tagHumor & SatireThe Bokor and the 25-Shot Jackoff

The Bokor and the 25-Shot Jackoff

byEdwardMidweston©

Written purely for laughs for a girlfriend. But she wants to see her name on Literotica, so here goes. Don't expect great literature in this one.





Gary Farnham paced back and forth across his living room, with cell phone in hand. He knew full well that neither the inquiries he was making nor the rut he was trampling into his carpet would accomplish anything at all, but he was unable to sit and wait passively for what he was certain would be tragic news.

It had been merely worrisome when his live-in girlfriend Tammy was two hours late returning from work. He'd told himself that she might be having car trouble in one of the many urban canyons that are cell-phone "dead zones." Maybe she simply stopped to do some shopping and had lost track of the time. Or perhaps she'd had an appendicitis attack and rushed to the nearest hospital.

Deep down, Gary somehow knew the truth was far worse but he forced himself to cling to hope that the truth wasn't as dreadful as he knew it really was.

The phone call on his landline changed all that.

"I have your slut," a fiendish voice announced. "Listen carefully to my instructions if you want to get her back unharmed."

"Who is this?" Gary shouted. "What have you done with Tammy?"

"The cops have labeled me the 'Big Banger'," the disconnected voice said. "It is as good a designation as any. I haven't done anything to your toothsome wench...yet. And I won't harm a hair on her neatly-trimmed litte pussy if you place 100,000 $20 bills in an antique Athenian urn decorated with the verses of Pindar. Set the urn adrift down the Chicago River precisely three hours from now. Precisely three hours!"

"But I don't have $100,000!" Gary shrieked. "I might be able to raise that much by hocking everything I own, but not in three hours. The banks are all closed."

"It's not $100,000, stupid!" The Banger snarled. "It's two million. Can't you fucking multiply?"

"I don't have two million dollars. I can't get that much. And I've never seen one of those Athenian whatchamacallits.

"Not a whatchamacallit, dipshit! An authentic Athenian urn—specifically an Urn to a Grecian Ode. You have until the stroke of midnight, or else I'll detonate the stick of dynamite I've jammed into your lady friend's pussy! You try to cheat me out of even one dollar, kaboom! Foist off any reproduction urns on me, kaboom! Call the cops, kaboom! Got it?"

Then the line went dead.

And so did Gary.

OK, in truth he was merely dead to the world for about five minutes, the victim of the kind of fainting spell normally reserved for little old granny ladies who drive 1959 Rambler station wagons and raise African violets.

Cursing himself for wasting even a few precious minutes, Gary started to call the Chicago police. Suddenly fearing that the Big Banger might have tapped his phone, he grabbed the untraceable "burner" cell he used to place bets with offshore casinos.

"It's some kind of sick joke right?" he asked hopefully, after delivering a truncated version of the bizarre phone call.

"Probably not," Detective Fennstermacher replied cheerfully. "The Big Banger has been exploding cunts all over Cook County. We've been keeping the story away from the media because failing to catch him sorta makes us look bad."

"My God," Gary breathed. "What should I do?"

"That depends," the cop explained patiently. "You got two million bucks in cash and one of them fancy Greek flowerpots?"

"No!" Gary wailed. "And there's no way I can get them!"

"Well, then, you'd better find yourself another squeeze, cuz this one's snatch is gonna be permanently out of service."

"There must be something...anything..."

"Make a donation to the PPP—that's the Police Propaganda Project. We're in the middle of a media blitz to convince the suckers—I mean the citizens—that the Chicago P.D. isn't just a bunch of parasites sucking workfare paychecks out of the taxpayer. How much shall I put you down for?"

"Put me down for three good kicks to your worthless ass!" Gary snapped. "I'll solve it myself!"

The question was how? Only two hours and forty-one minutes remained.

With no other answer coming to mind, Gary raced across the hallway and pounded on the door of his neighbor, Professor Monkmeyer. The professor had often declared himself the world's foremost expert on every subject known to humankind, and—for the first time in his life—Gary prayed the pompous geezer was telling the truth.

Alas, it took the good professor less than ten seconds to dash Gary's hopes.

"Assume for a moment that you could somehow secure 100,000 $20 bills. Assume that you could also get your hands on the obscure Grecian urn of the ransom demand..."

"But I can't," Gary wailed.

"This is what we academics call a hypothetical!" Monkmeyer snapped. "Work with me!"

"OK, OK," a chastened Gary agreed. "Let's assume I could get them."

"Excellent! Your real problem then is that 100,000 bills—whether real, or counterfeit, or cut newspaper facsimiles—simply won't fit in any Grecian urn that I've ever seen. This Big Banger person is intentionally setting you up for failure. Obviously, he's some sort of pervert who is seeking justification to blame others for the mayhem he commits.

"But you've thought of some brilliant way to stop him, right?"

"If any viable answer existed, I would know it," Professor Monkmeyer replied, "for I am the world's foremost expert on everything. However, no solution does exist in this case. It's as simple as that."

"You mean..."

"In the vernacular that appears to be all the rage in this dilemma, kaboom!"

Another fourteen minutes had evaporated.

With all hope gone, Gary resumed pacing around his living room, not knowing what else to do. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the answer escaped from the dusty filing cabinets of his memory and seized control of his troubled mind.

"If you fill twenty-five condoms full of cum, throw them off the roof of a yellow-brick building, while chanting 'Mary Had a Little Lamb' in pig Latin, your fondest wish will come true," a Haitian voodoo priest had told him years before, after Gary had bought the thirsty but impoverished old gnome a cold beer in a Port-au-Prince bar.

Chances of success were slim, but even the slimmest chance is infinitely better than none at all. Gary raced to the corner drug store to buy condoms. "I don't care what brand or color or size they are, or any other damn thing," Gary shouted at the druggist who seemed eager to discuss the relative merits of every brand he stocked. "Just give me twenty-five condoms fast!"

It's not easy to impress druggists who have been in business for fifty years, but Gary succeeded. The old man had served hundreds of impatient horn dogs over the years, but never before had he encountered one so confident of needing twenty-five of them in a single evening.

Gary raced back to his apartment, dropped his Levis, and began to jerk. And jerk, and jerk some more. For the first time in his life, his cock refused to cooperate. The dread that filled his heart had taken its toll in the form of temporary impotence.

Refusing to allow defeat to be snatched from the jaws of possible victory, he ran to his laptop and punched in the magical u.r.l. "Literotica.com." There was no time to draw jack-off inspiration from the thousands of red hot stories but he shot his first load a minute after gazing upon one of the luscious ladies in the Amateur Pic forum. Hurriedly pulling on another rubber and surveying the charms of another lady produced Jersey whitefish number two. Orgasms three and four followed, albeit somewhat more slowly, but that was no doubt the result of overuse rather than an editorial comment about the relative sexiness of the torrid photos.

Gary was alarmed by the ever-ticking clock but he soldiered on, despite the involuntary slowdown in hard-ons and despite the painful protests being lodged by his balls.

By 10:30, condom number eight was filled and tied off, and then number nine. But then, Murphy's Law reared its ugly head. The computer monitor went blank! His Internet service provider had chosen the worst possible time to temporarily shut down for routine maintenance.

In desperation, he raced to his TV and began furiously surfing through the channels. Most of them were also dark because Gary had bundled his cable and Internet through the same i.s.p. Current over-the-air broadcast TV didn't hold much promise as jerk-off fodder, so he switched to the re-run channels in search of "jiggle TV" from the '70s and '80s. A quick fantasy about Kelly Bundy filled the tenth condom and Mama Peg inspired number eleven. By then, his testicles had stopped protesting and were launching a civil suit for separate maintenance. He gritted his teeth and continued to whack through the spasms of pain.

The three Halliwell sisters from Charmed were good for condoms number twelve through fourteen, and a bikini-clad Markie Post on The Fall Guy inspired his first double.

With sixteen down and only nine to go, disaster struck again. His rapid-fire channel surfing had hit a Roseanne re-run. Instantly, his overworked erection vanished. Pounding on both his remote and his cock so hard that he almost broke them, he found gold—a Charlies' Angel episode. Re-inspired, he cut the magic number to six. True, the cum deposits were now no more than a few droplets, but the priest had made no mention of minimum volume requirements.

ME-TV was running an ancient Gunsmoke episode for the thousandth time, but Gary noted with relief that it would end in about two minutes. Praying for a hot babe in whatever followed, he took advantage of the brief respite to wipe the blood from his cock and recount the filled condoms. Three to go in the next seven minutes!

Gunsmoke's interminable closing credits ended at last and...yes! A Mr. Ed re-run! Gary wasn't remotely into bestiality, you understand, but Connie Hines soon wiggled into the scene. Making a determined effort to ignore her saccharine-sweet smile and concentrate instead on the two huge talents stuffed into her skintight sweater, he shot load number twenty-three.

A groan passed his lips when he realized that Rush Limbaugh was on the next four channels he surfed, but another push of the button brought an old Maude episode onscreen. Adrienne Barbeau's cleavage and miniskirt produced a few drops of semen for condom number twenty-four. Just moments later, fate smiled upon him. Adrienne began dancing a sexy frug while wearing a halter top about four sizes too small for her bountiful boobage. Squirt number twenty-five hit the latex with surprising force.

With only two minutes and eight seconds remaining, Gary grabbed the shoebox into which he had been dropping the condoms and staggered down the street to the corner deli. His knees wobbled as he climbed the fire escape of the two-story yellow-brick building, but he reached the roof with almost twenty seconds to spare.

"My fondest wish is that Tammy be returned to me safe and unharmed," he shouted. "Ary-May Ad-hay a-ay Ittle-Lay Amb-Lay," he intoned, inverting the shoebox and letting the products of his Herculean fap session float downward to the street.

He had no clue what to expect, but he wasn't prepared for the total nothingness that followed. Tammy did not magically appear before him. There was no clap of thunder, no flashing lights. There was only street noise. Bird shit from low-flying pigeons, and a shabby rooftop beneath a dark night sky.

It was all for nothing! The Voodoo priest had lied to him!

Forced to accept that poor Tammy had been blown to bits by a psychotic fiend and that he had been unable to prevent the tragedy, Gary hobbled home in tears. But as he opened his front door, he heard a squeal of joy and his girlfriend threw herself into his arms.

"You're alive! My God, it worked!"

"You won't believe what happened to me," Tammy babbled almost hysterically. "I was kidnapped by some psycho that looked like Boris Karloff on the late show. He dragged me into some abandoned warehouse and shoved a stick of dynamite up my twat. He said he was going to light the fuse at the stroke of midnight and blow me into a million bloody pieces. I tried to get away but he had my arms and legs duct taped so I couldn't move."

"I know,"Gary interrupted. "He told me all that over the phone. But what happened just now...in the last few minutes?"

"It was just a few seconds before midnight and he was flicking his Bic at the fuse, and I thought for sure I was gonna die. All of a sudden, I heard some vintage Bob Marley music and some ancient black guy materialized in a big cloud of smoke. He said something in French and snapped his fingers. The psycho was blasted right through the concrete wall, right under the wheels of a garbage truck passing by out front. Then the old man snapped his fingers again and I was zapped home. Fifty, maybe fifty-five blocks in less than a heartbeat. I know it's impossible, but it really happened! You've got to believe me."

"It was voodoo!" Gary exclaimed. The old priest told me it would work if I truly believed. And it did!"

Suddenly a cloud of acrid smoke filled the room and a deep voice announced, "I'm a bokor, Mon, a sorcerer—not a priest!"

"Forgive me, Bokor," Gary said. "How can I ever thank you for saving my lady?"

"Just buy me another cold beer the next time you see me," the deep voice replied. The cloud of smoke began to evaporate, but then formed again as the bokor added, "By the way, three condoms are enough if you ever need to use the spell again."

"Three?" Gary exclaimed. "Then why did you make me jack off twenty-five times?"

Shits and giggles, white boy!" the voice replied with a chuckle. "Gotta have me shits and giggles!"

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