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She sells She-Smells by the sea shore (MF/F, utterly NonCon)

GummyBear

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Nov 6, 2020
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Disclaimer: This was not written with anything erotic in mind. It is just a slightly unsavoury story with tickling in it.




***

Take a bottle of cream soda, shake it up and unscrew the lid, no more than one full turn, you just want to stifle the explosion, not totally release it. Do nothing more. Just hold it and watch that milky liquid spurting, hissing and frothing with its pressure-induced urgency around the edges of that lid. Now stare at that lid until it blossoms into a shiny black ball gag in your mind's eye, and the rim of the bottle a pair of drowning lips.

It's usually at that stage of proceedings when I start to clean up. Into the multi-coloured beach bag went the denim mini, the tie-leg strappy stilettos, the black and white striped halter top, the black leather jacket and handbag along with its contents: eleven pounds and fifty eight pence, a small pouch of crumbling Amber Leaf tobacco, a packet of menthol filters, a creased packet of Rizla with one fold of the cardboard torn away, a silver Zippo lighter embossed with the name Georgia Mae, and a pair of white gym socks tie-dyed with splashes of crimson, indigo and turquoise. Folded neatly about the definitely-not-laundry-fresh socks was a card thanking Gabi for her order.

It's on days like today that I really find myself thinking about Christmas. Week upon week of preparation, visiting all the shops, crossing things off of lists, waking on the day at the crack of dawn and spending hours toiling over the cooking of a meal which is essentially a typical Sunday roast dinner. Literal hundreds of hours of stress... For something that's done with in less than thirty minutes. But, like all things Christmas, it isn't all about me and what I want. There are others to consider and make allowances for. These socks, for example, cost me thirty quid. For a single pair.

Pocketing the socks, I pulled the drawstrings on the bag tight and a puff of aroma immediately whisked me away from the beach and dropped me into the sickly sweet haze of a make up counter in some department store, and my mind was invaded with thoughts of my better half strutting around our bedroom playing hooker. Besides, it turned out that our friend was the exact same shoe size and only one dress size up from Gabi, so it would be a terrible waste for these items to join the collection we'd amassed somewhere along the bed of the Atlantic. Both ladies present had the feet to pull those shoes off, for sure, but only one of them could handle the punishment they'd receive while wearing them. And speaking of punishment...

The last ebbs of that milky eruption pulsed through the edges of Georgia's gag, the sand beneath her jaw was spattered dark and the veins in her forehead had become angry as the late evening sky. There were ghosts on the wind that whipped the sea into a roaring frenzy and brought with them a chill that would have numbed my hands, were it not for the blood boiling sight before me. Gabi now laid on her front with a mouthful of toes, her own bare feet kicked up over her butt and her toes shivered and curled as they always did when she enjoys herself just a little too much. Which wasn't surprising, it had been weeks since we'd got a bite. But we'd only been at our spot under the pier for around twenty minutes and already she had our friend screaming to the point that her body thought it had been poisoned. Gabi cupped the left foot with both hands and hissed and growled through her teeth, teeth which scraped at the thin skin about the defenceless toes, bit into toenails, chewed the edges of the soles and gnawed at the last threadbare string anchoring Georgia Mae's sanity to her soul.

Awful weather was tragic news for would-be beach goers, but fantastic news for us. The only thing that could possibly cut short our time here would be, how to say it... Premature expiration?

Before anything like that had a chance of happening, I took a needless look up and down the beach and knelt by Gabi's knees, spreading them apart and pulling her dress up over her arse. She never came up for air to say anything and instead raised herself up to give me better access while I unbuttoned my jeans, pulled her black lace to one side and slid all the way inside of her flooded ****. With Gabi's mouth fixed on the foot to our left and her manicure scouring pink marks into the flesh of the foot to our right, Georgia's eyes squeezed shut and her head thrashed side to side in one last-ditch attempt at something like escape. She surely knew that she wasn't going to burst free of the compacted sand... Maybe she wished for a different type of escape?

I slowed to a stop at the very thought of her potential desires in that moment, not wanting to go off that soon. Fuck, it had been a while. But less than a minute? Gabi let loose a frustrated howl, wriggling her hips and causing the girl to screech, later she'd tell me I'd stopped at precisely the wrong moment and she'd bitten into our friend's little toe.

I started up again with a delicacy that would have made bomb disposal crewmen nod in approval and slipped one hand down from Gabi's hip and into her knickers. The last thing I needed was an unhappy Gabi. So I massaged her slick button to the sound of the waves, the metallic hiss and whir of a train passing overhead by the cliff-side, and the roaring despair of a woman that had just had the final string cut.

I looked at this Georgia, this mark that Gabi had discovered while browsing, of all things, Facebook Marketplace. But there was nothing in her eyes at that point. And most of the time when they weren't crushed shut beneath crumpled eyebrows the only visible parts were the whites which shone in the setting sun as pearlescent as Gabi's toenails.

So I imagined taking a cross-section of the beach where we'd buried her and seeing those tanned, lithe calves and muscular thighs reaching upwards to the free air. Her abs rippling beneath a squishy but thin layer of fat with every lung-squeezing, bladder-wrenching scurry of manicure against sole and her tits shaking with the reverberation of stifled, explosive laughter. The sand packed tight around her bare nipples and urine-soaked crotch. Her fingernails burrowing into the skin of her lower back when she still had the use of them before the ropes lashing her forearms together all but shut off the blood supply to her hands. Her entire twenty-something year old frame entombed in heavy sand, forced into a tight V, with her feet just inches in front of that face of hers which had become so gloriously matted with sweaty locks of platinum blonde hair.

Just as I was about to explode Gabi thrust out her left thigh, planted her knee in the sand and kicked the top of her foot up against my hip, jiggling it against me urgently while grunting muffled demands into Georgia's twitching toes. Needing no encouragement I sank my fingernails into the stems of Gabi's toes and while I slowly and painfully guided them down across the ball of her foot, slid them across her wrinkled arch and scratched into her heel, Gabi's **** clamped down on me, writhing and spasming and chewing me up and with a squelching sprinkle the front of my jeans were stained dark. Murphy's Law. Tonight I'd brought no change of clothes.

We never felt as though we'd be needing one. Georgia was a sweet young lady who happened to sell foot fetish content under the guise of simple shoes and socks adverts on FB Marketplace. And I imagine she did a decent trade, because she was out of this world gorgeous. Thicc, the kids would call her. Fake tan and make up, but done artfully. An F cup bra, but under clothing that didn't point huge neon arrows at the cleavage and wave banners screaming at you to LOOK HERE. She also had an Instagram page selling bespoke tie-dye socks, which, if socks are your thing, are pretty damn sexy truth be told.

She even had a foot fetish of her own, nothing to match the ferocity of Gabi's fetish which bordered, or perhaps crossed the threshold of, psychotic addiction, but still... It had been the easiest setup we'd ever made. No backstories, no fake ID's, no lies of any sort. Georgia had loved the idea of being tied up and tickled on her feet and I quote here: “omg I love it (emoji with hearts for eyes), such bittersweet torture xx”

Bittersweet indeed. It hadn't felt right to allow Gabi to go all the way tonight. There was something in the wind that got under my skin and made my skeleton feel a bit gooey. Georgia wasn't a prostitute, people that had never met her would care that she'd gone missing. Even a heterosexual nun would have strained her neck as her head snapped round to take a second glance at the young lady. The police would be all over it. And who were her last known human contacts? Yours truly and his sister.

Yes, my sister. Twin sister, in fact. If you're suddenly judging me after everything I've said thus far, I really don't know what to tell you.

We do have the socks, though. Proof of a genuine transaction and they will see her messages and see, in turn, that Gabi just wanted to buy a pair. There should be some raised eyebrows at the content, but nothing to alert any real suspicion. That's the beauty of a fetish that isn't obviously sexual to normies, you can get away with one hell of a lot before others realise you're not just getting away with something, but getting off on something.

As I said, we have the socks. And the tie-dye looks utterly fucking fantastic on Gabi's legs. There's something nigh indescribable about taking a strange woman's sweaty socks and putting them on your lady, and looking her in the eye as you sniff them. There's a disconnect in that act, similar I imagine to how people feel when they fuck their partner for the first time after a major hairstyle change. Or an old ex after they've lost or gained a whole lot of weight. Everything feels fresh and new again. You can get something very similar through smoking weed, as it happens. But there can be terrible downsides to that.

How we'll ever release Georgia back into the wild is anyone's guess at this point. For now, she awaits her next bout of horror wrapped head to toe in bandages in an old Christmas tree box under our bed, listening in while my darling Gabi straps me to the bed, impales herself upon me and plants her socked feet square in my face.

She'll get her blood tonight, but it won't be Georgia's.

***
 
Whoa, I can see what you're trying to do here. Dark, twisted yet still very compelling. As if it wasn't unsettling enough, the last known human contacts sealed the deal on that.

I applaud the craft on display and quite honestly, the guts to post it. Chuck Palahniuk would be proud (and that's high praise indeed!)
 
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