The Garden of Fibs and Sin (Filthy Fibbers, Prequel)

by Jason Lloyd

  The Garden of Fibs and Sin

  (Filthy Fibbers, Prequel)

  Jason Lloyd

  Copyright 2016 Jason Lloyd

  Published by Jason Lloyd (Ginge Publishing)

  Cover Art & Design: Jason Lloyd

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the author, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events, or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language, which may be considered offensive by some readers.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Anniversary Edition

  Filthy Fibbers #0

  To all the fans… this anniversary edition is for you.

  To all the liars... karma is coming for you.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you: Kyle Frankenfield, Tommy Merman, Jeremy Lecoeur, Brittany McGuire, Jonathan Vendrick, Mandy Smith, Jelissa Comito, Bryan Weston, and Kaci Sell,

  This anniversary edition was not possible without the support of the following people: Danielle Magnotta, Dirk Christiaans, Matthew Jones, Gary Gaugler, and Stephen Libby Editor-in-Chief at The Gay Journal.

  Special thanks to: Jessica O’Donnell, Tim Caton, Joleen from Parenthetical Author Services and Cindi & Kazza from On Top Down Under Book Reviews.

  Thank you city of New Hope, Pennsylvania for the inspiration for the location of the Filthy Fibbers Series.

  Thank you Grey Goose Vodka for being my main character’s drink of choice and my favorite vodka. Let’s play a drinking game: Every time I say, “cock” in this book, take a shot of Grey Goose.

  Mom, this book is filthy. Enter at your own risk… I’m sorry.

  The Lie

  He was lying

  His eyes shifted down

  And then to the left.

  He smirked at me,

  But he wasn’t looking at me.

  He was looking at…

  The lie.

  —Jason Lloyd

  i’m a darling

  august 17, 2014

  4:45am

  HI, MY NAME IS DANIEL Patrick Darling II. I know what you’re going to say, “All men with Roman numerals in their names are douchebags.” Well, you didn’t miss the mark on that one. I am a twenty-five-year-old douchebag. Things have always come easy for me. I have money. Well, my family has money. I can buy anything I want and do whatever I like. I was raised to act as if I am better than other people are. Basically, I was brought up to be a privileged douchebag. It’s not my fault. I don’t mean to be an asshole. Sometimes I just say or do the wrong thing. My mouth has a mind of its own, and so does my penis. Oh, and I can blame vodka for my poor decision-making. Grey Goose made me do it.

  My family owns Darling Pharmaceuticals, the largest pharmaceutical company on the east coast. It’s run by my mother, Veronica Darling. I say, “Run by” loosely. She doesn’t know what the fuck she is doing. Veronica just sits in a boardroom once a month and people tell her what is best for her company. They use her for her signature.

  My grandfather, Daniel Patrick Darling started the company. I don’t remember him much. The last memory I have of him was when I was six years old, and I watched him fall down our mansion staircase. His neck snapped somewhere on the way down. I was playing with miniature toy luxury cars in the foyer. I watched as he tumbled down and landed on the beige marble floor. His head was cracked open, and blood slowly exuded on the newly polished floor. My mother ran down the staircase screaming, “Oh no!” She wasn’t upset over what I just saw or the fact that my grandfather had just died. She was distraught over the blood on her beige marble floor. She had Rosie, our maid, scrub that area for hours after the body was taken away. Veronica was convinced it was not clean enough!

  Ideally, Darling Pharmaceuticals should have then gone to my father, Grant Darling, but he passed away from cancer a year before my grandfather died. I don’t remember my father much. Most of my memories of him consisted of him being in the hospital. His battle with cancer was long.

  People had told me that my mother was a different person back then. Back when my father was alive, everyone called her, “Roni,” but after his death that stopped. They said, “The light in her died.” Judging from the photos I have seen, they were right. Her long flowing golden blonde hair and sparkling green eyes have been replaced with saddened dullness. People said when my father died; her heart was broken. She became cold and distant. I suppose I get my coldness from my mother. I was mostly raised by nannies and maids. I only saw Veronica at dinner. It was as if the sight of me was too much heartache to handle.

  Veronica has run the company ever since my grandfather’s passing. I was supposed to take over on my eighteenth birthday, but I turned it down. I told my mother I wanted to enjoy some life a little bit, go to college, and not have to be tied down. Really, I just wanted to party, fuck a bunch of guys and do what I wanted. I mean, come on, running a company at eighteen? That’s too young. Responsibility was a word I was not familiar with. Veronica said she would run the company indefinitely, and it would be left to me in her will. I’m hoping she’s like a goddamn cockroach and lives forever. I don’t want the fucking company!

  I may not have to worry about inheriting the family business after all. Currently, my future seems bleak at best. Why, you ask? Well, someone I thought I knew, someone I thought I trusted, just hit me over the head with a shovel. I really hope it doesn’t leave a scar. It sucks when you are loved by few, but hated by many. I never even saw this one coming, but it all makes sense now. At least he didn’t hit me in the face. I kept thinking, No, No! Not my gorgeous face!

  Currently, my unconscious body is being dragged across the ground with no respect for my designer ensemble. This shirt is fucking Burberry for Christ sakes! These grass stains will never come out! My right hand brushed up against the rose bushes and caused it to be scratched up by the thorns. Little droplets of blood fell into the grass. My assailant didn’t seem to care, and he merrily hummed some creepy song as he manhandled me. He even started to sing it aloud:

  I’ll paint these roses red

  I’ll spill your blood

  And hack you up,

  Cause soon you will be dead!

  I’ll paint these roses red… with your blood!

  He let out a chuckle at the end. Like an evil mastermind in a cheesy movie. He had a decent voice, despite the creepiness. I should have known he was bat shit crazy. I should have listened to Ethan. If only I would have listened to his warning. He was right. I could have avoided this whole thing. Oh, the shoulda-woulda-couldas, but there was no going back now. I deserved this. I deserved all of this and, unfortunately; it was not over. Revenge never ends until everything and everyone around it is destroyed. A vengeful heart never rests.

  a filthy garden

  august 16, 2014

  9:13am

  THE DREAM ALWAYS STARTED THE same. I was walking down a long hallway l
ined with large wooden antique doors. Every door was locked except one red door at the end of the hallway. The door wasn’t merely painted red; it was painted in blood and was still wet when I touched it. I turned the doorknob, opened the door cautiously, and walked through. The floor had about two inches of murky, filthy water. I could never see the bottom. The room was painted in blood and empty except for a full-length antique mirror at the other end of the room.

  I always walked to the mirror and stood directly in front of it. It was beautiful. The frame was large and silver with silver roses all around it. My image always started out slightly distorted in the mirror. As I walked closer, my reflection became clearer. My mouth was taped shut, and someone was standing behind me. I could never tell who was behind me. Before I got a chance to look, they shoved me and instead of hitting the mirror, it felt like I was stepping off a ledge. I was submerged in the murky water. I struggled to reach the surface, but I never find it. I drowned. The dream was so real I always wake up gasping for breath. I have had this recurring dream for months.

  I am jolted awake because of my nightmare. I’m cocooned in Egyptian cotton. My sheets are soaked through from my sweat, and my skin feels clammy to the touch. Rosie had to change my sheets every day because of this. I clambered out of my black king-sized wooden canopy bed and slowly walked to my bay window.

  My room was cold. Mother kept every room at sixty-degrees. Veronica said that the cooler temperature made the help work harder and kept her skin looking younger. My nipples became erect as I glided across my hardwood floor. I only had on light blue cashmere lounge pants that my best friend Josh gave me for my birthday. I liked how they felt against my dick. Josh knew me best. He knew what I liked.

  My bedroom windows overlooked the back rose garden. Mother had Damien, our gardener, planting more rose bushes. He had planted and seeded all summer. I wished he were up here planting his seed in me instead. He lived on our property in our pool house. He took care of all the landscaping, the pool, and anything else that involved the grounds. He also took care of my insatiable needs. I couldn’t get enough of him.

  It must have been hot outside. Damien was shirtless; he wore only orange athletic shorts. I studied his ass as he shoveled dirt. Those shorts hugged his ass like water cascading over two beautiful boulders down a majestic waterfall. I salivated at the thought of his sweaty physique on top of me. For only being eighteen years old, Damien was fucking hot! Puberty blessed him in all the right places. I knew it was wrong to obsess over someone who was barely an adult, but in my defense, he looked twenty-five! He was definitely not a twink.

  Damien caught my lustful ogling. He smirked up at me and waved. His toned body glistened in the morning light, taunting me. The sun made his tattoo sleeve look even more vibrant. I wanted to touch the collection of skulls, flowers, and stars that adorned his muscular arm. I longed to run my tongue across the words, “In Omnia Paratus,” which was Latin for, “Ready for anything” that was tattooed on his chest. You know those eighteen year olds are always “ready for anything!”

  I responded to his innocent wave by grabbing my throbbing morning wood through my lounge pants. He shook his head and laughed. He stood there holding a shovel, gazing up at me. I could faintly see the outline of his knob in the orange shorts. Either Damien wasn’t wearing any underwear, or his underwear was soaked through from his sweat. Either way, it was delightful, my dick twitched at the very thought of it.

  I undid the tie that kept my lounge pants around my waist, and they slowly tumbled to my ankles. I put my arms up and hands on the back of my head. My cock stood at attention as if it were waving “hello” at Damien.

  I peered down at him and watched as his mouth flung open in surprise. He then produced the biggest grin possible; creating dimples on either side of his cheeks that drove me insane. I knew I had to have him, and I motioned with my hand for him to come up. He looked up and shook his head “no.” His reaction told me that Rosie was probably in the kitchen making something, and my mother must be around somewhere. There’s no way he could get up here without running into one of them. I frowned down at him, touched the glass in longing with my hands, and rubbed my penis up and down on the window. Damien laughed.

  Veronica was strict with the dining schedule in the Darling household. Breakfast was to be served promptly at seven in the morning, lunch at noon and dinner at six. If you missed a meal, you were shit out of luck. I always missed breakfast; I’m lucky if I make it to lunch and usually I only attended dinner a few times a week. Rosie always hid a plate for me for any meal that I missed. It was now almost ten in the morning, and I couldn’t fathom what she would be making, but maybe she got a jump-start on lunch.

  My mother was probably in her study. She’s either on the phone with the company or gabbing to Rebecca Tatum about Bunny Vantrump’s affair with the twenty-one-year-old pool boy. Veronica liked to gossip. It was all she had. Bunny’s pool boy was hot, I’d punish his starfish, but I thought Damien was hotter.

  So, here I was longing for my barely legal lover, separated by this short distance of concrete and glass. I stared down at him, and he looked up at me. It was romantic. Kind of like Romeo and Juliet, but I doubt Juliet fingered herself while she looked at Romeo. But maybe Shakespeare left that part out.

  I pinched my erect right nipple with my left hand and stroked my aroused shaft with my right hand, while I stared at Damien. I don’t have the world’s biggest dick, but I would say it was perfect. Not too big; not too small. Just the perfect size to get in there and get the job done. My dick was the Goldilocks of cocks. I kept everything polished well. The guys I have been with all seemed like they appreciated a pretty, trimmed working-surface. Nothing’s worse than when you’re going down on a guy, and his pubic hair ends up all in your nose or tickling the back of your throat. Have you ever laughed with a dick in your mouth? It’s dangerous! There’s no Heimlich maneuver for that.

  I watched as Damien rubbed his buzzed brown hair with one hand while he still held his shovel with the other. His light brown eyes became intense as he looked up at me, and his manly jaw tightened. He was sporting a day’s scruff on his face, and he was a little dirty from working in the garden. His gaze was intense, almost angry. I had seen that expression on his face before, but usually it involved him being on top of me or with my legs on his shoulders. It was a look of determination, a look of desire, a look of thirst. He had looked into my green eyes with that same intensity. I knew Damien wanted to fuck the shit out of me, and I wanted to let him.

  He was completely hard in the orange shorts, and I knew by that time, he was not wearing any underwear. The imprint of his knob was prominent. He slid his hand across his muscular chest, rubbed the light patch of hair, rubbed his abs, and then followed the happiest of trails down to the band of his orange shorts. He slid his thick hand down his shorts, and I watched as he pleasured himself in front of me all while keeping a penetrating stare that caused goosebumps to develop on my naturally smooth skin.

  The point of no return was imminent as I worked on my swollen rod. I could feel my body tighten, and the pressure build. Damien pulled his shorts down slightly and unleashed his cock. His thick muscular thighs kept his shorts in place. He put his hand up to his mouth, licked it, and then continued to polish his knob. I could tell he was getting close to climax, he opened his mouth in a quiet moan, and his chest flinched.

  The fact that we could be caught at any moment was incredibly arousing and now with the sight of Damien’s beautiful body exposed in the morning sun, I couldn’t contain it any longer. My body trembled as I thrust forward. Ropes of cum protruded out of my penis and painted the window. I looked down and saw Damien mouth, “Oh my God” at me, and just when I thought it was his turn to climax, I heard the chipper voice of my mother, “Damien! Oh, Damien.” It was like nails on a chalkboard. Veronica certainly knew how to kill the mood.

  I watched as Damien quickly lost his erection with the sound of Veronica’s voice. He pulled his shorts u
p fast and looked up at me mortified. My mother walked outside, down the walkway and onto the grass in black five-inch pumps. She was wearing a very form-fitting navy dress that had a plummeting neckline. Her heels sunk into the ground as she walked towards him, and she looked as if she was walking with a stick up her ass.

  “Hello Damien,” she said cheerfully.

  “Um, hell-hello,” Damien stuttered. He stood there holding the shovel, sweating heavily.

  Veronica looked around the rose garden. It was as if she was the prettiest rose, and everyone else was just weeds growing in her shade. “How are my fabulous rose bushes coming along?” Veronica asked. Her voice sounded like a cat in heat; annoying, high pitched with a horniness hidden underneath.

  “Very well Mrs. Darling. I have a few more to plant, and then I’m going to mow the grass and trim the bushes.”

  “I do love how you trim my bush,” she said. Veronica smirked at him and then added, “Oh Damien, don’t call me ‘Mrs. Darling.’ That’s my evil troll of a mother in-law’s name.”

  Damien snickered slightly and flashed my mother those famous dimples.

  “You can call me, ‘Veronica.’ I insist that all the help calls me by my first name. We are a family here.”