Isaak’s Fables: the Writer, the Money Man & the Insect — Steve Isaak

Jeanette, an even-tempered writer, appreciated Bill’s ability to quake her quiver bean.  She liked little else about him.

Bill was a pussy hound and Wall Street “money manager” who cheerfully admitted he couldn’t get enough of either.  It was his due, he said.

A drunken, argumentative hook-up had brought them together.  They’d been banging for three weeks, twice a week.  They rarely talked: they met at her house, stripped, and stained bed sheets together.  That was it.

Nobody had ever made Jeanette, a worldly woman, come like Bill did.   She never told him that but the bastard knew – the fact that he did flummoxed her and made her want him more.

#   #   # 

Jeanette moaned, diddered as she rode his dick.

Bill liked Jeanette’s assets – her cuppable breasts and slender jogger’s physique, her long, reddish-brown hair and high cheek bones; just thinking about her made him gain tumescent wood. 

Jeanette came, moaned, breasts joggling softly. 

He came a moment later. 

She eased him out of her wetness and lay beside him on the sex-musky bed.

Bill grinned.  “ ‘Afternoon delight.’  Nothing like it – “

Something large and fast thumped hard into Jeanette’s bedroom window, creating an egg-sized web of cracks in it.

“What the fuck?” they cried out, at the same time – a rare occurrence of non-coital agreement between them.

Bill scrambled out of bed, peered out the window.

“Can’t see anything,” Bill said.  “Must’ve been a large bird, or somebody threw a big rock over your fence.  Whatever it is, it’s probably lying on the ground near the window – unless it ran or flew away.”

Jeanette got up and slipped a summer dress over herself; Bill buttoned and zipped up his slacks.

They headed into the living room, peered through the sliding glass door into the backyard.

A giant insect, as large as a human tween, lay on the leaves, fifteen feet away.  It had the wings and body of a wasp, and a stinger to match;  its body was black, hard-shelled like a beetle’s.

Bill and Jeanette looked at each other, bewildered. 

“It’s not moving.”  Bill said.

“Doesn’t mean it’s dead.” Jeanette said, shaken.  “We should call someone. . . it’s freakish.”

Bill opened the sliding glass door, and stepped outside onto the patio.

“We should make sure it’s dead first,” said Bill.  He sounded excited, like a boy who’s just discovered a new creature, and can’t wait to torture or dissect it.

Jeanette shivered in disgust at the cruel wonder in his voice.  This affair is over, she decided. 

Bill picked up a rock twice the size of his effeminate hands and moved toward the fallen insect.

The wasp-beetle’s head lay at a neck-snapped angle.

“Leave it be, Bill,” Jeanette reasoned, putting a hand on his bare, winter-chilly arm.

“Know your place, woman,” Bill smirked at her, and walked toward the wasp-beetle.

Jeanette flushed, furious and aroused.

The wasp-beetle’s stinger lashed out, buried itself in Bill’s neck.

Bill dropped the rock on his bare foot and gasped as his veins rose to the surface of his paling skin.  His hands clutched the foot-long stinger in his neck. 

Bill, dying, stumbled toward Jeanette.

Jeanette took a step back, slammed and locked the sliding glass door.

The wasp-beetle shuddered and went still again.  Bill fell to the ground, thrashed around, and, choking on atrabilious venom, died.

MORAL:  Only a fucking moron gets too close to a mutant monster insect.

___________________

More of Steve Isaak’s sexy stories can be found here.

Steve Isaak, also published under the name Nikki Isaak, lives in California.  He is the author of the anthologies  “Charge of the scarlet b-sides: microsex stories & poems” and “Behind the wheel: selected poems”. (available at Lulu.com).   He is also the author/editor of  www.readingbypublight.blogspot.com and the multi-author www.microstoryaweek.blogspot.com.