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Message-ID: <35672asstr$1015909805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: bradley_stoke@hotmail.com (Bradley Stoke)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 11 Mar 2002 10:50:08 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} {ASSTR} The Tally
Date: Tue, 12 Mar 2002 00:10:05 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Story: The Tally

Summary: Love and passion in the sex clubs. Sex, sex, more sex and sapphic yearning.

For More Information: http://bradley-stoke.fsn.net

The Tally
=========

Amy loved her job, but she had no illusions about what her job 
really was. After all, you couldn't expect success if you 
pretended it was anything else. She was a sex performer, and 
she was paid to have sex on stage several times a night 
whenever it was her shift. And sex, whether on stage, for film or 
in private, was still sex. It meant disrobing, it meant groping and 
above all it meant penetration. That was what the punters 
expected and what they were paying for. The art of it was in 
making the sex as watchable as possible. And this meant that it 
had to be entertaining, fully visible and as shocking as possible.

There was no sexual act she could think of that she wouldn't 
do, as long as it left no marks which might appear in later 
performances in her shift. She would have sex with one man, 
two men, several men. Equally as much, she would have sex 
with an equal number of women. Her arse and cunt would take 
any object that would fit: animate or inanimate, fist, prick or 
tongue. Only the laws of the land prevented her from extending 
her range to include animals or children. The stage was her bed 
and her boudoir, and she would take on all comers, both from 
the paying audience and from her cast of co-stars.

She would stretch herself out naked on the stage, or dressed in 
latex or leather, her long golden brown hair flopping onto the 
stage, her freckled face and shoulders lashed with semen, while 
behind her a cock pounded into her arse and underneath the 
strapped-on dildo attached to one of her female colleagues 
pushed more awkwardly into her cunt. Her smiling, grimacing 
face, crumpled in ecstasy and excitement faced the audience, a 
face whose oriental eyes and features inherited from her 
Chinese mother belied the Celtic freckles and fair hair inherited 
from her Scottish father. Her body was all her own, spared the 
need for surgical enhancement by the full round apple contours 
of her breasts and the slim frame kept trim and taut in the gym. 
And her enthusiasm and ecstasy was all her own as well. The 
very thought of what she was doing, in front of so many panting, 
gasping punters, gave that extra erotic impetus which made her 
sexual acts the most popular and eagerly awaited in the club.

And her sex life was as integral to her character as her 
sparkling blue-grey eyes, and her small nose. She was surely 
obsessed. Every day she would have sex with one, two or more 
people, and she didn't really count those on stage. That, after 
all, was her job. It was not necessarily at a time of her choosing 
and not necessarily with anyone of her choosing. Not that she 
was that choosy. Well, she might be insofar as any second or 
third time might be, but for first-time fucks, it was anyone and 
everyone. And she kept a diary, which she'd started from when 
she was oh! so young. And in this diary, she recorded every 
fuck, every sexual act, but not those on stage, and awarded 
each one a coded description and a mark out of ten.

She'd always done this. Some people's diaries are a record of 
their innermost thoughts. An account of their feelings, their 
ambitions, their worries and their happiness. Others are a more 
objective account of events, perhaps noting people and places. 
Amy didn't even bother with names. Even initials were suspect. 
After all, she couldn't expect to know the name of everyone 
she'd had sex with. Her diary entries were brief and to the point. 
She would mention gender, number and any especially 
pertinent feature of the occasion. And then a mark out of ten. 
Occasionally, she might add a comment, like 'Took too long', 
'Tiny prick' or 'Smelly'. And that was it. To anyone reading her 
diary, it might as well be a shopping list. 

She had her diary in front of her, cross-legged on her futon, 
while a naked woman lay on her front beside her. Amy was 
smoking a cigarette, while her fibre-tip pen hovered over the 
blank paper. It was a fresh page, and she always kept a diary 
on unlined, unheaded pages, so she could get several days' 
entries on one page. In the bathroom, she could see a hairy, 
bare arse where a man was washing semen off his groin. She 
smiled, and entered the date in numbers, with a vertical slash 
between the day, month and year columns. And then in her 
neat, tiny handwriting: "1M 1F 4/10". Then she paused for 
thought before adding "Sloppy".

She turned back to the previous page which was dense with 
similar entries, and took a note of the numbers at the side, 
which showed her totals. It was proudly in four digits now. And 
she was even prouder of the fact that the total for 'F' was fast 
approaching that for 'M'. So proud that she mouthed it to 
herself: "One Thousand Seven Hundred and Forty Three." At 
this rate, the 'F's would overtake the 'M's. And before she'd 
reached the two thousand. And adding the 'F's to the 'M's. Why! 
That was already over three thousand. That meant that for the 
ten years she'd been sexually active, that had been on average, 
just under one a day. Of course, she was making up for it now. 
One a day! God! That would be a piss poor day. Normally she'd 
have three or four times that number. She grinned to herself. 
She loved statistics. She didn't know why she did, but somehow 
all these numbers added meaning and shape to her life. 

Often when she was alone, she'd take out her diary and pore 
over the days, looking at the progression on the total, smile at 
those days which had been particularly eventful where her tally 
had increased by the most, and perhaps frown at the relatively 
low scores that might be associated with it. She had very high 
standards. A seven was pretty good. And not given lightly. An 
eight was rare. A nine rarer still. And a ten. Well! Could that 
even exist?

Often she wondered about what would have happened if she'd 
included her on-stage sex in her total. What would that have 
done? And would that be cheating? Would that make her an 
entry into the Guinness Book of Records? But they didn't really 
have that kind of thing in there. Or did they? She wasn't sure. 
But she wasn't sure she'd want her photograph or name in 
something like that. It was bad enough pretending to her Mum 
that all the money she was earning and the lovely down-town 
flat she'd bought cash down had somehow come as a result of 
exercising the skills she'd gained at secretarial college. And her 
divorced father. It was bad enough that he knew where she 
lived and still sent her cards at Christmas and on her Birthday. 
What would happen if he knew more about what his darling 
daughter did for a living, for whom he'd paid her mother an 
allowance for so many years? 

Getting fresh sexual partners wasn't as easy as all that. After 
all, Amy had soon exhausted all those at the night club. And not 
just the other performers, whether male or female. There was 
the janitor, the ticket clerks, the manager and that woman who 
did the fancy backdrops. There were the people in the audience 
for sure, but the management weren't too keen on their paying 
customers getting too familiar with the goods. They might not 
want to continue paying for the pleasure of just seeing them. 

Amy was a regular visitor at a number of caf s, bars and clubs 
where she could be sure of finding someone, male or female, or 
both, just the one, or several at the same time, with whom she 
could increment her tally of fresh conquests, whether at their 
place (preferred) or at hers (if necessary) or perhaps some 
other place (as long as she didn't have to pay for it!).

Of course she had to be careful. Especially with the men. You 
heard such stories! She kept a handbag full of condoms. All 
different shapes and sizes and flavours. Ribbed and nobbled 
and smooth. And sometimes, especially when there were three 
or more men, you just couldn't risk taking them back or letting 
them take you back. Then the back of the car, or a dark alley-
way, or whatever. It just had to do. Not so good for the actual 
sex, but more than compensated by the extra notches it scored. 
Couples were fine. Two couples a little more risky, but not by 
too much. But women. No problem at all! If only more of them 
were willing!

Naturally, the more indiscriminate you were then the worse the 
sex. The number of ones and twos she'd had to award. And the 
zeros! When it was sex in only the most technical sense. But it 
still counted. That was the main thing. It might be crap, but it 
was clothes off, genitals in place, and a bit of sweat. But it 
counted.

Inevitably, the best sex came from her colleagues. They were 
after all professionals. They knew what to do and they knew 
how to give pleasure. And they were the lucky ones who got the 
chance to do it again, even though it didn't count against the 
total. But then you had to have some pleasure in your life. And 
she recorded them, and awarded them the sevens or even 
eights that made it all worth while.

So whenever a new girl or a new man started working at the 
club, Amy took especial interest in them, even though she'd 
invariably had sex with them on stage before they were able to 
get entered properly as a proper fuck back her own flat or even 
at theirs. Those were the good ones. That's when she was able 
to truly enjoy herself, the sweat streaming down the hard, 
muscular contours of her limbs, her mouth musky and sour from 
the taste of sexual fluids, her cunt stretched and sore from their 
thrusting, groping and stroking.

And so it was that Amy was particularly looking forward to a 
night of real passion when Lucinda started working at the club. 
And Lucinda was her real name as well. Not one of those 
made-up names like some of the girls adopted. And even some 
of the men. Not Savannah, Asia, Chesty or Satin. And such a 
pretty girl as well. She salivated at just the thought of her, as 
Lucinda nervously entered the changing room in her unusually 
drab clothes. A blouse, a skirt and woollen tights. Her shoes 
were flat and dull, and her dark brown shoulder-length hair was 
actually tied back with a dull green hair band. Fuck! Do people 
really dress like that. Amy usually wore clothes only just on the 
right side of decency, made from latex or satin or silk, to 
encourage lustful thoughts and proclaim her intentions. Amy 
couldn't wait until this girl could strip off to be sure that her body 
matched the beauty of her well-scrubbed face, free of mascara, 
eye-liner or lipstick. You wouldn't have imagined her as a sex 
performer.

However, Bob, the stage manager, assured the girls that this 
indeed was what Lucinda was. She'd previously been working 
as the Garotta A-Go-Go on the east side of town, but she'd 
fallen out with the management who kept on wanting her to do 
things she hadn't wanted to do. But, as he reminded them, their 
loss was a gain for the Hardcore Heaven. 

"And what won't she do?" wondered Dirk Dongle, whose prick 
had a special place in Amy's arse, as he never tired of 
reminding her.

"Well, men, basically," Bob told them. "She won't do men at all. 
So, that's you out, Dirk. Otherwise, she'll do everything. And I 
know. I've seen her. She's fucking good. She'll do anal and 
double penetration and fisting and even pissing. I've heard 
she'd even done on-stage shitting, but as you know we don't do 
that until it's really late. And she gets the crowd going. She's a 
fucking draw. We expect to get a lot of the Garotta's crowd 
down here. And that can't be bad!"

"She don't look much," sniffed Mandy, a tall India girl with a 
weird tattoo on her arse. 

"She wears proper gear on stage," Bob assured them. "She's 
not like that naturist who wouldn't even wear heels on stage."

Amy liked the sound of this girl. And as top-ranking girl she 
knew that she'd be the one to get first taste of her. And then 
back to her place afterwards, she reckoned, maybe just the two 
of them, without inviting back one of the other girls, even Ebony, 
the Jamaican girl who she normally always had time for, even if 
extra sex with her didn't officially count. And if she was that 
good, well, maybe she'd be an eight. Or even a nine! But that 
would be too much of a good thing.

And so it was to be. But not before Amy's appetite had been 
whetted with a bit of double penetration from Dirk and Handy 
Andy, underneath the strobes, in front of the early evening 
audience. Amy blew kisses at some of the regulars and some 
new ones she'd never seen before, while Dirk's prick thrust in 
and out of her arse, and she lowered and raised her crotch on 
Andy's ever-reliable ten-inch prick. It was a good night. There 
was a good atmosphere. She grinned avariciously at the pile of 
notes that were scattered on the stage and were being added to 
as the punters tossed more towards her. She'd get her normal 
50%, while the two men would have to split the other half 
between them. A good night's haul, and the night was still oh! 
so very young.

Back in the dressing room, she watched as Lucinda exchanged 
her drab clothes for stocking, heels and a tight latex skirt which 
just about hid the splendid melons of her breast and obscured 
only the tiniest of thongs. She stood behind Lucinda, and 
placed her hands on the girl's bare shoulders, and smiled at her 
reflection in the mirror with its newly applied bright red lipstick. 
"It's going to be so good, isn't it?" she gushed enthusiastically.

Without comment, Lucinda raised her hands to her shoulders 
and firmly removed Amy's hands, which rather startled her. She 
smiled sadly. "I'm sure it will be." Then she turned her head 
round and looked into Amy's face. "You will be gentle with me, 
won't you? At least at first."

Amy was too put back by Lucinda's rejection of her very 
innocent advances to do anything but nod. "Yes, of course," she 
replied, as an uncharacteristic warmth spread over her cheeks. 
How dare Lucinda! Was she going to be as much a cold fish on 
stage?

However, such fears were misplaced, when the lights went up 
on the two girls as they came on stage to the excited whoops of 
the audience. As soon as they were in action, Lucinda was as 
warm and intimate as a girl could be. An expert improviser, 
sensing Amy's most sensual spots, and neither hurried nor too 
slow. Just right, in fact. The two stripped each other on stage. 
The stockings were pulled down, the dress was hauled up, 
hands groped over breast, back and even the precious 
shoulders. Their tongues waggled at a distance, and then with 
warmth and passion, their mouths interlocked while their hands 
felt around each other's spine and bottom. And soon the 
fingers, tongues and teeth were on each other's vagina and 
anus. Amy was suitably impressed. Although, unlike her, 
Lucinda clearly never shaved her pubic hairs or even trimmed 
them, they were perfectly shaped and not too long. And in 
amongst the hairs were the beautiful folds of a perfect vagina, 
which kept its glory inside rather than dropping it out like so 
many of the other girls. Especially Corrie's. That girl couldn't 
hold anything in, let alone her cunt. And that lovely puckered 
anus. And the flavour of it. Bittersweet to the taste and rich in 
odour. Just as she preferred. 

But true to her word, Amy probed only with her fingers, and left 
it up to Lucinda to do the penetration, which she did efficiently 
and expertly with the clear purple dildo that was provided for the 
job. And Amy didn't know where it came from, but even with the 
audience whooping at her, all she was really conscious of was 
Lucinda and her fingers and the way it made her vagina ache 
from pleasure. More so than Handy Andy or even Georgy Porgy 
had ever been able to do with the real thing.

As they left, the stage, Amy quickly kissed Lucinda full on the 
lips. "That was fucking great!" She said. "You're a real fucking 
professional."

Lucinda carefully wiped her lips with the back of her hand and 
made no comment.

Amy wasn't that easily put off. "So, after we've finished, are you 
coming back with me? To my place. I've got a great flat, you 
know. And a really big comfortable bed. And then we can carry 
on where we've just left off."

Lucinda frowned. "Are you asking me back to your flat to have 
sex with you?" she asked flatly.

Amy smiled broadly. "Of course. It'd be such good fun!"

Lucinda carefully sat down on her chair by the mirror, still with a 
frown on her face. She looked up at Amy. "I'm very flattered, er, 
Amy," she said politely. "And, no offence. You are a very 
attractive girl. And I'm sure your feelings are genuine. But, er, 
Amy. I'm afraid, it's out of the question."

And then Lucinda turned her head to face her reflection, 
ignoring Amy while she tidied up the lipstick on her mouth.

Amy wasn't that easily put off. "You can't be meaning that! I 
mean, you were pretty much game on the stage. Why can't we 
do the same thing more intimately and more privately? I know 
you'd enjoy it."

"Amy." Said Lucinda firmly and not facing Amy at all. "What I do 
on stage and do for a living is one thing. And what I do when 
I'm not on stage and not doing it for a living is another. Please 
accept that, and I'm sure we'll get on fine."

For the second time that evening, and for only the second time 
she could ever recall in her entire memory, Amy reddened from 
the humiliation of rejection. She attempted to say something, 
but her tongue, despite still tasting of Lucinda's vulva, was 
somehow tied and she lost all ability for coherent response. 
Without a word, she wandered off to her own chair by the mirror 
and studied her own freckled face, damp strands of hair 
plastered to the forehead, with its oriental eyes and full red lips, 
and tried to reassure herself that in some way that she'd never 
before suspected she was not after all unattractive. 

How could it be that anyone, male or female, would not 
succumb to her beauty? Especially a woman who only 
moments ago was clearly enjoying her body, and whose stated 
preference was indeed for women and not for men at all. What 
strange thing was this? And had she done anything to deserve 
this rebuff?

Amy wasn't a girl who gave up easily, and she still had two 
more appearances with Lucinda that evening to look forward to; 
but in both cases, it was the same. On stage, Lucinda was 
passionate, sensual and sexy. In no way did she seem abashed 
or reluctant, expressing her joy unambiguously as Amy 
penetrated her with a dildo or licked her clitoris. Her passion 
didn't seem to be at all feigned, and she still managed to 
synchronise her sexual activity to the slow, loud beating of the 
music in the night club, somehow unfazed by the pressure of all 
the male eyes on her.

And then, off stage, she showed no interest in Amy at all, who 
endeavoured to repeat her entreaties that Lucinda should come 
back with her, but meeting only with a polite refusal. Amy was 
disappointed. She'd been so looking forward to her new 
conquest, and it just wasn't to be. And so, despite the lateness 
of the hour, when she finished work for the evening, she 
headed off to a night club she knew to pick someone up, 
anyone, it didn't matter.

The two young and skinny girls she picked up weren't that bad. 
In fact, she'd awarded them a six, despite the fact that there 
were so off their faces that they really made no objection to the 
indignities she put them through. Amy wasn't even sure the girls 
had ever had sex with each other before, let alone any other 
woman. But they gamely took dildos into their cunts and arses, 
and showed a fair bit of enthusiasm, even though they did fall 
asleep rather too promptly after they had climaxed. As Amy 
noted '2F' in her diary, and incremented her total of women 
conquests accordingly, she still felt empty and unsatisfied. 
Neither of them were as good or as beautiful or as passionate 
as Lucinda, who she remembered so fondly. Neither of them 
could be rated as the nine that Amy was convinced that sex 
with Lucinda would have scored. But she set aside her diary, 
locked it in a drawer with a little key, and nestled on her bed 
between the two girls, and sighed. Tomorrow was another day, 
and Amy was used to getting her way.

However, Lucinda was more of a challenge than even Amy 
could crack. However much she pleaded and begged and 
cajoled, Lucinda was steadily adamant that sex on stage was 
one thing, but off-stage was another. "I mean, don't you have 
any other girlfriends you can spend the night with?" Lucinda 
inquired ingenuously a few days later. 

Amy sighed resignedly. She'd already resorted to having a night 
with the pesky Candy on an evening when her disappointment 
at not bedding Lucinda had most distressed her. Not that Candy 
was that bad. She had a lovely smooth crotch and was always 
very energetic, but sex with her in no way improved her total 
and was not really what she was looking for. 

And at the same time, sex on stage was just as passionate and 
orgasmic as ever. Amy found herself particularly looking 
forward to these moments of ecstasy more than the sex she 
had in the evening in the comfort and luxury of her bed in her 
luxurious apartment with whoever it was that she'd picked up for 
the evening. But she found she was taking out her frustration in 
Lucinda's rejection in harder and more aggressive sex. She 
pissed on Lucinda one evening, even though it wasn't in the 
script. She forced her fist deep inside Lucinda's vagina until the 
girl squirmed. She nibbled and bit her clitoris and nipples while 
Lucinda gasped as much from pain, if not more so, than for 
pleasure. She pushed larger and larger dildos into Lucinda's 
orifices to the amazement and satisfaction of the audience who 
cheered loudly at the extent of the punishment that was being 
displayed.

Amy even tried to tempt Lucinda back with the promise of an 
evening out with no sex at all, but Lucinda wasn't having any of 
it. "Much as I like you, Amy," she said, wiping the mascara off 
her face," I just don't trust you. As soon as you can, you'll find 
an excuse to go back to your apartment, and then you'll slip off 
your clothes, lock the door and try seducing me. I'm afraid that's 
a temptation, I'd rather not have to face."

Amy blushed. That was precisely what she'd intended to do. 
She'd even rehearsed her lines.

"Please just accept that I don't want to have sex with you 
anywhere but on the stage," Lucinda continued severely. "My 
body and soul belongs elsewhere. Sex is not something for me 
that I intend to enjoy other than on the stage."

But Amy was obsessed. And she'd never been obsessed 
before. Not since she was a schoolgirl and had a crush on her 
Chemistry teacher, who when they'd finally got together turned 
out to be such a horrible disappointment. But she was sure that 
Lucinda wouldn't be a disappointment. And she found her 
thinking about the girl all the time, even when she was enjoying 
sex with other people. In fact, one day on stage, as Lucinda's 
tongue probed her vagina and her fingers her breasts, she 
found herself saying out loud: "I love you! I love you!" And then 
hoping no one had heard. Sex on stage was one thing. Love 
was quite definitely another.

But she was in love. She even got to love Lucinda's appalling 
taste in clothes. The very frumpishness and plainness of it was 
in itself a cause for celebration. She would look longingly at 
Lucinda, at her scrubbed face and tied-back hair, imagining the 
two of them on her mattress, while she confessed her love and 
divulged the truth of her diary-keeping. And then the two of 
them would entwine lengthwise on the bed, arms and legs 
interlocked, as she would confess all her secrets and her 
longings. And soon the sun would rise and shine on the two of 
them, lying in serene bliss, and Amy would never need to make 
love to anyone else. Well, not for a few days anyway. 

And her diary would read '1F. 10/10.Heavenly!'

And so it was, after an afternoon session, that Amy actually 
followed Lucinda out of the building, keeping her distance so 
that Lucinda wouldn't see her trailing her, although a girl like 
her, in her thigh-length boots and skin-tight dress was not going 
to be the sort to merge unnoticed in any crowd. And Lucinda led 
her on such a long trail uptown. Several stops on the subway, 
past several dismal blocks of decrepit apartments, around the 
back of a depressing paint factory and then to a large Catholic 
church which Amy could see Lucinda enter.

Amy very rarely went into churches. In fact, never at all as a 
rule. And a Roman Catholic one. Well! What would her Calvinist 
father have thought? But Amy hurried in and found herself 
alone. It was forbidding and to Amy not at all welcoming. All 
around were paintings and sculptures and carved cricifixes and 
row upon row of pews, but no sign of Lucinda. She had 
vanished altogether. Amy cursed herself. Clearly, Lucinda had 
seen Amy behind her and had taken the opportunity to slip into 
a church just to get away from her.

Amy left the church, lit a cigarette and sat on a bench in the 
church grounds reflecting on the futility of her passion and 
making plans for the rest of the day. Perhaps she'd go to a bar. 
Pick up a couple of men. Have a good fuck somewhere. She 
noticed rather a few people around her, mostly men, dressed in 
very poor quality clothes. In fact, some of them were distinctly 
ragged. Couldn't they afford anything better? But then she 
spotted a sign. 'Soup Kitchen' it read. What did that mean? Was 
it some kind of rock club or a strange kind of caf .

But, no, it was actually a place for vagrants to gather to be fed 
soup and bread and whatever. Fuck! How sordid! Amy sat on 
the bench fascinated. Poverty was something she'd never really 
known, and she'd often been disgusted by the sight of beggars 
and the like on the subway. However, there was a bit of 
excitement amongst the vagrants who all gathered by a door at 
the side of the church. And then a rather elderly nun appeared 
carrying a large cauldron, which she placed on the ground. Like 
feeding animals at the zoo, thought Amy sourly, as a couple of 
other nuns emerged behind the first nun carrying cups and 
some clear plastic bags full of sandwiches.

The nuns weren't so bad looking. Quite thin, and from what 
Amy could see, probably quite attractive underneath their 
gowns. And then one of them looked up in her direction, and 
with a start Amy now understood. That sweet face. That strange 
slightly beatific smile. Lucinda was a nun. 

Amy glanced at a carved crucifix over the church sign, in the 
afternoon shadow of the church itself. Now she knew, and the 
sadness and waste of it hurt her. Now she knew to whom 
Lucinda's body and soul belonged. 


For More Information: http://bradley-stoke.fsn.net

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