Cock Sucker Tales Lord Chatterley

A NEW PERSPECTIVE ON CLASSIC LITERATURE

Editors Note: The connection to classic literature here is too obvious to comment upon. The writer is clearly attempting to reinterpret the literary novel from an altered perspective, striving ineptly to capture something of its original ethos, language and philosophy, hampered only by his inadequacies and authorial inabilities. We offer this text to devotees of 'Literotica' for the purposes of amused entertainment, and nothing more.

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From the start it had been a marriage of inconvenience. Clifford loved the sprawling ancestral grounds of Wragby Hall. His family had owned the estate for generations. But this age of the 'Common Man' holds little sympathy with aristocratic tradition. And the great house had gradually slumped through decades of slumbering neglect into insolvency. While Constance came from a nouveau-riche textile family who owned factories in the industrial squalor of nearby Tevershall. They – boorish and uncouth, had wealth, but no social status. He had all the social connections that a family tree branching back to 1066 could bestow, but no cash. The resulting union made perfect sense. Perfect cold, calculating, inevitable sense. So the two families were united in matrimony. Wragby Hall was saved. But at such a price.

Clifford was a private man. He enjoyed a postprandial brandy with his briar pipe in the musty hush of his library. He liked meandering rambles through the estate with nothing but his hound for company. Constance – 'Connie', loved the social whirl of parties, shopping expeditions in the city, gossip and the good-life. The latest Hollywood Talkie, or new American dance-fad. Things Clifford knew nothing about, and cared less. The honeymoon was a disaster. His attempts to fulfil his matrimonial duties failed catastrophically. She was obviously physically unimpressed by him. He suspected, correctly, that she had been intimate with more than one man previously. That she was a 'New Woman', more well-versed in matters sexual than he. And his failure to respond to her allure, his inability to achieve erection, provoked only scorn and derision. With a little sympathy, with some warmth and compassion, it might have been different. But she treated his impotence as though it were a crippling disability. Something to be pitied at best, or, he suspected, mocked in sniggery secret conversation with delightedly outraged friends behind his back.

They had separate bedrooms. Met over breakfast in frosty formality. And did little else in common.

He watched Connie preparing for an automobile trip into town. Wasn't the chauffeur being just a little over-familiar? When he helped her up into the car wasn't his touch a little more familiar than the demands of his role made strictly necessary? Clifford turned away. It was one thing to be humiliated in the privacy of their bedroom. It was another to have his failing the object of public knowledge, and his wife's infidelities so shamelessly flaunted.

Don't speak. Don't say a word. Clifford Chatterley turned away, unable to watch more. He strolled through the outbuildings without any particular destination in mind. Walking was enough. It was a warm autumn, the trees overhanging the pungent stables already golden, but there was little breeze, and the sun slanting over the house was pleasant. He was deeply troubled, yet the world held its compensations. Over the style the rutted neglected footpath took him down towards the lake edge. The only ripples to disturb its clear surface were those that followed the wake of startled ducks, scudding away from him. He strolled along the shingle around the perimeter of still water. The trees climbing the slope above him to open fields where sheep grazed. It was the kind of day meant to be enjoyed in all its natural purity, but for the weight of doubts and remorse he carried.

So preoccupied was he that he almost failed to notice Mellors. The gamekeeper was occupied with repairing a dry-stone wall that rode its way down a particularly steep incline, overgrown with briar, dense ivy and thistles, marking the division between fields. Stooping to lift rough-edged stone and fitting them into the spaces where the structure had tumbled as the result of weather or perhaps just the inevitable pressures of aging.

'Here, Oliver, allow me to assist you' insisted Clifford, slipping off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

Mellors turned slowly, as was his wont. A man of few words. A ruddy healthy-looking face, used to the outdoors. They were similar in age, but a social gulf of class and background separated their lives. He was stripped to the waist. 'If you be so minded, Sir.'

'Yes, I be so minded.' Clifford kicked out at the nearest stone. 'This brute next, what?' Mellors merely nodded once. He hefted it up. Heavier than he'd anticipated, and it grimed his hands with lichen and dust. Mellors took it without effort, and Clifford watched with a kind of mute admiration. The way he was able to slot seemingly incompatible shapes into a tight unified structure. They worked in silence, pausing only to wipe perspiration from their foreheads. At length Mellors stood back, rubbing his hands together. Appraising the task, completed to his satisfaction. Clifford could smell the sweat-odour of the man.

'What now?'

'Now we rid ourselves of this dirt' smiled the gamekeeper, unbuckling the heavy belt on his loose trousers. He wore long off-white combinations beneath. Clifford hoped he would go no further. But no, he simply rolled them down and off too, then strode naked into the shallow water. Chatterley hesitated. He was uncomfortable with nudity. He'd always been of that nature. But he was soiled and sweat-moist. The water so cleanly inviting. He glanced nervously about. There was no-one. Nothing to see but sheep. Quickly, before his resolve failed him, he undressed, folding his clothes into a neat pile on the grass. Mellors was now swimming with strong strokes some way from the shore. The shingle of tiny stones beneath his bare toes bit sharply, first contact with the rippling water was shockingly cold, but also extremely pleasant. He waded out to knee-depth and paused, looking around him. He could see the expanse of glistening water. The slopes of green fields and trees rising above. The dance of dragonflies skimming the still surface. Everything as it should be.

He submerged and swam. Feeling the grimy tiredness cleansing away from him, dissolving in a cloudy stain that became yet more tenuous, fading to nothing. It was too cold to swim for long. They returned to lie together on a small grassy headland near the repaired wall. Mellors lay on his stomach. Chatterley at first sat with his knees drawn up tightly to his chest. But the pale sun was warming. He relaxed, and lay back. Mellors raised himself on one elbow, reached out to pluck a long grass-stem and nibbled it contemplatively.

'I have no place asking you, Sir. You seem troubled. Is that so?'

'You know how it is. Life is complicated. It taxes the mind excessively with its complexity.'

'You are wrong, beg pardon for saying this. Look around you. There is birth, there is growth, and there is death. That is all. That is enough.'

'You are a philosopher, my friend. Perhaps I am asking the wrong questions?'

Mellors ran the palm of his hand purposefully through the muddy edge of the water. Lifted his hand towards where Clifford reclined, and, extending two muddy fingers, leaving a trail of dirt across the other man's chest. 'The answer you're seeking lies in the soil' he said. Drawing muddy fingers down the ribcage of his chest, down across his stomach. 'The soil, the flesh, and the seed' he said. Massaging dirt into Clifford's testicle-sack. The unexpected intimate contact was startling. Clifford froze, unable to move, his breath stilled in his throat. Yet Mellors was rubbing gritty circles around his moist groin, touching and nudging his flaccid penis as he did so.

Even more disturbing his organ was firming at the touch. Why, when it had stubbornly refused to react to Constance, was it erecting now, in the presence of this horny-handed son of the soil? Yet reacting it certainly was. Quivering into full stiffness. He was minded to push the interfering hand away. But instead he lay still, and allowed it to continue. By now Mellors was shifting his attention more specifically to the firming shaft, sharp particles of grit mixed in with the traces of mud adding a teasing sting to the awakening organ. And it was amazing to Clifford that this hand that could so easily snap the neck of a rabbit, could yet be so tender.

'This is the way that men console each other' said the gamekeeper softly. He voice oddly soothing. 'I saw conscripts doing it during military campaigns, far from home. The John Thomas knows little of good and evil, it has its own urgencies that cannot be denied.' He had now resettled his body, so that as he easily masturbated Clifford, he lay on his side, making his own thighs open for appraisal. His large penis lying across his leg, its heavy presence demanding attention. 'It is best done when the favour is returned.'

Clifford hesitated. Uncertain. Every action must have a reaction. Every debt must be paid in kind. He felt rising panic, but surely that is better than feeling nothing at all? Mellors slowed his caressing grip, loosed his fingers ever so slightly, and ceased his teasing motion. As if offering quid pro quo. Clifford was unwilling to comply, but wanted him to stop even less. If ever there had been a serpent in Eden to seduce and tempt the unwary from the path of virtue, it must resemble the hooded monster in the gamekeeper's groin. After a moment's pause he determinedly reached out, ran his own palm through the moist earth, and smeared the slimy residue along the length of Mellors' larger 'John Thomas'. A flame at his touch. When he circled and enclosed its girth in his dirty fingers, it was alive, flexing and stirring in response. Emboldened and fascinated, he found himself easing the foreskin back, exposing the glistening glans. And began to mimic the attentions the gamekeeper was bestowing on his own excited body. It came surprisingly naturally. Satisfied by the reciprocation, Mellors resumed his masturbatory motion up and down Clifford's lesser length. Chatterley squirmed in pleasure as sensation crawled across his groin, drawing energy from the very core of his being.

When the tingling at the base of his spine exploded into orgasm it was overwhelming, so powerful his hips first rose from the grass, then its intensity forced his spasm-wracked body to double-up, contracting in upon himself. A series of eruptions sprayed up his stomach as high as his chest. While caught within its release, he continued to pump Mellors, reluctant now to relinquish possession of the thick meat-column, until the gamekeeper's ejaculation followed, spraying white fluid up across his stomach and across Clifford's fingers. Afterwards, for a long moment they lay side by side, breathing heavily in unison. With Clifford becalmed in a fine melancholy pause, adrift in an ocean rolling its dark dumb mass. There was mud beneath his nails, and another man's semen on his fingers. He no longer cared. We all come from such primal slime. Then both began to laugh at the shared joy. And once begun it was impossible to stop. As if the penis-evacuation had vomited away all the vexing darkness out of his life. It was too long since Clifford Chatterley had laughed.

'Body without mind is brutish' said Clifford at length. 'Mind without body is to run away from our true being. If we are to be whole, both must be in balance. We must see to the needs of both.'

'See the stones that make up this wall?' said Mellors. 'Sometimes you can crack them open and find the shapes of creatures within. Animals that were here millions of years ago. I warrant that over such great spans of time those stones have borne witness to many more terrible things than two men catering to each other's needs.'

There was drying mud on their bodies, on their quiescent genitals. There was congealing ejaculate on both their bodies. 'Perhaps we should swim again?' said Clifford. They did. This time, when they bathed, their nudity was as natural and unselfconscious as children, as if this was the first day after creation, with the world new and unsullied.

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He returned to Wragby Hall with a more assured tread. Clifford Chatterley was resolute about facing the situation with Constance, having used the leisurely walk back from the lake to work his thoughts around various aspects of their arrangement. Over breakfast the following morning, the one occasion when they were forced by routine to be together, he laid out his terms. She had never known him as calmly assertive. There must be an understanding between them. A mutual agreement that made their lives tolerable. In public, a show of marital solidarity. In private, a pursuit of their own individual whims and indulgences. She was compelled to concede to his conditions.

In truth, it had been the incident with Mellors that had clarified and strengthened him. He had never felt at ease with intimacy. Fearing the loss of control in entailed. But was he not also entitled to the physical pleasures that Constance was no doubt enjoying? The effects of what had occurred beside the lake unsettled and persisted in his thoughts, the sharpness of its memory would not let him rest. Even the great works of literature in his library, 'The Odes Of Horace', the works of Virgil, which usually transported him into otherness, no longer held his attention.

Wasn't it the Roman poet Horace who advised 'carpe diem' – 'seize the day'? And following such guidance, within a week he found himself, against his better judgement, seeking out the Gamekeeper. To discover him by the outbuildings with a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder.

'Oliver, would it be agreeable if I were to accompany you?'

'I go to check my snares, Sir. These are your lands. I am in your employ. It seems the decision is yours to make.'

'Ours is essentially a tragic age Mellors, but we must refuse to take it tragically.' Mellors led the way through the woods. Secret paths known only to him, meandering parallel to banks of bluebells and entanglements of briar. Through the rustling stillness of tall trees, their way ridged with exposed roots, twisting and as thick as limbs. While high above them birds whooped their primordial cries, where daylight flickered through layers of greenery. At one time in the distant past all of Britain had been forest, now only these places hoard that ancient preternatural wisdom. Oaks that had seen the coming of the Celts, Romans, Anglo-Saxons and Normans. They had seen them come and go. As they will watch us come and go. Us transient sacks of flesh and seed. Bound to the soil. Neither man spoke, until they came to what seemed to be the gamekeeper's destination. A glade defined by a ring of small-capped mushrooms. Psilocybe semilanceata. Clifford stepped into its circle in a kind of wonderment. To him, the place resembled some kind of enchanted fairy-ring

Mellors crouched, parted the grass around an empty trap. 'I hunt rabbit for the pot. The fox hunts rabbit. The fox hunts chickens from our coop. So I hunt the fox too. What is it you hunt?'

'I hunt solace. I hunt consolation.' Hoping that the other man would catch the inference of the last word. At first there was no immediate reaction, so he feared he had not.

Then Mellors turned from his crouch, and looked up. 'What say we wrestle, you and I, like them ancient Romans would wrestle.' Yes, there was a painting hung in the hall. The Pankration. Greek, not Roman. But it was this to which he was referring. It was not what Clifford intended. But if this was the way they could be naked together, he was prepared. They faced each other. Mellors smiled. He undressed as far as his long johns. This time Clifford momentarily feared he was about to leave them on, and they were to wrestle in their underwear. Then he slipped them off too. Clifford could see the musculature moving beneath his taut weathered skin. The loosed sway of his John Thomas as impressive as he remembered it. He felt pale and slight by comparison.

Both naked, stripped of class and status, the grass dew-damp beneath their bare toes, they circled each other warily, crouched, like gladiators. Mellors made his rush first. Gripped his antagonist tightly within the iron grip of his arms. Clifford thrust his legs between the other man's legs, curled around his knee tightly, and deftly brought him down. Mellors landed heavily on his back. He had weight and strength. Clifford had the advantage of technique learned, grudgingly, at public school. Again they circled. Mellors showing a new respect for his opponent. The mock conflict extended playfully. Advantage moving to and fro, but distracted by the increasingly sexual nature of their joust. A penis brushed provocatively against a thigh, as if by accident. Genitals aroused by being crushed together a pause longer than necessary when in a clinch. The end was predetermined, and never in doubt.

Mellors held Chatterley pinioned from behind, his face-pressed up against the bark of a tree, his arms tight across the other's chest. Clifford could not move, aware of the warm naked body penning him in. The heat of an erection burning against the soft cheeks of his buttocks. He was fiercely aroused too, his stiffness pressed up against the unyielding timber. It was impossible to control such a crude reaction. Unsettling. A primitive reversion.

'You yield? Say it.'

'I yield.'

'You are prepared to pay the forfeit? Say it.'

'I accept, yes, I accept.'

Without releasing him Mellors spat into the palm of his hand and slipped it up and down the length of his erection. With a startle of fear Clifford realised what he was doing.

'No, please no. Not this way.'

'Hush, this is but another way men console each other' whispered the gamekeeper softly, close to his ear. That same oddly soothing tone to his voice.

The strong aroma of male arousal invaded his nostrils. A sharp pressure at the mouth of his anus. The awareness of its size and solidity gasping out a sob that died in his throat. There was resistance. He could not move. Then a strange ecstasy of sensation as his sphincter opened to admit the first blunt penetration. Followed by a longer smooth thrust that took possession all the way into his fundament. A queer vibrating thrill trapped and enclosed inside the tight clasp of his body. It burned like a flame. A force of nature that could not be staunched. They stayed locked together, man to man. After less than a moment's pause Mellors began to slow-fuck him, obscenely dribbling lubricating spittle from pursed lips, to fall, so that it coursed down the cleavage of Clifford's straining bottom to the embedded phallus, easing its passage. Clifford's own burning erection flipped and bounced up against the tree-bark with each thrust, adding sharp stinging stimulation, as his testicles swayed with the rhythm. There was no restraining grip now. Mellors concentrated on each thrust, his hands merely resting lightly on Clifford's hips. He could have squirmed away from the butting of his haunches, but nothing was now further from his mind. It was good, answering a need, a craving deep in his soul. He'd never felt so fiercely aroused, flexing himself back to receive each assault. This was what he'd wanted with every particle of his being, without realising. Without suspecting. His lips drawn back from his teeth in every appearance of a snarl, the sounds escaping his taut mouth were animal noises, whimpers and grunts.

The wild rutting continued beneath the stirring foliage. Naked lust. Raw hunger. Fierce energies building within the two interconnected male bodies. Until Clifford sensed its approaching climax by the catch in Mellor's breath. And, with a jerking twitch, the spurting deep within Chatterley's gut began, unleashing elemental forces, and once begun it was all-consuming. Setting off an answering orgasm like nothing Clifford had ever experienced before. Jets of semen burst from his shuddering penis-head to splatter onto the tree bark, and between each spurt his cock was leaking a tide of silvery drool that seemed inexhaustible. He cried out as waves of unbearable sensation ran riptides through his body. For a long moment he was no longer a being of mind, but a beast without thought. A creature of pure sensation. Everything melded into the shared genital shocks that were binding them together.