Finally, wrapping up the Beth story. Sorry for the long delay. In the last story post, I had just broken out the clit wand.
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Her struggles doubled, her voice breaking into a squeal. "No!!! Please!!!"
I thumbed the wand off again, just to watch her wilt and beg. She panted, wrists straining, eyes wild with panic and hunger.
“Jesus no,” she gasped. “That’s not even--that’s--Quinn, you can’t...”
“You ready?”
She shook her head desperately.
I flicked it back on. The hum was gentle, but the way she recoiled and then shivered gave away how even the threat of contact was enough. I traced it in lazy figure-eights down her inner thigh, just short of the pink, flushed folds. Her toes curled. Her feet tried to dig for purchase, but they just flailed and flexed, the only thing she had left.
“Ohgodohgodohgod..."
But I pressed the wand in anyway, found the soft center, and let it rest.
She shrieked. The sound cracked and climbed and then broke into a rapid, inhaled laugh, as if the jolt had shorted her vocal cords. She bucked, twisting, and the ropes just held, every inch of her taut and writhing. Her heels batted the air, the right foot twitching wildly, the left trembling, toes flared wide. I pinched the wand in place with two fingers and watched, fascinated.
Her face was all color, deep pink climbing toward her hairline, every muscle in her jaw clenched. “I can’t--I can’t I can’t!” She’d lost words, the noises pouring out of her now nothing but vowels.
I rubbed the wand back and forth through the pinch.
She went silent for a second, then made a long, ragged, animal sound, almost a growl, and her whole body seemed to seize. I shifted the wand just barely, let it flicker right on her clit, and she simply disintegrated, the orgasm crashing through her in a way that seemed to tear her open from the inside. She screamed, then started to sob, then started to laugh--helpless, choked, uncontrollable. It was the total collapse of discipline, a flood, a tidal wave, and he just watched, holding her in place, letting her ride it out.
As her hips arched off the chair, I smacked her ass with the yardstick, once--a sharp, ringing slap.
She shrieked.
Then I did it again, and again.
She tried to say my name, but it came out a stuttering yelp. “Quinn!--Quinn, I--oh, Jesus--oh!"
I kept the wand on her, just a hair off the center, the vibrations still rolling through her, and started tickling her feet again with my free hand. I skittered my fingers along the arches, up the sides, and under the toes. At first she just kicked and screamed, but finally delirious laughter just took her, high and wild and giddy, a sound she couldn’t have otherwise made if her life depended on it.
I alternated: pressure on her clit, a flurry of tickles on her foot, another sharp slap on her ass, then a pause, then back again. I watched her go through it, a whole body’s worth of sensation.
Not gonna lie, I was barely holding it together myself.
I had rarely seen anyone come so hard, or so many times. There was a rawness to it--nothing performative, nothing practiced or polite. Just a naked, feral need to feel everything.
After the fifth or sixth round she was incoherent, a hot, trembling mess, drool on her chin, hair plastered to her neck, the whole lower half of her body shining with sweat and something else. Her eyes were glassy, but she kept trying to say my name. Sometimes it was “sir,” sometimes “Quinn,” sometimes just a long, shuddering moan.
I finally pulled the wand away, let her collapse in the chair. She sagged, wrists limp, legs trembling, barely able to twitch when I untied her legs and let them fall forward.
I moved in, cupped her face, waited until her blue eyes looked up. “You okay?”
She nodded, or tried to.
With a quick smooch on the forehead because she was so damn cute, I started untying the ropes. She whimpered as the harness loosened; I could see little marks on her skin where the ties had pressed in, a roadmap of bright pink lines. Man, she had really struggled.
When her arms were free, she didn’t lift them--just let them flop uselessly in her lap, fingers curled and twitching. For a second, I thought she might tip forward and pass out, but then she looked up and gave me a wicked, exhausted grin.
“You fucking maniac,” she said.
I couldn’t help it; I laughed. “You wanted a rollercoaster.”
“That was Six Flags,” she said, voice hoarse. “That was every ride at Six Flags one after the other with no breaks in between.”
“You were amazing.”
She flexed her feet, wincing at the touch. “I swear to God I can still feel you tickling my feet. I’m going to have tickle torture nightmares.”
I patted her thigh. “Then my work here is done.”
She sat there, dazed, for a long moment, then glanced up. “So… are you going to ask me to return the favor?”
I shook my head. “Tonight was about you.”
“Oh, Jesus.” She leaned back, tried to make herself presentable, but there was no hiding it: she looked beautifully wrecked. Her skin was blotchy, her hair wild, her robe bunched, her thighs still trembling. She pulled the robe closed…just held it tight with her fists and grinned, a little unhinged, a lot happy.
I helped her to her feet, walked her to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, watched as she drained it in one go. She leaned against the counter, still unsteady.
“I’m… wow. Sorry. I had no idea I would lose it like that.”
I shrugged. “You did great. If you want to take a shower, I’ll straighten up.”
She gave me a thumbs up, then ambled, slightly bow-legged, toward the hallway.
I took a moment to look around, then started collecting rope, scarves, yardstick, and the wand. I tidied the chair, then grabbed what was left of my bourbon to sit down on the couch and let myself feel it--the high of having taken someone to pieces and put them back together again, the post-scene letdown, the satisfaction and slow crash.
I had just started to drift when she padded in from the shower. This time the robe was terrycloth, oversized, and fluffy.
“Thank you,” she said, voice muffled.
“You’re welcome.”
She sat next to me, then leaned over onto my chest.
“I think you broke me.”
“You’re incredible,” I said.
She snorted. “I’m a mess.”
“Still incredible.”
She gave a little jerk, and with a sudden energy, straightened up and said, “We are watching Jaws. No arguments.” She stood to grab the remote, almost skipping now, a bounce back in her step.
She turned on the movie and returned to curl instantly into my side, her head on my chest, her legs folded up under her. I put my arm across her back. “If you tickle me again,” she warned, “I’m going to murder you.”
We watched the movie, or at least the first half hour of it. Somewhere along the way, she fell asleep. I was trapped under her, but it wasn’t bad at all.
It was late on August 7, maybe 11:30 PM. I popped open TMF on my phone and dropped a quick post, then finished watching the movie as Beth dozed.
Much later, after she woke up, once I’d gathered my stuff and packed my bag, she walked me to the door. She was shy again now, tired and happy, hands twisting at the hem of her robe.
“Text me when you get home?” she said.
I nodded.
“Next time,” she added, “I get to tie you up.”
I laughed. “There’s clearly something about this Dom/sub thing you don’t understand…” She laughed, we hugged, and that was that.
One for the books.
-Q.
