sexstories.com


Introduction:

Sophie suffers a virus attack on her Laptop, and has to take it to the repair shop. She forgot about all her special, personal files being on there, and got an unexpected upgrade.
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.
2 comments

KatieKittyKatReport

2013-02-02 18:32:18
Well Anonymous, that would be someone who grew up with the word during her formative years, and for whom Winky still has a very strong sexual connation. It is also used by people with an extensive vocabulary which isn't limited to either pussy or cunt as the only descriptives for the female sex organs.

anonymous readerReport

2013-01-27 17:47:12
Wow.... really stupid. Smelly winky? Who uses winky as a word for pussy? Stupid.

SUBMIT A COMMENT
You are not logged in.
Characters count: