MY NAME IS AMY ~ Oops! I did it again. [Part Two]
by C.A.B.
(Fiction. F/f, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
My little pop star guest started squirming and mewling in her cock-gag the minute I tugged her shoelace knot open with a snap and a pop of its own. I was very keen to see if her feet were as ticklish as the rest of her, but the psychological torment I could induce by this slow undressing was a delicious aperitif. And I do love watching them sweat. Judging by her reactions, there was no doubt she was in fear for her feet.
She became more frantic and I could make out "please don't" and "not my feet" and some repeated "no"s, in spite of her oral latex impediment. Strapped down on her belly, slightly bent-over, her head was on the far side of her ass in the air, so it was kind of hard to hear. But I made sure she heard me.
"Oh yes, 'your feet,' little cow. You have not been to dance practice in a while have you? So I'll bet they have gotten all soft and weak. I'm going to torture them, and, too bad for you, I like to take my time."
"Noooo!" she screams. That I heard really well.
Her feet were all over the internet. I guess her good looks and penchant for flashing them bare made her a fetishist magnet. The down side is her feet also attracted bad press. The haters, I'm sure, like to spread rumors, and its hard to ignore them when TMZ and the rest make it tabloid fucktard-tainment; she likes her toes sucked; her feet are really smelly; her feet got her kicked off a plane. etc. There's no end to the web pages devoted to her soles. But, in a moment, I would find out for myself and definitely become the envy of every foot fetishist on the planet. Her feet, tightly bound and naked, right in front of me.
"Oh my. I guess you've been in these for a while, hmm? Are your feet all sweaty? I hope so. Makes them all slippery and tender. Let's just take this cute sock off and see."
I slip off her shoe and toss it over her head and it lands on the floor where she can see it. Her breathing is harder now. Anticipation is a torture in itself. I tug teasingly at the toe end of her sock and it shimmies off. And there it was. The famous pop star's infamous foot; sole up, bare and vulnerable.
The tabloids, as usual, were full of shit. She did have an odor, but it was not repulsive, it was the smell of skin with fresh sweat; light and kind of sexy. She did have thick ankles, but her foot was longer in the arch than I expected. I guess it was her chubby little toes that make her feet look stubby. But not bad. And when you have tickle tortured as many women as I have, you come to be a connoisseur. Crap, maybe I am a fetishist after all.
She tried to move her foot away in sharp pivots but the ankle cuffs are firm and there is nowhere to go to escape my soft caresses. She mumbles "don't" over and over. Her sole is unusually soft for a professional dancer, and there is no doubt she has not been doing much of that or her spiffy pedicure would not hold up.
"Okay little cow, let's make you laugh," I begin running my nails up and down her sole, following it relentlessly as she spasms. She bursts forth in a long squeal followed by that rolling giggle of hers that seems to go on endlessly. She's easy. Her foot is so ticklish it doesn't take any aggressiveness at all and I slow to a torturous pace. Her laughter is continuous and pained.
I hold her foot up firm in one hand to steady it as I dance and paint her wrinkled sole. Pausing now and then to tickle under each plump toe in turn. She manages some weak pleading for mercy between giggles and guffaws.
"No, my dear. No mercy tonight. I'm going to tickle you until you need to be committed again. Tickle tickle tickle... You have no choice. I'm going to make you laugh as long as I want. Such a pretty foot. So soft and vulnerable... No no, you can't stop it. You can't get away! Tickle tickle tickle. What's the matter? Is it torture? Answer me. Is it torture?"
She cannot stop laughing to answer me. I double hand her. Raking the ribbed sides of her arch. Sharp nails explore the tender flesh between each toe. She screams in frustration and melts back into her rolling cackle.
"Take your punishment. You have no choice but to endure it. I love watching you suffer. Tickle tickle... tickle tickle my little cow... my little pop-tart."
As I said, I'm really good at what I do now, and my tickle torture technique has evolved from frantic, rushed, and clumsy to slow, methodical, and precise. I have learned how to prolong and make the laughter unending. As Steve said, I've learned how to make tickling a technical and horrific torture worthy of any Spanish Inquisitional. I make her a prisoner of her own nerve endings. She cannot block or get up on it and has no other course but to lie there and be my ticklish puppet. I watch her squirm and pull at the straps but she has no leverage. Spread wide, it is evident that the torture is making her pussy flush and wet. Time for orgasm torture.
"Okay, you lazy little cow, catch your breath," I slap her hard on the ass signaling the end of the tickling, "Now I'm going to fuck that slutty pussy of yours with a dildo big enough for your ego. That's the good news. The bad news is, if you cum, I'm going to sit myself down and start torturing your other foot."
She's babbling. She actually rocks the bench which is bolted to the floor. Never happened before. That's one strong bitch. Amazing.
We have a fine selection of sexual torment devices on the trolley. Second drawer looks like a nightmare from a sex shop gone ballistic. I choose a large, thick monster, complete with simulated engorged veins, which at first glance, looks more like arm than a dildo. Her pussy is wet with excitement and a creamy white pool has collected over her clit hood. It does not take much to coat the head before I push it and work it in. Stretching her with yelps and weak protests.
"Take it, all of it. I'm gonna pump you hard till you blow a fountain of cum."
I push and pull the beast and watch as her pussy forms around it, inverting and prolapsing from its bumpy girth. She grunts and groans, the fear of being split, and the secret perversion that all we women secret away; the need for deep, unyielding impalement. Pain becomes need, need becomes ache, ache becomes intensity, intensity becomes release.
Pumping her full and deep I remind her of the consequences. It becomes predicament torture. How long she can suppress her involuntary musculature is never a question, she will fail. I add to her torment, firming a finger vibe to her meaty clit, without the courtesy of staying to the side of the hood. No. A direct on torture. She screams and bucks.
I can feel resistance from the dildo, her contractions are powerful. Her foot curls and a eerie silence comes over her as she bears down, beat red. This shortly erupts into a deep long moaning wail. She's not a squirter, at least I don't think so. After all, she had Godzilla in her pussy.
"Tsk tsk. I'm gonna take it you came, little cow. Now I have to tickle torture you. You broke the rules."
She's weeping and lost in the spiral headiness of a deep post orgasm. She does not, or cannot utter a response. I waste no time setting to work on her other foot. Tickling after an ordeal like that tends to be excruciating, and they don't call me a professional torturer for nothing. But this time I pull her gag. I want to hear this famous bitch beg me for mercy. Me. Her begging me. Hot!
Her right foot is as ticklish as the other and I set on on it with strings tied to pull the toes down and apart. I have implements for this session. A few exotic items to pull laughter screaming from her hoarse throat, and a few mundane, but effective one's, like a electric toothbrush and a wiggly battery powered flosser. Weird, I know, but they tickle like crazy and can be applied really slow. I found the toothbrush trick on a fetish website and tried it on my own feet one night, fuck! I couldn't even hold the fuckin' thing and dropped it the minute I touched my toes. I can't imagine the hell it creates in feet firmly held in tight bondage. But... that's what I do.
"Keep laughing, little cow. Mmmmmm such a ticklish little foot. You can't stop this. I'm going to tickle you to death."
She howls and stutters with red-faced laughter, her ass jiggling with her ragged breath. I hear her clear for the first time as she cries aloud, "Please please please don't tickle my feet! Anything! Just stop pleeeeeeeese! Oh my god.... mercy! Please no more." And she melted back into a very weakened giggle. She was exhausted.
I swear. Hearing those words. From 'Her.' Jesus... I almost came again myself.
But I wasn't persuaded. They don't call it tickle torture for nothing. And if one stops, its not much torture is it? So I went back and forth for the next twenty minutes without a break. I even took to sucking on those plump pink toes, my tongue ripping new peals of panicked laughter from Her Popness. Yes. They tasted yummy. LOL!
I made her beg and beg and beg... it was pitiful. Then I made double sure I berated her on every item in the checklist. I ended our session with our traditional warning and then gave her a special edition hand spanking just to drive the point home. I needed a Gatorade something fierce and left her locked in the playroom, a teary, hiccuping mess.
Some time later, Steve surprised me when he came into the control room. I was deep in a good masturbation watching her tied from the two-way. He just rolled his eyes as I collected my embarrassed self, and went to the window.
"No marks?"
"No. Nothing that will last the trip back home. Mostly I sexed her and tickled the shit out of her. She hated it. Cried." I said.
"Unf." Steve's telltale grunt of apathetic approval. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his horse-collar of cash, "Ten grand. Did you hit all the points? Yup? Good. Here, don't leave it all under your mattress. Shit. Go do your hair."
When I got in my car, I pulled down the visor and the little mirror confirmed Steve's blunt observation. I had that 'just fucked' look. Bleh. When I tipped the visor up again, Steve was there. I rolled the window down. He hands be a CD. It's not one of our torture recordings, it one of her fucking albums. Steve looks at me sheepishly and shrugs.
"Yeah so... anyway, I thought you might want it, I mean... okay, fuck me, I like a couple of tunes she did back when. Christ. Take it." he gets mad at his own vulnerability.
"Wait, Steve?" I call to him, "All those weird instructions. Who hired us?"
Steve cracks an alligator smile. Lights a Marlboro. Sucks a drag.
"She did."
by C.A.B.
(Fiction. F/f, Warning: adult themes. non-consensual, sex. violence, torture)
My little pop star guest started squirming and mewling in her cock-gag the minute I tugged her shoelace knot open with a snap and a pop of its own. I was very keen to see if her feet were as ticklish as the rest of her, but the psychological torment I could induce by this slow undressing was a delicious aperitif. And I do love watching them sweat. Judging by her reactions, there was no doubt she was in fear for her feet.
She became more frantic and I could make out "please don't" and "not my feet" and some repeated "no"s, in spite of her oral latex impediment. Strapped down on her belly, slightly bent-over, her head was on the far side of her ass in the air, so it was kind of hard to hear. But I made sure she heard me.
"Oh yes, 'your feet,' little cow. You have not been to dance practice in a while have you? So I'll bet they have gotten all soft and weak. I'm going to torture them, and, too bad for you, I like to take my time."
"Noooo!" she screams. That I heard really well.
Her feet were all over the internet. I guess her good looks and penchant for flashing them bare made her a fetishist magnet. The down side is her feet also attracted bad press. The haters, I'm sure, like to spread rumors, and its hard to ignore them when TMZ and the rest make it tabloid fucktard-tainment; she likes her toes sucked; her feet are really smelly; her feet got her kicked off a plane. etc. There's no end to the web pages devoted to her soles. But, in a moment, I would find out for myself and definitely become the envy of every foot fetishist on the planet. Her feet, tightly bound and naked, right in front of me.
"Oh my. I guess you've been in these for a while, hmm? Are your feet all sweaty? I hope so. Makes them all slippery and tender. Let's just take this cute sock off and see."
I slip off her shoe and toss it over her head and it lands on the floor where she can see it. Her breathing is harder now. Anticipation is a torture in itself. I tug teasingly at the toe end of her sock and it shimmies off. And there it was. The famous pop star's infamous foot; sole up, bare and vulnerable.
The tabloids, as usual, were full of shit. She did have an odor, but it was not repulsive, it was the smell of skin with fresh sweat; light and kind of sexy. She did have thick ankles, but her foot was longer in the arch than I expected. I guess it was her chubby little toes that make her feet look stubby. But not bad. And when you have tickle tortured as many women as I have, you come to be a connoisseur. Crap, maybe I am a fetishist after all.
She tried to move her foot away in sharp pivots but the ankle cuffs are firm and there is nowhere to go to escape my soft caresses. She mumbles "don't" over and over. Her sole is unusually soft for a professional dancer, and there is no doubt she has not been doing much of that or her spiffy pedicure would not hold up.
"Okay little cow, let's make you laugh," I begin running my nails up and down her sole, following it relentlessly as she spasms. She bursts forth in a long squeal followed by that rolling giggle of hers that seems to go on endlessly. She's easy. Her foot is so ticklish it doesn't take any aggressiveness at all and I slow to a torturous pace. Her laughter is continuous and pained.
I hold her foot up firm in one hand to steady it as I dance and paint her wrinkled sole. Pausing now and then to tickle under each plump toe in turn. She manages some weak pleading for mercy between giggles and guffaws.
"No, my dear. No mercy tonight. I'm going to tickle you until you need to be committed again. Tickle tickle tickle... You have no choice. I'm going to make you laugh as long as I want. Such a pretty foot. So soft and vulnerable... No no, you can't stop it. You can't get away! Tickle tickle tickle. What's the matter? Is it torture? Answer me. Is it torture?"
She cannot stop laughing to answer me. I double hand her. Raking the ribbed sides of her arch. Sharp nails explore the tender flesh between each toe. She screams in frustration and melts back into her rolling cackle.
"Take your punishment. You have no choice but to endure it. I love watching you suffer. Tickle tickle... tickle tickle my little cow... my little pop-tart."
As I said, I'm really good at what I do now, and my tickle torture technique has evolved from frantic, rushed, and clumsy to slow, methodical, and precise. I have learned how to prolong and make the laughter unending. As Steve said, I've learned how to make tickling a technical and horrific torture worthy of any Spanish Inquisitional. I make her a prisoner of her own nerve endings. She cannot block or get up on it and has no other course but to lie there and be my ticklish puppet. I watch her squirm and pull at the straps but she has no leverage. Spread wide, it is evident that the torture is making her pussy flush and wet. Time for orgasm torture.
"Okay, you lazy little cow, catch your breath," I slap her hard on the ass signaling the end of the tickling, "Now I'm going to fuck that slutty pussy of yours with a dildo big enough for your ego. That's the good news. The bad news is, if you cum, I'm going to sit myself down and start torturing your other foot."
She's babbling. She actually rocks the bench which is bolted to the floor. Never happened before. That's one strong bitch. Amazing.
We have a fine selection of sexual torment devices on the trolley. Second drawer looks like a nightmare from a sex shop gone ballistic. I choose a large, thick monster, complete with simulated engorged veins, which at first glance, looks more like arm than a dildo. Her pussy is wet with excitement and a creamy white pool has collected over her clit hood. It does not take much to coat the head before I push it and work it in. Stretching her with yelps and weak protests.
"Take it, all of it. I'm gonna pump you hard till you blow a fountain of cum."
I push and pull the beast and watch as her pussy forms around it, inverting and prolapsing from its bumpy girth. She grunts and groans, the fear of being split, and the secret perversion that all we women secret away; the need for deep, unyielding impalement. Pain becomes need, need becomes ache, ache becomes intensity, intensity becomes release.
Pumping her full and deep I remind her of the consequences. It becomes predicament torture. How long she can suppress her involuntary musculature is never a question, she will fail. I add to her torment, firming a finger vibe to her meaty clit, without the courtesy of staying to the side of the hood. No. A direct on torture. She screams and bucks.
I can feel resistance from the dildo, her contractions are powerful. Her foot curls and a eerie silence comes over her as she bears down, beat red. This shortly erupts into a deep long moaning wail. She's not a squirter, at least I don't think so. After all, she had Godzilla in her pussy.
"Tsk tsk. I'm gonna take it you came, little cow. Now I have to tickle torture you. You broke the rules."
She's weeping and lost in the spiral headiness of a deep post orgasm. She does not, or cannot utter a response. I waste no time setting to work on her other foot. Tickling after an ordeal like that tends to be excruciating, and they don't call me a professional torturer for nothing. But this time I pull her gag. I want to hear this famous bitch beg me for mercy. Me. Her begging me. Hot!
Her right foot is as ticklish as the other and I set on on it with strings tied to pull the toes down and apart. I have implements for this session. A few exotic items to pull laughter screaming from her hoarse throat, and a few mundane, but effective one's, like a electric toothbrush and a wiggly battery powered flosser. Weird, I know, but they tickle like crazy and can be applied really slow. I found the toothbrush trick on a fetish website and tried it on my own feet one night, fuck! I couldn't even hold the fuckin' thing and dropped it the minute I touched my toes. I can't imagine the hell it creates in feet firmly held in tight bondage. But... that's what I do.
"Keep laughing, little cow. Mmmmmm such a ticklish little foot. You can't stop this. I'm going to tickle you to death."
She howls and stutters with red-faced laughter, her ass jiggling with her ragged breath. I hear her clear for the first time as she cries aloud, "Please please please don't tickle my feet! Anything! Just stop pleeeeeeeese! Oh my god.... mercy! Please no more." And she melted back into a very weakened giggle. She was exhausted.
I swear. Hearing those words. From 'Her.' Jesus... I almost came again myself.
But I wasn't persuaded. They don't call it tickle torture for nothing. And if one stops, its not much torture is it? So I went back and forth for the next twenty minutes without a break. I even took to sucking on those plump pink toes, my tongue ripping new peals of panicked laughter from Her Popness. Yes. They tasted yummy. LOL!
I made her beg and beg and beg... it was pitiful. Then I made double sure I berated her on every item in the checklist. I ended our session with our traditional warning and then gave her a special edition hand spanking just to drive the point home. I needed a Gatorade something fierce and left her locked in the playroom, a teary, hiccuping mess.
Some time later, Steve surprised me when he came into the control room. I was deep in a good masturbation watching her tied from the two-way. He just rolled his eyes as I collected my embarrassed self, and went to the window.
"No marks?"
"No. Nothing that will last the trip back home. Mostly I sexed her and tickled the shit out of her. She hated it. Cried." I said.
"Unf." Steve's telltale grunt of apathetic approval. He digs into his pocket and pulls out his horse-collar of cash, "Ten grand. Did you hit all the points? Yup? Good. Here, don't leave it all under your mattress. Shit. Go do your hair."
When I got in my car, I pulled down the visor and the little mirror confirmed Steve's blunt observation. I had that 'just fucked' look. Bleh. When I tipped the visor up again, Steve was there. I rolled the window down. He hands be a CD. It's not one of our torture recordings, it one of her fucking albums. Steve looks at me sheepishly and shrugs.
"Yeah so... anyway, I thought you might want it, I mean... okay, fuck me, I like a couple of tunes she did back when. Christ. Take it." he gets mad at his own vulnerability.
"Wait, Steve?" I call to him, "All those weird instructions. Who hired us?"
Steve cracks an alligator smile. Lights a Marlboro. Sucks a drag.
"She did."
