Chapter 5: Geriatric Garden Gangbang
Reese’s brain was a scrambled egg. For three days, all he could smell was synthetic coconut and chlorine. He jumped at slapping sounds. The chafe in his pants was a constant, traumatizing reminder. He’d started taking the long way to school to avoid Crestview Heights entirely.
“You look peaky,” his mom said, shoving a plate of meatloaf at him. “Too much screen time. You need fresh air and community spirit.”
His dad nodded over his newspaper. “Agreed. Granny McTavish next door needs help with her rose bushes. Her hip’s acting up. Be a good lad and pop over after school.”
“But I—” Reese began, a phantom pain throbbing in his groin.
“No buts,” his mom said, her tone leaving no room for argument. “She’s a lovely old bird. It’ll be wholesome.”
Wholesome. The word felt like a sanctuary. He imagined pruning shears, leaf mold, the benign smile of a septuagenarian. No oil. No implants. Just soil.
Granny McTavish’s cottage was a quaint stone thing, buried under a tidal wave of thorny rose vines. The air was thick, sweet, cloying—like rotting flowers and damp earth. He pushed the creaky gate open.
“Back here, dearie!” a voice trilled from the backyard. It was raspy, but with a weird, melodic lilt.
He rounded the corner and stopped dead.
Granny McTavish was bent over a hydrangea bush, her back to him. She wore a pair of denim overalls, unbuttoned and rolled down to her waist. Nothing else. A wide-brimmed straw hat sat atop a puff of silver curls. Her skin was tanned leather, etched with lines.
And from her chest hung two titanic, tear-shaped breasts. They were not the firm, plastic shelves of Bambi. These were natural wonders, geological epochs suspended in flesh. They swung like colossal church bells, their weight defying belief, the deep brown areolas the size of saucers, dotted with coarse white hairs. They literally brushed the soil as she weeded.
She straightened up with a groan, turning. The movement sent a seismic wave through her chest, the monstrous orbs settling against her ribcage with a soft, heavy slap. She smiled, her eyes bright and sharp behind bifocals.
“You must be the Butterfield boy! Bless you for coming.”
“I… yeah. Hi.” Reese’s voice was a mouse squeak. He tried to keep his eyes on her face, but it was like trying not to stare at a train wreck in slow motion.
“Just let me give this darling a drink,” she said, hefting a giant metal watering can. She turned, and her foot caught on a root. She stumbled with an “Oop-a-daisy!” The can flew from her hands.
It sailed in a perfect, glinting arc. The spout pointed downward like the judgment of God.
A gallon of cold water hit Reese directly in the crotch.
He yelped. The denim of his jeans turned instant midnight blue, plastered to him. The shock of the cold, followed by the inevitable, rapid physiological reaction, happened in seconds. The outline, already notorious, became a obscene, detailed relief map against the wet fabric.
Granny McTavish’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes, magnified by her glasses, widened. They traveled slowly down, and down, and settled on the unmistakable, tent-pole deformation.
A long, slow silence hung in the muggy garden. A bee buzzed.
Then she chuckled. It started low in her leathery throat and bubbled up into a full, dirty cackle. “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch. That’s not a watering can, is it?”
“I… it’s… the water…” Reese stammered, cupping his hands uselessly over himself.
“Oh, hush,” she said, waddling closer. The smell of gardenia perfume and honest sweat enveloped him. She peered up at him. “At my age, you stop pretending you don’t see miracles. That, young man, is a miracle. A damn archaeological find.”
She reached out one knobby, soil-streaked hand and gave the soaked denim a firm, appraising squeeze.
Reese saw stars.
“Mhm. Just as I thought. Solid as a heritage oak.” She licked her lips, a quick pink dart. “You know, my hip does ache somethin’ fierce. Doc says I need to… loosen up the joints. But all my toys are so… inadequate.”
She took his wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong. She placed his hand directly on the warm, pendulous swell of her left breast. The skin was soft as worn velvet, the weight immense and real.
“Could you,” she whispered, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl, “help an old lady with her physical therapy?”
His brain short-circuited. He was in a kaleidoscope of surreal horrors. This couldn’t be happening.
But his body, traitorous and already at full salute, was way ahead of him.
She led him to the ancient wooden bench in the center of the garden. It was, as advertised, suspiciously sticky. “Sit,” she commanded.
He sat. She fumbled with the button of his jeans, her arthritis making her clumsy. “C’mon, you stubborn thing… ah!” The fly burst open. She yanked the denim down to his knees. Her inhaled gasp was the sound of a valve releasing pressure.
“Sweet suffering Jesus on a scooter,” she breathed, staring. “It’s like they grafted a leg of lamb onto a boy.”
She didn’t wait. She sank to her knees in the dirt, her enormous breasts pooling on the ground beside her like sacks of grain. She took him in her mouth. It was warm, toothy, and relentless. Her dentures clicked. She hummed an off-key version of “Moon River.”
“That’s it,” she slurped, pulling off with a pop. “Just what the doctor ordered. Gets the juices flowin’. Speaking of…” She reached behind a flowerpot and produced a tall glass of iced tea, beading with condensation. “Hydration is key. Drink up, stud.”
Parched, Reese gulped half of it down. It was sweet, with a weird, bitter undertaste. “What’s in this?”
“Just a little grandma’s special pick-me-up,” she winked. “Now, where were we?”
A hot, peculiar sensation began to bloom in Reese’s gut. A throbbing, insistent energy that made his veins feel electric. His already-impressive erection took on a frightening, pulse-pounding rigidity.
“Oh, it’s working,” Granny crooned, seeing his expression. She struggled to her feet. “Alright, my turn. Don’t just sit there with that magnificent battering ram, help me with my walker.”
A gleaming aluminum walker stood nearby. She positioned it in front of the bench. “This’ll take the weight off my hip. Now you just stay right there.”
She turned her back to him, bent over, and gripped the walker’s handles. Her overalls puddled at her feet. She looked back over her shoulder, her massive breasts swinging beneath her. “Well? Don’t make a lady beg. She might die of anticipation, and wouldn’t that be a tragic headline?”
The Viagra—or whatever chemical hellbrew was in the tea—surged through him. He positioned himself, the head nudging against a warmth that seemed improbably eager and surprisingly wet for a woman of her years.
He pushed.
“YEEEEHAW!” Granny McTavish screamed, her knuckles whitening on the walker. “That’s the spot! That’s the old forgotten spot! Don’t you hold back on me, boy! I survived the Depression! I can take it!”
He started to move. The walker rattled and screeched against the flagstones with each thrust. Clack-thump-slide. Clack-thump-slide. Her breasts swayed in a tremendous, pendulous counter-rhythm. She began a filthy, nonsensical running commentary.
“That’s it! Plow granny’s fallow field! Plant that giant seed! Oh, you feel that? My ovaries just twitched like a galvanized frog! Faster! Make these old milk bags swing! I wanna slap myself in the chin with ‘em!”
The combination of the drug, the absurdity, and the sheer, unhinged vulgarity of it all built a pressure in Reese’s balls he’d never felt before. They felt like two overfilled water balloons, heavy and urgent.
“I’m… I’m gonna…” he grunted.
“Do it!” she shrieked, slamming herself back onto him. “Fill me up! I wanna feel a creampie so big it bypasses my stomach and goes straight to my bladder! Let’s go!”
He exploded. It wasn’t a release; it was a geyser. A seemingly endless, violent outpouring that pumped into her with such force it made her whole body jolt with each pulse.
The effect was immediate and catastrophic.
Her back arched. A guttural roar tore from her throat. “IT’S HAPPENING!”
And she squirted. Not a delicate trickle. A torrent. A pressurized stream of clear fluid shot out from around Reese’s still-pulsing shaft, hitting the rose bush three feet away with a sound like a firehose. It synced perfectly with his own eruptions, a dual geyser of generational excess.
It went on for an absurd, impossible length of time, drenching the soil, the bench legs, her ankles. Finally, with a shuddering sigh, she collapsed forward over the walker, which slid forward with a screech, dumping her gently onto a soft patch of moss.
Reese fell back onto the sticky bench, spent, vision swimming. The iced tea glass sat empty beside him, a monument to poor decisions.
Granny McTavish rolled onto her side, a contented smile on her wrinkled face. A trickle of white spilled down her inner thigh, mixing with the soaking moss. “Now that,” she panted, “is physical therapy. You come back next Thursday. Same time. My sciatica’s been murder.”
Reese stared at the canopy of roses above, their red blooms blurring together. He thought of Bambi’s oiled silicone, of Morbidia’s dark possession, of Tiffany’s cheerleading grip. He thought of his mother’s promise of ‘wholesome’ chores.
A single, clear realization crystallized in his post-coital, drug-fogged mind.
There was no escape. The neighborhood was a hungry, jiggling beast, and he was its favorite snack. He pulled up his soaking, filthy jeans, the wet fabric cold and clinging. The walker gleamed in the afternoon sun, a testament to his new, utterly ridiculous life.