Saturday, December 6, 2014

The Sash - To Be Used

To Be Used

Copyright 2014

by Chris Bellows

After many days, much sodomy, much semen, many collection bags filled and frozen, the expected messenger of the Queen arrived, his timing good. In traversing the veld, tugging reins, stroking with his crop, penetrating a welcoming orifice, the Prince was unaware of his visit.

“The Queen conveys her appreciation,” the trim young male offered, barely able to keep his eyes off the straining buttocks of five naked steeds laboring on the treadmills.

Long blond hair, well styled, polished red nails both hands and feet, the mandatory lipstick applied to a tiny penis tip, the Queen’s messenger had equal difficulty not gawking at the pretty castrate, true gender... former gender... well veiled.

Into a well insulated, iced chest, the freezer emptied of what seemed like quarts of male essence, Markie felt both accomplishment and relief, the evidence of her subterfuge removed. The Prince is not to suspect her involvement in the conspiracy, Markie sighed in thought as the messenger departed. Months hence a child will be born. Years hence the Queen will surprise her son Samja with news of his fatherhood. A wedding announcement will follow. 

How will the Prince ever suspect Markie’s participation?  

And so the daily routine at the ranch returns to normal. Sperm collection curtailed, a spritz enema quickly offered with a quick cooling douse of spray water before the worn steed is bedded.

Apprehension removed, Markie’s attraction to the Prince, her envy of a fully functioning penis, her adoration of handsome virility, blossoms anew. Though free to frottage with the steeds, tease and torment their chaste forms, there is a sense of emptiness, lack of filfillment. The steeds offer oral stimulation upon demand... boy labia... boy pussy. The lipstick though, is not to be smeared, the Prince using it as a defacto gauge as to whether there has been trespass on Markie’s comical once male organ.

Still, during lonely restless nights Markie is known to lift a hood, straddle a face and offer herself.

Yet, it satiates not. The steeds, oral skills accomplished, gratify mechanically. And adding to the sense of ennui is the fact that Markie’s castration precludes any ultimate orgasm. She senses a pending sneeze that just won’t come. Thus coercing fellatio is not only precarious, should the Prince discover, but unsatisfying.

‘Why bother,’ has become Markie’s mental response when considering such coupling. It is the Prince... pleasing him would be the pinnacle... her tender efforts awarded with an eruption of male seed. Trained in sexual subservience, she yearns to give... and she yearns to bring delight to he most fertile, he who commands, he who provides... he who owns. Such has been ingrained in her psyche. Pleasure for the Prince... fulfillment for Markie.  

Yes, Markie feels the need to be used.

One month, two? There comes a far off swirl of dust as the Royal long white limousine wheels forth just at the moment the Prince’s cart and human steed disappear onto the veld.

Has someone been observing? Or perhaps the timing coincidental?

It is the Queen’s messenger again, on this occasion arriving as Markie works to release the remaining herd from the sleeping mats and run them on the treadmills.

“The Queen summons you,” the messenger abruptly proclaims. “You are to come to the Palace.”

“But I have chores. The Prince insists his boys be well worked.”

“You are to come immediately. This is for the Prince,” the messenger presenting an envelope, sealed in wax, the Royal crest prominently displayed in conveying the authenticity its origination. “I suggest you comply... and promptly. There is no time for your chores. The Queen is best kept pleased.” 

The handsome young African smiles warmly, assuaging fears.

“Your safety and well being are assured. I am told this letter will adequately explain your brief absence.”

“How long?” Markie inquires, returning a naked steed to his respective sleeping mat.

“The Palace is an hours drive. I know not of the Queen’s intentions.”

“I’ll need covering.”

“The queen insists that you be naked. She suggests that it is best for you,” a hand extending to tweak a nipple, highlighting Markie’s state of deshabille.

Markie cannot help giggling with the unexpected touch. Silly of me... and curious that public nudity remains of concern, Markie ponders. She has not worn a scrap of clothing in many, many months... other than her shoes. Yet, she demurs in exhibiting herself.

“Come,” the messenger brazenly taking her hand in offering more familiarity, “this is a Kingdom. Fealty is required. Royalty is to be obeyed.”

He leads to the limousine. In opening the door for access, Markie feels a hand smooth over her girlish cheeks. The many touches suggest attraction, she realizes in seating herself. Her gender may confuse, but the pent up desire of the young male is apparent. The messenger follows sitting opposite.

“I believe you will be more comfortable kneeling on the floor,” the voice becoming more authoritative as Markie hears the click of the door locks. “And an hour long ride should be just enough time,” the words received as ominous, the messenger unzipping himself.

Not approaching the size of the Prince, the messenger produces a male organ uncircumcised, a dark pink tip slipping past the foreskin, seemingly eager to greet the day.

“The ride can be otherwise boring. You may suck me. Cleanse the smegma first. I like a girl to be neat. Suggests obedience, proper humbleness...”

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