"Father," she demanded in her most strident voice, "I need another one, and this time find me a man if you please, not some little boy." She snorted, fists on hips, her wild hair in completely disarray, obviously furious. A heavy quirt hung from her wrist and her jutting breasts heaved.
"He was a good man, girl, one of my best. What did he do, daughter?" asked the prince, displaying unusual patience for his recently widowed child who was almost always a problem, had been since she learned to walk. She was vain and selfish as well as beautiful and salacious.
"Twice, father, twice, he failed, could not even field an erection much less an ejaculation after only two couplings." She snorted and then looked around the hall, aware of the audience. "He was no man. Is four or five times a day unreasonable?"
"I've been told you struck him, whipped him."
She nodded and smiled. "He deserved it."
"They say you may have unmanned him, that he is pissing blood."
She smiled. "So be it. Get me another, one that can do what I demand, what my late husband could do now and then. A stud, father, is what I need, a stallion." Most was aware that her late husband often used his friends as substitutes in the dark and a story circulated of five men mounting her late one evening when she was in her cups.
She turned on her heel and stalked out, her lush body exciting every man in the hall. She was barely nineteen, had married a fine young noble when he was thirty-five years old and had already worn out two wives and fathered a half-dozen children. And he had, three months previously, killed himself so that the young woman was in proscribed mourning for another nine months, a full year. The rumor was that he jumped because his young wife demanded more than he could give, sexually, and that he had discovered she was being unfaithful, regularly and blatantly, with his servants.
Her father had, despite advice against it, provided his lovely child with a virile male for her comfort during the long mourning period, one of his trusted guard officers. Now he must find another. He turned to the captain of the palace guard and assigned him the task as he had before.
Two days later, he produced Drak, a ruddy youngster training for guard duty, a captive from the north who had sworn fealty to his new lord and master and been branded on the thigh. To the captain's mind, he was expendable.
Drak was a redheaded Scot of uncertain years, most thought he was about fifteen, surely not full grown, his beard hardly that of a champion. But he was a fierce and brave fighter, well muscled and not unhandsome in a rugged manner with wide shoulders and heavy thighs as well as ridges of muscle across his belly and backside. His posture was excellent and his sword work first rate if rather crude and brutal. He wore a filthy kilt of a smudged tartan whose pattern could be barely seen and a wide belt with an odd and ragged purse dangling before his bulging groin.
He bowed and waited, his broad chest bare in the chill, nipples puckered, abdomen taut, looking iron hard, narrow eyed and, some thought, amused.
"Have you seen my daughter, Lisabet, the young widow?" asked the prince.
"I have, sir," he said, his breathing slow and steady, his eyes roaming the hall, very alert.
"And what think you of her?"
The boy smiled. "She is willful, I am told, but I am sure she is beautiful, very handsome."
"She needs a man to guard her, a personal guard, and to do her will."
He nodded. "I understand. I have heard the stories."
"Can you serve her?"
"If it is your wish."
The young woman stepped forward from the screen where she had been sitting and watching.
She looked the boy up and down, noted that he was just about her height, and then turned to her father, arched an eyebrow and said, "I think not, a runt I do not need."
"He is young and has what you want I think, the virility you must have," said the man and then to the boy, "Bare yourself. Show my daughter your male equipment."
The boy unhooked his belt and then unwrapped his kilt, folded it and tossed it up on his shoulder along with the wide belt.
The young noblewoman stared, swallowed, trembled and said, "I would see him hard." His long, fat penis hung arching over his massive balls, at least as long as his hand and as wide as a javelin shaft, pink like a rose bud but heavily corded, its dark head protruding slightly from wide folds. His obviously heavy ball-sack dangled, a wrinkled mass.
Her father smiled for the boy's thick manhood and gourd-like scrotum were, by any standards, impressive, heavy and rich with blood, massive, pulsing. "Drak," he said, "she would like to see your pintle erect, can you manage that?"
"If you wish, sir," the young man said with a smile, looking at the lovely female and imagining her naked and spread before him, her bulging cunny pulsing with need, his ram delving into her repeatedly, her soft belly against his hard loins, her fine breasts crushed in his hands. He felt his cock begin to fill, jerk and swell as he saw her nipples harden against the soft cloth of her robe. He smiled as she licked her pouting lips and then looked away, shuddering.
The girl watched, hand to her mouth, as if seeing a conjurer's trick, and the boy's massive root rose from the nearly hairless groin, the ball-sack became fully globular and the shaft quickly swelled, lengthened, stood, jerked up and down several times and ended up pointing at the chamber ceiling, the split head turning purple as it emerged from its folds, the pale shaft ridged and heavily veined. The foreskin was red and stretched and the piss tube throbbed on its underside.
"Enough," she said, feeling her heart beat faster. "Make him stop." Her mouth was suddenly dry and her vulva quivered and became very wet. It was impossible, unbelievable, frightening. She could not imagine how it would feel within her. She looked again after turning away; it actually was the size of her forearm.
"Grasp it, lad," said her father. "Use both hands."
The young man did so and the head still stood out freely, oozing thin liquid, and throbbing, a blunt spearhead, darkly crimson, its slit mouth vibrating, the glans now glistening, ready for action, throbbing for friction. The boy smiled, proud of his ability and his wondrous weapon. He stroked downward and his member went completely rigid, hard as iron, jutting straight out, quivering and dripping.
"How often can you fire that cannon without pausing to reload?" asked the prince, noting his daughter's anguish, her trembling excitement, feeling his own cock shrink.
The young man smiled. "Two or three times, usually, sir."
"And have you had some experience with females, some fleshy experience, you understand?"
He nodded. "A bit sir, with your serving girls here in the castle, and some at home, with the lasses now and again. I have left none unsatisfied and most well pleased. I have fathered several bairn"
"How old are you?" he asked. As his daughter stepped closer and reached out her slender hand. It trembled and she pulled it back. The massive male rod had seemed to rise toward the questing hand.
"I do not know; we seldom count years, just seasons."
Lisabet looked at her father, tears in her eyes, "May I touch him?"
Her father nodded and she grasped the boy's thick stalk and stroked down to his massive cods. He more than filled her hand and she felt his pulse. His manhood was oak hard, his skin soft and smooth.
"He will do, father. I will treat him well. I promise." She released his cock and it jerked sideways and then rose again, dripping, trembling.
The nobleman nodded. "Go with her. Do as she commands, as she asks, be kind to her, be gentle. Daughter, do not ask unreasonable things."
The young man wrapped his single garment about his loins making sure the head of his ram was covered and then hooked on his wide belt and sporran, crushing his massive cock to his hard belly. He was proud of himself, of his performance. It was something he had often practiced and had won drinking bets with. After a drink or two, he could toss a metal drinking cup into the air with a flex of his male member.
The young woman brought him to her bedchamber and summoned her maids. "Take him out and bathe him. See if you can clean his garment. Wash his hair thoroughly, understand, all his hair. Try to find more cloth of that pattern. What is your name?" she asked the well-muscled young man standing before her, his massive root still jutting up like a gate post, obvious beneath his kilt, impossible to hide it was so thick and so active, its now-dark head peaking out of his filthy kilt, above the wide belt.
"Drak, mistress, of the clan Gregor."
"Very well. Go with these girls, wash yourself. Must you wear that, that piece of filthy cloth?"
"That or nothing," he said with a small smile.