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By *rgeo OP Man
4 weeks ago
WOLVERHAMPTON |
He did it wherever and whenever he could. He did it morning, noon and night, only stopping at midnight when he finally came in an old tin pail which he kept by the side of his bed. Every Sunday he emptied the pail and washed it out, ready for the week ahead. How he kept it going all day was a marvel to the villagers. Some of the men who saw him at it would themselves get aroused by the sight of it. They would have to go off into the bushes to relieve themselves. There was nothing else they could do.
At first, some of the womenfolk felt scandalised by it, but after a few weeks they got used to seeing him in the park, at the bus-stop, in the library, outside the chemist’s, even sometimes in the church. It became a local eccentricity, something that people would travel for quite a few miles to see. The name Sir Wankalot eventually landed on him but his birth name was Simon.
It was the king’s fault. Simon had saved the king’s life, quite by accident, when the king was out hunting one day. He had rewarded Simon with a wish for anything he wanted. And Simon wanted to masturbate whenever and wherever he felt like it. It was a simple wish and the king granted it freely. Indeed, a royal proclamation was made - Proclamatus Masturbatus it was called - which meant Simon had the right to masturbate in public until the end of his life. Anyone else who tried to do the same would be locked up. It carried a jail term of six months.
What Simon did with the semen he collected each week in his pail was a mystery that very nearly never got solved. No-one really knew about his domestic life anyway. He lived alone and had never had a girlfriend or a boyfriend. Intellectually, he was very sharp. He could quote people like Schopenhauer and Sartre. He even wrote a book, between strokes, on the linguistic revolutions in philosophy initiated by Wittgenstein. Simon even had new things to say about it, adding to the canon.
Apparently, he would awake each morning at dawn with a firm erection and start to play with himself until dusk, managing to negotiate daily tasks like eating and washing with clever little tricks. He ate American-style, with just a fork. Only reading gave him real difficulty, as he needed one hand to hold the book and the other to turn the pages. The library destroyed all the books he borrowed on their return. He was a voracious reader and this cost the council a small fortune.
One day, he dropped dead, his heart giving out before the organ that people most expected to fail him. He was forty-one years old. When they tidied his affairs at home, they found his pail almost half full of spunk. The volume of his load each day really was amazing. It was a Saturday that he died. The following morning, a man arrived at his house, knocking tentatively. He told the people who were still clearing up in Simon’s house that he had come for his weekly bath. Everyone looked blankly at him. After he had explained that he journeyed over from Tissington each Sunday to bathe in Simon’s cum, people realised what happened to the contents of the pail. This man was then known as Sir Cumalot though his birth name was Colin.
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