blur_5
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This was inspired by an experience I had with my wife and her cousin. And I've been wondering: in another universe, this would've gone way differently. So, I decided to give it a go, hope you like it.
Original story.
Edit: I published this as a Podcast if you prefer to listen. https://quiethouses.podbean.com/e/quiet-houses-my-table-their-rules/
My Table, Their Rules
My house was supposed to be my kingdom. Then Amanda—fresh off a breakup, all wounded pride and puppy eyes—moved in. My parents handed her the guest room like it was nothing. At first, fine. Dad’s gone half the week flying, Mom’s off at book club or pretending errands are a personality. The place is big, quiet, private. Even when they’re home, they’re invisible. Mom never liked Amanda dating my ex (she called him a jerk, but only to me), but she kept her mouth shut. Amanda and I? We’re the kind of cousins who used to sabotage each other’s pranks at family reunions. Having her around felt normal. Until she started dating him. My ex. Not a big deal, supposedly—no drama, no tears—but he was mine first. Suddenly, my house wasn’t just mine. He was everywhere: on my couch, in my kitchen, holding her hand like he owned the place.
But I had the upper hand. I knew his secrets—like his thing for feet, which I’d tucked away for exactly this kind of rainy day. Amanda wanted to poach? Cute. I could play. A little revenge for her, a wicked tease for him. Not that it was just about payback. Maybe I still had a thread of something for him, or maybe it was just the old cousin rivalry, the game we never stopped playing. Either way, he was a guest in my house, and I wanted both of them to remember it.
I started slow. Normally, I never go barefoot at home, but suddenly my shoes were off the second I walked in. Black polish on my toes—because I knew it would get to him—peeking out from under the table. He tried not to stare. I always caught him. Hilarious. When we dated, he’d tried tickling my feet, but I never gave him more than a smirk. I could handle this. No way I’d break first.
Amanda’s not stupid. She saw exactly what I was doing—and what it did to him. First time I put my feet up on the coffee table, she shot me a look. Pure understanding. Next day, she waltzes out, shoes off, toes on display. A silent challenge. Barefoot war, right in my own house. If you’re going to play, cousin, I’m playing too. She’s always pushed back when I tease her. Like our Auntie’s wedding. I hid her shoes, she "accidentally" dumped punch on my dress. "I'm sorry, Eveline," with that smirk. Assertiveness is basically our family sport.
The tension simmered for weeks. Our new normal, with an electric undercurrent. The teasing was obvious—my way of flexing in my own space. Amanda felt guilty about dating my ex, especially as a guest, so she never called me out. Why ruin the game by talking about it? He was stuck in the middle, and I loved every second. My little games were working, but I wanted more. The ultimate checkmate, right here. I didn’t think he’d actually do anything. I just wanted to watch him squirm—and maybe knock Amanda off her throne, too.
One night, we’re all in the dining room. Parents gone. Dad flying, Mom at book club. The house is dead quiet except for the music. My moment. I swept the clutter off the big oak table—candlesticks, vase, mail—making a little show of it. Then I climbed up, heart pounding, legs swinging over the chair back, soles pointed right at him. I shot him a look: Would you dare? His face was priceless. Pulse jumping in his neck. I had him. Frozen, caught by his own want. Perfect.
But I hadn’t counted on Amanda.
I expected her to get mad or pull him away. Instead, she laughed—a low, knowing laugh. She reached out, not for him, but for me. Her hands were gentle but firm as she pulled my feet from the chair back, bringing them closer to her. She looked me straight in the eye, her own challenge clear. Then she spoke, her voice a husky whisper that cut through the tension.
"He won't," she said, glancing at him. "But I will. And you're going to help me… uhm… show him what he's been missing with both of us."
My breath caught. Not the plan. She’d flipped the script, turned my tease into a team effort, dragged him even deeper into our mess. Before I could even process, she locked eyes with him.
"Join us," she said.
The world tilted. He moved. No more hesitation, just slow, deliberate steps. He turned up the music, making sure nothing would carry. He didn’t come for me, not yet. Instead, he went to the sideboard and pulled open the drawer with Mom’s fancy silk scarves. When he came back, he had a handful. Anxiety hit—sharp, electric, tangled up with something darker. Curiosity. Anticipation.
Amanda didn’t give me a second to protest. Her nails, feather-light, traced my soles. I gasped, body arching. That was all he needed. He grabbed my wrist. I struggled, but not really. The feeling on my feet scrambled my brain. He wrapped the silk around my wrist, pulled it tight, tied my arm above my head to the table leg.
He circled to the other side. Amanda kept tracing my arches, light and maddening. I tried to pull my other arm away, even kicked, but he was faster. He tied my other wrist. Now I was stretched out, arms pinned, chest heaving. The trap I’d set for him? Flipped. I was the one caught.
He wasn’t done. He grabbed another scarf. "Lift your hips," he said, voice low and steady. Amanda’s fingers stopped teasing and started scribbling, fast and ruthless, over my soles. I yelped, louder this time. Being tied up stripped away my usual control. He slid the scarf under my lower back, wrapped it around my waist, tied it tight to the other side of the table. I could barely move.
Finally, he went for my feet. Amanda held one ankle, still tickling my toes with her other hand, while he wrapped the last two scarves around my ankles, pulling them tight, tying me to the far table legs. The table was long enough to stretch me out, bare soles exposed and helpless.
My world shrank to helplessness. They stood over me, just looking, admiring their handiwork. My little plan to mess with them? Out of my hands now.
Then it really began.
Amanda started. Her nails weren’t gentle anymore. They raked in a frantic, spider-like dance across my arches. I jolted, toes clenching and spreading, totally giving myself away. The laughter that burst out was raw, uncontrollable. Tied up, I couldn’t hold back like before.
Then he joined in.
His touch was different. Just fingertips, no nails. He knew every sensitive spot, every hidden crease. He started with slow, maddening circles on the balls of my feet, right under my toes. The two of them together were overwhelming. Amanda was wild, unpredictable. He was careful, precise. They worked in perfect, silent rhythm. Amanda would rake her nails up my arch, and as my foot flexed, he’d trace the instep, right where it was worst.
I tried to hold on, tried to keep some control, but my body betrayed me. Real, desperate laughter ripped out of me. "Okay, okay! Stop!" I gasped. They didn’t. They just smiled at each other over me while I squirmed, helpless.
Then he changed the game. Amanda was still raking her nails over my left sole, making me laugh myself hoarse, when I felt something totally different on my right foot. The tickling stopped. Instead, his tongue, warm and wet, slowly licked the length of my arch. My breath stuttered. The laughter caught in my throat. It wasn’t ticklish. It was something else. Deep, strange, electric. It shot up my leg.
I couldn’t make sense of it. Intimate, a little invasive, but not bad. Before I could even process, he took my big toe into his mouth and sucked, slow and gentle. A strangled moan slipped out. My mind blanked. Amanda saw, grinned, and tickled my other foot even harder. The two sensations, her sharp, torturous tickling and his deep, confusing intimacy, overloaded my brain. I didn’t know if I should laugh, moan, or scream. My body wasn’t mine anymore. It was theirs.
"Please!" I squeaked, but it meant nothing. I didn’t even know what I wanted anymore.
Amanda finally let go of my left foot, but the relief was a lie. She lunged for my ribs.
"NO!" I screamed, half terror, half laughter. My real weak spot. He’d found it when we dated, made me giggle like crazy, even untied. Her fingers dug into my sides, wiggling, searching. At the same time, he must have signaled her, because he left my foot and went for my underarms. Overwhelming. Two-front attack. No way to defend myself.
Time disappeared. Everything blurred. Pulling against silk, muscles twisting, gasping for air, relentless, torturous laughter. They were everywhere: ribs, stomach, neck, knees. A concert of tickling, and I was the unwilling instrument. They’d pause, let me breathe, then start again somewhere new, with a fresh trick.
When it finally ended, I was a limp, sweaty mess on my own table. Every muscle was jelly. They worked together to untie me, moving fast. Both of them breathing hard, smiling down. Not cruel, just close. Triumphant. They hadn’t just broken me. They’d bonded over it.
My game was over. They’d won. As I lay there, trying to remember my own name, I knew one thing for sure. Things between the three of us had just gotten a lot more interesting.
Original story.
Edit: I published this as a Podcast if you prefer to listen. https://quiethouses.podbean.com/e/quiet-houses-my-table-their-rules/
My Table, Their Rules
My house was supposed to be my kingdom. Then Amanda—fresh off a breakup, all wounded pride and puppy eyes—moved in. My parents handed her the guest room like it was nothing. At first, fine. Dad’s gone half the week flying, Mom’s off at book club or pretending errands are a personality. The place is big, quiet, private. Even when they’re home, they’re invisible. Mom never liked Amanda dating my ex (she called him a jerk, but only to me), but she kept her mouth shut. Amanda and I? We’re the kind of cousins who used to sabotage each other’s pranks at family reunions. Having her around felt normal. Until she started dating him. My ex. Not a big deal, supposedly—no drama, no tears—but he was mine first. Suddenly, my house wasn’t just mine. He was everywhere: on my couch, in my kitchen, holding her hand like he owned the place.
But I had the upper hand. I knew his secrets—like his thing for feet, which I’d tucked away for exactly this kind of rainy day. Amanda wanted to poach? Cute. I could play. A little revenge for her, a wicked tease for him. Not that it was just about payback. Maybe I still had a thread of something for him, or maybe it was just the old cousin rivalry, the game we never stopped playing. Either way, he was a guest in my house, and I wanted both of them to remember it.
I started slow. Normally, I never go barefoot at home, but suddenly my shoes were off the second I walked in. Black polish on my toes—because I knew it would get to him—peeking out from under the table. He tried not to stare. I always caught him. Hilarious. When we dated, he’d tried tickling my feet, but I never gave him more than a smirk. I could handle this. No way I’d break first.
Amanda’s not stupid. She saw exactly what I was doing—and what it did to him. First time I put my feet up on the coffee table, she shot me a look. Pure understanding. Next day, she waltzes out, shoes off, toes on display. A silent challenge. Barefoot war, right in my own house. If you’re going to play, cousin, I’m playing too. She’s always pushed back when I tease her. Like our Auntie’s wedding. I hid her shoes, she "accidentally" dumped punch on my dress. "I'm sorry, Eveline," with that smirk. Assertiveness is basically our family sport.
The tension simmered for weeks. Our new normal, with an electric undercurrent. The teasing was obvious—my way of flexing in my own space. Amanda felt guilty about dating my ex, especially as a guest, so she never called me out. Why ruin the game by talking about it? He was stuck in the middle, and I loved every second. My little games were working, but I wanted more. The ultimate checkmate, right here. I didn’t think he’d actually do anything. I just wanted to watch him squirm—and maybe knock Amanda off her throne, too.
One night, we’re all in the dining room. Parents gone. Dad flying, Mom at book club. The house is dead quiet except for the music. My moment. I swept the clutter off the big oak table—candlesticks, vase, mail—making a little show of it. Then I climbed up, heart pounding, legs swinging over the chair back, soles pointed right at him. I shot him a look: Would you dare? His face was priceless. Pulse jumping in his neck. I had him. Frozen, caught by his own want. Perfect.
But I hadn’t counted on Amanda.
I expected her to get mad or pull him away. Instead, she laughed—a low, knowing laugh. She reached out, not for him, but for me. Her hands were gentle but firm as she pulled my feet from the chair back, bringing them closer to her. She looked me straight in the eye, her own challenge clear. Then she spoke, her voice a husky whisper that cut through the tension.
"He won't," she said, glancing at him. "But I will. And you're going to help me… uhm… show him what he's been missing with both of us."
My breath caught. Not the plan. She’d flipped the script, turned my tease into a team effort, dragged him even deeper into our mess. Before I could even process, she locked eyes with him.
"Join us," she said.
The world tilted. He moved. No more hesitation, just slow, deliberate steps. He turned up the music, making sure nothing would carry. He didn’t come for me, not yet. Instead, he went to the sideboard and pulled open the drawer with Mom’s fancy silk scarves. When he came back, he had a handful. Anxiety hit—sharp, electric, tangled up with something darker. Curiosity. Anticipation.
Amanda didn’t give me a second to protest. Her nails, feather-light, traced my soles. I gasped, body arching. That was all he needed. He grabbed my wrist. I struggled, but not really. The feeling on my feet scrambled my brain. He wrapped the silk around my wrist, pulled it tight, tied my arm above my head to the table leg.
He circled to the other side. Amanda kept tracing my arches, light and maddening. I tried to pull my other arm away, even kicked, but he was faster. He tied my other wrist. Now I was stretched out, arms pinned, chest heaving. The trap I’d set for him? Flipped. I was the one caught.
He wasn’t done. He grabbed another scarf. "Lift your hips," he said, voice low and steady. Amanda’s fingers stopped teasing and started scribbling, fast and ruthless, over my soles. I yelped, louder this time. Being tied up stripped away my usual control. He slid the scarf under my lower back, wrapped it around my waist, tied it tight to the other side of the table. I could barely move.
Finally, he went for my feet. Amanda held one ankle, still tickling my toes with her other hand, while he wrapped the last two scarves around my ankles, pulling them tight, tying me to the far table legs. The table was long enough to stretch me out, bare soles exposed and helpless.
My world shrank to helplessness. They stood over me, just looking, admiring their handiwork. My little plan to mess with them? Out of my hands now.
Then it really began.
Amanda started. Her nails weren’t gentle anymore. They raked in a frantic, spider-like dance across my arches. I jolted, toes clenching and spreading, totally giving myself away. The laughter that burst out was raw, uncontrollable. Tied up, I couldn’t hold back like before.
Then he joined in.
His touch was different. Just fingertips, no nails. He knew every sensitive spot, every hidden crease. He started with slow, maddening circles on the balls of my feet, right under my toes. The two of them together were overwhelming. Amanda was wild, unpredictable. He was careful, precise. They worked in perfect, silent rhythm. Amanda would rake her nails up my arch, and as my foot flexed, he’d trace the instep, right where it was worst.
I tried to hold on, tried to keep some control, but my body betrayed me. Real, desperate laughter ripped out of me. "Okay, okay! Stop!" I gasped. They didn’t. They just smiled at each other over me while I squirmed, helpless.
Then he changed the game. Amanda was still raking her nails over my left sole, making me laugh myself hoarse, when I felt something totally different on my right foot. The tickling stopped. Instead, his tongue, warm and wet, slowly licked the length of my arch. My breath stuttered. The laughter caught in my throat. It wasn’t ticklish. It was something else. Deep, strange, electric. It shot up my leg.
I couldn’t make sense of it. Intimate, a little invasive, but not bad. Before I could even process, he took my big toe into his mouth and sucked, slow and gentle. A strangled moan slipped out. My mind blanked. Amanda saw, grinned, and tickled my other foot even harder. The two sensations, her sharp, torturous tickling and his deep, confusing intimacy, overloaded my brain. I didn’t know if I should laugh, moan, or scream. My body wasn’t mine anymore. It was theirs.
"Please!" I squeaked, but it meant nothing. I didn’t even know what I wanted anymore.
Amanda finally let go of my left foot, but the relief was a lie. She lunged for my ribs.
"NO!" I screamed, half terror, half laughter. My real weak spot. He’d found it when we dated, made me giggle like crazy, even untied. Her fingers dug into my sides, wiggling, searching. At the same time, he must have signaled her, because he left my foot and went for my underarms. Overwhelming. Two-front attack. No way to defend myself.
Time disappeared. Everything blurred. Pulling against silk, muscles twisting, gasping for air, relentless, torturous laughter. They were everywhere: ribs, stomach, neck, knees. A concert of tickling, and I was the unwilling instrument. They’d pause, let me breathe, then start again somewhere new, with a fresh trick.
When it finally ended, I was a limp, sweaty mess on my own table. Every muscle was jelly. They worked together to untie me, moving fast. Both of them breathing hard, smiling down. Not cruel, just close. Triumphant. They hadn’t just broken me. They’d bonded over it.
My game was over. They’d won. As I lay there, trying to remember my own name, I knew one thing for sure. Things between the three of us had just gotten a lot more interesting.
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