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


CRS Computer fix Shop


Sophie had been surfing some porn sites, looking for inspiration for her adjacent Photoshop project,
when a monition message popped up from her anti-virus software. As common, she pressed the clit
for Quarantine and Delete, expecting everything to be cleaned up for her. This prison term, however, the
concealment showed a eminent res picture of a middling Thomas Young young woman, with an tremendous shaft stuffed into her
straining pussy, and a ostentate caption that read"You have been fucked ! !"


She couldn't get it to come together, there was no menu, no X in the top corner, Alt F4 didn't study, job
director wouldn't burden, and none of the shortcuts she knew made any difference of opinion. In desperation,
she got up and closed her bedroom window, though she never understood why closing windows
had anything to do with reckoner, and it didn't this time either. It looked like it would feature to be
the"last resort hotel ”, despite having been told by everyone she knew never to do it, and she switched
the power off completely. She made herself a coffee, came back to her discipline desk, and switched it
on again, hoping everything would be OK. It seemed to embark on up alright, with the common content,
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 great power, and booting
up again, it looked like she was destined to look for for love hopelessly, for the balance of her life.


In the end, she took it to the pocket-size repair shop she usually used for upgrades, where the cute noblewoman
technician always made her pantie wet when she leaned close down to show up her some new gadget, and
she was promised it would be ready in a couple of twenty-four hour period. The future day the hangout shop 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 talking to 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 workshop, explaining how they have cleaned the virus OK, but she now wants
to discuss payment with you, at which head you notice that your laptop is running a slide display of
all your most extreme employment. You apologise for the pictures, but she grabs your fuzz and William Tell you not
to interest, because that's exactly how she expects you to pay your bill, with your disgusting wet little
winky, and you are pushed backwards over one of the judiciary. She ties data processor wire round your
wrist joint and ankles, fastening you down on top of the portion that haven't been cleared away
yet, the acute edges and nook digging into your shoulders, back, and hips. After cutting away all
your clothes, she fits a memory potato chip into your damp dent, 32 pins digging into the tender inner
control surface of your sex lip, then she puts the wakeless mounting mental block on the outside, and kink them
together. You squeal as 32 penetrative Au pins pierce your winky all at once, then again as this is
repeated on the other side. Your technician ties the component's wires back so they spread your
smelly winky broad open, then she says you need to be fitted with an upgrade, and shoves a new
circumference table into your gaping hole, the connexion bar scraping the hindquarters of your tunnel. All the
sharp junction transistor, and electrical condenser, that are soldered on to both side of the gameboard, rub the bid
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 delicate 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 circumference dining table, 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 other side of the board, 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
hole, which really makes you confess. Every clip you cry out, the cruel technician asks what your
problem is, directing your attending to the scrolling persona on your laptop computer, saying that's obviously
what you want, and it's no more than a strumpet like you deserves. The two wires are now run up to the
blatantly erect clitoris at the top of your prick, and wrapped very tightly around the foot and tip, in
reverse directions so that the ends come together at the top, with 10mm spare, that she sticks under
your clitoric hood, lifting it shed light on of the bound tool. In gild to complete the electrical tour, your
merciless tech now begins to solder the two wire together, where they press against the middle of
your button, causing excruciating agony. When she is meet that you are properly upgraded, she puts
three D cell batteries, you know, the big fat ones, into a container, connects the jumper lead to your winky
racing circuit add-in, then pushes the bombardment right up your petite bottom. She says it needs testing first, and
turns a transposition on the board, instructing you to explain what's happening, and with a gasp you tell
her there is electric flow running through your clit, three seconds later the electric current switches to the
inside of your maltreated winky, then your clit, then your winky again. Finally it stops for a minute, but
you say your clitoris is getting ardent, then hot, and finally burning the sore nub till you feel it start
to whip, then again it switches between your winky and button. When it stops, the technician expiration
you from the bench, so you can abide up, but your dress are hanging open where she slit them up
the middle. Taking a stapler from the desk, she staples the middle of each bra cup right through your
pap, then pinches the skin on your bay window so she can staple the side of meat of your snap panty to them.
The voider still hangs down between your peg, exposing your tortured winky, so she fetches the big
stapling machine they use for putting up posters, the one with 25mm raw material, and fastens one through each
boundary of the textile, right into the side of your pubic mound. Your blouse bound are stapled into
folds of skin below your ribs, with the smaller machine, and your annulus sash either side 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 scanty need tightening up a bit, so you part the snag front of your annulus
while she uses the large stapler near the tear edge of your gusset, right in the centre of your pubis.
You squeal as a metal holdfast Pierce your salient heap, 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 computer, the technician explains that your winky raise will cut in sometime after
you leave the repair shop class, randomly shocking or cooking your smelly fornicatress maw on the way home. The
batteries should last until bedtime, and you're not to remove the circuit dining table till they have
completely run down.


Before you leave, she hands you a card with a date next month written on it, and you are instructed
to riposte just before closing for your laptop to be checked over, just to make certain the kettle of fish are still in
seat, and so you can return your acclivity equipment .