Date: Tue, 01 Jan 2002 21:29:52 +0000
From: Java Biscuit <javabiscuit@hotmail.com>
Subject: vancouver island, chapter 8

This story involves teen/boy, teen/adult, male/male graphic
sex and is not intended for reading by minors. If you are
underage, or this type of material is illegal where you live,
please stop now, and go read something else! This is a
completely fantasized story meant only for the purpose
of pleasurable reading. Not real, not true, no way, no how.
It is not meant to encourage unsafe, unprotected sex.

Feedback to javabiscuit@hotmail.com


Vancouver Island ~ chapter eight


by Biscuit


I found out that the benches in the bathroom were
a convenience for giving the flowers enemas. Yves's
tawny ass with a lubed plastic wand sticking out of it
was making me want to fuck him, really badly. It was
also making me want to beg him again, to forgive me.
He was calm, looking over his shoulder at me as I let
the soapy water fill him. I was in training, in cleansing
seva. Seva was work done in the temple and Shree
Devi was overseeing my work. I think he'd rather have
been cleansing those flower butts by himself, especially
Yves's, but suspected that I wouldn't have let Yves out
of my sight. If that's what he thought, he was right.
And so, I was being trained to assist, by flushing out
my beloved flower's backside.

I'd promised myself I wouldn't fuck him. Right then,
it wasn't so much what I might do to him that was
scaring me and making me want to apologize. It was
the thought that Shree Devi might help himself to my
little flower after I'd had him. I'd been inducted to
swamihood as a neat ploy to give him access to Yves.
That much I was pretty sure of after he'd unloaded in
Yves's mouth. I have to admit that being a swami, as
Shree Devi well knew, was pretty tempting to me. It
had its appeal. But not tempting enough for me to
sacrifice Yves. As I cleansed my boy I swore to
myself I'd get him out of there, somehow, before his
beautiful ass ended up spitted on Devi's holy cock.

Yves would shit out a bellyful and come back to the
bench for me to fill him up again. Even though it
kind of stunk in that room, I was turned on by having
him lie there in front of me naked, letting me put that
thing up his backside. I had a towel folded under
my knees, and I was rubbing his beautiful back. I
couldn't help leaning down to kiss his ass cheek. So
silky and warm.

The other swamis joined us when the flowers were
done shitting and fresh incense had pretty much done
away with the smell. It was time to shower them.
Wet, naked guys, everywhere, with enough wood to
start up the Little Flower Lumber Yard.

Apart from Ghandi, who, although he seemed to be
fond of his swami, but was frustrated by having to
keep his hands off of other boys, the flowers seemed
pretty devoted to their swamis and vice versa.

Now, apparently it was okay for the flowers to
play with their swami's dicks in the shower, but
not the other way around. And it was strictly a
non-spurting event, nobody was supposed to blow
a load, unless it was a flower creaming Shree
Devi's mouth.

I was a bad swami. My behavior was stirring up
some protests and I heard Swami Ganesha busy
quieting down the troops around us. Apparently the
cocks of the little flowers belonged to the big guy.
Only Shree Devi was supposed to suck them, except
on high holy days, or something.

But when I had Yves under our second shower of
the day, after the whole enema thing was done, I
got down on my knees to blow him. He was boned
up from having his ass played with and being soaped.
Shree Devi was wandering around like a giant bee
among wet flowers, gathering pollen from any stray
boners. I saw him taking a load from Ghandi and
thought, what the hell, dropped down and fastened
my lips around Yves's cock. If my flower wanted
sucking, I was the swami to do it! That's when the
muttering started, and Swami Ganesha started his
making peace rounds.

"Brother," I heard him say, "do not judge another.
Swami Anandaji is new to our ways. New to his
calling. Do not judge." Jesus. I tried to blank them
out and concentrate on the warm baby pole in my
mouth. Yves's hands were on my head, his ass in my
hands -- gyrating and poking like crazy -- I think he
was showing off for his fellow little flowers; he was
making a lot of noise, even for him. I'd been hard
since the whole cleansing thing started and the feel
of Yves popping in my mouth set me off; I soaked
his legs with ribbons of spunk and may have sent
a few stray shots flying, inciting more grumbling
around us. I was not cut out for the disciplined life
of the temple.

The big deal meditation was supposed to happen
right after dinner. There were a lot more swamis
around than there had been during the day. The
cafeteria where we'd eaten our soup was filled with
guys and their boys dressed in orange. A lot of
them had regular jobs and stuff and weren't around
in the daytime. I gathered this from the chat around
the table.

Yves was as bad a flower as I was a swami. He was
supposed to be sitting with the other little blossoms
to eat dinner. He kept looking over at me from the
table full of boys. He was definitely the youngest of
the flowers. Ganesh probably closest to his age. Most
of them were closer to my age, I think, so I got a
lot of looks from my fellow swamis. A few of them
congratulated me on finding my calling so young.
A lot more of them looked at me like they'd like
to tenderize me with their swami stalks.

About halfway through the dinner, Yves left the
flower table and came to me. There were plenty of
outraged looks our way, but nobody said anything
or stopped him when he got right into my lap and
started eating off my plate with me.

"A beautiful flower," Swami Ganesha said to the
glaring swami on the other side of him. "Shree
Devi has given special dispensation to Ananda. He
regards this child as his own bloom, and Swami
Anandaji as his own little brother. Don't concern
yourself with their antics." In other words, the big
guy was willing to let me get away with murder to
have Yves for himself, later. No way. I couldn't let
it happen. Just the thought of that holy cock of his
anywhere near Yves's ass was enough to make my
dinner stick in my throat.

"Is our stuff clean, yet?" I asked him. Yves pinched
me. He had his arm around my neck and his other
hand on my shoulder. The pinch was hard enough
to make me give him a look. He gave me a big
smooch when I turned my face to him, but his eyes
looked wary.

"It don't matter, Swamiji," he said, and I realized he
was trying to shut me up. He'd already figured out
that the more we seemed to go along with what was
happening, the better our chance of getting the fuck
out of there. He rubbed my cheek where he'd
pinched it, smiling as he saw me get the message.
He kissed me again.

"He's right, brother," said Swami Ganesha, laughing
at Yves's apparently unbridled passion for kissing
me. Oh, he liked it well enough, God knows. But
he was mainly putting on a show and using that soft
pink tongue to keep me from doing something dumb
like asking more questions about our stuff.

The only thing that saved his ass that night was a
case of the runs. It's true that we hadn't been eating
well. All that raw stuff started boiling right through
him. That, and he'd never had an enema before, and
never gotten fingered with so much oil.

It was in the middle of the meditation session. No
more sunflower pattern. We were in a bigger room
with Shree Devi at the front. Yves and all the other
flowers started the evening's festivities by walking
up a path in the middle of the room to the big guy's
throne. They'd put flowers in a bowl near his feet
and then bow, kiss the head of his massively hard,
holy cock and spend a moment there. Some of the
flowers Shree Devi toyed with longer than others,
but he took time to kiss and fondle all of them.

Each one got some whispered words or special
petting and you could see they were loving it. The
attention was a big deal. The little flowers were
grinning away as they left the big man to go to
their swamis.

Shree Devi's dark eyes were shining bright as Yves
walked up there and I was almost holding my breath.
God, I hated seeing Yves put his mouth on that
monster dick of his. That my personal little bloom
was his special delight, was as plain as the shine on
the head of his grossly swollen dick.

The whole, heavily carpeted room, was thick with
incense and there was a naked flower, about my
age, playing lightly on a drum along with the taped
Eastern music. We were in rows, with a thick round
pillow for every swami to sit on and another pillow
in front of us for our flower. I was getting pretty
steamed on my pillow. Like that afternoon, boned
up in spite of myself. I didn't mind seeing those boys
getting fondled by Shree Devi, until it was my boy.
And Shree Devi was stroking Yves's cheek, holding
him down there on his dick way too long. It was
worse though when he picked him up and pulled him
into his lap, holding him perched on his folded thigh
while the rest of the flowers walked up to pay him
tribute. Fuck! He held him there, with his hand
planted between Yves's legs, right inside his pajama
pants, while the other boys came up and did their
thing. Yves had his eyes closed while that big hand
was mauling him and it was breaking my heart.

The swami sitting next to me, actually had the balls
to lean over and whisper to me, "Shree Devi honors
you." I'd have liked to honor his face with my fist
right about then.

God. That place was half wet dream, half nightmare.
When Yves was let go and came to me, he kept his
head down. But when he looked at me, his eyes were
dangerous.

He looked like a little god, naked on that pillow in
front of me. Shree Devi instructed the flowers to lie
on their stomachs and spread their leg petals. Yves's
shapely brown thighs open in front of me, with that
rear end lifted up by the pillow under him was a
sight that could make you cry. I know it made my
dick weep. We swamis got instruction that made us
almost as good as Armand at loosening up the buds
of our flowers.

I'd had my tongue in his ass before, but that night,
with the music and incense and all the flavored oil
I'd worked into him, it was too good for words.

Tonguing and then more finger play.

We were into what had to be the third round of
fingering with oil when Yves let out a groan, it was
loud enough to be heard over the chanting tape and
some watery shit bubbled out of him. He reached
around in a panic and clapped his hand over his butt.
I picked up the pajama pants I'd taken off him and
stuffed it in his crack, wiping my fingers. It was
mostly oily water.

We were polluting the vibes, big time. These guys
liked their flowers washed out like crazy before
fucking them, to avoid this kind of thing, I guess.
We got hustled out of there pretty damn quick.
Swami Ganesha escorted us down to the bathroom,
he was clucking like a hen. Yves was out of control.
I think he was playing up the groaning and making
some pretty rude noises that caused the swami to
cluck even harder.

"It's okay," I told him. "I'll look after him. Don't,
you know, I mean, Ganesh is upstairs and all, he's
waiting for you. We'll be okay."

Swami Ganesha looked so relieved. I knew he was
torn between being our official helper and wanting
away from the farting and spewing, back to his own
much cleaner flower. He still had a boner showing
in his pajama pants, though it wasn't as hard as it
had been.

"I'm so sorry for your trouble Swami Anandaji, the
flowers are usually cleansed well enough before ..."

"Look, it's okay. He's just not used to that food and
all. Thanks for helping us out of there, really, it's
okay."

The swami looked with concern at Yves perched
on the toilet.

"There are fresh clothes in the hall closet, brother.
Maybe you'd better take him to bed after. If he's
up to it, come back upstairs. Come in quietly, it
should be all right. Oh dear." Yves let go another
blast and that decided Swami Ganesha. He smiled
weakly and took off.

"All-ee criss!" Yves swore, which would be Holy
Christ, to anyone else. Then he giggled and wiped
his ass. "We be out of here, Jamie!"

Blessed freedom, in clean pajamas, with shoes and
coats we stole from the closet beside the front door.
We snuck out of the Little Flower Temple while
the grand meditation was still in progress over our
heads.

An alarm sounded from the building behind us.
We must have tripped it on the way out, but we
were long gone, racing down Clayton Street.

We had nothing but what we found in the coat
pockets in that closet. About seventy dollars in
cash, our stolen clothes, and our freedom. I'm
sure we left some very nervous swamis behind
us, wondering if we'd blow the whistle on them.
Maybe I should have but it never occurred to me.
I just wanted out. They seemed to like it. I didn't.
Well, some of it I liked, but like Nathan Jones,
those guys had nothing to worry about from me.

My moral senses were about as screwed up as
everything else about me. Making trouble for
the swamis was the last thing on my mind.

I had a ten year-old boy in a pair of orange
pajamas to worry about. And what a happy
boy he was. Gurgling belly and all.