Cleat
By Rohana
By Rohana
<P>
I was sorting through my teaching tools (gum, dry-erase pens, aspirin) in preparation for this week’s “Welcome to the BizMart Family” employee familiarization class.
<P>
“Don, is that you?”
<P>
I turned and felt my heart skip. It was Lynnie.
<P>
Pages flew off my mental calendar. It had been – what? – twenty years since we’d worked together in that little Federal Farm Bureau. She’d been such a little fireball, always racing about work, biking and hiking when not. We’d had a passionate little two-week fling back then, a hurried little affair that had amicably ended when we’d both realized that we were different sorts. I’d left soon after that, plodding my way into corporate training, spending the decades to come yawning through a career.
<P>
She was still the cheerful blonde I’d remembered; oh, perhaps a bit stouter about the middle, her breasts a little heavier and laugh-lines bursting from her sparkling blue eyes. But still Lynnie.
<P>
“Come to join our happy family of professionals?” I drolled.
<P>
“Oh no,” she said with her customary giggle. “I’m still with the Farm Bureau – I run the branch now. We’re just looking into training options and bought class time from various corporations to see how it’s done. I’ll be sitting in with you this week, two peas in a pod.” Another giggle and a brushing touch. I found myself smiling. How long had it been since I’d smiled?
<P>
“We should get together,” she decided in her Lynnish way. “Friday after class. Come over with your bathing suit. We can talk over old times in my hot tub.”
<P>
“Lynnie, I don’t think…”
<P>
“If you don’t, I’ll ask embarrassing questions in class.”
<P>
“Okay, I’ll come.” I said with a sour sigh.
<P>
All week, I’d wondered what I’d done. Part of me was reluctant. I wasn’t a hot tub sort of guy. I wasn’t any sort of guy. I had my books and quiet life. And yet here was Lynnie in the front row, her shapely legs crossed, a clog wiggling on a toe, so pretty and dynamic and, well, fun, that I was left in total confusion.
<P>
And if the week was confusing, Friday night was far worse. I drove my Yugo over to her place in my swim trunks, wondering how this had happened. Thank goodness I was still rail-thin. I didn’t eat out much.
<P>
She opened the door, all smiles, her black one piece swimsuit so interestingly contoured, her legs so curvy, her feet so delicate. Her blonde hair cascaded in tumbling waves over her tanned shoulders. What a dish!
<P>
Her back patio was nice, with high ivy-covered fences bordering the deck-recessed hot tub. One interesting thing – there was a cleat mounted on the deck in the near corner, the type you moor boats to. Strange. Through the steam, I noticed another in the opposite corner. I toed one. “What’s this for?”
<P>
“To dock my airboat.” A giggle. “Hop in. I’ll get the wine.”
<P>
And so we soaked, drank, and talked about my life (not much to say) and her’s (with its trips and events and activities). I sat in my corner, protected. Still, every so often, her wet skin would slip against mine, sending a wave of electricity through me. We soon finished off the bottle.
<P>
“I’ll get another,” she said, climbing out, water draining along her shapely floodplains of flesh. I sat very still, holding my empty glass, willing my reaction to fade. There came the pad of footsteps. “Hand your glass up,” she said, kneeling on the deck behind me.
<P>
I raised my hand with the glass. Suddenly something looped around my wrist, snapping tight with an abruptness that made me drop the glass. I started to half-turn in surprise, raising my other hand. It too was captured. She whirled the rope around and around, taking advantage of my surprise, cinching it up in record time like a little cowgirl. Then she pushed down, forcing my bound hands behind my head. The rope telegraphed the fact that she was cleating the rope down. She pulled in the last of the slack, made the last knot fast, and gave my raised forearm a friendly little pat. Then she came around to look down at me, her blue eyes flashing with hungry merriment. “How’s that feel? Not too tight, is it?”
<P>
With my head pillowed by my upraised arms, I gave a non-James Bond answer.
<P>
“Wha…?”
<P>
It was then I realized that more rope hung in her devious fingers.
<P>
“Let’s finish getting you fixed up. Then the fun can really start.”
<P>
She stepped down into the water, fishing for my legs. A moment later, she hauled them up, nearly dunking me. Fortunately, my bound wrists kept me from submerging. Smiling her devious smile, she looped her coils neatly around my ankles, around and around. She seemed to be really enjoying herself. I knew I wasn’t.
<P>
“I was going to do this to you all those years ago but you got away,” she said, pulling my bound ankles to the rim of the opposite corner. What rope wasn’t used to truss up my legs locked them down to the far cleat. Now I hung between the cleats, half-suspended in the blood-warm water. “I had ropes and oil and feathers all ready, but the chance never came up. I wanted so bad to tickle you then, to wipe off that frown of yours, to make you laugh like you’d never laughed before. All these years, and finally I caught you.” She lay a warm hand across to tops of my feet and smiled down at me, a wet and mischievous elf. “Now, I’m going to tickle you silly.”
<P>
Tickle? What? I pulled at my ropes, thinking of my quiet home and my books. My bonds creaked in sympathy yet held fast. I hauled on my legs but got nowhere. I hung, trussed and helpless, in this mad woman’s hot tub.
<P>
She sat on the side of the tub, radiant in her chipperness, happy to watch my frantic struggles. Finally she reached back and fetched out a final thin cord. I windmilled my feet but it did no good. She captured them neatly and corded my big toes together. Her efficient knot pulled them tight, locking them up. And then she looked down at me like some steaming sex-starved Amazon queen, eyes smoldering, smile uncompromising.
<P>
“It’s okay to pee in my pool. I figure you’re going to anyway.”
<P>
“No, wait. Lynnie, this is just silly. Look, I’m telling you ‘no’. Please…”
<P>
She rubbed her hands together, a brisk little motion of excitement. And then those long supple fingers dropped down to eclipse behind my upraised feet. I shook my head against my upraised arms. “No, please. Stop….”
<P>
It was clear Lynnie had waited two decades for this. Perhaps there had been nights she’d lain in her bed, thinking of me, imagining this moment. And when she’d run into me again, perhaps she’d gone home to sort her ropes, humming like a cartoon princess while her heart went pitter-patter. But clearly she was savoring the moment, letting me struggle in my bonds as her fingers came ever closer. With widely-spread fingers of a single hand, she touched my heals and drew slowly upwards like a lazy cat, her nails trailing across my taunt flesh, slipping across my instep, whorling upwards with an inquisitor’s skill, before flickering clear from my toes.
<P>
I didn’t take it well. Actually, I howled in tormented anguish.
<P>
She gave me a chance to wind down, my eyes wide, my head shaking. She looked like a fetching high school teacher ready to punish an unruly student. I looked across the small steaming pool to my bound ankles and trussed toes, then back up to her sweet face.
<P>
“Lynnie, please. Your neighbors will hear.”
<P>
“My neighbors are out. The Smiths are in Europe. The house behind me is for sale. There’s nobody here to save poor Don.” Like a horrible pink spider, her hand slipped in behind my feet again. I splashed water with my frantic head-shake of denial.
<P>
This time her devious fingers rippled like some slow jazz pianist, playing across my flesh, back and forth, dancing on this field of agony. I hauled against the ropes and arched my feet but she just followed my soles, spooling torment with every brushing touch. It was like having a car battery hooked to my nervous system, jolting agony flashed down the length of my body at every mocking caress. I shuddered and shook, howled and hooted, and there she sat, so demure with her legs crossed, a single hand at play upon my tender skin.
<P>
It went on and on, Lynnie’s torment. Sometimes she would use one hand in lazy, slow torment. Sometimes both would dive in with enthusiastic torture. My toes ached from the tension of the cord, my heels were scuffed from the decking. Worst, my lungs ached from my rasping, endless laughter. My throat was raw.
<P>
She stopped for a moment to let me recover, looking to me with tenderness, touched by the tears filling my wild eyes. Her warm hands patted my rope-pinioned ankles with motherly concern. Smiling to me, she raised a hand and sniffed her fingertips, savoring the scent of my sweaty desperation. She smiled as if it were perfume.
<P>
She gave me another session, fifteen minutes of screaming agony. I hardly remember any of it. My higher mind was shutting down, leaving nothing save the tortured beast. I remember my hilarity echoing through the porch, of the starry sky overhead, and how my gusting laughter swirled through the rising steam.
<P>
In the end, I found myself hanging in semiconscious wreckage, alone. The world swam in mirth-filled tears. My ribs ached. And she’d been right; I’d peed into the pool.
<P>
She sauntered back onto the pouch, sipping tea, circling slowly around the tub. Those blue eyes looked me up and down, taking in my helplessness, my bonds, my pumping chest, my thumping heart. It was as if she was mentally burning the image of me, abused and powerless, into her brain. Perhaps she would think of it often, the blissful evening when she’d almost killed me in her hot tub. Perhaps she would masturbate to the memory. I could see from her standing nipples that the situation excited her greatly.
<P>
She settled on the edge of the pool, slipping her long legs into its warm waters. “You know, I can only tickle your feet for so long. It’s a pity, but the more I tickle you, the more desensitized you become. Oh, I could go and fetch some oil to work into your foot-bottoms, to set you up for more tickling. If I did it right, I could keep you going for hours.” My reaction to her tinkling words was strange. Inwardly I trembled. But an external part of me swelled. She cocked her head coyly. “But I won’t do that. You can relax, Don. Your feet are safe from me.”
<P>
Within the water, her feet came up to rest flat against my side. I marveled at how sexy this pressing contact was.
<P>
“Later, when you’ve been tickled into a stupor, I’ll bring more rope out. It will be no trouble to tie you up like a little piglet, to lead you gagged and blindfolded to my four-poster bed. And there, once you are nice and secure, I’ll play with you across the long dark hours, until you cannot scream any more. Then I’ll ride you long and hard. After that…” A wicked smile “…perhaps we’ll do it all over again.”
<P>
And with that, she slid into the water with me. At first I thought she was going to do me then and there. I was certainly ready. With a swirl of strong legs, she slipped over me, straddling my belly. Now she filled the sky overhead with her cloudlike blonde hair and her moon-silver eyes. And then came the touch, down along my ribs, of mischievous fingers.
<P>
“Oh no. No No No! Lynnie, DON’T! HA HA HAHAHAHA!!!!”
<P>
With her thighs burning my belly and her fingers tracing my sides, she leaned close into my face, taking in my suffering, savoring my screaming hell.
<P>
And she was right. It went on for hours….
*** More of my work, namely “Innocence”, is available as part of “The Art of Corwin FT” by MTJ Publications. ***
