Message-ID: <1678eli$9706251137@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Subject: STORY: "Seductions 10"/MrSpraycan Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: Standard Disclaimer: Adults only. This item is of fictional nature. All persons and most places in it are imaginary; no resemblance to real or historic characters is intended. No illicit behavior is endorsed or condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the idea. Copyright (c) is claimed 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its author, MrSpraycan who chooses to be 'anon'. No commercial use is warranted. For personal or entertainment purposes only. Do not retransmit or store in public archives. SEDUCTIONS 10 by MrSpraycan Wayne lunges at me, alarming Sophia and some passing 'green scrubs' people. They stand back, rather than participate. I guess that's how they ensure getting new business. Sophia shouts: "No!" but that's scarcely a deterrent. He's six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier, so he has all the advantage. Or, had it but didn't know how to use it. Now he's laying on the floor, singing a coloratura soprano part, doing some kind of New Age wriggling therapy, holding his nuts. I wonder what happened? I get his attention again by twisting an ear and rhythmically pounding his head on the floor tiles. "Yo. Some black dudes in clothes seventeen sizes too big were by looking for you earlier. I think they're waiting at the house." He lurches to his feet, backs away, looks around in a panic. "No!!" Intuition, call it that. He had to have partners from somewhere, and my guess . . . I have the Taurus keys in my hand, dangling. He grabs them with a crafty cackle and staggers out, mumbling something about "goddamn motherfucker." Oh, that's me, alright! I grab Sophia's arm, to stop her chasing after him. "Let him go. I can get a lift from here for us. But first . . .I have to make a call." Sophia pleads: "Stop him. Who knows what he'll do?" "How do I stop him, hon? People will talk if I keep grabbing him. He won't listen to me. No, just let it take its turn . . . Now, where's the library?" There, we find an old medical writer buddy of mine at work. Getting near the end of the day, and he's willing to drop us off back at the crossroads near my apartment. We talk old times, Sophia sits looking reflectively out of the window, holding my hand. There's a little bit of eyewiping, but I think she's really totalling up the insurance money in her head. We thank my pal, and go in. The phone's ringing, it's Maria, still at the salon. She's heard the news from a friend at the hospital. She sounds pretty calm, as she ought to be. "Wayne been by?" I ask. "No, but I've warned the front desk to call the cops if he does." "Attagirl. Stay there another hour, then come back here." "Why an hour?" Sophia asks as I hang up. Her clothes are coming off as she contemplates the foolishness of such a question. She pulls me to her, murmuring: "You are so greedy . . ." When Maria arrives, all abounce as usual, Mummy opens the door, naked. Neither woman is in the least bit bothered. I'm in the kitchen, fixing some food, similarly al fresco. We sit down to a pleasant threesome dinner, all nude, all in the mood for some more fun after stuffing our bellies. Is there anything more pleasant than nude dining? Why don't restaurants cater for it? The phone rings. We let the answering service pick it up. If it's Wayne, fuck him. If it's about Wayne, ditto. If it's anything else, it'll keep. I have two horny women to service and supervise, right now. Whew! This proves to be some evening. An oral Olympics, with a bunch of distance events thrown in. The two women compete to see who can impress me most with her lack of shame or restraint. There's a lot of masturbation, of sucking on my prick, of impassioned pleadings and vows. I decide that some bottom-warming would benefit everyone, give the evening some focus. So I arrange a feebly struggling Maria across her mother's lap, and ask Sophia to spank her very hard, handing her a fat wooden paddle. Sophia doesn't need any encouragement, and Maria is so excited she's trembling before it begins. I stroke and caress her breasts, kiss her tears away, while encouraging Sophia to spank on. Then, to preserve natural harmony, I have Maria cane mommy's ass, with the older woman kneeling on the bed, backside high in the air. When she's lashed her enough to satisfy me, I guide Maria's face down to lick her from behind, while I mount the younger girl. Everyone is filthy and sticky by now, and Maria is just as happy to tongue-tickle her mother's asshole as she is to lap at her well-fucked cunt, which is drooling spendidly: after all, I've had her three times since this morning, and she's been rubbing and fingering herself non-stop too. Like Maria, she is a dribbler on a grand scale. Changing the sheets is going to be a daily event here if these two take up residence! We finally collapse into exhaustion, arms and legs in a tangle, my head on Sophia's thigh. About 1.30 a.m., I get up to take a pee, get a glass of water. As I wander past, I check the voicemail. Oh, so that's what it was! Back to bed. Next morning, after a proper DG breakfast -- um, a lot of hot pussy on my face, a good brisk 'morning jog' fuck with both of them -- a communal shower, a newspaper, I check the voicemail again. "Could we find time, we are politely requested, to stop by at the coroner's office?" I tell them. The two women look a little gray at this idea. "Gregory?" says Sophia. "Again?" asks Maria. "No, Wayne." There are stunned looks, Sophia scowls for a moment. "Now what?" "He, uh, met up with some policemen who asked him about the car he was driving ..." "Mine! What, what happened?" "And he got abusive . . ." "Wayne!! Oh, that idiot!" "And, uh, they arrested him, took him back home to check his story with you, but you weren't there . . . found all that dope in a bag on the kitchen table ..." "Was that where it was? I thought..." "They say so..." "Is he okay?" "As okay as you get when you're shot in the back 27 times for resisting arrest...." "No! How!!" "Self defense!" "He was armed?!" "With a potato peeler..." "WHAT!" I think 'Hey, fucking dangerous thing if you're a potato...' But what I say is "I think I heard that right." "27 times!" "Would have been more, they shoot so badly. And they ran out of ammo." "Dead?" "My reading of the call, though the polizei weren't saying as much. But then they didn't say rush to the hospital, either. Look, I'll miss him almost as much as you." Maria is a little teary-eyed. Perhaps seeing the senselessness of another teenage kid left to go thoroughly wrong. Perhaps reflecting on some tender childhood moment, of non molestational flavor. Sophia is crumplefaced, shaking. She staggers out to the bathroom. There's wailing, loud noseblowing, a glass breaks. Just Pier One Imports junk, so no great loss. I finally say something. "Maria, I'm sure you can get a day off work. Tell Old Grumpy and the Witch what happened. Two early check-outs in one day in a family must count for something, even at a sweatshop." She nods. "And, uh, look after your mom, okay? She'll get over it in a bit. But don't let her forget what they really were like. Let her mourn them as they were ten, fifteen years ago. But be realistic, huh? They were a pair of shits, really." She nods, says quietly: "You're right. It's hard though, when it's your own family, to acknowledge that . . ." I say it's cool with me if the two women both stick around the apartment, but I do have some work to do. I go the the office, just to do the mail thing. Rain or shine, you have to deposit your checks, or you go broke. It's that simple. The phone rings. "Maria? No, but I'm expecting to see her later," I tell the cop who calls. "Did she leave this number? Oh, the salon knew? Yes, I guess they did..." "While I have you on the phone, sir, a few questions? Did you know either Wayne Arianopoulos or his father, Gregory?" "Not socially or anything," I say in my best bare-faced style. "I, uh, I am a friend of Maria's, so I have seen Wayne, and exchanged a wave . . . Gregory, was that the name? No, you know, I never did meet him." "A nurse at St. Expired's tells me that there was some kind of incident between you and Wayne yesterday afternoon. An argument?" "I, uh, wouldn't dignify it with the term 'argument.' He was very upset about his father, and I think harbored some resentment about me and Maria. Well, he lunged at me . . . so I stopped him. Then he left, taking his mother's car keys." "I see. Without her consent?" "Yes, of course. How was she supposed to get home? Walk? But she wasn't expecting the OK Corrall outcome . . ." "He went berserk, sir. Quite crazy. But I don't need to explain that to you, perhaps. It's hard to define excessive force when, uh, perps start running wild. But it is the subject of an official inquiry, so I can't say any more. Thank you for your help. If Maria should call, ask her to ring the station. I'm Sergeant Chopinski." Well, during the course of the day, there were several more calls, and both Maria and Sophia were interviewed. I'm sure I won't spoil things for you police procedural types if I say that the two deaths were later marked up as a "traffic accident" (100% true) and "resisting arrest" (a pretty good approximation, too). That evening, the two women both show up. They've retrieved the Taurus, tidied up the house, collected several bags of clothes, make-up, hairdryers, all that stuff. So I guess they're moving in for a while. Oh well. As long as the TV stays off and we skip the Garth Brooks, I'll be able to stand it. They're both a little cool, a little morose. Maria has, I suspect, had a glass or two of white wine. Sophia has stopped by the local "$10 Copayment Pill Dispenser, MD" and made herself artificially happy with something or other. I hear the old Rolling Stones song: "Mother's Little Helper" twanging away in my head. She's not zonked, but she's a bit distant, a little bittersweet. Shirley Macleanish. She tells me the police aren't pursuing any further investigations into Wayne's business dealings. Soon, after a coffee and cognac, and a quiet chat in the kitchen, they're both in a clinging mood. Now, my cock should be in a sling from the night before, but . . . what the hell. Don Giovanni is a tough name to live up to, but I'll do my best. I'd better! Tomorrow night -- I almost forgot! -- my friend Sally should be here. A colleague of Maria's from the salon. Just what they'll need to take their minds off the double funeral. I whisper in Maria's ear. She nods happily and murmurs: "Yes," to my question. She moves to Sophia's side. Sophia is looking from one to the other of us expectantly. I put my hands on her shoulders, kiss her deeply, letting her get used to the wrapping and probing of tongues. Maria is unzipping her mother's long black dress. I feel Sophia's compliance in every move. She's yielding, submitting, urging us on. I hold her firmly as Maria strips her, gently but professionally. Too much underwear, but Maria is an expert at this. Sophia is naked, and she looks very beautiful, all things considered. Quite well preserved, and certainly eager to be looked at. Then I tell her what she wants to hear: "You're looking good. I think you're ready for the whip tonight, darling." She pushes herself anxiously into my arms, murmuring: "Please. Yes, I am." "Now, remember. It will hurt," I remind her. "Yes, I want it to." Maria is looking at her mother with new-found respect. "I mean, hurt a lot, Sophia," I counsel. "I'm not scared. Will I bleed?" "Oh, I imagine so. Does that worry you?" She shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. "Come on then," I tell her. We lead her slowly into the living room. Tonight she'll be in a different position. She's made to stand on tiptoe, legs spread wide, her ankles in leather straps that are tied to little ringbolts, screwed into little threaded bushings recessed in the floor. Her wrists are strapped together, and held vertically over her head from the hook in the ceiling.. She's tensed, stretched, and accessible in every way. Maria is intensely excited, and when we've finished spreadeagling and securing her mother, she lifts her skirt, gets into her panties, and begins to rub herself. "I want you to do this to me, too," she tells me hotly. "Not for a while, Maria," I console her. "You need to be careful what you do. After all, you're in line to make hundreds of thousands of dollars as a nude dancer if you do it right. You don't want any welts or scars at this point of your career. When you do, honey, l'll be there for you, I promise..." She's disappointed but nods her agreement. And lets her panties fall to her ankles as she rubs on. "Sophia, though, is a different case. I think it's a sign of negligence, or lack of care, when women get to be in their thirties, let alone their forties, without a few good whip marks on them. A few fine lines, showing that someone cared enough, and, yes, that they wanted to submit badly enough. Proof of passion, if you like . . ." Sophia gasps: "Yes!" "So, I think we'd better give your dear mother a good whipping, so she can feel that she's catching up on what she's been missing. Front and back, sparing nothing. How does that sound, ladies?" Sophia is telling us her answer by humping her hips back and forth, the leather straps on her ankles and wrists creaking appealingly. And confirming it by the little snotty streamers of cuntjuice dangling from her labia and trickling down her widely spread thighs. There's a very appealing scent in the room, with both of them so busily participating. I select a few whips: a cane, a tawse, two or three riding crops of various weights, a cat 'o' nine tails. I show them to Sophia: "We'll start with these, but I have plenty more, darling. Lots of them much crueller. And we have lots of time, too." She says with a tremor in her voice: "You'll really use those? My god. They're so evil-looking . . ." "Oh, isn't that's the whole idea? And yes, I will. And Maria is going to get to take a few turns, too." Maria has stripped off her clothes, and is handling one of the thin riding crops. She comes over and murmurs: "Can I use this?" and begins to unbutton and unzip me. "Get naked baby, you'll be more comfortable." She's right. I'm very hard, because, yes, I sincerely like to whip women. It's not just because they get off on it, I do too. I'm running my hands over Sophia's back, squeezing her ass, patting her thighs. "We'll start here, of course. Your backside first, then work down your thighs. But we must put some nice lines across your back, Sophia, mustn't we? That's the sign of a proper whipping. Lots of thick red welts across a woman's back." I'm moving round her, taking one of her breasts in my hand, "Now, you understand, don't you? I have to whip you here too. It would be sad not to make your titties sore." My hands run down her belly, patting her gently, stroking the insides of her thighs. "And I have to whip here, of course. The skin's so soft, so receptive to the lash." My fingers find her shaved, wet genitals. "And of course, we mustn't neglect your pussy, darling. Your lovely, soft fanny lips. Oh, that will hurt." She gasps: "Yes." I rub her mons with my fist. "And we're going to pound this little treasure. I did it for Maria, and she was having convulsions, it was so good. Now we've gotten all that scruffy hair off of you, we can see exactly what we're doing to your beautiful twat. So, how can I resist paddling it. . ." I kneel and open her with both hands, pulling on her labia, rubbing her clit with my thumb, slipping a couple of fingers into her. She gasps: "Please." "Oh, don't worry, baby. You'll be very sore and sorry for yourself when we get through with you. I'll bet you'll never have felt anything like it. A few good strokes right along your crack, that'll teach you who's boss . . ." I'm in mock-ironic mode here, because they both know I'm not the stereotypical 'macho' thrasher and bullyboy. Maria is all over her mother, stroking, kissing. Putting her tongue in her ear. I grab her arm. "Come round here, Baby. Kneel down where I was, and play with her muffin." I take up the thin riding crop that fascinated Maria earlier. I stroke Sophia's ass with it. Then begin to thrash her, hard. I try to keep calm, and be precise. The red welts soon form a nice crisscross pattern on her buttocks. I work on getting an even, total coverage. Sides of her cheeks, the little bulge where her thighs meet her ass. Then, down her thighs. She's letting out surprised little squeaks of pain at this. Maria is rubbing and licking with abandon. The cat 'o' nine tails is next. I drape it over Sophia's shoulders, let its knots tug at her nipples. I trail it over her breasts, let her kiss the thongs. Maria looks on with envy. Sophia is a little tearful, but she sniffs and says in a choked voice: "Don't stop. I deserve it. For being such a bitch about . . ." I seize her chin, glare into her eyes. "I'm not whipping you because of either of those two spazzos, or your guilt about them, Sophia. I'm whipping you because you need it as a woman, you need it to get free of your silly suburban inhibitions, understand? Because sluts get whipped, because whores get spanked, because you need to suffer to get real. Get it?" She nods, eyes sparkling with tears. With a sob, she croaks: "Yes, I'm sorry. Whip me because I'm your slave, master." That, I can deal with. The first few blows to her shoulders have her twisting, lunging as though she's been jolted with electricity. Satisfying red marks. I move lower. This, I can make last. Her sides, a few to her ass. Up again. A couple of these whipmarks are livid. Is that a drop of blood there? Good. Now, round to the front. Will she scream when I put it to her tits? no, but she's got her eyes closed, head thrown back. Jaw clenched, teeth gritted, the tendons of her neck standing out. Beautiful in her suffering. I give her a few across the belly and thighs. She shudders, gasps: "You brute. I love you!" Back to her tits, and Maria squats and bites her mother's mons, hard. A heavier riding crop. Let's use it on her ass, but explore the insides of her thighs too. Sophia's sweating heavily now, a sure sign I'm getting this right. It's not that hot in here. She yelps a little loudly as I slice into her ass. I'm not counting, just judging by results. But she's had at least a couple of dozen on the ass with the heavy crop before she begins to weaken. I signal to Maria. "She's getting noisy. Can you find some panties? Yours or hers, whichever is dirtiest. And stuff them in her mouth." Maria can't decide, and crams both pairs in, and gags her mother further with a thin silk scarf. "Suffer in silence!" she says with a mean little smile. Turning to me she says: "My turn?" Back to the thin crop, and to Sophia's well striped thighs and belly. Maria has an agenda. "Don't say you love him, you old bitch. Don't you dare. He's mine, all mine," she spells out, raining vicious blows on her mother's pudendum. "He only fucks you because it amuses him to shove it in another cunt like mine. But mine is cleaner, and tighter, and juicier, and hotter, and don't you forget it." Every other word is punctuated with a stinging blow delivered with a sweep of her arm. "Easy babe," I tell Maria. "Don't get possessive. There's quite enough of me to go around. And remember, families that play together, etcetera . . . Be careful, she may be paying you back sooner than you think . . ." Maria gets a few more minutes of play, with the cat and a heavier crop. Then, handing them back to me, she says: "I brought a strap-on dildo. Can I fuck her?" "Dearest, of course you can . . ." I say, patting Maria's cute little rump. "How thoughtful of you. Asshole or cunt?" "In the front door for me, I think," Maria laughs. "Want to sandwich her? I'd like that. You don't mind her ass, do you?" Sophia is hanging in her bonds now, weeping. There are trickles of blood here and there. She has some huge welts and nasty red stripes crisscrossing her. Not much has been ignored. Oh, it's not as vicious a beating as I'd promised, but you have to start somewhere. There'll be other opportunities. I pull the filthy knickers out of Sophia's mouth so I can hear what she has to say for herself. "Fuck me," she says with great originality. What a novel idea. Yes, my cock is in car-overturning, pole-vaulting spirit. Burying this aching boner in this submissive woman's asshole while her delightful daughter rams a 14" dildo in her cunt, well, to me that's romantic. I'm sure that goes for all three of us, and I'm proved right a half hour later with a series of the most astounding contractions and a display of moon-howling from both of them. Copyright (c) 1997, Mr.Spraycan [Part of "Just Like Don Giovanni's Blues." 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