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From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>
Subject: Director's Cut/Next Room: MrSpraycan


Disclaimer: Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough
to be reading this.  This is fiction. Any resemblance to real or historic
persons, places, etc., is coincidental.

	Copyright (c) 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its author,
MrSpraycan, who chooses to remain 'anon.' Do not repost, or store on public
sites without permission. No commercial use is warranted. For personal use
and/or entertainment purposes.


Here's a story that first ran in January. Too tame, out of your usual
style, I was told. Yes, I'm usually much less subtle. This was almost wet
enough to be...no, I won't say it.
	So, here's the re-release/revamp: about 50% longer, fuck-heavy.
It's been living as a free sample on my homepage for a few weeks now.
	Curious? Point your wotnot at: <http://www.SineWave.com/spraycan>
for a dose...



IN THE NEXT ROOM
A MrSpraycan Story


I was passing through New York on business in January. So, with an hour or
two to kill between meetings I stopped by the Metropolitan Museum of Art to
take a second look at the special Corot exhibition they've been showing. I
stood behind a well-dressed pair of New York Upper East Siders, with a
five-year-old rug rat in tow. They were trying to answer his questions
about the huge painting in front of them, Hagar In The Desert. A nice
mystical twist on a desert landscape with the heavily robed (damn!) Hagar
and her young son looking parched and nearly done for. And in the distance,
like an F-117 stealthed up in long skirts, here comes an angel, zooming in
with a drink of water held high. It's quite riveting.
	The dialog accompanying it wasn't.
	"Ith he dead?"
	"No, he's thirsty. That's Ishmael. . ."
	"Whyth he lying down, mommy?"
	"Because he's not feeling well."
	"Isth he dead??"
	A much longer explanation, mostly accurate, in Biblical terms.
	A long pause, then yet more agitated: "Ith he dead?"
	Yes, some of these rich folks' kids are as dumb as a box of rocks.
That's cool, because I'm a portfolio manager, and they are my future
clients.
	The wife is looking around nervously, and suddenly says in an
urgent whisper: "Oh! We've got to go, there are people in the next room
with NO CLOTHES ON!!"
	In seconds, the trio was bustling towards the door, looking almost
desperate to be out of this den of iniquity.
	I moved quickly in the direction that she had indicated, but I
regret to say, there were just paintings of some rather large women
frolicking in the nude, in pastoral scenes. My types of babes and ambience,
actually.
	But, it got me thinking along these lines...
	I wandered out to the entrance hall of the exhibit, where they
dispense the audio tapes for guided tours, thinking I'd pick one up. I
thought I got the ideas that had formed Corot's style, but perhaps there'd
be some good quips and insights, in the usual heavily-accented Clouseau
fashion . . .
	The sudden quitters were still there, dropping off a tape player
and confusing the staff no end -- they don't expect rush exits -- with the
husband buckling the kid into the $500 stroller, sorting out feed bottles
and snacks, doing the squaw man thing to perfection, quite naturally. The
wife was standing there, still looking a little distracted, staring off
into the distance. She wasn't too much to look at, but didn't hurt the eye
either. Baggy hippyish clothes, but ones that cost a helluva lot. Early
thirties, maybe a little bit older, with shortish brown hair in that
frizzy, I-slept-on-it burnt-perm style that's so popular among married
women from this socioeconomic group, when they don't do the fullscale
princess thing. If you're old enough, picture Carole King a la Tapestry
album cover era, and you've got a very accurate reading of the look.
	Now she was talking to the husband. "I don't know. I really still
have to see a couple of them for my appreciation class Tuesday, that's the
trouble. . ."
	"Well, I suppose we could go back, but no, well you don't want to
risk Jacob seeing those. . .?"
	"No! Absolutely not! We've discussed this before. Please, David.
Get a grip, will you?" She was quite agitated.
	"Then, what do you say to me taking him to the ice cream place," he
suggested. "And then I'll, uh, see you at home in an hour or so?"
	"Only a small scoop," she said without hesitation. "Okay. I'll, uh
. . .yes, good. It shouldn't be any longer than that. Thanks. See you, then
. . ."
	And she was gone, striding back in, quite purposefully.
	Something strange here. This had my interest. I followed, waving
away the proferred audio tape. Those poor people were having a day of it.
	It was late afternoon, and I don't think there were more than a
dozen people in sight. Sometimes these exhibits are packed like a subway
train at rush hour, other times, almost deserted. This was one of those low
blood sugar times, and it showed.
	I followed a few steps behind 'Carole,' wondering what had put the
sudden bounce in her stride. We swept past Hagar, several Forest of
Fontainebleau scenes, and on toward the room where "there were people with
no clothes on.."
	You could have knocked me down with a feather.
	There, at the center of the room, on one of those little round
padded couches they put out at big shows, sat a totally naked, bearded man.
Like Silenus or Actaeon from Corot's pictures. An unaffected, unashamed
ruddy-faced giant of a guy, in his fifties with tanned skin, tangled hair,
lots of thick bodily hair growth, and -- if I must admit it -- one hell of
an impressive erection. Ten, twelve inches of rigid, hard penis, as
substantial as the handle of a tennis racket, pointing right at the elegant
ceiling of the room. I must have stopped dead in my tracks. Somehow I
managed to step to one side, not quite entering the room. I peeked around
the corner, not daring to believe what I'd seen.
	He was real, and he was still there. And Carole? She was walking
slowly toward him, pulling her clothes off. By the time she reached him,
she'd left a trail for thirty feet across the room. Skirt, cardigan,
blouse, shoes. No underwear, that I noticed. And, because of my tastes (I
collect panties), I tend to notice. Her legs were long, and quite shapely,
and her ass was round, firm and of a goodly size, like an American woman's
should be. Not quite as bulky in the haunches as these women that ignited
Corot's muse, but not a second rate imitation of a boy's bum like those we
see on models and even a few real women nowadays, I regret to say.
	Was I just standing with my mouth open, staring? I suppose I was.
My pants felt very uncomfortable, as my cock stiffened up. I looked around
in panic. Would they be caught? Would there be some embarrassing scene? I
prayed not, for their sake. You had to admire their nerve. Where was
everyone? The lone security guard in the room behind was yawning,
scratching, going the other way, checking his watch. The only other person
in the room with this naked pair was a middle-aged woman poring over a
small portrait of someone who looked a lot like the droopy folksinger Nanci
Griffiths. She walked onward without turning back, and never saw this
amazing event.
	The two were now wrapped around each other. Carole was squatting,
lowering herself on to his pole, steering it into her with both hands, then
athletically leaning way back, until her head was nearly on the floor.
Whoa. She began rubbing her breasts as he began to buck up and down under
her. You see a lot in a few seconds: It registers unconsciously, and you
play it back later. I noticed her hairy bush (a mess like the hair on her
head), her huge pencil eraser nipples, his tongue sliding over her tits,
her eyes closed in ecstasy, her flesh quivering, her tongue thrust out,
wriggling obscenely as though she was eating some other woman. They were
fucking like lovers who'd not seen each other in a while, going at it in a
complete frenzy like it was some kind of Special Olympics event.
	I could hear her rapid snorts of breath, distinctly hear squelches
and slurping coming from her vagina! Oh, that was what I called wet! I
looked around again. Couldn't anyone else see this, or hear this?
	But no, there was no one coming. Apart from her, of course.
	She gave a little strangled gasp then a long, low moan, her body
shaking wildly. He'd pumped as fast as he could . . . white dribbles were
running down her legs, and I heard just one coherent word from him, a
groaned: "Diana!" For a couple of tense, endless seconds, I really thought
that I was going to come too, I was so excited. Out of the corner of my
eye, I saw a white-haired couple approaching. They were looking strangely
at me, wondering who this pervert was. After all, I was furtively peeking
round the corner into the next room, with a blatantly obvious erection. The
woman looked away, seeing this evidence, while the man glared and looked
around angrily for a guard. Now, there was none in sight.
	What could I do? Run? As if nothing was wrong, I stepped into the
next room.
	And all was decorous. Carole already had her skirt on, and was
buttoning her blouse. But, I knew that only because I'd seen what went
before, because she had her back to me. Her other clothes, she had swept up
or kicked into a heap by her shoulderbag as though she was just, well,
getting herself organized here. The big bearded guy? He was still right
there, large as life, but had pulled a long overcoat tightly round him,
crammed a hat over his head, and was lacing up his shoes. What was this?
Some kind of flasher's outfit, the kind with pant legs sewn to a coat? I
began to doubt what I'd seen until he looked up, black eyes glaring, and
gave me a 'just us guys' leer, then a conspiratorial wink that convinced me
I was not losing my mind.
	He stood up, nodded politely to her and to me, turned and walked
away. I stared after him. A flasher's rig, I'd have bet money. But now
Carole was walking back my way, with a crooked little grin on her face. She
was better-looking than I'd thought, rather sharp-faced and eager. Thin,
but cute and intelligent. Of course, freshly fucked women always tend to
look their best to me.
	"Hey, there. Happy new year. Good show, this," she said as if
seeing me for the first time, but also as if she knew me well. Behind me, I
heard a harrumphed comment, almost certainly one of disappointment from the
guy of the older couple who'd observed my excitement. Maybe I was here on
some legitimate purpose, and really was with her.
	Her blouse was still partly unbuttoned and a little askew, and my
eyes fell to her small but elegant breasts. A bare nipple eyed me.
	"Yes, uh, very," I said nervously.
	She looked down at my pants. Nothing to conceal there. I was still
very hard. "Well?" she said, making a little open-handed gesture in that
direction, like 'oh, and where's mine?'
	"I . . . uh . . . well . . ." What could I say? Total incoherence.
I had turned crimson, I'm sure.
	"Lost your tongue? Do you want to fuck me, or have a philosophical
discussion?" she said with that flat-voiced practicality of native New
Yorkers.
	My jaw dropped.
	She wrinkled her nose. "Alright. This way, then," she said
impatiently. "We've missed the moment here. Those old creeps behind you are
watching us like hawks. We can't saddle up here. But come to the rest room
outside, huh? Yes, come on. I can get you in with me. . . "
	I walked behind her in a trance.
	"Who . . .who was that?" I asked her, catching up, and unable to
contain my curiosity.
	"Who? Oh. The guy? I don't know," she shrugged. "A satyr. Place is
full of them. Why I come here. Just another hard prick, like you."
	She paused at Corot's picture of Lot's family fleeing from Sodom
and Gomorrah, and looked sideways at me, taking the time to tuck her blouse
in and button it more neatly. There was a strong, delicious scent of
recently used pussy hanging in the air round her. Our eyes met. She knew
exactly what I was twitching my nostrils about.
	"Why, did you prefer him to me?" she teased.
	"No, no . . ." I spluttered.
	"Good. So make a choice, okay?" she said quietly, with
determination etched around her eyes and mouth. "I could suck you off, or
maybe we'll go this way: you get to stir the soup from him, or . . . Yes,
maybe . . . You're gonna be smaller than him, so it'll fit. Hey, if you're
up to it, and you can keep it real hard, how about shoving it in my
asshole? You like it funky, I would think..."
	We walked on. I thought there'd be a problem, walking into the
ladies room with her. The door's right opposite a concession for art books
and posters. But that wasn't what she had in mind. She walked briskly ahead
of me, judged her moment nicely, and swung through the doors of the men's
room. Inside, there was just one old geezer dribbling into a urinal, who
then dribbled on his foot in surprise. She swept past, into the center
stall. I stepped right in behind her, and bolted the door. There's not a
lot of room and the partitions don't provide a lot of privacy, but that
didn't seem to be of the least bit of concern to her. Off came the blouse
and skirt, stuffed into the top of her shoulderbag. And then she was on her
knees. "Here, quickly," she said, unzipping me, pulling out my prick and
swallowing me down with a noisy slurp. A long vigorous sucking, and
suddenly I was pumping cum into her mouth, and, rather messily, on her
breasts. She stood, licking her lips contentedly. "Delicious," she
chuckled, and then began rubbing herself wildly. "Stiffen up, huh? Come on
baby, I need a cunt full of that juice..." Almost in a trance, I felt my
cock fattening. That doesn't happen often for me. She saw, turned, and was
bending over, shoving her ass upwards at me, pulling her labia open.
	"Come on, let's move it," she growled. "I want it in here now.
Shove it in my cunt, fast."
	That wasn't a problem to me. She wasn't very tight, but wriggled
and bent and pulled at herself until my prick was deeply embedded in her. I
fucked her, slow and steady, until she had to clasp her hands to her mouth
to prevent shouting aloud. Doors banged, urinals flushed, people hovered,
peeking through the cracks of the door. The fact there were two pairs of
feet can't have escaped anyone half-observant.
	A hoarse whisper from her: "Come, damn you! Don't save it!"
	I went with her, whispering back: "Yes...Oh! Who are you? Baby?
Please tell me..."
	I heard some muffled, cynical laughter from the next stall. "Next
thing,you'll say you luhv her, ha ha!"
	Her satyr, or some other dirtbag? A low voice: "Shove it in her
asshole, or send the bitch round here. I'm so hard I could ram it through
the wall, pretty boy..."
	I decided not to participate in any repartee, which could only lead
to more trouble. "Well," she whispered. "You heard. In me, or I'll go next
door and get some. Come on, you're used to buttholing, by the look of you."
Well, maybe. But three fucks in ten minutes? That's asking a lot, and would
have been even when I was twenty years old.
	A difficult choice, but with nearly an hour still to spare, as I
knew she had, I figured we might yet accomplish all three modalities quite
easily, provided I slowed her down . . . I grabbed her by the hips, lifted
her and stood her on the pedestal -- reverence for women, huh? -- and
started to fingerfuck her with great concentration, holding her still with
my other hand tightly knotted in her big pubic bush. She was grunting and
gasping, rubbing her tits with both hands, occasionally dropping one down
to pull and rub at her clitoris. But now I felt like I had the initiative,
for the first time. Watchers? They were still hovering, looking in, but I
wasn't going to worry about them. Now, I would get her to come at my pace.
And soon enough, the old prong would be ready for her rear entrance. And,
fellow art lovers, I was right.
	Standing on the pedestal, she had to crouch a little to avoid
showing herself, though she wasn't having too much success. Smirking faces
were peeking over from both sides, and I could hear whispering from behind
me.
	To make it easy for me to have her ass, she climbed down, leaned
against the back wall with both hands spread wide, and her legs planted
firmly, as far apart as she could get them. I worked my way into her
slowly: She was still quite tight, despite her pose and her willingness to
be had. She was shivering with pleasure, grunting involuntarily as I
steadily fucked her to a huge orgasm. For her, not me. I paused, and
continued after she stopped heaving. And so we passed a pleasant half-hour.
By the time we were through and her ass was nicely loosened and well
greased with my cum, she was dripping with sweat.
	She dressed quickly, just her skirt, shoes and blouse. And followed
me out of the men's room without making eye contact with any of the leering
or shocked faces. As we walked briskly down the long corridors towards the
exit, I tried to get her to talk: "Who are you? Please? Will you be back?
Would you do that again?" She looked bedraggled, happy. Well fucked.
	"Of course I'll be back. I'm here every week. Oh, you mean with
you? Maybe. I like a three-timer. But we'll change restrooms next time,"
she said with a reckless grin. "In the ladies' you get less interruption,
and a better class of person. We could just do it on the floor, no need to
shut the doors..."
	Was she serious? I couldn't tell.
	"Or, I'll just keep my coat on and dump the rest of my clothes.
There are lots of very quiet galleries...and I know some of the guards
quite well now, enough to have them look the other way, if you know what I
mean...?" The hungry look told me she wasn't kidding.
	"What, uh, I mean...does your husband...?" I asked as we started
down the long staircase to the main entrance.
	"What?" she asked, as if I was crazy. "Oh, him? Please. Don't worry
about him. I'm bringing home his favorite supper..." A big, showbiz smile.
"A sloppy cunt full of warm spunk...But listen, you'll have to go now, I
may see people I know out here." She gave me a friendly peck on the cheek,
reached in her pocketbook and gave me a business card with her number. An
art dealership. "Call me, okay? Gotta run." And was lost in the throng,
headed for the coatcheck.
	Good show. I think I'll be going back again.

Copyright (c) 1997 by MrSpraycan
"One Man Campaign For Intelligent Filth"


	There's a gateway to a lot more MrSpraycan stuff (and the brand-new
Spraycan Factory Outlet Club) at <http://www.SineWave.com/spraycan>.




[ Via EDTec Anon Remail Service: <infos.an@edtec.com> ]

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