Chapter 1

Every hero must have a name. What is the mad old woman from the second entrance at number 6 on Maple Court called, the one watching the bank director’s wife get fucked by the janitor? Let us say her name is Martha. That name means “mistress.” Is it not right that madness should rule this house? And now that madness beholds the fruits of its reign. The sleep of reason gives birth to monsters such as Omar. They only look helpless...

Yuri stares intently, until it hurts his soul and the lips he keeps biting, at his wife bent over for Omar. The rhythmic smacks ring clearly through the silence of the street. So do Annette’s “Mm!” and Omar’s “Ah!” The janitor’s thick belly shakes from this “athletic exercise,” unfit for so old and decrepit an organism.

“Are you fucking me or just stroking me with your cock?!” says Annette, in a manner wholly unfamiliar to her. The old woman standing there beside them, clucking and lamenting, keeps her from crossing that shining line into orgasm -- distracts her. And yet to stand before her in just such a pose, bent over, giving herself to the filthy janitor right before her eyes -- that too is a pleasure! But to stop now, to break off coupling with the janitor without coming, seems impossible. Annette feels shame and irritation. Irritation at old Martha, who will not leave and keeps her from concentrating on the sensations of sex. Irritation at Omar, who, despite his big cock, cannot bring his lover to orgasm under circumstances like these. Irritation at herself.

“How did I sink to this?! Cheating on my husband with the janitor right out on the street, in front of a neighbor!”

Annette kept taking all that irritation out on the old man. And this despite the fact that he was dutifully moving his hips, never stopping, fucking her without pause. To Yuri, every thrust of the old man felt as though Omar were fucking their whole family, not just Annette. Yuri had long since come to see himself and his wife as a single whole...

“Sweetheart, I’m trying, but maybe later...” says the panting old man, shrinking beneath Martha’s severe stare. When you are a nobody, you can try to play the hero before one woman, but a third wheel always ruins everything. Before Martha, even while fucking a beauty, the old man still saw himself through the crone’s eyes: “A filthy stupid janitor.” Nothing more. The chief fear tormenting Omar all his life is not the fear of death or the fear of pain, but the fear of insignificance. And, as they say, whatever a man fears most is what befalls him...