Before I share part 2, I wanted to address a question I have received.
1. Yes, this is a true story. Or at least, it's as complete a retelling of this experience as I can recall. Not every single detail may be 100% accurate, but by and large, this happened. For serious.
Oh, and if you missed part 1, let me catch you up - http://ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?276771-quot-Give-Me-Your-Foot-quot-(M-F)
“Give me your other foot.”
There was no hesitation or argument this time. How could there be? He had effortlessly worked his way into my brain, took down every layer of defenses like he was the architect of them, and lay down a trail directly to the core of every submissive fantasy I had ever had. He could have asked me to compose a sonnet written entirely in hieroglyphics and I would have given it the old college try.
I can see how cult leaders acquire followers.
I swung my other leg up into his waiting hand, but he gently pushed it back down.
“Excuse me. . . I misspoke. Give me your other BARE foot.”
We both smiled at each other, well aware of the game and now each of us very eager to play. I leaned to the side, reaching down and unzipping my boot, though unlike the first one, which came off slowly...teasingly... the second one came off as if it was fleeing from an approaching avalanche. I wrenched the zipper down, cupping the heel, pointing my toes and flicking my ankle in one madcap motion, sending the boot somersaulting across the carpet.
He watched it with an amused grin, which broadened as he looked back to find that my sock had already been removed with equal enthusiasm, dropped to the floor, my newly bared sole moving back into his waiting palm.
“Why didn’t you clean off the fuzz?” he asked knowingly.
I looked into his eyes.
“You didn’t tell me to.”
He grinned, yet for the first time, the icy veneer of detached dominance faded a bit. For the fleetingest of moments, I could see the outright hunger, the total excitement he felt at having me be so eager to please him, to be controlled by him. He squirmed, almost imperceptibly, yet that was all I needed to feel the balance of power shift in my direction. Up until this point, he was in charge, and I was his puppet, completely under his thrall.
Yet now, it seemed, we were both controlling each other in this little game.
Taking advantage of his momentary lapse in concentration, I rubbed my bare foot along his jeaned thigh, giggling to myself as his next blink fluttered a bit more and he inhaled sharply.
It was the giggle, I think, that snapped him out of it. While his inhalation was quick and uncontrolled, when his eyes opened and he glared at me, I could tell I had lost my moment in the sun.
“I did NOT tell you to do that, either!” He grasped my ankle, harder than he had before, and yanked my foot back into his charge. He stared at me, and quite proudly, I held his gaze for a few seconds. When his expression didn’t change, however, my resolve dissolved, and I looked away, then down at the ground.
“Sorry…”
He said nothing, only arching an eyebrow, still waiting for something.
I blanched. Obviously my attempt to take charge was not appreciated. I looked down even further, examining every fiber of the carpet, my voice barely audible.
“Sorry. . . sir”
He said nothing for a few seconds, and I fought back the urge to begin crying. Just when I honestly thought a tear was going to fall, I felt his grip around my ankle soften. I dared to peek up at his face and saw him looking at me much more kindly than before, with just the slightest hint of a smile. I felt myself turn pink with relief, my heart returning to a mild race instead of the staccato panicked beating of a few moments earlier.
“Ticklish Trish forgot her place for a moment, didn’t she?”
I nodded, blinking quickly, as the tears were still in my eyes. I looked away again, but he reached towards me, taking my chin in his hand and turning my face back to his. I forced myself to meet his gaze.
“You are mine. You belong to me. My wish is. . . “ He paused, waiting expectantly.
I stared at him, his eyes penetrating into my soul, his words paving over the trail he lay into my brain and setting up a multi-lane freeway. I was, really and truly, his.
“My command, sir.” I responded, a tear falling from my left eye and beginning to roll down my cheek.
He beamed at me. “That’s my girl,” he said, taking his thumb and gently wiping the tear from my face. I flushed, once again with relief and pleasure, nuzzling my cheek against his hand. He cupped the side of my face, both of us smiling lovingly at each other.
How long that moment lasted, I can’t say. Maybe it was fleeting, maybe we were there for multiple minutes. All I know is that when he sat back, my tears were gone and I felt happier than I had in quite some time. I knew my place, and my place was good.
“Shall we continue?” he asked, running his fingers over the tops of both bare feet, which remained laying over his legs. I burst into staccato giggles, my relief carrying over into my reactions. I nodded vigorously.
“Good. Where were we? Ah yes, you had not cleaned off your second foot, since I had not asked you to. Such obedience should be rewarded.”
I bit my lip, fighting the urge to squeal with pleasure and clap my hands.
“However. . . You also tried to tease me without permission. . . And I can’t ignore that. . . “
Had he not soothed me as he did a few minutes earlier, I’d have begun sobbing at this point. Even still, I felt my breath catch in my throat, my body tensed. I looked at him pleadingly.
“I’m sorry, Trish, but my mind is made up. Considering all of the facts, I decree that your foot must not be cleaned with my breath, but with my fingers. One minute of phalangal foot cleaning. That is your fate.”
I gulped audibly, yet said nothing. In truth, he was being merciful, and in truth, after everything that had happened in the last few minutes, I could use 60 seconds of mindless release.
Taking his phone out of his pocket, he selected the stopwatch feature and set it for one minute. Grinning, he handed it to me, forcing me to be the timer of my own torture.
“Whenever you are ready,” he said, taking my foot and curling it under his arm, holding it tightly. I could feel his fingers hovering over my sole, waiting for me to tell him when to begin.
My entire body shivering, I held the phone in both hands, trying to find the courage to press the “Start” button. I must have hesitated too long, for he looked over his shoulder at me quizzically.
“G-g-ggoo!” I stammered, setting my fate into motion. I had barely finished the word before 5 fingers descended on my sole, spidering wildly across my trapped foot.
I fell backwards, erupting with a manic peal of laughter, clutching the phone tightly. I knew that if I let go and lost it, he might never stop. Through blurry, half closed eyes, I watched the seconds tick away, my entire leg feeling like little lightning bolts of ticklish electricity were coursing through it.
He moved methodically from the heel of my foot up to the arch. His hand was wide and my foot small enough so that with his fingers just slightly apart, he was able to cover the entire width, tickling from inner edge to outer. His fingers wiggled, then pressed into my sole, vibrating a bit, causing me to thrash back and forth in mirth.
“F-F-F-fffiiiffteeenn secondssss hahahahaahahehehehehahahahehe”
He said nothing in response, only moving up a bit again, now in the center of my sole, holding his fingers still but moving his entire hand back and forth, making his fingernails a single line of ticklish agony. I tossed my head back, howling at the ceiling, grasping the phone so tightly I was momentarily worried I’d crush it.
“Thirty!” I barely managed to squeak that word out; so strong was my laughter. My abs began to ache as he moved up again, to the ball of my foot, adding more pressure, his fingers curling tightly and focusing on the area just under my big toe, which made me cry out even more, arching my hips off of the couch and trying to wrench my foot free for the first time.
“Aaaaaaaaaahahahahaehehahahaha f-f-f-forrrrhehehahahaaahahahehahah forttyyy hehehahahahahaahehehah”
While I was unable to finish my sentence, he knew what I was getting at, so he moved his hand one more time, now dancing his fingers under and between my toes. My entire body exploded as I opened my mouth, yet no sound seemed to come out, bucking and tossing myself back and forth, silently hysterical as this most ticklish spot was “cleaned”.
The phone, still in my hands, was completely forgotten about. All I knew - my entire world - was his fingers on my toes, the full-body ticklish sensation those fingers caused, and my fervent gales of laughter. He must have lost himself in the moment as well, for he never once looked back or slowed his fingers down for a second.
His fingers moved demonically over my toes, tickling pad, stem and base in equal measure, then slipping in between to tease the super-sensitive spaces there. At one point, he locked his fingers tight again and sped his hand back and forth along the ridge where the toes and foot met, breaking me from my inaudible insanity and making me shriek as if possessed by the Banshee herself.
Finally, sensing that we had both lost our place, he slowed down, now using a single finger to lightly tease my feet.
“Has your time expired?”
It took me a few moments to calm myself down enough to look at the phone, laughing all over again as I showed him that almost 2 minutes had expired. He chuckled, moving back to his original position, rubbing the phantom tickles out of my tingling sole.
“Ticklish Trish must have felt so bad, she decided to add another minute to her punishment. Such a good girl you are,” he said, now giving me a full on foot massage, enjoying the way I melted into the couch, purring contentedly.
“Yes, sir. I deserved that.”
He laughed, lifting my foot and kissing the base of my heel, the center of my sole, and the tip of my big toe, making me shiver with delight, even if his lips did carry residual ticklish sensations from my recent ordeal.
“Goodness, we spent so long on all of that nonsense that I’ve forgotten the entire point of my request!” He grinned at me, then adopting an overdramatic French accent.
“I have forgotten zee art!”
I laughed happily, watching him twirl his imaginary mustache, yet I squeaked as he pulled his Sharpie back out of his pocket.
“Your sole is a blank canvas that must be filled! Today, I shall draw my masterpiece!”
Taking my foot in his hand, he lifted it, appraising it from every angle.
“Oui oui, I see it. I see my drawing, already on your sole!”
Uncapping his Sharpie in his teeth, he began drawing on my heel, explaining, with the Sharpie still in his mouth, how he was making a grassy hillside, tracing the contour of my heel, which made me giggle wildly, then covering my entire heel in short black lines of color.
“And now, zee little girl on zee hillside! Mon Dieu, she looks like you, Treesh!”
He began drawing a stick figure, taking the entire length of my foot to do so. I cackled, both from his ridiculous voice and the ticklishness of his artwork, as he sketched her head along the ball of my foot, drew a straight line down the center of my sole for the body, the arms moving out to either side, and her legs down to the hill on my heel.
He spent many seconds “getting zee hair just right”, which involved a lot of ticklish drawing over the spots he knew were most ticklish, right along the line where the sole meets the ball of my foot.
“And zen, Treesh, what is it you are holding? Sacre bleu, c’est un ballon!”
I shook my head from side to side, squealing with laughter, my face in my hands, as he covered my entire big toe in black marker, making it a balloon. The string, of course, snaked down the stem and under all 5 toes before coming back around into the hand of the stick figure.
“C’est magnifique! C’est tres belle! Oh look, you are almost crying, it is so beautiful!”
He was right. Tears were in my eyes again, but unlike earlier, these were tears of ticklish joy.
I was, with every fiber of my being, completely and utterly his. He could have continued drawing like that for hours and I would have happily remained in his grasp. Perhaps I would have even started speaking in French as well.
“Yet someteeng is missing. . . Qu’est-ce que c’est? Ah yes, an arteest must sign his artwork, no?”
With a flourish, he signed his name along the outside edge of my foot. Despite the inane situation, despite the ridiculous accent, he had built himself a lovely city of control inside my brain.
“Voila! I am so happee! What do you think, Treesh?”
He released his grip on my foot and I bent my leg, leaning down to look, laughing at his silly artwork.
“Wow! It belongs in Le Louvre! I love it!”
He smiled, cupping my face in his hand again.
“I’m glad you love it. . . . And. . .I love you.”
I froze, my heart skipping one. . . two. . .three beats. This was the first time he had ever said that to me. We had been friends for a very long time, had fooled around for a while and been dating pretty seriously for only a few months. He was the first person who, when I told about my interest in tickling, had seemed intrigued, asking questions I had wanted every guy I had ever fancied to ask and actually trying to figure out the nature and scope of my fetish.
We had even gotten over the hurdle of him not being ticklish, as difficult as that was at first. My inner tickler had faded to the background as I began to explore my lee side, and had all but disappeared as I realized how much I enjoyed surrendering to him.
I had known I loved him for years; I had thought it in my head a thousand times, and now. . . He said it!
I sprang forward, pouncing on him and throwing him back onto the sofa, locking him in a kiss that, even now, so many years later, still resonates as the most passionate one of my life. I held his face in my hands, not even caring that tears were leaking from my closed eyes. I needed to convey to him, through my actions, how much those three little words meant for me.
When our lips finally parted, and he opened his eyes to look up at me, he smiled, once again wiping the tears from my eyes.
“Um. . . Trish?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to get technical right now. . . But. . . I didn’t tell you to do that, either.”
We both stared at each other for a moment before bursting out laughing. I kissed him again, curling into his body like a cat. He wrapped his arms around me, and we lay there happily for what felt like an eternity.
“I’m glad you liked my art so much,” he said, stroking my hair.
I murmured in response, the physical and emotional exertion of the evening, mixed with his gentle caress, beginning to send me into slumber.
“We have a problem, though,” he said, moving his hand down to trace hearts on my shoulder.
“What’s that?” I asked sleepily.
“Any artist worth his salt knows it’s a bad idea to not clean up after yourself.”
My eyes popped open, both from his words and from the feeling of his fingertips beginning to curl into my armpit. I looked up at him, catching his wicked grin.
“You didn’t think I was done with you yet, did you?”
1. Yes, this is a true story. Or at least, it's as complete a retelling of this experience as I can recall. Not every single detail may be 100% accurate, but by and large, this happened. For serious.
Oh, and if you missed part 1, let me catch you up - http://ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?276771-quot-Give-Me-Your-Foot-quot-(M-F)
“Give me your other foot.”
There was no hesitation or argument this time. How could there be? He had effortlessly worked his way into my brain, took down every layer of defenses like he was the architect of them, and lay down a trail directly to the core of every submissive fantasy I had ever had. He could have asked me to compose a sonnet written entirely in hieroglyphics and I would have given it the old college try.
I can see how cult leaders acquire followers.
I swung my other leg up into his waiting hand, but he gently pushed it back down.
“Excuse me. . . I misspoke. Give me your other BARE foot.”
We both smiled at each other, well aware of the game and now each of us very eager to play. I leaned to the side, reaching down and unzipping my boot, though unlike the first one, which came off slowly...teasingly... the second one came off as if it was fleeing from an approaching avalanche. I wrenched the zipper down, cupping the heel, pointing my toes and flicking my ankle in one madcap motion, sending the boot somersaulting across the carpet.
He watched it with an amused grin, which broadened as he looked back to find that my sock had already been removed with equal enthusiasm, dropped to the floor, my newly bared sole moving back into his waiting palm.
“Why didn’t you clean off the fuzz?” he asked knowingly.
I looked into his eyes.
“You didn’t tell me to.”
He grinned, yet for the first time, the icy veneer of detached dominance faded a bit. For the fleetingest of moments, I could see the outright hunger, the total excitement he felt at having me be so eager to please him, to be controlled by him. He squirmed, almost imperceptibly, yet that was all I needed to feel the balance of power shift in my direction. Up until this point, he was in charge, and I was his puppet, completely under his thrall.
Yet now, it seemed, we were both controlling each other in this little game.
Taking advantage of his momentary lapse in concentration, I rubbed my bare foot along his jeaned thigh, giggling to myself as his next blink fluttered a bit more and he inhaled sharply.
It was the giggle, I think, that snapped him out of it. While his inhalation was quick and uncontrolled, when his eyes opened and he glared at me, I could tell I had lost my moment in the sun.
“I did NOT tell you to do that, either!” He grasped my ankle, harder than he had before, and yanked my foot back into his charge. He stared at me, and quite proudly, I held his gaze for a few seconds. When his expression didn’t change, however, my resolve dissolved, and I looked away, then down at the ground.
“Sorry…”
He said nothing, only arching an eyebrow, still waiting for something.
I blanched. Obviously my attempt to take charge was not appreciated. I looked down even further, examining every fiber of the carpet, my voice barely audible.
“Sorry. . . sir”
He said nothing for a few seconds, and I fought back the urge to begin crying. Just when I honestly thought a tear was going to fall, I felt his grip around my ankle soften. I dared to peek up at his face and saw him looking at me much more kindly than before, with just the slightest hint of a smile. I felt myself turn pink with relief, my heart returning to a mild race instead of the staccato panicked beating of a few moments earlier.
“Ticklish Trish forgot her place for a moment, didn’t she?”
I nodded, blinking quickly, as the tears were still in my eyes. I looked away again, but he reached towards me, taking my chin in his hand and turning my face back to his. I forced myself to meet his gaze.
“You are mine. You belong to me. My wish is. . . “ He paused, waiting expectantly.
I stared at him, his eyes penetrating into my soul, his words paving over the trail he lay into my brain and setting up a multi-lane freeway. I was, really and truly, his.
“My command, sir.” I responded, a tear falling from my left eye and beginning to roll down my cheek.
He beamed at me. “That’s my girl,” he said, taking his thumb and gently wiping the tear from my face. I flushed, once again with relief and pleasure, nuzzling my cheek against his hand. He cupped the side of my face, both of us smiling lovingly at each other.
How long that moment lasted, I can’t say. Maybe it was fleeting, maybe we were there for multiple minutes. All I know is that when he sat back, my tears were gone and I felt happier than I had in quite some time. I knew my place, and my place was good.
“Shall we continue?” he asked, running his fingers over the tops of both bare feet, which remained laying over his legs. I burst into staccato giggles, my relief carrying over into my reactions. I nodded vigorously.
“Good. Where were we? Ah yes, you had not cleaned off your second foot, since I had not asked you to. Such obedience should be rewarded.”
I bit my lip, fighting the urge to squeal with pleasure and clap my hands.
“However. . . You also tried to tease me without permission. . . And I can’t ignore that. . . “
Had he not soothed me as he did a few minutes earlier, I’d have begun sobbing at this point. Even still, I felt my breath catch in my throat, my body tensed. I looked at him pleadingly.
“I’m sorry, Trish, but my mind is made up. Considering all of the facts, I decree that your foot must not be cleaned with my breath, but with my fingers. One minute of phalangal foot cleaning. That is your fate.”
I gulped audibly, yet said nothing. In truth, he was being merciful, and in truth, after everything that had happened in the last few minutes, I could use 60 seconds of mindless release.
Taking his phone out of his pocket, he selected the stopwatch feature and set it for one minute. Grinning, he handed it to me, forcing me to be the timer of my own torture.
“Whenever you are ready,” he said, taking my foot and curling it under his arm, holding it tightly. I could feel his fingers hovering over my sole, waiting for me to tell him when to begin.
My entire body shivering, I held the phone in both hands, trying to find the courage to press the “Start” button. I must have hesitated too long, for he looked over his shoulder at me quizzically.
“G-g-ggoo!” I stammered, setting my fate into motion. I had barely finished the word before 5 fingers descended on my sole, spidering wildly across my trapped foot.
I fell backwards, erupting with a manic peal of laughter, clutching the phone tightly. I knew that if I let go and lost it, he might never stop. Through blurry, half closed eyes, I watched the seconds tick away, my entire leg feeling like little lightning bolts of ticklish electricity were coursing through it.
He moved methodically from the heel of my foot up to the arch. His hand was wide and my foot small enough so that with his fingers just slightly apart, he was able to cover the entire width, tickling from inner edge to outer. His fingers wiggled, then pressed into my sole, vibrating a bit, causing me to thrash back and forth in mirth.
“F-F-F-fffiiiffteeenn secondssss hahahahaahahehehehehahahahehe”
He said nothing in response, only moving up a bit again, now in the center of my sole, holding his fingers still but moving his entire hand back and forth, making his fingernails a single line of ticklish agony. I tossed my head back, howling at the ceiling, grasping the phone so tightly I was momentarily worried I’d crush it.
“Thirty!” I barely managed to squeak that word out; so strong was my laughter. My abs began to ache as he moved up again, to the ball of my foot, adding more pressure, his fingers curling tightly and focusing on the area just under my big toe, which made me cry out even more, arching my hips off of the couch and trying to wrench my foot free for the first time.
“Aaaaaaaaaahahahahaehehahahaha f-f-f-forrrrhehehahahaaahahahehahah forttyyy hehehahahahahaahehehah”
While I was unable to finish my sentence, he knew what I was getting at, so he moved his hand one more time, now dancing his fingers under and between my toes. My entire body exploded as I opened my mouth, yet no sound seemed to come out, bucking and tossing myself back and forth, silently hysterical as this most ticklish spot was “cleaned”.
The phone, still in my hands, was completely forgotten about. All I knew - my entire world - was his fingers on my toes, the full-body ticklish sensation those fingers caused, and my fervent gales of laughter. He must have lost himself in the moment as well, for he never once looked back or slowed his fingers down for a second.
His fingers moved demonically over my toes, tickling pad, stem and base in equal measure, then slipping in between to tease the super-sensitive spaces there. At one point, he locked his fingers tight again and sped his hand back and forth along the ridge where the toes and foot met, breaking me from my inaudible insanity and making me shriek as if possessed by the Banshee herself.
Finally, sensing that we had both lost our place, he slowed down, now using a single finger to lightly tease my feet.
“Has your time expired?”
It took me a few moments to calm myself down enough to look at the phone, laughing all over again as I showed him that almost 2 minutes had expired. He chuckled, moving back to his original position, rubbing the phantom tickles out of my tingling sole.
“Ticklish Trish must have felt so bad, she decided to add another minute to her punishment. Such a good girl you are,” he said, now giving me a full on foot massage, enjoying the way I melted into the couch, purring contentedly.
“Yes, sir. I deserved that.”
He laughed, lifting my foot and kissing the base of my heel, the center of my sole, and the tip of my big toe, making me shiver with delight, even if his lips did carry residual ticklish sensations from my recent ordeal.
“Goodness, we spent so long on all of that nonsense that I’ve forgotten the entire point of my request!” He grinned at me, then adopting an overdramatic French accent.
“I have forgotten zee art!”
I laughed happily, watching him twirl his imaginary mustache, yet I squeaked as he pulled his Sharpie back out of his pocket.
“Your sole is a blank canvas that must be filled! Today, I shall draw my masterpiece!”
Taking my foot in his hand, he lifted it, appraising it from every angle.
“Oui oui, I see it. I see my drawing, already on your sole!”
Uncapping his Sharpie in his teeth, he began drawing on my heel, explaining, with the Sharpie still in his mouth, how he was making a grassy hillside, tracing the contour of my heel, which made me giggle wildly, then covering my entire heel in short black lines of color.
“And now, zee little girl on zee hillside! Mon Dieu, she looks like you, Treesh!”
He began drawing a stick figure, taking the entire length of my foot to do so. I cackled, both from his ridiculous voice and the ticklishness of his artwork, as he sketched her head along the ball of my foot, drew a straight line down the center of my sole for the body, the arms moving out to either side, and her legs down to the hill on my heel.
He spent many seconds “getting zee hair just right”, which involved a lot of ticklish drawing over the spots he knew were most ticklish, right along the line where the sole meets the ball of my foot.
“And zen, Treesh, what is it you are holding? Sacre bleu, c’est un ballon!”
I shook my head from side to side, squealing with laughter, my face in my hands, as he covered my entire big toe in black marker, making it a balloon. The string, of course, snaked down the stem and under all 5 toes before coming back around into the hand of the stick figure.
“C’est magnifique! C’est tres belle! Oh look, you are almost crying, it is so beautiful!”
He was right. Tears were in my eyes again, but unlike earlier, these were tears of ticklish joy.
I was, with every fiber of my being, completely and utterly his. He could have continued drawing like that for hours and I would have happily remained in his grasp. Perhaps I would have even started speaking in French as well.
“Yet someteeng is missing. . . Qu’est-ce que c’est? Ah yes, an arteest must sign his artwork, no?”
With a flourish, he signed his name along the outside edge of my foot. Despite the inane situation, despite the ridiculous accent, he had built himself a lovely city of control inside my brain.
“Voila! I am so happee! What do you think, Treesh?”
He released his grip on my foot and I bent my leg, leaning down to look, laughing at his silly artwork.
“Wow! It belongs in Le Louvre! I love it!”
He smiled, cupping my face in his hand again.
“I’m glad you love it. . . . And. . .I love you.”
I froze, my heart skipping one. . . two. . .three beats. This was the first time he had ever said that to me. We had been friends for a very long time, had fooled around for a while and been dating pretty seriously for only a few months. He was the first person who, when I told about my interest in tickling, had seemed intrigued, asking questions I had wanted every guy I had ever fancied to ask and actually trying to figure out the nature and scope of my fetish.
We had even gotten over the hurdle of him not being ticklish, as difficult as that was at first. My inner tickler had faded to the background as I began to explore my lee side, and had all but disappeared as I realized how much I enjoyed surrendering to him.
I had known I loved him for years; I had thought it in my head a thousand times, and now. . . He said it!
I sprang forward, pouncing on him and throwing him back onto the sofa, locking him in a kiss that, even now, so many years later, still resonates as the most passionate one of my life. I held his face in my hands, not even caring that tears were leaking from my closed eyes. I needed to convey to him, through my actions, how much those three little words meant for me.
When our lips finally parted, and he opened his eyes to look up at me, he smiled, once again wiping the tears from my eyes.
“Um. . . Trish?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to get technical right now. . . But. . . I didn’t tell you to do that, either.”
We both stared at each other for a moment before bursting out laughing. I kissed him again, curling into his body like a cat. He wrapped his arms around me, and we lay there happily for what felt like an eternity.
“I’m glad you liked my art so much,” he said, stroking my hair.
I murmured in response, the physical and emotional exertion of the evening, mixed with his gentle caress, beginning to send me into slumber.
“We have a problem, though,” he said, moving his hand down to trace hearts on my shoulder.
“What’s that?” I asked sleepily.
“Any artist worth his salt knows it’s a bad idea to not clean up after yourself.”
My eyes popped open, both from his words and from the feeling of his fingertips beginning to curl into my armpit. I looked up at him, catching his wicked grin.
“You didn’t think I was done with you yet, did you?”
Thanks for sharing your experience here. 
