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?