Cock-Sucker: Horatio Cockblower

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The neglected classic of erotica called ‘Horatio Cockblower’, published under what is most likely the pseudonym ‘Dick Diver’, is a kind of sado-erotic version of CS Forester, set in maritime Napoleonic days. It is geographically incorrectly subtitled ‘a tale from down-under’, unless that’s intended as a pun on the genital zones? In their exhaustive study of ‘Deviant, Transgressive and Proscribed Literature’ Drs Ben Doone and Phil McCavity, present a powerful deconstruction of the text as a savage indictment of imperialism. I tend to disagree. It’s just a playfully erotic fantasy.

Chapter One: Rum, Sodomy And The Lash

(In which our unfortunate hero endures a rude awakening)

The fresh-faced hero and central character of the events that are about to transpire is idealistic Horatio Cockblower. The young puritan naval officer takes leave of Emily, his demure chastely virginal fiancé and bids his strict upstanding clerical parents farewell. At twenty-six, he takes a carriage through the bustling chaos of maritime Bristol for his first commission with the Levant Company, to serve god and empire as captain of the ‘Golden Satyr’. He books overnight at a harbour-front inn. In a world rife with vice and corruption there are so many temptations to lure the unwary from the paths of virtue. He must be constant in his vigil. The scriptures provide his guide and reassurance.

At eight pm there’s a knock upon the stout oak door of his room. A serving-wench has brought the evening supper he ordered. Bread, cheese, pickled onions. After placing the platter beside his bed she turns back towards him. He’s shocked to see that she’s shrugged the low neckline of her dress down to expose her plump right breast and the prominent nipple.

“Perhaps as the kind gentleman eats he’d appreciate me gumming his todger?” she smiles. “A mere silver sixpence only.”

“Please, madam, I’m engaged to be wed.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t. I could do it for three pence. You drive a hard bargain, sir, you can even squirt your dirt on my tits if you so please.”

“No, no, please leave.”

“OK, I’ll suck your old man for you if you stand me a drink downstairs. Last offer. Failing that, I could send the stable-boy up to do it for you, if your inclinations lie in that direction.”

In a fluster of embarrassed confusion he hurries her out of the room and locks the door with a sigh of relief. Then keeps to his bed where he prays for strength as the raucous sounds of the tavern below seep up through the floorboards. The laughter of slatterns, women of low morals who can inflame impure passions. The wine and ale that can loosen the resolve of the strongest heart.

By the following morning things look so different. Gulls circle and wail around the ship’s churning wake as they catch the early tide. Standing on the poop-deck, tall and blonde, in his cocked tricorn hat and blue tail-coat he watches his crew with a sense of pride.

“Steady as she goes, helmsman.”

Yes, the helmsman may be a man who’s face would not only stop a clock, but would make it shout for mercy too, yet these simple sailors know the currents of the sea, its ebb and flow, its wind and tides, even the saltiness of its brine. The nation’s empire and trade links girdle the world. He feels proud of his command. Proud to play his part in the great imperial drama. Checking navigational charts, making entries in the ship’s journal, taking sightings with the sextant to confirm their course as they proceed along the English channel and out into the Bay of Biscay.

Until, midway on their maiden voyage, passing through what the ancients called the ‘Pillars of Hercules’, into the Mediterranean he happens to be down below-decks conscientiously taking inventory of the cargo when he hears disturbing sounds from the prow. Cautiously he sidles forward, peeking through a web of cordage and netting. As his eyes adjust to the flickering amber light he can’t believe what his eyes are telling him.

He can dimly make out the shapes of three interlocked figures. Tinker, the comely eighteen-year-old cabin-boy is naked from the waist down, sprawled across a raised wooden packing-chest lying on his back. The others are two crewmen with their pants around their ankles, one feeding a hawser-thick length of stiff cock between the boy’s gaping lips. The other holding Tinker’s legs wide-spread so he can slide his engorged erection deep into the exposed rectum. All three are grunting and moving together in their synchronised sexual action. As he watches in horrified dread the two men slide free, cocks springing clear, to change positions. Mouth to arse, arse to mouth. Both of those fearsomely towering members sinking fully into their new targets. Not that Tinker seems to object. Indeed, he’s making gurgly grunting noises, that sound more pleasure than discomfort. When the crewman impaled in his rectum slows, as if to recoup his energies, it’s the boy who moves his hips with every appearance of impatience for more.

Cockblower’s throat is dry. The timbers are creaking. He’s assaulted by the sour fetor of sweat and body-odours mingling with that of the stale ballast. casino oyna The floor heaving beneath his feet as his very world tilts. He can see that despite the indignities he’s enduring, Tinker is also erect, his perky uncircumcised penis as taut as a bowstring, waving and quivering as his hips vigorously undulate. Cockblower finds he’s sweating in crawling disgusted fascination as the sensual dance of rutting bodies goes on. Abruptly, he can see that the standing crewman has begun to fountain jism into Tinker’s open mouth, the boy lapping, trapping each spurt although some white beads dribble down his chin, until he takes the messy cock-head back into his mouth to suck at it enthusiastically. By the sounds he’s uttering it seems that the other man is also climaxing, his hairy arse-cheeks clenching, his hefty man-meat buried deep in the cabin-boy’s undulating guts.

Sickened to the depths of his soul, the shocked captain staggers away, back to his cabin where he paces up and down preoccupied. Turning turbulent thoughts over in his head. Sex is something that should only happen between a married couple within the privacy of their darkened bedroom, beneath the discretion of their sheets. And strictly for reasons of procreation. This vile abomination calls for resolve, discipline, firm unwavering action.

Eventually he summons Tinker to his cabin. He lights the wall-mounted lanterns to create a pleasing roseate ambience, then sits behind his desk as the nervous cabin-boy stands before him. Tinker wears a single gold-earring which Horatio considers distastefully effeminate.

He waits a calculated moment for the dramatic tension to build, before speaking softly. “It has come to my attention that certain members of the crew are taking advantage of your youth, by sexually abusing you. This shocking practise must cease. I want to know how many men are involved.”

Tinker relaxes, smiling easily. “It’s nothing, sir. Please be not concerned on my behalf. Members of every crew take the cabin-boy to ‘show him the golden bolt’, that’s what they call it, it’s naval euphemism for buggering him. Jolly Jack-Tars are far from shore for long months, away from wives and tavern-whores. They must expend their seed where they can. I fully anticipate when I qualify for my full papers, that I’ll enjoy the cabin-boy’s mouth and bottom just as fully as they use mine. It’s a seafaring tradition.”

“Not on my vessel, boy, not on my vessel.”

Blushing slightly, Tinker steps forward, fumbling as he unbuckles his belt, so his loose pants fall to his knees and his genitals sway free, standing proud from a nest of dark pubic hair. Against his will Cockblower finds himself recalling the way that pleasingly-formed penis jiggled as he was being buggered.

“Beg pardon sir, but if the captain would permit me to suck his cock I could demonstrate just how irrational your reaction is.”

“Logic and rationalism has nothing to do with it. We must have faith. This is an affront to all decency, please cover yourself. This is over. This ends now.”

He’s trying to save the unfortunate urchin. Why doesn’t the boy understand what he’s trying to do?

Events move quickly. The outraged Cockblower immediately moves to impose his authority to end the practice, making an announcement to the assembled crew. Tinker listens, and decides to change the captain’s mind by slipping into his cabin that very night.

Cockblower sleeps restlessly, his mind tormented by blasphemous dreams. It was as a devout young student at Maritime College he’d first learned that others of his year had fallen to the mortal sins of onanism, mutual masturbation and sodomy that his father had warned him against so graphically. It’s true he experienced fleeting moments of weakness, of temptation, but his father’s visions of hellfire and damnation had always stopped him at the last moment, even at the cost of appearing stand-offish and sacrificing potential friendships. He had dreamed troublingly explicit dreams and had nocturnal emissions, but had sought the solace of prayer, study and healthy physical activity.

Now, caught up in an agony of sensation, in his tortured night-fantasy he sees his virginal love – Emily, although as he watches she shrugs the low neckline of her demure dress down to expose her plump right breast and the prominent nipple, and she winks luridly, ‘you can squirt your dirt on my tits if you so please.’ Then he’s the crewman with his burning hawser-thick erection buried deep in Tinker’s warm throat. Squirt your dirt. Then he’s the crewman sliding his stiff cock into Tinker’s receptive anus. Squirt your dirt. Then, sweating feverishly, horror on horror, it is he who is lying on his back as the two rampant crewmen assault his own body. Now the overwhelming rage of sensation roaring through his groin jerks him awake, but it’s too late.

Moaning helplessly his hands crawl down to staunch the imminent gush of spermatic fluid. On those regrettable moments when he loses control it is possible to squeeze the base of the offending member, and force the semen back from the brink. But as his hands converge down over his stomach they encounter slot oyna tousled hair. Is this still part of the vile dream? No, his shocked expression is transfixed downward to where his nightshirt has been shucked up, and the boy is smiling mischievously up at him. Tinker has slid into the bunk beside him, and is eagerly engaged in sucking him off. No-one has ever touched him there before, never mind orally. Cockblower attempts to shove the curly-haired head away from his groin but it’s too late, already he’s begun emptying the copious contents of his ball-sac into the boy’s lusty mouth, and after long months of denial the erupting climax is volcanic. Tinker’s chin is freshly smeared with daubs of dribbling spattered cum-juice. From Naval Seamen, to a navel full of semen.

“That was wonderful Captain” breathes the boy, his eyes glazed with sated lust. “I will gladly do this for you every night if you wish, I’ll give you priority over the others, honest I will.”

He recoils in horror. “Get thee behind me Satan!”

“Well yes, I can do it that way if you prefer, Sir.”

In another fluster of embarrassed confusion he hurries Tinker out of the cabin and locks the door. If the crew had assumed that once he’d enjoyed such gratification he’d be less inclined to forbid it, they were wrong. The following morning Cockblower, mindful of his duty to maintain a tight ship, knows what he must do. He determines to impose his authority by exacting harsh discipline. It’s common knowledge that ordinary Jack Tar seamen will respect a firm stance, and a touch of the ‘cat’. He orders Tinker stripped and flogged with the ‘Cat-O’-Nine-Tails’ for his impertinence. With the crew assembled and a drummer rapping out strict time, the frightened sobbing youth is tied naked to the mast.

“You may proceed Mr Mate” says Cockblower, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, his legs braced against the rolling and heaving of the deck.

The First Mate brandishes the whip and circles the tethered boy. He leans forward to pass his hand over the smooth curve of the naked bottom. Then stands back. “No, sir, I will not carry out this cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Are you refusing to carry out my orders, sir? I issued a command, not a request for a debate. Do as you are told, or I will have you keel-hauled for this.”

“On the contrary, sir, I am relieving you of authority.”

Cockblower steps forward to admonish the rebellious Mate, but as he does so a growl goes up from the rest of the crew, as they move in to intervene.

“Damn your eyes, this is an outrage” he howls. “This is mutiny, you’ll all swing from the yardarm for this.”

Despite his struggles and protests the captain is cast adrift in a small dinghy, watching impotently as the vessel that was his first command, sails away for the horizon. And he is alone on the open sea.

CHAPTER TWO: DECLINE & FALL

(An unfortunate series of events befall our virtuous here)

Three on the bed. Emily lies beside the Vicar on the rumpled coverlet. He wears only his clerical dog-collar, and his socks. She can see across his bare chest to where her maid, Molly is also lying, her clothing in equal disarray. She can see her pretty bubbies, they’re so much fuller than her own. But hadn’t Molly said, for every man who likes big tits there’s another who likes small tits. For every man who likes fat bottoms, there’s another who prefers slim boyish bottoms. Molly knows the ways of men. Hadn’t she told her how seamen avail themselves of portside strumpets, pinchpricks and whores, as well as the cabin-boy? That when her dear Horatio returns he will have certain sexual expectations his bride will be expected to satisfy.

Now the other two are drowsing in post-copulatory afterglow, while she feels more alive than she’s ever been, her whole body tingling with new sensations. She can see the Vicar’s fat tool, and the bubble of milky fluid oozing from its tip. She was curious. Before Molly had chance to do it first, she leans her head over into his groin. She can simply lap the bead of man-juice with a single lick of her tongue. Instead she takes the full mushroom-bulb into her mouth and sucks it gently clean. Yes, it feels nice. Horatio will enjoy it when she does this to him.

Forgive me, for I have sinned. How must I make penance? By doing this… again.

And she’s still a virgin. That was what Molly had promised when she’d first suggested this threesome afternoon tryst. The Vicar was willing to help her out of her naivety. He knows what to do. He’ll show her useful sexual techniques that involve her sucking his pecker, and him putting his rampant manhood into her bottom – the things he does with the willing and enthusiastic members of his Male Voice Choir, while he, and Molly in turn, would only lick at her lady-slot, leaving her maidenhead intact for her dear Horatio to take, upon his eventual return. While Molly is there to help and assist as she’s able, they can lick each others nipples and pussies, then Emily will watch with only a hint of jealousy as the Vicar pumps waves of his spunky-milk into Molly’s moist cunny. She must wait for her Horatio to do that canlı casino siteleri to her, she will wait… or do her best to wait…

She licks her lips. And tastes spunk. She’d imagined it would taste salty. But its taste is more indescribable. Waiting will not be easy.

Meanwhile, after long days adrift on the endless sea, tormented by thirst and fever-delirium brought on by the relentless glare of the Mediterranean sun, our unfortunate hero finds himself washed up along the pagan north African shore, the Barbary Coast. Leaving the beached dinghy he sets out along the water’s edge until, concealed by a sheltering sand-dune he observes what he assumes to be a party of four Arab men healthily cavorting in the tide. Should he step forward and reveal himself? Throw himself upon their mercy? Hoping against hope that they can help him reach the nearest British consulate?

But before acting on his resolve he’s dismayed when the frolics he’s watching take on an intensely homo-erotic nature, as the two lithe dark-complexioned younger men teasingly bend over, swaying their raised bottoms invitingly, only to be vigorously buggered by their two elders. They pause only long enough to change partners in mid-rut, yelping with exquisite pleasure as they are penetrated by their second cock. He’s horrified to find the un-godly vice of sodomy even here. Must he be forever troubled by this evil? Yet he watches in nervous fascination, unable to look away. Sees the two younger cocks jerking and bobbing, their ball-sacs swinging to the fuck-rhythm until they spurt in two unison white arcs that spatter the sand between their splayed legs. And all four collapse into a sleepy post-coital tangle of bodies.

Cockblower furtively steals some of their discarded robes as disguise and heads off along the winding track towards the nearest city, hoping to locate a ship back for England, his mind teeming with a confusion of the vileness he’s witnessed, haunted by tantalising flashbacks of Tinker’s warm moist lips closing in around his pizzle. Trying to force the images away. However, once in the city his pale skin gives him away, he’s arrested as an infidel spy and thrown into the stifling humidity of the local Sultan’s dungeon, a semi-darkness of foul aromas and irritating midges that feed on sweat and body-grime.

From this point on, things begin to get very strange indeed. He spends much of the rest of the novel naked. Cockblower already felt stripped of status and identity without the uniform he’d worn with such pride. Now his dignified assertion of his rights as an officer of the British Empire are ignored as he undergoes an agony of sexual humiliation not only from the interrogators who quiz him in broken English, but from the guards, and his fellow prisoners who taunt and threaten him. Naked, he feels self-conscious, with other men’s eyes appraising him, but there’s to be no escape.

It was also at college that he’d listened with horrified fascination to whispered dormitory tales of Christian prisoners of cruel Moors who’d been forced to endure adult circumcision in order to conform to their captor’s blasphemous religious practices, or had all of their teeth extracted the better to perform smooth oral sex on them. Although there was never a suggestion that such a fate awaited him here the ghost of those adolescent horror-stories haunt him.

Instead, cleared of spying, but due to his pale-skinned attractively-hung demeanour he’s made a gift to Sultan Mustapha Koch’s seraglio. The sudden sun is dazzling after the darkness of the cell as he’s bundled into a sealed carriage, catching glimpses of a city of minarets and onion-domes from the small inset grille as he’s carried through the crowded streets towards the palace. The new walls closing in around him are high, all gates patrolled by mute guards armed with curved scimitars, and the captive occupants of the seraglio are supervised at all times by a strict elder named Vizier Yashim, a man of small gimlet-eyes bright and cold, set above a wispy white beard.

He learns there are some twenty captive naked men held within the gilded sequestered enclosure. There are other Europeans. A Frenchman. An Italian. Neither of whose limited language skills allow for conversation. Increasing his sense of isolation. And a number of Africans captured during sub-Saharan slavery forays – for the Sultan enjoys the contrast of dark skin-tones penetrating light skin-tones. But most the others are local young men seized by the Sultan as they’d come to his attention, or had been sold to him by their avaricious families.

One or two of the male odalisques are outwardly effeminate with long perfumed hair and exaggerated hip-movements, but all of them have been selected for your youth, their physical attractiveness, and the generous size of their genital endowment. Yet in pampered captivity, they are rendered anonymous, just bodies to be used. They tend the secretive gardens in shaded arbours or beside groves of flowering shrubs, work on light cleaning projects beside tinkling hissing fountains that feed a shimmering hammam pool for nude bathing, do household chores amid the lavish cushions and plush mattresses, and rehearse sex acts on each other in preparation for the whims of the Sultan. To the Captain, it resembles the opium delirium of an Alma-Tadema painting, lush with sinful narcissistic indulgence.

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