The Recollections of Ulysses Halfayard chapters 1-2 (MF+, size)

Here are the first two installments of a story sent to me by Peter Farrell about a male Victorian whore whose endowments were legendary...
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Chapter One
The Making of a Legend

I am asking my good friend Gigi to write this account of my life in her own hand to answer those uneducated and malicious detractors who distort and denigrate my legendary status as the ultimate whore and erotic performer in living memory. The name of Ulysses Halfayard, or the Donkey King, is now a tainted title, but in my days of glory I was feted throughout London, from the febrile docklands of Limehouse to the grand mansions of Park Lane. Respectable ladies and honourable gentlemen would assemble to witness my performances in the most sophisticated salons in the fashionable quarters of the capital, often paying half a guinea for just ten minutes alone with my huge shaft and my superb supple body. 

I cannot proceed with the chronicle of my fabled career without introducing my most noteworthy feature. It is seventeen and one quarter inches, which I was once told is nearly half a yard. The length of my cock is exceptional, but my shaft is also a singular breadth, a column of muscle so wide many ladies struggle to accommodate my girth in their mouth. My pole also possesses the ability, perhaps better described as a gift, to remain stubbornly hard for many hours despite the most exacting of routines. Therefore, I may entertain numerous patrons during a session, providing full value for the conferred monies. Finally, my copious ball sack allows me to shed a lavish measure of seed upon my partners or, if preferred, upon the ground for the general amusement of the respectable ladies and gentlemen, some members of the nobility, who pay for my exceptional services. 

My place at the centre of the stage has, for the moment, been wrested from me, for I have been the blameless victim of resentful jealousy. However, I remain capable of drawing gasps of surprise, admiration and pleasure from many ladies who visit me in my very private chamber. I am also still able to engender suppressed groans of disappointment and false envious laughter from men whose status and wealth cannot compensate for the meagre offering between their legs compared to my superb shaft. The Donkey King still reigns in Pentonville Prison.

The best place to begin, worthy readers, would be at the beginning. I was born in the county of Norfolk to a gypsy named Dolly who, local legend proclaims, was the daughter of a prizefighter named Big Tom. My grandfather was more notable for his impressive attachment than his fists, and as all boxers performed as naked as the day of their birthing, Big Tom drew a large following in the village halls and barns of the East Angles. He would earn only a modest sum for his pugilism but there would be plenty of reputable women, and distinguished gentlemen, who would pay to be entertained by a superbly equipped naked combatant. The performance would often involve a rigorous shafting of a local whore, and one of Big Tom’s many collaborators was impregnated with a daughter, Dolly, who later proved to be equally capable of satisfying the sexual needs for numerous paying clients with hand, mouth, cunt and bumhole.

My father, Black Jack never knew his own father, who was hung for theft in the northern counties, though the legend claimed he was strung up by an irate squire for blemishing his maiden daughter and leaving her expecting an unhappy event. It would appear both my dame and sire descendants were notable for their sexual assets and voracious appetite, so it is no surprise my destiny lay in employing my magnificent body, as well as my depraved and shameless character, to earn the title of a legendary whore, renowned in every borough in London. 

My special qualities, honoured readers, are the blessing of gypsy magic. Young Dolly, herself an infamous whore noted for her physical assets, resilience and utter absence of shame, visited a gypsy witch to ensure her impending child was gifted in every sexual art. My magnificent attributes were united with an utterly shameless and depraved character, earning me the talent to endure degradation, humiliation and pain in every conceivable form. The witch also bestowed upon me the invaluable quality of an insatiable sexual appetite, leaving me rigid for hour upon hour of the most vigorous sexual exploits.

I knew the course of my life would be determined by the huge gift dangling between my thighs. I was not a prizefighter or a thief, both professions which invariably lead a gypsy to the gallows. My fortune lay in my fantastic cock, my seventeen and a quarter inches of hard and hot muscle. I worked as a tiller of soil for six miserable years after leaving the school house, but I knew I was not destined for the dreary life of a peasant. I dreamt of a time when my body would be admired by wealthy and respectable ladies with spacious carriages, ornate mansions and imposing titles, ladies who would offer ample reward for enjoying my hot cock between their legs or amongst their lips.
I knew I needed to gain the attention and the patronage of a local notable, to enable me to begin my personal journey, or my descent into depravity as the judge at my trial chose to assert. The most prominent local family were the Bartholomews, country squires who exercised absolute authority over the four parishes constituting my personal universe as a youth. I bathed no more than thrice in the local river by the manor house, my superb cock quickly drawing the attention of the young lady of the house, Lady Jessica. I was invited to join the Bartholomew service as a footman. It was, as I indicated to the lady, an insulting title. I am a foot and a half man. 
I was soon promoted by Lady Jessica to become her personal retainer. My duties required me to be available at any hour of the day or night to address her Ladyship’s personal needs. Her Ladyship’s personal needs invariably required me to shove my gigantic cock into her mouth, cunt or bumhole, or the mouth, cunt or bumhole of various friends of Lady Jessica. My rod also became the plaything of Lady Jessica’s guests, my tower of hot muscle stroked, sucked and fondled for hours by captivated young girls. 

I became Lady Jessica’s ‘rooster’ a term employed by respectable society to describe their male pleasure toys. My uniform became no more than a pleasing smile and the occasional cuffs to promote the image of submission and degradation to please the offended pride of the men who could only watch with envy as I displayed my magnificent body, pleasuring droves of women with my agile tongue, deft fingers and, most notably, my enormous cock. As I drove deep into any mouth, cunt or bumhole, I was constantly subject to jealous glares from gentlemen, but I presumed envy to be the burden of true greatness.

I was the leading figure in Lady Jessica’s regular productions of coarse versions of popular stories. My costumes would invariably comprise a hat, an occasional set of high boots and a small waistcoat, but no clothing or accessories obscured a sight of my agile body or deny access to both my cock and my bumhole. A true ‘rooster’ does not just rely upon an impressive cock, though mine is superb, but uses their entire body to entice custom. No whore can ignore the pleasures to be bestowed, and the gratitude to be earned, with a tongue or a complaint bumhole. Women just as happily as men, would send their fist deep inside me. 

The other performers were local village whores, pieces of meat whose sole purpose was to serve as fuck toys for my shaft. I would often ‘roost’ three or four girls in succession for the entertainment of Lady Jessica and her noble associates, leaving each whore panting for breath from the ferocity of my assault. However, I would also offer solo performances, stroking my cock until I shed my seed, my audience in rapt anticipation as I drew closer to my release. Lady Jessica would often instruct the whores to cane my back and buttocks as I pumped my shaft. The strikes would be painful, but a true artist is willing to endure suffering to provide the best possible performance. 

I was privileged to bugger, fuck and pump before some of the highest families in the entire east of England. My gifts were not limited to the ladies of the county, for more than a dozen distinguished members of the House of Peers enjoyed entry into my person. They would visit either with their own feeble portions or with an envious fist. The hands of my distinguished guests were frequent visitors to my bumhole, often leaving me torn and bruised for many days. Lady Jessica, however, would rarely allow me to wallow in indulgent pity and I would soon be performing for her personal enjoyment or to further the name of the Bartholomew family amongst the gentry and nobility of East Anglia. 

I was assigned to the personal service of Lady Jessica, but the impertinent maids of Bartholomew Hall – Flossie, Betsy and Kitty – would often take advantage of my body. Lady Jessica required me to perform many of my leading roles whilst chained, especially when my bumhole was employed for the amusement of others. The apparent degradation of such an exceptional individual as myself provided my admirers with a perverse sense of relief, so I indulged their resentment. The gentry would often retire in the early hours, leaving me still attached to beds, tables or chairs. The maids, tidying after their betters, would often find me in compromising situations and would indulge their own base desires, enjoying such an enormous rod their husbands could never hope to match. Betsy, as I recall, was a particularly fervent abuser of my excellent person. 

Nearly twelve months after I was spied by Lady Jessica bathing in her river I met the lady who would come to steer the course of my life, for both good and ill. A guest, Lord Augustus Coomb – Draxelby, arrived with his ‘rooster’ for the entertainment of his companions. His Lordship’s pet was a rough and swarthy foreigner with scars on his buttocks and thighs along with a shaven head. The cock was impressive, but no match for my magnificence. The august Lord Augustus and Lady Jessica, however, engaged in a droll exchange, with each claiming their respective ‘rooster’ was the finest livestock in the county. 

I was, therefore, summoned, along with my repulsive adversary, to be examined by someone who, Lady Jessica, claimed, was an authority on the subject of male whores. A young woman dressed in a dark blue dress with long gloves of a most fetching shade of light purple carefully studied my proud shaft and ran her hands over my supple body. The study was conducted in silence until she visited my ball sack, when she could not suppress a mild gasp of surprised pleasure. I was delighted to inform the young lady my enormous bag allowed me to discharge abundant measures of seed. The lady was grateful for the news, but she would not require either competitor to undertake an expulsion. She repeated the inspection of the foreigner before proclaiming I was the best whore in the manor. The gazes and the soft caresses of my ball sack I enjoyed from the young noble left me in no doubt she wished to enjoy more than a fleeting joy from my stiff muscle.  

The inferior ‘rooster’ was soundly thrashed by Lord Augustus before I was invited to conclude the admonishment by sending my very large, very thick and very hard cock into his bumhole. As I squatted before the company, sending my shaft deep into my defeated and disgraced rival, listening to his pathetic grunts of pain and humiliation, I knew my life in a rural backwater of west Norfolk was coming to an end. The perplexing guest studied my body as I viciously buggered the foreigner, savouring my vibrant energy.

The following morning I was brought before the young judge for a private session in the glass house. As I readied my cock for a performance amongst Sir Cuthbert’s exotic plants and fruits, the lady introduced herself as Lady Amelia. She asked if I knew her name from either local gossip or the base magazines, which, she assured me, were littered with references to both herself and her ignoble father, Lord Belverdere. The confession of my illiteracy provoked a smile. 

Lady Amelia offered me a place in her carriage, returning that very morning to London. She inferred I would be granted a place in her establishment in the centre of the West End, an area I knew to be heaving with respectable ladies and gentlemen, enjoying both wealth and distinction. Lady Amelia epitomised the polite society most likely to appreciate my special gifts, and I would be given the opportunity to perform before the principal individuals in the land. The greatest city in the world, the capital of the Empire, offered an entire universe of opportunities for someone with my sensational body and the shameless character to exploit every inch of my huge cock. 

We left within an hour, Lady Amelia secreting me inside a large valise travelling on the roof of her carriage. I knew Lady Jessica would be incensed by my decision, but one cannot allow sentiment to obscure a duty to fulfill your destiny, and I knew my fortune lay in the metropolis. The legend of Ulysses Halfayard was about to commence.

Chapter Two
My Brilliant Debut

I arrived in London in the spring of 1890, eager to earn my fortune by taking advantage of my huge cock and my shameless character. A letter of introduction from Lady Amelia led me to a small office overlooking Leicester Square, where I encountered a photographer who captured my splendour in an expensive rooftop apartment in Knightsbridge, one of the most elegant quarters of the city. I was required to display my body in a variety of poses, each one highlighting both my outstanding form and my depraved character.

The images, I later learnt, were circulating before the end of the following day amongst the perverted and debauched privileged elite of the capital. It was the Knightsbridge artist who invented my designation as Ulysses Halfayard, having taken a yardstick to my member and declaring me to possess half a yard of firm and throbbing cock with the body of a Greek god. I knew, and still know, nothing of history or book reading, but I knew the mention of gods was a compliment, though I know nothing of Greek land. I was viewed as a welcome addition to London’s stable of male sex toys, and by the end of my first week I enjoyed a spectacular debut on London’s covert scene.

I was invited for another photographic session, in the cellar of a rather dilapidated townhouse just north of Hyde Park. This collection of images involved a more intense experience, as I was placed in chains and two assistants of either sex, both shrouded in leather masks to conceal their identity, inflicted – or appeared to inflict – cruel and degrading punishments upon my person while the artist secured every disgraceful moment for the stimulation and amusement of others.

I writhed and silently howled for the delight of my viewers, gritting my teeth from the fake agony inflicted upon my strong muscular body as I lay strapped to an examining table. Even at such an early stage in my career as a male whore, I knew many spectators and customers delighted in witnessing my degradation and torture, to see me as a demeaned plaything rather than a superb specimen to be envied by men and desired by both men and women. The only genuine sensation during my encounter was the release of my seed from the energetic, though slightly forceful, fellatio offered by the lady in the mask.

The photographer completed his work with images of seed sprinkled on my chest before I was brought, still naked and sweating from my exertions, into a courtyard. There I found Lady Amelia and a gentlemen, wearing a most distinguished cravat, standing before a highly polished carriage with two grooms and a boxman perched on the rear of the coach, all three servants dressed in bright red livery.

Lady Amelia introduced her companion as Lord Carstairs, outlining his military record battling the Afghans and his family’s extensive holdings in the West Country. I knew little of either international affairs or geography, but I expressed my gratitude for his Lordship protecting the Empress Victoria from her enemies. Lord Carstairs smoked his long and plump cigar as he surveyed my body, allowing himself a few strokes of my cock, still firm from my efforts in the basement. As I was appearing before nobility I commenced a vigorous masturbation, raising my shaft towards a full hard erection and drawing nervous laughter from the lord’s liveried entourage. The young men bearing Lord Carstairs colours were obviously jealous of my magnificent attributes, the half a yard of hard cock glistening in the afternoon sun.

The spirited display was halted by Lady Amelia asking for a bucket of cold water, both to douse my ardour and to alleviate the stench from the past three hours of testing violations at the wooden pins and fists of my partners in vice. I was then honoured to be invited to tour Hyde Park, the most fashionable park on the face of the earth, in the carriage with Lady Amelia and Lord Carstairs, though I remained without clothing for our journey.

Our party was joined at the Notting Hill Gate by a young mistress and a rowdy gentleman, the son of a peer, who was renowned in the salons of the West End, but not in a good way. The young mistress brought into the carriage a common whore of the lowest class she purchased for the day from the brothels lining Shepherd’s Bush Green, a mean area riddled with shopkeepers and office clerks. The whore was a buxom and lithe blonde, with an insatiable lust for violations of her bumhole.

I drove my shaft deep between her buttocks, provoking such raucous howls of pleasure she attracted the attention and the disdain of the respectable families promenading near the Serpentine. The gentleman gambler quietened the young tramp by requiring her to fellate his cock, a decent portion of hard flesh compared to most of the common stock but no match for my huge shaft. The close air, and six persons in one carriage, meant I was soon glowing once more from the energy of my endeavours.

The task of performing in such a confined space with an audience of four notables was a challenge, but a great ‘rooster’ is able to accomplish a robust pounding under the most demanding conditions. I spread my bare feet far apart and pressed my hands against the roof of the carriage to allow me a semblance of balance, so vital if I was to heartily send my shaft deep and hard into the cheap slut panting at the end of my rod.

As I shoved myself into the fuckmeat, Lord Carstairs and the young dilettante discussed my performance, and questioned how any ‘decent’ man could engage in such depraved practices. Lord Carstairs highlighted a lack of religious instruction in elementary schools, though his young companion wondered if I ever spent any time in a school. The young gentlemen suggested a legacy of generations of depravity and poverty brought “this beast” to such a low point, and the young lady contended I might be barely considered human because of my base behaviour and my willingness to engage, devoid of attire, in such wanton lewd practices in the middle of the afternoon in the centre of Hyde Park, the very heart of respectable London.

Lady Amelia finally questioned me on my motives for squatting naked in a carriage buggering a whore. I explained I enjoyed entering young ladies with my “huge cock” and “I wanted wet cunts.” The justified boast regarding my immense shaft brought jealous laughter from the two men, and speculation that idiocy and poverty accounted for my misdeeds.

I pumped the tramp vigorously for more than an hour while we journeyed three times around the park before departing through Notting Hill Gate to head towards Bayswater, where Lord Carstairs was entertaining guests for afternoon tea. We arrived in the grounds of Lord Carstair’s town house and the two ladies were escorted inside by the gentlemen while the whore and I were brought to the rear of the house, out of sight of the general populace, and led straight down into the cellar serving as a dungeon. We were brusquely chained at the wrist and elbows by Lord Carstair’s minions, supervised by a young woman dressed as a maid, yet who exuded the calm and commanding demeanour of a trusted associate of His Lordship.

As the entertainers languished in the cellars, overhead, I heard voices, clinking glasses and polite laughter. There seemed to be a sizable gathering of the very best members of London society in Lord Carstair’s salon, and I knew this was my opportunity to display my talent before a discerning audience. I remained bound, but I was able to stretch my muscles and loosened my frame, to ensure my London debut performance would be undermined by neither shame or a rigid physique.

The maid returned to command the servants to take both naked performers through a labyrinth of passages to a darkened room containing two frames laced with ropes. We were placed into the restraints, the cords drawn taut, and weights added to increase the strain on our supple bodies. The maid toured the room, drawing each rope tighter to heighten our torment, and within minutes I was sweating from the strain inflicted by my bonds. The maid studied my frame, caressing my firm muscular chest and fondling my tight buttocks before enjoyed a prolonged swallow of my erect shaft, now proudly rise to a sensational height between my powerful thighs.

An hour later the guests finally joined us in the room Lord Carstairs chose to introduce as his ‘pleasure palace’. We were presented as his ‘pleasure toys’ to be used and abused as his guests desired. A small crowd gathered around my frame, some bewildered and others gazing upon my huge cock and my tremendous body with lustful intent. I was questioned on my background and my motives and I replied by offering to provide a most rigorous shafting for any guest. I attempted to underline my willingness to please with a few pelvic thrusts, but I was only able to present a modest movement of my hips. However, I was able to demonstrate my subservient, depraved and shameless nature, essential traits for any ‘rooster’ amongst polite company. Lord Carstair’s mansion was an excellent market place for me to display my wares to wealthy and appreciative customers.

I was eventually removed from my bonds along with the other captive who pretended to struggle with her captors as she was hauled to the centre of the room to be chained by the neck to a ring set into the floorboards. Clearly, I was working with another consummate professional, for the ample blonde struggling like a shy maiden howled with pleasure only hours before when I vehemently delved her bumhole. The head so close to the ground enabled me to enter her expansive opening with minimal resistance.

This was my moment, my chance to impress the distinguished, wealthy and sophisticated audience, and I unleashed such a relentless pounding upon the blonde whore some of the audience retreated a step. I offer no apology for the brutal violation inflicted upon my partner, who was no more than two holes to be savaged for the entertainment of refined ladies and eminent gentlemen. My arms remained bound, yet I continued to pump myself deep into my partner, the audience growing with every passing minute of furious thrusts.

I do not recall how long I dwelt, squatting behind the captive sex slave, but I was drenched in sweat as I was finally removed from the whore to allow the audience a clear sight of my wet shaft. As I stood naked and bound before the dignitaries, I knew they were all admiring my stupendous body and my outstanding performance in buggering the slave until she fainted from the ordeal.

I commenced a tour of the chamber, presenting my huge cock to the ladies, and my hard muscle was examined, touched, caressed, licked and stroked by the entire female nobility. The demonstration was accompanied by graphic accounts of my sexual exploits decorated with powerful pelvic thrusts which earned me strokes from the maid’s cane, but also appreciative glances from many of the respectable women.

I was promptly auctioned and sold for the remainder of the day to a mature duchess, spending the next four hours satisfying the widow in every possible way, and she knew so many practices to defile and abuse a tethered and compliant man. At the end of our excursion into the depths of human depravity I returned to Lady Amelia’s town house where I was finally released from my bonds, washed and sent to bed. My brilliant debut, my spectacular arrival in London society, was over. My new life a Victorian whore legend was truly about to begin.

To be continued...

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