MARY SMITH. HANGED FOR MURDER. 31st. OCTOBER 1873
"I don't like this"!
"Oh yeah," he sighed impatiently, "What's wrong with it."
"It's dark," she continued to complain.
"Of course it's fucking dark; it's ten thirty at night at the end of October," he replied irritably, "What do expect...blazing fucking sunshine!"
"Please don't swear at me Andy," she scolded him, "I can't help it."
"Can't help what," he demanded angrily.
"Scared," he questioned, "Scared?"
"Yes," she answered nervously.
"Scared," he repeated. "What are scared about?"
"Well, we're in the middle of a fucking grave yard, aren't we," she retorted; descending to the use of Andy's vulgar language.
"So," she repeated, "It's full of dead people, innit...Smart Arse!"
"Yes, Smarty Knickers, of course it is, it's a fucking grave yard," Andy reminded her.
"It's spooky," she insisted.
"No it's not," he argued.
"Well I think it is," she said petulantly.
"What," Andy replied, allowing his exasperation to rise, "Do you think they are going to do Gem, get up and dance a ring of roses around the fucking headstones."
"They might," she insisted, "It is Halloween you know."
"Bollocks," Andy retorted, "You don't believe in all that stuff, do you Gemma."
"Well, no," Gemma replied uncertainly, "But you never know. I just don't like it here Andy!"
"It's your fucking fault we're here Love," Andy said, softening his attitude.
"How's it my fault all of a sudden," she answered defensively, "It was your idea to bring me here."
Andy's patience wearing thin, he tried to remain calm and remind his girlfriend of the necessity to enter a grave yard in the dead of night. "Look," he began, "We can't do it at your home because of your kids, and we can't do it in the back of my car in case your old man drives past in his fucking taxi, so where else can we fucking do it?"
"We always do it at your place,"she reminded him, "Why do we have to do it here, all of a sudden."
"I've told you Gem," Andy reminded her, "We can't do it there any more, the landlady doesn't like it."
"Well, she ain't fucking getting it, is she," laughed Gemma.
"And neither am I, at this rate," complained Andy.
"I don't think I want to do it now, anyway," Gemma whined.
"Aw, come on Love, it'll be right."Andy reassured her, seeing his chance to shag Gemma slipping away. "It'll be all right, once you get going. You know what you're like."
"No, Andy," she insisted, "I don't feel like it now."
"Aw Gem," Andy pleaded, "Don't do this to me. You know how much I fancy you."
"No, sorry Andy," Gemma insisted adamantly, "It's this place it gives me the creeps!"
"Come on Gem," Andy pleaded again, "They're all fucking dead, for fuck's sake. What harm can they do!"
"I don't really want to Andy, I'd sooner go home."
"Just a quickie then," he beseeched her, undoing his belt with one hand whilst massaging Gemma's breast with the other.
"Well, be quick then," Gemma acquiesced whilst looking furtively about, "But don't expect me to enjoy it."
Holding her face between his hands, Andy kissed Gemma tenderly, causing her legs to weaken as they always did and, lifting her skirt, he slipped his hand casually between her legs with his usual familiarity and lack of finesse.
"There," he said, feeling Gemma's moist response, "Your changing your mind already Gem."
"Mmm," she replied, "But be quick."
Sliding Gemma's knickers to her knees, Andy dropped his trousers and prepared to reap his reward for the meal he had bought her, the drinks he had poured into her, and the puerile, mundane conversation that he had been forced to endure all evening. Dropping to his knees, his head under her skirt, Andy set about devouring her cunt, the ritual prelude to shagging that aroused them both and increased their desires.
He was not, however, prepared for Gemma's ear shattering scream, resonating around the bleak memorials, as she pulled away from him in blind panic, scurrying to and from and screaming hysterically.
"Ouch, fucking shit," she exclaimed as, turning this way and that, her knickers around her ankles restricting her movements, she tripped and fell against a headstone.
Showing an almost compassionate side to his nature, Andy squatted beside her, taking her into his arms and, talking softly, calmed her with soothing words.
"There, there darling, it's okay, it's okay. What got into you Gem," he asked with genuine concern.
"That noise," she said, looking over each shoulder in turn.
"It was only an owl," laughed Andy.
"Well, I don't care what it was, it frightened the fucking shit out of me!"
"Relax, Babe," Andy said soothingly, his hand once again up Gemma's skirt.
"No, Andy," Gemma whined, "I really don't want to."
Andy continued, knowing Gemma's resolve would soon weaken as she had never, on previous occasions, had the will to refuse him for long.
His persistence paying off, Gemma slipped her knickers over her shoes, lifted her skirt and parted her legs as Andy, wanking himself furiously, slipped his dick into her wet, smooth orifice.
Gemma started to moan and writhe as she felt Andy penetrate deeply into her, his balls rubbing against the sensitive flesh between her vagina and rectum. Biting her lip, enjoying the ecstatic sensation of Andy's dick inside her, she turned her head towards the headstone and read silently:
"Mary Smith, Hanged for murder. Thirty-first October, eighteen seventy-three."
Slowly it dawned on her, just as Andy was getting into his stride, that they were shagging above the grave of a murderer.
"Fucking Hell, Andy," she said, pushing him frantically away from her, "We're only doing it on the grave of a fucking murderer!"
"Aw Gem, not again," Andy complained, "All I want is a fuck!"
"Well," said Gemma, pulling her knickers up, "You ain't getting it here!"
"Gemmm," Andy whined.
"It's no good, Andy, get me out of hear, before I go fucking mental."
"Oh, all right," Andy conceded, "But I'll remember this the next time you want a shag."
"If you don't get me out of here Andy," Gemma said firmly, "I swear there won't be a next time, not for you!"
Reluctantly, Andy led Gemma back to the cemetery gates, still bemoaning his wasted investment and cursing his timorous girlfriend under his breath. Pulling an empty hand out of his trouser pocket he urgently searched the other. "Fuck it," he cursed, "I've lost my fucking car keys!"
"Oh great," said Gemma, "Just fucking great. How the fuck am I going to get home?"
"Call a taxi," said Andy uncharitably, "It might be your old man who turns up."
"Oh funny," mocked Gemma, "You think you're so fucking clever don't you, but you've got a lot further to walk than me."
"No," he said, "We're going back to look for them."
"No we're fucking not," said Gemma emphatically, "You can go on your own, I'm off home. See you at work tomorrow."
Andy stood next to his locked vehicle, and watched Gemma's arse sway from side to side as she waddled along the pavement until the clip-clop of her heels receded into the murky darkness. The hushed stillness of the night, and the remoteness of the area, on the edge of town, combined to raise Andy's concerns about re-entering the cemetery and he had to search deeply for whatever reserves of courage he possessed.
His deep sigh revealed the depth of his anger at the loss of his keys and his frustration caused by Gemma's refusal to fuck, once she discovered the sinister surroundings in which they were performing the act. Her senseless superstitions, for once, stronger than her normally overwhelming desire to indulge in the weekly activity that formed the basis of their relationship.
Andy cursed her and his luck and, still feeling horny, decided that if he found his keys soon enough, he would try his chances with his landlady. Gemma's remark about her, having made him realise that jealousy might have inspired her to warn him about his immoral behaviour under her roof.
"Fucking stupid bitch," he said, referring to Gemma, and angrily kicking the tire of his car, There was nothing to be afraid off. "So what," he shrugged, "So what if it was a murderer buried there, she's been dead for fucking years!"
He looked into the dark, desolate cemetery and, now no longer inspired by his intention to shag Gemma, had second thoughts about returning to hunt for his car keys. He looked up at the sky and cursed as a cloud moved slowly across the moon, blocking out what little light there was and plunging the cemetery into further, prohibiting darkness.
Contemplating walking home and returning in daylight, Andy looked at his watch and calculated how long the journey would take him. Too bloody long, he concluded, his landlady would have gone to bed, and he still would not have had his weekly shag. In spite of his new desire and his fresh intentions, he felt reluctant to enter the cemetery, the dark sanctuary of the dead that now seemed increasingly foreboding and scary. His own intuition counseling caution, Andy's imagination should have conjured up images of ghosts and ghoulies but instead formed pictures of his landlady with her plump legs wrapped around his waist. Inspired and fortified by those and similar images, Andy seized his courage in his hands and ventured forth, taking, at first, small, tentative steps towards the cemetery gates and the cruel destiny that awaited him.
Startled by a sudden, unfamiliar sound, he cursed again as the owl that had initially spooked Gemma repeated its eerie call, a warning perhaps, from the wizened bird of myth and verse, advising him not to enter.
Taking a deep a breath, Andy shivered as he crossed the threshold of the cemetery entrance, the heavy iron gate yielding noisily as he pushed it open. Aware of the raised hairs on the back of his neck he recalled his words to Gemma. "They're all fucking dead," he reminded himself, "They ain't going to get up and dance around their graves!"
His mouth dry, his heart beating like a drum, Andy crept almost stealthily between the rows of headstones, as if afraid of disturbing the incumbents or, maybe, they disturbing him. With nerves as taught as guitar strings, he kept looking over his shoulders, aware of the slightest sounds as he carefully retraced his steps. Fear weakening his knees and impeding his progress, Andy fought against the nausea welling in the pit of his stomach and concentrated his thoughts on how he would seduce the middle-aged widow from whom he rented his room.
Thoughts of the utmost impropriety, considering the lady's age and status, spurred him on towards his goal among the tributes to the dead. He knew exactly where he lost his keys; it could only have been when he briefly shagged Gemma beside the grave of Mary Smith, who was hanged for murder, he reminded himself.
"Fuck off!" Andy said aloud in response to the owl that obviously regarded his intrusion into its domain with some annoyance. "I don't need you putting the shit up me!"
The sound of his own voice offering a little comfort, Andy sang quietly to himself, taking his mind off whatever hideous things he imagined were lurking behind every monument and headstone.
The owl responded by swooping down at his feet and, in a flurry of feathers, seized an unfortunate rodent that had ventured too far from the safety of its abode. Andy raised his hands to protect his face and winced as the bird's sharp talons pierced the rodent's body, and the small furry creature emitted an agonised squeal that seemed to echo in the stillness as it died before Andy's eyes.
"Shit!" Andy exclaimed, the death of the rodent unsettling him and increasing his nervousness, his voice reaching a higher octave as he sang.
Andy considered abandoning his search but, the church clock mournfully striking the half hour, reminded him of how long it would take him to walk home. Eleven-thirty, he thought, almost midnight. It would be nearly morning before he got home, and he had an early shift at work.
Pressing on, he recognised the grave of Mary Smith in the near distance before a cold, damp mist suddenly descended from nowhere and enveloped him in a damp, musky smelling shroud.
"Shit," he cursed again, "Fucking shit," but stumbled on.
Tripping over a tuft of grass, Andy fell heavily and landed just inches away from a cold, granite memorial. He read the inscription before his eyes. ' Mary Smith. Hanged for murder. Thirty-first October, eighteen seventy-three.'
"Well," he said to himself, "I'm here. Now, where are those fucking car keys."
Still on his knees, Andy searched through the damp grass, looking for his lost keys in the darkness.
Touching something that felt familiar he was puzzled momentarily before it dawned on him what he felt beneath his hand. A foot. A cold, lifeless foot, as cold and smooth as marble. A stature, he assumed, but did not recollect having seen one when he was there earlier with Gemma.
"Good evening, Sir," said a soft, mellow voice, "And who might you be, Sir."
"Fucking shit!" He exclaimed in reply.
Andy's heart raced, the short hairs on the back of his neck rose and he quivered with fear as he looked up to see the veiled figure of a woman, dressed in a white, shapeless shroud standing above him.
"Who the fuck are you," he asked.
"My name, Sir, is Mary. Mary Smith, and I am delighted to make your acquaintance."
"N..no..." Andy stammered, looking at the grave stone, "You're fucking dead!"
"No Sir," she contradicted him, "I am awake, till one hour past midnight."
Andy's instinct was to run but the woman extended her cold hand, touching his arm, "Stay with me, Sir."
Recoiling from her touch, Andy backed away, until the cold granite of her memorial prevented further retreat and reminded him of the inscription.
"It says hear that you' re a murderer," he said nervously.
"Yes Sir," the woman admitted, "But they wrongly accused me Sir. They wronged poor Mary most terribly Sir."
"You're telling me you didn't do it," Andy said, becoming strangely accustomed to speaking to a woman who had been dead for more than a century!
"Well," Mary began, "They all died, that's for sure, but I did not murder them Sir. I loved them Sir, all of them."
"Them," Andy repeated.
"Yes, my husbands Sir. I loved them all."
"All," Andy said, "How many were there?"
"Six in all, Sir. Six of the loveliest men who ever trod this earth, Sir, and they all died happy, so they did Sir."
Andy shook his head, unable to believe the surreality of the situation in which he found himself and finding it even more impossible to believe that he was talking to a corpse.
"How long have you been...awake," he asked incredulously.
"For one hour Sir. For one hour before midnight till one hour after."
"That's because it's Halloween," he asked, recalling Gemma's superstitions.
"That is so Sir," Mary said, "But it is also thanks to you Sir, for visiting my grave on this special day."
Andy looked nervously around. "Are there any more," he asked, "Awake.. like you."
"No Sir," she assured him, "You are the only visitor since the sun did set behind yonder hill, Sir."
Andy's initial fear abated as he conversed with the woman and, as she removed the veil that shrouded her face, he could see that she was extraordinarily beautiful with a warm, disarming smile that dispelled his fears and calmed his concerns.
"There Sir," the woman continued to smile, making his pulse race and increasing the flow of blood to his loins, "You have no need to fear me, Sir."
"Were you.. awake... earlier, when I was here before," he asked suspiciously.
"Yes," Mary replied, "When you were hear with your sweetheart. I was watching you, Sir."
Andy laughed at the suggestion that Gemma was his sweetheart. Gemma was a filthy little Tart; a randy colleague with whom he worked. There was no romance as far as he was concerned, but she was, to give her her dues, an extremely good fuck!
"You were watching us," Andy repeated to the woman, aroused by the thought of someone watching him as he shagged Gemma.
"Yes, Sir," admitted Mary, "And you awoke feelings in me Sir, passionate feelings that I enjoyed with my six husbands, and more besides."
The church clock striking midnight, Mary removed her shroud, fully revealing herself; slim, beautiful and naked. "Come Sir," she beckoned Andy, "Give life to this poor dead soul, for I have but one hour remaining, and who knows when I might be awakened again by someone visiting my grave after sunset on this day of the year."
"You want me to fuck you," Andy asked incredulously.
"Yes Sir," Mary answered, "And I promise you Sir, you will not find me lacking in experience or desire. I can assure you Sir, you will not be disappointed by me. I am much skilled in the ways of making men happy, Sir. A fact of which I am sure all my husbands, without exception, would attest, Sir. For they all died most happy Sir, most happy indeed they were Sir."
Andy stared at the woman, incited by her cold, pale body, like a beautifully carved marble statue, and mesmerised by her warm, seductive smile, his loins, as usual, overriding discretion.
Reaching out, he touched her cold breasts, feeling them warm beneath his hands as his touch gave her life and her dormant blood filled her veins. Stooping to kiss her nipples, Andy noted how firm and perfectly formed her breasts were, the best, he felt sure, that he had ever touched.
Placing her lips on his, Mary kissed him, conveying all the passion that had built inside her during her long sleep and making Andy's pulse race as it had never raced before. He could feel Mary's body come alive as, parting her course hairs, he touched her cunt, already damp with dormant desire.
Descending to her knees, she took Andy into her mouth, sucking and licking him in a way that he had never been sucked before, even by the very accomplished Gemma. Andy felt his desire more intensely than he had ever previously known and pushed himself rhythmically into her mouth in a fucking action that increased in rapidity as her tongue danced around his dick. Sensing that her quarry was about to explode, Mary pulled herself gently away from him as the dull bell of the church clock struck the half hour passed twelve.
"Calm yourself Sir," she whispered, "For we have a full half hour before..." Her voice trailed as she lay on the damp grass beside her grave and encouraged Andy, "Like you did with the lady Sir, that reminded me so much of Cedric, my third husband, or was he my fourth."
Burying his face between her legs, drinking at the cup of Venus, Andy greedily lapped her nectar, tasting as sweet as the purest honey, her juice sensitising his flesh and stimulating his loins beyond any sensations that he had ever experienced.
"Oh, fucking shit," moaned Andy, almost delirious with pleasure.
"Now Sir," said Mary urgently, "Now whilst I have senses remaining to feel you inside me, for I fear the hour past midnight is nigh."
Andy's emotions were in turmoil, he was in a daze of desire, lost in a labyrinth of lust and insensitive to anything but the pleasures of the flesh that he felt more acutely than at any other time in his entire life.
Andy fucked her, feeling her pelvic muscles contract, her soft, wet flesh caressing him as he pumped rhythmically into her and, inspired by her gasps and groans, quickened his pace in response to her ever increasing demands.
Like a man possessed, he fucked Mary Smith in as many different ways as he could imagine, her insatiable appetite demanding ever more of him and finding Andy only too willing to oblige, unaware of the minutes ticking away and the hour past midnight rapidly drawing to a close.
Encouraged by Mary, Andy pushed into her in a final frenzy of lust, responding to her demand for more and, quickening his rhythm, his pulse racing faster and faster, his breathing heavier and heavier, he joined Mary in a tumultuous crescendo of mutual satisfaction as, climaxing together, the hands of the church clock approached one o'clock, and the dull bell ominously sounded a single, mournful note.
Gemma arrived at work and joined the group of colleagues shivering outside the staff entrance on the cold November morning, just as their irate boss pulled up in his car.
"Where's that fucking boyfriend of yours," he demanded, "He was supposed to open up two hours ago. What did you do to him last night, Gemma."
"I didn't do anything to him, and he's not my boyfriend," Gemma strenuously denied, "But I know he had a problem with his car."
"Phone him," the boss ordered, "Tell him to get his lazy arse down here...or he'll be out of a job!"
Gemma reached into her handbag for her phone and pressed the keys that connected her to Andy's mobile.
"Is that your phone, Tom," asked one of the two grave diggers who were preparing a grave for the first internment of the day.
"No Mate," the other replied, "It's coming from over there."
The two men inquisitively made their way towards the source of the sound; a patch of low mist surrounding a grave in the older part of the cemetery. Stopping suddenly, they looked down in disbelief at what beheld them.
"It's a body!"
"Yes," the other man said, "But look Tom, look at his face."
Old Tom removed his spectacles and, squinting, looked intently at the lifeless face of Andy.
"Well I'll be buggered," Old Tom said, "He's smiling."
"Yes," agreed his younger friend, "Whoever the poor Sod was, it looks as though he died happy!"
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