How Does Your Garden Grow?
Copyright© 2017 by Mark Gander
Chapter 66
Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 66 - David Howard is fed up with his life in the Mafia-controlled state of New Jersey, even if it is the only state with a working government in the post-apocalyptic world that exists since Fireball Day. Between his mob-loving (literally) wife Andrea and his psycho gay ex-friend and boss with benefits, Steven, David is more than ready to call it quits. He just won't get to do it alone.
Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Fa/Fa Fa/ft Ma/Ma Mult Consensual Gay BiSexual Heterosexual Crime Humor Science Fiction Post Apocalypse Paranormal Demons Cheating Sharing Slut Wife Incest Uncle Niece BDSM DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Rough Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory Swinging Interracial White Male Hispanic Female Indian Female Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Petting Pregnancy Squirting Voyeurism Menstrual Play Public Sex Nudism Politics
1945 hours local time
Saturday, 4 July, 2015 (Independence Day)
Eagle Point Park
Dubuque, Iowa Free State
“Fireworks, on Independence Day, almost two years after the Union collapsed,” the Prophet David Howard, Governor of Iowa Free State, sighed at the absurdity of celebrating a nation that had dissolved.
Then again, it was a damn good country while it lasted. The best country in the pre-Doomsday world. Howard was born and raised an American, so he understood the nostalgia, the patriotic sentiment, of course. Yet it was still bizarre, a bit like celebrating ancient Persia, Greece, or Rome, all of them great civilizations after all.
“Well, honey, I don’t know anyone who hasn’t missed the fireworks in the past two years,” Andrea Howard, his first wife, the original one he had before the apocalypse, observed with a sweet, loving kiss to his lips.
“Well said, Auntie,” Denise Howard, his second wife as well as their niece, winked at them as she kissed both of them on the neck.
At sixteen, she was far more mature than an adolescent girl was five years before Fireball Day. The notion that teenagers were still children had been thoroughly debunked by the post- apocalyptic anarchy and lawlessness that had ensued. It was only the coddling infantilism of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries that had created the prolonged immaturity of recent pseudoscience. Pushed to independence and struggle by the global calamity, the youth of the world did the logical, practical thing: they grew up.
“Thinking of the silliness of underqualified, groupthink social scientists and nepobaby semi-journalists treating youngsters like Denise and I as kids instead of the adolescents that we are?” Connie Howard added for her part, all of seventeen herself.
“Something like that,” David chuckled as he ignored post-apocalyptic geopolitics and his prophesied death and resurrection in less than forty-eight hours to enjoy the public jubilation.
In just two days, on the second anniversary of Fireball Day, I’m going to be slain. Murdered. Butchered like a hog. Killed. And then I’m going to rise again. Resurrected. Like a god from an ancient mystery cult ... or Harry fucking Potter. Or Jesus Christ. Though his resurrection didn’t follow the exact script of the Gospels, from what Heaven has informed me.
“Want to create some special fireworks of our own, Governor?” Vera Spoleto, an Italian girl of nineteen who had been trapped in Dubuque since her exchange student days, offered as she bent over a park bench in just her bikini top, her bottoms already sliding down to her ankles.
“Are you pregnant yet?” David asked Vera as he eased into her shaved snatch from behind and slapped her delectable buttocks.
“Maybe ... probably, but it’s still fun to try,” Vera laughed as she pushed back at him with total abandon, “my boyfriend, Kevin, wants me to get screwed by the Prophet and he wants to sample at least one of your wives if he can, too.”
“Alright, Kevin, let’s do this!” Amanda Howard, another senior spouse of the Prophet’s, pushed eighteen year old Kevin onto his back.
She eagerly rode him on another bench, the wives by now having forsaken clothing for good in advance of the resurrection. The crowd, sensing the shift in the atmosphere and taking their cue from the Prophet’s blatant display, broke out into a full-scale orgy. Clothes were tossed to the ground in haste, a colorful heap of linen and denim discarded as people slid in and out of each other with no barriers or prophylactics, humping each other wild. The air grew thick with the scent of musk and sweat, the collective moans of hundreds of people drowning out the distant, rhythmic thumping of the city’s many generators.
“Thank God for Schumacher Syndrome! No more sterility, HIV, HPV, STDs, prudishness, or jealousy! Just thousands of people getting horny, naked, and free!” the Prophet declared as he relished this, one of his last acts as a mortal man.
Sure, he could and would be even more capable of sexual stamina and success, but he would also have to face the war against the Church Triumphant cult in eastern Kentucky under the Reverend Kelsey Wallace. Stupid, Holy Roller bitch, he thought. God is actually on our side and we are on his. That hyped-up Pentecostal woman preacher would have a nasty surprise coming to her, but it would still be a pain in his ass, even as a resurrected superhuman leader.
The Prophet grinned as Jenny Howard, another of his wives, spread Vera’s cheeks and began rimming her crack. He felt a surge of primal satisfaction, not just from the tactile pleasure of the moment, but from the absolute lack of inhibition that now defined his small domain. The scent of the crowd—a cocktail of ozone from the generators and the heavy, salt-sweet musk of mass arousal—filled his lungs, grounding him in the physical world even as he contemplated the metaphysical transition awaiting him in forty-eight hours.
“Fuck, baby!” David groaned as he caressed Jenny’s hair and pushed her face deeper into the cleft.