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Jack & Marci

By: DreamAngel44



Jack had a really shitty day. It was Friday. Should have been a pretty smooth one too as Fridays would go. He was running late because his alarm clock failed. It was raining. On the way to work, he blew a tire and had to change it in the rain. He had called for road-side assistance, but with the weather, it would have taken almost two hours for someone to get there. He was soaked. He thought things would get better since his dry cleaner was next to the office. He could pick up a dry suit and shirt there. 

When Jack arrived at the office, and hour late, he changed quickly and realized that he was 30 minutes late for a meeting. The client on the conference call was angry and belligerent, and his boss glared at him over his reading glasses. When the meeting was finally over and it was lunch time, he tried to call Marci. She had been out of town for the past couple of days, and was to be home that evening. He wanted to call her and see if they could get together for drinks. Her cell was turned off. He tried her at home, and got no answer. As a final resort, he tried her office number. No luck. He figured he would try after lunch.

Sally, the admin, was ordering out, and asked him if he wanted anything. A sandwich and a salad, he called out to her. His emails appeared to be heavy enough that stepping out of the office for a bite would be out of the question. The first two calls he made to follow up went smoothly. He was on the third one. The figures that Clark had sent, to help Jack out, had apparently been inaccurate, and Mr. Parker was irate on the other end of the phone. It looked like his afternoon wasn't going to be any better.

4:30 already and the rain didn't look like it was going to stop. He hadn't had a chance to try Marci again; maybe he would have better luck. He tried her home number first, to no avail, and then the office. Went to voicemail. Last but not least, he tried her cell again. Voicemail as well. This time he left a message. " Hey, it's Jack. Sorry I missed you. Had a hellish day, and was wondering if you would be back in town and would like to have a few drinks tonight. Call me back on my cell, baby." Shit! He wanted the day to end!

6:00. He was one of the last to leave the office. He felt as though he had enough control over the problems, that everyone would be comfortable to resume on Monday. He shut down his computer and headed out. Traffic was horrible. The rain had caused enough problems to make the normal Friday night gridlock a nightmare. He thought about stopping for a drink anyway, since he hadn't heard back from Marci, but he figured with the luck he was having today, he would probably get pulled over on the way home. 

He didn't think he had ever been so glad to pull into the parking garage. He was hungry, tired, and had a raging headache. He turned his key in the lock and opened the door. As he closed the door behind him, he noticed music playing. Smooth Jazz. He took a quick glance around at the living room, and there were lit candles on the coffee table, and a fire in the fireplace. To top it off, he could smell food...delicious food from the smell of it. He walked around the corner to the kitchen and there was Marci. She turned around and noticed him. "HI SUGAR!" She exclaimed. She was wearing one of Jack's white shirts. That, and not much else. Through the thin fabric, he could see a hint of white lace. The top few buttons were undone, so he could get a glimpse of her luscious cleavage peeking at him. Her olive skin made a glowy contrast to the crisp white shirt. Her shapely legs and feet especially. She walked over to him, and he smiled a little. Her amber eyes twinkling, she put her hands on his chest and slid them up to his neck. She got close and wrapped her arms around him. With one hand on his shoulder blade, and the other on the back of his head, she pulled him in close for a hug. Jack buried his nose in Marci's neck and breathed in her scent. GOD he loved how she smelled. Marci had a scent all her own. The only way Jack could describe it would be Marci smelled like Marci. Clean, fresh, slightly musky, slightly sweet. A distinct smell, which only one that had experienced it could describe. Not unlike one would describe a fresh spring rain, or cookies fresh from the oven. "MMMMMM" she moaned softly and looked into his eyes. Jack's hand slid under the tail of the shirt to touch Marci's creamy, plump ass. Her smooth skin met by the softness of the delicate lace of her panties, and he squeezed, gently. Her skin there, was tasty too, he knew that from experience. When Marci's lips brushed Jack's, softly, tenderly, it was he who moaned. Her sweet lips tasted and brushed against his, followed by the tip of her warm tongue. Jack was starting to forget about the bad day. "What's all this anyway, baby?" He asked. "I got in late last night. I took an earlier flight because a couple of meetings were cancelled. I wanted to surprise you," she said with a grin. "And you cooked, too?" he asked. "Yes," she said, "Now go get changed while I finish up the lamb chops". Wow! Lamb chops! His favorite.

A couple of minutes later, Jack came out of the bedroom wearing a t-shirt and drawstring sweatpants. The table was set beautifully, and long tapers glowed in the center. A bottle of wine was chilling as well. "Go ahead and open the wine," Marci called from the kitchen," I'm bringing in the plates right now." Marci set down two plates for them on the table. Lamb chops, done just perfectly, and whipped potatoes. Steamed asparagus finished off the plate. The food smelled absolutely amazing. Jack noticed a small basket with fresh bread as well. "Pour us a glass of wine will you darling?" purred Marci.

Dinner was undeniably one of the best that Jack had ever eaten. He had no idea Marci was such a good cook. They had been seeing one another for a couple of months, and when they had gotten together, it was usually for dinner or take out. As they placed their forks down on the now empty plates, "Delicious! Thanks baby!" he said with a sigh. "Take the glasses into the living room while I clear this," Marci said with her smooth gentle voice. Jack did, as Marci gathered the dinner plates and scurried them off to the kitchen. Jack heard the sink running and the plates being set in the dishwasher as he settled in the big overstuffed chair in the living room. He looked around a bit. Apparently Marci had cleaned up a bit today too.

Soft music still filtered from the stereo, and the room was glowing from the fire and the candles flickering. Marci walked in and settled on her knees, in front of Jack. Jack leaned back in the chair and gazed at her eyes. They absolutely glowed. The soft flicker of the candles and the warmth of both Marci and the fire intoxicated Jack. She placed her hands on his t shirt, and lifted it up to reveal his belly. Her long manicured fingers, raked gently through his soft hair, and she bent down to rub her soft cheek against it. She nuzzled his belly, laying soft kisses where her fingers had traced, moments before. His cock sprang to attention, and she rubbed her cheek, and then her mouth, over the hardness. Jack placed his fingers in her soft dark hair, and she raked her nails up his thighs. He could feel her hot breath through his pants, and his cock throbbed. He ached for her. He sat upright and so did Marci. She had to tilt her head slightly to meet his gaze; a gaze that told her instantly that he was still hungry, but not for food.

Jack's fingers traced her jaw, and paused to lift and hold her chin. When his lips met hers, softly at first, and then deeper, Marci arched her back forward, to press her body against his. She was sooo warm. His lips parted hers slightly and she pressed her hot wet tongue into his mouth, coaxing it. When he slid his into hers, she sucked, ever so slightly. His fingers reached between them, to unbutton the white shirt. He did so without pulling away from the kiss. He didn't think he could bear that. When he did finally break away, he pulled away the shirt, revealing Marci's round creamy breasts. The soft lace lay atop the smooth mounds. Her nipples were straining against the satiny fabric of the cup. He cupped her breasts with both hands and rubbed his thumbs over the straining buds. Marci laid her head back and groaned/sighed. Jack kissed her throat, collarbone, and then ran his tongue down her chest, between her succulent mounds, and nipped with his teeth. Marci wrapped her long fingers in his hair; enjoying the warmth of his body, the heat of his breath, and his tongue on her tingling flesh.

Marci pulled Jack's t shirt over his head and pushed him back on the chair. Her hands rubbed his pecs and belly. Again she turned her attention to the hard throbbing flesh under his pants. She untied the drawstring while looking directly into his eyes. She didn't even blink. At that moment, Jack felt he knew what it was like to stare into the eyes of a lioness, and a hungry one at that. Marci pulled away at the waist of the pants, revealing his hard swollen cock, standing at attention. She purred as she rubbed her cheek against his thighs. First one, and then the other, starting at his knees, working towards his crotch. Jack dug his fingers behind his head, into the back of the chair, and slid down slightly, towards Marci. The heat of her breath and the softness of her cheek made him shiver. As she neared his crotch, she looked up at him and grinned, enjoying the look of helplessness on his face. She knew the more aroused she made him, the more he would devour her. Funny, but he was thinking the same thing. He wanted to devour her; every inch of her delicious warm flesh. 

She pulled off the white shirt and tossed it aside. Jack loved the way Marci's soft hair brushed her smooth shoulders, its soft layers framing her face perfectly. She leaned forward and kissed him again, trying to satisfy her taste for him with his lips and tongue. Her attention was prompted to sample his chest. His warm male scent filling her senses, and making her want more. She nipped playfully at his nipples, capturing them between her teeth and teasing them with her tongue. His heart pounding beneath her lips and the throbbing of both his hard cock and her own aching pussy, urged her to go further. She coaxed him gently, silently, to lift his hips so she could slide his pants off completely. She tossed them aside, next to the shirt. She settled herself between his legs and traced kisses/nips along the inside of his thighs. When she reached the part of him where his thighs met his body, she pressed her lips and nose against his flesh, and took a deep breath. He smelled so wonderful. Hot, fresh, clean, and musky. The way a woman dreams her lover would smell. Her tongue replaced her lips, as she closed her mouth on his flesh and sucked gently. Against her cheek, she could feel his balls tighten.

Marci wrapped her hand around Jack's throbbing cock and squeezed gently. She ran her thumb up the underside, stopping at the tip to swirl slightly. He throbbed under her touch, her own thighs tingling. Her thumb rubbed the cleft, slippery from the dew-like drop that gathered there. Jack spread his legs a little wider. Marci slid her hand a little lower and cupped his balls. Her palm held the warm pouch captive while her fingers wrapped around the base of his cock. Her head dipped a little lower and her tongue found its favorite spot; his perineum. That hot tasty spot under his balls was her favorite spot to taste him. The strong pulsing she felt under her lips was reaction enough. Her tongue traced a line from almost to his ass, up towards his balls, the flat of her hot tongue swirling, teasing. When she reached his balls, she ran her tongue along the seam, and sucked each one, in turn, ever so gently. The groan that erupted from Jack's chest fueled Marci's desire all the more. Her hot tongue traced the underside of his hot shaft, lips gently tasting, teasing. Once she reached the tip, the underside of her tongue flicking the cleft, quickly and strongly. She swirled around the tip with her tongue a few times, and then wrapped her lips around it. She closed her hands, both of them, around his balls and the base of his cock, holding it a steady captive for her ravenous mouth. She slid her mouth down his shaft, tightly, slowly. When she took him in, as far as she could, she paused for a moment, and then slid back to the tip. She continued with this rhythm, while gripping him tightly, up...down.... each time, a little faster. He was in so much pleasure; he could barely keep from crying out. He sucked in his breath with every down stroke; groaning and sighing with every up one. 

Jack didn't want to cum. Not yet. He wanted to have Marci. He wanted to own her, make her his, and his alone. He forced himself to stop her, and lifted her chin. He looked into her eyes and smiled, "let's take this to the bedroom," he said softly. He took her hand and led her to his room. When they got inside the door, Jack stopped Marci and turned her to face him. He pressed her against the wall, and she wrapped her leg around his waist, thrusting her hips toward his still hard cock. His fingers traced the crack of her ass; her hot throbbing flesh all but searing them. When his middle finger pressed against her hot lips and paused, he could feel her heat, throbbing against it. That, and her panties were soaked. Jack lifted her and carried her to the bed. He shoved her onto her back, and she fell into the softness of the bed. Jack ran his hands over Marci's smooth thighs. He lifted her right leg, to rest on his shoulder. His hand gently massaging her ankle, kissing her, ankle to calve, just as she had done to him. He licked the back of her knee, and a whimper escaped her. He loved it when she whimpered. 

The time was gone for any slow teasing, or for any gentleness. Marci wouldn't have had it any other way. Jack yanked her panties off her hips and down her legs. His hands sliding down to her thighs, and pressed them apart. Marci's fingers dug into the comforter, her head thrown back, chest heaving with each rapid breath she took. Jack dipped his head down between her thighs. He nudged her mound lightly with his nose. His fingers gripped her upper, inner thigh, and he thrust his tongue between her lips. His tongue found his hot, wet target. Her salty, sweet wetness like honey. He buried his masterful tongue into the softness and began to stroke her hot little bud. Faster and faster, harder and harder, he could feel her body twitching with each stroke; under his fingers. Marci was full out moaning now. She was very close. His tongue was unrelentless to her swollen lips and bud, and she reached the peak and started to soar.

Marci's head was thrown back and her back began to arch. Her body became rigid, and for a second, Jack almost thought she would lift off the bed. She growled deep in her throat and cried out to him. "OHHH GOOODDD JAACKKKKK." 

When her spasms started to subside, Jack slowed down. Breathlessly, Marci sat up slightly and reached for Jack's pulsing cock. "Fuck me Jack, make me your bitch...." She growled at him hungrily. Jack grabbed her leg and pulled, to force her onto all fours. He spread her legs wide and knelt between them. Marci lifted her ass like an animal in heat. Jack held his cock, and rubbed it along the crack of her soaked ass, teasing her hot little asshole. "PLEASSSSSEE fuck me baby.........please make me take all your loadddddd," she taunted. Jack pressed the head of his cock against her throbbing tight pussy, just at the opening. Marci pressed back, in order to take him inside her. Jack grabbed her hips, and pressed forward. Marci cried out again, as his long, thick cock penetrated her, deeply. Jack started to thrust. Slowly and smoothly at first, then a little faster. The more he thrust, the more Marci pressed back to meet his hips. Soon the fast and hard rhythm set in; like a strong powerful piston; reaction to reaction. Marci was crying out again...this time coaxing Jack. " Give it to me Jack, make me take it all..... make me be a good little bitch..." God! Her pussy was SOOOO tight. Sucking and pulsing wetness. Just like her hot tongue was a short time ago. Jack could feel it rising up his legs; his loins...he was going to cum. "OHH JESUSS YES!!!!!!" was all he could get out before the spasms took him. Marci kept pounding onto his pulsing, cumming cock, until his body started to go limp. 

He rested his body gently on Marci's back, as they both lay panting. He kissed the back of her neck, and she purred. They both lay silently for a few moments, listening to the rain pelt the windows. Perhaps it hadn't been such a bad day after all; Jack thought to himself....It was turning out to be a great night....

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. 




Jack and Mary Nobbled Pt. 01



Feeling almost alone though, in the darkness of their marital lair, Samantha explored her husband's dirt-hole in the same bed that their son Jack was conceived, and birthed in.

She fingered his event-horizon, in the same sack that the Guatemalan gardener licked her cunt out until she screamed with pleasure last summer, whilst Reginald was out, hard at work, one balmy and sultry afternoon; she recalled. Samantha always gets horny in hot sultry weather. Unfortunately Samantha had to have the magnificent brute put down in the end: Fired: Unceremoniously! For a bevy of trivial and trumped-up infractions and grotesquely exaggerated minor violations of Rules, regulations and - last but not least - back-garden protocol:- The brute was ended.

Rules: Rules such as that of shoving leaves and twigs and similarly aromatic severed lawn cuttings into the wrong, otherwise plainly marked trash-cans - scripted in English, mind you. Not to mention taking impromptu shits behind the Joshua tree in the corner of the back yard, plus urinating into the swimming pool whilst standing at the very edge of the diving board, attempting to sing a song of Mariachi derivation whilst chomping greedily into a bulging chorizo burrito. I mean, where did he think he was - at home? Samantha wondered.

There were a couple of other professional violations too. Like his rather annoying predilection for cutting holes in Samantha's melons and pumpkins growing luxuriously in her precious garden patch, and fucking them hard until his balls rose up into him and he filled her fruit with every last droplet of his thick, bubbling, cum. He never forgot to replace the fruity plug when he was finished though - Samantha gave him that - it kept the flies out.

When he would leave for the day Samantha would go into the garden with a long straw and a spade, and, taking the fruit plugs out of the melons and pumpkins, she would insert her straw and greedily suck his fruit tinged cum out of the belly of the plant: Remembering, when her gut was full, to replace the plugs of fruit again - in case of bugs, but mainly so that the semen parfait would be replenished by the south-of-the-border green-thumb during his next scheduled gardening gig there.

Samantha buried the gardener's stink-log before she left the patch. It weighed around three pounds and she had trouble getting it all on the spade's blade at one time. Once Samantha had dug the grave, and slid the chocolate leviathan into it, she straddled the trench, hiked up her skirt, pulled the gusset of her knickers over to one side, and dropped a sizable log of her own into the hole - just to keep the gardener's turd company during the long cold dark nights of winter coming.

Before back-filling the make-shift cesspit, Samantha sprinkled a handful of potato-eyes, and other sundry root-vegetable seeds over the steaming bodies, then back filled with her hands and feet like a cat or a dog, following their obligatory walkies a'poo-poo: Samantha, pissing wildly like a racehorse at each and every strata of soil covering, rotating her pelvic region evenly as she straddled the excavation, and as the powerful torrent of amber colored fluid, thundered out of her urethra, the flow being partly occluded by her vaginal wings, causing a fan-like spray to emanate from under her, bathing the entire length and breadth of the trench evenly; she resembled one of those watering trucks one sees on building sites that drive around, endlessly, in circles spraying non-potable water out of its rear end, to keep the dust down while earth work is carried out. Samantha thought her seedlings deserved the very best chance to germinate, and so she gave them their first loving watering. Reginald, her husband loved all varieties of root vegetable, and Samantha would see to it, upon harvest day, that he got double helpings from the grave. 

Later on in that year, when Samantha had learned a little Spanish, and had gotten more familiar with the gardener, she took to feeding directly from the balls of the gardener by slurping the cum, first-hand, straight out of his spurting purple helmet's red-ringed eye, which he rammed, wantonly, deep into Samantha's ever open throat. 

The gardener's wife was beginning to complain though, at the lack of semen left in her husband's knackers for her to have babies with of a night. Basically, between Samantha and his baby-happy wife he was being sucked dry from the cock. Why, at the end of the week he didn't even have enough strength left to pull the cork out of his half empty bottle of Mescal, but his wife could do it easily with nothing more than the sphincter muscles of her ass alone - it was one of her party tricks that she did regularly at weddings, funerals and Christenings before she got married, that is, and became - respectable.

Why, it was her ass-hole, she felt, that her husband - the gardener - first fell in love with, and he recalled with fond memories the first time her fucked his wife - then his girlfriend - in the ass on their very first date, and how she masturbated his shaft without the slightest movement of her hips, but simply by alternately constricting, then relaxing, her powerful sphincter muscles around the shaft of his turgid cock, until finally he came, screaming with pleasure, up her dirt chute, and filled her stink-hole so full of his jizz that when he pulled out of her she had to bolt for the open bedroom window, bend over, stick her ass out over the sill, and just let it fly out of her ring and into the night. The gardener remembered vividly the roar of laughter that erupted from the wedding guests downstairs in the back yard as her ass opened wide, and a machine-gun thunder-clap erupted from her red and purple garbage-hole, followed closely by a deluge of cum and liquefied shit. Several party goers got hit, and it caused a big stink in the end.

It was becoming a Woman's world, thought the exhausted gardener, now slouched down in his T.V. seat on the small two-seater floral settee, watching a badly lip-synced rerun of "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly", and wondering in his overworked, Mescal-induced hallucinatory stupor why the Mexican always ended up being the bad guy, and getting killed in the end?

In the meantime, his wife had slipped a baby's rubber teat over the neck of his Mescal bottle, and propped it up with a folded towel under his chin and over his shoulder. She kept the bottle from skidding off and falling out of his mouth by taking off her panties, and inserting his arm through one of the leg-holes, and pulling them up so that the knickers' elastic held the bottle fast to him, being that he was now too smashed to hold the bottle for himself, and she didn't want him to spill the booze on the plastic coverings of her favorite couch again.

Her panties were still warm from her ass, and they had gotten turned inside out as she installed them on her husband's Mescal-arm. They were relatively fresh. She had only worn them for three, or four days this time.

The bloomers had several large brown skid-marks that ran in parallel tracks from the end of the gusset toward the back end where her bung-hole lived, and there was a large sticky beige one right in the middle of the cunt-hammock area where her clout slept: She was constantly pussy-flossed herself during high humidity days- always trying to get to that itch somewhere up in there. That's why it's easier to get laid in hot humid regions of the world, than in dry cold ones - the crack is always itching them in the tropics, and the women want to find someone to give it a real good scratching - usually from the inside.

The gardener's wife, in an almost altruistic, but ultimately self-serving act of thoughtfulness, rearranged her panties so that the gooey gusset and her bung-hole skid-marks rested directly under her husband's flared triangular southern-continental nostrils. His pheromone intake was off the scale.

The gardener's body shuddered, and he made a groaning, gargling, sound; his drunken head wobbling around his shiny, shirtless, sun-browned shoulders much like that of a convicted killer going down for the third time, shrouded in the white billowing plumes of cyanide gas in the strapped chair of his final chamber.

The gardener's wife looked at the dark wet stain becoming apparent through the fabric of his trousers - just to the left-hand side of his fly zipper.

The curious spouse reached down, and felt the thick wide, but rather short, stump fighting to get out from the prison of his crotch. She opened the zipper and reached in. It was a mess in there, and she wrestled the stiff rod out from his fly. The gardener shot a couple of loads of splurge up the inside of her arm, and one huge load high up into the air, which she adroitly caught with her gulping mouth at the very apogee its trajectory, when it was perfectly motionless, just before gravity itself, drew it back to earth. She knelt down and bent over his crotch, between his quivering, open, legs, and opened her mouth wide.

As she descended upon him, to engulf his member with her hot, wet, velvety smooth orifice, her long serpent-like tongue flashing wildly at his squirting glands, two rapid-fire loads of goo left the gardener's cock at high velocity. One went up his wife's right-hand nostril causing her to sneeze violently; the other hit her squarely in the left eye, momentarily blinding her. 

Once she got her husband's rod inside her cranium, she did the pigeon-skull walk on him - head bobbing in and out like Chuck Berry in a hurry - rolling her red-hot tongue around his knob-end relentlessly. 

The gardener's cock-throw hit her several times in the tonsils, and one dead-center bull's-eye in the uvula. His wife was swallowing profusely, but being unable to keep up with incoming loads, she decided to ram her head deep over his weeping cock, just enough to get the head of her husband's cock into her esophagus. 

Once there all she had to do was to squeeze the head of her husband's cock with her throat muscles, hold her breath, and let him empty his balls directly into her ever-ready, hungry belly.

When she felt he was empty, she reversed her cranium and brought his cock-head back into her mouth. She sucked him hard to make sure he was all done, and as she suspected, he had another three or four loads left in him. He filled her mouth to bursting point, and then collapsed sucking his Mescal furiously through his rubber teat.

The gardener's wife's struggle to swallow all of her husband's cum was nothing less than an act of sheer courageousness in the raw and she made it with flying colors and only a few incidences of gagging. There would be no dinner for her tonight, she thought as she got to her feet burping, and rubbing her satiated, wobbling, bursting gut.

As she left, to render a pound or two of lard in the kitchen for the re-fried beans that she had planned for the family dinner that night, she gently brushed the gardener's hair back out of his eyes, and bent over to kiss him on the neck-tattoo - it was a picture of a bull taking a piss on a downed matador - and to whisper in his ear, that she was pregnant, once again. The gardener farted upon hearing the news.

The banged-up wife left for the kitchen, returning minutes later with a cold poultice in hand, which she lovingly wrapped around the swollen bell-end of his skinned cock. She felt she might want to use the cock later that night. Her ass had been itching her something terrible, all day long.

"Yes, honey. You're going to be a daddy again." She said sardonically, as she wrapped his cock in the medicinal bread-blanket.

The gardener's wife then abruptly pirouetted on the spot directly in front of his intoxicated, satiated, slumped form, bent over, threw her cheap mini skirt up her back and caught hold of her enormous buttocks with both hands and pulled them completely apart, until they were mostly wrapped all the way around her to such an extent that they actually touched each other at the belly button. This action caused her bung-hole to swell outward, and open in the middle, with a raised rim of puckered blue/brown skin topped by a halo of course black hair sticking up vertically from the magenta and purple veined caldera that boiled at its center.

From the gardener's vantage point, it looked a lot like an extremely blood-shot eye staring at him - and it seemed to be winking, as his wife squeezed and released her sphincter muscles. Then, through the haze of Mescal induced blurred vision, just before the moment of realization of what was actually happening, his wife turned her head around, looked him squarely in the eye, opened her ass-hole wide, and said,

"I think you ought to use this hole from now on honey. What do you think?"

The gardener threw up through the rubber teat and into the Mescal bottle, as he slowly nodded an affirmative voiceless, signaled, reply.

In the meantime, a massive turd had slid about two thirds of the way out of his wife's ass, unbeknownst to her - until she saw its reflection in her husband's almost empty Mescal bottle, that is.

She was lucky. The slithering log that had clandestinely attempted a broad daylight escape from the solitary confinement of her rot-hole, had not yet passed the widest diameter of its trunk, and so, the taper was such that when she slammed her ass shut, the steaming protuberance was sucked back into her stink hole, lickety-split. Half an inch more, and the husband would have been smoking a rather large Cuban cigar, thought his devoted wife.

Meanwhile, back at Samantha's place, in reminiscence; she was always amazed, whilst watching from her bedroom window, at how steam could actually be seen billowing out of her gardener's mud-trout in 80 degree weather, and the very moment the earthy-torpedo slithered out of his ass and hit the ground with a dead thud, not even one single fly would venture within a foot of it - not until the load had cooled down somewhat, it seemed.

In the final analysis: When all was said and done though, at the end of the day; this man - Samantha's gardener - was innocent of all charges - except for pissing in the pool, dropping his guts in the garden and fucking the fruit. Nevertheless, this troubadour of the hedgerows, this comanchero of potted plants, this bad breathed, gold toothed, hook-nosed, out-of-tune singing lawn mower was - summarily - fired for minor infractions, when all along, Samantha knew that the real reason was that she was putting on way too much weight from swallowing that bronze skinned, Aztec God's cum three times a week: His balls held a lot of guacamole, noted Samantha, and his ass-hole sniffed of beans and freshly chopped cilantro - she lamented.

Chapter 5.

Samantha rode the cold-crème laden tip of her index finger ever-so-gently around the elliptical perimeter of her husband's effluence orifice. It was elongated and moderately swollen. 

Samantha slipped an oily talon into the epicenter of his black hole. There was no resistance, and she went slowly, but knuckle deep. She tried a second, then a third finger, and he just kept opening up to accommodate her, until she had her entire hand up him to the wrist. William must have a huge cock she thought to herself.

Samantha reached around with her other hand and felt for Reginald's cock. It was small, as usual, and semi-soft. Not flaccid, yet not hard: The consistency which most women properly prefer.

There were no fishing trips, Samantha knew that. She simply had to come to the realization that for certain times out of the year, her husband, and his school chum William would play man and wife in the middle of nowhere, and fuck and suck each other's balls dry, and when it was over, Samantha would get a bucket of fish. 

Samantha almost giggled to think that this was Reginald's only indiscretion - his only secret. Why, she had been fucked by all of their gardeners, most of the neighbor's husbands, and been licked-out by half of the street's husband's wives. Samantha always felt a sweet irony in fucking a neighbor's husband one day, and seducing his wife the very next. She luxuriated in the knowing that while he was at work bragging of his conquest over her to a confident around the water cooler, she was clawing at the head of his wife which she had rammed securely between her open legs - the willing wife's hot slippery tongue lapping furiously at her pouting hole and rock hard clitoris - drinking her own husband's day-old infidelity from the naughty crack of his fancy-woman, and as she came in the face of the adulterer's love, she would open up her ass-hole, and rotate her ample buttocks, just enough to get that frenetic flashing tongue to bathe her vulnerable bung-hole. This was how Samantha preferred to cum, and she had gotten quite adept at getting what she wanted over the years. She didn't even ask these days - she just did it.

It was like being the Robin Hood with his band of Merry Men. Stealing cum from rich and giving it to the poor. Why, it's almost pure altruism, thought Samantha, except she demanded her orgasm: Hey, there are no free lunches, felt Samantha.

Whilst Samantha was up her husband's ass, she noticed that the more of her arm she slid into his hole, the harder his dick got. Eventually she was almost in him up to her elbow. Up there she felt the tapered end of a huge turd sitting there in dry dock, waiting for his morning coffee to kick-in; to be launched down the causeway of his ass and into the great big blue of the porcelain sea. She left it alone and pulled her arm back out of his lower colon until his ring tightly grasped her around the wrist, taking her pulse as it were.

At the bottom, Samantha was still a woman, and like all women, jealousy prevails. Yes, Reginald was fucking, and getting fucked, by William, but on a, 'good for the goose, good for the gander', version of Cricket, Samantha was fucking half the neighborhood too. 

Samantha - fighting with all of her powers against the juxtaposition of fair play, and outright scorn that boiled within her - brought her claws to rest, hovering, malevolently over Reginald's semi-erect prostate. She lingered there and pondered what to do. Sometimes she tickled it and sometimes she caressed it and sometimes she stuck it viciously, now and then, with a daggered fingernail out of spite and envy; served liberally with chilled magnums of pithy instances of unadulterated vitriol - decanted, of course, before consumption. Samantha wanted to suck her own breasts, and bite her own nipples to comfort herself, but her hands were full in the potential castration of her husband. The jury was still out.

Samantha had her loving husband at a major disadvantage.

Up his ass, Samantha had her razor-sharp finger-mounted scalpels - all five of them - poised with pregnant malintent cloistered around his almond-shaped gland - that in her mind controlled the cock of him. Reginald was sleeping fast and Samantha realized that within less than a second she could rip the prostate out of his adulterous hole, once and for all and throw it - righteously - into his face, and no one on this God's good earth would blame her for it; under the - superficial - circumstances. 

Samantha could do, what all women have hoped and prayed and strived to do - throughout millennia! Tonight, Samantha struggled with the age old question: Shall she rip this bastard's prostate gland out of his cock-prodded ass-hole, and chuck it, vindictively, into his male, Neanderthal, face! For, the men are Neanderthal, and 'Woman' is of the Higher Order - the Order of Homeo Sapien. Or, should she swallow it again, and just go shopping tomorrow and bust his credit card to pieces. This is the question! Samantha was conflicted, and perplexed.

Chapter 6.

A fictitious bondage, and vicious circle, of bearing children, watching mind-numbing afternoon soap-operas, packing their increasingly developing grotesque over-weight faces with dripping hamburgers, ice cream and chocolate, and more importantly, ruining their cunts, midriff and asses by forcing out six to nine pounds of infant meat, out of a hole that ought to feel tight to the finger alone! It's simply not fair to "Man" as a species.




Jack and Mary Nobbled Pt. 01



Women have 'The Hole', but they need to be more responsible with it, and look after it. They need to keep it tight for "Man", or there is going to be a whole load of ass-fucking going on. If the tightest hole you got on your body is your ass-hole, then men will aim to use it: So forget the white lace frilly panties, an' that shit! You're gonna' have skid-marks longer than the Daytona 500 racetrack on a hot, slimy, rubber-covered concrete practice day when the cock has gotten done with your holes. Remember, everyone pisses in the bathtub at least once in their life, thought Reginald's alter ego in his sleep.

Samantha's honed nails menacingly encircled Reginald's prostate again and again, as she alternately, both, condemned him, and left him off the hook - time and time again. She so wanted to make him into her eunuch, but then again her mother had turned her father into one through years and years of accusation, and finger-pointing, at how useless he was, and how ineffective he was. In the end, he could hardly wipe his ass properly, let alone dig the garden, and it ultimately fell to Samantha to make up the bias.

When she, defiantly, turned 18 - on her birthday night, she went into her daddy's place - him and his wife sporting separate bedrooms, for years now, due to his spouses crippling snoring of a night: A sound equivalent to a brigade of lawn-mowers being run at the same time with little oil in the 2-stroke mix.

Samantha snuggled at first, and then she fucked the shit out of him. She sucked his cock, and fingered his hole - she learned all of this at Sunday school meetings, around the back of the gym. She never knew where her hymen went though. She wanted to save it for posterity. To hand down to her virgin off-spring - and she swallowed pints of his cum during that year - and he bought her a car, and, and, and every fucking thing she ever wanted - and the mother was furious, but couldn't quite put her finger on the crux of the change in the two of them, but she could never put on it - ever - not even on her own clitoris, justified Samantha! But, it was her daddy, and besides, her daddy had a huge cock, and Samantha loved getting fucked. She just put it down to a win, win, loose, situation - with the mother on the losing ticket. Daddy loved his chickadee - especially when she turned 18.

Chapter 7.

Samantha was grinding her teeth by now, and her nipples and clitoris were erect. She was ready to castrate this bastard, once and for all! How could he get sexual pleasure out of being fucked in the ass or sucking cock and swallowing cum? That was her job. What was happening to the world? Reginald could fuck Samantha in the dirt-hole if he wanted to, and she would suck his balls dry - and swallow - seven days a week, 365. So why go shopping elsewhere. A tear rolled down her cheeks, and she farted like a goose on laxatives. 

Samantha was so upset that the enamel off her two front false teeth was splintering, and she was breathing so hard that a singular crusty sharp snot flew out of one of her nostrils and stung the back of her hand. She flinched and Reginald stirred in sympathy. Samantha located it as if she had infra-red vision, and with a certain degree of malice, she plucked it from the back of he hand where the projectile had landed, and raised herself up out of the bed, just enough to feed it to her husband. He gnawed on her crusty snot, and she listened in the silence, and looked for dangleberries between her ass cheeks, as a compliment entrée to the nasal hors d'oeuvre. She found many, but fed him only some. She selfishly yearned toward the keeping of a few of them for herself.

Chapter 8. 

Instead of turning her husband into a eunuch, she decided - on the spot - to tickle and tantalize his prostate with her pointiest and sharpest nail. Samantha could feel his body quaking and quivering, as she made him cum in his sleep, in the bed, for hours, and hour on end. 

As dawn broke, she was still at it. Tickling and wanking - Tickling and wanking. By now her husband had shot every iota of cum out of his balls, and was now dry-coming. His bell-end was raw, and bleeding where Samantha's wedding ring had worn the skin down, and into; to the capillaries themselves. The bed sheets were soaked about his groin, and yet he had slept through an entire night of multiple, enforced, orgasmic stimulation. Samantha hadn't slept a wink, and she would need new teeth shortly. 

As the crow croaked, and the dim light of the day arose, Samantha reached up into Reginald's bowel, once again, and grabbed that static turd that she had avoided earlier on, and slowly pulled it out of her husband's inner gut, until a fair wad of its length was hanging out of the sphincter- controlled hole of him. He was teetering on shitting the bed.

Samantha didn't want the load of shit from Reginald in the bed at all, so she left his bleeding cock-helmet with her lubricated wedding-ring punisher, and slapped Reginald firmly on the butt. Almost instantly he bounced out of the bed muttering,

"Turtle-head. Turtle-Head."

When he came back, Samantha made him fuck her in the ass, with his sore cock, and she fell to sleep smirking.

(To be continued).



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.




Jack and Mary Nobbled Pt. 02



Chapter 18.

On the contrary: Mary worked every day. Other than that, the only tangible difference, between her and a twenty year old counterpart, was that Mary had a clout the size of a Clydesdale horse- collar following birthing, whereas the twenty year old's vulva was tighter than Dick's Hatband, not to mention that her tits sagged down around her midriff nowadays, whereas - annoyingly - the twenty-year-old's rack seemed to defy gravity itself - nipples at 11 O' clock high! Take cover...!

If only Mary had gotten the cesarean like Jack told her to - think of all the power, over men, she would have at her fingertips right now. Why, she would have a different one - or two - hanging around, decked-out in crisp, white linen Greek leotards, massaging her feet, and buttocks whenever she wanted, and she would insist that they remain always at the ready to lick her ass clean following an impromptu shit, or lap up residual love juice and sperm from her open-legged vaginal lips after she had ordered one of them to fuck her. These schema of power and glory over men dominated Mary's dreams of a night, and were mainly responsible for the rather odd somnambulist events where she would unconsciously rise from the bed, and rub her open-legged cunt, and pouting asshole, over Jack's face until she came and pissed on his head - all done with zero recall on her part, in the morning. Jack quite liked it.

With the power of a young pussy Mary would have surrounded herself with a troupe of gigolos, pretty pretty boys and groveling lap-dogs. She would have seen to it that they would fight and quarrel with each other - at her amusement - to lick her quim and ass-hole out; whilst others, lesser in favor, would have to be content with sucking her toes and drinking her piss, when, on occasion, she was just too engrossed in her soap-opera to make it off her throne, and go to the bathroom herself. Why should she, when her surf could go for her, and she imagined pissing into their drowning faces - into their gulping mouths - like a wild racehorse - whilst all the time, slowly devouring soft-centered strawberry frappe' chocolates, one after the other, and never, ever, flinching - never once -from the goings-on on her telly.

Chapter 19. 

During exceptionally lazy, languid, days Mary would order a batch of her concubinus - all naked, except for the tassels and sleigh bells tied around their scrotum; she didn't want her entourage wasting their sexual energy beating off, or buggering each other when her back was turned. Any bell-ringing or scrotum-swinging in Mary's chanticleer clique was, strictly, to be done by her, and only between her elevated, legs-akimbo.

A brace of surf would be directed to lift her gams, gently, by the ankles high above her shoulders, whilst a further duo pulled the remainder of her buttocks apart, exposing her reddish brown, hair-encircled - bulging - puckered coal-chute. A fifth would be ordered to cup his hands under Mary's kaleidoscopic garbage-hole, and wait patiently for a delivery. Mary, whilst nibbling at seedless grapes, still on the vine, fed her almost apologetically, by one of her erection-ridden attendants, the sprig of fruit draped luxuriously over the turgid cock-head of the sixth peon - mouth, full to the brim of chewed fruit: Hands wantonly yanking his rock-hard bell-end toward her grape-filled mouth. She...would allow him to fill her oral void, with spurt after spurt, of his tepid seed, tugging, and squeezing his ball-sack, one finger knuckle-deep up his anus, frantically massaging his quivering prostate, eager to drain every last iota of cum out of his shuddering, aching body, and into the suckling vacuum of her bobbing head, and as she swallowed her fruity semen-cocktail, she would open her rot-hole, and give birth to a bouncing, pound and a half, Christmas log - minus the icing, with as much care, as an attendant nurse conveying a premature infant to the oxygen tent. The only difference being that the turd be thrown down the John, and flushed, whereas baby is administered warm milk, wrapped in coddling clothes and urged to keep quiet - for Heaven's sake! The pre-chosen surf, then, allowed an opportunity for advancement, pre-designated to transport her steaming brick to the bathroom with his bare hands, and upon disposal, was mandated to return promptly to the bung-hole for clean-up and licking duty. If he excelled, then advancement to licking her slimy groove was on the books for him. 

Once gobbled clean, Mary would have the remaining five minions, whose balls were still full of cum, to fuck her in every hole of her body; eventually, shooting their loads down her throat, and into her belly, before being tightly tucked into bed, to take a well earned afternoon nap - satiated, fed and burped, she would at last stop complaining...about her lot, and about - everything else in her.

Once asleep; Mary's gigolos tip-toeing out of the bedroom, rushing to the refrigerator, to put their balls and anuses on ice, and consume as much fluids, and protein as quickly as possible, would breathe a breath of relief...but only for a while, for they knew Mary would be hungry when she awoke from her slumber, and they would have considered themselves fortunate, in Mary's world of female sexual power, to still have their testicles hanging limpid now, between their shaved legs, for Mary - on a bad day - had been known to sever a scrotum, with her bare teeth, and swallow the dismembered mountain-oysters whole, and fresh and warm, without as much as a blink of an eye. The agonized eunuch being carried out of chambers, to be stitched-up in the anti-room: Head shaved, and fitted out with orange robe; given a one-way ticket to a Tibetan Monastery, twenty dollars cash monies, a tambourine and summarily kicked out into the street. Mary would have no further use for such a beast, not without his balls now.

As she slept, Mary pondered in her dreams the thought that she would never have to buy toilet tissue ever again, what with all the licking an' all. Why, just think of the savings alone! She felt rich and secure, and as snug as a bug in a rug. She was content.

Chapter 20.

A tear came to Mary's eye, as she sat there in the convent lavatory: a massive ochre colored torpedo slowly sliding out of her itchy hemorrhoid-festooned waste-hole, and as she fingered the toilet door's indented graffiti she thought; see, Sister Theresa had a tight vent, and look, she got to fuck the pope with it! Mary was jealous, and left the stall without wiping, and without flushing - out of pure jealousy and rage filled spite.

As far as Mary was concerned, the nuns could deal with her shit in the pan, and she would cajole Jack, later on that evening, to lick her ass clean. She had pulled it off many times in the past, and Jack wasn't a fussy eater either. He'd eat anything put in front of him, and Mary was going to put her unwiped bung-hole in front of him for supper tonight. Oh! She was livid!

Mary strode out of the convent restroom; her massive cunt, squelching, and slopping around under her as she marched vindictively back into Jack's existence; back into her life, back into his and back into the church, where he sat. Jack asked her what the matter was. But, she only snarled and hissed in his face that he could kiss her fat ass. Jack was puzzled, and wondered at what he had done. Mary sat there wriggling in the pew, feeling the slippery mud congealing around her stink-hole, and consoling herself with conjured-up images of Jack licking her dirt-box clean that night in bed. It was his fault that her cunt was ruined, and he was going to have to pay for that, for the rest of his fucking life, sobbed Mary, internally.

Chapter 21.

The service had ended. Mary sat there seething, and simpering motionless upon the hard wooden pew, the bones of her ass cutting into the cheeks of her buttocks from the inside out with little mercy, and Jack squirming uncomfortably at her side. Jack entreated her once again as to what the matter was? The rigid, almost grinning, physiognomic facial façade - hung wearily like a cheap rug upon her bolt-upright locked-spine, pencil-necked, bloated football of a face which balanced precariously atop of it; now slowly deflating - slid off her skull slicker than cum off a cheap whore's chin, and underneath the mask, lay the pitiful sight of a teary woman who longed for recognition, other than that of just being a wife and a mother, and a sex puppet for her husband. Mary wanted to be famous. Mary wanted to be revered! Mary just wanted to be - known.

The church had almost emptied now, all but for a handful of sinners hanging around like disparate driveling mucus strands from the grotesque smiling jib of a hungry bull dog, all looking for the same thing; an opportunity to buy a seat on the bus - destination Heaven - by palming the fervently hand-shaking ticket-punching priest, a carefully folded sweaty wad of dead presidents, followed by the obligatory, and almost imperceptible, knowing nod. Payments for past favors, or ones to come, who knows, possibly both, or perhaps just simply the odd telephone number from a willing, yet apparently inconsolable, recent widow or two - "More tea vicar..."?

Chapter 22.

There was a condom dispenser installed in the men's and ladies' bathrooms of Saint Luke's within weeks of the new priest's arrival, noted Jack. Jack bought a few packs of three, but threw them away once he discovered that someone had stuck a pin through them. Such is God's work. Jack always inflates his condoms before use - especially if he bought them from a catholic vendor, and it's a fair wager that father O'Reilly does too, and odds on that sister Theresa doesn't. 

Once the psycho-dynamic split, and consequential personality transformation, physical and temperamental, from Dr. Mary Jekyll, and Mrs. Hyde had fully taken place, Mary stood up in the aisle and bent over shoving her, now, grotesque, twisted face directly into Jacks, and unloaded such an impassioned diatribe that he could smell the very remnants of garlic itself, still hanging around on Mary's tonsils, and uvula, from the cheap Italian pizza they had eaten some three days ago.

The wind alone, from Mary's bellowing lungs was enough to dry Jack's front - smiling - teeth, as he meekly attempted an ad hoc , personalized, form of kitchen P.R. damage control by pretending to laugh, and animate, that - "Everything is alright over her folks... " He was bad a fake laughter, but carried on regardless, nodding, and laughing, at nothing, as if Mary's outburst was a funny one.

It wasn't working. People were looking, and Mary's so-called whisper had turned into an echoing, reverberating, church rant. The clerics were amassing. One was toting a large fake gold cross on a well-worn wooden pole that Jack doubted was oak, or even Maple - It looked cheap to him, but also heavy, and one crack on the head with that holy club and you'd be shaking hands with your maker sooner than expected, thought Jack.

Mary was out of control by now. Exhausting huge, unpunctuated, batches of dialogue so tenuously connected to each other that the fine thread of her reasoning snapped into gibberish, time and time again, as he listened intently with horrified curiosity - her face mere inches from his now, spewing out her pent-up green-vitriol.

At such close vicinity, Jack once again fell in love with Mary's lips. Beautiful lips had she - jack always adored them, but now, the thinly stretched pair, waning and waxing over well-maintained, flashing incisors; the orthodontic cost alone could have set Jack up with an early retirement either in Mexico - or further south for that matter: South-American coastal barrios, where he would have been treated like Cortez Himself! Getting all his meals cooked for him, and the local conchetas would swarm around to clean his home and suck his balls dry four or five times a week, for pennies on the dollar, but, here he was, sitting in church, with a mad, half crazed, wild-eyed witch, screeching full-blast into his face about something that was news to him, and who had more than half the cost of a Cadillac in her - tooth-perfect -mouth: With Jack picking up the tab on that one - Y'becha! Now if that ain't love, then what is, thought Jack. 

Chapter 23.

Mid way through Mary's self-illuminating soliloquy, graphically outlining how she could have fucked the pope - like sister Theresa - if it wasn't for Jack's huge cock enticing her to "ride the snake" every opportunity she got, and eventually ending-up pregnant with their daughter Veronica, whose massive cranium ruined her cunt too - just like the sister's - therefore eliminating, and curtailing her intrinsic God given right, to at least to have had a fighting chance to fornicate with ecclesiastic Royalty, so as to speak! Just like the fucking nuns do - you asshole, babbled Mary, at Jack. Jack tried to laugh it off, rolling around in the pew, and slapping his thigh with the flat of his hand until the blood ran to the surface, under his Sunday Morning Church Best, a pair of slacks he had worn for over ten years now. Mary lifted up her dress and rubbed her clout on his knee, and left her stain there. She got his attention after that.

Chapter 24.

Mary hated sister Theresa by now, even though they had never officially met, and as she frothed at the mouth amid her tirade. She imagined ripping off the nun's habit, and with eyebrow tweezers, meticulously, yanking out every single pubic hair by the root - one by one - from her now, less-than-holy pussy, and especially from around her puckered log-ring hole, because Mary knew that the pope wouldn't, just, have settled for giving it to Theresa in the Pink: Underneath it all, underneath all the robes, and the miters; underneath the pomp and circumstance, and above all...above all The' Glory...underneath all the glitter and fuss, at the end of the day, the man has a pair of balls, and a cock between his legs and that thing needs servicing every now and then, and it doesn't care where...

At the bottom; a man is a man, and like any other man, while he was down there and in the vicinity - riding sister Theresa's love tube like there was no tomorrow - he naturally, would have wandered south an inch or two; pulling his lubricated staff out of her pink, and shoving it - every last inch of it - into her stink...This is what God intended for Man - and Woman - otherwise He wouldn't have put the female ass-hole right next door to the fish-hole fool.

This was God's gift to Man! God is a man, through his son, Himself, so it makes sense that he would have designed Woman to accommodate His wants and needs too, and God likes to ride the log-hole as much as anyone else does. So, the hairs around the turd hole had to come out too... It was a no brainer to Mary - pluck, pluck...pluck!

It was going to have to be a total defrocking for sister Theresa... yes; even the hairs around her nipples would have to go, along with the "Ronnie" she touted above her top lip, for Mary knew that sister had to have sucked the pontiff, I mean, who wouldn't under the circumstances, reasoned Mary in her mind.

Mary feared though, that the defrocking would take some time to execute properly - she didn't want to rush the job - and whilst screaming at Jack in the church, somewhere in the back of Mary's brain, she calmly planned to pack a lunch, with a ham and cheese sandwich, and a flask of mushroom soup,, with digestive biscuits and a second flask of hot tea for break. This, she felt ought to see her through the task, admirably. Mary planned everything, picture-perfect, in the tranquility of her thoughts, during her volcanic, turbulent, boiling, outrage with Jack in the pew. Mary would pack a second sarnie, just in case sister Theresa got a little peckish, during the plucking.

Chapter 25.

Mary would straddle sister Theresa from the top, in the 69 position, and have the sister lick her to multiple orgasms, whilst the defoliation was carried out. Once the final strand had been pulled, then sister Theresa was to perform an act of contrition by saying ten Hail Mary's, one Our Father and five Holy Mary's. Only then, would the slut be forgiven. The bitch! She thought. 

Chapter 26.

Mary felt it was all Jack's fault.

In her mind, she felt she could have been great. She could have been a contender, if only Jack had looked out for her, and not given her the full length of his dick, but only the short-end length of a caring mensch's tool: Mary had rented Rocky the week earlier. It had an effect on her. Jack didn't rate Stallone at all...

During Mary's outburst, just as she was rummaging up under her skirt to drag her panties off her quivering buttocks - doing the dance of the striptease in the aisle, in order to shove them, still warm, and fragrant, up into Jack's accommodating, and understanding face, Jack was already unbuttoning his fly. 

Chapter 27.

In a by-gone era, whispered by grandmothers and mothers alike, during so called innocuous, communal, meetings such as family BBQs and get-togethers, the act itself proved - in Mary's mind at least- that the [rather] redundant point that she was alluding to was, in fact, that her husband, was - still - fucking her; a claim, which many a married woman cannot make - in all honesty - today. If you're not getting fucked, then you're not a woman anymore. You're simply an artifact! Felt Mary.

Chapter 28.

Mary finally wriggled out of her panties, and slung them with a vengeance into Jack's, aghast, face. The gooey gusset and mud-laden bung-hole region stuck fast to his forehead, and he just sat there, hoping no one had noticed what was going on, but the sniff from Mary's panties caused Jack to gain not only a regular hard on, but a raging hard-on. He just couldn't wait to get his snake out of its confines, and when he finally got it loose of his fly, it telescoped out from within so readily, that as it ran out of spare skin along its pink shaft, it snapped the bias out of the foreskin covering the flared purple helmet underneath with so much eagerness, that it sounded like an elastic band snapping. Even with the slack of the foreskin taken into consideration, Jack's cock was still swelling, and with nowhere to go, it started to bend upwards - rather like that of a Rhino's horn. Jack writhed around in obvious pain, and he worried whether his erection might actually snap his bulging shaft in two...! He was sweating, and unconsciously started to rub it to the maximum length of its reach.

Chapter 29. 

Due to his enormous length, generally, if Jack was going out in public, he would fold his non-erect penis up into three equal segments and put three or four of Mary's elastic hair-bands around the bundle and then try and hide his package down low, secured to his scrotum, again, with more of Mary's hair-bands. This way, by wearing baggy pants, he didn't draw undue attention to his groin area. Mary had to wear longish skirts and dresses, so that she didn't inadvertently arouse Jack, out in public. This often happened when Mary, innocently, bending over in front of him, and inadvertently flashing and showing off her ass, which resulted in causing Jack much embarrassment - and pain - trying to hide, and subdue a 13 inch, impromptu, erection. Many a time Jack and Mary would have to duck down an alley, or hold the stop button in an elevator, or one time, just kneeling down between two parked cars on a busy street, Jack holding an open newspaper over Mary, as she sucked the cum out of his balls like a human bilge pump, just so that Jack could walk without a limp. Mary put on a lot of weight on back then, being on Jack's protein diet an' all; but she loved it, and would lick her lips at the thought of the treat itself: It was a combination of Jack's taste, and the silky smooth consistency of his cum that she found so irresistible, and sometimes Jack suspected that Mary's unconscious bending over wasn't so unconscious, after all, if the truth be told...




Jack and Mary Nobbled Pt. 02



Chapter 30.

Mary's panties slowly slithered off of Jack's sweated brow, and landed on the end of his nose. Jack inhaled deeply two or three times before the garment fell from his, now, contorted face. He was in pain. The potent pheromones had hit Jack's amygdala which immediately sent strong impulses, along with a potent cocktail of neurotransmitters to the medial nucleus, which in turn dispatched numerous hormones into Jack's bloodstream informing his cock that it was time to for fornication now - even if he was piously sitting in church, pretending to be a Catholic.

Jack could hear, and feel, Mary's elastic hair-bands snapping off his balls one by one, in muffled zings, and electrifying elastic-band sling-shots that whipped around his sack like a wet raw-hide whip -his crotch was popping!

Mary was frothing at the mouth by now. Jack could hear what she was saying, but nothing made sense to him now anymore, and her words seemed to only have a tonal quality to them. All of the meaning of language had forsaken him. His duty had come down to this. He had to get his cock into something - preferably warm, and slippery, and secondly he had to get that cum out of his balls before they exploded. No matter what, where, or how, all he knew was he had to shoot his load and that was that!

Chapter 31.

Mary was still prancing around in front of Jack, lifting up her dress, and showing Jack how he had ruined her chances of being a saint, and bearing the pope's baby. Jack was wriggling in torment in the pew, desperately trying to unbuckle his trouser belt, to release his balls, so that when he shot his load, they wouldn't get hurt in the rush to orgasm.

Mary neared Jack's face her skirt hiked up high. She thrust her open-legged vulva directly into his face, and, holding the garment's pleats up with her elbows; she grabbed two handfuls of her pubic hair, one with her right hand, the other with the left, and pulled resolutely out from her middle - and upward. 

Her cunt had a smile in it wider than a clam at high tide, and when it opened - from Jack's vantage point, it resembled a melon having been hit with a machete! Mary had shoved the thing mere fractions of an inch from the end of Jack's nose. It was red, and pink, with hues of magenta, and purple to it. There was a semi-translucent stream of sludge that driveled out of the blackness of a hole that disappeared up into Mary's belly. It was scary...!

Jack could hear Mary's cunt opening as she pulled its sticky wings apart for him to see. It sounded like a naughty child chewing oatmeal with its mouth open. During all of this, a thought passed through Jack's, dopamine-swamped mind, as he stared at Mary's burgeoning gash, was that it looked a lot like he imagined the gaping mouth of a attacking, lunging, alligator to be - minus the teeth, of course. He was taken aback - with a start!

Chapter 32.

Mary, by now, had her long, billowing skirt completely over Jack's head, and was rubbing her crack over his entire face with beautiful rhythm and quite an unique tempo; rub - rub: rub, rub, rub - pause; rub - rub: rub, rub, rub, and Jack was beating-off furiously under her skirted camouflage with gusto.

Jack came first, and somewhere in the depths of his being, he still - somehow - remembered that they were in church. Jack, as always - the considerate one - instantly worried, that his cum would cause a mess for the church's cleaning-lady, and improvised a contingency plan to mitigate cum-spillage by grabbing a bible from the pew-shelf in front of him. Jack's first two cum shots came too quickly for him to open up the bible. They hit Mary in the bung-hole region, and stuck firmly to hair around her puckered brown-eye.

With two ejaculations down, and who knows how many to go; in order to save the clean-up - following the first couple of cum-shots - jack flipped open the bible - willy-nilly - and wherever the pages stopped, he shot a load. Then he flipped again with one hand, whilst pumping his pole religiously with the other. Again he randomly stopped, and shot another load. Mary was busy holding the back of Jack's head tight up into her massive, sloppy, up-turned hairy canoe; rubbing herself off on the various undulating contours of his face - mainly his chin and nose, whilst Jack's tongue flashed and flicked in and out of his skull, whipping the daylights out of Mary's engorged clitoris, whenever it passed his open, mealy-mouth. By now, from the outside, all one could see, was Mary gyrating here bulbous hips and buttocks like a crazed Dervish; her feet planted firmly up, on the pew itself.

Chapter 33.

Mary was to be seen as to be slightly bent at the knees at this time.

Jack was seated between her open, spread-eagle, legs. Mary's shoulders took on the look of being rounded by now. Rounded- in, toward herself - she was working her cunt hard on Jack's mug, and her orgasm was prominently peeking above the horizon of her intent, just then. ...Head cocked to the right, then to the left, rolling about her hunched upper torso, like the dancing compass in a ship's weather-blown gimbal, trying its best to weather its way through the storm. 

Mary's long, pleated, ankle length skirt - now totally obscuring Jack - in a swaying, curtained, bell-shaped arc that cascaded off her birth-widened hips: The fabric swinging to-an'-fro under her insistent urgings; Torrents of Black-Watch-plaid obscuring the debauchery of an underneath orgy. No one knew the extent of it, except Jack and Mary, and they were too busy to care. 

Chapter 34.

Sequestered; steaming under Mary's swishing dome of woven fishy safety, wanking at his meat with the diligence, and ferocity, of a Trappist monk's first introduction to a paid Internet porn site, was Jack, in comparison. Meat in hand; head bobbing up and down incessantly; teeth hanging out to dry; grunting like a hog, with a frozen grin stuck like cheap wall-paper onto his contorted face, resembling the overly diminutive, and grotesquely animated, stance, and look, of the quintessential, smiling, Japanese salesman who - believes he - has a "bite on the hook."

Chapter 35. 

On lookers noticed, and silently applauded, Mary's apparent flamboyant outburst of religious fervor and expressive devotion to the faith, whilst underneath her Jack's hurried strategy to mitigate exposure of the real goings-on here; trying desperately to limit the amount of cum splattered every which way to Monday, by making a cum sandwich of the bible - the stuck pages could always be palmed-off due to mildew or something like that, he felt. Why the church could actually profit from this - taking collections for the prevention of microbial infestation for instance. It would sound good - scientific even - belched forth from the solitary confines of a singular Sunday pulpit. The begging, guilt-ridden message, issued at elevated decibel, and breathy volume, accompanied by zero cadence, and little, or no style - carried on a Fire and Brimstone vortex of foul breath, gusting as if out of the very ass of Satan Himself -by Father Gallagher. Jack was always pleased to help out the church anyway he could, so he felt entirely exonerated in reaching for the holy text, opening it up - randomly - and cumming, with gay abandonment, into it, by the gill, with little, or no remorse whatsoever.

Chapter 36. 

Jack shot enormous loads of cum, from the Old Testament, through The Epiphany, and into the New. Why Jack splattered Mathew, Mark, Luke and John. He did Mary Magdalene proud with two enormous ejaculations, with a smaller load bathing the pages of the raising of Lazarus. He didn't like that story all that much - What's dead ought to stay that way, jack felt. He shot his jizz through most of Abraham too.

Jack was banking on the stuck pages next Sunday, would be attributed to high humidity or the like, and brought on by Global Warming - what else...? Why, jack felt that if every other thing that was going wrong in society these days was being tracked back to - Global Warning - then why couldn't a bible with all of its pages stuck together be a part of the equation too? It made perfect sense to him, as he unloaded in fits of ecstasy onto the pages of The Garden of Gethsemane, and The Parting of the Red Sea. Jack always found Moses rather attractive, or was it Charlton Heston he hanker after buggering? It was a well buried skeleton at least, and Jack paid it no mind these days: Now that he had his patsy down at Fire Station nine, whom he could slip a length or two into the back-passage, when the mood took him. Jack was - unabashed. His cock ruled his life and he - willingly and dutifully - carried-out its bidding, no matter what! Jack was, in essence, his own cock's slave; and he liked it!

Chapter 37.

Somewhere, between the gyrating of Mary, and the shooting of loads into The Book, Jack could hear from under the folds of Mary's skirt, her cumming cry.

"Oh! God, I'm cumming! Oh! God! I'm going to cum! I'm cumming now, God! I'm cumming!"

Every fucker in the church, including the clergy, audibly applauded, thinking Mary, a mere - constituent - of the congregation, had - it is said - been visited by, The Holy Ghost, whilst in church of a Sunday - boring. But, this was exciting! The priest, standing, could get a good run out of this, and therefore boost the coffers a touch, and isn't that simply the mechanics of it all, in the end? You can't buy your way into to Heaven, but you can - certainly - purchase a ticket that leans toward that general idea. Tickets are sold each and every Sunday, during Communion -reservations contingent upon deposit. Guarantees are, strictly, not guaranteed. 

Some weeks later, out of sheer curiosity, Mary shoved an XX2 up her ass one Sunday afternoon in the convent restroom, to see if it would soak-up Jack's cum from the night before. The cotton-wool bullet did the business alright, but all too efficiently from all accounts. The wad swelled up so fast, and expanded so much, that it took Jack half the night to pry it out of Mary's ass. He had to use pliers and a pinch-bar. Mary's ass was open wide for a week after the extraction, and Jack took full advantage of the opportunity by fucking the orifice, all he could, before it closed up, and healed upon him.

At the end of the week Jack ran out of cum, and went to the doctor's complaining. The doctor threw him out with an aspirin.

Chapter 38.

Jack would pretend to be sleeping, during those times when Mary took her epic shits the morning after, but in reality he would be as hard as a rock under the covers, just on the thought, alone, of Mary's ass-hole opening up that wide, and he wanted, so badly, to be in it - deep up to his nuts, deep in her stink - that sometimes, he would reach down out of the bed, for one of his socks, and whilst Mary happily cooked breakfast, he would slip himself into it, and rub himself off to completion, groaning like a hog rolling in mud, as he, unashamedly, filled his sock with hot wads of his slimy desire. Mary would have wanted to have swallowed the goop, straight out of Jack's tube, but he knew she was on a diet, and out of support for her efforts, he decided to let his loads go into his stocking, rather than compromising his wife's diet by cumming into her head, and having her to gulp-down his protein brew. Jack was quite the gentleman, on occasions, and he surprised himself many times, to the extent of sacrifice he would go to in order for Mary to feel happy. Mind you, he would have Mary blow his cock after he ate breakfast - which was coming shortly - but this load, he donated to the sock; on her behalf. Jack was a saint to Mary, and he let her know it - regularly. 

On wash days Mary often puzzled at why only one of Jacks socks was wet, and would check his boots for a hole in the sole periodically. Mary just couldn't understand, though, why on one occasion the wet sock would be the right, then on other times - the left? Was Jack putting his boots on the wrong feet now and again, wondered Mary. So, she inquired with Jack, but he just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head almost solemnly. Then he countered by asking Mary how did she know which was the left sock from the right sock, anyway? Mary told him that she could tell where his big toe had been. From that moment on Jack silently vowed to himself, to always use the same sock to cum in. Mary wasn't as stupid as she looked, he twigged.

Chapter 39.

In his younger days Jack had leaned, more than just a bit, toward the philosophy of freedom that he felt when he gave-in to the penchant that he claimed was a calling to the heart of a being a nudist, and not long after he and Mary were married, Jack insisted that they go Au-natural at home, discarding their worldly persona, along with their clothes and uniforms of an evening, and especially over weekends. Mary complied, but found it difficult to get anything done around the house, because Jack was on her fucking her every time she bent over. She would go get something out of the refrigerator, and Jack would be on her like white on rice. She might bend down to pick a piece of lint off the carpet, and Jack would have his rod up her in no time flat. One Sunday afternoon, Mary had the oven door open, checking the Sunday roast for doneness. By the time Jack had shot his load up her, all of her eyebrows were singed-off to the hilt. She got a fur coat out of that one, and a 19" color T.V. 

Mary was just about to call it a day, as far as nudity around the house was concerned, when she became pregnant. After the pregnancy was confirmed, the nudist issue became a moot point. All of a sudden, they had to become - "Respectable," voiced Mary.

Jack had a hard time during the pregnancy, and Mary was on his case every week, about beating-off in the bathroom, and shooting his cum all over the place. She was fed up of cleaning up after Jack, and he didn't seem to care anymore. Sometimes Mary felt that he was doing it on purpose just to needle her. Like when he unloaded his balls into her makeup bag, and ruined $300.00 of cosmetics. She knew he had done it because she found lipstick on his jockey shorts the next day - and it was her hue.

Basically, in a nutshell, Jack just wasn't getting enough pussy, what with the pregnancy and what have you. Mary tried in vain to relive the load on Jack's balls, and would kneel down, every Monday evening, between his open knees, fondling, and licking, and sucking his enormous rod, while he screamed, and cheered at the ups and downs of his favorite football team playing there on the goggle-box screen.

Mary would bring Jack to the uttermost threshold of orgasm, with her licking and stroking, and then patiently wait, until Jack's team scored a touchdown, before forcing his helmet into her skull and bringing him over the top. Jack would cum hard into Mary's bobbing head, with so much force, that his sperm would hit the back of her throat, and be deflected up and around her adenoids, through her sinuses, resulting in two candles of cum shooting out of her flared nostrils, driveling like a pair of thundering rivulets, down and around her over-stretched lips, encircling Jack's engorged shaft, only to drool, thickly, off her chin, and down onto his dancing, semen-spouting, balls.

Mary tried valiantly to swallow all of Jack's cum, but his prodigious, and voluminously, relentless delivery was far too much for her to keep up with, and no matter how fast she noisily gulped down his load, eventually the cum always ended up squirting out of the corners of her mouth. There was a lot of clean-up after the game, but Mary put up with it, just to keep Jack happy - if only for a few fleeting hours - until he needed milking again, that is.

It's true; Mary had her hands-full with Jack and his cum-loads, not to mention a belly-full, because he filled her gut to the brim every time she sucked him. A year into their marriage, Mary had for all accounts and purposes given -up eating conventional food, and had taken to nibbling on morsels of grub off the table; just for taste. Jack, ostensibly, was feeding her solely with his cock-cum. It was fortunate for Jack that Mary loved the taste of his cum. To her, it was tantamount to Nectar of the Gods, and she would spend a lot of time after Jack had shot his last load into her mouth, gently sucking every last iota of semen out of the end of his cock, and Jack would have to pry her away off his rod, by pulling her head back off him by her hair, and as he got her off his knob, her tongue would be seen to flick wildly in mid air, desperately searching for more of his honey cum, much the same as that of a King Cobra testing the air for potential intruders, minus the fork though.

On such occasions, adroitly, Jack would rotate his lower torso around, whilst holding Mary's straining head at bay by the silky soft split-ends of her golden pony-tail, and presenting his quivering bung-hole, open at will, to Mary's serpentine - flashing - tongue, and inquiring quill.

Overtaken by desire and want, Mary would sink her tongue deep into Jack's dirt-box and shite, and her cream would ointment her cunt. After some time, he would drag her head from his hole, and give her what she was looking for, to console, her, by re-inserting his, now, rigid cock, back into her head, and shooting huge amounts of cum into her lungs, instead. All of which, she greedily gobbled-up, handily, and without urging - then it was back to the bung hole for her, and then back to the knob with Jack splurging. When Jack had had enough and called it a day, Mary would sob. Feeling sorry for her, and with loving grace, Jack would squeeze out one last cum-snob from his pole, and shoot it over her face. Mary was a good wife, and could swallow copious amounts of Jack's cum, until he was truly emptied-out and fell, irretrievably and soundly, asleep. Mary, disgruntled for reasons unknown even to herself, would spit Jack's flaccid wet-noodle-cock out of her mouth with vindictive dismissal, sidle up over Jack's body backwards, and rub her full open vulva, and shit-hole over the entirety of his face whilst he was out of it. Then, after she came to orgasm, pissing and farting into Jack's unconscious mug, she would dismount, and victoriously, make her way - swaggering as she went - into the kitchen; opening up the freezer and guzzling down a good pint and a half of strawberry ice cream - rubbing the head of her reddened clitoris on the rounded, oak, corner of the kitchen table, so wildly, that the very noise of her vulvae lips slopping together sounded like a plumber's plunger at work on a shit-house U-bend turd blockage; and she would cum there, with strawberry ice cream slithering down her neck, and her ass farting like drunken sailor.

Chapter 40.

After the baby was born - Veronica was to be The' name - Mary's love tunnel was ruined as far as Jack was concerned. It seemed to Jack, that having intercourse with Mary, in the quim, was tantamount to fucking a bucket full of worms - after all the worms had wriggled off, and there was only so many times Jack could use Mary's ass for love-making, before she got too sore back there to even sit down properly. So, they had a heart to heart, and it was agreed upon that Mary would rotate her holes for Jack. One week out of the month Jack would fuck Mary in the pussy, even though he thought it to be a waste of time and energy, but Mary liked it, and she wanted to have her orgasms too. The following week, Jack would use Mary's ass-hole to make love to her, but penetration would be limited to twice a day on weekdays, and unlimited access to her ass allowed on weekends, as long as she wasn't bleeding, that is. The third week, Jack would deep-throat Mary, fucking her esophagus, and ejaculate directly into her gut, owing to the fact that she couldn't keep up with swallowing all Jack's cum-shots at once. This way, she didn't have to worry about swallowing. It seemed the only practical thing to do, under the circumstances, conjectured Jack. Mary agreed, and the fourth week, Mary would have a rest, and all her holes would be left fallow, in order to recover. Jack could beat his own meat for a week, and leave her alone for a while, as long as he refrained from coming in her compact case, and she didn't want to catch Jack fucking the Sunday chicken either, like she did last month! They agreed to give it a go with one final stipulation. Mary insisted that Jack lick her pussy and her bung-hole during the week he was scheduled to fuck her throat. She liked having her holes licked - especially her stink-hole. Jack reluctantly agreed, and they shook hand on the deal.




Jack and Mary Nobbled Pt. 02



The first couple of months went fairly well, except for several near suffocation's during 'throat-week', as they called it. The problem was that Jack would get carried away going for the gold. Once his balls had ascended, and he was on the final approach - the so called 'vinegar-run' - to coming. Jack simply lacked the integrity of will, or basic control over his needs and wants; his hopes and dreams, his desires and... entitlements to interrupt his approaching orgasm. Instead, once he felt that tell-tale tickle up his ass-hole; when the prostate first begins to spasm and cramp promising the inexorable delight of orgasm, then, all bets were off. The main offender in Jack's rationalization to - not - pull out of Mary's esophageal tube and let her breath was his steadfast belief in his right of 'marital-entitlement'. This is what prompted him to marry in the first place. He wanted to empty his balls anytime he chose, and how many times he chose to, without question, and in turn, he would go to work every day, and provide for the family. To pull out of Mary's throat every now and then, so that she could catch a breath of the air, instead of pursuing his hedonistic goal toward goal-fulfillment, i.e., that of 'busting a nut', was unthinkable to him, once he was on the verge of coming. It was like trying to stop a runaway steam locomotive by simply saying, "Please stop..." 

Mary lay there every night, throughout throat-week, on her back. Jack would mount her in the 69 position, bending her legs up and wide apart. Once he had her torso almost vertical, with only her shoulder blades still resting on the bed's surface, then, he would spiral his long powerful arms around Mary's upper thighs from the outside in, in an anticlockwise, and clockwise rotation, depending on which arm one is talking about, until his huge calloused hands came around and cupped each of her fleshy, bulbous ass-cheeks in a vice-like grip. In this pose, Jack had all of Mary's weight bearing down on his blunt shoulders; so much so that Mary was unburdened by his insistence to her unnatural current attitude toward her present contortion. It was a flagrant abuse of her form. She was like a rag doll to her husband - "The Brute", and she loved it more than her very life itself. To be needed like this - to be used thus... The very idea of owning the key of unmitigated power over another, just by having a cunt between the legs, elevated Mary to The Throne of Royalty! Ancient Egypt itself would bend a trembling knee to such a claim. ...In the bed, she was Cleopatra Herself: She was Helen of Troy, Ann Frank, Helen Keller...Gandhi even; she could become Mary Whitehouse, sister Theresa, Che, Liz, Thatcher, or even Elton John, and Heaven forbid Fonda, simply by opening or closing her legs... Mary liked the feeling of power, and put up with a demeaning life-style of male-dominated subservience, and all for a half hour of getting her pussy lampooned, and licked of a night. She believed it was worth the trade off though.

Under the sheets, Jack would spread both her ass-cheeks, and vulva-lips wide apart, until there was no obstruction left to the pending insertion of his probing, insolent, slithering tongue. Mary looked forward to this during the day, and if Jack had upset her in any way, she would wipe her ass, after taking shit, from back to front, instead of the other way round, just so that Jack would eat her mud during his pleasure. Mary loved Jack...on some level, and only farted when she absolutely had to during such encounters.

In moments akin to this, Mary became transported, effortlessly, to Nirvana, and other off-worldly places of ecstasy and bliss, and she, shamefully, offered no resistance to Jack, as he arbitrarily entered, both her vulva, and stench-hole with the curiosity of a digging mole spelunker: His writhing, curious, tongue, and acute sensibility being his only guide, blind to all else. Blind to the fudge-logs in her ass: Blind to the lemonade in her bladder: Blinded by the drive to get into her, led by a heat seeking meat-missile, roasting red hot and ever-ready; primed for immediate action, in the blink of an eye, steaming away, always at the ready, in the unassuming jockey-pant-silo of every male on the planet.

Every woman longs to meet 'blind' men; Poor pathetic ball-less eunuch bastards who can see in the literal sense of the word, but who are totally sightless to the goings-on of the women behind them. From all accounts so far, Woman, in general, not only feel they can, but have convinced each other that they can, in fact, transform the entire male contingent - all - into 'seeing' husbands - but not, "All Seeing Husbands" - No! That is too much. The "All Seeing" has to come from the female end of the shit-stick - only, otherwise the' "equation of fairness", is thrown out of kilter, viewed from the feminine viewpoint, it seems, and according to them, it's the only viewpoint worth contemplating.

No outside encouragement was ever given to Jack by Mary, yet she would have preferred to have died in the absence of her amorous suitor's attentions. In this way, Mary, remained... innocent to her mind. She couldn't be charged as exhibiting desires belonging to a wanton whore, but rather she set herself up to be celebrated as, 'following the straight and narrow'. A path reserved for the exclusive use by that of the good, compliant, unassuming... wife, only - who, incidentally, was getting her holes reamed nightly - and she simply adored it, from all accounts.

Chapter 41.

With Mary locked into a good licking position, held in place by her strong beast of a husband who had, bluntly, secured an unimpeded accessibility to both her sloppy cunt, and her quivering, puckered, hairy, brown-eye; readily attained. Jack was now read to fuck Mary down the throat, and he communicated this to her by biting her clitoris - gently.

Mary, upon receiving the visceral gnawing signal from her clit, plus the low frequency, barely audible, wild animal growling prompts from Jack, which to the untrained ear, sounds rather like underwater hippopotami bellowing out mating calls somewhere in the Outback Rivers of the Congo. Nonetheless, upon receipt of the cue, Mary would obediently tilt her cranium back - hard - under Jack, and open her mouth as wide as possible; her face resembling one of those horrendous photographs from the second world war Holocaust victim files - mouth wide open due to rigor mortise, teeth hanging out to dry, etc., etc. The only difference being was that Mary, at this point in time, was enjoying her husband's penchant of tongue-wriggling, around three inches in depth, into her cacao-box hole, and frankly, she didn't give a monkey's flying fuck what she had to do to prolong the activity. She was experiencing massive orgasms every twenty second or so, and she was willing to swallow the Eiffel Tower itself, for him not to stop, if that's what it took.

Mary lifted Jack's cock up and positioned it between her eager, burning, lips, and ran her trembling tongue around the outer perimeter of his, turgid, purple helmet - just for good measure - plus the lubrication factor might come in handy later on as his stiffened rod traversed the narrow chicane of her tonsils, pulsating away in dire anticipation at the back of Mary's frightened throat.

Jack commenced his entry into Mary's cranium with his throbbing tube-steak - cagily - until his loaded war-head was safely past her razor-sharp incisors. He docked the burning head of his blood-muscle symmetrically between the left and right tonsil, knowing that just an inch or more further, would take him into his wife's super pussy-tight esophageal tube - a place where few men have gone before, but where many a man have wished, but rarely contemplated, to venture.

Men, to be utterly honest, do not care all that much where they shove the end of their penis, as long as it's warm, tight, clean and slippery, then that's all that matters, it seems. For Man, in general, just to wants to get His nut-off: It is enough! That's all Man wants, as a species, but it becomes hard work if the orifice is too slack, and as far as all men are concerned - may I speak for only the majority, mind you, "If woman-kind can't get it together to keep their pussy tight, then Man will find something else to do the job! Like a wayward nun, or a childless sex-craved Christian - and they do, both exist, Heaven forbid" - one and the same! And, if Women-Kind continues on, in Her irresponsible path of vaginal birthing, then, eventually, Man will rebel... and just move to fucking tomorrow night's liver in the fridge - after, of course it has been brought up to room temperature first - to say the least...

Two minutes at 40% microwave power will bring three quarters of a pound of calf's liver to 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, precisely. At 45% microwave power, the temperature will resemble the ovulation temperature of 99.1 degrees, so a man can fantasize about becoming a dad even, just by setting the microwave 5% higher on the liver. It's easier, and it's tighter, depending on how hard you press down on the meat, that is, than dealing with the mood swings, temperamental idiosyncrasies and fallibility of single-baby-bitches. Bitches who fuck like stoats, until they get their first child, then it's tough shit for hubby, because he isn't getting any more honey from mommy 'cause he has to work his fingers to the bone 12 hours a day, to keep The Bitch, and "Her" baby - the recipient of her deflected libido - fed and clothed for the rest of their twisted fucking lives.

"Get over it! Assholes," ruminated Jack to himself. If a woman wants to remain competitive nowadays, then forget the face-lifts. Screw the hand creams along with the age-spots. Simply maintain a tight, little, pussy, and you're home and dry, you cunts! "By the way, there are lubricants available for that," contemplated Jack in his mind of minds.

Chapter 41.

Mary relaxed her throat muscles, and jack felt it in his brain; a high priority, encoded message, straight from the end of his dick, back to H.Q., centrally located somewhere above his shoulders. To help things along, Jack shot a single load of cum and hit Mary dead center of the back of her throat, thus providing much needed lubrication for the up and coming, planned, incursion.

The lights had dropped: The green had been given, and Jack's Drag racer was about to burn rubber at the back of his wife's neck. Mary took her last breath for a while, and Jack slowly, but surely, inserted his cock non-stop, into Mary's feeding tube. It was so tight that it pulled the eyelet of his helmet open a good quarter of an inch, and it was hot, and slippery to boot. Jack didn't stop, until every iota of his length was down Mary's gagging throat. He could feel her trying to vomit, but the constrictions of her throat muscles encircling the rigid base of his huge cock, only turned him on more and more. Jack started to ride her orifice, with a vengeance unseen since the advent of The' Greek Tragedies, themselves. Mary was writhing in both pain and ecstasy under Jack, and he was riding her head for all he was worth. 

Around the twentieth stroke, Jack remembered to pull out, and he heard Mary gasp for air, and start to beg him to stop, but it was too late for that, Jack shoved the whole thirteen inches back down into her tube, without a second thought, all the time licking and thrusting his flicking tongue, deep into the holes under her.

Another twenty trusts, and out, and his heart broke to hear his wife begging him to stop, but he had no choice in the matter. He was close to coming now, and that was all that mattered to him, so he rammed it down her throat a third time. 

Mary was ejaculating her female cum up into Jack's face at high pressure. It hit him in the eye, it went up his nose and when he pulled his head over to the side, her cum arced all the way across the room, hitting the opposite wall, and spraying in dripping droplets; running down over their happy wedding photo faces; sitting there, statically collecting dust on the dresser. Tears of the cunt: It was it was so emotionally powerful, noted Jack, out of the corner of his insane - dry - phrenic monkey eye.

Chapter 42.

Jack's balls had settled quite comfortably into Mary's eye sockets by now, for they were approximately equal in size of depression and shape: The convexity of his knackers perfectly matching the concavity-socket-cups of her skeletal ocular region. The cupping of the testicles, was...touchingly emotional to both of them, and with unblinking eyes, a tear ran its course down the cheek of a head-mounted wife, and Jack farted like a overblown trombone, in echoic sympathy of the wetness of her tear upon the sensitivity of his trusting thigh. Being effectively blinded to the goings on around her because of this, Mary, on the other hand, had anticipated such circumstance becoming, and from past experience with husband be, she had shrewdly plugged in her hair curler. An act taken before the start of the night's love-making that night, you see.

The curler would get hot, and Mary could smell remnants of her trapped hair, baking on the blistering tong of Hell. If push came to shove, she would have to ram the hot pike up Jack's ass in order for him to let her breath. She just wanted some sort of insurance, if not a basic - assurance - that she would, or could, live, through a love making session with her husband, Jack. She didn't really want to run the boiling tip of her cosmetic-hair dildo over Jack's bung-hole, but she wasn't going to go out without putting up a fight, and if that meant cauterizing her husband's ass-hole, then be it. If he couldn't make provision for his wife to breathe, then she was going to make it very hard for him to shit, that was for certain! So, "bring it on baby"! That was Mary's sentiment. That was Mary's philosophy. That was Mary's creed... Bring it on Mother Fucker... was Mary's ethos, and as she thought, Jack vacuum-sucked her clitoris and urethra, and she relaxed her bladder muscles, and came, and peed. Jack drank of her vulva until she was emptied, and she came vicariously in, and upon, the knowledge of the knowing. 

Jack was in the last throws of cunt-induced animal pleasure, but before he shot his loads, and became human again, he was just simply - out of control. He was fucking Mary's esophagus at a wildly accelerated and rapid pace, and giving it the full thirteen-inch run of his cock. Mary's tonsils were getting battered and torn into bruises and bits - and he just didn't care, and snatched at the air under him, in a beastly yearning to fondle her tits. Unable to reach, from holding her ass, he thrust his tongue into her, and she inadvertently passed gas.

Chapter 43. 

Mary's lips were turning blue now, due to the natural effects of asphyxiation, resulting from oxygen starvation, and her extremities were tingling, and becoming numb - except for her tits, nipples and clitoris head, which kept on giving her orgasm after orgasm, some in her cunt - some in her bum: The like of which no mortal human being, ought to be subject to, within a reasonable course of, an earthly life. Mary sensed the ringing in her head acutely, and put it down to a queer form of nitrogen narcosis, from being dove upon by Jack, paradoxically not from diving herself.

It felt good now. She felt tipsy, and she was coming again. It was wonderful, and she considered drifting off into the void, in a colorful caravan driven by a golden-toothed gypsy, whilst coming hard. What a way to go she thought... But Mary was a fighter, and she loved her orgasms too! But, who was this guy Jack, to tell her that this was going to be her last... No way. Where's my tong, thought Mary. Open your ass dear Jack: Here comes, payday - now don't be contrary.

Chapter 44.

Jack was lost in a world of self-satisfying brutal pleasure. At this moment, Mary, along with everything else in the world had ceased to exist. He was thundering along, with only one thing left on his mind - to come. Maybe it was fate. Maybe destiny, but Mary, drunk to the world, and coming, decided to choose life over pleasure, and instinctively fumbled around with her hand for the curling iron, sweltering away on the bedside table. 

Mary finally found it and picked it up. Jack was way too busy ramming his cock down her throat to pay any attention, until she shoved it between his pulsating buttocks. Mary heard a loud sizzling noise, and smelled burning hair and flesh. It smelled a lot like chicken, she remembered remarking to herself.

Jack suddenly froze in mid thrust. His entire body coming to rigid and he began to quake, violently. His goose-egg sized balls started to rise out from Mary's eye sockets, and ascend high; up, almost into Jack's lower abdomen itself. She knew he was coming, and as her vision returned, she could see smoke billowing out of Jacks ass-cheeks. Then he came into her. It was huge! Spurt after spurt after spurt, came out of him, and shot directly into her empty tummy. He was filling her up, and she wanted to burp. By the time Jack had emptied himself, Mary's belly looked as if she was three months pregnant, and wobbled like jelly.

Chapter 45.

By now, Mary had almost lost consciousness, and the hot curling tongs fell out from her grasp, to the floor. Jack had blanked-out on top of her, and left his semi erect cock deep down her throat, inside of her. She was too weak now, to even consider pushing Jack off of her, and getting his rod out of her, neck, so she could breathe again. But she was determined not to give up - in for a pound, in for a penny - What the heck!

Jack had passed out with his face flat in Mary's crack, and that meant that his nose was directly over her bung-hole. If only Mary could muster up a fart to revive Jack, then all would be saved. Mary decided to give it a go. She was going to 'give it one for the Gipper' after all, and she forced out a couple of bubbles to no avail - they had the distinct fragrance of sun-dried cocoa beans. Mary redoubled her efforts, and using her stomach muscles, built up a sizable pressure in her back passage. She let it rip, and it sounded rather like a WW11 Ack Ack anti aircraft gun going off at length, but no joy. Unfortunately, women's farts are different from their male counterparts. Mary's ass-wind reeked of Tupelo Honey, freshly brewed French Roast coffee, with vanilla flavored cream for coloring, garnished with a sprig of morning-picked mint, and a twist of lemon zest thrown in for good measure, and strawberry-jam filled doughnuts. No wonder Jack had an appetite on him like a hog, after licking her hole out of a morning, she concluded. But, there was still hope. Mary remembered, that for breakfast she had gotten a fierce hankering for a couple of hard boiled eggs and a toasted sardine sandwich - perhaps she was pregnant - who knew? 

Upon remembrance of this, Mary calculated that the boiled eggs and sardine sandwich had to be almost through her system by now, and about to enter her lower anal chamber, or at least pretty close to it. If somehow, she could just, undulate her tummy muscles, to help the process along, then, as the compressed mud entered the lower bowel, together with the consequent lessening of gastronomical pressure, Mary postulated that trapped bubbles of methane would be induced to percolate up out of the mix, and to build a fart of epic proportions. It was worth a try. Mary felt she didn't have that long left before she slipped away into oblivion, so she set to the task at hand.

After several minutes of tummy-flexing, Mary's caboose was absolutely bursting for relief, and so she positioned the eye of her bulging, brown and magenta, dirt-hole as accurately as she could possibly guess, right under Jack's snoring, snorting, nostrils. Then, carefully, and slowly, opened up her boiling orifice. To her surprise, her ring was all but silent, with just a high pitched whistling sound that reminded her of a documentary she had once seen of jet-fighter planes taking off from short aircraft-carrier runways, with after-burners blazing away at full tilt; only several hundred decibels quieter though.




Jack and Mary Nobbled Pt. 02



The volatile gas violently erupted from Mary's Vulcan hole driven by enormous Geo-gastronomical pressure and at panty-shattering velocity. Shit vapors coming out of women's ass-holes at these rates and pressures, will totally wreck the ass-end out of a panty; the skid mark being harder to remove from the gusset, than a deep, cheap Saturday-night tattoo: Tramp stamps, usually done in azure, or Royal Blue.

Mary intuited that the noxious brew, born of her very biological workings themselves, had to be somewhat on the potent side of paint-stripping agents by reason of the way the vapors burnt her ring as they whistled out of her ass, and she entertained doubtful hopes that this would - indeed - do the trick for her.

Chapter 46.

Mary's fracked fart erupted out of her searing bung-hole with more vengeance than a disgruntled Valkyrie when her side had lost the battle. The blazing hot, laser-thin stream of gas found its mark, and singed the very hairs up Jack's slumbering nostrils. Almost instantly, Jack's head sprang up from out of the warm and damp vaginal slit of his suffocating wife's cunt. He spewed sympathetically into her crotch, and the vomit cascaded down between the bubbling crack of her ass, his chyme splashing indiscriminately over, and around, her red and blue blotched asphyxiated buttocks. As he rolled sideways off her and on to the floor, his cock followed him like a tape-worm making it's futile escape from the cooling carcass of a dead pig's ass - slithering out of her throat faster than an Arabian (amputee) thief from a crowded third-world bazaar.

Jack hit the floor coming again - (Apparently, there were pheromones in Mary's fart). His stork hard as a rock, and spurting wads of hot cum up into the air like miniature Yellowstone Park's Ole' Faithful.

The loads of cum were huge, and stretched out long up into the air above his ecstatic, writhing, orgasm-wretched torso. The wads of semen came out of Jack's penis with such force, that they made a noise similar to a threatened pole cat, breath-fully hissing out its cornered warning to retreat or face a last-stand attack - the very velocity, of which stung Jack's cock-eye as they left his rod, which only served to further stimulate more and more ejaculations.

Mary lost consciousness at that juncture. The last thing she remembered was seeing, in the dim light emanating from the open bathroom door, was Jack's sperm-loads reaching their apogee, one after another, before standing still in mid air, then reversing their vector-direction, in a perfect parabolic arc; earth-bound now.

In her semi-conscious state of cerebral hypoxia, everything seemed to take place at slow motion, and it was if she was watching ballerinas in brilliant white translucent tutus performing Madam Butterfly in her very own bedroom, and just for her.

On the floor, the earliest cum-shots were touching back down to base, even before the last ones were still taking off into space from Jack's rocket-launching prick. Some hit him in the chest, others landed in his hair. One touched down in his eye and temporarily blinded him. A couple though, splashed-down directly into his open, gasping, panting mouth, and he played gargle with them for a while, until he finally swallowed. Surprisingly enough, he wanted more...?

One of Jack's regrets in life was that he hadn't worked hard in his earlier years to become limber enough to be able to comfortably lick his own bung-hole. He had seen several dogs do it in the street, and he was jealous. He once threw a sizable rock at a mutt in the road, who was doing the very same thing that he dreamed of. Mary asked him why he had done that and he fobbed it off on a weak argument concerning morality. Jack fundamentally was insecure. He wanted to be able to suck his own dick, and lick his own ass - just in case the wife left him. Sexual gratification was important to Jack, but he wanted the Royal treatment, not just a facsimile of the real McCoy - beating off with a handful of baby oil, to internet porn, whilst the wife was out doing the grocery shopping. No! Jack wanted to...really fuck himself. To...really, have sex with himself. He wanted to fall in love with himself. Jack hated that dog.

Chapter 47. 

Once Jack remembered what he had done, he tried to come off as the hero, by giving Mary mouth to mouth resuscitation, thus saving her life. Until Mary came to, and being a registered nurse, put two and two together, and came to the conclusion, that French kissing, does not substitute for mouth-to-mouth in any medical book, and she bit jack's tongue savagely, and punched him in the balls, until he withdrew his coated furry tongue from out of her cold, purple-tinged lips; yelping like a little puppy dog, and fell to the floor knackers in hand.

Mary had to get up - still dizzy, and go take a huge shit.

On the way, she stopped to look down on the wriggling, whimpering, body of her husband. 

Mary stood there for a moment, and then decided. She straddled Jack's head and squatted down over his face. She took her hands, and pulled her massive buttocks apart, until her ring was pouting. Then she opened up to the trumpets of Jericho, and let out a fart that almost shattered the glass of their piss-stained wedding photo way across the room. It was as if a hundred Klaxon horns had gone off at the very same time; neighbors were banging on the ceiling... 

Mary followed through - not maliciously - with a turd hot enough to cook a turkey on. It spiraled down over Jacks astonished face, like a rattler encircling her eggs.

And she thought to herself, as her ass closed, and she walked away - un-wiped, that those eggs and sardines certainly did it for her - Oh, boy! Didn't they just...

(To be continued).



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.




Jack and Mary Nobbled Pt. 03



Oh, boy! Those angels - their cunts would be hurting' after he got through with [them]...! 

Chapter 52. 

Jack had cut the bottoms out of his pockets, and after inserting his arms into his baggy trousers, would run his hands around his bulbous seat, and pull the cheeks of his arce apart. Of course to carry this out, Jack had to shove a lot more than just his hands in there - what with the Zeppelin size of his ass being what it was...why, he was dug deep - halfway up his forearms, hence the haunched shoulders an' all.

It had worked; Jack's ring was finally on the mend.

Yes. Jack had climbed the stairs less cautiously this early morning, on his way home from the swing shift; now that the blisters on his debris-hole had somewhat abated - he still harbored a grudge though, somewhere, in his unconsciousness, as to whether Mary's decision to nearly incinerate his manhole was a justified action, or not; considering the underlying circumstance. The same thought entered his mind, each and every time he took a shit, and each and every time he winced at the sting of his dirt-hole, he hated Mary with a passion. 

Jack felt that he was just making love as usual, and that was that! If Mary croaked, then it would have to come down to her who screwed up, not him. He was far too busy fucking his wife to be thinking about her and her breathing, Jack righteously conjectured to himself.

Mary, he thought, ought to have been stronger, Jack felt. He could only fuck one way, and that was full-on, in top-gear, with the 'super-charge' button engaged - and she knew this! If Mary couldn't handle the pressure, then that was her problem, not his! Jack arrived at this rationale spontaneously, and with the absolute conviction, and clarity of thought, of a mongoose.

Chapter 53. 

After months of agony, finally Jack could take the barest semblance of a decent dump, without having to bite-down on a leather-wrapped chunk of pine, that he carried everywhere with him these days. The worse thing was the necessity of having to guzzle down pints and pints of a variety of different flavored sennapod teas, and then, ushering out the near-liquefied ass-wreckage with a cold stainless-steel shoehorn, soon after investment, became the norm for Jack, and his injured hole. It was painful, time consuming, - messy, and Jack was pissed!

Chapter 54.

Mary: Belligerently, opposed Jack's ban on curling tongs in the house, from then on, following his...accident - to say the least. Why, she always had her flat-iron though. Jack couldn't take that away from a woman, now could he!

Albeit, with wifely conformity, she reigned herself to his mandate, and went straight haired, though defiantly unrepentant, along with his fear-based decree.

Jack couldn't sit on a Throne these days, even if he had one, considering the state of his reek-hole, laughed Mary to herself - The Bastard. Jack's Throne, along with his Kingly power, and been smashed when Mary stood up to him and shit in his face that evening, as he writhed around in agony, on the bedroom floor, clutching his bruised balls, and his blistered bugger-hole. 

Chapter 55.

Mary was responsible for her pheromones alone. ...She could impart them to her lover, i.e. Jack, simply by opening up her legs - and she chose to...

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, and if he did, then he instantly became The Brute - The Beast. There was no winning here, though Jack.

Upon the sniff from Mary's squid-hole, Jack, (in his mind), entered into the fray as a cock-wielding warrior, his meat sword slashing and parrying at the onslaught of his wife's open gap-attack. Jack would stab his wife's hole with his sausage-saber, over and over again, until the beast in him, and in her, had been conquered, subdued and laid to rest. 

The,"Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly", invite, of the (never-ending) marital quarrel, as opposed to contemplation and compromise of the, sitting down and..."Working It Out" strategy, has become obsolete and redundant nowadays, and points sadly at the ruins and utter destruction of the former male and female (wedded) détente. After all: The...entirety of "Woman"...has that, which the male-hankering crosses all bounds to acquire. ...The one thing which the Gods themselves cannot control; more than the need of food; more than that of water, or life itself... Man has to have - his cunt! ...and conversely, the female will receive the bounty of her harvest, and reap the fruits of her labor, by getting "The' Rod" - once nightly, and twice on the weekend, but never on a Sunday; not until the lights go out, that is...! 

Chapter 56.

Jack was tired and pissed. He hadn't had any pussy for weeks now - possibly months, he couldn't remember anymore, it had been that long.

He slammed the front door quietly, so as not to wake up Mary and the neighbors. He flung his hat at the cat, which went galloping off on the spot on the polished wooden floor before traction hit and it propelled its scabby carcass under the couch in an instant.

Jack kicked off his boots halfway across the living room to the clothes closet, and disrobed, pushing the load of worn garment into the bottom of the enclosure. All he had on was his piss-stained vest now. He left to closet door open for Mary to pick his clothes up in the morning.

Jack strode negligently into the kitchen bumping into furniture on the way, and opened the refrigerator door with such vengeance that the hinges creaked and the condiment bottles rattled in their frigid shelves.

Jack grabbed a cold bottle of booze, a lime, a medium sized zucchini out of the vegetable drawer, a jar of mayonnaise and Mary's, Oh! So..."off-limit" jelly and custard-filled doughnut, that she...just had to have with her morning shit-rattling cup of fucking coffee. Jack was so fed up with her shit right now, that he didn't give a fuck anymore. All her God dammed rules - "Do this, and don't do that...", and her...her entire fucking way of life lately that he just wanted to holler on top of his voice... "Fuck you and the tampon you rode in on bitch. Jack was seriously not-amused! Possibly due to the build-up of testosterone from not getting his regular dose of pussy, he was confused and farted a perfect note a full octave below middle "C". It reminded him of Miles Davis, and the stink, of a pig-pen. 

Jack put the chilled items on the kitchen table and got a knife from the cutlery draw: He knocked off the beer cap on the edge of the table and chipped the wood. Ordinarily he would have been freaked by this, imagining his wife's microscopic postmortem of the damage to "Her"! ...table, in the morning. Jack had bought the table. It was his! ...not hers, so fuck her... Fuck Her!

Chapter 57.

Jack was boiling.

He sliced a couple of lime wedges and rammed them down the neck of the booze-bottle without regard.

There was shit everywhere that he had been, boots, clothes...spilled beer, lime juice. There was crap everywhere, and he didn't care right now... He just didn't give a flying monkey's fuck! His cock hanging out of him on half a full lob; the foreskin peeled back over his helmet only half way, with a small droplet of pre-cum bubbled out of its eye, glistening in the dim light of living room lamp. Jack had not turned on the glaring fluorescent of the kitchen, and stood there in the shadows, knowing that he had to get his rocks off soon, or there would be blood on the walls somewhere around him.

Jack hit the bottle of booze hard, sucking at its frothing content with more zeal than a newly born baby elephant at the tit: A sight that he had seen on telly one night whilst watching David Attenborough. The spectacle always stuck with him. 

Jack downed the 12 oz. bottle in seconds, but in his zeal, he inadvertently siphoned-off a chunk of lime rind, which summarily jammed in his throat, causing him to excise the foreign object from his choking throat by regurgitating the recently imbibed grog, forcefully, in a thick stream of projectile vomit that actually hit the ceiling of the kitchen itself, and splattered its way deep into the living room: Jack didn't give a toss, he just nonchalantly picked up the beer cap, as if nothing had happened, and spun it confidently at the open garbage bin in the corner of the kitchen. He missed - he always missed, and the top spun off in a myriad of spiraling, erratic, directions. The cat was afraid. 

Jack just left it there - where every it had come to rest, along with all of the rest of the mess he had generated, for Mary to clean up in the morning - that was Her job, Jack muttered under his breath almost unconsciously.

Jack's job was to go to work, come home and fuck his wife, something he hadn't fucking done for several months right now! Jack had had enough! Tonight he was going to take back the Power! Tonight he was going to be "The Man of the House again", and do just exactly what he wanted to do. Tonight he was going to fuck, and fuck - like a wild animal! (A thin, gossamer, thread of cum fell off the eye of his cock, and parachuted earth-bound, under gravity assist, only to land silently on his left big toe. Jack flinched, as if a spider had run over his foot. Jack didn't like spiders, they reminded him of the hairs around Mary's asshole, which he insisted she pull out with tweezers, at least twice a month. Mary had a hard job on her hands, the larger her ass got, and reverted to having her transvestite hair-dresser do it for her, bi-weekly. He, of course, ended up fucking her in her compost-hole, in the end. ...You, never know which way a tranny will swing, given adequate opportunity, but at least Mary got her ass-hole plucked for free after the first penetration, and that suited her to the "T". 

Chapter 58.

Jack's cock had gotten hard and was rising up and out of him menacingly now. He grabbed Mary's donut, and opened the end of it carefully with the edge of the bottle-opener's handle. He thrust his long, wet, hot tongue deep into the pastry's interior, and scooped out most of the creamy, jam filling and swallowed the glob laughing, then he inserted his rock hard penis into the cool pouch, and used the remainder of the filling to grease his gland until he came violently into the sugar coated pastry pouch. When he had finished, he withdrew his sweet coated helmet slowly out of the cake, and carefully closed up the end of the confectionary, and put it back into the refrigerator, exactly where he had found it for Mary to eat in the morning and he grabbed another bottle of swill, whilst he was in there, flipped open the cap, and downed it in one again, minus the lime wedge and the projectile vomit this time round.

Chapter 59.

Jack was out of it. He had been held-off by his now, tyrannical wife, for months since his ass got burnt, but now he was going to put things right between them. He was going to put things back to where they were before he lost all the ground in his marriage. 

Jack just didn't care anymore. He grabbed another beer, and as he passed the kitchen table, he opened it, and put his foot up onto the table's top. Jack pulled his semi-erect cock up from under himself, and bending over, inserted the huge bell end into his mouth for a good sucking. Jack was long enough between the legs to be able to do this comfortably.

His knob tasted sweet, from Mary's doughnut, and he came twice into his own head, before cutting off his orgasm, to save the rest for Mary, by biting his lip and tongue. The pain arrested Jack's ejaculation.

Jack was free again, and jumped up on the sink with his ass hanging open over the garbage disposal. He turned on the tap, and switched on the disposal unit, that made a terrible racket, but Mary would be more or less unconscious by now on her meds and her vodka, so he dropped his load of shit into the unit, and listened as the whirr of the disposal, labored, creamily, to process his fudge, into a sludge that an inch and a quarter drain could handle. Jack finished with a fart, and washed his hole as if sitting on a bidet.

The garbage disposal had bad breath when he got off, so Jack took a fresh lemon from the fridge, plus another bottle of lager from the fridge, and threw it into the lacerating vortex of the pulsating kitchen sink's dirt-box. There was an almighty rumbling noise, as the disposal cleaned its teeth, then Jack shut it off and meandered into the living room, beer in hand; with a paring knife, the jar of mayonnaise and the, now, room temperature zucchini.

Jack sat down in his recliner, knocked off the rest of his bottle, and cut a circular riing about three inches from the end of the zucchini, a half of an inch deep, with the paring knife.

Jack rotated the lid off the mayonnaise and dripped the cut end of the zucchini deep into it, then he adroitly threw his legs high up into the air, as he had done many times in the past, until his fully reclining telly-seat revolved backward, a full 270 degrees, which left jack virtually upside down in the chair - his toes, touching the floor behind him, almost looking like an Apollo astronaut in their take-off positions. But, in Jack's living room, rather than being cooped-up in a space suit, Jack was wearing his only his birthday suit - totally nude - except for the vest; legs apart, and sucking his dick profusely. During the suck, Jack uncannily found his hole, and without mess inserted the buttered end of his vegetable dildo, relentlessly into his gaping stink-hole, the cool mayonnaise bathing his healing hole gratefully.

Once the half inch deep circular ring that Jack has cut into the shaft of the zucchini docked with his sphincter-controlled rim, his ass locked on to the phallus with a death grip - otherwise, such tapered poles have a tendency to shoot out of the ring during orgasm. Jack knew this from past experience, and had taken steps to counteract such annoying occurrences. So Jack carved out a groove, that his hole could grab hold of, and hold onto, as he fucked. Jack was not too smart, but when it came to his pleasure, he could always pull a rabbit outta the bag, for that.

There is nothing more annoying, than busting a nut, and having the dildo shoot out of your ass on the second or third cum-shot, due to sphincter muscle spasms. Why, it throws a wet Kleenex, over the whole wanking experience - doesn't it just though, proclaimed Jack, to himself.

Chapter 60.

Occasionally Jack would fall asleep after orgasm, and Mary would find him in the very same position in the morning. Upside down in his recliner, his limpid cock stuck to his bottom lip, with cum dripping off his face and a somewhat wilted zucchini sticking out of his butt.

Mary would be furious! Not so much as to Jack sucking himself off, God Knows she was glad of the rest, but because of the waste of a perfectly good vegetable, and that Jack always forgot to screw the lid on the mayonnaise jar of a night. Mary would salvage what she could of the zucchini that day, and incorporate it in that evening's meal. Jack never ate the zucchini, nor did Mary, but Jack's daughter - Veronica, relished the grub, and he would watch with pleasure, as she wolfed-down the fried remnant of his ass-dildo, at dinner. Mary would kick him under the table with her foot, if the smiling, came to drooling - which it often did, and Mary would raise her foot up between Jack's legs, to check if he had a hard on. She would kick him enviously in the balls with her big toe, and sulk at the table - furious at his unmitigated debauchery. She was jealous, of her daughter's effect on her husband's cock, and Jack knew it.

Chapter 61.

What Mary didn't know, nor Jack for that matter, was that on nights like this, where Jack sucked himself off to completion, and generally fell asleep after the fact of the matter, that his daughter, who had recently just turned eighteen, who having been freshly kicked out of boarding school, on what she describes as a, "...technicality", would be silently watching through the crack of her bedroom door.

...Like the pub, the boarding school rules that - once out - there is no going back, (not for that night, at least), but at Veronica's boarding school - it was forever. Her expelling, not disgracefully though, but - more by luck than not, was, nevertheless, final, and in toto). 

Jack, forgetting that Veronica was (back) home again, would fall back into his usual routine at the drop of a hat. Veronica, ever vigilant, would spring into action the moment the opportunity presented itself, and it presented itself several times a week.

Veronica had gotten a taste for semen, and crack juice during her stay at Saint Blanche's Finishing School for Young Women, and upon her departure, the male and female faculty's wives and husbands would have to step up the pace of sucking, and licking and fucking, now that she was gone. No longer would Veronica be there, to take up the slack, to swallow the bias, of their lackluster, pitiful sex lives. No! Now the fossil-faced dried-up prunes of wives would have to drain their husband's balls themselves; now they would have to go it alone from here on in, and God help them... God help them all, because she knew, they were going to need it. No longer would she stay late after class, and empty the headmaster's cock down her gobbling throat three times a week. Let his wife do it, in her absence. No longer would she be there to lick the PT. coach, Mrs. Chadwell's, gaping clout out in the showers after badminton practice, when all the other girls had wiped, and run off to Vespers. No longer would Veronica be there to turn the bitch upside down and fanny-fuck her gigantic gash, rubbing her inch long clitoris to screaming exultation, with her wet, slippery vaginal wings, and finishing her off by sandpapering the tip of Chadwell's super-engorged clit, with the course clump of rough pubic hair, left there for this purpose exactly; brimming her bulbous Mount of Venus, like a menacing Brillo-Pad. No... No more, now that she was gone. Let her small-dicked husband do the job; whom she blew, twice weekly, under the stairs, in the cricket clobber storage closet. Veronica reminisced that his balls smelled a lot like linseed oil, old leather and dubbin. Now, let his wife have her job back, and let's see how long they last... 

Chapter 62.

In fact, upon Veronica's leaving, The Principle, along with other sundry instructors and tutors, made it quite plain and simple for her, that they...preferred not to have to deal with her again, even at alumni reunions, and that they regretted, due to some unforeseeable glitch, or data-hardware malfunction, that her picture, had, unfortunately, not made it into the final year book, and that they fervently hoped that she wouldn't find it necessary to sue the prestigious finishing school, now that her picture had been scotch-taped into her - complimentary - edition, only. She had only been there six years, and due to all the trouble she had caused there, the faculty - along with the majority of fellow students, were well rid of her. Now she was back: Living in her old bedroom, with Jack and Mary in the apartment. She had grown into a fine young woman, on the outside, slender, vibrant, with tits and an ass to die for, but inside - her head was seriously fucked!

Jack blamed it on Mary. Mary had no idea. Veronica blew The Principle's cock in his office just after he chucked her out. She was still in the process of swallowing his cum, when the door to his office clicked shut, for the last time, and she found herself alone, out in the hallway. She grabbed a passing sophomore, and French kissed The Principle's cum into her astonished open, tongue flicking little slut's mouth. Veronica made the sophomore drop to her knees and Veronica, pulling the gusset of her knickers aside, and yanking the tail of the mouse, of her engorged tampon, she impelled the new recruit to lick he cunt with extreme prejudice, and in the last act of civil disobedience, and total disregard for the institution's moral and ethical mores, Veronica wrestled the new girl to the ground, tore off her knickers and did the 69 gash tango, with her until they both, simultaneously came, and shot their loads of female ejaculate, not only each other's sweet, beautiful faces, but also over The Principle's hallway carpeting too.




Jack and Mary Nobbled Pt. 03



The Principle watched the...sexual melee out from the edge of his office entrance; ajar. He mustered up a last hard on, wanking furiously, and coming - along with the girls themselves; his thick creamy semen pumping out of his rigid, shaking, body, quaking, violently, with debauched, licentious, ecstasy: His goo splashing carelessly over the multiple-coated varnish of the century old oak, and well worn brass handle of the door; dribbling slowly, meanderingly to the floor.

Once he was empty, he silently put the wood back in the hole, and turned the brass steadily with the merest sound of a click. Veronica heard it though, and let go of an enormously loud and rebellious fart, that actually blew the crop of the sophomore's hair out of her orgastic-rolled eyes, which caused her immediately to throw up into the crack of Veronica's ass.

Once Veronica finished her orgasm, she took her foaming cunt out of the sophomore's mouth, lifted he leg, yanked her panties off her elevated ankle, and whilst balancing on one foot, and without taking her eyes of the frightened, quivering body laying prostrate on the floor beneath her, she wiped the spew out of her ass, and flung the soiled garment into the face from whence it had previously come, then she opened her urethra, and pissed like a race-horse, over her concubine, from head to whimpering foot. Once done, she, without a word, flung her hair back with a defiant flick of her beautiful head, marched over to the headmaster's office door, bent over, lifted her blue gingham mini-school uniform skirt up high around her slender waist, and shuffled backward, until her sweet little hairy brown eye lined up directly with the gothic sized key hole.

Veronica had gorged herself some hours earlier, at lunch with Chinese cuisine, which always made her "go" with a vengeance later on.

Veronica pulled the cheeks of her wonderful tight ass so far apart, that her bung-hole protruded the most out of her bent torso. Carefully, she docked the center of her dirt-box immaculately against the cool key hole, with as much precision as the Shuttle docking with the Space Station.

The other side of the door, a squatting headmaster's eye blinked wildly, as the light went out in his peeping key hole.

Veronica opened the sir-lock of her ass-hole slowly. A steadily building jet of white hot Chinese fuelled methane shot out of her hole. 

On the receiving side of the door, the headmaster suddenly, out of the blue, felt peckish for pot-stickers and Chow Mein.

Following Veronica's near ballistic jet-stream of ass-vapor, there came - relentlessly - the head of a fudge-log, with the consistency of Play-Doh. Veronica's rot-hole, was wide open now, and had formed an air-tight seal around the key-hole's shiny brass knock-plate.

The other side of the door, still attempting to see through the peeping hole, the headmaster could hear what sounded like the muffled sound of someone grunting, and swearing under their breath. Then, as if perfectly formed by a cold press, a continuous mold of brown and light beige putty issued forth, oozing out of the brass plate, in the perfect shape of a key-hole.

As the steady stream of potter's mud came through at an ever increasing rate, and with less and less definition, as if the consistency was changing by the second, and was now approaching that of toothpaste, the lace of mud curling upon itself, now touching down onto the floor, and winding itself almost perfectly, except for consistency irregularities that jutted out of the rapidly forming conical geometric shapes glistening surface, which at closer inspection seemed to be, (noted the astonished, and puzzled headmaster), half-chewed fragments of nuts, rolled tomato skins and a profusion of multi-colored corn husks. Headmaster was confused, hungry and intrigued by all of this, and quietly pushed his ear flat to one of the oak panel-boards.

Again, he could hear distinct sounds of muffled grunting, and cursing, such as what one can hear coming out of a portable toilet, when one is standing in line at the County Fair. 

As time went on, the stream emanating from the old door had reached the thickness of stiff piklet batter. The goo no longer could hole its geometrical shape as it hit the floor, anymore, and seemed to start to rain, making a splattering sound now on the hardwood floor of the Headmaster's office.

By now the Headmaster was ravenous for a Chinese, and would gladly donate a testicle, for a bowl of wonton soup right now, as he ran to get a waste-paper bin, to put under the increasingly liquefying stream of light ochre substance billowing out of the key-hole, of his ancient, and much beloved, office door.

He dove back to the panel, pressing his ear once more to its vibrating wood.

He could hear works and broken phrases such as,

"Ugh! Ahh! Ooow! ...come on movver-fucker, Arrgh!, yes! Oocha, whew!, arrgh, no more Chinese for me, Ooow! Mama..."

There was half a bucketful now, sitting in the Headmaster's floor, and it was steaming, in the cool air of spring. Then, without warning, the stream just stopped. The Headmaster slid at the key-hole on his knees, like a poor-man's Sammy Davis Jr, tap-dance-routine wind-up and finale, sliding across a Vegas stage on his spread-eagle knees. It must have hurt, night after night, sliding like that, concluded the Headmaster, picking up several splinters on the way, as he came to a perfect stop, eye level with the dripping key-hole. The Headmaster peered in.

At precisely the same time that the Headmaster plainly arrived at the key-hole, he experienced a forceful jet of gas whistling out of the door. He was famished by now. Then, he plainly heard what sounded like a high-pitched scream coming from the other side - and it was unmistakably female.

In absolute lock-step with the jet of air, the Headmaster heard a singular word, preceded by pleas for forgiveness that sounded like, "Oooweerk! God help me, here it comes... Geronimo!"

Half an almond flew out of the key-hole at high velocity and almost took the eye out of the Headmaster's socket; this was followed by half a dozen corn husks, as if fired out of an Uzi submachine gun which sprayed his face stinging him with their force of travel, all of which was followed by a long, and partially digested limp noodle, which lassoed the Headmaster around the neck so tightly, that he began to cough at the chocking of it.

The Mother-Lode wasn't far behind, and it came without warning!

A high-speed, high-pressure, conical jet of silver-oak colored Chinese mud, flooded out of the key-hole, for what seemed like an eternity. The headmaster was blown across the room, and scampered for shelter, under his desk, visibly shaking.

The cannonade lasted long enough for even a blue-bottle to call it a day, and crawled out from under a crack in the window sill, taking to the wing, and calling it a day, as far as finding something to eat in the Headmaster's office, the place was just too hot, to handle, for the fly. The attack ended with what sounded like a 650 Norton motorcycle revving up to go. Then, it was over.

Veronica sighed a deep sigh of relief, and closed her ass-hole kaleidoscopically from around the Headmaster's key-hole, without as much as spilling a drop, and as she pulled away, her hole made a loud kissing sound, as it tackily de-docked the brass knocking-plate.

Veronica wiped her ring on the large brass knobbed door handle, out of sheer habit, even though she knew it to be clean. Veronica was well trained in toilet etiquette, and employed her learning judiciously.

The Headmaster was found days later nibbling on corn husks and nuts in his office, and was carted off to an asylum, in a meat wagon, with all of its doors left open.

The room was never used again as The Headmaster's office, even though it had been thoroughly, and professionally cleaned several times, the odd corn husk would invariably turn up when least expected. Some say, to this very day, that the room is haunted by the ass of a devil.

In the end, it was turned into a detention center for delinquent Chinese students, who liked corn.

At the asylum, The Headmaster knew he had shut more than just his door that fateful day back at the school, not only to his office, though, but also to the very inner-sanctum of his soul's darkest wanton desires. The Headmaster missed Veronica, and would often be found, muttering her name in the bathroom; for no apparent reason. 

Chapter 63.

Veronica's work was done at the school, and without as much as a sidewards glance she skipped away down the hallway, on to the front door itself; her tits bouncing, her pony-tail swishing and her tight little buttocks dancing to the rhythm of her fluid gait.

Before exiting the school for the last time, Veronica bumped into a second sophomore, who looked around her size. She ordered the sophomore to take off her panties, and give them over to her. Veronica looked into the panties, and sniffed at the heavy skid marks, at the front, and back of the inside of the gusset. She grilled the sophomore as to how long she had been wearing the knickers, and eventually got to the truth - that of three days. When Veronica inquired as to why the sophomore had kept the same panties on for three days, it came out that it was easier to maintain a prominent camel-toe, when the gusset became sticky, and that the boys loved to see a good toe on a girl.

Veronica pondered the newbie's words, and slipped the garment over her turgid buttocks. Then, she opened her legs wide, and told the sophomore that this is a camel-toe, to end all camel-toes. Veronica lifted her leg up high, above her head - ballerina-style, and urged the sophomore to hold it there, whilst she fiddled with her crotch. 

The gusset was rolled, and folded in such a way, that it fit comfortably between her vaginal wings. It was cold at first, due to the three days of gum on it from the sophomore's clout, but the goo soon heated up to Veronica's inner-crack temperature.

Veronica, brought her leg back down, and then urged the newbie, to watch as she bent over, pretending to tie her shoe lace. The camel-toe was massive, and resembled a "Giant Bumblebee Grouper's" mouth, wrapped in cheesecloth. The camel-toe was so profound, that even her hole showed up as a dark, and threatening void, through the material of the knickers, themselves. The sophomore shook, as an unexpected orgasm tore through her innards, causing her unused womb to jolt, and shake and quiver inside her. Love juice rand down the inside of her thigh. Veronica, lifted up the sophomore's mini-uniform skirt, scooped up a finger full, and tasted it. It was fresh, and lovely, and Veronica took the newbie outside, and fanny fucked her until she begged her not to stop. Then she stopped. It was Veronica's maxim. Never stop, until they beg you not to. It's what keeps them coming back for more. Veronica slapped the sophomore on the back of the head, and sent her packing without her knickers, and shouting after her to change your panties every day, or risk a yeast infection. The sophomore ran off bare assed.

Chapter 64.

Veronica's voice jumped not only an octave, but also by the decibel too. The Principal's office door creaked open a touch again, but now he was wearing panty hose and a frilly corset, and harbored a hankering for something else - again. 

The Principle - "Betty" he liked to be called during sex, had a three quarter hard on, and was rubbing handily. He alone could smell the brunt of whiskey on his breath, but who would like the smell of garlic from his bung hole, now that Veronica was leaving... It presented a dilemma for him. He just loved champing down on them pork ribs, laced with sage and thyme, but mostly with them cloves of bursting garlic. He had lost three wives due to his penchant for the bulb. Possibly the thought that they were vampires of a sort crossed his mind, now and again, but he was not a religious man at bottom, and dispelled the notion of Vampires, along with the seven miracles of Christ, and most, if not all of the fables of The Bible, to boot.

The Principle's affairs being his own affair, justified in his mind, nullified any degree of wayward thought, encountered of a night, whilst in the throes of falling off to sleep - that in any way at all, he was at fault. In his mind he was innocent! Innocent of not only...everything, that had happened in the past, but equally' or more important - anything that could possibly happen in the future. This is the way these people think, and they are all over the place, considered Veronica. The Principle loved his ribs, and some would say, 'more than his wives': Veronica collated no more.

She simply went home, and within a month was sent packing to a convent by Mary, her mother, because when Jack fell asleep of a night, upside-down in his Apollo recliner, sucking his meat, and coming into his own head, beating the living-daylights out of his engorged prostate, with the mayonnaise-buttered end of a ridged zucchini, then Veronica would creep stealthily, from her nest, pull her knickers to one side, and mount her father's face with her open crack.

Veronica would suck every last drop of cum that was left in her daddy's cock, whilst riding her clitoris over his face, her probing fingers stuck knuckle-deep into her father's poop-chute, massaging the prostate menacingly, until...finally, he came again, as she did; rubbing her vagina on the tip of his nose and bewhiskered chin.

It was barely three weeks after she arrived home from being kicked-out of boarding school, that Mary, Jack's wife became constipated again, and that meant Jack was not fucking her in the ass at night during her drug and alcohol induced coma of a night.

In Mary's mind, there could be only one reason for the change in Jack's behavior, which had been steady over the years. Someone was emptying his balls. Either he was carrying-on with a floozy outside of their marriage - but that would require time to execute, and Jack's schedule hadn't changed - or, someone new had entered their marriage, in their very home... Veronica!

What put the tin-hat on it all, was when Mary woke up to find Jack's face painted such a vibrant hue of scarlet, that it would have put Sitting Bull himself to shame.

Veronica, had forgotten, that she was on the rag that week, and had fucked her father's face with a strawberry-fish daiquiri. Mary was incensed when she found him in the morning; what with all the flies an' all! There were ructions!

Veronica was expelled again - this time from home, and entered the convent of "The Sacred Heart". She took her favorite books, and her favorite CD's, and also, her favorite vibrators. Veronica felt, she would be needing them, quite shortly...

Chapter 65.

Things got back to normal a week or two following Veronica's expulsion. Mary could shit like a goose in the morning again, and most of the flies had been eradicated. 

Jack and Mary received a post card from Veronica, now a novice at the convent. It read, "Wish you were here!", and pictured a donkey, strapped to a wooden board, teetering on its back hooves, sporting a massive erection, and being ridden by a rather attractive Asian-looking woman. She was looking directly into the camera lens, and smiling, but only with her lips. Her eyes seemed to be...vacant. The donkey pictured as mouth wide open, teeth hanging out to dry, nostrils flaring, and eyeballs popping. Jack felt that the picture reflected perfectly, what he had witnessed, in the face of every woman he had fucked in 40 years of boning, and Mary felt that the donkey, uncannily, reproduced a vivid snap-shot - an aggregation - of all the men who had ever fucked her during her lifetime; this included her grandfather, father uncle Joe, and his friend Manny. The teeth, and popping eyeballs, shot a shiver up her spine, and Jack was quieter than usual, because of the eyes on the woman. They reminded him of the eyes of his aunt, when she took his virginity, without even asking, in the brambles, and bushes of the Yosemite trail that summer - the summer that he had just turned eighteen, he recalled. He never forgot the echoes of the screaming, bouncing off the sheer cliff faces, as she rode him top-wise, and came hugely; impaled deeply, upon his, young, but enormous and rock-hard cock. Jack remembered his aunt drilling into him to yell out when he was about to come. She was clever and didn't want any complications, especially with embarrassing pregnancies, which she would, of course, be pushed to explain, being that she and her husband slept in separate beds in those days.

She came first. She always came first, then not long after, Jack would yell, "I'm fucking coming!"

On cue, auntie would do one of two things:-

One, ripe my cock out of her clout, and wank me to completion, either gobbling me and swallowing, or just exalting, in both the volume, and height at which I could throw my seed, playfully attempting to catch my loads on the way down, in her mouth, ordinarily being splattered and laughing, uncontrollably, at her inability to "catch the load", in mid-flight, or, often or not, she would dismount the stiffening rod, and adroitly, smear her vaginal crème over her bung-hole, in a flawless, well-choreographed action, then with the weight, of her own body, she would open her dirt-box hole, and swallow every iota of my 13 inch prong. The tightness of her ass, would take me over the top, and I would come into her at two inche, the again at four, the at six, the at eight...shooting my semen into her ass every couple of inches, all the way, up to "balls-deep", her turds, rubbing on my engorged helmet, had me screaming also, especially if she had been eating a lot of fiber, and nuts. They tended to scrape along the flange of my tool, as I entered her ass-hole, and made my way up her stink-hole. I like a bit of pain, it reminds me of...growing up, and a sharp nut scraping along the end of your cock, ought to tell you that your cock doesn't belong in here - but it feels so good, and Auntie likes it...

Chapter 66.

It was now, 3:00am in the morning. Jack had trashed the place, and guzzled quite a few beers. Veronica had been sent off weeks ago, to the convent. Jack's balls were busting. He had to unload. Mary was sleeping soundly. Jack finished his last bottle, and scratched his knackers, as he crept from the living room, into the master bedroom bathroom, to piss, before he did Mary - big-time - in every hole she possessed. Jack felt like he was twenty again, and he entered the dim light of the bathroom, with a semi-hard on. He pissed like Niagara, and missed around a third of the time: Mary would clean it up tomorrow, but tonight, he had to get the cum out of his cock, and into her. Jack turned, and farted, and peered into the dark of the bedroom. His cock twitched, and then he noticed something hanging off the bathroom door knob. He stopped with inspection in mind, and smiled...

To be continued...