(True Story. MF/f, Warning: adult themes.)
I posted this recollection back in the paleolithic era of the interwebs, the 90's, on the .Alt.Fetish boards, just after it occurred. Recently, a new TMF friend convinced me it might be interesting to regale it here.
THE GRUMPY LESBIANS
A business trip to Chicago; the windy city, deep-dish pizza, and a new client. I would get to enjoy none of it. The old axiom "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade" may be quaint and trite... but it is nevertheless true, and is especially sweet when one subscribes to it in spite of jadedness.
In the advertising biz there are two kinds of clients; The first hires you because they love your ideas and demo reel, express their goals and let you have at it. Including hosting you a night on the town.
The second kind of client hires you because they love your ideas and demo reel, then proceed to worm their own "creative ideas' into the meeting - the same ideas that failed them and prompted a call for outside help in the first place. These clients rarely host a dinner out, let alone a stale prune danish with long-burnt coffee.
On this trip, I had the pleasure of the later kind of client and was left to my own devices after the marathon meeting ended. As an ad man, it really makes no difference to me between the two — they both sign checks.
So, with the early darkness of the Chicago skyline evening descending like the fade-to-black ending of my Day of Stupid, I weighed the effort of an expedition to Pizzaria Uno versus retiring to my hotel for a hot, beating shower and some drinks. Shower and drinks won out.
After refreshing in my hotel room, the only thing that wasn't squeaky clean was my mind, still behaggard from spelunking the depths of egotistical foolishness with my new client for eight hours. I resigned myself to the hotel bar (or "Lounge"... which conjures images of overstuffed, cushiony booths... which it did have) and chance some bar-side chow from the hotel kitchens. But it was the booze my weary brain craved to make sense of the day.
The Lounge was large and dimly lit, with the quasi-flash of polished black lacquer and brass tinkling the pin lights. To the side, a long behemoth of a public bar, the rest, a largely under-populated room with cozy private semi-circular booths. The bar was sparsely populated as well; a few dull-eyed, salesmen nursed well-practiced de-compression drinks. A few locals including an old woman whose ass, I'm sure, had permanently worn a groove in her stool over decades. These folks were being served by a tall, gaunt and pale, bartender who had all the cheer and exuberance of Lurch from the Adams family.
On the other end... waaaaay down the other end was another bartender, a woman in her late 20's perhaps, cleaning glasses and still had the look of someone for which life was still a bouquet of opportunity in spite of wrangling scotch for salesmen every night. I like sitting apart from folks, enjoying my drink, and playing mental-footsies with cute bartender gals. I asked if her section was open and if I may sit, to my delight she smiled broadly and said, "Sure! Whatayahave?"
Now, I learned a long time ago as a fetishist, that sometimes opportunity knocks in the most unexpected places. It has been my experience that one never knows when a bartendress or hotel staff is open to new, fun and exciting, ideas. This is why I find it prudent to always pack a small "magic bag" with my luggage for just such an serendipitous fetish occasion. And, to hell with chance - sometimes its just great sport to flirt and fence fetish innuendo on the enthusiastically "vanilla". Not all budding fetishists are to be found on the internet.
"I'll have a Black Dom, please." I said and smiled myself. As planned, she came closer and scrunched her nose, "Don't know that one. What's in it."
"Myer's Dark Rum, shot of Jägermeister, splash of Amaretto and coke."
"Huh. Coming right up. Who's it named for?" she asks whilst preparing it.
She has no idea this is a fictional drink designed to spark devilish conversational flirting.
"It's not named for anyone in particular, but "Dom" as in Dominant. Domination. You know... BDSM genre." I smile and chuckle, "Appropriate after the day I had."
She smiles all the while. Biting her lip a little when I say "BDSM". "So... it's supposed to be a kinky drink... what makes it kinky?" she teases and slides me the drink. I slide it back to her, "What makes it kinky is you need to drop in two cherries tied by their stems so they can't get away."
We both laugh. She tries to tie two cherries. I watch and encourage her. She fails.
"I can't do it." she titters.
"I'll have to show you how to tie a proper knot later," I raise my glass and she, her water,
"Cheers."
* * * *
So my evening in the Second City is looking up, if not more interesting at the very least. The bartendress and I chat politely for we are far removed from the others and I have her all to myself. I am a garishly unabashed big tipper, and am shrewd enough to know that if I cannot win her attention, I can buy it. But there is no need, she is engaging, witty, intelligent and quite street smart; the best kind of bartender.
Throughout our conversation and my drinks, I sprinkle cheesy fetish references to tickle her subconscious back door; "the strict bondage of a career," how she likes "slaving over me at the bar," and other such terminological nonsense. Yes. Two drinks and a full day of horseshit and I am prepared to defile my intelligence and decorum in every deliciously wicked way I can think of...within reason for a fetishist, of course. Nevertheless, she warms to me and seems charmed.
Third drink.
"So show me how you would tie these..." she hands me two fluorescent red maraschino cherries, harvested in 1952, and leans over the bar. The autonomous male sonar in me notes her breast size, skin condition, over-all health, waist, hygiene and perky ass. The intellectual in me tabulates her attitude and social condition versus situation and time allotment. The fetishist in me evaluates her "vanilla quotient," and if she has attractive feet. All this unconscious evaluation happens in the blink of an eye and is entirely hard-wired into the miserable, yet charming, scoundrel that I am.
"Well," I say coyly, taking them and fumbling, "the trick is tooooo... tie them nice and TIGHT, so they can't get away when the bubbles tickle them." I punctuate by dropping them into the drink smartly. Plop! She giggles and watches them sink. She eyes my eyes for a brief second with a look any practiced fetishist know is 'connection.' She bites her lip, "they can't get away," she coos.
Perfect.
Then two grumpy lesbians dash the moment with a not-so delicate thrump onto the bar next to me. "Two beers!" the little one huffs. My bartendress composes and attends to them and their haughty demand.
Crap.
I did not know they were lesbians at the time, but in a short while, it was the smart deduction. And after a time, they made it clear to everyone within earshot. Bear in mind this is the 1990's and being "out" was not as socially fashionable as it is today. So props to them.
Sitting directly next to me was the short one, Terri. From the get-go, she was the "boss" of their relationship and most undeniably very butch in demeanor and attitude. Short cropped dark hair, small in frame, small in breast, but husky in voice. In spite of all this she was charming in a "hey, Pal, howyadoin" kind of way, full of laughter and seemed hell-bent on making our end of the bar a little more merry, if not a lot louder. She was cute and tough at the same time. Almost androgynous. I liked her immediately.
On the other side of Terri is Amanda. She is tall, shapely, pretty and feminine. She is also, as time will bear out, rude, loud, spoiled, and, to everyone's dismay, poignantly whiny. As Terri and I make acquaintance, and I am briefly introduced to "the wife" Amanda, it becomes clear that Terri has had a very full day of her and would like to speak to another human being for awhile, if not drink herself into not caring. Amanda, fits and bubbles like an attention whore on her stool, anyone's notice will do and she soon drains the bartender and myself to the level Terri has been suffering.
It is about 9 o'clock. Terri is grumpy. Amanda is grumpy. Add some beer and it does not look good.
As I said, Terri seems determined to change the conversation she has endured all day with her other half, and seems to take great delight engaging me in any conversation she can think of. Amanda does a bad job of covering up that she is being mostly ignored by Terri, but I, in an attempt to stay neutral and defuse any bottle throwing potential, purposely include Amanda in all topics.
Terri is genuine, smart and friendly, still dressed smartly from their day at a cosmetic convention booth. Amanda, if she was with her all day, was wearing street clothes, jeans and sneakers. They are both early thirties, and youthful. Terri is eager to put away some beers and offers me more drink refills than I care for. Amanda keeps up with Terri. The conversations, while sprightly and polite are increasingly peppered by Amanda's barbs shot at Terri, airing their dirty laundry publicly. She is getting increasingly annoyed and loud. The bartendress has now made several friendly "keep it down to a dull roar" mentions. Terri is shamed, Amanda seems oblivious to shame. Rather spoiled and brat-like, actually.
Then something interesting occurs, as the two begin to take turns going to the rest room, each in-turn leans in to confide in me, as if I were to be the officiating judge of whatever cat-fits they had going on. It is increasingly clear that while Terri leads, Amanda "tops from the bottom" with merciless passive/aggressive behavior. The threat of the relationship ending is apparently the weapon of choice. So the two, when the other is away, coo and sweetly bend my ear to their pointless sides of the story. I glance at the bartendress and she, witness to it all, makes me another drink on the house. As repayment, I suggest to the girls that we take the boisterous fun to a private booth... waaaaaaay in the dark back reaches of the lounge. They rise and comply without a hitch in their bickering.
When whiny Amanda next leaves to powder her nose. Terri confides she loves her but is furious. While I endure politely and sympathize in the higher reaches of my brain, the service elevator opens and my sadistic side steps out, fresh with wicked ideas from my nether regions.
"Hmmm... she is very bratty. Maybe you should spank her." my drinks slip out.
"She'd love it too much." Terri says without missing a beat, "I'd love to."
"She is sweet... but annoying." I smile, "Maybe we should get even?"
To my delight, Terri perks in a wicked way, "Yeah! What do you suggest?"
"I don't know," I smile. she smiles, "Hmmmm... is she ticklish?" I toss the trawl net.
"Oh fuck yeah! Is she ever. She hates it!" Terri chuckles and guzzles her beer.
"Where is she ticklish?"
"Oh man, her sides. She hates when I hold her down and tickle her underarms." Terri boasts.
"How about her feet?"
"Jeezus, yeah. Its the worst." she said, "Makes mine squirm just thinking about it. It's torture."
The fetish guy inside my brain does not need to buy a vowel and is turning over all the wheel-of-fortune letters for T I C K L E TO R T U
"Well," I cross my legs casually and slowly sip my drink, "I think that's a good idea. Let's tie her up and tickle the brat until she apologizes."
"I love it." Terri clinks glasses, "It sounds fun."
The fetish guy inside my brain finishes with an R and an E. The studio audience cheers.
"She's coming. I'm gonna hit the restroom." Terri excuses herself and they tag-team insults as Amanda sits.
Amanda leans her ample boobs over and confides in me her side of the story. She likes to touch me as she talks. As a change of pace, and a little sadistically, I rebuff her side of it and tell her that, yes, she has been a brat... and needs to be punished. She smiles. No real reaction. Then continues her "woe-is-me lesbian relationships are so hard" sob story. I listen as the whininess reaches a self-indulgent pity that even I find hard to ignore. Terri is coming back to the table, I excuse myself to the restroom now, but as I stand I lean over and whisper in Amanda's ear.
"Terri and I have already decided. We're going to tie you up and tickle you." I wink at her unblinking face and go to the rest room. I figure if its too freaky for them they will be gone when I return. When I do, they are at it again, spat and bicker. The fetish subject is not on the list of grievances.
I endure one more round of drinks and watching their antics. And at near end, I interrupt and lock a knowing smile on Terri, "Shall we?"
"I'd love to" Terri agrees and we stand up. Amanda is as snippy as ever.
"What? You guys gonna go fuck, or what?"
"No," Terri takes her arm, "You're coming with us."
I pay the bartendress who adds to the heady mix by asking me if I will be here tomorrow night. Sadly, no, I will leave in the morning. She says she will be here when I return someday, then nods in the direction of the girls, "Good luck," she smiles coy, "Make sure the knots are tight."
I was going to protest innocence, but... just smiled, red as a beet I'm sure.
* * * *
In the elevator I said I need to stop by my room on the eighth, If they liked, they could catch a great view of the city from my window. The entire way they bickered. Love and hate in one raucous pudding of a glue binding them together.
They fought in the hallway outside my door, and I noted that when my room door shut I could not hear them as loud as they were. Quality hotel. This is a good thing, if its soundproof one way, its soundproof the other. I grab my "magic bag" and down to their room on the third.
In their room, Amanda up and lands in the middle of their king, "If you guys got something going on between you, I don't give a fuck. But I'm sleeping on the bed."
We ignore her and I open the bag on the desk to show Terri. Her eyes wide, says, "Cool." I tell her to turn on the television, hand her a comfy cuff with strap and tell her to watch me. I fumble to find tie points at the head of the king. Conveniently, there are plenty and I show Terri how to temp tie, before we pull pull it taught. All the while, Amanda is gibbering away about what a bitch Terri is. Blah blah blah. The straps are the same at the foot of the bed. When we take Amanda's wrists, she does not resist and keeps insulting. We pull the straps taught.
"You guys are serious, huh?"
"We're gonna tickle the fuck outta you, Bitch!" Terri snarls. We cuff Amanda's ankles over her jeans. She tries to act uncaring until we pull her body taught by the legs. Straps tightened.
"I don't care. Do what you want. I can maintain." Amanda snubbed.
We sat on each side of her. I looked at Terri, and she was primed for revenge, "You're a total bitch and we're gonna tickle the shit out of you." At that Terri dug into Amanda's underarms and ribs with all the fury of an abused spouse. Amanda's face screwed up in defiance. I started in on her ribs. More thrash resistance, probably the beer.
"I thought you said she was ticklish?" I said as I probed under her tee shirt.
"Oh fuck, she is. Watch." And Terri dug in more, then hit her pelvis. Amanda let it all out, laughing hard and cursing.... and, beautifully the cursing melted away into the most wonderful helpless rolling laughter I had heard in some time.
"See?" Terri gloated and smiled, "Yooooooo BITCH!" She lifts Amanda's shirt to her neck and unceremoniously tugs her bra down, releasing Amanda's milky white tits and pink nips which were already hard as pencil erasers, "Do her tits, she hates it." I happily obliged.
We had a grand time for a good long while, but I was anxious to slow it down and get really sadistic. Terri beat me to the thought; suddenly got up and went to my bag, she lifts out an orange ball gag like a prize, "You, Sir. Are the man!" And promptly if not roughly, pops it into Amanda's big mouth and straps it down. The evidence of my own excitement is anything less than inconspicuous at this point. Why not show Terri some real sadism.
"Hey, Amanda? Listen. We're going to tickle your feet now... real slow. And there's nothing you can do about it. Do you know why? Because you annoyed everyone in the bar. You need to apologize to Terri for embarrassing her. But not for a while..." Terri had long since discarded her blazer and skirt. It was also beginning to get hot in the room. Terri's panties were a little darker shade of purple between the legs and Amanda's jeans were undeniably warm and fragrant at the crotch.
I told Terri to pull up a chair to the end of the bed and relax, "I think we should order drinks from room service for this. Take our time." Terri laughs and mocks Amanda. It was very sexy slowing it down. The sweet angst it built in the mind of Amanda as we ritually pulled her sneaker laces, undid them like peeled fruit. The removing of the shoes and verbal teasing, "Oh, my! What do we have here? Little helpless feet that can't go anywhere to escape."
The sliding off of socks like the disrobing of a virgin. Greeted by soft, shapely feet and long toes, nails the color of ripe plumbs. Arches like soft baby skin fresh from a bath. Not a callous to be found. Perfection.
A beautiful, well-cared for female foot is analogous to the woman, sensitive, soft and curvaceous. But perhaps the most intoxicating to the sadist is the vulnerability; the foot can not defend itself. I instruct Terri to keep it slow. To work her toes, soles and heels in the most excruciating mosey we can contain.
The next thirty minutes or so were a sadist's lazy dream. And Amanda's nightmare.
Oddly, I could not help but notice that the evening's activities were not exactly foreign to Terri and Amanda, judging by their nonchalant go-along. Terri did engage in some face slapping and breast torment, which only seemed to make Amanda's struggles more of the pelvic kind, rather than someone who did not enjoy the predicament. Terri took to rubbing Amanda through her jeans, stopping and starting. She was a sadist after my own heart. She even caressed my bulge, but her eyes were locked on Amanda's as if to humiliate her with cross sexuality. Terri did fumble for my zipper, but I declined. Why throw gasoline on the fire of their relationship.
I asked Amanda if she was sorry and if she promised to be a good girl. To which she sheepishly agreed through sweaty teary eyes.
"Okay then. That's good enough for me." I smiled and rose, "I leave you at Terri's mercy then."
Terri walked me to the door, "That was great. Really great. Thanks. It was fun... WAIT! What about your stuff?" she said.
"You keep it. It doesn't look like you're finished yet. Goodnight."
"Fuck yeah!" Terri chuckled in her mannish, but no longer grumpy, voice.
~ C.A.B.
I posted this recollection back in the paleolithic era of the interwebs, the 90's, on the .Alt.Fetish boards, just after it occurred. Recently, a new TMF friend convinced me it might be interesting to regale it here.
THE GRUMPY LESBIANS
A business trip to Chicago; the windy city, deep-dish pizza, and a new client. I would get to enjoy none of it. The old axiom "When life hands you lemons, make lemonade" may be quaint and trite... but it is nevertheless true, and is especially sweet when one subscribes to it in spite of jadedness.
In the advertising biz there are two kinds of clients; The first hires you because they love your ideas and demo reel, express their goals and let you have at it. Including hosting you a night on the town.
The second kind of client hires you because they love your ideas and demo reel, then proceed to worm their own "creative ideas' into the meeting - the same ideas that failed them and prompted a call for outside help in the first place. These clients rarely host a dinner out, let alone a stale prune danish with long-burnt coffee.
On this trip, I had the pleasure of the later kind of client and was left to my own devices after the marathon meeting ended. As an ad man, it really makes no difference to me between the two — they both sign checks.
So, with the early darkness of the Chicago skyline evening descending like the fade-to-black ending of my Day of Stupid, I weighed the effort of an expedition to Pizzaria Uno versus retiring to my hotel for a hot, beating shower and some drinks. Shower and drinks won out.
After refreshing in my hotel room, the only thing that wasn't squeaky clean was my mind, still behaggard from spelunking the depths of egotistical foolishness with my new client for eight hours. I resigned myself to the hotel bar (or "Lounge"... which conjures images of overstuffed, cushiony booths... which it did have) and chance some bar-side chow from the hotel kitchens. But it was the booze my weary brain craved to make sense of the day.
The Lounge was large and dimly lit, with the quasi-flash of polished black lacquer and brass tinkling the pin lights. To the side, a long behemoth of a public bar, the rest, a largely under-populated room with cozy private semi-circular booths. The bar was sparsely populated as well; a few dull-eyed, salesmen nursed well-practiced de-compression drinks. A few locals including an old woman whose ass, I'm sure, had permanently worn a groove in her stool over decades. These folks were being served by a tall, gaunt and pale, bartender who had all the cheer and exuberance of Lurch from the Adams family.
On the other end... waaaaay down the other end was another bartender, a woman in her late 20's perhaps, cleaning glasses and still had the look of someone for which life was still a bouquet of opportunity in spite of wrangling scotch for salesmen every night. I like sitting apart from folks, enjoying my drink, and playing mental-footsies with cute bartender gals. I asked if her section was open and if I may sit, to my delight she smiled broadly and said, "Sure! Whatayahave?"
Now, I learned a long time ago as a fetishist, that sometimes opportunity knocks in the most unexpected places. It has been my experience that one never knows when a bartendress or hotel staff is open to new, fun and exciting, ideas. This is why I find it prudent to always pack a small "magic bag" with my luggage for just such an serendipitous fetish occasion. And, to hell with chance - sometimes its just great sport to flirt and fence fetish innuendo on the enthusiastically "vanilla". Not all budding fetishists are to be found on the internet.
"I'll have a Black Dom, please." I said and smiled myself. As planned, she came closer and scrunched her nose, "Don't know that one. What's in it."
"Myer's Dark Rum, shot of Jägermeister, splash of Amaretto and coke."
"Huh. Coming right up. Who's it named for?" she asks whilst preparing it.
She has no idea this is a fictional drink designed to spark devilish conversational flirting.
"It's not named for anyone in particular, but "Dom" as in Dominant. Domination. You know... BDSM genre." I smile and chuckle, "Appropriate after the day I had."
She smiles all the while. Biting her lip a little when I say "BDSM". "So... it's supposed to be a kinky drink... what makes it kinky?" she teases and slides me the drink. I slide it back to her, "What makes it kinky is you need to drop in two cherries tied by their stems so they can't get away."
We both laugh. She tries to tie two cherries. I watch and encourage her. She fails.
"I can't do it." she titters.
"I'll have to show you how to tie a proper knot later," I raise my glass and she, her water,
"Cheers."
* * * *
So my evening in the Second City is looking up, if not more interesting at the very least. The bartendress and I chat politely for we are far removed from the others and I have her all to myself. I am a garishly unabashed big tipper, and am shrewd enough to know that if I cannot win her attention, I can buy it. But there is no need, she is engaging, witty, intelligent and quite street smart; the best kind of bartender.
Throughout our conversation and my drinks, I sprinkle cheesy fetish references to tickle her subconscious back door; "the strict bondage of a career," how she likes "slaving over me at the bar," and other such terminological nonsense. Yes. Two drinks and a full day of horseshit and I am prepared to defile my intelligence and decorum in every deliciously wicked way I can think of...within reason for a fetishist, of course. Nevertheless, she warms to me and seems charmed.
Third drink.
"So show me how you would tie these..." she hands me two fluorescent red maraschino cherries, harvested in 1952, and leans over the bar. The autonomous male sonar in me notes her breast size, skin condition, over-all health, waist, hygiene and perky ass. The intellectual in me tabulates her attitude and social condition versus situation and time allotment. The fetishist in me evaluates her "vanilla quotient," and if she has attractive feet. All this unconscious evaluation happens in the blink of an eye and is entirely hard-wired into the miserable, yet charming, scoundrel that I am.
"Well," I say coyly, taking them and fumbling, "the trick is tooooo... tie them nice and TIGHT, so they can't get away when the bubbles tickle them." I punctuate by dropping them into the drink smartly. Plop! She giggles and watches them sink. She eyes my eyes for a brief second with a look any practiced fetishist know is 'connection.' She bites her lip, "they can't get away," she coos.
Perfect.
Then two grumpy lesbians dash the moment with a not-so delicate thrump onto the bar next to me. "Two beers!" the little one huffs. My bartendress composes and attends to them and their haughty demand.
Crap.
I did not know they were lesbians at the time, but in a short while, it was the smart deduction. And after a time, they made it clear to everyone within earshot. Bear in mind this is the 1990's and being "out" was not as socially fashionable as it is today. So props to them.
Sitting directly next to me was the short one, Terri. From the get-go, she was the "boss" of their relationship and most undeniably very butch in demeanor and attitude. Short cropped dark hair, small in frame, small in breast, but husky in voice. In spite of all this she was charming in a "hey, Pal, howyadoin" kind of way, full of laughter and seemed hell-bent on making our end of the bar a little more merry, if not a lot louder. She was cute and tough at the same time. Almost androgynous. I liked her immediately.
On the other side of Terri is Amanda. She is tall, shapely, pretty and feminine. She is also, as time will bear out, rude, loud, spoiled, and, to everyone's dismay, poignantly whiny. As Terri and I make acquaintance, and I am briefly introduced to "the wife" Amanda, it becomes clear that Terri has had a very full day of her and would like to speak to another human being for awhile, if not drink herself into not caring. Amanda, fits and bubbles like an attention whore on her stool, anyone's notice will do and she soon drains the bartender and myself to the level Terri has been suffering.
It is about 9 o'clock. Terri is grumpy. Amanda is grumpy. Add some beer and it does not look good.
As I said, Terri seems determined to change the conversation she has endured all day with her other half, and seems to take great delight engaging me in any conversation she can think of. Amanda does a bad job of covering up that she is being mostly ignored by Terri, but I, in an attempt to stay neutral and defuse any bottle throwing potential, purposely include Amanda in all topics.
Terri is genuine, smart and friendly, still dressed smartly from their day at a cosmetic convention booth. Amanda, if she was with her all day, was wearing street clothes, jeans and sneakers. They are both early thirties, and youthful. Terri is eager to put away some beers and offers me more drink refills than I care for. Amanda keeps up with Terri. The conversations, while sprightly and polite are increasingly peppered by Amanda's barbs shot at Terri, airing their dirty laundry publicly. She is getting increasingly annoyed and loud. The bartendress has now made several friendly "keep it down to a dull roar" mentions. Terri is shamed, Amanda seems oblivious to shame. Rather spoiled and brat-like, actually.
Then something interesting occurs, as the two begin to take turns going to the rest room, each in-turn leans in to confide in me, as if I were to be the officiating judge of whatever cat-fits they had going on. It is increasingly clear that while Terri leads, Amanda "tops from the bottom" with merciless passive/aggressive behavior. The threat of the relationship ending is apparently the weapon of choice. So the two, when the other is away, coo and sweetly bend my ear to their pointless sides of the story. I glance at the bartendress and she, witness to it all, makes me another drink on the house. As repayment, I suggest to the girls that we take the boisterous fun to a private booth... waaaaaaay in the dark back reaches of the lounge. They rise and comply without a hitch in their bickering.
When whiny Amanda next leaves to powder her nose. Terri confides she loves her but is furious. While I endure politely and sympathize in the higher reaches of my brain, the service elevator opens and my sadistic side steps out, fresh with wicked ideas from my nether regions.
"Hmmm... she is very bratty. Maybe you should spank her." my drinks slip out.
"She'd love it too much." Terri says without missing a beat, "I'd love to."
"She is sweet... but annoying." I smile, "Maybe we should get even?"
To my delight, Terri perks in a wicked way, "Yeah! What do you suggest?"
"I don't know," I smile. she smiles, "Hmmmm... is she ticklish?" I toss the trawl net.
"Oh fuck yeah! Is she ever. She hates it!" Terri chuckles and guzzles her beer.
"Where is she ticklish?"
"Oh man, her sides. She hates when I hold her down and tickle her underarms." Terri boasts.
"How about her feet?"
"Jeezus, yeah. Its the worst." she said, "Makes mine squirm just thinking about it. It's torture."
The fetish guy inside my brain does not need to buy a vowel and is turning over all the wheel-of-fortune letters for T I C K L E TO R T U
"Well," I cross my legs casually and slowly sip my drink, "I think that's a good idea. Let's tie her up and tickle the brat until she apologizes."
"I love it." Terri clinks glasses, "It sounds fun."
The fetish guy inside my brain finishes with an R and an E. The studio audience cheers.
"She's coming. I'm gonna hit the restroom." Terri excuses herself and they tag-team insults as Amanda sits.
Amanda leans her ample boobs over and confides in me her side of the story. She likes to touch me as she talks. As a change of pace, and a little sadistically, I rebuff her side of it and tell her that, yes, she has been a brat... and needs to be punished. She smiles. No real reaction. Then continues her "woe-is-me lesbian relationships are so hard" sob story. I listen as the whininess reaches a self-indulgent pity that even I find hard to ignore. Terri is coming back to the table, I excuse myself to the restroom now, but as I stand I lean over and whisper in Amanda's ear.
"Terri and I have already decided. We're going to tie you up and tickle you." I wink at her unblinking face and go to the rest room. I figure if its too freaky for them they will be gone when I return. When I do, they are at it again, spat and bicker. The fetish subject is not on the list of grievances.
I endure one more round of drinks and watching their antics. And at near end, I interrupt and lock a knowing smile on Terri, "Shall we?"
"I'd love to" Terri agrees and we stand up. Amanda is as snippy as ever.
"What? You guys gonna go fuck, or what?"
"No," Terri takes her arm, "You're coming with us."
I pay the bartendress who adds to the heady mix by asking me if I will be here tomorrow night. Sadly, no, I will leave in the morning. She says she will be here when I return someday, then nods in the direction of the girls, "Good luck," she smiles coy, "Make sure the knots are tight."
I was going to protest innocence, but... just smiled, red as a beet I'm sure.
* * * *
In the elevator I said I need to stop by my room on the eighth, If they liked, they could catch a great view of the city from my window. The entire way they bickered. Love and hate in one raucous pudding of a glue binding them together.
They fought in the hallway outside my door, and I noted that when my room door shut I could not hear them as loud as they were. Quality hotel. This is a good thing, if its soundproof one way, its soundproof the other. I grab my "magic bag" and down to their room on the third.
In their room, Amanda up and lands in the middle of their king, "If you guys got something going on between you, I don't give a fuck. But I'm sleeping on the bed."
We ignore her and I open the bag on the desk to show Terri. Her eyes wide, says, "Cool." I tell her to turn on the television, hand her a comfy cuff with strap and tell her to watch me. I fumble to find tie points at the head of the king. Conveniently, there are plenty and I show Terri how to temp tie, before we pull pull it taught. All the while, Amanda is gibbering away about what a bitch Terri is. Blah blah blah. The straps are the same at the foot of the bed. When we take Amanda's wrists, she does not resist and keeps insulting. We pull the straps taught.
"You guys are serious, huh?"
"We're gonna tickle the fuck outta you, Bitch!" Terri snarls. We cuff Amanda's ankles over her jeans. She tries to act uncaring until we pull her body taught by the legs. Straps tightened.
"I don't care. Do what you want. I can maintain." Amanda snubbed.
We sat on each side of her. I looked at Terri, and she was primed for revenge, "You're a total bitch and we're gonna tickle the shit out of you." At that Terri dug into Amanda's underarms and ribs with all the fury of an abused spouse. Amanda's face screwed up in defiance. I started in on her ribs. More thrash resistance, probably the beer.
"I thought you said she was ticklish?" I said as I probed under her tee shirt.
"Oh fuck, she is. Watch." And Terri dug in more, then hit her pelvis. Amanda let it all out, laughing hard and cursing.... and, beautifully the cursing melted away into the most wonderful helpless rolling laughter I had heard in some time.
"See?" Terri gloated and smiled, "Yooooooo BITCH!" She lifts Amanda's shirt to her neck and unceremoniously tugs her bra down, releasing Amanda's milky white tits and pink nips which were already hard as pencil erasers, "Do her tits, she hates it." I happily obliged.
We had a grand time for a good long while, but I was anxious to slow it down and get really sadistic. Terri beat me to the thought; suddenly got up and went to my bag, she lifts out an orange ball gag like a prize, "You, Sir. Are the man!" And promptly if not roughly, pops it into Amanda's big mouth and straps it down. The evidence of my own excitement is anything less than inconspicuous at this point. Why not show Terri some real sadism.
"Hey, Amanda? Listen. We're going to tickle your feet now... real slow. And there's nothing you can do about it. Do you know why? Because you annoyed everyone in the bar. You need to apologize to Terri for embarrassing her. But not for a while..." Terri had long since discarded her blazer and skirt. It was also beginning to get hot in the room. Terri's panties were a little darker shade of purple between the legs and Amanda's jeans were undeniably warm and fragrant at the crotch.
I told Terri to pull up a chair to the end of the bed and relax, "I think we should order drinks from room service for this. Take our time." Terri laughs and mocks Amanda. It was very sexy slowing it down. The sweet angst it built in the mind of Amanda as we ritually pulled her sneaker laces, undid them like peeled fruit. The removing of the shoes and verbal teasing, "Oh, my! What do we have here? Little helpless feet that can't go anywhere to escape."
The sliding off of socks like the disrobing of a virgin. Greeted by soft, shapely feet and long toes, nails the color of ripe plumbs. Arches like soft baby skin fresh from a bath. Not a callous to be found. Perfection.
A beautiful, well-cared for female foot is analogous to the woman, sensitive, soft and curvaceous. But perhaps the most intoxicating to the sadist is the vulnerability; the foot can not defend itself. I instruct Terri to keep it slow. To work her toes, soles and heels in the most excruciating mosey we can contain.
The next thirty minutes or so were a sadist's lazy dream. And Amanda's nightmare.
Oddly, I could not help but notice that the evening's activities were not exactly foreign to Terri and Amanda, judging by their nonchalant go-along. Terri did engage in some face slapping and breast torment, which only seemed to make Amanda's struggles more of the pelvic kind, rather than someone who did not enjoy the predicament. Terri took to rubbing Amanda through her jeans, stopping and starting. She was a sadist after my own heart. She even caressed my bulge, but her eyes were locked on Amanda's as if to humiliate her with cross sexuality. Terri did fumble for my zipper, but I declined. Why throw gasoline on the fire of their relationship.
I asked Amanda if she was sorry and if she promised to be a good girl. To which she sheepishly agreed through sweaty teary eyes.
"Okay then. That's good enough for me." I smiled and rose, "I leave you at Terri's mercy then."
Terri walked me to the door, "That was great. Really great. Thanks. It was fun... WAIT! What about your stuff?" she said.
"You keep it. It doesn't look like you're finished yet. Goodnight."
"Fuck yeah!" Terri chuckled in her mannish, but no longer grumpy, voice.
~ C.A.B.
