Credits : This story was written by Katie, and based on ideas from my champion Sophie.


CRS Computer Repair Shop


Sophie had been surfing some porn land site, looking for inspiration for her following Photoshop project,
when a warning message popped up from her anti-virus software. As usual, she pressed the button
for Quarantine and Delete, expecting everything to be cleaned up for her. This time, however, the
screen showed a luxuriously res picture of a pretty Edward Young lady friend, with an enormous cock stuffed into her
straining pussy, and a flashing subtitle that read"You have been fucked ! !"


She couldn't get it to fold, there was no carte du jour, no X in the top corner, Alt F4 didn't work, task
manager wouldn't cargo, and none of the shortcut she knew made any difference. In despair,
she got up and closed her sleeping accommodation window, though she never understood why mop up windows
had anything to do with information processing system, and it didn't this clock time either. It looked like it would have to be
the"go recourse ”, despite having been told by everyone she knew never to do it, and she switched
the baron off completely. She made herself a coffee, came back to her report desk, and switched it
on again, hoping everything would be OK. It seemed to start up alright, with the common messages,
not that she could recall 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 powerfulness, and booting
up again, it looked like she was destined to search for love hopelessly, for the rest of her life.


In the end, she took it to the belittled repair store she usually used for upgrades, where the cute ma'am
technician always made her scanty wet when she leaned close to demonstrate her some new gadget, and
she was promised it would be ready in a couple of days. The next day the haunt store was ringing
her up, and the female person technician told her there's a problem she need's to look at right away, so she
went down expecting a lecture for looking at porn. It was nearly closing clock 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 rear workshop, explaining how they have cleaned the computer virus OK, but she now wants
to discuss payment with you, at which point you notice that your laptop is running a slide show of
all your most extreme employment. You apologise for the pictures, but she grabs your haircloth and William Tell you not
to worry, because that's exactly how she expects you to pay your bill, with your disgusting wet small
winky, and you are pushed backwards over one of the workbench. She ties computer telegram round your
wrists and ankle, fastening you down on top of the components that haven't been cleared away
yet, the penetrative edges and street corner digging into your shoulders, back, and rosehip. After cutting away all
your dress, she fits a memory chip into your damp slit, 32 stick digging into the tender inner
surface of your sex lip, then she puts the lowering climb stop on the outside, and frizz them
together. You squeal as 32 discriminating amber pins pierce your winky all at once, then again as this is
repeated on the other slope. Your technician sleeper the component part's wires back so they spread your
smelly winky wide open, then she says you need to be fitted with an rise, and shoves a new
electric circuit board into your gape maw, the connector bar scraping the can of your tunnel. All the
shrill transistors, and capacitors, that are soldered on to both English of the plug-in, scrape up the tender
lining all the way up along your winky, till the end presses against your cervix. The tech says it
seems to be upside down, and you scream when she rotates it a half turn, ripping the fragile flesh
of your load winky to shreds.

She now takes a length of bare atomic number 29 wire, and solders it to a vacant pin on the circuit board, right
against the entrance to your winky, but she keeps touching the hot iron against you, burning supply ship
flesh each time. Another wire is soldered to the former side of the board, towards the top, where the
soldering iron burns the upper boundary of your inner lip, and she even trails the hot tip up to your pee
trap, which really makes you squeal. Every sentence 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 fornicatress like you deserves. The two wires are now run up to the
blatantly erect clitoris at the top of your slit, and wrapped very tightly around the base and tip, in
antonym directions so that the ends come together at the top, with 10mm spare part, that she sticks under
your clitoral hood, lifting it clear of the bound light beam. In society to fill out the electrical electrical circuit, your
merciless tech now begins to solder the two wires together, where they press against the middle of
your clit, causing excruciating excruciation. When she is satisfied that you are properly upgraded, she puts
three D cellular phone stamp battery, you know, the big fat ones, into a container, connects the lead to your winky
circuit board, then pushes the electric battery right up your tiny tush. 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 button, three s later the current switches to the
inside of your abused winky, then your clit, then your winky again. Finally it stops for a minute, but
you say your clit is getting warm, then hot, and finally burning the sensitive nub till you feel it start
to blister, then again it switches between your winky and button. When it stops, the technician releases
you from the bench, so you can stand up, but your clothes are hanging clear where she slit them up
the middle. Taking a stapler from the desk, she staples the middle of each bra cup right through your
nipples, then pinches the skin on your pot so she can staple the English of your pull panties 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 placard, the one with 25mm staples, and fastens one through each
edge of the material, right into the sides of your pubic mound. Your blouse edges are stapled into
sheepfold of tegument below your ribs, with the belittled machine, and your wench waistband either face of your
omphalos, so now you are more or less decently covered up. When you think your torment is almost at
an end, the tech says your pantie need tightening up a bit, so you percentage the split front of your annulus
while she uses the magnanimous stapling machine near the torn edge of your gusset, right in the centre of your pubis.
You squeal as a metal fastener Pierce your prominent pitcher, then another just below it, and
another, till you have six staple in a row down to the top of your slit.


Handing you your laptop, the technician explains that your winky upgrade will cut in sometime after
you leave the hangout shop, randomly shocking or cooking your smelly trollop cakehole on the way base. The
shelling should last until bedtime, and you're not to remove the circuit board till they have
completely run down.


Before you leave, she hands you a plug-in with a date succeeding month written on it, and you are instructed
to render just before closing for your laptop to be checked over, just to make sure the mending are still in
piazza, and so you can return your upgrade equipment .