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Message-ID: <37783asstr$1028891403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Alt Sextoy" <altstoy4u@hotmail.com>
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: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


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.



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<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>


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