Cock Sucker The Silver Shilling

Mrs Weagle not only ensures that the lads earning the Silver Shilling are consenting, but that they are of the age of eighteen.

***

The hedge around Pergold House is high and neglected. The three of us scurry between the two worn stone heraldic lions and down the ten wide steps that are smudged with patterns of moss. Ned is slow of thought, and gait. Roland is contrastingly agile and swift of wit. They are unlikely companions, yet we've been friends since childhood. There are blown leaves curled crisp that crunch underfoot across the shaded paved area below, with the peeling green-painted door that lets us into Mrs Weagle's kitchen, the appetizing aromas of baking cakes and rich puddings assail us the moment we step inside. The beams are low, reflecting the dancing light of a blazing fire in the grate where a huge black cauldron is suspended above the greedy flames, with the moist sounds of stew bubbling and sizzling around a flotilla of fat round dumplings.

Mrs Weagle billows like a galleon in full sail, her mop-cap scrunching up stray strands of the silvery hair around her round maternal face, forever suffused with the flush effects of her culinary exertions. She takes it upon herself to ensure that the youths who come here to earn the Silver Shilling are not only consenting, but that we are over the age of eighteen. Just as the verger does when the vicar is in the mood for buggering members of the church choir.

'Lawks a-mussy, are you lads here for a-fucking again?' she greets us.

Ned doffs his cap and twists it nervously between his hands. 'Yes Mrs Weagle, thank you Ma'am.'

'I hope you've washed yourself ready' she cautions, ticking with a cautionary finger. 'The Master wouldn't want to find your bum-boy shit all over his nice clean todger afterwards now, would he!'

'We bathed in the lake aforehand' offers Roland, 'once we'd got the summons.'

Her face beams its most radiant smile. 'You are good boys. Each one of you.' She thrusts three thick scones across at us, still warm from the oven, speckled with fresh date and walnut pieces. Ned scoffs his in two eager mouthfuls. Roland and I nibble our way around the crumbly rim, the better to savour each morsel of taste.

I remember our earlier visits when she'd personally attended to our hygiene herself, with a flannel moistened from a steaming bowl of warm water, inspecting and cleaning each puckered anus in turn. Now she relies on our own sense of propriety to ensure our fastidious cleanliness.

'Leave your shoes here' she chortles, 'then you'd best be running along. The Master's prick will doubtless be impatient.'

'Thank you Mrs Weagle' I manage around the final mouthful of scone.

We leave our buckled shoes in a neat row beside the grate, then scramble the three steps up past the scullery where she stores bags of flour, fresh fruit, giant hams, eggs and condiments, to the door that leads into the house itself. Creaking it open it cautiously. Cranford is standing there ready to usher us inside - the tall and thin manservant wears a permanent frown of distaste, as though he's detected an offensive odour. Always a little intimidating, he indicates the flight of stairs leading us three ragamuffins towards the upper rooms. Ned, the son of the jovial village landlord and drunk, says Cranford is scary, that he's never once had sex in all his long stifling life. Ned could be right. Roland, son of the village doctor and veterinarian, says otherwise, with a snigger. As though he knows things he's never confided to us. As an orphan, I was adopted by the local blacksmith, intended to be the apprentice who would eventually assume his vocation, to which I feel singularly ill-suited. I have the soul of the artist, touched by the flame of poetry.

Chuckling and playfully shoving each other, we bundle our way up each maroon-carpeted step beneath the tall family paintings that loom above us. I feel their eyes gazing down at us grubby peasant intruders. Those deviously corrupt Pergold ancestors were sodomites and deviants to a man, notorious for their Black Mass blasphemies, rapes, debauches, and heretical Hellfire orgies, it's a wonder their wandering carnal passions ever resulted in actual progeny. Then we are on the landing, hushed as though our ragged sounds would be a form of sacrilege. We know which door to approach. His Study. We have been here before. We know the correct method by which we are to enter.

Ned is first to pull his faded green jerkin up his fleshy chest and over his head, while Roland shoves his britches down and off. We glance across at each other grinning. If nervous, my companions are concealing it well. If so, that is all we dare conceal. I feel the air brush my bare skin. We've seen each other naked, but I still get a warm unsettling catch in my throat each and every time. Ned is thick-set, his pendulous cock hooded in foreskin and forested in a tangle of black pubic hair. I remember how, after the hay-making I'd hidden in the loft and watched as five harvesters drunk on cider grabbed him in the barn, stripped him naked, hauled him over a straw-bale, and took turns fucking his bum-hole. His howls of protest only encouraged them, as two dairymaids clap and chant time with each anal thrust. I was breathless, helpless. All I could do was watch his humiliation in rage, and be there for him once it was over.

Roland is slender and blonde. Seeing him naked sets my pulse racing uncontrollably, and my own cock stirs in response. Yet he's unaware of just how intense my feelings are for him. And I must never betray our friendship by confessing such secret passion. Not yet. Not until I'm sure it will be reciprocated.

We fold our clothes carefully, leaving them in a neat pile on an embroidered ottoman beside the door. Cranford climbs the stairs behind us, one stately step at a time. Although his expression never alters one jot, his attention caresses our nudity in what I suspect is a prurient way. He will retrieve our clothes, and return them to us once we are done. I shiver slightly, although it's not chilly.

Roland knocks politely on the door. Ned scratches an itch on the plump curve of his rounded bum cheek.

After a moment, the single word 'Enter' ushers us inside. Pacing barefoot, hands by our sides so there is no possibility of concealment... as instructed, we ease the door open and step inside. I'm aware of my cock and balls swaying and jiggling at each step, our bodies brushing together as we file inside.

Mr Pergold sits in a high-backed wing-chair, in a daytime gloom against thick closed curtains. A tall grandfather's clock in the corner ticks out breathless moments. A bronze telescope stands on tripod legs beside a stained chaise longue. The Master wears only a knee-length velvet smoking jacket. His hair is thinning. He appears incredibly ancient to us. But we are young. Everyone older than we are seems aged. He has a cut-glass decanter of whiskey on a silver tray on a side-table beside him, sipping critically from a tumbler as he watches us with open lust, his attention focuses directly on our groins, shifting from one to the other, then back again. He licks his thin lips in an unsettling vulgar manner.

'You took your time getting here.'

'I apologise for our tardiness, sir' says Roland, with downcast eyes. 'We did come as quickly as we were able, I assure you.'

'You want that shiny silver shilling. Yet are insufficiently obliging in your eagerness to work for it. You disappoint me. You want that reward?'

'Yes please sir, thank you sir.'

He unfastens the silken chord around his smoking jacket. Points at Roland and clicks his fingers in impatient command. Roland glances across at me, his weak smile lights the face beneath those puppy-smooth blond eyebrows. I feel a sharp dazzle of desire, but already Roland has taken those two decisive steps across the floor, to kneel between Mr Pergold's parted legs, and he lowers his tousled head into the older man's groin. The noon twilight determines I can't see each detail, but I'm familiar enough to know what Roland's generously pouty lips look like as they close around the fat bloated head of Mr Pergold's penis. That his tongue will be working magical patterns around the sensitive frenulum and probing into the urethral eye, as his lips suckle around the glans attentively, before sliding more of that fleshy shaft deeper into the moist warmth of his mouth. He is a very accomplished cock-sucker.

My toes curl into the carpet pile with sympathetic envy-pangs as I hear the slurpy sounds of suction trapped into the room's tick-ticking silence. I can't help my body's reaction, painfully self-conscious of my own quivering erection. Mr Pergold cradles Roland's bobbing blonde head in tighter to his groin, and grunts in a throatily uncharacteristic way, then irritably indicates to where Ned and I are standing feeling unsure.

'I want to see you two wrestling - here...' he points. Not something I want to hear. We shuffle closer to where the fellatio is being performed, crouch down and circle each other warily in a playful grapplers stance. Ned is grinning a wide grin. He carries more weight. The result of the bout is predetermined. But we are both aware that is far from the object of the sport. Ned feints and parries, grapples me around the shoulders. I wriggle and slither free. And that is what Mr Pergold intends. That is what he wants to see, our naked bodies moving together in mock-combat poses, he wants to gloat over the way the muscles move beneath our skin, how our bare bottoms clench, and the perky bounce of our aroused genitals. Ned lunges, I move aside, but he siezes me from behind, his knee in the small of my back, propelling my thighs forward so my cock is dancing and swaying for the gratification of our observer. I squirm out of his reach and we circle each other again. Mr Pergold laughs. One of the very few occasions when he shows pleasure.

Our bodies come together in a tight grapple. My cock is pressed hard up against Ned's. He is also erect. I feel the hardness of its heat. We sway this way and then. I force my knee in between his legs to unbalance and trip him, and we both fall to the carpet. We roll over and over, but he has the greater strength and body-weight. In one smooth move his legs straddle my chest, he pins me down beneath him, his knees trapping my arms so I'm unable to move, although I buck and writhe in every imitation of desperation.

Roland is still submissively sucking Mr Pergold's cock as the older man watches the result of our naked wrestling bout. Ned is grinning down at me, his buttocks pressing heavy on my chest. My back up against the carpet. This is a game, but there's a part of this he's enjoying. He nudges his hips forward.

'Go on then, Boy' urges Mr Pergold, 'press home your advantage. Humiliate him. The triumphant victor should always force the vanquished to suck his prick as penance.'

Ned lifts his bottom and inches forward, his knees clamped in tight on either side of my head so I can't move, even if that had been my intention, he's using his finger to press the angle of his cock down towards my face, until his fat balls are squashed up against my chin and his cockhead - messy with dribbles of pre-emission, is rubbing its way across my lips. His leer tells me that, although he's supposedly simply following Mr Pergold's instructions, he's fully enjoying this game. And naturally, it's nothing we've not already done numerous times before. Although I wistfully wish that it was Roland's delicious cock I was being 'forced' to suck. Ned's erection means his foreskin has drawn back from the proud bulb of his glans. I part my lips and it slides its way in, so deep that I gurgle when it first hits the back of my throat, and he undulates his hips so that it rhythmically fucks my mouth as I suck and slobber at it. The taste of his dribbles floods my mouth as the hot shaft pulses hard up against the roof of my mouth.

'Soixante-Neuf' says Mr Pergold peremptorily.

And although neither of us understand the words, we intuit the meaning. Ned moves around without once extracting his cock from my greedy mouth, pivoting on my face until his balls - which were crushed into my chin, are now draped across the bridge of my nose, and he lies across me, reaches for my own stiff cock, his cool fingers moving it so that his mouth can devour it in one enveloping gulp that sends shocks of pleasure up and down my entire body. I can't help the moan that escapes my mouth, despite the fleshy gag blocking it. We both begin to suck with frantic passion, rocking our bodies in closer together. The fresh body-sweat smell of him invades my nostrils, I can feel the rush of blood in his veins, the very beat of his heart. His enthusiastic suction on my own cock is an intoxication, driving me to more furious effort, unleashing animal hungers.

I feel him tremble. Feel the firmness of his erection in my mouth swell up against my lips, feel it throb. His hairy balls are tightening. I feel the sperm-duct along the underside of his cock pulse. I know exactly what is happening. His entire body spasms, I feel the breath leave his lungs in an orgasmic gasp, and my tongue is flooded in his ejaculate. I gurgle around the flexing spitting shaft as he spurts once, twice, three times deep into my throat, tides of spunk feeding back to swirl around my teeth and tongue, dribbling from my impaled lips. I feel numb and dizzy as waves of orgasm shock through Ned's body, as he shoves his jerking cock-head instinctively deeper as he fucks down into me.

The Master chortles in a vile humourless manner, obviously getting perverse satisfaction from watching our enthusiastic mutual sucking. Then he abruptly stands, an action that shoves poor Roland aside imperiously so that he loses his crouching balance and sprawls backwards awkwardly.

'Who is ready to earn the silver shilling?' the Master announces. From between his open smoking jacket we can clearly see the full rearing shape of his saliva-glistening cock.

We uncouple from our mutual sucking. 'Me, sir, please sir,' Ned begs.

When I say 'I'm ready, Master, if it pleases you,' my voice has a hoarse throaty edge, thick with semen.

'Choose me, sir' says Roland, struggling up from the carpet.

Mr Pergold stands back with a cruel smirk, noting the eagerness with which we scurry around to obey him. We know what is expected of us. In a tangle of youthful limbs we clamber up onto the chaise longue side-by side, crouching forward, down on all fours... Roland to my left, me in the centre, Ned to my right, raising and presenting our bottoms to him, faces down, our legs slightly apart. He stands for a moment, relishing his power over us. Then he paces across to stand behind us. He runs his hand lasciviously over the curve of Roland's bottom, moving up to the small of his back, to the arch of his spine, pressing down slightly, applying forced pressure so his thighs are more prominently presented. Then he moves across to me, nudges my legs more slightly apart so that my engorged genitals hang and stir.

The Master pours a tumbler of whiskey from the cut-glass decanter and sips it critically while observing our predicament from different angles. Then he retrieves a clouded-glass jar of goose-grease from the nearby escritoire, and scoops three fingers into it. He smoothes goose-grease around the puckered opening of Ned's arse, inserts a finger, and works it around in a circular motion that makes my friend groan. He repeats the action on my anus, I have to steel myself not to wince as the finger probes deep into my rectal orifice. Finally he moves across to anoint Roland's bottom, while he lavishes the unguent self-indulgently along the length of his own rampant cock. His moves into position behind Roland.

I glance to my left, and ours eyes meet. I'm aware that Roland can see the dribble of Ned's spunk on my chin. But all I can see is the soul-hunger in his face, the nervous anticipation as Mr Pergold nuzzles the head of his cock down along the valley of his bottom, to locate the greased opening. The Master pauses with his cock nuzzled up against the bum-hole, as if enjoying his victim's trepidation, before sliding an inch into him. I helplessly watch Roland's face contort, the anguished gasp as the stiff cock slides deeper into his anus, inch by torturous inch, until he's taken it all. The Master withdraws until only the cock-head is buried, then thrusts deep again, a second and third time.

He extracts with a vile chuckle, and moves across to me. I brace myself. I'm already fiercely aroused from Ned's cock-sucking. My dangling member is tingling. Mr Pergold places a hand on either side of my raised hips, undulating his thighs forward in a single move so that his cock enters my arse in a violent thrust. He slides inside me with such force that I gasp and squirm. Uncontrollably my cock quivers, the excitations engulf me. I'm now impaled balls deep, and as he begins to fuck me, the combined sensations tip me helplessly over the brink. My cock bobs and jerks, it unleashes a sudden stream of white spunk up across the underside of my stomach, a second spurt trickles down my inside leg, and a third drip-drip-drips down onto the already-stained embroidery of the chaise longue. Sensing what is happening Mr Pergold both laughs, and groans as the convulsions set off by my orgasm ripple around his cock, squeezing and tightening, squeezing and tightening in the rhythms of sexual climax. I bury my face in the upholstery in an attempt to stifle the strangulated sob. He stays buried deep inside my bum-hole as the convulsions continue with lessening force.

He pulls himself free, leaving me feeling suddenly empty, and moves across to fuck Ned. I hear Ned squeal as he is violently penetrated, even as the rippling afterglow surges through my loins, as my breathing stabilises in the wake of the double sensual intensity. My cock tingles pleasantly, dripping and messy with my own excess. We know that one of us... one of the three of us, the one that Mr Pergold ejaculates into, will be rewarded with the shiny silver shilling. I bask in the post-orgasmic glow, recalling how the Master had reacted to the sensation of my convulsions around his trapped shaft, the way he had paused to enjoy the squeezing and tightening of my bum-hole.

Time comes loose. The tall grandfather's clock in the corner ticks out breathless moments in the unnatural calm. I can hear the slap-slap-slap of flesh on flesh as he fucks the hapless Ned. Then uncouples, moves back past me to locate Roland again, and slides into his rectum for a second time. I have moments to recover, to consider, to think. I wait, my bottom raised ready for my second turn. The embroidered material that my face is pressed into is wet with the drool of my dribble. My skin crawls in curious anticipations. I know what I must do. And almost before I realise it, the Master has finished fucking Roland, and relocates behind me. From the angle of my head I can look down beneath my chest and spunk-messy stomach, past my dangling genitals, between my parted legs to where he stands with his glistening cock ready, his scrotum hung low and swollen with seed.

He fucks me. He slides slickly into my already-fucked hole. It's smoother this time, because my rectum is adjusting to him. I'm looser, lubricated, more prepared. His body slaps snugly up against me. His balls sway, knocking up against my own balls in a sweet little explosion of pleasure. Once I know he's all the way in, I react, using my sphincter and rectal muscles deliberately to squeeze him. I hear him grunt. I can feel him tensing. He pulls halfway out, but once he slam into me a second time I begin again, clasping him tight in a series of little convulsions, drawing him. I hear him curse under his breath. An obscene oath. I know I have him. He lingers inside me, enjoying my rhythmic embrace. Then he fucks a third time in a long slow stroke, all the way in, I tighten and squeeze, he bends over me, he groans, I feel his cock twitch deep inside my gut, it swells and throbs. He cries out loud, and my inners are deluged in his spunk... one great pulse that almost lifts me physically from my receptive crouch, then a second and a third. I feel the heat of his cock. The moist throb-throb-throb as tides of semen flood the recesses of my arse. It feels so very good.