A Tale of Yore that Never Was
Preface
If there had been an outlet for sex stories equivalent to Gaydemon about 500 years ago, a story written for it might resemble this.
Dedicated to the author Sir Thomas Malory
Near the whimpering end of the 30 Years War, Europe’s mighty families, their fortunes depleted, were doomed to accommodate themselves to new austerity. The same for remote monasteries and nunneries – no longer supported by vast farm lands and simpering peasants who believed as strongly as before in supporting society’s hangers-on and the myths they hawked.
Unseemly situations prevailed and were lost to history until now.
Count Nikolaus of Braunschweig-Pemmican and his Countess Elvira, whose servants had perished or fled, their lands ravaged, hung on in the colossal, nonsensical sprawl of centuries-old Castle Grunblat, his family’s legacy. The original tall-walled keep, its moat long dry, had a decrepit, turreted wing to the East built by Othmar of Wurstebrei in the 13th century and a West wing, also turreted but non-symmetrically, constructed by later order of Adelberto of Schwartzenburg. An outer wall had been thrown up by Landsknecht Friedrich VII of Braunschweig, who was lost to history when a section of it crushed even his armor flat.
Elvira, known as the Dark Lady, wore mourning black in recognition of her husband’s plight, which helped not the man’s mood. She curtsied to him and sighed, “Winter lasted discontentedly long. I’ve no apples, not even dried, to distribute to the rabble that remaineth in our domain.”
“Nor I any coin of the realm,” he lamented, not that it mattered.
Mutually downcast, they sank into threadbare cushions on creaky-jointed chairs. Dust motes meandered dismally in rays of morning’s light. Ideas, ill-birthed, drifted similarly in the addled brains and conversations of both. How they might regain their families’ earlier, idly-rich lifestyles continued to elude them.
The Dark Lady (as she was ever known) and her Count (once known in certain circles as Naughty Niky) chewed as best they could crusts of moldy bread found hidden from view in a distant, dusty cupboard, the last food they knew of in their dank and dirty castle. Wine, slightly gone off, gave vinegary flush to the crumbs.
Distantly, a much-dented bell was heard dully to clang.
Clang.
“Hark,” harkened the Count. “Someone calleth at yon gate.”
“How can that be? Is the outer drawbridge down?” Her veils fluttered ominously, “Are we under attack again?”
“Beloved, that drawbridge fell down last week, remember? The portcullis is down, too. If I must go, I’ll use the side gate. It may not have rusted.”
She swigged from her cup, “Oh.” Made a face like that a hanged man, tongue out.
Count Nikolaus of Braunschweig-Pemmican gathered himself together and descended the forty-two stone steps from ancestor Othmar of Wurstebrei’s wing. Clumping the hundred feet or so from there to the sunlit gate, he forgot to let go of his tatty robe, so presented himself, scrawny limbs and member in view, to the figure out front.
“Avaunt! We have nothing for you.”
“Niky, it is I, Conrad.”
The Count blinked at the unaccountably fat abbot standing there, bulk shifting from one hip to the other. “Conrad who?”
“Conrad the Cute, or don’t you remember? He dropped his tone, “Connie.”
Nikolaus scratched his pate.
“It mattereth not now, for I am Conrad, Abbot of the Monastery of St. Prickhaft-the-Sodomite on yonder mount.” He needlessly indicated distant rubble, “We are venerable as the old and distant Bede, held high in esteem for our work among the young.”
“Why e’er stand you at our squeaky gate? Mine is little to offer but a cup of soured wine,” he said, stepping aside for his portliness to waddle through to the leaf-strewn courtyard.
“We face straits most dire. No shelter for our cherishable persons. The Winter was severe and life is most dure, Niky.”
“Shhh! Address me not so in mine own domain. Count Nikolaus, if it pleaseth thee. Otherwise…”
A touch of dudgeon in his voice, Abbot Conrad said with due deliberation, “Count Nicholas, the proffered wine, if it pleaseth thee. Mine errand concerns a proposition” – he managed a suggestive wink – “which may help the both of our omnipresent predicaments.”
By the twenty-sixth step of Othmar of Wurstebrei’s worn stone stair, wheezy Abbot Conrad needed to be pushed from behind. Sixteen more to go.
Countess Elvira, having harkened to the puffing bluster, placed herself, veils and all, on the landing, glaring down, hands on shrunken hips. “I hope, whomever ye may be, that ye expect not nourishment, for we have none.”
“To quench my thirst after this climb will suffice, Countess Elvira of the Dark,” the informed Abbot said, clutching a wall to huff dramatically. Niky introduced his friend with full formality and without revealing any secret of their shared past.
Clang-clunk-clang!
“That bell again. Have the cows come home?”
“We have no cows. The invaders ate them. The bull, too. They got the pigs and our delicious sheep. We ate the last of the goats during your menopause, or was it menostop?”
She glared.
“Lady wife, go forth this time. I beg you, descend decorously in thy dark drag. My legs, you know.”
“Husband mine, mind your guest. Mine shall be the displeasure to dispatch this interloper whatever be his need.”
With the appearance of a gathering storm cloud, Elvira and her dark veils approached the gate wherat stood a nun she knew not of.
“What hoary Sister are you that you clang the clapper of our ding-dong?”
“No mere Sister am I, Dark Dame of former fortune and fame, for here stands before you none other than Abigail von Auschwitz-Berkenau, Mother Superior of the Order of St. Lesbia-the-Lingual.”
“Seek ye alms? I’ve naught to disperse.”
“My purpose is otherwise, if you grant me the hospitality of your doubtless-lovely ears.”
Flattery proved good, even in troubled times.
“Enter then, and let us to yon tower of my husband’s ancestor, Adelberto of Schwartzenburg. Its privy o’erhangs that part of our drying moat where putrid puddles pool to procure your piddle.”
Thus, in two distinctly unmatched, distant wings of Castle Grunblat, were exposed in near-simultaneity a pair of possibly-practical, if markedly peculiar, plans.
Perplexed initially, the Count and Countess entertained with growing enthusiasm the prospect of life once again thriving amidst the protection of their crenellations – if unusually. But the times indeed were most unusual.
Forsooth.
* * *
Abbot Conrad and his recently arrived dozen monks and thirteen postulants were lodged in the wing constructed by Othmar of Wurstebrei four centuries before. There once were housed the castle’s knightly defenders and their nightly squires. Mother Superior Abigail, her five Sisters and twelve Novices found places in the castle’s other wing, that of Adelberto of Schwartzenburg, built scarcely three centuries before, if truth be known finally. That construction had been home to a host of craftsmen, their apprentices, hangers-on, and camp followers left from the last Crusade. All now gone.
In the castle’s massive, ancient keep (of unknown date and few amenities since the legendary time of Tannhäuser), the Count and Countess of Braunschweig-Pemmican established their personal refuge. In its now-echoey chambers formerly resided aristocratic families and staff members of the many persuasions and skills necessary to the operation of the franchise.
Accepted by both sides of the house was the condition that the keep’s chapel be shared by both groups.
“Perfect,” declared Abbot Conrad as he surveyed the wooden benches, “for ceremonial severities.” Mother Superior Abigail nodded agreement. They knew each other, a fact they chose not to disclose to their aristocratic hosts but acknowledged, each with a raised eyebrow and a wink.
Further agreed by both, that the colossal property’s hereditary title holders, known to be lapsed followers of Rome’s promulgations, would pronounce final decisions over disputes affecting peaceful cohabitation.
“And may God be thus pleased,” observed the Countess, looking devoutly to the vault.
The Mother Superior, her air of superiority enhanced by a voluminous habit of fabric woven by virgin fingers, asked with rhetorical flourish, “What’s God got to do with it? Now, Sappho…”
Advantages for the new arrivals were several. Slate roofing overall did not leak during heavy Spring rains. Interiors throughout the vast pile – dank, musty, and dusty – were not wet. Tatty though their condition be, tapestries everywhere could be pulled down for use as heavy coverings for sleeping figures crowded together in huge beds, on small trundles, upon military cots and sharing stinky, grass-stuffed mattresses on ever-cold, stone-paved floors.
Food, of course, posed the biggest problem – and its supply required the enterprise of all.
Little of nourishment had come with the guests. Oddments salted, smoked, and pickled had been brought along with such stale breads and hard cheeses as had not yet been consumed – barely enough to stretch for a few days. Cabinets everywhere were searched, attics and cellars rummaged to many sneezes and coughs before the eureka moment.
It belonged to Abbot Conrad: “St. Prickhaft be praised!”
Tools and weapons of every sort had been stashed. They could farm. They could hunt.
The females were handed hoes and set to work planting such seeds as were found in earthenware jars while the larger males, bows and arrows in hand, absconded to the fields and hills looking for prey of any kind. Abbot Conrad drew buckets of water from one of the castle’s numerous wells. Mother Abigail directed the young girls and boys in dousing the freshly furrowed seed.
Nikolaus and Elvira, in the pre-war past, inattentive and uninterested in how crops were produced, watched open-mouthed and hungry from their keep’s perch. Hours passed, the repetitious labor boring them. Both yawned, tired, rather like the sun which was sinking in the West.
Tremendous clamor from the courtyard signaled the hunters’ return. “Meat at last!” trumpeted Abbot Conrad as clusters bore down on the arrivals.
“Yuck,” “Ick,” “Urp,” and “Puke” were heard – and quickly suppressed.
A beaver, an opossum, and an enormous rat had met their end. Skinned, gutted, their heads chopped away, their disjointed bodies, with such wild herbs as were found on the castle grounds, were dumped into a cauldron of boiling water. One of the Sisters remembered a block of salt in the cupboard, knocked a chunk off with a mallet that lay near, and dashed it into the developing broth.
“Dark meat will provide for the balance of our humors and to assuage our hunger,” Mother Abigail consoled those wailing.
Night drew nigh. Appetites improved as the aroma – fairly strong – of boiling flesh floated like a miasma o’er the swamplands of empty stomachs. As best they could, women held girls; men, boys. All hung about in the castle-appropriate kitchen full of hope.
Leader of the hunting party, Brother Adzo the Adored (so-called for his prowess) told of espying the droppings of a hind and a roebuck. Brother Pymm (for whom a qualifying moniker had yet to be determined) recounted seeing silvery fish flashing in the river. He lamented, “Would that there were nets to net that netable bounty.” Martens and hares, “quite plump ones,” were reported by Brothers Sergius the Studsucker and Dion the Dicktaker “in the hills beyond the river” where, hand-in-hand, they had scouted. “Berries, too, black and blue,” they swore, “but especially rare Uberlubrious Cherries on their bushy tree.”
Attention turned their way. Uberlubrious Cherries, all knew, when crushed, released a slippery substance used extensively in animal husbandry and among those who practicedthe satisfaction of persistent proclivities.
The consensus of Brothers Pio the Punk, Wilhelm the Wild, Bernhard the Buttbuster, and Helmut the Homo held that aplenty existed to feed everyone. “Probably some poultry also,” added someone who hoped.
Such was the chatter which passed the time while cauldron bubbled and foul stew steeped.
Both Abbot and Mother Superior approved their first tastes, tendons straining in the necks of both. Eyes faced eyes determinedly, then the assembly.
“It sufficeth, Conrad, you doth agree?” Abigail asked, lips pursed as if to hold back expulsion.
“It is the soup we need,” he replied red-faced. “Suffer it be served.”
Gags suppressed, all were sufficiently relieved from the pangs of hunger. Little remained in the cauldron save bones and dregs which were deemed not worth saving. Until…
A girl whispered to a Sister who whispered to Mother Abigail who whispered to Abbot Conrad who exclaimed, “Scheisse!”
Forgotten: Food for the Count and Countess upstairs.
Coincidence came to their aid. With so many feet shuffling about the kitchen, someone’s toe stubbed a bag of grain previously unseen. Mouldy millet or wheat survived to rescue the situation and provide for others.
Pounded quickly via mortar and pestle by a strong-armed Sister while a muscular Brother did likewise using a similar appliance for the cauldron’s soggy bones, the products of that pulping assault, together with the cauldron’s dregs went into a smaller pot to boil.
“Gefunden!” triumphed Conrad, sucking a piece of badger bone while handing another to Abigail. She stuck a finger into the lumpy, paste-like concoction and pronounced it better than what they’d had before.
“More subtle on the palate.”
Off with two spoons and the pot, Conrad trooped upstairs, and then up more stairs, pushed from behind by Brother Bernhard, to the private apartments. Bothering not to knock, he barged in called, “Niky, here’s food, and hot at that!”
The Countess was quicker than her husband. She batted what remained of her eyelashes at Conrad, snatched the utensils and pot’s handle from him and fled, flouncing her veils, to where Count Nikolaus languished.
So breathless was Conrad that he barely was heard to admonish by caveat about the bones.
“Abbot, shall we abscond before questions arise?” Brother Bernhard proposed.
Shuffling down, Bernie Buttbuster added urgency to their descent by further remarking, “Our restored energy may be directed into our boys anon.”
“Aye, good Brother, let us make haste.”
Conrad’s crotchital friskiness gave rise to his member before they reached the kitchen. Therein, mortars and pestles were in use pulverizing grain.
“Are you glad to see us, Abbot?” Mother Abigail sounded sarcastic as she worked at a pile of wetted kernels. “We are performing useful work. There was a crock of goose grease missed in earlier forages of the dark pantry. With it, we will fry this as best we can into edible, if less than simple, bread with some taste of the fowl to it.”
“May blessings accrue to your credit!” Conrad exulted. “Perchance, didst notice a crock of Uberlubrious Cherry jelly anywhere?”
None had.
“Or perchance a crock of lard?”
“I did,” exclaimed a Sister, who produced it for the Abbot’s inspection. She volunteered, “Our dear Mother Superior favoreth for cooking her goose-flavored grease.”
“Then ’twill be our pleasure to relieve thee of said lard. Tootle-oo, you darlings. ’Til after the cock croweth.”
Mother Abigail deigned not to look up but asked with more sarcasm than prior, “Which? Thine own? Has it grown feathers?”
Kitchen sounds faded, and many footfalls later, the bearers of the lard crock were welcomed by their dozen fellow Brothers and thirteen postulants. Fully awakened to prospects ahead by applications of the slick, white stuff to the erect battlements of the former and the undefended, waiting posteriors of the latter, twenty-six males were formed as twelve couples for revels unguessed by Count Nikolaus and Countess Elvira.
The upper levels of Othmar of Wurstebrei’s stony wing echoed with a cacophony of high- and low-pitched voices crying out, singing, sighing, groaning, moaning, gurgling, and calling out “More!” and “Slower!” and “Faster!” and “Harder!” Not all at once initially, but as a gathering chorus of exhortations.
The Abbot addressed his undressed congregants, “Our ancient environs in collapse, we welcome the opportunity for continuation of our practices in this, our new home. Larded as you are and primed by appropriate passion, I commend you – nay, command you – to celebrate Communion of the Flesh and Spirit as has been our custom, unbroken for lo many centuries. Let us serve our calling in St. Prickhaft-the-Sodomite’s worthy name.”
“How he goeth on,” Pio jostled Helmut softly, a hand caressing what it could reach.
“Aye, ’tis his custom. He windeth up, methinks. Attend.”
“I shall recline on my bed,” rotund Abbot Conrad (once known as “The Cute”) declared, “with the Postulant we call ‘Pretty Pear’ – he of lovely roundness – astride and seated crosslegged that my gallant glands may surrender their offering there-up-in after the goodness of his devotion.”
Brother Bernhard Buttbuster faced the dozen well-prepped Postulants and made his choice known, “My bed will accept the wide-legged wonder of the charming Postulant we dub ‘Periwinkle,’ for his is an eye of the rear that indeed doth wink and blink miraculously. Come, boy, and let us quest for a vision of the beatific.”
Adzo the Adorable, Brother whose seniority should have provided him first position in the queue, viewed without vexation the remaining eleven. “Perfect that you be, precious Postulants, one only may I honor at present. Pout not that I opt to scythe the moist meadow of he, self-named ‘Meadow,’ for mine has not yet been the pleasure to till, seed, and fertilize his doubtless-fragrant soil.”
‘Meadow’ bowed backward to display his once-bountiful, now skinny, still-rosy backside.
Standing forward, Brother Helmut the Homo lapped with his tongue in the direction of the two Postulants previously privileged to be bedded by him. ‘Peaches’ and ‘Cream’ blushed behind and hugged each other in hope. “Word is about concerning my lingual length and fluttering skill,” the Brother bruited. “Is one among thee, one I have not known, a willing volunteer for a tutorial by mine tongue?”
Crests fallen, ‘Cream’ and ‘Peaches’ hung their heads. Seven hands soared. One waved. It attracted Brother Helmut. “And who art thou, diminutive doll that you seem?”
The boy beamed, “I am ‘Apricot,” sweet to the taste, your Abbot has said.”
Following the order, “Cometh here,” little ‘Apricot’ was swept off his dainty feet to be kissed by a tongue that went halfway, it seemed, to his navel. His hair, like his prick, stood on end. He swooned, and was borne away.
Next to the fore, Brother Pio the Punk, pieces of rope in one hand. “You,” he pointed to the teen called ‘Orange,’ “I will peel you that the Brotherhood may know your true savor. You hath been coddled ere too long.”
“Sir,” ventured ‘Orange’ in his recently changed voice, “if it prepareth me for Chapel duty, then let it be. I desire the strictures of this life.”
“Cease playing with yourself!” came the sharp rebuke and a whiplash of rope to his errant hand.
‘Orange’ rolled on the floor as if to invite further strokes. He sobbed, “I crave to be worthy of your punk, Brother Pio.”
Quick with ropes to ankles and wrists, Pio the Punk hove his chosen ‘Orange’ like a sack over his shoulder and strode away. With each step, Pio’s cock already was discharging left to right clear stringlets of burgeoning excitement. He would juice his ‘Orange’ until only a smattering of zest was left.
Brother Pymm, in his cups from wine the others knew naught of, found his thoughts traveling to Castle Grunblat’s far-distant wing, that of Adelberto of Schwartzenburg. Not immune to the blandishments of female anatomy, he entertained a possible foray by stealth at night to where dwelt a dozen-and-a-half women and girls, he flattered himself, in waiting.
A knock on one shoulder from Studsucker Sergius brought him back to the presence of a row of naked boys. “Procrastinator!” Brother Sergius declared, “that shouldst be your epithet henceforth. If you want not a boy, then I shall take two and relieve you of the responsibility.”
“Be at ease, Brother. Let me see,” Pymm the Procrastinator rubbed his chin. His eyes lit on the girlish form of ‘Rosebud.’ The boy’s Cupid-pucker lips, negligible maleness, pointy teats, and round hips would do. Hard sprang his sex at the sight of the bud awaiting ’midst ‘Rosebud’s soft mounds. “Ah, my choice is made!” he practically sang.
While Procrastinator Pymm was being called to duty under the roof of Othmar of Wurstebrei’s upper chamber, unbeknownst to him under the roof of Adelberto of Schwartzenburg’s wing, there was being re-enacted a ritual of trios, six in number.
Two nubile, naked Novices to each similarly disposed Sister, mouths to cunnies – tonguing within, nibbling without, quivering withal. St. Lesbia-the-Lingual, her leer a vision in the mind of each, drooled down beneficently. To her joyous pride, they were carrying into the future the sexual sufficiency of females – virgo intacta, integrum hymens. Virgins into whose rears for additional status might be introduced now a finger, now a carved horn dildo or plug of precious ivory. *
Between the extreme wings of their castle’s keep, a Count and Countess in stages of worrisome distress. Tremulously, the one inclined toward the other.
“What, husband, are we to do?” Elvira extended the long nails of one hand to his knees, clutching close her veils.
“Why shouldst we do anything? We hath never.” A tilt to his head, he carried forward, “Thy needs and mine own are being tended by our many guests. They feedeth us better now and, as time goeth, they will entertain us – just like ye olden days, ’tis my thought.”
“Dost thou not worry about our authority? They, who hath not yet sworn formal fealty to us, already are out of our hands; we, in theirs.”
“We always have been in the hands of others, sweetest treasure…my only treasure, our treasury being bereft of treasure of the precious-metal sort.”
“Mayhap a visit by you to the monks and their monk-ies to seek the group’s fealty?”
“And you, my Countess, to the sister-ladies and their girls to seek similarly?”
Gathered about her, her womanly wiles and midnight-black robes and veils in full flow, Elvira headed downstairs. Without a turn of her head at the portraits of her husband’s pallid ancestors, she treaded the traveled way to the Schwartzenburg wing – unsuspecting what she would find.
Trepidatiously, Nikolaus set off, wondering what might befall him in the company of former Cute Connie, now styled as Abbot Conrad of the Order of St. Prickhaft-the-Sodomite. “It hath been so long a while,” he said to himself as he entered a little known gallery which overlooked the living quarters.
What to his wonder-filled eyes should appear but unclad men pairing with equally-revealed boys.
“Brother Sergius,” a comely youth said clearly, “I am known as ‘Nookie.’ Mine pucker is thine to plunder. I am well-prepared for a man of your size.” He revolved to stick out his tush, one lush and pink.
Studsucker Sergius, mouth watering, called upon Brother Wilhelm to succeed him.
“I am Wilhelm the Wild, celebrated for mine tendencies to ravish young mates repeatedly.”
“Is the plump pump I see able to pump up so flat a fundament as hath I?” a bold lad asked. He approached and reached out to assess how Wild Wilhelm’s rigid rod might ravish within. “Hmm…it seemeth so.”
Brother Wilhelm regarded the smug boy with initial contempt but deemed not to reject him. Rather, his mind dwelt on the shrieks the first hour of his concupiscence could generate before becoming screams in the second hour – and how such outpourings of feeling would sound from the young throat.
“What art thou called and why, young one?”
“Heather, for I am fragrant as the flower and my color changeth from the pale you see to rose as lovers bring me to fruition, and some parts perchance grow purple.”
“Well spake for one who knoweth not mine wildness’ extent – yet. Come, Heather, I will savor thine bouquet better than any bee.”
Four Brothers remained. As many boys. Their discourses, somewhat sibilant, reached not the gallery-bound Count. His codpiece uncomfortably tight, Nikolaus felt as not in most of the years since his marriage – bewildered, bothered, and bewitched. He loosed the lowest button of his jerkin to get at the offensive, pretentious device to let his horn stand proudly in the air. Said instrument seized by his own hand, he began to play. With it.
A familiarly frenzied fanfare from former times finagled the fervor to finger himself in forbidden fashion. Count Niky’s self-absorbed, rusty rendition of ‘ye jerkin jerk’ and ‘tender tush tickle’ prevented his hearing dainty footsteps in the gallery.
“Sir,” the unchanged voice of ‘Pretty Pear’ intoned with honeyed sweetness, “Our most excellent Abbot, Connie-the-Cute-Conrad sendeth me hence to conduct you to our devotions.” Tiny, tyke-small hands tentatively extended a wipe-rag before finding place on narrow hips. “I await at your pleasure.”
More a command appearance than an invitation, the coming occasion had its parallel in progress being made from her homely keep to a sisterly gathering a wing away by Countess Elvira, who trailed the flashing heels of a pulchritudinous Novice. ‘Star’ had been sent by Mother Abigail the moment word reached her of ‘Pretty Pear” absconding with Count Nikolaus to Conrad’s sodomitical ceremonies.
Pendant to an effusive greeting, Elvira was surrounded by a whopping cloak tied at her throat and touching the floor. “To express our gratitude’s extent for the hospitality of Castle Grunblat, my followers will treat you to a wonder ye may not have experienced in long a while, Countess.”
Mother Superior Abigail trilled on, “Under protection of this cloak, modesty remaineth thine while dismal clothes are discarded down. They will be washed while you, in our bath-cloak, settle into yon tub of warmed, freshly herbed water. Merely permitteth the cloak’s hem to remain outside the rim. Your nakedness’ response to this novel method of cleansing by your own hands will effect susceptibility to further treatment at which my ladies and girls excelleth.”
“Is not bathing a danger?” queried Elvira, her brow knit seriously. “Surely none in high society condones the practice.”
“To the contrary, Countess, there is no society these days higher than our own. And we thrive on thrills thus enabled. Be a good girl now and mind Mother.”
Her feet agreeably in the warm water and cloak encircling the wooden tub, Countess Elvira of Castle Grunblat sat. In helplessness, she admitted, as she felt her breasts buoying unseen, “Mine is no idea of how to bathe.”
“Then it will be our honor to assist. ‘Comet’ will wash thine noble, neglected, nubby-spined back, ‘Star’ and ‘Moonbeam’ your aristocratic mammary floats.” She snapped her fingers. Three young girls of surpassing charm took their places. Mother swept behind, reached around, untied the cloak, and whisked it away.
“YEEEEK!”
Elvira’s terror at naked exposure alarmed bats in the chapel’s dank belfry. Jolted by no further pitches in their range, they drifted back to sleep.
When Elvira’s shy orbs parted, the girls and Mother Abigail had stripped. “Thus, we are the same. Let us presume no otherwise. Now…”
* * *
Across the castle’s wide expanse, the head start of her beloved husband had him already as deep as he could be in the primrose-pink posterior of ‘Pretty Pear,’ aided with vigor and force by plunges from Procrastinator Pymm’s penis.
The cute Abbot’s advocacy of Niky’s return to the true ways of St. Prickhaft were bearing fruit. “Cast away thy fears, honey. Goeth thou into him with ardor of the ancients.”
Poinging the boy, Niky protested, “I lack practice at giving and receiving. My Countess and I hath abandoned concupiscience during the War’s distractions – OUCH! – not so hard when I speaketh, if you intend to continue this service, Brother Pymm.”
Conrad picked a nostril. “It cometh back. You weren’t just Niky before the War changed all of us, but ‘Nookie-Niky’ – best bottom about the wharves of Hamburg, its piers, quays, warehouses, and nearby inns.” Reminiscence occupied him further while he picked at his other nostril.
His other index finger poked ‘Pear,’ “Go ye to thy Brothers’ arms now, my pretty. Duty done, and well that it was. Thine has been a role important to our Count’s re-awakening.”
‘Pretty Pear’ extricated himself from Count Nikolaus of Braunschweig-Pemmigan’s puny prick.
“He was off-center that whole time,” the boy reported to everyone not still in the arms of someone as he roamed the quarters of Othmar of Wurstebrei’s wing. “Mine butt hurteth.”
“I’m free,” Adzo the Adorable admitted, “and the lard lies near. Allow me, liebchen, to love you true.”
“How so your plan? Didst not thou mow ‘Meadow’ thoroughly whilst I, abroad, was aboard thine Abbot?”
Adorably, Adzo flushed proudly. “Admittedly, I did. He sleepeth now with visions of honeyed cocks dancing in his head.”
The internal massage administered by Adzo the Adorable affected the pride of the boy known as ‘Pear.’ When subtracted from the lad’s soothed core, Adzo cleaned himself, awarded a pat on the head, and started towards the high loft’s ladder.
“Whence, Adzo?” ‘Pear’ asked. “To rest?” He released a fucked-boy fartlet.
“No, precious. To ‘Orange’ I go. Brother Pio essayed the much of him. I must needs attend to his wounds and rope burns.”
“’Tis a calling of thine to care for others?”
“I doeth unto others as I would have them doeth unto me were it my fate to be in need.”
‘Pear’ hugged the man and, as Adzo climbed into the loft, wiped his eyes, and knew he was lucky to be where he could be tended unto as he should be tended unto by those who doeth unto others as would be done unto.
Tending tender bits was nowhere more in evidence than in the wing of Adelberto of Schwartzenberg.
There, recumbent, Countess Elvira gasped for air as her long, dark tresses were brushed, her cheeks, arms, hands, fingers, legs, ankles, heels, soles and toes were licked by thronging girls’ tongues, her unused breasts suckled by womanly lips, and, in her body’s feminine apex, Mother Abigail’s agile tongue danced an amorous allemande around her clitoris.
Climaxes unfelt for years cramped her frail body, spasmed and let collapse its undernourished muscles, blurred her vision again and again, and empowered her cries hailing Holy Lesbia-the-Lingual.
Thus was the stage set for the second act of the new play at Castle Grunblat.
* * *
Nestled agedly in the sloped valley between craggy Mount Gelbvieh (where heaped the stones of the Monastery of St. Prickhaft-the-Sodomite) and forested Mount Schnuckel-Schnicke (site of the abandoned nunnery of the Order of St. Lesbia-the-Lingual.), new life sprang. Crops were raised and harvested, berries and cherries plucked for jams and jellies, animals captured for stock, fish caught for food, prey hunted, thread spun, looms activated. Most important: skills were shared.
Certain Sisters, quick of reflex and strong of arm, learned archery, spear throwing, carpentry, leathercraft, and scouting. Certain Brothers, less sinewy, took up domestic and delicate arts of stewing and baking, washing and soap-making, rendering fat for frying and fucking.
The Countess a convert to cunt, the Count to cock, sway over all was held jointly by pact of Mother Superior Abigail von Auschwitz-Berkenau and Abbot Conrad – to each other in private, Abby and Connie. Often they met in council.
One such occasion occasioned both self-congratulations and consideration of a subject most serious. Their future needs must be determined.
“We hath accomplished our goals in taking refuge here.”
“Aye, Sister mine. Castle Grunblat runneth well. Blessed Prickhaft is honored with regularity by his followers in our brotherhood’s wing. No hole existeth that hath not been corked and uncorked in celebrations day and night, each and every.”
“And, Brother mine, our sisterhood’s yonder wing,” she pointed, “echoes with the sweetest of slurpy susurrations stemming from lascivious lingual litigation of labia, nipples, and clits.”
“Such elevated speech, dear Sister, hath charms akin to the practice of bards.”
“We bask.”
“Except…”
“Except?”
“Wherewith any plans for what may betide in later years, other eventualities?”
“Scheisse! – if I may quote thee. What proposition hath thou in mind, if indeed thou dost?”
“A question that may cause upset. Squeezeth thine parts as I ask: Among your young and ripe is there one inclined to motherhood?”
“WHAT? How disgusting.” Abby breathed deeply and added, “Yaack. Barf.”
“Hear me out. Our Count and Countess have no issue. Title to all this mayeth pass to some distant relative unless…”
A question mark seemed to hang upon Abigail’s knit brow.
“Unless we help both title and family into a desirable future. We must needs construe a document of adoption for Niky to execute on behalf of Brother Pymm. Look not surprised. Our Brother Pymm, called the Procrastinator, whose unnatural-to-be-sure lust for the opposite sex has been directed into the wholesomeness of sodomy, wishes he could by stealth tryst a night with one of your kind. I say we enable him.”
Mother Superior Abigail of the Order of St. Lesbia-the-Lingual closed her gaping mouth, and thought – hard. “My nubile Novice of the Roman name Messalina inclineth to perversity, often thrusting her vulva vulgarly at fingers positioned for her posterior.”
“A likely candidate then. Herewith my plan…”
That night and with flickering torch in hand, on orders from his Abbot, Brother Pymm made his presumably doomed way, naked, into the petal-strewn bower constructed only hours before. Determined not to fail, he bolstered his spirit by reminding himself of rewards promised if, no matter how revolting the task ahead, he would fuck whatever he found waiting for him, be it dragon or human.
“A test of thy devotion to our cause here,” Abbot Conrad had assured him, “for thine art our chosen knight of suitable lance. Think thou then of a jousting contest as in days of olde and, above all else, be stout of heart.”
Messalina – primped, powdered, and perfumed – lay wantonly and nakedly limp, slightly anesthesized by a potion concocted from poppies from the field. Sher had been sweetened by application of the kitchen’s Uber-Cherry jelly. “This night’s duty is to extract by contraction here,” Mother’s knowing fingers perused her pussy, “and extract from him who is sent to thee his seed that we may propagate ourselves. Strive with thine energy all, for thou art our hope. Make sacrifice of thyself most bravely.”
Although unnecessary to observe the vile spectacle, Connie and Abby did at the start. In case rescue perchance be needed. One was not.
Abby stayed. Connie hied thence to the matter of a document deemed most vital.
The path from Messalina’s vulva to vagina was a short one. Quickly traversed by Pymm’s columnar penis, the area surrendered, stretched, learned rapidly, progressed from reception to possession, was rapidly inundated and further lubricated. Sperm dispersed in usual hysteria among fluid from Messalina’s most personal fount. No end, instead a beginning salvo from both parties to the cooperative chore.
With each jockeying mount their enthusiasm for each other mounted mightily. Her heels sought the ceiling, his cock her depth. Blurring his vision, her flopping flappers and their thimble-sized nipples – invitations to hands and lips, to fingers and teeth. She slapped him once when he bit too hard.
That thrilled Pymm the more. Lust leaping, he drove with battering ram force – and met his match in Messalina’s hotly-mad mound. Caught in a clench no boy’s butt ever possessed, he feared the uprooting of his precious calling-cock. The more he came, the more she wanted to come again.
She cried, “Again amain! Be thou not faggot now, but man of manly might!”
He lanced her lots front and rear, their teamwork sopping said bower with effluviants aplenty.
As heavy-bellied, hence important Abbot Conrad, inked scroll in hand, sought the distant whereabouts of Count Nikolaus, his was time for reflection.
His order’s best scribal hand belonged to Brother Sergius the Studsucker, thus called for youthful indiscretions at his father’s staid court in Hesse-zum-Plotzfeld-Huttenbrenner. As second son disposable, hence suited to reclusive life in a monastery, Sergius, age twelve, was entrusted to Abbot Conrad’s open arms.
“Fear not, for ours will be the pleasure to open him further to the joys of service in the name of the Higher Power we serve, Excellency.”
In such manner did Prince Heinrich of Hesse-zum-Plotzfeld-Huttenbrenner rid his first-born, Heinrich II, of further brotherly bother.
Sergius, prodigious for his age, showed propensity for quillmanship. He learned it pinioned on the lap of Abbot Conrad, evidencing joy at new mastery of calligraphic formations by bounces up and down. Compliments kept him active in said regard. Thirst compelled continuation of natural oral proclivities with all his confreres well into his manhood’s cusp – at which present time he responded to his Abbort’s request for a document well-drafted.
“Regard the loveliness of the script,” opened Abbot Conrad as he unrolled his scroll under the near-crossed eyes of Count Nikolaus, then being fucked by dutiful Brother Bernhard. “Notice the place for your signature at the bottom.”
Count Nikolaus had the presence of mind to ask, “Of what nature this document?”
“That thine line not die, our good Brother Pymm is adopted as only son and heir of thineself; our Brother Pymm who presently impregnates beautiful Messalina that our cherished Count and barren Countess may have a grandchild upon whom to dote in thine dotage to come.”
Nikolaus spoke, “Back off Bernie. Mine hand must steady itself to sign the line limned here. Pymm boppeth a beauty, thou dost swear?” Thus evidenced the Count of his interest.
“Most effectively, it seemeth. Ah, that is most comely drawn,” Conrad said, removing inkwell and swan quill pen and dusting the document with quick-drying sand. “Bernie and I will bear witness later when we affix thy seal.”
“Goode, goode,” spake Nikolaus, employing the pronunciation of olde. “Now, Bernie, bust thy nuts once more in mine butt such that sleep will renew me for the morrow.”
Abbot and Brother winked. Conrad fled to oomphing noises and elongated repeats of “g-o-o-o-o-de.”
From far behind, Nikolaus’ breathy voice reached Conrad, “Mine thanks for getting me a son.”
Stony stairs, less problematic to descend than elsewise, and many footsteps on paving later, Conrad’s lungs droned like bagpipes, known in local parlance as dudy. He clumped past ancestral portraits in their aristocratic dozens on his way to share the sight of the Count’s signature with the Sisters’ superior, Abigail.
“Ere you collapse, sit,” she snorted, unrolling what was handed to her. “Aha! Our Saints, Lesbia and Prickhaft, doeth well by us.”
“What-ho with that contemptible coupling?”
“Fucketh they yet,” Abigail acknowledged. “Thinketh thou that we ought oust them?”
“Nae and noe,” Conrad essayed the effect of Count Nikolaus’ antique locution. “Mine is the thought that, lest time’s toll deplete our cause, we must repopulate our numbers.”
“US?” Gargoyle-faced, Mother Superior Abigail of the Order of St. Lesbia-the-Lingual, paled. “A prospect beyond repugnant! Besides, ours are too many notches on ye olde oaken bucket.”
Wide of eye, Abbot Conrad of the Order of St. Prickhaft-the-Sodomite, cried, “Nein, nein, Fraulein! Lend me thine ears so waxen. Amongst Sisters and Novices suspect thou that there be others of inclination similar to rapacious Messalina – that we mayhap place in propagative partnership with Brothers of mine flock?”
“Others? Thou hast other Brothers as queer as Pymm?” her voice soared.
Conrad confided, “I do not bruit my suspicions except with caution as we overcome this perilous period but,” he hesitated, “four Brothers – Jürgen, Klaus, Günther, and Uwe – I must thrash to perform our sodomitical rites with as many assigned beardless Postulants – cherubic ‘Peaches,’ angelic ‘Cream,’ charming ‘Violet,’ and ‘Sunbeam,’ he of brightest countenance.”
To demonstrate his thrashing skill, Conrad flexed the muscles of his right arm.
Her reactions went under scrutiny. A mind at work, Abigail shifted position here and there. At last, she spoke, “Our number, as thou knowest, comprises two Novices to each Sister. As I think on’t, four Novices are ripe unto womanhood, hence capable of childbearing.”
“Yet?… Something troubleth thou?”
“Nae and noe,” she parroted him. “If well-knocked-up as by now she must be, my Messalina can be called upon to coach those ready for pregnancy. ’Tis a matter of lunar rhythms, that is knowledge most ancient.”
While patient Conrad endured her description of the period each month when conception conceivably could take place, he envisioned, with convoluted devilishness, something quite different from what took place when the two Orders’ propagation project got underway.
“When thou hast the four Novices ready and gathered together on side-by-side cots,” he had told Mother Abigail, “I will have my four Brothers in readiness.”
Abigail saw to the preparation of more Uber-cherry jelly.
Days passed while word was awaited, days during which their Abbot thrashed naked Jürgen, Klaus, Günther, and Uwe into the bottoms of their appointees “for thine own good, that of these lads, and for a task that lieth ahead.” Four stiffened cocks bobbing in happy boys’ butts, Conrad mulled over his adroit application of the bundle of salt-water-softened twigs to the Brothers’ rumps, and how said discipline stimulated praiseworthily penetrating performances.
The Big Day was marked by a solemn march of the four naked ones into a chamber wherein stood, mien severe and arms crossed, Mother Superior Abigail. A stern Abbot informed them thus, “Thy submission will be witnessed. Face those curtains, bend forward with hands on knees, and I will swish your backsides with my switches until you rise to the challenge set for you. As you erect, go directly in, and hesitate not.”
Mother Abigail enjoyed the Brothers’ embarrassment and endurance of a trashing that, harsh thought it be, brought brilliant color to faces and backsides, and solid erections, differing in length and breadth, to manly parts.
Almost in synchrony, Jürgen, Klaus, Günther, and Uwe sped to take advantage of their enforced excitement. From behind rapidly closed curtains came two feminine shrieks, two feminine oohs and four gallant whoops, noises that puzzled Abbot and, for ease of utterance, Abbess.
It was discovered that Brothers Jürgen and Uwe had assumed the lithe face-down forms to be boys and had sought mightily to enter unprepared areas. Pussies, primed with precious Uber-Cherry jelly, were located anon and properly pierced in the position associated with animals. Günther and Klaus, quicker on the up-take, flipped their women around, entered them – to the aforementioned oohs – and were observed in bliss.
Thanks rang out, directed toward the saints and heads of both Orders. In little time, hyper-heated Brothers shot their wads and withdrew – only to be thrashed anew and directed to a different Novice.
“Seed their furrows that none fails to become pregnant,” Mother Abigail said then and following the second thrashing of each and his direction to the next Novice in line.
Abbot Conrad stood with her as they looked on, approving the paces set by the four couples in the process of becoming intimately acquainted with already inseminated partners and coasting in the slipperiness. Ahhs commingled with oohs, then rose once more as words of thanks.
Cups of honeyed brew refreshed all ten and revived the eight participants’ lust. Retaking their respective cots, Novices perched to see their next lovers being thrashed back into service of the flesh – and soon lay, parted legs around hardy fellows’ glowing butts, skewered cervixes-deep. Shafts were used with piston-regularity in now-cylindrical passages, back and forth – until third deposits of sperm were placed amidst residue of the famous jelly..
“One round remains for each of you,” their Abbot reminded.
Brother Uwe seemed wary. Not Brother Klaus, although he did not retain his erection. Brother Günther grinned. Brother Jürgen, rubbing his buttocks, eyed the bundle of switches. With a raised hand, he said, “Abbot, I am ready for your strong arm,” and bent.
Five fire-stoke strokes later, Brother Jürgen reared in and out of his final Novice, a beauty he would want again. Four strokes only sent Brother Günther to his last Novice, who briefly protested his rip-and-roar style. Brother Klaus, reddest butt of the bunch, it was feared by Abbot Conrad, might lose blood if striped the more. His stimulus took the form of a threat from Brother Bernhard the Buttbuster, recent arrival to the scene, to employ more than the single finger with which his inner spot was placed under siege.
“Two? Three? Mine cock in here? Stand, Brother, to thy task.” It worked.
Adrip with concern, Brother Uwe remained, hard as a rock. To Abbot and Abbess it seemed curious.
“Condemn me not, I pray you.” Brother Uwe’s voice cracked with emotion, “I admit mine guilt. I am but a pervert – provided power by each pussy thus far plundered. My shame cannot be hidden as you see. Mine passion is exposed. A thrash I will endure if need be but none will inspire this prick beyond the thought of another chance to savor the pulchritude of a good puss.”
“Thence to thy task, absolved as now thine art,” Abbot Conrad gave the sign of the middle finger.
Unable to trust his luck without insuring it, Brother Uwe fell to his knees in obeisance, kissing with reverence his Abbot’s toes. He swore an oath, “Mine perversity will serve the Greater Good to the extent of mine cock’s length, the reservoirs of its testes below, and mine own, now-dedicated, endurance.”
“Pigs rutting in a sty’s warm mud make no less grateful sounds than those two,” Mother Abigail remarked to Abbot Conrad. “Are we not fortunate?”
*
As more of her charges came into readiness, the sturdy woman urged them – with strokes of her version of Abbot Conrad’s bound-up twigs – to break the Order’s protocols to lie with well-thrashed Brothers. Cunnilingual congress was maintained post-conceptions as pregnancies progressed. Her inner femininity accessed, Countess Elvira was pressed into service, licking clits and fondling breasts.
Greater strain affected Brothers and Postulants, the latter being forced, as possible by progression into adolescence, to fuck each other. ‘Pretty Pear’ and ‘Periwinkle’ poked ‘Meadow and ‘Nookie’ as best they could, while ‘Sunbeam,’ ‘Apricot,’ ‘Heather,’ and ‘Cream’ tried to service the butts of ‘Rosebud’ and ‘Violet’ only to admit defeat. ‘Rosebud’ and ‘Violet’ attempted to service those four in return – ‘Violet’ triumphing, after several tries, into ‘Apricot,’ who was his special friend. But many suffered the lack of anal attention, so busy were the Brothers re-inseminating ripe Novices.
The refusal of ‘Orange’ to participate in fellow frolics netted him – honor of honors! – nipple clamps, tightly tied balls, and the roughest of fucks from the holy Abbot himself. It was radical treatment made heartrendingly hot by the sight nearby of his most favored fucker, Brother Pio the Punk, jamming his cum into members of the novitiate next door.
“Now, boy,” Abbot Conrad disengaged their sweaty connection, “I note as you are plumbed by might and main, your discharges flow. Taste and tell me your flavor.”
“’Tis that of salt not yet as strong as that of Brother Pio, sir.”
“Then t’will suffice for our Greater Good.” With so cryptic a statement, the Abbot waddled to Castle Grunblat’s tome-laden Records Room, now dubbed Scriptorium, wherein he found Brother Sergius in revery.
“Museth thou on penii?” he asked, noting a drawing on parchment of a particularly fine example.
“My first to suckle, most memorably, when I was but a boy in Hesse-zum-Plotzfeld-Huttenbrenner. The pride most stalwart of mine father’s personal guard, Ragenhard, it made conquest down to here,” Sergius drew an invisible line under his Adam’s apple, then smiled.
“Recallest thy the penis of our Brother Pio?”
“Most certainly, but not from mine throat – from mine bottom, in which it hath hurtled on its missions of hurt and help.”
“Canst draw it exactly from memory?” With that question answered, Abbot Conrad was asked the reason. He explained its intention.
“Brother Abbott, no drawing be needed. With yon sturdy candle and my paring knives for quills, I canst carve its likeness with care. And,” he added thoughtfully, “groove about its rearmost circuit such that it will hold its place with security.”
Handing over the Pio-perfect-dildo-plug a scant hour later, Brother Sergius accepted his Abbot’s praise, and deemed another ought be worth the making.
Outraged, ‘Orange’ – lower arms tied to upper arms, balls fettered, nipples chained, pseudo-penis of Pio plugging his butt, and being thrashed soundly – was forced to fornicate to fruition a female! His elbows ached from supporting his head and chest away from her lashing tongue. His pride suffered, too, in ways he never could fathom nor find figures of speech to frame.
First to miss her lunar-reckoned time of month was Messalina. Shortly thereafter, the four Novices whose names finally could be spoken: Gertraude, Hildegard, Adelgunde, and Dietlinde. Five pregnancies, one by Brother Pymm, the others from the mixtures of propagational fluids strewn therein by Brothers Uwe, Günther, Klaus, and Jurgen – and just possibly, in one case, by Postulant ‘Orange.’
* * *
Much ado about nothing else mattered until the fateful day a discordant posthorn was heard announcing the arrival from afar of a grand delegation on horseback. Heads cricked from crenellations up high to marvel at gilt-armor-clad riders on richly caparisoned steeds and at formal banners fluttering from two white lances tipped with gold. With them, two riderless horses outfitted more elegantly.
Strongest arms female and male strove to raise Castle Grunblat’s portcullis, and managed the task in time. Hooves clattered over the previously fallen drawbridge. Crowds gathered in the courtyard to view the men dismounting. Count, Countess, Mother Superior, and Abbot emerged from the keep to stand on its steps.
“Hail!” shouted Count Nikolaus of Braunschweig-Pemmican. “What embassy bringeth this dazzling delegation to our domain?”
A stunningly tall and handsome man and another of broader build, bald head, and great black beard approached, right hands gloved, palms out in salute. The black beard spoke first, “We are embassies two.” The tall man spoke next, “Be assured, we seek no grail, no sacred treasure, but inmates two from within these ancient walls.”
“We would know their names,” Abbot Conrad asserted himself intrusively and firmly, “and what authority presumes to send thee and thine group to our tranquil dwelling place of ancient renown.”
In his desire to assert a vestige of authority, Count Nikolaus sighed, then managed to extend his right hand, pale palm upturned, to say, “I grant thee leave to speak in response.”
His Countess, Elvira, rustled a few black veils and lifted her chin to haughty height.
“Sergius we seek,” said tall-and-handsome.
“Wilhelm,” said black-beard.
Mother Superior Abigail relaxed that neither Sisters nor Novices of hers was sought.
“I be Sergius,” the beardless young man announced in voice quite soft.
“And I, Wilhelm the Wild,” boomed he in full baritone.
Tall-and-handsome bowed toward Sergius. “I, Ragenhard the Rugged, bringeth tidings both of sorrow and joy. Thine father recently passed into the hands of his Maker. You now are Prince Sergius von Hesse-zum-Plotzfeld-Huttenbrenner, heir to all its lands, properties, and chattle. I cometh thus to conduct you to your people.”
Heads swiveled, incredulous, while Sergius put a hand to his gaping mouth, saying quietly, “Oh no.”
Black-beard declaimed over the babble, “Wilhelm, thine older brother, firstborn of your father to bear his name as Wilhelm II, has passed without issue. Thou art now His Majesty King Wilhelm III of the realm known as Saxonfeld-Heldenland – with claims beyond. Sire, accept mine homage and let me, Boldar the Bald, conduct you to your people.” He bowed low.
Heads swiveled more incredulously. Wilhelm swelled with pride. Consternation compromised both Countess and Count. Courtesies quickly considered, they counseled Conrad to take charge in cooperation with Abigail.
No shy one she, the woman stood forth to announce her name and title. Conrad followed suit, and offered shelter and food “whilst we dally with due deliberations upon these dire tidings.”
While horses nibbled within Castle Grunblat’s walls, soldiers, posthornist, and their commanders were inside the keep marveling at numbers. There were more gilded frames around yellowed canvases on the walls than occupants mature and young. Count and Countess postured that way and this as if important, but the roost was run by the rotunda-bellied Abbot and vulture-eyed Mother Superior.
Provided bowls of unidentifiable, fairly tasty porridge with morsels of fish and fowl scattered therein, an unusual kind of bread, and steins of beer, they took note of persons scurrying to and fro the kitchen. Girls, men, boys women – five of the latter with child. The operation’s alchemy eluded their speculative faculties. None could put a finger on the divisions of labor although a finger did prod the shoulder of Peppin the posthorn player. It belonged to ‘Heather.’
“Couldst teach me to blow thine horn?”
“Why wouldst wish to blow mine horn?” Peppin posed.
‘Heather’ blinked, teary-eyed, “To have a place at Wilhelm’s court close by him.”
“This lot chattereth too loudly for dainty discourse. Mayhap we tarry together away from these many?” A canny conspiracy might be in the offing.
His swill swallowed swiftly, Peppin submitted to his hand being taken by a smaller, softer one as he was drawn to a secluded section beneath stone stairs that led he knew not where.
Spake Peppin, “Display thine pucker that I mayest testeth.”
“Which?” requested ‘Heather.’
“That of thine mouth will do.”
Peppin’s pucker kissed that of heavenly ‘Heather’ as if playing a fanfare. Almost swooning at the boy’s resilience, he asked, “Thou hath experience in this pursuit?”
“I do, with Wilhelm, here known as The Wild.”
Dropping not his attention but his codpiece, Peppin, his member rising at the prospect, proposed said pucker be applied to his pointy penis. To the obvious task, ‘Heather’ bent and buried beyond any point the pointy prong had plumbed prior. At the right moment, throat tight on the man’s cock and a pair of small hands tugging his balls, Peppin popped.
‘Heather’ spat.
“Gather one and all,” he heard from a distance. It was strong-voiced Wilhelm!
Darting like a minnow in the shallows of a great pond, ‘Heather’ ran through the throng and threw his arms about the man he craved beyond other Brothers.
“Take me with thee, I beg.”
“I’ll take thee to mine bed, munchkin, for this night, our last in this location. On the morn,” he announced decisively, “farewells must be said by mineself and by mine worthy Brother of these years, the most excellent Prince Sergius. To bode our departures go well, rest we all tonight with visions of fine fortune in our futures, for two of this body’s Brothers be now ennobled most powerfully.”
New Prince Sergius accepted the floor, “Let us slumber that we merit a morrow marked by merriment.” He turned to follow new King Wilhelm, taking care to motion ‘Nookie’ to join him as minion for the night.
The assembly bowed, except for Abbot and Mother Superior. They withdrew further to converse. She agreed to his whispered recommendation, considered its serious practicality.
Each to their constituents, they proposed that those available make offers of comfort for the evening to the royal escort troops – in the name of hospitality.
Hours flew, the first one or so to tones of passions being sated. Postulants’ popularity put some strain on sphincters oral and anal. Sleep’s stealth overcame the most zealous of pleasure’s pursuits, even those of perverted taste for the opposite sex.
The East dawned rosily as rested residents, temporary and permanent, applied their garments, downed what gruel the kitchen provided, and dealt with personal ablutions. A few crocks of Uber-Cherry jelly were safely packed. Eventually, the soldiers as well as Peppin porting his posthorn, Boldar the Bald, and Ragenhard the Rugged gathered their equine mounts and awaited the emergence of the royals.
Purple tunics embroidered with gold thread distinguished King Wilhelm III and Prince Sergius from everybody else. Forearms were clasped, kisses exchanged, words spoken.
Most touching to those near was what Prince Sergius said to Abbot Conrad.
“Bloodline’s duty calleth me, dear Abbot, or I wouldst be content to remain in these environs. Thy fostering of me since mine twelfth year hath been faultless. For that, I am most grateful. Know also that support will come forth following the establishment of my position in the land wherein I was born and first gave suck.”
Tall, handsome Ragenhard nodded understanding.
“My kingdom doubtless possesseth persons of youthful beauty and maturity whose inclinations to purity of purpose merit time here,” King Wilhelm, in regal language, addressed both Abbot Conrad of the Order of St. Prickhaft-the-Sodomite and Mother Superior Abigail of the Order of St. Lesbia-the-Lingual. “As mine attention, royal at all times henceforth, is drawn to them, it will behoove me to dispatch them to you with suitable endowment.”
Those farewells complete, Peppin blew a few blats of musical ado, and the ensemble of travelers crossed the drawbridge of Castle Grunblat in the county of Braunschweig-Pemmican toward the distant lands of Hesse-zum-Plotzfeld-Huttenbrenner and Saxonfeld-Heldenland under bright sunlight of a new day in the lives of all.
As those departing passed, hands one after the other batted at the old, dented bell. It clanged until the hills rang with its echoes.
Your author acknowledges massively generous assistance from two authors whose uniquely exciting stories are found here: James_Rozo & MCVT.
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