hauntyourdreams
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Originally posted (in four parts owing to word count limits) on Master Paladin's Tickled Til Begging site 02/18/07. Inability to access forum posts since to see what readers thought encouraged me to join TMF, post it here, and see what members here have to say.
Cat’s-paw
I entertain myself in many ways. Spider was one.
His name wasn’t Spider, but he behaved as one, spinning little webs for the unsuspecting to be caught in. Couldn’t call his targets flies though. They were much more like fish, but calling him Fisherman ignores the web he spun so successfully around so many. Oh well. Mixed metaphors can be useful.
When he finally got around to me, Spider’s initial pick-up line was expected, but he was charming. I played along and enjoyed the flirting between us. He often commented on my shoes until the night I wore sandals. Then, his position in the game advanced to the next square. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear,
“I have a secret. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise that it will remain just between us.”
I smiled, and containing my derisive laugh, turned my head and whispered in his ear, “I’m very good with secrets. You see, I have a few of my own.”
So consumed by the possibility of conquest, Spider failed to suggest that we share secrets. I counted that oversight as strike one.
Still whispering in my ear, Spider said, “I have a fetish for female feet.”
“What a coincidence,” said I, “I have a fetish for men who worship my feet!”
One track minds, such as his, don’t register things fully. Instead of being surprised or pleased by my own admission, Spider upped the ante by adding, “I have a tickle fetish too. I like to immobilize women and tickle torture them, beginning with their feet."
Another oversight. Two strikes in as many minutes. At this rate, Spider would be out within the next 60 seconds, never even having gained first base.
I delayed my response. I was not ready for Spider to be out of the game. And it was a game. One I had seen him play with many women. I knew exactly how it progressed.
He would begin by casting his baited line, in a conspiratorial tone, “I had a dream about you last night. I don’t usually have vivid dreams, but this one was.”
Spider would then wait for the fish to take the bait. If she did, he would spin a tale of his vivid dream in which only the fish changed.
The eyes of the fish inevitably expressed her trust in this man who treated her as intimately special. Spider fed his ego on such expressions and continued the flirtatious dialogue until such time as the fish admitted that she too had dreamed about him.
Days or weeks might pass in much the same way after this revelation before Spider advanced to the next square of his game. The square we had reached tonight. That of leaning over to whisper to the fish, undoubtedly the same words he had whispered to me.
The response given to his “secrets” determined whether he had reeled the targeted fish in completely. From there, he would land her at will. His will. His game. His time table for when the two would leave the bar together to experience his dream of them together.
Sometimes, the landed fish would enjoy being special to Spider for a few weeks. A rare few for months. Most were one timers. The length of time didn’t break the rest of his routine. His interest would wane. He’d begin to cast his line for another fish. Should a former netted one cross his path, he would be civil a time or two. Then, he would make it clear that her presence was as desired as the smell of real fish left out too long, and he would snub her. Few acknowledged him again after such a snub, which was exactly what he wanted.
And, here we were. At the point in which he would know he’d reeled me in, arrogantly oblivious to the two strikes he held in my eyes and to my knowledge of his routine. I could give him a third strike for his arrogance and walk away. Or, I could continue to play his game and make it my own.
I chose the latter.
I smiled my sweetest smile and softly said, “You’re so charming. You always make me smile...”
He interrupted with, “Ah, you only say that ‘cause it’s...”
I put my right index finger against his lips, still smiling, and said, “Don’t finish that thought. It’s old and tired. And, if you finish it, I will have to consider that strike three.”
Finally, something I’d said during our exchange seem to register. His eyes showed that he was reviewing what had been said, what he had failed to note previously. He nibble-kissed the tip of my finger and I continued, “Don’t interrupt me again.”
I waited for him to indicate that he would not. He gave a slight nod as he continued to nibble my finger.
“As I was saying,” I began, “You make me smile with your words. I’d like to experience more smiles with your foot worship and laughter from your tortuous tickling. When shall we plan this get together?”
Without hesitation, Spider said, “How about now?”
His gleaming eyes showed that he was aware he’d reeled in his fish, that I, like so many others previously caught in his web, was ready to be landed.
The thought of how many humans throughout history had been brought down by their own arrogance amused me. The arrogant Spider gave no indication that he noticed the hard edge my eyes, smile, and tone took as I purred, “Perrrrfect,” and then whispered, “Let’s go to my place.”
We traveled in separate cars. He brought a small bag with him as he got out of his car and followed me to my door. I opened the door, switched on a light, and said, “The bar is to your right, adjoining the kitchen. Why don’t you fix us both a drink. I’d like a Scotch. Grab two large bottles of water out of the frig too. You’ll find a tray to put the drinks on with the bar supplies. Bring them and yourself into the bedroom.”
“And what will you be doing?” he asked in a playful tone.
“Slipping into something more appropriate, of course,” I replied as I walked through the den toward my bedroom. I rummaged through my dresser, left some things in my closet, picked up others, and walked into the bathroom.
When I exited the bathroom, I was clad in a long robe and stiletto mules trimmed on top with boa feathers. He was thoughtfully lighting the candles around my bedroom. I took the lighter from his hand and suggested that he too visit the facilities before we went further.
“You’ll find shaving cream and a new disposable razor at the sink. I dislike stubble scratching my face and other body parts, I told him.
While he attended to his personal needs, I heated a wet towel in the microwave.
“Would you like to be spoiled?” I asked as I re-entered the bedroom.
“Sure,” Spider replied, standing in his boxers and pulling items out of his bag.
“Well, lie down then and you will be.”
I wrapped the warm towel around his face and began to massage his chest. He closed his eyes. I moved my massaging fingers to his arm, raising it in a vee from his body.
“I think I should go first,” I said as I put his hand in a soft restraint attached to my very solid oak headboard.
Spider thought this was funny. He laughed as he said, “Do you intend to tickle me?”
“Oh yes,” I cooed as I restrained his other hand and moved to his feet.
Having him restrained as I desired, I moved the still-warm towel so that his eyes were covered. I put oil on my hands and massaged his body until it glistened. Spider was enjoying himself. I removed the towel from his face and wiped the oil from my hands with it.
“Would you like a drink of water?” I asked.
“How about a sip of Scotch,” Spider countered.
“No. I think water would be best,” as I slid one hand beneath his head to raise it up and used my other hand to hold the water to his lips, pouring some down his throat. I let him drink until he turned his head away and said, “Enough.”
Laying his head back gently on the pillow, I opened my night-stand drawer and took out a satin sash that was just wide enough to cover his eyes. This, I double-wrapped around his head and tied it with a knot above his ear.
All the while he smiled.
“Let’s see what tools you have,” I said as I rummaged through his bag and the few articles he’d taken out of it.
“Do you know what to do with them?” he teased.
“Are they complicated?” I asked “Guess I should stick with my own then.”
I pulled my mobile out of the night-stand drawer and attached it to the headboard, adjusting it so that its attachments just touched the top of his forehead. I then wound it up. It began to circle, teasing his forehead with feathers of varying softness.
I quietly moved away from him to pull a chair from the corner of the room and align it with the middle of the footboard between his two anchored feet.
I picked up my Scotch from the tray, sat down in the chair, and waited.
Except for the whirring of the mobile, all was quiet. I watched and sipped my drink.
Spider was stubborn. He held out longer than others had. But, after a while, his head began to move from side to side or up and down in an attempt to avoid the tips of the feathers swirling ceaselessly across his forehead. His movements were to no avail. He began to squirm, tensing his arms to move his torso and head away. He managed to shift position enough that he hit the mobile causing his nose to be tickled in quick succession by several feathers. He abruptly jerked, shaking the headboard so that his nose got quickly hit again by more feathers on the turning mobile. A slight laugh escaped his lips but nothing more. He returned to his previous position and laid still for a while before beginning to squirm again.
I shifted more comfortably in my cushy chair and stretched my legs out, propping them up on the footboard between his feet. I closed my eyes and drifted. The mobile would continue whirring for an hour. Most men gave up controlling their reactions after 20 minutes. He’d made it to that point. Once the half hour was reached things would begin to change. With the change, he would crack.
I continued to relax, feeling lulled by the gentle whir of the mobile as more minutes ticked away.
His taut, full-body jerk interrupted my lulled state. The mobile, which had been circling clockwise round and round had passed the 30-minute mark and begun to turn counterclockwise and back to clockwise in random shifts as programmed to do. He began to twitch all over, again, moving so that his nose got tickled often. He began to laugh softly and unwillingly as he struggled. He finally gave in to the sensations and laughed and writhed in abandonment.
I looked at the clock. Nearly an hour had passed. I decided to play the hour out.
I rose from my chair, picked up two towels I’d placed on my cedar chest earlier. I put one on my chair and took the other with me to the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind me. In the kitchen, I wet the towel and put it in the microwave to heat up. I grabbed the bottle of Scotch.
I returned to the room, the heated wet towel in a plastic basin. I put the basin on the floor, picked up the Scotch he’d poured for himself, and began to sip it as I sat back down in the chair and waited for the mobile to finish.
Spider was laughing and squirming so much, I doubt that my quiet re-entrance registered.
When the mobile stopped he was still laughing and twitching. His face and body glistened with oil and sweat.
I stood up, blew out all the candles around the room, switched on the light, which would conveniently shine directly in his eyes. I removed the mobile and then untied the satin sash from around his eyes. I raised his head much like before and gave him more water, which he gulped greedily.
When he’d had enough water, I used the dry towel to pat off some of the oil and sweat from his face and body. I followed that by rubbing over his face and body with the warm, wet towel, followed again by the dry. I put more oil on my hands and began to massage and tickle his body.
As my hands and fingers played along his skin in my own variation of a Mozart piece of soft and harsh, he continued to squirm and laugh. His eyes didn’t seem quite focused, as though they were still adjusting tot he change in light. After a while, he said,
“Enough! Please stop!”
“Stop?” I whispered, “I thought you enjoyed tickle torture.”
“I do, but I’ve had enough torture for now,” he gasped as my knuckles dug in at the bottom of his rib cage and my fingers began traveling across his abdomen, pulling at the waistband of his boxers with one hand and sliding the other up through a leg opening.
As a bulge began to appear, I looked into his eyes. They were fully focused now. I stood, untied my robe and removed it. I watched his eyes looking at me as it dropped to the floor.
I stood in front of him in my Merry Widow, short wrap PVC skirt, and stiletto mules. I kicked the mules off and bent over provocatively to retrieve black stiletto ankle-strapped sandals from under the bed. These I put next to his head. I then opened my top dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of sheer black stockings and long fingerless gloves.
I repositioned myself in front of him and pulled each glove over my hands and up my arms. I didn’t speak or look at him while I did this or when I placed the tip of one foot on the bed, picked up the first stocking, curled it into my hands and began to pull it over my toes, arch, and heel and up my calves, knees, and thighs. I attached the stocking to the front straps of my black-lace garter belt and then reached behind and beneath my leg to attach it to the back one. I picked up the second stocking, put my already clad leg down, propped my other similarly on the edge of the bed. I ran the stocking in my hand across his face and down his torso a few times before curling it between my fingers and putting it similarly on my bare leg.
I enjoyed moving my head, body, and hands slowly as I put my gloves and stockings on, allowing him to look at what ever parts of my body he might like, to fantasize however he chose.
I looked down at him as I put my leg down and sat on the bed, facing him, our hips just inches apart. My knees were bent and my feet alongside his body, between his head and chest. I picked up one stiletto sandal and put it on my foot, turning my foot slightly to buckle the strap around my ankle. I picked up the other sandal and shifted somewhat to put it on as well.
Spider’s breathing had become somewhat ragged. I could feel heat rising up and between us.
“I’ve never seen you wear those,” he croaked.
“I reserve these for special occasions,” I purred. “Do you like them?”
“Yes,” Spider said, gaining more control over his voice.
“What would you like me to do with my feet in these sandals?” I asked.
Without waiting for an answer, I shifted so that my bent legs were over his body. I teased his lips, throat, and torso with the stiletto heels. I shifted again, facing the same direction as he, as the stilettos moved just along the top of the skin of his torso and down to his abdomen, which I jabbed quickly with one heel.
Spider gasped. I rested my stiletto-shod feet on his abdomen while I stretched gloriously upward from my waist, lifting my arms and twisting my back and neck.
I then put my hands behind me as props and began to tease one stiletto heel around and under the waistband of his boxers, which no longer contained all they were meant to.
He wasn’t laughing now. I didn’t mind. He wasn’t meant to be. Besides, tickling per se is not my forte.
I began to debate with myself. Did I want this arrogant man who tossed out the same bait to reel in woman after woman to pump up his ego while destroying theirs? Would taking in such arrogance satisfy me in any way? Would he brag about his conquest? That was a part of the routine I didn’t know, the part he shared with other males.
While thinking, I began to play with his erection between my stiletto-shod feet, stroking up and down with my feet and ankles. I could feel it elongate and harden. I enjoyed listening to his ragged breaths and moans.
This was fun, but not satisfying for me. I was wet and aching. I thought about his conquest game. That is how Spider operated. Cast the baited hook and reel in and land the fish. Play the game to the end my passion said.
I abruptly stopped my foot caresses, reached across him to pull open my night-stand drawer and pull out a condom. A hand clasped over mine and pulled me up off the bed as another encircled my body.
“That won’t be needed,” came the familiar voice of my flatmate as his hands moved under my skirt and lifted me up so my legs wrapped around his body and my arms around his neck. He carried me to his room, where we passed the wee hours in repetitive bouts of passion and sleep.
At some point while I drowsed, he got up and released Spider from his restraints and told him, “My Cat likes to play, but I’m her favorite toy.”
The next time I saw Spider, he rushed over to say, “I’ve been dreaming about you. Let’s go to my place...”
I cut him off, laughing gently as I put my hand on his chest and said, “I know you did. I know you’ll continue to, but you were just a spider caught between my paws. This pussy belongs to another Tom.”
And I turned and walked away.
Cat’s-paw
I entertain myself in many ways. Spider was one.
His name wasn’t Spider, but he behaved as one, spinning little webs for the unsuspecting to be caught in. Couldn’t call his targets flies though. They were much more like fish, but calling him Fisherman ignores the web he spun so successfully around so many. Oh well. Mixed metaphors can be useful.
When he finally got around to me, Spider’s initial pick-up line was expected, but he was charming. I played along and enjoyed the flirting between us. He often commented on my shoes until the night I wore sandals. Then, his position in the game advanced to the next square. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear,
“I have a secret. I’ll tell you, but you have to promise that it will remain just between us.”
I smiled, and containing my derisive laugh, turned my head and whispered in his ear, “I’m very good with secrets. You see, I have a few of my own.”
So consumed by the possibility of conquest, Spider failed to suggest that we share secrets. I counted that oversight as strike one.
Still whispering in my ear, Spider said, “I have a fetish for female feet.”
“What a coincidence,” said I, “I have a fetish for men who worship my feet!”
One track minds, such as his, don’t register things fully. Instead of being surprised or pleased by my own admission, Spider upped the ante by adding, “I have a tickle fetish too. I like to immobilize women and tickle torture them, beginning with their feet."
Another oversight. Two strikes in as many minutes. At this rate, Spider would be out within the next 60 seconds, never even having gained first base.
I delayed my response. I was not ready for Spider to be out of the game. And it was a game. One I had seen him play with many women. I knew exactly how it progressed.
He would begin by casting his baited line, in a conspiratorial tone, “I had a dream about you last night. I don’t usually have vivid dreams, but this one was.”
Spider would then wait for the fish to take the bait. If she did, he would spin a tale of his vivid dream in which only the fish changed.
The eyes of the fish inevitably expressed her trust in this man who treated her as intimately special. Spider fed his ego on such expressions and continued the flirtatious dialogue until such time as the fish admitted that she too had dreamed about him.
Days or weeks might pass in much the same way after this revelation before Spider advanced to the next square of his game. The square we had reached tonight. That of leaning over to whisper to the fish, undoubtedly the same words he had whispered to me.
The response given to his “secrets” determined whether he had reeled the targeted fish in completely. From there, he would land her at will. His will. His game. His time table for when the two would leave the bar together to experience his dream of them together.
Sometimes, the landed fish would enjoy being special to Spider for a few weeks. A rare few for months. Most were one timers. The length of time didn’t break the rest of his routine. His interest would wane. He’d begin to cast his line for another fish. Should a former netted one cross his path, he would be civil a time or two. Then, he would make it clear that her presence was as desired as the smell of real fish left out too long, and he would snub her. Few acknowledged him again after such a snub, which was exactly what he wanted.
And, here we were. At the point in which he would know he’d reeled me in, arrogantly oblivious to the two strikes he held in my eyes and to my knowledge of his routine. I could give him a third strike for his arrogance and walk away. Or, I could continue to play his game and make it my own.
I chose the latter.
I smiled my sweetest smile and softly said, “You’re so charming. You always make me smile...”
He interrupted with, “Ah, you only say that ‘cause it’s...”
I put my right index finger against his lips, still smiling, and said, “Don’t finish that thought. It’s old and tired. And, if you finish it, I will have to consider that strike three.”
Finally, something I’d said during our exchange seem to register. His eyes showed that he was reviewing what had been said, what he had failed to note previously. He nibble-kissed the tip of my finger and I continued, “Don’t interrupt me again.”
I waited for him to indicate that he would not. He gave a slight nod as he continued to nibble my finger.
“As I was saying,” I began, “You make me smile with your words. I’d like to experience more smiles with your foot worship and laughter from your tortuous tickling. When shall we plan this get together?”
Without hesitation, Spider said, “How about now?”
His gleaming eyes showed that he was aware he’d reeled in his fish, that I, like so many others previously caught in his web, was ready to be landed.
The thought of how many humans throughout history had been brought down by their own arrogance amused me. The arrogant Spider gave no indication that he noticed the hard edge my eyes, smile, and tone took as I purred, “Perrrrfect,” and then whispered, “Let’s go to my place.”
We traveled in separate cars. He brought a small bag with him as he got out of his car and followed me to my door. I opened the door, switched on a light, and said, “The bar is to your right, adjoining the kitchen. Why don’t you fix us both a drink. I’d like a Scotch. Grab two large bottles of water out of the frig too. You’ll find a tray to put the drinks on with the bar supplies. Bring them and yourself into the bedroom.”
“And what will you be doing?” he asked in a playful tone.
“Slipping into something more appropriate, of course,” I replied as I walked through the den toward my bedroom. I rummaged through my dresser, left some things in my closet, picked up others, and walked into the bathroom.
When I exited the bathroom, I was clad in a long robe and stiletto mules trimmed on top with boa feathers. He was thoughtfully lighting the candles around my bedroom. I took the lighter from his hand and suggested that he too visit the facilities before we went further.
“You’ll find shaving cream and a new disposable razor at the sink. I dislike stubble scratching my face and other body parts, I told him.
While he attended to his personal needs, I heated a wet towel in the microwave.
“Would you like to be spoiled?” I asked as I re-entered the bedroom.
“Sure,” Spider replied, standing in his boxers and pulling items out of his bag.
“Well, lie down then and you will be.”
I wrapped the warm towel around his face and began to massage his chest. He closed his eyes. I moved my massaging fingers to his arm, raising it in a vee from his body.
“I think I should go first,” I said as I put his hand in a soft restraint attached to my very solid oak headboard.
Spider thought this was funny. He laughed as he said, “Do you intend to tickle me?”
“Oh yes,” I cooed as I restrained his other hand and moved to his feet.
Having him restrained as I desired, I moved the still-warm towel so that his eyes were covered. I put oil on my hands and massaged his body until it glistened. Spider was enjoying himself. I removed the towel from his face and wiped the oil from my hands with it.
“Would you like a drink of water?” I asked.
“How about a sip of Scotch,” Spider countered.
“No. I think water would be best,” as I slid one hand beneath his head to raise it up and used my other hand to hold the water to his lips, pouring some down his throat. I let him drink until he turned his head away and said, “Enough.”
Laying his head back gently on the pillow, I opened my night-stand drawer and took out a satin sash that was just wide enough to cover his eyes. This, I double-wrapped around his head and tied it with a knot above his ear.
All the while he smiled.
“Let’s see what tools you have,” I said as I rummaged through his bag and the few articles he’d taken out of it.
“Do you know what to do with them?” he teased.
“Are they complicated?” I asked “Guess I should stick with my own then.”
I pulled my mobile out of the night-stand drawer and attached it to the headboard, adjusting it so that its attachments just touched the top of his forehead. I then wound it up. It began to circle, teasing his forehead with feathers of varying softness.
I quietly moved away from him to pull a chair from the corner of the room and align it with the middle of the footboard between his two anchored feet.
I picked up my Scotch from the tray, sat down in the chair, and waited.
Except for the whirring of the mobile, all was quiet. I watched and sipped my drink.
Spider was stubborn. He held out longer than others had. But, after a while, his head began to move from side to side or up and down in an attempt to avoid the tips of the feathers swirling ceaselessly across his forehead. His movements were to no avail. He began to squirm, tensing his arms to move his torso and head away. He managed to shift position enough that he hit the mobile causing his nose to be tickled in quick succession by several feathers. He abruptly jerked, shaking the headboard so that his nose got quickly hit again by more feathers on the turning mobile. A slight laugh escaped his lips but nothing more. He returned to his previous position and laid still for a while before beginning to squirm again.
I shifted more comfortably in my cushy chair and stretched my legs out, propping them up on the footboard between his feet. I closed my eyes and drifted. The mobile would continue whirring for an hour. Most men gave up controlling their reactions after 20 minutes. He’d made it to that point. Once the half hour was reached things would begin to change. With the change, he would crack.
I continued to relax, feeling lulled by the gentle whir of the mobile as more minutes ticked away.
His taut, full-body jerk interrupted my lulled state. The mobile, which had been circling clockwise round and round had passed the 30-minute mark and begun to turn counterclockwise and back to clockwise in random shifts as programmed to do. He began to twitch all over, again, moving so that his nose got tickled often. He began to laugh softly and unwillingly as he struggled. He finally gave in to the sensations and laughed and writhed in abandonment.
I looked at the clock. Nearly an hour had passed. I decided to play the hour out.
I rose from my chair, picked up two towels I’d placed on my cedar chest earlier. I put one on my chair and took the other with me to the kitchen, closing the bedroom door behind me. In the kitchen, I wet the towel and put it in the microwave to heat up. I grabbed the bottle of Scotch.
I returned to the room, the heated wet towel in a plastic basin. I put the basin on the floor, picked up the Scotch he’d poured for himself, and began to sip it as I sat back down in the chair and waited for the mobile to finish.
Spider was laughing and squirming so much, I doubt that my quiet re-entrance registered.
When the mobile stopped he was still laughing and twitching. His face and body glistened with oil and sweat.
I stood up, blew out all the candles around the room, switched on the light, which would conveniently shine directly in his eyes. I removed the mobile and then untied the satin sash from around his eyes. I raised his head much like before and gave him more water, which he gulped greedily.
When he’d had enough water, I used the dry towel to pat off some of the oil and sweat from his face and body. I followed that by rubbing over his face and body with the warm, wet towel, followed again by the dry. I put more oil on my hands and began to massage and tickle his body.
As my hands and fingers played along his skin in my own variation of a Mozart piece of soft and harsh, he continued to squirm and laugh. His eyes didn’t seem quite focused, as though they were still adjusting tot he change in light. After a while, he said,
“Enough! Please stop!”
“Stop?” I whispered, “I thought you enjoyed tickle torture.”
“I do, but I’ve had enough torture for now,” he gasped as my knuckles dug in at the bottom of his rib cage and my fingers began traveling across his abdomen, pulling at the waistband of his boxers with one hand and sliding the other up through a leg opening.
As a bulge began to appear, I looked into his eyes. They were fully focused now. I stood, untied my robe and removed it. I watched his eyes looking at me as it dropped to the floor.
I stood in front of him in my Merry Widow, short wrap PVC skirt, and stiletto mules. I kicked the mules off and bent over provocatively to retrieve black stiletto ankle-strapped sandals from under the bed. These I put next to his head. I then opened my top dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of sheer black stockings and long fingerless gloves.
I repositioned myself in front of him and pulled each glove over my hands and up my arms. I didn’t speak or look at him while I did this or when I placed the tip of one foot on the bed, picked up the first stocking, curled it into my hands and began to pull it over my toes, arch, and heel and up my calves, knees, and thighs. I attached the stocking to the front straps of my black-lace garter belt and then reached behind and beneath my leg to attach it to the back one. I picked up the second stocking, put my already clad leg down, propped my other similarly on the edge of the bed. I ran the stocking in my hand across his face and down his torso a few times before curling it between my fingers and putting it similarly on my bare leg.
I enjoyed moving my head, body, and hands slowly as I put my gloves and stockings on, allowing him to look at what ever parts of my body he might like, to fantasize however he chose.
I looked down at him as I put my leg down and sat on the bed, facing him, our hips just inches apart. My knees were bent and my feet alongside his body, between his head and chest. I picked up one stiletto sandal and put it on my foot, turning my foot slightly to buckle the strap around my ankle. I picked up the other sandal and shifted somewhat to put it on as well.
Spider’s breathing had become somewhat ragged. I could feel heat rising up and between us.
“I’ve never seen you wear those,” he croaked.
“I reserve these for special occasions,” I purred. “Do you like them?”
“Yes,” Spider said, gaining more control over his voice.
“What would you like me to do with my feet in these sandals?” I asked.
Without waiting for an answer, I shifted so that my bent legs were over his body. I teased his lips, throat, and torso with the stiletto heels. I shifted again, facing the same direction as he, as the stilettos moved just along the top of the skin of his torso and down to his abdomen, which I jabbed quickly with one heel.
Spider gasped. I rested my stiletto-shod feet on his abdomen while I stretched gloriously upward from my waist, lifting my arms and twisting my back and neck.
I then put my hands behind me as props and began to tease one stiletto heel around and under the waistband of his boxers, which no longer contained all they were meant to.
He wasn’t laughing now. I didn’t mind. He wasn’t meant to be. Besides, tickling per se is not my forte.
I began to debate with myself. Did I want this arrogant man who tossed out the same bait to reel in woman after woman to pump up his ego while destroying theirs? Would taking in such arrogance satisfy me in any way? Would he brag about his conquest? That was a part of the routine I didn’t know, the part he shared with other males.
While thinking, I began to play with his erection between my stiletto-shod feet, stroking up and down with my feet and ankles. I could feel it elongate and harden. I enjoyed listening to his ragged breaths and moans.
This was fun, but not satisfying for me. I was wet and aching. I thought about his conquest game. That is how Spider operated. Cast the baited hook and reel in and land the fish. Play the game to the end my passion said.
I abruptly stopped my foot caresses, reached across him to pull open my night-stand drawer and pull out a condom. A hand clasped over mine and pulled me up off the bed as another encircled my body.
“That won’t be needed,” came the familiar voice of my flatmate as his hands moved under my skirt and lifted me up so my legs wrapped around his body and my arms around his neck. He carried me to his room, where we passed the wee hours in repetitive bouts of passion and sleep.
At some point while I drowsed, he got up and released Spider from his restraints and told him, “My Cat likes to play, but I’m her favorite toy.”
The next time I saw Spider, he rushed over to say, “I’ve been dreaming about you. Let’s go to my place...”
I cut him off, laughing gently as I put my hand on his chest and said, “I know you did. I know you’ll continue to, but you were just a spider caught between my paws. This pussy belongs to another Tom.”
And I turned and walked away.
This is a wonderful place, have fun here.
