Message-ID: <1739eli$9706280027@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/1739.txt> From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com> Subject: NEW STORY: "MagusMan" (1/2)/MrSpraycan Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> Standard Disclaimer: Adults only. This item is of fictional nature. All persons and 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. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> .../assm/faq.html> /