On the Canal Bank and Afterbygeronimo_appleby©
Okay, here's my entry for the Earth Day contest. I'm not 100% as to which category it should go in, so it'll be interesting (for me) to see where it ends up.
It begins with Amy watching her mother as they take part in an Earth Day project to clean up the local canal bank. Amy has a suspicion her mother might have a new lover in the offing, but she's determined to put a stop to their hanky-panky.
But it doesn't go according to plan...
Anyway, I hope you enjoy it. I'm half expecting a bumpy ride 'cause of my recent dig at the Loving Wives folks; and in its own way, even though it might slew my score a little, it'll be interesting to see what happens if they spot my name on the New List.
If there are any errors outstanding, I apologise. Yep, all me own fault. Also, I tried a couple of experiments in regard to point of view and tense and I'd appreciate some feedback on how that works, or doesn't as the case may be.
Thank you for reading.
GA -- Ranong, Thailand -- 27th March 2014.
Amy realises there's something going on. She's seen it before, she recognises the signs.
So she knows she has to watch them.
Amy doubts he'd risk doing anything with the journalist and the photographer from the local paper close by. But, as it goes, she's to find out soon enough she has that wrong.
They're all on the canal bank, a team on either side, with fourteen to a team. There's no significance in the number -- twenty-four volunteers plus the four co-ordinators, which makes it twelve plus two on each bank.
They're spread out like an army patrol, the canal as the axis, working in pairs. One holds a large black refuse sack while the other collects whatever detritus is in their path. Occasionally there's a call for a co-ordinator to examine something too large to fit into the bag, usually a rusted bike frame or supermarket shopping trolley that will need a special collection.
It occurs to Amy early on to wonder about how so many shopping trollies end up in the undergrowth by the canal when the nearest Tesco is two miles away, but the thought drifts away when she sees her mother, the chief co-ordinator, on the opposite bank, with Anthony close by.
It's midday and, at a call from Amy's mother the teams converge for a forty-five minute break, a picnic on the bank of the canal organised by Anthony at the council's expense.
Amy settles on a patch of grass a few feet from the body of the group and listens to Anthony expound to the journalist, a dumpy blob of a woman with a digital Dictaphone held in one podgy hand. He's yapping on about the Earth Day initiative for the canal bank clean-up, giving it large, making sure the woman is in no doubt that this, and other efforts all along the waterway, are his idea.
The journalist thanks Anthony and, after the tog takes a few pictures, moves off for more sound bites, this time from eager volunteers.
As the Earth Day chatter goes on around her, Amy watches her mother. Sure enough, amid the conversations about the canal clearance and other clean-up events, the gushing praise for Anthony, with comments about the apparent apathy of the public at large, Amy watches her mother flirt with the Godsend himself.
The man, Anthony, the saviour of the canal, the self-serving arrogant pig, a council employee at present, but with political aspirations, stands and stretches with his hands against his kidneys. He makes a bit of a show about his aching back, although he's spent most of the day in the Range Rover moving from group to group along the length of the waterway, the pair from the newspaper in tow.
Amy hasn't seen Anthony bend to pick up a thing; she rolls her eyes and mutters about him being such a wanker. Despite the man giving her a few days' work, at her mother's request, Amy didn't have much time for him.
Then, while Amy keeps a surreptitious eye fixed to her mother, Anthony leans in and murmurs something into the woman's ear.
Amy has to look away quickly when her mother's eyes flick in her direction.
Feigning nonchalance as she nibbles a sandwich -- which is actually quite good -- she sees Anthony saunter off down the bank
Nobody so much as glances at him while chatter and laughter swells from the group of volunteers, most of them excited by the possibility of their smiling faces appearing in the paper.
But Amy's attention never wavers, and ninety seconds later she watches as her mother rises to her feet.
Her mother throws a surreptitious glance around the gathering before she too ambles away.
Amy gives her mother half a minute start before she gets up and follows.
Sure enough, as she suspected, Amy sees her and Anthony meet a hundred yards away from the gathering. The clandestine pair hurry away, so preoccupied that neither sees the young blonde woman following. They move at a quick pace along the muddy track, veering abruptly to the left, away from the water.
Amy quickens her pace when she sees her mother and Anthony duck out of sight. She's careful to avoid splashing into any of the small puddles dotted along the path, desperate for a covert approach. When she arrives at the spot where she thinks Anthony and her mother left the path, Amy sees a gap in the tangle of hedgerow. She takes a moment puzzling over how either her mother or Anthony knew about the near indistinguishable gap in the green, but pushes the questions away when she realises she's wasting time -- one or the other must have been to the place before, most likely Anthony, Amy decides, and then she's pushing into the gap, branches and leaves plucking and scraping at her arms.
She doesn't have far to go, just a yard or so until she breaks out into a more open area, a crossroads of sorts, a litter-strewn T-junction of dry earth beaten flat by the passing of feet. Amy realises she's standing on a track most probably used by the inhabitants of the housing estate just beyond the cheap, wooden-slatted fence she can see a few feet in front of her. It's the kind of place local kids would use during weekends and holidays: hidden dens and hide and seek, a short cut from the estate to the world beyond. There would probably be a gap in the fence, a couple of loose boards perhaps...
Amy stands at the junction, dappled sunlight from the cool, April midday speckling the ground. She has to make a decision -- left or right?
On instinct she opts for the left, moving along as quiet as she can in a round-shouldered half-crouch in response to the low overhang of tree branches either side.
She freezes when she hears voices.
Her head turns slowly to the left as a low chuckle reaches her ears, with Amy's shoulders, torso, hips and, finally, her legs and feet swivelling so she's face on to the sound.
Ahead of her is a snarl of brambles, a dense thicket, and it seems her mother and Anthony are right there on the other side. His voice sounds less than three feet away. He's right there with just the brambles for cover.
Being very careful about where she places her feet, she doesn't want to stand on a dry twig or disturb any deadfall leaves, Amy creeps along. Nature forces her to approach very slowly, with the angle of her line dictated by the absolute need to remain unseen. Stealth is instinctive, and it takes her almost three full minutes of heart-pounding creeping to get to a point where she can observe her mother and Anthony.
She parts the chaos of brambles carefully with both hands, taking care to avoid their claws as she eases the tangled mass aside. Amy hardly dare breathe. Her mouth is open, with just enough air going in in shallow gulps.
Eventually there's a gap, a spy hole big enough for her to peer through. It's not perfect, her view is obscured by a mesh of branches and thorns, but it's enough.
She catches the gasp in time, clamping her mouth closed before the swell escapes her.
And the sight of it, so primeval, so intimidating, floods her pussy with heat. Amy's vulva swells with bestial desire. Her opening is suddenly itchy as her body responds automatically. Regardless of her boggling brain, the shock of it, Amy's clitoris pulses, tiny jolts of electricity as her insides melt.
Somehow she resists the urge to squeeze her breasts as her nipples thicken and swell.
Then she gulps, swallowing heavily as she stares at the incredible size of Anthony's erect penis, her mother kneeling and gamely attempting to suck the thing.
That bludgeon is terrible to behold, a weapon of a thing as thick as her wrist, the gnarled and knobbed criss-cross of veins giving it a medieval appearance. Anthony's cock is like an instrument of torture, and Amy's mother is already whimpering as she tries to accommodate the girth of it in her mouth.
Anthony is standing there, his expression avid, lupine as he looks down at Amy's mother, her lips bloodless and stretched as she massages that cock down at its root.
"Go on, Astrid," the man growls. "Suck it, girl. Go on. Go for it," he urges. "See how much you can swallow."
Amy mother pulls away. She coughs and gags, with silver threads of drool hanging from her chin all shivery when she moves. Her eyes water and she cuffs at her mouth, sucking in a deep draught of air.
Anthony laughs and hauls Astrid to her feet. "Told you," he says. "We're better off waiting 'til later. When we get back to the office." He takes hold of his member and waggles it. "We'll have the place to ourselves. Nobody will disturb us there."
Amy pulls back little when Anthony glances around the hidey-hole in the woods.
"Then we'll be able to enjoy ourselves, Astrid," he adds. "This is too risky out here. If anyone came along...
"There's that woman from the paper.
"And what if her snapper friend takes a picture?
"I must have been mad to suggest it..."
It seems like Amy's mother doesn't give a fug about journos or photographers. "But, Anthony," she whines. "I'm so bloody horny! I'm so horny right now!"
The man steps back and stuffs the unfeasibly large lump of cock into his trousers, and Amy gulps when she sees the bulge of it.
Astrid rolls her eyes and rubs a hand between her legs, going at her pussy through her cargo pants. "God, Anthony," she moans, doing a little dance, moving her weight from one foot to the other as though she desperately needs to pee. "I want it now. Right here. Please." She gasps, the fingers of one hand clawing at the man's chest, snagging his polo shirt. "I'll slip my trousers down. I'll bend over and you can do it from behind. I'm wet enough," she mewls. "God I'm so fucking wet for you."
But Anthony just laughs at the woman's urgency. "You'll have to wait," he says, rearranging the huge lump of male gristle in his trousers. "Later, I promise," Anthony adds, his tone softening.
"I-uh-I ... I'm supposed to give Amy a lift home," Astrid stammers.
"Can you sort it out? Can't she take a bus?" He shrugs and adds, "You'll have to come up with a reason, Astrid." Anthony cups his bulge with the palm of a hand. "Otherwise..."
He leaves it unsaid, the implication that if Astrid wants him, she'll have to think of something.
"I'll try," Astrid mumbles, but she doesn't look happy.
Then Amy is forced into a weird, sideways crab-walk, squatting on her haunches as she tries to keep some cover between herself and the other two when they begin to move out of cover.
They're in a discussion about what to do, with Amy's mother all agitated while Anthony attempts to soothe her. As caught up as they are neither Anthony nor Amy's mother hear the shuffle of her boots on the ground. They don't see her as they make their way back to the clean-up volunteers, voices receding.
Amy slumps onto her backside, her back up against a tree. She sits there in the sun-dappled silence, legs bent, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. She attempts to process what she just witnessed, her emotions in conflict and her mind awhirl.
She closes her eyes and the first image into her mind is Anthony's huge cock. Amy groans, the heat between her legs burning hotter. Suddenly she's on her feet and unbuttoning her cargo pants, unzipping them before she shoves them to her ankles. A hand delves into her underwear after she's squatted down, a straight arm against the tree, fingers working at her sodden sex.
Thoughtless to discovery, Amy rubs herself, her head filled with a fantasy reel of her with Anthony's cock in her mouth. In her mind she sees him slurping at her pussy, his eyes locked on hers as he licks her. Then, with his massive jib waggling and dancing, Anthony is between her legs. The great cock-head nudges her, a battering ram that presses at her scarlet flesh, and Amy's body forced to accept the invader as, inch by slow inch.
Anthony eases into her.
She's filled with him.
His cock is a solid lump of living flesh inside her. Anthony pauses and smiles, his grin wicked, almost malicious as he continues to stuff Amy with himself.
"Oh, fuck," Amy gurgles, coming around the three fingers she's got wedged in her body. "I can't ... I shouldn't," she gasps, her guilt at masturbating over such an obscenity overwhelmed by her desire. "Daddy," she mumbles as thoughts of her cuckold father come to her. "Mum's going to fuck him ... Oh, fuck, that bitch is going to get that big cock."
By then she's grunting and gasping, her orgasm boiling. Amy moans and sighs and has to bite on her bottom lip to stop herself screaming her pleasure.
Her fingers work at her opening, the flat of those four digits mushing around her vulva, teasing her clitoris as her climax rolls on and on.
Finally, spent and gasping, with dirt and leaves plastered to her thighs and undercurve of her buttocks, Amy stands on legs as unsteady as a new-born colt's. She gives herself a minute before hauling her trousers to her waist.
Her hands are trembling when her fingers scrabble at her zip.
Amy sniffs her fingers and gets another blast of surging lust when she smells the scent of her own depravity.
Late afternoon. It's cooled considerably, and Amy has her blue fleece on. There's a mountain of neatly tied refuse sacks piled in the top corner of the car park. A reasonably large crowd has gathered, mostly the volunteers massed together in front of the steps outside the red-brick, two-storey building that houses the council offices, its design an anachronism compared to its modern neighbours, its presence testament to its status as a building of special historic interest.
Amy isn't particularly interested in the history of the place; her mother and Anthony up there at the top of the steps have her complete attention.
There are banners and posters behind them: glossy, in-your-face proclamations about the canal bank clearance project; Anthony's brainchild, his vehicle to the mayoral platform with Earth Day as the fuel.
Anthony, milking it, is thanking the volunteers for their efforts. His arm sweeps to encompass the pile of bin liners, rusted bike frames, old-fashioned prams and other refuse the teams have collected from the canal bank or dredged from the water.
To Amy's eye he's looking smug, but everyone else seems to be gawping up in admiration. The journo and her photographer sidekick are there too, the woman muttering into her Dictaphone, the man bustling around in that busy yet somehow invisible way that photographers at public events and weddings seem to have.
Amy experiences a flare of hate for the man cuckolding her father. But, paradoxically, when she glances at the front of his cargo pants she feels the warmth flood south, her sex heating. The urge to rub herself is so strong that Amy can't resist. She shuffles back, moving further away from the periphery of the crowd, contriving to hide the lower part of her body behind a wheelie bin, the plastic container pristine, all shiny and new and destined to stand along the canal bank -- albeit securely fastened to a concrete plinth to prevent it from being lobbed into the water by one of the apathetic louts so mindless to the conservation of the planet. A facsimile of the posters behind Anthony is fixed to the side of the receptacle masking Amy's body, all part of the plan to, hopefully, educate the public and convince them to use the bin instead of dumping litter along the path.
Amy glances around, checking her immediate area for anyone in a position to observe her clandestine antics.
Satisfied nobody's looking, Amy's hand slides into the gap between her belly and her trousers. Her fingers find the elastic waistband of her underwear and slide down while, up on the makeshift stage, her mother is looking simultaneously embarrassed and pleased at being singled out for praise.
Amy wonders, briefly, if her mother is aware of the dirty marks on her knees. Then she forgets about her mother as she rubs herself, her attention drifting, only vaguely aware of her mother's shy little wave to the gathering below. Anthony is blathering on about Astrid's efforts in helping organise the event, but his words mean nothing to Amy. She can see his jaw moving up and down, but her mind has floated away and she's there behind the brambles again.
In Amy's head the sun is high in the April sky. There's the occasional burst of laughter from the picnic crowd of volunteers while an occasional car moves through the estate beyond the fence. It's another world in amongst the green.
Amy can see her mother's lips stretched around Anthony's cock.
The awful size of the man's appendage, the brutal exterior all gnarled and knobbly causes an arterial burst of lust between Amy's legs. Her nipples tighten again, but she can't squeeze her tender breasts because that part of her is in plain sight to anyone who might happen to look in her direction. Her mind might be in the woods but her reality is only partially obscured by the wheelie bin.
Her fingers find the cleft of her sex sodden. Her labia are slick with desire, and when the tip of her forefinger slides over her clit, Amy can't help but gasp and wince.
"Oh, fuck," she mutters, the finger probing her opening.
Suddenly reckless with desire, Amy wedges her forearm further down into the depths of her clothing. Her forefinger is joined by her middle digit, and the young woman is rubbing at the nub of her clit, punctuating the urgent burnishing by sliding both fingers into her body.
She sees herself closing her fingers around Anthony's cock. Could she even get her fingers around the thing, or was it simply too big?
Amy cares nothing for Anthony. She finds him smarmy and creepy, with snake eyes and a leering smirk. He's also as old as her mother, although fit and muscular to be sure. He's even handsome, she supposes grudgingly, good-looking in the way of a square-jawed, rugged actor. One of those confident, middle-aged Americans she sees in films, the ones with the swept back hair and perfect dentistry playing unscrupulous captains of industry rich enough to get anything they desire. Not that Anthony is rich, not yet, he's just a council employee on a reasonable salary, a man with aspirations.
She knows it's shallow but she just can't shift the image of his massive dick out of her head.
Amy pauses, fingers barely moving against her sex as she studies her mother and Anthony together on the steps.
How would they do it? Would her mother get down on all fours and offer her cunt with her buttocks high in the air? Would they be naked or half-clothed? Did they make condoms that size? What if Anthony got her mother pregnant? Did the man's jizm squirt out or did it just ooze?
The thought of that cock spitting semen about indiscriminately, the picture of it in her head, brings a low moan from Amy.
"Fuck," she mumbles, chewing her bottom lip, fingers going hard at tender flesh.
Amy mewls, gasping back on the sound, her head swivelling like a nervous meerkat's when she remembers just where she is and how many people are gathered about.