SAINT PATRICK'S DAY

On the morning of March the fifteenth, Mary was bent over the parapet of the top floor of the flats, naked from the waist down, being enthusiastically fucked by a young man. She was already quite aroused and loved the feel of that hard male organ moving in and out of her mature cunt. It had been a long time and now she began to moan, carried away by it all.

Now read on....

March the fifteenth began normally enough for Mary. She rose, sluiced her face and arms with muddy water from the can in the kitchen and shuffled out and leant on the parapet of the walkway overlooking the weed grown courtyard of their block of flats. The sun had not yet risen, but already the air was hot, muggy. She was wearing only a man's old stained tee shirt that reached to her knees and nothing else, but the air on her body was of no relief. She felt restless and needing. It was that damned party last night that made her like this. Up here on the fourth and top floor she had been able to see everything.

Linda, that slut with the big tits on the ground floor, had hosted the party, with three of the more nubile of the women in the place. She had invited all the men of the place of course. Mary had not been allowed to go, but later in the night she had seen her man lead Linda out to the bonfire they had lit in the courtyard. They must already have been playing round inside, for the man, wearing only his shirt, was quite rampant. He had pushed the woman down among the weeds, fallen on her, and given her a long, rough tupping. From the cries of pleasure coming up to Mary's hot ears, the woman must like that sort of stuff. It was however difficult to tell, because two of the other women were being similarly treated.

She shifted on her bare feet, thinking of how she wanted a man. Her eyes were bloodshot and her tongue furry. What with watching the goings on half the night, she had not had much sleep. She brushed her long black tresses out of her face and sighed.

Just then she heard one of the neighbour's doors creak open and looked over her shoulder. It was Andy, a young fellow who worked on the roads. He was fit and as she looked at his young body, her pulse gave a little jump. He had a towel round his waist and nothing else on. He came over.

"Hi," he said. They did not speak often for he was away for days at a time, but it was clear that he liked her. Looked on her as a mother, probably, she thought pessimistically.

"Hi Andy," she replied, and turned back to contemplate the debris and bottles and pieces of clothing that littered the courtyard from last night's party.

She felt his strong arm over her shoulder as he came up next to her. She was overcome by a wave of relief, of gratitude for the boy.

"I missed out on the party last night," he said, giving her a squeeze.

She grunted. "So did I."

There was a silence.

"Want me to fix you up then?" He was hesitant, so young, so innocent. She suddenly turned to him, hugged him and looked up into his brown eyes.

"You really would?" she said with growing excitement. By way of answer he kissed her on the mouth, their tongues probing. They said no more for no more needed to be said.They pulled apart and her hands tugged the towel loose, let it drop. He was already hard as he turned her gently round, let her grab the rail, then lifted the back of her tee shirt. She felt his hands on her naked hips, then his rigid tip probing her wet slit, then sliding in with ease. She gave a little grunt of pleasure and Andy began to poke in and out, in and out, slowly, then, because it had been a long time for him, faster and faster, till he slammed in and held himself there, quivering as he spurted his clean white semen up her cunt. He pulled out, wrapped the towel round himself and she stood and turned. He kissed her on the lips, but gently, as his hand rubbed one of her tits through the cloth of her garment.

"Thanks, Mary," he said, and padded quietly back to his flat.

Mary may have continued leaning on the parapet for a while more, dreaming of how good that hard young man's prick had felt, but she was interrupted.

"What sort of a day's it gonna be?" said a voice from their half opened door behind her. Mary shuffled back in and addressed a dirty sheet lying in a large mound on the living room floor.

"Not too bad," she mumbled. She knew she would have to climb down six storeys to get more water and that she would have to do it soon before the cistern, really the old basement, became too low and too murky, both because of its shallowness and because of the pig-selfish way some people flung their buckets in and stirred up the slime. Then she would have to wait another 24 hours till night allowed the ancient trickle of rusty water (from what toxic source?) to fill the tank again. Once she would have woken with the first light of dawn and been down there with the best of them, but these days, well, she felt tired. Her chest ached. Not tired. She felt old, that was it. When she had tried to talk to Albert about it he had mocked her, said she thought too much, and had started in on one of those lectures about how his father and his brothers never lay round moaning when they had the Farm to run, and how that was the trouble with city people, and so on. To which she would usually reply that if his father and his brothers had been so damned smart and hard-working, then why had they all had to walk off the farm and come to the city? Though, to tell the truth, she didn't even have the energy for that much of a riposte these days, and anyway, who cared? Albert's male relatives had all died in one of those skirmishes with the Indons ten years ago and now she had better things to think of.

Like the thought of having to get down to the basement and haul the dirty water back up all those weary concrete steps .

"What the hell," she muttered between clenched teeth, pulling off her tee shirt. She slapped on her straw hat, pulled on the thick cotton army shirt and pants, and slid her feet into her home-made sandals.

"I think I'll start off," she said, making for the door. "I've been late too often this week and they could dock our ration. Bye."

The sheet grunted.

Mary plodded on down the stairs to the next landing. Then she stopped and stared. A naked couple lay there on the dusty, rubbish-strewn concrete, and were enthusiastically screwing. The girls thin legs were up around the fellow's waist and his narrow buttocks were slamming into her as she lay beneath him. They looked to be only about eighteen or nineteen.

A young man of about nineteen at the other end of the landing, was urinating shamelessly against the wall. He turned as Mary passed and looked dull-eyed at her as she continued past him. Then she noticed he was not urinating, but pulling on his quite hard and very thick tool and had in fact been watching the young couple fucking. She gave a little shudder of arousal, and wondered what it would be like to be done by an organ of that size. She stopped, several steps down, and turned, looked at him then slowly lifted her big shirt and exposed her tits. She might have tried something with the fellow, but just then the excitement of seeing her big, motherly melons quivering with the woman's heavy breathing, and of being watched by an older woman was too much for him and he spurted a long and copious jet of sperm onto the ground, his blank eyes still fixed on her tits.

Mary grunted, lowered her shirt and kept going down the next flight of stairs.

"Ha!" thought Mary, still a little frustrated and sniffing the air and sidestepping fresh faecal matter, draped artistically over the edge of a concrete step. "Wait till the little bugger has to go out and work!"

For Mary worked. She was employed in one of the City vegetable gardens, tending the plants on which their lives all depended. Once a week she then queued and received her reward; a share of the vegetables and grain that she had helped to produce. People supplied their own protein by fishing, hunting the town dogs. The system was quite fair, even if a little strict, and it was in any case better than starving to death, though life was not exactly gay. Perhaps, she mused, it was because there were too few people. She seemed to remember how once, when she was very small, there had been a lot of people. Whole streets full, all dressed in new clothes and so busy! But that was before the Big Sick, and a whole lot of other things. She shook her head to clear it of all that nostalgic crap. Her trouble was that she had spent too much time listening to her grandfather. She pursed her lips, scratched her tangled hair and leaned out one of the broken windows of the stair well. Good! She was almost down at ground level. Not so good was the way the sun blazed out from the horizon, making her skin smart where it struck her. It was going to be another scorcher. But then, most summer days were, with the mercury climbing regularly to forty-five Celsius and over.

Out on the street Mary hurried along in the shade to the boat and when she got there found that it was just pulling out.

"Hey! Wait for me!" she shouted hoarsely, flapping down the pavement onto the improvised rubble pier and flinging herself onto the stern of the antique ferry as it chugged off down the flooded street. On either side the old skyscrapers rose out of the water, sinister testimony of the amount the sea had risen and a grim promise of what their own part of the City could expect in a few years.

Now they were out on the River itself, a tiny mote on the broad, swollen expanse of water. Huge jellyfish floated past just below the surface, brown and complex, pulsating like so many labouring hearts and Mary looked away and squinted at the horizon, feeling already that weight on spirit and chest that normally came only after hours in the fields; that numbing of mind and depression of soul, that total revulsion for existence, that usually settled on her at the end of the shift. It was going to be a long day.

In fact, however, Mary collapsed soon after the morning break and was taken, wheeled on a handcart by two of her cynical buddies, to the Hospital. Here she was found to have asbestosis and shot.

"Death always seems such a waste," said one of the two stern-faced young doctors who had attended her, as Mary’s body was carried off on a trolley by a bored orderly with arms like a gorilla.

"Oh, I don't know," said the other, wiping the small pistol and placing it thoughtfully in its wooden box. "There was nothing we could have done for her and in any case..." He looked at the patient's card and tapped it. "...she had a good innings." The other raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"The lady was almost forty!"