Chamblee54

Part Three of the 2022 chamblee54 report on The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest is here. (BALL wear LIT uhn) Parts one and two are there. Pictures are from The Library of Congress.
Jimothy walked into the joint like he owned the place, which he did, but not like a typical owner of a place like this; more like a classy, silver spoon owner, except not classy like wearing tuxedos to horse dancing and equine NASCAR event classy, but an eating a gas station hotdog with a knife and fork, napkin on his lap kind of classy. Elliott Cox, Clover, SC
Doris learned two things working at the Post Office—the first was that when Jake came in and asked her if she wanted to see a really big johnson, he didn’t mean he wanted her to go through The Special Limited Presidents stamp collection, and the second was that she didn’t need to head outside at the end of each shift with a bag of envelops and a trowel because it turned out the dead letters were not, in fact, actually dead. Susanne Antonetta, Bellingham, WA
While scrolling through the online catalog of the Acme website trying to decide if he should order rocket roller skates, TNT, and an anvil, or—Fool-Me-Twice fake tunnel paint, the Coyote suddenly realized, ‘Hey, I could just order food.’ Rusty Hamilton, Candby, OR
I’d just lost my third game of solitaire in a row, and was eyeing my last two Chesterfields, when she walked in, wearing an outfit that said “hospital orderly” but whispered “French maid” (a couple of the buttons were straining, but I didn’t feel sorry for them) . . . there was a package on her hip and a question on her lips—she had the legs of a supermodel, long and shapely: “Shall I leave them here on the slab, Dr. Frankenstein?”—and when a dame’s got gams like that, it’s hard to say no, especially when they’re so fresh. Benson Smith, Somerville, MA
As Bridgett the Discount Dominatrix flicked the length of clothesline she used as a whip, he licked the ball gag, which was really a tennis ball held in place by a length of duct tape, and thought, *Dad was right, you really do get what you pay for.” Andrew Nance, St. Augustine, FL
Pfandrilys was a classic beauty of her star-faring race, and Brian’s love was immediate, their kisses were magical, if scaly, and the alien sex was mind-blowing, and if only Brian had read more exobiology, perhaps he wouldn’t have been surprised that, when all was done, and they lay spent in each other’s arms, she bit his head off. Thomas Hill, Mountain View, CA
Whoever figured out that combining basic cyber-bullying techniques with third-generation sex robot AI technology would tap a gigantic market among submissives was a freaking genius, mused Mistress Tiffany 3.1 as she toweled off and plugged herself in to recharge.
G. Andrew Lundberg, Los Angeles, CA
Whenever Elvis graced the bar stools at the steakhouse, he never failed to order a rare steak, bordering raw, and oozing greasily at the edges; and during the interviews after the musician’s untimely death, none of the waiters could deny that he loved meat tender.
Leah Dagenbach, Loveland, OH
“Not again!” exclaimed Dusty the absent-minded trail boss, as he suddenly realized that he’d led the cattle drive to the wrong tumbleweed-infested prairie town, although a good time was soon had by all at The Saddle Sore Saloon, especially when the nattily dressed piano player started taking musical requests, including the lively square dance tune “Don’t Cry On My Shoulders ‘Cause You’re Rustin’ My Spurs.” Joanne Morcom, Calgary, Alberta,