boy2tickle
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This is a sexually explicit F/m story, and a first-time effort. It contains elements of bondage, foot fetishism, female domination and orgasm denial. I mention this so that you, dear reader, understand what I’m into - if that’s not your thing, then sorry, this probably won’t be worth your while. If it is your thing, this story still might not be up to much - I’d appreciate constructive criticism on that front, but please nobody go calling me a fag for being into F/m, cos we don’t be hatin’, we be celebratin’. Yo.
*****
My heart was thudding in my ears as I answered the telephone.
“Hello?”
There was a silence on the line. Then, a delicious soft voice breathed in my ear.
“You mean, hello Mistress.”
Oh God.
“Yes, Mistress. H-hello, Mistress.”
“And are you hard, slave?”
In no more time than this had taken, I could feel I was.
“Describe what you’re wearing, slave boy, and be honest.”
I hastened to comply.
“A t-shirt, Mistress. Jeans -”
“Oh, gooooood.” She really drew the word out. “Nice and tight, are they?”
I grimaced.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Go on. Footboy,” she said, deliberately employing the name she knew made my cheeks burn and my cock throb.
“Uh, jeans -”
“You said those already.” I could hear her smiling over the phone, and the thought of it made me ache.
“Sorry, Mistress. Uh, boxer shorts -”
“What colour?”
“I can’t remember, Mistress.”
“You can call me Goddess, I’m getting bored with Mistress all the time. I am your Goddess, aren’t I?”
“Yes, my Goddess.”
“Your beautiful teasing tormenting… tickle Goddess?”
“Oh fuck.”
“What was that?” Her laugh was exquisite torture.
“I mean, yes, my Goddess.”
“Yes … what?” How she loved to humiliate me.
“Yes you are my beautiful teasing tormenting tickle Goddess.”
“Oh… so I’m not your foot Goddess, then?”
“YES, Goddess! Yes, you are my foot Goddess as well.”
Another pause.
“My my my, aren’t you a lucky tickle toy footslave?”
“Yes, Goddess, very lucky.”
“Tell me what colour your boxers are. You can unzip, but don’t you dare touch my cock.”
I did so, blushing crimson. Just my luck. I was wearing novelty patterned boxers, black with little pig designs on them. I described them to my Goddess, knowing she would mock me. Another peal of delicious laughter smote me.
“How wonderful,” she grinned down the phone at me. “Piggies for a piggy. And you will squeal for me, won’t you, Piggy?”
I shivered.
“God, yes.”
“Goddess!” The word was out like a whiplash and I cringed, even on the phone.
“Yes, Goddess. My apologies, Goddess.”
“Much too late for those, slave boy. Continue listing your apparel.”
“Uh… sneakers.”
“That’s it?”
I gulped.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“No socks?” Her voice had taken on a purring edge.
I closed my eyes. “No, Mistress.”
“Take the sneakers off, slave.”
She knew this got to me.
I kicked off one sneaker, then the other, feeling them slick off my hot sweaty feet. Mistress was well aware that I never went barefoot, because even the cool air on them made me squirm and wriggle, as indeed it was doing now. She knew I would spend the remainder of the phonecall exquisitely uncomfortable and extremely suggestible to what she described. Involuntarily, I was holding my toes back in the position she preferred.
“Are your toes back?” she inquired silkily.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Aw, you’re so eager.” Another laugh.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
“What was that?” she asked.
“It’s nothing, Mistress,” I said, not wanting to interrupt the session before it was begun.
Another knock.
“Is somebody at the door?” she giggled, half-unmanning me.
“Yes,” I confessed.
“Yes, what…?”
“Yes, Mistress, “ I hurriedly corrected myself.
“That’s two infractions already. That means two hours of merciless tickle torment, doesn’t it, slave?”
More knocking at the door.
“Go and see who it is, slave. Keep the phone to your ear, and don’t you dare put your sneakers back on. Answer the door barefoot.”
I stood up with some discomfort, aware of my bulging erection and my bare feet. I knew rationally there was nothing odd about a guy being barefoot in his own home, also that no visitor would likely even notice, much less comment -
“Just imagine yourself in stocks…” she was whispering. “Looking into my eyes, unable to speak through the gag, quite… naked… and totally helpless. Watching me tie your toes back…. Nice and tight, your soles all stretched taut… Big toes first, now the second toes… Feel the loops tightening around them? Are you wiggling them, footboy?”
This running commentary got me to the door. There was another loud knocking as I approached it, flustering me.
“They sound impatient,” cooed my Mistress, “not like me. I prefer to take my time…” A scratching noise I knew well accompanied this last phrase - her long fingernail, dragged against the phone.
“Don’t you wish that was your bare foot?” she asked as I opened the door.
She was standing outside my house, holding a cellphone in one manicured hand, and wriggling the fingers of the other at me in a menacing welcome. She was dressed in an outfit straight from my fantasies - her long hair pulled up in pigtails and tied with ribbons, her white blouse knotted at the midriff, her pleated skirt barely hiding her fantastic legs, and …
Oh God, her feet were in close-toe mules, and bare.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she smirked at me, lowering the phone.
“Oh God.”
“Goddess.” The correction this time was gentle, chiding. “Three hours now. And not just talking about it, where you can moan and plead and pretend to suffer. Three hours. I doubt you’ve ever had your bare feet tickled,” she was crossing the threshold and past me into the kitchen now, “for three minutes, let alone three hours. Isn’t that so?” She had seated herself at one of the high chairs, swinging one leg nonchalantly over the other. Her heel, round and pink, separated slightly from the sole of her mule as she gently wiggled her ankle side to side, knowing my eyes were drawn to it.
“I’m up here, footboy. Close the door,” she added in a commanding tone.
I did, turning my back to her for a moment. I heard a thud behind me; the sound of a shoe hitting the tiled floor.
“Are you ready to see my foot, slave?” she sang across the kitchen to me.
I spun around. Her shoes were still on. She laughed mockingly at me and indicated the wedge-heeled sandal she’d dropped from a shoulder bag I hadn’t even noticed she wore.
“You have to earn that privilege, slave, “ she said.
Her eyes met mine. God, but she was beautiful.
“Do you want to earn the privilege of licking my soft warm feet?” she asked me softly.
I nodded.
“Then strip for your Mistress.”
I shrugged off my jeans, hopping awkwardly, and started tugging at my boxers.
“No,” she commanded abruptly. “Leave those on, Piggy.”
I squirmed, realizing I had a new nickname, and pulled the t-shirt off over my head.
“Mmmmmm,” she smiled, stretching both arms and legs out before her and letting the mules swing forth off her toes for an instant. “Now you can take the boxers off, Piggy.”
I started to obey.
“Oh, not like that, slave. Grab the sides and tug it down over your erection. I want to see you really bend it down in that elastic before it springs up for me.”
I did, very carefully, half-crouching as the strong elastic tugged my cock downwards against the surging blood pushing it up. The relief when it came free was immediately tempered when Mistress spoke again.
“Come and lay down before me - feet facing me.” These last words were spoken with the cruel hunger I knew so well.
I lay before her. My feet were about a yard from the foot of the stool.
“Closer. Don’t get up,” she added quickly. “Just shuffle on your back.”
This was awkward, but I managed it, getting harder by the instant as I looked up into her mocking smile. My feet were now against the foot of the stool.
“Closer,” she ordered, the smile melting.
“But Mistress -”
“Are you questioning me?”
My eyes widened.
“N-no -!”
“Four hours… you can keep shuffling closer, footboy. I want your butt pressed right up against this stool. Put your legs up in the air and you should manage it.”
Her grin as she saw the mental image form in my mind was painfully erotic.
A little while later I was pressed against the stool with my legs straight up in the air. She had twisted round to sit sideways to accommodate this position, and I had an excellent profile view of her flexing her dangling foot, the shoe making the delightful slapping sound that so aroused me; and she had an excellent view of my poor bare feet, very soft and pale and exposed at convenient height. Her hands were folded in her lap; if she moved them around to her side she could rest her nails on my soles. I shivered.
“There,” she said with a satisfied air. “Now, are you going to be a good slave and stay still, or be a naughty slave and move?”
I paused, caught on the horns of a dilemma. I knew for a fact that when she touched me I’d jump, but I also feared to tell her in advance that I would displease her. She watched me closely, and locked her fingers together, flexing them like a pianist in warm-up.
“Mistress, I’ll move,” I confessed suddenly.
She laughed.
“Of course you will. We said, didn’t we, you hadn’t been tickled on your feet for even three minutes, let alone five hours -”
“Four hours, Mistress!” The panicky correction was out before I could stop it.
“- Six hours,” she continued pleasantly. “So naturally you’ll move. I’m glad you agree you need to be restrained.” So saying, she reached into her bag and produced a roll of saran wrap. She alighted from the stool and pushed it back - “Don’t you dare move, slave!” - and began to wrap it around my thighs, her deadly hands passing around and around, agonizingly close to my erect member. This was extreme bondage, well beyond my experience, and she continued until just short of my knees, wrapping around and around. Then she took a second roll and wrapped this around my lower legs, down to the ankle. Satisfied with her handiwork, she pulled the stool back up, making sure it was pressed against my butt and the back of my legs, and smiled down at me.
“Now, when I start to run my tickly nails,” she wiggled them to demonstrate, right alongside my helpless bare feet, “over your feet, you’re probably going to want to kick out or move away. So I’m going to put my legs around yours like this…” She swung round and gripped with her thighs tightly around my knees, crossing her legs at the ankle very close to my cock - close enough in fact that she could brush against it with the shoes, as she demonstrated by ‘accidentally’ making me gasp and squirm a couple of times.
“Would you like me to take my shoes off, slave?” she asked.
“Oh, YES PLEASE, Mistress!” I fairly sang out.
“I told you you have to earn that,” she said. “Are you ready to earn the right to have my bare feet upon you?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I whispered, past caring.
“Good boy,” she breathed, watching with a smirk as that keyword hit home. She knew all the things to say to get to me.
“You’re going to help me by carrying my tools,” she said conversationally, rummaging in her bag.
I waited, knowing better than to ask.
“Aren’t you going to ask what tools, Mistress?” she laughed, playfully tapping my cock with her shoes. Side to side. Gently. Each touch sending a jolt through me, making me grunt with lust.
“What tools, Mistress?” I said resignedly, forced to play along.
“My tickle tools, of course!” she said with a delighted smile. “For this session, I’m just going to select eight tools. Let me show you them… Here,” she said, holding up a sharp pencil. “This is the first toy, Paula the Pencil. You’d do well to remember their names, incidentally,” she added as an aside. “You can hold Paula… here.” I gasped as for the first time she took hold of my foot, deftly holding the first and second toes of my left foot and sliding the pencil between them. “Now, Carrie the comb.” She inserted this between my second and third toes, being sure to drag the tines against the soft flesh a little, amused to see me gasp and flutter. “Goodness, my little tickle slave, don’t go dropping any. The punishment for letting the toys fall will be severe, and I already have you at my mercy for six hours. Six hours, slave… just think of it… the fun we’ll have…” I closed my eyes and swallowed. “Keep watching, slave,” she mocked me.
“This is Fiona the feather,” she said, holding up a short pink feather and inserting it between my third and fourth toes. “And this is Fionella the fork; don’t get them confused.” Fionella was a light plastic fork, but between my fourth and fifth toes not easy to hold - my foot was necessarily rather tensed, and I realized the slightest movement would cause something to drop.
“Now, your right foot can handle… hmm, Tori the toothbrush…” which slid between the big toe and the second as she giggled at my look of dismay, “Pauline the paintbrush - just look how soft and swishy she is - and here will go Queenie the quill… that leaves just one space right in here, slave.” She placed her fingernail delicately on the soft pad below my little toe and scratched minutely, making me shiver. “If you’d been a good slave, this would be my warm wet tongue. If you’d been a good slave,” she went on, fixing me with her potent green eyes, “your tongue would be on my soles at the same time. Oh, my, you like that don’t you? What a pity…” She clenched her shoes suddenly around the base of my cock and rubbed once, slowly, deliciously, up and down, laughing as I struggled, “you haven’t earned the right to have my shoes off. I almost wish you had, my feet are so warm and sweaty in those shoes. Just think how they must smell in there; just imagine my toes pressed on your nose, my soles over your mouth, while I tickle and tickle your feet.” Another rub. “But you’re a bad slave; a naughty slave. So you don’t get that pleasure. Instead… hmm… ah, yes, the Q-tip. What do you think her name is, slave?”
I groaned, realizing the impossibility of the question. But I knew I had to answer.
“Uhhh…” What other name began with Q? My mind was blank. “Um…”
“Too late,” she said triumphantly. “It’s Jackie.” She laughed at my obvious frustration.
“Now,” she said, savoring the word. “We’re going to play a game.” As she spoke she hovered her nails inches above my soles, and smiled down at me. “Look at me, slave. Keep looking at me. Not at my fingernails,” oh dear God they were moving lower, almost imperceptibly but they were, “look into my eyes. You’re totally in my power, aren’t you, slave? You’ve allowed me to restrain you, naked, in your own home. You’ve allowed me to bring a camera in my bag to photograph you - such humiliating pictures I’ll take, too. Now, now,” she added, pressing her shoes down onto my abdomen, “no humping, slave. You get to cum when I say you can. Remember how much you told me you liked to be teased and denied?”
I nodded miserably.
“What else did you say you liked, slave?”
I knew this answer too.
“Milking, my Goddess.”
She grinned. Her fingers were starting to wriggle just a tiny amount, and all the time they were getting closer. Those manicured nails… I locked my gaze back on hers in a hurry.
“You looked away there, slave. But it was only for a second, so…” the heels of her shoes closed painfully around the base of my cock. She increased the pressure as I winced and struggled to keep looking up into her eyes. “This is all the punishment I’ll give you. I could have started cropping that erection of yours back down. Do you think it would work, slave? Do you think you’d be good and go limp for me, with your feet at my mercy and my shoes just… slipping a little?” I heard her feet move in her shoes. Dear God, this was intense. “Or would you stay hard, even with the crop striking the sensitive head of your penis? Would you actually get turned on, you little pervert? I think you would,” and she laughed again.
“So,” she said brightly, “the game. You told me you hadn’t been tickled on your feet for three minutes. Well, guess what? You’re going to be. Now, that’s just a tiny fraction of what you’re going to suffer, not just on your feet but all over, for six long hours - assuming you don’t manage to do anything else wrong in that time and extend your punishment. Which we both know you will.” She smiled; and then her expression took on an edge. “Don’t we?” she asked pointedly.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“That took far too long, and I told you I’m bored of being Mistress all the time. Eight hours,” she beamed. “Eight hours of intense tickle torture for you, slave. Isn’t that wonderful?”
I was doing some calculations in my head. It was about 10am on Saturday morning. I was hers so far until 6pm. That still left still a whole night and all of Sunday…
“Goddess?”
“You really shouldn’t be speaking unless I invite you to, slave,” she said conveniently ignoring the fact she’d just extended my punishment for exactly the opposite, “but I can tell you’re concerned. Is it about the tickling of your poor feet? Careful, don’t drop my toys,” she added warningly.
“N-no, my Queen. I was going to ask about a safeword, Mi- Goddess.”
She laughed musically.
“A safeword? When I’m only tickling you for three little minutes? Oh dear me no, slave. And no safewords during punishment, either. That’s why it’s punishment. It wouldn’t make much sense to tickle a perverted little tickleslut like you as punishment if I stopped when you said the magic word, would it? Now, after the punishment session, we can discuss safewords and orgasms and all sorts of nice things. But none of those will be part of the punishment, and certainly none of them are anything to do with this little game of ours. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Goddess. Thank you for explaining to me, and thank you for taking the trouble to correct me.”
“You really are pathetic,” she said. Her fingernails were so close now to my feet I felt they must start scraping my soles any second. “Was that supposed to appease me?”
“N-no, Goddess -”
“Oh, so you were defying me?”
“NO, Goddess!”
“Are you arguing with me now?”
“No - I mean -”
“Poor confused slave, I can see I won’t be able to trust you to keep count of three minutes while I’m tickling your feet.” Abruptly, she raised her hands away from my vulnerable soles and commenced removing her watch. “I’ll need you to hold this for me, so you’re going to have to release one of my tickle toys.” She was holding the watch now, a thin gold band watch. “You can let go of Pauline.”
She watched with an amused expression as I struggled with this. Pauline… that was… the pencil, right? Okay. Big toe. Just move the big toe, a little. Keep the others together. You can do this. Big toe… oh God, that was close. Almost let the comb drop as well. Okay. Breathe. Just a little more… there!
The pencil fell into her waiting palm.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she said in mock disappointment, settling the watch where the pencil had been with the face uppermost. She was careful to drape one half of the strap down over my sole, enjoying how it made me wince as it touched me. If I hadn’t been hypersensitive before, her teasing had made me that way now.
“This is Paula, you silly slave,” she said, smoothly sliding the paintbrush out from between the toes of my right foot. “This was Pauline.”
She held my gaze, smirking, for what seemed like forever.
Then she made a great show of noticing what she was holding. The sharp pencil. The soft brush.
Then she looked down at my soles and made a soft cooing noise.
“They’re so pink,” she said. “And so soft… I know you said you never went barefoot, but I must admit I doubted you. These feet are so pampered… it just seems right to punish them. Don’t they deserve to be tortured, slave?”
“Yes, Mistress, if you say they do.”
“Oh, I do, slave, I do. Let’s see…” she took the pencil and lightly pressed its point into the ball of my left foot. She noted my elevated breathing. “Don’t panic, slave. Paula’s just resting.” As she spoke, she swept the paintbrush up the sole of my right foot, once, from heel to toes, passing smoothly through the gap between the second and third toes. “It’s Pauline that wanted to tickle you. Paula,” she swept the pencil point across the ball of my left foot and back, quite quickly, “wanted to wait. Oh, slave,” she said with mock concern, “what’s the matter? Your face is so red - and as for that little cock of yours,” she moved her shoes slightly, making me squirm beneath her feet, “why, it looks like it will burst. Don’t tell me even that little stroke,” she repeated the gestures of both toys simultaneously, making me yelp and twitch - an instinctive move that earned a sharp dig from her heels into my groin, “tickles?” She repeated it again, a little slower. “Even that tickles?” I nodded, whimpering. The malicious glee she infused in the word “tickle” was driving me crazy.
“Really?” she added, still stroking, now taking the brush up and down over my sole. “This tickles?”
“Yes, Mistress, it tickles!”
“It tickles my little tickle slave’s ticklish little feet?”
“Yes! Mistress, please!”
“It’s no use begging, slave. You’re my tickle toy, and I’m playing. I haven’t even looked at my watch yet. I just don’t believe you’re this ticklish. This can’t be torturing you.”
“It is! Oh Goddess, please, it is!”
“What - this…?” Now she was running the paintbrush lightly all over my right sole, and pricking and stroking my left with the pencil. Her legs were tight around mine and her shoes kept touching my erection, which felt quite cool with the precum that was leaking out under her cruel inspiration.
I don’t know how long she kept it up, probably no more than a minute. But when she stopped and tucked the pencil behind her ear and grinned at me, I felt a wave of pure relief.
“Oh, thank -”
That was as far as I got, because at that moment she dropped the paintbrush in her bag and I felt the lethal points of her nails resting on the balls of my feet.
My eyes widened.
“Mistress, NO -”
“No?” She began dragging her nails down over my soles excruciatingly slowly; even the sound was making me squirm and forcing her to tighten the grip of her thighs and press painfully down into my abdomen with her shoes. “You don’t tell me no, slave. You tell me thank you, but never,” now wiggling her nails lightly over my heels as she enjoyed my torment, “never, ever,” and starting back up again, seeing me tremble as she knew I was reaching overload, “… no.” And with that she began tickling in earnest, still touching only lightly but now rapidly spidering her fingers over my helpless soles. “This is just warming up, slave,” she said menacingly. “You’ve still not had your feet really…” the pause was accompanied by a brief respite from the maddening fingernails, “tickled.” And with that word she really let my feet have it, wiggling and scraping her wicked nails all over, concentrating on the balls of my feet where she knew the sensations would affect me worst.
“Well,” she said, approximately eighteen seconds later. “That was truly miserable, slave. Just look at my toys, all over the place. Clearly, you need at least a weekend’s punishment just to get you into shape.” As she spoke, she took a pair of scissors out of her bag and began snipping the saran wrap off my legs. “And I doubt you have the necessary equipment here, and I didn’t bring it with me. I had hoped,” she continued with a great show of being disappointed despite the evil grin plastering her beautiful face, “that you’d be good and we could just have a lovely afternoon playing. I was looking forward to letting you worship my feet while I teased and tortured you. I was quite excited at the prospect of milking you over and over with my soles and toes. But now you’ve spoiled all that.” She was standing, and the scissors were getting closer and closer to my erection. “I have to tell you,” snip, snip, “I am quite angry,” snip, snip, “with you.” Snip.
I cried out as she ripped the saran wrap away from my legs. “Don’t be such a baby,” she sneered. “Come on,” she added, stalking over to the door.
“Wh-where are we going?” I asked, still prone on the floor. My head was spinning. The main thing I felt was a profound shame, tied up with an equally profound disappointment. I couldn’t believe my fantasy had literally come to my doorstep, and I’d ruined it so quickly.
“My place,” she said over your shoulder.
The implications of that didn’t sink in until some time later.
I got to my feet with some difficulty, and started to pick up my boxers.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, slave?” she said loudly. She had the door open. Christ, the neighbors!
“Mistress -!” I pleaded in a strangled whisper.
“You won’t need your clothes, tickle boy. Not for the weekend of torture I have planned.” She spoke exactly as loudly as before. “Get your worthless foot fetish ass out there!”
I was over to the door before I stopped to consider what I was getting myself into.
“NOW, FOOTBOY!” she yelled, and impelled mainly by panic of being caught by the neighbors I sped out to her car and dived into the back seat, cowering low.
I didn’t think anybody had seen me.
Outside, I could hear Mistress talking, conversationally. Oh dear Christ Jesus, what the hell would the neighbors make of her?
Now she was laughing her musical laugh. I could hear her getting closer. Any second now, she’d open the car door, and there I’d be, stark naked in her back seat. I felt sick with humiliation.
The door opened. Not the back door, the front door. The driver’s door.
“Thanks a lot, Emily. There’s a bonus in it for you, dear.”
I realized she’d been talking on the phone.
“Just getting things ready for you,” she said, looking over her shoulder and smiling at me with genuine joy. “Here, put these on,” she added, tossing a pair of padded cuffs into the back seat. “No, behind your back. I don’t want you touching that cock of mine. Punishment, remember?” I nodded dolefully, and clicked the cuffs on.
“Lean forward,” she said and I did so. She fastened a close-fitting blindfold over my eyes. “Perfect,” she breathed. “Now sit in the middle, and I’ll strap you in.”
This was turning me on all over again, and I listened intently to her open the door, walking round, then opening my door and leaning in. Her scent was intoxicating; her breath on my cheek was warm. I was hyperventilating.
“Oh, slave,” she breathed in my ear. “You are so into me, aren’t you?”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak.
The seatbelt fastened around my waist with a loud click. She tightened it, the touch of her hand against my naked skin raising goosebumps all over me. She giggled and I squirmed in my new bondage.
“Feeling vulnerable, slave?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Her nails were suddenly digging into my tender sides, making me scream and buck in the car seat.
“Hush, slave!” She said, quite as if she were concerned. “What if the neighbors hear you? What would this look like? Me, kneeling up here in my sexy little schoolgirl outfit, my ass showing under my tiny pleated skirt,” all the while her fingers were kneading my sides and stomach as I fought for breath and screamed panicky pleas, “my shoes just dangling off my exposed soles… and you,” harder now as she focused on the worst spot just above my hipbones, “naked and blindfolded and cuffed, just being tickled and tickled with that big rude erection -” she paused to slap it, hard, with one hand, while the other continued tickling all over my stomach, “oh yeah, you don’t care do you? Just if my hand keeps touching your cock while I tickle you. That’s all you want isn’t it, my hand stroking you to release while I tickle and tickle and - well, anyway,” she said, abruptly releasing me and climbing out the back seat, “the neighbors are out. So let’s go.”
She got back in the front seat, ignoring my panting as I recovered my breath.
“Feet up,” she said, unbelievably. “I want them in between the seats here. Toes back, obviously.”
God help me, I obeyed her. I wasn’t surprised to feel her slip toe cuffs on my big toes, neither was it a surrpise when a belt was tightened across the top of my ankles.
“We’re going to take a nice drive, now, slave,” she said. “My radio’s not working, so I’ll rely on you for the music.” She started the engine, put the car in reverse and rested the palm of her hand on my toes. “Sing,” she suggested, as her fingernails went to work and I felt the car start to move.
It was a long journey.
*****
My heart was thudding in my ears as I answered the telephone.
“Hello?”
There was a silence on the line. Then, a delicious soft voice breathed in my ear.
“You mean, hello Mistress.”
Oh God.
“Yes, Mistress. H-hello, Mistress.”
“And are you hard, slave?”
In no more time than this had taken, I could feel I was.
“Describe what you’re wearing, slave boy, and be honest.”
I hastened to comply.
“A t-shirt, Mistress. Jeans -”
“Oh, gooooood.” She really drew the word out. “Nice and tight, are they?”
I grimaced.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Go on. Footboy,” she said, deliberately employing the name she knew made my cheeks burn and my cock throb.
“Uh, jeans -”
“You said those already.” I could hear her smiling over the phone, and the thought of it made me ache.
“Sorry, Mistress. Uh, boxer shorts -”
“What colour?”
“I can’t remember, Mistress.”
“You can call me Goddess, I’m getting bored with Mistress all the time. I am your Goddess, aren’t I?”
“Yes, my Goddess.”
“Your beautiful teasing tormenting… tickle Goddess?”
“Oh fuck.”
“What was that?” Her laugh was exquisite torture.
“I mean, yes, my Goddess.”
“Yes … what?” How she loved to humiliate me.
“Yes you are my beautiful teasing tormenting tickle Goddess.”
“Oh… so I’m not your foot Goddess, then?”
“YES, Goddess! Yes, you are my foot Goddess as well.”
Another pause.
“My my my, aren’t you a lucky tickle toy footslave?”
“Yes, Goddess, very lucky.”
“Tell me what colour your boxers are. You can unzip, but don’t you dare touch my cock.”
I did so, blushing crimson. Just my luck. I was wearing novelty patterned boxers, black with little pig designs on them. I described them to my Goddess, knowing she would mock me. Another peal of delicious laughter smote me.
“How wonderful,” she grinned down the phone at me. “Piggies for a piggy. And you will squeal for me, won’t you, Piggy?”
I shivered.
“God, yes.”
“Goddess!” The word was out like a whiplash and I cringed, even on the phone.
“Yes, Goddess. My apologies, Goddess.”
“Much too late for those, slave boy. Continue listing your apparel.”
“Uh… sneakers.”
“That’s it?”
I gulped.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“No socks?” Her voice had taken on a purring edge.
I closed my eyes. “No, Mistress.”
“Take the sneakers off, slave.”
She knew this got to me.
I kicked off one sneaker, then the other, feeling them slick off my hot sweaty feet. Mistress was well aware that I never went barefoot, because even the cool air on them made me squirm and wriggle, as indeed it was doing now. She knew I would spend the remainder of the phonecall exquisitely uncomfortable and extremely suggestible to what she described. Involuntarily, I was holding my toes back in the position she preferred.
“Are your toes back?” she inquired silkily.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Aw, you’re so eager.” Another laugh.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.
“What was that?” she asked.
“It’s nothing, Mistress,” I said, not wanting to interrupt the session before it was begun.
Another knock.
“Is somebody at the door?” she giggled, half-unmanning me.
“Yes,” I confessed.
“Yes, what…?”
“Yes, Mistress, “ I hurriedly corrected myself.
“That’s two infractions already. That means two hours of merciless tickle torment, doesn’t it, slave?”
More knocking at the door.
“Go and see who it is, slave. Keep the phone to your ear, and don’t you dare put your sneakers back on. Answer the door barefoot.”
I stood up with some discomfort, aware of my bulging erection and my bare feet. I knew rationally there was nothing odd about a guy being barefoot in his own home, also that no visitor would likely even notice, much less comment -
“Just imagine yourself in stocks…” she was whispering. “Looking into my eyes, unable to speak through the gag, quite… naked… and totally helpless. Watching me tie your toes back…. Nice and tight, your soles all stretched taut… Big toes first, now the second toes… Feel the loops tightening around them? Are you wiggling them, footboy?”
This running commentary got me to the door. There was another loud knocking as I approached it, flustering me.
“They sound impatient,” cooed my Mistress, “not like me. I prefer to take my time…” A scratching noise I knew well accompanied this last phrase - her long fingernail, dragged against the phone.
“Don’t you wish that was your bare foot?” she asked as I opened the door.
She was standing outside my house, holding a cellphone in one manicured hand, and wriggling the fingers of the other at me in a menacing welcome. She was dressed in an outfit straight from my fantasies - her long hair pulled up in pigtails and tied with ribbons, her white blouse knotted at the midriff, her pleated skirt barely hiding her fantastic legs, and …
Oh God, her feet were in close-toe mules, and bare.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she smirked at me, lowering the phone.
“Oh God.”
“Goddess.” The correction this time was gentle, chiding. “Three hours now. And not just talking about it, where you can moan and plead and pretend to suffer. Three hours. I doubt you’ve ever had your bare feet tickled,” she was crossing the threshold and past me into the kitchen now, “for three minutes, let alone three hours. Isn’t that so?” She had seated herself at one of the high chairs, swinging one leg nonchalantly over the other. Her heel, round and pink, separated slightly from the sole of her mule as she gently wiggled her ankle side to side, knowing my eyes were drawn to it.
“I’m up here, footboy. Close the door,” she added in a commanding tone.
I did, turning my back to her for a moment. I heard a thud behind me; the sound of a shoe hitting the tiled floor.
“Are you ready to see my foot, slave?” she sang across the kitchen to me.
I spun around. Her shoes were still on. She laughed mockingly at me and indicated the wedge-heeled sandal she’d dropped from a shoulder bag I hadn’t even noticed she wore.
“You have to earn that privilege, slave, “ she said.
Her eyes met mine. God, but she was beautiful.
“Do you want to earn the privilege of licking my soft warm feet?” she asked me softly.
I nodded.
“Then strip for your Mistress.”
I shrugged off my jeans, hopping awkwardly, and started tugging at my boxers.
“No,” she commanded abruptly. “Leave those on, Piggy.”
I squirmed, realizing I had a new nickname, and pulled the t-shirt off over my head.
“Mmmmmm,” she smiled, stretching both arms and legs out before her and letting the mules swing forth off her toes for an instant. “Now you can take the boxers off, Piggy.”
I started to obey.
“Oh, not like that, slave. Grab the sides and tug it down over your erection. I want to see you really bend it down in that elastic before it springs up for me.”
I did, very carefully, half-crouching as the strong elastic tugged my cock downwards against the surging blood pushing it up. The relief when it came free was immediately tempered when Mistress spoke again.
“Come and lay down before me - feet facing me.” These last words were spoken with the cruel hunger I knew so well.
I lay before her. My feet were about a yard from the foot of the stool.
“Closer. Don’t get up,” she added quickly. “Just shuffle on your back.”
This was awkward, but I managed it, getting harder by the instant as I looked up into her mocking smile. My feet were now against the foot of the stool.
“Closer,” she ordered, the smile melting.
“But Mistress -”
“Are you questioning me?”
My eyes widened.
“N-no -!”
“Four hours… you can keep shuffling closer, footboy. I want your butt pressed right up against this stool. Put your legs up in the air and you should manage it.”
Her grin as she saw the mental image form in my mind was painfully erotic.
A little while later I was pressed against the stool with my legs straight up in the air. She had twisted round to sit sideways to accommodate this position, and I had an excellent profile view of her flexing her dangling foot, the shoe making the delightful slapping sound that so aroused me; and she had an excellent view of my poor bare feet, very soft and pale and exposed at convenient height. Her hands were folded in her lap; if she moved them around to her side she could rest her nails on my soles. I shivered.
“There,” she said with a satisfied air. “Now, are you going to be a good slave and stay still, or be a naughty slave and move?”
I paused, caught on the horns of a dilemma. I knew for a fact that when she touched me I’d jump, but I also feared to tell her in advance that I would displease her. She watched me closely, and locked her fingers together, flexing them like a pianist in warm-up.
“Mistress, I’ll move,” I confessed suddenly.
She laughed.
“Of course you will. We said, didn’t we, you hadn’t been tickled on your feet for even three minutes, let alone five hours -”
“Four hours, Mistress!” The panicky correction was out before I could stop it.
“- Six hours,” she continued pleasantly. “So naturally you’ll move. I’m glad you agree you need to be restrained.” So saying, she reached into her bag and produced a roll of saran wrap. She alighted from the stool and pushed it back - “Don’t you dare move, slave!” - and began to wrap it around my thighs, her deadly hands passing around and around, agonizingly close to my erect member. This was extreme bondage, well beyond my experience, and she continued until just short of my knees, wrapping around and around. Then she took a second roll and wrapped this around my lower legs, down to the ankle. Satisfied with her handiwork, she pulled the stool back up, making sure it was pressed against my butt and the back of my legs, and smiled down at me.
“Now, when I start to run my tickly nails,” she wiggled them to demonstrate, right alongside my helpless bare feet, “over your feet, you’re probably going to want to kick out or move away. So I’m going to put my legs around yours like this…” She swung round and gripped with her thighs tightly around my knees, crossing her legs at the ankle very close to my cock - close enough in fact that she could brush against it with the shoes, as she demonstrated by ‘accidentally’ making me gasp and squirm a couple of times.
“Would you like me to take my shoes off, slave?” she asked.
“Oh, YES PLEASE, Mistress!” I fairly sang out.
“I told you you have to earn that,” she said. “Are you ready to earn the right to have my bare feet upon you?”
“Yes, Mistress,” I whispered, past caring.
“Good boy,” she breathed, watching with a smirk as that keyword hit home. She knew all the things to say to get to me.
“You’re going to help me by carrying my tools,” she said conversationally, rummaging in her bag.
I waited, knowing better than to ask.
“Aren’t you going to ask what tools, Mistress?” she laughed, playfully tapping my cock with her shoes. Side to side. Gently. Each touch sending a jolt through me, making me grunt with lust.
“What tools, Mistress?” I said resignedly, forced to play along.
“My tickle tools, of course!” she said with a delighted smile. “For this session, I’m just going to select eight tools. Let me show you them… Here,” she said, holding up a sharp pencil. “This is the first toy, Paula the Pencil. You’d do well to remember their names, incidentally,” she added as an aside. “You can hold Paula… here.” I gasped as for the first time she took hold of my foot, deftly holding the first and second toes of my left foot and sliding the pencil between them. “Now, Carrie the comb.” She inserted this between my second and third toes, being sure to drag the tines against the soft flesh a little, amused to see me gasp and flutter. “Goodness, my little tickle slave, don’t go dropping any. The punishment for letting the toys fall will be severe, and I already have you at my mercy for six hours. Six hours, slave… just think of it… the fun we’ll have…” I closed my eyes and swallowed. “Keep watching, slave,” she mocked me.
“This is Fiona the feather,” she said, holding up a short pink feather and inserting it between my third and fourth toes. “And this is Fionella the fork; don’t get them confused.” Fionella was a light plastic fork, but between my fourth and fifth toes not easy to hold - my foot was necessarily rather tensed, and I realized the slightest movement would cause something to drop.
“Now, your right foot can handle… hmm, Tori the toothbrush…” which slid between the big toe and the second as she giggled at my look of dismay, “Pauline the paintbrush - just look how soft and swishy she is - and here will go Queenie the quill… that leaves just one space right in here, slave.” She placed her fingernail delicately on the soft pad below my little toe and scratched minutely, making me shiver. “If you’d been a good slave, this would be my warm wet tongue. If you’d been a good slave,” she went on, fixing me with her potent green eyes, “your tongue would be on my soles at the same time. Oh, my, you like that don’t you? What a pity…” She clenched her shoes suddenly around the base of my cock and rubbed once, slowly, deliciously, up and down, laughing as I struggled, “you haven’t earned the right to have my shoes off. I almost wish you had, my feet are so warm and sweaty in those shoes. Just think how they must smell in there; just imagine my toes pressed on your nose, my soles over your mouth, while I tickle and tickle your feet.” Another rub. “But you’re a bad slave; a naughty slave. So you don’t get that pleasure. Instead… hmm… ah, yes, the Q-tip. What do you think her name is, slave?”
I groaned, realizing the impossibility of the question. But I knew I had to answer.
“Uhhh…” What other name began with Q? My mind was blank. “Um…”
“Too late,” she said triumphantly. “It’s Jackie.” She laughed at my obvious frustration.
“Now,” she said, savoring the word. “We’re going to play a game.” As she spoke she hovered her nails inches above my soles, and smiled down at me. “Look at me, slave. Keep looking at me. Not at my fingernails,” oh dear God they were moving lower, almost imperceptibly but they were, “look into my eyes. You’re totally in my power, aren’t you, slave? You’ve allowed me to restrain you, naked, in your own home. You’ve allowed me to bring a camera in my bag to photograph you - such humiliating pictures I’ll take, too. Now, now,” she added, pressing her shoes down onto my abdomen, “no humping, slave. You get to cum when I say you can. Remember how much you told me you liked to be teased and denied?”
I nodded miserably.
“What else did you say you liked, slave?”
I knew this answer too.
“Milking, my Goddess.”
She grinned. Her fingers were starting to wriggle just a tiny amount, and all the time they were getting closer. Those manicured nails… I locked my gaze back on hers in a hurry.
“You looked away there, slave. But it was only for a second, so…” the heels of her shoes closed painfully around the base of my cock. She increased the pressure as I winced and struggled to keep looking up into her eyes. “This is all the punishment I’ll give you. I could have started cropping that erection of yours back down. Do you think it would work, slave? Do you think you’d be good and go limp for me, with your feet at my mercy and my shoes just… slipping a little?” I heard her feet move in her shoes. Dear God, this was intense. “Or would you stay hard, even with the crop striking the sensitive head of your penis? Would you actually get turned on, you little pervert? I think you would,” and she laughed again.
“So,” she said brightly, “the game. You told me you hadn’t been tickled on your feet for three minutes. Well, guess what? You’re going to be. Now, that’s just a tiny fraction of what you’re going to suffer, not just on your feet but all over, for six long hours - assuming you don’t manage to do anything else wrong in that time and extend your punishment. Which we both know you will.” She smiled; and then her expression took on an edge. “Don’t we?” she asked pointedly.
“Yes, Mistress.”
“That took far too long, and I told you I’m bored of being Mistress all the time. Eight hours,” she beamed. “Eight hours of intense tickle torture for you, slave. Isn’t that wonderful?”
I was doing some calculations in my head. It was about 10am on Saturday morning. I was hers so far until 6pm. That still left still a whole night and all of Sunday…
“Goddess?”
“You really shouldn’t be speaking unless I invite you to, slave,” she said conveniently ignoring the fact she’d just extended my punishment for exactly the opposite, “but I can tell you’re concerned. Is it about the tickling of your poor feet? Careful, don’t drop my toys,” she added warningly.
“N-no, my Queen. I was going to ask about a safeword, Mi- Goddess.”
She laughed musically.
“A safeword? When I’m only tickling you for three little minutes? Oh dear me no, slave. And no safewords during punishment, either. That’s why it’s punishment. It wouldn’t make much sense to tickle a perverted little tickleslut like you as punishment if I stopped when you said the magic word, would it? Now, after the punishment session, we can discuss safewords and orgasms and all sorts of nice things. But none of those will be part of the punishment, and certainly none of them are anything to do with this little game of ours. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Goddess. Thank you for explaining to me, and thank you for taking the trouble to correct me.”
“You really are pathetic,” she said. Her fingernails were so close now to my feet I felt they must start scraping my soles any second. “Was that supposed to appease me?”
“N-no, Goddess -”
“Oh, so you were defying me?”
“NO, Goddess!”
“Are you arguing with me now?”
“No - I mean -”
“Poor confused slave, I can see I won’t be able to trust you to keep count of three minutes while I’m tickling your feet.” Abruptly, she raised her hands away from my vulnerable soles and commenced removing her watch. “I’ll need you to hold this for me, so you’re going to have to release one of my tickle toys.” She was holding the watch now, a thin gold band watch. “You can let go of Pauline.”
She watched with an amused expression as I struggled with this. Pauline… that was… the pencil, right? Okay. Big toe. Just move the big toe, a little. Keep the others together. You can do this. Big toe… oh God, that was close. Almost let the comb drop as well. Okay. Breathe. Just a little more… there!
The pencil fell into her waiting palm.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” she said in mock disappointment, settling the watch where the pencil had been with the face uppermost. She was careful to drape one half of the strap down over my sole, enjoying how it made me wince as it touched me. If I hadn’t been hypersensitive before, her teasing had made me that way now.
“This is Paula, you silly slave,” she said, smoothly sliding the paintbrush out from between the toes of my right foot. “This was Pauline.”
She held my gaze, smirking, for what seemed like forever.
Then she made a great show of noticing what she was holding. The sharp pencil. The soft brush.
Then she looked down at my soles and made a soft cooing noise.
“They’re so pink,” she said. “And so soft… I know you said you never went barefoot, but I must admit I doubted you. These feet are so pampered… it just seems right to punish them. Don’t they deserve to be tortured, slave?”
“Yes, Mistress, if you say they do.”
“Oh, I do, slave, I do. Let’s see…” she took the pencil and lightly pressed its point into the ball of my left foot. She noted my elevated breathing. “Don’t panic, slave. Paula’s just resting.” As she spoke, she swept the paintbrush up the sole of my right foot, once, from heel to toes, passing smoothly through the gap between the second and third toes. “It’s Pauline that wanted to tickle you. Paula,” she swept the pencil point across the ball of my left foot and back, quite quickly, “wanted to wait. Oh, slave,” she said with mock concern, “what’s the matter? Your face is so red - and as for that little cock of yours,” she moved her shoes slightly, making me squirm beneath her feet, “why, it looks like it will burst. Don’t tell me even that little stroke,” she repeated the gestures of both toys simultaneously, making me yelp and twitch - an instinctive move that earned a sharp dig from her heels into my groin, “tickles?” She repeated it again, a little slower. “Even that tickles?” I nodded, whimpering. The malicious glee she infused in the word “tickle” was driving me crazy.
“Really?” she added, still stroking, now taking the brush up and down over my sole. “This tickles?”
“Yes, Mistress, it tickles!”
“It tickles my little tickle slave’s ticklish little feet?”
“Yes! Mistress, please!”
“It’s no use begging, slave. You’re my tickle toy, and I’m playing. I haven’t even looked at my watch yet. I just don’t believe you’re this ticklish. This can’t be torturing you.”
“It is! Oh Goddess, please, it is!”
“What - this…?” Now she was running the paintbrush lightly all over my right sole, and pricking and stroking my left with the pencil. Her legs were tight around mine and her shoes kept touching my erection, which felt quite cool with the precum that was leaking out under her cruel inspiration.
I don’t know how long she kept it up, probably no more than a minute. But when she stopped and tucked the pencil behind her ear and grinned at me, I felt a wave of pure relief.
“Oh, thank -”
That was as far as I got, because at that moment she dropped the paintbrush in her bag and I felt the lethal points of her nails resting on the balls of my feet.
My eyes widened.
“Mistress, NO -”
“No?” She began dragging her nails down over my soles excruciatingly slowly; even the sound was making me squirm and forcing her to tighten the grip of her thighs and press painfully down into my abdomen with her shoes. “You don’t tell me no, slave. You tell me thank you, but never,” now wiggling her nails lightly over my heels as she enjoyed my torment, “never, ever,” and starting back up again, seeing me tremble as she knew I was reaching overload, “… no.” And with that she began tickling in earnest, still touching only lightly but now rapidly spidering her fingers over my helpless soles. “This is just warming up, slave,” she said menacingly. “You’ve still not had your feet really…” the pause was accompanied by a brief respite from the maddening fingernails, “tickled.” And with that word she really let my feet have it, wiggling and scraping her wicked nails all over, concentrating on the balls of my feet where she knew the sensations would affect me worst.
“Well,” she said, approximately eighteen seconds later. “That was truly miserable, slave. Just look at my toys, all over the place. Clearly, you need at least a weekend’s punishment just to get you into shape.” As she spoke, she took a pair of scissors out of her bag and began snipping the saran wrap off my legs. “And I doubt you have the necessary equipment here, and I didn’t bring it with me. I had hoped,” she continued with a great show of being disappointed despite the evil grin plastering her beautiful face, “that you’d be good and we could just have a lovely afternoon playing. I was looking forward to letting you worship my feet while I teased and tortured you. I was quite excited at the prospect of milking you over and over with my soles and toes. But now you’ve spoiled all that.” She was standing, and the scissors were getting closer and closer to my erection. “I have to tell you,” snip, snip, “I am quite angry,” snip, snip, “with you.” Snip.
I cried out as she ripped the saran wrap away from my legs. “Don’t be such a baby,” she sneered. “Come on,” she added, stalking over to the door.
“Wh-where are we going?” I asked, still prone on the floor. My head was spinning. The main thing I felt was a profound shame, tied up with an equally profound disappointment. I couldn’t believe my fantasy had literally come to my doorstep, and I’d ruined it so quickly.
“My place,” she said over your shoulder.
The implications of that didn’t sink in until some time later.
I got to my feet with some difficulty, and started to pick up my boxers.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, slave?” she said loudly. She had the door open. Christ, the neighbors!
“Mistress -!” I pleaded in a strangled whisper.
“You won’t need your clothes, tickle boy. Not for the weekend of torture I have planned.” She spoke exactly as loudly as before. “Get your worthless foot fetish ass out there!”
I was over to the door before I stopped to consider what I was getting myself into.
“NOW, FOOTBOY!” she yelled, and impelled mainly by panic of being caught by the neighbors I sped out to her car and dived into the back seat, cowering low.
I didn’t think anybody had seen me.
Outside, I could hear Mistress talking, conversationally. Oh dear Christ Jesus, what the hell would the neighbors make of her?
Now she was laughing her musical laugh. I could hear her getting closer. Any second now, she’d open the car door, and there I’d be, stark naked in her back seat. I felt sick with humiliation.
The door opened. Not the back door, the front door. The driver’s door.
“Thanks a lot, Emily. There’s a bonus in it for you, dear.”
I realized she’d been talking on the phone.
“Just getting things ready for you,” she said, looking over her shoulder and smiling at me with genuine joy. “Here, put these on,” she added, tossing a pair of padded cuffs into the back seat. “No, behind your back. I don’t want you touching that cock of mine. Punishment, remember?” I nodded dolefully, and clicked the cuffs on.
“Lean forward,” she said and I did so. She fastened a close-fitting blindfold over my eyes. “Perfect,” she breathed. “Now sit in the middle, and I’ll strap you in.”
This was turning me on all over again, and I listened intently to her open the door, walking round, then opening my door and leaning in. Her scent was intoxicating; her breath on my cheek was warm. I was hyperventilating.
“Oh, slave,” she breathed in my ear. “You are so into me, aren’t you?”
I nodded. I couldn’t speak.
The seatbelt fastened around my waist with a loud click. She tightened it, the touch of her hand against my naked skin raising goosebumps all over me. She giggled and I squirmed in my new bondage.
“Feeling vulnerable, slave?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Her nails were suddenly digging into my tender sides, making me scream and buck in the car seat.
“Hush, slave!” She said, quite as if she were concerned. “What if the neighbors hear you? What would this look like? Me, kneeling up here in my sexy little schoolgirl outfit, my ass showing under my tiny pleated skirt,” all the while her fingers were kneading my sides and stomach as I fought for breath and screamed panicky pleas, “my shoes just dangling off my exposed soles… and you,” harder now as she focused on the worst spot just above my hipbones, “naked and blindfolded and cuffed, just being tickled and tickled with that big rude erection -” she paused to slap it, hard, with one hand, while the other continued tickling all over my stomach, “oh yeah, you don’t care do you? Just if my hand keeps touching your cock while I tickle you. That’s all you want isn’t it, my hand stroking you to release while I tickle and tickle and - well, anyway,” she said, abruptly releasing me and climbing out the back seat, “the neighbors are out. So let’s go.”
She got back in the front seat, ignoring my panting as I recovered my breath.
“Feet up,” she said, unbelievably. “I want them in between the seats here. Toes back, obviously.”
God help me, I obeyed her. I wasn’t surprised to feel her slip toe cuffs on my big toes, neither was it a surrpise when a belt was tightened across the top of my ankles.
“We’re going to take a nice drive, now, slave,” she said. “My radio’s not working, so I’ll rely on you for the music.” She started the engine, put the car in reverse and rested the palm of her hand on my toes. “Sing,” she suggested, as her fingernails went to work and I felt the car start to move.
It was a long journey.
--and I certainly hope you're busily working on what happens when they reach their destination...
*sigh* 
