need2tickle
TMF Novice
- Joined
- Sep 3, 2001
- Messages
- 51
- Points
- 0
(Story Content: M/F, Abduction, Light Bondage, Tickling)
She begins to awaken just as I am tightening the last strap around her left
ankle. Her head is swimming now; her lovely brown eyes glassed over from hours
of drug-induced sleep. I give her more time to survey the room, and let the
reality of her nightmare settle in.
Yes, my pet. You are in my cellar, hidden away from the rest of the world.
Cobwebs are draped among the pipes in the ceiling above. Dust covers
everything, and the smell of it hangs thick in the air. Her summer dress and
bra lay crumpled on the floor only a few feet away. The table she lies on is
made of solid oak. Her ankles and wrists are fastened to each corner with
leather straps to keep her body drawn tight over the cold, hard surface.
Looking down, her eyes widen in horror in seeing how nearly naked she is,
stripped of everything down to her G-string, and even that leaves very little to
the imagination. The shock of her exposure seems to sober her up immediately.
She tries to scream, but the tape over her mouth keeps her from doing so -- not
that it matters, for there isn't a soul that can hear anything through these
thick walls.
I approach the table and gaze down at the dark-haired beauty lying spread-eagled
and helpless before me. Her slender body is firm and soft in all the right
places. The warm glow of the candle promotes every detail quite nicely -- the
shallow outlines of her ribs, the gentle swell of her breasts, the way her
bright red G-string stands out boldly between the deep curves of her open
thighs. I take note of how her nipples have hardened against the cool, dampness
that pervades the room; or could it be the moment? Ignoring her muffled
protests, I begin to run the palm of my hand up each leg to check her grooming.
She has the most beautiful almond-colored skin I have ever seen, and I marvel at
how silky-smooth it feels. Perfect for what I have planned.
She watches my movements nervously as I pull open a drawer under the table.
What she sees next is enough to throw her into a panic. She looks up to my face
with renewed desperation, her eyes innocently pleading with me before darting
back to the long, black peacock feather I now hold in my hand. She moans into
the tape covering her mouth, probably another attempt to beg for mercy. Her
facial expression clearly conveys her message: "I implore you. Please...don't
do this to me. Just let me go...I won't tell anyone. Please!"
Needless to say, her attempts are in vain.
I pause for a moment with my weapon ready to let her anticipation build. Then,
starting at the wrist, I drag the feather up the length of her forearm, past the
delicate crease in front of her elbow. My movements are slow and calculated.
Only the very tip of the flowing, black plume touches her naked skin.
Frantically, she tries to twist her arm away, but the leather bindings hold firm
in keeping her captive limbs pinned to the table. I continue the journey and
let the feather guide my path to the smooth curves of her open underarm, then I
tickle there with quick, agonizing strokes. Gasping for breath now, my
reluctant partner is determined to hold in her laughter, knowing this is exactly
the response I am looking for, but her determination is no match for my skills,
or my patience.
I set the feather down and begin wiggling my fingers into the warm, soft hollows
of her armpits. She gasps sharply, releasing a startled yelp. It's obvious
that being tickled this way is a foreign sensation to her. She begins yanking
violently against her restraints in a futile attempt to close the gap between
her arms and her sides with what little slack she has. I can see tiny beads of
sweat already breaking out on her forehead, and the sinews in her neck and
shoulders become more pronounce. For all of her visible torment though, she
persists in her catty stubbornness in refusing to give in to that subtle
humiliation that all tickle torture victims must realize at some point,
regardless of how proud, angry, or assertive they are -- the humiliation of
being forced to laugh.
In knowing that moment is about to come, I decide to remove the gag before
continuing any further. Leaning forward, I take one edge of the tape between my
fingers, then quickly and painlessly yank it off her mouth. She inhales deeply
and prepares to beg for me to stop, but before she can utter even one word, I
begin working on her armpits again, tickling them with even more vigor then
before. She isn't laughing yet, but she keeps her eyes clamped shut, shaking
her head from side to side, trying desperately with all the will power she can
muster to cope with the terrible tickling sensations. Finally, her composure
breaks and she releases a string of the purest sounding giggles I have ever
heard. Again, I retrieve the feather and move on to exploring her other
vulnerable spots, dragging it up and down the sides of her upper body, and along
the undersides of her ribs. More giggles ensue, mixed with the rich sounds of
her leather bindings rubbing together as she struggles to elude me.
"No! Don't! S-STOP IT!" She demands, her voice quivering between breaths.
I can feel her stomach muscles tense up as I swirl the feather around the subtle
curves of her tummy, dipping the tip lightly in and out of her shallow navel
with each pass. Then slowly, I move to her breasts, drawing circles around them
with a series of quick and slow strokes. Almost immediately, her nipples grow
taut, so I move in closer to trace the soft, pink flesh that surrounds them.
Now anguish melts into pleasure. A sudden cry betrays her passion. I tickle
the very tips of her nipples, starting slowly at first, a flick every second or
so against her swollen buds, while picking up the pace until she cannot deny the
sensations being forced on her body any longer. Then to my surprise, she arches
her back and pushes her breasts upward, as though beckoning me for even more
attention. This I gladly answer with a few more swipes of the feather before
giving her a few moments of much-needed rest.
Within this time, her breathing slows and bearable sanity returns, but the
ordeal is far from over. She watches, wide-eyed, as I circle around to the end
of the table where her beautiful bare feet are strapped and waiting.
"Please, don't do this to me," she releases a deep, ragged breath, "just let me
go, PLEASE!"
"Who do you belong to?" I ask.
She wants to look away, but my teasing gesture keeps her eyes glued to the
feather.
"Come now my ticklish little pet." I lean in closer and voice the question
again, my tone, casually indulgent. "Who do you belong to?"
Silence.
I can almost feel her heart beating faster but the expression remains the same.
Firm. Unyielding.
"Very well, then."
Slowly and gently, I drag the feather across the bottom of her right foot. The
reaction is instantaneous. She erupts in a gale of giggles while jerking her
leg violently against the leather restraint. She manages one more plea before I
wave the soft quill against her tender arches,
"Not there! Not my feet! Please!! I'LL DIE!!!"
Her toes wiggle furiously as I continue the teasing assault, gliding up and down
her flexing soles, first one and then the other. She begins laughing
hysterically. It moves me in so many ways to see that a girl can be so
stunningly attractive and so ticklish at the same time -- the way her lovely
body squirms helplessly on the table, her naked, young breasts rising and
falling with each gulp of air, her dark mane of hair whisking from side to side,
sweat breaking out in all the right places. Every so often, I stop to let her
catch her breath, only to resume the feather-light torture on her unbearably
ticklish soles and toes. Then my nails are brought into play, never painful,
but relentless in their role in the tickling that occurs. Gone are the lightest
of teasing touches. It is now an all out attack, with her feet serving as the
battleground.
After several more minutes, when I sense that she is becoming immune to my
ministrations, I take the feather again and work the very tip up the inside of
her left leg, taking a moment to tickle her behind the knee. She responds with
a twist of the hips, a slight bend of the knee, as much movement as the leather
straps will possibly allow. As she struggles, my attention is drawn to the
subtle play of smooth muscle on the insides her thighs, so I drag the feather
across them too. Already, the wetness between her legs has begun to seep
through the bright red fabric of her G-string.
"Ahhhh, getting excited are we?" I tease her.
"Please no...not there...not there!"
"Are you prepared to answer my question?"
"Please...please! No more!"
"Perhaps you don't remember, so I'll ask it again. WHO do you belong to?"
I can almost sense her resolve beginning to strengthen with the sound of my
voice. Saying nothing more, she only shakes her head in denial.
"Not to worry, my dear. I'll help loosen your tongue and change your mind."
Her G-string almost looks too small, even for such a petite body. The strings
are pulled tight around the hips and through her butt, and the front plunges
deep into her crotch to cover her neatly-trimmed pussy, but very little else. I
begin circling the feather around the bright red garment, deliberately tracing
the outline where skin meets fabric.
"Too much...I can't...can't take any more," she whimpers, "I can't...I can't..."
"Who do you belong to?"
"N...NOOOOOOOOO!!!"
I swirl the feather around her pelvic bone, then over to the other hip and
re-trace the invisible path I made again, and again. She's still struggling,
but her movements seem more seductive now in the way she twists and turns her
body on the table. Her ass is grinding almost painfully against the hard, rough
surface, though she doesn't seem to even notice it. During her next break, I
decide to give her a little more time to catch her breath. For a moment the
poor girl thinks the tickling is over. She lies there groaning, taking in gulps
of much needed oxygen. Sweat running from her underarms and breasts. Her hopes
are quickly dashed when she sees me leaning on the table, looking down at her
with a wolfish grin.
"No, no more," she begs, "I'll do anything you want, PLEASE!"
"Yes, my angel. You most certainly will."
Dropping the feather, I begin tickling her in earnest, gliding the very tips of
my fingers around the sides of her ribs. Again she is succumbed to ticklish
laughter, only this time higher-pitched and even more hysterical than ever. I
wiggle my fingers like two spiders up over her breasts, while brushing my palms
across her swollen nipples. Her body erupts off the table, her breasts shaking
wildly as she tries to knock the 'spiders' off. My wandering fingers settle
into her armpits next where I tickle her rigorously without relenting. In fact,
there isn't one square inch above the waist that is spared the savage tickling
now being waged on her bare flesh. All the while, she screams and wails in a
futile attempt to beg for mercy, her body bucking and thrashing uncontrollably.
"NOOOOOOOO! S...S...STOPPPPPP ITTTTT!! Can't.....BREATHE!!!
Her last plea is so heart wrenching in its sincerity that I almost take pity on
the poor girl, but that moment passes quickly when I see how saturated the front
of her G-string has become. I put her through another ten minutes of the most
intense tickling I can manage, causing her to frequently lapse into silent fits
of laughter.
After what must have seemed like an eternity for her, the tickling stops. She
is completely exhausted now, but at the same time, there is no denying the
pleasure derived from the insidious torture that she has been forced to endure
for so long. She watches powerlessly, but very anxious as I pull the drawer
open again and reach for a pair of scissors. Then I kneel next to her, looking
at the stringy, red undergarment hiding her undoubtedly lovely sex from my eyes.
Our thoughts and desires are the same now. Carefully, I slide one blade under
the string around her left hip. The sudden touch of cold steel against her skin
makes her shiver for a moment. I squeeze the blades together gently, and with a
sharp 'snip,' the string is cut. The panty loosens around her. Another 'snip'
releases it from her other hip. Then with one quick motion, I pull what's left
of the G-string roughly out from under her and toss it aside. She lies there
quietly with her eyes closed as I gaze down at her newly bared flesh for the
first time. Just as I suspected, her pussy is gorgeous with just a wisp of hair
guarding her swollen, pink folds. I reach down and slide my middle finger into
her moist womanhood. She whimpers softly, a combination of embarrassment and
pleasure. Then I tease her by swirling my tongue around her pussy, but only
once...
"Please...don't stop," she moans.
"Who do you belong to?"
"I need to cum so bad. Please don't stop!"
Softly and insistently, I flick the very tip of my tongue against her clitoris.
"Answer me angel, who do you belong to?"
She no longer cares that I have reduced her to this level of begging. Perhaps
in the days that follow she will look back and scoff at her own weakness. But
for now...
"You ," she whispers between quick, sporadic breaths, "only you ..."
My reaction is instantaneous. Slowly, I wiggle my tongue up the center of her
quivering, wet folds, and then I take her clit into my mouth and suck on it
gently. She's moaning much louder now, and pumping her hips violently as though
she was having passionate sex with an invisible lover. I can sense my angel is
on the verge of having her first orgasm, so I give her several more flicks of my
tongue to push her over the edge. Almost instantly, she bends her head backward
and cries out feverishly as waves of pleasure roll repeatedly throughout her
body. Then she draws a long, deep breath and becomes limp.
At this point, it would take very little to bring her into another gut-wrenching
orgasm. Quietly she lies there, eyes closed, seemingly unaware of my movements
as I slowly remove my clothes. When she looks up, I am on the table leaning
over her, face to face, my body close to her body but not quite touching it. My
hard-on is just inches away from the sweet pleasure that I am about to
experience. She struggles just a little as I push the tip of my eager cock
against her narrow opening. Her slit is tight, yet involuntarily well
lubricated. Gently, I slide my way in. A soft, sexy moan passes her lips.
Then much to her dismay, I lean forward and lightly tickle her underarms again.
She begins releasing those hot giggles that I've loved so much and she squirms
underneath me as I tickle her harder and harder. Then I begin making slow, deep
thrusts, while tickling her ribs and tummy. She screams with laughter as her
pussy muscles clench and unclench my throbbing member. She can't help it in
feeling so pleasured by the sex, and it shows, as she begins pushing her waist
upward to meet my every thrust. I quicken my pace, feeling my own climax
building inside me, but I try to control it for just a while longer. By now,
she isn't far behind in reaching her second orgasm. Shifting her hips wildly,
she begins rubbing the front of her pussy against me, driving me over the edge
until we both reach a mind-blowing climax together.
I can feel her smooth body mold itself to mine as I lower myself on top of her.
Her lips are warm and soft as she kisses me.
----------------------
Later in the evening, we are lying curled up close to each other in my bed...
"You were very convincing," she whispers to me, smiling.
"So were you, Elise. In fact, your pleading almost worked a couple of times."
"Really?"
"Yeah, you really sounded serious."
"Hmmmm. I'm afraid you wouldn't make a very good kidnapper then," she murmurs
as I roll over to kiss her neck.
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
End ;-)
She begins to awaken just as I am tightening the last strap around her left
ankle. Her head is swimming now; her lovely brown eyes glassed over from hours
of drug-induced sleep. I give her more time to survey the room, and let the
reality of her nightmare settle in.
Yes, my pet. You are in my cellar, hidden away from the rest of the world.
Cobwebs are draped among the pipes in the ceiling above. Dust covers
everything, and the smell of it hangs thick in the air. Her summer dress and
bra lay crumpled on the floor only a few feet away. The table she lies on is
made of solid oak. Her ankles and wrists are fastened to each corner with
leather straps to keep her body drawn tight over the cold, hard surface.
Looking down, her eyes widen in horror in seeing how nearly naked she is,
stripped of everything down to her G-string, and even that leaves very little to
the imagination. The shock of her exposure seems to sober her up immediately.
She tries to scream, but the tape over her mouth keeps her from doing so -- not
that it matters, for there isn't a soul that can hear anything through these
thick walls.
I approach the table and gaze down at the dark-haired beauty lying spread-eagled
and helpless before me. Her slender body is firm and soft in all the right
places. The warm glow of the candle promotes every detail quite nicely -- the
shallow outlines of her ribs, the gentle swell of her breasts, the way her
bright red G-string stands out boldly between the deep curves of her open
thighs. I take note of how her nipples have hardened against the cool, dampness
that pervades the room; or could it be the moment? Ignoring her muffled
protests, I begin to run the palm of my hand up each leg to check her grooming.
She has the most beautiful almond-colored skin I have ever seen, and I marvel at
how silky-smooth it feels. Perfect for what I have planned.
She watches my movements nervously as I pull open a drawer under the table.
What she sees next is enough to throw her into a panic. She looks up to my face
with renewed desperation, her eyes innocently pleading with me before darting
back to the long, black peacock feather I now hold in my hand. She moans into
the tape covering her mouth, probably another attempt to beg for mercy. Her
facial expression clearly conveys her message: "I implore you. Please...don't
do this to me. Just let me go...I won't tell anyone. Please!"
Needless to say, her attempts are in vain.
I pause for a moment with my weapon ready to let her anticipation build. Then,
starting at the wrist, I drag the feather up the length of her forearm, past the
delicate crease in front of her elbow. My movements are slow and calculated.
Only the very tip of the flowing, black plume touches her naked skin.
Frantically, she tries to twist her arm away, but the leather bindings hold firm
in keeping her captive limbs pinned to the table. I continue the journey and
let the feather guide my path to the smooth curves of her open underarm, then I
tickle there with quick, agonizing strokes. Gasping for breath now, my
reluctant partner is determined to hold in her laughter, knowing this is exactly
the response I am looking for, but her determination is no match for my skills,
or my patience.
I set the feather down and begin wiggling my fingers into the warm, soft hollows
of her armpits. She gasps sharply, releasing a startled yelp. It's obvious
that being tickled this way is a foreign sensation to her. She begins yanking
violently against her restraints in a futile attempt to close the gap between
her arms and her sides with what little slack she has. I can see tiny beads of
sweat already breaking out on her forehead, and the sinews in her neck and
shoulders become more pronounce. For all of her visible torment though, she
persists in her catty stubbornness in refusing to give in to that subtle
humiliation that all tickle torture victims must realize at some point,
regardless of how proud, angry, or assertive they are -- the humiliation of
being forced to laugh.
In knowing that moment is about to come, I decide to remove the gag before
continuing any further. Leaning forward, I take one edge of the tape between my
fingers, then quickly and painlessly yank it off her mouth. She inhales deeply
and prepares to beg for me to stop, but before she can utter even one word, I
begin working on her armpits again, tickling them with even more vigor then
before. She isn't laughing yet, but she keeps her eyes clamped shut, shaking
her head from side to side, trying desperately with all the will power she can
muster to cope with the terrible tickling sensations. Finally, her composure
breaks and she releases a string of the purest sounding giggles I have ever
heard. Again, I retrieve the feather and move on to exploring her other
vulnerable spots, dragging it up and down the sides of her upper body, and along
the undersides of her ribs. More giggles ensue, mixed with the rich sounds of
her leather bindings rubbing together as she struggles to elude me.
"No! Don't! S-STOP IT!" She demands, her voice quivering between breaths.
I can feel her stomach muscles tense up as I swirl the feather around the subtle
curves of her tummy, dipping the tip lightly in and out of her shallow navel
with each pass. Then slowly, I move to her breasts, drawing circles around them
with a series of quick and slow strokes. Almost immediately, her nipples grow
taut, so I move in closer to trace the soft, pink flesh that surrounds them.
Now anguish melts into pleasure. A sudden cry betrays her passion. I tickle
the very tips of her nipples, starting slowly at first, a flick every second or
so against her swollen buds, while picking up the pace until she cannot deny the
sensations being forced on her body any longer. Then to my surprise, she arches
her back and pushes her breasts upward, as though beckoning me for even more
attention. This I gladly answer with a few more swipes of the feather before
giving her a few moments of much-needed rest.
Within this time, her breathing slows and bearable sanity returns, but the
ordeal is far from over. She watches, wide-eyed, as I circle around to the end
of the table where her beautiful bare feet are strapped and waiting.
"Please, don't do this to me," she releases a deep, ragged breath, "just let me
go, PLEASE!"
"Who do you belong to?" I ask.
She wants to look away, but my teasing gesture keeps her eyes glued to the
feather.
"Come now my ticklish little pet." I lean in closer and voice the question
again, my tone, casually indulgent. "Who do you belong to?"
Silence.
I can almost feel her heart beating faster but the expression remains the same.
Firm. Unyielding.
"Very well, then."
Slowly and gently, I drag the feather across the bottom of her right foot. The
reaction is instantaneous. She erupts in a gale of giggles while jerking her
leg violently against the leather restraint. She manages one more plea before I
wave the soft quill against her tender arches,
"Not there! Not my feet! Please!! I'LL DIE!!!"
Her toes wiggle furiously as I continue the teasing assault, gliding up and down
her flexing soles, first one and then the other. She begins laughing
hysterically. It moves me in so many ways to see that a girl can be so
stunningly attractive and so ticklish at the same time -- the way her lovely
body squirms helplessly on the table, her naked, young breasts rising and
falling with each gulp of air, her dark mane of hair whisking from side to side,
sweat breaking out in all the right places. Every so often, I stop to let her
catch her breath, only to resume the feather-light torture on her unbearably
ticklish soles and toes. Then my nails are brought into play, never painful,
but relentless in their role in the tickling that occurs. Gone are the lightest
of teasing touches. It is now an all out attack, with her feet serving as the
battleground.
After several more minutes, when I sense that she is becoming immune to my
ministrations, I take the feather again and work the very tip up the inside of
her left leg, taking a moment to tickle her behind the knee. She responds with
a twist of the hips, a slight bend of the knee, as much movement as the leather
straps will possibly allow. As she struggles, my attention is drawn to the
subtle play of smooth muscle on the insides her thighs, so I drag the feather
across them too. Already, the wetness between her legs has begun to seep
through the bright red fabric of her G-string.
"Ahhhh, getting excited are we?" I tease her.
"Please no...not there...not there!"
"Are you prepared to answer my question?"
"Please...please! No more!"
"Perhaps you don't remember, so I'll ask it again. WHO do you belong to?"
I can almost sense her resolve beginning to strengthen with the sound of my
voice. Saying nothing more, she only shakes her head in denial.
"Not to worry, my dear. I'll help loosen your tongue and change your mind."
Her G-string almost looks too small, even for such a petite body. The strings
are pulled tight around the hips and through her butt, and the front plunges
deep into her crotch to cover her neatly-trimmed pussy, but very little else. I
begin circling the feather around the bright red garment, deliberately tracing
the outline where skin meets fabric.
"Too much...I can't...can't take any more," she whimpers, "I can't...I can't..."
"Who do you belong to?"
"N...NOOOOOOOOO!!!"
I swirl the feather around her pelvic bone, then over to the other hip and
re-trace the invisible path I made again, and again. She's still struggling,
but her movements seem more seductive now in the way she twists and turns her
body on the table. Her ass is grinding almost painfully against the hard, rough
surface, though she doesn't seem to even notice it. During her next break, I
decide to give her a little more time to catch her breath. For a moment the
poor girl thinks the tickling is over. She lies there groaning, taking in gulps
of much needed oxygen. Sweat running from her underarms and breasts. Her hopes
are quickly dashed when she sees me leaning on the table, looking down at her
with a wolfish grin.
"No, no more," she begs, "I'll do anything you want, PLEASE!"
"Yes, my angel. You most certainly will."
Dropping the feather, I begin tickling her in earnest, gliding the very tips of
my fingers around the sides of her ribs. Again she is succumbed to ticklish
laughter, only this time higher-pitched and even more hysterical than ever. I
wiggle my fingers like two spiders up over her breasts, while brushing my palms
across her swollen nipples. Her body erupts off the table, her breasts shaking
wildly as she tries to knock the 'spiders' off. My wandering fingers settle
into her armpits next where I tickle her rigorously without relenting. In fact,
there isn't one square inch above the waist that is spared the savage tickling
now being waged on her bare flesh. All the while, she screams and wails in a
futile attempt to beg for mercy, her body bucking and thrashing uncontrollably.
"NOOOOOOOO! S...S...STOPPPPPP ITTTTT!! Can't.....BREATHE!!!
Her last plea is so heart wrenching in its sincerity that I almost take pity on
the poor girl, but that moment passes quickly when I see how saturated the front
of her G-string has become. I put her through another ten minutes of the most
intense tickling I can manage, causing her to frequently lapse into silent fits
of laughter.
After what must have seemed like an eternity for her, the tickling stops. She
is completely exhausted now, but at the same time, there is no denying the
pleasure derived from the insidious torture that she has been forced to endure
for so long. She watches powerlessly, but very anxious as I pull the drawer
open again and reach for a pair of scissors. Then I kneel next to her, looking
at the stringy, red undergarment hiding her undoubtedly lovely sex from my eyes.
Our thoughts and desires are the same now. Carefully, I slide one blade under
the string around her left hip. The sudden touch of cold steel against her skin
makes her shiver for a moment. I squeeze the blades together gently, and with a
sharp 'snip,' the string is cut. The panty loosens around her. Another 'snip'
releases it from her other hip. Then with one quick motion, I pull what's left
of the G-string roughly out from under her and toss it aside. She lies there
quietly with her eyes closed as I gaze down at her newly bared flesh for the
first time. Just as I suspected, her pussy is gorgeous with just a wisp of hair
guarding her swollen, pink folds. I reach down and slide my middle finger into
her moist womanhood. She whimpers softly, a combination of embarrassment and
pleasure. Then I tease her by swirling my tongue around her pussy, but only
once...
"Please...don't stop," she moans.
"Who do you belong to?"
"I need to cum so bad. Please don't stop!"
Softly and insistently, I flick the very tip of my tongue against her clitoris.
"Answer me angel, who do you belong to?"
She no longer cares that I have reduced her to this level of begging. Perhaps
in the days that follow she will look back and scoff at her own weakness. But
for now...
"You ," she whispers between quick, sporadic breaths, "only you ..."
My reaction is instantaneous. Slowly, I wiggle my tongue up the center of her
quivering, wet folds, and then I take her clit into my mouth and suck on it
gently. She's moaning much louder now, and pumping her hips violently as though
she was having passionate sex with an invisible lover. I can sense my angel is
on the verge of having her first orgasm, so I give her several more flicks of my
tongue to push her over the edge. Almost instantly, she bends her head backward
and cries out feverishly as waves of pleasure roll repeatedly throughout her
body. Then she draws a long, deep breath and becomes limp.
At this point, it would take very little to bring her into another gut-wrenching
orgasm. Quietly she lies there, eyes closed, seemingly unaware of my movements
as I slowly remove my clothes. When she looks up, I am on the table leaning
over her, face to face, my body close to her body but not quite touching it. My
hard-on is just inches away from the sweet pleasure that I am about to
experience. She struggles just a little as I push the tip of my eager cock
against her narrow opening. Her slit is tight, yet involuntarily well
lubricated. Gently, I slide my way in. A soft, sexy moan passes her lips.
Then much to her dismay, I lean forward and lightly tickle her underarms again.
She begins releasing those hot giggles that I've loved so much and she squirms
underneath me as I tickle her harder and harder. Then I begin making slow, deep
thrusts, while tickling her ribs and tummy. She screams with laughter as her
pussy muscles clench and unclench my throbbing member. She can't help it in
feeling so pleasured by the sex, and it shows, as she begins pushing her waist
upward to meet my every thrust. I quicken my pace, feeling my own climax
building inside me, but I try to control it for just a while longer. By now,
she isn't far behind in reaching her second orgasm. Shifting her hips wildly,
she begins rubbing the front of her pussy against me, driving me over the edge
until we both reach a mind-blowing climax together.
I can feel her smooth body mold itself to mine as I lower myself on top of her.
Her lips are warm and soft as she kisses me.
----------------------
Later in the evening, we are lying curled up close to each other in my bed...
"You were very convincing," she whispers to me, smiling.
"So were you, Elise. In fact, your pleading almost worked a couple of times."
"Really?"
"Yeah, you really sounded serious."
"Hmmmm. I'm afraid you wouldn't make a very good kidnapper then," she murmurs
as I roll over to kiss her neck.
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
End ;-)
I really enjoyed reading this tale..very hot with a nice hint of torture...you must do another sometime!
