The Canterbury Tails

Three Men’s Stories on the Road to Circumcision

Sam’s Tail – “The Ashtray”

by Gareth Walton

God knows where it happened. I’d left Florida that morning and been on the road all day so I suppose it must have been somewhere in Virginia when I finally stopped. The sight of yet one more roadside bar was just too tempting as I badly needed a drink and a break from driving. It was a sleazy kind of a place, I could see that before I went in, but I wasn’t there for a night out - just a quick beer and then back on the road.

I noticed her as I went in, but she was deep in thought and didn't look up. It was only when she heard me speak my order to the barman that she suddenly came to. I felt a surprising surge of lust when I looked into her face - dark skinned and handsome with lively eyes shining out at me intently. There was a quizzical look on that face and I wasn't surprised when she started talking to me.

"So you're from England?"

"Yeah, can’t hide my accent. From Canterbury. Quite close to London. I've been working here for a few months."

"I was there a few years back,” she said. "Had a side trip out from London. Real neat place."

I sort of resented having to talk to this woman. All I wanted to do was to slake my thirst and get back on the road. There was so far still to go and so little time for the journey but yet she was a change from my own company. As well as that, despite my better judgment, that surge of desire hadn't gone too far away either. I felt myself weakening and falling into an easy conversation with her, enjoying talking about my home patch and feeling suddenly nostalgic for it. She had done all the usual things - the Tower of London, Harrods, Buckingham Palace. From her reminisces about my home town I soon realised that her day trip had actually been to Bath and not Canterbury but I didn’t bother putting her right. I’d had this sort of conversation many times over the last few months, listening to those who had "done" Europe - their muddled reminiscences, their unaltered misconceptions of our way of life.

I was jolted out of my complacency when she said how very much she had enjoyed the men in England. It was so unexpectedly brought into the conversation yet she was very definite and I couldn't help but ask her what she meant. She wasn’t shy about saying more. She told me of her second night in the city when she met a man in a pub and got talking, then flirting, finally going back to his flat and straight into the bedroom. She said she was just blown away when he undressed. It had just never occurred to her before that moment that she had never seen an uncut penis. Just never. Not even when her kid brother has born. Not even thought about what one might look like. This guy was quite well hung, she said, but what amazed her was the tube of flesh that totally covered the end of his rapidly stiffening cock. Just looking at it gave her a feeling that she had never experienced before. What for her was normally just there before your eyes when a guy dropped his shorts was completely and magically hidden away, not just instantly presented to her in a brazenly matter of fact way. Instead of the bare cock head she had expected and looked forward to seeing there was just more skin. A continuation of his thick shaft right to the end of his manhood without an abrupt termination at the ridge of his glans. No high deep ridge of his cock head on show for all to see all the time, just a subtle suggestion of it through all that extra skin, demurely hidden away. Even more wonderful was the small bud of puckered pink skin that continued past the end of his cockhead, the whole tapered shape of his manhood so unlike anything she had ever seen before.

She was mesmerised to see him roll back his foreskin and uncover his hidden glans, moist and soft and unlike anything any American guy had been able to offer her. She had just played with it for hours, handling him, as she discovered, far too roughly at first but learning quickly how to please him and use his hood and the sensitivity of his un-leathered cock head to pleasure them both in a way that was so different from with the men at home. When he finally fucked her, the sensation of the extra covering entering her had driven her wild, feeling it roll back inside her, imagining the loose skin pulling tight on his shaft when he thrust deep inside.

I couldn't believe that I was hearing this from this stranger, a woman I had just met some minutes before. Her frankness disarmed me though, and I couldn’t help being aroused by her brazen but genuine sexuality. She said she'd met this guy several more times and, in between their meets, had gone out of her way to pick up English men to enjoy their intact skins in their endless variety - some tight, some loose, some overhanging, others short. She also told me about the bitter disappointment of finding a good looking cockney lad who she really liked and found attractive but who turned out to be as tightly circumcised as any American man, hating the thought of the wasted skin, his bared penis stark and bald in her hand. She had wanted to leave as soon as she discovered his lack of foreskin, but she’d had to go through with it as he was a nice guy and didn’t see how she could get out of the situation without offending him. Good in bed though he was, the feeling of him entering her without that exquisite first sensation of give as the skin rolled back felt like a violation after her new experiences.

After an imperceptible pause, her face clouded as something struck her. She reddened a little and said "I'm sorry, you're not …..?"

I knew straight away what she meant.

"No" I said, pleased to be able to avoid seeing disappointment in her face. In fact I was rather turned on by the fact that she would regard what was in my trousers, so much taken for granted at home, as something so special.

"No, in fact I did rather well when skins were being given out."

I could see her flush as I said it, arching her back a little and obviously pleased and excited by what I had told her.

"I've got quite a long hood, actually. In fact the school doctor wanted to get it off me. Mum and Dad wouldn't let them do it though. I'm really glad they didn't believe all that stuff about it being a potential problem as I grew older. It never has been and I’d have hated loosing it.”

Funny, as I told her how glad I was I’d still got my foreskin an incident my brother had told me about recently flashed through my mind. Rob said he’d got a colleague who had gone on some work trip to Australia and had some kind of weird experience there in a sauna or something. He’d come home and, amazingly, got himself circumcised as a result. He didn’t need it or anything, just suddenly decided he wanted to get rid of his skin. How weird was that? I just couldn’t understand how any guy would choose to get himself cut if he didn’t have to.

There was no doubt about it now but she was really aroused, her pupils widely dilated and her face flushed. It was rare for me to see a woman so brazenly let a man see she was excited and I couldn’t help but find her pleasure an aphrodisiac. She let her glance fall to my groin, and my knob was hard there for her.

"Shall we go?" she said. "You've got a car?"

I thought fleetingly about my brother in a plane somewhere over the Atlantic as we spoke, knowing how little time I had to get to New York to meet him at Newark. Lust had taken over from common sense though.

She said she had been visiting her sister and that she was staying at a motel close by. No sooner had we got onto the road than her hand was in my crotch. It was hot, and I was just wearing thin, loose shorts with nothing underneath. Almost before I had the car in gear her fingers had undone the zip and found my long overhang, twiddling the tight bud between her thumb and first finger in a way which proved she had learnt a lot about how to handle skins in her short time in London. I groaned quietly as she went on to slip her little finger inside my hood and work on my moist piss slit. The first time she spoke was to tell me to pull off the road into the motel forecourt and by then she was working my hood back a little, teasing it, just exposing the first bit of glans. We pulled over outside a small block and headed for her room, my shorts bulging with a rampant erection, a damp patch forming very visibly where my bloated foreskin rested.

I barely noticed my surroundings. As soon as we reached the motel room we were on the bed and she was working hard on me. She had learnt so well how to please an uncut guy that it made me realise that so much of the sex I had had in America had been missing something. The girls hadn't often said anything but had clearly been taken aback by my skin and had little idea to how to please me with it. Neither had they shown much sign of enjoying it themselves. They were too rough, not realising that a glans which spends so much of its time covered in skin is saved from the de-sensitising rubbing which can make a cut guy’s cock like leather. Their hands rubbed me so hard and pulled the skin back so forcibly that they often hurt me. The guys had tended to be a little better, but although a bloke cut at birth knows how most parts of a cock works at best they tend to regard my foreskin as something in the way, not something there to give the most delicate and sensitive of sensations. I often pitied them, never having known the feelings which the unnecessary knife had taken away from them. I felt special pity for one guy I had met who had adored my skin. Left intact as a child, he had felt such a deviant in a class of tightly circumcised all-American boys that he had begged his parents to get him cut to match. He had finally persuaded them just before he went away to college but only a few years later in his mid twenties had he come to realise what he had lost. He had worshiped my long skin and done his best with it, working it slightly awkwardly as if his memories of his own angst and disgust-ridden teenage sex had left a glimmer in his head of the way to please an intact penis. She was different though, so so different.

Her fingers and her tongue explored my hood in every way there was, reaching inside the long skin to the glistening glans, working fervently on my bud-like overhang, fingering the soft skin as if she herself knew what sensations would result in my brain. Sometimes she would roll it back, never over-hard on the sensitive head, working her way round the ridge of my glans with her tongue with the covering hood pulled right back out of the way, blowing gently on my stringy frenum, caressing it gently with a moistened finger. More often though she kept me covered over, sometimes rolling the skin over her tongue or finger as it savoured my glans, other times stretching me out as far as possible and enjoying my inch or so of overhang in every way she could think of. She seemed not to need any pleasuring herself, she was totally and utterly intent on working my foreskin for our pleasure, basking in the soft groans from my throat that showed how excited I was by her skill.

Finally, after a very long time I sensed that she wanted me to fuck her. She was wide open and moist as she rolled me onto my back and prepared to sit astride my erection. She held the skin tightly forward and tickled her clitoris with my overhang, almost overwhelmed by the sensation it wrought in her. She was entering just the head of my skin-clad penis into her, so slowly, savouring the silky feeling of my skin in contrast to the rough texture of a circumcised lover. Then it happened.

I had been so carried away that I hadn't heard the car pull up. He kicked the door in with one huge blow - in our anxiety and urgency she hadn't bolted it, perhaps we hadn't even shut it properly.

"Fuck" she moaned. "My husband".

Early 20's, good-looking, long blonde hair. Small and lightly built. He was wild, excited with anger. There was something extra on his face though, but I couldn’t read his expression.

"Jeez Sheryl, not another one of your doggy dicks? They told me at the bar you'd gone off with some fuckin Brit. Christ woman, what's this thing with skin? Don't you like mens’ cocks anymore? How come you done and got this thing with baby dicks. Dirty, disgusting, smelling skins that shouldn't be left on a dog, let alone a man. How could you?"

He was livid, but there was something about his anger too - some kind of satisfaction in it as if he was enjoying the excuse to get mad. I started to speak, but he shouted "shut the fuck up". He was so slight it was strange to see this near-boy wracked with fury. Scary, but I knew if it came to it he would be a pushover for me. I was strong and twice his size and used to taking care of myself.

"He means it" she said, her face grave and flushed.

I tried to speak again, but he roared once more, and it was then that I saw the knife. A long bladed ugly looking thing. I wasn't so sure about avoiding that.

"You know what this means Sheryl"

It was a statement. She made no reply.

"Go on then, let him fuck you. Let him enjoy it his doggy way just one more time, if a guy can ever really enjoy fucking with a wrapper on his cock like that."

She made no attempt to say anything, giving me a glance that tried to convey something although I couldn’t guess what it was.

She had made no move to climb off me. He yelled again "Go on. Let him feel that dirty skin slide into a woman’s pussy one last time. Before we take it from him"

My head was full of confusion. I couldn't think what he meant nor what to do or say as he walked slowly to the bed, the knife glinting menacingly in his hand.

"Want to see a real man’s dick, baby-cock ? Want to see what a proper piece of meat should look like?"

He undid his belt, ripping the buttons of his Levis open with one quick tug. In an instant he was standing over me, the knife in one hand and with his other easing his penis out, waving it inches from my face, long, thick and very tightly cut. It was sleek looking, with a wide scar band high on the shaft like so many American men’s. He slapped it on my face, and had the sensation of the rough leathery skin on my cheek. I noticed that he had no frenum, just a broad empty groove where it should have been, bare and somehow menacing looking. He was getting a little stiff and before I knew it he had thrust his cock into my mouth, making me gag as it pushed deep down my throat, salty and sweaty.

"Like that do you, babycock? Huh? 'Cos thats what yours is going to be like soon, superstud."

He pulled out, his low hanging balls hanging so vulnerably exposed out of the fly of his open jeans in such surreal contrast to the knife he moved to hold at my throat.

"We’re going to make you a present of a real cock with a nice proud cut, like a real man. How can you bear that disgusting skin flap on your piece? It’s bad enough having any man’s cock in my woman’s pussy, but some dirty animal dick up there is just fuckin gross. When you've finally got to screw a girl with a real man's cock you'll thank us when you realise what you've been missing all this time."

I started to speak, but he came forward holding me down with amazing force for such a small young man, forcing his cock back into my mouth as he held me down.

"Feel that tight shaft with your lips. Thats what its going to be like for my Sheryl if you ever come sniffing round her again, not that I think she'll let you come within a million miles of her once you're cut proper. She just loves those disgusting dirty skins, but were going to make sure that there is one less hood in this world for her to fuck with. We’ll make damn sure of it, all three of us."

As his glans was forcing down my throat I could see the knife out of the corner of my eye.

"Go on Sheryl, slide that skin up inside your cunt one last time. It’ll never feel the same thing again for you or him when we’ve cut him real good."

I tried to protest, apologise, beg but she said "Just do what he says Sam. The last time the guy tried to resist, he cut him up real bad. Not just his cock either. Cut him up real bad. Just do what he says."

She had my cock in her hand and pulled the skin right forward again, but with a matter of factness now which hadn't been there before. She was like an automaton as she straddled me and sank down on my now partial erection. I felt sure she was thinking as fast as I was as she started to fuck, but hoping against hope that she was having more luck thinking of a way out of this desperate situation than I was. I felt nothing as she worked up and down on me. Time past, but I don’t know how long it went on for. Probably just a few seconds, my cock feeling nothing and shriveled inside her, my mind occupied with horror as he held the knife first at my throat, then moving down to stretch out my ball-sack and hold the knife there, squirming with a sudden pain as he deliberately nicked the skin with the tip. I really thought he was going to castrate me, but just as I was preparing for the rush of agony he moved away.

"Enough now. Thats enough dirty animal hood in you now, you skin-whore. Get off him."

She did as she was told with no comment.

"Lick your juice off his cock"

She leant over me and took my cock in her mouth, something of the old tenderness still there.

"You know what's next," he said.

Obviously she did, and I couldn't help but wonder how many times this terrible scenario had been played out before. She leant over my cock again, and took the bud of my overhang in her teeth.

"Harder" he said, holding the knife at her throat now and I winced slightly as she bit into the soft skin.

“Now pull him tight. Real tight. I want him to have a proper, proud cut as his souvenir of you, skin-slut."

Again I winced as she leant back, my foreskin still between her teeth, pulling it out way beyond the point of any possible pleasure.

"Tighter! Pull the fuckin thing tighter. I want him flayed."

The pain was searing through my cock now, and I squirmed as he moved towards me again, his cock now hard and red in his hand, his fingers working some precum over his permanently bared and leathery glans.

To my surprise, he now held two knives, and he proffered one towards me.

"Take it" he said. "But don't even dream of trying anything stupid. I know how to use this one real quick. Don't I Sheryl?"

She said nothing. "Don't I Sheryl" he shouted, and this time she nodded slowly in reply, her eyes meeting mine as if in terrible confirmation of what he was saying.

"So Sam or whatever your name is take the fuckin knife man" he yelled.

My one desperate thought was that someone in the motel would surely hear the noise and come to investigate. He pushed the knife into my hand.

"Cut, doggy-dick. Cut that stinkin skin off yourself. Make yourself clean, turn yourself into a real man. Grow up at last."

I tried to throw the knife down, but he was at me in a second, yanking so hard on my balls that I screamed out in agony. He held the knife at them again.

"If you don't cut that fuckin dirty skin, I'll cut off your balls one at a time then come and circumcise you myself. Cut that fuckin skin, man!"

I knew he meant it. I was totally helpless there. As if it wasn't me doing it, I saw my hand take the knife from his hand. I saw my hand with that ugly blade in it. I saw my hand reach down to my foreskin, still stretched agonisingly tight in her teeth. I saw the first flow of blood as I pushed the flat of the blade into my own hood as gingerly as I could. I saw my own hand cutting at my own foreskin, I saw, just before I passed out with the searing agony, my own hand begin my own circumcision.

It was dark when I came to, pain flowing through me, my mind suddenly clear and remembering every horrible detail of what had happened. I felt agony from my cock as soon as I moved. I had to see. I had to see what had happened to me. The sheet had blood on it, oozing out from my crotch. Not too much though so I reckoned he couldn't have castrated me, but what was going to be there under the sheet? Had he left it at my own tentative slice at my own foreskin, something that would heal up leaving me with a scar on my cock that would be a reminder of what had happened for the rest of my life, or had he done more terrible mutilation? I wasn’t ready to lift that sheet yet to see the truth, my mind still trying to come to terms with what had happened.

Shit, perhaps he was still there, him waiting to do more damage to me and get revenge for messing with his wife. I looked quickly round the room but there was no sign of them. The suitcase was gone, the room was a mess and it looked as if they had fled fast. I saw that my wallet and car keys had gone too.

I had to know. I had to see As lifted the sheet, pain flooded through me again as the cloth separated from my wound, dried blood gluing it to my skin. My balls were still there, just the slight nick he had given me showing as a small red line on my sack. The head of my penis was bandaged roughly, some blood soaked cotton wool held in place with some Band-Aid.

Shit, it hurt like hell but my spirits rose slightly as I reckoned that my self-inflicted slice might be the worst that had happened to me, my punishment for allowing myself to be picked up by that skin-mad women. I could live with that. At least I still had my balls and foreskin, scarred though they may be.

Then I saw it. My glance fell on the bedside locker. There it was. Amongst the cigarette butts in the ashtray. I didn't know what I was looking at at first. I was curious, but after a terrible second I realised just what I was seeing. There seemed so much of it, an unbelievable amount. Grey-coloured, twisted and distorted, ground in amongst the ash. A grotesque hideous thing that had once been part of me.

I was looking at my foreskin.

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Comments and suggestions welcome – gareth.walton@talk21.com