tickleplayerotica
TMF Novice
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2014
- Messages
- 55
- Points
- 18
“Well, you’re not getting away,” said Daron matter-of-factly.
Bella’s 21-year-old armpit had something in it-- something moving, something sharp. She pictured a cartoon frenzy of dueling cats, all claws and teeth, whirling in a fight-cloud, spinning wildly, stuck dead-center in the hollow of her poor, helpless, bare armpit.
“You said you wanted to get away,” Daron said. “So do it. Why aren’t you doing it?”
His fingers were miraculous and devastating all at once— he used his fingernails but without pushing too hard, not too much digging, not too much fingertip. No hard, harsh padded police batons shoving into her-- just silver, high-frequency tactical lightning, horrendous and wonderful.
They were naked, pressed against each other like book pages, sealed with sweat, her right arm trapped under the millstone of his hairy, broad chest. Her tiny left wrist was secured in the industrial clamp of his left hand, which was snaked under her neck and cocked upright, holding her arm up, holding her arm away, exposing that soft, pink concavity for the fingers of his right hand to scribble inside, lighting her up like nothing else.
She felt the hot iron bar of his sex pressing against her right thigh, felt the rough wires of the hair on his belly, her other hand trapped under his chest flopping uselessly against the bed like a dying bird, she was screaming in his ear but couldn’t help it, she couldn’t help it, it was so much, it was so fucking much oh god why oh god oh god oh gooodddd
The same spot, over and over, Daron's fingers danced, Daron's fingers scrabbled, Daron's fingers TICKLED. There was no predicting the sensations, no following them, no sorting them out in anticipation, in a chance to head them off. They just happened. Her muscles couldn’t free her, her mind couldn’t save her.
This was Daron's favorite spot, and Bella’s favorite spot, too, though she’d never admit it out loud— doing so might cause her to implode like the house in poltergeist. Or so she imagined.
“We had a deal,” said Daron, the low thunder of his voice reverberating against the side of her head. “You get away and I’ll stop. You said you could do it. You said, ‘No problem.’ I believe you called me weak, in fact. So why aren’t you getting away? I only have you by one hand...”
Bella was choked with laughter, her lungs emptied, unable to suck breath, she was just clicking in her throat now, eyes squeezed shut against the storm of sensation in her armpit, like a colony of ants all marching, marching, nibbling, pinching, her cheeks damp, her hair a thrown pile of laundry, his legs clamped around hers like python coils; she was trapped, she was prey, her **** was throbbing so much it was sore, Daron's beard was catching in her tossed hair, she was so little and he was so big and strong and he had her and she was all his.
“MERCY!” Bella wheezed, safe-wording. “MERCY, DADDY! MERCY!”
“What?” Daron asked, having heard her perfectly.
Bella’s throat was a dead alley. She summoned every atom of oxygen left inside her.
“MERCY!” she managed to wheeze.
The storm stopped. One second, clouds and lightning; the next, tranquil blue.
She felt Daron's lips on the top of her head.
“What a good girl I have,” he said. “I hope she learned her lesson.”
She nodded against his chest, her own chest heaving, nostrils sipping fresh, cool tendrils of air, her body ticking like a car motor after a day on the road. She nuzzled him, clung to him, her eyes shut, exhaustion in her every quavering cell.
His arms embraced her and she let herself drift, the last reckless waves breaking gently on the shore of her desire.
Bella’s 21-year-old armpit had something in it-- something moving, something sharp. She pictured a cartoon frenzy of dueling cats, all claws and teeth, whirling in a fight-cloud, spinning wildly, stuck dead-center in the hollow of her poor, helpless, bare armpit.
“You said you wanted to get away,” Daron said. “So do it. Why aren’t you doing it?”
His fingers were miraculous and devastating all at once— he used his fingernails but without pushing too hard, not too much digging, not too much fingertip. No hard, harsh padded police batons shoving into her-- just silver, high-frequency tactical lightning, horrendous and wonderful.
They were naked, pressed against each other like book pages, sealed with sweat, her right arm trapped under the millstone of his hairy, broad chest. Her tiny left wrist was secured in the industrial clamp of his left hand, which was snaked under her neck and cocked upright, holding her arm up, holding her arm away, exposing that soft, pink concavity for the fingers of his right hand to scribble inside, lighting her up like nothing else.
She felt the hot iron bar of his sex pressing against her right thigh, felt the rough wires of the hair on his belly, her other hand trapped under his chest flopping uselessly against the bed like a dying bird, she was screaming in his ear but couldn’t help it, she couldn’t help it, it was so much, it was so fucking much oh god why oh god oh god oh gooodddd
The same spot, over and over, Daron's fingers danced, Daron's fingers scrabbled, Daron's fingers TICKLED. There was no predicting the sensations, no following them, no sorting them out in anticipation, in a chance to head them off. They just happened. Her muscles couldn’t free her, her mind couldn’t save her.
This was Daron's favorite spot, and Bella’s favorite spot, too, though she’d never admit it out loud— doing so might cause her to implode like the house in poltergeist. Or so she imagined.
“We had a deal,” said Daron, the low thunder of his voice reverberating against the side of her head. “You get away and I’ll stop. You said you could do it. You said, ‘No problem.’ I believe you called me weak, in fact. So why aren’t you getting away? I only have you by one hand...”
Bella was choked with laughter, her lungs emptied, unable to suck breath, she was just clicking in her throat now, eyes squeezed shut against the storm of sensation in her armpit, like a colony of ants all marching, marching, nibbling, pinching, her cheeks damp, her hair a thrown pile of laundry, his legs clamped around hers like python coils; she was trapped, she was prey, her **** was throbbing so much it was sore, Daron's beard was catching in her tossed hair, she was so little and he was so big and strong and he had her and she was all his.
“MERCY!” Bella wheezed, safe-wording. “MERCY, DADDY! MERCY!”
“What?” Daron asked, having heard her perfectly.
Bella’s throat was a dead alley. She summoned every atom of oxygen left inside her.
“MERCY!” she managed to wheeze.
The storm stopped. One second, clouds and lightning; the next, tranquil blue.
She felt Daron's lips on the top of her head.
“What a good girl I have,” he said. “I hope she learned her lesson.”
She nodded against his chest, her own chest heaving, nostrils sipping fresh, cool tendrils of air, her body ticking like a car motor after a day on the road. She nuzzled him, clung to him, her eyes shut, exhaustion in her every quavering cell.
His arms embraced her and she let herself drift, the last reckless waves breaking gently on the shore of her desire.
