incidentally, do y'all know what the technical term for the recepient of a mummification is called? the "mummee". is that not the cutest thing ever?
anyway, you probably shouldn't wrap someone up unless you really, really know what you're doing.
------
“light up for me, sweetheart.”
the red bulb blinks on, and after a moment, blinks off. “good,” i praise you, because of course you couldn’t see it.
“light up if you’re comfortable.” it blinks again. snug as a bug - naturally.
you’re cocooned. a chrysalis of saran wrap from ankles to neck, shimmering and pretty, just like you. over the wrapping, black straps, holding you to the table. you’re not going anywhere. you can’t even wiggle. you turn your head, about all you can move. there’s a blindfold on your eyes and a gag in your mouth. an air tube runs out of it. thorough bondage. complete.
dressing you up like that was a lot of work, but the light was the hardest part by far. it’s the part i’m proudest of. a clever solution to the problem of communication. the control is in your hand, under the wrapping, the button tucked beneath your thumb. press it and the bulb lights up, bright as a holiday.
“light up,” i tell you, “if these feet are ready for the worst tickling they’ve ever received.” the feet in question twitch, and i think i catch a whimper. then the light glows bright red.
your feet poke from the cocoon at the foot of the table, like a gift carefully unwrapped. your soles are gorgeous, broad and smooth, and they look more naked now than they’ve ever been, more vulnerable. they must feel so sensitive in contrast to the rest of your body. each little breeze makes your tied toes twitch. that’s as much as they can move, thanks to the strings. so defenseless. i’m going to burn these feet.
spread beside them on a bench are all my favorite tools. all for you, my darling. all to torture these glorious feet, to make them scream like they never have. it’s going to be beautiful. from the bench i take a bottle and spread the contents on my palms. i clap my hands together and bring them to your soles, my tender captives.
i hear what sounds like a pleased little gasp. “that was a good sound, right?” the red bulb blinks.
i spread the oil across your soles, adoring fingers working your feet. i exult in it, i could do this for days, worshipping these perfect feet. judging by the moans and your twitching toes, you’d let me. but these feet are prisoners, here to be tortured. i wipe off my hands as i let the oil dry. your soles shine like gladiators. strong, but enslaved.
“how you?” the red bulb glows.
i feed a plug into an extension cord, hefting an object in my hand. my fingers curl around the handle and i switch the lever to an on position. the device howls with a miniature rage. you yelp, and i grin. you’d’ve jumped five feet, but you don’t move an inch. as you recognize the sound of the hairdryer your feet start to cringe.
“i’m going to cook these feet, baby. what color will they be?” the red light flashes.
the captives are trembling, ten toes wriggling in their prison. i plant the heel of my hand on your feet to keep them steady. your toes wriggle under my palm as the hairdryer roams, toasting your soles. you mewl as they burn. sizzling yet? ready for the plate? they’re glowing when i finally take the hairdryer away.
“everything green, space cadet?” the bulb blinks again.
your poor feet twitch, warm and tender. freshly baked. if i ran my tongue up a sole i bet you’d fill your cocoon. instead, i leave your singed peds to wriggle helplessly as i collect a small bowl from my bench. i take a fluffy painter’s brush and dip it in the bowl, coating it with the contents: powder. small silver nettles.
time to paint. your taut, tender soles make perfect prepped canvases.
you start to wail the moment i begin to brush your heel, that’s how sensitive my attention has made these feet. i work nice and slow, dusting back and forth. coating your soles with itching powder. ever so light, but even this makes you squeal. imagine how it’s going to be when i really dig in. i’m thorough, but your tasty toes i leave untouched. the bowl and brush return to the bench. then i lean close to your soles and watch the powder start to work.
soon your feet are twitching, wiggling, squirming. does it itch, pretty feet? is it unbearable yet? you moan in frustration as the tiny needles dance on your soles. you must want to rub them together so bad. but you can’t. your toes tug at their ties desperately. but nothing.
i’m eating this up.
as the powder stings your helpless soles, i take the time to check your body temperature. i take the time to check for excess sweating. i take lots of time. you’re doing fine, save for the terrible itches devouring your soles.
“happy camper?” i ask. you moan pathetically, but the red bulb flashes. i grin, but you can’t see it.
“ready for me to tickle these feet?” the bulb flashes fast, emphatic. now you long for my nails to stroke those itchy soles. scratch your captive feet all over, dig into the skin. you want more than anything for me to cover those feet in tickles. but i don’t. i sit back down at your feet, and i watch them squirm.
“still ready?” i ask. the bulb flashes again, bright and red. but i’m too busy watching those poor feet twitch. they’re mesmerizing. i want to torture them forever just to be able to see them like this, all the time. the minutes roll by.
“still ready?” i ask. the bulb flashes and you let out an impatient squeal. i chuckle and relent. “brace yourself, baby - here it comes.”
your toes brace against their ties, restless feet keeping admirably still. you’re ready, ready for me to scratch those thousand itches bristling across your soles. but clearly you weren’t ready for a hairbrush. you scream as the bristles drag down your soles, your cooked, tender soles. i keep it nice and slow. maybe the word should be “agonizing”.
this is it, baby. this is what you’re here for. this is why i wrapped you up, strapped you down, why i went through all that trouble with the light. this is why i tied these toes, oiled these feet, baked ‘em and made ‘em itch. this is it. torture. i’m torturing these feet.
oh, how you scream. you shout your little head off. the brush drags along your red hot soles, each bristle sticking like a little hook. can’t avoid it. can’t escape it. all you can do is scream. soon i discard the brush and dig in with my nails. your soles are so tender. my nails are so sharp.
i’m ruthless. i scrrratch. i’m so cruel to you, baby, so cruel while you’re so helpless. as as you bawl, as you sob, as you cry into your blindfold, i lick those tasty toes happily. i snack on them while you scream. and it tastes so good. i nibble those morsels, tied tight and so edible. it makes them so appetizing.
you howl. you suffer, but you endure. not once do you signal the red alert light. you’re so strong. it almost scares me. it makes me realize how much i love you. how perfect you are.
you wince when the cold towel touches your soles. you’re still panting, still regaining your breath. but you’ll be glad when the powder’s been washed off your feet. i do it gently. your soles are still burning.
then i ask you, “ready to become a butterfly?” and the bulb flashes slowly, a soft red pulse.
i cut your toes free, i unstrap you from the table, and with surgical scissors i slice open your cocoon. the wrap falls open like shed skin. your new body is soft and moist. the button slides from your hand. i take out the gag, i lift your head, and i help you swallow some water. i put a blanket around you and take you into my arms. you sob into my chest for a good long while, staining my shirt.
“thank you,” you whisper. i cuddle you in the blanket. your toes wiggle at the end of the table, strings hanging off of them. your soles are still too tender to put much pressure on them. baby, i’m going to wait on those peds hand and foot. worship them for real. you’ve earned it.
anyway, you probably shouldn't wrap someone up unless you really, really know what you're doing.
------
“light up for me, sweetheart.”
the red bulb blinks on, and after a moment, blinks off. “good,” i praise you, because of course you couldn’t see it.
“light up if you’re comfortable.” it blinks again. snug as a bug - naturally.
you’re cocooned. a chrysalis of saran wrap from ankles to neck, shimmering and pretty, just like you. over the wrapping, black straps, holding you to the table. you’re not going anywhere. you can’t even wiggle. you turn your head, about all you can move. there’s a blindfold on your eyes and a gag in your mouth. an air tube runs out of it. thorough bondage. complete.
dressing you up like that was a lot of work, but the light was the hardest part by far. it’s the part i’m proudest of. a clever solution to the problem of communication. the control is in your hand, under the wrapping, the button tucked beneath your thumb. press it and the bulb lights up, bright as a holiday.
“light up,” i tell you, “if these feet are ready for the worst tickling they’ve ever received.” the feet in question twitch, and i think i catch a whimper. then the light glows bright red.
your feet poke from the cocoon at the foot of the table, like a gift carefully unwrapped. your soles are gorgeous, broad and smooth, and they look more naked now than they’ve ever been, more vulnerable. they must feel so sensitive in contrast to the rest of your body. each little breeze makes your tied toes twitch. that’s as much as they can move, thanks to the strings. so defenseless. i’m going to burn these feet.
spread beside them on a bench are all my favorite tools. all for you, my darling. all to torture these glorious feet, to make them scream like they never have. it’s going to be beautiful. from the bench i take a bottle and spread the contents on my palms. i clap my hands together and bring them to your soles, my tender captives.
i hear what sounds like a pleased little gasp. “that was a good sound, right?” the red bulb blinks.
i spread the oil across your soles, adoring fingers working your feet. i exult in it, i could do this for days, worshipping these perfect feet. judging by the moans and your twitching toes, you’d let me. but these feet are prisoners, here to be tortured. i wipe off my hands as i let the oil dry. your soles shine like gladiators. strong, but enslaved.
“how you?” the red bulb glows.
i feed a plug into an extension cord, hefting an object in my hand. my fingers curl around the handle and i switch the lever to an on position. the device howls with a miniature rage. you yelp, and i grin. you’d’ve jumped five feet, but you don’t move an inch. as you recognize the sound of the hairdryer your feet start to cringe.
“i’m going to cook these feet, baby. what color will they be?” the red light flashes.
the captives are trembling, ten toes wriggling in their prison. i plant the heel of my hand on your feet to keep them steady. your toes wriggle under my palm as the hairdryer roams, toasting your soles. you mewl as they burn. sizzling yet? ready for the plate? they’re glowing when i finally take the hairdryer away.
“everything green, space cadet?” the bulb blinks again.
your poor feet twitch, warm and tender. freshly baked. if i ran my tongue up a sole i bet you’d fill your cocoon. instead, i leave your singed peds to wriggle helplessly as i collect a small bowl from my bench. i take a fluffy painter’s brush and dip it in the bowl, coating it with the contents: powder. small silver nettles.
time to paint. your taut, tender soles make perfect prepped canvases.
you start to wail the moment i begin to brush your heel, that’s how sensitive my attention has made these feet. i work nice and slow, dusting back and forth. coating your soles with itching powder. ever so light, but even this makes you squeal. imagine how it’s going to be when i really dig in. i’m thorough, but your tasty toes i leave untouched. the bowl and brush return to the bench. then i lean close to your soles and watch the powder start to work.
soon your feet are twitching, wiggling, squirming. does it itch, pretty feet? is it unbearable yet? you moan in frustration as the tiny needles dance on your soles. you must want to rub them together so bad. but you can’t. your toes tug at their ties desperately. but nothing.
i’m eating this up.
as the powder stings your helpless soles, i take the time to check your body temperature. i take the time to check for excess sweating. i take lots of time. you’re doing fine, save for the terrible itches devouring your soles.
“happy camper?” i ask. you moan pathetically, but the red bulb flashes. i grin, but you can’t see it.
“ready for me to tickle these feet?” the bulb flashes fast, emphatic. now you long for my nails to stroke those itchy soles. scratch your captive feet all over, dig into the skin. you want more than anything for me to cover those feet in tickles. but i don’t. i sit back down at your feet, and i watch them squirm.
“still ready?” i ask. the bulb flashes again, bright and red. but i’m too busy watching those poor feet twitch. they’re mesmerizing. i want to torture them forever just to be able to see them like this, all the time. the minutes roll by.
“still ready?” i ask. the bulb flashes and you let out an impatient squeal. i chuckle and relent. “brace yourself, baby - here it comes.”
your toes brace against their ties, restless feet keeping admirably still. you’re ready, ready for me to scratch those thousand itches bristling across your soles. but clearly you weren’t ready for a hairbrush. you scream as the bristles drag down your soles, your cooked, tender soles. i keep it nice and slow. maybe the word should be “agonizing”.
this is it, baby. this is what you’re here for. this is why i wrapped you up, strapped you down, why i went through all that trouble with the light. this is why i tied these toes, oiled these feet, baked ‘em and made ‘em itch. this is it. torture. i’m torturing these feet.
oh, how you scream. you shout your little head off. the brush drags along your red hot soles, each bristle sticking like a little hook. can’t avoid it. can’t escape it. all you can do is scream. soon i discard the brush and dig in with my nails. your soles are so tender. my nails are so sharp.
i’m ruthless. i scrrratch. i’m so cruel to you, baby, so cruel while you’re so helpless. as as you bawl, as you sob, as you cry into your blindfold, i lick those tasty toes happily. i snack on them while you scream. and it tastes so good. i nibble those morsels, tied tight and so edible. it makes them so appetizing.
you howl. you suffer, but you endure. not once do you signal the red alert light. you’re so strong. it almost scares me. it makes me realize how much i love you. how perfect you are.
you wince when the cold towel touches your soles. you’re still panting, still regaining your breath. but you’ll be glad when the powder’s been washed off your feet. i do it gently. your soles are still burning.
then i ask you, “ready to become a butterfly?” and the bulb flashes slowly, a soft red pulse.
i cut your toes free, i unstrap you from the table, and with surgical scissors i slice open your cocoon. the wrap falls open like shed skin. your new body is soft and moist. the button slides from your hand. i take out the gag, i lift your head, and i help you swallow some water. i put a blanket around you and take you into my arms. you sob into my chest for a good long while, staining my shirt.
“thank you,” you whisper. i cuddle you in the blanket. your toes wiggle at the end of the table, strings hanging off of them. your soles are still too tender to put much pressure on them. baby, i’m going to wait on those peds hand and foot. worship them for real. you’ve earned it.
