Helena
05-24-2007, 10:20 PM
Slick and Slippery
Richard is a retired Navy SEAL. He owns a successful nightclub that complements his addiction to nighttime chats with me on the internet and telephone, and agrees with his appetite for women, his management style, and his dominant personality. He has a perfect goatee. It frames his oval face so beautifully. He slicks his dark brown hair back so it lies pulled back from his face. He has brown eyes. He has a body full of muscles that he works on daily at the gym, and he carries himself with an air of confidence.
Richard is a mixture of danger and pleasure. It is dangerous to fall for him, because he does not believe in “relationships.” When he pursues his women, brief though it may be, he will go to the ends of the earth for her. He stirs every woman’s sense of longing by being the ultimate female-fantasy figure; he makes every woman feel appreciated, beautiful, and desired. He is also disloyal, dishonest, and amoral, and he has a string of ex-wives to prove it; but somehow these character traits only add to his appeal. I have not met Richard in person: we chat late at night on the computer using instant messaging. We have spoken on the phone a few times, and shared our sexual fantasies.
Richard has awakened a desire in me by figuring out an unrealized fantasy I have about tickling. He likes different kinds of bondage, and teases me constantly about making my fantasies come true. He has created a temptation for me: a glimpse of pleasures to come. Having him describe the tickling he will give me is enough to give me an orgasm. He clouds my power of reason. He makes me dream of a day filled with adventure and romance. My friends say that I have completely confused desire and reality. His glance, his voice, and attitude charge me with sexual desire. He gets under my skin, and raises my body temperature. My morality, common sense, and concern for anything beyond today have melted away because I lust for him.
He wants to meet in real life. I just sent him a photo of me that I took today while I was bored, and now we are on the phone. He has successfully seduced me. I am completely isolated from any distractions. I yearn to explore my dark side, and he creates the excitement of fear in me. I want to go beyond polite and acceptable behavior without judgment from anyone. I want him to help me do things that will later make me feel guilty and insecure. He will bind me tightly, and tickle torture me all over my naked body. He wants to hog-tie me, stretch me out in an X, gag me, blindfold me, and ravage me. We agree to meet inside a nearby hotel in 30 minutes. I expected this meeting to happen tonight, and I was ready to go. I did not tell anyone that I was going out to meet Richard, because I wanted to have a secret wild experience. I wore jeans, a black sleeveless skin-tight top, some jewelry, and black strappy sandals. Underneath these garments, I had a few surprises for this man from Victoria Secret, but I did not dress in clothes I could not put in the washing machine after this night was over. I expected him to ravage me in every way possible. He had threatened to undress me by just tearing my clothes off with his teeth. He said he would tie me in all kinds of positions during various conversations we had. I was ready for anything.
The door opened. He stands three or four inches from me with his arms folded, in a relaxed stance, with his eyes focused on me. He is not staring at me; he is focusing.
“I have waited three months to meet you. No one will call us. Time is unlimited. I am exactly where I want to be, and I will give you what you need. Are you ready?”
I remained silent, but he was waiting for my answer. I enjoyed making him wait. I started to giggle a little. He took his cell phone out of his pocket, and turned it off. He took his watch off, and discarded it. He sat down on the hotel bed, and took off his boots and socks. Finally, he unplugged the phone that the hotel provided.
“I want you to give me the torturous tickling you teased me about. Give me what I’ve laid awake nights dreaming of.”
“To start things off, remove your sandals and lie on your back.” As soon as I was on the bed, he was strapping my legs apart. Apparently, he had time to secure restraints on the top and bottom of the mattress. My belly wanted kisses when he had secured my hands above my head. My arms and legs were in an X shape.
“Oh my god, you tied me so securely. I can’t move.” He was not listening. He was looking in his black bag, and taken out a bottle filled with scented oil. He poured it on my left foot. He rubbed it in lightly. The oil was dripping onto my ankles, and it drenched my entire foot from the top to the bottom. The scent reminded me of freshly baked cinnamon cookies; it smelled delicious. My left foot glistened.
He chuckled heartily at me. He rolled my jeans halfway up my calves. He settled into a comfortable position. With my foot slippery and slick, he began stroking the top and bottom of my toes simultaneously. His hands were strong; he enjoyed manipulating my toes. He spread them apart. He counted them. By exploring all over my foot and ankle, he found that certain parts of my foot were extremely ticklish. He enjoyed my giggles when he stroked those slippery places. I liked watching him do it. He was examining, inspecting, and studying my reactions to his oily finger exploration, so that he could use his tickling tools with maximum effectiveness. The tops and sides of my left foot produce different sounding screams from me than my soles.
“I can’t decide which tool to torture this foot with. I have plenty to choose. I had planned to use a comb, a brush, a scrub brush, and a key on the oily foot: but I like the way you respond to my fingers when I use them. So, it’s the ten-finger treatment for you.” I just moaned. I closed my eyes. My foot was luminous, and he oiled his hands well.
“Not the ten-finger…wait!” Richard had obviously done this to another victim before me. He comfortably positioned himself. He had tied me well. He gave my foot the tickle-torture treatment. It was intense, exhilarating, calculated, no-mercy tickling. His favorite places to exploit varied. There were spots that I begged him not to tickle. He did not listen to my requests. I thought I could not go on another second when I had lost my voice from screaming for mercy. I had never received “the oil experience.” I discovered that I was wrong about my threshold for tickling. I wanted him to stop when I felt out of control, and flushed, and I made involuntary noises. He re-oiled his hands, and drenched my foot again.
“I’ll die. Please stop. I hate you!” I had laughed and screamed. I had pulled at my bonds. My body, stretched and bound, allowed me to wiggle my toes and fingers. I could lift my head. Richard thought he had been too generous, because he did not blindfold me.
“Control belongs to me. Your flushed cheeks, and cries for help, compel me to push you forward.”
My foot is inordinately ticklish when slicked with this crazy cinnamon oil. My hair is soaking wet with sweat. The mad man obsessed with my left foot gets off on my struggles for freedom. Maybe if I cry he will stop. Before I could stage a good cry, I lost my thoughts. The ten finger, tickle-torture treatment re-commenced. My reactions started changing. He did a new technique on the sole of my foot. He used his nails to make little circles inside my arch, and raked my soles vertically and horizontally. My voice was hoarse from all my laughing and screaming. I was worn-out. I had tried to keep my giggles inside until this point, but now I had to release them. The more he kept up this technique, the more I released every giggle I had.
I began to forget where I was. My foot, and the horrid, tickle torture I was receiving on it were all I could think of. Stroking, raking, circles, sliding fingers, and his chuckles were making me moan with pleasure. I was a giggling, moaning, horny mess, bound securely to a bed. My legs began to quiver, and my feet felt hot. I felt a pull in my lower belly. The circles he began making on the top of my foot were driving me mad. My giggles and moaning combined: I could not distinguish one from the other. My face was burning with heat. My mouth was opening wider and wider.
“Richard, please don’t! Oh, no, don’t do that! Not like that. No circles. I’m done. Oh god.”
“This from one foot and some oil, tell me you love it. Do not say it. I can tell.”
I could not make myself stop orgasm. Bondage and orgasm mixed together with tickling is something everyone should experience. Being tied down took away all my control; I was unable to decide when my pleasure would stop. It was so intense I was certain I could not continue. However, he finished me completely, the little monster. My spasms were hard, and taken from me without my consent.
The rest of the night is a blur. :redheart:
Richard is a retired Navy SEAL. He owns a successful nightclub that complements his addiction to nighttime chats with me on the internet and telephone, and agrees with his appetite for women, his management style, and his dominant personality. He has a perfect goatee. It frames his oval face so beautifully. He slicks his dark brown hair back so it lies pulled back from his face. He has brown eyes. He has a body full of muscles that he works on daily at the gym, and he carries himself with an air of confidence.
Richard is a mixture of danger and pleasure. It is dangerous to fall for him, because he does not believe in “relationships.” When he pursues his women, brief though it may be, he will go to the ends of the earth for her. He stirs every woman’s sense of longing by being the ultimate female-fantasy figure; he makes every woman feel appreciated, beautiful, and desired. He is also disloyal, dishonest, and amoral, and he has a string of ex-wives to prove it; but somehow these character traits only add to his appeal. I have not met Richard in person: we chat late at night on the computer using instant messaging. We have spoken on the phone a few times, and shared our sexual fantasies.
Richard has awakened a desire in me by figuring out an unrealized fantasy I have about tickling. He likes different kinds of bondage, and teases me constantly about making my fantasies come true. He has created a temptation for me: a glimpse of pleasures to come. Having him describe the tickling he will give me is enough to give me an orgasm. He clouds my power of reason. He makes me dream of a day filled with adventure and romance. My friends say that I have completely confused desire and reality. His glance, his voice, and attitude charge me with sexual desire. He gets under my skin, and raises my body temperature. My morality, common sense, and concern for anything beyond today have melted away because I lust for him.
He wants to meet in real life. I just sent him a photo of me that I took today while I was bored, and now we are on the phone. He has successfully seduced me. I am completely isolated from any distractions. I yearn to explore my dark side, and he creates the excitement of fear in me. I want to go beyond polite and acceptable behavior without judgment from anyone. I want him to help me do things that will later make me feel guilty and insecure. He will bind me tightly, and tickle torture me all over my naked body. He wants to hog-tie me, stretch me out in an X, gag me, blindfold me, and ravage me. We agree to meet inside a nearby hotel in 30 minutes. I expected this meeting to happen tonight, and I was ready to go. I did not tell anyone that I was going out to meet Richard, because I wanted to have a secret wild experience. I wore jeans, a black sleeveless skin-tight top, some jewelry, and black strappy sandals. Underneath these garments, I had a few surprises for this man from Victoria Secret, but I did not dress in clothes I could not put in the washing machine after this night was over. I expected him to ravage me in every way possible. He had threatened to undress me by just tearing my clothes off with his teeth. He said he would tie me in all kinds of positions during various conversations we had. I was ready for anything.
The door opened. He stands three or four inches from me with his arms folded, in a relaxed stance, with his eyes focused on me. He is not staring at me; he is focusing.
“I have waited three months to meet you. No one will call us. Time is unlimited. I am exactly where I want to be, and I will give you what you need. Are you ready?”
I remained silent, but he was waiting for my answer. I enjoyed making him wait. I started to giggle a little. He took his cell phone out of his pocket, and turned it off. He took his watch off, and discarded it. He sat down on the hotel bed, and took off his boots and socks. Finally, he unplugged the phone that the hotel provided.
“I want you to give me the torturous tickling you teased me about. Give me what I’ve laid awake nights dreaming of.”
“To start things off, remove your sandals and lie on your back.” As soon as I was on the bed, he was strapping my legs apart. Apparently, he had time to secure restraints on the top and bottom of the mattress. My belly wanted kisses when he had secured my hands above my head. My arms and legs were in an X shape.
“Oh my god, you tied me so securely. I can’t move.” He was not listening. He was looking in his black bag, and taken out a bottle filled with scented oil. He poured it on my left foot. He rubbed it in lightly. The oil was dripping onto my ankles, and it drenched my entire foot from the top to the bottom. The scent reminded me of freshly baked cinnamon cookies; it smelled delicious. My left foot glistened.
He chuckled heartily at me. He rolled my jeans halfway up my calves. He settled into a comfortable position. With my foot slippery and slick, he began stroking the top and bottom of my toes simultaneously. His hands were strong; he enjoyed manipulating my toes. He spread them apart. He counted them. By exploring all over my foot and ankle, he found that certain parts of my foot were extremely ticklish. He enjoyed my giggles when he stroked those slippery places. I liked watching him do it. He was examining, inspecting, and studying my reactions to his oily finger exploration, so that he could use his tickling tools with maximum effectiveness. The tops and sides of my left foot produce different sounding screams from me than my soles.
“I can’t decide which tool to torture this foot with. I have plenty to choose. I had planned to use a comb, a brush, a scrub brush, and a key on the oily foot: but I like the way you respond to my fingers when I use them. So, it’s the ten-finger treatment for you.” I just moaned. I closed my eyes. My foot was luminous, and he oiled his hands well.
“Not the ten-finger…wait!” Richard had obviously done this to another victim before me. He comfortably positioned himself. He had tied me well. He gave my foot the tickle-torture treatment. It was intense, exhilarating, calculated, no-mercy tickling. His favorite places to exploit varied. There were spots that I begged him not to tickle. He did not listen to my requests. I thought I could not go on another second when I had lost my voice from screaming for mercy. I had never received “the oil experience.” I discovered that I was wrong about my threshold for tickling. I wanted him to stop when I felt out of control, and flushed, and I made involuntary noises. He re-oiled his hands, and drenched my foot again.
“I’ll die. Please stop. I hate you!” I had laughed and screamed. I had pulled at my bonds. My body, stretched and bound, allowed me to wiggle my toes and fingers. I could lift my head. Richard thought he had been too generous, because he did not blindfold me.
“Control belongs to me. Your flushed cheeks, and cries for help, compel me to push you forward.”
My foot is inordinately ticklish when slicked with this crazy cinnamon oil. My hair is soaking wet with sweat. The mad man obsessed with my left foot gets off on my struggles for freedom. Maybe if I cry he will stop. Before I could stage a good cry, I lost my thoughts. The ten finger, tickle-torture treatment re-commenced. My reactions started changing. He did a new technique on the sole of my foot. He used his nails to make little circles inside my arch, and raked my soles vertically and horizontally. My voice was hoarse from all my laughing and screaming. I was worn-out. I had tried to keep my giggles inside until this point, but now I had to release them. The more he kept up this technique, the more I released every giggle I had.
I began to forget where I was. My foot, and the horrid, tickle torture I was receiving on it were all I could think of. Stroking, raking, circles, sliding fingers, and his chuckles were making me moan with pleasure. I was a giggling, moaning, horny mess, bound securely to a bed. My legs began to quiver, and my feet felt hot. I felt a pull in my lower belly. The circles he began making on the top of my foot were driving me mad. My giggles and moaning combined: I could not distinguish one from the other. My face was burning with heat. My mouth was opening wider and wider.
“Richard, please don’t! Oh, no, don’t do that! Not like that. No circles. I’m done. Oh god.”
“This from one foot and some oil, tell me you love it. Do not say it. I can tell.”
I could not make myself stop orgasm. Bondage and orgasm mixed together with tickling is something everyone should experience. Being tied down took away all my control; I was unable to decide when my pleasure would stop. It was so intense I was certain I could not continue. However, he finished me completely, the little monster. My spasms were hard, and taken from me without my consent.
The rest of the night is a blur. :redheart: