UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

‘Yes, yes!' Heather countered. 'Fill me, fill me, fill me! ‘

  Jonjo did his best but barely managed another trickle; after that it was all wishful thinking. Not for Heather though . . . she proved herself able to stretch ten seconds of cataclysmic orgasm out over ten minutes.

  At least.

  Probably more.

  ‘Good grief,' she said finally, 'that was nice.'

  ‘Ugh,' Jonjo replied, flopping on top of her.

  Heather kissed up at him, her tongue invading his mouth, pressing in and out in an insistent sort of a way. Even an exhausted prop forward could sense the determined intent behind an approach like that.

  ‘Give me a break,' he groaned.

  ‘Don't rat,' she replied. 'It isn't even Sunday yet, and you promised all night.'

  ‘I had a tough game this afternoon. A short time-out isn't much to ask, is it?'

  ‘It is when I'm extremely turned on.' Heather sniffed. 'I wish Joanna had come along. She wouldn't have quit before we've even started.'

  ‘I'm not quitting.’

  ‘No?'

  ‘No, I’m just not a machine. I need to . . . regather.’

  Somehow . . . and Jonjo never did work out quite how . . . the slip of a girl flipped him off her. Before he could protest she was on top, hands gripping his cock, her long green nails both scary-looking and inspiring.

  ‘Still like rock,' she said. 'Still enormous, too. Take your time-out while I examine him closer.'

  Jonjo tried to relax but hadn't a chance. Heather's examination included wildly erotic twists of her wrists, kisses and unbelievably exciting licks . . . interspersed with plenty of deep throat, of course. He’d been hoping for quarter of an hour’s respite but it wasn’t anything like that before, to his surprise and embarrassment, he was climaxing once more.

  She could make a stone statue cum with tricks like that! I’ve no chance!

  Without comment, Heather, shifted her incredible body, pressed her lips to his . . .

  And transferred the latest load into his gob!

  Jonjo’s eyes opened in shock. He had expected the faint tang of himself on her breath, but not this!

  ‘It tastes pretty good,' she said, grinning again. 'I'll let you have the pleasure of swallowing.'

  Knowing a challenge when he saw one, hardly in a position to argue, Jonjo swallowed. 'There,' he said, opening his mouth in verification, 'all gone.'

  ‘Good on yer.' Heather's grin was wider than ever. ‘I honestly expected you to spit it out.’

  ‘If you can swallow, so can I.’

  ‘Spoken like a man with balls . . . even if I am yet to do likewise.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve done it before.’

  ‘I have indeed, and I’ll be doing it again before the night’s out.’ Her eyes gleamed. 'Now, name your reward.'

  ‘What?'

  ‘For having balls and not spitting.'

  ‘Heather . . .’

  ‘Don’t Heather me, tell me what you want.’

  ‘What do you mean by “reward”, exactly?’

  ‘Anything a man could possibly ask for.'

  ‘How about fifteen minutes of uninterrupted rest?'

  ‘Boring! How about something involving fannies and willies?'

  Jonjo looked at her. She obviously intended to hold him to the very last letter of his promise. She was also showing all the signs of being capable of going on forever.

  Quit before we've even started!

  Gulp! She might think he had gallons of hot cum, but he wasn’t sure there was any left.

  Still, she was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. And he’d had a hard-on ever since she’d lured him round the back of the clubhouse. It just felt a bit tender at the moment, not quite ready to go for more.

  Not yet, anyway.

  Not until he’d regathered, recovered and replenished.

  Okay then, play it like a New Age man.

  ‘If it’s my choice,' he said, 'I'm going to eat you 'til you beg me to stop.'

  ‘That might take a while.'

  I sincerely hope it does, Jonjo thought. Out loud he went on, ‘Then you can play cowgirl for an hour or two. And then I'm going to fuck you harder than you've ever been fucked in your life.'

  Sounds like a plan.' Heather rolled off him and spread her legs. 'Afterwards we can just make it up as we go along . . .’

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The alarm clock woke Arthur but he pretended to sleep through it, afraid Josie would demand her rights, as she did most mornings, whether he fancied rights or not.

  And it was nearly always not.

  Josie had piled on weight alarmingly since they’d married. Really, really alarmingly. Sharing a bed with her wasn’t fun anymore. Although the lady wasn’t for telling, Arthur reckoned she had to weigh twenty stones nowadays. She certainly felt it whenever she clambered on top.

  Muttering to herself, she stirred beside him and swatted off the electronic beeping. The bedsprings groaned as she moved.

  Please not today, Arthur thought. His hangover was worse than usual and he just didn’t want to.

  Faking a snore didn’t do him any good, Josie wasn’t so easily fooled. She pulled the sheets off, yanking him back as he tried to roll away. There was no escape. And the bad news was she knew how to arouse him. Try as he might, he could never stop his traitorous dick from responding.

  ‘Josie,’ he moaned, ‘I don’t feel so good.’

  Ignoring the feeble protest she swung a weighty leg over, sinking her mountain of flesh onto his defenceless body. Arthur was only small and didn’t stand a chance. Every part of him seemed flattened.

  Apart from his dick: that was as stiff and upright as a little flagpole.

  ‘Please, darling,’ he tried again. ‘My head’s splitting . . .’

  Still not deigning to speak, Josie shuffled her bum until she got comfortable then started to rock backwards and forwards. To Arthur this rocking ritual was nearly as bad as it got. There was no consideration for him and Josie’s elephant-sized backside was cutting off the blood in his legs. To add insult to injury, each of her forward rocks drove all the air out of his lungs, making him grunt as if he was actually enjoying it.

  After precisely ten minutes of this (he’d timed it often enough on the alarm clock) Josie at last switched to up and down. But that was small mercy. It was nothing like having a beautiful, tiny Thai girl bouncing up and down on your dick. When Josie did it she used the bedsprings so everything, mattress, husband and all, bounced up and down with her. Instead of that magical slidy sensation, all Arthur got to go with the bashing of headboard and creaking floorboards was a horrible crushing every time gravity grounded her.

  And it hurt!

  Some of his drinking mates would wax lyrical about a deep penetration. He was ready to bet none of them had tried it under a woman of Josie’s size and indelicate touch.

  Josie was enjoying herself, anyway. Above him her fat, usually scowling face had softened. There was still grim purposefulness in her expression but there was also a far-away, thoughtful look in her eyes. Bang on time, sixteen minutes after starting, she reverted to rocking and rolling, leaning her body over him, her massive, veined breasts swinging out of control, her skin suddenly blotchy red and dripping sweat.

  Then she was done and lifting herself away, not caring a fig.

  ‘Josie,’ he gasped. ‘You can’t . . .’

  ‘Can’t what?’ she replied, looking at his still skyward-pointing dick.

  ‘You can’t leave me like this. Not every time.’

  ‘Toss it off,’ she said, the habitual scowl settling back into her features. ‘That’s what you do all day, isn’t it?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Josie, you’ll damage me inside. I’ll have a hernia or something.’

  ‘Hernia,’ she snorted. ‘What do you know?’ Still scowling, she took hold, making him ejaculate almost immediately and not at all pleasantly.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘And keep your muck on your ow
n side of the bed. I haven’t time to be changing bedding. You’ve made me late as it is.’

  * * *

  Arthur lay there miserably while Josie stomped into the bathroom and slammed things around. He waited until she was washed, dressed and reeking of cheap deodorant before daring to ask for a sub.

  ‘Twenty quid?’ she snapped. ‘It doesn’t grow on trees, you know. When will I get it back?’

  ‘In a day or two, I’ve got work coming off.’

  ‘Work my arse. You don’t know the meaning of the word.’

  ‘Yes I do. I’m seeing someone this dinner.’

  Josie’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. ‘Who are you seeing, Arthur?’

  ‘Harry Williamson.’

  ‘Not another bank job?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. But he’s asked for me special. And it might lead to something regular. That’d be good, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Josie considered a while. ‘You’d better not blow this, Arthur Laing. Getting back with Harry might make a man out of you again.’

  He waited until she’d gone, then showered and shaved before brushing his teeth and gargling six times with peppermint mouthwash. He’d decided it was best not to mention the conversation with Harry a few months ago. Harry, who’d once seen Arthur as a father figure . . . who’d even given him a gold ring for his fortieth . . . had told him to come back when he was sober. He hadn’t mentioned Jonjo’s warning either; the one he’d got in Odd Fellows’ late yesterday afternoon.

  ‘Harry said be there Tuesday, and don’t be pissed. There’s a big deal going down. No fuck ups allowed.’

  Arthur didn’t know what the deal was but intended to be part of it. This was his way back, his one big chance.

  Trouble was, Wetherspoons started serving at nine.

  Dressed and downstairs he made himself bacon butties, heavy on the HP Sauce, and a pint pot of tea with three sugars. Unlike Josie, who piled on weight just looking at pictures of cream cakes, he could eat and drink whatever he liked. It wasn’t obesity that was wrecking his life. Oh no, he knew exactly what his problems were: his marriage and his boozing. He also knew the two weren’t entirely unrelated. But what could he do? Go tell the Pigs his wife raped him every morning?

  The trick was to keep working around his difficulties until things improved. If he got a regular income again maybe Josie would chill. Maybe she’d even join Weight Watchers and get back to the shape she used to be in. And his boozing, already reduced by working more and idling less, would stop altogether if he wasn’t scared to go home anymore.

  It was twenty to nine. He opened his wallet to find three fivers and a creased beer mat bearing the message:

  HARRY 12 O’CLOCK PRIDE SOBER

  He added Josie’s twenty to the haul then had a look at the change in his pocket: lots of pound coins and a couple of twos. He must have easily sixty quid all told, so no need to raid his secret run money . . . which was just as well, because it was into the last grand.

  Giving himself the required twelve minutes, he set off to walk to Wetherspoons. The plan was to keep beer off his breath by drinking cider, and to have an all-day breakfast at about eleven. Harry wasn’t likely to actually breathalyse him so, as long as he kept it to half a dozen pints, he’d look and smell just fine.

  Arthur was whistling cheerfully when a car pulled up alongside him, ignoring the double yellows. The passenger-side window went down automatically and the driver leant across and said, in an Australian accent, ‘Excuse me, mate, can you direct me to Salts Mill?’

  This was the most frequently asked question of Shipley’s pedestrians. While the town itself looked and felt shittily modern, it did host the World Heritage Site of Saltaire. Sir Titus’s Mill was the jewel in this Victorian crown and drew plenty of visitors, most of them unable to read all the signs.

  ‘It’s back that way.’ Arthur bent to the driver’s level. ‘You’ll need to go on to the lights and turn left . . .’

  A strong grip suddenly landed on his arm. For the second time in barely an hour he was caught defenceless. Before he knew what was happening, he’d been bundled into the back of the car and sandwiched between two very big, very hard-looking men. The one on his right gave the driver a friendly slap on the shoulder as he pulled out into traffic.

  ‘That has to be the worst convict impression ever.’ Then, turning to his prisoner, ‘Right then, Arthur; I know you’re a creature of habit, but you’re having a bit of a change today. We’re dropping in at your place so you can collect your gear. Then we’ve got a cracking little job for you.’

  * * *

  It was another glorious morning outside Nab Wood Crematorium . . . and another impressive turnout. Geoff stood slightly apart, watching mourners assemble; glad he wasn’t the absolute centre of attention this time.

  Wishing he could be more supportive.

  And wishing the sunshine wasn’t so depressing.

  What had the Queen called 1992, her annus horribilis? Right, well so far this had been his. Roll on New Year’s Day.

  Not that another year would improve things, not if he didn’t sort himself out, and sharpish. He wasn’t a total idiot. Penny had forever been going on about stress and overwork. Just lately he’d started to think she might be right. Taking time off to chill would definitely be at the top of the to-do list . . .

  If he ever got time to do one.

  But what a horrible annus!

  Geoff’s fortieth had hit him harder than he’d expected. When he’d forsaken the family tradition he’d half-intended to give it a few years and then persuade Samantha to be an army wife. Sort of ease her in, get her used to the idea. But Sandy had arrived, so he’d rolled it on . . . and on again after Becky . . . and on and on. Forty was infinity and beyond, however. He’d finally had to accept the baton had been irrevocably passed to Rick and Jamie.

  Samantha’s (should-have-been) fortieth had hit him even harder. Penny and the kids had marked the occasion with a cake and barbeque. He’d pretended not to be interested and nearly managed to miss it altogether. Instead of going home early and helping with preparations, he’d come here to the Garden of Remembrance, hoping to sense his first wife’s presence, sensing nothing. Disheartened, he’d gone on to Druid’s Altar, as he should have done in the first place. And there, standing where most of her ashes must have landed, he’d sensed something.

  The wind in his ear, whispering: Geoff, my sweetheart.

  A million thoughts and emotions racing through him, all of them good.

  Then he really had heard Samantha’s voice, and she’d been icily furious.

  What on earth do are you doing? How dare you squabble with the children over me? How dare you? Get yourself home this minute.

  How dare you?

  How dare you!

  How dare you . . .

  He’d gone back on their (should-have-been) twentieth wedding anniversary. Nobody else had mentioned that non-occasion so he’d kept it quiet, but inside he’d seethed. They had planned for this. This was supposed to be New York without the kids. Breakfast at Tiffany’s; observing off the Empire State Building; sailing the Staten Island Ferry; a helicopter ride over the Statue of Liberty; a scary yellow cab trip through the Bronx.

  And an afternoon at Coney Island, so he could go to whatever was left of the amusement park and shout, Warriors, come out to play-yay!

  That time the weather had been awful, even worse than the day he’d scattered Samantha’s ashes. And that time she’d been waiting for him, even more icily furious.

  You’re living in the past, you silly man. Don’t come here again, live for now. Live for our children.

  As far as he could remember, that night had been the last time he’d properly made love to Penny. Old Faithful had only been working fitfully by then; soon afterwards he’d quit altogether. And it wasn’t funny anymore, not now it seemed to be permanent.

  * * *

  At least crying wasn’t going to be a problem today. Geoff had already sobbe
d a lot and was going to be sobbing again when the service began.

  His mother! He could hardly believe it. She was only sixty-three and, clichéd but true, a young sixty-three at that. She’d hardly had a day of illness in her life, never the slightest hint of heart problems. And . . . gone! Dead before she hit the food hall floor.

  There was no media to broadcast the event this time and the kids were old enough to attend. They were currently standing very solemnly with Penny (who looked lovely as always and could have been mistaken for their big sister), close to his suddenly old and frail dad.

  Geoff felt a stab of guilt; a very sharp stab. Had he really told Penny to go elsewhere for her loving? Thank God she’d turned him down. If only he could find a way to accept his failures and stop being such a sulk.

  Make that another must for the to-do list.

  Together with bushwhacking Johnny Green.

  Johnny Green! Out without serving as much as ten years! Geoff’s heart had nearly followed his mum’s bad example. There he’d been, sitting at the kitchen table, armed with coffee and the Mail on Sunday, preparing for the walk to collect his car. Remembering the previous afternoon’s flirting with Joanna. Convincing himself it had been an innocent one-off . . .

  Then assaulted by a minor headline on page 23.

  Reading and rereading hadn’t helped.

  Woolf guidelines.

  Age at time of offence.

  State of mind.

  Admitted guilt.

  Spared relatives the trauma of going to court.

  Shows genuine remorse.

  Until then Geoff hadn’t given Green’s sentence any consideration. He’d avoided everything about it, if the truth be told. Sick of the sight of lurid headlines, he’d gone a year without properly reading a paper or watching the news. Almost a decade later, two days before Mum’s funeral, all was revealed.

  Life . . . but the judge failed to specify a term.

  Reviewed on appeal and fixed at nine years, six months, accounting for parole.

  Normally Geoff left praying to Penny. On Sunday morning he’d done some himself. Sitting there at the table, he’d lowered his head and pleaded for justice. Not nine and a half years of Human Rights justice but true, Biblical justice. Then he’d laughed bitterly; might as well wish for nice Christmas presents while he was at it. Not to mention a EuroMillions win.