Message-ID: <1678eli$9706251137@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/1678.txt>
From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>
Subject: STORY: "Seductions 10"/MrSpraycan
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>


	Standard Disclaimer: Adults only. This item is of fictional nature.
All persons and most places in it are imaginary; no resemblance to real or
historic characters is intended. No illicit behavior is endorsed or
condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the idea.

	Copyright (c) is claimed 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its
author, MrSpraycan who chooses to be 'anon'. No commercial use is
warranted. For personal or entertainment purposes only. Do not retransmit
or store in public archives.


SEDUCTIONS 10
by MrSpraycan


	Wayne lunges at me, alarming Sophia and some passing 'green scrubs'
people. They stand back, rather than participate. I guess that's how they
ensure getting new business. Sophia shouts: "No!" but that's scarcely a
deterrent. He's six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier, so he has all
the advantage. Or, had it but didn't know how to use it. Now he's laying on
the floor, singing a coloratura soprano part, doing some kind of New Age
wriggling therapy, holding his nuts. I wonder what happened?

	I get his attention again by twisting an ear and rhythmically
pounding his head on the floor tiles. "Yo. Some black dudes in clothes
seventeen sizes too big were by looking for you earlier. I think they're
waiting at the house." He lurches to his feet, backs away, looks around in
a panic. "No!!"

	Intuition, call it that. He had to have partners from somewhere,
and my guess . . .

	I have the Taurus keys in my hand, dangling. He grabs them with a
crafty cackle and staggers out, mumbling something about "goddamn
motherfucker." Oh, that's me, alright!

	I grab Sophia's arm, to stop her chasing after him. "Let him go. I
can get a lift from here for us. But first . . .I have to make a call."

	Sophia pleads: "Stop him. Who knows what he'll do?"

	"How do I stop him, hon? People will talk if I keep grabbing him.
He won't listen to me. No, just let it take its turn . . . Now, where's the
library?"

	There, we find an old medical writer buddy of mine at work. Getting
near the end of the day, and he's willing to drop us off back at the
crossroads near my apartment. We talk old times, Sophia sits looking
reflectively out of the window, holding my hand. There's a little bit of
eyewiping, but I think she's really totalling up the insurance money in her
head.

	We thank my pal, and go in. The phone's ringing, it's Maria, still
at the salon. She's heard the news from a friend at the hospital. She
sounds pretty calm, as she ought to be. "Wayne been by?" I ask.

	"No, but I've warned the front desk to call the cops if he does."

	"Attagirl. Stay there another hour, then come back here."

	"Why an hour?" Sophia asks as I hang up. Her clothes are coming off
as she contemplates the foolishness of such a question. She pulls me to
her, murmuring: "You are so greedy . . ."

	When Maria arrives, all abounce as usual, Mummy opens the door,
naked. Neither woman is in the least bit bothered. I'm in the kitchen,
fixing some food, similarly al fresco. We sit down to a pleasant threesome
dinner, all nude, all in the mood for some more fun after stuffing our
bellies. Is there anything more pleasant than nude dining? Why don't
restaurants cater for it?

	The phone rings. We let the answering service pick it up. If it's
Wayne, fuck him.	If it's about Wayne, ditto. If it's anything else,
it'll keep. I have two horny women to service and supervise, right now.

	Whew! This proves to be some evening. An oral Olympics, with a
bunch of distance events thrown in. The two women compete to see who can
impress me most with her lack of shame or restraint. There's a lot of
masturbation, of sucking on my prick, of impassioned pleadings and vows. I
decide that some bottom-warming would benefit everyone, give the evening
some focus. So I arrange a feebly struggling Maria across her mother's lap,
and ask Sophia to spank her very hard, handing her a fat wooden paddle.
Sophia doesn't need any encouragement, and Maria is so excited she's
trembling before it begins. I stroke and caress her breasts, kiss her tears
away, while encouraging Sophia to spank on.

	Then, to preserve natural harmony, I have Maria cane mommy's ass,
with the older woman kneeling on the bed, backside high in the air. When
she's lashed her enough to satisfy me, I guide Maria's face down to lick
her from behind, while I mount the younger girl. Everyone is filthy and
sticky by now, and Maria is just as happy to tongue-tickle her mother's
asshole as she is to lap at her well-fucked cunt, which is drooling
spendidly: after all, I've had her three times since this morning, and
she's been rubbing and fingering herself non-stop too.  Like Maria, she is
a dribbler on a grand scale. Changing the sheets is going to be a daily
event here if these two take up residence! We finally collapse into
exhaustion, arms and legs in a tangle, my head on Sophia's thigh.

	About 1.30 a.m., I get up to take a pee, get a glass of water. As I
wander past, I check the voicemail. Oh, so that's what it was! Back to bed.

	Next morning, after a proper DG breakfast -- um, a lot of hot pussy
on my face, a good brisk 'morning jog' fuck with both of them -- a communal
shower, a newspaper, I check the voicemail again.

	"Could we find time, we are politely requested, to stop by at the
coroner's office?" I tell them.

	The two women look a little gray at this idea.

	"Gregory?" says Sophia.

	"Again?" asks Maria.

	"No, Wayne."

	There are stunned looks, Sophia scowls for a moment.

	"Now what?"

	"He, uh, met up with some policemen who asked him about the car he
was driving ..."

	"Mine! What, what happened?"

	"And he got abusive . . ."

	"Wayne!! Oh, that idiot!"

	 "And, uh, they arrested him, took him back home to check his story
with you, but you weren't there . . . found all that dope in a bag on the
kitchen table ..."

	"Was that where it was? I thought..."

	"They say so..."

	"Is he okay?"

	"As okay as you get when you're shot in the back 27 times for
resisting arrest...."

	"No! How!!"

	"Self defense!"

	"He was armed?!"

	"With a potato peeler..."

	"WHAT!"

	I think 'Hey, fucking dangerous thing if you're a potato...' But
what I say is "I think I heard that right."

	"27 times!"

	"Would have been more, they shoot so badly. And they ran out of ammo."

	"Dead?"

	"My reading of the call, though the polizei weren't saying as much.
But then they didn't say rush to the hospital, either. Look, I'll miss him
almost as much as you."

	Maria is a little teary-eyed. Perhaps seeing the senselessness of
another teenage kid left to go thoroughly wrong. Perhaps reflecting on some
tender childhood moment, of non molestational flavor. Sophia is
crumplefaced, shaking. She staggers out to the bathroom. There's wailing,
loud noseblowing, a glass breaks. Just Pier One Imports junk, so no great
loss.

	I finally say something. "Maria, I'm sure you can get a day off
work. Tell Old Grumpy and the Witch what happened. Two early check-outs in
one day in a family must count for something, even at a sweatshop."

	She nods. "And, uh, look after your mom, okay? She'll get over it
in a bit. But don't let her forget what they really were like. Let her
mourn them as they were ten, fifteen years ago. But be realistic, huh? They
were a pair of shits, really."

	She nods, says quietly: "You're right. It's hard though, when it's
your own family, to acknowledge that . . ."

	I say it's cool with me if the two women both stick around the
apartment, but I do have some work to do. I go the the office, just to do
the mail thing. Rain or shine, you have to deposit your checks, or you go
broke. It's that simple.

	The phone rings. "Maria? No, but I'm expecting to see her later," I
tell the cop who calls. "Did she leave this number? Oh, the salon knew?
Yes, I guess they did..."

	"While I have you on the phone, sir, a few questions? Did you know
either Wayne Arianopoulos or his father, Gregory?"

	"Not socially or anything," I say in my best bare-faced style. "I,
uh, I am a friend of Maria's, so I have seen Wayne, and exchanged a wave .
. . Gregory, was that the name? No, you know, I never did meet him."

	"A nurse at St. Expired's tells me that there was some kind of
incident between you and Wayne yesterday afternoon. An argument?"

	"I, uh, wouldn't dignify it with the term 'argument.' He was very
upset about his father, and I think harbored some resentment about me and
Maria. Well, he lunged at me . . . so I stopped him. Then he left, taking
his mother's car keys."

	"I see. Without her consent?"

	"Yes, of course. How was she supposed to get home? Walk? But she
wasn't expecting the OK Corrall outcome . . ."

	"He went berserk, sir. Quite crazy. But I don't need to explain
that to you, perhaps. It's hard to define excessive force when, uh, perps
start running wild. But it is the subject of an official inquiry, so I
can't say any more. Thank you for your help. If Maria should call, ask her
to ring the station. I'm Sergeant Chopinski."

	Well, during the course of the day, there were several more calls,
and both Maria and Sophia were interviewed. I'm sure I won't spoil things
for you police procedural types if I say that the two deaths were later
marked up as a "traffic accident" (100% true) and "resisting arrest" (a
pretty good approximation, too).

	That evening, the two women both show up. They've retrieved the
Taurus, tidied up the house, collected several bags of clothes, make-up,
hairdryers, all that stuff. So I guess they're moving in for a while. Oh
well. As long as the TV stays off and we skip the Garth Brooks, I'll be
able to stand it. They're both a little cool, a little morose. Maria has, I
suspect, had a glass or two of white wine. Sophia has stopped by the local
"$10 Copayment Pill Dispenser, MD" and made herself artificially happy with
something or other. I hear the old Rolling Stones song: "Mother's Little
Helper" twanging away in my head. She's not zonked, but she's a bit
distant, a little bittersweet. Shirley Macleanish. She tells me the police
aren't pursuing any further investigations into Wayne's business dealings.

	Soon, after a coffee and cognac, and a quiet chat in the kitchen,
they're both in a clinging mood. Now, my cock should be in a sling from the
night before, but . . . what the hell. Don Giovanni is a tough name to live
up to, but I'll do my best. I'd better! Tomorrow night -- I almost forgot!
-- my friend Sally should be here. A colleague of Maria's from the salon.
Just what they'll need to take their minds off the double funeral.

	I whisper in Maria's ear. She nods happily and murmurs: "Yes," to
my question. She moves to Sophia's side. Sophia is looking from one to the
other of us expectantly. I put my hands on her shoulders, kiss her deeply,
letting her get used to the wrapping and probing of tongues. Maria is
unzipping her mother's long black dress. I feel Sophia's compliance in
every move. She's yielding, submitting, urging us on. I hold her firmly as
Maria strips her, gently but professionally. Too much underwear, but Maria
is an expert at this.

	Sophia is naked, and she looks very beautiful, all things
considered. Quite well preserved, and certainly eager to be looked at. Then
I tell her what she wants to hear: "You're looking good. I think you're
ready for the whip tonight, darling."

	She pushes herself anxiously into my arms, murmuring: "Please. Yes,
I am."

	"Now, remember. It will hurt," I remind her.

	"Yes, I want it to."

	Maria is looking at her mother with new-found respect.

	"I mean, hurt a lot, Sophia," I counsel.

	"I'm not scared. Will I bleed?"

 	"Oh, I imagine so. Does that worry you?"

	She shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes.

	"Come on then," I tell her.

	We lead her slowly into the living room. Tonight she'll be in a
different position. She's made to stand on tiptoe, legs spread wide, her
ankles in leather straps that are tied to little ringbolts, screwed into
little threaded bushings recessed in the floor.  Her wrists are strapped
together, and held vertically over her head from the hook in the ceiling..
She's tensed, stretched, and accessible in every way.

	Maria is intensely excited, and when we've finished spreadeagling
and securing her mother, she lifts her skirt, gets into her panties, and
begins to rub herself.

	"I want you to do this to me, too," she tells me hotly.

	"Not for a while, Maria," I console her. "You need to be careful
what you do. After all, you're in line to make hundreds of thousands of
dollars as a nude dancer if you do it right. You don't want any welts or
scars at this point of your career. When you do, honey, l'll be there for
you, I promise..."

	She's disappointed but nods her agreement. And lets her panties
fall to her ankles as she rubs on. "Sophia, though, is a different case. I
think it's a sign of negligence, or lack of care, when women get to be in
their thirties, let alone their forties, without a few good whip marks on
them. A few fine lines, showing that someone cared enough, and, yes, that
they wanted to submit badly enough. Proof of passion, if you like . . ."

	Sophia gasps: "Yes!"

	"So, I think we'd better give your dear mother a good whipping, so
she can feel that she's catching up on what she's been missing. Front and
back, sparing nothing. How does that sound, ladies?"

	Sophia is telling us her answer by humping her hips back and forth,
the leather straps on her ankles and wrists creaking appealingly. And
confirming it by the little snotty streamers of cuntjuice dangling from her
labia and trickling down her widely spread thighs. There's a very appealing
scent in the room, with both of them so busily participating.

	I select a few whips: a cane, a tawse, two or three riding crops of
various weights, a cat 'o' nine tails. I show them to Sophia: "We'll start
with these, but I have plenty more, darling. Lots of them much crueller.
And we have lots of time, too."

	She says with a tremor in her voice: "You'll really use those? My
god. They're so evil-looking . . ."

	"Oh, isn't that's the whole idea? And yes, I will. And Maria is
going to get to take a few turns, too."

	Maria has stripped off her clothes, and is handling one of the thin
riding crops. She comes over and murmurs: "Can I use this?" and begins to
unbutton and unzip me. "Get naked baby, you'll be more comfortable." She's
right. I'm very hard, because, yes, I sincerely like to whip women. It's
not just because they get off on it, I do too. I'm running my hands over
Sophia's back, squeezing her ass, patting her thighs.

	"We'll start here, of course. Your backside first, then work down
your thighs. But we must put some nice lines across your back, Sophia,
mustn't we? That's the sign of a proper whipping. Lots of thick red welts
across a woman's back." I'm moving round her, taking one of her breasts in
my hand, "Now, you understand, don't you? I have to whip you here too. It
would be sad not to make your titties sore." My hands run down her belly,
patting her gently, stroking the insides of her thighs. "And I have to whip
here, of course. The skin's so soft, so receptive to the lash."

	My fingers find her shaved, wet genitals. "And of course, we
mustn't neglect your pussy, darling. Your lovely, soft fanny lips. Oh, that
will hurt." She gasps: "Yes." I rub her mons with my fist. "And we're going
to pound this little treasure. I did it for Maria, and she was having
convulsions, it was so good. Now we've gotten all that scruffy hair off of
you, we can see exactly what we're doing to your beautiful twat. So, how
can I resist paddling it. . ."

	I kneel and open her with both hands, pulling on her labia, rubbing
her clit with my thumb, slipping a couple of fingers into her. She gasps:
"Please."

	"Oh, don't worry, baby. You'll be very sore and sorry for yourself
when we get through with you. I'll bet you'll never have felt anything like
it. A few good strokes right along your crack, that'll teach you who's boss
. . ." I'm in mock-ironic mode here, because they both know I'm not the
stereotypical 'macho' thrasher and bullyboy.

	Maria is all over her mother, stroking, kissing. Putting her tongue
in her ear. I grab her arm. "Come round here, Baby. Kneel down where I was,
and play with her muffin." I take up the thin riding crop that fascinated
Maria earlier.  I stroke Sophia's ass with it. Then begin to thrash her,
hard. I try to keep calm, and be precise. The red welts soon form a nice
crisscross pattern on her buttocks. I work on getting an even, total
coverage. Sides of her cheeks, the little bulge where her thighs meet her
ass. Then, down her thighs. She's letting out surprised little squeaks of
pain at this. Maria is rubbing and licking with abandon.

	The cat 'o' nine tails is next. I drape it over Sophia's shoulders,
let its knots tug at her nipples. I trail it over her breasts, let her kiss
the thongs. Maria looks on with envy. Sophia is a little tearful, but she
sniffs and says in a choked voice: "Don't stop. I deserve it. For being
such a bitch about . . ."

	I seize her chin, glare into her eyes. "I'm not whipping you
because of either of those two spazzos, or your guilt about them, Sophia.
I'm whipping you because you need it as a woman, you need it to get free of
your silly suburban inhibitions, understand? Because sluts get whipped,
because whores get spanked, because you need to suffer to get real. Get it?"

	She nods, eyes sparkling with tears. With a sob, she croaks: "Yes,
I'm sorry. Whip me because I'm your slave, master."

	That, I can deal with. The first few blows to her shoulders have
her twisting, lunging as though she's been jolted with electricity.
Satisfying red marks. I move lower. This, I can make last. Her sides, a few
to her ass. Up again. A couple of these whipmarks are livid. Is that a drop
of blood there? Good. Now, round to the front. Will she scream when I put
it to her tits? no, but she's got her eyes closed, head thrown back. Jaw
clenched, teeth gritted, the tendons of her neck standing out. Beautiful in
her suffering. I give her a few across the belly and thighs. She shudders,
gasps: "You brute. I love you!"

	Back to her tits, and Maria squats and bites her mother's mons,
hard. A heavier riding crop. Let's use it on her ass, but explore the
insides of her thighs too. Sophia's sweating heavily now, a sure sign I'm
getting this right. It's not that hot in here. She yelps a little loudly as
I slice into her ass. I'm not counting, just judging by results. But she's
had at least a couple of dozen on the ass with the heavy crop before she
begins to weaken.

	I signal to Maria. "She's getting noisy. Can you find some panties?
Yours or hers, whichever is dirtiest. And stuff them in her mouth."

	Maria can't decide, and crams both pairs in, and gags her mother
further with a thin silk scarf. "Suffer in silence!" she says with a mean
little smile. Turning to me she says: "My turn?"

	Back to the thin crop, and to Sophia's well striped thighs and
belly. Maria has an agenda. "Don't say you love him, you old bitch. Don't
you dare. He's mine, all mine," she spells out, raining vicious blows on
her mother's pudendum. "He only fucks you because it amuses him to shove it
in another cunt like mine. But mine is cleaner, and tighter, and juicier,
and hotter, and don't you forget it." Every other word is punctuated with a
stinging blow delivered with a sweep of her arm.

	"Easy babe," I tell Maria. "Don't get possessive. There's quite
enough of me to go around. And remember, families that play together,
etcetera . . . Be careful, she may be paying you back sooner than you think
. . ."

	Maria gets a few more minutes of play, with the cat and a heavier
crop. Then, handing them back to me, she says: "I brought a strap-on dildo.
Can I fuck her?"

	"Dearest, of course you can . . ." I say, patting Maria's cute
little rump. "How thoughtful of you. Asshole or cunt?"

	"In the front door for me, I think," Maria laughs. "Want to
sandwich her? I'd like that. You don't mind her ass, do you?"

	Sophia is hanging in her bonds now, weeping. There are trickles of
blood here and there. She has some huge welts and nasty red stripes
crisscrossing her. Not much has been ignored. Oh, it's not as vicious a
beating as I'd promised, but you have to start somewhere. There'll be other
opportunities.

	I pull the filthy knickers out of Sophia's mouth so I can hear what
she has to say for herself. "Fuck me," she says with great originality.
What a novel idea. Yes, my cock is in car-overturning, pole-vaulting
spirit. Burying this aching boner in this submissive woman's asshole while
her delightful daughter rams a 14" dildo in her cunt, well, to me that's
romantic. I'm sure that goes for all three of us, and I'm proved right a
half hour later with a series of the most astounding contractions and a
display of moon-howling from both of them.


	Copyright (c) 1997, Mr.Spraycan

[Part of  "Just Like Don Giovanni's Blues." Visit MrSpraycan's homepage at
<http://www.sinewave.com/spraycan> for listings, reviews of other stories.





-- 
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |
| Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
\ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/>    .../assm/faq.html> /