A few minutes later there was movement in the entrance to the tent. An older horse entered, wearing an open rough leather vest criss-crossed with bandoliers of bullets, carrying a rifle with a bayonet. It was Kevin Warren.
Marshall gasped and gawked. "Dad!!! What are you...?" His voice trailed off.
Kevin grinned at him. "Preston and I were talking about you, and I don't know what gave him the idea — I didn't ask him — but he offered me a chance to take his role for him. He's got two sons of his own, of course. Maybe that's why."
I tried to encompass the idea of Father being sentimental about me. I was still boggling when Marshall ran towards Kevin, stopping in front of him. He shrugged with frustration and laughed. "I can't hug you, Daddy. I've got my hands tied."
Kevin reached out for his son. "S'okay, Highness. I'll do it for both of us."
Marshall leaned against his father, feeling good in his arms one last time. "Oh! Speaking of princes — he told you all about what you're supposed to do, right?"
Kevin tapped his head. "Got it all up here. I understand it's not as big a deal as what you and Andrew will be doing."
Marshall rubbed his head against Kevin's chest. "Dad, you were always so supportive of what I wanted to do, going to the Academy and all. I was so happy when I saw you were going to be here to see what it was all for. And now to see you're going to be part of it..."
"Not only that." Kevin grinned. "He's going to let me have all the fur from one leg, as a keepsake to remember you by."
Marshall nuzzled his dad again. "I'm so glad. It'll almost be like getting to go home again... afterwards."
Kevin laughed. "I know, Your Highness."
Marshall gasped. "Oh! If you're the sergeant, I just realized what you'll get to do at the very end. That'll be wonderful."
Kevin grinned and nodded. "I'm really grateful to Preston for giving me the opportunity."
I wondered whether I would want Father to watch me hang when my time came. I was sure I didn't want Andrew there. And yet... I knew I was now a different person from who I'd been just yesterday. In three or four years, maybe even Andrew could change.
Marshall looked up at his father once more. "Speaking of what it's all for, we'll never get to it if we don't get out of here."
"You're right about that. I guess I've got the first line." He bent and kissed his son's cheek, then went to the tent entrance, calling out loudly, "Commander, our squad has found the prince! He was hiding in the scullery."
Andrew's voice called back, "Excellent, sergeant! Bring him to me!"
"Yes, sir!" Kevin drew back into the tent, and signaled with his hand for his son to move ahead of him. As he passed Marshall, he grinned and mouthed, "Love you!" Marshall looked up at Kevin, and I suspected he'd said the same back. As Marshall exited the tent, Kevin drew his rifle up and held it with the bayonet at his back, and followed him out.
I came out of my hiding place, already hearing a rising of murmurs from the partygoers watching the regally robed, crowned, prince approach. I stopped a few feet from the tent entrance;the dimness of the lighting at that point would keep anybody from seeing into the tent from the bright sunlight. Kevin was marching Marshall across the yard. I shook my head in wonder. Marshall, despite his bound hands, was walking so regally, his whole posture projecting grandeur and haughtiness, his coronet glittering brilliantly in the sun. Kevin pushed Marshall towards the stage, where Andrew stood in a casual slouch, his own rifle dangling from one hand and the other on his hip. Most of the audience was facing the stage, but with heads turned to watch the progress of Marshall and Kevin. Kevin poked his son in the back a couple of times with the button-protected tip of the bayonet, and each time Marshall, in exaggerated reaction to the strength of the poke, stumbled momentarily and squeaked in fury at the indignity. After the third poke, Kevin barked, "Move faster, royal pig!"
As the pair passed the watching crowd and came to the side of the stage, I snuck out of the tent and drifted towards the rear of the onlookers. I edged my way through the crowd with a few shoulder nudges and polite "Excuse me"s.I managed to reach the front, just a few feet from the stage.
There were three steps at the side of the stage leading up to its carpeted surface. Andrew stood about ten feet from these steps, about halfway between them and the raised platform at the center of the stage. Behind and to the right of the platform, Big Bill stood with his huge arms folded on his chest, now costumed in the same manner as Andrew and Kevin. His exposed chest and arms were even more muscular than I'd thought — really impressive.
Also behind the platform but to its left, Andrew's side, Bailey stood with his hands behind his back, in something resembling a parade-rest posture, facing front, the expression behind his shades unreadable.
I moved a few feet to get closer to the platform. My life, from this day forward, would revolve around what I was seeing now, for the first time up close.
The surface of the platform was about four feet square, and raised about two feet above the surface of the stage. Beneath the platform was a complex-looking mechanism with a wooden lever projecting above the edge of the platform on the side nearest Andrew. And above the platform, the noose dangled.
I examined it as closely as I could from where I stood. It was made from very thick, smooth-looking rope, tied, of course, in a hangman's knot, and hung down from a horizontal wooden beam. The image would stay with me for the rest of my life. My first look at the center of my life.
I looked back to where Marshall had mounted the steps, prodded again by his father's bayonet. I could see Marshall's face clearly, his grim expression, his eyes filled with utter disdain for the man Kevin had addressed as "Commander."Good, Marshall! I thought. That's the way to treat Andrew.
When Marshall was halfway to him, Andrew held up his hand. "Stop right there, pig."
Marshall stopped, glaring at him, his head held high. "Scoundrel! You may not address me in that manner. To you I am 'Your Highness,' assuming I give you leave to speak to me at all!"
"To me, you're just a royal pain in the ass." The audience chuckled. "Do you know that your father and brother are dead, and that only you remain of the corrupt family that has oppressed us for so long?"
Marshall hung his head. "I did not know. I mourn for my people, who have lost a leader of uncommon valor and dedication to them."
"Not at all. I'm standing right here. I await my acclamation as president of a free republic, but there's one last bit of unfinished business. The last member of the deposed royal family must be executed."
Andrew held a card in his palm, small enough that it probably contained only key words as reminders of the dialogue. He didn't seem to need it; he must have spent a lot of time studying the script.
Marshall looked at him in horror, and turned to face the audience in front of the stage. "My people! With the passing of my father and his heir, I am your lawful king and monarch. I command you to arrest this pretender and conduct him to the deepest dungeon where he may spend his days regretting his crime against you!"
In response, Dad, standing in the crowd, raised his fist in the air and shouted, "Hang him!"
Behind Marshall, Kevin raised his rifle above his head and took up the cry. "Hang him! Hang him!" Within seconds everyone was shouting the same words together. This was Marshall's big moment, so I shook my own fist and joined in. "Hang him! Hang him!"
Andrew raised both hands, and the chanting subsided. Above the last voices, he shouted, "The people have spoken. Hear me now!" He waited for complete silence, and turned towards Marshall. "Your Highness," he used the title with an ironic sneer, "I hereby sentence you to be hanged by the neck until you are dead!"
He shouted defiantly, "You may not! I will not suffer the fate of a common criminal!"
Andrew exclaimed, "Your family's criminal corruption has been a curse on our people for generations! You have brought contempt on the traditions of royalty. Remove that robe, whose color you are not fit to wear!"
"Villain! Your scruffy men stripped me of my clothing and left me nothing but this robe to wear! No commoner may look at me that way
Andrew smiled. "I don't believe that will be a problem. As my first presidential act, I hereby declare that everyone here is a baronet." Everyone laughed.
Andrew took a step forward, reaching towards the front of Marshall's robe. The horse stepped back again, feeling the bayonet once more, and shouted, "You may not! Do not touch me!"
Andrew tucked his rifle under one arm, and took hold of the ends of the sashes holding the robe closed, one in each hand. With a dramatic jerk, he pulled on both at once, loosening the slip-knots.
The untying of the sash holding the collar of the robe closed allowed the metal band in the collar to spring open, and, as it pushed off against the back of Marshall's, the whole robe suddenly sprang back off his shoulders to drape itself over Kevin's rifle, startling him.
Every audience member jumped slightly at the unexpected movement, but that initial reaction was overwhelmed an instant later by a loud, collective gasp. The man next to me exclaimed "Holy shit!" under his breath, while his boyfriend in front of him breathed an astonished "Wow!" Even Bailey was staring at Marshall, though I was sure the kangaroo knew Marshall's body with the intimacy only lovers can have. And Kevin, standing behind his son, gawked wide-eyed as he let the robe slip off his rifle to the floor of the stage without seeming to notice.
I realized my jaw was hanging open, and I couldn't seem to close it. I had seen Marshall naked for a good part of the last hour or two, but I was still not prepared for this. I saw now what the purpose of the powder had been; the effect hadn't been noticeable in the dim light of the tent.
Marshall was the most incredible sight I'd ever seen, as he stood there, his hands behind him, his head held proudly, his shoulders back and chest out. In the sunlight, every square inch of his fur gleamed golden. Every sculpted muscle, even his cock and balls and ass, was picked out by the light in exquisite detail and made somehow more real than reality itself. Marshall was not simply a prince. He was a glowing golden god.
For at least a minute, Andrew stood blinking, his mouth half open, his eyes fixed on Marshall, not appearing to know exactly where he was or what he was doing. Suddenly he twitched and looked around as he realized the next move was his.
He smiled shakily, and took a couple of casual steps to the side so that he was between Marshall and the audience. He said to the horse, "There's still a way you might save your life. Face me and get down on your knees."
Marshall continued looking straight ahead defiantly, and Andrew caught Kevin's eyes and gave him a barely noticeable gesture with his head and eyes, Kevin also having lost the thread of the production to some extent. Kevin nodded back and put his hand on Marshall's shoulder, shouting, "You heard him, wretch! Get down." He appeared to be forcing his son to face Andrew, away from the audience, and pressing him down, though it looked to me as if the horse could have resisted if the scene had been real. Marshall sank down onto one knee, then the other.
And I realized the staging at this point had the purpose of letting the audience see clearly that Marshall's hands were very securely tied, just as he'd told me back in the tent.
Andrew barked, "Bow down!"
Marshall shook his head vigorously, until Kevin pressed the tip of the bayonet against his shoulder. "Down, he said!" Slowly and gracefully, Marshall bent at the waist and leaned forward until his head was touching the stage.
I smiled, realizing the many levels of thought that must have gone into creating this scenario. The intention here must have been to give the audience a nice, long look at Marshall's taut ass. It had its effect: all the males in the audience were shifting their stances slightly to accommodate growing erections, which had no doubt gotten their start at the moment of disrobing; meanwhile, the boyfriend of the man next to me made a sound halfway between a sigh and a gasp, and the hyena reached towards his crotch and start rubbing himself, looking as if he might not even realize he was doing it; all his thoughts were concentrated on the sight in front of him.
Andrew snapped at Marshall, "Now, common cur, member of a disgraced family: you may keep your life if you swear your allegiance to the republic, and to myself as its president, and vow to discard all pretentions of royalty, on your father's cursed name! Swear it!"
Marshall was still on his knees, his head still on the stage, his bare butt high in the air, Kevin's bayonet now pressed against his neck to hold him that way. In a furious voice, he said, "Never! I would rather die than swear such a thing! And it is your own name that is cursed, not my father's!"
Andrew took a step back. "Very well. As much as I hate giving you what you want, it seems I will have to. Sergeant!" He looked at Kevin and gestured towards the platform. "Take him away to the gallows."
Marshall straightened up, still on his knees. "No! That is not a death for a prince of the realm! Allow me a sword and I will take my own life. It is not for you to take it!"
Andrew pointed again. "Take him, Sergeant!"
Kevin nodded. He prodded Marshall with the bayonet.
As gracefully as he had gone down, Marshall rose to his feet and turned towards the platform. He walked towards it, snapping angrily at Andrew, "The curse of this deed be upon you!"
Marshall stepped neatly up onto the platform in spite of its two-foot height and his bound hands; his eyes were bright with excitement, the corners of his lips twitching upwards. "This is it!" I thought. Everything he has worked for the last three years, all the studying, all the practicing, all the workouts in the gym, every minute of it has been for this.
As Marshall stood on the platform, facing the audience, shouldering the noose out of the way behind him, Andrew said, "Executioner! I have need of your services."
Behind the platform, Bailey saluted. "Yes, sir!" He hopped up onto the platform beside Marshall. His own costume, now seen in its proper context, gained its own deserved attention from the audience — he was both extravagantly sexy and frighteningly ominous.
On the other side of the platform, Big Bill moved forward slightly, still to the rear but closer. I realized that Bill's presence was meant to discourage attempts by any member of the audience to touch Marshall while he was hanging. I was sure it was a 100% effective deterrent. I recalled that any use of cameras of any kind was prohibited during the hanging. Every guest had been told that. It was perfectly understandable: filmed performances would amount to stealing something the Academy was trying to sell. Big Bill probably had the additional duty of enforcing that ban.
I watched, fascinated, marveling at the years of expertise that went into Bailey's deceptively simple role in the show. He took hold of the noose, lifting it over Marshall's head and dropping it down around Marshall's neck, slipping its coils down the rope to make it fit snugly, then, with intense concentration, shifting it slightly so the knot was in exactly the right place. I realized that Bailey's performance, brief as it was, was as important and as demanding of intense training as Marshall's. The length of Marshall's forthcoming display owed as much to Bailey's skill as to Marshall's years of practice.
At last a look passed between Marshall and Bailey that probably would only be noticed by someone concentrating as intensely on the scene as I was: with the tiniest nod and flick of his eyes, Marshall acknowledged that the noose felt right and he was ready. Bailey gave a similar tiny nod, and jumped down from the platform.
Andrew had stepped to the side of the platform and grasped the wooden lever. "Are you ready to die, common scum?"
Marshall glowered at him. "I dispute your right to sentence me so, but I will die with the dignity required by my station." He looked out at the audience. "Farewell, my people. I love you no less. I believe your loyalty has been stolen by this rascal and renegade, who will no doubt show his true colors soon, and you will see you have been deceived. I go now to join my father and brother in honor beyond the grave."
Andrew said, "Very nice speech. Now die, miscreant!" The attention of the audience shifted towards him, as he gave the lever a sharp pull. The mechanism, now engaged, did not drop the platform at once, but instead started it sinking slowly to the stage. I was watching Marshall intently. The glowing stallion looked directly at me, mouth again curving up into a tiny smile. He winked at me , and mouthed, "Good luck," as the platform started its descent.
All eyes were back on Marshall now, as the platform continued sinking, and everyone, including those onstage, seemed to be holding their breaths. Ironically, the only one who was breathing was Marshall, who closed his eyes in concentration as he slowly took in a deep breath, slowly let it out, and slowly took in another. He opened his eyes and flicked them briefly to the side, and I realized he was timing his breaths with the disappearing slack in the rope.
I didn't realize my hands were clenched until I felt his fingernails cutting into my palm, didn't know I had gone an endless time without blinking until my eyes started burning. I forced my hands open and reluctantly blinked, grudging the few milliseconds of sight it cost me.
It seemed to take forever, but at last the rope pulled Marshall by the neck up onto his toes, and then the very tips of them. He made a slight choking sound in his throat as his toes slipped along the surface of the platform and lost contact.
All the muscles in Marshall's legs stood out as he stretched them to their fullest possible extent, his toes seeking some sort of support as he hung by his neck. He kicked out as if trying to walk up a flight of steps, his whole body twisting and shimmying like a fish hanging from the end of a pole. Every tensing, flexing, writhing muscle was picked out in sunlight reflecting from his shimmering, golden fur.
The platform continued descending, at last reaching the level of the stage, leaving Marshall's feet kicking at least ten to twelve inches above it.
The most prominent muscles of all were in the horse's neck. I'd seen any number of hangings on television, mostly petty criminals and losing game show contestants, and had never seen the neck muscles in any dangler stand out to quite such an extent. But of course. Think how much time he's spent doing this.
I watched Marshall's head for a time. The rest of his body seemed to move randomly, but he was rolling his head in what looked like a repeated pattern. It seemed as if he had control of at least one part of his body, but I didn't understand why he was doing that.
Then my attention shifted as Marshalls's kicking changed. He was swinging his legs in a complex pattern. I couldn't figure out the purpose until I realized Marshall's whole body was starting to turn. He was facing to stage left now, and in another minute was turned to face the back of the stage. It must be intentional: Marshall wanted the onlookers to be able to see him from all sides. The veins of Marshall's arms stood out with the strain as he struggled to free his hands; the muscles of his back and buttocks rippled with his efforts. He was thrusting with his pelvis as well now, obviously really enjoying it.
The same thought seemed to occur to everyone at once; a ripple of gasps swept through the crowd of onlookers. As they watched, Marshall began the swinging kick again, slowly turning back to face the front of the stage, while still continuing the jerky thrusts with his pelvis. Sweat was running freely down his legs and stomach, on his pecs and in between them, atop the layer of powder, dripping onto the platform below him.
The male next to me had his hands in his pants pockets. The front of his pants bulged out and twitched with movement, and his boyfriend was now industriously rubbing himself through his pants without trying to disguise it, making soft moaning sounds. And I realized that I was rubbing myself as well. The tingling in my cock barely penetrated the tumult in my mind.
A few minutes later, Marshall suddenly stiffened, his mouth wide open in a silent shout, and his whole body spasmed, seemingly independently of all his other movements, overwhelming them within seconds. A spurt of semen erupted from his cock, shooting all the way to the edge of the platform, then another and another. The male next to me said in a surprisingly squeaky, tight voice, "Holy shit, he just came," barely getting the last word out before shuddering suddenly, with a loud grunt: he had just come in his own pants. I heard almost animal sounds coming from the mostly-male spectators. At a guess, at least half of the onlookers had just had orgasms. Andrew had a visible erection under his pants, though his recent exploits with Marshall in the tent probably made it impossible for him to go all the way just now. Among the males, Kevin was the only one trying to hide his state of arousal, looking uncomfortable. I felt very close to an orgasm myself, but I just couldn't spare the attention to my own sensations that a climax required; every atom of my consciousness was focused on Marshall.
Marshall himself was tiring at last; as the orgasm subsided it appeared to drain away a lot of energy with it. He was still kicking, but more listlessly, almost a token effort. For several minutes more the kicking continued, spasmodically, gradually becoming little more than twitches. At last he went limp for a moment, then with determination wriggled his feet, pointing his toes towards the floor as if somehow he might reach it after all this time. He stopped again, once more hanging limp, as the rope turned him slowly left, and slowly back to the right. A gush of liquid suddenly emerged from between his legs, released from his bladder to fall to the floor below. His eyes, still open, were glazed now, looking at nothing. I concentrated intently, but couldn't see a sign of the slightest movement.
The glow of Marshall's skin was still dazzling. Still a golden god, now lifeless.
First one member, then another of the audience began clapping. The applause immediately spread through the entire group of onlookers. I found my hands pounding each other without having consciously asked them to.
Someone whispered reverently, "Thirty-one minutes."
He did it!! I thought, clapping my hands more enthusiastically. He had wanted to be able to go thirty. Maybe that was a record, though he hadn't said so. I'd have to ask Bailey later.
Everyone was talking at once, mostly expressing amazement, and in a few cases some embarrassment — there was no way for several men to hide the darkened spots in the front of their pants. One man said, "I've heard about what it's like, so I stuffed some tissue in my underwear before I got here."
I looked away from Marshall for a moment and saw Andrew looking questioningly back at Bailey. He, in turn, was looking at something he was holding in his hand. For a couple of minutes motion seemed suspended onstage, while the chattering continued down below, and Marshall continued to hang limply by the neck with a vacant stare, twisting slowly from side to side in the light breeze. At last Bailey gave Andrew a small nod, and Andrew waved his arms for attention.
"A new republic is born today," he shouted as the crowd quieted. "The royal family is no more. No longer will we suffer under their corruption."
From within the crowd, Dad shouted back, "How do we know the prince is dead?"
"There's one way to find out. Sergeant?"
Kevin pushed the lever in the opposite direction, and the platform rose slowly until Marshall's body lay flat on it. He motioned to Big Bill; the jaguar marched smartly over and cut the rope with his sword. Kevin pushed the collar to the top of his son's neck. Big bill handed him the sword, he swung it up, and with a single blow cut through Marshall's neck. The horse's head rolled off to one side, and a cup or so of blood gushed out of the wound, collecting in the center of the platform — and that was all. This was what Marshall had been happy about in his last conversation with his dad: that Kevin would get to deliver the coup-de-grace to his son, as a father should. Marshall must have felt the day was working out perfectly in many unexpected ways.
Andrew threw his hands up in the air and shouted, "Okay, that's it. Let's get this royal... thing... to the furrier."