Cock-Sucker: The Silver Shilling

I have the shiny silver shilling. He tosses it across to me with a grudging leer.

I say 'thank you kindly sir' as I catch it.

He reties the silken chord of his smoking jacket, his proud erection shrunk and hanging low. It succumbed to me. It surrendered to me. I have drained the proud arrogance of its energies. I have that satisfaction. He dismisses us with a tired wave of his hand, as though he's suddenly weary, sinking back into the high-backed wing-chair, in a daytime gloom against thick closed curtains.

We walk in a moody self-conscious silence, teetering in the exaggerated stilt-strides caused by the oozing soreness between our legs. Glancing back, the Master has his bowed head supported upon the ball his fist resting on the chair-arm, as though in melancholy meditation. Not regret, surely? Cranford is patiently standing outside the Study with the impassive frown of distaste still on his face. He offers us a moist cloth to clean ourselves, and our neatly-pressed freshly-ironed clothes. I watch Roland dress with a pang on regret, as he pulls his britches up over his thighs. I can taste the cloying claggy tang of Ned's emission still rich in my mouth, but wishing it had been Roland's.

'You always get the shiny silver shilling' grumbles Ned.

'Ah, but we always share the reward' I reply gaily. And it's true.

We go down the stairs. Through Mrs Weagle's kitchen and out into the fresh air. The three of us lope up the ten wide stone steps that are smudged with patterns of moss, between the two worn heraldic lions and around the high and neglected hedge that circles Pergold House, keeping its sinister secrets safe. The lane beyond winds its way down the slope beneath spreading oaks into the village of Poverty itself. Past 'The Daytime Owl' Inn where Ned's father is the jovial landlord and village drunk. Past Roland's father's surgery, the village doctor and veterinarian. Past the duck-pond where the swans glide, the Saxon church and the blacksmiths which my adoptive father expects me to inherit. Eventually we stop outside Ye Olde Sweet Shoppe, where the display window shows the variety of liquorice spirals, bon-bons, mint humbugs, lemon-drops, candied peel, raisin fudge, chocolate frogs and more.

We take time to leisurely choose what we can afford. Ned selects Highland Toffee. Roland prefers sugar mice. We can also run to a quarter of aniseed balls. But that will leave us with nothing over. They hang around outside while I step across the threshold. The latch 'pings', and Mr Shiremann squints over the rim of his pince-nez glasses from behind the tiered shelves of goodies laid out in glass cases across the counter, peering at the intruder impudent enough to trespass into the cramped confines of his confectionary emporium. He looks me up and down suspiciously as I stammer out my selection.

I extend my hand towards him, to show the coin.

'And where exactly did you get a whole silver shilling, Lad?' he demands. Then he touches the edge of his glasses in a knowing way. 'Ah-ha! I should have guessed, you're no better than you should be. You've been a-whoring your holes up at old man Pergold's House. Don't deny it. I know your dirty-minded kind.'

He glances furtively this way and that, although we are the only two people in the shop. He lifts the swing-divider and steps out from behind the counter. First he crosses to the door and flips the 'Open' sign over to 'Closed'. He nudges me through the door at the rear into the storeroom. The light is poor. There's a giddy sweetness that hangs in the air as rich as syrup. Then he drop the latch, for fear of his wife discovering us.

He gulps so loud I can hear it. 'You want those sweeties, don't you, Boy? Well, I've thought of a way you can earn your sweets, and keep your shiny silver shilling too. Does that sound good?'

When I look back at him Mr Shiremann is busy unfastening his belt and fly-buttons, pushing his trousers and white flannel underpants down to his knees. He has a long slender cock surrounded by sparse white pubic hairs.

I glance up into his eyes through the pince-nez glasses. Glance down at his waiting cock, smile, and shrug. Why not?

I crouch down onto my knees, there in the storeroom, and open my mouth ready...

BY TRISTAN TROTSKY