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 29, 2014
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.
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...”
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...”
Saturday, November 8, 2014
The Sash - A Humbled Penis
A Humbled Penis
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
The small key turns to click open the cock cage lock... tiny yet so drastically confining. With the penis so prominently engorged, knowing fingers work, kindly slipping away with minimal scraping, the interior spikes functioning well in pricking the sensitive but naughty penile flesh.
Still, Thursday shrieks.
“Shush. It is what you want... what you all so ravenously desire,” Markie admonishes.
Actually more than just freedom is desired. Strokes culminating in orgasm would be ecstatic... but such is never known to happen.
Separated from the support ring, decoupled from the capped Prince’s Wand, Markie places aside the stainless steel mesh then returns. Pressed well into the urethra is the tube which so greatly adds to the frustration of thorough chastity. Markie gently pulls, Thursday howling anew. Deep within, the tube broadens to a bulbous lump, cruelly... cleverly... designed to constantly abrade the prostate. Removal is thus laborious and painful, the bulb stretching the ultra sensitive urethral passage as it is slid away. When finally exiting the tip, there comes even more roars of agony.
But when freed the relief is instantaneous. Markie steps away and marvels. Virility liberated at last, Thursday’s penis steadily engorges to full blossom, turning upwards, the tip pressing against his belly.
Of good size, such wonderfully controlled maleness, Markie thinks to herself. The spontaneous erection proves to be an amazing display of sexual power... yet so well tamed and held captive... a ferocious lion freed of its cage. She looks to see the Prince also reveling in the exchange... cock sucked... anus licked... watching another naked duo under his tutelage forced to engage... homosexually entwine... with a well worked sweat coated body. Yes, the tongues cleanse Thursday with fervor... as the Prince has commanded.
“Ha, ha, ha. You see how much they enjoy it, Markie. Their Master is so gracious is he not?”
The Prince laughs as the duo lick with zeal, fearing the cane... fearing the cattle prod. Much sweat is consumed, disgust palpable but suppressed.
“The scrotum, Monday. Long gentle laps... swish and swirl with that accomplished tongue. But never touch that humble erection. Tuesday, I left someone for you. But you’ll need to work hard for it. Press that face between his cheeks. That sphincter is holding back what you boys savor. I took him quite deeply this morning. It required lots of time and effort but young Thursday’s rosebud opening fully succumbed to nearly an hour of manly thrusts. And he enjoyed it... is that not so Thursday?”
“Yes, Master, I so much enjoy being fanny fucked by you,” the words mechanically uttered in trepidation.
“Fanny fucked, yes. But I think my seed may have gushed well past you bowels, Thursday. The Royal pecker is known to spurt deeply and copiously. Is that not right Monday?”
“Yes, Master. And I too so much enjoy being put under the penis,” another rote response.
The psychological degradation seems to be just another element of the Prince’s penchant, Markie begins to realize. The Prince is fully aware that in fact his steeds seethe with rage and revulsion in being forced to perform the vile acts.
Markie finds she can finally unwind, for now, tasks completed. She marvels at the lustiness of the Prince. Having coupled anally with Thursday just an hour or more before, he thoroughly enjoys Saturday’s fellatio, stifling grunts of delectation as the boy’s head bobs and bobs, deep throating the largest penis she has ever seen.’Face fucking’... the term so apropos.
An obedient Tuesday kneels upright, licking Thursday’s buttocks, the velvet rope hindering access to that which the Prince deposited, the gluteal cleft blocked.
“Markie, help the lad. We’ll not deny him an offering from the Prince, ha, ha, ha.”
Wrists tethered, Tuesday presses the rope with his nose, obedience absolute. Markie steps forth, manicured hands working to separate the parallel lengths. Anus made accessible, Tuesday’s mouth immediately dives forth, hunger apparent. Yet, Markie, in spying the remnants of the morning sodomy, knows the eagerness is feigned, that Tuesday’s true sexual preference, as with all the Prince’s young blond steeds, is for that of the female.
“So I am sure the taste is familiar to you, Tuesday. You feast on it weekly.”
“Yes, sir, I so much enjoy your spunk. You are generous as always sir,” Tuesday briefly pulling away to reply.
Markie notes the lad’s nose is indeed coated with slimy white. Still Tuesday’s face presses forth again, returning to the task which is so reviled.
“Well, there is plenty of it for you... for all you boys.”
Markie steps back, astounded with the Prince’s staying power. His organ remains rock hard. Slight choking noises are evident with an occasional downward thrust of Saturday’s face and head, the penetration deep, the penis tip incredibly bulbous.
It is then that Markie feels remorse, finds herself/himself distant. Neutered, forcibly feminized, there is no possibility of joining the libidinous antics. When the Prince’s meaty hands push away Saturday’s head for a brief respite, there comes into view the raging Royal penis. Vast in its tumescent state, the thick length so wondrously symbolizes the power, emblemizes the dynamics of the sexual servitude she witnesses.
Markie looks downward with regret, her organ shrunken to that of her pinkie finger, its last stand months ago in the doctor’s office den, the catalyst of the sash required to produce what resulted in mere pusillanimous swelling.
Envy envelops the psyche. Other than the Prince, hers is the only penis free to flop about, uncaged and capable of standing, should the hormonal imbalance end. Yet, tip coated in red lipstick as the Prince demands, it instead brings only humiliation, announcing to all that a woman chose to end his/her maleness.
She attempts to console herself, reminding that she holds the key for those that can achieve. But that power is limited. Authority is ultimately with the Prince... and he chooses to use it sexually on brawny young males... conquering... physically, psychologically, sexually.
Yes, there comes envy... and Markie finds herself gracefully falling into a well of adoration. She gawks in thought at the huge mocha stiffness, coated in saliva, casually awaiting the return to a throat well used. The Prince notes her look of contemplation.
“You like a good stiff cock do you, Markie? I know you’ve been well trained to please. But ravaging soft little girly boys is not my thing. I like my boys strong and muscular. So much enjoy entering a boy as he squirms in revulsion. Like to feel him slowly calm as he faces the inevitability of deep sodomy, ha, ha, ha. There is the resistance... the fight... the struggle... the shock as they find themselves becoming stimulated against their will... and finally the capitulation. In the end they kneel and accept. It’s heady stuff Markie. But there will be none of that for you.”
The realization brings mourn. Markie’s addled hormonal imbalance prompts tears. To the Prince... the adored Master of the Ranch... she is sexually useless... nothing more then a servant to the Prince’s herd.
She has not the vitality, the brawn, the strength, to please the Prince... satiate his penchant.
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
The small key turns to click open the cock cage lock... tiny yet so drastically confining. With the penis so prominently engorged, knowing fingers work, kindly slipping away with minimal scraping, the interior spikes functioning well in pricking the sensitive but naughty penile flesh.
Still, Thursday shrieks.
“Shush. It is what you want... what you all so ravenously desire,” Markie admonishes.
Actually more than just freedom is desired. Strokes culminating in orgasm would be ecstatic... but such is never known to happen.
Separated from the support ring, decoupled from the capped Prince’s Wand, Markie places aside the stainless steel mesh then returns. Pressed well into the urethra is the tube which so greatly adds to the frustration of thorough chastity. Markie gently pulls, Thursday howling anew. Deep within, the tube broadens to a bulbous lump, cruelly... cleverly... designed to constantly abrade the prostate. Removal is thus laborious and painful, the bulb stretching the ultra sensitive urethral passage as it is slid away. When finally exiting the tip, there comes even more roars of agony.
But when freed the relief is instantaneous. Markie steps away and marvels. Virility liberated at last, Thursday’s penis steadily engorges to full blossom, turning upwards, the tip pressing against his belly.
Of good size, such wonderfully controlled maleness, Markie thinks to herself. The spontaneous erection proves to be an amazing display of sexual power... yet so well tamed and held captive... a ferocious lion freed of its cage. She looks to see the Prince also reveling in the exchange... cock sucked... anus licked... watching another naked duo under his tutelage forced to engage... homosexually entwine... with a well worked sweat coated body. Yes, the tongues cleanse Thursday with fervor... as the Prince has commanded.
“Ha, ha, ha. You see how much they enjoy it, Markie. Their Master is so gracious is he not?”
The Prince laughs as the duo lick with zeal, fearing the cane... fearing the cattle prod. Much sweat is consumed, disgust palpable but suppressed.
“The scrotum, Monday. Long gentle laps... swish and swirl with that accomplished tongue. But never touch that humble erection. Tuesday, I left someone for you. But you’ll need to work hard for it. Press that face between his cheeks. That sphincter is holding back what you boys savor. I took him quite deeply this morning. It required lots of time and effort but young Thursday’s rosebud opening fully succumbed to nearly an hour of manly thrusts. And he enjoyed it... is that not so Thursday?”
“Yes, Master, I so much enjoy being fanny fucked by you,” the words mechanically uttered in trepidation.
“Fanny fucked, yes. But I think my seed may have gushed well past you bowels, Thursday. The Royal pecker is known to spurt deeply and copiously. Is that not right Monday?”
“Yes, Master. And I too so much enjoy being put under the penis,” another rote response.
The psychological degradation seems to be just another element of the Prince’s penchant, Markie begins to realize. The Prince is fully aware that in fact his steeds seethe with rage and revulsion in being forced to perform the vile acts.
Markie finds she can finally unwind, for now, tasks completed. She marvels at the lustiness of the Prince. Having coupled anally with Thursday just an hour or more before, he thoroughly enjoys Saturday’s fellatio, stifling grunts of delectation as the boy’s head bobs and bobs, deep throating the largest penis she has ever seen.’Face fucking’... the term so apropos.
An obedient Tuesday kneels upright, licking Thursday’s buttocks, the velvet rope hindering access to that which the Prince deposited, the gluteal cleft blocked.
“Markie, help the lad. We’ll not deny him an offering from the Prince, ha, ha, ha.”
Wrists tethered, Tuesday presses the rope with his nose, obedience absolute. Markie steps forth, manicured hands working to separate the parallel lengths. Anus made accessible, Tuesday’s mouth immediately dives forth, hunger apparent. Yet, Markie, in spying the remnants of the morning sodomy, knows the eagerness is feigned, that Tuesday’s true sexual preference, as with all the Prince’s young blond steeds, is for that of the female.
“So I am sure the taste is familiar to you, Tuesday. You feast on it weekly.”
“Yes, sir, I so much enjoy your spunk. You are generous as always sir,” Tuesday briefly pulling away to reply.
Markie notes the lad’s nose is indeed coated with slimy white. Still Tuesday’s face presses forth again, returning to the task which is so reviled.
“Well, there is plenty of it for you... for all you boys.”
Markie steps back, astounded with the Prince’s staying power. His organ remains rock hard. Slight choking noises are evident with an occasional downward thrust of Saturday’s face and head, the penetration deep, the penis tip incredibly bulbous.
It is then that Markie feels remorse, finds herself/himself distant. Neutered, forcibly feminized, there is no possibility of joining the libidinous antics. When the Prince’s meaty hands push away Saturday’s head for a brief respite, there comes into view the raging Royal penis. Vast in its tumescent state, the thick length so wondrously symbolizes the power, emblemizes the dynamics of the sexual servitude she witnesses.
Markie looks downward with regret, her organ shrunken to that of her pinkie finger, its last stand months ago in the doctor’s office den, the catalyst of the sash required to produce what resulted in mere pusillanimous swelling.
Envy envelops the psyche. Other than the Prince, hers is the only penis free to flop about, uncaged and capable of standing, should the hormonal imbalance end. Yet, tip coated in red lipstick as the Prince demands, it instead brings only humiliation, announcing to all that a woman chose to end his/her maleness.
She attempts to console herself, reminding that she holds the key for those that can achieve. But that power is limited. Authority is ultimately with the Prince... and he chooses to use it sexually on brawny young males... conquering... physically, psychologically, sexually.
Yes, there comes envy... and Markie finds herself gracefully falling into a well of adoration. She gawks in thought at the huge mocha stiffness, coated in saliva, casually awaiting the return to a throat well used. The Prince notes her look of contemplation.
“You like a good stiff cock do you, Markie? I know you’ve been well trained to please. But ravaging soft little girly boys is not my thing. I like my boys strong and muscular. So much enjoy entering a boy as he squirms in revulsion. Like to feel him slowly calm as he faces the inevitability of deep sodomy, ha, ha, ha. There is the resistance... the fight... the struggle... the shock as they find themselves becoming stimulated against their will... and finally the capitulation. In the end they kneel and accept. It’s heady stuff Markie. But there will be none of that for you.”
The realization brings mourn. Markie’s addled hormonal imbalance prompts tears. To the Prince... the adored Master of the Ranch... she is sexually useless... nothing more then a servant to the Prince’s herd.
She has not the vitality, the brawn, the strength, to please the Prince... satiate his penchant.
Saturday, November 1, 2014
The Sash - The Insatiable Prince
The Insatiable Prince
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“My goodness, this one remains tight,” the Prince proclaims with enthusiasm, stepping from the cart.
Markie’s index finger loops through Thursday’s nose ring to steady, the shift in control symbolic but necessary... the human steed never ever afforded a sense of liberty. She notes that joining the rivulets of sweat at the buttocks, thighs and calves are streams of moisture at the cheeks.
Tears! Of pain?.. of humiliation?.. of frustration?
It matters not. The Prince is pleased.
“It’s so much more fun when you have to work and work a boy open. It’s my morning exercise. And you should hear him beg, Markie. He finds a good sized cock to be revolting, this one. But in the end he sucks... and deep within I left him a nice size wad of manliness... didn’t I boy? Ha, ha, ha.”
Bit and bridle in place, the question goes unanswered.
“Bring him into the stable. Before cleaning him I feel a need. It’s a lustful day for me, Markie. Let’s see what this boy looks like... all of him.”
Into the stable, Markie follows the proud swaggering Prince, leading Thursday by his nose, the cart rolling behind. Within moments, the spent steed finds himself leashed, bit and bridle slipped away, waist belt unbuckled to free him from the cart.
“Have I showed you how to hang a boy?” the Prince inquires as he proudly watches his five heavily perspiring steeds labor on the treadmills.
“No sire.”
“Well I think you will find familiarity. But I’ve no fine pink sash... I don’t pamper as at the doctor’s clinic.”
The Prince moves to a chest of drawers, known to contain various implements of chastisement and restraint. Slipping open at the bottom he retrieves a length of thick rope. Tossing it to Markie’s feet she notes it is some two inches in diameter, covered in soft felt with a sizable hook at each end.
“Hang him. You remember how the doctor displayed you? With that sash...”
“Yes, sire.”
“Well wrap him as you were and hook the rope to those ceiling cords. You’ll find a stool in the far corner.”
The Prince moves to special chair... ‘my throne’ he has humorously referenced the curiously shaped device.
The seat is split, supporting the thighs but leaving accessible the gluteal cleft.
“I’ll want two boys servicing me here... and two boys for Thursday. A little reward for so nicely offering his face and backside.”
Markie must scurry, leading Thursday under the dangling ceiling cords, she quickly enshrouds him with the velvet rope... draped over the back of the neck, ends brought to the front, slipped between the thighs, two ends pulled up between the wrists and slipped under at the neck. The stool is drawn forth. Markie steps up and must reach high to attach the rope hooks right and left to waiting loops at the ends of the cords.
She works with celerity, so often being similarly suspended in the doctor’s office den. She senses revenge, empowerment once again, as she now becomes the puppeteer... no longer the puppet.
“You’ll need cords for his ankle bands,” the Prince instructs, gazing at the treadmills and the many rolling buttocks. “And then bring me... let’s see... Saturday and Sunday. Friday can rest for tomorrow’s run. Monday and Tuesday can tend to Thursday. I’m sure they are thirsty. Lots of sweat for them, ha, ha, ha.”
Hooked and ready, Markie knows to slide away the stool. She finds the Prince to be prevenient. Thursday moves to his toes, straining to touch the floor but still finding undesired support. As Markie scampers for ankle cords, she laughs to herself, fully aware of the effect of full body suspension, she many times achieving erection even in her altered state.
Yes, revenge. She imagines the somatic reaction and finds delight even before full suspension.
Returning, a cord is clipped to the left ankle band, drawn upward to pull the foot from the floor, then clipped to the neck collar. When the right follows, Thursday hangs in a kneeling pose. He moans, tumescence... painful tumescence... already commencing.
Next it is to the treadmills. A long morning of forced exercise ends... but never the ignominy of being completely under the auspices of the avenging castrate.
As instructed, one by one, Saturday and Sunday are led to the sitting Prince, hobbling cords returned, wrists remaining attached to the back of the neck collar.
As Markie releases Monday and Tuesday, she peers to see the Prince has pushed aside his kimono. The massive Royal penis briefly comes into view, thereafter disappearing as a kneeling Saturday is instructed to begin fellatio. Yet Sunday has the nastier task, told to lie supine beneath
the throne, for him it is analingus, humble tongue to please the Royal sphincter.
“It’s good of you white boys to so eagerly partake in tasty chocolate flesh,” the Prince quips with a laugh. “Have those two lick down Thursday... every inch of him. The boy worked hard. I cropped him well...”
An aghast Monday and Tuesday are led hobbled to the dangling Thursday. Ah, the stable reeks of homophobia, notes Markie. All display disgust, so many male tongues licking so much male flesh!
Yet, the revulsion quells not Thursday’s need to harden. The cock cage is strained by penile flesh. Thursday cries out, beseeching words sputter forth. His reward for pleasing is not well accepted.
The Prince laughs heartily then commands.
“Remove the cock cage, Markie. Let’s see what the tiny organ looks like. Monday, Tuesday... you are to lick everywhere... every droplet of sweat, balls included. But if you touch his erection you will be caned.”
With so many tasks Markie regrets she has not opportunity to enjoy observing the combination of torment and humiliation being dispensed. She must retrieve the key to the cock cage and perform the rare function of removal, normally done weekly when she cleanses and shaves. Yes, it is a rare treat for those so cruelly held in strict chastity. But for Thursday, will it be a treat?
Copyright 2014
by Chris Bellows
“My goodness, this one remains tight,” the Prince proclaims with enthusiasm, stepping from the cart.
Markie’s index finger loops through Thursday’s nose ring to steady, the shift in control symbolic but necessary... the human steed never ever afforded a sense of liberty. She notes that joining the rivulets of sweat at the buttocks, thighs and calves are streams of moisture at the cheeks.
Tears! Of pain?.. of humiliation?.. of frustration?
It matters not. The Prince is pleased.
“It’s so much more fun when you have to work and work a boy open. It’s my morning exercise. And you should hear him beg, Markie. He finds a good sized cock to be revolting, this one. But in the end he sucks... and deep within I left him a nice size wad of manliness... didn’t I boy? Ha, ha, ha.”
Bit and bridle in place, the question goes unanswered.
“Bring him into the stable. Before cleaning him I feel a need. It’s a lustful day for me, Markie. Let’s see what this boy looks like... all of him.”
Into the stable, Markie follows the proud swaggering Prince, leading Thursday by his nose, the cart rolling behind. Within moments, the spent steed finds himself leashed, bit and bridle slipped away, waist belt unbuckled to free him from the cart.
“Have I showed you how to hang a boy?” the Prince inquires as he proudly watches his five heavily perspiring steeds labor on the treadmills.
“No sire.”
“Well I think you will find familiarity. But I’ve no fine pink sash... I don’t pamper as at the doctor’s clinic.”
The Prince moves to a chest of drawers, known to contain various implements of chastisement and restraint. Slipping open at the bottom he retrieves a length of thick rope. Tossing it to Markie’s feet she notes it is some two inches in diameter, covered in soft felt with a sizable hook at each end.
“Hang him. You remember how the doctor displayed you? With that sash...”
“Yes, sire.”
“Well wrap him as you were and hook the rope to those ceiling cords. You’ll find a stool in the far corner.”
The Prince moves to special chair... ‘my throne’ he has humorously referenced the curiously shaped device.
The seat is split, supporting the thighs but leaving accessible the gluteal cleft.
“I’ll want two boys servicing me here... and two boys for Thursday. A little reward for so nicely offering his face and backside.”
Markie must scurry, leading Thursday under the dangling ceiling cords, she quickly enshrouds him with the velvet rope... draped over the back of the neck, ends brought to the front, slipped between the thighs, two ends pulled up between the wrists and slipped under at the neck. The stool is drawn forth. Markie steps up and must reach high to attach the rope hooks right and left to waiting loops at the ends of the cords.
She works with celerity, so often being similarly suspended in the doctor’s office den. She senses revenge, empowerment once again, as she now becomes the puppeteer... no longer the puppet.
“You’ll need cords for his ankle bands,” the Prince instructs, gazing at the treadmills and the many rolling buttocks. “And then bring me... let’s see... Saturday and Sunday. Friday can rest for tomorrow’s run. Monday and Tuesday can tend to Thursday. I’m sure they are thirsty. Lots of sweat for them, ha, ha, ha.”
Hooked and ready, Markie knows to slide away the stool. She finds the Prince to be prevenient. Thursday moves to his toes, straining to touch the floor but still finding undesired support. As Markie scampers for ankle cords, she laughs to herself, fully aware of the effect of full body suspension, she many times achieving erection even in her altered state.
Yes, revenge. She imagines the somatic reaction and finds delight even before full suspension.
Returning, a cord is clipped to the left ankle band, drawn upward to pull the foot from the floor, then clipped to the neck collar. When the right follows, Thursday hangs in a kneeling pose. He moans, tumescence... painful tumescence... already commencing.
Next it is to the treadmills. A long morning of forced exercise ends... but never the ignominy of being completely under the auspices of the avenging castrate.
As instructed, one by one, Saturday and Sunday are led to the sitting Prince, hobbling cords returned, wrists remaining attached to the back of the neck collar.
As Markie releases Monday and Tuesday, she peers to see the Prince has pushed aside his kimono. The massive Royal penis briefly comes into view, thereafter disappearing as a kneeling Saturday is instructed to begin fellatio. Yet Sunday has the nastier task, told to lie supine beneath
the throne, for him it is analingus, humble tongue to please the Royal sphincter.
“It’s good of you white boys to so eagerly partake in tasty chocolate flesh,” the Prince quips with a laugh. “Have those two lick down Thursday... every inch of him. The boy worked hard. I cropped him well...”
An aghast Monday and Tuesday are led hobbled to the dangling Thursday. Ah, the stable reeks of homophobia, notes Markie. All display disgust, so many male tongues licking so much male flesh!
Yet, the revulsion quells not Thursday’s need to harden. The cock cage is strained by penile flesh. Thursday cries out, beseeching words sputter forth. His reward for pleasing is not well accepted.
The Prince laughs heartily then commands.
“Remove the cock cage, Markie. Let’s see what the tiny organ looks like. Monday, Tuesday... you are to lick everywhere... every droplet of sweat, balls included. But if you touch his erection you will be caned.”
With so many tasks Markie regrets she has not opportunity to enjoy observing the combination of torment and humiliation being dispensed. She must retrieve the key to the cock cage and perform the rare function of removal, normally done weekly when she cleanses and shaves. Yes, it is a rare treat for those so cruelly held in strict chastity. But for Thursday, will it be a treat?
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