Cock-Sucker: Fuckleberry Flynn

The deep green water swirls as lazily as dreams. The drone of insects vibrating the heavy warmth of the sullen air. Small diamonds of water glisten in among the fine hairs of his bare body as he lies beside me on the gently undulating raft which bobs on the slow tide, tethered by a limp hawser to the tree-branch overhanging us, gifting us drowsing shade. I can’t resist the urge to lean over, raising myself up on one elbow, looking down at him. At the way his stomach undulates to the leisurely rhythm of his breathing. The way the full fat length of his limp cock is lying up from the moist matt of pubic hair aiming the indentation of his navel. The way the round eggs of his balls slump down between his barely parted legs.

Drawn as if by a sexual magnetism, without thought, I delve down, my tongue starting a wet-quivery path up from he crease between his balls — which flex at my intimate touch, up the ridge of his raised sperm-duct tracing the pale blue pattern of blood-paths along the way, lapping at the underside of the fleshy-flared head where it grows from the foreskin-hood, around and further up. Circling the bulb, once, twice, three times, then targeting in at the slit eye, burrowing my way in. Tasting, maybe Mississippi-water, but it carries the sweet taint of his spunk too. I detect the little answering tremor run across his body.

He chuckles low in the back of his throat, without even opening his eyes.

‘We are both tickling the underside of twenty-years-old’ I whisper. ‘I know things will change. But I want my life to always be this way. Just me and you. Me chomping your cock-meat. You chowing down on mine. Here, with no cares, no worries. I know it’s impossible. I know we’ll grow. In a few years we’ll be courting girls from the schoolhouse, going steady, maybe Becky Martin — I kinda guess you got sweets on her, getting engaged, then wed and all, working at steady jobs with dinky houses and responsibilities. I know that, in the depths of my brain. I know it. But I don’t want it. This perfect day is what I need. This is all and everything.’

He says nothing for a long time. The tide laps at the solid beams of the raft we’re lounging on, lashed together with twine and plugged with tar. The soothing timeless ululation of water plinking and plucking in around its buoyancy. The bugs buzz and the crickets go crick-crick-crick. A lazy day, as lazy as that lucky ole sun that just hangs around heaven all day. We are different, me and ‘Fuckleberry’ Flynn, but complement each other. Friends since he first moved here, both of us eighteen, with raging hormones. From when first I saw him, self-consciously shuffling his feet in the dirt, black cowlicks of hair curling from under the floppy rim of his big felt hat, surly-chewing on a straw.

Brought up by his smalltown-drunk Daddy, the wild misfit kid from the boondocks, the best fighter — by necessity. Folk mistrust him, dislike him. My parents disapprove of him. Why can’t I find a friend more like our own kind? No-one likes him, all but me. I’m the smart kid, the one who gets the good grades, although he has the kind of cunning wild-smarts I can never match. He’s the bare-foot boy who knows where to get the moonshine-hooch and the loco-weed smokes that make us crazy-giggle and giddy. And we share the same sex-burning in the crotch istanbul escort of our britches. Just what bug crept under my skin and at what age? Early, that’s for sure. Did he teach me, lead me astray? No, we learn together. Sometimes it’s all I can think of. All our sums add up to sweet sixty-nine, and I’m always impatient for the next time. But more, I get to touch the inner hurt he never shows anyone else. His pain and anger. I can help soothe his damaged soul. Our differences equal us, complete each other. In our meditative moments of intertwined gazes and contented silences, this is the way the Twain can meet.

Today we’d taken the day out to go skinny-dipping, like at the swimming-hole. Our shucked-off clothes in an untidy mound on the bank-side of the river-inlet. Lazy days that dream away. I watch him wading naked into the shallows, the green water washing and lapping up the crease of his ass as he submerges, and it grabs away my breath, like it always does. He watches me naked, and his lust burns into me. Our bodies are well-matched, physically and genitally. His outdoors weather-tanned complexion slightly darker, mine more blonde. We’re both sexually big, he has the mysterious foreskin that intrigues me, adds an untamed frontier lustre. Mine was stolen, leaving me clean and smooth, the way he likes it, he says, all the better for sucking.

We swim in the slow surge where terrapins scud secretively among tendrils of weed, the fat bullfrogs croak from the bullrushes, and magnolias shed petals that spin and swirl in the eddies we make. Our naked bodies knifing through the tide, ducking below the surface, holding breath, dive-gliding like fish. He pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the raft. I watch the muscles visibly tightening in the taut curves of his tight butt as he does so. As I circle below treading water. He splashes water at me with his foot. I reach up and trickle a fistful of water over his groin. It dribbles down the full length of his cock to drip off the end like the last few piss-drops. His head goes back as he laughs out loud.

Then I haul out and sit beside him, dripping, shaking droplets from my hair. The warm air drying the glistening wetness off our bodies. He reaches across and flicks my cock playfully, so that it bounces this way and that, then he traps it in his fist, squeezing gently. My fingers simultaneously encircle his. Both cocks rearing hard with blood-pulsing arousal. Squirming around horizontal as the sun kisses our nakedness and the raft rocks. This is the best part, the part I’ve been waiting for.

My lips close satisfyingly around the shaft of his cock. His silky-smooth mouth draws my cock in deep. Immaculate reciprocation. Moving together, fused in mutual energies. His hot thickness and urgency filling my mouth to bursting. His mouth suck-suck-sucking at me like he’s eager to swallow it whole, balls and all, until I can scarce stand the power of the feelings he’s provoking in my gut. Sweet squelching summer-sweat. Moaning and mewling. Rolling aside grinning goofy gosh-wow grins for a moment’s breath-pause before the next bout, then more lips and tongue and the faint nip of teeth. His delicious balls swaying in my face, descending, squashing across my nose. My hips bucking, forcing more length into the soft warm maw of his welcoming esenyurt escort throat. The raft a-rocking, in response to our increasingly desperate speed. Devouring the soul of each other through sperm-duct and testicles. Slurping each other in. Bare bottoms tensing and flexing. Limbs entwined, breath rasping faster, in short sharp throaty gasps.

If anyone out to take their strolling constitutionals were to stumble all unwary along the riverside trail now and catch sight of this — wow, they’d see their fill. The Preacher, or the Schoolmarm maybe? I’m past caring. Too sexed-up to stop no matter what. I guess I’d just keep on a-sucking my prize and let them watch. What the hell.

We’ve done this lots of times in lots of places. In the graveyard between the gravestones back of the church-house, in the old barn back of the Fletcher homestead where it seems you’ll sweat until you bleed, up in the copse of trees overlooking the road to the interstate where the smell of cooking-asphalt stains the air and you can hear the distant growling motor-thrum, sometimes on his bed in the half-light of his room in their shack when his Pap’s out on a drunk. Feeling high and hepped-up to be in a place funky with his body-odours, but jittery-nervous in case Pap’s comes home early to catch us doing what he’d call dirty faggot-stuff.

Occasionally there’ll be a third guy to circle-jerk with. Making us a strange combo. Fat Al perhaps, leery and greasy. I don’t like the feel of his clammy-podgy fingers groping on me, even though my dick responds. He’s clumsy-rough in his over-eagerness and although he makes me cum I’m kinda glad when he’s done. Leaving me a bit skinned-raw and sore. Or hop-haired mild-mannered black Jim. His bashful reticence is amusing, the wary way he drops his pants, torn between wanting in and wanting to get the hell out. The way he tenses up when I reach out to grab a-hold of his cock. Then the awkward way he strains to hold back when he’s close to coming, reluctant to let anyone see him spurt when he spunks-off. Scared to let go. But he comes back for more, several times. And although he can never bring himself to suck cock he watches with fascinated revulsion as we do. And declines when I half-jokingly offer to suck him off, but I guess he’s tempted by the idea. Just a-feared to relax and go with it.

But mostly it’s just me and ‘Fuckleberry’. And each time is great. I love to suck on his big tool as much as I love him sucking on mine. I know each contour of him, his body-smell and musky taste. As he knows me. I know the familiar way he trembles the moment before he comes. The throaty half-nervous edgy-laugh, the Don’t stop, Don’t stop now. I love this, the exquisite shock, the jolt that hits him mid-body, like he’s taken a blow to the solar plexus. And the first gush. The bouquet-burst of his rich spunk on my tongue, more and more of it. While he’s busy nuzzling further in to drink each spurt from my aching cockhead, saliva and cum, spit and semen mashed up in each gulp. His balls contracting. Muscles flexing over and over… then a long slow ooze of time in the blurry aftermath. I stay there, holding his cock in my mouth as it slowly loses its rigidity, in no hurry to withdraw.

I wish this feeling would never end. I wish we could simply etiler escort cut the tether tying the raft to the earth and be carried off down the river forever, two drifters off to see the world, to where the waters swell to wider than a mile, and the currents and freshwater eddies get lost in the ocean open to the endless big world. And wherever it’s going, we’re going too. Beyond the horizon of unknown lands.

Back to now, lying together. His taste still lingering on my tongue, maybe Mississippi-water, maybe the sweet taint of his spunk.

He opens his eyes kinda slow. ‘When I was a kid we had a big ole hound called Yellah’ he says at length. He sits up. Resting his chin on his knees. And he reaches out, gathering my balls into the warm clasp of his fingers. I relax back, parting my legs, granting him better access. He cups and toys with me, with a tenderness like he’s handling fragile bird’s eggs. ‘Seems like it was only yesterday he was a pup with slobbery tongue and snotty-nuzzly nose, stumbling bumbling around the floor, his tail going flip-flop-flip. Then, before you know it, he was fully-growed, a fine bird-dog, alert and as loyal as you could ask for. Roaming out in the woods and over the hills by the catfish-stream. Then he was a big ole hound-dog lazing around the porch and sleepy snoring all the day. You know, I loved that old dog. Still do I guess. You know what I’m getting at here, doncha?’

His gaze into my eyes strips my soul bare. His fingers inducing icicle-tremors that start at the tip of my rousing cock and radiate up through my body, exploding in soft-detonations across my brain. I catch my breath. Nip my lower lip.

‘No. What’s that got to do with us doing dirty-cock stuff here on the raft?’

He laughs. Running his finger-tip around the tactile underside of my glans, then pinching the cock-head gently with thumb and forefinger so my cock-mouth opens, gaping like a landed fish.

‘Y’know, even when Yellah was a serious hunting-dog, and then when he was an ole canine-man, when I got a stick and went to throw it, he’d be there, and up for a throw-stick game. Never failed. That puppy-part of him was always there. And I bin thinking. We kin do that. We can, me and you. No matter what happens across them there future-years. All you gotta do is, you pull your stick out. I’ll be there for games. Squatting down on my haunches a-slavering and a-slobbering, you put that horny ole hickory-stick in my mouth, and we play, just like today. And the same goes for you. You can always, always — and I mean always, call on me. And I’ll put my stick in your mouth. We can make that serious and solemn pledge to each other right now, and it will last forever. It will stand. I mean it.’

His voice has suddenly become earnest.

‘We should take that pledge. Make it binding, by the pricking of thumbs, or the thumbing of pricks. A blood-brothers ceremony, by the swallowing of each others spunk.’ My response is throaty, with digestive-juices already flowing in anticipation.

‘We already done that’ he points out mischievously.

‘The day’s not yet done. We got all the time we need. We can do it again…’

And reader, we did that thing. And still do. Since that long ago and far away day adrift on a raft on the river, we’ve aged into old folks ourselves. We’ve done all the things you’re supposed to do in living a full life. Good times and hard-scrabble bad times, which didn’t always coincide. But we’ve kept that special bond, just as we made that teenage pledge way back all those decades ago. And it still tastes good.