This story recounts one of the many conquests of Samson, the most accomplished rakehell of medieval times. Describing our hero requires few words: ÒThere are men. And then there is Samson.Ó If you can picture a man with the charm of Casanova, a physique that would intimidate the Incredible Hulk, and a phallus to put John Holmes to shame, you now know Samson.
For those of you who have not read his erotic memoirs, Samson is not so much a character as a mental condition suffered by Lord Farallon. Farallon is a schizophrenic knight of great abilities whose ambitions are constantly thwarted by his erotic desires that manifest themselves in the alter ego of Samson.
Samson is 350 pounds of solid muscle and monolithic id. He completely dominates Farallon who only makes brief appearances as his nagging conscience. Though feral and impulsive, Samson is honorable. The noble savage sincerely loves women but only can express his feelings through his primal urges. Because his goodwill manifests itself in a covetable talent for pleasuring women into cross-eyed oblivion, many females tolerate his rakish ways and some even consider him a friend.
We now join our hero in Amstelland (Amsterdam) where the penniless paramour plans to participate in an annual jousting tournamentÉ
Samson rode into town late in the afternoon. The city had not seen a battle in centuries but it had a gatehouse to weed out undesirables such as our hero.
"Name," asked the guard, eying the stranger with suspicion as he dismounted his palfrey.
"Thundercock" he answered without batting an eye. He sometimes used that alias when traveling incognito. Favored courtesans also used the name as a sobriquet for his legendary equipment. Samson wore a fake beard and tied his long hair back in a ponytail that was concealed under the hood of his cloak.
"What is the purpose of your visit?"
"I work in the plumbing trade. I came here to lay some pipe."
To Farallon's relief, the bureaucrat did not catch his suggestive remark. He simply rolled his eyes and motioned him through the gates. Samson quickly remounted and galloped away lest the guard have any second thoughts.
While his shoddy disguise got him past the gatehouse, Samson did not know how much longer he could travel undetected in the crowded thoroughfares. Everywhere the familiar faces of past lovers drifted past his gaze. If only they knew ... But surely one of them would recognize the superlative stud behind the beard. Farallon caught him winking at various girls several times but he restrained Samson from calling out their names. A willing wench could be found any night but the tourney came only once a year. Farallon would never forgive him if the magistrate booted them out of town before the joust.
Samson had some lancing ideas of his own but Farallon forced him to make a beeline for the jousting pavilion to scrounge equipment. Like most tournaments, weapons and armor could be rented to contestants on the day before the competition. Although most knights of distinction would have brought their own gear, Samson had pawned it long ago for drink. As he made his was to the city center, Jonah slowed from a gallop to a canter to a trot to a halt. The winding lanes were clogged with layabouts and roustabouts. Street vendors hawked their goods. Beggars shook their cups. Pickpockets studied their marks. Provincials gawked in wonder at the scene. Samson cursed under his breath.
By the time they reached the pavilion, Samson could obtain little more than a spare vambrace, a banner and shield whose respective coats of arms almost matched, and a rusty lance. Worst of all, the quartermaster told him he had to supply his own armor. With not a dozen gold coins to his name, even a used set of chainmail was beyond his means. Fortunately, Amstelland possessed one of the largest marketplaces for military equipment in Europe. A freelance could obtain nearly anything he wanted. However, ten gold coins would barely fetch a helmet. Crossed arms and shaken heads met him at every turn, his offers met with silence or outright laughter.
Unable to procure an affordable suit of mail, his attention began to wander among the desiderata hanging in the stalls. A new saddle blanket for Jonah would be nice. Or, perhaps, a gold bracelet for a favored wench. Roses had just come in season as well. He could certainly part with a few coppers for some flowers. T'was a pity to always meet his lovers empty-handed. If only he did not need to buy that damned armor!
As he walked past IsaacÕs stall, a most intriguing curio caught his eye. Velveteen breeches were hard to come by, especially for a six-and-a-half foot tall barbarian. And that embroidery! Knights and dragons fought in patterned battles of golden lace, the entire melee framed with a sable fringe running up and down the inseams. The garment would have suited a pasha at leisure in his seraglio. In reality, Isaac explained a sideshow giant had sold them off after he quit a traveling circus. The previous owner cleared seven feet. Samson's trunk-thick thighs stretched even the baggiest trousers skintight but the garment fit him like a glove. He would just have to have the waistline taken in a couple inches. Meanwhile, a belt would hold them up just fine. Best of all, the capacious crotch left ample room for his organ to breathe. Tailors did not sew pants for men hung like Samson.
Surely, such an obscure bauble would never fetch a decent price. Nonetheless, Isaac drove a hard bargain. Samson negotiated with him respectfully. Jews never bothered him. They were outsiders just like he was.
"You give usury a bad name. Who would throw away good money on that worthless rag?"
"If you donÕt want it, donÕt buy it. Ten gold ones and I'll throw in a belt."
Hell and damnation! He forgot about the belt. A rope would look ridiculous with such finery. Isaac took out a handsome one with a brass buckle from under the counter. Samson reluctantly dug into his pockets. The purchase would take him down to his last penny but what a dashing figure he would cut for the ladies tomorrow in such flamboyant attire!
Though Farallon assumed Samson had squandered the money on impulse, his decision formed part of a larger scheme he had invented a few minutes earlier. A seasoned litigant in the labyrinthine codes of jousting, Samson knew the Heilbronn Ordinances, followed by most tournament societies of Northern Europe, did not require the wearing of armor. However, few participants would be so foolish as to compete without protection.
However, besides an instinctive taste for risk, Samson had always specialized in offensive tactics and his increased mobility in the field could play a decisive advantage. Save for an adamantine codpiece or a breechclout of wolfhide, he preferred to fight naked in the battlefield. Further, even if he had been able to obtain a suit of armor by some miracle, he would need to hire a smithy to enlarge the confining codpiece. Though the Chronicles never dwelled upon such earthy matters, an itchy pair of balls tested the resolve of even the greatest fighter.
Samson left the market with only a handful of coppers clinking in the silk-lined pockets of his new breeches. His wandering feet soon brought him to the German Quarter. Most called it the "sin district." The rogue called it "home." If a man wanted to drink, hear a ribald song, place a wager, or find female companionship, he had found the right place. The wencher often frequented that precinct and knew the familiar streets.
SamsonÕs feet began to ache. Not a coin for new boots, of course...
"Brilliant!" muttered Farallon, following close on his heels like a stubborn shadow. ÒYou squandered our last pennies on junk. Now how do you plan to pay for the inn tonight?"
Samson figured Farallon would show up sooner or later. His purchase must have infuriated him.
ÒAnd donÕt start babbling about the Heilbronn ordinances. Even if we can still join the tourney, you will get cut to pieces!Ó
Samson did not find much comfort in his willful vulnerability either. The blunted coronel of a lance could not pierce chainmail but it would slice flesh into ribbons. He was running the risks of a genuine battle just to perform in a tourney.
ÒArmor is for sissies!Ó he laughed. ÒA real man can take a hit and keep on fighting.Ó
ÒIf you cannot act like a soldier, canÕt you at least dress like one?
ÒYou know how I feel about armor, Farallon. Neither love nor war are places for clothing.Ó
Farallon sighed in exasperation. They had argued about battlefield attire a million times before. It was futile to complain. They proceeded in silence.
Samson could tell by the setting sun that he had been walking for a very long time. He appreciated FarallonÕs longing for accommodations. They had not enjoyed a decent night of sleep for days. Even the red glow behind the windows of the whorehouses oozed a sense of cozy domesticity. The happy thought of a familiar face leaning out of a window and beckoning him to her bedroom played through his mind. Unfortunately, his disguise concealed his identity rather nicely. Samson paused for a moment before one of the cleaner brothels to reflect upon his prospects.
ÒNo, never.Ó growled Farallon. ÒI will not be humiliated. You promised never to try that act again! Ever!Ó
Samson had given Farallon his word but only did so because the trick never worked anyway. At the moment, however, he had nothing to lose. Twisting his expression into a mask of grief, he boldly approached the door and knocked. The door opened a crack.
"What is your business?" barked the madam.
"Kind woman," he began, "I beg of your assistance. I carry a tale of woe. I am a simple man unfamiliar with the ways of the city. Please let me rest my weary feet in your home for a brief moment and I will tell you of my troubles."
He pushed his way through the door and she let him in reluctantly.
"A gang of brigands waylaid me on the highway last night. I have lost everything. I have no food. Nothing."
"What of it?" she scowled.
The woman scrutinized his gaudy circus pants. His story rang as false as a lead coin. Whoever he was, a gang of brigands would have thought twice of robbing the towering brute. He barely could fit through the doorway.
"I beg of you. Please allow me just one night's hospitality in your hostel.Ó
"You must be kidding," she hissed. "Do you think I run an orphanage here?"
"Be not cross," smiled Samson with the most charming grin he could muster, "I know how hard it must be for a lady to run such an establishment. The long hours. The rude guests. Always waiting for a knock from the gendarmes. Yet I see a glimmer of kindness in your gaze. Maybe we could talk upstairs. I will soothe your temper."
Her clit began to twitch. No one had done Madame Astoria the honor of an indecent proposal in years. She could not deny the fellow tickled her vanity. Madame certainly wouldnÕt let him go down on her with that scraggly beard but she had a thing for men with broad shoulders. The lady also wondered what else he was hiding underneath that cloak. Of course, like many mature women, pragmatism and economic opportunity had eclipsed her carnal urges to some degree.
"Your concern touches my heart. Of course, there is still the matter of payment."
"It will not cost you a bit, my ladyship."
To seal the bargain, Samson took her by the hand, lowered his breeches and unfurled his lengthy organ into her palm. After Madame Astoria had a few seconds to register his impudence, she slapped him across the face so hard her own hand stung from the blow.
"You dirty son of a bitch! HereÕs what I think of your offer!"
Madame Astoria grabbed him by the balls and squeezed them with all of her might. A normal man would have doubled over in pain and begged for mercy. Of course, there were men and then there was Samson. The dashing rogue had literal balls of steel. Each gonad weighed over a pound and anyone who had the audacity to kick him in the nuts usually stubbed their toe in the attempt. Samson had been blessed with a miraculous set of testes. Not surprisingly, they were huge, like a pair of chicken eggs, but surprisingly small in relation to his torrential ejaculations.
Each of his testicles could hold up to a pint of sperm. Under normal atmospheric conditions, they would have swelled to grotesque dimensions. However, the streamlined design of his genitalia prevented any potential encumbrances when he fucked. Like miniature boilers, his testicular vessels stored his seed under very high pressure. Thick layers of smooth muscle encased the twin engines of masculinity, compressing his seminal fluid to gauge pressures of up to 60 bars. As a result, SamsonÕs balls were incredibly dense and possessed the strength, weight, and consistency of lead. Ê During climax, his gonadotropic muscles tensed and relaxed in an erotic form of peristalsis. The release of testicular pressure caused spunk to rocket up his blastpipe at blinding speed. A female actually could feel his tool lurch inside her pussy with each internal contraction. Propelled by the superstud's Herculean pubic musculature, the charge geysered out of his blowhole with enough force to hit ceilings and knock over vases.
Though impervious to pain, his manfruit were ultra-erogenous. Naturally, he loved for them to be licked, sucked, and fondled. Lovers could play with rough with them too. The libertine encouraged squeezing, yanking, and biting. While girly men fretted over their precious family jewels, Samson almost flaunted his lack of that age-old vulnerability. Accordingly, Madame's groping of his nutsack began to excite him. His trusty rod snapped to attention, pointing at her with brazen intensity. Despite her fury, Madame Astoria could not fail to admire his endowment. She instinctively appraised his specimen, hefting the shaft up and down a couple times to measure its weight. Several pounds! She wrapped her thumb and forefinger around its girth. They didn't touch! She had known many men in her vocation and he clearly had no equal. Madame tenderly ran her hand over the shaft in awe.
"Ye Gods, you are hung like Samson!Ó
ÒLady, I am Samson!Ó laughed the rogue as he lifted the hood of his cloak. A silky wealth of midnight locks cascaded down his back, almost reaching to his waist. He tore off his beard and swept her into his arms. ÒNow that we have been properly introduced, letÕs find a bed.Ó
Upstairs, Samson eagerly stripped the strumpet and had her flat on her back within two minutes. Though time dimmed her beauty, Madame must have been the queen of the brothel in her day. She had a pair of legs that ran up to her chin, thighs to crack walnuts, and hips that spun like a windmill in a whirlwind.
While Samson never worked as a male courtesan professionally, he did not refuse an occasional customer. In fact, he had a long list of clients that included some of the most powerful noblewomen and wealthiest widows on the Continent. Since his name carried the taint of scandal, he acted very discreetly when giving a royal performance and never bragged about his client list of "size" queens. Many of his lovers compensated him generously and some even offered their protection when he fell afoul of the law. If it had not been for his boundless promiscuity, the premium gigolo could have made a fortune under a dowager's patronage.
While Farallon was predictably disgusted with a man selling his body, Samson rather enjoyed making love to a paying customer every once in a while. As long as his partner did not force him to do things against his will, one cunt felt about as good as another. The pleasure of her pleasure, the joy of her joy always inspired an impassioned performance in the end. And if he found his patroness distasteful, he only had to close his eyes and imagine a buxom wench in her place.
Although some thought it strange he would devote so much passion and energy to his clientele, a ladyÕs pleasure was more than a matter of money to Samson. It was a matter of honor. According to the chivalric code prescribed by the Order of the Black Braguette, once the threshold of the boudoir had been crossed, a knight could not leave a lady's bedside until she had been thoroughly satisfied. The penalty of violation was immediate expulsion.
Even though Samson was the founder and chairman of this Order, he had been unable to amend the bylaws at the yearly convocation, usually held at a large brothel with an advisory council of wenches, whores, and other loose women. Samson lobbied long and hard to change the Òsatisfaction clauseÓ last year. What if he had a sudden migraine? Or the woman turned out to be a man? Such events were rare but not impossible. However, his advisors had protested vigorously against changing the law and even threatened to delay the postconvocational orgy until he withdrew his complaint.
To SamsonÕs dismay, Madame Astoria was one of the few women over the past year who challenged his enforcement of the satisfaction clause. The procuress maintained a professional demeanor common to women of her trade. Although he knew the wench almost came at least six or seven times, she never let on to the fact that she was getting reamed by a human stallion. Not even Samson would get the better of Madame Astoria! There was no way sheÕd let his head get as big as his dick. Of course, she knew by his ÒcocksureÓ introduction that both were large enough already.
The ladykiller suspected she held back and it piqued his vanity. Any man could take a woman to bed. But for Samson, a conquest was not a conquest until the wenchmaster left the bedroom of an utterly ravaged, panting, orgasmic love slave. He liked when they begged, when they cried, and especially when they passed out. Though one might have faulted our hero for his narcissism, no woman had ever begrudged him a ten-minute climax.
Madame Astoria had very precise reasons for resisting the rogue. No one in her profession could have been unaware of Samson. The rake had a very diabolical and effective method for claiming a brothel. Not even the most jaded courtesan would dare ask him for payment. Getting fucked by Samson was its own reward. However, their employers generally took a dim view of such charity. The harem-league hedonist had cheated whorehouses out of ridiculous sums of money over the years. Many strumpets turned over their earnings to Samson just to keep him in their beds. Having become a notorious bane of the skin trade, the ladykiller arrived at an obvious solution. He fucked the madam in return for getting the keys to her bordello.
Madame had no interest in such an arrangement. Since the procuress shared her profits generously with the staff, turning away clientele on the eve of the joust would be a financial disaster. Though Samson did not specifically request any bordello to shut down during his stay, his disruptive presence made closure a foregone conclusion. She knew of several establishments in Amstelland that had learned this fact the hard way.
There were only three types of hookers in a whorehouse patronized by Samson. The first group consisted of those waiting to fuck him. They would be excitable, distracted and reluctant to service any customer since an engagement could mean missing a steamy session with the superstud. Every girl was on call when Samson visited. The second group consisted of those he already fucked. They would be too sore and exhausted to work. The third group consisted of his chosen bedmates for the hour. Samson naturally acted like a stud in a candy store and gleefully gorged himself on as many strumpets as could fit in his bed.
A common practice in whoremongering involved leading several prospective candidates into the parlor so a customer could choose a companion for the night. Anyone foolish enough to dangle such temptations before the wenchmaster discovered he would seize all of the booty in sight. The bodice-ripping barbarian could speed strip five girls in under three minutes. In four minutes, his fingers, tongue, and cock would be buried in gash. In six minutes, they would be screaming out his name in orgasmic delight. Samson moved so swiftly in some brothels that he never made it to the bedroom for the first couple hours. He just stacked the girls on the couch and fucked them.