“Tartan Blanket” (circa-1968)

From the day their mother and father informed family and friends that their daughter, Victoria had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, it took less than four months before her battle against the disease finally ended and her life slipped slowly away.

In the last few days of her life her body had been reduced from a nine stone beautiful young woman to a weak and helpless skeletal frame. With skin hanging like soft paper tissue from frail bones, she was unrecognisable and resembled a woman more than twice her age.

Ellen Brand told friends and relatives that Victoria was in so much pain and suffering that when her life ended it was a welcome relief.

After the funeral Ellen fought with her own recovery. But after too many sleepless nights, too many pills and too many severe bouts of depression leading up to, and after her daughter’s death, she eventually lost the fight and spent the rest of her life lost to pills and despair.

Eddie Brand was no stranger to death. He had seen enough during his National Service.

He had endured the pain, the sorrow and the anger when the life of a friend or loved one is unexpectedly taken away. He was also aware that when it happens we always look for someone to blame, and that someone is usually that devout man in heaven. But even after losing too many friends in World War II and spending too many sleepless nights drinking and cursing at a bible, he wasn’t prepared for the loss of a child.

If he had remembered about the heater not working in his father’s Rover 90, he would have worn a leather jacket over his thin cotton shirt.

The cold weather never seemed to bother his father. His shirt unbuttoned at the front and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding a cigarette.

If the truth were known his resilience was probably the reason why he hadn’t replaced the thermostat in the car. But nothing seemed to bother him. Even his deformed left arm didn’t prevent him from becoming a tailor.

The badly scratched tattoo on his father’s left arm was a permanent reminder of a heavy drinking session during his National Service days. He told everyone it was a scorpion, but with his deformity it could easily have been mistaken for a Lobster.

It was quite bizarre to think that he had gone all the way through World War II relatively unscathed. But when the war ended, his father and six other troops were driving through France in an army vehicle when the driver – who was apparently drunk at the time – collided with an obstacle at the side of the road. After losing control of the steering wheel the vehicle turned over and landed in a ditch. The six soldiers were thrown from the back of the vehicle and other than a few cuts and bruises they were relatively okay.

His father was less fortunate. After falling under the weight of the vehicle his left arm was crushed beneath one of the wheels. Medics told him that the soft ground probably saved him from losing his arm.

The one with the tattoo.

After driving for almost twenty-minutes neither of them had spoken a word. But with the age divide and nothing in common, conversations between fathers and teenage sons were always at a premium.

But although they didn’t talk very much he still had a lot of respect for his mother and father, knowing how difficult it was during their upbringing, providing food and clothing for him, his brother Frank and his two sister’s Victoria and Eve.

His parents were both humble people from working class backgrounds. They had no proper education and in those pre-war days they were expected to leave school at an early age to earn money to support their own parent’s modest wages. After leaving school at fourteen his father worked as a trainee tailor and his mother worked as a seamstress.

Married at nineteen, by the time Ellen Brand was in her mid-twenties she had given birth to four children. With six mouths to feed his mother and father worked harder than ever to provide the family with the best opportunities possible. And although they were deprived of some material goods, they always managed to get by.

During his early childhood he had fond memories of his mother and father working tirelessly on a ‘Singer’ sewing machine until the early hours of the morning, making suits or altering clothes for friends and neighbours, desperately trying to earn a little extra cash to supplement their modest income.

They made their regular day-to-day clothing that kept their children looking reasonably respectable. They even made their school uniforms from left over material that they had suspiciously acquired from previous jobs.

And they always made sure their names were written inside.

“How’s the job going?” his father enquired, through a cloud of cigarette smoke, the sudden break in silence, forcing a stammered reply.

“It’s... Its, okay.”

“Sticking in at college,” his father asked. “It was good of your boss to let you take a day off work to attend Newcastle College.”

“Yes,” he answered to both questions.

“You’re training to be an architect?” his father said, with pride in his voice.

“Building surveyor,” he quickly replied.

“Same thing. I tell everyone you’re an architect.”

“Are they paying you enough?” his father boldly asked.

“Good enough, considering what my friends are earning,” he answered, hoping this would be the last of his father’s interrogation.

It wasn’t.

“When you’re going through an apprenticeship son you’re expected to do all the menial tasks at work. But don’t let that boss of yours give you all the shitty jobs to do.”

“Fucking shitty jobs. Don’t let him give you all the shitty jobs.”

He wouldn’t dare tell him about the shitty job his boss had recently volunteered him for.

Apparently someone using the men’s toilet felt it necessary to smear the walls of one of the toilet cubicles with human excrement, and the only way they were going to catch the perpetrator was to hide someone inside the toilet and observe the comings and goings of everyone using the facilities.

The humorous remark of the boss telling him they were looking for someone who didn’t bite their finger nails did little to help the mindless hours and boring days sitting on a wooden stool inside a cleaner’s cupboard, peeking through a grille in the door, a furtive voyeur waiting for the ‘phantom crapper’ to decorate one of the toilet cubicles.

A week had passed. There were lots of visitors in and out of the toilet. There were lots of bladders emptied and plenty of bowel movements, but unfortunately no desecrated toilets.

It was late one Friday afternoon when the sound of heels tapping across the ceramic floor tiles broke the boredom. He peered through the grille in the door. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Nicola Thompson, a young and very attractive girl from the admin office walked into a cubicle and closed the door.

A few minutes later the door opened and she was gone.

He slipped out of the cupboard and opened the toilet door.

The walls of the cubicle were smeared in human faeces and a signature of brown hand marks decorated the inside of the door.

He quickly retreated back to the cleaner’s cupboard returning to the cubicle with a bucket of water, a cloth and a bottle of disinfectant.

It took less than ten-minutes to clean the cubicle and return to the sanctuary of the cupboard.

He never asked her why. Only a psychiatrist could tell her that.

“Is that another new shirt you’re wearing? I hope you’ve written your name inside,” his father chuckled, blowing smoke against the windscreen.

“Oh Fuck,” he cursed silently. Not the story about writing their names inside their clothing.

He knew that if he didn’t change the subject quickly he was going to hear the story for the millionth time. But all he could think about was Nicola Thompson desecrating the toilet cubicle and he had no intention of betraying her dark obsession to his father.

“I knew you would do well son,” he smiled, tapping his fingers across the steering wheel.

“Did I ever tell you the story about when you were all growing up and you wondered why I had written your names inside your clothing.”

He frowned. He cursed silently. He knew he couldn’t prevent the inevitable narrative.

His father’s declaration was always said with conviction and guidance.

“It will encourage you to strive for better things in life,” he said, a thin smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“If your names on the outside of a building you are considered a rich man. If your names on the inside of a building you are known to be a working class man. But if your name is on the inside of your clothing, you will always be classed as a poor man.”

It went quiet for a few minutes, his father deep in thought, puffing away on his cigarette, another philosophical statement hanging on his lips.

“From the day we’re born we travel on the conveyor belt of routine. Working class. Middle class. Upper class. Rich and poor, all striving for better things in life. The only thing in common is that we all fall off the end smelling of piss.”

He smiled and winked at his son.

“So you must have thought about what I said, otherwise you wouldn’t have become an architect. Who knows son, one day you might be the next Christopher Robin,” he smiled, nodding his head and lifting his shoulders. “You never know,” he chimed.

He was about to correct his father’s mistake but fearing it might grow into an extended debate, which he wasn’t really in the mood for, he just sighed and waited for the anecdote that always followed.

“There are only two things that matter in life, son. Sex and money,” his father offered, pulling on his cigarette. “This is not a rehearsal son. Get as much as you can before you die,” he added, searching his memory for the name of his wife’s sister.

“Look at your aunt Gloria, poor sod. It’s only been six months since we put her in the ground and she’s already forgotten. She had no life with that bastard she married. He spent his money like a drunken sailor. If he wasn’t spending it on drink, he was throwing it away in the betting shop,” Eddie barked, flicking ash from his cigarette, echoing his words of advice. “Get as much as you can son.”

For a man who didn’t have a driving licence, Eddie Brand handled a car extremely well.

If you were to ask him why he had never taken a driving test he would be the first to tell you that driving licences are for people who lack the confidence and need a certificate to tell them they are competent behind a wheel.

The country roads had a covering of black ice and required his father’s deep concentration, so the rest of the journey fell silent until they reached Bishop Auckland.

Eileen Brand waved a welcoming hand from her living-room window when the Rover pulled to a halt outside her dreary council house.

“Come inside, Eddie,” she invited, raising both hands and wiggling her fingers. “And bring that handsome son of yours with you,” she added, a cheerful smile lighting up her face.

“I’ve made you and Mark a brew and something to eat,” she offered, spinning on her heels and heading to the kitchen.

After a cursory glance in the living room, Eddie lit two cigarettes and handed one to Eileen. “Where’s Malcolm?” he enquired, pulling on his cigarette.

“Where do you think,” Eileen cursed. “He’s in bed pissed. Your brothers always pissed,” she barked. “I married the wrong fucking brother,” she mocked, covering her mouth with her hand in the way of an apology when she realised her outburst of inappropriate language might have embarrassed Eddie’s son.

“You handsome young architect,” she said, forcing a smile and flashing her eyes, brushing her fingers through his long hair, hoping this playful gesture would recompense for her careless oversight.

“Building surveyor,” he offered, catching a glimpse of her huge breasts, sitting quickly on a stool to hide an untimely erection beneath the kitchen table.

“How’s Ellen coping with the loss of Victoria?” Eileen enquired, pouring tea into cups and placing a plate of ham sandwiches on the kitchen table.

“She’s devastated. We all are. But she’ll feel better tomorrow. After the funeral,” was all Eddie said, as he bit his teeth into a ham sandwich.

“Cancer and only in her early-twenties,” Eileen sighed. “She’s only a child for Christ sake,” she barked, staring at the reminder of her Catholic faith hanging on the wall, as if the man on the cross would give her the answer.

“You know we’ll have to stop using these,” Eileen said, taking a cigarette from Eddie’s outstretched hand. “There not good for you,” she declared, drawing smoke into her lungs, wagging a finger at his son. “Your too smart and certainly too handsome to start smoking,” she offered, brushing her hand against the side of his face.

“I wished I was eighteen again and know what I know now,” she sighed.

The hot cup touching his lips prevented him from confessing that the last woman he shared a cigarette with, her husband died on his own vomit. While he was fucking her brains out.

Not even scalding hot tea seemed to bother his father, he thought, the hot tea almost burning his lips. He must have an asbestos tongue, he decided, watching him drain the cup.

“I’ll go and check on my brother,” Eddie volunteered, scraping the stool across the kitchen floor as he stood up, his footfalls trailing in fading echoes up the creaking stairs.

Eileen fussed around the kitchen sink, his eyes following her every move, catching fleeting glances of her huge tits bouncing inside a tight blouse and her little bubble-shaped bottom wiggling enticingly beneath a snug pair of cotton trousers.

A tired face hidden beneath too much makeup and short blonde hair showing evidence of dark roots, Eileen Brand was no real beauty. But with her knickers creeping inside the crack of her bottom and a pair of tits that could stop traffic, she was always going to get his undivided attention.

Washing and drying dishes, clinking cups and rattling plates into cupboards, humming a tune inside her head, every movement suggestive, lifting and lowering, bending over, the fabric stretching over curvy buttocks, disappearing between both cheeks when she stood up, her unabashed performance leaving him with an uncomfortable awakening inside his pants.

Did she need to bend over that often? He thought. Or was Eileen teasing him? If she was he didn’t want her to stop.

A shuffle on the stool, his hand flirting with the growing muscle inside his pants, his eyes transfixed on her womanly curves, his head swimming in a sea of hormonal fantasies, thoughts and images forming in his tortured mind. Ripping her blouse open. Her big tits spilling into his hand. Fondling one and squeezing the other. Burying his face between her cleavage. Feasting on one nipple and biting the other. Breathing in her sex until she begged him to fuck her.

“That’ll have to do,” she sighed, turning quickly on her heels, the unexpected gesture breaking his lustful thoughts.

He cleared his throat and the erotic images from his mind.

“Will Malcolm be okay for the drive back to Gateshead?” he asked, sneaking another glimpse of her shapely breasts, discreetly lowering his hand beneath the kitchen table, moving the growing nuisance from its uncomfortable angle inside his pants.

“Fuck Malcolm,” she replied. “He can stay here for all I care. I’m sick of his drinking and I’m fed up with him constantly being drunk. The only time he wants sex is when he’s pissed. But because he’s pissed all the time, he can’t get it up.”

She sighed into her cup and lit a cigarette.

“Malcolm thinks a woman’s place is in the kitchen,” she frowned, blowing a stream of white smoke at the ceiling, her frown turning into a smile and a wink. “But men who say women belong in the kitchen usually don’t know what to do in the bedroom,” she said, forcing a laugh that quickly faded. “I’ve gone too long without love or sex. If it wasn’t for my phallic friend I think I would have left him a long time ago.”

She breathed another sigh and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, frowning when she caught sight of her wedding ring. “I think I’m probably giving you too much information,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I hope I’m not corrupting your young mind,” she giggled. “I know your mother wouldn’t be pleased if she found out that I’ve been discussing my troubled sex life with her precious son.”

With her solo practices now embedded in his memory files and knowing he would have to stand up at some point with a painful lump straining inside his jeans, he waited until the moment was right, dropped his hand and quickly made another adjustment.

“Here he is,” Eddie announced, ushering Malcolm into the kitchen.

“Black coffee Eileen,” Eddie insisted, guiding his brother onto a stool.

After an hour of filling Malcolm with black coffee, Eddie was becoming impatient.

Although it was only four o’clock in the afternoon it was getting dark outside and with icy roads ahead he knew they couldn’t delay things any longer.

“Come on Eileen, we’ll have to get going.” Eddie said, taking Malcolm’s arm. “He’ll have to sleep it off in the car,” he added, lifting his brother from the stool.

“I don’t want that drunk in the back of the car with me,” Eileen screeched, as she picked up a small suitcase with their pre-packed funeral clothes.

“No,” Eddie replied. “Malcolm can sit in the front with me. If he needs to vomit or he has to use the bathroom, then I’d rather have him in the front where I can keep an eye on him.”

He was about to mention the broken heater in the car when his father chirped in.

“You’ll need to wear something warm, Eileen. My son said it was cold inside the car on the way here. I don’t feel the cold,” he offered, with a smug smile.

After slipping a woollen sweater over her head, Eileen opened a cupboard door and removed a large tartan blanket. “This should keep us warm, Mark,” she smiled, catching a glimpse of the impressive bulge inside his jeans.

With his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a cigarette dangling from his mouth, Eddie scraped a thin layer of ice from the windscreen while Mark poured Malcolm into the front seat of the car and Eileen put their luggage into the boot.

After too many turns of the ignition key and a few frustrated curses from the driver, the old Rover 90 eventually fired into action.

Under the veil of a darkening sky they headed back to Gateshead.

“Put this over your legs,” Eileen whispered, a suggestion of excitement and anticipation dancing behind flashing eyes, wrapping herself inside the tartan blanket and spreading the rest over his muscular thighs.

Because there was evidence of black ice on the country roads, Eddie didn’t talk too much, he just puffed on his cigarette and concentrated on the driving. Other than the occasional grunt from the drunk in the front seat, the inside of the car was reasonably quiet.

The car chugged along with comfortable ease, weaving its way through the sweeping country roads, the headlights beaming into the night sky, the occasional swerve brought about by icy conditions or the unfamiliar terrain.

“The roads are slippery,” Eddie confirmed, glancing in the rear-view mirror, muttering curses and apologies under his breath.

“Take your time...There’s no hurry,” he offered, smiling at his father in the mirror, blinking his eyes, trying to focus in the darkness, just making out the silhouette of his father’s face and his left hand on the steering wheel, the dashboard lighting up the fine hairs on his disfigured arm, the reflection in the mirror throwing back an image of a proud and honest man.

The man who didn’t have a driving licence. The man with a lobster tattooed on his arm. The man who thought one of the most highly acclaimed architects in history was called Christopher Robin.

A sigh and a shuffle on the seat, an uncomfortable shiver and a gesture of movement, snuggling up close and resting her head against his arm, her breasts rising and falling in a slow rhythm with each intake of breath, the smell of hairspray, cigarettes and a mist of perfume teasing his nostrils.

With every swerve of the car she shifted in the seat, her weighty breasts flattening against his arm and whispers of warm breath blowing intermittently against the side of his face.

Her eyes were closed. He couldn’t tell whether Eileen was sleeping. But with his heartbeat increasing by the minute, sending a surge of blood into his penis, if she was sleeping, he had no intentions of wakening her.

An impulsive moment of furtive intimacy, slipping his hand under the blanket, giving his stirring limb a gentle tug, his fertile imagination creating images of Eileen flaunting her body over the kitchen sink.... She must have known what she was doing. Was it deliberate? He thought. Christ some of her bending positions with her legs apart were bordering on the erotic.

The mere thought of her trousers creeping inside her bum cheeks and her huge tits bouncing inside her blouse, had left him nursing a throbbing muscle that couldn’t be ignored.

A soft purring whisper and a slight movement interrupted his lustful reverie. He moved his hand from his groin. He glanced at Eileen.

Her eyes were still closed.

“Sorry,” his father said, raising his hand in the way of an apology when the car collided with a pot hole in the road, throwing the car one way and then the other.

The sudden movement hadn’t woken Eileen but her weight had shifted again and even though the warmth of her heaving breasts pushing against his arm held his interest, what concerned him most was that her hand had moved onto his thigh and her fingers were almost touching his swollen organ.

It was dangerous. It was risky. It was exciting. It was insane.

Pulses raced and his heart beat gathered speed, imagination flirting with opportunity and pursuit, an adventurous mind rejoicing in the endless possibilities of surreptitious foreplay.

A distressing thought brought a nervous lump in his throat.

What happens when she wakes up and discovers that her hand is touching his penis? She might think I’ve put it there while she slept. And if he had, what else had he been up to in the darkness. Christ, she might think I’m some kind of pervert.

He decided to move her hand.

Making another journey south beneath the obscurity of the blanket, his right hand creeping slowly over the straining lump inside his pants, coming to a halt when he felt her warm hand resting on his thigh.

Gritting his teeth, holding his breath and twisting his face with nervous apprehension, weaving his feather light fingers with the skill of a watchmaker beneath her hand, lifting slowly, inhaling and exhaling through his nose, lifting....lifting.

A sudden movement, a shuffle on the seat, her eyes slowly opening, the acquaintance of hands, the intimacy of touch and the promise of expectation lifting the corners of her mouth.

“It’s starting to snow,” Eddie casually announced, the windscreen wipers squeaking in quiet protest across the glass, dropping his cigarette through a gap in the window and glancing in the rear-view mirror, a questioning eye staring into the darkness.

“Just as well you brought that warm blanket with you,” Eddie chuckled, through a throaty cough before lighting another cigarette.

‘In more ways than one,’ mouthed a silent reply from the back seat.

He just smiled into the mirror at his father and said nothing. He had other things on his mind and a warm blanket wasn’t one of them.

Ignoring his father’s remarks, but keeping his eyes focused on the mirror, mindful of her hand moving with flirtatious intent beneath the dark veil of secrecy, opening his legs and lifting his buttocks slightly, responding to the invitation of touch.

The familiar voice in his head spoke again. ‘It’s nothing more than a little bit of playful flirting.’

But Eileen had gone too long without sex. Eileen wanted more.

She fiddled impatiently with the brass button on his jeans, tugging and pulling at the zip without success, searching his eyes for assistance, irritable gestures and frustrated sighs growing into dissonant words that he didn’t want to hear.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror, making sure there were no suspicious looks from his father, lowering his zip with agonising slowness and forcing a cough into his hand, trying to mute the painful rasping noises from the metal teeth coming apart.

Without waiting for an invitation she slipped her hand inside the tight fabric, feeling the firmness of his youthful flesh growing beneath the warm confines of his briefs, squeezing her hand inside the tight opening, trying to liberate the throbbing limb from his pants, hissing her frustration through tight lips when she was unable to gain entry.

Holding his breath and lifting his buttocks slightly from the vinyl seat, trying not to make too much noise, slipping his hands into the waist and sliding his pants over his thighs, never once taking his eyes off the driver or the drunk snoring next to him.

The awesome length, the formidable girth and the firmness of his virile cock throbbing in her hand forced a deep throaty gasp, accidently breaking the silence.

“What was that Eileen? Did you say something?” Eddie asked, his questioning eyes looking back through the rear-view mirror.

The unexpected question caught her by surprise, her fingers tightening around the fleshy limb, her eyes searching for an answer.

“Oh, I was just wondering if Malcolm was okay,” she replied, with an easy calm, relaxing her vice-like-grip on his swollen flesh.

“He’s okay. He’s sleeping like a baby,” Eddie confirmed, through a cloud of smoke.

Ignoring the brief interruption, continuing her journey of sexual discovery, familiarity flirting with expectation, the pulse between her legs teasing her senses, closing her fingers in a tight fist around the girth, moving her hands slowly and deliberate, working the length back and forth, gripping the meaty flesh on the down stroke, feeling his pubic hair brushing against her hand, holding it for a moment before easing her grip on the way back, pulling the loose foreskin over the smooth head, feeling a sticky deposit oozing from the open eye, moving his hips to the persuasion of touch, his legs stiffening, the pace of her hand increasing, back and forth, pulling and tugging, gulps and mumbles vague, his release only seconds away.

“Not far now,” Eddie announced, pointing a finger at the brightly lit signpost with one arrow pointing to Newcastle and another pointing to Gateshead.

“I’m looking forward to seeing Ellen, although I wished it could have been under different circumstances,” Eileen replied, working his cock back and forth.

“It’s been a long time,” she added, raising her voice an octave, hoping it would mute any signs of mischief going on in the back of the car. “Too long in fact,” she said as his balls exploded, spewing out a phenomenal quantity of milky white cargo in four repetitive bursts, decorating her hand, smearing his stomach and coating the inside of the tartan blanket.

Eddie carried his brother to the front door. Mark carried Eileen’s case and his deflated appendage. Eileen carried the soiled tartan blanket containing his fertile seed.

After a friendly hug at the door and an exchange of comforting words of condolences, Ellen Brand ushered Malcolm and Eileen into the warmth of her living room.

“I’ve put you and Malcolm in Frank and Mark’s room,” she said, forcing a smile that quickly faded. “Single beds, I hope that’s okay,” she added, in a whispered apology.

“Couldn’t be better,” Eileen uttered, under her breath.

“Frank’s stopping at a friend’s house. Mark can sleep downstairs on the sofa,” Ellen said, removing a handkerchief that she always kept under her sleeve and wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’ll take you to your room. After you’ve hung your clothes up, we can eat,” Ellen offered, an outstretched hand forcing another question.

“Let me carry that blanket for you.”

“No!” Eileen croaked her voice a little too high. “I can manage,” she insisted, lower her voice and pulling the stained blanket against her chest.

It was pouring with rain the day of Victoria’s funeral.

Surrounded by a sea of headstones blackened through the passage of time, family and friends gathered around the open grave to say goodbye to Victoria.

Ignoring the rain battering against his face the minister opened his bible.

“Our father which art in heaven...” voices croaked through sobs, sniffles and tears as the coffin was lowered into the ground by four burly men holding thick ropes.

Under a veil of black umbrellas, family and friends said their final goodbye to Victoria.

As the mourners slowly melted away in a steady tide of grief and the gravediggers shovelled the earth back into the hole, Eileen and Mark linked arms with Ellen as they headed towards a black limousine waiting at the main gates of the cemetery.

Eddie and Malcolm followed slowly on their heels, stopping occasionally to read faceless names on a headstone.

“These fucking graves are getting a bit too close to the dual-carriageway. I hope they keep enough room for me,” Eddie mumbled, through a cloud of cigarette smoke.

“I’ve told her to burn me. There not putting me in a fucking hole,” Malcolm uttered.

Ellen made a shushing noise in quiet protest. Eileen smiled. Mark wasn’t listening. His mind was on other things.

Eileen still managed a smile when they accidently touched hands in the funeral car.

Under a veil of silence the limousine pulled slowly away from the cemetery, the closeness and familiarity in the back seat bringing back memories of their impulsive intimacy in the back of his father’s car.

Their eyes met briefly and she shuffled uncomfortably in the seat, her breathing increasing, her breasts rising and falling, the whisper of nylon brushing over thighs as she crossed and uncrossed her legs, staring out the window, trying to hide her emotions, trying to calm the ache between her legs.

The thought of ripping her knickers off and fucking her in the back seat of a funeral car stirred the sleeping muscle inside his pants. He moved the untimely nuisance to one side and stared out the window.

After a small buffet for family and friends at the local British Legion Club, Ellen, Eileen, Mark and his sister Eve walked the short distance back to the house.

“We’ll not see Eddie or Malcolm until the pubs call last orders,” Eileen sighed.

“How’s that friend of yours getting on Mark?” Eileen enquired. “I can’t remember his name. The one who moved to Ipswich with his mother.”

“Andy Dobson,” he replied. “He’s fine, although we haven’t spoken on the telephone for a while.” There was a long silence before his mother chirped in.

“I heard a rumour that his mother, Ruth married a man she met in Ipswich.”

A lead weight suddenly dropped into the pit of his stomach. He choked back a lump in his throat. He said nothing. He glanced at his watch and quickened the pace.

It was after midnight when Malcolm and Eddie eventually staggered back from the pub.

After climbing unsteadily up the creaking stairs and an unnecessary clashing of doors and a few curses from Eileen, the house fell silent.

Alluring images of Eileen’s tight little bottom and bouncing tits quickly gathered a space inside his head. With enough material for masturbation, he stretched out on the sofa and took his glorious manhood in hand.

It was quick. It was powerful. It was messy. It was the perfect anaesthetic for an uncomfortable night on the sofa.

A warm hand touching his arm and a whispered voice broke him from his sleep.

In the flickering shadows of the glowing coal fire there was no mistaking the familiar silhouette of Eileen wearing nothing but a pyjama top and a pair of white panties.

Ignoring the scrunched up paper tissues abandoned on the floor, she smiled and unbuttoned her top, letting it pool at her feet.

“I can’t sleep with his snoring,” she whispered, pursing her bottom lip in an innocent but seductive provocation, his eyes catching a glimpse of the dark shadow of pubic hair hidden beneath her white knickers.

“And I was missing my new friend,” she confessed, optimism flashing in her eyes and an ache between her legs, slipping out of her panties and sliding on the sofa next to him.

Chaos and uncertainty rattled around inside his head, his tortured mind trying to evaluate a risk analysis, his heart and genitals doing the same, the acquaintance of an inquisitive hand clutching his growing limb and the heat of her breath against his neck brushing away the clouds of doubt and any futile attempt of risk analysis.

The promise of suggestion and an expression of seductive foreplay, a flirtatious movement of hands and a hot mouth travelling south, peppering soft kisses of light affection over his stomach, tasting the salty evidence of his earlier eruption on his warm skin, coming to a halt when she felt the whispery curls of pubic hair and his throbbing cock brushing against the side of her face.

A wanting woman with frustrated needs dragging her long fingernails over the rough skin of his scrotum, pulling the fine hairs covering the rugged skin, cradling both testicles in her hand, playful fingers teasing his balls, her sensuous mouth working the long shaft with a well-practiced skill, breathing him and blowing him out, licking and sucking, sweeping over the bulbous head, dancing around the rim, pushing the tip of her tongue into the small eye, savouring the taste of his youthful seed.

“I want this,” she whispered impatiently, her eyes sparkling with hungry intent, letting him slip from her mouth, giving his balls a parting kiss before straddling his body.

A burning heat manifesting between her legs, an aching vulva wet with desire, the hiatus of a sexual drought giving way to the urgency of carnal engagement, the threatening force of nature throbbing and pulsing between her buttocks, a frustrated sigh hissing between tight lips, an urgent adjustment, her knees finding purchase on the sofa, lifting her bottom slightly from his thighs.

“Put it in,” was all she said.

Urgency responding to suggestion, a surge of high octane adrenaline rushing through his veins, fuelling the fire of passion, the perilous limb throbbing in his hand, a grunt, a wheeze, a thrust of his hips and he was inside her body.

“Oh. Oh. Ahhh,” she whispered, her face twisting in a distorted mask of pleasure, the gruesome muscle stretching her tight entrance, filling the depths of her inner core, opening her legs, opening her body, digging her finger nails into his arms, whispers turning into painful cries. “You’re too big. Keep still, let me do the work,” she volunteered, shifting her weight and moving her hips in a slow seductive rhythm, wriggling and shuffling her bottom, meeting the penetrating force, easing the thickening object inside her body.

In the fading light of the dying coal fire, his eyes growing wider and wider, her pendulous tits swinging with reckless abandon in front of his young eyes, thrashing her head from side to side, her hands pulling recklessly at her hair, frustration forcing sighs, wheezes chasing gasps, words stumbling over breathless pants, a mature woman hungry for physical fulfilment, bouncing and wriggling, thrusting her body with promiscuous intent.

A brief pause, a breathless sigh, a quick adjustment on the sofa, urgency and desperation brushing away compromise, a wanting woman launching into a tireless marathon of physical endurance, wriggling and twisting, bouncing and thrusting, lifting and lowering, easing him into her body in a commentary of verbal filth, easing him out in a chorus of endearment.

The copulation gathered speed, a mutual engagement of physical endurance, a synchronised motion of give and take, breathless whispers turning into urgent cries, voices growing louder and louder, the springs on the sofa making too much noise, frustrated sighs blown between clenched teeth, the warmth of her mouth brushing his ear.

“Get on the floor,” she whispered, raising her bottom slightly, letting him slip from her body.

He didn’t object. With his balls about to explode at any minute he just followed her orders.

With the graceful skip of a dancer she was lying on the floor with her legs wide open, the outline of her dark hairy bush easily visible against her milky-white body.

He dropped to the floor and climbed between her legs, ignoring the threadbare carpet beneath his knees and her whispered voice of caution, gripping the swollen limb firmly in his hand, flexing his buttocks and thrusting his hips, pushing through a forest of pubic hair, parting the slippery flaps and folds, easing inside her body in a chorus of moans and groans.

Wrapping her long slender legs around his waist, digging her feet into his lower back, moving her hips to meet the force, pulling him into her body, embracing the length, adjusting to the girth, gripping his arm, accidently piercing his skin with a finger nail, short shallow breaths snorted in wheezing gasps, words of endearment suddenly turning into an urgent blast of crude profanities.

“Fuck me. Fuck me hard. Give me more.”

A heart banging inside his chest, carpet burns torturing his knees, responding to her urgent commands, fucking fast, fucking hard, giving her more, pushing in and pulling out, deeper and deeper, thrusting and grinding, pounding and hammering, penetrating her depths, letting her feel the fullness of his potent flesh stretching her entrance, filling her body with a force she couldn’t have imagined.

“Ah, fuck. Ah, fuck. Oh. Oh, fuck, fuck,” she uttered in breathless gasps, a shiver and a shudder, a shake and a tremble, the rapture of euphoria reverberating inside her bruised and battered body, a climax of earth-moving proportions exploding inside her vulva, tingling her feet, curling her toes and shaking her legs, sweeping through her chest and face, rattling her teeth and the back of her throat, a whiplash of orgasm thundering through her body with a momentous force, a mind-numbing release stealing the last breath of air from her lungs.

A breathless gasp and a contented smile, a woman lost in the overwhelming heat of passion, waiting for calm, waiting for the climax to melt away, unable to hide the post-orgasmic flush colouring her face.

“You need to finish,” she offered, sucking in air through her nose, kneeling on all fours, opening her body to accept his perilous length.

Ignoring the carpet burns, peeling back the slippery folds of flesh, easing the threatening muscle inside her waiting heat, slowly at first until he thought she was comfortable enough, increasing the pace letting her feel the power of his finely tuned piston, the unforgiving force of a perpetual fucking machine.

A creaking door and a whisper of movement in the shadows, apprehension inviting panic, his softening penis slipping from her body, their moment of copulation abruptly halted.

Heads turned in unison, questioning eyes staring at the door, trying to focus in the darkness, watching and waiting, the fading echoes of hurried footsteps disappearing up the creaking stairs sweeping away doubt.

He choked back a lump in his throat. They spoke in conspiratorial whispers.

“Who was it?” he asked.

“I’ve no idea,” she replied, hunching her shoulders. “It couldn’t have been Malcolm. If it was he would be beating the shit out of both of us.”

A nod of agreement, his eyes vacant and his throat dry, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, his words mumbled in a nervous stammer.

“Christ. I hope... I hope it was my sister Eve and not my mother or father.”

With a smile on her face that would probably still be there the next day, they shared a kiss and in the blink of an eye Eileen was gone.

The tension at the breakfast table was unbearable.

There didn’t appear to be any suspicious signs coming from his mother or father and Eve was her usual buoyant self, talking too fast, laughing too loud as she fluttered around the kitchen, absorbing all the energy inside the room.

The suspense of not knowing who was at the living room door had left him with a cold sweat and a feeling of nausea. It didn’t seem to bother Eileen. She carried on a deep conversation with his mother, smiling and talking as if nothing had happened.

His mother’s voice broke his anxiety.

“You need something to eat before you go,” she said, an unexpected smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

“Yes,” his father chirped in. “You need to keep your strength up,” he winked.

‘Christ,’ he thought. ‘Do they both know, or is it just his paranoid mind playing with innocent words.

It was a surprise to everyone when Frank walked into the house reading a newspaper and sporting a black eye. And there was another surprise when he announced that he intended to come along for the ride to Bishop Auckland.

“You been in trouble again?” his father asked, pointing a finger at his bruised eye.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” Frank replied, without looking up from his newspaper.

With the build of a middleweight boxer Frank Brand was no stranger to the occasional brawl. By the time he was twenty he was streetwise and mature well-beyond his years.

But at times he was impulsive and if he was ever pushed into a corner he could be reckless and violent. And because of his contempt for authority and discipline it surprised everyone when Frank announced that he was joining the Army.

Eddie and Malcolm carried the stale smell of cigarettes and alcohol to the car. Frank carried his black eye and newspaper. Mark carried Eileen’s small case and a look of disappointment. Eileen carried her smile and the cleaned-of-all-mischief tartan blanket.

Any thoughts he might have had about a repeat performance in the back seat of the car were quickly eroded when Frank sat in the front passenger seat and Malcolm ended up in the back with him and Eileen.

Under a claustrophobic cloud of cigarette smoke and the smell of stale alcohol and perspiration, Eddie turned the key in the ignition and after a couple of spluttered protests from the engine and a familiar curse from the driver, the engine roared into life.

They headed back to Bishop Auckland.

Frank had acquired the ability of being able to talk to his father and read the newspaper at the same time. But if the truth were known he was probably preparing himself for the inevitable stories of their childhood.

With the skill of a magician, Malcolm removed a half-bottle of whisky from the inside of his jacket pocket. After too many gulps of the golden liquid he fell asleep against the door.

She sighed in disgust, moving away from the odium, shuffling across the seat and spreading the tartan blanket over their legs, snuggling up close and resting her head against his arm.

The comforting warmth of her body pressing against his, the delightful fragrance of perfume teasing his nostrils and her tits brushing against his arm was enough to wake the sleeping monster inside his pants.

But even without the benefit that darkness always brings and with Malcolm sleeping next to Eileen, they both knew there would be no opportunities for mischief.

They hadn’t travelled very far when he felt her fingers creeping slowly over his thigh...