Fu Lin set the lotion down and quickly wrapped herself around Bernice's ankles, squeezed them in an armlock, and felt more of that delicious control. She sank her manicure into the woman's arches. Scoured the slickened skin with hard and fast tickles. Heard the pain bubbling beneath those loud, cackling hysterics and felt pure, scorching power. It rushed through her on a wave of sheer ecstasy. Made her breaths too shallow, sent her temperature rocketing, her plunging minidress hugging her curves like a damp towel. The urge to tear it off was driving her mad, but she couldn't stop touching those feet. Every panicked curse she heard spitting through the gag was striking her clit like a tiny electric charge, swelling her lips until they were chewing on her underwear. Then she wrapped her lips around Bernice's toes and sucked. Fucked the tight, sweaty gaps with her tongue, stifled an urge to whimper by gagging herself on all five, and both of them started to lose it.
Even had the gag rendered her mute, it was obvious that Bernice had been driven hopelessly past the point of mere submission. The straps pinned her to the massage table so tightly that the vicious energy storming through her feet had nowhere to go, no outlet beyond the crush of her fists and the thrashing of her head. It was as if Fu's manicure were tattooing itself onto her soles, indelibly marking her with something she could never, ever be free of. Then a sharp wetness flashed through the ball of her foot, Fu's teeth chewing her hypersensitive skin, and panic slammed onto her chest and wrapped its fists around her throat. She was going to die.
I'LL SIGN! I’LL FUCKING SIGN! STOP!
But Fu wasnt stopping. Had no interest in stopping. What she really wanted was for the bitch to feel what it was to have her vulnerabilities laid bare, to feel herself being stripped down until she was nothing but an object, a plaything existing to serve the amusement of others. This wasn't about persuading Bernice to sign over her half of the salon, kissing goodbye to her pampered lifestyle and half of her wealth in one swoop of a pen. Oh, no. No, that was just a bonus, the icing on the cake. A sickeningly sweet treat that she would flavour with Bernice's own footsweat then patiently and forcefully cram it all into her mouth until she vomited it all up again. Then she'd shove Bernice's face into the puddle and stand on the back of her head and hold her there until she stopped moving and—
—a rapid series of thuds interrupted her fantasy and she looked over her shoulder, grinned at the sight, then turned back and set her mouth to the task of sucking the sweat right out of those gorgeous feet.
Bernice was bashing her skull into the bench. Doing it over and over. Driven mad by the excruciating indifference with which her submission was met. Then her pinky felt the edge of Fu's teeth and Bernice roared, her head snapped to one side, and a lance of something nauseating hit her stomach. Towels. Thick and soft and luxurious towels on her cheek, folded neatly to support her head. She'd not noticed them before. Or she'd forgotten about them in the midst of the sheer, blistering agony. They absorbed the fury of every swing, preventing her from rattling her brain the way she needed to. She wept. Quickly overwhelmed by deep, guttural sobs that throbbed from the pit of her belly. It wasn't going to stop. Fu was going to kill her. Torture her to death, and suddenly Bernice couldn't stand to be alive.
Then Fu started digging into the balls of her feet again and Bernice's pulse was ready to fly right out of her ears. Her cheeks were scarred with mascara, black streaks trickling along her skin like the horror lurking behind her eyes was starting to bleed through. Sharp edges of manicure scraping under her toes and a surge of adrenalin jolted her rigid against the straps.
Then a sound caused Fu's knees to weaken. The shrieking had twisted with despair. Something was wet, something was trickling, pouring and puddling onto the hardwood floor, and suddenly the sensation of soaked lace on her **** became fucking unbearable. She didn't need to look. Bernice had pissed herself, and Fu had to snatch onto her ankles to stop herself collapsing. One-handed she quickly grabbed the hem of her dress and hiked it over her hips, but then a deep throb of pure, steaming sex froze her on the spot. She clapped her thighs together, screamed through the spit-glazed pedicure, and she came. Hard.
It shot through her a pulse of liquid heat, melting through her muscles and before it could claim her sanity she threw herself down on her knees, fell back onto the rug and thrust a hand down her panties. They were fucking drenched, it was almost too difficult to keep hold of her clit, but the overload of smoldering scenery had a way of compensating for that. She planted her feet and rubbed, fingered herself onto another plane of existence. Staring up at Bernice's feet the whole time, so fucking sexy with that hot glow of lube and saliva. They weren't moving, not even a twitch of aftershock, and the thought that her confident, independent and mature business partner had been tickled unconscious coated her fingers with another steaming shot of cream.
Then she imagined holding the two-faced bitch hostage until she'd been trained to orgasm exclusively through mind-bending foot play, irrevocably fucking up her famous sex life, and an orgasm whipped through her bones so violently that she didn't find herself until minutes later, sprawled at the opposite end of the rug, the taste of blood on the back of her throat.
The fantasy lingered until she forcibly shook it from her mind, slapping at her cheeks and blinking the blur from her eyes. It was fun to imagine, but it would forever remain A fantasy. It would take up far, far too much of her time. Time she didn't have, especially considering the impatient pace of the knocking at the door. The girls. Fuck! She’d promised them all a turn on the spoiled little slut before the night was over. “One moment,” she called to what was no doubt an endless queue and she stood, straightened her dress out, plucked wet wipes from a packet on the dresser and cleaned her fingers. Beside the packet was a black jar. She opened it gingerly, waving it several inches from Bernice's nose until her eyelids flickered. She watched them open, watched confusion snap to realisation and then they locked eyes. Another knock at the door. “That's the girls. All of them. They're all waiting their turn, queueing around the corridor to torture you, Bernie. A couple even canceled their holidays. If that doesn't tell you all you need to know, well… I guess you're beyond redemption.”
She felt Bernice's panic hot as a tongue curling into her G-spot. But she forced herself to look away. She owed it to her staff. She turned back to the door.
“Come in, girls.”
Even had the gag rendered her mute, it was obvious that Bernice had been driven hopelessly past the point of mere submission. The straps pinned her to the massage table so tightly that the vicious energy storming through her feet had nowhere to go, no outlet beyond the crush of her fists and the thrashing of her head. It was as if Fu's manicure were tattooing itself onto her soles, indelibly marking her with something she could never, ever be free of. Then a sharp wetness flashed through the ball of her foot, Fu's teeth chewing her hypersensitive skin, and panic slammed onto her chest and wrapped its fists around her throat. She was going to die.
I'LL SIGN! I’LL FUCKING SIGN! STOP!
But Fu wasnt stopping. Had no interest in stopping. What she really wanted was for the bitch to feel what it was to have her vulnerabilities laid bare, to feel herself being stripped down until she was nothing but an object, a plaything existing to serve the amusement of others. This wasn't about persuading Bernice to sign over her half of the salon, kissing goodbye to her pampered lifestyle and half of her wealth in one swoop of a pen. Oh, no. No, that was just a bonus, the icing on the cake. A sickeningly sweet treat that she would flavour with Bernice's own footsweat then patiently and forcefully cram it all into her mouth until she vomited it all up again. Then she'd shove Bernice's face into the puddle and stand on the back of her head and hold her there until she stopped moving and—
—a rapid series of thuds interrupted her fantasy and she looked over her shoulder, grinned at the sight, then turned back and set her mouth to the task of sucking the sweat right out of those gorgeous feet.
Bernice was bashing her skull into the bench. Doing it over and over. Driven mad by the excruciating indifference with which her submission was met. Then her pinky felt the edge of Fu's teeth and Bernice roared, her head snapped to one side, and a lance of something nauseating hit her stomach. Towels. Thick and soft and luxurious towels on her cheek, folded neatly to support her head. She'd not noticed them before. Or she'd forgotten about them in the midst of the sheer, blistering agony. They absorbed the fury of every swing, preventing her from rattling her brain the way she needed to. She wept. Quickly overwhelmed by deep, guttural sobs that throbbed from the pit of her belly. It wasn't going to stop. Fu was going to kill her. Torture her to death, and suddenly Bernice couldn't stand to be alive.
Then Fu started digging into the balls of her feet again and Bernice's pulse was ready to fly right out of her ears. Her cheeks were scarred with mascara, black streaks trickling along her skin like the horror lurking behind her eyes was starting to bleed through. Sharp edges of manicure scraping under her toes and a surge of adrenalin jolted her rigid against the straps.
Then a sound caused Fu's knees to weaken. The shrieking had twisted with despair. Something was wet, something was trickling, pouring and puddling onto the hardwood floor, and suddenly the sensation of soaked lace on her **** became fucking unbearable. She didn't need to look. Bernice had pissed herself, and Fu had to snatch onto her ankles to stop herself collapsing. One-handed she quickly grabbed the hem of her dress and hiked it over her hips, but then a deep throb of pure, steaming sex froze her on the spot. She clapped her thighs together, screamed through the spit-glazed pedicure, and she came. Hard.
It shot through her a pulse of liquid heat, melting through her muscles and before it could claim her sanity she threw herself down on her knees, fell back onto the rug and thrust a hand down her panties. They were fucking drenched, it was almost too difficult to keep hold of her clit, but the overload of smoldering scenery had a way of compensating for that. She planted her feet and rubbed, fingered herself onto another plane of existence. Staring up at Bernice's feet the whole time, so fucking sexy with that hot glow of lube and saliva. They weren't moving, not even a twitch of aftershock, and the thought that her confident, independent and mature business partner had been tickled unconscious coated her fingers with another steaming shot of cream.
Then she imagined holding the two-faced bitch hostage until she'd been trained to orgasm exclusively through mind-bending foot play, irrevocably fucking up her famous sex life, and an orgasm whipped through her bones so violently that she didn't find herself until minutes later, sprawled at the opposite end of the rug, the taste of blood on the back of her throat.
The fantasy lingered until she forcibly shook it from her mind, slapping at her cheeks and blinking the blur from her eyes. It was fun to imagine, but it would forever remain A fantasy. It would take up far, far too much of her time. Time she didn't have, especially considering the impatient pace of the knocking at the door. The girls. Fuck! She’d promised them all a turn on the spoiled little slut before the night was over. “One moment,” she called to what was no doubt an endless queue and she stood, straightened her dress out, plucked wet wipes from a packet on the dresser and cleaned her fingers. Beside the packet was a black jar. She opened it gingerly, waving it several inches from Bernice's nose until her eyelids flickered. She watched them open, watched confusion snap to realisation and then they locked eyes. Another knock at the door. “That's the girls. All of them. They're all waiting their turn, queueing around the corridor to torture you, Bernie. A couple even canceled their holidays. If that doesn't tell you all you need to know, well… I guess you're beyond redemption.”
She felt Bernice's panic hot as a tongue curling into her G-spot. But she forced herself to look away. She owed it to her staff. She turned back to the door.
“Come in, girls.”
