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...”