A Tayle of Ye Olde Tymes

PREFACE:  The Feudal Era – a grand time for the privileged few! For them, advantages abounded. Wily peasants could and would curry favor with those lording over them. This whimsically archaic story presents GD readers with a peek not to be found in surviving annals.

---

A Tayle of Ye Olde Tymes

By F.E. COOPER

(with James Rozo’s bounteous assistance)

Market day. The village square bustled with peasants. Its smelly atmosphere, raucous with good cheer, was rent asunder by the rasp of an unshapely, tarnished bugle and the approaching clop of horse’s hooves.

“Him again,” Helga said, distracting her husband Danus from his banter with the weaver’s daughter. As the tooting drew nigh, Danus covered his ears.

“Hear ye, hear ye!” Hallyburt the herald bruited hoarsely in one direction. “Hear ye, hear ye!” in another. His volume drowned protests.

Danus yelled back, “We do! How might we not?”

“I am charged with a proclamation to read which,” he glared with rhetorical emphasis, “I must needs read for and to you ignorant lot!”

Someone tossed his way a none-too-dry dog turd. It missed but hit a mendicant priest’s upraised palm. “My first stigmata! I’m on my way! Heed the Word of…”

He was jostled over by the rush of those anxious whether coins might follow whatever the announcement was. The priest landed on a fresh steaming cowpie. Said nae more while contemplating celestial intent.

“HEAR YE!” bellowed the herald.

“Will ye get on with it! Myne corns be aching,” Helga complained, lifting her skirts.

“WHEREAS!”

“Whereas what?” Avron the baker snapped, impatient to sell his remaining rye buns.

The crowd rustled with annoyance.

“WHEREAS your liege lord, the Duke, Albrecht von Schitzelheim, of yon hill’s mighty stronghold hath deemed it seemly to increase his courtly ranks by two or so, and WHEREAS his need is appropriate to his exalted rank, and WHEREAS said rank entitles him to call upon ye, his devoted serfs, to offer forth for consideration suitable candidates, and WHEREAS his lordship is most discerning, it THEREFORE…”

“Finally,” Danus did not exactly whisper to those standing near.

“…follows that ye are commanded herewith and forth to present in these parts tomorrow morning at its midst, your comeliest lads on the verge of maturation in the generative area…” – Hallyburt the herald looked up to make the aside, “withstanding not any claims upon them by the clergy in yon monastery…” – he parenthesized, “except for those of corpulence dubbed porkers” – then continued, “…and which display small waists, bounteous buttocks, and flawless skin. Parents and guardians of lads selected for his lordship’s noble purposes…” – he waxed laconic – “…as pages will be recompensed with a coin of silver. Genuine silver, mind ye…”

“Hear ye that?” Avron’s jaw opened, “We have seen nothing more than copper coins since the last selection. I shall hie myneself hither to the Mill on the Floss where sons are learning to grind flour for myne ovens. The youngest, Bertram, as yet untrammeled, should net his proud father a goodly silver coin.”

“And we,” Helga nudged Danus, “must to our humble hovel to discover whether our Caspar, if undirtied, might meet the duke’s standard.”

“Thou canst not mean to bathe the lad? It might frighten him,” Danus spoke in disbelief, “or doeth damage to his nature of delicacy.”

“But husband myne, we must needs inspect and assure, surely.”

Other parents, nameless here but motivated by silver’s promise, undertook similar work that afternoon with age-appropriate sons. The shallow, slowly moving Floss, their village’s sole source of water had ne’er been so roiled as by parents and boys flailing noisily in protest at the efforts of being force-washed. Had there been a casual observer passing by, the sight would have astonished.

Howsoever, a pair of bloodshot eyes did bear stationery witness to the distressful melee.

Downstream, the mendicant priest, denominated Osbert the Unwise, was rinsing his tattered garment and himself, and thinking of his hunger. He took the hasty yet crafty decision to don his sopping, still spotted robe and to drip his way into the forest to search for the hollow tree in the cavity of which was said to live Endora the Witch of nigh-biblical legend.

Nigh unto nightfall, he found her scraggly being before a small fire roasting rats on a stick. The aroma ripped at his emptiness. “I pray from ye, good witch, a few morsels. I’ve eaten not in days.”

Her cackle cracked a pane in the glass of the small window set in the tree’s rotting trunk. “Hah! And hath ye anything in exchange?” she asked as she waved a shish-kabobbed rat his way.

“Knowledge of boys the size to fit yon empty cauldron.”

Saliva spewed from gaps among snaggled teeth. “Boys? Boys that have nae been snatched elsewise?”

“Aye, awesome hag,” he complimented. “Just giveth me a rat and myne knowledge will be thyne.”

*

He munched singed hair, cooked scrawn, and brittle bones. Every flavour of the bodily parts, inclusive of head, feet, and tail, prickled his taste buds and was dispatched down his gaping gullet. Thirst hit him hard thereafter. He must find something to drink.

Thus, a search.

Luck was with the man.

Inside the witch’s termite-ridden residence and neath the packed, dank straw of her mattress. Osbert found a corked half-bottle of some unlabeled, greenish, brackish brew. Desperate, he swigged a sufficiency to quench his need before it hit him that, rather, the brew was inflammatory and must be extinguished ere he die most horridly.

He now was figuratively on fire from a liquid.

Indeed, Death in its dark cloak was calling, scythe in hand.

Endora, having abandoned her visitor minutes before, heard naught of Osbert’s screams, for she had hightailed it toward the Floss and the deliciously naked boys described as on view.

They were not. Nary a one.

Angered, she flung herself about and, wheezing windily, hobbled full tilt toward the village. There, at least one lovely among the many could be snatched, hapless victim to her warty, clawlike grasps. So thought she.

Alack, no.

By her arrival, the sun had dropped below the dismal horizon. Darkness’s descent had sent indoors every peasant family. All had secured themselves in their hovels for the night.

Endora fumed and spat. Rustled her tatters and uttered imprecations. Realized defeat. Went home, found the mendicant’s body, cut him up for stew with her favourites – sprigs of witchbane, strands of poison ivy, a few tugs of sawgrass, and mushrooms and morels of venomous potency. After hours passed for proper braising, she thence ate voraciously saving his tendermost privates for her mastication’s final delights.

During digestion’s belches, she laid plans for the morrow. Not for her to risk being espied by villagers, who, pitchforks threatening, long before had banned her. She used an ancient uphill cavern of tunnel type to gain access to the lowest, least-known cellars of the duke’s decrepit stronghold, Fortress Schitzelheim, where she could sleep unnoticed.

*

Morning dawned. Cocks crowed all about.

Eventually, excitement rose in the village square with the arrival of families and observers. The boys to be on offer were a rosy-cheeked lot dressed in their best rags. Prods cajoled them to stand forward as, from high on the hill, the stuffy, puffy herald, Hallyburt, on horseback bugled the way for Duke Albrecht. The heavy-shouldered duke, handsomely cruel in appearance, felt his life force stir at the gathering’s progeny abiding anxiously.

Along the descending path, thoughts like drifting clouds took him to his former page boys, Harald and Crispin, just sold profitably to the trade for transport to the East. And to Elton, who failed to last, so was discarded. Albrecht had pushed into him too far too soon.

The quick-tempered exhilaration of dominance was a destructive force over which practice must needs lead to control, he reminded himself. As he rode more, he recalled from further back in time.

His memory reeled: In olden days, Albrecht’s father, Duke Damian, and those before him traditionally had returned used boys to their blameless fool parents to work muddy farmlands. Alas, troublesome embroilments grew therefrom!

Anyone presiding over such a domain had reason to presume fathers and brothers of parents on both sides would plumb with gladdened hearts the opened and accustomed but no longer wanted, ruddy boy butts. Some had, naturally.

Others struggled to meet no longer callow demands to be rutted oft more than daily. Wives, desirous of lesser wifely duties in bed, plied husbandly rears with willow rods as vigourously as to donkeys. One sang, “To ye duty, husband myne! Swive our lad well that he love us yet more.”

The ditty caught on.

Exhausted husbands sought relief from familial strain of overworked loins by appeal to their boys’ uncles, even from elder community widowers and wandering workers. Of the latter, one Olaf, who welcomed live-in employment with woodworker Fritzl as cranker of his lathe, turned out to have hanging from betwixt sturdy legs a tool of nigh-equine magnitude.

Fritzl took it to his limit multiple times prior to proposing that provision must be made for such bounty to be shared among villagers. A not entirely eleemosynary decision, Olaf’s propensity being that of a cheerfully merciless mudpath marauder.

“Gots to fuck me thys ass,” he religiously chanted ere dredging his boss.

The instinct of survival inspired Fritzl to make turnings of several circumferences, lengths, and scorings from forest trees and to trade them starting with the baker, Avron.

“Friend Avron,” he approached, “hast ye yet recollections of the fine cudgelings given our holes when apprenticed to learn our trades?”

“Aye, would that such favour from Heaven hath kept myne aperture attractive. Forsooth, advancing years have tolled a dirge upon myne parts. Nae man notices them these days.”

Fritzl confided, “I have one that will, but bread is needed to nourish him – and – I have made these products on myne lathe – I dub them dowels – to help ye and others establish worthiness to prepare for the good fellow, who be-eth known as Olaf the Horse-Hung. See here and fail not to use oil of olives.”

He ran out of breath.

Upon an instant’s consideration, Avron lifted his considerable nose, eyed the sky’s blue, blinked away tears, accepted two turnings for practice, and declared in shaking tones, “Take buns of sesame and loaves well-leavened of rye as many as Olaf mayeth consume. Send him hence, I beg.”

Trades similarly were made betwixt the woodworker and others of the peasantry. Olaf’s size and determination entered the ranks of village lore. Thus was picked up a hiatus-ridden, forgotten tradition which spilled from the elders’ generations into that of younger men. Keenness for doweling by wood and firmed-flesh members synchronized with ducal demands.

Albrecht’s thoughts of the past returned to his present and to the event at hand.

Ergo, what Albrecht sought, his subjects were anxious to provide. Coins, particularly of silver, merited promptings of boys to manifest shrugs of angelic innocence whence under view by the duke. The view he took of the assemblage required a dismount and a thoughtful stroll.

“Ah,” he said upon seeing the profile of the baker’s son, “…and who might thys be?” Darling boy, marionette thin, cutely befreckled.

Close up, full front, the boy’s shoulders under steady control of paternal hands, a clear soprano voice answered, “I be Bertram, son of Avron, sire. I can grind grist.”

“Aye, he can, lord.”

It will be his grist I’ll grind. Smiling after his cruel fashion, Albrecht moved on.

Albrecht greeted similarly the next two lads and dads before a pause of greater duration before a visage that would have stopped a Macedonian in his tracks. Resisting the urge to bestow kisses while stripping the boy on the spot, he asked, “Ye be of what name?

The blue-eyed, dark-browed, sandy-blond smiled, “I am called Caspar, sire, son of Danus who holds me still.”

“And why, I demand, do you do so, Danus?”

“Because, sire, Caspar is anxious to be chosen for the honour to serve as thyne page.”

Albrecht evinced suspicion, rumbled, “Doth he now?” 

“He doth most earnestly, lord,” Danus said with a blush. “If I mayest speak?”

“Ye may.”

“Allow me to turn and bend his body to present evidence,” Danus, sweeping aside rags, spoke with due deference, envisioning a silver coin. “Myne son’s rowndes be more beautiful than any in our village and hold in readiness a destination sure to meet thyne standards. Regard. He is doweled perfectly.”

“Bend no longer, Caspar. Remain thus in your father’s tender care for myne return.”

Boys named Godfrey, Drago, and Aleric allured variously but not with the sirenic bedazzlement of Piers, son of Otto, a falconer renowned for his skills with fearsome raptors. Piers, of yet diminutive size, flexed slender muscled limbs and chest, flashed ferret-fast dark eyes, flung about his head lustrous tresses of raven-bluish hair, and bucked lean loins with tantalizing promise.

A single blunt finger to an exposed, hardening nipple declared to Duke Albrecht he would strike within this Piers what one day would be called pay-dirt.

Otto presumed to promote his son’s candidacy, “My Piers is no jejune playtoy for any timid man, sir. He hath been trained in restraint resistance and hand-to-hand combat with boys his age and older. Of ye present day, he remains in wait for cockly endowelment by the man who canst conquereth him. Art thou perhaps he?”

Without word one, a coin of purest silver was pressed into Otto’s sweaty palm.

From a pouch no one noticed was drawn and locked about Pier’s neck a thin chain of silver tone. “Follow my lead boy, or be dragged.”

Similar were the fastenings behind recalcitrantly striding Piers of the lissome necks of Caspar and Bertram, their folks enriched by silver coins. Over the backs of the retreating, Schitzelheim-Fortress-bound group, Duke Albrecht purposefully tossed a purse jingling heavy with common-but-desirable copper coins.

Such was the ruckus that villagers rioting for one or more of the bestowal’s largesse forgot even their crude manners and groveled.

Standing apart, smug with silver wealth, parents Avron, Danus, and Otto looked at each other, Avron noting his confreres’ risen staffs. Opportunity for further enrichment entered his calculations. “Myne is a brood of slightly older boys, two in number yet young and pliant. Methinks that we might exchange – your silvers for nights of the week with one for each?”

*

The ducal bed chamber walls were draped with fabled tapestries of carnal delight depicting scenes of the god Jupiter deep in his boy, Ganymede. Caspar marveled. Bertram gasped. Piers deigned to close his eyes – for which behaviour he was roped, limbs widely spread, facing the great bed.

With his most mellow tone, Albrecht showed little Bertram Caspar’s dowel. “Pull it slightly and push it back. Now more, that he canst tell you that it feeleth bonny well.”

Caspar’s small voice hummed, “Myne dear father didst thus oftimes. Sayeth he that myne rear part must be worthy of his lordship. I long for more of same.”

“Oh,” Bertram pursed expressive lips. “Will one befit myne babyish hole?”

“Wettest this centermost digit of myne with thyne tongue that it mayeth treat and cure the malady of accursed virginity,” the duke persuaded in suave terms.

“A curse of the well-dreaded witch?” Bertram trembled.

“No, fyne boy. One only of thyne innocence. Feeleth these peregrinations and penetrations.”

Ohs transmuted to oohs and aahs, Casper whispering to Bertram mature promises of dowels to come. “Whence yours is placed and myne own replaced by one larger, we mayeth please our master as we displease the prisoner Piers.”

Their giggles released the bowstring of Albrecht’s attention, allowing it to aim at the well-splayed boy. Planning hapless Pier’s future, the huge man said, “Mark well these lads as they progress toward myne honours of intercourse.”

Sips of red wine and nibbles of tasty aged cheese amongst participants in the bedroom tempted Piers more than the hours of animated dalliance before him with plunging fingers and dowels and squeezed jackings of Albrecht’s massive tool by eager boy-hands. Hunger and thirst nagged at him as it might an abandoned cur.

After rummaging neath his bed, Albrecht found the puppy tail plug Crispin had enjoyed with comicality. He unfastened Piers from the bed posts, commented on his necklace and bracelets of chafed red skin, refastened him on all fours, canine fashion, popped in – against loud protest – the puppy tail plug, and fetched a bowl of cool water and another of remaining cheese bits.

“Sate herewith thyne appetites. Taketh care thy tail doth wag.”

Thys shouldst be called obedience training.

The unexpected consequence: sphincteric stimulus that catapulted the Piers penis to undeniable prominence. His temperament scaled to its utmost. He woofed joy and wagged wildly.

“Boys, hie hither. We needs must help our new pet.”

“How?” Bertram led Caspar by a hand. They reacted, “He likes it!”

“See how his bollocks bob? Cradle, stroke, and play with them. Gently do turneth his tail this and that way – for such be-eth clearly his path to our good company.”

By and by, freed of fibrous bindings, Piers the puppy cavorted on his back, his tum-tum being affectionately tickled and his neck treated to flutter-tongue kisses by Caspar and Bertram. Albrecht’s contribution to the fracas was his good natured insertion of tails into his boys, rendering the lot a pack of playful pups.

The glee’s noises echoed in empty corridors, up and down stairs of stone, even unto reverberant cellar spaces.

Endora, craving as was her wont to kidnap a boy for her pot, crept upward, a warty hand to her shriveled clit quivering with anticipation. Verily, her crafty witch’s caution failed, for she scuttled like a large rat where she ought not and noisily, slobbering mouth agape, to charge directly and horrendously upon looming Duke Albrecht’s daunting dick.

So instant was his response – a lightning-bolt-swift thrust down gristled throat – that her deadly “ARGGHHHH!” went unheard in the bedroom. Albrecht scooped up her corpse and tossed it over his stronghold’s portcullis tower such that she splatted with bone-crushing force into the dry moat bed.

She looketh for a bed, only not that upon which she now reposeth, the duke smirked to himself.

Only slightly short of breath from exertion, Albrecht strode to his broad bed. Upon its softness, he gathered his pack – Piers face down atop him, Bertram and Caspar to either side in warm embrace and the group as one entity entered that dream world presided over by what latterly would be known as the Sandman.

*

Schitzelheim Fortress’s herald awoke with the cocks. Upon opening his shuttered arrowslit for morning air’s refreshment, he observed vultures settling below. His lean out, almost precipitously down the stone wall, lit his gaze upon a banquet in progress – fresh witch under beak attack. A smile resembling the duke’s sneer swept his visage.

After breaking their fast and voiding the unwanted from their renewed bodies, the youngest members of the bedchamber, cladless, set about exercises further to equip   their receptivity. A much mellowed Albrecht sent his herald into the village to fetch thus to his presence the woodworker, Fritzl.

Fritzl cringed in the presence.

“Cringe not, for upon due application of thyne skill, I will dub thee Ducal Dowel Maker.”

“Pray, great lord,” the craftsman stared at hirsute nakedness in all its muscularity, “what mayeth I do to merit such honour?”

“Boys, attend myne part that it be fully of stand.”

Six boy hands in succession encircled and manipulated from forest of hair called pubic thatch up to exposed and thumping purplish-red, wet bluntness.

“Note the measure of myne treasure – six cherubic hands – and turn, for these catamites myne, dowels of every size and varied woods leading betimes to total accommodation.”

“That I can do, milord, as myne own dear dad didst for thyne own, Duke Damian.  Pray though, hast not his dowels and other instruments been handed to you in legacy?”

Sighing baritonally, this response of regret, “Lost – most – in ye fyre of olde. Piers, do-est thou a show for the man of ye sport with myne antique puppy tail.”

*

The boys had to provide a draught of Albrecht’s wine to revive overwrought Fritzl.

Dismissed, lordly charge in mind and coppers in hand, Fritzl retired to earn his title of appointment and the promised silver.

Imagine the challenged man’s surprise, upon reaching his workshop, to discover Olaf the Horse-Hung had returned.

“Whereof, olde friend, thy morose visage? Needest my employ yet again?”

Calloused hands brought forth hefty, sausage-like flab, “Thys hath me betrayed.”

Questions upon questions achieved no goal of understanding, Olaf having less to say than his usual, “Gots to fuck.”

A thumb aslant his cheek, Fritzl conjured a thought. “There be-eth inside thee a nut perhaps needy of treatment. Apply yourself to turn myne lathe that I mayest prepare for thee a fyne knobbed dowel.”

An abundancy of wood curls and sawdust later, a well-knobbed, Olaf-specific dowel was oiled for thrusts. Prods and turns woke reluctant gland.

“Whas that?” the man crooned as cock rose to points North by Northwest.

“Myne gift, that fucks mayeth restore thyne spirit and service. By contrivance myne, wear it thus whence dispensing fucks to needy males. One caveat though: venture not to ply thyne focus anent any boy-path of Duke Albrecht for he tolerateth no competition in the deportment of dicks.”

“Wha?”

“Hie thee far from Fortress Schitzelheim, thys village, and boys here and therein. From myne own hand take ye these coppers and traverse our horizon forth and herewith.”

His doweled saunter hadst a certain spring to it.

                                                                              *

Servants of the Fortress cast lots to provide sustenance to the duke’s bedroom that each might view with privilege their master’s against-type transformation from fierce and ferocious overlord to frolicsome fornicator of boys – Caspar, Bertram, and Piers – excelling in ye fuck’s fun. Duke Albrecht could be heard at all hours cooing paeans of praise upon those he called coyly Cassie, Berty, and Pussy.

Persistence and patience with oils, saliva, dowels, and kisses had rendered screwable the three. And betimes, they were insatiable. Appetites for dried figs and other farm products sugary in content nourished holey action.

“Ply thee myne hole, I beseecheth thee, beloved butt master,” Berty was known to cry. “How it craveth a goodly drub!”

“Myne, too,” Cassie oft called out, “for it is freshly accoutered with herbal-infused oil of sunflowers to grant thee a smooth ride.”

Pussy, with pride of place directly upon the lordly pole, oft stole Albrecht’s heart by this appealing elaboration: “Flip me over on myne fours, lover lord, and thereupon think of me as bitch dog to be mated in thyne most heated fashion for spermatic conquest of buttilicious boy.”

From such lovingness didst Duke Albrecht’s flint-hard resolve to continue his family’s desire to demand and assert seigneurial rights soften like ye dough at Avron’s understaffed bakery.

Unready for retirement, the village baker – saved coins in the purse strung tightly to his robe’s belt and buns in his backpack – determined to journey afar to make known his village’s potentials for parentally-paid apprentices. He bolted the bakery door against entry and thereupon posted a parchment inscribed: AWEIGH ON BUSYNESS. BAKE AT HOVEL.

The baker’s departure registered on no scale within the upper confines of Fortress Schitzelheim. For therein, the dickus mirabilis endured with ducal durability demands for plunging pleasures of demonstrable increase.

Beleaguered by boys to whom he owed the obligations of titled master, Albrecht on occasion begged most unseemly for more than nightly convalescence. Eyes shining with achievement upon completing “yet another rownde with ye rascals,” he sagged. “I must rest me awhile.”

Bertie, affronted, voiced complaint in Piers’ manner, “Where hath gone the brisk tap that once flowed soothing cream within myne hot tail pipe?”

“What of myne chute, so readied by thee, milord, for diddling and drumming dalliance? I yearn for yet more deposits from thy cods lest their contents curdle and clot,” complained Cassie with pitiable sighs.

“Hey nonny nonny,” Piersy-Pussy sang with dainty simper, “myne be-eth genuine poontang positioned as ye see for persistent pummels. Care not for myne welfare, ye selfish giant?”

With a finger pointed aloft, he signaled his peers. Light seemed to glow prophetically around his becurled pate. “Methinks resurrection be-eth possible at the beckoning of myne mouth. Behold and believe.”

He bent, lips pursed peculiarly, to Albrecht’s limpness’s loose skin and nibbled        at its near-surface nerves. One drooped eye opened to see what felt thus. P-P then laved prepuce and gobbled at the crown – mock chewing.

Both giant eyes beheld the boy’s innovative moves and those lingually bestowed below and along. “Wait not, young fools that ye be,” he paused to say. “Lick ye his cods that these parts we so need may return from their death.”

The young innovator’s marvel hath a step beyond this resurrection. “Let us sustain out treasured duke’s stand with twine. For, as he secured with stout rope myne stand at the foot of his bed, I would that this reborn erection be-eth enabled against collapse till we are shed of it.”

Into Schitzelheim’s history thus was born a new tradition, that now deemed appropriately oral sex. Imaginations flared that the practice could be one for wives upon husbands!

No wildfire of parts spread more velocitaciously than this, ye legerdemain of stimulus to fatigued penii.

From many, P-P won laurels poetic as hadst he been a wizard of olde. Helga, wife of bantering Danus, dad of Caspar-now-Cassie, offered to embroider for him a robe with stars, crescents, and planets with rings.

Modesty within his celebrity bade him decline with a certain element of noblesse oblige.

Baker Avron’s successful sojourn afar netted, in time, bevies of fresh-bottomed boys brought by remunerative fathers desirous of knowing their sons could pass from village and ducal service toward Eastern careers.

Generations crossed cannily and connubially, conundrum-free. And for decades to come, a happy peace reigned over humble village and valley.

Here endeth “A Tayle of Ye Olde Tymes.”

---

Please cast your encouraging vote.