/lit/ - Literature

Jason. What a beautiful name. Reginald could hear it in the wind outside his window, he could hear it in the rain falling on his roof, in the creaking of the house settling. Jason, Jason, Jason!
O, if that divine Adonis had but been there now, rather than the wooden cock inherited from grand-aunt Tess! But Reginald had to make do. With the grease from his breakfast bacon he lubed the cock up and slid into his hemorrhoid-infested arse, the pain of the popping pustules making his arms shake and vision blur.
"Jason, o Jason, let this be the mast of thy Argo!" cried Reginald, sobbing. "Let no crabs scuttle across thy hull! Clean, clean and oiled let it be, as am I washed clean in the blood of my sacrament!"
Warm blood ran down his ass-cheeks, dripped along his thighs and pooled on the sheets. Thus was his maidenhead offered on the altar of his muse, and so is the curtain closed on this thread for my part.