Hello, and welcome to the eighth issue of
Tales from Snippettsville
, Short Stories From A Small Town.
If you want to know what it's all about, go to
Snippettsville Group
If you have any feedback, and let's face it, as writers we all love feedback, just click on the author's name, in blue at the head of their piece. If you want to make a general comment on the group, click on the group link above.
Contents of Issue 8
Get Out Of Town
by Quasimodem
Mini-Mart Mate
by Alex de Kok
Sam And Janet's Evening
by PierceStreet
Sian Speaks
by Perdita
Illustrations
Banner and Header Picture, (c)Quasimodem, 2003
Footer Picture, (c)Alex de Kok, 2003
Now read on...
* * * * *
Get Out Of Town
by
Quasimodem
She had been popular in Snippettsville, but the years had been unkind. Not that she looked old, but she'd been marked by her profession. It was that appearance which alerted Tom Holt.
"This way, bitch?"
"My room's over. . . ."
"Ain't gonna be no hotel room, bitch," the man snarled, "the alley'll do."
"Here?"
The man handed the girl a crumpled bill. "Yeah, here, bitch!"
She was slammed against an alley wall, her top shoved up, her panties yanked down beneath her miniskirt. Within seconds he was inside her.
"Now . . . I got . . . you, yah filthy . . . bitch!" he snarled, ramming himself within her. "Think I don't . . . remember you . . . bitch? Too good for . . . the likes . . . of me, yeah?"
Slammed repeatedly, the girl bit her lip to keep from sobbing. Tears trickled down her face, as his foul epitaphs grew viler, the sex more violent, until finally he climaxed.
"Now," the man demanded, reclaiming the wad of bills, "I'll keep my money. Others here remember you, and how you left to be a movie star. They'll all pay to do you. I'll be your manager, see? Your job is to act like you love it."
"Don't move, mister!" a new voice commanded from the shadows.
Cold steel at his temple insured the blasphemous man's compliance.
"Give back the girl's money. Good boy. Now, hand me your wallet. That's better."
The gunman opened the wallet and emptied it of cash, handing the bills to the girl.
"Seems like you earned this, Miss," then he snarled, "Do you know me, Deffler?"
"Fucking Archie McDougall!" the blasphemer declared.
"Correct! After you left the country club, Chief Holt examined the cards you left behind. Bad move. Nobody likes a cheat. My advice is don't stop running until you've put a couple of states between yourself and the Chief.
"Our chief hates cheaters. Probably arrest you under some bunko law. I just want to save the town the cost of a trial. Now move!"
"And leave you all the fucking money!" the blasphemer sneered.
"It ain't your money!" the constable snapped. "Another word, and I'll put a bullet through you for resisting arrest. Do yourself a favour. Shut the fuck up, and move! If I see you tomorrow, it's prison for you, bucko!"
The blaspheming man made a broken dash from the alley. He'd tried to act nonchalant, but the revolver, and Constable McDougall's cavalier attitude preyed too heavily on his mind.
"You must be new," McDougall declared to the hooker, "to follow a man like Ted Deffler down a dark alley."
"Honest! I never did this before," the girl proclaimed, "I hadn't any option. I'm broke, and nobody would hire me."
"There's five thousand dollars in Deffler's wad," Constable McDougall calculated. "That should buy you room, board, and a more conservative wardrobe, in some other vicinity.
"Our chief has a special bus fare fund for people like you. It'll take you all the way into the city."
"I won't see Tom!" the hooker cried in alarm.
"Nah. He's too busy getting statements from the marks at the Country Club. I'm stuck escorting ladies of the night out of town.
"Com'on, hurry. You've just enough time to grab your duds before the next bus leaves."
*
Constable McDougall watched from the squad car's front seat, as the hooker's bus pulled away from the depot.
"Unorthodox," Archie commented approvingly, "and it rid us of two sources of vice."
"Damn it, Arch, what was I supposed to do?" Tom Holt's voice snapped from the squad car's shadowy back seat.
"Lana Tilson was my date to the Junior Prom. I can't arrest her for solicitation."
* * * * *
Mini-Mart Mate
by
Alex de Kok
"Sally?" The stranger was hesitant
"No, I'm Al, Sally's sister."
His face cleared. "You're - "
" - Twins? Yep, sure are." She smiled at the stranger. Middle-aged, but well-kept; a little rugged, even. "You want to see Sally?"
The man nodded. "I'm Chuck Mellor. I told Sally I'd stop by."
Alison pointed. "She's having her break. You'll find her in the stockroom."
Chuck smiled. "Thanks." He moved toward the rear of the store.
Alison checked the CCTV monitor under the counter. The aisles were clear. She sometimes wondered why she and Sally bothered staying open after eight mid-week, then grinned, switching in the extra CCTV circuit. This was one reason. The image was black-and-white, but clear and sharp. Sally was in a hot clinch with Chuck.
As Alison watched she saw his hand come up and cup her sister's breast. Sally lifted his hand away, only to tuck it inside her hurriedly unzipped coverall. Alison grinned. Like Sally, she wore little under the coverall in the summer heat; in Alison's case it was only panties. She also, like Sally, enjoyed the touch of a man's hands on her tits.
A couple of teenaged girls came in, quickly purchasing gum and sodas and going out giggling, heads together. Sally looked at the monitor.
Wow, sis! Quick work. Jeez, can you really swall - ? Damn, you can! Deep-throat Devine! Way to go!
She watched avidly for a moment, admiring Sally's technique.
Can't beat a good blowjob. Hmm. Damp panties.
"Excuse me?"