An Attachment Is Made

Part 5 -- Feather

"See you on the train then; and for Wednesday evening?" The guard had asked at the end of the long hot Saturday.

It did not occur to Sally to say 'no.' What could she do if she had wanted to say 'no' and, actually, it had been a very good day. She was his plaything now, she knew that, but it was not as she had expected.

Sally only just had time for a quick shower and change before she met Jerry. The evening went quite well but, she had to admit, Jerry was a bit boring to start with; going on and on about his work. Sally again thought about whether she really wanted to go out with him for much longer. Well, she would give him the month. Of course Jerry wanted sex. For Sally it would be the third act of the day but she could hardly use that as an excuse with him not to have sex!

Jerry did like his games. One of them, Sally had soon found out when they had started dating, was his penchant for mild bondage—tying and being tied. As he had said, "what else are bedposts for?" She, for her part, had not been adverse; experimentation and fun came well within her orbit. Back at his flat, after a really good meal out at the local 'Indian,' it was quickly obvious it was a night for knots. The green silk scarf on the table by the door gave it away.

Jerry had been fun enough in the Indian really, though she could have done with rather less about what he had done that week at work and what good deals he had pulled off. Still he had not seemed to notice anything odd about her such as having been cheating on him twice that day, been out walk­ing the Downs with another man and being virtually contractually bound to be another man's plaything for a month. That was until he had commented she looked as if she had been in the sun all day.

"I had my hat," she'd blurted and then realised she would have to qualify that because she hadn't had it on all the time, though that was mostly when she had had nothing on at all, which was not something she wanted to explain, and in any case the mention of the hat did mean she had been out of doors and that would necessitate some sort of explanation.

"I went for a walk," she said as she thought desperately whether to de­scribe her real walk (alone of course) or make up some story about walking in the park which might, if Jerry questioned, have to get more and more made up.

"Suits you," he'd said and moved on to reminisce about their Greek holi­day and how tanned she had got, "all over." he had added. "But I don't sup­pose you were renewing that... or were you?"

They had laughed but she had not had to answer that question because Jerry went off at a tangent about the football game the next day and that too had saved her lying. Relieved, yes: but slightly put out that he had not actually taken much interest in what she had been doing. He had been much more inter­ested in what he had been doing. Typical male, she had thought.

Inside Jerry's flat they had kissed. Perhaps Sally was a little less enthusias­tically than usual though that may have been because she felt guilty about the day on the Downs... and the sex. Sally had felt his hands on hers, had felt him drawing them behind her, had felt the silk on her wrists and by the time they had broken their kiss her wrists were securely fastened together by the green silk scarf. It was a game she had played before.

It was not that she was exactly helpless but she was certainly now subject to Jerry's whim — within reason! There was not too much resistance she could actually make with her hands tied behind her back. She knew he liked to un­dress her and she was fairly sure it would end with her spread-eagled on the bed, one limb to each post. She was not disappointed.

This was what she liked about Jerry, his sense of fun, joking as he tried to take her clothes off one by one despite what was actually an impediment in having her hands tied behind her back. There really was no way he was going to get her bra off like that and he got in such a muddle that they ended up rolling around on the bed just laughing. He did, indeed, spread-eagle her but face down so she couldn't easily see what he was up to. He made her wait, just lying there in anticipation; what was he doing? Presumably undressing but what was he planning on doing next? The blindfold came and then it was the feather; that damn feather of his that he knew so well how to use, how to tickle excruciatingly on her most sensitive areas; those erogenous zones. But he built up to that and, of course, all parts of the body are ticklish and so there was plenty he could do before she felt the feather on her bottom. It had surprised her when he had first done it; how sensitive her anus was, how remarkably dev­astating was the feel of that feather lightly stroking just there, with nothing she could do to stop it. Oh yes, she could clench her buttocks a bit but she was spread-eagled and sooner or later she had to release and the tickling would start again.

The feather began on her back, so gentle, so excruciatingly light in its touch but so powerfully registered by her nerve endings. He took his time on her back, on her arms, on her legs before the feather wisped over her bottom and found her little back hole. The intense feeling had her running; she could feel the wetness seeping from her. Would it really be possible to come just from the tickling of that damn feather on her bottom hole?

She was moaning by the time he turned her over and retied her with four green scarves, one to each corner of the bed, with her limbs stretched out and her sex exposed. She had been hoping he would take her from behind, fuck her as she lay face down on the bed but that had not really been likely; he hadn't yet played the feather on her nipples and she knew he liked to tease her that way, liked to watch her squirm, liked to hear her pleading for him to stop and, please, please, just to fuck her. She rather thought he liked to stand over her with that lovely big prick of his rigid and proud, feeling dominant and in con­trol (which he certainly was!). The feather came wisping up her tummy to the undersides of her breasts, it was almost unbearable, yet she loved how wet he made her doing this. She knew he would take a long time on the smooth skin of her breasts, circling around but not quite touching the nipples, getting her al­most to screaming point before the feather would brush across the hardness of her nipples. The mixture of sensation and anticipation was something else.

Jerry was kneeling over her as he played, she could tell that, one knee ei­ther side of a thigh but not touching, no she could not feel the touch of his bare flesh at all just the insistent wisp of the feather on her breasts. She was always surprised at how long he kept the feather work up, he would be 'up' as well and she would have expected him to want some attention on his cock by now, perhaps a leaning forward to bring his big mauve head within reach of her tongue—she stuck it out a little as a hint. She'd love to suck it now, feel it soft/hard in her mouth. How many times had she thought that? What a woman needs are two men at a time, one to use his cock in the wet hole 'down there' and the other for the woman to play with in her hands and mouth, the lovely smooth head and dangly vulnerable balls—super!

The feather crept up her thighs and she knew it was going to happen; she was going to come without Jerry's cock touching her; without anything touch­ing her but that feather; she was close enough that when he played it across her clit she would simply explode; if he kept going that was because, she knew, there was no guarantee; Jerry might just stop and leave her hanging; go for a beer from the 'fridge, walking about his place naked and with that big erec­tion. Of course he'd be back but she would have to lie there waiting and in such intense frustration. Would he pause, would he leave her on the brink?

Sally felt a surge of relief as the feather brushed against the top of her thighs and then her sex; Jerry was not going to go for a beer, he was going to carry on. The feather played gently around her lips, Sally could feel its every movement and then there it was wisping back and forth over the little raised knob of her clitoris, her own little standing erection. And wasn't the feeling in­tense? To and fro went the feather bringing her closer and closer to climax. In her mind she recalled doing the same to Jerry, he tied down and the very same feather tickling his cock, she just lying there looking at it and playing but she'd gone too far and hadn't realised until it suddenly bobbed up and down under the feather and began shooting streams of his cum onto his stomach. It had been both erotic and frustrating at the same time. Lovely to see his big penis shooting its load but annoying for her that it would not be useable within her for a time. Yet another reason for having two men in the bedroom... not that she had ever done that.

The image of Jerry's spurting penis stayed as the feather took her over the edge; Sally writhing on the bed, unable to see as the orgasm built and she came—wonderfully — as the now excruciating tickling went on and on, right on her clit. The image of the fountaining penis in her mind.

"Stop, oh please stop," she cried but he didn't for quite a time. Jerry really was quite cruel.

She knew when he did stop the feather it was, of course, going to be to fuck her and at his own pace. She could not deny him that, he had after all just spent a great deal of time pleasuring her to orgasm, though there was no ques­tion he hadn't enjoyed doing that.

The tickling ceased and for a moment there was silence and then, sur­prise, surprise, Jerry was on the bed straddled over her and she could feel his penis on her lips, just touching. She knew what was wanted, just a light licking with her tongue, not sucking, just licking. Jerry would like that, being able to watch her tongue on his cock, when she could not, a bit like his own private porno film.

Sally flicked out her tongue and began to lick, exaggerated little tongue movements which would look so erotic to Jerry as he stared, she knew he would be staring, at his penis on her lips and at her darting tongue.

Jerry liked that and let her lick for a long time, he had her tied down, just there to do his bidding and what man would not like having his penis head licked like an ice-cream cone? In control, able to lift away if the sensation got too much, no risk of coming too soon though it would not be the first time Jerry had come on her face: great gobs of cum all over her, making a real mess, in her hair, almost up her nose and dripping into her open mouth. Really rather more fun for him than her.

"Let me drink you," she'd said but that was not his idea.

Sally felt the penis moving, sliding over her tongue, sliding up by the side of her nose, letting her lick lower, her tongue moving down the shaft until she felt dangling over her mouth his balls. The hanging sack waiting to be licked and sucked.

What an odd thing sex was—to be sure—what did she look like? What did Jerry look like? There they were on the bed, she tied up and Jerry kneeling over her head and she licking his hanging scrotum, particularly the right ball which she could feel was hanging lowest! What would a visitor from Mars make of that?

She could feel he was moving his own cock, wanking whilst she played with his hanging scrotum..

Sally licked and sucked on Jerry's balls, one by one in her mouth, not so much balls as little eggs which she could move around with her tongue in their sack in her mouth. The vulnerability of men and here she was with Jerry's in her mouth. Stupid, silly but fun things: such a contrast to the firmness of the erection above. With her tongue she pushed the hanging scrotum from side to side. Her tongue was starting to get tired.

"Come on, let me suck you off, I'm thirsty for you." It was said in her most winsome voice and the penis once more slid over her tongue until she felt the smooth skin of the head. A light push and the round head slid past her lips to­wards her throat. Sally sucked, enjoying the feel of her man in her mouth and again thought of the ridiculousness of their position. To present his penis at the right angle Jerry would be slumped forward with his bottom high in the air, it would look even more ridiculous than before!

The expected ejaculation did not come, instead the penis was withdrawn and Jerry moved down the bed; it was to be intercourse after all. But it was not hurried intercourse. Jerry took his time. A slow penetration, a gradual opening as he eased himself into her—all the way. Sally was always amazed that she could accommodate Jerry's length; how all that thing could disappear, as if by magic, into her body. Not that she disliked the feeling of course!

She was beginning to really enjoy the slippery, sliding action when the penis was withdrawn and she felt her ankles being untied.

What was he doing now?

Sally felt her ankles being lifted and brought upwards, one in each of Jerry's hands until her legs were vertical, and her feet towards the ceiling. With her ankles far apart he could see everything, her sex opened and exposed. Sally felt once more the touch of penis on her vaginal opening and it slipping in. What was Jerry up to? She knew really; typical man, so visual, watching his own penis in the act of intercourse and she blindfolded and unable to see a thing. He slid all the way in and then pulled right out only to do the same again.

"Did you know your hole stays open for a few seconds before closing after I pull out? Fascinating!"

"Can't say I've looked," Sally replied dryly. Really men were so gynaeco­logically obsessed. It was the feeling that counted surely not detailed observa­tion?

"There, I got it in before it closed. Brill."

Ridiculous.

Sally didn't really mind Jerry playing but she was pleased when he finally got on top of her and did it properly. Good traditional missionary sex, well apart from her being tied up and blindfolded of course—that wasn't in the basic 'how to do it' manual. Not actually another orgasm for Sally but good sex nonetheless. An orgasm, of course, for Jerry.

The next day, Sunday, as tended to be the case, began with watching Jerry play­ing football followed by drinks with his friends, lunch and back to his place for a snooze and, more than likely, a ride on his big cock. Sally was not much into football but Jerry was and, usually, she was content to stand with the other women and watch. As tended to happen, Jerry's team lost so the talk in the pub, she knew, would more be about what they did wrong than what they did right and it would be a little boring. She watched as the two teams trooped off to the changing rooms at the end of the match. Were any as big as Jerry? The thought came unbidden into her head; that would be fun to find out. She wouldn't mind watching them in the showers as a casual observer. No, not ca­sual, if she really wanted to see how big they were, more as an official from FIFA — "I've come to check your cock sizes for our database. Don't worry it is a completely painless process; I'll help you get ready; no need to dry, just line up." That was the trouble with football—it made her daydream -- it really was a rather tedious game.

She smiled to herself; obviously, from the evidence of that daydream, she was looking forward to sex with Jerry in the afternoon! Perhaps she'd mention her sudden fantasy to him in bed. He'd like that, particularly her suspicion his cock would beat the rest for size. Jerry liked compliments—he was rather vain, she thought, yes, not one of his best characteristics (unlike his big cock). He had a few she was not so keen on when she thought about it. Was it time to give him the push?