Andières will hold, I have no doubt about it. Although the castle is small, it is strong and well positioned. I walk out onto the battlements and look at the Duke of Poitou's army out on the valley floor, all 1500 or so of them, powerless against the 150 men inside my walls. Poitou tried a few escalades, a rush of men with ladders, which were easily repelled. I expect that Poitou tried to undermine the walls, but the ground is hard as rock and virtually impossible to dig into.
Now we've settled into a monotonous siege, Poitou's forces covering the valley leading to Andières, to prevent anyone entering or leaving, thus hoping to starve us into submission.
An enemy crossbowman takes an optimistic pot shot at me, but I know the distance is too great and I hear the bolt clatter against the foot of the wall below me.
There is no chance of us being forced to choose between surrender or famine. Poitou's approach was rumoured for months, so I've had ample time to empty the surrounding countryside of anything edible, fill our cellars and leave Poitou with the headache of how to feed his men. We've got fresh water from the deep well in the yard and enough food to last us until March, or longer if we are careful. When the winter starts to bite, the Duke will have to abandon his siege or risk his troops succumbing to exposure, disease or – ironically – starvation.
Until three days ago, I'd been under the mistaken impression we had all we needed to last 8 months or more; now I know that I was wrong. Before Poitou entered the valley and isolated the castle, I'd sent all the women and children to the safety of Rouen, 50 miles to our rear. It had made sense, fewer mouths to feed meant we could hold out longer. I had not considered what will happen when 150 men, mostly young men of fighting age, are cooped up for months during the boredom of a seemingly endless siege. The day before yesterday, LeBrun had tried to force himself onto young Guillaume. Nothing really happened, the teenager had fought back and LeBrun had been pulled off him by the guards alerted by the noise, but the intention was undeniable.
I need to do something about it. I've had LeBrun flogged and pilloried yesterday, of course – though not so hard it would disable the man; not with him being too useful a fighter to waste. But I need to find a more permanent solution to the problem. A way for the men to vent their frustrations that does not threaten the discipline and cohesion of our band. And the predictability of our opponents offers me a possible solution.
Right on cue, the four horsemen appear. No, not those four horsemen. Four men on destriers, fully clad in armour, riding towards the gatehouse to challenge any noblemen in our chateau to single combat. I'm the only noble here and I am not so stupid to accept it, but they still repeat their challenge every morning. The closer they approach the walls, the more they believe they prove their valour and the greater the insult to my honour. Over the past weeks, they've got closer and closer from a false sense of security due to our inaction. Today they will be shown the folly of their `bravery'.
The horsemen ride around the Martyrs' tower and along Andières' East wall. They are now as far from their army as they will get, and partially hidden from view by the tower. I lift my fingers to my lips and on the shrill whistle, six archers and a dozen men-at-arms bolt from the unlocked postern gate where they had been waiting. With glee, I watch how two of the foolish knights' horses are hit by arrows, one bolting in panic, the other going down heavily. The two remaining horsemen hesitate, obliged by their honour to help their fallen comrade, who's pinned down by his horse and his heavy armour. In mortal danger themselves from the archers, though, they turn and flee, leaving the helpless fourth knight to the mercy of my soldiers before reinforcements arrive.
I reach the courtyard just as the fallen knight is pulled through the gate, the heavy bars dropped into place to lock it against a rescue attempt. Taking time to enjoy my moment of victory, I flip up his visor. He's young, a grown man but still young, not yet twenty probably.
"He'll do. Take off his armour."
The prisoner is silent as the heavy steel plating is removed, revealing the broad shoulders and slim hips of a trained swordsman. A tall young well-built man. Not unattractive, I am sure, if you like that sort of thing. Undoubtedly, he's from noble birth, but I have no qualms about my plan. Needs must.
"Latch four pike shafts into a square of 6 x 6 feet. Then strip him fully, lash his wrists and ankles to the four corners and install him in the barracks."
"You can't do that!" The prisoner protests haughtily, "I am Henri Vicômte d'Orlons. I am due the respect of my birth and my title."
D'Orlons! The Duke's oldest son and the heir to his duchy! I laugh aloud. "Even better, let's allow Daddy Duke to watch the deflowering of his boy. Change of plan, boys: latch his wrists and ankles to the four corners and then carry him up onto the ramparts instead!
Half an hour later, we're on top of the gatehouse, facing the massed Poitou army. The prisoner, naked and spread-eagled between four sturdy oak poles hangs in mid-air above the parapet, visible to every soldier in both armies.
"LeBrun!"
The shamed fighter comes forward, reluctantly. I hand him a pot of softened pork lard and point to the platform behind the prisoner.
"We all know what you wanted to do two days ago. This is your chance."
There is confusion in his eyes. "Go ahead," I reassure quietly, "you won't be the only one who wants to do this, just the first one to get the opportunity to do it unpunished."
The big soldier doesn't need any more encouragement. He clambers onto the box and drops his trousers. D'Orlons groans as a dollop of lard is worked into his backside. The Poitou soldiers shout in protest as they realise what going to happen, but LeBrun is shielded by the young nobleman' body from any attempts to stop him.
I watch on with distaste – and admittedly a surprising amount of fascination – as the soldier rubs a generous amount of lard on his manhood, grown long and fat, and standing proud of his loins. Holding the shaft at its base, he lines it up to D'Orons' backside. The youngster screams when most of the long fat cock is thrust into his gut. LeBrun holds still, enjoying the warmth enveloping his tool, wishing to savour the opportunity to release months of pent up desire. He begins to fuck the nobleman from behind, slowly at first, but then with ever increasing power and length. The prisoner yells with every thrust, until the screams turn to throaty groans as his voice gives out. I almost feel sorry for the lad, but I know what is good for my soldiers, and thus what is needed to defend my property.
I force myself to watch the entire afternoon. For a quarter of an hour, LeBrun builds up to a mighty, violent climax, as the repeatedly slams the entire length of his manhood into the prisoner, swearing when he finally empties his balls deep in the man's belly. It takes about ten minutes before anybody else steps up, nervous about the publicness of the performance, I suppose. To my surprise it is Guillaume, LeBrun's intended victim two days ago, who comes forward and roughly does to D'Orlons what he didn't want to undergo himself. He's followed by Bircann and then Lasassier. By then any embarrassment about fucking a man in public seems to have gone and men are eager to get involved.
By the time I order D'Orlons to be taken off the frame and into the dungeon, I've watched about two dozen men ravage his arse. The atmosphere in the castle, so full of tension yesterday, is jolly and relaxed and I congratulate myself for a well-executed plan. Nothing will stop us enduring a long siege now, enjoying it even. As long as the young nobleman's rear remains fit enough, that is, because I doubt we'll be able to catch a replacement toy.
The next morning, I get the prisoner lashed to the frame again and watch the first few of my men, led once again by LeBrun, abuse his backside. For the first one or two rapes, he is screaming again, but soon his vocal cords give in to the strain once more and his protests are limited to uncontrolled sobbing interspersed by high-pitched groans every time someone enters his behind.
"Fifty-seven men in total, My Lord," my sergeant reports at the end of the day. "And LeBrun and Chenery came back for seconds at the end of the day."
Fifty-nine fucks all together, then. A lot more than I had expected. I hadn't thought there were more than a score among my men who had these kinds of urges.
"How's the prisoner holding up?"
"Well enough, My Lord. A lot of pain, but no injuries. Worn out by the end of the day, but he'll be well enough to go back on the rack tomorrow."
I nod to dismiss him, wondering whether Poitou had watched as man after man had rammed his cock into his son's backside , each one further besmirching the honour of his House. How long will he allow this to continue?
For a long time, it turns out. The weeks string themselves together mostly uneventfully. Every morning at 6, D'Orlans is strung up in full view to have his arse ploughed for hours straight. Men, who'd been too ashamed to take part earlier, start to come forward. Perhaps their shame has been overcome by the sight of all the other soldiers getting their fill, perhaps the urgency of their lust is getting stronger than their embarrassment. Whichever the explanation, after three weeks, there is a queue of men lining up to shoot their loads into the young Viscount.
Ninety-three loads in 12 hours, he takes that day. A hundred-and-twelve in 14 hours the day after. When, the day after that, there is still a queue after 14 hours, the prisoner having been penetrated over a hundred times already, I limit the entertainment to twelve hours per day, afraid the youngster might come to grief.
And so we fall into a rhythm, strung up by 6 in the morning, D'Orlons gets fucked about a hundred times until 6 in the evening, taken down, and then fed, watered and cared for to ensure he is well enough for another round the next day. Day after long day. Occasionally there is an attack from Poitou's men trying to storm the walls while we're otherwise engaged. At the height of one of these, I watch in fascination as LeBrun climbs onto the platform, drops his trousers and roughly fucks the Viscount, while six yards away the Duke's men are trying to fight their way over our wall. Whether LeBrun means it as an extreme insult to the Duke, or it is just eagerness to shoot a last load before he might be killed in battle, I do not know.
These attacks are rare though, so for the men, most days are filled with guard duty and sex. For the young lad in the frame, all days are filled with non-stop sex. He has adapted to the abuse, it seems. No longer sobbing and moaning, not longer appearing to be in agony by the end of the day. He pushes out his backside to present it to the next assailant, rocks his body to absorb the most violent lunges. His moans are reserved for the most heavily hung men, when he pushes back against their thrusts to help them penetrate deep into his gut. If he hadn't been of noble birth, I might have thought he's enjoying the abuse.
Poitou has petitioned for a parley, unsurprisingly. It is November, there is no chance they will break through our defences before winter. Rumours are that his army is starving and freezing, while we are well-fed and sheltered and ready to face the December storms.
I am not sure whether the fate of his son has played a part in his decision, but I suppose that watching him get fucked all day every day for more than three months, can only have helped him asking for a resolution.
In a tent between our camps, the Duke and I eat, drink and discuss a truce. After a day of discussion – while 50 yards behind me D'Orlons is still getting assaulted repeatedly – we agree that he will withdraw without me trying to take revenge or extract damages. An outcome that could have been agreed within 5 minutes, but protocol and niceties have to be met.
"And your son, Your Grace...?" I ask, curious that the Duke has not brought him up earlier. "You will want him back, I presume."
"How much do you want for his release?"
"Nothing, Your Grace. He was only ever a distraction for the men."
He grunts in surprise and confirms that he would indeed want the young man back.
I order my sergeant to collect the Viscount, knowing that he is sensible enough to clothe the lad in his original outfit before leading him back.
"It will be hard to restore his honour, Your Grace," I say, rubbing in the disgrace what was done to his heir over the past months.
He looks at me with his icy stare. "I don't think so. You'll see."
D'Orlons is led into the tent, struggling to walk but looking more presentable than an hour ago when he was naked with a massive cock up his bottom. Poitou's sergeant takes over the support of the lad and leads him away.
"The boy was always a fool, My Lord Count," the Duke says. "I disinherited him the moment I saw your first man mount him, and appointed Philippe, my second son, as my heir. A much more sensible lad, who will not dishonour me, I can be sure."
"What will happen to D'Orlons?"
"The former Viscount D'Orlons is only good for one thing now." He beckons me to follow him to the back of the tent.
The young man, completely naked once again, is strapped up bent across a sawhorse, his wrists and ankles tied to the feet of the frame, his backside up in the air.
"I've employed boy-whores in my army for decades. Henri will disappear from public life and join their ranks for the rest of his distasteful life."
On a signal of the duke, his sergeant drops his hose and reveals a monster that makes LeBrun's cock look like a child's willie. Gripping the kid by the hips, he drives his horse cock ball-deep into the defenceless arse. D'Orlons groans loudly at the fierce assault, but through the grimace I see a glimpse of a smile on his lips.
The duke bids me farewell, while his man continues to pump the youngster's backside violently. As I walk back to the gatehouse of my castle, the thought of the sergeant's gargantuan tool ramming into the stretched arse doesn't leave me and I feel my cock swelling.
I wish I'd kept him – as a hostage for his father's good behaviour, of course.