Ghosts on the Wall

This work has been written by INKENT and published solely on the Literotica platform. I have no issues with re-writes if someone fancy's it or extending the tale, but please let me know if you see this crop up on any other platform. I'm sure that any other author on here would appreciate the same courtesy too.

I'm a Brit so it's English, English here in, it has been kindly edited by TIM1135 and made a better tale with his suggested changes, like any author I do tamper post edit but trying to keep as much in check as I can. Any cock ups are mine!

This is fiction, may look a little like real life in places, think of it as a distortion of life in a hall of mirrors. Sometimes it's almost a straight reflection, other times....quite a distortion. Key word...Fiction.

Me & the Mrs are social creatures, most of our friends know I write on Lit, some even follow me on here. My wife's birthday was a couple of months back, and we went out for a meal with twenty odd friends. Real cross section in views on life and mostly over forty.

I was asked what was the latest piece I was working on and started talking about this piece,

Ghosts on the Wall

, and for once, I explained, I was flummoxed, I had turned into a metronome and kept swinging between two very different outcomes. After outlining the tale and the dilemma I was struggling with it turned into a silly vote. That was a 50/50 split but there was even more in that. When we've previously discussed my works before with friends, I almost always have a good idea on how they are going to take the story's final outcome. Usually split by either gender or peoples own view on certain aspects of life, typically liberalism and values along that line. Some of my oldest friends have been married since late teens and never strayed, others have strayed and been caught and others...let's say they may have or still like to party. But this had no real pattern, it seemed to fox people on how a person should react to this scenario.

I leave the comments open for my stories, with very few I delete. How would you react in the shoes of the MC if this was you and lived the life he had? If it was your real-life partner and you'd gone the distance like this couple? Hopefully you'll see why I struggled to come up with choosing an ending. In the end I chickened out and gave that to a Lit friend (thanks Frank!) to make the call.

So here we go, welcome to my

Ghosts on the Wall

.

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I haven't been in here for over thirty years. The army base sat a couple miles outside of Cockstown, a small northern town that had grown out of a village, that had formed a symbiotic relationship with the barracks. When the barracks closed down, the town needed to reinvent itself to survive. Cockstown became the host for a new symbiont...logistics. As the world of same day/next day delivery became king so, logistical centres filled the void left by the barracks. With its road, rail and a viable link to a regional airport close to Cockstown, these ensured the town wouldn't wither and die, in the same way that English seaside towns had succumbed when cheap holidays to Spain became the norm.

The barracks had lay dormant for twenty odd years. Because there was an abundance of brownfield sites, from the various industries that came and died during the last century before cheap imports destroyed them, the barracks was initially mothballed. Eventually, it was considered surplus to requirements but, there were no takers once the army decided it was of no use to them. There were various reasons why.

Other than financial reasons, there was an abundance of various hazardous materials within the site, the main one being asbestos so, it wasn't seen as economically viable to develop...until now.

I drove up to the security gate. Yes, it was still manned, now by a local security company that had attempted to keep the site secure since it was closed. Over the years it had been targeted, the usual you'd expect to see. Scavengers, looking for material, such as lead and copper, from the buildings. On the peripheral parts of the site, where cutting through the fence from the adjoining woods could be taken, without the likelihood of being caught, the buildings were in a poor state due to those thefts.

The last time I was here was on a school trip as a sixteen-year-old boy. Looking back, it was laughable, it was a thinly veiled attempt to recruit some young men, by letting schoolboys play soldier for a day. After joining some new recruits for thirty minutes marching around, the army was most definitely not for me, Keith Thompson, or my friends Terry, Gavin, Steve and Paul. Our destiny lay elsewhere and that's why I was here.

After we left school, finding local work wasn't the easiest thing to do. There was a two-year major project about to start to build a by-pass dual carriageway about thirty miles away so, we all ended up being sub-contract labour. I'll not deny, it was hard graft but, being young, it was like a boy's adventure. By the end of the two years, we decided that labouring wasn't the way forward, if we could, staying in the industry was.

Paul's dad helped us. He provided us with a loan to buy a couple of second-hand dumper trucks and we managed to pick up work on the tail end of the project. We worked hard, never let the main contractor down and they offered us work at the end of the project for a two-year stint on a new motorway. We took it but, it meant we were working two hundred miles away. To start with, we were all there, sometimes for a whole seven days in a week.

We knew this wouldn't be sustainable to maintain the relationships we had back home so, we made ourselves a roster. One of us would have a guaranteed long weekend every week, another would take a mid-week day/night off too. Additionally, there were weekends when we all made it back home. At the end of the project, Cockstown Groundworks Limited were on the up and never looked back, now with a turnover in the millions, employing thirty workers, as we entered 2024.

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The school we had attended had been a mixed one, we all did OK academically although, none of us shined. It was the later part of school life where we met the girls that would become our wives. When we worked locally for those first couple of years, it was great. We had money, girlfriends and a town with some nightlife, mainly because of the barracks. When we took the contract working away, the girls took it hard. They stuck together and made a social life whilst we were away working down south of the country. It wasn't always easy, by then our personal relationships were at various stages of development. Two were married towards the end of the two years working locally, the rest of us followed suit, over the next couple of years. After that, all our futures solidified into the amazing lives we had built ourselves. That was until I saw the

ghosts on the wall

.

I was at the barracks to undertake a survey. We were going to tender to demolish the site and make it viable for redevelopment, today's job was to understand the scope of the works and what it would entail, in the broadest sense. Starting at the furthest point from the entrance, we had surveyed buildings that were in a very poor state, for one reason or another.

Mid way through the survey program, we had entered a building that was largely unscathed, probably due to its proximity to the guard building and the fact it had substantial steel doors and no windows. It had a large main room plus, there were a further two rooms at the end of the main one, again, both with substantial steel doors and internal locks.

"Sorry mate, it's one of this lot somewhere."

John, I guess he was in his seventies, was the security guard. He himself had been in the army, and by luck was posted here when it met its demise as an army base. When he left the army a few years later and returned home, he took a job with the security company and was as much a fixture as were the buildings. As he tried the different keys, he started to laugh.

"Not sure what we'll find in here, won't be surprised if there's still a few women lurking in these rooms!"

I looked at him somewhat puzzled, not understanding the comment. Just then the key turned in the lock, and he pulled the heavy door open. It protested by creaking loudly as it moved on the dry, rusty hinges. I shone my torch around, the first thing it picked up was a percussion drum, the skin ripped with a covering of dust. Some music stands were propped against the wall, various pieces of sheet music littered the floor and several worn foam-covered chairs and a couple of sofas were on their sides or upended. Then I saw it, it looked out of place. Before I moved, John spoke;

"Originally, this was where the barracks band stored their musical gear, and they practised in the main room. In the last five years before the barracks closed, this room's main purpose evolved. It became the unofficial clubhouse for the 'CocK5'. They were a small band which played in the local pubs. Mind you, that wasn't all. They played with many of the town's women here as well."

We walked across the room to look at what the torch had picked out and seemed out of place. There, on the wall, was a large oak plaque. It was the type of thing you'd expect to see at say, a golf club. It would list all the hallowed members that had reached the pinnacle of play to become club captain for the year, to be honoured into eternity by being added to the plaque. But, this was no golf club, it wasn't for musical ability and there was no honour being included on this plaque. It was titled '

CocK5's Hottest Women

'.

There were twenty square clear plastic wallet pockets glued, or had been glued, to the board in four columns of five numbered one to twenty. I walked up to a pocket and pulled a faded Polaroid picture from the now fragile plastic pocket. Although it had faded and started to degrade is was clear what the picture was. A woman was kneeling on some pillows as she was being spit roast between two guys, both giving the cameraman a thumbs up.

"I told you they were a rum lot, used to bribe the gate guards by letting them have a piece too once in a while. The women came in and out like it was a bus depot!"

He chuckled but, I felt a knot forming in my stomach. I was now looking at the next photo and it was clearly Gavin's wife, Felicity, sat naked riding a man. As I picked through the photographs, I felt nauseous, then positively sick when I looked at the photo in the number one slot.

Kneeling in a tight circle, obviously happy, with a giddy look were five women. Their faces looking up, sticky with cum and each with a cock sat resting down over their faces from five invisible men, standing behind each of them.

I staggered out of the room, just making it outside before I started to dry heave, followed by my breakfast that had finally decided the convulsions I was making meant it was time to come forth and spatter on the concrete.

I glanced at John, he had a look of concern on his face. He told me to stay put as he walked back to the guard hut to get some water. As soon as he walked off, I went back inside and gathered up all of the Polaroid pictures. I looked up and John was standing in the doorway.

"I need to take these John, there are people I know here."

He said nothing for a few moments.

"Promise me you'll destroy them. They are just ghosts on the wall. Trust me, nothing good will come of chasing around after them. The best thing to do, is torch every single one."

We walked around the site for the next couple hours. I was somewhere else mentally and John carefully prompted me to make notes and take photographs. I think he knew...he knew that I was somehow close to someone in the photographs. He didn't know it was five people. Five women who had been scored as the dirtiest sluts in town. We shook hands as I left the site. I saw him in my rear-view mirror shake his head with a sad frown as I joined the carriageway to go home.

I didn't remember the drive home, the next thing that I could clearly focus on was the tumbler of OVD rum and coke that I found myself staring at. I was seated at my dining room table.

My whole life was built on a lie. I thought I had got to this point with the most caring and loving person beside me and she would be there until we fulfilled part of the contract we had made years ago. '

Till death us do depart

'. I carefully pulled out the Polaroids I had taken, separating those that I could see included the sluts and those that didn't. I took the ones of persons unknown, put them into the log burner with a firelighter and watched. I hopefully saved some other fool the pain and anguish I was feeling, as the photos curled and burnt away into dust.

Back at the table, there were six pictures. There was a close up of a pair of lips stretched wide, with what I could just make out as drool, dripping from the lower lip and the cock that was embedded deep in the person's mouth. But it wasn't a person, it was my wife. I could see the small blemish on her chin. Even though the photo had deteriorated, knowing my wife's features intimately after all these years, this was her.

The other three pictures showed Steve's wife Vicky, Paul's wife, Penny and Terry's wife Ann. Vicky was sitting, facing a guy sitting on a sofa, another kneeling on the edge of the sofa close behind. I assumed she was impaled with a cock in both holes, by the look on her face, as she looked back towards the camera. As for Penny, she was laid on her back, sucking on a cock in her mouth as another cock can be seen spraying her tits. The last one I could make Ann on all fours being taken from behind, there was another one of them partially in shot riding cowgirl style, the picture badly faded so I couldn't determine which one it was. All of them, all five, were sluts from the very beginning of what we thought were perfect lives.

I picked up the group one. They appeared happy, even pleased with themselves, as the gooey mess told graphically what they had all done. Turning the photo over, they had all signed their name like a legend on a map. I could take no more and hurled my glass at a photograph on the wall of a supposedly happy couple atop the Eiffel Tower. I used to think the smiles said '

What a happy marriage

.' Now, one of those persons looking back at me said '

Yes, I'm laughing at you...you poor clueless fuck.'

I used my phone to photograph each one, then locked the originals hidden in my office, safely out of the way. My rage was making me shake, at six foot six, with a solid frame, I currently felt I could do more damage than one of our bulldozers. I had never, ever laid a single finger on my wife, but at this very moment, If my wife Chrissie came in now, I wanted to beat all of those years of betrayal out of her. No, I mustn't stay here.

Fifteen minutes later I was wheeling my tuned Suzuki RG500 Gamma out of the garage. It was a rare bike, my pride and joy. I liked the odd Sunday morning ride out but, today it was simply a tool to vent my anger with. I'd changed into some jeans, riding boots, leather jacket and crash helmet as I strode purposefully out to the bike. Fuel and ignition turned on, my leg swung over the seat as I flicked the kick starter out. Opening the choke, I used my foot to prod away at the kick starter a couple of times before a sound akin to four chainsaws from hell crackled, bouncing off the walls down the street.

Being a two-stroke disk valve engine, based on a GP bike of the time, it had been my dads who had left it to me when he died. It was tuned with exhaust that spat clouds of smoke and the angry raspy jangle reverberated around my small estate as I warmed the engine. Once warm enough, I pulled away out of my road and headed out towards the many A roads that criss-crossed the county. This was going to be a brutal ride. My head was full of too many scenarios that may have played out in the past, may still be playing out and the ones likely to occur in the near future.

Coming out of the town onto the open roads I gassed it on hard. The engine rasped and the exhaust shrieked as the close ratio gearbox climbed quickly through the gears, rev counter needle forever arcing quickly around the dial as the acceleration causing the front of the bike to go light, as it tried, or did, lift the front wheel from the ground.

I was filled with hatred for the bitch. She had strung me along for all those years, her and the sluts must go to bed every night laughing at what they were and how they had deceived us for all those years. Like a snake bite, the anger poisoned my mind, my mind used the bike as a tool to vent my anger. I went past traffic like it was stationary, sometimes hitting one hundred fifty miles per hour in a sixty limited section as all the vehicles merged into a multi-coloured blurry single entity to my right-hand side as I rushed past them.

If the bike drew on my anger and hatred, it too, became as unstable as my thoughts. Being pushed to the limit the tyres and chassis could barely cope, with a couple of weaves that were on the verge of becoming uncontrollable as I hit some rough road sections. A couple of times, the bike was cranked well over through some curves travelling in excess of a hundred miles an hour riding so close to the edge, I may as well have sat at home and played Russian roulette with a loaded gun. What the fuck did I care, as far as I was concerned, I was living for no reason at all.

As I hunched myself down into the fuel tank at around a hundred and thirty miles an hour, the signage indicated the road was changing from a dual carriageway to a single one. I could see an articulated lorry at the front of several cars, with one coming the other way as I bore down on them all, still carrying a mass of speed. I kept the throttle wound back as I sailed down the outside before I realised, I probably wasn't going to make it. This looked like my luck had just run out.

Running onto the solid white line separating the traffic, I was around half way past the articulated lorry on my side of the road as the one coming the other way was no more than fifty yards away. It felt like slow motion. For a split second, I could see the whites of the oncoming lorry driver's eyes as he was braking hard. His hand was trying to push the horn button through the middle of the steering wheel. His mouth was moving, no doubt shouting obscenities at me.

As he drew level with me, I was now only yards from passing the cab of the articulated lorry on my side. A wall of displaced air pushed into me, causing me to wobble, with mere inches each side between me and the two lorries. Plastic and glass were gone in milli-seconds as the right-side mirror exploded where it impacted the lorry. My jeans scuffed against a wheel and I thought I was going under the arctic. Suddenly, I was past it...wobbling through the impact and air that had formed in the opposing arctic's slipstream. I momentarily heard the deep bass from the lorry drivers horn. He was no doubt cursing me as much as the other lorry driver. A thought occurred to me. If I had died, the slut would get everything, did I want that?

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A mile down the road I pulled into a roadside cafe and parked up in the far end of the car park. I got off and looked at the damage to the bike, my scuffed trousers, boot and jacket as I took my crash helmet off, putting it on the bike seat. I can honestly say, I really should have died a few minutes ago back there. In the lone corner of the car park, I did something that I've only done once in all my adult life. The last time was when my daughter was born. I cried, not just cried, a six-foot six hulking man stood looking across a field and sobbed like a child, as I unashamedly felt tears stream down my face.