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Caught in the Library (f/m)

wearyfoxes

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Joined
Jun 24, 2005
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I sit opposite you at the large library table in the study hall trying to finish my end-of-term paper. I have seen you coming here for the past couple of days, and you, too, notice me today. A glance down, brief, almost unnoticeable, reveals to you that I have kicked off my shoes under the table. When did the idea first cross your mind? Was it a spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment decision? You search through your backpack and place your papers, pens, and cell phone on the surface of the table in front of you. I am distracted by your presence, look down at my paper, steal a glance at you, shift my socked foot under the table until it comes to rest dangerously close to your booted foot.

When I next look up, your head has disappeared under the table, your hands rummage through your backpack again. Or that is what I assume. What you are really doing is masking your attack. The next thing I notice is your hand around my ankle and the cold click of metal on my skin. As if in a trance, I let you lift my stretched out leg up. As you emerge from under the table you act as if nothing happened. I stare at you, then under the table; I look at your face, which does not betray a sliver of guilt and then at my suspended foot, which you have cuffed to the plastic loop that secures the lamp cord to the underside of the table. You finally look at me, with our eyes locked into each other above the table, and my secured foot facing your lap below. I slowly shake my head, look to the left and to the right to see whether anyone has noticed. A hint of a smile is forming on your face, since you know that you have me in place.

You are of a double-nature. To everyone in the room you seem studious, yet I am the one who feels how you reach under the table and slowly remove my sock. My eyes beg you not to, but you ignore my plea. I glance down and see my heel becoming exposed, then the arch, until one last pull places my bare foot at your mercy. A bolt of thunder shoots through my foot when your hand first touches my bare sole. Your gaze is directed at your paper, while you stroke my heel, my arch, my toes. Your fingers explore every inch of my skin. I slightly shift in my chair trying not to attract attention from the others. I want to scream when your caress turns into a tickle, and when your fingers dance across my naked sole. I helplessly watch my foot being tickled, I watch your face, bursting on the inside, resisting to jerk my foot away in the attempt not to make any noise that would expose my captivity to those around us. You have complete power over me.

And then suddenly you let go of my foot, leave it hanging in midair, and I believe for a second that you think better of it and unfasten me. Yet, you think of no such thing. I watch in silent horror as you take your time to look over your pens that are laid out in front of you. I realize that my torture is not yet over when you pick up a blue felt tip marker, uncap it and reach for my foot once more. At the moment that I feel the tip of your pen making first contact with the arch of my foot your eyes hit mine. Your smile tells me how pleased you are with having found this new writing surface for scribbling down your notes. The last thing I know is how you turn to your neighbor and ask her how long the library is open today. My skin begins to crawl when I realize that you will be writing with me all night.
 
Nice, I think there is something diabolical about tickle torturing someone while the tormentor is focused on a task or other distraction. That the tortured foot (or whatever) is an after thought or idle fiddling while the victim is unable to stop the torture. As, when the victim is tied up and the tormentor is watching tv and just tickling to have something to do with their hands. That's the way I'd like it done to me.
 
I like this scenario, very well done. Ironically, you could have left it ?/? as you really don't reveal who is who besides the story header.

Nicely done.
 
Great Scene

I've always loved the "trapped under the table" stories, when the victim can't make any noise. JUST endure the tickle torture!!
 
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