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
“Arise, arise, ye
—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.”
daughter rocks to the furious tempo I am keeping with my Baton.
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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