View Full Version : Some Used More Than Others (M/F Very Adult)

Marquis De Sade
11-18-2008, 09:17 PM
Those who inspired this know who you are.


Focus on...

The ambient sound of central air.
My own breathing.
How good it feels to run my hand up and down my own...

Stop it.

Focus on...

Need it. Please. One more.

Shut the fuck up.

Now then. Where was I?
Let’s see...

Focus on...

Replaying the events of the day in my head.
A list for tomorrow. No. Too stressful. Too many carried-over items from yesterday, a few days ago, last week, last month.
Last year.

Just one more. Last one. Promise.

Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

But please just this one last time. Promise last time. Please.


In my room it’s quiet. In my head I’m screaming.

Do not focus on...

But I want her. You want her. Can we take her? Please. Can we have her? Like always? Like before?
Now. Please. One more.

Stupid question. I know you don’t care. You don’t give two shits what time it is or isn’t because you aren’t governed by anyone’s clock other than your own.
Proved that many times.

Please one more. I can’t help it.

Fight the urge to pick up my cell phone next to my head. Discover how late or how early it may or may not be. I won’t be able to help counting down how many hours I may or may not have left until the alarm starts singing.
Wonder how long I’ve been up for now.
Judging by the warmth of my bed sheets, too long. My eyes already adjusted to the dark.
Never noticed how uneven the ceiling paint was.


Go to sleep.

If I don’t sleep, neither can you.

Seriously. Go to hell. Leave me alone. Do you have any idea how early we have to wake up?

Focus on...

Cars outside. Listen close. Pay attention. Car after car.
Wave after wave.
Link the speeding ghost rushes between each late night or early morning reckless driver and it almost sounds like the ocean.

Do not focus on...

The dark, hunched figure sitting on the edge of my bed, sounding as if he’s frantically rubbing his hand up and down his own...

Can’t, can’t, nothing else works, need it, please one more...

That’s it. I sit up. Scream at you to leave me alone. Go to sleep already or go back to wherever the hell you came from.
Come back in the morning.
So I can continue on with the rest of my day like everyone else I know in the world does, or at least pretends to.
You know, like NORMAL people.
Fuck man. I mean really. This can’t go on.
Go. Away.

Then you jump up onto the bed. Straddling me or standing over me I’m not sure because you only weigh as much as emotional burden can.
I only feel you on the inside and right now you’re smothering me completely.

Get off.

One more.

Get off.


You lean closer. Still can’t make out your face or what you look like but I know who you are.
It’s either saliva or craving made liquid that drips in long wet clear stringy globs from your razor teeth that gleam in the dark while you growl at me from someplace I enjoy visiting but don’t want to live my whole life.
Your breath as hot as my own buried urge I can’t ignore.
Hands or claws I’m not sure. But you grip me tighter. Pick me up and slam me down against the bed again and again.
Your cries and pleading like a spoiled child’s:

I want her, I want her, I want her, I want her...




Okay. You win.

Cell phone says a good night’s sleep has already slipped away. I should be used to this by now.
You want one more. I’ll give you one more.
Anything to shut you the hell up.
Maybe this will be my last.
I wish this were more difficult.

Run through my list of go-to mental triggers:

Women I knew
Women I know
Women I

No. I want her. From this afternoon. The one who sat next to us.

Course you do. She was perfect.
Okay. Her.
Why the hell not?

Run through my list of go-to mental scenarios:

A husband and wife...


Boyfriend and girlfriend...


Guy comes home after work, finds his...

You don’t need a scenario. This is our world. This is our little Matrix. We can do anything.
Here, he says, there are no rules.

And don’t I know it.
I close my eyes and it’s darker than when they were open.
I create her all over again in my head.
From the beginning.
Every detail.

I remember her hair – long, down to her shoulders in curls and loose ringlets. Natural dirty blonde. The same shade that’s produced from creaky wooden spinning wheels in children’s fairy tales.
She didn’t wear make up. Knew she didn’t have to. Maybe just a layer of foundation. Natural glow to her light skin.
I remember freckles. On her arms. Her face. Her shoulders. Her back. Faded where the sun hadn’t kissed her.
I remember her smile.

When I was a kid, I always wondered if there was some other world out there where all my little fantasies went, doomed to live on forever in that one imagined moment they helped me get my rocks off.

I remember her eyes. Luminous green blue. Like the color of the sea when it reflects the late afternoon sun off its calmed surface.
Her gaze like trying to find stars in the morning sky.
I remember her shoulders – smooth, round. More, darker freckles here. I remember her dress. Blue to match her eyes.
Little outlines in white – shapes of flowers.
Long with straps. Form fitting but loose in all the right places so when she moved it seemed as if she were gliding.

Like how in certain Asian cultures they’ll refuse to have their picture taken for fear of their souls being taken with it.
Their image evermore burned onto film.
Their lifeless illustrations repeating the same movie, reciting all those same lines they were first given.
All these little fantasies of mine filed away in my head. Stuck on paper in the form of words, stories and mental picture books.

A hundred or so other people in the room. All gathered to listen and learn from the speaker.
This could’ve been any seminar. Any class. Any gathering. The same thing would’ve happened.
There were plenty of empty seats.
And of all the seats you had to chose from, I made you sit next to her. Zeroed in on her as soon as you walked in and saw her.
I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. Really.
I knew you wouldn’t be able to concentrate. I knew she would be a distraction.
So I really am sorry.

Girls I used to know, strangers I’d see, images from magazines, a made up whomever, teachers...each one of them bound, gagged and glaring at me. Pissed that I’d stolen them. Kidnapped their souls and used them like toys. Did whatever I wanted to them.
Sucked on their toes.
Tickled their bodies.
Sometimes more.
Then threw them away.
Some used more than others.

It was either perfume or something else that made me think she’d just come back from the beach.
Reminded me of the sea. Of water.
Of soft sand, Hope Diamond skies and seagulls.
Of a siren sitting on the rocks.
Her body, her essence itself singing a song in her silence.
Calling out to me.
To us.

I would bring them all to life in my imagination and offer them no choice but to live through whatever I had planned.
Friends would react how I imagined they would.
Close friends reacted how I knew they would. Strangers, I would base it off how they carried themselves.
Still pictures, songs, movies, television shows.
The expressions on their faces.
If anyone within earshot would laugh, I’d record it immediately. Document every rise and fall in pitch, every intonation, file it away for later use and match up all their clipped sound bites to the still or moving images of them in my head until they were in sync.
Every detail whether known, discovered or researched would tell me whether or not they would be outraged, flattered, playful, hateful, spiteful, vengeful or sexually satisfied in my imagination.
Anything to make it that much more real.
To make the end result that much more memorable.

I remember her face...defined features like she were a chiseled marble statue.
She was tall.
She was slim.
I remember her scarce accessories – two silver bangles around her wrist. An amber ring on her beautiful right hand.
A silver necklace that accentuated her neckline and breasts.
I remember her legs – so long, so smooth. Her freckles were light on her legs.
Her skin was light...but tanned. A soft tan.

We all of us have that favorite picture or story. Our favourite private little fantasy.
Dark or light.
Consensual or its opposite.
That favorite video. That favorite piece of art.
We all of us have our own overflowing mental landfills of people we know, people we know of, people we see, have seen, people we admire or despise, random strangers, bosses, co-workers, waitresses, bartenders, celebrities, best friends, relatives, ex-wives, wives, ex-girlfriends and girlfriends...

I remember how she crossed her legs.
I remember looking down and thinking to myself...

Oh shit.

Oh shit.

Not here. Not now. I don’t want this now. I’m not here for this.

I’m sorry.

I’m trying to concentrate here.

I can’t help it.

Don’t look down.

I’m sorry.

Fuck. Don’t.
Don’t look.

I remember her feet.
For the first time – the definition of perfect.
In sandals.
Open. Screaming, Look at me. Look at my fucking pedicure. Look at how fucking perfect my bare feet are.
Just like the rest of me.
Fucking cock tease.
Her sandals purposely designed in Italy to show off the curves of each beautifully formed foot. Accent her arches. Her toes. Show off the smooth tops of her feet.
Her feet pale, but tanned like the rest of her.
Tops tanned, sides of her feet, where her arches were - light skin. Soft skin.
Small faint splattering of freckles near her ankles. Thin silver anklet draped around the slender shape of her left.
Silver toe ring on her right foot.


I want her, I want her, I want her, I want her...

Where do you want her?

Down. Downstairs. In a dark place. Same as where I live.

In my head my eyes are open. Outside they’re still closed and I’m not standing up.


I’m sorry.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The script you’re using dear, those are my words coming out of your shiny lip-glossed mouth.

“Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.” She says again, more venom in her voice this time and backing into a corner like I want her to.
Like I’m making her.
Strangers, I would base it off how they carried themselves. By now I’m pretty good at this.
I wish this were more difficult.

Where we are right now, it’s dark. Just like he asked for. It’s damp. Like a dungeon.
Like, with dripping. The walls made of brick.
The floor, dusty. Illuminated by a single light bulb casting a dull glow in all the right spooky little places.
In the middle of the room there’s a chair.

A table.

In the middle of the room there’s a table.

No. More worse than a table.

In the middle of the room there’s a...medical gurney. The kind covered in padded leather.

With straps.

With straps. Leather straps.

“Oh my fucking God don’t you dare. Let me out. Let the fuck out right now!”

Dirty mouth for someone who looks so...pure.

Isn’t that how it always is? The prettier she is, the more she cusses. The more...dirtier she is.
The more she likes it. The more we like it.
Torture. The more we all like it.

Let you out of where, exactly, sweetheart? Let you outta my head? My imagination? Trust me. I don’t want this right now either.
It’s, and I glance at the time, too damn late anyways. For all of us but he – and I indicate with my chin – wouldn’t leave me alone.
Says you were too distracting this afternoon. You, sitting beside me this afternoon, just...being, well...you.
Just being. Beautiful.
Really. Fucking. Distracting.

“I’m...I’m sorry? I can’t help it!”

You, with your fuckin’ perfect EVERYTHING. How kept you crossing and uncrossing your Goddamn legs right next to me.

“We were sitting there for two hours! What, was I not supposed to move?”

You must’ve known I was looking.

“I had no clue.”

Showing off those feet of yours in those fucking open sandals and wouldn’t stop.
Wouldn’t stop. It.
Showing them off.

“I can’t help you being attracted to me.”


Driving me fuckin’ nuts. All I wanted to do was SIT there like EVERYONE ELSE and LISTEN to what the speaker had to SAY.
You know, LEARN something.

“So all you learned was how weak you are.”

Damn. Hold on. Who wrote that?

I did.

Shit man. You really want her to get it, don’t you?

Punish her! Fuckingcocktease!

I shrug. I’m sorry.


I concentrate. In the middle of the room there’s a large, long and padded leather medical gurney and you’re on it.


Yes. Wait. No. Not yet.

Christina runs. Makes a break for it – looking for some way to escape out of the room.
Out of the room maybe. Out of my head, not a chance.
Christina screams as two figures step out of the shadows, grab hold of her – pick her up and carry her – kicking and screaming over and towards the gurney bolted down to the middle of the room.
Yes, now it’s bolted down.


I don’t mean it either.
Well, maybe I do. This is fun.
Sucks to be you.

The two figures...


The five figures, shadows, lift her up off the floor – each one of them wrapping their massive arms around her limbs: her arms, upper body, her legs, her ankles, one coordinating everything – they easily overpower her, wrestle her down to the gurney and...wait. What is she wearing again?

Same like this afternoon.


Long form fitting dress but loose in all the right places. Tight. Form fitting. Only her head, neck, shoulders, shins and ankles exposed.
The back of the dress, open.
Showing off her spine. Long, smooth curve.


Right. Sorry.
Long dress. Form fitting dress.
Makes me think of...
Makes me think of...

Christina flops about the table. Her eyes bulging over the hand clamped over her mouth. Her own hands trying to pry the palm away off her reddening face.
Her cries muffled. Loud but muffled.
Her body twisting and writhing in panic as she’s forced into a straitjacket.
How’s that?


Her arms pulled through the sleeves. Look on her face just how I want her to look as the sleeves are wrapped around her chest.
Metal clink of metal buckles being fastened behind her back. She glares at us.
Angry at being kidnapped like this. Stolen and brought here. To where we live.
We all of us have that favorite picture or story. Our favourite private little fantasy.
Dark or light.
Consensual or its opposite.

The figures...


Christina sits up. Her glowing face glowing blush colored now as she angrily tests her restraints. Her chiseled features pulling into a concentrated grimace as she struggles and wrestles against the buckles and straps of her straitjacket.
Frustrated, she bends her legs at her knees angrily slamming the bottoms of her san


...angrily slams the bottoms of her bare feet against the padded leather gurney.


My words. My stage-blocking.
This is my own little private home movie.
We are writer/director/producer.

The figures hold her down. Long enough for the straps to be...

No wait. Want more tighter! Worse. Tighter!


Hold on.
Oh COME ON. That was a stupid line.
Try again.

Christina sits up. Quiet. Waiting for her breathing to return to its normal rhythm.
Head down, just her eyes looking up, says: “You don’t let me out of this nightmare right now and call your fucking goons off I swear to God I’ll punish you in so many fucking different ways your little mind won’t even begin to comprehend.”

It’s a little Quentin Tarantino but its better.

More tighter...

The figures hold her still. Begin to fasten...
Okay, how’s this instead:

Her muffled shout ricochets off the brick walls until it weakens and falls onto the dusty floor. Dead.
We take a slow semi-circle walk around the gurney, examining our handiwork.
Tight enough?


Electric-Blue pleather body-suit: One.
This covers almost her entire body. Wraps her up tight as a new Egyptian artifact.
Sheaths her skin-tight from her neckline down to her ankles.
Like her dress but much, much tighter.

Yes. Much better. Much worser.

The body suit zips from behind.
Little air-holes for her skin to breath.
Reinforced with little metal padlocks for maximum effect.
Underneath it all, she’s still in her straitjacket.


Leather gag: One.
Clamping down over her mouth like a giant’s palm.
Head strap: One.
Padded lambskin. Pulled over her forehead. Keeps her from lifting her head. Reflecting our shame in her glare.
The leather straps attached to the gurney are fastened in place and pulled down around the edges of the table as far as they can. All buckled down underneath her. Latched firm.
One across her shoulders.
One across her chest and arms.
One around her waist.
One around her thighs. Her legs.
One around her knees.
One around her ankles.
Christina can’t budge.
Her bare feet hang over the edge.
Are you ready?

I want her, I want her, I want her, I want...

I kneel down beside her soles. Christina can’t see me but from the moment she arrived she knew what she was in for.
I take a hand. Hold my fingers a few inches away from...

More harder tickle! More worse tickling!

You know, sometimes you really can be remarkably articulate.
Other times you just go all Gollum on me.

This is my imagination, so, I produce a feather.


Which promptly catches fire.

This whole time, poor Christina’s filling in every silence with muffled screams. Every blank line between each written word or edited sentence. Every paragraph.



I glance at the bedroom clock.
Block Christina’s sound out. Listen close to the hands.
Pay attention.
Tick, tock, ticking.
Reminds me of a metronome.
Instrument used to keep time in music. Its swinging hand tick tocking back and forth in place of a simple drumbeat.
Makes me think of...

Christina’s immobile body thrashes minutely underneath her prison of pleather, straps, buckles and nylon. Moans as my imagination goes to work. Restrains her actual feet with two more leather straps.
Thin ones that strap across the bottoms of each of her bare heels and force her feet into permanent flexed-forward positions.
Her toes splayed backwards and out. Showing off the balls of each deeply arched foot.
I invent and pull up a just-right sized nightstand to right under her feet. Place on its surface two metronome’s with their backing cases removed, so all that’s left are heavy wooden base stands and two skinny silver clock hands ready to swing from left to right.
I invent new tips for the backs of each swinging hand – like an old record player’s sharpened needle point.
I push the nightstands closer. The prickly points of each needle making contact with the balls of each foot.
Just barely.
Christina wails.


I hit a button. Christina’s shouts change. Tremble along with her body. Thrashing up and down.
Convulsing as hard as she can as the sharpened needle tips barely make contact with her skin.
But every time they do...


The soft little record player needle points lightly scraping the sensitive skin of each beautiful bare foot.
Back and forth.
Left to right.
Christina howling with subdued laughter.
Her toes wriggling the way wheat fields do in a wind storm.
The clock hands swinging back and forth.
Tick, tock, tick tocking her to madness.


It wasn’t my fault, she says.
I know.
We know.
But I just can’t help myself.


I’m sorry, she says.
I know.
We know.
But we’re not.


This is my imagination so I’m in charge of special effects.
The nightstand suddenly shrinks several inches. The needle points criss-crossing across from the balls of her feet, down to her perfectly shaped arches and remain there, swaying.
Tick, tock. Back and forth.
The points catching the edges of each foot. Dragging across the insides of her arches. Catching her soft pale skin.
Barely making contact. Just touching her enough to graze across every smooth crease and wrinkle but not the spaces between.
Christina releases all her frustration at not being able to move, not being able to protect her soles, to escape from here, from me, to us, not being able to do anything other than endure this, all in voice.
It all comes flooding out of her mouth. Underneath the thick slab of padded leather pressing down firmly against her pink full lips.
Christina screams. She laughs. Her body shuddering on the leather gurney. The bolts of the table’s legs holding her still.
The nightstand rises now. The clock hands still holding to their slow, controlled rhythm.
Back and forth. Tick, tock. Left to right.
The needles tickling the length of her feet from up to down. The balls. Her arches. Nightstands rise until the points catch the pads of her toes.
Christina’s manic giggles come bubbling.
Curious what she would sound like without any hindrance, I loosen her gag for an instant.
The dungeon’s walls seem to shift out of place altering the fixed dimensions of the room itself.
The mortar in between each brick loosening and sprinkling down in little dusty waterfalls as her screams and shrieks echo-blast the space around us in wave after wave of sonic panic.

“PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE!! PLEEEEEASE STOP!! PLEEEEASE!!” And she cuts herself off. Banshee cry cannon-blasting right out of her body and soul as the nightstand lowers itself, the clock hands of the metronomes working their way back and forth, lower and lower.

I’ll let that one go.
Corny as that line is, it’s still fun.

I look over at you. You’re hunched in a corner again. Rubbing your hands or rubbing one out I have no idea.
But I know you’re enjoying this just as much as I am.
This is, after all, what you asked for.

More. I want more. More darker. More worse than tickling. Even more. This will feel so good when it’s over.
Please more.
Little bit more.
Something worse.

Run through my list of go-to mental scenarios:


I close my eyes.
Okay, how’s this:

Christina’s eyes open. Tears that weren’t there before start to dribble down her puffed cheeks.
Her freckles showing now. Darker than the rest of her.
She bites her lip.
I know that she knows what this is all about.

Dildo - size/color not important: One.
This is now wedged between her pressed-together legs. Right up in where all of us know it is.
Micro-sonic Tremor Pad: One.
This is used to read micro-shock waves. Not earthquakes. More of low, quiet rumblings. Like little ant hills.
Scientists stick these sticky little motion detector square pads onto mountaintops, caves, concrete roads, coal mines.
Any movement is detected in sound waves. The scientists check for signs of life, micro-organisms, minute shifts in the earth’s plates.
The thin copper wire from the sticky pad is hardwired to the tiny electric motherboard of the dildo shoved up inside her.


Shut the fuck up. Left and Right Brain don’t always have to shake hands.


Any sound from you Christina and this thing will ride you as hard as I want it to.

Oh my God...

Shut up. Enjoy the show.

Christina bites down on her lip harder.
The clock hands still ticking back and forth. The needle points catching her skin. Tickling her immobilized feet.
Back and forth, back and forth.
Left to right and driving her mad.
Christina’s body shakes. The straps holding her down.
A cry escapes her lips. The lip-gloss smeared and messy. Making her beautiful mouth one shiny sticky shimmering mess.
Glitter mixed with drool mixed with snarling.
The pad picks it up. The vibrations in her chest and throat from her tortured moan.
The signals travel up.
The walls between her legs contract on their own. Close in over and around what’s invaded the space between.
A second moan from her lips. Her teeth still biting down on her lower smeared mess of pink. Her back teeth grinding.
Her body pulses upwards. The straps stretch a little. Christina gasps. Takes in a breath.
The needles swinging back and forth – lightly, like two feathers brushing over the balls of her feet.
Just barely touching. The touches are faint – like feathers but stiff. Like blowing but more like record needles.
Christina’s face contorts. The swelling between her legs getting more and more difficult to ignore.

Feels good doesn’t it?

Nothing. Just the tick tock across the soles of her feet.

Come on girl. Admit it. You’re enjoying this as much as we are.


And, “AARRRRGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!” As the pad registers her whispered statement and goes ballistic.
For something that detects the movement of insects, that must’ve sounded like the apocalypse.
Or maybe that’s what it sounds like in her head.
Or my head.


You know how to make it stop.

Christina bites her lip again. Blinking her tears away. Holding her breath. Opening and closing her eyes.
Her toes splayed and curling forward, backward.
Then tensing up as the nightstand rises and the delicate needles swing across the swirling prints of each toe.
“Nnnnmmm. Uuuuunnnmm.” With every grunt, every groan, every low moan or high-pitched squeak, there’s a jolt between her legs.
A gentle pounding.
Christina’s eyes closed. She begins to drool a little more. Even swallowing is some form of sound.
The needles tickling, tickling her feet.
The vibrator registering every little sound she makes and pulsing into action after every hushed squeal.

“Fuck you.”
Then louder.
Then nothing.
Then louder.
Then nothing.
Then louder.
Then nothing.
“Ican’t take much moreofthis.”
Then louder.
And louder. And louder. Her cries coming in waves. Listen close. Pay attention. This is nothing like the ocean.
Wave after powerful wave cascading out of her beautiful mummified form.
The metronomes go about their business. Back and forth, left to right. Lightly brushing their needled tips like gentle quill strokes all across the smooth soft bottoms of her bare feet and sending her nervous system into Red Alert panic fight or flight mode: FEET. BEING. TICKLED. STOP. GET AWAY. RUN. ESCAPE.
But she can’t.
And every shriek of recognition at what’s being done to her feet registers on the tremor pad and the plastic coated copper wiring sends its burning signal straight up to right between her legs.
Christina howls louder and louder, faster and faster, longer and louder and faster and faster and louder and louder and longer and even louder and even faster and even longer and even longer

and then loudest.

The hunched shadowy figure comes over to me. Cocks what can only be an imagined gun. Sticks it into my mouth.
His arm traveling down inside me.
Deep down.
Down to between my own legs.
He says, Ready?
I nod.
And he fires.

“We should do this again sometime.”

All these little fantasies of mine filed away in my head. Stuck on paper in the form of words and stories.


Their lifeless illustrations reciting all those same lines they were first given.


Some used more than others.

12-11-2008, 04:45 PM
Absolutely unparallelled.

You know man, I would give my right nut to produce something this visionary in any damn medium.

Well maybe not actually give one of my nuts but you get the idea. Since you turned up on the forums with the Avril Lavigne story I've seen you pull some insanely good stuff out of your head but this is one I will be re-reading for years.

Oni Dorei
12-16-2008, 03:08 PM
Awesome read man! Great work. I can't believe you don't have more comments on these things.

04-06-2009, 06:45 PM
wow this was amazing!
you shouldn't waste your work on these sites

love feet
08-04-2009, 01:40 PM
so good!

08-11-2009, 02:33 AM
You know, this actually reminds me of all the nights I spent awake, not being able to sleep. I like the way you've written this up. I think this would make a great movie.

12-03-2009, 12:49 PM
Awesome story. Very wicked. :firedevil