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In these two introductory chapters from Zen-Porn Master J.A. Finisterre's classic 'Cocksmith at the Helm,' we meet our protagonist, hero & Everyman, Myron Cocksmith. And we also come to learn just why it is he is the way he is.
Myron Cocksmith rose from the long cafeteria table and strode over to the dish-room window, where he deposited his lunch tray. The old Hispanic woman taking and scraping the trays waited until his large, ungainly-looking hands were pulled well back from the dirty tray before she reached out her own to bring it closer. She would not have touched those hands for love or money.
“Thank you, Mr. Cocksmith,” she said, loud enough for him to hear, looking sideways at his rapidly departing back. Cocksmith made no reply.
Myron Cocksmith cast a shadow about him, long legs carrying him quickly up the hall from the cafeteria toward his office, a pall composed of his own poor humor, his minor triumphs and omnipresent frustrations, and as well a general disgust for all those around him. Hence his haste in the hallways. His shadow advanced before him and lingered behind, creeping into doorways and around corners, where lovers stood too closely together, trying to press their bodies tight, filling each other’s mouths with their tongues, kissing obliviously until the shadow touched them and desire wilted away dampened and intimidated. Cocksmith’s shadow dankly blanketed a bench full of younger students, an uncomfortable gloom dropping over the high spirits of the boys sitting there. They all knew they still had three minutes to get to class, but they hauled ass anyway. Mr. Cocksmith simply set a baleful eye upon them and they began to scatter. He enjoyed that. Immensely.
Myron Cocksmith’s shadow was composed of many things, most of them rather malignant. His shadow bore the weight of his name—labored under painfully for so many years, until he grew into it, metaphorically and literally. Myron Cocksmith was a large, though lanky man, and hung like a horse. So many years he had endured the taunts of schoolyard bullies, the shoving around and being knocked to the ground, all to the chorus of, “Hey COCKsmith! What kinda fuckin’ name is COCKsmith?!?”
Well, he had shown those little cock suckers what kind of a name it was. A name to be reckoned with and one for which he was eminently suited. For puberty, along with a truly unfortunate case of acne that scarred him to this day, had brought with it not only stature—both of height and eventually breadth—but a magnificent length and girth to his penis as well. This gradually became evidenced in the shower after gym, or at those times in the boy’s john when he had no recourse but to urinate next to an immediate and inquisitive neighbor.
First with hesitation and embarrassment he showed that monstrous thing, as he did not wish to give the others yet more to devil him about. But then with a growing spiteful and swaggering pride he bared it, when he realized that his was a cock that those school-boys could only dream of possessing, whisper to each other about, and envy. Fifteen he was when his tool took flower and grew beyond his wildest expectations—priapic seemingly, at times of unwilled erectness. Or just laying there so heavily in his boxers, a lazy whale drowsing in woolen relief, prominent beneath the navy blue trousers worn by all of Our Lady of Gethsemane’s male students.
Cocksmith’s shadow was borne in malevolence, made thicker and more opaque with the pure and simple shit he had taken through all the years, and had brought himself to overcome. The shadow had grown denser yet, and foul, with the power he now knew as principal of this school, where he had once endured such torment. Power. He did enjoy that. But simple power after awhile had left him jaded and uninspired, and this added the final shading to Cocksmith’s shadow. Boredom.
His great, long-legged shambling stride brought him through the hallways to the outer door of the office, through which he strode unhurriedly, after casting one last dire look at the potential tardies scurrying past, seeking to make the bell and avoid his attention—and probable detention—should they fail to do so. He shut the door behind him, stepped past the high desk of this first line of defense, nodded at Mrs. Yu, manning the barricades, and entered his own inner sanctum, dark and musty, the thick shades pulled to, the blinds behind them precluding any possibility of sunlight’s penetration. The gloom suited him. The glow of the sole source of illumination, a green-shaded brass desk lamp, cast its pale light upwards and outwards, dimly reflecting upon the faces of Principals Past. Men of the cloth, all of them, until he had realized his own ascendancy some years back, in times of budget difficulties and shrinking enrollments—as well as a paucity of suitably trained and inclined Jesuits for the position.
He sat back in his desk chair and rested his great feet on the corner of the heavy wooden desk—a place of power. It suited him well, this desk. Massive, scarred and ancient it was, polished every evening by the same black janitor who had been but a little younger, or so it seemed, when Cocksmith himself walked these halls as a student.
Cocksmith let his gaze wander up to the row of portraits that adorned his wall—seven in this office alone, more out there. He fixed his eye on the third-to-last image, the Monsignor Francis Xavier Pontius, known during his long and storied tenure here at Our Lady of Gethsemane simply as Father Francis. Kind and beneficent he looked in this portrait, his gray eyes and firm chin indicative of a man of great resolve and understanding, of wisdom and care for others. He was indeed that, ruminated Cocksmith somberly, belching up a reminder of the sub-par burritos he had so recently consumed for lunch. All that, and more.
The Dark Day
Cocksmith the wrestler. His teammates felt uncomfortable practicing with him because his singlet had come to bulge so grossly. Pimply Cocksmith, at about 147, with what looked to be a mammoth tool. Grown like a weed, he was gangly and ungainly, and the target for his teammates’ abuse at their every opportunity. He showered in the corner, face to the walls—whatever it was that he was hiding an unknown. One dark day they gathered around him: skinny boys, beefy boys, short and tall boys, all demanding to see what it was that he kept hidden.
“Let’s see what ya got, Cocksmith!” a large, stocky boy who wrestled heavyweight said, roughly shoving his shoulder and spinning him around. Anger and embarrassment further reddening the already tortured terrain of his face, Cocksmith just stood there snorting like a bull, his great meat hanging full but limp, dangling for all to see.
“Jesus Christ, that’s a cock!” said Snuffy Albertson, short, perpetually congested, wrestling at about 122, and admittedly hung himself. “How big’s that fucker when it’s stiff, Cocksmith?” he asked, with awe and true appreciation.
A voice from the crowd. “Let’s see a Peter Meter!”
“Peter Meter! Peter Meter!” came the chorus.
Poor Cocksmith’s first instinct was to flee. He looked for a hole in the wall of boys surrounding him, but there would be no escaping this waking nightmare. Several who thought they were big began to stroke themselves, some with just a little too much obvious relish. Cocksmith was mortified by this unseemly spectacle, and further felt that his proud tool would simply flop shyly before him forever. He couldn’t grow wood if you paid him. These naked boys, demanding to see him rise, were the furthest things from stimulation he could imagine. He was embarrassed and wished for nothing so much as escape, when big Calhoun, the heavyweight, pushed back to the fore.
“Hey, Cocksmith! How ‘bout this?” he challenged, and held forth his own bold Irish sausage—admirably broad, but bare middling in length. This hurt Cocksmith’s pride and insulted his sensibilities. Calhoun, the red-faced braggart with his bullying ways and journeyman’s cock, was to the nascent asshole Cocksmith just another great and annoying mosquito, to be swatted as best befitted. And that best swatting would be to show the jerk what a real cock looked like. If his would only cooperate.
“What good’s that big pencil, Cocksmith,” big Calhoun continued, jutting out his pelvis, red stumpy cock swallowed up in a great, beefy paw. “If it ain’t got no lead?”
Cocksmith closed his eyes and grimaced, letting the still-hot water of the shower wash away the image of Calhoun with his red Irish cock, and all the rest of the slap-dick, horny boys gathered around him. He took himself back to his last hour Science class, perched upon a tall stool at a high, marble-topped table—his, the last row in the room—and summoned up the image of the two girls who sat in the row before him. Kathleen O’Neil, redheaded, prone to be heavy, and delightfully round-bottomed; and her lab partner Leslie Stephens, as delicate and soft-spoken as was Kathleen rather coarse and loud.
Leslie Stephens on a hot September afternoon, blonde and wrinkled with the humidity, perspiration shading the underarms of her schoolgirl’s blouse, perched upon her lab stool. He pictured her sitting, as he did so often, on one particularly sultry afternoon. A Thursday. Just before three. Her elbows resting lightly on the marble, she was completely unaware that one of the straps that held her sanitary napkin secure had slipped off the pad and escaped over the top of her navy plaid skirt, where it hung in full view of young Cocksmith, alone at his table. Sweet, demure Leslie would have been mortified to know of the small, rusty stain left on the stool when she stood, gathered her things and walked out of the classroom. Cocksmith’s tool began to stir.
O’Neil, obnoxious and compelling, her too-small skirt riding up in mid-winter, as she leaned enthusiastically forward, dissecting a fetal pig. With the heady scent of formaldehyde filling the room, Kathleen’s great white thighs had gradually exposed themselves to Cocksmith’s gaze, as she busied herself with the cutting, poking and prodding of her pig. He had grown some wood that afternoon, watching her underpants come into view, pulled up tight between her buttocks as if she had a wedgie. He remembered the few unruly black hairs curling out from where the crotch of her panties disappeared, and the swell of the white cotton pulled tight over her vulva as she leaned yet further forward. Cocksmith fancied that he could dimly determine the outline of her labia; and in his mind, O’Neil’s cunt was wet, dampening the thick cotton at her crotch, just as the humidity had shadowed sweet Leslie’s underarms.
The image came back to him full force and he felt his cock swelling as it had on that day, when he had been obliged to stand at the bell and shuffle out of the room awkwardly, his notebook a poor shield that did nothing to hide his discomfiture. One girl’s sweet body odor at menses, another’s haunches spread before him on a lab stool. Cocksmith brought himself to full attention with several slow, euphoric strokes, and then turned to present arms to his tormentors, the naked boobs gathered about, so full of themselves.
Nine and a half inches of Cocksmith rampant showed when he turned to face them. Nine and a half inches that shamed them, and left them feeling much less sure of themselves than they had but moments earlier.
“Jesus Christ that’s a cock!” said Snuffy Albertson again, dropping his hands to his side in concession, his own flag at half-staff.
“No, son, that’s a horse’s cock,” quietly came the voice of the Coach, standing in the doorway of the shower room, shocked and awed, absent his usual towel-snapping, grown jock’s good cheer. He shook his head. “Put that goddamn thing away, Cocksmith.” Then, louder, “and the rest of you girls, outta the showers and get dressed!”
Cocksmith strode forth from the shower room more than justified. Triumphant he was, and gratified to see big Calhoun shagging it limply out ahead of him, the misplaced pride of Eire wagging from side to side before him like a fat dog’s tail. At that moment, the last residual adolescent embarrassment concerning the size of his cock fled young Myron Cocksmith, and he became then what he would ever more be. An asshole with a big dick.
The Zen-Porn Classic
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