Coc-Sucer Tales: the Random Rod 03

We proudly present the third and final part of the first in a series of unjustly neglected underground classics of erotica, revived and reinterpreted for your entertainment and pleasure by Tristan Trotsky, a noted dilettante of decadent literature.

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But meanwhile, the reader might well enquire, what of Swift Nick, what has happened to the Dandy Highwayman? We'd last seen him imprisoned and awaiting his day of judgement in court. Well, it can now be revealed that, following his trial, with his wrists shackled behind him, he was roughly hauled by two court-attendants from his holding cell, and taken in for a private audience with the presiding magistrate, Squire Fleshpole. Fleshpole sits behind a polished desk upon which the legal-papers are spread, busying himself with documents, deliberately ignoring the intrusion. Nick nervously stands to attention before him, unsure what to expect, noting the black cap casually resting on the desk, signifying execution. Surely it won't come to that? The men stand, lit by the flickering light of a blazing log-fire, until the magistrate finally glances up. 'Please remove the inappropriate prison garb, I find its crudity offensive' he says with an irritable gesture of his pen.

The attendants rip Nick's jerkin away brusquely, then pull the coarse baggy pants down and off in one swift move, so that he's left standing there naked. His forceful disrobing leaving his large cock swaying.

'Ha! Not so cocky now are you Mr Highwayman, without the mask and pistols that are the tools of your unlawful trade' demands the gloating Squire.

'You see before you the only weaponry I need, Sir' retorts Nick, 'and I can be as cocky as circumstances dictate.'

Thoughtfully Squire Fleshpole pushes his chair back with a harsh grating sound, and slouches to his feet. He crabs awkwardly around the desk with swaggering deliberation, stroking his chin contemplatively, to face the naked Highwayman. There's a strange moment of silence. Then he reaches down and seizes Swift Nick by the balls, squeezing them until they stand out redly straining in his fist. 'You were found guilty of heinous crimes against the State and the people. Yet I have the power, by the authority invested in my office, to offer you a choice. You can be despatched to the penal colony where hard labour and the abuse no doubt to be inflicted by the sexual lusts of the other prisoners will most certainly soon take its toll upon this fine young body. How does that prospect appeal to you...?' he squeezes the sensitive testicles to emphasise his point. Nick's buttocks clench in pained response, his muscles cording uselessly against the chafing restriction of his shackles. 'Or I can sentence you to a corrective incarceration with the good Friars of the St Phallus Monastery for the rehabilitation of your soul. I trust you would choose the latter fate?'

Yes, the monks. He's heard of them. Everyone has. In fact there's a bottle of the highly-esteemed St Phallus wine, half drained, on the magistrates desk. Despite the discomfort caused by the magistrates grip, unable to believe his luck, Swift Nick forces a smile at the unexpected twist of fate. 'Yes sir, I would make such a choice, if such a choice were offered to me. I pray my poor sinner's soul is not beyond redemption, and that thanks to the monk's ministrations I can be returned to society as a useful and law-abiding citizen.'

'And naturally you'd feel the need to express your gratitude for my leniency?'

'In whatever way I could, kind Sir.' His keen incisive face is partially flushed, but there's still the devilish raffishness there.

Fleshpole releases Nick's aching scrotum and steps back, leaning up against the desk while unbuttoning his flies with slow one-by-one deliberation. Pushing his trousers down to his knees revealing a large gnarled penis. Slight pressure on Nick's shoulders from the two attendants forces him down onto his knees, facing the stirring monster. He can sense its foul aroma.

'You will express your thanks before, and after the sex-act you will now bestow upon me. Understand.'

Nick licks his lips uncertainly. He can feel the heat of the blazing fire on the bare skin of his bottom as he crouches. 'Yes sir, thank you sir' he says, then forces his head closer, his lips opening wide to hood the head of the magistrate's musky cock, and begins sucking it deeper. It instantly swells and expands in the moist clasp of his mouth. The two attendants shuffle uneasily as slurpy sounds escape his lips as he begins oralising the Squire, they're obviously aroused by what they're witnessing, the sight of the weighty shaft forcing its insistent way towards the opening of the younger man's gobbling throat, his cheeks caving with suction around it, but they're striving to control their reactions. The sucking goes on for some time. Despite, or perhaps because of the weirdness -- the unpleasant magistrate, the two standing guards, Nick finds himself strangely aroused by what he's doing, his groin crawling with exciting sensations, his penis quivering erect above his swaying bobbing testicles, a strand of glittering fluid seeping from its tip. For a long space the only sound he can hear is the blood thumping in his temples.

The squire relaxes back, his veined hand gripping the carved desk-rim, groaning appreciatively, perspiration standing out on his forehead, his ruddy face suffused with blood. At first he simply luxuriates in the intimate attention being expertly lavished on him, then, as his passion grows, his hands come down and around to clamp the kneeling highwayman's head, forcing it deeper, fucking the moist receptive mouth, ramming it closer into his hairy sweaty thighs, chuckling low as Nick makes gurgly gagging sounds from somewhere deep in his pubes. The deep-throat contact shocks through Nick, sparking an erotic reaction, his cock is twitching on the verge of ejaculation, he gasps helplessly as the frenzied wave overwhelms him, his stomach undulating, and he shoots a huge jet of spunk up over his gut. Then another, and a third. A second later Fleshpole grunts in a throaty way that obviously signals his own approaching orgasm. Nick closes his teary eyes, a moment later the cock swells and jerks up against the palate of his mouth, and he tastes the first racing pulse of spicy sperm, the second jet, and the third blobby mass filling and overflowing his mouth. He gulps and swallows.

At long last, after sucking on until he can detect it softening between his lips, he risks withdrawing, Nick recalls his instruction. 'Thank you sir, thank you for your generosity, Sir,' his voice husky with sperm as he stands unsteadily, a little embarrassed by the messy state of his dripping cock and the white smears trickling down his stomach.

Fleshpole smirks as he pulls his trousers back up and begins re-buttoning them. He waves his hand irritably. The two attendants hustle the naked Nick away. There's a trickle of the magistrate's sperm on his chin that he's unable to wipe. The after-effects of his own orgasm leaving him feeling awkward and unsettled, but although still shackled he still has a lithe, free way of walking, a lilt and swing about it noticeably absent from the grave tread of his guards. They escort him down a brief corridor into the sudden sunshine of an enclosed yard beyond. There's a secure carriage. One of the attendants prepares to mount the forward-box from where he can guide the two horses, the other prods Nick into the back, where he joins the prisoner and the barred-door is securely locked.

With his confidence gradually returning, Nick smiles across at his escort in an open friendly manner. The carriage lurches as it moves across the courtyard, the hooves rattling on the cobbles as it picks up speed through the gates and out onto the highway beyond. Nick glances around. The guard is watching him. Both of them had obviously been affected by watching Nick perform the juicy blow-job on Fleshpole. He's aware of the sperm drying on his face. The other will see it there. Perhaps he could take advantage of that? If he could make his intention obvious, once safely outside town they might be induced to stop the carriage and take him into the greenwood for some hasty sex, where he could take advantage of the situation and escape? He parts his legs so the guard has every opportunity of checking out his lazy half-erection, the white flakes of dried sperm on its knob-end, and he smiles invitingly. The guard looks. His greedy interest is reflected in his lascivious sneer. There's a promising tent in the crotch of his uniform pants. But he makes no move as the journey continues for twenty long minutes. Nevertheless, other opportunities must present themselves. Surely, once within the St Phallus monastery he can enjoy the good monks hospitality for a week or two's rest and recuperation, maybe endure some prayer-sessions and show a little mock-contrition, then quietly slip away when they're not watching.

The carriage rattles down a long winding tree-lined lane towards a monastery, the same path taken some time ago by Nick's lost companion, Roderick. The building is silhouetted black against the sky, standing like a forbidding fortress. High heavy oak double-gates set into thick ivy-patterned fortress walls swing inwards and the carriage passes through beneath the arch, its eaves decorated with many strange symbols, into the enclosed courtyard beyond. Once within, it halts. The barred carriage door opens and Nick, his hands still shackled behind his back, steps blinking out into the bright daylight.

The first guard is speaking to a robed monk. Nick notices the tonsure of hair, and the gold-rim spectacles perched upon the monk's protuberant nose which is mapped with blood-vessels.

'A new consignment, by agreement with Squire Fleshpole? Yes, we were expecting him' announces the monk gravely, circling the newcomer critically. He reaches out and takes Nick's down-hung cock in his firm grip, his fingers folding in around its girth. He moistens his thumb and forefinger to massage the crusty flakes of dried sperm from its head, running around the tip in a circular motion that follows the flared arrowhead of its contours, then wanks it slowly, riding up and down. Nick grits his teeth self-consciously as it stiffens in response, standing tall to its full proud length, the swollen purple head glistening in the pale light, blue veins tracing its underside and his large balls just hanging in their sac swinging gently in response to the monk's attentions. A bead of fluid glistens from its tip. The monk smiles approvingly. 'Yes, the young man will do adequately.'

As the carriage turns and lurches back out through the gates, into the world beyond, the monk ushers Nick across the courtyard through a lower arch into the cloisters beyond. He's startled to see naked shackled youths tending the herb-gardens, vineyard and stables. All of them are slim and fit, and obviously at perfect ease with their state of nature. He's even more surprised when he recognises one of them. Surely that is Roderick...? The naked youth's facial expression is dull and vacant in an unfamiliar way, but Nick could never mistake that cock. They've been intimate so many times. He knows that cock, its feel, its taste, the way it moves and pulses.

Nick calls out 'Roderick'. There is no response. The youth looks around him in a vaguely confused way. Then returns to tending the vines. A terrible chill of foreboding touches Nick. An indefinable quality that makes his hackles rise. Maybe his escape-plan aren't so clever after all? Perhaps this place is not going to be exactly as he'd imagined it would be? There is some awful secret here. Impatiently the monk is urging him forward. It's impossible for him to resist. Reluctantly Nick shuffles as directed, towards his unknown fate, his stiff cock bobbing before him, leading the way...