With the endless sea of green-gold corn stretching away to the horizon,
Dr. Foosey tended to the left bound foot of our little Tina. It was
fixed quite securely to the stout metal rail adorning the foot of the
fold-out bed by way of a soft rubber cuff with a heavy duty D-ring
fastened with a wide, thick ratchet strap to form a tight and
unforgiving bond. It was an appealing little bit of feminine anatomy,
the soft, silky-smooth, tanned ankle potruding from beyond the rubber
cuff, wrapped tightly in a gray running sneaker, the bright white sliver
of a no-show sock peeking just above its rim to contrast against her
sunkissed skin.
Dr. Foosey, a mischevious smile upon his wizened face, drew out from his
bag of implements a sheaf of green, leafy strips, held together by
binder clip, which he removed, and passed one to myself as he lay the
rest upon the bed between Tina's firmly spread legs and held his own
leaf aloft to illustrate his purpose. He pointed with it, at the
passing fields outside the windows of the whispering RV, and at once I
understood. He ran his finger lightly down the green leaf of cornsilk
and took the tufted tip between his fingers, rolling it gently to a
fine, sharp point. I followed suit with my own, though rather more
clumisly, as he turned to our special little guest and drew his symbolic
implement softly and precisely about the caramel skin of her ankle,
squiggling down to touch the lip of her running shoe and up again to the
thick rubber restraint above.
It was delectable, the instant waving, desperate attempts at evasion,
prompted by the Doctor's skillful touch. The little foot pointed and
flexed and rotated about, no movement producing even a moment's solace
from his patient, methodical tour, to and fro, back and around, again
and again and again.
Tina giggled a sweet burst of bubbling joys, her leg flexing sensually
against the bond which held it helpless for her captor.
Tina was a deliciously cute 23 year old little American Scots-Italian
from that part of the American landscape known variously
as the big sky country, or the fly over country, depending upon one's
perspective. She was a five foot four, wonderfully fit little gymnast
sportsgirl wonder, golden-brown hair up in the back with a french twist
to expose the smooth nape of her lovely neck. She had a smiling,
giggling pair of starry eyes beneath expressive, arcing eyebrows and a
deeply dimpled, a-smile-a-second bubbly grin, distinguished by the
upward curling corners of her mouth, an unrepressable little giggle box.
She was trussed in a firm, but not taut, spreadeagle to the RV's fold
out couch-bed, sneakers, no-show socks, skin-tight red fleece athletic
shorts and a worn gray tee two sizes too small, with all her delectable
contours drawn through her tight, soft apparel in teasingly delightful
relief.
"Do attend to Tina's shoe," directed Dr. Foosey politely, still deftly
steering his cornsilk sabre around and about little Tina's desperate
ankle.
Grasping her laces was no small thing, for Dr. Foosey would not let up
one moment in his driving of her struggle, so that when I did manage to
obtain the proper ends of her knot, there was naught for me to do but
hold them firmly, but reasonably stationary while the teased little
Tina's own futile squirming performed my own work, the knot loosing
gently, my fingers then tugging gently at the upper to pull it away from
the tongue. Then, having prepared her little outpost for the stripping
stroke, I held firmly the heel of her sneaker, keeping it stationary as
Dr. Foosey, to the bubbling fountain of popping giggles and the frantic
fleeing of Tina's helpless foot, drove her free of her last defense,
which I let drop to the floor with muffled clop.
There it was, a flexing, waving, helpless little footsie, wrapped
delicately in the thin white cotton of her low-cut bootie sock. It was
sensuous to watch it squirm, her tormentor still leading its endless
dance.
"Tina," asked Dr. Foosey, "What is sticky and sweet and delicious to
eat?"
Tina was silent, but for her soft giggling prompted by the path of the
cornsilk tip.
He laid it down, gesturing for me to begin my own ministrations upon
other, bound ankle, following upon his example.
He lightly prodded, gentlty tapped the cotton of the sock about her
toes, brushing its fabric across them in gently sweeps and dips,
eliciting little peeps of joy from her tired smile.
"Tina, Tina," he asked, "What is sticky and what is sweet and what is
oh, so good to eat?"
"I-I-I...hee-hee...I d-...hee..tee-hee-hee..I don't-kn...I..hee..I don't
knowwwwwwwww..." squealed their ticklee.
"Tina, Tina," murmured Dr. Foosey, fondling softly, lovingly across her
helpless socked little foot.
"Ahm..hee..pea...hee..peach...hee hee hee..p-p-PEACHES!," sputtered Tina
between her giggling bursts.
"Mmmmmmm..." said Dr. Foosey, with a cruelly insincere pity, "I'm sorry
Tina, but peaches are not, I am most afraid, not on the menu for this
trip. You'll have to pick something from the menu, my girl."
Dr. Foosey took Tina's left little no-show sock and peeled it off -
tugging smoothly from the heel and unwrapping her bare, soft foot from
back to the toe, dropping the sock to the floor to join her discarded
sneaker.
Nodding to me to remove her right sneaker and expose her right foot in
its footie-sock vulnerability, he took up again his cornsilk joy brush
and now applied his talents to her girlish, helpless bare little foot.
I tugged her laces loose of the knot on her right side and began to
gently tug her shoe free with one hand as I teased her ankle with the
other. To my side, the doctor marvelled at our fortune.
It was a soft foot he beheld, with a lovely pink sole and sheer, sunned
skin across her top and insole, a girlish, youthful thing without
blemish or defect, a wonderously delightful thing for all but its doomed
little owner.
Dr. Foosey began across her toes, cornsilk tip dancing haphazardly
about them, to and fro.
She jerked and bucked, and yelped and squealed.
And so it was, with giggles gone to shrieks and bubbling laughter to the
desperation of a silent scream, that Dr. Foosey led me through a most
thorough tormenting of poor Tina's ticklish feet, no aspect of their
tender skin untouched by patient masters. She bucked and she twisted
and she jumped and stretched and flexed and quivered and shivered and
shook and quaked, but in the end her smile and her laughing lungs just
ached and ached and ached.
"Tina," asked Dr. Foosey, with a clinical calm, "What is sugar-plum
sticky and slippery sweet and delectably delicious when you play with
what you eat?"
Tina raised her tired head to look down her bound, sweat-slicked body at
her placid, patient captor. Her chest rose and fell hard, breasts
pressed firm against the damp dark cotton of her soaked t-shirt. She
dropped back down again, head lolling to the side, resigned.
"I don't...know," she whispered.
Transfixed by the spectacle before me I had hardly noticed our RV
pulling off the main road to follow a hard-packed farm road deep into
the fields. As little Tina sought refuge in exhaustion, we rolled
slowly to a stop.
Slowly, gracefully, came back our diva driver.
"Hello, Tina," said the serpent smooth sibilant voice of the sadistic
Mz. Lizzie Lomamona, "I'm sooooooo glad to say helllllllllo."
Lizzie lay down gracefully upon the bed, perched between Tina's spread-
stretched legs, her own folded up in the pose behind her, bright orange
nylons in purple platform pumps, neon-green cashmere smock just over her
red hot ass, pink spiked pixie cut electric from her feline face, where
her long forked tongue traced her cherry red lips as she gazed, hungrily
at the little white drawstring at the front of Tina's little red fleece
shorts.
Dr. Foosey reached into his bag again, drawing out a bottle of golden
liquid, thick and slow as it flowed about within. He caught my
quizzical look.
"Corn syrup," he mouthed, a twinkle in his eye...
Dr. Foosey tended to the left bound foot of our little Tina. It was
fixed quite securely to the stout metal rail adorning the foot of the
fold-out bed by way of a soft rubber cuff with a heavy duty D-ring
fastened with a wide, thick ratchet strap to form a tight and
unforgiving bond. It was an appealing little bit of feminine anatomy,
the soft, silky-smooth, tanned ankle potruding from beyond the rubber
cuff, wrapped tightly in a gray running sneaker, the bright white sliver
of a no-show sock peeking just above its rim to contrast against her
sunkissed skin.
Dr. Foosey, a mischevious smile upon his wizened face, drew out from his
bag of implements a sheaf of green, leafy strips, held together by
binder clip, which he removed, and passed one to myself as he lay the
rest upon the bed between Tina's firmly spread legs and held his own
leaf aloft to illustrate his purpose. He pointed with it, at the
passing fields outside the windows of the whispering RV, and at once I
understood. He ran his finger lightly down the green leaf of cornsilk
and took the tufted tip between his fingers, rolling it gently to a
fine, sharp point. I followed suit with my own, though rather more
clumisly, as he turned to our special little guest and drew his symbolic
implement softly and precisely about the caramel skin of her ankle,
squiggling down to touch the lip of her running shoe and up again to the
thick rubber restraint above.
It was delectable, the instant waving, desperate attempts at evasion,
prompted by the Doctor's skillful touch. The little foot pointed and
flexed and rotated about, no movement producing even a moment's solace
from his patient, methodical tour, to and fro, back and around, again
and again and again.
Tina giggled a sweet burst of bubbling joys, her leg flexing sensually
against the bond which held it helpless for her captor.
Tina was a deliciously cute 23 year old little American Scots-Italian
from that part of the American landscape known variously
as the big sky country, or the fly over country, depending upon one's
perspective. She was a five foot four, wonderfully fit little gymnast
sportsgirl wonder, golden-brown hair up in the back with a french twist
to expose the smooth nape of her lovely neck. She had a smiling,
giggling pair of starry eyes beneath expressive, arcing eyebrows and a
deeply dimpled, a-smile-a-second bubbly grin, distinguished by the
upward curling corners of her mouth, an unrepressable little giggle box.
She was trussed in a firm, but not taut, spreadeagle to the RV's fold
out couch-bed, sneakers, no-show socks, skin-tight red fleece athletic
shorts and a worn gray tee two sizes too small, with all her delectable
contours drawn through her tight, soft apparel in teasingly delightful
relief.
"Do attend to Tina's shoe," directed Dr. Foosey politely, still deftly
steering his cornsilk sabre around and about little Tina's desperate
ankle.
Grasping her laces was no small thing, for Dr. Foosey would not let up
one moment in his driving of her struggle, so that when I did manage to
obtain the proper ends of her knot, there was naught for me to do but
hold them firmly, but reasonably stationary while the teased little
Tina's own futile squirming performed my own work, the knot loosing
gently, my fingers then tugging gently at the upper to pull it away from
the tongue. Then, having prepared her little outpost for the stripping
stroke, I held firmly the heel of her sneaker, keeping it stationary as
Dr. Foosey, to the bubbling fountain of popping giggles and the frantic
fleeing of Tina's helpless foot, drove her free of her last defense,
which I let drop to the floor with muffled clop.
There it was, a flexing, waving, helpless little footsie, wrapped
delicately in the thin white cotton of her low-cut bootie sock. It was
sensuous to watch it squirm, her tormentor still leading its endless
dance.
"Tina," asked Dr. Foosey, "What is sticky and sweet and delicious to
eat?"
Tina was silent, but for her soft giggling prompted by the path of the
cornsilk tip.
He laid it down, gesturing for me to begin my own ministrations upon
other, bound ankle, following upon his example.
He lightly prodded, gentlty tapped the cotton of the sock about her
toes, brushing its fabric across them in gently sweeps and dips,
eliciting little peeps of joy from her tired smile.
"Tina, Tina," he asked, "What is sticky and what is sweet and what is
oh, so good to eat?"
"I-I-I...hee-hee...I d-...hee..tee-hee-hee..I don't-kn...I..hee..I don't
knowwwwwwwww..." squealed their ticklee.
"Tina, Tina," murmured Dr. Foosey, fondling softly, lovingly across her
helpless socked little foot.
"Ahm..hee..pea...hee..peach...hee hee hee..p-p-PEACHES!," sputtered Tina
between her giggling bursts.
"Mmmmmmm..." said Dr. Foosey, with a cruelly insincere pity, "I'm sorry
Tina, but peaches are not, I am most afraid, not on the menu for this
trip. You'll have to pick something from the menu, my girl."
Dr. Foosey took Tina's left little no-show sock and peeled it off -
tugging smoothly from the heel and unwrapping her bare, soft foot from
back to the toe, dropping the sock to the floor to join her discarded
sneaker.
Nodding to me to remove her right sneaker and expose her right foot in
its footie-sock vulnerability, he took up again his cornsilk joy brush
and now applied his talents to her girlish, helpless bare little foot.
I tugged her laces loose of the knot on her right side and began to
gently tug her shoe free with one hand as I teased her ankle with the
other. To my side, the doctor marvelled at our fortune.
It was a soft foot he beheld, with a lovely pink sole and sheer, sunned
skin across her top and insole, a girlish, youthful thing without
blemish or defect, a wonderously delightful thing for all but its doomed
little owner.
Dr. Foosey began across her toes, cornsilk tip dancing haphazardly
about them, to and fro.
She jerked and bucked, and yelped and squealed.
And so it was, with giggles gone to shrieks and bubbling laughter to the
desperation of a silent scream, that Dr. Foosey led me through a most
thorough tormenting of poor Tina's ticklish feet, no aspect of their
tender skin untouched by patient masters. She bucked and she twisted
and she jumped and stretched and flexed and quivered and shivered and
shook and quaked, but in the end her smile and her laughing lungs just
ached and ached and ached.
"Tina," asked Dr. Foosey, with a clinical calm, "What is sugar-plum
sticky and slippery sweet and delectably delicious when you play with
what you eat?"
Tina raised her tired head to look down her bound, sweat-slicked body at
her placid, patient captor. Her chest rose and fell hard, breasts
pressed firm against the damp dark cotton of her soaked t-shirt. She
dropped back down again, head lolling to the side, resigned.
"I don't...know," she whispered.
Transfixed by the spectacle before me I had hardly noticed our RV
pulling off the main road to follow a hard-packed farm road deep into
the fields. As little Tina sought refuge in exhaustion, we rolled
slowly to a stop.
Slowly, gracefully, came back our diva driver.
"Hello, Tina," said the serpent smooth sibilant voice of the sadistic
Mz. Lizzie Lomamona, "I'm sooooooo glad to say helllllllllo."
Lizzie lay down gracefully upon the bed, perched between Tina's spread-
stretched legs, her own folded up in the pose behind her, bright orange
nylons in purple platform pumps, neon-green cashmere smock just over her
red hot ass, pink spiked pixie cut electric from her feline face, where
her long forked tongue traced her cherry red lips as she gazed, hungrily
at the little white drawstring at the front of Tina's little red fleece
shorts.
Dr. Foosey reached into his bag again, drawing out a bottle of golden
liquid, thick and slow as it flowed about within. He caught my
quizzical look.
"Corn syrup," he mouthed, a twinkle in his eye...
