Sablesword
TMF Master
- Joined
- Jun 13, 2001
- Messages
- 801
- Points
- 18
I think second-person stories are stunts, or stupid writer tricks. I'm writing this one anyway because I already started, and because I want to show that I can, that my dislike for the form isn't just sour grapes.
A Story for You
by Sablesword
You feel the leather padding enclose your ankles. You pull on your right leg, and then your left, but the stocks hold you firmly in place. You realize, just as you had fifteen seconds earlier, that you are trapped here until your boyfriend releases you.
He runs a forefinger across your bare soles. You squeal; you can't help it with the sharp tickle-shock penetrating your feet. He has already strapped your arms behind you, in a leather muff, and now he straps you in place as you lay back on the padded recliner, your forearms fitting into the niche built to receive them so that they don't dig into your back.
You are helpless, stripped down to your bra and panties as your boyfriend looks down upon you. For the next hour or two, he's your captor, your interrogator, and your master as well as your boyfriend. He rivets your attention now: Tall, stripped to a pair of jean-shorts, with a black goatee and a bleached forelock. Well muscled enough to easily overcome you, as he had proven just a few minutes earlier.
He grins at you, raking you with his eyes in a way that you would find alarming if you weren't quivering with anticipation yourself. On a side-table he lays out the feathers, the soft- and stiff-bristled brushes, and the other tickle implements. He starts the timer sitting there, and then turns the display away so that you can't see it.
You moan in mock despair. If you are still holding out after an hour, he will win a forfeit - the right to cut away your bra and panties. If you give in before then, he'll release you, and you'll have to remove them yourself. You don't want them cut away, but you don't want to give in too soon, either. But how can you judge the time when you can't see the timer? When your personal torturer is driving you mad with sweetly merciless tickling? He knows you can't. In fact, he's counting on it.
Your moan turns into a helpless giggle as his fingers dance lightly across your feet. You can feel his fingers more than see them; feel them tickle tickle tickle. You wiggle your feet until he grasps the toes of your right foot with one hand and applies the fingers of the other. You feel a light, squirmy touch that forces another giggle from your throat, followed by a softly fierce raking that makes you howl. Then you feel his grip on the toes of your left foot, followed by a tickle-assault on that instep.
This tickle-assault lasts longer than the one on your other foot. You feel his fingers on the ball of your left foot. The gentle scritching makes you squirm and laugh. You can feel it, the finger-tickling, on your left heel as well, and on your instep. You can't resist it. You can't avoid the tickle-sensations your captor is inflicting upon you. And the hour of tickling has only just begun.
You feel the tickling fingers caress the tops of your feet. It feels good, but too much. Too much. How will you be able to stand it for a full hour? Or even longer? But you already know the answer: Your master will make you take it. He won't let you wimp out.
And now his fingers are working their way up your legs. You can feel them. You can feel the tickle-tickle that's making you laugh. You can't not feel it. You especially can't escape the tickle applied to your knee-caps and behind your knees. You can't stop giggling or struggling at the tickle-sensations inflicted all around your thighs.
Your belly is next. You know it, and he knows it. Your bare belly, that you can do even less to protect than your trapped bare feet. You can only laugh as his fingers wiggle across your smooth skin, as he pokes your belly-button, and as he scritches your sides.
It tickles! It tickles, and you can't escape it! No matter how hard you struggle, you can't escape it! You can't keep from laughing as he moves up to tickle your shoulders and your neck! And then he's tickling your belly again, and you can't stand it!
He steps back, smiling his warm, evil smile, and you gasp and shudder, catching your breath. You watch him step back to your feet, and feel him lasso your toes with leather thongs. Now your feet can't even wiggle in response to his tickling. Now they are even more thoroughly trapped than before, toes spread and utterly vulnerable to whatever tickle-touch he chooses to inflict.
"And now, my lady," he says. "Would you care to divulge the secret passages of the castle?"
"No! Never!" you answer, getting into the spirit of the thing. There is still plenty of time left of the timer, isn't there? Plenty of time for more tickling before you give in, beating the deadline for your forfeit.
"Very well," he says, picking up an implement from the side table. You can't quite make out what it is, until he applies it to your bare soles.
It's one of the stiff-bristled brushes. You can feel it. He's using it to gently scrub your soles. You can feel the prickly-tickly touch of it as he does so. The wonderfully unbearable prickly-tickly touch that makes you twist madly in a vain attempt to break free.
"Talk!" he commands.
"Nooo!" you answer. "Hahahaheehee hahahah heeheehee! Oh heeheehaha heeheehee!" The stocks clasping your ankles and the leather thongs on your toes hold your feet perfectly in place. Hold you perfectly vulnerable as he applies that prickly, scrubby tickle. Pouring madness into you through your soles.
It ends only when he switches to a soft-bristled brush. Now he's tickle-brushing the tops of your feet, and working his way up your legs. Applying a different sort of madness to your bare skin. A softer tickle, and a more insidious one. You can't stand it, and it feels wonderful. You'd make it stop if you could, especially when the soft brush begins to tickle your belly. But you don't want it to stop, not even when he applies two brushes, one to each of your sides. You attempt to arch your body, in yet another futile effort to escape, and you laugh and laugh and laugh.
He's tickling your neck and shoulders when the alarm beeps. You start, and then moan. You waited too long!
"No," your captor reassures you. "Not yet. It's just time to shift your position." He frees you from stocks, for a brief time only. Your wrists he binds before your body, in the leather muff, each hand by the opposite elbow. He makes you lie on the recliner once more, this time on your belly. Once again, your forearms fit into the gap provided so that your body doesn't press down on them. Once again, he straps you in place. Once again, you feel the leather padding encase your ankles.
Once again, you know yourself trapped, until he chooses to release you.
You feel a gentle tickling stroke along your spine, from your neck to your behind. You can't see it, face down as you are, but it feels like a feather. The ticklish tip of a feather, as he slowly and softly whips your back with this gentlest of whips. Tickle tickle tickle as he makes you giggle and squirm once more.
The feather meanders, covering all of your back, not just your spine. Occasionally he reaches in to finger-tickle your sides. You try to squirm away, but you can't escape his pursuing hand. You can't escape at all, from this tickle-tickling. He's massaging the tickle-sensations deeply into you, forcing out your laughter.
"Talk, my lady," he whispers to you as the delicious torment continues. "Talk. You can't resist. Tell me about the castle's secret passages."
"Heehee hahahahah!" you answer. "Noooo! Heehee haha heeheeheehee!"
"You know what this means, then, my lady," he tells you. And indeed you do: The legs, and then the feet.
"No! Heehee hahahahaha!" you protest. But you don't expect your protests to do any good. And indeed they don't. You feel the feather wandering down your legs. Slowly, gently. With long, lazy strokes. But there is nothing lazy about the tickle-sensations it inflicts. It makes you keenly aware that you're trapped. You're helpless. You're trapped and helpless, as the tickle-sensations sink in to your very bones and the laughter fountains out of you.
How much time is left? The hour was half-done when he made you lie face-down, but how much time has past since then? Soon enough you must give in, to avoid the forfeit. But not too soon. You don't want to give in too easily. You don't want this to stop short. You must have a little time yet.
He abandons the feather when he reaches your feet. You feel the leather thongs lasso your toes, and then the bowl of a wooden spoon taps your naked soles, sending tickle-shocks running up your legs. Then he begins to rub with the back of the bowl. That shouldn't tickle, but it does. It tickles amazingly! It tickles astonishingly! It makes your feet feel like they're three times their normal size, and ten times their normal sensitivity. And then, when he pauses to run a silken scarf between your toes, it drives you mad! Soon, soon, you'll have to give in. But not quite yet. No, not quite yet.
The tickle-rub resumes, making you cry with laughter. The wooden spoon rubs your heels, and it tickles. It rubs the balls of your feet, and it tickles. It rubs the pads of your toes, and it tickles. It rubs your insteps, and it tickles. How does he do it? It's the most terrible, wonderful, irresistible tickling ever! How is he able to do this to you? You can't hold out much longer! Very soon, you'll have to give in. In just a very little bit.
The tickling pauses. "Will you talk now, my lady?" he asks. "Will you tell me about the secret passages?"
Just a little bit more, and you'll give in. "Nooo!" you moan. And then the timer rings. "Oh no," you sigh. You've lost the forfeit.
"Well now." Your boyfriend sounds disgustingly cheerful. So do the scissors as - snip snip - the straps of your bra and panties are cut away. You wait for him to release you; to leer at your new nudity. But instead he beings a vigorous finger-tickle of the soles of your feet. You laugh wildly, and squirm wildly. You're naked, and tickled, and wet. The tickle sensations run all the way through you as he tickles your feet, and tickles your feet, and tickles your feet. And the orgasm takes you. And takes you. And takes you again for as long as the tickling continues.
(the end)
A Story for You
by Sablesword
You feel the leather padding enclose your ankles. You pull on your right leg, and then your left, but the stocks hold you firmly in place. You realize, just as you had fifteen seconds earlier, that you are trapped here until your boyfriend releases you.
He runs a forefinger across your bare soles. You squeal; you can't help it with the sharp tickle-shock penetrating your feet. He has already strapped your arms behind you, in a leather muff, and now he straps you in place as you lay back on the padded recliner, your forearms fitting into the niche built to receive them so that they don't dig into your back.
You are helpless, stripped down to your bra and panties as your boyfriend looks down upon you. For the next hour or two, he's your captor, your interrogator, and your master as well as your boyfriend. He rivets your attention now: Tall, stripped to a pair of jean-shorts, with a black goatee and a bleached forelock. Well muscled enough to easily overcome you, as he had proven just a few minutes earlier.
He grins at you, raking you with his eyes in a way that you would find alarming if you weren't quivering with anticipation yourself. On a side-table he lays out the feathers, the soft- and stiff-bristled brushes, and the other tickle implements. He starts the timer sitting there, and then turns the display away so that you can't see it.
You moan in mock despair. If you are still holding out after an hour, he will win a forfeit - the right to cut away your bra and panties. If you give in before then, he'll release you, and you'll have to remove them yourself. You don't want them cut away, but you don't want to give in too soon, either. But how can you judge the time when you can't see the timer? When your personal torturer is driving you mad with sweetly merciless tickling? He knows you can't. In fact, he's counting on it.
Your moan turns into a helpless giggle as his fingers dance lightly across your feet. You can feel his fingers more than see them; feel them tickle tickle tickle. You wiggle your feet until he grasps the toes of your right foot with one hand and applies the fingers of the other. You feel a light, squirmy touch that forces another giggle from your throat, followed by a softly fierce raking that makes you howl. Then you feel his grip on the toes of your left foot, followed by a tickle-assault on that instep.
This tickle-assault lasts longer than the one on your other foot. You feel his fingers on the ball of your left foot. The gentle scritching makes you squirm and laugh. You can feel it, the finger-tickling, on your left heel as well, and on your instep. You can't resist it. You can't avoid the tickle-sensations your captor is inflicting upon you. And the hour of tickling has only just begun.
You feel the tickling fingers caress the tops of your feet. It feels good, but too much. Too much. How will you be able to stand it for a full hour? Or even longer? But you already know the answer: Your master will make you take it. He won't let you wimp out.
And now his fingers are working their way up your legs. You can feel them. You can feel the tickle-tickle that's making you laugh. You can't not feel it. You especially can't escape the tickle applied to your knee-caps and behind your knees. You can't stop giggling or struggling at the tickle-sensations inflicted all around your thighs.
Your belly is next. You know it, and he knows it. Your bare belly, that you can do even less to protect than your trapped bare feet. You can only laugh as his fingers wiggle across your smooth skin, as he pokes your belly-button, and as he scritches your sides.
It tickles! It tickles, and you can't escape it! No matter how hard you struggle, you can't escape it! You can't keep from laughing as he moves up to tickle your shoulders and your neck! And then he's tickling your belly again, and you can't stand it!
He steps back, smiling his warm, evil smile, and you gasp and shudder, catching your breath. You watch him step back to your feet, and feel him lasso your toes with leather thongs. Now your feet can't even wiggle in response to his tickling. Now they are even more thoroughly trapped than before, toes spread and utterly vulnerable to whatever tickle-touch he chooses to inflict.
"And now, my lady," he says. "Would you care to divulge the secret passages of the castle?"
"No! Never!" you answer, getting into the spirit of the thing. There is still plenty of time left of the timer, isn't there? Plenty of time for more tickling before you give in, beating the deadline for your forfeit.
"Very well," he says, picking up an implement from the side table. You can't quite make out what it is, until he applies it to your bare soles.
It's one of the stiff-bristled brushes. You can feel it. He's using it to gently scrub your soles. You can feel the prickly-tickly touch of it as he does so. The wonderfully unbearable prickly-tickly touch that makes you twist madly in a vain attempt to break free.
"Talk!" he commands.
"Nooo!" you answer. "Hahahaheehee hahahah heeheehee! Oh heeheehaha heeheehee!" The stocks clasping your ankles and the leather thongs on your toes hold your feet perfectly in place. Hold you perfectly vulnerable as he applies that prickly, scrubby tickle. Pouring madness into you through your soles.
It ends only when he switches to a soft-bristled brush. Now he's tickle-brushing the tops of your feet, and working his way up your legs. Applying a different sort of madness to your bare skin. A softer tickle, and a more insidious one. You can't stand it, and it feels wonderful. You'd make it stop if you could, especially when the soft brush begins to tickle your belly. But you don't want it to stop, not even when he applies two brushes, one to each of your sides. You attempt to arch your body, in yet another futile effort to escape, and you laugh and laugh and laugh.
He's tickling your neck and shoulders when the alarm beeps. You start, and then moan. You waited too long!
"No," your captor reassures you. "Not yet. It's just time to shift your position." He frees you from stocks, for a brief time only. Your wrists he binds before your body, in the leather muff, each hand by the opposite elbow. He makes you lie on the recliner once more, this time on your belly. Once again, your forearms fit into the gap provided so that your body doesn't press down on them. Once again, he straps you in place. Once again, you feel the leather padding encase your ankles.
Once again, you know yourself trapped, until he chooses to release you.
You feel a gentle tickling stroke along your spine, from your neck to your behind. You can't see it, face down as you are, but it feels like a feather. The ticklish tip of a feather, as he slowly and softly whips your back with this gentlest of whips. Tickle tickle tickle as he makes you giggle and squirm once more.
The feather meanders, covering all of your back, not just your spine. Occasionally he reaches in to finger-tickle your sides. You try to squirm away, but you can't escape his pursuing hand. You can't escape at all, from this tickle-tickling. He's massaging the tickle-sensations deeply into you, forcing out your laughter.
"Talk, my lady," he whispers to you as the delicious torment continues. "Talk. You can't resist. Tell me about the castle's secret passages."
"Heehee hahahahah!" you answer. "Noooo! Heehee haha heeheeheehee!"
"You know what this means, then, my lady," he tells you. And indeed you do: The legs, and then the feet.
"No! Heehee hahahahaha!" you protest. But you don't expect your protests to do any good. And indeed they don't. You feel the feather wandering down your legs. Slowly, gently. With long, lazy strokes. But there is nothing lazy about the tickle-sensations it inflicts. It makes you keenly aware that you're trapped. You're helpless. You're trapped and helpless, as the tickle-sensations sink in to your very bones and the laughter fountains out of you.
How much time is left? The hour was half-done when he made you lie face-down, but how much time has past since then? Soon enough you must give in, to avoid the forfeit. But not too soon. You don't want to give in too easily. You don't want this to stop short. You must have a little time yet.
He abandons the feather when he reaches your feet. You feel the leather thongs lasso your toes, and then the bowl of a wooden spoon taps your naked soles, sending tickle-shocks running up your legs. Then he begins to rub with the back of the bowl. That shouldn't tickle, but it does. It tickles amazingly! It tickles astonishingly! It makes your feet feel like they're three times their normal size, and ten times their normal sensitivity. And then, when he pauses to run a silken scarf between your toes, it drives you mad! Soon, soon, you'll have to give in. But not quite yet. No, not quite yet.
The tickle-rub resumes, making you cry with laughter. The wooden spoon rubs your heels, and it tickles. It rubs the balls of your feet, and it tickles. It rubs the pads of your toes, and it tickles. It rubs your insteps, and it tickles. How does he do it? It's the most terrible, wonderful, irresistible tickling ever! How is he able to do this to you? You can't hold out much longer! Very soon, you'll have to give in. In just a very little bit.
The tickling pauses. "Will you talk now, my lady?" he asks. "Will you tell me about the secret passages?"
Just a little bit more, and you'll give in. "Nooo!" you moan. And then the timer rings. "Oh no," you sigh. You've lost the forfeit.
"Well now." Your boyfriend sounds disgustingly cheerful. So do the scissors as - snip snip - the straps of your bra and panties are cut away. You wait for him to release you; to leer at your new nudity. But instead he beings a vigorous finger-tickle of the soles of your feet. You laugh wildly, and squirm wildly. You're naked, and tickled, and wet. The tickle sensations run all the way through you as he tickles your feet, and tickles your feet, and tickles your feet. And the orgasm takes you. And takes you. And takes you again for as long as the tickling continues.
(the end)
