Morning Angel
TMF Expert
- Joined
- May 10, 2003
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POSSESSION
"Possession which is not mutual is nothing at all" -- J.J. Rousseau
PART I - Building a Mystery
Lying alone on my bed, I burn for him. The heat raging through my body, boring holes in my mind echoes all over me in fiery phantom laughter. At least a hundred times today I have imagined his arms encircling my waist, his fingers digging into my flesh, his kisses and hot breath on my neck all combining to drive me mad with ticklish giggles. I smile to myself and bite my lip thinking of the lines a feather could trace up and down my thighs. I struggle to keep from squirming in my chair during the day, so vivid are the sensations of my fantasies. I toss about and curl up in my bed at night, both haunted and consoled by visions of a man whose tormenting embrace I long to enter. For an embrace is never just an embrace in my feverish dreams - roaming fingers down my spine, soft kisses on my belly, helpless laughter mingled with chaotic pleas for release and cries of rapture always accompany them.
A torture this exquisite could never be real, could it? If I were certain it could not, I would gladly descend into the madness of my dreams and forego a mundane existence where my body and soul remain my property alone. Life, however, offers no certainties, so I retain the tedium of sanity; but over and over again the simple yet powerful visions return to me. There are no names, locations, costumes. What need have I of saying his name when I know intimately the longings of his soul? What location matters except being beside each other? Why should I desire costumes to disguise the glowing face and the perfect body of my love? That body, that soul, joining mine, forcing twists and turns and spasms of ecstacy as he tickles me on and on into the night are all I ever needed. He is my only desire, and the music of my laughter his sole motivation. Even lying alone on my bed I know - I belong to him.
**********************************************************************
PART II - Sweet Surrender
Mine.
I sit astride his bound body wondering where to begin tonight. As I mentally run through a catalogue of well-worn starting points I look back and remember how hesitant, how uncertain, indeed, how afraid of my own power I was the first few times I took control.
How different things are now. We built these games, this exchange, up from nothing and slowly nourished them. The ability to give oneself over to another so completely is not something that comes instantly, like in some glorious fantasy - it took time to establish such perfect trust and control. Tonight, I decide, my attack will be sudden and devastating, and will only increase in intensity until he surrenders to me. Tied up and blindfolded, my love does not yet know this, but he soon will. I smile the playfully malicious smile of the dominant over their prey.
In a split second my hands, small and nimble, are upon his ribs, tickling the flesh that seems to be an extension of my own in the way it yields to my torturous intentions. In between bursts of startled, frenzied laughter he instinctively cries, "Stop!"
"No, no, my dear," I purr in his ear, allowing my breath to tickle his ear and neck as my fingers tickle fiercely under his arms. "That's much too easy. Only when you call my name in surrender to me will there be any hope of mercy for you tonight."
How I delight in this role, his body enslaved to my tickling, his will fighting a losing battle with my own. I begin digging my fingers deeper, little pulsating circles in his underarms and then quickly shift targets and techniques. On the nighttable there's an old hairbrush, its bristles long-since grown coarse, and I pick it up and slowly, slowly drag it up and down along first one foot of my lover, then the other. Violent spasms and uncontrollable, desperate laughter, ascending into wild giggling before falling into silence, reward my efforts. I don't think I've ever felt such tenderness, such awe, such love for him as I do at this moment. Familiar as I am with the rhythms of his body under torture, my eye remains watchful for signs of real distress, and I ease up just enough to bring sound back into his laughter. Mmmmm, I could listen to that sound forever.
On and on for almost a full hour I move up his legs, squeeing knees and inner thighs, past his cock and balls without even a second thought for now, gently spidering along his waist and lower belly, doing more than gazing at his navel by allowing my fingers and tongue free reign of it. Up his sides, my hands dancing across his chest, shifting to another quick strike upon his ribs and underarms before teasing his collarbone and neck. He, for his part and when he can find breath to speak between bouts of hysteria, pierces the air with cries of "Sweetie" "Honey" "Babe" "Darling Girl" "Love of my Life," calling me every name under the sun save my own, in a heroic effort to let out his ecstasy and agony without letting me win the battle of wills.
Low and sultry in his ear: "Uh uh, you know what I need to hear. Two little syllables and it's all over."
He writhes in ticklish convulsions under the scarves that bind him, twisting, straining for an alternate route out of the hell I have created for him. I love his pride, for it matches my own, and we both know that the decision to relinquish it is not made lightly. This is part of what makes my inevitable victory tonight so sweet.
Slowly crawling back down the length of his body I position myself on his knees and begin to spider around his inner thighs, higher and higher up but not touching for an instant his most private but attention-seeking parts. Up around to his waist and back down his thighs, tried and true torturous progressions that have made slaves out of men since the dawn of time. He needs relief, the frustration is more than he can bear, he can feel himself weakening under me.
"No," he whispers.
"Who owns you?" I inquire.
"A--," he begins.
"Who controls you?" I tease.
"An--," he struggles.
"Who do you need?" I demand.
"ANGEL"
He surrenders.
"Possession which is not mutual is nothing at all" -- J.J. Rousseau
PART I - Building a Mystery
Lying alone on my bed, I burn for him. The heat raging through my body, boring holes in my mind echoes all over me in fiery phantom laughter. At least a hundred times today I have imagined his arms encircling my waist, his fingers digging into my flesh, his kisses and hot breath on my neck all combining to drive me mad with ticklish giggles. I smile to myself and bite my lip thinking of the lines a feather could trace up and down my thighs. I struggle to keep from squirming in my chair during the day, so vivid are the sensations of my fantasies. I toss about and curl up in my bed at night, both haunted and consoled by visions of a man whose tormenting embrace I long to enter. For an embrace is never just an embrace in my feverish dreams - roaming fingers down my spine, soft kisses on my belly, helpless laughter mingled with chaotic pleas for release and cries of rapture always accompany them.
A torture this exquisite could never be real, could it? If I were certain it could not, I would gladly descend into the madness of my dreams and forego a mundane existence where my body and soul remain my property alone. Life, however, offers no certainties, so I retain the tedium of sanity; but over and over again the simple yet powerful visions return to me. There are no names, locations, costumes. What need have I of saying his name when I know intimately the longings of his soul? What location matters except being beside each other? Why should I desire costumes to disguise the glowing face and the perfect body of my love? That body, that soul, joining mine, forcing twists and turns and spasms of ecstacy as he tickles me on and on into the night are all I ever needed. He is my only desire, and the music of my laughter his sole motivation. Even lying alone on my bed I know - I belong to him.
**********************************************************************
PART II - Sweet Surrender
Mine.
I sit astride his bound body wondering where to begin tonight. As I mentally run through a catalogue of well-worn starting points I look back and remember how hesitant, how uncertain, indeed, how afraid of my own power I was the first few times I took control.
How different things are now. We built these games, this exchange, up from nothing and slowly nourished them. The ability to give oneself over to another so completely is not something that comes instantly, like in some glorious fantasy - it took time to establish such perfect trust and control. Tonight, I decide, my attack will be sudden and devastating, and will only increase in intensity until he surrenders to me. Tied up and blindfolded, my love does not yet know this, but he soon will. I smile the playfully malicious smile of the dominant over their prey.
In a split second my hands, small and nimble, are upon his ribs, tickling the flesh that seems to be an extension of my own in the way it yields to my torturous intentions. In between bursts of startled, frenzied laughter he instinctively cries, "Stop!"
"No, no, my dear," I purr in his ear, allowing my breath to tickle his ear and neck as my fingers tickle fiercely under his arms. "That's much too easy. Only when you call my name in surrender to me will there be any hope of mercy for you tonight."
How I delight in this role, his body enslaved to my tickling, his will fighting a losing battle with my own. I begin digging my fingers deeper, little pulsating circles in his underarms and then quickly shift targets and techniques. On the nighttable there's an old hairbrush, its bristles long-since grown coarse, and I pick it up and slowly, slowly drag it up and down along first one foot of my lover, then the other. Violent spasms and uncontrollable, desperate laughter, ascending into wild giggling before falling into silence, reward my efforts. I don't think I've ever felt such tenderness, such awe, such love for him as I do at this moment. Familiar as I am with the rhythms of his body under torture, my eye remains watchful for signs of real distress, and I ease up just enough to bring sound back into his laughter. Mmmmm, I could listen to that sound forever.
On and on for almost a full hour I move up his legs, squeeing knees and inner thighs, past his cock and balls without even a second thought for now, gently spidering along his waist and lower belly, doing more than gazing at his navel by allowing my fingers and tongue free reign of it. Up his sides, my hands dancing across his chest, shifting to another quick strike upon his ribs and underarms before teasing his collarbone and neck. He, for his part and when he can find breath to speak between bouts of hysteria, pierces the air with cries of "Sweetie" "Honey" "Babe" "Darling Girl" "Love of my Life," calling me every name under the sun save my own, in a heroic effort to let out his ecstasy and agony without letting me win the battle of wills.
Low and sultry in his ear: "Uh uh, you know what I need to hear. Two little syllables and it's all over."
He writhes in ticklish convulsions under the scarves that bind him, twisting, straining for an alternate route out of the hell I have created for him. I love his pride, for it matches my own, and we both know that the decision to relinquish it is not made lightly. This is part of what makes my inevitable victory tonight so sweet.
Slowly crawling back down the length of his body I position myself on his knees and begin to spider around his inner thighs, higher and higher up but not touching for an instant his most private but attention-seeking parts. Up around to his waist and back down his thighs, tried and true torturous progressions that have made slaves out of men since the dawn of time. He needs relief, the frustration is more than he can bear, he can feel himself weakening under me.
"No," he whispers.
"Who owns you?" I inquire.
"A--," he begins.
"Who controls you?" I tease.
"An--," he struggles.
"Who do you need?" I demand.
"ANGEL"
He surrenders.
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