To skip all this disclaimer bollocks and get straight to the curious adventures click here
I have, very recently, completed a short story, whose title you can see above. Ordinarily, i would attempt to get it published, sending it around to magazines both on-and-offline, and hold out for the one that offered the best rate (this has never actually worked). But even I, with my optimistic smoke-filled eyes, can see that I could shop this around to a thousand publications, over the course of a year and a half, and still be rejected. Alot of them, most of them, want exclusive electronic rights – so in all that time it would languish on my hard-drive, unread.
Why though? Why am I so certain that it would be rejected? I shall tell you. It is without a doubt the most perverse thing I have ever written. It is sick. It is twisted. It is likely to offend. It’s also quite funny, in my opinion.
The list of the kinds of people who may be offended by the words and narrative contained within is long; too long to be included here. A brief overview would likely include feminists, masculinists, liberals, conservatives, vegetarians, vegans, the upper-middle classes, the lower-middle classes, the lower-upper classes, the upper-upper classes, those with a sensitive disposition and most probably anybody with any kind of moral compass.
So, I guess this is a disclaimer. It is not my intention to offend, only to amuse and illuminate. Please don’t read much further if you are likely to descend into a rabid furor of outrage. Actually, please feel free. You will probably find it a cleansing experience.
When i started writing it I conceived it as a satirical reflection on the works of the Marquis de Sade with Cronenbergian overtones. There is perhaps an undercurrent of feminist thought and a critique of society, although these may in fact be accidental. I may, in fact, be suffering from delusions of granduer.
If you read it, and after giving it some thought I have changed my mind and in fact urge you to read it, please – share it. Throw it up on facebook, your blog, your twitterstream. Email it to friends. Mention it on the forums you frequent. Leave me horrified diatribes in the comments. Let me know if you like it, if you hate it, if you want more. There can be more. If you want it.
I’m not usually one to be so forthcoming. I’ve been blogging on and off for a decade – i’ve seen the raise and fall of traffic, the waxing and waning of interest. All the while I’ve played it cool. There’s nothing worse than some whiny prick begging for attention on his blog. I’m making the exception here though, because i think that ‘The Curious Adventures of Lord Fuckington’ is worth the possible backlash.
I started writing this is a lark, a piece of amusement for myself and friends. Something to write after a several month long lapse of creative output. I throughly enjoyed writing it and as i showed it around to a few people i realised that people throughly enjoyed reading it (even those that were somewhat disturbed by it). So, I figured, why not throw some effort of promotion behind it? If it sinks unnoticed beneath the surface of the internet so be it, but at least I will of tried.
So, i bequeath you to read. And link. And comment. And if you want more let me know. There is a very possible long-form narrative for this. Get to the end and you’ll see an inkling of what i mean.
Oh yeah, one more thing. Although I have strived to correct spelling mistakes, it is somewhat unproofed. Just so you know.
Adam V. Cheshire
Lord David Fuckington the Sixth was a magnificent cunt of a man. When he wasn’t parading around his estate with his magnificent stallion, on the hunt for willing sport, he most liked to spread himself around society with wild abandon. He came from a long line of Fuckingtons and could trace his lineage all the way back to the days of Richard the Lionheart. He was especially fond of the family stories of this time, passed down in the finest oral tradition, during which his great great great grandfather Roger of Stickfordshire was famous for his taming of the local wildlife and peasant population.
Indeed, it was for these great deeds that he recieved his knighthood from Richard himself and given the lay of the land. Since that day the family Fuckington had ruled the proles of stickfordshire with a stiff iron rod, often applied in a firm manner without the favour of anointment. With each generation came the story of that great forefather along with his personal effects; a manuscript written in the highest hyperbole telling of his adventures (written by an annoynmous scribe of that era; Roger himself was famous for his illiteracy), a broadsword and his coat of armor emblazoned with the family crest. These keepsakes were passed down the male side of the line, going to the first son of each generation, and often given pride of place in the grand entrance hall of the family home, safely kept in a locked glass cabinet to protect them from curious fingers. The cabinet remained locked on all but the second Sunday of each month during which its contents was cleaned and polished to a brilliant shine.
This was, of course, until David took his rightful place as the head of the household. The Legend of Roger of Stickfordshire had been an obsession of his since youth, during which he would plead with his Grandfather nightly to regale him anew with the chronicles of the infamous knight. When his grandfather passed, an unhappy occurrence involving a large bottle of gin, a jar of goose fat, a local serving wench and a hangman’s noose, the duty passed to his Father who quickly tired of the chore. This denial inspired young David to re-enact, from memory, several of the lesser deeds of his hero – including the deflowering and partial immolation of his Mother’s handmaiden and the reinsertion of a freshly born lamb into its mother along with several other small creatures and foreign objects that were handy at the time. These acts, although horrid, elicited nothing but joyous laughter from his parents, the variety that is often heard when a child does or says something that reminds such parents of the innocence of youth. This was not the reaction that David was looking for and he wasn’t shy about expressing his distemper. Taking further more inspiration from his role-model, who dabbled in what could only be referred to as science by the practioners of the Spanish Inquisition, he attempted to create for himself a pet that was part rabbit and part crow. Even then the only outrage he riled in his Father was that of sleeplessness; the constant tortured wails of the creature making it difficult to relax sufficiently to reach that state. The problem was quickly dispatched beneath the sole of Father’s boot in a vigorous and repeated fashion. The complaints for the servants tasked with the upkeep of David’s room went on for several weeks but fell upon deaf ears.
After his many attempts to upset his father and mother, to display the contempt he felt for them at this removal from his life that which he considered his birth right (his birth right being in his eyes whatever he craved at that particular moment) David became despondent. He took a vow of silence which lasted several days. This did much to cheer his parents and the help.
On the seventh day, at the zenith of his anguish, David smashed open the cabinet containing his ancestor’s keepsakes and, carefully picking through the shards of glass, retrieved the journal. The boy was found several hours later by the stable master , rifling through the pages of the manuscript, with a look upon his face of someone who had recently discovered first-hand what genitalia were actually for. When he was brought before his Father and Mother with not a trace of shame visible they both turned a strange purple colour. Almost as a mirror image of one another, shaking bodily, lips tightly pursed with the occasional squealing expulsion of air escaping them, accompanied by something guttural and constrained that started In each of their throats and differed only slightly in pitch. Then came the roaring – a twin stream of high volume words that crashed against one another and knocked David arsewards in ecstasy. To him the cacophony was like a choir of angels, as if heaven had split the sky and emptied all the wonders of existence directly into his ears with enough force to split his skull.
This was followed by spanking, his Mother first, lifting him clear 3 foot in the air by his left earlobe with enough force to spin him perpendicular, her other hand ripping his britches down to his ankles. Whilst momentum kept him in this upward direction she moved to a chair so that when his realigned body fell back towards earth David landed on her lap. Her hand came down with great force upon his bare bottom , over and over again, the angels in David’s head singing louder and louder, the stirrings of his first ever erection pressing against the folds of her skirt. She went on for 40 minutes, until her hand could take no more.
His Father took over. Whilst his wife had not felt her son’s erect penis pressing against her due to the many layers of clothing she wore He noticed it immediately. David’s Father had been repressing his homosexual urges since he himself was a child, the night of his son’s conception being the most horrific of his life, and this blatant display of such inclinations spurred him to smack harder and longer than he would of otherwise, all the while David’s manhood pressing against his inner thigh. By the time he was done, after nearly 2 hours and 20 minutes, a queue of eager staff had begun to form, enrolled by Mother in the task, waiting to take over. When all the staff were spent a dozen villagers, who had been press-ganged by the Father after threatening their families with unspeakable acts, were waiting in line. When the last villager could take no more the stinging in the palm of his hand it was 4 in the morning. The heat from David’s arse could be felt across the room and the glow throbbed dully against the walls. The perversion of Tradition was the ultimate blasphemy in the family Fuckington.
The event was the most formative of David’s childhood, its physical manifestations taking the form of a peculiar gait that followed him into adulthood, the psychic ones so deeply engrained you couldn’t reach them with a red hot knitting needle and a mason hammer. Ever since then he had been trying to reach that pinnacle of the ecstatic and for him the key was to be found In the life and deeds of lord Richard of Stickfordshire. His father had died of what was said to be the pox but was largely suspected to be the prolapsing of the anus. His mother followed soon after under mysterious and gruesome circumstances which were not so gruesome and mysterious to David. Now that he was the head of the household he could finally fulfill his destiny.
This consisted of him donning his ancestor’s armor and riding around the countryside committing every single despicable act contained within the manuscript, of nights spent studying every page and expanding its vision, inventing new ways in which to honour the greatest Englishman who had ever lived. He saw in Roger a genius and understanding that bordered on the metaphysical and sublime that was incomplete, a philosophy and system of governance which sought to attain the highest form of perfection, but which faltered. David would be the one to complete it, to give birth to Roger’s resplendent miscarriage of ideology.
He liked to start his day in his study. After a quick breakfast of baby rodent, skewered alive and dipped into boiling oil , he would examine his notes from the previous day, if indeed there were any. Sometimes he simply turned to Roger’s manuscript for inspiration for the day, thumbing through it and randomly selecting a passage to act as inspiration . Although it was Lord David’s intention to create a series of folios, based upon the diaries of his antecedent as well as his own deeds and observations on the nature of the commoners and power itself, Fuckinton was a man of action. Indeed, the folios were to take the form of an instruction manual and in order to instruct one simply had to do.
He had been informed by his chamber servant upon waking that it was a Tuesday. This did not sit well with Fuckington. Tuesday was an entirely disagreeable day. Rising slowly to an upright position he reached under his bed and retrieved his riding crop with a yawn before striking the servant across the face with a sudden flurry of movement most unbecoming to David’s state of being. The chamber servant recoiled from the blow, upturning a chamber pot as he stumbled backwards and spilling its slurry all about him.
“My god man! Look at this mess, you clumsy oaf!” Lord Fuckinton roared. “You best get a mop immediately. Now, tell me again. What day is this?”
The chamber servant , who had scurried backwards in retreat from the expanding puddle of human waste, was taken aback. Still reeling from the blow, the reason behind it, and confused as to whether he should fetch a mop immediately or answer his master’s question he stuttered. somewhat lost in the moment. “I… It… I… is Tuesday, my lord.”
Lord Fuckington leapt from his bed, fueled by the surge of preceding violence and the desire for more of the same, he cleared the sewage easily and, with the crop raised above his head, gave the servant a tremendous thwack across the throat. The servant gave out a gurgling scream of agony. David reached down, viciously grabbing ahold of his head and lifted him to his knees. He put his crimson face into that of the servant’s. “WHAT DAY?”
By now the chamber servant had realised that he was mistaken, that it simply couldn’t be Tuesday. But if it wasn’t then he was unsure as to what day it really was.
“Wednesday?” he croaked.
Lord Fuckington bellowed a ragged string of incomprehensible syllables. Thrusting the servant face first into the puddle of excrement he stomped on the back of his head with an unstockened foot several times before pulling himself up to his full height. “Truly, you are a simple minded creature if you do not even know what day it is.”
The servant gurgled, blood mingling with piss and shit, several of his teeth broken in pieces about him. “Now,” Lord Fuckington exclaimed, “be sure to do a good job cleaning up this mess, there’s a good lad.” David turned and left his sleeping chamber whistling faintly. An exemplary start to the day, he thought to himself.
The rodent was especially fine this morning, crispy on the outside and bloody on the inside, just the way he liked it. Over a flagon of warm mead he made a note of the morning thus far, linking it to a particular instance in the Stickfordshire journal and reflecting on the importance of keeping your staff both on their toes and slightly off balance. Then he pondered what to do with his day. As it was Tuesday, and as the weather was fine, he decided to go hunting. It was tradition for a nobleman to bring a few servants with them on hunting expeditions, to carry game, but Lord Fuckington had a tendency to get bored if no sport was forthcoming and instead sent his servants out with a 5 minute head start. Frankly, he was running out of peasants. Finishing his mead he called for his Steward to ready his horse before returning to his sleeping chamber and dressing for the hunt.
Despite the sunshine it was dark in the forest, the thick, interwoven mesh of branches blocking all but a few shafts of light. Lord Fuckington was by now deep into the woods. Apart from a grouse which he had managed to pierce with an arrow from a distance of fifty yards and which he had then used as a fleshy, blood drenched glory hole he had thus far had little luck. Still, he plunged onwards. His blood tingled, the heady aroma of sap and decomposing leaves as if heavy with potent, the distant chatter of unseen songbirds whispering a secret for him to decipher. He felt that as if at any second something wondrous would occur. The sensation drew him deeper and deeper into the forest, further and further from the path.
There was a clearing up ahead. From the darkness of the forest the unfettered light cast it in a faint palette making it difficult to see but as his horse drew nearer Lord Fuckington could make out more detail. Wild grass reaching upwards to the sun. As he reached the point where the shadow of trees gave way he steadied his horse. 200 yards yonder he saw what he had been searching for, that which and drawn him on. A solitary piebald doe, intricately marbled in colour between white and brown, stood feeding on the grass. He thought of the fun he would have torturing this fine animal, slicing and cutting, dismembering – The noises it would make! The fine meal that could be had! Then again, that would entail returning home with its body, and he hadn’t brought any servants with him to carry it.
He drew an arrow from the quill on his back and carefully loaded his bow, all the while his eyes upon the deer. The creature seemed completely unaware of his presence and this fact made Lord Fuckington smile. As he drew back to string though the doe lifted its head and looked right at him. David paused, surprised at the calm attention of the deer, the string of his bow fully drawn, the muscles of his arms taut. Still the deer just looked at him. “Truly, you are a simple creature” Lord Fuckington muttered under his breath.
Then, at the very moment of release, the deer took off at a leisurely trot. The arrow plunged harmlessly into the grass, but inches behind its target. Lord Fuckinton whipped his steed with a mighty “Yah” and took chase. As soon as the Deer heard the falling hooves of the horse it broke into a gallop and disappeared into the woods. He whipped the horse harder, urging it on at a faster pace through the trees. His only hope was that the deer would tire before his horse, or that he got close enough to it to draw his sword and cut it down, but this was not what he thought of. Instead he felt a tremendous rage that this animal could have the audacity to remain still for so long, to present such an easy target, to even stand looking at him for over a minute as he took aim and then move at the very last second. He thought about tearing it apart with his bare hands, plunging his hands into its intestines and rubbing its viscera all over his face, eating its eyeballs raw, wearing its uterus as a hat. Just as he would begin to gain on it, tiring in Lord Fuckington’s unrelenting pursuit, his face in a paroxysm of blood lust, it would tap some hidden well of strength and slip once again from his reach, pushing his anger ever higher. This beast would be his or his horse would die in the attempt. As he rode the forest span past him in a smear of shape and colour that grew ever darker.
The doe was floundering. He knew it to be so. It had started to stumble and veer wildly. His horse floundered also, but he wasn’t about to let it give up now. They were approaching a break in the trees. That would be his chance – leaping from his horse he would draw an arrow and nail this bitch. Victory would be his and he would feast upon the uncooked innards of his prey. The doe broke cover followed almost immediate by Fuckington. He leapt from the horse, reaching for an arrow and readying his bow as he landed on the ground.
It was gone.
The air was still, silent. The deer was no where to be seen. No where to be heard. He strained his ears against the calm. He should have been angry, or at least annoyed. Try as he might he could feel nothing of the sort, as if the eerie peace had passed across the membrane of his skin and permeated his being. As the wind picked up again, blowing through the long grass, it was as if it brought his interior back as well. The familiar began to surge and crash about him and he dropped to his knees and howled skywards.
He took a moment to compose himself, becoming as he did aware of the passage of hours that had passed as he’d pushed deeper into the forest in search for that illusive something that had been gnawing played on his mind since he’d entered the forest and lost himself to its intoxication. He was far from home, much further than he would ordinarily venture on a hunting expedition, dusk beginning to give way to night. No matter. The field he had found himself in was plowed, which meant a village must be nearby. He would go to the local inn and demand shelter. Perhaps a different kind of sport could yet be had.
Scanning the horizon for torch light he found its familiar glow and set off towards, leading his horse behind him.
“You, boy! Come here!”
The stable boy looked up for his perch on the discarded ale barrel where he sat idly whittling a tree branch. Lord Fuckington stood before him, some 50 yards from where he sat, a scowl of authority fixed upon his face. The boy slid down from the barrel and made his way lazily over towards him.
“You will address me as ‘my lord’ you sniveling little cunt!” Fuckington bellowed.
“But,” the boy said, an indolent smile playing on the corner of his mouth, “you are not my Lord. My lord is yonder.” The boy gestured out into the darkness.
Lord Fuckington struck the boy a blow across the face. He was ill prepared for it and fell stunned to the ground. For such a husky bastard this man could sure move.
“You stinking piece of shit! Do you not know your propriety? All Lords are your Lords!” he said angrily, cruelty on his lips. “I would beseech you to seek out the lore of feudalism if I was not so certain that you are too dense to attain such understanding!”
As the boy lay in the mud looking up at the Lord his expression remained unchanged, displaying the same vacant, lethargic smile.
“As you wish, my Lord.” The boy struggled upright and wiped away the mud from his ragged trousers with slow, light brushes of his hand.
“That’s better! Now, see to my steed. He requires water and hay, a place to rest for the night. Do they serve food in this place?”
“yes, my lord.”
“And the ale, it is good?”
The boy shrugged. Lord Fuckington was tempted to hit him again but feared that the exchange would go on till sunrise if he did.
“And, the beds?”
Again, the boy shrugged. Fuckington decided to give up with this simpleton. The nobleman who owned this territory had surely been lax in his role as patriarch. This was the very reason that his manual of instruction was so vital to the health of the kingdom. It was obvious that even the aristocracy needed guidance in the ways of administration. He thrust the reigns into the boy’s hands and made his way inside.
After he had left the boy tied the horse up in the stable and returned to his whittling, still smiling vacantly, blood running down over his chin and dripping onto the blade of his knife.
Lord Fuckington drank deep. The reception he had received on his entrance was much more fitting his station and he had all but forgotten the odd stable boy. He had been addressed respectfully and given everything he had asked for, the best meat and an endless supply of ale and mead. His table overlooked the entire inn, a respectful distance from the ruckus ways of the peasants but not so far away that he couldn’t appreciate their frivolity. It was the kind of occasion where he enjoyed their presence, whilst they drank away their miserable existences and pretended for a time that they mattered. It was an act put on for his benefit, a play with multiple recurring parts put on for an audience of only he. He was certain that if he wasn’t there to watch that they would all be lolling about drowning in sorrow and drink. But, oh, when a Lord or Lady was in attendance, then it was time to rejoice. Without him and his kind their lives would be completely without meaning. He took great pleasure in the thought. He took in the sight greedily. Sated with food and drink it was time to seek out another pleasure. The female attendants, alas, were largely displeasing to the eye, and the men not much better. Besides, after his run in with the doe it was a woman he craved. If he had to have one of these plain looking creatures, as long as they were not terribly, terribly ugly, he would have to be content. He would still take his pound of flesh and more and it was within the flesh, in all its form and potential, that lay the ultimate pleasure, to make no mention of what lay beneath.
He was all but settled. The filly with the large nose and larger tits who was sat with at a table with two men and had a laugh that could cut glass. The one at the bar who, although not in the slightest bit pretty, had a mouth that was surely more than capable. If he had to pick from this litter of runts he would require at least two.
He was about to rise from his seat and descend into the throng of scum and foulness when he noticed something else, a woman who come unseen from a corner and made her way over to the bar. A buxom lass with the most delicate blond hair, full lips, the drawstring of her blouse tied tight beneath her breasts making them appear even more ample. She had almost an aristocratic air about her that was belied by the way in which she moved. Less grace and more slut. From the distance though she appeared perfectly clean. Lord Fuckington threw back his chair, the clatter it made as it hit the floor attracting the attention of the plebs whose noise decreased exponentially. He strode around the table and approached woman with the certainty of the king himself. She was stood quietly waiting for her order when he tapped on her on the shoulder, not so gently that she might get the wrong idea.
“You, what is your name?” Lord Fuckington demanded.
The woman turned around to look at him, her eyes narrowing. She said nothing in reply.
“Do you know who I am? I asked you your name wench!”
The woman smiled daintily. “Of course I know who you are, Lord David of Fuckington. You are famous throughout these lands.”
“Then you should know that I lack patience. Now, what is your name?”
“I am Jezebel Goode, my Lord.”
Lord Fuckington let out a belly laugh. “A fine and fitting biblical name I am sure.”
Jezebel Goode lowered her eyes and blushed, still smiling. “My mother and father were devout in their faith.”
Fuckington ignored the past tense. He did not care one jot to hear her life story.
“Now, Jezebel.” Lord Fuckington let his eyes down her neckline. “I would like very much to beseech upon your time. What of it?”
“Well, My lord. I am afraid I am currently predisposed with business,” she gestured towards the dark corner from which she had emerged where two men and a woman were sat talking quietly to each other.
Lord Fuckington smiled to himself. “I am afraid you misunderstand me, woman. It is my fault I fear, for I made it sound as if you had a choice in the matter. It would be more fitting for me to say that I am claiming your time.” At this he clenched her roughly by the shoulders causing her to gasp. “Now, what of it?”
“Again, I shall have to decline your invitation.” Lord Fuckington was unsure whether it was excite or fear he heard in her voice. Either way he could feel the blood rushing to his cock. He pulled her face close to his.
“Again,” he hissed, “You misunderstand me.” He threw her to the ground and roared “It was not an invitation!”
The tavern fell quiet. Several men got to their feet but only one made a move, a dagger in his hand, rushing towards Lord Fuckington. The Lord drew his sword and thrust it into his belly. He sank forward, further along the blade, grunting. Looking him right in the eye Lord Fuckington twisted the sword, causing him to howl out in agony. He pushed him backwards and his body crumpled. Fuckington turned to address the room.
“I am Lord David of Fuckington. You will treat me with the respect I am due!” David’s eyes turned slowly from person to person, making sure they were paying him their full attention. “You should be honored that I have graced you with my presence and you should be further honored that I have chosen one of your own for my aristocratic right!” As he said this his eyes fell upon Jezebel as she lay on the floor, her skirt bunched up to her lower thigh, displaying the whitest of flesh. “If anybody else should have a problem with this then they will find they and their family will be suffering greatly in no short order, is that clear?”
The room was silent as he finished talking and after a pause he turned his attention to the young woman at his feet. It had been his intention to have her in the quarters that had been prepared for him, but after facing such resistance he felt the need for an audience. He grasped her by her throat and as he pulled her upright she struggled against him, yelping and moaning. He could barely contain himself. He dragged Jezebel to the nearest table (which was quickly vacated) and threw her open it, spilling its contents to the ground. In the corner her associates merely watched. They hadn’t moved at all. No matter. Lord Fuckington grabbed at her tits, squeezing them hard, and then ripped open her blouse, snapping the drawstring.
“Now, you little bitch. It’s time for you to do your fucking duty!” Lord Fuckington began to fiddle with his belt. Ever since he had gotten her onto the table the fight had gone out of her. She just lay there watching him without making a sound. Lord Fuckington found this to be very disappointing but he knew of ways and means to make her squirm and fight and beg. As he began to lower his trousers however she thrust out her hand, fingers tight together, palm flat, and jabbed him once in the neck. She moved so fast that he didn’t even see it until she was pulling her arm back.
A small croak escaped Lord Fuckington’s throat. His britches dropped to his feet but his hands were frozen in place at his waist. He couldn’t move. He could barely breathe. He just stood there for what felt like a minute. Then he fell backwards, like a board being dropped, and hit the floor with a thud. His landing stunned him and he would of called out, but he couldn’t make a sound. He found he could move his eyes, but only in their sockets. He looked up as Jezebel as she tore the remains of her blouse away and lowered herself from the table, her breasts jiggling as she did so. She carefully, calmly, walked around Lord Fuckington until she stood at his head, then she gathered up her skirt and dropped to her haunches. All the while Fuckington was transfixed by this girls breasts. They truly were a sight to behold. Jezebel lowered her face to his.
“Yes David. Truly I do know who you are.” She whispered. “You, however, have no idea who we are, do you?”
By now her two male friends had come to stand either side of her, looking down on Lord Fuckington whilst the other woman remained in the corner. She was dealing from a pack of large cards. The rest of the Inn however had gone back about their business, as if nothing had happened. Something was odd though. He couldn’t hear them. Could see their lips moving, see the woman with the big nose cackling, but there was no sound apart from Jezebel and her associates. The men picked him up and sat him on the table before standing either side of him. They could move him but he couldn’t move himself. Jezebel got back to her feet, her eyes sparkling. She took a few steps back and began to tug at the drawstring of her skirt. She undulated like a snake as it passed over her hips and fell, her hands stroking her navel and reaching up to her breasts. She squeezed her nipples and gasped. Her labia glistened in the torchlight. She closed her eyes and gently began to thrust back and forth, rocking on her heels, moaning, whilst Lord Fuckington watched in a state of paralysis and perverse arousal. After a while of this, her moan rising slow, something strange began to happen. It looked as if something had begun to push its way out of her slit causing jezebel to gasp and moan with increasing regularity. She thrust her hips forward harder and as she did so more and more of the thing emerged. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It looked like the most monstrous cock he had ever seen was growing out of her cunt. It was huge. By now, with 9 inches of it sticking out of her, Jezebel was on the verge of orgasm. As she came in powerful waves that made David wonder how she managed to stay on her feet the cock began to split lengthways along the shaft. He could see teeth, wet from her juices, there at the juncture. As she began to calm, breathing heavily, the cock let out a unworldly squeal.
David squealed, felt the most bloodcurdling cacophony tear from his throat and fill the pub, echoing off its walls, escaping through gaps in the wood, around poorly fitting window frames, but all that escaped his throat was a quiet, wet sound that did little to reflect his intentions. Jezebel reached down, eyes closed, breathing jagged exhalation, and began to stroke the thing sticking out of her which squirmed and growled at her touch. With a final gasp she pulled it out of her, as if tearing it from her body, and there it lay in her hands, alive and now separate from herself. She opened her eyes and looking down at it smiled, maternal, glowing. As if she had just given birth to something wondrous. Then her gaze turned to Lord Fuckington.
“Part of me wants to explain what is about to happen to you.” She cooed in her afterglow. “But I’ve always felt that finding things out for yourself makes them all the more meaningful. Don’t you agree?”
Lord Fuckington said nothing. Could say nothing. Part of him clung to the idea that this was all a dream but it was a part of him that lacked any kind of veto power over his consciousness. His entire body was damp with sweat. Jezebel began moving towards him, the cock writhing in her hands, as the two men grabbed him once again by the shoulders and flipped him over onto his stomach, pulling his britches down over his ass. Jezebel let her fingers play across his cheeks and then bent over him, whispering in his ear.
“Oh, I almost forgot.”
She jabbed him once again in the neck.
David screamed. He bucked and thrashed trying desperately to escape the grasp of the two men as they held him down, but the paralysis had made him weak and feeble. They pulled his cheeks apart, exposing the red gash of his anus. The cock entered him.
Outside the stable boy ignored the unholy noise coming from inside. His thoughts were on the gamey taste of horse meat. As he whittled the knife kept catching his fingers, cutting them open. The blood rolled down his fingers into his palm. He held the red splinter up to the moonlight before flicking it away into a puddle.
©2011 Adam V. Cheshire (firstname.lastname@example.org)