Rumblins by Anel Viz

The Five Hundred Raincoats
of
Bartholomew Cubbins

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

(a very safe sex story)

Way back in medieval times an aged monarch ruled over a vast kingdom, richly blessed with fertile fields and an industrious and fecund populace of lovely loose ladies and licentious lads. Though no farmer himself, the king had sown an abundant crop of wild oats in his youth, but this once-gay Lothario now faced the decrepitude of old age, and could no longer rise to the occasion. For most people this would not matter much, since the occasion would so seldom arise, but he was royalty and had but to snap his fingers to bring some tempting sexual tidbit to his bed.

And snap his fingers he did in a vain attempt to revive his flagging manhood. Back in those superstitious days he naturally assumed that some witch had laid a curse on his virility, but after he had burned a few with no noticeable results, he turned to another kind of magic, and every night he summoned another vigorous young hunk to his bed to fuck him in the ass in the hope that absorbing his vigorous young spunk into his blood would rejuvenate him. That meant an exchange of bodily fluids, i.e., barebacking, which put him at risk, but what did he care? He had already outlived the life expectancy of his day, when illnesses were treated with prayers and potions. As for the possibility that he might spread the deadly virus among the young men who bedded him and set off a deadly plague the length and breadth of his kingdom (since their sex lives did not come to a halt after their one-night stand with His Majesty), well, what did he care about that either? The rich and powerful don’t give us plebeians much thought, you know, and attend only to their own interests. It has ever been so. They send out the cream of our youth as cannon-fodder for the unnecessary, unjust wars they unleash to tweak their smug self-esteem and fill their overflowing pockets. They consider themselves above the law, entertain a self-serving view of what constitutes right and wrong, and define truth as what best suits their purposes.

Not that the worthy citizens had much to complain about under this monarch. He was tolerant and liberal, liberated even. He had even passed an edict legalizing same-sex marriage. True, he had done so in conjunction with reviving the infamous droit de jambage in order to give himself first dibs on both partners in any gay union solemnized in his country. He blithely ignored the fact that no such right had ever existed beyond the symbolic gesture of the feudal overlord placing a foot on his vassal’s nuptial bed in token of his suzerain protection, but as king he eagerly accepted any outlandish theories spread by the tabloids if he saw any advantage in it for him, and for many years the young men of the kingdom would enter into their first committed relationship by bending over for His Majesty in what should more accurately have been termed a droit d’enculage. Needless to say, he no longer exercised that privilege, for he found his inability to perform deeply embarrassing.

At his behest the royal talent scouts now scoured the kingdom far and wide, searching high and low for slabs of meat to satisfy the poor king’s porking addiction. This eventually led one of them to a tiny village that lay in the most distant corner of the land, and there he stumbled on Bartholomew Cubbins: young, handsome, healthy, and randy as rutting rabbit.

What a fine, strapping eighteen-year-old he was! When the royal emissary saw him in the tavern, broad of shoulder, narrow of hips, and square of jaw with a winning smile and a lustful twinkle in his eye, surrounded by an admiring crowd of gawking teenagers, without hesitating he went up to him and asked to know his name.

“Bartholomew Cubbins at your service, Excellency,” the lad replied, doffing his cap and making a low bow.

“Well, Bart… May I call you Bart, by the way?”

“My friends call me BC.”

“Well, BC, it’s not so much my service I had in mind as His Majesty’s.” And he explained what was wanted of him and assured him that the King would handsomely reward him for a satisfactory performance.

BC did not doubt his ability to perform satisfactorily, and eagerly accepted. He and his boyfriend were to tie the knot shortly, and had planned to travel to the capitol the following week and offer up their asses to the royal pleasure as custom and the law demanded, for news of His Majesty’s erectile dysfunction and subsequent suspension of his seigniorial rights had not yet reached their faraway village. It seemed to him that cornholing the King provided a novel twist to the established ritual of securing the royal blessing on their future life together. He promised to meet the royal talent scout at the tavern door in an hour to give himself time to throw together a few things he would need for the journey, then he hurried to his boyfriend’s house and excitedly told him about their unexpected reprieve and how between the King’s generosity and the money they had set aside for their trip they would now be able to set up house and begin their married life in greater comfort that they had dared hope.

His boyfriend hesitated. “How can you be sure the King will let you return after he finds out what a great fuck you are?”

“His emissary gave me his royal word,” BC reassured him.

“That’s okay then. Just play safe,” said his boyfriend, and they kissed goodbye.

“I will,” promised BC. “See you in a month at the most.”

So he hurried home and packed his bags and then set out for the tavern, stopping on his way at the village apothecary to pick up a three-pack of condoms. He could not imagine that as vigorous a fucker as he could possibly need more to satisfy the royal asshole.

“I’ll take a three-pack of magnums, please.”

“I’m sorry, BC, but we’re clean out of magnums. In fact, we’re clean out of three-packs. This one packet is all I have left after last weekend’s spring bacchanalia. It’ll cost you five quid.”

“Five quid for one lousy rubber!”

“Supply and demand, my boy. This is the only latex prophylactic condom to be had for miles around, so I can charge a stiff price for a stiff dick.”

“But how am I supposed to get an ordinary rubber over my ten inches?” BC objected. “And what am I supposed to do if the damn thing breaks?”

“Don’t you worry about that,” answered the apothecary. “If I’m selling at a stiff price it’s also because it’s a magic condom, infinitely stretchable and long-lasting. If it breaks during normal usage you can send it back to the manufacturer for your money back and a free year’s supply in any size and style you want.”

“As if they’d think a dick the size of mine qualifies as normal usage! Well, I don’t have five quid, but I suppose I could always ask for an advance on my command performance. Put a hold on it; I’ll be right back. Don’t you dare sell it to anyone else!”

He hurried to find the royal emissary and secured an advance without telling him what it was for. Then he ran back to the apothecary and bought his last remaining prophylactic, and within an hour the talent scout and the star material he had discovered set out on their several days’ journey to the capitol city.

I will skip over the many adventures they encountered on their way and the many marvels BC saw the first and only time he ventured beyond the confines of the little hick town where he’d grown up. I shall not tell his wonderment on discovering that every medium-sized town they passed through was not the capitol, that every estate he spied in the distance was not the palace, that the world was far larger and more full of folk than he had ever dreamed, and, when they finally arrived, that beggars, whores and cutpurses outnumbered courtiers in the capitol and that the streets were paved with animal manure instead of gold. In short, by the time he was brought into the royal presence he had been thoroughly disillusioned, and His Majesty was far more pleased with what he saw than BC was with what he had seen.

“Follow me!” ordered the King, and he led BC up the royal staircase to the royal bedchamber, where he flung off his royal duds, hopped onto the royal bed, dabbed on some royal lube, and hunkered down on his royal hands and knees with his royal bum thrust up in air. While BC was carefully removing his britches and giving his tool a pull or two to ready it, His Highness turned his royal head and took a royal peek at the truly royal scepter which would soon give him a royal pounding. Then he shut his royal eyes and held his royal breath in royal anticipation.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he asked after a while.

“I’m ready now, Your Majesty,” BC answered. “I was just putting on some protection.”

“Protection?” thundered the King. “Who said anything about protection? Get that damn sheath off your dick and fuck me hard!”

“But I promised my boyfriend…”

“Promises, promises! What do I care about what you promised your boyfriend? You were brought here to fill my ass with your vital young juices, didn’t you know that?”

“I don’t think I can go along with that, Your Majesty.”

“What does what you think or don’t think have to do with it? You weren’t brought here to use your head; you were brought here to use your dick. Now take off that silly raincoat and plow into me!”

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but…”

“The only ‘but’ that concerns you is my butt. Now take care of it, if you know what’s good for you.”

“Please, Sire, I’m begging you…”

“Who am I?” roared the King.

“The King.”

“And who are you?”

“A nobody, Sire.”

“And what do nobodies do when their king tells them to do something?”

“They obey. Very well, Your Majesty Off it comes.” He dutifully removed the condom and reluctantly took his place at the entrance to the royal rectum, but when the King reached back his royal hand to help guide it in, he recognized the feel of latex.

“I thought I ordered you to take off that raincoat!” said the King.

“But I have, Your Majesty. See? It’s right there on the floor beside your bed.”

“Then what’s that on your cock?”

BC looked down and saw his member still in its sheath. “It’s… it’s… it’s a raincoat, Sire, but I can’t imagine what it’s doing there. It took it off. Really I did.”

“Enough of this nonsense,” said the King. “Now, get that fucking scum bag off you and don’t try any more tricks! I’m going to watch you do it.”

He watched BC unroll the raincoat. Lo! his ten manly inches were still sheathed in a latex wrapping! There was another condom underneath it. “How many of those did you put on just now?” the King wanted to know.

“Just one, Sire.”

“Yeah, sure. Like hell you did! I won’t settle for anything but a bareback humping. Now I want you to take every last one of them off, do you understand me?” He turned around and sat on the bed and watched in astonishment as BC pulled off condom after condom after condom. Soon some two dozen unused used condoms cluttered the royal floor, and BC’s cock was no closer to being exposed to open air.

“Stop playing games, do you hear?”

“I’m not, Your Majesty,” BC assured him, close to tears.

The King called out, “Summon the royal sexologists! They’ll get to the bottom of this so the young gentleman can finally get to the bottom of me!” Three trusty servants immediately ran off to fetch them while a fourth went to retrieve the royal wastebasket and started picking condoms up from the floor.

While they awaited the arrival of the royal sexologists, BC continued to unroll condoms from his dick and toss them on the floor, but no sooner had he unrolled one than another always immediately appeared to take its place. When the servants returned with the royal sexologists the King was livid with rage and several dozen more unrolled raincoats lay piled on the floor by the bed, all tossed there since the fourth servant had gone to empty the wastebasket.

The royal sexologists listened to the King recount this miracle and shook their heads in disbelief. “It’s some sort of gag, Your Highness,” they assured him. A brief demonstration convinced them that it was not.

“How many condoms has he taken off so far?” the chief sexologist asked.

“Why on earth would I have kept count, you dumb fuck?” His Highness replied.

“Two-hundred-fifty-three,” said BC, and the King’s servant confirmed the accuracy of that figure when he returned with the empty wastebasket.

“That’s extremely important,” said the chief sexologist.

“Bring in the royal mathematicians and statisticians to keep careful count!” commanded the King, and as soon as his wishes had been made known, every kind of royal flunky imaginable came running in.

By the time the count reached three-hundred-fifty the King had had more than enough. “Drag the impudent fucker off to the dungeon!” he screamed. “The royal torturer can get the thing off him by chopping off his impudent dick!”

BC screamed too, but it did him no good. The royal guard appeared as if out of nowhere and dragged him to the royal torture chamber. The King followed close behind, determined to see the royal punishment carried out properly.

Upon seeing the array of exquisitely painful instruments laid out on the table, BC fainted clean away. They splashed water in his face to bring him round. Then he got an unexpected reprieve when it turned out that the royal torturer had standards and took pride in his work.

“I can’t cut off a dick that’s wearing a rubber,” he told the King. “Why, I can’t even torture it properly. All my electrodes and dry-cell batteries would be useless. Latex is about as poor a conductor as you’re likely to find.”

“Then I want him delivered to the royal hangman,” the King decided. “That will put an end to his insolent mockery of a royal command!”

As they dragged BC kicking and screaming to the gallows, he desperately pulled one condom after another off his prick in a vain attempt to save his life. The royal hangman, however, proved as adamant as the royal torturer, and steadfastly refused to have anything to do with the condemned prisoner.

“How can I hang a man in a raincoat?” he asked in bewilderment. “People flock to executions from miles around to watch a felon’s dick spring up and his hot spunk come shooting out when the noose suddenly tightens around his neck and chokes the life out of him. If he’s wearing a rubber he’ll squirt into that and disappoint all your worthy citizens. No, I won’t string the fellow up until that ridiculous raincoat has come off.”

No amount of reasoning, pleading, or even royal threats could make him budge. “Oh, then just take the bastard up to the highest battlements of the palace and push him off them,” His Majesty said, utterly disgusted.

BC continued to unroll rubbers from his dick as he climbed the stairs of the highest tower and then out onto the parapet, prodded all the way with a halberd to the butt wielded by the royal pike-staffer. The miracle had by then worn so thin that everyone lost interest and stopped watching him unroll his raincoats, so nobody noticed the gradual change that occurred starting with the four-hundred-seventy-sixth raincoat.

Each succeeding condom now became fancier than the one that covered it. They now came in a variety of colors, flavors and shapes, at first just reservoir tips, then with corkscrews swirls, then ribbed, then studded, then ribbed and studded, then fringed as well, then adorned with elaborate ticklers. When they reached the edge of the parapet, the King took one last look at the magnificent member that would regrettably never get to penetrate the royal backside and saw the most unique, costly, magnificent, innovative, decorative, ass-teaser of a prophylactic that he had ever beheld: tasseled, ribbed with ermine, and studded with precious stones.

“Stop the execution!” His Majesty ordered. “I must, I absolutely must, find out what it feels like to be fucked by a monster cock hooded and sheathed in so marvelous a raincoat. Now that’s what I call a condom fit for a King!”

“But then how does Your Highness intend to absorb the young gentleman’s bodily fluids?” the Prime Minister inquired.

“We’ll remove the rubber when he finishes and I’ll turn it inside out and drink his jizz.”

When they heard his answer to the riddle, everyone at court marveled at the King’s intelligence. So back they all went to the royal bedchamber and watched BC bugger the royal bum, and a very good job he made of it too. The King was mighty pleased and gave BC more than double the usual tip. Then he called for the royal cup-bearer to bring the royal goblet. He emptied the rubber into the bejeweled golden vessel, lifted it to his lips, and drained every last tangy drop. Then he turned to BC and asked, “Will you sell me that wonderful raincoat of yours, young man?”

“You may have it for free, Your Highness.”

“No, no. I insist on paying. Henceforth every young buck who’s brought in to fuck me will wear it, and I’ll have it sent to the royal hand laundry the following morning. Surely it must be worth a king’s ransom!” And a king’s ransom is what he paid.

So BC returned to his boyfriend in style, now a wealthy man who could afford to live high on the hog for the rest of his days. The couple held a lavish wedding celebration with dancing and feasting and fireworks (though the open-air display could not rival the fireworks that took place in the nuptial chamber shortly afterwards), and the whole village got rip-roaring drunk. But the royal scepter remained as flaccid as ever and could never don the magnificent raincoat BC had worn when he mounted his monarch.

Posted: 06/13/07