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On A Winter Evening (m/f)

alwayslaughing

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Sep 6, 2003
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My first story here. Thanks to lapetitemort for contributing scenes from her point of view, and to hellishkitten for being my beta reader.

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I.


It’s late. You offer your excuses as you exit the party, leaving your co-workers behind as you head out into the cool night. A taxi is waiting. There’s no chatter of conversation on the way home – no “Where have you been?” “What do you do?” “What’s a pretty gal like you doing out on a night like this?” – just the sound of city traffic around you and the gentle lull of car-motion that nearly puts you to sleep. You slide out of the taxi and go into your flat.

You yawn as you go inside. Your roommate Jen is away until the New Year so you have the place to yourself. It's nice and warm so you decide you’ll stay up for a bit before going to bed. Before you can take two steps from the door, there is a knock. You think maybe it's the taxi driver and you try to figure out what you left behind but when you open the door, You see instead a slim, dark-haired, dark-eyed, bearded man with a gaze that looks right through you and you don't even quite know what he says but the next thing you know he steps inside and closes the door behind him.

"Oh, can I help you?" He must have the wrong address. You miss part of what he says next because you’re too busy staring, but he steps inside and you move to accommodate him. Normally this would be very odd, even alarming but for some inexplicable reason you feel comfortable.
"Why don't we sit in the lounge?" Soon we are sitting on the sofa facing each other from opposite ends. Your visitor talks in a soft, deep voice that feels vaguely hypnotic. It's like audible chocolate and you could listen to him for hours. He regales you with tales of his travels, of things he has seen. He compliments you and his eyes explore in an unashamed fashion. Are you blushing? You must look like a giddy schoolgirl.

Is it you or is it warm? You still have your leather jacket on. He has thrown his dark overcoat across the armchair, and he seems to be quite at home and very comfortable here. You mean to ask him what he's doing here but each time you think about it he catches you with his lilting tones and you forget. As you listen, you feel a tingling in your throat and it seems to expand throughout your body. You take a breath. He whispers your name and you feel the hair rise on the back of your neck. Your senses are fully alert. Does he see this? He smiles fleetingly, his dark eyes appearing to penetrate into your soul.

"Do you ever look," he asks, "At the way the dark of the night closes in, making a cloak that surrounds the room, yet see how the dim light of the lamps or candles keeps it at bay? But it's only an illusion, don't you think? It is, after all, an echo of the darkness inside of each of us. Longing to be rejoined with its reflection. Haven't you ever felt that way? There's something quite lovely about this darkness though. It is warm, and cool at once. Encompassing. Gentle. Firm. I could look at you, for example, draw closer to you like this (he illustrates), and lean over so close I'm nearly touching you. And you feel what? Uncertain? Nervous? Excited? There's something here isn't there? A magic, or an intensity. But beneath it, there's a sense that something really terrible could be hiding. Oh, it's in all of us. The closeness precedes intimacy but is it safe or dangerous? Or can't you tell?"

You can feel the heat from his body, you can smell him. Your heart is beating faster now. You drift for a moment but he continues to speak in that soft yet powerful, enchanting tone he has and he pulls you back into his orbit.

His fingers flutter upwards and across your neck, pausing over the spot where he will feel the blood crashing. You can almost hear it in your own head. Your skin tingles. You take a breath and exhale. You touch your cheek and it's warm against your fingers. Your neck itches where his fingers touched you. It feels good though. You want to rub it but that seems wrong. Did you chuckle? Maybe, it did tickle. Just a little.

He holds your gaze in silence, the ghost of a smile on his mouth. You have one leg tucked under you and his fingers alight on the seam of your jeans and gently trace. He's crossing a boundary for sure but nothing too extreme. His other arm is along the back of the sofa. He runs his hand up the sleeve of your jacket, squeezes gently. He smiles at you and then says, "You must be quite warm in that jacket."

He pauses, and then continues, "Why don't I help you with that?" He helps you out of your jacket.

No that's not quite true. He takes the jacket from you and you let him. He pulls one arm gently towards him and tugs at your sleeve, releasing your arm from inside. As you lean slightly forward so that he can slip the jacket out from behind you, his hand grazes your side and lingers a second too long, brushing lightly from just above your hip to just below your ribs and you see a tiny twitch at the corner of one side of his mouth as he notices you flinch. As he helps you tug the jacket over your second arm, it happens again, and again that flicker of a smile as you try not to recoil from the sudden tickling touch.

The voice, it's hard to place an accent. American originally? Someone who has travelled and perhaps even a 'citizen of the world'. Well he certainly has some stories anyway. "That doesn't bother you does it?" He tilts his head slightly. "That's a pretty blouse," he gestures at the ruffles and for a moment you're certain he's actually going to put his hand on your chest, but his fingers slide down at the last moment.

His fingers gently close on your waist, just above your belt and squeeze lightly. Another line crossed, but his hand has dropped nonchalantly to his side again, and rests on your leg. You're sure he's laughing at your reaction to his touch that time, but he says nothing. Just that twitch of a smile again.

He seems utterly relaxed and self-controlled but you can sense there's a hunger lingering just under the surface that is both frightening and fascinating. He talks with his hands and every now and then his fingers brush gently. Your shoulder, your hip, your waist.

"Tell me something about yourself," he suggests.

You speak, and while he leans forward with his attention focused on you, you've no idea what you're saying. All you can think about is that he is still touching you and you're acutely aware of it. And you think he knows it.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" he asks, when you're done speaking. He's been perfectly polite, this stranger, so you find yourself opening your mouth and closing it again, with a tiny shake of your head. "Here, why don't you slip these off?" his hand is resting on the boot of the leg you have tucked under you. When did that happen? Before you can process the answer to that question, your leg is being gently pulled out from under you and you find your foot in his hands.

As he tugs one boot off, his fingers graze the bottom of your foot. He watches you for a reaction. The process repeats with the other boot. He sets the boots down as you automatically put your feet up on the sofa, almost as though you were given a command. You're pretty certain his mouth hasn't opened however.

You feel drunk, giddy, intoxicated though you’ve had nothing to drink. A warm tingle appears in your belly. You look at the floor and see your boots. Did you take them off? No, he did. He just does what he wants. He's perfectly polite but he knows exactly what he wants. The tingling in your belly intensifies and you feel a sudden shiver of excitement. You draw your knees up and he moves closer, trapping you at one end of the couch. He rubs your knee and gently squeezes with finger and thumb, just above the knee cap. You stifle a giggle or try to anyway.

"Did I say something funny?" He asks, lips twitching.
"No," you shake your head. "Just took me by surprise, that's all.
He nods as if that makes sense. Then with a sly grin he pinches your knee again and this time you make a little gasping sound as you experience a tingle in your kneecaps, and you bat his fingers away. "OK," he holds up his hands. "I'll be nice from now on. How's that?"
"Nice is good," you say. But a part of you is a little disappointed. Have you derailed something?
He doesn't move back though. He runs his fingertips over your jeans. "Sometimes, it's important to be present, to be aware." He says. "Denim has a slightly rough texture." His fingers glide over your belt. "This leather is smooth and warm; a contrast with the cool, metal buckle." He touches your blouse and you shiver as his fingertips worry the material just above your hip. "Pure cotton, nice and soft."

You can feel your heart pounding so loudly you almost want to apologise for the noise.

"Sensations are important, don't you think? Sometimes, it's important just to stop and appreciate exactly what's in front of you." His hand slides up your side. He doesn't quite touch your breasts, he doesn't quite tickle your underarm. He grazes your neck, traces your cheek and then flickers his fingertips lightly under your chin. That makes you giggle and curl up a little. The reaction in his dark eyes tells you that's the reaction he was looking for. "Soft, sensitive skin. How responsive."

Your stomach does a somersault and you feel the need to go and splash cold water on your face but you don't think you could leave the room now even if you wanted to, and do you want to?

You don't think you do.

He backs up slightly, the picture of self-confidence. He pats the spot right next to him. "Come here." And you find yourself doing as he asks. There's something about that voice that makes you want to comply with whatever it asks. It's such a reasonable voice, and little room is left for objection. But that feeling, what is it?

"Don't move," he says and while a tiny part of your mind wonders why you would want to, his hand is on you again. It crawls up your arm and his fingers brush against your neck and he slides over your left shoulder and down your back. His hand pauses on your back, his fingers resting lightly, his thumb curled around towards your front, halfway between your ribs and your hips.

He drags his thumb lightly back and forth with just enough pressure that you can't ignore the sensations. He draws little half circles with his thumb, sometimes reaching down to your waist as his hand expands and contracts. He is obviously enjoying your reaction, and though you're struggling to stay in place, his hand seems molded to your side now; it moves where you move and you can't escape the gentle, persistent teasing against your side.
 
II.

As you move involuntarily, he rests his other hand on your knee to anchor you in place. "Stay still," he warns and pulls you back to him. Was it his hand or his voice that brought you back? You're not sure. His hand glides up and down your back before settling on your waist, gently squeezing and stroking. It tickles. The sensations make the corners of your mouth curl up and you want to squirm away because it tickles and you are very, very ticklish. He places a hand on your thigh and squeezes. You are so close now, intimate. You can feel his warm breath on the side of your neck.

You thought you heard a sound, far in the distance. Who is making that giggling sound? Omigod. It's you. You didn't even realise you were doing it. You look at him and you can see he has the look of someone who likes what he is seeing and feeling but isn't done yet.

He doesn't even talk, his hands squeeze and stroke and tickle. It's gentle, subtle, but your nerves are jangling and you can feel a slow build of adrenaline along with the warm tingling in the bottom of your stomach. You should really stop this before it goes too far.

You can't help but squirm. His hand drifts halfway up your thigh and you tingle with anticipation of a fresh invasion of gently probing fingers. Your thoughts drift once more, but the stranger's voice draws you back and you look into his eyes again. He'd stop, if you asked, wouldn't he? But you don't want him to stop. You feel pleasantly warm, and your breath catches in your chest. Were you making noise?

His hand is curled around your side, big enough that his fingers reach from the bottom of your ribcage to the top of your hip. He's lightly applying pressure. Not quite digging in, not quite a caress. He kneads your side slowly, his bottom fingers actually resting on your hip, his index finger occasionally reaching up to graze your lowest rib. You try to twist away and bring your arm down close to your side.

You feel a sudden squeeze just above your knee; he applies pressure and you jerk slightly in surprise at how much it tickles. You push at his hand a little to make the sensation stop and now it is resting a tiny bit too high on your thigh. Did you put it there or did he? He makes no effort to move it and you don't want him to. It's another push of boundaries, but you're focused on the sensations assaulting you at the moment and by the time you get yourself under control, the boundary has been reset.
"I told you to sit still, but you seem to be having trouble with that. Why do you think that is?" You wonder for a moment if he's upset because it sounded a little stern, but then you see the corner of his mouth twitch up in a smile. "Shall we try again?" His eyes tell you that it wasn't a question, so you nod.
You obey.

He tells you to do something and you obey. Come here, sit still, don't move. Little by little you find yourself submitting to your curious visitor with the dark magnetic eyes and powerful aura. There's a sense of danger but you feel that whatever risks you are taking are worth it. You know you should try and focus on the reasons why you should tell him to leave but they are fuzzy and insubstantial.

"Good girl," he says and you find yourself blushing. His hand drifts a little higher up your thigh and something kicks in the back of your mind. Next thing you know you’re standing up and breathing hard, looking down at him. He has an amused look on his face. He raises his palm in a questioning fashion.

You giggle. "You made me jump." You fidget nervously which is just silly.
He smiles and sighs. "And I thought we were making progress." He pauses. "Do you want me to leave?" He already knows the answer as you shake your head. He leans forwards and places his hands on your hips and squeezes gently. Your arms hang limp. Even if you wanted him to stop you don't know that your arms have the strength.

With sudden swiftness, he hooks a finger in your belt and jerks me sharply towards him. You gasp as he spins you and pulls you into his lap. "Since you're having trouble keeping still, I'm going to give you some help and hold you still."

The hand slips around your waist again, kneading and squeezing. The other hand squeezes your knee then with finger and thumb pressing in his hand travels the length of your thigh. You stiffen up and stop breathing. His hand reaches your hip and he reaches below your belt line to the pocket of your jeans and tweaks your hip. You giggle and squirm in his lap.

Another squeeze. His hand tightens on your waist, fingers wiggling. You stifle laughter and put your hand over his. "You're tickling me!"
"I am and I will. Tickle you." As your left side presses against him, his hands run up and down your right side. You squeal and clamp your arm against your body but his fingers have already burrowed into your armpit to lightly tickle you. His other hand tweaks your ribs and rubs your stomach. "Well someone's a little ticklish." He smiles. He blows on your neck and ear. "Very ticklish indeed."
You are giggling now and squirming but he holds you in place effortlessly until you place a hand on his chest. "OK, OK, enough, I need a break." You shift in his lap and you feel how excited he is. "Why are you tickling me?" You stall, trying to get your breath back.
"I love women with ticklish bodies. I can't resist them." His hand is gently rubbing your back now. It feels really warm and soothing and you recover from your minor giggling and squirming fit.
“You caught me by surprise,” you lie. "I'm really not that ticklish."
"Oh yes you are. I can tell you're ticklish all over so there's no point lying about it. In fact, that was rather naughty." He grins. "I think I'm going to have to punish you for that."

You feel your heart rate pick up and he chuckles at your wide-eyed reaction. You shift in his lap and feel that he's excited. He makes no effort to hide it but also calls no attention to it, so you don't say anything. At least, not yet. You're catching your breath and feeling a bit calmer, but you're still feeling a bit of that nervousness, and he's not the only one who's excited. When his hands were on your body, it was electric: your waist, your ribs, the brief light touch in your armpit, your thighs. It tickled like mad, but that tickly feeling wasn't the only reason your blood boiled.

You tense up. He grins. "I think I'm going to have to punish you for that."

Your heart leaps and your breath catches in your throat. Oh no! Oh yes! The conflicting emotions in you send your pulse skyrocketing and that funny feeling in your stomach returns. He seems to notice your reaction and chuckles a bit. He's certainly got your number.

"I want you to put your hands on top of your head," he tells you. "And keep them there. If you can't, there will be consequences." He says that last bit sternly and you gulp nervously. As you place your hands atop your head, you think quickly. You don't have to let him do this. But in spite of a few surface thoughts that give you a tiny bit of apprehension, you want him to keep going. You want to be tickled senseless. And you want him to do things to you that you're unwilling to voice at the moment.

"Are you ready?" he asks. You nod. He places his hands just above your knees and you draw in a little breath, waiting. And then slowly he reaches his right hand up and places it alongside your ribs. And he reaches his left hand up and places it on the other side of your ribs. He leans so close, and you start to worry.

His fingers are moving. What's this?! Your arms dip slightly but you manage to keep them on top of your head for now. Barely. He's gently probing your ribs with expert fingers and you feel like a piano on which someone is playing a Mozart concerto. You're not sure when, but at some point you released the breath you were holding and dissolved into giggles.

His hands move from the bottom of your ribcage, moving down your side toward your hips. You shift on his lap trying to get away from his fingers and you can feel him under you. You like the feeling, but it scares you a little too. Who is he? But all thoughts about who he is and what you feel in his lap disappear as his hands leave your hips and settle in your armpits.

You can't keep your composure; it tickles too damn much. You squeal and drop your arms, but he doesn't stop. His fingers keep moving even though you're holding your arms as tightly as you can to your sides and trying to wriggle away from him. He pulls you back.

"No, no," he admonishes. "I warned you about that."
"Please," you gasp between laughs.
He pauses. "Please what?" But his fingers move again before you can answer and it's all you can do to keep from crying out. Your face is red and you're squirming so much you wonder that you haven't fallen off his lap.

He stops. He lifts you from his lap and sets you on the sofa, standing. At first, you're disappointed. You don't want it to end yet. But you see with alarm that he's walking back further into your flat.
"Where are you going?" You ask. He doesn't answer, but you can't seem to get up. It's as though you're under some kind of spell. He returns a moment later carrying the blanket that was on top of your bed. You raise your eyebrows.
He lays the blanket out on the floor and then looks up at you. He pats the blanket. "Come here." You obey. "We're going to try something new. But first, you couldn't sit still like I told you to. So before we continue, you owe me a boon."
"I don't understand," you say, standing and coming to him.
"I told you there would be consequences. You forfeit an item of clothing. Now."
 
III.

You shake your head and blink hard. Surely you misheard him. Your heart thuds. "What did you just say?" You giggle nervously.
He looks at you impassively and without blinking. "I said you must forfeit an item of clothing; your shirt or your jeans. You have ten seconds to decide, or I will decide for you."
"You must be kidding. I'm not stripping off for you." I cross your arms.
"Ten." He steps towards me and strokes his fingertips along your arms.
You shiver slightly. "You can't make me undress for you."
He grins. "Nine."
You gently brush his hands from your arms and he lets them glide to your shoulders and traces your collar bones through your shirt.
"Eight."
You squirm slightly and bat his hands away.
"Seven." The hands land on your waist and slowly track inwards toward your belt buckle.
"Six." Your heart is racing and your belly is quivering with anticipation. You can feel your cheeks are flushed.
"Five." He steps closer and his voice is a whisper now. Fingertips trace along your belt and the buttons of your shirt. You take his hands and move them aside. He reaches through your grasp and takes a firm hold on your hips. "Four."
You place your hands on his chest. "Now come on, this is...you're being..." your head is fuzzy and his eyes, it's as if you’re under his spell.
"Three." You feel the strength drain from your arms and a gentle glow of acceptance suffuses your body. Why protest? He sees the change and smiles. "Two." He is whispering now and his lips brush your ear as he holds you in place.
You try to speak but all I can manage is a ragged moan.
"One." He eases back slightly and raises an eyebrow at you. "Well? No decision? In that case it looks like the choice is mine to make."

He takes the cushions from the sofa and drops them on the blanket and then he slips his arms around you and lowers you to the floor. He drapes you over the cushions and you have the impression he is posing you to his liking. When he is satisfied he smiles at you and you gaze back at him, accepting, submissive, curious, nervous, excited. He looms over you with a look of barely controlled lust and excitement and then he slowly begins to unbutton your shirt.

For a second you think of vampires and wizards seen on television shows. It's a silly thought, but it never seemed more possible than now. There's something about him. Something hidden, and maybe dark, and maybe dreadful and wonderful all at once. But he pushes it back and his eyes clear, and then he slowly begins to unbutton your shirt.

Your heart is racing so fast you feel as if it's going to burst out of your chest. A complete stranger has come into your home, put you under his spell and he is now undressing you. You shiver as one by one, he opens the buttons on your shirt, gently teasing the fabric away from your body. He takes his time, savouring each button and each reveal and the look in his eyes makes you feel sexy, desirable...

"That's three. How many more are there?" he teases. His fingers trail against your skin as he finds the fourth button. What lies beneath your blouse is clearly visible now, your neckline plunging to reveal more than is decent. You feel heat radiating off of your face. Or is the heat coming from him? You're not sure anymore. The button comes undone.

As he reaches for the next button, his fingers slip under your blouse and trail across the fabric of your brassiere. It could have been accidental, but you know it wasn't. You can't help jumping slightly as his fingers get awfully close to a bra covered nipple on their path down your chest. The next button too comes undone.

This shouldn't be happening. You tell yourself this as another button parts beneath his fingers. The fabric slides apart to reveal your bra. Red blossoms trimmed in black, black lace around the edges, and a tiny red ribbon between your breasts. You find yourself biting your lip as his gaze lingers.


Your hands move up by reflex to rest on his hands, a gentle plea to stop. But your heart isn't in it. Your heart pounds as you hope that he continues. He smiles again and his fingers keep reaching. "Behave yourself," he says and slowly attacks the sixth button. As it comes undone, the air of the room caresses your naked skin and you suck your belly in a little. His finger grazes your bellybutton and you squirm a little. "Not yet," he grins. "But soon."

He tugs at the bottom of your blouse, releasing it from your jeans slowly. He works his hands around your waist, pulling the edges of your blouse up and you arch your back slightly so that he can reach behind you. When it's completely untucked, he fingers the last button gently.

His fingers expertly flick the cotton of the button hole to the side as his other hand pushes the button through the hole. It comes undone with a tiny, barely audible 'pop' and he pauses, savoring the moment. He places his hands on your bare stomach and holds them there for a few seconds, watching your reactions.

He slides his fingers along your sides as he moves the blouse further from your body. It's a maddening, soothing touch. He makes no effort to tickle you, but no effort not to either, so you get a bit of both sensations. You cringe a bit as he passes over the side of your bra towards your armpits, but he draws his hands away at the last minute. And then he is lifting you, holding you intimately close as he slowly removes the blouse entirely and it joins your boots. He gently lays you back down on the cushions and you instinctively cross your arms in front of your body.

His fingers whisper over your skin, circle your belly button. Goose bumps rise up in anticipation and you feel a little giddy. Maybe a lot giddy. Feeling coy, you cross your hands over your chest but he admonishes you gently as he shakes his head. "You know better than that. Put your arms over your head, wrists crossed. That's a good girl." You nervously obey. He reaches a big hand up and places it across your wrists, pinning both of your arms above your head. You are stretched out by his own design.

One hand goes to your hip and caresses the skin, just above your belt. His eyes roam your body and he wets his lips as he looks at your neck and throat. The action makes you think of a seductive vampire in some of the steamy paranormal romance thrillers you once read. Is this your fantasy, or is it his?

Slowly, one finger begins to move back and forth against your bare skin. A moment later a second finger joins it. He traces your skin lightly and follows the curve of your waist, letting his fingers trail around to your side. He moves his thumb to rest it gently on the front of your hip so that your flesh is caught between the tiny vice he's made with his hand.

His hand is quiet, still; he is patient. He studies you for a moment, eyes moving along the curve of your body, lingering at your bra, then crawling upward again. He pauses at the hollow of your throat, licks his lips, and then meets your eyes. He watches your reaction, savoring each moment.

To dominate or to be dominated? To seduce or to be seduced?

The mischievous smile on his lips tells you he will do what he wants and he has the look of a man with pent up desires and hungers that are barely kept in check. "Are you ready?" He murmurs.

No. Yes. You don't know. "I'm ready."

He settles his weight over you and makes no attempt to disguise his own powerful sense of arousal. The hand on your hip begins to play. You close your eyes, you bite your lip. You think You’re surrendering. He settles his weight back low against your groin, his knees at your hips. His hand resting on your right hips begins to move. His thumb caresses your hip bone, rubbing lightly over your skin. His fingers massage from the other side. The feeling is electric, and though you automatically jerk a little bit at the touch, his hand holding your wrists above your head is firm and his weight atop you is solid. You aren't going anywhere for the moment.

His fingers make their way over your hip bone to lightly curl and stroke you, crawling up towards your waist. He continues to lightly kneed and massage, pausing now and then for effect. You feel a light spidery tickle on your waist and you can't stop the sounds that escape your mouth.

Though you held your lips together at first, attempting to resist, you realize the gesture is futile. He has you. His hand turns sideways and his fingers inch into the territory of your abdomen. They do not move too quickly, but march along deliberately. He walks them along just above your belt, brushing the top of your jeans.

First low, then high, he walks his fingers closer to your belly button, but somehow avoids it. Low on your abdomen, under your belly button his fingers do their work, softly crawling and encircling. High, but below your ribs, he touches your sensitive skin. A little faster now. His hand still making light touches, but more quickly, as he tweaks your hips and then lightly scratches below your belly button. He places his palm against your tummy and pauses, watching your reaction. He smiles and then reaches up, switching the hand he's pinning you with to free his other hand.

"Close your eyes," he says. As you do, you tingle with anticipation. His hand lightly brushes the hip he neglected early and you feel his fingers teasing along your waist. As you squirm at this new touch, you feel him still, hard beneath you.

There is something dangerously erotic about what's happening. Something forbidden and irresistible, as if each boundary that is breached is one that can never be put back. You are slightly embarrassed to admit you have your eyes closed (and may have been biting your lip). You look down to see him lower his face to your stomach. You gasp and suck your belly in but you feel his breath on your skin and then you feel his lips. There is a gentle sucking sensation as he seals his mouth on your navel and gives it a kiss. You could almost swear he flicks the tip of his tongue against your skin as he pulls away. It’s unbearable.
 
IV.

His hands move higher and he tells you he is going to tickle your ribs. He bets you that I can't keep quiet while he squeezes your ribs, one by one. Twenty seconds? That doesn't sound too difficult. He cinches his knees tightly against your hips and places his large hands on your waist and slowly moves them up to your ribs. Twenty seconds....but what happens if you can't hold out that long.

You can't make eye contact with him, that would break you. He hasn't even started tickling yet but you can already feel the corners of your mouth beginning to turn. His hands start on your sides and ribs. I am trying so hard not to laugh and it takes a superhuman effort to keep your hands on your head. His hands are large and strong and it's clear he knows and appreciates a woman's body very well. His thumbs track along your ribs and squeeze, moving up over your bra strap and exploring your form from front to back. Stretched out over the cushions with your back arched makes your ribs feel very prominent and he takes full advantage. This is why he wanted me like this.

"You know, you've actually 12 ribs on each side, but I can't feel them all separately since some are higher up on your chest, buried under your skin." His left hand moves as he talks and he switches the hand pinning your arms above your head so that he can tickle the ribs on your left side. As with the right, he moves from the lowest rib up, from the outside in. "Seven," he says. "Eight. You're moving around an awful lot there. How much longer do you think you can hold out?"

He continues to count out loud as you bite your lip and squirm under his weight. You can feel the laughter bubbling up inside and you are fighting to contain it as his fingers seek out your most ticklish spots. How long has this been? It has to be more than 20 seconds by now...but he's still counting!

"Fifteen." He's figured out a way to wiggle his fingers so that you feel the vibrations along all of your ribs at once. It's maddening and at the same time, that tingly feeling in your stomach hasn't stopped. It's growing stronger. You're so close but you're afraid you won't make it. Your breasts begin to shake a little bit as your chest moves and you aren't sure if it's because of his fingers or because you're moving around, shifting in place.

His hands trail down your sides and his thumbs rest on the front of your ribcage, just below your breasts. “Eighteen.” And then his thumbs dig in and you squeal. How the hell can it tickle that badly.

That's when it dawns on you, you are never going to win a challenge he sets for you. They are designed for you to lose so he can do whatever it is he has planned. Part of you is horrified and part of you really doesn't care.

You realise you are laughing now and he is grinning down at you, his eyes shining darkly. "That was very good," he tells you. "I'm impressed."
You hold your breath, watching him.
"It was very close at the end there."
"And?"
"And I'm pretty sure I told you to keep your arms up."
You hadn't realised you'd taken your arms from your head but you know that's what he wanted all along.
"Well now, I told you there would be consequences, didn't I?"
You nod slowly as he moves to sit on the sofa. He pats his lap.
"I don't understand."
He chuckles. "I'm going to spank you as a punishment. Don't worry, I won't hurt you but it's a little lesson for you.
You start to protest but he grabs hold of you and easily throws you across his lap. One hand presses on your back as the other rubs your bum through your jeans and you can feel his erection pressing into your belly button.

Then his hand slaps down. You squeal out of surprise more than anything. He spanks you swiftly across each buttock as you wriggle in his lap. He pulls up on your belt, tightening your jeans against your body and then delivers a few more stinging slaps that make you yelp. When he is finished he changes his approach. He spends a few seconds rubbing your bum before his forefinger and thumb begin a ticklish assault at the top of your thighs. You start screaming with laughter and he brings a free hand into play pinching and goosing your sides and waist. It's a short, frantic burst and it doesn't take long for him to get you breathless.

He pulls me into a sitting position so you are straddling him. "Put your arms around your neck." He orders.
You do it as you ask, "Why?"
He grips your waist and stands up, holding you easily. "Wrap your legs around me."
"What for?" But you are already complying.
"I think for what I have planned next we'll be more comfortable in your bedroom."

He blows gently on the side of your neck as he carries you down the hall. Your nerves tingle with anticipation as he enters your bedroom. He lets you down onto the bed, and lays you back slowly.
“Turn over and lay on your stomach,” he tells you.
“Why?” you ask, as you obey.
“Always the questions with you,” he smiles. “You’re a cheeky one, aren’t you?”

He softly pats your bum and then straddles your hips, settling his weight back on your bum. You feel his hands on your shoulders, gently rubbing, massaging you.

He keeps on like that for a while, massaging your arms, your upper back (carefully avoiding getting tangled up in your bra straps), and then your lower back. You sigh as he gently soothes you. You feel a light tickle on your lower back for a moment and stiffen, but it’s gone nearly as soon as it began. He massages your lower back some more, your hips, and then the pressure eases. He lifts himself off of you and you feel so relaxed you don’t even look up.

Where’s he going? You think but do not look up. The bed creaks. His hand is on your left ankle. He’s tugging…no… he’s pulled off a sock! He tugs the second over your foot before you can protest. “You won’t be needing these,” he says.
He settles himself down onto your calves, holding your feet tightly under his legs.

“Does this hurt?” he asks.
“No,” you say nervously.
“Good. It shouldn’t hurt unless I mean it to.” Before you can wonder what that means, you feel a little slap on your left sole, followed by a quick one on your right. Ow! It didn’t really hurt but it did startle you.

You open your mouth to ask why he did that but you don’t get past the first syllable before his hand grips your right ankle and suddenly he fingers are tickling the bottom of your foot. It seems to tickle more after the little slap. You jerk reflexively, but he’s got you trapped. He’s firmly pressing on your heel. He moves them so slowly they seem to vibrate the bottom of your foot and it makes your mouth tic up in a smile helplessly. He traces the edge of your heel, following the sensitive inner line of your arch and then up to your toes.

You curl your toes instinctively as he begins to play with them, but he stops you. “Don’t make me tell you to stop again.”
“I’m sorry,” you say meekly, but your apology is lessened by the fact that you dissolve into laughter in the middle of it when his fingers descend on your arches, spidering up and down with devilish adroitness.
“I’m sorry what?” he teases. “Does this bother you?” He knows the answer so you just keep giggling and twitching.

He stops for a moment to let you catch your breath and you feel his hand pull the toes back on your left foot. He begins tickling under your toes and it sends you into new fits of giggles.

After what seems like ten minutes but was probably only a few seconds he stops and repeats with your right foot. Another few minute-seconds pass and just when you think you’ve got a handle on the tickly sensations, it stops. You feel his fingers tracing around your heels again, both heels this time, and lightly scratching your ankles before tracing up the sides of your feet again. He hits a sensitive spot on your right foot and you can’t help it. You kick. And you hit something. Oh god what was it? His arm? His hand? He’s stopped.
 
V.


“You should’ve been more careful,” he says at last. “Now we have to play a new game. And that game is one that is played without jeans on.” You twist onto your back to look at him.
“You’re mad,” you say. “I am NOT taking my jeans off.”
He nods. “Ten” he says as he starts tickling your feet again. “Nine, eight.” Still tickling. “Seven, six. The choice is yours.” He keeps tickling and he’s not letting up. “Five.” You can barely hear him over the sound of your laughter. “Four, and if I get to one I’m doing it myself.”

You shake your head but no words come out. “Three.” You wonder what his hands will feel like over your naked thighs. “Two.”
“OK!” you scream. He stops. “Get off,” you say. He raises an eyebrow at you. “Please,” you amend. “I need your legs free so I can get them out of your jeans.”
He gets off of you and sits next to you on the bed. “I’m waiting,” he says.
You’re blushing like mad now and he is watching every minute of it. You struggle a bit with your belt and before you can protest, his hands are suddenly on yours, pushing you away. He gently pushes the end of the belt from the buckle and it’s undone. You unfasten the button and tug at the zipper, refusing to meet his eyes.

He pushes your hands away and places them at your sides. He puts his hands on your hips and gently tugs the jeans over them. You lift your bum up so he can pull them over it and he begins to slide your jeans down your thighs. You can see that he’s looking at your face, not at your body, but you still can’t meet his eyes.

He tugs the jeans over your legs and you gently kick first one leg and then the other as he tugs them off. They go onto the floor. You hold your knees to your chest. At last you look up and meet his eyes.

“You’re nearly there,” he says. “There’s one last thing.”
“What?” you say though you’re afraid to hear the answer. Afraid, and a little excited.
“Put your legs out. Yes, c’mon that’s good. Now stretch your arms up and lay back. That’s right.”

You’re stretched spread eagled and you wonder what he has planned. He grasps your right ankle and fastens a cuff around it? Where the hell did he get restraints? You’re still thinking this over when he gets a second cuff around your other leg.

Your wide-eyed gaze meets his confident one as he climbs up next to you. He’s lost his shoes at some point, though you don’t recall him slipping them off. He scoots comfortably up the bed and fastens a third cuff around your right arm and a fourth around your left arm.

A stranger has come into your home and you are in bondage in your own bed. You can’t believe it. He sits back and his eyes take in your underwear clad body. He admires the matching bra and panties, his eyes follow the lines of your hips, down your legs. He likes what he sees.

He throws a leg over your body and he’s straddling you again, this time facing your feet. You strain to sit up to see what he’s doing. He looks hungry. As you open your mouth to ask what comes up you feel something graze your left foot and it’s as if an electric shock runs up your leg. He’s got a damned toothbrush. You shake your head desperately, but you can’t stop him. You can hear the buzzing sound before the head of the brush hits your soles and you try to shake it off, but wherever you move your feet, he follows.

He holds back the toes on your right foot and you grit your teeth as he begins to trace them with the electric toothbrush. You’re giggling incessantly now and you hate yourself for it, but it tickles so badly. He nestles the bristles in under the base of your big toe and you involuntarily let you a squeal. After a moment he gives you a quick break, but as you gasp for breath you realise he’s not done yet. He’s grabbing the toes of your left foot now.

You brace yourself for the feel of the bristles against your toes but realise a little too late that you don’t hear the quiet hum of the toothbrush anymore. What’s he up to? There’s silence and stillness. He snaps his fingers and it’s as if you’ve taken a drug. You lay your head back, relaxed. The calm before the storm.

Who is this dark stranger? Is he a sorcerer? A vampire? An ordinary man with a wicked mind and soul? You’re a little afraid of him but also intrigued and, despite yourself, a little excited. You hate being so exposed, but it thrills you too.

“Do you enjoy dancing?” he asks.
“D-dancing? Sometimes,” you say. You’re nervous for some reason. “I don’t really like club music though.”
“No, you prefer something…a little more sophisticated,” he says, turning his head to stare over his shoulder, his gaze burning into you. “Electro-swing.” He snaps his fingers again and you recognize the song that comes on. The beat makes you shift your hips on the bed. The rhythm is catchy, and you can’t help it. He turns his attention back to your feet. But as the words of the song sink in, you remember the title. Fear and delight, all the way through the night… And you realize that’s exactly what you feel. Fear. And delight.

As those two words echo through your head, something grazes your foot again. The words “tickled to death” echo from the speakers and two seconds pass before your brain can process what has happened. He’s got a hairbrush. Suddenly you can’t breathe. It’s the most tortuous thing you’ve ever felt. The brush moves back and forth and your brain can’t handle the sensations. When you finally are able to draw breath into your lungs again, you scream with laughter.

Seconds pass like hours and you’re going absolutely mental. You can’t handle it for a second longer, and yet seconds keep passing by. You’ve lost track of how long it’s been, or which foot he started with because he’s been back and forth between the two a half dozen times. Your throat is raw from laughter and begging squeals. You’re embarrassed and horrified, and still a little excited. Your heart races.

You realise that at some point you passed out. When you open your eyes, he’s still there. You open your mouth to ask a question – you’ve no idea what you were going to say – and all coherent thought dissolves as the brush starts moving again. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” you scream and the rest of your mind goes blank as you laugh and tug at your restraints. Not this again. You think you may actually go insane.

But then, as abruptly as it began it’s over. You lay there, quivering. “Please,” you manage to get out between heaves of your chest as you attempt to regain your breath.
“Please what?” he asks casually.
“Don’t do that again,” you say.
“Are you telling me what to do?” he asks, still very calm.
Your eyes widen. “No, no of course not.” You go silent, holding your breath.
“Good girl.”
You are about to ask him what’s going to happen next when you feel a stinging slap against your right sole. You stiffen as it happens again. It hurts, but then he’s onto the next foot. You jerk your foot uncontrollably.
“Hold still,” he says.
You try. You’re desperate to obey because something in his voice commands it. That darkness he has, it’s not hiding anymore. It’s out in the open and somehow you know if you don’t obey…you don’t want to think about that. He strikes your sole again and your eyes glisten. You close them to prevent tears from falling, but somehow they trickle out anyway. He keeps slapping your soles, the brush striking hard. You grit your teeth and as you try to keep silent you realise that while it stings, you don’t want him to stop. Your cheeks are wet with tears, but you don’t want him to stop.

Eventually he does. You breathe heavily, gasping for air, not aware that you had been holding your breath. He climbs off of your legs and walks around to the head of the bed. He gently dries your cheeks, strokes your neck, your shoulders. He pets you softly and you purr softly. He gently caresses your tummy and you giggle a little, the ticklishness of your belly overriding the fire you now feel in your feet.

Suddenly you stiffen. He’s tugging at your panties, pulling them over your hips. You instinctively try to move your hands to stop him, but they are still bound.
“What are you doing?” you ask sharply. “Are you insane?”

A look from him is all you need to soften. Your heart beats wildly as he pulls your panties to your knees. A stranger is moving his hands over your naked hips. You want to jump out of your skin at the electricity that jolts through you every time he touches you, and it’s not just because it tickles. He holds up his hand for you to see and somehow he’s produced a black feather. Of course it would be black. Your dark foreigner. He lowers the feather and your eyes follow it. He softly caresses your thighs with it, twirling it as he gets closer and closer to…

You gasp as the feather flickers around the edges of your most sensitive parts, but not because it’s arousing. It tickles like hell. You snort-laugh at the unexpectedness of it, and then lapse into a steady stream of giggles. You blush furiously. A stranger is tickling your naked…he hits a tender spot and you flinch. You see a smile play about the edges of his mouth. He’s definitely enjoying your discomfort. This goes on for…seconds? Minutes? You’re not sure.

At some point your bra came off. You don’t remember him removing it from you, but you can see it on the floor out from the edge of your vision. What brings it to your attention now is the fact that he is lightly feathering your nipples. You don’t even like it when people touch you there, but in spite of yourself you’re becoming excited.

You feel a tingling sensation between your legs but realise it’s not the feather this time. It’s the damned electric toothbrush. It tickles like crazy, but you also feel waves of pleasure rushing through your core. You don’t get turned on by things like this, you tell yourself. And yet, impossibly, it’s happening. After moments of delightful agony, you arch your back and are wrecked by involuntary spasms. A grunt escapes your clenched jaw. Your stranger looks on with satisfaction, knowing exactly what he’s done.

But more gentle tickles would be too easy and with swift surety he attacks your torso, his fingers scrambling over your tummy, along your sides, across your ribs. You buck up and down wildly trying to escape his grasp, but you just can’t get away. He’s devilishly fast and you’d be afraid to fight him even if you could. He finds a spot along your ribs that makes you scream but you know that he won’t stop. Maybe not ever.

At last, the tickling lets up. You sink back, exhausted, and watch this dark, wonderful, terrible stranger who looks down at you tenderly. “Good girl,” he says. You roll over and he sits next to you, gently petting your head, stroking your back. Sleep finds you.

When you wake, you’re alone and the restraints are gone. You’re in your nightgown, somehow. There’s no trace of your stranger. Was it all a dream? You pad into the kitchen and stop abruptly. There on the counter is a single black feather and a black hairbrush. They’re not yours. You shiver as you check the locks on the front door and then walk back into the kitchen to stare at what was left behind. A reminder. He can come to you anytime he wants. You shiver again and go back to bed.

Fin.
 
This is without a doubt one of the most wonderful stories I've read. I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it.
 
That story, wow incredible read, loved it thank you
 
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