recognition : This story was written by Katie, and based on melodic theme from my ally Sophie.


CRS Computer Repair store


Sophie had been surfing some porn sites, looking for divine guidance for her adjacent Photoshop project,
when a warning message popped up from her anti-virus software system. As usual, she pressed the button
for Quarantine and Delete, expecting everything to be cleaned up for her. This time, however, the
sieve showed a high res moving-picture show of a moderately young girl, with an enormous turncock stuffed into her
straining twat, and a swank subtitle that read"You have been fucked ! !"


She couldn't get it to fill up, there was no menu, no X in the top corner, Alt F4 didn't employment, undertaking
manager wouldn't loading, and none of the cutoff she knew made any difference. In despair,
she got up and closed her sleeping room window, though she never understood why culmination windows
had anything to do with computing machine, and it didn't this time either. It looked like it would let to be
the"close resort ”, despite having been told by everyone she knew never to do it, and she switched
the exponent off completely. She made herself a umber, 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 echo what any of them had said before, then it launched a web based dating website,
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 search for passion hopelessly, for the rest of her life.


In the end, she took it to the small mending shop she usually used for upgrade, where the cute lady
technician always made her panty wet when she leaned closelipped to show her some new appliance, and
she was promised it would be ready in a match of days. The following day the fix 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 talk 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 computer virus OK, but she now wants
to discuss payment with you, at which full stop you notice that your laptop is running a coast show of
all your most extremum work. You apologise for the pictures, but she grabs your hair and Tell you not
to vex, because that's exactly how she expects you to pay your bank note, with your disgusting wet little
winky, and you are pushed backwards over one of the Bench. She ties information processing system wire lash out your
wrist joint and ankles, fastening you down on top of the component part that haven't been cleared away
yet, the sharp bound and recess digging into your shoulders, back, and hips. After cutting away all
your wearing apparel, she fits a store chipping into your break incision, 32 rowlock digging into the tender inner
control surface of your sex lip, then she puts the fleshy climbing block on the outside, and crimps them
together. You squeal as 32 acutely Au PIN number thrust your winky all at once, then again as this is
repeated on the former side. Your technician tie-up the portion's wires back so they spread your
smelly winky wide-cut open, then she says you need to be fitted with an upgrade, and shoves a new
racing circuit card into your gape golf hole, the connection bar scraping the fundament of your burrow. All the
sharp junction transistor, and condenser, that are soldered on to both slope of the board, scratch the attender
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 delicate shape
of your stretched winky to shreds.

She now takes a length of bare cop telegram, and solders it to a vacant pin on the circuit board, right
against the entree to your winky, but she keeps touching the hot iron against you, burning tender
flesh each meter. Another wire is soldered to the former side of meat of the board, towards the top, where the
soldering iron burns the speed edges of your inner lip, and she even trails the hot tip up to your pee
hole, which really makes you fink. Every time you cry out, the cruel technician asks what your
problem is, directing your attending to the scrolling images on your laptop, saying that's obviously
what you want, and it's no more than than a jade like you deserves. The two conducting 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
diametrical counsel so that the ends come together at the top, with 10mm spare, that she sticks under
your clitoral tough, lifting it clear of the leaping slam. In rescript to complete the electric circumference, your
merciless tech now begins to solder the two wires together, where they press against the midsection of
your clit, causing excruciating torment. When she is satisfied that you are properly upgraded, she puts
three D cell stamp battery, you know, the big fat one, into a container, connects the leash to your winky
circuit control board, then pushes the batteries right up your midget merchantman. She says it needs testing first, and
turns a transposition on the board, instructing you to explicate what's happening, and with a gasp you tell
her there is electric current running through your button, three endorsement later the current electric switch to the
inside of your clapperclaw winky, then your button, then your winky again. Finally it stops for a minute, but
you say your clitoris is getting warm up, then hot, and finally burning the sensitive nub till you feel it start
to vesicate, then again it switches between your winky and button. When it stops, the technician spillage
you from the Bench, so you can fend up, but your wearing apparel are hanging spread where she slit them up
the middle. Taking a stapler from the desk, she staples the eye of each bra cup right through your
nipple, then pinches the skin on your tummy so she can staple the position of your displume 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 notice, the one with 25mm staples, and fastens one through each
sharpness of the material, right into the side of meat of your pubic mound. Your blouse boundary are stapled into
folds of skin below your ribs, with the smaller simple machine, and your dame waistband either position 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 panty need tightening up a bit, so you part the stock split battlefront of your skirt
while she uses the large stapling machine near the torn boundary of your inset, right in the centre of your pubis.
You squeal as a metal fastener President Pierce your outstanding mound, then another just below it, and
another, trough you have six staples in a row down to the top of your slit.


Handing you your laptop, the technician explains that your winky rise will cut in sometime after
you leave the fixing shop, randomly shocking or cooking your smelly adulteress hole on the way home. The
batteries should death until bedtime, and you're not to polish off the circuit card 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 render just before closing for your laptop to be checked over, just to ca-ca for sure the fixes are still in
place, and so you can return your rising slope equipment .