Cock Goblin of Brighton Beach
Gregor Strobilinsky hobbled up the last flight of stairs of his thirty-seven floor walk-up. He's lived in this box studio in Little Odessa for over fifteen years. He had just finished eating sunflower seeds on the boardwalk and was dragging himself toward his tenement door. His peg leg rhythmically scraped the tiles, once again reminding him of that horrible shipping incident off the coast of Kaleningrad that forced him to emigrate to the United States.
Opening his door, Gregor fell forward and propped himself up to see a tiny Goblin making its way toward him, grinning, its fat cock sliming across the floor.
“A perverted apparition...” Gregor said.
“No, brother, I am quite—”
“Gah! You’re no brother of mine, you spawn of Mephistopheles! Demon!”
“Brother, even demons have hearts,” the Goblin said. “I’ve been sent to free you from one of your sorrows.”
“Could this be true? Are you not an hallucination, nor a trick by Ilya Kamyshev, my landlord and nephew? His wife is always wandering around Brighton like a witch...”
A wave of relief surged through Gregor’s body. Looking over his shoulder, he no longer saw his peg leg, but a human foot. Gregor reered onto his butt and caressed his precious foot—the first time he had done so since that horrible shipping incident off the coast of Kaleningrad.
Gregor bowed before the Goblin’s cock, which quivered like a weather vane before a storm.
“Oh Gobby—how can I convey my thanks to you?”
The Goblin rested its cock a ruble’s length away from Gregor’s face.
“I’ve released you from your pain. Release me from mine.”
Gregor looked at the Goblin, then down at its cock. He nodded, opened wide, and slid his cracked lips around its fat cock. The Goblin sighed and dug its claws into Gregor’s bald skull, guiding it along its shaft, Gregor’s lips smoothing around its gonorrhea bumps and manure clumps.
“Gimme some good ‘ol lollipopping, brother,” said the Goblin.
Gregor traced his tongue along the Goblin’s cock veins, knotting over each other, sliming around his throat. He slurped on the Goblin’s cock head—managing to tongue an earthworm out of its urethra—before the Goblin pulled out and slapped him in the mouth.
“Getting a little toothy, you old moskal,” said the Goblin. “Let’s try those withered mitts of yours. Their loose skin might provide good grip.”
Gregor nodded and spit into his hands.
“No!” the Goblin said. “Forego the formalities.”
Gregor clamped a handful of his beard and brushed the Goblin’s cock dry. He seized the Goblin’s shaft and jerked it up and down fast. The Goblin groaned.
Gregor switched up his motions—clockwise, counter-clockwise, hand upside down, both hands on, slapping, tapping, gripping the balls, squeezing the balls, palms flat, and even whiteknuckling. The Goblin’s breathing sped up and Gregor’s eyes shined. He saw ahead of him a better life, one of plentier joy, full of—
Cum splooged onto Gregor’s face, oozing down his cheeks and pooling into his wrinkles. Gregor flung the cum off his face and beamed at the Goblin as it wiped itself clean with Gregor’s beard.
“Alas, my comrade, my little Gobby, I can’t thank you enough—”
“Fuck you, old man,” said the Goblin.
Gregor’s eyes widened. “Come again?”
“Yeah, I'd like to.”
The Goblin strode toward the door, its cock bouncing between its legs. Gregor pivoted on all fours, about to protest, but felt a jolt of familiar pain shoot through his body. He glanced over his shoulder to see that his peg leg had returned, now resting in a puddle of goblin semen.
“What—what! Curse you, Goblin! You babayka! You fiend! Return me my precious foot!”
The Goblin stood in the doorway and looked back.
“Take a swim,” it said, winking, and slammed the door shut.
Gregor Strobilinsky stared at the door, drenched in Goblin cum, wondering whom he had tortured in a past life to deserve such a cruel and absurd fate. His mind was now made that this occurrence was, in fact, much worse than that horrible shipping incident off the coast of Kaleningrad that forced him to emigrate.