I can’t believe this is how this is going to come out. That this is how it will start. Years and years being washed away and it’s going to be a copy-cat riff and I know it is from the start. This is the framing mechanism to distance myself from the actual proceedings, to make it seem as though I am vitriol filled about plays in this instance. But this is within the recesses of the mind and the text is all the same if you ask me. You aren’t asking me. I’m rambling inside the confines of my own brain, a synapse shooting syllables as my chest feels this uncomfortable burn, this foreign churning queerness.
This isn’t who I am. I am expressing this through the voice of another, more known and perhaps more competent man. Those who know me will be disappointed.
I do not fucking care right now because this is all about lurid confessions and how they roll into the subconscious fantasy machine. Subconsciousness theory is really horseshit, and I could carefully articulate the manner in which I arrived to this conclusion, but this is not college and this is not for a grade and I do not have to act like I am more intelligent than I am. Framing mechanism over.
She was soft. At least she looked like it. I never touched her. Pale, not ghostly. Wore jeans and a tight white t-shirt with a scarf around her shoulder colored hippie. Black rubber flip flops which were maintained in position by plastic between the big and index toe. Her nails were not painted. She had a cute face and she even smiled at me when she caught me staring. She had a guy who held her hand, but for the intentions of this, he does not exist. So forget about him. I was able to stare at her down the aisles of WalMart as I inadvertently was forced to follow her from one to the other. The bottoms of her soles were colored that rosy tint. This against flawless ivory caused saliva to form underneath my tongue.
She wore glasses. Had a heart shaped face with no make-up. Brunette hair cut shortly before it reached her shoulders. Her body was lithe, rail thin. She had been staring at the health foods section, giving boxes of granola and raisins a healthy examination as if she were a family doctor checking for chest bumps. I had her pegged as an art house chick, which means she was at the wrong store shopping for the wrong sorts of things like store branded bakery goods. That kind usually buys squash and is carrying conversations about Voltaire with a cardboard cup of Starbucks if they are fake, and buys whatever while staying tight lipped if they are real. She had no coffee.
The voyeur in me couldn’t help but play the game of stare and look away. If we had been outside, I could have used the transition lenses of my glasses to have studied her without fear of being caught. Sunglasses inside a WalMart seems like it would be rather conspicuous. Thinking about this is making me feel very dirty.
Not as dirty as the emotional overdrive lust seems to be motioning towards. Oh the places we’d go. The Cat in the Hat has a Jack Napier smile and a voice just as hollowing. She was too fragile to go through the rough and tumble. That pearl skin would bruise as easily as a premature peach. She didn’t seem capable of expending energy at all, instead moving in almost painful fluidity, making every step and motion seem choreographed. And that is why she is stuck here twelve hours later, unwilling to part as many whispers and visages do. It is right rude of her to seem so precariously accessible.
I am sure she is sleeping in her bedroom currently, complete with content smile. The wheels are a’spinning. She is probably wearing cotton bed pants. An oversized t-shirt. Barefoot and without the glasses. Her arms are curled up against her chest. Serene.
That isn’t sexy enough. That doesn’t know WHAT it is talking about. That side isn’t Gollum forcing me to cow for the precious. Nobility lines my blood. My desire is controlled and regal. She was sexy as an all encompassing, conquerable form.
But this, this I can’t allow. We are in headspace, so let’s see what the mind can do. First of all, she is ticklish. And how do you know? I just know. Wait; too cheesy. Alright, people who look that soft are dangerously sensitive. Part of the allure of that sort of woman is that you can overpower her, and then drive her to the brink with intense sensation. At the very least, the way her soles looked, with careful study, it would be hard NOT to imagine them being frightfully ticklish.
You look away every single time you type that word in.
I punch myself in the chest. The butterflies of expression have been knocked loose, though where they can escape to I haven’t a clue.
She can’t sleep through this. “Excuse me, but why are you punching yourself?” She has the smile. Warm and soothing, causing my insides to tremble. And for a moment, I can’t help but feel sick. Sick of my fetish. Of how insane this is. This is the shit serial killers and rapists and stalkers do.
She’s safe and sound at home.
Not here she isn’t.
You don’t know her name.
Elyssa. Her name is Elyssa. She’s twenty-three and she enjoys modern British literature. She has an appreciation for this as a result.
“I’m not sorry for this.” I wish I could stammer, because underneath my skin every single ounce of me is quaking. She can’t see it because of the blindfold.
“I’m supposed to chastise you now, aren’t I?” She was acting coy and she giggled at the end of her statement. And then, she said nothing. That’s when the pants and the shirt disappeared and she was lying before me, spread out in black lace lingerie which did quite a good job of not hiding her intimate areas.
She’s not fighting this?
No.
She wants this. Wants to be bound to the posts of the mattress, her wrists and ankles held in cuffs in a spread eagle. Wait. No she doesn’t. Hogtie. Hogtie works best for this right now. Those same cuffs pull her arms back, bend her ankles, and are hooked together through mutual metal rings. No escape. There is no real key. No way her body could break through metal two inches in diameter.
My hands push her so she is resting on her left side; she is facing me as I lie down next to her. Her breathing tenses and so does mine. She slightly fidgets, and metal clinks against metal. The leather doesn’t give.
She didn’t smirk. Didn’t squeal. No chuckling emanated from her lips. Laughter simply poured from her lungs as my fingers began jolting nerves with fervent prodding to the rib cage. The touch cut to the bone by virtue of her skin being so kind as to cascade down, to press in much like a finger would to a pillow. But this wasn’t cotton, was more velvet. She fought in futility to free herself from inescapable mind bondage. As if this would have been simple to muscle out of even if we were playing by the rules of reality.
In those beginning stages I felt such a heavy head rush I swore I would faint. But no. The rush shot through my arms and legs and heart like adrenaline. She writhed against me as my finger tips began pushing into the crevices between ribs. Electricity shot through my finger tips as muscle flinches vibrated with my digs. Laughter peeled out of her lips as she seemingly gravitated towards the touch. Her laughter was not anguished. She was having fun. The octave of her forced mirth shifted as I spread the skin where her bellybutton began. I tersely tickling around the area.
The bellybutton itself was an innie, which meant that if I was whole hog into tickling bellybuttons, I would be able to have a grand old time playing pirate games while digging for treasure. I’m not though. Instead, I continue the downward trend, greeted by guffaws as a result of my dancing touch down her waistline, down to her lower tummy. This area is perhaps otherworldly sensitive, and rarely receives a proper and thorough treatment.
Thanks, Doctor.
She squeals this time, but now she is flinching away. I hardly have to touch her to produce a ticklish reaction. She isn’t laughing her fool head off, and the reality is I don’t want her to. Instead, I rather she understand sensation. Understand that even the lightest touch can produce intense reactions. I softly tease around her lower tummy, pulling her panties down slightly and putting my thumb and middle finger in a v on a small rise before her pubic region.
“Oh god, that’s too much.” She’s jittery, her voice cracking from my trembling touch. Her entire body is undulating sensually.
Sharp inhales and exhales follow protests as I slowly draw my fingers outward, and then draw them back to a v. She fights with her hogtie. Her shoulders swivel against the mattress and her movements accomplish nothing save to make her all the more tantalizing.
She is starting to groan through her harsh breathing, and I slip my hand all the way through her panties mindlessly, letting my fingers do the talking as I give her lips a parting embrace with my ring and forefinger. No laughter. Just a sharp moan and an expressive thrust in my trailing direction.
She explodes as the softness transitions to heaviness, my fingers poking and prodding her ribs and sides. I grab hold of her, covering her sensitive ribs with rubbing and teasing rolls of my finger tips, raking my nails up and over the smooth valleys which are showcased with each forced laugh. No more coy games. She wants to get away from me. She should want to get away from me. She is thrashing as much as her muscles will allow her, but doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.
My mind hasn’t trapped her in this small space. If she truly wanted to get away, she would have.
Within reason.
I stop. Rubbing her sides, I let her laughter simmer down. But she is still chuckling, still showing this satisfied smile.
Before she can react, her arms are cuffed above her head. Her ankles are still hooked together, anchored to the floor. Currently taut, she tries to jerk her arms down. Again, this is simply a test. I just want to make sure of something.
I trail my fingers down her inner forearms, receiving no reaction save a quick jerk of realization. I take away my hands for a moment, allowing silence to come over the space between us. She can’t see me anyways. But she is responding, anticipatory flinches and meek, adorable groans as she tries to shield her underarms. And that is when I lightly scratch them both with my index finger. There is very little in the way of reaction.
This was going to be the spot I need to chisel.
“You can’t keep this up.”
She—wait.
“You can’t keep this up.” My fingers had stopped, pinning dead in their tracks. “You’re going to move from spot to spot and I’m going to act coy and school girlish. And you are going to show me the tender side of tickling, because you lack the stones to dish something out you feel embarrassed about expressing.”
Oh, why did your heart drop? Seems like the puppets have something to say.
“You don’t even like armpits. You like the sides but in reality, you are doing yourself a disservice. And it makes me sick.”
The petals of this flower sharply became thorns, each piece stabbing a kill shot through my sternum. Nice and soft and supple and…
…
Her bondage falls apart. She tears the blindfold off.
…
What good is conquering the willing?
She can’t react quick enough as straps gather round—straps are not good enough. Her body becomes ensnared in black latex, effectively mummifying her. She can still wiggle. That’s where the straps come in. One over the chest, the waist, and the knees. All that are poking out are those feet.
Those ankles are strapped too.
Twice over. She can still flinch. The latex comfortably fixes itself over her big toes, wrapping around and slowly pulling backward until there is no more fidgeting. All that can move is her head.
Her head is locked in place by a strap against a pillow.
“This better for you Elyssa?”
“Fuck you!” She snarled. “You’re a sick fuck!”
She shouldn’t be swearing.
Shouldn’t was tossed out the window the second this thing started.
Just me and taut pink flesh. Hyper sensitive, I would imagine. That’s where the feather comes in. The sharp tendrils cut a rift through her angered veneer, chuckling instantly flooding from her lips. The skin makes small depressions even as a feather flitters about. She must take good care of these. Down the instep to the heel. Then to the arch. Focus on the arch, because that’s where she’s going to—
“I’m sorry...” she’s already whimpering. Shuddering. Her muscles are trying to spasm but they have been robbed of even that luxury.
The space before the toes produces intriguing responses. Teeth gritting, heavy breathing, a few snorts peppered between begging which lost its bite. And then the toes. Underneath them at first, and she can’t help but screw her eyes shut. I see muscle flinches in her toes, but pressure is making for a useless show of defiance. The feather snaking between her toes produces ample squeaking. Then a groan. “I’m just doing as you want. Come on Aa—”
NO!
You don’t GET to say my name!
Instinctive flinches are heavily muted through her inescapable bondage. She is shaking. Maybe a tear or two? “Jesus Christ, stop!”
Roger that.
That’s where the baby oil comes in. Liberal amounts of it, coating from toe to heel. Friction multiplies sensation. And it also makes for a much softer surface to dig into. She is incapable of saying anything as I gruffly massage the oil into the soles of her feet. A moan or two, or five, is my reward.
Fuck her moaning.
Oiled flesh on oiled flesh, my fingers produce efficient reactions. Shrill cries with the all so familiar sound of cackling laughter. Her ribs had to ache. Her lungs were on fire. But if they were ablaze, then I was in the process of napalming those tender tootsies with my scratching, focusing my assault primarily on those arches.
Fingers work well.
Brushes work better at this point.
A hair brush with ballpoint tips, wide enough to cover the space of her feet length wise and covering a good two-thirds of them height wise to be exact. She screamed instantly. She went hoarse as I raked that brush to and fro, lacerating that unmoving flesh with a makeshift serrated blade. She was crying heavy and hard now. And then I focused on scratching that itch right below her trapped toes.
“NO!”
Heavy breath.
Another.
I wouldn’t call that reaction laughter as much as I would call it the sound of gut wrenching desperation. And before she knew it, I had stopped. She panted, sucked as much wind inside her lungs as she possibly could in what she well understood was a rest break. But even so, she had to waste all that good air.
“I can still feel it. Rub it out. It tickles so much down there still.” But even my lightest touch was still causing her to cackle. “Oh thank you. Thank you so much.” Her words were intersped with he’s and ha’s.
I don’t get why she was thanking me. The toothbrush was just picking up where the hairbrush had left off. She should have seen it coming. Fresh laughter came out of her slightly rested lungs, as I trapped the stems of her toes with my fingers, cleaning them thoroughly with the bristles, darting inside then toward the sides. She was mewling now, softly sobbing as her feet were ravaged.
She was getting there. Already, she was nearing that point where her back would break and all the secrets would fall out of her. Where she would profess that she would do anything in the world to stop this. Which is why I wanted to stop it right here.
You can’t go through with this.
You want to watch me?
This is where you stop. Once you go here, there is no going back.
I don’t listen to authority. I am authority.
Oh there she is, the latex filtering upward, encasing her hands, snaring around the bed posts. And what is left encases her feet, jerking her ankles to the lower posts. The lingerie seems to have disappeared. She doesn’t have much of a chest, but what she has is highlighted by hardened buds of pink. A thin sheet of perspiration covers her body. Her scent carries in the air. The blindfold is back. She is stretched out, unable to hide herself from my touch. Her breathing is steady, but her body language speaks of exhaustion.
Devilish fingers roll the left nipple, then the right. And she moans to that touch, pushing her chest upward to meet it. Then they get squeezed. Sharp inhale. Teeth grinding. Closed mouth moan. Her nethers twitch in correspondence.
She giggles as my fingers flitter about the tops of her breast, right before I tickle underneath them. This is the slow down. This is where she gets ready to break. She can’t say anything but I know her heart rate is racing, and she is becoming wet. The scent itself is hard to describe, yet it is distinctive. I liken it to something sour.
The testing feather once again makes an appearance, now brushing the very tips of her nipples. Quaking. She is quaking. Her breathing is growing jagged. Every single bit of manipulation is sending signals right towards the goal.
And that’s when the feather kisses her.
She flinches, and then sighs. When the second embrace occurs, she is ready for it, meeting it with a wanton thrust. I can’t describe her sounds through generic terms; it simply sounds of satisfaction.
“Oh fuck.”
The feather dances around the outside of her puckered lips, and she is trying to do whatever it takes.
“Oh fuck.”
Don’t stop.
I stop.
“No…Jesus Christ no!”
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
“Anything…I’ll do anything.”
Nothing. She feels me rise from the mattress.
“I’ll be anything! Anything you need me to be!”
Wait for it.
“Don’t leave me like this!”
Wait for it.
“Fucking tickle me if you have, just PLEASE!”
Bingo.
Not her way though. My fingers split her lips, applying a deep amount of pressure. She throws her head back, unable to move. She’s frozen. And then, all of a sudden, her muscles violently contract. My fingers have exposed the inside of her clit.
She is trapped. A fine tipped paint brush glides against the inside of her molten core. She tries to clinch her toes, but she can’t. She can’t express the intense sensation, instead grunting and groaning, layers of education and conditioning pushed back for something much more important. The brush dances and coats itself with her lust.
Her brain begins to fry. Stars start to burn into her eyes. Breathing and guttural moaning and humping are all working against each other. Stroke after stroke. The inner walls of her sex completely trapped and at the mercy of a mechanical tickler.
One pained expression of satisfaction follows another as trembling flesh writhes in violent contortions. Nothing is quite as amazing as a lovely lady melting by your hand. And as she continues to ride on through, I gently give her stomach a gentle rub.
“Good girl” I say.
Good girl.
This isn’t who I am. I am expressing this through the voice of another, more known and perhaps more competent man. Those who know me will be disappointed.
I do not fucking care right now because this is all about lurid confessions and how they roll into the subconscious fantasy machine. Subconsciousness theory is really horseshit, and I could carefully articulate the manner in which I arrived to this conclusion, but this is not college and this is not for a grade and I do not have to act like I am more intelligent than I am. Framing mechanism over.
She was soft. At least she looked like it. I never touched her. Pale, not ghostly. Wore jeans and a tight white t-shirt with a scarf around her shoulder colored hippie. Black rubber flip flops which were maintained in position by plastic between the big and index toe. Her nails were not painted. She had a cute face and she even smiled at me when she caught me staring. She had a guy who held her hand, but for the intentions of this, he does not exist. So forget about him. I was able to stare at her down the aisles of WalMart as I inadvertently was forced to follow her from one to the other. The bottoms of her soles were colored that rosy tint. This against flawless ivory caused saliva to form underneath my tongue.
She wore glasses. Had a heart shaped face with no make-up. Brunette hair cut shortly before it reached her shoulders. Her body was lithe, rail thin. She had been staring at the health foods section, giving boxes of granola and raisins a healthy examination as if she were a family doctor checking for chest bumps. I had her pegged as an art house chick, which means she was at the wrong store shopping for the wrong sorts of things like store branded bakery goods. That kind usually buys squash and is carrying conversations about Voltaire with a cardboard cup of Starbucks if they are fake, and buys whatever while staying tight lipped if they are real. She had no coffee.
The voyeur in me couldn’t help but play the game of stare and look away. If we had been outside, I could have used the transition lenses of my glasses to have studied her without fear of being caught. Sunglasses inside a WalMart seems like it would be rather conspicuous. Thinking about this is making me feel very dirty.
Not as dirty as the emotional overdrive lust seems to be motioning towards. Oh the places we’d go. The Cat in the Hat has a Jack Napier smile and a voice just as hollowing. She was too fragile to go through the rough and tumble. That pearl skin would bruise as easily as a premature peach. She didn’t seem capable of expending energy at all, instead moving in almost painful fluidity, making every step and motion seem choreographed. And that is why she is stuck here twelve hours later, unwilling to part as many whispers and visages do. It is right rude of her to seem so precariously accessible.
I am sure she is sleeping in her bedroom currently, complete with content smile. The wheels are a’spinning. She is probably wearing cotton bed pants. An oversized t-shirt. Barefoot and without the glasses. Her arms are curled up against her chest. Serene.
That isn’t sexy enough. That doesn’t know WHAT it is talking about. That side isn’t Gollum forcing me to cow for the precious. Nobility lines my blood. My desire is controlled and regal. She was sexy as an all encompassing, conquerable form.
But this, this I can’t allow. We are in headspace, so let’s see what the mind can do. First of all, she is ticklish. And how do you know? I just know. Wait; too cheesy. Alright, people who look that soft are dangerously sensitive. Part of the allure of that sort of woman is that you can overpower her, and then drive her to the brink with intense sensation. At the very least, the way her soles looked, with careful study, it would be hard NOT to imagine them being frightfully ticklish.
You look away every single time you type that word in.
I punch myself in the chest. The butterflies of expression have been knocked loose, though where they can escape to I haven’t a clue.
She can’t sleep through this. “Excuse me, but why are you punching yourself?” She has the smile. Warm and soothing, causing my insides to tremble. And for a moment, I can’t help but feel sick. Sick of my fetish. Of how insane this is. This is the shit serial killers and rapists and stalkers do.
She’s safe and sound at home.
Not here she isn’t.
You don’t know her name.
Elyssa. Her name is Elyssa. She’s twenty-three and she enjoys modern British literature. She has an appreciation for this as a result.
“I’m not sorry for this.” I wish I could stammer, because underneath my skin every single ounce of me is quaking. She can’t see it because of the blindfold.
“I’m supposed to chastise you now, aren’t I?” She was acting coy and she giggled at the end of her statement. And then, she said nothing. That’s when the pants and the shirt disappeared and she was lying before me, spread out in black lace lingerie which did quite a good job of not hiding her intimate areas.
She’s not fighting this?
No.
She wants this. Wants to be bound to the posts of the mattress, her wrists and ankles held in cuffs in a spread eagle. Wait. No she doesn’t. Hogtie. Hogtie works best for this right now. Those same cuffs pull her arms back, bend her ankles, and are hooked together through mutual metal rings. No escape. There is no real key. No way her body could break through metal two inches in diameter.
My hands push her so she is resting on her left side; she is facing me as I lie down next to her. Her breathing tenses and so does mine. She slightly fidgets, and metal clinks against metal. The leather doesn’t give.
She didn’t smirk. Didn’t squeal. No chuckling emanated from her lips. Laughter simply poured from her lungs as my fingers began jolting nerves with fervent prodding to the rib cage. The touch cut to the bone by virtue of her skin being so kind as to cascade down, to press in much like a finger would to a pillow. But this wasn’t cotton, was more velvet. She fought in futility to free herself from inescapable mind bondage. As if this would have been simple to muscle out of even if we were playing by the rules of reality.
In those beginning stages I felt such a heavy head rush I swore I would faint. But no. The rush shot through my arms and legs and heart like adrenaline. She writhed against me as my finger tips began pushing into the crevices between ribs. Electricity shot through my finger tips as muscle flinches vibrated with my digs. Laughter peeled out of her lips as she seemingly gravitated towards the touch. Her laughter was not anguished. She was having fun. The octave of her forced mirth shifted as I spread the skin where her bellybutton began. I tersely tickling around the area.
The bellybutton itself was an innie, which meant that if I was whole hog into tickling bellybuttons, I would be able to have a grand old time playing pirate games while digging for treasure. I’m not though. Instead, I continue the downward trend, greeted by guffaws as a result of my dancing touch down her waistline, down to her lower tummy. This area is perhaps otherworldly sensitive, and rarely receives a proper and thorough treatment.
Thanks, Doctor.
She squeals this time, but now she is flinching away. I hardly have to touch her to produce a ticklish reaction. She isn’t laughing her fool head off, and the reality is I don’t want her to. Instead, I rather she understand sensation. Understand that even the lightest touch can produce intense reactions. I softly tease around her lower tummy, pulling her panties down slightly and putting my thumb and middle finger in a v on a small rise before her pubic region.
“Oh god, that’s too much.” She’s jittery, her voice cracking from my trembling touch. Her entire body is undulating sensually.
Sharp inhales and exhales follow protests as I slowly draw my fingers outward, and then draw them back to a v. She fights with her hogtie. Her shoulders swivel against the mattress and her movements accomplish nothing save to make her all the more tantalizing.
She is starting to groan through her harsh breathing, and I slip my hand all the way through her panties mindlessly, letting my fingers do the talking as I give her lips a parting embrace with my ring and forefinger. No laughter. Just a sharp moan and an expressive thrust in my trailing direction.
She explodes as the softness transitions to heaviness, my fingers poking and prodding her ribs and sides. I grab hold of her, covering her sensitive ribs with rubbing and teasing rolls of my finger tips, raking my nails up and over the smooth valleys which are showcased with each forced laugh. No more coy games. She wants to get away from me. She should want to get away from me. She is thrashing as much as her muscles will allow her, but doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.
My mind hasn’t trapped her in this small space. If she truly wanted to get away, she would have.
Within reason.
I stop. Rubbing her sides, I let her laughter simmer down. But she is still chuckling, still showing this satisfied smile.
Before she can react, her arms are cuffed above her head. Her ankles are still hooked together, anchored to the floor. Currently taut, she tries to jerk her arms down. Again, this is simply a test. I just want to make sure of something.
I trail my fingers down her inner forearms, receiving no reaction save a quick jerk of realization. I take away my hands for a moment, allowing silence to come over the space between us. She can’t see me anyways. But she is responding, anticipatory flinches and meek, adorable groans as she tries to shield her underarms. And that is when I lightly scratch them both with my index finger. There is very little in the way of reaction.
This was going to be the spot I need to chisel.
“You can’t keep this up.”
She—wait.
“You can’t keep this up.” My fingers had stopped, pinning dead in their tracks. “You’re going to move from spot to spot and I’m going to act coy and school girlish. And you are going to show me the tender side of tickling, because you lack the stones to dish something out you feel embarrassed about expressing.”
Oh, why did your heart drop? Seems like the puppets have something to say.
“You don’t even like armpits. You like the sides but in reality, you are doing yourself a disservice. And it makes me sick.”
The petals of this flower sharply became thorns, each piece stabbing a kill shot through my sternum. Nice and soft and supple and…
…
Her bondage falls apart. She tears the blindfold off.
…
What good is conquering the willing?
She can’t react quick enough as straps gather round—straps are not good enough. Her body becomes ensnared in black latex, effectively mummifying her. She can still wiggle. That’s where the straps come in. One over the chest, the waist, and the knees. All that are poking out are those feet.
Those ankles are strapped too.
Twice over. She can still flinch. The latex comfortably fixes itself over her big toes, wrapping around and slowly pulling backward until there is no more fidgeting. All that can move is her head.
Her head is locked in place by a strap against a pillow.
“This better for you Elyssa?”
“Fuck you!” She snarled. “You’re a sick fuck!”
She shouldn’t be swearing.
Shouldn’t was tossed out the window the second this thing started.
Just me and taut pink flesh. Hyper sensitive, I would imagine. That’s where the feather comes in. The sharp tendrils cut a rift through her angered veneer, chuckling instantly flooding from her lips. The skin makes small depressions even as a feather flitters about. She must take good care of these. Down the instep to the heel. Then to the arch. Focus on the arch, because that’s where she’s going to—
“I’m sorry...” she’s already whimpering. Shuddering. Her muscles are trying to spasm but they have been robbed of even that luxury.
The space before the toes produces intriguing responses. Teeth gritting, heavy breathing, a few snorts peppered between begging which lost its bite. And then the toes. Underneath them at first, and she can’t help but screw her eyes shut. I see muscle flinches in her toes, but pressure is making for a useless show of defiance. The feather snaking between her toes produces ample squeaking. Then a groan. “I’m just doing as you want. Come on Aa—”
NO!
You don’t GET to say my name!
Instinctive flinches are heavily muted through her inescapable bondage. She is shaking. Maybe a tear or two? “Jesus Christ, stop!”
Roger that.
That’s where the baby oil comes in. Liberal amounts of it, coating from toe to heel. Friction multiplies sensation. And it also makes for a much softer surface to dig into. She is incapable of saying anything as I gruffly massage the oil into the soles of her feet. A moan or two, or five, is my reward.
Fuck her moaning.
Oiled flesh on oiled flesh, my fingers produce efficient reactions. Shrill cries with the all so familiar sound of cackling laughter. Her ribs had to ache. Her lungs were on fire. But if they were ablaze, then I was in the process of napalming those tender tootsies with my scratching, focusing my assault primarily on those arches.
Fingers work well.
Brushes work better at this point.
A hair brush with ballpoint tips, wide enough to cover the space of her feet length wise and covering a good two-thirds of them height wise to be exact. She screamed instantly. She went hoarse as I raked that brush to and fro, lacerating that unmoving flesh with a makeshift serrated blade. She was crying heavy and hard now. And then I focused on scratching that itch right below her trapped toes.
“NO!”
Heavy breath.
Another.
I wouldn’t call that reaction laughter as much as I would call it the sound of gut wrenching desperation. And before she knew it, I had stopped. She panted, sucked as much wind inside her lungs as she possibly could in what she well understood was a rest break. But even so, she had to waste all that good air.
“I can still feel it. Rub it out. It tickles so much down there still.” But even my lightest touch was still causing her to cackle. “Oh thank you. Thank you so much.” Her words were intersped with he’s and ha’s.
I don’t get why she was thanking me. The toothbrush was just picking up where the hairbrush had left off. She should have seen it coming. Fresh laughter came out of her slightly rested lungs, as I trapped the stems of her toes with my fingers, cleaning them thoroughly with the bristles, darting inside then toward the sides. She was mewling now, softly sobbing as her feet were ravaged.
She was getting there. Already, she was nearing that point where her back would break and all the secrets would fall out of her. Where she would profess that she would do anything in the world to stop this. Which is why I wanted to stop it right here.
You can’t go through with this.
You want to watch me?
This is where you stop. Once you go here, there is no going back.
I don’t listen to authority. I am authority.
Oh there she is, the latex filtering upward, encasing her hands, snaring around the bed posts. And what is left encases her feet, jerking her ankles to the lower posts. The lingerie seems to have disappeared. She doesn’t have much of a chest, but what she has is highlighted by hardened buds of pink. A thin sheet of perspiration covers her body. Her scent carries in the air. The blindfold is back. She is stretched out, unable to hide herself from my touch. Her breathing is steady, but her body language speaks of exhaustion.
Devilish fingers roll the left nipple, then the right. And she moans to that touch, pushing her chest upward to meet it. Then they get squeezed. Sharp inhale. Teeth grinding. Closed mouth moan. Her nethers twitch in correspondence.
She giggles as my fingers flitter about the tops of her breast, right before I tickle underneath them. This is the slow down. This is where she gets ready to break. She can’t say anything but I know her heart rate is racing, and she is becoming wet. The scent itself is hard to describe, yet it is distinctive. I liken it to something sour.
The testing feather once again makes an appearance, now brushing the very tips of her nipples. Quaking. She is quaking. Her breathing is growing jagged. Every single bit of manipulation is sending signals right towards the goal.
And that’s when the feather kisses her.
She flinches, and then sighs. When the second embrace occurs, she is ready for it, meeting it with a wanton thrust. I can’t describe her sounds through generic terms; it simply sounds of satisfaction.
“Oh fuck.”
The feather dances around the outside of her puckered lips, and she is trying to do whatever it takes.
“Oh fuck.”
Don’t stop.
I stop.
“No…Jesus Christ no!”
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
“Anything…I’ll do anything.”
Nothing. She feels me rise from the mattress.
“I’ll be anything! Anything you need me to be!”
Wait for it.
“Don’t leave me like this!”
Wait for it.
“Fucking tickle me if you have, just PLEASE!”
Bingo.
Not her way though. My fingers split her lips, applying a deep amount of pressure. She throws her head back, unable to move. She’s frozen. And then, all of a sudden, her muscles violently contract. My fingers have exposed the inside of her clit.
She is trapped. A fine tipped paint brush glides against the inside of her molten core. She tries to clinch her toes, but she can’t. She can’t express the intense sensation, instead grunting and groaning, layers of education and conditioning pushed back for something much more important. The brush dances and coats itself with her lust.
Her brain begins to fry. Stars start to burn into her eyes. Breathing and guttural moaning and humping are all working against each other. Stroke after stroke. The inner walls of her sex completely trapped and at the mercy of a mechanical tickler.
One pained expression of satisfaction follows another as trembling flesh writhes in violent contortions. Nothing is quite as amazing as a lovely lady melting by your hand. And as she continues to ride on through, I gently give her stomach a gentle rub.
“Good girl” I say.
Good girl.
