Restraints
2nd Level Red Feather
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- May 1, 2005
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I haven't posted in years, or even logged in . . . but I've missed it here! And there seems to be a scarcity of true stories, so I thought I'd post one of my own. I have quite a few, but I'll see how this one flies.
Years ago, a few months after an amicable divorce, my ex-wife showed up on my stoop. She was delivering a few leftover items of mine, but I couldn't see or concentrate on them. She was dusty and mussed -- she'd been working in her house all day -- but her faded jeans, too-big college sweatshirt and running shoes were sexy as hell. Natural blonde, tall, athletic figure, lips that could pout me into doing anything . . . my God. I'll never get over her, not all the way.
We had both moved on to other people (interestingly, we're both very happy with them) . . . but I invited her in.
My heart is absolutely pounding as I write this story. It was then, too; and I'm sure she knew it. After a little small talk, we moved on to: "So how are you?" I confessed that I missed her. I was a little crushed when she didn't say the words, but she more than made up for it as she moved a little closer to me on the sofa and softly said: "I think I still owe you a little tickle session."
Shy, slow-moving . . . that's me. But not that afternoon. Without a word, I took her hand and led her to my bedroom. I sat her down on the bottom of the bed, hugged her hard for a minute . . . and pulled her foot onto my lap.
As I began unlacing her shoe, she protested . . . briefly. "My feet are a little dry."
"I don't care."
Now barefoot, she pulled herself up onto the bed, laid her head on the pillows . . . and waited. I, too, laid on my back and placed her feet (a beautiful size 9 1/2) on my stomach. I softly tickled her arches with one finger, and the inevitable soft giggles began. As I increased the intensity of the tickling on her soles, she laughed harder. Then I went for the spots I'd discovered over the years . . . the tops of her toes (she yelped), the outsides of her ankles (she shrieked), and nibbling on the balls of her feet (she laughed hysterically, begging me to stop, but I had a firm hold, and tortured her this way for 30 seconds or so on each foot).
"That's what you get," I said, "for not missing me."
"I miss you!"
"But did you miss THIS?" I quickly grabbed her right leg and squeezed rapidly above her knee. She burst into belly laughs. "No, no, NO!" She tried to slap my hands away, but I began squeezing above the other knee at the same time. How I loved watching her completely disabled with laughter! I was careful not to overdo, though, because I had other tickling plans. I released her ticklish knees; she went limp. Then she cried out:
"It feels SO good to be tickled!"
"Really?" I asked, trying to understate my tone as much as I could. "Then perhaps you'd turn over on your stomach." I said this clinically, like a doctor conducting an exam.
"Okay," she said. She was a little shaky. "Okay." I waited until she was in position. "Are you going to tickle my sides?"
"I'm considering it."
"Wait!" she exclaimed. And then SHE PULLED UP HER SWEATSHIRT to reveal the beautiful skin. "Okay," she said into the pillow, already laughing.
I began lightly tickling her sides, and she cackled. "Like this?" I asked.
"No," she giggled, "no."
"Oh," I said, "like . . . THIS." I dug my fingertips into her beautiful musculature, and out poured a fountain of helpless laughter the like of which I have never heard. Her face grew red, her hair tossed, her feet kicked . . . but she held on as if for dear life to the sides of the bed. I tickle tortured her like I have never tickled any woman . . . and when I took my hands away, she gasped for breath.
Silence . . . just her hard breathing, recovering.
Finally, I asked (softly): "Would you like a little more?"
"Oh, please," she said, "a little more. Just a little more."
I'd be happy to finish this story if you like it. Otherwise, it is fun to be here again and recall such a happy memory.
Years ago, a few months after an amicable divorce, my ex-wife showed up on my stoop. She was delivering a few leftover items of mine, but I couldn't see or concentrate on them. She was dusty and mussed -- she'd been working in her house all day -- but her faded jeans, too-big college sweatshirt and running shoes were sexy as hell. Natural blonde, tall, athletic figure, lips that could pout me into doing anything . . . my God. I'll never get over her, not all the way.
We had both moved on to other people (interestingly, we're both very happy with them) . . . but I invited her in.
My heart is absolutely pounding as I write this story. It was then, too; and I'm sure she knew it. After a little small talk, we moved on to: "So how are you?" I confessed that I missed her. I was a little crushed when she didn't say the words, but she more than made up for it as she moved a little closer to me on the sofa and softly said: "I think I still owe you a little tickle session."
Shy, slow-moving . . . that's me. But not that afternoon. Without a word, I took her hand and led her to my bedroom. I sat her down on the bottom of the bed, hugged her hard for a minute . . . and pulled her foot onto my lap.
As I began unlacing her shoe, she protested . . . briefly. "My feet are a little dry."
"I don't care."
Now barefoot, she pulled herself up onto the bed, laid her head on the pillows . . . and waited. I, too, laid on my back and placed her feet (a beautiful size 9 1/2) on my stomach. I softly tickled her arches with one finger, and the inevitable soft giggles began. As I increased the intensity of the tickling on her soles, she laughed harder. Then I went for the spots I'd discovered over the years . . . the tops of her toes (she yelped), the outsides of her ankles (she shrieked), and nibbling on the balls of her feet (she laughed hysterically, begging me to stop, but I had a firm hold, and tortured her this way for 30 seconds or so on each foot).
"That's what you get," I said, "for not missing me."
"I miss you!"
"But did you miss THIS?" I quickly grabbed her right leg and squeezed rapidly above her knee. She burst into belly laughs. "No, no, NO!" She tried to slap my hands away, but I began squeezing above the other knee at the same time. How I loved watching her completely disabled with laughter! I was careful not to overdo, though, because I had other tickling plans. I released her ticklish knees; she went limp. Then she cried out:
"It feels SO good to be tickled!"
"Really?" I asked, trying to understate my tone as much as I could. "Then perhaps you'd turn over on your stomach." I said this clinically, like a doctor conducting an exam.
"Okay," she said. She was a little shaky. "Okay." I waited until she was in position. "Are you going to tickle my sides?"
"I'm considering it."
"Wait!" she exclaimed. And then SHE PULLED UP HER SWEATSHIRT to reveal the beautiful skin. "Okay," she said into the pillow, already laughing.
I began lightly tickling her sides, and she cackled. "Like this?" I asked.
"No," she giggled, "no."
"Oh," I said, "like . . . THIS." I dug my fingertips into her beautiful musculature, and out poured a fountain of helpless laughter the like of which I have never heard. Her face grew red, her hair tossed, her feet kicked . . . but she held on as if for dear life to the sides of the bed. I tickle tortured her like I have never tickled any woman . . . and when I took my hands away, she gasped for breath.
Silence . . . just her hard breathing, recovering.
Finally, I asked (softly): "Would you like a little more?"
"Oh, please," she said, "a little more. Just a little more."
I'd be happy to finish this story if you like it. Otherwise, it is fun to be here again and recall such a happy memory.
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