Tales from Snippettsville Issue 12

Hello, and welcome to the twelfth issue of Tales from Snippettsville, Short Stories From A Small Town.

[Laurel - please insert here 'SnipTales.jpg' - sent by Alex March 9]

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 12

There's Always A Welcome At The Showboat Hotel by Max Sebastian
Reconstruction by Rhinoguy
Later ... by Alex de Kok
Dor by PierceStreet

Illustrations
Banner, (c)Quasimodem, 2003
Header Picture, (c)Alex de Kok, 2003
Footer Picture, (c)Perdita, 2003

Now read on...

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There's Always A Welcome At The Showboat Hotel by Max Sebastian

It must have been that last trucker I hitched a ride with. Seemed nice enough, but when I nodded off he must've reached inside my jacket and swiped my wallet. So here I was, in a small town called Snippetsville without a cent on me.

They seemed sympathetic in Hannah's Diner on North Main Street - I was given some tasty cherry pie and the use of a telephone. But it turned out it was going to take three days for my credit card company to courier a new card to me.

"Where am I going to stay for three nights without money?" I demanded of the poor credit card people through the phone, as if they could help.

As I put the phone down, I realised I had caused quite a scene for this quiet, small-town establishment.

"Hey, why don't you try the Showboat Hotel?" an old guy said to me as I took a sip of coffee to still my nerves. "Old Bob Cassidy always offers strangers a bed for the night if they're in trouble."

So here I was, at the Showboat Hotel three blocks away. Not a bad looking place, actually, a low profile but clean enough.

"Sure, I can give you a room, sir," old Bob smiled. He seemed all right. "I always like to help out those in trouble, like yourself."

I let out a sigh of relief. "I was beginning to think I'd be sleeping on the street tonight. But I can pay you once I get my card through - "

"No need, sir." he said as he turned and picked a room key off one of the rows of pegs. "I'll even offer you some supper tonight, sir." Small town hospitality, you can't beat it! "But you'll have to do something for me in return, sir."

Ah, here it came. No such thing as a free lunch.

Well, sitting eating my "free" supper, I felt a little strange, a little weak, shaken. I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe I'd agreed to it. I'd never done anything like this before. Bob gave me some red wine with my meal, and I needed it to boost my nerve.

My heart was in my throat as I approached the door, knocked, and unlocked it. What would she be like? Would she like me? What if we didn't 'click'? I was terrified.

"Hi," the girl said as I entered, she was just as wary as I was at first.

She was, frankly, gorgeous. I couldn't believe it. Was this really going to happen? She was younger than me, brunette, pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way. She was, she explained, hitching across the States before starting college in Berkeley next month.

"I lost my wallet the last ride I took," she said, and the resemblance of her story to my own struck us both.

"So are we going to go through with this?" I asked.

"We don't have any other choice," she said, making me gasp as she suddenly pulled off her blouse, revealing exquisite, shapely little breasts confined within a pink cotton bra.

"But they're watching – you can see the cameras!"

"So? I'm not sleeping out in the street," she insisted, approaching me now with a real glint in her seductive eyes. "Besides, I've never made love while somebody watched before – might be kind of hot, don't you think? And with such a handsome stranger…"

"I guess…" I stammered as she undid my belt and pulled down my jeans.

"Mmm…" she purred, stroking my hardness. "Looks like we're in for quite a night!"

* * * * *

Reconstruction by Rhinoguy

Dust billowed from the back window of the brick building on the corner of Main Street. A haze of powdered plaster evenly coated the van and U-Haul trailer parked next to the enormous roll-off dumpster. A few dozen orange and brown maple leaves danced in solitary joy over the gravel.

Kate peeked through the storefront glass of the former Pharmacy. She could make out the figure swinging a sledge, the subsequent burst of plaster dropping to the floor and the cloud rising up. Kate held the neck of a chilled beer bottle and knocked at the door. No response. Trying the handle, the door swung open. "Hello! Would you like a break?". The motion in the middle of the rubble stopped. "Hello?" His voice was deep and muffled by the respirator.

"Hi....pleased to meet you." He stretched out his hand while pulling off breathing gear. "I'm Nathanial, what can I do for you?".

"Ummm....I thought you might like a break" she repeated trying not to look at his heaving chest, sweat covered, powdered and sprinkled like an obscene pastry. He was filthy, but looked so tasty. She reached out with the wet bottle.

Nathanial took the bottle, "Thank you, that's very thoughtful," he looked directly her as he spoke and realized she'd been staring at his bare chest. He set the bottle on a crate and quickly pulled on a shirt, snapping Kate out of her daze. "Ah...well....not SO thoughtful, there are any number of 'inquiring minds'... I suppose I am on a bit of a reconnaissance mission, sorry my name is Kate".

"Kate, Kate Bond 007?" he laughed.

"Ha...actually Kate McKennsie, no number." She looked at her feet to keep from staring. He wasn't handsome. He was thrilling. Was he in his 30's or 40's? How gray was his goatee once the plaster was washed out?

"Well, I'll be happy to spill the 'dirt', as there seems to be plenty of it." He smiles and gestures at the destruction. "Come on let's get you out of all this dust and I'll divulge my secrets." He turned to the stairs.

Kate grabbed the bottle "you forgot your beer."

"Ah...thank you..actually I don't drink beer."

"Oh, sorry," Kate blushed.

"S'okay," he replied. "I never liked the stuff, help yourself to it." Kate just kept an eye on his jean-clad butt as they made their way up to the second floor.

"Well, have a seat," Nathanial gestured to a pair of overstuffed armchairs near the front bay window. "Let the interrogation begin," he laughed.

"Alright, what brings you to Snippetsville?.........LIAR!" Kate laughed.

Nathanial's eyebrows shot up, his eyes opened wide, then he laughed loud and long. "Ok..ok...I'll tell you everything!"

"My name is Nathanial Droit, an illustrator, I've made my living publishing children's books."

"Would I know any of them?"

"Hmmm...'Frog Skin' and 'Rhino Wings' have been pretty popular."

"That's YOU!?"

"I confess!"

"I love those books!"

"Beyond Children's themes, I have other interests. I have come to Snippetsville to pursue them."

"And, what might those interests be? I have ways of making you talk!" Kate teased.

"I hope to escape, open a small gallery and gift store with a studio and apartment up here where I can draw and paint more adult themes."

"Adult themes?" Kate raised her eyebrows.

"Ummmm... yes...drawings which are more explicit and/or sensuous or erotic... adult.... I have a portfolio." Nathanial placed his case on Kate's lap. He reached over and unzipped the folio with a "zzzzzzzzzip". His most intimate world was opened to her.

* * * * *

Later ... by Alex de Kok

I must have been dreaming of her, because I had a formidable erection when I woke; 'piss-proud' I've seen it described. I stretched, then threw back the bedcovers from my nakedness, grasping my prick, stroking it, enjoying it and the images in my head.

There was a quick knock on the door and she came in with a coffee for me, a robe over her nightdress. She stopped short at the sight of my erection, flushing, but a strange expression passed over her face, one I could only describe as a cross between lust and hunger, a longing. She put the coffee cup down, tearing her gaze away from me and turned as if to go.

"Mary, no," I said. "Stay."

She turned, the flush still on her face, trying not to look at my erection.

"I ..." she began.

"Fuck me," I said, holding her eyes with mine.

She shook her head, her mouth working, soundless.

"Fuck me," I said again, but gently now, "we both want it."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can." I reached out and tugged at the sash of her robe. "You're not my mother, you're my stepmother."

She laughed. Brittle, harsh. "Not even that. Your Pa and I were never properly married. We said it for your sake." She shook her head in remembered pain, then looked up at me. "I never let him touch me again after you left."

Shock went through me, accompanied by -- what? Surprise? Pleasure? Anger at the bruises she bore? "So fuck me," I said again. "Make love to me." I tugged again at the sash of her robe, pulling her to the bedside. She came, unresisting, with a sigh of acceptance, her robe falling open as she moved to kneel astride my thighs.

She shrugged the robe off and discarded it, lifting the hem of her nightdress and taking gentle hold of my prick, angling it, feeding it to her pussy. I caught a glimpse of pubic hair, dark as her head, before the hem dropped again as she lowered herself onto me, her pussy surprisingly slick with her juices, a moan escaping her lips as she took my rigidity within her.

"Show me your breasts," I said.

She flushed again but reached to move the hem of her nightdress up, crossing her arms to strip it off over her head, discarding it beside her robe. Her breasts were full, slightly pendulous, the nipples thick and full with her own want. I reached up to cup the soft weight, my thumbs brushing over her hard nubs. She shuddered but began to move, to rise and fall on my aching hardness, her juices flowing freely, the squish of her movement loud in our ears.

I flexed my prick within her and she faltered briefly before continuing her ride, rising, falling ...

"Soon," I said, her movements getting me nearer and nearer.

"Me, too," she gasped as she moved, "very soon now."

I thrust up into her as she came down, moving my hand so that my fingers traced her labia before brushing lightly against her clitoris. Her belly convulsed and her pussy clamped down on me as she came, a plaintive mew of pleasure escaping from her lips, my hips moving urgently as I came in my turn and she collapsed across me as we stilled, my prick twitching in post-coital spasms. At last she turned her head and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

"Thank you, Alec," she whispered, "for everything, but perhaps most of all for making me feel needed again."

I laughed, teasing her. "No, Mom, thank you."

* * * * *

Dor by PierceStreet

Corey awoke with a start. He'd been asleep on the rude bench on the farmhouse porch, dressed in only his robe. Eating breakfast and seeing his parents off to work had worn him out.

A sporty little convertible stirred up dust driving onto the secluded farm.

"Dorothea," he exclaimed when he saw the driver get out.

She laughed, throwing her blonde hair back. "Haven't been called that in a while. Even my parents call me Dor now."

Dorothea was the girl from the neighboring farm when they were little. At fourteen, Dorothea gave Corey his first kiss as she said goodbye. Her folks followed a dream to Los Angeles.

Corey was always astonished that Dor, the reigning Pop Princess, was a former Snippettsville girl and his childhood sweetheart.

In L.A., she won a local beauty contest on the strength of her singing voice and the fact that she was a tall, lithe, and well endowed blonde. She landed a role as an up and coming singer, in a kid-oriented ensemble situation comedy. That led to a recording contract, and a nationwide mall tour. Sales skyrocketed and she won a New Artist Grammy.

After two more albums and tours, she disappeared from sight, reappearing in upstate New York playing Emily Webb in a production of Thornton Wilder's "Our Town". They moved it to Broadway. Dor won a Tony.

Critics raved about her willingness to take a risk, and not rush into movies, like some of her predecessors had done with poor results. Her first film came out the month before. Dor's performance was acclaimed.

"How's America's favorite virgin?" Corey asked, quoting Time.

"Hey, that is a four year old label," said the twenty-two year old. Time had complimented her on assuring her fans that virginity was cool and you could even date a Major League pitcher while maintaining it. Meanwhile, her music videos became less and less virgin like. Her male fans were intrigued by her fit young body dancing around the stage while belting out tunes.

"How are you doing?" Her voice turned grave.

"Nothing wrong with me that a round of chemo couldn't fix."

She told him how her mother had run into a Snippettsville friend vacationing in L.A. Dorothea flew out immediately after hearing of Corey's sickness.

"I hear you are not going to fight it this time?"

"I can't."

She saw the weariness of the ages in her friend and accepted his choice.

"I was diagnosed a year after you left. I was okay much of the time, but everyone always knew. The guys never played hard against me. They let me win at games and the girls were afraid of getting cancer by kissing."

She leaned in and kissed him, not as a friend, but as a lover. "Careful," he joked, "Time might take away your label."

"I gave it away years ago." She stood and slipped out of her sundress. The body that was the wet dream of boys and men everywhere, stirred the dying man.

Dor went to her knees before him. She fondled him, and took him in her mouth. As soon as he was hard enough, she stood up, and straddled him. She guided him into her. In an act of species preservation, his wasting body rose to the challenge.

When he woke, she was gone. Her professional obligations drew her away.

His friend Jason came by later. He pretended to believe Corey's tale.

Dor concluded her Oscar acceptance speech. "This is for you, Corey. I love you!" The tabloids speculated about, "Corey who?" He had died the month before.

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