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From: drspin@austarnet.com.au (DrSpin)
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Subject: {ASSM} Little Flashmarket (Day 1 of 16) ~ various Ruthie's Club authors
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Date: Wed, 22 Sep 2004 16:10:02 -0400
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Little Flashmarket
(A not-so-typical English village)

Welcome to Little Flashmarket, a little English village, and 
the stories of its inhabitants. It looks a nice little town, a 
quiet place. But, like the river that flows through it, Little 
Flashmarket has deep pools and swirling undercurrents.

This is a developing, continuing tale, and stories will be 
published in batches of 10, finishing at No.160. The Ruthie's 
Club authors who contributed brought to Little Flashmarket 
their flair and imagination in an open, free-wheeling, few 
rules environment.

The authors had wonderful fun in Little Flashmarket. They were 
required to contribute stories in a Flash fiction format, each 
containing no more than 300 words. Any character who hit the 
streets was up for grabs by another author, and there was much 
grabbing. And pulling, and twisting, and scheming. Some of the 
stories are dark, some are hot, some are cold, and very many 
are truly hilarious.

There's just about everything in this little town -- horror, 
murder, conspiracy, intrigue, crime, exploitation, and of 
course lashings of sex.

THE AUTHORS:

Neil Anthony - DrSpin@austarnet.com.au
Howard Barton - howardwriter@hotmail.com
Carmine de la Croix - carmine@cybermesa.com
Desdmona Dodd - desdmona22@aol.com
Father Ignatius - FatherIgnatius@ananzi.co.za
Selena Jardine - selenajardine@yahoo.com
Ozmanga - dai@austarmetro.com.au
Jordan Shelbourne - j_shelbourne@yahoo.com
Alexis Siefert - AlexisinAlaska@aol.com
Bradley Stoke - bradley_stoke@hotmail.com
Julian Swan - riposte@earthlink.net

THE STORIES:

1. Mrs. Vicar
(297 words)
by Neil Anthony

Three days after Edgar Tanner's wife finally died and got 
peace, the vicar's wife came knocking on his door, bearing a 
dish of something that could be warmed up. Practical sympathy.

"Is there something I can do for you?" Mrs. Thomson asked.

Well, yes. Edgar handcuffed her by the wrists to the beam in 
his kitchen. She was just tall enough to stand with her feet 
flat on the floor, but unable to carry any real weight on 
them. Effectively helpless.
 
He unbuttoned her jeans -- she had married a modern vicar -- 
and dragged them down her legs, revealing delicate and pretty 
panties just begging to be ripped and torn. Her bush was 
chestnut-brown, a perfect triangle, and he pushed his nose 
through it, inhaling deeply.

She spoke in squeaks. He pushed his tongue into her.

He reached up and unhooked the handcuffs, and then took a grip 
on her hair and pushed her face flat on his kitchen table. He 
shoved his cock into her soppy cunt and gave it everything he 
hadn't been able to give for six months, maybe longer.

He unlocked the handcuffs, and the vicar's wife had to get 
down on her knees on the floor to find the spectacles that had 
slipped from her nose. She put them on, picked up her ripped 
panties, looked at them for a moment, and dropped them.

She stood, pulled up her jeans and buttoned them.

"I'll call you when the dish is empty," Edgar said. "You can 
come by and collect it."

"We won't be seeing you in church?" she asked.

"I'm not the sort," he said.

She nodded vaguely and headed for the door.

"But I think you're doing a very good job here," he said 
encouragingly. She was nice, and he liked her.

* * *

2. Penny Candy
(300 words)
by Selena Jardine

The window of the grocer's shop was filled with jars of 
sweets. Jelly babies, sherbet fountains, chocolate buttons, 
all-day suckers, liquorice whips, sourballs, jawbreakers. They 
gleamed in the morning light, tempting the small boys who 
passed by on their way to school, conjuring the allowance 
right out of their trouser pockets. Mr. Cooper, the grocer, 
was an old-fashioned man with a kindly face, and he stood at 
the door of his shop in his white apron and called them in 
each morning. They ran in off the street, shoving and 
pointing.

"Hello, there, Tony, run out of lemon drops yet? Allsorts, is 
it? Well, well. And a piece of Turkish delight. Goodbye, then, 
Kevin, Peter." 

He watched them crowd out the door, then he took their pennies 
and he put them in the till, still smiling and shaking his 
head, and shut it with a snap that echoed in the still, clean 
shop.

Friday morning, however, the ritual changed. Boys cupped their 
hands against the glass and peered into the darkened shop, 
tried the locked door, knocked dispiritedly, then ran on, not 
to be late to school. They would have to get their sweets at 
lunchtime.

Inside, in the cool recesses of the shop, the fathers of those 
boys lined up behind a wide wooden table, jostling each other 
for space. The grocer's wife, Penny Cooper, lay on the table, 
her arms and legs tied neatly with butcher's twine, her face 
turned away. One after another, the men touched her breasts, 
her hips, her swimming cunt. One after another, they jammed 
their cocks in her. One after another, they came. They left 
their money folded on the counter.

Mr. Cooper smiled, and nodded, and snapped it into the till.

Get their business young, and you'd have it for a lifetime.

* * *

3. Pepper Winston
(297 words)
by Desdmona Dodd

Ian Winston tucked in his shirt, tied his tie, and slipped on 
his sports coat before turning to his new wife, Pepper. "Is it 
laundry day, love?"

Pepper finished raking the bedclothes, piling them high in a 
bamboo basket. "Any blue sky day is laundry day, Ian," she 
said with a wink. "Especially after the storm we had."

"Did it rain last night?"

"Puddles and puddles."

"How did I miss it?"

"You were too busy fucking your wife."

Pepper snatched the basket and skipped from the room. For one 
week she'd been Mrs. Ian Winston. It suited her. Chores in the 
morning after Ian went to work. Lunch at a café-alfresco. Sex 
at night that rivalled thunder and lightning. Yes, it suited 
her. It suited her until she glowed.

In the afternoon another storm brewed like an aphrodisiac. The 
wind picked up. The sheets ruffled on the clothesline. Pepper 
reached for the pins, daydreaming of Ian -- at his desk, 
driving his car, almost home. A gust caught her dress, and 
cool air rushed between her legs, kissing the dampness waiting 
there. Pregnant with lust, she squeezed the clothespin and 
nuzzled her sex with its head. Swirling and swirling. Wind in 
her hair. Sheets tangling around her. Ian in her mind. She 
rode out the squall in her womb. 

After the bed was made, a knock at the door made Pepper jump. 

"Evening, missus," Lenny Bond said, his cheeks flushed, his 
hands fumbling with his hat.

Her heart leapt. Was he here about Ian? "What's happened to 
him?" 

"Excuse me?" 

"Ian, what's happened to Ian?"

"I wouldn't know about that, missus. I'm here because, well, 
you see, missus, me and Jimmy -- Jimmy's me mate -- we was 
wonderin', well, missus. Will you be doin' laundry again 
anytime soon?"

* * *

4. Pengelley's Personal Service
(300 words)
by Alexis Siefert

Timothy always knew what he'd be. Some jobs are passed down 
from father to son, generation to generation. The name on the 
sign never changed -- it would always be "Pengelley and Sons, 
Funeral Services." Tasteful.  Classy. None of this new-age, 
"Greener Pastures" bullshit that was popping up in the cities. 
Personal service. Dignified. The things that death should be. 
The way his father had done it, and his grandfather before.

He was respected for taking the profession seriously. 
Pengelley's had been burying their families for generations, 
and would keep burying them for generations to come. 
Pengelley's was an Institution. No-one fucked with an 
Institution. 

Personal service, he muttered to nobody in particular. Fucking 
personal service. That's the difference.  

Timothy reached into the casket to check the final touches on 
the body.  The viewing was about to start; family would start 
arriving.  

They think they can move in, with their flashy sign and 
discounted caskets and same-day crematorium. Brigitte Spiewak 
("Commercial and residential properties") had given him a 
knowing nod this morning as he passed her office. "You know, 
Mr. Pengelley, Morningside has been asking about available 
properties."

He made a final adjustment to the deceased's tie as the widow, 
Mrs. Penwhistle, came through the door, alone. Timothy moved 
away from the casket and took both of her hands in one of his, 
leaning close to the grieving young woman.

His free hand hovered between them, stroked her chest, pinched 
her breast through the heavy black fabric of her mourning 
dress. He felt the heat of her blush and knew she was 
remembering his cock between her legs as they made the 
arrangements in his office, as they finalized the time, the 
method. As they decided how best she should become a widow.  

It was one of Pengelley's services.  

Personal services.

* * * 

5. Tom Cellarman
(291 words)
by Neil Anthony

At the Flashmarket Arms, Susan Willing washes glasses 
violently in the kitchenette behind the bar. Outside in the 
brick-paved yard, Tom Redman hefts and hoists beer kegs from 
the truck, his shoulders broad and his arms corded with muscle 
and sinew. The publican's wife racks the glasses at near 
breaking point and watches through the window as her daughter, 
Estelle, rotates trippingly around the cellarman and 
straightens her back so that her breasts push out invitingly.

Estelle is slovenly, slouching, and resentful in the way of 
girls aged sixteen, except when she's hanging around Tom 
Redman.

It's been five weeks and four days since Tom has thrust his 
thick cock into Susan down in the dark cellar. He's been 
avoiding her. Giving her the slip. Being not around at the 
right time. 

She knows men like Tom Redman can't be monopolised. He's too 
male, all cock and balls, arrogant, sure of himself, brutally 
aggressive. Women place themselves in his way. He's a bastard, 
but she knew that when she first went down with him into the 
cellar.

He's a bastard, but down in the cellar he can make her feel 
triumphantly clever, a woman smugly superior, better than the 
rest. Tom grabs hold with his big hands. He's a hammer drill, 
relentless. It may not be nice but it's fantastically good.

In the yard, Tom grins at Estelle, says something to her, and 
Estelle crosses her arms over her chest and giggles like a 
silly girl.

Susan throws open the window with a force that bangs the frame 
against the outside wall.
 
"Estelle," she screams, louder than she meant, more shrill 
than she intended. "You have homework to do."

Susan is resigned to accepting rivals for Tom. Any rival but 
one.  

* * *

6. Bob Brentwood 15/7/02 
(300 words)
by Selena Jardine

Bob Brentwood pushed open the door of Sneak Reviews. A bell 
chimed above his head, and the door closed behind him. There 
was a tidy counter to his right, where a pretty young woman 
stood glancing at a computer screen. Racks of videotapes lined 
the well-lit room. 

Nice place, thought Bob.

He walked up to the girl. "Hello, love," he said. "I'm new in 
town, and I thought I'd get a rental card. Got a form I can 
fill out for you?"

"Of course," she said, smiling. Her name badge read Becky. 
"And welcome to town." 

Bob filled out the form and took the laminated card she gave 
him. 

"Take a look around," Becky said. Such a nice smile. "See what 
you'd like to take home tonight."

Bob walked around the room. There didn't seem to be any of the 
normal categories: Drama, Comedy, Horror. Instead, it was Back 
Room, Candids, Nighttime Shots. He picked up one of the 
"candid" tapes. It said, simply, "Brigitte Spiewak, real-
estate office, 23/7/01." Brigitte was his agent.  The worn one 
next to it read "Pepper Winston, washing day." In the category  
"Special Extras," there was a tape labelled "Margaret Thayne, 
correcting pencil, 7/10/02."

Bob went up to the counter. "What kind of tapes are these?" he 
asked. He spoke a little louder than he really meant to. "What 
the hell is the back room?"

Becky looked at him kindly. "Of course," she said. "I didn't 
think. You're new in town. You won't know what you'd like to 
watch. Almost everyone likes Estelle Willing. Why don't you 
start with one of her candids?"

"My God," said Bob, pale as chalk, and stumbled out the door.

"Come back and see us again soon!" said Becky, and waved at 
him cheerily all the way down the street.

* * *

7. Planning Miss Thayne's Lessons
(300 words)
by Alexis Siefert

Night has long ago fallen and the moon shines full from behind 
lazy clouds. Windows are dark, children are in bed, prayers 
have been said and sleepy goodnight kisses have been placed 
upon soap-scrubbed foreheads.  

There's still a light burning, though.  

Miss Thayne, Maggie Thayne, perches at her desk with her 
lesson plan book and grade book open. A stack of compositions 
sits, unmarked, near her left hand, as the red pencil in her 
right floats lazily over Cedric Comfrey's essay on 
Shakespeare's Dark Lady. It's cribbed from his brother's 
essay, written three years prior -- the year Miss Thayne first 
came to teach.

Cedric's brother, Cecil, was a wonderful student. Sensitive. 
Poetic.  Understood the sonnets. Felt them deeper than any 
other student in the school, then or since.

Cecil recited poetry to Miss Thayne. Always Miss Thayne, 
always proper.  He never took liberties -- not while he was a 
student.

Now, however, Miss Thayne doesn't count Cedric down for his 
plagiarism.  Instead, she makes almost-random spelling 
corrections as she pushes her hips forward to the edge of the 
wooden chair and lifts her skirts under the desk.  

Cecil's voice resonates from beneath the desk, murmuring 
favourite lines, scandalous words from dangerous poems, until 
the press of her wetness against his mouth muffles his 
devotions. 

Miss Thayne's fingers tighten around the smooth, ruby-red 
shaft of the correcting pencil, her eyes close.  She leans 
back in her chair, moaning softly, hearing her sighs repeated 
back as her breath echoes against the still-damp blackboards. 
Blackboards washed clean by eager students. Students held, 
enthralled, by the wisps of curls at the nape of Miss Thayne's 
throat, rebel curls that escape from her tightly pinned 
chignon.  

Curls like those that scratch against the bridge of Cecil's 
nose as his lips wrap around Miss Thayne's, Maggie's, clit. 

* * *

8. The Cellarman and the Vicar's Wife 
(290 words)
by Father Ignatius

Anne Thomson, the Vicar's wife, panty-less and worried that 
she is oozing Edward Tanner's spunk into her only pair of 
clean jeans, nurses the Vicar's tired old car through the 
narrow lanes. Its phthisic wheezing coughs once and abruptly 
dies.

"Fudge!" she says, her post-coital reverie shattered. As the 
little car coasts to a halt, she courteously steers onto the 
verge. Oopsie! Nearly forgot the old ditch under the reeds!

Tom Redman, the cellarman, nursing a resentful erection and 
thinking of Estelle Willing's breasts, swings the big brewery 
truck around the corner and brakes too late. With a susurrus 
of displaced rust, Anne's car jerks backwards. One back wheel 
slowly slides into the ditch until the rear axle meets the 
soft soil.

Anne smiles propitiatingly up at Tom. How sexy he looks when 
he is angry! Tom produces a tow-chain and Anne's little car is 
pulled from the ditch by the scruff of its neck like a naughty 
puppy. Tom also replaces a waving wire near the distributor 
cap. The little car, rejuvenated, fires briskly.

"Oh, well done!" says Anne approvingly. "However can I thank 
you?" 

Instantly, she would like to retract the question. Tom reaches 
for her, and discovers she has no knickers.

Bloody Anglicans, he thinks, as he bends her forward and 
presses her chest onto the little car's hot bonnet. I knew 
they had gay bishops and no more marriage, but this?

Anne accepts her fate. The bonnet is hot, she's apprehensive 
of discovery, and she's not partial to the casual way he uses 
his irresistible strength to hold her down when she tries to 
wriggle.

Oh well, she thinks. At least now she'll have something in 
common with the rest of the St. Swithin's Women's Guild. 

* * *

9. State of Grace
(298 words)
by Alexis Siefert

Grace Elizabeth Hunter had tried giving it away. She'd wanted 
to give it away since she turned twelve and saw her parents 
fucking in the bathtub.  

At fifteen she tried giving it to Bobby Lester behind the 
village wall. He'd just unbuttoned her jeans and was not-so-
gently working his fingers between the denim and her skin, 
when it started to rain. Torrential rain.  Bobby didn't want 
to fuck wet, so he left her there and ran for home. "Sorry, 
Gracie.  You understand."

Yeah. She understood.

When she was sixteen, she had decided to offer it to Cecil 
Comfrey. He was a year older than she, and rumour held that he 
was experienced. She planned it perfectly to follow him home 
and corner him behind Vicar Thomson's shed. But Cecil stopped 
going home right after school. He started staying after to 
talk to Miss Thayne about poetry, or some other 
shit. Grace figured he'd decided to be gay.

Grace tried. Her mother started looking at her funny, 
criticizing her clothes, her walk, her tits. "Grace 
Elizabeth," she'd sneer, "boys won't buy the cow. . ." 

Well, thought Grace, maybe they'll fuck the cow. 

"Grace Elizabeth, good girls don't wear denims to church." 

Yes, mother. That's the point.

It didn't help. She's nineteen and she still couldn't give it 
away.  Something always came up -- or, in the reclined front 
seat of Old Man Cooper's car (Grace Elizabeth, good girls 
don't go out with boys in Ramblers) -- didn't come up. No 
matter how much she rubbed and licked, Old Man Cooper's 
something just lay there, uninterested. Then he pulled the 
piece of butcher's twine from his jacket pocket and his cock 
twitched. Grace Elizabeth knew she didn't want to go there 
with him.

There are some things that even not-nice girls won't do.

* * *

10. Bob and Doris
(297 words)
by Jordan Shelbourne

Bob Brentwood leaned against a lamppost and looked around, his 
muscles still twitching. He was not sure where he was. He was 
distantly surprised he could get lost in Little Flashmarket, 
but he had left the video shop in a daze, had in fact been 
running from it.

Deep breaths, he told himself. Get a grip. Go home.

Bob stepped into a corner shop for directions. The proprietor, 
thankfully, was not pretty -- was actually an elderly matron 
in a wheelchair, parked behind the till. One corner of the 
shop held videos for rent. Bob looked at them suspiciously but 
the cover art was familiar from trips past the cinema.

The matron introduced herself cheerfully as Doris and set him 
straight on directions. Bob thanked her and then said, "I see 
you rent movies."

"Some. Not a lot, but it helps, it helps."

"I was just in the video store, and the movies there...."

Doris scowled. "Sneak Reviews. That young pervert, always 
skulking with a camera. Sensible people know to shut their 
blinds when they do things that ought to be private."

"But it's allowed? And even. . .tolerated?"

"There's folk who like that sort of thing."

"I guess . . ."

"I don't hold with it," said Doris.

Relief flooded through Bob. He had not gone mad after all. 
"Nor I. This watching thing -- "

"At my age, I don't have patience for it at all. Why watch 
when you can do?"

She wheeled out from behind the counter and Bob saw she had 
her dress hiked to her waist. Doris wore nothing between her 
hips and her knee-high support hose.

"Even the young lads say I'm the best, if I take my teeth out. 
Something special, don't you know."

But by the time Doris had her teeth out, Bob was gone.

* * *

(To be continued)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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