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Message-ID: <37782asstr$1028891402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Alt Sextoy" <altstoy4u@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Annie Painslut and the Cafe of Doom <*> 2/2 {Annie P} (M/F sm Mdom humil exhib h
Date: Fri,  9 Aug 2002 07:10:02 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Annie02.txt" begin>

Annie Painslut and the Cafe of Doom <*> 2/2 {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.

Comments welcome at altstoy4u@hotmail.com.  Please be kind.
=====

What has gone before:  I'm a sexual submissive, which means my social life 
is like most people's, just a little higher on the ol' Weird-O-Meter.  I met 
a man who we'll call Master (to pick an arbitrary name at random) at a 
sidewalk cafe.  He got me to unbutton my blouse to a slightly risque level, 
and gave me my working name, Annie Painslut.  He then proceeded to finger me 
to an orgasm and demand I do the same for him, after the whole place knew 
something was up since I was kind of loud about mine.  I accomplished the 
chore with the help of a young waiter named William, who I vamped into 
dropping a full tray to give me cover while I did the job orally, though I 
did destroy my knees forever in the process.  When our heroine was last 
seen, she was sitting opposite Master with her eyes closed, since she didn't 
know how he'd react to these antics.  She was trying to decide whether to 
open them ever again, or get a seeing-eye dog.

=====

So things proceeded from there for a bit.  I opened my eyes, he wasn't 
smiling pleasantly, he was glaring at me.  I forget exactly what he said, 
frankly, it wasn't all that memorable, something about old sluts not being 
worth the effort but it sailed right past.  Old, me?  Maybe he's talking 
about another girl.  He berated me for the inferior quality of the oral sex, 
comparing my performance unfavorably to that of a 'schoolgirl with a 
toothache'.  Then other things started to happen in my underwear.  No, not 
what you think.

A schoolgirl?  A schoolgirl with a toothache?  Please let him not notice 
what I'm thinking.  Keep the face calm, Annie.  Nice, calm, smile.  See this 
smile?  In the south it's called a shit-eating grin because it means you're 
eating...  OK, I'll grant him the 'whore wannabe' line.  It's even accurate, 
when you get right down to it.  But that session will get a special display 
case all its own in the Oral Sex Hall of Fame.  Men have no appreciation.  
In the time from first contact to Vesuvius there, I'd have about gotten the 
deck of fantasies ruffled and one picked out if I were bringing myself off.  
Gaaaack.

Schoolgirl with a toothache, indeed.  What did he want me to do, bite it 
off?

It could be arranged.

The schoolgirl would've been bent over with her white cotton knickers in the 
air when the dust cleared, still getting ready to get to work.  I hesitated 
a mere second, and that's only because the blinding pain in my knees kept me 
from finding the target.  Then I attacked that thing like a snake swallowing 
a rabbit.

Well, actually if you think about both the psychology and geometry of the 
situation, it was a rabbit swallowing a snake.

Can't....giggle.  Straight face.  Calm down, Annie, calm down.  He's 
supposed to say things like that -- he's the Dom, remember?  Besides, I 
sneaked a look in the compact mirror right after I straightened up.  He 
looked like the lion in the cartoon after the mouse turned around and hit 
him with the spiked board.  So point to Annie; he just has to pretend he won 
that round.  Heh.

Oh, what in the world?  Oh. OH. You hate me, don't you, God?  Two months 
since the last time, and it's today.  Right now.  Oh, well, what's one new 
disaster more or less.

"Master, if you will excuse me, I have to go to the ladies' room."

"You are probably referring to the cunt room, right, Annie?"  Ouch.  He 
punched the hard 'c' in the 'c' word.  I'll bet I winced every time.

"Yes Master, the cunt room.  May I please go to the cunt room Master."  Good 
delivery, Annie.  Just another word, four letters, one syllable.  It doesn't 
make you feel like you swallowed a cockroach.  Nope.  Not in the least.

"You may, Annie, but under one condition; you have to TELL ME EVERYTHING 
that you do in there, and I mean everything!"

DON'T raise the eyebrow, Annie, you'll get in big trouble.  OK, suit 
yourself.  You want the gory details, so be it.  I've been doing this since 
age 12 years 6 months 21 days and that's a very, very long time dear, so 
it's no skin off my, my, well, it's not a problem. "Yes, Master."

Oh, yes, that's what it is.  Soaked through the panties, yes indeedy, and 
the hose.  Ick.  All right, damage control.  Supplies in purse -- no 
supplies in purse.  Ah, yes, last time was also an emergency, that's part of 
the joy of menopause, and did we replace the emergency supplies?  We did 
not.  What do we have in here?  Fingernail file, Hershey's kiss, two guitar 
picks -- do those things breed or what?, three unmatched earrings, Eau de 
Really Good Sins, compact, lipstick, four used tissues, ick, a bag of 
Cheetos don't go there Annie, a floppy disk full of racy stories, wallet, 
keys, pens some of which perhaps work, address book, Zip-lock bag containing 
an incredibly old slice of dried apple, calculator, Tylenol, cell phone.  
Nothing of the slightest use.  OK, this is a nice place, there's a machine 
here.  Wipe, pull, up, open door -- yep, even have my favorite brand.  One 
dollar, no problem.  Let's see here, one dollar, big problem.  I've got 
three quarters, two dimes, and 11 pennies, plus my emergency Not To Be 
Touched Unless I Have to Run Away from the Dumpster Man 20 dollar bill.  Not 
good.  Not good, Annie.  Flat dumb, Annie.

Monday -- Monday at 8:01 AM I am getting on the phone to a competent 
gynecologist -- not that creepy ex-roommate of ex-John, but a competent, 
woman gynecologist, and getting the hormones.  Should've done it months ago. 
  Of course, I've already broken my knees, so it's too late to help the 
osteoporosis.

OK, you're brilliant, right, Annie girl?  Think.  Wait here for someone to 
come in and borrow a dollar?  Small restaurant, not good -- plus they'll 
remember I was the one with the noisy orgasm and the water glass and will 
they loan me a dollar?  Not likely.  Ask evil Master-guy?  Not if I can 
avoid it.

Wait a minute.  William the Waiter.  Sweet William.  That blown-French-kiss 
was worth a buck, right?  From me, worth a million.  I've already turned his 
little boy brain off -- this ought to be a breeze.

Damage control.  Back to the stall, a wad of toilet paper as a pad, it'll 
last a few minutes and then, yes, I'll be picking TP out of my nether 
regions for a week.  No help for it.  Up and out, wash up, showtime.

Oh-ho.  Oh, my.  Oh, no.  Oh, yes!  William's got a girl.  It's Erika!  
There's a sound of distant trumpets as she rides her black charger onto the 
field of battle -- it's that dreaded bringer of chaos and mayhem, Annie the 
Vamp.  Opposing her, on the white horse, is Erika the Maybe Pure.  Yep, it's 
her.  22.  Blonde.  Breasts the size of cantaloupes.  Two brain cells 
connected by a fluffy pink cloud of illusions.  And William is tied 
face-down in the middle of the field of battle.  Should've stayed in bed 
today, William.

"...and you really expect me to believe you forgot about our date?  William! 
  You're the most inconsiderate man ever born..."  Erika can dish it out, 
that's for sure.  But can she take it?

He was leaning over the wall talking to her.  Not on company time, dearie -- 
you'll get in trouble.  Here comes trouble.  We strolled right up as if we 
owned the place, and put our arm through William's, there, and pressed our 
breast-what-there-is-of-it against that same arm, there.  Smile.  Look at 
Erika.  "Hi, Erika, William's told me so much about you."

You wouldn't think I could vamp to look at me, and it's not my best role.  
Vamps have endless, slender legs -- mine end all too soon and they have 
shape, thank you very much.  Vamps have hips like snakes, and mine have one 
too many pints of Haagen Dazs stuck to them.  The hair isn't blonde enough.  
The face is too 'girl next door'.  And I lack a certain killer instinct, 
though you could find folks who'd give you an argument on that one.  But 
some of this was hidden by the wall separating William from Erika, some was 
compensated for by the gold bra clasp showing in the open front of the 
sin-red silk blouse, and the rest was eradicated by the glorious shade of 
crimson -- a nice match to the blouse, I noticed -- suffusing sweet 
William's face.  As innocent as he was of any form of misbehavior, he was 
far from innocent in his heart, bless him.  Does an old girl's heart good to 
watch.  But not too long -- can't lose the initiative.

"William, I need two dollars.  Got a problem to fix and the supplies for 
sale in the ladies' room are just beyond my financial reach.  Introduce me 
to Erika, if you would."  Then, reaching up and whispering in his radiant 
ear "I'm Annie.  Give me the two dollars and I'll be good."  Well, 
relatively good, anyway.

Turning red must be contagious -- Erika was doing it.  Although it looked to 
me as though steam was coming out of her ears, so maybe it was something 
other than embarassment.

"Um, um, um, Annie, this is Tiffany."  Ha!  Annie knows an Erika/Tiffany 
when she sees one.  William fumbled in his pocket for a couple of ones, and 
handed them to me.

"Pleased to meet you, Tiffany," I replied.  I let go of William and stuck 
out my hand.  I thought trying to give her a hug might be pushing it.  She 
took my hand like I'd handed her a dead fish.  She shook it, then glanced at 
it.

"You should try some retin-A for those age spots, ma'am.  It worked great 
for my mother."

The great warhorses collide on the field of battle, there's a roar from the 
crowd, and Annie the Vamp is down!  Defeated by Erika the Maybe Pure!!  And 
sweet William is pinned beneath the fallen warhorse.  Looks like his skull 
was crushed in the collision.  Pity that.

Ouch.  Ooohh.  Direct hit.  The good ship Annie is going down, Cap'n.  I 
should know better than to assume a woman is stupid because she's beautiful. 
  God knows I'm not that smart, and I'm not that beautiful, either.

"Thanks, William," I said, and retreated in disorder.  A heated discussion 
broke out behind me.  Mission accomplished, anyway.  Score: Annie 1, Erika 
2, William -10.

Oh, oh, Master is watching with a thoughtful smile on his face.  That's 
scary.

Oh, oh, I'm flashing on a vision.  Oooh, help.  I'm at a party.  I'm 
spreadeagled naked on a horizontal frame that leaves me entirely helpless, 
and entirely accessible.  There are three tables next to the frame.  One, 
between my legs, holds a bowl of assorted vibrators and other small, well 
some quite large oh my, cylindrical objects.  One, at my waist, holds a bowl 
of assorted clips, clamps, and -- eeek -- pliers.  One, at my shoulder, 
holds a rack of small, vicious whips.   Posted next to me is a sign that 
says "Free Samples."  But that's not the scary part.

The scary part is, into the room walks William.

And then, in walks Erika.

Ghnhg.  Glerk.  Let's think of something else, shall we?  Brrr.  Back to the 
ladies' room.  Supplies for now, an extra for later.  Are the panties 
salvageable?  I think not.  Off with the hose, off with the panties.  Set 
aside to wash -- do silk panties grow on trees?  They do not.  Hose aren't 
too bad -- they'll smell like a stockyard in a few hours but with any luck I 
won't be in them that long.  OK, tampon in, hose on, to sink to wash the 
panties, dump the apple, panties into the Zip-lock.  Out to face the music.  
Hoo, boy.

My, what an interesting argument going on over there.  Looks like some poor 
man is going under the harrow.  Nothing to do with me.  I'm entirely 
innocent, that's right.  Back to the table.  At least the argument's got the 
attention of the voyeurs.

He was looking at me.  Why did that bother me?

"Well, cunt?"  That hard 'c' again.  Brrr.

"Well, Master, the first thing you need to understand is that God hates me.  
There's really no doubt about it.  I haven't had a period in two months -- 
two months, do you understand?! -- so God visited this one on me today."  I 
don't know.  He's not smiling.  A little voice in the back of my head was 
saying to cool it, back off, don't be so flip.  I hate that little voice.  
It's always right and I never listen until it's too late.

"Yep, that's right.  Right through the panties, right through the hose.  
Clots in the underwear, the whole nine yards.  So I looked through my purse, 
and while it did contain a fingernail file, Hershey's kiss, two guitar 
picks, three unmatched earrings, Eau de Really Good Sins, compact, lipstick, 
four used tissues, a bag of Cheetos, a floppy disk full of racy stories, 
wallet, keys, pens, address book, a Zip-lock bag containing an incredibly 
old slice of dried apple, calculator, Tylenol, and a cell phone, it did not 
contain any tampons.  I thought about wrapping Cheetos in toilet paper to 
make one, but...

"Annie.  Annie Painslut.  Shut up."

I think I loosened a filling when my mouth snapped shut.

"You talk too much, cunt."  And with the hard 'c', too.  "Where are your 
panties now?"

"Well, silk panties don't grow on trees, so I..."

"Shut up.  If you speak even one more word you will regret it.  Point to 
where they are."

Oh, my.  Should've listened to that voice.  I pointed to my purse.

"Take them out.  Put them in your mouth."

My mouth opened again.  Then it shut.  I opened my purse.  Mouth'd fallen 
open again.  I'd look like an Erika if you lightened the hair, moved 
everything off the hips up about two feet and ironed out the lines.  I shut 
it again.  I opened the Zip-lock and pulled out the sodden lump of silk.  
Mouth's open again.  I felt like the mouse in the cartoon who reaches to 
pull out the spiked stick and gets a lollipop instead.

If anyone ever asks you, tell them that there's no way to fold a regulation 
pair of women's silk underpants, size 6, to fit in my mouth.  Believe me, I 
tried.  I folded them.  I rolled them.  I wadded them.  If he hadn't started 
giving me looks again, I would've tried jumping on them.  Finally I gave up, 
and put what would fit in my mouth.  The rest -- about half, give or take a 
bit -- sort of hung there, limp.  I don't want to think what it looked like.

I can also tell you with authority that the flavors of wet silk, menstrual 
blood, and stale apple don't go together.  Not at all.  I started gagging.  
People were staring at me -- and my silk panties were hanging from my mouth. 
  I looked down.

"Check, please.  Oh, her?  She talks too much.  You can understand that, 
can't you, William?  She needed to learn a little lesson."

I'm not looking at him.  I'm not crying.  I'm crying.  I'm 49, and I'm 
sitting in a restaurant with my panties in my mouth, gagging, and I'm 
crying.

I was also incredibly turned on.  Being fingered was nothing to this.  I 
wasn't wet because of the tampon, but I was throbbing, and my nipples were 
like rocks.  I could feel the eyes on me, and the burning gazes went 
directly to my sex.

"Thank you, William.  Sorry for any trouble.  Perhaps we'll see you again 
soon."

"Now, Annie, we are walking out of here.  Before you stand up, you will 
unbutton another button on your blouse.  Then you will stand up. Then you 
will place your hands behind your back.  Then you will walk out.  You will 
keep your head up, and look at anyone who looks at you.  They know you're a 
slut.  You know you're a slut.  You've even agreed to be named, Annie 
Painslut.  Now, let us go."

My hands were shaking.  I can't manage the button.  I have to manage the 
button.  I hope I didn't break it.  I stood up.  My blouse fell open.  I 
stood up straighter, hoping to force it closed -- with some success.  There 
was still a lot showing.  I put my hands behind my back.  It opened more.  
Nothing to be done.  I raised my head.  The tears, mercifully, blurred my 
vision, but not my hearing.  All I heard were fragments of conversation:  
"Look at that!  What's in her mouth?  Shameless!  Wonder what her price is?  
...button her blouse."

We walked nearly a block to a parking garage, past stares and gazes, through 
comments and shocked words.  He led me to his car.  In the darkness of the 
garage, I calmed slightly.  He's carrying my purse -- my keys, my wallet, my 
Dumpster Man money.  This is my last chance to turn back.  Maybe I could 
outrun him in my heels, maybe not, but my screams would surely bring help, 
unless these panties are permanently stuck to my mouth, which they do feel 
like.  He could be the Dumpster Man.  We came to his car.  He opened the 
door.

"You can leave now, you know, Annie."  There was no edge to his voice right 
then.  "If you are not ready, if you are worried that I will do you lasting 
harm, you should go home now."

I thought.  Would the Dumpster Man speak so?  Maybe.  Probably not.  Hey, 
little voice, got anything to say?  The voice was silent.  Stupid voice.

I entered the car.  Without being told, I kept my hands behind my back.  I 
opened my legs, and placed my heels on the dashboard.  I closed my eyes.

He entered the driver's side, and drove me away.

<1st attachment end>


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