Playing with Kresta, Part One
I turned off the air conditioner.
Kresta was tied so perfectly. Legs in a full split, torso stretched in an arch over a mound of pillows, wrists crossed in a knot over her ponytail, itself stretched on a taut rope to the bed frame. A white silk gag held a red rubber ball in her mouth, and all she could do was glare at me as I sat down by her foot. She had on silk bootie socks that looked so nice against her tan legs. 21 year old gymnast legs. They were smoothly contoured, disappearing teasingly into her cutoff shorts. I stroked the tip of my index finger gently over her toes and down her sole, tracing her arch. She stared back silently, but I could feel her foot tremble slightly. I slid my finger back up, retracing the path, letting my nail stroke a precise line of sensation. Down again. Up again. I knelt by the bed and stared at her foot as I caressed it, watching when it trembled and where. The round pads of her toes, the bottom edge of the ball of her foot, the inside above her arch back to her ankle, the tops of her toes behind the middle joint… A map of ticklish little pockets of sensation appeared. I teased them, compared them, added fingers, and changed the pressure of my strokes. Slowly, her foot began to move without pause, it gradually began to squirm.
I glanced up at her face. She turned to stare at the ceiling momentarily then glared back at me with a venomous look.
“Mmmmm….,” I thought, “Yesss, this is what I’m going to do to you, babe…”
“And there’s nothing you can do about it,” I said to her, out loud.
Her cheeks, so cute beneath the translucent white gag, began to twitch. She took a gulp of air through her nose and held it. Then another. The twitching and squirming was getting stronger. The tickling had begun.
I began to use all my fingers now, in a flurry of tickling across her toes. She reacted instantly. Her pert little breasts were jiggling slightly through her tight white top as her breathing changed to the machine-gun staccato of muffled laughter. She sucked for air around the gag and ball. I kept tickling, moving my fingers as lightly and quickly as I could, hovering over her toes, making each touch last no more than a split instant. I looked at her face, staring to make eye contact. She looked back. I closed my eyes and slowly licked my lips. When I opened them, she was scrambling: arching her back even higher than she was stretched, waving her untickled foot, clawing at the knot with her fingers, thrashing her head about at the end of the ponytail rope. I counted silently back from twenty then stopped the tickling.
I traced back across her foot with my index finger, letting my nail stroke her skin through the smooth white silk. I caressed all her fun points except her toes, dallying over the more ticklish areas and tracing figure eights. Her chest heaved for air and she looked at me with hot wrath, glowering. I looked back without expression, trying to put on my most kind, calm, gentle face as I caressed her. I put all my fingers to fluttering over the inside of her arch for a count of five then stopped. I caressed her some more. I tickled her entire sole for a count of ten. I stopped and caressed her, teasing everything but her toes. Her face was flushed red. A bead of sweat rolled across her forehead. Then another. And another.
I gently stroked back to her toes, letting my finger graze the bottoms of them, just skimming the round prominences. Her foot squirming grew more pronounced. I kept it up, varying it a little to keep her jerking about. Her breathing got more and more chaotic. She wouldn’t look at me anymore. It took a minute, but the laughter came back, this time from the stroking, tickling caress.
The thrashing came back too, all at once, as if she passed some barrier of self-control then exploded into panic. I began to tickle the tops of her toes with my other hand. BAM!! She went into hyperspace! The thrashing grew violent. She let out a high-pitched jet scream through her gag that died away as she struggled for breath, laughter wracking her torso. Her eyes wrenched shut. Her laughter became silent, but the rippling of her abs showed the tickling hadn’t slowed one bit. I kept going. And going.
And going.
She began to pull to one side, trying to bend her torso, but the ponytail rope held her tight. She appeared to have a cramp in her side from the laughter. I kept tickling. She made a pathetic wounded sound like a puppy whining. I counted down from thirty, slowwwllly.
I stopped tickling. She held her bending strain, grimacing, sucking for air in occasional gasps. I leaned over her face. Sweat was drenching her body now. The room was getting stuffy with the air off. Her blonde bangs were matted to her forehead. I brushed them aside and gently kissed her blazing skin.
“Pleasure and pain,” I whispered to her, then kissed her again.
I knelt back down by her foot and slowly began removing her sock. I laid a white porcelain jar on the bed by her ankle and opened it. I held her sock open and scooped up the powdery contents of the jar with a spoon and shook the powder into the sock, spreading it about. Then I took a small feather duster and spun it deep in the powder, covering it and filling it.
I blew her a kiss and then, spinning the duster between my fingers, I spread powder across her foot, sending it into twitches and jerks as I went. She was still not recovered from her cramp and was fighting so hard not to laugh. I kept going until she did.
When her foot was white from the powdering, looking not unlike her gymnast’s chalk, I held up my menthol breath freshener canister. I sprayed a squirt in my mouth, and blew it gently over Kresta’s face.
“Nice, huh?” I asked, smiling.
The menthol burned with an ice-hot sensation. This stuff was so strong it was painful.
I sprayed it across her toes, watching little rivulets of fluid stream down her foot. I sprayed again, then gave the rest of her foot a quick going over of light droplets. She didn’t seem to comprehend all the fun to come.
I replaced her sock. Then I held up my keyboard cleaner, a can of compressed air with a little red plastic tube. Her eyes lit up in understanding.
It was I who laughed next.
“There’s nothing like an itch you can’t sccccratch,” I said
I clamped a desk fan to the bed frame by her foot and turned it on low. Then I began spraying her foot with the compressed air.
“Hmmm?” I taunted.
The streams of air hit the menthol and sent an electric-like jolt up her leg. I just randomly traced a route around her foot, watching her jerk and spasm as it found the little pockets of menthol dampness. As the spots dried, I worked on the remaining ones, finally working them down to her toes, which had been well soaked. I whipped the straw from side to side as I went over them, sending her into uncontrollable fits of squirming, quaking, and shuddering. She made little, muted, laughing noises as I went and even her lips quivered in synch with the puffs of air. It took a couple of minutes to dry her toes enough for the fun stuff, so I decided to chat with my little plaything.
“You’re quite ticklish here around your toes,” I said, “You get tickled a lot don’t you, by boyfriends and such?”
Kresta didn’t answer, she looked away at a spot on the ceiling.
“It’s because you’re so deliciously cute,” I said
“And you like it. I saw you stroking you feet back and forth over the tongues of your shoes in the campus library before I picked you up.”
“You are tempting. You are delectable, like a tray of sweets in a candy store, you just beg to be tasted, and in your case, teased and played with, your body calls for us to explore it, to savor it. Delicate, sugary, syrupy, a ticklish little cookie jar,” I coaxed.
“You know what you should be considering right now?” I asked.
“That these toes are just the beginning,” I whispered to her.
I finished with the compressed air and set the fan on oscillate, turning it to medium.
I knelt by her other foot and gently began rolling off her sock. The other foot was already beginning to itch as the air blew over it, the itching powder and menthol drying. She squirmed that foot futilely trying to scratch it against the bed.
I looked back at her newly bare foot before me. I took a long silk strap about a quarter inch wide and looped it around her big toe and then ran it to her ankle, tying it in a pretty bow tie. The strap was tight enough to hold her foot flexed back, exposing her sole and making any foot waving impossible. Next I slid a thin metal rod under the ropes holding her foot and clipped the elastic securing band from it around her ankle. I tied two more straps from each end of the rod to her big toe, preventing her from rocking her foot side to side. This foot was now completely immobilized. I took out an alcohol swab and begin wiping down her bare foot. As I did her socked foot was squirming ever more violently.
“The more you squirm, the more it’ll itch,” I cooed to her, “didn’t anyone ever tell you to leave an itch alone?”
I took out a can of whipped cream and shook it up in front of her.
“Absolutely mouthwatering,” I said.
She attempted to say something back, but the gag muffled it to a long “mmphff.”
I squirted the cream over her toes and down her sole, then around her foot entirely.
She let out a long sigh.
I took out my black blindfold and wrapped it three times around her head, tying it below her wrists.
She began to scrape her head against her arms, trying to dislodge the blindfold, but it held quite nicely, the elastic fitting to her face very well.
I sat down on the floor by the bed corner and prepared to sample her. I looked across at her itching socked foot and watched it squirm. I touched the tip of my tongue to her little toe and slowly swept it up across her other toes, halfway to her big toe, then in a rapid series of tongue darting, I retraced my steps. Her other foot stopped, her toes splayed out. She felt that.
I waited for the other foot to start squirming again.
I counted to fifteen as she squirmed against the itching, then I flicked my tongue over the sole of her bare foot as quickly as I could, back and forth and all around. Her other foot again jerked to a stop. I quit.
Again I watched the squirming begin and then I attacked the top of her foot with my tongue, watching her other foot freeze. This time, kept going for a count of ten, hearing her begin to laugh.
It took five more “tastes” of her foot to clear it of most of the cream.
I took out the menthol canister and sprayed down her immobilized foot. She heard the can and began to writhe. Good, she feels that sweet anticipation.
“You’ve got a high GPA, Kresta,” I said, “as I play with your footsies, think what I can do to the rest of you.”
As I waited for the menthol on her bare foot to dry, I sat by her stocking foot and begin to tickle.
I have never seen a girl go so crazy. Every muscle in her body came alive and began to spasm through contraction after contraction. She shook head from side to side, arched her back and slammed it down on the pillows beneath her, and her leg muscles stood out in perfect relief. She made a series of yelps and gasps around her gag. My fingers danced around her silk sock, moving effortlessly over the smooth material, feeling her foot contort beneath it in a vain attempt to evade me. The futility of her struggle was such a turn on. I had to drive her further, and further, and further.
I began to count down from thirty. I tickled away, her laughter turning to silent shuddering of her tight little torso. At the count of zero, I stopped tickling for a count of ten, then began again, scurrying fingers over all parts of her socked foot. The break gave her just enough air to start yelping and laughing again. The sound was heavenly. When she went silent, I counted down from forty, then gave her a ten count break, then started up again and voila! She was a little music box of pleasurable misery. When she ran out of air I went to fifty, then to sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred, one hundred ten, and then, torso arched high, she passed out.
I moved to her bare foot and knelt. I knew just how to wake her up…
Part II:
Her leg didn’t work. She was pulling with all her might, but nothing happened. She grew frantic. She didn’t know where she was. She had to free her foot, but no matter how hard she pulled…
Then the electric sensation shot up her spine again, something drawing a maddening design across the sole of her bare foot. She tried to look down but everything was black. She felt a soft kiss on her ankle.
She remembered. She must have passed out.
The tickling began again. An intense burst of sensation as something traced a narrow line around the skin of her foot. She tried to squirm away, gain a moment’s respite, but nothing would move. Nothing at all. The fine little point of titillation moved so slowly, as if her tormentor was teasing her, going too easily, without fear of her getting away from his touch for even an instant.
The laughter was welling up again. Her sore sides and belly ached as the giggling came back, forcing its way up easily. Her mouth was tired from fighting her gag. The tickling kept up at the same evil slow pace, even as her laughter sped up.
All her muscles were tightening. The effort of the straining took up some of the misery, but just a little bit. She arched her back as hard as she could. She pulled her wrists hard against the rope binding them to her ponytail, and yanked her head against the ponytail rope to the bed. She flexed her other foot and began to tremble with the effort against the ropes. Still the tickling continued at its same slow pace creeping lazily around her foot, finding all the most sensitive places and precisely stroking the most intense tickling across them.
The squirming of her other, socked foot suddenly brought on a flurry of itching. It accelerated quickly, feeding on itself, as it got worse she squirmed more and as she squirmed it got worse, and worse. It was as if another tormentor had joined the tickling. This was too much.
All she could think of was, “HEEELLLLPPP!!!” But the laughter and the gag ensured that no such plea issued forth. As she began to buck against her bonds, she felt the sturdy hotel bed hold firm. It seemed to announce again and again, “There’s no escape…”
Then the tickling of her bare foot stopped. She gasped, chest heaving. She felt her drool running down her cheeks. She still shifted and squirmed against the itching from her socked foot, knowing that each movement made it worse, but unable to stop it.
Then fingers began to play across her socked toes, and she was rocketed back into guffawing, her body contorting painfully against the ropes. Then it stopped. Then she felt the fine point of the tickler across the sole of her bare foot. Then across the tops of her bare toes. Then nothing. Then fingers across her socked sole. Nothing. Toes. Nothing. Ankle. Toes. Nothing. Sole. Nothing.
Each time her body wracked convulsively. The tickling started and stopped randomly. Moments here and moments there, with no pattern. Her feet were alive with aniticipation of the next tickle, fearing it, but unable to escape. He could get her here. He could get her there. She felt completely helpless.
Finally, a lull. Kresta was afraid to relax. Her muscles hurt, but she dare not loosen up, it made the tickling so much worse if she didn’t tighten up before hand. But no tickle came for what seemed a couple of minutes. Then she felt something on the bed infront of her full split legs. She tightened her muscles with all her might, anticipating the tickle. None came.
Exhausted, she let go. As she did, she was aware of the dampness. Her shirt felt hot and slimy with sweat. The sheets and pillows under her back felt like they were sopping wet. The foot with a sock still on was itching madly, but it seemed to be trapped in a torturous slime that kept the itching going to levels she didn’t know there were. But it was hot, very hot. The air seemed thick and dank, a sweltering oven. Her tormentor seemed to be everywhere, all around her, dripping over her body, invading every pore.
The cool spray of his little menthol can jolted her as it began misting over her outstretched legs. The coolness was terrifying. The chilling spray seemed to sing aloud, “All this skin is my playground.”
Her itching foot was driving her insane!! It had to stop. She began to moan. “What the hell does he want?” she thought, “anything if he’ll stop. ANYTHING.”
Just as she finished that thought, she felt the unmistakable hot sensation of the tip of his tongue. He was dancing it over her calf, rapidly scurrying across an intricate pattern over the menthol on her skin. That tickled, but then she felt the breeze from hell.
She felt him blowing gently across her calf, covering the area just licked. The feeling blew her away. She immediately tightened up again. Then the hot breath and tongue slid across the same part of her other leg. The stream of blown air smoothly crossing the just-licked area as before, sending more jolts of sensation. Back to the first leg, the licking began halfway up the area from the last time. Then came the breath. Again he did the same to her other leg. It was building slowly, but building nonetheless. The tickling grew worse with each lick. And, the full split and exposed legs could only quiver as he went. Jammed in with her desperate thoughts of misery was something obvious: the licking was moving up her legs, slowly and inexorably toward the middle. Her laughter was building up again. That damn itching foot wouldn’t stop, either…
“Eeeihhiaahhee!!” she squealed through her gag. His tongue had found its mark. The little pocket along her thigh that disappeared down into her shorts. The depression in her tan, smooth legs was a hotbed of nerves. She had no idea. The licking grew lighter and faster. She lost all control, her laughing coming in chortles and bursts, sputtering. She thrashed violently. She tried to yell out, “Nooooooo!!!” but her voice had grown hoarse, even her laughter was muted as she fought for breath against her own reflexes. The tongue homed in on the worst of the worst. Instantly it learned the most maddening, exact pressure, found the right spots within spots, knew when to touch what. It was like a creature all its own, a very smart creature and it missed nothing. The sensations were close together but the feeling didn’t diminish. Electric jolts, bolts of pleasure, shivers of titillation, all shot up her spine, overloading her brain. Too much, too much, too much. It sped up, it slowed down, it meandered in and out of the border of her shorts, jumping from side to side, leg to leg. Every touch seemed the most intense, the worst that can be, only to be beat by the next one. She sucked hard for air. None came. She couldn’t breath, the gag and the laughing were suffocating. The hot air wasn’t enough. The tongue was slithering faster, flicking and darting across every place she couldn’t stand it. She gasped empty lungs as her torso shuddered uncontrollably, a slave to the tickling down below. She bucked once more, then again, then blackness.
I looked down at her, body slack in her bonds, breathing deeply, but still hiding in the cloak of another faint. Her nipples stood at attention behind her white top like little minarets. I lazily traced my finger along the edges of her shorts as I waited for her to come back...
I turned off the air conditioner.
Kresta was tied so perfectly. Legs in a full split, torso stretched in an arch over a mound of pillows, wrists crossed in a knot over her ponytail, itself stretched on a taut rope to the bed frame. A white silk gag held a red rubber ball in her mouth, and all she could do was glare at me as I sat down by her foot. She had on silk bootie socks that looked so nice against her tan legs. 21 year old gymnast legs. They were smoothly contoured, disappearing teasingly into her cutoff shorts. I stroked the tip of my index finger gently over her toes and down her sole, tracing her arch. She stared back silently, but I could feel her foot tremble slightly. I slid my finger back up, retracing the path, letting my nail stroke a precise line of sensation. Down again. Up again. I knelt by the bed and stared at her foot as I caressed it, watching when it trembled and where. The round pads of her toes, the bottom edge of the ball of her foot, the inside above her arch back to her ankle, the tops of her toes behind the middle joint… A map of ticklish little pockets of sensation appeared. I teased them, compared them, added fingers, and changed the pressure of my strokes. Slowly, her foot began to move without pause, it gradually began to squirm.
I glanced up at her face. She turned to stare at the ceiling momentarily then glared back at me with a venomous look.
“Mmmmm….,” I thought, “Yesss, this is what I’m going to do to you, babe…”
“And there’s nothing you can do about it,” I said to her, out loud.
Her cheeks, so cute beneath the translucent white gag, began to twitch. She took a gulp of air through her nose and held it. Then another. The twitching and squirming was getting stronger. The tickling had begun.
I began to use all my fingers now, in a flurry of tickling across her toes. She reacted instantly. Her pert little breasts were jiggling slightly through her tight white top as her breathing changed to the machine-gun staccato of muffled laughter. She sucked for air around the gag and ball. I kept tickling, moving my fingers as lightly and quickly as I could, hovering over her toes, making each touch last no more than a split instant. I looked at her face, staring to make eye contact. She looked back. I closed my eyes and slowly licked my lips. When I opened them, she was scrambling: arching her back even higher than she was stretched, waving her untickled foot, clawing at the knot with her fingers, thrashing her head about at the end of the ponytail rope. I counted silently back from twenty then stopped the tickling.
I traced back across her foot with my index finger, letting my nail stroke her skin through the smooth white silk. I caressed all her fun points except her toes, dallying over the more ticklish areas and tracing figure eights. Her chest heaved for air and she looked at me with hot wrath, glowering. I looked back without expression, trying to put on my most kind, calm, gentle face as I caressed her. I put all my fingers to fluttering over the inside of her arch for a count of five then stopped. I caressed her some more. I tickled her entire sole for a count of ten. I stopped and caressed her, teasing everything but her toes. Her face was flushed red. A bead of sweat rolled across her forehead. Then another. And another.
I gently stroked back to her toes, letting my finger graze the bottoms of them, just skimming the round prominences. Her foot squirming grew more pronounced. I kept it up, varying it a little to keep her jerking about. Her breathing got more and more chaotic. She wouldn’t look at me anymore. It took a minute, but the laughter came back, this time from the stroking, tickling caress.
The thrashing came back too, all at once, as if she passed some barrier of self-control then exploded into panic. I began to tickle the tops of her toes with my other hand. BAM!! She went into hyperspace! The thrashing grew violent. She let out a high-pitched jet scream through her gag that died away as she struggled for breath, laughter wracking her torso. Her eyes wrenched shut. Her laughter became silent, but the rippling of her abs showed the tickling hadn’t slowed one bit. I kept going. And going.
And going.
She began to pull to one side, trying to bend her torso, but the ponytail rope held her tight. She appeared to have a cramp in her side from the laughter. I kept tickling. She made a pathetic wounded sound like a puppy whining. I counted down from thirty, slowwwllly.
I stopped tickling. She held her bending strain, grimacing, sucking for air in occasional gasps. I leaned over her face. Sweat was drenching her body now. The room was getting stuffy with the air off. Her blonde bangs were matted to her forehead. I brushed them aside and gently kissed her blazing skin.
“Pleasure and pain,” I whispered to her, then kissed her again.
I knelt back down by her foot and slowly began removing her sock. I laid a white porcelain jar on the bed by her ankle and opened it. I held her sock open and scooped up the powdery contents of the jar with a spoon and shook the powder into the sock, spreading it about. Then I took a small feather duster and spun it deep in the powder, covering it and filling it.
I blew her a kiss and then, spinning the duster between my fingers, I spread powder across her foot, sending it into twitches and jerks as I went. She was still not recovered from her cramp and was fighting so hard not to laugh. I kept going until she did.
When her foot was white from the powdering, looking not unlike her gymnast’s chalk, I held up my menthol breath freshener canister. I sprayed a squirt in my mouth, and blew it gently over Kresta’s face.
“Nice, huh?” I asked, smiling.
The menthol burned with an ice-hot sensation. This stuff was so strong it was painful.
I sprayed it across her toes, watching little rivulets of fluid stream down her foot. I sprayed again, then gave the rest of her foot a quick going over of light droplets. She didn’t seem to comprehend all the fun to come.
I replaced her sock. Then I held up my keyboard cleaner, a can of compressed air with a little red plastic tube. Her eyes lit up in understanding.
It was I who laughed next.
“There’s nothing like an itch you can’t sccccratch,” I said
I clamped a desk fan to the bed frame by her foot and turned it on low. Then I began spraying her foot with the compressed air.
“Hmmm?” I taunted.
The streams of air hit the menthol and sent an electric-like jolt up her leg. I just randomly traced a route around her foot, watching her jerk and spasm as it found the little pockets of menthol dampness. As the spots dried, I worked on the remaining ones, finally working them down to her toes, which had been well soaked. I whipped the straw from side to side as I went over them, sending her into uncontrollable fits of squirming, quaking, and shuddering. She made little, muted, laughing noises as I went and even her lips quivered in synch with the puffs of air. It took a couple of minutes to dry her toes enough for the fun stuff, so I decided to chat with my little plaything.
“You’re quite ticklish here around your toes,” I said, “You get tickled a lot don’t you, by boyfriends and such?”
Kresta didn’t answer, she looked away at a spot on the ceiling.
“It’s because you’re so deliciously cute,” I said
“And you like it. I saw you stroking you feet back and forth over the tongues of your shoes in the campus library before I picked you up.”
“You are tempting. You are delectable, like a tray of sweets in a candy store, you just beg to be tasted, and in your case, teased and played with, your body calls for us to explore it, to savor it. Delicate, sugary, syrupy, a ticklish little cookie jar,” I coaxed.
“You know what you should be considering right now?” I asked.
“That these toes are just the beginning,” I whispered to her.
I finished with the compressed air and set the fan on oscillate, turning it to medium.
I knelt by her other foot and gently began rolling off her sock. The other foot was already beginning to itch as the air blew over it, the itching powder and menthol drying. She squirmed that foot futilely trying to scratch it against the bed.
I looked back at her newly bare foot before me. I took a long silk strap about a quarter inch wide and looped it around her big toe and then ran it to her ankle, tying it in a pretty bow tie. The strap was tight enough to hold her foot flexed back, exposing her sole and making any foot waving impossible. Next I slid a thin metal rod under the ropes holding her foot and clipped the elastic securing band from it around her ankle. I tied two more straps from each end of the rod to her big toe, preventing her from rocking her foot side to side. This foot was now completely immobilized. I took out an alcohol swab and begin wiping down her bare foot. As I did her socked foot was squirming ever more violently.
“The more you squirm, the more it’ll itch,” I cooed to her, “didn’t anyone ever tell you to leave an itch alone?”
I took out a can of whipped cream and shook it up in front of her.
“Absolutely mouthwatering,” I said.
She attempted to say something back, but the gag muffled it to a long “mmphff.”
I squirted the cream over her toes and down her sole, then around her foot entirely.
She let out a long sigh.
I took out my black blindfold and wrapped it three times around her head, tying it below her wrists.
She began to scrape her head against her arms, trying to dislodge the blindfold, but it held quite nicely, the elastic fitting to her face very well.
I sat down on the floor by the bed corner and prepared to sample her. I looked across at her itching socked foot and watched it squirm. I touched the tip of my tongue to her little toe and slowly swept it up across her other toes, halfway to her big toe, then in a rapid series of tongue darting, I retraced my steps. Her other foot stopped, her toes splayed out. She felt that.
I waited for the other foot to start squirming again.
I counted to fifteen as she squirmed against the itching, then I flicked my tongue over the sole of her bare foot as quickly as I could, back and forth and all around. Her other foot again jerked to a stop. I quit.
Again I watched the squirming begin and then I attacked the top of her foot with my tongue, watching her other foot freeze. This time, kept going for a count of ten, hearing her begin to laugh.
It took five more “tastes” of her foot to clear it of most of the cream.
I took out the menthol canister and sprayed down her immobilized foot. She heard the can and began to writhe. Good, she feels that sweet anticipation.
“You’ve got a high GPA, Kresta,” I said, “as I play with your footsies, think what I can do to the rest of you.”
As I waited for the menthol on her bare foot to dry, I sat by her stocking foot and begin to tickle.
I have never seen a girl go so crazy. Every muscle in her body came alive and began to spasm through contraction after contraction. She shook head from side to side, arched her back and slammed it down on the pillows beneath her, and her leg muscles stood out in perfect relief. She made a series of yelps and gasps around her gag. My fingers danced around her silk sock, moving effortlessly over the smooth material, feeling her foot contort beneath it in a vain attempt to evade me. The futility of her struggle was such a turn on. I had to drive her further, and further, and further.
I began to count down from thirty. I tickled away, her laughter turning to silent shuddering of her tight little torso. At the count of zero, I stopped tickling for a count of ten, then began again, scurrying fingers over all parts of her socked foot. The break gave her just enough air to start yelping and laughing again. The sound was heavenly. When she went silent, I counted down from forty, then gave her a ten count break, then started up again and voila! She was a little music box of pleasurable misery. When she ran out of air I went to fifty, then to sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety, one hundred, one hundred ten, and then, torso arched high, she passed out.
I moved to her bare foot and knelt. I knew just how to wake her up…
Part II:
Her leg didn’t work. She was pulling with all her might, but nothing happened. She grew frantic. She didn’t know where she was. She had to free her foot, but no matter how hard she pulled…
Then the electric sensation shot up her spine again, something drawing a maddening design across the sole of her bare foot. She tried to look down but everything was black. She felt a soft kiss on her ankle.
She remembered. She must have passed out.
The tickling began again. An intense burst of sensation as something traced a narrow line around the skin of her foot. She tried to squirm away, gain a moment’s respite, but nothing would move. Nothing at all. The fine little point of titillation moved so slowly, as if her tormentor was teasing her, going too easily, without fear of her getting away from his touch for even an instant.
The laughter was welling up again. Her sore sides and belly ached as the giggling came back, forcing its way up easily. Her mouth was tired from fighting her gag. The tickling kept up at the same evil slow pace, even as her laughter sped up.
All her muscles were tightening. The effort of the straining took up some of the misery, but just a little bit. She arched her back as hard as she could. She pulled her wrists hard against the rope binding them to her ponytail, and yanked her head against the ponytail rope to the bed. She flexed her other foot and began to tremble with the effort against the ropes. Still the tickling continued at its same slow pace creeping lazily around her foot, finding all the most sensitive places and precisely stroking the most intense tickling across them.
The squirming of her other, socked foot suddenly brought on a flurry of itching. It accelerated quickly, feeding on itself, as it got worse she squirmed more and as she squirmed it got worse, and worse. It was as if another tormentor had joined the tickling. This was too much.
All she could think of was, “HEEELLLLPPP!!!” But the laughter and the gag ensured that no such plea issued forth. As she began to buck against her bonds, she felt the sturdy hotel bed hold firm. It seemed to announce again and again, “There’s no escape…”
Then the tickling of her bare foot stopped. She gasped, chest heaving. She felt her drool running down her cheeks. She still shifted and squirmed against the itching from her socked foot, knowing that each movement made it worse, but unable to stop it.
Then fingers began to play across her socked toes, and she was rocketed back into guffawing, her body contorting painfully against the ropes. Then it stopped. Then she felt the fine point of the tickler across the sole of her bare foot. Then across the tops of her bare toes. Then nothing. Then fingers across her socked sole. Nothing. Toes. Nothing. Ankle. Toes. Nothing. Sole. Nothing.
Each time her body wracked convulsively. The tickling started and stopped randomly. Moments here and moments there, with no pattern. Her feet were alive with aniticipation of the next tickle, fearing it, but unable to escape. He could get her here. He could get her there. She felt completely helpless.
Finally, a lull. Kresta was afraid to relax. Her muscles hurt, but she dare not loosen up, it made the tickling so much worse if she didn’t tighten up before hand. But no tickle came for what seemed a couple of minutes. Then she felt something on the bed infront of her full split legs. She tightened her muscles with all her might, anticipating the tickle. None came.
Exhausted, she let go. As she did, she was aware of the dampness. Her shirt felt hot and slimy with sweat. The sheets and pillows under her back felt like they were sopping wet. The foot with a sock still on was itching madly, but it seemed to be trapped in a torturous slime that kept the itching going to levels she didn’t know there were. But it was hot, very hot. The air seemed thick and dank, a sweltering oven. Her tormentor seemed to be everywhere, all around her, dripping over her body, invading every pore.
The cool spray of his little menthol can jolted her as it began misting over her outstretched legs. The coolness was terrifying. The chilling spray seemed to sing aloud, “All this skin is my playground.”
Her itching foot was driving her insane!! It had to stop. She began to moan. “What the hell does he want?” she thought, “anything if he’ll stop. ANYTHING.”
Just as she finished that thought, she felt the unmistakable hot sensation of the tip of his tongue. He was dancing it over her calf, rapidly scurrying across an intricate pattern over the menthol on her skin. That tickled, but then she felt the breeze from hell.
She felt him blowing gently across her calf, covering the area just licked. The feeling blew her away. She immediately tightened up again. Then the hot breath and tongue slid across the same part of her other leg. The stream of blown air smoothly crossing the just-licked area as before, sending more jolts of sensation. Back to the first leg, the licking began halfway up the area from the last time. Then came the breath. Again he did the same to her other leg. It was building slowly, but building nonetheless. The tickling grew worse with each lick. And, the full split and exposed legs could only quiver as he went. Jammed in with her desperate thoughts of misery was something obvious: the licking was moving up her legs, slowly and inexorably toward the middle. Her laughter was building up again. That damn itching foot wouldn’t stop, either…
“Eeeihhiaahhee!!” she squealed through her gag. His tongue had found its mark. The little pocket along her thigh that disappeared down into her shorts. The depression in her tan, smooth legs was a hotbed of nerves. She had no idea. The licking grew lighter and faster. She lost all control, her laughing coming in chortles and bursts, sputtering. She thrashed violently. She tried to yell out, “Nooooooo!!!” but her voice had grown hoarse, even her laughter was muted as she fought for breath against her own reflexes. The tongue homed in on the worst of the worst. Instantly it learned the most maddening, exact pressure, found the right spots within spots, knew when to touch what. It was like a creature all its own, a very smart creature and it missed nothing. The sensations were close together but the feeling didn’t diminish. Electric jolts, bolts of pleasure, shivers of titillation, all shot up her spine, overloading her brain. Too much, too much, too much. It sped up, it slowed down, it meandered in and out of the border of her shorts, jumping from side to side, leg to leg. Every touch seemed the most intense, the worst that can be, only to be beat by the next one. She sucked hard for air. None came. She couldn’t breath, the gag and the laughing were suffocating. The hot air wasn’t enough. The tongue was slithering faster, flicking and darting across every place she couldn’t stand it. She gasped empty lungs as her torso shuddered uncontrollably, a slave to the tickling down below. She bucked once more, then again, then blackness.
I looked down at her, body slack in her bonds, breathing deeply, but still hiding in the cloak of another faint. Her nipples stood at attention behind her white top like little minarets. I lazily traced my finger along the edges of her shorts as I waited for her to come back...
