Croquis Grotesque

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Croquis Grotesque
The sound of the key in the lock brings me back to the cell. I’ve been in this small dank room for a long while now and I’m not sure just how long. Without any windows, deep in the ground, it’s hard to gauge time with anything like accuracy. All I am certain of is that it was March when I was arrested and some time ago I over heard Mellows telling Cartwright that it was nearly June. I suppose it must be summer outside but here in the cell, the moisture on the walls keeps me cold and I lie huddled for warmth on my meagre pallet most of the time

Mellows is the gaoler but I’m not sure what Cartwright does. I don’t think I even want to know. He’s a sharp angular man with a large nose and small dark eyes which glitter in the lamp light. The door swings open to reveal Mellows and beyond him in the shadows, another larger figure. I draw the tattered blanket about my face for I know who the dark figure is. His name is Pollard.

“You are a vile and despicable criminal, the like of which it has not been my misfortune to meet in all my years as Lord High Judge of this chamber!”
Pollard’s heavy face was dark with his passion, crimson with the blood which this emotion had brought into it. It moved back and forth with each vibration of his head and his eyes bore into mine with a greedy intensity I could not meet. “You shall be taken from this place and incarcerated at the pleasure of his Lordship, the High Baron of Grendle until a decision has been made as to an appropriate sentence.”

I didn’t realise at the time what this meant, or just what was meant by his Lordships pleasure. I soon found out however. Deep beneath the Castle of Grendle I discovered centuries worth of industry had laboured to excavate a labyrinth of underground rooms and passages, and that whilst men had desired these many chambers and hidden places to be built, they had not always cared to maintain them to any sense of order. Thus, as I descended into the earthen heart of Grendle, I found myself dragged by armoured men with closed faces and thrust rudely into this subterranean cell, the like of which I had previously never encountered either in my life nor its dreams. On that same day I made the acquaintance of Mellows for it was he, with his angular form, bent forwards at the waist and ever stooping in the low ceiling passages who closed the door behind me and turned the key in the lock with a quick grating twist. His eye’s beheld me then as he watched from the small spy hole and as I took measure of the cramped space into which I had been placed.

Pollard pushes his way past Mellows now and his bulk fills my cell once more. He is a large, florid man, his ruddy complexion extending out from his face onto his neck and upper arms. Without his judicial wig and robes, he appears far more predatory for his hair is close cropped and his corpulent body is given free reign to move as it will.
“Be gone” he orders the gaoler and as always Mellows closes the door and departs. As always Pollard stands in the centre of the cell which his coarse breathing fills as he listens to the receding foot falls and as always I watch him slyly from the corner of my eye. I have ample time to examine him and wonder at his appearance which is always rough, his dark clothing worn and stained. He watches me as I wait upon my elbow, lying upon the rough bed which has become my only haven in this forgotten place.

The silence stretches into a protracted minute of curious lassitude that manifests itself in a nervous trembling of my inner thighs. As if in anticipation of their impending fission, my legs seem to understand what is happening, or rather about to happen for Pollard makes no immediate move towards me. He stands stock still, his head cocked back slightly and leaning to the left as he peers down at my recumbent form with the same greedy look with which he first beheld me in his court room. Gradually I become aware that this wide legged stance is a command, which though uttered in silence, must be obeyed lest I face the consequences of my inaction. Pollards face, indeed his whole attitude conveys the message of his desires and I understand that to offer disobedience is to invite his displeasure. Having previously experienced Pollard’s displeasure, I am persuaded that I must over come my own trembling weariness of body and do his bidding.

I slowly push aside the colourless blanket and expose myself. This generates a change in Pollard’s breathing, with the increase in the flow of air entering his lungs widening his pupils for a brief second before he nods his large head, once and slowly. I turn from him to face the grimy wall and rise up onto my knees. In this position, with my forehead resting on the cool stone I can see very little. There is not much light in the cell, nor is there much to see. My sight is therefore not the sense upon which I rely upon since I was locked away and forgotten. Down in the dungeons of Castle Grendle, one must rely upon one’s hearing for information and after so many months I have developed a most acute audio perception. Thus, I do not need to see Pollard to understand that he is currently in a state of high arousal, or that his eyes are feasting upon the sight of my naked form. His every move transmits his emotional and physical state to me and impresses itself upon my mind so I know without seeing it when he unfastens his belt and lets it hang from the loops of his waistband or that he takes the two short steps it requires to stand directly behind me.

His breathing alone directs my attention to his emotional state. It is louder than before as he approaches me in the deep silence of the cell in order to carry out his repeat performance of a fortnight since.
His hand grips the back of my neck and holds it immobile. His weight is considerable but he does not press against me, rather he merely holds me in position so that he might examine me. No doubt his eyes are now used to the twilight ambience in which we are immersed and the texture of my skin with its many small protuberances and the shape of my buttocks have fixated his attention for he does not immediately use his other hand as he normally does. Instead he seems mesmerized by the sight of my flesh, moving his body slightly to allow the dim light to illuminate it’s form for his greedy pleasure.

He breaks into this rapture with a muttered soliloquy, a discourse with him self that even my heightened senses cannot catch beyond a few half words uttered in a tone of some considerable agitation.
“Well?” he demands in a slightly more audible tone. “It’s nothing that you have not brought upon yourself.”
In a way of answering him, my body trembles in a sudden uncontrollable spasm. The cold air of the cell and the thick sense of design about his attentions impressing themselves upon me in a fashion that leaves no means for deception. His long fingered grip upon my neck increases its pressure and I hear the loud and unmistakable sound of him spitting, twice. He presses closer still and now his body is aligned alongside mine, pressing into my right side as his hand slides about my neck to tightly grip my throat. He crouches behind me and to my right, holding me tight, and slowly presses his right thumb into the cleft below the rump of my body. For this purpose alone have I been imprisoned in this cell.

He works his thumb up against my anus and twists it slightly until the muscle is opened enough for him to further violate my body. Pressed against the wall with my hands below my face I close my eyes and try to relax but the feeling of ambiguous nervous anticipation begins to dissolve as a new sensation blossoms in my loins. He spits again, lubricating his thumb, and then once more and finally I feel a single drop of cool moisture touch my lower back. I open my mouth to breathe easier and press my posterior outwards as he runs his fingers through his spit and along the valley of my goose pimpled flesh. He does not comment on this welcoming gesture save only to pause his middle finger where a few moments before his thumb had resided and to move his face closer to my head. Now, his mouth is directly beside my ear and I am immersed in the sound of his fervour. His large fat stomach is pressed hard against my thigh and his hand rests on my buttock with his blunt middle finger directly against the opening of my lower body and its puckered, twitching muscle. His other hand presses upon my neck, forcing my head backwards until my face is angled up towards the ceiling, but this pressure, though compelling is not painful.

Slowly he works his finger tip into my body and my breath, almost drowned by his, carries a low moaning undulation that has travelled up from my stomach where my emotions have taken to churning incessantly. His teeth slowly close about my ear lobe as his finger presses into the embrace of my anus and I find myself pulling slightly away from this invasion then pressing back against it as I attempt to facilitate my own violation.

My right hand gropes awkwardly below his stomach, sliding across its girth and down into his open trousers to find the thick erection lubricated in the product of his excitement. This unprecedented reciprocation does not seem to baffle him though it has caught me by surprise. As I move my slender fingers about the slippery cock, holding it in such a way as to be able to practice masturbation upon him I realise that I am as sexually aroused as he is. My breathing is fast and shallow and my mouth, now wide open is uttering the small cries of a lover approaching the moment of gratification. He leans against me, muttering incoherently and presses his finger as deep as it will go, twisting his hand as he does so then withdrawing from my body.

Now, he moves behind me and my fingers slide from his slick penis which I feel drag across the back of my left buttock as he adjusts his position. His eagerness is blatant, but his control intact and he holds my head as before. Though his hand has relaxed somewhat his thumb now presses my chin upwards and keeps my face tilted towards the unseen heavens. I press myself outward in an invitation that betrays a need I have hitherto been unaware of. Whether or not this was always a hidden part of my nature, or whether this is the product of so much abuse and isolation, matters little in this moment of penetration. As Pollard presses him self against me, his right hand guiding the head of his cock into the warm orifice he has chosen to enter, I feel an intense pleasure that sweeps aside any considerations of consequence. I arch my back as far as I can to allow his girth into the tightness that for a few moments frustrates him then cry out at the sudden rude stab of pain that threatens to disturb this feeling of well being that has over taken me.

Pollard must understand this. It seems obvious that he well knows what he is about for he pauses long enough for my body to relax and the muscle which now measures the circumference of his penis soon stretches itself to accommodate him. The rest of my body quickly emulates this feeling and his hand upon my neck suddenly pulls me away form the wall until I am all but resting against his chest as he begins to press once more into me. In this oddly comfortable position, on my knee’s, with one hand against the wall and the other between my own legs, I am sodomized by the fat sweating judge who has had me kept in this tiny cell at his whim and with each powerful thrust he pushes into me, I am aware of the grunting gasp of his pleasure. That he is using my body as the means for this own satisfaction causes my own physical reaction to increase tenfold for as I have never before been treated in such a manner, not have I ever understood the extent to which I might have craved this pleasure had I been aware of it.

The moment of my own climax is approaching rapidly when I feel his posture stiffening suddenly and his thrusts become slower and harder. His fingers, now grip my jaw bone painfully and he easily moves my whole body as a counter to his own. I feel the suddenly rush of orgasm at this point though and can no longer feel anything of his emotional state as it over takes me and for a long drawn out moment all I know is the intensity of physical pleasure. Then I am aware of his wet withdrawal which leaves behind a gaping emptiness and a confusion of feelings and he has gone and I am alone again, lying in my bed with the sensation of something missing that must soon again be found.

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