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Everywhere He Sees Her-Fiction by Oliver Lodge
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Nice Life if You Don't Weaken-Reprint by Michelle Reale
Old Aunt Sin-Reprint by Gary Lovisi
Yellow Mama-Reprint by Cindy Rosmus
Bald Baby-Flash Fiction by Paul Beckman
Ruby-Flash Fiction by Liz McAdams
Widow's Might-Flash Fiction by M. C. Neuda
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Monday, Around Noontime-Flash Fiction by Victor Clevenger
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What Have Some of Us Become?-Poem by John D. Robinson
She Knows Something-Poem by John Lunar Richey
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Wilt?-Poem by David Mac
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Eden-Poem by Robert Beveridge
Crazy, Crazy-Poem by Marc Carver
Love-Poem by Marc Carver
The Worst Poet in the World-Poem by Marc Carver
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Angel of Manslaughter
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No Place Like Home
ALAT
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

ruby.jpg
Art by John Lunar Richey & Michael Pritchet 2017

Ruby

by

Liz McAdams

 

“Is that the guy?” I said, through a forced smile. Dance music blared, Janie and I were up on stage, me on my hands and knees, in booty shorts and ass in the air; Janie had her leg wrapped around the pole, hips thrusting, and tits jiggling.

It was a good act; we did pretty well with it.

Janie twisted around, following my gaze. Fake smile still plastered across her face, she paled, but otherwise didn’t let it show.

We were all torn up about Ruby. Bad date, my ass. She was lucky to be alive after what that bastard did to her.

‘Course, the cops didn’t listen. Just hung out at the bar, staring at tits and asses, took some notes, and drank cheap beer.

And the guy who did it wasn’t a regular; just a one off, drifting in, and never seen again. Guys like that are just another job hazard; freaks out to hurt and kill, then moving on to the next victim. Too bad it was Ruby.

No-neck, balding businessman in a suit, flashed a gold watch to show he had money to burn. No wonder Ruby took him on, he smelled like easy money.

Her eyes still glued on buddy across the bar, Janie was grinding her crotch against the pole, thong disappearing into ass cheeks. My hands were wrapped around her hips, pretending to eat her out.

Strict rules about no sexual contact, and all that. We followed the rules, most of the time. It was a classy establishment, after all.

Across the bar, buddy was watching over his beer; faint smile on his face. This could be our in.

*

Song over, Janie and I walked up to him; his grin got wider. Pop music crashed through the bar as the next pair of tits danced across the stage.

“You wanna go hang out?” Janie nodded at the curtained-off rooms. VIP access. She smiled, “Our treat.”

Buddy sprawled on a leather sofa; Janie went to work, straddling his thigh, shaking her tits in his face. Firm and round, perfect breasts. I leaned in, whispering in his ear, and reached for his crotch, feeling his cock through his jeans. Already hard, he grabbed my ass.

“So you ladies wanna party back at my place?” He squeezed harder, kneading me like bread dough. “I got something goin’ on later.” He stuffed a folded bill into Janie’s thong.

“Maybe,” Janie wrapped her arms around his neck, shoving her tits in his face. Perfect nipples stared at him. Buddy didn’t stare long, rubbing his fat gob on what was offered.

Looks like those implants were paying for themselves. Mine aren’t as good, more the budget version; one of a few minor surgical changes. And everything costs big bucks nowadays.

But my ass is my own, and it’s sublime.

His hand slid down, between my legs and jerked back. “You—you’re a guy.”

“Not quite, hon,” I smiled at him.

Twisting on the sofa, he tried to stand up; Janie pinned him, muscles in her arms flexing. She’s still pretty strong, used to be a weightlifter before the transition.

Eyes wide, he stared at us. “What the hell are you two?”

“Well, honey, nobody’s quite sure what I am.” I smiled, reaching into my shorts. “Kinda like Ruby.”

“Ruby?” His face paled.

“Yeah.” Janie smiled at him. “Thought we’d give you a little something from her.”

His eyes were riveted on my hand, still inside my shorts.

“Our treat.” I pulled the semi out of my shorts, a mini snub-nosed pistol that tucked up nice right under my ballsack, taped down tight. Girls like me need to carry some kind of protection.

Two shots later and buddy slumped against the sofa, red blossoms spreading against his chest.

For Ruby.

 

 

Liz McAdams is a short, sharp, writer and fond of dark things. Her work appears in the usual places, including Spelk, Near to the Knuckle, Yellow Mama, Shotgun Honey, and scattered around Twisted Sister lit mag. Check Liz out at https://lizmcadams.wordpress.com/.

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2017