A Table of Green Fields - Guy Davenport (the rosie project txt) 📗

I had another mouthful of pipe smoke and felt as weightless as a flaught of goose down. Florent made himself comfortable with his head on the shins of my crossed legs. I told him about Tarpy. Why I made friends with him. How I cleaned him up and gave him clothes. Florent said he knew. Papa told him.

Did he know who sent Tarpy away? He didn't know. He was sure it wasn't Papa. Who Florent said knew about our jacking off and thought it only natural. Florent said he was even mildly amused. But he had been told that Tarpy thieved and was not all there in the head. Even that Papa said was nothing Jens would take up. Jens on the contrary was no doubt a good influence on Tarpy. Florent was to see that things went well for the summer. But there was no Tarpy when he arrived. Only a very unhappy Jens.

I asked if we didn't go too far could we still jack off? Tomorrow. I added that for the distance of it. He reached up and pulled my head down to his. Nose to nose. We could go too far. Way too far. And break our hearts and be miserable but that was not now.

I squealed and wiggled onto him in a round of hugs. His legs with my arms. His chest with my legs. We rolled over. A scramble for the candle which went flying. We doused it and took off our shirts and rolled into a hug. He held my balls tight in one hand and stood my peter up with the other. His fingers were spry. Lips ticklish and delicious. Tongue slippery. His peter was as hard as duramen when I had the presence to work it with both hands. I imitated what he did. Short of choking. Our pleasure tossed and bucked to a pitch. Our pleasure. Not being given and giving but giving together and being given together. We did our best to make it last even when we knew we could catch our breath and begin again. My spunk streamed out as from a pull on an udder. Melted out first and then ran stout. The joy of it helped me bolt a deeper reach. I mashed his balls against his crotch and bore down on the swallow. He spilled out a cannikin thick and forspent. Rich. Clover and soda.

The time was important and nameless. We lit the candle and the pipe. We put on sweaters. Our hair was as messy as goblins' and we reeked of spunk. I took a fine drag on the pipe and turned pale. Florent laughed. I laughed when I could. I wobbled. We ate dried pears and apples. We peed into the rain.

We talked crazy and silly. Florent licked my peter like a puppy. Kissed me on the belly button. Wrestled me into a hug and licked me behind the ears. I wiggled free and sat on his chest and pinned his arms with my legs. His eyes shone in the candlelight. I slid backward between his thighs so that I could fool with his peter. His splendid peter. It was limber but fat. There was more neck to it than mine between the eave of the head and the ruckle of the foreskin drawn back. More bore to the keel duct. A niftier rake to the tilt of the glans. Down and up once. Twice. Thrice. And it was as tough as a plow handle. I plied the slippage with a mind to the outlandish. To be headlong generous. To outdo. I rode the foreskin full stretch with a swirl of tongue deep on the downstroke. Shallow with a flicker on the up. I put a thraw into the treadle. For style. A thropple dive plumb to the bush. A slow rippling passage. A fast bouncing passage. A jog. A trot. A sprint. When he squirmed to join up I signalled no. Lie back and feel. I was frisky and longwinded.

The rain died to a drizzle and we heard the night hunters stirring about. Our candle was almost out. A wonderful quiet replaced the drums of the rain.

I lay flatling on my elbows to charm the thronging spout to the jolt. I took my time. We had achieved bon ton. That was what it was. I explained to Florent that to Grandmama everything that was as it ought to be was bon ton or it was Sweden-borgian or it was both. The very heavens were not only gardens and cities of light but the perfect and harmonious keeping of bon ton. Florent said that I could have fooled him. He thought we were two randy boys who had found it convenient to invent the pagan world again for their particular use and delight.

We started another candle. My peter was already in the rounce of a chime when he began its jig. He changed good for better and better for best. He stopped and started. Making it last. Making it ring to the most vibrant thrum of its resonance.

I was wonderfully sleepy afterwards and stretched and yawned with all my might. Florent opened the tent flaps. It was earliest dawn.

We walked about in the fresh half light. We got a fire going with considerable trouble but once it got cracking we heaped it high and warmed ourselves. We made porridge and coffee. The sun came out bright and strong. We made caca in the woods and bathed in the stream. The cold water shrivelled our peters and tightened our balls. I was lightheaded enough from lack of sleep and got dizzy as a drunkard on the pipe. We opened both ends of the tent to the sunshine and air. We felt clean and happy. Florent's laughing eyes and rising peter asked me if I was good for another go. We took each other's peters in our warm mouths without any jacking at all and came after a lovely long time and slept just as we were until the sun was directly above us.

Florent looked at my blisters when we woke. They were well enough for us to push on. We ate and broke camp. We packed our shirts and pants and shorts and set out in boots and rucksacks as naked as savages. I liked the flop of my peter as we walked and the