shapeshifter
Registered User
- Joined
- Jan 20, 2023
- Messages
- 18
- Points
- 3
Something I cooked up real quick to simulate a bound man about to be destroyed. There may be more as it gets into the thick of the story.
I feel her thighs constricting my hips and a pang of anxiety and anticipation burns in my chest and groin. Especially my groin. My cock is already erect, the gooey liquid in my balls churning; it has been since I felt the chill of the leather on my ass and back when settling on to the table, laying splayed like a snow angel on my back, watching her tiptoe around me in a black, skintight bodysuit that embraces her breasts and ass like a cradle. It engenders an aching tingling from the ether. Where do such things come from? What causes a woman’s body to draw such things out of you? Why does watching her long, adroit fingers secure heavy leather straps around one wrist, then the other, ankle to ankle, make me thrust my hips into the air, reaching for something soft to sink my cock into; something that exists right now only in my mind. My conscious engages to remind me of the futility. My aching cock disagrees.
My fingers and toes quiver, adjusting to the new reality that they cannot participate in except as helpless afterthoughts. They cannot balance me or allow me to grope about to orient myself now as fingers are supposed to do. They are a liability - just more immobilized, ticklish flesh for her torment at her discretion. I imagine them popping off and hiding in a sack until she is done with me. What a moronic thought.
Her fingernails are death: long, firm, symmetrical, sharp. And black. Night. Aggressive, shadowy talons that seem to emanate from inside her powerful, jet-black body. As she stalks toward my head, they crawl across my belly like flies skating on a pond, causing my muscles to tense and convulse, my hips to sway from memory, to shimmy away from the annoyance. They would normally engage my legs to kick, my hands to swat at the tingling danger. With those defenses neutralized, all my hips can do is sway into the most comfortable orientation. After all, my body cannot change. It is a human form like any other: belly, ribs, quivering chest, tightening thighs, calves balled up like iron. At least the hips can figure out how to align my body best to protect itself from the foreign tingling…? Then I remember this: it doesn’t matter. Her hands can stick to me no matter how I thrash and stir. My struggle poses no challenge. Who knows how many ticklish bodies she has molested? Mine will be no different.
“Are you ready?” she says in a buttery, firm voice. A question that is a statement. “I’m coming for you now.” Her mouth says one thing, but this is what her body says as she climbs aboard and straddles me. Her body weight presses me to the table, and the flaccidity of her ass pounds against my cock just enough to make it pulse in constant anticipation. Then there are the thighs: powerful, locking me up like anacondas. Program engage.
“Where are you most ticklish?” she asks. Of course. So obvious, but always effective. Her green eyes flicker, searing into me like angry wisps. God, her cheekbones are perfect – high and angular. Her teeth are so white that they embarrass my inability to keep mine so clean. Only someone relentless can maintain such a bright smile. I can’t stare at this siren’s face free from volatile anxiety.
“I can’t tell you that!” - the coy approach. I’m feeling vulnerable and masochistic today. I have a feeling I’m going to be destroyed. May as well play the part. She reaches behind me and runs an index finger across the base of my shaft, prodding at the vein that provides blood to the flesh responsible for divine, timeless ecstasy.
“I can’t wait to tease the fuck out of you,” she says as my thighs quiver and my crotch burns. “I love to break brats like you. You are the most fun.”
All ten fingernails touch down on my waist and rumble like water about to boil. The strokes are so slight. I only know they exist because each is like a little fire that causes a hurricane of electricity to stir inside me. The hurricane is growing into my belly and at the base of my ribs. As if she’s detected the weakness, her fingers follow, slowly sliding and stroking in lines across the softest flesh on my body. But they are not straight lines. If they were, I might be able to control them. But each finger scurries about in quick flourishes her hands travel, like two armies of angry peasants intent on pulsing electricity through me. I press against the table to escape the torture, shimmy my hips to pull away, but the anacondas have me locked, and my body can only retreat so far. I close my eyes and bang my head against the doughy table trying to expel the power of the sensations, but there is no escape. I feel a tightness inside of me like a rapidly expanding balloon about to burst, each finger stroke another burst of helium.
Here is the moment: my ego refuses to let the balloon burst, allowing her to force peals and gasps of laughter out of me. Every muscle in my stomach and chest tenses in defense. She will not earn a sound from me. But my soul is prepared to surrender. The nascent, dormant joy of helpless squeals from my mother’s tickling fingers, my grade school crush, babysitter, the two cheerleaders who made me cry from painful laughter. The freedom of escape. My cock throbs, like horses pounding on a locked barn door. My toes clench, I tug on my wrists and ankles with fury. Fire stirs within each cell in my body. Masculine arrogance and entrenched subservience to domination. What a paradox!
Ironically, it doesn’t matter what I want. Her hands are in control. They own me. They steal laughter out of me. It grows into a symphony of squeals, snorts and screams as her fingers scurry higher. Her thighs grasp me, her ass cheeks bounce against my screaming cock. I see her thin smile bearing down on me. Warm breaths wash over me as her face creeps closer to whisper some evil tease into my giggling countenance. She has me now, and it’s going to be a long night.
I feel her thighs constricting my hips and a pang of anxiety and anticipation burns in my chest and groin. Especially my groin. My cock is already erect, the gooey liquid in my balls churning; it has been since I felt the chill of the leather on my ass and back when settling on to the table, laying splayed like a snow angel on my back, watching her tiptoe around me in a black, skintight bodysuit that embraces her breasts and ass like a cradle. It engenders an aching tingling from the ether. Where do such things come from? What causes a woman’s body to draw such things out of you? Why does watching her long, adroit fingers secure heavy leather straps around one wrist, then the other, ankle to ankle, make me thrust my hips into the air, reaching for something soft to sink my cock into; something that exists right now only in my mind. My conscious engages to remind me of the futility. My aching cock disagrees.
My fingers and toes quiver, adjusting to the new reality that they cannot participate in except as helpless afterthoughts. They cannot balance me or allow me to grope about to orient myself now as fingers are supposed to do. They are a liability - just more immobilized, ticklish flesh for her torment at her discretion. I imagine them popping off and hiding in a sack until she is done with me. What a moronic thought.
Her fingernails are death: long, firm, symmetrical, sharp. And black. Night. Aggressive, shadowy talons that seem to emanate from inside her powerful, jet-black body. As she stalks toward my head, they crawl across my belly like flies skating on a pond, causing my muscles to tense and convulse, my hips to sway from memory, to shimmy away from the annoyance. They would normally engage my legs to kick, my hands to swat at the tingling danger. With those defenses neutralized, all my hips can do is sway into the most comfortable orientation. After all, my body cannot change. It is a human form like any other: belly, ribs, quivering chest, tightening thighs, calves balled up like iron. At least the hips can figure out how to align my body best to protect itself from the foreign tingling…? Then I remember this: it doesn’t matter. Her hands can stick to me no matter how I thrash and stir. My struggle poses no challenge. Who knows how many ticklish bodies she has molested? Mine will be no different.
“Are you ready?” she says in a buttery, firm voice. A question that is a statement. “I’m coming for you now.” Her mouth says one thing, but this is what her body says as she climbs aboard and straddles me. Her body weight presses me to the table, and the flaccidity of her ass pounds against my cock just enough to make it pulse in constant anticipation. Then there are the thighs: powerful, locking me up like anacondas. Program engage.
“Where are you most ticklish?” she asks. Of course. So obvious, but always effective. Her green eyes flicker, searing into me like angry wisps. God, her cheekbones are perfect – high and angular. Her teeth are so white that they embarrass my inability to keep mine so clean. Only someone relentless can maintain such a bright smile. I can’t stare at this siren’s face free from volatile anxiety.
“I can’t tell you that!” - the coy approach. I’m feeling vulnerable and masochistic today. I have a feeling I’m going to be destroyed. May as well play the part. She reaches behind me and runs an index finger across the base of my shaft, prodding at the vein that provides blood to the flesh responsible for divine, timeless ecstasy.
“I can’t wait to tease the fuck out of you,” she says as my thighs quiver and my crotch burns. “I love to break brats like you. You are the most fun.”
All ten fingernails touch down on my waist and rumble like water about to boil. The strokes are so slight. I only know they exist because each is like a little fire that causes a hurricane of electricity to stir inside me. The hurricane is growing into my belly and at the base of my ribs. As if she’s detected the weakness, her fingers follow, slowly sliding and stroking in lines across the softest flesh on my body. But they are not straight lines. If they were, I might be able to control them. But each finger scurries about in quick flourishes her hands travel, like two armies of angry peasants intent on pulsing electricity through me. I press against the table to escape the torture, shimmy my hips to pull away, but the anacondas have me locked, and my body can only retreat so far. I close my eyes and bang my head against the doughy table trying to expel the power of the sensations, but there is no escape. I feel a tightness inside of me like a rapidly expanding balloon about to burst, each finger stroke another burst of helium.
Here is the moment: my ego refuses to let the balloon burst, allowing her to force peals and gasps of laughter out of me. Every muscle in my stomach and chest tenses in defense. She will not earn a sound from me. But my soul is prepared to surrender. The nascent, dormant joy of helpless squeals from my mother’s tickling fingers, my grade school crush, babysitter, the two cheerleaders who made me cry from painful laughter. The freedom of escape. My cock throbs, like horses pounding on a locked barn door. My toes clench, I tug on my wrists and ankles with fury. Fire stirs within each cell in my body. Masculine arrogance and entrenched subservience to domination. What a paradox!
Ironically, it doesn’t matter what I want. Her hands are in control. They own me. They steal laughter out of me. It grows into a symphony of squeals, snorts and screams as her fingers scurry higher. Her thighs grasp me, her ass cheeks bounce against my screaming cock. I see her thin smile bearing down on me. Warm breaths wash over me as her face creeps closer to whisper some evil tease into my giggling countenance. She has me now, and it’s going to be a long night.
