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From: BronwenSM@wicked-little.demon.co.uk (BronwenSM)
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Subject: {ASSM} 3/3 RP "Sam's Bad Day"  (voyeur, FemDom, ff, rape, pedo, snuff, humor)
Date: Sat,  8 Sep 2001 19:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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N.B. This entire story is written from one spam header to the next.

WARNING: This is adult reading material. If you aren't, don't!
(c) BronwenSM 1997. Not to be used without permission. 

N.B. Extra to the normal "Ohmigod don't read this if you're under 45
and child-free or you'll go blind and I'll get sued" warning, I ought
to point out that this tale of an all-American family was written by
the female equivalent of Hugh Grant. Since my first draft, Uther
Pendragon has kindly given me some tips but it's still not v. apple
pie.

But then, I thought, what the heck? Let's be internationalist... And
let's imagine what would happen if the spammers had to *live* with
their spam...

                                       @---}--}--}------

                                   The House of Sin
                           Part III of "Sam's Bad Day"
                 (voyeur, FemDom, ff, rape, pedo, snuff, humor)

                                       @---}--}--}------


In the dark Sam sensed his captors tense. Somewhere outside the room
any number of clattering heavy feet were approaching... It sounded as
though they were marching, and on concrete. Perhaps he was in some
industrial complex?

"Rescue?" he wondered nervously. But who would know he was here - and
how? 

"Fuck. They keep out-manouevring our kill files!" The voice was
different now. Harsher but less confident. "We're going to have to
move fast."

The footsteps were getting closer. There was something implacable
about their regularity, their monotonous stomp. Sam thought of
jackboots, and shivered. He wasn't convinced that whoever - or
whatever - was coming was going to be any friendlier than this psycho
dominatrix.

"It's that bitch Tonya AOL. She'll let any bastard in," said the
second woman. It was the first time she'd spoken and Sam wasn't
expecting such a breathy little voice. Teacher's pet, thought Sam. He
knew the type. Should do, takes one to know one.

"We've gotta get outta here and hole up somewhere. I haven't finished
with this one yet!"

"Sure, but where?"

"The House of Sin, of course. Distressing, I know, but safe - and oh
so educational for our friend here. Let's go."

Quickly and deftly the women unstrapped him. They ripped him off the
chair so fast Sam let out a faint shriek as his sticky flesh left the
leather. To hell with embarrassing noises, it hurt.

As they raised him they pinioned his wrists and cuffed them behind him
with soft leather straps. Sam's main reaction was a sense of blessed
relief to have his arms below shoulder height at last.

Sam was sure now it was the ones who had stopped him in the street.
But the fact that he'd been certain he had only one tormentor until
that pale arm snaked between his thighs was disconcerting. By keeping
silent and out of his field of vision the second woman had ensured
he'd only been aware of the Boss, as he was beginning to think of her.
But now he knew there were definitely two. How many more might there
be silent in the darkness? And how many more were resisting the
anonymous onslaught outside?

They hustled him, stumbling but unresisting, through the darkness.
There was a heavy door, beyond that an old cage-style elevator door to
be pulled back with a clatter, and he was thrust inside. Squashed
together in the blackness, the smell and squeak of their leather
clothing was overpowering. Someone slammed the doors, but the elevator
didn't move. He heard the button pressed repeatedly, but nothing.

The noise outside was building up. He could hear raised voices now as
well as the thud of boots. Shouts, rumbles, the smashing of the glass
and then, horribly, a woman's shrieking, sheer terror, physical pain,
repetitive... shrieking...

"Oh no..." the second voice cracked with pain... "It's Candy.. I know
it's her... I don't think I can handle this..."

The elevator creaked into noisy motion and started to descend. In the
darkness he heard a crash as the door to the room above them went
through. But they had escaped. Where to and what for was not Sam's
biggest concern.

The second woman was sobbing quietly, tenderly. Sam heard leather
shift, and soft pats. "Oh, poor darling Candy. She was so brave..."

"Chin up, Cherry. A woman's got a right to fight for her good name.
Too many of us simply lost the names our parents gave us to the
spammers. That's why I've changed mine to Agent 1.01. I just couldn't
stomach what Barbie had come to mean any longer.

"Besides which," she continued, more briskly, "Why the tears? I'm sure
our guest can justify incitement to rape to you as just a legitimate
commercial extension of our First Amendment rights."

" Isn't that correct, Sam?" she continued. "How does it go?  Ah yes:
'RAPE RAPE RAPE RAPE RAPE RAPE - FREE SITE - The administrator of this
site does not condone non-consensual sex. Practice safe and consensual
sex! The content is very graphic and could be disturbing for many.'
That's what you wrote, wasn't Sam? So that's cool, Cherry baby. Just
the luck of the draw as far as poor Candy's concerned."

"<P><B><H1>It's all your fault, you Bastard!!!</H1></B></P>" The woman
called Cherry accused him, sobbing. Sam shrank into his corner of the
elevator.

"There's no point in speaking HTML to the slimeball," Boss said.
"Shithead can't format it - and even if he could he wouldn't be able
to in this light.Give him another jab and we'll take him downtown."

"Are you sure that's necessary, angel, I mean Agent 1.01?" Cherry
replied. "He's no lightweight, after all. He can walk until we get to
the limo."

Sam nodded vigorous agreement in the darkness, and Agent 1.01 must've
done the same for Sam found himself still conscious as the elevator
screeched to a halt.

Emerging at ground level, Sam saw they had, as he imagined, been in
some old-fashioned office-cum-manufacturing building. The design
message of the lobby was "asbestos". Ancient elevators, ancient
plumbing - the perfect place for a hideout. A long way from his
suburban paradise... Sam felt a very, very long way from his world...

He looked around him. A dominatrix at each shoulder prevented him from
running, though he had no desire to escape their custody. He felt as
if he were in some dreadful puzzling dream but knew he was far more
frightened of the stamping marching feet upstairs than of these
amazons. They might seem tough, but at least they were kind to one
another - which looked hopeful.

Because they had him firmly by each elbow it was hard to get a proper
look at them, although their conical leather breasts were impossible
to ignore, but as they reached the glass doors and, aware of how
little fight he was putting up, released him to open the door and
manoeuvre themselves through it, he got his first proper look since
their initial encounter. It was night outside, but as they stood on
the sidewalk, Sam assessed his captors.

The bigger one must've been over 200 pounds, astonishingly well
distributed. And after all, thought Sam, who'd been a footballer in
high school, seeing that she stood at least 6 foot tall, that wasn't
overweight for her build. Her hair was a French knot of impossibly
blonde silk, her eyes violet, her cheekbones Slav, her mouth huge and
glossy. But her expression was the killer. She looked as if she knew
more about - well, more about anything you cared to mention - than Sam
did or would ever know.

Her side kick, cool-eyed and watchful, had a brilliant brunette bob,
with the unnatural sheen of a hair products ad. Her face was a wet
dream, her body an 18 year old fantasy. But again, it was the eyes
that took his breath. Cherry's shadowed crystal gaze had seen it all,
and then some... Those eyes could never have been innocent, even as a
child.

And then her amazing body caught his senses afresh. Cherry's glance
caught his bashful peeks at her magnificence and, almost smiling, she
said teasingly, "European Latex Apparel for Men and Women at
Rock-Bottom US Prices, Sam. Fetish Apparel for Every Taste. Even
spam has its uses."

A limo with darkened windows slid out of the shadows. An unseen hand
opened the back door from inside, and he was ushered in, strapped
down. Back into the darkness, a warm luxurious darkness this time, and
they slowly, silently drove away.

Sam drew a breath, and swallowed hard. He was torn between lust, fear
and awe. Awe was winning, though lust kept reminding him what they
were wearing.

They were both dressed entirely in black and heavily made up. The
taller one, Agent 1.01, had a plunging sleeveless leather cat suit
with keyhole cut-outs and heavily spiked collar. Sam found himself
remembering the satiny flesh revealed in mountainous plenty over the
top of her bustier. The smaller one, Cherry - though Sam would hardly
describe 180 pounds and 5 foot 11 as petite - had even more flesh
showing. Leather stockings, held up with chain garters and no crotch
in her cat suit. 

And those nipples jutting through the peepholes... Sam shut his eyes,
shifted slightly to get his wrists in a more comfortable position and
tried to sleep... Impossible...

... But then again... Sam hardly felt the prick of the hypo as they
slid him into coma once more...

When he woke they were in what looked like a security guard's office
or booth. Workstations almost filled the tiny windowless room, desk
space round three sides, and large color monitors set up for
observation. "It's a bit chilly in here," Sam murmured. "This is as
hot as it can get!!!" Agent 1.01 answered coolly.

"Besides which you aren't here to get comfortable. Thought you might
like to see what goes on round here. Feel free to ask questions," said
Agent in a mocking tone. "Observe, and enquire.You wont believe your
eyes!!!" She and Cherry slouched elegantly into swivel chairs, their
endless shiny black legs sprawled on the desks. Sam moved hesitantly
to explore the screens.

In each of the monitors Sam could see views of huge long hangar-like
rooms. He stood up and peered, one by one, into the monitors. The
hangars appeared to be some form of dormitory, with a row of beds on
each side and aisles down the middle. Pairs of doors interrupted the
walls at intervals. At the end of each room were a pair of stained
garbage chutes.

Staring mystified at the set-up, Sam tried to make sense of what he
saw. Some sort of prison or barracks? But no. For a start, each highly
individual bed space was that of a cutesy cliched teenage girl.

All the beds were different. There were canopied ones, heart-shaped
ones, frilly ones, quilted ones, even some double ones. And on top of
that, imagine all the girly-girly accoutrements you can - then double
it. Little pillows with funny slogans, little pillows made of lace.
Stuffed toys. Cosmetics, hair driers, locked diaries and how-to books.
Rock star posters, puppy and kitten posters. Oh, and horoscopes. But
the most prominent thing on each bed was a girl with a phone. Or, in
the case of the double beds, two or three girls...

And what a range of phones! Mostly hands free or mobile, but pink,
metallic, jokey shapes - every gimmicky variation. Each girl had her
own, a few had two.

And what a range of girls! The most striking feature of the girls was
just how gorgeous they were - sweet, warm, young, n' delicious! All of
them. There must have been 40 or more in each room, all as lovely as
Pamela Anderson - about as natural looking - and significantly
younger.  "All diffrent teens from Irish to Indian we got them all,"
Cherry pointed out.

None was a day over 21, not a tanline or stretchmark to be seen and
they were all either lewd newd or wearing hooker lingerie. Their
breasts were a catalog of types: high and pointy, huge and plastic,
puffy red nipples, tiny frozen pink peaks. Their thighs were
identically smooth and tanned, their nails inch long, their hair
heavily styled but artfully tousled.

Some appeared to be talking on the phone. And nearly all of them were
playing with themselves. Sam could only admire their ingenuity as,
phone clenched between ear and shoulder, neck twisted, girls dildoed
themselves, twiddled their clits or pulled absent-mindedly at their
nipples.

Some were talking on the phone. It soon became easy for Sam to
identify who was - and wasn't - connected. The girls who had someone
on the line were mostly lying on their backs, talking frenziedly into
their mobiles or listening avidly while with their spare hand they
fucked themselves with giant dildos in unlikely colors. Luminous pink,
green, purple. Dildos shaped like dolphins, like dolls, like mixers...
Their orgasms seemed constant, their pleasure in the phone calls
overwhelming... almost ludicrous.

Others were quite clearly waiting anxiously for phone calls - staring
at their phones, twiddling their hair. nibbling their long shining
manicures, playing abstractedly with their vibros and love eggs. Some
were pacing round their beds in frustration. The sense of expectancy
hung in the air like poison gas...

The weirdest thing was that they totally ignored each other. The duos
or threesomes played the lesbian relentlessly (though with no real
interest) but even they did not speak. Now Sam knew girls. Teenage
girls had girlfriends. It was the defining thing about them. Boys
might come and boys might go, but a teenage girl's girlfriends were as
vital as oxygen. These were *not* real teens.

"Please tell me where I am, Agent 1.01?" Sam asked humbly.

"This is the House of Sin, Teen Slut Wonderland and, as you can see,
it's peopled entirely with kinky college coeds. These young sluts have
just turned 18 and can now F*CK older men. Not that the poor young
creatures ever get the chance."

"Why are the ones waiting for the phones so tense?" Sam asked. "What's
the matter with them?"

"Oh, those are the *******Sopping Wet and Waiting******* girls, poor
loves. Like their ads say. I mean didn't it ever strike you as
peculiar that if those phone sex girls were so desperate for you to
call you had to pay to do it?"

"Never really thought about it," Sam said. He was beginning to get
interested. "You mean they really are desperate?"

"Desperate doesn't even come close. You see, their very existence
depends on phone sex. So of course if no one rings them they go crazy
with frustration. You know those headers you used to post '!HORNY BABE
WANTS TO BE PHONE SLAVE"?

"Yeah.."

"Yes, well every time you did that one of these girls appeared. It's a
bit like Peter Pan. Do you remember, Sam?"

Dim memories of Christmas treats flicker in Sam's befuddled head.
"Believing in fairies?" he murmurs.

"That's right, Sam. Clap your hands if you believe in fairies. That's
what Tinker bell says. All the children have to clap their hands if
they believe in fairies."

"Are you trying to tell me that I made these girls?"

"Yes. Made and damned them in an instant."

"This is insane. Why everyone knows those phone phuck ads are about as
genuine as the  ! JULIA ROBERTS BLOWJOB PIX !"

"Oh, so you believed the comforting fiction that the gorgeous jpgs
were just a marketing gimmick and the phones were really answered by
hard-pressed, hard-nosed housewives making an honest dollar out of
lonely guys?"

"Well, yes."

"Nothing so simply sordid, Sam. The truth is far worse. These lovely
teens, called into life by your misguided headers, sit longing for
their perverted princes to call. They have no other purpose. They
cannot reach orgasm without that call - and orgasm is all they desire.
And once they reach 21 there will be no place for them in the House of
Sin. Down the chutes they go... For who has any use for an old spam
header? Three years they live - if that. Listen to them. Sam."

A perfectly-manicured hand reached over and turned up the speaker.
Suddenly the room was filled with the voices of the girls in the
dormitory.

"Hello there stranger!" murmured a flushed blonde to a silent phone.
"My name is Sexy Sabrina! My only goal in life is to make you cum over
and over! Can I make you cum? Why don't you call and find out! I'm so
sure that I can that the first one's on me! So what's there to think
about! CALL NOW!" Her voice rose to an entreaty on the final words.
Staring desperately at the unresponsive handpiece she flung it to the
floor, and herself sobbing to the coverlet.

A redhead, clearly so desperate she had worn a pathetic track in her
bedside sheepskin with her pacing, was practicing her opening lines:
"Hi there lover! I'm sue and I would love to make you cum over the
phone! I'm so horny that I'm dying for release!!! Please call me
and help me get off. The call's one's free so you have nothing to
lose!!!"

Voices joined her, raised in hopeless pleading. "Hi!  I'm Raunchy
Tisha and I want to be your sex slave.  I don't care what you want me
to do, your every wish is my command.  The raunchier the more I'll
like.  The more you command me the more I'll love it.  I was born to
be a sexual slave  -   call me now and command me!!"

Cherry leant over and turned down the sound. Swiveling her long neck,
she gazed into Sam's face. He didn't know what to think. He couldn't
meet her clear eyes.

"But these are not the saddest souls in the House of Sin, Sam. The
most tragic of all, of course, are the twatsuckingteens. I mean they
can't answer the phone even if it rang, obviously, so they just starve
to death. Though it takes quite a while. Can get real bloody."

As Sam watched, now a sadder if not necessarily wiser man, an adorable
naked pink form tottered into view. Naked that is apart from a
bulging, sodden diaper dangling round her knees. "Why it's a baby.. a
dear little girl!" cried sentimental Sam. "Oh, what a sweetie! But
she needs changing, poor little soul. And what's she doing here
anyway?

"She's the Year Old Slut, you sadistic bastard. And how long d'you
think she'll survive as a result of your brain-dead typo?" Agent
1.01's face condemned him.

"I had no idea..." he faltered.

"And ain't that the truth?" she spat back scornfully.

Seeking to change the subject, Sam peered into a new screen and
noticed that some of the girls at the far right hand corner of one
immense room had clothes on, though not enough to go anywhere. Perky
little tits jutting over the top, they were semi-clad in gorgeous
formal gowns, torn, lipstick-stained, extremely rumpled. Their
corsages had seen better days too. Most of them were twiddling their
pussy lips distractedly as they too talked non-stop into powder-pink
mobiles.

"Are they trusties or something?  You know, special privileges, those
girls? I mean, they're the only ones with any clothes?"

"God you're dumb. Who do you think they are? They're the KINKY PROM
QUEENS. Once we got hold of the polaroids of a cheerleader party that
got out of hand they were ours. Mind you, you WATCH THESE TEENS ON
PROM NIGHT!"

Sam was thinking. "So what do these girls do the rest of the time? Do
they work eight hour shifts or what? I mean do they live here all the
time or do they go out - classes, dates - you know?"

"But honey, why should they? After all they're Horny Cum Sluts!! What
else would they, could they, do with their time? These bitches always
finish the job - always!!! And it's not the Organization's fault the
job's never-ending..."

But some girls seemed to have escaped. Sam noticed a number of the
beds were empty, although rumpled coverlets and open nail polish
bottles balanced precariously on the bedside cabinet told him that
this was very recent. 

Automatically he reminded himself to scold - with two teen girls of
his own he knew all about nail polish spills - but caught himself in
the dreadful memory of his last contact with his daughters - little
Joni smiling cheerily over his own father's jerking shoulder, Sandy on
the phone announcing she was in the guys locker room, no clothes, bent
over for them to see!!! - Sam shuddered.

As he watched, a girl came flouncing out through one of swing doors at
the far end of the room and made her way back to her little bed space
clutching a little cosmetic purse. "Oh, she must have just gone to the
bathroom," he murmured to himself. "I wonder where the canteen
is then? Where do they eat?"

"It's not so much where as what. Why the fuck d'you think they're
always described as the cum-hungry teens? Of course it's a very
profitable diet, though not very nourishing. Not that that matters
much to the Organizers. I mean, the sluts are pretty disposable."

"They're hot on profits, the Organizers. Cut a lot of corners. They
haven't even got proper sanitary facilities for the poor little
things. Just a man sucking teen tampon."

"Are you telling me that these monsters imprison 18 year olds in these
- these - these places - turn them into nymphomaniacs and then force
them to take sex calls 24 hours a day while surviving entirely on
semen? And then they just dispose of them?"

"Yes."

"But who the fuck are these bastards?" Sam's language was
deteriorating.

"They're you, you mother-fucker." said Agent 1.01.

 From far away Sam heard a shocking noise, a ululation, a wailing -
nothing less than an evacuation of the vowels. Monstrous, yet devoid
of both obscenity and profanity. It was Sam himself. He was screaming
- screaming. Motionless, the two magnificent super vixens watched him
with some slight concern as he howled himself to speechlessness.

After long hours of insanity - which took only a few seconds - Sam's
voice dried up. He sat, red-eyed, trembling, gazing at the queens who
had led him so far...

"Spirits..." he cried. "Please, ladies, Agents, tell me what I can do
to put things right?"

To Sam's amazement, Free Agent and Cherry smiled at him. They had
glorious smiles, slow and mellow. Then, as the smiles widened, the
pair who had so intimidated him melted before his eyes into frivolous
young girls having a real good time. They were laughing. 

They started with little giggles, covering their mouths, which
escalated to hiccups, clutching each other like cherry cheerleaders.
Then they were rocking on their desk-top perches, laughing loud and
long, tears spilling from their huge, creased eyes...

"You're asking us? US!!! Sam, we're spam... We are spam!!" they cried.


"We are spam women leading spam lives. Real sex is magic enough - its
mystery, its greatness, the amazing reality of its concealed life...
Spam headers takes it all one more step into madness. You see us,
designed by fantasy, written by pale men in shiny suits. We are
less real than vinyl. And you want *us* to give you answers... There
are no answers. Sex, money, death, greed... Looking into the heart of
darkness... the horror! The horror!"

                                       @---}--}--}------

And they vanished. And it all vanished. And Sam found himself sitting
on the grass in his own yard at dusk. A instant told Sam that this was
RL. Real life for the first time for far too long. Everything seemed
crystal, vibrant, precious. The last traces of the day were primrose
and lemon on the skyline. Above him the night a heart-stopping velvet
blue. The sounds of insects, the bedtime chirrup of drowsy birds,
soothed his exhausted soul.

Dressed in halter, shorts and sneakers Joni was watering her mother's
vegetable patch. His older daughter, Sandy, was strolling towards the
house along the sidewalk arm in arm with that nice boy, what was his
name... Brad. They were whispering, giggling, lost in intimacy. 

When she saw her Daddy, Sandy straightened imperceptibly and the
couple became their public selves. "Hi Daddy," she called
affectionately. "Hi, Mr Stevens!" said Brad. "Sandy and I plan to
go out to the movies later. Hope that's OK."

A tinny sneering voice, like a distant tannoy, whispered in his ear.
"These YOUNG CUM SLUTS are waiting to show you how PERVERTED TEENAGERS
really are! :-)"

Outrage flooded Sam. "And you can fuck right off, you piece of shit!"
Sam roared. "Teen sex is for teenagers. Get your filthy mind out of my
head... Yes, young girls date, kiss, even screw - but leave my poor
fucking babies alone!!!"

...Sandy and Brad were gazing open-mouthed. Joni had straightened from
her watering and peered at him across the lawn, eyes puckered in
concern. Sam realized he'd just yelled obscene nonsense at his kids.
He laughed weakly.

"Sorry, sweethearts. You must excuse me, Brad. It's work. It's really
getting to me. I gotta change my job... Get out of the city." 

Sam smiled hopefully at the three of them in the fading light. "Let's
all go in and get a soda," he suggested. "The next showing's not for a
good half hour."

"Sure thing, Mr Stevens," Brad agreed eagerly. It didn't bother him if
Sandy's dad went a bit weird occasionally. Sandy was the nicest girl
he knew (Brad wasn't one for putting his heart on his sleeve, but his
intentions were solid gold. Well, eventually, anyway..) and has keen
to cosy up to her family.

"You know if you're serious about wanting to go into something locally
my father's looking for a sleeping partner for the funeral parlor.
Keeps meaning to advertise but it's hard to know how to word it." The
boy gave a lop-sided embarrassed grin. Sandy's dad might be weird but
at least he didn't handle corpses.

"Funeral parlor, eh? Well, that'd be a nice clean job. Thank you,
son," said Sam and, clapping the younger man warmly on the shoulder,
he led the kids into the familiar comfort of his own beloved house,
where Mary-Beth would be waiting for them.

                                       @---}--}--}------


Copright BronwenSM. If you enjoyed this story, please let me know at
BronwenSM@wicked-little.demon.co.uk. 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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