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From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>
Subject: STORY: "Seductions 9"/MrSpraycan




	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.

Note: This wraps up this module of the "Seductions" story, which started
running in a.s.s.m. during May. Following three sections ran in the
spanking groups in past week. Full of reverence and respect for women's
dignity, as ever.
	Again, dedicated to the dozens of readers who requested I keep on
posting here.
	Leads on from Pts. 1-8, though there are now some loose ends and
ragged bits, which'll be fixed in the book. Comments in a positive vein are
welcomed.


SEDUCTIONS 9
by MrSpraycan

I check carefully through the door viewer. It's Maria. In her bounciest
mood, despite spending the day washing hair and listening to mostly airhead
conversation. Face it, merchant bankers, software developers and brain
surgeons don't get their hair done during the day on Tuesdays, so she's not
been getting much stimulation, of any kind. Well, I almost hope not!

	She's a bit surprised to see that I am naked, but she gets into the
spirit of things. Good girl. She's on her knees in seconds, cramming my
cock in her mouth, making little excited sounds.

	After a minute or so, I let her get up, maneuver her against the
wall. I slide my hand under her skirt. I'm not big on leather, it's not my
fetish. To strict vegetarians, it's just evidence of genocide. I'm not
doctrinaire, but even so I think it's kind of tacky. But I respect her
motives for doing it. It was to make herself look even sluttier, for me,
her dirty-minded lover. She's 'outing' herself as a girl who likes edgier
sexual ideas. I head for the goods. I discover she's not wearing panties,
and I get a very wet hand. She giggles: "I took them off outside."

	"Not at the salon?"

	"No, but do you believe it? That was my THIRD pair today. I had to
go out and buy some clean ones at lunchtime."

	"Good, you're learning well . . ."

	She kisses me hungrily: "You're teaching me well!" she gasps. "God,
I really love you! You evil, filthy-minded man."

	I hold her tight, hug her to me. I have three fingers in her cunt,
my tongue in her mouth, and I'm squeezing her tits. No bra, of course, and
her nipples are pebble-hard.

	"You're a tasty little slut today, darling..."

	"Do you like the clothes?" she gasps.

	It's a great outfit. Black leather skirt, black silk blouse, little
black suede waistcoat, dark stockings, the dog collar, high heels (though I
know she wears sneakers at work). Make-up in primary colors, deep red
lipstick. She looks like a teenage jailbait hooker. Delicious, though my
tastes range all over the map. Remember, I'm the guy who likes suburban
moms, too, easy on the skank.

	"Yes, you look fabulous."

	She's fiddling with buttons, eager to get undressed. I take a
gamble, and say, "No, this way." Point to the living room.

	"Oh, right! The surprise!" she bubbles, rushing ahead.

	We round the corner, and there's Sophia, naked, propped on her
shoulders, legs hoisted high, thighs spread deliciously wide, showing
everything.

	From behind, Maria's body language is out of grand opera. Ham
acting 101. She stops dead. Then, recognizing who this is, she leaps in the
air, claps both hands to her mouth, stifling a shout. Her eyes are bugging
as she turns to me wildly, falling into a half-crouch. She looks back
quickly, as if she'd disbelieved her eyes the first time, then turns to me
again. Her voice shaking with emotion, she hisses: "No!!! What's this
about? Was this her idea?"

	"The pose? No, it's mine."

	"No, you great idiot! Her,  this, just being here, I mean. Jesus!"

	"She picked me up at the library. Or at the diner, really."

	"And . . .But . . . Dammit!!" She's a little angry. "Did you know
then? I mean, did she say? Who she is?"

	"Not immediately. I saw a resemblance, sure. But I just thought she
was some friendly old ratbag, looking for a sympathy fuck. Not too
horrible. You know, I've told you, I am very generous with the old firehose
. . . you said you understood, Maria. And you said you wouldn't be jealous."

	"Yes, I did. But she's my mother, dammit!" She says it rather
heatedly, but her expression is turning to the dangerously pale, pinched
lip mode. What I call the 'lawyer look.' Anger, but controlled. This is not
the nuclear explosion that could have happened. I had given that about a
20% probability, but I like to live dangerously. But nonetheless, she's
still quite shocked. In a volatile, metastable mood. The trick is to avoid
triggering the angry phase.

	Maria steadies herself on my arm, shakes her head in wonderment,
bemusement, whatever it is. She's breathing hard.

	"Yes, honey, I know that now. And she's been explaining some things
to me. Things about the two of you. Little, uh, confidences you share . . ."

	Maria gasps, glares down at her mother. "Bitch! How could you?"

	"Now, be nice. Please, Maria. She's a very thoughtful, kind-hearted
woman. Can I help you get more comfortable, honey . . .?"

	Sophia hasn't said a thing, just stared in open-mouthed alarm.
She's beet red with embarrassment, as you'd expect. My guess is she'd have
been that way, whoever walked in and found her like this. She lets out a
deep sigh as I begin to unbutton and unzip my young friend, her darling
daughter.  "Maria, yes," she croaks.

	"No. Stop that," Maria protests weakly, pushing at my hands. She
doesn't mean it. I have her blouse undone.

	"We need to get you adjusted, Maria . . . Relax, baby. You're
feeling very horny, aren't you? You've been thinking about sex all day
long, haven't you?"

	She nods quickly, as I toss her blouse aside, unzip the skirt and
let it fall.

	"Then don't deprive yourself. Think of the possibilities . . ."

	It's clear Maria is beginning to appreciate the delicious irony of
the whole scene. Her dear mother constitutes her nearest approach to
another serious lover, at the moment. She giggles at the way I've strung
mummy up. Seems that they never went beyond talk about bondage. Well, I do
more than talk, as Maria knows herself. She stares at Sophia. It's a long
few seconds. Then she turns to me and says: "Oh, wow!"

	Now she's in just her high heels and stockings, held up with
garters. Very elegant, another thoughtful, tarty detail. "Leave those," I
say. "Photo opp."

	Maria smiles: "Really? Now?" I think she's teasing a little, but
photographing her naked in front of her mother is actually a nice way to
get things rolling. I find a camera. She's standing, hands on hips, in
front of Sophia, turning slowly. Letting her mother stare at her bare ass
-- there are a few red hand marks -- and her aroused sex. They're
whispering to each other, and it's not about the weather. Faces are
flushed, and body language is saying a lot. Both women have mobile hips,
deep breathing and flickering tongues to betray them .

	"Okay, Maria. Let's see you show off," I order. A few standard
poses, some nice squats and hip thrusts, some labial stretching, some
clitoral jiggling. Maria photographs well, shamelessly. She has all the
slutty moves down nicely, and she throws herself into it. She wants the
camera to enjoy her.  "Can you see my cunt properly?" she asks, leaning
back, legs spread. "Right up it?" Yes, I sure can.

	"Rub," I tell her. She doesn't need much encouragement, and begins
to quickly scrub at herself with the fingers of one hand, while stretching
and pressing with the other.

	"Maria . . . baby . . ." Sophia whispers urgently. Oh, she's
getting excited by this too. Maria is going to come, there's no doubt about
it. She's up on tiptoes, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, gasping for
breath, her hands a blur. Her hips are pumping, and she's making cute
little animal noises as she slowly sink to her knees.

	Mom's mouth is at a convenient height, because of her position on
the table, for both cock worship, and to provide thorough pussy eating. Is
she willing? Please, be real. It's not going to shock her at all, in fact
she's licking her lips in anticipation, staring at my prick. I tease her:
"I saw that. In a sucking mood, Sophia? Want to show your daughter that
you're a cocksucker? Yes?" We start with me, but I have every intent to put
her oral skills to work,  at length. It'll be good for her humility, and
with Maria and I taking turns there is going to be plenty for her to lick!

 While I'm getting my balls and the underside of my tool licked, I
encourage Maria to get up off the floor and stand at the other end of the
table and explore Sophia's sex. 'How many fingers? How much can I stretch
this?' All those nice intimate games that help establish trust, produce a
lot of lubrication, stir up the pheromones, get everyone happy, happy.
Sophia is wriggling and sighing with joy as her daughter fingerfucks her,
rubs her, even nibbles on her clit for a while. Yes, they've seen each
other naked before, and they've done lots of dirty things, but never under
bright lights, with their communal lover participating, offering his own
suggestions. Sophia is pleading with me, "let me see you fuck her, I want
to lick her, oh oh . . ."

	Well, I decide we need to get Maria taken care of, since she's
looking quite ready to come.
	"Come down here, babe, and get astride her. Her tongue needs some
exercise."

	 She gets to ride Sophia's face like a bicycle seat, listening to
her mother's gasping and wheezing as she snuffles and slurps at the juicy
delights pressed to her nose and mouth. I kneel by Sophia, and urge her:
"Drink it down, come on. She'll drown you otherwise. She's overflowing with
cunt juice. Drink, lick harder!"

	"Look at it dripping off her face, Maria!" I encourage the wayward
daughter. My hands are busy, moving from one's tits to the other's,
grabbing and rubbing at Sophia's open sex. She comes, several times,
growing more and more frenzied.  She asks me: "Did you fuck her?" I nod.
"Was it good? Oh, I want to see you do her. Please, baby? Fuck her for me,
please?"

	Maria is very impressed at the way Sophia has been tamed. She
giggles wickedly when -- at my suggestion -- she gets to enjoy the shameful
pleasure of having her cute little anus licked and tickled with this
willing tongue, while my video camera records the whole scene in close-up.
It'll be one of my fondest memories: Maria standing there, her backside
pushed out, her mother's face turned sideways, and  Sophia tonguing her
pouty pink asshole with greedy abandon. Maria is stroking a tit, rubbing
her own pussy, a look of total self-absorption on her face, reveling in the
total perversity of what she's doing. Only a few strokes and licks away
from an orgasm, but striving to hold that delicious moment forever.

	Sophia won't let us stop there. She wants me to put my cock in
Maria, right over her face, so she can watch it slide in and out of her
daughter's drooling snatch. She's licking my balls, she's lapping at the
dribbles of slime hanging from Maria's pussy hair, she's mumbling in Greek,
and it's not Bernouilli's equation.


	Later, after she's freed and the two women have had a chance to
kiss and cuddle, I tell Sophia, "We'll have to do something about this big
hairy muff of yours," tweaking it. "Now we've enjoyed photographing it in
all its ragged glory for posterity, I mean? Would you like it to be like
Maria's? Or should we go for a complete shave?"

	She asks meekly: "Which do you want, master?"

	Easy. We lead her to the bathroom, and in ten minutes, Sophia is as
bald as a baby. I love this, because it emphasizes the size and shape and
sleekness of a woman's sex. And doesn't allow any camouflage, any hiding of
the essential elements. She's fascinated, can't stop looking at herself,
sneeking peeks in mirrors. She's never been so vain, so female in years.
Her naked body has never received so much attention, so much devotion in
years, either.

	Being shaved will be her badge of submission to us, at least until
I otherwise mark her, she's told. And to keep clean, she'll submit to
regular waxings or shaving by the two of us. She's excited at the thought
of being our groomed pet. Without any prompting, she asks: "Do you want to
see me masturbate? I'd love you to watch. Please?"

	We go to the bedroom, let her stretch out. She beckons, inviting us
to watch closely. Maria and I lay between her spread legs, heads resting on
her thighs, observing the fun. Sophia is shameless, and dedicated to the
task of making herself come. She is slick with juices, and her hands are
dripping, wet to the wrist. She's even more excited when I reveal to her
that Maria and I both share her taste for spanking and submissive games,
and promise her lots of future attention. "You like  bondage, I can see.
Well, we need to get quite rough with you, find out how sincere you are,
don't we? I mean, if you're a passionate about fucking as you've shown us,
then we owe it to ourselves to see how much spanking and whipping you can
take, don't we?" She's in a frenzy at this, and comes with a delightful,
submissive cry when Maria tells her: "He paddled my tits, don't you want
that too?"

	A few hours pass. Eventually, we all need a break from sucking and
licking, sniffing and exploring. We take a few minutes for a coffee. I
reveal my plan. "Maria will stay here tonight, and for a few nights to
come."	Some jealousy appears on Sophia's face. She's pouting rather
angrily. I explain why I've decided this. "The first reason is safety.
Maria runs the risk of being hurt. But Sophia, I think you'll be able to
look after yourself. Your son's too wimpy to attack you, and the old guy's
too damned feeble, by the sound of things. So you, my dear, will go home
and confront the pair of them, separately."

	"With the little scumbag, tell him he's got two weeks to get out.
No more freeloading. That'll send him off on a new spree, looking for money
to impress you. Within the next day or two, you can call the cops on him.
Or, hey, he might go.  With Gregory? Just ask the question: did you fuck
her?"

	Maria is impassive. Sophia turns to her, anxious. "Did he?"

	She won't answer her mother on this subject.  "I'm not going to
talk about it."

	"He did, then."  Sophia is getting agitated.

	"You heard me. If you want to know, please . . . ask him."

	I agree. "Ask. And then act upon it. Leave if you want. Let him
drink himself to death with his VFW buddies. Do us all a favor though:
don't get him angry enough to attack you, keep the guilt on his side. Keep
your distance. And, no violence. He's not worth it, Sophia . . ."

	 I tell her that Maria will soon be auditioning, and I hope to find
a job for her. Sophia, I'll try to accomodate too. I explain: "I know lots
of publishers, lots of local businesses. After you've spruced yourself up,
done your other hair, put so some more make-up, bought some new clothes,
developed a positive attitude, read a few books on computers, well . . .
then lots of things will become possible."

	"Will I have to suck guys off?" she asks half-seriously.

	"Oh, only when you want a raise," I laugh.


Wednesday

	The next day, I drop Maria off at work, early. She is radiant,
happy. Probably seeming her usual self to people who only know her
slightly. But to me, I now see a new confidence, a new determination. It's
working.

	Sophia left around 1:00 a.m., and called my voicemail this morning
with only a couple of brief sentences. "Wayne didn't get up yet, he was
drunk as a skunk last night. I confronted Gregory. He got very angry. I'm
going out now, I'll drop some of Maria's clothes at the salon. Can we get
together later?"

	I'm out and about on business. A couple of printers, a copy shop.
The usual check-depositing chores. I'm somewhere out on Route 46, in that
endless land of factories and discount stores. Is there a name for it?
Fairfield, maybe? Near Parsipanny, if there's such a place really. I'm
getting hungry. Then I spot it for the second time that day. A Yamaha
motorbike, with a dented fairing. Hanging back in traffic, occasionally
catching up. Why didn't I see it before?

	I try not to react. Just pull off into one of the many little
driveways, leading into a deserted parking lot. A gizmo factory that didn't
make it. Well, created some nice jobs in Taiwan, though. I sweep around the
lot in 'I own the place' fashion, checking for other vehicles, security,
etc. Nope, this one's in real estate limbo. The bike is buzzing in my ear
again. Here's the chance.

	I floor it, race round the corner of the building, see what I'd
spotted earlier, and screech to a dead stop. Here's a lesson in automotive
science: forget the theory. An expensive German saloon can stop in half the
distance of a motorbike, because no one who rides them can apply the same
pressure or hold the bike from swerving or doing a cartwheel. Yammie boy
whisks round the corner, accelerating madly, looks up, sees me parked, and
swerves wildly to miss my blinking rear lights. BLLLLAAAAMMMM!!! straight
into the builder's rubbish skip parked there. These things are made of
half-inch thick steel plate, like a US Navy destroyer. Don't fuck with
them!

	I climb out of my car, turn down the Wagner a little. The Yamaha
has popped out of its shattered fairing like a caterpillar shedding a skin.
The front wheel is bent into a near figure-eight. There's shattered
fiberglass all over the place. The rider is draped half-in, half out of the
skip, and he's not moving. There's a big-assed old pistol -- .357 and up --
shoved in a clip-on holster on the belt at the back of his jeans, visible
because his jacket has been pulled up. Oh, he hadn't planned to just
chatter, then.

	I reach in and flip up the visor. An old bearded guy. Uh oh. Well,
that explains the even wobblier-than-usual motorcycling. Mr. A., Sr., I
presume. Well, he's doubled up on his head injury chips, I'd say. Maybe
better. There's blood. Is he breathing? Barely. He opens one eye, mumbles:
"Who?"

	"Elvis," I tell him.

	I climb in my car and drive off, calmly. I'm not a doctor. I know
you don't move head injury cases. Especially if they're mostly your fault!
At the next burger-and-salmonella place, I stop and call the cops,
anonymously. Soon, I hear the sirens in the distance. Home in time for
lunch. Sophia is waiting, sitting outside in her car, on about her third
pack of Marlboros.

	She's very edgy. "Gregory's gone. I think he took Wayne's bike.
He's a lousy rider."

	"Perhaps he had a meeting with a doctor?" I suggest. "And how about
the younger would-be Nobel prize winner?"

	"Still out cold, when I left."

	I shrug. "Hard to say what to do, then."

	"Should I call?"

	I hand her my cell phone, beckon her out of the Taurus, lead her
indoors. The phone just rings. She hands it back as we walk into the
apartment.	I'm a bit impatient, and I have her naked in about twenty
seconds, because I'm going to do something constructive with this erection.
She's very eager, helping pull her clothes off, kissing and hugging me. I
lead her briskly into the kitchen.

	I bend her over a chair, instructing, "Grab the seat. And get your
legs apart."

	The belt from my pants will do fine. I wrap it round my wrist, take
a couple of practice swings, and begin to let her have it, across the
buttocks and backs of her thighs. She's sighing and moaning, murmuring:
"Oh, do it! Hurt me, it's okay. Yes, yes . . . please. Fuck me, baby, fuck
me . . ." She gets a couple of dozen good solid strokes first. Some nice
substantial welts that will throb for the rest of the day.

	Then, I'm in her like a rutting bull. She's eager, willing. Without
her clothes she smells a bit less like an ashtray, a bit more like a
seafood restaurant. I hump her vigorously for as long as I can hold on,
only fifteen minutes or so. I want her pussy throbbing too. She's a
sweating, shivering mess when I'm through. Just the way I hoped. I want to
consistently do her right, to get her used to proper Grade A fucking after
years of negligence. There's potential here, like with so many suburban
moms. They don't just have to be minivan drivers, thrifty shoppers. She's
clinging and grateful when I'm through. We fix lunch, take a shower, grab a
nap.

	Around 3 p.m., she's awake, looking for her cigarettes. "No," I
tell her. "If you want to put something in your mouth, try this." And she
does, tears in her eyes. I decide to wait, and say we ought to try the
phone again.

	No answer. "Let's drive over. In your wreck," I suggest.

	We get dressed and drive to her house, but Wayne is nowhere to be
found. But there's an almost illegible -- and definitely illiterate -- note
on the door, telling her "I'm At locle hosp., Went in caB. Dad  had
acksident. Come on over I need lift bak, bike broek./The Waynster"

	Chaucer lives! See, those educational tax dollars aren't wasted.
She looks worried, then panicked. "We'd better go. I mean, what if?"

	"Right. Yeah, what if? Let's look around first, hon. Take care of
business."

	The house is a rats' nest, giving you the answer to the riddle
"where does all that garage sale stuff come from, or go?" Every room packed
with old, ugly furniture and clutter. Maria's bedroom is tidy, right. She's
got a PC, who'd have thought it!

	Wayne's? Like a beasts' lair. But it doesn't take long to find a
fat roll of twenties in a vile used teeshirt at the foot of the bed. Or to
find a few little plastic packages of brown and white 'stuff' in a
shoulderbag. What is it? I don;'t know, but I'll hazard a guess about its
legality.

	In the garage -- she says "don't bother, it's full of junk" -- I
see a few cardboard boxes stacked on top of the usual shit. Holy Moses.
There's yet another dead automobile under all this junk. Climbing over
assorted household treasure -- old barbecues and appliances, Tom Clancy
novels, a lifetime supply of big tupperware, lawn furniture from hell -- I
open one. And another. He has more semi-new offbrand computer hardware in
here, minus documentation, than the local Radium Shack. This is what he
steals to fund the other business. Good, compact, high value stuff. Nice
and tracable, though, Waynie boy. One wrong selling decision, and then a
plea bargain for the dope, and it's hey ho and off to the big stone
layaway. And, good riddance.

	I don't plant this malicious seed, just file it. Sophia is getting
antsy. We drive to the local doctor enrichment 'plex. It takes some finding
the daredevil motorcyclist. But when we get there, Sophia is just in time
to bid him goodbye. When she emerges from the room she is quite dry-eyed.
A doctor with her is filling her in on the accident, it seems. Lots of
broken bits, internal injuries, head trauma.

	"Did he say anything?" she asks, somewhat distracted.

	"Elvis . . . Elvis, that's all," a nurse with them consoles. "He
must have really loved him . . ."

	"I don't get it. He couldn't stand the guy," she tells me after, as
we walk slowly down the corridor.

	"New secular religion. Or maybe an apparition, a miracle. Yo, don't
tell the Vatican."

	"We're Orthodox."

	"Then definitely don't tell the Vatican."

	She shakes her head. "You are incorrigible."

	"Aaaaahh thank you velly much Mrs Unplunnouncaball . . ." I say.
"But went to explensive correge . . ."

	"I'll laugh some other time, if that's okay with you."

	"Sure." She has a right to be a bit upset, so I'll stop annoying
her now. Counterproductive.

	She leans on my shoulder, gives a little snuffle. I hug her,
reassuringly. She hugs back, and says: "I'm, well, almost relieved. Thank
you for being here . . ." Productive.

	Suddenly, into this idyll comes trouble. Wayne appears through a
swing door, striding along, ratty hair flying. Where had he been? Looking
for the bar? The men's room? Trying to score some more drugs? Selling at
the pediatrics ward? Hustling nurse auxiliaries with his cross-eyed charm,
promising them enhanced legal status? Who cares? He has that distraught,
wound-up look of a serious boozer who's been confused by a difficult
question like "what day is it?" He sees me, turns white, but doesn't back
down. He barrels towards me, spitting and hissing. "What are you doing
here, you bastard? Did you have something to do with this? My fucking bike
is wrecked, m-my Dad's in there in a coma, he's all . . ."

	"Hey, peace, man. Less of the antagonism, huh?"

	He's snarling angrily now, his face a mask of rage. Incoherent,
even by his standards.

	"Update time, dipshit. I think he's in a polypropylene bag headed
for the meat locker," I inform him, with a cheerful flourish. "Day late,
dollar short as usual, eh?"


	Copyright (c) 1997, Mr.Spraycan

Visit MrSpraycan's homepage at <http://www.sinewave.com/spraycan> for
listings, reviews of other stories.



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