A piece of folded fabric lies on the seat of your chair. In the dim light you can tell it has a golden rose printed on the front. You pick it up and sit. The chair is deep and comfortable. You realise that the fabric in your hand is actually a sewn leaflet. You turn the front cover and the following is printed inside…
I will not tell you her name. I will not tell you her age. I will not tell you where she resides. I will not tell you her occupation.
She and I have known each other for 21 years. When we first met I was not yet ready for the woman she already was. It wasn’t only to do with her impressive physical stature, her stunning beauty and her unmatched allure, it was also to do with her intelligence, her experience and her impossibly high standards.
With me in my early twenties and her in her early thirties, this was a mismatch and I was utterly outclassed. We met via an early internet forum. The fact that, after our online chats, emails and one dinner date, she permitted me to enter her apartment and tie her down felt to me then, and still feels now, almost charitable; a deity permitting a mortal to have his once-in-a-lifetime contact with perfection.
That first encounter was as memorable for me as it was easily forgettable for her. I was gentle. Too gentle. I was horny. I was excited. I was inexperienced. It would have been a wasted opportunity if we hadn’t, through luck or fate, made contact again some six years later. We found each other in the same way as before. We both had different pseudonyms but I sensed this was once again my fantasy woman. We arranged to meet at a London underground station and the moment I saw her I was delighted to be proved correct. We became reacquainted and ended that night with a kiss.
Our second encounter took place a short time thereafter. The years between our two encounters had been formative for me and, though I wasn’t aware of it at the time, this time I was ready. The evening was wonderfully indescribable and, witnessing an expression that crossed her face several times that night, I knew that this time it would be one she would not forget.
Once again, other aspects of life then intervened, we both became involved in other relationships and we lost contact for another ten years. When I became single, contacting her was the first thing on my mind. Again, luck or fate played its part – I had needed to do some detective work to find her and eventually did so at her place of work. To approach her as unintrusively as possible, I sent her a letter asking if she would like to see me. She received it on her final day in that place of work.
This time we took advantage of the third chance destiny had handed us and, together, we have made dreams come true.
I am one of the luckiest men alive. What I have told you is all true. And tonight I want to make more dreams come true – hers, mine and, hopefully, yours.
You look to the stage in front of you – a red curtain, bare floorboards and a single chair to the far left of the stage are illuminated by several spotlights. There are distant sounds from backstage. You turn the page:
One of the reasons I find our relationship so special is due to unspoken understanding. Whilst I may not be able to effectively describe the things that lurk in the dark corners of her mind, I still know them. I sense them. I feel them. I am privileged to know that she trusts me and I, in turn, protect her and give her what she wants, even when she fights against it.
Because she trusts me, she has agreed to be blindfolded tonight.
There are voices behind the curtain. The lights begin to dim. You turn the page in time to read:
As previously agreed, please do remain completely silent for the duration. I thank you once again for your cooperation.
The curtains part to reveal us both. I am 6’1, dressed in a navy suit and tie and hold a leather sports bag.
She appears taller, but that may be because she is elevated; manacled vertically by the wrists and ankles to a heavyweight, fully-adjustable X-frame on wheels, with her arms currently locked down at her sides, palms forward. I was accurate in my description – she is statuesque, curvaceous and fit. Despite the leather blindfold, her beauty is evident. She is almost completely naked, save for a pair of black silk and lace French knickers. Her long, vampish raven hair spills over her shoulders, enhanced by her pale skin and drawing attention to her delicious breasts.
I place the leather bag down on the chair, take off my jacket, roll up my sleeves and return to her side. I kiss her on her cheek and she smiles with content. I silently wheel the X-frame forward until she is directly in the crossed beams of the spotlights, then lock the wheels sturdily in place.
‘Where are we?’ she asks, ‘It suddenly feels warmer.’
‘I told you: it's the only place that I could find that has a fully adjustable St. Andrew's Cross... as well as some other facilities,’ I say, momentarily omitting some pertinent details.
She frowns for a moment, puzzled. ‘Wherever we are, it’s echoing. It must be somewhere pretty spacious.’
‘That’s very observant of you,’ I say and look out to the 200-strong audience. I catch your eye and smirk acknowledgement. You look around at your fellow audience members – everybody’s eyes are fixed on the stage.
‘I’m a very clever person,’ she proclaims.
‘A very clever person who is tied up and at my mercy,’ I say. ‘Some people might not think that’s too clever.’
‘I don’t care what other people think,’ she retorts, ‘I know who is really in charge here.’
‘Oh…?’ I say, ‘And who is that?’
‘Me.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know so.’
‘I see… So, you are fully in control right now?’
‘Yes,’ she says with full conviction, ‘I’m exactly where I want to be.’
‘And where is that?’ I ask.
‘About a thirty minutes’ drive from your place. Somewhere echoey,’ she says and laughs at her own joke.
‘You think you’re funny?’
‘Of course. Funnier than you.’
‘Oh. That’s unfair,’ I say. ‘I think I can make you laugh.’
‘You can’t. I don’t want to laugh any more.’
‘Are you challenging me?’ I ask.
‘No. I’m just stating a fact.’
‘And you’re never wrong, of course,’ I say, getting close to her ear and whispering, ‘because you’re so clever and sooo “in charge”.’
The hairs on her neck bristle as she uses volume as a tool to resist a visible shiver, ‘Yes, I am!’
I wait a moment before I reply, ‘Okay... I like a woman who is in charge. And, as that man said to us when we were at dinner last night, you are the epitome of a real woman.’ She smiles subtly, holding little value in the compliments of lecherous men. In the meantime, she is unable to see me slowly edge my fingertips towards her neck. She senses gentle movements and purses her lips, steeling herself. The increased rapidity of her breathing tells me this is already affecting her. My fingertips gradually make contact and wriggle ever-so-gently on either side of her neck. She manages to shrug, her breathing becoming more erratic as she tries to knock my fingers away with her chin.
I stop.
‘Still feel in charge?’ I ask.
‘Yes, I do!’ she says with increased defiance.
‘Good,’ I say and step behind her. I release two bolts and elevate the upper limbs of the X-frame until both of her arms are stretched out level with her shoulders, then bolt them securely in place. The action of slightly exposing her underarms causes her heart to beat faster and her breathing to noticeably quicken. ‘Is there a problem?’ I ask.
‘No,’ she says, almost pissed off.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘Now, let’s try that again…’ As I say this, she immediately tries to shrug and defend her neck. ‘Not so easy with your arms in that position, is it?’
Anticipation causes her to release a girlish whining noise.
‘That’s what I like,’ I say, turning to the audience, ‘Articulacy.’
‘Fuck you!’ she says through a vexed giggle, unable to prevent herself from finding it a little humorous.
Many in the audience smile. A couple of young ladies in the front row cover their mouths with their hands to prevent themselves from making a sound. I give them a friendly but firm look, warning them to remain silent. They obey and lower their hands, intent on watching what happens next.
‘I know!’ I say, ‘This will fully do the trick…!’ I again step behind the frame and reach over, placing a flexible metal band with a soft leather pad across her forehead. I thread the two ends through slots either side of her temples and pull them back, fixing them in place and securing her head to the padded headrest. ‘And, while I’m at it…’ I step over to her left hand, ‘Open your hand,’ I say, to which she immediately makes two solid fists. I pause. ‘That is, I believe, the complete opposite of what I just told you to do. Open your hands.’
‘No!’ she snaps.
In response, I walk up to her and wriggle my fingers into her neck. ‘No!’ she yelps and momentarily resists, before giving way: ‘Eeeeee… Eee-hee-hee-hee-hee-hee!’ she titters, completely unable to move her shoulders or head.
‘Are you going to open your hands?’ I say, continuing with unpredictable feather-light, touches around her neck. In response, she opens her left hand. ‘Very good,’ I say and turn to it. For a moment she appears to be closing it again. ‘Oh, you want me at your neck…” I begin to return.
‘No!’ she says and spreads her fingers, growling in frustration.
I make swift work of lacing specially-size U-shaped iron hooks over the knuckles at the tip of each of her fingers and through the hand-plates of the frame. The hooks are easily attached at the back. Maintaining an unconvincing look of composure and aware of the consequences of resisting, she allows the same to happen to the other, rendering her splayed hands utterly immobile.
‘Are you alright, my dear?’ I ask.
She ignores me.
‘Are you still with me?’ I ask.
She ignores me again.
‘Hm,’ I say, ‘How troublesome. We should test your reflexes…’ I step over to my bag and open it up.
As she hears me rummaging, nerves get the better of her, ‘Yes! I’m alright and, yes, I’m still with you!’
‘Wow! That’s quite a delayed reaction there!’ I say, returning to her side with a small brush, a pot of coconut oil and some guitar picks.
‘No, it wasn’t. I was ignoring you!’
‘Delayed reactions and a bit of an attitude? Never mind I have a treatment that will help both of those issues,’ I say and brush the oil onto the palm of her right hand.
‘No, don’t!’ she says, ‘Not my hand! Not there!’
‘But this is where it works best,’ I say, placing guitar picks on the fingers and thumb of my right hand, ‘so I’m afraid that’s where it will have to be!’ I give her a single, quick scratch in the centre of her palm.
‘No!’ she squeals.
‘No?’ I say with faux surprise, ‘You mean, the last thing you want me to do is this…?’ and I scramble the guitar picks all around her slippery palm.
‘Eeeeeeeeeeeee!!! Hee hee hee hee hee hee heeeeee!’ she laughs helplessly.
‘Aww, you’re not slipping out of being in charge, are you, my dear?’ I say, giving her a momentary break.
‘Fuck you! No, I’m not!’ she says, panting.
‘Good. That would be extremely puny of you if you were…’ I say, stepping across to her other hand and oiling it up with the brush.
She releases a whimper in response. ‘Don’t do this,’ she says, ‘you don’t need to do this!’
‘You mean this…?’ I say, and give her left palm the five-guitar-pick treatment.
She bursts into giggles again, ‘Yeeeeeeeeee-khee-khee-khee-kheeeeee!’
‘What an unexpected but very pleasing response!’ I stop and say.
‘It isn’t pleasing!’ she shouts.
‘I have plenty of guitar picks. It’s such a shame your other hand is so far away from me right now. If only…’ I say, looking to the audience, ‘If only I had an extra pair of hands.’
You notice several audience members sit up in their seats.
‘Yes! Such a shame for you!’ she mocks, ‘You’ll just have to make do without.’
‘For now, I suppose so. But what else can I do?’ I say, casually wandering closer to her and trailing a fingertip up the inside of her arm as I do so. Her feet fidget as I approach her body, reach across her and, from as far as I can reach, I tease my fingers from the crook of her elbow slowly and gently towards her armpits. As I do so, she begins to moan.
‘No…’ she says, ‘not that…’
‘“That”?’ I query, my fingertips lingering on the insides of her biceps. ‘Is there something about where my fingers are headed that’s problematic for you?’
She doesn’t answer.
‘I asked you a question,’ my fingertips creep millimetre by millimetre along their journey as I speak, ‘Don’t you want me to… stroke… your… arm… pits…?
Unable to move her head and arms, she shakes her body violently, ‘No, I don’t!’
‘And why is that, my dear? Is there a problem with me touching your armpits…?’
‘I just don’t want you to!’ she shouts.
‘Okay. But you do have your safe word. Do you remember what it is?’
‘Yes, and fuck you, I’ll never use that—!’
A lady in the back row coughs.
My beauty stops in her tracks. I turn to the audience. The audience turns to the lady who coughed. She gives an anxious look of undiluted apology. I raise a hand to stay any looks of disdain, knowing that this was inevitable.
My beauty says my name. ‘Yes?’ I reply.
‘Is someone else here?’ she asks, momentarily paralysed by the notion.
I smile to the audience, ‘Yes and no,’ I say.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Yes, there is someone here… There are also around 199 other ones here too.’
She thinks for a moment. ‘You’re lying,’ she says.
‘You’re a clever woman,’ I say, ‘Why else would I go to all this elaborate effort?’
She pauses for a moment. I turn to the audience, mime a single clap and, much like a conductor, I zigzag my finger along each row from the bottom to the top, producing a wave of 200 single claps in rapid succession. I turn to my beauty. She is open-mouthed.
I step in close. ‘This is all for you,’ I whisper, ‘Would you like us to stop?’
‘No.’ she says, softly.
‘Would you like me to take you home?’
‘No.’
‘Would you like to say your safe word?’
‘Fuck you!’ she shouts, ‘I will never say that to you!’
I smile. ‘Aww. But these people are all really curious to know what your safe word is!’
‘I told you before: I don’t care what other people want!’
‘That’s quite rude to all our guests!’ I say, facing the audience. Many smile in response and a few laugh, now visibly more relaxed at not having to remain silent.
‘Fuck them too!’ she says, ‘They’re not up here like this!’
‘Such a potty-mouth today, my dear! I think you should offer them something by way of apology…’ I crouch in front of her and unlock the lower limbs of the X-frame. One at a time, I raise them forward, simultaneously lifting her legs and placing her in a seated position – her legs apart, out stretched in front of her. I strap her legs just above the knees and detach the standing plates to reveal the perfectly proportioned soles of her bare feet to the audience, causing multiple spectators to shuffle in their seats.
‘There,’ I say, ‘Now you can wriggle your toes for all the foot fans out there!’
‘I will do no such thing!’ she shouts, keeping her feet perfectly still.
‘Be nice…’ I say with a warning tone.
‘I will not!’
‘I think you will,’ I say as I step between her outstretched legs, stroking my fingertips up her thighs.
‘No, I don’t want to!’ she whines, beginning to lose composure. My fingers dance over her hips and find her waist, gently probing for sensitive spots. She becomes lost in helpless giggles.
‘Are her feet moving?!’ I call over my shoulder.
‘Yes!’ you call back, watching as her soles wrinkle and flex, her toes wriggling in a hopeless attempt at alleviating the sensations I am making her endure.
As the realisation of exactly how powerless she is sinks in, she falls into an extra level of abandon. ‘It seems, at last you are appreciating my humour!’ I say to her.
‘N-no! Hee hee hee! You’re a-a-ahee hee hee hee! You’re a very unfunny person! Ha ha ha!’
I close my hands around her rib cage, causing her to gasp and moan in tormented pleasure that, in turn, throws fuel on my fire. ‘I think, my dear, that you should inform our wonderful guests why you are laughing.’ I can predict the look in her eyes as she pulls together as much composure as she can and growls defiance. My fingertips begin to lightly pitter-patter slowly up her ribs to the sides of her breasts.
‘No…’ she pleads.
‘You want me to stop? I’m afraid I’ll need that safe word if you do. Or you can tell our wonderful guests why you are laughing. Or you can let everyone know why I shouldn’t go anywhere near… here…’ I say and give a single tap in the centre of each armpit. She responds with a frustrated groan as I stop and head back to her feet.
She pants in turmoil, eager to know but dreading the outcome of what will happen next. The blindfold provides nothing but infinite blackness as she listens to more clunks and shifts of the X-frame’s equipment and attachments. Suddenly she jumps, feeling my hand on her shin. She feels her foot pressed back into a flexed position and an iron attachment slipped under her toes, somehow forcing her foot to stay absolutely still. A moment later the same thing happens to her other foot. ‘Wait!’ she hears herself say, as if spoken by someone else.
‘Wait?’ I respond, ‘What for?’
She tries to struggle but literally cannot move anything except her mouth. At a loss for words, she points out the obvious, ‘I can’t move.’
‘That is all part of the plan.’ I say. ‘Now, do you have anything to tell us?’
Angry and frustrated, she sits in silence.
‘No? Okay, fine.’ I turn and scan the audience with careful consideration. My focus falls upon the two young women in the front row. I beckon them to the stage. Their shoes click-clack up the stairs and along the floorboards as I confirm they have long fingernails and indicate for them to take up positions at my beauty’s hands.
I then spot a smiling couple and bring them to the stage, positioning them at each of her elbows. Next, I call up a tall and handsome hunky young man. I indicate for him to stand behind her and wait with his hands by her waist. With each new set of footsteps her breathing becomes faster and more pronounced.
I stand between her legs and look to the audience, with one last position to fill. You catch my eye. I point to you and indicate her bare feet with a gesture that queries whether you would be interested. You stand and make your way to the stage, what is about to take place becoming more real with each approaching step. As you arrive, I point to the brush, bottle of oil and ten fingertip guitar picks that I have left on the floor by her feet in case you need them.
I turn to her and gently kiss her lips. Her resolve softens slightly. ‘Last chance, my dear. Is there anything you would like to tell us?’
She momentarily forgets that she can’t shake her head, then proudly states, ‘No.’
‘Good,’ I say, ‘At this stage, that would be very disappointing!’ She can’t help but find that funny.
With all eyes on me, I indicate that, when it is their turn, everyone should start gently. ‘But first of all, I think we would all like to see what happens here…’ I turn to you and signal for you to begin. You look at her immobilised left sole inches from your face. You brush it with oil, causing it to glisten in the spotlights.
She begins to whine, ‘Mmmnnno! Oh… I can’t move!’ As your fingers close in, I suggest you begin with the top of her foot. You adjust your position and see her pretty hot pink nail polish. Your fingers edge closer as you revel in these moments of anticipation. Then you make contact – lightly grazing the soft skin of the top of her foot. ‘Ohhhhh! I can’t move!’ she exclaims, already beginning to titter, her brain inexplicably causing her to narrate her predicament. You reach for her other foot and lightly begin teasing the top. ‘No! No! Not that one too! Hee hee hee hee hee! I can’t moooove!’
I smile and nod, appreciating your enjoyment of your position. Your fingers then spill around her instep and crawl under her arch, ‘Oh, God, no!!!’ she cries, ‘You’ve got nails! Yeeeeeeee-hee-hee-hee-hee!’ You explore every delectable square millimetre of her luscious feminine soles and find your way up to the creases of her toes. ‘YEEEEEEK!’ she cries, ‘Not my toes! My poor toes! Ha ha ha ha ha ha!’
‘What about your poor toes, my dear?’ I ask with sincerity, ‘What do you have to tell us? What seems to be the problem you are having? Once you tell us, this “experiment” can come to an end!’
I mime to the two young ladies to begin explorations of the palms of her exposed hands. This sends her into a deeper level of panic, ‘OH NO! Not my hands!’ she exclaims, her head unnaturally still, ‘Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!! I c-can’t m-m-move them! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!’
‘It’s very thoughtful of you to provide a commentary for the rest of the audience,’ I tease, ‘but don’t worry – they can see exactly what is happening to you.’ My hands begin lightly dancing from her ankles, up her shins and burrowing under the backs of her knees, causing a spontaneous high pitched stream of giggles.
The hunky young man looks at me eagerly from behind her shoulder and I nod for him to begin. He takes a deep, shaky breath to prepare himself and begins gently tweaking at the curves of her waist. ‘Oh, God, no! Ha ha ha ha! Ssssssstop tha-ha-ha-ha-haaaa…!’ she pleads as his fingers run enthusiastically up and down her smooth, delicate skin.
I begin to tease her inner thighs as I indicate for the young couple to join in. Smiling and nodding to each other, they both begin at her wrists and playfully wriggle their fingers up her forearms, over the exposed crooks of her elbows to her inner biceps and back again. This takes my beauty to a point where she can do nothing but laugh out loud, losing the ability to protest.
You continue to delight in your exploration of her helpless soles and toes and, from your position, you are the only person in the room who notices my index fingers edge tantalisingly under the lace of her knickers, whilst my other fingers tease at her upper thighs.
I suddenly stop and raise a hand. Everybody stops except the hunky young man, causing her involuntary titters to continue. ‘Erm…?’ I say and look over at him. He reluctantly stops. Residual giggles continue for a moment. She pants hard.
‘I’m afraid this is your last chance, my dear. Will you safe word?’
‘No!’ she spits out, her throat a little hoarse, ‘Never!’
‘Then maybe you should tell us why a woman like yourself—who is so in charge and doesn’t care what all these people think anyway—is laughing so much?’
She responds with silence, her nostrils flare with a confused mix of anger and being completely turned-on.
In return I edge my mouth into the crook of her neck, kissing, licking and breathing with deliberate intent. He defences are broken. There is no resistance to the immediate wail of giggles that I elicit from her and which echo around the great room.
I straighten up and step over to my bag, returning with a bottle of water, which I hold to her lips and allow her to sip. I recap the bottle and place it on the floor. ‘Well, there is only one other thing for it then,’ I say. ‘I think it’s time for us all to see what happens when you are touched here…’
From behind her blindfold she is unable to see where I am pointing but she knows exactly what is about to happen and tries to steel herself. I sense her resolve, and raise my hand, looking at everyone else on stage I signal for a slow start that should increase in intensity as they follow my lead…
Fingers probe her waist, taking her by surprise and making her jump and squeak. She curses herself for being amused by her own reaction, which only adds to her laughter. My hands begin methodically and unpredictably tweaking at her legs. She feels fingertips prancing all up and down her arms. Amid all of this, she feels more oil being applied to the palms of her hands and the soles of her feet. Through her own laughter she can just about hear me say, ‘Oh, by the way, there are four pimply hairbrushes in my bag there, if you and the young ladies want them.’
‘No!’ she cries through her laughter, ‘Don’t! Ha ha ha ha ha!’
She feels a momentary pause and wonders, Is it all over–? when sensations explode from all angles. Her waist, arms, legs and ribs were bad enough but she lights up with a supernova of overwhelming intensity as pimply hairbrushes attack her exposed palms and soles. ‘BAAAAA HAA HAA HAA HAA HAAAAA!!!’ she blares, in a way that she nor I have never heard from her before: pure, helpless laughter.
Unable to move anything more than her open mouth, her body overtakes her mind and out come words she would never consciously allow herself to say, ‘PLEASE! HAA HAA HAA! I’M BEGGING YOU! HAA HAA HAA! STOPPP-PAA-HAA-HAA-HAA!!!’
My fires are raging as I focus in on what I want to happen next. The group around me are gleefully relishing in the torture of this beautiful, statuesque woman. You delight in being able to sense exactly which of her hysterics are due to your treatment of her soles with your brushes.
As everyone continues, my fingertips begin to wander up her torso. I catch the eye of the happy couple and encourage them to mirror my actions. As my fingertips pass those of the hunky young man on her waist and tummy, I gently tap repetitively on the outside of her breasts. As I do so, the young couple trace over her biceps…
There is a noticeable change in her breathing, ‘No…’ she cries, her laughter now taking a back seat.
‘Yes,’ I say casually, as fingers close in on the vulnerable hollows of her armpits. Her breathing deepens and every sinew of her body begins to tighten. The torments lessen as everybody wonders what is happening until I am the last person touching her, ‘What’s wrong? Do you have something to say…?’ my fingertips swirl and stroke over the smooth skin of her under arms.
She gasps and loses the ability to breathe. Her mouth widens, commanding silence once again. Then, finally, the silence is shattered by the sound of her full-throated scream to a thunderous orgasm that resonates throughout the entire room.
Onlookers remain transfixed until the echo of the scream has completely dissipated. As she breathes heavy, sweating and speechless, the group on stage look at one another, assuming the fun is over and appreciating the time they had.
‘Now,’ I say, ‘Is there anything you would like to confess?’
Everyone looks at her.
‘No!’ she says as aftershocks ripple throughout her body.
‘Alright, then!’ I say and signal for everyone to begin again. Happily they do so without hesitation.
‘NOO!’ she screams as she realises what is about to happen again.
You pick up the hairbrushes and put full energy into her feet, maintaining the skilful balance between intensity and pain, relentlessly forcing her into peals of laughter. This time the torture goes on for longer. Her glorious, uncontrollable laugh filling the auditorium like a symphony. My fingers again go on their walk up her torso and I lean in close to her ear and whisper something to her. You can just about lipread my telling her, ‘This can go on all night.’
My fingertips explore the area around her underarms and her body begins to tense again. ‘I think we can all see what this does to you,’ I announce, ‘and I don’t think any of us feel inclined to stop what we are doing until we have a confession from you.’
As her laughter recedes to make way for a tidal wave of ecstasy, she is able to gasp out the words, ‘No…! Please…! St-stoppit…! Ohhhhh…!’ The veins in her neck pulse as she flushes red, the second orgasm causing a cry that is louder than the first but this time the group on stage don’t let up in their playful torment of her body and once the wave of euphoria is passed, the laughter bubbles up with a vengeance. ‘HA HAA HAA HAA HAA HAA HAA HAA HAA HAA! HELP MEEE!’
At this plea, some of the group reduce their enthusiasm and I hold up a hand. I turn to the audience and remind them, ‘You don’t need to help her. She has a safe word that could stop all this in an instant. Unfortunately for her, her ego is bigger than her need for self-preservation. Now, I don’t want her to safe word. But I do want her confession.’ I turn to face her, ‘Confess.’
‘No!’ she replies, defiantly.
Now on my wavelength, without me having to indicate anything, you again place your fingertips to the soles of her feet. She yelps in surprise and begins to chuckle. One-by-one the rest of the group begin again but I say, ‘Why don’t you all move around a bit?’ I remain in place but select four more members of the audience to join us on stage.
‘No! Please…!’ immobilised in blackness she feels 22 hands probing and exploiting her body, taking advantage of the weaknesses that have been displayed to hundreds of strangers. The variety of hands, touches, pressures and speeds is so unpredictable that she is totally unable to predict or resist any touch and crumbles into defenceless, abandoned laughter.
I remain in place, between her legs and close to her as a whirlpool of enthusiastic bodies, tease and torture every part of her body. Having never experienced anything like this before, her laughter reaches a fever pitch. ‘HAA HAA H-HELLLLP! PLEASE! HAA HA HA HA HA HA!’
‘No,’ I say, ‘This time it continues until we get your confession.’ She feels my fingers slowly tracing from the crooks of her elbows towards her vulnerable armpits…
‘PLEASE!!! HA HA HA HA!!! I DON’T WANT TO CONFESS!!!’
‘Oh, I think you do. I think you can’t wait to confess. I think you spend time alone, fantasising about your confession,’ I say, my fingertips drawing ever nearer.
‘NO! HAA HAA HAA HAA! Don’t d-do that! EEK! MY RIBS! Plee-hee-hee-hee-ase! Get off my hands! Oh, God this is t-too much!! HA HA HA! WH-WHO IS THAT ON MY FEE-HEE-HEET??!’
Due to the cacophony of laughter from her and the sounds of natural enjoyment from those surrounding her, I get close to her ear and speak in a low, clear tone, ‘It’s never too much. You want to make it stop? Then you know what you have to confess. And I want the entire room to hear it or you’ll just have to say it again.’
‘PLEEEEEEASE! HA HA HA!!!’
‘Confess.’
For the first time in her life she feels as though the intensity and sensations are truly too much to endure, ‘I…’ she begins.
‘Louder!’ I demand.
‘I… AM…’ a surprise dual attack on both her feet from two of the newcomers cause her to interrupt herself with a new explosion of laughter.
‘Oh, dear…’ I say, as a furnace blazes inside me my fingertips encroach on the point of no return.
‘I…’ she screams, loud enough for most of the group to slow in their actions. This gives her just enough space to draw a deep breath and announce, ‘I...... AM...... TIIIIII--!!!’ in that instant a gasp steals her breath and she loses the ability to form words as my fingertips once again reach that sweet spot, causing her to erupt into a third, almighty orgasm. The whole group slow their motions to a stop and stand back. I hold her torso with my hands as she shudders – shockwaves flashing throughout her entire body.
I motion a thank you to everyone involved and you make your way back to your seat. As you sit you see that I am again holding the bottle to her lips. Emotion and exhaustion have taken hold of her. Still blindfolded, I release her head, feet, legs hands and left arm. As I release her right arm she takes a swing at me with semi-serious intent, which I thankfully block. I smile, carefully help her to step down and hug her close, wrapping her in a blanket that I have taken from my bag. She holds me for some moments, then grabs me and we kiss with transcendent passion.
I turn to the audience and say, ‘Thank you all for coming. I need to take her home. Unfortunately, you don’t get to see what happens next.’ An appreciative laugh flutters around the audience. I pick up our belongings and escort her backstage. The curtains close and the house lights come up.
You look around. A few people catch your eye and you know that there is plenty of small talk to be had. You look down to find the fabric booklet in your lap and you turn to the last page.
I will not tell you her name.
I will not tell you her age.
I will not tell you where she resides.
I will not tell you her occupation.
I will tell you I adore her.
I will tell you she shaped my life.
I will tell you that she is My Goddess.
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