Jack and Mary Nobbled Pt. 03

Chapter 48.

It was around 2 O'clock in the AM: Shift work coupled with snow made Jack later than usual getting home - not to mention the blisters on his ass-hole that caused walking to pose a real bind to his getting around lately. Mary was sleeping: Zonked-out on pills and booze. They hadn't talked that much since the incident, and there was a large, cold, gap between them in the bed at night these days.

Jack's balls were aching, and his prostate was impacted with snot. He hadn't shot a load for over a month since Mary had fried his stink-hole with her curling tongs in bed, for almost suffocating her by fucking her down the esophagus, and forgetting to pull his 13 inch cock out of her head every so often, so that the poor little hen could catch a well deserved lungful of air.

Yes. Jack climbed the stairs a little less cautiously this early morning though, on his way home from the job; now that the blisters on his pooh-pooh-hole had somewhat abated - he still harbored a grudge mind you, somewhere, in the back of his loaf, as to whether Mary's decision to nearly incinerate his turd-hole was a justifiably bona fide action to take, or not; considering the underlying circumstances, that is.

Jack felt that he was just fucking, and that was that! If Mary had croaked, then it would have been she who had screwed up. She ought to have been stronger, and held her breath longer, so Jack could have emptied his balls into her gut quietly, without all the fuss and drama.

Jack felt that he could only fuck one way - full on! If Mary couldn't handle the pressure, then she ought to have married a police man, or someone who works at HomeDepot, I mean, basically, they are both the same animal. Neither of them is around when you really need, and when they are, you can't get a straight answer to a simple question out of either of them.

Jack had been putting cold-crème on his bung-hole following the singe. It had been a month or so now, and finally his blistered ring was beginning to heal, but slowly.

After months of agony, finally Jack was able to take a semblance, of a decent dump, without having to bite-down on a leather-wrapped chunk of pine. The worse thing was the necessity of having to guzzle down pints and pints of sennapod teas, and then ushering out his ass-debris with a cold stainless-steel shoehorn. It was painful, time consuming, and messy. Jack was pissed!

Mary used the cleaner horns to put her boots on of a morning, and the ones with longer handles; she just scratched her back with them. One particular favorite of hers though, she took to rubbing her crack with - whenever it tickled her fancy to do so. She affectionately named it her "Irish Beau", due to her penchant to ...fiddle around between her legs with it.

When Jack was out, or at work, Mary would strip-off, and jump onto the bed on all fours; in the doggie style, with her hand coming from the rear - bowing her lathered vaginal slit, from the back, through her open thigh, with more dexterity, and inherent skill, than a polluted Irish fiddler, quarter of an hour from last orders, sporting a gutful of Guinness, and chomping at the bit to - acceptably - conclude the musical score, but wanting more, of the black grog, before the door, of last orders is open no more. That's why at the end of the night, Irish fiddle music nears breakneck speed. It has nothing to do with instrumental dexterity, or artistic intent. It is, simply, to get the piece over with, in order to rack-up another pint of booze, before the bar shuts. Certain peoples attempt to dance to these booze-generated musical velocities, and feel foolish in the morning for doing so. The fiddlers don't - they are just trying to get over their hangovers from the night before, and neither did Mary - feel guilty, I mean, kneeling on her bed, her legs open and forming an almost perfect equilateral triangle to the stained quilt below her; fiddling her crack from behind with Jack's shit-shoehorn; kneeling there, her head bended sideward, looking at herself in the closet mirror, as she came on the cool, steel, edge, of her husband's shitting-shoehorn tongue.

Mary felt not the least at fault. Jack lent more toward the victim scenario. Mary felt vindicated. Jack - diminished. No longer would Jack get away with "his ways". Not anymore would he. ...It is said that when one crosses the river, one is...different, from those who stayed on the other side, and Mary had crossed over, and left Jack alone on the other bank, dipping his toe in the water.

Man...If sensible: As a 50 - 50 partner of the human race...would be better served, if He relinquished His futile attempt at prohibiting Womankind from out of considering "the' crossing" Herself. Man would be better served by minding His own business, felt Mary.

Mary, belligerently, opposed Jack's ban on curling tongs in the house - following his "accident", especially the one she had used to fry his ring with that fateful night, and was forced to go straight-haired unto the world, with a bland style of lackluster-carotene-strands that hung like curtains of shit about her head. Mary loved her curls, and missed them terribly.

Jack was adamant about the tongs. Mary, he felt, couldn't be trusted to act like a wife anymore, especially when Jack needed to get rid of his built-up sea of semen, awash in his knackers, and let it splash into her body of a night; and had taken to tying her hands behind her back with his leather belt when he needed to fuck her, lately.

More and more, of late, Mary felt that her loose stool was becoming less and less to do with her intake of dietary fiber these days, but everything to do with Jack's deposit of cum up her ass, but because she was generally in bed and comatose by the time Jack got home, so she never really knew when he fucked her ass. All she knew was three or four times out of the week, she was able to poop through the eye of a needle come morning time. Mary started going to bed with the handle of her hair brush shoved up her Hershey's Kisses Hole, handle first, bristles hanging out. This way, Jack would get a helmet full of spikes when he half woke up during the night with a raging hard on, and tried to ram his knob up his sleeping wife's ring, emptying his rod over her roasting tan babies. Mary's constipation soon returned. It was like trying to fuck a porcupine, lamented Jack, as his ardor shrank to nothing - bleeding from the eye. It was a passion-killer alright. Jack was not amused.

Mary's lathered hand had inadvertently slid up and into her asshole as far as the wrist last week whilst washing her arce in the shower. Only Jack's cock could be responsible for the elastic size of her dirt-box orifice, considered Mary of late.

During the arce-washing incident, Mary shoved her other hand deep into her gaping vagina. It made a loud farting sound as she entered herself. Her hand went deep, a quarter ways up her forearm, and she shook hands with herself - inside.

Mary had an intense orgasm and almost drowned in the stall, rolling around on her back shaking hands profusely, as one would upon serendipitously meeting an old friend in the street by chance.

Mary loved the smell of baking hair in the morning... It made her think, of burnt toast...and Robert Duval, for some reason...

Jack's defense for his impromptu night excursions into Mary's bowels lay solidly upon an animal-pheromone induced state of insanity, as he called it.

"I had to cum", insisted Jack sheepishly.

Mary was responsible for [her] pheromones alone, he felt. ...She could impart them to her lover, i.e. Jack, simply by opening up her legs, and she chose to; often. It was her call alone: Her choice to make - or not.

Jack felt railroaded. If he didn't respond to his wife's open cunt invitational stink by fucking it, then he would be ostracized as impotent: Upon the sniff, Jack, (in his mind), entered into the fray as a cock-wielding warrior: His "meat sword" slashing and parrying, the onslaught of his wife's open-gap attack.

The, "Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly", invite, of the ad infinitum marital...quarrel, as opposed to the contemplation of sitting down and - working it out, is monumentally, disposed to the possible destruction of male-female détente in a union. Jack felt that he was between a rock and a hard place in this debate, being dammed if he did, and dammed didn't... If he took up his wife's enticement, he was seen as a brute, and if he didn't he was ostracized for not loving his wife anymore. As far as Jack was concerned, he simply had to empty his balls when they got full, and empty them preferably into something warm and slippery. It was as simple as that for him - nothing complicated. Jack considered himself a "straight-up-Joe" - with a cock like a stallion.

Any one of Mary's three holes would do it for him. All he was concerned with was unloading the semen out of his knackers, so that he could get a decent night's sleep afterward. Shooting his wads of jizz into Mary ass also saved a lot of clean-up time, and Mary got a good shit out of the deal the morning after.

Jack felt the unspoken understanding between him and his wife to be a fair and equitable one. Jack didn't feel the need to bother Mary with the particulars. She had enough to do already; evacuating Jack's loads out of her vulva, and rubbish-hole in the bathroom of a morning. He didn't want to burden her with the insignificant details of their love life. That was his business, and his alone, ruminated Jack.

Jack was very considerate toward Mary in issues of this sort, and didn't want to cause her any grief, or cause to worry her pea-brained little head.

Jack felt that he was almost a saint, and his eyes filled up with emotion, every time the thought of how he looked after, and protected, Mary crossed his sex-starved one-track mind. Even just thinking of this, gave him a rock-hard erection, and if Mary wasn't around, he would go to the refrigerator, and pull out a thawing chicken, or turkey, if there was one there, and fuck it viciously over the kitchen table, until he filled the inside cavity to overflowing, with his steaming hot cum. Jack had fucked lots of things from the fridge in his time: Melons, cantaloupes, liver; chickens, turkeys and Cornish hens. One time, faced with a near empty shelves, the day before Mary did the grocery shopping, Jack had been caught short with a huge erection, and unable to catch the cat, he had reverted to fucking a half loaf of sour dough bread. It did the trick for him, but Mary complained the next morning that the bread wouldn't toast properly, and that there was a 4 inch hole in the middle of every slice she cut. Jack just shrugged his shoulder, and shook his head slowly, and silently, and resolutely, as Mary gobbled down the soggy slices, one after another.

Before Jack left for work that morning, having eaten no toast, he suggested that Mary buy one of those long, French baguettes, instead of the sourdough cob that she usually got from the bakery. That way, Jack could get every last inch of his 13 inch pole up into it in a pinch. Mary acquiesced, and nodded as she swallowed a gob full of semi-charred sourdough.

Chapter 49.

Mary lamented Jack's pain in stool passing, but if it wasn't for her innate sympathetic, sensibility toward her husband - and toward the institution of marital life itself, then, she would have run his ass ragged, and stuck her tong into him so deep, that his G-spot would be better described as a soot-spot these days. Jack's cock would be retired right now, but Mary didn't want that to happen, anymore than Jack; so, she compromised.

She loved cumming on Jack's cock, Mary, that is, but she had to have an assurance that she could survive her personal debauchery, in a sexual interaction with him. Passing is the day where the phallus rules: The soft, warm, silky-smooth, black-hole of the red-rimmed vulva, has raised its glistening mound, and has equaled the brutal power of the rigid, battering-rod, rhythm-stick, purple helmeted, love-truncheon, and is surly destined to surpass; if not already effected.

Mary's clout frightened her - lustily. It was beginning to lead her actions. It seemed to have...awakened from a long, deep, sleep, and lately, it lead her hips and thighs and belly during a'walking. Mary, now - striding - cunt-first down the street these days - into a 'Brave New World': A new world; a budding realization of the sheer power being released from the frigid wastelands of her melting, dripping, latent sexuality. She felt more and more inversely at ease within herself the larger her "camel-toe" presented itself to the outside world. Lately, it has taken on the grotesque jib of a 40lb. open cod's mouth wrapped in wetted cheese cloth - and incidentally - has a surprisingly similar whiff.

In consequence, Mary has to spend more money on panties now, owing to the increase of crack and ass-buttock rotation; Her gait has developed a far-flung sensual birth to it these days, now that she has confronted Jack's...gender oppression; but her cunt and buttock-crack just grind-up them gussets, like corn-husks at the mill, Oh, Lordy! As one construction-worker on-looker remarked, "Man, throw a couple of leaves and a wad of tobaccy between them cheeks, and in less than a block that gal could roll you a nice Cuban...Yes, siree Bob!" Mary reveled in it.

Lace rubbing on the head of her engorged clitoris kept her on the verge of orgasm at all points in time that she became mobile. Mary took up jogging, and consequently didn't need Jack's horn so often. Jack was confused, and began to feel old. He didn't like it, and stepped up the frequency of fucking his patsy in the ass around the back of the fire-hose shed at work - especially on the night shift. Jack ran out of condoms last week, but his balls were so full, that he rode the rookie's ass-hole bare back. It was a risk, but he loved it, and shot a bucketful of cum up his co-worker's dung-hole. Jack ended up with a mild urinary tract infection, from impacting his urethra with stink-mud. The rookie was off work for two days with explosive diarrhea. Jack bought a gross of condoms; some of them ribbed, some black, and some strawberry flavored: ...Rookie like strawberry.

Chapter 50.

Mary came in her knickers last week, just walking down the high street. A throng of men rushed to her aid - all women avoided the affair like the plague. Shuffling off with loud clucking noises left behind them for those who wanted to listen; tut, tut, tutting, flipping their heads back angrily, and crying internally, with unmitigated envy: A percentage of the male helpers shot their loads in their jockeys, outside of their own understanding, and were destined to be in deep dodo with their wives come laundry day. Mary bought new knickers in a nearby store, and threw the old ones out an open window, in the bathroom there.

The fuming garment landed like a creamy parachute three stories down in a back alley, and drew a pack of wild street dogs and a male homeless person immediately the instant the soiled lingerie hit the ground.

Thereafter, a vicious fight ensued between rows and rows of semi-detached rotten dumpsters, fueled by a pungent aroma of pheromone and skid-mark combined. The homeless person won out against all odds with the snarling pack of canine, growling and snapping disgruntle at the victor. The homeless man kept them at bay though, by courageously wanking furiously, whilst sniffing and chewing Mary's discarded steaming gusset, and cumming profusely into the attacking face of the pack. This was the closest he had gotten to a piece of pussy in years, and he was not going to give it up to a scabby load of snarling mutts. No! He would fight, valiantly, to the death if necessary, for very sniff of Mary's cunt and ass-floss vapors alone.

...He had been a good licker of pussy in his time, even though he though this of himself, blowing his own trumpet, a little.

In better times he would have been licking the actual pussy, but for now, he considered himself lucky, just to have a fresh, warm sticky gusset to nibble on. It was glorious - manna from Heaven, so as to speak!

Nevertheless, again, fighting against overwhelming odds, with ailing health, and emaciation betraying virtual starvation of gross under nourishment: He courageously, and foolishly, felt that he had just one more last good wank left in him, and by George, the friction-based roasting of the cheese under his foreskin was going bear him out on this - if not this alone.

The hobo valiantly wanked on, and came into the very jaws of possible evisceration itself. The only real casualties in the end though, were a pit bull who ran into a large wad of cum that hit her in the eye, and a Chihuahua who took it in the ear.

The pit bull was summarily exiled as Alpha Male only to be replaced by the Chihuahua. ...Never let a Mexican serve in second place to authority - especially where pussy is concerned. They always do the stabbing in the back, thang... It's natural for them. Use the English Bull Dog instead, at least he knows the rule of cricket, and if it's not "cricket", then it's not fair, ruminated the homeless person - under duress.

In the end the pack got the knickers, after all, to itself - sequestered beneath the stalwart-leadership of the [new] Mexican hybrid's coup d'état win over the brutal muscle of the bull; and as the homeless guy slunk backward in apparent defeat - almost in slow motion photography - into a pile of cardboard foldings, huffing furiously at a wrinkled brown-paper bag that he had yanked out of his shabby coat pocket in anticipation to the let-down of defeat, and consequent, release from regret, that he supposed he would feel in losing Mary's blisteringly hot skid marks.

The glue pot - lid off, spewing its toxic, yet consoling fumes into his bag's grubby interior; waiting there patiently, in stasis, for his gasping lungs to greedily employ its life numbing promise, of 'better-times-to-come'...sometime, in the distant future; his dick hanging out of him limpid now; and running with post ejaculate.

One of the pack - a sympathetic German Sheppard/Retriever mutt, cagily approached the dripping genitalia, and gently lapped at its oozing.

The homelessness's incoherency of mind, fantasized with amazing powers of alacrity, and stupefied recall, of when he had presented his fresh young wife with their sparklingly new home, all paid for, except for the mortgage, that is, and she had rushed him into the empty bedroom, forced him down onto the bare oak, wooden, floor; wrestled his cock out of his pants, and blew him hard - it was as if he was really there again, and as if she really loved him - again. He shot just another last load, surprisingly high up into the air, which startled the German Sheppard.

The mutt left him, and he huffed, in sympathy, as he watched Fido's brown-eye retreat into the distance, and disappears in a puckered singularity, somewhere at the end of the alley.

By the time the German Sheppard had caught up with the pack, they had torn Mary's panties to shreds, and devoured the indigestible remnants. The Aryan canine left the pack with a mixture of dismay, and disgust - but not with regret, and turned a corner - tongue hanging out - in short order. It was a hot day.

Chapter 51.

Jack walked around at work and in public with his hands in his pockets these days, shrugging his hunched shoulders at every question posed, with a - don't care, don't know - who gives a monkey's - attitude about him. It was a new way of exhibiting leadership he told his crew, when pressed for an explanation. He added that he had read an article on the subject in one of his wife's magazines, whilst taking a long Sunday-dump, and that the core tenet had resoundingly struck a chord in him: A chord of... long, uncut, toe-nails; bad, cheap, haircuts, smelly socks, with 'spuds' in them - especially at the big-toe; a chord of festering, moldy, complacency. A dry rot, that Jack felt, was creeping - ever so...invasively, into the very timbers of his ill-built soul. Catastrophic structure failure was on the books. The only question was, whether he could die, before the shit-storm hit? ...Die naturally. Die in his sleep, or maybe - possibly - die shagging, painlessly - just after he shot his last load, and then go straight to Heaven, where he would - without interruption, start fucking the angels, but this time - in Heaven, his cock would be a full two foot in length, with a head on it bigger than an orangutan's.