Caught by Surprise
by Alex Barton
“Oh bloody, bloody HELL!”
I shouted the last word so loud it hurt my head as the sound reverberated round the inside of my patrol car. Attending a fatal road accident is never easy but it’s infinitely worse when, on rare occasions like this one, I recognized the number plate of the crashed vehicle.
The accident was just over the brow of a hill, on a long, straight stretch of the A19 just outside York. Bits of motorbike, a crash helmet, and the bike itself were strewn across the road behind a tractor that had pulled over onto the grass verge. A body dressed in leathers was lying in the grass to the side of the tractor and I could see a man standing with his back against one of the huge rear wheels. From the way he was bent over I suspected he was the tractor driver losing the contents of his stomach.
I turned off the siren but left on my patrol car’s flashing lights as a warning to other drivers, then reached for my cap and pulled it on as I got out.
“I think he’s dead, Officer,” the tractor driver said when he saw me. His face was pale. “He just slammed into the back of me. One minute I was driving along, the next – ”
“You’re all right, sir?” I asked but was more concerned with the victim.
“Yes. I’m fine. Is he -?”
I ran across to the unmoving figure in leathers but I needn’t have bothered hurrying. Even at a distance I could see there was no way the biker was alive. His injuries were just too terrible and I had to swallow hard not to lose the contents of my own stomach.
The distant wail of a siren and the sight of several cars slowing down as they drove past the accident made me aware of the need to warn oncoming drivers and clear the carriageway. As fast as I could, I reversed my patrol car back a short distance and set up warning signs. Then I walked along the road and used a can of spray paint to mark the areas where debris had fallen so passing cars wouldn’t hit anything and make a bad day much worse.
“Biker’s injuries believed fatal,” I warned the ambulance crew as they jumped out of the cab and opened the rear doors. “But the tractor driver’s fine.”
“Thanks,” the paramedic said and I nodded and went to radio traffic control.
The next two hours followed a set pattern. The ambulance crew confirmed the biker was dead at the scene and removed the body while the tractor driver’s wife arrived to comfort and collect him. He told me what happened and we arranged that he would call into the police station later in the day to give a written statement. Eventually a low-loader arrived and winched the bike on board to take it for detailed examination to see if the cause of the crash was a mechanical malfunction.
I took photographs and measurements, made notes, spray-painted more marks on the road and collected debris in an evidence bag.
Then I sat behind the wheel of my car and watched a combine harvester moving slowly back and forth cutting wheat in a nearby field, wondering how I was going to tell Christina Ashwood that her only son Terry was dead, killed on a clear, straight highway under a perfect blue summer sky with only a light breeze blowing, when there wasn’t a drop of rain, a patch of oil, or the smallest obstacle in the road other than the clearly visible tractor that might have caused him to crash.
*
The days of the village bobby who smiles indulgently at poachers and people who grow marijuana ‘for medicinal reasons’ are long gone, replaced by community policing where an officer is responsible for the locale where he lives. Because I specialize in investigating traffic accidents and car crime I could spend a day working from one end of Yorkshire to the other and still be expected to investigate who stole the proceeds of our village’s church bingo when I return home at night.
So I knew of Christina and Terry Ashwood. Christina had returned recently from Japan where she’d been teaching English while her husband James worked for a Japanese electronics giant. James Ashwood had died suddenly of unsuspected heart disease leaving Christina a substantial settlement through the company’s death-in-service scheme. Her 20-year-old son Terry had transferred to an engineering college in Leeds and often came home at weekends, driving through the village on his Honda superbike. I’d been introduced to them both at a village cricket match but hardly had time to register how beautiful Christina was before the captain shouted it was my turn to bat. By the time I was bowled out she and Terry had left.
But I remembered Christina’s full lips, high cheekbones, and black hair she kept in a very chic style, short and curled into her neck. I’d found it very difficult not to glance down for a longer look when I noticed the size of her big, full breasts under the white cashmere sweater she was wearing. I’d been equally attracted by the way her blue denim jeans were stretched taut across the cheeks of her curvy behind as she walked over to sit with friends and watch the match.
She was just as beautiful now when she responded to my ringing the front doorbell by appearing from the side of her house, carrying a basket filled with cut roses and a pair of secateurs.
“Hello, Constable Harrison,” she said, putting the basket down. “What can I do for you?”
“Mrs. Ashwood – ” I started to say.
“Oh, call me Christina, please – ” she interrupted me with a pretty smile. And then she noticed the expression on my face and the smile faded. “What’s wrong?” she said quickly.
“I think we’d better go inside,” I said and Christina shot me a deeply worried look, fumbled for her keys, and opened the front door.
She led me into the living room and sat down. I took my cap off and sat down opposite her.
“Mrs. Ashwood – Christina – I’m truly sorry to tell you but there’s been an accident – ”
“Not Terry!” she said, almost screaming.
“I’m afraid so,” I said. “He crashed into the back of a tractor on the A19.”
“That bloody bike! I told him it was too powerful!” She jumped to her feet, looking around I guessed for her car keys. “Which hospital is he in? Is he badly hurt?”
I stood up and took her arm. “Please – Christina – sit down,” I said in a soft voice and paused while she did so. “I’m so sorry but he’s dead,” I said. “He was killed in the collision.”
At first I wondered if she had registered my words. She stared at me, her eyes wide. Then she let out a deep, intense scream, covering her face with her hands. “No – no – NO -!” she kept saying, over and over.
I listened but there was nothing I could do until her grief subsided enough for her to tell me of a female friend named Jane I could call who would come and stay with her. I rang Jane, told her what had happened, and then waited until she arrived. I answered the door and let Jane know what Christina would have to do the next day to identify her son. And then I left, the sound of Christina’s agonized sobbing still ringing in my ears.
*
I live in a cottage with a garden enclosed by a low wall at the back. I’m not much of a gardener but even I can grow vegetables and they taste better than anything a supermarket sells. About three in the afternoon on the Sunday after the accident I was standing in a light, warm rain, forking over the soil, when I heard a soft call, “Hello?” and looked up to see Christina, on the other side of the wall, an umbrella over her head.
“Hello,” I said, shoving the fork into the ground so it would stay upright unsupported, and walked over to her.
She looked tired, her eyes red. But even without make-up she was still stunningly pretty. I tried, and failed, to stop myself taking in that she was wearing a simple floral print cotton dress that hugged the contours of her shapely body.
“Are you all right?” I asked her.
“I suppose so,” she said. “I’m getting used to the loss at any rate.” She blinked and then added, “Losing a husband and son in one year. It seems a bit careless somehow – ”
“Can I make you a cup of tea?” I asked. “I’m ready for one myself.”
“That would be nice,” she said. “But I came to ask you a favor.”
“Of course,” I said without thinking. “What is it?”
“If you’re not busy, and of course I’d understand if you are – ”
“Please,” I said gently. “How can I help?”
“Would you drive me out there? To where the accident happened? I need to see for myself.”
“Of course,” I said, wondering if I was doing the right thing but sure I was if it meant I could offer some comfort to this beautiful woman. And, even though I was reluctant to admit it to myself, it gave me a chance to spend some time with her. “I’ll just wash up and change my shoes.”
Ten minutes later I backed my patrol car out of the drive and headed out of the village towards York. I wasn’t on duty so it was okay to leave the radio off. I didn’t want Christina to hear any messages from control relating to traffic accidents.
I drove in silence, waiting for Christina to speak first.
“It was different with my husband James,” she said, looking out of the side window. “The disease was sudden but we’d been discussing divorce before he died. I told him, ‘I love you but I’m not in love with you,’ and he said he felt the same way. It was almost a relief and we agreed that when we returned to England we’d go our separate ways, Terry staying with either of us as he wanted.”
She paused.
“But nothing prepares you for the loss of a child. No parent should have to bury their own child,” she said and reached quickly into her handbag for a handkerchief.
“No,” I said, uncertain whether to say more. I decided not to. The only noise was the occasional vehicle going in the other direction and the swish of the wipers keeping the windscreen clear as it started to rain.
It took about thirty minutes for us to reach the stretch of road where the accident happened. The combine harvester had gone, I presumed under cover because of the rain, and I could see that more than half the crop in the adjoining fields had been cut. I turned on the patrol car’s flashing lights to warn drivers coming up behind me and then pulled onto the grass verge about twenty yards from the point of impact.
“Can you tell me what happened?” Christina asked.
“We don’t really know,” I said. “The impact froze the bike’s speedometer at 53 miles an hour, not too fast for a straight, clear road.” I paused and then asked Christina, “Terry was an experienced biker, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said. “He learned to ride in Japan but had taken a British test and ridden at least two thousand miles since we came back. He has – had – a girlfriend he met in Tokyo who’s living in London, and he’d go down to see her almost every weekend. The mileage mounts up.”
“I can show you what happened,” I said, reaching behind my seat for Christina’s umbrella. I got out, put the umbrella up and the held it over her head. We stood on the grass and I said, “He smashed into the back of the tractor that was moving slowly down the road. But it didn’t pull out unexpectedly, the driver said he pulled out further back down the road and Terry had plenty of time to overtake with nothing coming the other way. He came off the bike there,” and I pointed to a spot at least 100 yards from where we were standing.
I saw Christina wince and I stopped.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“No,” she said in a flat voice. “I want to know.”
“I suppose what I’m saying is – ” I started to say.
Christina finished the sentence. “It wasn’t the tractor driver’s fault – ”
“No.”
“I know,” she said. “He came to see me. He wanted me to know how much Terry’s death had upset him but also explain that he’d done nothing wrong. I reassured him I knew he wasn’t to blame.”
“The problem is where Terry hit the tractor. If he’d hit the back or even a wheel he would probably have bounced off with severe injuries, broken bones, maybe even something more serious because his helmet came off, but the impact might not have killed him.”
I stopped talking and Christina sensed I was holding something back.
“So -?”
“He hit the wheel arch head up. The tractor driver didn’t hear the crash or feel the impact and kept going. The moving wheel dragged Terry up into the wheel arch and – ”
“His head was crushed.” Christina’s voice was flat, empty of emotion.
“I’m sorry. It was a hundred-to-one chance. Like I said, any other impact and he would probably have survived.”
“Yes,” she said. She walked over to the patch of grass where Terry’s body had lain. All traces had been cleared away but the grass was flattened and I could see her imagining her son lying dead.
Christina turned toward me and said, “Can I have that cup of tea now?”
“Of course,” I said.
I escorted her back to the car and drove her home.
*
“I like your home,” Christina said. “Masculine without being too minimal.”
She was sitting at the big oak table in my kitchen, a second cup of tea in front of her.
“Thank you,” I said and poured us both a glass of brandy, setting hers down by her cup.
“No girlfriend or wife to share it with?” she asked, a slight smile on her lips. It was nice that she was so forthright. I hate it when people are curious to know something and dress a question up first.
“No,” I said and smiled back. “I haven’t met the right woman.”
“You’re not too old,” she said, teasing me. “Plenty of time yet.”
“Yes,” I said, my eyes meeting hers.
Something very feminine in her made her sit back in her chair suddenly. The movement made her heavy breasts jiggle under the fabric of her dress and I realized she wasn’t wearing a bra.
The sight shouldn’t have aroused me but it did. She was beautiful, desirable, and vulnerable: desire flared in my groin like a flame. I wanted to put my arms round her, comfort her, hold her close, kiss her hungrily, slide my hands round her waist to cup the cheeks of her ass and feel those big breasts pressed into my chest. I felt my face redden and took a sip of the brandy to cover my sudden arousal.
Christina pretended not to notice but she moved back to sit with her elbows on the table so her face was close to mine. “Thank you,” she said and leaned over to kiss me gently on the cheek. “It was kind of you to drive me out there. I feel better in a way.”
“Of course,” I said. “Look – I wondered – ”
“Yes?”
“If you’d like, could I make you dinner? I have a joint of beef cooked. It would be simple, beef with new potatoes and broad beans. The vegetables are fresh from the garden – ”
Christina laughed. “Don’t I look as if I’ve been taking care of myself?”
“No, not really,” I said, taking the risk of offending her.
“Well you’re right, Mr. Policeman,” she said. “I haven’t been. So having dinner made for me sounds nice. I have a bottle of Montrachet at home if you’d like me to go and get it?”
“Please,” I said, standing up, totally forgetting that I had an erection.
“I won’t be long,” she said and, because my stiff cock was suddenly level with her face, she clearly saw the effect she had on me.
But of course nothing happened that night. I made her dinner which she made as good an attempt to eat as her appetite would allow, we drank the bottle of wine, more to drown her sorrows and take the heat out of my desire than to create a romantic mood, and I walked her home.
“Thank you,” she said, putting her hand out to shake mine. Even if I hoped for another kiss I knew prying eyes were always watching in a village and someone had undoubtedly seen us standing talking outside Christina’s front door.
“I’m glad I was able to help,” I said.
She opened the door but seemed reluctant to go in. “The house seems so big,” she said almost to herself. “Every movement I make seems too loud…”
“Do you want me to call Jane?” I asked, referring to the friend who’d sat with Christina when I told her of Terry’s death.
“No, that’s all right,” Christina said. And then she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “She’s a fusser. Always straightening the curtains and tidying my kitchen drawers. Thinks she’s helping, I suppose, but it drives me mad. I’m like you, I like things the way I’ve set them out.”
“Yes,” I said, surprised by her perceptiveness.
Her face was serious for a moment. “You’ll call me if there are any developments?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said, grateful for any opportunity to ring her.
“Thanks again then,” she said. “Good night.”
“Good night,” I said and walked home looking at the stars and wondering how ridiculous it was that I should be so attracted so quickly to a woman I hardly knew. But I was and I could hide it from her but not from my heart.
*
Christina invited me to Terry’s funeral but I was on duty and not able to go. But not attending gave me the opportunity to go round a few days later and see how she was. She reassured me all was well and I left it at that for a fortnight, then I sat down and wrote her a note, asking if she’d like to go out for dinner. I told myself I wrote the note because I didn’t want to pressure her if she wasn’t in the mood for doing something social. In reality it was because I didn’t want to hear her refuse over the phone. To my delight she rang as soon as I delivered the note and said yes, it would do her good to get out.
“You look ravishing,” I said, over a glass of wine, taking pleasure from the way the candlelight enhanced Christina’s beauty and made her dark eyes glow. She was wearing a black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps holding up the lacy bodice. I could have drowned in the depths of the cleavage the dress created and wanted desperately to take her in my arms. But instead, when she drove me home because I didn’t drive my patrol car socially, I said goodnight without attempting to kiss her, aware that curtains would have twitched and gossip would have started the second our lips met, gossip that Christina would have found painful.
*
Christmas is always a busy time for the police. Whatever people think twice about doing during the rest of the year they do without a care during the holiday season. My parents had opted to take a winter cruise so I put myself down for duty to let the married men spend time with their families and spent most of Christmas Day dealing with cases of drink driving and minor accidents. I was tired when I got home around five and quickly dozed off sitting in a comfortable chair in front of the fire. So at first I thought I was dreaming when I heard a knock on the door. The clock over the fire read just after 10.00pm and I wondered who would be calling at that time. It pays to be cautious when you live on your own so I picked up the fireiron and went to see who had knocked.
The delicious perfume Christina wore told me who it was immediately.
“Hello,” I said, aware that my heart was beating very fast.
“Hello,” Christina said, smiling at me. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” I said, holding the door open for her.
“Was that for me?” Christina said, grinning broadly and looking down at the fireiron in my hand.
“God no. Sorry. Can I get you a drink?”
She held up a bottle of champagne. “Taken care of,” she said. “My way of saying thank you for not letting me become a grieving widow, shut up alone in a dark and gloomy house.”
“It was my pleasure,” I said, and both of us knew how much I meant it.
“I also wanted to thank you – ” she started to say and I cut in.
“You already have,” I said. “More than enough.”
“No, for making sure no-one could accuse me of being an uncaring bitch. Dating too soon after my husband’s death and then Terry’s.”
I didn’t speak.
“It must have been hard,” she said, looking at me sideways.
I glanced at her, wondering if she was making a sly joke.
“It was,” I said, taking my chances. “From the first moment I saw you. It is now.”
“I can see,” she said, her voice suddenly husky. “I think it’s time I thanked you properly.”
“Well…” I said softly, letting the thought hang in the air.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she said in a firm voice and I smiled.
While Christina went to the bathroom, I undressed quickly, down to my briefs, and had just finished when I heard a tap at the door.
As she entered the room, Christina looked me over for a long minute and then closed the door behind her.
“You have a wonderful body,” she said.
“So do you,” I said, and put my arms around her and kissed her. She didn’t open her mouth and felt stiff in my arms. It seemed somehow uncomfortable, my standing there almost naked with my arms round a still-dressed woman. It was probably bothering her, too, I thought.
“Why don’t you get undressed?” I said.
“That’s a good idea,” she said with a smile, and began to unbutton her blouse. Then she unzipped her skirt while I watched, stepped out of it, kicked off her shoes and stood before me in only a plunge bra and high cut, lace panties.
Her eyes fixed on mine, Christina unhooked her bra. Her breasts were very big with huge rose-pink nipples and they rose and fell with her rapid breathing. I bent forward, cupped them in my hands, and suckled each nipple in turn. They came erect, firm between my lips, taut against my tongue.
I hooked my thumbs into her panties and slid them off her hips. She stepped out of them and sat down on the edge of the bed, opening her long slender legs. Her cuntlips were wet, swollen, pink, downy with silken curls.
Christina reached out to pull my briefs down my legs. My cock reared up, long, thick, hard. Without hesitation, she leaned forward, opened her mouth wide and enveloped the head and most of the shaft. I have no idea how I knew but I sensed she liked sex just a little forceful and I put my hands behind her head and drove my cock deep into her throat, fucking her face with intense pleasure. She managed not to choke and rolled her eyes up at me, a mass of her saliva and my precum spilling from the corners of her mouth to drip from her chin onto her breasts. Looking at her, desperate to suck the slippery liquid from her stiff nipples, I felt the familiar buzzing in my balls.
“Let’s not waste it,” I said, and tumbled Christina back onto the middle of the bed. I kissed her, hard, and this time her mouth opened and her tongue met mine. Then I drew away and kissed her throat, moved down, licked her nipples, circled the hard buds with my tongue, bit them gently. Christina moaned with lust and I moved lower, sliding my tongue in her navel, my hands wandering in a random caress all over the length of her voluptuous body, warm and smooth to the touch. I cupped her heavy breasts in my hands and licked my way down over her flat belly, into to the silken curls. My tongue worked her cunt open and I licked her swollen clitoris, swallowing the syrupy cream oozing from her pink hole. There was no discernible response but she was sopping wet.
I moved up the bed and stretched out at right angles to Christina, raising her slender leg nearest me. My thighs clamped above and beneath the upper part of her other leg as I brought my hips up and in under her raised knee. The swollen head of my throbbing cock found the soft open lips of her cunt-mouth without guidance.
I drove my stiff shaft inward with a powerful thrust, and it slid in easily, deeply, with the first stroke. I withdrew, to the very tip of my prick, and plunged it in again, to the hilt. My pubic mound jammed hard against her wet cuntlips but Christina’s hips did not move.
Surprised, I began to fuck Christina with long, plunging strokes, driving my cock deep, withdrawing it to the head, driving in again, with a furious, pounding rhythm. Still there was only a slight response from her hips, no sound from her lips. I stopped in mid-stroke.
“What’s wrong?” I said, looking up at her face. Christina turned her head on the pillow, a pleading look in her eyes.
“Put it in the other way,” she said. “Please?”
“What other way?”
“In my ass.”
“It won’t fit.”
“It’ll fit.”
“Roll over.”
“We don’t have to do it that way,” she said, and reached up to pull the other pillow down as she turned on her back. She raised her hips up and settled the pillow under the silky cheeks of her curvy buttocks.
“Try it now,” she said, raising her legs and holding her knees wide apart with her hands. The puckered opening of her asshole flexed in anticipation at being spread open by the head of my straining, sperm-slick shaft and I pushed the swollen, deep-purple head of my cock against the tiny, tight muscle, forcing it to give way.
“Go ahead,” Christina said, with a soft gasp of delight. “It will fit.”
I pushed harder and watched in amazement as my swollen glans sank in and disappeared. It was as if the sphincter muscle had swallowed it, her rectal walls hot and tight along my swollen shaft. God, her back passage was like a velvet vise, the sensation utterly wonderful. I plunged in, gasping in pleasure, until the thick base of my prick bumped up against the fleshy globes of her ass.
“Don’t stop,” Christina said, and I noticed her teeth were clenched. “Fuck me hard, all the way up the ass.”
Always do what a lady demands, I thought hazily, transported by pleasure.
I fucked her ass hard, every stroke all the way up into her bowels, just as she wanted. I plunged my prick deep, as deep as it would go, my groin slamming against the plump cheeks of her backside again and again and again. Christina was gasping and moaning loudly now, her hands convulsively clutching the sheet. I reached one hand down and found the opening of her cunt. My two middle fingers slid into the cream-slick hole and I began finger-fucking and rubbing her clit in time with the pounding of my prick into her bowels.
A long, quivering, continuing moan came from Christina’s throat.
“That’s it, oh, that’s it,” she said. “All the way up inside, Greg. Fuck my tight little asshole really hard. Make me squeal as you fill my bowels with your gooey cum. I’ll suck you clean afterwards. I’ll ream out your ass with my tongue…”
Holy fuck I love it when a woman tells me exactly what she wants…
Christina was gasping and moaning loudly, her hips squirming and bouncing as I drove my long, pistoning prick faster and faster, deeper and deeper, into the tight clutching sleeve of her back passage. My fingers worked furiously in the moist, slippery depths of her syrup-filled cunt, and suddenly her whole body spasmed and a cry of ecstasy started deep in her chest. I pumped every inch of my straining cock up into her ass as her whole body trembled in orgasm, squirting my hot spunk into the depths of her bowels, my belly glued tight against the sweaty globes of her receptive backside.
After a long while, I withdrew my softening cock from the tight grip of her anal sphincter and lay back, breathing hard. Christina sat up, shaking her head like a swimmer coming out of deep water. Then, almost as if she read my mind in wondering whether she would do the things she’d promised in the heat of being sodomized, she lowered her head into my groin and sucked my cock into her mouth, her gaze meeting mine.
Overwhelmed with pleasure I closed my eyes, knowing she would keep sucking my cock until I flooded her mouth with cum.
*
The circumstances of Terry’s death nagged at me through the spring and on into the long, dry summer. But the problem was there were always so many other emergencies to deal with: chasing stolen cars, investigating cases of dangerous driving and negligent vehicle maintenance, even catching drivers speeding, which I loathe more than anything because everybody swears blind they were observing the speed limit.
But now and again, when I finished duty early, I would drive out along the A19, parking at the spot where the accident happened. I would sit there and study the movement of the traffic, watch the farm vehicles moving back and forth in the fields and on the road, and write notes to myself on a pad. Then I would drive home feeling oddly dispirited as if I was missing something blindingly obvious.
One summer’s evening I was about to pull into the drive of my cottage when I saw Christina standing on the doorstep, obviously waiting for me. She was carrying a bunch of flowers and was dressed in a cashmere sweater and a pleated skirt. I have a thing for pleated skirts, especially worn with nothing underneath.
“Hello,” I said as I got out.
“Hello.”
“For me?” I said with a grin, “You shouldn’t have.”
“Well you know, I wanted – ” She started to say and then paused.
I smiled at her and waited for her to say what was on her mind.
“I know it’s an imposition,” Christina finally said, “but it’s been a year. And I wanted to… well – ”
“Lay them where Terry crashed,” I said, finishing her sentence. “Come inside while I get out of my uniform and I’ll take you there.”
“If it’s not too much to ask – ” she started to say but I held up a hand.
“Madam, this matter is now in the hands of the local constabulary,” I said with faux seriousness. “You would be well advised not to interfere with a policeman in the furtherance of his duty.”
“Of course, officer,” she said with a smile and a sly wink. “I promise I’ll come quietly.”
I leaned toward her and whispered, “We both know that statement is far from the truth…” and loved it when Christina laughed.
Ten minutes later I was driving back toward the A19, the radio again turned off. I wanted to talk about love and desire and tell Christina how often I thought about her in the course of my day. But this wasn’t the time or place and I kept our small talk to telling her what had happened while I was on duty that wasn’t confidential.
“So did you throw any stingers across the road and call in the police helicopter to catch bank robbers?” Christina asked, a grin on her face. “Just like in ‘Police, Camera, Action’ on the TV?”
“Definitely,” I said. “I’ve got one in the back.”
“A helicopter…?”
“A stinger.”
“Wow…” she said. “Good job you aren’t chasing bank robbers now.”
I drove up the hill that led to the scene of the accident. Christina turned round in her seat to retrieve the flowers and I could see an approaching combine harvester was just about to finish a strip that adjoined the road then turn into the next row down the field.
I turned on my indicator that I would be pulling over when suddenly I could see absolutely nothing. The road was gone, the view out of the windscreen was gone.
Every lesson my police driving instructor had ever taught me took over.
I braked in a series of careful, almost gentle movements, alternately pressing and releasing the brake to bring the car’s speed down. The back end started to slide and I fought the wheel, steering into the skid, dreading we would turn over. But the brakes screamed and then we were motionless, on the grass verge, facing any oncoming traffic, the engine stalled.
The combine harvester continued its slow progress down the field, oblivious to the cloud of dust and straw its engine had strewn across the road and into the air as it turned.
Christina was white with shock and I realized my hands were trembling on the steering wheel.
“That’s what killed Terry,” I said quietly. “That’s why he crashed into the back of the tractor. He wouldn’t have stood a chance if a cloud like that had suddenly enveloped him. It would have got under his visor and choked and blinded him. And the cloud wasn’t there when I arrived because of the breeze and the way the harvester had already moved down the field. We were lucky not to crash because we weren’t going as fast as he was – ”
“And because of your skill in driving,” Christina said. “Oh dear God, I was so scared!”
I started the engine and maneuvered the car off the road, turned off the blue lights and got out. My legs felt like rubber. Behind me I heard Christina’s door close and then she was standing next to me, sliding her arm through mine so that she could steady herself.
“Thank you,” she said. “We have the answer now and I can feel easier in my heart. I hated not knowing why he’d crashed like that because he was so experienced at riding his bike.”
We were at the spot where Terry’s body had come to rest. Christina knelt and placed the flowers on the grass. Then she stood up and put her arms round my waist, burying her face in my chest.
“Any chance of a cup of tea?” she said, lifting her face, her eyes meeting mine.
“Of course,” I said, shivering with the release of tension and a rush of desire.
“And a brandy?”
“A bloody big one,” I said, and grinned.
“And dinner afterward?”
“If you like,” I said softly.
“And after that?”
“Long, slow lovemaking, your body against mine, my lips on yours, my cock in your mouth then your asshole just the way you like – ”
“I think the tea can wait,” she said, her voice husky with desire.
I drove home and Christina led the way hurriedly upstairs, closing the door of my bedroom behind us. Still fully dressed, she threw herself face-down on the bed and flipped her skirt up, exposing the neat swell of her bare bottom, the long pink gaping wet mouth of her cunt.
My fingers shaking with desire, I unbuttoned my trousers and pushed them down my legs. I climbed on top of her and in one smooth motion sank the length of my raging prick deep into the wet hole of her cunt, driving it home once, twice, three times, before she said anything.
“Please, Greg,” Christina purred, turning her head so her imploring eyes met mine. “You know what I want.”
“I’m just getting it wet,” I said. “For lubrication.” A dozen or more pounding strokes in the soft warm wet folds of her cunt and then I withdrew and placed the head of cock against the tiny opening of her asshole.
I pushed, firmly, and to my delight saw the throbbing tip of my cock slowly disappear. I drove the shaft in deep, the entire length, until I was pressed tight against the yielding mounds of her buttocks.
“Oh, Jesus,” she said. “Oh, God, how I’ve wanted this, your cock buried deep in my bowels. I love it when you sodomize me, Greg. Fuck me in my ass, do it hard, darling, do it really hard…!”
I slid my cock out until only the head remained inside her rectum and then thrust it deep into her asshole again. Christina squirmed, and I grabbed her hips to give myself better leverage. Then I went to work fucking her fiercely, forcefully, driving my cock deep into her bowels in a furious rhythm, my lower belly slapping against the smooth skin of her ass, my balls bouncing against the wet lips of her cunt. She started screaming as I thrust, my hips driving my stiff prick deeper with every stroke, and went into orgasm, her whole body shuddering with the intensity of her pleasure.
I could so easily have succumbed at that moment, the clasping heat of Christina’s spasming rectum drawing my cum from my over-full balls like a vacuum, but I used every ounce of willpower I had and dragged my prick from her asshole to lift myself onto the bed, presenting my throbbing glans to her mouth. She opened her lips immediately, sucking in the head, swallowing greedily as each new spurt gushed into her throat. The sensation was like heaven on earth and one I was determined to repeat as often as Christina desired.
Later, both of us naked, Christina lay spooned back against me, asleep even though my cock was still buried to the balls in her back passage, her big soft breasts filling my hands. I, too, was close to drifting off, overwhelmed by the pleasure of having fucked her gorgeous ass multiple times, filling her bowels to overflowing with my sperm. But, before I did, I said a silent prayer of thanks because now, at last, we knew exactly what had happened to Terry and Christina could move on with her life.
End.