Saturday, December 13, 2014

The Sash - An Audience with the Queen

An Audience with the Queen

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

“Thank you. You may go. And thank you for joining me, Markie.”

Escorting Markie to the Queen’s reception chamber, the satiated messenger... calmed with some one hour of fellatio, he in turn showing proper humbleness... bows with grace and silently exits.

“We need to talk, Markie, about our conspiracy. Think it is best done here... at the Palace... so I can adequately motivate,” the Queen succinctly explains. “Come.”

The Queen gestures to follow as she strolls to a near wall. Once again Markie is impressed with the woman’s elegance... belying her size. Nearly six foot, broad shoulders and sizable hips suggest weightiness, yet with a fluid gait she seems to float. A flowing silk kimono cloaks her physique. But there is certainly limited girth, Markie concludes. There is none of the soft fat she was forced to procure with her castration.

The Queen twists a sconce and Markie is alarmed when a section of the seemingly seamless wall opens. Into view comes a short dark hallway leading to even darker stairs.

“Step in, your eyes will quickly acclimate to the limited light.”

Markie complies, the Queen follows and the secret doorway closes behind them.   

“Thought it best to offer a tour of the Palace first... beginning with a section rarely visited by outsiders,” the Queen pausing, eyes adjusting to the darkness. “Even the Prince has only seen it once... and that was once too many.”

Ah, the secret dungeon, the blurted reference to which upset the Queen during her visit months ago.

Within moments the eerie lighting is indeed sufficient. The Queen directs to a stone stairway, gothic and ominous.

“I suggest using the wall for support, the masonry of the steps is rough and uneven. Built utilizing condemned prisoners with limited skills... but with limited opportunity to divulge this chamber’s existence.” the Queen informs with a wicked chuckle. “They’re entombed below.”

Down, down, down, the air becoming cool and humid with each step. Markie feels herself trembling... the temperature? Or concern over being entombed as well?     

Finally a thick iron door is reached. The Queen pushes numbers on a surprisingly modern electronic keypad, then presses her palm to an adjacent smooth metal plate. In apparently reading her fingerprints there comes a notable click and the door yields. 

“Access is restricted to me, a nurse and a guard who offers daily nutrition. The guard is mute and knows not how to read and write... the nurse quite loyal... and quite well watched should her loyalty wane. Otherwise only the occupants know of this facility... and stupidly the Prince... a blunder on my part... and now you of course.”

The Queen leads past cells, the bars of thick wrought iron. Markie is relieved to see such are empty... but then realizes that means there is more than ample space for her. At the end of the dank corridor there is another door of thick iron. Once again a keypad and fingerprint sensor are utilized to bring forth the click of a lock’s release.

“When I enter here, no one... not the guard... not the nurse... is to know the details of my interaction with this special prisoner. So if I hear of rumors... stories about Royal wickedness... I will know such came from you... and the consequences for revealing such will be dire.”     

The Queen warns then pushes open the door and leads. Into a large, cave like chamber she steps, an aghast Markie following. Capacious by comparison, ceiling high, Markie gapes, her eyes taking in so much so fast. The Queen remains silent, letting the naked castrate become apprized. 

On the floor lies a Caucasian male, middle aged though the years are difficult to judge. Denied covering, a yoke of steel resting on the shoulders encumbers neck and wrists. At the back of the thighs, just below the buttocks, the form bears a smaller matching bar of steel. Closer examination suggests there are two bars pressed together. Markie is alarmed to see that semi circular openings in the center of the steel plate accommodate a large scrotal sac, two mammoth testicles entrapped and prominently displayed.

“Markie, meet Master Egbert Pendleton... Sir Egbert Pendleton. How are you this morning Sir Egbert?” the Queen’s words offered with sarcasm.

Markie is both appalled and relieved to see the form squirm, alive but motion quite limited, the restrained wrists, the entrapped testicles precluding all but a worm like endeavor.

“What do you think of his bonds, Markie? Rather effective, wouldn’t you say? The yoke needs no explanation, but the humbler is delicious is it not?.. effectively restraining a man by his balls.” the words come as Markie’s initial surprise is augmented.

Yes, the Queen disrobes, casually slipping off her kimono to reveal lack of undergarments... and an amazingly sculpted figure. Breasts of size, defying gravity, the abdominal muscles of a champion boxer, thighs thick with sinew. Though her Majesty presents herself without a shred of covering she remains as regal as a fine statue.  

“Good morning, your Majesty,” the Sir Egbert form finally uttering a reply. “I am in great discomfort. But so eager for you to torture me. Ah, some pain. I believe a fingernail is growing back for you.”

The speech is lisped and strained. Markie quickly realizes the man is edentulous. And sure enough there are no finger or toenails. If indeed such are growing back it is difficult to discern in the dimness.

“Oh, that is good to hear, Sir Egbert. And here I thought that after twice pulling them out such would not return, ha, ha, ha.”

The Queen moves to a corner. There a low stool is retrieved. In returning, the Queen steps to the wormy nakedness, Markie marveling as each step brings well muscled rippling.

“I have something for you, Sir Egbert. It’s that time of the month... yum, yum,” she mocks.

The Queen places the stool before the pitiful prisoner and sits. She then leans, grasps the ends of the yoke and despite the weightiness, effortlessly lifts, somewhat dragging a sputtering Sir Egbert, aligning his face between her parted thighs.  

“Sir Egbert enjoys my taste, Markie... and enjoys my touch as well... is that not so Sir Egbert?”

“Oh yes, your Majesty. Your touch is wonderfully painful. Some hot needles this morning?”

“Perhaps later. I just wanted to show you to my little friend here... and have my quim licked clean. It’s quite sloppy and needs your attention. But enough words from you. Tongue and lips, tongue and lips.”

Markie imagines that the position, scrotum drawn well behind at the thighs, testicles squeezed, must be terribly uncomfortable. Still the man, this Sir Egbert, dutifully begins his task, thighs straining in a semi kneeling position to alleviate the stress on his entrapped scrotum.

“When I was a young girl, my father the King graciously sent me to a fine, prestigious English boarding school. A wondrous education. And there I met the esteemed pedagogue Master Egbert Pendleton... teaching skills renowned. Quite the linguist, Master Egbert. Later to be knighted.”

Markie hears the slurping sound of energetic cunnilingus, the tormented form well focused on his appointed deed.

“So one day, in reading a book, perhaps one I should not have found, I needed to understand a word... gamahuche. Such girlish curiosity! And who better to explain the meaning then Master Egbert Pendleton... renowned pedagogue... skulking pedophile.”

The Queen pauses to cackle then hum with the pleasure... both physical and emotional. Being serviced so attentively at an otherwise hygienically inconvenient time of the month pleases.

“You were clever, Master Egbert, furtively placing that naughty book where a pubescent girl would be sure to find. So easy seducing the concupiscent and the sexually curious is it not, Sir Egbert?”

A Royal hand reaches to an ear and twists to bring a groan of pain.  

“Yes, Sir Egbert liked to lick... and liked to lick the young, the pink and the hairless. For me, an introduction to oral gratification in which a girl finds initial enjoyment... but soon thereafter realizes something which must be repressed in fear... and guilt. Still one never forgets, Markie. When I became Queen, I reached out to him. In a ruse I suggested a visit, hinted that young girls were under my purview and in need of his skills. When I further suggested his visit be clandestine, the lech foolishly thought I was conspiring with him to engage his perversions. ‘Arrange a trip to Greenland’ I wrote in tempting him.

“Well he did, but it was prearranged for him to miss his flight and for the Royal jet to pick him up at Gatwick, no one seeing him board. Then he was flown here where he has remained in my torture chamber... and will forever remain. Isn’t that right, Sir Egbert? No point in leaving now... now that you so much enjoy my touch.”

“Yes, your Majesty. I so much enjoy your taste... and your touch. Some caning this morning?”

The Royal hand presses to rebuke, returning the face back to the business at hand.

“Obviously the many years of daily agony have demented his esoteric mind. He’s a masochist now. Teeth pulled, finger and toenails ripped away. I used an elastrator to remove his nipples. His penis I degloved, removing the sensitive tissue. And in a deliciously slow procedure, I slit open his urethra... the entire length of his penis... with a hot knife. Lots of smelling salts for that long morning. It’s now useless for male pleasure. When I read men can obtain a strange form of delight by way of the prostate gland I had that removed.”

Markie cringes, deserved or not, the sadism overwhelming.

“But his balls... my balls... such remain, ensuring he is forever randy while I assure such randiness is adequately addressed... solely with pain. Wonderfully receptive to hot needles by the way. Sir Egbert’s favorite torture...”

Apparently cleansed, the Queen pushes away a well squeezed head, powerful arms then twisting the yoke such that Sir Egbert’s form turns and plops to the concrete flooring face upwards. Markie’s eyes immediately inspect. The nipples indeed have been expunged, the penis appearing to be a flat filleted fish rather than a proud cylinder of maleness.

“Did you enjoy your breakfast, Sir Egbert? I had one of my maids fill my chamber pot as well. Enough to eat?”

“Oh yes, your Majesty. Very thoughtful of you.”

“The guard spoon feeds my excretions daily, Markie. Weekly the nurse visits to assure Sir Egbert’s health. He’s in excellent condition, considering the lack of exercise. But the torture is sufficient to bring up the heart rate... akin to a good workout... is that not so, Sir Egbert?”  

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