Little Flashmarket 12


111. Buff and Helen


The two Army dykes automatically sat to attention as RSM 
Redman turned from Mike Matabele and swept the bar with his 
gimlet gaze. His arms, too, stiffened briefly in 
acknowledgment, and he nodded smartly.

"Carry on," he grunted. "Permission to drink."

He found a seat and covertly watched them huddle on the two 
furthest barstools. Trained observers with an on-side attitude 
might prove useful. The diesel-dyke one had the habit of 
glaring around suspiciously. Under her lank bangs, her piggy, 
red-rimmed eyes constantly swept the bar, like a radar 
scanner, tirelessly seeking for something to take offence at. 
Her 
huge, rugby-forward shoulders stirred restlessly under her 
outsize, dark green Army issue jersey.

Shees, thought Redman. I wouldn't like to have to deal with 
that doing PMS.

The little pretty one, who presumably did, sat quiet with 
downcast eyes, clearly hoping there wouldn't be any trouble.

"They're stationed just down the road, at Aldershot. Haven't 
been in for a while," observed a stranger, sitting down next 
to him unasked. Redman grunted, internally debating whether to 
take offence.

"Probably been too busy at home."

Redman grunted again.

"You know. Hoovering the hamster. Clam clustering. Duffing the 
muff. Bushwhacking. Slitslurping. Feeling for squeal."

I get it, thought Redman, but made the mistake of saying 
nothing.

"Squeezing the pips," persisted his informant. "Violating the 
Velcro. Double fur-burger with salad dressing. Fur Fest 
Feeding Frenzy. Sliding for Home. Cruising the Cooze."

"I get it," said Redman, desperate. Something more seemed 
expected. "Thank you," he rejoined courteously.

"All part of the service," said his interlocutor, holding out 
his hand. "Timothy Pengelley, village undertaker."

"What are their names?"

"The one wearing lipstick is Helen. The one wearing axle 
grease is Buff."

"Short for Buffy the Vampire Slayer?"

"No. Short for Buffy the Strangler."

* * *

112. Pepper Makes Amends

Pepper Winston brought her husband Ian a cup of strong, black 
coffee and put it on the bedside table. "Good morning," she 
said softly, and leaned down to kiss him.

Ian turned away from her.

"Oh please, darling," Pepper cried, tears springing to her 
eyes. "It isn't only my fault. You gave me to him in the first 
place! There was just something overpowering about him. I 
couldn't say no."

"You didn't have to say yes so bloody often," Ian said with 
heavy sarcasm.

"It was like rape. . . that was it," said Pepper, blowing her 
nose. "He'd turn up and have his big thing hanging out of his 
trousers and he always wanted my bum and. . . " She started 
crying again.

Ian turned toward her. "Well, was it rape, or wasn't it?"

"Not technically, no," Pepper said. Her huge breasts heaved 
with emotion. "Oh darling," she said in a rush. "I'm so proud 
of you, defending my honour against that beast of a man."

"My honour, you mean," Ian said in a cold voice. "You haven't 
got any left."

"Ohhhhhh!" Pepper wailed and collapsed on the bed, her whole 
body shaking as she sobbed.

Suddenly she felt Ian's hand on her shoulder.

"If I win, you won't be able to see him again, you know. And 
we'll have to move. We can't go on living here."

Pepper sat up. "I know," she said.

"We'll have to start again. As man and wife."

"I promise," Pepper said.

Ian reached out and gently hooked his finger under the straps 
of her nightie, pulling them down over the slopes of her 
breasts. He bent his head and sucked a nipple into his mouth, 
biting at the firm tip.

"I do promise," Pepper said, and reached hungrily for her 
husband's erect prick.

* * *

113. Steady, the Buff

As the luncheon crowd thinned, RSM Redman made his way over to 
Buff and Helen. They stood quickly to attention, gazing 
fixedly to the front.

"Please relax," said the sergeant major. "This is personal. I 
was wondering if you were in a position to do a favour for a 
fellow member of Her Majesty's Armed Forces."

The two carpet-munchers sat uneasily.

"Are you two from around here?" he enquired.

"No. Yes. Sort of," murmured Helen.

"Stationed down the road at Aldershot, sah!" roared Buff.

"Do you know this crowd?"

"Some. Some not." A shrug.

"Did you know Tom Redman?"

They clearly did. Helen blushed, and looked down. Buff wattled 
in fury.

"That fucking bastard!" Her ham-like fist smote the stout 
oaken bar, making it shake. "Mistreater of women! He deserved 
to die!"

"He was my little brother."

"Oh."

"I'm here to find out what happened to him. I'd be grateful 
for any collegial assistance you could offer."

"Such as?"

"Well, for example, did you see that character I spoke to at 
the bar?"

"Yeah," said Buff sardonically. She turned her head aside, and 
spat on the carpet.

"What's his name?"

"Mike Matabele."

"That's what he said. I didn't know if I should believe him."

"So, what about him?"

"Nothing you could put your finger on," Buff snickered 
contemptuously. "But he looked suspicious. You know? Like a 
lance-jack trying to hide something."

Again, Buff spat. "Lance-jack, my spreading arse," she said, 
with unusual felicity. "He's one of your 'sensitive types'." 
She spoke sardonically. "Sad. A loser. Always going around, 
pathetically rubbing himself up against women, but never 
getting it together."

"I suspect it was him as killed my little brother." RSM Redman 
spoke quietly.

He had pressed the right button with Buff.

"We shall not let you down, sah!" she roared.

* * *

114. Lucretia Meets the Espresso Machine

Lucretia stood at the counter of Sneak Reviews. It had been a 
long day at the Flashmarket Arms; she could still hear the 
wankers screaming for another shot of Hobgoblin. And now the 
pretty little thing on the other side of the counter -- her 
name badge read "Becky" -- was starting to piss her off.

"What do you mean you don't have espresso? I see a coffee 
machine over there, don't I?"

Becky smiled. "And that's what it is, miss. Care for some 
coffee?"

Lucretia bit her lower lip. "Girlie, I don't think you're 
reading me. I want some serious beans. And I want froth -- 
nothing like froth lining the upper lip." 

The young woman shrugged.

"Oh hell! Pour me some tar, then."

 From between two rows of video shelves emerged a young man, a 
videocassette in his left hand. 

"Hi there," he said standing next to Lucretia. "Heard about 
your problem. Can I help?"

The waitress took a sip of the black stuff and winced. As she 
turned to size up the stranger, her eyes locked on his crotch.

"Yeah, I need froth." She licked her lips.

Jimmy Dawson squared his shoulders and pushed out his pelvis. 
Concurrently, Lucretia dropped to her knees and without 
ceremony unzipped his fly and peeled down his jeans. Cock 
bobbing in her face, Lucretia used one hand to pinch the base 
while the other clasped the boy's ass. She opened wide, 
letting her tongue lick the cock's length several times. As 
she took the mushroom-shaped head into her mouth, she released 
his ass and used an index finger to rub that sensitive spot 
behind his nut sac. Lucretia stood up, froth lining her upper 
lip.

"Thirty quid."

"Christ, espresso is expensive."

The following morning, Becky went out in search of that 
wonderful espresso machine.

* * *

115. One Man, Two Man, Redman, Blue Man

Marie-Louise -- born, bred and raised in everyone-knows-
everyone Little Flashmarket -- was a friendly, outgoing girl. 
Famed for it, in fact. Her friendly instaying was also 
legendary, but that's another story.

And so, when she saw an enormous stranger hulking sadly at her 
bar, her heart went out to him. The surly outsider at first 
rebuffed her advances churlishly, but she persisted. Shy men 
always turned her on.

"Look, lassie," snarled RSM Redman finally, "all I want to 
know is whose side you're on."

"I'm on your side, of course, silly," cooed Marie-Louise. 
"Now, what can I do to make you feel more at home here in 
Little Flashmarket?"

"Jesus H. Christ on a Captain America motorcycle," thought 
Marie-Louise's boss, innkeeper Peter Willing, watching through 
a crack in the door as Redman took Marie-Louise's head between 
his naked thighs, gripped the waistband of her skirt, raised 
his swagger-stick purposefully, and said, "You have to say, 
'Standing by to receive orders.' It's Tradition."

"Standing by to receive orders," came Marie-Louise's voice, 
somewhat muffled and, by now, somewhat apprehensive. And RSM 
Redman applied the first lash.

"You have to count out loud," he explained. "Come on. . . one, 
two. . ."

Peter had always thought highly of Marie-Louise's willingness 
to make the Flashmarket Arms a nice place to come. His 
gratitude hadn't extended to giving her a raise, or anything -
- he assumed, not groundlessly, that her service was reflected 
in her tips. But even Peter, after a lifetime in the catering 
business, was a little startled by what he saw.

"Eh, mother!" he whispered to Mrs. Willing, "Come and have a 
look at this!" Her eyes joined his at the crack of the door, 
and she, too, was a little startled.

After that, everyone remarked that Marie-Louise wasn't such a 
friendly, outgoing girl any more.

* * *

116. Pepper Gets Ready for Bed


Pepper Winston was sitting naked in front of her dressing 
table mirror. She reached for a bottle of almond body oil, 
poured white cream into her palm, and started massaging it 
into the smooth skin of her big breasts.

Next to her Ian Winston stood in front of the wardrobe mirror, 
turning sideways and then full on, examining himself 
critically. He was wearing a pair of trousers that he'd had to 
make a trip into London to get from Hackett's in Covent 
Garden. 

"Ah yes, sir," the assistant said, "Prizefighter's pants, 
they're called. First worn in the eighteenth century for bare 
knuckle fistfighting. Fancy dress is it, sir?"

"Er, yes," Ian said. "For a party."

The pants were figure-hugging and finished just below the 
knee, leaving room for socks held up by suspenders. Ian had to 
buy matching brown leather shoes and a sturdy leather belt to 
hold the pants up. Underwear was not permitted, which meant 
Ian's cock and balls were clearly outlined against the soft, 
pliable fabric.

"Mmm, you look good in those," Pepper said. "Ian? You know 
what you said about my honour? Did you mean it?"

"No, darling. I was angry. You know I'm doing this for you."

"Thank you," Pepper said, shivering slightly as she rubbed 
more of the cool cream into the taut tips of her nipples.

Ian walked over and stood behind Pepper, watching what she was 
doing.

Pepper met his gaze and slowly opened her legs. The lips of 
her cunt were pink and glistening. "Do you want to? With the 
hairbrush? Fill both holes at once?"

"God, yes," Ian said.

Pepper laughed as she lay back on the bed. She was looking 
forward to the slow, sweet entry of the brush's handle.

* * *

117. Reverend Thomson Sees God


Recruiters for Her Majesty's Armed Forces seek personnel with 
a certain simplicity and directness of thought. If Her 
Majesty's ministers, for example, wish to invade Iraq, they 
want soldiers who will go and do it, as opposed to standing 
around arguing the merits. Buff fitted into the Army like a 
cock into a cunt.

Little Flashmarket's parish priest, Father Grogan, was in a 
little spot of bother over choirgirls. In the good old days -- 
before this modern, relaxed liturgy -- Father Grogan's fleshly 
weakness would not have been exposed, in his place of 
business, to choirgirls. Choirboys, yes. But the Catholic 
Church had been dealing with clerics and choirboys since. . . 
since. . . since there were clerics and choirboys, dammit!

And then. . . Out with Latin! In with choirgirls! What would 
it be next? Ecumenism? Anyway, the point was that there was no 
news value any more in choirboys: so ho-hum. But choirgirls, 
now. . . And choirgirls, alas, had proved to be Father 
Grogan's particular weakness.

And word had got about, and as far afield as Buff, who had 
Views on men who abuse little girls.

"There's that perverted religious Johnny," she grated, her 
little piggy eyes glinting hatred. She strode forward, grabbed 
Reverend Thomson by the throat, and rammed his head back into 
a brick wall, hard.

"Your sort," she hissed dramatically, "are the veriest pits of 
Hell!"

He took her for a sign from a Catholic God -- an ecumenically 
disinclined Angel of Death. A bright pinprick appeared in the 
centre of his blackening vision. It grew swiftly to become a 
shining tunnel leading to the infinite.

"It is Time," he thought, suddenly calm. "An infinitely 
merciful God is calling me Home." 

"You got the wrong one," said Helen to Buff. "That's the 
Anglican. The choirgirls one is the Catholic."

"Oops," said Buff.

* * *

118. Peter's Quiet Word


Publican Peter Willing was having a quiet word at the 
Flashmarket Arms with Nelson Tilly, editor of The Flashmarket 
Whisper. They huddled over coffee laced with a heavy shot of 
brandy.

"Never thought I'd see the day," Nelson said. "Mind you, 
bastard's had it coming to him."

"No question," said Peter. He leaned towards Nelson. "But is 
Ian Winston the man to do it?"

"Dunno," said Nelson. "He's heavier than Andy Brock, but 
probably less fit. If he lands a good punch then it could be 
all over. But that's a big 'if'. Any more coffee?"

Peter poured it and then another, less generous, slug of 
brandy into the swirling depths.

"Looking forward to seeing Pepper Winston in here, though," 
Peter said, leering at Nelson.

"Oh God, yes," Nelson said. "Video shop can barely cope with 
the demand to see that one spread her cheeks for cock. Hell's 
bells, but she's keen on having it up the tradesmen's 
entrance, ain't she?"

Peter let out a dirty laugh. "I bloody would, given half the 
chance," he said, and drained his coffee mug.

Nelson stood up. "Well, thanks for the coffee. You want the 
usual little piece about a social gathering taking place in 
the back yard of the Arms on Sunday night at nine sharp? Let 
everyone know?"

"Gawd, they'd have to be dead not to know, the speed news 
travels round this village. But yes, and on the front page, 
mind. Good for business."

"Leave it to me," Nelson said, smiling.

* * *

119. Honied Helen


"A honey trap," said Buff at last, with characteristic 
finality.

It slowly dawned on Helen that she been cast in a role.

"You mean. . . ?" she quavered. "B-b-b-but. . . "

"Don't worry," gruffed Buff, "I'll see he doesn't hurt you."

"Will you have your Swiss Army knife?"

"That's not a knife," sneered Buff. "This is a knife." She 
drew from her boot a knife fit to slaughter a buffalo. The 
battered handle was much mended, and the chipped blade clearly 
much honed. It had opened beer bottles, locked doors, and the 
viscera of men. It had kept Buff's wallet with her through the 
late night backstreets of Gibraltar and Hong Kong. A 
swordsmith would have respected its edge. It was, in short, an 
adequate tool for the job.

Mike Matabele could not believe his luck. He was being hit on 
by a woman. A pretty one, yet. And, the hitting on him thing 
aside, she even seemed the submissive sort. Would -- he 
allowed his imagination to run wild -- he even get to live out 
one of his fantasies and go on top?

"Wanna go upstairs, Big Boy?" asked Helen, running a 
fingernail up his fly zip.

Would he?

"Buff!" squeaked Helen, in the fullness of time, "he's going 
to. . .!" 

"Oh, no, he fucking isn't, you know," enunciated Buff 
confidently, stepping out of the wardrobe.

"Jesus!" shrieked Mike Matabele, starting back in alarm. He 
was not swift enough to escape Buff. Her ham-like hand shot 
out like a striking cobra and grabbed his courting tackle in a 
vice-like grip.

"Get your hat and coat, Helen," said Buff calmly, as she 
lopped off Mike's cock and balls. "We're leaving."

"You men are all the same," she remarked to Mike, and spat in 
his face. He died, unbelievingly watching his scarlet, 
arterial lifeblood soaking the mattress.

* * *

120. Val Makes a Wish

An accomplished seamstress, Val Brock was able to use the 
Internet to research the design of the pants Andy would need 
for the fight, and she went no further than Reading to buy the 
material. She spent Saturday evening in her workroom cutting, 
sewing and avoiding Andy who, she was only too aware, was 
seething with rage at having to accept Ian's challenge.

Reluctantly, she called to Andy: "Can you come up? I need to 
check the fit before I finish off the inseams."

Andy appeared at the door. "Suppose you want me to strip off," 
he said.

Not on my account, Val thought.

Andy unbuckled his trousers and pushed them down his legs. He 
wasn't wearing briefs. He started to pull his polo shirt off 
as well.

"That's fine," Val said quickly, "There's no need. . . "

"No need to what, darling?" Andy said, standing naked. He 
reached down and closed his fingers round the shaft of his 
cock, stroking it to hardness.

Val clutched her dressmaking scissors and held them towards 
him. "Don't think you can do again what you did to me the 
other night," she said defiantly. "There was no love in that 
act and I didn't enjoy it."

"Pity," said Andy. "I rather did. Especially as I was thinking 
of that girl I met the other day while I was fucking your 
ass."

"What girl?"

"Cinnamon Whitlake. Pepper Winston's sister apparently. Found 
her in Pepper's place and we had a chat, couple of drinks, 
spot of cuddling on the sofa, that sort of thing."

"Oh God, you didn't. . . ?"

Andy didn't reply. He simply grinned.

Val threw the trousers at him. "Oh God, I wish Ian Winston 
would fucking kill you," she said, a venomous hatred in her 
voice.