Punishing the Naughty

I give you a few minutes to adjust to your situation. You move your head around, trying to listen for sounds that will help you determine what I'm going to do. I haven't said a word to you since entering the room. You test your bonds, pulling at the ropes. You can't move. You cannot release your feet. I see your pretty toes wiggle in frustration.

I bring my stool up behind you, and when you hear me, you turn your head and try to figure out where I am. Your blindfold prevents you from seeing what it is I am doing, and this undoubtedly adds to your anxiety. You moan and fidget, returning to face straight ahead. I lean in and caress your long, brown hair. The scent of your hair is light and fruity, almost intoxicating. My heart is racing with the thought of what I have planned for you.

I kiss your neck, slowly and gently. You tense, but do not struggle. I knead your shoulders, and kiss my way across your neck and back. You enjoy this, as you moan and arch your back in response. I massage your stiff back and shoulders for a few minutes, and you seem to relax. When I see the muscles begin to soften, I stop and pick up my two new paintbrushes.

I dip the bristles in a chilled cup of baby oil, and begin at your shoulders. You jerk your arms when the brushes first contact your skin, and a muffled cry escapes the gag. I brush across the tanned expanse of your upper back, and concentrate on circling your shoulders. Your back is sensitive, but not what I would call ticklish. The soft bristles glide lightly across the skin, leaving little oil slicks in their tracks. I get a good response from you by running them slowly down both sides of your spine, and the way you move your back when I do this indicates that it must tingle.

You react even more when my oiled brushes reach the base of your spine. That spot near the top of your butt is extremely sensitive, and painting that area with the oil has you moaning loudly. You try to wiggle away from the teasing brushes, but cannot. Every couple of minutes or so I dip the bristles, and put a fresh coat of oil on the smooth, tanned flesh of your back.

This part takes about half an hour, and you are sweating and starting to breathe hard. I hear a sharp intake of breath every time the brushes move close to your sides. Your ribs are very ticklish, and every once in a while I let the brushes tease along your sides, producing an instant giggle from you. After a few more minutes, I stop for a moment, to allow both of us to rest.

I move the stool around to your right, so that I can see your entire exposed side from waist to armpit. I also can see both breasts, lifting and falling with each shallow breath. The large, dark nipples stick out straight, showing me how turned on you are. I reach over and roll one between thumb and forefinger, enjoying the way you squirm when I pinch your nipple.

You moan loudly, and roll your head from side to side, caught in the erotic sensations. I have just finished coating a paintbrush in oil, and while you focus on the attention I'm giving your hot nipples, I reach forward and place the brush on the delicate skin below your neck. You squeal as I move the brush down to your deliciously tanned breast, and begin circling your firm, tanned breast with the slippery, soft bristles. You put your head back and make a sound, but I can't tell if the touch tickles or turns you on.

I brush around and around your erect nipple for several minutes, and all the while you are writhing and moaning loudly. Your breasts are definitely a sensitive area, and a couple of times you were giggling under the gag. I dip the brush again and place it against the pale skin of your armpit. You immediately stiffen and try to move in the opposite direction. A whine escapes the gag. Now I have your full attention.

I move the head of the brush around in slow circles, lightly painting your skin. There is no doubt that this tickles! You try in vain to pull away, but can't move far enough to escape. You aren't moaning anymore; you are laughing. The gag prevents it from coming out intact, but I can tell what it is. You are very ticklish under the arms, and your laughter is delicious.

I spend the next ten minutes exploring your naked armpit, stroking, teasing, and tickling. You wiggle and pull at the ropes that hold your arms up, all the while turning red as you succumb to the tickling with uncontrollable laughter. I move the oily brush down your side, and obtain similar results. I pick up the other brush, and use both on your helpless ribs, delighted to see your sexy body squirm.

I lazily move the brushes over the exposed flesh from your waist to your armpit. Drawing circles on your smooth, helpless pit really has you squealing! Between laughs you try to speak, begging me to stop the tickling. But I don't. The brushes continue their slippery work.

I move the brushes all over your side, stomach, and breasts. When I hear you start to shriek into the gag from the tickle torture I'm putting you through, I stop and give you another massage to help you relax. I notice that an hour has passed since I began with your back, so I decide to let you rest for a few minutes while I fix myself a drink. I make a note to come back to your ticklish belly later.

When I return you sit up straight, your ample breasts showing a coating of sweat and oil that makes them shine. Your breathing has almost returned to normal. I smile and move the stool out in front. You nervously twist in your bonds, trying to listen for sounds that will identify my position. I sit calmly sipping my drink and visually inspecting the beautiful bare soles that face me only inches away. The wooden stocks hold them there, each helpless foot only a few inches from its captive companion. The bottoms of your feet are soft and unblemished. Your high, sexy arches are smooth and paler than the heels and balls of your feet. And your toes simply beg to be sucked by me.

I know that your feet are quite sensitive.

No. More than that. They are very ticklish.

You said once that you can't bear to have anyone tickle your feet because it drives you crazy.

You groan in despair, realizing that I am by your feet. Your toes twitch anxiously, as if you can feel the tickling already. You move your head in my direction, and awkwardly try to say something through the gag. It sounds like "Please, not my feet," or something like that. I grin, and stroke a finger down one helpless foot bottom. You let out a high-pitched giggle, and the foot squirms madly.

"This is going to be hell for you, isn't it?" I ask, tauntingly. You groan pitifully through the gag, and reluctantly nod your head up and down.

I take an ice cube from my drink, and place it on the tip of one big toe. Your foot comes alive, squirming away from the ice, so I lash your big toes together with a leather thong. Taking the loose ends together, I pull your toes back and tie them off to a bolt set in the stocks, stretching, and exposing your soles. You whimper through the gag, trying desperately to move your ticklish bare feet.

Then I begin applying the ice to your right sole. You slowly go wild as I move the ice cube over every inch of your squirming sole. Each of your wiggling toes feels the freezing torment. When I finish the right, I do the same to the left, enjoying the way your foot struggles against the cold. You squeal loudly through the gag, fighting against the cold, ticklish sensations that assault your defenseless soles.

Then I lean forward and gently start licking your toes.

First I lick across the toes of your right foot, giving each shrimp-like morsel a little nibble as well. You do not seem to mind this as much, although the toes begin to wiggle when I suck on them. You respond with muted giggles when my tongue searches out the sensitive spaces between your toes. You whine as I grasp your big toe and the one next to it, and prepare to lap at the tender, exposed flesh. Flicking my tongue in and out of the space makes you howl.

I use my tongue to tease your ticklish sole, spending several minutes hungrily licking the moisture from your unprotected arch, chuckling as your high-pitched laughter fights to break free of the gag. Your struggles and sounds continue as I give your other foot the same treatment, savoring every tasty inch of your foot flesh. Flicking my tongue across the arch and base of your toes makes you buck wildly against the bonds that hold you prisoner while you beg through the gag.

Once more, I give you a short rest. You hear me moving about the room, and know that it isn't over yet. You hear me by your feet again, and start to giggle in anticipation. Your toes wiggle as I dip two toothbrushes into the oil and hold them above your imprisoned feet so that little droplets of oil run down the length of the soles.

First, I tease your toes. I start with your sexy big toe, brushing firmly across its fleshy tip, then down each side of it. You jerk stiffly at the touch, and you giggle as the bristles tickle your bare toe. I scrub the toe well, then dip again and do each toe in turn, making sure to do in between them as well. By the time I finish working on your toes, you are beside yourself with laughter and trying desperately to pull your feet free of the stocks!

I mockingly tell you to relax. "The real tickling hasn't begun yet!" You moan and whimper into the gag at this, but you are powerless to prevent the tickle torture of your feet from continuing.

Starting at the ball of your foot, I tickle around and around this tender part, watching as you quickly go nuts from the teasing. Once or twice I let the brush skim lightly over the smooth whiteness of your arch, which causes the foot to spasm and you to squeal sharply under the gag. I stop for a moment to tease your tummy and breasts again.

You beg me through the gag to stop; not to tickle you anymore. "You've been a bad girl, very bad," I say, squeezing and pinching your nipples with my fingers while dipping the brush, "and bad girls must be punished."

I leave your nipples and stroke the toothbrushes across the sensitive flesh of the arches. Your soles react defensively by trying to curl the toes, but you discover that this is impossible given the way you are tied. Up and down I scrape with the devilish bristles, while you thrash in your bonds and laugh uncontrollably. I use the brush to draw little pictures on the helpless canvas of your soles, and soon you are going wild from the tickling.

I must spend about twenty minutes exploring your defenseless bare feet, lost in my lust for your laughter. You laugh and squeal continuously, your frustration and arousal growing, in equal measure. I pause a moment to place my palm against your pussy. My hand comes away wet and warm with your juices. You are completely turned on by this, and your cheeks redden, knowing that I can see how aroused you are by your punishment. I am as turned on as you are; I love the sexy way you move in your bondage, begging and squirming when I am tickling and teasing you

Noticing my wrists are becoming stiff, I stop. Your head sags forward in defeat, sweat dripping down your face. I get myself another drink, and watch you as you try to regain your composure. If you had been asked, I'm sure you would say that you had been punished well. Your shining chest heaves with every breath, and your hair hangs in damp tangles. I remove the blindfold, having decided that you should see what is coming for your from now on.

You start shaking your head even before I sit down and run a finger down your foot. Muffled giggling begins again, and I see you pulling at the bonds on your wrists. You really are very ticklish! A thought crosses my mind, and I elect to remove the gag. As soon as the ball escapes your mouth, you draw in a deep breath and proceed to plead for mercy.

"Please, I'm sorry, don't tickle me anymore! My feet are so ticklish, I can't stand it!" you cry, gasping for breath.

I smile, and sit facing the imprisoned soles. This prompts further pleas. "I promise I won't... oh, please, I'll do anything you want, anything!" you beg submissively, as I rub your toes.

"PLeeeaasse...!" you cry, but you stop in mid-sentence when the tickling resumes.

I take two feathers and swirl the tips quickly up the length of your soles. A laugh begins, and you are about to beg again but I cut you off by rapidly swishing the feathers back and forth across your sexy, white arches. Your face contorts into a mask of laughter as you fall victim to the tickling sensations once again. I run the feather tips up and down your feet, and a loud burst of laughter erupts from you as you try to say something else. You cannot do anything but submit to the tickling.

Your sensitive bare feet squirm as I tickle them, and sometimes I hold you by the toes and scrape the quills cruelly up and down your sensitive foot bottoms until you shriek. I love teasing every helpless inch of your ticklish soles! I tickle you for ten minutes or so, again stroking your helpless arches until you are becoming hysterical!

For the Grand Finale, I drop the feathers and use my fingernails to scrape up and down your convulsing soles, tickling you until you can hardly see straight. I can see you are at your limit, and have had enough. Then, I stop, and spend some time massaging your well-oiled legs and feet while you regain your breath and composure.

You had endured a long session of tickle torture on your ticklish bare feet, and you hang limply from your wrists. I go to you, and smooth the hair from your face. You look at me, hoping that I am not going to tickle you again.

"Don't worry, I'm finished for now," I say, kissing your cheek, while gently fondling your warm, sticky breasts. You moan, and arch your chest toward me.

Looking down, I see that despite your pleas, a puddle of your sweat and juices lies between your legs. My body tingles when I think about what else we could be doing. I reach my hand down and you gasp when I touch your steaming pussy. You need to cum so bad, you are straining to rub against my hand. It wouldn't take much at this point to bring you to orgasm. But I choose against this.

As I turn from you and walk toward the door, you call out, "Please, don't stop! I need it so bad!"

I stand for a moment, considering my response.

"I'm going to make dinner. After dinner, I'm going to finish tickling your ribs and stomach with my new paintbrushes," I explain.

"Oh no, please, don't leave me like this!" you cry, straining against your bonds. Something in your voice stops me, and I return to you.

"I'll give you a choice," I say, playing with your nipples again. "You can wait until after dinner, and I'll give you what you need after I finish tickling your ribs. Or, if you want to be rewarded now, you'll have to submit to another session of foot tickling," I say, smiling.

You curse under your breath, not too pleased with the choices. I'm still stroking your nipples absentmindedly. "Okay, do it now, but please don't use the toothbrushes on my feet again," you plead. "They are so bad, it's like torture!"

Smiling, I nod, and remove your feet from the stocks. Moving them aside, I secure your ankles in thick leather cuffs that are attached to ropes. In moments, your legs are pulled upwards and widely apart. Your dripping pussy is exposed and helpless, not to mention your other sensitive little hole. I make a mental note to explore both of your sexy openings with feathers later.

"I have lots of other brushes we haven't tried yet. I have a really nice hairbrush I am dying to break in," I add with a grin.

You moan pitifully at this, then begin making other sounds as I proceed to distract you from thinking about anything else except what I'm doing to you with my tongue.