Little Flashmarket 10


91. Crombie Follows the Scent

Urban folk, raised on folk-tales and Disney cartoons, are 
amiably prone to make derisive jokes about pigs. Anyone who 
has seen the Hannibal Lecter movies, however, will recall that 
these beasts are far more than genial garbage processors. 
Country folk, who actually encounter pigs in their daily 
lives, know full well that a 250-kilo rutting boar, in 
addition to being one mean mother-fucker, is a formidable 
instrument of destruction. They also know that, although pigs 
are best known to town-dwellers for eating kitchen garbage, 
they are true omnivores.

Detective Inspector Crombie, who was a town boy, got an 
unplanned crash course in all this when his enquiries led him 
to Edgar Tanner's farm one evening.

"Offal," explained Edgar in response to DI Crombie's horrified 
glance. "Butcher can't sell it nowadays. Don't understand it, 
myself. I like my suet dumplings. Steak and kidney pie, made 
with lambs' kidneys. Poached sheep's brains. Anyway. Gives it 
to me cheap."

"What the fuck is that?!" enquired Crombie, agitated and 
gagging in the stench.

"What?" asked Edgar Tanner, turning curiously.

"There! Under the trough! Is that a human foot I see sticking 
out?"

"Heaven bless you, no! What a thing to say! That's just a 
funny-shaped potato. Happen you can't see so well in the 
twilight?"

"Maybe," said DI Crombie furtively.

"You suffer from night blindness, maybe?"

"Maybe," said DI Crombie, defiantly.

"Aye," said Edgar. "Happen I'd better light your way back to 
your motor."

A little way away from the pigsty, a match flared and a 
hurricane sprang to brilliant life. Crombie's eye was drawn to 
it, and his night vision destroyed. As he stumbled blindly 
after the remorselessly departing Edgar, he wondered whether 
the munching sounds from the sty were the sound of pig teeth 
sinking into old turnips, or gristle.

* * *

92. RSM Redman Inspects The Ranks


A lesser man, on compassionate leave to avenge his brother's 
murder, might have worn mufti to do a recce, but RSM Redman 
scorned to do so. His size 12 Army boots gleamed with spit and 
polish and some other magical mystery ingredient supplied by 
Grenadier Davis, his biddable batman, at the same time as he 
was licking the very boots in question. Thanks 
to the loving ministrations of Davis, RSM Redman's khaki 
puttees were perfection itself, and immaculate was his 
blancoed, Brassoed web belt.

A lesser man might have examined the High Street of Little 
Flashmarket, or cased it, or checked it out. RSM Redman 
surveilled it, his experienced military eye probing for the 
point of least resistance.

And a score of female eyes surveilled the colossus 
contemplatively from a variety of vantage points. He was a 
stranger who seemed, somehow, familiar. The set of the broad 
shoulders, the corded definition of his big, hairy forearms. 
And how well formed he seemed to be, under those thick, coarse 
Army-issue leggings! How pregnant of possibility seemed the 
long, thick, flexible, silver-knobbed swagger stick tucked 
under his arm!

A warrant officer's first duty is the wellbeing of the men in 
his detachment, so RSM Redman conducted a tactical withdrawal 
to bivouac in the Flashmarket Arms to recover from the 
parching journey. He made a beachhead in the snug bar, and 
took stock of the inhabitants. An ill-at-ease figure, foot on 
the bar-rail, was clearly disconcerted to discover that he was 
under scrutiny.

"What's your name, cocky?" barked the RSM.

"M-M-M-Mike Matabele," stammered the disconcerted figure.

"Well, cocky," said Redman, "I's bin dealing with backsliders 
and malingerers like youse my whole life, so I already knows 
you done it. I just needs to find out what it was."

He ordered a pint.

* * *

93. Sheila Feels Offal


Sheila Baxter, Vegan and team player, exactly six foot tall in 
her cold, bare feet, her nipples standing out like pencil 
erasers, stumbled as she cowered back from the swinging rows 
of pig carcasses. She fell, bloodying herself elbow deep, into 
a tub of offal. Shrieking, she leapt back.

"I can't do this," she said, and burst into tears.

Thelma Underwood displayed irritation. "They've rented all of 
Becky's videos of you and Tom Redman," she pointed out 
forcefully. "River Bank, I-V, the lot, which makes you the 
last person to see him alive. They just have to show them to 
that nasty Sergeant-Major Redman, and. . ."

She didn't need to finish.

"There, there, lass," said Billy Brattle, the village butcher, 
hulking nakedly over the cowering Sheila. "Happen you just 
need a bit of warming up. I've heard that there are some girls 
as appreciate it."

He took a gently steaming liver from a freshly slaughtered cow 
and, as a tender lover might sponge his girlfriend in the 
shower, began rubbing her down with it. He first made a 
bloodstain on her twitching shoulder and then, like a 
housepainter, meticulously expanded the mulberry juice colour 
of it uniformly across her trembling, flinching pelt.

Edgar Tanner, also naked, took another liver in his right 
hand, and began rubbing his cold-shrivelled cock and tight 
balls with it. They expanded gratefully into tumescence. In 
his left hand, he took a third liver, and started mopping 
roughly at Sheila's vulva. She shrieked, and tried to spring 
away, but Billy Brattle held her fast.

"Shit," thought Thelma mutinously as she left for home and the 
sound of Sheila's sobs dwindled behind her. "The things I do 
for cheap meat. I have to get a better job where I can afford 
to pay full price."

* * *

94. Lucretia's New Shield


Detective Inspector Hugh Crombie emerged from the Flashmarket 
Arms and into the twilight. Across the way, sitting on a 
bench, was a young woman with piercing eyes. She wore a 
transparent top, short leather skirt, and stockings. There was 
something familiar about her, but in his inebriated state he 
could not recall any details. 

"Evening," he said, walking over and taking a seat.

Lucretia crossed her legs. Crombie could almost taste morning 
dew.

"Hit the lager something fierce, did you, Mr. DI?"

Crombie grinned. "Gotten around, has it?"

"Small village like this, it's the norm."

"Mind if I ask you something?" Crombie didn't wait for a 
response. "You know Tom Redman?"

"Never heard of him. I'm a recent arrival."

"I see." Crombie's eyes narrowed. "I know you, don't I?"

"Maybe." Lucretia blushed. "I've been around."

"I bet you have," Crombie coughed under his breath. "So, what 
do you charge on an off-night?"

Lucretia leaned forward, her arms all over Crombie. Oh yeah, 
he thought, she's a pro. Probably choked on her first cock 
soon after giving up her thumb. 

Thing was, Crombie was an old pro, too. As Lucretia teased his 
chest, he opened his legs for easier access. That's when 
Lucretia slapped him. Before Crombie could respond, she stood 
up and disappeared into the darkness. 

Later that night at the local hotel, Crombie woke up covered 
with sweat. Peeling off the covers, he found his crotch was 
damp. It had been a long time.

Across town, in a tiny apartment, Lucretia sat on a floor upon 
which she had drawn a pentagram. Covered with sweat, the young 
woman gingerly removed the detective's badge from her sodden 
cleft. She held up the shield so that moonlight reflected off 
its metallic face.

"Detective inspector," she whispered. "Now what will you do?"

* * *

95. Anne Thomson, Good Woman II


The Reverend Ronald Thomson returned from a late afternoon 
stroll with his two Golden Retrievers, Matins and Evensong, to 
find his wife sitting on the front steps of St. Swithin's and 
holding hands with a disconsolate man. 

"This is poor Mr. Brentwood, who's been unlucky in Little 
Flashmarket," Anne Thomson said. "He ran away but he's come 
back to face the music."

Bob Brentwood lifted his head. "This town has done me in," he 
said, eyes full of tears. "It's the Devil's work."

The vicar cleared his throat nervously and called his dogs to 
heel. A madman, he thought. Satan abroad in Little 
Flashmarket? This fellow was clearly unbalanced.    

"He'll stay the night," Anne said. "Tomorrow we'll do what has 
to be done."

Reverend Thomson was happy to leave the matter in his wife's 
capable hands. A man in Vancouver was selling his collection 
of 1922 Bombay jam tin labels on e-Bay, and the bidding was 
fierce. Jubilant after a six-hour online battle, he went to 
bed scarcely aware of Anne's absence.

In the guest bedroom, Anne comforted Bob Brentwood on his last 
night of innocence. "Be brave," she whispered to him as she 
held his cock and licked it. "You're doing a good thing," she 
said, stroking his hair and patting his back as he wept into 
her neck after fucking her like a man who had nowhere else to 
go.

At breakfast, she told her husband she'd be taking Bob 
Brentwood down to the police station.

"What's he done?" asked Reverend Thomson.

"Nothing for you to worry about," Anne said. "Best you don't 
know. I'll just go back upstairs and make sure he's decently 
bathed and shaved before he goes."

Of course, the vicar reflected, pouring another cup of tea. 
She was a good woman, Anne.

* * *      

96. Fred Meets a Video Star


Relief postman Fred Barrett gave the small package he was 
carrying a quick shake. The postmark was California, USA, and 
it had cost six dollars to send. There was no sound so Fred 
was none the wiser, but at least he had his clipboard and pen 
ready as the gravel of Pepper Winston's driveway crunched 
under his boots.

Fred's 17-year-old imagination was working overtime as he 
approached the front door. His mouth was dry, his palms felt 
sweaty, his penis was erect with excited anticipation. It 
wasn't necessary for Pepper to sign for the parcel but he'd 
mocked up a delivery sheet so that he had an excuse to ring 
the bell.

Maybe she would answer the door in the middle of getting 
dressed and be buttoning her blouse over her huge, wonderfully 
naked breasts. Or perhaps she would be wearing just a bra and 
panties, tiny, g-string panties that were no more than a wisp 
of material and strings that snaked between the perfect 
rondures of her buttocks. Perhaps a bathrobe, loosely tied so 
that he could see a creamy-smooth breast, a perfectly-pink 
nipple, or the slit of her pussy which he knew she kept 
shaven. Best of all, she might be naked, her hair dishevelled, 
wiping her mouth with her fingers as she swallowed the thick, 
salty liquid filling her mouth.

Fred knew all there was to know about Pepper's beautiful body. 
Time and again he'd rented "Pepper Winston and Andy Brock" 
with its red-penned (*Anal) note from the video shop, then 
rushed home at the end of his shift in the hope that his Mam 
had gone out and he could watch it and masturbate until his 
balls hurt.

Fred's hand was shaking as he reached out and pressed the 
buzzer...

* * *

97. Snake in the Grass


Snake, skin artist, lay on his stomach in the tall grass 
outside the cricket ground, peering toward the game. He'd been 
watching for an hour, and as far as he could tell, they were 
all fucking insane. If one more person shouted "well played," 
when nothing at all had happened, he was going to scream the 
place down.

But he wasn't here to see cricket. He was here to see Cricket.

Her letters, at first full of vigorous complaint about their 
separation, had become shorter and vaguer, and at last had 
stopped altogether. He was nervous about her. Her last 
communication had been, inexplicably, a flyer with a blurry 
photograph of a bespectacled young woman. Have You Seen Me? 
read the caption. Fuck, no, thought Snake.

But the spooky thing had made his mind up. He put on his 
interview outfit (the T-shirt inside out so that the legend 
Baby Let's Fuck was against his tattooed chest) and got a 
courier's job to England. A less skin-art-friendly place than 
Little Flashmarket was hard to imagine. A boring backwater.

When he arrived at the field, or pitch, or whatever the fuck 
they called it, he decided to scope things out. He lay low and 
watched, his courier bag beneath him. Suddenly, a great cheer 
went up from the crowd. Some British fag had done something or 
other, and they were bringing out their stupid mascot. 

Then his jaw dropped and hit the ground. It was Cricket. 
Totally, completely, buck, stark naked. All eleven team 
members converged on her at once, grabbing, shoving, 
thrusting. It seemed there was no inch of his innocent 
Cricket's body unviolated.

Snake sat back and considered what to do. Some of those guys 
had huge biceps.

There might be a venue for his art here after all.

* * *

98. A Surprise Present for Pepper


Pepper Winston wondered whether to invite young Fred, the 
relief postman, in for a cup of tea and a lie down on the sofa 
when he rang the doorbell and asked her to sign for the 
package he was delivering. She'd just come in from her morning 
walk and was wearing a full-length cashmere coat buttoned up 
to the neck to keep out the chill Autumn wind, and she could 
see right away the poor young man was very upset about 
something. But Fred only mumbled "thanks," and walked slowly 
back to his bicycle to continue his round.

"Who on earth is sending me surprise parcels?" Pepper wondered 
as she unbuttoned her coat, hung it up in a closet, and walked 
through to the kitchen. "And from America?"

She turned on the coffee percolator and helped herself to a 
chocolate Hob-Nob. Then she took a sharp knife and carefully 
opened the package.

Inside was a small, beautifully carved wooden box. Pepper 
opened the silver clasp and gasped with surprise. The box 
contained a glass buttplug, obviously hand-blown in a single 
piece by a craftsman. There was a typed card taped to the box, 
sending on a message from the person who'd ordered the gift. 
It read: "For your pleasure and mine, A."

Pepper lifted the buttplug out of its velvet lining. She held 
the glass up to the light and marvelled at its silky, sensual 
smoothness. She ran her fingers over it, mentally gauging the 
thickness of the widest point of the bulb. "Oh my God," she 
said softly. "It won't fit, surely?"

Behind her the coffee percolated, but she ignored it.

"Well, come on, girl," Pepper said as she made her way 
upstairs. "Only one way to find out." She laughed with 
excitement and pleasure.

* * *

99. Pengelley's Grave Decision

Little Flashmarket was a traditional town when it came to 
funerals. There had even been mutters when Tim Pengelley's 
father had changed from horse-drawn carriages to sleek motors. 
The order of the procession was invariable: the hearse first, 
followed by the grieving spouse, and then the mourners in 
order of social importance. It had always been so. It was a 
simple thing in complicated times.

But this afternoon, Timothy Pengelley was having a complicated 
time of it. He sat at his desk in front of Trisha Storrow, and 
squirmed.

"We're doing it differently this time, Mrs. Storrow," he said. 

Trisha lowered her lace-edged handkerchief from sharp eyes. 

"What?" she asked. A flush rose in Tim's cheeks.

"We're having the rest of the mourners go first, and you come 
last," he said. The look in her eye made him shift in his 
chair again. Oh, Christ, he thought. Here it comes.

Trisha drew herself up in her chair, ramrod-straight. She gave 
him a basilisk stare.

"You'll do no such thing," she said. "The wife rides first."

Timothy swallowed hard, licked his dry lips, and smiled 
feebly.

"That's just what Bill never liked about Little Flashmarket 
funerals," he said. "His dying wish was for you to ride last. 
In state, as it were."

Trisha's eyes filled with tears. 

"Oh," she said. "That's so like him. Oh, Mr. Pengelley. Thank 
you so much." She rose and departed, weeping tenderly.

Timothy, released at last, closed his eyes and came hard into 
the talented mouth of Claire Storrow, who was kneeling under 
his desk. He pushed back, weak-kneed, so he could see her.

"Well," she said, tartly, "that's settled. I ride behind the 
hearse, and that cow rides last."

"Yes," said Timothy. "Glad to be of assistance at this 
difficult time, Mrs. Storrow."

* * *

100. A Nasty Shock for Pepper


Sometimes Pepper Winston wished she had a video camera and 
could tape her lunchtime sex sessions with Andy Brock. She'd 
watch over and over the expression of ecstasy on her face as 
she lay on her back, legs high in the air, her huge breasts 
bouncing in time with Andy's thrusts, marvelling at the way 
the glass buttplug filled her rectum to capacity as Andy 
filled the adjoining passage with ten inches of hot, hard, 
pumping prick.

But if she had a tape then there was always the chance Ian 
might find it and she knew there was no way he'd understand 
that she loved her husband to distraction but was addicted to 
sex with Andy -- particularly when, as now, he slowed his 
movements and reached down between the cheeks of her ass to 
gently withdraw the buttplug, drop it on the bedspread and 
slowly slide something almost as hard, but warm and oozing 
semen, into her bowels.

Pepper reached behind her to take hold of the bars of the 
bed's headboard, her fingers white as she gripped them in 
passion. Every nerve in her body was alive to the pleasure 
radiating from her back passage. She screamed: "Yes, oh God, 
yes!" She climaxed in great bucking heaves, her asshole 
tightening round Andy's cock and bringing him to orgasm at the 
same time.

His prick still embedded in Pepper's behind, Andy slumped 
forward and she kissed him fiercely. "Thank you for my 
wonderful gift," she whispered. 

"My pleasure," Andy said, and then his smile faded.

"What's the matter?"

"That wire," Andy said, and Pepper followed his gaze. "I've 
never seen that before."

"Oh - my -- God," Pepper said slowly. She could clearly see 
that the wire, twisted round the last bar in the headboard, 
ended in a small microphone.