Under the Palmetto Trees

By:Michael Ampersant
His eyes match the palmetto trees. Cum on, they say—or perhaps not. I’m shy and easily discouraged. But I manage to hold on to his gaze.

Green Eyes turns his head and saunters toward the dunes. I’m still standing there. He turns his head again, sketches a smile, and resumes his walk. I follow. The sand gives way to earthbound ivy. He steps gingerly on the leaves, I stay in cruising distance behind.

I sense an erection; the ivy stops bothering me. It's about his butts now that are swiveling slightly as he traipses across the accumbent evergreen. It’s also about his surfer’s back which is lithe, tapered and sleekly muscled. His shoulders roll gently with his stride.

Past the first palmetto he turns around and slouches meaningfully against its trunk. I close on in. A flex motion of his shoulder blades and he has righted himself. We’re in fucking distance. Action.

He chucks his shorts and flashes a huge penis. I chuck mine and produce my own dinger. We spend a minute in mutual admiration, two boners undulating like dolphins in an aqua show. My dick feels heavy. His knob dazzles in the sunshine.

He leans into my body. His left hand joins the boners, squeezing the shafts as if he’s testing my resolve. His right hand cups my neck, his fingertips nuzzle my skin. There’s something to his touch that lightens a lot of nerves. His eyebrows furrow, his eyes seek mine. His rich lips part, pearly teeth show. He wants something. A kiss, perhaps? Yes, a kiss, he requires the wet smooch of a cruising encounter. Lips lock, tongues travel deep into gay territory.

His left hand comes around, explores my rear. Fingertips tap the cheeks, slide across the mound of a butt where they reach the crack. They procrastinate, then pause at the sphincter where they proceed to investigate the anatomy down there. "How about safe sex?" I ask (the first words spoken in this encounter). "Sex is safe," he says, "the virus is dangerous."
He retrieves his shorts and produces a condom wrapper. It’s a teaser wrapper, embossed with a picture of the Pope and the caption: I said NO! He posits the rubber ring on top of his cockhead, balancing it—it’s a bit iffy with his dick throbbing—pinches the jonny with thumb and index finger, then rolls the latex down the shaft, expunging air bubbles, straightening the rubber. He whips the sheeted phallus back and forth as if to check on its functionality, briefly cups his balls—think of Hollywood fighter pilots—Tom Cruise comes to mind. The rubber has a sexy sheen.

"How about lube?"
"We have spittle."

I stare at his cock. "Turn around," Green Eyes says, "let’s see where this goes. Sex should hurt some." I’m leaning against the tree, hands against the trunk, my butt reverberating in the palmetto-dappled sunshine (supposedly).

I feel his face close up between the buttocks. His tongue is creeping lower on my balls. Is this going where it should be going? Not yet, the licks move along my goose-pimpled thighs, then creep back up to the balls, spending attention to one ball in particular that feels sucked-in and French-kissed.

Now the tongue has moved to the perineum where it tickles the groove. Now his thumbs seek a grip on the sphincter, and, yes, they push the lips aside and he’s blowing his breath into my shoot-hole as if somebody’s chilling a hot potato. Now his tongue is back on the job and the tease is over: he’s entered the anal ring and rims the inside with lingual thrusts, succulent lingual thrusts. I never felt so alive. He’s taking his time.

(Feel it?)

Green Eyes rises. His hands cup my buttocks and push them apart.

“Relax,” he says. He holds on to my haunches, doggedly, and presses his dick into service. At least, he tries, his knob is pushing and denting and poking the sphincter. Another try. The dick glides off. A third try.
 
“Stuff happens,” he says, “or not.”
“Your brother’s simply too large,” I reply.
"No, no," he answers, "dicks can’t be too large, especially mine.” He laughs a dry laugh, removes the jonny, dips his index finger in the precum on his cocklips, and brings the finger to his mouth. He smacks his lips.

I descend on my knees, signaling the purpose of vicious blow job. Green Eyes pushes me back: “No-no,” he says. “Face the facts.”

The facts here are his dick—strong as a baseball bat and quite as large, the veins on the shaft protruding, the testicles pulsing in their sack, the purple cock lips kissing the sunshine. He shifts his weight from leg to leg so as keep the monster undulating.

"Lie down on your back,” he says. “Spread your legs. Supine. Missionary position. A bit overused, but the best position in your situation.”

My perfect erection has started to hurt; the ivy grates. “Spread your legs, I’ll soften you up.” He's on his knees, his fingers inside my ass, one finger first, then two, laying pipe, as they say. I grab my dinger and start stroking. “No-no,” he says, “let’s try one more time.” He’s still finger-fucking; his green gaze holds me in place. Now he’s inched up, his purple crown touching my face, precum oozing in strings from his pee hole. “Okay?” he asks. I groan. “It’s purely physical,” he says and smudges his pre-jizz across my map.
“Yes,” I groan, parting my lips.
“No-no,” he says, “just teasing. It’s a pity nobody’s around to admire this.”

All of a sudden he’s on top of me, hands on my shoulders, and attacks.

Searing pain. Blasting pain. I scream at the top of my lungs, they will hear me on the beach. He withdraws. “Good,” he says.
“Good? What?” I moan.
“I was in.”

He pauses until my whimpering subsides. “Turning pain into lust,” he says, “the definition of sublime.”
“Really?” I say.
“Gibbon,” he answers, “Gibbon’s definition.”

That’s what did it, folks. I got distracted, wondering about “Gibbon”—because, the next thing is that he is in again. Ooh, his Gibbon kills, totally kills. How to describe pain? Radiating from the pelvis into the known universe at the speed of light. They must feel it on the beach—but—come to think of it, every millisecond of this slaughter is bearable, is keeping me alive, in fact, one moment seguing into the next, one more moment to live. I count the milliseconds and exhale.

Green Eyes is completely immobile with his penis perhaps two inches inside and his arms in push-up position.

A shadow enters my periphery of vision. Anybody who cares? Yes, a lank, blond, crew-cut guy. Perhaps he’s heard my screams and got interested. He’s shocked. No, he isn’t, he’s just curious. A tumescence builds in his trunks and develops its own life, the penis shaft seeking the path of lowest resistance. It’s pushing upward and outward like a trapped rodent until a solid erection has created an obscene-looking bulge. Crew-cut appears somewhat out-plussed by his private parts, he’s waiting until the erection is complete and then sheds his trunks. He has experience. His dick means serious business.  

I’ve stopped counting milliseconds, the pain has begun to tell a different story. Something is right, just perfect. “You’re right,” I say, or moan, “it’s sublime.”
“No sweat,” Green Eyes answer. “Watch out.”

He grabs my shoulders again and undertakes to push deeper, half an inch per thrust perhaps. The pain resumes with each thrust, then subsides. Green Eyes is pacing himself. “My precum helps,” he says.

You’ve heard of the Karma Sutra folks. Make noises, the Karma Sutra says. I groan. I moan. I inhale with a silent “Hoohh” and exhale with an accented “Aahhh.” I yell. I’m getting louder. We are playing to the audience. Green Eyes is all dedication, his inches going in and out as if there’s no tomorrow. His rhythm accelerates. Sensations revolve. He fucks, he fucks, he fucks. “Harder!” I yell. “Harder,” he answer.

A good cock up your ass, you know how it is. The blond guy knows it too, he’s jerking his dick like the devil’s own. He isn’t cut. Squish, squish, squish.

"Facial?" Green Eyes ask. I groan. He exits for good, gets up, jerks a few more times, and explodes. Ejaculation! There it comes, spouts, flies, squirt, cum spattering onto my face and over the whole body, shoulders, abs, the evergreen on the ground, he still stroking, semen everywhere, ropes of jizz oozing onto my skin and rinsing off my cheeks and dripping onto the ground. I smack my lips. His cum tastes so totally mild and strong and sweet. Green Eyes is on his knees and joins the fun, sleeks my face with his tongue like a cat. “How does it taste, my honey?”

The blond guy is above us now, legs wide apart, still jerking like a sailor. He’s getting vocal too (“uurghh,” “uurghh”). He speaks (“I’m coming”). He blasts. More cum is everywhere.

"How about me," I say.
"I'll help you," Green Eyes replies. He inserts his tongue squarely into my mouth and jerks my dick. I touch his body, feel him up with my fingertips, his pecs, the washboard tummy, the surfer's back, his devilish dick down there, almost out of reach but still hard, I’m searching for the sense of direction. And there it is. My crotch explodes. History repeats itself. (‘Right,’ I think, ‘Gibbon, Decline and Fall.’)  Semen everywhere. One glob of jizz has landed on a large ivy leaf which hangs its head under the weight. Whose jizz is it, we wonder—the stuff is seeping off the leaf, drip by drip, the leaf dipping on its steel with each drip, rolling, slowly raising its head again. 

"No sweat," Green Eyes says. He gets up, grabs his pants. “Later,” he adds.
“What’s your name,” I ask, but he’s gone. The blond guy is still stroking his softening dick as if this is an exercise in after-play. "What are you doing tonight?" he asks.

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