Monday, 18 January 2016

Blue Monday

Every Monday I post a wicked excerpt for your entertainment!

And this Monday it is - it HAS to be - an excerpt featuring my very own Goblin King, from filthy fairy tale Named and Shamed.

This is, btw, pretty mucky. You have been warned.


Humiliation-junkie Tansy has fallen into the clutches of the Elder Witch and has become her housemaid. Now the witch has a visitor...

So that was how I spent my days as scullion to the Elder Tree Witch. Until one night the fishes’ song gave a prediction I’d never heard before:

What does the morrow bring?
Golden sun, blackberries ripen, the Brenin rides by -
This we sing.
   
Neither the witch nor her sons remarked on the forecast at the time, but the next day I was out at the front of the cottage, feeding the chickens, when I heard a bestial snort behind me and I looked round. And there he was.
  
I really don’t see how he’d managed to sneak up on me, riding a big horse like that. It was a black stallion, with an arched neck and a mane like rough silk that was hung with tiny silver bells. The Brenin was dressed entirely in black too — a hodgepodge of fashion stolen from history. Mr. Darcy boots, a long Victorian riding coat, biker leathers on his legs and a belted medieval shirt embroidered down the front — all topped off with a black half-mask in the form of a skull. Behind the skull’s eye-sockets his eyes glinted. His hair was a dead white and it hung down as far as his elbows, while his skin, where it showed, was the colour of long-buried bone. Frankly, he looked like a manga villain, and he should have been risible anywhere outside of a convention auditorium . . . but he wasn’t. I could feel reality crinkling up around him, like cellophane exposed to heat.
  
As I stared, the horse reached down, snatched up one of the chickens and ate it, bones and feathers crunching in its teeth with a noise like a packet of crisps.
  
“Lady,” I said through dry lips. I didn’t dare raise my voice. But I didn’t have to. She stepped out from the cottage and strode toward the rider, wiping her hands on her apron.
  
“Oh, Brenin! Such an honour you pay me! Are you hunting today?”
  
He switched his attention to her, his thin lips twitching in a smile. “My Hounds rest at the moment, Grandmother. I thought I’d call in at the house of my favourite beldame and see how she is keeping.”
  
I noted that the moment he opened his mouth, the rest of the chickens bolted back into their ruined hut, though there was nothing unpleasant about his voice that I could discern. It was a cool, dry, well-spoken voice, and it somehow made me think he was used to giving orders.
  
“Well! I am well!” she cackled merrily, practically dancing on the spot. “These old bones are still strong. You must stop a while and break bread with me.”
  
“Willingly, Grandmother.”      
  
 “Quick, skivvy!” She signalled to me and I came nervously around the front of the horse to join her. The animal snorted at me in a disparaging way and pawed the rock with a silver-shod hoof, the bells strung in its mane making a shivery noise. “On your elbows and knees,” she commanded me, nodding at a spot below the Brenin’s boot. “So that my lord may alight.”

Nervous though I was, disobedience didn’t even occur to me. I was well-trained by this point. I put down my pot and sank into position as a mounting block for him, bracing my back. His booted foot was hard and he didn’t spare me his weight. I let out a little gasp of relief as his feet finally struck the dirt.
  
“Will you have beer, my Brenin? Wine? Milk?”
  
“Wine. But first I would relieve myself after the ride.”
  
“Of course. Skivvy!”
  
 I knelt up. At first I didn’t realise what was expected of me. She signalled impatiently for me to face the Brenin, with his high boots and long legs. I noticed he wore a knife at his belt and the hollow horn of a ram, chased in gold, and that he had a riding crop with a thick stock thrust into his left boot. He was popping the crotch studs of his leathers.
  
“Open your mouth, girl!” the witch screeched.
  
A blowjob? That was no hardship, I thought. He was hot in his creepy way, and he’d make a welcome change from the three grotesque witch-spawn. As he revealed a smooth cock, full and curved but not yet erect, I licked my lips expectantly and set them in a welcoming pout.
  
“Open! You want him to piss all over your face?”
  
 My eyes widened as realisation hit me. My heart clenched and blood rushed to my face, masking my freckles. After everything that had happened to me, everything I’d submitted to, I still found it hard to believe anyone could expect this. It made me feel dizzy. I felt a twinge between my legs too: shock manifesting as arousal. I looked up into his face, as he stepped in and I opened my mouth. He smelled of saffron, and rain upon dust, and his expression was unreadable. But he must have felt my involuntary tremble as, taking my jaw in his hand, he fed his elegant ivory cock between my lips and over my tongue, and set his legs a little apart.
    
I took his cock as far back in my mouth as I could, telling myself it was no different than necking a pint of beer, and the further back the less I would taste it. I was sort of right. Except it was hot. And not beer. In fact it tasted like honey – one of those strong, dark honeys collected from arid pine forests. As the flood commenced, tears brimmed in my eyes, making his form waver above me. I’d been pissed on by those two cops — long ago it seemed now — but never pissed in. Never reduced to such humiliation on such an intimate and primal level. I couldn’t breathe, he filled my throat so. And my belly. I couldn’t do anything but open my throat and swallow it all down, and it seemed to take him forever to empty his bladder. His fingers were cool where they held me, cool where they brushed the hair back from my face so he could watch my eyes. I couldn’t hide from him the emotions that battered me — the revulsion, the abject submission, the desperate desire to perform well, my slowly growing panic as my air ran out. I was going to gag soon. I was going to choke and wrench away. I would end up with his hot spray all over my face, as he held my hair to keep me in place — and the thought set me burning.
  
At the very last moment, just before fear became reality, the Brenin pulled out. Not all the way, but enough for me to snatch a gasp of air. And to recognise part of the cause of my distress. His cock was no longer entirely soft and slender, but pumped fat with arousal. He used it in a thorough exploration of my mouth, making sure I tasted the dregs before he released me properly at last. I was crying properly now, salt tears running down and mixing with the bitter-sweet drops on my lips as I licked them.
  
 I could no longer look up at his face.
  
“I like her.” He stroked his cock idly and it bounced to full erection between his long fingers. “Those eyebrows — even her lashes — they’re like flame. She’s a rarity. And she’s very receptive.”
  
“Yes, she is. Try her cunny, my Brenin, if it pleases you. ‘
  
 “I’ll have her rear entrance, for preference.”
  
“Of course. It will be quite ready for you.” Grasping the long leather rope, she pulled the butt-plug from my anus with no effort at all.
  
He pulled the riding crop from his boot, wielding it in the hand that was not busy caressing his stiff shaft. The whip, roughly rounded in cross-section, was much thicker than a modern one, though it tapered to a springy point. I had a nasty feeling it was made from some sort of dried animal pizzle. Contemplatively, he poked and slapped at my breasts, the muted sting exciting my nipples to points.
“Face down,” he said. “Grip your ankles.”
  
I obeyed, lowering my face and shoulders to the ground and reaching behind me to grip my calves. My ass was exhibited upward, pointing into the air. The Brenin walked round behind me, flicked my skirt up with his whip and surveyed the view presented. I could feel my asshole, pliant and open, oozing grease where the butt-plug had been pulled from it. He set the narrow end of his crop across the hole, pressing slightly. My sphincter fluttered, dilating. He tapped it softly then with the very point of the crop, and I felt my anus spasm, ripples of pleasure flaring out across my ass.
  
 “Very good,” he breathed. Crouching down behind me, he fed the thick head of his cock to my waiting hole. “You may speak,” he told me indulgently, as he impaled my ass.




2 comments:

t'Sade said...

One of my favorite books of all time, you know that?

billierosie said...

Wonderful, as always Janine, I really enjoyed this!