Message-ID: <804eli$9705141646@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: Path: qz!news.accessus.net!not-for-mail X-Path-Preload: news.accessus.net preloaded to thwart rogue canceller there Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking,alt.sex.stories,alt.sex.stories.moderated Subject: STORY: Seductions 6/Mr.Spraycan Disclaimer: Adults only. 'Not much, if any' resemblance to real or historic persons, places, etc., is intended. Copyright (c) 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its author, Mr.Spraycan, 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: for much more 'stuff.' Note: Continuation w/overlap from "Seductions: 1," to be found free at the website (5/5 thru 5/15 only.), and Pts. 2 through 5, filed here and there. Let's move to the close with this phase of Maria's little tale. She's been good, hasn't she? It's just started, though. Enough giveaways. To read the rest, join the Club. SEDUCTIONS 6 Now, I'm sure no one's really interested in hearing a blow-by-blow account of me paddling and caning darling Maria's pristine, lovable pussy. Too dull. So, I'll just summarize the highlights. First, it took quite a while. Why? Because I'm an evil sadist, a nasty old guy who likes inflicting pain? No, not really. Though I don't mind at all when the recipient is completely willing, to be honest. Consent is the key! No, here's the real reason: because this wilful young lady kept coming, and urging me furiously to carry on. Even when I became just a little alarmed at how red and swollen her labia were getting -- starting to look like a kid's lifejacket! -- she begged for more. Why do some women go for this kind of abuse, while others look at you as if you are completely nuts to even suggest it? I've never been entirely clear. If you ask a 'victim' afterwards, you don't get a very coherent answer, usually. Just some stuff: about always wanting to try it, women have more tolerance for pain, everything's an erogenous zone if you want it to be, and any zone can be stimulated by pain just as well as pleasure. All partial or non-answers. I don't think most of them know. It just feels right, that's all. But who cares why? I have developed a very good eye for spotting the women who enjoy being dominated, long before they take their pants down and put their legs in the air. So had I figured Maria from Day One? No, to claim that would be a lie. I'd seen her as a juicy, just-past-teenage fuck, maybe with potential for some of my kind of polite macho hanky-panky. But a raving out-and-out pain-freak? Nope, didn't suspect. In her case, was it a Greek thing? No, because in my European student days, I had several girlfriends from the mainland and the islands, and none of them showed the slightest inclination to this kind of thing. Frankly, I'd been more prepared for the kind of 'me, me, me' tempetuous egocentrism of the lovely Maria Callas, or Nana Mouscouri than this . . . What to call it? This "Story of Omicron" outcome . . .? Never look a gift whore in the snatch, they say. But here I am, looking. So, I busily paddled and caned, following the dictates of my own instincts, and her earnest pleas for more. Her ass was soon a beautiful crimson, from the backs of her thighs all round the curve of her buttocks. I made sure it got some nice red lines crisscrossing it too, and a nice dense pattern on the insides of her thighs, right up to her bloated pussy lips. Oh, let me not pretend. It wasn't all 'more, more, more.' No, there were tears, some pleading for me to give her a break, even some red-faced shame after her first very loud, writhing orgasm, when she spontaneously pissed, sending a delicate little fountain in the air. For that, of course, she needed to be punished more. Said so herself. And, so she was. A few times as I lay into her, I have my doubts. But I sense this is going the right way. She'll emerge with total devotion, trained to obedience ... more fuckable than ever, if I do it right, and don't disappoint her. That's the rationale. And it's reinforced by the gooey drools of pussy juice she's squeezing out. The paddle makes them splash and splatter. Several times, I let her lick it clean, so she can see how filthy she is becoming. We're well along with her paddling when an idea crosses my mind. It would be a shame to waste all that enema work, I decide. So I finally release her, let her stretch and massage her legs and arms, dry her eyes, wipe her face. She's sore from the spanking, and I give her some creme to spread on her backside and vulva. It probably helps a bit, but she's still as red-assed as a baboon -- a very cute baboon, though -- when she walks in front of me to the living room. I take time for a little preparation while she stands at my desk and looks over a draft contract I already prepared for her. I hear her gasp a couple of times, and it's not just from her unconscious stroking of her livid buttocks. I ask for total control in my contracts, which are very short. "Ready?" I ask her. "Yes, where's the pen?" she says with a tearful smile. "Later. I mean for this," and point to the center of the room. She looks puzzled, then alarmed. But walks over to my side and looks up at what I've been doing. The previous owner of the apartment had some damned great heavy light fixture, maybe even one of those seventies dangling basket chairs. Who knows. Because there's a huge hook embedded in the ceiling, bolted right through a roof beam. It's strong enough to support my weight. I tried it months ago. From it now hangs a long steel chain, ending in a pair of heavily padded cuffs. And positioned under the hook, a small sturdy table I sometimes used for early model laser printers, until they got smaller and lighter. I have Maria climb on to the table. It's about five feet long, two feet wide. Stands the usual thirty or thirty six inches high. I get her to stand with her feet widely separated, placed at either end of the long axis. Then I take some lengths of heavy rope, and wind them first round each ankle, then round both legs of the table at each end. When I'm sure she's securely attached, I climb up on a chair next to her. She's looking rather nervous, but I think she knows what's coming. I have her lift her hands, and buckle them into the cuffs. "They're suspension cuffs, darling, they won't cut off your circulation too quickly. And they won't cut into you," I reassure her. There's a lot of slack in the chain, which seems to puzzle her, because she's jingling it, perhaps suggesting I ought to tighten it up. No, I don't. I climb down. Now I walk behind her and take her by the hips and slowly draw her back. She gives a little cry of alarm. "Don't panic, this is perfectly okay," I soothe her. Her backside is now sticking out nicely, and I bear down on her hips, saying "Relax, you won't fall. Down you come, Maria," forcing her into a deep squat, and watching the chain pull tight and take her weight as her body sinks. I see it'll be difficult for her to get up, though I suppose she could if she hauled on her chain hard enough. But with my hands on her hips, she won't get far. What a neat position! Ankles wide, knees spread, up level with her face, arms straight up high over her head, her ass and underbelly wide open. She's shivering with nervous tension. Fear? Yes, but some excitement too. I take a spreader bar -- two feet of broom handle with leather straps riveted to each end -- and use it to force her knees open. "How's that?" "Oh, my God!" is all she can muster, looking round at me with big, scared eyes. This deserves some photos, which gives her some time to realize, and maybe enjoy, her predicament. I'm savoring it, because she looks so delightfully vulnerable in this position. Better than with her legs over her head, sunnyside up? Maybe. Certainly as good. I stroke her sore backside, feel her tits, play with her pussy a little, to let her see how helpless she is. Hold a small shaving mirror under her, and have her look down, which makes her give a gasp of amazement. "Never looked before? I don't believe that!" I tease. "I've got some nice photos of this to share with you, Maria." She blushes. "How's your asshole feel? Nice and open?" I ask. She nods, biting her lip. "Come on, Maria, don't be shy. Doesn't it feel like it would if you were going to take a poop?" "Yes, but. . ." she whispers. "But, no, because you're emptied out. That was the idea." She's dribbling from her vulva, a long stream of snotty-looking liquid bouncing elastically from her sticky, matted pussy hair. "You've been so good. So, now it's time to fuck you, Maria. Agree?" Another nod, a weakly voiced: "Yes. Oh, please. Fuck me." "So, what's it going to be? Holland Tunnel?" I put my finger in her vagina. "The dike's hole? Ha ha." She squirms. "Or Lincoln Tunnel?" A finger slides into her rectum, with little resistance. A second finger. I wriggle them. Her anus is tight, but she's ready. I feel her muscles contract powerfully. "Oh, baby! In there, yes. Go on. Do it!" she says, her voice trembling with emotion. "Yes, I think so. It's all squeaky clean, just begging for a good ream-out, isn't it?" She wriggles delightedly as I slowly push my cock into her. All the way, just how she likes it. Then, I start to fuck her, slowly and carefully, asking her plenty of questions about her early sexual experiences, her fantasies about public sex, her oral compulsions. What is it about being with another woman that fascinates her? I learn a lot before I get too involved, forget to hold back, and pump her ass full of spunk. Later, when she's freed, I head off an attack of clinging, lovey-dovey stuff from her. She's not very resistant when I suggest some more bondage. I make her 'earn' her dog collar by sniffing out and mouth-fetching various pairs of her dirty panties from hiding places around the apartment, with a few clues and prompts from me. A few other obedience games are played, involving begging and licking. And as a final touch, she's photographed drinking her celebratory champagne from a nice new porcelain dog bowl on the kitchen floor, on her hands and knees. She's sore, so we cuddle up for a while. We talk at length, and more of her confessions are heard. How exhibitionistic will she be? We've talked loosely about her being naked in public. That's good, because I plan on it. The nude beach, with her collar, that's a done deal. Then I suggest, one night, some 'walking the dog' games in the park, on a leash. That gets her so hot she wants to rub herself: but she's so sore, she can't. Dilemma. She tells me her fantasy about stripping, performing at a club for hordes of slobbering men, with the usual nonsense you get about "as long as you're there, baby." She's very wet, and I decide that, sore or not on her external genitalia, she's not too sore to let me fuck her. First, I have her do some sword-swallowing, then, to her intense delight, I let her straddle me, sitting in a chair, and get herself off at her own brisk pace, impaled on my cock. I'm determined to reduce her to a babbling, sweating, tearful wreck again. And, with a considerable help from her, I succeed. As we fuck, I introduce her to some comparative economics, picked up from an exotic dancer I met last year -- no, not a prongee for a change, just a social chat at the local car dealership. She was paying cash -- one big envelope of $1,000 bills -- for her top-of-the-line Merc. I leased, for tax reasons and necessity. "Tax, what's that?" she'd replied with a sniff. [After, I naively say to my buddy at the dealership: "Hey, isn't that illegal? Don't you have to tell the feds?" And he replies: "Ah, let 'em do their own dirty work. You're in business, someone gives you a shitpile of greenbacks, what would you do? And we couldn't sell a third the number of these high-priced cars if we depended on doctors, dentists and salaried buyers . . ." Yes, naive is the word. What about the paper trail? Well, there are lots of money drycleaning (not laundering) stunts you can get some middleman or lawyer to perform, for a fee, I learn.] Maria's hooked. Stripper, yes. She gets it immediately. No more dirty hair, aching legs, tiresome conversations. Oh, well maybe some of the above, but all of a much shorter duration. I tell her, as she cranks up to her tenth, maybe twelve orgasm, about an audition I'm planning for her, in just a few weeks. It'll be a premiere, a new talent intro at a rather nasty New York members-only club where they expect, uh, total grossness. She wants to know what, and I tell her that she'll need to get used to group scenes, several women, bondage, lots of show-and-tell. "Interested?" And? You know the answer by now. "Oh, baby, yes. Yes!!" Well, an easy $1,000 intro fee right there. And she'll still be mine, even after she's strutted and humiliated herself for the punters. Still good for all the fucking I can give her. Sweet Maria. This girl's going places, I can tell. (concluded in this venue) Copyright (c) 1997, Mr.Spraycan [Part of "Just Like Don Giovanni's Blues," provisionally the Spraycan Factory Outlet Club 'Choice Of The Month' for July 1997.] MrSpraycan's full service website: Adults only, and guaranteed to blow your mind . . . A place where you can get much more of this and other fine erotica. [ Via EDTec Anon Remail Service: ] -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /