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From: <mrspraycan@mailanon.com>
Subject: STORY: "Fiduciary, Pt.1"/MrSpraycan
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FIDUCIARY DUTIES & FISTFUCKING MADE EASY, Pt.1
by 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: FFF/f
To some, this will seem extreme. It is not NC.

	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>



1: HIGH ANXIETIES


You're at a major accounting profession meeting in Toronto, lasting several
days. About the third afternoon, you've heard enough about pension fund
accounting and accrual procedures for a while. Your businesswomen's
subgroup is hosting a squash tournament, and you decide to play. Afterwards
-- you win twice, and will be in the semi-finals tomorrow -- a dozen or so
of the players adjourn to the hotel sauna. You go along with them, but now
you're having a big anxiety attack.

	You're in your little changing cubicle, you've undressed under the
harsh fluorescent lights, your feet sticking to the cold white tile floors.
It's a women-only section so although there are towels,  it would seen
prudish, strange to cover yourself. But you don't know what to do. You look
down. What will they say? Your nipples are hard, jutting. The tiny gold
rings through them. Your master made you have this done for just this
reason, and now they are betraying you. How he'll gloat when you tell him.

	And then there's the final confirmation of your freakish nature,
right there, where your eyes end up resting. You've followed his
instructions and kept your labia neatly shaved and plucked, and your pubic
bush trimmed, in a 'keyhole cut'. So these genital features are prominent.
They're swollen and pouting, pink, moist, obscene. Your clitoris is
standing up like a shark's fin. You can't help it. The two tiny gold rings
through the labia draw the eye. And will they see the little pinpricks, the
rawness from last night's hours of furious masturbation? Of course they
will, you worry. Even worse, you can smell yourself, and it's not just
sweat you're detecting.

	That loudmouthed blonde Annette had said: "let's all compare tattoos!"

	Just one of her lusty jokes, and all the other highly conventional
women had laughed primly. Not a tattoo among the lot of them, you're sure.
What will they think when they see you? Will the faint white scars on your
back, your breasts, your buttocks still show, after so many weeks? You're
not sure. They often seem more noticeable when you get in the sun or your
skin gets hot. Uh oh.

	And after the hot room? It's a sauna, after all. Will you be able
to face being thrashed with birches without coming? You doubt it, there's
such a strong association in your mind between whipping and pleasure.
You're trembling with fear and desire as you step out of the cubicle,
totally naked. Tall, poised, elegant, you walk down the corridor to the
steam room, suddenly grateful that you weren't made to add the little
tinkling silver bells to both sets of rings.


2: DETECTED, OR NOT?

	The others have gone, and your heart is still racing. Did they see,
did they notice? Oh, you know they did, from all the little sidelong
glances, snorts and suppressed giggles.

	Yes, and you came! To your total shame, you actually orgasmed in a
room full of other naked women, as your backside was lightly thrashed with
birch twigs. Oh, maybe they didn't see. It's just possible, isn't it?
Because, well, there was lots of conversation . . . But it's doubtful: You
felt your butt cheeks contracting, you'd ground your mons against the hard
wooden bench where you lay. You'd felt the sweat popping out of you again .
. .

	Just you and that Indian woman, Anantha, left. She steps up to you
as you roll over and look around for the door. You stand up. She's small,
the top of her head is no higher than your armpit. She's tiny is every way,
from her boyish breasts to her intensely black pubic triangle -- totally
untrimmed, unlike yours -- and her skin is a dark chocolately color.
Southern, you suppose. The red dot on the forehead, the silky long hair
pinned up elaborately. In her thirties like you, single, runs a small
accounting practice to look after the fortunes of her endless family with
their dozens of motels and corner groceries. You spoke with her for a while
at the coffee break of one of the Monday sessions. Not much of a squash
player.

	She's inches away, and you feel uncomfortable, suddenly. What is
this? She reaches with one long-fingered delicate hand and weighs your
ample right breast, looks at the nipple ring that everyone had noticed,
smiled about, but had declined to comment on directly. Oh, but no one
ignored them, or your pussy rings. There were long blank stares when you
first walked in.

	Her hand is cool, her touch is familiar. You gasp, but you don't
pull away. A polite little smile forms on her lips. "Michelle?" she says,
in a soft voice.

	Her hand drops to your genitals. The fingers trace your shaved
lips, flick gently at your labia rings. And then, without warning, she
pinches your clitoris between thumb and forefinger, hard. Her nails are
long. It hurts. You give a little grunt of surprise. Her hand is palm up,
cupped, and her middle finger slides expertly into your vagina, which is
moist, open and welcoming. She smiles broadly as she feels your muscles
contract strongly. You squat a little, give a strangled moan of pleasure.
Another hard pinch on your clitoris.

	She looks up at you and says, with a quick lick at her lips: "My
room, in fifteen minutes. Number 609." Her dark eyes glitter, her long
eyelashes flutter. Pure desire.

	You want to say 'no.' You aren't sure. Asians aren't your thing,
though it's only the Chinese you have come to dislike actively. Why? You
don't know. It's your upbringing, you try not to show it.

	And you've never submitted to a woman before. Oh, your master has
predicted it, insisted you will. Insisted you must. Did he send her? Is
this a test? What can you say? Only the inane, unfocused words that always
spring from a submissive: "Please . . .?"

	Anantha chuckles. "Fifteen minutes, Michelle. Yes? And you know
why, don't you? Obviously, you are aching for sex. And you're going to get
it. But, you know something? I think you are a pain slut . . ."

	"Oh . . . Yes!!" you say eagerly, revealing your secret.

	 Another big smile. "It's obvious. So I'm going to light some
candles and get some clips and pins hot for you."

	You quiver with desire. She pinches again, spitefully. Pulls and
twists.

	"Oh my God!" you splutter.

	She lets go of your clit, raises her hand to your face. Holds her
filthy finger under your nose, then slips it in your mouth. You nurse like
a baby, drinking down the fishy smelling milky goo. How could you not?
There are few nights when you don't sniff your own vile panties, or lick
your fingers after a good rubbing and probing. A big grin crosses her face.
Your degeneracy is confirmed. You are just what she thinks you are.

	Calmly she tells you: "We'll have some fun, Michelle. After you
lick my cunt, of course, and plead nicely with me to torture you."


3: UPSTAIRS, IT'LL GET WORSE

	You dress quickly, your fingers trembling as you fiddle with the
buttons up the back of your dress. With what Anantha has said, you don't
bother with a bra, tights or panties. What would be the point? You stuff
them all into your pocketbook, slip on your shoes. You look at your watch.
Only five minutes. Ten minutes left. From the health club to the elevators,
a short walk. Everyone you pass seems so normal, healthy, so fresh and
breezy, while you feel seedy and perverse. You imagine they all know you
are bare-assed, that they are as aware as you are of the wetness in your
crotch, can detect the first trickles on your thighs. Know that your
nipples are hard, aching. Know that sweat is dribbling between your tits,
under your arms. That your stomach is churning.

	The elevator takes a while. Eventually, one arrives disgorging a
dozen women headed for the pool. It stops at the lobby level, then the
second. It fills up. You don't know any of the new registrants, regular
guests who get on, but you're sure they're sniffing the bland
air-conditioned, muzaked air wondering about the source of the rank,
seaweedy smell. It's your vulva. You can smell it, and they must too,
you're sure. When the elevator stops on the sixth floor, you rush out.

	Anantha's room. You are a little early. You wait, pace back to the
elevators, return. Now. You knock. She opens the door, motions you into the
dimly lit room. She's wearing a loose black cotton outfit, baggy pants and
a top, with bare feet. She locks and chains the door, follows you into the
main part of the bedroom. The curtains are pulled tightly shut. It's lit
only by a single bedside lamp, and by a half dozen candles in saucers
dotted around the room.  She points to the guest armchair -- it's an
expensive hotel, and their furniture is ritzy -- and says: "There. Take
your dress off first."

	You see the flash of her teeth, a  big smile, as you unbutton to
show her your bare back, then pull your arms from the sleeves and drop the
dress round your ankles. You kick off your shoes. Completely nude again,
and though you'd hate to admit it, quite pleased to be.

	"In the chair."

	She's spread a big bathtowel on the seat. You sit down.

	"Lean back. Legs over the arms, and put the soles of your feet
together. C'mon, spread yourself wide, Michelle . . ."

	You obey, anxiously seeking guidance from her. She prods you,
points, has you arrange yourself the way she wants. She has scarves, she
has rope, she has leather straps.

	"I never travel unprepared," she murmurs in your ear, after your
legs are bound at knees and ankles. She guides your hands behind the
armchair -- you'd hoped she would want to watch you masturbate, but she
doesn't -- and ties them tightly there.

	She returns to your side, dragging a little occasional table with
her. Arranging a high backed chair to sit on. She moves several candles
nearer, sitting in their little china plates. Sets up a little charcoal
brazier on the table in view. It's the size of a tea cup, and the coals are
glowing red. In them are buried several metal rods. Over the brazier stands
a little iron tripod with a metal pan perched above the lambent blue flame.
In the pan, a handful of spring-loaded clips, a little metal can of
dressmaker's pins. An asbestos mitt lays beside it.

	She picks up a candle. It's a fat one, and it's smoking sootily,
with wax drooling as it trembles in her hand.

	"Now, do I need to gag you, Michelle?" she asks in a kind voice.

	You shake your head.

	"Shall we begin the way you probably do?" she asks pleasantly. "Here?"

	She tilts the candle and drips some wax onto your thighs. You gasp.
On your belly. You shudder. On your vulva, and you clench your teeth and
let out a little moan of fear.

	She chuckles. "Painful? Oh, there's going to be lots of that
tonight, my haughty lady. Lots."

	You watch with open mouth as she lights a wooden taper, and passes
it over your pubic bush, igniting a couple of locks which burn brightly for
a second with a yellow flame, then vanish in a puff of smoke. A horrible
smell. You look up. She's disconnected the smoke detectors.

	She giggles. "I could see you've done that to yourself from the
different texture of the hair on your mons to the hair underneath," she
tells you.

	You nod, lost for words. Once or twice, in the throes of desire to
punish yourself, you have done that.

	"One way or the other -- wax, fire, tweezers or razor blade -- it's
all coming off tonight, Michelle."

	You shudder. "Oh, please . . . . no!"

	"Oh, yes," she smiles, in a very businesslike way. "I need it clean
and bare, smooth as when you were a girl, so I can give you the pins you
need . . . very precisely, very accurately."

	You're in a panic, but you can't move. Almost fixated by her gaze,
frozen.

	She looks at your with a blissful expression. Almost fanatical eyes.

	"I envy you in a way . . . red hot pins, icy cold ones. Little
ones, long thin ones, big ugly ones like skewers . . . pinpricks and
piercings. A comprehensive ordeal for your disgusting, smelly slave's cunt."

	"Oh, Jesus, no . . ." you moan.

	"Oh, yes," she nods. "999 pins, how's that . . .?"

	"Oh, no! That's impossible!" you splutter. "I couldn't stand it!"

	"Impossible? No, I don't think so. But not all in your pussy lips
and clit, of course . . . we'll save a hundred or so for each tit . . ."


4: WHAT'S IMPOSSIBLE, REALLY?

Anantha decides this is as good a time as any to see how easy aroused you
are. As if she needs to test you. But she finds the position appealing, the
ripe scents from all the juices you are exuding are too tempting.

	You can't move, not even wriggle a bit. She rubs your clit hard,
pinches it. Then begins to massage you there, putting a lot of weight on
the heel of her hand. You're grunting shamelessly in time to her rhythm,
and it's not long before you come, thanking her over and over. She wipes
her sticky hand on your mouth, lets you lick her palm.

	She slips a finger in you, probes about inside your vagina, pulling
and tugging. There are squelches, sticky little sounds. Another finger.
Your vagina contracts powerfully, locking them for a moment. Then she
begins to fingerfuck you slowly, commenting: "I can tell you're a dike at
heart Michelle, if you'd only let go. But you like to have something in
your hole, don't you? A big sticky, smelly hole it is, too . . . Oh, it
smells disgusting, do you know that?"

	She pulls her fingers free, and feeds you again. "Mmm, you like the
taste of pussy juice, don't you, you filthy bitch . . ." You're eagerly
sucking on her fingers, moaning with desire. Her fingers go back in, three
this time. She turns her hand, palm up. Another little thrust, a fourth
finger fits in, to the first joint. The thumb.

	You shiver, and stare wide-eyed at her.

	She's happy to see your concern. A little more pressure.

	"Oh, oh . . . my god! Oh . . ."

	She's pushing hard now. And with a disgusting squelch, you yield,
and her hand vanishes inside you, to the wrist.

	A long, continuous moan, then you gasp for breath. You feel as
though you'll burst, or rip.  But nothing happens. Inside, her fingers are
moving, and then . . . she's formed a fist, bulging hugely in your vaginal
passage. She begins to withdraw, then push, pull, push . . . very slowly .
. .

	"What a big cunt you have," she compliments, ironically. "Even
though my hand is kind of small, really . . ."

	She's not content with just invading. She wants to make the most of
your predicament. And begins thrusting slowly with her fist while she nips
and pinches at your labia and clit with the fingers of her other hand.

	"Yes, you're going to me my little dike slave tonight," she purrs.
"because you just love this. You can't find men with pricks big enough to
satisfy big ugly fuckholes like this, you slut . . . no. The only way a
twat like this is going to be fucked properly is if you give it to a woman
to rip open . . . you sloppy fuck slut . . ."

	You're gasping and grunting in time to this huge intrusion, and
feel yourself coming, the crescendo building slowly.

	Anantha is chuckling at your obvious shame.

	"Come on, bitch. I want to know how it works. Come, damn you. I
want to see it. And later, I'm going to do the exact same thing to your
asshole too . . .Oh, look at all this cunt slop bubbling out of you . . .
Disgusting!"

	You come, your body heaving, the sweat pouring off you. You're
gasping for air. Her fist stays snugly inside you. She slaps your breasts,
hard. "What a pervert you are," she says, shaking her head. "But I'm not
surprised. When I was a little girl in India, we used to joke about how big
white women's cunts must be, and how unsatisfying they must find their men.
Well, this proves something for me, at last. . ."


5: MEANER THAT EXPECTED

	It's only been an hour, but it seems like a nighttime of torment.
Anantha is pitiless, determined to wring every opportunity for pain from
you. Her instincts are evil, and mercy isn't a concept she recognizes. She
intends you to suffer, and is happy to do things that frighten or disgust
you, suppressing her giggles as you submit. When you gasp out for water,
she brings you a tall glass of her warm yellow piss to drink. And makes
sure you do, too.

	She's moved you, slightly. Now, your knees are spread even wider,
strapped to the ends of a spreader bar she has produced from her luggage.
Your ankles are lifted by a rope running up to a hook for a ceiling light
fixture, and you've been tilted back a little so she has better access to
your entire underbelly.

	Bit by bit she has bound you tighter, too. Thick straps, rope, even
some chains. She's wound you carefully in thin parcel wrapping cord,
pickled to a dark color in some oily liquid, and knotted it tightly. Your
thighs are crisscrossed with it, and she has used it to parcel your upper
body, pulling the loops until your flesh is bulging out between the turns.
Lastly, she has taken thin leather straps, tourniquets, and placed them
round the base of your breasts. Tightened them until you are swollen and
bulging like a siliconed whore, then knotted them in place.

	With her latest pouring of molten wax, the last of your pubic hair
-- singed to a stubble on your mons, plucked elsewhere -- will be gone.
Your genitals ache, prickle with heat. And smell terribly.

	It's cool in the room -- she'd opened the sliding door onto the
balcony to dissipate some of the smoke and lingering smoldering smells. But
you're running with sweat, glistening with it. Your hair is matted. You are
on the verge of hysteria, sobbing, trembling, tears streaming down your
face. But pleas just bring you a slap, a pinch, a slash of her nails.

	She's not neglected her other promises. After turning both your
nipples into bristling pincushions, she slipped off her cotton pants -- no
underwear for her -- squatted over you, and guided you through the task of
grooming her from navel to anus with your tongue. She takes great pleasure
in the fact that you are repulsed by the idea of drinking down her juices,
even though she saw you happily slurp your own. Her juices are thick and
intensely flavored, and her pubic hair is a thick black mat that has to be
parted with your tongue as you seek out her innermost crevices. You gasp
and shudder as she forces you to push your tongue deep into her vagina,
then into her rectum. You feel intense disgust at yourself as she chuckles
with pleasure, and tells you: "Oh, you're so disgusting, Michelle! You'll
do anything, won't you?" Because you know it's true.

	Anantha peels at a solidified edge, then rips off the last thick
shell of dried wax, and you bite your lips to silence yourself. Now, you
both see, your genitals are completely hairless.

	She studies your vulva closely, tweezers in hand. A last few hairs
are wrenched out. She runs her hands over you.

	"That's better. Now, we can get serious, can't we?"

	She clips fine chains to your labial rings, and draws the chains
sideways and down, to help spread your pouting labia even wider. To
reinforce this gaping view, she produces two large barbed fishhooks, on
nylon traces. You yelp as she pierces your lips a little further back,
level with your vagina, then pulls the nylon traces roughly round each
thigh and tape them there, pulling your labia grotesquely open.

	She produces a multitailed lash, with fine leather cords dangling.
On each, dozens of small wooden beads. You shiver as she trails it through
your crease, letting them tug at your inflamed flesh. And grit your teeth
as she begins to whip you there, hard. She pauses to direct a few blows at
your swollen breasts, knocking pins flying. Then she goes back to whipping
your vulva and thighs.

	She's breathing deeply as she slips on her asbestos glove.

	"Ready for some pins, Michelle? Let's start round your clit, it
looks so inviting . . ."

	"Why are you doing this?" you ask her feebly.

	She laughs, shakes her head. "Because you want me to, and because
you need it. Oh, and it's fun, too. . ."

	"It's so cruel . . ." you croak.

	"Ha ha, we didn't start on 'cruel' yet. We've just been in the
'unkind' area of the game," she tells you, picking up a glowing needle and
plunging it into the hood of your clitoris. There's an audible hiss and you
strain against your bonds.

	 Futile.

	"Cruel is when I have your twat looking like a porcupine, full of
pins. And when I take the whip to it again to remove them. Cruel is when I
put a little plastic straw in your pisshole, then sew your cunt lips up
with thread till tomorrow night. . ."

	You're babbling in fear, "No, no."

	She smiles. "Cruel is having your back whipped bloody, and your ass
branded, as a payment for having those stitches removed . . ."


[continued in Pt.2]


Copyright (c) MrSpraycan, 1997.



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