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From: drspin@austarnet.com.au (DrSpin)
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Subject: {ASSM} Little Flashmarket (Day 11 of 16) - various Ruthie's Club authors
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Date: Mon,  4 Oct 2004 11:10:03 -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:

101. Bob Turns Himself In
(297 words)
by Jordan Shelbourne

Bob Brentwood was numb.

It started when he finally staggered into the rail station 
only to learn from the station mistress that no one was 
allowed to buy tickets out. Something about a detective 
inspector.

Well, no: it had started when he learned Laura had been 
unfaithful. But Bob wasn't letting himself think about that.

Then Anne Thomson found him wandering. She talked to him, 
calmly and sensibly. He listened. She told him that he had to 
talk to the inspector. If he hadn't done anything wrong, there 
was nothing to worry about, was there? But best he leave Laura 
alone. Laura needed to find her own solution.

He wept at that.

The vicar walked by. Bob looked at him. "This town has done me 
in," he said. "It's the Devil's work."

"Be brave," Anne told him that night in her guest bedroom. 
"You're doing a good thing." With expert hands and mouth she 
brought his cock to hardness and fucked him. It didn't matter. 
Laura was gone.

No matter how brutally he fucked Anne, how long, he didn't 
come. That part was numb.

He cried into her neck afterwards because now he had been 
unfaithful, too, and he was still leaving Laura. A brief 
interview and he could buy a ticket out of here.

When Anne Thomson came up the next morning, he accepted her 
touches and returned them, doing everything Laura had ever 
liked, and more. He didn't come until he had Anne from behind, 
her cries muffled by a pillow, and his eyes half-closed so her 
back was Laura's.

The dam burst, and he wailed as he came.

"Oh, that was good," Anne said. "What a pity you're going 
away."

Bob felt empty. Of come, of tears, of love.

"I'm ready now," he said.

* * *

102. Ian Makes a Decision
(300 words)
by Howard Barton

Ian Winston was sitting at his desk, looking down into an open 
drawer, when he heard his secretary's voice.

"I'm just going to go for lunch, Ian," she said. "Can I bring 
you anything?"

"No, thanks, Carol. I'm fine," Ian said, closing the drawer. 
"But I might have a ten minute nap. Will you lock the outer 
door when you go?"

"Roger wilco, skipper," she said.

As soon as he heard Carol's key turn in the lock, Ian opened 
the drawer again. Inside was a small wireless receiver linked 
to a miniature digital recorder. Ian picked up a pair of mini-
headphones and put them on.

He heard his wife Pepper moaning softly, "Yes, oh yes, just 
like that. That feels so good!" and knew someone was licking 
her pussy. Almost breathless with excitement, Ian unzipped his 
trousers and began to masturbate, his cock huge and hard in 
his fist.

Ian had loved listening to the sound of a woman having sex 
since he was 13 and knew enough about electronics to install 
tiny microphones in the bedrooms of his mother and older 
sister. Without fail, one or the other was fucked every day. 
But what he hadn't expected, and found powerfully erotic, was 
that both women had a lover in common: his father.

Now he found listening to his wife being fucked just as 
powerfully erotic. The rhythm of his masturbation matched 
Pepper's moans of delight, and he knew he would come when she 
did.

"Yes, oh God, yes!" Pepper screamed in climax, and Ian cried 
out as semen gushed from his cock over his fingers.

A moment later, Ian heard Pepper whisper: "Thank you for my 
wonderful gift."

A man's voice responded: "My pleasure." 

Ian removed the headphones. It was time to confront that 
womanizing bastard, Andy Brock.

* * *

103. Dickens Passes The Case
(299 words)
by Jordan Shelbourne

Dickens was tempted to answer the phone even though Mrs. 
Lawford was not quite finished negotiating a lower fee for her 
husband's will, her head still bobbing up and down the length 
of his penis. She was not as skilled as some, but he would 
come soon anyway. Dickens was a gourmand of sex, not a 
gourmet.

The phone rang again five minutes later, before Dickens had 
tucked himself back in but after Mrs. Lawford had reapplied 
her lipstick. "Little and Dickens, Solicitors.  Dickens 
speaking."

"Bryce? It's Bob Brentwood." The man sounded frantic. Dickens 
remembered him -- standard transaction, pretty wife, no chance 
of a discount there and then.

"Bob, what can I do for you?" He waved Mrs. Lawford out.

"They've arrested me for Tom Redman's murder!"

"Oh, dear," Dickens intoned solemnly. "You know I don't handle 
criminal cases, Bob."

"I need a barrister. They'll send me up the river. I'll be 
some Scottish thug's bitch."

Little Flashmarket simply had no call for barristers. Most 
people settled affairs themselves. Two barristers were 
sufficient for the entire town.

"Someone good," said Brentwood. "Not someone local. For pity's 
sake, not a local."

Dickens was mildly offended by this, but clients were rarely 
rational. He flipped through his Rolodex for the names of 
women barristers. They were ordered by bust size and Dickens 
never forgot a set of tits.

In Winchester. Diana Slade. Stunning rack, even in business 
suits. Hadn't given in yet, and throwing a little business her 
way might mean he could give her the business later.

"Diana Slade," Dickens said. "I'll give her a call right now."

"You need to tell her I'm innocent."

"Bob, I don't think there's anyone in town who doesn't believe 
you're an innocent." He thought about her tits. "I'll go talk 
to her personally."

* * *

104. Pepper's Coitus Interrupted
(300 words)
by Howard Barton

Pepper Winston didn't know what upset her more -- the fact 
that the microphone meant her husband Ian now had conclusive 
proof that she was being unfaithful, and with whom, or that 
Andy Brock was so totally unconcerned that he was standing 
nude in the kitchen as he drank the coffee she'd made.

"Andy!" Pepper hissed. "For God's sake, Ian could be here any 
minute! I'm still his wife, you know." She was wearing a robe 
and pulled the cord tied at her waist even tighter as she 
stood up and took her cup to the sink.

"I do know, darling," Andy said, leaning close to her and 
whispering in her ear. "That's what makes it so delightful. 
Buggering the blushing little bride who loves my big dick 
sliding back and forth past her sphincter, the greedy girl."

Pepper shivered because she knew what Andy was saying was 
true. Unfortunately he took it as a sign of desire and moved 
behind her, trapping her against the sink as he reached down 
and took the hem of her robe in his hands and lifted it slowly 
to bare her buttocks to his lustful gaze.

"Please, Andy. Not now."

"Yes, now," Andy said. "You know you want it again." He bent 
his knees, rubbing his cock along the furrow until it was 
positioned on Pepper's anus, slippery with K-Y and his sperm. 
Then he straightened his legs and slid his prick into her 
rectum, at the same time reaching round to pull open her robe 
and fill his hands with her huge, bare breasts. 

Pepper sighed and closed her eyes in pleasure. 

And then she nearly collapsed in shock as she heard her 
husband's voice behind her.

"Dammit, Brock," Ian Winston snarled. "Get your prick out of 
my wife's bum!"

* * *

105. A Dash of Cinnamon
(297 words)
by Desdmona Dodd

Detective Inspector Hugh Crombie was feeling lucky. His loins 
were seeing as much action as in his youth. His gout was 
clearing, and now he'd stumbled across a vibrant redhead, who 
liked to talk - Cinnamon Whitlake. "I'm just home from 
sabbatical," she'd said.

There was a bit of mystery there, DI Crombie was sure of it. 
Tomorrow he would investigate the background of Miss Whitlake. 
But for now, he'd be content to pump her, first for 
information, as any respectable Inspector would do, and later, 
for medicinal purposes. This was Little Flashmarket, after 
all. The only spot in Hampshire where a man could fuck a chit 
young enough to be his daughter and not have to worry about 
repercussions. A lovely town.

"Cinnamon is an unusual name. Is your mum a chef?"

"Huh-uh. She just did most of her shagging in the condiment 
pantry at Huntshead Manor. She's gone now."

"I'm sorry." Hugh reflexively made the sign of the cross. 

"Oh, she's not dead. She's just moved to Canard, waitresses at 
the Clive and Coffin."

"Three star beer at the Clive," Hugh said aloud, but no 
waitress came to memory. "So, you said Pepper Winston is your 
sister?"

"Older sister, yes. I hope I'm as lucky as she is when I get 
married."

"Ah, so her husband Ian, he's a good catch, nice fellow, and 
all that?"

"Ian? Oh, he's just regular like most men, I suppose, but his 
name is Winston."

"I don't follow. Are the Winston's a good family then?"

"No silly, don't you see? Winston. Whitlake. No need to change 
your monogram." Cinnamon gazed wistfully at her ale. "My only 
hope is one of the Watson boys."

DI Crombie realised respectable information gathering had come 
to a close. It was time to move on.

* * *

106. Ian Sees Red
(295 words)
by Howard Barton

Ian Winston might have found listening to his wife being 
fucked extremely erotic, but seeing it happen in front of him 
was very different.

The sight of Andy Brock standing behind Pepper, repeatedly 
thrusting his prick glistening with lube and semen into her 
beautiful behind while he filled his hands to overflowing with 
the weight of her breasts, made Ian see red with rage. He 
wanted to assault Andy Brock, and do it so the philanderer 
would never again be able to seduce someone else's wife, much 
less his own beloved Pepper.

But knew he had to be careful. One rash act in a moment of 
fury, and he might well spend the rest of his life behind 
bars. Or worse, lose Andy Brock's accounting business.

"Just stop that. . . now!" Ian demanded.

"No, old chap, I don't think I will," Andy replied, speaking 
with difficulty as he luxuriated in buggering Pepper. "You 
invited me to partake of this delicious morsel initially, and 
Pepper has been inviting me on her own behalf ever since."

At a loss for words in the face of Brock's defiance, Ian 
appealed to his wife. "Pepper, stop him!" he cried.

"Oh -- God -- Ian -- darling -- I -- " 

Ian watched as she reached back to pull open the cheeks of her 
buttocks, enabling Andy to thrust even deeper into her rectum, 
his prick making loud squelching noises as his balls slapped 
against the wet lips of her cunt.

Ian was bewildered by Pepper's lack of resistance. "Pepper," 
he said weakly. "Don't you love me?"

"Of course I do, darling, but. . . " 

"That's IT!" Ian shouted. "I won't watch this spectacle a 
moment longer. I'm going to the pub!" He banged the kitchen 
door behind him. "And I may be gone some time!"

* * *

107. Diana, Princess of the Bar
(297 words)
by Neil Anthony

Superbly conditioned barrister Diana Slade zipped down to 
Little Flashmarket in her superbly conditioned 1973 V12 E-type 
Jaguar Series 3 --- silk black, of course, twin open seater, 
with wire wheels -- to interview her client, Bob Brentwood. 
Her career was on fast track, and she was hoping for murder 
with attitude.

Bob, out on bail and shacked up in a room at the Flashmarket 
Arms, felt his spirits soar when he set his eyes on Diana 
Slade. Wow. Eyes the colour of flecked agate, dark hair long 
and straight, and a figure to die for. But more than that. Bob 
could see immediately that she was a winner.

Ms. Slade's spirits dropped darkly, however. She could see 
immediately that her client was a loser.

Her eyes swept him like a vacuum cleaner. "I was hoping you'd 
be black, or at least Muslim," she said.

"No, I'm just innocent," Bob said.

A loser, Diana decided definitely. She'd have to come up with 
something to grab the spotlight. Police corruption, 
bureaucratic bungling, maybe a misogynist judge. There had to 
be an issue. She'd find it. She planned to enter politics at 
32, and she would be 29 next month. She wouldn't be wasting a 
week in court on an insignificant client. She'd find something 
to make a splash.

Meanwhile, she'd spotted a strapping yokel in the bar on her 
way to Brentwood's room. Big, handsome, cocky, stupid. All 
action, no talk. Just the way she liked them. She'd fuck him 
and throw him away. No sense in wasting the drive down.

"We'll talk again," she said to Brentwood.

Bob blinked at her. That was it? "But I'm innocent," he said.

Diana Slade, bored, left him to his irrelevant innocence. It 
was time to fuck a farm boy.

* * * 

108. Peter Provides a Solution
(298 words)
by Howard Barton

"Another whisky?" Peter Willing, publican of the Flashmarket 
Arms, asked Ian Winston.

"Atsh nice," said Ian, the six he'd already drunk making him 
slur his words. "You're a nish man, Pee-Der. You wooden fuck 
'nother man's wife, woodew?"

"Is that the problem, Mr Winston?" Peter asked, trying his 
hardest to keep a straight face. "Has someone been making 
advances towards your lovely wife?"

He knew bloody well someone had, and who it was. Like most of 
the men in the village, he'd rented the video and marvelled at 
Pepper Winston's voluptuous body shaking with ecstasy as Andy 
Brock laboured in the tightly gripping sheath of her back 
passage.

"We're frendsh!" Ian cried as Peter put the drink in front 
him. "Call me Ian."

Peter leaned closer to Ian. "We have a way with these things 
in the village, Ian," he said and several of the nearby 
drinkers murmured in agreement. "If a man has a grievance, 
then he comes here to sort it out."

"Wod, over drinksh? Bet I can drink you under the table, that 
short of thing?"

"No, not quite," said Peter and he led Ian over to above the 
fireplace to something covered by a small curtain. He drew the 
curtain back and revealed a small wooden plaque.

Ian read the words on the plaque:

"When a woman cannot choose,
'twixt her husband and another,
Then must the two here fight,
That the winner be her lover."

"We've been settling disputes by bare knuckle fighting since 
the pub was built in 1610," Peter said. "You just go and 
challenge the bastard who's wronged you. If he refuses to 
fight, the whole village will brand him a coward."

"That's shit!" Ian roared, and rushed out into the night, 
leaving the pub's patrons roaring helplessly with laughter.

* * *

109. Cinnamon, Let Me In.
(295 words)
by Desdmona Dodd

Lunchtime, Andy Brock's favourite time of day. Routine 
quickies with Pepper Winston were becoming a habit. He licked 
his lips in anticipation. Strolling through the front door of 
the Winston home, he called out, "Baby, it's me." He'd quit 
knocking weeks ago.

But no Pepper. Instead, he was greeted by an auburn-haired 
beauty clutching a butcher's knife. Andy did a quick 
assessment: great tits, rounded ass, fuckable. "Who are you?" 
he asked.

She waved the knife in front of her, steel blade gleaming. 
"That's a question you should be answering." 

Andy knew when to back off, if temporarily. "I'm Andy Brock."

"You're Andy Brock?"

"Do I know you?"

"Pepper's my sister. She tells me everything."

Andy relaxed. Pepper had mentioned a sister. Cinnamon 
Whitlake. Now he could see the similarity -- same nose, same 
chin. But Cinnamon was feistier -- topaz eyes, flushed cheeks 
-- Andy immediately wanted her. "She tells you everything?" he 
smarmed, inching closer.

"Yes. Everything." Her breasts heaved. "Stay where you are."

Visions of threesomes -- Cinnamon, him, Pepper -- danced in 
Andy's head. He'd have her, all right. He only had to turn on 
the charm.

He unzipped his pants. "Check it out, baby." His prick surged 
above his trolleys. "Surely Pepper's told you how good I am."

"Keep your bum tickler away from me, Mr. Brock. You may plug 
my sister, but you're not coming near me!"

"But I'm a winner, baby. The best sex you'll ever have."

"You lose with me!"

"I don't like losing," he quipped, thrusting his pelvis 
forward.

Cinnamon glanced at Andy's cock, the purple head, the engorged 
shaft, and finally the accompanying knackers. "You should 
learn to cut your losses, Andy Brock," she said, raising her 
eyes and gripping the butcher's knife tighter. "Or I'll cut 
them for you!"

* * *

110. Swif Piti� for Val
(300 words)
by Howard Barton

"And then the drunken bastard slapped me and demanded 
satisfaction," Andy Brock said to his wife, Val, as he helped 
himself to a large gin and tonic. "I mean, how could I bloody 
climax with him raving some rubbish about 'the winner be her 
lover'? Put me right off."

Val knew Andy was being deliberately callous, but she didn't 
dare protest. The reason she did not, and why she accepted his 
philandering, was that she was deeply, viscerally, scared of 
her husband.

"What will you do?"

"Fight him, of course. I've seen that plaque in Willing's pub. 
Just thought it was a bloody joke. I mean, bare knuckle 
fighting? How positively medieval!"

"Swif piti�, as I understand it," Val said, her voice cool.

"Fuck's that mean?"

She could see Andy was simmering with anger as he finished his 
drink and poured another.

"Without pity. Until one of you is beaten senseless."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Andy said, and Val could see 
he was directing his rage and frustration at her. "Irritating, 
really. He marched in just as I was about to come. Left me 
feeling quite backed up."

Val shuddered as Andy put his drink down on the coffee table 
and walked over to where she was sitting on the sofa. He 
grabbed her legs and pulled them up and open, causing her 
skirt to ride up her thighs and expose her stockings and 
suspender belt.

"Mmm," Andy said as he unzipped and bared his already hard 
prick. "You know I love you wearing those."

"Andy, no, not like this," Val said, tears in her eyes.

"Bloody gorgeous asshole Pepper Winston's got," Andy said, as 
he reached down and pulled down Val's panties. "Sucks the come 
right out of me. Just like yours is going to do, my love."

* * *

(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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