tdh19882012
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Mar 17, 2017
- Messages
- 104
- Points
- 18
***
One moment he's inside of her, hard as a rock and raring to go. The next, he's still there, just as hard. And the moment after that one... Yup, still there, rutting away, making all the right noises, clasping at her thigh as if in the throes of passion. He follows the script he wrote for himself years ago. Shutting his eyes he frantically scans his memories, anything that may still be of interest after so much usage. There is definitely one, at least. But he just doesn't want to have to resort to this every time, it feels too dishonest. As if plainly lying to her face.
She loves it, she tells him as much when it almost inevitably goes south. He tells her that he's tired. That he's worrying about something. That it went on for so damn long he just felt more and more and more self conscious, knowing that she'd just be thinking to herself*“come on, please, just fucking cum already”*- the latter at least being a genuine concern of his. Of course, she lovingly reassured him that he was wrong. As she always did. She was always so supportive, so understanding, so perfectly fucking*nice*about everything.
Time passes and as expected, things begin to wilt. He gradually slows his thrusts, knowing she can feel how soft and flexible it's suddenly become and he inhales deeply and quickly, pauses, then exhales in audible frustration. He stops moving and holds himself up, wondering which excuse to use this time. What did he use last time they actually had sex? And when was that, last week? The week before?
“Are you OK?” She asks, a hand to his cheek and that concerned,*nice, look in her eyes.
“Yeah, it's just...” He trails off, sighing. His pathetic softness falls out of her and quickly he pulls up his boxers, he doesn't want her to see it in that state.
She smiles*at him and with heart wrenching warmth asks. “What's wrong, babe?”
“Ah I don't know,” he lies, “I'm pretty tired. And it's really hot in here.”
It is warm at least, the heating had been on all day and all of the windows were shut.
“Well, it*was*really hot in here.” She smirks.
The joke fell quite flat. “Oh, I'm sorry babe. You really don't need to feel bad. I loved it. I always do.”
Yeah, that's the problem.
“I know, I know, darling. I'm sorry, just so tired today.” He kisses her cheek before standing up to leave for the bathroom and wash his latest disappointment away. He notices the clock in the hall, it laughs at him.*22:10. Maybe it's time for bed... Grandad.
“Well there's no need to be sorry, I promise.” She calls after him.
He looks into the mirror.*Just tell her. Tell her the actual problem. What's the worst that's going to happen?
When he returns she's snoring softly with the duvet wrapped around her. He lays beside her, resting a hand on her warm, soft side. Watching her sleep.
He really is lucky to be with her. God knows he'd tested their relationship more than most men would have been able to get away with.*I love you so much.
I just don't want to*“love”*you.
He reaches for his phone on the bedside table. No emails. No messages. No calls. In fact no notifications of any kind. It's just him, the love of his life and his useless, flaccid and unsatisfied cock. He'd almost come to see sex with his wife as a bizarre form of edge play, with only one participant aware of the game. And that participant not actually wanting to play, but basically being forced to anyway.
He opens the Files folder and tries to imagine a way he could look at this, during sex, without his wife noticing.*Fuck her from behind, maybe?*A nice idea, just fraught with peril. What if he dropped his phone? What if the room was dark and she saw the room light up behind her? What if she wants both of his hands to hold her hips? Plus, being caught looking at this stuff would certainly mean his life would change forever.
It was nice to have someone to come home to, sometimes at least. It was nice to live in a house he owned, thanks to their shared income. And it was nice that they both got on with each other's families. Social events were always nice.
Everything was just properly... Fucking...*Nice.
I loved it. I always do.
Those words echoed in his mind as he stared at the soft curve of her hip disappearing beneath the sheets. Usually she slept in pyjamas but tonight had fallen asleep immediately after his attempts and so was totally naked. He carefully edged the duvet forward to reveal her entire backside. And there it slept, her body in all its glory.
Well, I don't want you to fucking love it.*He hissed under his breath, eyes scanning all along the softest parts of her body.
I don't want you to say Yes. I don't want you to encourage me. To say more. To tell me you're about to cum. I don't fucking want any of that.*She groaned and a foot popped out from beneath the sheets.
He glared at it.*What I want,*he whispered as he sat up and reached down towards his wife's sole,*is for you to suffer.*He softly poked her heel and ran his finger upwards into her arch, barely making it halfway before the foot shot under the covers and his wife snorted sleepily.
“Hmm? What?” She asked as she rolled onto her back and stretched.
He got out of bed, putting his clothes back on and he told her he was going downstairs to make a drink. He offered her one.*Please just say no and go back to sleep...
She said no.
Downstairs he sits in darkness. Scrolling through those files. Video after video after video. Hundreds of photos, too. Possibly thousands by now. Some stories which were a pleasing supplement to the pictures. Gigabyte after gigabyte of reasons to take his phone literally everywhere he went despite having full fingerprint and pattern lock security activated. Just in case.
Listening out for his wife's snoring and making sure the volume was lowered, he played his favourite video. There she was. That unutterably, ravishingly, enchantingly weird and wonderful...*Maniac.
The timing for this video had been incredible. While he and his wife were house-hunting, he noticed a property available to rent on the next street to*hers. Immediately his interest was piqued, despite looking for sales and not lettings. He organised this himself and went alone. The agent happily allowing him to roam the house by himself so he could really picture living there. And did he ever do that...
It could not have been more perfect. That Saturday would be the hottest day of the year. Just after noon he walked into the spare bedroom at the back of the house and peered through the blinds.*There she is!*In her back garden, walking around while on the phone to somebody. Wearing a tight dark purple t-shirt with some sort of cartoon ghost on the front and some of the skimpiest black shorts he'd ever seen a woman wear. Even on the internet. He remembered every detail so clearly he almost didn't need the video.
He smiled at the screen. That messy purple hair, the daft t-shirt, the weird shorts with the ripped patches and a pocket hanging off... She was certainly interesting to look at.
Such was the interest at the time of filming he damn near dropped his phone when she stepped back into her house and he noticed that she was without her beloved trainer shoes... She was actually barefoot. And it looked like she'd even painted her toes. He was much too far away to see the colour, but it was dark.*Maybe purple?*It had been a wondrous sight.
Ten minutes later and his lustful voyeurism had been interrupted by footsteps on the stairs. He shut the blinds quickly and thanked the agent for his time saying, with a heavy heart, that he'd need to speak to his wife about a second viewing.*No I really believe we'd be better off renting this place, darling. Why? Well, the neighbours are lovely...*Obviously no such booking could ever be made.
He watched the full 9 minutes and 3 seconds of video and by the end of it he was painfully hard. It cried out to him for attention. But so did his wife, every single bloody night.
And she always*loved it.
He was tired. Almost to the point of just not feeling anything anymore. Bored to tears with their oh so loving relationship. She'd even started talking about having a family of their own one day. An idea which always encouraged a bottle of wine into his hand. No need for a glass, who was he impressing here?
Halfway through the bottle and he was considering giving up his Club membership. Things had gone very stale, it had been one of the most outrageous and eventful places he'd ever been to but with the passage of time and the tightening of immigration laws, they'd been having more and more difficulties. Procurement-wise, so to speak. The river of young and naïve bodies with sub par English skills had started to dry up long ago and he hadn't had anybody new to entertain him in months.
Which is exactly why he leapt out of his chair, bottle in hand and grabbed his phone when it lit up. It was far too late in the day now to be a message from anyone but whom he correctly suspected. His eyes lit up looking at the blank text. With a shaky hand he texted a quick message to his wife, not that she'd wake up until her alarm went off in the morning. Once she was out, she was dead. Exactly as he'd be if she ever found out he'd driven after a bottle of wine. Into the very bottom of the recycling it went.
***
Thirty minutes or so of winding country roads later he was at the Club's service entrance. There was Grey, leaning against a wall with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He called out to the man, giddy with the wine and the feeling of adventure he always had whenever he had a new arrival.
If anything could kill a buzz, Grey could. So he kept things short. He showed Grey the text and Grey, with a grunt, nodded his head and turned to key in the code for the door.
With a bounce in his step he walked the corridors to his room. A DND sign hung from the handle, he frowned at it and paced while waiting for the preppers to get the fuck out of his room and leave him to it.
To his delight he had just 30 seconds to wait before exactly that happened. He nodded to them, they nodded back. In he went, charged with an excitement he just didn't get anywhere else, under any circumstances. He didn't even change his clothes such was the intensity of his need right now. He keyed his own code into the room's play area and with a deep breath, opened the door.
Good, fucking, God. There she was. Tight, tanned skin over perfectly toned muscles and hanging from the ceiling by her wrists and ankles. He stood by her, looking at her face. The slight wooziness in her eyes and the very faint sweetness to the air around her reminding him to tip the prep team for their usual excellent work. They knew exactly what he wanted. She was ready.
Wasting no further time simply looking, he grabbed the woman's ribs. She flinched in shock and squealed, thrashing as if being electrocuted, her body twisting with nowhere to go and the chains rattling. His thumbs massaged between each rib one by one and she convulsed beneath him. Every touch he made to that hellishly ticklish torso causing his libido to roar off the charts. He wrapped his hands around virtually her entire ribcage and shook his hands rapidly, forcing her skin back and forth at lightning speed over each and every bone. Her squealing laughter turned silent and her face a deep red, the muscles in her arms straining just as hard as those in her jaw.
Minutes later she was beginning to really work up a sweat. He dove his hands into her armpits and she lurched backwards, her back arching and hands springing open as though desperately reaching for something. She bucked wildly every way she could but there was simply no escaping the horrific ticklish assault ruining her hair and make up.
Abandoning her ravaging, he stepped around her leg to stand directly between her thighs. The sweat dripped from her breasts and her jaw shone with drool. He looked at her, showing indifference but feeling nothing of the sort. His hands latched onto her hips and she had a brief second to shake her head in protest before losing all control of her body once again. This proved to be a truly savage spot judging by her heart-stopping reactions. Out came the first tears.
He wondered what they'd told this one as he stared at her weeping face, a beautiful mask of forced and agonising mirth.*Do this and we'll get you a passport?*He had no idea, nor did he really care. It wasn't his problem. Right now he had absolutely no problems in life.
His hands slid down from her hips to the achingly smooth and slippery skin of her inner thighs. Once more her back was arched, her breasts jiggled and intoxicating, tickle-crazed laughter sang throughout the room. He was rough, grabbing and squeezing every spot from the despairingly sensitive crease where her thighs met her ass to her knees and back again. He revelled watching the way her eyes shot wide open as if in disbelief when his tickling fingers probed either side of her pussy.
Ten minutes of the most energetic tickling he could muster passed and he began to wonder about something else... She was weeping, sweating and clearly exhausted. But something was wrong. She wasn't saying anything. He doubt she spoke much, if any, English but they always said something during their most panicked moments. This one was silent, laughter aside.
He tested her ass, gripping the cheeks and tickling in a similar fashion to his previous abuse of her thighs. It worked. Extremely well. She bounced in her bondage so hard he wondered if she would tear the chains out of the ceiling and she screamed with such force he could see her tonsils.
But he still couldn't hear any begging. It was time to up his game.
She heaved loudly for breath as he looked through a chest at the side of the room. He tossed aside gloves, brushes, old pens. Until eventually they came into view.
Checking they had batteries, he made his way back over to his unwilling companion. Standing before her feet, he marvelled at their appearance. Damn near as sexy as his wife's. Delicate wrinkles, perfectly proportioned toes and beautiful pale arches. He simmered at the imagery running through his mind as he stared at those trembling feet.
He slipped the toys, two sets of vibrating toe rings into place. One for each foot, snug around the stem of each toe and all connected by a single rubber coated bar. She cringed as she hung helplessly, glowering and pouting with wide eyes in his direction.
He switched them both on at the same time and her eyes rolled back into her skull, her soles wrinkled as her toes pointed, those hands reached out again and she was rendered silent by the sensations sweeping through her toes.*Never fails, he smiled to himself watching her writhe in silent shock,*now... Beg.
Moments later and all to be heard in the room was the low hum of the vibrating rings and the jangling of the chains. He stood in bewilderment watching this stunning and fantastically ticklish woman appear to handle the toe rings unlike any who'd ever come before her. As she hung there, jerking and tossing and pivoting her body this way and that, there was no begging, no laughter, no sound from her whatsoever. Just wide-eyed disbelief at what was happening to her feet. Her teeth bared and she threw her head back, the muscles in her arms and legs tensing as she lifted herself up. And then, as he watched her in his own state of disbelief, something awful happened.
He watched in horror as with almost a look of terror in her eyes, her entire body went rigid and she screamed out a deep, gravelly wail and every single part of her body from her toes to her fingers shook. He looked at her feet and the tremors that seized them, at those rings designed purely for the purpose of driving a woman utterly insane and flinched as the wailing became ear-piercing screams.
You have to be fucking kidding me, he thought as he watched this woman react to a debilitating toe tickling by unashamedly orgasming all over his floor. He grabbed at the rings and switched them off, ripping them away from her feet.
He stormed over to the chest and threw it open, hurling the rings inside and slamming the lid shut, all the while resenting the fact she hadn't been gagged. He was forced to listen to her satisfied sighing, her whispered repetition of the word “fuck” in that strange accent. Even her sobbing had a ring of gratitude to it.
As he turned back to her, he was stopped in his tracks by the look on her face. He'd seen that look before... Many times.
“Thank you.” She spoke slowly, her accent thick. “That was...” She was searching for a word. His heart sank. He left the room before she had a chance to say it.
As he walked the labyrinth of corridors with a face of thunder, the night somehow found a way to turn itself against him even further.
Oh not now, you're not bloody serious, are you?
“Blue... To what do I owe the pleasure?”
***
The hot water poured over him, he watched it running down his body taking with it the evidence of this evening's utter, utter bullshit.*Maybe I should just stay in here, forever. What difference would it make? Seriously, what possible difference?
Blue had no answers for himself, so he shut his eyes and sighed, leaning his head back and allowing the water to wash over his face, imagining himself drowning. The weight of the night's events sat heavily, though none quite so much as his brief conversation with that she-devil. He'd tried to play it cool, but the combination of wine and intense disappointment had got the better of him.*This is what happens when you drink, fucking idiot.*His hand met his forehead as he cursed himself.
He could still salvage the night, however. The thought crossed his mind many times each and every day. The image of his wife's sleeping body came to him as he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel.*Should I?
Once dry, he shut the bathroom door quietly behind him and listened. She was still asleep. Nothing ever woke her. Stepping softly into the bedroom he made his way to her side of the bed and lifted the cover gently. There they were. In all their absolute glory. She hadn't repainted her nails in a few days and the varnish was beginning to flake away but somehow that just made her feet look more...*Authentic.
She was no paid model doing a quick video or photo shoot. She wasn't a cam girl.*Nor is she an immigrant with little idea as to what the fuck's happening,*he thought with a hint of shame. Something he'd been beginning to feel more of lately.
His wife was the real deal. Gorgeous and adventurous. She'd indulged his foot fetish many times after being curious as to why exactly he had such a raging erection while massaging her feet one evening. But most importantly to Blue, she was highly ticklish. She just couldn't cope with being tickled, however. Her reactions when he'd snook a tickle in here and there had been explosive, she would scold him and remind him that she hated to be tickled every time.
He imagined her in the hands of Black. Mummified with bandages and tape, belts wrapped around her securing that precious, immobile body to their marital bed with the vibrating toe rings wedged into place and Black's teeth nibbling at one heel while her fingernail's methodically destroyed the other. He saw her face bright red, eyes frenzied with panic, the sinews in her neck straining furiously and droplets of sweat scattering across the bed as her head thrashed and her hair whipped around wildly. He watched her jaw clench around the gag and with a warmth radiating from somewhere deep inside him, listened to the despair and desperation in the shrieks she forced around that gag.
He pictured her crazed eyes catching his as she shot despairing glances in his direction and he had to sit helplessly, bound to a chair, forced to watch his wife's torture. Unable to rescue her as she so clearly needed to be. The look in her eyes screamed out for mercy, or was it death? He wasn't sure. Black was sure, but she wasn't about to grant either wish.
Not for the first time tonight, things were painfully hard again. He knelt at the end of the bed, lifting his wife's ankles and pushing them over to her pyjama covered ass as he slid into the space behind her. Blue watched her begin to stir in sleepy confusion when her feet were pressed around his throbbing cock and were moved back and forth. The heat, the satin of her skin, the wrinkles, God how he craved to see these works of art suffer.
Suddenly he was no longer in control of their movement and he released his grip, her feet wrapped firmly around him and he was trapped, ecstatic in their unrelenting and determined motion. The speed increased as she squeezed him between her silken arches and he watched in awe as she gripped onto the bedsheets and yelped. His fingertips were circling the skin of her ankles delicately, sliding onto the top of her foot and to his amazement... She simply sank her face into her pillow and let out a string of fast-paced, softly spoken expletives. Her body would flinch and her grip tighten almost to the point of hurting him but her feet never faltered.
This was new. She was actually allowing tickling to happen. He knew she hated it. And she knew that he knew that, too. Yet she didn't stop in her efforts to get him off. Had something changed? Was she warming to the idea? His fingernails met the sides of her soles and she screamed out in protest, for almost two glorious seconds she managed to endure their slow and horribly ticklish journey toward her toes before her feet sprang apart and shot back down to the mattress.
“I can't,” she panted, “it just tickles so bad. Holy sh-”
Before she could finish her sentence his hands were on her hips and he pulled her forcefully towards him.
This time, no amount of heat would stop him.
***
One moment he's inside of her, hard as a rock and raring to go. The next, he's still there, just as hard. And the moment after that one... Yup, still there, rutting away, making all the right noises, clasping at her thigh as if in the throes of passion. He follows the script he wrote for himself years ago. Shutting his eyes he frantically scans his memories, anything that may still be of interest after so much usage. There is definitely one, at least. But he just doesn't want to have to resort to this every time, it feels too dishonest. As if plainly lying to her face.
She loves it, she tells him as much when it almost inevitably goes south. He tells her that he's tired. That he's worrying about something. That it went on for so damn long he just felt more and more and more self conscious, knowing that she'd just be thinking to herself*“come on, please, just fucking cum already”*- the latter at least being a genuine concern of his. Of course, she lovingly reassured him that he was wrong. As she always did. She was always so supportive, so understanding, so perfectly fucking*nice*about everything.
Time passes and as expected, things begin to wilt. He gradually slows his thrusts, knowing she can feel how soft and flexible it's suddenly become and he inhales deeply and quickly, pauses, then exhales in audible frustration. He stops moving and holds himself up, wondering which excuse to use this time. What did he use last time they actually had sex? And when was that, last week? The week before?
“Are you OK?” She asks, a hand to his cheek and that concerned,*nice, look in her eyes.
“Yeah, it's just...” He trails off, sighing. His pathetic softness falls out of her and quickly he pulls up his boxers, he doesn't want her to see it in that state.
She smiles*at him and with heart wrenching warmth asks. “What's wrong, babe?”
“Ah I don't know,” he lies, “I'm pretty tired. And it's really hot in here.”
It is warm at least, the heating had been on all day and all of the windows were shut.
“Well, it*was*really hot in here.” She smirks.
The joke fell quite flat. “Oh, I'm sorry babe. You really don't need to feel bad. I loved it. I always do.”
Yeah, that's the problem.
“I know, I know, darling. I'm sorry, just so tired today.” He kisses her cheek before standing up to leave for the bathroom and wash his latest disappointment away. He notices the clock in the hall, it laughs at him.*22:10. Maybe it's time for bed... Grandad.
“Well there's no need to be sorry, I promise.” She calls after him.
He looks into the mirror.*Just tell her. Tell her the actual problem. What's the worst that's going to happen?
When he returns she's snoring softly with the duvet wrapped around her. He lays beside her, resting a hand on her warm, soft side. Watching her sleep.
He really is lucky to be with her. God knows he'd tested their relationship more than most men would have been able to get away with.*I love you so much.
I just don't want to*“love”*you.
He reaches for his phone on the bedside table. No emails. No messages. No calls. In fact no notifications of any kind. It's just him, the love of his life and his useless, flaccid and unsatisfied cock. He'd almost come to see sex with his wife as a bizarre form of edge play, with only one participant aware of the game. And that participant not actually wanting to play, but basically being forced to anyway.
He opens the Files folder and tries to imagine a way he could look at this, during sex, without his wife noticing.*Fuck her from behind, maybe?*A nice idea, just fraught with peril. What if he dropped his phone? What if the room was dark and she saw the room light up behind her? What if she wants both of his hands to hold her hips? Plus, being caught looking at this stuff would certainly mean his life would change forever.
It was nice to have someone to come home to, sometimes at least. It was nice to live in a house he owned, thanks to their shared income. And it was nice that they both got on with each other's families. Social events were always nice.
Everything was just properly... Fucking...*Nice.
I loved it. I always do.
Those words echoed in his mind as he stared at the soft curve of her hip disappearing beneath the sheets. Usually she slept in pyjamas but tonight had fallen asleep immediately after his attempts and so was totally naked. He carefully edged the duvet forward to reveal her entire backside. And there it slept, her body in all its glory.
Well, I don't want you to fucking love it.*He hissed under his breath, eyes scanning all along the softest parts of her body.
I don't want you to say Yes. I don't want you to encourage me. To say more. To tell me you're about to cum. I don't fucking want any of that.*She groaned and a foot popped out from beneath the sheets.
He glared at it.*What I want,*he whispered as he sat up and reached down towards his wife's sole,*is for you to suffer.*He softly poked her heel and ran his finger upwards into her arch, barely making it halfway before the foot shot under the covers and his wife snorted sleepily.
“Hmm? What?” She asked as she rolled onto her back and stretched.
He got out of bed, putting his clothes back on and he told her he was going downstairs to make a drink. He offered her one.*Please just say no and go back to sleep...
She said no.
Downstairs he sits in darkness. Scrolling through those files. Video after video after video. Hundreds of photos, too. Possibly thousands by now. Some stories which were a pleasing supplement to the pictures. Gigabyte after gigabyte of reasons to take his phone literally everywhere he went despite having full fingerprint and pattern lock security activated. Just in case.
Listening out for his wife's snoring and making sure the volume was lowered, he played his favourite video. There she was. That unutterably, ravishingly, enchantingly weird and wonderful...*Maniac.
The timing for this video had been incredible. While he and his wife were house-hunting, he noticed a property available to rent on the next street to*hers. Immediately his interest was piqued, despite looking for sales and not lettings. He organised this himself and went alone. The agent happily allowing him to roam the house by himself so he could really picture living there. And did he ever do that...
It could not have been more perfect. That Saturday would be the hottest day of the year. Just after noon he walked into the spare bedroom at the back of the house and peered through the blinds.*There she is!*In her back garden, walking around while on the phone to somebody. Wearing a tight dark purple t-shirt with some sort of cartoon ghost on the front and some of the skimpiest black shorts he'd ever seen a woman wear. Even on the internet. He remembered every detail so clearly he almost didn't need the video.
He smiled at the screen. That messy purple hair, the daft t-shirt, the weird shorts with the ripped patches and a pocket hanging off... She was certainly interesting to look at.
Such was the interest at the time of filming he damn near dropped his phone when she stepped back into her house and he noticed that she was without her beloved trainer shoes... She was actually barefoot. And it looked like she'd even painted her toes. He was much too far away to see the colour, but it was dark.*Maybe purple?*It had been a wondrous sight.
Ten minutes later and his lustful voyeurism had been interrupted by footsteps on the stairs. He shut the blinds quickly and thanked the agent for his time saying, with a heavy heart, that he'd need to speak to his wife about a second viewing.*No I really believe we'd be better off renting this place, darling. Why? Well, the neighbours are lovely...*Obviously no such booking could ever be made.
He watched the full 9 minutes and 3 seconds of video and by the end of it he was painfully hard. It cried out to him for attention. But so did his wife, every single bloody night.
And she always*loved it.
He was tired. Almost to the point of just not feeling anything anymore. Bored to tears with their oh so loving relationship. She'd even started talking about having a family of their own one day. An idea which always encouraged a bottle of wine into his hand. No need for a glass, who was he impressing here?
Halfway through the bottle and he was considering giving up his Club membership. Things had gone very stale, it had been one of the most outrageous and eventful places he'd ever been to but with the passage of time and the tightening of immigration laws, they'd been having more and more difficulties. Procurement-wise, so to speak. The river of young and naïve bodies with sub par English skills had started to dry up long ago and he hadn't had anybody new to entertain him in months.
Which is exactly why he leapt out of his chair, bottle in hand and grabbed his phone when it lit up. It was far too late in the day now to be a message from anyone but whom he correctly suspected. His eyes lit up looking at the blank text. With a shaky hand he texted a quick message to his wife, not that she'd wake up until her alarm went off in the morning. Once she was out, she was dead. Exactly as he'd be if she ever found out he'd driven after a bottle of wine. Into the very bottom of the recycling it went.
***
Thirty minutes or so of winding country roads later he was at the Club's service entrance. There was Grey, leaning against a wall with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He called out to the man, giddy with the wine and the feeling of adventure he always had whenever he had a new arrival.
If anything could kill a buzz, Grey could. So he kept things short. He showed Grey the text and Grey, with a grunt, nodded his head and turned to key in the code for the door.
With a bounce in his step he walked the corridors to his room. A DND sign hung from the handle, he frowned at it and paced while waiting for the preppers to get the fuck out of his room and leave him to it.
To his delight he had just 30 seconds to wait before exactly that happened. He nodded to them, they nodded back. In he went, charged with an excitement he just didn't get anywhere else, under any circumstances. He didn't even change his clothes such was the intensity of his need right now. He keyed his own code into the room's play area and with a deep breath, opened the door.
Good, fucking, God. There she was. Tight, tanned skin over perfectly toned muscles and hanging from the ceiling by her wrists and ankles. He stood by her, looking at her face. The slight wooziness in her eyes and the very faint sweetness to the air around her reminding him to tip the prep team for their usual excellent work. They knew exactly what he wanted. She was ready.
Wasting no further time simply looking, he grabbed the woman's ribs. She flinched in shock and squealed, thrashing as if being electrocuted, her body twisting with nowhere to go and the chains rattling. His thumbs massaged between each rib one by one and she convulsed beneath him. Every touch he made to that hellishly ticklish torso causing his libido to roar off the charts. He wrapped his hands around virtually her entire ribcage and shook his hands rapidly, forcing her skin back and forth at lightning speed over each and every bone. Her squealing laughter turned silent and her face a deep red, the muscles in her arms straining just as hard as those in her jaw.
Minutes later she was beginning to really work up a sweat. He dove his hands into her armpits and she lurched backwards, her back arching and hands springing open as though desperately reaching for something. She bucked wildly every way she could but there was simply no escaping the horrific ticklish assault ruining her hair and make up.
Abandoning her ravaging, he stepped around her leg to stand directly between her thighs. The sweat dripped from her breasts and her jaw shone with drool. He looked at her, showing indifference but feeling nothing of the sort. His hands latched onto her hips and she had a brief second to shake her head in protest before losing all control of her body once again. This proved to be a truly savage spot judging by her heart-stopping reactions. Out came the first tears.
He wondered what they'd told this one as he stared at her weeping face, a beautiful mask of forced and agonising mirth.*Do this and we'll get you a passport?*He had no idea, nor did he really care. It wasn't his problem. Right now he had absolutely no problems in life.
His hands slid down from her hips to the achingly smooth and slippery skin of her inner thighs. Once more her back was arched, her breasts jiggled and intoxicating, tickle-crazed laughter sang throughout the room. He was rough, grabbing and squeezing every spot from the despairingly sensitive crease where her thighs met her ass to her knees and back again. He revelled watching the way her eyes shot wide open as if in disbelief when his tickling fingers probed either side of her pussy.
Ten minutes of the most energetic tickling he could muster passed and he began to wonder about something else... She was weeping, sweating and clearly exhausted. But something was wrong. She wasn't saying anything. He doubt she spoke much, if any, English but they always said something during their most panicked moments. This one was silent, laughter aside.
He tested her ass, gripping the cheeks and tickling in a similar fashion to his previous abuse of her thighs. It worked. Extremely well. She bounced in her bondage so hard he wondered if she would tear the chains out of the ceiling and she screamed with such force he could see her tonsils.
But he still couldn't hear any begging. It was time to up his game.
She heaved loudly for breath as he looked through a chest at the side of the room. He tossed aside gloves, brushes, old pens. Until eventually they came into view.
Checking they had batteries, he made his way back over to his unwilling companion. Standing before her feet, he marvelled at their appearance. Damn near as sexy as his wife's. Delicate wrinkles, perfectly proportioned toes and beautiful pale arches. He simmered at the imagery running through his mind as he stared at those trembling feet.
He slipped the toys, two sets of vibrating toe rings into place. One for each foot, snug around the stem of each toe and all connected by a single rubber coated bar. She cringed as she hung helplessly, glowering and pouting with wide eyes in his direction.
He switched them both on at the same time and her eyes rolled back into her skull, her soles wrinkled as her toes pointed, those hands reached out again and she was rendered silent by the sensations sweeping through her toes.*Never fails, he smiled to himself watching her writhe in silent shock,*now... Beg.
Moments later and all to be heard in the room was the low hum of the vibrating rings and the jangling of the chains. He stood in bewilderment watching this stunning and fantastically ticklish woman appear to handle the toe rings unlike any who'd ever come before her. As she hung there, jerking and tossing and pivoting her body this way and that, there was no begging, no laughter, no sound from her whatsoever. Just wide-eyed disbelief at what was happening to her feet. Her teeth bared and she threw her head back, the muscles in her arms and legs tensing as she lifted herself up. And then, as he watched her in his own state of disbelief, something awful happened.
He watched in horror as with almost a look of terror in her eyes, her entire body went rigid and she screamed out a deep, gravelly wail and every single part of her body from her toes to her fingers shook. He looked at her feet and the tremors that seized them, at those rings designed purely for the purpose of driving a woman utterly insane and flinched as the wailing became ear-piercing screams.
You have to be fucking kidding me, he thought as he watched this woman react to a debilitating toe tickling by unashamedly orgasming all over his floor. He grabbed at the rings and switched them off, ripping them away from her feet.
He stormed over to the chest and threw it open, hurling the rings inside and slamming the lid shut, all the while resenting the fact she hadn't been gagged. He was forced to listen to her satisfied sighing, her whispered repetition of the word “fuck” in that strange accent. Even her sobbing had a ring of gratitude to it.
As he turned back to her, he was stopped in his tracks by the look on her face. He'd seen that look before... Many times.
“Thank you.” She spoke slowly, her accent thick. “That was...” She was searching for a word. His heart sank. He left the room before she had a chance to say it.
As he walked the labyrinth of corridors with a face of thunder, the night somehow found a way to turn itself against him even further.
Oh not now, you're not bloody serious, are you?
“Blue... To what do I owe the pleasure?”
***
The hot water poured over him, he watched it running down his body taking with it the evidence of this evening's utter, utter bullshit.*Maybe I should just stay in here, forever. What difference would it make? Seriously, what possible difference?
Blue had no answers for himself, so he shut his eyes and sighed, leaning his head back and allowing the water to wash over his face, imagining himself drowning. The weight of the night's events sat heavily, though none quite so much as his brief conversation with that she-devil. He'd tried to play it cool, but the combination of wine and intense disappointment had got the better of him.*This is what happens when you drink, fucking idiot.*His hand met his forehead as he cursed himself.
He could still salvage the night, however. The thought crossed his mind many times each and every day. The image of his wife's sleeping body came to him as he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel.*Should I?
Once dry, he shut the bathroom door quietly behind him and listened. She was still asleep. Nothing ever woke her. Stepping softly into the bedroom he made his way to her side of the bed and lifted the cover gently. There they were. In all their absolute glory. She hadn't repainted her nails in a few days and the varnish was beginning to flake away but somehow that just made her feet look more...*Authentic.
She was no paid model doing a quick video or photo shoot. She wasn't a cam girl.*Nor is she an immigrant with little idea as to what the fuck's happening,*he thought with a hint of shame. Something he'd been beginning to feel more of lately.
His wife was the real deal. Gorgeous and adventurous. She'd indulged his foot fetish many times after being curious as to why exactly he had such a raging erection while massaging her feet one evening. But most importantly to Blue, she was highly ticklish. She just couldn't cope with being tickled, however. Her reactions when he'd snook a tickle in here and there had been explosive, she would scold him and remind him that she hated to be tickled every time.
He imagined her in the hands of Black. Mummified with bandages and tape, belts wrapped around her securing that precious, immobile body to their marital bed with the vibrating toe rings wedged into place and Black's teeth nibbling at one heel while her fingernail's methodically destroyed the other. He saw her face bright red, eyes frenzied with panic, the sinews in her neck straining furiously and droplets of sweat scattering across the bed as her head thrashed and her hair whipped around wildly. He watched her jaw clench around the gag and with a warmth radiating from somewhere deep inside him, listened to the despair and desperation in the shrieks she forced around that gag.
He pictured her crazed eyes catching his as she shot despairing glances in his direction and he had to sit helplessly, bound to a chair, forced to watch his wife's torture. Unable to rescue her as she so clearly needed to be. The look in her eyes screamed out for mercy, or was it death? He wasn't sure. Black was sure, but she wasn't about to grant either wish.
Not for the first time tonight, things were painfully hard again. He knelt at the end of the bed, lifting his wife's ankles and pushing them over to her pyjama covered ass as he slid into the space behind her. Blue watched her begin to stir in sleepy confusion when her feet were pressed around his throbbing cock and were moved back and forth. The heat, the satin of her skin, the wrinkles, God how he craved to see these works of art suffer.
Suddenly he was no longer in control of their movement and he released his grip, her feet wrapped firmly around him and he was trapped, ecstatic in their unrelenting and determined motion. The speed increased as she squeezed him between her silken arches and he watched in awe as she gripped onto the bedsheets and yelped. His fingertips were circling the skin of her ankles delicately, sliding onto the top of her foot and to his amazement... She simply sank her face into her pillow and let out a string of fast-paced, softly spoken expletives. Her body would flinch and her grip tighten almost to the point of hurting him but her feet never faltered.
This was new. She was actually allowing tickling to happen. He knew she hated it. And she knew that he knew that, too. Yet she didn't stop in her efforts to get him off. Had something changed? Was she warming to the idea? His fingernails met the sides of her soles and she screamed out in protest, for almost two glorious seconds she managed to endure their slow and horribly ticklish journey toward her toes before her feet sprang apart and shot back down to the mattress.
“I can't,” she panted, “it just tickles so bad. Holy sh-”
Before she could finish her sentence his hands were on her hips and he pulled her forcefully towards him.
This time, no amount of heat would stop him.
***
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