TickleGhostW
Registered User
- Joined
- Mar 19, 2019
- Messages
- 10
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She had to hurry. She knew he would be home soon.
She grabbed the feather duster and busied herself half-heartedly cleaning knick knacks on the mantle.
She knew this choice was sure to excite him. A french maid's outfit, complete with high heeled stilettos and sheer black nylons. Classic.
Her dusting picked up the pace when she heard the key enter the lock. The next moment Master strode in. Fresh out of work, wearing his sharpest suit. Their eyes met and she saw him try to suppress a grin. She turned away and continued dusting as a smile came across her face. He liked it.
After a moment she heard him take several deliberate strides across the room before he appeared at the other end of the mantle. Once there, he ran his finger across the wooden arch before raising it to his face for examination. It was unquestionably dusty.
“Veronica. What is this?” He asked firmly, holding up his finger in front of her face.
“Oui Monsieur. Vell you see I 'aven't quite finish yet...” She started to explain in her best French accent.
“No no, I'll hear none of that. I told you to have this place spotless by the time I arrived home.” He said with a wry smile.
She hung her head dejectedly “Apologies, Monsieur.”
“Apologies don't clean my house, Veronica. You need to be taught a lesson. Come here.” He said, seating himself on the couch.
She sat.
“Feet right here.” He said, pointing to his lap. She obediently raised her legs and placed her feet in his lap.
One by one he pulled off her shiny, black stiletto shoes. Now her smooth nylon heels rested on his upper thighs. She felt something twitch in his dress pants, and she wiggled her toes in response. His gaze shot up. “You think this is a joke? Give me that feather duster right now!” He snapped.
She quickly dropped her eyes and extended her arm with the feather duster out to him.
“Don't move.” He commanded, as the duster descended over her feet.
In truth it didn't tickle that much, but she played along by scrunching up her face and stifling a few small giggles. Eventually she pulled her feet away.
He ordered them back into his lap and she complied. This time he grabbed them by the ankles.
“I said: Do not move.” He repeated, turning the duster around and brandishing the sharp point at the other end of the wooden handle. How convenient that the other end had been sharpened down to a point! Who could have done that!
This time when the point made contact with the center of her sole, she involuntarily tried to jerk away, but his strong hands held them firmly in his lap.
She opened her mouth and laughed freely as the duster's tip explored her wrinkled soles. She shrieked when it prodded around the stems of her toes and howled when it traced its way around the outside of both her feet.
“Non! Non! Please Monsieur I'll do better next time!” She yelped in between staccato laughter. Her French act getting less and less convincing.
“Hmm, maybe” He mused, lazily strolling the duster around her stocking soles. “But I need to know you're sorry.” With that he discarded the duster and wrapped his right arm around her legs. His left hand quickly got to work terrorizing the trapped feet.
“AAAHH HA HA HA I'M SOHOHOHORYYYY!” She cried as his fingers spider tickled both of her feet.
She was thankful for the lack of bondage. The nylons made the long strokes on her soles simply unbearable. At the same time she yearned to be restrained. Unable to move. Forced to endure the tickling for as long and as mercilessly as Master would like. Still, she tried her best not to move. This was her penance for doing a bad job dusting, after all!
She laughed loudly in pure ecstasy; letting the fingers explore every inch of her feet.
“Beg me. Beg me to let you keep your job, you dirty little maid.” He taunted.
“PLEHE HE HE HE HEEESE DooHO HO HON't fire me Monsieur!” She laughed.
“Tell me I can tickle you as long as I like. Beg for it.”
“PLEASE Tickle me as long as you like! Please! I LOVE IT” She shouted earnestly. “My feet are yours.” She added, splaying her short toes inside the nylon.
Their eyes met for just a moment in knowing passion before his were drawn back to her spreading and scrunching toes.
“Lay down. On your stomach.” He commanded, pointing at the floor in front of him.
She obeyed.
With practiced patience, she lay in front of where he was seated on the couch, her legs bent at the knees and her soles upturned and anxious in between his knees. He grabbed her ankles and pulled her feet into his lap, causing the frilly maid outfit to ride up over he thighs and ass as she was pulled across the carpet. Her pert behind now on full display.
Then he crossed his legs over and behind hers, trapping her helpless soles in a very vulnerable position.
Her sheer nylon soles stared up at him. He paused a moment to take them all in. The short little toes, meaty size 5 soles, pink heels and pads. Creamy insteps. All begging to be touched. Absolutely aching for HIS touch.
An invitation with which he would gladly comply.
He dug in greedily with 10 fingers. Her thrashing was chaotic. Their lust was insatiable. His fingers explored every wrinkle beneath their silk casing. Her laughter rang off the walls, and an unmistakable wetness began to spread over the front of her black silk panties. Meanwhile, between the bouts of uncontrollable laughter, she felt his rock hard member pushing up and between her nylon encased feet.
Oh yes, he had liked this outfit very much indeed, she thought!
The next week...
She sat on the couch in daisy duke shorts and a tied off white button-up shirt. Her feet rested on the coffee table in front of her while she watched TV. The pair of cowboy boots they had bought during their trip to Nashville rested beside her on the couch. She had positioned the whole scene so that her soles pointed directly at the door from where he would arrive.
She heard the key turn, and grabbed the remote.
He opened the door and their eyes met before his immediately darted down to her bare feet.
Her normally extremely well taken care of feet were covered in a layer of dirt, as though she had been walking around outside barefoot.
She saw a moment of real frustration on his face. She knew he liked her feet spotlessly clean. But before long his countenance sharpened and he collected himself.
“Veronica. How many times do I have to tell you to keep your dirty feet off the coffee table?!” He remarked sternly.
“Aww, sorry hun! I been workin' outside all day!” She said with a mild southern drawl and a smile. She wiggled her dirty, dainty little feet for affect.
“No, this has got to be the third time I've told you! We're gonna have to clean your feet in the stocks this time. Meet me in the barn with a bucket of soapy water and two hard scrubbing brushes.” He said, as he unbuttoned his blazer and strode past her into the bedroom. She heard him rummaging around in the closet for their portable stockade.
This was going to be another good one, she thought as she sprang into the kitchen to fetch the water.
She grabbed the feather duster and busied herself half-heartedly cleaning knick knacks on the mantle.
She knew this choice was sure to excite him. A french maid's outfit, complete with high heeled stilettos and sheer black nylons. Classic.
Her dusting picked up the pace when she heard the key enter the lock. The next moment Master strode in. Fresh out of work, wearing his sharpest suit. Their eyes met and she saw him try to suppress a grin. She turned away and continued dusting as a smile came across her face. He liked it.
After a moment she heard him take several deliberate strides across the room before he appeared at the other end of the mantle. Once there, he ran his finger across the wooden arch before raising it to his face for examination. It was unquestionably dusty.
“Veronica. What is this?” He asked firmly, holding up his finger in front of her face.
“Oui Monsieur. Vell you see I 'aven't quite finish yet...” She started to explain in her best French accent.
“No no, I'll hear none of that. I told you to have this place spotless by the time I arrived home.” He said with a wry smile.
She hung her head dejectedly “Apologies, Monsieur.”
“Apologies don't clean my house, Veronica. You need to be taught a lesson. Come here.” He said, seating himself on the couch.
She sat.
“Feet right here.” He said, pointing to his lap. She obediently raised her legs and placed her feet in his lap.
One by one he pulled off her shiny, black stiletto shoes. Now her smooth nylon heels rested on his upper thighs. She felt something twitch in his dress pants, and she wiggled her toes in response. His gaze shot up. “You think this is a joke? Give me that feather duster right now!” He snapped.
She quickly dropped her eyes and extended her arm with the feather duster out to him.
“Don't move.” He commanded, as the duster descended over her feet.
In truth it didn't tickle that much, but she played along by scrunching up her face and stifling a few small giggles. Eventually she pulled her feet away.
He ordered them back into his lap and she complied. This time he grabbed them by the ankles.
“I said: Do not move.” He repeated, turning the duster around and brandishing the sharp point at the other end of the wooden handle. How convenient that the other end had been sharpened down to a point! Who could have done that!
This time when the point made contact with the center of her sole, she involuntarily tried to jerk away, but his strong hands held them firmly in his lap.
She opened her mouth and laughed freely as the duster's tip explored her wrinkled soles. She shrieked when it prodded around the stems of her toes and howled when it traced its way around the outside of both her feet.
“Non! Non! Please Monsieur I'll do better next time!” She yelped in between staccato laughter. Her French act getting less and less convincing.
“Hmm, maybe” He mused, lazily strolling the duster around her stocking soles. “But I need to know you're sorry.” With that he discarded the duster and wrapped his right arm around her legs. His left hand quickly got to work terrorizing the trapped feet.
“AAAHH HA HA HA I'M SOHOHOHORYYYY!” She cried as his fingers spider tickled both of her feet.
She was thankful for the lack of bondage. The nylons made the long strokes on her soles simply unbearable. At the same time she yearned to be restrained. Unable to move. Forced to endure the tickling for as long and as mercilessly as Master would like. Still, she tried her best not to move. This was her penance for doing a bad job dusting, after all!
She laughed loudly in pure ecstasy; letting the fingers explore every inch of her feet.
“Beg me. Beg me to let you keep your job, you dirty little maid.” He taunted.
“PLEHE HE HE HE HEEESE DooHO HO HON't fire me Monsieur!” She laughed.
“Tell me I can tickle you as long as I like. Beg for it.”
“PLEASE Tickle me as long as you like! Please! I LOVE IT” She shouted earnestly. “My feet are yours.” She added, splaying her short toes inside the nylon.
Their eyes met for just a moment in knowing passion before his were drawn back to her spreading and scrunching toes.
“Lay down. On your stomach.” He commanded, pointing at the floor in front of him.
She obeyed.
With practiced patience, she lay in front of where he was seated on the couch, her legs bent at the knees and her soles upturned and anxious in between his knees. He grabbed her ankles and pulled her feet into his lap, causing the frilly maid outfit to ride up over he thighs and ass as she was pulled across the carpet. Her pert behind now on full display.
Then he crossed his legs over and behind hers, trapping her helpless soles in a very vulnerable position.
Her sheer nylon soles stared up at him. He paused a moment to take them all in. The short little toes, meaty size 5 soles, pink heels and pads. Creamy insteps. All begging to be touched. Absolutely aching for HIS touch.
An invitation with which he would gladly comply.
He dug in greedily with 10 fingers. Her thrashing was chaotic. Their lust was insatiable. His fingers explored every wrinkle beneath their silk casing. Her laughter rang off the walls, and an unmistakable wetness began to spread over the front of her black silk panties. Meanwhile, between the bouts of uncontrollable laughter, she felt his rock hard member pushing up and between her nylon encased feet.
Oh yes, he had liked this outfit very much indeed, she thought!
The next week...
She sat on the couch in daisy duke shorts and a tied off white button-up shirt. Her feet rested on the coffee table in front of her while she watched TV. The pair of cowboy boots they had bought during their trip to Nashville rested beside her on the couch. She had positioned the whole scene so that her soles pointed directly at the door from where he would arrive.
She heard the key turn, and grabbed the remote.
He opened the door and their eyes met before his immediately darted down to her bare feet.
Her normally extremely well taken care of feet were covered in a layer of dirt, as though she had been walking around outside barefoot.
She saw a moment of real frustration on his face. She knew he liked her feet spotlessly clean. But before long his countenance sharpened and he collected himself.
“Veronica. How many times do I have to tell you to keep your dirty feet off the coffee table?!” He remarked sternly.
“Aww, sorry hun! I been workin' outside all day!” She said with a mild southern drawl and a smile. She wiggled her dirty, dainty little feet for affect.
“No, this has got to be the third time I've told you! We're gonna have to clean your feet in the stocks this time. Meet me in the barn with a bucket of soapy water and two hard scrubbing brushes.” He said, as he unbuttoned his blazer and strode past her into the bedroom. She heard him rummaging around in the closet for their portable stockade.
This was going to be another good one, she thought as she sprang into the kitchen to fetch the water.
