Cockerings

By Stevyn Colgan

Two aristocrats. One fortune. A geriatric circus. A tale of greed, deceit and incontinent elephants.

Sunday, 22 March 2020

Free Stuff!

Hello you. We're living in strange times aren't we?

It's made even stranger for me by the fact that it all seems to be happening 'somewhere else'. Life seems relatively normal at the moment. As a writer I work from home anyway. My wife is stuck overseas for at least a month but isn't in a Covid19 hotspot (though Barbados is hot) and she's travelling with a nurse with decades of experience, so she's in good hands. And as I live in countryside and I'm buying for one (and three dogs) I haven't needed to go to a supermarket. The local village shops and farm shops still have most of what I need. Oh, and I have plenty of loo roll - our four month supply from the ethical Whogivesacrap? company arrived just before the virus. 

However, I am diabetic and, therefore, at an elevated risk so I am observing the whole physical distancing thing. In fact, the only human contact I've had in a week now is the postman who leaves my letters and packages on the step and my fellow dog walkers who shout pleasantries to each other across the fields meadows and woodlands.

However, the crisis has made me review my crowdfunding campaign. At a time when people are uncertain about their income, their jobs, whether they can feed their families and afford their rent or mortgages it feels wrong and disingenuous to ask for money for what is, atthe end of the day, just a book. Other things are far more important. I've therefore suspended all of my crowdfunding activity for the moment. It'll mean a delay in reaching my total and publication but I hope that you'll understand and bear with me.

By way of a thank you for your patience and, I hope, to give you a giggle at a time of uncertainty, here's a chapter from the book. Let me explain the set-up ...

Marcheline Cockering wants to get pregnant in order to cheat her brother out of an inheritance.She has adopted a pseudonym of 'Leticia' while looking for a suitable man. Meanwhile, her brother Berkeley has blackmailed a man called Ben Ellis to seduce his sister and get close enough to extract some information from her. The two have now meet at a hotel bar ...

**WARNING - Some rude stuff!**

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Ben scuttled off to the Gents and Marcheline sat back in her chair, very impressed with her own performance. She put her new-found confidence down to the champagne. It was also having an effect on her long-suppressed libido and she was quite definitely feeling the first stirrings of something that might be called physical attraction. His injuries, which he’d explained away as ‘a DIY mishap’ didn’t detract from his looks at all and parts of her were experiencing little tingles that she wasn’t used to. She felt light-headed and slightly goosepimply. The fact that this Ellis chap was articulate and clever, as well as quite good looking, made her wonder whether he was a possible candidate to father a child. That he was also artistic, and his rough hands showed that he wasn’t a stranger to hard work, were bonuses in his favour. Marcheline’s thoughts turned to the hotel room. Did she dare? It was certainly the right time of the month for her and, besides, when would another opportunity like this present itself?  All that stood in the way was her own self-doubt and inexperience. What if he didn’t find her attractive enough?

She reached into her handbag and took out the small medicine bottle she’d bought in the sex shop. Perhaps, if the ‘herbal supplement’ tablets did what the label claimed they would, it would load the dice in her favour. ‘Take two tablets with food for sustained erection,’ she read. She popped the lid and tipped one of the tablets onto her hand. It was very small, about the size of a coffee sweetener, so she tipped out three more.

‘Ah well, in for a penny,’ she said and was about to drop them into Ellis’s champagne when it occurred to her that they may not be soluble. So, instead, she ground them to a powder using the back of a spoon and then sprinkled the powder underneath the beef patty of his half-eaten burger. Surely he wouldn’t notice that? 

Half an hour later, Ben was quite definitely starting to notice the tablets and found himself squirming uncomfortably in his chair. Something was going on inside his trousers that he had no conscious control over. A warm sensation had settled over his groin like a hot towel and his rapidly inflating penis was nudging its way uncomfortably up and out of the waistline of his underpants. Disguising his action as a leg scratch, he quickly pushed the stiffening organ to one side. The tip, he noticed, felt almost painfully sensitive.

‘Are you alright?’ asked Marcheline. ‘You seem a little … distracted.’

‘Fine,’ said Ben, a little too loudly. ‘Horse-fly bite. Itches like Hell.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Marcheline, sipping another glass of champagne.

Ben smiled weakly. The damned thing was still growing and every slight move he made caused it to rub against the cotton of his pants. A dull throbbing began. He’d always known that what he called ‘Little Ben’ had a mind of its own, often deciding to engorge in the most unsuitable of situations. He was reminded of a train journey he’d once made in which an unwanted and unexpected erection had been so obvious in the shorts he was wearing that he’d had to stay on the train for an extra two stops until it had subsided sufficiently to be called decent. He now found himself faced with a similar dilemma. Another fake scratch revealed what was, he was sure, the most impressive stiffy he’d ever had and, to make matters worse, the throbbing had become quite urgent and the ultra- sensitivity of his circumcised glans made it entirely likely that he’d ejaculate into his clothes if he wasn’t careful. And it wasn’t as if Leticia was helping. She was quite tipsy now and her blouse had popped its top button and gaped alarmingly every time she leaned forward to speak. She was a good-looking woman and, in other circumstances, he’d be thoroughly enjoying the view. But, at this moment, it was stimulus that he could do without. He carefully adjusted himself again.

‘Is it weeping?’ said Marcheline.

‘What?’ said Ben in alarm.

‘The bite. Perhaps it’s infected,’ said Marcheline. ‘You might need antibiotics. Want me to take a look?’

‘It’s fine,’ said Ben, knowing full-well that it was anything but. He shut his eyes and began visualising the sort of images that might cause his tumescence to disappear: garbage bags torn open and stinking; a roadkill badger, its guts on display and peppered with fat little maggots squirming with excitement; a blocked drain exuding effluent; the inside of Glupi’s caravan. 

‘Or maybe I should kiss it better?’ said Marcheline, leaning forward and touching his hand. He opened his eyes to see that, in leaning so far forward, she had accidentally exposed half a nipple.

‘Be right back,’ said Ben and, snatching his serviette off the table and using it to disguise his terrible swelling, he made a wild dash for the Gents. Crashing through the door and into a cubicle he hurriedly turned the lock and undid his belt, waist button and fly. Lowering his trousers and underpants gently, his erect member sprang into view, the head huge and swollen, great veins standing proudly all along its length. The damned thing looked like a sex toy - a monstrously large sex toy made of angry purple rubber. Something was terribly wrong, that much was obvious. Deciding that maybe cold water might help to soothe the inflamed organ, Ben lifted the lid off the cistern and wondered how to get his penis to the water or vice versa. There was no way he was going to use the water in the toilet pan. He cupped his hands and dipped them into the cistern and then let the cool water dribble over his organ and into the pan. It felt good. But what he needed was prolonged exposure. He needed to dunk his penis in something cool and soothing.

There seemed to be two options open to him: either he found some sort of receptacle, like a cup, in which to put the water; or he had to contrive a way to get his penis into the cistern. Unlocking the door to the cubicle, he peered outside and looked around for some item that could be used as a cup or bowl. There was nothing. He could, at a stretch, get his organ under the cold tap of a basin but the chances of someone walking in were high and he didn’t fancy having to explain his actions. In fact, it sounded as if someone was just coming in to use the facilities right now so Ben ducked back inside his cubicle and slipped the latch. Likewise there was nothing in the cubicle except for the toilet brush and its holder but using that was just too horrific an option to consider. But then he noticed that the lid of the cistern itself was slightly concave. Maybe a shallow cold bath would do the trick? Carefully, he placed it upside down on the toilet seat and used his cupped hands to bring some clean water out of the cistern. It wasn’t much, barely quarter of an inch in depth, but he positioned the lid as best he could, straddled the toilet, bent at the knees, and slowly lowered himself into the water.

‘Oh god that’s good,’ he murmured very quietly. The water felt wonderful but, all too quickly, his raging penis began to warm it up and soon he could no longer feel the benefit. Besides which, it had made no difference to the swelling. His next thought was maybe to use the cardboard tube inside the toilet roll as a makeshift cup? He quickly tore all of the remaining paper off the roll and dropped it into the toilet. Then he crimped and folded one end of the tube and tried to collect some water in it. It failed dismally, the seal being anything but waterproof. But popping the damp cardboard tube over his penis had felt good. A sudden inspiration made him grab up a spare unused toilet roll and dunk it in the cistern. When it had taken up all of the water, he fished it out and manoeuvred his penis inside the tube. It felt wonderful.

At their table, Marcheline looked at her watch and frowned. Benjamin had excused himself over ten minutes ago and hadn’t returned. Horror stories of people climbing out of toilet windows rather than face returning to their dates surfaced in her mind. Is that what he’d done? Surely he couldn’t be doing anything legitimate or innocent that took ten minutes?

‘Excuse me,’ she said to a passing waiter. ‘My friend has been in the lavatory an awfully long time. Would you mind checking that he’s alright?’

‘Certainly madam, what’s his name?’

‘Benjamin.’

The waiter nodded and smiled in a reassuring way before heading for the Gents.

The wet toilet roll felt like bliss. Although there seemed to be no immediate effect on the size and firmness of ‘Little Ben’ – or not so little on this occasion - the prolonged coolness was soothing and Ben was feeling less panicked. He sighed with relief and sat down on the toilet seat with the cistern lid resting on his knees. And, now that he had a quiet moment or two, he began to wonder how he’d got into this predicament in the first place. While Leticia was an attractive woman, and she seemed to be quite keen on him, there was no way that her physical proximity could have caused such an extreme reaction. All he could think of was that he’d been slipped a dose of Viagra or Cialis or some other drug that he was frequently offered in spam emails. But by whom? Leticia? Or had Berkeley spiked his tea at the hospital earlier in the day? He wouldn’t have put it past the man. Thoughts of Berkeley set him to wondering how the man would react when he learned that he hadn’t seduced his sister as he’d been asked to do. Would he spill the beans about the arson to the police? And why wasn’t all of this worry causing him to deflate?

‘Benjamin? Is there a Benjamin in here?’

Ellis jumped and, in doing so, dropped the cistern lid. It fell to the floor with a loud clunk and broke neatly in half.    

‘Hello?’ said the voice.

‘I’ll pay for any breakages,’ said Ben.

‘Are you okay in here? There seems to be a lot of water on the floor.’

‘I’m fine!’ squeaked Ben.

‘You don’t sound fine,’ said the voice. ‘Your lady friend asked me to check on you. You have been in here a long time.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Ellis again.  

‘You’re not doing drugs in there, are you Sir?’ said the waiter. ‘We have a very strict house policy on drugs.’

‘It’s just a bad tummy. A very bad tummy.’

‘Any suggestion of drugs and we are obliged to contact the police, sir.’

‘I’m not doing drugs!’ snapped Ben. ‘Look, I’ll be out in a minute, okay?’

Inside the cubicle, Ben cursed Marcheline’s impatience and went to pull the toilet roll off his penis but found that it was stuck fast. Either the swelling had become even more severe, or the waterlogged toilet roll had squeezed the cardboard tube smaller, but whatever the reason, it was not coming off. He began tearing frantically at the wet paper, pulling it away in thick clumps and dropping them into the toilet. The subsequent and prolonged series of loud splashing noises might, at least, satisfy whoever it was outside the cubicle that he was putting the facilities to the use for which they were intended.  However, the toilet pan was filling up rapidly, so he flushed it before adding any more. All too late he realised that the pan was already blocked. As water began flooding over the rim, he tore desperately at the last of the toilet roll. The water was now cascading onto the floor and flooding out under the door of the cubicle carrying lumps of wadded paper with it like tiny icebergs.

‘What is going on in there?’ said the waiter. ‘I’m getting the manager!’

‘No, please don’t …’

But, with a slam of the door, the waiter was gone and Ben rushed to try to make himself look decent, forcing his errant and chemically-induced erection back inside his trousers.

Back in the restaurant, Marcheline watched the waiter go into the toilet and then come out a few minutes later. To her alarm, however, he didn’t come back to her to reassure her that all was well. Instead, he walked briskly into the kitchens and then re-emerged with another man and they had both headed back to the toilets. She cursed herself for her stupidity in doubling the dosage. Perhaps he’d had an allergic reaction? What if he’d gone into anaphylactic shock? What if he’d had a heart attack?

‘Oh god, what have I done?’ she said and staggered to the Gents toilets. She pushed open the door and stepped inside to find the waiter banging on the cubicle door. The room was awash with water and hunks of tissue. Spotting several dark masses moving across the floor, she felt her bile rise. Closer examination would have shown them to be parts of the cardboard inner tubes of two toilet rolls, darkened by saturation, but she wasn’t going to look that closely.

The waiter banged on the cubicle door again.

 ‘You need to come out of there now, sir. I’ve brought the manager, Mr Buston, with me. If you don’t come out we’ll be forced to open the door.’

Mr Buston turned on Marcheline.

‘Madam, you shouldn’t be in here. This is the Gents.’

 ‘Indeed. But as I am the person who asked your staff to check on my friend I have every right to be in here,’ she said. Marcheline was not an easy woman to sway at the best of times and the two bottles of champagne she’d helped to empty had made her even more bombastic than usual.

‘But what if …’ began the Manager but Marcheline had taken charge.

‘Benjamin! Are you alright?’

Inside the cubicle, Ben attempted to wrench his fly closed but material from his underpants had become stuck between the teeth. With one last mighty tug, he yanked the zipper upwards. To his horror it broke off in his hand and his penis sprang out of his fly like an obscene Jack-in the-box.

‘Fuck!’ he yelled.

 ‘Right, we’re coming in,’ said Marcheline. She turned to Mr Buston. ‘You! Open the door. Something is obviously very wrong in there.’

Inside the cubicle, Ben forced his organ back inside his trousers as best he could and steeled himself for action. He would have to make a break for it and get as far away from the hotel as possible.

The Manager fumbled among his bunch of keys to find the one that could open the cubicle lock from the outside. But he was too slow. The door suddenly swung inwards and Ben burst from the cubicle and, glissading on a wad of wet tissue, skidded across the floor and collided with the opposite wall. His head clunked against a basin and, as he lay there, wet and red-faced, with blood oozing from the re-opened wound on his nose and his impressive erection poking out of his trouser fly, he passed out.

‘I’d best take him to our room,’ said Marcheline, removing her pashmina and draping it over his embarrassment.

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Hope it gave you a smile! 

Be safe m'lovelies. Be kind. And we'll chat soon.

Sx

 

 

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Comments

Alan McHenry
 Alan McHenry says:

Excellent, shame about the delay in getting it finished but can understand.
Kepp well everyone.

posted 23rd March 2020

Stevyn Colgan
 Stevyn Colgan says:

Thanks Alan. I can't wait to share the new book with everyone. It's my favourite and (I think) my best to date - and others who acted as critical readers have said so too. Obviously, I'd be over the moon if people keep putting money into the kitty but I can't, in all conscience, ask them to. Not for a while anyway. Thanks for your patience and understanding. Sx

posted 23rd March 2020

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