The Man with a Peculiar Ass

we can have some short silly lewd readings again

tags: femboy prince pov, omegaverse-adjacent?, f/m, consensual, mpreg mentions, big dildo in tiny femboy prince butt

I am a man with a peculiar ass. As outlandishly silly as it sounds, it is true - it is true, I swear! My ass, you see, my delicate postern - it is more like the yielding bud of a maiden, soft at the rim and dewed with clear want when I deign to ponder inapproprieties. Why is it so, this winking hatch of mine? The astrologer at court is sure that I’ve a drop of wolfkin blood in me, as beastmen all breed with each other when spring heat comes upon them, gender be damned - they’ve rears just like mine, the wildfolk from Rema and further south, so that their men can be taken and made heavy with offspring in the mating season.

Wolfman or not, I confess I find this idea quite attractive - the fantasy of receiving sex rather than giving, of my own eventual gravidity. Alas, my father would never permit that, as here men are men and women are women and we keep to our own sort. Not that my curiosity is in any way quelled by taboo; nay, it is the opposite, I dream more urgently of being made intrinsically feminine; male still, but feminine, submissive. And eventually I come again to the astrologer at court, Vangeline Kelly, lady Kelly, who is educated in the matters of, as she would put it, venerian men.

Because lady Kelly is father’s veritable favourite, it is immensely difficult for a weak-legged creature such as myself to reach her; intentionally, I’m sure, father afforded lady Kelly an atelier at the very top of the Dolfinum, his great spire of science, so that I would not pester the good astrologer with my queries at every opportunity. My climb is not fruitless, at least, as lady Kelly is indeed in her atelier, embroiled deeply in her starwork.

“Lady Kelly,” I greet her upon entry, but she pays me no mind, and instead labours on over her impossibly complex charts. A prince is nothing next to constellations that may reveal the future, the past, or another time sort yet unknown to man.

“Lady Kelly, you must tell me something,” I press on, not so easily deterred by her indifference, and seat myself right on her table, between her readings and an astrolabe to the side. She looks at me with subdued, yet still faintly visible rage; she does not care for my interruption, no matter how urgent it may be - in my view, at least.

“Lady Kelly, should I run away?” I ask; it is a brilliantly simple question of multiple meanings, a shocking inquiry, but lady Kelly is neither amazed nor surprised in the least.

“Where would you run off to, Your Royal Highness?” she poses a question of her own in turn.

“To Rema, or further south,” I say, “I fear I will be forever unhappy otherwise.”

“And why is that?” asks lady Kelly, rolls up her expansive chart and sets it aside. I claim the freed space immediately and sidle closer to the astrologer, to the fair woman - she is disheveled, as eccentrics tend to be, but still fair, of course.

“I am too strange for here,” I say, adding a touch of dramatic lamentation, “lady Kelly, I am male, but only just - a man come from Venus, as you have said, and lest I abscond, I will remain unpleased and tragically virgin in every meaningful way.”

Lady Kelly leans into her hand and takes a long moment to ponder my heartfelt whine. My knees rub together, my thighs rub together, and I feel stirred by the sensation in my tights - and at once feel more despondent, too, as my ass winks at the rousing, and I am reminded of my absolute oddness.

“What do you expect to find in Rema or further south, my prince?” she asks, her voice pensive, inquisitive; lady Kelly is a scientist and therefore she does not taunt me with her taunting query, but rather hopes to collect information.

“Someone to have me as I would like to be had,” I say, “lady Kelly, I feel that I must be utterly ravished, probed in the limit of my depth, else I will die. I will die if I am not conquered like a woman, lady Kelly. I will weep and then I will die.”

Lady Kelly gives no response to my tirade. She stands from her polished desk and goes to scavenge about her workshop. I lie back, still on the table, and feel my head with the back of my palm; I have fever, I am sure, and I am not far off death, I am sure, and I strain uncomfortably in my constricting breeches. No boy has ever been as hard in the flesh as me, so unsatisfied, so wet in his maid-like bud.

“Help me, lady Kelly,” I whimper and demand, “find something for me in your stars, lady Kelly.”

And lady Kelly finds something for me, not in the stars, but in the dregs of her atelier; she brings me a dull stake of polished glass, and I think it an alchemical contraption - which it is not.

“Take this,” she holds the tool over me, “take it to your chamber and use it as if it were another man’s sex. That ought to relieve you.”

I look over the glass, and I find its smooth shape quite pleasing, quite like the ideal cock I’ve dreamt up for myself; but it is dreadful to imagine toying with such a thing privately, by my lonesome, with no other soul present for the deed. I may as well then open myself up with my fingers, as I have done before, and felt little joy from it.

“You do not understand, lady Kelly,” I sigh, “you do not understand at all. I had thought you wiser, lady Kelly. I had thought you—well, not kindred, but knowing of my state… But you do not understand at all.”

“I see,” says lady Kelly, withdraws from my distraught self and walks a circle, obviously to ponder the realities of my hounding woe. She returns after a quiet while, and when she does, she snatches the exposed hem of my breeches. I do not protest; it is exciting.

“If I relieve you,” she proposes, “will you stop pestering me?”

I shuffle to catch a glimpse of her and straighten my long legs so that she may free me of the bothersome tights. And after she does, I keep my legs up, toes stretching, and I flush at the sight of my cock stood at the ready, so ready, readiest it’s ever been.

“Could you, lady Kelly?” I ask in dainty whisper. She offers me a hand; not the one holding the crystal cocktool.

“We’ll see,” she says. I hold onto her fingers and allow her to guide me off the table; onto my feet; against a wall. That is a supreme feeling, I realize, to be backed into a corner and pressed at hard, cold stone. I am made a captive, and I prefer to be that over prince sovereign.

“Show me,” says lady Kelly, and she needs not specify what she desires to see; I bend one leg at the knee and lift it, so that she can see my taint and the wet trails that spread over it and down my inner thigh. She mumbles a comment - I do not hear it - and touches over my sodden rim. I pray for her to press into it, but she does not, though I would gladly, immediately take her finger up to the knuckle.

Instead, the cold glass is brought to my entry next, and then - in one forceful shove - inside. Oh—

Oh—

Oh—

How beautifully it fills me, the cock simulacrum; I cry in delight and then again at the next shove, at the brutal parting of my sopping walls. In my mind, I see clearly how far my ass must be stretched around the tool’s girth, and it is the rightest image, the rightest sensation. Lady Kelly bores the glass into me with all the unkindness she can muster, and I am despoiled, I am robbed of my virginity, I am in Heaven. I hold my knee higher, tighter, and move against the impaling cock; would that it were large enough to bulge my abdomen. I throb at the thought of that immense discomfort, at the thought of any discomfort at all, and lady Kelly, as if she heard my thoughts, grabs me by the sac and squeezes. I give a pitiful whine and spill; I am milked, a cattle boy held painfully by taut little udder, and my release is grossly plentiful, filthy like never before, wetter even than my drooling, generously gaped ass.

“Lady Kelly,” I yip once the deluge’s done and hold a shaking hand over hers, the one that holds the tool still. I keep the glass pressed within, even after the deed, as it is now an artifact to me; the phallic Philosopher’s Stone that thrusted new life into me. And would that it seeded me with new life in a literal sense, so that I could hold my rounded stomach in months and relish in my womanish fulfilledness.

“Enough?” asks lady Kelly, mostly impassive, a little intrigued. Perhaps she’s enjoyed breaching me cruelly, her persistent nuisance; perhaps she’s enjoyed this Martian power she’s surely felt through the glass cocktool.

“Just one more question, lady Kelly,” I heave and feel a spurt at the edge of the smooth carving; I am ready, so ready, though I don’t know how to finish the mating; but lady Kelly, clever as she is, surely does, I hope. “Can you make of me a pregnant man?”