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Subject: {ASSM} Little Flashmarket (Day 5 of 16) - various Ruthie's Club authors
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Date: Sun, 26 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 past tense and 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:

41. Nelson's Column
(300 words)
by Selena Jardine

Nelson Tilly paced anxiously in front of the printing press. 
It was well past time to begin printing the Flashmarket 
Whisper, but the advice column was late. As usual. He'd never 
get it done in time.

"I swear to God," he muttered, "I'm just going to fire her." 
But he knew it wasn't true. 'Ask Auntie Agnes' was the most 
popular column in his paper. People turned to her words with 
the satisfaction of those who take pleasure in the troubles of 
others. He'd even seen Father Grogan riveted to her column. 
Nelson never read agony-aunt columns himself. Rubbishy 
things. He just wished she could get them in on time. Now she 
was so late, he'd have to do the typesetting himself.

At last, Agnes tapped in briskly. "There it is, love," she 
said. "All ready."

He gave her a brief and insincere smile and got to the 
typesetting. 

Dear Auntie Agnes, read the first letter. 

How do you get blood out from between bathroom tiles?

Perplexed Housewife

This is a serious housekeeping problem, read the response, 
written in sloping copperplate handwriting. Use a solution of 
vinegar and baking soda, and a good, stiff-bristled 
toothbrush. Put your back into it! 

Dear Auntie Agnes,

I'm in terrible trouble. There's a man who's said that if I 
don't keep sleeping with him, he'll kill all the cats in 
Little Flashmarket. You've got to help me. 

Animal Lover

Don't be such a silly young miss. Pussies are two a penny, but 
a good cock will last you a lifetime.

Confidential to G. E. H.: Don't worry. Some nice Satanist 
always likes a virgin to corrupt. Be patient, and your Prince 
will come!

Nelson Tilly stood back. A good job well done. He turned to 
Agnes, the whisperer.

"Thank you, Mother," he said.

* * *

42. Mike's Deliverance
(299 words)
by Selena Jardine

Mike Matabele sat at the Flashmarket Arms in front of his 
third pint of lager, complaining. Again. 

"I think," he said, "that it has been twelve... months... since 
I've got laid. Twelve." He shook his head sadly, and looked up 
at Kevin, Horace, and Trevor Watson. They were sitting across 
from him, looking sympathetic, even though they'd been hearing 
about his problem twice a week for a year. 

"What does that tell you?" demanded Mike. 

"Tells me you're not trying hard enough, mate," said Horace.

"Not trying? Me?" Mike pointed at his own chest with an 
indignant finger, and missed. "I try, and I try, and. . ."

Trevor leaned forward conspiratorially, his blue eyes alight. 

"We can take you where you'll get some for sure," he said, and 
Mike's heart jumped. 

Deep in the forest, where the Watson boys led him, Mike leaned 
against the great oak, feeling ill. It was spooky, and dark. 
He shook his head, trying to clear it. He'd be safe. The 
Watsons were quick, enthusiastic learners. Generous. Popular 
in town. Teachers, sisters, gypsies, the vicar's wife, 
everyone liked them.

He looked down in alarm, and squeaked.

"What. . . what the fuck are you doing?"

"Just chaining you to the tree, Mike," said Horace, 
cheerfully. "You'll get laid, I promise. Works every time." 
Off to the left, Trevor was picking out a tune on his banjo. 
Kevin was putting on a balaclava.

Mike felt the chilly night air as his trousers fell to the 
ground. He suddenly made the fervent resolution never to 
complain again. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to 
squeal as a thick cock shoved at his arse. 

"Whacko," said a cheerful voice in his ear. "This is way 
better than sheep."

Sometimes in this life, you get what you ask for.

* * *

43. Lucretia's Tableside Service
(297 words)
by Carmine de la Croix

Alan Wilks nodded as he watched the little waif move about the 
Flashmarket Arms. A lousy waitress to be sure, but as a 
serving wench, well, she had the essentials. The cashier had 
referred to her as "Lucretia." The moniker fit perfectly. 

Lucretia's tableside service was unique, to say the least. 
While filling his water glass, she bent forward, a corset 
squeezing together a pair of milk jugs like no other. An hour 
later, she brought out the main course, but as she placed it 
on the table, she dropped a fork. Bending over to retrieve it, 
she exposed a luscious pair of tanned cheeks. They were so 
close to his face he had easily counted the blemishes on each 
one. 

When he finished his meal, Alan motioned her over. 

"Yeah?"

"The pork, it had more than a dash of onion."

"So?"

"Lucretia, dear, I would like an after-dinner mint."

"Don't have any. All I have is a lemon drop."

"Splendid. I'll take one."

"Not that easy, mister. You have to work hard for it."

"I have to do what?"

Lucretia pushed Alan's chair back and jumped onto the table, 
her butt smacking the wood. With both hands she grabbed Alan 
by the hair and shoved his face into her cleft. Before he 
could pull back, she wrapped her thighs about his neck, using 
her calves to push him in even deeper.

"You're going to have to suck a bit before it gives," she said 
between moans.

Several minutes later, Lucretia relinquished her hold. 
Stunned, Alan made to reach for his wallet. Lucretia leaned 
forward, her hands working on his trousers.

"I don't take tips, mister," she said as her hands found his 
thick member. "I take the whole bloody thing!"

* * *

44. Fall, Back
(300 Words)
Alexis Siefert

Little Flashmarket has, in some sense, a relatively stable 
population. Brigitte Spiewak is fond of quoting its stability 
statistics to businesses sniffing at expanding markets. "We're 
not big," she says, "but we're loyal, steady, and we're not 
going anywhere."

It isn't her most effective pitch, but she's right on the 
money.  Residents of Little Flashmarket rarely go anywhere. 
They all know there's no place like Little Flashmarket. So if 
they do leave, they tend to stay gone. 

However, Nicholas Fall, proprietor of Fallsworth Imports, gets 
itches.  Mild and completely ignorable at first, building 
quickly past annoyance into full-blown obsession. When it 
starts, Nicholas packs a bag and sails away. Weeks later, he 
returns, laden with stories and crates of new merchandise. 
Vases from "The Orient," spice jars from "The Far East," 
carvings from "the African Continent." Nicholas's customers 
aren't particular, and he feels no need to be more specific 
about his travels.

Emma Fall doesn't complain when, on Thursday morning, Nicholas 
again pulls his travelling case from under the bed. Emma helps 
him pack, waves from their cottage doorway, and watches until 
he is out of sight. Emma thinks vaguely about Nicholas's itch, 
and marvels at how his leaving suits both of them just fine. 

Nicholas will return -- there is, after all, business to 
conduct and money to make -- and bring with him stories of 
steamship travelling companions--the men who scratch his itch. 
She likes to hear his stories; Nicholas is a man of details, 
and to her, a fuck is a fuck.  

She doesn't share her stories. Nicholas isn't interested in 
how well the men of Little Flashmarket eat pussy. Nicholas's 
itches had, after all, started when he discovered that men who 
eat pussy don't generally care to expand their oral skills.

* * *
 
45. Brigitte Spiewak Cuts The Cake
(297 words)
by Father Ignatius

Brigitte Spiewak was neither wife nor mother, but she was a 
struggling estate agent. This means that she made a point of 
baking a cake for the tea table, and serving half-time teas, 
at every home game the Little Flashmarket Grammar School First 
XV played. She was therefore familiar with the local sporting 
tradition that the home team, when victorious, were rewarded 
on their return to the dressing room by the presence of 
Estelle Willing, splay-legged and neatly bound with butcher's 
twine over the pommel horse. What then followed was 
traditionally known as "the post-match scrum-down." If the 
team lost, Estelle wouldn't be there.

So great was Estelle's determination to find fresh ways of 
motivating the Little Flashmarket team that she herself had 
suggested that she should be bound to the pommel horse in any 
case, and simply shifted into the winning dressing room at the 
final whistle. For this exemplary team spirit, she had won 
Little Flashmarket's Good Woman of the Year award in 
2002, the youngest ever recipient.

What interested Bridget, though, was the stern, meritocratic 
tradition that limited the post-match scrum-down to the 
fifteen fanatically fit young seventeen-year-olds who had 
actually played. In each match, a selection of also-rans -- 
equally young, equally fit, and equally brimming with spunk -- 
would be consigned hopelessly to the bench with no hope of a 
scrum-down. Bridget's search for a support niche focused on 
cheering up these dispirited lads.

For example, the burly, big-everywhere hooker with the cute 
dimple, Cedric Comfrey.

"Wanna scrum down?" Brigitte asked him shyly as he trailed 
dispiritedly past, crotch swollen.
 
But he gazed, horrified, at her, and ran off to the change 
rooms. The raucous, post-match yodelling of virile young males 
was suddenly hushed and then came wave after wave of baying, 
shrieking laughter.

* * *

46. Bennett, Light My Fire
(299 words)
by Alexis Siefert

Jesus Christ on a pogostick. He'd been pumping away at her for 
fuckingever, but he couldn't get over the hump. It was right 
there. So close, so fucking close. 

"Oh, Bennett, you're amazing." She clawed his biceps and 
rolled her hips up, forward, grinding her clit against his 
pubic hair. He concentrated past her. Straining, humping, 
anything to get the dam to break. Just a spark, that's all he 
needed.  

She moaned and tightened her grip. Bennett figured she was 
faking. She'd come, at least twice, and her pussy wasn't as 
wet and inviting as it had started out. 

Penelope collapsed under him, limp and gasping, and he went to 
his elbows. She kissed his chest. "Bennett Williams, I've 
never met a man who could last. Word gets out, I'll never get 
you in my bed again; girls will be lined up to spread their 
legs."

He felt a cold knot starting at the base of his balls. He 
rolled off and knew he wasn't going to come with her. She was 
sweaty and rumpled and so fucking worn out. Slut. No wonder he 
couldn't come.  

Bennett shuddered and dressed. 

"Where are you going? You're leaving?"

"Business to take care of."

She sat up, arms crossed over bare breasts. "Bennett Williams, 
don't walk out now. Can't it wait?"

His balls throbbed. "Nah. Gotta be now."

Bennett prowled the streets, one hand obsessively rubbing his 
crotch.  Muttering. "A spark. Something." He lit a smoke and 
watched the match burn.  "A spark. . ." 

It was an old barn. Edgar had built a new one last year--he 
used this one for keeping the feed dry. But it burned 
perfectly, and it had only taken a spark from one of Bennett's 
cigarettes. 

They all watched -- the entire town came. Including Bennett 
Williams.  Finally.

* * *

47. Felonious Monk
(295 words)
by Neil Anthony

Bob Brentwood, not for one moment at ease in Little 
Flashmarket, went shopping with his wife, Laura, who thought 
the town and its people charming and hospitable. He was half-
hoping for an incident to convince her that he was right, and 
that they should flee the place forthwith for their sanity and 
their lives.
 
He was not disappointed. They were accosted in the supermarket 
car park by a most frightening man.

"Burn," he said to them, his eyes unnaturally bright.

"Not today, thanks," Laura said firmly. "Perhaps some other 
time."

Bob was astonished she was so unshaken. The man was a figure 
straight from the pits of Hell. His eyes glowed like hot 
coals, his hair was snow-white, his body gaunt and emaciated, 
feet bare and bruised, teeth atrociously decayed, long coat 
filthy.

"You're all going to die," the man said with considerable 
relish.

"Get a bath, get a job," Laura snapped at him.

The prophet of doom blinked at her, then swept open his coat 
to reveal an impressively long erection for a man in such poor 
physical condition.

"Sit on this, baby," he snarled.

Laura grabbed her husband's arm and took him shopping.

"See?" Bob hissed at her. "This town. They're everywhere, 
they're everywhere."

Approaching was Lacey Penwhistle, who Laura had already 
befriended. "That man," Laura said, pointing. "Who is he?"

"That's Felonious Monk," Lacey said. "The former Reverend 
Anthony Monk, vicar before Reverend Thomson, defrocked for 
exposing himself to the congregation. Crazy as a two bob 
watch. Take no notice."

Laura smiled victoriously at her husband. But he was looking 
with horror at a grinning middle-aged woman rotating her 
wheelchair purposefully towards him.

Doris took her teeth out. Behind them, Felonious Monk railed. 
"You must all burn. You're all going to die."

* * *

48. Marie-Louise stands and waits
(299 words)
by Father Ignatius

Marie-Louise Pendleton, waitress at the Flashmarket Arms, ties 
her gleamingly clean blonde hair back in a ponytail, and 
regards herself critically in the mirror. Her clean white 
blouse is regulation size. That is, too small. Mr. Willing, 
her boss, likes his waitresses to dress this 
way: it distracts the customers from how bad the food is. 
Marie-Louise is wearing the slightly longer of her two 
waitressing skirts. Nodding briskly, she awards herself a pass 
mark, and reports to the dining room.

"Big night tonight," Peter Willing warns her. His gaze probes 
the inevitable, alluring, between-buttons gap, and approves 
her acceptably flimsy bra. "The Little Flashmarket First XV is 
coming for their end-of-season celebratory dinner."

Marie-Louise has mixed feelings about this. Schoolboys never 
tip, whereas the market rate for a really searching grope 
seems to be around ten pounds nowadays. A few minutes' thought 
leads her to return to the cloakroom to remove her knickers. 
They won't last the evening anyway, so prudence suggests 
sacrificing them some other time to someone who'll finance a 
replacement. After further thought, she removes her bra as 
well. She will end the evening without it, in any case, and 
decides to conserve it against future need. She puts her hair 
up into a bun: the men like how it cascades back down again 
when released. Finally, she switches to the shorter of her two 
waitressing skirts. Might as well go the whole hog.

The guests crowd in. She stations herself by the one with the 
nicest hands. Not surprisingly, it's the Byronic scrumhalf.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she purrs. "My name is Marie-
Louise, and I'll be serving you tonight. In the meantime, may 
I take a drinks order?"

They respond with raucous whistling and catcalling, and the 
scrumhalf establishes that she's not wearing any knickers.

* * *

49. Val Makes a Decision
(300 words)
by Howard Barton

"Oh God, I'm sorry, Val -- I mean everyone in the village is 
talking and I couldn't bear it to be behind your back."

Val listened to her friend Marjorie's voice on the phone and 
thought how hollow the sentiment was behind the words. She 
knew what pleasure Marjorie was taking from being the one to 
tell Val that her husband's half-hour absence at the golf club 
dinner dance had not, as he'd claimed, been to spend time 
discussing business with Ian Winston but to shove that ever-
erect cock of his into Pepper Winston's shapely little behind.

Marjorie was still talking. "You know what you should do, 
don't you, Val darling?"

"No, Marjorie. What?" Val asked, amazed that Marjorie was too 
thick-skinned to notice the quiet fury in her voice.

"You should take a lover. Young, old, male, female -- it 
doesn't matter. All that matters is that you have a damned 
good time being fucked silly and that Andy should find out. 
That'll bloody teach him, the philandering sodomist. . ."

Val wondered idly how Marjorie knew about Andy's little fetish 
but she didn't pursue the matter. "Thanks, Marjorie," she said 
and put the phone down.

The drinks cabinet beckoned and Val made herself a stiff gin-
and-tonic. As she sipped the drink she wondered whether she 
really even cared about what Marjorie had told her. And she 
wondered what her feelings were for Andy.

And then she realized what fun, what sheer blissful fun it 
would be to get her revenge. And she'd enjoy some bloody good 
sex into the bargain.

Val finished her drink and stood up, suddenly resolute. Young 
or old, male or female Marjorie had said. Well she knew 
someone who fitted the bill perfectly, just perfectly. A very 
pretty young woman whose huge breasts turned Val on something 
wicked. . .

* * *

50. Marie-Louise Serves It Up
(300 words)
by Father Ignatius

At the rugby dinner at the Flashmarket Arms, things are 
getting out of hand. The roast beef is eaten, the speeches 
made, the bread rolls thrown. Marie-Louise clears dishes until 
only the port glasses, glistening in the candlelight, remain 
on the gleaming white, Irish linen tablecloth. So good for 
soaking up stains, remembers Marie-Louise. Young eyes glint 
rapaciously in flushed young faces. Not drunk, but having 
drink taken, assesses Marie-Louise, like a Scottish sergeant 
major. Convivial. Just right.

She returns to the table, pulls out a hairpin, and her hair 
cascades down her back. "Will there be anything else, 
gentlemen?" she enquires ritually. Eager hands seize her. In a 
trice, she is on the table, wrists clamped firmly by brawny 
fists. Unseen hands flip up her skirt, an unseen cock thrusts 
eagerly into her and, in no time at all, spews jism.

"Oi!" she cries, "Not fair! I didn't come! Next! Quickly!"

But the next comes, and comes, and goes, and still she has not 
climaxed. Third up, though, is the chunky hooker, Cedric 
Comfrey. He guides his short, thick cock into her, clamps his 
big, angular, weather-beaten hands onto her alabaster thighs 
and -- looking into her eyes -- immediately settles into a 
steady, relentless rhythm. Marie-Louise gazes up at his shy 
blush and his dimple, and raises her feet so she can feel his 
brawny buttocks flexing under her heels.

"Oh, God!" she cries, writhing and wrenching at her captors' 
grasp as Cedric at last jerks into her.

"Don't give her any down-time," calls the big blond lock, 
immediately taking Cedric's place. "Keep the kettle boiling." 
He is the natural leader type.

Publican Peter Willing looks on approvingly. Marie-Louise is 
an employee to be treasured. A team player. Forever working to 
make the Flashmarket Arms a nice place to come.

* * *

(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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