Balfor and Terry 15

In the mood for some espionage, he sneaked down the steeply wooded, leaf-litter strewn and ferny slope beneath him to spy on his slave from a vantage point among some nearby stones and bushes. A swarm of shimmering blue butterflies had filled the air and were battling the stiffening breeze.

One of the butterflies landed on a smooth part of his belly, folded its wings and proceeded to hitch a ride. Balfor was going to allow this, but then its legs began to tickle him as it tried to hold on in the wind.

He went to shoo it away, but was shocked to find himself hesitating.

He went soft and let it tag along. It was after all, very pretty.

The tickling legs of the butterfly resonated in his senses with the tickling of hair on his back now that the locks of his lost twin were long enough to catch the wind and flop about.

He tried not to think about it and succeeded.

His own hair had become annoyingly long as well. He had to toss his head like a girl to get it out of his eyes.

Terry came into view.

Balfor was not sure that he was unaware of him.

Terry looks maudlin thought Balfor; but contemplative. He's gazing blindly out at the clouds as they slide across the sky; evidently thinking dark thoughts.

Not good, this sad empty gazing. There are tears welling, and yet strength, he's squinting slightly with his characteristic steely resolve.

Have I made him sad?

Does he look sad enough to kill himself?

Not quite?

Is that even what he's planning? What is going on in that maudlin, pretty little head of his?

Terry may require a hug. Monkeys find bodily contact psychologically therapeutic apparently.

(Balfor considered himself more of a gorilla than a monkey. Somewhat less social, more self contained. Bigger.)

Balfor estimates how necessary it will be to hug Terry in order prevent further mood decline. He weighs up his slave's recent behavior, his body language, speech inflection, facial cues; he collates all the necessary data, preparing to feed it through the processor of his formidable intuition.

There was Terry's dazed, glazed look after yesterday's three hour rim session. Balfor had almost come just from Terry's skillful licking. Terry couldn't talk when he was finished, his tongue had been swollen and his jaw too sore. He looked like a wild thing, yet still his little dick had been stiff the whole time and he had managed to come again while he was being fucked afterward.

That was the third time that Terry had orgasmed in the - how long?- since they had come to the island. Neither of them had bothered to count the days.

Terry seemed to find Balfor's reinstigation of scrotally facilitated breath control now that he had lost all his teeth, both erotic and tiring at the same time. His scarred little knob of a dick rose to attention, but sometimes afterwards he somehow seemed less than thrilled that Balfor had allowed him to breathe again.

Terry now loved that all his food was chewed by his master, looking forward to the intimacy of the kissing involved. There was no longer any sign of revulsion. He had his puppy fat back now and was getting a hint of a belly because Balfor was force feeding him like a little Christmas goose. He'd hold back on that now, he liked his slaves well nourished, but not so that it all started to sag. He had begun to consider little Terry just a bit too rail thin and hungry looking. He was well pleased that this was now fixed.

Balfor prided himself on his good husbandry when it came to looking after his pets, without regard to the number of their legs.

Balfor had originally fled to South America to escape some heat involving a sixteen year old schoolboy who had gone missing for several months.

Balfor had not known that he was a schoolboy. He'd picked him up at Ken's Karate Klub Sauna in Kensington, a suburb of Sydney. Ken's was not the kind of place one would expect to encounter an under age person, but some how the kid had managed to sneak in to play with the big boys, and got considerably more than he bargained for.

Balfor had kept the deceptively mature looking boy in a small cage in his basement the whole time, fucking him senseless in one orifice or another up to five times a day.

It was for this boy that Balfor had his deep throat flange made, actually he had two made, one for his neutered male german shepherd dog, and one for his anglo saxon boy, who still had a nice sensitive pair of nuts hanging under his cock for Balfor to play with not very gently.

Balfor had never managed to train "Roofrack" his dog to accept the plowing of his clamped open throat with fat human cock meat. It had to be done from the side, and this could not be accomplished without maddening the dog by tickling his whiskers and crushing his long head sideways under hairy human belly.

Roofrack was a very good dog though and loved Balfor very much. He tried hard to learn how to handle it; but to no avail. He much preferred to lick Balfor's tasty cock until it was hard and then have it slowly and gently worked into his moist doggy arse hole until he relaxed and got it comfortable in there. Balfor always seemed to know just when Roofrack was ready to get properly ridden. He would masturbate Roofrack's rose pink lipstick-like cock and often he came as he was being fucked.

Balfor liked to have his human pet, frustrated by a cruel chastity device; look on jealously as Roofrack reached the heights of his ecstasy.

Balfor was much less likely to enjoy giving pleasure to his two legged pet, but often he came anyway as he was being impaled on his very stimulating pole. He would see the semen dribbling messily out of the end of the tightly down curved steel tube which was strapped tightly against the pet's pubic bone, encasing his adolescent little penis and keeping him from offending Balfor with the ugly sight of his self abuse.

The human deep throat flange turned out to be much more successful. It had a tendency to chip teeth, but this did not bother Balfor unduly. Better a chipped tooth than a cock scratched ragged. Balfor often totally lost control of his pelvic thrusting as he approached orgasm, entering a fugue state in which he felt no pain. He had grown tired of seeing his own blood on people's teeth afterwards, and having his cock out of action until it healed.

Balfor had wanted to remove the boy's nuts, but he didn't think the kid would take too kindly to it. He didn't want to have to kill him either if he got bored with him. He could turn an intact slave loose, but one that had been too heavily played with might press charges and he could end up rotting too long in prison. Not that there was no fun to be had in prison as Balfor had discovered. He just liked to have at least an illusory personal freedom, which imprisonment tended to thwart. Especially if it went on too long.

So he satisfied himself with torturing the boy's balls instead.

Balfor liked to catheterise the boy, chain him upright, gag him, put a piss stinking bag on his head and tie a bucket to his nuts and use it for a urinal. He'd invite some friends over and they'd all spend the day drinking lots of beer upstairs. He'd have instructed them to piss into a funnel with a tube running from the upstairs bathroom down to the bucket. Most of them could picture pretty much what was probably happening downstairs. Balfor had explained to them that his new slave was shy and not up to an audience, but actually he didn't want to run the risk of any of his guests recognising his abductee from a missing person notice.

He'd make the boy drink lots of beer as well (he was generous like that sometimes) and gradually the bucket would start to fill up with piss. He'd pack his friends off when the bucket was about half full and then continue on into the evening with the bag off the boy's head and the gag out of his mouth. When the boy's begging and pleading and then crying and sometimes screaming as the weight of the fluid increased on his nuts, had reached a satisfactorily genuine fever pitch, Balfor would remove it and fuck him stupid.

Balfor had seen pictures of male chastity devices for sale in certain magazines and was very eager to play with them. He sent away for a nice steel one and when it arrived he very excitedly set about modifying it. He gave it a wider anal ring through which he could both douche the boy and arse fuck him without removing the device, and removed the lock so he could weld the thing into place permanently. He was annoyed that the penis sheath would interfere with his ball work, but you can't have everything. He would just have to get creative with his knot tying, working on each testicle as unit where it poked out from behind the penis tube. So Balfor put the boy into the device and welded him into it, shielding his skin from the fire with asbestos mats, though he accidentally burned him deeply at two points on his slim delicate waist in spite of this precaution.

It's not a good idea to drink and weld.

Balfor had never enjoyed himself so much as during the weeks he spent watching the boy's frustration build.

The kid begged and begged and pleaded and cried to have it removed so he could have a wank and relieve his very blue and sore balls.

The more he pleaded the hornier Balfor got and the harder the kid got fucked until one day he came in the device from Balfor pummeling his prostate with hard fat cock. This was a big disappointment for Balfor.

That was when he stopped fucking the boy and started fucking Roofrack instead, making sure the boy could see dog coming.

Every so often he would relent though just to shut the whining kid up and ride him until his skinny little body started jacking as he dribbled semen again.

Eventually he had become tired of the boy, who had grown to love Balfor's punishment and had fallen in love with him. Doe eyes and eager compliance bored Balfor stupid especially coming from a wet kid.

He left the rejected pet wandering naked except for his chastity device, vampire pale from lack of sun, disoriented, with bruised and swollen nuts, an overworked sphincter, and extensively cigar burned and whip welted on his buttocks, at Cecil Park in the western suburbs.

The ambulance men who had been called to the scene of his discovery had a hard time removing the very effective chastity device, remarking high-eyebrowed on the wide capacity of the hole in the steel around his inflamed anus. Eventually a hack saw blade was found and the cruel device was cut off him.

Feeling the steel part from his body was the saddest moment of his young life.

Although the boy was not forthcoming with details, (Balfor had hardly spoken to him at all the whole time and the boy had been bundled into a trunk on the way to Balfor's house. They had not even exchanged names.) it was noted by the police that there was a "B" branded deeply on the boy's right buttock.

This outrage (The boy turned out to be from a wealthy family) made it onto the evening news, Balfor was young then and he panicked, thinking the police were closer than they actually were. He left Roofrack at a good home with another nice man he could play with, packed up and fled to Colombia, and then to Panama, cursing himself the whole way for being too humane to just kill the boy and bury him in the back yard like a proper psycho would have done at the onset of boredom.

The boy was deeply distraught. His family thought it was trauma, and so did the psychiatrist but most of this trauma actually derived from being rejected by Balfor, and his shame at wanting to return to the basement even with the obvious risk to his life. But he was well nourished and except for his badly damaged testicles, in good physical health.

It's surprising how nutritious dog semen, and good quality kibble soaked in piss can be.

(The boy has grown up now and to this day most of his erotic dreams revolve around the time he spent getting fucked out of his brains in Balfor's basement. He hasn't managed to maintain a relationship, because nothing has ever really held his attention since.

He goes automatically to work as a middle level executive in his family's firm each day, cruises the net for extreme pornography at night, and dreams of Balfor.

He's a eunuch now, having killed his own balls from the various mechanics of fantasising that Balfor was torturing them again. He often wishes he could have them back so he could torture them some more.

Sometimes he pisses into a bowl of kibble and eats that for dinner as a prelude to his masturbatory fantasies, though he would die of embarrassment if anybody ever found out.

He owns a big strong male German Shepherd as well called Boris to go with the B on his buttock, though he prefers to think of himself being owned by it. Except in winter Boris sleeps on the bed and he sleeps naked on the floor. He would never dream of forcing himself on it like Balfor did with Roofrack.

He considers himself lucky when Boris starts humping his leg and he strips immediately and goes down to pleasure him in any way his hairy canine master seems to enjoy.

His mother constantly berates him for his badly behaved dog, insisting when ever she visits that he take it for obedience training. He just smiles.)

Balfor felt the butterfly launch itself from his belly and he watched it fly back to the safety of the trees.

He was close enough now to see the fluffy, almost invisible hair on Terry's cheeks highlit by the morning sun.

Terry had grown self conscious about his facial expression. He rarely smiled any more. When he did it was reserved and closed mouthed. It was hard to gauge his actual sadness because of his shame at the lack of teeth in his mouth.

He had taken on something of a geisha personality. Showing pleasure by bowing his head and smiling demurely, subtly, rather than bursting with openly with pleasure. This was possibly effecting him psychologically.

He rarely talked at all any more because many sounds could not be made properly without teeth and this embarrassed him also.

It's possible the removal of his teeth had a more detrimental effect than expected. Or was this something different, something more existential? Or something hormonal?

Of course! Duh! He had no nuts now! The poor little guy was adjusting to the absence of testosterone in his system. That was probably a good sixty percent of his problem.

We really are clockwork, mused Balfor. Automata. It's organic molecules instead of cogs, that's all.

Though Terry still seemed to enjoy sex once he got into it, it took him a while to get in the mood now because of his diminished sex drive.

Balfor found the idea that Terry's enjoyment of their sex was diminishing very erotic. Balfor liked the idea of taking pleasure from someone who had difficulty feeling it themselves. Rape appealed to him more the idea of consent. He smiled evilly to himself at the thought, knowing it was ethically wrong, knowing he ought to hate himself, and wondering exactly why he did not. It was bound to have something to do with the monstrous hairy patch on his shoulder that he had been carrying around all his life, he supposed. Treated like a monster since birth, he had become one. Simple.

And yet he knew that he had not plunged absolutely into that outsider state. He still teetered on a brink, holding his own set of ethical principles. There were still lines that he had not crossed.

In many ways Terry was worse than he was. Balfor had never bashed an innocent man and left him to die after all. If Balfor was badly behaved toward someone, generally it was either because they wanted him to be, or because they deserved it. He prided himself on that.

Balfor had seen eunuchs lose their lustrous mannish energy before, but he had equated most of it to a loss of limbs. He now knew what a powerful drug testosterone really was.

One's male bravado literally depended upon it.

Terry's was rapidly evaporating and because he was a homosexual, his brain was already primed for him to revert to something like the female human default state.

Hence the new geisha like mannerisms.

The earlier you cut them, thought Balfor, the less mannish they turn out. Look at Felipe. He'd been a turnip. A lump. Nothing male about him at all. Nothing female either though really. He'd been a good example of a thing.

Terry was beginning to feel something like this coming on. Hence the sad rock sitting.

Hence the hug requirement.

Balfor crunches the numbers and arrives at a figure of approximately seventy five percent hug necessity. Unignorable this.

No hug would mean an unacceptable probability of slave self destruction. A lot of effort went into making this one useful, his suicide would be a distinct loss.

One thing Balfor had discovered about hugs is that they have to be genuine.

To march out there and just bombastically hug his slave with expectations of instant mood correction would be disastrous.

He would have to awaken his own mushy emotions. A deeply undesirable thing to do, but it would be necessary for him also, to bask in the sentimental warmth of this hug for the hug's magic to succeed.

In the evolutionary emotional arms race, monkeys had learned long ago the smell of insincerity, so this hug would have to be real.

He will probably have to kiss Terry also, and without any connotations of sexual power to make it fun.

This is just going to undo all the fantastic sexual tension I've worked so hard to build up, he thought.

It meant he would lose a great deal of his masterfulness.

He will look weak in the eyes of his slave.

Damn.

It's necessary he thought, the game demands it, and right now, so just do it.

Now.

Reluctantly, he allowed his feelings about to Terry to flood all over him.

He pictured Terry's alluring confusion about his own guilty conscience. His ridiculous yet beguiling "I killed Santa" complex. So sweetly idiosyncratic.

His smile. Shy. So deliciously shy.

His deference, his yielding.

The nice littleness of him. His sweet body odor.

His pretty little feet, pretty little hands.

His eyes sky blue when they were outside, greyer in the shade.

My favorite colour, thought Balfor and here it comes, the bloom of feeling.

He really did not want to see Terry sad.

There was empathy going on inside him now. Gross, painfully gross, and there were so many other, far less desirable memories threatening to bubble up in the rising current of his unleashed emotions.

Loss. Rejection. Self hatred. A miserable childhood of uncountable disappointments and humiliations and days of loneliness and all because of a patch of hair on his back.

Think about Terry.

His heart burst with anxiety about the possibility of losing him.

Balfor suddenly wanted to cry.

He did cry. There was a tear.

"I wonder if I ought to tell him about the two and a half tabs of Nils's very strong acid that I slipped into his breakfast this morning?" Balfor whispered to himself. "Nah;" he smiled, "be more fun to just see what happens."

The effects of the two and half tabs that Balfor had taken for himself were now becoming evident. He realised even as he felt it that his bloom of love for Terry had been facilitated in no small measure by the chemical disconnection of his higher brain functions.

And that butterfly tickling his belly really had been just a little too blue to be true.

When at wit's end following the breaking up of his gang after the Santa incident, Terry had read a book about meditation in order to try and control the avalanching of his mental landscape.

In characteristic do it your self fashion, he had invented his own mantra to recite to himself when things got grim.

The ones about lotus blossoms had not really meant anything to him. He'd never seen a lotus blossom, and he didn't know how to pronounce Sanskrit anyway.

After Balfor had fed him a curiously slightly bitter tasting early breakfast he had come to sit on his "sad rock" a convenient place to hide his misery from Balfor.

He sat on the smooth rock soothing himself, blanking himself out with the repetitious mantra, over and over again. He had begun to enter the trance this put him in if he persisted with it long enough.

A blue caste had over laid his vision as he concentrated on that colour. The sky became deep and yet near. The ocean slowed to treacle pace.

Over and over in his mind he repeated these words, picturing what they described as he thought them:

blue blue blue butterfly

blue blue blue in the sky

blue shining in my eye

blue like the veins in my thigh

blue blue indigo dye

blue blue blueberry pie

blue lapis lazuli

blue mountains broad and high

His blue mantra. His relaxing color. He was relaxed, but his sadness continued to grow with it. It enveloped him, but then certain kinds of sadness were soothing in their familiarity. He welcomed them.

The clouds began to pile up on one another, roiling as if the sky was absorbing his inner turmoil.

He was reaching the level of concentration that he sometimes called "Unsex me here" after Lady Macbeth's battlement scene. He had seen Roman Polanski's Macbeth as part of his studies of that play at school and at the time it was the best movie he had ever seen. He had fantasised about being Fleance with Banquo for his father. Even a ghost for a dad would have been better than none at all.

And now he had Balfor. Was it sick to think of him as a father and look forward to sex with him at the same time?

Probably, but it was pretty mild compared to some of the other sick things that were going on...

He had begun to feel unloved lately. It seemed Balfor only wanted him for his orifices.

He rubbed together the bare smooth surfaces of his gums over which the feel of Balfor's cock had become as familiar as his own tongue.

How hard it is to love and not be loved in return. He had thought that the removal of his teeth would earn him Balfor's love. But he did not feel it. Perhaps Balfor did love him, but hid it, feeling it would destroy the eroticism that he obviously considered more important.

He felt Balfor's eyes on his back from somewhere up on the ridge. He felt Balfor moving down the hill, spying on him from among the rocks.

He'll come and he will hug me, thought Terry. He will love me. If he doesn't, I'll die.

As Terry gazed into the distance, his mantra vanishing into unconsciousness, though he knew some part of him was still reciting it, Balfor appeared behind him and the moment Terry knew for sure that he was there he felt his great arms enfold him.

He felt the warm shelter from the wind in the cave of flesh formed by Balfor's enveloping of him. Balfor's head rested on his shoulder and he nuzzled his cheek.

So warm and true this hug. A lump in his throat. Tears of gratitude and happiness.

He felt the way that Balfor loved him. A cold controlled, distant love, but it was there nevertheless and just as real. Diamond love rather than velvet love.

But now the diamond had melted right at the moment when he needed it to.

He turned around inside the big meaty cage of his lover's embrace.

Terry gasped with shock, but he didn't scream. He was in the arms of a gigantic gorilla. Had it escaped from a zoo? Nonsense. There were no zoos on the island. Ridiculous thought.

It was the sexiest most handsome gorilla you could possibly imagine. A big silverback Highland Gorilla that he quickly realised was somehow also Balfor. It stilled smelled like Balfor.

Of course it was Balfor.

Terry looked deeply into the gorilla's eyes and knew at once that he gone starkly and probably irrevocably insane.

But he didn't care. It shocked him how much he didn't care. He was too relaxed from his meditation and the yummy hug to care.

If this gorilla was Balfor then he was in love with it what ever it was.

Part of him wanted to scream and run away, but he put that part in its place, not wanting to spook Balfor into distrusting his slave's sanity. Balfor was his lover but he was still absolutely the master of his every move.

The gorilla kissed him and Terry shut his eyes and knew it really was Balfor. They kissed long and deep, both of them near to crying from the intensity of their love.

Balfor had melted into a big sad huggy primate. It was pathetic and seemed weak somehow. Suddenly Terry understood why Balfor was habitually so apparently undemonstrative; yet still his heart burst with renewed love for him.

Love, why do we value it so highly? he wondered.

Is it not merely an evolutionary dupe to bond two mating organisms together long enough to raise their young?

As homosexuals, were he and Balfor not duping this dupe? Bending it to serve nothing more substantial than their own amusement?

Hell yeah!

Was this cause for celebration?

You bet!

And yet it was way more than that. Terry had grown to need Balfor. He burst with happiness from the delightful warmth of him.

Waves began to crash angrily against their rock.

"Do you think maybe we hab to get back to the cabe, sir?" said Terry to the mute fellow primate.

It cocked it's head to one side and made questioning eyes.

"Dere's a storm coming, sir. " Terry continued. "A big one. We're not shafe here." His words came out slow from his mouth somehow, as if he had to untwist them from around his tongue in order to get them out.

Without his teeth there were sounds he sometimes managed to make, and sometimes not.

I'm talking to a gorilla, he thought. O.K. what ever. Just relax. How bad can it be to lose your mind?

It wasn't so aweful mostly because the gorilla was just so bloody attractive. More attractive than any human he had ever seen. Even Balfor as a human. How could Balfor be at his most attractive as a gorilla? Was this the true him?

Terry had always thought that Balfor was like the perfect, but not too perfect amalgam of George Cluny and Javier Bardem and Clark Gable. Well this amalgam was now playing an utterly charismatic escapee from the highlands of equatorial Africa. Impossible, yet there it was before him.

There was a curious tension in Terry's jaw and an unfamiliar consciousness of the squirming of his internal organs. He could feel his own heartbeat and the food peristalting through his intestines.

He felt a yawn coming on that was also a strange monkeyish desire to whoop. To howl. Like a gibbon. He did and loudly.

He was not surprised when he covered his mouth to see his hand had grown long and thin and covered with golden hairs. He wondered whether his thumb was still properly opposable.

The gorilla smiled.

Everything was in focus. Way too sharp focus. He seemed to be able to see the cloudy swarming shapes of individual atoms making curly textures that patterned literally everything with fractal baroque sumptuousness, moving like a living thing.

Every hair of the charming gorilla's body had a tiny red jewel glowing at its tip.

It's crystal eyes swarming with light were infinitely deep and as distant and intelligent as those of a God.

He wondered if his own eyes looked the same to the gorilla. There was a clear space. A vacuum inside his head as palpable and penetrating as any idea.

What the fuck was happening?

What strange new power had he unleashed with his mantra? Had he accidentally hit upon a magical spell of some kind?

He intuited that these effects were somehow dream related. He was having some kind of waking dream, but as solid and real as reality.

He was frightened and yet very excited. What an adventure it was to embark on such a wonderful psychotic episode.

He wanted it to stop, but not just yet. Not while this handsome, sweet smelling gorilla held him in the most loving and warm embrace that he had ever felt.

Balfor could feel the storm threatening all around them. Terry was right, even if he had morphed into a Lar Gibbon. A decidedly lesser ape.

Something not right in the air. The birds were gone. The waves looked wrong. The clouds had become more heavy and were swirling overhead in two layers moving swiftly in different directions.

To the east uncountable angels had gathered among the clouds and were singing Handel's "My Heart is Inditing" at the top of their lungs, in harmony with the wind. Terry couldn't see them because they were too far away but he could hear them and the clouds were pulsing with a light that was unmistakably holy.

How was he managing to be so relaxed as reality patently disintegrated all around him?

On his way back to the cave with his lover the gorilla, angels filling the air with song and blue butterflies swarming in the sky like a plague, Terry tried to remember whether his book on Transcendental Meditation had mentioned anything about a risk of losing one's mind.

The trees swayed and whispered around them, filling their ears with vegetable gossip. Every now and again the gorilla would take his hand and give him another hug and for a while the two apes would walk hand in hand until separated by an obstacle.

The ground was breathing harder and harder, pumping itself up. Terry realised it was a bad idea to go back to the cave. It was a lave tube after all and the island which was a volcano was clearly getting ready to blow it's load.

He tried to warn the gorilla whose name he had forgotten but found he had lost control of his voice. He opened his mouth but could generate no further motor signals to animate himself for proper speech.

He stared blindly ahead through the thickening forest. Flowers that became leaves and moth wings and pages torn from ancient books and bright feathers fluttered around in the wind.

He felt himself trying to gather himself; for what?

He was falling into the grip of terror. Somehow he had forgotten something absolutely vital for his survival; something he had left behind on his sad rock.

What was it?

He had forgotten who he was. He could not remember his name or whether he had ever had a name. He vaguely remembered that things had happened in places that were not this island but he didn't know how he knew. Maybe it had been a dream.

A lost dream.

An incalculable tragedy that he was somehow responsible for.

He howled again in abject panic, shocked to rediscover his voice which seemed to echo through the trees for way too long after he called.

The only thing he could remember was something utterly insane: that he loved the gorilla.

The gigantic gorilla, taller than any man came back upon hearing his cry and studied him carefully.

Its gaze soothed him absolutely.

The storm stopped. The island stopped breathing.

The sun streamed down to them. They were among the weathered, moss covered boulders in the gully that led up to their cave.

The sky was blue. blue blue blue like the sky is.

More butterflies of fluorescent blue appeared in the air. They're from my mantra, thought the gibbon, realising it was still being recited somewhere in the back of his mind.

The gorilla picked him up and carried him to the soft top of the largest boulder, waterfalls tinkling and splashing all around.

The surface of the boulder was covered with a swirling riot of paisley moss in motley greens, studded with brightly lit emeralds. Orchids of white and burgundy bloomed from a crevice in the rock, filling the air with banana and vanilla perfume. They slowly opened and closed their moist vaginal mouths, sighing the delicious fragrance out at them coquettishly.

The gorilla was playing gently but insistently with his arse, it's big hairy black hand, thick and leathery pushing against him in that private place.

How forward. I hardly know you, thought the gibbon as its little cock started responding.

But what magic the gorilla was making with his thick fingers down there.

The gibbon closed his eyes and laid his head against the broad hairy chest, a great heart beat beneath the surface and he could feel it's slow drumming. His own heart fell into step with it and then he understood how unimportant it was that he couldn't remember his own identity.

The gorilla laid him face down in the moss, and then the gibbon knew something was wrong because he was sure he had read somewhere that gorillas only had two inch long man-hoods. Or should that be gorilla-hoods.

Who ever heard of a gorilla hung like a horse? This was clearly no ordinary gorilla.

Emerald stars began to shine up and out between the glossy hairs of the moss and he felt himself sinking deeper in. The rock was soft like a mattress and the gorilla was melding with him from behind, pushing in and out, melting in and unable to pull out, glued to the gibbon's insides and stuck like a fly to paper. The gorilla was trapped until the gibbon felt like freeing him.

He doubted he would feel like freeing him for ages and ages. Delicious feelings were igniting all over him. Delicious like raspberry sherbet icecream with chocolate sprinkles spread on his whole body which was just a tongue. One enormous hairy tongue tasting the whole roasted nut crumbly deliciousness of the world.

Deliciousness that was about to explode into some unexpected momentous event between his legs. He could not imagine what was about to happen but then he didn't have to because it did.

He didn't know where to put himself for it.

He heard the gorilla roar and he turned and saw that its face was made of light and cast the expression of an angel or an alien or a buddha and as he roared the writhing trees opened up around them clearing a hole in the sky to make way for their uncontainable fulfillment which grew and grew as it shone as bright as a hydrogen bomb from underneath their rippling skin.

The gibbon who was Terry felt his bones turn to ashes inside him, consumed by the fire of his pulse drumming orgasm which burned and burned and didn't seem to be going out. He felt his whole life's blood must be pouring out of the slit at the end of his cock as it hosed the moss underneath him with audible spurts.

As his ecstasy finally began to abate the crackling fractal trees burning with leaves of cool green flame shuddered around them and turned back in on themselves, re-closing the space above.

The gibbon's limbs flapped like the shredded remnants of something flimsy in the wind. Without understanding why he threw himself backwards into the gorilla and then he was the gorilla and the gorilla was him and he was full of life. Too much life. The rampaging life had to be let out somehow.

He felt a smile growing with insane intensity on his face.

He leapt off the rock, up and out of the gully and ran through the jungle breaking small trees, snapping branches off, beating his chest, scattering animals of every description. lizards that were dragons; birds that were angels; a dozen honey coloured kangaroos that could not possibly have been there and yet were, bounded out of tall grass ahead of him and all along his blissful rampage was studded with shimmering butterflies singing a hymn of blue so beautiful that he wanted to cry.

He had been scratched and blood began to spread on his skin but he didn't care at all.

The island was something out of a storybook, painted with too-bright colours, glowing with phosphorescent brilliance and saturation.

Light shone out of the rocks, up out of the ground, illuminating things from beneath and from within.

In the sky the sun streamed light that was a chime. It rang like a bell that had been struck billions of years ago and would continue to ring until the end of the world. The whole island vibrated with its note, mixing its own colors into the sound with flawless harmony.

The beauty of it was too much to bear. He cried, eyes filled with tears. How could he not have known that this was the true nature of the world he had lived in all along?

How could this infinite beauty have been hidden from his eyes all these years.

He needed to explore it. To adapt himself to it. He felt himself growing stronger. Infinitely strong, he was even slightly afraid of his own new omnipotence.

He ripped up the earth in big chunks and threw it into the sky and then sat down hard laughing at his own foolishness.

On his arms he watched the drops of blood from his scratchy rampage changing into dragon scales of burgundy marked with russet brown that spread together on the skin on his arms, as his primate fingernails changed into reptilian claws of knife sharpness and fierce strength.

He knew that something in his own mind was making this happen, and that he could make it stop if he wanted to but he didn't want to so he didn't. He let it happen and watched it happen, delighting to feel great wings sprouting from somewhere near his shoulder blades.

He bounded on all fours to the bald top of the island and around the crater's weathered rim began to dance his dragon dance to the music of his own pounding heart among the rocks and tussocks of grass.

He watched his huge dragonish shadow play on the surface of the small copper green lake inside the crater.

Then he turned the world beneath him in his dance and froze because something bright and shiny and new caught his eye.

Forming a dent in the north coast of the island there was a small bay that he had not explored in weeks.

In the bay there was a beautiful streamlined yacht glowing white like snow or like salt so bright it hurt his eyes.

There was a naked woman swimming near the yacht and on the deck was an ugly overweight man also naked except for Rayban sunglasses, an exquisite Breitling watch and a loose yellow cloth covering his genitals to prevent them burning in the late morning sun.

It was so far away he knew he would not have been able to make out these details without his new dragon eyes.

He wanted the boat. Right now he wasn't sure why, but he knew he wanted it.

The pretty, beautifully wrought watch would be nice too, though he didn't know whether it would fit on his thick dragon wrist.

The people were slight obstacles, but he knew that would not trouble him for long.

Without even thinking about it he leapt off the top of the mountain and flew down into the bay trusting his wings as if he had used them every day for the last thousand years.

He circled the boat and lit, proud of his silent supernatural grace just as the woman was climbing out of the sea.

She saw him and screamed, clearly losing her mind.

The man fat man on the deck chair awoke and he too began to scream.

They were screaming in French, having come for a little cruise from New Caledonia.

Neither of them seemed to be able to understand what they were seeing, their ugly venal faces were distorted with fear and disbelief.

Although he could not hear their thoughts he could tell from their expressions what they were. They were lamenting to see this thing on their boat because it meant that what they had learnt in church as children was true after all. All the magic. The angels. The demons. The pits of eternal fire. In their souls they were counting their sins and the sum equated to damnation.

These two ugly human creatures were so unpleasant in his beautiful new world he knew he had to do something about them right away.

He went to the man who smelled strongly of coconut oil and plucked the cloth off his crotch. It was a yellow bandanna with black designs printed on it.

The genitalia it had sheltered were nothing special now that they could be seen. An ordinary cock sitting on a pair of slightly less than walnut sized balls.

The man who looked to be about fifty five years of age could do nothing but stare at him, frozen and agog, wondering what on Earth would happen next.

He buried his dragon face in the man's expensively perfumed crotch and bit off his cock and balls with his new dinosaur like teeth and spat the rent collection of meaty bits into the sea.

The unmanned man shook and wobbled uncontrollably and let out a piercing shriek, pummeling his head with pathetic fists that he could barely feel on his iron-tough dragon skin.

He bit into the man's throat to shut him up. Blood gouted out rich and red and delicious, as the screams turned into a gurgle and then went dead.

As he chewed on a chunk of raw meat that he had bitten out of the man's shoulder, he watched the woman swim away with the speed of an Olympic athlete. Very rapidly she grew tired however, having used up her energy already during her earlier swim. He watched her begin to fail. He knew she wouldn't make shore.

He bit off another chunk of the man and as he casually chewed and watched she floundered. She went down. She didn't come up again.