Message-ID: <26422asstr$969448202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
X-Original-Message-ID: <39C8792A.61E1D68F@zipcon.net>
From: Denny Wheeler <dennyw@zipcon.net>
X-Accept-Language: en
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Subject: {ASSM} Write Club Duel: Daphne Xu vs. Conjugate
Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000 07:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/26422>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, IceAltar

Here are the stories.  They're not coded, but I seriously doubt there
are any squicks in either one.

The required words:
Daphne:
Schadenfreude, glean, intelligent
Conjugate:
Apostasy, quondam, fustigate
referee:
Skate-key, buttermilk, Pogo

         Prisoners of War by Daphne Xu


"The prisoners are here, Sir."  Hearing these words, he sat
down his glass of buttermilk and stood up as Joe, his sergeant,
entered and approached, leading his fine soldiers and their
enemy prisoners.

He echoed Joe's salute, and inspected the soldiers and their
prisoners they led, their arms tied behind their backs.  "Great
job, men!"  He meant it.  His men were intelligent, unlike the
enemy whom they had captured.

These subhuman slime would be properly punished, this time.  He
would make sure of it himself.  They were guilty of Apostasy;
there was no worse crime on God's green earth.  He would
fustigate them well, with no mere Pogo-on-a-stick, this time.

The presence of his friend Daphne -- no, his *quondam* friend,
Daphne, he gleefully reminded himself; Daphne was no longer any
friend of *his* -- in no way reduced his gloating, his sense of
Schadenfreude, over the punishment to come.

Taking another sip of buttermilk, he walked up and down the
line of prisoners, looking each one in the eye, trying to glean as
much a sense of the terror the prisoners were sure to feel now.
He paused at Daphne, to stare her in the eyes.  She stared back
at him insolently.  In fact, none of the prisoners seemed
display any sense of the terror they ought to feel -- not even
Lucy, the shyest girl of them all.  Didn't they know him?
Didn't they know the punishment they were going to undergo?
How could they be so calm in the face of unimaginable torments?

He walked to the large rock, on which an assortment of switches
and paddles lay.  He selected one paddle to start with, and
called out to Daphne.  Daphne approached with an insolent
swagger, emphasized by her arms tied behind her back.  By the
time he finished with her, she'd no longer swagger like that.

He reached down and took another sip of buttermilk.  "You know
you're to be punished?"  He asked Daphne sternly.  Daphne stuck
out her face and said nothing.  He showed her the paddle.  "Do
you know how you're going to be punished?"

"You're going to spank me?"

"Yes!"  Smart girl!  "What else?"

"Ummm, my legs will be tied together?"

That was a good idea.  "Sergeant, get me a piece of rope."  He
quickly wrapped the rope about Daphne's feet and tied it tight.

"What else?"  He continued, taunting her.

"You're going to untie my arms?"

"You've earned at least two more paddlings for that bit of
insolence.  Now answer me properly."

"Umm, you're going to lift up my dress?"

"Indeed.  But that's not all.  What else?"

"Er, um, uh, you're going to pull down my panties?"

"That's right!"  He drawled.  Daphne wasn't so stupid after
all.  He reached down and lifted up Daphne's navy-blue dress.
Wow, white panties with tiny yellow bears.  Sissy stuff, just
like a girl would wear.  He shouted to everyone, "Hey, men.
Look at her panties!"

He knelt down to get a closer look.  It was awkward holding her
dress up, so he let it flop down over his head.  It was dark,
but there was still enough light to see with.  He felt Daphne
fidgeting with her hands behind her back.  "Hold still," he
snapped, and Daphne stopped moving.

He reached up and took both sides of the hem of her panties,
and slid them down.  There it was, the gorgeous, lovely bum
which he was oh-so-rarely privileged to view on any girl.  He
could hardly believe he was doing this, and his breath came in
short gasps.  He had to show it to everyone.  He slid her
panties down to her ankles, and stood up, lifting her dress
back up.

"Now, turn around slowly, my dear."  Taking tiny rotating steps
with her feet, Daphne turned to face the solders and the
prisoners.

After taking another sip of buttermilk, he took the paddle and
swatted Daphne's butt.  Daphne shrieked, a light shriek that
didn't sound nearly pained enough.  It sounded almost like a
laugh, even.  He swatted her again, and again, and again, but
she was almost giggling with every swat.  He swatted her harder
and harder, but the harder he swatted, the more Daphne shrieked
and laughed, shouting, "Yeah, yeah, yeah!"  He couldn't
understand it.  What was wrong with Daphne -- did she actually
like it?

Okay, he stopped a moment and dropped the paddle in exchange
for a switch.  "Don't stop now!" exclaimed Daphne, which
puzzled him more and more.  He struck her with the switch,
"YEAH!!" she shrieked and laughed.  He switched her again, and
again.

He finally stopped after awhile, when he noticed she was out of
breath.  Her butt was all bright pink, with marks scattered
about.  He let down her dress, wondering, had he done too much?

He didn't wonder for long, because suddenly he was on the
ground with his feet and hands pinned down.  Daphne was over
him, laughing gleefully and swiftly tying his wrists and ankles
together with the rope from which she had somehow freed her
wrists and ankles.  He was powerless.

"Sergeant Joe!  Men!  Help!  Save me!"  He could only see out
the corner of his eyes his men and the girls they held prisoner
laughing and doing nothing to help him.

His arms were hooked way over his head, on something -- he
couldn't see what.  Daphne sat astride his knees, and pulled
down his shorts and underpants.  He couldn't be more mortified
than he already was.

Or couldn't he?  Daphne took his thing and twisted the head
about.  "Aww, that little wiener's so cute," Daphne mocked.
"Almost as big as my baby brother's."  He felt it getting
hard and sticking out; why it always did that, he had no idea.

"Now turn over," Daphne turned him over forcefully.  What was
she going to do to him?  "Now, you're going to learn what true
suffering is."  She slid his shorts down as far as they would
go, and his tee shirt up over his head.  He couldn't see
anything.  He wondered what she was going to do to him.  Would
she paddle him?

No, not that.  Far worse.  She started tickling him.  "No, no!"
he gasped, in vain.  She tickled him all over his body, under
his arms, down his back, behind his knees; and once one hand
slid down between his legs and tickled him there.  That was
awful!  There was nothing he could do.

"Turn over," she order him, as she turned him over again.  She
tickled him some more, down his front.  No part of him was
spared her merciless touch.  There was nothing he could do
about it, and his men weren't helping him.  Instead, they were
all standing around him, laughing at him, laughing at *his*
suffering.  How could they do that to him?  Betrayed, by his
own men!

At that time, a voice called from the distance.  "Bedtime,
Dan!"  Dan gasped.  It sounded like Dad was approaching their
clearing, and he tried to move.  He couldn't be caught by his
Dad like this, especially with girls around.  Fortunately,
Daphne quickly untied his wrists and ankles.  He jumped up and
pulled his shorts up and his shirt down.

Daphne seemed to be all fixed up, too.  Dan looked over at her,
wondering how the heck she'd escaped the ropes.  He started
toward the path back down to his house.  As if she read his
mind, she answered, "There are plenty of uses for a Skate-key."

          The END
You may reach the author at: daphne@nym.alias.net
===========================================
What Healing Feels Like
By Conjugate

This is an adult story, meaning you shouldn't read it unless
you are old enough to read stories like this.  It contains
explicit sex, so you shouldn't read it unless you want to
read stories with explicit sex.  This story is copyrighted
by Conjugate, and all rights are reserved.  This story may
be transmitted via Usenet, archived at any _free_ archival
site, and passed on to others as long as this header remains
intact and no fee is charged for it.

What Healing Feels Like

By Conjugate

It was, Phil reflected, a sort of ironic justice.  For years,
he had been the "attached" one, whose friends had always been
struggling to find dates, to make a relationship work, and to
get together...well, not really get *together*.  Just to get
*laid*, really.  As the years passed, the old gang had slowly
settled down, and gotten married, and had joined him in
wedded bliss or an acceptable approximation thereto, and then
Gloria had left him.  Now, years later, when he was out of
practice at dating, he was single again, and he wasn't sure
he knew how to do it.  All those friends whom he'd felt sorry
for when they were single now no doubt felt sorry for him.

"Poor Phil," he imagined them thinking.  "Isn't it about time
he found himself a nice gal and settled down?"  Just the sort
of thing he and Gloria had said about Tom and Jack and Larry.
Just thinking about the things he and Gloria used to talk
about made his heart ache.  It even seemed as though his
nervous system had grown into the other side of the bed, and
the empty side of the bed ached in him.  And then he'd seen
the ad.

"Better than personal ads," it had said, and that was good,
for he had read many personal ads, and had always thought
they were for losers.  Besides, when he looked at a personal
ad nowadays, it seemed all of them from women specified a
range of acceptable ages, and it seemed that all the ages
that were acceptable were ones he'd left behind long before.
No, personal ads were not the answer.  But a "dating service,"
Phil thought, had a ring of class to it.  Surely it wouldn't
be a collection of people too peculiar and desperate to find
mates on their own, would it?

So he tried one.  He didn't tell his old friends about it, as
he didn't think he could stand the pity.  He just wandered in,
trying hard to look as though he were lost and about to ask
directions.  It didn't fool the girl behind the counter for an
instant; probably, he thought, most of the people who came in
here looked that way.  So he got over his embarrassment and
made a deal.  They took his check and his picture, and made him
write out a personal statement.  He went home after that with a
feeling that perhaps something was going to work right.

In a short while, he'd gotten a call.  The dating service had
found something.  That was how they'd put it: they'd found
"something" for him.  Even as he was wondering who had taught the
young lady behind the counter tact, he was wondering who (what?)
they'd found.  So, another day's work behind him, he found himself
wandering over to the service, and wandering in as though lost,
and then making a beeline for the counter.

He left with a manila envelope.  The service had made up a package
for her consisting of a copy of his picture and personal statement,
and he got a package with her picture and personal statement; if
(and _only_ if) both of them agreed, the service would set them up
with a meeting and they could see if they wanted to see each other
after that.

It looked so good at first.  Her picture made her look young,
pretty, desirable; so much so it made him wish he'd shaved
and put on a fresh shirt and combed his hair before the people
at the service had taken his picture.  All he'd been able to
glean from her personal statement was that she was interested
in the environment and civil rights, and had gotten a Master's
degree in English Literature a few years back.  But he thought
she might be worth a try, so he let the agency know that he was
interested in this one, and sat back and waited to see.

Within a few days, the service called back; she wanted a date
with him.  Since he'd told them he was interested in her, it
wasn't long until they had set up a time for them to see each
other, and spend an evening together.  At last, he thought,
the end of the long drought.  I'm going to be attached again.
The idea of being part of a couple was so nice, so seductive,
so reassuring, that the intervening days seem to whirl by in
a haze.  It felt too good to be true.

It seemed even more too good to be true when he finally met
her, the woman from the photograph.  Her name was Estelle.
They had gone to a show, and discovered to their mutual
delight that they both knew almost all the lyrics to every
Gilbert and Sullivan opera in existence.  They had laughed
throughout the show at the same places, thus each confirming
the other's opinion of great perceptiveness and intelligence.
They'd found that they both admired and enjoyed Walt Kelly's
comic strip _Pogo_ even though it was gone these many years.
Then, at dinner, he found that his favorite restaurant was
one of her favorites, too, and that the waiters knew them
both.  It seemed perfect.

Usually, when something seems perfect, nature, or a
vindictive God, or perhaps a perversity of probability, is
all too eager to point out the imperfection in the most
painfully obvious way, and so it proved in this case.  They
had decided together that a wonderful evening should be
followed by a wonderful night, and they had wound up at her
place.  He was careful not to drink anything with alcohol,
since he didn't want the evening to fall flat, as it were,
and when Estelle put on something a little more comfortable,
Phil knew from the tightness in his slacks that he had not
drunk too much.

She took him by the hand, and then she took him to her room,
and then she took him.  Or at least that was the plan.  As it
happened, he was thrilled when he stood her in front of the
big bed in her room, and turned out the lights so that the
only illumination was a pair of candles, and their reflections
in the mirrors on either side of the bed flickered like stars.
Estelle illumined in starlight.  The "something comfortable"
that she'd slipped into slithered right off, and Phil found
himself being slowly undressed by a beautiful nude woman whose
body gleamed gold in the candlelight.  His manhood hardened,
and stood out stiff and firm as she slid his pants and shorts
off, and he obligingly stepped out of them while she took off
his shoes.  He removed his shirt and tie, and they moved to
the big bed.  Estelle's eyes never left his, though her hands
moved down to caress his stomach lightly, then tickled his
pubic hair, slid along his cock delightfully, and then swirled
the hair around his scrotum with a gentle delicate touch.  His
already hard erection hardened further, and he knew that if it
had not been for the dim light, he could have seen the helmet
of his cockhead gleaming shiny and smooth, a drop of pre-cum at
the tip.  He felt he hadn't been this hard in years.  She laid
herself down on the bed, extending one leg straight and raising
the other leg straight up.  Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight
as she smiled invitingly at him, and he moved to sit near her
shoulder, then leaned back to lay his head on her thigh.  He
could smell the musky, clean aroma of her crotch, and he blew
a thin jet of air experimentally at the dark triangle.  She
responded by blowing a jet of air at his cockhead.  He could
feel the cold sensation where the pre-cum had formed a wet
rivulet down the side.  He licked; she sucked.  He kissed; she
stroked gently.  It was clear that he could not take much more
of this, so he pulled his hips back and began to tongue her,
gently at first, then more rapidly, and he felt her begin to
respond, and heard her breath soon grow short.

Once she had taken her pleasure, he stopped to let her collect
herself; it struck him that since they'd gotten to her apartment
neither of them had spoken a word.  He didn't want to spoil the
mood by speaking, so he waited until she was no longer gasping.
Perhaps she felt the same way; instead of asking him, she merely
gestured lightly to indicate that she wanted him to turn around.

He brought his face to hers, and found himself surprised when she
kissed him, licking her own juices from his face as eagerly as if
they had been buttermilk.  She reached down, found his erection
still strong, and with her tongue tantalizing his, managed to
unroll a condom over it.  This was another surprise; he hadn't
even felt her reach for a condom.  She pulled herself onto him
with a slick squish, and slowly they began to move together.
Her hands ran lightly along his back, so that only the tips of
the nails touched his skin in the lightest possible way as he
began to get into the rhythm.

_Gloria used to do that,_ he thought, and the thought of his
quondam spouse was a disaster.  The great hole in his life that
he thought had begun to heal seemed torn open again.  He felt
another sharp pain in the empty side of the bed in his apartment
across town.  Estelle, holding him, could tell something was
wrong, or perhaps he'd pushed her away.  She turned on the bedside
light, and looked at him with concern in her eyes.  "What is it?
Did I do something wrong?"

He couldn't answer for a moment, and glanced down at his erection,
but it wasn't there.  Instead, he could see his shriveled tool
curled pathetically up inside a sadly twisted latex sheath, and
he felt a horrible shame he hadn't felt in more years than he
wanted to remember.  Part of him felt as though he'd been punched
in the stomach.  He tried hard to keep his hands from trembling
as he pulled the condom from his penis, angry at its apostasy,
and discarded the condom in the little wastebasket beside the bed.
Later, he found he couldn't quite remember everything that
happened next; he found himself clothed, and driving back to his
apartment, and shaking.

At home, he found it hard not to cry.  He had not felt like this
in years.  The one thing he'd never worried about was erection
problems, and that was the thing that had killed his first date
in years.  He imagined Estelle going back to the service, and
jeering about it to the girl behind the counter.  He couldn't
face her again, and ask her for another manila envelope, and see
the hint of a concealed smirk on her face.  He couldn't tell his
friends about this, he couldn't ... dear God, he couldn't go back
to his old restaurant.  For a moment he felt as though he'd have to
change his name and move to another state, or spend the rest of
his life swimming in a sea of schadenfreude, pretending not to
notice as everyone smiled behind his back at the impotent old man
who'd been stupid enough to think he could still find love.  The
hole in his heart where Gloria had been ached.  He was as archaic
as a skate-key in a Rollerblade(TM) world.  He had a vision of
himself as an old man, wearing a bathrobe all day, smelling funny
and talking about things nobody else thought was important or
relevant, subject to the foul fustigation of former, and false,
friends.  There is, he thought sadly, no fool like an old fool.

He was well along on that uniquely miserable form of the ego-trip
that is self-pity when the telephone rang.  His first impulse was
to ignore it, and get back to the bittersweet pleasure of coming
to terms with his absolute and irredeemable inadequacy.  However,
the thought that it might be important pulled him out of it for
the moment.  After all, he thought morbidly, it might be somebody
wanting to sell him a burial plot, and perhaps he should start
thinking about that.  After all, he was nearly fifty.

Estelle's voice came as a surprise to him.  Even more of a surprise
was its tone; not jeering, not angry or disgusted.  Worried.  "Are
you all right?" she asked.

It took him a moment to find his voice.  After a few false starts,
he managed it.  "Yes," he lied.

"Well, the way you took out of here, I was worried.  I didn't know
if it was... well, I didn't know..."  As her voice trailed off, he
suddenly realized something.  She was worried that it was her!  It
was a revelation.  He tried again to speak.

"Oh, no.  It was, well, I'm sorry.  It was just, well, I'm, oh,
God,..." and he took a long, ragged breath.  "Look, it's just that
my ex-wife, well, she used to," that's it, blame your impotence on
Gloria, Mr. Flaccid, he thought.  But her response to this not-
quite-finished thought astounded him.

"Oh," he heard her say.  "I did something that reminded you of
Gloria.  Of course that upset you.  I'm sorry, I didn't know.  If
we try another date later, will you give me another chance?  I
should have expected something like this; Liz warned me."

Liz.  He knew a Liz.  She knew Gloria.  Who was Liz?  "Liz..." he
began.  God, he thought, he hadn't completed a sentence in five
minutes.  His side of this conversation would embarrass a moron.
"Uh, how do you know Liz?"  Who the Hell was Liz?  He knew a Liz,
it was a familiar name, he knew Liz and Larry...that was it.  My
God, Liz was Larry's wife!

"Oh, Liz and I work together.  I thought she or Larry would have
mentioned me to you."  Of course, he thought, that was Larry and
Liz's favorite restaurant, that's how I found out about it.  He
felt much better.  Even as he figured this out, he was saying
something to her, but he wasn't quite sure what.  He stopped
chasing his thoughts in circles, and listened.  She had started
speaking again, responding to whatever he'd babbled.

"Of _course_ I'd like to go out with you again.  I'm just sorry
I didn't realize what was happening.  When will you be free?"

As he mentally began running through his calendar, he felt the hole
in his heart again.  Instead of aching quite so much, though, he felt
something different.  Perhaps, he thought, that's what healing feels
like.

(C) Conjugate 2000
conjugat@bellsouth.net

--

-denny-
curmudgeonly editor

"Life with the circus is one long uninterrupted dee-light."
(Barry Longyear, _Circus World_)

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+