kopfhorer1
1st Level Orange Feather
- Joined
- Oct 11, 2005
- Messages
- 2,006
- Points
- 0
Please let me know what you think!
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You and I are together in my dungeon. Actually it's the spare bedroom. A fifth-floor apartment just doesn't have that “dungeon” feel to it, though I've done my best to make do. It's only 8 by 12 feet, kind of small. I've painted it flat black for that dungeon feel. (When your mother was here last week, I told her I was going to convert it into an old-school photographic darkroom. I guess she'll believe anything!) There's a picture window on one side of the room which I've blocked off with a big piece of black cardboard and duct tape (I hope somebody doesn't think we're manufacturing drugs in here!). The cardboard blocks the light but not the sound of passing cars, kids on the street or the odd garbage truck. Our lease doesn't allow real candles, so I set the mood with the battery-operated kind.
Our “torture rack” is a disused exercise machine which I bought at a garage sale a few summers ago. It's just the right size and shape, with a seat for you to sit on, a padded horizontal rail in the front to bind your feet to and a crosspiece in the back at just the perfect height for the wrist cuffs. A few cushions from an old couch to make it comfortable enough to sit on for however long my tickle-torture sessions with you might last, and it's perfect. I ran into the lady who sold it to me over at the mall last week. She asked me if I'm still using it, and I told her yes. I just didn't tell her how I'm using it!
The sound-insulation properties of the floors and walls in our building are not that great. Every night I can hear our upstairs neighbors making the springs on their bed squeak, and our next door neighbors and their friends yakking over can after can of beer (bags full of empties in the hall in the morning), not distinctly enough to hear what they're saying but clearly enough to wonder if and when these people ever sleep. So I brought our old TV, VCR and DVD player into our “dungeon”.
We watch the tickling videos which we both love on the new digital TV in the living room, listening to the giggles, guffaws and cackles through headphones. In the dungeon we only play old TV comedy shows from the 1950's and 60's, programs that were taped in front of live audiences or which have pre-recorded laugh tracks. That's so the neighbors will think your belly laughs are because of what's on the tube. I turn the TV towards us when we're in the dungeon. The light from the screen makes it easier for me to see what I'm doing.
Most of the time this ruse works. Our neighbors think we're just vintage TV fans. I love I Love Lucy, with its almost continuous laugh track. Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In is a favorite backdrop for our own laugh-ins. Goldie Hawn had such a wonderful giggle back in the sixties. I know you love it. I've heard you start giggling when you hear it, even when I wasn't touching you. I think it makes you a lot more responsive to tickle-torture!
Feathers and fingertips are all right, but my tool of choice is artist's paint brushes. Not just any paint brushes, but the expensive sable ones, the ones with the nice, soft bristles which still hold a fine point (the sales clerk at the art store told me I must be a really serious artist. If she only knew!). I like to start by blindfolding you after I've finished setting you up on the rack (one cuff's rigged so you can free yourself if you have to, but you haven't wanted to use it or our safeword so far). I sit quietly for a few minutes so that you lose track of where I've been. The TV's going. I let you get engrossed in the show.
I take the smallest brush and very, very slowly approach the arch of one of your bare feet, like a surgeon who wants to make sure he puts the scalpel in just the right place. I move in until the tip just barely touches your skin. I watch your face. When I see you bite your lower lip, I know I've made contact. I run the brush ever so very, very slowly up your sole. You try to wiggle your foot (which you really can't, because I've immobilized them pretty well). You grit your teeth and take short, panting breaths.
I delicately draw rings around the ball of your foot before heading toward the spaces underneath your toes, which you squeeze downward in a vain effort to stop the brush. Your panting gets a little faster and choppier. I head back down toward the center of your arch, a little faster this time. I don't follow a straight path, I move the brush in a meandering, serpentine path. Your breathing is punctuated by tittering and snickering.
When I reach that tenderest part of your foot. I ever so slowly run the brush in circles. You grin and start to giggle softly. I then trace curves and arabesques throughout the length and width of your bare arch. As I go, you begin to chuckle in your girlish way. I've always loved it when you do that.
Still working on one foot, I pick up the other brush, a larger one with just as fine a point on it, and go to work on the arch of the other foot. Your chuckling gets louder and breathier as I run both brushes randomly (but slowly) up and down each sole. Then you burst out in full belly-laughter which is barely concealed by the laugh track coming from the TV.
Once, in the middle of a particularly memorable session, you let out a jubilant shriek. It not only startled me but sent our downstairs neighbor pounding at our front door frantically asking what was going on. We told him that it was from the soundtrack to an old Japanese horror movie we were watching. He went back downstairs but I'm not completely sure he bought my story.
Last Friday, Eric the super came into our apartment while we were both at work, to fix our upstairs neighbor's clogged bathtub drain (there's an access doorway in our kitchen ceiling). When we got back, the dungeon door, which was closed when we left that morning was open just a crack. I went inside to make sure nothing was missing. Well, everything was just as we'd left it, except for a small piece of paper on the floor just in front of the exercise rack. It turned out to be the business card for a BDSM club which is actually not that far from here. Talk about dropping hints! I wonder if we'll see Eric and his wife Chrissie there when we go tomorrow night?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
You and I are together in my dungeon. Actually it's the spare bedroom. A fifth-floor apartment just doesn't have that “dungeon” feel to it, though I've done my best to make do. It's only 8 by 12 feet, kind of small. I've painted it flat black for that dungeon feel. (When your mother was here last week, I told her I was going to convert it into an old-school photographic darkroom. I guess she'll believe anything!) There's a picture window on one side of the room which I've blocked off with a big piece of black cardboard and duct tape (I hope somebody doesn't think we're manufacturing drugs in here!). The cardboard blocks the light but not the sound of passing cars, kids on the street or the odd garbage truck. Our lease doesn't allow real candles, so I set the mood with the battery-operated kind.
Our “torture rack” is a disused exercise machine which I bought at a garage sale a few summers ago. It's just the right size and shape, with a seat for you to sit on, a padded horizontal rail in the front to bind your feet to and a crosspiece in the back at just the perfect height for the wrist cuffs. A few cushions from an old couch to make it comfortable enough to sit on for however long my tickle-torture sessions with you might last, and it's perfect. I ran into the lady who sold it to me over at the mall last week. She asked me if I'm still using it, and I told her yes. I just didn't tell her how I'm using it!
The sound-insulation properties of the floors and walls in our building are not that great. Every night I can hear our upstairs neighbors making the springs on their bed squeak, and our next door neighbors and their friends yakking over can after can of beer (bags full of empties in the hall in the morning), not distinctly enough to hear what they're saying but clearly enough to wonder if and when these people ever sleep. So I brought our old TV, VCR and DVD player into our “dungeon”.
We watch the tickling videos which we both love on the new digital TV in the living room, listening to the giggles, guffaws and cackles through headphones. In the dungeon we only play old TV comedy shows from the 1950's and 60's, programs that were taped in front of live audiences or which have pre-recorded laugh tracks. That's so the neighbors will think your belly laughs are because of what's on the tube. I turn the TV towards us when we're in the dungeon. The light from the screen makes it easier for me to see what I'm doing.
Most of the time this ruse works. Our neighbors think we're just vintage TV fans. I love I Love Lucy, with its almost continuous laugh track. Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In is a favorite backdrop for our own laugh-ins. Goldie Hawn had such a wonderful giggle back in the sixties. I know you love it. I've heard you start giggling when you hear it, even when I wasn't touching you. I think it makes you a lot more responsive to tickle-torture!
Feathers and fingertips are all right, but my tool of choice is artist's paint brushes. Not just any paint brushes, but the expensive sable ones, the ones with the nice, soft bristles which still hold a fine point (the sales clerk at the art store told me I must be a really serious artist. If she only knew!). I like to start by blindfolding you after I've finished setting you up on the rack (one cuff's rigged so you can free yourself if you have to, but you haven't wanted to use it or our safeword so far). I sit quietly for a few minutes so that you lose track of where I've been. The TV's going. I let you get engrossed in the show.
I take the smallest brush and very, very slowly approach the arch of one of your bare feet, like a surgeon who wants to make sure he puts the scalpel in just the right place. I move in until the tip just barely touches your skin. I watch your face. When I see you bite your lower lip, I know I've made contact. I run the brush ever so very, very slowly up your sole. You try to wiggle your foot (which you really can't, because I've immobilized them pretty well). You grit your teeth and take short, panting breaths.
I delicately draw rings around the ball of your foot before heading toward the spaces underneath your toes, which you squeeze downward in a vain effort to stop the brush. Your panting gets a little faster and choppier. I head back down toward the center of your arch, a little faster this time. I don't follow a straight path, I move the brush in a meandering, serpentine path. Your breathing is punctuated by tittering and snickering.
When I reach that tenderest part of your foot. I ever so slowly run the brush in circles. You grin and start to giggle softly. I then trace curves and arabesques throughout the length and width of your bare arch. As I go, you begin to chuckle in your girlish way. I've always loved it when you do that.
Still working on one foot, I pick up the other brush, a larger one with just as fine a point on it, and go to work on the arch of the other foot. Your chuckling gets louder and breathier as I run both brushes randomly (but slowly) up and down each sole. Then you burst out in full belly-laughter which is barely concealed by the laugh track coming from the TV.
Once, in the middle of a particularly memorable session, you let out a jubilant shriek. It not only startled me but sent our downstairs neighbor pounding at our front door frantically asking what was going on. We told him that it was from the soundtrack to an old Japanese horror movie we were watching. He went back downstairs but I'm not completely sure he bought my story.
Last Friday, Eric the super came into our apartment while we were both at work, to fix our upstairs neighbor's clogged bathtub drain (there's an access doorway in our kitchen ceiling). When we got back, the dungeon door, which was closed when we left that morning was open just a crack. I went inside to make sure nothing was missing. Well, everything was just as we'd left it, except for a small piece of paper on the floor just in front of the exercise rack. It turned out to be the business card for a BDSM club which is actually not that far from here. Talk about dropping hints! I wonder if we'll see Eric and his wife Chrissie there when we go tomorrow night?
