Dutch Idyl

[bobov (imported)]

A brief idea for a story:

A handsome young Dutch man of centuries ago strolls among the flowered fields on a spring day, thinking of the woman he loves. The sun is warm, and the tulips wave in the breeze as far as he can see. He can feel sweat dripping as he walks, and his penis presses against his loose pantaloons as he thinks of pressing it against his girl. Strength and joy fill him. He is happy. Eventually, he tires, and coming to a tulip-strewn hillock beneath a willow tree, he lies down on his back to rest. His hands behind his head, he feels the heat and smells the sweet aroma of the tulips. He thinks of his girl as he feels his scrotum dangle between his spread thighs and his still half-hard penis tent his pantaloons. Dreaming of pleasure to come when he will at last deflower his virgin girl, he sleeps. He dreams.

His dreams are lascivious, far more than he would dare if awake. He dreams of a passionate bride kissing and caressing him everywhere without restraint. He feels her little hands tickle his thighs and the gentle suction of her full lips. She strips him of clothes, and it seems she touches him all over and at once. He has never known such pleasure. His penis is so full of blood it feels weightless. Then she rolls his testicles between wicked fingers and inserts the length of his penis over her tongue and down her throat. Bliss! Pressure and suction, grinding and tugging, mashing and yanking, harder and harder! His passion rises and his ecstasy nears, but the squeezing of his testicles and tearing at his penis only grow harder and stronger. He starts to squirm and remonstrate with his beloved. If only she wouldn't hold him with such force. If only he could free his arms and legs from her grip. If only he wasn't overwhelmed by her power and helpless. He starts to shout. Then, he wakes from his dream.

It's not his beloved who grasps him. It's the flowers of the field. Tulips and vines and roots of the willow have crept near while he slept and insinuated themselves around him. His clothes are torn away and vines coil about his arms and legs. He feels them gliding like snakes over his bare skin, with their thorns wounding him as they move. Terrible is their strength, as relentless as the earth, pulling him tight against the dark soil. Between his legs, a red tulip bends to suckle him with its soft petal lips. But the tulip's kiss is not gentle. It draws his penis in with an irresistible force, more horrible because it's slow rather than violent. The thorny vine that slithers around his testicles cuts and crushes. The young man thrashes and yelps. He screams and struggles. No help comes. He is alone and defenseless and in the grip of enemies. In his dream, he was near orgasm. His heavy penis throbbed with semen about to be released. Now he groaned, but not with pleasure. His penis grew huge, but not with orgasmic joy. It was the pulling of the red tulip, straining his penis to its limit. His testicles only wanted to shrink away, but the merciless vines gripped them by the roots. He wanted no more. He struggled. It was too much! Then, nausea. A moist ripping sound. His penis and his testicles had been torn from his body. The red tulip and the vines shivered with delight. Blood pumped in a great flood from the wound between the young man's thighs, feeding the tulip and the vines and the willow. They tasted his flesh and his death and knew that it was good. For a long while the hillock was silent. The sun still shined and the breezes teased the fields of flowers. But beneath the willow tree, it was dark. No sunlight penetrated there. The soil swallowed the blood of the young man, and soon his splayed corpse vanished as the vines drew it down into the smothering and unknowable depths of the earth.

The end! That made me hot, being the pervert that I am. Hope it does the same for someone else.