Saturday, December 20, 2014

The Sash - To Be Motivated

To Be Motivated

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

Markie finds his own heart rate racing. Upon preparing to exit the well secured chamber, for the first time she noted the array of implements adorning the walls. Yes, it is a torture chamber indeed, the Queen able to press, pull, pry, squeeze, tear, human flesh with impunity. There was even a small coal fired stove to heat clamps, knives and the many needles... long vicious needles... that which Sir Egbert has come to relish.

The Prince’s quirky depravity seems to be hereditary.

“So, Markie, some motivation for you. Fear,” the words offered with a pleasant laugh.

Having returned to the Palace reception chamber, the seated Queen speaks as Markie stands before her, feet parted, hands on head. Once again she toys with the remnants of her maleness... the tiny penis, the folds of her boy labia. The Queen perhaps envisions her own hands ripping away his testicles. For some strange reason Markie senses distant joy, the diddling fingers, the controlling hand deemed so threatening after touring the secret dungeon. Such brings a frisson of odd excitement.

“Markie, your many sperm samples were sterile. I would hate to believe thwarting my efforts was intentional. Not a single spermatozoa alive.”

“No, your Majesty,” a stunned Markie rejoins. “I carefully sealed every bag and immediately froze,” Markie's concern legitimate.

“I have a vengeful streak, Markie, as you just witnessed. You had best be truthful. Many cells in my dungeon. Your next visit there will be a one way excursion. How were such samples procured?”

“From the steeds. After every run I gathered such for safe keeping.”

“Gathered from where?”

“The Prince, he prefers anal penetration... and rather deeply. It required time to retrieve, done under the guise of cleansing.”

“Too deeply... and too much time. Heat kills the sensitive little squirmy things. As well as exposure to air. Hard to believe the entire world has been populated by such delicate male essence. Your efforts are for naught.” 

“I am so sorry, your Majesty.”

“We will need to try again, utilizing different methods. I have a rather experienced woman, a former reform school matron, who satiates the Palace guard. She will train you. I want you to fellate the Prince... into a condom which you will immediately tie off to seal and then freeze.”

“It would be a privilege to please the Royal penis, your Majesty. But such is not my role at the ranch. I merely tend to, tease and torment his herd. The Prince finds me... undesirable. My charms fail to attract.”

“Can you offer massage?”

“I have experienced such, your Majesty. My nurse.”

“Try to tempt him... when he’s tired and cares not to expend the energy for the silly acrobatic carnal pursuit of anally raping a resisting boy. Men think with their penis, Markie. Seduce him, fellate him, gather my seed.”

“I will try, your Majesty.”

“It’s not possible to place you in a humbler, my neutered little toy. But with another failure, I will assure that your suffering is slow and unending.”

The Queen laughs in feeling Markie tremble. She then turns and presses an intercom button.

“Send in Helen,” the Queen commands.

“You are not to divulge to Helen why I want you to acquire this talent. I am going to tell her you will also be sucking the phalli of the Palace guard and that I insist on neatness. You’ll see what I mean.”

The reception room door opens. In steps a surprisingly prim Caucasian woman, conservatively attired, not at all brandishing the aura of a woman of pleasure. She is handsome, not ravishing, staid not flashy. She enters with an air of authority... perhaps that of a strict school teacher. No Palace visitor would surmise her Royal function. Markie assumes her restrained presentment is intentional.

For the young members of the Palace guard she must be considered maternal.

Markie recalls the Queen’s comment during her visit... ‘I have my guards emptied regularly. Keeps them calm... and loyal’.

How devilish to have the deed performed by a mature woman of authority. Certainly not to be considered the masculine encounter about which most young males fantasize, being brought to orgasm by such an imposing figure. But if the Queen insists that is how Palace pleasure is meted... then that is how subordinate males will receive.    

“Helen, I am going to offer the boys an alternative form of sexual release. Thought it would be fun to insist they have relations with a castrated male. Rather distressing for them, don’t you think? Would make your offerings even more preferable.”

The woman nods and suppresses a smile. It is evident that she has a degree of disdain for the male.

“Helen specializes in the so termed ruined orgasm, Markie. In the end, after much teasing, she withdraws all efforts and forces a boy to more leak his essence rather then spurt in ecstasy. The hormonal release calms, but denial of ultimate male pleasure keeps them randy and eager for the next try.

“Have Markie practice on one of the undeserving guards, Helen. Someone on report.”

Saturday, December 13, 2014

The Sash - An Audience with the Queen

An Audience with the Queen

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

“Thank you. You may go. And thank you for joining me, Markie.”

Escorting Markie to the Queen’s reception chamber, the satiated messenger... calmed with some one hour of fellatio, he in turn showing proper humbleness... bows with grace and silently exits.

“We need to talk, Markie, about our conspiracy. Think it is best done here... at the Palace... so I can adequately motivate,” the Queen succinctly explains. “Come.”

The Queen gestures to follow as she strolls to a near wall. Once again Markie is impressed with the woman’s elegance... belying her size. Nearly six foot, broad shoulders and sizable hips suggest weightiness, yet with a fluid gait she seems to float. A flowing silk kimono cloaks her physique. But there is certainly limited girth, Markie concludes. There is none of the soft fat she was forced to procure with her castration.

The Queen twists a sconce and Markie is alarmed when a section of the seemingly seamless wall opens. Into view comes a short dark hallway leading to even darker stairs.

“Step in, your eyes will quickly acclimate to the limited light.”

Markie complies, the Queen follows and the secret doorway closes behind them.   

“Thought it best to offer a tour of the Palace first... beginning with a section rarely visited by outsiders,” the Queen pausing, eyes adjusting to the darkness. “Even the Prince has only seen it once... and that was once too many.”

Ah, the secret dungeon, the blurted reference to which upset the Queen during her visit months ago.

Within moments the eerie lighting is indeed sufficient. The Queen directs to a stone stairway, gothic and ominous.

“I suggest using the wall for support, the masonry of the steps is rough and uneven. Built utilizing condemned prisoners with limited skills... but with limited opportunity to divulge this chamber’s existence.” the Queen informs with a wicked chuckle. “They’re entombed below.”

Down, down, down, the air becoming cool and humid with each step. Markie feels herself trembling... the temperature? Or concern over being entombed as well?     

Finally a thick iron door is reached. The Queen pushes numbers on a surprisingly modern electronic keypad, then presses her palm to an adjacent smooth metal plate. In apparently reading her fingerprints there comes a notable click and the door yields. 

“Access is restricted to me, a nurse and a guard who offers daily nutrition. The guard is mute and knows not how to read and write... the nurse quite loyal... and quite well watched should her loyalty wane. Otherwise only the occupants know of this facility... and stupidly the Prince... a blunder on my part... and now you of course.”

The Queen leads past cells, the bars of thick wrought iron. Markie is relieved to see such are empty... but then realizes that means there is more than ample space for her. At the end of the dank corridor there is another door of thick iron. Once again a keypad and fingerprint sensor are utilized to bring forth the click of a lock’s release.

“When I enter here, no one... not the guard... not the nurse... is to know the details of my interaction with this special prisoner. So if I hear of rumors... stories about Royal wickedness... I will know such came from you... and the consequences for revealing such will be dire.”     

The Queen warns then pushes open the door and leads. Into a large, cave like chamber she steps, an aghast Markie following. Capacious by comparison, ceiling high, Markie gapes, her eyes taking in so much so fast. The Queen remains silent, letting the naked castrate become apprized. 

On the floor lies a Caucasian male, middle aged though the years are difficult to judge. Denied covering, a yoke of steel resting on the shoulders encumbers neck and wrists. At the back of the thighs, just below the buttocks, the form bears a smaller matching bar of steel. Closer examination suggests there are two bars pressed together. Markie is alarmed to see that semi circular openings in the center of the steel plate accommodate a large scrotal sac, two mammoth testicles entrapped and prominently displayed.

“Markie, meet Master Egbert Pendleton... Sir Egbert Pendleton. How are you this morning Sir Egbert?” the Queen’s words offered with sarcasm.

Markie is both appalled and relieved to see the form squirm, alive but motion quite limited, the restrained wrists, the entrapped testicles precluding all but a worm like endeavor.

“What do you think of his bonds, Markie? Rather effective, wouldn’t you say? The yoke needs no explanation, but the humbler is delicious is it not?.. effectively restraining a man by his balls.” the words come as Markie’s initial surprise is augmented.

Yes, the Queen disrobes, casually slipping off her kimono to reveal lack of undergarments... and an amazingly sculpted figure. Breasts of size, defying gravity, the abdominal muscles of a champion boxer, thighs thick with sinew. Though her Majesty presents herself without a shred of covering she remains as regal as a fine statue.  

“Good morning, your Majesty,” the Sir Egbert form finally uttering a reply. “I am in great discomfort. But so eager for you to torture me. Ah, some pain. I believe a fingernail is growing back for you.”

The speech is lisped and strained. Markie quickly realizes the man is edentulous. And sure enough there are no finger or toenails. If indeed such are growing back it is difficult to discern in the dimness.

“Oh, that is good to hear, Sir Egbert. And here I thought that after twice pulling them out such would not return, ha, ha, ha.”

The Queen moves to a corner. There a low stool is retrieved. In returning, the Queen steps to the wormy nakedness, Markie marveling as each step brings well muscled rippling.

“I have something for you, Sir Egbert. It’s that time of the month... yum, yum,” she mocks.

The Queen places the stool before the pitiful prisoner and sits. She then leans, grasps the ends of the yoke and despite the weightiness, effortlessly lifts, somewhat dragging a sputtering Sir Egbert, aligning his face between her parted thighs.  

“Sir Egbert enjoys my taste, Markie... and enjoys my touch as well... is that not so Sir Egbert?”

“Oh yes, your Majesty. Your touch is wonderfully painful. Some hot needles this morning?”

“Perhaps later. I just wanted to show you to my little friend here... and have my quim licked clean. It’s quite sloppy and needs your attention. But enough words from you. Tongue and lips, tongue and lips.”

Markie imagines that the position, scrotum drawn well behind at the thighs, testicles squeezed, must be terribly uncomfortable. Still the man, this Sir Egbert, dutifully begins his task, thighs straining in a semi kneeling position to alleviate the stress on his entrapped scrotum.

“When I was a young girl, my father the King graciously sent me to a fine, prestigious English boarding school. A wondrous education. And there I met the esteemed pedagogue Master Egbert Pendleton... teaching skills renowned. Quite the linguist, Master Egbert. Later to be knighted.”

Markie hears the slurping sound of energetic cunnilingus, the tormented form well focused on his appointed deed.

“So one day, in reading a book, perhaps one I should not have found, I needed to understand a word... gamahuche. Such girlish curiosity! And who better to explain the meaning then Master Egbert Pendleton... renowned pedagogue... skulking pedophile.”

The Queen pauses to cackle then hum with the pleasure... both physical and emotional. Being serviced so attentively at an otherwise hygienically inconvenient time of the month pleases.

“You were clever, Master Egbert, furtively placing that naughty book where a pubescent girl would be sure to find. So easy seducing the concupiscent and the sexually curious is it not, Sir Egbert?”

A Royal hand reaches to an ear and twists to bring a groan of pain.  

“Yes, Sir Egbert liked to lick... and liked to lick the young, the pink and the hairless. For me, an introduction to oral gratification in which a girl finds initial enjoyment... but soon thereafter realizes something which must be repressed in fear... and guilt. Still one never forgets, Markie. When I became Queen, I reached out to him. In a ruse I suggested a visit, hinted that young girls were under my purview and in need of his skills. When I further suggested his visit be clandestine, the lech foolishly thought I was conspiring with him to engage his perversions. ‘Arrange a trip to Greenland’ I wrote in tempting him.

“Well he did, but it was prearranged for him to miss his flight and for the Royal jet to pick him up at Gatwick, no one seeing him board. Then he was flown here where he has remained in my torture chamber... and will forever remain. Isn’t that right, Sir Egbert? No point in leaving now... now that you so much enjoy my touch.”

“Yes, your Majesty. I so much enjoy your taste... and your touch. Some caning this morning?”

The Royal hand presses to rebuke, returning the face back to the business at hand.

“Obviously the many years of daily agony have demented his esoteric mind. He’s a masochist now. Teeth pulled, finger and toenails ripped away. I used an elastrator to remove his nipples. His penis I degloved, removing the sensitive tissue. And in a deliciously slow procedure, I slit open his urethra... the entire length of his penis... with a hot knife. Lots of smelling salts for that long morning. It’s now useless for male pleasure. When I read men can obtain a strange form of delight by way of the prostate gland I had that removed.”

Markie cringes, deserved or not, the sadism overwhelming.

“But his balls... my balls... such remain, ensuring he is forever randy while I assure such randiness is adequately addressed... solely with pain. Wonderfully receptive to hot needles by the way. Sir Egbert’s favorite torture...”

Apparently cleansed, the Queen pushes away a well squeezed head, powerful arms then twisting the yoke such that Sir Egbert’s form turns and plops to the concrete flooring face upwards. Markie’s eyes immediately inspect. The nipples indeed have been expunged, the penis appearing to be a flat filleted fish rather than a proud cylinder of maleness.

“Did you enjoy your breakfast, Sir Egbert? I had one of my maids fill my chamber pot as well. Enough to eat?”

“Oh yes, your Majesty. Very thoughtful of you.”

“The guard spoon feeds my excretions daily, Markie. Weekly the nurse visits to assure Sir Egbert’s health. He’s in excellent condition, considering the lack of exercise. But the torture is sufficient to bring up the heart rate... akin to a good workout... is that not so, Sir Egbert?”  

Saturday, December 6, 2014

The Sash - To Be Used

To Be Used

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

After many days, much sodomy, much semen, many collection bags filled and frozen, the expected messenger of the Queen arrived, his timing good. In traversing the veld, tugging reins, stroking with his crop, penetrating a welcoming orifice, the Prince was unaware of his visit.

“The Queen conveys her appreciation,” the trim young male offered, barely able to keep his eyes off the straining buttocks of five naked steeds laboring on the treadmills.

Long blond hair, well styled, polished red nails both hands and feet, the mandatory lipstick applied to a tiny penis tip, the Queen’s messenger had equal difficulty not gawking at the pretty castrate, true gender... former gender... well veiled.

Into a well insulated, iced chest, the freezer emptied of what seemed like quarts of male essence, Markie felt both accomplishment and relief, the evidence of her subterfuge removed. The Prince is not to suspect her involvement in the conspiracy, Markie sighed in thought as the messenger departed. Months hence a child will be born. Years hence the Queen will surprise her son Samja with news of his fatherhood. A wedding announcement will follow. 

How will the Prince ever suspect Markie’s participation?  

And so the daily routine at the ranch returns to normal. Sperm collection curtailed, a spritz enema quickly offered with a quick cooling douse of spray water before the worn steed is bedded.

Apprehension removed, Markie’s attraction to the Prince, her envy of a fully functioning penis, her adoration of handsome virility, blossoms anew. Though free to frottage with the steeds, tease and torment their chaste forms, there is a sense of emptiness, lack of filfillment. The steeds offer oral stimulation upon demand... boy labia... boy pussy. The lipstick though, is not to be smeared, the Prince using it as a defacto gauge as to whether there has been trespass on Markie’s comical once male organ.

Still, during lonely restless nights Markie is known to lift a hood, straddle a face and offer herself.

Yet, it satiates not. The steeds, oral skills accomplished, gratify mechanically. And adding to the sense of ennui is the fact that Markie’s castration precludes any ultimate orgasm. She senses a pending sneeze that just won’t come. Thus coercing fellatio is not only precarious, should the Prince discover, but unsatisfying.

‘Why bother,’ has become Markie’s mental response when considering such coupling. It is the Prince... pleasing him would be the pinnacle... her tender efforts awarded with an eruption of male seed. Trained in sexual subservience, she yearns to give... and she yearns to bring delight to he most fertile, he who commands, he who provides... he who owns. Such has been ingrained in her psyche. Pleasure for the Prince... fulfillment for Markie.  

Yes, Markie feels the need to be used.

One month, two? There comes a far off swirl of dust as the Royal long white limousine wheels forth just at the moment the Prince’s cart and human steed disappear onto the veld.

Has someone been observing? Or perhaps the timing coincidental?

It is the Queen’s messenger again, on this occasion arriving as Markie works to release the remaining herd from the sleeping mats and run them on the treadmills.

“The Queen summons you,” the messenger abruptly proclaims. “You are to come to the Palace.”

“But I have chores. The Prince insists his boys be well worked.”

“You are to come immediately. This is for the Prince,” the messenger presenting an envelope, sealed in wax, the Royal crest prominently displayed in conveying the authenticity its origination. “I suggest you comply... and promptly. There is no time for your chores. The Queen is best kept pleased.” 

The handsome young African smiles warmly, assuaging fears.

“Your safety and well being are assured. I am told this letter will adequately explain your brief absence.”

“How long?” Markie inquires, returning a naked steed to his respective sleeping mat.

“The Palace is an hours drive. I know not of the Queen’s intentions.”

“I’ll need covering.”

“The queen insists that you be naked. She suggests that it is best for you,” a hand extending to tweak a nipple, highlighting Markie’s state of deshabille.

Markie cannot help giggling with the unexpected touch. Silly of me... and curious that public nudity remains of concern, Markie ponders. She has not worn a scrap of clothing in many, many months... other than her shoes. Yet, she demurs in exhibiting herself.

“Come,” the messenger brazenly taking her hand in offering more familiarity, “this is a Kingdom. Fealty is required. Royalty is to be obeyed.”

He leads to the limousine. In opening the door for access, Markie feels a hand smooth over her girlish cheeks. The many touches suggest attraction, she realizes in seating herself. Her gender may confuse, but the pent up desire of the young male is apparent. The messenger follows sitting opposite.

“I believe you will be more comfortable kneeling on the floor,” the voice becoming more authoritative as Markie hears the click of the door locks. “And an hour long ride should be just enough time,” the words received as ominous, the messenger unzipping himself.

Not approaching the size of the Prince, the messenger produces a male organ uncircumcised, a dark pink tip slipping past the foreskin, seemingly eager to greet the day.

“The ride can be otherwise boring. You may suck me. Cleanse the smegma first. I like a girl to be neat. Suggests obedience, proper humbleness...”

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

Segments of 'The Sash' to end

In fairness, I should forewarn that the last segment of the Sash will be published on 12/27. As posted, the entire manuscript is available from Lulu.

Yes, the postings have been a 'teaser', but I have offered some 22,000 words for free. Not a bad bargain. Amazon discourages offering a single page!

Not sure what will begin in January.

Saturday, November 29, 2014

The Sash - The Subterfuge Begins

The Subterfuge Begins

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

Markie finds herself torn. She adores the Prince. His puissance, his sexual prowess, is to be esteemed. She fantasizes that some day, just as one of the blond, blue eyed and well muscled Caucasian steeds brings gratification, it will be her charms that please.

Yet she knows not how. The massive royal manhood would tear her rectum... and she cannot quite envision taking much more than the very tip of the Prince’s turgid penis into her mouth. Would her hands satisfy? Alas she assumes not... she has not the strength... the Prince’s mighty phallus desiring the tightness of male muscling which scalpel and hormones have robbed from her.

Still, though she realizes she is unlikely to ascend beyond her role of stable hand, the notion of betraying the Prince bothers.

But would assisting the Queen be betrayal? Does the Prince really have any desire to accede to the throne? Perhaps it is best to offer him an option as well... an alternative may be acceptable. Life at the ranch is good.

Also to be considered is incurring the Queen’s wrath by not cooperating... or failing in her efforts to procure the demanded sperm. Thoughts of the deep secluded Palace dungeon... where occupants never again see the light of day... bring another shudder.

She justifies... her choice not easy to accept... but easy to undertake. The Prince most consistently ends his daily escapade with anal penetration... for which, upon return to the stable, Markie offers a quick spritz enema to preclude a soiled sleeping mat when the well worn steed is bedded.

Yes, incredible globs of gooey white are known to ooze from rectums well frictioned. After all, it is due to the Prince’s size and virility that a boy is only sodomized once per week. Thus there is abundance. Markie would merely need to gather rather then flush away.

And the refrigerator is nearby and convenient, a weekly application of ice required in order to return a priapic and frustrated steed to his respective cock cage after intimate shaving and cleansing.    

So it is decided. Markie will surreptitiously gather what she can and tuck the many specimen bags into the back of the freezer.

Who is to ever know? 

“Steady, Monday, be a good boy and spread for me.”

Another day, another run, another well fucked, well sodomized human steed. A satiated Prince has departed the stable. A late luncheon awaits. Markie has returned Monday to the marble cleaning slab, ankles clipped to opposing corners, wrists released from the neck band and secured as well. The exhausted human steed humble presents himself on all fours.

Though spending deeply, remnants of the gruff coupling show about the anus. Markie begins to gather, the blade of a knife smoothing about the pink flesh, then wiping the white gel into the specimen bag.

“Don’t move,” she forewarns, “ but do push with your anus. The Prince spent deeply as always, if I don’t clear you out you’ll be oozing all day.”

Not a complete prevarication, neatness beckons her attention. But today the Prince’s essence is not to be flushed to the drain. It is to be treasured... frozen... delivered to her Majesty.  

“Come now Monday, make like you’re moving your bowels. It is only the Prince’s fine deposit which will be expelled. I cleansed you of all else.”

There is reluctance. Monday blushes with the intensity of having to perform such a humiliating deed for the pretty castrate. Yet the cattle prod is both handy and well charged. And the embarrassment of performing for his caretaker can hardly exceed the ignominy of being sexually used by another man.
A dainty hand palms a well exposed scrotum. By now all the steeds are aware of Markie’s envy of the intact... of her delight in palpating that which was plundered from her.

“Give me all you can. I’ll offer a treat.”

Markie steps away. Hanging on the side of the refrigerator is the small but so meaningful and sought after key... to the cock cages. She returns. Markie holds it before Monday’s frustrated eyes.

“You’ll not tell the Prince... and you will press to return his daily gift.”

“Yes, Miss Markie,” Monday energetically nods.

Whatever is required to earn freedom of the sharp spikes Monday will gratefully offer.

“Will you masturbate me, Miss Markie? Please!”

“Of course not. But you can put on a good stand and watch it bob about ... for a while.”

Though the joy will be insufficient, it is a rare treat. Monday therefore needs no further encouragement. He closes his eyes and begins to work the tight muscling of his abdomen. He will comply. He will essentially defecate for the cute castrate who rules.

It requires time, the Prince not entirely exaggerating when he wittily suggests exploding into a boy’s stomach. But as a stultified Monday works his sphincter, more whiteness slowly appears. And as the gelatinous mass exits, the knife blade carefully smooths and the collection bag fills and fills. 

The Prince is indeed most fecund, Markie concludes. So manly...

Saturday, November 22, 2014

The Sash - The Visit Ends

The Visit Ends

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

“It is good of her Majesty to visit my unworthy abode,” the Prince politely bowing.

“You may dispense with the courtship, Samja... mother will do.”

“It is good of you to visit, mother.” 

The Prince arrives for his morning jaunt. The Queen has remained in the stable observing Markie work. Though she disapproves of the Prince’s lifestyle, the seven naked forms bring entertainment. The juxtaposition of a prettified altered male offering care to the collection of muscular brawn intrigues... Markie controlling urination... feeding... for which each boy must beg... cleansing and harnessing... and then one by one freeing from the sleeping mats to begin a long morning of work on the treadmills. 
As with every morning, a boy awaits in harness. Internally cleansed.... the process bringing great amusement for the Queen... lubricated and coated in sun oil, Saturday will have a long Saturday.

“Whatever do you see in all this, Samja? Such decadence. When it becomes your turn to rule, whatever are you going to do? What kind of leadership are you going to show your subjects... being conveyed by chastised men... cropping naked buttocks as they labor in harness...”

The Queen taunts. As suggested to Markie, she doubts that the Prince will agree to ascend to the throne... yet if so an alternative plan percolates.   

“Perhaps I will have a special dungeon... or enlarge yours,” the Prince jousts in return.

His conjecture angers the Queen.

“My special dungeon is discreet... limited in scope... and only for the very contemptuous. I don’t flog in public,” the words uttered in rebuke as the Prince mounts the cart and takes the reins. 

“Perhaps you should give it a try, mother. Nothing brings more awe and respect from a boy than watching another endure pain and humiliation,” the Prince reaching low to apply a modest but agonizing stroke of the crop to Saturday’s well exposed scrotum.

With the pain, a whoosh of air expels past a bridle held most taut. Saturday, now made most eager to run, must obediently stand in harness, sensing fire as the feel of the crop sears his cerebral cortex.

The mother son duo glare, then with a sheepish smile, the Prince begins his daily exchange of power, tapping the buttocks, tugging on the reins to guide from the corral area, then stroking in earnest to compel speed. Saturday complies.

The Queen and Markie silently watch the as the dust of the cart dissipates and Master and tethered human steed disappear over a ridge.

“Such obstinance. Yet to avoid Royal scandal I am forced to abet this degenerative life of his. Can you imagine him as King greeting dignitaries with a naked white boy at the end of a leash?”

Markie suppresses her own observation... that the Queen seemed quite disposed to watch the humiliation of the morning routine. The Prince’s herd... obedient, docile to the controlling hands of a feminized castrate, uncomfortable in being forcefully exposed to the exacting gaze of a woman... brought her delight... repressed and subtle... but delight.    

“Come to the Royal chariot,” the Queen sardonically referencing her limousine. “The Queen is conveyed by four tires and a motor... mundane but without detraction.”

The long limousine, white with deeply tainted windows to dispel the rays of the African sun, awaits, engine idling, air conditioning roaring to offer comfort as the heat of the noon hour approaches. An ornately uniformed chauffeur promptly opens a rear door. The guard stands at the passenger side scanning the horizon for interlopers. 

“We’ll talk. Wait here,” commanding the driver. “Get in Markie. We’ll finish our discussion. The interior is soundproofed,” the Queen following to an opposing seat.

“So you see my dilemma, Markie. Even if the Prince should concede to an arranged marriage he knows not of vaginal penetration. The friction of feminine flesh would hardly bring arousal. At this point such may even disgust,” the Queen rueful with cynicism, signaling Markie to spread his thighs. “So with or without his knowledge, it is I who will induce the insemination of Royal sperm. Ironic is it not?”

“Yes, your Majesty,” the reply coming as a dark Royal hand reaches forth.

Markie is surprised to find that his tiny penis, not yet fully colored with the daily application of lipstick, seems to attract. The Royal fingers diddle and roll, the Queen comfortable that no subject can observe as she has her way. Again Markie places his hands atop his head in symbolic capitulation. 

“Though I doubt he’ll want the throne, I must assure my loyal subjects that he not ascend, not bring debauchery to the Palace. You heard his suggestion... that I in turn place a boy in harness... join the ranks of the sexual reprobates. The Prince is incorrigible.

“Once a grandson is born, I can deal with the Prince more forthrightly. For then there will be options. But a mother can’t just order a son to masturbate into a specimen jar, no matter the level of perversity here at the ranch. So that task is yours,” the Queen’s fingers withdrawing to hand Markie a package. “Within are sealable plastic specimen bags. Make sure there is limited air before sealing closed. Also some condoms.”

Distant joy removed, the Queen’s diddling reminds of the maternal touch of Nurse Benson, controlling, humiliating but pleasant. A disappointed Markie accepts the package and peers within.

“The Prince rides about the same time each day?”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Good. Late some morning I will send a car in a few weeks to retrieve as many samples as you can procure. The plan is simple... but must be kept very confidential. He’s addicted to sexual power, Markie. Over time his addiction may grow, furtively cropping naked buttocks on the veld may not bring sufficient gratification. The notion of forcing more public humiliation at the Palace may intrigue. I must assure that his debauchery can be tempered... and am relying on you to help. With the birth of a grandson, I will be empowered to press my son the Prince for abdication.

“And Markie, keep in mind the Prince’s flippant remark about my special dungeon. Since he has exposed my little secret, I will confirm it indeed exists... and it is for miscreants who will never again to see the light of day. Those who have angered or affronted the Queen at a very personal level. Therefore I punish... personally...”

Markie nods, cloaking a frisson of fear. The woman watched the well bound naked steeds with little compunction, in fact smiling as Saturday suffered under the duress of a high unending enema. Markie has little doubt that the threat is sincere... the Queen’s dungeon deep and secluded.

The alternative threat of the penitentiary seems comparatively innocuous.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

The Sash - A Royal Visit

A Royal Visit

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

Markie awakens not to the smell of the rich morning gruel, but instead to the stentorian sound of a man unknown. It startles. For months, the only significant voice heard being the deep sonorous words of the Prince.

“All bow to the Queen!”

Markie rests lying with Sunday, head pressed to his chest where she has teasingly licked and sucked a nipple throughout the night. A dainty left hand cups the scrotum, feeling the heartbeat, sensing comfort in palpating organs callously ripped from her, on occasion jostling to send her message of governance. Knowing that, as a result, Sunday’s entrapped male organ attempts to harden within the restrictive cock cage brings solace...  power for the otherwise powerless.

Eyes adjusting, Markie moves to kneel upright, spying a uniformed countryman of the Prince standing at attention at the stable entrance. Within moments a regal woman of color steps within, the impressive garb of flowing silk suggesting royalty. Markie scrambles to stand, knowing to bow her head. 

There comes a pause, Markie finally ever so slightly raising her chin to peek. Occupying the door frame, surveying the stable, is a tall African woman, shoulders broad, waist narrow, hips suggesting athleticism.

“Where is my son? You girl, answer. Where is the Prince?” the words barked, the tone stern.

“He comes not to the stable until later in the morning, your Majesty,” Markie’s voice timid.

In being addressed, Markie looks up from his position of reverence. The Queen steps forth. Markie notes in her left hand an ornate walking stick... the shaft resembling the rattan with which Prince metes punishment.

“Such decadence, such debauchery,” the Queen glaring at the seven naked and well bound steeds. “And you girl! What is your name?”

“Markie, your Majesty,” humbly offered as the Queen’s eyes shift to her feminized nakedness... then dip lower.

“You’ve been castrated,” remnants of red lipstick remaining, the tiny penis tip belying Markie’s long blond locks and polished finger and toe nails.

“Yes, your Majesty,” the reply timidly mournful.
“And those shoes, very strange.”

“Without them I cannot walk, your Majesty. My feet... have been altered as well.”

The Queen moves proximate, the walking stick extends. For some reason Markie knows to place her hands atop her head as her vestigial male organ is flicked back and forth with the tip. A smile blooms, one of amusement... but easily interpreted as wicked as well.

“I am aware of my son’s bizarre predilections. Of what use are you?”

“I serve the Prince, your Majesty. Here in the stable, tending to the... ah... the steeds.”

“Ha. You mean his sex toys.”

The hand of the walking stick stops diddling and rapidly moves the tip to the right foot of the supine Sunday. Cruelly, the Queen applies a quick but limited stroke to the sole. Not a vigorous blow, yet beneath the hood Sunday howls in agony, the myriad of nerves sending a fiery message of pain.

“Had I the time and just a little more inclination, I’d string them all up for long sessions of bastinado... then see if the Prince can have his dalliances. They’ll not be prancing about after I’ve had my way with them. Human ponies... such childishness.”
Attention returns to Markie. The tall woman of Royalty looks downward at the diminutive girly boy. The smile returns. Is it one of wickedness? Markie quivers.

“Castrated and feminized... for some it is best. Leave us,” the Queen turning to the uniformed guard.

The man obediently steps out. Seeing that all present are either shackled or impotent, the Queen is deemed to be safe. 
A hand extends, kindly brushing the golden locks. The eyes become lively... more assessment... more thought. The Queen must have been a young mother. There is vibrance. 

“Lick my fingers,” moving the offered hand to Markie’s mouth.

The altered tongue extends, the doctor’s frenectomy becoming evident as Markie’s training conveys tantalizingly lustful applications of warm wetness. The smile broadens as the Queen thrusts her finger inward. By rote, Markie sucks then begins the swishing and swirling demanded months before by Nurse Benson.

“Castrated, feminized and trained to suck cock. A talent of limited use here. These boys are under lock and key,” the walking stick sweeping the air over the seven supine steeds, “and I am aware of my son’s prowess... you’d choke on him, ha, ha, ha,” the hand withdrawing.  

“I would be privileged to serve him... in any manner,” Markie divulging his adoration.

“Well... I suppose being sexually served by a little girly boy would be an improvement... orally raping and sodomizing white boys is socially taboo. That’s why I bought him this ranch, more or less banished him to the veld. But there will be a time when the throne will require a new occupant. And then what? You can’t hold court while penetrating a boy’s backside... can you?” Markie stifling any reaction to the sarcasm of the suggested scenario.

“The country needs an heir. Markie did you say?”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“Offered the throne, he’ll probably abdicate. The Prince is controlled by his penis. His only yearning for ruling is that over his stud muffins. But where would that leave the Realm? Is the absence of strong leadership to be desired over perversion? A grandson... that would ameliorate the country’s need. Years hence, upon my demise, there would be dynastic continuity. The Prince could remain here splitting open his white boys. A grandson would continue family rule.”

A pause, the Queen in thought.

“Come over here, Markie. You can lick my boots while we have a little talk... sub rosa,” the Queen realizing that the hooded collection of naked males are blinded but with hearing.

To the Prince’s throne, the Queen clucks her tongue in noting the split seat, to her its function apparent. 

“I can only imagine the lechery undertaken here,” the Queen notes in sitting, a finger pointing to a polished leather boot.

Markie instantly kneels, the accomplished tongue broadly lapping.

“Do you know what sperm is, Markie? At one point you may have ejaculated.”

“Yes your, Majesty. I cleanse... the steeds.”

“I need not inquire where,” the Queen laughs. “The Prince’s ways are known. Well, I’ll want some. You’ll be provided with specimen bags. You’ll gather and hide it in the freezer there. The Prince needs not to know. I’ve selected a girl of good upbringing... nubile of course... she’ll bear well... wide hips, ample breasts. Later, a marriage can be contrived to legitimize the birth. I’ll not have the Prince in a position in which he can renege, disavowing the child after insemination. After an heir is born, it is then he can be apprized of my scheme. It is then that I can press for his abdication without throwing the Realm into turmoil.”

A hand lowers and gently jostles the hair.

“And Markie, you’ll not tell him. If you are impressed by the power of the Prince, keep in mind it is bestowed by me. It is by my decree that the Prince’s spent reprobates are remanded to the Royal prison, tightly tucked away to never tell of this Royal nest of sexual deviance. Keep that in mind... imagine the reception your blushing pink and white cheeks would have in a penitentiary filled with lusty desperate men... intact men. They’ll put you in a short pink skirt and take away those shoes...”   

A Royal hand feels Markie shudder in dread.

“Conversely, if you assist with my plan, I will assure your safety. Should the Prince take issue with you conspiring in my scheme, I will have you serve at the Palace. Do you enjoy entertaining? Showing yourself? For the likes of you, humiliation excites.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” Markie reminded of the hours spent hanging in the doctor’s sash, tiny erection becoming the center of attention.

“And how would a little girly boy amuse?”

With reluctance, Markie tells of the sash... so comforting... a catalyst for otherwise unachievable tumescence... yet indeed humiliating. The Queen chuckles in envisioning the scenario.

“Dangling erect and naked for the woman who castrated you... that does say something about your psyche Markie. 

“Well I would require more practical duties of you. I have my guards emptied regularly. Keeps them calm... and loyal. A girl like you needs to suck... it humbles...”