The Male Concubine

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

“Strip him. p***s up. Leash him to my bed for the nurse. No food.”

The Queen speaks evenly but firmly then turns and leaves for her dressing chamber. I watch with admiration as her shapely yet well-muscled form moves under the long robe. As humiliating as being presented at the ceremony was, I wish the afternoon had not ended.

The Queen’s orders are instantly obeyed. The pretty young maid steps behind me and unzips the chest harness. I am grateful. Over time the tight garment becomes constrictive, somewhat like an abbreviated straight jacket. I can take a deep breath.

My p***s leash is removed along with the strip of yellow leather. The entwining leather has caused the head to turn to an amazing shade of purple and the young maid’s enjoyment is evident. Not much older than a teenager, I doubt if she has had many opportunities to handle the male phallus.

The fingers of her left hand furtively brush the underside of the frenulum where, despite the ring, there remains some sensitivity. Her right hand disappears between my thighs, under my empty scrotum. She has had occasion to watch the nurse milk my prostate and has learned where the altered male can still feel some pleasure, however ungratifying. Her touch is for her amusement, not mine. She knows that such play increases my frustration, starting me on the journey toward ejaculation. A journey that cannot be concluded. She is exhibiting control...power. A lowly native maid in charge of what is normally perceived as the potent white male.

She looks into my face and smiles, her bright white teeth highlighted by alluringly smooth black skin. It is a devilish smile, almost evil. She has watched me being caned and enjoyed it. She has watched me crawl, licking the Queen’s boots, providing assiduous oral service and I have heard her numerous snickers. Her touch sends a signal. ‘Do not expect clemency from me’ her controlling hands suggest.

And sure enough she uses the Prince Albert ring, cruelly penetrating my urethra, to bend the permanently erect member upwards, where the Queen wants it. Pulling on the ring causes pain. I wince.

When the tip reaches my stomach, the maid retrieves a small padlock from her pocket and secures the Prince Albert ring to a small ring piercing my navel. Only the Queen and nurse have keys. If and when a member of the female gender chooses to ride the long firm shaft, it will only be with royal authority.

I am grateful when my heels are removed, though my ankles remain chained. The maid unhooks the annoying bells then gives me permission to move my arms. I am again grateful.

The ceremonial gold collar is removed. A more practical one, of incredibly hard stainless steel replaces it. It has a lower profile and allows more motion of my head and neck. But the provided increase in flexibility is not for my benefit, it is so I can better service the Queen.

I keep my hands and arms moving. Their freedom is rare and usually brief, thus I take advantage knowing that the maid will once again restrain them. She steps away, cognizant that my hobbled ankles dissuade me of any attempts to move.

She returns with ‘D’ clamps.

“Hands back and up.”

The command is familiar. I push my hands behind my back, bend my arms at the elbows and almost touch the back of the neck collar. The maid pulls up my left hand and uses a ‘D’ clamp to attach my thumb ring to the back of the collar. The right is likewise secured and I find myself standing before the pretty maid naked and completely helpless.

She steps back and laughs. The only constraint on her power over me is my extremely white skin. With the Queen insisting that my flesh be kept out of the strong African sun, I am as alabaster as a Greek statue. Thus, any marks from whips, canes and crops show vividly, as the Queen desires. So my whiteness also affords me a degree of protection. Should an irresistible desire to whip me overcome the maid, the marks would have to be explained. Such entertainment is reserved for the viewing pleasure of the Queen.

But there are many other games she can play. So I remain most humble and obedient. I look to a nearby full-length mirror as the maid searches for a suitable leash. The reflection of a girl looks back. Tasseled n*****s atop small breasts. Smooth effeminate skin. A girlish face. Hours and hours of effort by the royal cosmeticians have transformed me into a somewhat comical beauty. Comical due to the huge pole of male flesh protruding straight up at my belly. It is all that remains, I remind myself. The vestige of an abbreviated life as a male stands rigidly, the purple coloring beginning to subside to a noticeable red.

“It’s not yours any more,” the maid correctly suggests. She notices me inspecting myself and returns with a leash. She clips it to the front of my collar. “You’re not even permitted to touch it.”

Yes, it’s true. I am not even allowed to urinate without supervision and an assisting feminine hand.

The maid’s words cause me to reflect. There was a time, before my alteration, when I would masturbate for the then Princess.

The maid tugs on the leash and I follow, my hobbled feet making rapid short steps in response. She leads me to the bed. It is large, custom made with brass pipe fittings. Strong and durable, the brass has dozens of eye hooks welded into every imaginable location. It is a simple matter for the maid to clip her end of the leash to one of the fittings.

She steps back and surveys me standing naked and bound then approaches again.

“There’s no point in providing undue comfort,” she remarks.

She pushes on the back of my knees and I genuflect as trained. She shortens the leash and reattaches it, leaving me some two feet of slack. I can neither lie down nor stand.

“The nurse will attend to you in a couple of hours.”

The pretty, the young and the cruel exit leaving the bound, hobbled and kneeling to my thoughts. I am accustomed to long periods of awkward restraint. But my bladder is full and the maid conveniently forgot to provide for my relief before locking my p***s. Judging from the fading light on the curtained balcony window I will have many uncomfortable hours until the nurse arrives for the evening examination.

The years of bound servitude have trained me to divert my thoughts during long periods of restraint. The maid’s comment concerning the touching of the Queen’s defacto phallus brings memories. I let them flow drawing attention from my aching bladder.

When did I last touch myself there?

My mind begins to flip through page after page of recollection. The earliest years are hazy. After all, I arrived as a toddler, the same age as the Queen, now in her late twenties.

Yes, the Queen’s mother once told the Queen the story of my ‘procurement’. I was a ‘gift’ from an unscrupulous businessman desiring to engage in some elicit undertaking and attempting to obtain the blessing of the late King, the Queen’s father.

It was assumed that I was either adopted or abducted and surreptitiously brought to the small African country. But the circumstances were never confirmed. For shortly after I was presented in the King’s Court, the businessman was found dead. An apparent victim of his own aggressive practices, he shortchanged the wrong person at some point in time and paid the ultimate price.

That left the Court with a very young, very white blond boy with no known background or history. The King was perplexed. It seemed that the businessman assumed he had a proclivity for boys. It was not true. Therefore the royal nurse was summoned and I was whisked away to the nursery where she was at the time caring for the young Princess.

Royalty and a homeless Caucasian boy, together in a nursery under the tutelage of the devious, feminine mind of a sexually, degenerative nurse. It all began there.

With the warm climate the nurse deemed clothing to be unnecessary...for me only. And as I plumb the very depths of my memory I recall few instances of receiving the benefit of covering other than when the Princess playfully adorned me with girl’s clothing.

So from the earliest days at the Palace my memory conjures visions of running about naked before the nurse and the very young Princess. For the future Queen, I became a pet. I was used to satisfy the most childish whim of the adolescent member of the royal family.

The Princess enjoyed dressing dolls. She learned to dress me...skirts, dresses, frilly underwear. The Princess wanted a puppy. The nurse trained me to become such. The Princess fantasized having a pony pulling her about in a cart. The nurse had a harness made. The Palace dog cart was deemed suitable and many an afternoon I spent responding to the tugs of makeshift reins. And later, as the Princess developed sexually, the nurse made me the object of the Dominant female’s derision of the male.

If there were nights when I was not stroked to full tumescence by the imposing nurse, I do not recall such. For it seems that the lessons in male anatomy and the demonstrations of the perceived male weaknesses were deemed an important segment of the Princess’ education.

“See how much he enjoys the hand of the controlling female?”

The nurse’s explanatory words cannot be forgotten as I sat stripped naked on her lap, facing the curious Princess, thighs straddling those of the nurse with her fingers working. Her right hand stroked my underdeveloped p***s. The digits of her left penetrated my rectum, exploring and dexterously finding the little prostate gland. My bulbous reaction enthused the young Princess, observing with much interest and happily learning at such an early age how much the male beast craves the feminine touch. She giggled and watched...so closely.

I was too young to ejaculate. But my tiny p***s would stand proudly and I learned to enjoy not only the sensation of the nurse’s amazingly skilled hand, but also the act of performing for the female s*x. To display myself and to so conspicuously expose my most intimate anatomy.

Yes, after a time when the Princess and I were left to play alone, many of her games began with her youthful directive to bring my p***s to full erection. She smiled and watched intently as I imitated the hand of the nurse. And when my underdeveloped member stood, it was only then that her amusements began. Sometimes I crawled throughout the Palace playroom, leashed and responding to dog commands.

Other times I found myself being harnessed by one of the ubiquitous Palace maids and then led to the Palace garden, where the numerous winding paths made for a challenging afternoon responding to the Princess’ little quirt as I pulled her about in the dog cart.

I learned things about myself during those exhausting afternoons. Whenever the Princess applied the quirt, I felt my p***s twitch. And I vividly recall the day that the Princess vigorously excoriated my buttocks on the final leg of our journey rushing towards the Palace where the nurse awaited.

“It gets harder after a long run and lots of strokes,” the Princess observed after dismounting and poking my standing manhood with the whip handle.

The nurse laughed knowingly.

“You have discovered another secret, Princess. There are males born to serve. It seems you own one.”

I was led back to the nursery harnessed and fully erect. I flushed with humiliation when tittering young maids saw my condition. And with their reaction I stiffened more. But what was of most concern was that the Princess was becoming more and more sanguine with my tumescence.