tkl-pen
1st Level Orange Feather
- Joined
- Dec 30, 2001
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THE MONIQUE TASMAN STORY
Monique Tasman, the young African-American television actress, was particularly tired when she arrived at home. She had risen early this Friday as one of the scenes from her current program required a retake. A quick breakfast sandwich and orange juice in the car enroute to the studio and she was ready. By lunchtime, with the shooting completed, she made her way to the dance studio for a rehearsal in preparation for next week’s dancing program. At least there was time for a light lunch before the practice and a supper with some of the other dancers after the rehearsal. It had been a busy day. Really, it had been a busy week.
When she arrived at home, Monique filled the tub with a nice warm bubblebath and sat in the water soaking and relaxing for a while. It felt so good that she nearly fell asleep, not only because of the warmth of the water and the scent of the aroma therapy bubbles, but also because of the soft music she had put on in the living room of her Los Angeles apartment. But she caught herself drifting away and got out of the bath. She dried herself with the luscious, thick towel that she had prepared, applied some soft powder all over her body and slipped on a camisole top and panties for bed. She fell asleep almost immediately after she got into bed.
Monique tried to turn in her sleep but she found that she was unable to move. For some reason, she could only remain on her back. She tried to move again, wanting to turn over onto her side, but it was to no avail. She could not move. With her arms over hear head, though, she did stretch and it felt so good. Then she opened her eyes, ever so slightly, before going back to sleep. Sleep did not come, though, since her mind quickly came to the realization that something was amiss. She opened her eyes.
“What the hell,” she said to herself as she came to realize that she was no longer in her bed, her bedroom or even her apartment. She found herself, instead, in some kind of a medical laboratory with stainless steel cabinets, baby blue walls and darkly tinted glass panels and doors. She looked up at her hands only to find that her arms had been secured beside and over her head by leather straps on her wrists and upper arms. Her hands were placed beneath hand grips that she could grasp simply by curling her fingers and placing her thumbs around them. She tried to lift her head and look down the length of her body but found that a leather restraint around her neck prevented her from raising her head more than an inch or two. She was able to look along the sides of her body, though, and see that her legs had been widely separated and secured with leather straps around her ankles and above her knees. Her feet were beyond the end of the table. As she tried to move her body, she found that only her hands and feet would move slightly, and she could turn her head from side to side. She also realized, especially from the coolness of the air around some of her most sensitive parts, that she was naked.
“How the hell did I get here,” she asked herself, “I had a bath at home, went to bed and fell asleep. Maybe it’s only a dream.”
Once again Monique tried to move, to fight her restraints and to free herself. She took hold of the handgrips and pulled on them with all of her might to free her arms or her legs. But nothing would give. She did not realize that she had activated anything by pulling on the hand grips. To her right, without warning, a glass panel slid open and two large dogs, very similar to Doberman pinchers, entered the room.
“Hey, doggie,” she started, “where is your master?”
The two dogs, though, paid her no attention and moved to the foot end of the table to which Monique was secured. Unknown to her, a thick meat sauce had been generously applied to her feet and allowed to set while she was unconscious.
“Aaaah, shit,” she cried as she felt one of the dogs start to lick the sole of her right foot. She tried desperately to move her leg and her foot but she could only move her foot about as much as her ankle would allow in its range of motion and that very movement excited the dog even more. A moment later the second dog started to lick the toes of her left foot.
“No, doggies,” she said as softly as she could while trying to ignore the sensations on her feet and looking down the sides of her body, “don’t! That tickles!”
“No-hoh-, dohohogie, pleeheeheese,” she laughed, “that tihihihickles so-ho bahahad.”
The two dogs, however, continued to lick the soles her feet from heels to toes, forcing their tongues into every possible crevice between and beneath her toes to get every little bit of the delicious meat sauce. Monique was in agony as the two dogs continues the licking of her pretty size eight feet.
“Hehehelp,” she cried, “pleeheeheese make them stohohohop. I knohohohow you’re thehehere. Pleeheeheese, it tihihickles so bahahad. Aaahahahaha! I’m gohohoing to peeheehee!”
And so Monique lost control and wet herself. The dogs, of course, took no notice as they continued to lick the thick gravy that had been applied to Monique’s feet. It wasn’t until more than half an hour had passed that the dogs finally finished the relentless licking. Monique was a sweating, straining, panting mess strapped down spreadeagle on the table. She didn’t even notice the dogs leave the room as she tried to catch her breath.
“Hey, whoever you are,” she called out, “I know you’re watching me. Are you happy now? Let me go!”
But there was only silence. As she continued to call out to the unknown, alternately begging, swearing and trying to reason, she received no response. She was, of course, unable to move. When she recovered some of her strength, though, she tried to struggle against her bonds one again pulling on the handgrips with all her might to see if she could at least loosen a strap on an arm or a leg. It was, of course, to no avail. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Suddenly, she heard the whirring of some machinery coming to life, below her and to the left. She turned her head to look but the neck restraint prevented any useful movement. Then the table began to move, slowly lowering her feet and raising her head to a vertical position. It was particularly uncomfortable to Monique as there was nothing supporting her feet. She could only almost hang there, still secured to the table, but she was able to hold herself by way of the two handgrips. Once she was in a vertical position, she felt a receptacle of some sort, perhaps a bowl, lift into place between her legs and beneath her. Then, as a warm oily fluid began to enter her bowels, she noticed that a hose or tube of some sort had been inserted into her asshole. She had not noticed that before, even though it had been there all the time.
“No, please don’t,” she pleaded, “that’s so nasty! Please leave my ass alone. My God, please. Who are you? Where are you? Please stop this!”
Over a period of about ten or fifteen minutes, a gallon or more of the oily liquid was pumped into her bowels by the tube up her ass. Monique was miserable, restrained as she was and receiving a major enema without even seeing anyone.
“Aaah, it hurts,” she cried, “please stop! I can’t take anymore!”
Over her protestations, though, the liquid continued to enter her bowels, causing her to feel very, very full as her abdomen began to distend. It was, indeed, starting to become painful. Then, suddenly, there was a new sensation that came a few minutes after the pumping of the oily liquid into her bowels had stopped. She felt the tube slowly being pulled out of her asshole. The sensation was unbelievable, causing her to squeeze her eyes and grit her teeth.
It wasn’t long before the liquid started to pour out of Monique into the basin positioned between her legs. After she had emptied her bowels, she felt two streams of warm water washing her genitals and her ass. Then the table returned to the horizontal position and Monique was again flat on her back.
“Now what,” she cried to some unknown person, as she saw two spigots, like small taps, descend from the ceiling and position themselves directly over hear breasts. Little drops of water started to fall onto her breasts – drip – drip – drip – drip. She didn’t think much of it for the first fifteen or twenty minutes, noticing only that her nipples had started to harden. After that time, though, it started to become uncomfortable. Her breasts felt as though they were on fire and her nipples felt as if they would explode. Desperately she tried to move her breasts even slightly as the drops continued to land in the exact same spot on each breast over and over again.
“Aaaah,” she screamed, “please, whoever you are, make it stop. I can’t stand it anymore. Aaaah, God, please stop it.”
She continued to scream, suffer and plead for two and a half hours as the water drops pounded onto her breasts, each one worse than the last. Her whole world had become one of pure agony, and she couldn’t even form the thought to call out and plead anymore. All Monique could do was scream. But finally the dripping of the water did stop and the panting, sweating girl was at last able to recover her breath. Quietly, without speaking, her super sensitized breasts heaving up and down, she lay there on the table and regained her senses.
“My, God,” she cried, “why are you doing this to me?”
“I can explain that,” a man said as he entered the room.
Monique looked to her right and saw the man who had spoken. He was a well-dressed, elegant looking man in his fifties. He approached the table and stopped beside her. He touched her near her armpit and ran his finger down her side to her right foot, which he grasped in his hand.
“You are so pretty, little black girl,” he said, as he gently grasped her left foot and ran his finger up her left side to her armpit. He then ran his finger across her chest from her right to her left, along her collarbones. Monique looked at him hardly knowing what to say to him.
“Don’t worry, little one,” he said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
He ran both of his hands down her sides back to her feet, and he ran his fingers along the soles of her feet.
“Oh, your little feet are cold,” he observed, “but they are very clean, almost as though they have just been washed.”
“Aaah,” she said, “that tickles. They’re clean because of your dogs who were in here licking them and tickling the crap out of me.”
“That’s funny,” he said, “I thought that the crap came out of you somewhat later than that.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, “now let me go!”
He ran his hand back up the midline of her body, carefully avoiding the sensitive areas of her genitals and breasts. He moved to the head end of the table and, standing between her outstretched arms, gently arranged her hair which had become messy during her struggles.
“As I saw you dancing each week,” he explained, “I became more and more enamored with you. Each week you became more attractive, more alluring, more interesting to me. I came to adore every part of you from your beautiful eyes, your pouting lips, your perfect body and your shapely legs all the way down to your beautiful little feet, so magnificent and delicious in the very sexy shoes you wore when you danced. I knew that I wanted you.”
“So why didn’t you simply come to meet me?”
“You, Monique Tasman, are a beautiful young African-American actress, twenty-five years old, becoming highly successful and desired by many young men,” he explained, “while I am an ordinary man in his fifties. I expect you would not even have said hello to me, let alone go out with me, if I had done that.”
“Where am I,” she asked, “and how did I get here?”
“This is a special place, Monique, where I live a lot of the time and where I maintain this special facility to entertain various young women who attract my attention,” he explained, “but it does not exist in the time and place in which you live. Therefore, it is not visible in your world. I have a special technique of locating the young women who come here by using a technique similar to your DNA profiling but far more advanced. My computers simply take an image, in your case from television, and determine the exact DNA-type profile you would have, far more unique to you that your technology can even imagine. With this profile, my computers through satellite technology locate you and, when you are alone as you were in your bed, bring you here by molecular teleportation. You simply vanished from your bed.”
He moved his hand back down her right side and located himself between her feet, gently tickling the sole of one foot with each hand.
“Please, don’t!” she said.
“Please don’t,” he taunted, “please don’t.”
He continued to tickle her lightly running his fingers over her skin along her sides to her armpits, one on each side of her, and tickling her there. He moved his fingers down to her thighs and then onto her stomach, tickling her there. She giggled and squirmed when he tickled her. He moved to the head end of the table and tickled her armpits again.
“Oh, I think we’re going to have some fun, little one,” he said, as he moved to her left side.
“What the hell are you going to do to me?” she asked.
“I will do whatever I want with you,” he told her, as he continued to stroke her soft brown skin, tickling her tummy and sides as he did so, then looking at her genitals, “my, you are sopping wet already.”
“Shit,” she gasped as he touched her genitals, “let me go!”
“Oh, Monique, look what I found,” he said, as he produced a large, stiff feather, “I think we can amuse ourselves with this for a while.”
He ran the feather along her sides, through her armpits and across her tummy as she squirmed and complained.
“I wonder what it would be like,” he asked, “if I stroked this feather across your breasts a few times.”
“No, please don’t,” she pleaded, “they still hurt from the water.”
“I see,” he said, “what do you feel?”
“Like they are on fire, like my nipples are going to explode,” she said, “like I am more aroused than I have ever been in my life.”
“Perhaps I can help you with that a little later,” he said.
“Like hell,” she said, “I have my fingers, you know. I don’t need you.”
“Do you really think that I haven’t taken that into account, little one?”
“So what, then,” she asked, “are you going to rape me?”
“Heavens, no, little one,” he said, “I would never do such a thing. I already told you that I wasn’t going to hurt you. Having said that, though, I expect you will not only be a willing participant, but you will be the one asking me.”
“Dream on, Mister,” she said, “who the hell are you anyway?”
“My name, in a language you can use,” he said, “is Sandrak Bahn Koto.”
“I see,” she said, “that’s not an American name.”
“No, Monique, that is not a name of your world,” he said, “at least not in its present time and space.”
“So then you are an alien,” she observed, “from some other world.”
“No,” he explained, “I am human just like you, and I am from Earth just like you, but not the Earth of your present time and space.”
He moved to the foot end of the table and sat down on a wheeled stool between her feet.
“Perhaps I will not touch your breasts quite yet,” he said, “I’ll just give you one hundred and twenty strokes across the sole of each of these very pretty and delicious dancing feet of yours. As I do so, you can perhaps begin to imagine what it will be like when I do the same to each of your breasts.”
“No, please don’t,” she pleaded, “my feet are so ticklish.”
“But they are made to be tickled,” he pointed out, “and, in fact, the bottom part is much lighter in color than the rest of you. Perhaps that is God’s way of telling us where to apply these feathers.”
“That’s because I’m African-American,” she said, “it has nothing to do with tickling.”
“Let us see,” he said, “I’ll start with your soft, sweet little left foot. But first, I think I’ll taste it.”
He gently kissed the toes, the sole and the ball of her left foot, and then delicately licked her toes and the space beneath to taste her.
“You are quite delicious,” he said, “as I had expected. Now, the one hundred and twenty strokes of the stranra feather.”
He gently grasped her foot, his thumb on the ball of her foot and his fingers on top, making it impossible for Monique to flex her foot, and he started to stroke the large, stiff feather across in slow, intense movements. The sensations were incredible.
“Aaaah, stop!”
“Applying the feather in this way, little one, will not cause the intense laughter that some all-out tickling might,” he explained, “because I want you to feel each individual stroke and not lose your attention in uncontrollable laughter.”
“Aaaaah, God, please stop!”
“Each foot will take about half an hour,” he told her, “at the rate of four strokes per minute of your time.”
“Aaaaah, please,” she pleaded, “I’ll have sex with you if you stop.”
“You will do that anyway, little one,” he said, “I promise you that.”
After he finished with her feet, the man moved to the right side of the table, holding the big feather up for her to see.
“Nooooo! No, please, not my breasts,” she pleaded, “they’re already on fire.”
“Aaaah, shit!” she cried, as he drew the feather over her right breast, carefully avoiding her nipple. Each of his strokes became longer and more intense. He worked his way from the base of her breast toward her nipple. Monique screamed and pleaded for the entire hour it took to stroke both of her breasts one hundred and twenty times. She struggled so much that her back began to spasm.
“Are you happy now,” she asked, as she desperately tried to catch her breath.
“I’m not sure yet,” he said, “perhaps I will perform a test to see if we need to go on.”
“How can we go on,” she said, “I’m going out of my mind with arousal. Please, I have to finish it.”
He leaned down over her face and it was clear to Monique that he intended to kiss her. As his lips approached her sweet, full lips, she tried to lift her head to meet them. She not only allowed him to kiss her, but she in fact brought her lips to his and kissed him, with passion and desire, with fire and need.
“Well, I think you pass the test,” he told her, “now I will give you a warm bath to wash the sweat and tears away, then we’ll go out for something to eat.”
“Please, can’t I finish myself first,” she pleaded.
“No,” he said, “the best things come to those who wait.”
He released her restraints and helped her off the table. He then took her to a large marble bath in another room and washed her with delicious warm water scented with herbs and spices. She was too tired to even protest whenever he touched her. His touch, though, was soft and gentle, and it felt wonderful to her as she closed her eyes and exulted in the sensations of the gentle touch of a man who truly loved women.
After he had dried her, brushed and combed her hair, and helped her into a long gown that reminded her of ancient Egypt, as well as sandals with straps all the way up her calves, he took her hand and led her outside of the building they were in. Monique was totally astonished as she saw pyramids, small pyramids that served as houses, large pyramids that served as major centers, and beautifully paved stone streets. In the distance she could see several monuments that reminded her of the sphinx in Egypt, but there were three of them, side by side.
“My God,” she said, “where are we?”
“You are on Earth,” he said, “but in another reality, a different space and time from the one in which you live. Come, let us go.”
He led Monique to a nearby tavern cum restaurant where they had a dinner of deliciously roasted meat, hot pickled vegetables, chunks of whole grain bread and glasses of strong wine mixed with water. They ate with their fingers, though, since there were no utensils with the bowls of food.
“Are you going to let me go again,” she asked, “how will I get home?”
“I will take you home in the same way I brought you here,” he said, “and you will have a memory of the time you spent here. But if you tell anyone about it, they will not believe you. So, yes, I will let you go. And I will bring you back if I want to spend time with you again. I will always be able to find you instantly.”
After the dinner, they walked back to his home and he led Monique to his bed chamber, which had a large sleeping platform with thick furs for padding and covers. He helped Monique out of her gown, removed her sandals, and allowed her to climb onto the platform. He joined her there.
“So,” she said, “now you want to have sex with me, don’t you?”
“Only if that is your desire, little one,” he said.
“I can always use my finger,” she pointed out, “I have nice long fingers, see?”
“And I have wrist restraints attached to the head end of this sleeping platform,” he showed her, “that would hold your arms above your head and away from anything you could do for yourself. You would spend the whole night in terrible sexual frustration.”
“I see,” she said, “so I wouldn’t be able to take care of myself.”
“That is so,” he said, “and I also have more of the thick meaty gravy that I applied to your feet when you arrived. Borko and Spaka would be happy to lick it off your feet again.”
Monique arose from the bed and threw her arms around him, kissing him deeply and passionately. They had intensely passionate sex several times and Monique, worn out from her multiple orgasms, collapsed in exhaustion. She fell asleep.
When she woke, she found herself in her own bed. When she looked at the time, it was three o’clock in the morning.
“My God,” she said to herself, “was that a dream. I couldn’t have gone anywhere. There hasn’t been any time to do it. But it was so real. Surely it couldn’t have been only a dream.”
Monique Tasman, the young African-American television actress, was particularly tired when she arrived at home. She had risen early this Friday as one of the scenes from her current program required a retake. A quick breakfast sandwich and orange juice in the car enroute to the studio and she was ready. By lunchtime, with the shooting completed, she made her way to the dance studio for a rehearsal in preparation for next week’s dancing program. At least there was time for a light lunch before the practice and a supper with some of the other dancers after the rehearsal. It had been a busy day. Really, it had been a busy week.
When she arrived at home, Monique filled the tub with a nice warm bubblebath and sat in the water soaking and relaxing for a while. It felt so good that she nearly fell asleep, not only because of the warmth of the water and the scent of the aroma therapy bubbles, but also because of the soft music she had put on in the living room of her Los Angeles apartment. But she caught herself drifting away and got out of the bath. She dried herself with the luscious, thick towel that she had prepared, applied some soft powder all over her body and slipped on a camisole top and panties for bed. She fell asleep almost immediately after she got into bed.
Monique tried to turn in her sleep but she found that she was unable to move. For some reason, she could only remain on her back. She tried to move again, wanting to turn over onto her side, but it was to no avail. She could not move. With her arms over hear head, though, she did stretch and it felt so good. Then she opened her eyes, ever so slightly, before going back to sleep. Sleep did not come, though, since her mind quickly came to the realization that something was amiss. She opened her eyes.
“What the hell,” she said to herself as she came to realize that she was no longer in her bed, her bedroom or even her apartment. She found herself, instead, in some kind of a medical laboratory with stainless steel cabinets, baby blue walls and darkly tinted glass panels and doors. She looked up at her hands only to find that her arms had been secured beside and over her head by leather straps on her wrists and upper arms. Her hands were placed beneath hand grips that she could grasp simply by curling her fingers and placing her thumbs around them. She tried to lift her head and look down the length of her body but found that a leather restraint around her neck prevented her from raising her head more than an inch or two. She was able to look along the sides of her body, though, and see that her legs had been widely separated and secured with leather straps around her ankles and above her knees. Her feet were beyond the end of the table. As she tried to move her body, she found that only her hands and feet would move slightly, and she could turn her head from side to side. She also realized, especially from the coolness of the air around some of her most sensitive parts, that she was naked.
“How the hell did I get here,” she asked herself, “I had a bath at home, went to bed and fell asleep. Maybe it’s only a dream.”
Once again Monique tried to move, to fight her restraints and to free herself. She took hold of the handgrips and pulled on them with all of her might to free her arms or her legs. But nothing would give. She did not realize that she had activated anything by pulling on the hand grips. To her right, without warning, a glass panel slid open and two large dogs, very similar to Doberman pinchers, entered the room.
“Hey, doggie,” she started, “where is your master?”
The two dogs, though, paid her no attention and moved to the foot end of the table to which Monique was secured. Unknown to her, a thick meat sauce had been generously applied to her feet and allowed to set while she was unconscious.
“Aaaah, shit,” she cried as she felt one of the dogs start to lick the sole of her right foot. She tried desperately to move her leg and her foot but she could only move her foot about as much as her ankle would allow in its range of motion and that very movement excited the dog even more. A moment later the second dog started to lick the toes of her left foot.
“No, doggies,” she said as softly as she could while trying to ignore the sensations on her feet and looking down the sides of her body, “don’t! That tickles!”
“No-hoh-, dohohogie, pleeheeheese,” she laughed, “that tihihihickles so-ho bahahad.”
The two dogs, however, continued to lick the soles her feet from heels to toes, forcing their tongues into every possible crevice between and beneath her toes to get every little bit of the delicious meat sauce. Monique was in agony as the two dogs continues the licking of her pretty size eight feet.
“Hehehelp,” she cried, “pleeheeheese make them stohohohop. I knohohohow you’re thehehere. Pleeheeheese, it tihihickles so bahahad. Aaahahahaha! I’m gohohoing to peeheehee!”
And so Monique lost control and wet herself. The dogs, of course, took no notice as they continued to lick the thick gravy that had been applied to Monique’s feet. It wasn’t until more than half an hour had passed that the dogs finally finished the relentless licking. Monique was a sweating, straining, panting mess strapped down spreadeagle on the table. She didn’t even notice the dogs leave the room as she tried to catch her breath.
“Hey, whoever you are,” she called out, “I know you’re watching me. Are you happy now? Let me go!”
But there was only silence. As she continued to call out to the unknown, alternately begging, swearing and trying to reason, she received no response. She was, of course, unable to move. When she recovered some of her strength, though, she tried to struggle against her bonds one again pulling on the handgrips with all her might to see if she could at least loosen a strap on an arm or a leg. It was, of course, to no avail. She wasn’t going anywhere.
Suddenly, she heard the whirring of some machinery coming to life, below her and to the left. She turned her head to look but the neck restraint prevented any useful movement. Then the table began to move, slowly lowering her feet and raising her head to a vertical position. It was particularly uncomfortable to Monique as there was nothing supporting her feet. She could only almost hang there, still secured to the table, but she was able to hold herself by way of the two handgrips. Once she was in a vertical position, she felt a receptacle of some sort, perhaps a bowl, lift into place between her legs and beneath her. Then, as a warm oily fluid began to enter her bowels, she noticed that a hose or tube of some sort had been inserted into her asshole. She had not noticed that before, even though it had been there all the time.
“No, please don’t,” she pleaded, “that’s so nasty! Please leave my ass alone. My God, please. Who are you? Where are you? Please stop this!”
Over a period of about ten or fifteen minutes, a gallon or more of the oily liquid was pumped into her bowels by the tube up her ass. Monique was miserable, restrained as she was and receiving a major enema without even seeing anyone.
“Aaah, it hurts,” she cried, “please stop! I can’t take anymore!”
Over her protestations, though, the liquid continued to enter her bowels, causing her to feel very, very full as her abdomen began to distend. It was, indeed, starting to become painful. Then, suddenly, there was a new sensation that came a few minutes after the pumping of the oily liquid into her bowels had stopped. She felt the tube slowly being pulled out of her asshole. The sensation was unbelievable, causing her to squeeze her eyes and grit her teeth.
It wasn’t long before the liquid started to pour out of Monique into the basin positioned between her legs. After she had emptied her bowels, she felt two streams of warm water washing her genitals and her ass. Then the table returned to the horizontal position and Monique was again flat on her back.
“Now what,” she cried to some unknown person, as she saw two spigots, like small taps, descend from the ceiling and position themselves directly over hear breasts. Little drops of water started to fall onto her breasts – drip – drip – drip – drip. She didn’t think much of it for the first fifteen or twenty minutes, noticing only that her nipples had started to harden. After that time, though, it started to become uncomfortable. Her breasts felt as though they were on fire and her nipples felt as if they would explode. Desperately she tried to move her breasts even slightly as the drops continued to land in the exact same spot on each breast over and over again.
“Aaaah,” she screamed, “please, whoever you are, make it stop. I can’t stand it anymore. Aaaah, God, please stop it.”
She continued to scream, suffer and plead for two and a half hours as the water drops pounded onto her breasts, each one worse than the last. Her whole world had become one of pure agony, and she couldn’t even form the thought to call out and plead anymore. All Monique could do was scream. But finally the dripping of the water did stop and the panting, sweating girl was at last able to recover her breath. Quietly, without speaking, her super sensitized breasts heaving up and down, she lay there on the table and regained her senses.
“My, God,” she cried, “why are you doing this to me?”
“I can explain that,” a man said as he entered the room.
Monique looked to her right and saw the man who had spoken. He was a well-dressed, elegant looking man in his fifties. He approached the table and stopped beside her. He touched her near her armpit and ran his finger down her side to her right foot, which he grasped in his hand.
“You are so pretty, little black girl,” he said, as he gently grasped her left foot and ran his finger up her left side to her armpit. He then ran his finger across her chest from her right to her left, along her collarbones. Monique looked at him hardly knowing what to say to him.
“Don’t worry, little one,” he said, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
He ran both of his hands down her sides back to her feet, and he ran his fingers along the soles of her feet.
“Oh, your little feet are cold,” he observed, “but they are very clean, almost as though they have just been washed.”
“Aaah,” she said, “that tickles. They’re clean because of your dogs who were in here licking them and tickling the crap out of me.”
“That’s funny,” he said, “I thought that the crap came out of you somewhat later than that.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, “now let me go!”
He ran his hand back up the midline of her body, carefully avoiding the sensitive areas of her genitals and breasts. He moved to the head end of the table and, standing between her outstretched arms, gently arranged her hair which had become messy during her struggles.
“As I saw you dancing each week,” he explained, “I became more and more enamored with you. Each week you became more attractive, more alluring, more interesting to me. I came to adore every part of you from your beautiful eyes, your pouting lips, your perfect body and your shapely legs all the way down to your beautiful little feet, so magnificent and delicious in the very sexy shoes you wore when you danced. I knew that I wanted you.”
“So why didn’t you simply come to meet me?”
“You, Monique Tasman, are a beautiful young African-American actress, twenty-five years old, becoming highly successful and desired by many young men,” he explained, “while I am an ordinary man in his fifties. I expect you would not even have said hello to me, let alone go out with me, if I had done that.”
“Where am I,” she asked, “and how did I get here?”
“This is a special place, Monique, where I live a lot of the time and where I maintain this special facility to entertain various young women who attract my attention,” he explained, “but it does not exist in the time and place in which you live. Therefore, it is not visible in your world. I have a special technique of locating the young women who come here by using a technique similar to your DNA profiling but far more advanced. My computers simply take an image, in your case from television, and determine the exact DNA-type profile you would have, far more unique to you that your technology can even imagine. With this profile, my computers through satellite technology locate you and, when you are alone as you were in your bed, bring you here by molecular teleportation. You simply vanished from your bed.”
He moved his hand back down her right side and located himself between her feet, gently tickling the sole of one foot with each hand.
“Please, don’t!” she said.
“Please don’t,” he taunted, “please don’t.”
He continued to tickle her lightly running his fingers over her skin along her sides to her armpits, one on each side of her, and tickling her there. He moved his fingers down to her thighs and then onto her stomach, tickling her there. She giggled and squirmed when he tickled her. He moved to the head end of the table and tickled her armpits again.
“Oh, I think we’re going to have some fun, little one,” he said, as he moved to her left side.
“What the hell are you going to do to me?” she asked.
“I will do whatever I want with you,” he told her, as he continued to stroke her soft brown skin, tickling her tummy and sides as he did so, then looking at her genitals, “my, you are sopping wet already.”
“Shit,” she gasped as he touched her genitals, “let me go!”
“Oh, Monique, look what I found,” he said, as he produced a large, stiff feather, “I think we can amuse ourselves with this for a while.”
He ran the feather along her sides, through her armpits and across her tummy as she squirmed and complained.
“I wonder what it would be like,” he asked, “if I stroked this feather across your breasts a few times.”
“No, please don’t,” she pleaded, “they still hurt from the water.”
“I see,” he said, “what do you feel?”
“Like they are on fire, like my nipples are going to explode,” she said, “like I am more aroused than I have ever been in my life.”
“Perhaps I can help you with that a little later,” he said.
“Like hell,” she said, “I have my fingers, you know. I don’t need you.”
“Do you really think that I haven’t taken that into account, little one?”
“So what, then,” she asked, “are you going to rape me?”
“Heavens, no, little one,” he said, “I would never do such a thing. I already told you that I wasn’t going to hurt you. Having said that, though, I expect you will not only be a willing participant, but you will be the one asking me.”
“Dream on, Mister,” she said, “who the hell are you anyway?”
“My name, in a language you can use,” he said, “is Sandrak Bahn Koto.”
“I see,” she said, “that’s not an American name.”
“No, Monique, that is not a name of your world,” he said, “at least not in its present time and space.”
“So then you are an alien,” she observed, “from some other world.”
“No,” he explained, “I am human just like you, and I am from Earth just like you, but not the Earth of your present time and space.”
He moved to the foot end of the table and sat down on a wheeled stool between her feet.
“Perhaps I will not touch your breasts quite yet,” he said, “I’ll just give you one hundred and twenty strokes across the sole of each of these very pretty and delicious dancing feet of yours. As I do so, you can perhaps begin to imagine what it will be like when I do the same to each of your breasts.”
“No, please don’t,” she pleaded, “my feet are so ticklish.”
“But they are made to be tickled,” he pointed out, “and, in fact, the bottom part is much lighter in color than the rest of you. Perhaps that is God’s way of telling us where to apply these feathers.”
“That’s because I’m African-American,” she said, “it has nothing to do with tickling.”
“Let us see,” he said, “I’ll start with your soft, sweet little left foot. But first, I think I’ll taste it.”
He gently kissed the toes, the sole and the ball of her left foot, and then delicately licked her toes and the space beneath to taste her.
“You are quite delicious,” he said, “as I had expected. Now, the one hundred and twenty strokes of the stranra feather.”
He gently grasped her foot, his thumb on the ball of her foot and his fingers on top, making it impossible for Monique to flex her foot, and he started to stroke the large, stiff feather across in slow, intense movements. The sensations were incredible.
“Aaaah, stop!”
“Applying the feather in this way, little one, will not cause the intense laughter that some all-out tickling might,” he explained, “because I want you to feel each individual stroke and not lose your attention in uncontrollable laughter.”
“Aaaaah, God, please stop!”
“Each foot will take about half an hour,” he told her, “at the rate of four strokes per minute of your time.”
“Aaaaah, please,” she pleaded, “I’ll have sex with you if you stop.”
“You will do that anyway, little one,” he said, “I promise you that.”
After he finished with her feet, the man moved to the right side of the table, holding the big feather up for her to see.
“Nooooo! No, please, not my breasts,” she pleaded, “they’re already on fire.”
“Aaaah, shit!” she cried, as he drew the feather over her right breast, carefully avoiding her nipple. Each of his strokes became longer and more intense. He worked his way from the base of her breast toward her nipple. Monique screamed and pleaded for the entire hour it took to stroke both of her breasts one hundred and twenty times. She struggled so much that her back began to spasm.
“Are you happy now,” she asked, as she desperately tried to catch her breath.
“I’m not sure yet,” he said, “perhaps I will perform a test to see if we need to go on.”
“How can we go on,” she said, “I’m going out of my mind with arousal. Please, I have to finish it.”
He leaned down over her face and it was clear to Monique that he intended to kiss her. As his lips approached her sweet, full lips, she tried to lift her head to meet them. She not only allowed him to kiss her, but she in fact brought her lips to his and kissed him, with passion and desire, with fire and need.
“Well, I think you pass the test,” he told her, “now I will give you a warm bath to wash the sweat and tears away, then we’ll go out for something to eat.”
“Please, can’t I finish myself first,” she pleaded.
“No,” he said, “the best things come to those who wait.”
He released her restraints and helped her off the table. He then took her to a large marble bath in another room and washed her with delicious warm water scented with herbs and spices. She was too tired to even protest whenever he touched her. His touch, though, was soft and gentle, and it felt wonderful to her as she closed her eyes and exulted in the sensations of the gentle touch of a man who truly loved women.
After he had dried her, brushed and combed her hair, and helped her into a long gown that reminded her of ancient Egypt, as well as sandals with straps all the way up her calves, he took her hand and led her outside of the building they were in. Monique was totally astonished as she saw pyramids, small pyramids that served as houses, large pyramids that served as major centers, and beautifully paved stone streets. In the distance she could see several monuments that reminded her of the sphinx in Egypt, but there were three of them, side by side.
“My God,” she said, “where are we?”
“You are on Earth,” he said, “but in another reality, a different space and time from the one in which you live. Come, let us go.”
He led Monique to a nearby tavern cum restaurant where they had a dinner of deliciously roasted meat, hot pickled vegetables, chunks of whole grain bread and glasses of strong wine mixed with water. They ate with their fingers, though, since there were no utensils with the bowls of food.
“Are you going to let me go again,” she asked, “how will I get home?”
“I will take you home in the same way I brought you here,” he said, “and you will have a memory of the time you spent here. But if you tell anyone about it, they will not believe you. So, yes, I will let you go. And I will bring you back if I want to spend time with you again. I will always be able to find you instantly.”
After the dinner, they walked back to his home and he led Monique to his bed chamber, which had a large sleeping platform with thick furs for padding and covers. He helped Monique out of her gown, removed her sandals, and allowed her to climb onto the platform. He joined her there.
“So,” she said, “now you want to have sex with me, don’t you?”
“Only if that is your desire, little one,” he said.
“I can always use my finger,” she pointed out, “I have nice long fingers, see?”
“And I have wrist restraints attached to the head end of this sleeping platform,” he showed her, “that would hold your arms above your head and away from anything you could do for yourself. You would spend the whole night in terrible sexual frustration.”
“I see,” she said, “so I wouldn’t be able to take care of myself.”
“That is so,” he said, “and I also have more of the thick meaty gravy that I applied to your feet when you arrived. Borko and Spaka would be happy to lick it off your feet again.”
Monique arose from the bed and threw her arms around him, kissing him deeply and passionately. They had intensely passionate sex several times and Monique, worn out from her multiple orgasms, collapsed in exhaustion. She fell asleep.
When she woke, she found herself in her own bed. When she looked at the time, it was three o’clock in the morning.
“My God,” she said to herself, “was that a dream. I couldn’t have gone anywhere. There hasn’t been any time to do it. But it was so real. Surely it couldn’t have been only a dream.”
