The Fellating Tulip
Another night, as he lay there amidst the tulips and the poppies and drifted asleep. — he dreamt long, rich, intense, poppy dreams. He dreamt of the singing water nymphs. Then he dreamt of the tulips. They were fields of bright red mouths, opening and closing for him. Bright red, women's mouths. They seemed to stir with the wind, and bend and brush over, against him, [ like lightly gracing women's mouths.] Like thousands of moving, women's mouths all around him.
Until his phallus popped from his pants like a new, purple mushroom rising in that field of tulips. And the tulips continued to flutter in the wind, brushing over him, their tendrils caressing, rubbing up against his phallus, in the most delicate, tingling, ticklish fashion, leaving trails of pollen over his now quivering erect root.
Then one bold one, (was it the one he'd kissed?), bent itself over him, stirring and carressing its bright red petals over his manhood, attempting to stir it from its sleep. In awhile, the entire tulip blossom went down on him, its open red mouth just wide enough to take him in, the deep blossom cupping him, the petals going halfway down his manhood, tightening, squeezing, then slowly pulling back up. Again and again the red cap moved. In this way it milked him. Flutteringly light and delicate, fragile, yet innervating. Until it had gotten what it wanted, and turned itself back upright, its cup full with his morning fluids. [ Mixing his white syrup with its floral nectar. ]