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Subject: NEW STORY: "MagusMan" (1/2)/MrSpraycan
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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 without this notice.

	Note: Some fresh product, inspired by a passing comment in some
recent private e-mail. As you'd expect from me, this is neither tasteful
nor subtle. But those who like masturbation, enemas and damned good
spankings will enjoy it, I expect. Feedback is welcomed.

	/aka MrSpraycan



THE MAGUSMAN TRANSACTION/1
by MrSpraycan


As it does so often these days, it starts with an E-mail:

	"Dear Mr. Volatile Organic:
	I am familiar with your work, and have been carefully re-reading
various stories I retrieved with the Dejanews service. You solicit feedback.
	Do you still retain some interest in submission, personally? I
notice it appears less frequently in your work this year. Several recent
stories have featured a lady slave called MaBelle, who is mistreated by you
(or at least a narrator writing in the first person) and others, in rather
imaginative ways. You tease us in one of your introductions that she is
real. Is that true?
	If so, please call me collect at 1-xxx-xxx-xxxx between 10 and 4pm
PST, weekdays. I have an idea that should interest you both.
	 Cordially
	/Barrington LeMoyne Worthington"

	I suspect a prank. But the e-mail address checks out. It doesn't
look faked. There's a web page in the 'sig' line, which I go take a look
at. It's a Seattle office of a major law firm doing all kinds of liability
and litigation stuff. He's a partner.
	My first guess: some lolling-tongue Larry with a great new 'story
idea' for me. Well, you know, sometimes they're good, when they've been
wanked over for a while! Or alternatively, he might be a divorce lawyer,
and this be some scam involving MaBelle's wimpy 'ex' and custody of her two
kids. There's no sleazier business, no sleazier people. Graverobbers are
better.
	But a brief reply seems safe. I tell him: "Sorry. I have moved on
from the femdom days, though I can imagine circumstances under which I
might revert."
	[And It's true: with the right kind of big-titted amazon
bodybuilder with a nasty mind, or some tense, imaginatively cruel little
babe with an acid tongue, I can see getting back into foot worship, ass
kissing, begging.]
	My reply continues: "But for now, no. My preference at the moment
is making women submit. Yes, MaBelle is quite genuine, I think, though I
have not met her."
	It's kind of a policy with me, though it's tempting to contemplate
what reality might be like. We sure have burned up the Net for the past few
months, though.  Exchanging several e-mails a day, sharing fantasies,
asking each other the kinds of probing questions only long-established
lovers usually ask. Confessing and confiding. I feel like I have fucked
her, even if I haven't.
	I ask: "Would you care to share what your own interest might be,
what are your own preferences?"
	A day or two passes. Then I find another e-mail:
	"Dear VOC, if I may call you that. Thank you for your time. Here's
my interest: Would you be able to setup some kind of mediated dialog with
MaBelle? Let me explain. I represent certain parties who would be like to
discuss meeting you and this young lady with a view to exploring mutual
pleasures and interests. To be quite honest, Ms. MaBelle is a prime focus,
but your own participation is solicited."
	Nice to know I'm part of the plan too.  I discovered long ago that
'sharing' is for gullible kids, and that holding on to what's yours isn't
just commonsense, it's an artform. So I just send a terse note saying:
"I'll ask her, but I don't know. What's in it for us? Why would we be
interested? If this is just some orgy scene, uh, I don't think so."
	That's not it at all. In an hour or two, I get back another e-mail
which reads:
	"Pardon me for not being clearer. Perhaps we should speak by phone.
As you can see, I am a lawyer. In this matter I am acting for a client
whose identity must remain confidential at this stage."
	Aha!. . . Well, you'll see. My theory at first is it must be a
software zillionaire, or some sinister Asian FOBs. But that's just location
dependency, the Pacific time zone connection. It could be it's a Wall
Street type, a broker. A real estate guy, now the markets are perking up
again. Larcenous amounts of money are made in a boom, and this one's been
rolling for about four years now. After a few vanity purchases, careful
reinvestment and salting away against a downturn, the marginal dough goes
looking for fulfilment of life-long dreams. To the former redneck, it's a
bigger boat, maybe a Ferrari. To the snob, a box at the opera. There are
limits. You can only drive a few cars in the course of a week. How many
cigars can you smoke? How much champagne do you want? Prudence suggests
avoiding many of the latter items. And to a sexual pervert? Well, all kinds
of long-forgotten game scenarios will come to mind. Mad money.
	'Money can't buy me love?' Ha ha ha, dream on!  Well, maybe it's
true, if you're into true love, whatever that is. But I remain convinced
that the big bucks can get you fucked every which way you can ever think
of, and then some.
	BM Worthington continues: "My client is in his late thirties, but
has long cherished the well-known novel by the British author John Fowles,
"The Magus." He has accumulated sufficient wealth in recent years to be in
the mood to indulge some long-held wishes regarding this work, which as a
connoisseur of erotica you are no doubt familiar with."
	Oh, sure I am! So that's it. Reading between the lines, we
obviously have touched antennae with a kinko who has grown up and grown
exceedingly rich, never letting go of this memorable power maniac's
fantasy. Well, it has launched an enormous number of childhood wanking
concepts in its time, I'm sure. I get it. This dilettante wants to do
'real' games, with 'real' people. Well, that's better than fixating on "The
Collector" and going into the abduction game, I suppose.
	But why us, of all people? The world is full of whores, if you wave
a fat enough checkbook.
	I give him a phone number, suggest he calls me. I'm still very
suspicious, but negotiating can be a game, too.
	The next afternoon, he calls. The usual smooth-talking lawyer, in
no hurry. At $300/hour, you don't have to gabble. That's for telesales
hustlers, PR drones.
	He begins by explaining what his client has in mind, and why us.
But with that oily familiarity that makes lawyers the least liked people on
earth, he schmoozes: "Perhaps one day I'll know your full name. But for
now, what might I call you? Volatile? VOC?"
	I chuckle. "It's just a handle, but net people have been calling me
Vee-O for short. Use that, Barrington, if you wish."
	So it unfolds. I tease: "So, your client wants to play sex games
with my girlfriend, is that it? Am I missing something here?"
	He tells me I am. That it's more subtle. "Here's the reason my
client is interested in the two of you in particular: He expects some
enthusiastic and continuing personal involvement with the players, but he
wants to define some fixed term to it."
	The other possibilities have been considered and discarded, it
seems. Two older slaves, as opposed to buying the services of teenage waif
junkie fucksluts. That's so easy, as so many of his peers and colleagues
have learned from the fashion and entertainment industry types.
	Oh, those little cookies are so easy to find, so tasty, so easily
tempted into all kinds of filthy games. And they'll do anything you ask.
They're quite cheap initially, but they have one big disadvantage: THEY
TALK. They stick to your fingers. Which means you end up getting
greymailed. You wind up employing them as secretaries and gofers, models
and bitplayers, waitresses at your vanity theme restaurants. (Out in
AmericaOnanLand, didn't you ever wonder how these brainless bimbos got such
cool jobs, and better cars than you? This is the real version of Perot's
"Gigantic Sucking Sound.") Killing them afterwards is an alternative that
some hardline capital market types consider worthwhile, but it's poor
economics, and still risky, even in these gangsteresque, lawless times.
	Now, a deal with an 'ordinary' couple in their 30, 40s like us?
That's quite different, he thinks. There's a different dynamic altogether,
his client has figured. These folks will be grateful for the money (and the
sex!), and easily paid-off. When it gets to be 'goodbye,' that'll be it.
The trick is to find some people who need the money, who are attuned to
perversion, who are intelligent, not too greedy (no trailer park types) and
who have some time to spare (no family types). Who will, uh, come and go .
. .
 We are just such a metacouple. 'They will be grateful, easily paid-off. '
How easy? Well, when I hear $350,000, I say: "Is that each? No? Well, it's
still not bad. Then we should talk. Do you want to meet sometime?  I think
you'll find that MaBelle will feel the same. She's not poor, but you're in
the right area, moneywise. That's a decent piece of change."
	All he says to that is: "My client is very interested. As long as
she meets the descriptions she gives of herself, and that you have used in
your stories. Meaning, only if she's not revolting! He doesn't expect
perfection, and will tolerate a little 'skankiness,' some cellulite, you
know the kind of minor things that lose you model gigs but don't mean
anything in the real world. . . I mean, he actually expects her to be a
little slutty, frankly. But he's not about to mess around with any real
trolls! Why should he?"
	"Oh, sure, I get it. Well, I don't know for sure about her. I mean,
we've never met, or even exchanged nude photos. I just have one holiday
snap of her, which isn't so bad..."
	"Meaning. . .?"
	It's a bit out of focus, but she's averagely pretty, slim . . ."
	"Swimsuit?"
	"No, just a short skirt, baggy blouse."
	"Shame, he's interested in her tits. Can I get a copy?"
	"Sure."
	"But nothing more revealing? You seem so 'hot' in your stories, and
there's so much detail about her, I just assumed . . ."
	"Yes, it is kind of strange. The detail is all from her own
descriptions. Oh, I've wanted to see her. I've suggested Polaroids or a
QuickCam, but she wants something better. We were thinking about how to do
it right. I guess money comes into it, that and doubts about the
technology. We'll find some way, I'm sure. I know she's tall..."
	"On her hands and knees with a collar, she won't be . . ." There's
a leer in his voice.
	"Am I going to be doing dominance with her, then?"
	"Some. It's what you've both been about, isn't it? But mostly,
you're doing as you're told."
	"No homo stuff, I hope?" I say.
	"Uh uh, my friend. No preconditions, no safewords, any of that
wussy crap. Whatever he wants, he gets, since he's paying well for it."
	"Well, but . . ."
	"Don't you remember your alt.sex.femdom story, "Brandon, Bumboy of
The Seraglio"?"
	"Well, uh, yes, but that's just a story, and the guy wasn't really
getting a choice, and he did go straight with the heroine when they escaped
. . ."
	"Yes, the plot was borrowed from Rossini's early opera "L'Italiana
In Algherie," I believe. But a strict deconstruction suggests to me that
anyone who would write so lovingly about being made up as a woman, and
dressed in silk and lace, about doing blowjobs and getting a fat dick
shoved up his ass is, oh, let's just say, uh, somewhat slightly bisexual.
Or am I wrong?"
	"Well, uh, it's open to interpretation, but . . ."
	"I'm right then."
	"Perhaps."
	"Reread your story, then. It's one of his favorites."
	"The fans are always right."
	"Quite."
	"Will there be rehearsals?"
	"No, because it won't be that big of a production. We are not
thinking of some vast Broadway show. Just a little tableau, a morality play
for a few guests . . . but encores are possible. And the proceedings will
be filmed, professionally."
	"Oh?"
	"For security reasons, Vee-O. Wouldn't you do the same?"
	Yes, I would. Well, his vast fortune won't be swelled by any video
shots of my bare backside, or even my noble nozzle. Barrington tells me his
client will make hundreds of copies and have them stocked at a few
warehouses, available for quick release for sale if there's any nonsense
from either of us. It's partly something he wants as proof of purchase and
a gift for friends, and partly as leverage to keep us quiet.
	"Will there be S&M stuff?"
	"Please! It goes without saying. That is your metier, is it not?"
	"Well, with no safeword, is there a limit? A contract or something?"
	"In a sense. You'll sign a contract with him, indemnifying him
against all claims, and granting whatever permissions I think are
necessary. But in return, you'll receive an undertaking that says you'll
not be injured, mutilated or killed, and that first-class professional
medical attention will be available."
	"Oh, that's very reassuring!" I say with a cynical laugh.
	"Don't worry. My client's tastes are quite mainstream when it comes
to BDSM. Your own stories entertain him. He's not into gore."
	"Al or Tipper?"
	"Very good, but neither of those dweebs, or the Mansonesque kind.
At heart, he's a moderate, gentle kind of fellow, I have to tell you. But
MaBelle, and you, both seem to have rather extreme tastes, and he would
like to see them indulged, properly. He's quite curious, it's piqued his
scientific curiosity, if you want to look at it that way. What did you have
her say in one of your stories?: 'Somewhere between discipline and torture,
somewhere on a knife-edge of pleasure and pain, somewhere I've lost all
control, that's where I want to be.' "
	"Yes, she actually said it, too." Somewhere over the rainbow,
MaBelle style.
	$350K sounds a hefty price to me, but I get the impression it's the
same as a bimbo would cost over a decade, in return for only a minimal
amount of use. We, on the other hand, will have to work quite long and hard
for our money, it seems.
	"So?" he asks.
	"So, uh yes. I'll discuss it with her."
	"With what in mind?" he probes.
	"With the idea of getting her to say yes."
	"You approve?"
	"Well, put it this way. It's a heaven-sent opportunity to finally
meet her, to give her a damned good fucking, and to beat her. Am I right?"
	"Quite right, that's what he's expecting."
	"I'll call you tomorrow. When's a good time in the evening?"

	MaBelle listens as I explain it to her on the phone a day or so
later. We've agreed to talk 'live.' then to conference with the lawyer.
It's the first time we've spoken. She's in some Cleveland suburb, works at
a bank. Single, never married. No wonder she spends her evenings naked,
masturbating on the net. She has a pleasantly husky voice, a smoker's
voice, an easy, dirty laugh. A sexy, inviting voice. Oh dear. I find myself
liking it a lot. She giggles when I say: "I'm worried about you more than
me. I mean, some of the things we've just been kidding about, I think he
wants to actually do..."
	"Who was kidding, Vee? You? Well, I wasn't! Uh uh. No, I'm really
in the mood for some heavy handling. I'm prepared to risk it. And if I'm
gonna get a pile of dough out of it, there'll be no fucking regrets at all
. . . "
	"Really?"
	"You think I'm kidding? I'm sitting here with nipple clamps on, and
I've been sticking pins in my pussy lips."
	I just gasp: "Jesus!"
	"Am I making you hard?" she laughs, and I croak: "You bet."
	"Unzip then."
	"You want me to . . .?"
	"Yes, what's wrong with you! Get it out. This is much better than
IRC, isn't it? You can keep both hands free, and I can hear you breathing.
Come on . . ."
	"Uh, what are you wearing, where are you?" I ask lamely, unzipping,
pulling, kicking off.
	"Absolutely nothing, and I'm out by the pool in my back yard."
	"Huh? In Cleveland, honey? Be real . . ."
	"Alright, I'm on the settee, watching the tropical fish. Jesus,
gimme a break, will ya?"
	"Are you, you know . . ."
	"Sitting with my leg apart? Wanking? Sure, you fucking bet I am!
I've been at it all day since I got home. God knows what this place smells
like. A catfood factory!" Some crazed laughter, a pause. "Oh, my fingers
are sticking together," she says slowly. I hear her breathing deeply. She's
not fooling about being excited.
	"I had to dial your number three times. I've got so much pussy
juice on me, I could wallpaper my front room. It's disgusting."
	"Did you lick your fingers?"
	"Of course. And I've wiped it all over me. My belly, thighs,  my
tits . . . all over my face, in my hair. You know you like to hear about
that . . ."
	I do, it has me bone hard, imagining how she'd look, splattered
with her own pussy juice.  It's 'our thing,' something we often got to in
our online frenzy. I like dirty ideas as much as she does, it seems, and
she's told me that I am the filthiest guy she's ever done cybersex with.
It's possible, I concede.
	She's still talking:	"So, babe, if you're asking me if I'm
turned on by this fucking idea, you better believe it. Hold on a minute . .
."
	There's silence, but some heavy breathing and a long moan. I'm
wanking furiously. She's panting when she speaks again. "I'm blowing
bubbles out of my cunt, I'm so hot."
	"But, you really want to be beaten, baby?" I ask, nervously.
	"Beaten? Oh. Shit, no! I want to be flogged, whipped raw. Slashed
and flayed and cut and bruised. All the things I've asked for, you bastard.
Don't you fucking dare get cold feet now, you wimp!"
	"I'll try . . ."
	"Don't try, baby. You've got to have me! I want a guy who'll be
merciless. Come on, baby. You can do it. I want you to torture me. This is
the opportunity I've been looking for . . ."
	"I know baby, but . . ."
	"Don't 'but' . . . Listen. All my life I've wanted it. Since I was
little kid. Wanted to be pierced and branded, burned, everything! I've got
to get it, hear me! Don't you even think about cheating me!!"
	More breathing, grunting, and a little gasp. "Done it!"
	"What's that?"
	"I just managed to get my fist in my cunt. Oooh, my god . . . . but
I can't wait for your big hairy hand in there.  Ramming in and out, oh . .
."
	The conversation turns discontinuous as she grows more excited,
working her way through a long litany of torments and vile humiliations she
expects to suffer. She's quite crazy, I decided long ago. All things we
have discussed at great length over the net, and which have appeared in the
stories that attracted our sponsor's interest. But it's so much more erotic
to hear her murmuring them in my ear, and describing how filthy and aroused
she is at the moment.
	We barely manage to pull ourselves together enough to make the
conference call.
	I think old Barrington probably has to rush off to the men's room
for a good pull on the dingus after we finish. MaBelle is almost volcanic
in her responses to his questions about her commitment. He tells her he is
sending her a digital camera by next day air express, and wants her to FTP
him a satisfactory selection of pictures. She's forbidden to share the
images with me. I can hear her vibrator humming over the line, and she
swears he'll have the pictures in very short order. She'll take a sick day
to do it.

	I guess it works out just fine. The client is more than happy,
anyway. Barrington tells her that she might as well hold on to the camera
and practice, because she'll be spending a long time posing in front of one
from now on. And in our next conference call he confides: "Some of the
shots where you were anonymous, some of the close ups? They're already up
on a free web site, somewhere. We won't let your boyfriend know the address
just yet, though. Let him get jealous of all the other guys wanking over
your juicy twat, hey?"

	Express mail brings us both detailed, highly submissive contracts
to sign within a couple of days. Fifteen pages apiece. There's little that
isn't claimed as a right when it comes down to subjugating us. Do we learn
anything about his client? No, nothing useful at all. The other signatories
are Barrington and two or three other legal ciphers, on behalf of some
company in Curacao, Netherlands Antilles, called Horny Provo Acquisition
Partners BV. We, on the other hand, sacrifice all anonymity.
	The contract terms are particularly stringent about our concession
of all rights to our images, about how video and photos of us can be used
in any way, without consultation, if we stray from any of the dozens of
other terms. I nag MaBelle: "Are you sure? This is a really greedy contract
from their viewpoint."
	"It's fine by me. Just what I want," she purrs.

	So the deal goes like this: $50,000 apiece, upfront. The rest in
various installments, up to two years hence. Well, it'll make taxes easier,
and trust is something that goes both ways. I don't think we stand to get
ripped off, and there's so much prepaid, it's almost 'who cares?' about the
precise timing of later payments. But we get it in writing, anyway. How
long we'll be under his control is left a little nebulous, but it's clear
it'll be several months, at least. That alone has MaBelle almost ecstatic.

(continued in Pt.2)

(c) 1997 by MrSpraycan. All rights reserved.




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