Goldie Part 04 - Sex With A Persian's Wife And Attacked By A Bearded Assassin
I'm sitting here in my cell thinking about why I've been convicted of murder. If you read the preceding parts of my story you will recall how nicely Mr. Bentley treated me. Somehow the old guy disappeared and they think I killed him. I just don't get it. I never killed a man, I've never killed anyone.
Sure, I was together with him on the last day he was seen alive, but what does that prove? Nobody has ever found a dead body. I was tested for gun residue, blood, and DNA and nothing came up, yet here I am, waiting on death row for my turn to die.
Oh well, I won't bore you with my tears, I'm a big boy, I'm golden. Fuck the world, I wanna get off, off to another planet, another dimension, out of this prison before I go crazy in here. Wasn't there a film with Richard Pryor called "Stir Crazy?" Something about going batty in jail? Shit, that might be me.
But fuck it, I guess I gotta be grateful, my ACLU liberal lawyer still comes by my cell to see me. he says she is getting an appeal ready that she thinks will fly. Shit, I hope so. I do get off on her wonderful 'Purel' hand jobs, but I'd much rather be fucking her on a bed somewhere without my feet in chains.
And then there is my shrink, if you recall, I gotta bend over and tongue-cream her pussy every week or so to keep her interested in my mental health as well as her hairy puss. I guess she ain't liberal enough to shave that monster. They think you can relax on death row? Not a chance man!
Jesus, please help me! I'm still going to church on Sundays and here they've got me singing in the choir. Of course, I'm chained up like a circus bear. Reverend Mandrake Pepper runs that gig, he was a deacon in a Baptist church outside of New Orleans before he got sent up on charges of misappropriation of the church charity fund and misconduct with a few Sunday School moms whose lady parts he impregnated.
The Rev' claims it was his twin brother who did the dirty deed.
"It can't be me," he says, "I am gay."
I don't know what the real truth is but he was in the shower near me last Wednesday and seemed to have had trouble keeping his eyes off my mandrake root, all golden and shiny as I soaped it up for as long as it takes to sprinkle the damp floor with a bit of seed without getting caught by the guards.
The Rev kept moving closer to me, and just after I spunked off, he stepped into the damp cum spot I'd nefariously deposited on the slick tile floor. Sad to say the Reverend slipped and fell over. Lucky for him I grabbed the Rev' just before his head hit the hard floor. At that same moment, he grabbed onto my stiff cock like it was a safety handle to cushion his fall. That doesn't make him gay, but it don't prove he was swizzled by this twin brother that nobody has ever seen. I'm keeping an open mind on that rowdy man of God, and I'm pray'n that there is a twin brother, one who ain't gay.
Let me fill ya in on what happened on that fateful day I call the "Pizza Party." You all will recall Marg opened the office door unexpectedly and saw me behind her dad with my cock buried in his ass. Needless to say, that scene caused Marg to break up with me. I tried to explain to her that rear-ending her Dad was his idea.
Somehow Margarita also learned I was diddling her mom, that didn't go over too well. I got fired and It took me a little while to find a new job. So I was unemployed again, but I wasn't stupid enough to ask for any recommendations from the Pizza Parlor. My previous two jobs had ended under circumstances you would not want to write down on a job application.
I heard the school board was looking for part-time school crossing guards. The only qualification for that job was not being charged as a child molester. I figured that walking the kids to school would do until I found a full-time job.
This part-time gig meant I had to get up early, forty-five minutes before the school opened, and walk over to Hyde Street where the old Wilson School is located. Who the fuck was Wilson? Wilson Pickett, I guess. They gave me a big yellow sign to carry and bright yellow gloves to wear. My crossing guard trainer said the sign would slow down the passing vehicles and allow me to walk the kids across that busy intersection. The way the cars roared past I thought the sign said, "hit me."
I had to stay at my post an hour after the school closed. The straggler kids liked playing in the school playground before going home and I had to escort them across the street when they got tired of hoops. Sometimes I'd go onto the court and play with them. Being taller than the kids was an unfair advantage so I'd miss a lot of shots on purpose. The kids caught on pretty quick and laughed when I'd shoot the basket.
A lot of my schoolmates from High School were now married and had children of their own. It turned out that I knew a whole bunch of the "baby mama's" who walked their tikes to the elementary school. There was Mabel and Sharina who had two kids each and Waneta who had five, each of a different color.The prettiest of all was Nara, who I remembered from school because she sat behind me in two classes.
Nara had become a devout Muslim, she wore a headscarf and a burka and greeted me with "Salami Allicum" or something like that. Nara had two cute little kids, twins, a boy and a girl, both with curly hair. Nara walked them to the pre-school in the morning and returned early in the afternoon, to wait to pick them up. She was obviously a good mother. During those afternoon waiting periods, she'd stop to talk with me until the 3:30 pm bell sounded its short nasty beeping sound.
Nara explained to me that after graduation her Dad, a devote Muslim working for an Oil Company, had moved the family to Iran for several years where she attended college. While still a student she met and married an Iranian Optician. Thinking she'd found true love she quickly became pregnant and had the twins. She soon learned that her husband was seeing double. The Optician had two other wives he housed with his parents, thirty miles away on a pomegranate farm.
Once politics soured the Iranian oil business, Nara's parents returned to America.
Nara wanted to be near them in Texas, but her husband, waiting for a visa, could not accompany her. Politics being what they are, the wait was long and frustrating and in the end perhaps impossible. Nara was fearful her hubby would take a fourth wife in Iran if the visa did not arrive soon. If that happened, there was little chance her husband could ever leave and no chance for their marriage to continue. Divorce in Iran was impossible, all the laws favored the men. I got the feeling that she was rethinking her own future.
One afternoon Nara waited with me until my shift was completed and invited me to follow her home. We walked with the two kids in tow. She had promised to show me photos of Iran. When we arrive at her parent's home she took me to the back of the house.
"You wait here," Nara said. " I'll take the kids round the front where their grandma will care for them."
Ten minutes later, Nara returned alone. She led me down a staircase to a game room in the basement where there was a sofa, a TV, and even a fridge.
Nara was still wearing a dark robe that covered her from head to foot, but her arms were hidden underneath. Nara went over to the fridge and opened the door. When she came back to me she threw open the robe. I could see she was carrying two opened bottles of beer in each hand.
"I thought Muslims didn't drink beer?"
"This is Texas, I like to have a taste, it's time to loosen up a bit,"
Nara threw the robe and headscarf onto the sofa. Underneath the robe she was wearing a loose red silk blouse that showed off her good-sized tits and short shorts that were so tight you can just about see her ass crack.
"Some music," she said, "would be nice."
I nodded. Nara walked across the room and opened the dark brown wooden door of an entertainment center. She pushed a few buttons and the music seemed to be coming out of every corner of the room. Marvin Gaye, one of my favorites, was up at bat. We flicked off the loose caps off the beer bottles and chilled, grooving to "Dock of the Bay," as she moved closer to me on the leather sofa.
Then she got up and walked over to the wall where I had laid my yellow stop sign with my jacket and gloves. She picked up my sign and started waving it around to the music. Then she laid it down and began to dance while taking off her blouse. I thought,
"Oh my God, Nara, your big melon tits are look'n fine."
After that strange dance, she sat down next to me and drained what remained of the bottle she'd left on the coffee table. I had noticed the bottles were both opened when she carried them down to us. When I took a taste to keep her company, it didn't taste like beer, it had a sweet licorice flavor.
"What is this?"
