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From: drspin@austarnet.com.au (DrSpin)
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Subject: {ASSM} Little Flashmarket (Day 7 of 16) - various Ruthie's Club authors
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Date: Tue, 28 Sep 2004 07:10:03 -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:
                                         
61. Breedlove Family Traits
(300 words)
by Alexis Siefert

"Marcus, you weren't very polite to Ian Winston today."  Anne rocked
their sleeping infant in her arms.

"No?" He glanced in the mirror, brushed at the white streak in his
otherwise-black hair. He'd had it since childhood, "angel's kiss," his
grandmother, Rose, called it. Marcus was a practical man, and he
didn't believe in angels, but Grandmother Rose had insisted.

"No, you weren't. You even rolled your eyes at the joke he made after
the service."  She watched him undressing.  Tie off first, folded and
hung on its hook.  Navy suit jacket and pants hung between black tux
and double-breasted blazer.

The infant sighed in sleep, and her mother gazed adoringly at her.

Marcus stood in dress shirt and black socks and stroked an index
finger under his wife's chin until her gaze left the infant and met
his.  "Dear, I find Ian pompous and tiresome, and his new wife is a
trollop."  He unbuttoned his starched shirt, smoothed an invisible
wrinkle across the back and hung it in the closet, beside the six
other equally perfect white shirts.  "They can do nothing for us, and
I see no purpose in humouring him. Ian Winston and I have nothing in
common."

She looked at Marcus' soft, office hands, and she thought of Ian's
hands clutching her breasts.  She saw Marcus absently chew his bottom
lip as he shifted through his drawer for casual socks, and she thought
of Ian's lips pressed hard against hers.  She watched Marcus lift one
leg and then the other, dressing in crisp-creased blue jeans for
Sunday afternoon gardening, and she thought of Ian's legs and hips
between her spread thighs, thrusting until she whimpered.  She looked
at Isabella, who already looked so like her father.

"You're probably right, Marcus.  You two have nothing in common."

* * *

62. Susan's Shower Scene
(300 words) (an Alfred Hitchcock birthday tribute)
by Neil Anthony 

Peter Willing chopped, sliced, and diced lemons and limes with his
big, sharp blade, getting ready to open the bar at the Flashmarket
Arms. It was a beautiful knife, hand-crafted. Swedish rolled steel,
with a polished wood-grain handle. You want to buy British, do the
right thing, but sometimes you go with your heart and not your head.
Ah. Yes. Susan, his wife. She should be there, beside him.

Two weeks ago, down there in the cellar, saying things to Tom Redman
he'd never heard her say. Bent over a beer keg, her dress up her back,
taken relentlessly, uncompromisingly, from behind. Peter saw only a
flash of it before he turned and left, grieving. But what she said.
Fuck me, you bastard. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can't stand it. Oh, fuck.
You're the best, you bastard.

He'd said nothing. He was a slow burner, took his time, wasn't given
to snap decisions. The pub was a marginal business, best run by a
family, and he needed Susan. And Estelle, too. Tom Redman, though, was
another matter. He was just a draught horse.

Peter, burning slow but still burning, went looking for his wife. The
cellar was empty. He found her upstairs, taking a shower. He looked at
her blurred figure behind the shower curtain and gripped his big,
sharp blade.

Burning, his mouth dry, he ripped aside the shower curtain. She looked
at him in surprise, her mouth open, water cascading over her breasts.

Susan was full and ripe. Over-ripe, even. There'd always been that to
her. Lush, stacked, unambiguous.

She turned to him, confronting, contemptuous. "Well?" she asked. "And
what do you want?"

But the moment had passed.

Oh, so close. The knife, clean, slicing, dicing, had wanted to do it.

"We open in ten minutes," he said.

* * * 

63. Peter's Stranger on a Train
(297 words)
by Alexis Siefert (on the anniversary of Alfred Hitchock's birth)

Peter Willing didn't leave Little Flashmarket often, but occasionally
it became necessary for him to travel to town, board the train, and
make the day-long journey to London.

Susan Merchant had been the youngest daughter of an innkeeper. 
Successful, in his own way, Susan's father nevertheless had wished
more for his children.  Money bought them into the better (not the
best, of course) schools, and brought them into contact with families.
 Families like The Willings.  Peter and Susan met, and because things
work this way, fell in love.  His mother, because things work this
way, had immediately disapproved.

"Willings simply do not marry innkeeper's daughters.  I'm sure Ms.
Merchant is exceptional, for what she is.  But, if you bring that girl
into this family, Peter, she'll ruin you. What would people say?" 
Peter left Kensington two weeks later.

Unfortunately, Peter's grandfather admired mettle and thought his
daughter-in-law was batty. Knowing that he'd most likely not be able
to haunt her from beyond the grave, Grandfather Willing did what he
considered the next best thing. Peter was now the primary executor of
the Willing Trust.

And now Susan was fucking the cellarman, who was fucking everything
else, and Peter was on a train to London to make polite noises to his
mother.

The man next to him nudged his arm and handed him a flask "Drink up,
mate."  He'd obviously spent a good amount of time doing just that.
"If it's as awful as you look, you need this more than I, and I need
it plenty.  Found out today that my wife is shagging my boss.  I'd
kill them both, if I thought I could get away with it."

Peter thought about Susan and the cellarman's cock.

He drank.  "Friend, I think we could help each other."

* * *

64. Tom's Vertigo
(299 words) (another Hitchcock tribute)
by Desdmona Dodd

Tom Redman had spent the last five days along the banks of the River
Flash, rutting with the veterinary assistant, Sheila
Something-or-other. Only so many puppy stares and pussy mewlings a man
could stomach. He'd had enough of her. He'd had enough of all of them.

All but one. Only she'd refused him, had been refusing him since she'd
married above her station. Matrimonial vows, she'd claimed. Tom knew
it for what it was: arrogance. Rich versus poor.

But once she'd been his.

Flashmarket Tower was nothing more than the burned out ruins of a
stately abbey. When pressed, the locals would weave a tale of Henry
VIII's march against Catholicism, but everyone knew the tower's demise
was due to more recent events.

She and Tom used the crown of the tower as a personal nest of
iniquity. Youth erased guilt from exploiting the old abbey for their
liaison.

The slow climb up the crumbling, spiral stairwell was dizzying. At the
top, she hitched up her dress and backed toward the tottering stone
wall.

"Fuck me here. Now," she said breathlessly.

He shoved her bare-assed against the wall and, with his hot poker,
stoked her flames. Pebbles from the loosened mortar showered the
ground below. They made it to the balustrade, where she begged for
more.

"Fuck me again, Tom."

He couldn't refuse. 

Hearts pounding, bodies slick with sweat, they collapsed together
beneath a chiselled cross in the ancient ruin. A million stars as
their witness.

"I'll always love you," Tom said.

"Me too," was her answer.
 
His mind swirled. Years of betrayal. She was a liar. He wanted her. He
hated her. He vowed to have her! Again.

Valerie Brock may not love him, but she would fuck him. Tom Redman
kept his vows when he made them.

* * *

65. Peter's Rebecca (A Hitchcock Tribute)
(300 words)
by Selena Jardine

Peter Willing dreamt about his wife. He saw her again in the cellar,
the curve of her ass pressed back against Tom Redman, her knuckles
white on the beer keg. In the dream, he wanted to speak. Susan, he
wanted to say, reasonably. How can you do this to me?

But even in the dream, he knew how she could do it. The flash and
plunge of the thick cock, the careless grip of the strong hands,
everything spelled disaster. He struggled to speak. The dream-Susan
turned her head. You could never do me like this, she said. Never, you
limp-dick bastard. She started to laugh. Peter awoke covered in sweat.
He looked at the ceiling, then wearily swung his legs out of bed.

Peter was walking heavily past the Sneak Reviews video store when he
caught sight of Becky through the plate-glass window. Rebecca
Billingsgate. He remembered her from Miss Thayne's classes when they
were both too young to do more than chase each other around the
playground. His head suddenly full of the memory of her flashing,
coltish legs, he stepped into the store. Rebecca--Becky--looked up. Her
face changed instantly.

"Oh, Peter," she said, her voice full of sympathy. Then she put her
finger to his lips in a gesture of silence. She sank to her knees,
unzipped his trousers, and to Peter's astonishment, took his cock so
deeply into her mouth that he thought it must surely be hurting her.
He closed his eyes. Limp-dick bastard? he thought. Take this. He
thrust, and thrust again, and came with a groan.

Becky wiped her lips, looked toward the back room, and smiled. Laura
Trassel's film had slipped from first place this week. Someone had to
step up to the plate.

Peter (Very) Willing. Cut and wrap.

* * *

66. In a Prudence Manor
(300 words)
by Alexis Siefert

Huntshead Manor stood above the village, hidden by forests allowed to
grow dark and thick. Huntshead Forest was home to fox, boars, deer--the
Manor sport animals. Village boys, in the snide, snickering way of all
young village boys, spoke instead of Cuntshead Manor, although never
within hearing of the widow Huntshead or her staff on those rare times
they were seen in the marketplace.

Silas McMahon stalked on silent-hunter feet through fallen leaves,
trailed by young Colm. They struggled to ignore the gnawing, echoing
emptiness in their stomachs, and neither spoke of what they were
doing. They knew that this hunt wasn't to be discussed, just as they
never discussed empty larders and watered soup.

A heavy hand grabbed Colm's shoulder. "Da!" He yelled, and his father
turned, rifle expertly aimed above his son's head.

"I'd not do that, were I you, Mr. McMahon. You've a fine looking boy.
T'would be a shame for him to be a fine looking orphan."

"Aye." His father sighed, lowering his weapon. "Let him be, Mr.
Billings. He's naught but a young'un."

"Scamper on, boy. Your father'll be home before nightfall. Remember,
young Colm, the Manor's forests belong to the Manor, and there's a
price to pay for poaching.

"It's McMahon? You help with Tanner's pigs, no?"

"And sheep and cows, when there's work."

"Yet you poach boar from the Manor rather than pick from Tanner's
brood?"

"A man don't steal from one who pays him for honest work."

"Ms. Prudence demands a stiff price for poaching." 

Silas found, as had others before him, the price was not so high. He
thought, as he slipped into Prudence Huntshead's warm cunt--and later,
as he and his son dined on Manor boar paid for by services
rendered--that the price wasn't high at all.

* * *

67. Pepper Asks a Favour
(300 words)
by Howard Barton

It was laundry day in the Winston house and Pepper had spent a busy
morning. She was about to make a sandwich when the phone rang. Andy
Brock said he was popping round `to drop off some papers for Ian' so
Pepper stopped what she was doing, left the front door on the latch
and went to undress. Fetching the KY from the bathroom cabinet, she
stretched out on her bed and spent an enjoyable few minutes working
lubricant round the rim of her anus and as far inside as her fingers
could reach.

Before Andy arrived Pepper was hungry. Soon afterward a thick load of
semen had taken the edge off her appetite and she was breathing
heavily, part in passion, part in an effort to cope with Andy's love
of lying behind her in the spoons position, his cock filling her back
passage to capacity as he ground his belly against the rondures of her
bottom, his glans probing for the very depths of her rectum.

"Andy--don't you think--?" she started to say before groaning in ecstasy
as Andy withdrew his cock slowly and then slid the full length back
into her tight sheath.

"Yes, sweetheart?" His voice in Pepper's ear showing his intense
pleasure as he buggered her.

"That we could fuck the normal way--I mean, just once in a while?"

"Of course," Andy said. "As soon I've come I'll wash and then fuck
your pussy."

"Thank you, that would be nice," Pepper said softly, amazed at Andy's
stamina. A lunchtime quickie and he was able to flood every hole in
her body with sperm. No man she'd ever known could match that--which
was why she never said no when the phone rang and Andy said he had
some papers to drop off...

* * *

68. Tom's Unlucky Holiday
(298 words)
by Desdmona Dodd

The flute glasses were Dartington crystal--a wedding gift. "Start your
own traditions," Andy's mum had said.

Dewy-eyed Valerie, a hopeful bride, had followed her mother-in-law's
suggestion, using the stemware for any celebration Val and Andy
shared: the reception toast, Andy's first promotion, the reading of
Mother Brock's will, and after discovering Andy's sexual proclivities.

Using them now seemed fitting.

Valerie uncorked Raggy Meg's flask, poured its contents into Andy's
glass, and topped it with champagne. "To courage," she said, gulping
from her own glass and leaving a crimson imprint on the crystal's rim.
She refilled her glass and sat it beside Andy's. A traditional pair.

The door squeaked just as bubbles reached Valerie's belly. She
hiccoughed and turned, only to be surprised.

"TOM! What are you doing here?"

Tom Redman, his sinewy arms stretched high on the doorframe, grinned.
"You have to ask?"

"Go away."

"Not this time, Val."

"Andy's due home."

Tom dashed across the room, yanking Valerie against him. "I don't give
a fuck about Andy. And neither do you."

He smashed his lips to hers, jamming his tongue into her mouth. His
steel cock hammered against her hip. Val could almost forget
everything else. Almost.

She jerked away. Refusing to look at him.

"Damn it, woman! Tell me you don't feel something."

Only from her nipples to her womb. And when she finished it with Andy,
she'd feel it again. Just not now.

"Get out, Tom!"

"Cunt!" he yelled. "Why can't I get your taste from my mouth?"

Taste? Drink. Valerie spun around.

Spying lipstick on the crystal in Tom's hand, she sighed in relief.
Only to realize its mate was also empty. The oaf had drunk them both.

Oh well, she thought. She'd wanted Andy impotent, but Tom could do
with a holiday.

* * *

69. Shopping with Pepper
(295 words)
by Howard Barton

To her delight, being made love to two and three times a day made
Pepper Winston more rather than less horny. She felt aroused through
much of the day, continually ready to be fucked, as if her whole body
crackled with sexual energy.

When she went shopping she dressed for her own pleasure. Her underwear
drawer remained untouched. She wore halter tops that supported and
emphasized her huge breasts so she didn't have to bother with bras,
and matching denim shorts that disappeared into the cleft in her
buttocks, outlined the slit of her pussy and set off her long, shapely
legs.

At the hairdresser Michelle always complimented Pepper on her glowing
skin and the rich tone of her hair. Pepper blushed and said she was
just making sure to keep up her protein intake. The chemist, Mr.
Patel, would smile and have several cartons of K-Y already wrapped in
a paper bag whatever else she bought. Every month the newsagent handed
her the latest issue of `Playgirl' and the US version of `Penthouse'
which she pretended was for Ian.

But it was in the supermarket that Pepper enjoyed herself the most.
She loved the way her nipples stiffened when she leaned against the
chiller cabinets. She lingered over the shampoo bottles, running her
fingers up and down their bulbous tops. And she spent the longest time
in the fresh produce section, fondling long, firm bananas and thick
carrots.

She particularly loved to buy cucumbers and often bought several at
once because after chilling they didn't keep. And Pepper liked to
chill them so that they felt deliciously cool as she used them to
masturbate, arousing herself for Andy and then, later, Ian.

Pepper never had any trouble finding what she wanted in Little
Flashmarket...

* * *

70. Trelawney Logs On
(299 words)
by Neil Anthony

"All up, I'll be clearing about 250 acres of your unproductive old
forest," Richard Trelawney told Prudence Huntshead, his fellow
director of Trelawney Forestry and Logging, stabbing his finger at the
map of Little Flashmarket and its environs. "Here for the Huntshead
Greenfield Housing Estate, here for the Western Europe Hazardous Waste
High Temperature Incinerator, and here for the Ground Zero Paintball
Recreation Theme Park."

Prudence nodded her head in approval. "As long as you leave me 50
acres for the hunt," she said.

Trelawney lifted his head and raised an eyebrow. "There's to be
another hunt? Already?"

"She's coming along nicely," Prudence said. "See for yourself."

She led Trelawney to the rear of Huntshead Manor, and they looked down
from a window to the dog kennels. The dogs, all thirty of them, were
going crazy.

Billings, the gamekeeper and master of hounds, was pulling behind his
tractor a wire cage on wheels, and in it was a naked woman, and draped
over it were the carcasses of four foxes. Up and down outside the
kennels Billings drove the cage, while the dogs threw themselves at
their own cages in a frenzy to get out.

"Remind me," Trelawney said.

"Your people brought her in," Prudence said. "Some tree fancier, I
think. Young women these days, the things they get up to."

"Oh, right," Trelawney said. "I remember her now. Pretty little thing
with glasses."

They watched the pretty little thing, glasses long gone, clawing
desperately at her cage. She may have been screaming, but the dogs
were making too much noise.

"I have the St. Swithin's fete here this weekend," Prudence said.
"Maybe we'll have the hunt the weekend after."

"I could do with some fun," Trelawney said. "All work and no play
makes this Dick a dull boy."

* * *

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