VIII.
Sarah couldn’t help the groan that loosed itself from deep inside her chest.
Is it the coke? Never, never felt so good. Like I’m in college again. The excitement of Julius’ big dick, black skin, doing shit that would so so upset daddy, she thought as she controlled the violent quiver of her thighs, barely, hard to do when you’re suspended in the air.
Kurt’s pants were on the floor.
Jaden had his pulled down to halfway.
Sarah was between both of them, getting gak-fueled thug-cocked in both holes.
The electric feelings of humiliation and pain. The deep, bruised feeling in her guts, the urine soaking her thighs and face, rough hands rough handling her.
Dicks thrusting in anus and snatch in pure, selfish hatred.
Sarah grimaced; she smiled in sadistic glee.
Most amazing to her was Denis sitting there in wonder, choking his dick until the blood clogged it. He jerked and spat out the most vile comments in a voice edged with spite:
“Fuck that piece of shit slut.”
“Teachher—teachher—teachher!”
“Pound a retard baby into her!”
Kurt knotted her hair in tight fingers, pulling her scalp taut. Jaden squeezed her throat hard enough for her to see stars.
Sarah lost control of her bladder.
The third guy was using the combination Denis gave him to open the floor safe under the shoe caddy in the closet.
“Jackpot, guys. I got five bricks, three in hard currency and two of coke. Let’s go!”
Sarah wrapped her legs around Jaden as he built to a crescendo of ecstasy. Her thighs and stomach began to spasm; she squirted all over both their penises when Kurt blew his load in her ass.
He pulled out and slapped her ass cheeks hard.
She and Jaden tumbled to the bed, where he got a better angle, forcing her ankles behind her ears.
Sarah caught Denis stroking his dick raw and bleeding out of the corner of her eye.
She was still shaking when Jaden shot his hot cum inside her, kissing his chest, whispering, “Thank you, daddy, thank you.”
Jaden squeezed her mouth, and in an abrupt motion, uncoupled from her, saying, “Spic monkey whores fuck better than you.”
She cuddled herself, drawing her knees to her chest. “Yes, daddy, I’m a worthless cum hole. Thank you, daddies, for teaching me what a worthless rape doll I am. I can be your bimbo anytime.”
Kurt, pants on now, walked over to J’Ron, hands coated in dried blood, still clutching his crotch in a death grip. “Hey man, you can have her now.”
J’Ron nodded weak.
“Let’s go! Now!” Danny said.
One by one, they filed through the bedroom door.
Jaden was the last one out and told Denis, “Better get your house nigger an ambulance.”
Denis sat there in a puddle of thin, watery cum, spewing more epithets, “Yeah, you fucking nigger-fucking whore. I should’ve gotten their number to pay them to ass-rape you anytime I wanted. Huh? How’s that…”
The rain had stopped. Denis’ chattering echoed in a shrill garble through the house.
IX.
Jimmy and Wingnut crept in the dark at the suburban property lines through the dripping dark.
“Here. Ot should be a straight shot behind these houses down the hill back into town,” Jimmy said.
Overhead, the backlit clouds silhouetted the palm and oak trees, creating a canyon of shadow.
“At least it stopped raining,” Wingnut said, “Why couldn’t we bring our phones and use Google Maps to find our way back?”
Jimmy clicked on his flashlight for a moment. “GPS tracking. Any time a serious crime goes down, cops pull the data from every phone near the crime scene. And from the looks of it, those NLR fuckers probably just made major crimes.”
Wingnut patted him on the shoulder. “Fuck. With us being at the scene. Fucking psychos.”
“Accessories at least.”
A dog barked in a yard they passed. Jimmy and Wingnut hit a duck walk and shimmied behind a stand of bushes.
A confused suburban dad said, “What is it, boy? Is it that neighbor cat?”
The roar of a lone semi cruising down the interstate shattered the silence hanging over the culvert.
“C’mon man, we’re in the clear, let’s see the goods,” Wingnut said, excited.
“Alright, alright,” Jimmy said.
Jimmy shined his flashlight down the tunnel.
A feeling of calm washed over him. Wingnut followed close behind.
They spared a cursory check of the silverware.
But the jewelry.
Jimmy scrutinized the take close. Piece by piece, he checked three chains, seven rings set with gems, five pairs of earrings, ten necklaces hung with colored stones. Some were golden, some were white metal.
Jimmy whipped open his balisong and gouged at the metal of one ring.
“Well, it isn’t white gold,” he said to Wingnut.
Wingnut’s smile fell.
“It’s fucking platinum, dude!”
He tried the clear gems on a necklace; the blade slid off.
“Defs not glass. This blade is D2 tool steel, hard as fuck. Still, could be zirconium.”
Wingnut put his fist to his mouth, stopping a whoop. “Man, this is what it is about. Each piece is worth, what, five hundred, a grand?”
“Easy, bro. Could be a six figure haul,” Jimmy said and high-fived Wingnut. “We won’t use the set’s fence. I got a guy who can move it, in Mexico, for us, takes only ten percent.”
“Nice. The set’s not gonna get pissed?” Wingnut asked.
“Nah. Can’t get mad about what they don’t know about.”
“What you gonna do with your split?”
Jimmy smiled. “Finally get a car, maybe move out.”
“And what? Miss out on your mom’s enchiladas?” Wingnut said.
“Right. I’ll think about it. Beats the shit out of tossing hipster apartments. We should hit the hills more often,” Jimmy said.
“Really, I don’t care if I ever rip off another crust punk’s H stash. Me, I’m going to party a little bit. Maybe Gee would be down?” Wingnut said.
Jimmy blushed. “Maybe you could ask out Mrs. Redhead slut back there.”
“Do you think they were real?”
Jimmy pulled out the bottle of Scotch. “Nah. Def falsies. Wanna celebrate a job done well?”
“Hell’s yeah. Some place with a view.”
“Always the romantic, Wingnut, always the romantic,” Jimmy said.
“Hey, at least I never pissed on a chick.”
They both laughed.
X.
Sitting on a jut of land overlooking the highway, two buzzed and buzzed-cut heads gazed upon the purple-lit California night sky.
Backwash from the cars’ headlights played out shimmering patterns in the Dewar’s amber liquid.
Wingnut was, strange for him, quiet, looking up at the sky as the two fellows took nips of the scotch. The watery quivering in Jimmy’s bladder sank and rose by diminishing degrees as he poisoned the twinge of conscience.
Moments passed, marked off by the hiss of tires on the wet highway.
Jimmy went to pass the bottle. Wingnut held his hand out: no.
“You know, Jimmy, is that going to be us in a couple of years? Tweaker Nazi psychos? At least that is the way the story goes? We made some money tonight, but what about in three months? I want to spend big. But I don’t want to do something like that again. We keep running on that side, eventually we’ll have to clique up.”
Jimmy took Wingnut’s turn and downed a hard swallow. “Right now, I am on the shit list with the VBBP. I don’t want the NLR getting suspicious of us, too. We won’t have room to breathe.”
Wingnut turned and looked Jimmy dead in the eyes. “Bro, we ain’t moving up in anything except towards more bad. Big time scores are cool, but what’s the money going to do for us? If I never have to see another shit show like that, I’ll be happy with penny ante ‘fuck you’ rip-off games.”
“Even small timers get fucked by the system, prison, criminal records. Some plan is better than no plan.”
“So what? ‘Go big or go home?’” Wingnut said as he took the bottle from Jimmy, downed a gulp, and chucked it into the night.
Jimmy screamed, “What the fuck?”
“Sometimes it’s better to not have plans and just decide what you won’t do. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Wingnut said as he walked into the foliage’s concealing shadows.
Somewhere on the downhill slope, Wingnut called back, “The world is a big place. Even California’s bigger than you imagine.”
***
For all installments of “Fuck My Wife with Your Nazi Dick!,” click here.
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Proteus Juvenalis, of the Lost Generation, is a cynic and misanthrope orbiting Neptune and contemplating his former home. His stream of consciousness broadcasts can be found on Telegram.
