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-in-law, 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.