The Boy King: Part Two

NONE ENTERED BY AUTHOR

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  Naqee took several steps back.  “Where are your escorts?”  He said, 
his voice trembling a litte.

  “My escorts?”  The boy said, his voice so thick with its accent 
Naqee almost missed what he said. Suddenly the boy shot his hand out 
to the side and pointed at the unconscious guards against the far 
wall.  “You mean THOSE escorts?” He said, tilting his head with a 
grin.  “You snooty little cur!”  Suddenly the boy rushed forward, 
Naqee screamed, skittering back and falling into the courtyard. The 
boy pounced on him in an instant.  He had Naqee by the throat, his 
fingers digging into the young king’s flesh.

     “You think you’re so perfect!” The boy sneered, jolting Naqee’s 
head back and forth.  “Sitting up in your throne with your silk and 
your gold—you bastard I should skin you alive!!”  The voice was full 
of rage, almost insane and Naqee was helpless beneath him, unable to 
pry the fingers off his neck.  He began to cry as the boy throttled 
him, feeling the lack of air make him somewhat dizzy.  The hot tears 
slid down the sides of his face and his lungs began to burn.  The boy 
groaned with the effort, and it seemed he was trying to snap Naqee’s 
neck but wasn’t strong enough to do so.  

     Then an idea dawned on Naqee as he fluttered on the verge of 
unconsciousness.  He lifted both his legs up toward his head and 
crossed them before the boy, then pushed him back away from him with 
all his strength.  The boy fell back and Naqee rushed to his feet 
almost losing his balance from the daze.  The boy got up quickly and 
went for him but, as he approached, Naqee closed his fist as hard as 
he could, held it back and then brought it up hard against the boy’s 
face.  The boy staggered, almost fell, and then tackled Naqee back to 
the ground.  Naqee’s breath was knocked out of him and he grasped two 
handfuls of the boy’s long curls and pulled them hard.  

    The boy screamed and slapped him hard across the face, scratching 
the side of Naqee’s face in the process.  Blood sprung up from the 
scratches, and it looked like a wild cat had scratched Naqee’s cheek, 
so much was the blood.   The scratches burned on his face, and seemed 
to pulse out.  His tears mingled with the blood and made a mess on 
his cheek.  

    “Curse you!”  Naqee groaned.  “Curse you, you barbarian!” The boy 
punched him hard in the face, and then Naqee saw the boy raise his 
hand with a knife in it.  It was the castration blade and the boy 
plunged it down.  Naqee raised his hand at the last moment and the 
blade went through the palm of his hand.  He screamed.  The pain was 
terrible, and when the boy raised his hand again—withdrawing the 
knife from the wound--the blood poured out, splattering on Naqee’s 
face. 

     Oh, Allah, Naqee thought, I am going to be killed.  I shall be 
butchered like my uncle!  As he saw the blade come toward him, 
suddenly the boy rose off of him, as if he were floating.  

    Yusef had lifted him away from Naqee, and the boy began to 
struggle with the counselor, but several guards came to restrain 
him.  The look on the boy’s face was frantic, his eyes rolling, his 
hair flying.  He looked like . . . like a fallen angel.  Oh, 
Allah. . . .

    Naqee sobbed, rolling to his side and drawing his knees up to his 
chest.  

    “Are you my god!”  The boy screamed.  “Are you my god to curse me 
so!”  The words resonated, they seemed to echo on Naqee’s skull.  “Oh 
true god in heaven you have been usurped! Oh GOD!!!”  The boy roared, 
hysterically weeping.  “God be with you Naqee, because I will kill 
you!  God be with you!!”  

   Naqee was weeping uncontrollably.  He felt Yusef’s hands on him, 
tugging at his sleeves.  

   “Come, Naqee,”  Yusef was saying.   “Come, let the physician tend 
to you.”

   Naqee did not stand.  

   “Oh,”  Yusef whispered, his voice teary,  “oh, my dear king.”

    Naqee covered his head with his hands and then he felt Yusef’s 
arms beneath him, lifting him off the ground.  He fell against 
Yusef’s chest, curled up like an infant.  “Don’t kill him,”  Naqee 
whispered.  

    “But, My Lord—“

    “Just don’t.”

    Yusef sighed.  “Very well.”  Yusef gave the guards some order and 
took Naqee back up to his rooms.  Naqee lay like a dead man in his 
bed as the physician moistened a piece of cloth with some fluid and 
pressed it up against his wounded hand.  The blood from Naqee’s face 
had dripped down and ruined the collar of his tunic.  The physician 
had placed a damp cloth on his cheek and left it there while he 
inspected the hand.  Yusef loomed over the physician watching his 
every move.  Then Naqee turned his head to look at Yusef.

    “What is that slave’s name?”  He asked, blinking back the tears 
in his eyes.

    “Mohul, My Lord.”

    “Mohul?  He is Indian?”

    “Well—we are not sure where he is from, he was bought from Indian 
traders.”

    “Mohul. . .” Naqee whispered.  “Mohul means rain.  I suppose the 
slave traders named him after his charming personality.”

     Yusef smiled and sat down at the bed’s edge.  “Yes, I suppose 
so.”

     “Gelding him may calm him down. . .”  Naqee sighed.  “Yes, I 
still want him cut, just don’t do it till I get there.  I want to see 
it done.”

    Yusef smiled and nodded.

     The following morning Naqee put on a new pair of trousers and 
tunic, slipping on  a pair of blue silk shoes with its curving tips.  
He brushed out his hair, combing oil through it, and then wrapped a 
small turban around his head.  His hair was still out down to his 
shoulders, so he picked out several small jewels and dipped them in a 
jar of thick tree sap, and then pressed them up against his hair at 
intervals.  He picked up the thick soft bristled brush from the table 
and dipped it in the silver powder—then quickly brushed it over his 
face. The scratches on his cheek had dried up and were nothing but 
tiny welts now, but it aggravated him immensely.  He touched the 
welts with his fingertips, his hand now tightly bound and sore.  
Something strange happened when he touched the welts, though.  An 
eerie sense of eroticism went through him and excited him.  He 
frowned and lowered his hand.  “You are the one who needs God,”  
Naqee whispered.   “Mohul.”

     After finally applying the kohl to his eyes he made his way to 
the slave quarters and into the gelding room.  The room had a hole in 
the ceiling where the sunlight came through to light the room—which 
meant there were no geldings when it was raining.  A series of ropes 
hung suspended around the hole in the ceiling down to the ground.  
Against the far wall, sitting down and tied up was Mohul.  Three 
guards stood beside him and two others were inspecting the suspended 
ropes.  A man—one of the slaves—was standing to the side inspecting 
the gelding blade in the sunlight.  He was going to do the cutting.  
Mohul was glaring at Naqee with narrowed eyes.  When Naqee walked in 
they all stopped and bowed down before him.  Naqee waved his hand 
indifferently and watched as they continued to go about their 
business.  

    Mohul’s  face was pale and he looked almost haggard, but it 
seemed only to enhance his beauty.  

    “The ropes are good,”  one of the guards said.  

    “Well, tie him up then,”  the slave with the blade said.  

     At this two guards picked Mohul up from the ground—his ankles 
had been bound together and his wrists tied before him.  They brought 
him to the series of ropes and then tied his ankles up again to a 
rope.  One of the guards pulled hard on another rope and this lifted 
Mohul’s ankles up so that he hung suspended upside down.  The guard 
tied to rope to an iron ring on the the floor too keep Mohul 
suspended.  Another guard tied Mohul’s wrists again with another 
suspended rope and again, a rope was pulled so that Mohul was lifted 
by the wrists.  He was bent at the waist, and his hands were touching 
his feet.  The rope was tied to another ring on the floor.  The 
sunlight hit him directly so he seemed to glow in the golden light, 
his long black curls looking almost like sleek serpents.  He looked 
like an animal that had been hunted down in the woods and was about 
to be roasted.  It looked awful and Mohul only groaned at the 
discomfort.  

     Mohul had been stripped naked and his cock and balls were 
hanging down between his legs, exposed and vulnerable.  The tender 
scrotum had a smear of dirt from the floor.  When the other slave saw 
this he took a bowl of water and splashed it over Mohul’s scrotum, 
rubbing his fingers into the flesh to get rid of the dirt.  Mohul’s 
exposed anus had tightened up and his fingers began to quiver.  The 
slave pulled on the balls, massaging them it seemed, in his hands.  A 
guard had stood behind Mohul and held him still, perhaps to keep him 
from swinging during the castration.  Naqee was getting extremely 
excited and he stepped closer.  Finally we came up and stood to the 
cutter’s side, and he reached up to wrap his arm around one of 
Mohul’s legs, leaning on it partly for support and enjoying the power 
the gesture gave him.  

    Mohul sneered attempting to move but he couldn’t.  Naqee looked 
over his shoulder and smiled at him and almost let out a giggle.  
Suddenly he wished he could take the boy’s balls into his mouth, they 
looked so very helpless there and innocent.  He reached out suddenly 
and took the balls from the cutter’s hands and felt them in his 
hand.  Mohul made a protest and Naqee laughed.  The balls felt warm 
in his hands, and wet from the water.  They were heavy and their 
scent was wonderful.  He tugged them and Mohul hissed.  

   “I want to hold them while you cut him,”  Naqee whispered, his 
face flushing with the thought.  The cutter nodded and grasped the 
blade in his hand.  

   “You have to twist them first,”  the cutter said timidly.  

   “Oh?”  Naqee pulled the balls hard and then twisted them.  “Like 
this?”  Mohul yelled, attempting to struggle.

   The cutter nodded.

   “Why do you have to twist them like that?”  Naqee asked.

   “Well, My Lord, it restircts the blood flow for a little while.”

   “But don’t you remove the scrotum as well with the balls?”

   Mohul began to lose his control—the pain and the detailed 
conversation was making him panic.  He struggled against the ropes 
but it was hopeless-his own body weight kept the knots tight.  

    “Well, not usually, My Lord,”  the cutter said.  

    “Well,”  Naqee said, anger rising in him.  “I want his entire 
ballsack cut off as well!”  He let go of the balls for a moment and 
they slowly twisted back to their original position.  Then he grasped 
them again and pulled on them.  This handling was marvelous and he 
loved it.  It was like a cat playing with a mouse before eventually 
slaughtering it.  He pressed them in his hand, the balls firm and 
plump.  “Well?”  Naqee said.  “Are you going to do it or what?”

     Suddenly, a little bit shaken and intimidated, the cutter 
reached up with the knife and pressed the tip against the base of 
Mohul’s cock.  Mohul yelled—he hadn’t even been gagged.  Then the 
cutter sunk the blade deep and pulled down hard into the scrotum.  
Naqee still held the balls in his hand and he pulled them down harder 
as the blade went all the way around the balls, sawing through the 
soft flesh and into the cords that held the heavy balls.  Mohul was 
screaming, his muscled taut with the pain and his hands tighted up in 
white-knuckled fists.  The screams oddly enough seemed to rise right 
up and out of the hole in the ceiling so that it did not echo in the 
room.  The sunlight shone down over the balls and Naqee grinned as, 
with a final tug of the knife, the last strip of scrotum was cut 
away.  The entire sack and balls fell comfortably into Naqee’s hand.  
He held them there for a moment and then brought them out so he could 
look them over.   Blood had dribbled down over his fingers and the 
white cords poked out of the bag like stems attempting to grow from a 
bulb.  He opened his hand wider and the hole of the sack widened, and 
he saw the huge glistening white balls inside.  

    Before Naqee even realized he had an erection, he came.  Nothing 
came out—he was still too young, but his body convulsed as it 
attempted to shoot something out.  Blood rushed to his cheeks and he 
let out a shaky sigh.  He looked down at the wound between Mohul’s 
legs—it was bleeding and the blood ran down and gathered at the 
puckered anus between the soft plump buttocks.  It dripped from the 
anus and down to the ground.  This sight made Naqee think of 
something else.  The image of a cock deftly plunging back and forth 
in that small anus filled his vision.  Naqee gritted his teeth at the 
thought and he tightened his hand around the balls, bringing them up 
to his nose to breathe in their scent.  

    Naqee turned and gave the balls to the cutter.  “I want this 
preserved somehow.  Use embalming fluid or whatever.  Then give it 
back to me.  And when the boy is healed. . . .no, don’t even wait 
till he is healed—as soon as you cauterize the wound bring him up to 
my bedchamber. . .And I want him tied up just like this—find a way to 
hang the ropes from the ceiling.  If not I’ll have you flogged.”

    The cutter nodded his head frantically.  Naqee turned to see 
Mohul, who had let his head hang back in agony.  His lips were parted 
and quivering and tears were quickly drying up at his 
temples.  “Yes,”  Naqee whispered, reaching up with his tiny hand to 
touch Mohul’s hair,  “I am your god.”