Having just had the incredible, intense experience of writing two books in a matter of weeks, I thought I would take a break and have a bit of fun today, so I’ve been having a little play. (Minds out of the gutter, please – I’ve been playing with ideas and words! *rolls eyes*). My Sunday story, then, is a tongue-in-cheek experiment with voice and narrative. “The Little Dutch Boy’s Manhood” is a long short story which is part of a novel I am working on, and told by one of the characters in the book. It’s quite different from a lot of my work on this blog, so I’ll be interested to know what you make of this one! It will come in several parts, so be sure to catch all of it…
Happy reading! x
Once upon a time, there was a little Dutch boy. I’m sure you know his story—or you think you do. Except our hero wasn’t really a boy, you know. He’d grown into a man before our story begins.
As a young man, Hans (for such was the Little Dutch Boy’s name) lived in a town by the sea. It was a very sheltered existence in many respects, for Hans had barely experienced the world beyond the town wall or his own small but regular bulge in his trousers. The wall kept out everything. The Elders demanded it, to keep the town safe from invaders. Most of all, it kept out the biggest threat of all: the sea. A long time ago, the town had all but been washed away by the sweeping waves, so now the wall protected them all. No smell of the sea could be detected; the beach was something older people told of in stories, together with most sensational tales of beautiful creatures of the sea. As a young boy, Hans had been fascinated with these descriptions of oceanic monsters with jaws the size of houses, and of fascinating sea creatures with scales from the waist down and long floating hair, and who wore nothing on their half-human nakedness. As a young man in puberty, imagining what this might look like had made him cup his two love baubles and squeeze gently, while he lay back on his bed and made his little cock jump about.
Now a man of twenty, Hans, like many others, picked tulips for a living. The magic imbued in the Elders enabled them to make tulips grow all year round, and the town was prosperous, if somewhat quiet – dare one say dull – as a result. Every day, he would cut them down with his special tool and load them onto the back of the cart belonging to the florist who worked in the centre of town. Early in the morning, the florist’s daughter would lead the horse up to the cart she had driven there before dawn broke, would couple up cart and creature, and make ready to take the tulips to her mother’s shop.
Hans watched the florist’s daughter each morning. She was the same age as he was. He watched as the velvety skin on her arms exposed itself to him when her sleeves slid upwards while she fastened the cart on tight. As she bent in front of him to check the strapping, the shape of her waist curved out as her backside bent there in front of him, only feet away from his hands, which began to twitch with an anticipation of something he had never experienced. Oh, how he wanted to touch that delicate flower! He imagined how it would look to see her bent like that, naked. The heel of his hand began, without thought to anyone watching, to rub into his crotch and onto his own virgin cock.
He had a little fantasy that often ran through his head in the morning, in which he took the horse’s whip that the florist’s daughter never used, for she was a good, chaste, moral young woman, as she bent over naked and coupled the animal to the cart. He cracked the whip at her side and she jumped. It excited her, quite unexpectedly, so that her cum juices began to flow from her pretty little pussy, while the silken skin of her double moons lifted up into the air and she waggled herself at him. Her eyes grew wide, and with her beautiful pink lips whispered, “Oh, please.” He went right up behind her and ran his finger along her smooth, wet love lips until his finger end disappeared inside her tight hole. And he spanked her, first one side then the other until her soft round dimpled cheeks glowed pink, then between her legs so his palm cupped her soft downy hair and his fingers chastised her love bud. His finger ran with her juices and his cock stood proud, ready to take its prize the moment she said “please” once more. But poor little Hans didn’t even come close—or at all—except in his imaginings.
The florist’s daughter, good and chaste as she was, turned to nod her head in appreciation for Hans’ work as she did every morning, for she never spoke, except to the horse. On catching sight of his cock struggling in its effort to grow within his trousers, her lips became closed tight (which was the last thing poor Hans had wanted) and her eyes widened. In a second, she climbed aboard the horse and cantered it off down the cobblestone track, tulips bouncing around in a fragrant orgy on the cart.
With a melancholy demeanour, as the early morning light began to weave its way down towards the town, Hans took his long walk back home where breakfast would be waiting for him. As usual, he felt sad and lonely. How could he ever persuade the florist’s daughter that he was a man worth having? She paid him no attention at all. Just spent what free time she had with a group of half a dozen female friends. He didn’t know who they were, but he had seen them in the afternoons, laden with fruit and jars of cream, and sometimes vegetables, hiding away together in the florist’s house, as young female friends are wont to do. He’d see her excitement at the latest cucumber one of the friends’ fathers had donated to their little get-togethers. But she didn’t seem to want to see his. He wondered if she ever would.
His walk home took him down by the riverbank. Although he was walking slowly, kicking his heels somewhat (such as they are in the standard uniform of clogs—an insistence of the Elders, for a reason unknown to him), he slowed considerably when he reached a large tree that grew at the top of the bank. Its thick trunk stood stiff and immovable and everything that had grown from it overhung the water and provided something resembling a small shelter underneath, or a nook, if you will. There had been one day which Hans remembered fondly, where he had noticed the florist’s daughter bent down by the edge of the river, a small cloth in her hand, washing her beautiful velvet arms and splashing water on her face. Water fascinated Hans, it being such a prohibited feature beyond the boundaries of the town, and he hadn’t been able to help watching as the water beaded on her skin in the early morning light. He wondered if, just maybe, she might go there every morning after she had finished with the cart, and so he meandered down towards the tree and sheltered himself in the arms of Nature’s nook.
Suddenly, he became alert and his breath began to quicken within his young man’s muscular chest. Lifting up from under the water, breaking its surface with spectacular glittering spray, the wetness gushing from her, the florist’s daughter appeared from the depths of the river. She had clearly decided to take a bathe in this secluded spot, and the twinkles of daylight began to play on her chestnut hair as she lifted herself up from the water and ran her hands through her tresses, her back towards him, and oblivious of her voyeur. Hans followed the length of her hair over her bare shoulders and down where it lay between her glistening shoulder blades. She began to move in the water, turning slightly sideways, until Hans could make out the shadow of her profile, for the early morning sunbeams were illuminating her back and drying her beautiful hair. Her hair was swept backwards and she was using her little cloth to glide the droplets off her face. Her back arched, and she gave a little moan as the cloth ran down her exposed throat, and down over her breasts to her waist, when it disappeared back in the water.
Hans, hiding in his nook, pulled his manhood out of his trousers and stroked it tenderly as he watched the florist’s daughter’s hand, minus its little cloth this time, run down the top of her chest and linger over the pert little breast he could see in profile. Its upward curve silhouetted against the sun-speckled water, and he watched, mesmerised, as she rolled her thumb over the tip of her hard little nipple. Hans could see well how it stuck out, and his manhood did the same in his hand as he wondered just what it would be like to touch something so beautiful.
His stroke became faster and faster, and he shut his eyes to concentrate as he pressed his thumb into the ridge on his smooth, shining cockhead, working at it vigorously with his thumb and finger. He felt it still growing in girth in his palm, for he took a long time, physically alone as he was, to grow to his full potential. In fact, he was unsure he had ever seen his cock standing full and ready. He opened his eyes for inspiration from the beauty in the river to make him give a present of his love juices to the leaves on the tree (for never as yet had he managed to make his manhood do what other young men’s cocks did—and he had watched plenty of cum-shot competitions in the fields as the young men made ready to go a-wooing, and so they would be sure to satisfy their lady loves later in the evening).
But, oh, what disappointment! Hans’ young lady had left the river and was already dressed. She slipped her dainty feet into her little wooden clogs and off she went, singing the same little tune she sang every morning when she hitched up her horse and rode it back into town. What he wouldn’t give for her to ride him! He looked down at his manhood, sadly shrinking away, and spoke to the air and the earth.
“I wish…I wish one day that my cock will grow as big as it can. I want to prove it is the best in town. I want…I want a hero’s cock!”
The thought of his now dangling, shrivelled penis maybe never being able to live up to the ideas he had for it made him tearful. His voice rang out, choking, distraught, like the sound of yard fowl –
“I want to have the—the—COCK THAT DUDES ALL DO!”
His words rang out, screeched out, echoing through the tree, and out into the near side of town. Those who had woken before breakfast and had been busy at their daily toil heard the strange noise. The fowl in the farmyards became disturbed by the noise. They began joining in; the noise spread through the town, and people began to talk about the strangeness of the sound. (And from that day to this, cockerels have been known to shout that morning wake-up call from their lone spots before breakfast. And every morning, men’s lovers grasp hold of their loved ones’ cocks so they can doodle-do as the sun rises and heats things up. But I digress.)
To be continued…