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Message-ID: <61282asstr$1310775005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Cindy Silver Eyes <cse1986@rocketmail.com>
Reply-To: Cindy Silver Eyes <cse1986@rocketmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} THE CLUB
Lines: 297
Date: Fri, 15 Jul 2011 20:10:05 -0400
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<1st attachment, "THE CLUB.doc" begin>

<!--ADULTSONLY-->
THE CLUB
(M/F, Slavery, Blackmail, Humiliation, BDSM)

Cindy Silver Eyes
<a
href="http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Cindy_Silver_Eyes/www/">http://www.asstr.
org/files/Authors/Cindy_Silver_Eyes/www/</a>
<a
href="mailto:cse1986@rocketmail.com">cse1986@rocketmail.com</a>

*****
Do you like my story?  So, what is it that you like then?  The
one thing that you really like the most?  
Please let me know:  <a
href="mailto:cse1986@rocketmail.com">cse1986@rocketmail.com</a>
(That's the only pay-off in writing, really...!)
*****

Again posting an old story, written quite some time ago...  I am
posting everything I've done so far!   This one is quite a bit
darker than usual somehow...

*****


"I am gonna have a very good time with you, slut" the fat lawyer
let it be known to me with his burly, coarse voice.  I didn't
know why he spoke that way   perhaps chain-smoking or the pounds
of lard he carried around his belly.  Either way, his irritating
voice was just one more thing that made him disgusting.
"I love punishing uppity little sluts like you" he said grinning.
 That big dumb grin... it was scary.  Scary because it seemed all
his good sense was washed away with that grin, under a wave of
senseless enthusiasm.  He was a lawyer   or so I guessed, maybe
an accountant, but definitely something technical and mundane  
and buying me for the night was the sort of thing that brought
him the excitement he craved.  The sort of excitement he could
probably never quench, except at Club Crawler...
I'd been on the stage no more than 2 hours ago.  Prancing in my
high heels, putting as much spin as possible in my hips,
strutting for the men as I'd been taught.  I was gyrating to the
music, stripping off whatever little clothing I had, licking the
damn poles, smiling at the men, teasing and taunting as best I
could...  Like a well-trained stripper.  And they - men of all
ages   had been laughing and cheering, and, of course, sticking
money on me.  I always smiled gratefully when they slipped a
lousy bill under the waist band of my thong, as if I ever saw any
of the money. 
The fat lawyer had been there, too, of course, sitting by the
stage and he did make me kneel before him several times to get
tipped   but he was obviously saving most of his money for later.

You see, it is different, being a stripper at Club Crawler. 
Perhaps, normal strippers, strippers in Vegas, strippers who
wanted to be strippers in the first place, enjoy showing off on
the stage, teasing and frustrating the men, getting off on how
they could just push the men's buttons with no consequence, and
get paid huge tips for it...
It isn't like that at Club Crawler.  The girls aren't
untouchable.  Teasing the men is the job but it does have
consequences.  
Strippers at Club Crawler can be bought   for whatever you wanted
to do with them.  Every one of us has a price tag.  A dear price,
yes, but the girl will be yours for the remainder of the night to
do with as you please.  No ifs, no buts...  
Like the fat lawyer, who'd bought me after the regular show.   I
knew now I looked exactly as he wanted:  Scared and naked but for
a pair of high heels...  The fat lawyer and I were in one of the
rooms in the adjacent "hotel" provided for clients and their
purchased dates.   I was scared   all but trembling in fact   and
it was no act.   I'd never been bought by him before, never even
saw him perhaps, but I knew he was going to hurt me   I knew the
type.  Nothing permanent of course, that would be against the
club rules, and Igor was very strict about his club's rules.  All
the same, the fat lawyer was going to abuse me for real, I could
tell, he was going to get every penny's worth and enjoy every
moment of it.  It was good that I looked scared as hell, that
perhaps got me some sympathy points, and I was of course going to
suck him off like my life completely depended on it as soon as he
gave me the chance, and I was going to look scared out of my mind
doing it, fearing that I may disappoint him in the slightest way,
and none of it was going to be acting.  I was scared for real  
he knew it and loved it.
No acting was involved - unlike the night before:  The previous
night I had been bought by a some lowly immigrant from Colombia,
and he'd been barely able to speak English.  He was thin and
muscled, had a dark, ill-trimmed beard, oily hair, and a
permanent stench of motor oil that made me think he was working
at a gas station.  His pleasure wasn't to see me scared or in
pain   he wasn't that twisted or "sophisticated"   but to see me
as his slut.  Me, a perfect, young, blonde, conceited American
woman, reduced to being his little whore, dying to please him,
pandering to him like a pathetic little dog, sucking and
spreading for him better than the cheap whores he got back home
and all the time acting like pleasuring him like a king was the
greatest honor bestowed on a slut like her.  Yes, that had
required a ton of acting.  Of course, no matter how good the
acting, I think he could tell, but that just pleased him all the
more:  Me, the arrogant American slut, putting together a whole
pathetic act, out of fear that I may displease him, a lowly
immigrant...
Acting came with the "job" of course   the job of being a Club
Crawler girl.  Except it was no job, anymore than cows have a
"job" at the farm.  We were all working off our debts to Igor
Abromsky   we never got any money except enough to survive.  All
the rest went to the Club...
The girls at the club were not so much hired as "acquired". 
Acquired by Igor, whose acquisition techniques ranged from
hooking girls into drugs and gambling debts to all forms of
blackmailing to threatening their loved ones with the same
fate...  I'd been told in no uncertain terms that should I dare
to flee, my replacement would be my 16-year-old sister currently
residing happily in Palo Alto, wondering why her big sister had
dropped out of UCLA despite being the "smart one", why I barely
dropped them just a note a month,  why I never let them know
where I was, even though my parents were so devastated   she
couldn't know of course that Dad had once embezzled money when
he'd been in a tight fit, and that certain authorities would
receive all the relevant material if the right calls were made,
or that Mom had once succumbed to the temptation of her tennis
teacher and that there was a full-length video-tape of it waiting
to be released on the internet, or that the innocent dope my
sister purchased with her friends could easily be laced with
something much more addictive   or certain poisons that were
commonplace in drugs...  No one would suspect a thing...  
So, like all girls at Club Crawler, I was property of Igor
Abromsky   I was no better, no worse, no more special than any
other.  All the girls were former cheerleaders, aspiring models,
prom queens, head-turners, lookers...  We shared in common good
looks, a dismal fate, and an impotent hatred for Igor Abromsky. 
Of course, one never showed her hatred towards Abromksy.  Instead
you did what you were supposed to:  When Igor said to suck, you
sucked, when he said to dance, you danced, and you did it all
with a smiling face, no matter how much you abhorred it...
Igor was Russian mafia.  He wasn't anything like in the movies -
there wasn't anything cool or ironic about him.  He was a short,
stocky, bald man   yet he generated nothing but a cold,
bottomless fear in your heart.  He was a cruel brute who was
amused by the torment and humiliation of young women.  With all
the dirt he was in, I think the club was mostly a hobby for him.

"I hope you have enough tolerance for the whip" the fat lawyer
chuckled.
"I do, Sir" I replied, knowing fear was in my voice.  He loved
it, I could tell, loved my pathetic fear, and wasn't going to
give me any sympathy points.  I was in for a bad night. 
"What was your name, again?" he asked with a mocking grin.
"Cindy, Sir" I replied haplessly, giving away my true name.
In normal strip clubs and whorehouses, I knew girls changed their
names, often using obvious fakes.  Not at Club Cruelsy.  That was
not a luxury Abromsky afforded his girls   we were not allowed to
imagine ourselves as strippers in the club and somebody else back
in the real life.  We were one and the same.  The same Cindy that
had been a Finance major at college 16 months ago was now the
Cindy who stood naked before the fat lawyer, waiting to be used
like the whore she was.  
When I'd first started out at the Club, I'd thought I'd only be a
waitress   I'd thought I could please Abromsky and pay my dues
just by waitressing, nothing worse.  Just for a few months, I'd
be a waitress at a lowly strip joint in the middle of nowhere,
and then I could go back to my real life.  That's how all girls
start at the Club, of course, fooled into thinking they can
squeak by, just fetching drinks for the men and smiling...
Even waitresses at the Club were dressed like whores:  I'd been
given nothing but an electric-pink shorts-like panties, and a
matching pink top so small for me that it felt like my breasts
would tear apart the tiny clothing to pieces any moment... 
Nothing else but a pair of impossibly high-heels that turned the
mere act of walking into a challenge.  
Of course, the new girls, the nave little waitresses, were always
fair game for everyone.   Even the skimpy waitress uniform was
designed as such:  The short-bikini and the top were really a
pair of separate pieces held together by a bunch of strings, all
of which were tied into a giant bow at the small of the girl's
back.  Just one little pull on the bow, and the whole garment
would be on the floor.  Not so humiliating for a stripper
perhaps, but devastating for a girl who thinks she'll walk out of
Club Crawler in 3 months time with her pride intact.  Guys often
untied the girls for fun, especially when they were most
vulnerable, carrying a tray full of drinks.  Or tipped one of the
waitresses to untie another.   When that happened, the stage
manager always shined a spotlight on the poor girl, even as she
ran for cover.  The customers just loved to watch a girl waddle
off with her panties dangling between her thighs...  
Of course, in due time I'd learned that was the least that could
happen to a waitress...
Fridays were bondage night   the plain striptease left its place
on the stage to a full blown show of bondage and discipline. 
Except at Club Crawler, it was not an obvious and cheesy act.  A
girl was really picked as the slave for the night, tormented and
punished on stage for the amusement of the audience.  And the
slave was always picked from the waitresses   a big bowl was
brought on stage, containing the names of the waitresses.  Then
someone from the audience would be invited on stage to make a
random pick from the bowl.  Few fearful feelings could compete
with the feeling of seeing the man announcing your name with a
grin, as I'd seen several times.   It was nothing compared to
what the fat lawyer would be doing to me, but it was no walk in
the park   the ropes were still tight and the whip still hurt...
And the first time you were brought on to the stage and got
whipped by the strippers   who always did the punishing, often
with glee   you'd know you weren't going to come unscathed from
your hell.
Saturdays were another special event   the lesbian night.  The
waitresses were spared from this, assuming it required some
tolerance to stage jitters.  Once again, two girls were picked at
random, two strippers.  Then began a lesbian performance for the
benefit of the audience.  Again, unlike the normal strip joints
in Vegas or elsewhere, this was no simulated acting.  It was the
real thing:  Girls really did screw each other, the full nine
yards, as men howled and cheered.
The videotapes of the bondage show and the lesbian show were
always made available that very night and the patrons could
purchase their copies for a cool $39 as they left the club... 
And just thinking who had copies of me getting whipped naked or
fucking another stripper was enough to tie my stomach into a
knot.
But the worst humiliation was the 21st birthday.  I'd had mine
barely a couple months ago.  
When a girl's 21st birthday came up   and most girls ended up
"celebrating" their 21st at the Club   it would be a special
occasion.  Customers were encouraged to buy the birthday girl a
drink   a favor she was supposed to return with a blow-job. 
Always under the spotlight and the cheers of the audience.  First
the drink, then the blow-job.  Pretty soon, the girl celebrating
her birthday would have sucked two dozen men, and would be drunk
out of her head, even as the crowd had a ball.  If you were a
waitress or a stripper at Club Crawler, you celebrated your 21st
on your knees, sucking off countless men in the middle of a
crowd.
And of course this too was taped and titled.  "Cindy's 21st" was
a hot-selling item at the Club Shop, one of the best birthday
tapes made; and there were more than 100 of those...
My one pathetic solace was that no one remotely related to my
ex-life could be at the Club.  It was located 60 miles out of
Reno, well out of reach of the regular folks.  The patrons were
not regular types   they'd heard things and they made the long
trip for a purpose.  They were a darker, meaner, sinister
collection of men.  They knew they were at a joint run by a
Russian mob boss and they knew there was stuff that you couldn't
find at your vanilla Vegas or Reno strip club.  Of course, not
all of them knew the full truth.   You'd have to become a real
regular at the Club before you awakened to what was really going
on:  That the strippers at the Club could be bought like whores
and they weren't really at the club out of their own accord...
Of course, discovering that little morsel of a fact hardly turned
off these men.  You could usually tell those who knew   they
seemed to be having all the more fun...
The fat lawyer chuckled.  "Cindy, huh?  Pretty name..."
"Thank you, Sir" I managed to utter in my most fearful,
subservient voice...
"You don't remember me, do you, Cindy slut?"
A cold fear, almost worse than the prospects of the impending
hurt and abuse, struck my heart.
"I am a lawyer, more precisely I am the in-house attorney at your
father's firm, my little darling.  We've met several times
before, you know, at those boring company picnics.  Your
embezzling pig of a father was always kind enough to bring along
his daughters   I guess he just wanted to show off what a nice
couple of hot sluts he'd raised with that whore of a mother of
yours..."  
My heart skipped a beat.  It felt like the world was spinning all
around me   I couldn't even get angry at his insults, I was too
scared to care.
"Well, I'll be glad to enjoy one of his sluts all night long... 
I've dreamt about this for quite some time, after all.  In fact,
I can think of a number of guys from the firm who'd love to get a
piece of ass from daddy's little girl   I got them one of those
'Cindy's 21st' videos.    Don't worry though   they are not all
as rough as me, and I can usually make it out here only about
once a month...  And of course, we'll keep our mouths shut.  So
long as you're being a good little girl..."
I was all but shaking... in dread and shame...  
Men from Daddy's office...!!
The fat lawyer picked up the whip and smiled again:  
"I am gonna have a very good time with you, slut..."

Cindy Silver Eyes
<a
href="http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Cindy_Silver_Eyes/www/">http://www.asstr.
org/files/Authors/Cindy_Silver_Eyes/www/</a>
<a
href="mailto:cse1986@rocketmail.com">cse1986@rocketmail.com</a>


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