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Subject: NEW STORY: "County Auction"/MrSpraycan
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Eli: I'll stick with this route. If it's not too much effort for you.
Things via the alt. group go missing all the time.

    /aka MrSpraycan



    Standard Disclaimer: Adults only. This item is of fictional nature.
All persons and 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.

    Note: It's been a few months since a MrSpraycan femdom/spanking
piece flew. No change of focus. This one was previously unposted and dates
from March 1997, lightly revised this month.


COUNTY AUCTION
by MrSpraycan

J. Walter Henderson has been through every emotion from anger to despair.
Here in Himmler County, he's what they call a yuppie farmer, who has found
out the hard way he can't do it.
    Oh, three or four years ago, it had seemed like a dream come true:
the kind of story the Wall Street Journal features every now and then to
make slavery in the money pits seem more acceptable. You know the kind of
vacuous idea: make a killing in mergers and acquisitions, turn the money
into land and livestock, live the noble life of a rural squire -- with
plenty of money rolling in -- deep in the country, away from the city's rat
race. Easy money, making more easy money. Working on that biting,
perceptive novel, that killer screenplay, that album of Bud Powell
transcriptions. For everyone who succeeds, there are dozens who fail.
    And Mr. Henderson is one. Now, he's just another ex-banker who
didn't get it. Who was too naive about how things work in the real world.
His once-thriving farm has failed in the most spectacular way.
    You don't need any special talent, or a Harvard Business School MBA
to fuck up in farming, though the latter helps. Lots of regular Joes go
this route every day. You need some ignorance and a little bit of bad luck
to get started: Make a few bad choices on soya and pesticides, misinterpret
the complex Agriculture Dept rules so you don't get the truckloads of
federal gravy, mistake your spreadsheet numbers for reality, add a little
lousy weather, and you're on the way. Henderson did all that, with great
panache. Then (disgrace of all disgraces!) he made some idiotic moves in
the futures markets. Screw up there, and the money flies up the chimney
like sparks from a burning log.
    Now he's broke, flat broke. He's been leaving debts all over town
for months. Liens and mortgages, notes and unpaid bills by the bushel. He
can't cover them, anyway he tries. He's tired of toughing it out, of taking
irate phone calls, of the mountains of dunning mail. The solution in this
era, and at this time, is simple: to liquidate, to take the rap, to go
bankrupt. And then, roll on to the next deal, the next opportunity.
Thousands have done this before him, so why not him? Yes, it's
dishonorable, but times have changed, haven't they? Caveat lendor.
    So, he gets ready to pull the plug and go back East. Maybe not New
York, the apartment's been sold.  But 'investment advisor' sounds good:
find some nouveau riche clients in Philadelphia, Boston, somewhere like
that, and back into the high corn. Though, he vows, only metaphorically
speaking: no more agribiz, in any damn form.
    A few weeks later, a simpler procedure is suggested to him. Rather
than do the whole, complex Chapter 7 or Chapter 11 thing, and make all
kinds of sleazy lawyers rich, why not just go to binding independent
arbitration, and accept the ruling given? On one side, debtor, on the
other, creditors. Make a deal, liquidate, pay up, wash your hands of it,
end of story. No nasty legal stink of bankruptcy on your record, just debts
excused and that's it. Oh, the IRS may have something to say, but that'll
take years to resolve.
    He does it. Arbitration, he's heard such positive things about it
in the Journal. Well, the idea has got to be the mistake of a lifetime. The
ruling handed down by the panel of stiff-necked bankers and farmers from
neighboring Goering County is simple. It's colored by the fact that most of
Henderson's ready cash went to pay off margin calls and debts to big seed
companies, leaving the locals sucking wind for their generous support of
the failed yupster's baronial lifestyle. They meet for a full day at the
county seat and hear evidence. They deliberate for a few hours behind
closed doors.
    Then, they rule thus: All the assets, and all farm property will be
sold in lots. Then the repossessed equipment will be returned to its
original owners, to dealers, or factors who'll move it to some other
less-glutted market. The last bit of land, with the farmhouse, is to be
sold separately, as a residential property, in the hope of getting a better
price. He had spent a lot of money on prettifying it, that's true. But
after all is done, he's still several hundred thousand dollars short, only
making payments of 65 cents on the dollar to the creditors.
    The next stage is inevitable, and it is precisely what his wife
Jessie, a local girl, warned him about. "They're merciless, they'll get
blood out of a stone. Just get in the Landcruiser and run," she'd pleaded.
Wisely, she has already run for it herself. Vanished one recent afternoon,
her Lexus crammed to the roof with clothes and personal junk. Headed, who
knows where? All she's left him is her lawyer's phone number. She hasn't
called in weeks.

    He's tempted. That night, back at the farm, he begins to panic. Who
knows what could happen? Jessie was right. He begins to pack. On the fifth
or sixth trip to the Toyota, he's dazzled by a flashlight. Half a dozen
local farmers, three grim-faced cops. "Were you planning on going
somewhere, sir?" one asks.

    He's thrown in jail that night, to prevent escape.
    The brutal arithmetic is shown to him by the assembled group of
arbitrators, crowding into his cell with their cheap suits, frayed collars,
bad haircuts. Next to go: his personal effects, his cars, his books, his
furniture, all his possessions. They've already been loaded up and trucked
to an auction room in the court building next door, and he's probably going
to have to make an appearance, too, when they're through. Because they mean
it when they say 'all': After an hour or two, they return and say that his
wardrobe had sold nicely. Now, they mean to extend that, right down to the
clothes he's wearing.
    "No!!" he shouts. "That's impossible, it's unconstitutional, it's
insane!"
    He's told with a stiff smile: "It's justice, isn't it? And it's
what you agreed to."
    So, they stand and wait, making it clear by their unyielding
expressions he'll either do it alone, or they'll strip him. He undresses,
shaking his head in disbelief. "All of them," the sheriff with them tells
him, with a mean stare. "Put 'em in this basket." The clothes are carried
away. He's left standing naked, in an open cell. Two town drunks in the
neighboring cell think this is the funniest thing they've seen in their
lives. A tall gangly, balding man, frantically pacing naked in a cage.
    In about five minutes, the deputy is back, shaking his head.
"Nope," he says. "Did okay. But we're still short."
    The cell door is unlocked, it opens. Three huge uniformed guys
march in.
    A terrible fear hits him. He falls to his knees, pleads with them
for mercy.
    "Okay. On your feet, Mr. Henderson."
    His wrists are chained behind him, and he's tightly gagged. Leg
irons are attached.
    Then, he's led out of his cell, down a dark corridor, up a short
flight of steps, and then a door opens and he's propelled into the brightly
lit, noisy auction room.
    The small room is packed, smoky, with standing room only. There's a
little platform at one end, and will some pushing and shoving he's ushered
through the packed shoulders, and taken up on to it. There are over a
hundred people in the room. Mostly hard-faced, grim farmers, though there
are a few blue-suited asset grabbers from the state capital. A few women:
mostly dumpy, older types in their forties and fifties. Just a few
pinch-mouthed younger ones, who are trying not to laugh aloud at his
predicament, spluttering behind their hands. There's a chair on the
platform. He's bodily lifted by the deputies, so he's standing on it, high
above the heads of the crowd. Everyone now has a fine view of his
nakedness. To his shame, his penis is hardening, hanging at an angle,
lolling against his thigh. Seeing this, some of the women are flushed and
angry, others seem quite intrigued. "Will it stand up in court?" some wit
yells out.
    The Auctioneer explains that since Henderson's property hasn't
covered all the debt, they have only one choice left. To sell him. The
'reserve' price for him, or Lot Number 246, he explains without any visible
pity or any other emotion,  is the value of said debtor Henderson as
disassembled for organ transplants, estimated at $15,000. "Maybe a bit
more, but we have to be conservative. Liver, heart, kidneys, retinas, some
blood, not much else is there?" The rest? Dog food, though someone suggests
an alternative: a fast-food restaurant has opened in a strip center near
the interstate.
     They're not kidding. A surgeon in green scrubs and a face mask is
hovering at the back of the room, and an operating room has been set up
next door. The big city hospital's check is on the table, unsigned for now,
on top of some cryogenic containers.
    If he could speak, Henderson would be begging, literally begging
for his life. But he can't, so he doesn't.
    Fortunately, there is a faint possibility left to him. Slavery is
still illegal -- something they regret in this part of the country, though
it's something he knows he'd happily accept it rather than be publicly
butchered by greedy surgeons. But an alternative is that Lot 246 could be
swapped for a 7 year indentured service contract, a contract for him, with
the buyer exempted from all normal employment laws. Since it's renewable
and renegotiable, it's no different to slavery. He doesn't have to sign it,
it's signed by the arbitration committee.
    He's standing there in a room full of contemptuous farmers, being
looked over, his attributes being described by the auctioneer, provoking
only amusement. "Nah. Slice 'im up, no use to man er beast, dam' feeble
lookin' easterner!" one shouts.
    For a moment, there's no bidding interest. After all, who needs
him? He's a whiteskinned, thinlimbed type. No use for manual labor. And
besides, tractors and other machines do all that work quicker, better and
cheaper. Smart? Not to them, he isn't. Not in any way that's useful. After
all, the idiot went broke farming, didn't he? A mad dog is useful for
guarding things. What use is a know-it-all?
    He's sobbing with fear. It's the scalpel and the saw, he knows.
Then, at last, there's a grudging bid at the reserve price plus a penny
(subject to full audit). It's from a tough tobacco-chewing guy, a wizened
neighbor who bitterly hates him, just for being who he is, and for some
wrangle over boundary fences. The kind of thing that makes enemies for
live. It's worse than the alternative, almost. It's plain this evil old man
will happily work him to death, just for amusement, out of malice.
    Then, from the back of the room, a female bidder steps in. Tall,
blonde, fortyish, rather horsefaced. But quite attractive. She's someone he
vaguely knows, Pamela Fenton by name. A major landowner, though she spends
a good deal of her time back East at a horse farm in Tennessee. He knows
this could be a better outcome, though he tries not to meet her icy,
contemptuous gaze. There's a wave of laughter, nudging, giggling as his
cock stiffens further. And of course, it won't stop now no matter how much
he thinks about it, until it's rudely at attention. The purple tip glowing
as his foreskin shrinks back, the thin pink lips, the bulging knotted veins
on the thick shaft. All being displayed to the sneering crowd. For $1,000
over the reserve, and a promise that any supplementary earnings he
generates will go to the remaining unsecured debtors, the sale is made. In
a quick deal, she also buys, for $1, the corresponding but unenforceable
judgment against his fled wife.
    Fenton leads the way as he is escorted from the room, flanked by
the huge beefy deputies. One has him firmly by the cock to ensure he will
walk at their pace. Outside, they pause while the local newspaper gets its
front page picture. Then she takes him by the arm herself and leads him to
a horsebox hitched to her Suburban. She pushes him in, takes some ropes and
tethers him, then slams the tailgate shut. She cruises slowly through town
so everyone will know who got him, and can speculate what his likely fate
will be. She's known for rather unusual tastes in cars, parties and friends.
    It's a long drive, twenty miles or so. At her remote ranch, she
unites him and leads him from the box, into a barn. There, a large metal
cage stands on wooden blocks. She pushes him inside, locks the door. And
tells him "Chilly? Well, enjoy. It's spring now, and we're not pampering
you. You're fated to stay naked like this, at all times. So just get used
to it."
    She loosens his gag.
    He's told: "You won't escape, and even if you do you'll be wearing
a bracelet with a radio transmitter built in, and so easy to find as to be
childs' play. Oh, and if you are stupid enough to run, Henderson, you'll be
flogged front and back with a bullwhip, bastinadoed, and locked in a
squatting cage under the outfall of the cattlebarn for a month."
    He sobs in fear. "Scared of pain, Mr. Henderson? Oh, how
unfortunate. For you, that is."
    She fits him with a collar and lighter chains, and teases him: "I
expect to see this prick salute me, just like it did in court, or I'll want
to know why."
    "Yes, Mrs. Fenton," he murmurs, seeing that this is his only
recourse. "I'll do as I'm told. But what do you want from me?"
    She smiles. "Isn't it clear? I own you, and you are going to
entertain me, Mr. Henderson, in ways I find agreeable. Whether you do or
not."
    "Yes, ma'am."
    "You're mine. To use as I please. But whatever happens, you're
going to be a very obedient little victim, do you understand?"
    Fenton tells him: "I know various people who should also be allowed
to enjoy themselves with you. I have some school friends from way back.
Manhaters, big time. They're quite crazy, demented. Could have become
witches, or whatever. But I guess it's a redneck thing. They're members of
a female biker gang, and really into torture. You must meet them, mustn't
you? And, uh, yes, this may be a rather straight community but I do know of
some gay guys with a definite preference for BDSM ideas. Well, all kinds of
possibilities present themselves, if you have the time," she laughs.
"Unless someone is foolish enough to rescue you, that is."
    Jessie! If only . . .
    Fenton is smiling again, seeing the look in his eye. "Are you
hoping that dumb cunt of a wife will come to bail you out, is that it? Ha
ha."
    He tries to remain impassive.
    She says: "Actually, I'd like that. Though I'm happy to brutalize
you, quite happy, that's what I want most of all. Your lovely little wife,
the saintly Jessie, to come to the rescue."
    "But why?" he begs.
    "Well, it goes back a long while. Probably to high school. No,
maybe even before. We were rivals in the show ring when we were just little
kids. There's always been something about Jessie that makes me want to
puke, if you want to know. She's always held herself up as the do-good
type. Isn't that true? When you were both in New York, she'd come back here
and tell us about how much she was giving the museums, all the charities
she supported, the fundraisers. But you and I both know that all that shit
is just a way for ambitious cunts to keep connected, to network, to
schmooze." She pronounces this like some particularly pungent agricultural
by-product.
    "Well, I know better. I knew Jessie long before you, Henderson.
There's something not quite right about her. Something nasty in her past
that I haven't figured. Because she cheats . . . at everything."
    "No! That's not true!" he protests. "She. . ."
    "Shut up. She cheats at cards, she swindles her way into people's
lives, she uses them. I mean, do you want to face reality or not? Here,
right here in her own home town, with you blundering around making a fool
of yourself as 'the little farmer who couldn't', I know of at least three
different guys she was making out with."
    "No! That's impossible!" He's red-faced, angry.
    "Calm down, little man, or you'll get hurt," Fenton tells him,
tapping him on the chest with a riding crop, reaching to tug on his penis.
    "Oh, Jessie was active alright. One of the guys she offered a
blowjob to -- he accepted, by the way -- is married to a cousin of mine,
and I heard all about it. She swallows, did you know that?" She gives a
crooked grin as his face collapses. "Yes, she's a whore, always has been. I
find it bizarre that you wouldn't see it for yourself. But then, you're so
unworldly, despite all your NYC bullshit, aren't you?
    "But let's not get mopey, Henderson.." Fenton tells him. "I have a
nice little scheme here. I intend to 'get her' one way or another,
preferably soon. And I want physical possession. Just like I have with you."
    He hangs his head.
    "So, what will we do with you, Mr. Henderson? Hmmm?"
    A long silence.
    "I haven't got this all figured out yet, but I was thinking it
through on the drive out. I think we'll start a program of sexual
domination and humiliation for you, Mr. Henderson."
    He gasps. She stares at him, eyeing his semi-erect cock.
    "Not something that you might choose for yourself, maybe, but
something I suspect your dirty mind might actually enjoy anyway. People
have all sorts of hidden kinks. I know mine, and I think they might
complement yours quite nicely."
    "Not just for my amusement, though. No. It'll be filmed, with the
videos going to the commercial gay S&M market, featuring you under your own
name. How about,  "Henderson The Pain King?" Maybe some of your former
colleagues will get a laugh out of it. And we'll send copies to that sleazy
lawyer your wife has hired. She's got him working on dismissing the
arbitration and recouping your property, and you too, I suppose. Some
papers came in, but the local courts haven't considered them yet . . ."
    He feels tears on his cheeks. Jessie really is trying to save him then.
    "I suspect it's just so there's enough money liquidated so she can
get her share out in a divorce, but who knows?" She shrugs. "Do you have
any idea how hard it is to reverse arbitration without months of court
work? There'll be nothing left, except for the lawyers. Of course," she
smiles, "They always get the pickings. I wouldn't be surprised if she
wasn't already making out with the sleazy lawyer. What else is she going to
pay him with at this stage?"
    She nods meaningfully.
    "Anyway . . .where were we? I like the ideas of some public
buttfucking, some forced fellatio. Some vigorous, bloody whippings. Won't
that be entertaining, filmable? Yes indeed." She seems pleased with this
turn of ideas.
    "So, that's what I have in mind, so far. Oh, I'm sure we'll get
progressively rougher. You're just the bait for now. But we'll cover all my
costs, quite quickly, with the kind of movies I have in mind.  Face it, I'm
a better businessman than you, that's why," she smirks. "Even though I
don't have a cock. . . Well, of course, I do really. Yours. It's mine now,
Henderson. Get used to it. Think yourself lucky I'm leaving it attached to
you. Some of your ex-neighbors wouldn't have, today . . ."
    He's in tears. It's fear, not gratitude. But he knows, she's right.
    "You're just a pawn, jerkoff. I'm going to make her come here,
looking for you. No matter what she tries, I'll be ready. I'll have her
then, the bitch. And then, I'll get even for the rest of her life, however
long or short that turns out to be. You can watch, okay?"
    "But why? Why?"
    "Oh, she just annoys me. Always has. It's bad chemistry. Things
said and unsaid, years of smalltown shit. Glances, whispers. Alliances,
jealousies, real and imagined. You couldn't possibly understand. Any more
than you could understand how to run a farm. Too subtle, too incremental
for your stupid head. I'll tell you sometime, okay? When I've got her at my
mercy, and I've heard her scream and beg a little. After there's been a
little blood, a little pissing with fright. Something to tell me it's
genuine, to reassure me she's going to grovel. To beg me for mercy. Oh, you
look revolted at the idea. But, wait. You'll be praying for her to appear,
just to rescue your ass from what I'll do to it otherwise. I'll get some
practice, and some satisfaction out of torturing you, but she's going to be
the main event. Oh, count on it. . ."
    "She doesn't deserve it, she's okay, really. Don't do this! Please,
you could both be friends if you tried, why can't you just leave her alone
. . ." he nobly tries.
    "Really?" A chuckle. "Well, we were friends, but she blew all that.
Couldn't keep her hands off my boyfriends. Whore, is what I'd call her. But
maybe you can buy her freedom with hers. Her life in exchange for yours,
meaning permanent slavery. After I've given hurting her a good try, first.
But I'm sure I know what you'll choose, yuppie boy . . .I know your type. I
want to see the look on her stupid face when you say, 'No, have her, keep
her.' And, you will . . ."
    "Never!" he croaks.
    "Oh? Really?" Fenton scoffs. "We'll see about that. Why all this
misplaced loyalty to the bitch,  anyway? Where is she? Didn't she just pack
up and drive off in a cloud of dust, and leave you to it? Huh?"
    She turns away, leaves the barn.

    Henderson is in despair. What can he do, to rescue himself? To save
Jessie? It won't be by escaping, that's for sure. This farm is remote, and
he's naked. None of the neighbors would hesitate to hand him back to her.
And he's already been warned what kind of thrashing that'll earn him. No,
he has to work on Fenton, work on making her soften her attitude. But how?
There's nothing he can offer her that she doesn't already have, is there?
    How hardhearted can she be? Is there a chance he can make her show
mercy, by being extremely obedient, by offering himself to her? "Can I do
it? Oh, forgive me Jessie, but maybe I can make her love me?" he muses.
That, he decides, is his only chance.

    The next morning, a few minutes after dawn, he's woken up with a
bucket of icy water. He leaps to his feet, alert, defensive. Fenton is
there, barefoot, bare-shouldered, wearing a pair of bib-fronted jeans, her
hair tightly pinned up. There's a big, insincere smile of her face, and her
icy blue eyes are sparkling with excitement. In her right hand, a fat
leather spanking paddle. Dangling from one of the hooks on the jeans, a
long thin riding crop.  She unlocks the cage. "Step up, Henderson. Out, and
be quick about it."
    As he brushes by her he steals a sideways glance, sees erect
nipples, realizes that she is bare-breasted under the jeans. She prods him
with the paddle. "Out there."
    At the center of the farmyard,  there are two sturdy upright posts,
about five feet apart, hip high. Freshly creosoted pine trunks, firmly
embedded in concrete. Placed across them, a padded wooden seat. Fitted with
chains and straps.	Around it, three videocameras on tripods, cables
running to a mixing console, a Mac set-up.
    "No!" He falls to his knees, arousing her impatience. "Get your ass
over there, you pathetic bastard!  We're going to send Jessie a very clear
message, I decided."
    What's the sense of resisting? He staggers to the spanking stool.
"Bend over it. Arms out wide, near your ankles, and legs all the way out to
the posts," she orders. He can barely force himself to comply. But he does,
feeling horribly exposed and helpless. It's almost a relief to have the
heavy manacles clamped on and straps pulled tight, pinning him in place.
    She's stroking his ass with one hand. commenting to the cameras.
    "Mr. Henderson would like me to spank his naughty ass, I'm sure.
It's so mild compared to what I plan to do with him. But let's not rush
things." Her fingers are in the crease of his ass. "Say hello to Jessie,"
she instructs, "while I take care of something here . . ."
    He gabbles: "Jessie darling, please, don't do anything foolish. I'm
not going to be harmed much, and you have to take care of yourself first.
If you can get me out of here, then that's fine but . . . spppfgffgnk . . ."
    Fenton pulls a gag into his mouth, knots it tightly.
    "Yes, Jessie, it's him, alright, isn't it? So considerate of your
safety. Well, if you want him back, bitch, you have to come and get him.
You can't buy him, because you don't have a fucking penny, do you? You're a
fucking derelict, aprt from that car of yours. And the repo man'll get
that, soon enough." she crows. "Now, don't get too jealous, you pudgy old
ratbag . . ." There's jingling, rustling of clothes. Out of the corner of
his eye, he can see that Fenton is naked, showing off her toned physique to
the cameras. "Like it? Oh, I bet you do. You always had that lezzie look in
your eyes when you stared at me."
    She's behind him again. Her fingers are in the crack of his ass
again, prying at his buttocks.
    "No!" Well, that's what he would have said, but it came out as
"Nggrfff!"
    She's greasing his anus, slipping a finger inside. He wriggles in
his bonds, but he's trapped.
    "Here's something you should have done with Mr. Yuppie Puppy,
sweetheart. Like all these cityboys, he just loves having his poopchute
tickled. You know why, I'm sure. Remember that guy, Walton? The one you
stole from me? Onliest country boy I ever knew who was honest to come right
out and ask for me to tickle his asshole. Did he do that with you, Little
Miss Saintly? I always wondered . . ."
    Something huge is pressing against Henderson's tightly puckered
anus. "Now, how about this, sister? A ten-inch strap-on, headed right up
the Hendersonian back passage. And look at his face as it goes in . . . he
won't know whether to cry, laugh or come."
    Her guess is quite right. It's extraordinarily painful, he feels a
huge surge of sexual longing, and he finds himself wanting Fenton, badly.
She bucks and thrusts at him for as much as fifteen minutes, until she has
satisfied herself. All the while she's taunting him, and the absent Jessie
with her total control over him. He's sobbing, crying, but it's not just
the indignity, the pain. It's frustration.
    She has a paddle in her hand, and shows it to him. "See this? How
long since your ass felt one of these? Not since school, I bet. Maybe not
even then, if you went to one of those fucking northestern prep schools
where the kids do just as they damned well please . . ."
    And that's the case. He's never been paddled, never thought he
would be.
    Fenton raises the paddle high. Brings it down with all her might,
right across both buttocks, dead center. He grunts sharply, then gives a
little pleading gurgle. What's he saying? She doesn't really care.
    Addressing the cameras, she says: "Well, let's redress this major
deficiency in Mr.Henderson's education shall we? The reason he's so
unethical, so self-centered, such a lousy businessman, so feeble when it
comes down to actually winning, all stems from a rotten, over-priced
education. He's all those things because he is so undisciplined, right?
Well, let's start him off with some re-education."
    The paddle rises and falls, slowly, surely. She's a solid spanker.
He's a pathetic, bratty victim. Wriggling, sobbing, shaking, shuddering.
Fenton doesn't relent: his backside is a rich opera-upholstery crimson when
she drops the paddle and takes up the riding crop. He gets another dozen
vicious cuts across the ass with that, and a few on the back of his thighs
for good measure.
    She's crouching in front of him, staring at his face. He gets to
see her bare breasts, her open, inviting sex in its nest of tightly curled
hair. "Good erection you've got there. I don't think this was as bad as
you're making out." She pulls at the gag.
    "Oh, my god," he croaks, "Please, no more! Stop! You're killing me!"
    She laughs, and stands up, moving closer. Now her fragrant muff is
a few inches from his face. "I might kill you, I might not. Depends,
doesn't it? Depends if you are a good boy . . ."
    He's gazing at her genitals, and pleads: "Ma'am, please . . .?" He
wiggles his tongue lewdly, taking a chance that she won't avenge herself on
him for forwardness.
    "Oh?" she teases. "And what does that mean? That salacious
lipsmacking? Am I being propositioned?"
    "Please . . .?" he says.
    "Say it out loud, so lovely Jessie can hear you," she purrs.
    "Ma'am, please, let me lick your pussy," he gasps, his face bright red.
    She wanders off for a moment. "Let's just move this camera over a
little and zoom in. Ah, that's good. Okay, Mr.Henderson, yes, as a matter
of fact, my cunt could use some attention. It's very sticky this morning .
. ."

    Freeze frame and start tiling:
    Henderson, licking hungrily at Fenton's drooling vulva, his tongue
coated with juices, his little piggy eyes hot with desire.
    Fenton, head thrown back, hands on hips, whooping her delight.
She's about to come.
    Jessie. Somewhere in a darkened room, watching this video,
pinchmouthed, jealous, resentful.
    Cut to: Jessie's hand, under her skirt.
    Pan: at her side, her sleazy lawyer, his hand sliding in the same
direction. His zipper is undone, his cock is bulging, her other perfectly
manicured hand is headed for it.
    Refresh screen, zoom in: Jessie's mouth, on the lawyer's cock.
    Fade.



(c) 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its author, MrSpraycan. All
rights reserved.




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