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Description
Jungle detritus crunches softly under bare feet as a lean sun-browned youth threads his way through a stand of dense reeds grown so tall they hide him from sight. Black tangled hair long enough to tease the small of his naked back catches again and again on their leafy stalks. It easily pulls free as he pushes on in search of food. His tan belly prods him forward with pangs of hunger. Leaves and roots are not enough to satisfy it this day. Today the youth desires something more filling.

To that end, he presses deep into territory never before explored in his jungle home. Somewhere in his travels he will catch a spoor and track its game. The inherent confidence of a young heart assures him of this.

The closeness of the reeds to his nude body annoys him. The youth is used to open space amidst towering trees which need the room to spread their canopies and drink in the sunlight. These thin hollow things constantly rub on him and foster a sense of confinement.

Finally, he breaks through the outer boundaries of the stand. He revels in the caress of open air upon his skin as he warily scans the expanse before him – a marshy swampland stretching as far as he can see. Knotty swollen trees stand mired in boggy soil dotted with patches of curling grasses. Fringed curtains of tattered moss hang from gnarled branches. The mournful cry of an unseen bird on the wing echoes plaintively in his ears. At first sight, he wonders what he could possibly find in this grey wet muck, but the bird’s call sparks hope. Where there is one bird, there may be more. And where there are birds there may be eggs with fat yellow yolks in them.

Inspired, the youth trudges forward. He slogs through cold brackish water up to his waist as he keeps bright dark eyes peeled for a nest among the branches. Immersed as he is, catching a bird in flight would be difficult, but to climb a tree to plunder a nest will be no trouble for the nimble stripling. His wild gaze darts side to side, alert for signs of any of the marsh’s inhabitants nearby. This land is alien to him, and he knows nothing of what dwells in it.

His middle gurgles as he wades on, stoic as any four-legged beast. His lips purse as he sees nothing of promise the further he ventures. Perhaps he will again have to cross an expanse of land without filling his belly. His growing muscles demand nourishment. There must be something here to sate them, he presumes.

The breeze shifts, bringing with it a sweet scent on the wind. He stops and sniffs, filling his nose with the sugary smell. Water and scum splash up his limber torso as he turns and makes for the source. Soon, in the center of a sparse grove, he comes upon a small shoal which bears only reddish dewy stalks half the length of his legs. The air feels oddly still as he draws nearer to it. The syrupy odor thickens with his approach.

At the shoreline the youth gingerly reaches out with the caginess of any wild creature. Gooey strands stretch between his fingers and the stalks as he pulls his hand to his greasy face. He examines the clear glistening gel first with his nose, then with his tongue. He beams at the astonishing taste. It is sweetness more intoxicating than anything he has ever sampled before. It may not satisfy his hunger, but it can certainly blunt it.

The stripling wades ashore and into the stalks. To stay in the shallows may invite a curious predator lurking underneath the surface. Naked feet sink into spongy soil. The shining goo attempts to adhere to the golden skin of his legs, but it cannot hold to the sheen of water covering them. He squats down and grabs handfuls of plants, set on uprooting them.

They resist him. His brows furrow. He pulls harder, determined to have what he desires. Still the red stems remain anchored. He becomes cross. Although hair has only recently sprouted under his arms and upon his groin, his lithe muscles already are powerful enough to throw a full-grown doe and snap its neck. This task should be exceedingly simple, yet it is not.

His mood sours even more as he realizes his matted hair has fallen down around him and is now sticking here and there to the globules topping the stems. He frets and yanks free a few strands, only to have more become ensnared as he leans to the opposite side. Also, the swamp’s water is fully shed from him, allowing the gel to cling to his sleek thighs and firm buttocks.

Hunger outweighs annoyance. Although these plants are more cloying than the reeds he navigated, the youth will quiet his middle with this sweet bounty. He drags a hand up a stalk to strip the dewy syrup into his palm. Greedily he licks it clean and repeats the process. His unkempt tresses fan out around him as they continue to become affixed. It is of no consequence. He will free his hair after he eats his fill of this ambrosia more delicious than any wild honey ever discovered.

A curious sensation tickles his skin. He dips his head and finds, as he teetered on the balls of his feet with his tugging, the stalks slipped farther across his legs. Now they lay strewn over his thighs in a jumbled overlapping web of red stems and shining goo. They have folded into the join of his crotch and weave along the curve of his buttocks. Sap oozes into their cleavage while more plants cling to his waist. They seem to be . . . sliding.

The youth pauses in his feeding, questioning the tingle in his spine. Suddenly his eyes open wide. Stalks are slowly bending towards him from every corner. It is not his imagination or swaying caused by a stray wind. They bow so gradually he could be up and dashing away through the marsh were he not lashed to the earth by a net of gelatinous ropes. If they persist, he will be entrapped beneath their creeping multitudes.

Grunting and chuffing, he strives to stand. His hands and feet find no leverage in the porous dirt. Indeed, it seems to wobble under him as though it pulses with a sluggish life all its own. The plants already laced across his flesh drag on it with a subtle but steady pull. He seizes handfuls and yanks with all his might. He twists and sways with his efforts. Legs toned from years of primitive survival display the cut of their sinews as they bulge against their bonds. The stripling does not scream or howl or cry out beyond groans born of terrible strain. His feral mind is too focused on escape. Escape from a threat like nothing ever seen before in his brief span of years. His toes and shins mire deeper into the quivering earth. Instinctively he recognizes his peril. The morass is engulfing him alive.

But never has the youth laid eyes on a morass such as this. Not one with curling bowing vegetation which binds around him like the tendrils of a climbing vine bind to a stout tree. The plants adhere and close around his bare torso as if of a mind all their own. Soon his wriggling lower half is hidden underneath braided layers of uncompromising weeds. Sweet syrup drips into his navel while his lean tanned trunk undulates against the lengths winding around his body. His round brown face grimaces as his naked manhood is closed upon and immersed in heavy dew like a fly caught in seeping resin.

The earth wobbles like a pond disturbed by a pebble. Each ripple draws the striving youth deeper, inch by violent inch. With an eerie deceptive listlessness, more stems bow forward to twine around his slender forearms. Strenuous moans low from panting lips. He whips his frame to and fro, striving to jerk his lithe body from its captivity. He gasps as cold wiggling soil slurps at his loins and hips. Below the surface, his legs churn through viscous muck, searching fervently for a place to plant groping feet. Incredibly, it burns and stings his skin the further he sinks. His raven hair is now so enmeshed it drags him backwards. His spine arches, displaying to the sky above his smooth muscled breast dotted with dark nipples.

Squirming, grunting, thrashing, gasping – the wild stripling pits every ounce of honed strength he possesses against the fiendish clutch sucking him down to a gruesome fate. The savagery of a trapped beast courses through his heart and veins. He will resist. He will overcome. Even as the damp peat-like dirt swallows his sculpted belly, he pants his defiance and strains to break free. Corded arms shiver with exertion. Bent supine, he shimmies his broad shoulders in desperate protest while glittering sticky stalks fold across his heaving chest and fondle it in a final embrace.

The youth’s mouth gapes wide. His muscles yearn for oxygen to cleanse and feed their sinews. His brown eyes roll to the blue cloudless sky overhead. The bog’s own wriggling mouth kisses behind his shoulders and under his arms. He throws forward his head and sets his chin upon his chest. For one torrid moment, every muscle throughout his frame locks in tremendous tautness. His face is a wrenched mask of ultimate toil. Sweated lips curl away from gritted white teeth. The feral savage quakes the entire length of his naked body. He will free his arms. He will rise up. He will not succumb to death in this manner, pinned and helpless in this fetid swamp.

His supple form sinks deeper. Stems bow down from all sides and fall across his contorted face. In vain, the youth whips his head about, seeking to elude their insidious snares. The mire covers his breast and rises to his throat. Heated frantic pants burst forth as the stalks worm their way into his mouth and fill it with sugary gel. His eyes pop as more slide over and under his nose, where his flaring nostrils are sealed by glistening globules. He coughs against the gooey wad building at the back of his tongue. He chokes and gags. The soil now wreathes his sun-browned face and wriggles as if in anticipation. A last anguished utterance claws past the mass clogging his windpipe just as, with a sudden surge, the earth lifts and swiftly envelopes him, leaving no trace of the jungle youth to be seen.

The spongy patch ripples in silence. Again the squawk of a bird splits the air. Moving as though tethered to a great weight, the reddish stems gradually right themselves and once more stand tall in the light of the sun. Sweet sap seeps from them anew. It glistens like summer rainfall as it coats their stalks and leisurely reforms shining blobs at their tips. For now, hunger is satisfied.

(I don't know the identity of the model or the photographer. I discovered the photo on a German blog, and it wasn't credited there. If anyone knows who might have created it, please let me know so I can give credit)

Description
Jungle detritus crunches softly under bare feet as a lean sun-browned youth threads his way through a stand of dense reeds grown so tall they hide him from sight. Black tangled hair long enough to tease the small of his naked back catches again and again on their leafy stalks. It easily pulls free as he pushes on in search of food. His tan belly prods him forward with pangs of hunger. Leaves and roots are not enough to satisfy it this day. Today the youth desires something more filling.

To that end, he presses deep into territory never before explored in his jungle home. Somewhere in his travels he will catch a spoor and track its game. The inherent confidence of a young heart assures him of this.

The closeness of the reeds to his nude body annoys him. The youth is used to open space amidst towering trees which need the room to spread their canopies and drink in the sunlight. These thin hollow things constantly rub on him and foster a sense of confinement.

Finally, he breaks through the outer boundaries of the stand. He revels in the caress of open air upon his skin as he warily scans the expanse before him – a marshy swampland stretching as far as he can see. Knotty swollen trees stand mired in boggy soil dotted with patches of curling grasses. Fringed curtains of tattered moss hang from gnarled branches. The mournful cry of an unseen bird on the wing echoes plaintively in his ears. At first sight, he wonders what he could possibly find in this grey wet muck, but the bird’s call sparks hope. Where there is one bird, there may be more. And where there are birds there may be eggs with fat yellow yolks in them.

Inspired, the youth trudges forward. He slogs through cold brackish water up to his waist as he keeps bright dark eyes peeled for a nest among the branches. Immersed as he is, catching a bird in flight would be difficult, but to climb a tree to plunder a nest will be no trouble for the nimble stripling. His wild gaze darts side to side, alert for signs of any of the marsh’s inhabitants nearby. This land is alien to him, and he knows nothing of what dwells in it.

His middle gurgles as he wades on, stoic as any four-legged beast. His lips purse as he sees nothing of promise the further he ventures. Perhaps he will again have to cross an expanse of land without filling his belly. His growing muscles demand nourishment. There must be something here to sate them, he presumes.

The breeze shifts, bringing with it a sweet scent on the wind. He stops and sniffs, filling his nose with the sugary smell. Water and scum splash up his limber torso as he turns and makes for the source. Soon, in the center of a sparse grove, he comes upon a small shoal which bears only reddish dewy stalks half the length of his legs. The air feels oddly still as he draws nearer to it. The syrupy odor thickens with his approach.

At the shoreline the youth gingerly reaches out with the caginess of any wild creature. Gooey strands stretch between his fingers and the stalks as he pulls his hand to his greasy face. He examines the clear glistening gel first with his nose, then with his tongue. He beams at the astonishing taste. It is sweetness more intoxicating than anything he has ever sampled before. It may not satisfy his hunger, but it can certainly blunt it.

The stripling wades ashore and into the stalks. To stay in the shallows may invite a curious predator lurking underneath the surface. Naked feet sink into spongy soil. The shining goo attempts to adhere to the golden skin of his legs, but it cannot hold to the sheen of water covering them. He squats down and grabs handfuls of plants, set on uprooting them.

They resist him. His brows furrow. He pulls harder, determined to have what he desires. Still the red stems remain anchored. He becomes cross. Although hair has only recently sprouted under his arms and upon his groin, his lithe muscles already are powerful enough to throw a full-grown doe and snap its neck. This task should be exceedingly simple, yet it is not.

His mood sours even more as he realizes his matted hair has fallen down around him and is now sticking here and there to the globules topping the stems. He frets and yanks free a few strands, only to have more become ensnared as he leans to the opposite side. Also, the swamp’s water is fully shed from him, allowing the gel to cling to his sleek thighs and firm buttocks.

Hunger outweighs annoyance. Although these plants are more cloying than the reeds he navigated, the youth will quiet his middle with this sweet bounty. He drags a hand up a stalk to strip the dewy syrup into his palm. Greedily he licks it clean and repeats the process. His unkempt tresses fan out around him as they continue to become affixed. It is of no consequence. He will free his hair after he eats his fill of this ambrosia more delicious than any wild honey ever discovered.

A curious sensation tickles his skin. He dips his head and finds, as he teetered on the balls of his feet with his tugging, the stalks slipped farther across his legs. Now they lay strewn over his thighs in a jumbled overlapping web of red stems and shining goo. They have folded into the join of his crotch and weave along the curve of his buttocks. Sap oozes into their cleavage while more plants cling to his waist. They seem to be . . . sliding.

The youth pauses in his feeding, questioning the tingle in his spine. Suddenly his eyes open wide. Stalks are slowly bending towards him from every corner. It is not his imagination or swaying caused by a stray wind. They bow so gradually he could be up and dashing away through the marsh were he not lashed to the earth by a net of gelatinous ropes. If they persist, he will be entrapped beneath their creeping multitudes.

Grunting and chuffing, he strives to stand. His hands and feet find no leverage in the porous dirt. Indeed, it seems to wobble under him as though it pulses with a sluggish life all its own. The plants already laced across his flesh drag on it with a subtle but steady pull. He seizes handfuls and yanks with all his might. He twists and sways with his efforts. Legs toned from years of primitive survival display the cut of their sinews as they bulge against their bonds. The stripling does not scream or howl or cry out beyond groans born of terrible strain. His feral mind is too focused on escape. Escape from a threat like nothing ever seen before in his brief span of years. His toes and shins mire deeper into the quivering earth. Instinctively he recognizes his peril. The morass is engulfing him alive.

But never has the youth laid eyes on a morass such as this. Not one with curling bowing vegetation which binds around him like the tendrils of a climbing vine bind to a stout tree. The plants adhere and close around his bare torso as if of a mind all their own. Soon his wriggling lower half is hidden underneath braided layers of uncompromising weeds. Sweet syrup drips into his navel while his lean tanned trunk undulates against the lengths winding around his body. His round brown face grimaces as his naked manhood is closed upon and immersed in heavy dew like a fly caught in seeping resin.

The earth wobbles like a pond disturbed by a pebble. Each ripple draws the striving youth deeper, inch by violent inch. With an eerie deceptive listlessness, more stems bow forward to twine around his slender forearms. Strenuous moans low from panting lips. He whips his frame to and fro, striving to jerk his lithe body from its captivity. He gasps as cold wiggling soil slurps at his loins and hips. Below the surface, his legs churn through viscous muck, searching fervently for a place to plant groping feet. Incredibly, it burns and stings his skin the further he sinks. His raven hair is now so enmeshed it drags him backwards. His spine arches, displaying to the sky above his smooth muscled breast dotted with dark nipples.

Squirming, grunting, thrashing, gasping – the wild stripling pits every ounce of honed strength he possesses against the fiendish clutch sucking him down to a gruesome fate. The savagery of a trapped beast courses through his heart and veins. He will resist. He will overcome. Even as the damp peat-like dirt swallows his sculpted belly, he pants his defiance and strains to break free. Corded arms shiver with exertion. Bent supine, he shimmies his broad shoulders in desperate protest while glittering sticky stalks fold across his heaving chest and fondle it in a final embrace.

The youth’s mouth gapes wide. His muscles yearn for oxygen to cleanse and feed their sinews. His brown eyes roll to the blue cloudless sky overhead. The bog’s own wriggling mouth kisses behind his shoulders and under his arms. He throws forward his head and sets his chin upon his chest. For one torrid moment, every muscle throughout his frame locks in tremendous tautness. His face is a wrenched mask of ultimate toil. Sweated lips curl away from gritted white teeth. The feral savage quakes the entire length of his naked body. He will free his arms. He will rise up. He will not succumb to death in this manner, pinned and helpless in this fetid swamp.

His supple form sinks deeper. Stems bow down from all sides and fall across his contorted face. In vain, the youth whips his head about, seeking to elude their insidious snares. The mire covers his breast and rises to his throat. Heated frantic pants burst forth as the stalks worm their way into his mouth and fill it with sugary gel. His eyes pop as more slide over and under his nose, where his flaring nostrils are sealed by glistening globules. He coughs against the gooey wad building at the back of his tongue. He chokes and gags. The soil now wreathes his sun-browned face and wriggles as if in anticipation. A last anguished utterance claws past the mass clogging his windpipe just as, with a sudden surge, the earth lifts and swiftly envelopes him, leaving no trace of the jungle youth to be seen.

The spongy patch ripples in silence. Again the squawk of a bird splits the air. Moving as though tethered to a great weight, the reddish stems gradually right themselves and once more stand tall in the light of the sun. Sweet sap seeps from them anew. It glistens like summer rainfall as it coats their stalks and leisurely reforms shining blobs at their tips. For now, hunger is satisfied.

(I don't know the identity of the model or the photographer. I discovered the photo on a German blog, and it wasn't credited there. If anyone knows who might have created it, please let me know so I can give credit)