Computer Repair Shop

Credits: This story was written by Katie, and based on ideas from my friend Sophie.

CRS Computer Repair Shop

Sophie had been surfing some porn sites, looking for inspiration for her next Photoshop project,

when a warning message popped up from her anti-virus software. As usual, she pressed the button

for Quarantine and Delete, expecting everything to be cleaned up for her. This time, however, the

screen showed a high res picture of a pretty young girl, with an enormous cock stuffed into her

straining pussy, and a flashing caption that read “You have been fucked!!”

She couldn’t get it to close, there was no menu, no X in the top corner, Alt F4 didn’t work, task

manager wouldn’t load, and none of the shortcuts she knew made any difference. In desperation,

she got up and closed her bedroom window, though she never understood why closing windows

had anything to do with computers, and it didn’t this time either. It looked like it would have to be

the “last resort”, despite having been told by everyone she knew never to do it, and she switched

the power off completely. She made herself a coffee, came back to her study desk, and switched it

on again, hoping everything would be OK. It seemed to start up alright, with the usual messages,

not that she could recall what any of them had said before, then it launched a web based dating site,

which she couldn’t close down, just like before. After repeatedly turning off the power, and booting

up again, it looked like she was destined to search for love hopelessly, for the rest of her life.

In the end, she took it to the small repair shop she usually used for upgrades, where the cute lady

technician always made her panties wet when she leaned close to show her some new gadget, and

she was promised it would be ready in a couple of days. The next day the repair shop was ringing

her up, and the female technician told her there’s a problem she need’s to look at right away, so she

went down expecting a lecture for looking at porn. It was nearly closing time when she arrived, and

as she locked the door, Sophie realised that she’s alone, so there’s just the two of them. She took her

through to the back workshop, explaining how they have cleaned the virus OK, but she now wants

to discuss payment with you, at which point you notice that your laptop is running a slide show of

all your most extreme work. You apologise for the pictures, but she grabs your hair and tells you not

to worry, because that’s exactly how she expects you to pay your bill, with your disgusting wet little

winky, and you are pushed backwards over one of the benches. She ties computer wire round your

wrists and ankles, fastening you down on top of the components that haven’t been cleared away

yet, the sharp edges and corners digging into your shoulders, back, and hips. After cutting away all

your clothes, she fits a memory chip into your damp slit, 32 pins digging into the tender inner

surface of your sex lip, then she puts the heavy mounting block on the outside, and crimps them

together. You squeal as 32 sharp gold pins pierce your winky all at once, then again as this is

repeated on the other side. Your technician ties the component’s wires back so they spread your

smelly winky wide open, then she says you need to be fitted with an upgrade, and shoves a new

circuit board into your gaping hole, the connector bar scraping the bottom of your tunnel. All the

sharp transistors, and capacitors, that are soldered on to both sides of the board, scratch the tender

lining all the way up along your winky, till the end presses against your cervix. The tech says it

seems to be upside down, and you scream when she rotates it a half turn, ripping the delicate flesh

of your stretched winky to shreds.

She now takes a length of bare copper wire, and solders it to a vacant pin on the circuit board, right

against the entrance to your winky, but she keeps touching the hot iron against you, burning tender

flesh each time. Another wire is soldered to the other side of the board, towards the top, where the

soldering iron burns the upper edges of your inner lip, and she even trails the hot tip up to your pee

hole, which really makes you squeal. Every time you cry out, the cruel technician asks what your

problem is, directing your attention to the scrolling images on your laptop, saying that’s obviously

what you want, and it’s no more than a slut like you deserves. The two wires are now run up to the

blatantly erect clitoris at the top of your slit, and wrapped very tightly around the base and tip, in

opposite directions so that the ends come together at the top, with 10mm spare, that she sticks under

your clitoral hood, lifting it clear of the bound shaft. In order to complete the electrical circuit, your

merciless tech now begins to solder the two wires together, where they press against the middle of

your clit, causing excruciating agony. When she is satisfied that you are properly upgraded, she puts

three D cell batteries, you know, the big fat ones, into a container, connects the lead to your winky

circuit board, then pushes the batteries right up your tiny bottom. She says it needs testing first, and

turns a switch on the board, instructing you to explain what’s happening, and with a gasp you tell

her there is electric current running through your clit, three seconds later the current switches to the

inside of your abused winky, then your clit, then your winky again. Finally it stops for a minute, but

you say your clit is getting warm, then hot, and finally burning the sensitive nub till you feel it start

to blister, then again it switches between your winky and clit. When it stops, the technician releases

you from the bench, so you can stand up, but your clothes are hanging open where she slit them up

the middle. Taking a stapler from the desk, she staples the middle of each bra cup right through your

nipples, then pinches the skin on your tummy so she can staple the side of your torn panties to them.

The gusset still hangs down between your legs, exposing your tortured winky, so she fetches the big

stapler they use for putting up posters, the one with 25mm staples, and fastens one through each

edge of the material, right into the sides of your pubic mound. Your blouse edges are stapled into

folds of skin below your ribs, with the smaller machine, and your skirt waistband either side of your

navel, so now you are more or less decently covered up. When you think your torment is almost at

an end, the tech says your panties need tightening up a bit, so you part the split front of your skirt

while she uses the large stapler near the torn edge of your gusset, right in the centre of your pubis.

You squeal as a metal fastener pierces your prominent mound, then another just below it, and

another, till you have six staples in a row down to the top of your slit.

Handing you your laptop, the technician explains that your winky upgrade will cut in sometime after

you leave the repair shop, randomly shocking or cooking your smelly slut hole on the way home. The

batteries should last until bedtime, and you’re not to remove the circuit board till they have

completely run down.

Before you leave, she hands you a card with a date next month written on it, and you are instructed

to return just before closing for your laptop to be checked over, just to make sure the fixes are still in

place, and so you can return your upgrade equipment.