I wasn’t dead, but I should have been. A few minutes later I wished I was.

Over 300 nubile naked women had stripped me of my clothes and carried me, somehow preventing me from struggling, to a huge bath. All of them walked into the water with me and numerous hands were suddenly all over me with soap soaked sponges, razors, knives and scissors.

All the while I was helpless. My body refusing to respond to any conscious command, though the women giggled a lot at my body’s subconscious reaction.

When they’d finished my beard was gone, my skin had been rubbed smooth and oiled, and my hair trimmed to an inch of its life

This done they carried me on a golden couch, in enforced naked glory, into a neighbouring room. Some clever handwork ensuring I remained proud in my nether regions.

“Now you are fit to sire an heir on our Queen,” one of them said.

“I can’t.” The thought of it nauseated me. “I’m Gay.”

“It’s why we chose you, Martin Lander,” she answered. “You won’t fall in love with our Queen.”