Marquis De Sade
1st Level Blue Feather
- Joined
- Nov 21, 2007
- Messages
- 5,175
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It’s all these little things right now, these little particulars surrounding us that make up how I feel.
These minute details no one else would notice but can make a big difference in mood.
Like:
The sharp clacking sound of her high heels strutting against the smoothed concrete of the stairs as she makes her way back up to where she must’ve left her car.
Her stilettoed steps echoing throughout every vacant floor of the late-night silent parking lot.
Me behind her, following her two stairs short of her step, the sound of her heels calls my attention to her shoes, up her legs, her ass, her hips, and all the rest of her beautiful form.
As well as:
The way her streaked strands of gold brushes the shaped blades of her shoulders.
And:
The jingling-song search for her car keys in her still-overpriced knockoff Italian leather purse.
It takes a few more stairwells but we finally make it back up to the rooftop.
The half moon and cloudlessness above us right now adding just one more senses-assault to my trying to take this all in all at once.
I’m still behind her, very much on purpose, watching how her body moves across the pavement. Her one long leg stepping in front of the other. Her hips swaying.
There’s the ding, ding, ding as she slides the car key into its lock, turns it and pulls the door open. The car coming alive with all its little lights and sounds. The smell of leather and just-purchased vehicle.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, to her husband, she said, “Shit. This is an around-the-clock lot. There’s a guard downstairs. I don’t have enough cash on me.”
Her husband rolled his eyes. “Where’s the nearest ATM?”
She said, that little-girl tone in her tone, “Back downstairs.”
Her husband sighed. He knew that tone.
Stepping back out of the car, he said, “Stay here.”
And he slammed the door shut.
Her driver’s license says her name is Caitlin. And even inside the monochrome dark of her car right now, I can see from her face in the rearview mirror that Caitlin’s got the brightest, sharpest, most piercing blue eyes that’ve ever cut me right through to my core with just a single look.
It’s all these little individual things that just keep adding up one by one to what’s making my blood plump faster and faster. My heart beating so loud it almost adds a soundtrack to right this second.
Her arms pulled back behind her, wrapped around the car driver’s seat, I grip her wrists and judging from the fight in her, I don’t and can’t afford to waste time binding her hands.
Caitlin slamming the back of her head against the padded leather headrest behind her. She clumsily lifts her long legs up in front of her, anchoring the insteps of her heels against the steering wheel and she pushes against it with all her might.
Caitlin gasping, panicking.
Helpless.
Through the metal stems of the headrest, I whisper, “This is the softest rope. Magician’s rope.”
The insides of her wrists touching so as to not bruise her white skin. The rope getting thicker and thicker.
I whisper, “You can fight all you want. The rope won’t snap. The car won’t break.” I cinch tight the final knot.
Caitlin grinds her teeth, growling as I pull on the loose end of the rope and fasten it down to the framework of the car seat below her to keep her toned arms in place.
These tinted windows, they muffle her cries of protest as I bind her elbows behind her. This pushes her upper body away from the heated leather seat she’s sitting in. Accentuating her chest.
Pulling her golden locks to one side, I whisper in her ear, “Are you still comfortable?”
Caitlin just breathes. Staring at me with those eyes of hers and speaking to me with just the language of her expression reflected back to me in the driver’s mirror.
I stumble from the back seat right behind her into the passenger seat beside her.
I tell her, “Keep your legs right where they are.” And Caitlin’s eyes study my hands cradling her legs, lifting them so her ankles rest on the top of the steering wheel in front of her.
Not looking at my hands anymore, she watches me, my eyes, seeing what it does to me to tie her ankles to the locked-in-place wheel. The rope looped again and again until we both know she can’t pull her legs free.
“You already know what I want.” I tell her. And it takes quite a look to make whoever’s in charge, whoever’s in the position of power to question his current prominence. But she’s got that look on right now. Glowering right at me. Caitlin snarls. Breathing heavily through her nose. Her nostrils flaring. She lets out a gasp, squirming in her seat as I slowly slip a shoe off her foot.
Pinching the narrow heel of just one stiletto and lifting it off with a finger and thumb. Taking one shoe off at a time.
It’s all these little things.
These accumulated insignificants.
Like:
The roundness and smoothness of her nyloned heel. How the light shines off the darkened fabric and calls faint attention to the shape of its host stretching it out from the inside and giving it life.
The curvature of both her arches as both heels lift up and then slide right clean off.
As well as:
Her toes painted to match her fingers painted to match her shoes colored to match her dress stained to match her lipstick.
And:
That look in her eyes.
I reach over, just palming the soles of her feet. Her feet warm in their stockings. Soft. These nylons smooth as silk.
My hands move slow across the easiness of their material. These stockings guiding my fingers into every crease, along every curve and hollow of each foot.
That look in her eyes. Her watching me watch her watch me while I’m fondling the bottoms of her soft heels.
She knows it’s coming.
Her laughter comes fast. Caitlin closes her eyes, bites down on her own lip and the car again rocks from side to side with her as she energetically trounces herself backwards and forwards in her seat. My fingers not quite yet discovering what makes her do what.
The palm of my hand cupping her soft heel, my one finger itches at the arch of her nyloned sole.
Then two of my fingers.
And Caitlin’s holding back what she really can’t.
Then three of my fingers.
Caitlin leans forward in her seat. Her eyes open, her jaws wide and splashing loud, messy laughter all over herself.
My fingers reaching up just a little, scratching lightly at the stockinged skin above the smooth ball of her nyloned foot.
Caitlin helplessly pounding herself back and forth in her seat. Her long legs pulling, wrenching at her knotted ankles to try and pry them loose from the steering wheel. Slip them from out of the ropes.
Caitlin flexing her toes back, trapped in the reinforced nylon while my fingers find all five pads of all five toes.
I find all the spaces between them. Between each of her toes. The stocking adding friction as my finger wriggles between each one and makes her lose any shred of dignity and self control she might’ve still had left in her.
Caitlin, head down, tears sparkling in the half moonlight down her face, maddeningly giggling, “No.” However many times I feel like making her repeat it.
Reaching underneath her frantically pistoning legs with my other arm, the fingers of my left hand find her other foot.
Caitlin turns the shade of her toes, her fingers, dress, removed shoes, purse and her lipstick and all the laughter erupts right out of wherever she was trying to keep it.
I scratch the underneaths of her knees. Caitlin shakes her head, quietly shouting, cursing at me.
I squeeze her thighs and wonder how much of her doing what she’s doing right now they can take before she’ll need to replace the screws of her car seat.
It takes me a while, but I figure out just what does what to her and I know it’s cruel. But I don’t stop just yet.
Caitlin with her head dropped. Her hair, wet gold streaking down and framing the exhausted look on her flushed face.
The car windows steamed.
The moonlight and moisture dribbling down the windows making it look like we’re underwater.
My hands still cupping her heels. I tickle just the smooth back and top of each skin-tight nyloned foot.
Caitlin half whimpers in misery, half grunts in frustration at my having such total control over how she reacts to what I’m doing by just playing with her feet. She shakes her head. Grunts again.
That look, worn, battered, but still able to deliver on cue while I study the effects. The connections between what I’m doing to her soft stockinged feet and the expression on her face.
My single finger just tracing the outline of her right foot. Her little foot coming alive in its stocking – flexing, curling along with my finger as I run it from her heel, up the outside of her arch, along the inside of her foot and across the tops of her five nyloned toes in one
Caitlin’s spent. And it shows. Poor beautiful thing.
I smile at her. Tickling, very gently, the arch of her right sole and make her jump, squeal. Vibrate in her seat.
It’s all these little things I pretend to ignore. Her pleading. Her little gasps and whimpers. Her awkward breathing.
The flutter of her eyelids. How she bites her lips in an attempt to control herself just a little more than she’s able.
I pull the hair back from her face and tuck it behind her pretty ear.
In my gentlest whisper I whisper gently to her, “Keep your foot still, okay? Very still. As still as you can until I decide to switch feet and tickle your other one, okay?”
In tears now, Caitlin sobs and nods Yes.
“Good girl.” I say, in my most rewarding tone.
Now my fingertips, just my fingertips close in, close out – slow and methodical - noting every minute change in her face. Every change in her silent tone as just my fingertips spread in and out slowly over and across the stockinged ball of her right foot.
Her nyloned foot keeping still. The rest of her, not so much. But I go as slowly as possible, kindly making sure she has an actual chance of enduring this torture while still remaining as still as she possibly can.
“Good girl.” I repeat. “Now I’m going to switch feet, okay? Hold that beautiful thing still for me.”
Sobbing, Caitlin nods.
And I do the same.
Caitlin lets her head fall back. The tears sparkling off her red cheeks like just-discovered diamonds.
Her body trembling.
Sitting in the passenger seat now, glaring out into the darkness at nothing in particular, she snaps, “Did you at least get cash?”
Her husband nods, showing off a crisp twenty dollar bill pinched between his two fingers.
His wife Caitlin, her makeup a streaked beautiful mess, her gold hair still wet, she says, “What if a cop pulls us over?”
Her husband laughs. “We embarrass him?”
His wife just sneers at him. Not Funny written all over her pretty face before going back to making the leather of her seat squeak.
And it’s all these forgotten, dropped, little details, everything just adding to everything else that make me sit back and just watch her for just a second more.
Nothing else mattering to me right now.
Like:
Her clever fingers - reaching, picking for the fresh knots around her just-now bound wrists behind her back.
The flick, flick sound her nails make against the magician’s rope as her manicured fingers curl behind her.
The streeeeetch sound of the rope itself as she struggles against the rope fastened twice above her knees to immobilize her legs.
As well as:
That look on her face. Flashbacking me right back to when I first decided our little game was over but I wanted more.
Her too weak to put up her usual pretend fight after I untied her from her seat, but thought it would be fun to take our little game home with us that night.
And:
The THUMPTHUMP sound she makes as she angrily stamps the bottoms of her still-nyloned feet against the floor beneath her.
The knots around her now crossed and bound ankles making sure a chase will be impossible once I pull up into our driveway later.
This’ll be more of a carry-her-over-my-shoulder thing. Poor girl won’t have much say in the matter.
And we both know she likes it that way.
Still though, there’s that sound right now. That awful squeak of leather.
“Would you stop it already? That sound’s really annoying.”
“No! This wasn’t part of the deal!”
“I’m greedy.”
“PIG!”
Her husband, me, I just smiles at her.
“Do I need to put you in the trunk?”
There’s that look of hers, all over her face now, cutting right through me, right down to where my self-confidence trembles a little.
The look of resistance.
Her Fight.
She says, biting her lip, “No.”
“Do I need to gag you?”
“No.”
“Are you going to make it difficult for me when we get home?”
Caitlin glares at me. “I can’t.” Her answer sounding more like a reluctant knife-cut.
“Good girl.”
And Caitlin sits still.
I say, turning the car on and carefully backing out of our parking spot, “By the way, the stockings come off when we get home.”
Caitlin looks at me the way she does. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I say she knows I would.
She says, “Promise?”
And I just turn the radio on.
--------------------------------------
click for additional "missing" scenes+a pic of the woman who inspired this story
These minute details no one else would notice but can make a big difference in mood.
Like:
The sharp clacking sound of her high heels strutting against the smoothed concrete of the stairs as she makes her way back up to where she must’ve left her car.
Her stilettoed steps echoing throughout every vacant floor of the late-night silent parking lot.
Me behind her, following her two stairs short of her step, the sound of her heels calls my attention to her shoes, up her legs, her ass, her hips, and all the rest of her beautiful form.
As well as:
The way her streaked strands of gold brushes the shaped blades of her shoulders.
And:
The jingling-song search for her car keys in her still-overpriced knockoff Italian leather purse.
It takes a few more stairwells but we finally make it back up to the rooftop.
The half moon and cloudlessness above us right now adding just one more senses-assault to my trying to take this all in all at once.
I’m still behind her, very much on purpose, watching how her body moves across the pavement. Her one long leg stepping in front of the other. Her hips swaying.
There’s the ding, ding, ding as she slides the car key into its lock, turns it and pulls the door open. The car coming alive with all its little lights and sounds. The smell of leather and just-purchased vehicle.
Sitting in the driver’s seat, to her husband, she said, “Shit. This is an around-the-clock lot. There’s a guard downstairs. I don’t have enough cash on me.”
Her husband rolled his eyes. “Where’s the nearest ATM?”
She said, that little-girl tone in her tone, “Back downstairs.”
Her husband sighed. He knew that tone.
Stepping back out of the car, he said, “Stay here.”
And he slammed the door shut.
Her driver’s license says her name is Caitlin. And even inside the monochrome dark of her car right now, I can see from her face in the rearview mirror that Caitlin’s got the brightest, sharpest, most piercing blue eyes that’ve ever cut me right through to my core with just a single look.
It’s all these little individual things that just keep adding up one by one to what’s making my blood plump faster and faster. My heart beating so loud it almost adds a soundtrack to right this second.
Her arms pulled back behind her, wrapped around the car driver’s seat, I grip her wrists and judging from the fight in her, I don’t and can’t afford to waste time binding her hands.
Caitlin slamming the back of her head against the padded leather headrest behind her. She clumsily lifts her long legs up in front of her, anchoring the insteps of her heels against the steering wheel and she pushes against it with all her might.
Caitlin gasping, panicking.
Helpless.
Through the metal stems of the headrest, I whisper, “This is the softest rope. Magician’s rope.”
The insides of her wrists touching so as to not bruise her white skin. The rope getting thicker and thicker.
I whisper, “You can fight all you want. The rope won’t snap. The car won’t break.” I cinch tight the final knot.
Caitlin grinds her teeth, growling as I pull on the loose end of the rope and fasten it down to the framework of the car seat below her to keep her toned arms in place.
These tinted windows, they muffle her cries of protest as I bind her elbows behind her. This pushes her upper body away from the heated leather seat she’s sitting in. Accentuating her chest.
Pulling her golden locks to one side, I whisper in her ear, “Are you still comfortable?”
Caitlin just breathes. Staring at me with those eyes of hers and speaking to me with just the language of her expression reflected back to me in the driver’s mirror.
I stumble from the back seat right behind her into the passenger seat beside her.
I tell her, “Keep your legs right where they are.” And Caitlin’s eyes study my hands cradling her legs, lifting them so her ankles rest on the top of the steering wheel in front of her.
Not looking at my hands anymore, she watches me, my eyes, seeing what it does to me to tie her ankles to the locked-in-place wheel. The rope looped again and again until we both know she can’t pull her legs free.
“You already know what I want.” I tell her. And it takes quite a look to make whoever’s in charge, whoever’s in the position of power to question his current prominence. But she’s got that look on right now. Glowering right at me. Caitlin snarls. Breathing heavily through her nose. Her nostrils flaring. She lets out a gasp, squirming in her seat as I slowly slip a shoe off her foot.
Pinching the narrow heel of just one stiletto and lifting it off with a finger and thumb. Taking one shoe off at a time.
It’s all these little things.
These accumulated insignificants.
Like:
The roundness and smoothness of her nyloned heel. How the light shines off the darkened fabric and calls faint attention to the shape of its host stretching it out from the inside and giving it life.
The curvature of both her arches as both heels lift up and then slide right clean off.
As well as:
Her toes painted to match her fingers painted to match her shoes colored to match her dress stained to match her lipstick.
And:
That look in her eyes.
I reach over, just palming the soles of her feet. Her feet warm in their stockings. Soft. These nylons smooth as silk.
My hands move slow across the easiness of their material. These stockings guiding my fingers into every crease, along every curve and hollow of each foot.
That look in her eyes. Her watching me watch her watch me while I’m fondling the bottoms of her soft heels.
She knows it’s coming.
Her laughter comes fast. Caitlin closes her eyes, bites down on her own lip and the car again rocks from side to side with her as she energetically trounces herself backwards and forwards in her seat. My fingers not quite yet discovering what makes her do what.
The palm of my hand cupping her soft heel, my one finger itches at the arch of her nyloned sole.
Then two of my fingers.
And Caitlin’s holding back what she really can’t.
Then three of my fingers.
Caitlin leans forward in her seat. Her eyes open, her jaws wide and splashing loud, messy laughter all over herself.
My fingers reaching up just a little, scratching lightly at the stockinged skin above the smooth ball of her nyloned foot.
Caitlin helplessly pounding herself back and forth in her seat. Her long legs pulling, wrenching at her knotted ankles to try and pry them loose from the steering wheel. Slip them from out of the ropes.
Caitlin flexing her toes back, trapped in the reinforced nylon while my fingers find all five pads of all five toes.
I find all the spaces between them. Between each of her toes. The stocking adding friction as my finger wriggles between each one and makes her lose any shred of dignity and self control she might’ve still had left in her.
Caitlin, head down, tears sparkling in the half moonlight down her face, maddeningly giggling, “No.” However many times I feel like making her repeat it.
Reaching underneath her frantically pistoning legs with my other arm, the fingers of my left hand find her other foot.
Caitlin turns the shade of her toes, her fingers, dress, removed shoes, purse and her lipstick and all the laughter erupts right out of wherever she was trying to keep it.
I scratch the underneaths of her knees. Caitlin shakes her head, quietly shouting, cursing at me.
I squeeze her thighs and wonder how much of her doing what she’s doing right now they can take before she’ll need to replace the screws of her car seat.
It takes me a while, but I figure out just what does what to her and I know it’s cruel. But I don’t stop just yet.
Caitlin with her head dropped. Her hair, wet gold streaking down and framing the exhausted look on her flushed face.
The car windows steamed.
The moonlight and moisture dribbling down the windows making it look like we’re underwater.
My hands still cupping her heels. I tickle just the smooth back and top of each skin-tight nyloned foot.
Caitlin half whimpers in misery, half grunts in frustration at my having such total control over how she reacts to what I’m doing by just playing with her feet. She shakes her head. Grunts again.
That look, worn, battered, but still able to deliver on cue while I study the effects. The connections between what I’m doing to her soft stockinged feet and the expression on her face.
My single finger just tracing the outline of her right foot. Her little foot coming alive in its stocking – flexing, curling along with my finger as I run it from her heel, up the outside of her arch, along the inside of her foot and across the tops of her five nyloned toes in one
slow
fluid
movement.
Caitlin’s spent. And it shows. Poor beautiful thing.
I smile at her. Tickling, very gently, the arch of her right sole and make her jump, squeal. Vibrate in her seat.
It’s all these little things I pretend to ignore. Her pleading. Her little gasps and whimpers. Her awkward breathing.
The flutter of her eyelids. How she bites her lips in an attempt to control herself just a little more than she’s able.
I pull the hair back from her face and tuck it behind her pretty ear.
In my gentlest whisper I whisper gently to her, “Keep your foot still, okay? Very still. As still as you can until I decide to switch feet and tickle your other one, okay?”
In tears now, Caitlin sobs and nods Yes.
“Good girl.” I say, in my most rewarding tone.
Now my fingertips, just my fingertips close in, close out – slow and methodical - noting every minute change in her face. Every change in her silent tone as just my fingertips spread in and out slowly over and across the stockinged ball of her right foot.
Her nyloned foot keeping still. The rest of her, not so much. But I go as slowly as possible, kindly making sure she has an actual chance of enduring this torture while still remaining as still as she possibly can.
“Good girl.” I repeat. “Now I’m going to switch feet, okay? Hold that beautiful thing still for me.”
Sobbing, Caitlin nods.
And I do the same.
Caitlin lets her head fall back. The tears sparkling off her red cheeks like just-discovered diamonds.
Her body trembling.
Sitting in the passenger seat now, glaring out into the darkness at nothing in particular, she snaps, “Did you at least get cash?”
Her husband nods, showing off a crisp twenty dollar bill pinched between his two fingers.
His wife Caitlin, her makeup a streaked beautiful mess, her gold hair still wet, she says, “What if a cop pulls us over?”
Her husband laughs. “We embarrass him?”
His wife just sneers at him. Not Funny written all over her pretty face before going back to making the leather of her seat squeak.
And it’s all these forgotten, dropped, little details, everything just adding to everything else that make me sit back and just watch her for just a second more.
Nothing else mattering to me right now.
Like:
Her clever fingers - reaching, picking for the fresh knots around her just-now bound wrists behind her back.
The flick, flick sound her nails make against the magician’s rope as her manicured fingers curl behind her.
The streeeeetch sound of the rope itself as she struggles against the rope fastened twice above her knees to immobilize her legs.
As well as:
That look on her face. Flashbacking me right back to when I first decided our little game was over but I wanted more.
Her too weak to put up her usual pretend fight after I untied her from her seat, but thought it would be fun to take our little game home with us that night.
And:
The THUMPTHUMP sound she makes as she angrily stamps the bottoms of her still-nyloned feet against the floor beneath her.
The knots around her now crossed and bound ankles making sure a chase will be impossible once I pull up into our driveway later.
This’ll be more of a carry-her-over-my-shoulder thing. Poor girl won’t have much say in the matter.
And we both know she likes it that way.
Still though, there’s that sound right now. That awful squeak of leather.
“Would you stop it already? That sound’s really annoying.”
“No! This wasn’t part of the deal!”
“I’m greedy.”
“PIG!”
Her husband, me, I just smiles at her.
“Do I need to put you in the trunk?”
There’s that look of hers, all over her face now, cutting right through me, right down to where my self-confidence trembles a little.
The look of resistance.
Her Fight.
She says, biting her lip, “No.”
“Do I need to gag you?”
“No.”
“Are you going to make it difficult for me when we get home?”
Caitlin glares at me. “I can’t.” Her answer sounding more like a reluctant knife-cut.
“Good girl.”
And Caitlin sits still.
I say, turning the car on and carefully backing out of our parking spot, “By the way, the stockings come off when we get home.”
Caitlin looks at me the way she does. “You wouldn’t dare.”
I say she knows I would.
She says, “Promise?”
And I just turn the radio on.
--------------------------------------
click for additional "missing" scenes+a pic of the woman who inspired this story
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