Buttercup

Looking down from the brow of the hill I was startled awake. A figure in white, there, down there. His grandfather's long-johns clothing his youthful frame tightly, so I could see every contour. He was standing by a shady pool, looking down on his reflection, a young narcissus. He unbuttoned the front, pulled his arms out, the golden shoulders bared, the valley running down the middle of his back. A buttercup was growing in front of me on the grassy bank. I lay low, the yellow reflected up against my chin. The warm sunshine's rays penetrating warmth through my clothes. I watched intently the boy-flower unwrap himself. His thumbs went to the back, started to slip down the lower part as two cheeks appeared first shyly, then flirtatiously, capriciously winsome.

He had to stoop over to pull them all the way down, a glorious view. I fingered the buttercup, gently careful not to bruise the petals. He was sitting now, pulling the last of the leggings off. He was unaware of my presence, but as I watched him, I felt an eternal longing to be beside him. I'd go down later and introduce myself, in a while. But for now I just wanted to watch. See him. As he sits back, his hands behind, for support, his legs spread wide, his head falling back drinking in the sun. Hair bleached blond, skin a lovely tan, creamy at the crotch, a band of near-white around his loins. His penis asleep, a size maybe a little too large for the rest of him, draped casually over his thigh.

He sits up, stroking his shoulders, his arms, his arm-pits, as he licks himself. Rubbing himself like a preening feline tom-cat. Then he stands up tall as a summer sun, opens out to touch the sky. His dick dangles between his out-stretched legs like the pendulum of a human clock. Blake's Glad Day.

I'm just biding my time. I pluck the buttercup. Put its stalk between my teeth, nippingly. Let it roll like a pinwheel. My eyes intently staring at the golden youth only several hundred feet away, but near enough for my clear vision. He sings. Too far to catch the melody, or hear the words, but his arms reach out like a tenor-soprano. His gestures wide and big. He starts to move like a dancer. Takes a leap, his legs fixed together, he twirls in mid-air and lands gently on the verdant flowing grass. The tree that partially conceals me in my hideaway, shivers and trembles in a shimmering breeze.

Its trunk, powerful and gnarly, winds upward with grizzled bark, turns into boughs and branches, the leaves, green kisses, dappling the light that splashes on his bare body. He's lying down again, surrounded by primroses, as I watch him touch his body, see him taste his own perspiration. He's sprawling naked and rolls in the grass, smothering the flowers, he makes a flattened pathway, till he finally comes to rest. He's ended up on his stomach, and gets up slowly to his knees. He forms a little table with his body. His back arches high. I see his dick has hardened, it points forward, no longer swinging from gravity, but held erect by forces of human libido. He performs a sexual act with an invisible partner, riding as if copulating with a mirror image of himself. But his cock strikes empty air. I notice he doesn't touch himself. I've eaten the buttercup, swallowed it whole.

He's on his back now. His heels pressed against his buttocks. He stabs the air with his pelvis, repeatedly.

He wants to fuck the Sun.

The dimples in his hips crease, as his thighs tighten. His penis lifted high, as far as his body can thrust it upward. Then he stops, falls sideways. His body hugs the earth, his body a miniature landscape. His head, he buries in his arms. He senses a sound, looks up, sees my shoes, planted by his face. Startled, he looks up, as from his view no doubt, I tower above him. His gaze travels up my legs, up my body, past the bulge of my tented trousers, up my torso till he reaches up, touches his eyes to my face.

"I was watching you."

He sits, grabs his body, folds it into itself, turns his head and looks away. The blond locks cascading down his neck.

"I'm Peter," I say as I I sit down beside him. "This a special place of yours? Am I intruding?"

I pick up a lone daisy, that somehow got separated from its brothers. I place it in his hair, just above his ear.

"You're very lovely. You're remind me of a Rimbaud poem. Are you familiar with the Symbolist poets?"

"He was murdered by his gay lover, wasn't he?"

His voice is so clear, he speaks with no trace of an accent but adds,as if he reads my intention. "An older man..."

"Those things happen. They were very much in love. You look about nineteen. I'm Verlaine's age, by coincidence."

He turns, the daisy in his hair still in place. He looks at my dark features. The eyes, with their hint of beast. He sees my mouth, with its slight cynical twist. I take off my red and black striped jacket, fold it into a pillow. Unbutton my white shirt, to be more comfortable. Lay back, turn my head upward to stare at the clouds, cumulo-cirrus, streaking the sky. "More than a whale." "Less than a camel," and Polonius is dead by these words.

"Why were you watching me? Spying?", next to Paul, so such have I named him.

"I'd fallen asleep. My book fell from my lap. Greek poetry. You must've woken me up."

"Poetry, huh?"

"Could've been a thriller. Just happens to be poetry."

"You at the University?"

"No."

He was less timorous now. He'd turned, lay on his front beside me. He crossed his ankles, making him slightly assymetrical. He looked at the small pool of water, as the wind blew ripples, breaking its even surface.

"Do you want me?" he says, in a voice, a pretty whisper.

"Yearn for you, hunger for you, yes, I want you."

He sits up. His wrists suspended on his knees. I twist sideways, so that my hands can have access, I stroke his inner thigh with its satiny softness. He seems to like this, as his body unfurls. He lies to face me, those piercing eyes burn into mine.

"Was Verlaine as handsome as you?"

"Much handsomer."

My hand's now pressing against his belly. He takes a little intake of breath, because as I touch him so gently; it's almost ticklish. But my tactile embrace is firmer as I mount his abdomen and an extended thumb brushes his nipple. I press as if calling an elevator. But I don't know whether I want to go up or down. My roving hand reaches his throat and the movement causes him to close his eyes. I inch in closer, breathing in his scent, fresh as cut grass, my head is so close, I see every pin-prick pore of his face. I put my tongue against the gentle cleft of his chin, let it trace up, till I taste the softness of his lower lip. I run the tip along the upper half, shaped like an archer's bow, touch his teeth, white as pearl, he opens, his tongue joins mine in a succulent kiss.

Gently he falls back as I press him down, my hand grips his hardness, now fully formed. My thumb brushes his shaft, my palm rolls on the glistening crown, my fingers stretch, so I can playfully toy with his balls. He lays all the way down, raises his knees, as I fold my body, so I can take his youthful firmness in my mouth. As his cock glides in my mouth, he sighs a wondrous sigh, and I taste him, ride my head up and down on his glorious dick. Tastes like a phallus should taste. Nothing else like it in this world, my tastebuds tremble in delirium. I move my hand, adjusting for position, my hand cups his boyish butt-cheeks, and a finger searches and find the soft-center of his rosebud entrance. All the time sucking him, his juices are flowing, my saliva trickling down,coating his rod till it's slick with spittle.He moans little moans, urging himself. He so wants to cum, let him. Splashing gooey, white nectar, little short spurts, till he's done, till he can't spurt no more.

"Want me to do the same for you?" he asks sweetly.

He watches and my pants peel away and I'm as unadorned as he.

Tentatively he puts a hand on my hugeness, grips firm, and in a twinkle, I'm in his mouth, as my hands reach down his back, as he's crouching, and I press my arms firm, assisting the rocking motion.

I laughed he made me happy.

"You'd make a perfect St. Sebastian, pierced with arrows, not a hair out of place."

"You want to give me scars?"

"Only those of rosethorns."

"You want me to bleed?"

"Only drops of pre-come."

He couldn't talk, give head at the same time, so I decided it was time for us to be inamoratu, like japanese for fuck.

The sun had sunken a little, greens more olive, the tree above grown from tiny acorns, now a mighty edifice.

He sits astride my lap, while I stroke his taut butt muscles, probing in anticipation for what is to happen, two brothers fucking in mother nature's bed. I slip my hands round his front, spread them wide, grip. I splay the fingers on his abdomen, as he cautiously invites me in. He's an obliging host. My crown slips in, followed by scepter, stopping as he adjusts, then continue the regal journey. I'm in the hallowed halls.

"You really nineteen? You feel like jailbait."

He's got more on his mind than my infantile witticisms. He bears down and I start acting like a man, bearing into him, withdrawing, plunging back, and he gives a little groan on every beat. My own breathing is hard, replying to the gasps he gives, all else is silent, save the breeze, rustling, murmuring suggestive undertones.

A swan on the lake, angry, its muscled serpentine neck reaches back, strikes forth, wings a'flapping, eats the worm it has found, devouring greedily, and then strikes again. The snake slippery in the grass, coils, uncoils, strikes, flicks it's venomous tongue. Somewhere not too far away an albino horse whinnies, nickers, snorting flames from it's nostrils. A mole in the ground buries deeper into it's burrow, a fox squints his eyes, bares its teeth, bites down on the throat of a cockerel, and a frog cries ribbit, covering itself with white slime.

I'm exhausted, he wants more. I let the slumbering giant awake, only now he's David, alone with Goliath, and Goliath is tired.

Afternoon has turned to dusk, I've told him secrets, but I've learned none of his. For amusement, he plucks a buttercup, puts under my chin, it glows yellow. Expects me to fuck him again. I will. We get dressed, I loan him my jacket. We go to the car. Take him home. He looks beautiful in chocolate satin sheets. The way he looks, I know, I won't sleep much, well, at least, not tonight. That's when buttercups appear, shorn of the yellow, and look their best, in the dark.

written by davistrell

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