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.