Little Flashmarket 21. Raggy Meg Raggy Meg scattered cats with shooing hands and found the ringing mobile phone hidden under a pile of plastic sports drink containers. That damn phone. It had been lost for days. "Hello?" she ventured suspiciously. But it was only them again. It must be a Sunday. She told them she'd be up there in half an hour. That was all right. As long as it wasn't that awful Spiewak woman, always nagging, always pushing her to sell. The last time she came around, Raggy Meg had put a hex on her. May she live in misery and know no joy. Meg chose to live in her extended caravan with her cats on the property left to her by her father, living off the land and scavenging Little Flashmarket's garbage tip. On monthly market days, she set up a stall in the town and told fortunes. Hence the mobile phone. Sometimes she got a call to read a palm. Sometimes it was from them on Sundays. She wheeled out her recycled bicycle and set off for the Little Flashmarket Cricket Club. Somebody must have got out for a duck on the first ball. When that happened, they called Raggy Meg. She'd go into the changing room, hike up her long skirt, and the duck-maker would fuck her while his team mates stood around and jeered. It was a tradition that went back a few years now. Raggy Meg didn't mind. They gave her five pounds. She could buy mince for the cats. * * * 22. Pepper Dresses for Dinner ". . .and Pepper? Wear something sexy to show off those gorgeous boobs of yours. . ." Pepper laughed as she put the phone down. Her husband Ian believed the success of his accountancy business depended on social networking, and he'd been angling for an invitation to the Friday night dinner dance at the golf club since they'd moved to Little Flashmarket. She could hear the relief in his voice that Andy Brock had asked if he and Pepper would like to join him and his wife Valerie that evening as their guests. "It's a Seventies Night," Ian said. "You know, hot pants, flared trousers, kipper ties, all that stuff. . ." Pepper had an idea she had something that might fit the bill, and she went to look through her wardrobe. The little black dress was there, at the back, and Pepper slipped it off its hanger and stood in front of the closet mirror, holding it against her body. Quickly she slipped off her blouse and jeans and lifted the dress over her head, squirming it down her body. She smoothed the material down over her hips and turned sideways to check her tummy was flat. "Hmm," she said, as she mounded her hair up in her hands. "Not bad, not bad at all." At seven, bathed, made up, wearing the dress, Pepper heard Ian's car pull into the drive. A moment later the front door opened and he called her name. "Up here, darling," she called back and stood up, waiting for him. "Did you find anything suitable?" Ian asked abstractedly. "Oh, I think so," Pepper said and she checked her reflection one last time, shaking her body so that her huge, naked breasts jiggled provocatively, their smooth creamy skin and pale pink nipples perfectly displayed in the topless dress. * * * 23. Cricket's Coming Dearest Snake, My parents are horrid. This trip to England they've sent me on? You and I both know that they did it to separate us, but I know that you know that there is no amount of miles they can put between us to make me stop loving you. This place is absolutely rotten. I started to suspect that they'd tricked me when the plane landed at Heathrow airport and got the train to Paddington (what a cute name, couldn't you just barf?!?). I asked the porter, and he'd never even heard of Little Flashmarket. Thank goodness that my aunt sent decent directions from Waterloo. The train was crowded and loud and full of old people and little brats, and Little Flashmarket doesn't even have its own train station! Uncle Marcus is old and creepy, and the drive from the train station was awful. Marcus kept going on and on about the scenery, but all I could see was grass and bushes and plants and rocks. I think I must have slept on the way (I certainly didn't sleep on the train). I know I stopped listening to him trying to convince me how much I was going to enjoy myself. We arrived an hour ago. If the rain doesn't stop soon, I'm going to totally lose my tan. You won't recognize me when I get back! Marcus and Anne have put me in a room next to their nursery. They have a new baby, Isabella. She's okay, I suppose, for a brat. She doesn't make much noise, so maybe she won't be too bad to be around. You can write me here, in care of the Breedloves, Little Flashmarket, England. I'm going out to see if this rotten excuse for a town has a post office. XOXOXO Cricket. * * * 24. Cricket Club Cricket Leigh Ashton was given her name by her parents, hapless Anglophile San Franciscans who would not have known a cricket bat if walloped in the head with one. She was clean, fresh, blonde, well-scrubbed, and athletic. She had a Mustang at home, and a pool, and a charm bracelet. She also had a filthy and skulking boyfriend named Snake who was a tattooist ("Skin ARTIST, Mother," said Cricket). Which was reason enough, it seemed, for her to spend the summer overseas. Cricket walked down the street of Little Flashmarket, her healthy hair and firm breasts bouncing. She was going to the post office, but her chief destination was to find out at last about the origin of her name. Cricket. Sleepy little English town like this, they'd be sure to know all about such a neat sport. But she ran into a snag. "Sorry, miss," said the postmaster, Max Sutherland, looking at the innocent young thing before him. "Don't know nothing about no cricket club round here, miss." And he shut his mouth like a trap. "Pardon me," said a man in the doorway. "Did I hear you inquiring about our national pastime?" He introduced himself, friendly and gregarious, as Mr. Tanner, and dropped her off at the clubhouse. What a nice man. "Hello?" called Cricket, as she walked into the building. The noise echoed. "Anybody here?" Suddenly, she found herself surrounded by eleven men. She hadn't heard a sound. "Whacko," one of them said. "A fan." He was smiling widely, even as she fell to her knees. "You must be the Breedloves' new girl," said another. "Cricket." They laughed as they approached. Cricket closed her eyes, and blessed all her lucky stars that she had not been named Baseball. That was only eight men to a team. * * * 25. Max Sutherland Max Sutherland took pride in his job. The post office was more than imply a place to collect delivered letters and packages. It was an information centre. A gathering place. Like the church on Sunday, but a place for all days, all seasons, and all people. Max knew that he'd see almost everyone in the village at least once during the week. Most of the villagers didn't talk to him so much as talk around him. Max was something like the post boxes, or the counter tops, or the stamp machine. He was there, but you didn't notice him until you needed him. That suited Max just dandy. No one realized how much information came through his building. From his office on Repton Road, Max stroked his ego as he monitored the lives of his villagers. That's how he thought of them, as his villagers. He took outgoing mail and noted return addresses on incoming correspondence. He took utility payments and insurance payments. He knew that Mrs. Penwhistle -- Widow Penwhistle -- took an extra policy on her now-deceased husband. He knew, through the post cards sent back to the US, that Mrs. Breedlove's niece was coming to stay with them for the summer. Apparently, the niece was quite the tail-wagger, as his grandfather would have said. Yes, Max had his finger on the pulse of the village. Max stood behind his counter, half-hidden from the villagers, and watched their comings and goings. He watched their comings on the video monitors behind the counter. The videos he made and sold to Sneak Reviews. He had his finger on the pulse, all right. He felt the pulse - - the pulse of his village and of his cock, from behind his counter, between his fingers, and beneath his trousers. He loved to stroke his ego. * * * 26. Tam Trassel: From Bad To Verse by Neil Anthony Tam Trassel was a thin, abstract sort of a man who worked long hours identifying microscopic insects at a research herbarium south of London. In his spare time he liked to write rambling heroic poetry about mythical people in an alternate universe: O mighty Mankim, gorgon-throated, Guardian of the Blackteach, Speak thou gently, warrior-maiden! Lest our eardrums breach! In quest of his missing daughter, Tam arrived in Little Flashmarket in his three-wheeled, electric, award-winning, environmentally-admirable car with a shoebox of snapshots of Laura. He went first to the police station, but it was closed. In fact, bolted shut with a large padlock. He tried the post office. "Nope," said Max Sutherland, not even looking at the extended photograph. "Young women are never missed in Little Flashmarket." Tam wandered into the next door shop, Sneak Reviews, where Becky peered at the photograph. "I left my glasses at home today," she said cheerily. "Silly me." He glanced at the in-house monitor, jumped in shock, and looked again. There was Laura. It was she, her shirt ripped open, breasts heaving, being raped by a man in a black balaclava. Oh God. Laura. Chained to a tree, raped. "That's her," Tam said, pointing, jabbering in terror. "My God, it's her." "Oh, right," Becky said, glancing at the screen. "Very popular this week. Our second most requested item." Tam looked at her in dumbstruck horror. "Have you met our Edgar Tanner?" Becky asked him sweetly. Tam turned and saw a large man with a kind and gentle face looming over him. O dread Mordicore, so melancholy, Keeper of the Deathswine, Offering to troubled souls his bowl of poisoned wine. * * * 27. Storrow Family Connections Bill Storrow lay dying. He was in a vast white bed at the Little Flashmarket Urgent Care Klinik, a very old, thin man, a dreamer and a philosopher. Only the week before, he'd been out on his roof, clearing gutters. This dying seemed impossible to his wife, Claire, and to his sorrowing children, all five of whom adored him. His hands, nearly translucent with age, lay folded on his stomach, and he gazed out of the window at the village green. Slowly, he turned his head to Claire. "It's all right, love," he said, in tones that were raspy but still full of gentle fun. "We've had us a time, haven't we? There, now, don't cry. You'll be all right. Give us a kiss, then." Weeping, Claire leaned over and kissed her husband on the cheek. She struggled to offer him a brave, wan smile. From behind her, Lenny Bond, the male nurse, cleared his throat. "Sorry, missus," he said, "but Mr. Storrow has some other visitors, and we can't crowd the room. You can come back tomorrow, and we'll be sure to call if anything happens in the meantime." Claire nodded, and she and the children filed out of the door on the right, dabbing at their eyes with their handkerchiefs. For a moment, the room was silent. Then, through the door on the left, came Lenny Bond. "Your wife and children are here to see you, sir," he said, respectfully. "Send them in, son," said Bill. Lenny slipped out, and in a moment, in walked Trisha Storrow and her four children. All of them were red-eyed, struggling to put a brave face on impending loss. "Now, then, darlin'," said Bill. "Come here and give us a kiss." As she did, he smiled. He'd always been a family man. * * * 28. Immaculate Preconceptions Sister Marie Immaculate left her order almost two decades ago, yet no one doubted her devotion or begrudged her the respected title of "Sister." Her school, Sister Marie Immaculate's School for Wayward Girls, sat stern and imposing behind curtained windows and strong stone walls. She rarely had more than one or two charges at a time, and the girls coming out of Immaculate were always exceptional examples of prudence and virtue. Sister Immaculate took in those girls whose parents fretted over late nights and grass-stained skirts. Girls who, at young ages, perfected the across-the-market-square gaze at the bulging front pockets of the village men. They all, to a one, came from Sister Immaculate's care ready to lead the life expected from proper Flashmarket families -- chaste and pure until a proper marriage could be arranged. Rheanon McKinney came to Sister Immaculate on her seventeenth birthday, and she had chosen to stay until Sister agreed she should leave. Now, three years after passing through the wood and iron doors of the school, Rheanon was, again, on her knees in front of her mentor and teacher. Her eyes were closed, but her ears were open to the warm, comforting voice of Sister Immaculate. "Men, in the face of temptation, are no better than dogs before a bloody bone. In this God-fearing country, is it inherent upon us, both stronger and wiser sex, to remove the temptation from them." Sister stroked the young woman's head as she fastened the iron bracelets around Rheanon's outstretched arms. Lifting her starched skirts and sitting on the wooden table to which Rheanon was bound, Sister Immaculate spread her thighs around the woman's head and moaned softly as the young woman's warm breath and devoted tongue played expertly over Sister Immaculate's waiting offering. * * * 29. Repaying Andy "I suppose you'll be wanting sex now?" Val Brock said to her husband as he parked in front of their house and turned off the car's engine. "No, that's all right -- " Andy said, and Val glanced at him sharply. "Good grief, I thought you'd be as randy as a dog after Pepper Winston's display. It may have been arousing for the men, but you try having a conversation about where to buy fresh asparagus with a woman whose nipples are sticking out a good half inch." Val paused and then she added with note of envy in her voice: "Bloody marvellous boobs, though. Wish mine were that big." "Topless was all the rage in the seventies, as I remember," Andy said. "And she certainly looked stunning in that dress. Something of a coup for that husband of hers. Chaps will be lining up to give him business." "And you, I suppose?" "Of course." "Well, I'm ready for bed," Val said as she opened the car door. "Do you want cocoa?" "No, thanks. I'll follow you up." "Suit yourself." Val got out of the car and let herself into the house. Andy watched her go and then closed his eyes, remembering the moment when Ian escorted Pepper into the clubhouse billiard room, explaining as he did so that he'd agreed a 'fee' with Andy for arranging their invitation to the dinner dance. Pepper was shocked, but she agreed submissively. Andy took her hand gently and made her lie face down over the nearest table, her dress pulled up to her waist, her hands holding her buttocks open so that Andy could enter her deliciously tight bottom. Poor Val. It was hardly surprising he didn't want sex with her. He'd come so hard in Pepper's rectum his balls were drained dry. * * * 30. Crying for Isabella Isabella Rose never cried. Anne and Marcus had worried she might be mute, defective, but Isabella cooed, murmured, and whimpered. But she never cried. When Anne's beautiful breasts filled, Isabella ate. She was changed when the hand-made cloth diapers were wet. Marcus bathed her in warm water, and walked her through their quiet home softly patting her back. They took turns rocking Isabella in Grandmother Rose's hand-carved chair, and they put her to bed every night at nine. Anne and Marcus were in bed, hungry for each other, by ten. Isabella always slept through the night. Fed, bathed, warm, dry, Isabella slept from nine every night until six the next morning. When friends would ask, the bemused yet grateful parents attributed Isabella's uncharacteristically ideal behaviour to good genes, good parenting, a soothing home atmosphere. If they were feeling particularly enigmatic, they'd simply smile and confess to being the luckiest parents in Little Flashmarket. Who were they to look good fortune in the eye? Isabella's demeanour afforded the Breedloves time rare for new parents. Time to rediscover each other. After nine months of exploring and delighting in the pregnant changes of Anne's body, Marcus now enjoyed her softer edges, full breasts, rounded hips. Saved from the sleepless nights suffered by most new mothers, Anne realized a lust for Marcus unfelt prior to Isabella's birth. Suckling her swollen breast, Marcus fondled the tender flesh between Anne's thighs and teased his fingers at her wet pussy until his pretty wife cried in frustration, grabbed his wrist, and pulled his fingers deep inside. He'd thrust into her, cupping his hand over her cunt, rubbing her clit beneath his palm until she came. And then he held her, bemused, as she cried softly all the tears unshed by the infant in the nursery next door.