Tough Fruit

Tough Fruit

©2023 Morra Rose

A hoodlum chooses the wrong neighborhood. [I like to think this story has a touch of noir/urban decay/BDSM-lite. Also, a question for any reader who would like to add their two cents; did you think the story had too little or too much physical/five senses description? I tend to go light on description because I want the reader to have plenty of room to create their own pictures, but just curious what you think about that. Thanks for reading, and enjoy!]

Rain. Again. Against my better judgement, I bent my head against the precipitation as I inserted the key in the lock of my apartment lobby door. Foolish not to keep a sharp eye out at night. Foolish to be out at all.

But, I had to work, had to feed myself, and had to stick to AA meetings. As I turned the key, I heard thumps and shouts from the row home next door. Three men tumbled out, one pleading and two throwing him down the stairs. The men on their feet ripped him off the ground; one held him, the other threw punches.

"Hey!" I screamed from my dark landing, "Yo! Fucktards! Get out of here!"

I knew I risked getting beat up myself, but fuck it-I lived here. I grabbed an apple out of my bag and beaned the puncher in the head. It was enough to surprise him. He stopped. The holder let go of the victim, who staggered off and zig-zagged across the drenched black road, nearly hit by a car that didn't even slow down.

The puncher ran. The holder did not. He turned, and if you don't think it's possible for eyes to burn through the night, think again.

I stood stock still. Dumb, right, for a lone young woman? I know, but there was a second set of locked doors to the main lobby and if I got trapped between the doors, I could be worse off than in the open street.

Arms hanging loosely, the holder strolled to the foot of the steps. He never took his eyes off me as he stepped one step, then another, until he stood so close I smelled his wet hair and leather jacket. Obsidian eyes locked on mine. He rasped, "You saw nothing."

I lifted my head more, "I still see nothing. Get the fuck out of my neighborhood." My fists clenching and unclenching,

He sneered, "And if I don't? 'Cause I got unfinished business here."

"No, Tough Stuff, your business here...," I grabbed his balls and twisted, pushing him backwards. He gasped, his arms flailing for the railing, "...is finished, and if you come back, we got a real kinky Neighborhood Watch around here, pretty boy, and I'm gonna be the first one to soak your cock in my throat, and when it's good and hard and throbbing, I'm gonna sit on you backwards until it's thrust all the way up my ass..." I released his balls and shoved him with my other hand. He spun 180˚ and caught the railing.

"...and it's gonna hurt like hell and make me mad, and then I'm gonna pinch my anus and rip that fucker right off!"

Hunched over, he stumbled down the stairs with a hand over his nuts.

A window above open, "Hey, you okay, Fruit? Need some rope?"

I didn't take my eyes off of Tough Stuff as he cast an evil eye and Quasimodoed down an alley. I hollered back to my neighbor, "Nah, Shower, he's gone. For now."

"He's kinda cute! Maybe he come back," Shower replied.

"Let's hope so."

Tough Stuff disappeared. Rain wormed into the corners of my eyes and soaked my open backpack. Another window high up opened, "Who dat? Fruit, dat you?"

"Yeah, Broom, everything's cool. Just a scuffle on the sidewalk," I shouted, but not too loud.

"Oh, okay, Fruit. Be ca'ful."

Fruit-that's me, because I always had fruit on me. Shower-he lived below me and loved to whack off in the shower. Everyone could hear him and it was kind of cool because you knew it was eight am, then nine-thirty pm, like clock-a-doodle-doo work. Anyway, why the code names? Because when we had to shout back and forth, we certainly didn't want to use real names or apartment numbers.

I closed and locked the first doors behind me and shimmied my mail out of the box under flickering light. Landlord's gotta get a new bulb. I'd leave a note in the morning. Next, I unlocked and passed through the next set of doors, and locked them behind me, too.

The grand hall of a city mansion from a by-gone era, high and narrow with surviving ornate trim and tin ceilings. The two and half flights of stairs creaked as I ascended, warning me to make it quick before they pulled away from the wall.

Inside my apartment, I dumped my wet back pack in the clawfoot tub and hung my jacket over the battered dining chair. No lights. I liked the night. People can't judge you if they can't see you. Ghostly blue from the street lamp outlined my sparse living room/bedroom. We all kept our places dim. Light destroys your night vision. I crept along the wall to the window, peeking around to look at the street below. A rat valiantly lugged my apple. Nothing more.

A week passed. Day shift at Acme Laundry, ginger ale pool or AA meeting at night. The weather cleared and the kids played on the sidewalks again until dusk, then zoop! Back inside.

My parents hated this neighborhood and I hated theirs; institutionalized boredom that drove me to whoredom and booze at too young an age; but not since two years. Sobriety was a bitch, but I'd already dropped out of college and lost my friends. The next thing? Likely death by misadventure. So, I left familiar ground, and within the folds of a rougher place, found AA meetings with folks from all walks of life and none of them perfect; work at Acme Industrial Laundromat that gave me hands like a butcher; and an apartment in this unofficial halfway house, a forgotten urban gem.

Thursday night. Eight pm meeting in the basement of the Methodist church, at least until this church closed, too. As compadres told their stories, I wondered about Tough Stuff. He'd be back. When I grabbed his balls, he could have clocked me, I mean, shit, I'm only 5'4" and 120. But he didn't. The way he closed his eyes, sucked in his breath and held it-he's anticipating. He wanted more. And he wants it from me. I grinned. It's not a good idea to want anything from me. Turning in my seat to ignore the eye from L.J., who once asked if I was a dancer, I peeled a banana and tuned into the meeting.

Rain paved the way home. The bus plowed to a halt in a black puddle, which I stepped in, of course, stupid fuck. Squish-step-squish-step two blocks to my apartment. Wary all the way, I schlepped my wet self up the steps with key ready, then stopped. Glinting on the ground lay a small fold of tin foil, the same piece I'd wedged into the door before left for my meeting. Paper would have blown away. Shower and Broom never went out at night, so they didn't open the door. I peeked in the crack-it looked like the bolt hadn't reset. Huh, he was a crappy break-in artist, too.

Anyway, might as well get this over with.

The bulb had burned out, leaving the lobby dark. Without using the key, I pulled the door hard-two hands emerged from the dark, grabbing and pulling me inside, shoving my back into the wall. One hand closed the door without slamming it. I felt a leg driven between mine and a sweaty body pressed against me. I couldn't move.

"Long time, no see, huh?" A man spit in my face, breath reeking of whiskey, "Make me a fool, huh? Who do you think you are?"

My body stiffened, "Find out."

His fingers dug into my crotch, "How you like that, huh?"

Honestly, I wanted to spread my legs and swallow up his fingers. Two years untouched felt like eternity, but he was a petulant boy in need of training. Eyes adjusted to the dark, I looked straight at him, "Find out."

His nostrils flared. He clenched his jaw as if reving up with no where to go.

"Let go of me," I said. He clenched again and lost the stare-down, releasing me. I straightened and turned to insert the key for the second door. I looked at him. He breathed hard and looked dumb as a deer in the headlights, poor thing. "Got any whiskey left?" I asked.

He nodded, backing off.

I opened the second door, "Follow me."

I headed up the stairs without looking back. I heard his boots thumping behind me, his breathing still hard as I stood at my door with the third key. While unlocking, I asked, "You always follow strangers to their door?"

"Yeah, then I..."

Scream from above. Tough Stuff flattened against the wall, "What the fuck?"

Screams and thumps. I turned the knob, "Broom, upstairs. Heroin-free five years now. No, wait, is it four? I think it's four." I shook my head. "Anyway, she sees demons and beats them out with a broom. Hence her name-Broom."

Another screech and Tough Stuff ran me over to get into the apartment. A cackle followed. "She must have got them out. That's good."

Shut the door. Click, click.

Click.

Low, deep moans came up through the floorboards and crescendoed to howls. Eyes still in night vision mode, I looked at Dumbo; he looked terrified.

"Shit, is it nine-thirty already? That's Shower, by the way. He...oh, never mind." I explained, doffing my bag and jacket. "Oh, where are my manners? You can hang your wet jacket over the other chair."

As his fingers left his jacket, I shoved Tough Stuff against the wall. His chest still heaving, he asked, "Don't you have any lights here?"

"Yep, and also one rule-you don't ask questions." My fingers slipped under his ball sack, "I can grip and pull wet sheets, four at a time, from a washing machine for hours." I squeezed, "Do...you...understand the rule?"

Wide-eyed, he nodded, "Yes, but how do...," Squeeze. He winced but stayed, "I mean, can I...," I squeezed until he squeaked, "No questions." I let go. He wiped his hand across his brow.

"Tough Stuff, follow me." I walked into the living room and pointed, "Stand in front of the couch." He did so. "Turn around and face me."

I stepped up to him, face to face. My hands started on his shoulders, flowed down his chest, along his torso. "Such a waste, a fit young man thugging in the streets," I murmured, my fingers gliding over taut abs. He trembled. My hands passed around his waist and, as expected, pulled a pint bottle of whiskey from his back pocket. I sloshed the contents in his face, "I'm two years recovered, and you bring this shit in my house, blow it in my face?" I opened the bottle and placed it to his lips and tipped, "Drink it. Finish it."

He gurgled trying to choke it down, whiskey running over his chin, down his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. I tossed the empty bottle on the couch, "That's for later."

Mouth breathing, arms slack, he panted, "I know. I'm bad."

My fingernail trailed along his midriff as I slowly circled him, "You need punishing." Short term. No commitment.

"Please."

"And guidance." Long term. Commitment.

Stopping behind him, my hand glided down his hip, over his hard-on, pressing it. He moaned, his head tilted back, "Is this a punish...ah!"

I squeezed 'em again and re-stated, "No. Questions."

"Oof, okay, please! I'm sorry!"

I released, "Good boy. You learn. Unzip your pants and pull them down."

His hands shook and fumbled with the button. Hands on my hips, I glared.

"Uh, sorry." He unzipped and his cock bounced forward, stretching his underwear.

"Take it out."

He stretched the waistband up and over his throbbing penis of thick girth and greedy head. He looked at me with pleading eyes.

His pleasure meant nothing to me, and for me to have mine meant taming and training this errant young man. I licked my finger and traced it up the underside of his cock, "Take off your clothes. Slowly."             

I stepped back into the corner and watched him undress. Ghostly streetlight flit along his lean body as he peeled off his shirt, his boots, his pants, his underwear. He stood, waiting, my rock-hard David, stiff as a double whiskey.

"Turn around. Kneel and place your hands on the back of the couch."

He turned, then paused, looking at me.

"And do not look behind."

He took a deep breath, then another, "Yes, uh...,"

"Fruit."

He snorted.

"You may laugh."

He did laugh, his shoulders shaking, until I said, "Take the whiskey bottle and wet it with your tongue."

He did so.

I sat next to him, took the bottle with my left hand and whispered in his ear, "I can't know the pleasures of intoxication anymore." The lip of the bottle touched the back of his neck. "So you know what I do?" The bottle grazed his spine, going down. He shivered. "I bring wayward young men into my fold," the bottle slid down his ass crack, "and teach them to behave."

He whimpered, gripping the back of the couch as the mouth of the bottle pressed into his anus, spreading it.

"Ah, this is just a little thing," I said, before the slippery glass neck entered his ass, "lucky you didn't bring riesling."

I slipped the bottle neck in and out of his ass, and like a good boy, he took it and maintained his hard-on.             

He moved to rub his erection on the couch. "No! Stay still!" I ordered. He stopped, his body trembling as I withdrew the bottle and slid it under the couch. "Stand up, go eight feet in front of that chair and face me." I pointed from the threadbare tub chair by the couch to a spot further away. He got off his knees, and posed where ordered. My back to him in front of the chair, I unzipped my tight jeans and scooched them down, inch by inch. I ran my hands over my round ass, "You see that?" I turned my head.

Mouth hanging open, he barely nodded.

"You may stroke yourself." I said, drawing my fingers up my butt crack, moaning as I pressed my pleasure spots. I turned around, slipped off my panties, and sat, hiking my legs up on the armrests and splaying my legs, "Come close, kneel before me, but don't touch."

He walked with hesitation, whimpered again as he knelt before me, staring at my moist pussy. My fingers pulled the lips apart, exposing my glistening, musky red-fleshed dragonfruit.

"Your balls hurt yet? Your cock? Isn't it time to slip your dick into me? This tight little box?" My fingertips disappeared within the folds and I nearly forgot myself and my command.

"Mercy," he whispered.

I dropped my right foot to the floor, "Come closer. Hump my leg like a dog."

He nodded furiously as he crawled over, gripped my leg with both hands, and pressed his cock along my leg, squealing and barking like a daft pig-dog, early ejaculate lubricating his rub. His enthusiasm spread up my leg as I worked up a froth; he panted and pleaded; I cried out for mercy and finally squeezed my berry so hard, it burst and spewed juice all over my thigh and the chair-good thing it was a trash-pick. With a shudder, he erupted and shot cum all over my knee.

"Sorry, my God, so sorry!" He exclaimed, trying to wipe off the cum but smearing it.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, go get a paper towel."

He got up, hunched over, and returned with the towel. He gently and thoroughly wiped my knee, then, without being told, genuflected before me, "Please, tell me what to do next."

"Get dressed and get the fuck out of my neighborhood."

A week passed. Thursday again. Work over, walk home on a pleasant afternoon, shower before AA. I chuckled, thinking about Tough Stuff and wondering if he'd ever show his face around here again. I turned the corner and approached my home. I stopped. At the top of the stairs sat a basket of fruit. No card. I grinned and brought it upstairs, leaving oranges for Shower, apples for Broom, and grapes for me, which I washed and packed in my bag.

AA filled up. I sat in the back, popping grapes in my mouth and wondering what all the other drunks did to distract them from the urge. Yeah, I get to say that. Anyway, I kind of missed Tough Stuff. He was fun. I raised my head to knock the back of it against the wall and knock him out of my mind and as I did so, almost choked on a grape-across the room in a dark corner sat a young man with black hair hanging over an obsidian eye, staring at me.

Fruit of the Vine. Fruit of the Loon.

Careful what you wish for, he'll come too soon.