I undo my tie and there she is, coyly chewing on her bottom lip as the heels of her hands pivot into the mattress. The satin doesn’t go far. I drape it across her eyes. Her cheeks grow warm. She gasps. Those ruby lips of hers tremble.
Five days on isn’t what it used to be because it was a different kind of tired. Her skin is so soft. I used to unload trucks while everyone else, save the unsavories, slept. I’d sweat or freeze depending on the season but I always was too tired to do anything afterward. My fingers were dirty and they would blemish those dainty porcelain wrists of hers. They both fit in my hand. I hold her arms above her head and draw them to the back of her neck and she’s not fighting because she’s been waiting for this. “I’m going to tickle you,” I whisper, my lips grazing her earlobe.
Her breath catches. “No,” she lies, “too—”
“Sensitive?” The buzz of my lips is matched by my baritone. She shouldn’t have told me that octave makes her heart flutter <i>every single</i> time.
“Yes.”
“You’re always sensitive.”
“I’m more sensitive today.”
“You always say that.”
Meetings with friends can wait. It’s Friday and it’s different than it used to be because the pay is better and the chair is comfortable and my mind gets more of a chance to wander. Wander to her. To the things I could do to her. To the things I <i>should</i> do to her. She’s a teacher and so am I, which makes things convenient not only because there’s plenty to talk about, but because she doesn’t have to dress up to be my fantasy.
She’s sleek and professional and strong and seems so small, but they don’t know her like I do. They don’t know that behind that roaring lioness veneer there’s a kitten who wishes to concede. She makes me earn her every time save those times where she sits at the edge of our bed and avails herself eagerly without fight, without hesitation. This is one of those times. This is after a week of seeing her saunter with those open toe pumps. After a week of her telling me how soft her feet will be after her pedicure. How, even though it goes against regulations, her nails are going to be black.
I like black.
She surprises me with blue. Cobalt.
I <i>love</i> blue.
She’s still in that pantsuit and I’m unbuttoning her vest. Her lips caress my neck and her eyes would be closed if not for the blindfold. Next comes the buttons of her blouse and I can feel her muscles shuddering as I make my descent.
“You can’t.” But if I couldn’t, her wrists would flinch in my grasp. They aren’t.
“And why is that?”
“Too sensitive.”
“You already said that.”
“Please,” her sigh surprises her, but not as much as my fingers rubbing her already moist clit through the sheer material of her panties. My thumb flicks the button of her pants free as my middle finger parts her. My ring and index finger trail along the outer edges of her labia. Her wrists recede and her mouth presses against my shoulder. She’s trying to guard her reaction. I can feel her moan. I can feel her tense.
“Please?”
“Massage,” she tries to say, but my middle finger is curling and drawing upward. “I got a massage. Every nerve feels alive.”
“Every nerve?”
“Every. <i>Fucking.</i> Nerve.”
It takes everything in my power not to rip those pants off and break the headboard. It’s worse because I feel the ball of her foot teasing up my pant leg and <i>Jesus Christ</i> now my hand is trembling. They’re soft as silk. She’s giggling. Not from my touch but from the rubbing of her foot against my skin. I can feel her heartbeat through her lips.
“Don’t do this to me.”
It’s the last resort of my little Mary Louise Parker.
I pull her down to the mattress and jump on top of her, pinning her waist between my legs. My slick fingers start gently along her lower tummy, each spasm followed by a snicker, a giggle, and then a laugh. I avoid her belly button and move along her ribs. She’s quaking. She wasn’t lying about her sensitivity level. I start at the lower ribs and comb upward, my fingers caressing the skin around and between the bone. Her wrists flinch but they don’t move that far. She’s cackling. Already.
She’s <i>fucked</i>.
It’s one side, then the other. I’ve heard people call it playing a xylophone, but those noises are usually hollow. These gentle rakes of my fingers bring only her earthy tones. Peals of laughter. Peals of frenzied struggle that mean everything. I’ve loosened my grip around her wrists but she <i>still</i> isn’t slipping free.
Maybe I’m a liar and my grip has become stronger because her elbows are starting to clap and her head is wagging from side to side.
I’ll let you, the reader, decide.
Her bra unclasps in the front. She doesn’t get a chance to settle down as my hands cup her breast. My thumb massages her ripened nipple. I stop massaging because I am tickling right underneath her breasts and those pleasant giggles become desperate. It’s just a tease. My mouth is not. I take her nipple into my lips and begin to suck. <i>Oh</i> she likes that. Her back arches. No. She <i>loves</i> that. My teeth trap the berry and tease, gently. Gently. I know how the slightest slip can hurt.
Let’s see how well she can control herself.
My fingers caress along her side and she grows still. Terrified and petrified. My fingers tickle along the small of her back. She whimpers and her back arches which only lets me scratch more of her back. My lips continue to suckle her nipple. My teeth stay in place.
I stop my tickling of her back and let go of her wrists so I can bring both of my hands to bear on her breasts. Massaging. Gently grazing over the tops with my fingers. Then I roll her nipples between my fingers. I swear she’s about to burst. I let her get close. Before she has time to react, her wrists are cuffed to the headboard.
“No...no...<B>NO</B>!”
There’s nothing erogenous about her underarms. It’s just pure Hell. There’s nothing she can do. One hand for each hollow and her tears are starting to bleed through my tie. I start by teasing around the edges, but grow tied of playing with the catch. I dive right in and feverishly tickle inside those pits until she slackens. She tries to catch her breath but chokes on bubbling giggles as I lightly dance my fingers after the sweat starts to bead on her chest.
My lips passionately kiss hers, trailing down the nape of her neck to her collarbone where I have a playful chew. Then it is around the top of her breast. Then between them. Nice. Soft. Kisses. Then down her shivering tummy, to the lower stomach.
My teeth on her panty line.
Her aroma makes me dizzy.
I kiss her sex and she moans and she avails herself fully but it’s through the sheer of her panties. I can see it and she can feel it. But it’s just there, slightly deadened by the cover.
“Take them off.”
Her slickness makes it even worse for her because it accentuates my traces. I tongue her through her panties and I can feel that pearl starting to quake. She’s moaning hard. Moaning with reckless abandon. Humping my mouth. And I stop.
“Please...just a little more...”
Her feet are so tempting, so beautiful and elegant and soft and heavenly and I just <i>have</i> to have them. I grab her ankle and rub my cheek against the sole. Whoever worked on them deserves a raise because these little babies are divine. I kiss around the ball. Then the arch. She coos. Her heel is sensitive and flush pink as are the balls. Her arch softly bows. Her toes wiggle because my fingers are teasing up that arch. She giggles. She begs. <i>Oh</i> how she pleads. So soft are my tickles that it feels great for her but drives her mad at the same time.
Down the arch, to the heel. Then sweeping along the contours to the balls, where I split the space with sloppy figure eights because she wants to get away from my touch. Then, underneath her toes. Back and forth. Back and forth. And as she tells me how much she hates me, I take her toes into my mouth and begin to suck.
I can hear the fight at the headboard as she drives her bottom into the mattress.
She lets me peel off her panties. I can see the smirk on her face. I can see her sex and all I want to do is
I’m sorry, I lost my concentration there for a minute. The heady aroma has my mouth watering.
I know what she wants because it’s the same thing I want. It’s the same thing we’ve both wanted since the week started. I lick over the rippling pearl. Once, then twice, then three times. She sighs.
She’s ready to burst. Any moment now, the dam will break and the delicious flood will sweep us both away.
The feather is vile. Her body tightens and she gasps as I flick the plume against her sex, then tease it along the outside. I spread her open and the tendrils sweep a sheen of arousal away. I lick it, then I kiss her clit.
Those pumps.
That promise.
Her begging because she’s too sensitive.
The feather twirling inside her and melting her mind and bring her <i>oh</i> so close to that cumulating cum.
Need to slow down. She’s practically pulsating and her moans are becoming harsh. Let it boil. Draw it out. Then we go <B>FASTERFASTERFASTERFASTER</B> <i>sloooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooower</i> and she’s grimacing and she’s cooing and she’s moaning and she’s all tensed up and she’s oh so <i>fucking</i> close that she can’t stand it.
One bit of pressure, one flick, one graze would be enough. It would be the most fantastic thing she’s ever felt. I stop, though. Stop and let that throbbing **** of hers simmer before I took the feather to her mound once again.
<i>Oh</i> what it would have been to finish her right there.
But we have a weekend, and I reckon she’s going nowhere.
Five days on isn’t what it used to be because it was a different kind of tired. Her skin is so soft. I used to unload trucks while everyone else, save the unsavories, slept. I’d sweat or freeze depending on the season but I always was too tired to do anything afterward. My fingers were dirty and they would blemish those dainty porcelain wrists of hers. They both fit in my hand. I hold her arms above her head and draw them to the back of her neck and she’s not fighting because she’s been waiting for this. “I’m going to tickle you,” I whisper, my lips grazing her earlobe.
Her breath catches. “No,” she lies, “too—”
“Sensitive?” The buzz of my lips is matched by my baritone. She shouldn’t have told me that octave makes her heart flutter <i>every single</i> time.
“Yes.”
“You’re always sensitive.”
“I’m more sensitive today.”
“You always say that.”
Meetings with friends can wait. It’s Friday and it’s different than it used to be because the pay is better and the chair is comfortable and my mind gets more of a chance to wander. Wander to her. To the things I could do to her. To the things I <i>should</i> do to her. She’s a teacher and so am I, which makes things convenient not only because there’s plenty to talk about, but because she doesn’t have to dress up to be my fantasy.
She’s sleek and professional and strong and seems so small, but they don’t know her like I do. They don’t know that behind that roaring lioness veneer there’s a kitten who wishes to concede. She makes me earn her every time save those times where she sits at the edge of our bed and avails herself eagerly without fight, without hesitation. This is one of those times. This is after a week of seeing her saunter with those open toe pumps. After a week of her telling me how soft her feet will be after her pedicure. How, even though it goes against regulations, her nails are going to be black.
I like black.
She surprises me with blue. Cobalt.
I <i>love</i> blue.
She’s still in that pantsuit and I’m unbuttoning her vest. Her lips caress my neck and her eyes would be closed if not for the blindfold. Next comes the buttons of her blouse and I can feel her muscles shuddering as I make my descent.
“You can’t.” But if I couldn’t, her wrists would flinch in my grasp. They aren’t.
“And why is that?”
“Too sensitive.”
“You already said that.”
“Please,” her sigh surprises her, but not as much as my fingers rubbing her already moist clit through the sheer material of her panties. My thumb flicks the button of her pants free as my middle finger parts her. My ring and index finger trail along the outer edges of her labia. Her wrists recede and her mouth presses against my shoulder. She’s trying to guard her reaction. I can feel her moan. I can feel her tense.
“Please?”
“Massage,” she tries to say, but my middle finger is curling and drawing upward. “I got a massage. Every nerve feels alive.”
“Every nerve?”
“Every. <i>Fucking.</i> Nerve.”
It takes everything in my power not to rip those pants off and break the headboard. It’s worse because I feel the ball of her foot teasing up my pant leg and <i>Jesus Christ</i> now my hand is trembling. They’re soft as silk. She’s giggling. Not from my touch but from the rubbing of her foot against my skin. I can feel her heartbeat through her lips.
“Don’t do this to me.”
It’s the last resort of my little Mary Louise Parker.
I pull her down to the mattress and jump on top of her, pinning her waist between my legs. My slick fingers start gently along her lower tummy, each spasm followed by a snicker, a giggle, and then a laugh. I avoid her belly button and move along her ribs. She’s quaking. She wasn’t lying about her sensitivity level. I start at the lower ribs and comb upward, my fingers caressing the skin around and between the bone. Her wrists flinch but they don’t move that far. She’s cackling. Already.
She’s <i>fucked</i>.
It’s one side, then the other. I’ve heard people call it playing a xylophone, but those noises are usually hollow. These gentle rakes of my fingers bring only her earthy tones. Peals of laughter. Peals of frenzied struggle that mean everything. I’ve loosened my grip around her wrists but she <i>still</i> isn’t slipping free.
Maybe I’m a liar and my grip has become stronger because her elbows are starting to clap and her head is wagging from side to side.
I’ll let you, the reader, decide.
Her bra unclasps in the front. She doesn’t get a chance to settle down as my hands cup her breast. My thumb massages her ripened nipple. I stop massaging because I am tickling right underneath her breasts and those pleasant giggles become desperate. It’s just a tease. My mouth is not. I take her nipple into my lips and begin to suck. <i>Oh</i> she likes that. Her back arches. No. She <i>loves</i> that. My teeth trap the berry and tease, gently. Gently. I know how the slightest slip can hurt.
Let’s see how well she can control herself.
My fingers caress along her side and she grows still. Terrified and petrified. My fingers tickle along the small of her back. She whimpers and her back arches which only lets me scratch more of her back. My lips continue to suckle her nipple. My teeth stay in place.
I stop my tickling of her back and let go of her wrists so I can bring both of my hands to bear on her breasts. Massaging. Gently grazing over the tops with my fingers. Then I roll her nipples between my fingers. I swear she’s about to burst. I let her get close. Before she has time to react, her wrists are cuffed to the headboard.
“No...no...<B>NO</B>!”
There’s nothing erogenous about her underarms. It’s just pure Hell. There’s nothing she can do. One hand for each hollow and her tears are starting to bleed through my tie. I start by teasing around the edges, but grow tied of playing with the catch. I dive right in and feverishly tickle inside those pits until she slackens. She tries to catch her breath but chokes on bubbling giggles as I lightly dance my fingers after the sweat starts to bead on her chest.
My lips passionately kiss hers, trailing down the nape of her neck to her collarbone where I have a playful chew. Then it is around the top of her breast. Then between them. Nice. Soft. Kisses. Then down her shivering tummy, to the lower stomach.
My teeth on her panty line.
Her aroma makes me dizzy.
I kiss her sex and she moans and she avails herself fully but it’s through the sheer of her panties. I can see it and she can feel it. But it’s just there, slightly deadened by the cover.
“Take them off.”
Her slickness makes it even worse for her because it accentuates my traces. I tongue her through her panties and I can feel that pearl starting to quake. She’s moaning hard. Moaning with reckless abandon. Humping my mouth. And I stop.
“Please...just a little more...”
Her feet are so tempting, so beautiful and elegant and soft and heavenly and I just <i>have</i> to have them. I grab her ankle and rub my cheek against the sole. Whoever worked on them deserves a raise because these little babies are divine. I kiss around the ball. Then the arch. She coos. Her heel is sensitive and flush pink as are the balls. Her arch softly bows. Her toes wiggle because my fingers are teasing up that arch. She giggles. She begs. <i>Oh</i> how she pleads. So soft are my tickles that it feels great for her but drives her mad at the same time.
Down the arch, to the heel. Then sweeping along the contours to the balls, where I split the space with sloppy figure eights because she wants to get away from my touch. Then, underneath her toes. Back and forth. Back and forth. And as she tells me how much she hates me, I take her toes into my mouth and begin to suck.
I can hear the fight at the headboard as she drives her bottom into the mattress.
She lets me peel off her panties. I can see the smirk on her face. I can see her sex and all I want to do is
I’m sorry, I lost my concentration there for a minute. The heady aroma has my mouth watering.
I know what she wants because it’s the same thing I want. It’s the same thing we’ve both wanted since the week started. I lick over the rippling pearl. Once, then twice, then three times. She sighs.
She’s ready to burst. Any moment now, the dam will break and the delicious flood will sweep us both away.
The feather is vile. Her body tightens and she gasps as I flick the plume against her sex, then tease it along the outside. I spread her open and the tendrils sweep a sheen of arousal away. I lick it, then I kiss her clit.
Those pumps.
That promise.
Her begging because she’s too sensitive.
The feather twirling inside her and melting her mind and bring her <i>oh</i> so close to that cumulating cum.
Need to slow down. She’s practically pulsating and her moans are becoming harsh. Let it boil. Draw it out. Then we go <B>FASTERFASTERFASTERFASTER</B> <i>sloooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooower</i> and she’s grimacing and she’s cooing and she’s moaning and she’s all tensed up and she’s oh so <i>fucking</i> close that she can’t stand it.
One bit of pressure, one flick, one graze would be enough. It would be the most fantastic thing she’s ever felt. I stop, though. Stop and let that throbbing **** of hers simmer before I took the feather to her mound once again.
<i>Oh</i> what it would have been to finish her right there.
But we have a weekend, and I reckon she’s going nowhere.
Last edited:
. You hooked me at this passage :
.
