Life was always going to be difficult. The fact that I started it by being called Pick did me no favours at all. Faced with the prospect of having to name a sixth son, my parents were at a loss to choose. They took this indecision to the christening. When asked during the ceremony to give my name, they left the choice to the vicar. In unison they said ‘Pick’. Thus I became known. Sadly both parents, as well as all my brothers, succumbed at an early age. As if the disadvantages of being an orphan were not enough, I soon learned that an additional problem presented itself. It might have had something to do with being the last of a long line of sons.
The sad fact was that I was not generously endowed in a place where I could have expected a growing asset in later years. In fact I was hardly endowed at all. It was a matter that did not escape the attention of my school friends. I soon acquired the derogatory title of ‘Pick–Pick the Puny Prick’ amongst the boys. Even the girls giggled, although at that early stage in my life I’d not presented them with anything to giggle about.
That came later.
If my austere life with my elder sister and her husband offered little save bed and board, at least it was untroubled.
We were simple folk. My sister’s husband, Joe Forgery, was a man of rude health and easy nature. Sadly this was not matched by his wife, a
woman of sallow complexion and sour disposition.
Sisterly love came not easily to my nearest relative. Indeed she berated me continually for slovenliness and laziness, and just about every other sin she could lay a sharp tongue to.
With Joe’s connivance I would often escape her critical gaze and lizard tongue. Laden with sufficient food to last me through the day, I would venture off across the marshes to that churchyard where the less troublesome members of my family lay.
It was on one such expedition that I experienced a frightening encounter, one which was to change my whole life. Early that morning we heard the warning gun. It’s fired from the old prison hulk anchored out on the river to alert the local populace that a prisoner has escaped. Since we had never encountered an escaping convict, the warning was largely ignored. The path to the churchyard was clothed in a damp mist, as were the surrounding fields. The church spire appeared and disappeared as it cut holes in the enveloping fog.
I pulled open the churchyard gate. There was an eerie silence – no bird calls.
I had barely settled myself when quite suddenly a huge figure rose from behind a gravestone. I froze, rooted to the spot.
‘Come here lad.’ The man said.
His voice carried the sort of hoarse insistence that escaped convicts develop when they sit for hours on damp gravestones, waiting to frighten unsuspecting small boys.
He looked large and menacing against the misty backdrop.
For the time it took him to take a step towards me, it proved sufficient to allow me to collect my scattered wits.
Sod this, I thought, then legged it. In my haste to put distance between myself and the graveyard monster, I dropped my sandwiches.
At the gate I paused long enough to turn and see the convict pick up my sandwiches and begin to eat. I gave myself one quick moment of regret. I wished I’d brought one of my sister’s pork pies. You could fell an ox at twenty paces with one of those.
If I thought I’d seen the last of the convict, I was much mistaken. Not long after our encounter he was captured. He arrived at the forge under escort to have his shackles replaced.
I stood with Joe in his blacksmith’s shop as they brought the prisoner in. He recognised me at once. In the half light, wedged between two guards, he looked less than menacing.
He gazed at me intently for a moment. Then, cocking his head to one side, he closed one eye.
‘Aah, Jim lad,’ he said. I held up my hand.
‘No, No, No,’ I told him. ‘That’s Treasure Island.’
He stood puzzled. A slow look of comprehension flooded his grizzled visage.
After that he spoke like a convict.
Mugwatch, for such was the convict’s name, had escaped because he had been destined to go on safari. Seemingly he preferred to stay on the stinking, rat- infested prison hulk with his mates.
‘What’s to become of him?’ Joe asked.
One guard sucked his teeth. ‘Probably be sent to the colonies.’
‘What colonies?’ I enquired. ‘Australia, like as not.’
Even my sister showed some compassion. ‘Ooh, the heat.’ She said
‘Ooh, the flies,’ put in Joe.
‘And Neighbours,’ The guard offered malevolently.
Mugwatch blanched at the prospect of the latter. Yet with true British phlegm he squared his shoulders. The firm look of resolve did him much credit.
The doomed man once again turned his attention to me. ‘Don’t you worry about me, Pick lad.’ By now he’d
learned my name. ‘One day I’ll make you a gentleman, you wait and see.’ Then they marched him off.
The episode passed from my memory as the years tumbled one upon another.
It seemed that almost without warning I was a young man.
The sap was beginning to rise. I was spreading in all places save one. For as my body grew larger so my appendage seemed to dwindle, almost to obscurity.
School was long finished and I was serving my apprenticeship with Joe. Life carried along at an easy pace. One day a visiting uncle brought a curious invitation.
A certain Miss Faversham had expressed an interest in me. Who was Miss Faversham? I didn’t know her from Adam. Well, perhaps I’d know her from Adam, but why should she want to see me? Clearly the best way to find out was to visit. So I found myself, some days later, standing outside a huge mausoleum of a place. Mrs Faversham was obviously not short of a bob or two.
I rang the bell. That such a dismal place should hide such a ravishing beauty took me completely by surprise. For the young lady that came to answer my call was as sweet and innocent-looking a maid as a young lad had ever the good fortune to set eyes upon.
Sadly her tone did not match her looks.
‘What do you want, boy?’ she asked in a voice that could have cut plate steel.
‘I’ve come to see Miss Faversham.’ ‘Are you the boy Pick?’
‘I am.’
‘Then follow me.’
Follow her. Indeed I would – to the ends of the earth if need be. For inasmuch as I didn’t know a lot about girls, this one was very tasty.
Just looking at her made my pulse race. I felt an unfamiliar stirring in my loins. I suffered a brief moment of apprehension. Had my inner desire transferred itself to a visible swelling in such tight trousers? I glanced down. Nothing showed.
The house of Miss Faversham left me with no lasting good impression. On the contrary it was full of dust and cobwebs. It looked as if it could do with a good hoovering.
As for the good lady herself, she presented as much of a health hazard as anything I’d yet experienced.
For all that, at least this and subsequent visits afforded me the opportunity to spend time with the object of my worship: Stella.
She gave me no encouragement at all, not to start with. She seemed to like to bully me. Not only was this matter brought to a head very swiftly, but it cemented a bond between us that was to remain.
It was this way. She had been tormenting me, when without warning she smacked my face.
‘Why don’t you cry, boy?’ Stella asked. ‘No,’ I told her.
She smacked my face again. ‘Now cry,’ she ordered.
I refused; she smacked me again. This time I smacked her back. We both cried. Then suddenly we were in each others arms. My lips sought hers in a warm passionate embrace.
She devoured my darting tongue. I could feel the need bubbling up inside both of us. My hands covered her pliant body in haste. I could now sense her hunger. I wanted to divest her of those impossible layers of clothes with all speed.
Stella answered each caress with provocative movements of her body. I stroked each breast in turn while I sought desperately to find a way of releasing those magnificent orbs.
Again she arched her body provocatively. Her breasts thrust out further demanding attention. She became aware of my frustration.
‘Do you like my breasts?’ ‘They’re lovely.’
‘Would you like one?’ ‘Where would I put it?’
‘Not to keep, you stupid boy – to play with.’ She could tell that I wasn’t very experienced.
Yet her sharpness melted as she released her trapped bosom. For a short while I teased each nipple until they stood firm and demanding.
Without further invitation I pulled and tugged at the rest of her outer garments. Finally the warm, vibrant Stella was naked and mine for the taking.
My clumsy hands massaged her inner thighs, but the need in us was too great to encourage delay. My beautiful Stella lay before me, a body demanding my all.
With rising excitement I threw off my clothes. I stood between those marble thighs and pushed against her entrance.
Her arms lifted in supplication. Once more her body arched against mine. Breathless with desire, her voice became just snatched words of insistence.
‘OK, big boy,’ she said. ‘You can put it in now.’ ‘It is in,’ I insisted.
‘There was an awkward moment of silence – then Stella’s sun went in. Her beautiful features changed from desire, through bewilderment to derision in quick succession.
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘pass me that copy of Woman and Home and let me know when you have finished.
She can be very cutting when she turns her mind to it.
Our flower of passion wilted thereafter. Yet we remained firm friends, although she displayed no such feelings in front of Miss Faversham.
For myself, I wanted Stella more than ever. Beneath hooded lashes I admired the body that so easily could have been mine, had I come prepared with the right sort of equipment.
Meanwhile the time passed with frequent visits and card games at the behest of the eccentric Miss Faversham. To be fair, even if the good lady did have a tendency to eccentricity she was, nevertheless, of generous disposition.
Back at the blacksmith’s shop, one day we were visited by a gentleman representing a firm of solicitors in London. An anonymous benefactor, it seems, had generously donated sufficient funds to ensure that I lived in a style of ease and comfort in London.
So it was, some little time later, I was settled in lodging rooms in Hammersmith, not far from the flyover. I had cash, bank account, credit card, in fact all the basic accoutrements of a young man about to become a gentleman.
Over the next few years the transformation from poor orphan to gentleman was completed, with the help of my good friend Henry Pocket. I lived well, ate well, dressed fashionably and enjoyed all the benefits of a prosperous life. Well, not all the benefits.
Henry Pocket introduced me to his family. I took an instant liking to his sister Emily. It was only natural now that the distant Stella was becoming even more distant.
Emily and I became close for a while. Alas, she soon discovered those same physical disadvantages that Stella had experienced.
Our relationship cooled. It was just as well.
With only one surname between us I harboured no great desire that, in the event of marriage, we should be known as Emily and Pick Pocket.
Yet my affection for Stella remained constant. I saw her often over the years. At Miss Faversham’s to begin with, then later, when she came to live near Richmond Park to looks after some old dears.
She remained as ever friendly but distant. In the end we drifted apart. Eventually she married a man who used her ill.
In the meantime my mysterious benefactor appeared. For years I had believed it was Miss Faversham. Not so.
One day I received a strange visitor. It turned out to be none other than Mugwatch.
He related that, having escaped once again, when he finally arrived in Australia, he set out to make his fortune. It was then that he decided to honour his vow and keep me in the manner to which I had rapidly become accustomed. It wasn’t a bad return on a few hastily discarded sandwiches.
These revelations put me in a quandary. That I was obligated to my benefactor was beyond question. Yet he was still a convict on the run.
The airports were being watched. It left me little alternative but to row him down the Thames as far as Dover. There he could catch the ferry.
The plan went well at the outset. It wasn’t until we were halfway down the river that we realised that someone had grassed.
The boat pulling out from the shore soon caught up with us. Mugwatch was captured. Not straight away. He had time to drown his hated enemy and catch pneumonia first. When he was dragged from the water he was much the worse for wear.
He was placed in Newgate Infirmary, just off the North Circular. His condition deteriorated rapidly. I visited him regularly of course.
It was towards the end, his breath was shallow.
I could see by the way he fought for each word that there wasn’t much time.
‘I’ve managed to turn you into a gentleman, Pick me lad,’ he paused. ‘It cost me all my money.’ I got up to leave.
He held me back with a restraining hand.
‘I’ve left you one final gift,’ he said. ‘I hope it brings you much joy.’
I left him feeling much puzzled. Later the same day I received a call on my mobile summoning me to Newgate Infirmary. Mugwatch had passed away quietly in his sleep. I was much saddened but had little time to dwell.
I was swiftly ushered into a room where many hands engaged themselves in removing my clothing. Naked and bewildered, I had but a short time to gather my scattered wits before a large needle plunged me into sweet oblivion.
If the lapse from consciousness was sweet, the journey back was even sweeter. My faculties returned with the gentle persuasion of a uniformed maiden.
As I returned to full consciousness I was much aware of this full-breasted beauty pressing against me.
‘Hello, Mr Pick. I’m Nurse Lovitt. I’m going to make you well,’ she licked her lips in a provocative manner. ‘Very well!’
The promise in her voice should have encouraged an eager response. Yet in that region I knew nothing but pain. Indeed the pain was so intense, that I was at a loss to know whether I’d been stitched or stapled.
However, under Nurse Lovitt’s expert ministrations, I soon began to feel more comfortable. The food was perhaps the worst feature of hospital life.
Gruel was the staple, monotonous diet. Still, if you were hungry at least you could ask for more.
On the day the bandages were removed, Nurse Lovitt came to both massage as well as test my equipment. When my recycled manhood was revealed I gasped with pleasure.
It was undoubtedly of better design and greater thickness. Built for strength and durability its potential was not lost on Nurse Lovitt.
The bed bath soon became a labour of love. As she gently washed my inner thighs, my legacy rose to the occasion. She took it gently between her tender hands. It still grew.
My excitement knew no bounds. It was huge. Nurse Lovitt was similarly fascinated. She bent to kiss the warm soft head.
It throbbed a welcome as she took it in her mouth, drawing her tongue wickedly along its length. Her grasp upon it was less than therapeutic. This was one hungry lady.
She threw off her clothes with such careless abandon that I feared for my refurbished rod.
‘Couldn’t we just wait?’ I pleaded anxiously. ‘No chance. Gotta test your prick, Pick,’ she said.
Nurse Lovitt didn’t look the type to shirk such a duty.
She threw herself down upon me. Her strong thighs parted as she straddled me. Then lifting above me she took the rampant cock in her hand and guided it towards her entrance.
In a trice she was impaled. Once more part of the late Mugwatch was imprisoned.
For the first time I experienced the sensation of having a length of cock deeply inside the receptive body of a woman. It was a heady experience.
I thrust hard into the plunging body of Nurse Lovitt. She took my all in ecstatic response. She felt my pumping seed without warning, then ground her thighs down to drain my body as her own climax arrived.
The experience was exhausting. Before I realised it Nurse Lovitt was dressed and standing over me.
‘That all works quite satisfactorily, Mr Pick,’ she told me as she marked my chart. ‘You should be able to keep some lucky lady very happy with that.’
With that she playfully flicked very gently at the head.
Then she was gone. I was passed fit.
Two days later I left the Infirmary. Henry Pocket seemed mightily relieved to see me. I related the events of the previous weeks. Yet further good news. He had managed a good return on the money I had lent him. I was once again solvent.
Which left one matter outstanding. Henry read my thoughts.
‘Go and find your Stella, Pick,’ he advised. ‘You have a great deal more to offer her now.’
It was easier said than done, finding Stella. Yet finally after a long, long search I found Stella working as a waitress in a Beefeater near Tunbridge Wells. Her eyes sparkled with recognition.
‘Oh, Pick,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely to see you. The chicken cutlets are on special offer this evening.’
‘Right,’ I answered enthusiastically. ‘I shall devour both those and you with relish before this evening is finished.’
‘No,’ she corrected. ‘Relish is extra.’
The evening had a magic of its own. I was intoxicated by the nearness of my own true love as she poured my wine. A few glasses later I was just intoxicated.
The carriage back along the cobbled streets, in the twilight, to her place was a gentle voyage of anticipation. True, it would have been quicker by taxi.
Once inside I listened in the gloom as Stella fumbled with the matches to light the candles. My impatience bubbled over for the sight of my beloved. So I switched the light on.
My hands could stay idle no longer. Soon I was busily trying to divest Stella of her clothing. What an incredible number of garments the woman wore. By the time I’d managed to get to the real Stella she was half her size.
Each soft, rounded breast teased me. The nipples stood inviting as my lips drew them to firmness. Once more revealed were those marble thighs that my memory had hoarded.
When I disrobed she gasped with both joy and amazement.
‘Pick, oh, Pick,’ she enthused. ‘It used to be so tiny.’ ‘It’s not mine really, it’s a legacy.’
She seemed puzzled. I explained about Mugwatch.
‘I’m not sure I can touch it. After all it did belong to a convict…’
Like Mugwatch she did not complete her sentence. Instead she swooped to take the pulsating head between her lips, applying fervent kisses to its velvet tip.
Gently cupping it between her fingers she was obviously quite overcome by it size.
‘Prick, oh, prick,’ she sighed.
I hastily corrected her. ‘My name is Pick.’ Her ministrations ceased for a moment. ‘I’m not talking to you,’ she declared.
Laying her down upon the bed I parted her thighs. Her warm, soft vagina called welcome as I moved into her. Her body arched in great expectation.
No need this time for Stella to reach for Woman and Home. What I plunged into her took all her attention. She moaned and grasped me tightly pulling me further into her.
‘Fuck me, Pick,’ she insisted. I thrust hard. ‘Harder,’ she demanded.
We became demented slaves to our passion as we were both carried along on an ecstatic magic carpet ride.
Our pulsing, heaving bodies demanded all and were not to be denied.
I buried my massive cock deep inside her as I exploded. She gave a short scream of exultation, wrapping her legs tightly about me.
In the sanctuary of each other’s bodies we found total contentment.
So my story ends. Stella and I are together. It has been a long path to fulfilment for me.
I started life at some disadvantage with my little Dorrit. Then I met Stella in that old bleak house. After we parted I experienced some hard times. Yet in the end my transplant proved to be, both for Stella and myself, our mutual friend.
Yes, this much I can say. When the mood is upon her, which thankfully is often, there’s nothing my Stella enjoys more than a good Dickens.
