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From: <mrspraycan@mailanon.com>
Subject: STORY: "At The Stadium"/MrSpraycan
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Eli: Something else for the summer doldrums.
	best
	/aka MrSpraycan

Disclaimer: Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough
to be reading this. This is fiction. No resemblance to real or historic
persons, places, etc., is intended.

Note: For codefreaks: MMM/f. To some, this will seem extreme. It is not NC.
Partly based on old e-mail dialog.

	Copyright (c) 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its author,
MrSpraycan, 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>



AT THE STADIUM
by MrSpraycan

	"You know as well as I do that what a slutty bitch like you needs
is public nudity, humiliation, punishment. A wooden cross, at the center of
a football stadium. You, naked. Birched and flogged around the perimeter,
for the cheering, mocking crowd."
	"I imagine you being brought to the stadium naked and bound, in a
steel cage in the back of a truck, so others outside have a chance to see
you, too. A real sports event, with programs, souvenir nude photos,
tee-shirts, posters  . . . You know the kind of thing, 'Nailing The Slut: I
Saw Debbie Crucified, 1997.' With good nudie photos of you, front and back."

	Oh. Now that set me off; the first time in what seems like ages;
you sure know how to turn the right buttons, don't you? I can see it; as a
television documentary.

	"Good, keeping rubbing baby.  I'd have thought a long afternoon
pay-per-view sportscast was better. They go on so long, not that I ever
watch them. And the audience is right. Lots of drunken, masturbating guys."

	Yes. My ex-husband, for one.

	"We'll send him a note about it, so he doesn't miss it. So, there
it'll start, with all the stupid commentators talking about it beforehand,
some grainy home video of you wanking, some old Polaroids (or it could be
shots from our QuickCam selection, eh? That 'Voyage Into Debbie's Cunt'
series you made, maybe?).
	"A long erudite discussion of crucifixion in general, then some
feminists arguing about what your problem really is, some dommes saying you
have it absolutely right. A studio interview with the painslut herself, in
which you remove your clothes as you talk."

	Can I masturbate when I get them off?

	"When do you miss an opportunity, darling? As long as you lick your
fingers and really gross them out. Pull on your clit too, so they see
you're as strange as the commercials promised.
	"And, then it's locker room time, the torturers strutting, boasting
about what they're going to do to you, jock-style. Then back to you in the
studio, where you're getting a gynie exam, on camera, with a lens shoved
two inches from your tush. Your wide-open sloppy vulva and your big cunt
gaping on millions of TV screens, and being taped by, well, who knows how
many?"

	Oh, I'd love that, baby. Love it.

	"In split screen, you're talking about masturbation, your sexual
habits. There'll be crowd interviews with excited teens, sour-faced women,
horny guys. Shocked co-workers."

	I'll send you a list of the ones I really want to blow the minds of.

	"Soon, it's time to leave the downtown studio. You're cuffed and
taken by two uniformed guards to an elevator, down to the loading dock,
helped into your cage, chained up. Naked, spread out, everything on show,
like the whore you are. There's a motorcycle escort, a truck packed with
cheerleaders, a brass band in another truck. Placards and banners. Through
downtown, crawling slowly through the shopping center. Then to the stadium."
	"And arriving at the stadium, there'll be a little press conference
that you will be marched into. Very personal questions, which you had
better answer honestly. They want to hear about masturbation, your oral
habits, what tortures you've experienced, your darkest fantasies. Your
naked body is on show, and you're asked to rub and stroke yourself in the
interests of truthful, filthy answers."

	I'd tell them everything, and try to shock them. Really shock them.

	"Now, showtime is approaching, but the program cuts to your
torturers, who are warming up, getting into their uniforms. One's saying,
"The only thing I hate about these older women is they have no endurance."
An interviewer says that in fact you are widely expected to perform well
above par, and have provided lots of surprises so far in training sessions.
	"Another torturer is saying: ". . . oh, what I hate? It's getting
shit all over my dick. I mean!" Another is laughing: "He doesn't mind it if
it's another guy's."

	They're black, right? Big football jock types? Oh, you know that
turns me on.

	"Parolees. The camera picks up your anxious face. You're in a huge
tiled bathroom. Enema time, on TV, with several interviewers, some
journalists, a bunch of giggling cheerleaders. The well-equipped facility
has enough hose-and-nozzle hardware to clean up after a tractor pull.
You're squirted full of warm soapy water . . . then rinsed with icy water .
. . Your stomach is pumped. Another doctor, some sportmedicine quack, is
checking you out, stethoscope, blood pressure, and pronounces you fit
enough for your ordeal. The roar of the crowd outside is growing as the
marching bands clear the pitch."
	"Now it's time for you to sacrifice yourself. . ."

	Oh baby. If you could set it up, I'd do it, I swear!!!

	"You're at the bottom of the players' runway leading up to the
stadium. Your wrists are cuffed behind you, your hair is pinned up. You're
visibly shaking, and there are tears in your eyes. You're being handed over
by the security team who've been supervising your delivery since the
downtown TV studio, and given to this first team of torturers. Four tall,
muscular black guys in tight-fitting brown uniforms, with long boots. All
much bigger and younger than you. Chosen to reflect your deepest fears and
prejudices, and they know it. One looks at you with an evil smile and asks:
"Ready, bitch?" Another laughs: "Oh, a real housewife type. You got the
energy for this, slut? This is a game for athletic women."
	"You want to say, "No, I'm a businesswoman," but you can't speak,
you're so terrified."
	"A third, grabbing your hair snarls: "Get scared, you white piece
of shit. We killed the last five womens we wuz given." The fourth is
flexing a short black leather strap in his hands. Eighteen inches long,
made of braided, stiff thongs. The others have similar brutal devices
hanging from their belts. He prods your left breast. In a low, confiding
voice he tells you: "Once round the stadium, slowly, and you'll wish you
never saw us. We like to give good value. So we do what the crowd wants.
And what they want is blood, mostly." The first snorts: "Easy enough with a
naked woman and four good whips. We'll slice you up good before you get to
take the long crawl out to the cross  . . . "  The second is unbuckling
your dog collar, your master's present. You plead: "No, please. Leave it."
He slaps your face hard, and begins to wind a long strand of barbed wire
round your neck, wrapping it round six times, tightly, and twisting the
ends together with pliers. "You're our slave now, honkie slut."

	Oh, I love my collar. But barbed wire! Yes, yes!!

	"The first, evidently the leader, has your breasts in his huge
hands. He's squeezing, testing. A little chuckle as he sees how hard your
nipples are. He pushes his face into yours, breathes stale beer on you, and
says with a little smirk of delight: "You're kinda skinny, and older than
most players, but the crowd expects us to fuck you. So we will, all of us.
You like it in the ass? Don't matter none, cos we had you flushed. . ."
>From behind, one of these thugs has shoved two fingers deep in your vagina.
"Tight cunt, too," a voice grunts in your ear. "Not when we're through, it
won't be," another comments.
	" "Smell her pussy?" another one crows. "She's loving it. She's a
bitch that likes to be whipped, wants it bad. Heard her say it. Gets her
sticky." The first: "And she wants to be fucked, real bad. A freak, fo'
sure." There are big erections showing in their pants. Despite their show
of contempt, the idea of having you at their mercy excites them."
	"You hear the announcement over the loudspeakers, and see your name
in lights on the big scoreboard. It's about to begin."

	Baby, please. Don't stop. Don't spare me anything, Master. Don't
hold back.

	"You'll be mercilessly flogged around the perimeter of the field.
The crowd will be laughing, throwing food at you, mocking you. Even as you
get bloodied, the women there will get into a frenzy about how you need
more torture.
	"Then, you're going to crawl to the cross on your hands and knees,
the cane biting into your ass. Hysterical and bloody by the time you get
there."

	Will I faint?

	"I'm sure you will. Then you're strapped to the cross, and it'll
get raised. A crown of thorns, of course. Now, some nails. Your legs are
opened: nails are driven through your pussy lips. A wooden plank is placed
under your breasts. Nails through your nipples. You see the close-ups on
the huge TV screens. As time passes, say after an hour, they'll bring up a
ladder so that various guys can climb up and fuck you."

	I'm going to have to change the sheets after this. Oh, that is
totally disgusting. I loved it! Just don't let me die, please.

	"No way. The bitch must live to enjoy many more days of fun in the
sun, mustn't she?"

Copyright (c) MrSpraycan, 1997.



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