A Chronicle in Shameless Purple Prose

Preface

Readers of generations closer to the present day than my own may not have had the excitement of discovering and thrilling to the pleasures of terrible writing known as ‘purple prose.” Defined by experts as “overly ornate prose text that may disrupt a narrative flow by drawing undesirable attention to its own extravagant style of writing,” the idea so appealed to me that, for a change of pace from my otherwise briskly picturesque – not posturingly picaresque – style, I was seized by a yearning to venture into the terra incognita’s arena, hoping, through my effort, to jostle your sense of humor at the silliness.

Direct inspirations were memories of two purple-prose novels by Lord Bulwer-Lytton, The Last Days of Pompeii and Rienzi, the Last of the Tribunes –the one the subject of at least eight bad movies, the other of an whoppingly overwrought grand opera.

As you launch your gondola on the canals of what follows, keep in mind that this degree of silliness has seldom groped with its tentacles into the twenty-third century. Hoping that this Preface – without pursuit of the almighty dollar but with intent to diddle your intellectual funny-bone via its clinches – prompts mirthful enjoyment.

* * *

  A Chronicle in Shameless Purple Prose

- To the memory of Edward George Bulwer-Lytton,

whose tumefied pen remains mightier than the swords of pretenders -

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night like others which excited his lustful recall. Cloistered in his house, Mr. Ewan B. Stilton’s thoughts turned compulsively to how wonderfully he wielded his tumescent weapon in fine butts, an appetency for which he possessed exceptional aptitude. Of course, ordinary ones could count on being well served too, but fine butts received extra special attention.

“I’m a good man,” he said frequently.

His practice was to begin mundanely to misdirect the bottom into normal placidity. Proceeding haltingly, he commenced standard service of his subject’s hole. Repetitious pumps in and out lulled the bottom.

A pause now and then, a restart, more of same preceded sprinklings of kind words. A sudden, chisel-sharp descent called attention to the start of a great design in plans for said hole’s immediate future.

By the thousandth thrust, a succession of inner fires had been kindled, fanned into holocausts, quenched, and rekindled. His target, afterwards and consequently, a slavish devotee. One beautiful chaos of emotion topped another to bolster Ewan’s confidence.

He was in demand.

Throughout his conquests, the man maintained an inscrutable countenance. Famous for that, it seemed he fucked without feeling. Or so it was thought.

* * *

The needle of destiny tightened its stitch to shuttle man and college boy into a crazy-quilt of older-younger passion. Boiling cauldron-like in tandem, the majority of late-teen’s balls’ bubbling effusions most often were (and likely still are) syphoned by masturbation.

Aaron Bavis’s were no exception except for the fact the young fellow had never developed the habit of manual stroking. No indeed, for Mr. Leon Hahn, Jr., a family friend, had introduced him to anal sex just in time.

Mr. Hahn had a cock perfectly dimensioned for devirginizing boys and always was happy to help Aaron with relieving from behind the burden of his balls. An untimely transfer of employment took the kindly gent away but, with thought for Aaron’s well-being, he arranged, without a day’s suspension of the life-boosting daily activity, for the local high school’s English teacher to take over.

As Aaron reached his senior year, his thick-necked, big-dick server, Charles L. Snodgrass, between diagramming sentences and conjugating irregular verbs, arranged regular counseling sessions. During those, the soon-to-be-young-man was prepared for college.

Subsequently, Aaron profited from four years’ intimate association with his Dean, Dr. Elmont X. McGillicuddy, an affectionate scholar nearing retirement. The association took the two to sexual dreamlands where they toured extensively without compromises.

Woe! Dean McGillicuddy fell lifeless from cardiac arrest one day, leaving his beloved Aaron Bavis to the trust of Wilhelmus “Billy” Wellington, his muscular financial advisor, who doubled as a bouncer on Friday nights at Boys-R-Us, a bar with backrooms – to let by the hour or night.

With no need for the Dean’s two-story house, which had been willed generously to him along with a reasonable trust account, Aaron Bavis profited from the house’s sale and took up residence with Wilhelmus “Billy” Wellington.

“Billy,” he had to entreat after the third time on a particular occasion, “can’t you fuck me a few times more?”

“Not now, Aaron. I have to work at Boys-R-Us tonight and you know I have to save some of my potency for the paying patronage. Why not come along? There’s a good man there on Friday evenings just looking to score with a bottom boy. Your soft eyes and broad smile will win him your way in mere minutes, I hazard.”

* * *

Mr. Ewan B. Stilton saw Aaron enter Boys-R-Us with a push from the bar’s tough door-keeper.

Hmmm. Just my type – male. Make that – young male.

He made certain his frosted glass of Samuel Adams Boston Lager did not spill down his chin.

Cute, too.

“Mr. Stilton, this is Aaron Bavis who needs a beer, I think, to open channels of communication with you.”

“Thank you, Billy. Have the rest of my Sam Adams, Aaron. Here, You’ll really enjoy it – smooth and nimble, with a hoppy finish as it quenches your thirst. Yes, take the stool next to me. I want to hear about your sweet butt.”

Billy vanished behind the mirrored wall of gleaming bottles to don his Boys-R-Us apron.

Swigs and gulps later, Aaron batted his soft eyes and began with eloquently smiling expressiveness, “Mr. Leon Hahn, Jr., a family friend, introduced my ass to sex wonderfully well. An untimely employment shift took his libidinous cock from me at an early age. My English teacher, Charles “Chuck” Snodgrass, accepted responsibility for keeping me primed in the back and on track for my diploma. Bless him, Chuck also spoke of my academic ability and receptive tail to the Dean of Men at the University, Dr. Elmont X. McGillicuddy. He auditioned me with seven inches so well-placed that I was given a scholarship to live with him.”

“Billy, see to another glass of Sam Adams on me. I’m sure Aaron needs further to wet his whistle. Do continue, my boy. You’re whetting my appetite”

“We took trips around the world in his bedroom, with Elmont docking frequently in me to restock his energy. ‘You’re my best port,’ he’d tell me while resting inside.”

“Here’s a tissue. Wipe your eyes. I’ll pat your bottom while you finish up.”

“It was horrible. One afternoon, while fucking me over his office desk, he up and died. For a while, I was lost in reverie and didn’t know. Bummer. On the good side, he willed me to Billy there. Good man that he is, Billy sports seven-and-a-half inches, so keeps me happy as much as he can. Only local – sorry, I get emotional – because of his position among dick providers, he’s busy with all sorts of other boybutts.”

“Don’t sob. How much can he fuck you?”

“Only three times in a row most Fridays and Saturdays. Sunday’s his day off. Seven fucks, one for each inch, are standard and really good; after then, as many as he can manage on other days, because he’s a good man.”

“I’m a good man,” Ewan B. Stilton provided assurance, his one hand inside Aaron’s pants while the other placed the former collegian’s hand on his rising cock. “And, as you can feel taking shape, I’ve got eight inches which can be yours. Run your hand over it and discover how like a large ear of corn it is – and fully mature for a boy like you. Did you ever hear of cornholing?”

“Is there any danger?” Another tissue provided, Aaron wiped nervous sweat from his creaseless brow.

“Only if you are weak.”

Aaron glanced at what was forming so firmly under his feely fingers, then glanced again as its ache of expectation transferred to his ass. Ewan Stilton’s implacable face acted as an accelerant to Aaron’s squirmy sphincter’s desire.

He swallowed shyness. “Mister, if I’m honest, I must tell you that you don’t look the type to rampage where rampage is a must.”

“Billy, is this bonny kid for real or is he frittering away my time?” Ewan Stilton posed the question coolly while lowering his prospect’s elastic-waist pants halfway.

“Want to rent a room?”

A twenty to the counter, Ewan Stilton told his friend, “No thanks. This one’s going home with me. I’ll show him how good a good man can be.” Fingering with obstinate momentum, the assertive man said, “The electricity of potential is crackling further than my fingertip.”

His way with words is like Elmont’s and his cock is larger, only I can’t tell how he feels about my prospects.

Aaron never found out either.

* * *

In his role as a top, Ewan Stilton commanded several gifts of Nature – a cock which, with strained effort, most bottoms eventually could accommodate (force applied as appropriate), phenomenally flexible muscles of thighs, pelvis and lower back (capable of thrusts of ramrod power, such as could surmount a medieval castle’s portcullis), and a brain capable of overseeing intercourses of throat and ass for the ultimate pleasurable enhancement of both participants’ life-affirming hermeneutical considerations. For that, if the obvious may be stated, ass was best. Could work non-stop for…well, Aaron found out.

Half-hobbled by the necessity for holding his pants while under guidance from two stubby digits up his exposed ass, the college grad was walked thrustingly the few blocks to a comfortable-looking cottage set back from the street, its mailbox bearing E.B. STILTON and the number 609.

Inside and before being bared, he was asked, “Are you among the great unwashed? In other words, how clean are you?”

“I douched at Billy’s place.”

Ewan Stilton snorted, “That won’t do, not here – with me. Into the bathroom with you for the first of three high-colonics I’ll administer personally.”

The shifting mounds of the young man’s buttocks and the hairless gully between fetched the Stilton eyes and hardened the man’s resolve to make the most of that compelling area.

As Aaron found out what high colonics were (and added ‘clyster’ to his vocabulary), he became dehydrated, experienced thirst, and mentioned the fact.

“Thirsty? Want fresh pee from me or a glass of tea?”

Does he think that’s funny?

“Tea, please,” he warily answered, a dampened hand towel in use behind himself.

* * *

In bed, Aaron’s rear orifice, well-opened during the preceding procedures, accepted the punch-packed clout of Stilton’s hefty cudgel. A fair-sized dollop of baby oil had smoothed the rampage-ready tunnel’s passageway. Said bottle’s contents supplied slicking aplenty in the to-be-determined period ahead.

“I’m a good man, guided by noble instincts – and thoughtful,” Stilton reminded while blazing his well-oiled way into prone-positioned Aaron. “You will notice, if not already, that my big hang comes with a big heart behind it. Generosity of spirit compels me to fuck you finely for the next several days and nights.”

Days and nights?

“Don’t worry, you’ll find me granitically priapic when I have a butt such as yours in-residence, ’round-the-clock – unless that’s being redundant. I’ll stay stiff for you even when you merely doze, are fully committed to Morpheus’ slumberland embrace or betwixt.” His speech done, Stilton pounded Aaron’s curvaceous contours to penetrate further and further.

Later, that initiatory period’s action would be discretely described as ‘jackhammering.’

The sound of the rushing of his beloved Elmont’s intakes of air while delving so lovingly into him came back to Aaron when he realized Stilton’s violence as a rectal reamer produced nothing vocal, just squelching lubricants and rapacious repetition in rapid rhythm – hour after rapturous hour.

To those actions, Aaron produced a lively, Dolby enhanced sound track of grunts and groans to be silenced more than once by his assailant’s fingers curling about his neck.

“Shut up or I’ll be fucking a corpse.”

Noting wisdom in those words, Aaron’s mind rehearsed a few reactions from his sexy past but discarded them as his inner ass passed from awareness into numbness. Outwardly, his raphe felt the staccato bangs of Stilton’s bloated baseball-sized ball sack.

Bludgeoned nerves returned to life, infusing bliss before garnering from the fuck the sense of predestined climax. Spermatic life roiled within. Asshole and buttocks tightened on the ramming hugeness – and surrendered to its majestic mastery. Aaron’s passive-pussy paroxysm affected not in the slightest Stilton’s roaring rape of his rear.

At every turn, he was tumbled to the nearest padded surface, skewered, tunneled inward, and so vigorously pummeled it compressed his diaphragm, repeatedly pounded the core of his iliac crest, drove air from torturous lungs, and produced phantasmagoric Miltonian visions for which adequate words cannot be found. Suffice it to say that the heavens opened beyond fleecy clouds, ultramarine skies, and Apollonian-bright sunlight.

Unreckoned hours became tumultuous periods of savage fucking between meals.

When hunger claimed their attention, food was ordered in. Regular meals were for the master of house and butt – delicious meats, vegetables, breads, and desserts. “Especially for you,” Aaron was informed, “a liquid diet of bouillon, consommé, and strained cream soups, fruit nectars, and custard for dessert. You also may eat ice cream – just tell me the flavors you like. Popsicles, too.”

Not presuming to ask why, Aaron awaited the reason.

“I’ve observed how you cringe at the thought of high colonics although I enjoy discharging them into you. A liquid diet is my kindly alternative, for one leaves no undigested residue in your intestinal tract to interfere with our blessed, if unsanctified, cohabitational unions.”

He also addressed the matter of his whopper-cock’s good health and maintenance. “This hot-to-trot evidence of my power hungers for mucosal membranic embraces, cozier and oilier the better. These days and nights, yours. Thus far, the Bavis rectum has provided satisfactorily, so there’s been no need to call upon the entrance to your windpipe.”

Aaron flashed with comprehension. Not my throat!

He sprawled, holding legs apart, and hiked up his keester’s pulsing pucker by way of appealing invitation. “Sentimental, aren’t you, even now? You’re swelling like a firehose. Before that quality dissipates, churn my innards and discharge therein with mutinous bounty.”

Intuition told him what to say at the crucial moment.

Bolts as of thunder and lightning struck where aimed, setting off Aaron’s anal passion. He sprang back to take on Stilton’s storm by gyrating on the great club’s eight-plus inches until it launched retaliation. They battled like barometric tantrums of Nature. Their lecherous typhoons railed impotently. Neither triumphed. Eventually, they basked in the knowledge that their best had been done.

Stilton settled cock deep over Aaron’s up-butt position and raised his perspiring head for kisses of marshmallow-sweet softness. In the wonder of such affection, Aaron blinked to focus on the man’s face which displayed nothing of human feeling.

Bereft of emotion.

Determination moved Aaron to knead by narrowing upon and releasing tension from his ass’s occupant as it marinated sightlessly in the transparency of oily lube and the pearlescence of earlier deposited sperm. What had been sprayed wildly without emotion in his lower canal had flowed from its walls to puddle like lava at the bottom of a volcano where it buoyed the submerged vessel and encouraged its leaks.

* * *

Through such bruise-positive nurturing, Aaron’s face proved astonishingly mobile. All he felt showed in sequence through its features – surprise, amazement, consternation, torment, anguish, disbelief, exhilaration, joy, and pride. Cheeks, eyebrows, nostrils, lids and lashes, and set of mouth participated as natural responses.

To be emphatic: surprise, amazement, consternation, torment, anguish, disbelief, exhilaration, joy, and pride.

Uncompromised by those effusions, Stilton rode tirelessly into the graduate’s buttocks-dividing valley with intense intent. Interruptions were so few that a telephone call one day from Wilhelmus “Billy” Wellington, bartender at Boys-R-Us, was accepted.

“Hello.”

“Ewan, people are asking about you. Are you okay? Are you still keeping Aaron? I haven’t heard from him either.”

“Wait a second while I pull out and let him up. He can fill you in.” The telephone went to Aaron whose cum-drenched backside he stopped up with a free hand. “Take this. It’s your friend Billy.”

“Billy! Oh-Em-Gee!” he gasped, half-wheezing it had been so long since he needed to speak. “I have to thank you for what you did for me – fucking me so well as often as you could back when and preparing me perfectly for Ewan, and for giving me to him. Did you ever see what sprouts between his legs? It’s co-loss-al.”

Billy tried without luck to break the outpouring verbalosity.

Aaron soared on, waxing delirious with musical inspiration, “After it dwells for a time on the threshold of my ass, the escarpment of my rear throat swallows his colossus whole in our adagios of love, our andantes of concupiscence, allegros of rising heat, our prestissimi of passion. I owe you so much. Want to fuck me again – with your smaller, less-aggressive tool?”

Smaller?

“I’ll pass this time.” He choked back what he verged on saying by asking instead, “What are your plans?”

“To get royally fucked more by the reamer of my day-and-night dreams, what else is there?”

There’s physics, philosophy, periodontics, paranormality…

Billy, widely-read, said, “Are you so myopic that you have yet to realize Ewan doesn’t love you?”

“It’s as hard to tell as my perineum gets when he’s marauding my ass. You know, brandishing his ramrod as my heart throbs in euphoria? As…as…oh, forget it. Do you have a thought for me that will up the stakes?”

Billy laughed, then whispered conspiratorially, “You could try staring at him with that same baleful, vacant look he gives you.”

“Ooooh! Difficult idea – I’d have to camouflage my real feelings while he’s doing what I love best.”

“I know, I know. Give it a try. You don’t have your virginity to lose.”

“You’re right! Mr. Leon Hahn, Jr., a family friend, got that by pricking me with ‘Destiny’s needle,’ he called it. That kicked off my growth spurts.”

“Would you switch gears with that stick-shift brain of yours and get on your back in that doubled-up position Ewan likes and stare that man down, for fuck’s sake! That’s what it’ll take!”

And just like that, Billy ended the connection.

His gumption gathered, taciturn Aaron assumed the position which suggested fruition, drew Ewan to his sphincter’s mouth, flexed it as several subtle puckers, rolled his head when contact was made, took two resolute breaths, and held them.

Ewan paused seemingly forever just outside, his seeping prickshaft poised persuasively thereupon, and pushed. His wry sneer-smile and partially-closed eyes met wide whites which scrolled down to reveal stony iris-and-pupil combos focused unblinkingly into his own. He lunged and plunged, plastering himself against Aaron and staring at being stared at – with equal disdain of emotion.

Something clicked. Rhythms matched.

Magnificently, they fucked.

Orgasmic strains changed nothing in their regard of each other. Mouths leaked, dribbled, and drooled the way NASA rockets shed vapor before ascending from the launch pad. Ardor’s rapacity showed, however, not at all. Fixed-gaze concentration kept the wild horses of feeling under control in the corral of whiplash-heaving pelvises. Cum gushed forth as from the overflow spillways of the Hoover Dam, controlling Lake Mead’s crests.

With startling vividness, two brainpans’ blood-flushed contents frothed with sparkler-bright awareness.

In unison, they uttered the immortal phrase, “I love you.”

Exalted, they rolled apart as if nothing personal had happened between them.

Ewan B. Stilton and Aaron Bavis sucked Grape-Ade purple breath mints with cozy tenderness.