The Male Concubine

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

My bladder is bursting and I remain kneeling at the end of the Queen’s bed. Past experiences suggest that my Queen is eating dinner, probably a sumptuous meal. With my stomach growling I picture the long table of the Palace dining room laden with food.

I calm myself hoping that my munificent owner will return with a plate of scraps. Nothing elaborate, the best leftovers go to the Palace guard dogs. But food nonetheless.

A maid enters. More experienced than the one who secured me, she moves about very business- like, turning on soft lights against the approaching darkness and turning down the bed. Her last act is to force me to drink a glass of water. The nurse has evidently given orders. I detect her devilishness in adding to the torment of my overflowing bladder.

As the door closes, I deliberately turn my mind back to the memories and away from my discomfort.

Yes, that afternoon jaunt through the garden brought change. The Princess became more than a curious observer. She became an instigator, insisting that my little member stand for her on demand. Upon reflection, it seems that after that ride the Princess wanted it stiff more often than flaccid and the little appendage spent much time pointing upward.

Then came the day when the nurse unexpectedly entered our play room. The Princess’ fingers were rubbing the front of her play dress as she insisted that I stroke myself. I was wearing a dog collar and was otherwise naked, as usual. The Princess’ excitement was most evident to the nurse.

“Well Princess, royalty doesn’t do that,” admonished the nurse, referring to the Princess’ busy fingers. “Particularly when you have your little companion to serve your needs.”

After that, the nurse assured that the Princess’ short play dress was worn sans underwear. And though her pudendum was more proximate, she was discouraged from using her fingers. Instead, the servicing of the young royal genitalia became my duty and many an afternoon I spent blindfolded and supine while the Princess squatted over my face.

As a reward for ardent c*********s, the nurse would perform her handiwork, deeply penetrating my oiled rectum with nimble fingers while stroking my p***s endlessly. Thus lying beneath the quim of the Princess became a well ingrained past time, something for which I yearned and eagerly awaited. And just the sight of the nurse retrieving the blindfold became a trigger for tumescence.

Then one day, as my tongue fervently worked the soft, warm and wet royal labia, and the nurse simultaneously worked me with hands and fingers, I felt an unusual twinge. Then a rush of pleasure followed, more intense than I had ever experienced. I felt wet goo spattering onto my belly.

I had ejaculated for the first time.

The nurse feigned surprise then laughed.

“Well, Princess, I’ll have to have a talk with your mother about your toy.”

Little did I realize it was both the beginning and the end of my pubescence. I had many dry climaxes. But only once did my male seed spew forth and that was all the nurse would allow.

The Princess’ mother was most concerned. She and the nurse talked about me and the ‘strange’ event as the nurse bathed us that evening. We had spent much time in the huge bathtub together. The Princess had come to enjoy watching the nurse soap my naked body, both listening intently while the nurse lectured on the male anatomy and watching as she graphically demonstrated to the still pre-pubescent girl all the male erogenous zones.

With Mother watching, I experienced the added thrill of standing in the tub and feeling my p***s twitch for three women while the nurse soaped my scrotum with her left hand and the fingers of her right probed between my buttocks.

“The King will not tolerate a scandal. His seed must be controlled. There can be no explaining a Royal child of mixed race.” The Mother spoke with matronly authority.

The young Princess protested. For many years we had eaten together, played together, bathed together and even slept together, all under the nurse’s supervision. Whether the Mother knew how accustomed the Princess had become to the daily lessons of control and the frequent Dominant undertakings, I would never know.

There had indeed been one dog cart trip where a smiling Princess energetically whipped my buttocks and called out to a passing King and Mother as they exited the gardens. Their look of pride, as the young Princess tugged on the reins and exuberantly displayed her whip skills, cannot be forgotten.

“If I can’t play with him, then I want another.”

Tempestuously spoken by royalty, the Mother paused in thought. She realized her maternal authority was limited by the fact of ultimate succession. If the elderly King suddenly died, her daughter would be Queen. Even I had observed that the Princess’ daily pampering was increasing as the King became more frail, and the Princess approached puberty. It was not within the Mother’s interests to irritate her daughter.

But where would the Palace obtain another Caucasian boy? One with no background or history. One where nobody knew or cared where he was or what he was being trained to do. One that would not be missed. One who took so nicely to the harness and responded so amusingly to the whip.

The nurse understood the problem. Mother had to act, but in such a way as to appease her Highness. She interrupted as Mother and Princess stared in silent conflict.

“If it is the potential for procreation that is of concern, I can have it addressed. There is a British veterinarian with a farm a several miles outside the capital. She was a physician who lost her license in England. She will find the boy very entertaining.”

Mother looked down to my standing p***s. The nurse’s fingers had continued their humiliating exploration during the entire exchange and there it stood, marvelously purple, pink and covered with suds. She smiled ominously.

“I’ve heard about her. Have her pay a visit,” the pleased Mother replied.

Such simple words. So brief. Yet so impactful on my future.

I did not fully understand the nature of the exchange. But after the Mother turned and left, the nurse provided the Princess with another anatomy lesson.

“It will be quite simple, Princess. The doctor will merely empty this,” palming my small scrotal sac.

“And I think you’ll like the change. It will be more like having a sister.”

“But what about his thing?” questioned her sexually precocious Highness. “I like it when it grows.”

“I will consult with the doctor.”

Fate sealed.

My reverie is broken by the arrival of the nurse. Still handsome in her fifties. Still authoritative. Still most degenerative, particularly concerning the male beast, though one may question using the term to describe me.

As humiliating and tormenting as her visits can be, I am happy to see her. My bladder is about to explode.

Words are for the most part unnecessary and I watch in silence as her controlling hand unclips my leash from the brass fixture. I arise and follow her to the bathroom. She unlocks my p***s and slowly bends it downward over the toilet. Although her touch is no longer needed, as the permanently stiff member will remain where pointed, she insists on holding onto the shaft while I release my excretions.

I have become more than accustomed to having the female hand hold my remaining maleness while I perform this intimate function. It is very rare that I touch it myself. It is not strictly forbidden, I am just not afforded the opportunity.

The smiling nurse looks into my eyes as the long overdue relief is provided. The act of controlling the male phallus pleases her. That she is humiliating me also amuses.

Her free hand slips behind me, pinches and caresses my girlish buttocks then moves between my thighs. She massages my perineum then presses with her fingers cutting off my flow in midstream.

She laughs with my reaction. Pressing against the urethral tube puts my bladder in an uproar and is something with which I am never comfortable.

“Your prostate is swollen again. We’ll have to work on it.”

A common problem among castrates, the uniquely male gland continues to produce fluid. Due to the inability to ejaculate, the clear viscous substance causes the gland to swell. I have to be somewhat grateful for the nurse’s close supervisory care. Relieving the build up is both painful yet strangely pleasurable, something to which I do not look forward but which has to be done. It is not my decision to obtain relief. All care is under the auspices of the nurse. She is knowledgeable, experienced, and most diabolical.

She finally withdraws her fingers and my flow continues. When finished, I hear the familiar girlish giggle as her grip tightens, squeezing out the last drop, and she shakes the shaft firmly, the stiff penile inserts resisting the motion of her hand.

“Over the bar, please. The Queen has a visitor. You’re going to do some entertaining. I will prepare you.”

The large bathroom has been equipped with a horizontal pipe. Mounted on stanchions, it was installed at the exact height of my waist. My feet obediently shuffle to it. I know to place my stomach against it then bend. My leash is clipped to an eye hook secured within the tiling floor forcing my head downward. My long well coifed hair hangs over my face. My ankle chain is removed.

“Spread.”

I know where she wants my feet, separated as far as possible. I obey and the ankle rings are connected to the stanchions. The nurse tugs my right ring, my calf muscle immediately cramps as she clips the ring so that my foot is suspended. The same is done with the left and the bar holds my weight completely off the floor.

While my leg muscles relax, the nurse steps away to don latex gloves.

She returns and places a stainless steel bowl on the floor beneath me. Her right glove is smeared with lubricant. My parted buttocks invite her attention and I feel her finger begin to probe for my rectum.

“Relax and open for me.”

Yes, the routine is familiar. With the rings skewering my Achilles tendon, it is most painful if I pull against my bonds. I have learned to lie and accept the assault on my backside.

When the left glove caresses my empty sac, I again hear laughter.

“What happened here? Some parts are missing.”

The nurse knows full well what happened, since it was she who ceremonially did the snipping.

The psychological degradation is consistent and ongoing at the Palace. There is no end to the reminders of my alteration and lowly status. But her fingers feel good. The doctor directed that the nerves be snipped very close to the testicles, thus leaving a maze of dendrites and providing much feeling there.

This is both a curse and a blessing. It affords me pleasure and the knowing hands of the nurse can arouse me. But there can be no ecstatic relief. That was taken away with my organs. Therefore the nurse’s fingers cause mischief, causing me to pine for the orgasm I cannot achieve.

Her left hand continues downward to my p***s. While the right fingers begin to penetrate my rectum, she bends the stiff phallus downward pointing the tip directly into the bowl beneath. The process will take some 45 minutes. When finished my gland will be drained of its fluid and I will have simultaneously experienced pleasurable heaven and the hell of pain.

Since the ankle rings disabuse me of any thoughts of evidencing my discomfort by thrashing about, I force my mind to wander, in order to relax while the nurse plies her craft.