The Male Concubine

Chapter One Over the years I have learned to ignore the furtive glances and stifled laughter. It is more important that I concentrate on the Queen, carefully looking to her for the most subtle of signals and remaining prepared to respond instantly to her whim. And also to stay balanced atop the ridiculously high heels of my brief ceremonial attire. So I stare straight ahead at my Mistress, owner, and munificent benefactor as the repetitive refrains of the processional music blare and my leash rhythmically swings with each beat. Many observers believe that the motion of the long strand of gold chain attached to my phallus causes pain. Surprisingly it does not, unless of course my Queen pulls vigorously or flicks her wrist, as she is wont to do when in a playful mood. Yes, the ‘Prince Albert’ ring deeply pierces my urethra, but for ceremonial purposes the Queen’s maid entwines my long stiff p***s with a decorative strip of leather, circling the base then crisscrossing the long shaft to the tip where the two ends are threaded through the large ring and attached to the chain. Therefore tension on the chain is felt uniformly and relatively comfortably on the entire length of my p***s. For today, the traditional celebration of harvest, the strip is yellow. And the bright color serves to highlight what remains of my maleness and the Queen’s control over it. We proceed up the aisle toward the throne. More feminine laughter emanates from the Queen’s loyal subjects standing to the right and the left. They find merriment in observing an effeminately attired Caucasian ‘male’, if that is the appropriate term. For the only remaining evidence of my gender is the leather restrained tube of firm flesh which the Queen controls and which precedes me by some ten inches. Yes, ten inches. Over the years the Queen has had my penile inserts increased to the point of absurdity. “You’ll be a full foot soon,” I remember her commenting as I recovered from the anesthesia of the latest replacement of the inserts. And strangely, whereas most males would feel some degree of pride in exhibiting such a prodigious organ, for me it is just an object, however revered, which I carry and display for the Queen. Hers to do with as she pleases. In her teen years, with the discovery of her sexuality, she relished riding me like a horse. With the supervising nurse ensuring I was properly restrained and lubricated, the Queen, a Princess at the time, would straddle my supine torso, insert the permanently erect organ into her v****a and pump, and pump, and pump. The scene became a twice daily occurrence. With each session the worldly nurse/governess explained to the precocious Princess all the facts of life, with the twist of complete female dominance over the helpless male. And weekly, the diabolical nurse introduced various s*x toys, enhancing the Princess’ pleasure at my expense. The cattle prod was the final touch. After learning how and when to apply it to my naked flesh, there was not much else the nurse could find or suggest that would add to the Princess’ enjoyment. And after I was hosed down to ensure suitable conductivity, many late afternoon sessions ended with an unbearable electric jolt for me, and a massive climax for her. Smelling salts were kept at the ready. And the smiling face of the nurse is forever etched in my mind as she sponged my naked sweat covered body with a shockingly cold compress. We near the throne. I look down as best I can. The gold neck collar is very high, the top resting under my chin, immobilizing my head. Thus I must be careful in traversing the steps. The eight inch hobbling chain connecting my ankle rings has been measured to specifically permit each foot to rise enough to negotiate one step. And experience tells me to proceed slowly. The incredibly thick rings penetrate each ankle between the heel and the Achilles tendon. The slightest pull or pressure on a ring causes my calf muscle to spasm. Many a time I have collapsed in unspeakable agony from the cramps resulting from a sudden tug on a ring. On this special day, the punishment for so doing would be severe. The Queen reaches her throne, turns and looks down at me. As I slowly approach, her hand gently takes up the slack in the p***s chain, leading me to her. She smiles. In exhibiting to the subjects her absolute control over the Caucasian male she is pleased. It is the ultimate symbol of her power, generating envy among her female subjects and a respectful degree of fear among the males. I can envision their thoughts... if she can feminize, decorate and alter me, the epitome of the male dominated white world, imagine the realms of possible punishment to be meted out to the recalcitrant native subject. And thus they must wonder...from where did the Queen’s pretty blond toy come? How did he end up in their small African country under the strict authority of their Queen? My right foot finds the first step. I must carefully move my weight forward then up. The high heels, the ankle chain, the slight pulling on the p***s chain all make the endeavor difficult. But with my hands and arms securely encased behind my back, completely covered by the yellow chest harness, the movement is most laborious. Fortunately one of the Queen’s young maids led me up and down the stairs yesterday in an exhausting afternoon of rehearsal. She was young and could not help toying with my permanently erect member. By the end of the day, I could smell her feminine arousal. My n****e tassels swing noticeably as I move to the first step. The sensation is pleasurable, one of the few I am permitted. The chest harness is open in the vicinity of my breasts. My faux mammary glands are well displayed for the amusement of the Queen and my n*****s are also erect in a humble salute to her. With my alteration and the hormone injections I have developed small breasts with very sensitive n*****s. When it was explained to the then young Princess how I would change and what I would feel after the orchidectomy, she gleefully had my n*****s pierced and began to take delight in hanging various teasing objects from my developing breasts. “He’ll have the sensitivity of a young girl there,” I remember the doctor explaining. The 13 year old Princess giggled uncontrollably in response. The next day the royal jeweler received the first of many orders for unusual trinkets. I reach the second step. The Queen sits. Behind me I can hear the large audience simultaneously take their seats. The music stops and with the quiet I can hear my bells and feel the palpable gaze of the hundreds of pairs of eyes. All are focused on me, the strangely attired alabaster blond. The well coiffured, small breasted ‘girl’ with the massive p***s humbly pointing for its owner. I wear collar, heels and a chest harness, otherwise, nothing. I am stripped. An amusing toy led on a leash and displayed at the Queen’s pleasure for the curiosity of her subjects. My blond hair is shoulder length. My eyebrows plucked and shaped. Mascara. Eye liner. Lips permanently tattooed a lurid red, with a matching red pedicure. But for the stiff ten inches, every other inch appears female. With the third step the bells hanging from my buttock rings jingle again. I hear the titter of a young girl in the first row. The large rings required surgical implantation, deeply set within the gluteus maximus muscles. For today’s ceremony the rings provide a convenient location to hang ornamental bells. Otherwise the rings are functional, facilitating anal penetration by providing useful handles for the sodomite. With my muscles skewered, there can be no resistance offered to such an assault. Many palace guests have availed themselves of my backside. I am fortunate that the Queen’s nurse keeps me stretched and lubricated there. My left foot touches the top step. The Queen’s index finger motions. It is an unnecessary gesture. The desired position is ingrained. As she clips the p***s chain to the side of her thrown, the slack allows me to fall to my knees. With a barely noticeable movement, her right hand hikes up the hem of her full-length silk robe. With my arms immobilized behind my back, the small opening between the bottom of the robe and the lush carpet allows me to snuggle under. I crawl forward. It is dark but I know where I am and where I am expected. As I nudge forward my depilated cheeks feel the wonderfully warm smooth flesh of the Queen’s inner thighs. Her scent guides me. It is most familiar. I have learned to relish it. The viewing native subjects are comfortable with the Queen’s public displays of promiscuity. And for the Queen, what better way to demonstrate power then to be orally serviced while presiding over the celebration of one of the most popular holidays. I feel the end of her robe drape down over the back of the chest harness then onto my naked skin. Silk feels delicious. The bottom of the robe caresses my calves. Someday I will be permitted clothing and my hormone laden body quivers with the thought of being covered with such tantalizingly smooth softness. I can imagine the conflicted thoughts of the audience, viewing the shapely depilated legs of a neutered male, ankles cruelly pierced, hobbled with a short chain, wearing the most effeminate of high heels. But do the thoughts conjure fear? Respect for the Queen? Licentiousness? Will the viewing women return to their homes aroused, perhaps to make unusual s****l demands on their mates? But alas, I put such hypothetical questions aside...my task beckons. The well-trimmed royal pudendum awaits my attention and I extend my tongue. The knob piercing the tip finds the right labia. I lick. I lick again. My training has been exhaustive. My tongue and lips have no limits and I know the insatiable Queen will experience orgasm after orgasm throughout the afternoon’s festivities. Deprived of the ability to achieve my own, I savor hers and with the feel of each small quiver, as my long well stretched tongue penetrates her inner labia and searches, I feel an inner glow. Life does have purpose for the altered feminized male, I tell myself. It is to serve. To concentrate on the pleasure of one’s owner. My tongue has been pierced and stretched solely for my Queen. The nurse would not stop until I had the capability to explore the Queen’s v****a while my upper lip frictions the royal c******s, a feat finally accomplished in my fifteenth year after hours of daily stretching. As the Queen matured and my oral skills honed, the afternoon horse rides waned. Currently it is only oral pleasure I provide. My p***s is only for display. The firm tubes of rubber implanted in the erectile chambers keep the phallus permanently erect. As stated there have been countless replacement procedures, with each insert further lengthening the shaft. Fortunately, skin stretches. And within a few weeks of each replacement, the throbbing usually subsides as the flesh stretches to accommodate the longer implants. I expect shortly that I will find myself once again the object of much medical attention as the Queen seeks to achieve the desired twelve inches. After all, it is hers to do with as she pleases. I merely wear it for her. There are speeches being made. Various ministers are paying homage to her highness. I hear very little with the firm dark brown thighs pressed against my ears. I concentrate on one task and it is to provide multiple orgasms. Through the layers of clothing I feel a tap atop my head. The signal is familiar. I withdraw my tongue from the royal v****a and wrap my lips completely around the Queen’s sizable c******s. Quite often the Queen generously bequeaths my skills to special guests. Therefore I have serviced many women in the Palace. But I have never encountered a feminine bud as large as hers. Since I have been servicing it since childhood, I often wonder if it has grown to such proportions due to my efforts. If so, I am proud. I suck, simultaneously swishing my tongue and its clever little knob around the beautiful pink bud. A flood of feminine excitement results. I dutifully take it all in. For me, it is s****l nourishment for my starved libido. I feel goose pumps with the knowledge that I have once again pleased her. The small orgasms are too numerous to count. The significant ones, where the royal thighs squeeze my head with paroxysmal force, number four. Another tap on my head indicates a respite...for the Queen, not for me. My lips remain wrapped about the firm c******s. My breathing steadies. I remain motionless. Another minister is speaking, his words indicating a conclusion to the ceremony. I prepare myself for the slow march back down the aisle. On the return journey the odoriferous remnants of the Queen’s copious spending will be evidenced about my nose, lips and chin. I prepare myself for more laughter, more looks of amused derision from mothers and looks of libidinous wonderment from sexually curious daughters.