The story of the soldier

THE STORIES OF CANTERBURY

PROLOGUE

Jacopo della Voragine claims (and who am I to contradict him) that Saint Thomas of Canterbury was murdered in the year 1174 by soldiers serving the King of England, and his death came from a few assassins attacking him, cutting off his head with a sword, and brutally smashing his skull, leaving his brains scattered on the cathedral floor. But the saint, who was also said to wear a shirt and underwear made of goat skin, along with cilices and other instruments of mortification, became a miracle worker from the first minute of his death, and continued to bestow his grace upon the faithful who came to his tomb to pray and implore forgiveness for their sins.

Not for mortification and penitence, but following my dark desires to find pleasure in pain, I have worn and seen various torture instruments, which, if I were a saint, would have already earned me heaven: clamps on my nipples, chastity machines that painfully imprisoned my cock and prevented it from expanding when necessary, all kinds of toys that imitated male phalluses in my ass, and other more atrocious instruments, which ultimately proved to be sources of ecstasy for both the saint and the sinner.

But despite my sins, or perhaps because of them, I also decided to go on a pilgrimage to the saint's tomb, and like many others, to make my way to Canterbury to feel the joy that those who preceded me in the pilgrimage claimed to have felt.

It's not easy to go on a pilgrimage in these times: the abundance of pilgrims has attracted many scoundrels and penitents to the pilgrimage routes, and thieves, swindlers, murderers, bandits, and assailants are common on the roads to Santiago, Rome, the Holy Land, or, more modestly, Canterbury. That's why it's become customary to pilgrimage in the company of others, and from the beginning, I decided to join the retinue of the Bishop of Ulm, who was traveling with his servants and some military men, whom I appreciated for their bearded, virile, and well-endowed appearance, evident from the bulge in their breeches. Some burghers, merchants of various goods, and a few families who seemed comfortable and well-off also traveled with us, as the poor and tattered are not usually admitted to these pilgrim groups.

We set out at dawn to make the most of the daylight, and after just an hour, a handsome Captain, despite some scars on his face, addressed us in a thunderous voice, saying:

"Friends! Companions! You all know that we have a long journey ahead of us, and the important thing is that no one falters and can reach the saint's tomb and prostrate themselves there, rather than on the road. I propose that to make the journey more enjoyable, we tell each other stories, fables, or tales, each according to their knowledge, and we won't criticize anyone unless it's to praise the grace or virtue of the story."

The noble captain spoke, and after some initial surprise, we ...