swam. And sure enough it did become easier to accept the intrusion into his arse. He felt himself begin to stretch as Alexander continued to push the gunk-coated ball into his bumhole.

“Ah – ah – ahhhhhh!” he gasped.

“That’s right,” purred Alexander as he watched with pleasure as the circumference of the ball began to pass through the straining portal of his victim’s pink anus. “Take it, boy. Take that ball deep inside you.”

And then, finally, the ball had passed its widest part, and, all too eagerly it seemed, was sucked through Peter’s hole. A desperate, ragged cry escaped his lips at the sudden shock of the intruding leather ball, nestling now within him.

“Mmmmm, your hole is hungrier than I thought, boy… You will find it easier now to take the next one.”

“The … next …?” stammered the trembling farmhand. He had already begun involuntarily to lower his muscular legs.

“No no no,” admonished Alexander, “you are to keep your tights-covered legs high in the air just like that: a slutty whore, displaying your wares for all to see - and to mock.”

The dastardly potion was again forced under Peter’s nose and again he felt its erotic powers coursing through his body as he lay there, naked save for the yellow tights pulled down to his knees. The damp crotch of the garment taunted him, mere inches from his face. He writhed in impotent, delicious torment, as the potion worked its aphrodisiac charms on his unwilling mind and body.

            Then, all Peter’s attention was once again forced to focus on his arsehole as the second, slightly larger leather sphere began to be pressed against his puckered boy pussy. His anus stretched more quickly this time, and then, he realised with horror, that the evil stranger was reaching between his legs to play with his still-hard cock.

            “No, no, please, no,” he begged, his mind swirling and whirling.

            “Come now, bitch. Your prick wants this sooo badly, doesn’t it?”

            He was his arse. He was his cock. That’s all the gorgeous young stud could think of as Alexander manipulated both, and a little ripple of laughter ran around the small crowd as the second of the heavy leather balls disappeared up his rectum.

            “Oh! Oh!” Peter gasped as his asslips closed again. But they were to be offered no respite. Alexander gave a couple more tugs on his victim’s pecker, and then began pushing the third ball into the young man.

            And this one was wider still.

            “Push, bitch. Push your arse out as if you were taking a shit,” advised the stranger in his deep, silky tones. “That’s it. Now – grab those muscular bum cheeks and spread them for me, pull them apart. We need to make sure you take all my toys up your mancunt.”

            His will to fight utterly spent, Peter did as he was ordered, spreading his arsecheeks wide to try and accommodate yet another wicked invasion. As the newest ball began to push inside him, he felt the other two jostling, protesting inside, as if unwilling to allow yet another intruder to join them inside the warm wetness of his arse.

            But Alexander was not to be defeated, and with a triumphant grunt, the third ball joined its fellows in Peter’s overcrowded anal cavity.

            “Feel full, now, I bet, don’t you bitch?” the older man gloated.

            Peter whimpered his concurrence. The heaviness of the balls deep inside him were incredibly uncomfortable. He wished nothing more than to be allowed to empty himself of them.

            “And yet we still have the biggest brute to go!”

            A cheer went up from the crowd. Starved of entertainment, the public spectacle of the handsomest man in their village, humiliated and laid low before them, grovelling in the straw, naked save for some skimpy yellow tights, his arsehole on display for all to see - this was the event of the century for these yokels.

            For a final time, Alexander administered the potion to his unwilling victim: “Breathe deeply, now. Take it deep inside you. It’s the only way you’ll succeed in taking the final toy…”

            Overwhelmed by sensation, Peter’s arse was raped by the final and largest globe. He never knew his hole could stretch so wide. He whimpered, wriggling his toes in their yellow tights, beads of sweat breaking out all over his body, and leaving the indecent, clinging material damp and translucent against his tanned flesh. Wider, wider, his ass stretched. He moaned and cursed. Surely his body could not take any further invasion? He would split in two!

            And suddenly the pressure stopped, and with a sucking, shuddering sound, he realised Alexander was done.

            “You disappoint me, boy,” tutted his new master, as Alexander tipped the looking glass to show Peter the sight that all in the barn could see.

            There the beautiful farmer lay, red-faced and dripping with sweat. Cock proud and swollen, yellow tights clinging to his legs. And there at his hole, he saw the black leather ball lodged in his still-gaping anus, the overcrowding in his rectum refusing to allow any further invasion from the obscene sex toys.

            “You have failed me, bitch. You have not taken all four of my anal balls. So what on earth am I to do with you now?”