Travels of the Mind Pt. 04

She knelt, straight down on her bare knees and her head went forward, mouth opening. The soft membrane of the rounded finial of Harris' so upright but unmoving penis slipping once again into her mouth.

A change of light, as if a spotlight was suddenly shone upon her. Her head bobbed upwards, her eyes blinking, and she realised things had changed -- again. Harris still there, still unmoving, still enthroned upon the old dark wood, leather upholstered chair, but it was not marble, rather boards beneath her knees. She turned her head and the same horror coming to her as at Lord's. Not spectators at a cricket match but a theatre's audience looking up at her from the stalls, and down at her from the dress circle right up to 'the gods'. Hundreds of people, maybe a thousand, looking at her stark naked on stage. Only this was not 'Hair', it was not 'mere' nudity, it was much more than that! A visibly erect and not inconsiderable male organ in her hand stood before her. It had been in her mouth. The whole audience staring at the stage, looking but not moving, not reacting -- indeed frozen and unseeing. It was all right, or at least not awful.

From the wings of the stage, the jester danced in, as absurd and fantastical as upon Primrose Hill.

"The show must go on," a giggle and a rub to his codpiece. In his hand his marotte - his jester's staff, his sausage, his mock symbol of authority or his confident. He appeared to be speaking to it rather than her. The marotte looking back at him -- looking like him -- a man talking to himself. A madman, a fool!

The urge to fellate, to suck upon Harris so great. She could not help but turn back to the penis, even with the audience now augmented by the Fool. On her knees, leaning forward, mouth clamped around the firm flesh, bottom raised. A sexual act on stage, not in some dingy little theatre for copulatory and other erotic performances, but upon the stage of a fine West End Theatre -- and not simulated sex at all. That was a real penis in a real mouth. Not hidden and mimed, but the real thing.

In a dingy little theatre there would, perhaps, have been a rather serious, studied silence. Rows of men sitting there with straining erections. But for her performance a very mixed audience of women and men. So many of them. The theatre large. And the jester seemed to think it appropriate to act as a counterpoint to the tenseness of the sexual activity by clowning and making jokes about cocks and hens; bananas and donuts; screws, bolts and nuts.

She gasped as she sucked. All at once the Fool had come up and stuck something in her wet sex -- his penis, his codpiece. She turned to protest and there he was, dancing away, shaking his codpiece at the audience. It was clearly wet, all wet from her and he was pretending to shake drops from it saying how drenched it was; would he be able to wring it dry or would that just squeeze more liquid from it!

Then dancing back to her, his marotte raised before him, all at once from its hanging, motley drapery, cut as his own tunic, a carved wooden phallus sprung up, clearly raised by a string, a reminder of his own codpiece but very much painted to resemble a real cock not just a representation, as with his red leather, stitched codpiece.

Unable to help herself she turned again to absorb Harris' organ. Behind her the giggling voice of the jester making jokes about choices, choices, choices. Two holes, but which hole to choose? Would there be a rhyme about that? Talking to his fool's puppet, asking which he would like? Joking to the women in the audience he was by far the better man than their men -- did he not have two cocks to their one? Jangling the bells on his head and on the marotte.

A touch to her bottom hole. Not the marotte's wooden penis? Please, not that on stage. Not before an audience. Not being buggered by a puppet on stage. The pressure on her bottom hole pushing her further down Harris' erection. So big, so full in her mouth. The sound of a clock starting to slowly tick. The world coming alive again, time moving forward. And then came laughter, not just polite titters but guffaws at the Fool's antics. It, the wooden phallus, was in her now and moving in and out; the jester's companion fucking her bottom. And then out it came with the jester making a very audible popping sound with his mouth. The laughter even stronger. But she could not stop fellating, there in the spotlight before an audience.

And then her proper sexual place being suddenly filled. The codpiece or...

It was the 'or', quite clearly the 'or'. The accompanying jokes developing about not two but three cocks. The appeal to the ladies about his remarkable manliness. The jester walking to the front of the stage all exposed, his fleshy erection out and exposed to the audience, to address them before returning to fuck again. And the audience's mirth just went on. Maybe not a dry eye in the house. Tears of laughter. Was it accompanied by sexual arousal? Were the men's penises all stiff, were those penises perhaps weeping too? Was wetness running from the ladies and not just from their eyes?

With the ticking of the clock Harris was no longer immobile, she could feel his pulse in her mouth, the throb of his erect penis. She could feel a not too dissimilar throbbing from the penis in her vagina -- the fool's cock - and was that another throbbing in her bottom? Surely the wooden cock of the marotte could not do that? And then came the deluge into her mouth, Harris' semen pouring out. Doing what penises do. From the jester too, a cry and she felt his penis spurt inside her. He pulled from her, turning to face the audience, his ejaculation continuing, spurting towards them. They had paid their ticket money. He was giving them the 'money shot'.

As one they rose to their feet applauding. She pulled from Harris, her hand taken by the Fool as he brought her forward to take a bow, naked and with the jester's dripping erection so on show beside her, cum running down her chin, they bowed as the clapping became even louder. Was the marotte still in her bottom?

As she came upwards, rising from her third bow, she found herself back on Primrose Hill. In the air in front of her a robin, not six feet away, swooped down to the grass and landed. She turned and the man, Harris, raised his hat, smiled at her, and walked on. In her hand her running things. She was still naked. But not for long. She dressed so quickly.

Back home, upon her dressing table, a blue box, cylindrical with a golden sundial atop. Just like those around the column at Seven Dials. A catch to the side. She pushed it and the lid shot back and out jumped a 'Jack in the Box'. It was the jester, or rather the marotte, his grinning face with black beard and moustache, the cap of bells and the motley. No phallus. That was a relief. A nice toy, then, for Maisie.