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WARNING! THIS IS A WORK OF EROTIC BDSM FICTION. IT IS ADULT ORIENTED MATERIAL OF A SEXUAL NATURE. The copyright of this story remains with the author, Night Owl. This posting does not give you the rights to post this on any website. You must obtain the author's permission
prior to posting.
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For Elise
by Night Owl
Posted: 4/04
(Story Content: M/f, Abduction, Light Bondage, Tickling)
She begins to awaken just as I am tightening the last strap around her left ankle. Her head is swimming now; her lovely brown eyes glassed over from hours of drug-induced sleep. I give her more time to survey the room, and let the reality of her nightmare settle in.
Yes, my pet. You are in my cellar, hidden away from the rest of the world.
Cobwebs are draped among the pipes in the ceiling above. Dust covers everything, and the smell of it hangs thick in the air. Her summer dress and bra lay crumpled on the floor only a few feet away. The table she lies on is made of solid oak. Her ankles and wrists are fastened to each corner with leather straps to keep her body drawn tight over the cold, hard surface. Looking down, her eyes widen in horror in seeing how nearly naked she is, stripped of everything down to her G-string, and even that leaves very little to the imagination. The shock of her exposure seems to sober her up immediately. She tries to scream, but the tape over her mouth keeps her from doing so -- not that it matters, for there isn't a soul that can hear anything through these thick walls.
I approach the table and gaze down at the dark-haired beauty lying spread-eagled and helpless before me. Her slender body is firm and soft in all the right places. The warm glow of the candle promotes every detail quite nicely -- the shallow outlines of her ribs, the gentle swell of her breasts, the way her bright red G-string stands out boldly between the deep curves of her open thighs. I take note of how her nipples have hardened against the cool, dampness that pervades the room; or could it be the moment? Ignoring her muffled protests, I begin to run the palm of my hand up each leg to check her grooming. She has the most beautiful almond-colored skin I have ever seen, and I marvel at how silky-smooth it feels. Perfect for what I have planned.
She watches my movements nervously as I pull open a drawer under the table. What she sees next is enough to throw her into a panic. She looks up to my face with renewed desperation, her eyes innocently pleading with me before darting back to the long, black peacock feather I now hold in my hand. She moans into the tape covering her mouth, probably another attempt to beg for mercy. Her
facial expression clearly conveys her message: "I implore you. Please . . . don't do this to me. Just let me go . . . I won't tell anyone. PLEASE!"
Needless to say, her attempts are in vain.
I pause for a moment with my weapon ready. I pause to let her anticipation build. Then, starting at the wrist, I drag the feather up the length of her forearm, past the delicate crease in front of her elbow. My movements are slow and calculated. Only the very tip of the flowing, black plume touches her naked skin. Frantically, she tries to twist her arm away, but the leather bindings hold firm in keeping her captive limbs pinned to the table. I continue the journey and let the feather guide my path to the smooth curves of her underarm, and tickle her there with quick, agonizing strokes. Gasping for breath now, my reluctant partner is determined to hold in her laughter, knowing this is exactly the response I am looking for, but her determination is no match for my skills, or my patience.
I set the feather down and begin wiggling my fingers up down her arms, until once more, they settle into the warm, soft hollows of her open pits. She gasps sharply, releasing a startled yelp. It's obvious that being tickled this way is a foreign sensation to her. She begins yanking violently against her restraints in a futile attempt to bring her arms down. I can see tiny beads of sweat already breaking out on her forehead, and the sinews in her neck and shoulders become more pronounce. For all of her visible torment though, she persists in her catty stubbornness in refusing to give in to that subtle humiliation that all tickle torture victims must realize at some point, regardless of how proud, angry, or assertive they are -- the humiliation of being forced to laugh.
In knowing that moment is about to come, I decide to remove the gag before continuing any further. Leaning forward, I take one edge of the tape between my fingers, then quickly and painlessly yank it off her mouth. She inhales deeply and prepares to beg for me to stop, but before she can utter even one word, I begin torturing her armpits again, tickling them with even more vigor then before. She isn't laughing yet, but she keeps her eyes clamped shut, shaking her head from side to side, trying desperately with all the will power she can muster to cope with the terrible tickling sensations.
Finally, her composure breaks and she releases a string of the purest sounding giggles I have ever heard. Again, I retrieve the feather and move on to exploring her other vulnerable spots, dragging it up and down the sides of her upper body, and along the undersides of her ribs. More giggles ensue, mixed with the rich sounds of her leather bindings rubbing together as she struggles to elude me.
"No! Don't! S-STOP IT!" She demands, her voice quivering between breaths.
I can feel her stomach muscles tense up as I swirl the feather around the subtle curves of her tummy, dipping the tip lightly in and out of her shallow navel with each pass. Then slowly, I move to her breasts, drawing circles around them with a series of quick and slow strokes. Almost immediately, her nipples grow taut, so I move in closer to trace the soft, pink flesh that surrounds them. Now anguish melts into pleasure. A sudden cry betrays her passion. I tickle the very tips of her nipples, starting slowly at first, a flick every second or so against her swollen buds, while picking up the pace until she cannot deny the sensations being forced on her body any longer. Then to my surprise, she arches her back and pushes her breasts upward, as though beckoning me for even more attention. This I gladly answer with a few more swipes of the feather before giving her a few moments of much-needed rest.
Within this time, her breathing slows and bearable sanity returns, but the ordeal is far from over. She watches, wide-eyed, as I circle around to the end of the table where her beautiful bare feet are strapped and waiting.
"Please, don't do this to me," she releases a deep, ragged breath, "just let me go, PLEASE!"
"Who do you belong to?" I ask.
She wants to look away, but my teasing gesture keeps her eyes glued to the feather.
"Come now my ticklish little pet." I lean in closer and voice the question again, my tone, casually indulgent. "Who do you belong to?"
Silence.
I can almost feel her heart beating faster, but the expression remains the same. Firm. Unyielding.
"Very well, then."
Slowly and gently, I drag the feather across the bottom of her right foot. The reaction is instantaneous. She erupts in a gale of laughter while jerking her leg violently against the leather restraint. She manages one more plea before I wave the soft quill against her tender arches,
"Not there! Not my feet! Please!! I'LL DIE!!!"
Her toes wiggle furiously as I continue the teasing assault, gliding up and down her flexing soles, first one and then the other. She begins laughing hysterically. It moves me in so many ways to see that a girl can be so stunningly attractive and so ticklish at the same time -- the way her lovely body squirms helplessly on the table, her naked, young breasts rising and falling with each gulp of air, her dark mane of hair whisking from side to side, sweat breaking out in all the right places. Every so often, I stop to let her catch her breath, only to resume the feather-light torture on her unbearably ticklish soles and toes. Then my fingernails are brought into play, never painful, but relentless in their role in the tickling that occurs. Gone are the lightest of teasing touches. It is now an all out attack, with her feet serving as the battleground.
After several more minutes, when I sense that she is becoming immune to my ministrations, I take the feather again and work the very tip up the inside of her left leg, taking a moment to tickle her behind the knee. She responds with a twist of the hips, a slight bend of the knee, as much movement as the leather straps will possibly allow. As she struggles, my attention is drawn to the subtle play of smooth muscles inside her thighs, so I drag the feather across them too. Already, signs of her arousal have begun to seep through the bright red fabric of her G-string.
"Ahhhh, getting excited are we?" I tease her.
"Please no . . . not there . . . not there!"
"Are you prepared to answer my question?"
"Please . . . please! No more!"
"Perhaps you don't remember, so I'll ask it again. WHO do you belong to?"
I can almost sense her resolve beginning to strengthen with the sound of my voice. Saying nothing more, she only shakes her head in denial.
"Not to worry, my dear. I'll help loosen your tongue and change your mind."
Her G-string almost looks too small, even for such a petite body. The strings are pulled high and tight around the hips and through her butt, while the front plunges deep to cover her neatly-trimmed bush, and very little else. I begin circling the feather around the scanty garment, deliberately tracing the outline where skin meets fabric.
"Too much . . . I can't . . . can't take any more," she whimpers, "I can't . . . I can't!”
"Who do you belong to?"
"N . . . NOOOOOOOOO!!!"
I swirl the feather around her pelvic bone, then over to the other hip and re-trace the invisible path I made again, and again. She's still struggling, but her movements seem to have another purpose now -- the way she twists and squirms on the table, her ass, grinding vehemently against the rough, wooden surface. During the next break, I decide to give her a little more time to catch her breath. For a moment the poor girl thinks the tickling is over. She lies there groaning, taking in gulps of much needed oxygen, rivers of sweat rolling off her body. Her hopes are quickly dashed when she sees me looking down at her with a wolfish grin.
"No, no more," she begs, "I'll do anything you want, PLEASE!"
"Yes, my angel. You most certainly will."
Dropping the feather, I begin tickling her in earnest, gliding the very tips of my fingers around the sides of her ribs. Again she is succumbed to ticklish laughter, only this time higher-pitched and even more hysterical than ever. I wiggle my fingers like two spiders up over her breasts, while brushing my palms across her swollen nipples. Her body erupts off the table, her breasts shaking wildly as she tries to knock the 'spiders' off. My wandering fingers settle into her armpits. Scratching. Probing. Teasing.
In fact, there isn't one square inch above the waist that is spared the savage tickling now being waged on her vulnerable flesh. All the while, she screams and wails in a futile attempt to beg for mercy, her body bucking and thrashing uncontrollably.
"NOOOOOOOO! S . . . S . . . STOP ITTTTT!! Can't . . . BREATHE!!!
Her last plea is so heart wrenching in its sincerity that I almost take pity on the poor girl, but that moment passes quickly when I see how saturated the front of her G-string has become for own secretions. I put her through another ten minutes of the most intense tickling I can manage, causing her to frequently lapse into silent fits of laughter.
After what must have seemed like an eternity for her, the tickling stops. She is completely exhausted now, but at the same time, there is no denying the pleasure derived from the insidious torture that she has been forced to endure for so long. She watches powerlessly, but very anxious as I pull the drawer open again and reach for a pair of scissors. I move in close to her, looking at the stringy, red undergarment hiding her undoubtedly lovely sex from my eyes. Our thoughts and desires are the same now. Carefully, I slide one blade under the string around her left hip. The sudden touch of cold steel against her skin makes her shudder for a moment. I squeeze the blades together gently, and with a sharp 'snip,' the string is cut. The panty loosens around her. Another 'snip' releases it from her other hip, and then with one quick motion, I pull the useless piece of fabric away from her and toss it aside. She lies there quietly with her eyes closed as I gaze down at her newly bared flesh for the first time. Just as I suspected, her pussy is gorgeous with just a wisp of dark hair covering it. I reach down and slide my middle finger into her moist womanhood. She whimpers softly, a combination of embarrassment and pleasure. Then I lean in very close and thrust my tongue into her for a taste, but only once...
"Please . . . don't stop," she moans.
"Who do you belong to?"
"Please . . .”
Softly and insistently, I flick the very tip of my tongue again, this time against her budding clit. She draws a hot breath and squirms.
"Answer me angel, who do you belong to?"
She no longer cares that I have reduced her to this level of begging. Perhaps in the days that follow she will look back and scoff at her own weakness. But for now . . .
"YOU," she whispers between quick, sporadic breaths, "only you ..."
My reaction is instantaneous. Slowly, I wiggle my tongue up the center of her quivering, wet folds, and then I take her clit into my mouth and suck on it gently. She's moaning much louder now, and pumping her hips violently as though she was having passionate sex with a ghost. I can sense my angel is on the verge of having her first orgasm, so I give her several more flicks of my tongue to push her over the edge. Almost instantly, she bends her head backward and cries out feverishly as waves of pleasure roll repeatedly throughout her body, then after a long, deep sigh, she becomes limp.
At this point, it would take very little to bring her into another gut-wrenching climax. Quietly she lays there, eyes closed, seemingly unaware of my presence as I slowly remove my clothes. When she looks up again, I am on the table leaning over her, face to face, my body close to her body, a mere inches away from the sweet pleasure that I am about to experience. She struggles just a little as I gently slide my cock, shaft and all into her vulnerable pussy until our bodies touch. A soft, sexy moan passes her lips. Then much to her dismay, I lean forward and lightly tickle her underarms again. She begins releasing those hot giggles that I’ve grown to love so much. She squirms underneath me as I tickle her harder and harder. Then I begin making slow, deep thrusts, while tickling her ribs and tummy. She screams with laughter as the muscles in her womb clench and unclench around my cock. She can't help it in feeling so pleasured by the rape, and it shows, as she begins pushing her pelvis upward to meet my every thrust. I quicken my pace, feeling the pressure building inside me, but I try to control it for just a while longer. By now, she isn't far behind in reaching her second orgasm. Shifting her hips wildly, she begins rubbing her pelvis against me, driving me over the edge until we both reach a mind-blowing climax together. I arch my back and groan out loud as streams and streams of hot fluid flow from my body into hers, filling her womb. Then I collapse on top of her. Her lips are warm and soft as she kisses me.
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Later in the evening, we are lying curled up close to each other in my bed . . .
"You were very convincing," she whispers to me, smiling.
"So were you, Elise. In fact, your pleading almost worked a couple of times."
"Really?"
"Yeah, you really sounded serious."
"Hmmmm. I'm afraid you wouldn't make a very good kidnapper then," she murmurs as I roll over to kiss her neck.
"Yeah, yeah, I know."
End ;-)
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