Chaucer's Knight

By: Nicholas Hall
(© 2012 by the author)

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

nhall@tickiestories.us

Squirming in my seat, anxious, and confused wondering why the person across the table from me sat here, in my own private place, in this very public library! His presence frightened me, caused me to be wary, uncertain of his reason for joining me. I peered cautiously up from the book spread before me, hoping to view him surreptitiously, unwilling to call attention to myself and thus, avoid a physical attack upon my very being. I first tried my secret glance over the top of my glasses, peering through the shock of black hair that flopped down over my forehead, but when I did, he was all blurry. "Damned shame," I thought, "I didn't have contact lenses for my eyes." Can't see one fucking thing with my glasses off; don't be mistaken, I can see without my glasses, I just don't see well.

Why, for heaven's sake, did he have to park his carcass here? There must be a jillion other tables in this place for him to sit, but, no, he had to sit here, across from me in this most remote, this seldom used, section of the library. This was my place, a table where I could feel safe, protected by stacks of books, unobservable by others, and free from remarks and taunts of other students who attended my school. Could I help it if I loved school and happened to be a pretty good student? Actually, I was a little better than pretty good, but I didn't brag about it or go out of my way to show it off; it just sort of made itself known every time I attended a class or opened my mouth. Tell me now, can I help it if I read or hear something and remember where and when I heard it or read it? Dad said it was a gift and I should be proud; Mom thought I was a smart ass!

Well, still trying to be covert in my assessment of this personage, I looked up from my silent contemplation determined to look directly at him and found him staring at me! Oh, my God! He's much bigger than me and really mean and tough looking, sort of. I'm only five foot, four inches tall, slim (well, really small with a twenty-four inch waist), and not very strong or aggressive. He just keeps staring; what the hell is there to look at with me? Short, weighing maybe one hundred pounds on a rainy day, glasses, dark hair, dark eyes, delicate in stature, and not what I think a handsome or good-looking boy would look like, so why stare at me?

Maybe he's going to beat the b-Jesus out of me, you think?

I know him; he's in the Junior Literature class I'm in and sits near the back! I rarely pay attention to who else is in that class since I'm a freshman enrolled as an advanced student in upper level courses and everyone in there is older – and bigger! But, him, I recall now; long dark-hair in a pony-tail, deep, steely blue eyes, olive-brown tanned complexion, ear-rings in both ears, a faint, wispy dark moustache across his upper lip; probably five foot nine, one hundred fifty pounds or so, easily bigger and stronger than me. He's wearing a much worn, light grey t-shirt over his well-proportioned upper body, low-hanging blue jeans, that cling to trim hips by what I don't know, and tennis shoes on his feet. There's a small tattoo on the inside of his left forearm, but I couldn't see it well without leaning over the table. I was afraid if I did that, he just might beat the shit out of me! I swallowed, involuntarily, shuddering in the process, either from fear or from the very looks of him which gave me a funny feeling, making my dick tickle, just a little, understand.

Suddenly he said, "'non sans drout;' what the hell does that mean?"

Without thinking, I answered, "Not without right; it was on Shakespeare's Coat of Arms."

"How the fuck we supposed to know that?" he growled.

Shaking my head just a bit, I replied, "It was in our reading on page seventy-four of last Friday's assignment."

He looked at me again, almost doubting what I said. I sort of slinked down lower in my chair, fearful of his reaction. Slowly thumbing back in his text, stopped, and quietly read the page he stopped at, and said, "You're right!"

Of course I was right, but I didn't say that, instead I just nodded. I may be bright, but I'm not crazy. I value all of my pieces parts. I thought he might be satisfied and leave, but when he stood, instead of leaving, walked over to my side of the table, pulled up a chair and sat down beside me; I mean, really beside me, very close, like in a couple of inches away, his leg brushing up against mine. Now, I was in a panic mode, boys and girls; what would he do to a smart ass little nerd like me? Shit, folks, I was toast!

Placing his own book on the table, he leaned even closer, his shoulder beginning to press up against mine. I could feel his warmth and smell him – a mixture of deodorant, soap, after shave, and some sort of cologne, all not a bit unpleasant to me. Actually, I wanted to melt into him and savor every part of his personal delicacy.

"Are you one of those guys that have a pornographic memory?" he asked quietly, softly into my ear, bringing the hairs on my neck to full uprightness, along with the male part of me in like manner.

Wagging my head side to side, brushing his lips with my ear, I responded just as quietly, "You mean `photographic' and I don't think so. I just remember everything I read."

"You're in my Literature class aren't you? Sit up toward the front and knows all of the answers," he said, not in a demeaning or derogatory manner, but as a matter of fact without any touch of rancor.

All I could do is nod in the affirmative, my mouth dry and my tongue silent for a change.

"What're reading?" he asked softly, leaning even closer until his face brushed my cheek as he looked over my shoulder at the text I had in front of me. I sure wish he hadn't done that; it made my own little five inch sprig sprout to full standing status, ready to shed its leaves.

I nervously choked out, "Some poetry by Geoffrey Chaucer."

"Who's that?" he asked, looking closely at the page, with another whiff of breath in my ear bringing shivers up and down my spine and goose bumps to every piece of flesh on my body, continuing, "Spells his name funny, doesn't he?"

"I don't know, my first name is spelled the same way."

"Oh."

"So, you gonna tell me who he is or what?" he prodded, slipping his arm around my other shoulder and sort of pulling me even closer toward him.

I was growing weaker and even more concerned about my future welfare. This guy was dangerous, nasty to be around, and could do all sorts of thing to me, I think, maybe, I hope.

"He's was an English poet and lived from 1342 to 1400. This poem is entitled `The Wife of Bath.''

"Goofy fucking name for a poem; what's it about?"

This guy has me in a casual, almost endearing embrace, and he wants to know what a poem is about?

"It's the story of a lady, married numerous times, who tells tales full of sexual references. The main tale in this poem is about a knight of King Arthur's court who rapes a young woman. He is sentenced to come up with the answer to the question `What does a woman want in a marriage and is given one year to find out. If he fails, he gets killed."

"That's easy," my interloper interceded, "a big, fat cock shoved up her cunt."

Shaking my head, I replied, "I don't think so. The knight meets an old, ugly woman who promises to tell him the answer on the condition he marry her and he agreed."

"Why would he do that?" he asked. "That'd be like fucking a dried up apple; don't you think?"

Again, I shook my head and responded, "I don't know, all I know is he got the answer to the question. It was `mastery in marriage,' you know, controlling the husband. When he married the ugly lady, she turned into a beautiful young lady."

"Did he fuck her then or just pump a load out by hand?"

How the hell should I know! The damned poem was written over six hundred years ago, but I refrained from expressing my disgust, instead, turning my face ever so slightly, finding my lips brushing his cheek, I whispered, "Chaucer never said."

"I did once," he said casually.

"Did one what?" I inquired just as casually, my lips sending faint whiffs of breath across his cheek.

"Fucked a girl; I was about eight or nine and she was eleven or twelve. She was a neighbor girl and said she heard I had a big cock for such a little boy and wanted to try it on for size, so I got it up, poked it in there, and humped for a while. She thought it was great!"

"How about you?"

"Nah; I get more pleasure from wanking it by hand."

I was afraid he was going to ask me if I ever did that and I didn't want to tell him two or three times a day. If he got any closer, I was going to spew a load in my boxer shorts, so I asked, lips still touching his cheek, "Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Have a big cock?"

With his free hand, he cupped his crotch through his blue jeans and with a shrug, "Sort of; why, do you want to see it?"

"Not here," I hissed, "everybody will look!"

He looked around, "There's no one else here, but if it bothers you we can go back to the bathroom where you can get a better look, then you can feel it if you want."

God, I wish he would leave, I think.

"I don't think we better do that." I replied lamely and hoping to change the subject, asked, "What's your name?"

"Myles Chandler; what's yours?"

"Geoffrey Samuel Garrison."

"You spell it like that Chaucer fellow?"

"Yep, I was named after him."

"Why?"

"My dad's from England and is a professor of English at the University; Mom's English too, only she doesn't teach anything."

"So, tell me, Chaucer," he asked with a tilt of his head and a smile revealing a set of perfectly straight, white teeth, surrounded by what seemed to be soft, delicate lips, "how old are you anyway?"

"Fourteen; how about you?"

"Oh," responded Myles, "I'm much, much older than you," and laughed. "I'm seventeen."

Myles reached over, once his hand released itself from his own crotch, and placed in on the top of my thigh, terribly near my throbbing penis, brushing it briefly, tickling my stiffness, while settling his fingers. "You're not very big, are you?" he commented.

My face began to flush, tears began forming in my eyes, and fearful he'd laugh at my diminutive size, I stuttered, "Only about five inches when hard," and put my head down, embarrassed at my admission and my penis size.

Myles smiled, removed his hand from my leg, and shaking his head in amusement, raised my chin so I could look at him, and said, "You silly goose, I meant your leg and stuff; not your dick. That sounds and feels pretty big to me," giving my crotch a squeeze and changing the subject, asked, "You come here every day?"

I felt better knowing he wasn't ridiculing me like some of the boys in physical education class did, so I grinned back and sputtered, "Only those days when Dad has a late class and Mom is off somewhere doing her thing, which is about every other day. Coming here gives me a chance to do my homework and read. It gets kind of lonely sometimes at home, so I like it here."

I sighed in resignation and Myles frowned.

"No one else at home?" he inquired. "You the only spurt that went up the magic highway?"

I shook my head, "I have an older brother and sister who are married and live in England with their families. I was born in the United States so I have dual citizenship. About the only time I see them is when we go over there on holiday. I really don't view them as a brother and sister since they're in England and I was born here. I know they're related and their kids are my nephews and nieces, but there just isn't the same attachment for them that Mom and Dad have. I think Mom would move back in a minute, but Dad is really happy living here and with his job, so I doubt if that happens. I came along a little late in life. I really don't think Mom wanted another one, but Wa-La; here I am!"

I sat quietly, suddenly realizing I'd just said to Myles something I'd known for a long time, but never mentioned aloud, as if keeping silent would make it not so. She was rarely home when I came home from school, could've cared less what grades I got, or concerning any school activities I might be in, so I didn't participate in any, much to my Dad's chagrin. He thought I should do all sorts of things, have a multitude of friends, and be a star athlete, but I am just too shy to perform in public so music and forensics were out, and besides, look at me; do I look like an athlete to you? No way, no how, thank you very much.

"How do you get home?" was his next question. Myles certainly has a lot of questions for me.

"I usually ride the city bus home when I'm done here."

"Well," he said authoritatively, "you're done now so get your shit together and I'll take you home."

Curiosity got the best of me, so I asked, "You followed me here, didn't you?" and before he could answer, continued, "Why?"

Myles leaned over, stuck his tongue in my ear and wiggled it around, sending shivers down my back. "Sure did Chaucer, `cause you're so fuckin' cute, that's why."

Why I didn't refuse the offer, say no, or something, beats the shit out of me! Perhaps if I had, everything wouldn't have happened to me that did and my life would've been totally different. As it was, I said "Yes," gathered up my things, stuffed them in my backpack, and followed him out of the library. Outside, I looked around for some suitable conveyance, such as a car, but seeing none, I looked in the direction his finger was pointing.

"Over there," he announced.

"Over there" was a smaller motorcycle, not a big Harley-Davidson® or Honda Gold-wing®, but as Myles explained, an older cycle with a 100cc or something engine in it – whatever that means. He secured my backpack to a small rack over the rear fender, climbed on, gave it a kick start, and motioned for me to climb on behind him. Good thing I'm not very big since there's not a lot of room for two people on the seat. As it was, my crotch was pressed up tight against his butt and when he pulled my arms around his waist and told me to hang on tight, my chest pressed against his back. Evidently, he thought I wasn't gripping properly because he slid my hands lower to his belt line, instructing me to, "Either hold on to the front belt loops or just grip the front of my jeans near the belt on either side of the fly so you don't fall off."

Seeking a firm hand-hold, one hand inadvertently popped down the front of his jeans and encountered bare flesh instead of underwear. I quickly withdrew it, found the belt loops, and held on. I told him where I lived and off we went. After a couple of blocks I felt comfortable enough to rest my face, cheek side, on his back and enjoy the ride. He felt so good, so strong, so protective of me as we rode through the city.

Pulling up in front of my house, I hopped off, retrieved my backpack, and invited Myles in.

"Can't stay, Chaucer," Myles shouted revving the engine of the cycle, "I have to go to work. Perhaps another day," and gave me a wink, riding off.

The next morning, standing in my boxers in my bedroom trying to decide what to wear, there came a soft knock on the door and Dad poked his head in. With a very puzzled look on his face, he said cautiously, "Geoffrey, there's a young man, looking a bit on the rough cut side, not unkempt, but not prosperous looking either, asking for `Chaucer.' Do you have even the foggiest who or what he might be referring to?"

I clapped my hands together and squealed, "Daddy, that's my best friend Myles – send him up. I'll be ready in a minute or two."

I was still hunting for a pair of pants and shirt when I felt, not heard, Myles come into my bedroom. Turning around slowly, I answered his crooked smile with one of my own, and followed his eyes tracking down my body to my crotch. I quickly walked around him and shut my bedroom door.

"I'll be ready in a minute, as soon as I find some pants to wear."

Myles put his arms around me, hugging me close, and snaked a hand down to my crotch inside my shorts, fondling my swelling rod, as he murmured, "I kind of like you just the way you are." Rolling my balls around between his fingers, he continued, "Make certain they fit O.K. here; don't want them too tight around these precious jewels, do we?" and pulled his hand out.

I just about passed out from the sensation of his warm hands around my privates, but I didn't, thank God! Instead, I reached up, pulled his head down to mine and kissed him. I never kissed a boy (or anyone for that matter) before like I kissed him and he returned my kiss just as fervently. I definitely liked being kissed by Myles!

"Better get dressed, Chaucer," he whispered in my right ear, "or I'll be tempted to fuck you right here and I want our first time to be slow and easy after we get to know each other better."

Right now would've been fine with me considering he'd just had his hands in my pants. I mean, how much better did he need to know me? But, if he wanted to wait, that was fine with me. Just being with Myles was enough – for now. I dressed quickly and the two of us headed downstairs to the kitchen where my parents were having coffee. When we walked in the door, Mom was finishing a conversation on the phone, saying, "If the doc is spot on with his dates, I'll pip over in a couple of weeks and help out," and rang off.

Before I could properly introduce Myles, Mom announced, "That was your sister, Sarah. The physician says her baby is due in another month and I'll be going over to stay for a while and help out. You and your father will have to manage on your own."

I introduced Myles and she left room saying, "Please excuse me, I must make my reservations."

Dad was embarrassed, made some small talk, and I pulled us toward the door, anxious to leave and not subject Myles to any more of the dysfunctional aspects of my family. Myles said nothing on the way to his cycle parked in the drive or while he strapped my back pack in place on the back. When I climbed on, all he said was "Hang on Chaucer" and when my arms went around his waist, he slid them lower, and this time I slipped them down the front of his jeans, letting them glide through the soft hairs of his crotch until they encountered his smooth, velvety, man-piece which was increasing in size, filling my hands. Riding down the street, my hand securely encasing his wonderment, I speculated however in the world it might fit where we both wanted it to rest.

That day was the best day I had so far in high school! We had lunch together, Literature class together, and he met me at my locker when school ended for the day.

"Do you have to be home right away?" he asked as we left the building and walked toward the parking lot.

"No, not tonight, but if we're not going to the library, I should call home and leave a message where I'm going to be."

"Good; I want you to meet my Mom and little brothers. She doesn't have to work tonight and neither do I, so this is a good time."

We wound around city streets until we arrived at a small, not new, but not rundown house on the south side. Myles parked the bike in the drive, grabbed my book bag, took my hand in his, and we walked up the sidewalk on the front porch, and inside. We were greeted by a female, older version of Myles, smiling, happy to see us.

"So this is the good-looking lad I've heard Myles talk about ever since school started. I'm glad he finally worked up nerve enough to introduce himself and bring you home to meet us." She took me by the hands, continuing, "Let me get a better look at you, Chaucer," and evidently approving what she saw, gave me a big hug.

Boy, this was switch from what I had at home. No sooner had she released me when two smaller, male versions, one about my age and size and the other a wee bit smaller, of Myles bounded into the room and attacked their brother, overwhelming him and forcing him to the floor where they proceeded to launch a tickling attack. Amidst giggles, laughs, and much squirming about, the three of them rolled around on the floor.

Their mother intervened, "O.K., boys, that's enough; leave poor Myles alone. He gets a night off of work, brings his friend home, and you two act like a couple of ninnies."

That was fine by me; it looked like fun, besides I didn't know Myles was ticklish – all over, that is.

"You'll stay for supper – right?" his mother more announced than asked. "We're having tortellini with Alfredo sauce - not–fancy, but plenty. By the way, just what is your real name?"

"Geoffrey," I answered heading toward the phone Myles held for me. I called home and left a message, telling whoever picked it up where I was and that I was having supper (not "dinner" as mother insisted at our house, but "supper") and that really sounded good to say. It was delicious and the conversation and laughter around the table was delightful, so unlike our somber dining experiences. It made me happy to share in this fun, but sad too, since I now really knew what I'd been missing at home.

After supper, the four of us boys all helped clean the table and do the dishes while Myles' mother sat at the table and visited with us. She asked about my family, what my father and mother did, and where we lived. I learned she was Italian, came from a large family (all living in the city) and she was raising the boys alone. She made no mention of where the boy's father was and I didn't ask. When she asked why Myles called me "Chaucer" and I told her, she laughed, but his brothers looked at him like he had four heads. I think they thought it was rather dumb, but so what, I liked it!

When dishes were done, the younger boys were ordered to do their homework, which they undertook without objection, his mother busied herself in the living room, and shooed us out to the porch so we'd have some degree of privacy. Sitting together in the darkness of the evening, I held Myles hand and inquired what happened to his father. He spoke with disgust and anger as he answered me.

"The son-of-a-bitch took off with another woman right after my youngest brother was born. We don't know where he is and, if Mom's brothers ever catch him, they'll cut his balls off and stuff them up his ass."

Myles worked three nights a week at his Uncle Joe's auto repair shop. The cycle he owns was a junker until he repaired it, made it street ready, and licensed it. It was the only transport he had other than the city bus and his Mom's car. Weekends, Myles worked at Bindini's Super Foods, another of his Mom's brothers. Between the two jobs, he was able to help his Mom meet expenses, save some, and have spending money.

When it grew late, I thanked Mrs. Chandler for a great evening and Myles took me home. I expected someone to be waiting for me, but a note on the kitchen table informed me my folks were at a faculty reception and would be home between eleven and midnight.

I handed the note to Myles, shrugged my shoulders in resolution, and stood on my tiptoes to kiss him goodbye. As he kissed me, his hands gravitated to my crotch and zipper. Zipping it down, he fished around inside until he located the prize he was seeking, already growing, swelling, ready for action. I expected him to jack me off, but instead, he sunk to his knees and lapped his tongue around the very sensitive part of the crown of my shaft, then sucked me in, gently bobbing up and down, his mouth and tongue sending quivers of delight from my balls to my brain. It wasn't long until my balls ached to release the impending flood and, sending those little soldiers rapidly into battle up the short tube to the end, pumped into his mouth. Myles swallowed and stayed attached as I continued to pulse, finally emptying myself. He rose, kissed me, and gave me a chance to taste myself and him.

I leaned over and began unzipping his pants, hearing him caution, "You don't have to do this, you know."

I wanted to; I wanted to see that wonderful quarterstaff I'd only fondled, but not yet seen or tasted. I reached in and slowly extracted a maypole of pure delight, fully longer than mine by several inches, and much thicker. It's pink, fleshy head, peeking out of the soft, velvet brown of his foreskin, fascinated me since I'd never seen an uncircumcised cock up close and personal, and this was personal. Delighted, I jacked it a couple of times, lifted it, inspected this instrument of pleasure my lover possessed, and smiled in ecstasy. Extending my tongue, I licked over the piss slit hesitantly, tasting his pre-cum as it began emerging, seeking release, inviting me to sweeten my palate and try more. My mouth began forming around that heated stick, but Myles, placing a hand on my forehead, halted my progress until he removed my glasses.

"Wouldn't want to get these all messy or break them, would we Chaucer?"

I couldn't answer, since I was a polite boy and knew I shouldn't speak with my mouth full, so I just bobbed up and down on my Sultan's Shaft, bringing sighs of pleasure from him. His balls tightened, the head of his prick began to swell, and he muttered, "I'm cumming, Chaucer," and tried to pull back, but I held him close, forcing him to spew his load into me as I had him. His sticky, abundant, and thick essence was not unpleasant to taste; somewhat sweet, mixed with a nutty flavor, and most definitely Myles. After licking him clean, I rose to my toes and shared the remainder in my mouth with him in a deep, tongue-wrestling kiss. Could life get any better than this?

We kissed again, goodbye and goodnight, parting until morning and school. Saturday night, after Myles finished work, we went to a movie; Sunday, again after work, we had a late pizza at his house. I enjoyed going there, it was so unlike my own home, void of the laughter, gaiety and love Myles's family shared. The rest of the week, the week before Mom left for England and my sister Sarah's home, went fairly fast, yet more slowly in many ways since Myles and I were so wrapped up in each other, so much in love. I don't think I realized love could be so special, so deep, so exciting. When we together, we were whole; when separated, one from the other, we were lost. I'd not seen that relationship between my parents or with me. Myles made up for all I'd missed and now found.

Two weeks after Mom left for overseas, Dad announced he was scheduled to go to Chicago to meet with the editors and publisher of a new textbook he had written and would be gone for three or four days. He was reluctant to allow me to stay home alone so when he suggested Myles come over to keep me company, I was ecstatic! I hugged him and thanked him; when he hugged me back and said quietly, "It's alright, Geoffrey, I like him too" I knew he knew of the relationship between Myles and me.

Myles dropped off a small duffle bag when he picked me up for school and Dad reassured him it was great he could stay with me. He ruffed my hair, saying to Myles, "He's a lost boy without you around." He was right of course!

Myles swung by the house after school on the way to work at his uncle's auto shop and let me off with the admonition not to fix supper since he would bring home Chinese. Dad left money for us, so I insisted I pay for it. Myles didn't object and brought home supper for us after work.

At bedtime, we retired to my bedroom where Myles positioned me by the bed and slowly began to undress me, carefully, slowly as if unwrapping a present and admiring each layer of paper or, in my case, bare flesh, revealed. Once I was naked, he smiled, kissed me along the curves of my neck, under my chin, and settling on my lips before lowering me to my back on the sheet covered mattress. He stood, admiring me, watching my prod pounce up and down in anticipation, while he undressed himself. His brown, slim, well-proportioned body was just as beautiful as I imagined it would be and his cock, a truly magnificent specimen, much larger than average in length and girth, wobbled in front of him, the weight of it evidently too much to stand upright against his stomach as mine did. Egg-sized gonads jiggled as he walked toward me, each seeming to brim with little, wiggly delights destined to make their passage into my most inner self.

Kneeling between my spread legs, removing my glasses to the nightstand where he'd placed a tube of lubricant, he spread a generous amount of the slippery jell on my private portal and his extended probe, before slowly inserting one finger, then two, and finally three, preparing me for what was to come. However, by the looks of that beautiful throbbing, bobbing joy-stick of his, I don't really think three fingers will be enough.

Leaning forward, positioning his shaft at my entrance, he said softly, "This may hurt Chaucer, but I'll try to be gentle." Frankly, I didn't care if I was split asunder, as long as it was Myles doing the splitting.

Just before engaging his lips with mine, he muttered, "Chaucer, you're more beautiful than I ever could've imagined," and began his slow, journey up that tight tunnel of love, claiming me, and securing me to him. Feeling his shaft stiffen as he pumped long and deep, the bulbous head of his instrument swell, and the flood of his sperm jetting into my twitching receptacle as he thrust forward and stayed his advance, I felt transformed, not unlike the ugly woman by the gallant knight in the "Wife of Bath."

The End.