I’m exhausted. I came to save the Amazon and it’s killing me.
Our whole team has been wiped out. I never thought Jane Wilson-Davidson
would succumb, but she died yesterday. Sweat is pouring off me, as if
I’m melting in the heat. I can feel my chest heaving, as if it’s going
to explode or cave in any moment. My heart is pounding with my effort
to survive.
I can barely walk. I stumble. At night the fog moves in and
the heat becomes a cold, still shroud, damp and clinging, like wet earth
closing in on me.
Flies buzz about my head. I bat them away but they come back,
always, little vultures trying to prey on me before I’m even dead.
Oh God, why did I leave my wife and kids and comfortable
suburban life to come on this mission? Misguided generosity, that’s
what it was. It wasn’t enough for me to just give to some charity, I
had to come and see for myself.
I’m a writer. I know what you’re thinking, “Oh god, not
another fucking book by some writer.” I jot down these notes as they
come to me, as a warning. Am I even writing? The paper in my notebook
is wet from my sweat. The letters rub off on the side of my hand as I
write them, smearing the ink. A curse of being left-handed.
Why bother to write? I’ll just talk out loud to myself, no one
will ever read what I write anyway.
“Don’t be a moron. Don’t come to these damn cursed places that
you read about in magazines, thinking that you can help. You can’t.
You’re not built for them.”
What I would do right now for a cheeseburger. For a drink of
water. I ran out of water three hours ago. My thirst is killing me. I
let the sweat drip into my mouth but it’s salty and that makes me
thirstier.
I’ll never see my wife again. My kids will grow up
fatherless. I should never have had an affair with Jane. Is that why
my kids will be orphans, because I couldn’t keep my dick in my pants? I
guess I had a thing for strong, assertive women. Jane always knew what
to do, or seemed to. She told me everything would be alright. She said
we wouldn’t get lost. When we did, she said we’d find our way again.
When we didn’t, she said she knew a way out. All the while the jungle
kept eating us. Now there is only me.
I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. Ha ha an old commercial. It’s
true. The plants seem bigger now. I’ve never seen vines this thick,
leaves this broad. The flowers are spectacular. They would put our
mall garden shops to shame.
Somehow I survived the night. My matches are too wet and soggy
from my sweat to start a fire. I’m waiting for the sun to warm the
undergrowth. I’m shivering… soon I’ll be melting again. The plants
are unbelievable. There’s a vine thicker than any rope. It’s as wide
as I am.
God, the flowers. I’m enveloped in their scent. They’re
huge. Fags would love this place, if they didn’t die getting here. I
can’t go on, or I wouldn’t be able to, except for the beauty of the
flowers. Where did all these fucking flowers come from, anyway? The
verdant desolation of the jungle has given way to a veritable garden
show.
It is a day later. I’m still walking, impressed by the Victory
Garden that surrounds me. Yes, I’m still capable of enjoying beauty,
even as it kills me. I hear a stream gurgling. Water! I rush toward
it. I fall headlong into it. I drink. I consume. The prey becomes,
for just a moment, the predator, of water anyway.
Refreshed, I stand up. The flies are gone. I haven’t been
bothered by them in several days now. The flowers are gorgeous and
overwhelming. I’m going to follow this stream. Who am I talking to,
anyway? I feel like some denizen of Star Trek reporting to his ship.
Following the stream, captain. Sure to find a beautiful woman before
the commercial break, based on a scientific analysis of past episodes.
I see a girl. Amazing. I think of women, and a female
appears. She reminds me of my daughter. About nine, long hair. Am I
dreaming this? She looks odd. She’s dressed so fetchingly. A tiny
bikini and long boots, tied with ribbons just below her knees. She has
such lovely long legs. God, I’m admiring the legs of a girl in
elementary school! I must be going mad. I need treatment. She’s got
on the most elegant opera-length gloves, tied, like her boots, just
below the place where her limbs bend, in this case her elbows.
Such delicious breasts. Just starting to grow, pushing outward
on her flimsy little breasts, like sweet pomegranates sprouting on a
tree. She brushes back her hair. She sees me. She’s gone.
I cry out. Such beauty, vanished!
“Come back, little girl!” I cry. But of course she could never
have existed. It’s my delirious mind. Her bikini was white, on
sun-kissed flesh. She was thin as a rail, almost malnourished looking,
but her breasts belied her thinness, for they were fat with the promise
of a good diet. Her hips had a gentle flair to them, developing almost
a little early, again a sign of a proper number of meals per day. And
her bottom, as she turned and slipped away into the jungle, was high and
firm, tight and beckoning, a ripe pair of apples or perhaps a small
pumpkin, waiting to be split.
I am insane. There is no question of it. I’m sick, dreaming
of little girls decked out like sluts in Diamonds are Forever.
Oh no. I see her again. She’s peeking out at me. No, this
one’s a brunette. Her hair’s in pigtails. My dream is getting more
demented. She disappears. Thank God. Perhaps as I breathe my last I’m
returning to normal.
I must think of my wife. That will make my visions go away.
Oh, shit! Now I see a girl who can’t be more than s17. She’s
dressed in a Bond-babe bikini just like the other girls. She steps out
at me from behind a flower. She smiles. She walks toward me with a big
acorn poised in her hands like some primitive bucket, as if to draw
water from the river.
“Hi!” she says. She speaks. I dare not answer. I wish I
could blend into the jungle like her sisters did. “What’s your name?”
she asks. I say nothing. I stare at her, sweat streaming off me, and
it’s not terribly hot yet, at least not from the sun. My embarrassment
at my craziness is making me sweat. Why couldn’t I at least dream of
June in my final moments? Maybe she was a liar, but at least she didn’t
make me feel like a pervert. Besides, I like strong women. This little
waif looks like she’d let me lead her anywhere I chose to. Such
sweetness! And such a sexy bikini!
“I don’t have a name,” I tell her. “Go away.” I think it will
make her disappear but instead she draws closer to me, splashing into
the river, and says,
“Why don’t you have a name?” The bikini-clad apparition is
questioning with me! She frowns.
“I don’t have a name because you’re not here,” I tell her. She
frowns more deeply. She reaches out at me! I feel her touch. Light,
soft, like a leaf falling delicately to the jungle floor. I leap back.
She leaps back too, startled at my reaction.
“My name’s Katy!” she tells me proudly.
“I–” words fail me. I collapse into the river. I’ve had
enough. I wait for her to vanish but she doesn’t.
“What’s your name?” she asks me, her voice sweetly insistent.
I surrender to my insanity.
“Dick,” I tell her. She giggles. A guilty look comes to her
face. “LIke in the story!” she cries. She turns and calls out.
“Dick’s here!” she says. I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Two little
girls pop out of the underbrush, from behind some flowers. They are the
two girls I saw before, one blonde, with long hair, the other a brunette
with pigtails. Both are still wearing their white bikinis on their
slender elfin bodies, their succulent little titties jutting in their
tops, their eyes wide and glowing with delight.
“Hi Dick,” the oldest one, the blonde, says to me. She must be
about ten. She reaches out and grasps my hand, gently, lovingly. Her
hand looks small in my big sweaty palm. I sit there for several minutes
just staring at her, she gazing back at me, the 18
dancing about in the water now, splashing me playfully. I’m too tired
to resist this fantasy any more. I let the water hit me, telling myself
none of this is happening. The brunette comes close and puts her face
against mine, after staring at me for awhile. I feel her twin pigtails
against my face and neck and then her lips. Involuntarily a hard-on
pops in my pants as her little lips peck my sweaty right cheek. No!
This is some wild pedophile fantasy, and I’m somehow in the middle of
it! I want my wife to appear, or June, but instead the
chick , dancing close, stumbles into my lap. Her small
hands land right on my boner, and she giggles again, and she says
something about “the story”, and how it’s true and how the older girls
should never have doubted it. “Come, Dick,” the blonde says. She
somehow convinces me, with her grip, to stand up. I notice my
boner in my pants and the girls see it too, and they laugh, lovingly.
They lead me out of the stream and into a maze of flowers. More jungle,
but I find it not so fearsome with the three girls leading me so
confidently. They seem to know the way. Of course, how could illusions
not know the way through this madness?
I feel crunching under my feet and look down. We’re walking on
a path made out of pebbles. But they’re not ordinary stones. They look
like emeralds. Flowers grow all around us, lilies and violets and
daffodils. The air is heavy with their scent, a tangle of tropical
smells, like being immersed in a kind of flowery fruit punch.
Suddenly the jungle breaks and I find myself gazing into a
clearing. Roses are everywhere, white and pink and red. Huge cherry
trees grow among the rose bushes, and as I walk into the clearing I’m
nearly hit by a giant ripe cherry falling to the ground. The girls
laugh and tell me not to worry.
“Our magic protects us,” the brunette says. “But not the
flies.” I don’t understand what she means until a moment later, when I
look up and see a cherry falling straight toward me. I have no time to
jump out of the way. I’m sure it will hit me when suddenly a sparkly
sensation appears above my head and the cherry hits it, and then bounces
out beyond where the three of us are walking. Harmlessly, it falls to
the earth. It rolls and stops.
“Welcome to cherry valley,” the teen laughs.
“It’s good you’re with us or you might have gotten a head
bonk,” the blonde tells me. “Keep holding my hand,” she adds, and grips
my big palm a little tighter.
Of course this is silly. A dream can’t kill me. I’m probably
already dead. As I look around, I see more bikini-clad girls stepping
out from amidst the flowery foliage. They seem to have grown the roses
in such a way as to make little homes for themselves. The petals of the
roses are laden with moisture on top, as if from a recent rain shower.
I do not remember it raining. Perhaps it rained here but not where I
was, wherever that was, out in the jungle in the mist, waiting for the
night to pass.
I’m sure I must be dead. Or I ought to be. All around me are
luscious girls, not a one of them over ten. What has brought on this
madness? The heat of the jungle, obviously, but I don’t feel oppressed
now, or cold either, from the night just passed. The air is cool
without being cold. It’s refreshing, not hot at all, despite the glow
of the sun shafting down through the jungle canopy.
I’m led through the rose-petal houses to another stream. The
girls gather around me. They strip off my sweat-stained clothes. I do
not resist them. I always liked women who could take control, who
weren’t afraid to tell me what to do. In my final fantasy the women
have, perversely, become beautiful little teen, all females. Well,
at least I’m not gay. My penis flashes in the sunlight, hard as wood.
I try hiding it with my hands but it’s too big and long. I always was
well endowed. Now, in front of these girls who remind me of my
daughter, my dick embarrasses me. The girls nod approvingly and whisper
again about “the story.” They tell me to get in the river. I obey.
The water is delicious. It tastes of candy, sold in faraway stores in
America. Yet it is not obnoxiously sweet, like real candy can be. I
drink my fill of the water, barely able to resist it. The girls laugh
and admire my nude body. My penis shows stiff under the clear,
smooth-flowing water, shimmering like some weird pervert’s promise. I
try to hide myself again with my hands but the girls frown.
“What does it matter?” I tell myself. “I’m obviously dead.
Imagine, dying in a dream of bikini-clad nursery school girls!” That’s
what they call primary school in England. I did an internship there.
Nursery school. Such a sweet name.
“When you’re finished, come inside and lie down,” a voice tells
me. I turn my head. I see a girl like the others, but perhaps slightly
taller, all of 18 years of age, if my judgement serves me
correctly. She’s wearing a crown. It’s obviously gold, and decorated
with red stones. Rubies. Of course, a bikini-clad nursery school girl
in a ruby crown. “You’re so handsome!” she tells me. “You’ll be my
prince!”
“Sure,” I answer. I don’t mind talking to these apparitions
any more. I rub myself to get the sweat off me and then I get out of
the water. My penis is as hard as ever but I don’t care anymore. I let
the girl with the crown take my hand. She leads me, I notice we’re
walking on an emerald path. There are emerald paths winding everywhere,
to all the little petal-houses, and between them. There is no grass,
but rather, incredibly, where there is no path there is a smooth floor
of four leaf clovers. Luck is everywhere, it seems, and the girl with
the crown leads me into a petal-house and bades me lie down on a bed of
daisies.
I’m surprised by the daisies. They’re normal-sized. The girl
with the crown tells me they’re miniature daisies. I don’t understand,
but who needs to? I lie down and she kneels beside me. The floor of
her home is made of the same four leaf clovers that spread across the
ground outside. I realize I’m lying in what must be her bed and I make
to rise but she tells me to remain lying down. I relax. This part of
the fantasy must be based on my trip to Japan, when I slept on a futon
on the floor.
The girl takes off her crown. She lays it on the clover
floor. There is a pot of cream and she opens it. I gape at the cream.
It is the first sign of civilization I’ve seen in days. It is made of
glass, with a screw-on top.
“We traded for it,” she tells me. She opens the top. I look
more closely at the jar. It is not ordinary glass after all, but
crystal. Lead crystal, I think. The lid seems to be made of pure
silver but I don’t have time to examine it further because she tells me
to relax, and I do. To my consternation I feel her small child’s hands
begin to rub cream on my belly, dangerously close to my upstanding
cock. But I don’t have the strength to bat her hands away. She rubs
lower. I want to stop her but a great weariness overcomes me. I’ve
been walking for days. I feel sleep overtaking me, even as the girl’s
hands clasp round my erect cock. She begins moving her hands up and
down my shaft. I try to rise, I try to stop her, but I am falling
asleep.
“Please do not resist. We can trade your milk,” the girl tells
me. My heavy-lidded eyes are not completely closed and I see a second
girl enter. She has something that looks like a gourd in her hands.
The neck bends awkwardly down, like a drooping flower. She tilts it and
I realize someone has cut the end off the gourd. It is fitted over the
end of my cock. The girl who had been wearing the crown keeps moving
her hands up and down my member. I cannot stop her. As I drift off to
sleep I feel a sudden urgency. I begin spurting. The open neck of the
gourd is pressed more tightly to my cock head. “Yes. Yes,” is murmured
by the girl who is rubbing me. Against my will I feel myself spurting.
It is a wonderful relief, even as I feel aghast at allowing myself to
enjoy the pleasure of a penis-massage by a nursery school girl.
I finish ejaculating. The girl rubbing me feels my cock begin
to lessen in strength. She sighs. She asks the girl with the gourd if
she caught everything I had to offer.
“Yes, ma’am,” the girl with the gourd answers. The vegetable
is pulled off my cock head. I hear a gentle sloshing sound. I realize
the thing must be hollow. In my fantasy I have spurted into a gourd, at
the beckoning of an 18-year-old queen.
“You have done well,” the queen compliments me. She keeps
rubbing my dick until it relaxes completely. And then I vanish into
sleep.