Chullaxoth
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Feb 23, 2004
- Messages
- 183
- Points
- 16
The Sea Green Debt
Written by Chullaxoth
It was cold in that room. Even with the fireplace bright and snap-crackle-and-popping away, it wasn't enough to keep half the room warm. I could at least feel that much, and then I woke up. I can see them sitting on opposite sides of those two ugly couches. He still kept those orange couches. When you work for the old man, it seems your sense of style crumbles to nothin'. I was still thinking about the cold, the sub-zero temperature that's probably fallen outside. It didn't help that I was about ninety-eight percent naked, leaving me my underwear and these chains on my wrists and ankles. I was dangling like some Hallmark Christmas ornament on that crappy twenty-dollar coffee table. I smirked, thinking that all those visits to Ikea and none of the employees there thought to help 'em pick something out. I looked up at my arms, trying to accept the strain and pain of being stretched. I could see my toes touching my table, and only my toes are touching the table. Above them, at my ankle, I noticed the leather binds they placed around them. How tacky. I then stared back at the two clowns at the couches. I recognize the fat guy, Joe, sipping his coffee or tea or chocolate or whatever in a black Batman mug. The woman across from him had to be in her early thirties. I didn't recognize her, but she was smart enough to kick off her red suede pumps like the old man requested of his ladies. They looked relaxed, and I was beginning to wonder if they remembered I was hanging here. It was painful being up there, but nothing I hadn't gone through before; it's just that tonight he sent two instead of one. I'm starting to think I'm his favorite.
"So, how's it hangin'?" The fat guy in the circular-framed eyeglasses finally looked up at me, genuinely laughing at his own joke. I couldn't help but give him a little smile. "Y'know, Sandy, the old man's runnin' out o' tape." He pointed to his right, my left. I know what he does when he's watching these things on tape. He should just ask and cut this crap. "Where're my clothes?" I asked him in that routine tone in my voice. "Right here, honey," he responded as he shook an army green gym bag. My clothes all fell out and ruffled. I was annoyed, even my pantyhose were all wrinkled. The least he could've done was folded them. "The least you could've done was folded them," I annoyingly told him. I'll bet he sniffs my heels when I'm not looking. His cat, probably a stray, all of a sudden jumped up on the coffee table and spilled the mug. The hot tea spilled in my direction. It flowed and stung and creeped in between the toes of my left foot. My right one climbed on top of the left one as some means of protection. I winced at the stinging. Man that was some hot tea. "Ow! Damn it, Joe! Since when do you have a caaaat?"
The woman was pretty impatient. I guessed that she was bored of reading through women's magazines and stuff. Did she use press-ons for this occasion? I felt them wiggle on the soles of my feet. Joe took a rag out of his pants pocket to clean the tea up. My bare feet couldn't help but react. This women was lightly scratching under my toes. I must have been dancing. I giggled throughout her little session. The old man's told me I have something of a Betty Rubble giggle. Cute, I thought. Strangely enough, it felt kind of nice when the cat was licking cooled tea off my toes, even with its sandpaper tongue back and forth. "So when are ya gonna get the old man his cah?" Cah. Was she from Brookline? She had that irritating Cyndi Lauper voice, moreover, she had those irritating nails. "Seea..Sss..Ssee-hee-hee," I'm hoping by this point she tickles my feet enough that it doesn't tickle as much later. I got lucky once. Joe's eyes quickly widened and went to the camera and hit whatever button that began the taping. The girl blurted out, "See spot run?" I hoped I don't get hysterical. I hated when I got hysterical. Being able to move my ankles despite the binds really didn't mean a damned thing. The soles of my bare feet were soft enough to this girl's taste, and, based on previous engagements, Joe's also. Being on my toes--literally--hurt. I hadn't forgotten about my arms, either. I gave those squeals of plea mixed in with slight giggles that was no doubt music to her ears. She wasn't non-stop about it, either. She teased me and gave my feet quick tickles on different spots. Joe was as hypnotic as he was the last two times. He was drooling as usual. As if on cue he drew this big, flamingo pink novelty feather. He smirked, snapping out of it.
"I see you changed nail polish! Ice blue kinda suits ya," he said. Oh shut up, Joe, I thought. How could I say it out loud? I was too busy giggling like an idiot, "Sea gree-hee-hee-heen..." Why would Eddie paint it that color? It's such an ugly color. I kept my eyes closed for what seemed like four days but was probably about ten minutes. Joe took that feather to the tops of my feet while this girl went way up and had her way with my thighs. My legs are ricocheting everywhere. I need practice if I'm going to be tickled by two people like this. Stop tickling my feet, Joe. Please, stop tickling my feet. I couldn't say this out loud, of course. Joe knows what kind of woman I am. I'd probably die from ticklish before words of pleading escaped from MY lips. The Brookline woman reached as high as she could and got to my ribs. She was violent with them, but when I wasn't laughing as hard she slowed down, the bitch. It was unfortunate for them that they barely reached my breasts. My ribs were all right with them, however. The feelings of fingers and feathers were all that floated in my brain. I could have been laughing hysterically by now and I wouldn't know it. Joe took that damned feather and stroked it up and down near my damned vagina. I wonder why they kept my underwear on?
They weren't straightforward with the tickling. They went on and off, which I felt was worse. I finally heard myself breathing hard enough. I shuddered all over the place, like post-tickling shuddering or something. "It's mmmhmmhmmmhmm...It's a sea greeeeen," leave my feet alone, Joe, "Mazda Miata. MX5. Eddie painted it...Eddie painted it! It'sonRoarkeBoulevardandClarkbyFrank's!" I see the woman's nails ready for my thighs again and just stitch the last words together. Pain. Pain. Pain were all I thought about. I felt so stretched. My toes were going to be sore when I was on my feet again. How long would I have to soak 'em, I wondered. "Where're are my damned clothes, Joe?" He unlocks the clamps from my ankles, which were warm with my sweat and such. Joe sighed, "Think yer done tryin' to screw the old man over, Sandra?" I hate it when he calls me Sandra. "Probably not. He keeps screwing me outta my cut," I reply. I do think, nevertheless, that it's HIM, a pretty powerful man in this town. I hate him, and yet I love him, and yet I certainly loathe his wife. Like I'd sleep with him. I had to walk to the hotel barefoot that night. I didn't think my feet could handle heels. Fortunately, it was only about forty degrees outside. The pantyhose kept me warm, at least. I'm just glad I still had some bath salts and warm water left.
Written by Chullaxoth
It was cold in that room. Even with the fireplace bright and snap-crackle-and-popping away, it wasn't enough to keep half the room warm. I could at least feel that much, and then I woke up. I can see them sitting on opposite sides of those two ugly couches. He still kept those orange couches. When you work for the old man, it seems your sense of style crumbles to nothin'. I was still thinking about the cold, the sub-zero temperature that's probably fallen outside. It didn't help that I was about ninety-eight percent naked, leaving me my underwear and these chains on my wrists and ankles. I was dangling like some Hallmark Christmas ornament on that crappy twenty-dollar coffee table. I smirked, thinking that all those visits to Ikea and none of the employees there thought to help 'em pick something out. I looked up at my arms, trying to accept the strain and pain of being stretched. I could see my toes touching my table, and only my toes are touching the table. Above them, at my ankle, I noticed the leather binds they placed around them. How tacky. I then stared back at the two clowns at the couches. I recognize the fat guy, Joe, sipping his coffee or tea or chocolate or whatever in a black Batman mug. The woman across from him had to be in her early thirties. I didn't recognize her, but she was smart enough to kick off her red suede pumps like the old man requested of his ladies. They looked relaxed, and I was beginning to wonder if they remembered I was hanging here. It was painful being up there, but nothing I hadn't gone through before; it's just that tonight he sent two instead of one. I'm starting to think I'm his favorite.
"So, how's it hangin'?" The fat guy in the circular-framed eyeglasses finally looked up at me, genuinely laughing at his own joke. I couldn't help but give him a little smile. "Y'know, Sandy, the old man's runnin' out o' tape." He pointed to his right, my left. I know what he does when he's watching these things on tape. He should just ask and cut this crap. "Where're my clothes?" I asked him in that routine tone in my voice. "Right here, honey," he responded as he shook an army green gym bag. My clothes all fell out and ruffled. I was annoyed, even my pantyhose were all wrinkled. The least he could've done was folded them. "The least you could've done was folded them," I annoyingly told him. I'll bet he sniffs my heels when I'm not looking. His cat, probably a stray, all of a sudden jumped up on the coffee table and spilled the mug. The hot tea spilled in my direction. It flowed and stung and creeped in between the toes of my left foot. My right one climbed on top of the left one as some means of protection. I winced at the stinging. Man that was some hot tea. "Ow! Damn it, Joe! Since when do you have a caaaat?"
The woman was pretty impatient. I guessed that she was bored of reading through women's magazines and stuff. Did she use press-ons for this occasion? I felt them wiggle on the soles of my feet. Joe took a rag out of his pants pocket to clean the tea up. My bare feet couldn't help but react. This women was lightly scratching under my toes. I must have been dancing. I giggled throughout her little session. The old man's told me I have something of a Betty Rubble giggle. Cute, I thought. Strangely enough, it felt kind of nice when the cat was licking cooled tea off my toes, even with its sandpaper tongue back and forth. "So when are ya gonna get the old man his cah?" Cah. Was she from Brookline? She had that irritating Cyndi Lauper voice, moreover, she had those irritating nails. "Seea..Sss..Ssee-hee-hee," I'm hoping by this point she tickles my feet enough that it doesn't tickle as much later. I got lucky once. Joe's eyes quickly widened and went to the camera and hit whatever button that began the taping. The girl blurted out, "See spot run?" I hoped I don't get hysterical. I hated when I got hysterical. Being able to move my ankles despite the binds really didn't mean a damned thing. The soles of my bare feet were soft enough to this girl's taste, and, based on previous engagements, Joe's also. Being on my toes--literally--hurt. I hadn't forgotten about my arms, either. I gave those squeals of plea mixed in with slight giggles that was no doubt music to her ears. She wasn't non-stop about it, either. She teased me and gave my feet quick tickles on different spots. Joe was as hypnotic as he was the last two times. He was drooling as usual. As if on cue he drew this big, flamingo pink novelty feather. He smirked, snapping out of it.
"I see you changed nail polish! Ice blue kinda suits ya," he said. Oh shut up, Joe, I thought. How could I say it out loud? I was too busy giggling like an idiot, "Sea gree-hee-hee-heen..." Why would Eddie paint it that color? It's such an ugly color. I kept my eyes closed for what seemed like four days but was probably about ten minutes. Joe took that feather to the tops of my feet while this girl went way up and had her way with my thighs. My legs are ricocheting everywhere. I need practice if I'm going to be tickled by two people like this. Stop tickling my feet, Joe. Please, stop tickling my feet. I couldn't say this out loud, of course. Joe knows what kind of woman I am. I'd probably die from ticklish before words of pleading escaped from MY lips. The Brookline woman reached as high as she could and got to my ribs. She was violent with them, but when I wasn't laughing as hard she slowed down, the bitch. It was unfortunate for them that they barely reached my breasts. My ribs were all right with them, however. The feelings of fingers and feathers were all that floated in my brain. I could have been laughing hysterically by now and I wouldn't know it. Joe took that damned feather and stroked it up and down near my damned vagina. I wonder why they kept my underwear on?
They weren't straightforward with the tickling. They went on and off, which I felt was worse. I finally heard myself breathing hard enough. I shuddered all over the place, like post-tickling shuddering or something. "It's mmmhmmhmmmhmm...It's a sea greeeeen," leave my feet alone, Joe, "Mazda Miata. MX5. Eddie painted it...Eddie painted it! It'sonRoarkeBoulevardandClarkbyFrank's!" I see the woman's nails ready for my thighs again and just stitch the last words together. Pain. Pain. Pain were all I thought about. I felt so stretched. My toes were going to be sore when I was on my feet again. How long would I have to soak 'em, I wondered. "Where're are my damned clothes, Joe?" He unlocks the clamps from my ankles, which were warm with my sweat and such. Joe sighed, "Think yer done tryin' to screw the old man over, Sandra?" I hate it when he calls me Sandra. "Probably not. He keeps screwing me outta my cut," I reply. I do think, nevertheless, that it's HIM, a pretty powerful man in this town. I hate him, and yet I love him, and yet I certainly loathe his wife. Like I'd sleep with him. I had to walk to the hotel barefoot that night. I didn't think my feet could handle heels. Fortunately, it was only about forty degrees outside. The pantyhose kept me warm, at least. I'm just glad I still had some bath salts and warm water left.
