Wherein Accounts are Settled with the Royal Post.

The summer solstice has passed and the horse shortage in the Royal Post is at an end. Between wheezes, Lemonsworth tells me that my missives can travel unabated once again.

Winter boasted a series of unfortunate challenges to my manorhouse. An unseasonal low tide exposed my former steam-driven rentboy to the elements once again and allowed him free reign of the Northern shoreline. Afore his arrival, a small goatery farmstead lay to the Northeast of my manor – too near to avoid his heat and vibratory sense-antennae. I had scarcely taken notice of the ballyhoo before the bellowing monstrosity had rent the herds and herdsmen asunder with its smoking, churning member. Eager to reclaim the device for scrap, I ordered his original builders unshackled and ordered them to the goatery to bind the giant.

Foolishness! The iron-whore was constructed for his endless virility and stamina, yet all was for naught. The builders were as chaff before the wind. An uncontrollable whore will not be tolerated on my estate grounds. Nature was the basis for his design from the beginning, and what a travesty to abandon the majesty of the human form for the convenience of tempered steel. Through unforeseen circumstances, I found myself in possession of a number of excess horses this winter, no doubt procured from the wild herds wandering my isle. Noting this horse excess in my livery, and having just emptied my stores of Hoffmann’s anodyne, I seized a musing from the ethers and promptly set my men about the task of reinventing the rentboy-giant. I ordered my shepherds and stablemen to gather fifty of the finest equine specimens and relocate them to my newly built Eastern barn.  My chemists were relieved of their winkers, and given a singular specimen to duplicate. Their recent work would provide the requisite fuel for this drone, and drums of the volatile aphrodisiac were brought up from my storehouses.

My carpenters were ungagged, whipped for good measure, and set to their own tasks – the construction of a framework for which they knew not the purpose. This framework employed an elaborate hoist and pulley system conceived by an engineer I’d forgotten in one of my oubliettes. Devil take me, I cannot recall for what purpose I’d imprisoned the man, and I certainly didn’t recognize him by his appearance. The gibbering, bearded, skeletal creatures my dungeon-masters haul from the abyssal depths never fail to ignite the most delightful tightness in my loins, but I was forced to relieve my ardor on a passing servant, as the engineer was pressed into his work promptly. Those hauled from my oubliettes are set to task immediately, as their reintroduction to sunlight inevitably takes their sanity. Madness had only intensified his genius and my servants discovered his completed blueprints shortly after they’d removed his corpse from the blood-tacked room.

The edifice came together swiftly, and I personally supervised the final phase of construction – the strapping of the last of the horses. Positioned at the opposite end of the barn with their drums stood my chemists, shivering with the knowledge of the terrible fluid beside which they stood. With a frightful din of neighing and biting, the horses were bound, one atop the other, into the latticework of wood, leather, and chain. As I watched from the upper level, when the last had been latched in its place and the fetters cut, the construct moved as the largest and mightiest cyclopean flesh-peddler, all constructed of screaming and struggling horse-flesh. No single beast knew his purpose and all fought for movement and space in the horrific man-shaped bindings.

The obvious agony of the beasts strained my trousers. The engineer had envisioned a wonder. The binding leathers were much too tight. Bits sunk deep into maws. Legs dangled perilously or strained under crippling loads. And the cocksleeves. The cocksleeves. Naturally, I’m well-aware of the weight-bearing capability of the average horse-member, but the engineer’s madness shed a new light on the matter. Gleaming, trussed, and chained, the sleeves made a thorned and steely chandelier of the terrible flesh-engine.

My engorgement was fierce and unyielding as I screamed for the chemists to loose their labors on the stumbling terror before us. Servants held their breath and swung their axes. The drums burst; the ichor flowed freely. Green clouds, fog-thick, filled the barn.

And the Equine Behemoth awoke.

Erections sprang forth and strained their sleeves. It moved as one. Every imbecilic horse-brain driven to one goal. Moans filled the air, thicker than the green fog, as the fleshy whirlwind of blue-swollen cocks tore from the barn and sought out orifices.

My household well remembered the events following the activation of the iron-whore and ran. Servants, stableboys, rentboys, whores, serving girls – all ran. The Behemoth knew only lust, but it knew not where to direct its passions. But it had a hundred ears with which to hear, and it could feel the vibrations of the very firmament in its many hooves. It bounded like a cannonshot towards the goatery village.

Upon sight of the other monolithic warm body, the Behemoth strained the very limits of its timbers and chains with its sprinting. The iron-whore scarcely had time to turn before it was engulfed in a torrent of turgid and urgent horseflesh. Had it not been for the yearlong exposure to seawater, I’ve no doubt the iron-whore could have held its ground. Fortunately, tarnish and rust had claimed many of its servos, and the Behemoth claimed its mechanical existence in a storm of phalli the likes of which I’ve not seen since the installation of the estate’s kennels. The entire construct seemed a towering mass of ropey muscle as every pulsing member sought its place in the iron-whore’s warm interior.

After an interlude of shrieking horse-throats and groaning, tearing metal, the deed was done. Stamina was spent, and technology lay obliterated. Thus exhausted amid the smoking gears of its ruined bitch, the Behemoth fell asleep.

A number of my lighter-than-air transports and autogyros were employed in transporting the Behemoth. My levity has put an ache in my jaw and my erection will not abate, so pleased am I with the results. I need not concern myself with the fate of this monster, as its orgasmic cries lull me to sleep nights. I have finally placed the crowning jewel in my labyrinth.

Addendum – Regrettably, and likely due to their horse shortage, the Royal Post has been needlessly cross. To settle accounts, I have decided to return three of their postmen. I have ordered Lemonsworth to choose only the most damaged.

Published in: on July 15, 2010 at 7:24 pm  Comments (2)