A Summer Adventure

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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 The ancient Romans called this force Eros – and his smiling face; stamped on the ruins in the hills, superceded the virgin, huddled away in the darkened vaults of churches and monasteries.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 isvecbahis 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 isveçbahis giriş 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 isveçbahis yeni giriş 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. 

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