Little Flashmarket 41. Nelson's Column Nelson Tilly paced anxiously in front of the printing press. It was well past time to begin printing the Flashmarket Whisper, but the advice column was late. As usual. He'd never get it done in time. "I swear to God," he muttered, "I'm just going to fire her." But he knew it wasn't true. 'Ask Auntie Agnes' was the most popular column in his paper. People turned to her words with the satisfaction of those who take pleasure in the troubles of others. He'd even seen Father Grogan riveted to her column. Nelson never read agony-aunt columns himself. Rubbishy things. He just wished she could get them in on time. Now she was so late, he'd have to do the typesetting himself. At last, Agnes tapped in briskly. "There it is, love," she said. "All ready." He gave her a brief and insincere smile and got to the typesetting. Dear Auntie Agnes, read the first letter. How do you get blood out from between bathroom tiles? Perplexed Housewife This is a serious housekeeping problem, read the response, written in sloping copperplate handwriting. Use a solution of vinegar and baking soda, and a good, stiff-bristled toothbrush. Put your back into it! Dear Auntie Agnes, I'm in terrible trouble. There's a man who's said that if I don't keep sleeping with him, he'll kill all the cats in Little Flashmarket. You've got to help me. Animal Lover Don't be such a silly young miss. Pussies are two a penny, but a good cock will last you a lifetime. Confidential to G. E. H.: Don't worry. Some nice Satanist always likes a virgin to corrupt. Be patient, and your Prince will come! Nelson Tilly stood back. A good job well done. He turned to Agnes, the whisperer. "Thank you, Mother," he said. * * * 42. Mike's Deliverance Mike Matabele sat at the Flashmarket Arms in front of his third pint of lager, complaining. Again. "I think," he said, "that it has been twelve... months... since I've got laid. Twelve." He shook his head sadly, and looked up at Kevin, Horace, and Trevor Watson. They were sitting across from him, looking sympathetic, even though they'd been hearing about his problem twice a week for a year. "What does that tell you?" demanded Mike. "Tells me you're not trying hard enough, mate," said Horace. "Not trying? Me?" Mike pointed at his own chest with an indignant finger, and missed. "I try, and I try, and. . ." Trevor leaned forward conspiratorially, his blue eyes alight. "We can take you where you'll get some for sure," he said, and Mike's heart jumped. Deep in the forest, where the Watson boys led him, Mike leaned against the great oak, feeling ill. It was spooky, and dark. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He'd be safe. The Watsons were quick, enthusiastic learners. Generous. Popular in town. Teachers, sisters, gypsies, the vicar's wife, everyone liked them. He looked down in alarm, and squeaked. "What. . . what the fuck are you doing?" "Just chaining you to the tree, Mike," said Horace, cheerfully. "You'll get laid, I promise. Works every time." Off to the left, Trevor was picking out a tune on his banjo. Kevin was putting on a balaclava. Mike felt the chilly night air as his trousers fell to the ground. He suddenly made the fervent resolution never to complain again. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to squeal as a thick cock shoved at his arse. "Whacko," said a cheerful voice in his ear. "This is way better than sheep." Sometimes in this life, you get what you ask for. * * * 43. Lucretia's Tableside Service Alan Wilks nodded as he watched the little waif move about the Flashmarket Arms. A lousy waitress to be sure, but as a serving wench, well, she had the essentials. The cashier had referred to her as "Lucretia." The moniker fit perfectly. Lucretia's tableside service was unique, to say the least. While filling his water glass, she bent forward, a corset squeezing together a pair of milk jugs like no other. An hour later, she brought out the main course, but as she placed it on the table, she dropped a fork. Bending over to retrieve it, she exposed a luscious pair of tanned cheeks. They were so close to his face he had easily counted the blemishes on each one. When he finished his meal, Alan motioned her over. "Yeah?" "The pork, it had more than a dash of onion." "So?" "Lucretia, dear, I would like an after-dinner mint." "Don't have any. All I have is a lemon drop." "Splendid. I'll take one." "Not that easy, mister. You have to work hard for it." "I have to do what?" Lucretia pushed Alan's chair back and jumped onto the table, her butt smacking the wood. With both hands she grabbed Alan by the hair and shoved his face into her cleft. Before he could pull back, she wrapped her thighs about his neck, using her calves to push him in even deeper. "You're going to have to suck a bit before it gives," she said between moans. Several minutes later, Lucretia relinquished her hold. Stunned, Alan made to reach for his wallet. Lucretia leaned forward, her hands working on his trousers. "I don't take tips, mister," she said as her hands found his thick member. "I take the whole bloody thing!" * * * 44. Fall, Back Little Flashmarket has, in some sense, a relatively stable population. Brigitte Spiewak is fond of quoting its stability statistics to businesses sniffing at expanding markets. "We're not big," she says, "but we're loyal, steady, and we're not going anywhere." It isn't her most effective pitch, but she's right on the money. Residents of Little Flashmarket rarely go anywhere. They all know there's no place like Little Flashmarket. So if they do leave, they tend to stay gone. However, Nicholas Fall, proprietor of Fallsworth Imports, gets itches. Mild and completely ignorable at first, building quickly past annoyance into full-blown obsession. When it starts, Nicholas packs a bag and sails away. Weeks later, he returns, laden with stories and crates of new merchandise. Vases from "The Orient," spice jars from "The Far East," carvings from "the African Continent." Nicholas's customers aren't particular, and he feels no need to be more specific about his travels. Emma Fall doesn't complain when, on Thursday morning, Nicholas again pulls his travelling case from under the bed. Emma helps him pack, waves from their cottage doorway, and watches until he is out of sight. Emma thinks vaguely about Nicholas's itch, and marvels at how his leaving suits both of them just fine. Nicholas will return -- there is, after all, business to conduct and money to make -- and bring with him stories of steamship travelling companions--the men who scratch his itch. She likes to hear his stories; Nicholas is a man of details, and to her, a fuck is a fuck. She doesn't share her stories. Nicholas isn't interested in how well the men of Little Flashmarket eat pussy. Nicholas's itches had, after all, started when he discovered that men who eat pussy don't generally care to expand their oral skills. * * * 45. Brigitte Spiewak Cuts The Cake Brigitte Spiewak was neither wife nor mother, but she was a struggling estate agent. This means that she made a point of baking a cake for the tea table, and serving half-time teas, at every home game the Little Flashmarket Grammar School First XV played. She was therefore familiar with the local sporting tradition that the home team, when victorious, were rewarded on their return to the dressing room by the presence of Estelle Willing, splay-legged and neatly bound with butcher's twine over the pommel horse. What then followed was traditionally known as "the post-match scrum-down." If the team lost, Estelle wouldn't be there. So great was Estelle's determination to find fresh ways of motivating the Little Flashmarket team that she herself had suggested that she should be bound to the pommel horse in any case, and simply shifted into the winning dressing room at the final whistle. For this exemplary team spirit, she had won Little Flashmarket's Good Woman of the Year award in 2002, the youngest ever recipient. What interested Bridget, though, was the stern, meritocratic tradition that limited the post-match scrum-down to the fifteen fanatically fit young seventeen-year-olds who had actually played. In each match, a selection of also-rans -- equally young, equally fit, and equally brimming with spunk -- would be consigned hopelessly to the bench with no hope of a scrum-down. Bridget's search for a support niche focused on cheering up these dispirited lads. For example, the burly, big-everywhere hooker with the cute dimple, Cedric Comfrey. "Wanna scrum down?" Brigitte asked him shyly as he trailed dispiritedly past, crotch swollen. But he gazed, horrified, at her, and ran off to the change rooms. The raucous, post-match yodelling of virile young males was suddenly hushed and then came wave after wave of baying, shrieking laughter. * * * 46. Bennett, Light My Fire Jesus Christ on a pogostick. He'd been pumping away at her for fuckingever, but he couldn't get over the hump. It was right there. So close, so fucking close. "Oh, Bennett, you're amazing." She clawed his biceps and rolled her hips up, forward, grinding her clit against his pubic hair. He concentrated past her. Straining, humping, anything to get the dam to break. Just a spark, that's all he needed. She moaned and tightened her grip. Bennett figured she was faking. She'd come, at least twice, and her pussy wasn't as wet and inviting as it had started out. Penelope collapsed under him, limp and gasping, and he went to his elbows. She kissed his chest. "Bennett Williams, I've never met a man who could last. Word gets out, I'll never get you in my bed again; girls will be lined up to spread their legs." He felt a cold knot starting at the base of his balls. He rolled off and knew he wasn't going to come with her. She was sweaty and rumpled and so fucking worn out. Slut. No wonder he couldn't come. Bennett shuddered and dressed. "Where are you going? You're leaving?" "Business to take care of." She sat up, arms crossed over bare breasts. "Bennett Williams, don't walk out now. Can't it wait?" His balls throbbed. "Nah. Gotta be now." Bennett prowled the streets, one hand obsessively rubbing his crotch. Muttering. "A spark. Something." He lit a smoke and watched the match burn. "A spark. . ." It was an old barn. Edgar had built a new one last year--he used this one for keeping the feed dry. But it burned perfectly, and it had only taken a spark from one of Bennett's cigarettes. They all watched -- the entire town came. Including Bennett Williams. Finally. * * * 47. Felonious Monk Bob Brentwood, not for one moment at ease in Little Flashmarket, went shopping with his wife, Laura, who thought the town and its people charming and hospitable. He was half- hoping for an incident to convince her that he was right, and that they should flee the place forthwith for their sanity and their lives. He was not disappointed. They were accosted in the supermarket car park by a most frightening man. "Burn," he said to them, his eyes unnaturally bright. "Not today, thanks," Laura said firmly. "Perhaps some other time." Bob was astonished she was so unshaken. The man was a figure straight from the pits of Hell. His eyes glowed like hot coals, his hair was snow-white, his body gaunt and emaciated, feet bare and bruised, teeth atrociously decayed, long coat filthy. "You're all going to die," the man said with considerable relish. "Get a bath, get a job," Laura snapped at him. The prophet of doom blinked at her, then swept open his coat to reveal an impressively long erection for a man in such poor physical condition. "Sit on this, baby," he snarled. Laura grabbed her husband's arm and took him shopping. "See?" Bob hissed at her. "This town. They're everywhere, they're everywhere." Approaching was Lacey Penwhistle, who Laura had already befriended. "That man," Laura said, pointing. "Who is he?" "That's Felonious Monk," Lacey said. "The former Reverend Anthony Monk, vicar before Reverend Thomson, defrocked for exposing himself to the congregation. Crazy as a two bob watch. Take no notice." Laura smiled victoriously at her husband. But he was looking with horror at a grinning middle-aged woman rotating her wheelchair purposefully towards him. Doris took her teeth out. Behind them, Felonious Monk railed. "You must all burn. You're all going to die." * * * 48. Marie-Louise stands and waits Marie-Louise Pendleton, waitress at the Flashmarket Arms, ties her gleamingly clean blonde hair back in a ponytail, and regards herself critically in the mirror. Her clean white blouse is regulation size. That is, too small. Mr. Willing, her boss, likes his waitresses to dress this way: it distracts the customers from how bad the food is. Marie-Louise is wearing the slightly longer of her two waitressing skirts. Nodding briskly, she awards herself a pass mark, and reports to the dining room. "Big night tonight," Peter Willing warns her. His gaze probes the inevitable, alluring, between-buttons gap, and approves her acceptably flimsy bra. "The Little Flashmarket First XV is coming for their end-of-season celebratory dinner." Marie-Louise has mixed feelings about this. Schoolboys never tip, whereas the market rate for a really searching grope seems to be around ten pounds nowadays. A few minutes' thought leads her to return to the cloakroom to remove her knickers. They won't last the evening anyway, so prudence suggests sacrificing them some other time to someone who'll finance a replacement. After further thought, she removes her bra as well. She will end the evening without it, in any case, and decides to conserve it against future need. She puts her hair up into a bun: the men like how it cascades back down again when released. Finally, she switches to the shorter of her two waitressing skirts. Might as well go the whole hog. The guests crowd in. She stations herself by the one with the nicest hands. Not surprisingly, it's the Byronic scrumhalf. "Good evening, gentlemen," she purrs. "My name is Marie- Louise, and I'll be serving you tonight. In the meantime, may I take a drinks order?" They respond with raucous whistling and catcalling, and the scrumhalf establishes that she's not wearing any knickers. * * * 49. Val Makes a Decision "Oh God, I'm sorry, Val -- I mean everyone in the village is talking and I couldn't bear it to be behind your back." Val listened to her friend Marjorie's voice on the phone and thought how hollow the sentiment was behind the words. She knew what pleasure Marjorie was taking from being the one to tell Val that her husband's half-hour absence at the golf club dinner dance had not, as he'd claimed, been to spend time discussing business with Ian Winston but to shove that ever- erect cock of his into Pepper Winston's shapely little behind. Marjorie was still talking. "You know what you should do, don't you, Val darling?" "No, Marjorie. What?" Val asked, amazed that Marjorie was too thick-skinned to notice the quiet fury in her voice. "You should take a lover. Young, old, male, female -- it doesn't matter. All that matters is that you have a damned good time being fucked silly and that Andy should find out. That'll bloody teach him, the philandering sodomist. . ." Val wondered idly how Marjorie knew about Andy's little fetish but she didn't pursue the matter. "Thanks, Marjorie," she said and put the phone down. The drinks cabinet beckoned and Val made herself a stiff gin- and-tonic. As she sipped the drink she wondered whether she really even cared about what Marjorie had told her. And she wondered what her feelings were for Andy. And then she realized what fun, what sheer blissful fun it would be to get her revenge. And she'd enjoy some bloody good sex into the bargain. Val finished her drink and stood up, suddenly resolute. Young or old, male or female Marjorie had said. Well she knew someone who fitted the bill perfectly, just perfectly. A very pretty young woman whose huge breasts turned Val on something wicked. . . * * * 50. Marie-Louise Serves It Up At the rugby dinner at the Flashmarket Arms, things are getting out of hand. The roast beef is eaten, the speeches made, the bread rolls thrown. Marie-Louise clears dishes until only the port glasses, glistening in the candlelight, remain on the gleaming white, Irish linen tablecloth. So good for soaking up stains, remembers Marie-Louise. Young eyes glint rapaciously in flushed young faces. Not drunk, but having drink taken, assesses Marie-Louise, like a Scottish sergeant major. Convivial. Just right. She returns to the table, pulls out a hairpin, and her hair cascades down her back. "Will there be anything else, gentlemen?" she enquires ritually. Eager hands seize her. In a trice, she is on the table, wrists clamped firmly by brawny fists. Unseen hands flip up her skirt, an unseen cock thrusts eagerly into her and, in no time at all, spews jism. "Oi!" she cries, "Not fair! I didn't come! Next! Quickly!" But the next comes, and comes, and goes, and still she has not climaxed. Third up, though, is the chunky hooker, Cedric Comfrey. He guides his short, thick cock into her, clamps his big, angular, weather-beaten hands onto her alabaster thighs and -- looking into her eyes -- immediately settles into a steady, relentless rhythm. Marie-Louise gazes up at his shy blush and his dimple, and raises her feet so she can feel his brawny buttocks flexing under her heels. "Oh, God!" she cries, writhing and wrenching at her captors' grasp as Cedric at last jerks into her. "Don't give her any down-time," calls the big blond lock, immediately taking Cedric's place. "Keep the kettle boiling." He is the natural leader type. Publican Peter Willing looks on approvingly. Marie-Louise is an employee to be treasured. A team player. Forever working to make the Flashmarket Arms a nice place to come.