Knights of the Teorsas

Knights of the Teorsas It does not do to speak mockingly of erections. By Drmaxc. Listen to the Podcast at Steamy Stories. "Men and their erections," "Men and their erections," Tacey laughed shrilly, "if you could harness them you'd solve the energy crisis. Forget the unpredictability of wind power, their erections rise and fall come sun, come rain, come snow; if you could only capture the energy of all those millions of cocks..." The girls giggled and laughed loudly in their gaggle at the bar. They had drunk too much and were being disrespectful of men. Jonathan did not like it, he expected women to speak of such things, the male sexual organ, in hushed, slightly awed tones: not make silly jokes as if, he paused and took a breath, a 'Teors' was something to laugh about. He used the Old English deliberately. To have used a slang term — a 'cock' as the girl had done, a 'willy' or the like would have been wrong. He gripped his glass; something would need to be done. Entering the subterranean halls of the Knights of the Teorsas always gave Jonathan a particular thrill. Unknown to virtually the whole population of London it was a closely guarded secret, not even disclosed to the authorities. All they knew about was the insignificant little house in a backstreet of Covent Garden and it was to that house that the bills for electricity and the like came. It was an unremarkable house that held a remarkable secret as it gave access, through its cellar, to the ancient home of the Knights, the Great Phallocrypt, a network of rooms, halls and passages built in stone many, many, many years ago. Jonathan was much more than an initiate, a Raphe, more than a mere knight but a man who had crossed the Fraenum, the narrow bridge between the Corpus Cavernosum, the great hall where the knights assembled in their pomp, and the grand domed meeting hall of the inner circle, the Corona, who ruled the order. Jonathan was himself a member of the Corona, albeit its most junior having only been erected to the position a bare month before. He had, by virtue of his status, access to the Grand Master of the Order, the Bacalum, and could speak to him as of right. Dressed in his ceremonial robes, the gold badge of the erect phallus woven in gold thread into the red material, Jonathan strode through the Corpus Cavernosum nodding to knights he met but there was no time to pause and engage in intercourse, he had urgent business, a matter of grave importance to report to the Bacalum himself. Crossing the bridge of the Fraenum still gave him a thrill. How many of the knights achieved that? Such a singular honour; he had been speechless for a full minute when he had been told to prepare himself. How many would ever wear the third gold band around their teors? How many of them were ever able to do the thing he was about to do? To raise the great brass phallic knocker and tap three times on the oaken door of the Lacuna Magna, the Grand Master's private office? As always, the Bacalum was dressed in his ancient robes, beautifully decorated with representations of the ancient Roman god, Priapus, and with his great red curving penile hat making him look so much taller than he actually was. A trick long realised by the designers of uniforms; whether the bearskins of the Guards, the Shako of yesteryear or, indeed, the 'tit' of the London bobby. Shaking his grey head wisely he listened as Jonathan described what he had heard only the night before. "It will not do, it will not do." The Baculum's words of wisdom enervated Jonathan. "I seek permission to use, to wield, the Great Mesmodildo." The words were out; Jonathan had made the request, an act of considerable presumption in one so junior. There was a sharp intake of breath, the great phallic hat jerked upwards, and the penetrating eyes of the Grand Master seemed to bore right into Jonathan. There was a pause, "It will do." They sat for a few moments in contemplation. On the walls were artists' impressions of wonderful buildings not built. Designs by some of the leading architects of their day for skyscrapers intended to be the tallest buildings in the world in their time, all unmistakeably phallic, as skyscrapers are, but not simply because they were structures pointed at the sky but true erections designed to look like erections, buildings particularly phallic in design. Unrealised plans by Mies Van de Rohe, Frank Lloyd Wright, Colonel Seifert and most recently Sir Norman Foster. Designs the Order had not been able to find sufficient backers to fund; statements to the world not yet realised; buildings intended to awe and strike a proper respectfulness, an understanding of their place in the world, in womankind. The Grand Master rose, drawing his robes around him and walked to a cupboard; opening its black ebonised door he drew out something about a foot long and wrapped in a cloth; with both hands he presented it to Jonathan who, standing, accepted it with a bow. "I shall take the greatest ...