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codes: M+f+/ SM / humil / viol / caution
/ anal / nc
Note:
This story is a bleak, dark tale, not for the squeamish. So if
you’ve already decided to step into this puddle of muck, make sure you’ve got a
pair of waders handy – Hip high if you can manage it – because you’re going to
need them! Peace, brothers.
--
WARNING: This story delves into aberrant sex
practices that might well offend you. So if topics such as Sadism
and Masochism, among other deviant practices offend you, do not read this
story. Some of the sex depicted is consensual, some not. I
don't condone it. I'm not advocating it. I may or may not even like
it. It's simply a fantasy, a product of my imagination, and thus,
completely fictitious.
Before
you read it, please note the following:
*If you
are under eighteen, it is illegal for you to read this story!
*If you have a hard time
separating fantasy from reality, do not read this story!
*If it's illegal in your
jurisdiction to read non-consensual sex stories, don't read this story!
Support ASSTR: If you can afford to cough up a few bucks,
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The Memoirs
of a
Mite
(An Erotic Horror
Story)
by
Hunsi
Book
cover Picture
Click to meet Annie the Mite
/files/Authors/HumblePie/Pics/mite.jpg
Chapter 1:
Yes, that is my name, Mite. There are, of course, some who prefer to call
me, Bedbug, simply because the bedroom is the environment in which I am most
often found. And while there is a great deal of truth to that, I still prefer
the name, Mite. Not because the name
suits me best given my diminutive size, but because the last memory I have of my
dearly departed mother is of her calling me her Mite while tickling me silly.
Obviously, I was quite young when I was last
held by my mother, and other than my rag doll, Button Eyes, I have no other connection
with my past. Rather, my memories are
now composed of the time I've spent in the care of Betsy Black. The woman who I now call mommy and who I've
been told, still lives in the very same apartment across the hall from the one
my mother and I shared on the sixth floor of the Public Housing unit #183,
located in the lower east end side of the harbor district.
As I said, my mama Betsy still lives there and
probably will forever for reasons that are all too obvious. She is poor and she is black and she is fat,
as in it would have taken an industrial size hoist if ever she wished to part
ways with the Hawaiian Muumuu and furry pink slippers she wore day in, day out,
and was never seen without.
Yes, I know, that provokes some mighty vivid
imagery that can be rather unsettling for some.
But for those of you who are not so discomforted by the thought and wish
to venture out to spend a day with my mama Betsy, they find their lives forever
enriched.
And for that, I feel extraordinary grateful to
have had mama Betsy there by my side to mother
me. And a good mother she has been. She was not only a caring and loving woman
who couldn't give enough of herself, but she was fair and honest, never once
expressing a hint of favoritism toward anyone.
To her, all are equal.
Black/white, young/old, boy/girl, everyone was treated alike, including
her son, Jamal, as well as myself.
"What is good for Jamal,
is good for Missy. We all shared
equally," was her motto, and, indeed, Jamal and I shared in everything. We bathed together and even shared the same
bed. Truth is,
if ever there were a pair bosom buddies who were closer, they would've had to
have been attached at the hips.
Although she did make
one exception. She no longer spanked him as she did me. Not a cruel, hurtful spanking, just a dutiful
spanking delivered with a silly eccentric smile, and a childish, 'naughty-
naughty', whenever I failed to rise to the standards she has set for me.
Like my failing to adequately apply myself in
the tub before bed. As in when I
endeavored to do what was expected of every sister, in every household this
side of Jupiter. To insure that all her
brothers and all the other men folk in the household go to bed with hair, pits and feet
spit shiny clean, their man machine free of the debris that tends to accumulate
beneath the foreskin and behind his testicles.
That way his equipment won't be ‘smelling
up his pants’ after tucking himself back in come morning. Something that didn’t set well with mama
Betsy!
The same held whenever Jamal had a sleep over
guest, or Miss Betsy did, which in her case was quite often. Near nightly actually, though fortunately,
with a guest, no one seemed to care much if I failed to whisk away every smudge
of those balled up cakes entwined with hair that tended to accumulate down the dark
trail behind. The path that led to the gated entrance to the
pit of doom.
She'd take note of it, of course, thus the
spankings, but again, not in a hurtful way, but a caring motherly way. After
all, she knew just as well as I that I hadn't to prove myself to her. Having already seen me consume more
than my body weight worth of the stuff over the years she has raised me, she
already knew the spirit was there. In
fact, so much so, that she often complimented me on how bright my smile, and
how the 'stuff' -like mother's milk - has made my creamy white skin grow
all the whiter, the pink of my cheeks grow all the rosier.
So you see, the
swallowing was not a problem for me at all.
In fact it did nothing but enhance the smiles of all those around, and
broadened everyone’s appreciation of me all the more.
And for all that, I have but my mama Betsy to
thank. Quite honestly, I couldn't even
imagine a better mother, always making me feel like I was the jewel in her
tiara. A far and away greater treasure than any mother could ask for.
----
As you can see, those early years spent under
the care of my mama Betsy taught me much.
And I truly believe that all I'd been taught and all I have learned had
prepared me well for life on my own. Far
more than had I been sent to school, to bury my nose in some silly book about
Dick & Jane instead, and on that I am convinced.
I was always quick to remind Miss Betsy of how
appreciative I was for all she'd done for me, and likewise, in turn, she was always
quick to tell me how appreciative she was of me for my help with the daily 'up
keep' of her son, and the guests who came by nightly to visit carrying the
same burdensome, bloated sack of balls.
Knock-knock, "Is the lil'
Mite free?"
"Almost Tyrone," Mama Betsy could be
heard upon opening the door. "Bosco will be done
in a minute. Come in."
Yes, well, as I said, men are splendid
machines, but they are high maintenance, indeed! A task that kept a mechanic like me forever
busy, day in, night out.
But, at last, even in the best of all worlds,
there does come a time in every girl's life when she yearns to make her own
way.
And for me, that day fell upon the eve of my
fourteenth birthday. The day Kwame Jefferson, one of my
mama Betsy's nightly visitors and man I thought I
loved, came over to throw his best pitch at mama Betsy to get her to set me
free.
And trust me, he was throwing some heat, and
as for the strike out pitch, well, that one came in the form of a promise. A promise to her not to over tax the
merchandise (me) beyond my 6 a night limit.
A rule she fastidiously held fast to and as he agreed, she in turn
agreed to hand me over to him to work 'the trade,' albeit with tears.
"Alright, sweetheart, you can go with him
and start your life. Just you remember
your promise to me," she said, expressing her motherly concern, while
picking off the dry crusty film that was pasted to my lips, courtesy of an impatient
Rosco Bruner who'd come over for his lunch, and to
feed me mine.
And so it came to be, and in short order, I
found myself lying prostrate upon a cot in Kwame's
crypt. Then, when all was set, he walked
out onto the street to roust up some business.
So much for the promised he'd made. To put it bluntly, it wasn't until after the
line outside the door thinned out enough to see the end point, and the fire
that flamed from out my ass cooled enough for me feel the pain, that I began to
cry my eyes out, hating myself for having trusted the man to keep his word.
But for all the hurt, one good did come of it,
in the form of a promise I made to myself.
It wasn't going to happen again!
So the next day, after he had again gone out
to hustle up some business, I set out to bring an end to it. And I did, albeit with my hands clenched
tight to my ass to help ease the pain.
But determined as I was, I wasn't about to let
that stop me from finding my way back to my mama Betsy. And that was when I first met Sir Walter Farnsworth. "Sir," as in the titled person of
status he was.
--------
I was near out of breath, gasping for air by
the time I reached the bus stop. It was
just a short run to the corner, but with my hands holding tight to my
ass-on-fire buns, I was grateful to have made the run at all.
"I want to go home. I want to go back to my mama Betsy," I
said to the driver of the bus parked at the stop.
"Yeah, well, jump to it and Chop Suey to you too kid," he grumbled as if startled awake
from a malaise or a drunk.
"This is my down time, kid. My 15 minutes of quiet, and you don't belong
in here until I turn on the 'off duty' sign," he said all in one breath
while turning about to see who it was he was talking to.
"Why you sitting on your hands, girly,"
he then thought to ask upon seeing me sitting on my hands as if the bench seat I
sat upon was made of concrete. "You
got a problem? You done sat your ass
down on a tack or something?"
"No, just leave me alone and take me back
to my mama Betsy."
"Is that what you call your mom, Mama
Betsy? What are you, a retard or
something? That ain't
nobody's name, and it sure as hell don’t tell me shit
about where you want to go."
"Stop being mean
to me, I was trying to be nice," I said through a force smile, which
quickly turned into a butt clenching grimace.
“Okay, so you ain’t
dumb, just stupid for thinking you could get away with bossing me around.”
“Well, ol’ Deshawn is here to tell you, I ain’t
the dumb one here. You are, because if
you weren’t, you’d know like everyone else in this nappy headed negro town that
there are a zillion other ways to get from point ‘A’ to Point ‘B’
without it costing you a month of Sundays.
Like walk, or wait 30 minutes for the city bus."
"You can't take me home?"
"Sure, but only after I reach the
"What does that mean?" What is
"It means I got to go to
"You see, this here bus is routed to take
folks from here in the lower east of the harbor district where you are now, to
the burbs where they live, then bring back another
batch back to work. So if you're willing
to wait through all of that, well then, I'll get to where you want to go.”
“So there you have it. That’s the way it is, and that’s the way it’s
got to be. You got me now, Sweet cheeks, huh?" The driver then asked with
a snarky grin.
The kind of grin that said that
he was thinking about something pretty damn hard, and
it wasn’t the traffic.
She found his look, that grin, all too
unnerving, but she hadn't much time to think about all that once the bus door
was closed and he started out on his route, towards Park City, his turn-around
point, the first leg of their journey.
For the most part, the bus driver, Deshawn, hadn’t all that much more to say. He just negotiated the traffic while thumbing
out a rhythm upon the steering wheel to the music he played in his head, and only
occasionally looked up into the rear view mirror to eye her while wearing that
same creepy, snarky grin.
A grin that the more she saw of it, the more
she began to feel she’d seen that grin, and that face before. When, where, she couldn’t recall, though
there was one thing she knew with some certainty, the more she looked up to
meet his gaze, the more she felt she’d met this man before.
But all that changed once they reached the
"Okay, lil’
Dolly,” he said as strolled down the isle toward her. “It’s time you and me get to doing the nasty one more time!"
There it was!
She had seen those eyes and that wicked smile before. And upon the realization, she threw up her
hands and gasped.
"You were there? You were at Kwane’s!!!
"That's right, little dolly, and that
buck I paid Kwame piece of your ass was truly worth
it. Better than any jelly donut I've ever
had. And now I'm going to have me
another taste." he said he began to unbottoned
his pants. But when he started to pull them
off, Annie the Mite made a dash for it.
Running down the street as fast as her feet could carry her.
Down one street, up
another, nonstop, and until she found herself looking down a lane that skirted
a park. And not just any park, but one of exquisite
beauty, and across the street, a row of gated mansions with chauffeured
limousines parked outside, and gardeners trimming the flowering Magnolia trees
beyond the gate.
It was a setting of elegance and beauty like
none other, and sitting upon a bench outside the palatial vision immediately before
her, sat a distinguished looking man with silvery gray hair who was leaning on
his cane while smoking his pipe.
"Oh my, what have we here?" She recalled him having said just as she
began to feel faint, and the stars in her eyes began to spin. Then with a heat induced flash of white, she
collapsed where she stood in the middle of the street out of exhaustion.
---
Slowly, Annie the Mite began to hear voices
emerge from out the fog of nothingness.
Voice and senseless words that slowly began to come into focus as did
her vision, and her awareness of the room she lie in.
"Well, Arthur, what do you think? Is she mortal or is she an Angel?"
"I'm a doctor, Walter, not a
theologian. But no matter her origins,
now that her fever has broken, I think it's safe to say that she'll again be
fluttering about like a butterfly in short order, no more than a fortnight
tops."
"Now remember what I told you. Plenty of
rest, juice, and nutritionally well balance meals."
"Yes, Arthur, of
course. And a pinch of loving too, huh?" he said
with a wink.
"A pinch? Yeah right, nothing
you do is measured by the pinch. I just
ask that you ease up on the down swing. Those
cane reed and rawhide instruments you use are merciless gods."
---
Two weeks later .
. .
"Are you awake, my angel?" Walter Farnworth called out as he walked through the door with his
butler following behind with a food tray in hand.
"Set it down here,
"I hope you're hungry," he then said
to a very awake and alert Annie-the-Mite.
"I had Mr. Morgan make you your favorite; Chicken soup, a grilled
cheese sandwich and custard pudding."
"Oh, thank you, but I'm not hungry right
now, Mr. Farnworth."
"Now, now, I told you to call me Papa
Walter, just as you called the Black Mamba who raised you, Mama Betsy."
"What's a Mamba?"
"A deadly
poisonous snake."
"Oh stop being mean.
I told you I love her dearly. She taught
me all I know."
"But obviously
not enough. Remember the talk we has last night? Remember what you said, how everyone at mama Betsy's house were always so caring and loving and kind
to you? Then this fellow Kwame came along and took you away, and then suddenly,
every man whose path you crossed were nothing less than ruthlessly mean and
cruel to you?"
"Yes! Kwane, was so heartless and
mean and cruel to me. Surely there must
be a place in hell for him, and Deshawn, the bus
driver too.”
"Yes, I recall your having called them
beast! “Savage
animals!” Men
who laughed as they inflicted such pain upon you?"
"They were, and they were mean – mean,
and they laughed when they hurt me so bad."
"Well now, whose fault is that?"
“Fault?” "Not me! I wanted to share, but all they wanted was to
take – take - take."
"Yes, you're right. It wasn't your fault.
It was your mama's fault for not teaching you about such men, but worse yet,
she didn't teach you how to manage them."
"Manage them?"
"Yes, Manage. I believe that is the word that’s best
fitting. We are talking about animal,
are we not? And as you and I know,
animals are instinctively programmed to do but one thing. To satiate their hunger; to
consume you, to eat you, to gobble you up. To see you cry!!!"
"Give them that, your tears, and they
simply laugh, and want to hurt you all the more."
"That's in the nature of men, the one
thing your mama Betsy didn't teach you, but if you want, I will."
"You can teach me how to stop them from
hurting me?"
"Yes, I promise you, if you should place
such trust in me, before you leave here, you'll be able to look pain in the eye
and scoff, as if the pain and the blood mattered not
an iota to you!"
----
The promise that Walter had made to Annie the
Mite, did nothing but stir her imaginings to a fanciful degree. Imagining herself
living in a world where men were happy just to hold her tight in their warm
embrace. A world in
which even the most savage beast would jump through fire just to share a tub
with her. To luxuriate in that warm, cozy, womb like place, while enjoying
a good mouthing, front, back, up the nose and between the toes! : )
Just the thought that Walter Farnsworth may
somehow be able to reconstruct that world for her once again, was more than
enough to make her want to stay, and be taught what Walter said she need know.
“Lessons,” he called them, followed up with a practicum,
and all to begin early the next morning, after breakfast but before the rooster
crows and in his study. A richly ornate
room of dark mahogany with strangely fashioned furnishings, the practicality of
which stretched the imagination,
as did the painted portraits that hung upon the walls.
Portraits in oils, painted in such detail as
to appear near photographic. Snapshots,
if you will, a captured moment in time, but not of a world she knew. Rather, it depicted a world so frightening,
so nightmarish as to cause her to tremble.
"I want you to know, my pet, I allow very
few to enter this room," he said, by way of an aside, while fastening a
collar about her neck.
“What are you doing,” she asked, with a noted
tremor.
“Not to worry, my pet. It’s simply a piece I value, and I can’t think
of a better mount to display my treasure.
Besides, given the richness of the jewels embedded, I would think you’d be
quite proud to wear it.”
“There now,” he said as he stepped back to take
it in. “Yes, it looks quite pretty, quite
pretty, indeed.”
“Oh wait, least I forget,” he then said with a
start, “We can’t forget the part that makes it of use, now can
we? That would be like putting a bird in
a cage without a door to keep it in. Now
tell me, how useful a cage would that be,” he asked as he turned about to take hold
of a leash lying upon a chair.
“There now, your collar is now both beautiful
but functional,” he said beaming to all heaven, though fraudulently, in effort
to convince her that the common, everyday pet store dog collar he’d just
imprisoned her with, was other than the value piece he claimed.
“Now come, I have something I wish you to
see,” he said with a tug of her leash, leading her across the room until he
came to a stop before a large painted portrait of a girl buckled over a black
leather Pommel that thrust her ass up high, while a man standing behind held a
Carriage whip aimed to bloody her ass further.
"You know what I have here?" he
asked.
"No," she shrilled.
"Well, what I have here is a very valued
piece. It's a portrait commissioned by
the Marquis himself, and the very same Château de Lacoste
that served as his home. The girl you
see pictured is Justine, a li’l waif like you who is being
taught her lessons on what is truly in the hearts of men - What is in the
nature of men, that you and I agree is yours to learn as well.”
Li’l Annie-the-Mite, just
stood there unmoved, frozen in place, looking up at the portrait and taking in the
anguish she saw written upon that poor girl’s face, the terror she saw in her
eyes. But most frightening of all, was
the sight of her own image reflecting off the glass.
"Knock- knock,” he then heard a tapping
at the door, cutting short his talk."
"Come in
"Yes, sir, your
brandy, sir. Would you have me place it upon the table
beside your chair?"
"Yes, that would be fine," he relied,
while tugging Annie the Mite along by the leash to a nearby chair, beside which
stood a pommel that was exact to the stitching like the one in the
portrait. And on top of that pommel lie
a Carriage Whip.
"Oh, yes, before
I forget," he said to Stanley his butler.
"You best give Doctor Dudley a call and tell him that his services may
be required this afternoon."
"Yes, Sir. And would you have me do with Bullet?"
"Is he making a nuisance of
himself?"
"Um, well, I wouldn’t call it a nuisance,
Sir, but he does tend play it a bit rough on occasion. Especially when I tend to the stew, or open the
refrigerator, or even make like I might."
"Well, you be firm with him. He’s big, and can be quite the bully, but
nothing that a length of pipe upside his head won’t fix.”
----
After downing his is brandy, Walter Farnsworth,
took a moment to appraise his appearance in the mirror that sat atop his desk. After fastidiously straightening his tie and primping
his hair, he again turned his attentions back to his mite, his resident in keep,
who now lay buckled over a black leather Pommel, presented her bare naked ass
for his scrutiny.
“Now then, where were we, my li’l Mite? Oh yes, lesson
number one,” he said, with a swish of that fierce length of woven black leather
that cut through the air with a hiss.
“As promised to you, I shall teach you how to keep
your anguish in check so as not to let a man see you cry! That is, of course, the fuel that feeds the
fire, and that which you need deny, else the animals that men be, will not
relent until they’ve eaten you whole and spit out your bones.
“So steel yourself my li’l
Mite. I’ll give you ten my best, and
after, you’ll be all the better for it.”
“Whhhhrup,” the sound of the furious
blow echoed throughout the room.
“Whooosh, crack”, came
the next, leaving beads of red along the swell of the purple welt.
The onslaught was methodical and cruel and nothing
less than a torture, yet throughout, Annie the Mite voiced not a single utterance,
other than a grunt upon the impact.
“The sound of the swish, the thud, and the
grunt that followed were paced to a rhythm, one that Hobin
Hutchins found himself nodding his head and tapping his thigh to as he walked
into the study.
“Oh, how I love that sound. Music to soothe
the soul,” he gleefully sang out, catching Walter in mid-stroke.
“Hobin, you’re
back. Good to see you, my friend, he
said, extending his hand, while taking note of the attaché case he carried.
“How did the auction in
“I got it, just like I said I would, I got it!”
“Oh my word, what were your chances? Quickly, let me see it,” Walter bellowed
excitedly, as he directed his friend over to his desk.
“What were my chances, you ask? Well, just like you said. Boris, Wolfgang, Ito Yama
. . . , you name them, they were all there.
And yes, everyone rated my chances in a range of zero to none. But you know what?”
“No what?”
Walter asked while putting on gloves, preparing as he was to examine the
contents of the case.
“I got it because all them
fat cats were eyeing one another, and didn’t see me coming!”
Walter laughed, then
broke out with a sigh as he lifted the etching from out the case.
The corners where a bit frayed having been buried
behind the wall for so long, but the ink-on-canvas entitled “The Martyrdom of
Justine,” remained as unscathed as the day it was drawn. As to who penned it? Well, that was what made the piece so
valuable.
“The “SB,” penned it the corner was a pseudonym,
on that all were agreed. The product of some unknown artist who was just trying to steel a
buck. But to Walter and Hobin Hutchins, two of the many whose pleasures came of the
torment they inflicted upon the innocent, that 8 by 8, pen and ink, maelstrom of
madness, could only have come from the hands of the Marquis himself; De Sade, the one and true master of pain.
“Oh, my, my, my,” Walter bemoan. “It is every bit the horror that could only
come from the hand of the master.”
It was then, as he sat marveling at the
exquisite work of art that he heard a rumpus coming from behind. Turning about, he saw that Bullet, his freight
train sized German Shepherd, had found his way in.
Standing up upon his hind legs with the whole
of his bulk carpeting the back of Annie-the-Mite - Annie-the-Martyr - he was doing
the bump like a madman gone wild, his goods buried deep in her innards.
“Huh! I
thought you said Bullet wasn’t allowed inside your study?”
“He’s not,” Walter replied, while pointing toward
the door that Hobin had left open.
“Oh, ah, sorry, I guess in my rush to show you
the etching I forgot to close it.”
“I guess,” Walter shrugged, while watching Bullet
struggle to pull his goods from out the mouse trap in which it was stuck.
“Pretty inconsiderate
of me, no?”
Hobin asked, with raised brows, as if testing the
waters.
“Hmm, well, I suppose,” a somewhat distracted
Walter replied, as he watched the struggle between his mite and his beast, one
that his mite eventually wow hands down, and his beast was left to turn about
and wait it out.
“Oh
well, it looks like we got us a wait,” Hobin then
said with a shrug. “I don’t know about
you but I’m up for a glass of brandy, how about you?”
“No, thanks, my
friend, but look here. Since it is you alone
who bears responsibility for this delay, why don’t you be a good fellow and take
them out into the yard and hosed them down.”
“What, with a garden hose? Given the size of that thing, I don’t think
that’s going to do it.”
“Well then, what would you suggest?”
“A call to the fire
department.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah! You’re going to need more than just a pair of
tongs to free this dog from the bun. Oh
no, I thinking it’s going to take a fire truck and some burly firemen with a
hose powerful enough to get this job done.”
-----
Das Ende
. . . That is until Part II when we find out
if Annie the Mite, manages to find her way back to her
Mama Betsy.
Hunsi
------- § § § ------
-
