2025-10-01, 04:17 PM
My first venture into this genre of novel. It's a work in progress and your feedback would be much appreciated. Let me have your comments, good and not so good, your likes and please follow to be notified of new chapters.
The heavy oak door, intricately carved with the fleur-de-lis of France, creaked shut, the sound echoing softly in the antechamber. Inside the richly appointed salon, Charles Stuart, Prince of England, leaned back against the plush velvet cushions of a chaise lounge, a half-empty decanter of ruby-red wine resting precariously on the small table beside him. The remnants of a truly magnificent meal – roasted pheasant, sugared plums, and a creamed concoction he couldn't quite place but had thoroughly enjoyed – lay scattered on a nearby serving platter.
At twenty-four years, Charles possessed the languid grace of royalty, even in captivity. His dark hair, though slightly dishevelled from the previous day's disastrous battle, still framed a handsome face, the Stuart features softened by the flush of wine and a certain weariness that went beyond mere physical exhaustion. The defeat had been absolute, a crushing blow to the Royalist cause, and the image of his father's standard falling amidst the chaos was a brand seared onto his memory. Yet, here, within the gilded cage of this French palace, a semblance of his former life was meticulously recreated. Luxury was a poor substitute for freedom, but it was a balm nonetheless.
He swirled the remaining wine in his goblet, the candlelight catching the deep crimson hues. The French, ever the masters of diplomacy, were treating him with a respect that bordered on reverence, even as they held him prisoner. He understood their game, of course. A captive English prince was a valuable pawn, a potential lever in the intricate dance of European power. But for tonight, at least, he could forget the weight of his lineage, the sting of defeat, the uncertainty of his future.
A soft knock at the outer door of his suite interrupted his thoughts. "Entrez," he called out, his voice slightly slurred but still carrying a regal tone.
The door was opened by a stern-faced man in the livery of the French King, his expression unreadable. This was Monsieur Dubois, his appointed gaoler, a man whose politeness was as unwavering as his vigilance.
"Your Highness," Dubois said with a formal bow. "You requested… company?"
Charles offered a wry smile. "Indeed, Monsieur Dubois. A long day of solitude, followed by such… generous hospitality, has left me in need of some lighter amusement. I find myself rather… lonely." He let the implication hang in the air, his eyes twinkling with a familiar mischief that even captivity couldn't entirely extinguish.
Dubois’s face remained impassive, though a flicker of something – perhaps resignation, perhaps a hint of distaste – crossed his features. He was well aware of the English prince's reputation. Tales of his charm and his fondness for youthful companionship had travelled across the Channel long before Charles himself.
"As you wish, Your Highness," Dubois said, his voice carefully neutral. He stepped back and with a discreet gesture, ushered forward three young men.
They were slight of build, their ages likely ranging from fifteen to perhaps eighteen. Their clothes, while not overtly lavish, were clean and neat, suggesting they were favoured servants or perhaps even young members of the palace staff. Their eyes, wide and a little apprehensive, flickered between the prince and Monsieur Dubois. One had a shock of unruly blond hair, another possessed a delicate, almost feminine beauty, and the third had a shy, downcast gaze.
Charles surveyed them with a practiced eye, his gaze taking in their form. The colourful blouses reached elegantly to the tops of slender legs, the fine hose covering those same youthful legs, framing the half hidden neat little packages. A faint smile played upon Charles' lips and his cock twitched with anticipation. They were a very pleasing trio and their nervousness added a certain piquancy to the situation.
"Excellent, Monsieur Dubois," Charles said, his voice regaining some of its former warmth. "You have anticipated my needs admirably. You may leave us now."
Dubois gave another curt bow. "At your service, Your Highness. I shall be just outside should you require anything… else." He cast a final, almost pitying glance at the three young men before retreating, the heavy door closing once more with a decisive thud, leaving the English prince alone with his carefully chosen companions in the opulent silence of his gilded prison. The night, it seemed, was about to become considerably more interesting.
The air in the salon had grown thick with the scent of spilled wine and youthful sweat. Laughter, at first hesitant, had become more unrestrained as the hours passed. Charles, a natural raconteur, had regaled the young men with tales of courtly life in England, exaggerating the triumphs and glossing over the growing tensions that had ultimately led to his capture. He possessed a charm that could disarm even the most wary, and the initial apprehension of his companions had gradually melted away, replaced by a mixture of fascination and something akin to adoration.
The blond boy, whose name was Antoine, was the most boisterous, emboldened by the prince's attention and several glasses of wine. He peppered Charles with questions about English customs and fashion, his eyes wide with curiosity. The more delicate one, Jean-Luc, possessed a quiet grace, his movements fluid and his smile shy but captivating. He seemed content to listen, occasionally offering a soft-spoken remark that revealed a surprising intelligence. The youngest, a boy named Étienne, remained somewhat more reserved, his gaze often downcast, but he would occasionally offer a tentative smile or a soft chuckle at one of the prince's jokes.
As the night progressed the atmosphere in the room became perfused with a masculine aroma. The two older lads, free of all inhibitions, sprawled across the large bed their bodies wrestling together in a tangled erotic dance, before moving to the floor in front of the fire. Charles watched just as he encouraged their boisterous play which soon took on another aspect altogether. As he sipped the wine from his goblet he savoured the taste of the exhibition which was unravelling in front of him.
Both lads had managed to strip each other of all their garments. The prince's gaze followed the joust reveling in the anticipation of moves, knowing that soon one would triumph over the other and his lance would strike it's target. He was not surprised when Antoine twisted his body and gained the upper hand. His extra year or so over the more youthful Jean-Luc, his solid build and muscle, dominated. A smile played across Charles' lips as he observed Antoine pin back his slighter bodied adversary, pushing his legs over his shoulders. His weapon ready, a brief pause, before he bore down and struck home.
Charles' tongue licked his lip as with grunts and moans the joust reached its conclusion. His eyes fixed on the rhythmic movement of those strong pale buttocks which rose and fell with each jab and thrust till finally their bodies shook and Antoine raised his head proclaiming his victory in the climax of the battle.
The prince's eyes, full of lust, became fixed on Étienne, the youngest and most exciting for Charles Stuart. He had his cock as hard and straight as the steel of his sword and it was with that dagger he would prick the youngster's derriere. He moved swiftly to pull the boy into his embrace, then undressed the lad with a speed that echoed the urgency. For a moment he held the boy at arms length, admiring the smooth shapely form and pleased by the reaction so evidently displayed before him.
Charles kissed Étienne with a force that surprised even himself, then swung him around and pushed him forward towards that huge bed. The young lad bent over in front of his Prince as Charles enticed by those firm round orbs was overcome by the irresistible temptation. The cry from Étienne echoed the noise of the battlefield, only here it was Charles the victor and Étienne the vanquished. He grabbed hold tightly around the boy's boney hips as he took his pleasure pounding the lad until he too, with a cry of satisfaction, pronounced the crescendo.
He did not capture the full meaning of Étienne's whispered words, when he spoke softly saying, "I am here for you my Prince and for you alone." Charles took the words as consent, a submission, which whilst that was so, more was in the phrase than simple servitude.
The bacchanalian orgy continued into the early hours when the revelry subsided. Antoine and Jean-Luc eventually succumbing to the combined effects of wine and fatigue, their breathing deep and even as they lay sprawled on the large Persian rug before the dying embers of the fire. Charles, however, found himself still wide awake, his mind a restless battlefield of memories and anxieties despite the temporary reprieve.
He rose quietly from the chaise lounge, his limbs heavy but his senses alert. He moved towards the large windows that overlooked the palace gardens, the moonlight casting long, skeletal shadows across the room. He pulled back the heavy velvet curtains, peering out into the stillness of the night.
It was then that he noticed a slight movement in the corner of the room, near a tall, intricately carved cabinet. Étienne was sitting up, his small frame illuminated by the faint moonlight filtering through the window. His eyes, wide and luminous in the dimness, were fixed on something outside.
"Étienne?" Charles murmured, surprised. "I thought you were asleep."
The boy started, turning his head quickly, his expression a mixture of guilt and surprise. "Your Highness… I… I could not sleep." His voice was barely a whisper.
Charles approached him, a flicker of curiosity piqued. "What is it that holds your attention so intently?"
Étienne hesitated for a moment, then pointed towards the window. "The bird, Your Highness. There… on the ledge."
Charles followed his gaze. Perched precariously on the stone balustrade outside the window was a pigeon. It was an ordinary-looking bird, its feathers a mottled grey and white, but there was something about its stillness, its focused gaze towards the window, that struck Charles as unusual.
"A pigeon," Charles said, a slight frown creasing his brow. "What is so remarkable about a pigeon?"
Étienne, emboldened by the prince's attention, crept closer to the window. "It has something on its leg, Your Highness. A small… tube, I think."
Charles leaned closer, his heart beginning to beat a little faster. In the dim moonlight, he could indeed discern a small cylinder attached to the bird's leg. It was too deliberate, too purposeful to be a natural growth.
"Open the window, Étienne," Charles said, his voice now low and urgent.
The heavy oak door, intricately carved with the fleur-de-lis of France, creaked shut, the sound echoing softly in the antechamber. Inside the richly appointed salon, Charles Stuart, Prince of England, leaned back against the plush velvet cushions of a chaise lounge, a half-empty decanter of ruby-red wine resting precariously on the small table beside him. The remnants of a truly magnificent meal – roasted pheasant, sugared plums, and a creamed concoction he couldn't quite place but had thoroughly enjoyed – lay scattered on a nearby serving platter.
At twenty-four years, Charles possessed the languid grace of royalty, even in captivity. His dark hair, though slightly dishevelled from the previous day's disastrous battle, still framed a handsome face, the Stuart features softened by the flush of wine and a certain weariness that went beyond mere physical exhaustion. The defeat had been absolute, a crushing blow to the Royalist cause, and the image of his father's standard falling amidst the chaos was a brand seared onto his memory. Yet, here, within the gilded cage of this French palace, a semblance of his former life was meticulously recreated. Luxury was a poor substitute for freedom, but it was a balm nonetheless.
He swirled the remaining wine in his goblet, the candlelight catching the deep crimson hues. The French, ever the masters of diplomacy, were treating him with a respect that bordered on reverence, even as they held him prisoner. He understood their game, of course. A captive English prince was a valuable pawn, a potential lever in the intricate dance of European power. But for tonight, at least, he could forget the weight of his lineage, the sting of defeat, the uncertainty of his future.
A soft knock at the outer door of his suite interrupted his thoughts. "Entrez," he called out, his voice slightly slurred but still carrying a regal tone.
The door was opened by a stern-faced man in the livery of the French King, his expression unreadable. This was Monsieur Dubois, his appointed gaoler, a man whose politeness was as unwavering as his vigilance.
"Your Highness," Dubois said with a formal bow. "You requested… company?"
Charles offered a wry smile. "Indeed, Monsieur Dubois. A long day of solitude, followed by such… generous hospitality, has left me in need of some lighter amusement. I find myself rather… lonely." He let the implication hang in the air, his eyes twinkling with a familiar mischief that even captivity couldn't entirely extinguish.
Dubois’s face remained impassive, though a flicker of something – perhaps resignation, perhaps a hint of distaste – crossed his features. He was well aware of the English prince's reputation. Tales of his charm and his fondness for youthful companionship had travelled across the Channel long before Charles himself.
"As you wish, Your Highness," Dubois said, his voice carefully neutral. He stepped back and with a discreet gesture, ushered forward three young men.
They were slight of build, their ages likely ranging from fifteen to perhaps eighteen. Their clothes, while not overtly lavish, were clean and neat, suggesting they were favoured servants or perhaps even young members of the palace staff. Their eyes, wide and a little apprehensive, flickered between the prince and Monsieur Dubois. One had a shock of unruly blond hair, another possessed a delicate, almost feminine beauty, and the third had a shy, downcast gaze.
Charles surveyed them with a practiced eye, his gaze taking in their form. The colourful blouses reached elegantly to the tops of slender legs, the fine hose covering those same youthful legs, framing the half hidden neat little packages. A faint smile played upon Charles' lips and his cock twitched with anticipation. They were a very pleasing trio and their nervousness added a certain piquancy to the situation.
"Excellent, Monsieur Dubois," Charles said, his voice regaining some of its former warmth. "You have anticipated my needs admirably. You may leave us now."
Dubois gave another curt bow. "At your service, Your Highness. I shall be just outside should you require anything… else." He cast a final, almost pitying glance at the three young men before retreating, the heavy door closing once more with a decisive thud, leaving the English prince alone with his carefully chosen companions in the opulent silence of his gilded prison. The night, it seemed, was about to become considerably more interesting.
The air in the salon had grown thick with the scent of spilled wine and youthful sweat. Laughter, at first hesitant, had become more unrestrained as the hours passed. Charles, a natural raconteur, had regaled the young men with tales of courtly life in England, exaggerating the triumphs and glossing over the growing tensions that had ultimately led to his capture. He possessed a charm that could disarm even the most wary, and the initial apprehension of his companions had gradually melted away, replaced by a mixture of fascination and something akin to adoration.
The blond boy, whose name was Antoine, was the most boisterous, emboldened by the prince's attention and several glasses of wine. He peppered Charles with questions about English customs and fashion, his eyes wide with curiosity. The more delicate one, Jean-Luc, possessed a quiet grace, his movements fluid and his smile shy but captivating. He seemed content to listen, occasionally offering a soft-spoken remark that revealed a surprising intelligence. The youngest, a boy named Étienne, remained somewhat more reserved, his gaze often downcast, but he would occasionally offer a tentative smile or a soft chuckle at one of the prince's jokes.
As the night progressed the atmosphere in the room became perfused with a masculine aroma. The two older lads, free of all inhibitions, sprawled across the large bed their bodies wrestling together in a tangled erotic dance, before moving to the floor in front of the fire. Charles watched just as he encouraged their boisterous play which soon took on another aspect altogether. As he sipped the wine from his goblet he savoured the taste of the exhibition which was unravelling in front of him.
Both lads had managed to strip each other of all their garments. The prince's gaze followed the joust reveling in the anticipation of moves, knowing that soon one would triumph over the other and his lance would strike it's target. He was not surprised when Antoine twisted his body and gained the upper hand. His extra year or so over the more youthful Jean-Luc, his solid build and muscle, dominated. A smile played across Charles' lips as he observed Antoine pin back his slighter bodied adversary, pushing his legs over his shoulders. His weapon ready, a brief pause, before he bore down and struck home.
Charles' tongue licked his lip as with grunts and moans the joust reached its conclusion. His eyes fixed on the rhythmic movement of those strong pale buttocks which rose and fell with each jab and thrust till finally their bodies shook and Antoine raised his head proclaiming his victory in the climax of the battle.
The prince's eyes, full of lust, became fixed on Étienne, the youngest and most exciting for Charles Stuart. He had his cock as hard and straight as the steel of his sword and it was with that dagger he would prick the youngster's derriere. He moved swiftly to pull the boy into his embrace, then undressed the lad with a speed that echoed the urgency. For a moment he held the boy at arms length, admiring the smooth shapely form and pleased by the reaction so evidently displayed before him.
Charles kissed Étienne with a force that surprised even himself, then swung him around and pushed him forward towards that huge bed. The young lad bent over in front of his Prince as Charles enticed by those firm round orbs was overcome by the irresistible temptation. The cry from Étienne echoed the noise of the battlefield, only here it was Charles the victor and Étienne the vanquished. He grabbed hold tightly around the boy's boney hips as he took his pleasure pounding the lad until he too, with a cry of satisfaction, pronounced the crescendo.
He did not capture the full meaning of Étienne's whispered words, when he spoke softly saying, "I am here for you my Prince and for you alone." Charles took the words as consent, a submission, which whilst that was so, more was in the phrase than simple servitude.
The bacchanalian orgy continued into the early hours when the revelry subsided. Antoine and Jean-Luc eventually succumbing to the combined effects of wine and fatigue, their breathing deep and even as they lay sprawled on the large Persian rug before the dying embers of the fire. Charles, however, found himself still wide awake, his mind a restless battlefield of memories and anxieties despite the temporary reprieve.
He rose quietly from the chaise lounge, his limbs heavy but his senses alert. He moved towards the large windows that overlooked the palace gardens, the moonlight casting long, skeletal shadows across the room. He pulled back the heavy velvet curtains, peering out into the stillness of the night.
It was then that he noticed a slight movement in the corner of the room, near a tall, intricately carved cabinet. Étienne was sitting up, his small frame illuminated by the faint moonlight filtering through the window. His eyes, wide and luminous in the dimness, were fixed on something outside.
"Étienne?" Charles murmured, surprised. "I thought you were asleep."
The boy started, turning his head quickly, his expression a mixture of guilt and surprise. "Your Highness… I… I could not sleep." His voice was barely a whisper.
Charles approached him, a flicker of curiosity piqued. "What is it that holds your attention so intently?"
Étienne hesitated for a moment, then pointed towards the window. "The bird, Your Highness. There… on the ledge."
Charles followed his gaze. Perched precariously on the stone balustrade outside the window was a pigeon. It was an ordinary-looking bird, its feathers a mottled grey and white, but there was something about its stillness, its focused gaze towards the window, that struck Charles as unusual.
"A pigeon," Charles said, a slight frown creasing his brow. "What is so remarkable about a pigeon?"
Étienne, emboldened by the prince's attention, crept closer to the window. "It has something on its leg, Your Highness. A small… tube, I think."
Charles leaned closer, his heart beginning to beat a little faster. In the dim moonlight, he could indeed discern a small cylinder attached to the bird's leg. It was too deliberate, too purposeful to be a natural growth.
"Open the window, Étienne," Charles said, his voice now low and urgent.