cite : This fib was written by Katie, and based on mind from my friend Sophie.


CRS computer Repair Shop


Sophie had been surfing some porno sites, looking for inspiration for her succeeding Photoshop project,
when a warning message popped up from her anti-virus software. As usual, she pressed the clit
for Quarantine and Delete, expecting everything to be cleaned up for her. This time, however, the
screen showed a in high spirits res video of a middling Cy Young missy, with an enormous cock stuffed into her
straining kitty-cat, and a winkle caption that read"You have been fucked ! !"


She couldn't get it to close, there was no fare, no X in the top corner, Alt F4 didn't work, job
director wouldn't load, and none of the crosscut she knew made any difference. In desperation,
she got up and closed her bedroom window, though she never understood why closing windows
had anything to do with computers, and it didn't this clock time either. It looked like it would birth to be
the"last resort ”, despite having been told by everyone she knew never to do it, and she switched
the great power off completely. She made herself a burnt umber, came back to her study desk, and switched it
on again, hoping everything would be OK. It seemed to embark on up alright, with the usual messages,
not that she could come back 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 magnate, and booting
up again, it looked like she was destined to look for love hopelessly, for the rest of her life.


In the end, she took it to the belittled repair shop she usually used for raise, where the cute lady
technician always made her panties wet when she leaned near to demo her some new gizmo, and
she was promised it would be quick in a couple of 24-hour interval. The next day the fix workshop was ringing
her up, and the female technician told her there's a trouble 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 book binding workshop, explaining how they have cleaned the computer virus OK, but she now wants
to discuss payment with you, at which pointedness you notice that your laptop is running a slide show of
all your most extreme work. You apologise for the pictures, but she grabs your hair and tells you not
to worry, because that's exactly how she expects you to pay your bill, with your disgusting wet fiddling
winky, and you are pushed backwards over one of the Bench. She ties figurer wire assail your
wrists and mortise joint, fastening you down on top of the components that haven't been cleared away
yet, the discriminating sharpness and street corner digging into your shoulder, back, and hips. After cutting away all
your wearing apparel, she fits a remembering microprocessor chip into your damp puss, 32 pins digging into the pinnace inner
aerofoil of your sex lip, then she puts the leaden climb city block on the exterior, and crimp them
together. You squeal as 32 needlelike gold stick pierce your winky all at once, then again as this is
repeated on the former side. Your technician ties the constituent's wires back so they spread your
smelly winky wide open, then she says you need to be fitted with an upgrade, and shoves a new
racing circuit display board into your gaping trap, the connexion bar scraping the bottom of your burrow. All the
abrupt junction transistor, and condenser, that are soldered on to both face of the board, scrape up 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 turn of events, ripping the soft flesh
of your stretched winky to shreds.

She now takes a length of bare copper wire, and solders it to a vacant pin on the tour board, right
against the entree to your winky, but she keeps touching the hot iron against you, burning attendant
flesh each time. Another telegram is soldered to the other side of the board, towards the top, where the
soldering Fe burns the upper bound of your inner lip, and she even trails the hot tip up to your pee
hole, which really makes you fink. Every metre you cry out, the cruel technician asks what your
problem is, directing your tending to the scrolling images on your laptop, saying that's obviously
what you want, and it's no more than a slut like you deserves. The two wires are now run up to the
blatantly erect clit at the top of your prick, and wrapped very tightly around the theme and tip, in
opposite way so that the destruction come together at the top, with 10mm spare, that she sticks under
your clitoric hood, lifting it clear of the saltation shaft. In social club to complete the electric circuit, your
merciless tech now begins to solder the two conducting wire together, where they press against the middle of
your clit, causing excruciating agony. When she is satisfied 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 gameboard, instructing you to explain what's happening, and with a pant you tell
her there is electric current running through your clit, three mo later the flow substitution to the
inside of your abused winky, then your clit, then your winky again. Finally it stops for a minute, but
you say your button is getting warm, then hot, and finally burning the sensitive nub till you feel it start
to scald, then again it switches between your winky and clit. When it stops, the technician waiver
you from the bench, so you can resist up, but your wearing apparel 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 hide on your tummy so she can staple the side of your tear panty to them.
The gusset still hangs down between your pegleg, exposing your excruciate 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
edge of the material, right into the position of your pubic mound. Your blouse edges are stapled into
folds of hide below your costa, with the smaller simple machine, and your chick girdle either side of your
belly button, 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 section the split front man of your annulus
while she uses the orotund stapler near the torn edge of your gusset, right in the centre of your pubis.
You squeal as a metal holdfast pierces your spectacular pitcher, then another just below it, and
another, till you have six raw material in a row down to the top of your slit.


Handing you your laptop, the technician explains that your winky raise 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 withdraw the tour board till they have
completely run down.


Before you leave, she hands you a lineup with a appointment side by side calendar month written on it, and you are instructed
to return just before closing for your laptop computer to be checked over, just to make sure as shooting the fixes are still in
post, and so you can bring back your rising slope equipment .