Jack and Mary Nobbled Pt. 02

Chapter 9.

Although Jack took after his grandfather, and not his small-dick father, in the length of his cock, it wasn't only that which made him so popular with all the girls at school, but also his vagina-punishing girth. As Mary, later to become his wife, once remarked, that at a certain angle, back-lit by a dim light, his groin area looked a lot like a rhino's horn with a load of beef kidneys impaled upon it which hung unapologetically out from his loin. His balls, the size of them alone resembling a medium brace of onion, no wonder she cried every time he shot his load into her orgasm-quaking gash; her engorged clitoris battered into submission; her ass-hole opening and closing, as she came - foaming at the corners of the mouth - faster than a through-the-lens Cannon camera set at shutter F-1.8 around 1/250. It was a flip of the coin whether the wife would shit herself every time he did her, and she often did.

In hotter weather, the testicular duo hung flaccid amid their distended scrotum sack half way down to the knee. They were known to swing wildly, between his and Mary's legs, when he took her from behind.

Mary used to love it when she bent over hard in the bed, with her golden orb buttocks shoved proudly up into the air, and she would cum monumentally, shaking, screaming and blurting out obscenities; farting and pissing and swirling her head and hair around - smashing her face into the mattress, as her orgasm raged through her and rattled the very bones of the wanton vixen itself.

When Mary did shit during orgasm, Jack would, matter-of-factually, just reach under her and pull the log out of her ass and throw it under the bed for her to clean up in the morning, without as much as missing a beat - if he was fast enough to catch it, that is. Some of these logs came out of Mary at velocities measured in mph!

A particular love of Mary's was when Jack's hairy gooseberries swung pendulum-duty between her thighs, and beat the tip of her engorged clitoris into a frenzy; her autonomic nervous system marching in perfect delayed time-rhythm-lockstep to Jack's powerful drum-beat vagina-punishing cock and ball buttock thrusting. Mary would piss the bed as she came during sessions such as this, and Jack would turn the mattress after he had spewed every last bubble of cum out of his knackers and safely deposited the slimy delivery securely into Mary's love-holster, or chocolate-log warehouse, depending on where his cock was when his orgasm occurred, of course.

He could never predict where his rod would be in Mary, when it finally erupted. It could be in her cunt, in her ass-hole or in her mouth. All he knew was, wherever it was, it was going to be inside of her. He had tried coming in her hair, over her face, up her nostril, and in her ear. He experimented with shooting his load over her tits, in her belly button, and onto the bung-hole between the crack-of-her-ass.

It wasn't something that turned him on really, but by not coming "into" her, something was missing - something was lost. He just wanted to blow his load into Mary, and go straight to sleep, without having to deal with rolling around next to a person drenched in come. So he dropped it in her ass, or her pussy, or in her mouth - if she wanted to swallow, then that was up to her, or she could just get her ass out of bed and spit it out in the bog. It meant nothing to him. All he wanted to do after fucking was to sleep - and not to have to kiss someone with come on their breath. It was a maxim for Jack! Once the come had left his cock, he was no longer responsible for it; he felt.

Jack was slumbering under the self-styled philosophical delusion that if "Women-Kind" strove to avoid [inconvenient] pregnancy seriously, then they ought to take it in the poop-tube or do the spit and/or swallow routine, but he was yet to encounter a piece-of-ass that didn't yearn to have her brains fucked out; come a Friday night down at the local.

He didn't care, but they did, and they dreamed of having kids, and schools and whooping cough nights: They hankered after that 'little house on the prairie'; after that two car garage, with lawns in which their well groomed mutts shit upon; and all the smoky BBQ meets, with their bloated adulterous neighbors, and hubby's hairline in retreat; their collagen filled lips and saline breast implants, and gnat infested coleslaw offerings and gossip of feigned trouble and strife, from man and wife; hanging over back-yard fences, beating-the-gums, and flapping the lips and nodding - understandably - to half-baked-truths - and ill-turned clods of conjecture. This was their lives that they yearned so avidly for; and they stood there, in tyranny, slandering the world with ease, as last night's sperm, swam up their fallopian tubes, with the residue dripping languid into the readily absorbent gusset of their pheromone-tinged knickers. This is what they cared about. This was their passion: This - their prime crime in the fictitious belief of their inflamed plastic domain.

Chapter 10.

In winter time, when snow lay thick upon the ground, and pristine icicles hung eerily from clogged drain-pipe gutters, glinting, and twinkling-out all the colors of the rainbow, like frigid diamonds in the night: as scattered lamppost lights sway with inner-city sympathy in concert to distant hurricane palm tree tropical plights. During times such as these, when master bedroom temperatures rose barely above the point of ice, it was hard to turn it on - of a night; except that, that... cunt of hers always smelled hot and wet and encompassed the promise of pleasing, and with wintery colds a 'sneezing, the under-blanket chill, being broken by the will, and the hard-on rage, coupled by her open-legged submission, brought about a wet and sticky, collaboration of hard-rod vagina-prompted ball-jangling emission.

In this brutal weather Jack's balls and scrotum would shrink up and into him, and Mary often thought, that when he straddled her body, moving up in the bed like an open-legged crab, to offer the end of his cock for her to suck and nibble on, with full erection, and tight knackers, Jack's genitalia resembled a 747 jetliner coming in to land with full landing gear down, and she would giggle to herself, then suck the cockpit until, all of Jack's passengers had disembarked, and all their luggage had been off-loaded out of his packed cargo-hold. Mary always swallowed the cargo. It was a treat for her.

Along with a huge penis, and gigantic balls, Jack also inherited the ability to gain multiple orgasms from grandpa Weatherspoon, and it wasn't that unusual for Jack to shoot-off more than a dozen loads, if he let it all go at once, that is; his record being at school, when he blew seventeen wads of cum over a gaggle of admiring cheerleaders behind the sports hall after football practice one afternoon.

Jack was amazed at the melee that ensued there that day, as the cheerleaders shoved and bumped, and scratched and pulled each other's hair in the frantic attempt to catch Jack's rapid-fire ejaculate in mid air with their open, gaping, beautifully-angelic tight-lipped mouths - some of them being quite adroit at the maneuver, getting more than their fair share of the goop. Reminiscent, it was, of his last summer's fishing jaunt down at the local watering-pool. Watching in awe, as chevrons of swift, and skeins of swallow, dove and arced, and banked and swooped, in choreographed sorties, snaring gnats on the wing, in feeding frenzies common to still water, and hot balmy summer retreats.

The sheer volume of Jack's ejaculate posed a problem for him though, due to sperm deliquesce; the sludge driveling out of Mary's split-peach throughout the night. It happened once, when Jack was too tired to clean Mary's cunt out after using her hole to make love to her, and they both woke up swimming in a sea of cum in the morning. Mary was furious, and had to throw her favorite pair of panties away; they were ruined, and the laundry bill alone, to wash all of the bedclothes, was just too much for Jack to afford.

Jack blamed it all on Mary saying that he woke up in the early hours of the morning, with Mary riding his meat like a rabid cowgirl, and that she was so good, that he let all his loads go before her could pull out of her. Then - as the story goes - Mary, after weathering a rather noisy orgasm, let out a long, protracted, deep sigh of relief, and just flopped over onto the bed besides Jack, and without as much as a single word, just carried on sleeping, snoring and farting and leaking all night long.

Chapter 11.

Mary was red faced about it all the next day, and apologized profusely to Jack, offering up that she must have done the devilish deed in her sleep, for she remembers nothing of the event whatsoever. Jack played the innocent victim to the hilt: lying like a cheap rug, playing on Mary's gullibility. Mary, on the other hand, although repentant, was showing definite signs of pride at Jack's description of her riding him like a 'wild cowgirl', and that she had farted all night long. It seemed her that she had, sort of, switched roles with Jack, because that was exactly what he did, after they made love; and she made Jack tell her the story over and over again for weeks, and each time he told it, it got bigger and bigger. Mary was over the moon!

It was one thing to squirt his juice up into Mary's, comatose, vaginal tract, and lie about it, because Jack felt he could easily clean it up with the turkey basting syringe and a damp flannel when Mary was out of it in never-never land on sleeping pills and cheap vodka, but when Jack did her in her dirt-box, and was a full thirteen inches up in there, then the turkey-syringe trick simply wasn't going to work. It just wasn't long enough to reach where Jack had shot, and left, his loads.

Jack was lucky that Mary's puckered brown-eye was tighter than her fish-hole, and a good 95% of the leakage was contained up her ass of a night. Nevertheless, Mary still ended up with a huge skid-mark in her knickers the morning after, but she never put it all together enough though, to the point where she could decisively finger Jack as the culprit. Jack always got off the hook. It was easy for him; Mary wasn't the sharpest knife in the draw, compared to him, and he could lie better than a Bishop with his pants down around his ankles; Oh, boy! ...How he could lie; Mother have mercy!

One thing that puzzled Mary, mind you, was that every time she woke up with a huge skid-mark in her panties, then she would have the most impelling urge to take a massive shit. Generally Mary tended toward constipation, and Jack would often hear her grunting like a hog on the throne trying her best to go, but on mornings like this, Jack would lay in the bed, silently grinning to himself, as Mary bolted for the bathroom: Her turds splashing down into the porcelain sea, like slippery Apollo capsules returning home from far away moons, into the smothering, loving, embrace of mother NASA, faster than shit through a goose.

Chapter 12.

As a kid, Mary invented a psychological construct to help her overcome her propensity toward constipation. It was a Freudian thing that she labored under; a debilitating lean toward Anal Retentiveness. Subconsciously Mary regarded her shit-logs as her babies, and she was reluctant to give them up. So, she devised a scenario, whereupon her ass was really a holding dock for space vehicles, and when she received a "communiqué from headquarters",(her brain),to, "Open the holding-dock doors",(her asshole), only then could Mary give birth, and let her children go; shitting like a circus elephant caught under the lime light; center stage - center ring.

Mary loved it though - her morning-after shits, that is - and her cheeks would glow brilliant red in the uncloaked guilt of it all, setting her crimson lips pale in comparison against the radiance of her burning shame.

As Mary dismounted the master-bathroom's "porcelain-saddle" 10lbs. lighter, and, of course, sporting the obligatory, "red-ring-around-the-buttock-marker", which always denoted a good sitting undertaken of the bog: Mary would giggle, and scurry off to the kitchen - dutifully - to have her coffee and cream/jelly doughnut, and to cook her man a huge breakfast in recompense for her marvelous bowel movement. Mary always quoted to Jack, in intimate moments, "A good shit is a grand start to any day." Anon.

Chapter 13.

Mary had read the quote from a rough engraving in the toilet door at the local church restroom of Saint Luke's one sunny Sunday, following communion, as she sat there shitting like a mule after Jack had fucked her with a vengeance in the ass the night before, for no apparent reason: After Jack had unloaded his cum into Mary's ass some twelve hours earlier; it only took the swallowing of the communion host to trigger Mary's bowel movement - her ass being primed for action - and she barely made it to the pan sometimes, considering that the restroom was situated at the rear of the church, in the annex, where the nuns were cloistered.

Saint Luke's had a small-celled convent built onto it at the back of the church - "The Sisters of the Holy Heart" - and the handwriting that Mary had read there on the bathroom door looked as if it had been scrapped desperately, over time, using perhaps the corner of a metal cross, or something; possibly one that hung from a rosary of sorts.

Mary gleamed, for a split second - as one of her larger turds splashed down into the bowl, with a cold water radial-jet blasting up and hitting her bung-hole out of the bog water from the epicenter of the turd-drop - with piqued interest, following the splash, that the slant and angle of the letters leaned heavily to the right, which suggested that the author of the impromptu note was a left-handed nun - it was written in Latin, but, there was another, lesser decipherable, scratching clawed into the wood below it. A message of much greater gravity, indicating that the scrivener had fucked, and blew, the pope on her last visit to The Vatican and that she was, now, pregnant.

Mary did quietly conjecture with herself, that indeed, sister Theresa of The Holy Hearts, did in fact put on a lot of weight in a short span of time last summer, following her trip to Rome, but Mary, at the time, put it down to the pasta, and dismissed it as a natural consequence of consuming huge quantities of carbohydrates during the pilgrimage. I mean, isn't that what Italy is all about? Gorging on mountainous heaps of tomato riddled spaghetti dowsed in quarts of olive oil and oodles of garlic; guzzling down the local vino like there's no tomorrow; fucking in the afternoon like an orgy of Catholics at the end of Lent and sleeping it off under the stars; on a daily basis - that's Italy in a nutshell - Mary believed. She was never going there for vacation, she vowed! It was Disneyland for her, or nothing! She liked the candy floss there, that's all.

Chapter 14.

Soon though, following the return of sister Theresa, Mary recalled that the burgeoning nun was abruptly sent off to serve God again in a back-water leper colony on some obscure island somewhere in the South Pacific, just off the coast of New Guinea: Head-hunter territory, she believed. Mary felt that there wouldn't be much eating on a five to nine pound new-born, but veal is savored in the west, and to a cannibal... Well, osso buco is where one finds it, she supposed.

At any rate, Mary remembered sister Theresa returning home some months later from her "mission" looking rather gaunt, but also a lot more - disillusioned - than when she had left. She had cigarette burn-holes in her otherwise pristine habit, and the telephone-box red varnish on her toenails was chipped - not to mention that she was a lefty, to boot. Yes, the world had turned for sister Theresa, and not in a good way, it seemed. She should have known though, thought Mary. No one fucks with the pope, and gets away with it, figuratively, or literally, speaking. I mean he could strike you deader than a doornail in the blink of an eye with just one swipe of that hat of his. A shiver ran up Mary's back at just the thought of it, and her clitoris engorged, and peeped out from under its protective hood, in the off-chance of catching a rub or two, but Mary was too preoccupied with the writing on the wall. She would have Jack rub her later. That was his! job, Mary believed.

Chapter 15.

it was around about this time, the time of sister Theresa's second appearance out of the blue, that the church then installed a separate tampon dispenser in the convent's restroom, that sported XX1, and XX2 - extra large, and extra, extra large - whereupon the existing dispenser serving the majority of incumbent nuns only gave out pencil-sized, virgin tampons.

Mary used to use the smallest sizes to clean-out her ear holes, belly-button and nostrils in "The Ladies" at church on a Sunday, but the new ones - the XX1, and XX2 - why these things could have been used to clean out the barrel of a GC-45 Caliber Howitzer. They were huge! And the current pope did have a huge head on him, if truth be told... New miters had to be made special for his appointment! The head probably was genetically handed down to the baby: Poor Sister Theresa conjectured Mary to herself. Fancy having to push a genetically hereditary pontiff's head like that out from between your recently de virginal buns! Why he should have had a vasectomy years ago if he insisted in fucking around with the novices in the cloisters, or just do them in the dirt hole, felt Mary; indignantly. It's just as tight, if not tighter doing it up the stink-hole, and with zero chance of pregnancy, pontificated Mary to herself. It just requires a little extra clean up at the end, that's all, plus having to put up with the increased racket of farting at sensitive times throughout Benediction, and the speaker-like amplification of which is mysteriously encountered by letting-one-go in the confessional box - to wit, butt-plugs could easily curtail. All of which is far better than having babies with enormous papal heads shoved into reed baskets under the sister's beds, and going through the expense of having to install new tampon dispensers at every nunnery, south of the Rubicon. But, alas, "...the die is cast", and here they are - Dracula's Tea-Bags - Howitzer style! Mary shook her head in dismay, and tried to shake the drippers off her open cunt.

Chapter 16.

Mary, putting two and two together, came to the only plausible conclusion that someone came back from the South Pacific with a larger gash than that of which they had left, and that probably wasn't due to the use of primitive phallus shoved judiciously into open cracks under hot and stifling habits, using goose grease as lube of a night, during those lonely mud-hut consultations with the Devil Himself, in mosquito-bitten bum-fucked New Guinea. No! That was due to forcing a melon-sized skull of ecclesiastical derivation, out of an orifice no larger - generally - than that of a Jew's purse.

Chapter 17.

Mary had experienced the very same thing after she gave birth. That's why Jack wanted to fuck her in the ass all the time these days. If only she had listened to him. If only she had taken his advice, and had had the Cesarian in the first place, she would still have a pussy on her to rival a nineteen year old's.

Why, having such a potent weapon in her panties - the clout of a nineteen year old - coupled with her womanly fucking experience of some forty odd years... Why, Mary felt she would have been able to blow her competition away with one fart out of her well-worn, hemorrhoid-ridden ass right now!

These skanky little, early-twenties, bitches: All they have going for them is their tight little asses, and their pheromone laced, eye-of-the-needle, cunts. They do nothing of a day other than sleep, get up late, masturbate, eat breakfast, look in the bedroom mirror at themselves - for hours - masturbate again, sniff their panty gussets to be sure of freshness, take a shower, masturbate in the stall with the pulsating water-jet-head, sleep some more, get up late afternoon, look in the mirror, masturbate, grab something to eat, leave the dishes in the sink, take a shit, shower, take a nap, masturbate, shower again; shave legs, make-up, pluck eyebrows, try on clothes, dress, go down to the mall, cut everyone off on the freeway beeping their horns incessantly, run amber lights, meet with girlfriends, type on cell phones, go home, throw clothes off everywhere, cry, take a shit, masturbate, lay in bed talking and texting on cell phones into the early hours of the morning about nothing, masturbate, eventually falling off to sleep sobbing ... The little bitches, thought Mary. If only she had a beaver as tight as theirs again, why she could have ruled the world by now, she lamented. No more would she have to suffer Jack pushing his huge cock up her ass, just to empty his balls four nights a week. No! He'd use her love tube instead - like the pope did with sister Theresa, et al. It's only natural, concluded Mary.