Little Flashmarket 16


151. Cinnamon's Dream Comes True


After several days of lovemaking, interrupted only by her 
handsome vet Nigel Frampton making emergency-only visits to 
sick animals and then rushing back to bed, Cinnamon Whitlake 
crossed a major milestone where her new lover was concerned.

With the aid of the lubricant normally reserved for delivering 
calves, Cinnamon managed to take eight of the ten inches of 
Nigel's dick that was on offer into the tightly-clasping 
depths of her delectable derrière, no mean feat when it was 
her sister Pepper who was more elastic in that region by dint 
of frequent usage.

A cry of climactic pleasure erupted from so deep in Nigel's 
chest that Cinnamon thought he would do himself an injury as 
he pumped the contents of his balls into her bowels. And she 
wondered about injury in a different context when she 
considered just how far he'd managed to insinuate himself.

But then, lying in Nigel's arms, his mouth tracing delicate 
kisses over her closed eyes and down over her neck, 
instinctively finding the places that caused her pussy to 
bubble over, Cinnamon heard something that proved all the 
effort had been worthwhile and that this wasn't a spurt in the 
back passage affair.

"Cinnamon, darling?"

"Mmm?"

"Will you marry me? Give Little Flashmarket something to 
celebrate when it's cold and dark this winter?"

"My darling, what can I say to a man who is even now plumbing 
depths no other lover has reached? The answer is yes, of 
course. Provided Pepper comes on the honeymoon with us. I mean 
she is my sister and she deserves to experience this."

"Done."

And with the sublime vision of herself, newly-married, on her 
wedding night, side-by-side with Pepper, bottoms up for Nigel 
to move from buggering one to the other, Cinnamon fell asleep.

* * *
 
152. Diana's Front Page Exposure

After four days, Judge Dodds could take it no longer. Snide 
cracks about the way he closed his eyes when he concentrated, 
about the terrible acoustics in the court room and his hearing 
difficulties, but mostly it was about the way she looked so 
boldly at him, taunted him with her provocative breasts, 
showed him a fine length of leg in black stocking.

"Ms. Slade," he snapped, breaking into her cross-examination 
of Lacey Penwhistle. "In my chamber. Now."

"Now then, girlie," he said to her when the door closed. "You 
have no respect for the bench. I should spank you."

"Or I you, perhaps," she countered, one eyebrow raised.

The judge's breathing quickened. By God, that would be 
something.

"Your client is guilty," he said.

Diana's eyebrow rose again. "But?"

Dodds looked meaningfully at her breasts. "Perhaps he could 
get lucky," he said. "A mistrial, perhaps."

"I'm counting on it," Diana said, unbuttoning her white 
blouse.

No bra. The blouse hung open, and her breasts stood out 
superbly. Dodds felt his heart lurch crazily.

Diana gripped the front of the blouse in two hands and ripped 
the cloth. She turned sharply and walked out of the room. 
Dodds heard her high heels tripping down the corridor. "Oh, 
no," she cried, and he knew he was in deep, deep trouble.

On the steps outside the court, the reporter and the 
photographer from the Daily Mail saw the stunning barrister 
running towards them, blouse torn, tits flying. They'd come 
down from London the day before on an anonymous tip-off. They 
knew instantly this was it.

Diana fell into the reporter's arms. "The judge," she 
spluttered tearfully. "A beast."

He held her comfortingly, cupped a fine breast consolingly, 
and winked at his photographer. Happy days. Page one coming up 
bigtime.

* * *

153. In Alice's Tent


Market Day. Second Saturday of every month, rain or shine. The 
day villagers gather to buy food to fill their bellies and to 
find rumours to satisfy their ears. 

Sturdy red canvas stretched taut over metal poles provided 
shade on those rare sunny days and shelter during the more 
common drizzly rainfalls. No signs or lettering on the tents -
- villagers know their own, and strangers rarely come on 
Market Day.

Alice sat behind a silk-covered table. She didn't intend to 
sell much --villagers wanting books came to the store. Books 
allowed the villagers to stop and find what they really 
wanted. 

They were connected, the villagers together, past and present, 
all of them. Nothing in Little Flashmarket was ever really 
gone. Things died, but nothing ever went away, and Alice could 
see them, gossamer images, waiting for a turn to speak to 
someone who could listen.

Marcus Breedlove held the baby Isabella on his shoulders as he 
and Anne passed. Anne paused, but Alice waited for Marcus to 
move on before she spoke. 

"You've been dreaming, Anne. You know it's happening."  

Anne shook her head to deny it, but they were there, in her 
eyes. Shadows of dreams that didn't go away when the sun came 
up. Dreams of unsettled, restless movement. Dark and musty 
corners. Dank, damp, earthy dreams. 

"It's Isabella, isn't it?"  

"It is."

"But she's just a baby."

Alice fingered the pendant around her throat. "No, she's not, 
Anne. You know who she is. Your mother should have buried her 
the way she wanted. Isabella's been waiting, Anne. She's been 
waiting to come back. There's a fire in that child's soul, 
Anne." 

She paused, thinking of Bob Brentwood. "This village wasn't 
good to your grandmother, Anne, and I think she's going to do 
something about it."

* * *

154. Crombie Comes Home

DI Crombie parked comfortably between Brigitte Spiewak's 
stocky but strong thighs. "It's good to be back in Little 
Flashmarket," he said.

"I know you're just using me," Brigitte said, wiggling to get 
the detective's stocky but strong cock lodged snugly inside 
her. "But you're entirely welcome."

Using her? Crombie pondered that as he thrust smoothly. Well, 
sure, Brigitte had been the first person in the town he'd 
thoroughly interrogated, and she'd pointed him in the 
direction of the now-notorious killer, Bob Brentwood. Crombie 
was back in Little Flashmarket to give evidence at his trial.

"I really like it here," he said. "This is my kind of place."

"Thanks, big boy," she said, just like a woman, taking it 
personally.

One thing led to another, then another, and -- after a little 
rest -- yet another, and Crombie found he didn't want to 
return to London. "Listen, I have some reasonable 
superannuation," he said.

"I need a tough rent collector," she said. "Someone who can 
evict stubborn tenants."

Crombie thought that sounded like a nice, easy job. "Maybe we 
could be business partners?" he suggested.

"Fuck off, copper," Brigitte said. "You'll just be the grunt."

"Pork chops four nights a week," he said, putting his cards on 
the table.

"Deal," she said. "Also pork sausages. Which reminds me, you 
can't fuck other women."

"Deal," Crombie said, knowing it wasn't. In Little 
Flashmarket? A man couldn't even begin to stop himself. 
Christ, that long streak of fox, Sheila Baxter. 

"Uh," he said tentatively. "Do I have to say I love you?"

"Yes," she said, never not a real estate agent. "But you don't 
have to mean it."

"I love you, Brigitte."

Sometimes in Little Flashmarket there are happy endings.

* * *

155. Bob's Holiday


You couldn't be a happier man than Bob Brentwood. He was out 
of jail and back at home in the arms of his beautiful wife, 
Laura. He loved Laura. Some nights it was Anne Thomson. Too. 
He loved Anne. Too.

That bad trial, where everyone said bad things about him, had 
been abandoned. The terrifying Diana Slade had returned to 
London in triumph, and Judge Dodds was to be forcibly retired 
from the bench. Suddenly, everyone in Little Flashmarket was 
nice. Bob was happy. He smiled a lot.

He was on a mushroom diet to calm his nerves. Raggy Meg 
brought fresh mushrooms to the house every day. Worked just 
fine. He had Laura, he had Anne, everyone was nice.

Bryce Dickens, his solicitor, said he wouldn't need another 
barrister for the retrial if he pleaded guilty. The retiring 
judge would be pleased. Everyone in Little Flashmarket would 
be pleased. Bob would get maybe six months. It would be like a 
holiday. Rest, reading. They had libraries and everything in 
prisons, and the food really wasn't so bad.

Just plead guilty and save yourself the worry, Laura said, 
stroking his hair while he pumped away between her legs. 
You'll be fine, Anne said. Three in a bed. So cosy, so warm, 
so loving. He was such a lucky man. So happy.

I'll wait for you, Laura said. I'll wait, too, said Anne.

Don't worry, they both said.

On the morning he returned to court, Bob had mushrooms on 
toast for breakfast and smiled.

The hearing took forty minutes. Judge Dodds talked about Mike 
Matabele's body being dismembered. Said it was the most 
vicious murder he'd ever encountered. Shame the death penalty 
had been abandoned, he said.

Bob smiled, letting it wash over him. He was going on a 
holiday.

* * *  

156. Bennett's Spark


Only a spark.  That's all I wanted. . .

Bennett muttered to himself as he worked. He was quiet and it 
was dark in the shadows and he knew that no one would see him 
kneeling behind the Flashmarket Arms. He could hear villagers 
inside, drinking and laughing and gossiping. He'd finished at 
the courthouse last night since Alice had told him that one 
needed to be done first. Things would start at the courthouse, 
soon, but they'd end at the Arms. Things always ended up at 
the Arms. Good and bad things. Happy and sad things. All 
things in the village ended at the Arms. 

At first it had been enough. The spark he'd needed to finish. 
But soon he'd needed more. Alice had given him that -- red wax 
over her breasts, her pussy clenching around his cock, those 
things were enough to push the flames to a peak. It had been 
enough for a while. Until last night. Last night it wasn't 
enough. Not for either of them.

I know what you need, Bennett. I know how to light the spark 
for you.  

Her words echoed in his head as he poured the pungent, heavy 
liquid along the soft dry kindling he'd padded against the 
pub's foundation. 

It was ready. He'd go back to the courthouse, wait outside for 
Alice to come out and tell him it was time. And then, when it 
was done, he'd go home with her. They'd go together, and it 
would be enough. He didn't want to need it any more. The fire 
was starting to scare him, and he was starting to believe that 
he wasn't in charge of it anymore.  

But he was important -- she told him that he was important. It 
would be over soon enough. Alice promised.

* * *

157. Laura's New Life


Anne Thomson came to visit Laura after the sentencing, after 
Bob was sent away. There was no answer when she knocked, so 
she let herself in.

Laura was lying naked on the sofa, shiny splatters and 
trickles of semen painted on her body. Beside her was a 
nearly-empty water glass of sherry.

"Oh," said Laura dully. "It's you. If you're here for a quick 
snog, I'm not in the mood. I tried, but it wasn't as fun as it 
should have been."

"You need a bath."

"I told the men to leave but they had to finish their little 
fun." She drained the water glass.

Anne ran a bath for Laura. Practical sympathy, that was Anne's 
line.

"I've shredded my marriage vows," Laura said as Anne undressed 
her. "I've made a fool of Bob. I've crushed his spirit.  I've 
sent him to jail."

Laura sank into the hot water. "I've destroyed his life. And 
mine. Oh, God!" she cried. "I am so awful! Do you believe in 
evil, Anne?"

"I'm a vicar's wife, Laura."

Laura snorted. "Do they still have convents?"

Anne sponged Laura off and, to Laura's surprise, tried nothing 
more.

After the rough towelling, they sat at the kitchen table with 
a hot cuppa.

"Well?" asked Anne.

"Fuck," said Laura softly.

"You tried that."

"I don't want it any more. I've stopped wanting sex for the 
sake of sex."

"I have never done it just for sex, Laura. I love my husband."

"I thought I did. I did. I do." Laura wept. "When did the fun 
wickedness turn evil? When did it go wrong? Can I ever make up 
for it?"

Anne looked at her carefully and then took her hand. "Laura," 
Anne said, "have you ever considered dedicating your life to 
good works?"

* * *

158. It Takes the Village


Judge Dodd's swan song was going to be significant. If he was 
going out, by God, he was going out big. Life imprisonment for 
poor Bob Brentwood. His Honour Leslie Dodd wished that the law 
would have allowed him to put on the black cap and made the 
biggest statement of them all. Hang by the neck until you are 
dead. . .

But it was worse than Alice thought it would be. Rumours had 
said ten years, and that would have been bad enough. She knew 
that it was time. Bob was being led out, hands and ankles 
manacled, and she raised her eyes to meet him as he shuffled 
past her. She smiled at him, trying to lend comfort. It will 
be over soon, Bob.  Just wait. As though he had any other 
option.

The courthouse was slow to empty. The entire village had 
turned out for the sentencing, and the after-trial gossip was 
holding them together. It would spill over soon enough though, 
and the pub would do a tidy business tonight.  

There was a small crowd gathered outside the courthouse. 

Eyes flashing, white hair wild, tattered overcoat flapping 
behind him, Little Flashmarket's prophet, Felonious Monk, came 
around the corner. He was nude beneath the inadequate coat and 
his cock jutted from his emaciated body. "Burn," he said to 
the gathered crowd, his eyes unnaturally bright. "You will all 
burn."

Alice let her eyes roam over the faces she knew so well. Anne 
stood on the edge of the group, Isabella resting on her cocked 
hip. The child's eyes, well-deep and ancient, locked with 
hers. The old woman Isabella once was spoke in her mind. "He's 
right, dear. You're doing the right thing."

Alice lit a thin cigarette, and watched the match flicker in 
her fingers. She was ready.   

* * *

159. The Reverend's Burning Issues


The three Watson brothers worked like demons with fire hoses 
on the sadly antiquated Little Flashmarket fire truck, but the 
watching crowds could see the Flashmarket Arms was burning 
like a hellish bonfire. The pub was a goner.

"Whacko," said Kevin Watson, taking a moment's breather and 
patting Sheila Baxter on the backside. "Nothing like a good 
fire to get a man horny."

Sheila was a team player who knew her duty. "My place," she 
said. "When the fire is over."

"Fuck the fire," he said. "Let's go."

"Bless your good efforts with the hose," the Reverend Thomson 
said to Kevin as he passed by, Sheila in tow.

"Gee, thanks, vicar," Kevin said. "Whacko."

Brigitte Spiewak sidled up to the disconsolate Peter Willing. 
"What this town needs is a nice new theme pub," she said. 
"Rollicking Irish, perhaps. Maybe German bier steins and all 
that shit."

Tears ran down Peter's cheeks.

"Insurance will cover it," Brigitte said comfortingly. "I have 
a buyer for the site if you're not up to it."

Becky Billingsgate from Sneak Reviews worked the crowd, 
handing out a leaflet. New this week, the flyer said. Laura 
Brentwood's Consolation Prize. All Girl Spectacular. 

There was also a murky picture of a man in the shadows behind 
the Flashmarket Arms. Fire Exclusive. Searing Exposures.

"Perhaps that unfortunate Brentwood fellow was right, " 
Reverend Thomson said to his wife, Anne, in a troubled voice. 
"Perhaps Satan has indeed passed through Little Flashmarket."

Anne patted him on the hand. "I shouldn't worry about it," she 
advised. "But I think we should start up a Fire Appeal Fund 
before the Catholics think of it."

"Good idea," the vicar said enthusiastically. "Good heavens, 
what would I do without you?"

Anne sighed. There were always good works to do in Little 
Flashmarket.

* * *

160. Bob's Your Uncle


Dear Laura, Bob wrote. He stopped for a moment, and his eyes 
filled with easy tears. Laura, with her lovely blonde hair. 
Laura, soft and pliant underneath him. His darling Laura.

Somewhere, a door clanged, and his concentration broke. He 
looked stupidly at the pad, then balled up the sheet of paper 
and threw it to the floor.

Dear Diana, he wrote. Easier to write to her. He was 
determined to find out what exactly had happened in that 
courtroom. She had won a landmark decision, and yet here he 
was in prison for life. Surely that wasn't right. Bob licked 
the tip of his pencil stub and set it to paper, frowning, 
thinking of Diana. 

But she was so beautiful. His mind dwelt on her firm breasts 
and flashing eyes. The huntress, standing above the baying 
pack. Who was he to reproach her for anything? He tossed 
another crumpled ball to the floor.

"Oi," said his cellmate. "Do you mind? This is a cell, not a 
piggery." 

Bob hastily gathered up the offending pieces of paper. As the 
new fish, he'd been put in with Large Marge Watson, a hulking, 
thoughtful, redheaded man who believed that cleanliness was 
next to Godliness. The report of Bob's crime -- murder by 
castration -- had kept most unwelcome attention at bay, but 
Large Marge read too much Gertrude Stein for Bob to feel 
comfortable after lights-out.

He paused. At least he was safe here from Little Flashmarket. 
He would break his last tie.

Dear Anne, he wrote, and everything went utterly black. 

"Lights-out!" shouted the warden. "Everyone in the bunks!"

Dear Anne, dear Laura, dear Diana, thought Bob, lying face 
down in his bunk. 

He sensed looming weight above him. Warm breath tickled his 
ear.

"Whacko," whispered Large Marge.

Bob began to weep. 

* * *

EPILOGUE:

And so, as the sun sets on the charred ruins of the 
Flashmarket Arms, we bid farewell to Little Flashmarket. Life 
will go on, minus some of the village inhabitants. The 
Reverend Ronald Thomson will walk his dogs, Matins and 
Evensong, in the afternoons, and deliver two sermons at St. 
Swithin's each Sunday. Over at St. Elizabeth of Hungary, 
Father Grogan will absolve the unforgivable. The ladies of the 
church guilds will find somewhere else to meet and gossip, now 
that the lounge bar is toast. Babies will be born, pigs will 
be slaughtered, houses bought and sold, tiny cameras will whir 
and turn in the dark, and Trelawney Forestry and Logging will 
continue to sponsor the Flashers.

Justice may need to be done but probably won't. That's life.

Next.

ENDS