Sleep of the Guilty

There was an uncanny stillness to the sacred night and the season's first snow.

A flurry of snowflakes danced in the wind like large white moths, flickering past the street lights, falling to earth leaving a light covering under foot.

With Sandra clutching one arm and Mark the other they dragged Jimmy's lifeless body along the slippery footpath. Apart from the occasional grunt from Jimmy followed by Sandra's usual response, 'fucking arsehole,' the journey was silent and slow.

Getting Jimmy to the house and opening the front door was the easy part. Dragging him up the creaking stairs and into bed was more of a challenge.

He wasn't surprised to see an overflowing ashtray, a few empty beer cans and a whisky bottle littering the bedroom floor, but he was surprised to see his Royal Northumberland Fusiliers uniform hanging proudly on a coat hanger and his boots gleaming like a mirror on the floor by the bed.

Lying on his back with his eyes closed and a trace of drool running from the corner of his mouth, Jimmy lay motionless on the bed. After removing his shoes and making sure he was reasonably comfortable there wasn't much more they could do.

It was time to get back to the party.

Stepping back from the bedroom, the force of her lower body pressing urgently against his buttocks and her heaving breasts flattening against his back prevented his retreat.

The warmth of her breath and the pulse of her lips peppering soft kisses along the back of his neck and a hand stroking his thigh and squeezing his testicles suddenly fed his panic.

Shuffling uncomfortably on his feet and craning his neck to look over his shoulder, shooting her a look of disapproval and silently mouthing, 'What the fuck are you doing?' snorting a nervous gasp when it came out in more of a whisper.

Moving away from the bedroom door to the refuge of the landing, the floorboards creaking under their weight, glancing back to check on Jimmy's semi-unconscious status, the relief that he hadn't moved forcing a nervous sigh and a reminder for caution.

There was a new intensity to Sandra's demeanour. She hadn't forgotten her playful toy.

She was hot. She was dirty. She was impatient. She wanted fucked.

A whisper of movement, the fire of passion sweeping away the need for caution, a wanting woman driven by irresistible urges, a woman craving for fulfilment, an impatient woman desperate to feel his awesome limb filling her body again.

Impulse flirting with expectation, excitement courting danger, the closeness of two bodies coming together stimulating arousal, her eyes glaring with erotic threat, her breathing increasing, her breasts rising and falling, impatient fingers tugging and pulling at the buttons on her blouse, two weighty tits defying gravity, tumbling out in front of his eyes.

Senses buzzed and heart beats raced, pulses fluttered and throbbed, hormonal chaos fuelling a burning obsession, a surge of blood firing to vital organs, a lethal cocktail of excitement and danger, both losing control of any rational thinking.

Faces met, lips parted and mouths crashed together, tongues colliding in oral combat, twirling and probing inside each other's mouths, sweeping over teeth, sucking and licking, breathing in the searing heat of passion.

A brief pause, breaking from the kiss, short shallow gasps and breathless sigh fading into silence, feeling his hardness pressing urgently against the burning inferno between her legs, impulsive urges stimulating arousal, hands moving to persuasive gestures, fumbling blindly in the darkness, tugging and pulling, cursing and swearing until the zip finally yielded.

Before her knees had touched the floor she had his cock in her mouth.

With a well-practiced skill she sucked him in and blew him out, sweeping her tongue over the swollen helmet, pulling him in and swallowing the length, bobbing her head up and down, feeling his balls bouncing off her chin, giving them a gentle squeeze before dragging her teeth over the loose foreskin on the way out, feeling a surge of warm blood running through the thick blue veins along the meaty shaft, pausing when she felt the soft texture of his pubic hair brushing against her nose.

Lifting from her knees and glancing into the bedroom, making sure she could see Jimmy's bitter face looking back, a muted curse escaping through tight lips, 'fucking arsehole.'

Leaning against the stair banister and gripping the handrail with both hands, her bottom perched in the air, her legs open, the floorboards creaking in quiet protest, a furtive whisper hissed through tight lips. "Fuck me from the back."

The guilt and betrayal....The painful uncertainty....The haunting Images of the faceless coward in the fast car weaving their way inside his head. The man who had saved his life... The man lying in a hospital bed trying to eat his food through a wired jaw.

'You'll be sorry when Jimmy finds out you've been shagging his wife.' A virtuous voice whispered a word of warning from somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind. Fuck Jimmy, he's nothing but a fucking arsehole.... Give her a damn good fucking. A sinful voice quickly replied.

Probing in the darkness, one hand opening the wet flaps and slippery folds the other hand gripping his swollen cock, shuffling on his feet, flexing his buttocks and thrusting his hips, the gruesome muscle stretching the entrance, forcing its way inside her body.

"Oh my fucking god," she cursed through pursed lips, the brutal force almost splitting her apart, his muscular thighs smacking against the soft cheeks of her bottom, opening her legs a little further and pushing back to meet the force, embracing the flesh, reaching a plateau of steady momentum, glancing back over her shoulder and searching his face, listening to the sloppy wet noises echoing off the stairwell walls as he entered and retreated from her body.

Whispered moans, whimpering cries and muted curses of encouragement growing louder and louder, narrowing his eyes and distorting his face, as if this physical gesture would help to calm the situation, a sudden movement on the bed and a throaty gurgling noise stopping him in his tracks like a burglar caught in the act.

Eyes wide open in panic, his heart beat increasing by the second, his mouth dry, his stomach churning, waiting nervously, watching his every move, swallowing a lump in his throat and chewing the inside of his mouth, waiting, listening and watching, as if he was expecting that at any moment Jimmy would wake up and jump from the bed in a violent rage.

Sandra's demanding voice broke him from his mental turmoil.

"Fuck me harder," she whispered. "Oh my God.... Fuck me....More....More," she begged, wriggling and swaying her hip, rocking back and forward and pushing back, easing him in in captured momentum, making sure she was getting it all inside.

The tired timber banister squeaked in an overture of painful noises, the old floorboards moaning and groaning under the weight of their feet. But Sandra had given up worrying about husband, and she couldn't give a fuck about the creaking floorboards.

The length, the girth, the deep penetration, entering and retreating from a body swimming in a sea of euphoric bliss, moans joining a chorus of groans, curses turning into words of endearment, whispers growing into agonising cries, a wanting woman reaching the heights of euphoric bliss, hovering on a summit somewhere in heaven, the floodgates of passion exploding, taking her over the orgasmic cliff.

"I'm coming. I'm....I'm....comminnggg....Arrrggghhhhh," she moaned, her head thrashing from side to side, her face twisting in a paroxysm of euphoria, a teeth clenching release, the searing heat of passion spilling down her thighs, a muffled orgasm celebrated in silence.

Firing on all cylinders his balls erupted, spurt after spurt of sticky white ballast spewing from the open eye, filling her innermost depths with his endless seed of life.

With both hands gripping the handrail as if her life depended on her never letting go, a tired and exhausted body flooding in an ocean of ecstasy, breathless pants joining wheezes and gasps, a burning vulva bleeding sticky fluids down her thighs, fingers slowly losing their grip, the handrail protesting against the strain, her limp body sliding helplessly to the floor in a crumpled heap.

It was getting late but the party was still going on when they slipped back into Mary Boyd's house, relatively unnoticed. Some of the guests were in the kitchen drinking and eating the remains of the buffet. Those that had drunk too much had fallen asleep on the sofa. Others were showing off their dancing skills on the living-room floor.

After pouring two drinks he headed to the buffet table to join Sandra. As he raised his glass to his mouth he felt his shirt being pulled.

"Is everything okay with Jimmy? What took you so long?" Frank questioned his brother, suspiciously.

He lifted his drink to his lips and spoke into the glass.

"Its heavy going dragging a lifeless body around the estate, especially in the snow," he answered, unconvincingly. "Jimmy's okay. We've put him to bed," he added, moving away from the buffet table, trying to avoid further questions.

But Frank prompted him again. "I expect you put him face down on the bed?"

He lifted his shoulders and shook his head, pointing a finger at his mouth indicating that he couldn't answer because his mouth was full of food.

To avoid any further interrogation from Frank he picked up his drink and emptied the glass. It was time to go.

It was just after five in the morning when he crawled into bed. And with his bloodstream fuelled with alcohol it only took a couple of minute before he was fast asleep.

He wasn't sure whether it was the calling of nature or the telephone ringing that woke him from his sleep, but he knew he had to empty his bladder.

Taking the stairs two at a time, ignoring the hammer banging inside his head and the painful ring of the telephone he headed for the toilet.

The telephone was still ringing when he came out of the toilet, so he picked it up.

"Hello?" he barked into the mouthpiece, glancing at his watch, the timepiece telling him it was eight-thirty in the morning, an eerie silence at the other end of the phone prompting him to repeat the question.

"Hello whose there...?" he enquired.

"Mark, it's me, Frank...." he answered, his voice fading into the mouthpiece.

"I'm with Sandra at the Queen Elizabeth Hospital, in Gateshead...." There was a long agonising pause before he spoke again. "Jimmy's dead Mark....He died last night."

Frank choked back a lump in his throat before continuing. "The police are asking a lot of questions to establish if there were any suspicious circumstances surrounding his death. They know that you and Sandra were the last two people to see him alive."

There was a deathly silence again. Frank's statement had rendered both men speechless.

Struggling to think through the miasma of alcohol and sleep deprivation, sighing into the phone, his mind filling with irrational speculation, an imaginary voice inside his head telling him that Sandra must have murdered Jimmy while he slept.

"What happened, Frank....? How...How did it...?" he stammered through the mouthpiece, his brain unable to function properly, his mouth opening and closing, trying to find words, but nothing was coming out.

Frank's final words held a despondent sadness.

"Jimmy fell asleep on his back and died in his own vomit."

Dropping the phone into the cradle, a resounding nausea lying in the pit of his stomach, his head spinning in chaotic turmoil, his mind plagued with guilt and betrayal, climbing the creaking stairs and crashing on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, looking for forgiveness, biting the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood, hoping this gesture of self-pity would be a fitting punishment for his deceit.

In the black gloom he closed his eyes, hoping he could hide from the world.

He slowly fell into a troubled sleep.....The sleep of the guilty.