He always walked proudly. His chest would arrive a good few minutes before the rest of him. And that cock.

His name was Andrew Spencer, but nobody called him that. We all knew him as the Cockmaster. 6' 5'', 180lbs. Tall, handsome and dashing. He was 19 years old. We were only 12. I guess it makes sense that we were in awe. And that cock.

His story has been told a thousand times. And each time it has been slightly changed. The bar became a great arena. The barmaid an actress. The rain a great thunderstorm. And that cock.

I remember it clearly, for I was there, but whenever I hear it from the mouth of a stranger or mistress, I smile at the inconsistencies and alterations, and stay quiet. Because I know what happened on that fateful night. And I shall tell you, because it is a story worth telling. And of course, because of that cock.

It was a rainy night. Not unusually so, but rainy nevertheless. The wind had a bite, I remember that. We sat near the entrance of the pub, for they wouldn't let us sit anywhere else, us being underage, but we loved the smell of the place: the stale cigar smoke that clung to the upholstry, the cologne of the bachelors happily singing around the ancient piano player. And the fresh apricot smell of the barmaid's dress. It stood out among the musk of maleness in the bar, and we kept on trying to see who could smell her from the farthest.

Sitting next to the door, as we were, a chill crept over us whenever the door opened, and sometimes drops of rain, as men who walked in took off their coats or shook out their umbrellas. And then he walked in. We had never seen him in the bar before. Tall, confident and proud, in strode he. And that cock.

Well, the introduction was long because the story is short. The barmaid came up to the Cockmaster. And what a sight that was to behold. Their eyes connected. And the whole bar seemed dark except for a spot of light around them. People put down their beer-filled glasses. The bachelors stopped their jolly singing. The piano stopped playing. All eyes were turned to them.

In a split-second, her pussy was upon his cock. And it was all over. For she was the Pussymistress.

That cock never had a chance.

Cock"mas`ter (?), n.

One who breeds gamecocks.

L'Estrange.

 

© Webster 1913.

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