It was the time the figs grew, and so did desire, heavy, drooping off the trees as water once did in Winter months. The airs seemed heady with it – one might have to sit down, and those coming from other countries, already bubbling in the July sun, would be forced into their beds with it – a sort of sickness. The ancient Romans called this force Eros – and his smiling face; stamped on the ruins in the hills, superceded the virgin, huddled away in the darkened vaults of churches and monasteries. Indeed, even the priests could feel it – sweating underneath their robes, making them hard and ready for fucking – yet no, still heads bowed, only dark glances at the world and each other – no fucking, God watched everywhere and they had only the bathrooms to touch themselves in.
I had swum in desire before, and as you do when you visit a place each Summer; no longer drowned in it. I place my hand delicately on my white chest – about to blister and melt in the sun, and let my fingers run, run, run…. down my neck, a sort of spout. I can feel the desire fill my cock, the way red wine fills jars – or a blossom is made. My thighs shift and squirm. I can still taste the fig on my tongue – so sweet, in all its fleshiness. Down, down – valleys made of skin. My mouth is gaping – as if for use, as if any man or woman might shove their tongue in it, lick out all that fig from it, and maybe branches would sprout from my bones. I have reached my nipples, less white – teasing them, teasing them harder – a sort of childish bullying. I feel the air in my mouth and hole and brushing against my balls. It is so sweet, and my hand is reaching down – down to my boxers, swelling, as my feet dangle in the warming swimming pool. The first tangle of my hairs – I lick my finger, and can taste the sweat of it all, each meal and fibre of my being, emenating from me, as I feed myself my own desire by the water.
Ah – and there it is, my hand grasping my shaft – half-spent, already sticky, already salty – as if any second I might gush upon my stomach. I feel my holes clam-clench, salt and fragrance in the wet ocean air – gusts over my red hair, billowing back, spreading out against the lounger. My hand it so wet now, the pre-come oozing. I must taste it – I pull out my hand and lick the stuff off my finger. It tastes like oysters and young men. Now the wetness of my fingers prepares me to stick my finger in, to explore my dark and painful spaces – pushing down my taint, sticking a little to the sides, preparing to enter in. I rim myself with my finger, callous at my edges that seem to swell – resisting my own seduction of my hole, and now, oh god – the tip in, alll that resistance and a pang of pain only makes me harder – I am ravishing myself, my own body defiled by my finger – as if I were god. I force my finger deeper in – it is ecstasy, and that is the only word, and start to fuck myself. Oh, oh….
No. I am denied. There – footsteps on the path to the pool. I pull my finger out, which sucks and pulls, and lick it to taste my own defilement. That does not help – it is Brandon.
Brandon was American, Californian to be exact, and built like the sort of Grecian hero one only sees in museums, usually missing an arm or leg or cock – yet he had it all, as if he had sprung from his pedastal, and greeted the mortals for a day in the dullness of modernity. He looks at me with a suspcious eye, it arouses me, and I try to cover my hardness with my hands:
‘What are you up to?’
‘Nothing really. What about you?’
‘I went for a run and then a swim in the sea, beautiful- you should have come.’
I would have come a minute ago if it weren’t for you. But his back, arched downwards now, and his wet trunks, pulling a little off his thighs to show his arse – a little whiter than the rest of his skin, yet somehow more luscious, inexplored, unperfornative, begging for me to pry open his cheeks and taste his hole, perhaps ravishing him as I have ravished myself. I am leaking now. For the first time in a while, I fear that the desire of this time of year may be drowning me. He turns and gives me a knowing wink – eyes and cock don’t lie, and I hate them for it.
‘Are you sure you were doing nothing?’
I am bright red, as if ripening – it isn’t the sun, it’s shame and arousal. My precome now sticking my cock to my boxers.
‘Yeah, just relaxing.’
‘What’s that then?’
He gestures to my throbbing cock, as I fumble to contain it beneath my hands, knowing all too well it is completely in vain.
‘I-I’
He moves over to me, slowly, deliberately – like an executioner – any second I may die. His brown eyes pierce me, I can feel the penetration, it is physical and cruel. His own swimming trunks swell, and I can see the curve of his cock in his boxers. I cannot help but salivate. Now he is right next to me, his breath on my neck, his hands gently stroking my chest and nipples.
‘I’m going to help you with that. Turn over.’
I do as he says, I am white hot with arousal – and my breath is drowned, all of me is swollen, I am ready to eat. My boxers now press against my hole which has been sweating in the sun.
Ah – he grabs my soft ass, which seems to melt in his veined hands – all of me is his, I can feel his hand’s breath near my hole. My balls are swollen and tight against the sun lounger. He slowly massages me, each fibre of my soft flesh is alive and sweating – my hole ever swelling, smelling more perfumed as he touches me.
Then suddenly, he rips apart my boxers to show my hole – the first wash of cold sea air on it gushes in and I offer up a helpless moan. The edges of my pink hole are still a little wet from fucking myself, and I can hear him laughing.
‘What a nice hole you’ve got!’
He spreads my cheeks wide, and spits in it, and I feel the wetness awaken every cell there – glistening waves of light and sensation. Then he lowers his face – ah, I can feel his hot breath on my hole, opening it, calling out to it, preparing it for whatever might come next as my cock continues to bleed, planted against the lounger.
Then suddenly his tongue is on me, exploring every edge, the wetness seeming to fill me up from the guts – exploring with its mollusc-suck, kissing and now teeth, biting and leaving their marks on me. His fingers clench my cheeks as he pushes his tongue in, reaching the start of my sphincter, making me moan as my body tries to resist each lick. Each time he draws away, a spool of spit traces him back along my taint – I am sweating and bright red.
‘Turn over’ – again he demands, I do it instinctively. ‘Touch yourself.’
With relief, I grab my shaft and pull my veins back and forth – the weight of my orgasm like a statue inside me. Then he pulls me up, so my torn boxers and hole are exposed and without warning – inserts his middle finger into me. Oh it hurts, he has pushed by every defence, deep inside me – I moan in pain. He shuts his hand against my mouth, swallowing my protestations to gurgles – as he fucks, harder and harder and deeper and another one, and another finger in me, strectching me more than the first and my body shifting and my heart swelling and all of it I can feeel all of it swelling to the moment –
I burst, white come all over myself, my face, my hair, the shaking of my legs and the burning heat of passion in my calcite pelvis. He feeds me some of the white, viscous fluid. It is desire.
It tastes like figs.