C.A.B.fessions ~ The Ice Queen
(True Story. M/f, Warning: adult themes.)
THE ICE QUEEN
Like the specialized hummingbird that seeks its paired and specially shaped orchid, so it seems I am drawn to women with punishment fantasies, and they, me. Looking back, I find it ironic that most of my tickle torture encounters evolved from my business life, while my recreational pursuits seem to be less fruitful. I'm not complaining. Who am I to argue where manna falls.
This is the story of one such encounter, or, I should say, one such woman and more than a few fun encounters. We'll call her Wendy. Wendy the Ice Queen.
Wendy was around 40 or so, and at the top of her game professionally. She ran her company with an iron fist and had no use for bullshit. In business, she was respected and feared, as well as prized for her way of getting done what needs to be done. My business relationship with her was one of a three-way consultation, and for many weeks, I was privileged to witness her style and reputation. I was not on the receiving end of her wrath, but looked on in bemused admiration as she would shred anyone that got in the way of common sense. She fed regularly on idiots, slackers, buffoons, haughty salesmen, annoying brown-nosers, and anyone that thought they were immune to scrutiny behind the walls of their little departmental fiefdoms. IT geeks froze like deer in headlights when she would storm their dark, Doritto be-crumbed, lairs. She was a Godzilla Sex Goddess... and you were downtown Tokyo.
Large sales meetings were especially entertaining as managerial 'good ol' boys' who mistook her good looks and initial polite charm for being a bimbo pushover, were systematically flayed open, humiliated, cleaned and dressed like pimply naked ducks on the boardroom table. The same went for any middle management floorwalkers, snippy ladder climbers, or cheesy salesmen that thought they could get one over on her. Her eyes were laser beams and her mind was a razor, with a fiery tongue to match. She would leave grown men and women of business, flushed red with steam, and always had the last word. The Devil does not wear Prada; she wears Enzo Angiolini heels.
Did I mention she was stupefyingly sexy?
Her leathery, mature demeanor belied her soft skin and blondish-white hair. Her eyes were pale blue and her business dress always fit like a tailored glove. To me, the sight of her flesh-colored french nails poking out of her strappy heels made my loins groan, and I would always try to position myself in a meeting for a sly glance or two. It was my undoing.
One day, at the close of a meeting, after the remnants of chewed staff fell all over themselves to beat a hasty exit, she stopped me at the door, with a not so subtle hand to my chest. She looks me dead in the eye and says, "Do you like what you see?"
I was caught off guard, "Oh! Yes. I think you're doing a bang-up job. You have a way with negotiations. Excellent work."
She smiled sly at me, "No, you ass. I meant when you were staring at my feet," And she gave one heel and exaggerated turn. I'm sure I was as cherry red as the table. She chucks me on the shoulder and says as she turns to march off, "Call me."
And so I did.
We went to lunch many times and she was a different woman. Out of the office, she relaxed and was more cordial, if not way less terrifying. We bonded as friends and laughed at the high business antics as our working and personal relationship grew. We went to dinner and entertainment events. And we began to chat on the phone late into the night.
On a few such calls the sexual tension between us was more easily accessible when each of us was relaxed in bed; and as will happen, dirty talk happily hijacks mannered conversation. I made allusions to her strength and how sexy it was, and she was receptive, but with a confession; she said in her no-nonsense way that she was well aware of what an "Ice Queen" she was in the workplace, but sexually she was submissive and has a reoccurring fantasy about being taken, or kidnapped, and punished for her 'bitchiness'. She said, just admitting it to me made her excited. So was I... obviously. The kinky sadist in me crawled over my brain and sat in control of everything involving her from then on.
We continued our relationship, now both physically and business-wise. We explored her need to be sexually dominated, slowly, and, I might add, excruciatingly, until at long last I called her with a plan to make her secret fantasy come to life in great theater.
I told her that one night I would surprise her (wink!) in the building parking garage and "kidnap" her in full business attire, tying her up in my car and leaving her gagged in my back seat. At first she was silent on the phone, and I thought I had overreached. I started, "I'm sorry, I thought..."
"No. No no no no! Go on! You're making me wet. I love the idea, tell me more."
And so, we agreed that this bit of sadomasochistic theater would occur. And it did. After binding her in all her tall, furious, glory, she rolled and struggled at her bonds in the back seat, prone, so as to not let folks see and get the wrong idea. Before I shut the back door, I paused to kiss her succulent toes right through the straps of her sandal heels. Bondage and pedicured toes; a red letter day for any foot-fetishist.
I drove to the swank hotel where she had previously reserved a suite, untied her and she was 'forced' under threat to keep silent as I ushered her up through the lobby and into the elevator. I had my bag of toys and whispered in her ear as we rose that I was going to punish her for being a bitch at work and she would suffer as she made her underlings suffer. I could feel the heat coming off her as her blood confirmed that her fantasy was now reality.
The evening was a potpourri of mixed S&M and B&D. I brought a spreader bar and lots of new nylon rope, and relished her mews during the slow ties. The first (and one of my favorites) was an upright chair tie in one of the suites heavy, boxy, wooden chairs. Fully clothed but gagged, I let her stew, while I went downstairs to the bar for a drink. As I left I taunted her, "So you don't like to be kept waiting. Too bad, bitch."
When I returned, she had drooled all over her 'suit' from the ball-gag. She looked humiliated and, at the same time, happy as a clam. I asked her if she enjoyed the feeling of being at someone's mercy. She nodded. Then I told her it was time to find out something I had been wondering about. I pulled over another chair facing hers and united her right leg. I sat and placed her leg on my lap. Running a finger over her polished toes, I asked her, "Tell me, Ms. Ice Queen... Ms. Stone Cold... You wouldn't happen to be ticklish would you?"
She freaked.
I soaked up all her desperate, muffled pleading; her mouth slurping with saliva on the gag. She bucked as much as she could but leverage was on my side. I could feel my own hot blood thrumming in my ears as I slipped off that shoe that most women would kill for. Her shapely foot was perfection; soft, pedicured, mature, and sleek as a cheetah. I taunted her that I would be merciless and she had just accept her first round of punishment. When I started tickling, she bore down in an effort to 'maintain' and not give in. She did not last long when my fingers found the undersides of her toes. She exploded into the gag. There's something about an earthy, sultry, Kathleen Turner type voice in the throes of unbridled laughter that is a major turn on. Furthermore, here is this immensely powerful, mature business woman and I am tickling her wiggling toes, making her laugh like a schoolgirl... My sadistic heaven.
There is much more teasing and psychological torment, playing on her need for 'helplessness'. And many more rope ties and spreading. Much more tickle torture, which she grew to have a love/hate relationship with. As long as it was 'punishment for being a bitch' her honey flowed freely and it wasn't long before I had those milky ankles framing my ears. And there is also something to be said for a mature woman that isn't afraid to greet her orgasm.
In an ironic last evenings playfulness, I tied her spread and gave her the "ice cube treatment."
I'd like to tell you that we still play to this day, but, after our business dealings were finished, and our worlds drifted apart, we only had four more play dates. Alas, my Ice Queen hath melted away. Perhaps, someday, I will feel a chill in the boardroom air again.
~ C.A.B.
(True Story. M/f, Warning: adult themes.)
THE ICE QUEEN
Like the specialized hummingbird that seeks its paired and specially shaped orchid, so it seems I am drawn to women with punishment fantasies, and they, me. Looking back, I find it ironic that most of my tickle torture encounters evolved from my business life, while my recreational pursuits seem to be less fruitful. I'm not complaining. Who am I to argue where manna falls.
This is the story of one such encounter, or, I should say, one such woman and more than a few fun encounters. We'll call her Wendy. Wendy the Ice Queen.
Wendy was around 40 or so, and at the top of her game professionally. She ran her company with an iron fist and had no use for bullshit. In business, she was respected and feared, as well as prized for her way of getting done what needs to be done. My business relationship with her was one of a three-way consultation, and for many weeks, I was privileged to witness her style and reputation. I was not on the receiving end of her wrath, but looked on in bemused admiration as she would shred anyone that got in the way of common sense. She fed regularly on idiots, slackers, buffoons, haughty salesmen, annoying brown-nosers, and anyone that thought they were immune to scrutiny behind the walls of their little departmental fiefdoms. IT geeks froze like deer in headlights when she would storm their dark, Doritto be-crumbed, lairs. She was a Godzilla Sex Goddess... and you were downtown Tokyo.
Large sales meetings were especially entertaining as managerial 'good ol' boys' who mistook her good looks and initial polite charm for being a bimbo pushover, were systematically flayed open, humiliated, cleaned and dressed like pimply naked ducks on the boardroom table. The same went for any middle management floorwalkers, snippy ladder climbers, or cheesy salesmen that thought they could get one over on her. Her eyes were laser beams and her mind was a razor, with a fiery tongue to match. She would leave grown men and women of business, flushed red with steam, and always had the last word. The Devil does not wear Prada; she wears Enzo Angiolini heels.
Did I mention she was stupefyingly sexy?
Her leathery, mature demeanor belied her soft skin and blondish-white hair. Her eyes were pale blue and her business dress always fit like a tailored glove. To me, the sight of her flesh-colored french nails poking out of her strappy heels made my loins groan, and I would always try to position myself in a meeting for a sly glance or two. It was my undoing.
One day, at the close of a meeting, after the remnants of chewed staff fell all over themselves to beat a hasty exit, she stopped me at the door, with a not so subtle hand to my chest. She looks me dead in the eye and says, "Do you like what you see?"
I was caught off guard, "Oh! Yes. I think you're doing a bang-up job. You have a way with negotiations. Excellent work."
She smiled sly at me, "No, you ass. I meant when you were staring at my feet," And she gave one heel and exaggerated turn. I'm sure I was as cherry red as the table. She chucks me on the shoulder and says as she turns to march off, "Call me."
And so I did.
We went to lunch many times and she was a different woman. Out of the office, she relaxed and was more cordial, if not way less terrifying. We bonded as friends and laughed at the high business antics as our working and personal relationship grew. We went to dinner and entertainment events. And we began to chat on the phone late into the night.
On a few such calls the sexual tension between us was more easily accessible when each of us was relaxed in bed; and as will happen, dirty talk happily hijacks mannered conversation. I made allusions to her strength and how sexy it was, and she was receptive, but with a confession; she said in her no-nonsense way that she was well aware of what an "Ice Queen" she was in the workplace, but sexually she was submissive and has a reoccurring fantasy about being taken, or kidnapped, and punished for her 'bitchiness'. She said, just admitting it to me made her excited. So was I... obviously. The kinky sadist in me crawled over my brain and sat in control of everything involving her from then on.
We continued our relationship, now both physically and business-wise. We explored her need to be sexually dominated, slowly, and, I might add, excruciatingly, until at long last I called her with a plan to make her secret fantasy come to life in great theater.
I told her that one night I would surprise her (wink!) in the building parking garage and "kidnap" her in full business attire, tying her up in my car and leaving her gagged in my back seat. At first she was silent on the phone, and I thought I had overreached. I started, "I'm sorry, I thought..."
"No. No no no no! Go on! You're making me wet. I love the idea, tell me more."
And so, we agreed that this bit of sadomasochistic theater would occur. And it did. After binding her in all her tall, furious, glory, she rolled and struggled at her bonds in the back seat, prone, so as to not let folks see and get the wrong idea. Before I shut the back door, I paused to kiss her succulent toes right through the straps of her sandal heels. Bondage and pedicured toes; a red letter day for any foot-fetishist.
I drove to the swank hotel where she had previously reserved a suite, untied her and she was 'forced' under threat to keep silent as I ushered her up through the lobby and into the elevator. I had my bag of toys and whispered in her ear as we rose that I was going to punish her for being a bitch at work and she would suffer as she made her underlings suffer. I could feel the heat coming off her as her blood confirmed that her fantasy was now reality.
The evening was a potpourri of mixed S&M and B&D. I brought a spreader bar and lots of new nylon rope, and relished her mews during the slow ties. The first (and one of my favorites) was an upright chair tie in one of the suites heavy, boxy, wooden chairs. Fully clothed but gagged, I let her stew, while I went downstairs to the bar for a drink. As I left I taunted her, "So you don't like to be kept waiting. Too bad, bitch."
When I returned, she had drooled all over her 'suit' from the ball-gag. She looked humiliated and, at the same time, happy as a clam. I asked her if she enjoyed the feeling of being at someone's mercy. She nodded. Then I told her it was time to find out something I had been wondering about. I pulled over another chair facing hers and united her right leg. I sat and placed her leg on my lap. Running a finger over her polished toes, I asked her, "Tell me, Ms. Ice Queen... Ms. Stone Cold... You wouldn't happen to be ticklish would you?"
She freaked.
I soaked up all her desperate, muffled pleading; her mouth slurping with saliva on the gag. She bucked as much as she could but leverage was on my side. I could feel my own hot blood thrumming in my ears as I slipped off that shoe that most women would kill for. Her shapely foot was perfection; soft, pedicured, mature, and sleek as a cheetah. I taunted her that I would be merciless and she had just accept her first round of punishment. When I started tickling, she bore down in an effort to 'maintain' and not give in. She did not last long when my fingers found the undersides of her toes. She exploded into the gag. There's something about an earthy, sultry, Kathleen Turner type voice in the throes of unbridled laughter that is a major turn on. Furthermore, here is this immensely powerful, mature business woman and I am tickling her wiggling toes, making her laugh like a schoolgirl... My sadistic heaven.
There is much more teasing and psychological torment, playing on her need for 'helplessness'. And many more rope ties and spreading. Much more tickle torture, which she grew to have a love/hate relationship with. As long as it was 'punishment for being a bitch' her honey flowed freely and it wasn't long before I had those milky ankles framing my ears. And there is also something to be said for a mature woman that isn't afraid to greet her orgasm.
In an ironic last evenings playfulness, I tied her spread and gave her the "ice cube treatment."
I'd like to tell you that we still play to this day, but, after our business dealings were finished, and our worlds drifted apart, we only had four more play dates. Alas, my Ice Queen hath melted away. Perhaps, someday, I will feel a chill in the boardroom air again.
~ C.A.B.
