The Blacksmith and The Toffee-Maker

The Blacksmith and The Toffee-Maker

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

I borrowed this story from a song by the late, great Jake Thackray. No, that's bullshit. I stole this story from Jake. Mind you, he probably stole it from Georges Brassens or H E Bates.

Summary

I borrowed this story from a song by the late, great Jake Thackray. No, that's bullshit. I stole this story from Jake. Mind you, he probably stole it from Georges Brassens or H E Bates.

Content

Submitted: July 20, 2018

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: July 20, 2018

A A A

A A A


Everything about The Blacksmith was enormous. He had a massive leonine head topped with thick black hair; a forge-tanned face framed with a huge black bushy beard; a pair of wide sparkling blue eyes and a small mouth rimmed with plump sensual lips.

The Blacksmith’s barrel chest was covered in matted hair, his shoulders were like bowling balls, his great arms, a mass of roped muscle and sinew; his hands, huge and calloused.

His waist was thick, but not fat, his buttocks hard and tight and he stood on two broad tree-trunk legs.

The Blacksmith’s penis was proportionate with his giant frame, his testicles the size and shape of goose eggs.

As we join the story, The Blacksmith was stroking a huge, curved erection, the shining bell of his glans, apple-sized and shaped, tight and wet and leaking clear drops.  His huge muscular body naked and beaded in lustful sweat.

A sight that would delight many women!

But this night, as every night, The Blacksmith was alone in his tiny room above the forge. The object of his frenzied lust, the picture in his desperate imagination, was the village Toffee-Maker.

 

 In her chintz-curtained cottage, the Toffee-Maker undressed in front of the mirror.

She was under no illusions; she knew she was not much to look at. She was short, fat and forty. Her frizzy mousy hair showed the beginnings of grey, her little grey eyes had a slight squint, her nose was sharp and her mouth wide.

The Toffee-Maker shrugged off her flower-patterned cotton dress and pulled her slip over her head.  She regarded her reflection, she smiled. It was a strange indulgence, but one that reminded her of her femininity, her defiant carnal desire. Her breasts and bottoms were caressed by delicate, tantalising lace. Who in the village would imagine the racy underwear she wore?

 

The Blacksmith, of course. In his fevered imaginings, the little plump Toffee-Maker was sheathed in Dior, staring up from his bed, pushing her round breasts at him, and begging for his semen.

 

The Toffee-Maker slowly slipped off her bra and lifted her heavy breasts, she pinched her thick pink nipples, and, one after the other, lifted them to her mouth, so she could lick and suck. She found herself panting and let one hand wander into the front of her sheer panties, enjoying the feel of the feathery hairs and finding a hot damp crease. 

She caught sight of the fire irons and picked up the poker, which had a thick, ribbed brass handle. The Blacksmith made that, she thought. Tonight my lover will be The Blacksmith. She peeled off the little knickers and sat herself in her big cosy armchair, opening her legs and stroking her inner thighs with the cold hard knob of the poker.

 

The hot hard knob of The Blacksmith was swollen and slick. His football sized fist pumped his beer-can wide shaft with merciless strokes, while his other hand cupped his grizzled ball-sack, gently caressing his tight hard testes. He pictured the Toffee-Maker opening her legs to him, offering her deep dark delights.

 

On her fireside chair, the Toffee-Maker slipped the brass handle of the poker further in to her hot, wet vagina, shuddering in lust at the hardness of the metal. Her other hand was rubbing roughly at her hairy mound. Letting a finger slip lower, she twinged her clitoris; a moan escaped her lips as the rippled ridges of the poker handle tickled her twat. She imagined The Blacksmith, huge and hairy, bending over her: she moved her hand to her nipple and tugged, thinking of the Blacksmith’s Cupid’s Bow mouth, sucking on her thick pink teat. She was so close. She pulled and pushed on the poker with a quickening stroke.

 

Roaring the name of the Toffee-Maker, The Blacksmith ejaculated a hot ribbon of semen into his sink.

 

Screaming the name of The Blacksmith, the Toffee-Maker bore down on the poker handle and orgasmed in a hot wet rush.

 

No doubt you are asking why such mutual passion was carried out alone? Why these star-crossed lovers were still a lonely bachelor and spinster? Why this ardour was requited without the knowledge of the other?

The sad truth is that The Blacksmith was shy.

Shyness, true shyness, is often misunderstood and frequently trivialised. The Blacksmith wanted to talk, to meet people, but he could never, ever instigate a conversation. His tongue would thicken, his eyes would cross and he would stiffen as if paralysed just trying to say ‘Good Morning,’ without being asked first.

His friends would laugh at this discomfiture; sometimes they’d get frustrated, telling The Blacksmith to “man up!” Man up? The Blacksmith was the biggest strongest man in the county, never mind the village, yet asking the barmaid of the village pub for a round of drinks was a trial too much even for his colossal strength.

Talking to the Toffee-Maker was out of the question. He had desired her from the very moment he’d first seen her. She was new to the village and had come to the forge to buy a set of fire irons that The Blacksmith had made, (nice brass-work on the poker handle he remembered). The Blacksmith had noted the curve of her eyebrows, the way her eyes smiled rather than her mouth. He broke into a sweat seeing her delicate little fingers caress the ridged knob of the poker. What hands, what beautiful, tiny, perfect hands! And the dimples in her round face when her sweet mouth widened in a smile. A thing of great beauty! Then there was her smell, a caramel and vanilla aroma followed her everywhere, even into the smoky fug of the forge. He started to notice her more in the village, and the more he saw, the more he wanted to see!  He loved her curves, the sway of her hips, and the gentle jiggle of her bust as she strode down to the market place.

 

The Blacksmith was smitten. But he could not talk to this paragon, this siren, this Venus from the waves. Not even a nod or a smile. He couldn’t look at the plump little woman without his face freezing into a grimace of fear.

 

The Toffee-Maker took this reaction as disdain. She knew she was nothing special to look at, she assumed that The Blacksmith found her looks unpleasant. She worried that perhaps her sunny disposition when she had visited the forge those few years ago had somehow offended the taciturn smith. So she learned to avoid the street where the forge stood. She could not seem to avoid the big blacksmith however, he seemed to pop up in the most unlikely places.

 

And year by year, life in the village went on. The Blacksmith stoked his fires and worked metal in the heat of the forge by day, and lusted after the Toffee-Maker by night. The Toffee-Maker boiled her confections and sold them on her market stall, short and plump in patterned cotton for all the world to see, while indulging her desire for sexy lingerie underneath. In the night she fantasised about man after man, now The Blacksmith, now The Village Policeman, now The Greengrocer – her appetite for fantasy was huge. And it filled the dark well of her desperate loneliness.

One afternoon, while passing the church, the darkness of living a solitary life preying on her mind, she was overwhelmed by a feeling of deep despair. She entered the cool confines of that holy place, and finding it completely empty, she threw herself on the floor, where she sobbed and wept.

She looked up to where the sun twinkled through stained glass and cried, “Father in Heaven, hear my prayer! Don’t let me continue to live this life of loneliness!  It is too much to bear! Give me a man, Heavenly Father. Any man. Or let me die. But please, Dear Lord, take away this cold, lonely pain.”

The Toffee-Maker was shocked to hear a deep, sonorous voice from the heavens whisper “Hear me!”

Unbeknownst to the contrite confectioner, The Blacksmith was working in the organ loft on a job of brazing. He had just finished packing his tools when he heard the prayer of The Toffee-Maker. Another man might have laughed in scorn at the little woman’s request, but not The Blacksmith, he felt her pain, he felt her need.

“Oh Lord,” he prayed in silence, “What can I do? Please don’t let her hear me.”

But in his anxiety, the Blacksmith did not realise he had spoken the last words of his prayer aloud, and that those words had been amplified by resonance of the organ pipes. It was his turn to feel surprise when the woman spoke again.

“Speak, Oh Lord, tell me what you will have of me.” asked the Toffee-Maker, her face to the floor.

The Blacksmith thought quickly. “If I say nothing, she’ll realise that someone else is in the church, she’ll see me and despise me for a despicable trickster. I will surely lose any chance of her forever.  I need to convince her I am the Lord. Now how does The Vicar start.”

“Dearly beloved…. daughter,” he intoned, “do not despair. A man in this very parish loves you dearly and wishes nothing in his life but to make you happy.”

“What man, Father?” came a cry.

“A simple man. A hard-working man. One that has loved you this many year, but fears to speak in case you reject him.”

“Lord God, Heavenly Father. Any man would be a great gift. I will never reject a gift from You.”

“Daughter. Would you accept the affection of a simple smith?” boomed The Blacksmith in the voice of God.

“Yes!” yelled the Toffee-Maker, in a cry of delight, “Yes, I will.”

“Then go home and wait,” the voice went on, “I’ll send him by-and-by to your cottage. Be kind to him. Um. Perhaps offer him a cup of tea.” The Blacksmith was running out of ideas, fearful of asking too much. Fearful of the wrath of the one true God, who was doubtless listening in.

“Yes, Lord. Thank you Lord,” the Toffee-Maker couldn’t leave the church quick enough. Home she sped to wait on her gift.

The Blacksmith sighed. After checking no-one was about, he went straight home, washed and changed, then set off to the cottage of the Toffee-Maker.

As soon as she got home, the Toffee-Maker started rummaging through her underwear collection. So much choice! But what would be right? She stripped and started trying things on. Basque? No. Thong? Open-crotch panties? She pulled things on and stripped them off. It must be right.

Standing in nothing but a pair of fishnet stockings, the Toffee-Maker remembered that God had mentioned something about tea. She put on her robe and was going to the kitchen to put the kettle on when a knock came at her door.

What to do? She thought. I dare not make him wait.

The Blacksmith gasped when the Toffee-Maker opened the door to him in a black satin robe, offering a glimpse of a fishnet stockinged leg. Then he gasped at the speed with which her hand shot out and grabbed him by the belt. The third gasp was for the strength with which she pulled him over the threshold and slammed the door behind him.

Despite the appeals of The Almighty, no tea was forthcoming that evening.

But that night, and for many more nights in the bedroom of that chintzy, comfy cottage, the roles were reversed.

She stoked his fires.

He boiled her sweets.


© Copyright 2018 Neraserpas. All rights reserved.

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