The Wild Boy and That Subtil Serpent

***

In small towns you cannot escape anyone you might wish to shun. Whether they've offended you. Whether they've tempted you.

The incident with the hardon Chad never mentioned to the Wild Boy. Not at the Tuesday night youth basketball game. Certainly not in the sanctuary after the ritual praising of the entity who brought those sweet night rains, so conducive to dreams and prosperity. Not even during chance encounters at gas station or in Mrs. Mason's Café downtown. The Wild Boy never saw Chad's face flushed from embarrassment. Never heard Chad stutter or stumble over his words, as if his train of thought had been detailed by unnatural feelings.

It seemed to the Wild Boy that Chad thought those two layers of nylon sufficiently shielded him.

But the Wild Boy was one who wanted to experience life unshielded. As it came, as it were.

In silence all things were possible.

The fateful day, the holy day, the Sabbath, dawned.

It began with the Wild Boy in the grocery store. He'd been holding up an eggplant, wondering if he should whisper it sweet nothings or just give in to his emotions and stuff it in, when his mom appeared at his elbow, frowning.

"You're out of your mind, WB, if you think I'm going to buy that." She shook her head in intense disapproval. "I hate eggplant."

He cleared his throat and put the vegetable back. "Get any cucumbers?"

She held up a bag. Each cucumber was too long to fit inside. Thick as the Wild Boy's wrist.

He grinned. "Good work, mom!"

At home the Wild Boy snuck one of his Dad's beers from the refrigerator and drained it. The day was hot, the beer cold, and sleep took him before he realized it.

At first the dream appeared innocuous. Certainly it was incongruous. A flashback to last Christmas at the church, when the church youth wrapped gifts for America's unfortunately unemployed masses. Bright paper scattered everywhere - red, green golden, silver. Bows and tinsel. Satiny ribbon. Tape and scissors. Laughter and lame jokes and plates of cookies and pitchers of unspiked punch.

Strangely - and this is where recollection began to liquefy into a discolored and disturbing fluid- they were wrapping presents in the sanctuary, right in front of the altar. In reality they had wrapped those alms in one of the Sunday school classrooms.

In his dream everyone knelt before a pew, using it as a table to carry out their task. No one seemed to care about how uncomfortable was this posture. Conversation was convivial. Excited. Who would be home for Christmas. What they had given to so-and-so. What they just knew they were going to get.

The sibilant sound made the Wild Boy turn away from the jockstrap that lay, ready to be sealed inside the white snowflake-patterned paper. Jockstraps the Wild Boy reverently sniffed. So soft was that sibilant that the Wild Boy thought his sniff was the source of the sound.

Entwined around the legs of the altar was the most enormous snake the Wild Boy had ever seen. Which is saying something, because he'd seen big enough snakes in his life - black racers down at the creek, and once he was sure a rattlesnake thick as his bicep when he raced through a cornfield - but this snake was a titan. It had to be thirty, maybe forty feet long. It looped round each leg of the altar, and lengths of serpent flesh were roped from leg to leg. The entire space beneath the altar top was filled with circles of snake.

Upon being sighted the snake moved, flowing forward, disentangling from the altar like a knot that knew how to untie itself. Only then did the Wild Boy realize that its body was tri-lobed, had no scales, and in fact appeared to be ... yes, human skin, appearing to be stitched together from rings of skins from sundry races. Strawberry-and-cream Caucasian skin, gleaming obsidian African skin, liquid amber Asian skin. Fine hair glistened here and there - long and black, short and blond, curly and ginger.

The serpent's apple-sized head was a half-dome of cherry-red spongy flesh, and it wore like a scarf paper-thin, loose, folded skin. A vertical slit, wide enough to insert a pencil, formed the mouth. No forked tongue flicked forth. It was eyeless.

Only the Wild Boy saw it. Why? No one else in the sanctuary had his sixth sense.

After detaching from the altar the snake slithered towards him. When the blind head was a foot away it halted. It rose up like a cobra, swaying reed-like in an unseen breeze. For long moments it merely swayed. Then from the mouth a pearl of clear fluid emerged, lay cupped in red spongy skin a moment, then dropped to the carpet.

Then it spoke.

"You've never done good things," said the snake.

The Wild Boy shivered.

"You've never done bad things," said the snake.

The Wild Boy folded his hands between his knees.

"This must change," said the snake. "For it is not enough to be. One must do." A silence. "And 'do what thou wilt' is the whole of my Law."

Orgasm broke across the Wild Boy and he awoke gasping, his cock jetting hot streams of jism into his briefs. He thrashed in his bed, shuddering, enjoying it.

He rose, stripped naked, and changed. He didn't wash. The smell of his cum, of his armpit sweat, was the finest cologne he'd ever breathed.

Do. He must do.

But what did he wilt?

Seething with nervous energy the Wild Boy took his mom's car and drove. Drove through the flat cornfields all the way to where the foothills begin, as twilight casts its shroud over the sky, and then back to town as night fell, having done nothing. The stars twinkle. He saw the Milky Way, an iridescent ribbon of sperm wrapped ourobors fashion round the Earth.

The white spire of the First Christian Church loomed, thrusting up into the sky illuminated by spotlights.

He parked his mom's car in the lot at the basketball courts. For a moment he sat in the car, reaching for those feelings. Should he strip naked here in the car and strut two blocks over? No. Stupid. Should he just ring the doorbell? Perhaps.

Do. He must do.

His heart throbbed. The night was hot -

Yeah. If aught the heat would be his excuse

He ripped his shirt off and threw it onto the steering wheel.

Shirtless, wearing only cargo shorts and Nikes, he trotted two blocks. A few cars passed. One anonymous hand waved. He mechanically waved back.

In the silence no one accused the Wild Boy of feeling the things he felt.

He lacked a sophisticated plan. He was Doing, not Thinking. He thought he might simply knock on the door and then, as the choir director opened it, he would turn around and, looking coyly, perhaps desperately, over his shoulder he'd lower his shorts and stick out his butt.

No light in the living room of Chad's place but the Wild Boy saw a side window towards the rear glowing faintly, as if illuminated by a bedside lamp. Screened by a tall wooden fence from the house next door, the Wild Boy crept along the side of the house.

Of course he peered inside.

Of course Chad Firestone was fornicating, and fornicating beautifully, and fornicating passionately. A woman enjoyed Chad's sin doggy-style as she knelt on the floor, legs spread and back arched, leaning on the bed, which remained pristine and undefiled.

She was not Chad's wife. He had none. She was not from the church. She was not even from the town. She was anonymous.

Chad was glorious in his ecstasy. Sweat plastered his long hair to his head. Hips stroked and buttocks rippled. Fat balls swung between his legs, both of which were lightly furred. A smooth body the Wild Boy imagined riding a surf board or slicing through the pool. Streamlined and smooth, but seasoned by a dash of masculine hair.

Chad screwed that woman furiously. Rabbitfucking. Later the Wild Boy would hear the world but that night Chad provided him the definition. Chad was ramping up to orgasm, fucking in frenzied abandon, utterly disinterested in that woman's pleasure. Chad was intent on injecting his sperm where God commands it to go...

Rabbitfucking indeed, but nevertheless the woman came first. The Wild Boy heard her screaming and he was certain he saw her lubrication dripping onto the worn carpet, though that might have only been a trick of the dim light.

There was no mistaking when Chad Firestone, stud, nutted. His howl surely caused miners in the hills to the east to look up nervously at as rivulets of dust suddenly trickled from the roof and great rocks cracked round them. Chad became, in his instant of sublime ecstasy, a monument of muscle, a statue of male beauty forever graven in the Wild Boy's soul.

The cock Chad withdrew from the woman's cunt was substantial. The Wild Boy guessed that, as it thrust so insistently in the woman, it might have rivaled his own - which he knew was a large cock. Now, though, Chad's cock was slack, a drowsy kielbasa, and it was anointed with slime.

Strangely it was not Chad's cock that commanded the Wild Boy's attention.

Not at all.

It was Chad's sperm which caused the Wild Boy to spew uncontrollably in his shorts.

The woman's cunt gaped raw and lewd after Chad withdrew. She has shaved her bush. All was visible. Vulva. Clitoris. Vagina.

Sperm plugs her vagina. A cup of life. Two cups of it. A huge white slimy serpent descended between her thighs, emerging from its burrow, swaying and beckoning. It broke free, and fell to the floor. Another followed, oozing slowly.

The Wild Boy, before he collapses to the shaggy grass, shaking in his spontaneous orgasm, saw her turn to panting Chad, smiling happily, ablaze with his life and full of his spirit.

The Wild Boy retreated to his mom's car, his crotch sopping with his cum, having done if not all that he wilt ... well, at least he did some of it.

When he returned home the house was dark. So he was able to retrieve from the plastic baggie in the refrigerator the biggest, thickest cucumber his mother bought, and he was able to sneak unchallenged into his bedroom and lock the door He rode the cucumber half the night, bucking like a bronco, shooting load after load into his jock, arranged between his thighs. As he fucked himself the Wild Boy from time to time looked down at the pouch. It brimmed with cum. The sodden mess exhorted him to do ... something. He scooped up a huge dollop of it. He silently worshipped his jism, shimmer on his fingers. He rose up a bit on the cucumber, popped the vegetable from his butt, and then his own cum up his asshole. Back the cucumber went.

Yeah. Yeah. That's what he wanted to do. Cum. Gallons of cum up his butt.

He scraped up as much as he could from his jock and inserted it in his chute. It was, he knew, only an appetizer. But escape from this town was just weeks away, and he knew the city was replete with sleaze.

His own cum in his butt, the Wild Boy tugged his jockstrap on. The slime soaking the pouch cooled. He pulled on a pair of running shorts on then climbs into bed. And there he dreamed of giant snakes all night long, and woke with his jock pouch warm with fresh cum.

***

After the seventh cock it is time for the Wild Boy to move on. Polecat is dealing with two new customers at the counter. He waves cheerfully as the Wild Boy exits. Lazarus and Midgard, who have been quite active, now settle into coils as if for a sleep of profound dreams. The eyes of the two customers follow the Wild Boy's ass. The crevice of his shorts is dark, stained with sweat and semen, evidence of his activity.

Halfway through the alley the Wild Boy stops and bursts into laughter. "You again? Back for more?"

The young black man laughs too. "Yeah, well, man, I like doin' it, you know?"

The Wild Boy's eyebrows suggest ... "More?"

"Yeah!"

This second entry is much easier since the Wild Boy's butthole leaks tentacles of cum. The fuck is quick and hard. So it must be. This is public sex, quite illegal, forbidden and hot. The Wild Boy sighs in contentment, feeling yet another cock spewing life within him.

"Whew," the youth mutters, slipping his cock free. Looking down he grins. "Damn." Clots of cum like cottage cheese bead it. He spits into his hand, working the juice into his flesh.

"You need to piss?" asks the Wild Boy. With experience his sixth sense has grown refined.

"What?"

"Pies. You gotta piss?"

"Yeah, man, but I'm -"

The Wild Boy kneels. He puts the hose into his mouth and looks up into astonished eyes. He nods.

As he swallows the black youth's piss the Wild Boy cums, juicing his jockstrap. It is a cataclysmic orgasm. His cells dance like plates bounced by a herd of stampeding elephants.

"Wow," says the African. He pets the Wild Boy like a dog. "You're something." This time he does exit the alley, leaving the Wild Boy kneeling.

Is he done? No. Before moving another step he pulls out his cell phone. He taps the numbers 5552499. He pauses before dialing. Is he being silly? Perhaps. He dials.

"Hello?" The voice is deep, resonant, and sounds like cigarettes.

"Is this Don?"

"Yeah. I don't know your ...?"

"Hey. I'm WB. I saw your number. You up for a good time?"

The easy grin can be sensed even through the ether.

"Always, WB. Always."