Once upon a time, a man owned only a small patch of weeds, but he had good muscles and a good mind and a machete with which he hacked away at the weeds as he tried to shape the garden he envisioned. Looking down, he saw, half buried in the stoney earth...
A cast-iron skillet stamped "Sylvia's" on the back and dating from the mid-Nineteenth Century, when black squatters were evicted to make way for nearby Central Park.
This reminded him that he had not yet eaten breakfast. So he wandered over to Cafe Luxembourg for a well-earned repast. While his somewhat damp wife-beater and lightly dirty 501's drew curious looks, the maitre 'd (perhaps eyeing his muscular frame) warmly welcomed him and gave him a seat near the window (although he was asked to leave his machete in the coat-check). He ordered an omelette and wheat toast and tucked in heartily. Halfway through his meal, out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of an arresting figure strolling down the sidewalk towards him.
Once upon a time, a man owned only a small patch of weeds, but he had good muscles and a good mind and a machete with which he hacked away at the weeds trying to shape the garden he envisioned. Looking down, he saw, half buried in the stoney earth...
a piece of molded brown glass. He bent down next to it, and took a penknife from his pocket, intent on releasing it from the earth’s grasp. Making a few quick cuts along the edge of the glass and the dirt, the piece popped out of the ground.
It was a small, narrow bottle with a black plastic cap. He smiled as he tucked it into his pocket, and walked on. The day’s work was done and he was looking forward to a night at home.
The crushing routine of his schedule was unremarkable in its consistency. Reclaiming a decayed area following a natural disaster was not a task for the weary of spirit. But it was made bearable by the completion of three things each day. Food, for sustenance; sleep, for replenishing his body; but before the sleep, the ritual satisfaction of the animal urge that emanated from his loins.
Dusk was settling into darkness when he arrived at his back door. He quickly set himself to the task of creating food for himself. Working efficiently, he soon had a grill ready and potatoes frying.
Post dinner, he peeled off the remains of the day. Loosening the laces, then shucking off his boots and then his socks. Next the shirt, creating a small, fragrant pile in the tiny, bathroom. He looked in the mirror, assessing himself critically before finally, dropping his jeans to the floor.
He grabbed his left nipple with his right hand and tugged it deeply down. The roughness of the execution caused his dick to stir in his jock. Another couple of tugs with a twist was usually all it took. He looked down to confirm that his jock was filling out. He reached down and tugged on his nutsack.
Looking down, there it was, peeking out of his pocket like it did out of the ground, a glint that had caught his eye. The bottle! Holding it up in front of the bathroom fixture he could see the small white pebble inside. He twisted the encrusted cap until it gave way, releasing its own hot aroma above the shit, piss and sweat on the tiled floor.
He took a deep hit. Then another, before setting the bottle down on the sink. His right hand went instinctively down and his left hand went up, grabbing dick and nipple in rapid succession. The first wave hit, sending a signal through to the helmet head of his dick. He raised the intensity of his ministrations, stopping only to add a little spit to the equation; then raising the level again with another deep hit.
All thoughts escaped, save the one which was focused on that intense purple helmet. For a while, each touch was rougher than the last; then he slowed to a more focused pace. He felt the burn of pleasure and felt the surge build as his nuts slapped his thighs.
A final hit and he was ready to launch. He let his index finger linger on the slit until the inevitable started to happen. He used his cum as lube to get every ounce of sensation out of his dick.
Recovering slowly, he started the shower, and began his final ritual. As he steamed and soaped away the physicality of the day; he finished his routine by pissing a hot yellow stream down the drain.
Toweling himself dry, he brushed his teeth, and grabbed the bottle on his way to bed.
I think I saw him smile to himself.
… a chickory root, a few hardy flowers hanging on to the tough stem. Half-remembered stories filtered through his brain. This was a weed that could be cultivated. The man’s muscles bulged as he started to pluck at the few tough seed pods.
“I could roast, grind, and brew this like coffee. It doesn’t have the same punch, but it does have something of its roasted-earth, bitter flavour.” Thoughts winnowed through his brain, flowing in gulps of hot, pungent musing.
A simple drum roaster, made from salvaged materials. In his mind he already saw the smoke, at first, green and grassy, but then taking on the sweet, acrid pungency of coffee. His phantom chicory beans cracked and swelled as they roasted, shedding their outer skins, and growing to a dark, oily brown.
The man's heart already beat faster, the blood in his veins coursing with caffeine scented dreams.
Oh. I thought this was a tag-team story. I'll do better next time.
tag team stories are fun...like the nanowrimo audiobook on librivox
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