Date: Sun, 27 Nov 2022 21:12:44 +0000
From: "out-cast@hotmail.com" <out-cast@hotmail.com>
Subject: Caged like a beast, used like a whore

Caged like a beast, used like a whore

This story is based on real events!

Well, not really, but it has a kernel of truth to it: in the late 14th
c. the 13-year-old Prince Jaime of Mallorca was captured by his uncle King
Pedro IV of Aragon, after a battle in which Jaime's father, the King of
Mallorca was killed. Nominally now King Jaime IV, the teenager was kept in
an iron cage for 14 years, while his uncle tried to take control of
Mallorca and the rest of his kingdom.

The bulk of my story is a fantasy around that one true fact and admittedly,
it does not conform in any way to the few details that are known about the
lad's incarceration. But in my opinion that is probably just because the
sources at the time were too prudish to really describe what was done to
the kid!

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/James_IV_of_Majorca


And remember that Nifty depends on our donations to remain in operation
free-of-charge: https://donate.nifty.org/

------------

"Ambassador," the man bows deep – deep enough to tell me he's an
insignificant courtier himself. "His Majesty will see you when we have
settled for the night at the Monasterio de Santa Maria outside Lleida."

I caught up with the royal progress as it made its way from Balaguer to
Lleida, wishing to present my accreditations to the court and make
enquiries into the condition of our captured sovereign.

"His Majesty King Pedro?"

"Of course."

"I'd like to speak with His Majesty King Jaime as well."

"There is no such person," he stiffly announces with a disapproving frown,
"until His Majesty, being the overlord of Mallorca, confirms the
Pretender's accession."

I am not cowed that easily – I would not have been sent here if I were
– and certainly not by a lowly figure like he. We do not recognize
Aragon's position as overlords of Mallorca, and we therefore do not concede
that Pedro has a say in who is our monarch.

"King Jaime is the only surviving son of the late King Jaime, the third of
that name, and that makes him the King of Mallorca and my Sovereign Lord
for the past five years. Now, I intent to see him at the soonest
opportunity."

"The Pretender Jaime is not available ..."

Subconsciously, his eyes flick towards the baggage train as it trundles
past – heavily guarded, so these must be King Pedro's personal
possessions. My own eyes are drawn to a horse-drawn cart at the centre of
the guard-detail. A cart that does not carry baggage, but a cage made from
heavy oak beams and inch-thick iron bars – a cage strong enough to hold
a bear, but nowhere near large enough for that. I cannot make out the
animal that is kept in it, appreciating just a curve of hairless skin with
the hue of roasted almonds.

"No!"

They can't have!

I spur Aluino, my palfrey, forward, eliciting a fierce reaction from the
guards who rally to block my path.

It is a man in that cage. A young man, naked, tall and gangly, curled up
tight in a cage barely large enough for a dog. His skin is tanned to a
shade that suggests that every day for years he has been in the open air
without protection from the sun.

"Your Majesty?!" I call out to let him know that I am here, at least one
friendly soul in this heartless Aragon court. "Don Jaime?!"

The head, hidden thus far behind the sharply curved back, perks up at my
shouted greeting. A squeak comes back from the leather hood that contains
my former protégé's head: thick black leather with just a small hole
over the mouth. That cruel bastard Pedro is keeping Jaime caged and hooded:
blind and mute to the world.

"It is I, Don Rodrigo!" I shout, trying to reassure him, "here to negotiate
your release."

The body in the cage tries to turn over, writhing and twisting in the tiny
space until he faces me. The blank hood is pressed against the metal, his
hands clutching the bars hard as if he tries to break out. I cannot make
out the mumbled words coming from the small gap in the leather, but they
can only be pleas for help, surely.

I breathe in deep to calm my fury. The bastard is holding Jaime like a
beast, caged and helpless. I love that boy – I was his tutor for four
years until his father's downfall. Clever and cheerful, he was a joy to
instruct. He was cheeky and disobedient too, but never to an extent that a
firm bare-arsed spanking couldn't cure. I loved the lad as a son – I
still do.

I lusted after him too ... that last year, when he suddenly developed from
a child to a teenager, I had wanted him. I didn't act on my feelings of
course, that would be an unforgivable sin. I wouldn't do it with any man,
but certainly not with a Prince of the Blood who was placed into my
care. But I did dream of him in the lonely privacy of my bed as I watched
his boyish frame turn into that of a lithe young man.

"That is King Pedro's nephew, his own blood!" I fume to the courtier who
had looked on as I tried to communicate with my Sovereign. "That man is a
Royal Prince and he is a King in his own right, and your master is keeping
him caged like an animal."

"That creature is a disobedient vassal, and until Mallorca submits and pays
homage, His Majesty will do to him as he sees fit."

"Never!"

"Then the Pretender had better not expect too much from your Embassy here."

My belly cramps with fear, because the Regents' Council has not given me
permission to submit. Money, a King's ransom, is what I have been provided
with to effect his release. If that is not enough, if Pedro insists he is
recognised as Mallorca's overlord, I must fail in my mission ... I couldn't
bear it if I were forced to leave here while Jaime remains imprisoned in
that cage.

"Is he confined like that all the time?" There is more emotion in my voice
than an Ambassador can afford to show, and I can see that the courtier has
heard it too.

"The hood is only for when we are on the road ... to stop him communicating
with the outside world."

"And the cage?"

"He is allowed out for a few minutes some nights ..."

He has been in that tight cage for almost every second of the past 5
years?! Good grief, my poor Jaime, my poor young ward ... he must be going
mad with angst and dread in there. That impish boy who used to try to prank
me – unsuccessfully most of the time, because I once was a boy too and
know all the tricks – is being turned into a dull, browbeaten beast.

"It is far too small for a full-grown man."

"It was large enough for him when he came to court. He'll have gotten used
to it ... We should get to our station."

Uncaring about the fate of a once-happy young lad, he gallops off towards
the front of the procession, to take up his space just behind the royal
party. I look back towards my former ward, still in the same pose, with his
face pushed against the close-set bars.

God give that I can get him home.



I hate Pedro IV the moment I set eyes on him – maybe that is in part my
disgust at his treatment of Jaime, but it is also his personality: big,
loud and brash. That is a Monarch's right, I suppose, but it doesn't make
them more likeable in my eyes.

King Pedro is fat and gaudy, wears one of those monstrous codpieces that
are intended to make the gullible believe that the wearer is particularly
well-endowed. The fact that, at the age of 35, he has only one living son,
suggests differently.

"Don Rodrigo de Santa Ŕgueda ..." he roars with fake bonhomie. "Welcome
to my court ..."

"Your Majesty ..." I bow as deep as I can physically get and hold that for
several seconds to show how much respect I have for the man ... not!

"Sire, I would like to discuss the ..."

"Not now, Don Rodrigo, not now. First we dine! You will be at my table, of
course. I am sure you will be astounded by the quality of the dishes!"

I silently resolve to be the most-astounded man in human history every time
a platter is brought out, because the King appears to be the type of person
who cannot distinguish between honesty and flattery. Perhaps, with
obsequiousness and sufficient levels of faux-humility from our little
nation, we can convey an impression of recognising Pedro's dominance
without actually committing to it in writing.

If I had hoped to bend the King's ear when he was happily stuffing his
mouth, I am mistaken, though. I may be at his table, but I am not at his
side.

If I had hoped to impress the King with my astonishment at the food brought
out, I am equally mistaken, because my applause and cries of surprise are
mirrored by the Conde de Barcelona to my left, the Vizcondesa de Girona on
my right, and pretty much every other member of the court. Sycophancy is an
art form at King Pedro's court, it seems.

"You've cottoned on quickly, Santa Ŕgueda," Barcelona says quietly when
I feign a near-collapse at the entrance of a confectionery castle bigger
than the cage that holds my King. "Very stylishly done, I might have to
copy that move one of these days ... perhaps even go the whole hog and
swoon to the floor."

Barcelona is a fighting man, according to his reputation, and from his
sarcastic tone it is clear that he isn't a fan of the courtly ways.

"Is it always like this?"

"When the King sings, when he dances, when he jousts, we all exclaim we've
never seen the like ... even just His Majesty emerging from his bedroom in
the morning requires a chorus of admiration and wonder at his beauty, his
ability, his wit. Just to make you aware, I suspect that His Majesty will
perform after dinner ... make sure you are seen to approve and worship with
wild enthusiasm when he does."

"What kind of performance will he do?"

He grunts with annoyance. "Telling you will spoil the surprise. Be prepared
though, that you won't enjoy the spectacle."

Nothing new then, because I have enjoyed very little of my stay at the
Court of Aragon so far.

If the Conde had planned to act out his swoon tonight, he is beaten to it
by Donna Anna, the Vizcondesa, who stylishly wilts to the floor as she sees
the whole roast wild boar brought out next. As I gallantly help her into
her seat unsteadily, I sigh at the knowledge that I will be expected to
join in with this pantomime for weeks.

The banquet seems to have come to a sudden end when Pedro IV gets to his
feet and with a wild swing of his arm empties the table in front of him.

"It is time for some fun! Bring in the prisoner!"

Barcelona's hand is on my arm. "Stay calm, there is nothing you can do for
him ..."

If the King's demand wasn't enough to chill my gut, the count's warning
makes it turn to ice. What are they going to do to my pupil? My King, I
should say, but in my heart he still feels like my child. I love him and
feel that I should be able to protect him.

Four guards carry in the iron cage that holds him, folded double inside the
tight space. My stomach cramps when I see him, because the hood has been
removed and I can see his face: his anxious mouth, his scared eyes. Jaime
has matured, turned into a handsome man with strong features, he looks even
more like his late father. When the guards drag his naked body from the
cage, it is visible now slender he is - unsurprising perhaps if he spends
almost all his time locked up in that tiny cage – he is tall with
spindly limbs and a wasp-thin waist.

He is dirty and his black hair is too long, wild and unkempt, but he is
absolutely gorgeous.

Jaime is begging desperately to be released while he is slammed on his back
onto the emptied table. With a guard holding on to each of his wrists and
ankles, his bare backside hangs over the table's edge in front of the King.

He's not! Surely! He cannot be planning to do that here in front of the
entire court.

"Please ... no," Jaime pleads. "I will do anything. I will recognise your
overlordship ... resign the throne even, if you want to ... Please?"

A page is undoing the monarch's codpiece, suggesting that he is planning to
do exactly what I thought he couldn't possibly do.

"Don Rodrigo?!" Jaime has noticed me watching. "Don Rodrigo, please help
me! Tell them that I will do anything they want."

I let my eyes drop to the table top in front of me, able to stop looking,
but unable to stop listening to his desperate pleas. Barcelona replaces his
hand on my arm. "Don't react ... That will only make it harder for him ..."

I will have to apologise to King Pedro at my lazy assumption about his
manhood when I saw him earlier, because when his codpiece is pulled away,
what drops out of his hose would shame Aluino. I feel my own cock – not
insubstantial, but minute in comparison to his – react to the imminent
scene. I don't want to see Jaime hurt, I don't want to see my King
humiliated ... but I realise that I do want to watch as a handsome young
man gets violated by a guy with a monster cock.

A handful of beef dripping from a platter is to provide the lubrication, it
seems. Pedro works it up and down the length of his shaft, encouraging that
length to increase by another hand's width in the process. I am staring, I
realise. I am staring, mesmerised by the might of the Royal Member – and
I am not the only one. Fans are fluttering rapidly as the noblewomen get
hot under the collar. Noblemen search for a careful balance between
respectful admiration for the King's masculinity and aloofness about the
fact that they are about to watch a man get fucked – but more-than-a-few
of the gents fail to hide their hungry desire to touch that monstrous
dick. I'd sell my Grandmother to be allowed to play with it, I will admit
in the restricted company of my readership.

It is Jaime, though, who will get to feel it ... and Boy, does he get to
feel it.

His scream as the first 6 or 7 inches of fat manhood disappear into him,
may well be loud enough to make my ears bleed.

The four guards hang onto his thrashing limbs. King Pedro grins and slaps
him hard on the arse and encourages him to grip his member harder.

"You'd think that he would get used to it at some point," the Viscountess
wonders, while hanging forward over the table to get a better view of
Jaime's ring stretched taut around the log that fills him.

"His Majesty has done this before?"

"Oh, yes ... Once a week or so – less often in the summer, when it is
too hot for the exertion; more often in the winter."

I am so rock-hard. Rock-hard at the sight of Pedro's behemoth buried most
of the way up Jaime's arse. Rock-hard at the thought of this being a
regular event. Weekly ... he's been here for 5 years, so has he been fucked
by that thing well over 200 times?

"Well done, My Liege!" Barcelona shouts when the King rams the final inches
of his monster hard into my protégé. Donna Anna applauds with her
folded fan against the palm of her left hand. All around us, people cheer
and shout as they watch their master fuck a helpless teenager. I am not
cheering, which is permitted I hope, with my Sovereign being the teenager
in question. The main reason I am not cheering, though, is my desperate
attempt to control my breathing. I really mustn't start panting with
arousal and grinding my crotch against the table, as I would like to do.

I don't think I've ever seen anything as exciting as this.

I dreamt of it, admittedly – I dreamt of events where I would be obliged
to fuck the young Prince violently – I also dreamt of having my backside
assaulted by a gang of hung outlaws; their prisoner, tied up and used for
months until my family had raised the impossibly high ransom.

If there is a realistic chance of it being accepted, I may well offer to
take my young King's place as a prisoner here – not for noble reasons,
but because I want to know what it is like to get fucked brutally with that
monster.

Jaime's cries have stifled to a disconsolate whimpering, as King Pedro
drives long powerful thrusts into his belly. He has stopped trying to get
away, he has stopped begging, he is just enduring the attack and hoping to
survive another week.

I am so fucking hard right now, I fear that my tool might burst open from
the pressure inside.

I need to wank, soon. Tonight in bed, I will have to empty my balls, or I
will not be able think straight for the rest of the week.

Pedro hollers that he is cumming, still thrusting hard and deep into
Jaime's gut. A minute later, leaning heavily on his fists and panting with
the effort, he lets his cock slip from the teenager's arse – and it just
keeps coming. I had forgot already how unfeasibly big he really is.

"Tonight, I have taken Mallorca by force!"

The audience laughs uproariously at their Monarch's jest.

"He has made that joke every time he fucked the kid," Barcelona whispers,
"and if you believe the reactions, it remains just as funny."

The guards let go of Jaime's limbs and he scrambles rapidly to get back
into the cage, hugging his long legs to pull them tight enough for the door
to be closed and locked. It almost seems like he enjoys the tight
captivity, so eager is he to get back into his prison.

"Can't blame him for searching out a place of safety, can you? But it looks
like he'll be fine – there will be no dog show tonight ..."

I raise my eyebrows at the Conde, and he feels the need to elaborate.

"Sometimes when he has had his way with your master, his Majesty lets his
mastiffs have some fun with him too ... If you thought that what you just
witnessed was uncomfortable viewing, wait until you are forced to watch a
pack of hounds ganging up on a single cunt ... It goes on for hours."

Oh God, I wish he hadn't told me that, because now I won't be able to think
of anything else than the prospect of witnessing Jaime get mounted by dog
after dog for most of the night.

This Embassy will take months, I expect, negotiations like these are never
quick. I might get to watch my young Sovereign get fucked hard by King
Pedro a dozen times. I might see him get ravaged by a pack of horny dogs
too.

"I suspect His Majesty is keeping the dog show for another time, after you
have had your initial discussions – a bit of shock value to soften your
stance during the talks."

Oh Christ, I hope so ... I want to see that happen so much.

------------

It is no coincidence that the cage is placed in the castle's courtyard, I
am sure.

I neutralise my facial expression as I make my way down the front
stairs. My travel cloak and riding boots don't leave much doubt about my
intentions, even if Jaime hadn't recognised the waiting luggage as mine.

"Don Rodrigo?"

I step up to the cage, my Sovereign Lord tightly folded up inside it:
naked, beautiful ... still gaping from last night, I suspect.

"I am sorry, Sire. I worked every possible solution to break the deadlock,
but it has become clear that there is no solution that doesn't involve the
Kingdom submitting to Aragon."

I've been here for four months, spoke with King Pedro's ministers most
days; met with the King himself about a dozen times. I tried, I really did,
to find a way to resolve the issue of the relationship between our
Kingdoms.

In those four months, I also watched my master get fucked by his rival
about 2 dozen times, I watched him get abused by the pack of hounds more
than once. Last night, I was even `forced' to watch King Pedro's fool stick
his arm up to the shoulder into my pupil. Thankfully the dwarf has
particularly short limbs, but the experience still did not appear to be
enjoyable for the victim.

"Then submit ... please ..."

I sigh and grimace involuntarily. "I am sorry, Sire ... I do not have the
authority to do that. I will recommend that path to the Regents' Council
... hopefully they will agree."

I turn away to mount Aluino.

"Don Rodrigo? Please ... I cannot keep going like this ..."

"I will try to convince the Council to agree to whatever sets you free,
Sire ... but I am not hopeful they will agree, I fear ... I am sorry, My
Liege ..."

I give Aluino the spurs and trot through the gate. I can no longer stand
listening to Jaime's desperation. I want to help him, get him out of that
cage and away from the regular assaults ... but I find the thought of him
getting ravaged often and forcefully too exciting to suppress. I would like
to help him, but I already know that my passions won't allow me to do that.

In the past four months, I have spilled more seed than the previous 20
years added together. Just knowing that I forced Jaime to be caged for life
is too arousing ... I am getting hard now, imagining going to sleep every
night knowing that this handsome lad is being fucked by men and dogs
hundreds of miles from home ...

If he isn't freed, I might die from excess wanking soon, but at least I
will die doing what I liked best.


THE END