Little Flashmarket 8


71. Laura's Decision

Laura Brentwood was making a decision. The thought of her 
lover still filled her with trembling anticipation and rampant 
horniness, but on the other hand, the thought of her husband 
Bob fucking another woman made her physically ill. In a sense 
of fairness, she thought she ought to stop. She also knew that 
this was all about novelty: her neighbour wasn't better than 
Bob, just different. The way he had casually taken her that 
first afternoon was so unlike kind, gentle Bob that she was. . 
. well. . . taken.

So she should stop. The novelty would wear off, and there 
would be recriminations and hurt feelings. And if Bob were to 
have sex with another woman, well. . . she couldn't bear that 
thought.

But Bob was so fundamentally decent that he would forgive her. 
There would be a rough patch but they would stay together. She 
didn't believe Bob would retaliate. He would be angry and 
hurt, but in the end, he wouldn't try any "quim pro quo."

"In the end". . . maybe she could convince Bob to sodomize 
her. She had been afraid of it but it was very nice, for a 
change of pace. She felt herself getting wet and eager, 
remembering.

And, really, her affair was a victimless crime, because she 
shagged Bob silly after every one of her little encounters 
with the neighbour. They hadn't had this much sex since before 
they were married.

Still, the affair would go stale.

Laura would break it off. Enough was enough.

There was a knock at the back door. Through the sheer curtains 
she could see it was the neighbour, and her heartbeat 
quickened. And he had brought a friend.

She had never tried that before.

Laura made her decision. She would break it off.

Tomorrow.

* * *

72. Posing With Grace


Bob Brentwood found bird photography relaxing and stimulating. 
He could get away from the subsurface menace of daily life in 
Little Flashmarket. He could get away from his wife, Laura, 
whose demands for sex -- and kinky sex, at that -- were 
playing on his nerves. He could find peace and tranquillity in 
the quiet bends of the River Flash, and he could photograph 
birds. One day, he hoped, he might earn a living from it.

He turned at a noise behind him and found a young woman 
watching him. "You're the new guy in town," she said. "I'm 
Grace Elizabeth Hunter."

There was something about the aggressive set of her shoulders 
that Bob found disconcerting. And the way she stared at him 
with a dull, stony hostility. 

"You're a photographer," she said, noting the three cameras he 
was carrying. "Okay, fine. You can photograph me. I don't 
mind."

He stared at her, puzzled. 

"Okay, fine," she said, whipping off her tee shirt and 
unhooking her bra. "I should have guessed you wanted me 
topless."

She clasped her hands behind her head, and her solid and quite 
lumpish breasts were thrust at him. "This is right?" she 
asked. "This is what you want?"

Bob stood, transfixed, amazed once again by a citizen of this 
strange town.

"Okay, fine," Grace Elizabeth said, taking down her jeans and 
stepping quickly out of her pants. "You want all the way. I 
guess I should have known that."

She stood completely naked, and clasped her hands once again 
behind her head. "Take your photos," she said. "Publish them, 
post them on the Internet. I don't care."

"Uh, look," Bob began.

She dropped her hands and moved towards him. "You want to fuck 
me, too? Okay, fine."

Bob turned and ran.

* * *

73. Anne's Secret


Anne gave the music box a last wind before shutting the 
nursery door. Isabella was napping, and she'd sleep soundly. 
Regular as clockwork, naps at ten and three. The music was 
more for Anne, than to muffle any noises. When Isabella Rose 
was napping, nothing disturbed her. Dead to the world, she 
was.  

The bell-tones of the music box reminded Anne why she allowed 
him in her home every afternoon. She heard heavy boots on the 
porch. Regular as clockwork was this one, as well.

She smoothed her skirt and fastened the top button of her 
sweater before opening the door. 

Tom Redman's belt was already undone, his fly open, cock hard.  

"Tom. We're done." 

"I don't think so." He stepped over the threshold, grabbed her 
breast and kicked the door closed. He locked his other hand 
behind her neck, pulling her close. His breath was hot and 
stank of cloves.

"Stop, Tom. I want to talk."

"And I want to fuck. I bet I get what I want first."

"Tom, I'm telling Marcus."

There was nothing humorous in his barked laugh. "Right. You're 
going to tell your husband that the brat isn't his? Nope.  I 
think that we'll just keep on. You give me what I want, and I 
keep your secret from Mealy-Marcus."

He lifted her skirt and hooked aside her panties. He held her 
leg around his hips and fucked her, standing against the door. 
Nothing fancy. A regular mid-afternoon shag.

She knew he was right. She wouldn't tell. She wouldn't do that 
to Marcus, but she would find a way to stop Tom.

Behind the closed nursery door Isabella Rose lay awake in her 
crib. She watched the spinning dancer on the shelf, but she 
heard only the thumps against the other side of the wall.

* * *

74. Lacey Overthings


The Catholic church of Little Flashmarket is named for Saint 
Elizabeth of Hungary, the patron saint of successfully lying 
to your spouse.

The story goes -- well, one of the many versions of the story 
goes -- that her evil, unbelieving husband was besieging a 
townful of the faithful, and had nearly starved them into 
submission. The saintly Elizabeth, of her charity, was 
subverting the process by smuggling bread through the 
blockade, carrying the loaves in her apron. One day, she got 
caught and, the soldiers recognising her, brought her before 
her husband.

"What are you carrying in your apron?" he enquired sternly.

"Roses," she said, looking him straight in the eye.

"Show me," he commanded.

She opened her apron and there, inside, were. . . roses.

For this miracle, the Pope made Elizabeth a saint. They think 
a lot of St. Elizabeth, bless her, in Little Flashmarket.

The ladies' sodality of St. Elizabeth of Hungary, however, is 
called after Saint Margaret. St. Margaret, bless her, is the 
patron saint of fecundity (one of them, anyway -- there are 
quite a few). Fecundity and, by extension, everything that 
goes with that state. Such as, contraception, and getting laid 
a lot.

The Sodality of Saint Margaret, bless them, meet on Wednesdays 
after work in the church hall, under the capable leadership of 
Lacey Penwhistle. There they discuss matters of moment, and 
plan forthcoming events.

"That Laura Brentwood seems to be a real team player," 
remarked Thelma Underwood approvingly as they waited for the 
latecomers (you should pardon the expression). There was a 
general nod of agreement.

"Whereas that husband of hers seems to be something of a late 
bloomer," sniffed Susan Willing sententiously.

"Don't you worry," said Lacey Penwhistle. "Someone'll be sure 
to prime his pump presently. And now, ladies, shall we have 
the opening prayer?"

* * *

75. Tom-Tom


Lacey Penwhistle called to order the weekly meeting of the 
Sodality of St. Margaret. The day's topic was the traditional 
Maundy Thursday fertility festival.

"Who'll be Corn King this year?" she enquired.

"Tom Redman," said Susan Willing, firmly.

"Seems a pity to waste him," said Estelle Willing, wistfully.

"Seems a pity not to," said Sheila Baxter, bitterly.

And so it was decided.

"Who'll be Corn Maiden?" asked Lacey.

There was an embarrassed pause.

"Maybe we could enquire in the next village?" suggested Laura 
Brentwood finally.

At the festival, Tom, drugged, was the only man in the forest 
glade. Brow creased, he peered into the roaring, leaping 
flames of the huge bonfire, and offered no resistance when 
Lacey roped his wrists behind him. He grinned moronically as 
six naked women knelt around him. A primeval ululation arose 
from the crowd of women as his stiffening manhood jutted.

The corn maiden, lying naked on Mother Earth by the fire, 
looked up at him, awed and apprehensive. Roaring, animal-like, 
he dropped to his knees between her legs, flopped forward onto 
her, and -- fighting his bonds -- wriggled desperately to 
penetrate her. She helped eagerly, and he rode her savagely to 
climax, crushing her breasts cruelly under his unsupported 
weight. She clawed at his back and arms with her muddied 
hands.

As he stiffened and shot, Lacey stepped forward, grabbed his 
hair, and yanked back his head. Her sickle glittered in the 
firelight, and she slashed his throat. Bright red arterial 
blood arced through the air.

Roaring strangely, frantically, through his ruined voice box, 
Tom wrenched himself out of the Corn Maiden and staggered to 
his feet. His cock, dripping jism, glistened in the firelight. 
He drooped and then he fell.

"The corn is made!" cried Lacey Penwhistle.

* * *

76. She Was Only a Constable's Daughter


Sheila Baxter let the hot water of the netball court shower 
massage her six foot body, still stiff and bruised from Tom 
Redman's last mauling. There was a noise behind her.

She sighed. "Alright. Get it out."

She turned, but the expected cock wasn't poking through the 
wall. Instead, someone was peeking around the lockers. 

"Who's there?"

No answer. Just a clatter.

Sheila stepped from the shower and snatched up a field-hockey 
stick, then stepped boldly around the lockers, naked curves 
streaming water.

"Oh, Robyn. Thought everyone'd gone."

Robyn Pickthorne was the Flashers wing attack, a boyish squirt 
with short, spiky hair and enormous brown eyes. She was 
splayed on the floor, having tripped backward over a mop.

"I'm sorry, Sheila, I was just. . . I forgot my. . ."
	
Sheila noticed that Robyn's nipples were poking through her T-
shirt like thimbles. Her face was flushed.

"You were looking at me, weren't you?"

"I. . . No, I. . ." Robyn was close to tears. "You're just so. 
. . tall and beautiful."

Sheila's heart broke to see such sweet confusion. Playing 
netball in college she'd known plenty of Robyn's ilk. Hell, 
until she'd come to Little Flashmarket, she'd thought she'd 
been one.

"You're pretty cute yourself. And a vet can't resist a cute 
pussy, can she?"

"Then?"

Sheila shrugged sadly. "Sorry, luv. I'm afraid since coming 
here, I've developed a fondness for thick, hard cock." She 
shivered as a memory overwhelmed her. 

Robyn frowned, thinking, then looked up hopefully. "Er. . . 
I've got one of my father's truncheons in my bag."

Sheila smiled and lifted the little butch into her arms. The 
poor thing was trembling with desire. Sheila suddenly felt 
strong and protective. It had been a while since she'd been 
the strong one. Her cunt flushed.

"Now, aren't you resourceful?"

Robyn's lips tasted like sweet tea.

* * *

77. Lucretia Messes With Magic


Raggy Meg looked away, shoving gnarled hands into the folds of 
her loose-fitting dress. She scooted along the street, 
mumbling to herself and looking this way and that. Still 
standing by the skip, Lucretia clicked stiletto heels on the 
rubbish-covered footpath.

"Come back here, you old crone," she half-heartedly shouted. 
"I have to know if this here spell will work."

Meg turned around, her face ashen. "Three, times, lassie. 
Three times!"

"Witch!"

Red-faced, Lucretia walked along an empty street, took a 
shortcut past the Twice Told Tales bookshop, and hopped a few 
short steps into her flat. The two-bedroom studio had a great 
view of the town. At the moment, however, Lucretia had other 
plans, so she closed the panoramic curtains and inspected the 
pentagram she had drawn earlier on the living room floor. 
Satisfied it was ready, she began casting her spell. 

Hours later, a beautiful young man stood within the five-
pointed star. At least, most of him was man. His cock was more 
like that of a donkey, long and thick, dangling just below his 
knees.

Salivating, Lucretia stepped into the circle, where the young 
man reached for her immediately. Bending her over, he crammed 
his meat into her resistant little brown eyeball. At first 
Lucretia felt great discomfort, but once he was a ways in, she 
relaxed.

Then he withdrew.

Hundreds upon hundreds of tiny spines tore into delicate 
flesh. The quills remained flat every time he entered, only to 
stand up upon his retreat. Each thrust formed a cacophony of 
pleasure and pain.

Without fanfare the demon shot his load onto the small of her 
back. Relieved, Lucretia made to step out of the circle.

"Not done, enchantress," the red-eyed demon gurgled. "Twice 
more."

A tear escaped Lucretia's eye as she remembered the hag's 
final words.

* * *

78. Tom's Last Stand


A lambent moon cast its shimmery light over the dry grass 
along the sloping hills of Flashmarket valley. The grass 
rolled like ocean waves from an unsettled breeze -- glimmering 
silver -- the ebb and flow of a ghostly tide. The fertility 
festival was complete.

The hot-copper stench of fresh blood caught in Lacey 
Penwhistle's throat, causing her to gag. Leading the Sodality 
of St. Margaret certainly had its drawbacks, including dousing 
herself in pig's blood and wielding a make-believe sickle. But 
leadership also had its rewards. Watching Tom Redman fuck the 
Corn Maiden was the most exciting thing Lacey had ever 
witnessed. Timothy Pengelley's limp sausage barely scratched 
the surface of Lacey's deep and constant itch.

"Ooh! Lacey. Wasn't that exciting? The best yet," said Estelle 
Willing.

Lacey half-nodded. She needed a man like Tom, a man with a 
cock as long as her forearm and endurance to match. Forget 
Pengelley.

Estelle yapped on. "We've never had a fertility festival with 
such realistic drama. I almost believed it was real, didn't 
you, Sheila?"

Sheila Baxter shrugged. "I've seen Tom fuck better. And 
longer."

"Well, of course," said Estelle. "We all have, but violence 
and blood? Simply marvellous.  It's a shame we didn't have the 
video camera. Don't you agree, Lacey?"

Lacey nodded again and glanced around the fireside. The Corn 
Maiden, a chit from nearby Canard, languished on the ground, 
her privates glistening from its recent slathering. Tom, lying 
in a foetal heap not two feet away, hadn't realized the show 
was over. Lacey saw it as her opportunity.

"Tom, dear, I was wondering. . ." Lacey gasped, silenced by 
the cold stare of death.

Tom Redman truly had fucked for the last time. His erect cock, 
nestled against his thigh in rigor mortis, refused to shrivel. 

It was a fine tribute.

* * *

79. Tom's Brown Body


They laid the body of Tom Redman on Constable Pickthorne's 
big, old oak desk in the police station. Stiff as a board, Tom 
was, and so was his cock.

"As in life, so in death," Dr Gerry Reede noted solemnly.

"Ah, Lacey," the policeman said. "What have you done?"

Lacey Penwhistle bristled defiantly. "Nothing," she said. "I 
didn't kill him. We used pig's blood."

She stabbed her finger into Tom's throat. "Is he cut? No."

Constable Pickthorne ran a hand through his thinning hair. 
"You don't understand," he said. "You rang in the details on 
the official police phone. It gets recorded on the police 
network. I'm going to have to report it to London."

Lacey grimaced. "I thought we'd just get Edgar Tanner. You 
know, Father Grogan could say some kind words, and it's all 
over."

"Not now," Pickthorne said. "London will send a homicide man 
down. It's a suspicious death."

"We tell him nothing," Lacey snapped. "The village looks after 
its own."

"Maybe," Pickthorne said dubiously. "Doc, how did he die?"

"Fucked if I know," Dr. Reede said. "But at a rough guess, I'd 
say he was poisoned."

Pickthorne reached for the telephone. "I'm ringing Edgar," he 
said. "This body has got to disappear fast."

"Right," Lacey agreed. "And we need to call a village meeting 
and get everybody's story straight."

"Everybody?" asked Dr. Reede.

"Except that Brentwood man," Lacey said. "His wife is fine, 
but he's hopeless."

"And the vicar?" Pickthorne asked.

"God, no," Lacey said. "But Anne Thomson is a good woman."

"There'll not be a man in Little Flashmarket sorry to see Tom 
Redman go," Pickthorne said.

"Many a husband will get more action in bed now," Dr. Reede 
agreed.

Constable Pickthorne shuddered. At least he had his own 
private arrangements on that score.

* * *

80. Amazing Grace


Bright, dusty, afternoon sunlight slashed the cool, quiet 
gloom of the Little Flashmarket Police Station's makeshift 
morgue as the street door creaked open. Grace Elizabeth 
Hunter, virgin, stuck her head round the door, peeked around, 
saw no one, and sneaked in. She had picked lunchtime in the 
hopes that everyone alive would be outside in the sun. If she 
had been more familiar with police routine, she would have 
seen brown bags of luncheon sandwiches and fruit balanced on 
the chest of cadavers as the lunching coroner dug with gloved 
hands deep in body cavities, but she wasn't. She just happened 
to get lucky that day.

And lucky was what she planned to get.

She sneaked over to the table that held Tom Redman's big body. 
The sheet covering it was conspicuously tented in the middle. 
She gently drew it aside and let it slide to the floor. Her 
wide eyes took in Tom's legendary penis, mysteriously erect in 
death. And now, at last, she had decided, she was going to get 
a taste of what all that giggling gossiping had been about.

Tentatively, she reached out and touched the magnificent 
cantilever of man-meat. Ewwww! It was cold. Room temperature. 
But, finally, she screwed up her courage to the sticking point 
and reached for the buttons at the waist of her denims.

"If you wrap a series of elastic bands around the base of the 
penis, it gets a lot harder," said a helpful voice behind her. 
Grace spun around, gasping. It was Timothy Pengelley, the 
village undertaker. He shrugged apologetically.

"Been in the business a long time," he said, smiling ruefully. 
"All part of the service. Would you like some assistance, 
there? Can I give you a bit of a leg-up, or anything?"