Jack and Mary Nobbled Pt. 01

Chapter 1.

Jack wearily - once again - meandered laboriously amongst the rise and step of the winding stairway, which led to his third floor tenement apartment. Counting as he went; he always counted. It was two O' clock in the morning and Jack could be seen, to those who were watching, tiredly treading home from the swing-shift shift at Fire Station 9's daily grind nightly.

Fire station 9: A place where Jack had worked his way up from rookie to sergeant in over thirty years of polishing that red, clean, mean-machine, with smatterings of fire-fighting thrown-in in between, and what else would he have to think about at this unearthly hour anyway? So he counted as he climbed, and it felt easier on his mind, for his legs to devour the steps in between; him, and his waiting-beer, with a slim cut of lime, incomplete without the sour, never mind the hour: A hoisted bottle and wedge, raised silently to the asking, risen to the cheer of one basking, in the triumph of another day down; Jack had saved some poor soul today, distraught, and out-standing on a ledge - the clown.

He slid his well-worn tarnished brass-key, quietly into the silvery, sloppy slack lock, making sure not, to jingle it with the pealing chime of the others. Consideration for neighbors was his pet thing - being careful not to wake up the Mothers.

Upon the opening-up of the door he would stealthily close it and sling his greasy hat at the sleepy cat clawing at the border and rim of Mary's cushioned chair, full of cat's hair; the cat awakening with chagrin. He detested that thing - the cat - not the chair, and aimed at the quarters from when whence Mary sat there. The cat taking off, fair to say in a hurry, into its box at the corner, leaving behind an empty space, of a kind, filled by clouds of furry flurry, Jack gave it no mind, as the cat worked through its worried scurry: Then, under the couch scooting and mewing at the safety offered within: With furniture as cover, a ready escape, from a work-worn Jack's metaphorical punch on the chin, or a flying hat in the puss - avoiding either one or the other - and the hat came to a missed stop with a petering teetering spin.

Mary, Jack's wife of some thirty odd years, a registered nurse and devout Christian with sin in arrears, was a light sleeper to say the least; if not an out and out incurable insomniac, with epinephrine being her beast. Sleeping reluctantly nowadays, under the urging of pills taken every day, and by-the-way, along with, and, a couple, or more, of stiff-snifters; twin-shots at eighty-proof swigged down closer together than Siamese sisters, that finally of a night, did her alright, and put her over the hill, a depressant, rather than a lifter. Russian vodka her fancy: She picked up the trait during long nights awake, fingering dog-eared pages of spies, and Cold War post-allies, whilst reading Clancy, a thrilling espionage treat, for tired eyes and non-sleepers sleep-devoid peepers.

Mary clandestinely kept her bottle stashed under a heap of old Christmas decorations permanently sequestered in the hallway junk-cupboard for some unknown reason. Jack knew that Mary was a closet drinker for years. He could taste the booze on her bung-hole, when he licked her out, let alone the constant presence of limes in the refrigerator that would, over time, dwindle down to nothing, then mysteriously be replenished without as much as a word? I mean, Jack used some of the limes for his beers, and to rub over the head of his cock before he sucked himself off a few time a week, but that didn't account for all those dozens of limes that kept on disappearing of a month. Where were they going? In the end, Jack put two and two together, and did some snooping, and lo' an' behold, found Mary's stash. Jack never mentioned it to Mary though - never.

Mary had a very hard, time getting off to sleep of a night. The slightest creek from the apartment-wood or din, of traffic would, cause her endless strife, keeping her up for hours, of a night. The refrigerator being a main offender, and in the end, Mary took to sleeping with her head under two pillows, the quiet of which, they undertook, to lend her. To cut down the noise of the periodic whirr from the freezer's rattling compressor, Mary took handfuls of pills and boozed them down so the noise of the fridge wouldn't fret her. Jack farted in bed earlier on, in their marriage all of a'bliss, one time noisily without pong - for it usually came out as a hiss. Mary was up for three days straight and chastised Jack for doing her wrong. He never ate beans again that late, and that was over twenty years in the passing, for Mary was pissed with Jack that night, and threatened to kick his ass in.

Chapter 2.

Jack had made love to Mary for decades now without kissing her, or even seeing her face at all, mainly because her head was usually stuffed securely under the pillows, and, last, but not least, she was out for count on the meds and grog anyway. Jack would, in the end, just lift up the sheets and blankets from the foot of the bed, and fold them over the top of his wife's, upper torso, and head, exposing the lower half of her body, only. He would then, do her holes - just like that, and if he felt the urge for tits, he would simply roll the blankets up further until he could grab them, and suck and bite on them. It worked for him, and Mary never knew the difference.

Once the pills took hold of Mary, being a nurse an' all, and knowing the very best concoctions and combinations to take, for that Oh!, so sought after sound sleep of a night, then, nothing on this God's blessed earth could awaken her. Jack would remark that it would be easier to wake an on-duty sleeping security guard, than to rouse Mary when she was fast a' kip.

In this state, Jack could do anything with her. She was like a rag doll. He could roll her over and do her from behind, then lay her out flat for a shot at the missionary style. He could strip her naked of her pj's, and ravage her in the nude, or dress her up in edgy fishnet stockings, crotch-less panties, peek-a-boo nipple-less bras and various pleated, tartan and checkered, plaid Kelly-Doll miniskirts of every conceivable color and hue that he had bought at a sex shop in a neighboring town, in case of discovery. All of which, he hid in a box under a pile of sporting magazines in the next closet to where Mary had her booze stashed. Jack was convinced that Mary would never think of looking in there. He felt safe.

On occasion, if Jack felt lonely, he would come home from work, and drag Mary's limp, comatose, body out into the living room, and fuck her on the couch whilst watching re-runs of Monday night football on the T.V. Other times, he would go about his normal duties as usual in the apartment, but for company he would pull the sheets off Mary, unclothe her, and either sling her unconscious body over his shoulder, as in the traditional fireman's-lift style, or sit her, straddle-wise, on his shoulders holding onto her legs making sure that her upper torso always leaned forward; her drooping tits dangling down each side of his head, keeping his ears warm in winter.

Jack would put his leather trouser belt around the back of Mary's neck, and buckle it under his chin, this was to ensure that she wouldn't fall back and get hurt. It would be hard to explain in the morning, and this way, Jack could keep Mary pulled tight onto his shoulders; her open cunt burning steaming-hot and wet on the back of his neck. It was very therapeutic for Jack: The heat from Mary's vagina bathing the pinched nerve between his 3th and 4th vertebra.

If Jack got hungry, he would lay Mary's body over the kitchen table and make a sandwich, then fuck her royally where she lay, whilst chomping away at his grub, and swigging gob-full's of beer down his gullet. Jack believed that it was a waste of time to eat first then fuck later, when he could do both at the same time. It's a much more efficient way of making love to one's wife, conjectured Jack - to himself.

When Jack needed to take a dump, he simply took Mary with him to the bathroom, and fucked her on his lap, whilst he sat on the porcelain throne, and squeezed out a large one. Mary and Jack seemed to have no problem with all of this, especially when Mary was totally oblivious to the fact, and Jack believed that she need not bother her tiny little head about such mundane details as those of their sex life together, so he put her on a need-to-know basis only. Jack was very considerate in these areas of marital life with Mary. Jack was a good husband, and Mary knew it - he concluded.

When Jack had done his duty with Mary in those steamy wee hours of a morn, following his arrival home from the swing shift at Fire 9, thus fulfilling their traditionally accepted coitus-quota and relieving his built-up sexual tensions by emptying his balls into his wife - as God intended - then he would take time to clean Mary up, and put her back into bed, exactly the way he had found her.

If Jack had come into Mary's love tunnel, then he would attempt to empty her vagina of semen by holding Mary over the toilet bowl with one arm, and with her legs thrown wide apart, he would insert a turkey-basting syringe into her hole and pump it for all it was worth, until the rubber bulb showed signs of overflow - any spillage landing squarely into the pan to be flushed away upon completion. This would ensure that there was no leakage in the bed during the night from Mary's gash, and consequently, no awkward questions to answer in the morning.

After spill-control was done, Jack would take Mary back into the living room, and spread her out over the couch. There he would tickle her lips with the tip of the basting syringe. Unconsciously, Mary would open her mouth and go for the nozzle, like a new born at the nipple. Mary would suck that syringe dry in no time flat, whilst Jack washed her crack and ass out with warm soapy water and a soft flannel.

If Jack had dressed his wife up, in an outfit from his secret wardrobe, he would be sure to undress her, and install her back into her jammies and carry her dead-weight carcass back into the bed, making sure to shove her head under the pillows, just the way she liked it. On occasions Jack would inadvertently slip Mary's knickers on backwards which caused problems for him the next morning. Jack spent a lot of time subtly planting the idea into the back of Mary head that she might be burgeoning upon the first stages of dementia, or Alzheimer's, and that she must have put her panties on back to front herself. The ploy got him off the hook several times, and worried Mary no end.

In earlier days of their marriage, Jack took to using Mary's ass-hole for his lovemaking, especially during the week of her period, and he liked the change in tightness that her bung-hole offered, but more than that, Jack was pleasantly surprised to be able to shove every last inch of his cock into Mary's stink-hole, whereas, he could only get the first five up her love tube.

Jack had hereditably inherited his grandfather's penis gene it seemed, and it also seemed that the gene skipped generations in the family, because his father, sporting a bare four inches at full mast, came-in a poor second to his son, weighing-in at a staggering thirteen and a half.

Jack's father, Reginald, became rather stand-offish, toward his son during his adolescence, when one day he walked in on him masturbating wildly at the climax-peak just south of the ejaculation point. Jack just couldn't stop the ride at that point - no one could - The train had definitely left the station, and that was before his dad had even bought a ticket to get onto the platform. Elvis was about to leave the auditorium and so Jack let his ball-custard fly - and fly it did!

Jack and Reginald's eyes met at the instant of the on-set of his son's orgasm. Coincidentally it was the very fraction of a second before the sperm came squirting out of his offspring's rigid staff - the moment of true orgasm: The moment when the amygdala is flooded with dopamine.

It's pay-off time for the corporal body, says the brain - an organ not to be denied - lobbied hard by The Body itself; with its craving for The' all-important sensory experience. Why, its like finally getting hold of that ever elusive carrot-on-a-stick between your teeth, holding it for a split second - knowing, now, that finally you have got it - then, choosing your time; munching it down; into a bottomless, starving insatiable belly-pit.

This is when the cum starts to fly. Nothing can stop it at this point in time - wild horses can't stop it; the very movements of the planets can't stop it - even God Himself, can't stop it! Not once the final, vinegar run, has begun.

Then, and only then, is all the hard physical work of fucking, or wanking, going to yield bounty. The cock is going to - have - to cum!

People will kill for it, lie and cheat for it, and as Jack's father, Reginald, knew from the very look in his son's eye at that precise moment, a moment barely south of ejaculation; a moment before the mess, before the shooting of the sperm, that from that point forward, Jack - his son - could actually take his wife away from him with a tool that size - Reginald saw it in his eyes.

Jack's multiple cum shots sprayed out of him in a near perfect parabolic arc whose apogee from his balls rose to a staggering height of a good 6ft., and almost hit the bedroom ceiling. Reginald was aghast, and turned away in utter jealousy and envy, ending up rubbing his mere four inches to completion in the hallway half-bathroom. When he came, it was only three sparse shots, and they barely hit the hand-basin's plug-hole from the rim; a scant three inches from the eye of his spewing cock. From that day on, Reginald was wary of his son, and of his wife.

It became worse. Fearing that Samantha his wife and Jack's mother had ridden 'The Snake' of her son - being how massive it was an' all. Reginald felt that, if looked at logically and impartially though, from a woman's point of view, he would be contemplating very same thing himself if he were Jack's mother, and Reginald's wife - considering the size of Reginald's cock an' all. Reginald was duly worried.

Jack's father, though, rightly or wrongly, intuited that every now and again, especially when he returned home from an out of town business trip, or from one of those quarterly-year country fishing jaunts, that he and his long held private school buddy - William - religiously took up in the wilderness of the Appalachia, felt that Samantha's gash was wider, and sloppier than usual upon his return, and that Samantha was farting in her sleep more often lately. Perhaps Samantha was taking it in the ass from her son to avoid any pregnancy issues from cropping up out of the blue. Reginald decided to cut the fishing trips with William in half, to twice a year, instead of every three months, and to beef-up surveillance on the two.

Chapter 3.

Samantha, herself though, already suspected what really went on during these so-called fishing trips of Reginald's, and his pally pally public school buddy William.

For one, she looked-up the location of the log cabin that they stayed in on such trips. There were no lakes or ponds around for hundreds of miles, and besides, Reginald didn't own any fishing tackle to speak of, except for a large butterfly net and a Swiss army knife - which he made great fuss of; not to forget upon leaving on such trips.

Supposedly Reginald and William caught all of the fish by tying the butterfly net to the back of their dingy, just under the surface of the water-line, and rowing like mad back and forth across the lake in a sort of poor-man's trawling expedition.

When Reginald returned from - any one! - of his, many, Appalachian outings, sporting ice-filled hampers filled to the gunnels with dead fish of every conceivable variety - bought, of course, twigged Samantha: The catching of - the proof, that is - generally covered by numerous intrepid dinner-table stories of 'The one that got away': Samantha's inquiring mind was first piqued by Reginald's penchant for an overwhelming over indulgency toward iterating, in excruciating detail, the minuscule - almost microscopic - accounts of the most unlikely occurrence of events. Samantha became more curious, than suspicious. Her interest was up.

Each story was, of course, backed up by a fuzzy, conveniently out of focus, Polaroid snap-shot. Reginald had bought dozens of cases of film just before the company discontinued the line. Heavens knows why? Perhaps it's too difficult to get the right amount of blur with the sharper cell phone pictures of today, conjectured Samantha to herself.

In one such shot, the one where Reginald fought for hours to land the Ahi Ahi: It was blatantly obvious that the aerial shot of the two of them in the dingy was shot in a bathtub, with a magazine page of redwoods and wild shrubbery serving as a background drop, and William and Reginald portrayed by a toy boat with two little figurines planted in it. Why, if looked at with a magnifying glass one could clearly see the page number in the lower right-hand corner of the redwoods, right next to the little rustic fishing shed, with a tiny jetty and an old man, smoking a corn-husk pipe, and his dog.

Who took the photograph thought Samantha, if the two of them were in the boat fighting tuna? Whoever it was would have had to be floating at an elevation of around 500 feet, calculated Samantha.

In another, the bathtub plug is clearly visible to one side of the picture. When asked about this, Reginald shrugged his shoulders and concluded that they might have inadvertently caught a U.F.O. in the shot, before rushing off to the bathroom for an hour or so.

Samantha, although not a fisher person herself, knew instinctively though, that Tilapia, Salmon and Cod, coupled with lobster, shrimp and Ahi Ahi can't co-exist in a remote land-locked region of the back-lands of America - on, or close to the top, of a water parched mountain!

Samantha asked Reginald to show her, on a map, where the lake was that he and William fished at. He said that it was a military secret, and that it wasn't shown on civilian maps. When she pushed the point and asked Reginald to show her the location, even though it wasn't shown on civilian maps, he said that he could, but then he would have to kill her. Samantha left it at that, but something was going on, and she was intent in finding out what.

Chapter 4.

During the early hours of the morning - following Reginald's valiant stories, and somewhat miraculous environmental, let alone ecological, discovery of a Shangri-la like, utopian, hidden, expanse of land and water, where diverse species of fish and mammals of every conceivable type, and ilk, apparently, co-exist together, and inhabit not only fresh, and salt, waterways, but apparently live in the same lake - Samantha began to gather her thoughts and think more clearly.

These big tales of Reginald's from 'a hard weekend's fishing' with bubba William may have worked for Samantha in her younger, more naive, years, but she had burned too many steaks on the grill since then to swallow a mouthful of chuck in lieu of a rib-eye without knowing it these days. Something was up, and it smelled fishy.

When Samantha was sure that Reginald was fast asleep, she weaseled her legs through her husband's, and by raising hers in the form of a triangle, she was able to open-up her his dozing buttocks just enough to get her slender hand in there, and with cold-creme at the ready, she slipped her enquiring paw down the back of his pajamas.

Samantha's prying fingertips traversed the hairy valley of her husband's rump-crevice, until finally she arrived at his bung-hole - she fingered it tentatively, almost praying that it was intact, puckered, and tight, just like the scores of virgin college footballer's holes that she had stuck her long slender tongue into, as head cheerleader, following a win-game; their sweaty balls dancing about her intent forehead: She, sensing the minute reduction of weight following the autonomic rise of the testicles prior to ejaculation, would thrust her tongue, tonsil-deep up their whining ass-holes, and violently caress their bulging, cramping almond prostate gland, with the tip of her saliva laden proboscis, and as they came, and shot their loads - publicly - up into the locker room air, and down her back in the after-game get-together, she knew she was in for a long day's laundry on the morrow. A good cheer- leader always has lots of laundry to do - it's par for the course, especially if you win, thought Samantha.