And unlike most of my stories, where I've rewritten the ending to spare the hunky hero from total emasculation, I felt that the fate of the beautiful boxer, Angus Johansen, should remain unchanged from the original... :)
Deadwood - The Unmanning of Angus Johansen - Part 1
Original story by TripWire (called “Deadwood”)
********
A purple silk sheath covers a domed, 3-foot high cylinder behind the bar of the Eights & Aces Saloon and Bordello in Deadwood, the Dakota Territories. The cylinder, about a foot in diameter, has an ornate, four-legged silver base. Above it on a board is carved a pun -- “Deadwood’s Dead Wood.” Argent letters inscribed on the silk match the base and proclaim the contents of the tube with less humor and more fanfare.
See Them Now!
Just 25 cents!
The Magnificent Member
& Titanic Testes
of the Late Great Pugilist
Angus Johansen
And in smaller letters:
Removed from his living body
in this very establishment
by an outraged populace
for the crimes of rape
against two innocents
September 18, 1885.
The Eights has seen better days. So has Deadwood. When the gold ran out, the populace — outraged or not — followed. Left behind are remnants of its glory days, including this derelict saloon. The only well-kept item on the inventory is the cylinder.
The December wind squalls like a bobcat in heat — a frozen bobcat in heat. One chubby whore dozes through the noise in a rocking chair near the potbellied stove. At the bar are a big, horny cowboy who’s new to town and Samson, the swarthy proprietor of uncertain ethnic origin. The young cowboy wants but is reluctant to wake the snoozing girl. Sleepy whores can be surly. Maybe another drink first.
Tall and rangy, Samson is also sharp-eyed. He spies the cowboy haltingly reading the legend on the silk and hooks a forearm around the cylinder. It is heavy. Quietly he sets it on the bar in front of the cowpoke, a tall fellow, young but very big and very strong, with handsome, well-defined features, sandy colored hair, and gray eyes. The young man rocks back on his bar stool, not quite ready to be confronted with this mystery. He looks at Samson for a long moment.
“Is it real?”
“Got a quarter?”
“If it ain’t real, I want free beer for the night.”
“Done.”
The quarter passes from one hand to the other. Samson pockets it and reaches under the bar for a taper, which he lights from an oil lamp. Without removing the cover, he inserts the taper into the back of the cylinder just under the dome. There must be an opening the cowboy can’t see. Glowing dots of light appear through the silk. The dome of the device is apparently perforated in some manner. Samson secures something at the rear of the cylinder and blows out the taper.
“You will be amazed, cowboy. I watched a Sioux Indian slice up ol’ Johansen near 20 years ago while most of the camp stood witness. Nowadays, if I didn’t have his leftovers to show folks, everybody would think I was outta my hat.”
He whips off the silk with a flourish.
The dome is also polished silver. It’s pierced with small holes for the air needed to feed three wicks in a clever, shallow oil lamp. The mirror finish of the dome’s underside reflects the lamplight, powerfully illuminating the glass tube that comprises the main part of the cylinder. The tube is filled from top to bottom with a crystal clear liquid. A slightly bent glass rod arcs downward from one point at the height of the cylinder’s curve to the opposite point at the bottom.
Impaled through its urethra and held in place on the rod by its own natural slope is the 19-inch, engorged but amputated penis of a once impossibly well-hung prize fighter. Two bluish-white blobs about twice the size of billiard balls dangle by their cords from a small crossbar near the base of the Magnificent Member. Cowboy guesses these are the Titanic Testes.
“That old Sioux medicine man, he knew his stuff. He squeezed all the blood out of Johansen’s meat and pumped it full to bursting with this solution o’ his, same as what’s surroundin’ the specimens now,” Samson explains. “Sealed off the dingus real tight so it looks big as when that cock knocker was pokin’ the town’s ladies right up there on that stage.”
“Man’s part can’t be that big,” the cowboy argues, eyes a goggle.
With one finger, Samson taps the glass, which is etched with graduated marks for each inch of the long, fat dick.
“Near as pink as the day it was struck off.”
The cowboy peers hard at the strongly veined shaft and bulging purple head. If it’s not real, somewhere there’s a genuine artist of the macabre waiting to be discovered. But an organ that large would require a truly stalwart champion from which to hang. The strapping young man appears to imagine how it would feel to have Johansen’s johnson protruding from between his legs. A man would swagger with a package like that. Other men might hate him for it.
“Bet them girls he raped was sore the day after.”
“For a week, more like,” Samson says. “Only thing is — and I don’t tell too many folks this ’cuz their mama still lives here — them girls weren’t raped. Not really. Oh, they pretended he was visitin’ horrors on their delicate flesh, but every man jack in the saloon knew them twins was wantin’ what he gave ‘em. Hell, he butt fucked one so good she squirted pussy juice halfway to that table there. Damnedest thing I ever saw. Heard some women could do it, but I never see’d it until that day and haven’t since.”
“Do tell,” says the cowboy. “That happened right here in this place? Everybody watchin’?”
“Damn straight,” Samson avers. “You think we’d have let it go on if’n them girls was really bein’ ravished? You think he’d dun it in front of God and everyone if it was really rape?”
With all the talk of rape and squirting pussies and masculine mutilation, the chubby whore grows more appealing to the muscular young cowboy, but his curiosity is aroused too.
“What happened then? I mean, from the beginning.”
****************
In his day, Angus “The Giant” Johansen talked the talk and walked the walk of the world’s greatest heavyweight, Samson explained. Based out of Boston, the fighter had traveled the world, knocking out opponent after opponent. In exhibition matches, he often battled two or even three men — and won.
The pugilist was also the greatest cocksman of the Victorian era. He was celebrated, often publicly among the more vulgar folk, for the size of his genitals and his skill at using them to please women. A master showman, Johansen was known to supplement his boxing income by entering stables and comparing his length and thickness against those of stallions. He usually won those matches as well. Anyone who wanted to watch had to pay a fee.
The real show, of course, was the petite blonde whore with the hourglass figure who would suck the boxer’s hanging hose to hardness and then astonishingly jack the horse to the achievement of its own competitive erection. A truly beautiful girl cheerfully performing such obscenities was as much a draw as Johansen’s prodigious bone and balls. If the crowd threw enough coins into the whore’s bodice, the boxer obliged everyone with a full demonstration of his stamina and her willing perversity.
Once she had been thoroughly fucked in every hole, the hard-nippled little slut would be thrown over Johansen’s shoulder and carried ’round the stable. For 50 cents, a man — or boy — could shove a beer bottle into her cunt and make her moan. The bottles and the giant cock were of a similar diameter, with the cock being the thicker, so she was always ready to receive the brew. Men who were familiar with the ploy would slip her a half-full bottle because the cold would make her squeal and the beer would spill out of her gash like a river.
“Girl’s surname was Graham as I recall,” Samson said. “Been awhile. Don’t remember her first name. Came in on a coach the first day ol’ Johansen was here. Dressed more like a lady than a whore. She took one look around and left on the afternoon ride. I wonder if Johansen’s fortunes might have taken a different turn if she had stayed around. Right gorgeous bitch she was, but then Angus could always pick ‘em. That was his trouble.”
A gladiator like Johansen draws females like blood draws sharks. Attach to the gladiator a cock of such renown and the sharks become the daughters of nobility and the wives of the influential. Angus unwisely didn’t worry about discretion. His promoters were connected to New York City’s Tammany Hall, whose Boss Tweed could telegraph orders to the White House. If Angus bragged, who was going to complain about his conquests of a few titled sluts?
Few complained, but quite a number of cuckolded men attempted to avenge their honor. Particularly those whose wives turned up pregnant not long after their encounter with Angus. With balls bigger than the biggest of oranges, it was no wonder that the young fighter knocked up almost half the women he slept with, and there were rumors in several dozen powerful and influential families for decades after that a particularly handsome and strong son or beautiful and alluring daughter had come from his seed. In Europe, especially, the great Johansen was usually just one step ahead of some enraged relative. He had prescience enough to do his philandering after his bouts in the ring, however. That often saved him from capture.
“Only a matter of time what happened here,” Samson said. “Angus never had the sense to keep quiet about who he was doin’. And he was always doin’ the marquessa of this or the princess of that. Them bluebloods don’t take to sharin’ their women with a boxer. They don’t care how famous he is.”
“Was,” the cowboy corrects, assuming the removal of the boxer’s manhood had been fatal. “I’ve never heard of him. How do you know so much?”
“Research, boy. And a lot of folks who knew him have come through here, had a look, told me some stories. They always figured some railroad baron would do for him, or an English earl. They were surprised to find out it was a whole town that decided Angus’ dick had gotten too big for his philandering britches.”
“So what brought Mr. Boston Fisticuffs way out here to the territories?”
The city boy in Angus dreamed of roaming the West. Dime novels about the exploits of frontier gunmen wore holes in his back pocket. Wild, lusty women had featured prominently in the dime novels too, and while the fighter was now old enough to understand the truth that writers stretched, he still held out hope for a western adventure, especially now that Europe was all but closed to him as a result of his high class philandering.
Boxing promoters of the day kept a tight rein on their talent. As long as they were still young enough to earn money, they were too valuable to risk on “adventures.” But Johansen’s legendary prowess with the ladies earned him sponsorship from a few highly placed widows and maiden heiresses. Tammany Hall didn’t have to listen — they were just women, after all — but Tweed passed along their wishes to the promoters because you never knew where or when you might need a favor in return. What if the suffragettes really did get the vote someday?
In May of 1885, the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world climbed aboard a train headed West. The first leg of the journey took him to Pittsburgh where one of his sponsors owned a steel mill. There, she had a mold made of his erection and scrotum so they could be cast — not in steel, but in silver. The artisans were young women, rare in their professions. They received no money in payment, but it never occurred to them to complain about being shafted. Angus enjoyed the shafting.
After collecting her trophy, the steel mill heiress returned home along with much of the champion’s initial entourage. Johansen continued on his way West with a much reduced group of “friends.”
A young widow who had never seen her husband’s stockyards spooned with the boxing stud in a sleeper car through most of the trip to Chicago. Steers and heifers were the most numerous bovines at the yards. Breeding stock destined for western ranches was pastured at picturesque farms outside the Windy City. Angus was often bigger than the bulls, and the young lady said he compared favorably. “Size isn’t everything,” she told him with a lovely grin, “but it’s a lot!”
Chicago was as far West as most of the friends wanted to travel. Even Angus’ boxing “manager” abandoned him on the ride to Kansas City. A ravishing young blonde who had been shadowing the handsome athlete from the outset became his open companion at this stage of the journey.
Petite and unfashionably slim, Dashiele Graham had been a 16-year-old New York whore when she met Johansen by way of the concierge at Manhattan’s finest hotel. The up and cumming young fighter had just knocked out an aging former champion, toying with him for seven rounds to give the crowd their money’s worth. He had told the concierge exactly what he wanted to celebrate the victory, and the concierge had recommended “a little Dash” for the evening.
After one night with the high-breasted girl, Angus used up most of this winnings to “buy” her away from her pimp. Since then, the soiled dove had prostituted herself only when it furthered the boxer’s career or dovetailed with one of their promotions of the Johansen johnson.
She began pimping Angus to the East Coast’s elite ladies within a year of their meeting. It was only the first arrangement that was difficult. The beautiful, blue-eyed thing had admitted her profession privately to a New York socialite in the water closet at the Pompeii, a five-star restaurant Angus loved to frequent.
“Aren’t you the lovely child. I see you’re sitting with the gorgeous boxer, dear.”
“Thank you. Yes, we were introduced last year.”
“Do I know your family?”
“No, you wouldn’t. And you wouldn’t admit to knowing them if we were, by chance, acquainted. I’m that sort. Angus just keeps me on his arm for show.”
“I see. So you haven’t any plans, the two of you?”
“Well, boxers aren’t always particular, you know. But Angus’ people — the promoters and their bosses at Tammany Hall, you’ve heard of them, I’m sure — they’re of the impression that Mr. Johansen will be the biggest celebrity that prize fighting has ever raised from its ranks. He couldn’t possibly be connected publicly to an unfortunate like me.”
“You just play the anonymous mistress, and no one asks.”
“Exactly. And I help him where I can.”
“How so?”
“I make introductions. Discreetly.”
“Indeed.”
After that, Dash was pointed out to the high born and the Industrial Age wealthy by others of their rank. Despite her threatening beauty, she was even tolerated to a point in Society, so long as she served her purpose as go-between. Angus did become the celebrated champion, and the almost equally celebrated, not-so-discreet cocksman. Dash, via her influence over the headstrong hero, became one of the powers behind the man and his accompaniment in the public stables where their complementing debauchery knew no limits.
On the train to Lincoln, Nebraska, the conductor fielded several complaints about the couple. “That woman,” a millener’s wife said, “won’t let anyone sleep with her squealing and her moaning until all hours. I don’t care that he’s this world’s best pugilist from Boston. He must quit the driving of her, if you get my meaning.”
The conductor understood perfectly. He talked with Dash privately for 15 minutes to get her side of the story and left fully satisfied.
After sucking off the trainman, Dash was less than satisfied. Angus’ enormous penis continued to delight her, and his enthusiasm for her had risen as their Western adventure continued, but the accommodations had steadily worsened on the trip westward.
The stagecoach to Yankton was bad enough, but the ride on the lumber wagon into Deadwood convinced Dash her adventure was at an end. When she saw the squalor of the mining camp, she was reminded too much of her childhood in New York’s slums. Nothing would make her submit to that ever again. She begged Angus to send her back to Kansas City.
“But angel, we’re going to pan for gold, play cards with gunslingers, see wild Indians! You don’t want to miss that,” her dashingly handsome boxer protested.
She gave him a level look. He absorbed its meaning.
“All right, but if I find a pretty daughter of the pioneers, we may just head West without you.”
“I’m sure you’ll find many pretty daughters ... and rich widows ... and young wives. But you’ll come back to me, Angus Johansen, because you know you need my firm hand and my soft body.”
“Well, that may be true,” he laughs. “But the Angus Johansen that eventually did come back to her wasn’t the man she left in Deadwood.”
Think I'm going to enjoy this story, already like part 1....great start with the guys huge penis and testicals in a display case....got me instantly hard....can't wait for next instalment:)
ReplyDeleteYAY! So glad you're liking this first chapter! Yes, you kinda know how this one is gonna end, given that the stud's monumental genitals are in a display case... ;)
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