THE KINKY ASS
An adaptation of the ancient Roman text, The Golden Ass. Written on a dare. This will be written in instalments:
Prologue:
What I propose, dear fetishists, in this erotic sermon, is to compile a series of varied escapades to seduce your minds (and bodies) with salacious tales to titillate and entice you – assuming that you are not too witty for a bland American rendition of the most ancient of Latin texts. This authoress aspires to make you gasp in delight and awe at the story of Kinky’s transformation of body and spirit and restoration back to sound mind. And thus, I begin. As a stranger to Irish culture, idioms, and having no Master to school or train me in proper Irish traditions of fetish, swing or kink, please excuse my boldness if I offend (or consider spanking me for my transgressions). Thus my transformation from innocence to accomplishment will mirror the very yarns I weave; making something out of nothing, as the case may be. This is a Grecian tale, kept by the Romans and now presented to the Land of Ire. Give me your imagination, dear reader, and you will enjoy the fantasy.
1: I was doing research of a kind for an article I was writing that took me through the steamier realms of the internet. I had meandered through the low, sloping hills of the mildly erotic, climbed into some steep, hard core porn, skirted the cliffs of the dark web with the likes of www.carmenita/and/her/burrow.mx and www.mary’s/little/lamb.de, delighted a bit in Page 3 image search, and finally came to rest in the ever green valley of Fetlife. My laptop had been working tirelessly and come to overheat from all the sensual celluloid forms writhing across its screen, and I too was a bit spent from pleasuring myself as I foraged through the garden of sodomy and fetish delights. I allowed my computer to rest, closed all my apps, compressed the hard drive, logged out, wiped it down, cleaned the keys of their stickiness and shut it down to rest peacefully beside me where I sat. No sooner had I powered off, when I heard two lads outside my window smoking and chatting furiously. One was giving out, while laughing hysterically, saying, ‘Ah, you’re taking the piss, mate. I’ve never heard such shite in all my life!’
Always eager for an odd tale, I opened my window, and interjected, “I want to hear this. Not because I’m intrusive but because I’m have an insatiable desire to know, and an entertaining story will pass the time until I have to start my work again.” The first one went on, “It’s all lies. He might as well tell us that there’s magic that can make the rain fall straight up or stop the earth from turning or the sun from being the inferno of our solar system. Everything out of his mouth is bollox.” I turned to the second one, “Please don’t be embarrassed to continue your tale,” and to the first one, “You’re being ridiculous. You don’t know that what he’s saying couldn’t happen. Just because you’ve never heard of it, doesn’t mean it can’t exist. I promise I’ll believe you, and as soon as you’ve finished telling us, I will take you to the Cobblestone for a pint.”
“That’s very good of you, but let me start again,” the first one said. “First, let me tell you that by all that is sacred, everything I will tell you is true. When you arrive at Dún Ailinne you’ll know. All of this happened there and they’re still talking about it. But let me introduce myself, I am Flann mac Lonáin from Clare. I travel through Ireland selling honey and cheese, composing poem and writing epitaphs. I’m just after telling this reprobate, that after stopping for a drop of fire water I ran into Fionn mac Cumhaill, wrapped in tattered robes, looking very much the worse for wear, drowning his sorrows. He was so sickly and thin, I hardly recognised him. Knowing him as I do, I asked him what had happened. And after much giving out, I convinced him to come to my home for hot bath and hearty meal. After a bit of rest and some good spirits, he told me how he came to be so sickly and forlorn.”
“‘I had gone to the races and on my way home, I was attacked by marauders and left without a penny,” Fion began, “I had nowhere to go and ended up in a bog standard inn run by that hellish witch, Mal. But I didn’t recognize her when she first came to me. She looked so young and she had a thick mane of auburn hair down to her knees that framed her figure so beautifully, it looked like her body was on fire. I cannot remember seeing a woman of such stature before. Her eyes were the green of snake’s skin caught in the morning light, and she was wearing a shift that clung to every voluptuous curve of her body. My loins were so taken with her, I didn’t think to find out who she was before accepting her invitation to dine with her.’”
“Fion continued with such regret in his voice, I couldn’t stop him from relating every detail,” Flann continued while myself and his mate lit another cigarette.
“’She gave me spiced wine,’ Flann went on trying to sound just like Fion, ‘And I should have known there’d be trouble for it, but I thought it would just be a hangover or at worst the trots, but I would never have guessed it all. Once the wine began to work on me, and my troubles fell away, Mal suggested I take a bath. I don’t even remember going to her rooms, but the bath was full of hot steamy water, and she bathed me so sweetly as the full moon danced through the windows throwing such ethereal light around the room. My heart was so full from her kindness and attention. Once I was clean, the bath evaporated…it evaporated in front of my eyes...and I was stood there naked and dripping. Then she started massaging oil through my hair and into my scalp with the heavenly smell of eucalyptus. The sensation was almost more intoxicating than the wine. Before I knew it, she was massaging my back, then my chest, and down my thighs. I had closed my eyes while standing there, so when I felt her tongue lick that most unreachable flesh of perineum I hadn’t realised the oil had rendered all my muscles useless.’
‘Her tongue was longer than a bullfrog’s and could reach places no human tongue will ever reach again. Do you know what it’s like to have your taint stroked and licked until your bowels feel like they might erupt with pleasure?’
“Of course, I could only look at him and shake my head no,” confided Flann in a low whisper so the people passing by on the street couldn't hear, “I’ve never felt anything like that. Unfortunately, my wife’s tongue only wags inside her mouth. So I let Fion continue.”
‘Then she caressed my scrotum with her delicate fingers, looking up at me with those bewitching serpent eyes. She looked so pliant and servile on her knees in front of me, and I could see her creamy, bulbous breasts heaving as her hands played me like a harp.’
‘I could see her smiling at me as my cock seemed to reach for her of its own volition. It was harder than I’ve ever felt it before and before I knew it she took me full in her mouth and I could feel myself thrust down the back of her throat. It was all I could do not to cry out, but I did not want this to end. I knew she could feel how close I was to exploding down her throat, and she sucked me in even further, pressing her now thick tongue against my shaft while making it undulate in wave after wave of rippling strokes. I let her go on for as long as I could, feeling the exquisite tension rise from my very toes, up through my thighs into my cock and then release like a volcano of excruciating pleasure. I pumped flood after flood of my very essence down her throat. My cock convulsed and rejoiced in an everlasting orgasm of mythic proportions. It felt like it went on for ages and that it would never end, but when I finally convulsed my last drop of briny seed in her mouth, there was nothing left of me but the sinew and bones you see before you now. Only my cock was left in its original girth and size, which she rides and pleasures herself with at will. I am merely a ghost of myself and my cock is her pleasure wand, which she takes and takes and takes from endlessly. I've never know a woman who craves so much engorgement.’
“I told him this is what he deserved,” said Flann emphatically, “for abandoning his family and duties to engage in such delightful lusts. But he told stories of how Mal can turn any man into beasts: beavers, toads, rams and worse. He told me she had cursed one of her lover’s wives into remaining perpetually pregnant and now the poor mother carries an eight-year-old child within her womb. Mal even has the power to lock entire towns within their houses, and she even took some of her wrath out on me.”
At this point, Flann paused, and then suggested that we go get those pints, as his story had just begun and there was far too much more to tell without some Guinness to lubricate his larynx. So I reluctantly, put aside my research and my work and made my way to meet with them and continue the story at the Cobblestone.