kopfhorer1
1st Level Orange Feather
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2005
- Messages
- 2,006
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It's been a while since I've submitted a story, and I'm kind of out of practice. The following is a brief sketch rather than a full-length story. Comments and advice would be appreciated.
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I'm lying down face down on the plain, twin bed you've got just for this purpose. It's in the middle of the room. The lights are dimmed almost all the way down, and glow a warm yellow-orange. You've made the bed with those silky, black sheets, and down pillows.
My head is resting on one of those pillows., my arms folded underneath it like when I'm going to sleep. I'm wearing pajamas. I'm relaxed, a smile on my face.
While my arms are free, my feet are bound with leather cuffs which are anchored to each corner of the mattress. I'm not able to move either foot more than a few inches, and I'm certainly not able to flip over and see what you're about to do to me.
It feels barely perceptible at first, then it rapidly becomes more intense, a prickly, cool touch followed by hotter and hotter sensations. And then realize that you're tickling the bottom of my left foot with that big sable watercolor brush that we got from the art supply store near the university last week. You stroke the very tip of it up and down, working it into the most sensitive part of my left arch. I grit my teeth and sink my nails into the pillow. My throat tightens. I giggle softly.
You run the soft, pointed tip of that beautiful brush up to my heel where you circle it for a few moments before tracing a spiral from its periphery to its center. Then you draw random arabesques over the entire length of my sole. My giggles get faster and more intense until they're breathy chuckles which shake my chest. You trace the brush around the outside edges of my foot, then draw it playfully across my toe pads and between each toe. My laughter is now convulsive belly-laughs.
Just when I think I can't take any more, you stop.
I'm panting. I don't see or hear you. Slowly, I catch my breath. I relax, but only just a little. I know what's coming next.
Sure enough you ever so slowly and gently attack my right arch just as you did my left. You draw ever-expanding circles in the middle of my arch. I let out a peal of chuckles and guffaws. I strain at my restraints. I try to twist my foot to and fro to avoid the brush but your aim, you control, your touch are exquisite. You trace zig-zags up and down my right sole. I bury my face in the pillow as I'm seized by a paroxysm of belly-laughs. I lift my head to catch my breath and let out more laughs, tears running down my face. ...
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I'm lying down face down on the plain, twin bed you've got just for this purpose. It's in the middle of the room. The lights are dimmed almost all the way down, and glow a warm yellow-orange. You've made the bed with those silky, black sheets, and down pillows.
My head is resting on one of those pillows., my arms folded underneath it like when I'm going to sleep. I'm wearing pajamas. I'm relaxed, a smile on my face.
While my arms are free, my feet are bound with leather cuffs which are anchored to each corner of the mattress. I'm not able to move either foot more than a few inches, and I'm certainly not able to flip over and see what you're about to do to me.
It feels barely perceptible at first, then it rapidly becomes more intense, a prickly, cool touch followed by hotter and hotter sensations. And then realize that you're tickling the bottom of my left foot with that big sable watercolor brush that we got from the art supply store near the university last week. You stroke the very tip of it up and down, working it into the most sensitive part of my left arch. I grit my teeth and sink my nails into the pillow. My throat tightens. I giggle softly.
You run the soft, pointed tip of that beautiful brush up to my heel where you circle it for a few moments before tracing a spiral from its periphery to its center. Then you draw random arabesques over the entire length of my sole. My giggles get faster and more intense until they're breathy chuckles which shake my chest. You trace the brush around the outside edges of my foot, then draw it playfully across my toe pads and between each toe. My laughter is now convulsive belly-laughs.
Just when I think I can't take any more, you stop.
I'm panting. I don't see or hear you. Slowly, I catch my breath. I relax, but only just a little. I know what's coming next.
Sure enough you ever so slowly and gently attack my right arch just as you did my left. You draw ever-expanding circles in the middle of my arch. I let out a peal of chuckles and guffaws. I strain at my restraints. I try to twist my foot to and fro to avoid the brush but your aim, you control, your touch are exquisite. You trace zig-zags up and down my right sole. I bury my face in the pillow as I'm seized by a paroxysm of belly-laughs. I lift my head to catch my breath and let out more laughs, tears running down my face. ...
