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Short-short story set at a beauty contest, with a (hopefully) unexpected ending.


Submitted:May 20, 2013    Reads: 54    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


The three beautiful women stood together near the front of the brightly lit stage. They did their best not to appear nervous in front of the two thousand-plus live audience. Although the butterflies in their bellies reminded them that fifty million more were watching via TV from the comfort of their own living rooms.

At the back of the stage stood the forty-seven state winners who had failed to make the final three. All were thoroughly disheartened and wished they didn't have to wait around for the final humiliation about to be perpetrated upon them.

Half a dozen metres behind the three finalists stood the emcee, Giles McAskill. In his youth Giles had been a moderately successful crooner in the 1940s. For the last fifty years, the tall, snowy-haired man had lived off his laurels, emceeing beauty pageants and other gala occasions.

'Jesus, look at those tight asses!' thought McAskill, enjoying the view from behind the three beauties. So much so that he almost forgot to read out the card that he had just been handed. Finally remembering the two thousand people hanging on his every word, he cleared his throat noisily then read out, "The second runner-up in this year's Miss America contest, is Miss New York, Gail Benjamin."

The beautiful black woman looked crestfallen at coming third. But quickly did her best to smile as though coming third was some kind of privilege. 'Christ sake I made the final three, third was the worst I could do. Ain't no honour in that!' she thought.

Giles McAskill smiled inanely at the audience, taking a full minute to ogle the beautiful women's backsides through their tight evening dresses, before reading out, "The first runner-up in this year's Miss America contest, is Miss Washington State, Celia Chann. Which means that..."

His words were drowned out by the squeals of delight of Miss New Orleans, Carol Doherty, as she realised she was the new Miss America.

"Shit!" said Celia Chann. She looked across toward Gail Benjamin, so the audience wouldn't see her look of disgust at the result.

"I won! I won! I won!" shrieked Carol Doherty jumping up and down, clapping her hands furiously in glee. Behind her Giles McAskill almost swallowed his tongue in pleasure at the sight of her arse bouncing as she jumped up and down. 'If her tits look half that good bouncing the audience must be creaming itself!' he thought. He half wished he were in the live audience right now.

Even before Carol Doherty stopped squealing, last year's Miss America strode out from the side of the stage to hand over the diamond-studded crown. Taking his cue from her, McAskill stepped forward to drape a long, imitation-fur wrap around the shoulders of this year's Miss America. Then two musclemen -- looking decidedly uncomfortable in white tie and tails -- wheeled a sequinned throne onto stage. Taking her by one arm McAskill led Carol Doherty back toward the throne. As she sat, he placed one hand behind her and grabbed a quick handful of her backside for a second -- making her squeal again -- before reluctantly stepping away.

As the emcee stepped aside, last year's Miss America leant down to give this year's winner a loud smooch on the left cheek.

Still obviously pissed off at the result, Celia Chann looked across to Gail Benjamin. Both women shrugged, as though in answer to a silent question. Deciding it was best to look like good losers, both women stepped forward to give their own congratulatory pecks on the cheek.

After a few seconds the other forty-seven state title-holders swarmed forward from the back of the stage to congratulate the woman who had made them into also-rans.

The white-haired McAskill looked on exasperated as his own attempts to steal a kiss -- and hopefully a much more thorough fondle -- of the young winner were thwarted by the gaggle of smooching females. McAskill prided himself on having fucked or heavily pawed more beauty pageant winners than any other man in American history. But as the kissing continued, he started to fear he wouldn't get close enough again to this year's winner.

"Come on girls, give someone else a chance," he complained when the swarm had not broken up after five minutes.

The wet, sloppy kisses had started to take on an almost sexual quality, and the emcee began to wonder if he were the only one hoping to fuck the winner.

"Come on you pack of bull dykes," he said under his breath, blushing as he realised his mike was still live.

Watching the bobbing backsides of the women as they surrounded Miss America, McAskill was tempted to step up behind one of those bouncing arses to rub his erection against it until achieving release. But for some unknown reason, he was suddenly afraid to touch any of them.

Gradually the crowd of kissing, squealing beauties began to break up, allowing the old man a path to Carol Doherty. Hoping he could still steal a heavy fumble before the crowd broke up completely -- exposing him to the TV cameras -- McAskill hurried forward....

And stopped again in horror at the sight revealed to him.

Whereas before there had been a beautiful young woman in her early twenties on the throne, now sat a grinning, fleshless skeleton, picked clean of all but a few stray morsels of red, dripping meat and torn, hanging sinews. One sky blue eye still peered from its socket, giving the toothy grin a lecherous look, as though the dead beauty was aware of McAskill's former desire to fuck her and was indicating her willingness to be fucked.

"Holy shit!" whispered McAskill. Fighting the urge to faint, he looked back toward the crowd of losing beauties and saw their expensive gowns were now soaked in blood and caked in ichor.

He watched spellbound as Celia Chann raised her red-coated left hand to her mouth and started licking the fresh blood off her fingers. Her beautiful face was rapt, as though licking up the last of some juicy taste treat.

Too late McAskill realised that the "girls" had started to move forward again. This time surrounding the lecherous emcee, to plant their fatal kisses on him.

THE END

Copyright © 2013 Philip Roberts

Melbourne, Victoria, Australia





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