Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832)

Synopsis: A pregnancy simulator seems an ideal way of convincing Paul's wife that pregnancy is really not that bad, and they agree to try it on holiday on Seacombe Moor. But it's not just the jailbreak from Seacombe Prison that turns everything upside down for Paul. This story is complete but is being serialised in six chapters, to be released at approximately daily intervals.

All people, places and events in this series are entirely fictional. If you need medical advice about pregnancy, consult a doctor rather than the pages of this fictional story.

Chapter 3 - On the Run and Up the Khyber

"Ladies and gentlemen. Could I have your attention for a few minutes?" The pleasant hubbub of conversation in the restaurant died out as the hotel manager spoke. "I'd like to bring you up to date over the prison escape, this afternoon, and the police would like to speak to anyone who might have witnessed anything.

"As I'm sure you all know by now, the escape was from a prison van only a mile up the road from here, at about one-thirty, this afternoon. A gang of phoney workmen diverted the van into the loop road over the old bridge."

"Blimey," I muttered. "That's strange."

"The gang then held up the guards with what we now know were imitation firearms. The guards were tied up and put into the back of the van as the prisoner was released, and it took some time for the alarm to be raised."

A worried murmur went through the diners, and the manager hurriedly continued. "The guns were left at the scene of the crime, so fortunately we don't have to worry about armed gunmen. The police believe they are still in the Seacombe area, but they are not dangerous. If anyone has any suspicions about their whereabouts, or if you were driving anywhere on this side of the moor between one pm and two, please contact the police. Thank you for your time; now please enjoy your meals."

"But this man is a paedophile, isn't he?" a thin woman with her husband and two children asked from the other side of the restaurant. "Our children are in danger."

The manager looked embarrassed. "The man was convicted of looking at pornographic images on his computer. The police say there is absolutely no evidence he has ever harmed a child."

"It doesn't mean to say he won't do it, though, does it?" the thin woman retorted.

"The police stress there is absolutely no reason to believe he will harm anyone unless cornered."

"Well they would do, wouldn't they?" said a short, fat woman at the next table, with one child. "I mean, they don't want to affect the holiday trade, do they? Even if it means our children getting murdered."

There was a angry buzz of agreement from the other parents, and the situation may well have got worse, but one of the kids started to yell his head off, and then a couple more joined in. As parents tended to their children, the rebellion fizzled out and the manager gratefully retired.

"What were you muttering about?" Sharon said.

"I saw them," I said. "When we were almost here. There was some crazy driver who caused an accident behind us. Then we overtook the prison van just before we turned off the main road. A minute later, we passed the workmen cordoning off the approach to the bridge. Marianne gave a toot on the horn to warn them of our approach."

"I thought you said you'd been fast asleep all the way here," she said.

"The accident woke me up, and that policeman reminded me about the prison van and the road workers. I thought I'd been dreaming it all," I said, "but I must have been half asleep and saw what was happening. I'd better go and find the police."

"Before you do, let's just clear your head so you can give a better picture. Can you describe the workmen?"

I closed my eyes and said, "There were only two of them and they were wearing yellow jackets and helmets."

"You mean like any road worker."

"Well, yes but..." I paused, closing my eyes and trying to remember. I shook my head. "I can't think of anything else about them. They were just ordinary workmen."

"Anne?" Sharon said in a rather cautious voice.

"What?"

"There is something else you need to consider."

"What?"

She hesitated and then launched in. "Look, it's difficult to say this, but I get the impression you're holding back some big secret."

Bloody hell, I'd been sussed.

"It's alright," she reassured me as I struggled to respond. "I mean, we're simply having a holiday fling; there's no reason why you should open your entire life to me; nor me to you. But..." She paused again.

"It occurs to me that if I feel you're holding something back, then it's odds on the police will too. But they're likely to get quite officious if they can't get to the root of it, and take you back to the police station so you can help them with their enquiries."

"They wouldn't, would they?"

I was having difficulty keeping the panic out of my voice. Hell, Sharon was absolutely right. What a fool I was to imagine I could get away with this. And what then? When they discovered I was a man pretending to be a pregnant woman? Could I be prosecuted for wasting police time? It would all come out in court, and the hostility we had just seen would be turned on me.

"Look, Anne," Sharon said, noticing my anxiety. "It's not as if you saw anything of use in catching them. Is there any point in speaking with the police? Why don't you just keep quiet about it? If you like, I'll answer any questions for the two of us."

"But they're asking for anyone driving on the moor between one and two. We arrived just after half past one."

"Then say you arrived just before one," she suggested, "as I did. If you like, I can say we arrived together and give you an alibi."

I gasped at her, overwhelmed by her generosity. "Would you really do that for me? Even though you think I haven't told you everything?"

She smirked. "After what you did to me this afternoon? I need some more of that and I won't get it if you're rotting in a police cell."

"God! Thank you, Sharon."

"Well why don't you show your thanks in a more appropriate way? Rather than having coffee here, why don't we have it in the room?"

I nodded. I didn't bother to ask whether she meant having coffee in the room or something else altogether. "You bet."

We got stopped by the police as we were about to step outside!

"Excuse me."

I managed not to jump through the roof. We both turned to view the police-woman walking towards us.

"Yes. Can we help?" Sharon said, bless her.

She smiled. "I'm PC Sally Wright. Could I check your names off the guest list and ask you a few questions?" She was really so nice, I wouldn't have minded helping her with her enquiries.

"I'm Sharon Smith, and this is Anne Johnson."

Sally checked her list and gave us both ticks, then glanced around the foyer and asked, "There's a Ms Marianne Johnson booked in with you, Ms Johnson. I understand she's your sister, is that right? Was she in the dining room with you?"

"She's had to leave," I said. "Something came up with her job."

"OK," Sally said, putting a cross on her list, and then said to the two of us, "Are your partners not here?"

Gunk! Now it was going to get complicated.

"They're our ex-partners, actually," Sharon said, "so the answer is definitely no."

"Men are such bastards," Sally said, surprising me with her vehemence, then added: "I see all three of you checked in just after two. Presumably, you'd arrived a few minutes before?"

"Naw," Sharon said, with a shake of her head, as I was only just realising it was a trick question. Answer yes to that and there'd be a dozen more to follow.

"They don't allow check-in before two," Sharon continued, "and we got here just before one, so we wandered around the grounds for a while. Then Anne went to sleep on a bench until it was time to check-in."

"OK," Sally smiled at Sharon. "Thanks for your help, Sharon. You too Ms Johnson," she added, giving me a little glance, before turning back to Sharon. "I may need to speak to you again. Is that alright?"

Oh bloody hell! She was suspicious!

"I'll look forward to it," Sharon said with another smile. How the hell did she manage to smile like that at a time like this?

"It's always good when the public cooperate fully," Sally said.

"I think you'll find I'm very cooperative," Sharon said.

It hit me straight between the eyes. PC Sally Wright was as bloody gay as Sharon. They were making an assignation. And I was bloody jealous!

"She's a lesbian."

Sharon gave me a glance as we walked towards our bungalow. "You sound shocked. You know people in glasshouses shouldn't throw stones."

"Yes but..." I could hardly say that I was a man so my desires were perfectly conventional.

"But?" Sharon asked

"Nothing," I said. "I'm sorry. I have no right to be shocked."

"But you are rather jealous?"

"Yes."

Sharon smiled. "Good. I'm glad I mean something to you. I played up to Sally so she'd remember me and not you. To take the heat off you, remember?"

I nodded. "I'm really grateful." We'd arrived at the door of Sharon's bungalow.

"Will you come in and show me how grateful."

Marianne rang me on my mobile a few minutes later. "Hi," she said, "it's me. I've just got to the hotel. I had a hell of a journey."

"Hi Marianne, "I said, and added, "Sharon's here," to warn her I wouldn't be able to talk freely. "We're just having coffee." We were too, as a prejunct to a round of sex. After all, I wouldn't lie to Marianne.

"That's good. Done anything interesting this afternoon?"

"Not really," I said. OK, I would lie to Marianne but then I was pretty certain she'd lied to me about what happened on her fashion shoots.

"Except that a convict has escaped from the prison," I continued. "I think we must have passed where it happened on the way just before we arrived. But I didn't really see anything and Sharon feels it's probably not a good idea to go bothering the police."

"I'm sure she's right," Marianne replied. "It could lead to embarrassment all round." (Fortunately, she didn't emphasise the "all round" too much, but I knew exactly what she meant.)

"I certainly can't remember seeing anything unusual," she continued. "In any case, I was interviewed by the police on my return journey. I got caught in the tailback from that accident we saw on the way."

"That sounds bad," I said, thinking about the interview with the police rather than the accident.

"The entire road was blocked in both directions for miles. I was stuck for over an hour, by which time the police came along, telling us about the jailbreak, and searching every car and interviewing everyone."

"What did you tell them?" I asked, my fingers mentally crossed.

"Not much. They simply asked where I was going and why."

"Sharon thought we arrived just before one," I said, putting the words into Marianne's mouth.

"That sounds about right," Marianne agreed, catching on quickly. "The police didn't ask me about the journey up, this morning." (Which, of course, meant our stories wouldn't contradict. Thank heavens.)

"OK," I said. "Take care of yourself. When will you be back? Monday?"

There was a pause. "Er, I'm not certain yet. It may drag on for a few days, but I'll definitely be back by the weekend."

"The weekend, Marianne!" I yelled. "You can't leave me here..."

My flow was interrupted by Sharon, who leant over, pulled down the front of my dress and applied her lips to my nipple.

"Sorry," Marianne said. "Give my love to Sharon," and she rang off.

My anger seemed to have melted away as Sharon sucked alternately on each nipple.

I'd expected that our evening session would be very similar to our afternoon session. My God was I in for a shock!

"I think it's time you took some male replacement therapy," Sharon said, pulling me into the bedroom, opening one of her drawers and taking something out. "What do you say to this?" She waved a dildo at me, and I goggled a bit. It looked frighteningly realistic.

"It's a strap-on," she added, "so you and I absolutely do not need a male to be involved in our sex lives."

"I'm not really certain," I said hesitantly. Marianne had told me the torsolet had a proper vagina, but I wasn't certain whether it would fool such an expert on the subject as Sharon.

"Oh, of course, I was forgetting," she said.

"Forgetting?"

"SIDS."

"Sid's what?" I was confused.

"Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. That's what you're worried about, isn't it?" she said. "The school of thought that blames higher infant mortality upon penetrative vaginal sex during the later stages of pregnancy."

Blimey! Was I? I didn't know anything about that, but then I guessed that a pregnant woman would certainly know all about it.

"You see, I haven't used this on a pregnant woman before," she continued.

She considered some and then added, "Of course, we could do it the other way."

"Other way?" But I thought I knew what she was getting at.

"Oh, you're such an innocent," she scoffed. "But how were you and your husband having sex before he left you? You surely haven't been risking your unborn child?"

"Of course not." I was indignant - there was no way I would do that, even though my real child was not yet conceived. "No, well, we didn't have sex for quite some..."

"Then I'd better bring you up to speed upon the delights you've been missing. I think as long as your partner uses her fingers to give you clitoral stimulation, it's every bit as good as having it up your vagina."

"But Sharon, I'm not sure..." I started to say, but she only had to put her hands onto my breasts beneath my dress, and tweak my nipples with her thumbs, and my words faltered to a halt.

I'd never before realised how much pleasure there was in being rogered up the back passage. For the first time, I understood the attractions of male homosexuality. Mind you, I still had no desire for sex with a male, whereas anal sex with Sharon was unbelievably good, even if it started off - as I guess it usually does - in a rather painful way.

"The more you relax," Sharon said, "the less it will hurt."

I was kneeling on the bed with my legs apart, and my face buried in a pillow, with my huge tum resting on the bed. Sharon had her hand between my legs and was using her fingers mercilessly on my clitoris - and yes, the Pregnancy Torsolet actually had one. At least, I had something down there which, with the Sensotouch, felt divine whenever it was stroked.

"I have some oil on my fingers now. I'm going to work it around your passage. It won't hurt a bit."

It didn't. Not even when the finger slipped inside and I gasped - with excitement, not pain.

"OK, my love," Sharon said. "I have the thing strapped on me now so it will be just like your ex giving you one, as I ease inside you."

Ease inside me she did, so carefully that it didn't hurt more than (say) a red-hot poker being shoved up. But I gritted my teeth and stayed as relaxed as I could. Once inside, it felt alright and in fact, as she slowly moved in and out, it felt bloody good. She started thrusting harder - and faster - and harder still. It became exquisite. Just like normal hetero sex, but with my partner doing all the work and me just enjoying the sensation as I approached my orgasm.

"Go on, Sharon. Harder! Harder! Don't stop." I encouraged her, just as Marianne might encourage me. "Fuck me. Oh, go on, fuck me hard. Harder! Harder!"

As the orgasm hit me I started to scream so much that Sharon put her fingers across my lips until I'd calmed down. "There, there, there; we don't want people to think you're being raped by a paedophile gaol breaker."

After I'd regained my senses, we switched on the TV in time to watch the regional news, and see what was said about the escape. Very little we didn't already know, except for one fact which set me thinking.

"...Police were anxious to reassure people in the area. They say the prisoner was not regarded as a high-risk prisoner and is not considered dangerous; he has no record of molesting children and, whilst imitation weapons were used in the hold up, they were left at the scene. Sean Brown has served six months out of an eight-year sentence for viewing pornographic images on the internet.

"Council taxes in Exeter may rise by up to..."

"That's strange," I said.

"You're muttering again. What's strange?"

"Only that the prisoner has the same name as my brother-in-law."

Sharon looked at me. "What? Brown? That's hardly uncommon."

"Sean Brown," I corrected.

"Even that is hardly unique. There must be thousands of Sean Browns in the UK. I presume you mean your ex-husband's brother?"

"What?" I was taken by surprise, and was about to add I meant Marianne's brother, but stopped myself in time. If Marianne was my sister, it would mean that Sean was my brother as well. Instead I said, "Yes of course."

"Surely you must have seen him sometime during the last six months. This Sean Brown has been in prison that long."

"But no," I said. "That's just it. I've never seen him. He's supposedly been in Africa for years. He's a volunteer aid worker wherever the latest humanitarian disaster is happening."

"Even if your brother-in-law really was the jail breaker," Sharon continued, "does it matter? You've divorced your husband - you don't get to keep the brother-in-law - more's the pity. I've had some great sex with mine."

This was getting ridiculous. "No, of course not. My mind's working in strange ways. It must be the influence you're having on me. Shall we have sex again?"

She didn't say anything - simply gave me a look that said it all.