Little Flashmarket


51. A Surprise for Pepper

Pepper Winston was in her garden lying on a sun-lounger 
reading when the doorbell rang. She was wearing nothing more 
than a g-string that was just a tiny triangle of material and 
two straps, one round her waist and the other that snaked 
between the cheeks of her buttocks. Little Flashmarket was 
sweltering in a heatwave and Pepper was determined to get an 
all over tan.

Deciding she was too under-dressed to answer the door, Pepper 
kept reading and then jumped with fright when a woman's voice 
called out, "Hello!" and Val Brock suddenly appeared, letting 
herself in by the side gate.

"Oh, Val -- hi!" Pepper said, flustered at being half naked. 
"Let me just get -- ". She started to reach for a towel but 
Val took it gently but firmly from Peppers fingers, spread the 
towel out on the grass and sat down.

"No need to cover up, darling," Val said, her eyes meeting 
Pepper's. "I saw your gorgeous boobs at the dinner dance, 
remember? That fabulous dress -- "

A flush of embarrassment coloured Pepper's cheeks.

" -- which, I've just found out, had more than a passing 
effect on my husband. . ."

Pepper coloured even more as Val smiled sweetly at her and 
asked, "Has he buggered you since then, sweetheart?"

"Oh no -- " Pepper exclaimed, but Val cut her off.

"No? But my friend Marjorie says Mr Smith the pharmacist told 
her you'd bought three packs of K-Y this week alone?"

"That was for -- " Pepper started to say and then stopped, 
speechless with surprise as Val stood up and slowly began to 
unbutton her blouse.

"Don't lie, darling," Val said. "Come on, let's find a bed and 
make ourselves comfortable. Then you can tell me how nice it 
feels when my husband fucks that pretty asshole of yours. . ."

* * *

52. Dr. Reede's Dilemma


Dr. Gerald Reede looked guilty. Max Sutherland knew why, or 
thought he knew why: Gerry owed money. Gerry's thing was 
gambling, not sex. Placing bets on -- well, on anything: 
horses, dogs, pigeons, fox hunts, boxing, the length of time 
before a particular woman caught Tom Redman's 
attention -- anything. He had given up the latter bets, made 
with Max, because he always lost. Even a compulsive gambler 
needs some hope of winning.

"The thing of it is. . ." began Gerry, and then he looked 
around and lowered his voice. "The thing is, there are drugs 
that...that make a woman compliant. That keep her from 
remembering what has happened."

"Yes," said Max. There was, in fact, a market for such drugs, 
though it was not as big a market in this village as in 
others. "How much do you owe, Gerry?"

Guileless Gerry named a figure. It was rather more than he 
could afford to pay back while working for the National 
Health. "The wagers were meant to fund my retirement. Do you 
think," he asked, "people would pay. . .?"

"You'd sell these drugs?"

"No! No, of course not. That would be unethical. There might 
be complications, interactions with current medications. It 
would be dangerous."

"Oh."

Gerry wet his lips. "But the list of women who are already 
prescribed those drugs -- that should be worth something."

"No," said Max. "No. Their husbands, boyfriends. . .too many 
details to work out. Not really worth the money, Gerry." His 
eyes glittered. "Will it be bad for you?"

Gerry nodded. "I might. . .you know, the gentleman's way out."

"Ah."  In sympathy, Max paid for the round. It was the least 
he could do.

Poor Gerry didn't realize that Derek Smith, the pharmacist, 
had been selling that list for years.

* * * 

53. Pepper's Taken Aback


Pepper Winston was crouching on all fours on her double bed. 
She was wearing a babydoll nightie which had been thrown back 
to bare her naked ass. Her heavy breasts hung down and rocked 
with each deep, hard thrust her husband Ian, kneeling between 
her open legs, made with his prick in her pussy.

Pepper loved being fucked like this. Her eyes closed in 
ecstasy, a thin line of drool escaped from the corners of her 
mouth, and she rubbed her nipples against the bedspread as she 
ground her hips back against Ian's groin, her cunt swallowing 
his prick with slurping noises her cunt was so wet with her 
arousal.

"Oh Ian, that feels wonderful," Pepper moaned.

Her husband responded by shoving himself even deeper inside 
her. "Yes, yes it does -- " he groaned.

But then suddenly he withdrew his cock and Pepper's opened her 
eyes as he climbed off the bed. 

"Oh darling -- " she started to say, but then a little smile 
crossed her face as she saw Ian pick up the K-Y from the 
dresser and smear a thick blob over his fingers. Pepper's 
asshole quivered with excited anticipation and she closed her 
eyes once more.

"I was thinking," Ian said as he lubed his cock.

"Mmm?"

"We should invite Andy and Val for dinner. You could make your 
delicious Spanish Chicken. To say thank you for all their 
help."

Pepper heard Ian climb onto the bed and felt the slick head of 
his penis against her asshole. He began to push against the 
sphincter muscle, forcing it to open.

"Oh God, sweetheart!" he cried out with delight. "You are so 
tight tonight -- it's heavenly!"

Pepper didn't dare tell Ian why she had involuntarily 
tightened up. Andy? Val? Together? Oh my God, she thought.

* * *

54. Lucretia and the Bobby-Stick


Rubbing a throbbing forehead, the Flashmarket Arms' cashier 
tried hard to control her temper. She failed.

"Lucretia, get your fat arse out here, the chief's been 
waiting forever!"

Kenneth Pickthorne shook his head, massive jowls moving from 
side to side. "Constable, pet. It's constable."

Out of the kitchen emerged Lucretia, who today had elected to 
go for a minimalist look. Hair pulled back into a ponytail, 
she wore a transparent top, a form-fitting black skirt that 
ended at half-thigh, fishnet stockings, and a pair of sandals. 
Stiletto heels would have been better 
-- she knew that, but no waitress was that daft.

"What'll you have, chief?" 

"You call that a uniform?" Pickthorne snorted. "I should haul 
you in for indecent exposure."

Lucretia beamed. "Promises, promises."

"Just get me the special, will you?"

"You're no fun," Lucretia said, her lower lip sticking out. 
"So, here goes!"

Turning around, Lucretia bent down and touched her toes. Her 
skirt rose up, exposing a round pair of cheeks, between them a 
sweaty pink slit. For added effect, the waitress shifted her 
weight from thigh to thigh.

"That's it, you're coming with me."

Lucretia whirled around. "I know all about you, Constable 
Pickthorne." She made a fist and thrust it into the palm of 
her free hand. "Trouble with the wife, huh?"

Before she knew it, Pickthorne was on her. With one hand he 
lifted Lucretia off the ground and walked her over to the back 
of the pub. Slamming her facedown on a table, he spread her 
butt cheeks with one hand and slowly eased something stiff 
into her hot slit. Lucretia stifled a gasp as he pierced her 
swollen walls. 

"Gad, Pickthorne, you have the hardest cock!"

Eyes wide, Pickthorne eased the bobby's wooden truncheon in 
another inch. "Thanks, luv. I last forever, too."

* * *

55. Pepper's On the Menu

Pepper Winston lay listening to the breathing of her beloved 
husband Ian as he slept beside her. Poor Ian, Pepper thought 
as she slid a hand between her legs, her fingers finding her 
stiff clit as she began to masturbate, he didn't have a clue 
that Spanish Chicken hadn't been all that was on the menu when 
the Brocks came to dinner.

Wanting to be cool in the warm evening, Pepper had worn a 
halter neck top that left the sides of her huge breasts bare 
and a short skirt that barely covered the dimples of her ass. 
She gulped when she saw Andy and Val's lustful stares.

"Will you get the drinks, darling?" Ian said as he sat next to 
Val on the patio.

"Of course," Pepper said, and went to fetch the jug. She'd 
just stepped into the kitchen when Andy's cellphone rang and 
she heard him say, "Excuse me," his voice growing louder as he 
followed her into the house.

Pepper assumed Andy would take the call in the living room so 
she opened the fridge and bent down for the jug of Pimms she'd 
made earlier. Suddenly rude fingers were lifting the material 
of her skirt, exposing her bottom, and she had to brace 
herself as Andy, his phone under his chin, unzipped and slid 
his cock into her pussy, talking as he fucked her.

Two more times during the evening Andy found an excuse to be 
alone in the kitchen with Pepper and, despite her protests, 
fucked her, the third time in the ass. Pepper wouldn't have 
minded but when she left the table to relieve herself of all 
Andy's sperm, Val followed her and the relieving was done into 
Val's hungry mouth!

No doubt about it -- juggling two lovers and a husband wasn't 
easy...

* * *

56. Bob Brentwood's Hard Sale


He knew that there wouldn't be any bells greeting customers as 
he opened the heavy wooden door to Twice Told Tales -- after 
all, there hadn't been the first time he visited, and he 
suspected things rarely changed in Little Flashmarket. 

He propped the door open with his hip and balanced the box in 
both hands. The silence that greeted him was eerie, still and 
empty. "Hello?"  

She was wearing black today. Ballet flats and a bodysuit, cut 
low and tight, covering her breasts -- but only just. Rook-
black hair held back with a blood-red velvet ribbon 
waterfalled over her shoulder. She leaned casually at the end 
of a bookshelf, her weight on one foot, the other propped 
against the long line curve of her calf. "Mr. Brentwood, of 
course. Please, come in." Low and smoky, her voice caught him 
in the space between his ribs. "I'm delighted to see you 
again."

There were candles scattered throughout the store, flickering 
inexplicably in the still air. Their flames reflected in her 
amber eyes and held him immobile. He realized he was hard. Not 
getting hard, but hard.  

"You brought something for me?"

He reddened, horrified that he'd become aroused so quickly, so 
easily, and that this woman would both notice and tease.

She laughed, once. "The box? You have brought books for me?"

"Books. Yes. Laura. My wife, unpacking. Found these." He was 
talking too fast, explaining, anything to get out from her 
gaze. "Things she's tired of. Sent me down to see if there was 
anything here you wanted."  

Those eyes. She stood, not moving, examining him with cat 
eyes. She licked her lips and crooked her finger at him. "Come 
here, Mr. Brentwood.  Something she's tired of, you say?  Yes, 
I'm sure that there's something here I want." 

* * *

57. Bob, Bob, Bob


"We hear you're an experienced scoutmaster," said Thelma 
Underwood to Bob 
Brentwood. She politely tried to mask the irresistible smile 
that comes to the lips of anyone nowadays who hears the words 
"experienced scoutmaster."

"Well, yes, sort of," said Bob, shuffling. "But Laura and I 
may be. . ."

"Sort of?" Thelma asked irritably. "Look, are you a team 
player or not? We can always get Father Grogan back, once he's 
been cleared of the paedophilia charges."

She glared angrily at him, hands on hips.

"If he's cleared," she added, half to herself, and wholly 
undermining the effect, but the steamrollered Bob was already 
babbling.

"No, no, it's no problem," he gushed hastily. "Really. . 
.pleasure. . . honour to serve. . ."

I'm babbling, he thought miserably. Still and all, if Laura 
was adamant that they weren't going to move away, this might 
be an opportunity to exert a healthful influence on the 
pliable young minds of the town -- an influence they were much 
in need of, if he was any judge. And, he reflected grimly, 
they were unlikely to get it from anyone else around this 
place.

Bob's first Boy Scout meeting was a field trip with the local 
pack of Girl Guides, ostensibly devoted to the purpose of 
practicing spooring. It was either a rip-roaring success, or a 
humiliating failure, depending on the point of view adopted. 
In a twinkling, Boy Scouts and Girl Guides, in strict order of 
precedence from Troop Leader down, had paired off and 
vanished into the bushes to practice, at least, concealment in 
the field.

The gobsmacked Bob was left gaping at the Guide Mistress, who 
was Brigitte Spiewak. She traced embarrassed patterns in the 
dust with her toe.

"Dib, dib, dib?" she suggested shyly, looking at him 
alluringly under her lashes.

* * *

58. Sheila's Divine Purpose


Sheila Baxter, 6ft barefoot and looking every inch of it 
stretched out naked on the grass, was feeling almost pure 
about the Little Flashmarket cats she'd saved from being 
flattened by Tom Redman's beer truck. For five afternoons 
running she'd provided lodgings between her legs for the heavy 
body of the big cellarman down by the bank of the River Flash. 
Five 
cats lived! St. Francis of Assisi, rejoice!

Yes, almost pure. Not quite. Sheila suspected saints and other 
martyrs did not claw at the backs of their oppressors and 
scream yes-yes-yes at the tops of their lungs.

Tom Redman was a brute of a man -- callous, arrogant, hard-
hearted, ugly inside. By heavens, though. Good gracious. She'd 
never. No. Not remotely. Didn't know she was like that. Who'd 
have thought?

The big brute slept beside her on the grass, snoring gently, 
his fat cock lying smugly on his thigh. Sheila stretched out 
her legs and pointed her toes, guiltily resisting the urge to 
sigh luxuriously, sure in her bones that saints and martyrs 
were not supposed to suffer in warm and rosy post-orgasmic 
glows.

Yesterday she'd even gone back to netball practice. She loved 
netball. Good sponsors like Trelawney Forestry and Logging 
were hard to find, and, gee and golly, it was just a simple 
blowjob. Easy. Just a hard cock sticking through a hole in the 
wall. Nothing, when you got used to it, and you could do it in 
the shower and come out clean and smelling nice.

How many cats needed saving in Little Flashmarket? The 
bastard. After she'd saved all the cats, he'd probably start 
on the dogs, and then the rabbits, and then the hedgehogs. Oh 
no, not the hedgehogs.

Sheila loved all animals, but especially she adored hedgehogs. 
They made her feel almost pure.

* * *

59. The Milkman's Rounds


"Remember, Donald, a milkman lives and dies by his 
relationship with customers." Tim Stinson let young Donald put 
the last groceries on his milk float. "Good job," he said. 
"We'll see about you coming on rounds soon." And Donald had to 
be content with that.

Today was Friday, payment day, busy day, and Tim couldn't look 
after Donald and do the job. Anne Thomson left a cheque, but 
snails had eaten half of it. Tim would have to make up the 
cost himself. The Watson boys "forgot" about the six pints 
they'd bought until he mentioned Edgar Tanner. Tim paced 
himself until 8:00, when he arrived at the Brock house. 
Valerie answered his knock dressed in her bathrobe.

"Andy at work?" he asked, and she nodded. "That's two quarts 
of whole, a dozen eggs, and a half-pound of cold cuts."

"Do you have a pint of the extra-heavy cream?" she asked, 
letting her robe fall open.

"Indeed I do," he said, and he took her leaning against the 
counter, face-to-face (Valerie got too much behind from Andy 
as it was), his fingers busy on her nipples as he smothered 
her moans with his mouth.

It took him a while to leave the cream, but it was time well 
spent, for she paid the bill without complaint and a bit more 
besides. Andy's infatuation with Pepper Winston had been good 
for Tim.

"Next week," said Tim as he tucked himself in, "I'm training 
Donald Ford. Two pints of the extra-heavy?"

"Oh, yes," she breathed.

Emma Fall was next, and he thought she'd need a bit of tongue 
and maybe the extra-heavy, too. Nicholas was out of town.

A milkman lived and died by his relationship with his 
customers.
 
* * *

60. Valerie's Potion


"Go on with ya, Missus. You know I don't sell spells."

Valerie Brock tugged at the corners of her Harvey Nicks 
sweater. "A potion, then?"

"Not a love potion?" Raggy Meg knew the answer before Valerie 
Brock could form the words. Being a seer had its advantages. 
And disadvantages, she thought, recalling images that had 
swarmed her mind last night just as Meg and Skittles, her 
favourite tabby, were about to share scraps from the 
Pickthorne's rubbish: curried rice and bits of lamb.

The image of Andy Brock, cock deep in the backside of poor 
Pepper Winston had been enough to sour Raggy Meg's stomach. 
Skittles had eaten the best of the scraps before Meg could 
recover.

And bright and early this morning, who should come tiptoeing 
between the shadows of garbage cans and wooden crates? None 
other than Mrs. Andy Brock -- Valerie.

"Ya don't want the evil potion, Missus Brock."

"Oh, but I do!"

It didn't take a seer's eye to know the futility in dissuading 
a woman scorned. "It'll cost ya," Meg said. 

With newly manicured nails, Valerie rummaged through her even 
newer Prada handbag and counted out the fee.

Meg greedily snatched the money from Valerie's palm and turned 
her back to conceal its hiding place. The coins clinked softly 
inside a cleverly sewn pouch in the tattered cotton that once 
supported Meg's bosom. 

In return, Meg handed Valerie a small corked flask. Valerie 
sniffed cautiously at the colourless, odourless liquid before 
secreting it away.

With money and potion out of sight, Meg tried again. 
"'Vengeance is mine,' sayeth the Lord," she quoted.

Valerie Brock spun on her three-inch leather pumps. "I'm 
aiming to help the Lord in his work," she said, before click-
clacking off down the alley.