ERED AT THE INN (1809)
By DannyR (MM/b, oral, anal, incest, extreme pedo)
Copyright 2012. All rights reserved.
Author’s Reminder: Don’t forget that inquiring authors want to know -- what did you think? So when you’re done, put your fingers to a dried-off, cleaned-up keyboard and start by typing: dr_harris_81@hotmail.com.
DISCLAIMER: Some folks apparently have trouble distinguishing between fantasy and reality. This story is a fantasy. It didn’t happen. Never will. And anyone who attempts to do in real life all or any of the things depicted in the story needs to be hanged, then drawn and quartered, and then turned over to the cops for the harshest penalties the law allows. After that, well, hopefully everything Law and Order and the news say is true about child molesters in prison, is really true. Now that we’re clear on what’s what, and what’s not, read on.
BUGGERED AT THE INN (1809)
On the Society’s DVD I told this story as a voice over to a loving, lingering slideshow of still photographs from the our long history. Including a daguerreotype from 1839, when [I decline to tell you] the barony became a dukedom. My much older ancestor was getting fucked by his son. You could see his long dick half into his father’s ass. And the old man was sucking a very young, but unidentified, boy. The dukedom made sense, though. After all, if you have been supplying the royals and a few very select members of the nobility with the finest young boy pussy, you deserve a reward. And my ancestor was a most deserving man.
I also grew up listening to, eventually reading, a different type of fairy tale. Vastly different. Not the Brothers Grimm, not Anderson, for me. They read to me from the journals of the Society, and once the art of photography had been created, the Society quite naturally began to use it to extensively document their paedophilia. So there was a great deal of showing to go with the telling.
I think my favorite tale was from an old, old book with a red leather cover, with a crest in gold, and the Society’s motto below it.
It was a dark and stormy night...truly...back in 1809. My ancestor...let us call him Baron H....had had a carriage accident, and was forced to take refuge in a low inn when the rain howled down. Not at all the type of accommodation he was accustomed to as he so expressly said. It was never clear where he was going to, or why he had William, his youngest (three years old) son with him. The boy’s nurse was apparently already ill when they started that particular leg of the journey, which was of course irrelevant when considered against the baron’s whim to move on, and by the time the second coach, with his valet Rupert and all the luggage had caught up to the wreck, they were all thoroughly chilled from waiting in the cold and the rain.
It would not comport with the baron’s dignity to ride the remainder of the distance crammed into a single coach with his son, the boy’s nurse, his driver, and his valet. Except for the comparatively short journey to a small and crude inn. To wait out the storm, to see to repairing the broken wheel. He naturally gave the innkeeper’s wife enough coin to assure the nurse would be cared for. (Our family has always preferred to be seen as kindly and caring, all known facts to the contrary.) She was, however, placed in another room—of course—from which some other cold and wet traveler had been evicted. (The evicted travelers were not related to or working for the baron, and thus no need for any caring at all.) A wealthy baron, after all, had some rights.
I have always pictured that room in my mind, at that moment, the moment when his valet and coachman walked in, as lit only by a roaring, slightly smoky fire, and a pair of candles on a stand beside the rude bed. The bed on which an unhappy naked William was on all fours at the edge, his three year old plump bottom gleaming white in the firelight. The baron was behind him, the fall on his breeches undone, his seven and three quarter inch cock (so the baron assured anyone who might read that journal) was out and drooling precum. One hand tightly on the boy’s waist, the other directing his prick to the hole in the boy’s bum. Just about to mount his boy...and the valet and coachman walk in, the valet (Rupert) saying, “Milord, John Coachman has....”
Had the baron wanted to be caught? Or had he simply, in the eagerness of his lust to get his prick into a warm tight boy pussy, forgotten to lock the door?
The three men stood there in mutual shock. The door still open. And the baron blurted out, “His cunt is so tight!”
And thus the Society’s motto was born. Though it wasn’t official until many years later.
Were the five words an excuse, justification? “This boy pussy is so hot and tight that no one could possibly resist.”
An offer of a bribe to his valet? To his coachman?
Any form of sodomy then was a hanging offense, though it was quite a regular thing at Eton and Harrow, where the young scholars were sodomized often and well by the older students, and the masters. Once graduated, a man was expected to put away childish things and do his duty, for queen and country, i.e., marry and father an heir and at least one spare. The baron had done that. The twins had left for Eton, and the good (bad? wicked?) baron missed them. Missed the mouths he had been molesting since they were nearly five, the bums he had pricked not long after their fifth birthday.
Of course there was the stable master’s son (the start of another baronial/ducal tradition?), whose father was paid well for the use of his son’s holes. Although it wasn’t the same as abusing your own boy. But the stable boy was getting older, would soon have hair and actually cum, and the baron’s youngest son was only three. And he had vowed a solemn vow that he would not use the boy’s mouth until he was four, and his boy pussy until he was five, just like his brothers.
The baron realized in that inn that he needed to break that solemn vow. After all, paedophiles break vows not to molest, break laws against molesting, on a regular basis. Daily. Hourly. Second by passing second.
His cock gleamed with the oil he had poured on it from the vial he had brought on this trip. Only he could not quite remember the excuse he had told himself for bringing it. So close, so very close to heaven. The heavenly heat of a fresh boy pussy. The heavenly howls of the newly fucked child. And two of his servants had stopped it all. Perhaps even ended everything.
Except....
Rupert slowly smiled, turned to close and lock the door, and walked the few steps to the bed. “Have you fucked him, milord?”
The baron shook his head.
“Then how do you know?” At the stunned but recovering stare, he said, “How do you know how tight his cunt is, then?”
The baron gulped, his face flushed with more than the heat of the room. The valet’s smile broadened.
“How old?”
The baron understood. How old had the twins been when that fatherly prong had breached their bums? “Five.”
His turn for his own eyes to widen, as his staid, conservatively dressed, stuffy almost to the point of priggishness, valet, reached down and groped the impressive hardon in his own breeches. The journal informed us later it was eight and one quarter inches, precisely determined after the baron had had more experience and time with it.
“I want him first.”
Anger surged through the baron, bare cocked or not. The boy was his, his holes belonged to his father, and no damned commoner....
But that damned commoner quietly pointed out as he slightly backed away to get nearer to the door, how very easy it would be to unlock, open the door, and shout the inn down with the horror that had awaited him when he walked in on his sodomite master about to rape his very own son. And if the valet was valiantly wrestling with the partially naked baron, desperate to keep him from his all naked three year old boy, when the innkeeper and the nosy villagers from the tap room came charging in, why Rupert would be a hero, and the baron would be done.
Wouldn’t it be preferable for the two of them, Rupert first, of course, to use the boy? The valet would have the boy’s plump pussy, but the father could have his mouth first. Though Rupert did suggest the baron might want to wait to get his fatherly prick in that tiny mouth until after the child had cock in his cunt. Teeth around a cock and severe pain in the pussy were a potentially damaging, severely damaging, combination.
The tale might have played out differently. The baron, perhaps, waiting for his valet to get naked, or even partially so, perhaps cock in three year old cunt, then stunning him with the fireplace poker and becoming the hero who saved the precious boy from a criminal sodomite.
Fantasies prevented that.
The baron’s fantasies over the two years while his sons were away at school. Imagining them being roughly used by the master of the house they were assigned to, of laying naked on their cots at night, as their very talented cunts were used over and over by the other boys. Perhaps the headmaster would cane them for some real or imagined infraction, and then, bent over his desk, fuck them deep and hard.
The baron realized that the idea of watching another man, a commoner, molest his son, rape him even, had him even harder than before. He started to agree, but a deep, gravelly voice stopped him.
“No. Me first.”
John Coachman, the name by which he was known since no one knew or cared to know his real name, had been ignored in the byplay between baron and valet. An excellent driver, true, but still, a menial. A crude, dirty man who exuded the smells of the stable where he was expected to sleep, bearded, two teeth missing, a crooked nose from a long ago fight. And someone who was just smart enough to know that no matter what happened in the room he dared not speak of it. Unless it played out as Rupert suggested it might.
John Coachman was also smart enough to notice a birthmark and a mole, cunning enough to know that unless they killed him now, he would have the chance to speak and destroy them before they could do ought to him. For how could he know about the oddly shaped birthmark on little William’s rump, and the mole on the baron’s inner thigh, if he had not seen them just as the baron was about to sodomize his son?
Rupert turned to the coachman, the expression on his face vicious. In the servant hierarchy the valet was a lord to the driver’s lowest lackey. He opened his mouth and the coachman backhanded him, knocking him to the floor where he sprawled, blood running from his mouth, knowing a large bruise was beginning to form on his face.
“Figured you couldn’t wait.”
The baron was still in a state of shock and his face showed it.
John Coachman was undoing his clothes. Pulling out an impressive cock, together with a stench of unwashed flesh that reached across the room to the other two men.
“Yer didn’t think yer could satisfy them little sluts all on yer own, now did yer?”
The baron’s mouth was open again, and not with eagerness to have it fucked with cock. And then he was on his knees, roughly shoved there by his coachman, his head held tight, and the smelly prick forced into his throat. Memories of the men who had molested him so long ago reasserted themselves, and his mouth began to accommodate the meat. “Aye, yer lordship, me ‘n me own boys been fuckin’ ‘em reg’lar like. Since they wuz four.”
The coachman snickered at the baron, who could do nothing more than widen his eyes in further shock as his mouth was ruthlessly fucked.
“Holy shite, John. Four?” Rupert said. The coachman looked over his shoulder; the valet had learned his lesson since his own cock was out, being wanked. William had slumped belly down on the bed, his fat little toes dangling over the edge.
“Aye. ‘is lordship ‘ere didn’t even notice how easy his prick went into their pussies when he finally got the balls t’do ‘em. Cum whores, the both of ‘em. Down in the stables, the pair, learnin’ ‘bout horses, yeah, learnin’ about how hot horse piss was sprayin’ em down and drinkin’ it down. Tiny slut hands wankin’ ol’ Thunder, milord, ‘til ‘e covered yer boys in cum.”
The baron whimpered in lust, Rupert moaned. The coachman yanked his well-slimed prick from the baron’s throat, shoved him aside, strode to the bed and grabbed the three year old by his fat waist, pulling him up and into fuck position again.
“Wait!” the baron gasped. He frantically began shedding his clothes, dropping them where they fell, not caring since Rupert would have to clean them up anyway, boy fuck or no. The valet followed suit. Together, the naked baron and the naked valet moved to each side of the frightened three year old, their cocks leaking steadily at the sight of the fat, filthy coachman’s prick resting at the boy’s virgin pussy lips.
“Let’s ‘old ‘im tight, guv. Don’t want the little slut ‘scapin’ now, do we?”
Father and valet leaned forward, four hands tightly holding the terrified toddler, one at each shoulder, one at each hip. The child wasn’t going anywhere. John Coachman hawked some spit, some phlegm, onto his meat, rubbed it in with his thumb, and then shoved.
The boy howled, a shrill baby boy scream over the sound of the storm, as his tiny shitter was violated by the coachman’s dirty cock. He struggled to escape the pain slicing through him, but with his own father and the valet who had always been so nice to him, holding him, he had no chance. Tiny William screamed again, even louder, when John Coachman impaled his cock all the way into the child cunt, his smelly pubes pressed against the fat boy cheeks.
The baron grunted. His first fucks of the twins had been gentle, though a part of him had wanted something more. Something he eventually got when they became accustomed to his prick in their pussies whenever he chose. He reached his hand across his howling son, and with his slickened palm, oiled his valet’s dick. The servant returned the favor.
“Fuck William’s mouth,” the baron ordered.
“M’lord?”
“Shove your prick in his mouth, make him a cunt at both ends, Rupert.”
The valet smiled and clambered up on the bed, getting in front of the sobbing three year old, spreading his knees wide, stroking his cock, fondling his large balls.
The baron reached over, grabbed a fistful of William’s hair and yanked the boy’s head up, adding to the pain as the child arched his neck. “Do you see Rupert’s cock, William?”
The boy tried to nod, but his father’s hand was too tight. He gasped, “Y...yes, sir.”
“It’s big, isn’t it?”
Gasping again for breath as the raping meat of the coachman plowed his no longer virgin arse, William managed to agree.
“Rupert is going to put his cock in your throat, William, my dear boy. And if you bite him or hurt him, do you know what I’ll do to you?”
William screamed again as John Coachman rammed in particularly hard and deep. “N...no, father.”
“I’ll cane you. Do you want to be caned?”
William tried desperately to shake his head no, tears streaming down his face not only from the pain in his freshly made boy pussy, but fear. “N...no, father, please, please, don’t cane me.”
The baron smiled. It was not really a pleasant, fatherly smile. When the boy was two and a half, he had gotten up on the baron’s chair in his office, to play with the quill pen, and wound up spilling most of the inkwell on the baron’s papers. The baroness, soft-hearted as she was, pleaded for mercy. The baron had none. He stripped William bare, laid him over the arm of the couch, and with hardon making eagerness, lashed the boy’s plump bottom six times with the thin, supple cane. Each mark elicited a howl, each red stripe that raised a welt got the fatherly prick even harder until he was leaking precum steadily by the time the last blow landed. A thin edge of bright red blood oozed.
The baron stormed out of the room, yelling for his wife to take care of her whimpering child. The baron headed directly to the stables, found nine year old Jemmy, took him into a dark stall at the far end, pulled the child’s pants down, spat on his raging cock, and with one hand over the boy’s mouth so that his cries would not be heard, thrust his cock balls deep into the frequently fucked cunt. And with every rapid, brutal stroke into the boy, the baron imagined it was his young son, with the red, welted ass, oozing blood. He came with a grunt, yanked his cock out of the bruised hole, pulled the child up and forced him to clean the baronial meat.
The baron smiled a fatherly smile at the fond remembrance, and let his son’s head go. It flopped forward. The valet lifted the three year old’s head, held it at the right height, told him, “Open your mouth, master William, so I can fuck your mouth pussy.”
The boy’s shoulders tensed in momentary rebellion, then sagged again. He opened his mouth. The valet’s cock was large and thick; the tiny child choked as it began making its way into his mouth, into his throat. The valet was accustomed to inexperienced men choking on his prick; a little boy, his lordship’s precious toddler, barely out of leading strings, was no different. However, with such a small mouth and throat, he knew it would be a while before he could train the boy to accommodate every inch, so with whispered words and harsh hands he started little William’s slut training.
The valet was so focused on using the three year old’s slobbering, drooling mouth that he had stopped paying attention to the baron. That came into focus again with a sharp, “Bugger off, yer lordship!” from the coachman, who had paused with his massive prick half in and half out of the child hole.
The valet looked up. The baron was behind John Coachman, who had also been so interested in his boy pussy rape that he hadn’t paid attention either. “What you do to my boy, I get to do to you, whenever I like. Both of you.” The baron stared at the valet over the coachman’s shoulder and there was something...unnerving...in his expression.
“Ain’t no one fuckin’ me, yer fuckin’ lordship, so get....” The coachman abruptly stopped moving, with an audible gulp, and then held very, very still. A very sharp dagger to the throat, deep enough that a brilliant red drop of blood stood out sharply against the dirt, undoubtedly has that effect.
“I can slit your throat before you get your cock out of my boy’s cunt, coachman. A bloody mess, but then who will fault an outraged father for meting out justice on a filthy sodomite. Rupert and I clean up and tell the magistrate what happened and when everyone has gone and we are alone, we’ll fuck his three year old cunts long and well. You have free will says the church, so choose your damnation. As a happy sodomite with access to young boy pussy, or a dead sodomite consigned to hell.”
The pause was long enough that the baron almost decided he needed to explain the coachman’s options again, but a twist of the blade, and a tiny slice deeper got a gasping, “Yes! Yes, yer lordship, fuck me arse.”
The coachman’s perverted cock was still hard. On the baron’s command he buried it in the child cunt and then reached back to hold his hairy ass cheeks wide. The baron’s right hand still held the dagger, resting it against the coachman’s hairy back, as he used his left hand to line his cock up, and then jammed it balls deep. It was the coachman’s turn to howl as his virgin bowels were violated by noble meat.
“Bugger my boy,” the baron ordered.
The coachman and the valet obeyed, fucking the three year old ruthlessly from both ends, while the baron enjoyed what was happening to his son as much as the feeling of the hot slick arse walls of his coachman around his cock.
Rupert went first, holding the boy’s head in place, thrusting half his thick prong down into the little one’s gullet, shouting out, “Fuck, your lordship, I’m buggering the boy’s throat, seeding his whoreson mouth!”
The baron began pounding the coachman’s pussy frantically until he began spewing his own seed into the grasping servant bowels, and then with his own not so restrained roar, John Coachman fucked the three year old fast and deep and filled his tiny boy cunt to overflowing. They slowly withdrew their meat from the holes they’d just used. William lay belly down on the bed, his tiny feet over the edge, sobbing helplessly.
The baron looked at Rupert, looked down at his own slimy, dirty cock and gestured. His valet understood the changed dynamics. He got off the bed, dropped to his knees and quickly slurped and licked the lordly prick clean. He was, after all, a versatile sodomite. And getting fucked by the baron would pose no great problem; the man’s cock wasn’t nearly as big as his own. Better yet, the coachman was going to get repaid for that blow and feel what it was like to have a large cock raping his almost-virgin cunt.
Rupert sat on the edge of the bed, beside the boy. The coachman sprawled on his back on the other side. There were flecks of shit and blood on his softening meat. The baron stepped close, eased two fingers into his young son’s abused pussy, pulled them out and licked the cum and ass juices clean. His cock sprang to life again.
“Bugger him, Rupert. Fuck his arse with your whole prick.” As a most excellent servant, Rupert and his cock obeyed. The first six inches were comparatively easy, but getting the remainder into the struggling boy’s pussy was more difficult, but at last it was done.
The baron took the valet’s place, gently lifting his son’s head. The boy’s agonized eyes looked up at him, clearly asking “Why?”
The baron smiled. “Because I can. Because you belong to me, dear boy. Your holes are mine, just like your brothers’ are. But some day you will be older, with hair ‘round your prick and under your arms, and hanging balls, and I won’t want you as much. It will be your turn then. We’ll find you a little boy of your very own, although, you might have to share.”
The baron caressed his three year old son’s throat, feeling his own prick moving down into it, making the boy choke and gag. As he and the valet began fucking the tiny boy at both ends again, and John Coachman began wanking, deciding to forego the valet’s arse in favor of another chance at the child, the baron said, “I believe I shall breed Matilda again. Or perhaps....”
The baron paused his fucking. “Coachman, you have a bastard boy down in the village, bred off that barmaid? A young one?”
“Aye, milord.”
“Three boys, then, counting the two who’ve been fucking my sons. And you, Rupert. Any sons?”
“Yes, milord. He’s eight. He lives in London with his grandmother.”
“We’ll bring them both to the manor. Share them. And since you are proven breeders of sons, I think, yes, I do think we shall share Matilda.”
“Fuck the baroness, my lord?” Rupert’s voice broke, perhaps in shock, perhaps in sudden eagerness.
“Share her cunt until she’s bred, share whatever she whelps. The child, even if a boy, is certainly never going to inherit so it doesn’t matter who the father is.”
The coachman stroked his cock more rapidly, smearing precum down the length. “Fuck her ladyship’s arse, too?”
The baron laughed. “Just her cunt. Until she’s pregnant, then her other holes for a while if you wish. Now get on with it.”
And as the baron, the valet and the coachman got on with the serious business of buggering a boy only three years old, they didn’t realize that several family traditions had been born that dark and stormy night in 1809.