Knights of the Teorsas
By Maximilian Cummings
“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 care, Grand Master.”
“Do.”
Walking slowly back down the Corpus Cavernosa, Jonathan mused on the wise words of the Bacalum and upon his mission. Tucked into his robes was the ancient object—it would not do for the knights to see that which he had been entrusted or to know it was amongst them.
Shedding his ceremonial robes in the outermost halls, where the putative knights, the Raphes, met and took instruction in their twin, wonderfully spherical, meeting rooms, Jonathan ascended back into a rainy, wet London morning; the ancient object tucked in his duffle bag along with his laptop and sandwiches. He had his job in the world outside the Order which he must attend to from 9am to 5pm but then he would commence his mission.
It was one thing to hold the Mesmodildo but another to set up the opportunity to use it. Jonathan neither knew where Tacey lived nor worked. He did not actually know her name. His only knowledge was that she sometimes frequented: rather had at least once frequented, the bar where he had heard her disrespectful statement. He should have found out more about her at the time; he realised that now—it would have been better to have gathered more evidence before reporting to the Bacalum—but he had been so incensed, so overcome that he had rushed ahead without careful reflection and contemplation. He would meditate upon it later that evening.
Meditation was important to the Order. Sitting cross-legged on a mat woven with ancient designs, a knight would sit in contemplation of his teors until turgidity ensued, that First Wonder of the teors; his thoughts would roam free as he sought to better understand himself, resolve his problems and focus on the baseness of his desires whilst seeking to raise the Primo Cumum, that first flowing of the teors so aptly described as its Second Wonder; lastly came the conclusion of the ritual, the ultimate goal of the meditation—the full flowing of the teors, the Ejaculum, a sight wonderful to behold—when the teors of its own volition would spew forth its seed. Putative knights worked hard at achieving this, many sitting for hours trying to create in their heads the necessary images; erotic images necessarily to achieve the apparently spontaneous Ejaculum.
At first, and Jonathan had to admit he was as one with them, putative knights would use the Manualum or hand to achieve the necessary final stimulation; but he had achieved so much more – the result of hard work and dedication. Often appropriate texts or images were used, spread before the knight or novice to assist in his meditation. The Library of the Order, the Curiosa, contained many volumes and meditational material.
Traditionally the knight would bow his head and orally accept the bounty of the Ejaculum. Ancient manuscripts, some written in Latin, some Sanskrit testified to this and the beautiful coloured illustrations showed no less. A variant much favoured in the modern Corona, and therefore too the Corpus Cavernosa, was the Art of Felicitation, requiring extensive practice, much suppleness of the body and, Jonathan admitted, a long teors. He, himself, had only managed the briefest of Teorsic Kiss at the moment of Ejaculum but the Bacalum and a few others of the Corona, knights of great experience, could hold the rounded terminus of their teors orally at the moment of the Third Wonder, an ideal act permitting the recycling of the seed so not one drop was lost to the body.
Jonathan was lucky, very lucky. Inevitably he had returned to the very bar of Tacey’s misdeed as the only reference point he had in relation to her; had sat there nursing a beer and wondering if he would have to use the power of the Mesmodildo on the very pretty bar girl who had, he recalled, been there on the previous night. Perhaps she would know about the disrespectful girl; know who she was and where she lived—and her name. The entrance of Tacey saved the need. It was a relief to Jonathan—the pretty bar girl with the large breasts might not have known anything about the disrespectful girl and left him with no obvious lead in his quest; it also saved the seed he might well have lost to her in the course of extracting the information; she was, after all, very pretty and perhaps worthy of the honour.
Tacey moved across the room and sat on a bar stool, her long legs crossed one over the other drawing up the material of her trouser leg revealing a particularly fine pair of high heeled shoes—clearly new by the sight of the soles and undoubtedly expensive.
Not for the first time Jonathan wondered both at the impudence and the illogicality of women. There sat the girl in a suit of clothes but with trousers not a skirt. Trousers were a male prerogative and unsuited to women; they were for men. A skirt would have shown her new shoes off but instead they were largely hidden by the trousers. What was the sense in buying shoes to be noticed and then wearing trousers? There was no logic. The girl would look better without the trousers. In his mind he imagined the girl naked but for the shoes; it was an appropriate image he would use for meditation later. He looked down at his own sensible, solid black shoes largely hidden by his own trousers—and that was perhaps just as well. He mentally gave himself a note to polish them in the morning—it was a task he tended to overlook though it would not do to keep the dome of his teors unpolished.
A further shock came to Jonathan; instead of a white wine spritzer or some expensive but brightly coloured vodka concoction in a pretty bottle, the girl had ordered beer: not just a half but a whole pint. She was drinking beer from a pint glass! Had she no shame?
Jonathan got up and walked across to her, “I have something to show you,” he said without introduction and in a deep impressive voice.
Tacey looked Jonathan up and down for a moment and then burst into laughter, “Ooh, you little pervert, you!” She seemed to find the whole scene very funny indeed. Jonathan was affronted. What had he said?
“Well, what do you want? Who are you?” She said.
It was not going well; it should be he who was asking the questions. As the Bacalum had wisely said, “it would not do.” Slowly he drew from his duffle bag an object wrapped in a cloth. “I have this to show you,” Jonathan said mysteriously, drawing the cloth down the object a little way.
Tacey had never seen the like. It was a pearl, a great creamy, misty pearl; far, far bigger than any she had seen before; a pearl far bigger than the cultivated pearls of her best necklace; a pearl far bigger than the one Great Aunt Agatha used to wear when she, Tacey, was little and had so fascinated her on visits. Within it, great streamy swirls of creamy clouds seemed to move, captivating her, capturing her eye; she found it difficult to look away from the pearl, to stop watching the moving clouds of cream that appeared to roll around the jewel.
Gradually Jonathan drew down the material covering the object and whilst her eyes could not leave the pearl she could see it was mounted on gold, indeed atop a golden acorn... or was it an acorn? As the material rolled back Tacey realised it was not so much an acorn as the bulbous end to a golden penis—a golden erect penis in exquisite detail surmounted by a great pearl; a pearl representing, quite clearly to her eye now, the bubbling up of semen or rather, what did they call it, yes, it was the ‘pre-cum.’ She was both shocked and fascinated; her eyes could not draw away and leave the pearl with its swirls of milky cream. Her mind was being taken.
Jonathan watched Tacey’s reaction; it was how it should be, no woman could resist the Great Mesmodildo, their pretty eyes were drawn to the pearl like moths to a candle and next would come the longing, a certain dryness of the mouth, an increasing need for something they could not quite place—it was no less than the desire for the milk of a man, a teosic longing in their loins. Jonathan had no need to completely un-sheathe the artefact, to reveal its shining golden glory, merely sliding back the material to expose the bulbous head was sufficient
Tracey’s tongue moved slowly across her lips; they felt dry.
“Shall we sit over there, somewhere more private?” Jonathan sheathed the Mesmodildo. He had taken command of the situation.
Tacey took a large swig of beer to ease the sudden dryness in her throat and followed him without question.
Once again Jonathan eased back the covering revealing the golden head mounted with its strange pearl. Tacey stared; images of ejaculating penises came flooding into her mind and the thought of taking the head of this gold penis into her mouth, stroking it with her tongue, feeling the sensual smoothness of the pearl—smooth, yes smooth like... like... semen. Her nipples pricked at the material of her bra, they felt as hard as iron—or, indeed, the gold of the strange penis before her. Within her panties, the new purple pair her especial friend, Diane, had bought her, she was flowing. Already the material felt soaked as if newly from the wash; it would seep into her trousers—an embarrassing wet stain.
“May I, may I please suck it,” she asked in a small, little girl’s voice.
Jonathan smiled to himself. It was more like pleading. How easy these women were taken, how powerful the Mesmodildo, how easily their minds were beaten and taken and their lust aroused. In a moment she would be pleading with him to let her suck his teors, desperate to take his seed and feel it slipping down her throat. But now was not the time and not just because they were in a public bar.
The bar actually was empty but for the pretty bar girl and the Mesmodildo would handle her easily. Jonathan looked again at her and thought that perhaps another time, if he had not returned the Mesmodildo, he would like to use the artefact upon her and see her kneeling before him.
“You may,” he replied and held it for her, still wrapped, with just the very end, the beautifully rounded head showing, and watched as she made the proper rounded shape with her mouth, the Teoric Circle, that women must make, before bowing her head down and absorbing the smooth gold head. He could imagine within her mouth the rapid flicking tongue; all women did this; the tip caressing the smoothness of the pearl imagining it a continuous spurt of male milk to assuage their desperate thirst.
Gently he pulled, extracting the Mesmodildo. He liked the need to pull a little to overcome the natural suction of the girl wishing to retain the object. It was a pleasant resistance.
Tacey looked up at him, her eyes wide and doe like, her mouth still in the shape of the Teorsic Circle ready for the Mesmodildo, his own teors or, indeed, any other teors. It was a temptation. So very pleasant to have been able to disrobe, but not there, and place his own teors in this girl’s mouth; feel her tongue seeking the milk, trying to enter the very end of his teors; feeling the Second Wonder rising and watching, as his teors rested on her tongue, the small first clear drop of the Teorsic Fluid seep and run down from the acorn head; the sudden stiffening as the tongue tasted and induced a frenzy of sucking.
From the bar the other girl stared. What had that man offered the girl to eat and why did her face now hold the expression of some plastic inflatable sex doll?
“Come,” he said—and she almost did—the feeling of arousal was so strong, but he meant for her to follow.
It was but a short taxi ride; though Tacey would remember nothing of it nor walking into a small building and down some steps—the stone steps to the Great Phallocrypt, Jonathan leading her by the hand.
It might have been thought that no women would have been permitted to enter the ancient halls of the Order. Certainly they could not be of the Order, being mere women and lacking teorsas though it was said in times past there had been exceptions; women who would rather have been men; women with slim boyish hips and small breasts who had worn cunningly made simulated, pseudo-teorsas and had been more than happy to join in the male rituals sometimes made upon and with other members of their sex. This, though, was most certainly not permitted by the current and recent Bacala.
It was possible, though, for women to be brought for judgement, correction or punishment: but not for pleasure. It should not be thought the Order was in any way a society for ‘randy’ old men to enjoy countless women in a social way, a sort of ‘Hellfire Club’ or opportunity for hedonistic orgiastic activity. The Order’s purposes were profound, mysterious and extremely serious. Any sexual gratification was a by-product, almost an accident: though to achieve the First, Second and Third Wonders of the Teors erotic thoughts a plenty were needed and sexual activity was something the knights were required to undertake regularly and in a brotherly fashion. The Wonders of the Teors, after all, had their root in sexual activity.
It was appropriate for Jonathan to undress Tacey. It would not do for her to be presented to the Knights in clothes from the city above, least of all in that so wrong trouser suit. She needed to be modestly clad in a simple cream linen shift, a shapeless garment hiding her womanly attributes from the knights. First, though, she needed to be ritually washed; like the undressing it was a task Jonathan would need to undertake and it was a task he did not shirk. There were no female attendants in the Phallocrypt to assist female ‘visitors’ and, as Tacey was his charge, Jonathan would need to perform the ceremony. He led her into a side chamber, stone vaulted and with a stone bath sunken into the floor. The water splashed into the bath and Jonathan added scents of sandalwood, carbolic and spice.
Firstly Jonathan undressed, glad to be free of his workaday clothes ready to dress in the wonderful robes of the Order; it was better for him to be naked whilst bathing Tacey as it would not do to wet his robes. Tacey stood motionless in her trouser suit, still with the Teorsic Circle fixed to her face but her eyes betrayed intelligence behind her fixed expression. It was right for her to be conscious, she now needed to remember the lessons she would be taught. He knew her eyes would be staring at his teors, she could not help it and it was right for women to focus on the teors, to think about its beauty and power. Generously, as he began to take off Tacey’s jacket he permitted his teors to rise to help give her focus and bring her back from her Mesmodildo induced trance. His penis swayed magnificently and he paused to watch it in one of the many mirrors of the bath house. Inevitably she would compare it to her own biologically comparable but so much inferior organ, the Clitoris. Almost unnoticeable in some women, a mere pimple in others but for some there was an element of size, a proto-teors but, obviously, none could stand comparison with the Teors. The Bacalum was most particular and expected the size of the erect clitoris to be established and recorded. He thought it important. Jonathan was skilled in this and had a Clitometer ready.
Jonathan fumbled at Tacey’s bra strap. He always had difficulty with these and then pulled down her panties. Jonathan took a step back and frowned, staring at the naked girl and particularly her pudenda. Her pubic hair had been shaved into a long vertical band rising up with her Cleft of Venus. To Jonathan the upright band had an inappropriate element of the Teors about it, a column of dark curly hair standing vertically up her pubis—did it not represent a Teors—that great column of the male? Why even the top of the column, below her navel seemed rounded. Was this sign of her further disrespect or quite the opposite, a mark of respect? Jonathan did not know. He was torn between seeking out the Bacalum and asking, but thereby displaying ignorance, or leaving be, but that seemed indecisive. Perhaps it would be best for Tacey if he assumed the worse and shaved off the offending symbol leaving her pudenda naked of hair. The Bacalum, he knew, preferred girls like that—innocent and pure was Jonathan’s understanding of his reasons.
Leading Tacey by the hand into the water Jonathan picked up the soap and began to lather Tacey’s skin. It was not an unpleasant task feeling his hands sliding over her smooth young skin, leaving no place uncleansed, but taking especial trouble over the ritualistic four parts of the woman’s body which required greatest care—the nipples, the bottom and the pudenda. A full minute being allotted to each in the proper order. First the left nipple, then the right, followed by the bottom and lastly the pudenda. Jonathan looked into Tacey’s eyes and saw considerable surprise as his right index finger, liberally coated in soap, slipped up her bottom. It was appropriate. A woman should be surprised at the unexpected acts of a man.
Finally Jonathan washed Tacey’s hair, lathering it enthusiastically as he stood and she knelt in the bath in the proper position a woman should take when a man is shampooing her hair. Equally properly Jonathan placed his teors between Tacey’s lips, still in the Teorsic Circle, and pushed. A woman should always suck the man’s teors when he is washing her hair. It was clearly shown in the old manuscripts. Tacey reacted rather dopily but instinctively seeking the Teorsic Fluid. It was not, though, appropriate yet.
The full minute spent soapily washing, shaving and examining Tracey’s pudenda also ensured, had the Mesmodildo not done its arousing work, the clitoris was fully erect. Drying Tacey with towels he had her lie down and open her legs wide, giving him not only full access but a full view of her sex. He readied his instrument, his Clitometer, adjusting the wheels and shiny metal dividers to measure both circumference and length. The cold metal touched Tacey’s sensitive button and she winced slightly. “Why?” she said in a slightly slurred voice. Her faculties were returning.
“Because it is necessary.” He was being kind. It was not necessary to answer a woman’s questions or even to listen to her.
The last part of the preparation now needed to be undertaken. Jonathan brought Tacey to a curved marble saddle surmounted by a gorgeous golden teors. Of realistic size; unlike many of the beautiful representations in the halls; not too large because this had to fit all women; and more stylistic in design than many more faithful depictions. It was in an art nouveau style which so fitted the curving nature of the teors and the artist had taken liberty with his depiction of the glans which swept unusually far down the shaft giving a particularly streamlined look. A beautiful object which would give any women great pleasure to mount. Carefully he sat Tacey astride ensuring she lowered herself so the teors pushed up inside her. Instinctively, as before, Tacey began to ride the teors. Jonathan smiled a little in pity. Women had such a need for and such a longing to steal the Teorsic Fluid. They could not help themselves.
Jonathan depressed a lever and Tacey betrayed surprise. It was not Teorsic Fluid but a sweet Almond oil that was being injected by the golden teors into her as she rode. A cunning contraption pumped out the oil in carefully regulated spurts mimicking the Third Wonder but in a profusion only the most adept knights were able to achieve—and the truth was that Jonathan was not one of them; much to his chagrin. He was, though, working at raising his TFL, performing the exercises at morning and night. He carefully recorded the outcome in a spreadsheet stored on his laptop and the chart did show a rising trend. (TFL = Teorsic Fluid Level).
The purpose of the Almond ejaculation was not the pleasure of the women, or deceiving her she had taken Teorsic Fluid, but to prepare her. In Tacey’s case the Mesmodildo had caused her to literally drip but the liberal amount of Almond oil being pumped into her would ensure ease of teorsic insertion and a most appropriate sheen of oily lubrication running down the inside of her thighs. The Order expected not just the substance but the appearance of things and it was so very important for a woman appearing before the massed knights not only to be massively aroused by the honour shown but to visibly demonstrate it as well.
Prepared, Jonathan dressed Tacey in the linen shift and finished his own ritual. Washed, he merely needed to don the badges of his rank and his robes. At the very base of his teorsic shaft, indeed clasping it tightly behind his scrotum, he tied, with leather thongs, a thin leather belt encircling the shaft forcing the scrotum forwards and the testes into greater prominence. It was the first symbol of a member of the Order and many wore it ordinarily under their street clothes.
From a small red leather box Jonathon drew out three intricately engraved gold rings, rings prepared by the Order’s goldsmith—a member himself. The first ring for a raphe, the second for a knight and the third ring for a member of the Corona. Jonathan had not possessed the third ring for long, indeed had only recently been erected to the Corona, and was only just getting used to wearing it tightly and impressively below his glans. Lifting his now unerect teors by the prepuce, with an ease gained by long practice Jonathan slipped the first, second and then third ring down the shaft and willed the First Wonder. His teors rose proudly, the flesh expanding into the rings so they were held tightly in their allotted positions as if the shaft was bound in gold. His teors looked magnificent in the mirror; Jonathan admired himself turning to the right and left as if trying on a new suit of clothes; it was big, knurled by veins, beautifully banded in gold and surmounted by the shiny purple head with its eye of mystery. It never ceased to impress him.
Only the Bacalum wore the fifth symbol, a gold, bejewelled hat or helmet sitting atop his teors-head.
Pulling on his great red robe Jonathan was prepared and led Tacey out into the great hall of the knights, the Corpus Cavernosum. The Knights of the Teorsas were assembled and waiting.