The Cave Of Peril A Grailcock Tale

The Cave of Peril: A Sidequest of The Chronicles of Grailcock

~ In which Sir Cedric of Thistlecock, human vessel of the divine Grailcock, along with the maiden Spurt (formerly), and trusty steed Stickyprance, seek to retrieve the Holy Hand Grenade of Whoremoans from The Cave of Peril.

~ And in which Sir Cedric vanquishes (but, does he? reeallly?) the Black Knight at Cameltoe Chasm.

~ And in which the Grailcock and the Blackcock meet within the walls of Spurt... That is, within Spurt's walls.

~ And in which we learn that just about any conflict can be solved through divine grace and buckets of cum.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Black Knight

The wind at Mount Miteehorne's summit did not howl so much as it moaned--long, high, and with a hint of teeth. Stickyprance huffed upward with labored dignity, his saddle slick from both effort and Spurt, who sat side saddle across his back, her constant arousal from the swaying and shifting beneath her making her the wettest of passengers.

Sir Cedric led the way, his boots squelching against the sacred squishmoss, his thighs screaming from chafe and prolonged chastity. He carried no sword. Only the burden of the Grailcock, and its divine pressure against its armored codpiece.

Their quest? A weapon of great consequence.

Deep beneath Castle Cunnilingua, behind chambers that had only been revealed after the

160th

maiden climaxed upon the Grailcock, a new door had opened. A chamber untouched since the First Cum Flood. Within it, a pedestal empty and waiting. Throbbing faintly with expectation.

The inscription had been simple. Scrawled in lipstick:

RETURN THE GRENADE.

BRING THE MOAN.

ONLY THEN SHALL THE FINAL PASSAGE BE OPENED.

The Holy Hand Grenade of Whoremoans. Forged in a priestess's orgasm and blessed by a choir of queefing nuns. Lost for centuries.

But the maidens of Castle Cunnilingua were persistent and dutiful in their research, and had directed them to search out The Cave of Peril. In it, it was written, the Holy Hand Grenade was said to be guarded by something only described as deceptively cute, profoundly deadly, and very soft.

And so, now, they climbed.

The sun tried to push through the mist, but was repeatedly frustrated. No sun today, thank you... Not here. Not above Cameltoe Chasm, nor upon The Cave of Peril, where, if the myths are to be believed the sun doesn't shine.

Yet, in the distance, far beyond the chasm, Spurt spotted the cave parting between two rising hills, rose quartz steaming with some internal heat among the snow frosted swells.

She inhaled. Eyes widening at the sight.

"Hmmm... There seems to be more promise than peril in that," she said, her voice dropping into the register she normally kept for rituals and prophecies.

Cedric helped her dismount. The Grailcock shifted beneath his robes, catching her awkwardly between her legs, as she descended. Cedric blushed and looked off past her shoulder hoping she hadn't noticed, but of course she had. She was most familiar with Cedric's divine appendage. Spurt looked up coyly into Cedric's blushing cheeks, "Awww... now who's this welcoming me to Cameltoe Chasm?" she teased, and swung her leg back over the shaft and onto the ground as if she'd been perched on an oversized bicycle.

Stickyprance stared at Cedric and rolled his eyes in exasperation... seemingly his constant expression when it came to Cedric and his naivete, even since it was discovered that Cedric was the bearer of The Grailcock.

Spurt took his hand and pulled eagerly to examine the rope bridge sagging across the gorge..

She bounced and swayed as she moved forward, pearing cautiously into the plummeting depths and rocky crags below.

"None shall pass!" Boomed a voice through the mist. Cedric's spine shook.His teeth rattled. Stickyprance's ears lay flat. Spurt's quim quivered.

She stopped suddenly. Then smiled.

"Oh. Now that sounds promising too... and much more proximate!"

The fog shifted, and from it stepped a figure-- tall, dark, naked, and damp with either the mist or a perpetual sheen of sweat. It was hard to tell. His armored codpiece, his only adornment, jutting forward with a presence that wed both threat and desire into a single throbbing unit.

Cedric stammered, but stepped ahead of Spurt. "We... ahem. We are on a holy quest! We seek the Horny Hand Grenade of Whoremoans. You shall step aside foul knight! I bear the authority of the Grailcock!"

A pause..

"Grailcock? Never heard of 'im! Be off now!"

Cedric blinked. "Never...? What... But it's sacred! Technically. I mean--there's a prophecy! Erm... and a note. Wait, I have it right here... somewhere!" as he began fishing through Stickyprance's saddle bag.

Spurt pushed past Cedric with a noticeable impatience that Cedric completely failed to notice, her breath shallow but her eyes wide. She looked at the Black Knight like he was something she'd already dreamed about, yet could find no reference of in her dream journal.

"Show him, Cedric" she said, attempting a tone of indignation, but failing as her eyes choked on the thought of what stood beneath the Black Knight's codpiece.

"Go ahead, Cedric! Show him the Grailcock!"

The Black Knight didn't move. He didn't have to. His codpiece did the speaking. It pulsed, somehow, beneath polished steel. As if the air around it fled, bending away from it.

Spurt twitched.

Her knees shifted. Her hand hovered before her, unsure if it should be protecting or preparing.

"Go on," she breathed. "Show him the Cock of Covenant."

Cedric fumbled beneath his robes. Straps. Buckles. Muffled frustration.

But the Black Knight moved first.

The codpiece was thrown from his groin like a boxer's robe from their shoulders.

It hit the earth with a dolorous ring.

And there it was. Adorned only in glory.

The Blackcock. It needed no note. Or if it did it would simply fake one itself... and the secretary would accept it, unquestioningly.

Oh, Spurt saw... the world fell away.

It wasn't just the size, nor the shape. It was the presence, the weight of the obsidian and mahogany staff. It neither hung nor stood. It occupied space like it had always been, and everything else was only now catching up.

Dark. Heavy. Still.

Spurt's breath hitched in her throat at its throbbing inevitability.

The shaft was deep crimson brown, rich and alive in a way that felt older than the human form. It shone like a tin lamp, defined by the light that bent around it, and the memory of pending worship. Its mass held heat from the coals oh Hell meant to warm both the innocent and the damned.

"Damn!" Murmured Spurt.

It waited.

The veins ran deep beneath the surface, rooted, buried secrets the body only tells at night. The crown swelled at the tip, wide and clean and certain it had welcomed passage anywhere it desired.

A single bead accumulated at the slit, refracting a dark rainbow.

Spurt's thighs clenched, homesick. Worried. Longing Her cunt clenched with the force of earnest prayer.

Her hand hovered at the folds of her gown, then lowered. Gripped fabric. Then nothing. She needed to hold something. Herself. The moment. Anything.

She didn't think of its claiming, she thought of it filling. Of being opened. Truly. Finally. The ache of capacity unmet.

She imagined her hips adjusting around it, her cunt convulsing with ferocious welcome, her breath stopping. Imagining that unnameable moment when stretch becomes submission, and submission becomes devotion.

Her lips parted.

Her mouth wanted to say something. But her cunt was already saying it louder.

"That's not a cock," she whispered.

"That's blessed damnation."

She did not blink.

Her eyes held on the cock like she was trying to tame a cobra and hadn't realized she was already under its spell. Her jaw slackened. Saliva gathered at the corner of her mouth, then began to fall--softly, rhythmically--like she was leaking from the wrong end.

Finally, behind her, a clang. A sproing. A soft, virginal gasp from Cedric as he finally responded to the threat before them. Well... him. Threat before him. As written, Spurt saw only promise...

The world tugged at her awareness.

Barely.

Her hand reached back, aimless, fingers splayed like antennae--searching. Groping without thought.

"Show him, Cedric," she said again, her voice reedy, high, slipping backward into something soft and spoiled. "Show him the big ol' Grailcock... ohhh nooo... whatever will happen when they meat in battle...?"

Her breath hitched. Her hips twitched. She drooled again.

"Are they gonna thwack together?" Her tone wavered between prophecy and preschool. "Get all rubby-dubby until they spew their cummy-wummies?"

Her hand found it.

Hot. Huge. Pulsing.

Her fingers closed around the familiar head of the Grailcock, the sunlight piercing the flood of dark desire. She pulled it forward, her champion and savior.

She didn't turn to look at Cedric.

She didn't need to, the cock was coming forward.

And she prayed she was too.

She felt the Grailcock under her arm, rubbing up against her like a protective mastiff. She dropped to one knee like a coach prepping her star player, hand wrapped firmly around it, holding it to her face, now looking hard into its single unblinking eye which offered a gleaming drop of precum. Helpfully, it hoped.

"You're gonna do great, baby," she whispered to the Grailcock, stroking it like it could hear her (it could). "You're the chosen. You're divine. You're... thick with destiny."

The Grailcock twitched in her grip.

She smiled, proud. That twitch meant readiness. That twitch meant certainty.

But her eyes drifted.

They couldn't help it.

Across the rope bridge, the Blackcock loomed--silent, glistening, monumental. And there she was again, Spurt the worshipper, reduced to something softer. Something

hungrier

. Her mouth hung open. Needy.

She tore her gaze away--back to Cedric's cock.

Focus.

"You're the Grailcock," she whispered, more to herself. "You are the answer. The swollen purple tip of salvation. You've got this. You are

blessed

!"

Another glance.

The Blackcock seemed closer now. Or bigger. Imminent.

"Oh fuck me," she whispered. Almost a prayer.

She stroked the Grailcock gently, thumb circling the crown with reverence and a little confusion. "But look at

him

. He's... he's just...

so much!

"

The Grailcock flexed again in her hand.

"Oh, don't get jealous," she said quickly. "I

love

you. I do. You're divine. You're--you're my home cock. But

he's

a monument. A meat monolith. He's the kind of cock that makes girls forget their own names..." and under her breath, "and where home is."

She leaned in, lips brushing the soft underbelly of the Grailcock, whispering.

"But you're prophecy," she whispered. "You are the one that comes... to completion."

She kissed the tip. Slow. Loving. A benediction. A quiet slurp of precum pooling on her lips, the electric tingle reminding her of their connection, of its divinity.

Cedric gasped above her.

"Now get in there," she said, patting its hanging sack like an encouraging pat on the ass. "Go joust your way to destiny!"

Then under her breath--one last glance at the Blackcock--

"...or at least cum all over it!"

The Duel at Cameltoe Chasm

Spurt crouched low at the mouth of the bridge, one hand planted in the soft moss, the other trembling against her bush. Her breath was shallow. Her eyes shone.

Her boys were about to meet. For that was what the Blackcock was... already. Defacto. One of her boys.

Cedric stepped onto the swaying bridge cock-first, the Grailcock radiant--unwrapped and eager, slobbering like a golden retriever rabid for mating. Cedric's posture uncertain, but his shaft sure. It led him like a battle standard, flushed and reverent, every twitch, throb, drip a battle hymn.

Across from him, the Black Knight moved like gravity bowed to him. The Blackcock he served was pure presence, deep and dark and knowing as if it had clocked the centuries and swallowed the future. Its length shone with wet defiance, already streaked with the kind of precum that smelled like victory.

Spurt let out a soft, strangled whimper. "I love the smell of precum in the morning!"

And the cocks met, crown to crown!

The first sounds of the war were soft. One echoing clap--flesh meeting flesh, like a secret handshake between boxing gods.

Cedric gasped at the first contact. Electric. The Grailcock pulsed.

The Black Knight smiled, slow, experienced, and knowing.

They moved like fencers--shaft to shaft--testing angles, seeking weakness, driven not by hatred but by the ancient language of mutual girth. Cedric jabbed forward, uncertain but inspired, the Grailcock leading like a banner in search of wind. The Black Knight countered smoothly, his own weapon coiling to meet it in a low, wet parry that sang against Cedric's skin.

There was a rhythm. A tempo. Cedric's cock feinted left, veered right, then met its match in a meaty cross-guard of veined defiance.

Their hips shifted, circling. Their cocks clashed again--louder this time, a wet slap echoing through the gorge like a bell struck for mass.

The Grailcock glowed faintly now, aureoled in sacred lube.

The Blackcock gleamed darker, thicker, heat rising off it in waves.

Cedric pivoted, guided by instinct rather than training, thrusting high--but the Black Knight caught him, cock-to-cock, their shafts crossing like sabers. He pushed back, and Cedric slid one step, then another, the rope bridge groaning beneath the weight of their blessed duel.

There was no choreography. Only momentum. Purpose.

The fight became a dance. A ritual. A fucking.

And oh, the music of it: the slap of shaft, the drag of skin, the glistening

squelch

of sacred friction. They drove forward and ground back, each cock seeking dominance, but finding instead a strange, divine harmony. Two relics of prophecy, testing each other not to defeat--but to recognition.

And somewhere behind them, Spurt moaned, "Ohhh fuck me sideways, it's like Swan Lake but with dicks."

Her fingers circled her swollen clitoris, pulled at her throbbing nipples. Encouraging. "Go, Cedric... Go!" she started to cheer, eyes unable to move from the sight of the two cocks sawing back and forth at each other.

Cedric's cock curved up, seeking contact but finding only light and air, exposing its weakness... It always reached for the light... (unless, of course, there was a better alternative).

The Black Knight's cock met it mid-arc.

Smack.

A wet, rich sound. Shaft against shaft, weight and consequence "Oh, sweet boy," Spurt whispered, eyes glassy. "Hold your ground. Let him feel your purpose."

Another grind. Another clash.

They met side to side now, their lengths aligned, pushing, sliding, struggling in sacred friction. Pre-spend smeared between them--warm, thick, abundant. Their balls met too, slapping with rhythm, a language older than war.

Cedric moaned.

The Knight answered with a gasp of his own... He'd never faced an opponent so worthy. So girthy. So... so...

Spurt's fingers worked faster.

"That's it," she whispered. "You're not just fighting. You're witnessing. He will learn to worship... you will both..." Her fingers disappeared wetly into her own cave of promise.

They thrust.

Each motion was harder, wetter, full of something more than heat. Their shafts tangled like lovers fucking their way though an argument. Cedric pushed forward.

The Knight matched.

Precum stretched between them in ropes, luminous in the light, catching on skin like silk spun from prophecy.

The Grailcock trembled.

The Blackcock flexed.

Spurt shuddered--her breath caught like a hymn half-sung.

She dropped to her knees again, not in worship but in

witness.

"This doesn't look like fighting anymore..." she whispered with a knowing smile and plunging fingers. "I think the boys are becoming friends!"

The shafts slid--again, again--flesh dragging against flesh like tongues relearning communion after the fall of Babel.

"That's it boys!" she moaned.

"Give each other a little kiss!"

The pretense of a duel dissolved.

.

Two legendary cocks, once strangers, now moved as one, pulsing in mirrored time, pressing and withdrawing like paired lungs, like a shared prayer. Each thrust was an answer. Each grind, a vow. Pre-spend streaked between them like wet scripture, every drop a line in a sacred script written on skin.

And Spurt came.

Fingers buried. Nipple twisting. One long, howling orgasm that cracked out of her like thunder behind her teeth. She arched back, thighs soaked, mouth open wide as she

sobbed

through it, her entire body pulsing with the sacred energy of the duel.

She collapsed forward on the grass, twitching, panting.

And still, the warriors danced on.

Cedric faltered.

The Blackcock pressed him backward, step by step, until the ropes groaned beneath them and the bridge gave a soft, trembling sway. Cedric's heels scraped against the edge of the ledge--then he was off the bridge entirely, driven back to Spurt's side of the chasm.

Their cocks didn't break contact. They pulsed against each other like hearts trying to beat together.

Cedric's breath hitched. The Black Knight moaned.

The Grailcock trembled.

The Blackcock loomed.

And then...

Spurt lunged.

"Don't you DARE waste a single drop of that divine cum!" she cried, her voice shaking with devotion and demand. "You know how mad God gets!

Every sperm is sacred!

"

Her hands closed around them both--one pale, reverent palm for each shaft, soft fingers wrapping around the wet, gleaming meat like they were scrolls she was born to recite.

They grew in her grasp.

And she went down.

Mouth first, open and wet and ready, wrapping lips around the Grailcock's head like she was sealing a scroll with her throat. She sucked hard, blessing it. Pulling pre down its length like she was keeping holy oil from dripping onto the ground.

She moaned around it.

Then turned.

The Blackcock was thick, darker, and hotter. The contrast was impossible to ignore--her pale skin, flushed pink, against that shaft of living obsidian. It wasn't just the size. It was its

presence.

Its ancient history. She slurped the crown afraid it might vanish if not worshipped immediately.

And then she was back, double-fisting. Juggling holy relics. Spurt's body moved like a ship's altar in a storm, trembling with reverence and raw need. Her tits bounced, brushing against their shafts, pale and pink and swollen, smeared with pre-spend.

She tried to speak.

Words caught in her throat, muffled by cock.

"Mffg-grrhhk-thish ish... hhmm-so important..."

She buried her face again.

The Grailcock flexed.

The Blackcock pushed forward, further.

Spurt moaned louder, eyes fluttering, rolling back. She sucked one, stroked the other, then swapped... fast, desperate, reverent. Her hands slid over the slick flesh, spit and precum coating everything, her throat greedy for each sacred inch.

One cock against her cheek. One in her throat.

Her moans turned rhythmic. Measured.

She tried again to narrate, her voice breathless between sucks.

"Thish-thish ish for... for da

liturgy

..."

Balls slapped against her chin, rubbed over her eyes.

She gasped.

The Grailcock ballonned. The Blackcock swelled.

She moaned something high and garbled around the shaft in her throat. Her hands were soaked, her face glazed, her tits shining and dripping wet with precum's promise. Her body begged for more. For both of them.