nytklee
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Business Trip (mmm/m, CD, nylon, feet, forced)
Chapter Two: Edge of the Forbidden
The air inside the van grew heavier, suffused with the oppressive weight of fear and exhaustion. Lynda’s consciousness teetered on the edge, battered by the relentless torment of icy liquid and the soft brush’s maddening strokes on her nylon-clad soles. The piercing itch lingered, her nerves taut as a bowstring. Her muffled pleas, stifled by the thick duct tape, dissolved into faint, broken whimpers. Her silk dress, drenched in sweat, clung to her skin, its hem a crumpled mess from his futile struggles. The sheer black stockings, faintly frayed, still hugged her legs tightly, a cruel reminder of her vulnerability.
Suddenly, a masked figure seized her feet, roughly forcing the five-inch satin stilettos back onto them. The shoes’ tight embrace intensified the pressure, amplifying the icy, itching torment trapped beneath the nylon. Desperate for relief, Lynda tried to scratch at her soles with her fingers, but the pointed toes of the heels clamped her feet, the stockings’ slick friction against the satin lining rendering her efforts useless. She struggled to kick the shoes off, her legs straining against the ropes, but the heels fit with terrifying precision, refusing to budge, their faint clinking the only sound of her failure.
The van screeched to a halt, the engine’s roar falling silent, plunging the interior into an eerie quiet. Lynda’s heart pounded, fear and anticipation twisting together—she had no idea what awaited her. A masked man leaned down, untying the ropes around her ankles. The stockings slackened slightly, but the icy itch clung to her soles, offering no reprieve. Rough hands yanked her upright, shoving her out of the van. Her stilettos struck the ground with sharp clicks, each step intensifying the torment in her feet, the friction of nylon against satin like fuel on a fire.
The men pushed her forward, the hood blinding her to her surroundings. Strange sounds filled the air—distant barking, the rustle of wind through leaves, and the low, rapid chatter of the men in their unfamiliar language, their tone cold and purposeful, as if plotting something sinister. Lynda’s throat emitted faint, desperate whimpers, weak and hopeless, ignored by her captors. Her legs, weakened from prolonged restraint, trembled beneath her, the stilettos’ thin heels making each step precarious, the itching in her soles scattering her focus.
After what felt like an eternity, she was shoved into a room, the rough stone ground giving way to soft carpet beneath her heels. Before she could react, a pair of strong hands pushed her onto a bed. The mattress was soft but cold, her silk dress fanning out as she fell, exposing her nylon-clad legs. She tried to struggle, but the men swiftly pinned her down, binding her ankles together again with rope. The cords dug into her stockings, eliciting a faint rustling sound. Her feet were then yanked toward the foot of the bed, secured tightly to the frame, leaving her utterly immobile.
The icy, itching torment in her soles persisted, trapped within the tight confines of the stilettos, offering no chance for relief. Lynda’s muffled cries grew frantic, a mix of feeble struggles and pleading moans, but they were met only with the men’s low, mocking laughter and their cryptic conversation. Her consciousness frayed under the endless torment, her body nearing collapse from the strain. Fixed to the bed in darkness, escape was impossible, the piercing itch in her soles an unrelenting nightmare that followed him like a shadow.
A sharp clack broke the tension as a masked figure seized her feet, yanking off the five-inch satin stilettos. The heels struck the bedframe, their brief echo ringing in the air. Her nylon-clad soles, exposed to the open air, burned with intensified itching, as if countless tiny needles danced beneath the skin. Lynda tried to pull her feet back, but the ropes held firm, leaving her toes to curl helplessly, the stockings whispering faintly with each futile twitch.
One of the men produced a delicate feather, its tip glinting softly in the dim light. He drew it slowly toward Lynda’s soles, brushing it along their sensitive arches. The feather’s touch was light and silky. Her body jolted, ascendancy, a frantic whimper bursting from her throat, laced with helpless laughter and pleading moans. Her legs strained against the ropes, the stockings’ friction against the cords producing a soft rustle, but her struggles were in vain.
The men’s voices filled the room, their tone tinged with a perverse thrill, clearly reveling in her reactions. The feather’s torment continued, teasing her arches one moment, darting swiftly through the gaps between her toes the next. Each stroke heightened the unbearable itch, pushing her mind to waver between agony and a strange, forbidden thrill. To her shock, amidst the torment, her body began to respond with a faint, unsettling excitement. Her heart raced, blood surging through her, the silk dress warm against her flushed skin.
The men’s actions grew bolder. One leaned down, pinning Lynda to the bed, eliminating any chance of movement. Her muffled protests weakened, reduced to feeble whimpers. Suddenly, a wet, hot sensation grazed her chest—the man’s lips found her sensitive nipple, alternating between soft licks and sharp nibbles, sending sharp jolts of stimulation through her. The thin silk dress offered no barrier, her skin trembling under the intimate assault, her mind spiraling into chaos.
At the same time, another hand reached for her groin, deftly stroking the swelling beneath the silk. The friction of the dress and stockings intensified the sensation, like sparks igniting within her. Lynda’s whimpers grew frantic, laced with shame and helpless pleading. Her body teetered on the edge of collapse under the onslaught—the feather’s relentless tickling, the teasing bites at her chest, and the rhythmic stroking below formed a forbidden symphony, blurring the line between pain and pleasure. Her consciousness flickered in the darkness, tethered to this strange, inescapable arousal.
The men’s laughter reverberated through the room, their foreign words coiling around her like a sinister whisper, deepening her sense of helplessness. Bound to the bed, tormented by the itching soles, the feather’s teasing, and the overwhelming sensations across her body, Lynda hovered on the brink of breaking. Her whimpers faded to a frail, trembling note, like a string about to snap, ignored by her captors. In the darkness, she was left with nothing but the ceaseless torment and the betrayal of her own body.
The feather glided lightly across her nylon-clad soles, its delicate touch igniting her nerves like countless tiny sparks. Simultaneously, a hand deftly stroked her groin, the friction of the silk dress and stockings intensifying the sensation, like fire bursting within her. Her nipples, teased by wet lips, endured a cycle of nibbles and sucks, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through her. Lynda’s body, powerless to resist, writhed helplessly, her hooded head thrashing side to side in a futile bid to escape the maddening torment. Her muffled moans, stifled by the tape, carried a forbidden tremor, barely audible yet heavy with desperation.
The relentless stimulation—the feather’s tickling, the stroking below, and the teasing bites at her chest—merged into an inescapable tide. Lynda’s consciousness teetered on the edge of pain and pleasure, her body tensing as blood surged through her. Finally, the unyielding assault pushed her over the edge, a violent shudder ripping through her as she climaxed. Her moans grew frantic beneath the hood, then faded into weak, broken gasps. Her strength drained, her mind blurred, and she slipped into a void, fainting into the silent abyss of darkness.
When Lynda awoke, a throbbing headache pulsed through her. Her eyes fluttered open to find herself on the familiar hotel bed, the soft sheets carrying a faint lavender scent. The ropes and clasps were gone, the oppressive bindings vanished, yet the icy itch lingered on her soles, making her instinctively curl her toes. She tore off the hood and ripped away the duct tape, a low gasp escaping her throat as air flooded her lungs—a fleeting relief tinged with an odd emptiness.
Glancing down, she saw the five-inch satin stilettos still on her feet, the stockings faintly frayed but clinging tightly to her legs. She kicked off the heels, their soft thud muffled by the carpet. Shedding the sweat-drenched silk dress and stockings, her bare skin shivered in the cool air. She stumbled to the bathroom, turning on the shower. Hot water cascaded over her exhausted body, an attempt to wash away the icy itch and the memory of her ordeal, but the sensation in her soles lingered like an indelible mark.
After the shower, now Lindon slipped into a comfortable cotton T-shirt and casual pants, a semblance of his everyday self returning. Back in the room, his eyes caught a slip of paper on the nightstand. It was a receipt, meticulously listing services and their costs: “Bondage Experience,” “Nylon Sole Tickling,” “Feather Stimulation,” Each item was priced, a calculated ledger of his ordeal.
Sitting at the desk, Lindon opened his laptop and sipped the hotel’s coffee, its rich aroma grounding his scattered thoughts. He navigated to a discreet website, its pages offering a menu of intimate experiences. Sipping his coffee, he clicked through the options, his gaze lingering. His fingers hovered over selections: “Orgasm Control,” “Forced Stocking Change,” “Sole Licking.” He murmured, almost inaudibly, “Next time… maybe these.”
His eyes lingered on the screen, a faint, enigmatic smile curling his lips. The steam from the coffee rose in delicate wisps, the room’s silence broken only by the soft click of the keyboard. His finger tapped the mouse, a quiet confirmation of some unknown future.
The End
Chapter Two: Edge of the Forbidden
The air inside the van grew heavier, suffused with the oppressive weight of fear and exhaustion. Lynda’s consciousness teetered on the edge, battered by the relentless torment of icy liquid and the soft brush’s maddening strokes on her nylon-clad soles. The piercing itch lingered, her nerves taut as a bowstring. Her muffled pleas, stifled by the thick duct tape, dissolved into faint, broken whimpers. Her silk dress, drenched in sweat, clung to her skin, its hem a crumpled mess from his futile struggles. The sheer black stockings, faintly frayed, still hugged her legs tightly, a cruel reminder of her vulnerability.
Suddenly, a masked figure seized her feet, roughly forcing the five-inch satin stilettos back onto them. The shoes’ tight embrace intensified the pressure, amplifying the icy, itching torment trapped beneath the nylon. Desperate for relief, Lynda tried to scratch at her soles with her fingers, but the pointed toes of the heels clamped her feet, the stockings’ slick friction against the satin lining rendering her efforts useless. She struggled to kick the shoes off, her legs straining against the ropes, but the heels fit with terrifying precision, refusing to budge, their faint clinking the only sound of her failure.
The van screeched to a halt, the engine’s roar falling silent, plunging the interior into an eerie quiet. Lynda’s heart pounded, fear and anticipation twisting together—she had no idea what awaited her. A masked man leaned down, untying the ropes around her ankles. The stockings slackened slightly, but the icy itch clung to her soles, offering no reprieve. Rough hands yanked her upright, shoving her out of the van. Her stilettos struck the ground with sharp clicks, each step intensifying the torment in her feet, the friction of nylon against satin like fuel on a fire.
The men pushed her forward, the hood blinding her to her surroundings. Strange sounds filled the air—distant barking, the rustle of wind through leaves, and the low, rapid chatter of the men in their unfamiliar language, their tone cold and purposeful, as if plotting something sinister. Lynda’s throat emitted faint, desperate whimpers, weak and hopeless, ignored by her captors. Her legs, weakened from prolonged restraint, trembled beneath her, the stilettos’ thin heels making each step precarious, the itching in her soles scattering her focus.
After what felt like an eternity, she was shoved into a room, the rough stone ground giving way to soft carpet beneath her heels. Before she could react, a pair of strong hands pushed her onto a bed. The mattress was soft but cold, her silk dress fanning out as she fell, exposing her nylon-clad legs. She tried to struggle, but the men swiftly pinned her down, binding her ankles together again with rope. The cords dug into her stockings, eliciting a faint rustling sound. Her feet were then yanked toward the foot of the bed, secured tightly to the frame, leaving her utterly immobile.
The icy, itching torment in her soles persisted, trapped within the tight confines of the stilettos, offering no chance for relief. Lynda’s muffled cries grew frantic, a mix of feeble struggles and pleading moans, but they were met only with the men’s low, mocking laughter and their cryptic conversation. Her consciousness frayed under the endless torment, her body nearing collapse from the strain. Fixed to the bed in darkness, escape was impossible, the piercing itch in her soles an unrelenting nightmare that followed him like a shadow.
A sharp clack broke the tension as a masked figure seized her feet, yanking off the five-inch satin stilettos. The heels struck the bedframe, their brief echo ringing in the air. Her nylon-clad soles, exposed to the open air, burned with intensified itching, as if countless tiny needles danced beneath the skin. Lynda tried to pull her feet back, but the ropes held firm, leaving her toes to curl helplessly, the stockings whispering faintly with each futile twitch.
One of the men produced a delicate feather, its tip glinting softly in the dim light. He drew it slowly toward Lynda’s soles, brushing it along their sensitive arches. The feather’s touch was light and silky. Her body jolted, ascendancy, a frantic whimper bursting from her throat, laced with helpless laughter and pleading moans. Her legs strained against the ropes, the stockings’ friction against the cords producing a soft rustle, but her struggles were in vain.
The men’s voices filled the room, their tone tinged with a perverse thrill, clearly reveling in her reactions. The feather’s torment continued, teasing her arches one moment, darting swiftly through the gaps between her toes the next. Each stroke heightened the unbearable itch, pushing her mind to waver between agony and a strange, forbidden thrill. To her shock, amidst the torment, her body began to respond with a faint, unsettling excitement. Her heart raced, blood surging through her, the silk dress warm against her flushed skin.
The men’s actions grew bolder. One leaned down, pinning Lynda to the bed, eliminating any chance of movement. Her muffled protests weakened, reduced to feeble whimpers. Suddenly, a wet, hot sensation grazed her chest—the man’s lips found her sensitive nipple, alternating between soft licks and sharp nibbles, sending sharp jolts of stimulation through her. The thin silk dress offered no barrier, her skin trembling under the intimate assault, her mind spiraling into chaos.
At the same time, another hand reached for her groin, deftly stroking the swelling beneath the silk. The friction of the dress and stockings intensified the sensation, like sparks igniting within her. Lynda’s whimpers grew frantic, laced with shame and helpless pleading. Her body teetered on the edge of collapse under the onslaught—the feather’s relentless tickling, the teasing bites at her chest, and the rhythmic stroking below formed a forbidden symphony, blurring the line between pain and pleasure. Her consciousness flickered in the darkness, tethered to this strange, inescapable arousal.
The men’s laughter reverberated through the room, their foreign words coiling around her like a sinister whisper, deepening her sense of helplessness. Bound to the bed, tormented by the itching soles, the feather’s teasing, and the overwhelming sensations across her body, Lynda hovered on the brink of breaking. Her whimpers faded to a frail, trembling note, like a string about to snap, ignored by her captors. In the darkness, she was left with nothing but the ceaseless torment and the betrayal of her own body.
The feather glided lightly across her nylon-clad soles, its delicate touch igniting her nerves like countless tiny sparks. Simultaneously, a hand deftly stroked her groin, the friction of the silk dress and stockings intensifying the sensation, like fire bursting within her. Her nipples, teased by wet lips, endured a cycle of nibbles and sucks, sending sharp jolts of pleasure through her. Lynda’s body, powerless to resist, writhed helplessly, her hooded head thrashing side to side in a futile bid to escape the maddening torment. Her muffled moans, stifled by the tape, carried a forbidden tremor, barely audible yet heavy with desperation.
The relentless stimulation—the feather’s tickling, the stroking below, and the teasing bites at her chest—merged into an inescapable tide. Lynda’s consciousness teetered on the edge of pain and pleasure, her body tensing as blood surged through her. Finally, the unyielding assault pushed her over the edge, a violent shudder ripping through her as she climaxed. Her moans grew frantic beneath the hood, then faded into weak, broken gasps. Her strength drained, her mind blurred, and she slipped into a void, fainting into the silent abyss of darkness.
When Lynda awoke, a throbbing headache pulsed through her. Her eyes fluttered open to find herself on the familiar hotel bed, the soft sheets carrying a faint lavender scent. The ropes and clasps were gone, the oppressive bindings vanished, yet the icy itch lingered on her soles, making her instinctively curl her toes. She tore off the hood and ripped away the duct tape, a low gasp escaping her throat as air flooded her lungs—a fleeting relief tinged with an odd emptiness.
Glancing down, she saw the five-inch satin stilettos still on her feet, the stockings faintly frayed but clinging tightly to her legs. She kicked off the heels, their soft thud muffled by the carpet. Shedding the sweat-drenched silk dress and stockings, her bare skin shivered in the cool air. She stumbled to the bathroom, turning on the shower. Hot water cascaded over her exhausted body, an attempt to wash away the icy itch and the memory of her ordeal, but the sensation in her soles lingered like an indelible mark.
After the shower, now Lindon slipped into a comfortable cotton T-shirt and casual pants, a semblance of his everyday self returning. Back in the room, his eyes caught a slip of paper on the nightstand. It was a receipt, meticulously listing services and their costs: “Bondage Experience,” “Nylon Sole Tickling,” “Feather Stimulation,” Each item was priced, a calculated ledger of his ordeal.
Sitting at the desk, Lindon opened his laptop and sipped the hotel’s coffee, its rich aroma grounding his scattered thoughts. He navigated to a discreet website, its pages offering a menu of intimate experiences. Sipping his coffee, he clicked through the options, his gaze lingering. His fingers hovered over selections: “Orgasm Control,” “Forced Stocking Change,” “Sole Licking.” He murmured, almost inaudibly, “Next time… maybe these.”
His eyes lingered on the screen, a faint, enigmatic smile curling his lips. The steam from the coffee rose in delicate wisps, the room’s silence broken only by the soft click of the keyboard. His finger tapped the mouse, a quiet confirmation of some unknown future.
The End
