Chapter 35 - A Soapy Confession

          “He has been lodged in the castle all this time, your Highness?” asked Raymond incredulously.

“Oh yes,” came Prince Felix’s smug reply. “He’s been mouldering beneath our feet for the past several weeks. Immured in his very own dungeon. There’s a certain aptness to his demise, don’t you think? The impudent Alexander Courcey spends his last miserable days, shivering and alone in the darkness, as hunger and thirst gradually overcome him.”

The two young men – one blond, one dark – stood at the door to the dungeon, Odin and Ulfgar two paces behind them.

“Now, let us take a final look at his stinking corpse!”

The Prince stood to one side and indicated that Odin should unlock the heavy, studded door. The Viking stepped forward and began to fumble through the numerous keys dangling from his belt.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Felix impatiently.

“I – I can’t seem to find the key,” mumbled the shaven-headed villain.

“What did you say?” hissed the Prince. “Are you telling me you’ve lost the damned thing?!”

Odin spread his hands helplessly. “I’m sure it must be somewhere, your Highness.”

“I want to view Courcey’s corpse,” stated the Prince grimly. “Go and fetch an axe and break this door down. At once!”

It was exhausting work, and even with Odin’s considerable strength, he was grunting and sweating by the time he had hacked a hole in the door large enough for a man to step through.

“That will do,” snapped Felix, as he elbowed the Viking out of the way and lifted first one, then the other crimson-hosed leg through the splintered oak. Raymond followed his royal master, sneering in Odin’s face as he did so. After the bright sunlight of the morning, he took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom. He clambered down the steps into the stinking cell, eager to see for himself the pitiful sight of the final resting place of the arrogant Alexander Courcey.

But what a surprise! Save for the smattering of straw on the ground, and the sinister, looming shapes of the instruments of torture, the dungeon seemed to be bafflingly empty. Prince Felix was holding an iron manacle in his hand, but the chain attached to it had been neatly sliced through. Even in the darkness, Raymond could see the pale fury writ large on those beautiful royal features. A fearful screech issued forth from Felix’s full, pouting lips:

“What is this meaning of this?!”

Ensconced in the royal bedchamber, Raymond tried, to no avail, to calm the livid Prince. Felix paced the floor, raging and espousing one paranoid theory after another: Odin had betrayed him and decided to free Courcey in an act of defiance – after all it had been Odin’s idea to leave Courcey rather than killing him on the spot; now Ulfgar was the traitor who had been in league with the assassin in the forest; then both his bodyguards were in it together, and far from terrorising the peasants in the surrounding villages, they had been encouraging them in their murderous intentions! His father’s Arabian enemies had freed the treasonous Courcey; the jealous barons were the culprits; Courcey was a wizard in league with the devil himself and had availed himself of some diabolical magic to file through his manacle and flee to safety!

“I entreat your Highness to calm yourself!” pleaded Raymond. “Leave this to me. I will discover how Courcey affected his escape. He must have had some accomplice here in the castle. You may put your faith in me that I will find the loathsome miscreant.”

Prince Felix passed a bejewelled hand across his fevered brow.

“One thing I can assure you, Sire,” Raymond concluded, “Alexander Courcey is no wizard.”

“A wizard indeed! How could we have been so stupid!”

“Stanley! The spell!”

Aching and sore, their arms sagging with fatigue, their leg muscles cramping, and their arseholes blistering from the stinging ginger, the auburn-headed brothers fell to bickering.

“There is no spell, you fucking idiot! How long have we been dangling here now? Six? Seven hours? It must be three in the afternoon. You’ve let us be fooled by some wandering con artist!”

“You mustn’t doubt him! He said it wouldn’t work if we doubted him!”

“So how long do you suggest we hang here from our own rafters, arses glued together, ginger bulbs rammed up our butts, with our legs stuffed in the same pair of oversize tights? Besides, I’ve been desperate to pee for the past hour!”

Arthur sighed heavily, the awful truth finally sinking in, and tainting forever his pure and trusting soul. “What can we do, Stanley?”

“Try bracing yourself, and I’ll see if I can get myself off this fucking plug!”

Arthur planted his legs as firmly as he could, and Stanley tried to pull away from his brother. It was hopeless. Arthur’s stockinged feet could not grip the floorboards, and merely slid helplessly along the floor behind his brother.

“Damn it!” cursed Stanley.

“Maybe we can wriggle free? Maybe the glue will wear off?”

Stanley sighed. “Anything’s worth a try, I suppose.”

And so the two brothers set to writhing and gyrating their muscular asses, gasping with the pain of the stinging ginger root plunged deep within them. The bouncing and jiggling made them feel ridiculous, their cocks bobbing in that massive pair of over-sized tights. Eventually, after ten minutes of fruitless struggling, red-face and panting, they admitted defeat.

“It’s no good,” gasped Arthur. “Our butts are stuck fast.”

“And I need to piss more than ever now.” moaned Stanley.

“Well there’s only one thing we can do,” sighed his older brother. He inhaled a lungful of air. “Help! Help!!!”

“It is not possible to over-state the severity of this situation. We have a Judas in our midst!”

Raymond stood, proud and imperious at the top of the courtyard steps. A soft summer breeze ruffled his dark curls, and his shapely legs, encased in their shimmering silver hose, were planted wide apart; his fists balled at his hips.

He’s loving every minute of this, Will thought to himself.

Raymond continued to address the assembled inhabitants of the castle. “One of you knows something. One of you has given assistance in the schemes of the crown’s most contemptible enemy. If you come forward now, admit your wrong-doing and confess what you know, it will go easier for you. I am determined to discover the truth in this matter, and if you do not confess freely, then I swear to you all, no power on this earth will shield you from the Prince’s wrath!”

They were dismissed with the warning that the miscreant had exactly one hour to identify himself. If this did not occur, Raymond promised more direct ways of winkling out the traitor amongst them. Naturally they all congregated in the kitchen, fevered speculation breaking out in every corner of the room.

Will lingered to one side, dressed once more in his freshly laundered blue tunic and hose. Mistress Olwen, indignant and furious with Raymond due to his impertinent missive, had, in an impulsive moment, stripped Will of his treacle-stained tights and the disgustingly soiled nappy and burned them all. She could do nothing about the cruel steel cage encircling his cock, but, at least, and for the first time in many days, he was not swaddled in a humiliating diaper!

However, that fact was his sole consolation. He’d always known it would only be a matter of time before Alexander’s escape was discovered, and he realised grimly that he alone among his peers knew what on earth Raymond was referring to. Equally, he knew he could not reveal to anyone that he was the guilty party. Whatever mercy Raymond might promise in return for the truth about Alexander’s flight, he knew his words would mean nothing once Raymond learned that his most hated enemy was to blame. Will decided that he must be braver than he had ever been in his life. He resolved to keep his lips firmly shut.

The Prince, feverish and distraught, had retired to bed with a raging headache, so it had been left to Raymond to try and discover the facts behind the former Steward’s mysterious elopement.

The allotted hour passed, and Raymond was honest enough with himself to admit that, frankly, he would have been rather disappointed had the cat among the pigeons come forward and denied him the opportunity of torturing the truth out of the unfortunate servants.

The stunned expressions on the faces of Ulfgar and Odin, combined with Raymond’s certainty that those two buffoons could no more have dissembled sufficiently to conspire against the Prince than they could compose a love sonnet or embroider hosiery, led him to conclude that the Scandinavian ogres were as innocent as they claimed. So it was their brute force that he employed to arrange the castle courtyard to his satisfaction.

Once everything was in place, he summoned the first three of the servants to stand before him. It was, he assured himself, pure coincidence that they happened to be his three former fellow pages: Humphrey, Mortimer and Will.

The young men stared in awed silence as they surveyed the scene in the castle courtyard. Every terrifying instrument of torture that the castle contained had been hefted up the dungeon steps and arranged around the dusty yard. There stood the rack, the thumbscrews, the Iron Maiden, the stocks, alongside numerous other evil apparatus wrought from ironwork at whose purpose the lads could only hazard the wildest of guesses.

“You see,” declared Raymond. “Because of the vile deeds of one single miscreant, everybody suffers!”

It was Mortimer who spoke up. “Raymond, can’t you at least tell us what has been done against the Prince? Maybe then we could work out what it is you need to know?”

“You’ll address me as ‘Sir’” said Raymond, in a voice as icy as the North wind. “And the consequences of the villain’s actions must rest upon his own conscience. Now, with whom should we begin?”

Will sighed deeply. They all knew who it would be.

With a barely perceptible nod to his lackeys, Raymond indicated that Odin and Ulfgar should indeed seize the young man. They lifted him up, one hulking henchman under each armpit and carried him as if he weighed nothing at all. Will’s blue hosed legs hung impotently in the air. In spite of the afternoon sun, Will found himself shivering with fear as he was deposited alongside the rack. Odin roughly stripped Will of his blue tunic, leaving him bare-chested - his iridescent tights his sole concession to modesty. Will took some small consolation in the fact that Raymond’s new task had apparently caused him to overlook that he was no longer diapered as per the Steward’s instructions, but back wearing his customary blue uniform.

“This is your last chance, boy,” purred Raymond. “Do you still maintain you have no guilty knowledge staining your conscience?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Will lied.

“Fix him to the rack,” ordered the older youth.

Will was hefted into the air and then dumped face down on the wooden carcass of the torture device. His arms were stretched above his head and firmly secured to the wooden roller. Meanwhile, his tights-clad ankles were spread as wide as they could stretch and were similarly fastened to the cylinder at the end. The metal chastity device bit into his groin as the weight of his body pushed down on the hard wood of the rack.

Will winced in preparation of the anguish to come as Odin hovered by the wooden handle which, when turned, would initiate the agonising process of stretching his vulnerable body and ultimately yank his tortured bones until they broke.

“Wait a moment!” Raymond declared. “I think the worm needs a little extra incentive, just to concentrate his mind on anything he may wish to tell us!”

Will tried to lift his head to see what new and terrible outrage would next be perpetrated on his vulnerable young body. He watched Raymond lift one of the large wooden buckets, commonly used to scrub the castle floors. Warm water swilled inside the pail and Will looked on in fearful anticipation as Raymond plunged his hand into the receptacle and withdrew a large, slippery bar of white soap.

“These innocent lumps of soap have been marinating in warm water till they’re nice and soft and melting. Let’s see just how many of them it will take for you to tell me the truth.”

Will, pinioned to the rack and unable to struggle free, felt Odin’s thick fingers fumbling with the waistband of his blue hose until it was unceremoniously yanked down level with the tops of his thighs. Meanwhile, Raymond took the first soap suppository and began to push it firmly into Will’s much-abused asshole.

All of the penetrations and invasions he had suffered over his months at the castle, none of them prepared him for the tingling, stinging sensation at his orifice as the bar of soap forced its way into his anal passage. On Raymond pushed, until Will’s poor asslips closed around the curved end of the soapy tablet. Immediately, Will felt it worming its way deeper into his bowels as a second bar began to push his reluctant boycunt wide again.

“How many will it take to clean your filthy conscience?” mused Raymond.

Each bar of soap measured a good four or five inches long and felt almost as broad, thought Will, as the second invader lodged successfully within him. It did not take long for the suppositories to begin their heartless tormenting of his guts.

“Your arse lining will be really irritated by all that soap!” said Raymond. “Your body will be desperate to expel it. And we can’t have that happening now, can we?”

Will felt the inevitable pressure of a leather butt plug penetrating his throbbing hole, boring its unwelcome pathway into him, and forcing both bars of soap even deeper into his protesting body: a body that had all too recently been assailed by the equally aggressive milk and molasses enemas.

“Ugh, ugh, no!” he wailed as his nubile young muscles strained and tensed in their bonds, his thighs bunching in their blue hose. Then he emitted a scream of pain as the plug passed its widest point, his smarting sphincter snapped shut around its stem, and the thick flared base protruded between his cheeks for all to see. Raymond prodded the base of the plug deeper, pushing the tallowy bars up, up, inside him to further torment Will’s vulnerable arse lining.

Finally, Raymond pulled the waistband of Will’s tights back up to cover his ass. Will knew that the tight, constricting fabric would keep that hateful plug pushed deep inside him and render it well-nigh impossible for him to expel it.

He panted as once more his guts churned for Raymond’s entertainment. Then, into his line of vision, appeared Ulfgar, running a long leather whip through the palm of his vast hand with pointed deliberation. The tail of the whip began to caress Will’s naked back, delicately at first, and then with firmer strokes.

“Turn the handle,” Raymond told Odin.

The henchman obeyed, and Will started to feel an uncomfortable tugging sensation at his wrists. He was suddenly acutely aware of his body: the tightness in his limbs, the painful cramping in his stomach, the cold steel pressing against his cock, the bubbling lather beginning to seep from his stinging arse, the reassuring sheerness of his tights clinging to his thighs and calves and bum. Then, he screamed in pain as the first stroke of the whip lashed across his upper back.

“Confess, bitch,” murmured Raymond persuasively. “It was you, wasn’t it? His favourite pet. You were the one who smuggled Alexander Courcey out of the castle!”

Will gritted his teeth as Raymond indicated that a further turn on the rack was required. Sharp pain seared through his arm sockets, and the ropes at his ankles started to cut through the delicate fabric of his hose and burn his legs. The whip cracked down again, this time on the meaty flesh of his thighs. Will howled in agony.

“Tell me what happened and this will all be over,” Raymond promised him. “I’ll order the whipping and the racking to cease, I’ll pull that nasty plug out of your hole and let you evacuate those bars of soap as well. Maybe I’ll even take off your chastity cage and let you come…”

Will thought of Alexander, his master, out there somewhere and fleeing for his life, and remained firm. His reward was a further twist on the rack and another lash of the whip – this time on his round buttocks. He imagined the reddening flesh of his bubble-shaped bum through the thin covering of the hose. His arms and legs were stretched to their maximum capacity now: surely one more ratchet of the wheel would dislocate something?!

“Aaaaaagh!” he yelled as the soap suppositories shifted within him. Seemingly with a mind of their own, they were determined to escape the velvety confines of his guts. But the cruel leather dong rammed up his bum thwarted their most assiduous efforts.

“You can’t keep this up much longer,” cooed Raymond. “You stole the key to the dungeon, didn’t you? Tell me the truth, you little fucker. Tell me where the key is that proves you betrayed your prince! So help me, if you don’t, every last person in this castle will be tortured on this rack! And they’ll curse your hateful little arse that you put them through it just to save a piece of shit like Alexander Courcey!”

“Stop! Raymond, stop!”

The dark-haired young Steward did as he was bidden, incredulity written across his handsome face. He turned to where the voice had come from, only to see Humphrey, the fat page boy, cringing in the corner of the courtyard.

“Don’t be angry with me,” whimpered Humphrey, “but did you say something about a key?”

Raymond narrowed his eyes. “I may have done.”

“Well if you did, then I might have seen something you might want to know about. I may be able to help.”

“That’s an awful lot of mights and maybes,” said Raymond, a dark threat in his voice.

“It was only yesterday afternoon,” Humphrey informed him. “I thought it was a bit odd at the time.”

“Humphrey! Please! Hold your tongue!” Will pleaded desperately.

“I’m sorry, Will,” mumbled the fat boy, wringing his hands in distress. “But if it means I won’t get tortured like you, I’ll squeal and tell Raymond whatever he wants to know.”

“Clearly your wisdom is as considerable as your belly,” remarked Raymond sardonically. “Now, I’m becoming impatient. Quickly – tell me what you saw.”

“It was a large iron key. Will had it hidden in his bedding. He took it out and dropped it in there.” Humphrey gestured to the centre of the courtyard. “Right in the middle of the well!”

Chapter 34 - Ginger Magic

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

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

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

            “Mistress Olwen –

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

            It was signed “The Chief Steward.”

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

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

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

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

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

            Arthur shot him a warning glance. “Stanley” –

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “I told you, Sir’ –

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

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

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

           

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

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

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

            “A wizard?” repeated Stanley suspiciously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “I can do that,” offered Stanley.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “Now comes your turn, Stanley.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “A few hours?” repeated Arthur in bewilderment.

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

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

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

Chapter 33 - Black treacle and Blacksmiths

           

            “There’s still half of it left, you know…”

            Raymond was peering into the iron pot. He inhaled deeply and made a great show of relishing the aroma of its bubbling contents.

            Will, spent with exhaustion, raised his shoulders from the table. “No,” he begged. “No more, please.”

            “Surely you’re not suggesting we waste a drop of this precious delicacy?” exclaimed Raymond in mock-horror. “Besides, we do need to ensure you’re completely clean inside… don’t we?”

            His tone turned harsher. “Come here, goat-shit. Now.”

            Will sighed desperately and staggered over to the hearth, a manoeuvre not made any easier by the fact his white tights, lingering round his ankles, constricted his movement as he tried to walk. His stomach, protesting still, gurgled as he moved, and as Will reached the fireside, a wet fart bubbled out of him.

            Raymond sneered at his subordinate. “Don’t look so terrified. We won’t be using the catheter this time.” True to his word, Raymond detached the twin balloons from the tubing. Unsurprisingly, given what he knew of Raymond, this did not provide Will with any particular comfort or reassurance. “How shall we position you this time, eh? I think I’d like to see your arse high in the air, baby bitch. So bend over and grab your ankles.”

            As ever, with no choice but to comply, Will did as he was bidden. Blood rushed to his head and his bare bum was warmed by the flames. For the second time that night, Will felt the unwelcome intrusion of the iron nozzle between his buttocks, and for the second time again, Raymond mercilessly released the clamp that presaged the depositing of the hateful fluid deep into Will’s bowels.

            Vulnerable, near naked and exposed, his bare bum bobbing in the air as he was dominated and controlled by his new master, Will began to grow light-headed as the liquid surged into him once more. As if reading his mind, Raymond taunted him: “You’re mine to use as I wish, bitch boy. You don’t even have any control over your most basic bodily functions. I control what precisely goes in and out of your arsehole. And when.”

            For a second time, Will was forced to take the whole contents of the enema bag. This time there was a moment of calm, as if his body needed a moment to comprehend the fact that it was to be assailed all over again - and was rejecting the notion with disbelief.

            However, with no balloons this time to impede the flood of emission, Will knew that he had no hope in hell of retaining the enema for anywhere near as long before. It was with a certain grim satisfaction that he realised Raymond’s fine grey doublet and hose was in genuine danger of being spattered with the effluent that would surely soon erupt from his arse.

            As always seemed to be the case with Raymond, the older youth was one step ahead of him. With a pang of dismay, Will felt the familiar sensation of a nappy being swiftly and deftly wrapped around his middle. Once the wadding was secured, Raymond stepped back to admire his handiwork.

            “Very well, bitch. You can pull your tights up again now.”

            Misery etched across his face, Will tugged his pure white hosiery over his calves and his thighs, pulling them up as far as they would go, over the new clean diaper that he had been dressed in.

            “How smart you look. All fresh and clean in your new nappy and pretty white tights. I do hope nothing happens to get them dirty, young Will,” smiled Raymond solicitously. “Now, go and stand over there and let’s see you squat a little. I want to see you sticking out that big diapered baby bottom of yours like the humiliated sub slut you know you are.”

            Gingerly, Will went to stand in the corner that Raymond had indicated, acutely aware that his insides were churning once more – less tolerant than ever of the fluid that had once more flooded his guts. He tried to focus entirely on his sphincter muscle, clamping it shut so that nothing could escape him.

            “Oh, I bet you really want to let all that nasty stuff out, don’t you? I bet it hurts like hell having to squeeze your arsehole tight to stop it exploding out of you.”

            A new cramp. Will gritted his teeth. Clenched his fists. He wouldn’t – couldn’t allow Raymond the satisfaction of seeing him shit himself.

            “I’m in no hurry. We have all night long. But you will fill that diaper sooner or later. And I want to see the look on your face when you do it.”

            Idly, Raymond began to rub his tights-covered groin with his jewelled palm. He grabbed a nearby stool and stepped up onto it so his engorged cock now rested level with, and mere inches from, Will’s anguished face. Raymond slipped his rock-hard dick from the constraints of his tights and began to jerk it urgently.

            Suddenly, out of nowhere, a cramp hit that felt like Will had been punched in the stomach. There was no way that he could endure it any longer. He lost control and as he did so, a gasp escaped his lips: “Oh God, oh God, no!”

            “That’s it, slave bitch!” crowed Raymond as he neared climax. “Let all that nasty enema out into your nappy! I want to see it flood out of you!”

            Raymond got his wish as a torrent of thick, sticky, sickly sweet fluid gushed from Will’s ass. Will shivered in shock and disgust as the mixture shot into his diaper and filled it, rapidly swirling round his buttocks and genitals. But there was no way on Earth that the meagre swaddling could contain the sheer force and volume of that expulsion! As another wave of cramps hit and more of the treacly liquid surged out of him, Will realised that his nappy had reached its capacity, and was now overflowing.

            “Oh no, oh no!” he wailed, salt tears springing to his eyes as a foul, warm wetness began to run out the bottom of the nappy and down the backs of his thighs. He glanced down behind him, as if hoping mere willpower would staunch the flow. But instead, all he saw was the ominous dark gloop staining the pristine whiteness of his tights a tell-tale black: the initial trickle swelled and became a free-flowing stream which started to puddle under his white-hosed soles. The rich aroma of liquorice assailed his nostrils once more.

            “What’s happened?” demanded Raymond, fist still jerking furiously. “Tell me, bitch! Tell me what you’ve done!”

            “I’ve shat myself,” Will sobbed in humiliation. “The enema has burst out of my ass, filled my nappy and flowed down my tights-covered legs onto the floor!”

            “That’s right, bitch! How utterly humiliating for you to have to stand there flooding your nappy with all that disgusting enema! Soiling your pretty white tights with all that stuff from your ass!”

Raymond grunted and heaved, his cock spasming and squirting its creamy ejaculate directly into Will’s stricken face; the gloopy cum landed on the blond lad’s cheeks, lips and eyelashes, and mingled with his salty tears.

            Both youths gasped deep lungfuls of air as they attempted to regain control of themselves: the only sounds in the echoing chamber the steady drips of various liquids hitting the stone floor.

            Raymond climbed down from his stool and walked up to the ravaged Will. He reached out and squeezed Will’s nappied arse. As he squashed the padding, more of the sticky enema fluid gushed out of the confines of the diaper, flooding over the top and down Will’s tights. Will shuddered as the nasty liquid cooled against his flesh.

            “You dirty little slut. You filthy bitch…”

            It was getting late, but, glancing up towards the highest tower of the castle, the ever-observant Raymond noticed that candle-light yet flickered in the window of the royal bedchamber.

            He had dismissed the whimpering slutboy, forcing Will to trudge the long corridors back to the dormitory in his stained, sticky, ruined white hose. Raymond looked around him at the brownish black blemishes on the walls and floors: some of them several yards away from the scene of Will’s treatment. He smiled to himself as he pondered which of his minions he would select to scrub the offensive blandishments from the stone walls and floors. He glanced at the dying embers of the fire and peered into the iron pot.  A small quantity of sweet fluid lingered at the bottom.

            “Waste not, want not,” murmured the new Steward, and dipping a tankard in the simmering pot, he filled it three-quarters full of the creamy syrup.

            “Enter!” called the Prince languidly as Raymond identified himself from the other side of the door.

            Raymond did as he was ordered, and entered the royal chambers to find Prince Felix lying on his front atop the coverlets, bare chested and naked save for his cream riding hose. In spite of his all-too recent sexual release, Raymond’s libido gave a little tug of pleasure at the sight of Felix’s firm buttocks, lying there so invitingly in their cream enclosure.

            “What do you want?” demanded the Prince.

            “I thought you might appreciate a sweet, milky drink before bed-time, your Highness. I shall leave it here at your bedside.”

            “I’ve missed riding,” sighed Felix as he swang his legs round to take a sip of the frothing libation. “And I find I’m a little out of practice. My back aches and my shoulders are tense. Mmm, that tastes good. What’s in it?”

            “My own secret recipe, my Lord,” twinkled Raymond. “Perhaps I could try to massage away some of your tension?” he ventured.

            The Prince did not reply, but merely lay down again on the bed, stretching out his cream coloured legs, and making his smooth, golden back available for Raymond’s ministrations. Quivering with the anticipation of once again placing his hands on that perfect flesh, Raymond climbed onto the bed and straddled his master, his own bum shimmering in its sheer grey tights, perched atop the cream buttocks of the Prince.

            Slowly yet firmly, Raymond began to knead the bunched muscles in Felix’s shoulders, and was rewarded with a long sigh from the Prince which encouraged him to press harder. Raymond looked down at his own tights-clad thighs and squeezed them slightly against either side of Felix’s back. He imagined the sensation of feeling that fine mesh against one’s bare skin.

            In silence he worked, gently rolling his palms and fists against the knots in Prince Felix’s upper body. Eventually, he found the courage to ask the question that had been playing on his mind for the last few weeks.

            “Your Highness, you know my loyalty to you is without question…”

            No reply.

            “Well, I find myself curious. Will you tell me what exactly happened to my predecessor? Where is Alexander Courcey?”

            A pause, and then Prince Felix turned his golden head and stared up at Raymond with his devastating, dazzling blue eyes.

            “By all means, my most loyal servant. I believe the time has come for us to close the final chapter on Alexander Courcey. In the morning, I promise to satisfy your curiosity once and for all.”

            How astonished would Prince Felix have been to learn that, far from mouldering in the royal dungeon, the disgraced erstwhile Steward of Castle Montford was now in fact several miles away from his former home? Alexander had spent the past week travelling by night and sleeping by day in secluded corners of the forest, avoiding any fellow wayfarers lest they recognised him from.

            Only now, he mused, many days’ walk from the castle, dared he risk an encounter with another human being. And just as that very thought occurred to him, the trees parted to reveal a little stone cottage. The glow of candle-light from the windows informed him that its inhabitants were not yet in their beds.

            He lowered his hood, ran a hand through his black hair in an attempt to make himself appear a little more presentable, and rapped three times on the door. It opened just a crack and a suspicious eye peered out.

            “What do you want?” demanded an uncouth male voice.

            “I am a weary traveller and I have been on the road for many a day,” explained Alexander. “I wondered if you had a spare bed I could use for the night. I have money and can pay you handsomely for your hospitality.”

            “Who is it, Stanley?” called another man’s voice from inside the cottage.

            The door was closed firmly in Alexander’s face as the first man entered into a whispered exchange with the second. Minutes passed and Alexander waited expectantly on the doorstep. The voices within the cottage seemed to be in conflict, and the snatches of the argument that he could overhear suggested the point of contention was over whether or not to submit this stranger into their home.

            Eventually, the matter seemed to be resolved, and the door swang open wide. Alexander gazed upon the tall, broad-shouldered young man before him. He was about thirty years of age, with curly auburn hair and hazel eyes. His features were too plain for him to be considered handsome, but his wide mouth was up-turned in a good-natured and welcoming smile.

            “Forgive my brother,” he said. “These are dark times and he has a naturally suspicious nature. But I say things have come to a pretty pass if we cannot offer our help to a fellow man who reaches out in his hour of need.”

            “I am grateful to you, Sir,” said Alexander. “I am sure your kindness will be repaid ten-fold.”

            “Please, welcome to our little home,” the man continued, ushering Alexander inside. “My name is Arthur, and this is my younger brother, Stanley.”

            He gestured towards his sibling. Stanley was as tall and well-built as his brother, and his hair the exact same shade of red. However, in contrast to Arthur’s curly locks, Stanley’s fell straight against his forehead. Like his brother, he was no great beauty, but his green eyes were framed with long, dark delicate lashes which gave a queer and unusual sense of femininity, and contrasted with the strong outline of his manly jaw.

            Stanley’s lips were pressed firmly together in an expression of disapproval, and his curt nod in Alexander’s direction informed him that the visitor had been admitted to their home against his wishes and over his protests.

            “They call me Olivier,” lied Alexander smoothly. “I am travelling south on family business, and I find that there are no inns or taverns nearby in which I might spend the night.”

            “Ah, no, good Master Olivier,” confirmed Arthur. “You won’t find such hostelries for many a mile. But I am sure we can provide you with a comfortable spot for you to rest your head before you continue on your way.”

            Almost unconsciously, Alexander had performed a quick inventory of the two young men as prospective sexual conquests. Whilst neither were conventionally beautiful, they were clearly manual workers and their bodies showed promise of fine, firm muscles beneath their clothing.

            Here, however, as so often when he ventured beyond the confines of the castle and in amongst the peasantry, Alexander found himself frustrated. Instead of displaying their sturdy, muscular calves and thighs in colourful hosiery, the two brothers were clad in leather jerkins and leather trousers that concealed, rather than exhibited, their legs, bums and bulges.

            Brother Arthur invited him to take a seat at their table, plying him with bread, cheese and fruit with an eagerness that would have aroused Alexander’s suspicions, had he not been able to see for himself the lack of guile on the young man’s broadly smiling face. He expressed his gratitude. After all, his own bag was now empty of foodstuffs - save for a large bulb of fresh ginger that Will had for some reason, best known only to himself, thought would be a useful inclusion amongst the other provisions he had pinched from Mistress Olwen’s supplies.

            Arthur chatted away as Alexander fell eagerly on the simple supper. It transpired that the brothers were blacksmiths. They had inherited their trade from their long-dead father. They owned one horse: a powerful black mare named Fallow, who stabled out in back of the house. Yes, they had heard from their neighbours of the onslaught of the terrifying giants from the North who, dispatched by the evil Prince Felix, had mutilated many of their friends. It was fortunate that they themselves had been spared: for a smith without hands is no good to either man or beast!

            The good folk of the peasantry might quiver in fearful anticipation of another bloody sortie into the countryside, but it was with relief that Alexander learned that Odin and Ulfgar had now returned to the castle. Meanwhile, all this time, Stanley remained silent, glowering at Alexander from the corner of the room as his more loquacious sibling chatted away.

            Alexander tried to smother a tell-tale yawn, but the action did not go unnoticed, and at once, Arthur was all apologies for having kept the weary traveller up so late. He would have none of Alexander’s protestations, insisting that their houseguest take his own bed: “I shall be quite comfortable on some blankets down here. After all, I’ve not been sleeping in the forest for the past week!”

            Half an hour later, as Alexander found himself drifting off amongst the simple blankets of Arthur’s truckle bed, the whispered conversation between the two brothers floated up the staircase.

            “Shame on you, Stanley, seeking to deny our hospitality to the fellow.”

            “I’m just saying we don’t know who he is or what he wants, is all.”

            “Well, that’s his own business, and it’s up to him whether or not he chooses to share it with the likes of us. But you can see from the finery of his garments that he’s an important man. And you should show some respect to your betters.”

            And as the brothers bickered into the night, and as sleep gently overcame him, the devious mind of Alexander Courcey began to devise a plan.