Date: Fri, 05 Feb 2021 15:10:01 +0000 From: 29Oct <29Oct@protonmail.com> Subject: The Auld Hebeen (Revised) The Auld Hebeen The following text is fiction. Fiction describes activities happening between imagination and a keyboard, not in real life. Nothing below is intended to encourage unsafe, illegal or violent liaisons. Quick fable about self-promotion of the oral kind. (Shebeen: an unlicensed house or shed where liquor is sold; an informal bar.) The Auld Hebeen In days of yore, in lands where kilts were common, there was a small tavern where men of a certain kind gathered to enjoy the results of fermentation. Small, dark, lit by only candles, it stood apart from the hamlet. The Auld Hebeen, it was called as there were no "she" drinkers allowed though there were a few who held secrets under their tartans and spoke in lilting voices. A paunchy man came for mead in this gentleman's establishment. Balding and past his middle years, he sought the sociability offered there. The size of his paunch took second place to the grandness of the man's sexually colorful exploits, per his explanations. He blew hard and long every time he came into the hebeen, expounded for hours on his nut cannon's amazing victories. Other drinkers stared, unsure if the man's tales were truthful. "My only requirements are warm and walking." He'd then begin to elaborate incredible numbers of family, friends and strangers who, he said, lunged for his miraculous member. "There's plenty of me to go around, heh, heh. Hard for days, that's me." The paunchy bloke told of imbibing a warlock's concoctions allowing him to fuck endlessly. Told of children who begged and pleaded for more of his jimmy. "Why I've even had the pope's son, after I deflowered his daughter in front of the altar." Through the months, his stories grew more preposterous, saying the prime minister and all the highest-ranking generals were among his scores. "Why, I'm heaven's gift to the orifices of all mankind," he twaddled on. Still, he left the bar alone. In an effort to stir greater interest, the paunchy old man began to announce names of royalty and political whores who said they've never had a shagging as satisfying as his. That only brought more disregard among those within earshot--everyone knew the royalty was disease-ridden. Time passed and the old rake couldn't even maintain the attention of the most habitual of the sots. So, he told of screwing the least likely, the innocent, the persons born with anomalies, taming the most brutish with his prick thinking this would motivate interest in his studliness. Nothing could deter his dedication to ejaculate as often as a red hen clucks, so he said. As indoor plumbing of the time consisted of a bucket in a closet, the old paunch followed a quiet young man who was in need of quick relief in the pot. Both pulled out their cocks, began pissing away their first pints of ale. "My boy, you need to know a proper fucking by which to measure all the coming men in your life. I'll fill your ass thrice before dawn." The paunch stood, holding his average-sized tool awaiting his stream to release. The younger man chuckled, holding his smooth, ivory piston, "You blow a gale trying to make us think you're great, yet all animals reproduce. You're nothing special." The hissing and splash continued. "Do I hear doubt? My expertise'll knock your taws off." The paunch replied. "Sir, with respect to your age and nothing else, haven't you noticed?" "Noticed what?" His hand moved toward the young man's penis, but was slapped away. "A good lover doesn't need to tout his skills; his partners do that for him. And the best lovers we never hear of, his lovers keep him to themselves. You're a loud old fool. Perhaps the mute man who begs on the corner will have you. He hasn't had to tolerate the flatus of your falsehoods." He glanced down at the paunch's dick, "Good luck." As dullards are wont to say when a situation becomes complex, "You bore me." Stroking along his heavy shank, the young man replied, "You've bored so many for so long in this hebeen, the joke is that your shit-slinging skills are greater than anything below your belt. I imagine the two or three you've laid in your lifetime were snoring in their sheep pen before you seeded them." "How dare you!" The paunch was at a loss in his defense. "It's not the cock that makes the man nor any coital escapades. It's about respect." The young man held his stream. "Never have I slighted anyone in this alehouse." "I speak of self-respect." To underscore his words the young man left his last drops of urine on the old man's shoes. If you enjoyed this, make a donation: https://donate.nifty.org/