Fiction - Dropping Balm, Eros and Thanatos

When Only a Moment Before Humping Savagely the Groundskeeper’s Teenage Daughter, the Quartermaster Pauses Mid-Stroke as the Premiere of an Air by Henry Purcell Drifts from his Lord’s Dining Hall

a short story by Richard K. Weems

“Arise, arise, ye subterranean winds”
—from The Tempest, by Henry Purcell

Ten minus five summers have I watched this ewe bloom beneath her father’s cloak of office and stretch into the frame of budding damehood. And while she still lay on the cusp of the shores of the fully-formed opposing gender (yet her progress written clearly in the stars of her body) did I pursue her this very eve whilst the servants inside set up chairs fit for the aristocratic bum and gave host to the highly-wigged Mister Purcell. As my Lord donned his concert topcoat and my Lady stuffed her lumps into her bustle did I give literal chase to this fresh (though not entirely unmounted) doe. 

She ran me about like the stud buck I am and boiled my Blood and gave me purchase to her fissure only when I cornered her against the windows to this same hall where now Your righteous notes, O sweet Musik, have delayed our messy dealings.

Until this moment, my world had only my Sword and her sheath to concern itself with, my only thought to complete fully my assault upon this flower whose pollen I know has spread upon two previous Stingers: the page Robert Crimson who had the honor of bemaidenheading her in true Baroque style at the annual Harvest Dance (over the edge of the well whilst she cooled her brow), and the pretty tackboy Roger Gorge who has seen both quim and Cock, this beast of two backs who will bend one way to stuff a handmaid’s roasting pheasant and the other to hide a horny equestrian’s Crop in a tight and by all means smelly place.

O most laudable Musik, it was only right that I be among the first three to probe this young fawn’s soft, mossy cavern—I who suck on every kitchen wench’s peppered fish stew and probe lonely ladies taking rest in my Lord’s walls. I, who sport Equipment reminiscent of a Roman column: thick in shaft and long in support. I, who have even climbed the peaks and plunged the valleys of my very own Rubenesque (and then some) Lady of the House and made Encampment in her fleshy crag. My conquests count three times twenty notches on my Headboard, and when on the plow, my entire being and, nay, very essence dwell in my prominent Bullhorn.

But You, who lope near these windows under which I initiate the Groundskeeper’s daughter into the ranks of the well trodden! How your notes bow and plié and move with civil gesture. A voice, a baritone (a demon to be sure! a magical beast it is that must be performing for my Lord and Lady!) invites all of creation to arise, arise. He calls from the very depths of the skin a harmony that brings figs and turds into the hands of the highest of gods. His sounds are heaven-sent and this knowledge reaches me to my very Spleen.

What rage! What crescendo! I am the holy, bestial king of my own tower, inside which writhe twelvescore-and-three women—bulbous mounds of squirming, perfumed opulence from which I choose surreptitiously for my delights. A throne of chewed curd I sit upon. This is Your gift to me, O beloved Musik! I always thought before that the way of the church and the way of Cock and Quim were distinct roads, and I proudly traveled the route most base. Dear Musik, You have shown me the catechism in a good hump, the revelation and annunciation in making bestial play! Within the dirtiest whore’s stinky abyss will I find You and Your Divine master. I shall bang evermore with holy fervor. 

I yank myself free from this filthy, filthy trollop of a Groundskeeper’s daughter. I roll her over, heist up her shanks to reveal two pasty worlds of bum to the night, and from there I mount with furious passion to finish my Mass.

“Musik,” I tell this pound and pound and pound again of flesh, this fur muff keeping warm my Fleshy Limb. “Tell me you hear Musik.”

The Groundskeeper’s daughter rocks to the furious tempo I am keeping with my Baton.

“Yes!” she cries. “Yes! The Musik!”

Ah, foul strumpet! With my Horn ablaze I echo into the far depths of your chasm! Never will a more holy joining be! My Cream and her glaze do a righteous ointment make!

 

© 2001 Richard K. Weems

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