“Say it.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Never! I’ll never say it – because I’m not!”
Or so she says, wriggling against her bonds beneath me, giggling already, her skin glistening from the struggle. The word embarrasses her; even to hear it makes her cringe. She is the last person to offer this information to another; it is too much a part of who she is. And this is precisely why I want her to say it. I want her to confess aloud what she and I both know – to yield up the open secret of her desire, and mine.
Oh, but she’s a willful creature, all right. I like this about her: she is stubborn, has a mind of her own.
“Say it, little one.”
“Screw you! You can’t make me!”
Oh, but I can. I drag a finger across the underside of her stretched-out arm, tracing from freckle to freckle. I can feel her stiffen and brace – see her left hand clench and release, as if trying to divert her mind from the sensation. All her powers are at this moment centered on resisting the impulse to laugh. She shifts and struggles to evade the movement of my finger, which moves slowly, deliberately, unceasingly, like a Siren luring sailors by the power of their music. I am in possession of her movement now. She is under the spell of a sensation that she cannot control – and might not, if she were truthful, wish entirely to control. A fierce smile plays on the corner of her lips. She bites her lip as if chastising it for giving away her secret.
I use two hands, or two fingers, now. With every movement of my finger, her body shakes and her hips rise to meet mine. I shift from connecting the freckles of her arm to tracing long circles from her inner elbow to the vulnerable skin of her underarm. Each time my fingers approach the hollow of her armpit, her movements become more frenzied. She bucks harder against her bonds, twists and writhes in a futile attempt at escape. The fingers of my right hand graze across that concavity, and briefly across the side of her breast. In her surprise, she lets escape a little noise – half-giggle, half-shriek – and just as quickly swallows it.
“You have one last chance, little one.”
“I said, Never!”
And so it begins. I forego the lazy movement of my fingers and play directly into her underarms. My touch is light, but persistent and unrelenting. Her stifled giggles modulate into full-throated laughter. Unrestrained, helpless, beautiful laughter – the sweetest song I have heard in many days.
Her laughter is mine at this moment, as her body is. She is under my control; make no mistake about it. But I am under hers as well. “Her magnetic movement still captures the minutes I’m in,” Dylan sings – and so it is with me. She is a slave to my touch; I a slave to her laughter and her writhing body, naked beneath me. Her laughter, her body, is gift she gives to me freely. And in that gift I am hers.
Her laughter fills every space in the room. She threshes against her bonds, bucks against me with all her force, arches her back and tries to bury her face in the pillow. She is beautiful like this, at once willful and utterly helpless. I move from her underarms to her ribs, stretched taut against the sheets, and her laughter changes further to a kind of desperate squealing as I move my hands, with firmer pressure now, from rib to rib.
And she is ready. Still playing, very gently now, with the ribs on one side of her body, I reach behind me with the other hand and caress her inner thigh, moving up to her groin. I part her lips, play my fingers upwards across her wet slit, and my fingers meet her clitoris, hard and alert. Giggles change to soft moans, a sigh of pleasure. I want to taste her, and do, bending to kiss the spot that just moments before I had been torturing with teasing touch, trailing kisses down her belly to her moist sex – taking her lips into my mouth first, then flicking across her clit – softly at first, and then with more urgency as her hips grind into me, her mouth parts, and her breathing deepens.
She comes: a first wave of pleasure, and another. Her face flushes, fists clench and unclench, knees raised as far as the bonds permit. She stiffens, arches her back, ribs reappearing again to view.
Sensitized by the orgasm, still trapped and taut beneath me, she is magnificently alive in this moment. I leave my position and crawl up to face her once more.
“Will you say it now?”
I enter her, slowly; and as I do, draw a hand over her breasts and back onto her ribcage. She shrieks with laughter, tightening around me. She is wild, unrestrained. Her laughter comes from deep within her now, seizing her entirely. There is not much fight in her left.
“OK, OK…I’m ticklish! I’m ticklish!”
“Now, you know that wasn’t exactly what you needed to say.”
“I’m very ticklish! Very tickl – ” and trails off once more in a gale of helpless, high-pitched laughter. I begin to move again inside her, towards a climax we will share before I release her.
“Mmmm…yes, indeed you are. And a very good girl as well. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
...Caressing her hair, kissing her forehead, we give the room back to silence. Returning her secret to her for now.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“Never! I’ll never say it – because I’m not!”
Or so she says, wriggling against her bonds beneath me, giggling already, her skin glistening from the struggle. The word embarrasses her; even to hear it makes her cringe. She is the last person to offer this information to another; it is too much a part of who she is. And this is precisely why I want her to say it. I want her to confess aloud what she and I both know – to yield up the open secret of her desire, and mine.
Oh, but she’s a willful creature, all right. I like this about her: she is stubborn, has a mind of her own.
“Say it, little one.”
“Screw you! You can’t make me!”
Oh, but I can. I drag a finger across the underside of her stretched-out arm, tracing from freckle to freckle. I can feel her stiffen and brace – see her left hand clench and release, as if trying to divert her mind from the sensation. All her powers are at this moment centered on resisting the impulse to laugh. She shifts and struggles to evade the movement of my finger, which moves slowly, deliberately, unceasingly, like a Siren luring sailors by the power of their music. I am in possession of her movement now. She is under the spell of a sensation that she cannot control – and might not, if she were truthful, wish entirely to control. A fierce smile plays on the corner of her lips. She bites her lip as if chastising it for giving away her secret.
I use two hands, or two fingers, now. With every movement of my finger, her body shakes and her hips rise to meet mine. I shift from connecting the freckles of her arm to tracing long circles from her inner elbow to the vulnerable skin of her underarm. Each time my fingers approach the hollow of her armpit, her movements become more frenzied. She bucks harder against her bonds, twists and writhes in a futile attempt at escape. The fingers of my right hand graze across that concavity, and briefly across the side of her breast. In her surprise, she lets escape a little noise – half-giggle, half-shriek – and just as quickly swallows it.
“You have one last chance, little one.”
“I said, Never!”
And so it begins. I forego the lazy movement of my fingers and play directly into her underarms. My touch is light, but persistent and unrelenting. Her stifled giggles modulate into full-throated laughter. Unrestrained, helpless, beautiful laughter – the sweetest song I have heard in many days.
Her laughter is mine at this moment, as her body is. She is under my control; make no mistake about it. But I am under hers as well. “Her magnetic movement still captures the minutes I’m in,” Dylan sings – and so it is with me. She is a slave to my touch; I a slave to her laughter and her writhing body, naked beneath me. Her laughter, her body, is gift she gives to me freely. And in that gift I am hers.
Her laughter fills every space in the room. She threshes against her bonds, bucks against me with all her force, arches her back and tries to bury her face in the pillow. She is beautiful like this, at once willful and utterly helpless. I move from her underarms to her ribs, stretched taut against the sheets, and her laughter changes further to a kind of desperate squealing as I move my hands, with firmer pressure now, from rib to rib.
And she is ready. Still playing, very gently now, with the ribs on one side of her body, I reach behind me with the other hand and caress her inner thigh, moving up to her groin. I part her lips, play my fingers upwards across her wet slit, and my fingers meet her clitoris, hard and alert. Giggles change to soft moans, a sigh of pleasure. I want to taste her, and do, bending to kiss the spot that just moments before I had been torturing with teasing touch, trailing kisses down her belly to her moist sex – taking her lips into my mouth first, then flicking across her clit – softly at first, and then with more urgency as her hips grind into me, her mouth parts, and her breathing deepens.
She comes: a first wave of pleasure, and another. Her face flushes, fists clench and unclench, knees raised as far as the bonds permit. She stiffens, arches her back, ribs reappearing again to view.
Sensitized by the orgasm, still trapped and taut beneath me, she is magnificently alive in this moment. I leave my position and crawl up to face her once more.
“Will you say it now?”
I enter her, slowly; and as I do, draw a hand over her breasts and back onto her ribcage. She shrieks with laughter, tightening around me. She is wild, unrestrained. Her laughter comes from deep within her now, seizing her entirely. There is not much fight in her left.
“OK, OK…I’m ticklish! I’m ticklish!”
“Now, you know that wasn’t exactly what you needed to say.”
“I’m very ticklish! Very tickl – ” and trails off once more in a gale of helpless, high-pitched laughter. I begin to move again inside her, towards a climax we will share before I release her.
“Mmmm…yes, indeed you are. And a very good girl as well. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
...Caressing her hair, kissing her forehead, we give the room back to silence. Returning her secret to her for now.
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