nytklee
Registered User
- Joined
- Apr 5, 2025
- Messages
- 11
- Points
- 3
The safety man (3/3) (f/m, nylon, non-con)
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Mark tugged at the cuffs, heart racing. “Elise, please, don’t do this,” he said, voice shaky. She slipped off her own heels, revealing her stockinged feet, removed Mark's heel and picked up a long black feather, twirling it. “Don’t?” she mocked, leaning close, her breath hot against his cheek. “You didn’t stop when I was tied up, did you? Tickling my stockings like you owned me. Now it’s my turn, baby.” She dragged the feather across his ultra-sheer soles, and Mark yelped, laughter bursting out, heels clacking as he jerked against the ropes. “No, Elise, stop!” he begged, but the tickling was merciless, the feather dancing over his arches, teasing the sensitive skin beneath his toes.
“Stop? Oh, honey, we’re just getting started,” she taunted, her fingers joining in, nails gliding over the slick nylon, tickling with devastating precision. Mark’s laughter turned frantic, his body writhing, the red dress shifting to reveal more of his thighs. “Please, Elise, I can’t take it!” he gasped, voice cracking. “It’s too much!” She grinned, unrelenting, her fingers fluttering along his soles. “Too much? You love it, don’t you? Look at you, squirming in that sexy dress, those pantyhose making you crazy. Beg all you want—it’s only hotter.” The ultra-sheer nylon amplified every touch, his pleas dissolving into helpless giggles as she targeted his toes.
“God, Elise, I’m sorry, please stop!” he cried, sweat beading on his brow, the cuffs rattling as he thrashed. “Sorry’s not enough,” she whispered, leaning over him, her lips brushing his ear. “I want you screaming, baby, just like I did. These feet are mine now.” She alternated feather and nails, pushing him into a haze of laughter and desperation, the bed creaking under his struggles. “You’re so cute when you beg,” she cooed, her stockinged feet resting near his, a cruel reminder of her power. Mark was lost—bound, dressed in red and nylon, his pleas only fueling Elise’s control as she tickled him to the edge of sanity, savoring every helpless sound.
Mark’s laughter dwindled to ragged gasps, his body slumping against the bed, every muscle trembling from Elise’s relentless tickling. The red cocktail dress clung to his sweat-damp skin, the ultra-sheer black pantyhose slick and unforgiving, amplifying the lingering tingles in his nylon-clad feet. His toes twitching involuntarily as he fought to catch his breath. Elise paused, her fingers hovering over his soles, the black feather discarded beside her stockinged feet. “Done already, baby?” she asked, her voice a sultry taunt, lips curled into a smirk. Mark could only pant, too drained to respond, his wrists straining against the cuffs, the ropes at his ankles holding him fast.
She leaned closer, her black dress brushing his thigh, her breath warm against his flushed face. “You thought you could tickle me and walk away?” she whispered, her tone laced with wicked amusement. “Thought you could play with my stockings and not pay a price?” She trailed a single nail along his jaw, making him shiver. “Look at you now—dressed up all sexy, tied up tight, those pretty feet helpless. Bet you’re still thinking about my nylon soles, aren’t you?” Mark shook his head weakly, but his eyes betrayed him, darting to her stockinged feet, and she laughed, low and knowing.
Elise stood, her heels clicking as she tightened the ropes, ensuring he couldn’t move an inch. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she said, her voice casual but edged with mischief. “My another safety man Julian’s coming over. Guess what, he’s gay, crazy about bondage and tickling nylon feet—sound familiar?” She grinned, watching Mark’s eyes widen, a mix of panic and curiosity flickering across his face. “Oh, he just broke up with his ex-crossdressing girlfriend because of too much tickling." She continue, "and a crossdresser in a sexy dress like you? Those pantyhose, those heels? Who knows what he’ll want to do—maybe tickle you senseless, maybe… more.” She let the words hang, heavy with suggestion, as Mark’s breath hitched.
“Elise, please, don’t,” he murmured, voice hoarse, but she ignored him, reaching for a silk blindfold. “Let’s make this fun,” she purred, slipping it over his eyes, plunging him into darkness. The world shrank to the feel of the dress, the nylon, the cuffs biting his wrists. She fastened a ball gag next, the rubber nestling between his lips, muffling his protests to soft whimpers. “Mmm, you look so good like this,” she teased, her fingers brushing his gagged mouth. “All helpless, just waiting for Julian.” He shook his head, a muffled “Mmph!” escaping, but she only chuckled.
She picked up a pair of earplugs, pausing to lean in one last time, her lips grazing his ear. “I might be back late, Mark—maybe not till tomorrow morning,” she whispered, her voice dripping with heat. “Picture it: Julian’s hands all over your nylon feet, tickling until you’re screaming into that gag. Those heels, that dress—he’ll love it. Bet you’re throbbing just imagining his fingers on you, teasing every inch of that sheer pantyhose. Maybe he’ll untie you… or maybe he’ll keep you like this all night.” Mark squirmed, a desperate moan swallowed by the gag, his body betraying a flicker of forbidden thrill. Elise slid the earplugs in, sealing him in silence, his world reduced to anticipation and the phantom touch of nylon.
Her heels faded, the door clicking shut, leaving Mark bound to the bed, blind, gagged, and deafened. The red dress clung to him, the pantyhose a cruel reminder of his exposure, the heels framing his vulnerable feet. Elise’s words burned in his mind—Julian, with his own desires, coming for him. Every creak of the house felt like a threat, every second a tease, and he was trapped, hers to torment even in her absence, lost in a haze of dread and dangerous longing. Elise’s game had stripped him bare, not just physically but mentally, leaving him to wrestle with the line between dread and desire. Was Julian real, or was this her final, masterful tease, leaving him to stew in his own fantasies? The question hung unanswered, his world a void of nylon, silk, and steel, where all he could do was wait, breathless, for whatever—or whoever—came next.
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This idea comes from a story I read long ago. I forget where it is and what exactly the old story says. With AI, I revive it into a different style.
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Mark tugged at the cuffs, heart racing. “Elise, please, don’t do this,” he said, voice shaky. She slipped off her own heels, revealing her stockinged feet, removed Mark's heel and picked up a long black feather, twirling it. “Don’t?” she mocked, leaning close, her breath hot against his cheek. “You didn’t stop when I was tied up, did you? Tickling my stockings like you owned me. Now it’s my turn, baby.” She dragged the feather across his ultra-sheer soles, and Mark yelped, laughter bursting out, heels clacking as he jerked against the ropes. “No, Elise, stop!” he begged, but the tickling was merciless, the feather dancing over his arches, teasing the sensitive skin beneath his toes.
“Stop? Oh, honey, we’re just getting started,” she taunted, her fingers joining in, nails gliding over the slick nylon, tickling with devastating precision. Mark’s laughter turned frantic, his body writhing, the red dress shifting to reveal more of his thighs. “Please, Elise, I can’t take it!” he gasped, voice cracking. “It’s too much!” She grinned, unrelenting, her fingers fluttering along his soles. “Too much? You love it, don’t you? Look at you, squirming in that sexy dress, those pantyhose making you crazy. Beg all you want—it’s only hotter.” The ultra-sheer nylon amplified every touch, his pleas dissolving into helpless giggles as she targeted his toes.
“God, Elise, I’m sorry, please stop!” he cried, sweat beading on his brow, the cuffs rattling as he thrashed. “Sorry’s not enough,” she whispered, leaning over him, her lips brushing his ear. “I want you screaming, baby, just like I did. These feet are mine now.” She alternated feather and nails, pushing him into a haze of laughter and desperation, the bed creaking under his struggles. “You’re so cute when you beg,” she cooed, her stockinged feet resting near his, a cruel reminder of her power. Mark was lost—bound, dressed in red and nylon, his pleas only fueling Elise’s control as she tickled him to the edge of sanity, savoring every helpless sound.
Mark’s laughter dwindled to ragged gasps, his body slumping against the bed, every muscle trembling from Elise’s relentless tickling. The red cocktail dress clung to his sweat-damp skin, the ultra-sheer black pantyhose slick and unforgiving, amplifying the lingering tingles in his nylon-clad feet. His toes twitching involuntarily as he fought to catch his breath. Elise paused, her fingers hovering over his soles, the black feather discarded beside her stockinged feet. “Done already, baby?” she asked, her voice a sultry taunt, lips curled into a smirk. Mark could only pant, too drained to respond, his wrists straining against the cuffs, the ropes at his ankles holding him fast.
She leaned closer, her black dress brushing his thigh, her breath warm against his flushed face. “You thought you could tickle me and walk away?” she whispered, her tone laced with wicked amusement. “Thought you could play with my stockings and not pay a price?” She trailed a single nail along his jaw, making him shiver. “Look at you now—dressed up all sexy, tied up tight, those pretty feet helpless. Bet you’re still thinking about my nylon soles, aren’t you?” Mark shook his head weakly, but his eyes betrayed him, darting to her stockinged feet, and she laughed, low and knowing.
Elise stood, her heels clicking as she tightened the ropes, ensuring he couldn’t move an inch. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” she said, her voice casual but edged with mischief. “My another safety man Julian’s coming over. Guess what, he’s gay, crazy about bondage and tickling nylon feet—sound familiar?” She grinned, watching Mark’s eyes widen, a mix of panic and curiosity flickering across his face. “Oh, he just broke up with his ex-crossdressing girlfriend because of too much tickling." She continue, "and a crossdresser in a sexy dress like you? Those pantyhose, those heels? Who knows what he’ll want to do—maybe tickle you senseless, maybe… more.” She let the words hang, heavy with suggestion, as Mark’s breath hitched.
“Elise, please, don’t,” he murmured, voice hoarse, but she ignored him, reaching for a silk blindfold. “Let’s make this fun,” she purred, slipping it over his eyes, plunging him into darkness. The world shrank to the feel of the dress, the nylon, the cuffs biting his wrists. She fastened a ball gag next, the rubber nestling between his lips, muffling his protests to soft whimpers. “Mmm, you look so good like this,” she teased, her fingers brushing his gagged mouth. “All helpless, just waiting for Julian.” He shook his head, a muffled “Mmph!” escaping, but she only chuckled.
She picked up a pair of earplugs, pausing to lean in one last time, her lips grazing his ear. “I might be back late, Mark—maybe not till tomorrow morning,” she whispered, her voice dripping with heat. “Picture it: Julian’s hands all over your nylon feet, tickling until you’re screaming into that gag. Those heels, that dress—he’ll love it. Bet you’re throbbing just imagining his fingers on you, teasing every inch of that sheer pantyhose. Maybe he’ll untie you… or maybe he’ll keep you like this all night.” Mark squirmed, a desperate moan swallowed by the gag, his body betraying a flicker of forbidden thrill. Elise slid the earplugs in, sealing him in silence, his world reduced to anticipation and the phantom touch of nylon.
Her heels faded, the door clicking shut, leaving Mark bound to the bed, blind, gagged, and deafened. The red dress clung to him, the pantyhose a cruel reminder of his exposure, the heels framing his vulnerable feet. Elise’s words burned in his mind—Julian, with his own desires, coming for him. Every creak of the house felt like a threat, every second a tease, and he was trapped, hers to torment even in her absence, lost in a haze of dread and dangerous longing. Elise’s game had stripped him bare, not just physically but mentally, leaving him to wrestle with the line between dread and desire. Was Julian real, or was this her final, masterful tease, leaving him to stew in his own fantasies? The question hung unanswered, his world a void of nylon, silk, and steel, where all he could do was wait, breathless, for whatever—or whoever—came next.
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This idea comes from a story I read long ago. I forget where it is and what exactly the old story says. With AI, I revive it into a different style.
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