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.
