Part 4: Trouble for a Little Plucker
In medieval times troubadours enlivened many a feast and we had one complete with lute to enliven our Medieval Dungeon Party. However ‘A Wandering Minstrel I’ played once or even twice is acceptable – but sung off-key over and over again accompanied by the plucking of the strings of an out-of-tune lute soon wears down even the hardiest of souls. So it was no surprise that it was not long before others at the party ganged up on our troubadour and he got his come-uppance. Read on.
The party had been in full swing for some time. There were bodies in various stages of undress hogtied on the floor, being clamped in the pillory, enjoying a stretch on the rack or suffering some other torment. Above all the hubbub could be heard the plucking of that damned lute and the strains of ‘A Wandering Minstrel I.’
“If he plays that bloody tune once more I’ll scream,” said mine host Bill. The others agreed.
“I know how to fix him,“ he continued. He picked up some of the panties scattered on the floor, rolled them into a ball and tied them in the middle of a knee high stocking that he found draped over the back of a bar stool.
“You grab him and I’ll stuff these in his cakehole.”
Four of them grabbed our troubadour. The gag filled his mouth and the ends of the stocking were tied off behind his neck.
‘Bring him over here,” ordered Bill. The others pushed the struggling troubadour back against the wall while Bill locked steel manacles round his wrists and ankles.
“That should fix him.”
The troubadour was now chained spreadeagled against the wall. Vainly he rattled the chains and tried to protest but the only sounds that came out of his mouth were a series of muffled ‘mmmphs’ and grunts. No more were we being serenaded with ‘A Wandering Minstrel I.’
“We’ll leave him there for a while. He can struggle all he likes; he won’t escape.”
He’d just about given up trying to get free when one of the lusty maidens from the MedSoc group wandered over, grabbed his crotch and started to massage his balls. This left him with an enormous hard-on that made a very obvious bulge in the front of his breeches. The poor chap looked quite embarrassed. But every time the bulge looked like subsiding the lusty maiden returned and gave it some more attention. But worse was in store for our troubadour. The Chief Torturer, who was having a slack moment between victims, spotted our troubadour and as he too had suffered his off-key warbling and monotonous plucking earlier in the evening, decided that he should be punished.
He motioned to a small group standing by the bar. ”Follow me men.” The group headed towards our troubadour. It was not long before he found himself securely fixed in some rigid steel stocks. No padlocks on these babies; the two halves were bolted together. He would need a wrench to undo the nuts and there was no way he could get his hands on a wrench with his wrists pinioned between his ankles.
Next the Chief Torturer locked a steel collar round his neck and then pulled him forward so that he was resting on his knees with his head near the floor and his bum in the air. A bondage board was fetched and our troubadour manhandled until he was kneeling on it. The collar was tied down to an eyebolt at one edge of the board and ropes attached to the ends of the stocks were tied off to two more eyebolts in the corners at the other end. There was no way now that our troubadour could be in other than the head down, bum up position
A group of girls led by the lusty maiden decided that it was a pity to keep such a gorgeous bum covered. So down came the breeches and underpants leaving the full moon of his backside clear for everyone to admire. Another girl pushed a red candle into his asshole and then lit it. This resulted in a rousing chorus of ‘Happy Birthday To You’ from the gathered audience. But if our troubadour thought that this was the worse that could happen, he was in for a surprise.
At that moment one of the MedSoc members walked up dressed in full Robin Hood garb complete with bow and a quiver full of arrows. He decided that our troubadour’s ass would make an excellent target. So he loosed off a couple of arrows. It was fortunate that he was not using real steel-tipped arrows but rather arrows with rubber suction caps on their tips. Even so, one of these at close range made resounding thwack and left a cherry red mark. It was also fortunate that the candle had fallen out of his asshole as the second shot scored a bullseye. If the candle had still been in place it would probably have ended up somewhere near our troubadour’s kidneys.
Our hostess Esme suggested that we needed a proper archery target and she had the very thing. She hurried off upstairs to return a few minutes later with a pot of purple dye and a paintbrush. She then painted ‘a proper archery target’ on our troubadour’s bare ass. As a final artistic touch she painted his cock and balls purple too.
One of the girls went to pick up the pot of dye. “Be careful with that; don’t get any on your hands as it doesn’t wash off,” warned Esme.
“But what about his bum?” asked the girl.
“Oh, with some hard scrubbing it should fade in a week or two,” was Esme’s casual reply adding, “His balls could take a bit longer.”
With such a target there simply had to be an archery competition. For the next half an hour two teams vied for the prize. Against all odds the Bondage Club team won. Their prize? To tie up the members of the losing MedSoc team.
What then happened to our troubadour and who released him? I do not know, but I did not hear the strains of ‘A Wandering Minstrel I’ or that plucking lute again.
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15.01.07