9 comments/ 51084 views/ 34 favorites Prince to Queen By: teller72 "Don't be scared, my lor... my lady," the slave girl realised her mistake as soon as she said it and quickly lapsed into silence as one of the guards on the door sniggered and said something to his fellow, who laughed. Tristan de Hont went red, if he'd been a real man he'd have grabbed a sword from his sheath or even just a stool and taught the curs a lesson. But then if he had been a real man he wouldn't have been sitting on a cushion on a room as a slave girl powdered his face and another delicately painted his nails a pale blue. He had always been a coward though; it wasn't that he had just been uninterested in jousting and arms training, but they scared him. He didn't like being hurt, it terrified him and so he did all he could to avoid it even if it meant he'd get hurt some more. Like when the old Master-at-Arms had first tried to teach him to fight with the other young boys of the castle. The others had taken to it, like they should, taking their thumps and their bruises and their cuts and scrapes and sometimes giving them out. Tristan had just tried to dodge the blows and then hid under his shield as the Master-of-Arms grunted and surreptitiously cursed as he hammered down his blunted sword, trying everything he could to make Tristan stand up. But he never did. He cried and he sniffled and even the other boy's laughter wouldn't make him stand and trade blows with the Master-at-Arms. They had all teased him, called him a coward and a little girl, told him he was soft and a wimp, threatening to beat him and batter him if he ever faced them in the tourney ground. None of them ever had the chance though. The tough cursing old Master-of-Arms might have thrown Tristan in and watched him getting beaten bloody, hoping it would make a man of him. The King, however, had other ideas, Tristan might only be the second son, the spare, but he was still a Prince of the Realm, even it was a very small realm, with a couple of small castles, some villages and a city that was barely more than a town. It would do no good for the common folk to see Tristan kneeling and sobbing and begging not to be hit. There had never been an actual decision made, it was just accepted that Tristan wouldn't go out in the morning with his older brother and the other boys. Whilst he was fitted for armour, burnished steel with delicate engravings on the front, it was all for show. Instead he would spend the morning in the library reading books, or sitting in front of the mirror preening himself and brushing his long shoulder length blonde hair until it shone. Or, as he got older and reached manhood, he would go to the room where his older sister and her companions were doing embroidery and chat and joke with them, flattering the pretty ones with a flick of his long lashes or a slight up curl of his sensuous lips. It was much better than getting bruised and sweaty in the mud, the young women appreciating his cultured looks and wry witticisms more than they did the stunted teenage conversation of the brutes knocking the five Gods out of each other outside. The eighteen year old Prince thought it was made. His father might have ignored him and his brother despise him, but they still recognised him as a Prince with all the benefits of a soft bed and nice food and a chance to feel up the giggling serving girls. The King wouldn't marry him off to anyone important, but in the fullness of time the Queen had suggested that an ambitious merchant, who wasn't too picky that his future son was a wimp might provide a suitable daughter; Tristan was in no hurry. There were plenty of other young women in the keep who didn't hold to the view that a Prince should end every day bruised and beaten and were happy to while away some time with a pretty looking young dandy. What he hadn't reckoned on was a violent mercenary with ambition. * "A thousand groats, we agreed," said the King. "And a thousand it will be." Tristan picked an imaginary piece of fluff from out of his long nails. He didn't want to be here, certainly not wearing this most uncomfortable armour, which made it virtually impossible both to sit or stand. If the King hadn't insisted that he'd be here with his brother, and at least try to look marital, he would have been washing his hair or modelling the new gold embroidered coat he had just bought from a travelling merchant. But the King wanted both his sons, he seemed to think it showed he meant business; Tristan didn't think it showed anything. "And I said that was before we realised we'd have to take the damned castle" said Tom Bonnett. Tristan looked at the speaker, the mercenary captain was in his early forties with closed cropped hair, a scar ran from one eye half-way down his cheek, another one under his mouth made it look like he had third lip. Stubble grew around them, dark and grizzled, like his voice, like the man. Unlike the King he wasn't wearing armour, just leather boots, trousers and a shirt, the sleeves half rolled up his arm. It made more of impression than plate, through the open front of the shirt you could see the edge of his pecs, hard like iron, not soft like Tristan's. His bare wrists had more scars and a tattoo, a dagger stabbed into a skull, and as he moved his arms you could see the muscles rippling. He was a grim looking man in a grim job. The King didn't seem intimidated. He shook his head frowning, "I contracted you to help me take back some land which King Harald had unlawfully taken. I told you what the land was and where, I even supplied maps. There was always a castle there it didn't suddenly magic in; it was your lack of intelligence..." Tom frowned angrily, but the King continued, "...which meant you thought that there would be no garrison." "From what you said it was to be some burnings of some farms, some militia at best and that the fat old fool would fuck off when we showed our steel. I'd given you our price on idea we'd be doing some looting and some raping, we'd cover our expenses that a way. No one said nowt about a castle assault." "From what I heard your men managed plenty of raping when you took the castle," the King said snippily. Tom shrugged, "We lost some men, the bloods up, I ain't going to stop them." He leant back in his chair and his eyes slowly scanned the room, moving from the King's eldest to the King and finally onto Tristan. The eighteen year old prince shivered as the man's pale blue eyes fixed on him. The captain licked his lips and Tristan shivered more, 'Just give him the money' he wanted to say, 'Give him the money and tell him to leave'. But he didn't because he was scared of what his father would say. The four men sat in silence for a few moments until Tom spoke again, "I lost some good men. Contract says I got to make payments to their widows and orphans, it means I'm going to be at a loss." "That's hardly my fault," snapped the King, "One thousand I said and one thousand it is. If you make a bad bargain I'm not to hold for it." "That your final word," Tom pressed his fingers together and leant forward, gazing at the King. To give the man his due, where Tristan would have run screaming from the room in a panic, the King just stared back, "It is. One thousand or nothing." Tom nodded, "I'll guess I'll have to take that then." He stood up and gave a small bow, "Until we meet again." Without a further word he turned and strode from the room. Tristan had a terrible feeling his father had just made a bad enemy. He wanted to say it, to warn his father, but the King had turned from him and was jesting with his oldest son, laughing about what a bad businessman the captain was and wondering how his men will take it. "I shan't be surprised, if before they leave they'll be voting in a new captain." Tristan's brother laughed, "Well I hope they're in no hurry, the way those scum are drinking and whoring and loosing at cards the Kingdom will have the thousand groats back by the end of the week." Tristan stood up, excusing himself, not that the other two really noticed, he needed to get out of the armour it was hot and uncomfortable. * The bell rang outside. Tristan ignored it, instead looking in the mirror at his new jacket with the gold trimming; it was exquisite, the stitches so tiny they were almost unnoticeable making it look like the patterned lines were a natural part of the material. The bell rang again; it was the main gate bell. Tristan was vaguely aware that they hardly ever rang that bell, sometimes at night when a visitor important to be let in when the gates were closed arrived, never during the day when the gates were open for easy passage. He frowned as the bell rang a third time, he could hear shouting and the sound of running past his room, the strike of steel and what sounded like a scream. He hurried over to his window and looked out into the courtyard. Men clad in leather and chain and bits of plate mail were surging through the gate, hacking at his father's guards. Even as he watched one of them fell, his legs swept from under him by a stave; a man jumped on the guard, raising a short sword and stabbing downwards. Tristan stood still, petrified; more and more men were running into the courtyard. He recognised one of them as a sergeant from the mercenaries, then another and then another. And then in came Captain Tom Bonnett, a black coat fluttering behind him and sword in his hand. He shouted some directions and some of the invaders ran towards a door in the tower. From another door Tristan could see his brother and the Master-of-Arms come, followed by the young men who Tristan would have trained with. They moved towards the mercenaries and the mercenaries moved towards them and then they were intermixed, a bloody, shrieking tumult of metal and blood. Tristan wasn't a soldier, but even to his eyes it was obvious the mercenaries were having the best of it. Dimly he could hear a woman screaming as other mercenaries smashed their way through doors and scrambled through windows, breaking into the keep and other buildings. Tristan turned and fled from his room. He wasn't sure where, he just knew he had to get away, let braver men fight, let him just escape. He ran down the corridor towards the stairs and then turned as he heard the sounds of fighting down them, the crash of metal against metal, grunts and pants, a scream. He sprinted the other way, so terrified he could hardly think. He saw his older sister and her companions at an open door, open mouth, weeping and wailing. They would get raped he knew, but he wasn't going to stay and defend them. It was every person for themselves. He came to the tower at the opposite end of the corridor and started to go down them, but he had barely gone half a dozen steps when below he could hear more fighting, someone screaming in a high-pitched yell, cut short. He turned and fled back. He glanced down the corridor towards his room, at the other end a bloodstain man with an axe was roaring something in a language Tristan didn't understand. He didn't stop to ask him to translate but continued running up the tower. There was a small bedroom half-way up, if the tower was in use the off-duty guard would use it to sleep, but it would be empty now. Hoping it was unlocked Tristan bolted for it. It's door opened easily and he staggered in, realising he was crying with fear as he shut the door, there was no bolt and he had no idea where the key was. He looked around for something to put against it to wedge itself, the room was empty apart from a double bed. The young man tried to drag it over, perhaps his brother might have succeeded or the Master-at-arms, they were stronger than he was; they also wouldn't have barricaded themselves in an empty room. Outside he could hear more screams and shrieking, and a lot less metal on metal. Sobbing in terror he got on the ground and crawled under the bed. How long he lay there he wasn't sure. Long enough for the sounds of fighting to die down, but not the sounds of killing and raping, nor for the light outside to dim or darken. There was the sound of the door being kicked open and he saw two pairs of scuffed leather boots coming into the room. A gobbet of spit landed on the floor, "Fuck, thought there'd be more in here than a bed," said a voice. "Shit, yeah, hardly worth the climb," the second voice walked over to the window, looked out silently for a moment, "I'm going back, see if One-eye and the Joz have finished with that little plump redhead." 'Thank the five' thought Tristan. He felt proud that he wasn't whimpering and bawling, but remaining quiet and still. "Yeah, but before we go let's see if there's anything under the bed," said the first man. He tipped the bed over easily leaving Tristan exposed. He whimpered as the first man reached down, "So there is." "Gut him then?" said the second man casually drawing his knife. "No please," Tristan begged, tears running down his face, "Please let me live." It seemed so unfair that after hiding away he was going to die after all, "I can tell you where we keep the money." "Know that already," said the first man. He shoved Tristan down on the floor and drew his sword. He turned to his friend, "Reckon I can take of his head in one?" Tristan got onto his knees, begging and praying, looking up at the man beseechingly, "Have mercy, please." The man looked at him with contempt, there was no mercy there. "That the King's brat?" there was a new voice in the door. "Dunno sarge," said the second man with a shrug. Tristan wasn't sure whether saying he was the Prince would help, but he knew it wouldn't do any harm. "Yes, I am. I'm Prince Tristan." He threw himself at the sergeant's feet, a beefy balding man, with a hook nose and a missing eye. The sergeant spat at him, Tristan didn't care, just continuing to prostrate himself clutching the man's stained boots and sobbing and pleading. "Fucking thought he might have more balls for a Prince," said the First man. "The Captain said this one was a shittin' girl, only good for flower arranging and looking pretty, ain't that right Princess, you a fucking girl?" "Yes, yes," said Tristan sobbing. "Up on your feet then my pretty Princess," the sergeant grabbed Tristan's arm and jerked him up, "Let's see what the captain wants with you." He dragged the teenage prince down the stairs and into the corridor he had 'escaped' from. The first thing Tristan saw was his sister, the real princess, lying face up on the floor, a quarrel through her heart. The sergeant stepped over her without a word, pulling Tristan along, the young man scarcely managing to avoid stepping in his sister's blood. He gave her a brief looked and sobbed, he had liked his sister, but that wasn't why he cried, it was more fear that he'd be joining her. The sergeant ignored him and carried on dragging him, past his sister's room where a queue of men were lining up to rape his sister's companions and past his own room, where his clothes and belongs had been strewn with casual violence; down the steps and into the main hall. The sergeant shoved Tristan forward and the teen fell onto his knees. "Fucking move your arse," said the man and kicked the Prince's posterior. Tristan crawled forward, slipping and stumbling as the mercenaries boot prodded and pushed at his buttocks, never quiet managing to stand, sobbing and crying. He got to the foot of the throne and stopped. Sitting on the floor, gazing at him through sightless eyes, his father's head, just that, no body – a pool of blood congealing around it and soaked into the carpet. Tristan looked up terrified. His mother, Queen Jessica, was sitting on the steps beside the throne, trying to cover her naked tits with her torn dress. Her eyes were red-rimmed with tears and a bruise was slowly turning purple on her cheek, there was a clump of what looked like cum in her hair and more of it staining her ripped clothing. She looked at her son and tried to smile encouragingly, but failed. "Prince Tristan," came a grim voice from above. The Prince looked up. Tom Bonnett was sitting on one of the thrones, one leg draped over an arm rest, his cloak flowing over the other, his trousers were undone and his cock was out. Tristan stared at it with horrified fascination; it was big even when flaccid and it was glistening with cum. He wondered if that was where the semen staining his mother had come from, but he didn't ask. "Or should I say the King," the captain smiled, but there was no humour in it. "Looks like you're the man now." It took a moment or two for Tristan to realise what was being said, that his father was dead, his brother was dead and that meant he was the next in line for the throne. He had never felt so miserable in his life; he hadn't cared for either the King or his elder son, but at least he had been safe. He looked at the grim captain, "Take it all. I don't want it. Take what you want." The captain smiled grimly and pushed the King's head with his boot, "Reckon I already have." * Tristan had never known how cold and damp the dungeons were; and there were rats, horrible, ugly scrawny things that would sniff at him and try to burrow into his straw, making him scream and try to push them away. The guards had soon heard his squeals and they took great delight in picking up a rat, one of the beady eyed ones, with a ragged coat and an ugly looking face and throwing it at him, laughing as he squeaked and tried to escape, ignoring the fact that the rat was often as scared as him. He wasn't sure how long they kept him there. A few days perhaps, enough that the hard bread and water began to taste good and his new coat began to smell and fray from the lying on the hard stone with only a thin matting of straw. Each time the door opened Tristan flinched, sure that they were going to drag him out and finish him, but they never did, sometimes they fed him, sometimes they threw a rat at him, sometimes they emptied his chamberpot, but their swords remained sheathed. Until the door opened and they dragged him out, Tristan wailed pitifully, begging for mercy as they dragged him up the stairs and out of the dungeon and into a small room. Inside it was a small wooden bath, the water steaming. Tristan fell to his knees grabbing at the nearest guard, "Please, please, don't drown me." "You smell. Bath," said the guard, which as he was a Urguath from the North, was the pot calling the kettle stinky. Aware that they weren't going to kill him. Tristan reluctantly stood up. "Get clothes off," ordered the Urguath, "Get in bath." Tristan undressed, dropping his ruined clothes onto the floor. The Urguath kicked them outside and waited as Tristan got into the bath. Then he snorted, "Skinny. No man." He was right, Tristan preferred to think himself slender, but he knew he was no muscle man; sitting in a bath alive and whole he didn't care. The Urguath snorted again, "Wait here. I outside." He stalked out and slammed the door. Tristan relaxed, feeling the heat suffuse his body and rejuvenate him. If it didn't give him courage at least it reminded him he was alive. After a while the door opened and the Urguath showed in a plump girl in a translucent dress; it was one of his sister's companions, Masie. She looked scared and mousy with a metal collar round her neck, not the boisterous bundle of laughs he remembered, but then the last time he'd seen her half a dozen mercenaries had been queuing to rape her. Tristan guessed many woman might loose some zest after that. She put down a towel and a dressing gown. "For you," she said and left without another word. The Urguath looked in for a moment and gave a grunt of what might have been derision or just a bad chest cold, then he slammed the door shut again. Tristan lay in the bath; she hadn't said he needed to get out yet so he intended to luxuriate. It didn't seem there was any rush for him to get dressed as no-one came in or shouted at him to get out of the bath and so the Prince lay there until the water began to cool. Only then did he get out and reach for the towel. He frowned at the dressing gown as he dried himself; it was a woman's one, his sister's or one of her companions, he guessed that this was all that Masie could find, though he wished she'd looked in his room. With nothing else in the room he put it on and went to sit down at a bench in the side of the room. Prince to Queen The door opened, "Talk to mother," said the Urguath and in stepped Queen Jessica. With an expensive looking dress on and her done up under tiara she looked a lot more regal than when he had last seen her, even the bruise was fading. She gave a wan smile and took a seat beside him as the Urguath shut the door. "Mother," said Tristan, "What's happened? What's going on?" The Queen was silent for a moment, as if she was thinking what to say, then she gave a sigh, "It seems the Captain is tired of the mercenary life and he's decided to settle here. He means to crown himself King and rule." "But what about me?" Tristan shook in fear. "The Captain's spoken to me and offered a deal. He believes the other kingdoms will accept him taking the throne more easily if he's married to someone of the royal blood, so he's agreed to take a wife," the Queen went red. Tristan's heart leapt with joy, he wouldn't have chosen the man as his father, but surely even Tom Bonnett wasn't bad enough to kill his new wife's son – all Tristan needed to do was make quiet clear that as far as he was concerned the throne was Tom's; the laws of succession could be flexible. Still his mother probably wasn't overjoyed about marrying the man who had killed her husband and other children and probably raped her. He tried to look suitably sorrowful, "I'm sorry mother, he's not the man you'd want to wed." His mother shook her head, blushing, "No Tristan, it's not me he wants to marry. I married into the Kingdom, I don't have any right to throne. It's you he's going to wed, you are going to be his Queen." Tristan looked at her, his mouth falling open, "But I am a man." "The Captain's company is from over the Kayleze, men can marry other men there. The effeminate one becomes a woman, not literally, I mean he dresses and acts like a woman, he becomes the wife, the other remains a man." "Can I say no?" Tristan felt panicked. His mother shook her head and touched her throat, "He's reintroducing slavery, he says we need it for the economy. He's told me if I'm not the Queen Mother I'll be made a slave and sold to a brothel... and you, you Tristan... He's impaled your father and brother's head above the gate, the Captain's made it clear you'll either be his Queen or be joining them." A real man would have chosen death. Tristan just nodded, "So when is the wedding?" "Next week, it will be joint with your crowning," his mother said, "The Captain is not a man to waste time." She stood up and knocked at the door. The Urguath opened it and Queen Jessica nodded, "Tell your captain that Princess Tristan accepts his gracious proposal." The Urguath looked in and leered, "You a woman. Get fucked up arse." He made a movement with his hips to drive home his point. Tristan couldn't help but think that it was still better than having his head impaled on a sharp stick. * There was a definite improvement in Tristan's situation. Instead of being returned to the dungeon he was taken to one of the castle's guest rooms; he was still locked in, but at least there were no rats. There were no male clothes either, just dresses and nighties and women's dressing gowns. Unsure what to do Tristan just picked at them; if he'd been a woman he'd have said they were nice, he certainly thought they would look good on any woman he'd seen, but he wasn't a woman. There was a knock on the door and before Tristan had chance to say come in it was opened and in entered the mercenary's paymaster, a grizzled old thug with a stump instead of a left hand called Wild, though whether that was a name or nickname Tristan wasn't sure. The prince, or princess, pulled his dressing gown tighter, making sure he was covered as the man looked him up and down, "You said yes, then." "I said yes," confirmed Tristan. "Good choice," said Wild, "Wouldn't give you one myself, but your head's better on your shoulders than off." "I thought so too," agreed Tristan, "Where's is he?" He didn't need to say who he was. "He's taking a tour of his new kingdom, making sure the knights and squires don't think up anything stupid. He'll be back the night before the coronation; you'll wed the next day. Crown and bed you all in one, saves on having entertainers for both don't it." "Yes, I suppose so," replied the young man. "You know the deal princess. Not going to ask if you're happy with it, cos you won't be, but always could see you had the smarts in the family. Not like your Dad, tryin' to stint us, or your brother charging out like we was a bunch of amateurs. Nor your sister, it could have been her here, but she tried to say no to a bit o' raping, dumb move when the guy's got a crossbow pointed at your guts." "I know the deal," said Tristan, "I'm to marry the Captain and be his Queen." "Best get used to calling him the King, Princess, he ain't no captain any more," Wild said, "But you be a good wife and it won't be too bad; he'll kill a man for crossing him, but he won't kill one for kicks – that counts as good in our business. So you lie down for him and suck his cock when he wants it and he'll do all right by you, shower you in presents and take you hunting and hawking if you want." "That'd be nice," said Tristan, he liked hawking and presents, though he didn't like the idea of the lying down and the sucking. But as Wild said his head was better on his shoulders than off. "So you want to please him." Wild didn't make clear whether it was a question or statement, though he gave a brief pause before carrying on, "You need to be a woman, not a man. You've got a pretty boy face and you're hair is more like a girls than a boy's, too much brushing for a man, so I guess you're half-way their. But you got to dress like a woman, walk like a woman, suck dick like a woman, dance like a woman. By your wedding day the King don't want you to look like a man, if you do you might find he's the quickest widower in the Kingdoms." Tristan nodded and gulped and Wild smiled, "You get it, Princess. Don't worry, I've got you a couple of companions to help you out. In you come you pair of bitches." In came Masie and another of his sister's ex-companions, Chloe. Both wore translucent dresses that didn't conceal their tits, pussies or arses and mustn't have kept in hardly any heat either. They were wearing metal collars round their necks and looked suitably cowed. Wild gestured at them, "Couple of slave girls for you Princess. They'll help you dress and do your make-up, make you a real woman. And if they don't measure up, give us a shout and we'll flay the skin from their backs and get you a couple of new ones." "Yes," said Tristan. "I'm sure your mother will lend a hand as well. It's her neck on the block as well," Wild grinned. He turned to the slave girls, "You'll want him smooth first of all, nothing ruins a cleavage like chest hair." He stepped outside and closed the door. "Shall I get some hot water and a razor, my lady?" asked Masie. Tristan nodded. The plump redhead left the room, leaving him alone with Chloe. He had once fancied the short blonde, but she was forever out of his reach now, he was a woman just like her. They waited in silence until Masie returned with a bowl. "You should take the gown off now my lady," she said. He stood up and paused. Underneath it he was naked with a man's dick and body, that couldn't change whatever he did and as a young man he hadn't been naked in front of a woman before. He took a breath and dropped the gown off, even if he had a man's body he was a woman and he shouldn't be shy in front of other women. The two slaves said nothing about the hardening of his dick as they lathered him and he tried to ignore it. It didn't go down all the same. The two companions dipped their razors in the water and began to shave his body hair away. He had never been hairy, and what there was had been soft and downy, not hard and brizzly. Still they shaved everywhere, his face wiping away the fluff that had grown in his time in the dungeon, then his chest hair and his arms, and down his legs and then carefully around his balls, until he was smooth. Chloe picked up a perfume bottle and squirted the scent over him; it was sweet and feminine, not like his own aftershave. Masie meanwhile moved to the wardrobe and opened it, "How about this dress my lady?" "Yes," said Tristan. He didn't care what the dress looked like, he was sure he'd have admired it if it had been on Masie or Chloe, once. Now he was just faintly embarrassed as he stepped into it and Masie pulled it up. It wasn't a bad dress, blue with a neckline that went down to where his cleavage would have been; it was loose in a few places it shouldn't have and tighter in others, but not a bad fit. He looked in the mirror, shaved and with his blonde hair he looked more feminine; but not quiet there. Masie thought the same, "If we put on some lip paint and powder your face, do your nails as well, you'll look quiet the princess." "Yes," said Tristan. The two slaves began to bustle around him with their cosmetics, little brushes painting at his lips, bigger ones powdering his cheeks and chin and forehead, tiny pencil drawing under his eyes, making them water at first. And then his nails, sitting down beside him Masie taking one hand and Chloe the other, both of them painting his long nails a pale pink. He looked in the mirror when they'd finished. He did look like a woman, a small breasted one, but still a woman. It was only if you looked closely you saw his Adam's Apple and there was nothing to do about that. And perhaps if he grew his hair past shoulder length as well, make it long and flaxen, everyone would be so entranced by that they'd ignore his other flaws. "My lady, let's see how you walk," said Masie. Tristan stood, he had a lot to learn and only a week to learn it in. * The thought of loosing his head acted as great encouragement to Tristan. For the next week he spent every waking moment practising how to be a woman, from the simple things such as how to choose his dress to the more complex, such as putting on his cosmetics and back to the simple, brushing his hair into a more feminine style. Each day he went for a walk round the castle and its grounded, the Urguath and his other escorts making choice and ribald comments, which as a young lady Tristan ignored. Soon he was walking like a woman, swaying his hips and buttocks a touch, not swinging his arms like he was on parade. Then there was dancing. Wild had brought in a merchant from the town who claimed he could teach dancing. His eyes widened when he realised who the young lady was, but Wild told the man that if he looked like that again he take them out with a dagger. As Tristan had found fear is great encourager and the man 'happily' took the lead in dancing, showing Tristan the steps a woman takes. Tristan had always prided himself on his dancing, not like the clod-footed oafs who swung swords outside, but nimble and graceful. He had to forget it all and learn again, being led by a man, following the swing round, making sure he gave a curtsey not a bow. Every afternoon they practised; and by the end of the week if Tristan was not good he at least was not bad and he hoped that Tom Bonnett wouldn't know the difference. And in the evening it was more lessons from his mother and the slave girls, how to curtsey, how to give a dainty smile, how to tinkle a laugh, not guffaw and the lady's skills; embroidery, singing, a little harp playing. All very basic, but at least Tristan had sometimes sat in whilst his sister had been taught and he picked it up fast. On the last night before Tom returned the old Queen dismissed the slave girls and sat with Tristan in his chambers, a guard outside, though the risk of Tristan the coward running away was nil. Queen Jessica looked at her son sadly, she reached out took hold off his hands, "You look very beautiful." "Thank you, mother." "No woman wants to have to say that to her son. I'm sorry." Tristan remained quiet as his mother sighed and continued, "I always thought this would be a conversation I would be having with your sister but the fates are not kind." "No," said Tristan, though he was alive, and so was she so they could have been a lot unkinder; he didn't say that though. "Men have certain lusts, my dear. I'm sure you know." "Yes, I think." "Your husband will need to sate them, on you often. Though he's a man and men are fickle so don't worry if he sometimes go elsewhere for his fun. There's three holes for a women, two I suppose for you my dear. I don't think we need to worry about the pregnancy thing," she wiped away a tear, as if thinking about the grandchildren she would never have. She carried on, "Your mouth and your bottom. Your husband may want use of both of them... especially as you lack the other Tristan my dear." "Oh," Tristan had tried to not think about the physical side, though in the back of his mind he had known, "It might not be too bad," he said in an attempt to be cheerful. His mother nodded and smiled trying to appear positive though her eyes and body language said that she believed otherwise, "Perhaps, I got used to your father after all. Women, us women, I should call you a woman now, do our duty in the bed as men do on the throne. In satisfying your husband there are ways if he has an urge, your mouth on his dick will make him cum and your hands as well. But there is no doubt sometimes he will want his full conjugal rights, if you were a wom... if you had a front hole you could hope that me might plant his seed in your and give you a child and him a heir. As you don't all you can do is cry how wondrous he is and hope he finishes soon." Tristan nodded, he wasn't looking forward to the marriage and the wedding night even less after the talk, but if it kept his head he would do it. His mother nodded, "Now let me give you some tips..." * Tom Bonnett returned late next afternoon, his arrival heralded by an out of tune trumpeter, the slow clank of the portcullis be raised and the clank of horses shoes across the stone cobbles beneath. Tristan was waiting for his husband-to-be, trying to appear demure and ladylike, inside quaking that it would be the last day he'd see. He'd put a special effort into today, choosing a purple dress clung to his slender figure and highlighted his golden hair. He lipstick was red and he and the slave girls had added a touch of colour to his cheeks with blusher and carefully curled his eyebrows so they were luxurious. The Prince(cess) hoped it was enough as he stood watching as the riders came in. There were about forty of them, as motley a crew as ever was seen outside a dungeon, men of all colours and creeds, some with short hair, some long, grizzled veterans and young pale killers, some missing ears or eyes or noses, most clad in a mixture of armour, stolen and looted from dozens of different battlefield. And at the front Captain, soon to be King, Tom Bonnett, six foot tall and made of muscles, the smile on his face making it no less grim and with his shirt half undone so that you could see the muscular pecs and the firmness below. He grabbed a sack of his saddle, it was dripping red, and threw it to Wild. Despite only having one hand the man caught it deftly and looked in, nodding, "Not like the new King then?" "These two didn't, but as they were so loyal to the old one they can join him," he grunted The mercenary said and got down from his horse, his cloak flapping behind him and his hand gripping the pommel of his sword as if any second he intended to pull it out. He surveyed the castle's staff who had come out to meet him, less than there had been a couple of weeks before and with a higher proportion of women to men. Tristan knew that his slave girls weren't the only ones who had been raped during the assault, and he knew he wasn't the only quivering with fear. But Tom's eye was only on him. Tristan wanted to run, wanted to hide and cower away. He couldn't. He gave an inward gulp, swallowed his nerves, plastered a smile on his face and walked forward, hoping he had the gait sufficiently feminine. He stopped a foot in front of the man who would be King and gave a curtsey, "My Lord. Welcome back. I hope your trip was pleasant." With two heads in a bag Tristan doubted it would have been, at least for him, though he guessed Tom had a higher tolerance for gore and bloodletting. The mercenary grinned, which was a good sign Tristan hoped, he held out the posy of flowers, "For you my lord." Tom didn't take them, instead he grinned wolfishy, "My betrothed, Princess Tristan" he said loudly to his men, who laughed with him and jeered at Tristan. "Come here," he said to the teenager. Tristan shuffled forward slowly, too slowly as Tom reached out and grabbed him so quickly that Tristan let out a cry and dropped his flowers to the floor. "So do I get a kiss?" grinned the mercenary. "My lord..." Tristan started to say, but he didn't finish before Tom had dragged him closer and had slammed his mouth on the eighteen year old's lips. For a moment Tristan was frozen, his mouth shut like a locked door, as the older man's tongue tried to force it's way in and then he remembered the heads above the gate. He opened his mouth and let Tom's tongue in, the mercenary pushing and probing the open mouth, swirling his tongue around like he owned it. Tristan let him, his only reactions, slight ripples of his own tongue to try and show he wasn't a statue. Around him he was aware of the pitying looks of the servants, just glad he wasn't them and the hoots and catcalls of the mercenaries, their suggestions of what Tom should do to him frank, but descriptive. He started as Tom's hands reached down and grabbed his arse, squeezing at his buttocks through the dress, gripping and kneading at his butt cheeks. The older man pulled back and licked his lips, before turning to his men, "He's got a fine tight arse. It'll be fun to fuck it." They laughed more as Tom's hands grabbed the young man and swung him round so that his back was towards the mercenary and his soldiery. Tom grabbed the dress and pulled it up so that Tristan's naked arse was displayed. The men laughed and cheered as Tristan blushed red. He went redder as Tom stepped to one side, still holding the dress up so the men could all get a good look at the teen's flawless cheeks. "Fine looking as well, isn't it?" The men shouted their agreement. Tom laughed, "Hold up your dress, Princess, let everyone get a look." Tristan did as he was told, not wanting to disobey, hoisting his dress up to his waist and standing on display. Behind him he could hear Tom laughing, "It looks virgin, doesn't it boys? It is virgin isn't it, Princess Tristan? Your mother promised me it was virgin." "Yes," said Tristan miserably. The mercenary grabbed it and squeezed, pushing his thumb onto the puckered hole. Tristan gave a gasp, sucking in air and tensing. He almost dropped his dress, but just held it. The captain let go, "I reckon she's right, it's a pristine butthole. I'm going to enjoy fucking it, but better wait for tomorrow eh?" There was a silence and Tristan realised the man was waiting for an answer. He guessed, "Yes?" he replied tentatively. The man said nothing, so Tristan said a little bit more firmly, "Yes." "Yes," said Tom. "You can drop the dress now; you've given these leery bastards enough of a look." Tristan gratefully dropped his skirt back down and turned to face his fiancée. The man grinned wolfishly, "Don't say I'm not an old fashioned traditional romantic. Not many a man would want to wait for his wedding night to fuck his betrothed's arse, not when he's as hard and horny as me," he suggestively pushed out his pelvis and pointed to the lump as his men laughed. "Thank you, my Lord," said Tristan, "It will be worth it," he added to try to keep the man from changing his mind. Prince to Queen "Still, I deserve a thank you for my efforts," Tom grinned. "The welcome home kiss was nice, just what I needed after dealing with the traitorous cunts, but I think something more is in order, don't you?" "Yes, my lord," Tristan nodded, hoping it was something small, though he knew from the man's smile it was unlikely to be. "I am taking a lot on trust, so perhaps a taster would be in order." "My lord?" "A blowjob, Princess Tristan; you on your knees sucking my dick." "Oh," Tristan blushed, but he knew that this would be expected from him as a married woman, so it was only a day later and at least the man had agreed to leave the teen's anal virginity for another night. He forced a smile and reached out to take his fiancée's hand, "Of course, my lord. Let us go to my chamber." The man shook his hand away, grinning, "Why wait?" he said and began to unbuckle his belt. "My lord..." Tristan started to protest, then stopped. "Here?" he said piteously. "Here," grinned the mercenary. He finished unbuckling his belt and dragged down his trousers to his ankles. His dick stood out erect; it was big, at least ten inches and thick, veins throbbing in it and curly black hair sprouting up round the base and balls. Tristan looked at it and then at the mercenary and then at the bag of heads that Wild had dumped on the floor. The mercenary smiled wolfishly, "Here, Princess Tristan. On your knees in front of everyone suck my cock." "Yes, my Lord, of course," said Tristan. He lifted his dress a little to help him kneel down in front of the mercenary. The dick seemed no smaller when he was at eye level. The assorted soldiery were shouting and calling, laughing at his discomfort and enjoying his fear. The teen felt his cheeks reddening as he opened his mouth and closed it round the prong. It was tasteless, which surprised him, he hadn't known what to expect, but there was no more taste than if he had been licking a finger. Still blushing he moved his head further down the dong and then back again, slowly, trying to appear seductive instead of scared. The mercenary grinned down at him and put one head lightly on the back of Tristan's head, not asserting any pressure, but certainly not allowing the teen to back away. Tristan started to move a bit quicker, trying to tease the cock with his tongue as he did so. There was a taste now, a little salty bit of pre-cum squeezing its way out the man's eyelet. Tristan cast his eyes up, the mercenary was grinning, nodding at Tristan when he saw the young man was looking at him, "Keep going Princess." Tristan carried on. He could hear the shouts of one side of the audience, the silence of the other half was as deafening. But there was nothing he could do, but suck the mercenary's cock, taking it into his mouth and feeling it gouge into his cheeks; anything else would be fatal. He carried sucked, his mind torn between trying to get it over with as quick as possible and the knowledge of how it would end. The mercenary's fingers slipped through Tristan's blonde hair, "That's good, keep at it, suck it good." Harder and quicker Tristan sucked, it was strange how quickly he was getting used to the texture and shape of the cock, how it rode between his lips, dominated his tongue and thrust at his cheek. He wouldn't say he liked it, but at least it was bearable. The mercenary groaned and his eye's closed as his face gave an expression of pleasure. "Go on, that's it. I'm near." His hand pressed harder against Tristan's head keeping him in position. The mercenaries cheered louder. "Oh yeah," groaned Tom and Tristan could feel the man's cum spurting into his mouth. He tried to pull back to spit it out, but Tom was holding him in place, blasting the cum into the teen's throat. Tristan had no choice but to swallow, drinking the salty cum down his throat, drinking it down until Tom had finished blowing his load. The mercenary let go off Tristan's head and pulled his dick out. A small trickle of cum the teen hadn't swallowed slid over his lips and he wiped it away with the back of his hand as Tom pulled his trousers back up and put his dick away. The mercenary grinned at the kneeling eighteen year old, "Now that's a welcome a man appreciates from his wife to be, makes me fair look forward to our wedding night." "Yes, my Lord, I'm pleased I satisfied," said Tristan blushing red. The mercenary nodded and turned to his men, "Better stable the horses boys; I intend to have more than few drinks on my last night of bachelor hood." * Tristan thought his husband to be enjoyed the party; he certainly drank plenty, downing goblet after goblet of wine and ale. It had no apparent effect on him and he cheered as lustily as ever at the entertainment, a few local whores from the town hired to perform as exotic dancers and a couple of juggling acrobats who had been found on the road by the mercenaries and persuaded to alter their route to perform for the new King. Tristan had sat through it, delicately sipping his wine and nibbling a little at his food; he was neither hungry nor thirsty as his stomach had been somersaulting more than the acrobats. But now it was the next day, the day he was due to be married, made Queen and then fucked. Masie awoke him gently with a cup of hot spiced wine. Tristan drank it gratefully and got out of his bed. He slid out of his nightdress and walked across the cold floor into the ante-room next to his bedroom. A warm bath was steaming and he got into it, soaping the night's sweat from his body, Masie behind his washing his back and brushing his hair. After a few minutes the slave girl said, "Do you want me to shave you my lady?" "Yes," said Tristan, knowing his new husband would expect his skin smooth and ladylike. He stood up in the bath and straightened as Masie lathered him with cream and then began to run a blade down his legs and over his chest and face and round his balls. She had shaved him yesterday as well and the day before that and every morning since he had agreed to marry Tom; she might have been able to get away with doing it every two days as the teen's body hair was downy and slow to grow, but Tristan would rather not to take the chance that he might not be smooth enough for his fiancee and preferred to shave every day. He waited patiently until Masie had finished and his skin was as smooth as a silk cushion before he stepped out of the bath. Masie took up a towel and dried him, patting and rubbing the wetness away from him. He put on a silk ladies dressing gown and went back into the main room. a couple of guards lounged against the pillars of the door, always there to make sure Tristan had no-second thoughts. Wild was also there, looking out the window. He turned as Tristan entered the room and grinned, "So today's the big day, eh? Looking forward to it." "Oh, yes," Tristan lied, forcing a smile on to his face and making an enthusiastic nod. "Liar," said Wild, but he put no rancour in it, just a statement of fact. "As your father's dead, I'm going to act as father of the bride and give you away. Good for me, always wanted a daughter." "I'll try my best to make you proud," said Tristan, he hoped that the man didn't notice the sarcasm. From his curt laugh he probably did, but he got his revenge, "Still not sure I'd want any daughter of mine to be fucked up the arse, specially not by someone as big as Tom. You seen his prick, he's not no pygmy." Tristan nodded nervously, going red as he remembered being made to suck it as everyone looked on. Wild grinned and pointed at the bed, where a white dress was laid out, "You'll be wanting to get dressed, make yourself look nice." "Yes," Tristan said. "I'll be back later to pick you up. I'll just leave a couple of guards around, make sure you've no last minute thoughts of leaving the King at the altar. Don't worry about getting undressed in front of them, ain't nothing they ain't seen before." The paymaster turned and left leaving the two guards lounging against the wall, though slovenly and unsoldiery they may have looked but Tristan knew their swords were as sharp and deadly as the most erect looking guardsman. He turned away from them and back to his slave girls, Masie and Chloe, "Help me get ready," he said and slid out of the dressing gown. They manicured and pedicured his nails first, clipping them and styling them. Then Chloe began to paint them a pale blue as Masie applied his cosmetics, lip paint, blusher, eye shadow. Next he got into his dress, sliding on a pair of stocking garters first and then the white dress, it shimmered as it moved, bunching up and flowering round his feet. He sat down on a chair and let them brush his hair until it was golden and flowing. He looked in the mirror once they were done, he was barely recognisable as Prince Tristan, though he had to admit he looked beautiful as Princess Tristan. There was a knock on the door, "You ready?" it was Wild. Tristan paused, looking at the two slave girls, they remained dumb and impassive. The teenager stood up and straightened down his dress, there was no point in trying to delay. "Yes," he called back. The door opened and Wild stood there, he'd slicked back his hair and taken a razor to his stubble, so that together with the clean trousers and shirt he looked presentable. He held out his arm and gave an evil grin, "Shall we Princess?" "Yes," said Tristan and took his arm in hers. The man led her down the corridor and stairs, past the main banqueting hall – where the servants were preparing for the post-wedding feast and out into the yard towards the chapel. A couple of soldiers stood there, grinning and leaning on their halberds, they straightened as Wild approached and opened the doors. Wild took Tristan into the chapel. The seats were filled, mainly with mercenaries, but also a few of the more prosperous townsfolk and noblemen who had the good sense not to refuse the invitation of the new king. His mother, the old Queen was there as well, sitting demurely in the front row, not turning to look at her son as he walked down the aisle. The bishop from the nearby cathedral was at the front, standing nervously between two thrones. On one of the thrones Tom was slouching, a leg over one of the arm rests. He stood up as Tristan approached. The mercenary captain had dressed smartly, with grey trousers and pale white shirt, buttoned up to his throat. A gold fastener held his cloak in place. He bowed as Tristan approached, "My lady, you are looking lovely." Tristan curtsied back, proud of how well he managed the complicated manoeuvre, the practice paying off; as it did for the words rolling off his tongue, "My lord is too kind, my beauty is nothing to how handsome he looks – he sets my young lady's heart aflutter." The mercenary captain walked down the steps too stand beside her, so close she could smell he had doused himself in scent; it didn't smell unattractive, masculine and manly. The man's arm slid round his waist, stroking his side as he looked up at the Bishop, "You can begin..." The Bishop paused for a moment and Tristan felt his heart bumping at the thought the man might be about to refuse to marry them. But it was only a second as the man took a breath, "We are gathered here in the sight of the five Gods to affirm the marriage of our rightful King, Thomas Bonnett to his dearly beloved lady, Princess Tristan de Hont..." Tristan forced a smile as the man went through the litany, many times had he sat through it, half-listening as one of his father's men had married some simpering daughter of a minor aristocrat or wealthy merchant. Never had he imagined that she would be the one standing in a silk dress. The service was shorter than Tristan remembered; missing out the normal homily around the service to the Gods, but keeping in the importance of being a dutiful wife and honouring her husband. And then it was time for the vows, Tristan felt Tom's arm on his waist turning her so that they were facing each other. The eighteen year old found himself staring into the face of the man who had killed his father and usurped the throne as the Bishop intoned, "Do you Princess Tristan take this man to be your husband, to honour and obey him in all things?" "I do," whispered Tristan, in a voice which was so quiet that the Bishop almost didn't hear it. Tom's deadly eyes were looking at him, a cool, cruel smile on his face and Tristan coughed and said loudly, "I do." The Bishop turned to Tom, "Do you Thomas Bonnett take this... woman to be your wife to protect and cherish her?" "I do," said Tom. The Bishop looked towards the audience, "They are now man and wife under the five Gods." The audience erupted in the traditional cheers and shouts of applause, loud and raucous from the mercenaries, more restrained but still audible from the other guests. As they continued to cheer the Bishop turned to Tom, "You may kiss the bride." "Good," said Tom. He gripped Tristan's waist and pulled the young princess towards him, his mouth slammed on the teenager's and his rough, stubbly chin rubbed against Tristan's. The teen felt his member hardening as Tom pushed at his mouth, forcing open his lips and pressing his tongue inside. The older man was aroused as well, Tristan could feel his hard dick pressing at him, it was like a rock and big, and Tristan knew that he would be expected to take it in him later. Surprisingly the thought, though it scared him, didn't deflate his own horniness and to his surprise he was slightly disappointed when Tom pulled back. The crowd was still cheering, driven on by the kiss and Tom waited for them to quieten, before turning to the Bishop, "Now the crowning." The expression in his voice suggested that to him this was as important as the wedding. He took Tristan's hand and led him the few steps up the thrones, sitting in the King's before gesturing Tristan to sit down in the slightly less ornate Queen's beside him. Tristan did so as the Bishop lifted up a gold crown. He started to speak in the old Tongue, as tradition demanded, Tom didn't speak any of it Tristan knew so the man could have been saying anything to him. But Tristan knew enough to know that the man was crowning him as he'd been asked. He finished the speech and placed a gold crown on Tom's head. Tristan had to admit his husband looked regal, with his tough looking face and muscular body. The hall remained quiet as the Bishop took a smaller circlet, still gold, and began to speak again in the old tongue. The speech was shorter and more succinct, Queens were much less important than Kings, ending with him slipping the circlet on Tristan's head. The Bishop stepped backwards slowly, retreating down the stairs. Once he was on the main floor he knelt towards the King and in old Tongue said, "Arise King Thomas. Lord of these lands." Tom sat still for a moment, then he rose and the hall exploded again in cheers and shouts as the crowd cried out their loyalty as they knelt. Tristan remained seated watching them and wondering how easy loyalties changed, weeks ago half this hall had been leal subjects of his father, now they were bowing to his father, even his mother was down in a curtsey, waiting for the king to call them up. Tom stood looking at them for a few moments, the hall full of half-bent men and crouching women. Then he gestured with his hand, "You may rise my loyal subjects." They did and took their seats. Tom continued standing surveying them. A small smile played on his face like he was thinking how far he had come, then he spoke, the traditional speech of a new King, all about his love for his subjects, how he would protect them with just laws and low taxes, keep their freedoms and to the five Gods. All kings good and bad gave the same speech, some might have even meant it. Then the words were over and the King grinned, "And now for the entertainment." * Sitting at the high table later Queen Tristan had to admit that his husband had not stinted on the wedding and coronation festivities. There had been jugglers and fools and acrobats, scantily clad dancers and even less dressed swerving girls, pawed and patted by the mercenaries and the townsfolk tried to ignore the squeal of sexual ecstasy coming from the corridors as the soldiers led the prostitutes away to service them. It wasn't only the strippers who had danced but the 'happy' couple and their guests as well, Tristan pleased his lessons paid off as he was led round the dancefloor; he even had a dance with Wild as Tom danced with the dowager Queen. And the meal was one fit for a new King and Queen, delicacies from far off land mixed with the best quality local produce, all it of piled high and constantly replaced so that even before a platter was half-empty it was swapped with one containing a mountain of food. Tristan ate delicately, a few sweets and sips of wine, to show willing to his new husband and to make it look like he was enjoying himself. But he was too nervous to eat much without fearing he would be sick. Tom didn't eat much either, though he made up for it with wine drinking, knocking back goblet after goblet, none of which seemed to have any impact; he had been making loud boisterous jokes with his cronies at the start of the meal and he was at the end. Suddenly Tom turned towards him, a leer on his face, "You finished? It's time for us to go to our room." Tristan was tempted to say that he was still hungry, but that would be putting off the inevitable. Instead he gave what he hoped was a loving smile and pushed away his plate, "I am ready, husband." Tom's grin was wolfish, " I always thing the first night is the best part of any wedding, don't you?" Tristan just smiled. Tom didn't wait for an answer, standing up and slamming down his empty goblet with a crash. Tristan stood up much more delicately, as the guests began to clap and cheer. "Time for us to consummate," yelled Tom to the assembled throng. Sometimes, with older husbands they only made a pretence of taking the bride in their arms and carrying her, but Tom went not the only the whole way, but further. He grabbed Tristan and threw him over his shoulder, making the teen give a shocked squeal, especially as his dress fell down over him, exposing his naked arse cheeks. Tom squeezed one, "This won't be virginal by the morning," he laughed and strode down from the platform, through the hall and towards the room. Cheers followed him as he went up the stairs and opened the door to the main room, throwing Tristan on the bed before turning back to the bed and locking it. He unclipped his robe and dropped it to the ground as he took a few steps towards the teen, lying on the bed with his dress half-way up his waist. "I've been looking forward to this," grinned the new King. "So have I," replied Tristan. "Don't lie," snorted the older man as he unbuttoned his shirt, "You've been shitting yourself all day, I'm not stupid. He pulled off the shirt revealing a muscular chest, with hard pecs and a iron like stomach, a few scars, not many, criss-crossing it. He dropped the shirt to the floor and kicked off his boots, "You going to get undressed?" "Yes, my husband," Tristan stood up. He found himself quivering as he began to undo his wedding dress and wished he had one of the slave girls to help him do so. Tom stood watching him, a lump in his pants, pushing them outwards like a small mountain was positioned in his nether regions. He grinned as Tristan pulled the dress from his shoulders, "As soon as I saw you I wanted to fuck that sweet arse; never seen someone less suited armour." Tristan continued to pull his dress off, standing up and turning away from his husband in a vain attempt at modesty as it lowered down his back to his bottom. Behind him Tom grinned, "You're much more suited to a dress." Tristan pulled it down over his small, firm peach of a backside. Tom laughed, "Though you're more suited out of it."