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From: drspin@austarnet.com.au (DrSpin)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 7 Oct 2004 12:25:02 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Little Flashmarket (Day 15 of 16) - various Ruthie's Club authors
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Date: Thu,  7 Oct 2004 16:10:05 -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:

141. Pepper's Personal Care Program
(299 words)
by Howard Barton

Pepper Winston's breasts were swollen with pride. Her beloved 
husband Ian had defended her honour and bashed beastly Andy 
Brock in front of the whole village. Now everyone would know 
that she was a wronged woman who had been taken advantage of, 
sometimes several times in one day.

Ian was lying on the bed, a cold compress across his brow, his 
head throbbing from the only blow Brock had managed to land. 
Dr Gerry Reede had reassured Pepper that Ian was quite all 
right, and given her his private telephone number in case she 
felt in need of a doctor's care and attention.

In addition to providing a room for Ian to recover from the 
fight, Peter Willing had thoughtfully provided a bottle of 
muscle rub in case of injury, and Pepper decided she would 
take her husband's medical care into her own hands. She poured 
some of the rub into her palms and began to smooth it over 
Ian's chest.

"Mmm, that feels nice," he said from under the compress.

Pepper was so proud of her husband that she decided she would 
rub in the soothing lotion in a far more novel way than simply 
using her fingers. She unbuttoned her blouse and pressed the 
soft weight of her huge bare breasts into the warm liquid.

"Mmm, that feels even nicer," Ian said.

Pepper reached down and unbuttoned Ian's pants, running his 
zipper down. The circles she was making with her breasts took 
on less of a circular and more of an up and down motion.

The room filled with slippery sounds. Then it wasn't Ian 
making the 'mmm' sounds but Pepper, followed by wet slurping 
sounds and then, finally, gulping sounds which went on for at 
least a minute.

Pepper was nothing if not a grateful wife.

* * *

142. Diana Holds Court
(285 words)
by Neil Anthony

Bob Brentwood was thrilled with his glamorous barrister, Diana 
Slade. "A fragile spider's web of conspiracy theories," she 
said, derisively denouncing the prosecution's case against him 
in the Crown Court.

Bob nodded his head enthusiastically. True, all true.

Then things started to go awry.

"He offered me money to take my clothes off," Grace Hunter 
told the court.

"He told me to take my teeth out and suck his cock," Doris 
sobbed in her wheelchair.

"He was always skulking around the x-rated section," Becky 
said cheerfully.

Bob wrote an agitated note to his barrister. Lies, all lies.

Diana Slade, however, cutting a dashing figure in a tight 
black suit that emphasised her splendid breasts, and sporting 
a wig with a cheeky ponytail, seemed more intent on picking a 
fight with the judge.

"Perhaps Your Honour would like me to speak up?" she shouted, 
causing the venerable Justice Dodds to jump guiltily out of 
his pleasant reverie.

The judge muttered to himself and shuffled his papers.

"What was that?" asked Diana, who had ears like a predatory 
cat. "Did Your Honour say something about tits?"

Dodds glared at her. "Do you wish to cross-examine, Ms. 
Slade?"

Diana waved her hand contemptuously. "These whimsical yokels? 
I think not, Your Honour."

Bob was aghast. It was all lies. He never...

Then his blood froze. The prosecution was calling Laura, his 
wife, to the stand.

"Things changed in Little Flashmarket," Laura said, dabbing at 
her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "He didn't want to have sex 
with me any more. He seemed to have other interests."

The spectator's gallery went ooh and aah, and somebody 
distinctly said shame.

Bob wrote another furious note to his barrister. Lies, all 
lies...

* * *

143. Cinnamon's Juicy Fruit
(294 words)
by Howard Barton

Naturally promiscuous, Cinnamon Whitlake was often sexually 
aroused. But even she was in danger of being overwhelmed by 
the evening's triple assault on her senses.

Moving through the throng to stand ringside as was her right, 
Cinnamon had distinctly felt someone take advantage of her 
rather too short skirt during the big fight. It had been an 
enjoyable grope. The owner of the mysterious hand had 
obviously appreciated the beauty of her backside, because he'd 
spent a generous amount of time following the curves of her 
derriere before reaching the target. Try as she might, 
Cinnamon couldn't suppress a squeal of pleasure at the point 
of entry, and she had looked round to see if she could catch 
the culprit. Men on all sides winked pleasantly at her, but 
the intruder had quickly withdrawn and she was none the wiser.

Then there was the guilty thrill of watching two men battle 
for the honour of her sister. Knowing Pepper's sexually 
submissive nature, Cinnamon wouldn't have traded two 
bottletops for that, never mind go several rounds. 
Fortunately, the fight had ended in less than one.

And finally there was the dishy vet, Nigel, one of those who 
had winked pleasantly at her. Surely it wasn't him? Oh God, 
thought Cinnamon, aware that the trickle in her pussy had 
turned into a torrent. Not only were her pussylips positively 
dripping, but the inner surfaces of her thighs were as well.

God, she needed a fuck.

"Nigel, I feel a little faint," she managed to yell in his 
ear.

"My car's outside. Care for a nightcap at my place?"

"That would be lovely," Cinnamon said, wondering what excuse 
she could find to lift Nigel's fingers to her nose in the hope 
they carried a very familiar scent.

* * *

144. Alice Through the Glass, Darkly
(298 words)
by Alexis Siefert

There was a howl in the wind that woke her. It didn't happen 
often; Alice drew much of her strength from power of the 
winds. She normally slept through the most violent of Little 
Flashmarket's storms (and if ever there was a town for violent 
storms, Flashmarket was it), but lately the direction of the 
winds hadn't been at all comforting.

It wasn't right. There are, despite the most persistent 
relativist's claims, some universal rights and wrongs, and 
Alice had always kept herself on the side of the right. And 
what the village was doing to Bob Brentwood wasn't right. 
Things in Little Flashmarket tended to spin out of control, 
but not usually like this.
 
She sat up in bed fingering the jade teardrop resting between 
her breasts. She'd given poor Mr. Brentwood the sister stone.  
Hopefully he still carried it -- it would help things 
considerably once things started. Bob hadn't killed anyone. 
Bob's only sin was his naive, unbending rigidity. She thought 
momentarily about Bob's rigidity--she'd seen it in her shop. 
He'd responded to her, and dammit, she felt responsible for 
him. There were whispers he was going to spend a decade, maybe 
more, paying for his inability to adjust.   

She waved her hand, and the candle next to the bed flickered 
to life as she reached for a hand mirror. She huffed a warm 
breath over the silvery surface and dragged her fingertip 
through the foggy image. Muted orange heat reflected against 
the mirror, and it brought to her mind a face. She nodded. 
Perfect. He wasn't, she now knew, her soul mate -- she was 
beginning to think she lacked that essential component needed 
for having a soul mate -- but he was a good fuck and a good 
boy and he'd be useful.  

Very useful.

* * *

145. Brigitte's Proper Priorities
(300 words)
by Neil Anthony

Bob Brentwood paced the confines of his cell below the 
courthouse, waiting in great agitation for Diana Slade, his 
barrister, to answer his request for a visit. The trial was 
going terribly. A stream of witnesses had testified that he 
was a suspicious lurker, a shifty outsider, a sexual deviant, 
and it was all lies. Diana seemed oblivious to it, and it had 
to be put right.

Even Laura, his wife, was part of the wicked conspiracy. He 
could see that now. She had turned against him. Little 
Flashmarket had corrupted her.

Bob heard the clicking of high heels in the corridor leading 
to the cells, and his spirits lifted. Diana Slade was 
brilliant. She'd get it sorted.

But it wasn't Diana who was visiting. It was that pushy real 
estate woman, Brigitte Spiewak.

"It was awful what your wife did to you," Brigitte said, 
taking his hand sympathetically. "My heart went out to you."

Bob felt a tear spring to his eye. Someone cared. He took 
Brigitte comfortingly into his arms.

"The house is in your name," Brigitte murmured into his 
shoulder. "I'll sell it for you before she puts in a claim."

Bob jumped away from her in alarm.
 
"Look, you're going down," Brigitte said. "You'll get ten 
years, minimum."

"I can sell the house in one day," she continued. "I'll invest 
it in a property trust for you."

Brigitte produced a sheaf of papers and a pen. "Sign here," 
she said. "Don't let the slut bitch take what's rightfully 
yours."

Bob stared at her in horror.

"She's fucking half the town while you're locked up," Brigitte 
said. "You do know that, don't you? I mean, that's why you 
killed Tom Redman and Mike Matabele, surely."

Bob started shouting hysterically, and the guard came and took 
Brigitte away.
  
* * *

146. Nigel Comes Clean
(300 words)
by Howard Barton

Cinnamon Whitlake shivered with desire as Nigel Frampton 
pulled into the driveway leading to the house where he lived 
and ran his veterinary practice. God, she thought, handsome, 
sexy, and rich. 

She followed Nigel into the hallway and unbuttoned her coat, 
handing it to him just as a large German Shepherd padded into 
view. Attracted by the scent of Cinnamon's arousal, the dog 
stuck its snout under her skirt and between her legs. Cinnamon 
blushed at the dog's boldness and waited for Nigel to rescue 
her, but he only said, "Stop that, Rex," and batted it away, 
adding, "Do go on through to the living room. I'll just be a 
minute."

Slightly unnerved, Cinnamon sat on the sofa and looked around. 
Shelves filled with DVDs and videos took up a corner of the 
room. Every title was a western.

"Cognac?" Nigel asked when he returned.

"Please."

Nigel handed her a brandy balloon and then sat next to her, 
his eyes meeting hers and drifting down to the stiff tips of 
her nipples pressing against her blouse and the expanse of 
creamy thigh she was displaying. She knew if her skirt rode up 
any more he would see her shaven pussy.

Cinnamon nodded her head at the movies. "Did you want to grow 
up to be John Wayne?"

"Nah, I just loved westerns as a kid. Which led to an interest 
in horses and I became a vet to look after them."

Cinnamon sipped her cognac. "Nigel?" she said softly. "Did you 
feel me up in the pub?"

"God, no," he said and laughed. "That'd be Ken Pickthorne. 
Wandering hands, I'm afraid."

"Oh," said Cinnamon, disappointed.

Nigel reached out and rested his hand on her thigh. "Not that 
I wouldn't love to. . . but. . . in a nice warm bed?"

"Ride 'em, cowboy," Cinnamon whispered.

* * *

147. Laura's Loyalties
(288 words)
by Jordan Shelbourne

Laura Brentwood wasn't quite sure why she was visiting Bob in 
Cell H.

She had, after all, turned him over to the police. She hadn't 
lied, exactly, but she had told the truth to put Bob in the 
worst possible light. She had thrown over her marriage vows 
for the life in Little Flashmarket. "Ought to be called Little 
Rutting," Bob had said one night.

But Bob had been decent. She had been married to him. She 
supposed she owed him an apology.

The guard waved her along. "Cell H, ma'am. He's already got a 
visitor."

His solicitor, no doubt.

The problem with Bob was that he was decent. He didn't 
understand wickedness, the way Laura knew she delighted in 
wickedness in her soul. Decent paid the bills but it lacked 
excitement. She had thought that moving to a small town would 
reinforce her desire to be good, instead of eliminating it.

She heard the moans as she rounded the corner.

Bob was supine on his bunk. "Hello, Laura," he said between 
thrusts, as he raised his hips to shove his cock deeper into 
Anne Thomson's pussy. "I'm occupied."

Laura thought she saw tears in his eyes.

Anne didn't speak. She was busy coming violently and 
repeatedly.

Laura's pulse quickened. She wondered whether prisons 
supported conjugal visits. Bob had suddenly become interesting 
again.

"I've come to apologize," she told him.

Anne slumped forward for a moment, offering one of her nipples 
to Bob's mouth. "You'll have to wait. I'm going to drain him 
dry. It'll pacify him."

Laura undressed and neatly folded her clothes before sitting 
naked on the bench at the edge of the cell.

Laura was a team player, but Anne was one of the captains.

* * *

148. Cinnamon is Mounted
(299 words)
by Howard Barton

Cinnamon Whitlake considered herself a patron of the 
performing arts. Pops stars, movie actors and opera singers 
had all given some of their finest performances between her 
legs, emerging to a rapturous reception. But not even Oscar 
and Grammy winners could match the expertise in ensuring she 
ascended the peaks of oral sexual ecstasy that a humble 
country vet was currently demonstrating.

Barely had she unbuttoned her blouse and settled back on Nigel 
Frampton's bed than he had her legs waving in the air, her 
knees pressed back against her bare breasts, and his face 
buried deep in the folds of her smooth shaven pussy lips. To 
Cinnamon's amazement, her first orgasm occurred within a 
minute of Nigel blowing gently over the super-sensitive folds, 
and she came in great shuddering heaves, flooding his mouth, 
cheeks and chin with warm honey.

Nigel treated her private parts like a three course meal. For 
hors d'oeuvres he sucked her clit to maximum stiffness and 
then licked it so gently Cinnamon almost fainted. The main 
course lay in the depths of her pussywalls that spasmed and 
closed around the thick tongue which pressed them open and 
lapped over their sensitive surfaces. She thought he lingered 
a while longer than the tight muscle of her rosehole deserved, 
and she suspected he was savouring the scent as much as the 
rich flavour of her rectum. But, all in all, it was gourmet 
feasting that left her quivering, moaning, shaking and 
desperate to be fucked.

Within moments Nigel's clothes were discarded. His lips met 
hers, his cock met her lips, Cinnamon moaned and climaxed. 
Again.

Nigel entered her with delicious slowness. Inch after inch 
after inch after inch. . . 

My God, thought Cinnamon. Being fond of horses is one thing, 
but this is going too bloody far!

* * *

149. Bennett's Witchy Woman
(291 words)
by Desdmona Dodd

In the cluttered aisles of Twice Told Tales, books bought & 
sold. Talismans & Spells, Alice foresaw it all. Not through a 
crystal ball, or the tarot, but in her mind's eye. Searching 
for her soul mate in Little Flashmarket had meant hours of 
casting spells and meditating. 
Bennett Williams was her answer. He straggled into her shop, 
bringing with him the effluvia of street life.

"May I help you?" said Alice.

Bennett, ignoring the shelves of books, concentrated on the 
pentagram etched in the floor. "You a witch?" he asked.

"I am," said Alice.

"Where's your broom?" 

"I ride a lot of things."

A barely perceptible cock of Bennett's brow was followed by a 
smile. An hour later, when rutting sex had brought neither to 
orgasm, Alice showed Bennett the palm wax candle she'd been 
saving for a special occasion. The flash in Bennett's eye gave 
her courage. She held the candle firm and spoke the 
incantation:

Blazing earth and cackling flame
Lend us light, yet keep it tame
Strike the match and light the fire
Fill us both with love's desire

The candle's wick suddenly sparked, hissing and snapping like 
an awakened beast. Bennett jumped. 

"Don't be afraid," Alice crooned. "It makes me hot."

She tipped the candle over her naked breasts. Hot wax 
spattered on milky flesh. Drip. Drip. Dribble. Down to her 
nipples. Bennett's penis jutted spryly between his legs.

"Let's try again," whispered Alice, handing the candle to 
Bennett. 

She positioned herself on the floor, in the circle of the 
pentagram, and opened her legs. Bennett, white-knuckled and 
panting, knelt between. 

Filled with love's desire, Alice rejoiced. She thought she'd 
found her soul mate.

Bennett, coddling the flame like an Olympic torch, knew he'd 
found his.

* * *

150. Dodds Hears The Arguments
(294 words)
by Jordan Shelbourne

This Brentwood case was proving difficult for His Honour, 
Leslie Dodds.

"Who might you be?" Dodds said to the young woman he found in 
his rooms. She was pretty and nervously fiddling with the 
buttons on her blouse.

"Estelle Willing, sir," she said as she accidentally tore off 
the buttons and let her blouse fall open to expose her bare 
breasts.

Dodds was already half hard from an afternoon of imagining 
Diana Slade ready to spank him. "Willing and able, I presume," 
he murmured as Estelle lifted his robes to finish the job with 
her mouth. 

He was over seventy -- his cock folded when she straddled him 
and stuffed it in, but the slick tight grip soon stiffened his 
resolve, rather like a nanny's firm hand helps a child across 
a busy street.

She did most of the work, but Dodds had most of the pleasure. 
Afterwards, he asked: "Your connection is. . .?"

"Daughter of the publican, Your Honour. Just thanking you for 
keeping dangerous killers off the streets. Dad says they're 
bad for business."

At the bench the next day, he felt hands lifting his robe and 
another set of lips working him to hardness. The next time 
Slade sharply reprimanded him for looking at her tits, Dodds 
came. Twice in twenty-four hours! Marvellous! He would have 
called Slade on contempt but he couldn't actually focus for a 
few moments.

He dropped his pen and whispered: "And you are. . .?"

"Just a member of the Committee to Free Bob Brentwood."

He nodded and straightened up to listen to the Crown's next 
witness. After a while the Committee's hands got busy again, 
and then her mouth.

Difficult case, thought Dodds. Might take weeks to try.

Dodds hoped he could keep it up until he rendered a verdict.

* * *

(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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