Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Short Story XIII

The beast lies awake, exhaustion normally bringing sleep despite the position of awkwardness forced by his bonds. He kneels bent backwards, wrist chain clipped beneath to the hobbling chain, the prong of the pumping device wedged between his back and his bent arms as always.

The position objectifies. On occasion Kendra will stir, step from her shack and seek a late night treat, straddling then lowering herself to sit on his face. He is helpless to resist. And he has learned that fervent licking brings the oxygen of life. Thus his offerings of cunnilingus are frequent and performed with zeal, lest he smoother. And there has come a curious sense of joy in servicing her... she who so masterfully whips and assures constant torment.

Tonight there is a full moon, probably bringing a degree of restlessness. He thinks about the Princess’s most recent visit, her continuing revenge bringing her such delight. It seems the sexual pleasure of her performing castrate exceeds that brought by copulation... the many couplings when he courted her. His infidelity has unleashed an inner demon, his castration promised on the very first day he can no longer pump and perform.

Facing day after day of grueling labor, the beast finds himself wriggling about, the threat... more like the promise... of castration causes him to test his bonds, the many pounds riveted in relative permanence.

No release. All is discouragingly snug.

But alas, there is the simple clasp that holds together his wrist chain and hobbling chain. Kendra releases it every morning with great alacrity. It cannot be overly complicated!

His arms move. Not much, but enabling the fingers to somewhat explore beneath him. Such slide about the hobbling chain, the beast mentally picturing what is so quickly snapped closed to force him each night to remain kneeling and bent backwards.

Ah! There is located a clasp. The fingers toy. There comes a click... a familiar click... heard each morning after Kendra completes exercising his tongue and climaxing over his face. The beast contracts his stomach muscles. The wrist and hobbling chains are no longer connected! He rights himself, the prong moving on its hinge as he struggles to stand.

There is stillness. He must be quiet, careful to minimize the ringing of his nipple bells. But the illumination of moonlight enables good vision. He shuffles sideways, opposite the direction in which Kendra first directed him and he and the pump became one. His bent arms slide along the length of wood. Gruff, irritating, but the relative abrasion does not compare to the many, many weeks of unending agony.

More shuffling and the prong slips away from first his right elbow and next his left. The beast is free! Somewhat. No longer will his only motion be to pump in circles!

But where to go?

He knows the direction of the Palace. And he understands the greeting he will get there... the slow torturous removal of his testicles. He turns opposite, stepping with as little extraneous motion as possible. Whereas he normally lets his bells peel in tribute to Kendra, making her aware of his ongoing servitude... that forced by her governing hand continues... now it behooves to be quiet.

A careful step, limited by the hobbling chain. Then another, his nipples almost completely silent. If he can make it over the crest, that opposite the Princess’s point of arrival, he will be able to noisily shuffle with fervor.

Step... step... step he tries to calm himself, forcing his mind not to emulate the noisy pace of his endless pumping.

Not crossing his mind are the details of his escape. To where? Within whom to confide? How to be released from the nearly permanent iron bonds? Who would defy the Princess and arrange his emancipation?

For the desperate, such thoughts are distant. The beast, though forcibly chaste, must remain virile! He must save his balls!

The crest finally nears. He stands atop and looks back down at the large wooden capstan and the modest shack in which Kendra sleeps. Nothing stirs! His escape is unnoticed, but he knows not for long.

Down the slope, his feet can now shuffle faster, the sound of his ringing nipple bells not to be heard by man nor beast. He directs toward the moon, soon to be setting in the western sky. Such will assure he does not inadvertently travel in a circle.

Despite the cool night air, the beast begins to perspire. He expends energy and considerably faster then his long days of pumping. But he now moves with purpose... to save his manliness. He pictures the Princess’s naked hairless castrate. Though he knows he will never assume such an appearance if snipped at his age, the chubby effeminate form frightens. It spurs renewed effort and his feet continue to frantically ascend a slight incline.

Then the many pounds of bondage begin to wear. His diet of thin gruel, fed once per day, brings tiredness. His feet slow, the energy supplied by yesterday morning’s meal depletes. In reaching the top of a modest apex, his right foot fails to extend and fully challenge the hobbling chain. The beast stumbles, his heavy neck collar bringing his face down to the desert sand. His prostrate form somewhat glides down the opposing side of the incline with friction quickly bringing a halt to all motion.

The beast cannot right himself. Muscles fail to respond to the commands of synapse. He faints. Though traveling hundreds of yards, perhaps a mile, the desperate beast has escaped to the oblivion of a desert wasteland.


“I’ve missed my morning bath. Seems there is no water.”

The beast stirs, opening then quickly closing his dilating eyes as the morning sun shines brightly. He feels a hand entwine in his hair, another grasping his nostril tubing, forcing his face to turn away from the brightness.

The beast instantly recognizes the calm but authoritative voice. It is the Princess.

“Yes, my human ox let me down. The cistern is nearly empty. Tsk. Tsk.”

Once again the eyes open, this time turned from the sun. The beast looks into the childlike face of the Princess’s oral servant, kneeling with his nakedness intimately close, the emaciated penis most proximate.

“Drink my beast... you’re dehydrated.”

The beast instantly stirs from his stupor, shocked to see that the castrate is aligning his tiny penis with his lips. He struggles. But in remaining exhausted, his heavy bonds make it impossible to resist. The nostril tubing dictates. Then he hears the deep growl of what he presumes to be a huge hound.

“Drink. Or King will have one of your calves for breakfast.”

The beast feels the snorting breath of ‘King’, obviously a Palace guard dog.

“Or perhaps a testicle or two. Besides being hungry, he is amazingly well trained and obedient to my commands.”

The organs which the beast has tried to rescue from feminine dominion are instead endangered. He lets himself go limp as the castrate shuffles closer. With a second command of ‘drink’ he complies. The tiny penis is engulfed, slipping past lips trained to please.

“That’s a good boy. You need the fluid... and I have so little water to spare.”

The hermaphrodite opens his bladder. The beast has no choice but to imbibe. Pungent... salty... yet fluid is indeed needed.

“Didn’t really need King to track you. Your hobbling chain left quite the trail in the sand and dust.”

The angle of the voice suggests that the Princess remains astride her stallion. She need not lower herself. With Kendra’s ponderous and thorough bonds, her meek, effeminate oral companion can handle the capture of the beast... aided by the threatening growls and snorting breath of King.

“You’ll have some food too... the energy required for me to walk you... on a leash of course. But first I have a promise to fulfill. King always seems to be in need to having his pizzle frottaged. With the recent addition to the kennels it seems he’s taken a liking to doggie style sex... with less furry critters.”

The beast shudders as there comes a wicked laugh. He must resist. Yet, what the Princess chooses to have happen will happen. He has not the strength to stand and walk much less contest her whims.

“So just offer yourself and you’ll find King to be most gentle. The maid initially fought and got herself nipped and scratched.”

The beast feels the soft, once male hands push and prod, encouraging him to rise to his knees. As he moves he looks up to see the smiling Princess regally sitting in saddle. It is as if he has fallen into a well contrived trap.

“Head down, buttocks up, thighs apart. King knows to stiffen whenever a nice warm and tight aperture is so presented. But I’ll not want your rectum split. That would hinder more sodomy. Therefore some lubrication is to be offered.”

The beast’s stomach turns, his mouth and throat coated with excretions. The naked castrate moves to his rear. The huge iron neck collar impedes his view but the beast soon feels the soft hands split his cheeks and the warm wetness of that barnyard tongue which he has seen servicing the Princess’s boots. The hermaphrodite licks the odious gluteal cleft with zeal. The firm but gentle laving conveys a sickening thrill to the denied libido. Homophobia brings disgust.

“It is best, my beast. King is of good size. And you have not yet been properly opened there. But you’ll take the knot. On that I insist...”

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