You inspire me, m'lady! It's been a long time since I've written much, but here's a little scenario I threw together for you. Hope you enjoy!
The Itch
by Bob Carter
"Oh, No, not again . . . ," she thought as she felt the smooth silk encircle her right ankle, then pull tight to extend her leg at a rather wide angle from her torso.
It was the last of her appendages to be so restrained, the neckties holding and stretching her naked form into a pronounced "X" on the four-poster bed. The bonds were soft, the caress gentle, but no less secure for all that. She was immobile. Helpless. Altogether defenseless. Again.
That's when it always started. She squirmed as she felt the first tingle, a tiny prickle of a sensation, moving over her skin, made even more sensitive by her awareness that there was nothing she could do. There was no way for her to help herself. No way for her to scratch . . . the itch.
For an itch it was, as she knew it would occur. It always did. Why did it always happen, she wondered, as soon as she was totally unable to do anything about it. It was just maddening, and the more she thought about it, the more maddening it became.
The itch seemed almost a living thing, a tiny insect with itchy little feet, scampering over her. It would settle in one spot, then just when she thought she could will it to disappear, it would roam to another part of her exposed flesh. Finally, it settled into the hollow of her right underarm, and there, it began to grow . . . and grow . . . and grow.
It was made all the worse by her experiencing no other sensation . . . yet. That was still to come, and she knew all too well that there'd be no rushing things.
"Comfy?" asked her captor.
There was no impatience in his demeanor or his actions. His movements were deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.
His query was slightly disingenuous. For while he really was solicitous of her overall comfort and well-being, there was a hint of mischief. A twinkle in his eye, as if enjoying the subtle punchline of a private joke.
"Oh, yes, very comfy, for a prisoner being tortured!" she replied.
"Hmmmm, I hadn't noticed any torture going on here. Maybe I should go check the next room?"
"No! Don't leave! Come here and take me! Now!" She tried a not unconvincing appeal to move things along quickly.
He was tempted, but resisted her plea while admiring what he felt was a perfectly sculpted form, in a perfectly appealing position. Her body was quite well-toned for all of her fifty-two years. Her blonde, with just a touch of gray, hair only enhanced her attractiveness, stimulating his desire for her as it contrasted with the freckles on her shoulders.
"I think, not quite yet," he responded. "You do seem a little squirmy, however. Why is that?"
She attempted to flex her right bicep, to shrug her shoulder, to twist against the soft cotton of the coverlet, anything to relieve . . . that . . . maddening . . . itch.
"I just want you. Please!"
"Your imagination isn't running away with you again, is it? You aren't lying there, helpless, and imagining how horrible it would be to have an uncontrollable . . . itch . . . one that you'd just have to endure for as long as it lasts . . . powerless to relieve the awful . . . unbearable . . . itching. You aren't thinking about that, are you?" he asked, with a smugness that made her helplessness even more apparent.
"Oh, you are a wicked, wicked man," she answered huskily, her squirming more pronounced. "Yes, you know that's what I'm thinking about because it's what I always think about! And I always start itching! And you just love it, don't you? Having this power over me?"
"I must admit, the more you squirm, the more you entice me to . . . take matters into my own hands . . . so to speak." He rubbed his palms together, and flexed his fingers.
While not rough, by any means, they were the strong hands of a man who had done his share of real work. No soft executive-type, he. Some of his friends still referred to him as "the linebacker". Strong as he was, though, there was an overarching gentleness to his manner. Never a hint of force, but an unyielding physical power supported the natural confidence he displayed.
"Come on . . . come on . . . help me," she almost whispered.
"Tell me where," he coaxed.
"Oh, god, it's in my right armpit! Please . . . do it!"
"Do what, my dear?"
"Scratch it, please!"
"We-ell, let me see," he drew out the phrase as he drew a tiny yellow feather from the bedside table.
"Is it here?" he asked, lightly stroking the feather's delicate tip in a slow circle around her right nipple.
"Ooooo! Noo! I told you where it is!" her skin was beginning to quiver, as a note of desparation crept into her voice.
"Maybe here?" the feather dipped into her navel and wiggled slightly.
"Eeeeeeee! Nonono!! Get out of there! That's so ticklish!" she teased. "You know how I can't stand to be . . . *tickled*!"
"Yes, I guess I do know that," he grinned. "So I guess that itch must be right about . . . here!"
The feather moved in an ever-so-tortuous path over the hollow of her armpit, not enough to scratch the itch, but enough to make the sensation practically explode within her.
"OOOOOOOOHHHHHH!" she gasped, the deliciously ticklish sensation reverberating as her skin twitched with tormented delight. "Right there . . . right there . . . pleeeeeaaase!! Please do it!"
"Do . . . this?" The feather licked out again.
"Aaahh! Aahhhh! Oh,no! Oh,no! Please. I'll do anything!" and at that moment, it was literally true. She would do anything he asked. She just had to feel his strong touch.
"You have to ask me," he told her.
"Wh - what?" she was feeling almost delirious as the feather moved as if to scratch the itch, but it was so very light, all it did was put an exclamation mark on the sensation.
"You know what you have to ask for. In fact, you're going to have to beg me."
"N-Nooo! P-Please, d-don't make me beg for . . . that!"
"Yes, you've got to. You've got to beg me to . . . tickle you!" he demanded, now.
She knew, once again, that she was done for. That she would indeed beg, and plead, and make obscene promises. And that would be just the beginning of a wild ride that would lead her to a destination she could have only dreamed of at times in her past.
"P-Please," a quiet entreaty.
"Please, what?" he wanted her to say it.
"Please. Please! Pleeease!! I'm begging you! P-Pleeeease . . . TICKLE MEEEEEE!"
The index finger of his left hand immediately dropped to her armpit and the nail scratched the exact spot, as if guided by radar, scratching up and down and left and right, as she arched her back and moaned with a wild abandon for which no other experience had ever prepared her, an almost orgasmic sense of relief blossomed through her and a warmth spread to her cheeks in a glowing blush.
And then . . . the laughter started.
