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Subject: STORY: Hotel Games/Mr.Spraycan
From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>


Disclaimer: Adults only, whatever that means wherever you are lucky enough
to be reading this.  Many weird tastes are piqued, some satisfied. Sadly,
this is fiction. No resemblance to real or historic persons, places, etc.,
is intended.
	Copyright (c) 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its author,
MrSpraycan, who chooses to remain 'anon.' Do not repost, store on public
sites without direct permission. No commercial use is warranted. For
personal use and/or entertainment purposes.

/aka MrSpraycan
"A Nineties Kind Of Perv"

Intro: I originally wrote a version of this for the exhibitionist website
run by Topbit (e-mail me for the address). He had wanted a story along the
lines of "joint M/F xib with some bdsm/spanking." We'd also chatted about a
legendary lost "xib hunts for clothes at hotel" story we'd both read -- as
have many others -- and can't find any more. This was my attempt to
recreate the flavor of the latter, within the guidelines of the former.
This extended version (May '97) contains various corrections, modifications
and a whole new coda.


HOTEL GAMES/Director's Cut
by MrSpraycan


They both check into the big downtown business district hotel at the same
time. His room is in one wing on the fifth floor, hers in another, nineteen
flights up. Did they think they'd be in adjoining rooms, convenient for
sneaking in to see each other? Not if the GamesMaster is going to have his
way, they're not.
	They're here in Dallas, TX with a purpose. To be tested. How daring
are they, really? Soon, they'll find out. It's been a while in the making,
like all good things. It started after they both separately played some
word games with the GamesMaster on the net, told him some stories about
their fantasies, described a few reckless episodes. They are two 'xibs'
from quite different backgrounds. But what they share is their perversion,
harmless though it is: both of them are heavily into risk taking. The
GamesMaster, having satisfied himself they're not just trolling or kidding
him, has invited them to play some games in real life here, daring them on
until they accept.
	He's in his forties, she's in her twenties. They've never actually
met until today, or even disclosed their real names. He's "Johnny Cache,"
she's "BarBelle." They've been talking xib ideas for months, and have come
to really like the idea of meeting. Recently, she has sent him some very
vulgar QuickCam pix, but he lusts to see her in the flesh, scarcely daring
to believe she can really be as beautiful as the photos suggest.
	But, she is. Maybe more so. He carries her bag, volunteers to
drive. Gentlemanly, southern. She accepts, but insists on driving. Pushy,
northern. As she expertly threads the hire car through the jams on the way
from the airport, they talk nervously about what might happen, sizing each
other up. She's small, extremely thin and dark-haired. A ballet dancer with
an NYC corps, and showing progress as a cellist, too. One day she'll have
to choose. Not yet, she's quite hyperactive. He's big, balding, bearded,
hirsute, a little potbellied, a security guard, the C&W music type. Stoic,
not to say a bit lethargic. He's quite blunt, and says: "You know, I'm
really looking forward to seeing you naked, hon. I mean, to seeing all
those cute bits that were blurry in your pix . . . You don't mind me saying
that, do you? I mean, you are an exxy-bitionist, and all. I'd love the
chance to sniff you, too."
	She merely chuckles and says: "Oh, me too. Hey, really! Look all
you want! Come on, I wasn't kidding. I love being looked at, after all! And
sniffing? Sure, why not? Ballet teachers are the worse. They never let up
on that, let me tell you! Do you know, for fundraising, they actually sell
our used toe shoes, autographed !? Can you imagine the kind of pervs who
buy them?"
	"Heck, I would," he gulps.
	"Then I'll mail you some, with some old panties," she laughs,
seeing he means it. Now she's going through with this, it's a huge
liberation.
	They wonder aloud what will happen. "Maybe it'll be an open limo,
Elm Street, Dealey Plaza . . . two xibs . . ." he says with a dry laugh.
	"My hairy knoll? Your big carbine? No, it'll all be at the hotel.
He promised," she corrects him. "But, wow, that's an amazing idea . . ."

	The GamesMaster knows that he has chosen a fine pair to play with
here, a couple who will jump into his mind games with very little
inhibition. They've both sent him signed letters agreeing to follow his
instructions, without reservation. And knowing that, he's set them some
especially risky and foolish tasks. They've been pre-warned that perhaps a
few of the hotel staff are in on the games, but most aren't. And they
shouldn't assume that any other guests they may see are part of the
arrangement. They're in peril of discovery and humiliation the whole time.
If they're caught, they'll be punished. They wouldn't have it any other
way: she's been masturbating for four hours or more each day for the past
week in anticipation, since being told this. He's been sworn to celibacy,
and forbidden to play with his cock. He is intensely frustrated.

	She arrives at her room. Her instructions, handed her in a sealed
envelope by the check-in staff, are quite simple. But every bit as shocking
as she has been warned to expect. She's told she must strip completely --
not interfering with the open window shades and blinds, which expose her to
several neighboring mirrorglassed buildings -- and stand at the window for
five minutes. Not 'near',  but really 'at'. With her feet wide apart, her
hands on her head, and positioned close enough that her nose touches the
glass. She's to hold that pose until the phone rings. She does this, trying
not to panic. The windows are huge. Who's watching? She feels like she's
exposing herself to an entire city, but it's probably just these few
neighboring towers, and of course any telescope jock in the subdivisions
beyond. That's bad enough. She tries to keep the position, but can't. She
doesn't run: her problem is that she can't help touching herself. The phone
call seems to take forever. Much longer than five minutes, she's certain.
She loses count around 300, twice. Finally, it rings. She rushes over and
answers, and is told by a woman with a chuckling Indian accent: "That was
good, everyone over here liked it, now please to take a shower."
	 When BarBelle steps out of the shower, the towels are gone. And
outside, the hotel room has been completely cleaned out, looted. Her
clothes are gone, her luggage too. And the sheets, blankets, pillow covers,
anything at all that she might cover herself with. There's just a typed
note telling her: "Unlock the door, lay on the bare mattress of the bed
with your legs spread wide, and wait for instructions."

	He's in a similar room, but his instructions are a little
different. He's told to strip and exhibit himself -- to rub his penis
without coming, to 'do the pressed chicken' against the window, to bend
over and display his asshole until the phone rings. He's shaking with
nervous tension, sweating, but he goes through with it, intensely excited.
When it does finally ring, he gets instructions to pack his clothes, toss
in the room key, and put the bag outside with a note to the bell captain.
He must then call by phone for it to be picked up.
	He waits, and in despair hears the bag being collected. Now what?
	 There's a knock at the door. He ignores it.
	The phone rings after a couple of minutes. "Open the door, idiot.
There's something there for you," he's ordered. Cautiously he peeks out.
Hanging on the doorknob is a small shopping bag from Norman Marcuse. In it
he finds a pair of chromed handcuffs (with no key), and a sealed zipper bag
marked with her name. He's to put the handcuffs on, behind his back, after
tying the other bag to his wrist. He does as he's instructed.
	 The note says that when he's ready, he must now go to her room,
either using the elevator or stairs. Nineteen flights! All he has is the
room number, no instructions or advice. Either way he'll be under camera
observation the whole time, it's made clear. He's told there must be no
running, and that he had better be showing off a good, virile erection when
he arrives. He doesn't have a room key any more. When he goes out to go,
that's it. It's simple: he must get to her room, or be caught naked trying.

	It takes him a while. It's not just the unaccustomed exercise that
makes him sweat and tremble. There's a great deal of sneaking and hiding on
the stairs. At each landing, there's a door to a freight elevator lobby,
and numerous close encounters with cleaning staff and room service coming
and going. It's 30 minutes or more before he is at her door, a long lonely
walk down the corridor to the end of the building. His prayers are
answered, it's unlocked and he bursts in. And there she is, on the bed,
masturbating, making the room fragrant. He sees the open windows, but
decides he'll have to ignore them. She sees him, gives him a tight grin of
encouragement, but doesn't hesitate a moment. She carries on rubbing until
she's on the point of coming, and urges him: "Quickly! Come over and look!
Sniff it, you want to!" She's in a frenzy and pleads with him to kneel and
lick her. As if he would have needed compelling. He buries his face in her
beautifully scented muff.
	In return? She has him lay down, then gives him a loving handjob
and sucks him, in full view of the open windows. And of course whoever is
over there, watching them. She knows about his celibacy, but figures he
really should come, before he bursts. She'd intended this to be a manual
job, but he's too frustrated, and ends up coming more quickly than she
anticipates, suddenly filling her mouth and squirting in her face. She's
not flattered, or really pleased. But she can't be angry, she understands
how he must be feeling.
	What next? He shows her the little bag. It has the missing key to
his handcuffs. And in it there's a pair for her, a different make, whose
key is presumably somewhere else. He puts them on her. The latest info,
they find in a cryptic note. The key to the two clothes bags and the claim
stub for their car are locked in the piano bench in the "Leonardo da
Drinkies" cocktail lounge, downstairs.
	That's why she finds she has been given a pair of high heels and a
collar and bow tie in this sealed bag. She'll wear those, but nothing else
in the lounge, a note tells her.
	It gets more complicated. The key to the piano bench, and to her
cuffs, will be found taped inside a light fixture, in the ladies' room by
the restaurant on the second floor.
	There's a choice, as always. They can stay in the room till late at
night before venturing downstairs, and hope that the restroom isn't locked
up. What are the chances? Slim. And will the bedroom remain unlit, or will
it be as bright as day? You know the answer.
	So, the choice becomes whether travel down all those flights of
emergency stairs or take the elevator, either way a risk with them both
nude. It's easy enough to guess. The stairs. There's no room key to be
found. It left with her clothes, an hour ago. When they leave, they're out
in public for good, until they find a haven of some sort. They sneak out of
the room together, and begin their long journey, cowering and sneaking down
the endless flights of stairs, nearer the heart of the hotel with every
step. Room service carts are on every landing, waiting for the service
elevator. They have to hide a couple of times as housemaids appear, lugging
more changes of sheets, fresh towels. They contemplate stealing some to
cover themselves, but she boldly scoffs: "No, not yet, anyway. We've  got
to show him how daring we are, haven't we?"

	At the floor where the ladies' room is found, it's quiet. Between
meals, there are few people walking around on that floor. They contemplate
a plan of action. How about both of them just rushing in? Not wise. So,
who's going to go? She should, but her hands are cuffed. And he's much
taller. Thoughtfully, a small stepladder is already in place in the
corridor outside, but only he could have been permitted to go and get it.
Even with the ladder and uncuffed she would not have been tall enough: she
couldn't reach that high anyway. Height isn't all. It's not a simple job.
He has to run the risk of standing on the ladder in the center of the
ladies' room and dismantling the unwieldy, heavy light fixture. The kind of
thing security guards do better than cellists.

	He's sweating profusely by the time he gets back to meet her in the
stair well, and hand over the piano bench key. Now, she knows, it's her
turn.
	She puts on the high heels, she already has the collar and bow tie
in place. Leonardo da Drinkies is a routine cocktail lounge, darkly lit,
decorated in maroon and plush. A cliched hotel concept bar. No customers
right now, a big relief. If there was a convention, it'd be a whole
different story, and she'd be in jail. The barmaid is on a personal phone
call, giggling away out back. BarBelle walks in naked, though she takes a
chance and minimally disguises herself by sweeping up a tray of drink
glasses from a table by the door.
	Now she must find some way of getting access to the piano bench.
	The problem, which she sees the minute she wafts through the door,
is simple, but huge. The empty glasses on the tray start jingling from her
uncontrolled trembling. There's a 300-lb. black guy sitting on the bench,
playing a slow blues on the piano. She edges closer, looking all around her.
	He's blind, but naturally he can smell, very well. She moves to his
side and waits, musician-like for a natural pause between two verses. She
murmurs: "Excuse me, sir, may I please disturb you for just a second?"
	He catches her scent. He chuckles, "I don't know dat one.
Sondheim?" then begins an improvisation about "I smells me a bitch's pussy,
nuff to make a doggy growl..."
 	She urges him to move, just for ten seconds. "No dice, sister,
less'n ah gets a taste of yo sweet thang . . ." It costs her a promise of
that, and a blowjob, before she's able to move him. At least five minutes
of total terror, expecting someone to walk in at any time. All that helps
is that he doesn't find her harmonica in the right key, and the trumpet
solo is brief: he comes very quickly. She swallows, and starts to wonder
about the calorie consequences of two blow-jobs in one afternoon. The bench
lid unlocks, the car key is there on its RentaSpamCan tag. And she is gone
without a 'thank you.'

	The bad news is: having located the key doesn't help them, all that
much. Now, how do they get the car? Her inspiration is to sneak up a flight
of stairs and find a house phone in one of the endless warren of fancily
named conference rooms on the third floor. Mercifully, the floor is
deserted. They are either streaking later than consultants like to work --
it's after 4 -- or the rooms are apparently out of use today. The phones
work, to her relief. They call, and ask for the car to be delivered to the
back entrance, by the laundry van loading dock, and promise a big tip for
the valet.
	It works just fine, except for two things. first, getting to the
dock requires some nice timing, to avoid being  caught up in the steady
stream of carts being brought from the freight elevator. There's a pause
for a cigarette break. They use it to rush through, hands clasped
strategically. They'll say they got lost looking for the pool. Something or
other.
	Oh, and the other thing? The valet is part of the plot. He has
taken the ignition key to prevent any escape, and they find they have been
duped: they only have a trunk key. She gives a cry of despair, he practices
karate moves, rages at the gods. Then they get practical. What's in the
trunk? The clothes, of course! But when they open it, they've been cheated.
There are no bags. Only a few items of clothing, tossed loose in the trunk:
a diaphanous red silk minidress for her, a pair of ragged bibfronted jeans
for him.

	When they've retrieved these clothes, they quickly dress. Now what?
She points. "We've got to go back. The clothes must be somewhere. At least
we have, uh, something." She looks him up and down. "That looks
ridiculous." He stares at her, snorts. "An' I can still see your nipples
and snatch , sister."
	Trying not to giggle, they venture back into the hotel, trying to
figure out what to do next. Where could their clothes have been sent?
	Rounding a corner in one of the endless employee-only back
corridors, they're met by one of the immaculately dressed women from the
hotel reception desk. Tall, black, braided hair, thin and toned. "Hi there!
I'm Moira, remember me?"
	They blush, mumble.
	The woman tells them quite insincerely: "Of course you do. We've
been watching you on the security cameras for a while now. Well, I really
must congratulate you both on your bravery! How daring of you." She turns
to BarBelle and pats her shoulder condescendingly, saying, "Xavier said
'thank you' for your little contribution. Best tip all day."
	She pauses, then says: "May I help you with something?"
	"Where are our clothes, ma'am?" he croaks, trying to keep his temper.
	"Oh, they'll be returned to you in due course," Moira says
soothingly. "Is there a big hurry? No! But first, some formalities. I'd
like to invite you both to meet the GamesMaster. Ready?"
	They both nod, her a little uncertainly, him rather confrontationally.
	He has a penthouse suite, with its own wood-paneled elevator. The
basement exit is nearby, so he can get to his fleet of cars without
venturing into the regular hotel lobby. They step in. The elevator rises
quickly, but stops at some intermediate point, a dimly lit  bare lobby on a
unnumbered floor. Moira invites them to step out for a moment: "I'd like
you both to undress again, since the master will prefer you both to be nude
for safety and esthetic reasons." They shrug, thinking why not, and strip
their few clothes off. Moira tosses the clothes into a waste container. She
produces handcuffs, collars, and leashes. They help each other, and the
final tightening-up touches are performed by Moira, who takes their leashes
in hand and leads them back into the elevator. It continues its rise.
	The doors open, and light floods in. They're in a penthouse suite,
tall glass windows all around, with a spectacular panoramic view of the
city. If the truth be told, it's not much to look at. Legoland in a sandbox.
	And now, they finally meet him. A small, immaculate figure in his
early fifties with a long ponytail, dressed all in black. Secure in his
power, his devilish charisma. He inspects them, seeming amused at their
obvious relief in finally being seen in public after hours of skulking.
	It's a hands-on inspection, with many rude comments. Him first,
then her. He takes the time to rub him erect, and samples how juicy she is.
	When the GamesMaster is through touching and prodding them, he
points out a stairway leading to the roof garden. "Up you go." They climb,
with him following. There, surrounded by a circle of spotlights, cameras,
there's a huge bed. And round it there's a semi-circle of chairs, populated
by a group of women friends of his. They're all well dressed, some in
business suits, some in cocktail dresses. Only this unfortunate duo is
naked. They stand blinking in the late afternoon sun, bound and helpless.
The women clearly expect to see them fuck, and aren't shy about saying so.
	Luckily, this plan appeals to both, greatly. They're very  aroused
and reckless now. Though actually doing it in handcuffs presents many
interesting logistical challenges that set the women into fits of giggling,
and prompt some advice and hands-on help from a couple of them.
	As they sweat and grunt on the bed, they're also challenged about
how committed they are to exhibitionism, or other kinky ideas. "Its just a
one-time dare," one woman sneers, "they're amateurs," as they furiously
slam away. "Yeah? Try us," he dares, and BarBelle is just as reckless in
her defiance.
	The GamesMaster won't be challenged in his own kingdom, and they
really should have known better than this. He intervenes after they've
come, and are still panting on the bed.
	"Oh, you both have a bad attitude problem, I see. Then I shall
indeed 'try you,' you dirtbags. Leona? Violet? Cuff these two together,
back to back, and drop them off on the corner of Billie Holliday Blvd and
Medgar Evers St., just by the Pink Octopus Lounge, where that burned out
pawn shop is, you know the one . . . yes, the part we used to take as a
shortcut. Right, the area they call Riotland Themepark. Decorate her with a
few felt-tip suggestions about how much she likes to fuck and suck, and
chain them to the fire hydrant. Let's see if some of our drug dealer
friends want to play with them, shall we? Well, it's less 'if' than 'how,'
huh?"
	"No!" she squeals, "you can't do that!"
	"Oh, really?" he chuckles. "Let me see how you propose to stop me
then, you dumb cunt."
	She falls to her knees and sobs: "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."
	"Right. You just have a mouth as big and sloppy as your slit. So
then, show me how committed you are. Offer me a substitute dish," she's
told with a dry laugh.
	She begs, "I'll do anything."
	"Oh, shit. Not that old line. And anyway,  be logical. What if what
I really want -- most of all in the world -- is to send your silly white
twat to Riotland, and get it gangbanged?"
	"Oh, Jesus . . ." she sighs, in total despair.
	"What can you do?"
	"Do?"
	"To entertain me, not sexually, some other way."
	"Uh, you mean . . .like . . . dance? Or, I play the cello?"
	"Well, this is Texas, honey. Pedal steel or dobro, now, and you'd
have been boogying on down. But, cello, hmm, that's cool. Ha. I might let
you perform at my nightclub. Dancing, I mean. And ballet is very, very
cute. Nude would be a twist. Yes, we could rig the parallel bars so they
face the audience, and have you doing splits and leg stretches and stuff,
making kissy faces and squelching noises with that fuckhole of yours. Cool!
Do you have any dumb bitch friends who are persuadable, who might want to
play? A nude string quartet, how about that? Topless, at least. That would
be something to strive for . . . some good tit-jiggling music like Mozart .
. . and a fuckable nude slut exhibiting herself. . .."
	"Oh, God. I . . .Yes,  I'll try, sir." Had she gone to Juilliard
for this?
	"Try very hard. But what can you do for me now?"
	"Well, would you let me be your sex slave?"
	He yawns. "Oh, my word. How boring. No, I have plenty of them
already," he gestures at some of the women there. "So many around here, we
have to flare them."
	"Well, uh . . . You can . . . punish me?"
	"Yes, I can. Oh, I see what you mean. You're volunteering. Well,
that might work. Yes, you're rather schoolgirlish. I think you'll appeal to
some of my Japanese business guests. I could find you a school uniform, and
put you on the schedule for spanking regularly. Oh, and what about you,
fattie?"
	"I don't know."
	"Neither do I! Well, face it. You're just not my type, darling . .
. Never saw the point of hillbillies. So, uh, let's say for now we'll just
keep you around for personal hygiene jobs relating to this scrumptious
young lady, or my other lady friends here. Save on toilet paper, can't we?
Perhaps we can loan you out by the hour to desperately horny women who
aren't very fussy about what fucks them, so long as it has a dick attached.
Yours is a fair size, and it has the advantage of being lily-white,
imported and disease free, which counts for something with aging cunts in
this town, after all the bad scenes of the past few years."
	BarBelle is looking nervously around, while J. Cache is just
bemused and angry.
	"Okay, well, there's no sense in wasting time. Moira," he beckons,
"Give the slut some maryjanes and long white socks. And Leona . . ."
Another woman scurries to his side. "Two number 12 paddles, please."
	The two rush away, return in a minute or two. BarBelle is given the
socks and anklestrap shoes to put on. Her hair is tied up with pink
ribbons. She asks nervously: "What's this for?" She's ignored, gets a
little teary-eyed. Looks the part even more.
	The GamesMaster has had some other helpers place two high-backed
chairs on a little stage at the side of the roof garden, and move some of
the lights and cameras from the bed. The chairs face each other, three feet
apart.
	"Over here, you two. You were both warned that if you were caught,
or if there was any misbehavior, that you would be punished. Correct?"
	"Yes, but . . ." they both begin, rather anxiously.
	"But, nothing. I have detected defiance, anger, bitterness. I
required celibacy, and you both came. And I believe I heard the young lady
herself say just now that I could punish her. So, I will exercise that
option."
	They're both looking at him, struggling for words.
	The GamesMaster stares. "You have a choice. Submit to a proper
punishment, or be dropped off, just as you are, at um, the Plano Mall will
do. That'll mean arrest for causing a riot, overnight jail, public
notoriety, fines, who knows what else? Or . . . this?"
	He sits on one high-backed chair, Moira sits on the other, and
wriggles her tight skirt up to the top of her thighs. They both have huge
leather spanking paddles in their hands.
	"Over her lap, redneck," The GamesMaster commands, with all the
charm of a shark about to engulf its prey. "And you, my dear, put yourself
over my knee. This way, so you're facing him."
	They obey, hesitantly. There seem to be more people present.
There's no doubt why, he realizes, as the elevator pings and another
half-dozen women step out. It's been back and forth a few times, he thinks.
Moira positions him so his erect cock is trapped between her thighs, gives
him a few gentle squeezes. She whispers: "Enjoy it, that's as close as
you'll get to heaven today." He gasps. She pats his backside with her hand.
"Oh, are you going to be sore tonight, cowboy!"
	"Just a few guests," Moira tells them both. "And I hope you'll both
be brave, and very grateful."
	The GamesMaster is stroking BarBelle's small round backside. It's
almost boyish, she's so toned.
	"Hmm, this is nice. You know, I might want to try you on for size,
after all. You're a very fuckable little munchkin. Your asshole must be
deliciously tight . . ." He puts his little finger in it.
	"Yes, please . . . please. I want you to," she babbles. "Fuck me,
but don't spank me . . ."
	"Fucking comes later. Spanking first. Why so scared? Did your
parents used to spank you, pretty thing?" he asks her.
	"No sir."
	"Oh, very bad. And at school?"
	"I went to a prep school, then a liberal arts college."
	"Oh, dear. You poor thing. So have you never been spanked?"
	"Well, I had a boyfriend once, who uh, gave me a couple with his
hand . . ." she pleads.
	"A couple!? a boyfriend? That hardly counts unless you tell me you
came like a freight train, broke the bed, woke up the neighbors, tripped
the smoke detector, set the dogs barking . . ."
	"No, nothing like that," she sobs in frustration.
	"Well, then . . ." He brings his paddle down with a huge 'whack',
across both buttocks. She stiffens, lunges, but he has her firmly pinned to
his lap. Besides, her handcuffs are still on. Moira lets J. Cache have his
first stroke, too. She's very strong, and the force of it startles him, and
brings a loud yell of surprise. Both victims exchange 'calves at the
slaughterhouse' looks. There's a little round of applause. There must be
thirty women watching. Waitresses are circling with drink trays and snacks.
A few flashbulbs pop.
	"Enjoy! It's happy hour for almost everyone," the GamesMaster says
loudly. "But quite the opposite for our foolish guests, here." There's
polite laughter.
	"How many, sir?" Moira asks with a big grin.
	"Yes, we should decide. Well, the same for both, of course," he
muses aloud. "And, hmm, they seem pretty resilient . . ."
	Whack, another blow while he's thinking. And another. Moira does
the same.
	"And they've not been very humble or obedient. No." Whack.
	"Lots of faults, for both of them." Whack.
	A long pause.
	"I'd say . . . oh, three dozen?" He suggests.
	BarBelle's tiny cry of protest is stifled by another firm whack.
	Moira pounds J. Cache's buttocks and says with a shrug: "I'd do
more. But hey, we'll see."
	"Quite. If they're not very sore and sorry, tearful, and quite
contrite about their sins, we can always add a few more, until they are.
And perhaps a bonus for her. Would you like it if I let you give her
another couple of dozen with the cane later?"
	"Like it? I'd love it," Moira sighs. And there's a buzz of happy
audience reaction.
	"N o o o!" moans poor BarBelle.
	"Your favorite, I know, Moira. You love putting stripes on women's
asses."
	The woman purrs. "Thank you. She's very cute. A spoiled little girl
who's never been spanked or caned deserves a good catch-up session, doesn't
she? Nice and sore. Lots of tears."
	"Oh, she richly deserves it. I think she'll come," he tells
everyone, happily. "I feel it in her movements. Not at all subtle, I'm
afraid."
	"What about him?" someone calls out.
	"We'll think of something," the GamesMaster assures them. "Or, you
all can!"
	"Start the count now, sir?"
	"Yes. And make it hard. Leona, Violet?" he summons. "Have some gags
ready, just in case they get too vocal." He strokes BarBelle's reddening
backside. "How romantic. This lovely ass is going to be the same color as
the sunset, in just a little while." To the west, through blinked-back
tears, the angry red sky gives her something fresh to think about.


Copyright (c) 1997, MrSpraycan.
	Mr.Spraycan's homepage is at: <http://www.sinewave.com/spraycan>






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