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The Thief And The Garden

by Nikki Isaak © 2009

 

erotic fictionJerry, drunk and coked-up, stared into the darkened porn store.

Closed—fuck! I was going to steal a butt-plug and a magazine—

High as he was, he could barely hold that thought.  Jerry stepped out from the doorway of Eupornia,  leered at two young, cornholable women who paused their chirp-chattering to throw him dirty looks as they passed.

Suck me off, you cunts!”

He didn’t see one of them pull out her cell phone and call the cops, because he vomited in the recycle bin-garbage can.

I need another bump.

Wiping his sick-crusted mouth with the back of his sleeve, he pulled the plastic bullet out of his front pocket.  He turned the tiny dial on it, put it to his nose, and inhaled deeply.

“Aaaah.”  Clarity returned: instant nose and brain fire, pounding temples, pupils dilating.  Flipping the bullet-dial down, he returned it to his front pocket.

He resumed stumbling down the otherwise quiet, late-night Main Street, sniffling and swiping at his runny nose with his coat sleeve.

The city clock tower tolled midnight.  It was officially Jerry’s forty-second birthday.

*    *    *

Jerry passed the used car lot he worked at—Simpson’s Used Cars—on his
right, across the street.  Slurring an incomprehensible curse, he veered away from the lot, took a left on L Street: home, where he could wank off to some video slut’s Third Reich-rigid fake tanned tits, while that all-important cock jizzed all over them.

Houses, mostly dark except for porch-illuminating lights, loomed on either side of him.  The street curved to the right, and he stumbled along it.

*    *    *


The backyard garden was well-lit, the two-story house dark.  The fence separating the garden from the street was four feet tall, cyclone covered with forest-green mesh netting to keep animals out.

But not this animal.  Jerry licked his lips, he couldn’t stop it—anymore than he could stop himself from stealing.

Stealing was a high unlike any other.  The only time his mother had paid any real attention to him was when he got busted shoplifting, laying him across her legs, the underside of his boy-cock rubbing against the top of them. . .

It’d taken his mother two times to realize what was going on in Jerry’s pants.  Pushing him away from her, she’d said: “You’re a weak, sick boy, Gerald.  You know why your father left?  Because of you, an ‘accident’—my misfortune—”

After that, she didn’t touch him unless she absolutely had to—which was rarely.

Jerry’s erection, briefly florid, wilted.

He opened the unlocked gate as quietly as he could.  In doing so, he knocked his left shin against the metal gatepost.

Jerry stifled curses, stepped between the wet rows of vegetables.  His feet sank into the soft earth.

As Jerry reached for a tomato, a blunt object was smashed into the back of his head.

He went out like a porch light.

*    *    *

Angry eyes bore into his as he woke up, the back of his head throbbing as hard as his coke-deprived temples.

The angry eyes belonged to a handsome man.  A wavy strand of brown hair fell across the god’s right eye.

Strong man, like Poppa Cock.

Poppa Cock, aka Brian Berenford, had been Jerry’s college roommate—for the one semester that Jerry had attended college.

Jerry, craving someone’s touch and punishing domination—sans BDSM leather trappings—had joyously let himself be “butt-raped” by Poppa Cock, Jerry’s in-room nickname for the well-endowed Brian.

When Poppa Cock got kicked out of college for dealing drugs, Jerry had lost interest in school.

It wasn’t like anybody wanted to be with a ”white trash piece of shit” (another of Poppa Cock’s endearments) like Jerry, anyway.

As if reading Jerry’s mind, the garden basher smiled.  “You piece of shit, I knew I’d get somebody.  Strip.”

Heart pounding, cock erect, Jerry did so.

It was chilly in the garden.  He shivered.

The eyes, apprizing, with an offer: “Want to see what happens next?”

Jerry nodded, mouth dry.  This stranger was buzzing mean, carnal messages into his reeling mind.  His need for coke had disappeared—for a little while, at least.

“You mortals call me Priapus.  I’ll be your ass-ravager for the evening,” the hulking man chuckled as he effortlessly flipped Jerry’s short, drug-wasted body over, and plowed Jerry’s anus, in full street-view.

Spit was the only lube Priapus used as the monster-cocked god pushed Jerry into the soft, wet earth bordering the garden.  Clutching, gasping, spitting out dirt, Jerry could barely breathe but he came in the garden soil ten minutes before Priapus jizzed inside his burning, chafing anus.

Priapus didn’t shudder when he came.  He pulled out of, away from Jerry.

“Happy?”

Jerry rolled onto his back, panting, laughing, nodding: “Yes.”

“Good.”

Jerry didn’t even have time to scream as Priapus’ hand spade pierced his throat.

_______
© 2009 Nikki Isaak. All rights reserved. Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.


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