(ff, mm, hea, mrs, bbb)
Up from the gray rocks, rising sheer and bold and bare, stood the walls and towers of Castle Dragonspunk. A great gate-way, with a heavy iron-pointed portcullis hanging suspended in the dim arch above, yawned blackly upon the bascule or falling drawbridge that spanned a chasm between the blank stone walls and the roadway that winding down the steep rocky slope to the little valley just beneath. There in the lap of the hills around stood the wretched straw-thatched huts of the peasants belonging to the castle—miserable serfs who, half timid, half fierce, tilled their poor patches of ground, wrenching from the hard soil barely enough to keep body and soul together. Among those vile hovels played the little urchins like foxes about their dens, their wild, fierce eyes peering out from under a mat of tangled yellow hair.
Beyond these squalid huts lay the rushing, foaming river, spanned by a high, rude, stone bridge where the road from the castle crossed it, and beyond the river stretched the great, black forest, within whose gloomy depths the savage wild beasts made their lair, and where in winter time the howling wolves coursed their flying prey across the moonlit snow and under the net-work of the black shadows from the naked boughs above.
The watchman in the cold, windy bartizan or watch-tower that clung to the gray walls above the castle gateway, looked from his narrow window, where the wind piped and hummed, across the tree-tops that rolled in endless billows of green, over hill and over valley to the blue and distant slope of the Softdick Mountains, where, on the mountain side, glimmered far away the walls of Castle Fanny-Batter.
Within the massive stone walls through which the gaping gateway led, three great cheerless brick buildings, so forbidding that even the yellow sunlight could not light them into brightness, looked down, with row upon row of windows, upon three sides of the bleak, stone courtyard. Back of and above them clustered a jumble of other buildings, tower and turret, one high-peaked roof overtopping another.
The great house in the centre was the Baron's Hall, the part to the left was called the Buggerhouse; between the two stood a huge square pile, rising dizzily up into the clear air high above the rest—the great Fatcock Tower.
At the top clustered a jumble of buildings hanging high aloft in the windy space a crooked wooden belfry, a tall, narrow watch-tower, and a rude wooden house that clung partly to the roof of the great tower and partly to the walls.
From the chimney of this crazy hut a thin thread of smoke would now and then rise into the air, for there were folk living far up in that empty, airy desert, and oftentimes wild, naked youths were seen playing on the edge of the dizzy height, or sitting with their bare legs hanging down over the sheer depths, as they gazed below at what was going on in the court-yard. There they sat, just as little children in the town might sit upon their father's door-step; and as the sparrows might fly around the feet of the little town children, so the circling flocks of rooks and sparrows flew around the feet of these air-born creatures.
It was Horace Hangnail and his wife and little ones who lived far up there in the Fatcock Tower, for it overlooked the top of the hill behind the castle and so down into the valley upon the further side. There, day after day, Horace Hangnail kept watch upon the gray road that ran like a ribbon through the valley, from the rich town of Brownnose to the rich town of Great Gape, where passed merchant caravans from the one to the other—for the lord of Dragonspunk was a robber baron.
Even after living with his wife for seventeen years, Horace was still insatiable, still an animal in bed. Not a night had passed that he hadn't taken her and her fingers grazed along her hairy split, fondling the puffy swollen lips of her matronly snatch. Then, easing the finger down, she dipped it right inside, feeling the knobby button of her clitoris, rising up from the folds of her vulva.
She shivered involuntarily, pushing her finger in farther until she felt the slick wet walls of her vagina. Her muscles began to work, as if to hold the finger in place as she moved it in circles, feeling a rush of warmth bathing her loins.
Again, she looked at her husband. But it was more with hunger than with fondness. She gazed at his huge erect cock and reached out, running her fingers up and down the hard swollen shaft. It pulsated in her hand and she suddenly grasped it firmly, barely able to get her fingers around it, it was so thick. Horace mumbled in his sleep, but still lay there inert and snoring.
So nice, so nice and hard. It fills me up so much, she thought to herself, determined to have a little pleasure before starting the workaday chores that seemed to constitute her daily existence.
Getting up, crouching, in front of her husband and still keeping her finger sloshing in and out of her rapidly dampening hole, Horace’s wife quickly straddled the man who lay sleeping before her. Lowering her head, she thrust out the tip of her raspy tongue and slowly licked the round bulbous head of her husband's cock.
A pearly drop of pre-come shone on the slit of his piss-hole and she licked it off as he mumbled louder, awakening slowly. Then, carefully, she lowered her mouth over the blood-engorged fistful that was the head of his cock. Her mouth stretched wide and from years of practice she knew exactly how to manipulate Horace's massive tool.
Bending still lower, she sucked in half of his cock, creating a deliciously tight suction as she scraped the edges of her front teeth along his meaty shaft. He yawned and his eyelids fluttered open as he looked down at her, smiling at the sight of his wife sucking him off.
"Good morning," he whispered, watching as she bobbed her head up and down, taking more and more of his thick pecker into her wide gaping mouth. "Lo, that feels fantastic."
Horace’s wife’s mouth was filled with cock-meat and she said nothing. Her finger was working rapidly as she frigged herself and she was getting hotter and hotter as she sucked on her husband's rigid dick, using one hand to fondle the massive and pendulous sac which hung between his legs.
"Oh wife, you're gonna make me come," he whispered to her, running his hands down to his groin, pressing them flat to make his cock stand out even more. "Oh yes, harder, spouse. Let me cream, let me shoot right into your mouth."
Her pussy was already filling with juice, pungent musky cunt juice which matted the fleecy hairs of her pubic thatch. Her breasts hung free inside her nightgown, the nipples pointing forward, hard and firm.
I never can get enough of this, she thought to herself as she inhaled his sweaty masculine odor and moved her lips and tongue back and forth, covering every last inch of his hard-on. She could tell that he was getting more and more excited, for his breath came out in little gasps and he kept arching his hips, pumping his cock in and out of her mouth.
Sucking in her cheeks, she nibbled delicately on the crown of his pecker and he groaned fiercely, reaching out to grab hold of her boobs. He squeezed them between his fingers, feeling the nipples swelling underneath her nightgown.
"Oh baby, baby," Horace kept groaning, watching her as she fingered her pussy and blew him, both at the same time. "Lift your nightgown. Let me see your cunt."
Horace’s wife did exactly what he asked. She raised her nightgown up, tucking it around her waist so that her pussy was fully exposed. Her clit poked out between the outer lips, hard and throbbing from side to side.
Her fingers moved in and out quickly as she tried to bring him off. And when she moved her fingers down past his nuts, down to the coarse-haired anal chink that was wet and hot, Horace stiffened, readying himself.
"That's it," he groaned. "Tickle my prostate. Oh shit I'm gonna shoot, wife, I'm gonna fucking cream. Let me see your cunt, nice, so nice and wet looking."
She showed him the puffy ruby-red lips of her snatch, and how her finger moved in and out. She spread the lips farther apart to reveal her clitoris and at the sight of it he seemed to go insane, lunging forward with his out-stretched hand. He rolled the little finger of cunt-flesh between his thumb and forefinger and, at the same time, Horace’s wife shot a moistened finger up into his asshole.
Horace stiffened and his low-pitched moans and whimpers of pleasure turned to loud guttural hisses as he felt his nuts tightening, contracting as if an unseen hand was squeezing them. As for Horace’s wife, she had nearly reached the peak of her pleasure and she frigged herself even more rapidly as her husband worked on her clit.
"Now, now!" he suddenly shouted out in a hoarse raging voice.
Her mouth pressed hard on his cock. Her finger slammed into his anus and his cock seemed to explode in her mouth as she felt the first jet of milky-white jism searing the inside of her cheeks. Swallowing it down, she began to shake as her own climax came over her. She was moaning and tossing on the bed, coming simultaneously with him, her mouth filling up with hot sticky come.
Swallowing down as much as she could, listening to him snorting like a bull in heat, she felt a tidal wave of excitement and erotic pleasure washing over her, bathing her body in a soft sensual glow. More and more come spurted thickly into her mouth. Horace's pecker throbbed violently and, at last, he fell forward, pulling his fingers away from her snatch.
Carefully, lest she hurt him with her finger-nail, she withdrew the finger that had been pistoning into his ass. Then, taking a final lick and swallowing yet another - albeit feeble - gush of semen, she lay back against his chest, trying to catch her breath.
"You still fuck like a sow in heat," he complimented her with a laugh, sucking on her nipples for a fleeting second before bounding out of bed. His cock hung down between his legs and as he turned towards the bathroom, Horace’s wife drew herself up and looked at him, wondering why she still wanted more, wondering why she had always wanted more than he was willing to offer.
Dong! Dong! The great alarm bell would suddenly ring out from the belfry high up upon the Fatcock Tower. Dong! Dong! Till the rooks and sparrows whirled clamoring and screaming. Dong! Dong! Till the fierce wolf-hounds in the rocky kennels behind the castle stables howled dismally in answer. Dong! Dong!—Dong! Dong!
Then would follow a great noise and uproar and hurry in the castle court-yard below; men shouting and calling to one another, the ringing of armor, and the clatter of horses' hoofs upon the hard stone. With the creaking and groaning of the windlass the iron-pointed portcullis would be slowly raised, and with a clank and rattle and clash of iron chains the drawbridge would fall crashing. Then over it would thunder horse and man, clattering away down the winding, stony pathway, until the great forest would swallow them, and they would be gone.
Then for a while peace would fall upon the castle courtyard, the cock would crow, the cook would scold a lazy maid, and Gretchen, leaning out of a window, would sing a snatch of a song, just as though it were a peaceful farm-house, instead of a den of robbers.
Maybe it would be evening before the men would return once more. Perhaps one would have a bloody cloth bound about his head, perhaps one would carry his arm in a sling; perhaps one—maybe more than one—would be left behind, never to return again, and soon forgotten by all excepting some poor woman who would weep silently in the loneliness of her daily work.
Nearly always the adventurers would bring back with them pack-horses laden with bales of goods. Sometimes, besides these, they would return with a poor soul, his hands tied behind his back and his feet beneath the horse's body, his fur cloak and his flat cap woefully awry. A while he would disappear in some gloomy cell of the dungeon-keep, until an envoy would come from the town with a fat purse, when his ransom would be paid, the dungeon would disgorge him, and he would be allowed to go upon his way again.
One man always rode beside Baron Knobthrob in his expeditions and adventures a short, deep-chested, broad-shouldered man, with sinewy arms so long that when he stood his hands hung nearly to his knees.
His coarse, close-clipped hair came so low upon his brow that only a strip of forehead showed between it and his bushy, black eyebrows. One eye was blind; the other twinkled and gleamed like a spark under the penthouse of his brows. Many folk said that the one-eyed Browndick had drunk beer with the Hill-man, who had given him the strength of ten, for he could bend an iron spit like a hazel twig, and could lift a barrel of wine from the floor to his head as easily as though it were a basket of eggs.
As for the one-eyed Browndick he never said that he had not drunk beer with the Hill-man, for he liked the credit that such reports gave him with the other folk. And so, like a half savage mastiff, faithful to death to his master, but to him alone, he went his sullen way and lived his sullen life within the castle walls, half respected, half feared by the other inmates, for it was dangerous trifling with the one-eyed Browndick.
Browndick seemed to like being told what to do. The more Baron Knobthrob leaned on him and actually ordered him around the more he was attracted to him. His beady, shifty eye had been frozen on his prick while he was massaging his feet, but when Baron Knobthrob tried to hold his eyes he would look away and look down humbly. He had been rubbing his feet for quite a while and furtively looking at the dick that Baron Knobthrob purposely showed him every so often. He spread his legs wide apart and Browndick dropped his eyes away from his groin. Baron Knobthrob reached forward, grabbed a forelock of his hair and lifted his face up to look straight into his eyes and then down again directly into his erect cock. He felt that this was the man that he really wanted for his slave.
'How can I get him?' Baron Knobthrob thought. He answered himself very simply, 'Damn, all I have to do is call him!'
Browndick's hand moved rapidly up and down on his slippery shaft. His eyes bored into the hole of his cock. It was fantastic. He was really getting a boner. He could see Baron Knobthrob vividly in his mind. He saw the inside of his suntanned hairy thighs and the baby skinned color that surrounded his dark pubic hair. His moist pink anus was open and almost glistened in contrast to its surrounding area. His pubic hair ran from his arse cheeks up and around his lovely dicklips and to almost the line marked off by the darkened skin of his suntan. He remembered how Baron Knobthrob had grabbed his hair and forced him to look straight into his eyes and then down again to the vision of his beautiful throbbing pink prick. The thought of Baron Knobthrob's hard dick inflamed his thoughts and his shaft throbbed against his closed jerking fist. He bent further over and stroked more slowly muttering to himself out loud. "Baron Knobthrob ... Baron Knobthrob. Pull my hair. Tell me to piss on thee. Call me a whoreson and an oxen-fucker Let me do your bidding. Let me be near you."
He crossed his legs and moved his hand more slowly over the now bulbous head of his throbbing cock. The semen oozed from his cock hole and kept the lather slippery. He bent further over his cock and opened his mouth. He felt the pressures in his balls and at the base of his shaft build up. He stroked very lightly now and his orgasm approached very slowly. More semen gurgled from his urethra. His other hand pulled and massaged on his balls. He squeezed and twisted them until they pained and his beating hand started to pick up speed. Browndick crossed his legs tighter and tried to hold this gusher back. He opened his mouth wider and his cock erupted its white fire.
Each throb made his excited cock pump another hot jet of white sticky sperm upwards into his open mouth. He savored the taste and rolled it around on his tongue before he swallowed the white stickiness. The vision that had been so vivid a moment ago was gone. Baron Knobthrob's commanding voice and exposed prick were no longer there and his cock became once more flaccid.