A Fantasy Picaresque

***Author's Note: I'm putting this story in sci-fi/fantasy because of the imaginary place/time, the presence of (a few) supernatural elements, and aesthetic similarities to pseudo-medieval sword and sorcery fiction. The series will have some non-consensual sex (usually described critically, though), some stuff that would probably fall under the fetish or BDSM category, and a good deal of material that is at least trying to be funny/satirical. Oh, and the protagonist is going to fuck a lot of married women. Enjoy!***

Chapter One: An Accidental Outlaw

One day I will have to thank my jailer, Antonio, for giving me the paper and pen to write my life's memories down, to provide a warning to men who might follow in my unfortunate footsteps. That day will have to come soon, though. because each morning Antonio kindly reminds me that the day of my execution draws ever closer.

You'll have to forgive me if I sail past that unhappy thought—I don't have much time left to tell the story of my life, and what a long and sordid story it is. Dear reader, if you dre follow my tale, I will show you how I, a simple farmboy, was forced to flee from my village, fell in with bandits, became a slave, a revolutionary, battled dragons, advised wizards, sailed the maiden sea, and finally came to await death in a castle in the clouds.

It may sound as if I am an extraordinary man, but nothing could be further from the truth. I was and remain a simple man, who could neither read nor write for most of his life. I have never been a great warrior, nor a holy man, nor a wizard, nor a man of great charm and wit. In fact, only one personal feature marks me as extraordinary, and it has brought me such grief and unhappiness that I do not hesitate to call it my curse.

I have a colossal cock. A massive member. A prodigious pole.

I have often longed to be a normal man, with a normal cock, one that would nestle gently inside of a woman. Yet I have been cursed with this enormous dick, which practically drives women mad. At so many points in my unfortunate journey, I might have been able to find happiness and peace, if only I would have possessed an ordinary schlong. Bandit wenches, pirate queens, baronesses, witches, virgins, whores: women who behold my cock become entranced, and then the cycle of calamity begins again.

The tale of my misfortune begins in my eighteenth year. I was born on the estate of Baron Welkenschwanz, the lord of Braunloch Estate. My father and mother were stout, hardy souls, who never complained about their difficult lot in life. I was one of four children who had survived infancy, and all of us were healthy, cheerful, and well-behaved. My three siblings were diligent and hard-working; I, to be honest, was not.

We lived in the countryside, not far from the village of Sameneimer, where we would go to bring in our harvest for threshing and sell what little of our grain remained after setting aside our own stores and paying the Baron our land rents. In eighteen years, I had only set eyes upon the Baron at most once a year.

In my youth, I had developed the enormous appendage of which I spoke earlier. Naturally, I feared for my future—how would I ever find a wife able to accommodate my unnatural length and girth? I discovered, however, that the village women, kind-hearted as they were, took pity on me. Many of the wives, moved as I believed by sympathy for my plight, took it upon themselves to help initiate me into the ways of love.

It began soon after I turned eighteen, when I was pitching in at a farm near our own, worked by a young couple, Amelie and Brom. It was not uncommon for neighbors to help one another out when work piled up, and I had been repairing the house's masonry when the lady of the house came in to thank me. Her husband was off to market—he was small of stature, and carrying the heavy stones to repair the hearth may have been beyond his capacity.

Dear reader, I swear I had no evil intent when I reached to offer my hand to her. I merely wished, with some courtesy, to bid hr farewell. Somehow, perhaps because of bad luck or perhaps a witch's curse, my hand made contact not with her hand, but instead with her left breast. It felt soft and fleshy in my hand, and Amelie was taken aback. Naturally I was mortified, but it was difficult for me to move my hand, once I had found her firm, supple tit.

She made to scream, but stopped when she looked down. Her eyes were riveted to my pants, and I felt intensely embarrassed to see that my member had come to life in the loose-fitting pants I wore. My secret was now out: Amelie saw my abnormally large and turgid cock, poorly disguised in my trousers.

Amelie bit her lip. In a moment, she had gone from appalled to curious, and she made no effort to move my hand from her breast. Instead, she leaned in closer, before placing her lips upon mine. Our kiss was soft and tentative, almost chaste had my hands not been now cupping both of her breasts. I felt her hand reach down my pants, though, and massage my throbbing, rigid dick.

"Is this even real?" she asked. "I didn't know they could be this big."

I had no idea what I was doing, of course, and Amelie was a married woman. I hoped she would guide me in what to do, and I wanted her to feel free to take the lead.

"You can take it out," I offered helpfully. "If you want to see it."

She broke our kiss and unceremoniously pulled my pants down. Her eyes never once left my stiff cock as she spoke.

"I shouldn't do this," she said, as she begun to stroke me. "But my husband's is so small. Promise you won't come inside me?"

I hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about, but I also didn't want this to end. I swore to her that I wouldn't, only asking that she tell me first if she thought I was about to. That way, I reasoned, I'd know to stop whatever I was doing.

I stood frozen, hoping I wouldn't be expected to take much initiative of my own. Amelie got down onto her knees and began to lick the shaft and head of my cock. The image of this older woman, on her knees and worshiping my cock with her mouth was captivating.

"I hope this thing will fit," she said, her voice betraying not uncertainty but a playful kind of desire. "Because I read somewhere that big ones feel better."

"You can read?" I asked incredulously. "How?"

"My father," she said in between licks, "isn't, you know, my father. I'm really the Baron's bastard daughter, and he taught my mother to read love manuals. I learned that way, too—from the Baron's tutor."

Of course, I could only faintly intuit what a "love manual" might be. Stories about me appear in more than a few of the newer ones passed under the bookseller's counter in far flung towns and cities today.

My lover, though, had clearly learned much from the love manual. Amelie took me into her mouth, as much as she could manage, and I could feel her spit running down my cock. Apparently satisfied that my cock was wet enough, she disrobed, and I was greeted with the sight of her full, pendulous tits, crowned with dark, hard nipples. Her sex hidden with dark hair, I had a sudden, powerful urge to throw her down and explore her, though I knew not where to look. Fortunately, she led me by the hand and laid me down in her marital bed.

With my cock pointing towards the sky in her dainty hand, she cooed into my ear: "Just lay back and let me do everything. You don't even have to move."

For a moment, I saw a wince of pain mar her face as she climbed onto my prick and sank her wet pussy down onto it. I feared that I had done something wrong, but she let loose a low, satisfied moan as she descended onto me.

"I've never taken it this deep," she said, her voice an octave lower than normal. "You're filling me up."

Though I've since learned that women love a man to speak to them during sex, to tell them all the nasty, forbidden things he wants to do to them, I was just a beginner, and I was afraid of saying something wrong.

I lay, motionless, as Amelie rode me to her own orgasm, her body shuddering over mine as she collapsed against my chest.

"Are you about to come?" she asked me, and I struggled to find the right answer.

"No," I said, since I couldn't feel anything particularly dramatic happening to me.

Amelie's cunt felt like a warm, wet glove. She resumed riding me, her orgasm more a spur to greater effort than a true climax. I must have been filling her in a way she'd never felt before, because it wasn't long before the came again, only this time, I began to feel a startling feeling, one I'd never felt before. I had no way to describe it, but I gambled on assuming that this was what it meant to "come."

"I'm..." I stammered, "about to...come..."

Amelie leapt off me and fastened her mouth onto my cock, stroking it furiously. I felt my entire body pulse, and my balls tingled with anticipation. My eyes closed, and I unloaded, spurting my seed uncontrollably into her waiting mouth. I watched her throat contract as she swallowed my semen, and she continued to suckle the head of my cock long after it had stopped erupting in her mouth, as if she hoped to find a drop of precious honey.

Needless to say, I hadn't expected for things to end like that; when I came back months later to fuck Amelie again, she explained that she didn't want my semen staining her marital bed, making her husband suspicious. I always finished in her mouth, and not one drop of my fluids ever went to waste.

When I saw her husband Brom again, I couldn't help but feel a strange feeling of superiority over the diminutive man. Though he was a married householder and I a mere boy of eighteen, I knew that I'd had his wife and touched her in places he never could. For the first time, I wondered if there might not be some positive side to possessing a huge phallus, for I felt a kind of perverse joy in imagining his wife kissing him with the same mouth that I had filled with sticky cream. These kinds of thoughts, I know now, bred a dangerous overconfidence in me, naturally stoked by what happened after my first time with Amelie.

Of that, I will be brief: Amelie was not the last married woman whom I would fuck in the coming weeks and months. First, it was her friend Anna, a village woman whose husband was a cobbler. When he went to ply his wares in a distant town, I brought his wife, sweet, demure Anna, to ecstasy. She must have told her sister Iris, because within a week I was covering her cute, dimpled face with a healthy load of my sperm. From there, my reputation must have spread among the women in the countryside, because I frequently found myself acting as a spare hand on the farms and in the workshops of many men in the area. When the men were out of sight, though, my work was of a different nature.

I must admit, I enjoyed all of these trysts, perhaps too much. I learned to love the feeling of a warm, wet pussy around my prick, the sight of full jiggling breasts before my eyes as a woman writhed on me, and the feeling of releasing my aching balls into the mouths of my lovers. Dear reader, I know you must be asking the obvious question: is fornication not a disgusting, unpleasant experience? I too had always believed what my elders taught me, but I could not deny the plain facts: I loved to fuck.

What I didn't love was that I couldn't have the women all to myself. We had to keep our assignations secret, never easy in a small village, and afterwards, I had to leave them to their husbands. What was worse was that I could never fill their wombs with my seed; always I had to pull out and either cum on them or in their mouths. While watching a woman swallow my sperm was a tantalizing sight, I still longed to fill a woman up, to lock eyes with her as she felt my warm semen coating her fertile womb.

Despite the joys I felt fucking other men's wives, I decided I ought to find a girl my own age, who I could make my wife. I was old enough to marry, to receive a parcel of my own land, and to start my own family. When I told one of my lovers, Evelyn, about my plans, she laughed.

"So what, now you want to see how my husband feels?" she asked cruelly. "You get a wife and then you'll be the one waiting at home for a used woman."

Evelyn, a favorite of mine, had always been the picture of sweetness. At age thirty, she was a flaxen-haired beauty, whose feminine curves always stirred my cock. I loved to suck and to fondle her ravishing breasts, to bring her to the brink of bliss with my fingers only to make her beg for release, to stretch her tight box with my straining member. She was not one of the first women to comfort me when I confessed the terrible secret of my unusually large tool, though she was perhaps the most insatiable for my meaty cock. She had even put it all the way into her throat, to prove to me that it wasn't too big. It was out of character for her to be so harsh.

"Evie, honey, you know I want a family of my own," I said soothingly. "Why are you so angry?"

True to form, she began to cry and admitted that she was afraid I would no longer want to spend time with her. I took her into my arms and promised that I would never forget her and that I would never get tired of the feeling of her impaled on my throbbing dick.

Her fears of replacement assuaged, she began to tease me about the girls in the village and the surrounding countryside.

"Well, there's always little Rosalyn," she said with a devilish grin. "She beautiful, though I fear you'd split the poor girl in half."

"What about Magdalene?" I proffered. "She's got wide hips, and, well...you know?"

"True," Evelyn said smirking, "the girl's got a plump, round ass—one that every stable boy and farmhand in the village has stuffed with his cock. The last thing you need is to raise some bastard baby. What about Leona?"

I crinkled my nose at the suggestion.

"You call Magdalene a whore, but I've seen Leona stumbling home from behind the old mill with her face covered in sticky goo. There must have been seven—"

"Poor boy," Evelyn interjected, "don't you see? A beautiful girl like Leona must be careful to protect her virginity. Her father hopes to marry her to a townsman, not some poor farmboy like you. A girl caught out alone sometimes has to use her mouth when she wants to stay pure."

I had never thought of such things before. Though indeed I had bedded many women, all had been willing—indeed, it is fair to say that I was the one seduced, and not they. I felt a pang of regret for thinking of Leona as a wanton slut.

"Oh, I've got it!" Evelyn said, with excitement in her voice. "My cousin has a step-daughter, a sweet, gentle girl. She's perhaps less beautiful than Leona, but her father isn't expecting to marry her off to some rich man, and she'd no doubt be happy to wed you once she's seen your equipment."

Evelyn was always so sweet, though I at times felt a bit patronized when she tried to convince me of the ludicrous notion that women actually prefer an elephantine cock such as mine.

"What's her name?" I asked. "It's not Vera, is it?"

"The frog-eyed girl?" she replied giggling. "Certainly not! No, I'm talking about Ottilie. I can arrange for you two to meet."

In a village as small as ours, everyone knew everyone else, at least a little. Yet I had never spent much time with Ottilie and was eager to learn if she might be the one for me. Naturally, the most important arrangements would be concluded between our parents, but making a good match always in my experience required the marital couple getting to know one another first.

"How could I ever repay you?" I asked in mock deference to Evelyn, yet she evidently took my faux humility as an invitation.

"Do you remember that thing you did with your tongue? Well..."

***

Ottilie was, as promised, a sweet and delicate girl, and not unpleasant to the eye as well. She looked like a younger version of my first lover, Amelie, with brown, long hair and smooth, milky skin. Where the two women differed was, perhaps, in their figures: Amelie had larger, fuller breasts but was heavier everywhere else too, while Ottilie was of a slight build. To be honest, I had little preference between the two, as I had discovered the charm and pleasure to be found in women of a variety of shapes and sizes.

Ottilie professed to be a virgin, and throughout our courtship, I pledged to help her remain that way. Though we never rutted, she did learn to love the feeling of my tongue, as I'd become quite experienced with it. Despite her own inexperience, she quickly became adept at inhaling my member, and could take it almost as deep as the more experienced women who had come to love the feeling of my throbbing cock in their throats.

Perhaps, dear reader, you expect me to profess my true love for this delicate flower, but, to be honest, I could not muster any such feeling. In fact, in my lifetime I've come to a hard conclusion: love is an invention of romance stories. Since I could not read, and since I had never been raised on treacly stories of true love, I lacked the capacity for this great and noble feeling. Instead, I began to look upon Ottilie as a future wife and mother, and not in the way I felt about my married lovers. Though I was inflamed by passion for them, for ravishing their willing bodies and sating my lust in their flesh, my feelings for Ottilie were more protective and proprietary.

In short, I saw her as a possession to be managed, and not a woman to love or even lust after. Before you condemn me, dear reader, recall that I was forced by concern for Ottilie's reputation never to fuck her. In another life, I would have made her a woman and become enchanted with her, living in bliss the rest of our days.

Instead, this waiting period only intensified my lust for the stable of village wives that I fucked. Had I the opportunity to make my way into the village, perhaps that lust would have been sated, and my boiling blood cooled. Unfortunately, it was harvest time, and my days and nights were filled with toil. True as always to the pledge every young boy makes when he kneels before the statue of the Holy Father—never to touch himself in an unclean manner—I was going mad. The relief I received from sweet Ottilie and her delectable mouth was enough to keep me from becoming truly desperate, but still did not suffice.

Though the marriage season was still a month away, I resolved to ask Ottilie to be my bride at the Harvest Festival, when the Baron set out an elaborate feast for all the peasants and artisans of the village. There would be food and wine, displays of faerie fire and smoke dragons, and the crowning jewel of it all, the Procession of Chronicles, when the Baron would spell out the momentous events of the year throughout the known world. The deeds of great and magnificent rulers, terrible calamities, and glorious military victories would all be recounted with great pageantry to the awestruck villagers, for whom the stories in the Procession might be the only knowledge of the wider world.

It was rare for everyone in the village and the countryside to come together at once, even rarer for outsiders to grace us with their presence. I saw faces that I did not recognize, men clad in unfamiliar clothing, bearing crests that signaled their residence in a town. I had never set foot within the walls of a town, though I'd often dreamed of breathing the free town air and seeing what wonders must lay within the stone walls of such a place. Undoubtedly, the townsmen must have come to pay homage to the Baron, who used the Harvest festival to make his presence felt in Sameneimer. At the time, I had no sense of how far the Baron's estates extended, though I later learned through hard experience that every inch of ground within a two days' walk of my village belonged in whole to him.

The one face I couldn't find belonged to my Ottilie. I saw her brother and asked him, as tactfully as possible, where his sister was, but he pled ignorance. I searched the throng, but after much effort, decided to widen my search. I tore through the narrow alleys of the village, looking for my girl, but to no avail. I had broken off the search in despair, when I heard a faint cry from the direction of the stables. Had I only dismissed this sound as the wind, perhaps I would be married, at home, as my wife and I cared for our children. Only at least one of them likely would not be mine.