Introduction:
The Throne of Cockland
Part 2
The Three Moons
It is said that in times long gone, aeons before the assjuician squirrel took control of the land, that a silent but watchful prescense would spill out into the lustdriven night, over valleys quivering in orgasmic spasm and into mountains covered in the thickest and finest icecum that Frostspirit could create in his endless pulsating masturbatory rhythm (the elders say that on one, stormy moonlit night, the mysticism behind his gargantuan phallus grew out of control into a state so ecstatic, so liscentious and filthy, that when he finally did reach his rime-plastered climax, the juice that issued force happened to shoot so high up into the sky that the Priestmoon got an absolute faceful; ’twas a rare treasure that he lapped up swiftly)
As it goes, Cockland has not one, but three moons. There is aforementioned Priestmoon… he is known (and worshipped) by all quirky and queer inhabitants of the South-Forest, and it is worth mentioning that I use ‘queer’ in the Homoerotic sense for both Moon and Worshipper. Alas, Priestmoon is a tragic figure. He is forever denied his greatest desire, the one thing that he truly craves: the altar boy. The frog of wartlust has testified more than once of having seen the old Priest weeping, his old, saggy craters wrinkled with time and dust, sweat and unsatisfied lust. The frog tells a story melancholic enough in itself in regards to Priestmoon. I quote said frog:
“The Priest is old, older than even elder mountainthrone,
sturdy he once was,
full of vitality was he,
and a different form he took,
to what we now look up and see,
in manshape he was clad,
in robes of white and gold,
and oh it is so devastatingly sad,
that back then he was far from old,
his balls swelled and sweated,
under enchanted robe begot,
but a swelling must be satisfied,
and so young boy sucketh his cock”.
But it was not to last, for the Priest was not fulfilling his duties correctly. He was to abuse the boy, fuck his tight asshole so hard so as to create as much earthly energy as possible. This ripe and fruitful energy would be used as fertiliser for every testicutree in the land, and this need was satisfied for a time, but as the years passed, the old Priest got tired…lethargic is perhaps a more fitful word. His cock grew flacid and his balls shrivelled , and it was decided by the higher forces that he could no longer keep the trees in check… his insolence did not go unnoticed. The roots of trees as old as Pussyarnia’s highest peaks were beginning to grow dry and were thus constantly in need of respite. And so it was that he was banished into sky above and doomed to live forever as a moon, (“A moon!?” he exclaimed. “You assholes better be fucking joking!”) in constant reminder of his old pastime by means of a steady stream of raunchy thoughtforms held in flurries of ectoplasm, an all-pervasive movieclip on loop, if you will; and so it goes that each night he is tormented by images of a time when his cock was strong and versatile, when it could steadily break through the bonds of a choirboy’s sweet ass so as to feed and nourish the land; his suffering is eternal. It was clearly then an absolute godsend to have Frostspiritscum splashed into his face. Although it was inevitably a thick and rimey substance, it was a distant reminder of the boyjuice he had tasted long, long ago, in what can sadly be defined as a Golden Age now gone forever. And so he rises, each night, and gazes down in torment , the ritual observation of the horniest land that was ever known. So when one day, the land became strangely quiet, and lacking in its usual eroticism, the old Priest found himself embracing schadenfreude to the highest degree. He had never understood why he was worshipped by those from southern woods…truth be told, he seldom made an effort to understand much at all anymore.. And so when that day came when even his most devout followers were too weary to perform their usual ritual (jacking off many a multi-coloured and slime-coated amphibious little cock into the Fetishpond under his stark, fullmoon glare) , he was not vexed in the slightest. Yet at the same time, now stripped of his usual relentless envy, he felt a dark and brooding emptiness, and underneath that emptiness, something that made his stomach turn; a desire to help whatever had caused this most peculiar turn of events.
Next there is Hagmoon, countess of depravity and illusion. Far up in the Northland, where the pines’ branches ache for the steady, gliding movements of young flesh supple and sweet, there are the Isjungfrun. (Ice-Maidens). With faces fair but stern, auras crafted like that of a hailstone melting on the whitest rose, they drift across silent ponds and ice-vistas, disturbing neither reed nor swaying wheat-field. Trickling… it is the trickling you will hear, the soft and delicate tinkling shimmer of the juices that drip and drop from between their thighs; a celestial juice that gildeth the dewy grass in spring, and that sets clandestine trails criss-crossing in the winter snows. The pheremones that rise into the air shamelessly from this alien yet oh so sexy substance have sent many a foolhardy adventurer into the famed Bogs of Labia; one thing is sure… any unfortunate creature who happens to meet his end this way, is sure to drown with the biggest fucking hard-on any soul has laid eyes upon. This is the work of the Hag.
Her origins are a mystery to some, but not to the closed and fiercely guarded scrotumwalls of the Council of Cock. The old porcupine of analisciousness, on one sombre Cocktober night, confirmed that there was indeed an icy grain, a stone cruel and cold to the touch, growing far up in the Northbog, and being fed by devilish creatures that (are still known to this day) to hide in the shade.
These are the quickflits, neither male nor female: in a nutshell, they are black daggers in the icy air, formless Hermaphrodites that dart here and there in a rather lifeless tone: this dance of mystique is the twisted, perverse equivilant to the mating dance of a butterfly. The difference being that, when they realise time upon time again that their efforts are fruitless, they usually just crawl and scrape their way up into a damp and mossy glade, and literally, go fuck themselves. The porcupine stated through intelligence gained by northern scouts, that it was due to such a morbid frustration in regards to their sexual performance that the Quickflits made a pact on a starless night back in Whoregust…to create a mother….a provider, a deity who would channel into them an erotic energy so powerful, so potent and sweet, that they could achieve the knowing that they too finally had their place in Cockland’s horny hills. They decided that, once ready, they would guide her spirit gently into the sky where she would rest as a guardian amongst the moons.
But their magick was poorly executed and insubstantial, misguided and, at its core, driven by weakness. So it was that they mustered up what energy they had, shooting semen and pussyjuice into a squirming ectoplasmic cell, which over the days and nights became solid…opaque… They were, naturally quite surprised (not to mention disturbed) when they realised that to touch it was not unlike the concept of an ugly ageing woman masturbating with frozen razorblades. Night and day it screeched in maddening tones under the watch of the cosmos, otherworldly noises that constricted the breath and pierced the soul. Quickflit small and large would stay far away from that cursed Northbog , for after the initial excitement had passed, they slowly cottoned on to the fact that what they had created, was nothing short of an abomination laiden with the gag-inducing scent of fish rotted and old, a spiritual vagina that’s been fucked by the wrong cock too many times. (It finally hit home when they realised that the sensory abnormalities were more than just a “Growth defect”.)
What had once been just a tiny grain, had now expanded to the point where the bog could not be seen anymore. Heavy, dishevelled flaps of scabbing vaginal lip of the most repugnant variety formed a grey and loathsome drapery over the Boghill, gurgling like a Japanese girl with a puke fetish and exuding a rancid, steamy substance that would stay in the skin for weeks.
But the worst of it all was veiled by thick, bloated vapours that breathed in heavy, nauseous gulps. (The Quickflits naturally shyed away from any form of physical contact with these vapours. This avoidance did not help, however. They may have had a chance to stop this mess had they not outright refused to face what they had created). The air was so thick with gunk and grime that one could not see the reeking, sphere-shaped monstrosity that dwelt at the centre of this crusted, gurgling mess. This was the rising of the Hagmoon, the formidable, infernal skank, the cruel face in the sky, the malignant spectral voice that guides fair-skinned maidens across the silent icefields on lonely nights, the source of that mesmeric, trickling juice that leads men to their deaths.
Next there is-
“Assring!- are you reading the Nexus de Cock again!?”
“I-I just thought th-”
` “You thought nothing! You know that book is boring as fuck and that none of these horny folk round ‘ere wanna hear it. Am I right, folks!?”
There was a general nod of agreement amongst the townfolk; they had been trying to get about their daily business when this cretin of a Weasel, Assring, had got ahold of the microphone on the auction stage and started ranting of strange moons in days long gone. Grovel, a stout and sturdy badger in his prime, sent a knockout punch straight into Assring’s fleshy skull, and then dragged the old weasel off into the eastern bushes where he assraped him mercilessly for about 7 minutes. He came out panting, his rabid badgerscrotum pulsating madly.
It was the year 1034, and many a moon had rose and fallen since the days of Dave and Schniggschnor, famed Hero and Heroin of ancient scrolls and exuberant manuscripts, had made history with their tragic tale of love and torture. The Cockland remembered, oh yes, and yet the Cockland was happy, swollen up in its own randy indulgence as always; those old fuckless and fetid days had passed, their horror now gone, but they were acknowledged all the same. Village children would gather around the woodfire on Creamy and Cumful summer nights and hear the majestic tale of the Isjungfrun Schniggschnor, and the outlander, Dave, and all of their filthy exploits. Parents would read to their offspring the sibylline story of the warrior hero who cut apart the tight, peachy ass and sweet, juicy little vaginal lips of the icemaiden in a bid to stop the Squirrel of Assjuice from maintaining his wretched spell over the land.
The blade of the Nipple-elfkin sat in the Museum of Austere Juices on the Western Peninsula, drops of pussyblood still visible on its translucent sheen…creatures far and wide came regularly to pay their respects. A beautifully carved sculpture of Dave, proud eyes and magic blade set in the finest semenstone of the land, stood atop a fountain of tribute where pilgrims and preachers would gaze in awe and shoot their usually hearty load straight into the water’s depths; their raging cocks would bob up and down in a mystical semblance revered by all.
Grovel the badger now stood on the stage, his eager little eyes darting here and there, surveying the crowd that had previously gathered in an effort to get Assring to shut the fuck up.
He took the microphone proudly.
‘How would you young folks down there like me to tell y’all about that dang Squirrel and how he got the hiding of his life from that there Dave fella?!’ The young crowd gathered around excitedly.
‘Well ain’t that just purdy.’ His southern drawl was ripe as a Testicutree ready to burst in Whoregust.
And he began. There were the usual ‘ooh’s’ and ‘aah’s and exclamations of delight when the glorious climax arrived, but as per usual, the story was incorrect in its entirety, missing out finer details. As the ages passed, year after year as lustful and ecstatic as the last, the story evolved, the story changed. It was glamourised time and time again, new details added in for dramatic effect, now to the point where it would have been hardly recognisable to the creatures that lived in the time when the events took place.
I am allknowing and omnipotent. I lived when the Cockland was young, when the bell-shaped heads of flowers that jacked off were merly budding, when the seas of menstrual fluid on that fuckful southern coast were new and bloody, when the craft of mages was unformed and primal, and I am going to tell you this as it happened. We shall proceed from where we left off.
Dave was in turmoil. He was not sure how he had gotten to this land in the first place, and he found it frustrating that he had been sucked into this dilemma of fuck or no fuck, and yet he seemed to love this mysterious being; her beauty knew no bounds. So to stand now , on this cragged mountain peak, Schniggschnor bent on all fours ready to take that elven knife right across her cunt, was overwhelming.
‘Is there not another way to stop him!?’ Dave cried.
‘Do it, do it now, cut me!’ she begged him, and was surprised to see that her pussy was dripping wet.
‘You’re horny!?,” exclaimed Dave.
She blushed and giggled as the little fleshy mounds of her nipples grew firm. ‘Dave, no act of eroticism is too depraved for an Isjungfrun. Even in times of crisis such as these, we still love a good hard fuck.’
Dave paused. ‘But a blade? If I were to use my Cock, say, I’d understand, but a blade. Man, you really are wacky , Schniggschnor. And what does that mean-.. Isjungfrun?’
‘In translates to Icemaiden in your tongue. Its quite similar to-..umm.. Swedic is it? in your realm…’
‘Swedish,’ Dave nodded. The precumclouds on the western horizon were moving towards this strange pair at an astonishing rate, ominous beyond words in their grey, drippy fullness.
‘DAVE! He’s using the elements! Those clouds!!! He’s trying to stop the ritual from happening. Cut my tight fucking pussy and ass right now! Do it!’ And it was true, the clouds had a magnetic pull to them, as if beckoning the two of them into an endless sea of malignant sperm. Far away, the Squirrel of Assjuice waved his crooked little wand twice to the left, thrice upward, and once directly into his putrid asshole. The clouds began to shudder here and there violently, moaning a treacherous low note in an octave outside the normal range of hearing, as if in suffering. He pantd and groaned in satisfaction… many times he had jammed nut and finger up his smelly orifice, but it was only on special occasion that a Squirrel of the Cockland could use a picklewand to please him or herself. He felt the knobbly surface rub against his insides, knelt there performing this repulsive act for a good minute or so, lavishing in Dave’s hesitation to hurt Schniggschnor, but eventually came to his senses and remembered that all play and no work could mean catastrophic results for Squirrelkin. He pulled the wooden stick out, and held it to the stormy sky, where a great surge of energy commenced to fall upon the northern peaks where Dave and Schniggschnor stood.
‘He’s using his assjuice, Dave, there’s no fucking time left, do it- NOW!’ He saw the approaching clouds, he saw the malice and hate in their swirl and swagger, and with an anguished cry, forced the blade down upon her, and blood burst and gushed from the wound. She trembled and screamed in agony. Or was it ecstasy? Dave guessed it to be a mixture of both.
“Arrrgghhh. Cut my fucking holes wide open, you bastard!. Fuck yeah… uhhhhhhh…mmmmm'”
He slashed and sliced and diced until all that was left of her goods was a huge open wound, gaping and swollen.
“Oh god….” he uttered. “Well this is….this is-… ” He choked. “Th-this is fucking great. Mmmm , fuck yeah , let me fuck your open gash, you little cunt!”
She smiled. “Now you’re getting it, Dave. There’s a bonus for you on the side as well as the fact that this ritual shall save our land. A sexual act with an icemaiden is will make you so horny tha-”
“SHUT UP!. Shut the fuck up and take this fucking cock. Aaah, I’m gonna fuck you silly, little girl…. aaarghh… ” He pounded her relentlessly, rhythmically, beads of sweat running down his forehead and just about everywhere else. His cock throbbed as if ready to burst apart, and his pupils had dilated. He seemed as if in a trance.. reality had faded away. All he saw was this exquisite little fucktoy and his monster cock tearing her apart. He saw the blood, but that was just ornamentation to a grander spectacle.
‘Uhh, your cock feels so fuckin’ good, Dave!’
He laughed. ‘Yeah, I fucking bet, nasty girl.’ He slapped what was left of her ass.
‘L-l-look! Mmm ahh’, she cried between gasps of pleasure. ‘Its’ w-w-working!’ And sure enough, in the distance, a furry little figure could be seen writhing and twitching upon a rocky hill far to the South. If one were to look closer, they would see that fur was falling out, balls were shrivelling up, and cock was imploding. And as the Squirrel of Assjuice commenced his death, the land began to shiver. Not a fearful shiver, but an absorbation of light that it had long since ceased to bathe in. The testicutrees grew new leaves dripping with the sweetest cumsap, the grass began to return to its original vibrant bordering on psychedelic green, but it wasn’t just the flora that felt it. Creatures that had given up the will to live a long time ago began to grow hard and stiff, harder than they could ever remember, cocks trembling and dripping and pointed high up to the sky, as if to salute the gods for their blessing. And the land came to a slow but spendiferous realisation that the time of Squirrelkin was ending. From his wooden palace on the rocky southern hills came beams of light consisting of every shade of beauty one could imagine. The lust, the kink, the fetish and BDSM, the good old Sunday fuck; these concepts, that for years had been absent from the Cockland, were now dancing back with a glorious force, held together in lightbeams flooding from the dark fortress on the hill and back to their home. The Squirrel was a fool to think to that he could keep all of the lust to himself for long. He managed a good while, oh yes, but each bit of hornyness has its keeper, its master, and although the furry little fucker used these pieces of lust to indulge in many a twisted act in the dungeons of his keep, from rimming his pet turtle to – well… no more detail is needed. Light returns to the lightkeeper, just as cock moves in and out of pussy, and at this moment, `Schniggschnor’s pussy was looking rather worse for wear…
Dave continued to thrust and pump that mangled hole, and as he did so, he began to feel orgasm approaching, and the ground beneath the two of them began to shudder violently.
‘Arrgghhh, you little cumslut, you want me to shoot it up inside you , you little bitch! HUH?!’ His aggression was maniacal and she loved it. She wanted him to abuse her forever, but she knew it was not to be.
‘Dave, fuck yeah, I wanna feel it shoot right up into me. You bastard..’ She turned her head up to him, sweet eyes glazed over and mouth half open, as if begging for more and more. And he responded by grabbing ahold of her hair and with one hand, spanking her and digging his fingers into neck with the other. She squealed and knelt there and took it, waiting for his final present to her, waiting to take all of that thick cum up into her.
He started to pant.. ‘I’m gonna cu-” and before he could even say it, thick streams of it began to squirt straight up into her from his bloodied cock, as they did so, a white light grew around them, a beam so strong and godlike that creatures far and wide felt its glory. And at that moment, that crucial, exquisite moment, every single animal and bird in the Cockland began to orgasm in unison with Dave and Schniggschnor. White and oozy fountains of light sparked up on every hill and brook and field and nook, little lanterns of joy and salutations.
Epilogue
The Porcupine of Analisciousness was still trembling under the weight of his titan burst of Porcucum, and as he brought one finger from the tip of his needle like cock to his lips, his face widened to an all-knowing smile. And for ages to come, he would tell the story of how one beautiful and horny little slut sacrificed her goods in order to bring the fertility back to the land of cock. He would beckon the young Porcupinekin to the fireside and tell of how a strange outlander had used a magickal blade crafted by Nipple-elfkin to sever the juicy little asshole and pussy of said little slut , and how this ‘man’ from another world had used all of the force of his fearsome phallus so as to eventually climax into the torn-up remains of her two holes. The youngsters would listen in quiet awe as he joyfully exclaimed how this ritual had stopped one naughty little Squirrel from keeping the hornyness of the land to himself forever, how the squirrel had imploded into to his own cock and was nothing more than a speckle of dust on the south hills once Dave and Schniggschnor had finished. How Dave had zipped up his jeans, lit a cigarette, and sighed in relief. “I needed that”, he had told Schniggschnor. She simply giggled, the story goes, and it was rumoured that her dripping blood was tasted by the Miner Moles of the Northcaves, how they had sent an army of randy, lustful little moles up to the mountain’s top to help her. A mole always knows the taste of the Isjungfrun blood, it is said, and the Miner Moles of the Northcaves show astonishing healing powers in times of great need. Schiggschnor was taken deep into the centre of their labrynthine maze of darkness, where she agreed to be healed on the condition that they all could fuck her hard first, every last one of them. Her promiscuity knew no bounds, the filthy little slut. Three days later, she was seen leaving the caves pieced totally back together, pussy and ass intact.
Dave yearned to fuck her once again, and so he journeyed towards the northland ruled over by Hagmoon. Many Isjungfrun floated back and forth in this crystal clear vista of ice and snow, and he made the fatal mistake of following the trickle of juice. Although it is widely stated that at this point he met his unfortunate end in the icebogs of pussyjuice (the Porcupine of Analisciousness attests to this outcome) some say h returned to his own land through a portal outside the bounds of time and space. There he apparently went to Vegas, where he hired many a slut to satisfy him. I can confirm that he did indeed create a portal. He did indeed go to Vegas. He did indeed hire a many a slut to satisfy him. But none of them proved worth the cash. In his own words, ‘None of these here girls are nothing compared to Schniggschnor. I’d give anything to cut apart that sweet little celestial bitch just one more time.’ Dave eventually met his end due to serious drug problem. He was found in the men’s room at a diner out in rural Texas with a needle full of smack and 90% pure Peruvian Cocaine hanging out of his crotch. He’d used up all of the veins in his arms. He was a scrawny shadow of his old self, hair unwashed and dirt-brown, body languid with bones sticking out here and there. The pain he had tried to mask with the chemicals proved too much to bear. Although his overdose was not intentional, the walls of his apartment were covered with three words in varying order. “NOTHING LIKE SCHNIGGSCHNOR” . The cops agreed that the guy must have been some sort of a nutjob, and nothing more was spoken of it.
The End…….

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