In retrospect, the Tale of Deborah d'Arc would have been depressing to read, hence the lack of comments- actually the incident itself was depressing to experience. Here's a link if you'd care to have a look.
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showth...Arc-a-very-long-post-with-some-sexual-content
This next one's also somewhat bittersweet, but less of the former and more of the latter. I hope you enjoy it.
Votre ami, 'Vieux Marcel'.
--------------------------------------------------------
It was her metallic blue toenails I noticed first, gracing a pair of grubby blue rubber flip flops. Then the toes themselves, those of a Roman statue with the second toe longest, and finally her feet, pale pink and high arched.
London, 1980s. I was in a charity shop, cross-legged on the floor by the second-hand bookshelves and sorting through a few volumes I was thinking of buying at tenpence apiece, when an ankle-length Indian print skirt undulated alongside me as its occupant browsed the shelves as well. Her feet were clean and well-kept, and I was pleasantly surprised because it was a chilly, rainy English day and sandals like that were certainly unexpected. Gift horse.
I slowly glanced upward. Mid-20s, slim, proportionate figure, battered army jacket, longish blonde hair, pretty, though not beautiful face, no makeup, and wide blue eyes intent on a book she’d just selected. I rose and stood beside her at a polite distance, quietly regarding her from the corner of my eye while ostensibly reading as well.
I’d appreciated the hors d’oeuvre, and the entrée looked equally appetizing. What the hell. Single, and with a dreary, drizzly afternoon stretching out before me I thought I’d risk yet another rejection in the sadly amusing parade which I’d experienced since my last, very vanilla relationship had ended. I took a quiet breath, let it out slowly to relax myself, and said, ‘I know [author of the book she held] also wrote [----]; how do the two books compare?’
She regarded me warily. I do not look like a person who enjoys reading or asks literary questions. ‘I don’t know’, she replied with the usual polite shyness the English reserve for unintroduced but well-spoken strangers. ‘I’ve never read anything by him.’ Hesitating for a moment, she continued with a touch of embarrassment, ‘Erhm…is he any good?’
Her accent registered a few points higher on the social scale than mine, but nothing that would have made us completely incompatible if a safe adventure was what she was after. I smiled at her, and after a moment she smiled back. ‘Tell you what’, I essayed gallantly, ‘That’s actually a very good book- why don’t I splash out a full tenpence and buy it for you, since I suspect you’re worth every penny, and we can discuss life while we walk over to tea at your place’.
Speak your piece, name your price, and shut up is the first rule of salesmanship. I waited, nervous but not showing it, for her to shriek for help and have me imprisoned. She giggled instead. ‘Are you a gentleman?’ she asked.
‘No, but I can fake it very well’, I replied (How in God’s name did I think of that one?) and offered my arm. She dropped a half-mocking curtsy and took it.
She lived quite close by, in a one-bedroom council flat on a not terribly nice road. It seems she was yet another of those rebellious pukka young ladies who turn their backs on a privileged background and try to ape the proletariat. It never works, of course, because their accents and manners, nursery and nanny infused, are pretty much ineradicable, and the overwhelming majority tire of the adventure pretty quickly, returning after a few years to mummy, daddy and the rose-covered cottage, soon thereafter becoming engaged to a stockbroker or local landowner. But discussing that with her was not an element of the affair at hand.
Her place was decorated and furnished like a corner of India. Pictures of Hindu gods on the walls, goatskin rugs, huge pillows to sit on, strange multi-armed statues, and hanging wind chimes tinkling overhead. ‘Arabella’ hung up our coats, lit the gas fire and a few joss sticks, put on some sitar music, , stepped out of her flipflops, and drifted into the kitchen, indicating with a languid wave that I should roll a few joints in the meantime with the weed and papers resting in a copper bowl on her coffee table.
There’s something intensely erotic about watching a barefoot girl wearing a long skirt walking away. The hem catches gently on the back of each ankle, and the rosy pink heel, the paler arch and the roseate ball of each foot is gently exposed with every step she takes. My intent, among other things, solidified.
The kettle having boiled and things prepared, ‘Arabella’ returned with a tray laden with tea and chocolate biscuits which she placed on a low table, then sat quite close next to me with her legs tucked sideways beneath her skirt, toes chastely revealed at the hem.
We shared a joint or two, chatted, and listened to Genesis as the rain pattered on the windowpane. Time slowed to nothing, tactility increased. I stoked her cheek and kissed her. She kissed back and we held one another. I gently ran my fingertips down the back of her neck, then stroked the lobe of her ear. She wore no bra, and the smooth fabric of her top accentuated her erect nipples. I traced my nails along her bare lower back, and she pressed her breasts into me and shivered. Her breathing quickened, our tongues interplayed and she moaned gently. It was time.
I knelt upright, drawing her into the same position, cupped her rather splendid arse in both palms and eased her groin against the bulge in mine. She ground gently into me and her breath caught as I nibbled just beneath her ear, while looking down past her shoulder at the upturned, blushing ivory of her soles. They were very clean; she’d obviously just washed them in the tiny lavatory I’d noticed adjacent to the kitchen, older council flats having peculiar geography. It was thoughtful of her, I ruminated, thinking of what might be my next movement in this potentially perilous orchestration, (how’s that for a mangled metaphor?) and then, feeling Arabella might have prepared herself for an idly- hoped for (albeit specific) bit of foreplay, decided to risk just that but also factor in my own peculiar variation of it.
That decision made, as Sherlock Holmes had often said to Dr. Watson, the game was afoot, f’nar, f’nar. I kissed her hard, and as our tongues battled to the death, laid her down on the cushions. She wrapped her legs tightly around one of mine, the heat of her **** deliciously evident as she rubbed herself on my upper thigh and her breathing ragged as she rocked under me. Her toes caressed my calf through my jeans and she offered herself to me completely with cut-glass vowels. Good sign, I thought, concealing my amusement that a chance meeting in an East End charity shop had arbitrarily assigned me the role of Mellors the Gamekeeper playing across from ‘Arabella’ performing her celebrated impersonation of Lady Chatterley. And Lady Chatterley, I reflected with an inwardly impish grin, had right from the beginning struck me as a bit too self-possessed. Would a slow and stately fingertip quadrille performed on certain parts of her involuntarily immobile body cure that? The thought of proving the hypothesis appealed, and by gently grasping both her thumbs in my left hand, I pinned her arms above her head and to the oversized cushions we were lying upon. Fortunately she wasn’t a completely ‘natural’ girl; the hollows of her underarms being smooth shaven, I speculated on the possibility of that charming theme being replicated below.
She smiled upward at me, pretending to struggle. I looked down at her, pretending hauteur, ceremoniously held my hand aloft, digits widespread and wiggling. Thinking that playing Mellors might be boring, I decided on a dissipated Lord of the Manor type and gently murmured, ‘May my talented fingertips amuse you, dearest mistress Arabella, my pretty dollymop?’
She smiled, her eyes widening theatrically as she played along. ‘Unhand me, foul fiend!’, she declared and then deadpanned, ‘Pleaded the ill-used maiden in the approved fashion…’, before returning to the scene at hand with a grin and a melodramatic ‘You shall not sully my virtue, sir, no matter how much thou makes’t me laugh and beg!’
Jackpot.
Still holding her down, my free hand slid beneath her skirt, and my nails gently scrabbled their way from the back of her knee upwards along the smooth warmth of her inner thigh. She burst out laughing, and tried to close her legs, but I gently kept them parted with my knees and continued to tickle her, fingers moving higher and higher as Arabella’s tormented laughter increased in pitch, volume and panic. To calm her down without actually letting her catch her breath, I decided to see how she’d react were I to lick the smoothness of her armpits. Creating a deliciously horrified anticipation when tickling a girl is vital, children...- one's vellication can be far more effective while doing far less.
I caught her tear-gleaming eyes with mine, paused a moment to admire how pink her cheeks were already, and how prettily her bosom was heaving as she panted for breath, then smiled, slowly licked my lips, moved my gaze to her underarms, and still moving my tongue so its purpose was evident to her, leaned down. I kept her thumbs pinned to the pillow, my other hand encircled the tops of her hips, pressed the juncture of her parted thighs into the muscles of my upper right leg, then swirled my tongue in her unwillingly-offered armpit.
Fortunately, while its clean musk tasted of some sort of all-natural, spicy deodorant, the formulation didn’t include an antiperspirant so my tongue remained moist and slick, and that combined with a gentle application of my teeth made Arabella howl quite deliciously, as her spasmodic writhing against my upper thigh increased.
I paused, but only to suggest a change of venue- for some reason her bedroom seemed an ideal location, and after she’d smiled, hesitated briefly in a ladylike fashion while raising an eyebrow and then giggled, ‘Why not?’ we reconvened, she lit the bedroom gas fire, (oh, England and its primitive heating…) and were soon beginning Act II on her brass bed.
I could get used to this sort of afternoon, I ruminated, rolling atop her and kissing her again. A bit more generalised tickling while we bounced about and she thrashed wildly, and I mentioned that it would be less dangerous for us both were she ‘rendered immobile’. She said nothing for a bit, thinking, then hesitantly confessed her curiosity. I won’t bore you with the negotiations, save for the fact that we agreed on a safeword and that nothing was to be wrapped around her neck, a practice which I’m certainly not into anyway. She had no ‘equipment’, but took a deep breath, said, ‘How do I get myself into these things?’ and directed me to her scarf drawer…
And she looked absolutely gorgeous staked to the bedposts, the scarves around her wrists bound to the corners of the brass pipework forming the headboard, thus offering her armpits. Her throw-cushion protected ankles were fastened tightly to the inner sides of two L-shaped design fixtures at opposite sides of the footboard’s pipework. Her feet protruded immovably from the frame, and her legs were thus stretched apart.
To complete the beautiful view, she was, as I’d hoped, fully shaven. I do not have paedopheliac tendencies; it’s just that through experience, comparison and experimentation I’ve learned that the latter stages of going down on a ‘natural’ woman are reminiscent of chewing on a very soggy (and noisy) Persian carpet.
Noticing an ideal Eastern erotic aid in a brass vase on her dresser, I picked up the bundle of peacock feathers, and slowly moved them closer and closer to her breasts, as she looked at me, blushing and wide-eyed, beginning to giggle helplessly before they’d even touched her, and laughing quite hard after they did. I took my time and played her like a harpsichord, the feathers flickering from the hardened peaks of her rosy pink nipples to her armpits to her inner thighs, orchestrating intensity and volume, while she begged me to stop most prettily between the laughter and the gasps, but still in her ‘abus’d maiden’ persona. The bondage, though she could of course move slightly, emphasized her helplessness and seemed to make her even more ticklish. She began to cough and I paused, waiting for her to stop, counterfeiting a subtly and suitably evil expression, looking into her eyes and saying nothing. She grew visibly nervous.
‘My dear’, I said sonorously, ‘there is one area of your lovely body which I have shamefully neglected. Can you guess what that might be?’ (I was now channeling a combination of Vincent Price and Basil Rathbone for all I was worth.) ‘So silent, my dear- and yet, from your expression I believe you know exactly where I shall vellicate you next. Yes- exactly where you fear it most. I shall now set aside these feathers for the sheer joy of utilising my extremely talented fingertips to amuse the smooth soles of your beautiful, exquisitely arched feet’. (And not too shabbily expressed at all, I told myself with an internal preen!)
Ceremoniously picking up a bottle of moisturizing cream from her night-table, I slowly strolled to the foot of the bed where her blue nail-varnished feet awaited my attention. With a gently sardonic ‘May I, dear Madam?’, I drizzled the liquid onto her toes, letting it trickle down the bottoms of her feet, and smoothing it on with the backs of my hands to up the suspense.
‘Look, this is not a good idea, and I want you to let me go now!’, Arabella began sternly.
‘Oh, really? Forgotten your safeword?’ I leered. (After all, one never knows.)
‘Shut up’, she said. ‘I told you I want you to untie me, you bastard.’
She hadn’t safeworded.
I began Act III.
‘I’m not going to untie you’, I said quietly. ‘In fact, my dear Lady, I am going to tickle you until you beg me for mercy through tears of tormented laughter’
‘Please don’t’, she whimpered. I smiled and began to caress her ankles as a precursor. She took a deep breath, muttering ‘I’m not ticklish, I’m not ticklish, I’m not ticklish!’ through gritted teeth. Then my fingertips began to circle the balls of her feet, slippery from the lotion and her composure fled immediately. She struggled, but I’d tied her well, and for half an hour I elicited every form of laughter and supplicative pleas that a well-tickled young woman can produce. Tears streaming from her eyes and gleaming with sweat, she finally and deliciously lost her mind and the last vestiges of her well-bred dignity when I applied my tongue and teeth to her soles, gently and maddeningly gnawing her arches and slipping my tongue between, and sucking, each of her toes. I do not consider this any more submissive than the pain one causes one’s own palm when using it hard and repeatedly to spank a girl’s bottom.
She was exhausted now, and a glance assured me the swollen cleft of her vulva was slick with excitement, so I knelt across her pelvis, facing her feet, and leaned down to lick her for a while as she shuddered and screamed and climaxed repeatedly. It would have been awkward to fuck her while she was still tied, and although I was so rampant it was painful, and my cock was battering the inside of my jeans I still didn’t know if actual sex was on the cards- women are odd creatures.
I asked her gently if we could finish this properly, with her untied, and she smiled and nodded, asking me to free her hands first and then indicating her top drawer where I found some condoms- one must be thoughtful, after all.
After our previous gymnastics the sex was a quiet, albeit explosive relief in comparison (paradoxical but true) and we lay practically unconscious in one another’s arms afterwards, and then she smiled, stretched lazily, and made us more tea.
I sensed it was time to go. I gave her a goodbye hug and a kiss, which she returned very warmly, murmuring ‘Thank you for a lovely romp’ into the junction of my neck and shoulder.
I asked if I might see her again. ‘Well’, she replied, still holding me, ‘my life’s a bit hectic at the moment- call me in a few days or so?’
‘May I have your number, then?’ I asked politely, jotting it down on a scrap of paper in those primitive pre-mobile days, and with a metaphorical lift of my feathered hat and swirl of my cloak, headed home, feeling very happy.
But she hadn’t given me her actual number. Some fellow from an Eastern clime answered when I rang a few days later, politely denying all knowledge of her. Ever the melancholy man, I let it go, as I’d learned was best from previous experiences, fatalistically chalking up yet another truncated relationship for the record. But it was a delightful one to recall, uniquely ‘perfect’ as it was. Preserved in amber, my views of it could never change. Or so I thought.
Because I was wrong, of course. About six weeks later I was invited to a party by an acquaintance and as he and I chatted, our host opened the door to more guests, announcing their names to the room. A very good-looking couple entered, half of which was the lovely Arabella, accompanied by a tall, patrician-looking fellow, and she happened to be wearing an engagement ring incorporating a very large diamond.
She recognized me instantly and, frozen-faced, subtly averted her gaze. The situation obvious, and the two of them making a lovely pair, I did not try to socialise with either, but wondered how the engagement had occurred so rapidly. Eventually curiosity overcame gallantry, and with Arabella safely visiting the loo I chatted briefly to her fiancé, congratulating him on having such a beautiful bride-to-be. ‘Thanks’, he smiled, ‘but it was a natural progression- after all, we have been seeing once another for three years’.
I beamed at him, shook his hand while patting him heartily on the shoulder before saying goodbye to the fellow who’d invited me and quietly heading out. I figured that’s what Sir Galahad would have done.
That was also the last time I ever set eyes on Arabella.
She’s probably a grandmother by now.
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showth...Arc-a-very-long-post-with-some-sexual-content
This next one's also somewhat bittersweet, but less of the former and more of the latter. I hope you enjoy it.
Votre ami, 'Vieux Marcel'.
--------------------------------------------------------
It was her metallic blue toenails I noticed first, gracing a pair of grubby blue rubber flip flops. Then the toes themselves, those of a Roman statue with the second toe longest, and finally her feet, pale pink and high arched.
London, 1980s. I was in a charity shop, cross-legged on the floor by the second-hand bookshelves and sorting through a few volumes I was thinking of buying at tenpence apiece, when an ankle-length Indian print skirt undulated alongside me as its occupant browsed the shelves as well. Her feet were clean and well-kept, and I was pleasantly surprised because it was a chilly, rainy English day and sandals like that were certainly unexpected. Gift horse.
I slowly glanced upward. Mid-20s, slim, proportionate figure, battered army jacket, longish blonde hair, pretty, though not beautiful face, no makeup, and wide blue eyes intent on a book she’d just selected. I rose and stood beside her at a polite distance, quietly regarding her from the corner of my eye while ostensibly reading as well.
I’d appreciated the hors d’oeuvre, and the entrée looked equally appetizing. What the hell. Single, and with a dreary, drizzly afternoon stretching out before me I thought I’d risk yet another rejection in the sadly amusing parade which I’d experienced since my last, very vanilla relationship had ended. I took a quiet breath, let it out slowly to relax myself, and said, ‘I know [author of the book she held] also wrote [----]; how do the two books compare?’
She regarded me warily. I do not look like a person who enjoys reading or asks literary questions. ‘I don’t know’, she replied with the usual polite shyness the English reserve for unintroduced but well-spoken strangers. ‘I’ve never read anything by him.’ Hesitating for a moment, she continued with a touch of embarrassment, ‘Erhm…is he any good?’
Her accent registered a few points higher on the social scale than mine, but nothing that would have made us completely incompatible if a safe adventure was what she was after. I smiled at her, and after a moment she smiled back. ‘Tell you what’, I essayed gallantly, ‘That’s actually a very good book- why don’t I splash out a full tenpence and buy it for you, since I suspect you’re worth every penny, and we can discuss life while we walk over to tea at your place’.
Speak your piece, name your price, and shut up is the first rule of salesmanship. I waited, nervous but not showing it, for her to shriek for help and have me imprisoned. She giggled instead. ‘Are you a gentleman?’ she asked.
‘No, but I can fake it very well’, I replied (How in God’s name did I think of that one?) and offered my arm. She dropped a half-mocking curtsy and took it.
She lived quite close by, in a one-bedroom council flat on a not terribly nice road. It seems she was yet another of those rebellious pukka young ladies who turn their backs on a privileged background and try to ape the proletariat. It never works, of course, because their accents and manners, nursery and nanny infused, are pretty much ineradicable, and the overwhelming majority tire of the adventure pretty quickly, returning after a few years to mummy, daddy and the rose-covered cottage, soon thereafter becoming engaged to a stockbroker or local landowner. But discussing that with her was not an element of the affair at hand.
Her place was decorated and furnished like a corner of India. Pictures of Hindu gods on the walls, goatskin rugs, huge pillows to sit on, strange multi-armed statues, and hanging wind chimes tinkling overhead. ‘Arabella’ hung up our coats, lit the gas fire and a few joss sticks, put on some sitar music, , stepped out of her flipflops, and drifted into the kitchen, indicating with a languid wave that I should roll a few joints in the meantime with the weed and papers resting in a copper bowl on her coffee table.
There’s something intensely erotic about watching a barefoot girl wearing a long skirt walking away. The hem catches gently on the back of each ankle, and the rosy pink heel, the paler arch and the roseate ball of each foot is gently exposed with every step she takes. My intent, among other things, solidified.
The kettle having boiled and things prepared, ‘Arabella’ returned with a tray laden with tea and chocolate biscuits which she placed on a low table, then sat quite close next to me with her legs tucked sideways beneath her skirt, toes chastely revealed at the hem.
We shared a joint or two, chatted, and listened to Genesis as the rain pattered on the windowpane. Time slowed to nothing, tactility increased. I stoked her cheek and kissed her. She kissed back and we held one another. I gently ran my fingertips down the back of her neck, then stroked the lobe of her ear. She wore no bra, and the smooth fabric of her top accentuated her erect nipples. I traced my nails along her bare lower back, and she pressed her breasts into me and shivered. Her breathing quickened, our tongues interplayed and she moaned gently. It was time.
I knelt upright, drawing her into the same position, cupped her rather splendid arse in both palms and eased her groin against the bulge in mine. She ground gently into me and her breath caught as I nibbled just beneath her ear, while looking down past her shoulder at the upturned, blushing ivory of her soles. They were very clean; she’d obviously just washed them in the tiny lavatory I’d noticed adjacent to the kitchen, older council flats having peculiar geography. It was thoughtful of her, I ruminated, thinking of what might be my next movement in this potentially perilous orchestration, (how’s that for a mangled metaphor?) and then, feeling Arabella might have prepared herself for an idly- hoped for (albeit specific) bit of foreplay, decided to risk just that but also factor in my own peculiar variation of it.
That decision made, as Sherlock Holmes had often said to Dr. Watson, the game was afoot, f’nar, f’nar. I kissed her hard, and as our tongues battled to the death, laid her down on the cushions. She wrapped her legs tightly around one of mine, the heat of her **** deliciously evident as she rubbed herself on my upper thigh and her breathing ragged as she rocked under me. Her toes caressed my calf through my jeans and she offered herself to me completely with cut-glass vowels. Good sign, I thought, concealing my amusement that a chance meeting in an East End charity shop had arbitrarily assigned me the role of Mellors the Gamekeeper playing across from ‘Arabella’ performing her celebrated impersonation of Lady Chatterley. And Lady Chatterley, I reflected with an inwardly impish grin, had right from the beginning struck me as a bit too self-possessed. Would a slow and stately fingertip quadrille performed on certain parts of her involuntarily immobile body cure that? The thought of proving the hypothesis appealed, and by gently grasping both her thumbs in my left hand, I pinned her arms above her head and to the oversized cushions we were lying upon. Fortunately she wasn’t a completely ‘natural’ girl; the hollows of her underarms being smooth shaven, I speculated on the possibility of that charming theme being replicated below.
She smiled upward at me, pretending to struggle. I looked down at her, pretending hauteur, ceremoniously held my hand aloft, digits widespread and wiggling. Thinking that playing Mellors might be boring, I decided on a dissipated Lord of the Manor type and gently murmured, ‘May my talented fingertips amuse you, dearest mistress Arabella, my pretty dollymop?’
She smiled, her eyes widening theatrically as she played along. ‘Unhand me, foul fiend!’, she declared and then deadpanned, ‘Pleaded the ill-used maiden in the approved fashion…’, before returning to the scene at hand with a grin and a melodramatic ‘You shall not sully my virtue, sir, no matter how much thou makes’t me laugh and beg!’
Jackpot.
Still holding her down, my free hand slid beneath her skirt, and my nails gently scrabbled their way from the back of her knee upwards along the smooth warmth of her inner thigh. She burst out laughing, and tried to close her legs, but I gently kept them parted with my knees and continued to tickle her, fingers moving higher and higher as Arabella’s tormented laughter increased in pitch, volume and panic. To calm her down without actually letting her catch her breath, I decided to see how she’d react were I to lick the smoothness of her armpits. Creating a deliciously horrified anticipation when tickling a girl is vital, children...- one's vellication can be far more effective while doing far less.
I caught her tear-gleaming eyes with mine, paused a moment to admire how pink her cheeks were already, and how prettily her bosom was heaving as she panted for breath, then smiled, slowly licked my lips, moved my gaze to her underarms, and still moving my tongue so its purpose was evident to her, leaned down. I kept her thumbs pinned to the pillow, my other hand encircled the tops of her hips, pressed the juncture of her parted thighs into the muscles of my upper right leg, then swirled my tongue in her unwillingly-offered armpit.
Fortunately, while its clean musk tasted of some sort of all-natural, spicy deodorant, the formulation didn’t include an antiperspirant so my tongue remained moist and slick, and that combined with a gentle application of my teeth made Arabella howl quite deliciously, as her spasmodic writhing against my upper thigh increased.
I paused, but only to suggest a change of venue- for some reason her bedroom seemed an ideal location, and after she’d smiled, hesitated briefly in a ladylike fashion while raising an eyebrow and then giggled, ‘Why not?’ we reconvened, she lit the bedroom gas fire, (oh, England and its primitive heating…) and were soon beginning Act II on her brass bed.
I could get used to this sort of afternoon, I ruminated, rolling atop her and kissing her again. A bit more generalised tickling while we bounced about and she thrashed wildly, and I mentioned that it would be less dangerous for us both were she ‘rendered immobile’. She said nothing for a bit, thinking, then hesitantly confessed her curiosity. I won’t bore you with the negotiations, save for the fact that we agreed on a safeword and that nothing was to be wrapped around her neck, a practice which I’m certainly not into anyway. She had no ‘equipment’, but took a deep breath, said, ‘How do I get myself into these things?’ and directed me to her scarf drawer…
And she looked absolutely gorgeous staked to the bedposts, the scarves around her wrists bound to the corners of the brass pipework forming the headboard, thus offering her armpits. Her throw-cushion protected ankles were fastened tightly to the inner sides of two L-shaped design fixtures at opposite sides of the footboard’s pipework. Her feet protruded immovably from the frame, and her legs were thus stretched apart.
To complete the beautiful view, she was, as I’d hoped, fully shaven. I do not have paedopheliac tendencies; it’s just that through experience, comparison and experimentation I’ve learned that the latter stages of going down on a ‘natural’ woman are reminiscent of chewing on a very soggy (and noisy) Persian carpet.
Noticing an ideal Eastern erotic aid in a brass vase on her dresser, I picked up the bundle of peacock feathers, and slowly moved them closer and closer to her breasts, as she looked at me, blushing and wide-eyed, beginning to giggle helplessly before they’d even touched her, and laughing quite hard after they did. I took my time and played her like a harpsichord, the feathers flickering from the hardened peaks of her rosy pink nipples to her armpits to her inner thighs, orchestrating intensity and volume, while she begged me to stop most prettily between the laughter and the gasps, but still in her ‘abus’d maiden’ persona. The bondage, though she could of course move slightly, emphasized her helplessness and seemed to make her even more ticklish. She began to cough and I paused, waiting for her to stop, counterfeiting a subtly and suitably evil expression, looking into her eyes and saying nothing. She grew visibly nervous.
‘My dear’, I said sonorously, ‘there is one area of your lovely body which I have shamefully neglected. Can you guess what that might be?’ (I was now channeling a combination of Vincent Price and Basil Rathbone for all I was worth.) ‘So silent, my dear- and yet, from your expression I believe you know exactly where I shall vellicate you next. Yes- exactly where you fear it most. I shall now set aside these feathers for the sheer joy of utilising my extremely talented fingertips to amuse the smooth soles of your beautiful, exquisitely arched feet’. (And not too shabbily expressed at all, I told myself with an internal preen!)
Ceremoniously picking up a bottle of moisturizing cream from her night-table, I slowly strolled to the foot of the bed where her blue nail-varnished feet awaited my attention. With a gently sardonic ‘May I, dear Madam?’, I drizzled the liquid onto her toes, letting it trickle down the bottoms of her feet, and smoothing it on with the backs of my hands to up the suspense.
‘Look, this is not a good idea, and I want you to let me go now!’, Arabella began sternly.
‘Oh, really? Forgotten your safeword?’ I leered. (After all, one never knows.)
‘Shut up’, she said. ‘I told you I want you to untie me, you bastard.’
She hadn’t safeworded.
I began Act III.
‘I’m not going to untie you’, I said quietly. ‘In fact, my dear Lady, I am going to tickle you until you beg me for mercy through tears of tormented laughter’
‘Please don’t’, she whimpered. I smiled and began to caress her ankles as a precursor. She took a deep breath, muttering ‘I’m not ticklish, I’m not ticklish, I’m not ticklish!’ through gritted teeth. Then my fingertips began to circle the balls of her feet, slippery from the lotion and her composure fled immediately. She struggled, but I’d tied her well, and for half an hour I elicited every form of laughter and supplicative pleas that a well-tickled young woman can produce. Tears streaming from her eyes and gleaming with sweat, she finally and deliciously lost her mind and the last vestiges of her well-bred dignity when I applied my tongue and teeth to her soles, gently and maddeningly gnawing her arches and slipping my tongue between, and sucking, each of her toes. I do not consider this any more submissive than the pain one causes one’s own palm when using it hard and repeatedly to spank a girl’s bottom.
She was exhausted now, and a glance assured me the swollen cleft of her vulva was slick with excitement, so I knelt across her pelvis, facing her feet, and leaned down to lick her for a while as she shuddered and screamed and climaxed repeatedly. It would have been awkward to fuck her while she was still tied, and although I was so rampant it was painful, and my cock was battering the inside of my jeans I still didn’t know if actual sex was on the cards- women are odd creatures.
I asked her gently if we could finish this properly, with her untied, and she smiled and nodded, asking me to free her hands first and then indicating her top drawer where I found some condoms- one must be thoughtful, after all.
After our previous gymnastics the sex was a quiet, albeit explosive relief in comparison (paradoxical but true) and we lay practically unconscious in one another’s arms afterwards, and then she smiled, stretched lazily, and made us more tea.
I sensed it was time to go. I gave her a goodbye hug and a kiss, which she returned very warmly, murmuring ‘Thank you for a lovely romp’ into the junction of my neck and shoulder.
I asked if I might see her again. ‘Well’, she replied, still holding me, ‘my life’s a bit hectic at the moment- call me in a few days or so?’
‘May I have your number, then?’ I asked politely, jotting it down on a scrap of paper in those primitive pre-mobile days, and with a metaphorical lift of my feathered hat and swirl of my cloak, headed home, feeling very happy.
But she hadn’t given me her actual number. Some fellow from an Eastern clime answered when I rang a few days later, politely denying all knowledge of her. Ever the melancholy man, I let it go, as I’d learned was best from previous experiences, fatalistically chalking up yet another truncated relationship for the record. But it was a delightful one to recall, uniquely ‘perfect’ as it was. Preserved in amber, my views of it could never change. Or so I thought.
Because I was wrong, of course. About six weeks later I was invited to a party by an acquaintance and as he and I chatted, our host opened the door to more guests, announcing their names to the room. A very good-looking couple entered, half of which was the lovely Arabella, accompanied by a tall, patrician-looking fellow, and she happened to be wearing an engagement ring incorporating a very large diamond.
She recognized me instantly and, frozen-faced, subtly averted her gaze. The situation obvious, and the two of them making a lovely pair, I did not try to socialise with either, but wondered how the engagement had occurred so rapidly. Eventually curiosity overcame gallantry, and with Arabella safely visiting the loo I chatted briefly to her fiancé, congratulating him on having such a beautiful bride-to-be. ‘Thanks’, he smiled, ‘but it was a natural progression- after all, we have been seeing once another for three years’.
I beamed at him, shook his hand while patting him heartily on the shoulder before saying goodbye to the fellow who’d invited me and quietly heading out. I figured that’s what Sir Galahad would have done.
That was also the last time I ever set eyes on Arabella.
She’s probably a grandmother by now.
Thanks for sharing your experience here. 
