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


CRS reckoner Repair Shop


Sophie had been surfing some porn sites, looking for inspiration for her adjacent Photoshop project,
when a word of advice subject matter 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 prison term, however, the
concealment showed a heights res picture of a pretty young girl, with an enormous cock stuffed into her
straining snatch, and a shoot caption that read"You have been fucked ! !"


She couldn't get it to close, there was no menu, no X in the top nook, Alt F4 didn't work, project
managing director wouldn't load, and none of the shortcuts she knew made any difference. In desperation,
she got up and closed her sleeping room windowpane, 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 feature to be
the"lastly resort ”, 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 study desk, and switched it
on again, hoping everything would be OK. It seemed to start up alright, with the usual 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 dearest hopelessly, for the residual of her life.


In the end, she took it to the lowly mending shop she usually used for raise, where the cute lady
technician always made her panties wet when she leaned close to present her some new gismo, and
she was promised it would be ready in a brace of days. The adjacent day the mending shop was ringing
her up, and the female 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 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 vertebral column workshop, explaining how they have cleaned the virus OK, but she now wants
to discourse payment with you, at which point in time you notice that your laptop is running a slide show of
all your most extremum work. You apologise for the pictures, but she grabs your hair and Tell you not
to care, because that's exactly how she expects you to pay your broadside, with your disgusting wet little
winky, and you are pushed backwards over one of the workbench. She ties data processor telegram round your
wrists and ankles, fastening you down on top of the components that haven't been cleared away
yet, the sharp edges and corner digging into your shoulders, back, and hips. After cutting away all
your wearing apparel, she fits a memory bit into your moistness pussy, 32 pins digging into the tender inner
surface of your sex lip, then she puts the heavy climbing block on the outside, and crimps them
together. You squeal as 32 piercing atomic number 79 tholepin pierce your winky all at once, then again as this is
repeated on the other face. Your technician draw the component part's wires back so they spread your
smelly winky encompassing undefendable, then she says you need to be fitted with an upgrade, and shoves a new
racing circuit board into your gaping fix, the connector bar scraping the bottom of your tunnel. All the
sharp junction transistor, and electrical condenser, that are soldered on to both sides of the board, cancel 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 one-half bout, ripping the fragile anatomy
of your adulterate winky to shreds.

She now takes a length of bare pig wire, and solders it to a vacant pin on the circumference control panel, right
against the entrance to your winky, but she keeps touching the hot atomic number 26 against you, burning pinnace
flesh each time. Another telegram is soldered to the former side of meat of the board, towards the top, where the
soldering branding iron burns the upper boundary of your inner lip, and she even trails the hot tip up to your pee
yap, which really makes you squeal. Every time you cry out, the cruel technician asks what your
problem is, directing your attention to the scrolling double on your laptop computer, saying that's obviously
what you want, and it's no more than a slut like you deserves. The two wire 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
paired directions so that the ends come together at the top, with 10mm spare, that she sticks under
your clitoral strong-armer, lifting it clear of the boundary dick. In orderliness to fill in the electric electric circuit, your
merciless tech now begins to solder the two telegram together, where they press against the middle of
your clit, causing excruciating agony. When she is fulfil that you are properly upgraded, she puts
three D cell batteries, you know, the big fat ace, into a container, connects the lead to your winky
circuit board, then pushes the batteries right up your lilliputian bottom. She says it needs testing first, and
turns a switch on the add-in, instructing you to excuse what's happening, and with a gasp you tell
her there is electric current running through your clit, three seconds later the current switches to the
inside of your ill-treat winky, then your clit, then your winky again. Finally it stops for a min, but
you say your clit is getting warm, then hot, and finally burning the medium 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 terrace, so you can digest up, but your apparel 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
tit, then pinches the peel on your potbelly so she can staple the incline of your mangled panty 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 posters, the one with 25mm staple fibre, and fastens one through each
edge of the material, right into the English of your pubic mound. Your blouse border are stapled into
crease of skin below your costa, with the littler machine, and your skirt waistband 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 panties need tightening up a bit, so you role the schism battlefront of your doll
while she uses the large stapler near the torn bound of your gusset plate, right in the centre of attention of your pubis.
You squeal as a metallic element fastener President Pierce your prominent mound, then another just below it, and
another, public treasury you have six basic 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 repair shop, randomly shocking or cooking your smelly slut hole on the way home. The
batteries 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 scorecard with a date adjacent month written on it, and you are instructed
to take back just before closing for your laptop computer to be checked over, just to make sure the fixes are still in
place, and so you can fall your upgrade equipment .