Cocks of the Kingdom: Mister Monday Chapter 1

Cocks of the Kingdom Book 1: Mister Moonday

A Keys to the Kingdom Porn Parody, detailing the Amatory Adventures of Arthur Penishankering the Insatiable Cockslut

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of Garth Nix. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended. This is a work of purely speculative fiction. It is not intended to infringe on any rights by and of the companies and/or individuals involved in the production of The Keys to the Kingdom series.

Basically, this is a pornified version of the Keys to the Kingdom by Garth Nix (who I sincerely hope never, ever sees this), a series I greatly enjoyed as a child, but which conspicuously lacks sex (or romance) of any kind. Think of this, if you will, as a rectification of that lamentable absence. The plot will be fundamentally the same as the original books (though I'm afraid the actual plot side of things will be largely neglected in favour of ridiculously over the top porn), with the key difference that Arthur Penishankering is a cock-crazy boyslut. I've also changed some of the female characters into men, for the sake of maximum smut.

~

Warning for underage sex and potential non-consent/dubious consent. Warning for themes of domination and submission, including rough sex/sexual violence.

It should go without saying the acts/behaviour depicted here is not remotely safe or healthy, and naturally I do not condone, endorse or approve any of it. Fantasy is one thing, but real life is another, and there is NO excuse for having sexual contact of any kind with a child/teenager. I hate and loathe paedophiles and child molesters more than I can express–even thinking about someone hurting a child makes me physically shake with anger. They should all be publicly executed.

This fic, on the other hand, is pure, depraved, fantasy. Basically, if this doesn't sound like your cup of tea, please don't read any further.

Despite the above, this is not a dark work at all (or at least not intended to be), nor does it take itself too seriously.

~

Finally: this is my first time posting anything online. Thus, please read in a forgiving spirit.

🙦𐐗 Chapter One 𐐗🙤

The first day at his new school was not going well for Arthur Penhaligon, or, as he was known informally, `Arthur Penishankering'. The nickname had been bestowed by the boys at Arthur's old school, when they first laid eyes on the small, effeminate child who was to be their new classmate. And indeed, who could blame them? For they saw, with the perceptive instinct of youth, that this slender thing was a creature utterly unlike them.

Arthur's silky hair was a glistening jet-black, falling around his ears with a slight curl at the tips. His face was heart-shaped, and positively cherubic in its innocence. Cheeks, darkened with a perpetual blush; two liquid-blue eyes, wide and guileless, framed by girlishly long lashes and set above a cute button nose and luscious pink mouth. It was a face crying out to be defiled, to be drenched with pungent male seed.

Where they reeked of body odour and too much cheap deodorant, Arthur's pores seemed to exude a naturally sweet aroma of vanilla and cinnamon, laced with a tangy undertone of semen. His scent alone was enough to drive males mad with lust (and not just male humans, Arthur had discovered. More than once he had been forced to run home, pursued by a canine —or several, the animal panting excitedly, hard doggy-dick waggling under its belly).

While other adolescents were just beginning to grapple with razors, Arthur's face and body remained as satin-smooth as the[HM1]  day he was born. His milk-pale skin was lightly dusted with freckles, where theirs was pitted with acne. And whereas other boys his age tended either to thin and gangly, or chubby and lumbering, Arthur was a perfectly-proportioned balance of willowy slenderness, and plump, mouth-watering curves. Standing exactly five inches above four feet, his chest and shoulders were narrow, while his legs were long and slim, tapering down from wide, womanish hips— and the most phenomenal arse ever seen.

Poems could have (and probably had) been written about Arthur's arse. It—two beautiful round globes, slightly elongated, and taut enough to bounce a penny off, concealing a tiny rose-pink pucker that just begged to be penetrated— was by rights too large for his slight frame. But rather than looking odd, Arthur's ample posterior was absolutely mesmerising. Arthur knew that everywhere he walked, whether down a street or a school corridor, the eyes of every male in a ten-foot radius would be glued to his backside. And if he were, by chance, to drop something, and bend over to retrieve it— pert bottom wiggling enticingly—why, it was all they could do to restrain themselves from ripping his pants off and mounting him then and there.

Finally, nestled between his creamy thighs, was the prettiest, most adorable little cocklet you've ever seen—so tiny, and so feminine, it barely deserved to be called a penis at all.

And do you know, dear reader, although the name was meant cruelly, Arthur didn't mind it in the slightest. For, after all, it was perfectly accurate. Arthur did hanker for penis. In fact, despite his tender years, Arthur Penhaligon was probably the biggest, most insatiable slut ever born. No, Arthur `Penishankering' didn't resent the epithet—he revelled in it.

And, fortunately for Arthur, his good looks, submissive charm and willingness to bend over for literally anyone, had won him no end of goodwill among the sexually frustrated students and staff of Briarthorn Boy's College. In fact, by the time he left, it would have been no exaggeration to call him the most popular boy in school. He was sorely missed after his departure. Arthur knew that from the many dick-pics, wank-vids and absolutely filthy messages he still received from his former classmates, which he feverishly jerked off to.

Rather unfortunately, moving to a new town meant his whorish reputation was nascent, if not non-existent. No doubt Eric, Arthur's older brother, who had transferred to the same school, but was several years above him, would start regaling his mates on the basketball team with vivid descriptions of his little bro's impossibly tight arse and lack of gag reflex. But even so, notoriety as a ravenous dick-muncher took a while to establish, and the males of this school would not yet know, when they looked at Arthur, that the petite, pretty boy in front of them wanted nothing more than to fulfil their most depraved fantasies of rough-fucking and sexual domination. Arthur would have to change that.

For now, however, Arthur had a different problem. Unbeknownst to him or his parents, the seventh grade had a cross-country run every Monday—today. And it was compulsory, unless the pupil's parents had made special arrangements­—in advance.

Arthur explained to the gym teacher that he suffered from a serious medical condition called Nymphomania Extremis. This condition meant that Arthur, if over-exposed to sexual stimulus, could go into a delirious, cock-craving fit, desperately needing to be filled with dick and sperm. If this acute craving wasn't met, Arthur could suffer permanent mental and physiological damage, and even die. As a matter of fact, only a few weeks ago, he'd had a really severe nymph-out at his old school, dashing out onto the football pitch in the middle of a game, where he'd been drilled by both teams and half the spectators (including a few teachers). He'd spent over a week in hospital, continuously plugged either by the dick of a willing nurse, or a dildo, until the cock-fever abated. For this reason, he'd been strictly forbidden from engaging in strenuous physical activity of any kind (which he imagined included sex, though Arthur had no intention of giving that up), since any sort of over-stimulation could be dangerous.

Or at least, that's what Arthur tried to explain. From the moment the teacher, Mr Weightman, had laid eyes on the boy—taking in small, delicate hands tugging anxiously on an oversized shirt, and large, vulnerable eyes peering up from under dark bangs—he had been swamped by a wave of lust. For his part, feeling a mixture of nervousness and need under the man's hungry gaze, Arthur became a stammering mess.

So, as it transpired, only the bit about needing cock got through to the entranced gym teacher, and he took it as an invitation to pull the boy close and grope him enthusiastically, further reducing Arthur's explanation to incoherent spluttering (and unintentionally priming him for a fuck-fit). Girly voice rising to an even higher pitch as the man slid a hand down the back of Arthur's pants, the boy reiterated that he was incapable of participating on medical grounds. Besides, he squeaked, as his tight pucker was invaded by a thick digit, he couldn't run in the dismally un-sexy school uniform of leather shoes, grey trousers, and white shirt and tie. At his old school he'd worn shorts, which were much better for running, not to mention far more flattering to Arthur's preteen behind.

For some reason—perhaps the forty other screaming kids, or perhaps the supple warmth of Arthur's hole around his questing finger—Mr. Weightman only registered the second part of Arthur's complaint.

`Settle down!' he barked at the riotous children. `Subhan, let go of Tanner's crotch, right now!'

Turning back to Arthur, he bellowed in the boy's face.

`You brainless bimbo! You'll run in whatever the fuck I tell you, and if I hear another peep about your fucking uniform, I'll rip the bloody thing off and make you run naked!'

With that, he yanked his finger out roughly, and despatched Arthur with a slap to his rump.

And so, Arthur had no choice but to run, puffing and sweating and round arse-cheeks jiggling.

As if Mr. Weightman's fingering hadn't been bad enough, being around a lot of sweaty schoolboys— inhaling the testosterone-ripened air, made Arthur light-headed. Several of the athletic boys smacked Arthur's bobbing rear as they overtook him, while the slower ones behind him made ribald catcalls— all of which only heightened the cockslut's ardour.

Just for reassurance, Arthur felt in his pocket for his butt-plug, closing his fingers around the cool plastic. He didn't really want to use it—plastic was no substitute for the taste, texture and smell of warm, pulsing man-flesh. But last time he'd ended up hospitalised because of his reluctance to use the butt-plug, and he'd promised his parents he wouldn't do that again.

Weightman jogged past, his visibly distended hard-on bouncing up and down in his gym shorts.

`Pick up those feet, sissyboy!' he shouted at Arthur. `Don't think you'll be whoring your way to a passing grade!'

The nearby students sniggered. Humiliated, yet aroused, Arthur could feel the cock-fever building inside him as he continued to trot along. After a short while he was panting heavily, and his mind felt clouded, as if his head was stuffed with cotton wool. He could barely see straight. When the boy raised a hand to his flushed, sweat-streaked face, he was visibly trembling with want. Desperate, and no longer caring what the school, his parents, or anyone else thought, he looked around for a boy, any boy, who might do something to assuage his torment. But even the slower students had long since passed Arthur by at this point. All he could do was stagger after them, and hope someone had stopped for a break or something.

By the time Arthur reached the edge of the dense forest that bordered the field, his hole was fluttering open and shut, and his teensy dicklet was standing ramrod straight. He felt the burning sensation in his arsehole that signalled an oncoming slut-seizure.

Arthur's legs gave out, and he collapsed into the grass, shivering, as the dick-delirium took hold. His vision swam, and then darkened.

☞🖸☜

When he came to, there were figures leaning over him. Two boys­, wearing identical t-shirts featuring pornstars Arthur hadn't heard of, sunglasses, and tight black jeans, which showcased surprisingly large crotch-mounds. Incongruously large, even, given the boys' lanky builds. They were twins, as alike in appearance as in dress, save that one had short hair, dyed-black, and the other had long hair, dyed white-blonde. Arthur dimly remembered seeing them at the forefront of the runners—they'd both slapped him as they ran past, one on each buttock. They must have already completed a lap, and come across Arthur on their second time round.

`Are you all right?' a voice—the short-haired one—asked.

No! the lust-crazed part of Arthur's brain shrieked, fixated on the boys' bulges. I'm so empty—it hurts so bad ...please, fill me with your fat dicks!

The butt-plug, get the butt-plug! a smaller, saner part of Arthur's mind thought urgently. He fumbled in his pocket for the toy, but his shaking hand found nothing. The butt-plug was gone! Exhausted, he ceased struggling, and let himself be swallowed up by the storm of desire.

`Hold on,' the blonde one said, `he must be having some sort of seizure. We'd better get someone to call an ambulance.'

No! Arthur wanted to scream. Cock! I need cock! Get your dicks out and fuck me, for Christ's sake! But all that came out was a long, keening moan.

`Quick!' the other twin said. `You run back to the gym while I go after Wankman.' With that, the pair bounded away, leaving Arthur lying gasping on the ground, unsated and hysterical.

No! Arthur howled internally. Don't leave me empty. Please, come back!

Distraught, he flopped around in the grass, until his hand landed on a small object. The butt-plug! With a sob of relief, he clumsily scrabbled his trousers down (Arthur never wore underwear), and jammed the cool plastic into his inflamed anus.

It didn't banish the fever—Arthur was too far gone for that—but just having something in his arse soothed the ache, and lessened the tremors of need. His mind and vision cleared somewhat, he gingerly propped himself up on his elbows.

Then he stared in shock, plush lips dropping open like he'd heard a fly being unzipped.

Hovering over the grass, only a few yards away from Arthur, was a brilliant white light. As it glided nearer, a dark outline materialised in its centre. Gradually, the light faded, revealing a bizarrely-dressed man, pushing a weird wheelchair-like contraption, in which reclined another, equally strange-looking individual. The outlandish wheelchair, shaped like a bath and made of wicker, rolled forward on three tyre-less metal wheels.

The man pushing the bath-chair was kitted-out like a less tidy version of the butler from Downton Abbey—dusty black coat with long tails that brushed the ground as he walked, and an off-white shirtfront that looked stiff as cardboard. The man lying down was wearing a pink silk bath-robe, decorated with intricate golden patterns that to Arthur looked vaguely phallic (though that might just have been his dick-mania). The garment, though beautiful, was a rather abbreviated affair, displaying a lean, hairless chest, and long, lissom legs.

Arthur decided he must be seeing things. Hallucinations weren't uncommon during his nymph-fits, though usually he just imagined hard, leaking erections. Still, Arthur couldn't help thinking these men looked unsettlingly corporeal.

They moved closer, and their faces came into sharper focus.

Arthur saw that the reclining man was young, no older than twenty, and breathtakingly handsome—or, no, Arthur corrected himself—breathtakingly pretty. In fact, Arthur could tell straight away this man was a cocksucker. The man had delicate, symmetrical features, not too dissimilar from Arthur's own— but more than that, his general mien was impressed with a certain sensual decadence that screamed pathic. The second thing Arthur realised was that this man was tired. His flaxen hair flopped limply over a pallid forehead, and his cerulean eyes, lighter than Arthur's deep indigo, were hooded, and rimmed with dark circles. Every listless motion spoke of bone-deep weariness.

The attendant couldn't have made for a sharper contrast. He was elderly—white hair, fingernails long and yellowing, skin lined and liver-spotted—et for all that seemed surprisingly energetic, pushing the chair straight toward Arthur at a brisk pace.

`I don't know why I keep you upstairs, Sneezer', the man in the bath-chair said, in a posh drawl that was simultaneously bored and contemptuous. `Or agree to these bloody ridiculous plans of yours.'

`Now, sir,' said `Sneezer', `think of it, not as a plan, but a precaution. We don't want the Will bothering us, do we sir?'

`Oh, hang the Will!' said the young man irritably. `And hang you Sneezer, for dragging me out of my bed on this fool's errand.' He yawned widely, and subsided, his long-lashed eyelids falling shut. He seemed to be shifting up and down in an odd fashion, and his cheeks were flushed. After a while, he opened his eyes again and asked, `Are you quite sure we'll find someone suitable here?'

`Sure as love boys love buggery, sir', replied Sneezer. `Surer even, some boys needing a bit of persuading-like. I set the dials meself, to find someone suitably on the edge of eternity. You give `im the Key, he dies, you get it back. Another ten thousand years without trouble, and the Will can't quibble cos you did give up the Key to one in the line of heredity, as it were.'

`It's very annoying', the youth said, yawning again. `I'm quite exhausted with all this running around and answering these inane inquiries from up top. How the deuce should I know how that bit of the Will got out? I'll be damned if I'm writing a report, you know. I haven't the energy.'

`In fact,' he continued, moving up and down slightly more vigorously, his breaths becoming louder, and faster, `I could really do with a nap— `

`Not now, sir, not now', Sneezer interrupted in an urgent tone. Shading his eyes with a dirty hand, he peered around, seeming unable to see Arthur, despite being right in front of him. `We're almost there.'

`We are there', the young man replied coldly. He looked at Arthur as if the boy had only just appeared, and pointed with an effete, limp-wristed gesture. `Is that it?' he asked, voice dripping with disdain.

`Ah!' said Sneezer, letting go the bath-chair and walking towards Arthur. As he advanced, Arthur noticed that dangling out the front of his breeches was a wrinkly appendage that looked even grimier than the rest of the man.

A cock! Arthur thought with delight. Surely this Sneezer would fuck him! In his frantic state, the boy didn't care that the man was old, ugly and unkempt. All that mattered was the man had his prick out—and he was coming toward Arthur! Disappointingly, the butler made no move to put his residue-encrusted organ inside Arthur, though the boy could smell its rank odour. Instead, he picked Arthur up by the scruff of the neck—with no apparent difficulty, in spite of the man's age.

`Come on, my lad,' he said, with a ghastly smile full of pointed yellow teeth, `let's see you pay your respects to Mister Monday.'

He dragged Arthur over to the bath-chair, and lowered him until his head was hanging over this Mister Monday's lap. Arthur could now see the man was definitely naked under the robe. Shifting restlessly, his legs parted, and the flaps of the gown fell open to uncover an engorged phallus, which was trickling clear precum. The young man's penis was larger than Arthur's (which was saying almost nothing), but it was still far smaller and skinnier than any other the boy had seen. It was a sissy-slut's cocklet, not a man's cock.

Up close, Arthur saw why the man was hard—he was lethargically rocking back and forth on what looked like a primitive leather dildo, apparently affixed to the seat of the chair.

`Go on', Sneezer urged.

Hoping he was doing the right thing, Arthur leaned down, and pressed a respectful kiss to the man's slender shaft, lapping up some precum too, for good measure. The man made an unhh sound, and more fluid oozed out of his dainty member.

The effect on Arthur was considerably more dramatic. Contact with a male sex organ, even one as diminutive as Mister Monday's, combined with that tasty lick of pre-fuck-fluid, made his lust-fever flare up in full force. It slammed into him in a fiery wave of need. The craving was now excruciating, and the butt-plug did nothing to alleviate it. His chest was tightening and eyes blurring. He felt like he was being boiled alive from the inside. Inflamed with desire, his body tensed in Sneezer's grip, and his mouth gaped in a silent entreaty.

`You're sure this one will die instantly?' Mister Monday asked, reaching out languidly to lift Arthur's chin. Unlike Sneezer, Monday's hands were clean, with long, manicured nails. There was hardly any force in his slim fingers, but Arthur found he couldn't move anyhow. It was as though the man had pressed one of those paralysing nerves, like in Kung Fu movies.

Sneezer rummaged in his pocket with the hand that wasn't holding Arthur. He pulled out a half-dozen crumpled pieces of paper, which hung in the air as though laid on an invisible desk. He quickly sorted through them, selected one, smoothed it out, and carefully held it against Arthur's cheek. The paper flashed blue, and Arthur Penhaligon appeared on it in gold letters.

`It's `im, no doubt at all sir', said Sneezer. He returned the paper to his pocket, and all the others followed suit as if they were strung together on a thread. `Arthur Penhaligon. Due to shuffle off his mortal coil any moment now.' The butler cleared his throat and swallowed. `You'd best give `im the Key, sir.'

Mister Monday, yawning, let go of Arthur's chin. Then he reached inside the left sleeve of his robe, and pulled out a slim metal spike. It was shaped, Arthur thought, rather like a cock, with two circles at the base and a long, thin shaft. The end, however, was wickedly pointed, and levelled at Arthur.

This is it, thought Arthur, with an abrupt calmness, I'm actually going to die this time. He's going to stab me with that knife, and even if he doesn't, neither of them have shown any inclination to fuck me. I'm toast whichever way you slice it...

Arthur couldn't break free. His cum-frenzy made his muscles weak as jelly, and even if he had somehow been able to escape Sneezer's iron grip, that same frenzy would kill him anyway.

`By the power vested in me under the arrangements entered into in the blah blah blah', muttered Monday. He spoke at an indecipherable speed, and didn't slow down until he reached the last few words. `And so let the Will be done.'

With that, Monday thrust the blade at Arthur. At the same time, Sneezer let Arthur fall back onto the grass. Monday laughed wearily and dropped the blade into Arthur's open palm. Straight away, Sneezer wrapped Arthur's fingers around it tightly, making the metal bite into his skin. Arthur cried out in pain and shock.

And then he noticed something. As soon as the metal dick-stick touched his skin, Arthur had the sensation of being filled, as if a well-sized prick was snuggly nestled in his anal passage, and his mouth exploded with the sweet taste of sperm. He found his heart-rate slowing, and his breath no longer came in shuddering, moaning gasps. Somehow, miraculously, his cock-fever had subsided. He was still horny, of course. Arthur was always horny. But his libido was now a low simmer, rather than an all-consuming inferno, keeping his little cocklet comfortably chubbed, rather than painfully rigid, and his hole gently tingling, rather than blazing with need. He no longer felt like he was going to die of lust.

`And the other one,' Sneezer said insistently. `He must have it all, sir.'

Monday looked at his servant, some of the drowsiness disappearing from his eyes. He started to yawn, but quashed it with an angry frown.

`You're very keen for the Key to leave my possession, even if only for a few minutes', said Monday slowly. You looked as if he'd been about to reach into his other sleeve, but now paused. `And to give me boiled brandy and water. Too much boiled brandy and water. And inviting Noon up to my chambers...' His frown deepened. `Perhaps, in my weariness, I have not given this matter due consideration...'

`If the Will finds you, and you have not given the Key to a suitable Heir— `began Sneezer, but Monday cut him off.

`If the Will finds me,' he mused. `And what if it did? If the reports be true, only a few lines have escaped their durance. I wonder how much power they hold?'

`It would be safer not to put it to the test', said Sneezer, nervously wiping his nose on his sleeve.

`With the complete Key in his possession, the brat could well live,' Monday pointed out. For the first time, he sat upright in the bath-chair, the leather phallus slipping out of his rectum, and his eyes became sharp and alert. `Besides, Sneezer, it strikes me as odd that you of all my servants should have come up with this scheme.'

`Why is that, sir?' asked Sneezer, in an obsequious tone. He attempted to smile ingratiatingly, but there was anxiety on his face.

`Because generally you're an idiot!' Monday screeched in fury. He flicked a finger, and an invisible force struck Sneezer and Arthur, tossing them across the field like ragdolls. `Whose game are you playing here, Sneezer? You're in league with the Morrow Days, aren't you? You and that Inspector, and the Will safe as ever? Do you expect to take my position?'

`No,' said Sneezer. He rose slowly to his feet and began to stride toward the bath-chair. With each step, his voice became louder and clearer, booming into the distance like a cannon. Trumpets sounded as he spoke. Sharp letters of black ink formed on his skin and, dancing, joined into lines of type that rushed across the man's face like living tattoos.

`INTO THE TRUST OF MY GOOD MONDAY, I PLACE THE ADMINISTRATION OF THE LOWER HOUSE,' said both the type and the thunderous voice that issued out of Sneezer's mouth. `UNTIL— `

Arthur blinked. He couldn't believe the indolent Monday was capable of such speed. He drew a glittering object from his sleeve, which he pointed at Sneezer, shouting deafening, incomprehensible words that fell on Arthur's ears like thunderclaps, shaking the ground with their vibrations.

There was a blinding flash, another earth-quaking shockwave and a scream—Arthur couldn't tell whose.

When Arthur's sight returned, Monday, Sneezer and bath-chair were all gone. But running through the air was a shining thread of black type, the words moving too fast for Arthur to read. They swirled above Arthur's head, forming into a spiralling whirlwind of letters. Something solid appeared in its midst. It fell on Arthur's stomach.

It was a slim notebook, about the size of Arthur's small hand. He picked it up and slid into his breast pocket. Looking up again, he saw that the lines of print were fading, slowing down long enough that he could make out the words Monday, Heir and The Will, before vanishing entirely.

Arthur heard a noise and looking around, saw a nurse approaching from the gym, carrying a medical kit, while Mr. Weightman was running toward him from the opposite direction. Behind Weightman came the entirety of Arthur's gym class.

Arthur moaned in relief and anticipation. Thank fuck! He knew Weightman would be more than happy to stuff his needy hole, and between him and the other students, Arthur's orifices would be kept well occupied until they could get him to a hospital. Maybe he wasn't going to die of a nymph-fit after all.

But then Arthur remembered. He wasn't having a nymph-fit anymore. It had stopped the moment he'd been given­—

Arthur looked at his hand. It was still clenched tight around the metal spike, blood dribbling out between white-knuckled fingers. The strip of metal was sharp-edged, and heavy despite its slimness. It was silver, and ornamented with elaborate gold inlay. And yes, he hadn't imagined it, it was indeed shaped like a penis. More importantly, it was real, and so was the book in his pocket. And therefore, Arthur reasoned, in a kind of detached horror, so too were Sneezer and Mister Monday. It wasn't all just a lust-induced fantasy.

There wasn't time to think more on it. Weightman and the nurse would be on him in a minute. They'd take the metal prick away from him for sure. Arthur looked around frantically, trying to think of how he could hide it.

A few paces away, a patch of the field was discoloured. Arthur crawled over, and plunged the shaft into the soil, until only the two little testicle-circles remained, practically invisible among the tufts of grass.

As soon it left his hand, the fuck-frenzy returned with a vengeance, twice as strong as before. Arthur wasn't burning up anymore. Instead, he felt ominously cold, as though the vitality was bleeding out of his body.

With the last of his strength, he rolled away from the spot where he'd buried the dick-blade, not wanting to draw attention to it.

He hoped they wouldn't find it.

He hoped he'd be able to retrieve it later.

If he lived.

 [HM1]