The Princess and the penis

Once upon a time there was a Prince who was handsome, witty, kind and clever. He was heir to a prosperous Kingdom, where the people were happy and peaceful.  The King and Queen owned many palaces, all of them gleaming with marble, with cellars full of gold and silver, with jewels beyond count. Truly, the Prince was the luckiest man alive except for one thing: he had a laughably small penis.

When he was born, the court physician had noticed how tiny the royal todger appeared to be even for a baby.  But he reassured the King and Queen that all would be well, when the Prince hit puberty.  Yet puberty came and went, and by the time he was 20, the Prince still had a cock little larger than he had when he was a baby, although now it stood up stiffly like a drawing pin whenever the Prince got excited – which was often.

The heir to a Kingdom needs an heir of his own, so the King and Queen were anxious to marry their only son off as early as possible.  Beautiful princesses came from lands far and near, but all had heard about the Prince’s little problem and all wanted to see it before becoming betrothed.  Soon enough, peals of girlish royal laughter would ring out through the palace, and the courtiers would hang their heads in despair, as yet another royal carriage rattled hastily away out of the palace gates, bearing a still-giggly princess in the back.

They say it is a rare man who can always make a woman laugh. The Prince was such a man.

What were they to do?  As word spread of the Prince’s embarrassing condition, the Kingdom became known as ‘the Kingdom of the Prince with the laughably small penis’.  From the lowliest beggar to the mightiest baron, all of the real men in the Kingdom, sporting perfectly adequate tackle, found that they were thought by foreigners to have nothing worth speaking of between their legs – and the women of the Kingdom had to fend off foreign men eager to give them the pork stuffing that they were assumed to be lacking.

But the years went by, and the King and Queen despaired of ever finding a beautiful Princess to whom they could wed their darling son, with his dainty dangling ding-dong.

Then one day, a carriage drew up in the courtyard with a clattering and a rattling that roused the whole palace. This was unusual in itself, since it had been years since any princesses visited.  More unusual still, the driver and footmen – footpeople – on the carriage were all women.  Usually, princesses were accompanied by handsome young men, who would sit making gestures towards their ample, bulging trouser treasure, while the Princess was inside trying to control her laughter. Yet this carriage was accompanied only by tall, rather serious-looking women.

One got down and opened the door, shouting out “Her Highness the Crown Princess of Femlandia!”.  And down from the carriage emerged a young lady of rare beauty and still rarer richness of garment, whose countenance was sterner still than those of her minionettes.  She looked around her, with a bored and faintly contemptuous expression.

“Where’s little dick, then?” she enquired of no one in particular.

“Erm… our son prefers to go by his given name of Richard” puffed the King, who had come running out of the palace to greet his guest.

“Where’s little dick Richard, then?” the Princess asked, fixing his watery blue eyes with a level stare from her pools of steel grey.

“Er… well, there…” the King began, pointing feebly towards the South Eastern tower of the palace, but the Princess and several of her entourage had already swept off and were entering the building.

In his room, Prince Richard was sitting quietly in the gloom, feeling sad and useless, as he often did.  Had it been 700 years later, he would probably have been wanking around to no purpose on the Internet, but in those benighted days there was nothing better to do when wasting time than watch the dust-motes dancing in sunbeams, so this was what he was doing.

There was a peremptory knock and the Princess swept in, accompanied by two tall blonde courtiers, dressed in military regalia and sporting swords.

“Who… who are you?” stammered Prince Richard, which was odd because he had not previously had a speech impediment of any kind.

“Princess Valerie of Femlandia” came the curt response. “Here to inspect the goods.  Trousers down.”

“Er… Princess, you realise… of course… that I don’t really have much to – “ began Richard, wondering where on earth that stammer had come from.

“Not something that really bothers me, to be honest”, the Princess replied, smiling slightly at one of the female soldiers at her side, who blushed and returned the smile more fully.

“But it’s as well to see what I’m getting. Trousers down – or my guards here will take them down for you.”

The Prince reluctantly did as he was bidden, and stood there, his legs illuminated by a sunbeam. There was silence in the room, which was eventually broken by the Princess.

“And the pants”, she snapped.  “Obviously.  Moron.”

The Prince hurriedly lowered his pants as well.

As it was dark in the room all three women leant forward for a closer look and at almost exactly the same time, both of the female soldiers burst out laughing.

“Oh shush!” the Princess tutted, but smiled herself and was obviously not really cross with the two blonde warriors, who stifled their giggles and brought themselves to a semblance of attention.

“Better” nodded the Princess, patting one of them gently on the bottom, and stepped forward, bringing out a magnifying glass that she had thoughtfully provided for herself, and examined the matter at hand more closely.

“Hmmm” she said, then spoke no more for several minutes. 

She reached out and roughly grabbed the Prince’s hair, jerking his head forward so that he was staring directly at her milky and ample (but not excessive) bosom.  Then she let go, and continued her magnified examination.  The Princely prick had become erect and had doubled in size to almost nothing at all.

“Hmmm” she said again and then sighed.

“Pretty much as expected, I suppose.”

“But… but you’re not laughing?” prompted the Prince.

Princess Valerie shook her head decisively.

“Don’t have much of a sense of humour, really.  Everyone says so.  Especially where men are concerned” and an expression of contempt came over her face, and her hand involuntarily jerked slightly, as if flicking a conductor’s baton, or perhaps a riding whip.

She clasped both hands behind her back and stared straight into the Prince’s face.

“Would you like it to be… bigger?  To feel like there’s more down there?”

“Oh… oh yes, Princess”, stammered the Prince wondering if he had somehow been cursed to repeat the first word of every sentence he spoke for the rest of his life.

The Princess smiled a mirthless smile. 

“I can fix things so you have more down there than you even want. That you’ll be wishing for it to be smaller… would you like me to do that?”

“Oh, oh yes please Princess Valerie”, the Prince replied.  “I’d like that more than anything in the world. I’d do anything.”

“Good” the Princess, said.  “Marry me.”

“According to the traditional customs of Femlandia, obviously” she added.

“The, erm.. traditional customs of Femlandia?” the Prince quavered. “I’ve heard those are, well, that they’re… rather strict.  To men, anyway.”

“Strict enough.” nodded the Princess.  “Men deserve it, I find.  Look: do you want an inconveniently large cock or not?  Also – and I might not have mentioned this – when we rule here together, your penis will be the largest in the palace.  Would you like that, too?”

“Yes – oh yes, Princess, please” implored the Prince.  “Are you going to going to perform a magic spell?”

“It’s more in the nature of a magical ring” replied the Princess, holding her hand out for a shiny metal object that one of her guards handed her.

“Legs apart”

She busied herself with the device, while the Prince gasped at the touch of cold metal and instantly felt his prick soften back to its previous (almost microscopic) size.

“Is it a magical ring from your own country of Femlandia?”, he enquired, trying not to wince as he felt sharp pains and a weight as from a thick band of iron tugging at his nonentity.

“Not exactly”, the Princess replied, working away with an allen key (she was a well-equipped Princess, as befitted someone who was the tyrannical honorary leader of the boy scouts movement of Femlandia). “You might say it’s from the far-off fabled land of Hind.  It’s called a Kali’s Teeth bracelet.  There – it’s done.”

She stood back up and gazed down at her handiwork. The Prince’s little disappointment was almost entirely invisible for real this time, swathed as it was in a thick band of iron, studded with… well, studs.  The weight of it pulled down uncomfortably, but it was not as uncomfortable as the sharp pins digging into the tender flesh.

“Errr” the price started, but his hair was grabbed roughly once more and his face jerked forwards, this time actually being pressed down into the Princess’s own warm, soft bosom.  One of the guards looked slightly offended, but stared straight ahead.

Inevitably things started to grow as the Prince felt a surge of excitement and then – a sharp, stabbing pain in his tenderest parts!  And another!  And another! As the Princess rubbed his face across her bosom, his nose pressing down deep into her cleavage, the Prince felt as if every nerve in his stiffening member was screaming the same song of agony.

A shriek came out of his mouth and he collapsed to the floor.

“Make it stop!  Oh please, please make it stop!” he gasped,

The Princess kneeled down beside him.

“It’ll stop when you’re smaller again” she murmured.

“Oh!” moaned the Prince, in torment “Oh how I wish my penis were smaller””

“It will be,” nodded the Princess, standing back up.

A few minutes later the Prince stood before her again, panting slightly and brushing the tears from his cheeks.

“See?” the Princess enquired, brightly.  “You wished for it to be smaller.”

“Well, in a manner of speaking” the Prince grumbled, feeling that something was not quite right.

“So now you marry me” added the Princess.

The Prince drew himself up to his full height and spoke with as much dignity as is possible, with a tear-stained face and a heavy spiked ring fastened to your genitals.

“Certainly not.” he sniffed. “It was a trick.”

The Princess sighed and nodded to one of her guards, who saluted and left the chamber, closing the door behind her.  The tall blonde soldier stood outside for fifteen minutes, as various strange sounds – thuds, and cracks and moans and cries - emanated from within, but stood fast, preventing any of the curious courtiers from gaining access to find out what was going on.

Eventually the door was flung open and the second guard announced “Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess of Femlandia and her Prince Consort-to-be”

Out strode Princess Valerie, accompanied by a shuffling, shambling Prince Richard.

The King and Queen looked up in shock from the bottom of the steps.

“Betrothed.” Princess Valerie informed them, smugly. “According to the traditional customs of Femlandia”

“I can see that” muttered the King, as the Prince raised his head slightly to expose a heavy iron collar, with a chain sneaking off towards the Princess’s left hand. “I've heard about those traditions of yours.”

“Richard!” the Queen called up sharply.  “Do you consent to this?”

The Prince consort-to-be glanced at his fiancée, who nodded imperceptibly.

“Yes mama”, he replied, dejectedly.  “I made a deal.  She… did something that made me, well, made me uncomfortably large. You know.  Down there.”

“I can see that, too!” exclaimed the King, as a heavy cylindrical object distorted the line of the Prince’s trousers. "Wow!"

“Well, my boy, we must begin the celebrations immediately!  Let the word go out to all four quarters of the Kingdom that the lovely Princess, er... the lovely Princess..?”

But the lovely Princess and her followers – a word that now includes young Richard – were heading to her coach.  The Princess climbed straight in, leaving Richard to be secured to the side by his collar.

“Goodbye dearest mother-to-be!” she called out. “And you, too”, she added with a look of disgust at the King.

“But, but… you will return, will you not?” the King gasped.

“Of course!” she called out, drawing her head back inside the coach and giving the signal to move off.  The horses started to turn the carriage around, and Richard jogged around with it.

“But when?” both parents wailed, at exactly the same time.

“When you’re DEAD, obviously!” came the cry from within, and the whips cracked over the horses (accidentally catching Richard a nasty cut across the shoulder) and the carriage lurched out of the courtyard, the heir to the Kingdom desperately galloping alongside.

....

Several years passed. The King and Queen grew old before their time, worn down by the cares their inadequately-equipped son had brought them.  Rich men, well aware of what Femlandian rule would bring, paid for the finest medical experts to come and treat them, but in a few years the Queen had died of sorrow and the King was on his deathbed.

Some attempts had been made to prepare the Kingdom for Femlandian rule. There was a woman prime minister (but she wasn’t very good, being neither strong nor stable) and many businesses had been made over to female ownership. In schools, girls were educated in sciences and business, while boys were taught needlework, cooking and how to simper attractively. 

Nonetheless, all men knew that the rule of Empress Valerie the Vicious and Cruel of Femlandia would bring an end to the fair and happy land they had known all their lives.  The stories coming out of the Empire were too alarming not to take seriously, and after all, men told one another, any empress who chose for herself the moniker ‘the vicious and cruel’ was probably no pussycat.

But despite the best efforts of his physicians, the King wasted and died. And a few days later, the armies of Femlandia invaded, receiving the surrender of the local militia forces with little mercy, much brutality and a moderate amount of violent sexual abuse.

The same carriage swept back into the same courtyard, now decorated with the brutal red, white and black symbol of Her Imperial Highness, Empress Valerie the Vicious and Cruel, Oppressor of the Western Isles, Scourge of the Northern Wastes and Terror of the Eastern Deserts, to give her her full title.  And trotting along at the side of the carriage, the Prince Consort: older, considerably more scarred and with Her Imperial sigil burned proudly into his flesh - but still recognisably Prince Richard.

Branding can be tricky but even an Empress will always prefer to do it herself, for that personal touch.

The Empress descended again and gazed around her with fierce joy.

“I made you one other promise, maggot!” she called to her long-suffering (oh, but she’d barely started) husband.  “Do you recall?”

He looked confused, and shook his head sorrowfully.

Empress Valerie laughed.

Do you recall her promise, reader? Not merely that he would have a penis that was uncomfortably large. That he acquired the very day he met his wife-to-be, and had still, as the bracelet of the Goddess Kali had not left his flesh since that fateful day.

No, the Princess had also promised that when she and her blushing bridegroom finally reigned together (in a manner of speaking) that he would have the largest penis in the palace.  Do you remember that now, dear reader? Because there will be a test.  And consequences.

And the Empress, as she now was, always kept her promises.  When she wanted to, anyway.

“Lock the palace gates” the Empress called.  “And summon the Imperial Gelding Squadron”.

She looked around the courtyard, at the men standing, or kneeling... mute, anxious, frightened.  She smiled, in satisfaction.

“They have work to do.”

And they all lived happi… well, not all of them, obviously, but some of them were happy, I suppose, some of the women anyway, and, look, She certainly lived very, very Happily Ever After, OK?  And that is what matters.

The End.

It's ages since I wrote a story this long.  I don't know if it's just age or the Internet destroying attention span but I used to write lots of stories.  I find that I can only sustain interest for bite-sized captions and vignettes, these days.  Where was I... attention span... oh yes!  So anyway, writing stories is actually how I started.  My very first ever visit to a domme (was wonderful, utterly wonderful) and at the end of it, She commanded me to write up my session to publish on Her web site.  I did and She did and it's still there, and I took to writing more things for her and Her friend.  Usually stories about them.

 Some of these old stories can be found by clicking on 'Mistress Valerie' in the word cloud there (although the first one that comes up, abput Christmas, doesn't really work, I think).  They concern Mistress 'Valerie' and Her friend 'Sandra' , which are not quite their real names.  But Mistress Herself has now semi-retired, or at any rate developed a vanilla business so She wants a low web profile.

This isn't a Valerie and Sandra story, but the Empress's personality has a bit of 'Valerie' so I gave Her that name for old-times sake. If you want to read another fairy tale, that is a much closer description of the two ladies, try this.  That's one of my all-time favourites, the others being this and this.