Message-ID: <826eli$9705171631@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/826> Path: qz!news.accessus.net!not-for-mail X-Path-Preload: news.accessus.net preloaded to thwart rogue canceller there Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d 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> From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com> Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.moderated Subject: STORY: Seductions 8/Mr.Spraycan Disclaimer: Adults only. 'Not much' resemblance to real or historic persons, places, etc., is intended. Copyright (c) 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its author, Mr.Spraycan, who chooses to remain 'anon.' Do not repost, store on public sites without permission. No commercial use is warranted. For personal use and/or entertainment purposes. Visit the Spraycan site: <http://www.sinewave.com/spraycan> for much more 'stuff.' Moving to the close of this phase. It's just started, though. Enough giveaways. To read the rest, join the Club. Useful and intelligent feedback is welcomed, and will be replied to. SEDUCTIONS 8 by Mr.Spraycan Maria calls, and I tell her to stop by at the apartment when she's through, I have a nice surprise for her. "What is it?" "It won't be a surprise if I tell you, sweetheart." "Ha! Meanie." "So, tell me something. Are you wearing your dog collar? Like I said?" "Yes, but no one's asked what it means. I was surprised. I was sure they would. But, I guess they just think it's some accessory. I wore a leather miniskirt too. Very punk!" "Excellent." Now what to do with Sophia, asleep in the next room? Well, that's easy enough. I want to take her through a little bit of bondage to test her sincerity. Fucking her in handcuffs had been nice, and I could tell she liked it. We talked about her personal wish list, which I found very amusing. Suburban moms: their supposedly ordinary tastes, the pedestrian dreams are something marketers spend millions of dollars researching. But how close to the clich=E9 do they come? There's lots of bottled-up frustration at this whole 'mom' thing. Most see themselves as women with quite independent tastes, ambitions. My observation is that there's a volcano out there: women about to blow. Well, as long as they blow me, I'm happy. Earlier, with me astride her, Sophia was eager to discuss her longing to be seen nude, to wear chains, to be a slave. Let it be! I tell her that I've kept fairly close to a bunch of bikers in rural Pennsylvania -- real bikers, not scrawny losers like 'Tommy Lee' -- a Harley-mounted group of hardasses who I wrote about for a magazine some years back. I tell her my guess is that they would be interested in making her acquaintance, and I'll talk to them about it, send them some photos. That is, of course, if she approves? She does, nodding wildly, eyes sparkling, a little dribble at the corner of her mouth. "Yes. I'm interested, alright. What do you think they'd do . . .?" "Pretty obvious, I'd say. I'd take you there myself, to their ratty clubhouse. And hand you over on a leash, nicely tied." "Naked?" "No, we'll let them rip your clothes off, Sophia ..." "You mean, they're going to rape me!?" "Not rape if you've written up a letter giving your complete consent, dearest. Subtle difference. But they're certainly going to gangbang you, in grand style! Fuck you bandy-legged like a complete slut." "Oh, yes. Please, don't tease me. I want to do it. I want you to call them. I mean it! " she says urgently, digging her nails in my back. "I don't tease, Sophia." "How many?" "Who knows? Uh, 25, 30? Maybe more, if they know long enough in advance and invite a few guests, associate members. And there's the biker chicks too ..." "Oh, Jesus ..." "A real dildo-wielding bunch of facesitters, they are ..." "Will they be rough?" "Be real! Of course they will! And they're going to humiliate you in all sorts of ways. You're going to be a filthy, smelly, cum-filled, cuntlicking, cocksucking, bedraggled, hysterical little fuckslut mommy . . =2E" Every word punctuated with a good firm, all-the-way thrust of my prick. "How long?" she sputters, choking as she moves into an energetic orgasm. "A long weekend will give us more time, won't it?" But that was just polite chatter. I need to try some things in real time to see what makes her dribble. She's asleep on the bed curled up, still handcuffed. I pick her up and take her into the living room. She's murmuring something about 'be gentle,' which by habit I ignore. The little table is back in business. I lay her on it, on her back, rather precariously. I buckle two sturdy cuffs round her ankles, connect them with a few inches of heavy chain. An adjustable spreader bar is slotted between her knees, and it's extended so it's opening her extra wide. I get on a chair, lift her ankles, tell her to raise her ass, try to take the weight on her shoulders. And, with a couple of clicks, snaphooks have fixed her ankle cuffs to a short chain running from the ceiling hook. She's almost vertical, nicely open, and looking very nervous. She doesn't struggle when I remove the handcuffs -- what could she hope to accomplish? -- pull her hands behind her, and tie them to the legs of the table furthest from her head. "What do you want?" she asks nervously. "Does it matter? Do you need to know? Will it make you hot, thinking about it?" She blushes. "It might." "What I want? Well, just some honest reactions from you, Sophia. I can take anything I want, do whatever occurs to me, as I need to, can't I?" I begin to examine her vulva, peeling and prying and poking. Taking my time, being completely unconcerned at her blushes and eyelid fluttering. Since you are about to ask: yes, it does bear quite a strong resemblance to that of the cute Maria. First, in clitoral dimensions -- small, but very easily aroused -- and in hair color, if you'll excuse a couple of gray intruders on mom's poodle. Distinguished. Second, in odor and drooling. Both women are panty messers. The differences? Well, Sophia's has been through the childbirth thing, so she's got an episiotomy slice mark running along the perineum, between the rear end of her vagina and her anus. Is she looser? No, not really. If anything -- it could just be nerves, I theorize -- she's tighter. Where Maria takes advantage of all the spare time at the salon to get an 'all over' tan and keeps her pubic hair in a geometrically precise 'panty mohawk,' Mom is a bit more like Jerry Garcia in the bush region. But that's okay, you do meet deadheads in the funniest places. Such superficialities aside, this is a nice, juicy cunt. I start to ask her some questions about the interesting stuff. "So, I gather from some of your comments that you sleep with your daughter?" "No!! That's an exaggeration!" "Really?" "Well, sometimes, you know how it is. It's just for company, really. He, my husband .. .he's ... well, I don't want to talk about it ..." "Ah, but you will, darling. I am going to know everything about Maria, and you, before I'm through. Now, you are my whore, aren't you?" "Yes, I am. You're a monster, and I'm your captive." "So, let me in on the secret. He sticks it in your ass, is that it? He only likes to be blown?" "No, simpler than that. He drinks constantly, spends all day watching TV. If it ever comes to be an opportunity for sex, he's useless . =2E . soft, or it's over in ten seconds." "I suggest a therapist, if it's not part of his cover story for the workmen's comp." "It is." "Yes, why we all pay so much fucking tax, to support malingerers. So, momsie isn't getting enough bonging?" "Don't call me that! Yes. Now I am, superstud," she says with a big smile. "Not quite. Though, yes, I'm in great demand," I tell her. "But I'll do what I can . . ." She wriggles. I have the digital camera out, and I'm fixing the lighting so I can get her from some good angles. "Tell me about the stuff with Maria . . ." "There's not that much, really. We . . . sometimes I go to her bedroom. And when both the guys were at some ballgame once, we, uh, started doing it in the kitchen." "It?" "You know the kind of thing." "But you're still going to tell me, Sophia . . ." "Well, she likes to take her clothes off, and be looked at." "Is that what happened in the kitchen?" "Yes." "But, bedtimes? Surely, she's already nude when you get there?" "Yes." "And you? Prowling through the house, sniffing your way to heaven =2E . . What do you wear?" "Just a nightdress. Maybe a housecoat in the winter." "And when you arrive? Is she surprised?" "No, never. She knows, has an instinct. Maybe she hears me . . ." "Is she ready?" "You mean, is she, uh? Yes, she's usually very wet, excited." "Because she's been masturbating?" A blush. "Yes, I think so." ""You don't know? You don't ask?" I smile down at her. "Yes, well, I do know." "Does she just rub? Or does she have a dildo, or something else?" "She may have all kinds of stuff -- you know girls -- but it's mostly a big black rubber dildo." "You've seen it?" "Yes. And used it, on her." "Ever lick it?" A pause. "Yes." "So, do you take turns? What happens?" "I usually make her come, with my hands or the dildo. Then she does me." "Is there oral stuff?" "Of course." "Tell me about it . . ." "Well, what's there to say? She usually lays on her back with her legs wide apart, and I get down on her and lick. Simple as that. Same when it's my turn." "No facesitting?" "We've talked about it." "And 69?" "Sometimes we're both working on each other together, on our sides, so, yeah, sort of . . ." "Let's hear about her asshole. Do you play with it?" "Sometimes. She likes that a lot." "What do you do?" "Put my little finger in her." "And how about yours?" "The same. Maybe not as much fun for me . . ." 'What do you talk about?" "Everything. Boys, sex, doing it with other women. All kinds of kinky things." "Dogs, ponies, gangbangs, torture . . .?" "Sometimes." I smile at her rather twisted grin. She's feeling guilty about having these ideas, but also reveling in her filthiness. Women will, when they realize I can't be shocked. "So, when did all this get started? Just recently?" "No!! Well, not when she was a child of course . . . no. The stuff you could call 'sex' was just the last few years." "Oh?" She explains patiently. "When she was little, she was always encouraged to come to our bedroom -- knock first, of course! -- if she was scared, or had nightmares. So, for a long while she didn't. You know, kids grow out of things, learn to deal with them on their own . . .That's growing up." "Or they internalize it and become weirdoes, but yeah, carry on . . ." "So, when she was, I forget, sixteen? Well, she showed up, one night when I'd turned in early and Gregory was at the VFW . . ." Oh, that snakepit. I stay away from places like that, at all costs. Gregory, eh? "I see. And what had scared her?" "Nothing specific, as far as I could tell, it was just a creepy kind of November night. you know?" I raise an eyebrow, twiddle a lock of her sticky pubic hair, tug on it gently. "You can do better than that . . ." "I think it was boy trouble. Or, no, I don't want to say it . . ." "Groping trouble with Daddy?" Her eyes are rather tearful, she's blinking. "It might have been. He has always been too fond of patting her backside, commenting on her. Gaping rudely when she wears tight clothes, making crude comments. Very inappropriate stuff . . ." She's babbling. I pull harder. "Calm down." She tries to control her breathing. "Okay." "So, what do you really think?" "Him." "Doing what?" "Exposing himself." "Oh? When, how?" "I'm not sure. All I know is someone, 'someone who should not have ', she said, had showed her an erection . . ." "Could have been a teacher, a coach. A boy at school." "Yes, but I don't think she'd have been as upset as she was. You know what girls are like nowadays? They've seen it all. Sometimes I blame MTV, other times I blame Madonna. But, where would you start blaming? Only parents live in some fools' paradise where they think they have to protect them from pornography, whatever. In reality, they are all fully aware of things we'd never even heard of at their age . . ." "So, to upset her, it had to be Daddy?" "I think so." "So, what does Mummy do to make it better?" She hears the implicit criticism, and blushes. "Well, we just talk. Of course, what else?" "We know what else, Sophia. So, when did it start. That night?" She nods. "And who is it who puts the first hand in a rude place, who is it that makes the first unambiguous 'wanna' move? Who says 'yes' and moves her hips, ever so slightly? Come on, be honest." A long pause. "Me." I shrug. "Well, one or the other. It's inevitable when you put two women in bed together, in my view." She sobs: "I'm a bad mother." "Oh, for chrissake. Don't start that. You might, if you adjust your coordinates of reference actually be 'a good mother.' I mean we might have to go back to Neolithic times or somewhere in the Amazon basin or the South Pacific, but it's possible yours was the correct, female, sisterly response to someone who has had an unpleasant shock . . ." Neither of us speaks. "So were there any further incidents with Grigori?" "Gregory. Uh, not that I could tell. Nothing as traumatic." I shake my head. "No. I think, at some point, he boned her." Sophia gives a shriek of horror. "No!!!!" She looks at me wild-eyed. "Did she tell you that?" "No, a deduction on my part. May have been earlier than when you're talking about . . ." "Oh, my god!" I let this idea sink in. "So, what is the deal with him now? You said he was faking it? Is that true?" "I can't tell. He certainly had a bad fall, and he's been kind of dull and vegetative ever since. Only comparatively. I mean, we're not talking major league intellectuals here . . ." "So why'd you marry him?" "Pregnant, after watching 'Saturday Night Fever' at the drive-in. Dumb." She's not displaying a lot of pride about this. "How classy," I agree. "And it ruined your brilliant career as a . =2E .?" "Be nice. I wasn't exactly having a big career, just doing some marketing work for a little agency in New York. But who knows, now? Who'll ever know?" We both have a reverent pause for millions of trashed female lives, for Stalag Mom victims. "Is he going to make it?" "You know, I'm wondering. Seems less faked as time progresses. He keeps having blackouts, little convulsive fits -- could be the booze -- and he's gained so much weight his heart is a real problem . . ." She shrugs. "To hell with him, I've got my own life to lead. And if I ever find out he did screw her, " she scowls. "Dammit, I'll see the bastard on his way." "Ask him." "I just might." "Now, what about the cross-eyed asshole?" "Wayne? You've met him?" "Briefly." She pulls another reflective but bitterly angry face. "It's not right to . . . hate so much. He's, well, he's a product of the times, too. A shiftless, moronic good-for-nothing. And violent, too. Watch out for him." "We, uh, met. He won't bother me. He knows an alpha male when he meets one." "He's a coward, and a drunk." "Great combo. Where does he get it from?" She pulls a bitter face. "Right." "I get the idea he spent a lot of time sniffing round Maria too . . ." "Literally," she spits. "We found her panties in his room, once. But I don't think . . ." "I do." "Jesus!" A long reflective moment here. "He's on parole. And I know he's dealing drugs and stealing again, because his job doesn't pay worth a shit. He'll get his, and next time they say it'll be 20 years, even though he is white." I run a finger along the inside of her thigh. "Call the cops next time you think he's got some stuff on him. Does he bring it home? They still make house calls, you know." "You know," she says quietly. "I think I will." Always happy to do a loser a favor and restore happy families, that's me. Mr. Clean Society, a veritable crusader for the common good. "Has it ever occurred to you that it's not really very, uh, moral to have sexual relations with your offspring, Sophia?" "Yes, I'm ashamed of myself. But, it's not all me. She isn't little Miss Innocent either." "Oh?" "You must know that by now! She's, what's the word, completely promiscuous. A slut." "Mommy! Language!" I tease in a falsetto voice. "She is, dammit!!" "Well, she is, uh, friendly, but I don't think she's been doing much recently. I checked, I have ways of knowing . . ." "In school, she was, well, you know the type . . . several teachers almost lost their jobs. A tease . . ." Jealous, Sophia? I think. But rightly so. My job here, if I accept it, is to prevent Maria from making a similar mistake. Better to be a rich whore than a bitter mom of a family straight out of the social worker casebook. And can I do something for Sophia? I think I can. "Now, let's talk about spanking . . ." There's a knock at the door. I shrug and tell Sophia: "Later then. Avon calling!" Copyright (c) 1997, Mr.Spraycan [Part of "Just Like Don Giovanni's Blues," provisionally the Spraycan =46actory Outlet Club 'Choice Of The Month' for July 1997.] MrSpraycan's full service website: <http://www.sinewave.com/spraycan> Adults only, and guaranteed to blow your mind . . . 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