HouseOfTease
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- May 29, 2016
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The motel room's curtains turned the sunlight a darker, dirty orange.
In the golden-reddish gloom a sweet little college teen was tied spread eagle upon the bed. A taut little nymphette, petite and delicate of feature, the girl next door, if your neighbor is a hot little nineteen year old.
Tight little shorts, unbuttoned and unzipped, a wet, tight tee plastered to a nubile little torso, one foot stockinged in a thin-soled little ankle sock, brilliant white in the dusky room, the other barefooted. Pert breasted, short haired, thrice blessed by the cuteness fairy. A squealer and a squirmer, she. Ticklish as she was tender, a twister and a pleader, hours of lazy foot-tickling fun rolling and rolling along quiet prairie highways to the tune of frantic, girlish giggle-shrieks. The dirty old man had delighted in her distress.
He wasn't done, either.
In the corner he sat, watching as he worked the hot wax along the soft tip of a feather, a loon feather, its terminal third largely stripped of barbicels to render it down-like and soft, with the wax drawing its pliable tip to a wicked point which he would shape, with the hot light bulb of the table lamp to a perverse corkscrew shape that he favored. Along the second bed of the room lay the other toys he had fashioned, each of such obviously lecherous intent as to nearly give one a twinge of sympathy for his helpless, wayward lass.
The dainty teen pulled against the bonds, biting her lower lip...
But there was no escape. For upon this virginal flower had alighted a most lascivious spirit, a ravenous succubus mewling softly as she took delight in the corruption of their captive. As sensual as she was sinful, a middle-aged rockabilly demoness, the woman who teased their poor plaything to capitulation. The old wench lay half-crouching upon her prey, striking a most predatory pose as she fed.
The lower hem of the cuff of the coed girl's shorts, pulled aside by a woman's slender digit, a glistening, ruby nail unseen, hooked round the denim as it drew her shorts aside. What a wicked, wicked witch, her tongue snaking skillfully up the narrow denim window from below to tickle the fleshy folds of our captive teen's little flower, her panties already drawn aside, her denuded little mound moist and feverish at the tender, tender touches of a patient, perving tongue.
Flickety, flickety, flickety...
The dirty old man watched his partner in perversion work their little captive's young womanhood. It was a slow affair, lovingly gentle and light, tasting an unbearable sweetness, paced and miserly, no hurry, no ravished hunger, but maddeningly mincing, a clockwork torment that brought their helpless nymph to a roaring, steaming boil.
...flick.
And eventually, inevitably, oh, goodness, most unavoidably and inescapably, she'd cum.
They always came.
And when they came, it was tickle-torture time again, for tickle-torture was what this fun couple loved more any other game. The present little scheme ("don't cum, my little lovely, or its giggle screams 'til morning!") was just something to get their little plaything all hot and bothered. Every young lass, and all the more a dainty cute one, was sexier and sweeter when half-mad and hot and bothered.
And the girls were always so much more ticklish after they came...
The dirty old man watched as his plaything scrunched her toes as she began to tense on the threshold of release. But her sapphic tormentress swept gently along the contour of her subject's precipitous cliff, just far enough that she might be resisted, never a resolution forced. No, this little tongued-twister was destined to dangle there at the very knife's edge of the precipice until she let herself fall into the torment beyond, surrendering to her captors as her will was tongued tenderly away, and the sweet, crisp thrill of the torture that awaited snuck craftily round and round til the girl teetered closer and closer and closer, the clockwork tongue so easy to synch, and when the moment came, it would blast through her little body like an explosion, her nubile form bucking on the mattress and arching in the series of aftershocks that would wrack her body again and again.
The dirty old man, the tickle-torturer, watched her slow descent into madness. He waited, serene in his anticipation, his mind a workshop of lascivious cruelties. She'd be reduced to tears, she would, and she would plead with him so sweetly...and that's when he would so slowly, so leisurely, trace lightly, slightly, tenderly the tip of the appropriate toy across her supply, young flesh, coaxing forth the nectar of ticklish suffering.
He waited.
And waited.
Eventually, they always came.
In the golden-reddish gloom a sweet little college teen was tied spread eagle upon the bed. A taut little nymphette, petite and delicate of feature, the girl next door, if your neighbor is a hot little nineteen year old.
Tight little shorts, unbuttoned and unzipped, a wet, tight tee plastered to a nubile little torso, one foot stockinged in a thin-soled little ankle sock, brilliant white in the dusky room, the other barefooted. Pert breasted, short haired, thrice blessed by the cuteness fairy. A squealer and a squirmer, she. Ticklish as she was tender, a twister and a pleader, hours of lazy foot-tickling fun rolling and rolling along quiet prairie highways to the tune of frantic, girlish giggle-shrieks. The dirty old man had delighted in her distress.
He wasn't done, either.
In the corner he sat, watching as he worked the hot wax along the soft tip of a feather, a loon feather, its terminal third largely stripped of barbicels to render it down-like and soft, with the wax drawing its pliable tip to a wicked point which he would shape, with the hot light bulb of the table lamp to a perverse corkscrew shape that he favored. Along the second bed of the room lay the other toys he had fashioned, each of such obviously lecherous intent as to nearly give one a twinge of sympathy for his helpless, wayward lass.
The dainty teen pulled against the bonds, biting her lower lip...
But there was no escape. For upon this virginal flower had alighted a most lascivious spirit, a ravenous succubus mewling softly as she took delight in the corruption of their captive. As sensual as she was sinful, a middle-aged rockabilly demoness, the woman who teased their poor plaything to capitulation. The old wench lay half-crouching upon her prey, striking a most predatory pose as she fed.
The lower hem of the cuff of the coed girl's shorts, pulled aside by a woman's slender digit, a glistening, ruby nail unseen, hooked round the denim as it drew her shorts aside. What a wicked, wicked witch, her tongue snaking skillfully up the narrow denim window from below to tickle the fleshy folds of our captive teen's little flower, her panties already drawn aside, her denuded little mound moist and feverish at the tender, tender touches of a patient, perving tongue.
Flickety, flickety, flickety...
The dirty old man watched his partner in perversion work their little captive's young womanhood. It was a slow affair, lovingly gentle and light, tasting an unbearable sweetness, paced and miserly, no hurry, no ravished hunger, but maddeningly mincing, a clockwork torment that brought their helpless nymph to a roaring, steaming boil.
...flick.
And eventually, inevitably, oh, goodness, most unavoidably and inescapably, she'd cum.
They always came.
And when they came, it was tickle-torture time again, for tickle-torture was what this fun couple loved more any other game. The present little scheme ("don't cum, my little lovely, or its giggle screams 'til morning!") was just something to get their little plaything all hot and bothered. Every young lass, and all the more a dainty cute one, was sexier and sweeter when half-mad and hot and bothered.
And the girls were always so much more ticklish after they came...
The dirty old man watched as his plaything scrunched her toes as she began to tense on the threshold of release. But her sapphic tormentress swept gently along the contour of her subject's precipitous cliff, just far enough that she might be resisted, never a resolution forced. No, this little tongued-twister was destined to dangle there at the very knife's edge of the precipice until she let herself fall into the torment beyond, surrendering to her captors as her will was tongued tenderly away, and the sweet, crisp thrill of the torture that awaited snuck craftily round and round til the girl teetered closer and closer and closer, the clockwork tongue so easy to synch, and when the moment came, it would blast through her little body like an explosion, her nubile form bucking on the mattress and arching in the series of aftershocks that would wrack her body again and again.
The dirty old man, the tickle-torturer, watched her slow descent into madness. He waited, serene in his anticipation, his mind a workshop of lascivious cruelties. She'd be reduced to tears, she would, and she would plead with him so sweetly...and that's when he would so slowly, so leisurely, trace lightly, slightly, tenderly the tip of the appropriate toy across her supply, young flesh, coaxing forth the nectar of ticklish suffering.
He waited.
And waited.
Eventually, they always came.
