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Message-ID: <36807asstr$1024121407@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Selena Jardine <selenajardine@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Seven Flashes
Date: Sat, 15 Jun 2002 02:10:07 -0400
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Gentle Reader,

The following seven flash stories -- complete stories of
three hundred words or fewer -- are the result of a
challenge, a duel, between me and the lovely and talented
Alexis Siefert.  If you'd like to read the whole story of
the duel, please go to the site of the lovely and talented
Gary Jordan and read it (believe me, it's well worth it): 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/gary/www/Duel_2/index.htm

Please also read Alexis's marvelous side of the duel,
posted to ASSM under the subject line "Flashing for Fun and
Combat".

Flash fiction can be tart or sweet or bitter, any flavor of
any month.  Enjoy them.  Comments, as always, are welcomed
and responded to at selenajardine@yahoo.com

++++++

La Jalousie
(203 words)

Of course I've had lovers since I've been married. Three
affairs, a Morse code: two shorts and a long--eighteen
months and a messy breakup. Joseph never had a clue, poor
stupid bastard, never suspected his perfect wife, never
felt a pang of jealousy or suspicion. 

Of course, I was the soul of discretion, never gave myself 
away. I met them out of town, used phone cards, took long
showers. I was a great fuck, but I cleaned up afterwards. 
I had alibis, but I never asked anyone to lie for me. The
lies of others trip you up. 

I needn't have bothered. Joseph never checked on me.  I'd
come home, freshly fucked, and he'd say, "Have a  nice day,
honey?" It made me laugh, at first.

I have cyber lovers, too. I'll sit next to him on the
couch, my laptop tilted slightly away, while men describe
what they are doing to my lovely white virtual body. I
cover my tracks beautifully: erase the history on my
computer, hide my chat rooms. Wasted effort. I don't think
Joseph would ever check. 

Fool. The day he cares enough to open his eyes is the 
day he will appreciate me at my true worth.  

++++++

Jumping
(299 words)

It was a hot summer. The fad, the in thing, was jumping
rope. All the girls were doing it. The little ones did it
most, of course, but the older girls got sucked in:
thirteen-, fourteen-, fifteen-year-olds. You could hear the
chanting of jump-rope rhymes all the way down the street.

A, my name is Alice
My sweetheart's name is Albert
I come from Alabama
And I love APPLES!

The other in thing during a hot summer? Fucking. What else
are you going to do in the city with all that time off
school?  No one can jump rope all day.  

This was a sport for the big girls. I remember Carl 
McPherson pressing me up against the brick wall of the back
of his apartment building. The bricks were incredibly hot
through the back of my blouse, and I leaned my head forward
so I wouldn't burn my neck. His hands went under my skirt
and touched me gently. I could hear the jump-rope rhymes
nearby. 

B, my name is Betsy 
My sweetheart's name is Boris
I come from Boston Bay
And I love BANANAS!

I spread my legs for him, knowing this was what you were
supposed to do. He fucked me in the heat of the summer
while the jump-ropes slapped rhythmically on the hot
asphalt, and it didn't feel like much of anything except
triumph. It felt like initiation. I wanted to do it again,
forever.

Afterward, I pulled my skirt down and went to jump rope
with my friend Loretta. She knew exactly what had happened.
I jumped and jumped, my legs strong. I looked her right in
the eyes and I told the truth:

C, my name is Charlotte
My sweetheart's name is Carl
I come from Chicago
And I love COCK!

++++++

Like a Woman
(291 words)

The fugue ground to its close, the sound of the two cellos
winding around each other in the small apartment.  

"That's good," said Peter. "We've got that one down. Just a
little more work and I think it'll be downright orgasmic."
He put his bow on the floor and passed a knowing, caressing
hand over the curves and planes of his cello before putting
it next to the bow.  

He always did that, thought Jane. He had said so many 
times - usually to the new female cellists in the
orchestra, usually with the intention of getting into their
pants - that the cello was like a woman. It was shaped like
a woman, with a woman's temperament. You had to treat it
right, he said to these wide-eyed newcomers, or it wouldn't
respond.

Peter looked at her, his face flushed from the vigorous
playing. He came over and stood behind her, his hands on
her shoulders.  

"Play," he said.  

She played something he didn't know. His hands moved over
her body as she moved the bow. He found her breasts,
caressing the nipples into hardness, moving to her waist,
unzipping her skirt. The cello groaned into silence and
sagged to one side as he dipped into her pussy and circled
her clit until she came, shivering in his arms, never quite
losing hold of the instrument. 

They lay together, afterwards. "What was that you were
playing?" he asked, curiously. "It was so passionate.
Beautiful."

She'd planned to tell him the next day, in a note left on
the table. "Something I've been practicing with someone
else," she said.

He gathered up his clothes without looking at her. He 
ground her rosin into the carpet with his heel as he 
left.  

++++++

Paternoster
(253 words)

My father was an Anglican priest. Look, it's not what you
think. He wasn't a child molester. He never slipped into my
room at night, or into my white bed beneath the wooden
cross. He never asked me to whisper "Jesus loves me, this I
know" as he pressed his cock against my thighs. He never so
much as held me ten seconds too long on his lap.

He didn't beat me. I never knew a cane in a darkened study.
He didn't make me kneel naked on grains of rice, reciting
verses of Scripture. I have no thin silver scars on my back
where Daddy would bind me in the chancel, stained-glass
light sliding over adolescent breasts, and wield his whip
again and again to the rhythm of my prayers.

Instead, I punished him for his dullness, his sameness, his
neglect of me. I sat too close to him in the pew, my skirts
too short, my eyes alight with his discomfort. Every week I
crept into the confessional where Daddy waited in alb and
purple stole, and I whispered things he'd never heard.

"Father," I said. "I have sinned." My imagination was
limitless. I could hear his breathing change behind the
screen. I could hear him shifting positions, could almost
hear his blood pounding. I don't think he knew it was me.

I knew it was wicked to do it, to punish him that way. I
prayed to stop.

"Our Daddy," I said. "Who art in Heaven."

No one ever answered.

++++++

Lucky Dress
(285 words)

There's faith, hope, and then there's charity. The wealthy
girls of Manhattan have sent their used prom dresses to the
girls of Barlick Falls, Tennessee. The gym is a welter of
gauze, crinoline, and taffeta, in pink, salmon, and
midnight blue. The tables brought in from the cafeteria are
covered with frothy creations. Three hundred girls are in
the gym, in various stages of sunburn from their efforts to
prepare for the dance, choosing their dresses from the
disorganized piles. It is noisy and humid, and Teresa would
like to go home.  

She picks up a dress. Size 2. Nope. Another. Size 2. What
is it with these fucking Manhattanites?

Her eye catches on a long green dress with sequins on the
top. She picks it up. Size 10. Must have been ostracized by
her peers, she thinks dryly. Then she sees the note. It is
written in teal ink on a Post-it stuck to the lining. "I
got lucky in this dress!" reads the note, in loopy,
unformed letters, hearts dotting the Is. "I hope you do
too!!!"

Teresa closes her eyes, holding the dress to her chest. She
thinks of Alan, thinks of his warm mouth on the side of her
neck, the way it drives him insane when she lets him touch
her through her bra but not under it. She thinks of the
last time they danced together, and how she could feel his
hard-on through his pants and her dress, and she remembers
that she went into the bathroom and rested her forehead
against the cool mirror until she stopped shaking.

She goes to the woman in charge, the physics teacher.

"I'll take this one," she says. "Wish me luck."

++++++

That's Amore
(287 words)

She does the supper dishes. She stands at the sink,
beautiful despite the grey that's starting to show in her
hair, humming slightly, thinking of nothing at all. She is
not listening to the radio. She never listens to the radio.
This is routine. She dries the dishes, puts them away.  

She takes out the mop - this is Tuesday - and mops the
kitchen floor, still humming. It is a tune she heard
earlier in the day, perhaps in a store somewhere. "When the
moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie--"

She moves around the living room, bringing things to order.
This is her job. An empty tumbler and a crumpled newspaper
sit by the armchair. This is routine. She picks them up
along with the ashtray and takes them into the clean
kitchen.

While she is standing at the kitchen sink, washing the
ashtray, the moon catches her eye.

She goes to bed. Her husband is there, waiting impatiently.
This is routine. She runs a hand up his thigh and finds
that he is already hard. She bends her head to him and
takes his penis in her mouth, listening for the sharp
exhalation that is her job evaluation. She is an expert.
She swirls her tongue, flicking the tip. She bobs her head
and moans a little, using the vibration of her voice for
added sensation.

When he comes, she turns her head and, for the first time
in her life, she spits over the side of the bed. He doesn't
notice. 

Afterward, she gets up without a sound, packs a small bag,
gets in her car, and pulls out of the driveway.

It's her fifty-fifth birthday. She's taking early
retirement.

++++++

What Dreams May Come
(295 words)

The two of them were at the breakfast table as usual, the
sun coming in. "I dreamt about you last night," she said.

"Oh?"  He looked at her uncomfortably and asked the
question he couldn't resist. "What did I do?"

"Well, it wasn't so much a question of what you did as what
I did."

"Ah, I see."

"Yes, it was one of those dreams."

"Did I -- I mean, did you--"

"It was in some kind of palace where I was the queen.
Tamara was there, too. And you were -- listen, should I be
telling you this? You look sort of nervous."

Tamara? Their daughter? He coughed guiltily. "No, go
ahead."

"You were one of my servants. I had you kneel in front of
me with a big fan -- the kind made of feathers -- to cool
me off. The fan was enormous, and purple for some reason." 

"Purple. Yes, dreams are weird like that."

"Then I ordered you to take a feather and glide it all over
me from head to foot. You stroked me and curled it all
around, you know, my, um, nipples, and my--." She stopped,
a little flushed. "Well, anyway. One of those dreams, you
know?"

He nodded. He had no idea why women told men these things,
and it wasn't the first time a woman had told him she'd had
an erotic dream about him. Why did they do that?

Obviously, telling her the one he'd had last week, the one
where he was buried in Tamara's oiled cunt, watching the
girl lick the swollen pussy of his bitch of a boss, who was
strung naked from the branch of a tree, would have to wait
for another time. 

Like maybe in another life.

++++++

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