Date: Sun, 25 Feb 2024 11:07:47 +0000 From: gavinrower3 Subject: As a lily bud opens to the sun - Chapter 1 Unexplained butterflies filled Matthew's stomach as he walked, hiding behind the other three uniformed public schoolers, trudging towards an ageing, low-slung Ford Falcon. A strange choice of car, Matthew thought, for someone like Jarrod. It was a prosaic choice of transport, seemingly unsuited to someone as sensitive and sentimental as Jarrod was, an artist's soul in the body of a public schoolteacher. Slavic, Jarrod was long, lean, and lanky, and moved with a willowy, poetic gait. There was a kind of subtle, windblown elegance about his long, unhurried strides. He towered above the group, at well over six feet; atop a narrow torso rested sinewy shoulders, a character-lined olive face, and short-cropped salt and pepper. Matthew himself was not yet fully grown, his powder blue school shirt hanging loosely over his slight frame, pencil case clutched against a narrow, boyish waist. He was small for his seventeen years -- slimmer, more svelte, more compact. There was something of the effete about Matthew, a smoothness evoking, in certain older men, a desire to protect. This night, Matthew was feeling strangely nervous at the prospect of the short car ride to the neighbouring grammar school, for tonight's interschool debate. Unsure of why, he seemed to sense some frisson of danger, that seemed to point to some unknowable passion lurking just beyond his treasured composure, some foreboding promise of depths beyond. The unplumbed, the uncontrollable, the primal. Matthew fantasised, as he had before -- would Jarrod, after the debate, whisk Matthew away to some dark lookout over the city, as he sat sweetly compliant in the passenger seat? How good Matthew imagined he would be, how obedient, if Jarrod were to give a command. How he would try his hardest (as he did in his essays) to do well, to be a good boy for him. His excellence would be marked by faultless submission. No -- he thought. He would not feel this, he could not. Years of avoiding schoolyard scrutiny meant that he was well aware of how dangerous such feelings could be to contemplate, let alone experience. For those feelings to be directed towards Jarrod, a teacher no less -- meant crossing a barrier beyond which the territory was perilously unmapped. Yet here he was, sitting in Jarrod's car, trying to hide the shameful teenage erection, which his flight of fancy had aroused, under the mound of his pencil case. He sat brooding, amongst the idle chatter of his teammates. What would happen after the debate, when Matthew needed a lift home? A question which stuck in his mind even as the team faced the challenge of a secret topic debate, fuelled by that strange determination to prove worthiness which only talented public schoolers possessed. How sweet the taste of victory would be, to win as migrants against pale and overindulged inner-city heirs. In the end, they had won, by some small margin that would allow them passage to a fifth round -- and maybe finals after that. Matthew would remember the debate for its role as a harbinger for what came next; a prelude, a gateway to the night which was to follow. "You're shaking", came that gently sardonic drawl which Jarrod so often was heard to adopt. They walked, side by side, towards Jarrod's car, parked carelessly in the corner of the unlit school carpark. Matthew's hands often shook, after the adrenaline of a debate. The others had already been picked up by doting parents. "Oh ..." came a breathy exhale from Matthew. "I -- yes. I haven't had dinner": a nervous excuse, and a half-truth. "I've got some biscuits in the car, I think". Jarrod's features wore a veiled, knowing look. Matthew walked, spellbound. The frisson intensified. Eyes momentarily shut, the heat Matthew's groin grew. Pressure was building, even though release was not twelve hours ago. "They should be in here". Now in the car, Jarrod's elbow was resting on the centre console, supporting his upper body as he craned himself downwards to extricate snack from glovebox miscellany. Inevitably, a large hand grazes Matthew's leg on the way down. Matthew looks out of the window, away from Jarrod's searching glance, missing the flash of quiet triumph when a blush creeps up Matthew's cheeks. "Now where have those biscuits gone ..." comes Jarrod's baritone, barely audible. Almost solely breath, puffed downwards to land on the exposed column of Matthew's neck, who shivers, and gives a quiet sound. Jarrod notices. "Everything ok, Matt?" Jarrod delivers the final blow with a slightly mocking tone, knowing this is too close for the comfort of composure. Jarrod had spotted signs in Matthew months ago -- the bashful body language, the boyish riposte, the awkward half-smiles. Tonight was no accident. It would be the culmination of months of deliberate, subtle teasing, eye contact held slightly too long, feedback on essays a shade too complimentary. No -- tonight was no accident for Jarrod. Matthew would open as a lily bud, inevitably towards the sun. He turns, and Jarrod raises a crooked index finger to make contact with Matthew's chin, before slowly, inexorably, it is pulled away from the window, towards which it was so intractably turned. His cheeks were flushed a desperate, rich colour; the growing bulge in his uniform trousers below was arousal made manifest. Jarrod glanced down at Matthew's face, and found embarrassment, desperation, curiosity, excitement, anticipation -- all barely contained. The delicious and singular intensity of youth. Pinning him with his gaze, Jarrod's blue eyes meet Matthew's black, and Jarrod moves his gaze from lips, to eyes, to lips again, so that it was beyond doubt what was about to take place. Jarrod wanted Matthew to know, he wanted him to bear active and present witness to his imminent deflowering by an older man. Then, Jarrod is moving in, placing his lips squarely on the younger's, and a current snaps between them, a spark which moves from man to boy, and it sets Matthew alight. An ancient spark, as primal as time, from older to younger, as between men and boys. As the Greeks did. As Matthew, too, will one day do to another. Matthew moans, slightly, a wordless plea; and Jarrod goes in harder, one hand cupping Matthew's jaw in an act of possession, the other busy down below, molesting Matthew where before none other -- neither man nor boy -- had felt before. Jarrod takes Matthew's hands and places them on his own lithe body. Go on, touch, the gesture seems to say. Matthew's hands find buttons to undo, a belt to unbuckle, a fly to unzip. "You're doing well", says Jarrod. Matthew preens, opening up his body more, making it easier for Jarrod's roaming hands to take what Matthew is to give. Jarrod's hand closes around Matthew's throat -- Matthew, oversensitive, feels tears bead under his eyelids. "Unbutton your shirt", and Matthew is slipping off his creased school shirt. Jarrod's hands undo the catch on Matthew's trousers, pulling pants and underwear off for Matthew to shed them completely. As he raises his hips to pull them all the way off, Jarrod lays a hand on Matthew's shoulders, and Matthew, in response, turns his now naked body to kneel in the footwell. Then, in one fluid motion, Jarrod pulls his belt free from its loops. To Matthew's shock, he finds it placed around his neck. Jarrod pulls it tight, until it sits flush against Matthew's slender neck, as on an animal, or a slave. Jarrod frees his swollen manhood from its confines, and grasps it, moving his hand up and down. His head lolls back in casual rapture. Matthew beholds the engorged cock before him. His own, which protruded pink-tipped from his hips, was so much smaller than the fat Slavic monster whose hooded slit now winked, gleaming at Matthew's parted lips. Steadily, Jarrod pulls on Matthew's leash, bringing his upper body across the centre console, to rest in his lap. He would feed Matthew a nectar from a font yet untasted; Jarrod would make it so that, in an opening where before where only innocent schoolyard jibes sprang forth, now a cock would violate obscenely and baste with its alkaline quicksilver. Matthew's mouth opens, and submits to its yoke. Filled with the fullness of Jarrod's flesh, his lips bulged and cheeks hollowed. Inside, a salty and bitter slime leaked at the back of Matthew's throat. Jarrod thrusts upwards, and Matthew, overwhelmed, makes a fraught, gagging noise. "Slut" observed Jarrod. It was objective, factual. Jarrod's hand rested, nestled in the softness of Matthew's hair, the other hand wrapped around the belt. It was so unlike the gentle encouragement Jarrod usually gave, but it seemed only to arouse Matthew further. His own untouched adolescent hardness leaked a thin silver thread. As the word landed, Matthew felt a new beginning, could feel something shift inside of him. It fed something dark and feral hiding within, which he had always known existed, but which had never, until this moment, been consciously acknowledged. This was a moment of transformation, at once a birth and death. The old Matthew fell away with every passing moment, and the new was emerging clearer and clearer from the blackened ash of virgin sacrifice. Was this the special metamorphosis which every receptive youth must undergo, at their first? An owl cooed in the mature branches of foliage above, and Jarrod ejaculated, letting out three sudden and cathartic grunts of release. Jarrod's bitter saltiness is shot into the open cavity of Matthew's waiting mouth. He gags on the taste, unprepared for how it would feel. Spurting across his tongue, the roof of his mouth, the inside of his cheeks, Matthew feels, momentarily, utterly overpowered -- he is, in that instant, an extension of Jarrod's own cock. It is oblivion. Slowly, Jarrod comes down from his high. One hand, with a proprietary touch, moves down Matthew's slender torso. It makes passes over nipples, down and behind to take a handful of Matthew's buttocks. The other comes up to Matthew's mouth, and holds it closed. "Swallow", he says. Matthew cannot bring himself to. The taste is too acrid, too foreign, the texture too slimy. He gags. "Swallow, Matt". The tone is insistent. Matthew forces himself. With a gulp, milky fluid coats his oesophagus; he feels it sliding down, deeper inside himself. Jarrod's wandering hand moves down to Matthew's boyhood now, and Matthew is earnest in anticipation. Without artifice, it is enfolded within Jarrod's broad palm, enveloped wholly by his hand. Jarrod's right hand pulls at the leash, so that Matthew moves closer, leaning across the console, exposing the curve of his buttocks. He leans down to taste himself on Matthew's mouth, in a gentle, open kiss, sampling the taste of innocence now profaned. His left hand begins to tug roughly, dominantly on Matthew's erection. Five or six firm strokes were given, before orgasm comes only as it can for a teenage boy: too hot, too fast, too much; and Matthew is crying out repeatedly, uncontrollably into the kiss. Fire sears through parched woodland, pleasure tears outwards, and pearlescent strings fall onto seat, floor, handbrake, trim. Unprecedented rapture was finding singular expression on the canvas of a teen's virgin sex. Jarrod traced the dying intensity of orgasm in Matthew's spasming cock, still grasped in his hand, then pulls him up, into an awkward cuddle, and a kiss more intimate than any which came before. A time passes like this, Matthew reeling in Jarrod's arms. And then -- "Well done on the win tonight" -- and Matthew is undone, laughing, crying and recovering as he processes the reality of what has just transpired against the backdrop of the world flooding in around him -- the win, the prospect of finals, the car around him, the Autumn night outside, and the weight of what had, for months, been growing between the pair of them, which in the space of a half hour had been made real. He pondered what all of this would amount to -- the new boy he had become, the growing warmth in his chest -- as he pulled himself up to sit gingerly, naked, in the passenger seat. Something had given way inside of him, but what was it, exactly? What would this newfound sense of self mean for the puzzle which he was, the adolescent quest to know who one was, and one's place in the world? The ride home, after Matthew had dressed and composed himself, was quiet. A comfortable silence had settled over the pair, the older and the younger, erastes and eromenos, now sitting side-by-side. There was a sense of relief about Matthew -- earlier fear which had been brought to the surface, allowed to transpire, pass through Matthew. In its wake was left evidence of some deeper self beneath. It seemed to hint at some stronger, more mature, more enduring young man taking form underneath; the person who, someday, somehow, perhaps with Jarrod's tutelage, it would be Matthew's destiny to become. Jarrod turns his car into Matthew's street. Matthew was lost in thought, post-orgasm. His mind was occupied by a strain, taken from that solemn and majestic refrain in Herbert's Dune: "Where the fear has gone, there shall be nothing", he mused to himself, entering his house a changed young man. "Only I will remain".