Message-ID: <37783asstr$1028891403@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: "Alt Sextoy" X-Original-Message-ID: X-OriginalArrivalTime: 09 Aug 2002 02:43:44.0480 (UTC) FILETIME=[941E2E00:01C23F4E] X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Thu, 08 Aug 2002 22:43:44 -0400 Subject: {ASSM} Annie Painslut and the Cafe' of Doom 1/2 <*> {Annie P} (M/F sm Mdom humil exhib Date: Fri, 9 Aug 2002 07:10:03 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, IceAltar I've never sent anything to ASSM, so I hope this is right. If it isn't please tell me and I'll fix it. I hope this doesn't get appended to the start of the story but if it does, folks, consider yourselves warned. _________________________________________________________________ MSN Photos is the easiest way to share and print your photos: http://photos.msn.com/support/worldwide.aspx <1st attachment, "Annie01.txt" begin> Annie Painslut and the Cafe' of Doom 1/2 <*> {Annie P} (M/F sm Mdom humil exhib humor) Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Resemblance to actual events or any persons living or dead is entirely unintentional but wouldn't surprise me a bit. It's a big world; six billion people, you name it, somebody's done it. Thanks to Master Rhoades for inspiration on this one. Comments welcome at altstoy4u@hotmail.com. Please be kind. ===== Hi. Call me Annie. Well, actually, I get called a lot of things, most of them a lot worse than Annie, but if you've got to hang a name on me, that one will do. I'm a sub. Dive, Cap'n Annie, dive! No, not that kind of sub. I'm a sexual submissive. I see a lot of blank looks out there. Well, think of your social life. Some dancing-around kinds of conversations, anxious evenings waiting for the phone to ring, worry about what to wear and does it make you look fat, dinner and rather nervous, stilted conversation, a movie that you may or may not want to see, a drink or two afterwards with more conversation; possibly less nervous or possibly 'way more nervous, and then some complicated sorting-out of expectations and limits, with or without kissing or something else at that point. My social life is quite similar. Just take out the dinner and movie and drinks, and substitute some rather exotic lingerie, one or two to, let's see, once it was seven men, that's too many, and the odd girl occasionally, whips and chains and clamps and needles, occasionally heated, ropes, blindfolds and gags and some rather expensive leatherwear, an assortment of unusual cylindrical objects, conversation somewhat more limited and often consisting of incoherent noises on my part, and an undercurrent of worry about having my dismembered corpse found in a half-dozen Dumpsters in the morning. Wait, you've got that one, too. Get the picture? I haven't done this for long. I've had the usual life; jobs and marriage and church and a couple kids and the kids growing up and a divorce and... But I always had these fantasies, and when I hit my mid-40s, OK late 40s, with no kids at home and no husband, I picked up my courage and started to investigate them. And it was a lot like your social life; lots of twits and losers and a few near-misses and occasional perfect dreamlike matches with one horrible vomit-inducing incompatibility. But you don't want my whole life story, you want me to get right to the naughty parts, right? Well, all right. This is what happened at my first meeting with a particular Master. Most of them are particular that you call them Sir or Master, so we'll stick with the generic term to protect the wonderfully guilty. We met at an outdoor cafe. Now, I was pretty excited about meeting this man; he'd already told me some of his inventive ideas for what to do with me, but he didn't seem like a twit, idiot, or jerk, and he could spell and punctuate, which put him in the top 1% right there. After some of the same complicated-dancing-around conversation you do on your dates, Master got down to business -- making me unbutton my blouse down to _there_, and the like. This got me fairly aroused -- if it didn't, would I be doing this? This particular Master had a thing about public humiliation. So he told me to speak with the waiter -- a youngish man -- and ask me if he could smell my cunt. You have to understand that despite my interests, I'm a pretty shy, conventional woman at heart. I can say the c-word, and the f-word, and the other words, but it feels like picking up a live cockroach in my bare hand. So I cheated, as sex slaves will do -- it's part of the job description -- and whisper-asked the waiter if he could smell my sex. Functional equivalent, I say. To make a long story short, Master found out and made me say a long string of truly foul things which I won't bore you with. Even if you wouldn't be bored, I'd rather not type them, it makes my fingers feel creepy. And he gave me the name I tend to use when in suitable company -- Annie Painslut. Well, he always wrote it annie pain slut, but I'm proud of it (is that sick or what?), so I always write it, and say it to myself, with the capitals like a proper name; Annie Painslut. And then Master told me to sit on his chair beside him, and proceeded to whisper deliciously twisted things in my ear and expertly and mercilessly finger me to an orgasm. It was a quiet, almost indetectable orgasm, thanks to my amazing self-control. Well, actually, I moaned out loud and slumped down in the chair with my legs spread and knocked over my water glass and everyone in the place looked. And that's where the story -- well, this particular story, began. Oh, that was nice. I shiver. That one felt good. Then I look around. Oh, dear, what a lot of very strange looks. Well, let 'em look. That was worth it. "Now you can get me off, Annie." Oh goodness. Oh my. This WILL be interesting. With a whole cafe of voyeurs looking on to see what's next after I practically melted down on the table. Think, Annie, think. I stood up, and went to the other side of the table to get my chair. I gave everyone a beatific, utterly sated smile. There you go, voyeurs. All doubt removed. You haven't gotten any in the last 10 minutes, have you? I sat my chair facing his, but to the side, so we could sit companiably, like lovers do who don't finger each other to orgasms on the street. I took his hand, still sticky with my juices, affectionately, and started to stroke it. But it just happened to lie over his crotch, so he was getting a tiny little rub with each touch. Good enough to start. Like everyone else, the waiter was keeping an eye on us, hoping for more cheap entertainment. Poor kid, he doesn't know what he's getting into. I waved him over, and with my free hand gently tugged his lapel to bring his ear down next to my mouth. Conveniently, that put his eyes looking directly at my blouse which was pretty substantially unbuttoned from earlier. "I'd like to apologize for embarassing you earlier, dear." As I whispered, too low for even mean ol' Master over there to hear, my breath heated the waiter's ear, and my hand played with the opening of my blouse, slowly stroking down to that lonely button that held things together, to the extent that they were still together at all. Poor button. My fingers worried it, teased it, much as my other hand was doing in Master's lap. Can the poor button stand the pressure? Red silk blouse, but I rather doubt Junior was checking out the fabric. The waiter couldn't have spoken if you'd fluttered a thousand-dollar bill in front of his nose. I heard faint choking noises. "Could you do me a very great favor?" My fingers gave up on that poor button, and fluttered the edges of the blouse, giving him a fine, if brief view of the contents, such as they are. "Uh uh uh sure, ma'am. Wh-what is it?" The fingers gave up on that unproductive task and headed south. I may not fill the proverbial teacup up top, but by God the legs are holding out. The fingers played with the edge of my skirt. Is it pulled down enough? Tug. Nope, it won't go down any farther. Maybe up a step. Not bad. Yes, much better. "In about five minutes, could you drop a tray of glasses out there by the entrance? And then be a bit clumsy picking it up -- drop a few more, maybe fling one out somewhere?" We were sitting by the wall -- everyone in the place could see us, but the entrance was on the other side of the cafe. Those busy fingers just wouldn't hold still. The inner thigh itched. Scratch, scratch -- the sound of nails on nylon. Scratch again, the fingers rubbing the thigh and pointing straight toward, well, you know. Sexual plutonium. Poor kid. "Uh, sure ma'am, but..." "Oh, thank you." I gave him a dazzling smile. I briefly removed my hand from Master's -- my hand that was now covered in my scent. I stroked the boy's cheek, and drew a soft line across his lips, right under his nose. I doubt his brain knew the scent, but his glands did. Young men -- OK, most men -- greatly overestimate the power their brains have over their glands. You could see the glands turning his brain off right at the circuit breaker. Lights are on, but there's nobody home here anymore. The robot staggered off to fill a tray with glasses. Master looked at me suspiciously. Couldn't blame him. Gotta head off an awkward question. His mouth opens, he start to frame the word 'What' -- I could see it coming like an oncoming freight. "Did I tell you I'm an anal virgin?" I murmured, leaning toward him. Think, Annie. That'll hold this man 3 seconds, tops. I placed my hand back in his lap and started rubbing through his pants. I crossed my legs to distract the men and give my hand some cover. "In the stories there are two schools of anal sex -- the intense and the brutal. In the intense school the man rubs himself over her, then slowly drives in as she moans beneath him. He pushes in, then withdraws, slowly building his strokes. In the brutal school he places himself at the entrance, then drives in all the way. Usually she screams, and he pulls out and drives in again until she stops resisting, whereupon he pumps in and out of her at a furious pace. Oh, I forgot -- there are three schools. The third forces her to impale herself." I look at him. "Which way will you take my cherry, Master?" "Well, slut, wouldn't you like to know - now get to work. I told you to get me off." There was a growl in his voice, and reawakening suspicion in his eyes. Dumb, Annie, dumb. Don't give up the initiative. I stretched to distract the voyeurs as I quickly did his button and zip. "Can you imagine what you're going to do to me tonight? Do you know how to terrify a woman?" That'll make his eyes bug out a bit. I lowered my voice in both pitch and volume a bit. He shifted closer, conveniently leaning toward me, giving my hand more cover. Yep. Go, Annie, go. "Pain is scary. The nipples -- incredibly tender. My sex -- even more so. You could turn me to mush with enough pain in those places. But threaten a woman's looks -- that's terror. Even if she trusts you not to really do anything permanent. The stories don't talk much about whipping a woman's face or legs. Men don't think about those areas, because men fear pain. Women fear disfigurement. An ugly woman is a nothing -- forever." Come ON, kid, come on, it's time already. I'm running out of ideas. Hours at the keyboard writing this stuff, and when I need something hot in a hurry my mind is a total blank. There he comes. I check to see my purse is in reach. Check. Lips, check. Object of mission out and in reach, check. Courage; well, maybe. I stroked gently -- to arouse, not to drive to orgasm. Not yet. C'mon, kid, move. Oh, please, you incredible jerk, you vile voyeur, don't ask him for water, you don't need to drink eight glasses a day, that's a myth. What else to say, what to say? "I've had this fantasy image a few times as I drifted off to sleep. I'm fastened to a table by leather straps at my waist and neck, with my arms strapped to my sides -- all very tight. My legs are suspended straight up, very tight. A man is standing at my hips with a whip made of 4 strands of very fine wire, the kind that cuts my fingers every single time I change my guitar strings. He's looking at my legs, and practicing swings. The wires sing through the air with each stroke. Another man is standing at my head, with a whip of three fine knotted nylon cords. And as he applies the blindfold, a voice is chanting in my ear: "Ten minutes for the left leg. Ten minutes for the right leg. Ten minutes for the face. Rub cuts with alcohol. Repeat. Ten minutes for..." A stupendous, rending crash of metal and glass. Bless his dear, lustful little heart, the waiter's outdone himself. Everyone turned to look. Even Master was surprised. Here comes another one, dear. God, I'm brilliant. All I wanted was a distraction, but I'd never have gotten betwen his legs quickly unless he turned. Now it's pie. I grabbed my purse, placed it on his outside leg. Good cover for my head, and it'd look like I dropped something to a casual glance. I dropped to my knees -- on the concrete sidewalk. Damn, damn, damn -- that hurt. In the stories the women are all 22, have breasts the size of ripe cantaloupes and can give 20 blowjobs, pop up and have trapeze sex with the Flying Wallendas, then take 30 waiting men in every concievable orifice while having continual orgasms and singing the 'Star-Spangled Banner', and have exotic names like Erica and Tiffany. I'm forty mumble-mumble, with breasts the size of peaches in a drought year, and I'm just plain old Annie. Annie Painslut, so this should be giving me an orgasm, but I find the erotic properties of shattered kneecaps greatly overrated. No time to waste. Go, Annie go. Good oral sex is slow; it's near-worship of that capricious god of the erection. This won't be good. More like oral rape, only I feel like I'm the one being raped. What would that be -- auto rape, reverse rape? Focus, Annie. I took him in as far as I could. Lips soft, throat relaxed, a little tongue movement for the kink of it. Knew those singing lessons would come in handy. I'd love to see his face now. Up, down, up, down. This is NOT the most efficient position for this. My left leg is begging for mercy, but I ply the whip ferociously -- wait, I'm the sub. Later, leg, later. C'mon, Annie, you can do it. Erica would be turning cartwheels and begging the other men to come take her open holes, all without taking her mouth off. More breaking-glass sounds. Hey, gang, you're missing a great show over here. Too bad. Ah. Ah. He stiffened, groaned -- bingo. A partner once told me that for oral sex, sucking sucks. But he also told me the exception -- until there's something to suck. Suck, Annie, suck. The familiar taste fills my mouth. The flow slows. Mouth off, lips tight to catch stray drops, a quick lick for cleanup, back in the shorts. Left hand zips him up, please God let nothing vital catch in the zipper, right hand in purse; lipstick, compact, straighten up. Gotcha. They're just looking away from the catastrophe. Open compact, check makeup. Lipstick needs attention. Fix that. Oral sex in a crowded cafe in broad daylight? Sorry, gang, wrong show. Not this girl. That's Caesar dressing in my mouth. Tastes of balsamic vinegar. Deep breath. Waiter's coming this way. I smiled, kissed my fingertips, opened my lips, licked them ever so delicately and blew him a French kiss. Kid'll masturbate to that tune for six months. Annie gives value for money, yes, sir. I closed my eyes to try to get it together. That was really, really wild. Annie, you entire idiot. Just how is he going to react to this farce? Let's see, most men would slap you and walk, leaving you with wet panties and a boatload of fantasies the size of the Titanic and just as likely to reach port. I guess the rest would just walk. Except the ones who'd smile politely, take me home with promises of wild kink, and leave my dismembered corpse in a Dumpster the next day. If I open my eyes and he's smiling politely I make a run for it. And yes, yes I did tell him that terrifying fantasy. Thousands of hours of reading erotica, even writing some, and when I need a story I hand my deepest fear to a man I just met today. Brilliant. Annie, Annie, Annie, your brain's not your best organ. You shouldn't try to think with it. Damn. Even Erika would've done better. Waiting isn't going to help. Not a bit. Wait another second. I'm opening my eyes. I'm keeping my eyes closed. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Erika doesn't do that, either, and she doesn't have my worry lines. God, please let this man love wit like I do. Hey, maybe he's got wit himself. If he loves wit I'll be his slave for life. Wait, I already am. How about, if he's got wit I'll have his babies. Nope, not at my age. OK, the supreme sacrifice. Listen to this, OK, God? If he's got wit, and can use wit and whip together, I, Annie Painslut, will IRON HIS SHIRTS. Got it? I wouldn't do it for my husband. Wouldn't do it for my kids. Certainly don't do it for myself; bet he never looked -- men never do. Waiting isn't going to help. Not a bit. I'm opening my eyes. Honest. This time I'm opening my eyes. <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. 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