acknowledgment : This floor was written by Katie, and based on estimation from my Quaker Sophie.


CRS electronic computer Repair store


Sophie had been surfing some porn sites, looking for inspiration for her next Photoshop task,
when a warning 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
screen showed a high res pictorial matter of a pretty Young girl, with an enormous cock stuffed into her
straining pussy, and a flashing legend that read"You have been fucked ! !"


She couldn't get it to close, there was no menu, no X in the top recession, Alt F4 didn't work, job
handler wouldn't lode, and none of the cutoff she knew made any difference. In desperation,
she got up and closed her sleeping room window, though she never understood why conclusion windows
had anything to do with computers, and it didn't this sentence either. It looked like it would birth to be
the"last repair ”, despite having been told by everyone she knew never to do it, and she switched
the big businessman off completely. She made herself a coffee tree, 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 content,
not that she could come back 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 mogul, and booting
up again, it looked like she was destined to search for love life hopelessly, for the rest of her life.


In the end, she took it to the lowly repair shop she usually used for upgrade, where the cute dame
technician always made her scanty wet when she leaned close to record her some new gizmo, and
she was promised it would be prepare in a duet of days. The following day the repair shop was ringing
her up, and the female technician told her there's a job she need's to look at right away, so she
went down expecting a lecture for looking at erotica. It was nearly closing sentence 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 dorsum shop, explaining how they have cleaned the virus OK, but she now wants
to discuss payment with you, at which point you notice that your laptop is running a swoop show of
all your most extreme work. You apologise for the movie, 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 little
winky, and you are pushed backwards over one of the terrace. She ties computer wire round your
wrists and ankles, fastening you down on top of the component part that haven't been cleared away
yet, the sharp boundary and recession digging into your shoulders, back, and hips. After cutting away all
your clothes, she fits a memory check into your moistness incision, 32 bowling pin digging into the tender inner
surface of your sex lip, then she puts the heavy mounting cube on the outside, and crimp them
together. You squeal as 32 sharp Au thole 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 spacious subject, then she says you need to be fitted with an upgrade, and shoves a new
circuit circuit card into your gaping hole, the connection bar scraping the can of your tunnel. All the
sharp junction transistor, and electrical condenser, that are soldered on to both sides of the board, scratch 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 good turn, ripping the delicate flesh
of your unfold winky to shreds.

She now takes a length of bare Cu telegram, and solders it to a vacant pin on the racing circuit add-in, right
against the entrance to your winky, but she keeps touching the hot iron against you, burning tender
flesh each time. Another conducting wire is soldered to the other side of the control panel, towards the top, where the
soldering iron burns the amphetamine sharpness of your inner lip, and she even trails the hot tip up to your pee
hole, which really makes you squeal. Every time you cry out, the cruel technician asks what your
problem 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 slovenly woman like you deserves. The two telegram are now run up to the
blatantly erect clitoris at the top of your dent, and wrapped very tightly around the base and tip, in
polar steering so that the ends come together at the top, with 10mm spare, that she sticks under
your clitoral toughie, lifting it clear of the bound shaft. In decree to complete the electric electrical circuit, your
merciless tech now begins to solder the two telegram together, where they press against the eye of
your clitoris, causing excruciating agony. When she is live up to that you are properly upgraded, she puts
three D cell barrage, you know, the big fat ones, into a container, connects the lead to your winky
circuit board, then pushes the stamp battery right up your lilliputian rear end. She says it needs testing first, and
turns a switch on the control board, instructing you to excuse what's happening, and with a gasp you tell
her there is electric current running through your button, three indorsement later the current switches to the
inside of your abused winky, then your clitoris, then your winky again. Finally it stops for a minute, but
you say your clit is getting warmly, then hot, and finally burning the sensitive nub till you feel it start
to blister, then again it switches between your winky and clit. When it stops, the technician dismissal
you from the terrace, so you can suffer up, but your clothes are hanging open where she slit them up
the middle. Taking a stapling machine from the desk, she staples the middle of each bra cup right through your
nipples, then pinches the tegument on your tummy so she can staple the position of your torn pantie to them.
The voider still hangs down between your legs, exposing your tortured winky, so she fetches the big
stapling machine they use for putting up card, the one with 25mm raw material, and fastens one through each
boundary of the material, right into the sides of your pubic knoll. Your blouse bound are stapled into
folds of skin below your rib, with the minor machine, and your skirt waistcloth either side of your
bellybutton, 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 share the split strawman of your skirt
while she uses the vauntingly stapler near the torn edge of your voider, right in the heart and soul of your pubis.
You squeal as a metal fastener President Pierce your striking heap, then another just below it, and
another, till you have six staples 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
battery should last until bedtime, and you're not to transfer the circuit board till they have
completely run down.


Before you leave, she hands you a card with a date succeeding month written on it, and you are instructed
to return just before closing for your laptop computer to be checked over, just to prepare sure the fixes are still in
situation, and so you can retrovert your advance equipment .