tdh19882012
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Mar 17, 2017
- Messages
- 105
- Points
- 18
*
And before I knew it I was scooping her ankles up into the air, pulling her trainers off and holding her tight in an armlock and scrabbling my fingernails all over her flailing, cringing feet and she screams and shouts at me in disbelief, the socks offering her next-to-no protection from the tickling despite being a little on the thick side and her hands are slapping furiously at the floor one second and reaching in desperation to cling at my shirt trying to pull me down the next but I brace myself and my shirt springs out of her clutches, a plate smashes against the tiles and I turn my head, still tickling, and see she'd grabbed at the tea towel I'd been drying up with and while I'm taking small shuffling steps forward and dragging her arse along the floor she's shrieking at me to stop in a panicked and tortured voice even after only thirty seconds or so and she freaks at the sensation of my fingertip sneaking underneath the neck of her sock, creeping down inside it along the velvet of her ankle and pulling it away from her skin, slipping it down over her heel which is hot and smooth and what with being confined to her trainers all day they're flushed pink and when my nails swoop over that bare heel the screams are utterly ear piercing.
And I don't care if the neighbours hear it, in fact I don't care if the whole world hears it, I want everybody to see this woman, my darling wife, Mrs Holier-than-thou, having the shit tickled out of her and being powerless to stop both it and the no doubt outrageously humiliating urge to piss which she's bleating at me is building by the second. So the sock comes off – what else could I do? - and all five of my specially filed nails are scurrying into that bare wrinkling sole and the shock she's feeling is palpable, I can practically taste it in the air around us, it overwhelms the delicate musk of those post-workout feet in my armlock and even the barbecue scent coming in through the window from somewhere down the road and I wonder what it'd be like to drag the bitch down there and let everybody take a turn, I could film the action while her soles are basted with chilli sauce and Chinese glaze and play it back to her every night while she's bound to our bed, force her to watch herself tickled and worshipped to tears while I fuck her feet.
But that's just fantasy land so after taking a second to compose myself I rip the other sock from her foot and toss it back somewhere by her face and saw my nails vertically along her soles until she loses her breath completely and then I just keep on going, I'm not interested anymore, she chose not to see the blindingly obvious, I didn't make her not see it, her furlough-ridden brain did that all by itself. Hey, some of us are not furloughed. Never have been. Not for one fucking day and meanwhile, you're complaining that I forgot to take out the bins? You're seriously complaining about that? What the fuck have you been doing around here exactly, besides prancing around the estate in your tight little running costume?
I ask this of her feet, mentally of course, I'm not saying a damn word to her. Fuck that. She's a twat. And this is what happens to twats. They deserve all the pain and humiliation in the world. I'm not going to hurt her – her abs might be sore tomorrow but I won't leave any marks on her at least - I'm just gonna tickle her until I decide enough is enough which incidentally is exactly what she has been wailing for a good two minutes or so now. Shame she didn't understand what “enough” meant while berating me earlier.
I drop her ankles and scoop the cow up and while she's upset with me the look in her eyes gives the impression she believes things are taking a surprise sexy turn as I'm carrying her up the stairs and she squeals in what I think was delight when I drop her onto the bed and roll her over onto her stomach, sitting atop her calves and she's cooing at the snap of cuffs around her wrists and I'm now wondering... Has she already forgotten what was just happening downstairs with her feet?
But who really cares, it all plays straight into my hands and those hands are now clasped onto her ribs and she's acting shocked and surprised -*“OH GOD, STOP IT...”*she manages to squeal before losing her voice and bucking and kicking her feet beneath me, I lay almost flat on top of her and her hands are clawing at my shirt again while I tickle and torture and ravage and she spits and drools and heaves and her face turns red when I find a particularly bad spot at the base of her ribs on her left side and I watch a vein in her neck protrude and throb while she suffers her silent seizure.
My fingers slip into her underarms and they're soaking wet, my nails slide around in their like she's been specially lubed up for me and the noise is incredible - I'd kill to be on the neighbours' side of the wall right now - I think about a gag but honestly I really do want people to hear this because she's forever presenting herself to the world covered in carefully applied make up and wearing carefully chosen outfits and using carefully rehearsed scripts, one for every interaction, to so desperately try to give a certain impression of herself which nobody really gives a fuck about and even if they did, they're strangers. They're nobodies.
That's*the impression you wanna give these people, huh? Well, I think they would much rather see you like*this- wrists cuffed behind you and with the white stripes across the thighs of your leggings betraying your failure to hold that piss. Where's that confident and headstrong personal trainer gone now? Where is she? Hiding somewhere in this pathetic little girl who pissed her pants?
Still laying on her back, my hands force there way underneath her and down along her belly and slip into her hips and find the smooth flexing contours there and really dig in, her arse bucks up and into me a bit and she plants her face into the bedding and cackles in despair, trying to fold herself up and curl into a ball but she can't budge me and she can't get free and she seems terrified at my silence during all of this -*“WHY!?”*- she screams over and over increasingly frantically between coughing and spluttering and the laughter bellowing into the bedding beginning to sound more like wretched sobbing but she knows the reason why, deep down. She*must*know she has had an attitude lately.
I turn my face so she doesn't headbutt me in the throes of her crazed delirium with the zeroing in of my fingers on those particularly weak and sensitive spots she utterly loathes on her upper inner thighs and I drill into them and the air is driven from her lungs in a long and excruciating wheeze which after long and agonising seconds eventually turns silent and she shakes and kicks and I can hear her frenziedly trying to tell me that she can't breathe so I continue destroying those soft spots for close to another minute, at the end of which she feels bathed with sweat.
I get up, turn around and sit straight back down on her calves before has time to wriggle and kick her way free and I take her phone from the back pocket of those damp leggings and she's either not noticed me do it or is too exhausted to even think about what I might be doing with it. I take a photo of the feet trapped between my legs – they are beautiful at least, so I don't think her friends will mind an unsolicited feet pic popping up in their feeds too much, a gorgeous pair of size sevens with very tasty and delicate looking toes, deep pale arches and a pinky peachy flush to her heel, outer sole and the balls of her feet and not one fleck of dryness to be seen – and that photo is uploaded to her Facebook with the status “SEND HELP!!! I am being tickled!” but I hesitate to send it because it feels like a massive, sure-fire way of outing myself but I could just brazen it out, maybe, I weigh the pros and cons while holding the phone in one hand with my thumb hovering over “Submit” and the fingers of my free hand absent-mindedly caressing her cringing soles while she mewls and cries. It would be embarrassing for both of us, potentially, but*definitely*for just one of us.
Fuck it. I click Submit. Or Send. Whatever it said, I clicked it and I cringe almost as badly as her feet are while watching the upload progress and then it's complete and I drop the phone beside us and my hands get right back to the work they were placed upon this Earth to do - tickle the living hell out of this irritating, half-witted drama queen I somehow fell in love with all those years ago.
Love can take a back seat right now, though. Discipline is needed here. Furlough seems to instil a lack of it in a lot of people, not all people by any means and kudos if you've managed it, but this woman sure as fuck hasn't and now she'll reap what she's sewn.
“Oh COME ON! FU-HU—HUCK YOUUUUUU!” “LET ME GO-HO-HO-HO-HO-HO...” “I CA-HA-HA-HAN'T STAND... F-F-F-FUCKI... STO...”
And while I'm tickling her feet and ironing out the creases in those soles with my fingernails over and over only for them to reappear again as if defying me and saying*“Hey, dickhead, we're still here!”*I'm wondering how this all ends. Do I get up and uncuff her without a word, or do I do that but also explain what just happened – she knows I love tickling, and she knows that I know she can't stand it but maybe I can explain the discipline thing, perhaps she'd buy that, she enjoys being spanked on occasion as “punishment” for things after all – or do we fuck, do I pull those leggings down and satisfy this raging hard-on... Or, with her being effortlessly pinned here and with no hope of escape until I let her up, do I just satisfy myself while I'm tickling?
So many questions but so much time to ponder them so that's what I do while destroying the reddening soles between my legs, I look at them and wonder if it still tickles or if it's starting to get sore and since it's not pain I want her to feel I stop.
And I lap them up instead. She despises this. Well, she said she despised it because it was such a conflicting sensation –*“...was ticklish as fuck, you bastard! But yeah it... Yeah, it wasn't ALL bad...”*and she had giggled, slightly embarrassed at the impromptu foot-worship-virginity loss one evening many years ago now. I still remember how her eyes had practically popped out of her face when I raised her ankles to my shoulders, the naughty smile in response to my kissing her feet replaced with gritted teeth and a shriek as in one delicious swoop my tongue travelled from her heel to her toes, first her right foot, then her left – and weaker – foot.
The very foot I've decided to chew on now much to my demented wife's dismay. They don't really taste of much, truth be told. She's always very fresh somehow even shortly after indulging her newfound love of running. Still a little sweaty, obviously, just not at all sour, very feminine with just a hint of salt. Actually makes me quite thirsty after a while, though a quick look at new comments coming in makes me notice the time of the first comments, they were posted nearly ten minutes ago. I guess that explains why both my wife and I are utterly parched.
I return from the kitchen with a glass of water for each of us and she's laying on the bed trying desperately to compose herself, blowing at her hair and flicking her head and rubbing her feet on the sheets and when she sees me she tucks them up by her arse and plants them firmly, her killer legs flexing slightly and a rush of anxiety hits when I notice those toned and muscular pins are now bare, the contrast between her tanned skin and the jazzy pink lycra top both jarring and alluring... How she'd managed to shimmy out of those wet leggings is still beyond me.
“You fucking bastard! You've never... What the fuck was that!?”*I say nothing. I hold her phone up, Facebook open, show her the people commenting on the picture of her ticklish feet awaiting torment and her mouth falls open, wide. Her eyes blaze at me and her brow creases and she begins to stand -*“You ff... Oh... What the- You FUCKING dickhead! People from work are on there! Oh my God you actual fucki- AAAHHHH!! WHAT ARE YOU- NONONONONO GET THE FUCK...”
Disoriented by the icy water thrown over her face she twists and turns and curses with my hands wrestling her back onto the mattress and I'm behind her again and she's kicking back at me like a horse while screeching and growling her fury and I grab her hair and pull her head back and sink my teeth tenderly into her neck and press myself hard up against her arse and the stream of expletives flows endlessly with the spreading of her thighs and her cheeks and the teasing of my tip against her drenched labia -*“...oh no, not like... don't you even FUCKING think... Oooof, oh you... You think you can... Ah, ahhhhh...”
And I'm in as far as I can go, laying almost flat on top of her while I try to find a comfortable position near the edge of the bed and I fuck her slowly and deeply while wondering which part of her to attack next -*“ow, ow, OUCH! The cuffs, please...”*- I stop and quickly uncuff her and she stretches her arms out, gripping a pillow in each hand and sighing, planting her palms down and lifting her arse up a little, offering ever more of herself up to me and I notice the pink rings on her wrists and wonder if I've made a terrible mistake with all of this but -*“Oh, GOD, what are you waiting for!?”*- she hisses and she's so wet I can almost not feel her around me, her cheeks are burning hot in my hands and I smooth my palms over them while they jiggle with each of my thrusts and my hands move around to her hips which I give a playful tweak which she doesn't seem to notice although suddenly she's going quiet and I can feel her tensing up around me, her hands are claws in the pillows-
-and with outraged disbelief she squeals and squawks and screeches and twists so violently I slip out of her and she's beating me with a pillow and bringing her knees up to her chest and her heels are slapping against her wet thighs and I grab the pillow from her and force it over her face and lay on top of her, hiding my face down by the soft shield I'm smothering her with while her free hand lashes out wildly and she kicks the air and I tickle her ribs and her tummy until the panic in her voice is truly astonishing and a wave of guilt overcomes me and I let her up for air, suddenly clueless as to my next move so I just apologise-
-and my cheek burns with the shock of her slap and she spits at the side of my head and before I even register it trickling down my ear her entire weight is thrown across my back and her arm is around my throat and it's squeezing and she's growling and falling backwards, taking me with her, my arms trapped to my sides in the vice-like hold of her pythonic thighs and my forehead feels like it's going to explode and my world is darkening as she describes to me at great length about what a pathetic little wanker I am, and suddenly I'm waking up-
-and I can't move, beyond wriggling my knees a bit and flapping my hands, I'm strapped to the bed and she is sitting directly on my face and when I said she was drenched before, I was not exaggerating. It was a deluge and I was trapped right in the centre of it and she was laughing at me, shimmying her arse side to side and wiping her sopping wet lips all over my nose and my mouth and I gasp sharply - getting a good mouthful of her fragrant, sweetly-sweaty and soaked **** in the process - at the feeling of her powerful little hand enveloping the tip of my greased cock and she giggles while palming me, I'm desperate to stay as quiet as possible but she knows as well as I do exactly what is going to happen.
“Better not cum before I do, dickhead.”*She spits the words out, grinding on my face and I know the rules so I'm desperately trying to stick my tongue out to find her clit but everything is so wet it's too hard to find and keep a hold of and my eyes are forced closed by her cheeks and that hand is speeding up faster and faster and I know I can't hold it as well as she does and she's laughing at it, growling at it, spitting at it -*“Ooooooo yeah, that feel good baby? Huh? You like me wanking you while you're drowning back there, huh? Did you forget? You fuck me up, I fuck you up, them's the rules-”*and as quickly as that I erupt and make an amazing mess if her quick and surprised yelp is anything to go by but her hand doesn't slow down-
“Oh, is it a little sensitive? But I'm not done playing, hmph!”-
“Maybe it needs a little more oil...”-
“Huh? I can't hear you back there.”-
“You know, I get the feeling you're tryna tell me something important but I can't make it out...”-
-and almost ten minutes later – she's taking enormous pleasure in letting me know each time the minute hand on the clock moves – she still hasn't cum but I have, twice more since that first one with her constant belittling attitude, the smothering, her frighteningly skilled hand and the memories of the afternoon raging through my mind and I'm over it now, I just want it to stop, I want her to stop, I want to go back in time and just agree that I messed up, I forgot to take the bin out and that I'm sorry. But I don't get to be sorry. I don't exist to her right now, there is no “me” as such, there is just a desperate and clumsy mouth trying pathetically to get her off and a painfully overworked cock which she just lives to torture.
Her tireless pumping coaxes out a fourth and incredibly weak load from me and I'm genuinely in tears beneath her and my neck hurts so bad from straining against the weight of her body and my face aches and she can hear my sobbing -*“Awww, the poor baby! You expect me to feel bad? Huh? Like you felt bad before, when I was crying? Ohhhhhh I don't think you did, did you?”*- and her hand speeds up yet again as she angrily recounts how she was crying her eyes out and I just carried on and I guess things must have reached a peak, my mind unable to process the atrocity committed against my tip because next thing I know I'm waking up totally untied and she's shouting down at me, telling me I have more to give-
-and riding the life out of me, it's so unbelievably sensitive and painfully hard I grab her thighs and squeeze onto them for dear life and she holds my hands with her own, digging her nails in as I whimper pitifully and she bounces up and down and her insatiable pussy milks my cock for all it's worth and I have to grit my teeth and hold out for her because it's what she wants but she's stripping off the lycra and unclipping her bra and her tits spill out of it and bounce up and down and I'm throbbing unbearably inside her and genuinely fearful of what another orgasm might do to me but I have no time to worry about it -*“ARRR- OOOHHHHH FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKING SHHHH...”*- she's screaming and I hold her upright so she doesn't collapse backward while she's convulsing around me and I raise myself up off of the bed slightly to give it to her as deep as possible and she's either having a seizure or there's a demon in there and her eyes roll back and then I notice while strangling a scream of my own midway through my final torturous orgasm that the window is absolutely wide fucking open and people are clapping out there and cheering and whistling and there are pots and pans being banged together and it's even more of an occasion than usual because apparently it's going to be the last one they do -*“YESYESYESYESYES ARGH OH FU-HUUUUUUCK- ING, ohhhhhhh, SHIT!”*- and I've almost forgotten about my supreme sensitivity because my eyes are wide and locked onto that window and I know despite the din everyone heard it, heard*me*being*used*for*her*pleasure.
They don't know that, they think we were just fucking.*But I know it*and my gaze falls to the upturned feet by my knees and I clench my jaw and glare at them briefly before shutting my eyes as her ride slows to a halt.
She falls down beside me and wraps an arm around me -*“Hoo... Christ... Hooooooooooo.”*- and we just breathe together as the clappers go back inside for another week and her leg wraps around me, that tanned and toned and heavy thigh flexing menacingly across my lap and it squeezes me firmly and she lifts her head -*“If you ever, EVER, treat me like that again... I will fucking END you.”*- and I believe her, her eyes are piercing into mine and she's talking to something deep within me only she can access using that look of hers and despite that thigh and those eyes and her tone of voice a nervous smile still finds its way onto my lips before I can stifle it and her eyebrows raise -*“Oh no. I'm dead serious. You EVER... Do anything like that again...”
And her eyes finish the sentence.
With that she sits up, stands and bends over as though touching her toes, presenting me with an outlandishly luscious view of her entire backside and she holds that position for just a few seconds too long and when she comes back up she has my shirt in her hands and she spreads her legs and wipes herself clean, holding my gaze with a deadpan expression the entire time before throwing the shirt at my head -*“That needs washing, if it isn't too much trouble for you, of course...”*- I swallow my reply and I don't even bother to move it off of me, it's a thick and dark shirt and it's nice under here, I can be quiet and still and picture her future tortures much more vividly -*“... Oh, you have a notification, by the way.”*- but that can all wait, I toss the shirt away grabbing at my phone and my stomach sinks.
I'm downstairs in a flash with every intention of demanding answers but she's standing there in the middle of the living room, naked with her hands on her hips and smiling at me, cocking her head -*“Just playing by your rules, dickhead... And don't you fucking dare look at me like that. You should be grateful it's only the top half I posted.”*- and she raises her arms out to her sides a little and takes a step towards me and there's something about her pose and her frame and her hair which forever forces the word Goddess to the forefront of my mind and I look down at those legs and I wither a little when she asks -*“You wanna go again?”*- and she laughs before I can even think of a reply, turning away from me and heading into the kitchen, knowing as well as I do that I no longer have that element of surprise I had earlier.
But I had it once and I'll have it again. Maybe later tonight... Or tomorrow. Or next Thursday... Yeah. I look out the window along the street, shut my eyes and will the message into every mind in each one of those houses...*Wanna witness that lady with the legs and the tiny shorts every day being royally fucked up? Be here, same time next Thursday!
Then you'll all have something new to clap.
*
And before I knew it I was scooping her ankles up into the air, pulling her trainers off and holding her tight in an armlock and scrabbling my fingernails all over her flailing, cringing feet and she screams and shouts at me in disbelief, the socks offering her next-to-no protection from the tickling despite being a little on the thick side and her hands are slapping furiously at the floor one second and reaching in desperation to cling at my shirt trying to pull me down the next but I brace myself and my shirt springs out of her clutches, a plate smashes against the tiles and I turn my head, still tickling, and see she'd grabbed at the tea towel I'd been drying up with and while I'm taking small shuffling steps forward and dragging her arse along the floor she's shrieking at me to stop in a panicked and tortured voice even after only thirty seconds or so and she freaks at the sensation of my fingertip sneaking underneath the neck of her sock, creeping down inside it along the velvet of her ankle and pulling it away from her skin, slipping it down over her heel which is hot and smooth and what with being confined to her trainers all day they're flushed pink and when my nails swoop over that bare heel the screams are utterly ear piercing.
And I don't care if the neighbours hear it, in fact I don't care if the whole world hears it, I want everybody to see this woman, my darling wife, Mrs Holier-than-thou, having the shit tickled out of her and being powerless to stop both it and the no doubt outrageously humiliating urge to piss which she's bleating at me is building by the second. So the sock comes off – what else could I do? - and all five of my specially filed nails are scurrying into that bare wrinkling sole and the shock she's feeling is palpable, I can practically taste it in the air around us, it overwhelms the delicate musk of those post-workout feet in my armlock and even the barbecue scent coming in through the window from somewhere down the road and I wonder what it'd be like to drag the bitch down there and let everybody take a turn, I could film the action while her soles are basted with chilli sauce and Chinese glaze and play it back to her every night while she's bound to our bed, force her to watch herself tickled and worshipped to tears while I fuck her feet.
But that's just fantasy land so after taking a second to compose myself I rip the other sock from her foot and toss it back somewhere by her face and saw my nails vertically along her soles until she loses her breath completely and then I just keep on going, I'm not interested anymore, she chose not to see the blindingly obvious, I didn't make her not see it, her furlough-ridden brain did that all by itself. Hey, some of us are not furloughed. Never have been. Not for one fucking day and meanwhile, you're complaining that I forgot to take out the bins? You're seriously complaining about that? What the fuck have you been doing around here exactly, besides prancing around the estate in your tight little running costume?
I ask this of her feet, mentally of course, I'm not saying a damn word to her. Fuck that. She's a twat. And this is what happens to twats. They deserve all the pain and humiliation in the world. I'm not going to hurt her – her abs might be sore tomorrow but I won't leave any marks on her at least - I'm just gonna tickle her until I decide enough is enough which incidentally is exactly what she has been wailing for a good two minutes or so now. Shame she didn't understand what “enough” meant while berating me earlier.
I drop her ankles and scoop the cow up and while she's upset with me the look in her eyes gives the impression she believes things are taking a surprise sexy turn as I'm carrying her up the stairs and she squeals in what I think was delight when I drop her onto the bed and roll her over onto her stomach, sitting atop her calves and she's cooing at the snap of cuffs around her wrists and I'm now wondering... Has she already forgotten what was just happening downstairs with her feet?
But who really cares, it all plays straight into my hands and those hands are now clasped onto her ribs and she's acting shocked and surprised -*“OH GOD, STOP IT...”*she manages to squeal before losing her voice and bucking and kicking her feet beneath me, I lay almost flat on top of her and her hands are clawing at my shirt again while I tickle and torture and ravage and she spits and drools and heaves and her face turns red when I find a particularly bad spot at the base of her ribs on her left side and I watch a vein in her neck protrude and throb while she suffers her silent seizure.
My fingers slip into her underarms and they're soaking wet, my nails slide around in their like she's been specially lubed up for me and the noise is incredible - I'd kill to be on the neighbours' side of the wall right now - I think about a gag but honestly I really do want people to hear this because she's forever presenting herself to the world covered in carefully applied make up and wearing carefully chosen outfits and using carefully rehearsed scripts, one for every interaction, to so desperately try to give a certain impression of herself which nobody really gives a fuck about and even if they did, they're strangers. They're nobodies.
That's*the impression you wanna give these people, huh? Well, I think they would much rather see you like*this- wrists cuffed behind you and with the white stripes across the thighs of your leggings betraying your failure to hold that piss. Where's that confident and headstrong personal trainer gone now? Where is she? Hiding somewhere in this pathetic little girl who pissed her pants?
Still laying on her back, my hands force there way underneath her and down along her belly and slip into her hips and find the smooth flexing contours there and really dig in, her arse bucks up and into me a bit and she plants her face into the bedding and cackles in despair, trying to fold herself up and curl into a ball but she can't budge me and she can't get free and she seems terrified at my silence during all of this -*“WHY!?”*- she screams over and over increasingly frantically between coughing and spluttering and the laughter bellowing into the bedding beginning to sound more like wretched sobbing but she knows the reason why, deep down. She*must*know she has had an attitude lately.
I turn my face so she doesn't headbutt me in the throes of her crazed delirium with the zeroing in of my fingers on those particularly weak and sensitive spots she utterly loathes on her upper inner thighs and I drill into them and the air is driven from her lungs in a long and excruciating wheeze which after long and agonising seconds eventually turns silent and she shakes and kicks and I can hear her frenziedly trying to tell me that she can't breathe so I continue destroying those soft spots for close to another minute, at the end of which she feels bathed with sweat.
I get up, turn around and sit straight back down on her calves before has time to wriggle and kick her way free and I take her phone from the back pocket of those damp leggings and she's either not noticed me do it or is too exhausted to even think about what I might be doing with it. I take a photo of the feet trapped between my legs – they are beautiful at least, so I don't think her friends will mind an unsolicited feet pic popping up in their feeds too much, a gorgeous pair of size sevens with very tasty and delicate looking toes, deep pale arches and a pinky peachy flush to her heel, outer sole and the balls of her feet and not one fleck of dryness to be seen – and that photo is uploaded to her Facebook with the status “SEND HELP!!! I am being tickled!” but I hesitate to send it because it feels like a massive, sure-fire way of outing myself but I could just brazen it out, maybe, I weigh the pros and cons while holding the phone in one hand with my thumb hovering over “Submit” and the fingers of my free hand absent-mindedly caressing her cringing soles while she mewls and cries. It would be embarrassing for both of us, potentially, but*definitely*for just one of us.
Fuck it. I click Submit. Or Send. Whatever it said, I clicked it and I cringe almost as badly as her feet are while watching the upload progress and then it's complete and I drop the phone beside us and my hands get right back to the work they were placed upon this Earth to do - tickle the living hell out of this irritating, half-witted drama queen I somehow fell in love with all those years ago.
Love can take a back seat right now, though. Discipline is needed here. Furlough seems to instil a lack of it in a lot of people, not all people by any means and kudos if you've managed it, but this woman sure as fuck hasn't and now she'll reap what she's sewn.
“Oh COME ON! FU-HU—HUCK YOUUUUUU!” “LET ME GO-HO-HO-HO-HO-HO...” “I CA-HA-HA-HAN'T STAND... F-F-F-FUCKI... STO...”
And while I'm tickling her feet and ironing out the creases in those soles with my fingernails over and over only for them to reappear again as if defying me and saying*“Hey, dickhead, we're still here!”*I'm wondering how this all ends. Do I get up and uncuff her without a word, or do I do that but also explain what just happened – she knows I love tickling, and she knows that I know she can't stand it but maybe I can explain the discipline thing, perhaps she'd buy that, she enjoys being spanked on occasion as “punishment” for things after all – or do we fuck, do I pull those leggings down and satisfy this raging hard-on... Or, with her being effortlessly pinned here and with no hope of escape until I let her up, do I just satisfy myself while I'm tickling?
So many questions but so much time to ponder them so that's what I do while destroying the reddening soles between my legs, I look at them and wonder if it still tickles or if it's starting to get sore and since it's not pain I want her to feel I stop.
And I lap them up instead. She despises this. Well, she said she despised it because it was such a conflicting sensation –*“...was ticklish as fuck, you bastard! But yeah it... Yeah, it wasn't ALL bad...”*and she had giggled, slightly embarrassed at the impromptu foot-worship-virginity loss one evening many years ago now. I still remember how her eyes had practically popped out of her face when I raised her ankles to my shoulders, the naughty smile in response to my kissing her feet replaced with gritted teeth and a shriek as in one delicious swoop my tongue travelled from her heel to her toes, first her right foot, then her left – and weaker – foot.
The very foot I've decided to chew on now much to my demented wife's dismay. They don't really taste of much, truth be told. She's always very fresh somehow even shortly after indulging her newfound love of running. Still a little sweaty, obviously, just not at all sour, very feminine with just a hint of salt. Actually makes me quite thirsty after a while, though a quick look at new comments coming in makes me notice the time of the first comments, they were posted nearly ten minutes ago. I guess that explains why both my wife and I are utterly parched.
I return from the kitchen with a glass of water for each of us and she's laying on the bed trying desperately to compose herself, blowing at her hair and flicking her head and rubbing her feet on the sheets and when she sees me she tucks them up by her arse and plants them firmly, her killer legs flexing slightly and a rush of anxiety hits when I notice those toned and muscular pins are now bare, the contrast between her tanned skin and the jazzy pink lycra top both jarring and alluring... How she'd managed to shimmy out of those wet leggings is still beyond me.
“You fucking bastard! You've never... What the fuck was that!?”*I say nothing. I hold her phone up, Facebook open, show her the people commenting on the picture of her ticklish feet awaiting torment and her mouth falls open, wide. Her eyes blaze at me and her brow creases and she begins to stand -*“You ff... Oh... What the- You FUCKING dickhead! People from work are on there! Oh my God you actual fucki- AAAHHHH!! WHAT ARE YOU- NONONONONO GET THE FUCK...”
Disoriented by the icy water thrown over her face she twists and turns and curses with my hands wrestling her back onto the mattress and I'm behind her again and she's kicking back at me like a horse while screeching and growling her fury and I grab her hair and pull her head back and sink my teeth tenderly into her neck and press myself hard up against her arse and the stream of expletives flows endlessly with the spreading of her thighs and her cheeks and the teasing of my tip against her drenched labia -*“...oh no, not like... don't you even FUCKING think... Oooof, oh you... You think you can... Ah, ahhhhh...”
And I'm in as far as I can go, laying almost flat on top of her while I try to find a comfortable position near the edge of the bed and I fuck her slowly and deeply while wondering which part of her to attack next -*“ow, ow, OUCH! The cuffs, please...”*- I stop and quickly uncuff her and she stretches her arms out, gripping a pillow in each hand and sighing, planting her palms down and lifting her arse up a little, offering ever more of herself up to me and I notice the pink rings on her wrists and wonder if I've made a terrible mistake with all of this but -*“Oh, GOD, what are you waiting for!?”*- she hisses and she's so wet I can almost not feel her around me, her cheeks are burning hot in my hands and I smooth my palms over them while they jiggle with each of my thrusts and my hands move around to her hips which I give a playful tweak which she doesn't seem to notice although suddenly she's going quiet and I can feel her tensing up around me, her hands are claws in the pillows-
-and with outraged disbelief she squeals and squawks and screeches and twists so violently I slip out of her and she's beating me with a pillow and bringing her knees up to her chest and her heels are slapping against her wet thighs and I grab the pillow from her and force it over her face and lay on top of her, hiding my face down by the soft shield I'm smothering her with while her free hand lashes out wildly and she kicks the air and I tickle her ribs and her tummy until the panic in her voice is truly astonishing and a wave of guilt overcomes me and I let her up for air, suddenly clueless as to my next move so I just apologise-
-and my cheek burns with the shock of her slap and she spits at the side of my head and before I even register it trickling down my ear her entire weight is thrown across my back and her arm is around my throat and it's squeezing and she's growling and falling backwards, taking me with her, my arms trapped to my sides in the vice-like hold of her pythonic thighs and my forehead feels like it's going to explode and my world is darkening as she describes to me at great length about what a pathetic little wanker I am, and suddenly I'm waking up-
-and I can't move, beyond wriggling my knees a bit and flapping my hands, I'm strapped to the bed and she is sitting directly on my face and when I said she was drenched before, I was not exaggerating. It was a deluge and I was trapped right in the centre of it and she was laughing at me, shimmying her arse side to side and wiping her sopping wet lips all over my nose and my mouth and I gasp sharply - getting a good mouthful of her fragrant, sweetly-sweaty and soaked **** in the process - at the feeling of her powerful little hand enveloping the tip of my greased cock and she giggles while palming me, I'm desperate to stay as quiet as possible but she knows as well as I do exactly what is going to happen.
“Better not cum before I do, dickhead.”*She spits the words out, grinding on my face and I know the rules so I'm desperately trying to stick my tongue out to find her clit but everything is so wet it's too hard to find and keep a hold of and my eyes are forced closed by her cheeks and that hand is speeding up faster and faster and I know I can't hold it as well as she does and she's laughing at it, growling at it, spitting at it -*“Ooooooo yeah, that feel good baby? Huh? You like me wanking you while you're drowning back there, huh? Did you forget? You fuck me up, I fuck you up, them's the rules-”*and as quickly as that I erupt and make an amazing mess if her quick and surprised yelp is anything to go by but her hand doesn't slow down-
“Oh, is it a little sensitive? But I'm not done playing, hmph!”-
“Maybe it needs a little more oil...”-
“Huh? I can't hear you back there.”-
“You know, I get the feeling you're tryna tell me something important but I can't make it out...”-
-and almost ten minutes later – she's taking enormous pleasure in letting me know each time the minute hand on the clock moves – she still hasn't cum but I have, twice more since that first one with her constant belittling attitude, the smothering, her frighteningly skilled hand and the memories of the afternoon raging through my mind and I'm over it now, I just want it to stop, I want her to stop, I want to go back in time and just agree that I messed up, I forgot to take the bin out and that I'm sorry. But I don't get to be sorry. I don't exist to her right now, there is no “me” as such, there is just a desperate and clumsy mouth trying pathetically to get her off and a painfully overworked cock which she just lives to torture.
Her tireless pumping coaxes out a fourth and incredibly weak load from me and I'm genuinely in tears beneath her and my neck hurts so bad from straining against the weight of her body and my face aches and she can hear my sobbing -*“Awww, the poor baby! You expect me to feel bad? Huh? Like you felt bad before, when I was crying? Ohhhhhh I don't think you did, did you?”*- and her hand speeds up yet again as she angrily recounts how she was crying her eyes out and I just carried on and I guess things must have reached a peak, my mind unable to process the atrocity committed against my tip because next thing I know I'm waking up totally untied and she's shouting down at me, telling me I have more to give-
-and riding the life out of me, it's so unbelievably sensitive and painfully hard I grab her thighs and squeeze onto them for dear life and she holds my hands with her own, digging her nails in as I whimper pitifully and she bounces up and down and her insatiable pussy milks my cock for all it's worth and I have to grit my teeth and hold out for her because it's what she wants but she's stripping off the lycra and unclipping her bra and her tits spill out of it and bounce up and down and I'm throbbing unbearably inside her and genuinely fearful of what another orgasm might do to me but I have no time to worry about it -*“ARRR- OOOHHHHH FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK FUUUUUUCCCCKKKKKING SHHHH...”*- she's screaming and I hold her upright so she doesn't collapse backward while she's convulsing around me and I raise myself up off of the bed slightly to give it to her as deep as possible and she's either having a seizure or there's a demon in there and her eyes roll back and then I notice while strangling a scream of my own midway through my final torturous orgasm that the window is absolutely wide fucking open and people are clapping out there and cheering and whistling and there are pots and pans being banged together and it's even more of an occasion than usual because apparently it's going to be the last one they do -*“YESYESYESYESYES ARGH OH FU-HUUUUUUCK- ING, ohhhhhhh, SHIT!”*- and I've almost forgotten about my supreme sensitivity because my eyes are wide and locked onto that window and I know despite the din everyone heard it, heard*me*being*used*for*her*pleasure.
They don't know that, they think we were just fucking.*But I know it*and my gaze falls to the upturned feet by my knees and I clench my jaw and glare at them briefly before shutting my eyes as her ride slows to a halt.
She falls down beside me and wraps an arm around me -*“Hoo... Christ... Hooooooooooo.”*- and we just breathe together as the clappers go back inside for another week and her leg wraps around me, that tanned and toned and heavy thigh flexing menacingly across my lap and it squeezes me firmly and she lifts her head -*“If you ever, EVER, treat me like that again... I will fucking END you.”*- and I believe her, her eyes are piercing into mine and she's talking to something deep within me only she can access using that look of hers and despite that thigh and those eyes and her tone of voice a nervous smile still finds its way onto my lips before I can stifle it and her eyebrows raise -*“Oh no. I'm dead serious. You EVER... Do anything like that again...”
And her eyes finish the sentence.
With that she sits up, stands and bends over as though touching her toes, presenting me with an outlandishly luscious view of her entire backside and she holds that position for just a few seconds too long and when she comes back up she has my shirt in her hands and she spreads her legs and wipes herself clean, holding my gaze with a deadpan expression the entire time before throwing the shirt at my head -*“That needs washing, if it isn't too much trouble for you, of course...”*- I swallow my reply and I don't even bother to move it off of me, it's a thick and dark shirt and it's nice under here, I can be quiet and still and picture her future tortures much more vividly -*“... Oh, you have a notification, by the way.”*- but that can all wait, I toss the shirt away grabbing at my phone and my stomach sinks.
I'm downstairs in a flash with every intention of demanding answers but she's standing there in the middle of the living room, naked with her hands on her hips and smiling at me, cocking her head -*“Just playing by your rules, dickhead... And don't you fucking dare look at me like that. You should be grateful it's only the top half I posted.”*- and she raises her arms out to her sides a little and takes a step towards me and there's something about her pose and her frame and her hair which forever forces the word Goddess to the forefront of my mind and I look down at those legs and I wither a little when she asks -*“You wanna go again?”*- and she laughs before I can even think of a reply, turning away from me and heading into the kitchen, knowing as well as I do that I no longer have that element of surprise I had earlier.
But I had it once and I'll have it again. Maybe later tonight... Or tomorrow. Or next Thursday... Yeah. I look out the window along the street, shut my eyes and will the message into every mind in each one of those houses...*Wanna witness that lady with the legs and the tiny shorts every day being royally fucked up? Be here, same time next Thursday!
Then you'll all have something new to clap.
*
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