"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day..."

The Bard wiped a bit of sweat from his forehead and chewed on his bottom lip. The back room of the theater was lit by several dozen candles, and the collective heat made him perspire something awful. The desk was little more than a slab of roughly hewn wood across a couple of barrels, but it served him well enough; the parchment stayed in place, at least. A soft sound drifted up from underneath the table, and the Bard dipped his quill, carefully mumbling the words as he penned the next line.

"Thou art more lovely..." Another soft, wet sound erupted from below, and the Bard shuddered slightly. "...and more... temperate. Hm."

The table shook slightly, and the Bard hurriedly withdrew the quill so as to not disturb the writing. Frowning, he reached down and swatted a hard smack at the body beneath the table, and the shaking stopped. Satisfied, the Bard hummed again, a tuneless sound, and set the quill on the paper to write:

"Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath... hath..."

He paused. Below, a soft moan was barely audible, and the Bard felt a familiar clenching around his personal quill. Leaning back slightly, he looked down at the body moving rhythmically underneath the table, noticing the way the cheeks hugged him so nicely, itself an almost artful display of sensuality. The Bard reached down and grasped the soft flesh, pulled at it until he could plainly see the tight, subtly dark ring of the hole engulfing him. It was quite a lewd display, and the Bard smiled with satisfaction. Nothing helped get the creative juices flowing like getting the other juices flowing as well. A steady grasp of the thick cheek, and the Bard let the hole work itself around him as he once again set quill to parchment.

"...hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his hold complexion dimmed..."

A particularly deep thrust made the Bard gasp with surprise and delight, and he heard the voice from underneath the table moan loudly. Another hard buck, and the Bard sighed. A bit of ink has spilled onto the tabletop, and the morsel underneath was clearly too concerned with milking the Bard's cock to appreciate the delicate work he was doing. An admirable act, but some people clearly did not appreciate art. The Bard reached down to smack the firm cheeks again, this time leaving a solid hand print across the fair skin. This only coaxed yet more moans from the saucy minx under the table, but the shaking of the table died down again. Satisfied, the Bard picked up where he left off.

"And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy-- confound it!"

The bucking had started up again, and this time with such vigor that ink had spilled onto the page. Cursing, the Bard pulled the sheets apart and tried to contain the damages; luckily, no text had been obscured. Sweating and fuming, the Bard rose from the crate on which he has been sitting, and placing the papers down, he yanked the offending ass out from under the table. Its owner squealed, but the Bard silenced any objections with a hard, precise smack across the cheeks. The sound rang out sharply among the wooden walls, and the Bard stared down at the sweat-slick, glistening orbs of flesh, angling himself to press firmly against the gaping, winking hole. A soft moan emanated from underneath the desk.

"Quiet, Harlot! You'll get yours soon enough..."
The Bard shifted his feet and nudged at the prostrate figure's legs, corralling them closed and placing him with his feet on either side. Then he pressed forward, hilting himself in one swift, smooth motion inside the offending hole and finding a rest atop the sodden cheeks. Sitting in a low squat, the Bard rocked his hips back and forth a few times, feeling the tight ring massage his manhood while the slut beneath him gasped and mewled. Then, happy that he had eliminated any danger to his work, he picked up his quill again, dipped it in the inkwell and began to write once more:

"But thy eternal summer shall not face,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines of Time thou grow'st."

As he wrote, the Bard shifted his weight forward and ground himself into the ass of his victim. Every time he did, the figure underneath him shuddered and gasped, and the Bard was certain that they had by now realized why his nickname was 'the Spear'. It was, of course, the very same name that kept him so well stocked in willing and eager holes to warm him; everyone wanted to know if what they said about the Bard was true, and no one left with anything less than a gaping hole and a signature written in warm, white ink on their inner thighs. That was the Bard's personal guarantee.

"Quiet," he murmured, pushing all ten inches in for emphasis, "I'm at the couplet. Not long now..."
Whether or not the figure beneath him heard him was uncertain; taking the full length of the Spear drove a ragged, gasping moan from their lips, and the Bard let himself sink down as far as he could on the soft, cushiony cheeks as he wrote the final lines:

"So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."

"Mmh." The Bard sighed happily and put down the quill. A spot of ink had stained his fingers, and the black smeared liberally over the waist of the figure underneath as the Bard grabbed firmly the sweaty, oily skin and began to pound away in earnest. Standing above his partner, the Bard was able to leverage his full weight into each thrust, and soon he was forcing a series of blissful screams from the prone figure, the Bard himself drawing close to eruption. The sound of flesh on flesh was deafening, and his eyes were fixed on the quivering muscle straining to contain his girth as he drove himself from tip to balls, tip to balls over and over again in a furious frenzy of fucking. Tension began to mount in his groin, and suddenly the Bard clenched his fingers hard around the soft, slick flesh and released a mighty groan as his cock began pumping and jerking. Hard, deep, the white cum spilling from the tight hole, the Bard hammered himself home in the eager slut beneath him, and when the orgasm began to ebb he pulled himself, like Arthur pulling the sword from the stone, and jerked the last few spurts onto the shaking figure's ass and taint.

Slowly, panting heavily, the Bard stroked his sizeable tool with a smirk on his face. He bent down and let the tip of his cock drag between the ass cheeks beneath him, dipping into the gaping hole until the fruits of his labor spilled from the overflowing orifice. Now, with plenty of lube and the muscle stretched out by his massive tool, the hole was silky smooth and soft, and the Bard played with the idea of going for round two. But ultimately, he decided against it and withdrew, leaving his cock to drip semen onto the floor as he stepped away.

Carefully, the Bard collected his pages, blew on them to ensure they were dry, and pulled up his trousers. The figure underneath the desk was gasping and shuddering still, and would no doubt feel it in the morning. As the Bard made to leave, he turned around and looked down at the figure, a wide grin on his face.

"Very good. We may have a role for you yet..."