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Message-ID: <41420asstr$1048367404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: jenny_stupid@yahoo.com (cowgirl)
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
NNTP-Posting-Date: 22 Mar 2003 19:20:40 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Away Games M/F, Cheet, Humiliating Affair.
Date: Sat, 22 Mar 2003 16:10:04 -0500
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

Hey humiliation fans: - cowgirl here! 

This is a classy (but nice and smutty too) story by my good friend,
'mum' and fellow author CATE MURRAY. She has her own site and, IMHO,
is one of the best, subtelest, and 'less is more' variety of writers
of erotic humiliation on the whole bloomin' net! Plus (unlike me) <g>
she can spell!

Her story (SEE BELOW), is It's a sordid humiliating tale of how a
woman debasing herself for a man who doesn't even seem to care about
her. I got me QUITE aroused, so check it out!!!

Also, be sure and check out ALL of cate's mostly f/f erotica (with a
nice dose of humiliating thrown in) at her PERSONAL web page here:

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/catestories/www/index.html

love,
jen (cowgirl) 

_________________




"Away Games"
Cate Murray


You know the way women often despise themselves for fantasising 
about 'rape', even when it horrifies them, and feel guilty and 
afraid to admit it? 
  
Well, I felt guilty about this, because of what I thought it 
said about me, but even if you are mildly disgusted, I can 
mount a defence for myself.   There are things in this that 
actually happened, although there are time distortions, but 
I am married during the fantasy and, in fact, it is an 
essential part of it.   

Basically, if you want to know, it betrays everything 
I hold dear. I have never written this out before and, in 
fact, I lay awake a long time last night wondering if I 
would tell you it, or even could. At one time this fantasy, 
or part of it, and I mean ANY part of it, would bring me 
to climax as quickly.

When I was having children, I was bored, pampered,
reasonably well off. I was spoiled enough to fly to
London to shop or have my hair done every couple of 
months, usually staying over one or two nights.   This is 
all true, by the way, as is all the background to this.  

Letís just say I met someone.   Asking directions, had 
coffee, then dinner, nothing else, but was given a phone 
number.   I was going again before Christmas, late 
November.   Met up again, went to a hotel.  I fell in love 
with him, but he didnít with me.  Then, over the next five 
or six years, this was the pattern.  I rang a number and 
was put through to a secretary.  She would ask me 
questions -- she knew who I was -- some of them quite
embarrassing, hygiene things.   I always got the impression 
she thought I was lying.   She would do things like leave 
long gaps after I said something before continuing with 
her next question.   And, of course, her appallingly
snobby accent.   GBS said that all it takes for one 
Englishman to despise another is for one of them to open 
his mouth.   When you are Irish you have no chance at all.   

Anyway, I would suggest a particular day that would
suit me, or a choice of several days, as I later learned I had 
to.   She never mentioned his name, but would let me know 
he was going somewhere with his wife on one of the days 
I had mentioned, something he had to go to at his
daughtersí boarding school on another, or be out of the 
country or whatever.    She was very, very cold.   I would 
end up, shaking and humiliated, but clutching a piece 
of paper with a date written on it.

He always picked me up outside the National Maritime
Museum in Greenwich.   It was apparently convenient 
for him, but it was damned inconvenient for me. 

We would go into the city and park, then visit Harvey 
Nicks, Harrods, Laura Ashley, Dior, and all the other 
places the painted ladies spent their afternoons.   I had 
money of my own, but he bought me lots of things, a 
winter coat, a dress, plain but expensive underwear,
nothing I mightnít have bought myself,  except some 
jewelry, which I never took home, but which he kept 
for me in his bank and dressed me in when we met,
or were going out for dinner -- that is, if he had 
remembered to take it out of the bank.    

He was really giving me gifts of money, because I would
usually bring home the five hundred pounds or so I would 
have spent on a hotel or shopping. And naturally I kept it.   
At first I demurred, but later I became more confident, 
even greedy and sometimes even asked for things, and tried 
to gauge my value in money terms, which later, I found, 
depreciated very rapidly.   His wife was English, although 
he wasnít, and he was very proud of her, but she plainly 
didnít like sex, or at least the sort he liked.  He didnít 
like the Irish, and told me so, and was constantly critical 
of my appearance and reduced me to tears on occasions. 

Although he was rich he was only some sort of Mittel 
European scum himself, but I couldnít see it at the time.    
I guessed he was in the arms trade, or drugs, or something 
I despised, but this still didnít stop me.  Almost everything 
he said was abhorrent to me, all his opinions etc.   And I 
wasnít normally one to keep my mouth shut when I disagreed 
with someone.   I have always talked too much and he laughed 
at this, liked it, as he said very little himself.       

Sometimes we went to clubs where they had strippers
and prostitutes.   When not working they hung around the 
lobby in faded jeans and shirts.  They were all at least six 
feet tall and much better-looking than I was.

He never kissed me and I was only allowed to kiss him
on the side of his face.   When we went to the hotel room 
I would undress while he showered.   He never let me 
shower.   He would then sit in an armchair and watch 
me.   I was in pretty good shape, but my belly was a bit
plump, but attractive to those who like that sort of thing.
I would know everything was okay if he had a sort of
half erection and then get on my knees and start to suck 
him off.   I wasnít under any illusion that I was ěthe other 
womanî or anything.   He probably had six more like me.  

 Sometimes heíd smoke one of his filthy little cheroots and 
talk about his wife, how she would go riding in the mornings 
on the Sussex Downs, her Charity work for Oxfam, blah, 
blah.   She probably never let him near her, if she had any 
sense, anyway.   He was actually an intolerable little snob 
at the back of it all, absolutely despicable, but what did 
that make me?

I remember being on my hands and knees on the bed, thinking 
of his wife, her blond hair spread on the pillow, probably 
dreaming about her horse!   I was a little older than him and 
heíd started calling me ëold girl!í which I hated.   I knew 
bloody well his wife never had to kneel like this, feeling 
his erection probing her back passage, although I never let 
him enter me there.   It was the one thing in which I got my 
wayÖ  He told me on more than one occasion that he was ëriding 
a hack to spare a hunterí which I didnít fully understand until 
I looked it up. He never made love face to face, always like 
this, never kissed me, just nipped the back of my neck , or 
held the loose skin between his teeth, as he forced himself 
into me.   

Needless to say, I never had an orgasm with him, although I 
was excited in a shameful sort of way, nor did it even occur 
to him I might have wanted to.   Needless to say, he didnít 
use a condom and one of my fantasies (the most shameful, 
perhaps) is that all my children were his as well, but that 
he never bothered to see them or ask about them.  

That is the only bit I will definitely swear is not true, the 
rest of it you can guess at, or even ask, but I would like you 
to say what you think of it as a fantasy, and why should I 
have one like this?

I would usually wake up to find him on top of me again
during the night, face down as usual, or he might even do 
it without waking me.   He didnít care whether I was 
conscious or not.   I forgot to mention I would masturbate 
in the morning when I woke up.   He would be gone and the 
floor would be littered with my discarded clothes and all
the bags and boxes from the shops, and he would usually 
have dropped a couple of #50 notes on the beside table for 
me.   Whatever part of the fantasy I masturbate to, I imagine 
myself in that bed, crying with shame, masturbating, kissing 
the money he left me.

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