quotation : This history was written by Katie, and based on ideas from my acquaintance Sophie.


CRS electronic computer Repair shop class


Sophie had been surfing some pornography sites, looking for inspiration for her next Photoshop labor,
when a admonition message popped up from her anti-virus software package. As usual, she pressed the button
for Quarantine and Delete, expecting everything to be cleaned up for her. This time, however, the
covert showed a high gear res picture of a pretty young girl, with an enormous cock stuffed into her
straining pussy, and a flashing caption that read"You have been fucked ! !"


She couldn't get it to close down, there was no menu, no X in the top turning point, Alt F4 didn't work, task
manager wouldn't encumbrance, and none of the shortcuts she knew made any difference. In despair,
she got up and closed her sleeping accommodation window, though she never understood why closing windows
had anything to do with computers, and it didn't this time either. It looked like it would cause to be
the"last resort ”, despite having been told by everyone she knew never to do it, and she switched
the baron off completely. She made herself a coffee bean, came back to her subject desk, and switched it
on again, hoping everything would be OK. It seemed to start up alright, with the usual content,
not that she could echo what any of them had said before, then it launched a web based dating site,
which she couldn't close down, just like before. After repeatedly turning off the power, and booting
up again, it looked like she was destined to seek for making love hopelessly, for the rest of her life.


In the end, she took it to the small reparation workshop she usually used for upgrades, where the cute lady
technician always made her pantie wet when she leaned close to show her some new convenience, and
she was promised it would be ready in a duet of day. The next day the fix shop was ringing
her up, and the female technician told her there's a problem she need's to calculate at right away, so she
went down expecting a lecture for looking at porn. It was nearly closing time when she arrived, and
as she locked the door, Sophie realised that she's alone, so there's just the two of them. She took her
through to the back shop, explaining how they have cleaned the virus OK, but she now wants
to talk about payment with you, at which point you notice that your laptop is running a slide show of
all your most extreme work. You apologise for the pictures, but she grabs your hair and tells you not
to occupy, because that's exactly how she expects you to pay your bill, with your disgusting wet petty
winky, and you are pushed backwards over one of the work bench. She ties computer conducting wire round your
wrists and ankles, fastening you down on top of the part that haven't been cleared away
yet, the sharp edges and corners digging into your shoulders, back, and hips. After cutting away all
your apparel, she fits a computer storage bit into your dull slit, 32 pins digging into the attendant inner
surface of your sex lip, then she puts the heavy climbing mental block on the outside, and frizzle them
together. You squeal as 32 astute gold fall pierce your winky all at once, then again as this is
repeated on the other side of meat. Your technician ties the component's wires back so they spread your
smelly winky blanket open, then she says you need to be fitted with an upgrade, and shoves a new
lap display panel into your gaping hole, the connection bar scraping the buttocks of your tunnel. All the
sharp transistors, and capacitors, that are soldered on to both English of the board, inscribe the cutter
lining all the way up along your winky, till the end presses against your cervix uteri. The tech says it
seems to be upside down, and you scream when she rotates it a half spell, ripping the delicate flesh
of your stretch winky to shreds.

She now takes a distance of bare pig wire, and solders it to a vacant pin on the racing circuit circuit card, right
against the entranceway to your winky, but she keeps touching the hot iron against you, burning tender
flesh each time. Another wire is soldered to the other side of the add-in, towards the top, where the
soldering iron burns the upper sharpness of your inner lip, and she even trails the hot tip up to your pee
fix, which really makes you confess. Every metre you cry out, the cruel technician asks what your
job is, directing your attention to the scrolling images on your laptop, saying that's obviously
what you want, and it's no More than a slut like you deserves. The two wires are now run up to the
blatantly erect clitoris at the top of your pussy, and wrapped very tightly around the base and tip, in
paired directions so that the ends come together at the top, with 10mm spare, that she sticks under
your clitoral punk, lifting it clear of the bound pecker. In order to complete the electrical circuit, your
merciless tech now begins to solder the two wire together, where they press against the midsection of
your clit, causing excruciating agony. When she is satisfied that you are properly upgraded, she puts
three D cell electric battery, you know, the big fat ones, into a container, connects the leading to your winky
tour card, then pushes the stamp battery right up your tiny bottom. She says it needs testing first, and
turns a switch on the board, instructing you to explain what's happening, and with a gasp you tell
her there is electric stream running through your clit, three instant later the current shift to the
inside of your blackguard winky, then your clit, then your winky again. Finally it stops for a minute, but
you say your clit is getting ardent, then hot, and finally burning the sensitive nub cashbox you feel it start
to blister, then again it switches between your winky and clit. When it stops, the technician sacking
you from the work bench, so you can stand up, but your apparel are hanging open where she slit them up
the center. Taking a stapler from the desk, she staples the middle of each bra cup right through your
nipples, then pinches the peel on your stomach so she can staple the side of your deplumate pantie to them.
The gusset still hangs down between your legs, exposing your tortured winky, so she fetches the big
stapler they use for putting up posting, the one with 25mm basic, and fastens one through each
edge of the stuff, right into the sides of your pubic pitcher. Your blouse sharpness are stapled into
folds of skin below your costa, with the smaller simple machine, and your skirt waistband either face of your
navel, so now you are more or less decently covered up. When you think your torment is almost at
an end, the tech says your panties need tightening up a bit, so you parting the split battlefront of your skirt
while she uses the large stapler near the torn border of your gusset, right in the inwardness of your pubis.
You squeal as a metal fastening President Pierce your large mound, then another just below it, and
another, till you have six basic in a row down to the top of your slit.


Handing you your laptop, the technician explains that your winky climb will cut in sometime after
you leave the fix shop, randomly shocking or cooking your smelly slut mess on the way home. The
batteries should last until bedtime, and you're not to remove the racing circuit board boulder clay they have
completely run down.


Before you leave, she hands you a card with a day of the month next month written on it, and you are instructed
to rejoin just before closing for your laptop computer to be checked over, just to wee-wee sure the fixes are still in
place, and so you can generate your upgrade equipment .