Quae fit circa circuit
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Ignoring The Signs (Circa 1978) free porn video
As soon as you walked through the door the unmistakable aroma of weed and the familiar smell of infidelity left you in no doubt that you had entered the Cavendish Club.
As usual the place was full of desperate people, some searching for everlasting love, most of them just after a one night stand.
The events over the last few days had left him depressed and emotionally drained.
The day had started badly and progressively got worse. It started with an early morning telephone call from Stella Mason informing him that his friend, Gary Fowler had been rushed to hospital after sustaining serious injuries in a head-on car crash. Stella said that Gary was in an induced coma fighting for his life, and although he was showing some signs of improvement the doctors confirmed that the damages to his spinal cord were so severe that he might never walk again.
The afternoon didn’t get any better. Too many cigarettes and too much alcohol, pacing the floor, picking up the phone and putting it down, trying to build up the courage to phone Caroline Spencer.
He must have lifted the phone a dozen times before dropping it back into the cradle.
He knew that if he made the call her father would have probably answered, and given the regrettable circumstances he wouldn’t expect the conversation to be friendly.
The more he thought about the unfortunate incident in his bedroom, he was beginning to accept the fact that he wouldn’t see Caroline again.
He was wrong. They would eventually meet up again in 1985, although the circumstances would be very different and a little embarrassing.
After spending the last hour sitting on a stool at the bar, drowning his sorrows in alcohol and wrestling with his conscience, he felt as if his heart and his life had suddenly come to a milestone he would like to forget.
Staring through the bottom of another empty glass, aware that there aren’t many things in life that can beat alcohol in a crisis, shaking the glass at the barman in that universal sign for another drink, the sound of a stool scraping across the floor and a comforting hand on his shoulder interrupting his thoughts, the reflection in the mirror behind the bar throwing back the friendly smile of Heather Chapman, her sympathetic voice interrupting his self-pity.
“You look like someone who’s just lost his puppy.”
If he ever wanted to spend the rest of his life with a woman who came with all the attributes, then Heather Chapman would be at the top of his list. In her late-thirties, Heather was neither attractive nor unattractive, but what she lacked in appearance she made up in her sincere character, a stunning fit body and a hungry appetite for sex.
Twice married and twice divorced. A free spirited ‘life and soul of the party,’ type of woman, enjoying life, obsessed with sex, rejoicing in her single status and making no secret of her preference for well-endowed men, able to balance her private life with a demanding career, drifting between her many lovers without feeling any obligation to make any one of them a permanent fixture in her life.
No baggage. No conditions. No commitments. No longevity. After two failed marriages and a string of casual relationships, Heather had adopted a new philosophy in life. ‘Husbands are for convenience...Lovers are for sex.’
Heather had come to the conclusion that after two unsuccessful marriages to worthless men, her life had now changed for the better. After finding a new direction in her life, she had no regrets and made no apologies for any of her actions. She dated whoever she wanted and slept with whoever grabbed her fancy.
The regular visits to the local gym and endless nights of yoga gave Heather an exceptional body that no one could ignore. She was an extremely fit woman who enjoyed wild, reckless and physical sex, preferably with well-hung men, who were prepared to go the distance.
She often joked that she had been with some men where she could have painted her nails and had sex at the same time. It was also rumoured that after she had finished with one of her lovers he required medical attention.
Her appetite for sex with an extraordinary kinky twist was extremely demanding and clearly not for the feint hearted. And with her preconditions for unconventional sex she could get into positions that made most gymnasts green with envy. During one of their many heated sessions she once asked him to blow a balloon up inside her vagina and when she felt it touching the atrium to her cervix, she masturbated and let him watch.
Heather had a clandestine dark side, often indulging in bedroom water-sports. Her ability to practice urine therapy and demonstrate her skills in the art of ‘The Golden Fountain’ were legendary. She made no secret of the fact that she was a sexual compulsive maverick, often joking that her bedroom had been fitted with a revolving door. A bedroom fully equipped with a plethora of erotic gadgets and an arsenal of vibrators and phallic toys, she simply referred to as her ‘implements of obedience.’
Heather never went anywhere without taking her best friend. ‘Trap 2’ was his name, a small three-inch long vibrator that fitted discretely inside her handbag. After a lot of audacious practice she had perfected her masturbation technique and would often use her best friend in public place, especially when she was driving the car.
With a little movement from either crossing her legs or pulling her thighs tightly together and applying a little pressure on her pelvis she was able to bring herself to a delicious toe-curling orgasm. There were occasions when she required a little more stimulation to coax her along the road to climax, so a searching finger circling the clitoris would usually do the trick.
Sometimes in a private moment of reverie when she couldn’t sleep or if she was feeling horny, the angry buzz of a comforting vibrator teasing her clitoris and ‘Trap 2’ wedged in the back door would remove any anxieties. Heather enjoyed the pleasures of anal sex but there were times when some of the larger deliveries couldn’t be taken in the back door. So to minimise any agonising pain or discomfort during penetration, ‘Trap 2’ would be used to widen and lubricate the anal passage.
She once confessed that she often inserted the magical device inside her anus during sexual intercourse. Someone had told her that if you apply pressure against the prostate gland during intercourse the stimulation from the vibrator pressing against the prostate heightened the intensity of sexual arousal.
He thought about telling her that women didn’t have a prostate gland and this ritual was unique only to men. He decided not to say anything. Why should he. Heather enjoyed her sex more than any woman he had ever known, and if she was ‘getting off’ on her fantasy what right had he to meddle in her recreational pleasures.
Heather Chapman’s sympathetic voice and comforting smile came with an invitation.
The sea front car park above the cliffs of Tynemouth beach was a place he was familiar with, although at two in the morning he was surprised to find it full.
There’s a small gap in the barrier fence at the end of the car park that leads to a small dirt track above the cliffs. But remember it’s very close to the cliff edge.... said a cautious voice inside his head.
A brief moment of hesitation and a frustrated sigh, a cavalier impulse kicking away caution, a quick turn of the steering wheel, the tyres spinning over the gravel surface, the headlights beaming intrusively against the steamy windows of other cars, casting shadowy silhouettes of couples engaged in various stages of copulation, the sound of the engine alerting faceless lovers that an intruder had just entered their carnal arena.
Ignoring the warning sign, turning the headlights on full beam, navigating the car through the narrow gap in the fence, a careful manoeuvre over the grassy terrain, the suspension protesting against the uneven ground, making sure he avoided the rocks and the muddy area directly above the cliffs.
When Heather Chapman performed fellatio you knew you had been given the best blow-job of your life.
A well-practiced oral technique, never hurried, slow and meaningful, a prolonged and sustained commitment of intimate acquaintance, always performed with sensuous ease, working the swollen shaft with the skill and finesse of an artist, easing him into her warm mouth, swallowing the length down to the root, blowing him out in whispers of warm air, sweeping her talented tongue up and down the length with flirtatious precision, teasing the bulbous head in a messy sea of oral fluids, a ritual stimulation of oral interaction, a mind-blowing performance to remember.
Heart beats increasing, a visceral surge of adrenaline flooding through veins at the speed of sound, the expectation of coital connection fuelling the fire of urgent compulsion, clothes abandoned on the floor in a heartbeat, climbing into the back seat in an unceremonious manoeuvre of increasing urgency, a hesitant panic and a frustrated curse as she searched inside her handbag for her phallic friend, a sigh, a shuffle and a wiggle, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth as she inserted ‘Trap 2,’ inside her anal passage.
There were times when Heathers fitness and compulsive needs proved to be more of a marathon of endurance than a quick fuck in the back seat of a car.
Shifting her weight on the seat, straddling his thighs and placing both knees on each side of his hips, his back pressed hard against the cool vinyl seat, bouncing up and down, lifting and lowering, easing him in and easing him out, all the way in and all the way out, lifting and lowering, fucking with the stamina of an Olympic athlete, her pendulous tits swinging recklessly from side to side, up and down, wriggling and twisting, grinding and thrusting, easing him into her body, every movement executed with feline dexterity, holding him tight in pubic capture, prolonging the moment, squeezing his cock in a vice-like grip, the liquid heat of passion spilling from the burning inferno between her legs, an outpouring of sweat running in rivers from their naked bodies, gathering in pools of pleasure on the vinyl seat.
The movement of interaction gathered speed, a shameful voice turning to full volume, her use of the carnal vocabulary always impressive, a running commentary of curses and obscenities spilling from tight lips, moans and groans, blissful cries and screams of euphoria smothered under the perpetual echoes of filth resonating inside the metal enclosure.
"Oh my God! Oh God! Fuck me! Fuck me faster! Fuck me harder! Fuck the arse off this cock sucking bitch!" she demanded, her dignity evaporating in the heat of passion, her pleas for Gods help accompanied by a shameful outburst of sinful language never gaining his approval.
A sudden movement and a creaking groan, the intimacy momentarily broken, shuffling uncomfortably on the seat, brushing condensation from the glass and pressing her forehead against the steamy window, blinking her eyes and trying to focus in the darkness.
“Fuck!” She screamed, her eyes lighting up like two flood lamps. “The fucking cars moving down the embankment,” she cursed, desperately searching the floor for clothing.
He couldn’t remember the last time he moved so fast. Two people colliding in a tangled chaos of urgency and confusion, grabbing her arm and pushing her aside, jumping from the back seat with the speed of a gazelle, trying to squeeze his body through the tight gap between the two front seats, searching frantically for the handbrake, trying to grab the steering wheel, trying to grab anything.
“Please let the tide be out...Please not in the fucking sea.” the mantra repeated inside his head, as the car gathered momentum, rocking and swaying with the uneven terrain, throwing them against the doors and windscreen like a couple of rag-dolls, the wheels colliding with a solid object, throwing it sideways into an unrelenting roll down the embankment, crashing into rocks in a deafening explosion of broken glass, razor sharp fragments raining down and cutting into flesh, Heather’s painful screams smothered under the screeching sound of metal ripping apart just before the vehicle crashed onto the beach below.
The welcoming sound of the ocean crashing on the shore broke the mantra, a wheezing sigh of unnerving optimism spilling from a grateful mouth, lifting his head from the steering wheel, brushing shards of glass and debris from his bruised and battered body, staring into the claustrophobic darkness, searching for Heather, looking for a way out of the devastation.
The haunting smell of engine oil and petrol spilling from the car suddenly fed his panic, his efforts to escape severely compromised by the mangled wreck that no longer resembled a motor vehicle, peering over the front seats into the darkness catching sight of her naked body lying limp and motionless of the floor, her body bruised and bloody from the impact.
A rush of adrenaline to his heart and lungs gave him a renewed surge of energy, banging his foot repeatedly against the rear door, eventually breaking it free from its hold.
A deep intake of breath before sucking in air through his nose, puffing and panting, hissing and wheezing, grabbing her hands, ignoring the broken glass torturing his knees, pulling her carefully through a small gap in the door, mindful to grab his pants on the way before scrambling onto the wet sand to safety.
It should have been a moment to rejoice if the fuel tank hadn’t exploded sending a mass of metal fragments flying into orbit in a halo of orange and yellow flames, the unexpected explosion awakening the sleeping world.
Seagulls squawked in protest above their heads, sweeping and diving in the slipstream of thermal updrafts along the cliff face, before disappearing into the night sky.
Above the embankment car headlights shone over the cliff top, casting shadowy silhouettes of disturbed lovers standing in a line along the top of the embankment trying to get a glimpse of the tragedy that had just occurred.
It seemed like a lifetime waiting for the emergency services to arrive. Watching and waiting, shivering in the cold sea breeze, pacing nervously back and forth, staring up at the faceless shadows looking down from the top of the embankment, Heathers sobbing cries a painful reminder that her injuries needed urgent medical treatment, trying his best to comfort her, selfishly slipping into his pants and making a mental note never to ignore warning signs again, the welcoming noise of wailing sirens and a carnival of flashing lights above the cliff top breaking his thoughts and drowning out Heathers painful cries.
It took less than ten minutes for the ambulance to reach Newcastle Royal Victoria Hospital.
A doctor examined Heather’s injuries while a nurse attended to his minor cuts and bruises, the comfort of the waiting room giving him precious time to focus on the reality of the near death encounter, a voice inside his head nagging away at his guilty conscience.
‘You shouldn’t have ignored the warning sign. You were lucky the tide was out. You could have ended up swimming with the fishes. You could be in the hospital morgue.’
He sighed into his hands, cursing himself for his stupidity, knowing how fortunate he was to walk away from the accident without serious injury. Apart from a slight ache in his right leg and a few minor cuts to his knees and feet he was relatively okay.
Heather wasn’t so lucky. She was badly hurt in the accident.
His guilty conscience got the better of him. He decided to feign a limp.
The dark sky beyond the windows was turning into a lighter shade of grey, the sound of birdsong signalling the beginning of a new day, a fleeting glance at the clock on the white painted wall letting him know it was approaching six o’clock, a squeaking door and the sound of heavy footfalls marching into the waiting room breaking the silence.
“What the....” snapped the nurse, sweeping her tongue across uneven teeth, removing evidence of chocolate from her mouth and forcing a smile, her eyes wide open and both eyebrows raised, questioning eyes staring at the helpless figure in the chair.
“Not you again,” she barked. “Mark Brand, if I’m not mistaken,” she added, shaking her head in disbelief, the mere mention of his name breaking her from her mental food orgy. “What is it now, or should I say, who is the victim now?”
He wasn’t in the mood for another lecture from Susan Owen. He just lifted his shoulders in defeat and sighed into his hands. “How is she,” he enquired.
The nurse scowled at his arrogance before biting on a chocolate bar, her chocolate coated words unexpectedly sympathetic.
“The doctors are presently examining her injuries. When they’ve finished I’ll take you to the ward and you can have a few minutes with her in private,” she said, exaggerating a wink and pointing a finger at the floor. “Providing that limp of yours improves.”
Even after the nurse had cleaned the dried blood from her battered and bruised body and dressed her wounds, Heather still looked absolutely dreadful.
He pulled up a chair by the bed, held her hand and forced a smile, the silence broken by the occasional whisper of apology and a helpless mouth trying to find some comforting words that would ease the excruciating anxiety.
The swishing noise of the privacy curtain pulled quickly along a rail and the authority in Susan Owens voice announcing that his visiting time was over broke the sombre mood.
The chair scraped across the vinyl floor as he lifted to his feet and leaned over the bed.
The kiss was warm and meaningful, holding it long enough until the nurse looked away, a whisper in her ear bringing an unexpected smile to her lips.
“I just had a thought,” he muttered, choking back a lump in his throat, looking nervously over his shoulder before continuing. “With everything that’s happened.... I wondered if you had remembered to remove Trap 2.”
She squeezed his hand, smiled and whispered through swollen lips.
“Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of him,” was all she said.
Heather Chapman sustained a broken collar-bone, a broken arm, three broken ribs and several deep cuts and bruises to her face and upper body.
The headlines in that nights evening newspaper read, ‘Love on the Rocks.’
As usual the place was full of desperate people, some searching for everlasting love, most of them just after a one night stand.
The events over the last few days had left him depressed and emotionally drained.
The day had started badly and progressively got worse. It started with an early morning telephone call from Stella Mason informing him that his friend, Gary Fowler had been rushed to hospital after sustaining serious injuries in a head-on car crash. Stella said that Gary was in an induced coma fighting for his life, and although he was showing some signs of improvement the doctors confirmed that the damages to his spinal cord were so severe that he might never walk again.
The afternoon didn’t get any better. Too many cigarettes and too much alcohol, pacing the floor, picking up the phone and putting it down, trying to build up the courage to phone Caroline Spencer.
He must have lifted the phone a dozen times before dropping it back into the cradle.
He knew that if he made the call her father would have probably answered, and given the regrettable circumstances he wouldn’t expect the conversation to be friendly.
The more he thought about the unfortunate incident in his bedroom, he was beginning to accept the fact that he wouldn’t see Caroline again.
He was wrong. They would eventually meet up again in 1985, although the circumstances would be very different and a little embarrassing.
After spending the last hour sitting on a stool at the bar, drowning his sorrows in alcohol and wrestling with his conscience, he felt as if his heart and his life had suddenly come to a milestone he would like to forget.
Staring through the bottom of another empty glass, aware that there aren’t many things in life that can beat alcohol in a crisis, shaking the glass at the barman in that universal sign for another drink, the sound of a stool scraping across the floor and a comforting hand on his shoulder interrupting his thoughts, the reflection in the mirror behind the bar throwing back the friendly smile of Heather Chapman, her sympathetic voice interrupting his self-pity.
“You look like someone who’s just lost his puppy.”
If he ever wanted to spend the rest of his life with a woman who came with all the attributes, then Heather Chapman would be at the top of his list. In her late-thirties, Heather was neither attractive nor unattractive, but what she lacked in appearance she made up in her sincere character, a stunning fit body and a hungry appetite for sex.
Twice married and twice divorced. A free spirited ‘life and soul of the party,’ type of woman, enjoying life, obsessed with sex, rejoicing in her single status and making no secret of her preference for well-endowed men, able to balance her private life with a demanding career, drifting between her many lovers without feeling any obligation to make any one of them a permanent fixture in her life.
No baggage. No conditions. No commitments. No longevity. After two failed marriages and a string of casual relationships, Heather had adopted a new philosophy in life. ‘Husbands are for convenience...Lovers are for sex.’
Heather had come to the conclusion that after two unsuccessful marriages to worthless men, her life had now changed for the better. After finding a new direction in her life, she had no regrets and made no apologies for any of her actions. She dated whoever she wanted and slept with whoever grabbed her fancy.
The regular visits to the local gym and endless nights of yoga gave Heather an exceptional body that no one could ignore. She was an extremely fit woman who enjoyed wild, reckless and physical sex, preferably with well-hung men, who were prepared to go the distance.
She often joked that she had been with some men where she could have painted her nails and had sex at the same time. It was also rumoured that after she had finished with one of her lovers he required medical attention.
Her appetite for sex with an extraordinary kinky twist was extremely demanding and clearly not for the feint hearted. And with her preconditions for unconventional sex she could get into positions that made most gymnasts green with envy. During one of their many heated sessions she once asked him to blow a balloon up inside her vagina and when she felt it touching the atrium to her cervix, she masturbated and let him watch.
Heather had a clandestine dark side, often indulging in bedroom water-sports. Her ability to practice urine therapy and demonstrate her skills in the art of ‘The Golden Fountain’ were legendary. She made no secret of the fact that she was a sexual compulsive maverick, often joking that her bedroom had been fitted with a revolving door. A bedroom fully equipped with a plethora of erotic gadgets and an arsenal of vibrators and phallic toys, she simply referred to as her ‘implements of obedience.’
Heather never went anywhere without taking her best friend. ‘Trap 2’ was his name, a small three-inch long vibrator that fitted discretely inside her handbag. After a lot of audacious practice she had perfected her masturbation technique and would often use her best friend in public place, especially when she was driving the car.
With a little movement from either crossing her legs or pulling her thighs tightly together and applying a little pressure on her pelvis she was able to bring herself to a delicious toe-curling orgasm. There were occasions when she required a little more stimulation to coax her along the road to climax, so a searching finger circling the clitoris would usually do the trick.
Sometimes in a private moment of reverie when she couldn’t sleep or if she was feeling horny, the angry buzz of a comforting vibrator teasing her clitoris and ‘Trap 2’ wedged in the back door would remove any anxieties. Heather enjoyed the pleasures of anal sex but there were times when some of the larger deliveries couldn’t be taken in the back door. So to minimise any agonising pain or discomfort during penetration, ‘Trap 2’ would be used to widen and lubricate the anal passage.
She once confessed that she often inserted the magical device inside her anus during sexual intercourse. Someone had told her that if you apply pressure against the prostate gland during intercourse the stimulation from the vibrator pressing against the prostate heightened the intensity of sexual arousal.
He thought about telling her that women didn’t have a prostate gland and this ritual was unique only to men. He decided not to say anything. Why should he. Heather enjoyed her sex more than any woman he had ever known, and if she was ‘getting off’ on her fantasy what right had he to meddle in her recreational pleasures.
Heather Chapman’s sympathetic voice and comforting smile came with an invitation.
The sea front car park above the cliffs of Tynemouth beach was a place he was familiar with, although at two in the morning he was surprised to find it full.
There’s a small gap in the barrier fence at the end of the car park that leads to a small dirt track above the cliffs. But remember it’s very close to the cliff edge.... said a cautious voice inside his head.
A brief moment of hesitation and a frustrated sigh, a cavalier impulse kicking away caution, a quick turn of the steering wheel, the tyres spinning over the gravel surface, the headlights beaming intrusively against the steamy windows of other cars, casting shadowy silhouettes of couples engaged in various stages of copulation, the sound of the engine alerting faceless lovers that an intruder had just entered their carnal arena.
Ignoring the warning sign, turning the headlights on full beam, navigating the car through the narrow gap in the fence, a careful manoeuvre over the grassy terrain, the suspension protesting against the uneven ground, making sure he avoided the rocks and the muddy area directly above the cliffs.
When Heather Chapman performed fellatio you knew you had been given the best blow-job of your life.
A well-practiced oral technique, never hurried, slow and meaningful, a prolonged and sustained commitment of intimate acquaintance, always performed with sensuous ease, working the swollen shaft with the skill and finesse of an artist, easing him into her warm mouth, swallowing the length down to the root, blowing him out in whispers of warm air, sweeping her talented tongue up and down the length with flirtatious precision, teasing the bulbous head in a messy sea of oral fluids, a ritual stimulation of oral interaction, a mind-blowing performance to remember.
Heart beats increasing, a visceral surge of adrenaline flooding through veins at the speed of sound, the expectation of coital connection fuelling the fire of urgent compulsion, clothes abandoned on the floor in a heartbeat, climbing into the back seat in an unceremonious manoeuvre of increasing urgency, a hesitant panic and a frustrated curse as she searched inside her handbag for her phallic friend, a sigh, a shuffle and a wiggle, a smile lifting the corners of her mouth as she inserted ‘Trap 2,’ inside her anal passage.
There were times when Heathers fitness and compulsive needs proved to be more of a marathon of endurance than a quick fuck in the back seat of a car.
Shifting her weight on the seat, straddling his thighs and placing both knees on each side of his hips, his back pressed hard against the cool vinyl seat, bouncing up and down, lifting and lowering, easing him in and easing him out, all the way in and all the way out, lifting and lowering, fucking with the stamina of an Olympic athlete, her pendulous tits swinging recklessly from side to side, up and down, wriggling and twisting, grinding and thrusting, easing him into her body, every movement executed with feline dexterity, holding him tight in pubic capture, prolonging the moment, squeezing his cock in a vice-like grip, the liquid heat of passion spilling from the burning inferno between her legs, an outpouring of sweat running in rivers from their naked bodies, gathering in pools of pleasure on the vinyl seat.
The movement of interaction gathered speed, a shameful voice turning to full volume, her use of the carnal vocabulary always impressive, a running commentary of curses and obscenities spilling from tight lips, moans and groans, blissful cries and screams of euphoria smothered under the perpetual echoes of filth resonating inside the metal enclosure.
"Oh my God! Oh God! Fuck me! Fuck me faster! Fuck me harder! Fuck the arse off this cock sucking bitch!" she demanded, her dignity evaporating in the heat of passion, her pleas for Gods help accompanied by a shameful outburst of sinful language never gaining his approval.
A sudden movement and a creaking groan, the intimacy momentarily broken, shuffling uncomfortably on the seat, brushing condensation from the glass and pressing her forehead against the steamy window, blinking her eyes and trying to focus in the darkness.
“Fuck!” She screamed, her eyes lighting up like two flood lamps. “The fucking cars moving down the embankment,” she cursed, desperately searching the floor for clothing.
He couldn’t remember the last time he moved so fast. Two people colliding in a tangled chaos of urgency and confusion, grabbing her arm and pushing her aside, jumping from the back seat with the speed of a gazelle, trying to squeeze his body through the tight gap between the two front seats, searching frantically for the handbrake, trying to grab the steering wheel, trying to grab anything.
“Please let the tide be out...Please not in the fucking sea.” the mantra repeated inside his head, as the car gathered momentum, rocking and swaying with the uneven terrain, throwing them against the doors and windscreen like a couple of rag-dolls, the wheels colliding with a solid object, throwing it sideways into an unrelenting roll down the embankment, crashing into rocks in a deafening explosion of broken glass, razor sharp fragments raining down and cutting into flesh, Heather’s painful screams smothered under the screeching sound of metal ripping apart just before the vehicle crashed onto the beach below.
The welcoming sound of the ocean crashing on the shore broke the mantra, a wheezing sigh of unnerving optimism spilling from a grateful mouth, lifting his head from the steering wheel, brushing shards of glass and debris from his bruised and battered body, staring into the claustrophobic darkness, searching for Heather, looking for a way out of the devastation.
The haunting smell of engine oil and petrol spilling from the car suddenly fed his panic, his efforts to escape severely compromised by the mangled wreck that no longer resembled a motor vehicle, peering over the front seats into the darkness catching sight of her naked body lying limp and motionless of the floor, her body bruised and bloody from the impact.
A rush of adrenaline to his heart and lungs gave him a renewed surge of energy, banging his foot repeatedly against the rear door, eventually breaking it free from its hold.
A deep intake of breath before sucking in air through his nose, puffing and panting, hissing and wheezing, grabbing her hands, ignoring the broken glass torturing his knees, pulling her carefully through a small gap in the door, mindful to grab his pants on the way before scrambling onto the wet sand to safety.
It should have been a moment to rejoice if the fuel tank hadn’t exploded sending a mass of metal fragments flying into orbit in a halo of orange and yellow flames, the unexpected explosion awakening the sleeping world.
Seagulls squawked in protest above their heads, sweeping and diving in the slipstream of thermal updrafts along the cliff face, before disappearing into the night sky.
Above the embankment car headlights shone over the cliff top, casting shadowy silhouettes of disturbed lovers standing in a line along the top of the embankment trying to get a glimpse of the tragedy that had just occurred.
It seemed like a lifetime waiting for the emergency services to arrive. Watching and waiting, shivering in the cold sea breeze, pacing nervously back and forth, staring up at the faceless shadows looking down from the top of the embankment, Heathers sobbing cries a painful reminder that her injuries needed urgent medical treatment, trying his best to comfort her, selfishly slipping into his pants and making a mental note never to ignore warning signs again, the welcoming noise of wailing sirens and a carnival of flashing lights above the cliff top breaking his thoughts and drowning out Heathers painful cries.
It took less than ten minutes for the ambulance to reach Newcastle Royal Victoria Hospital.
A doctor examined Heather’s injuries while a nurse attended to his minor cuts and bruises, the comfort of the waiting room giving him precious time to focus on the reality of the near death encounter, a voice inside his head nagging away at his guilty conscience.
‘You shouldn’t have ignored the warning sign. You were lucky the tide was out. You could have ended up swimming with the fishes. You could be in the hospital morgue.’
He sighed into his hands, cursing himself for his stupidity, knowing how fortunate he was to walk away from the accident without serious injury. Apart from a slight ache in his right leg and a few minor cuts to his knees and feet he was relatively okay.
Heather wasn’t so lucky. She was badly hurt in the accident.
His guilty conscience got the better of him. He decided to feign a limp.
The dark sky beyond the windows was turning into a lighter shade of grey, the sound of birdsong signalling the beginning of a new day, a fleeting glance at the clock on the white painted wall letting him know it was approaching six o’clock, a squeaking door and the sound of heavy footfalls marching into the waiting room breaking the silence.
“What the....” snapped the nurse, sweeping her tongue across uneven teeth, removing evidence of chocolate from her mouth and forcing a smile, her eyes wide open and both eyebrows raised, questioning eyes staring at the helpless figure in the chair.
“Not you again,” she barked. “Mark Brand, if I’m not mistaken,” she added, shaking her head in disbelief, the mere mention of his name breaking her from her mental food orgy. “What is it now, or should I say, who is the victim now?”
He wasn’t in the mood for another lecture from Susan Owen. He just lifted his shoulders in defeat and sighed into his hands. “How is she,” he enquired.
The nurse scowled at his arrogance before biting on a chocolate bar, her chocolate coated words unexpectedly sympathetic.
“The doctors are presently examining her injuries. When they’ve finished I’ll take you to the ward and you can have a few minutes with her in private,” she said, exaggerating a wink and pointing a finger at the floor. “Providing that limp of yours improves.”
Even after the nurse had cleaned the dried blood from her battered and bruised body and dressed her wounds, Heather still looked absolutely dreadful.
He pulled up a chair by the bed, held her hand and forced a smile, the silence broken by the occasional whisper of apology and a helpless mouth trying to find some comforting words that would ease the excruciating anxiety.
The swishing noise of the privacy curtain pulled quickly along a rail and the authority in Susan Owens voice announcing that his visiting time was over broke the sombre mood.
The chair scraped across the vinyl floor as he lifted to his feet and leaned over the bed.
The kiss was warm and meaningful, holding it long enough until the nurse looked away, a whisper in her ear bringing an unexpected smile to her lips.
“I just had a thought,” he muttered, choking back a lump in his throat, looking nervously over his shoulder before continuing. “With everything that’s happened.... I wondered if you had remembered to remove Trap 2.”
She squeezed his hand, smiled and whispered through swollen lips.
“Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of him,” was all she said.
Heather Chapman sustained a broken collar-bone, a broken arm, three broken ribs and several deep cuts and bruises to her face and upper body.
The headlines in that nights evening newspaper read, ‘Love on the Rocks.’
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