in Narrative

Go Ask The Dragon

I tried to look away. I tried to ignore the terrible moaning. It pulled at me like a leash. A leash around my balls.

I started feeling lightheaded. A violent shiver ran down my spine as the drugs we’d taken began to seep in, and all I could think about was Jamie in that tent, lost somewhere in Central America. I wondered if she still loved me, and if we’d ever get married, but probably not.

I’d first traveled down to Costa Rica to mark the passing of my father. A man who wrote but never published. When his estate settled, I’d paid for school, grabbed a cheap flight to San Jose, then hopped a bus south to see Jamie. The plan was to do some reading, writing, and wax Jamie’s pussy surfboard until classes started in the fall.

Big talk. But I was still a virgin and ready to run like a bitch from the strange dragon scrambling towards me across the top of a concrete wall. It stopped and gazed into my eyes as if reading me. I could feel its ancient, evil vibrations. It changed color, then started bobbing its thorny head aggressively.

I glanced over at my guide. I was thinking: we should kill this thing. After all, we have a perilous journey ahead. We can’t afford a rogue herbivore in our midst. But my guide seemed distracted. She had a hand down her cut-offs, her top was pulled up to her chin exposing her small breasts.

“What?” she said.

“Never mind,” I said. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

No point mentioning the iguana now, I thought. She’d have the munchies soon enough.

“Has it hit you yet?” said my guide, pulling her t-shirt over her head and kicking her cut-off shorts into the bushes. She did this cute thing where she bit her thick, bottom lip, trying to stifle her moans.

Hit me? Was she kidding? Go ask the dragon.

In truth, my junk was already hard, it gave off electrical shocks whenever it rubbed against my board shorts, and it must have been obvious because my guide was on me like a thirsty bat. She rubbed her cheek against the soft fabric, then she sank several teeth into the outline of my cock.

“You are really doing this,” she said. “This is not a Miller story you know.”

OK, Henry Miller was a sore subject. Earlier, long before my guide had forced me to ingest fungi at the point of a machete, I’d been re-reading an old copy of “Tropic of Cancer” I’d found in her bohio. She’d snorted when I’d said Henry Miller was a man I greatly admired, an original. She’d claimed Miller was shit until he met Anaïs Nin. Nin had fucked him, inspired him, edited him, and payed his way for years and years, even the first printing of “Tropic of Cancer.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said, annoyed she knew more about it than I did.

“But you’re going to be a writer.  Will you write about me sucking your cock?”

“Will you finance the first printing?”

“Will you stop calling me “the guide” in your stories? You know my name is Elena.”

“Yesss, it was, but then you insisted I pay you to be my guide. Twenty dollars a day – remember? So go, be a professional and kill that lizard, and there were a couple of monkeys that woke me up at six this morning, go kill them to.”

“There’s more to life than books,” she said, jerking my shorts down to my ankles. “It’s so pink,” she gasped.

I looked out at the Pacific as she kissed its rosy head, like a rosary. After that she was neither tender nor respectful. Not at all. It felt as if a lamprey, dark and thin and squirmy, had attached itself to my groin.

She sucked my cock deep into her throat. She jerked my balls, a finger worked its way in and I became her willing puppet. Every time I got close she sat back, looked up at me and smiled, her dark eyes gleaming.

It felt like she was nursing a deep hunger, like an addict with a pipe. (Jamie had been softer, more reserved; It had been her idea to wait.) It was not long before my guide had me begging for release. She’d penetrated me with two fingers

“You gonna do what I say?” she said.

“You’re the ugh guide,” I groaned.

My guide had assumed full control. I was out of my mother-fucking mind. I told her I’d do anything. She smiled, that made her happy.  It was a haunting smile, the smile of a priest who knows that one day soon you’ll come to Jesus.

So I gave her my offering. I came down her throat, my face smashed against the cool, concrete wall. She stood up and kissed me. I felt her sticky tongue drive deep into my mouth. Then she stepped back, patted the side of my face, laughing with that wide open smile.

I looked down at my pale, second-string, wide-receiver body. My guide was right, I thought, my dick does have a lovely, porcine color, particularly against her rich, cinnamon skin. And she was right about something else, this was more fun than a book.

After, we walked down the beach. My cock was hard again. She grabbed it and dragged me to a weathered chaise. She curled-up on top of me, purring, grinding, the bright stars darting overhead.

There was a wild look in her eyes. The mushrooms we’d taken, the trip, the moon lit waves, all seemed to have a hypnotic effect on us. It felt like we were melting into each other, like we shared thoughts and fluids, the same set of lungs.

I asked my guide again why she believed everyone deserved a love that could kill them. She smiled enigmatically, said I was too young. I asked how old she was, thirty six she said, then she pushed my head between her dark thighs and told me to make her cum.

-Cojito @ Panama After Dark

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