nytklee
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- Joined
- Apr 5, 2025
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Duke's timeless fetish (m/f, nylon) (1/2)
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London, 1798. The night was thick with fog, a shroud that clung to the cobblestone streets like a lover’s breath. Lord Edmund Strathmore’s boots struck the ground in sharp, rhythmic slaps, his velvet cloak snapping behind him as he darted through the narrow alleys near the River Thames. His breath came in quick, exhilarated bursts—not from fear, but from the thrill of the chase. Behind him, the shouts of constables echoed, their lanterns casting jagged beams through the mist.
“Strathmore! Halt, you devil!” one bellowed, his voice hoarse with fury.
Edmund’s lips curled into a roguish smile. Devil, am I? he thought, his mind flickering to the diplomat’s daughter—her delicate wrists bound with silk, her bare feet twitching under his fingers as her laughter filled his candlelit study. She’d been his latest indulgence, a symphony of gasps and giggles that had ended, as always, with her fainting in blissful surrender. He never harmed them, his captives; he only craved the music of their helpless mirth, the softness of their soles yielding to his touch. But this one had slipped away, her memory sharper than most, and now the law was at his heels.
He veered left, the alley opening to the river’s edge. The Thames loomed before him, its surface a slick mirror of moonlight and shadow, rippling with secrets. The constables’ footsteps grew louder, their cudgels thumping against their palms. Edmund skidded to a stop, his polished boots grinding against the damp stone. He turned, his chestnut hair falling rakishly over one eye, and faced his pursuers.
“Lord Strathmore,” the lead constable growled, a burly man with a scarred cheek. “You’re cornered. Surrender, and we’ll spare you the noose—for now.”
Edmund laughed, a low, velvet sound that seemed to curl through the fog. “Spare me? Oh, my good man, you’ve no idea what delights you’d rob the world of.” His mind drifted again—to the last woman, her toes curling as he traced a feather along her arch, her pleas dissolving into breathless giggles. The memory sent a shiver through him, tightening his grip on the moment.
The constables advanced, their lanterns swaying like fireflies. Edmund glanced at the river, its dark promise beckoning. He’d heard tales of men who vanished into the Thames, swallowed by its mysteries. A reckless spark ignited in his chest. Better the unknown than a cage.
“You’ll never cage a man who makes ladies sing,” he taunted, his voice dripping with defiance. With a flourish of his cloak, he spun and leapt, plunging into the icy embrace of the river.
The water was a shock, stealing his breath as it closed over him. His limbs thrashed, heavy with the weight of his sodden clothes, but then—a pulse of light, blinding and warm, erupted around him. It wasn’t the moon, nor the lanterns, but something otherworldly, unraveling time itself. His body felt weightless, as if the river had dissolved into air. The world spun, sounds fading to a hum, and then—nothing.
Edmund awoke with a gasp, his cheek pressed against cold, muddy earth. The air was wrong—sharper, tinged with a metallic bite. He pushed himself up, his velvet coat clinging wetly to his frame, and blinked at the world around him. The Thames still murmured nearby, but the skyline was alien. Strange towers of glass and steel loomed in the distance, their peaks winking with unnatural lights. The street before him buzzed with life—roaring machines on wheels, their horns blaring, and people in outlandish garments, their legs bare or sheathed in glossy fabrics he couldn’t name.
He staggered to his feet, his heart pounding. Where am I? The fog was gone, replaced by a kaleidoscope of colours—reds, blues, and purples spilling from signs above shops. One sign, bolder than the rest, caught his eye: Pleasure Emporium, its letters glowing like embers. In the window, a mannequin stood poised, its legs draped in shimmering stockings, its feet arched in towering, lacquered shoes that gleamed like sin itself. Edmund’s pulse quickened. Those legs, that sheen—it stirred the same hunger he’d felt in his manor, binding delicate ankles and teasing soft soles.
He adjusted his cloak, brushing mud from its hem, and strode toward the shop. The door chimed as he entered, a tinkling bell that seemed to mock the grandeur of his entrance. Inside, the air was warm, heavy with the scent of leather and something sweeter—perfume, perhaps. Shelves brimmed with strange objects: coils of rope, gleaming cuffs, and tools he couldn’t yet name but instinctively understood. His fingers twitched, imagining their purpose.
And then he saw her—a woman behind the counter, her presence a magnet. She was a vision unlike any he’d known in 1798—bold, unapologetic, her long legs displayed with a brazenness that would’ve scandalized his era’s drawing rooms. She was tall, her curves hugged by a leather skirt that ended mid-thigh, revealing long, toned legs sheathed in glossy, near-transparent stockings. Her black heels clicked as she moved, arranging a display of feathered wands. Her hair, a cascade of dark curls, framed a face both sharp and inviting, her lips painted a daring red. She glanced up, her eyes meeting his, and for a moment, Edmund forgot the river, the chase, the impossible world outside.
The woman—Sophia, her name tag read—glanced up from arranging a tray of feathered wands, her dark curls bouncing as she tilted her head. “Well, aren’t you a sight?” she said, her voice a playful drawl, tinged with a London accent. “Lost from some fancy dress ball, love? That cloak’s straight out of a museum.”
Edmund’s lips curved into a smile, his aristocratic charm as natural as breathing. He stepped forward, bowing slightly, his wet boots leaving faint prints on the floor. “My lady,” he murmured, his voice smooth as aged brandy, “I am but a wanderer, drawn to beauty. And yours… is a marvel.”
Sophia laughed, a bright, unguarded sound that sent a shiver through him. She leaned against the counter, her skirt riding up slightly, revealing more of those nylon-clad thighs. “Oh, you’re a charmer, aren’t you? Bet you’ve got girls swooning left and right with that accent.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was something else—a flicker of curiosity, as if his presence tugged at a deeper instinct.
Edmund straightened, his gaze sweeping the shop. Shelves gleamed with strange treasures: coils of rope in every color, leather cuffs studded with silver, silk blindfolds draped like invitations. His pulse quickened. In his time, he’d crafted his own restraints—silk cords, velvet ties—but these tools were refined, purposeful, designed for pleasure. And those stockings… they were nothing like the heavy wool or cotton of 1798, clinging to her legs like a second skin, teasing him with their slick promise.
“Tell me,” he said, stepping closer, his voice low, “what manner of place is this? These… instruments intrigue me.”
Sophia raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “First time in a shop like this, eh? Well, you’re in for a treat.” She sauntered around the counter, her heels clicking sharply, and picked up a pair of leather cuffs, their straps dangling suggestively. “These are for fun, darling. For tying up someone special—or letting them tie you up.” She winked, holding the cuffs out. “Wanna try ’em on?”
Edmund’s eyes darkened, not with offense but with fascination. He took the cuffs, his fingers brushing hers deliberately, and examined them. The leather was supple, the buckles precise. He understood their purpose instantly, his mind racing with images of Sophia’s wrists bound, her laughter spilling free as he teased her. “Remarkable,” he murmured, turning the cuffs over. “And these?” He gestured to a coil of crimson rope, its texture silky under the light.
“Bondage rope,” she said, her tone teasing. “Soft but strong. Perfect for keeping someone right where you want ’em.” She stepped closer, her perfume—a mix of jasmine and something spicier—curling around him. “You strike me as a man who knows his way around a knot or two.”
Edmund’s smile widened, predatory yet polished. “You’ve no idea, my dear.” His gaze dropped to her legs again, lingering on the way the nylon hugged her calves, accentuating every curve. In 1798, no woman exposed her legs like this—not in public, not even in private, save for the most intimate moments. The sight was intoxicating, a challenge he couldn’t resist. “And this… material,” he said, nodding at her stockings. “It’s unlike anything I’ve known. What is it?”
Sophia grinned, shifting her weight to one hip, making her skirt ride higher. “Nylon stockings. Comfy, sexy, and they drive people wild. You like ’em?” She extended one leg slightly, pointing her toe, the stocking catching the light like liquid glass.
Edmund’s throat tightened. He imagined those legs bound, those feet at his mercy, the nylon amplifying every touch. “They are… captivating,” he said, his voice husky. “As are you.”
Sophia’s cheeks flushed, and for a moment, her confidence wavered. There was something about him—his courtesy, his intensity, the way his eyes seemed to see through her—that stirred a strange warmth in her chest. She’d met plenty of men in this shop, but none like him. He felt… timeless, like a figure from a dream, and despite herself, she was drawn to him, just as his 1798 captives had been, their resistance melting under his noble allure.
“Alright, smooth talker,” she said, shaking off the feeling. “Lemme grab something from the back. Got some new toys you might like.” She turned, her heels clicking as she headed toward a curtained doorway marked Storage.
Edmund watched her go, his pulse thrumming. Her legs, those stockings, the sway of her hips—it was a siren’s call. His fingers closed around the crimson rope, its weight grounding him. He glanced around—the shop was empty, the street outside quiet. Opportunity beckoned, and Edmund Strathmore was not a man to let it pass.
Silently, he followed her, the rope coiled in his hand, his boots soft against the floor. The curtain parted, revealing a cramped room stacked with boxes, the air thick with the scent of leather and cardboard. Sophia stood with her back to him, reaching for a shelf, oblivious to his presence. Edmund’s lips curved into a smile, dark and deliberate.
The storage room of the Pleasure Emporium was a shadowed maze of crates and shelves, lit only by a single flickering bulb that cast long, wavering shapes across the walls. The air was close, thick with the scent of new leather and the faint tang of cardboard dust. Sophia stood on her tiptoes, her black heels lifting her calves into sharp relief, the nylon stockings shimmering as she reached for a box labeled New Arrivals. Her leather skirt hugged her hips, riding up just enough to tease Lord Edmund Strathmore’s hungry gaze. He lingered in the doorway, the crimson rope coiled in one hand, a silk blindfold dangling from the other—both pilfered from the shop’s displays. His heart thudded, not with nerves but with anticipation, the same thrill he’d felt in 1798 when a bound lady’s laughter filled his manor.
Sophia hummed softly, unaware of his presence, her curls bouncing as she tugged at the box. Edmund moved like a shadow, silent despite his heavy boots, his aristocratic grace honed by years of predatory precision. In a heartbeat, he was behind her, the blindfold slipping over her eyes with a whisper of silk. Sophia gasped, her hands flying up, but Edmund was faster, his fingers deftly looping the rope around her wrists, pulling them behind her back with practiced ease.
“What the—hey!” Sophia’s voice was sharp, tinged with shock, but there was a tremor beneath it, a spark of something not entirely fear. “What’s your game, costume guy?”
Edmund chuckled, low and rich, his breath warm against her ear as he tightened the knot. “No game, my lady,” he murmured, his voice a velvet caress. “Only a performance—one you’ll never forget.” He guided her gently but firmly to a padded bench tucked against a stack of boxes, easing her down until she sat, her bound wrists pressing against her spine. With another length of rope, he secured her ankles together, ensuring her nylon-clad feet rested on the floor, vulnerable and exposed.
Sophia squirmed, the blindfold shifting slightly but holding fast. “This isn’t funny,” she said, though her tone wavered, caught between protest and intrigue. His courtesy, that strange, noble air—it lingered in her mind, softening her resistance like it had for his 1798 captives. “Untie me, or I’ll scream.”
Edmund knelt before her, his fingers brushing the edge of one stiletto, savoring the smooth patent leather. “Scream if you must,” he said, slipping the heel off with deliberate slowness, revealing her foot, the nylon glossy and taut over her arch. “But I wager you’ll laugh instead.” He removed the other heel, setting it aside with reverence, and ran a fingertip along her sole, featherlight, testing.
Sophia jolted, a giggle bursting free before she could stop it. “Oh, no—don’t you dare!” she gasped, her voice cracking with nervous laughter. Her toes curled, the nylon amplifying every sensation, making her skin hypersensitive. “I’m ticklish, okay? Like, really ticklish!”
Edmund’s eyes gleamed, dark and ravenous. The texture of the nylon was a revelation—slick, warm, unlike the bare soles he’d teased in his time. It clung to her skin, accentuating every curve of her foot, and her reaction was immediate, electric. “What is this material?” he asked, his voice both curious and commanding, his fingers dancing along her arch, coaxing another burst of laughter. “It excites me, this… enchantment on your feet.”
Sophia writhed, her giggles spilling over, her bound ankles straining against the rope. “It’s—haha—nylon!” she managed, her breath hitching. “Nylon stockings! They—oh, God, stop!—they make everything worse! Please, I can’t take it!” Her laughter was desperate now, her body trembling as she tugged at her restraints, but the blindfold kept her world dark, heightening every touch.
“Worse?” Edmund purred, leaning closer, his fingers relentless, tracing circles under her toes. “Or better? These nylons… they’re divine. They make your laughter sing.” He varied his touch—light scratches along her heel, then firm strokes across her sole—each movement calculated to keep her on edge, denying her the relief of stillness. Her feet twitched, the nylon slick with a faint sheen of sweat, amplifying the sensation until it bordered on torment.
Sophia’s pleas grew frantic, her laughter breaking into gasps. “You’re...haha...gonna kill me! Are you trying...tahaha...tickle me to death?” Her voice was raw, her body shaking, but there was a strange undercurrent—a surrender, almost, as if his charm had woven itself into her senses, just as it had with those women centuries ago.
Edmund leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a dark whisper. “Yes, my dear—until your sweet surrender consumes you.” He intensified his teasing, using both hands now, one tickling each foot, his fingers gliding over the nylon with a lover’s precision. He marveled at the fabric’s power, how it made her squirm, how it turned her laughter into a symphony of need and desperation.
Sophia’s giggles turned to breathless wheezes, her head lolling back as she fought for air. “Hahaha....Mercy!” she choked out, her voice barely audible. “Hahaha...Please...haha...I can’t—!” Her body arched, then went limp, her laughter fading to a soft moan as she slipped into unconsciousness, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. A faint smile curved her lips, as if, even in oblivion, his touch lingered in her dreams.
To be continue......
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London, 1798. The night was thick with fog, a shroud that clung to the cobblestone streets like a lover’s breath. Lord Edmund Strathmore’s boots struck the ground in sharp, rhythmic slaps, his velvet cloak snapping behind him as he darted through the narrow alleys near the River Thames. His breath came in quick, exhilarated bursts—not from fear, but from the thrill of the chase. Behind him, the shouts of constables echoed, their lanterns casting jagged beams through the mist.
“Strathmore! Halt, you devil!” one bellowed, his voice hoarse with fury.
Edmund’s lips curled into a roguish smile. Devil, am I? he thought, his mind flickering to the diplomat’s daughter—her delicate wrists bound with silk, her bare feet twitching under his fingers as her laughter filled his candlelit study. She’d been his latest indulgence, a symphony of gasps and giggles that had ended, as always, with her fainting in blissful surrender. He never harmed them, his captives; he only craved the music of their helpless mirth, the softness of their soles yielding to his touch. But this one had slipped away, her memory sharper than most, and now the law was at his heels.
He veered left, the alley opening to the river’s edge. The Thames loomed before him, its surface a slick mirror of moonlight and shadow, rippling with secrets. The constables’ footsteps grew louder, their cudgels thumping against their palms. Edmund skidded to a stop, his polished boots grinding against the damp stone. He turned, his chestnut hair falling rakishly over one eye, and faced his pursuers.
“Lord Strathmore,” the lead constable growled, a burly man with a scarred cheek. “You’re cornered. Surrender, and we’ll spare you the noose—for now.”
Edmund laughed, a low, velvet sound that seemed to curl through the fog. “Spare me? Oh, my good man, you’ve no idea what delights you’d rob the world of.” His mind drifted again—to the last woman, her toes curling as he traced a feather along her arch, her pleas dissolving into breathless giggles. The memory sent a shiver through him, tightening his grip on the moment.
The constables advanced, their lanterns swaying like fireflies. Edmund glanced at the river, its dark promise beckoning. He’d heard tales of men who vanished into the Thames, swallowed by its mysteries. A reckless spark ignited in his chest. Better the unknown than a cage.
“You’ll never cage a man who makes ladies sing,” he taunted, his voice dripping with defiance. With a flourish of his cloak, he spun and leapt, plunging into the icy embrace of the river.
The water was a shock, stealing his breath as it closed over him. His limbs thrashed, heavy with the weight of his sodden clothes, but then—a pulse of light, blinding and warm, erupted around him. It wasn’t the moon, nor the lanterns, but something otherworldly, unraveling time itself. His body felt weightless, as if the river had dissolved into air. The world spun, sounds fading to a hum, and then—nothing.
Edmund awoke with a gasp, his cheek pressed against cold, muddy earth. The air was wrong—sharper, tinged with a metallic bite. He pushed himself up, his velvet coat clinging wetly to his frame, and blinked at the world around him. The Thames still murmured nearby, but the skyline was alien. Strange towers of glass and steel loomed in the distance, their peaks winking with unnatural lights. The street before him buzzed with life—roaring machines on wheels, their horns blaring, and people in outlandish garments, their legs bare or sheathed in glossy fabrics he couldn’t name.
He staggered to his feet, his heart pounding. Where am I? The fog was gone, replaced by a kaleidoscope of colours—reds, blues, and purples spilling from signs above shops. One sign, bolder than the rest, caught his eye: Pleasure Emporium, its letters glowing like embers. In the window, a mannequin stood poised, its legs draped in shimmering stockings, its feet arched in towering, lacquered shoes that gleamed like sin itself. Edmund’s pulse quickened. Those legs, that sheen—it stirred the same hunger he’d felt in his manor, binding delicate ankles and teasing soft soles.
He adjusted his cloak, brushing mud from its hem, and strode toward the shop. The door chimed as he entered, a tinkling bell that seemed to mock the grandeur of his entrance. Inside, the air was warm, heavy with the scent of leather and something sweeter—perfume, perhaps. Shelves brimmed with strange objects: coils of rope, gleaming cuffs, and tools he couldn’t yet name but instinctively understood. His fingers twitched, imagining their purpose.
And then he saw her—a woman behind the counter, her presence a magnet. She was a vision unlike any he’d known in 1798—bold, unapologetic, her long legs displayed with a brazenness that would’ve scandalized his era’s drawing rooms. She was tall, her curves hugged by a leather skirt that ended mid-thigh, revealing long, toned legs sheathed in glossy, near-transparent stockings. Her black heels clicked as she moved, arranging a display of feathered wands. Her hair, a cascade of dark curls, framed a face both sharp and inviting, her lips painted a daring red. She glanced up, her eyes meeting his, and for a moment, Edmund forgot the river, the chase, the impossible world outside.
The woman—Sophia, her name tag read—glanced up from arranging a tray of feathered wands, her dark curls bouncing as she tilted her head. “Well, aren’t you a sight?” she said, her voice a playful drawl, tinged with a London accent. “Lost from some fancy dress ball, love? That cloak’s straight out of a museum.”
Edmund’s lips curved into a smile, his aristocratic charm as natural as breathing. He stepped forward, bowing slightly, his wet boots leaving faint prints on the floor. “My lady,” he murmured, his voice smooth as aged brandy, “I am but a wanderer, drawn to beauty. And yours… is a marvel.”
Sophia laughed, a bright, unguarded sound that sent a shiver through him. She leaned against the counter, her skirt riding up slightly, revealing more of those nylon-clad thighs. “Oh, you’re a charmer, aren’t you? Bet you’ve got girls swooning left and right with that accent.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was something else—a flicker of curiosity, as if his presence tugged at a deeper instinct.
Edmund straightened, his gaze sweeping the shop. Shelves gleamed with strange treasures: coils of rope in every color, leather cuffs studded with silver, silk blindfolds draped like invitations. His pulse quickened. In his time, he’d crafted his own restraints—silk cords, velvet ties—but these tools were refined, purposeful, designed for pleasure. And those stockings… they were nothing like the heavy wool or cotton of 1798, clinging to her legs like a second skin, teasing him with their slick promise.
“Tell me,” he said, stepping closer, his voice low, “what manner of place is this? These… instruments intrigue me.”
Sophia raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “First time in a shop like this, eh? Well, you’re in for a treat.” She sauntered around the counter, her heels clicking sharply, and picked up a pair of leather cuffs, their straps dangling suggestively. “These are for fun, darling. For tying up someone special—or letting them tie you up.” She winked, holding the cuffs out. “Wanna try ’em on?”
Edmund’s eyes darkened, not with offense but with fascination. He took the cuffs, his fingers brushing hers deliberately, and examined them. The leather was supple, the buckles precise. He understood their purpose instantly, his mind racing with images of Sophia’s wrists bound, her laughter spilling free as he teased her. “Remarkable,” he murmured, turning the cuffs over. “And these?” He gestured to a coil of crimson rope, its texture silky under the light.
“Bondage rope,” she said, her tone teasing. “Soft but strong. Perfect for keeping someone right where you want ’em.” She stepped closer, her perfume—a mix of jasmine and something spicier—curling around him. “You strike me as a man who knows his way around a knot or two.”
Edmund’s smile widened, predatory yet polished. “You’ve no idea, my dear.” His gaze dropped to her legs again, lingering on the way the nylon hugged her calves, accentuating every curve. In 1798, no woman exposed her legs like this—not in public, not even in private, save for the most intimate moments. The sight was intoxicating, a challenge he couldn’t resist. “And this… material,” he said, nodding at her stockings. “It’s unlike anything I’ve known. What is it?”
Sophia grinned, shifting her weight to one hip, making her skirt ride higher. “Nylon stockings. Comfy, sexy, and they drive people wild. You like ’em?” She extended one leg slightly, pointing her toe, the stocking catching the light like liquid glass.
Edmund’s throat tightened. He imagined those legs bound, those feet at his mercy, the nylon amplifying every touch. “They are… captivating,” he said, his voice husky. “As are you.”
Sophia’s cheeks flushed, and for a moment, her confidence wavered. There was something about him—his courtesy, his intensity, the way his eyes seemed to see through her—that stirred a strange warmth in her chest. She’d met plenty of men in this shop, but none like him. He felt… timeless, like a figure from a dream, and despite herself, she was drawn to him, just as his 1798 captives had been, their resistance melting under his noble allure.
“Alright, smooth talker,” she said, shaking off the feeling. “Lemme grab something from the back. Got some new toys you might like.” She turned, her heels clicking as she headed toward a curtained doorway marked Storage.
Edmund watched her go, his pulse thrumming. Her legs, those stockings, the sway of her hips—it was a siren’s call. His fingers closed around the crimson rope, its weight grounding him. He glanced around—the shop was empty, the street outside quiet. Opportunity beckoned, and Edmund Strathmore was not a man to let it pass.
Silently, he followed her, the rope coiled in his hand, his boots soft against the floor. The curtain parted, revealing a cramped room stacked with boxes, the air thick with the scent of leather and cardboard. Sophia stood with her back to him, reaching for a shelf, oblivious to his presence. Edmund’s lips curved into a smile, dark and deliberate.
The storage room of the Pleasure Emporium was a shadowed maze of crates and shelves, lit only by a single flickering bulb that cast long, wavering shapes across the walls. The air was close, thick with the scent of new leather and the faint tang of cardboard dust. Sophia stood on her tiptoes, her black heels lifting her calves into sharp relief, the nylon stockings shimmering as she reached for a box labeled New Arrivals. Her leather skirt hugged her hips, riding up just enough to tease Lord Edmund Strathmore’s hungry gaze. He lingered in the doorway, the crimson rope coiled in one hand, a silk blindfold dangling from the other—both pilfered from the shop’s displays. His heart thudded, not with nerves but with anticipation, the same thrill he’d felt in 1798 when a bound lady’s laughter filled his manor.
Sophia hummed softly, unaware of his presence, her curls bouncing as she tugged at the box. Edmund moved like a shadow, silent despite his heavy boots, his aristocratic grace honed by years of predatory precision. In a heartbeat, he was behind her, the blindfold slipping over her eyes with a whisper of silk. Sophia gasped, her hands flying up, but Edmund was faster, his fingers deftly looping the rope around her wrists, pulling them behind her back with practiced ease.
“What the—hey!” Sophia’s voice was sharp, tinged with shock, but there was a tremor beneath it, a spark of something not entirely fear. “What’s your game, costume guy?”
Edmund chuckled, low and rich, his breath warm against her ear as he tightened the knot. “No game, my lady,” he murmured, his voice a velvet caress. “Only a performance—one you’ll never forget.” He guided her gently but firmly to a padded bench tucked against a stack of boxes, easing her down until she sat, her bound wrists pressing against her spine. With another length of rope, he secured her ankles together, ensuring her nylon-clad feet rested on the floor, vulnerable and exposed.
Sophia squirmed, the blindfold shifting slightly but holding fast. “This isn’t funny,” she said, though her tone wavered, caught between protest and intrigue. His courtesy, that strange, noble air—it lingered in her mind, softening her resistance like it had for his 1798 captives. “Untie me, or I’ll scream.”
Edmund knelt before her, his fingers brushing the edge of one stiletto, savoring the smooth patent leather. “Scream if you must,” he said, slipping the heel off with deliberate slowness, revealing her foot, the nylon glossy and taut over her arch. “But I wager you’ll laugh instead.” He removed the other heel, setting it aside with reverence, and ran a fingertip along her sole, featherlight, testing.
Sophia jolted, a giggle bursting free before she could stop it. “Oh, no—don’t you dare!” she gasped, her voice cracking with nervous laughter. Her toes curled, the nylon amplifying every sensation, making her skin hypersensitive. “I’m ticklish, okay? Like, really ticklish!”
Edmund’s eyes gleamed, dark and ravenous. The texture of the nylon was a revelation—slick, warm, unlike the bare soles he’d teased in his time. It clung to her skin, accentuating every curve of her foot, and her reaction was immediate, electric. “What is this material?” he asked, his voice both curious and commanding, his fingers dancing along her arch, coaxing another burst of laughter. “It excites me, this… enchantment on your feet.”
Sophia writhed, her giggles spilling over, her bound ankles straining against the rope. “It’s—haha—nylon!” she managed, her breath hitching. “Nylon stockings! They—oh, God, stop!—they make everything worse! Please, I can’t take it!” Her laughter was desperate now, her body trembling as she tugged at her restraints, but the blindfold kept her world dark, heightening every touch.
“Worse?” Edmund purred, leaning closer, his fingers relentless, tracing circles under her toes. “Or better? These nylons… they’re divine. They make your laughter sing.” He varied his touch—light scratches along her heel, then firm strokes across her sole—each movement calculated to keep her on edge, denying her the relief of stillness. Her feet twitched, the nylon slick with a faint sheen of sweat, amplifying the sensation until it bordered on torment.
Sophia’s pleas grew frantic, her laughter breaking into gasps. “You’re...haha...gonna kill me! Are you trying...tahaha...tickle me to death?” Her voice was raw, her body shaking, but there was a strange undercurrent—a surrender, almost, as if his charm had woven itself into her senses, just as it had with those women centuries ago.
Edmund leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, his voice a dark whisper. “Yes, my dear—until your sweet surrender consumes you.” He intensified his teasing, using both hands now, one tickling each foot, his fingers gliding over the nylon with a lover’s precision. He marveled at the fabric’s power, how it made her squirm, how it turned her laughter into a symphony of need and desperation.
Sophia’s giggles turned to breathless wheezes, her head lolling back as she fought for air. “Hahaha....Mercy!” she choked out, her voice barely audible. “Hahaha...Please...haha...I can’t—!” Her body arched, then went limp, her laughter fading to a soft moan as she slipped into unconsciousness, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. A faint smile curved her lips, as if, even in oblivion, his touch lingered in her dreams.
To be continue......
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