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Subject: STORY: "Fiduciary, Pt.2"/MrSpraycan
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FIDUCIARY DUTIES & FISTFUCKING MADE EASY, Pt.2
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: Still FFF/f, extreme.

	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>


(from Pt.1)


6: IN STITCHES

Anantha didn't lie, though you wished she had. You're laying sprawled on
the bed, trying to still your pounding heart. You feel on the verge of
fainting. Your vulva feels as big as a tractor tire, and you hardly dare
look at it. But you must. She kneels astride your legs, looking down with
an arrogant smirk.

	Your mons and thighs are crisscrossed with crimson lines, welts.
You're bruised, sore. As you'd expect after being pricked and pierced
hundreds of times, and waxed and plucked bare. You stare with horror. Your
labia have been tightly stitched, without anesthetic, with thick black
nylon suture, from the top of your slit to your perineum. The huge black
darning needle is still in her fingers. The stitches, so close they're
almost touching, look like the laces of a tightly fitted shoe. The only
concession: a little stub of plastic drinking straw poking out between your
tightly pursed lips. Its other end is deeply lodged in your urethra. Your
tiny labial rings are joined with a short twist of wire, and that's been
sealed closed with a blob of solder.

	She tells you: "That looks delightful. Does it hurt? I hope so."

	You nod. It's painful, and also very restricting. You hope the
stitches will soften and relax a little.

	"I really ought to sew your nipples together, too. But that can
wait till some other time. Just remember to think pure thoughts, Michelle.
Because whatever filthy slop and goop you accumulate in your cunt between
now and tomorrow night is going to stay there, at least until I unstitch
you. Then you're going to drink it. Got it?"

	You shudder, and she casually slaps your face, twists a nipple
cruelly.

	"Don't pull faces at me. Understand, bitch?"

	"Yes!"

	"Good, be sure you do. Be here tomorrow at 7pm, precisely. Don't
bother dressing. Just come to the door naked, knock and wait."

	"Yes, my lady," you concede, willing to do anything to escape.

	"And tomorrow night, well, let's just say that you'll pay to have
these stitches out, by giving me completely free use of your asshole."


7: BACK FOR MORE

You don't know how you stood the pain, but you won your squash games.
Dreading the stitches bursting, avalanches of goo, bloodstains, all kinds
of horrid consequences that don't actually happen. There's some chuckling
when you decline to join the sauna-bound clique after. Some think they know
why: The nipples rings, the labial stuff. The fact you came when you were
birched. People are talking, laughing behind your back about their kinky
colleague, who had seemed so straight.

	You're at her door, naked, at 6:59pm, dreading being seen by
passers-by or hotel staff, of all the things that could go wrong. There are
so many. You'd give anything to stop now.

	Your room is two floors up, and you sneaked down the emergency
stairs to get to hers, your key clenched tightly in your fist. On your own
initiative, you've pinned your hair back tightly, and put on a sluttish
lipstick and thick black eye make-up. You knock and wait, growing anxious.
There's some noise, the rattle of the chain, and she lets you in. She's in
her black pajama/Vietcong outfit again.

	She pushes you straight into the bathroom, where you see she has
lined up three fat enema bags and dangling tubes and nozzles, all suspended
from the shower curtain rail. She takes your room key, drops it in the soap
dish.

	"Bend over the sink and pull your asscheeks apart," she orders,
poking and prodding until she is satisfied with your pose. "Squat down a
bit more. That's better." She begins to stroke the pouting ring of your
anus. "Very pretty. Is it used to lots of penetration, Michelle?" she asks.

	You shake your head, and murmur, "No."

	"But you do play with it, don't you? You tickle it when you're
fingerfucking yourself, don't you? And it's not a stranger to being poked,
is it? Your dildo goes in it when you're in the mood, doesn't it?"

	You nod, turning red. It's true. Who told her?

	"And you'd love it to be trained, wouldn't you? So you're as
skillful with this hole as a courtesan, a real whore . . .So, let's see
what we can do, shall we? Just stay right there . . ."

	She wipes a little Vaseline round your puckered orifice. slips the
tip of her little finger in, just a half-inch. Then proceeds to slide a
huge tapered enema nozzle into you. It's shaped with a narrow waist midway
so it stays in place and doesn't allow leaks.

	She undoes a little tap, and warm soapy water glugs in the bag. It
begins to spiral down the clear plastic tube into the nozzle. It's warm,
and you shudder. Soon, it's filling you. And then some. On it goes until
you feel you may burst. Your belly is bulging, huge, just like when you
were pregnant. You feel nauseous, dizzy. Finally, she unhooks the bag,
points to the toilet. "Over there."

	The nozzle is pulled out and you waddle over quickly and sit down.
Not a second too late. You explode, noisily and messily. Liquid pours out,
filthy and foaming. And of course, everything else. You're crimson with
shame, she's smiling happily.

	"Flush when you're done, and come back over here," she tells you,
holding up a fresh nozzle, a longer one.

	You lose track of how many times you're pumped full of liquid and
made to expel it. She has a water jet device that plugs into the bath taps
that she irrigates you with, too. After about half an hour, she's
satisfied. You're purged, empty, you're having cramps and retching, and you
feel like your rectum is big enough to accommodate a parked car. She dries
you with a towel, handcuffs your wrists behind you, grips you by your
aching left nipple, and leads you out of the bathroom.

	The bedroom is as dark as yesterday evening. Dimmed light, candles,
a glowing charcoal brazier. And, to your horror, a half-dozen other women
from the conference, sitting around on the bed or on other chairs, with
drinks, cigarettes. Your arrival prompts a little ripple of whispers, some
derisive snorts. They're all dressed very casually, even a little
underdressed.

	Anantha speaks: "I didn't want to keep the fun to myself, Michelle.
This is your, uh, 'audit committee,' slave."

	You recognize the loudmouthed, grinning Annette, a brunette who had
thrashed you with birches yesterday and must have known about you coming at
the time, a couple of strangers, a woman from a Big Six accounting firm you
ran into on a due diligence last year, but who you wouldn't have spotted in
bra and panties before. You stagger, feeling faint. They are all smiles,
but it's not friendship they're displaying. No, it's contempt or lust.

	"On the chair, bitch. Kneeling this time," you're ordered.

	On a low table, there's a fearsome selection of knobbed dildos and
vibrators, in sizes that make your eyes water in anticipation.

	"Let's strap her down nice and tight, and see how responsive her
shithole is, now I've pumped it out, shall we?"

	This is greeted with polite nods and grins.


8: SHAREWARE GAMES

	You're kneeling with your knees spread wide, your backside high in
the air, your arms strapped around the back of the chair at seat level.
There are plenty or ropes and straps, and you're going to stay right where
they want you. Your chin rests on the top of the chair back, which has been
reclined a little.

	Anantha has probed you with a fat dildo to show that you are easily
entered, and to demonstrate that you are clean. The other women take turns.
some strap on their surrogate tools, others like them hand-held. Your ass
gets its share of good hard slaps while you're being fucked.  A cane is
produced and used by Anantha, who gives you a couple of dozen good sharp
strokes across the buttocks, but is also keen to explore the most sensitive
places -- your butt crack, the tops of your thighs, the dangling labia --
and see how they respond to pain.

	When you've been fucked about a dozen times by each, and the fact
that you come from anal penetration has been well established to everyone's
satisfaction, Anantha says: "Someone wire her mouth for me, please."

	There's a gag that straps tightly round your neck and jaw. The part
in your mouth is a cage-like device made from orthodontist's wire and
rubber pieces, that fills and opens your mouth wide, and clamps your tongue
so it sticks out. One of the strangers expertly fits it. In no time, you're
dribbling on yourself.

	Anantha is like a spoiled child with a new toy. Eager to let her
friends see how you love degradation. She pulls on a thin, translucent
rubber glove, and tells them: "I didn't have any trouble getting my hand
into her cunt yesterday, so let's see if we've done as good a job here. . ."

	You grunt in surprise as she begins, and you let out little moans,
pleading sounds. But there's nothing you can do, with your thighs spread
and your ass high in the air. She slowly stretches you that last little bit
-- you think something will tear, there's a sharp pain -- and then she has
her fist deep in your rectum. There's a little round of applause from the
other guests. She begins to slowly thrust in and out, sensing that you
expect it. She moves a little more quickly as she feels you contract. You
shudder and gasp: it's arousing you.

	Anantha teases you: "Oh, feel those sphincter muscles, hey? What a
disgusting slut you are, Michelle. You love it when people start rooting
round inside you, don't you? To you, getting it up the ass is just as good
as getting your cunt fucked . . ." She laughs at your first  frantic heave
and shudder. An orgasm, and they all know it. The other women are
chattering among themselves, commenting that they'd never allow anything
like this to be done to them, not even with a trusted lover in private. She
keep going until she's sure you've come at least twice more, and are
sweating and shaking like you've just run a 5000-meter race.

	There's a pause. Room service is at the door with more
refreshments. A towel is draped over you, and the waitress is not allowed
in. Drinks are poured, snacks are handed round. A cigarette break. Finally,
the towel is pulled off.

	You're trembling as Anantha tells them, "We'll just give her one
brand, on the left butt cheek. The word 'slave,' in English and Hindi. Then
we can pull those stitches out of her minge and milk her . . ."

	"That'll be so disgusting!" Annette breathes.

	"More disgusting for her, if she's the one who's drinking it," the
brunette giggles. "Filthy bitch."

	You can't believe they will, but at the same time you know there's
nothing you can do to prevent it. And you know you'll be filthy. You're
oozing between the stitches.

	"Will she be too sore to fuck?" the Big Six woman asks, concerned
about her own prospects, not your well-being.

	"Of course not," Anantha laughs. "And what if she is? She's a fuck
slut, so, we're going to fuck her."



9: EXITS CLEARLY MARKED

	You are sweating, shaking with fear as Anantha takes the branding
iron from the charcoal brazier. It's glowing orange. Steel, maybe cast
iron, you don't know. She's made a mark with a felt tip, so she aims it
right. You let out a shriek that's quickly muffled with a towel as she
presses it decisively to your backside, and holds it. Your body heaves
against the bonds, you strain to escape. There's a hiss, a fatty crackling
sound. The pain is intense, but soon fades to just a deep ache. Anantha
produces a mirror, lets you see the blistered, burned letters on your ass.
You can see it'll be days before it heals.

	How disgusting is the result of her infibulating you? Beyond
anything you've ever dreamed of. A pint or more of richly fragrant, viscous
oozings. Caught with great care using a funnel and a little glass beaker.
And then handed to you by Anantha, with the injunction: "Drink it all,
bitch."

	Your stomach heaves, and you sob with self-loathing as you slowly
drain the beaker. The other women watch in amazement, disgust evident on
most of their faces. How could you? Totally disgusting. But, that's you,
Michelle.

	Now it's time to whip you, you're told gleefully. Of course, there
are so many things they'd like to try. But it's decided you will be
spreadeagled on the bed, and given a long, brutal thrashing on your back,
ass and thighs with a beaded cat 'o' nine tails, until you can't take any
more. No ropes and straps are used, to your amazement. Other than your gag:
you're just  physically held down, one woman sitting on each limb. Each
participating with little pinches and scratches, and keeping up a non-stop
stream of suggestions about how you should be treated.

	And how rough are they? After an hour, you are ready to promise
anything for them to stop. But they don't until they've drawn blood, and
until you are sobbing pitifully.

	"Now, we need to fuck you," Anantha tells you with a grim smile.
"Bring her over here to the desk, yes?"

	You're pleading with her, saying you can't bear it, that you're too
sore after the enemas, the dildos. She laughs aloud. "Get it straight,
Michelle. We've had enough of the smell of shit for today. We want to go in
your cunt."

	Confusion all over your face. "No," you moan, staring down at the
lacerated mess the stitches made of your labia. You can't imagine . . .

	"Yes, there. Come on you bitch. You haven't had anything shoved in
your twat for a whole day. And I've had it with your well-stretched
asshole, it's like fucking an old granny, you've been reamed out so much."

	You're bent backwards over the desk so that Anantha and others can
tweak your nipples with some pliers, and maybe push pins right through
them. "It's mean, sure but it needs to be rough to match how nasty we're
going to be down here," she chuckles.

	One after another, they ram your hole with fat knobby dildos. Long,
penis-shaped ones that are twice the size of any man's member.

	Female rapists don't have to let up, they can just keep going until
they tire.

	You can't imagine how sore you'll be, tomorrow . . . You'll sob and
plead. But you are unable to stop yourself from coming again and again,
because when all is said and done, you're a fuck slut.

	Their contempt for you is extreme.

	And their logical goodbye is to drag you into the bathroom, make
you lean back over the bowl so each woman can piss down your throat . . .
which they do with great enthusiasm.


10: IN BED WE'RE TRUSSED

	The others have left, and you're trussed up on her bed. You've been
thoroughly fucked, more than you can ever remember. And most of the women
took the opportunity to experience the touch of your tongue on their
genitals and assholes.

	"Next weekend, Michelle. I'll call to give you travel details,"
she's saying. "It's at my uncle's country place, nice and private. In fact,
I think you'll probably be able to drive most of the way there nude."

	You sob. You can't speak through this cruel gag. You're dribbling
on yourself like a muzzled dog.

	"Come on, look a bit more grateful, you slut," she laughs. "You
know you're always fantasizing about this kind of thing, so be grateful
when you get it. Don't be so Western and self-pitying . . ."

	She continues with a malicious chuckle: "It's just a little family
reunion, that's all. Only eleven of my brothers and, oh, twenty or so
cousins. Some friends, maybe. You know how much you've wanted to be the
fuckpig for a gangbang. Well, you should be pleased!"

	This clan runs in age from fiftyish, fat balding sweaty merchants
to skinny, fresh-off-the-plane teenagers who've never learned to speak
comfortably in English or wear shoes yet. She goes on to tell you: "you
won't be protesting or struggling at this little gathering. You'll be
clamped and strapped into a big wooden framework one of my brothers has
built solely for this purpose. He's a cabinet-maker, and is very good at
it. I've given him our measurements and a rough design. Your jaw will be
wired open for oral access, just like today. I think you need to drink a
lot of spunk, so you learn some respect for the superior taste of women,
hmmm. You'll be fucked in the ass, cunt and mouth until you're drooling
cum. And then, fucked some more."

	"Forty or fifty guys, good and horny. Umm, you'll be filthy, when
they're through. To them, you'll be introduced as a slut who's suffering
from the unfortunate fantasy she's Lady Michelle Nelson, the governor's
wife at Grungipore in the Indian Mutiny of 1854. A little revenge fantasy
for them, too. It means you'll be fucked and abused to their heart's
content.

	"With my encouragement and supervision, you'll be whipped, too.
Quite thoroughly. I think outdoors, hanging by your wrists. You'll probably
faint a few times, but that's how it should be. I can't play games all the
time: we need some punishment and torture to keep you honest, don't we?
Which means, not just your back and ass. No, Michelle.

	"I need to see those tits of yours bounce. And we need to whip you
with something that will dig into your thighs and belly, so your really
feel it. A bullwhip, that's the right thing. It's cruel, but that's what
we'll have to use. Know why? Because blood is required, to convince the
female family members. They'll be watching, and they'll want convincing
that you aren't just having a fine time doing endless reruns of Chapter One
of the Karma Sutra with their kin. You'll get some scars, but you have some
good ones already. So I don't really feel any guilt at all. And I don't
think I will be able to resist showing them some of the other things I've
inflicted on you? It wouldn't be fair if I didn't share, would it?

	"There's a possibility that even treating you as meanly as that
won't satisfy them, Michelle. So be warned. I may have to hand you over to
the women so that can discipline you themselves . . . you had better hope
not, because they will be as nasty as me, and then some. You could get
really hurt . . ."

[end]

Copyright (c) MrSpraycan, 1997.



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