|
The Feather
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Well, this is a story I've written. Don't maul it, edit it, or suchlike.
Give it credit if you repost it. Don't try and make a bunch of money off
of it. That kind of thing. You know... don't be a jerk.
Flames read, but real, constructive critism is much more appreciated.
*************
Warning... well... there's sex in this story. Like you didn't know. Some
bondage. Nothing to have a coronary over.
*************
The Feather
by Isabel
Well, this was hardly the mind-numbing, heart-pounding
experience that I had hoped for when I first set out to experience
bondage. Okay, maybe it's hard to recreate a dungeon in an attic
efficiency, but that didn't excuse the fact that his jeans needed
to be washed, the place smelled like dinner, and it obviously had
gotten only a cursory bachelor's cleaning. The nipple clamps
didn't even excite me, they just hurt. I shifted in my bonds,
trying to get comfortable, before I remembered that being
comfortable wasn't the point. How could I have been so misled?
I snuck a look at "Master" Sean. He didn't look much like a
"master". In fact, he looked plain nervous. It didn't help that
I knew this was his first experience with bondage, too.
I was disappointed. He seemed so ... imaginative over the
computer. We had fallen into talking one day after a stray joke
about being 'tied up'. Feeling full of mischief, I pressed the
point, asking him what he knew about bondage. Well, a few months
later, here we were, at his place. I had followed his written
instructions, and entered without speaking to him, undressed and
laid down on a futon frame which didn't have any futon on it.
The shades were drawn, of course, though there was no way
anyone could have seen into the apartment from the angle the
windows were at. He had entered, and without speaking, tied me to
the futon frame securely, using long strips of fabric. Well, at
least he hadn't messed THAT up too badly. Somehow, though, the
heady mixture of terror and anticipation I had been longing for
failed to materialize. I felt like a woman tied up in some nut's
bedroom. I began to think about calling this whole thing off.
Then I saw him pull a long ostrich-feather out of a (messy)
dresser drawer, and for a moment my heart absolutely stopped. You
have to understand that I hate being tickled. I mean, I really
hate it. I hate it so much I don't like to talk about it, because
whoever I tell invariably laughs and has to try it out and see.
Once, my high-school band director had snuck up behind me to goose
me, and I turned around in a blind rage and laid him out cold.
With one punch.
And Master Sean didn't know about it. A huge number of
thoughts flashed through my brain in about 3 nanoseconds, as my
brain went into warp drive. The first thought was to mouth the
safeword to myself. The second was to berate myself for my
stupidity in not discussing the way I felt about tickling
beforehand. The third was to try and decide if I should tell him,
and risk having him not let me go, or to try to bluff my way
through.
"Ticklish?" he asked, grinning teasingly.
My mouth blithely skipped over thoughts one, two and three and
started on it's own.
"Not particularly," I lied nonchalantly, calling on an acting
talent I never knew I possessed, brought out by some panicked sense
of self-preservation.
I saw him almost put the feather away, but then he hummed
thoughtfully. He walked over to the same drawer, and pulled out
a soft square of fabric, and tied it over my eyes, shutting out the
view of him, the room, and most importantly, the feather.
"Perhaps when you can't tell it's coming, you be more...
responsive."
Oh, great. Now he was not only going to tickle me, but I
didn't know where. I opened my mouth to confess my weakness, when
the lightest touch of a feather tip ran its winding way across my
breast.
I screamed. Really screamed. My body arched involuntarily,
desperately trying to get away from that tickling feeling.
He paused, and I could sense the shock.
My mouth started babbling on it's own again, "I really dislike
being tickled, no, honestly, and you can stop that right now I'll
be much..."
It slid softly from my neck to the pit of my stomach and I
couldn't help screaming again. This time in the uncontrolled rage
that floods me when I'm tickled.
"STOP THAT!" I yelled, wrenching at my bonds in a fit of
adrenaline-inspired anger. Like I said, though, the bonds were
something he had done well, and all I succeeded in doing was
thumping the frame against the floor loudly.
He chuckled quietly. Somehow, for the first time it was the
man I knew from the computer. It was Master Sean.
"Good..." he commented shortly (not one for much talking, was
Master Sean). I felt the maddeningly soft touch run up one leg,
and brush briefly against my pussy.
I reacted in desperation, wriggling and hollering at the top
of my lungs. My skin stood out in goosebumps and my breasts were
hard and rigid, those clamps aching now. I was beginning to sweat.
"My lovely slave.. you told me you weren't ticklish," he
teased, brushing the very tip of my nose again and again.
I had no answer for him, and very nearly gave him the
safeword.
"Did you lie to me, slave?" he asked, and a point of
torturously light feather tip trailed down around my ear... down
the neck, over my aching nipples and along one side.
Everything stopped. I wasn't thinking or breathing, and I
would have killed him at that moment, if the bonds had given way
to my frantic tugging. They didn't, though, and I wanted to say
something. Anything, something glib, some nice lie to get him to
stop the feather-touch, but my brain continued it's winning ways
and refused to come up with anything.
"AaaaaAAAAAAAAAH! Yes!" I screamed. Tears were beginning
to leak out of my eyes, absorbed by the soft cloth around my eyes.
The tickle-touch drifted over one nipple, then the other, back
and forth, nipple clamps a fierce pain now.
"What was that? I believe a slave should address her Master
with the appropriate respect, don't you, slave? Tell me again...
did you lie to me?"
The tickling was burning into my brain, and at that moment,
the bonds became real. Unless I satisfied this person, he was
going to tickle me all night. A fleeting thought from my useless
brain told me to have more pride, was embarrassed that I would give
up so easily. I told it to shut the fuck up.
"Y...yes... master... your slave lied to you... " I gasped
out, swallowing another scream to get the words out. A hard smack
on one tit ripped through my senses and I groaned. It was followed
by the feather, swirling and tracing lightly over the area that was
still on fire.
"I see. You lied to me. You lied to your Master." He
sounded really mad, and fear shot through me, turning my soul
inside out and making my core a wash of molten liquid. The tears
started to flow steadily, and I opened my mouth to apologize
abjectly.
A ball was shoved into my mouth, soft and rubbery, stopping
any noise I wanted to make. At the same time, my other tit was
slapped, and again the soft feather touch lingered around and
around it.
"You have lost the right to speak, my slave. To make any
noise in my presence. You will be tickled until you no longer make
any noise, and can control your tongue."
I tried frantically to silence the muffled screams that the
tickling drove from my throat, but the tickling had begun in
earnest, now, and my throat wouldn't allow me to rest. He must
have retrieved another feather from his collection, because soon
there were two independent points of teasingly light movement
roving my body. Any time he thought I was growing desensitized,
he would slap the area roughly, and trace it over and over.
After an immeasurable time, the tickling suddenly stopped.
Time ticked by, and I waited in agony for the tickling to begin
again, trying to inhale air into my starved lungs. The ball was
suddenly yanked out of my mouth, and I gulped and swallowed
repeatedly. My body was shuddering and sweating profusely, my cunt
was wet and slick, and pieces of hair were plastered to my head.
The feather glided up my side to my underarm, exposed to his touch,
and I screamed involuntarily. The ball was shoved into my mouth
again, and the tickling resumed.
Again and again it happened. I wanted desperately to beg for
mercy, for forgiveness, but he had none. There was just the tip
of the feather, and the slaps.
I'm not sure now how may times I failed the test. I was
getting weaker, and so were my groans. Finally, I came very close
to being able to keep silent. That time, he started to tickle my
thighs. At first, I didn't pay attention, he had tickled every
part of my body already, of course. But as he focused on my soft
inner thighs and now-dripping pussy my body shuddered in pleasure
and torturous tickling. He spread my labia with his fingers, and
the feather tip claimed my clitoris again and again, in dancing
circles. I was throbbing hot, almost insane with need.
The ball came out. There was silence, punctuated by my
gasping and his heavy breathing.
He finally spoke.
"You are quiet? Good. I expect you to remain silent until
you are given leave to be otherwise, or we will begin again."
I nodded frantically my understanding.
His finger probed me deeply, and found me more than ready.
"Do you want me?" He asked roughly.
I nodded eagerly, needing to be fucked worse than I ever had
imagined in all my life.
He took me roughly, thrusting deeply into me. It took every
ounce of will and a tightly clenched jaw not to make any groan of
relief and pleasure. I was so aroused that his strong thrusts and
the aching of the nipple clamps as he brushed against them only
added to my enjoyment, feeling incredibly satisfying.
"You may come," he said, and shortly after that, I did, in the
most intense orgasm I had ever experienced, every muscle tensed and
shuddering, colors cascading behind my closed eyes. I stayed
silent even then, coming with a noiseless "O" of rippling pleasure
on my lips. He kissed it away, then came himself, just as quietly,
as if to show that anything I could do he could also do.
He took the blindfold off (blessed vision!) and examined me
closely. Next, he untied me, but I waited for his permission to
move. He noticed that and smiled slightly.
"Kneel." he commanded.
I got up, very careful of the nipple clamps still affixed, and
sunk to my knees, my head bowed, as I waited for him to speak.
"Tell me now what you have learned," he ordered, cold and
distant as a mountain range in the summer haze.
"Never, never lie to you, Master," I responded, meaning every
single syllable.
He nodded. "Do you consider my punishment harsh?"
I shook my head vehemently. "No, Master."
He smiled, then his face grew stern. "Still, I am reluctant
to keep you as my slave if you must be taught so basic a lesson.
Tell me, if I keep you as my slave, will I have to refresh your
memory?"
I shook my head again. "No, Master Sean. I will never lie
to you again."
He nodded. "Collect your clothes, then, take off your nipple
clamps, and go. If I decide to give you the opportunity to redeem
yourself, I will let you know."
I drove home, thoughtful, tired, and wondering when I would hear from
him again.
|
|
