deferred payment : This narrative was written by Katie, and based on ideas from my Friend Sophie.


CRS Computer mend Shop


Sophie had been surfing some porn web site, looking for aspiration for her following Photoshop project,
when a admonition 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 meter, however, the
projection screen showed a gamy res picture of a pretty Thomas Young female child, with an tremendous cock stuffed into her
straining pussy, and a flaunt caption 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, undertaking
manager wouldn't lading, and none of the shortcuts she knew made any remainder. In desperation,
she got up and closed her sleeping room 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 feature to be
the"finis repair ”, 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 work 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 web 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 research for erotic love hopelessly, for the remainder of her life.


In the end, she took it to the small repair shop she usually used for climb, where the cute gentlewoman
technician always made her panties wet when she leaned stuffy to bear witness her some new gadget, and
she was promised it would be ready in a distich of sidereal day. The next day the repair workshop 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 porno. It was nearly closing clip 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 book binding workshop, 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 slide display of
all your most extreme work. You apologise for the pictures, but she grabs your hair and Tell you not
to worry, because that's exactly how she expects you to pay your broadside, with your disgusting wet petty
winky, and you are pushed backwards over one of the benches. She ties information processing system telegram round your
wrists and mortise joint, fastening you down on top of the part that haven't been cleared away
yet, the precipitous border and corners digging into your shoulder, back, and hip. After cutting away all
your clothes, she fits a memory micro chip into your muffle slit, 32 pins digging into the tender inner
airfoil of your sex lip, then she puts the cloggy mounting pulley block on the outside, and frizzle them
together. You squeal as 32 needlelike atomic number 79 pin pierce your winky all at once, then again as this is
repeated on the other slope. Your technician necktie the ingredient's wires back so they spread your
smelly winky panoptic open, then she says you need to be fitted with an upgrade, and shoves a new
circuit board into your gaping yap, the connector bar scraping the bottom of your tunnel. All the
sharp transistor, and capacitors, that are soldered on to both face of the board, scratch the ship's boat
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 turn, ripping the ticklish chassis
of your stretched winky to shreds.

She now takes a length of bare copper wire, and solders it to a vacant pin on the circuit board, right
against the entranceway to your winky, but she keeps touching the hot Fe against you, burning tender
flesh each time. Another conducting wire is soldered to the other position of the card, towards the top, where the
soldering smoothing iron burns the upper bound of your inner lip, and she even trails the hot tip up to your pee
hole, which really makes you oink. Every time you cry out, the cruel technician asks what your
problem is, directing your attention to the scrolling range on your laptop, saying that's obviously
what you want, and it's no to a greater extent than a trollop 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 stem and tip, in
opposite directions so that the final stage come together at the top, with 10mm fifth wheel, that she sticks under
your clitoral hood, lifting it acquit of the bound shot. In ordering to complete the electrical circuit, your
merciless tech now begins to solder the two telegram together, where they weight-lift against the midriff of
your clit, causing excruciating agony. When she is quenched that you are properly upgraded, she puts
three D prison cell batteries, you know, the big fat ones, into a container, connects the track to your winky
circuit board, then pushes the batteries right up your tiny can. 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 current running through your button, three seconds later the flow 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 strong, then hot, and finally burning the sensitive nub till you feel it start
to blister, then again it switches between your winky and clitoris. When it stops, the technician departure
you from the Bench, so you can stand up, but your clothes 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 corporation so she can staple the side of your deplumate panties to them.
The gusset still hangs down between your legs, exposing your torment winky, so she fetches the big
stapling machine they use for putting up posters, the one with 25mm staples, and fastens one through each
edge of the material, right into the side of your pubic cumulation. Your blouse sharpness are stapled into
sheep pen of skin below your rib, with the smaller simple machine, and your skirt waistband either side of your
umbilicus, so now you are more or less decently covered up. When you think your torment is almost at
an end, the technical school says your panty need tightening up a bit, so you parting the split social movement of your annulus
while she uses the enceinte stapler near the torn bound of your gusset, right in the centre of your pubis.
You squeal as a metallic element fastener pierces your outstanding mound, then another just below it, and
another, cashbox you have six staples in a row down to the top of your slit.


Handing you your laptop computer, the technician explains that your winky upgrade will cut in sometime after
you leave the hangout workshop, randomly shocking or cooking your smelly loose woman muddle on the way home. The
electric battery should last until bedtime, and you're not to bump off the circuit dining table till they have
completely run down.


Before you leave, she hands you a card with a date side by side month written on it, and you are instructed
to give just before closing for your laptop to be checked over, just to draw certainly the repair are still in
place, and so you can refund your climb equipment .