Love & Lust in the Kingdom of Kum
long ago in the naughty Kingdom of Kum
arose a problem both glib and glum,
for King Kum himself, ruler of the kingdom
and every intertwining farm and fiefdom,
awoke one morning with a yawn, a stretch,
reaching down to fondly fetch
his manhood for the norm masturbation
only to find it flaccid to his frank frustration.
So he hit it,
bit at it,
gave it a slug,
whacked it,
smacked it,
took it a tug,
but all was for naught, not even a budge,
so glancing over he gave his wife a light nudge.
She didn’t answer, dreaming sweetly,
so frowning harder, he none too neatly
rolled to the Queen, raised the black mask from her eyes,
whispered, “Buttercup, dear, there’s a prob between my thighs!”
“Whuut?” she mumbled, winking and blinking.
“I was asleep, my sweet. What were you thinking?”
“Do look, dove! The royal pecker!
It’s not responding. Can you make it better?”
“Oh, of course, honeypot, don’t you worry.
I’ll sort your sport right back to its glory!”
He had once swung the most perfect penis,
admired by even the angels of Venus,
and she boasted the very bushiest thingy,
soft and lush, spongy and springy.
So his wife – also known as the Queen of Queefs –
sidled close, brought down his briefs,
and put her mouth to work on his royal member,
starting slow, tepid, tender,
gaining speed as she wished to finish soon,
planning ahead for a tea party at noon,
but soon realized something was terribly amiss
for the King’s normally loyal cock did not respond to her kiss.
She tried to
yank it,
crank it,
bend it fro,
pull it, bully it,
knead it like dough,
but her honest endeavors yielded zero result
so she resorted to something very sordid and adult.
The concerned Queen of Queefs grabbed her King’s balding pate,
pushed his face between her legs, said, “Sniff now before too late!”
But her pussy squeak— usually quite the arousal –
did nothing for the couple’s special spousal
precursor to janky, wanky, hanky panky,
to start with a fart and end with a spanky.
His poor manhood still hung limp and lame,
so the Queen repeated the previous game
well before the evening’s upcoming sex party
to get that sour dick up all hale and hearty.
She squeezed it,
teased it,
rapped it on the walls,
cracked it,
smacked it,
slapped his saggy balls,
but nothing she did remotely renovated his dick,
and the King started to feel spectacularly sick.
“Ladies in Wanking!” demanded the Queen.
“Enter at once! We need something obscene!”
The doors burst open and three winsome women arrived,
all scantily clad, and the King’s hope revived,
for they were his very best fluff girls, the cream of the crop,
and when they all went to work he truly expected to pop.
They sauntered closer like saucy succubi,
saying sweet words as they looked him in the eye,
but despite their arduous attention and each delicious detail,
with soft breasts upon his chest, their flesh pallid and pale,
nothing the trio attempted brought even a wiggle to his worm,
and after half an hour of trying even the Queen began to squirm.
“Enough! Get out!” she shouted with displeasure
and the Ladies loped away without the King’s carnal treasure.
The King of Kum knew he truly had a problem,
and not one he could endure silent and solemn,
for his virile vivaciousness was known far and wide,
an important trait in which he took much pride
and had done so for many decades now,
lining up countless, boundless ladies to plow,
ravishing young maidens left and right,
spilling his man seed all day and night.
He made sure his lasses were well pacified
before his protruding penis rectified
their previously pure, virginal state
and rechristened them as a cervical mate.
and always arranging for consorts and whores,
a constant flux of filth through those doors,
(mostly courtesy of Madame Moustache
who groomed her hair a certain shape above her slash)
But why tonight, of all the days?
The highly anticipated annual Feast of Lays!
“They must not know of this,” moaned the crippled King.
“Can you imagine the humiliation this situation might bring?”
“That won’t happen, sugarcake,” said the Queen with assurance.
The whole court is in your corner; they respect your endurance!
You are the legendary King of Kum.
They are your servants, and solely from
your own invites are they even allowed to attend
the most private of parties with no scheduled end.
Yes, yes, they are minions with opinions, of that no doubt,
but do listen my lovenut, even if they knew of this bout
it is their official obligation to aid any way possible.
Perhaps with more help we can overcome this obstacle.”
The King mused her words; mayhap the old wife was right,
and the corrupted court could aid in his plight.
Besides, they’d loosed the Ladies in Wanking with nary a warning,
to say nothing, bray nothing, so as of this fine morning
the rumor mill was undoubtedly churning
with gossip growing and eager ears turning
to hear of the monstrous misfortune that had befallen their leader,
their lewd lord, their sworn sword, their very best bastard breeder.
The King and Queen exited bed,
were quickly bathed and promptly fed,
donned in their most resplendent attire,
crowns fitted upon the lady and sire,
and off they romped to the royal throne room
to engage the day despite his dick’s doom.
Their two children were already present,
the Princess of Pricks, usually quite pleasant,
and her less likeable brother, the Prince of Perversions,
who although barely a man he had no aversions
to anything his sick, sordid mind could devise,
and if he couldn’t have it immediately he’d just improvise.
“Father!” called out the Princess of Pricks.
“We heard a rumor, but that’s surely just tricks?”
She flaunted an exceptionally cute little cootie
bolstered by a big rounded booty
that few other boys or girls could readily resist
so the Princess oft used her gifts to entice a new tryst
of which her mother and father were enormously proud;
cut from the same cloth; a gem in the crowd.
“Impossible,” sniffed the Prince. “The servants are lying.
Your junk has quit working? Ha! Now that I’m not buying.”
“Leave your father alone,” said the Queen. “He had a rough morning.
I won’t repeat it again, so that’s my only wise warning.”
“Ah, but I heard it too!” added the Duke of Delights,
clad in a purple doublet and skinny white tights
that emphasized the stylized bulge at his crotch
that he casually thrust forward so that others could watch.
The King rubbed his temples, agitation growing.
but realized there was no way of slowing
the rumors that had been loosed from lips,
so he cleared his throat, shifted his hips
and put on a stern glower of stately power
that he felt most needed at this dishonorable hour.
“The reports are true,” and the room answered with a gasp.
a revelation no courtiers had dared to grasp,
but with the subject breached and thrown into the open
the King continued as soon as he had spoken.
“Now, now, it’s not as bad as it seems.
A minor malfunction and not the extremes
that I know you all immediately assume.
but trust me, my willy will reasonably resume,
maybe today, probably tonight,
so fret not my friends and have – no – fright!”
Whispers fluttered throughout the thin crowd.
His manhood was something of which they were proud
and set his Majesty apart from nearly every other province
for it was relatively easy to readily convince
lesser statesmen that the size of their prick
– including the length and precisely how –
corresponded directly to how much land they controlled
and where (and if!) the king’s army patrolled.
Some of his most trusted knights staunchly marched forward
their titles well-entitled, well-earned and straightforward:
Sir Sexalot, Sir Crazycock, Sir Longdong and Bigmember;
others absent like Sirs Jollyballs, Sureshaft, Applehead and Buttbender,
but his most newly recruited knights also played the game
to be forever remembered by their name’s claim to fame:
Sir Wideload, Sir Asstaker, Sir Smegma and Sementor;
Sir Peejoy, Sir Splooge, Sir Lotsaload, Vaginator.
“We’re here for you, sire,” said Sir Peejoy,
both loved and loathed for how he played with his toy.
Up Lady Labia quickly scurried,
smiled, beguiled, curtsied and hurried
to say, “Your Majesty, is there anything we can do?
Is there a balm? A salve? A cream or a brew
to rub upon your afflicted nethers
or lightly brush with plucked peacock feathers?”
That was Kum’s next step, to call upon his physicians
although he knew they’d put him in paltry positions
to poke and prod and waggle his wang,
surrounded by the entire great gang.
The King knew what his constituents were thinking
and desperately feared their devotion was shrinking.
Our dear horny King has lost his mojo!
From where on Earth will the royal cum flow?
With no more beaver or carpet to ream,
how can we possibly refine that fertile cream?
“Hear! Hear!” crowed the Count of Cunts,
infamous for staging spectacular stunts
that often involved at least a dozen hairy muffs
but also toys, boys, crying and cuffs,
but even the Count – so easily affronted-
couldn’t count how many cunts he’d hunted.
“I agree with Lady Labia’s concern.
But Your Majesty, I find it wise to discern
what is most important at this critical junction
so that affairs of state can continue to function.”
“He has a point,” said the Queen, leaning near.
“Let’s do our duties, dumpling, until all is clear.”
King Kum cleared his throat, finding it hard to admit
that given the scenario he barely gave a shit
regarding the daily, banal, burdens of his office
when his failing flagship made him nothing but nauseous.
“Very well. My son, recite the civic scroll this morn.
You need more practice for this post you’ve been sworn.”
The Prince of Perversions groaned and grumbled,
but any further disturbance quickly crumbled
as he unrolled the lengthy scribbled scroll
and scanned the names on the penned payroll.
“The esteemed Earl of Curl requests more livestock.”
“Remind me,” mused the King, “how long is his cock?”
“Middling,” answered the Prince. “Nothing for bragging.
With his sex drive low and libido lagging.”
“Oh, well,” muttered Kum, “I guess I’ll allow it.
I’m decidedly not in the mood to disavow it.
Say, isn’t Curl’s wife the one of those immense breasts?
Perhaps I should reconsider them as party guests.”
“Oh, posh,” sneered the Queen. “He’s called Curl for a reason.
His dick has such a twist it might as well be high treason.”
The King duly noted his wife’s opinion
and asked the Prince to announce the next dominion,
sorting slowly but surely through a long roster of names,
many of them excluded from their palatial sex games,
but the occasional title of an old acquaintance popped up
and the King tried to recall when they had last shared sup
or indulged in flagons of flowing red wine
as they lounged in the feast hall to dally and dine.
The Khal of Kink,
and the King had to think,
and then remembered his heavenly harem
whom the Khal kept all chemically barren
so as not to burden himself with hundreds of spawn
and knew exactly where his lustful limits were drawn.
King Kum had used somewhat similar techniques,
but their alchemical potions needed more tweaks
for they were definitely not one hundred percent effective
and more often than not proved defective
and had burdened Kum with undesirable offspring
from pretty young maidens and a flirtatious fling.
Another name came up: the Sultan of Salaciousness,
widely renowned for his sexual tenaciousness,
followed by the Count of Cunnilingus,
who despite his prowess most considered a dingus.
And then there was the dastardly Duke of Deformities
whose fetishes often vetted abundant abnormities.
Then came the name of Lord Dickspittle
whose leisurely length was anything but little.
These and others were expected at the orgy later,
but the King’s trepidation grew ever greater.
Around lunchtime he wearily called recess
but wouldn’t return—it stoked too much stress.
His worried wife had already summoned the physicians
and they took him aside to surmise their suspicions.
“It’s just not working,” moaned the King. “I don’t understand!”
“Please let us take a look,” they said, “and lend you a hand.”
So the King sat pantless on a worn wooden stool
while a mob of docs pored over his tool,
lifted it,
shifted it,
pulled it taut,
prodded it,
wadded it,
but all for naught.
There was no clear cause for the sudden impotence
so they queried him closely about any incidents
that might have contributed to his dingaling’s disorder,
his dick’s disobedience, his newly petulant porker.
The King had no answers, on the verge of tears,
but devised to disguise his innermost fears
and demanded to be seen by his royal magicians
whose sorcery he trusted more than physicians,
but the doctors wanted to try a few other solutions
so the King consented to their contributions
until he saw the jar of wriggling wet leeches
and with a shriek he jerked up his breeches
and demanded the medical staff to, “Get the fuck out!”
scowling sourly and starting to doubt
that anyone could help this painful predicament,
but praying the mages had a gainful medicament.
The Queen and his daughter came to console him,
stuffing back sobs as he tried to withhold them
lest he appear as a whining old wimp
dangling a gangling, ineffectual shrimp.
“Any word yet father? Any answer to this woe?”
“Not yet, my dove. The answer’s sadly no.”
Dismayed by the doctors and their slimy suggestions
he summoned his mages to answer their questions
and prayed they provided advice for his affliction
or prepare him a poultice as a precious prescription.
His seven seers waddled in, some weathered and wizened,
others years younger, their fates not yet envisioned.
They looked at his tongue and prodded his ears,
took samples of spit, pee, blood and tears.
Naturally, they wanted a look at his schlong,
so sighing again, preferring to prolong
this already horrible humiliation,
he exposed himself for their consideration.
Seven bespectacled men in respectable coats
leaned in, muttering, puttering, jotting notes,
eventually regrouped, whispering and nodding
as if in agreement about their penis prodding.
“Your Excellency, we’ve come upon the notion
for a particularly powerful penile potion
to hopefully bolster your compromised cock
and get it roaring and ready and hard as a rock!
First, we must mix the bodily fluids already drawn,
add rare ingredients and simmer under a full moon ‘til dawn,
allow the concoction to cool while we bathe it with prayers,
which takes time, your Majesty, as we add many layers,
and then we must—”
“Oh, dammit! How long will this take?
The orgy is tonight. Make no mistake!
This is my cock we’re talking about! My most regal regalia!
And I need it by this evening for all the bacchanalia!”
“Oh – but – your sire, delicate matters such as this take time.
To cut corners at your orders would be a crass crime!
We only want the very best for your beleaguered boner.
For the time being, my King, you’re still the spunkless owner.”
“Oh, have some backbone you spineless invertebrate.
And don’t you dare bemoan my confineless ejaculate!”
In a fury now, Kum pushed through the sages,
his ire raised, in one of his rages,
stormed back to the throne room for a flagon of wine
and bread and cheese upon which to dine,
overcome by a mood overpoweringly surly,
thinking somehow, some way, there must be surely
a solution to this seemingly unsolvable situation;
some sort of screamingly resolvable application.
The Queen and his daughter attended another event
which was fine by him during this trying torment.
“Any luck?” asked the Prince of Perversions,
returning from one of his daily, dirty diversions.
The King mumbled and miserably waved a hand.
The Prince grimaced, said, “Father, I do understand.
I think what you need now is a bellyful of laughter.
Is that not a treat most often sought-after?
Why, I just left the audience of our most jubilant Jester,
although the mode in his abode is more that of molester!
I’ll summon him at once, Father. And no, you can’t deny it!
I know you feel inconsolable, but please don’t decry it.”
“Whatever,” the King muttered and fluttered his fingers.
The Jester – at least – was the most swinging of swingers
and had been around the block, so to speak,
but largely even this court considered him a freak.
Musicians tried to soothe his mood with flutes, lutes, a dulcimer,
but the King’s seething rage only cooled down to a dull simmer.
Minutes later he heard the telltale bell
announcing his farcical fool from hell,
and the joker rolled in on his single-wheeled bike,
garnering both groans and gripes alike
for he presented a particularly polarizing personality,
either a crooner of crude humor or ribald rascality.
The comedian hopped from his cycle and respectfully bowed.
“At your service, my liege!” the little man avowed,
for he barely stood as tall as the King’s bloated gut,
and up he jaunted, the jovial Joker of Smut.
“I heard you have a problem,” the comedian announced.
“Shall we say, in a way, a prick not pronounced?”
“You could say that,” growled the King, his voice low and harsh,
“but listen you me, I’m in no mood for false farce.
So entertain me, addlebrain me, do what you must,
but know above all, do not try my trust.”
“Would never dare, Your Highness!” said the small man.
“In fact, I’m happily here with a rather proud plan.
As you know, they also call me the Jester of Jizz.
I know my strengths and debauch is my biz!”
Yes, the King was well aware of his gaudy names
each gained from decades of bawdy games
and some infamous, villainous deviations
that only occasionally resulted in allegations.
“What’s your idea then, clown?” demanded the King.
“Your reputation precedes you. Of what sins do you sing?
But know that I need an answer at once!
Not tomorrow or even next week my dunce.”
The Jester foppishly bowed and all his bells jangled.
“Several ideas, my sire, and quite a few newfangled.
Ah…but some might require you to be—um—openminded.
But that’s what we need! Not the weak feebleminded.”
The King grunted. He’d already dismissed the doctors’ leeches,
(couldn’t imagine them latched to his dong and poor peaches)
He’d rejected anything superficially surgical
or even theoretically thaumaturgical,
for even the sages lacked a nifty solution,
but that’s what he longed: a thrifty resolution.
Many in the throne room overheard their conversation
with several Dukes and Ladies adding commendation,
encouraging their liege to join the quest
to refuel his rod and refill it with zest.
The King relented and rose from his chair,
rubbed his belly, ran a hand through his hair.
“Outside we go,” said the Joker. “We begin phase one!
And if this tactic works fast then know we’ll be done.”
A curious crowd gathered behind the King and Jester,
annoyingly close enough to pry and pester
both of them with constant queries
regarding the clown’s questionable theories.
The Jester led them uphill to the Royal Honey Hives
where there buzzed a thousand yellow-black lives,
fluttering and flitting, zipping and dipping,
but the King croaked, “No, NO! you’re definitely not stripping
me to absolutely nothing but my precious Crown
to let those vicious bees all sting me downtown!”
“Not in the least,” said the Jester. “Banish the thought.
First we must douse you in honey, as I have been taught.
You see, it’s a very ancient folk remedy
passed down the ages by past peasantry
who swear, your sire, of its efficiency,
so is that safe enough for sufficiency?”
“God no, that’s not enough!” he brusquely barked,
but even as he had so remarked
he heard the susurrus of many voices
and realized his courtiers counted his choices,
and this was the third time he had rejected an offer
that didn’t require him digging gold from a coffer.
The counts, the ladies, the dukes and their squires,
whether amoral, immoral, honest or liars,
they wanted him back as their regal commander,
they needed him to flawlessly flirt and philander
just as he had all those long years
alongside his nobles, friends and peers.
So yes, he pondered a venomous sting from bees.
Maybe twice? Thrice? Could it somehow appease
his current, abhorrent, unbearable fate
and fortify his member to its former fine state?
“Alright, get on with it then,” the King said quietly.
“And bring more wine! This doesn’t require sobriety.”
He shrugged off his robes and shed his shorts,
feeling conspicuously out of sorts,
a hand out for a flagon, his eyes straight ahead,
drinking deep of a draught to drown his dread
as the pernicious performer poured pints of honey
that oozed down his body, thick and – yes— yummy,
his heart hammering in his chest with increasing speed,
wondering if he would ever, ever again breed,
eyeing the honey bees, their curiosity tweaked
as they circled closer, animosity piqued,
and began to settle upon his sugar-soaked skin
while the Joker of Smut wore a wide grin.
“Don’t worry, Your Highness. But don’t make a sound!
Oh, now they’re really rollicking and frolicking around!”
Several observers giggled and the King felt himself flush,
adding to his already pink pallor, the red blush of a lush.
The first sting hit at the crook of an elbow;
the second stab struck the top of a big toe.
When the third sting reached the tip of his cock
the King shouted obscenities from sudden shock
and raced off through the crowd of surging supporters,
bouncing about on hasty, pasty hindquarters.
He rapidly returned to his private chambers
safe from any sniggering defamers,
balled his fists and bawled to the ceiling:
“By the love of GOD, I just need healing!”
His good wife was there changing an outfit,
hiding a slight smile at his bee-touched tidbit,
but she oiled it with salves and gave it a kiss,
said, “Oh, sugarplum, I know that went amiss.”
The King scowled but changed clothing too,
trying on a tan tunic and trousers anew,
hobbled to the throne room while holding his crotch,
his prejudice toward the Jester raised by a notch.
“Your Majesty?” asked the jovial joker.
“Did that help a small amount? Maybe mediocre?”
“Nothing at all, you troublesome twat!
A stinger on my dinger is all that I got!”
“Forgive me, your Highness. This isn’t a science
but an artful remedy that requires compliance.
I have other ideas, yes indeed, quite a few!
Would you object to Project Prick: Phase Two?”
King Kum sputtered spittle in rising distress
but was calmed by the Queen’s caring caress.
“My dearest chipmunk, we are running out of options.
The court wants answers despite any logic that fop shuns.
If it sounds completely crazy…well, maybe it will work!
That’s all we need, honey mead— a perfunctory perk.”
The King squirmed in his chair, greatly disliking this day,
but the goodwife was right; his limp noodle might stay,
and the longer it lounged loose and useless
the more the people would think him tame and toothless,
and not only the uppermost loftiest court tiers
but it would trickle down to the smallfolk’s spheres,
to the farmers, the pickers, the herders and ranchers
who roamed his kingdom’s pristine pastures.
Word of his wounded wood would spread like fire
and sink the kink of kingship into a mire.
The Princess of Pricks and her brash brother
rejoined the throne room alongside their mother.
Whispers whirled among the wary crowd,
some carefully cautious, others verily loud.
The King asked, “What is this Phase to which you refer?
If it’s terribly traumatic then I prefer to defer.”
The Jester smiled widely, too many teeth,
and the King could glean the lunacy beneath.
“My Lord, might I suggest anal fisting?
My fun fingers can explore, turning, twisting,
but for this to work there must be no resistance,
but fear not, fret not, the Queen can offer assistance.
It’s a surefire solution to this common complaint.
So please, my liege, let me tackle your taint!”
Shocked surprise rippled through the hall.
“Really?” someone said. “Imagine the gall!”
“I wouldn’t dare,” drawled the Duke of Deformities,
“without more control over cornhole warranties.”
“I’ve tried it my Lord,” advised Sir Applehead.
“Made my man muck flow like a fountainhead!”
“That’s right, bumblebug,” said the Queen, “No resistance.
You can relax, drop your slacks and practice persistence.”
Now, the King usually had an open mind
to kinkiness of nearly any kind.
He once had to sooth his bum after a romp with a broom,
insisting to the Queen, “Look, love, there’s really no room!”
But this fisting thing was a whole new exploration,
and he began to reconsider a quick castration.
“Are you sure?” he asked the Jester. “Can it cure my ailment?”
“Oh, sire, there’s nothing better for a pecker than anal impalement!”
The alluring Ladies of Lasciviousness applauded their consent
while the slutty Squires of Desires voiced their votes for torment.
“It’s in the best interest of the kingdom,” his wife intoned.
“Now go get that twig twitching before we’re both dethroned!”
The King swallowed a knobby glob in his throat,
not entirely on board with each volunteer’s vote.
His tummy felt fluttery;
his kneecaps all buttery,
but he stood uneasily from his chair
and followed the Jester up the stair,
marching to a private bathroom refuge
usually reserved for a daily deluge
of scalding water and fragrant incenses
for which he had spared no expenses.
“Good luck, father!” cheered his daughter below.
Said his son, “You’ll be walking weird, you know.”
The Queen with a handmaiden entered as well,
and the Jester closed the door for a spell.
To King Kum’s credit he put on a brave face,
but his bunghole had shrunken to a very small space.
“You must relax your majesty. This will be so much easier
if you get calm for my palm – and then— much greasier!
Oh, my lord, I promise to use bountiful lube,
and just for you I’ll dump the whole tube.”
“This better work,” growled the lounging monarch,
his ass up in the air as the Jester’s next mark.
“Breathe deep,” said the Queen and held his hand.
“All he plans to do is tickle your gland!
Imagine what can happen: your revived frank and beans!
Shouldn’t you endure that cure by any means?”
Again the King grumbled but agreed with her argument,
praying no damage down there would wind up permanent.
“And manipulate you I will!” added the joker.
“So sit tight, no fright, and prepare for my poker!”
The King winced a bit at the first digit,
but not so bad, just a brief fidget.
“So brave, bunny, you’re doing fantastic!”
But the King feared it would soon grow more drastic.
He tried to think of anything distracting
any sensory memory, anything exacting,
anything remotely lustful and verily lecherous,
tried, true, trivial or treacherous,
to pull his attention away from the lawful intrusion
that he wished was nothing but an awful illusion.
“I can’t watch,” squealed the attendant handmaiden,
her capacity for audacity already overladen.
“Foolish, girl, then get out,” said the Queen.
“No worries, cupcake. She’s just way too green.”
“My excellency, so far you’re faring quite well.
Oh, imagine the extravagant jokes I can tell!”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort!” snarled King Kum.
“Meaning zero jests about probing my bum!
I’m serious, clown; you’ve already tried my patience.
Remember who’s boss here and practice obeisance.”
“Duly noted, my most esteemed sire.
My lips are sealed, and I am no liar.”
The King couldn’t further ponder that pledge
for his hand homed on in as if to dredge
his lordship’s innards for untimely tossed treasure,
all in the pursuit of benignly lost pleasure.
“HAROOOOOOOOO!” howled the penetrated politician,
while those in the throne room clapped for his clinician.
“Ow! OW!
Get outta there now!
This is completely outrageous!”
“Oh, my lemondrop, you are so, so courageous!”
King Kum yanked up his pants and glared at the clown
who stared steadily back with an upside down frown.
“Any improvement, your Highness? It might take a while.
Any increased blood flow? It’s sure to make you smile!”
“Nothing yet,” grunted Kum and beat a retreat
from the checkered charlatan who wanted to measure his meat.
His courtiers all waited with bated breath,
hoping that his screech of ill-fated death
meant that the Jester’s ploy had truly succeeded
and the King’s inconvenient condition had receded,
but when they saw his harried expression
the dismayed court equally carried depression.
“It’s not over yet,” his plump wife mused.
“There are other tactics still unused.”
“And to that I can attest,” added the Jester of Jizz.
“I’m a master of maladies. A verified whiz!”
“You were never very funny,” said the Princess of Pricks.
“Oh, maybe when a baby I was amused by your tricks,
but for the most part they’re paltry, pathetic, puerile.
Really, father, can’t you hire a fool with more style?”
The King sat on his throne rather uneasily.
“Under consideration,” he replied quite queasily.
“Says you,” jibed the Jester, “the girl with a cavernous coochie
already huge when compared to a far, far older hoochie.
Besides,” he continued, “that’s only two tries!
Your most magnificent majesty—look me in the eyes.
I am but your humble servant.
My fealty is fierce, fiery and fervent.
Do I make mistakes? Yes, of course, I’m only human.
But still sharp as a tack and lacking no acumen!
For you see, I devised three phases to support those below
just in case an individual one failed to bestow
their intended results the very first attempt
so please, my liege, don’t hold me in contempt.”
By now the King himself dealt with contempt,
for at the forthcoming orgy he still couldn’t attempt
to get his normally potent prod raging and roaring
for his normally raucous hazing and whoring.
He shooed the joker away and called for his advisers,
those who assisted as his orgiastic organizers.
“Everything’s on schedule,” a servant insisted.
“Some guests are here, but many more enlisted.”
“I’m here and horny!” roared the Duke of Delights.
“Wouldn’t miss it, sire; one of your naughtiest nights.”
“We’re here to slutily serve!” slurred Sir Sexalot,
already slaking himself with sudsy ale from a pot.
“Aye! Aye! Aye!” cheered Sir Jollyballs.
“As we deserve in these unhallowed halls!”
The Queen added, “Guests are arriving all afternoon.
It’s too late to delay this foray, and very inopportune.
The caterers have already brought thirteen hams.
We have roasted duck, stuffed pheasant and lambs.
There’s a chilled sculpture in the icebox of your cock with cooked prawn!
The horderve highlight of the party! Enough finger food until dawn!”
The King couldn’t fathom the thought of more food,
slouched in his chair to pout, ponder and brood.
“Phase Three,” said the Joker, “is perhaps the most drastic.
A loftily lewd idea I admit is fairly fantastic,
and some will say it pushes the boundary of ethics
and requires some considerable kinky kinetics,
but honestly your Highness, I think this is the tactic required
in addition to the previous progress we’ve acquired.”
“Jester, I don’t like any of those words from your painted piehole.
So tell me now, in what madness would you wish me to enroll?”
The Jester of Jizz licked his lips,
smiled wild, tapped his fingertips,
said, “it is my expert opinion that you must push past boundaries,
ignoring any inherently ingrained conceptions and quandaries
and open yourself to the full spectrum of sensations
and accept any and all abhorrent aberrations.”
“Spit it out, clown!” shouted the Queen.
“No more pussyfooting! What do you mean?”
“My lords, I refer to the practice of bestiality,
which unbeknownst to many— in all reality—
among other kingdoms is a common carnality
well-known to revive vigor and vitality!”
“Fucking beasts?” said the King with astonishment.
“I don’t think so,” was the Queen’s admonishment.
“Now hear me out,” said the Jester, raising his hands.
“I know how it sounds, but here’s where it stands:
these are desperate times for a desperate answer,
and certainly not a cure for colic or cancer
but between the bee sting and the butt thing
I do believe that these dealings can bring
a quick end to your particular infirmity
by offering ample animalistic diversity!”
“Surely you jest,” scoffed the proud Prince.
“Humor’s in my title— and vital— but these words I’ll not mince:
I believe this is the King’s most salient salvation
to restore the ebbing order back to his station.”
“Aye!” cried Sir Crazycock. “The King’s dong in a dog!”
“Bugger that,” said Sir Sureshaft. “What if he diddled a hog?”
To King’s Kum growing dismay
his gathered court began to display
widespread and invested anticipation
for the Jester’s suggested adulteration.
“We can’t be serious,” Kum whispered to his wife,
but her stoic stare back stabbed him like a knife.
“You’re going to lay with a beast?” gasped the Princess of Pricks.
“I’ll admit I have certain urges, but they end with human dicks.”
“But not any random beast,” added the Joker of Smut.
“There’s a few frisky, risky ones reserved who like to rut.”
“This is already condoned?” the incredulous Queen blurted.
The Jester shrugged. “What can I say? This kingdom is perverted.”
A growing chorus called for the King’s intimate coupling,
an idea that he found both taxing and troubling
but the situation had already spiraled out of control.
They all knew of his shame; the lack of pepper in his pole.
“Don’t worry, lord, this is a joyous incident.
I know it can salvage your impotent instrument
if you can give in to the allure of animal coitus
and indulge yourself of an unknown introitus.”
The King placed a palm on his fluttering heart.
Maybe I’ll die from a stroke before this can start.
But the gambit had gone on considerably too far,
beyond advice from docs or sage wisdom from a star,
and he couldn’t readily revert to those prior avenues
for the Jester’s suggestions had invested new views
that his curious court had now completely accepted
and left him little choice if he wished to be respected.
Such were the dynamics of their notoriously naughty domain,
although less privileged individuals still preferred to complain.
The King watched as his courtiers bustled and rustled,
anticipation ramping as many feet shuffled
and made way for a mule already tied to a tether
and bound in a gown of loose lace and light leather.
The Jester said, “Her name is Winkle.
Nary a blemish, blotch or wrinkle!
She’s a young lass but has been through some things.
Yes, she got here fast; I had her waiting in the wings.”
“Winkle,” said Kum dully, staring at the mule,
wondering if this upcoming courtship was cruel.
“Father,” said the Princess, “I know you’re under duress,
but this is not something I want to watch, I confess!”
“I’ll admit I’m quite curious,” said the Prince with a wink.
“Can you get the ol’ cane swinging father? What do you think?”
“I think you should silence your tongue my son.
This is no flippant matter and not done for fun.”
The Prince of Perversions politely did as instructed,
but obviously displeased with his opinions obstructed.
By now outrageous rumors had run rampant and rife
and his physicians and magicians swarmed to the strife
but knew better than to interject or interfere;
this problem now was well beyond theirs to steer.
Handlers led the mule to the royal dais.
“Oh my precious, are you ready to amaze us?”
The Jester’s words made the mule’s ears twitch
and she whipped a tousled tail like a switch.
“My liege,” said the Jester, “I would encourage a public encounter.
Let your attendees see that yes indeed you can mount her!”
Catcalls and whistles rattled from every direction
as the King lamented an erection still evading detection.
“You can do this,” whispered the Queen of Queefs in his ear.
“Remember my petunia, there’s nothing to fear.”
Only there was something frightful to fear,
something the cowed King hated to hear,
and that was the announcement of unanimous denouncement
as his colleagues called for his royal renouncement.
“Will this work?” he asked. “I don’t feel a thing.”
The Jester leered sneeringly as in rolled the sex swing.
“Oh, heavens,” said his wife. “That’s your favorite toy.”
“No more,” sighed the King, his face absent any joy.
“Now giddy-up,” said the Jester and patted his behind
urging him ever and ever closer to grind
against the waiting Winkle whom servants had lashed to the swing,
her tawdry tail twitching, her privates primed for the king.
“I don’t think I can do this,” sputtered King Kum.
“No matter how much I partake of ale, wine or rum!”
“Of course you can!” roared the Duke of Dicks.
“Get in there, sire! Give ‘er a few good licks!”
“I have faith!” shouted the Duke of Deviance.
“Teach that bitch some old fashioned obedience!”
“Hishtory in the making,” slurred Lord Largebarge,
“and how a lordship should rule by taking charge.”
“She’s really not so bad,” added Sir Longdong sheepishly,
“aside from that group play where she acted all peevishly.”
Sirs Bigmember and Buttbender nodded their consent,
as if banging a pack beast had always been their intent.
King Kum glared at his knights, genuinely appalled,
and wondered when they’d grown so enthralled
with interspecies sexual relations
as a way to flaunt their fraternal frustrations.
The Jester joyfully jiggled Winkle’s wide haunches,
said, “From here, my liege, your new regime launches.
Show us that proud package from yesteryear
and blast your man’s mast into the stratosphere!”
But the rolling waves of encouragement did nothing to restore
his normally belligerent boner who found it all a huge bore
and failed to make a move beyond his bulbous tummy
where it fled into folds of fat like a stubby candy gummy.
“Your majesty,” said the Jester, “I think I know what you need.
Not everyone responds equal to dirty deeds with a steed.
Sometimes a pack animal can be too much at first.
Let us start smaller; as you know I’m well versed!”
King Kum ungraciously grimaced and scowled,
about to respond about being befouled,
when the Jester announced, “Everyone! Everyone! Step aside!
It’s time for his majesty to try a new raunchy ride!”
The Jester clapped his hands and to Kum’s disappointment
two brightly plumed peacocks were pressed to the appointment,
followed by three female dogs, white, black and beige,
whom handlers led on leashes to the exhibitionary stage.
“NO! That’s enough!” Kum shouted, and not for the first time today
he was done with the advice his people had put on display.
“Leeches and bees and bubbling weird potions!
Creams and liniments and hot scented lotions!
You even put your fist up my arse you degenerate trickster!
Oh, I know what are now fool, a fiendishly sly slickster
who gets off his jollies from watching others’ suffering,
hidden behind blithering and blathering about butt buttering.”
“And unfunny jokes!” the Princess shrieked.
“Father is right! Your sinful secrets have leaked!”
“Oh, so not true, my royal friends!
I am here to serve. My comedy can cleanse!
Yes, yes, my jokes can be a tad tasteless and tawdry,
my words and whims a bit baseless and bawdry,
but that is just my indelible nature!
A master of mirth is my nomenclature.”
King Kum grunted and crossed his arms,
looked to the Prince, said, “Do you trust his snide charms?”
The Prince of Perversions shrugged his shoulders,
but his following answer bowled over their beholders.
“Oh, I have been amused before by our dear entertainer,
our sleaziest of artistes and most reprehensible retainer
who loves to expose himself every way imaginable,
no matter how perverse or unpalatable,
and have I personally enjoyed his eager lecherousness?
I admit I have, but not over true treacherousness.
So I say throw him in chains father, and let him tell himself jests
while rats gobble his goods and other parts are nibbled by pests!”
“I like your reasoning,” said the King, “and I think I agree,
so henceforth and thenceforth this is now my decree
to send this cackling curmudgeon down to the dungeon
so that critters can feast upon this unfunny luncheon!”
“What?” balked by the Jester. “Please be reasonable!
This declaration of incarceration is entirely unfeasible!”
“GUARDS! Place this sham in leg chains and shackles
where he can fantasize about fucking jackrabbits and jackals.”
The Jester screamed shrilly as a guard grabbed each wrist
and dragged him away despite his futile attempts to resist.
“And get rid of this mule!” the King coarsely added
which had done nothing to reverse a penis still flaccid.
“Wait now!” said Sir Bigmember as Winkle left the set piece,
fumbling and bumbling with buttons holding up his codpiece.
King Kum shook his head and pinched his nose between his eyes.
“Wife, did you know my knights were such glutinous guys?”
“Well, I’ve heard rumblings,” she admitted. “Rumors and whispers.
And not just for beasts of the land but often brothers and sisters.
But that’s expected with titles like Sir Smegma and Sir Splooge.
Such low designations hold aspirations of being a strange stooge.”
King Kum nodded, his brow furrowed in thought,
wondering now what vow his own title might have brought.
Piercing afternoon sunshine eventually breached the windows
while the King worried more and the Queen cleaned her dildos,
preparing for the impending, exceptional celebration
and the evening’s unending, inevitable conjugation.
More and more guests continued to arrive,
announced by greeters by their singular sex drive:
“The Uncanny Count to Mount and his Luscious Lady of Lust!”
“The Daring Duke of Drag and his new bodacious bust!”
But the King of the court turned a deaf ear,
the rote recitations nothing he cared to hear
in light of his particular disconcerting condition
that had taken his wanker out of commission.
Eventually the King and his wife retired to their suite
where servants scrubbed their skin and cleaned their feet,
redressed them both in resplendently rich robes,
pulled from independently kitsch wardrobes,
fitted them with slippers of the softest silk,
finer than any others of their ilk,
and finally rested a gold crown on each respective head.
Said the King to the Queen: “I shouldn’t have gotten out of bed.”
“Just say your speech and make them feel at ease.
It might even do you good to recite some sleaze.”
Hand in hand they descended the stair,
greeted by applause and frantic fanfare.
The King kept his composure, bowing to the pomp,
knowing that his guests were ready to romp
but the foremost question surely on everyone’s mind:
Can the King join the proclivities or be left behind?
And mentioning impending, leg-bending proclivities,
the gathered guests had already fostered festivities
such as opening the finest wines in all the region
and cavorting loudly all one and legion,
a prelude to the upcoming extravaganza,
a bonafide, bedside, blistering bonanza.
The King of Kum raised his goblet in salute.
“Welcome all from your communal commute.
This is another casual, annual Feast of Lays,
and what happens here, here is where it stays.
Some of you I know well, others barely at all,
but I invite you and incite you to greet me at this ball.
Enjoy yourselves. Release your inhibitions.
Experiment with new partners and impractical positions.
My dearest friends, tonight anything goes.
There’s no upper limit to your elevated libidos!”
(but thinking of Winkle, that would validate vetoes).
Cheers crashed over the couple from the enthusiastic throng.
The night was just beginning, a long revelry of song
and dance and drink and dirty debauchery
and he prayed his dick didn’t make it a botchery.
“You gave that speech well,” said his beaming goodwife.
“What I need, chickweed, is my babymaker brought to life!”
The King downed his goblet, ordered it refilled,
unable to recall ever feeling so unfulfilled.
His wife hooked his arm and they strode through a crowd
already very lively among the blithely well-endowed.
“Greetings, sire! I am the Lord of Lewdness.
My services are yours, any craving or crudeness.”
His greasy hair was slicked back in a ponytail,
pubic curlies poking beneath a coat of half mail.
King Kum curtly waved a hand but didn’t respond,
wishing instead he could absolutely abscond
from this entire ordeal and hide in his tower
and pray away the loss of his penile power.
What he really wanted was a strumpet to pump it,
his meaty, needy, beloved beefy trumpet.
“I’m so sorry for your troubles,” said the Lady of Lubes,
happily handing out handcrafted concoctions in tubes.
“If there’s anything I can do don’t hesitate to ask!
For you— and you too!— I’m truly up to the task.”
The Queen of Queefs thanked her, nodding benignly,
the King regretting that her offer wasn’t more timely.
More and more courtiers stopped to offer condolences,
as well as occasional, banal cure-all indulgences,
but the King thanked the former and rejected the latter,
explaining that his pain was a particularly personal matter.
As time passed on and as such things are wont to do,
the King watched his increasingly amorous crew
as the royal orgy became more and more roisterous;
the crowd loud, proud, bustling and boisterous.
Everywhere he turned loomed another gaping quim,
some hilariously hairy, others, the landscaping trim.
A Lady of Iniquity offered up her virginal oyster,
newly released from the chastity belt’s cloister
as she’d been saving herself for this special night,
a future tale to tell, her maidenhood taken right,
but the King was forced to reluctantly decline,
stifled a sob and swallowed more wine
even as the Duke of Delights
debated insights
with the Countess of Carnality
regarding bestiality
and the Lord of Corruption
suggested seduction
with the Lady of Luxury
who loathed downtime drudgery.
The Prince and Princess pranced by in their birthday suits,
gleefully fleeing from a guy with greatly gifted glutes
and a chiseled body as if chipped from obsidian
and flaunting a fat one not unlike a blackened ophidian.
The Queen asked, “Do you see anything enticing? Anything at all?”
Kum grimaced at the guests all attending his grand ball.
“Of course, turtledove. It’s a sensational, invitational celebration of sin,
and you have no idea how much I wish I could dive in.”
“Well, let’s try again, vie again, it’s the least we can do.
For the sake of your honor, let’s make this wish true!”
The King sighed, for he truly did admire the sultry aesthetics
and exhibitionary examples of sexually impressive athletics.
Sirs Applehead and Surecock were engaged in a foursome,
very sweaty, heady, leggy and laborsome,
while Sirs Asstaker and Vaginator plied a young vixen
for her very first (and worst) double knighted fanny fixin.
The Duke of Deformities had paraded out seven nude dwarfs,
their mission to remove any lingering clothing by force.
Lord Dickspittle, boldly bumping a barmaid from behind,
invited the King to take over if he were so inclined.
The Queen urged her husband closer with gentle pushes
toward the inviting, enticing bushes and tushes,
so he finally unclasped his belt and loosed his tunic,
handing it to an attendant bedside eunuch,
yanked down his garments and waddled his dong,
but it hadn’t grown a bit, still only one thumb long,
as his courtiers and loiterers all stared in despair,
for King Kum’s proud package had truly lost its fun flare.
“Let me help!” cried the maid and dropped to her knees,
took him in her mouth as he mumbled, “Oh, please…”
for he knew by now after the day’s shenanigans
there was nothing left to possibly galvanize his glans.
She bobbed and waddled,
throttled and coddled
that limp little noodle
like a sweet succulent strudel
but yet again his evasive erection
ably avoided invasive inspection.
She tried to
jack it,
whack it,
jerk the shaft,
rack it,
smack it,
work that halft
but nothing worked, nothing changed;
he and his chubby were still estranged.
Hopelessly humiliated and creatively cursing
and completely done with pointlessly nursing
the useless lump of meat between his legs
that had dragged down his demeanor several pegs,
with a disgusted huff he abandoned the bash,
foregoing the festivities in a furious flash,
his wife Queen apologizing and extending excuses
for their premature parting as regretfully restless recluses.
The King retreated to the refuge of their regal bedroom,
a safe haven for a hint of healthier headroom
as he contemplated what to do next
given his possibly permanent severance from sex.
The Queen had willingly left the party as well,
put her head to his, felt his drunken sobs swell.
“My rod is ruined! Forlorn! Forsaken!
Might as well be a bit of uncooked bacon!”
She gently whispered and soothingly cooed,
hoping somehow to heighten his mood,
but it was a lost cause, an impossible task,
beyond her ability and too much to ask,
and all she could do was fidget and fret
as the King lamented his labors unmet,
guzzling more wine with garbled groans,
trying to drown the din of distant moans
from partygoers who continued their frenzied fraternization
despite their host missing out on their envied fornication.
At some point his head hit the pillow’s fleece
and he reached a snoring semblance of peace,
only to be woken from that selfish slumber
by sharp raps on the door, six in number,
that jolted both he and wife straight up in bed,
the King thinking, “And now what to dread?”
A harried handmaiden opened the door to their suite,
and in barged three strange men, not missing a beat,
apologizing profusely for their sudden intrusion
but promising to dispel the uncomfortable confusion
and precisely placed down a small shrouded gift,
saying, “Highness, this device should give you some lift!”
Kum blew back his blankets, his heavy heart hammering,
ignoring his wife’s yipping and yammering,
and ripped off the cloth to reveal a metallic machine—
a dick manipulating thing— alluring and lean.
“We are intrepid inventors,” said one of the strangers.
“We traveled far and braved daunting dangers
to bring you our most stupendous invention
specifically designed for impotence prevention!”
“It’s steam-powered! Team-empowered!
Possibly, ostensibly, even overpowered,
but nothing else from any near territory
comes close to this cock-shocking category!”
“Try it on, your Majesty. It attaches like a girdle.
Buckle it for buoyancy; that’s the only minor hurdle.”
“Yes, yes. That’s it, that’s it!
Tie it here, and here, yes, that’s a good fit.”
“Now flip that switch and roll the handle,
while my fine friend here lights the candle.”
The King had stuffed himself into the bulky device,
admiring how slipped across his sack snug and nice.
He rolled the knob and hot steam jetted out
and finally –finally!— his sprig began to sprout,
growing larger and larger than ever before,
encased by a shell of metal and more,
an impressive erection of technological perfection
as he swung his delightful dong every direction,
shouting, “Look at me! I’m back! I’m back!
Your King of Kum now has no lovin’ to lack!”
The Queen shrieked in joy and held her hands to her face.
The intrepid inventors knelt and bowed to their Grace.
The King opened the shutters and exposed his cock to the masses,
and they nearly fell in awe while elders adjusted their glasses
just to witness the mechanical wonder
ready to wreck the world with tyrannical thunder.
“I’m back!” he cried. “I’m back! I am BACK!”
Then Kum opened his eyes to a chamber of black.
Not totally black; dawn light peeked through the panes.
A servant bustled about with milk, biscuits and grains
to break their fast as was the normal routine
and quickstart their day with cups of caffeine.
“Did you sleep well?” asked the Queen, nuzzling nearer.
“I had a dream,” said the King. “My choices are clearer.”
He did not experience a sexual resurrection that day.
It seemed –despite the dream— his dead dick was to stay.
He returned to the throne room to resume obligations
among other duties finagling financial operations,
all the tedious attention to keep a kingdom going
despite everyone knowing that his shlong wasn’t showing.
The Prince of Perversions eventually entered the scene,
pampering his pouch, his pallor off-green,
still stinking of the evening’s heavy hedonism
and every bit of the blatant, bevy barbarism.
“You look terrible,” said the Queen to her son.
“Do you even recall the mighty mischiefs you’ve done?”
Said his sister: “Oh, I’m sure it was the most delightful dalliance!
A victory over many a vagina with vigor and valiance!”
“Oh, shut up,” said the Prince, holding his head.
“Be glad I’m even here; I’m two steps from dead.”
The King’s not-so-noble knights also looked peaked and puny,
their gazes untethered, their demeanors moping and moony.
Said Sir Peejoy, “I feel like an ox tromped on my skull.”
Added Sir Sureshaft, “Mine smashed by a ship’s hull.”
“I think Winkle is possibly pregnant,” mumbled Sir Wideload.
“Oh, that can’t happen you oaf,” scolded Sir Lotsaload.
His court wizards and physicians made an appearance,
asking about his status with professional perseverance,
delicately mentioning again the rare potions and infusions,
the salves for his valves, the ointments, the transfusions,
all the myriad unguents to smear, spread and spackle
to hopefully reinvigorate his weak wedding tackle.
He said, “Fine, fine, do as you will.
Give me your brews, a potion, a pill.
The party is over; the opportunity is past.
Do what you wish and we’ll see what will last,
but I don’t believe any endeavor will succeed;
this is my fate now; the forever sleep of my seed.”
The Queen patted his arm to offer encouragement
but all that was left was dour discouragement.
As the days and weeks passed Kum tried many remedies,
including sweet sap siphoned from far away trees
that his Ladies in Spanking rubbed on with lotions and cream
while the King reminisced about when his cock spurted steam,
but that was all gone now, just a long lost delirious dream.
He heard from his jailors that the Jester begged for pity;
said he’d never again joke about the Queen’s squeaking kitty
and promised to the very bottom of his harlequin heart
that japes about his butthole were a no-go from the start.
The King pondered his request as he would any decision
but when he thought of the gregariously gay man’s derision
he gave him another month in the hole to help with his humor,
the risqué ruffian who’d riff on any irrelevant rumor.
But between the salves and ointments and mystical appointments,
the potential cure for his condition reached only disappointments
as the King of Kum suspected they would,
so he entertained new endeavors as he knew he should.
He and his daughter began practicing painting,
setting up easels in the apple orchards for training,
and he found he had knack for washed watercolor vistas,
first replicating his palatial palisades and ballistas
and then moving on to his castle’s pavilions and alleys
and later to more diverse vermillion valleys,
and then the all-encompassing wall of mountain ranges
with leaves turning and burning with seasonal changes.
He tried reading occult tomes that his sages provided
although way too difficult to decipher he decided,
so he resorted instead to books regarding history and cooking,
and the more he absorbed the more he kept looking,
and found that an undiscovered fire for knowledge had been lit inside his brain,
something he had never felt so vigorously throughout his prior reign.
Reclining in bed one night he adjusted his spectacles,
a book propped on his lap across his genitals.
“Did you know,” he asked his wife, “that the distant Kingdom of Gling
contains a glade where the coniferous forests can sing?”
“I didn’t,” the Queen managed to mutter
as Sir Jollyballs banged her loins to butter.
“Have you heard of this place? he later asked while seated on the privy,
his pleated purplish pajamas pulled down to the skivvy.
“A mystical castle some commoners call Camelot.”
“Not a peep!” she beeped while boffing Sir Cumalot.
“Fascinating,” he remarked even later that dusk,
the room consumed by the fume of masculine musk.
“It says here that our planet isn’t flat as a sheet.
It’s actually rather round. A globe. What a treat!”
But his wife had long since drifted into post-coital bliss
sawing lustful logs after a knight’s last loitering kiss
and heard not a word her husband recited,
unable to tell he was still so ecstatic and excited.
His obsession with exoteric knowledge continued unheeded,
but he would regularly resume his duties as needed,
but he had heard persistent rumors ever since the celebration:
Does anyone else think it’s time for a new kingly coronation?
Of course it was true, and his original worry:
his status of strength had skipped house in a hurry
and now there mustered a flustered game of thrones
among the other principalities and zones
as every individual noble and highborn lord
held doubts about the clout their king could afford.
King Kum knew this too and the thought of it festered,
and despite how he pushed it down it persisted and pestered
throughout his waking hours until the concern consumed
what little lingering peace of mind he’d resumed,
so one day after lengthy counsel with his wife
he reached a decision to disarm this strife
and called for an immediate imperial, magisterial announcement,
promising his populace he had a potent pronouncement.
The usual galley of galumphing guests flocked up,
everyone tense since the events of the King’s cockup.
The Duke of Delights made an auspicious arrival,
his Lady of Lewdness too with no penile deprival.
The Count of Cunnilingus serenaded inside,
escorting a newly blushing blissful bride.
His armored knights shut the doors to the halls,
assuming positions against the walls
as the King of the realm stepped to the podium,
to address the unrest regarding his unintentional odium.
“As you know my friends and fellows,
my repute of late has suffered some fell blows.
For five decades now I’ve ruled with a steady hand
and molded this monarchy into what I’d planned.
None can say this kingdom lacks pleasurable immoralities.
The pursuit of such reputes surpasses immeasurable pluralities!
But all good things must come to an end.
The path we trod must wind and wend
and for us all it reaches an inevitable conclusion,
and for me, it’s time I sought solitary seclusion,
which is why I now formally announce I’m stepping down
and passing to my precious prince – my son – the crown,
but as well to my lovely daughter child,
for I deem they rule in joint, and thus not so wild,
so that they may continue to herd you hedonistic heathens
whether you fare from up there or flock here from low fens.”
While this declaration wasn’t totally unexpected
all in attendance were dramatically affected
including the Prince of Perversions and Princess of Pricks
who hadn’t been formerly informed of their father’s picks.
It was highly unusual for a sitting monarch to resign
and hand the reins at once to both his nearest bloodline,
but that’s exactly what he did, and the old King bowed to the attendants,
took his portly wife’s hand, smiled to his descendants,
said, “Children, I know you’ll do well. I have no concerns.
When it comes to following my advice, only this: take turns!”
“Listen to your father!” the Queen of Queefs shouted.
“We’ll be in touch!” was the last thing she touted
before her husband dragged her away from the baffled bunch,
leaving the flabbergasted followers to their frazzled brunch,
with their newly nominated King and his sibling,
already well known for their sarcasm and quibbling,
but the proclamations and protests didn’t pause the –ex King;
in the courtyard they had a coach already patiently waiting.
They piled inside, waving goodbye,
the Queen even misting a tear at the eye,
but the driver cracked the whip and the horses launched into motion,
racing down cobblestone streets, away from the commotion.
King Kum looked out the window at his castle fading in the distance
hoping that this decision had been the path of least resistance.
His citizens were right; he had gone soft in the head,
not only the one bearing his crown but the one that buoyed his bed.
“They’ll do fine, won’t they?” asked his Queen wife.
“Yes. They’ll lead a long and sexually illustrious life.”
*******************
Days later they prepared to retire at a remote mountain chateau,
the wind whistling outside, the room warmed by candle glow.
King Kum had brought with him a stack of books
permanently borrowed from the library’s nooks
that were spread on the bed like an explosion of binders,
literally and figuratively the residual reminders
of the decadent life they’d left behind
with everything now resolutely redesigned.
Cabinets held multiple bottles of sweet succulent wine,
but his former taste for indulgence had begun to decline.
He said, “Mariners claim an albatross can fly for leagues without stopping.
Can you imagine that, lamb chop, all that fancy flopping and not dropping?”
“I don’t care!” she exclaimed with sudden force.
“It’s too late to debate a bird’s migratory course.
It was hard enough to leave our old life in the dust.
But I did it for you; and for me, as we must.
But you prattle all day and night about obtuse observations.
Mayhap tomorrow –without sorrow!— we can kindle adult conversations
or God forbid, use the feminine sex toys your inventors provided.
Your dingle might not dangle, but my pink lady feels lopsided!”
The retired monarch attempted to protest,
but the queen snatched the ancient book off his chest;
they wrangled it,
entangled it,
tugged it forth and back.
seized it,
squeezed it,
until she took it with a smack
and tossed the tome into the shadows,
then climbed atop, held him down by his elbows
and unleashed a furiously foulsome queef
upon her chided commander and chief,
until their brief squabble ended in gales of laughter,
his bulbous belly aching even long after
his wife had rolled away and succumbed to sleep,
her bosom rising and falling, her breathing deep.
King Kum held his hands over his breast.
Sleep swam for him too, the sweet slip of rest.
He felt his aging eyelids beginning to wilt.
He thought about leaving his kingdom but felt no guilt.
He’d done what he’d done and now it was finished.
His children could continue his reign undiminished,
and he was sure they would rule in the same vein their father,
but it was no longer any business of his to bother or pother,
for he had new dreams and schemes to occupy his mind,
dawning journeys unfolding to find what he could find.
As for what the fickle future might hold?
What burgeoning new bastions to baffle the bold?
Sleep came for the king and he slipped under its spell.
“What does the future hide?” he thought. “Who truly can tell?”
Biography
Jason Hauser is a fantasy author, poet, and minor doodle artist. He currently has a YA book for sale on Amazon (Harold and the Dreadful Dreams), and most of his long-form poems are geared toward kids and young adults…except for this one. Love & Lust is a 10,000-word comedic erotic story-poem about a medieval king who loses his erection and the lengths he goes to restore it. Jason had a blast writing this great piece, and he hopes others have as much fun reading it. A sequel is in the works.