ticklishbod20
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- Joined
- Apr 28, 2001
- Messages
- 137
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- 16
I suppose you can say I resisted her.
After all, I had my reasons. She was married --'is' married, still, I think -- to a nice guy. And I had never been involved with a married lady before meeting Annabel. Even now it seems almost improbable that I could possibly be placed in a situation of relative moral compromise. But I was, or rather, I most assuredly am.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. This, whatever you want to call it, all began many moons ago in a dimly lit Cracker Barrel restaurant. I was in the very bizarre state of Texas driving through to a bubble gum convention when I stopped by at said Cracker Barrel for a mellow dinner. The bubble gum convention was one of my boss' latest schemes to corner the Chicklets market before it had even started (texans were not yet permitted to chew gum by the state legislature). But again, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Mellow the Cracker Barrel wasn't. As I deposited my latin arse on a chair, I spied a feminine vision of ambiguous ethnicity in her early twenties running from the door. I listened in disbelief as I heard her explain to her much taller masculine counterpart "I peed on my phone, I peed on my phone!" She was laughing hard, with tears streaking down her face. Her husband -- whose identity I assumed correctly -- and who unlike her was NOT dressed entirely in gothic black, was not amused.
"This is the fourth phone you've peed on."
"I know but this time I absolutely couldn't help it. I dropped it in while talking in the restroom and I couldn't stop peeing on it. You can't just stop peeing when you start."
"Sweetie. You're insane... but I'll go ahead and fish it out." And so, the tall, flannel vested man sauntered towards the women's bathroom.
I couldn't exactly imagine what had precipitated such a conversation, but that just hadn't mattered... for that was when trouble took a step into my life.
More specifically, trouble was staring at me from across the restaurant.
This urinator of phones, or as I came to know her, Mistress Annabel, was prettier than a wet dream.
At five foot four, with raven hair to her lacquered breasts (as I imagined them to be), she sported curves that could render an ordinary man speechless, skin so alabaster that could render an ordinary man blind, and a smile so inviting and mischievous that it could transform an ordinary man into a foolish, horny beast. But I was no ordinary man, for I was most susceptible to her most wicked of carnal contraptions.
Yes, dear reader, as I gazed for an awkwardly long time at her from across the flannel filled Cracker Barrel restaurant, as I stole what time I could from the visage of her while her husband fished out her phone from the toilet of the women's bathroom, I saw two luscious whores make an entrance to the scene. Indeed, fair reader, it was at this unspoken, disquieting moment of vulnerability that Mistress Annabel, as I came to later know her, decided to prop up her feet on a chair adjacent to her, revealing to me the milky white smoothness of the most exquisite pair of feet I had ever seen. I was smitten.
And she knew it.
With a cruel glint in her eye, I saw Mistress Annabel glance at her french pedicured toes and then back to me.
We made eye contact for a second as I forced my gaze away from her delectable soles to her eyes. And in this two second exchange, Mistress Annabel learned my secret.
And I paid for it. For when her husband came back from the bathroom holding a black bag aloft, Annabel neither blinked or moved a toe from the chair adjacent to her. As her husband sat down, I SAW Annabel's toes on her left foot INTENTIONALLY barely graze against the sole of her right foot. I saw her giggle and stifle a smile while conversing with her husband. Ticklish, dear Reader. She was ticklish. My favorite kind of girl.
I was hooked. How could this fairy princess from the middle of the state of Texas -- where bubblegum was outlawed -- know and understand and manipulate my deepest sexual cravings, in less than five seconds? I didn't know, but I had to meet her.
I had to talk to her. I had to at least learn her name. I had to see her again. Without her husband/boyfriend/rather large male friend, whoever he was. I watched them eat their meals without seeking to hide my fascination.
I need to kiss those feet. I needed to kiss her. Then I needed to tickle those feet. Not a little bit, but so much that she would want to struggle to free herself. And then I wouldn't. I would stroke my fingers along her teasing tormenting feetsies. I would make her pay for teasing me.
Yummy.
But dear Reader, things were not to be as I planned them.
I approached her quickly while her husband took care of the bill at the cashier. It wasn't difficult. I wanted her body, her feet, and I wanted to make her my tickle slave for her five minute teasing session she had given me.
And she was nice. She introduced herself with confidence before I could even mutter whatever ridiculous thing I had practiced saying to myself for five minutes.
"My name is Annabel."
"My name is Julio."
"That's not really your name."
"True dat."
The exchange of phone numbers was done quickly, as if there had been an understanding between us to make contact and then disappear.
I had hers and she had mine.
She warned me ahead of time to clear my thursday entirely. I did. Fuck the bubble gum convention.
-------------------------------------------------------------
She didn't call until late Thursday evening. I waited intently all day in some run-down motel of her choosing in my boxers. She had requested that I wait in my Wal-Mart Superman boxers, you see, and I had been powerless to turn her down.
On the phone she explained quickly. I was to remain in my boxers and give her directions to my temporary domicile. She would come over and restrain me to make herself feel more safe.
I didn't protest. Anything this camille footed vixen wanted she could obtain. And it made sense, I thought to myself, as I gazed fondly at my body in the mirror. Good thing you dragged your butt out to run in the cold mornings, I said to myself.
It didn't cross my mind, however, that she would inflict the most cruelest, delicious of tortures once she arrived at said dingy motel and restrained my youthful, athletic latin body.
It didn't cross my mind that her feet were capable of much more than just making my mouth water.
It didn't cross my mind that I would not be the tickler of her, and it certainly didn't cross my mind that she would establish a complete command of my laughing, helpless body.
But I suppose you can say I resisted her.
Of course, that would make you a liar.
But again, I am getting ahead of myself.
Annabel, or rather, Mistress Annabel, as I came to know her, arrived in a rather unastonishing way. She rapped on room twenty seven of Motel 6. I peeked through the door and saw my Valkyrie wearing a short black dress and standing in high heels.
So very yummy.
I answered the door, and Annabel let herself in.
We were both nervous, although as I was to later find out, myself much more than her.
"Hello Julio," she said with unwavering voice. I stole a glance at her fingernails. Dark red and long. Deadly to a man like me for reasons I would shortly find out. They complemented her dark red lipstick well. I didn't try to hide my scanning of her lower extremities. Her feet were hidden into black nylon and high heels.
"Hello Annabel." God, I must have sounded like a little girl.
"That's Mistress Annabel, from now on."
"Ok."
"Ok what?"
"Ok Mistress Annabel."
"So Julio, you know when I asked you to wait for me with Superman boxers on, you know I meant for the boxers to be covered in additinal clothing, like... say, pants. Maybe a shirt. Some shoes and socks." She smiled, and all I could do in my extreme stupidity was to smile. I was the baffoon. Of course she hadn't meant for a perfect stranger to wait for her clad only in his underwear, no matter how dishonorable both their intentions were.
"Ummm," I stammered. All those Dungeons and Dragons conventions and I still didn't know how to communicate effectively.
"It's ok, silly. Let's get comfortable." And Annabel sat down in the one chair of the motel room. I went to the bed to sit opposite of her.
"No no no. You don't get to sit on the bed. You screwed up the wardrobe, silly. You get to lay down on the floor and be my footrest."
I didn't hesitate and did as she said. I lay down in front of her, face up, next to her delicious legs.
I heard two objects fall softly from the floor, and then, in all their glory, I saw those two whores re-enter my life.
They were clad in black nylon. The big toes caressed my nose at first, and then my face felt the rest of their silky smooth footbottoms. My tongue took a life of its own and played up and down her nyloned soles. I could tell they were sensitive from the way Annabel kept jumping every time I flicked my tongue. And the smell was that of a sweet pungent perfume. Annabel's whores had come prepared.
And from what I could see beyond her footbottoms, I could tell that Mistress Annabel was smiling.
"All boys love feet," she said, matter-of-fact, as she continued sliding her soles on my happy, happy face.
This was true. At least for me. I loved feet. I loved HER feet. I would have given anything to stay in that position but Mistress Annabel had other designs.
"Enough fun for you. Time for me. On the bed face up, boy. Hands over your head, legs apart."
"Huh? No more feet?"
"Oh sweetie, you don't expect me to feel comfortable in a strange motel room with a stranger unless that stranger is restrained, do you?" I gave her soles one last lap of the tongue and acquiesed.
-------------------------------------------------------
Fifteen minutes later, I was bound spread eagled to the queen sized bed by my very own queen. The bonds were made of leather and had been brought by Mistress Annabel. You had to admire a girl who prepared for the night.
Having been tied down before, I always found that the moment immediately after the last knot was secured to be electric. The power dynamic was, at that point, established and undeniable to both parties. Some women who had tied me up before would choose this moment to explicitly tease me about this predicament.
This was no exception.
Bending over my tautly bound body, Mistress Annabel said two things to me that sent chills down my body:
"I should inform you that you did not negotiate any form of a safeword for what I'm about to do to you, hon. I should also inform you that if you're ticklish, then .... well, that's just too fucking bad."
TICKLISH???? OF course I was ticklish. But I didn't want HER to tickle ME. I wanted to TICKLE HER.
"Umm Annabel...?" My voice was shaky, not in any small way related to the fingernails tracing circles in my underarms.
"That's Mistress Annabel to you, boy."
"Umm, Mistress Annabel..."
"No talking, just laughing."
And that, Reader, was my predicament. Mistress Annabel cared not if I had the secret formula to the newest greatest bubble gum. Mistress Annabel cared not if I appealed to her mercy as someone's wife. Mistress Annabel just wanted to make me laugh.
And laugh I did. With methodical precision, Mistress Annabel destroyed me. Her sharp nailed skittered across my neck as I screamed like a banshee (my neck was a particularly sensitive target).
She didn't crack a smile as I swore to slay her and her future descendants while she kneaded the inside of my hips. I bucked. I screamed. I begged. Thirty minutes later I had become a sweaty mess while she continued working my torso and hips.
And she was mean. When she reached my feet the verbal warfare took a turn.
"Julio," she said, while resting her fingertips on my toes, "do you have a girlfriend?"
I did have a girlfriend, as a matter-of-fact. She was very nice and very cute. But that wasn't what was foremost in my thoughts. This black-clad goth vixen had her fingers resting on my toes. Not moving. Not tickling. Just SITTING there. Good god. What could drive a woman to-
"JULIO. I'm talking to you," I could start feeling Mistress Annabel's right index finger lazily making its way down my sole. I froze.
"Yes yes yes yes yes I have a girlfriend."
"How long have you been with her?" That fucking right finger continued to make figure eights on my helpless right sole.
"A year," I meekly responded, trying to block the tickly sensations.
"You're going to break up with her to be my tickle slave." I saw Mistress Annabel readjusting herself in our dimly lit motel room to rest her delicious, nyloned feet close to my face, just out of reach. Her evil red-nailed fingers still rested on my soles, moving slowly enough as if to let me know that they were there. The left index finger had now joined the right index finger in its slow, meandering course on its respective captive foot.
"Umm, huh?" I was captivated by the sight of her feet and simultaneously very alarmed that her fingers were dangerously close to securing my insanity. My left foot twitched.
"Julio, agree to break up with her and my feet will smother your face once a month while my nails own your body. This is not a difficult decision. All you have to do is say 'no' in the next minute while you gaze at my soles and while I play with your own feetsies. If you don't say anything, I'll know that you have agreed and you'll feast on my feet while I make yours mincemeat with my nails."
I was breathing hard now. I was no match for Mistress Annabel's feminine guiles. She had me and she knew it. At the same time, I HAD been dating this girl back at home for close to a year, and I DID like her.
I stared at her size nine nyloned soles. From beyond her toes, I could see Mistress Annabel smiling at me a knowing-smile. Without fanfare she ran her right big toe down the length of her left foot. All the while her sharp fingernails started moving along my soles more feverishly. I struggled to remain still.
Making eye contact, I mouthed the word "Ok".
The pace of the fingernails on my soles picked up and Mistress Annabel rested her feet on my face.
She had won.
After all, I had my reasons. She was married --'is' married, still, I think -- to a nice guy. And I had never been involved with a married lady before meeting Annabel. Even now it seems almost improbable that I could possibly be placed in a situation of relative moral compromise. But I was, or rather, I most assuredly am.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. This, whatever you want to call it, all began many moons ago in a dimly lit Cracker Barrel restaurant. I was in the very bizarre state of Texas driving through to a bubble gum convention when I stopped by at said Cracker Barrel for a mellow dinner. The bubble gum convention was one of my boss' latest schemes to corner the Chicklets market before it had even started (texans were not yet permitted to chew gum by the state legislature). But again, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Mellow the Cracker Barrel wasn't. As I deposited my latin arse on a chair, I spied a feminine vision of ambiguous ethnicity in her early twenties running from the door. I listened in disbelief as I heard her explain to her much taller masculine counterpart "I peed on my phone, I peed on my phone!" She was laughing hard, with tears streaking down her face. Her husband -- whose identity I assumed correctly -- and who unlike her was NOT dressed entirely in gothic black, was not amused.
"This is the fourth phone you've peed on."
"I know but this time I absolutely couldn't help it. I dropped it in while talking in the restroom and I couldn't stop peeing on it. You can't just stop peeing when you start."
"Sweetie. You're insane... but I'll go ahead and fish it out." And so, the tall, flannel vested man sauntered towards the women's bathroom.
I couldn't exactly imagine what had precipitated such a conversation, but that just hadn't mattered... for that was when trouble took a step into my life.
More specifically, trouble was staring at me from across the restaurant.
This urinator of phones, or as I came to know her, Mistress Annabel, was prettier than a wet dream.
At five foot four, with raven hair to her lacquered breasts (as I imagined them to be), she sported curves that could render an ordinary man speechless, skin so alabaster that could render an ordinary man blind, and a smile so inviting and mischievous that it could transform an ordinary man into a foolish, horny beast. But I was no ordinary man, for I was most susceptible to her most wicked of carnal contraptions.
Yes, dear reader, as I gazed for an awkwardly long time at her from across the flannel filled Cracker Barrel restaurant, as I stole what time I could from the visage of her while her husband fished out her phone from the toilet of the women's bathroom, I saw two luscious whores make an entrance to the scene. Indeed, fair reader, it was at this unspoken, disquieting moment of vulnerability that Mistress Annabel, as I came to later know her, decided to prop up her feet on a chair adjacent to her, revealing to me the milky white smoothness of the most exquisite pair of feet I had ever seen. I was smitten.
And she knew it.
With a cruel glint in her eye, I saw Mistress Annabel glance at her french pedicured toes and then back to me.
We made eye contact for a second as I forced my gaze away from her delectable soles to her eyes. And in this two second exchange, Mistress Annabel learned my secret.
And I paid for it. For when her husband came back from the bathroom holding a black bag aloft, Annabel neither blinked or moved a toe from the chair adjacent to her. As her husband sat down, I SAW Annabel's toes on her left foot INTENTIONALLY barely graze against the sole of her right foot. I saw her giggle and stifle a smile while conversing with her husband. Ticklish, dear Reader. She was ticklish. My favorite kind of girl.
I was hooked. How could this fairy princess from the middle of the state of Texas -- where bubblegum was outlawed -- know and understand and manipulate my deepest sexual cravings, in less than five seconds? I didn't know, but I had to meet her.
I had to talk to her. I had to at least learn her name. I had to see her again. Without her husband/boyfriend/rather large male friend, whoever he was. I watched them eat their meals without seeking to hide my fascination.
I need to kiss those feet. I needed to kiss her. Then I needed to tickle those feet. Not a little bit, but so much that she would want to struggle to free herself. And then I wouldn't. I would stroke my fingers along her teasing tormenting feetsies. I would make her pay for teasing me.
Yummy.
But dear Reader, things were not to be as I planned them.
I approached her quickly while her husband took care of the bill at the cashier. It wasn't difficult. I wanted her body, her feet, and I wanted to make her my tickle slave for her five minute teasing session she had given me.
And she was nice. She introduced herself with confidence before I could even mutter whatever ridiculous thing I had practiced saying to myself for five minutes.
"My name is Annabel."
"My name is Julio."
"That's not really your name."
"True dat."
The exchange of phone numbers was done quickly, as if there had been an understanding between us to make contact and then disappear.
I had hers and she had mine.
She warned me ahead of time to clear my thursday entirely. I did. Fuck the bubble gum convention.
-------------------------------------------------------------
She didn't call until late Thursday evening. I waited intently all day in some run-down motel of her choosing in my boxers. She had requested that I wait in my Wal-Mart Superman boxers, you see, and I had been powerless to turn her down.
On the phone she explained quickly. I was to remain in my boxers and give her directions to my temporary domicile. She would come over and restrain me to make herself feel more safe.
I didn't protest. Anything this camille footed vixen wanted she could obtain. And it made sense, I thought to myself, as I gazed fondly at my body in the mirror. Good thing you dragged your butt out to run in the cold mornings, I said to myself.
It didn't cross my mind, however, that she would inflict the most cruelest, delicious of tortures once she arrived at said dingy motel and restrained my youthful, athletic latin body.
It didn't cross my mind that her feet were capable of much more than just making my mouth water.
It didn't cross my mind that I would not be the tickler of her, and it certainly didn't cross my mind that she would establish a complete command of my laughing, helpless body.
But I suppose you can say I resisted her.
Of course, that would make you a liar.
But again, I am getting ahead of myself.
Annabel, or rather, Mistress Annabel, as I came to know her, arrived in a rather unastonishing way. She rapped on room twenty seven of Motel 6. I peeked through the door and saw my Valkyrie wearing a short black dress and standing in high heels.
So very yummy.
I answered the door, and Annabel let herself in.
We were both nervous, although as I was to later find out, myself much more than her.
"Hello Julio," she said with unwavering voice. I stole a glance at her fingernails. Dark red and long. Deadly to a man like me for reasons I would shortly find out. They complemented her dark red lipstick well. I didn't try to hide my scanning of her lower extremities. Her feet were hidden into black nylon and high heels.
"Hello Annabel." God, I must have sounded like a little girl.
"That's Mistress Annabel, from now on."
"Ok."
"Ok what?"
"Ok Mistress Annabel."
"So Julio, you know when I asked you to wait for me with Superman boxers on, you know I meant for the boxers to be covered in additinal clothing, like... say, pants. Maybe a shirt. Some shoes and socks." She smiled, and all I could do in my extreme stupidity was to smile. I was the baffoon. Of course she hadn't meant for a perfect stranger to wait for her clad only in his underwear, no matter how dishonorable both their intentions were.
"Ummm," I stammered. All those Dungeons and Dragons conventions and I still didn't know how to communicate effectively.
"It's ok, silly. Let's get comfortable." And Annabel sat down in the one chair of the motel room. I went to the bed to sit opposite of her.
"No no no. You don't get to sit on the bed. You screwed up the wardrobe, silly. You get to lay down on the floor and be my footrest."
I didn't hesitate and did as she said. I lay down in front of her, face up, next to her delicious legs.
I heard two objects fall softly from the floor, and then, in all their glory, I saw those two whores re-enter my life.
They were clad in black nylon. The big toes caressed my nose at first, and then my face felt the rest of their silky smooth footbottoms. My tongue took a life of its own and played up and down her nyloned soles. I could tell they were sensitive from the way Annabel kept jumping every time I flicked my tongue. And the smell was that of a sweet pungent perfume. Annabel's whores had come prepared.
And from what I could see beyond her footbottoms, I could tell that Mistress Annabel was smiling.
"All boys love feet," she said, matter-of-fact, as she continued sliding her soles on my happy, happy face.
This was true. At least for me. I loved feet. I loved HER feet. I would have given anything to stay in that position but Mistress Annabel had other designs.
"Enough fun for you. Time for me. On the bed face up, boy. Hands over your head, legs apart."
"Huh? No more feet?"
"Oh sweetie, you don't expect me to feel comfortable in a strange motel room with a stranger unless that stranger is restrained, do you?" I gave her soles one last lap of the tongue and acquiesed.
-------------------------------------------------------
Fifteen minutes later, I was bound spread eagled to the queen sized bed by my very own queen. The bonds were made of leather and had been brought by Mistress Annabel. You had to admire a girl who prepared for the night.
Having been tied down before, I always found that the moment immediately after the last knot was secured to be electric. The power dynamic was, at that point, established and undeniable to both parties. Some women who had tied me up before would choose this moment to explicitly tease me about this predicament.
This was no exception.
Bending over my tautly bound body, Mistress Annabel said two things to me that sent chills down my body:
"I should inform you that you did not negotiate any form of a safeword for what I'm about to do to you, hon. I should also inform you that if you're ticklish, then .... well, that's just too fucking bad."
TICKLISH???? OF course I was ticklish. But I didn't want HER to tickle ME. I wanted to TICKLE HER.
"Umm Annabel...?" My voice was shaky, not in any small way related to the fingernails tracing circles in my underarms.
"That's Mistress Annabel to you, boy."
"Umm, Mistress Annabel..."
"No talking, just laughing."
And that, Reader, was my predicament. Mistress Annabel cared not if I had the secret formula to the newest greatest bubble gum. Mistress Annabel cared not if I appealed to her mercy as someone's wife. Mistress Annabel just wanted to make me laugh.
And laugh I did. With methodical precision, Mistress Annabel destroyed me. Her sharp nailed skittered across my neck as I screamed like a banshee (my neck was a particularly sensitive target).
She didn't crack a smile as I swore to slay her and her future descendants while she kneaded the inside of my hips. I bucked. I screamed. I begged. Thirty minutes later I had become a sweaty mess while she continued working my torso and hips.
And she was mean. When she reached my feet the verbal warfare took a turn.
"Julio," she said, while resting her fingertips on my toes, "do you have a girlfriend?"
I did have a girlfriend, as a matter-of-fact. She was very nice and very cute. But that wasn't what was foremost in my thoughts. This black-clad goth vixen had her fingers resting on my toes. Not moving. Not tickling. Just SITTING there. Good god. What could drive a woman to-
"JULIO. I'm talking to you," I could start feeling Mistress Annabel's right index finger lazily making its way down my sole. I froze.
"Yes yes yes yes yes I have a girlfriend."
"How long have you been with her?" That fucking right finger continued to make figure eights on my helpless right sole.
"A year," I meekly responded, trying to block the tickly sensations.
"You're going to break up with her to be my tickle slave." I saw Mistress Annabel readjusting herself in our dimly lit motel room to rest her delicious, nyloned feet close to my face, just out of reach. Her evil red-nailed fingers still rested on my soles, moving slowly enough as if to let me know that they were there. The left index finger had now joined the right index finger in its slow, meandering course on its respective captive foot.
"Umm, huh?" I was captivated by the sight of her feet and simultaneously very alarmed that her fingers were dangerously close to securing my insanity. My left foot twitched.
"Julio, agree to break up with her and my feet will smother your face once a month while my nails own your body. This is not a difficult decision. All you have to do is say 'no' in the next minute while you gaze at my soles and while I play with your own feetsies. If you don't say anything, I'll know that you have agreed and you'll feast on my feet while I make yours mincemeat with my nails."
I was breathing hard now. I was no match for Mistress Annabel's feminine guiles. She had me and she knew it. At the same time, I HAD been dating this girl back at home for close to a year, and I DID like her.
I stared at her size nine nyloned soles. From beyond her toes, I could see Mistress Annabel smiling at me a knowing-smile. Without fanfare she ran her right big toe down the length of her left foot. All the while her sharp fingernails started moving along my soles more feverishly. I struggled to remain still.
Making eye contact, I mouthed the word "Ok".
The pace of the fingernails on my soles picked up and Mistress Annabel rested her feet on my face.
She had won.
