Chapter 17 - The Erotic Book

17. The Erotic Book

            “Boy! Attend on me and the prince…”

            Will hurried over to the Steward’s side and followed at a respectful distance as the new arrivals made their way through the corridors of the castle.

Alexander’s mind was working quickly. He would have to play this situation very carefully indeed. Prince Felix had a tricky reputation, to say the least, and was used to getting his way in all things.

            “This way, your highness. We shall be honoured to receive you in Lord Geoffrey’s own private apartments – the finest and most opulent in the castle.”

            “I should expect no less,” murmured the prince.

            Alexander nodded to the page boy, who opened the door to Lord Geoffrey’s richly upholstered study, and allowed his visitors to enter the room. The prince went first, closely followed by his hulking bodyguards. Alexander came in behind them, and nodded to the page to close the door.

            Felix glanced around at the rich Persian tapestries that adorned the stone walls. “Adequate,” he said, tersely.

            He strode over to a large leather armchair and sank into its comfortable plushness, stretching his arms and legs like a self-satisfied cat. The gigantic bodyguards took up protective positions either side of their prince, as Will waited respectfully by the door. Alexander smiled at his royal guest.

            Ye gods, but the youth was beautiful, he thought to himself. His handsome head flung back, so that the shape of his pale neck lay there, just ready to be nibbled and kissed. The lithe torso, the bulge at his groin, and those impossibly shapely legs, all encased in the superb lavender hose were all enough to drive him into a frenzy of lust. Already Alexander’s mind began to wander to wicked thoughts of precisely what he would do to the young buck should he ever be fortunate enough to have him at his mercy.

            “Remove my boots!” ordered Prince Felix imperiously.

            Alexander nodded at Will to do as the prince commanded, and Will hesitantly took a step forward to approach the royal dignitary.

            “Not him. I want you to do it.” Felix gestured disdainfully at Alexander, the merest hint of a smile playing around his full lips.

            Alexander watched Will hesitate. Whom would the boy obey? Ah, thought the Steward. So this is the way it is to be, is it? He gritted his teeth, inwardly fuming at the humiliation he had been dealt in front of the lowliest junior page – a boy whom he took expert delight in using and abusing. But Alexander had not risen to the post of Lord Geoffrey’s most trusted adviser without knowing when to fight and when to concede. For now, the prince held the upper hand.

            “Of course, your highness. It would be an honour.”

            Alexander knelt before the young man as Felix raised his brown leather riding boot in the air. Grasping the top of the boot, he allowed his hand to brush against the taut muscles of the prince’s thigh, strong and lissom in his sensuous hosiery. God, he felt good, he thought.

            One tug. Then another. And the boot came free. Felix grunted in satisfaction as he wiggled his toes in their tights. “And now the other one, Master Steward…”

            The same ritual, and the other boot was also off. The prince sank his perfect, hosed feet into the thick red carpet. Then he swang one leg around and slung it casually over the arm of the chair, leaving his foot dangling, and his legs spread apart. His crotch bulged delightfully in his tights, and he sat there for a moment, allowing Alexander to drink in his masculine beauty.

            Alexander rose to his feet, depositing the two sweaty leather riding boots to one side, and bowing low as he withdrew from the sacred presence of royalty.

            The prince took one of his fine, bejewelled hands and ran it casually through his golden locks. “Now, I suppose you want an explanation of how I came to this God-forsaken hole of a castle.”

            Alexander remained silent.

            “I am here at the entreaty of my father the King. As you know, he has embarked on a righteous campaign against the heathen foe. The royal palace is full of those who would wish my father ill, and as I am his most precious and beloved possession he wanted to ensure my safety in his absence. For this reason, he has despatched me here, to the home of his most loyal servant, my godfather and your master, Lord Geoffrey de Montford. And I am to stay here as your guest until my father has returned triumphant from his military quest.

            “These are my bodyguards – the bearded brute is named Ulfgar and the shaven headed ogre is Odin. They are of Viking origin and are to be shown the utmost courtesy and to be obeyed in all things. As of course, am I.

            “Now I imagine I shall be making some changes around this place. After all, a little backwater such as this can hardly be expected to keep up with what is going on in more civilised climes. But if you are loyal and hard-working, you will find I can be a kindly master. However, if I become displeased, my anger will know no bounds. So consider yourselves warned. Do I make myself clear?”

            “As crystal, your highness,” purred Alexander. “And I feel sure that, despite our, as you say, humble surroundings, you will find the castle a comfortable and welcoming home for the duration of your stay here.”

            Prince Felix’s expression was disdainful and unconvinced. “Well, we shall see. But for now I need to bathe. How l long to be rid of the stink of horses…”

           

            “Little backwater, he said, did he? What a nerve!”

            “Yes,” Will nodded to the cook. “I’ve never heard anyone speak to Master Alexander like that. And he made him pull his boots off too! I don’t think Alexander liked it.”

            “I’m sure he didn’t,” replied Olwen. “I don’t like the sound of this at all.”

            “What do you know of the prince?’

            The woman’s voice dropped to a whisper. “As you know, lad, I’m not one to gossip, but I hear he’s utterly spoiled. His mother died when he was an infant and he’s the king’s only heir. His father dotes on him and he’s never been criticised or corrected in his life. He’s never done a day’s work and he lounges around, believing he’s better than anyone else in the world.”

            “Oh…”

            “And I bet you any money he’s fussy about what he eats as well…”

            Alexander quickly realised that the spoiled young Prince would be looking for any excuse to criticise the reception he was receiving at the castle. And he was seriously under-staffed for a royal visitor. Only three pages had escaped conscription into the royal army.

The first, Mortimer, Alexander considered cute in a Puckish way: his red hair, freckles and upturned nose would certainly appeal to some, and his legs encased a uniform of orange tights were shapely, if slim. It had been his height (or rather lack of it) that had meant he had been left behind when the majority of the castle’s menfolk left on their expedition.

Next was a plump boy named Humphrey. Humphrey was a cry baby, and had sniffled and sobbed himself to sleep for a good six weeks after being parted from his mother. The principal source of entertainment that he gave Alexander was that he was incredibly self-conscious about his ample bottom, which was displayed in all its bouncy glory in his shimmering green hose.

Finally there was Alexander’s secret favourite: the sexy young slutboy, Will. He’d ensured that the blond young stud was going nowhere near the war zone. He wanted his latest little tights slut nearby and available at all times…

            Nothing was good enough for Prince Felix, complained Mistress Olwen to anyone who would listen. Whole dishes had to be thrown away because he had changed his mind over the menu, and he complained bitterly that there were no deer to hunt in the forest. He was becoming bored. And a bored Prince, as Alexander well knew, was a dangerous prince. This fact was brought home to him very clearly one morning about a week after the royal party had descended on de Montford Castle.

            Alexander received a summons from the Prince’s bodyguard to attend him in his chambers. With a sigh of annoyance, the Steward laid aside the paperwork that had been occupying him, and, gathering up his black velvet cloak around his slim, muscular form, he made his way to the Prince.

            He paused outside the grand oak doors of what used to be Lord Geoffrey’s private chambers, and which naturally enough had been requisitioned by his royal godson, and then knocked.

            The heavy door swang open, and Ulfgar – the Prince’s bearded servant – acknowledged him with a grunt.

            Prince Felix looked more beautiful than ever. His golden locks tumbled to his shoulders and he wore a thickly brocaded red velvet dressing gown. The gown gaped open and Alexander could see that the Prince was bare chested beneath: his pectoral muscles defined, his nipples pink and round and his stomach firm and flat. His hose was as scarlet as the gown, with golden embroidery around its waist, and it encased Felix’s muscular legs and bulging groin with indecent sensuality.

            “Steward,” he said, shortly, and his full lips curled in a sneer. “What took you so long?”

            Alexander merely smiled patiently. He knew better than to respond to the provocation.

            “We’ve ridden out every day in search of sport and there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. No livestock. No deer. No foxes. The tedium is driving me mad.”
            Prince Felix clicked his fingers, and Odin – his other servant – appeared carrying a large leather bound book.

            Alexander’s composure slipped a little. The tome looked horribly familiar.

            “So, I ordered Odin here to see if he could provide me with some other form of entertainment. And look at what he found – on your own bookshelf, Master Steward!”

            The Prince smirked at Alexander’s growing discomfort. “I was quite at a loss when I began to read it. It seems to be some kind of a story, but the subject matter is unlike any I have come across before.”

            Alexander smiled smoothly, recovering his wits. “There are many books in my library, your Highness. Many of which I inherited from the previous Steward. My duties to Lord Geoffrey leave precious time for reading and I confess I do not recognise this particularly book. If however, its subject matter offends you in any way, I will have it removed immediately.”

            He leant forward to take the incriminating volume.

            “Oh I’m not offended, Alexander,” replied the Prince. “Merely intrigued. And if you have not already done so, perhaps you should read some of it.”

            “If my Lord wishes it.”

            “Oh I do. And I’ve decided that in lieu of any other form of amusement, I should like to hear you read it aloud for me.”

            Alexander hesitated. The Prince was notoriously priggish. Rumours abounded that he had never had sex with anyone, either male or female: not due to any kind of religious morality, but rather because he genuinely believed that no other human being could compare to him physically or deserved to be allowed to touch his royal cock. Nevertheless, the story was one of the most erotic and depraved in Alexander’s library. Was this all an elaborate trap to disgrace him in the eyes of the King?

            “You’ve been given a royal command,” growled Odin. “Prince Felix wants to be entertained.”

            “Of course. If his highness is sure…”

            “Oh I’m quite sure,” the Prince said. “I’ve even marked a place for you to begin…”

            Odin handed the erotic book to Alexander.

            “I believe the chapter is entitled ‘Seduction of a Prince’”…

            Alexander knew exactly what the chapter contained. He had masturbated many times over the contents imagining himself in the role of the Prince’s wicked uncle. He did not know precisely what Felix intended, but Alexander had a very bad feeling about it.

            He cleared his throat and began to read aloud.

            “ ‘ “Come here, nephew, and sit beside your favourite uncle.”

            The handsome young Prince did so, his big brown eyes wide and innocent.

            “Yes, uncle.”

            His uncle had achieved his wish and had got the young heir to the throne all to himself. The bodyguards had been dismissed. After all –surely they could trust the young prince with his own flesh and blood, couldn’t they? His royal uncle smiled grimly to himself. The lad was distractingly pretty – eighteen years old, short and slim, with a fine silver doublet and pale blue hose that encased his lissom legs.

            His uncle was not much taller than the prince, but he was broad and stocky: coarse black hair sprouted from chest, and his eyebrows were low and thick. By contrast, his legs were thick and muscular, encased in shiny, silken black tights. He felt an illicit thrill as his unsuspecting nephew sat beside him on the cushioned divan, and the crown prince’s blue thigh nestled against his own muscular leg. The uncle felt the heat of the youngster’s limb and rested his large, bejewelled hand on the boy’s knee.

            “I propose a toast!” he declared. “To you, nephew! May you have a long life and many years as king. I hope you will always find me a true and loyal subject!”

            He poured a generous amount of claret into a silver goblet and handed it to the prince. As he did so, his hand slid surreptitiously from the boy’s knee, up the leg to rest on the lad’s stockinged thigh.

            “I am unused to wine, uncle,” giggled the prince.

            “Then, lad, it is time you learned to drink.”

            “Are you drinking, uncle?”

            “All in good time. I want to see you drain that goblet first.”

            The prince took a deep breath and, as he tipped his head backwards, his uncle’s hairy hand slid yet further up his leg until it cupped the boy’s bulge.

            “Uncle!” exclaimed the prince. “What are you doing?”

            “Just checking, lad. Your duties when you become king will include producing an heir to the throne. You might as well view yourself as a royal stud machine. For that is undoubtedly what you are. And we need to check that your prick is capable of getting hard and getting some foreign princess fat with squealing brats…”’”

            Alexander paused. He realised that the subject matter was becoming dangerously treasonous.

            “Why have you stopped?” demanded Felix.

            Alexander looked for a sign of how the real-life Prince was reacting to the taking advantage of his fictional counterpart. Was he angry? Amused? Or, dared he dream it, aroused?

            But the Prince’s expression remained enigmatic. And his heavy velvet gown was now drawn closed so Alexander could not even see if his hosed cock was responding to the tale.

            “Continue, Steward! I’m simply dying to hear how the story turns out…”

            Alexander found his place in the manuscript.

            “ ‘The uncle squeezed his nephew’s cock through the boy’s tights.

            “Mmm,” purred the older man. “No problems there, I should say. That’s a good firm cock if I ever felt one. And it’s getting hard if I’m not very much mistaken.”

            The prince’s face flushed with a rosy glow: embarrassment or the effect of the wine? Probably both, decided the older man.

            “Come now, lad. You may be a prince, but you’re not too old to come and sit on your uncle’s knee as you did when you were a babe…”

            “Uncle?” replied the surprised youth.

            But his uncle was gratified to see that the youth’s head was starting to droop and the word was slurred: the drug he had added to the prince’s wine was starting to take effect.

            “Come now, lad, don’t you struggle. We know it’s what you want. Come and sit on your uncle’s lap…”

            Effortlessly, the wicked uncle lifted the lad round his tighted waist and positioned him on his lap.

            The prince tried to protest but he was no match for the brawn of his uncle. “Please, uncle, I’m not a baby anymore…”

            The uncle reached around and gave the lad’s hosed dick another squeeze. “I can feel that, lad,” he chuckled. And he shifted the boy’s weight so that the lad’s taut boy-ass was positioned right over his own swollen member. He rocked his groin back and forth so his dick pressed between the tights-covered globes of his nephew’s bum.

            “Uncle, please!” the prince protested, and tried to lift himself off his uncle’s lap.

            “You stay right where you are, lad.” His hands roamed over the lad’s body, feeling the young, firm body encased in the silken tights: the hard thigh muscles, the bulging crotch, the pert arse. The prince wriggled weakly but his wicked uncle merely laughed. “You know your squirming only serves to excite me even more, boy…”

            In one swift movement, the uncle rose to his feet, sweeping his nephew into his arms and carrying him over to the bed in the corner of the room.

            “What – what are you doing, uncle?” pleaded the bewildered young prince.

            “Hush, lad – or must I silence you, I wonder?”

            And with that, he tossed the youth onto the richly upholstered bed. The prince’s eyes widened in a mixture of fear and bewilderment. The uncle clambered on top of him so that the youth was pinioned beneath. Quickly, he took the lad’s wrists and tied one to each of the bed posts so the prince’s upper body was stretched taut.

            “Uncle, please!”

            “I see you must be silenced, princeling…”

            And the uncle smothered the prince’s pert pink lips with his own coarsely bearded mouth. The boy tried to pull away, outraged at the indecency of his own flesh and blood subjecting him to such an assault, but the older man was stronger, more persistent and driven into a frenzy of lust. His lapping tongue probed the young man’s mouth, pushing deeper and deeper into his throat, licking and nibbling and biting at his pale neck, as the prince began to thrash about impotently beneath him.

            Eventually, the uncle paused for breath, and giving his captive nephew an evil leer, he reached behind him and pressed two of his thick fingers against the boy’s arsehole. He grunted with desire as he felt the clinging material of the boy’s tights, slightly damp with sweat, give as he pushed his fingers into the royal hole.

            “Ahhh!” cried the lad. “What are you doing, uncle?”

            “Long ago I decided I would be the man who took your virginity, princeling. Your arse is mine!”

            A tear began to well up in the lad’s big brown eyes. “I don’t understand.”

            “It’s true, then. You really are that naïve! I hardly thought it possible, but your cosseted life style has led you to this. Very well, nephew! I shall tell you precisely what I’m going to do to you. I’m going to tear a little hole in these fine blue tights of yours. And then I am going to release my giant prick from within the pouch of my hose and I am going to stick it right up your puckered little boy bum. All the way in. It will give me enormous pleasure. To take your cherry. It will feel so tight. So velvety. And I will pound and pound with no mercy until it feels as if your very body will rip in two. You’ll scream, boy. You’ll scream like some dirty little whore. Lying beneath me. Your hands tied to the bedposts, and me fucking you. Fucking you in your tights like some rent boy. Fucking you all – night – long.”’”

Chapter 16 - Encased in Tights

Lord Geoffrey’s birthday celebrations had been deemed a great success. The evening had degenerated into a night of drunken debauchery. And for once, the strict regime at the castle was allowed to lapse a little. Even Mistress Olwen had to admit that the feast was indeed magnificent, although only the most adventurous of the guests dared to taste some of the dish of the day – Francois’ exotic “Coq au crème”. Those who did declared that it was utterly divine.

Geoffrey asked Alexander if the slave boy had indeed been roasted and if it was his carcass that now adorned the dinner table. Alexander replied with an enigmatic smile that he would beg to be allowed to keep that particular information a birthday secret, but something told Geoffrey that all was not as it had seemed.

Eventually, everyone made their way to their beds: Raymond perched miserably on the shrivelled Sir Wilfrid’s lap, and Sir Antony and his three companions disappeared into Lord Geoffrey’s bedchamber for a kind of entertainment Will could only imagine.

Will himself, meanwhile, was not at all surprised to be summoned to the Chief Steward’s chamber for the attention that he had received all too infrequently over the past few months, whilst Alexander’s attentions had been trained on his slave-bird.

“Enter, boy!” Alexander’s masculine tones instructed as Will once again waited outside the bedchamber, dressed in his skimpy page outfit and tight-fitting hose.

As usual, Will’s heart was in his mouth as he contemplated what Alexander could possibly have in store for him this time.

However, it seemed that, mellowed by wine, Alexander was in a more conversational mood than usual.

“So, slutboy,” he drawled. “What did you think of the evening’s entertainment?”

As always, Alexander’s very presence made Will feel nervous. And this was a new development. He was not usually asked for his opinion on anything!

“Did it turn you on, eh? Get that pathetic little boycock twitching in your tights to see the humiliation of a great soldier – being reduced to a mere chicken?”

Will panicked trying to work out what he was supposed to say. Would it anger Alexander more if he told him he was turned on or that he wasn’t?

“Answer me, bitch. Or are you still more interested in that slutty little serving girl?”

“No, Sir,” Will stammered as he recalled Jane’s devastating revelation.

“Ah, so you have learned the truth about that little minx then. Don’t say you were surprised! As if a woman would have had any use for you. You’re good for one thing and one thing only. To be tied up and to have a cock stuck in one of your ends. A real man’s cock!”

As if on command, Will’s dick twitched in his tights at this verbal humiliation.

“I was right, boy, I see…”

“Now, come over here and get your waistcoat and pumps off. I want you naked apart from your tights…”

Will did as he was instructed. He wondered if he would ever get accustomed to that terrible, wonderful thrill of excitement as he was ordered to strip down to merely that most revealing and erotic item of clothing – his tight-fitting hose.

“Sit on the end of the bed…”

Will did so. And he sensed Alexander climbing onto the sheets behind him.

“Master Yorick has been hard at work for you, my boy. He’s been helping me with a little project. I’ve decided I want to see and feel my little slave bitch entirely covered in tights – from head to toe.”

Will felt an item of clothing slip over his head. He soon realised that the material was the same stretchy, clingy material as his tights. Alexander guided the page boy’s arms into the garment. It appeared to have long sleeves that ended in gloves. The older man rolled down the torso of what appeared to be some kind of leotard. Alexander lifted the boy’s bottom as he fastened the body around Will’s arsehole.

“Beautiful,” cooed Alexander. “And now the finishing touch…”

Will felt Alexander’s hands at his temples, as the Steward began to force a kind of hood onto his head. Will panicked slightly until he realised the material was again the same as that of his tights. The hose-hood slipped over his face but was light enough for him to be able to breathe through and (although his vision was restricted) he could just about make out shapes through the fabric.

“Mmm. Perfect. Stand, boy.”

Will did as he was instructed, and Alexander stepped back to appreciate his creation. That lithe body, the strong muscular thighs and that pert, perfect bum all entirely encased in tights from head to toe.

“Now you truly are my tights bitch, boy.”

Will’s cock was rock hard as ever. His senses were muffled slightly. Sounds and sights came to him differently through the clinging, blue material. And as Alexander’s manly hands began to roam over his body, the sheer sensuousness of the all-over coverage made his cock ache for release.

He felt himself being pushed back onto the bed, and once again felt the familiar sensation as his limbs were tugged into a spread-eagled position and fastened to the bedposts.

“My kinky little tights slave tied up and ready to be used…”

The heady aroma of Alexander’s potion filled the air as the bottle was forced under Will’s nostrils and he had no choice but to inhale through the tights-hood.

Then the bottle was gone and Will’s hips bucked as he felt Alexander’s face sink into his, his master’s tongue pushing against the tight material and into his mouth. Will responded. The hosiery formed an erotic barrier between the two of them, preventing their salivating tongues from meeting, as the effects of the potion drove Will crazy with desire and lust.

The material was damp as Alexander withdrew his tongue and replaced it with his impressive cock.

He sat astride Will’s chest, pounding his dick into his blue boy’s mouth.

“Take it,” he hissed. “Take my cock, slut boy.”

Will did as he was told as best he could. And then Alexander withdrew, leaving him gasping for air through his hood.

“Now I want to see you writhe. Struggle and writhe. Struggle, moan and writhe. My tied up bitch. My kidnapped hostage. My tights slave.”

Will did as he was told, straining against his bonds, thrashing and moaning and whimpering, the potion coursing through his body, knowing that the sight was only arousing his Master more and more. The material of the tights encased him completely and caused yet more exquisite arousal.

Will felt Alexander’s stockinged foot ranging over his tights-clad body, pressing against his tits, his cock, his balls, his thighs…

And then he heard the grunt of ecstatic release as Alexander came, and hot, thick cum spattered over Will’s hosed body.

Will waited as the cum started to cool and dry on his leotard and tights. Then, to his astonishment, he felt Alexander grab his cock and start to rub it through the silken material.

“Don’t get used to this, bitch. This is a special treat in honour of Lord Geoffrey’s birthday…”

Will began to moan in ecstasy as he felt his cock wanked through the gorgeous silky hose.

“Silence, bitch!” And Alexander clamped his manly palm over the boy’s nose and mouth. Will squirmed even more as the hand muffled his squeals and restricted his breathing. But the clamped hand served only to arouse him even more!

“I’m milking you, slut. Breeding my tights bitch…”

And then, try as he might to delay it, Will’s adolescent hormones betrayed him. He spurted – over and over and over – into the crotch of his hose. Alexander pumped away at his cock until he had milked it completely dry.

Will lay there, gasping post-ejaculation, astonished that Alexander had relaxed his own rules and allowed his page boy to come.

“There are going to be some changes around here, soon, boy,” Alexander warned the tights-clad figure lying prone and tied to the bed. “War is coming. And that means uncertainty for us all…”

The Chief Steward was not wrong. Mere days after the celebrations had taken place marking the occasion of Lord Geoffrey’s birthday, rumours began to circulate that the King was embarking on another foreign military campaign, and that any able-bodied men faced conscription into his army.

Sure enough, within days, Alexander had been summoned to Geoffrey’s rooms and given the news that Geoffrey, along with all his most able knights, were required to travel to Arabia to do battle with the King’s enemies there.

“It’s hopeless, of course, but the old fool is too stubborn to see it,” grumbled the Lord of the manor. “And in the mean time, good men must be sacrificed on the altar of his pride and ambition. Still, we must obey, my friend. And I fear the number of men I am required to supply means that some must come from your staff as well as those more accustomed to life on the battlefield.”

“I shall be honoured, my Lord, to fight alongside you” –

“No, no, my friend. Much as I would value it, your place is here. I need a man I can trust to protect the castle whilst I’m away. But I fear I must leave you with only a skeleton staff. All the strongest and bravest fighters must come with me.”

Will was safe. Everyone regarded him as a moronic peasant boy who would likely get himself killed within moments of arriving on a foreign shore. So there was no danger of him being conscripted. Besides, Will felt fairly sure Alexander intended to keep him very close at hand for the foreseeable future. But plenty of the other pages were required to attend some rudimentary battle training. And even Master Yorick – whose bulging muscles made him a prime target for the army – began to pack up his belongings and say his farewells.

By the end of the week, the parade of strong, handsome, virile men, with Lord Geoffrey at its head, was on its way. Tears were shed, embraces were made, and then they were gone. The castle’s chambers echoed – empty save for those deemed unworthy of military service.

Will found his day-to-day existence went on much as before. True, he had now inherited some of the duties of the other pages, but there were now far fewer residents in the castle to cater to. As for Alexander, well, he had been left in complete command. Not that Lord Geoffrey had ever seen fit to question his right-hand man before – but now the Chief Steward’s power truly was absolute.

It was a cold February morning. Will was fetching firewood to top up Mistress Olwen’s dwindling supply, when he heard an excited commotion arising from the courtyard.

“Well, boy,” snapped the old cook. “Go and see what is happening out there!”

Will hurried, all too eager to discover the cause of the disturbance. He ran outside and saw the large wooden gates of the castle swinging open. Like him, others had come to gawp at the visitors. And this is what they saw. It was a small procession, headed by a young village boy. He had been hastily recruited to carry a tall flag, with a golden crest emblazoned at its tip.

Behind the village lad rode two men that Will could only describe as giants. They were undoubtedly the tallest, broadest, biggest men that he had ever seen. Each of them must have been easily six foot six. One had masses of wiry black hair growing all over him: on his head, his face, and sprouting from his chest. The other man was equally dark, but where his companion was bearded and hairy, the second man was clean shaven, even down to his razored scalp. Both were dressed identically, wrapped up tight in long, furry, black robes that fell to their feet. They rode monstrous black horses, quite as big as the shire horses that Will’s neighbour Gyles kept back in the village farm.

The men in black each touched the hilts of their swords lightly, as if as a warning for anyone who dared approach. And they scowled evilly at the gawping servants.

As if the sight of these two ogres was not astonishing enough, the next rider in the little parade presented an even more extraordinary apparition.

It was a young man. Will guessed he was at most twenty-three or four. He was about five feet ten tall, and Will knew instantly that he was the most handsome man he had ever laid eyes on. His skin was a pure, flawless white, which contrasted with the golden waves of his shoulder length hair. His eyes were as blue as sapphires, and his nose was slim and straight. His lips red, full and slightly pouting, and his cheeks and bone structure were as fine and delicate as if they had been constructed in some heavenly forge.

His physique was easy to appreciate also, for unlike the monsters who preceded him, and in spite of the biting chill, the beautiful young man’s body was not engulfed in cloaks and furs. His shoulders were broad and his waist slim. His fine legs were clearly on display – muscular and shapely and encased in the finest, silken lavender hose. He wore leather riding boots that covered his calves, but his exquisite tights covered his thighs and then extended well beyond his flat stomach and over his chest. A silver embroidered “bolero” jacket covered the young man’s upper body and arms, but Will was all too aware that the stranger had abandoned warmth and comfort for the effect he knew his devastating attire would have on his audience. The only concession to the cold was a jaunty fur hat which perched on an angle atop his beautiful head.

The crowd fell silent as the newcomers entered the courtyard. Will could see from the young man’s proud expression that he was well used to being admired, indeed that he expected it from anyone he should meet.

The man reined in his pure white steed and called out in a clear voice: “Who is master here?”

“I have that honour – for the time being, your highness.”

Alexander had emerged from his office and stood at the top of the steps that led up to the entrance to the Great Hall.

“And who, pray, are you?”

“My name is Alexander Courcey. And I am the Chief Steward of de Montford Castle. Had we been forewarned of your arrival, we would have been able to prepare a proper welcome for you.”

“My journey here has been one of the utmost secrecy. Only my father and a few of my most trusted servants have known. My father did not dare risk my royal person by telling just – anyone.”

Alexander bowed low, but Will could see that the insult had found its mark.

“Please, then, your highness. Come this way. Our castle’s staff is rather depleted at the moment but I can assure you, we will do everything in our power to make your sojourn here a comfortable one.”

“See that you do, Courcey,” replied the young man. “My father would be most displeased if it were not.”

And with that, he swang athletically down from his steed, and followed by his hulking bodyguards, strode into the castle.

Alexander was struggling to maintain his composure.

Will suddenly realised Mistress Olwen was at his side.

“Who is it?” he hissed.

Olwen pulled a face. “That, lad, is Prince Felix: the only son and heir of our beloved King. And from what I hear of that young man, his arrival at our castle will mean only one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Trouble.”

Chapter 15 - Creamed Cock

15. Creamed Cock

“An egg?” called Lord Geoffrey. “Surely our proud cock cannot lay eggs?”

“Oh I think you’d be surprised, your Lordship, at just what might emerge from this creature’s talented hole!”

Darius quivered with shame to be described thus by his most hated foe.

“Come, chicken! You know what to do – show us how you lay your eggs…”

The Arab looked at the Steward helplessly.

“Very well, I shall aid you in your task,” and as he spoke these words, he ripped the tiny sliver of silky thong from the slave’s hips, so that it fell to the floor, exposing his considerable cock, which swung, large and flaccid from his groin. Then Alexander clutched the glossy feathers emerging from the slave’s ass. Tugging the fantasy tail, he pulled, until, with a loud plopping sound, the butt plug came free from Darius’ hole.

“Ahhhh!’ cried the exotic bird.

“No complaining, bitch! It will merely aid you in the laying of your precious cargo to have your ass muscles loosened a little… Now – squat for your masters and lay an egg like a good little chicken!”

The beautiful soldier whimpered in despair as he did as he was instructed, lowering his torso towards the ground, and pushing his arse out.

Will craned his neck to get a better view as a hush fell across the room. How, he wondered, could Alexander achieve this?

“Come, slut-bird,” taunted the Steward. “Force those arse lips apart and produce a big egg for us…”

Darius gritted his teeth, beads of sweat appearing on his forehead as he strained his muscles to produce his burden.

“The egg appears!”

And sure enough, the very tip of a large white egg began to appear as the slave bird’s hole began to stretch. Clearly, Will realised, with a slightly guilty thrill, Alexander had already inserted the egg into his slave’s butt before plugging it with the fantasy bird tail. The atmosphere in the large hall was electric. Everyone remained silent as they watched the obscene entertainment unfold.

The monstrous egg grew wider, porcelain white and coated in the sticky mucus of the Arabian’s arse. Darius the slave’s face grew redder with the shame and the exertion.

“And I’ll take a little clucking from you, as well!”

Darius the bird creature screeched in pain and shame, and as he did so, he let out a squelching fart sound as the fat egg was released from his gaping butt hole. It clattered to the floor with a heavy thud, and Will realised the egg must be of some considerable weight and must have caused the Arab much pain in attempting to retain it. Fidgeting in his tights, Will was reminded of the plug that had until recently permanently rested in his bottom. Will could only sympathise with the slave’s much abused arsehole.

A roar of appreciative laughter echoed around the Hall, and a derisive smattering of applause followed.

The slave collapsed onto his hands and knees, panting from the pain and exertion of producing his precious cargo.

Alexander crossed to the defeated and broken soldier and crouched down to whisper in his face.

“I’m proud of you, my peacock… You see how much better off you are stripped of that misplaced arrogance – and of your dignity! Do you see what you have become? A bird of fantasy. To be mocked and laughed at by your bitterest enemies. How does it feel to know all of these men are rubbing their cocks through their silken hose even now at the thought of you straining to produce a porcelain egg from your beautiful arse?…”

One final vestige of Darius’ defiance remained. Raising his dark, handsome head, he spat in Alexander’s face.

A shocked silence fell across the room.

Alexander rose to his feet and calmly wiped the spittle from his cheek.

He turned to his captive audience and smiled wickedly.

“I would now like to introduce a very special guest to you all. With all due respect to Mistress Olwen, our wonderful cook, I have invited a gentleman who is a true specialist in the art of cuisine. I give you the illustrious Monsieur Francois!”

The large doors swang open, and Will turned his head to catch a glimpse of the new arrival. The man who now entered the Hall was very short and very round: only about five foot in height – and very nearly the same size in diameter. His face was pale and doughy, with two little black beady eyes like currants. His doublet and hose were white, and he acknowledged the applause of the castle’s occupants with a self-satisfied nod as he waddled towards the platform at the end of the Hall.

Meanwhile, at the far end of the Hall, Alexander had ordered some of his servants to move a large wooden table into view. The table was covered with bowls, pots and other receptacles. And a heady aroma of herbs and spices emanated from its direction.

“Welcome, Monsieur Francois!” called the Steward. “You honour us with your presence!”

“Well, my friend” replied the fat little man, in a thick Gallic accent. “Yours was a most unusual request but I have never been able to resist a challenge! And to do so to celebrate ze birthday of Lord Geoffrey – how could I refuse?”

The greying Lord of the Castle raised his goblet in acknowledgment.

“All is as you requested, monsieur. I shall leave it all to your expertise…”

Will craned his neck to watch as the little foreigner took up a position behind the table.

“My friends!” he declared. “I am ze greatest chef in ze world! And you will have ze privilege of watching me work! Today I prepare a new recipe. It is called “Coq au Crème!”

He paused for dramatic effect.

“Now, I do require some volunteers for zis challenging dish. Four good strong men to help me in its preparation. Your Lordship, perhaps you would be so kind as to nominate your most trusted men…”

Lord Geoffrey smiled quizzically at the funny little man, and then indicated the four knights who sat closest to him. Will gulped as the four fantastic specimens of manhood rose to their feet – all of them chisel-jawed, with bulging muscles. Their colours of their tights ranged from grey to burgundy to black, but every one contained awesomely proportioned thigh muscles and engorged bulges, still excited from the sight of Darius the slave bird and his egg-laying trick.

“Now. Ze most important part of zis recipe is to find a really succulent piece of bird flesh. Would you gentlemen know where I could locate a fresh hunk of male poultry, per’aps?”

The knights shared a conspiratorial look and strode over to where the Arab slave lay, spent and exhausted on the floor. As he saw his enemies approach, a flame of resistance again seemed to leap in him, and Darius began to scramble to his feet. But there was nowhere for him to flee. Some of the black feathers became dislodged as the knights grabbed his muscular form, and they fluttered to the ground. One knight held the struggling bird of fantasy at each limb and dragged him over to the chef’s table.

“Bon. Bon. Tres bon!” purred Monsieur Francois. “A most delicious-looking specimen! And now to prepare him! First – he must be plucked!”

A raucous laugh from Master Yorick echoed around the hall.

“Non, non, monsieur! I said plucked!”

Darius’s eyes widened as the little chef produced from beneath the table a large (and very sharp) pair of shears.

“Now, gentlemen. You will ‘ave to keep him very still. I do not want to clip something off by mistake!”

Geoffrey’s handsome knights pinioned the terrified, sweating slave boy against the wall. Francois approached him slowly and slowly and sensuously ran the cold blades of the knife down his trembling body.

And then… snip… snip… snip… The chef began to strip the feathers from the young man’s succulent flesh. He was an expert and soon the soft black down lay at a pile at the Arab slut’s feet.

“And now – his hair must also be shaved!”

One of the knights reached over and removed the fantastical head dress from their captive’s head. And so soon, the glossy black mane of Darius’ hair also met its downfall. The chef took a step back so that his enraptured audience could appreciate the view.

Darius the slave stood like a bronzed statue: completely hairless from head to toe. His pectoral muscles glistened with sweat. His face was drawn with shame and humiliation.

“Excellent! Zat is more like it!” crowed Francois.

In spite of himself, Will found that his cock was rock hard in his tights. He couldn’t help himself. And blushing pink, he realised that a part of him envied the Arab soldier his predicament. How Will wished he had four gorgeous hunks, all clad in the slinkiest and silkiest of materials, all pressed against his naked body. Their muscular asses looked divine in their fine hosiery. And each of them was also turned on by having the beautiful slave at their mercy.

“Now, my friends! Bring ze chicken to ze table. We must prepare our bird for dinner.”

The delighted knights dragged the struggling slave to the large wooden table, grinning amongst themselves at the prospect of yet more humiliation for the unfortunate hunk. Between the four of them, they hefted the naked man onto his back on the table and then took up positions at each of the four corners, two at his wrists and two at his ankles, to ensure he could not escape.

“We must truss our turkey, gentlemen!”

Quick as a flash, the chef handed some sturdy pieces of rope to Lord Geoffrey’s knights. And the knights needed no further instruction.

Despite Darius’ struggles, his legs were raised and securely tied to his ankles. The captive bird’s feet pointed to the sky, and his ass lay inviting and vulnerable.

“Excellent! And naturally we begin with ze most important and tasty part – ze stuffing! We have all seen the capacious anal cavity that our bird possesses. It will take some stuffing to fill him all up, I think!”

A vast clay bowl appeared from nowhere, and Francois plunged his chubby hand into it, lifting out a pale brown, gunky substance.

“My secret recipe! A divine blend of breadcrumbs, egg yolk, butter, chopped onions, carrots, cranberries and herbs and spices give ze stuffing a gorgeous piquancy!”

Darius struggled against his bonds, but it was no use. He was stuck fast, helpless to whatever perverted treatment the Frenchman determined to mete out.

“Does everyone have a good view of ze bird’s bottom?”

A cheer from the throng assured him that this was indeed so.

“Bon. Zen here we go!”

The chef took a large handful of the gunk. “Would you be so kind as to part ze cheeks?” he asked two of the knights with excessive politeness. They did so only too eagerly; and skilfully, the chef began to push the stuffing into Darius’ swollen arsehole.

“Ahhhh!” the slave cried out, as he felt the gloop enter his backside.

“Ah,” said the chef. “Did I mention, I like my stuffing to be very spicy? I have added extra pepper, extra ginger and extra chilli to ze recipe! I fear my little bird of paradise zat zis will not be a pleasant experience for you…”

Half of the audience winced at the thought of the slave’s burning ass ring. The other half thrilled with the sadistic pleasure of what he would suffer. Will shifted uncomfortably as he realised only he was fantasising that he was the one lying there, naked and trussed up on the table in front of everyone, his bottom being abused in the obscene parody of a meal being prepared.

Darius’ hole continued to be stretched as Francois fed more and more of the slimy mixture into him. His fat little fingers pushed and prodded the stuffing deeper and deeper.

“I shall soon have you full to ze brim, my little chicken,” he cooed.

Will remembered how humiliating it felt to be filled with food. And now to see this once proud, noble warrior reduced to this demeaning position made him shake his head in wonder.

Darius was moaning as the spicy mixture was inserted into the depths of his bowels.

“My, my, what a noisy little bird, we have here! My friends, would you find something to gag zat mouth of his?”

One of the gorgeous young knights – the tall, well-built Sir Antony, rifled through the various bowls and containers sitting on the table and produced a fat yellow lemon. He rubbed the fruit casually against the crotch of his fine black tights.

“Will this do, Monsieur?” he smirked.

“Excellent!”

The lemon was pushed between Darius’ lips, into his mouth, and tied in place, effectively gagging him and ensuring that the only sounds he could make were muffled moans and sobs. Of which there were plenty…

The stuffing was just about gone. The whole bowl was wiped clean and its fiery, gunky contents were all now residing within the slave’s guts.

“Now, my little bird. We must make sure none of zat delicious stuffing leaks out, mustn’t we? Perhaps you would be so good as to pass me another of zose juicy lemons?”

The slave bird’s eyes widened as the considerable amount of stuffing, packed solidly inside his fundament was impacted even further.

“In we go…”

And the large, pimpled yellow fruit stretched the slave’s anus yet more.

“We are packed very full,” Francois smiled as the lemon met resistance at the slave’s swollen hole. But eventually, he succeeded and the bulbous citrus fruit penetrated the opening.

“Arrrgggh!!” screamed Darius.

Monsieur Francois was determined and adept. He worked away at the opening until the fruit went all the way in. The chef stepped back for everyone to appreciate his handiwork. Some of the breadcrumby gunk was smeared around the slave’s ass, and the presence of the lemon was all too visibly obvious. The slave’s asslips were parted just a little and the yellow fruit’s end protruded slightly for all to see. Darius moaned and whimpered through his lemon gag, his body clearly too stuffed for his arse to close over the intrusion completely.

A wave of amused applause came from the audience. Will could only imagine how the once proud soldier must feel to be on display, trussed up and exhibited in this fashion. His body abused for the entertainment and arousal of his enemies, who had prevented even his bumhole from closing properly.

Clearly, however, his torment was not yet over. The fat little chef was instructing his hosed assistants, and the four beefy hunks were now lifting the unfortunate slave-chicken from the table and into a large, shallow tin tub that Francois had produced.

“And now,” he chuckled wickedly. “Ze chicken must be oiled!”

A large green bottle of cooking oil appeared on the table and soon the sleeves of Sir Antony and his companions were rolled up as they eagerly got to work.

            Copious amounts of oil were poured into their willing palms, and soon they were rubbing, caressing, fondling the struggling body of the slave Darius so that every inch of that perfect form was covered in the oil – shimmering and sensuous.

            The gloopy oil ran down their captive’s long, muscular thighs, and the strong palms of the knights rubbed and massaged Darius’ massive pectoral muscles. Meanwhile, Sir Antony reached between the Arab’s still-tied legs and, with an oily fist, began to pump at their captive’s generous cock.

            “Our chicken is enjoying the attention!” he called out. “See how stiff his cock has become!”

            “Ah” – Francois interjected. “Ze most succulent piece of any chicken! We must make sure zat is given particular attention!”

            The chef made a great play of seasoning Darius’ cock with salt, pepper and herbs, rubbing them into the shaft and inserting a bay leaf into the man’s cockhole.

            Finally, Francois reached in to wrap the oily penis in a thin tin foil. Once again, the spectators in the hall burst out laughing to see the Arab’s erect cock wrapped in a humiliating shiny sheath.

            Suddenly there was a commotion in the tub as Darius began to rock back and forth in the oil, moaning painfully.

            “Ahhh,” cooed Francois. “Is it becoming painful, my little chicken, to hold on to all zat gunky stuffing? Your body must want to expel it very badly. And yet you cannot, can you? Zat naughty lemon is keeping it all tightly packed inside you! All for our amusement!”

            Will could only sympathise. He knew that full sensation only too well!

            “And now, my friends – for ze next part of ze recipe! Ze marinade!”

            The chef fetched another large crockery pot with a heavy lid.

            “We must make sure ze chicken is fully coated so zat he will be as tasty as can be!”

            Francois removed the lid and rested the pot on his considerable belly and stood at the head of the large roasting tin. Tantalisingly slowly he began to tip the pot forward.

            “Ze marinade is a thick gravy – wine, flour, onions, carrots, potatoes and chicken stock! All to be poured over our little bird here…”

            The viscous liquid began to spill over the edge of the pot and the crowd gasped with delight as some of it splashed onto Darius’ oiled chest. The marinade was cold and the slave shivered as it hit his body.

            “A little more I think is needed…”

            The gloopy brown fluid came more quickly now, and Francois ranged about the roasting tin so that it fell on the humiliated Darius’ legs and crotch. Chunks of vegetables plopped onto his writhing body and finally the chef emptied a generous amount right over the slave’s head. Darius blinked and choked as the gravy slowly slid down his face, over his eyes and down his nose.

            The little chef deposited the empty pot on the floor and then hefted the slave into a sitting position so that the whole room could see the cold, wet, miserable creature: his arse and mouth stuffed, his whole body stained with the brown marinade.

            More raucous laughter erupted, along with appreciative applause for the entertainment Francois had afforded them.

            “Bravo!” called Lord Geoffrey. “Bravo!”

            Francois bowed theatrically and then paused and frowned. In a pantomime gesture, he dipped one finger into the tin and licked the brown goo from it. He shook his head sadly.

            “I fear zat ze recipe is not quite right. It lacks one important ingredient.”

            He turned to the four knights who still stood with him.

            “Of course! How can I prepare cock au crème when I have not added any cream! My friends – would you be so kind as to oblige me and provide ze cream for zis most exquisite of dishes…”

            A moment of puzzlement, and then Sir Antony understood.

            “Why, monsieur,” he declared. “We should be delighted.”

            And with that he strode over to stand at the roasting tin. He fiddled briefly with the waistband of his tights, and soon he had freed his large, veiny cock from its slinky confines. His three compatriots did not hesitate to join him. And soon all four hunks assembled round the roasting tin, pumping away at their manmeat, their tightly muscled, hosed backsides clenching and unclenching as they worked their way to climax. And glancing around the Hall, Will could not help but notice the envious looks of the male spectators, all wishing they could be the ones wanking off over the gunged and humiliated slave bitch.

            A grunt and a cry suddenly erupted from Sir Antony and with a shudder that passed through his whole body, he ejaculated a thick stream of white cum into the air. It seemed to hang in space for a moment before splashing satisfyingly across Darius’ potato covered chest. Darius cringed as the man-cum hit his naked torso. The white slime mingled with the brown as it slowly ran down his glistening body. And soon it was joined by that of the three other knights: one gloopy strand hitting Darius right in the face, blinding him momentarily and then dripping onto his full lips, still forced permanently open by the lemon gag.

            At this, Alexander could restrain himself no longer. He leaped to his feet and joined the erotic tableau at the end of the Hall.

            “What a fucking site, slave bitch! Not so proud now, are you? Look at you! Stripped and shaved: arse stuffed with breadcrumbs, and a lemon pushed in either end of you to keep you well and truly plugged. And then coated in a savoury brown gravy, with an extra coating of real men’s cum! You must be so humiliated now. And to be exposed like this in front of all your enemies!”

            Indeed, Darius was now shivering with the cold and the humiliation of the experience. Will had never seen a man look so broken, so devastated.

            “Our thanks and gratitude to Monsieur Francois.”

            Once again the fat chef bowed to acknowledge the applause of his audience.

            “And only one thing remains. And that of course is this. Our “Coq au crème” must be cooked!”

            Francois looked a little puzzled. Clearly he had not anticipated this part of the entertainment. The chef’s bewilderment was echoed by the spectators, and a gasp of realisation escaped them, when two of Alexander’s lackeys from the dungeon rolled an iron stove on castors into the room.

            Darius’ eyes widened in terror as the implication of the stove began to sink in. Surely they did not intend to roast him alive? He tried to scream in protest but the lemon lodged between his teeth muffled the sound. With a flourish, Alexander flung the door of the oven open and Will could see glowing embers of firewood within to show it had been prepared and heated to a desired temperature.

            The crowd were hungry now – whipped into a frenzy, they wanted nothing less than to see the exquisite slave roasted in his exotic marinade.

            Will watched open-mouthed in astonishment as the four knights hauled the roasting tin, Darius thrashing impotently within, onto their shoulders and then pushed it into the stove.

            The audience were afforded a final glimpse of the desperate Arab before Alexander, with a wicked laugh, clanged the iron door shut and committed the slave to his doom.