The Chronicles of Grailcock

Book 1: Trinity is just another name for Threesome

In the beginning... Well. It was quite a mess really.

And before you get confused or concerned, we're not talking about that beginning. You know the one with the void, light, waters, earth, a stern omniscient voice booming "Let there be stuff!" and then pop, there was stuff.

No, that's a different story altogether..

This is just the beginning of our story... And this one is based on facts. Facts, Facts, Facts!

Facts are what matter, after all... and we've got 'em!

But, while we have them, there are many who don't. And thus theological schools remain divided to this day on what, precisely, caused The Mess. There are some dour scholars in well ironed shirts, who believe it was the residue of a former reality... the grime left by the prior tenants who were supposed to leave the apartment "broom clean," but apparently didn't have a broom. Or sponge, for that matter.

Others, much smarter and more libidinous, know the facts. And those are us. Me. And soon to be you, too!

The Mess was the result of a divine passion. And you might consider it a passion as in both a sacred thing and as a play, for it was divine, and there was playing. Oh certainly, there was playing. Let's see... there was nipple play, and cum play, and ball play, and ass play, and... Well. You get the idea.

Or maybe you don't... and that's our present task! To get you the Facts!

And at the risk of narrative flow, we can say that indeed the passion that resulted in the Sticky Mess was God's cumshot. And that flood they talk about? It wasn't rain, sweetheart--it was rope after rope of holy spume. God's own spillage, dripping from the firmament like He'd used the Milky Way as a sock late at night while sharing a bed on a class trip, hoping no one else was awake. Repeatedly.

What matters--what we know--is that before he was called the Grail Bearer, the Conduit of Cum, or (as one bard was later disbarred for singing) Cummy McCumster, our redeemer and unknowing guide on the slickery path was simply:

Sir Cedric of Thistlecock.

Knight. Virgin. Chronically wobbly in both mind and body.

His story begins, surprisingly, as a direct result of The Mess

And, really... before we get to him, we must understand Them.

And to understand Them, we must go back. Way back.

Back before saints and sinners.

Before kings and cocks.

Even before edging.

Back to when there was only God.

And God, it must be said, was rather pleased with Himself.

He had created light.

He had created time.

He had even, on a rather inspired Tuesday afternoon, built a power-point pitching the idea of something called "foreplay."

But yet, for all His omnipotence, something itched. Tugged.

A void low in his belly.

A wriggling ache under the skin of the cosmos.

In his dreams all he saw was a giggling little hole.

And as he reflected one Sunday afternoon sitting by the ocean resting, per his own orders, he swirled the tides in a daydream, his fingers rose and she was shaped from a breaking wave;

Cowper.

She was not like the others.

Where angels stood stiff and shining--bronzed torsos, purposefull wings taut with purpose--Cowper twerked with gossamer wings that bent the light of both the sun the moon into pursed, suckling lips.

Where archangels thundered hosannas, Cowper giggled and moaned-- legs spread beneath warm waterfalls.

Where others praised, Cowper pleased.

She was a fairy of light and chaos and perpetual slick. A celestial brat with cum on her chin even before anyone had ever ejaculated.

He had made her from ocean waves and mischief, dipped her in star light, and whispered secrets into the folds of her lips. And not the ones she whistled with. Unless the wind blew just right.

And God--omniscient though He was--fell.

Head over balls.

He watched Cowper roll in the surf, slippery, her nipples tight with cosmic curiosity, heralding the promise of something divine, and His cock swelled... and dripped.

They had a good thing, He and Cowper.

Long, slow afternoons spent wrestling in fields of silk nebulae.

Nights tangled in moaning galaxies, stroking each other to the tempo of birthing stars.

An intimacy so complete, so utterly dripping, that even the cherubim blushed.

They danced. They teased. They tasted.

And Cowper's hunger--for touch, for tongue, for penetration--grew with each passing eon.

Her need for God's cock was bottomless. When he was not in her, riving her in two, God would turn to see her plunging herself with anything she could find. Even the Kraken became shy and nervous when she flittered by.

She longed for thickness. For stretch.

And God, being God, heard this need even before she spoke it.

And He ached to give her everything.

So He gave her stars to ride.

Planets to bounce upon.

Nebulae that pulsed between her thighs like sybians of celestial delight.

Cowper moaned through the galaxies, squirted in the void, and came in a voice that made meteor showers boil like someone just flushed the commode.

Still, she wanted more. He could see it, and he would give her anything. But what did she need? Even he could not read her heart's deepest desire.

Then, one evening, in a silken pocket of space between constellations, she curled up in His lap--sweaty, shimmering, flushed with starlight, nursing on his dripping crown--and whimpered:

"Goddy... make me 'nother one of these!" She kissed His purple crown. "Thens I ken have on in boff holies. Somethin' that makes my fwofwo sob and my bum bum cry!"

God stared down at her wrecked little smile.

And in that moment, He understood...

He rose slowly, fairy spit and pre dripping from the tip of his onion shaped crown. ("You know, we really need a name for this stuff" he thought to himself... Hmmmm)

A low, wet anticipation curled through every corner of creation.

And God reached down-- and stroked himself

He wrapped his hands around his shaft and balls, hot as a the sacred furnace of His own heart, fingers glowing with unbearable heat, and pulled.

What emerged from the light pulsed, and was veined with living flame.

And as it cooled in the palms of His hands, it began to take shape.

Not a scepter.

Not a sword.

Not a staff.

Another cock. The first clone (Don't let anyone tell you it was a sheep-- they got the idea from here!)

Thick. Majestic. Writhing with the tension of an unknown purpose.

It was a cock unlike any other--

Made not just to fuck, but to share the glory of God

The crown was swollen, plush, dripping. (We really do need a name for this stuff! God thought to himself, smearing it over the cock's purple head as he admiried his handy work.)

Veins pulsed across the shaft like lines on a map, glowing softly in divine purple and gold.

God wrapped both his hands around it--just barely.

He whimpered.

He throbbed.

He raised the new cock to his own mouth, lovingly, and breathed into it-- a string of... of... that stuff trailing from his lips.

He looked down at Cowper.

And Cowper--

--Cowper was already on her knees, pupils blown wide, drool on her chin, tits pressed between her hands like she was about to fucking pray. (Scholarly aside: That simple act is, in fact, why we clasp our hands in prayer even do this day. Remember that the next time you're on your knees at church!)

She didn't blink or breathe. She crawled.

Tongue out.

Her voice was a ragged, gleeful whimper.

"... is that f'me, Goddy? Y'made that f'my fwofwo? And fer mah bummy?"

God nodded.

The Grailcock pulsed.

Cowper screamed and danced.

And without waiting, without asking, she lunged.

She was not graceful.

Her fingers curled around the shaft like it was, well... God's cock.

The Grailcock swelled in her grip. A pulse rolled from base to crown, and Cowper's spine hummed like a struck harp.

"'S so warm," she moaned, nuzzling the underside like a kitten trying to suckle. "It's buzzin', Goddy--it's talkin' to me."

And it was.

Not in words, but in a perverse hyperactive morse code as fast as a spinning pulsar

She licked the tip.

Slow.

Flat-tongued.

A full drag from bottom to slit--smearing pre that still had no name across her lips and cheeks like warpaint.

She whimpered.

Then again.

Faster this time. Sloppier. Mouth working, yet still empty.

She kissed the crown, open mouthed, tongue out as if expecting it to kiss her back. (There have been, by the way, several scholarly works published examining whether the Grailcock did in fact kiss her back at that moment. Preeminent among them, "When Divinity Moaned" by Sister Cumbeline, later founder of the Sisterhood Of Moist Moaning.) Her cheeks hollowing as spit foamed at the corners of her mouth.

"F-fuck, Goddy--it's s'big," she gasped, gagging slightly as the tip slipped past her lips. "It's big all the way 'round--it ain't got no skinny bits!"

Scholarly aside (again): While the precise length of the Grailcock remains a topic of spirited debate among (generally insecure) theologians, most sources place it somewhere around fourteen "Divine Inches." These, however, should not be confused with earthly inches, which lack elasticity, sentience, and the capacity for temporal harmonics. Divine Inches operate on a fluid scale--expanding under worship and often bending local time. Historical comparisons to the Grailcock range from a modest cucumber, an unusually self-assured traffic cone, all the way up to the tail of Jörmungandr, Loki's "World Serpent"--if he were harder and more interested in procreation than stuffing his own maw, which, frankly, feels like a missed opportunity.

God, glowing and leaking and visibly struggling not to blow right then and there, groaned.

"Take your time, my little cum fairy," He said, voice thick and radiant. "Or don't. You can fuck that rod for all eternity, if you'd like."

Her lips, flared around the slit, slippery pre rising like a fondue fountain, shinny, bubbling, too hot to touch... but not for her to swallow. "Goddy, this slick, it's sooo nice and slippery!" She moaned and scooped it to her mouth, "Ohhh! And soooo yummies! Can it all be mine? I want it fo' eva and eva!"

"That's IT!" Cried God inside his head! "It will be Cowper's fluid! Brilliant!"

The ridge bordering the grailcock's head shone, radiating a nurturing light as she tried to take it fully into her mouth. ("It's like the light of a sun during an eclipse..." thought God in a surprisingly poetic moment. "I think we'll call that the Coronal Ridge!")

Then, in a fury of impatience, Cowper stuck her fingers between her lips and stretched her mouth to get that ridge-- the coronal ridge, to pop in. And it did, her eyes telling the tale as her pupils dilated.

Two Divine Inches in.

Three.

Then her throat began to swallow on its own, reflexively.

Her eyes crossed.

Each inch brought another tiny cumming. And there were a lot of inches yet to go...

Delicate fairy squirt drizzled down her thighs and dripped from her toes.

"Cahnt ft t'all," she choked, throat working, drool streaming down her chin. "Cahnt--gruapph grak, slurrrp!

God didn't move.

He watched.

Reverent and dripping.

One hand on his chin, the other slowly stroking Himself in sync with her sucks and gags.

The Grailcock pulsed again-- a little cruelly... eager, this time.

Cowper squealed and forced it deeper.

Until her lips kissed its hairless base.

Until her throat twitched in helpless, full-body surrender.

Until the cherubim peeking through their fingers all fainted from the blood running to their surprisingly large penises.

Cowper slid back with a shhlorp, coughing, eyes shining with tears and triumph.

"I did it," she gasped. "I d-d-did it--I GAGGED THE GRAILCOCK!"

"Don't stop now," God groaned, His own cock now rigid, twitching, and jealous.

And Cowper--smeared, leaking, laughing--straddled the Grailcock like it was a ride, like it was punishment, like it was her birthright.

"Time f'my fwofwo," she giggled and blushed innocently, looking up into Go