meangry1
TMF Master
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2003
- Messages
- 728
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His hands aren’t nimble; anything but. They are sturdy and strong, and with a quick grasp, you realize, as his fingers press against the bone of your forearm, there is no way to shake him free. The other hand attacks as you have flashes of realization. A sudden surge shoots through your subtly exposed side. The cotton of your shirt shows the contour of your hip bone, and as you give a meek shriek in response, the only thing you can do is throw an errant punch in his direction.
Just to let him know you are still there.
That you are not going to make this easy.
It grazes his shoulder, and you are unsure if his grimace is true. He wrenches your wrist to your side, and takes your lithe frame onto his shoulder. He tried to anyway. You’re able to fight free and slip out of his grasp and land with a stomp. But you can’t turn around quick enough. Every footfall forward is quickly cut off by the lock his arms have on your lithe frame.
Hoisting you in the air, you kick your legs, pleading for release. You know where this is going to lead. You can’t control it. You can’t stop it. And eventually, you will be overpowered. Physically and mentally.
The very notion sends raw shivers up your spine, your body quaking in his clasp.
The couch is the place that makes the most sense in this room, but the reality is, the bed might be even better. And he is going for the bedroom. You refuse; your skilled legs shoot up and press against the painted dry wall. The corridor is narrow enough for your semi-split to prevent movement forward.
Until you shriek from the blistering pace of his fingers digging into contours of your lower stomach. Your legs go down, and even as you try to press the sides of your feet against the walls again, it's only wasting valuable energy.
The bed has restraints lined up, as if this was planned. Who the hell comes up with these things, honestly? You didn’t like the way conventional fantasies cropped up, but who is to say there is anything conventional about this? Or the fur inside the cuffs? He tosses you on the bed. Cascading downward, you see the pair of fur lined cuffs attached to the headboard. He doesn’t read your mind, but you ball up, pressing your back against the cool varnish. Jeans and a navy blue t-shirt and barefoot and it is simply adorable how you try to fight.
He reaches to grab hold of your ankle, but you brandish your foot. The soft, pink soles are a harbinger, a warning to not press forward. Your look is serious. He reaches up and your heel is buried in his collarbone. Another kick and—
He has you. Oh shit. He yanks you just right and before you know it, he’s mounted you. Your arms instinctively hug your torso. Your face sours in disbelief. The end is about to come. “Put your arms up,” he demands, but you shake your head no.
That’s when the flurry starts, and your trapped upper body wrenches back and forth. Your heels dig into the comforter, your feet spasmodically kicking as his aggressive style of tickling puts you a bad way. Before you know it, he isn’t just your sides anymore. He's at your stomach. Your shirt is availing pale skin, and his fingers are teasing your nerve endings.
Wincing and breathing heavy through peals of laughter, you try in vain to hammer your hand against him. There is no power in your struggle, and with a snatch, your left wrist is quickly pinned to the headboard, the restraint jostled into place as you try to push your arm away. You bring your free hand up to claw, but as the left is locked into place, you find his hands are bracing your right into the comforter. One on one you can’t hope match his strength, and now, you are much worse off. It isn't long before he makes your wrists twins in helpless bondage.
His focus shifts; without fingers, you can’t fight besides moving your nimble body to and fro as he seeks out the button of your jeans. He can’t! The button loose, you squeal as he unzips. Black satin and violet ribbon covers a most nervous and intimate area, but you have your legs. You have your legs! His fingers dance a line down your rapidly exposed inner thighs, shifting weight and keeping your squirms to nothing more than meek fidgets. Your knees are now showing. Are you boy crazy? Oh you are! Poor Rosalyn is just so squirmy and it makes your breathing shallow. Your heart is racing. With weight on your knees, your twisting ankles are all that are keeping your jeans on. One tug is all it takes to put an end to that.
Oh. Oh no. He powers your left ankle towards the restraint, locking it in. And when he does, the faint trace of fingers over your instep drives you mad. Your right foot tries to cover the assault and then, suddenly, you realize the ploy. He pulls your right foot over, it too quickly restrained. You are an upside down Y, Rosalyn. Legs spread and exposed. Barefoot. And that satin hiding all that's left of your modesty.
As if to let you know what your fighting has wrought, his hands tease ever so gently along the balls of your feet, before he uses tactical precision in snaking fashion between your toes. Raw and wild, your grin frozen across your face, you close your eyes against the phantom tingles that refuse to subside. Your momentary lapse costs you dearly as your eyes and lips startle open.
Desperation fills your pleas, violet ribbon surrendering to the tug of his fingers. The satin slackens along your bikini region, threatening to expose your little secret. But no flinch, no fight can stop him now. Could it ever?
Exposed is what has been shrouded in mystery. Thousands of nerve endings ready to be teased, the slight slickness giving a fragrant aroma that a hungry, calculating beast could taste in the air from miles away. Lush and a tinge pink. Your shivering sigh causes him to lick his lips.
His first intent is to show you just how vile he can be. The kiss of his nails against your arch causes your whine to strain within your tightening throat. One harsh tug at your arms and legs and a buck in futile desperation is all you can muster. All slack has been removed. He laughs at your quivering, flexing muscles. The laziest of scratches is all it takes. You try to move your feet, to roll your ankles whichever way will keep him at bay, but the bonds are far too restricting.
Within moments, the gentle, leisurely pace is scoured away. Calculating prances from all ten of those perfectly groomed nails and soft fingertips devour your soles, along the edge of your heel, the contours of your arch and then the arch itself. The frantic flexing of your toes wrinkles your soles, but it does nothing to deaden the livewire they've become. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit. He goes right underneath your toes! That terrible spot right underneath the ring toe of your left foot which makes you want to scream. He only makes it worse by focusing directly on the spot, plucking your ring toe and tugging it back so he can sink his fingertips in with vigorous, deadly strokes.
STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP!
You can still feel his fingers, but he's left the foot of the bed. He's beside you now, shark smile spread wide across his face. But that isn't what has you begging for him to stop. It's the look in his eyes. The way he looks along your side, following the ripples of nervous energy shuddering throughout your body. It's going to get worse. You know it's going to get worse. But he just lies there, resting his head against his palm, staring you in the eyes. You can't look back at him. Your cheeks sizzle from the blood rush of embarrassment. The excitement you can't hide anymore shames you.
The silence is deadly. The anticipation! You can't control how hard and fast your heart is beating. Your toes curl to bat away the phantoms still licking your soles. And he just watches you, calm and collected as you wait for the roller coaster car to plummet once again.
But the ascent is still going. You close your eyes. His breath washes along your earlobe, envelops the nape of your neck. One fingertip strolls along your bicep, swirls around the hollow of your armpit.
“So sensitive,” his words tease against your ear as fingertips continue combing along from underarm to hipbone. “Along your ribs, all up your sides…So sensitive!”
His lips nibble at your lobe and your skin breaks out in sheets of gooseflesh. Your breath washes over your drying lips. A flick at your right nipple, your moan escapes before you can muffle it.
“Oh, you liked that.” His words, buzzing in your ear, only help to further disarm you. Every damn nerve is roaring at full attention. His fingers travel between your breasts, crawl down the center of you. He skips your belly button, instead letting his fingertips swirling along your lower tummy. “But I know where you're most sensitive.” He wouldn't! The softest of pets crosses the threshold down below.
“Your greatest fear, that fantasy you tried to take back right after telling me.”
… Jesus Christ!
“And I'm going to expose it.”
You can't help yourself. His hand is soft and warm and comforting and you can't stop your bloom. Mistake. Big mistake. Shouldn't have--oh God! Between thumb and index finger, he massages your sex. His fingers know too much. His touch is too perfect. Index finger becomes pinkie and ring finger.
“I'm going to tickle it.” The index finger slowly, lazily tracing along the crest and your mouth floods from helpless, desperate giggles. You can't beg, can't plead.
“I'm going to open you up and touch places you've never been touched before.” Softly, he pulls apart your lips. Suddenly, you've never felt so naked, so exposed, so helpless! Every word cuts with guillotine precision as it buzzes inside your ear. “And then, I'm going to tease it.” Shimmying, panicked giggles bubble up from husky, haughty breaths as his fingertips lick along the insides of your lips. “Until every little piece of you comes undone.” He moves. You feel the blood drain for your face, rushing downward to compensate as you shake your head with all the vigor you can pitifully muster. Your body revels in its ultimate betrayal, his teasing leaving you breathless and fully exposed.
This isn't the worst part.
He shows you the fresh feather duster and your eyes nearly pop out of your head. Your first reaction is to bury your backside into the comforter, before the soft down teases the pink. And when it touches, you are unsure of what it is you want to do, but it takes hold of your mind.
Gentle giggles escape you as the duster brandishes kisses from your lower tummy all the way to your lips. A few concentrated brush strokes is all it takes causing you to swell and grow, and when that occurs, all it means is more raw nerve endings for him to tease.
The tips of your puckered lips are assaulted with a barrage of gentle, tickling strokes and before too long, the giggles become intermixed with unrepentant moans. He teases the contours of your slit, the outer core burnings red hot, feels as though it is filling with air as the swabbing embraces threaten to shatter your spirit to a thousand pieces.
His fingers momentarily part your lips, and your tender insides coat the deft digits. You absent absentmindedly arch your back for the touch, but are almost brought to totally ecstasy by the supple teasing tickles inside your trapped sex.
When it stops, you are whimpering. You said you found the denial to be more of a turn on and you curse ever telling him that. His hands lightly tickle underneath your shirt, tracing their way over your sides and abdomen before arriving over the small cones of your breasts. He lightly circles your areola. A sharp sigh takes you as his index and middle finger rub the tips of your modest peaks. Nimble fingers find their way underneath, and now, without something to deaden the touch, you give a haughty sigh as the tips are massaged with his knowing touch.
Please. No tickles. No tickles! Underneath your breasts, he massages as he continues to roll your hardening buds. Tingling sensations going through your body as his hands leave trails of tickling carnage over the expanse of your stomach, across the slight protrusions of your ribs, and then back up to the very tips of your nipples.
Just when you think you are prepared, that’s when the stiff plume parts your nether, a twirl instantly coating the tendrils with your essence. The blade is a reminder, and with you so dangerously close, any more stimulation would bring you to climax.
We don’t want that.
Not yet.
Instead, those VILE fingers produce laughs as they tickle the tops of your bare thighs. You are blushing because your arousal is hanging right there. You want him to bring you there, to focus on the burning, but he is too busy tickling your inner thighs and he doesn't seem to care that your seeping dampness is soaking through the comforter.
The quill leaves another french kiss, your heart strumming at a staccato beat.
He travels down to your soles, planting a gentle kiss on both of your arches. Your balls. Your toes. When his lips go back to the ball, your feet immediately splay open from his touch. Balls to dancing arch to heel then back to ball and then he focuses right underneath your toes. Flinching, gasping, you’d promise the world just to make it stop but you don’t want it to truly stop.
Your eyes shoot wide open the moment you feel his tongue between your toes, sucking on the fidgeting digits momentarily before brushing the saliva off and spreading them manually. His nails spend time incalculable finding each little polished and pedicured sensitivity, causing you to rattle the bed posts in your struggle as your eyes go wild and you give in to the ticklish tsunami.
And as the soles flinch, scorched by the phantom tickles he's left behind for you to savor, he’s back on your shuddering lips, the feather tenderly cradling the outer portions, electricity shooting through your sensitive, wet flesh. Each spasm brings his caress to a stop. And when you've settled down just enough, he begins again. So deftly. Over and across the outer lips of your labia with such intensity that you can’t help but buck into the embrace. Just a little more friction is ALL you need.
He stops, the plume flicking against the tips of your lips. He has you down pat. You’re mind is hazy, and everything feels so damn wonderful. The moment he spreads your lips with his fingers, you think it’s the end.
A paintbrush has replaced the plume. Less surface area and more concentration. Gentle bristles glide against the slippery hollows of your inner lips, and as your heavily beating heart would suggest, everything down below is quaking and ready to burst.
Start. Stop. Start. Stop. The bristles are more than enough now. Each painted stroke across trembling, trapped sex is bled over by your pure arousal. And after one brisk swab, all the energy you have balled up inside your stomach explodes, powerful contractions rocking you as he continues to tickle the inside of your clit through your climax, until your eyes roll and you roar because your pride doesn't matter anymore.
You feel boneless. Heaving, sweating, lightheaded and dizzy, and down below, you feel as if the sun has been bested.
You wonder why you dared fight at all.
Just to let him know you are still there.
That you are not going to make this easy.
It grazes his shoulder, and you are unsure if his grimace is true. He wrenches your wrist to your side, and takes your lithe frame onto his shoulder. He tried to anyway. You’re able to fight free and slip out of his grasp and land with a stomp. But you can’t turn around quick enough. Every footfall forward is quickly cut off by the lock his arms have on your lithe frame.
Hoisting you in the air, you kick your legs, pleading for release. You know where this is going to lead. You can’t control it. You can’t stop it. And eventually, you will be overpowered. Physically and mentally.
The very notion sends raw shivers up your spine, your body quaking in his clasp.
The couch is the place that makes the most sense in this room, but the reality is, the bed might be even better. And he is going for the bedroom. You refuse; your skilled legs shoot up and press against the painted dry wall. The corridor is narrow enough for your semi-split to prevent movement forward.
Until you shriek from the blistering pace of his fingers digging into contours of your lower stomach. Your legs go down, and even as you try to press the sides of your feet against the walls again, it's only wasting valuable energy.
The bed has restraints lined up, as if this was planned. Who the hell comes up with these things, honestly? You didn’t like the way conventional fantasies cropped up, but who is to say there is anything conventional about this? Or the fur inside the cuffs? He tosses you on the bed. Cascading downward, you see the pair of fur lined cuffs attached to the headboard. He doesn’t read your mind, but you ball up, pressing your back against the cool varnish. Jeans and a navy blue t-shirt and barefoot and it is simply adorable how you try to fight.
He reaches to grab hold of your ankle, but you brandish your foot. The soft, pink soles are a harbinger, a warning to not press forward. Your look is serious. He reaches up and your heel is buried in his collarbone. Another kick and—
He has you. Oh shit. He yanks you just right and before you know it, he’s mounted you. Your arms instinctively hug your torso. Your face sours in disbelief. The end is about to come. “Put your arms up,” he demands, but you shake your head no.
That’s when the flurry starts, and your trapped upper body wrenches back and forth. Your heels dig into the comforter, your feet spasmodically kicking as his aggressive style of tickling puts you a bad way. Before you know it, he isn’t just your sides anymore. He's at your stomach. Your shirt is availing pale skin, and his fingers are teasing your nerve endings.
Wincing and breathing heavy through peals of laughter, you try in vain to hammer your hand against him. There is no power in your struggle, and with a snatch, your left wrist is quickly pinned to the headboard, the restraint jostled into place as you try to push your arm away. You bring your free hand up to claw, but as the left is locked into place, you find his hands are bracing your right into the comforter. One on one you can’t hope match his strength, and now, you are much worse off. It isn't long before he makes your wrists twins in helpless bondage.
His focus shifts; without fingers, you can’t fight besides moving your nimble body to and fro as he seeks out the button of your jeans. He can’t! The button loose, you squeal as he unzips. Black satin and violet ribbon covers a most nervous and intimate area, but you have your legs. You have your legs! His fingers dance a line down your rapidly exposed inner thighs, shifting weight and keeping your squirms to nothing more than meek fidgets. Your knees are now showing. Are you boy crazy? Oh you are! Poor Rosalyn is just so squirmy and it makes your breathing shallow. Your heart is racing. With weight on your knees, your twisting ankles are all that are keeping your jeans on. One tug is all it takes to put an end to that.
Oh. Oh no. He powers your left ankle towards the restraint, locking it in. And when he does, the faint trace of fingers over your instep drives you mad. Your right foot tries to cover the assault and then, suddenly, you realize the ploy. He pulls your right foot over, it too quickly restrained. You are an upside down Y, Rosalyn. Legs spread and exposed. Barefoot. And that satin hiding all that's left of your modesty.
As if to let you know what your fighting has wrought, his hands tease ever so gently along the balls of your feet, before he uses tactical precision in snaking fashion between your toes. Raw and wild, your grin frozen across your face, you close your eyes against the phantom tingles that refuse to subside. Your momentary lapse costs you dearly as your eyes and lips startle open.
Desperation fills your pleas, violet ribbon surrendering to the tug of his fingers. The satin slackens along your bikini region, threatening to expose your little secret. But no flinch, no fight can stop him now. Could it ever?
Exposed is what has been shrouded in mystery. Thousands of nerve endings ready to be teased, the slight slickness giving a fragrant aroma that a hungry, calculating beast could taste in the air from miles away. Lush and a tinge pink. Your shivering sigh causes him to lick his lips.
His first intent is to show you just how vile he can be. The kiss of his nails against your arch causes your whine to strain within your tightening throat. One harsh tug at your arms and legs and a buck in futile desperation is all you can muster. All slack has been removed. He laughs at your quivering, flexing muscles. The laziest of scratches is all it takes. You try to move your feet, to roll your ankles whichever way will keep him at bay, but the bonds are far too restricting.
Within moments, the gentle, leisurely pace is scoured away. Calculating prances from all ten of those perfectly groomed nails and soft fingertips devour your soles, along the edge of your heel, the contours of your arch and then the arch itself. The frantic flexing of your toes wrinkles your soles, but it does nothing to deaden the livewire they've become. Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit. He goes right underneath your toes! That terrible spot right underneath the ring toe of your left foot which makes you want to scream. He only makes it worse by focusing directly on the spot, plucking your ring toe and tugging it back so he can sink his fingertips in with vigorous, deadly strokes.
STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP!
You can still feel his fingers, but he's left the foot of the bed. He's beside you now, shark smile spread wide across his face. But that isn't what has you begging for him to stop. It's the look in his eyes. The way he looks along your side, following the ripples of nervous energy shuddering throughout your body. It's going to get worse. You know it's going to get worse. But he just lies there, resting his head against his palm, staring you in the eyes. You can't look back at him. Your cheeks sizzle from the blood rush of embarrassment. The excitement you can't hide anymore shames you.
The silence is deadly. The anticipation! You can't control how hard and fast your heart is beating. Your toes curl to bat away the phantoms still licking your soles. And he just watches you, calm and collected as you wait for the roller coaster car to plummet once again.
But the ascent is still going. You close your eyes. His breath washes along your earlobe, envelops the nape of your neck. One fingertip strolls along your bicep, swirls around the hollow of your armpit.
“So sensitive,” his words tease against your ear as fingertips continue combing along from underarm to hipbone. “Along your ribs, all up your sides…So sensitive!”
His lips nibble at your lobe and your skin breaks out in sheets of gooseflesh. Your breath washes over your drying lips. A flick at your right nipple, your moan escapes before you can muffle it.
“Oh, you liked that.” His words, buzzing in your ear, only help to further disarm you. Every damn nerve is roaring at full attention. His fingers travel between your breasts, crawl down the center of you. He skips your belly button, instead letting his fingertips swirling along your lower tummy. “But I know where you're most sensitive.” He wouldn't! The softest of pets crosses the threshold down below.
“Your greatest fear, that fantasy you tried to take back right after telling me.”
… Jesus Christ!
“And I'm going to expose it.”
You can't help yourself. His hand is soft and warm and comforting and you can't stop your bloom. Mistake. Big mistake. Shouldn't have--oh God! Between thumb and index finger, he massages your sex. His fingers know too much. His touch is too perfect. Index finger becomes pinkie and ring finger.
“I'm going to tickle it.” The index finger slowly, lazily tracing along the crest and your mouth floods from helpless, desperate giggles. You can't beg, can't plead.
“I'm going to open you up and touch places you've never been touched before.” Softly, he pulls apart your lips. Suddenly, you've never felt so naked, so exposed, so helpless! Every word cuts with guillotine precision as it buzzes inside your ear. “And then, I'm going to tease it.” Shimmying, panicked giggles bubble up from husky, haughty breaths as his fingertips lick along the insides of your lips. “Until every little piece of you comes undone.” He moves. You feel the blood drain for your face, rushing downward to compensate as you shake your head with all the vigor you can pitifully muster. Your body revels in its ultimate betrayal, his teasing leaving you breathless and fully exposed.
This isn't the worst part.
He shows you the fresh feather duster and your eyes nearly pop out of your head. Your first reaction is to bury your backside into the comforter, before the soft down teases the pink. And when it touches, you are unsure of what it is you want to do, but it takes hold of your mind.
Gentle giggles escape you as the duster brandishes kisses from your lower tummy all the way to your lips. A few concentrated brush strokes is all it takes causing you to swell and grow, and when that occurs, all it means is more raw nerve endings for him to tease.
The tips of your puckered lips are assaulted with a barrage of gentle, tickling strokes and before too long, the giggles become intermixed with unrepentant moans. He teases the contours of your slit, the outer core burnings red hot, feels as though it is filling with air as the swabbing embraces threaten to shatter your spirit to a thousand pieces.
His fingers momentarily part your lips, and your tender insides coat the deft digits. You absent absentmindedly arch your back for the touch, but are almost brought to totally ecstasy by the supple teasing tickles inside your trapped sex.
When it stops, you are whimpering. You said you found the denial to be more of a turn on and you curse ever telling him that. His hands lightly tickle underneath your shirt, tracing their way over your sides and abdomen before arriving over the small cones of your breasts. He lightly circles your areola. A sharp sigh takes you as his index and middle finger rub the tips of your modest peaks. Nimble fingers find their way underneath, and now, without something to deaden the touch, you give a haughty sigh as the tips are massaged with his knowing touch.
Please. No tickles. No tickles! Underneath your breasts, he massages as he continues to roll your hardening buds. Tingling sensations going through your body as his hands leave trails of tickling carnage over the expanse of your stomach, across the slight protrusions of your ribs, and then back up to the very tips of your nipples.
Just when you think you are prepared, that’s when the stiff plume parts your nether, a twirl instantly coating the tendrils with your essence. The blade is a reminder, and with you so dangerously close, any more stimulation would bring you to climax.
We don’t want that.
Not yet.
Instead, those VILE fingers produce laughs as they tickle the tops of your bare thighs. You are blushing because your arousal is hanging right there. You want him to bring you there, to focus on the burning, but he is too busy tickling your inner thighs and he doesn't seem to care that your seeping dampness is soaking through the comforter.
The quill leaves another french kiss, your heart strumming at a staccato beat.
He travels down to your soles, planting a gentle kiss on both of your arches. Your balls. Your toes. When his lips go back to the ball, your feet immediately splay open from his touch. Balls to dancing arch to heel then back to ball and then he focuses right underneath your toes. Flinching, gasping, you’d promise the world just to make it stop but you don’t want it to truly stop.
Your eyes shoot wide open the moment you feel his tongue between your toes, sucking on the fidgeting digits momentarily before brushing the saliva off and spreading them manually. His nails spend time incalculable finding each little polished and pedicured sensitivity, causing you to rattle the bed posts in your struggle as your eyes go wild and you give in to the ticklish tsunami.
And as the soles flinch, scorched by the phantom tickles he's left behind for you to savor, he’s back on your shuddering lips, the feather tenderly cradling the outer portions, electricity shooting through your sensitive, wet flesh. Each spasm brings his caress to a stop. And when you've settled down just enough, he begins again. So deftly. Over and across the outer lips of your labia with such intensity that you can’t help but buck into the embrace. Just a little more friction is ALL you need.
He stops, the plume flicking against the tips of your lips. He has you down pat. You’re mind is hazy, and everything feels so damn wonderful. The moment he spreads your lips with his fingers, you think it’s the end.
A paintbrush has replaced the plume. Less surface area and more concentration. Gentle bristles glide against the slippery hollows of your inner lips, and as your heavily beating heart would suggest, everything down below is quaking and ready to burst.
Start. Stop. Start. Stop. The bristles are more than enough now. Each painted stroke across trembling, trapped sex is bled over by your pure arousal. And after one brisk swab, all the energy you have balled up inside your stomach explodes, powerful contractions rocking you as he continues to tickle the inside of your clit through your climax, until your eyes roll and you roar because your pride doesn't matter anymore.
You feel boneless. Heaving, sweating, lightheaded and dizzy, and down below, you feel as if the sun has been bested.
You wonder why you dared fight at all.
