The Abominable Crime of Buggery on the Australian Goldfields

Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Bathtub

I was relieved to follow Constable Monaghan out of that shit-hole cell, despite the fact that my stay had not been without its pleasures, some of which I could feel leaking into my panties as I walked behind him. The sooner I had that hot bath he’d promised the better.

He said few words as he led the way, and I was pleased to find that his house was only a short walk from the police station; a sentiment you won’t find me repeating too often.

I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the small, pretty weatherboard cottage we now stood in front of. Painted a colour as close to pink as you can get without actually being pink, it had a pair of neatly framed windows complete with lace curtains, and wooden front door painted white with a bronze door knocker above the handle. A small but beautifully tended garden of blooming flowers completed the idyllic picture.

I was instantly embarrassed by my scruffy appearance and malodorous presence, imagining that the good constable must surely have a house-proud wife who was hardly likely to welcome such a smelly bundle into her pristine home.

“Stay up Monaghan” I pleaded, “what will your wife think, bringing home a stinking stray like me?” He looked at me quizzically for a moment then burst out laughing, the look on my face only increasing his mirth. 

“What makes you think I have a wife?” 

I looked at him, and then the house, and then back at him, not quite knowing what to say.

“Can’t a man have a nice place to live without saddling himself with a wife?” he asked, slapping me on the back and ushering me through the small wooden gate towards the front door. “It’s all my own handiwork I can assure you, including the curtains, which me’ old ma’ would be proud of.”

He opened the door and waved me through into a small but neat parlour, complete with fortepiano against one wall and a settee I couldn’t imagine him sitting on. A larger comfortable looking chair was set up in front of the small fireplace, far more suitable for his impressive frame.

“There’s a privy out the back which you’re welcome to use before we go any further, and plenty of copies of The Argus for you to either read or use more creatively.”

I knew that this suggestion was infact a command, and I was only too glad to obey, having been none too keen to use the filthy bucket that passed for a loo in the lockup. I made my way hurriedly out the back to the convenience through the kitchen, and was pleased for the privacy it afforded, sitting as it did at the very rear of the back garden, behind a dense screen of shrubs.

Some little time later I made my way back to the house, having cleaned myself up as much as possible. Truth to tell I got some satisfaction from wiping my arse on a newspaper, having a generally low opinion of them and the hacks who write for them.

My host was waiting for me on the rear veranda, a small bathtub set up which he was efficiently filling with jugs of hot and cold water. That bath he’d promised was a welcome sight, and a quick look around satisfied me that I would not be overlooked by the prying eyes of neighbours or passers by.

“Get those stinking rags off and we’ll see what can be salvaged once we’ve soaked them for a day or too. I have some things that you can use in the meantime.”

He continued to fill the tub while I began to disrobe, and clearly had no intention of respecting my modesty by leaving me to my own devices. He refrained from openly staring as I shed my coat and shirt followed by my boots and leggings, but took more obvious interest as I unbuttoned my pants and began pushing them down my legs.

I was momentarily surprised by the gales of laughter that erupted as my trousers dropped to the ground, until I remembered that I was still wearing Lola’s delicate red lace knickers, a souvenir from the previous evening’s adventures.

“Now that’s a sight for sore eyes, no wonder Miss Montez didn’t want them back!” 

I looked down and saw my meaty todger hanging loose and heavy through a hole in the delicate fabric, my heavy balls also threatening to break free at any moment. The absurdity was not lost on me, and I laughed heartily along with my host, parading myself like some lewd music-hall clown.

I dropped the soiled and wrecked garment to the ground and stepped into the steaming tub, unsure as to how I would go about cleaning the filth from my body. I need not have worried, as the good constable produced a block of yellow laundry soap and instructed me to stand still while he attempted to cut through the grime.

Grabbing a ladle from a nearby stool he dipped it into the warm bath water and proceeded to pour it over my head and body before he lathered up the block of soap and started rubbing it over my back. I must admit it felt damn good and I moaned with pleasure as his large hands massaged the aching muscles of my shoulders before travelling further down my spine.

Much as I was enjoying his attentions, I reached behind me as his fingers played over my buttocks and took the soap from his hand, deciding it best for me to take care of my nether regions, particularly in their current state.

“Perhaps you’re right” he chuckled, “but I won’t be spared the pleasure of cleaning up elsewhere.” He moved around to my front with a wide grin on his handsome, bearded face, and boldly took my limp tool in his hand, daring me to object. 

I had no objections at all, apart from some embarrassment at its less than savoury condition, but this didn’t appear to deter him as he bent down and inhaled my powerful cock stink. Seeing the look of surprise on my face he bent down again and this time took my old boy into his mouth, his tongue and lips insatiable in their exploration of every inch of my rapidly hardening and filthy shaft.

“It’s my considered opinion” he said, once he came up for air, “that you should be able to eat your dinner off a man’s arsehole, but you should also be able to smell his cock from across the room.”

“You can probably smell mine from across the street” I opined, aware of my own stench now that I was naked, not to mention tumescent. 

I kept myself busy with the soap, washing the sweat from my armpits and lathering up my body, while he kept himself entertained sucking and licking my now fully engorged tool.

“You have a wonderfully ragged circumcision scar Jack. That must have been some butcher who did that to you!” He was fingering and licking the dark scar that ran around my shaft, and I was about to take offence at his admittedly true description of my cock, when he looked up at me and grinned. “Don’t be taking offence now Jack, as someone who hasn’t been cut I have to confess that I find it irresistible, I could feast my eyes and tongue on it all day.”

This mollified me somewhat and I allowed him to continue his attentions, realising as he did so that I was about to unload a goodly quantity of spunk before too long, if he didn’t cease and desist immediately. 

“You might want to stop that” I gasped, although it was already too late as a violent spasm rocked my body and a thick stream of seed shot from my cock and splashed across his face and into his beard. 

Fortunately he had read the warning signs and was not unprepared for the assault, greedily taking my jerking shaft into his mouth and pumping it with his lips, all the while massaging the underside of my knob with his tongue. 

I had placed my hands on his shoulders as my body was wracked by the waves of pleasure, and I held on for dear life as he sucked every drop from my stiff manhood, swallowing it all as it filled his warm, thirsty mouth.

As my spasms subsided I could feel his tongue caressing the scar he’d so admired. He seemed unwilling to let go of my now softening shaft, and I was only too happy to stay safely in his mouth as I gulped in lungfuls of air, waiting to regain at least something of my composure. I can’t say how many minutes we stayed in that position, but it was minutes, and I enjoyed the feel of my limp cock being so delicately held and licked clean by this big bear of a man.

“Well now matey” he said as he finally let my cock slip from his lips, wiping at least some of my semen off his face, “you’ve earned yourself a good hearty breakfast after that!”

Picking up the ladle, he poured some tepid bathwater over my flaccid member and watched as I lathered it up and gave it the first good clean I’d managed for a few days. He cupped my heavy, hairy balls in his hand as he stood up, enjoying their meaty feel for a few seconds, before he took himself off to the kitchen to prepare the promised breakfast, but not before he came out with another pail of warm water and doused me from head to foot. 

Clean at last (at least on the outside), I stepped out of the tub and stood contentedly in the morning sun, allowing my body to dry slowly while the irresistible smell of coffee in the pot and bacon and eggs on the griddle wafted from the open door of the kitchen. 

Which is precisely when the most beautiful Chinaman I had ever seen came haring around the side of the house and pulled up short on seeing me, pausing only briefly to look me up and down (closely) before racing into the house and setting up the most frightful commotion.

My day was about to be seriously turned on its head.

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(The next chapter of Jack’s journal is proving somewhat complex, but will hopefully be in a suitable state to be published shortly.)