Little Flashmarket



31. Anne Thomson, Good Woman


Anne Thomson, Little Flashmarket's Good Woman of the Year in 
1998 and 2001, arrived at Queenie Watson's house with what she 
called her crisis kit -- a Gladstone bag containing spray 'n 
wipe-type cleaners, sponges, rags, knives, scissors, basic 
first aid necessities, painkillers, sleeping pills, and a 
bottle of quality brandy.

Queenie was certainly laid low. Pneumonia, her brother had 
said on the telephone. Her breathing was shallow, her face 
chalky-white, her eyes deeply worried.

"It's Friday night," she whispered, clutching Anne's hand 
feebly. "The boys have to take their weekly bath."

"Yes, yes," Anne assured her smoothly. "I'm here now. Get some 
rest."

"You must make them take their bath," Queenie said. "They're 
disgustingly dirty."

"Yes, Queenie. I'll take care of it."

Anne filled the bath and summoned the boys. "Quick about it," 
she said. "Let's be having you. Who's first?"

Horace, Kevin and Trevor Watson shed their clothes, crowding 
the small bathroom with their huge frames and hard erections.

"Queenie gets in with us," Trevor said shyly. "That's how it's 
always been."

Anne sighed in resignation and began to unbutton her dress. 
"Well, you're certainly horribly dirty fellows," she said. 
"And I did promise your sister."

"Whacko," Kevin said, grinning and grabbing his cock. "Fresh 
cunt tonight, boys."

Anne hung her underwear on a hook and pulled out her mobile 
phone from the Gladstone bag. "You'll have to make your own 
dinner," she told her husband, the Reverend Ronald. "I have to 
see to Queenie's brothers, and it looks like it might take 
some time."

* * *
 
32. Pepper's Pleasant Dreams


In the night Pepper woke as Ian's intrusive fingers moved her 
sleep-heavy limbs apart. He entered her drowsing body and she 
gasped at the driving power of her husband's thick cock as his 
strong body mastered hers. Pepper clung to him as Ian crushed 
her hot heavy breasts with his mouth, her cunt flexing in 
orgasm as he groaned and climaxed.

Eventually Ian eased his weight off her and Pepper slipped 
back into sleep. She liked Ian's body on hers. He drowned her 
and she loved it.

Again in the night Pepper woke up. She was on her side, her 
back to Ian, and he was lifting her bottom and pulling her 
round so he could enter her from the rear. His cock nuzzled 
for a way in and Pepper's cunt throbbed with the pleasure to 
come, but she suddenly whispered: "No. Take my bum."

Ian sighed with delight and began to push at his wife's anus. 
Hungry to have him every way there was, she pressed back 
against his cock with a will.

The swollen glans slipped in easily, oiled by the slippery 
mass of Andy Brock's semen. Pepper moaned and her fists curled 
in the bedclothes as Ian gripped her breasts and bit her 
shoulder. Ian couldn't hold back his climax, and Pepper felt 
him empty his balls into her rectum.

Pepper lay sprawled in ecstasy as her husband slowly withdrew, 
but he had not finished. He turned her over and lowered his 
face to her distended anus so that he could suck and lick his 
come from her ass.

Pepper's last thought as she fell asleep once more was that 
she really ought to be annoyed with Ian for making her have 
sex with Andy. And she would have been, if she hadn't enjoyed 
it so much. . .

* * *

33. Alice's Tale

Isabella Rose watched with cavernous eyes as her mother, Anne, 
sifted through a box of dog-eared paperbacks. She was snug 
against her mother's warm breasts, wrapped in a front-carry 
papoose. She'd been kept dry under Anne's plaid raincoat as 
the two of them walked from their cottage to the market 
square. The skies had been threatening, the air warm and 
electric with an impending storm, and now rain pelted the 
bookstore windows. The store's burnt-wood sign (Twice Told 
Tales, books bought & sold.  Talismans & Spells) clattered in 
the wind.  

Anne opened the book randomly as the hero, slick and golden 
and muscle bound, thrust his raging cock into the helpless 
heroine's wet sex.

"You don't want any of those".  

"I don't?"

"No. They're trash, and they're for the women who lack 
imagination. I doubt that's your problem."

"I have a problem?"

Alice glanced at Isabella then back up at Anne. "Of course you 
do. We all have a problem. The key is discovering what it 
really is. Come here, and I'll find something for you."

There was an undercurrent there. Something obvious that pulled 
at Anne's insides and sent a spark between her legs.

She stood in front of the counter and absently traced the 
design on the floor with her toe. The small inlaid pentagram 
was repeated every few feet in a pattern both instantly 
disturbing and ultimately forgettable.

Alice pursed her lips, glossed as red and shiny as newly-shed 
blood, and reached beneath the counter for a plain-bound book.  
She handed it to Anne, but didn't immediately let it go.  

"Better than any of that trash over there. If you like it, 
Anne, come back and you can show me all of your. . ." she 
paused, flicked the tip of her tongue over her teeth, "the 
best parts."

* * *

34. The Bishop of Casterbridge

The Reverend Ronald Thomson looked at the clock in his study 
with a guilty start. The Bishop was due. In fact, overdue. He 
put away his collection of pre-1940 jam tin labels. 
Enthralling, as always. And that last Rhodesian batch from the 
Colonial Conserve Company! My word! Just exquisite.

He wandered out into the garden in search of his wife. Ah, 
yes, there she was, doing something useful, no doubt. He could 
see her curly brown hair bobbing up and down, there among the 
ferns in the greenhouse. She was probably potting on the 
tomatoes, or something like it. Such an agreeable woman. 
Everyone said so, even the Bishop.

Reverend Thomson raised his hands to form a trumpet, and 
called out to her through the glass. "Don't forget, dear," he 
shouted. "The Bishop is coming."

Anne Thomson smiled and waved at her husband, not breaking her 
rhythm, hoping indeed His Grace, the Bishop of Casterbridge, 
the fat slug, would come soon. She was certainly putting her 
best work into it, pumping her body up and down the length of 
his cock through the strength of her forearms while he lay 
smugly supine and at considerable ease on his back on the 
cool, earth floor of the greenhouse. The Bishop had servants, 
and it tended to give him airs and graces.

She'd been fucking the Bishop for four years, and no doubt the 
relationship had kept Ronald from promotion. But that was 
probably a good thing, because Ronald would be even more 
hopeless in a big town than he was in Little Flashmarket.

The Reverend Thomson wandered back into his study, wondering 
fleetingly why his wife was bare-breasted in the greenhouse. 
Maybe her plants grew better for the sight of it. A female 
thing, mysterious, and best left as it was.

* * *     

35. Alice Knows Best


No jingle of bells greeted Bob Brentwood when he pushed open 
the door of Twice Told Tales (books bought & sold, Talismans & 
Spells). The light was soft, dusty, as used bookstores should 
be. No cats though. He thought it odd that there wasn't a cat 
sitting on the counter to guard the register. 

Alice was. Sitting on the counter, right leg crossed over 
left. Her maroon skirt was open to her thigh. He had a sudden 
urge to kiss the orchid tattoo it so perfectly framed.  

"You want a book?" Her voice was smoke.

"I. . .no. I was just looking."

"Of course. Please." She smiled. He relaxed.

His fingers brushed through a display of amulets hanging above 
a selection of cheap, Everyman edition classics. "You don't 
believe in this stuff, do you? Spells? Spirits?"

She studied him silently with feline eyes until he shifted 
nervously. "What I believe? When rituals and ceremonies have 
flourished for as long as these have, there's probably a 
reason."

He didn't know how to respond, or even if she was looking for 
anything in return. She hadn't moved. He turned, thinking to 
leave.

"Wait." She stroked her fingers through stones in a glass bowl 
beside her. Without looking, she pulled out a smooth green 
rock and handed it to him.

Their fingertips brushed. He turned the stone over between his 
fingers and the light played over the polished surface. She 
grabbed his wrist and brought his fingers to her lips. She 
sucked gently, leaving a blood-red ring kissed around the tip. 
She pressed the stone against his palm. Her fingers cool and 
dry, and he was absurdly worried that his hand was 
sweating. "You'll want to keep that with you."

He cleared his throat. "Will it help?"

"You're in Little Flashmarket now. It can't hurt."

* * *

36. Mrs. Edgely's New Tenant


Mrs. Edgely was a modest woman, modestly dressed, living in a 
modest home in a modest neighbourhood. She would never 
consider doing anything out-of-the-way or attention-getting. 
But when her husband Michael died and was laid to rest, she 
knew she would be obliged to augment her modest income. So up 
went a small, neatly hand-lettered sign in her window: Room To 
Let.

It wasn't long before someone came knocking, asking about the 
room. A tall, thin, wolfishly handsome young man, hat in hand, 
with a cardboard suitcase and no other belongings at all. He 
looked starved half to death. She didn't know where he would 
get the money to pay the modest rent for the room, but she 
told him what she charged, and he agreed without 
hesitation.

She paused on the stairs. 

"This is a respectable house, young man," she told him. 
"You'll have a bath before you sleep in my sheets." He bent 
his head, acquiescent.

She laid the things out for him. Bath towel, hand towel, 
washcloth. Shaving soap, straight razor, cologne. The things 
had been Michael's, but he wouldn't have minded. The young man 
was really so very like him. 

"Have you ever used a straight razor before?" she asked. "No? 
Let me do it for you, then."

She put him in the bath, his long, lean form stretched naked 
before her -- I've seen it all before, duck, don't worry, now 
-- and caressed the line of his jaw. Soap first, softening the 
bristles. Touching his face, his neck, the curve of his 
shoulder. He moved to hide his growing erection, and she was 
glad he couldn't see her smile. 

She set the silky blade against his throat.

"Mrs. Edgely?" he asked hoarsely. "Have you done this before?"

Yes. She'd done this for Michael.

Just the once.

* * *

37. Pepper's Uninvited Guest


The phone rang. Just out of the shower, Pepper Winston picked 
up the handset, using the other hand to hold her Chinese silk 
robe closed. The material clung to her wet body, becoming 
translucent over the curves of her ass and the bulge of her 
huge breasts.

"Mrs. Winston? Andy Brock."

"Hello, Mr. Brock," Pepper said, coolly.

"I was wondering if Ian was home?"

"No, he's at work. Why?"

"I was in the neighbourhood and wondered if could drop some 
papers off for him."

"I don't see why not."

"I'll see you soon then."

Pepper put the phone down and was about to head back to the 
bathroom when the doorbell rang. Unconcerned at being almost 
naked, she answered it.

Andy Brock was standing at the door, a cell phone in one hand, 
and in the other, his erect penis protruding from his flies.

"You'd better come in," Pepper said.

Moments later she was sitting astride Andy Brock. Her thighs 
rested on his thighs, her knees were hooked behind his so that 
her legs were forced wide open. Totally powerless, Pepper 
ground her buttocks against Brock's belly, her back passage 
filled to capacity with his prick.

Drops of sweat stood out on the slopes of her bouncing breasts 
as Pepper struggled to take every last inch of Brock's 
massively erect organ into her rectum. Brock reached down and 
pushed his fingers into her pussy, scooping up oily liquid 
which he brought to Pepper's mouth. She sucked Brock's fingers 
and he put them back inside her, this time vibrating his 
fingers, like a second prick invading her body, within the 
walls of her pussy.

"Ian will be back soon," Pepper gasped.

"Good," Andy Brock said. "His cock will feel better than my 
fingers."

"Yes," Pepper said. And she climaxed yet again.

 * * *

38. Miss Thayne's Guessing Games


When Kevin, Horace, and Trevor Watson were in primary school, 
they were impossible to tell apart. Three identical grinning, 
freckled faces. Three shocks of carrot-orange hair. Three sets 
of scabby knees, holey socks, and grubby knuckles.

Naturally enough, they took full advantage of what they saw as 
God's gift to the Watson brothers. They switched seats in 
school, frightened the life out of hapless substitute 
teachers, and gave each other unbreakable alibis. They also 
collected quite a large sum of money before the children of 
Little Flashmarket became wise and stopped betting they could 
tell them apart.

Today, years later, Miss Thayne was having trouble winning the 
bet she had laid: that she could tell the difference between 
Kevin, Horace, and Trevor Watson. Blindfold. 

She had, after all, had them in grade school and the higher 
forms. She ought to be able to tell by their voices, she 
reasoned. But one brother after another bent over her, their 
huge forms looming, their clothes smelling of wood chips and 
the great outdoors. One brother after another thrust into her, 
their hard cocks pressing deep inside her, their calloused 
hands on her breasts. Each spoke into her ear, as she asked, 
grunting and breathless: 

"Please, miss, may I polish your apple? Miss, may I clean the 
board?"

She couldn't tell them apart. The current Watson boy pounded 
and pounded inside her. She bit her lip in frustration. And 
then she heard a warm whisper in her ear, just as he came: 

"Whacko."

"Kevin!" she cried in triumph, and tore off the blindfold. 
"That makes you Horace and you Trevor." She laughed aloud. 
"Now you must all come back next week," she said. 

The boys grumbled, but Kevin flashed her a sly look.

He always had been a better student than the others.

* * *

39. Sheila's Animals


Sheila Baxter, 6ft barefoot and slightly taller in her flat 
working shoes, had taken up smoking again. Out in the car park 
of Nigel Frampton's veterinary surgery, she puffed, paced, and 
tried to put behind her the dreadful incident at the Little 
Flashmarket Netball Centre. That awful man's penis jutting 
through the wall. What they made her do to it. She was never 
going back there.

A truck swept across the gravel, and a big, tough-looking man 
flung open the door and leaned out to her. "You, new girl," he 
said, ordering. "Get in. I'm taking you to the riverbank."

"Why?" she asked, stepping back from him in alarm. "Who are 
you?"

"Tom Redman," he said. "I fuck them all, and that includes 
you."

"Leave me alone," Shelia said, puffing frantically on her 
cigarette and backing further away. "Go away."

Tom reached into the cab of the truck and flung something out. 
It was black and furry, and it landed at her feet. "Tell me, 
vet's girl," he said. "Is that cat dead?"

It was. Indubitably. Ugh. Squashed flat. Terrible. Tears 
instantly started rolling down Sheila's cheeks. She loved 
animals.

"I'll make sure it is disposed of properly," she said. "Thank 
you, Mr. Redman, for bringing it in. That's good of you."

"I'll bring you a dead cat every day until you come with me to 
the riverbank," he said. "There are plenty on the roads around 
Little Flashmarket." He laughed harshly. "Easy targets for me 
and my beer truck."

Netball was just a pastime. Animals, however, were God's 
blessed creatures, and too few people in this world were ready 
to defend them.

Sheila threw away the cigarette and climbed up into the cab 
beside Tom Redman. "Let's get this over with," she said 
grimly.

* * *

40. Jimmy Dawson's Steady Job


Jimmy Dawson thumbed his way into Little Flashmarket when he 
was sixteen. A boozing mum with a stream of paying 
"boyfriends" made packing his knapsack easy. 

Unpacking proved almost as easy.

On Jimmy's first day in Little Flashmarket, Constable Kenneth 
Pickthorne hauled him in for loitering.

"I run a peaceful village here, young man," said the constable 
from across his desk. "I'll not have hoodlums causing 
trouble."

"I don't want trouble, sir. I just want to work." 

Constable Pickthorne leaned back in his chair and rubbed the 
grey whiskers sprouting on his chin. Mrs. Pickthorne had 
demanded her husband's attention that morning, causing Kenneth 
to be late. Again. Fourth time that week. No time for coffee. 
No chance to shave. And the station house left unopened. The 
constable hated being late. 

"Boy, I might have a job for you. If you're willing."

Jimmy's face brightened. "Yes, sir, anything, sir. Especially 
if it's steady work."

"Steadier than I can keep up with," sighed the constable.

"Then I'm your man."

Jimmy Dawson wasn't quite a man, but he was close--wide 
shoulders, powerful legs, strapping hunk. Mrs. Pickthorne 
might be pleased.

"I'll pay you thirty quid a week to fuck my wife every 
morning."

"Every day?" asked Jimmy.

"Weekdays. Weekends I can handle myself."

Jimmy wasn't sure about his expertise in the art of 
lovemaking, but he had one thing the constable lacked -- 
stamina. So he agreed.

By the time Jimmy turned twenty-one, his technique long since 
meeting his strength, he'd built up his business to include 
several of the village's womenfolk. 

Every now and then, when Jimmy was ploughing into the withered 
pussy of Mrs. Pickthorne, or one of her cohorts, Jimmy thought 
of his mother. Mrs. Dawson might be proud her son had carried 
on the family business.