nytklee
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Business Trip (mmm/m, CD, nylon, feet, forced)
Chapter One: The Trap in the Night Alley
On a Saturday night, the streets of Prague were cloaked in a veil of mist, the dim yellow glow of streetlamps casting mottled shadows on the cobblestone paths. Lindon, a young and ambitious business representative, had come to this ancient city to secure a crucial European contract. He was staying alone in a luxurious hotel, and as he pushed open the window, his gaze lingered on the distant silhouette of the Charles Bridge. He inhaled the cool night air, a shiver of anticipation running through him. Tonight, he would let the secret buried deep within him unfurl.
Closing the window, Lindon drew the heavy velvet curtains, the soft lamplight spilling across the room and reflecting off the mirror. He sat at the vanity, his movements deliberate as he opened an elegant makeup case. Inside were carefully chosen cosmetics—a rich rose lipstick, a precise eyeliner pen, and shimmering highlighter powder. With practiced ease, he applied foundation, smoothing his skin to a porcelain-like finish. He accentuated his eyes with smoky eyeshadow, his lashes lengthening under coats of mascara, giving his gaze a sultry depth. Finally, he swiped on the scarlet lipstick, his lips glistening seductively under the light.
From his suitcase, he retrieved a black velvet box containing a silky chestnut wig, its long, softly curled strands cascading over his shoulders as he secured it in place. The tips of the hair brushed against his neck, sending a tingling sensation through him. Standing, he shed the tailored suit he’d worn all day, replacing it with a meticulously chosen silk dress. The deep burgundy fabric clung to his body like liquid, accentuating every curve. The hem stopped just above his knees, revealing sheer black nylon stockings that shimmered faintly in the light, encasing his slender legs in an aura of mystique and allure.
Finally, he opened a shoebox to reveal a pair of five-inch satin pointed-toe stilettos. The deep black heels gleamed with understated luxury. He slipped his feet into them, the snug fit pressing against his toes, the smooth texture of the stockings intertwining with the tight embrace of the heels, quickening his pulse. Standing, he took a few tentative steps, the sharp clack of the heels against the wooden floor echoing with crisp rhythm. Each step felt like a dance between liberation and exhilarating tension. At this moment, Lindon turns into Lynda.
Lynda paused before the full-length mirror, her reflection a vision far removed from the polished businessman of daylight hours. In her place stood a woman radiating seductive confidence. She took a deep breath, grabbed a small handbag containing her keys, wallet, and phone, and stepped out into the Prague night.
The streets near the hotel were quiet, the cobblestones reverberating with the sharp clicks of his heels. She chose a secluded alley, its walls lined with weathered bricks and patches of moss. The secrecy of the narrow lane thrilled her, as if only in such hidden corners could she truly become herself. Her steps were light and graceful, the faint rustle of her stockings and the gentle sway of her skirt creating a symphony of subtle seduction.
But the fleeting sense of freedom shattered abruptly. From the depths of the alley came the sound of hurried footsteps. Lynda’s heart lurched. She glanced back, only to see three masked figures emerging from the shadows, closing in fast. Before she could react, a strong hand clamped over her mouth, thick duct tape sealing her lips with a muffled thud. Her stifled cry was reduced to desperate whimpers. A black hood was yanked over her head, plunging her into darkness.
Her heart pounded like a drum as she struggled, but her arms were swiftly twisted behind her, cold metal handcuffs snapping shut with a sharp click. The silk dress tore slightly at the sleeve, the sound faint but jarring. Her legs, constrained by the towering heels, offered little resistance. The masked men moved with ruthless efficiency, shoving her toward a waiting van. The door slid open with a harsh scrape, and Lynda was thrust inside, collapsing onto the cold, rough floor. Her stockings snagged against the surface, a sharp sting flaring at his ankle.
The van roared to life, its engine drowning out her muffled sobs. She tugged at the handcuffs, but the metal bit deeper into her wrists. The men spoke in a rapid, guttural language—perhaps an Eastern European dialect—unintelligible to her. The linguistic barrier amplified her helplessness, her mind racing with terrifying possibilities. Who were they? Why her? What came next?
Suddenly, the atmosphere in the van shifted, growing more urgent. A masked figure grabbed Lynda’s legs with rough hands, binding her knees and ankles tightly with coarse rope. The fibers dug into the delicate weave of her sheer black stockings, emitting a faint rustling sound as they strained under the pressure, accentuating the curve of her calves. Another figure fastened a metal clasp around her legs, linking it to her cuffed wrists, rendering her nearly immobile. Her body was now completely restrained, unable to roll or shift, leaving her curled helplessly on the cold floor.
A pair of strong arms seized her waist, pinning her in place with no room to writhe. Her pulse raced, fear surging like a tidal wave. Then, a new sensation startled her—a sharp clack as her five-inch satin stilettos were yanked off, the heels striking the van’s floor with a brief, hollow thud. Her size 9 feet, now bare save for the gossamer black stockings, shimmered faintly in the dim interior, the arches taut with tension.
A sudden, featherlight touch grazed his soles—nimble fingers began to dance across the silky surface of her stockings. The movements were deliberate, teasing her sensitive nerves with precision. The thin nylon amplified every sensation, the tickling like an electric current shooting through her body. She curled her toes instinctively, desperate to escape the maddening stimulation, but the ropes and clasp held her legs fast, forcing her to endure. "Mmmmmmm.....Phmmmmmm.......Hammmmmmmmm......" Muffled whimpers escaped her throat, a mix of pleading and futile protest.
Nimble fingers continued their merciless dance across the soles of her nylon-clad feet, teasing her nerves with calculated precision. The silky stockings amplified every touch, the tickling sensation flooding her body like a tidal wave, forcing her muscles to tense and her toes to curl helplessly within the thin fabric. "Mmmmmm...Hammmmm.....Nmmmmmmmmm....." Muffled moans escaped her throat, a mix of pleading and powerless protest. But this torment was only the beginning.
The masked men’s voices rose again, their guttural, unfamiliar language sharp and mocking, chilling Lynda to the core. They spoke as if she were a mere plaything in their grasp. Suddenly, a faint creak of leather cut through the air, and her heart lurched—a soft whip was being drawn, its material whispering with a menacing swish.
A searing sting lashed across the soles of her feet, the whip striking with precision. The thin layer of stockings offered no protection, the fiery pain surging through her like an electric shock. "Mmmmmmm....Ommmmmmm....Phmmmmmm......" Her body jolted, a sharper whimper escaping through the tape, a cry of anguish. Her toes clenched instinctively within the nylon, her legs straining to pull away, but the ropes and clasp held her fast, unyielding.
The whipping paused, giving her no time to recover before the fingers resumed their assault, skittering across her sensitive soles with renewed intensity. The lingering sting from the whip seemed to heighten her skin’s sensitivity, each stroke of the fingers like salt in a wound, sending uncontrollable shudders through her. "Nmmmmm....Mmmmmmm.....Stommmmmmmm........" Pain and tickling intertwined, creating an unbearable torment. Her muffled cries morphed into helpless, almost manic laughter—an instinctive response laced with despair.
The men’s laughter echoed in the van, dripping with scorn and amusement, clearly pleased with her reactions. The whip struck again, harder this time, each lash igniting his soles with burning agony, like flames licking her skin. The tickling and whipping alternated in a cruel rhythm, fingers and leather taking turns to torment her feet, leaving her mind teetering between pain and maddening itch. Her silk dress, soaked with sweat, clung to her skin, its hem crumpled and disheveled from her struggles. The stockings, frayed slightly from the relentless friction, still hugged her legs tightly, a mocking contrast to her vulnerability.
The van pressed on, its journey seemingly endless. Lynda’s strength waned under the relentless torment, her whimpers growing faint and ragged, like a string on the verge of snapping. Her body trembled from exertion, sweat trickling beneath the hood, its sticky warmth adding to her discomfort. The dual assault of whip and fingers pushed her to the brink of collapse, her consciousness blurring in the darkness. She had no sense of when this torture would end or where she was being taken. All that remained was the ceaseless pain and tickling, underscored by the men’s low, mocking laughter reverberating through the van.
Lynda’s strength was nearly drained. Her nylon-clad soles endured unrelenting torment. The fiery sting of the whip alternated with the teasing dance of fingers, leaving her mind reeling between pain and maddening itch. Muffled whimpers, laced with helpless, despairing laughter, escaped her throat—a visceral reaction steeped in hopelessness. The masked men’s laughter echoed through the van, their guttural, unfamiliar language dripping with cruel mockery, as if savoring her vulnerability.
Abruptly, the rhythm of torment paused. Lynda gasped, seizing the fleeting moment to catch her breath, but a sudden splash of icy liquid doused her stocking-covered soles. The frigid sensation replaced the lingering burn of the whip, piercing her skin like frozen needles and sending a shudder through her entire body. Her toes curled instinctively within the nylon, desperate to escape, but the ropes and clasp held her immobile. The liquid trickled along the fibers of her stockings, soaking every inch of her soles, the sheer fabric clinging even more tightly, outlining the arches of her feet with cruel precision.
A soft rustling sound followed. One of the masked men produced a soft-bristled brush and began spreading the icy liquid across her soles with deliberate strokes. The brush’s dense, pliant bristles glided over the slick nylon, delivering a delicate yet sinister sensation. At first, the cold offered a fleeting relief, but soon a piercing itch burrowed deep into her skin, as if countless tiny needles danced beneath the surface. This new torment was far worse than the earlier tickling, striking directly at her nerve endings, forcing uncontrollable tremors through her.
Lynda’s throat erupted with frantic whimpers, a chaotic blend of helpless laughter and pleading moans. Her body thrashed against the ropes, the cords digging deeper, the stockings whispering faintly with each futile twist. The brush continued its relentless work, alternating between gentle sweeps and rapid scratches, the piercing itch surging in waves that threatened to shatter her sanity. Her legs twitched from the strain, sweat seeping beneath the hood, its sticky warmth clinging to her face.
The men’s voices rose intermittently, their tone laced with a sickening thrill, clearly delighted by her reactions. The brush showed no mercy, the itching sensation growing unbearable, as if it might tear her nerves apart. Lynda’s whimpers weakened, her laughter and pleas echoing faintly in the van, ignored by his captors. His strength ebbed with each moment of torment, his body slumping, her consciousness teetering on the edge of collapse. She felt herself slipping toward exhaustion, trapped in a nightmare of ice and itch from which there was no escape.
End of chapter one.
Chapter One: The Trap in the Night Alley
On a Saturday night, the streets of Prague were cloaked in a veil of mist, the dim yellow glow of streetlamps casting mottled shadows on the cobblestone paths. Lindon, a young and ambitious business representative, had come to this ancient city to secure a crucial European contract. He was staying alone in a luxurious hotel, and as he pushed open the window, his gaze lingered on the distant silhouette of the Charles Bridge. He inhaled the cool night air, a shiver of anticipation running through him. Tonight, he would let the secret buried deep within him unfurl.
Closing the window, Lindon drew the heavy velvet curtains, the soft lamplight spilling across the room and reflecting off the mirror. He sat at the vanity, his movements deliberate as he opened an elegant makeup case. Inside were carefully chosen cosmetics—a rich rose lipstick, a precise eyeliner pen, and shimmering highlighter powder. With practiced ease, he applied foundation, smoothing his skin to a porcelain-like finish. He accentuated his eyes with smoky eyeshadow, his lashes lengthening under coats of mascara, giving his gaze a sultry depth. Finally, he swiped on the scarlet lipstick, his lips glistening seductively under the light.
From his suitcase, he retrieved a black velvet box containing a silky chestnut wig, its long, softly curled strands cascading over his shoulders as he secured it in place. The tips of the hair brushed against his neck, sending a tingling sensation through him. Standing, he shed the tailored suit he’d worn all day, replacing it with a meticulously chosen silk dress. The deep burgundy fabric clung to his body like liquid, accentuating every curve. The hem stopped just above his knees, revealing sheer black nylon stockings that shimmered faintly in the light, encasing his slender legs in an aura of mystique and allure.
Finally, he opened a shoebox to reveal a pair of five-inch satin pointed-toe stilettos. The deep black heels gleamed with understated luxury. He slipped his feet into them, the snug fit pressing against his toes, the smooth texture of the stockings intertwining with the tight embrace of the heels, quickening his pulse. Standing, he took a few tentative steps, the sharp clack of the heels against the wooden floor echoing with crisp rhythm. Each step felt like a dance between liberation and exhilarating tension. At this moment, Lindon turns into Lynda.
Lynda paused before the full-length mirror, her reflection a vision far removed from the polished businessman of daylight hours. In her place stood a woman radiating seductive confidence. She took a deep breath, grabbed a small handbag containing her keys, wallet, and phone, and stepped out into the Prague night.
The streets near the hotel were quiet, the cobblestones reverberating with the sharp clicks of his heels. She chose a secluded alley, its walls lined with weathered bricks and patches of moss. The secrecy of the narrow lane thrilled her, as if only in such hidden corners could she truly become herself. Her steps were light and graceful, the faint rustle of her stockings and the gentle sway of her skirt creating a symphony of subtle seduction.
But the fleeting sense of freedom shattered abruptly. From the depths of the alley came the sound of hurried footsteps. Lynda’s heart lurched. She glanced back, only to see three masked figures emerging from the shadows, closing in fast. Before she could react, a strong hand clamped over her mouth, thick duct tape sealing her lips with a muffled thud. Her stifled cry was reduced to desperate whimpers. A black hood was yanked over her head, plunging her into darkness.
Her heart pounded like a drum as she struggled, but her arms were swiftly twisted behind her, cold metal handcuffs snapping shut with a sharp click. The silk dress tore slightly at the sleeve, the sound faint but jarring. Her legs, constrained by the towering heels, offered little resistance. The masked men moved with ruthless efficiency, shoving her toward a waiting van. The door slid open with a harsh scrape, and Lynda was thrust inside, collapsing onto the cold, rough floor. Her stockings snagged against the surface, a sharp sting flaring at his ankle.
The van roared to life, its engine drowning out her muffled sobs. She tugged at the handcuffs, but the metal bit deeper into her wrists. The men spoke in a rapid, guttural language—perhaps an Eastern European dialect—unintelligible to her. The linguistic barrier amplified her helplessness, her mind racing with terrifying possibilities. Who were they? Why her? What came next?
Suddenly, the atmosphere in the van shifted, growing more urgent. A masked figure grabbed Lynda’s legs with rough hands, binding her knees and ankles tightly with coarse rope. The fibers dug into the delicate weave of her sheer black stockings, emitting a faint rustling sound as they strained under the pressure, accentuating the curve of her calves. Another figure fastened a metal clasp around her legs, linking it to her cuffed wrists, rendering her nearly immobile. Her body was now completely restrained, unable to roll or shift, leaving her curled helplessly on the cold floor.
A pair of strong arms seized her waist, pinning her in place with no room to writhe. Her pulse raced, fear surging like a tidal wave. Then, a new sensation startled her—a sharp clack as her five-inch satin stilettos were yanked off, the heels striking the van’s floor with a brief, hollow thud. Her size 9 feet, now bare save for the gossamer black stockings, shimmered faintly in the dim interior, the arches taut with tension.
A sudden, featherlight touch grazed his soles—nimble fingers began to dance across the silky surface of her stockings. The movements were deliberate, teasing her sensitive nerves with precision. The thin nylon amplified every sensation, the tickling like an electric current shooting through her body. She curled her toes instinctively, desperate to escape the maddening stimulation, but the ropes and clasp held her legs fast, forcing her to endure. "Mmmmmmm.....Phmmmmmm.......Hammmmmmmmm......" Muffled whimpers escaped her throat, a mix of pleading and futile protest.
Nimble fingers continued their merciless dance across the soles of her nylon-clad feet, teasing her nerves with calculated precision. The silky stockings amplified every touch, the tickling sensation flooding her body like a tidal wave, forcing her muscles to tense and her toes to curl helplessly within the thin fabric. "Mmmmmm...Hammmmm.....Nmmmmmmmmm....." Muffled moans escaped her throat, a mix of pleading and powerless protest. But this torment was only the beginning.
The masked men’s voices rose again, their guttural, unfamiliar language sharp and mocking, chilling Lynda to the core. They spoke as if she were a mere plaything in their grasp. Suddenly, a faint creak of leather cut through the air, and her heart lurched—a soft whip was being drawn, its material whispering with a menacing swish.
A searing sting lashed across the soles of her feet, the whip striking with precision. The thin layer of stockings offered no protection, the fiery pain surging through her like an electric shock. "Mmmmmmm....Ommmmmmm....Phmmmmmm......" Her body jolted, a sharper whimper escaping through the tape, a cry of anguish. Her toes clenched instinctively within the nylon, her legs straining to pull away, but the ropes and clasp held her fast, unyielding.
The whipping paused, giving her no time to recover before the fingers resumed their assault, skittering across her sensitive soles with renewed intensity. The lingering sting from the whip seemed to heighten her skin’s sensitivity, each stroke of the fingers like salt in a wound, sending uncontrollable shudders through her. "Nmmmmm....Mmmmmmm.....Stommmmmmmm........" Pain and tickling intertwined, creating an unbearable torment. Her muffled cries morphed into helpless, almost manic laughter—an instinctive response laced with despair.
The men’s laughter echoed in the van, dripping with scorn and amusement, clearly pleased with her reactions. The whip struck again, harder this time, each lash igniting his soles with burning agony, like flames licking her skin. The tickling and whipping alternated in a cruel rhythm, fingers and leather taking turns to torment her feet, leaving her mind teetering between pain and maddening itch. Her silk dress, soaked with sweat, clung to her skin, its hem crumpled and disheveled from her struggles. The stockings, frayed slightly from the relentless friction, still hugged her legs tightly, a mocking contrast to her vulnerability.
The van pressed on, its journey seemingly endless. Lynda’s strength waned under the relentless torment, her whimpers growing faint and ragged, like a string on the verge of snapping. Her body trembled from exertion, sweat trickling beneath the hood, its sticky warmth adding to her discomfort. The dual assault of whip and fingers pushed her to the brink of collapse, her consciousness blurring in the darkness. She had no sense of when this torture would end or where she was being taken. All that remained was the ceaseless pain and tickling, underscored by the men’s low, mocking laughter reverberating through the van.
Lynda’s strength was nearly drained. Her nylon-clad soles endured unrelenting torment. The fiery sting of the whip alternated with the teasing dance of fingers, leaving her mind reeling between pain and maddening itch. Muffled whimpers, laced with helpless, despairing laughter, escaped her throat—a visceral reaction steeped in hopelessness. The masked men’s laughter echoed through the van, their guttural, unfamiliar language dripping with cruel mockery, as if savoring her vulnerability.
Abruptly, the rhythm of torment paused. Lynda gasped, seizing the fleeting moment to catch her breath, but a sudden splash of icy liquid doused her stocking-covered soles. The frigid sensation replaced the lingering burn of the whip, piercing her skin like frozen needles and sending a shudder through her entire body. Her toes curled instinctively within the nylon, desperate to escape, but the ropes and clasp held her immobile. The liquid trickled along the fibers of her stockings, soaking every inch of her soles, the sheer fabric clinging even more tightly, outlining the arches of her feet with cruel precision.
A soft rustling sound followed. One of the masked men produced a soft-bristled brush and began spreading the icy liquid across her soles with deliberate strokes. The brush’s dense, pliant bristles glided over the slick nylon, delivering a delicate yet sinister sensation. At first, the cold offered a fleeting relief, but soon a piercing itch burrowed deep into her skin, as if countless tiny needles danced beneath the surface. This new torment was far worse than the earlier tickling, striking directly at her nerve endings, forcing uncontrollable tremors through her.
Lynda’s throat erupted with frantic whimpers, a chaotic blend of helpless laughter and pleading moans. Her body thrashed against the ropes, the cords digging deeper, the stockings whispering faintly with each futile twist. The brush continued its relentless work, alternating between gentle sweeps and rapid scratches, the piercing itch surging in waves that threatened to shatter her sanity. Her legs twitched from the strain, sweat seeping beneath the hood, its sticky warmth clinging to her face.
The men’s voices rose intermittently, their tone laced with a sickening thrill, clearly delighted by her reactions. The brush showed no mercy, the itching sensation growing unbearable, as if it might tear her nerves apart. Lynda’s whimpers weakened, her laughter and pleas echoing faintly in the van, ignored by his captors. His strength ebbed with each moment of torment, his body slumping, her consciousness teetering on the edge of collapse. She felt herself slipping toward exhaustion, trapped in a nightmare of ice and itch from which there was no escape.
End of chapter one.
