Make you eat a... special pie

You're sat in the royal dining room when Sir Donald Trowers, the Chancellor, and Jean-Dorio Vince, set the dish on the table in front of you. Pie. Meat pie.

"Eat up, lad. A king needs his strength." Trowers says in a monied tone. Vince just scoffs. You want nothing more than to set down your knife and run away, far away. But what can you do?

You eat the pie, the palace chefs considerable skill and resources unable to disguise whatever the sour surprise will turn out to be. With it nearly finished, you set down your knife, wipe your hands. Trowers lets you off, since he's clearly so delighted to tell you what it was you just ate.

"Remember Kathleen? That pretty wench from the kitchens that you've had eyes for for so long? That you played with as a child? Last night, I had two of my golden-capped condottieri **** their way into her room. They slit the girl's throat, butchered her, had cookie serve her to you in a pie!"

"Oh god!" You say, just barely resisting the urge to be sick.

"Lick it up, your majesty!" Vince cackles, hyena-like. "Lick up her gravy."

He shoves your face down in the plate, rubbing it from side to side.

"Never forget, you floppy haired shitstain of a king." Sir Trowers says now, standing over you smugly. "There is nothing you can possess than I cannot take away."

And with that statement, in one final indignation, Trowers, a bastion of middle-aged arrogant masculinity, frees his prick from the confines of his britches. He lays it over your face, over your eye, like a fat and fleshy eyebrow.

Vince joins him, and the two of them crow over you, their manhoods on your face...