Fetish also fetich (fe-tish)
1. an object (as an idol or image) believed to have magical powers (as in curing disease) 2. an object of unreasoning devotion or concern 3. an object whose real or fantasized presence is psychologically necessary for sexual gratification. ------The Merriam Webster Dictionary
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Sara and I, two American ex-pats, live by the rhythm of our sexual needs in our salmon colored manse near the Bukit Timah Nature Reserve in Singapore.
During our playtime Sara's nom de plume is Veronique, mine is Brick. Normally everyone calls me Reuben, Reuben Smoke.
Veronique has fucked a troop of clowns. Brick has fucked a pugilist slick, shiny with oil in the middle of a boxing ring's stretched canvas floor. Veronique has sucked "The Cuban" proud owner of possibly the largest cock anywhere. Brick tried. Brick fucked a mother and daughter in combination on a feather bed in Amsterdam's Red Light District, the "Walletjes." He did a rotund woman. She wore a flowing sequined caftan with huge mothers of breasts, magnificently distended udders the locus of all his lust. Of such immense proportion these lodestones attracted his semen filings as so much metal grit. It was like fucking Mother Nature. In an abandoned Quonset hut near a long unused slab of airplane runway in southern Arizona choked with weeds, Veronique fucked 17 leather clad bikers, first Moro, the leader, all the others and then finally, Brick.
Veronique and Brick have done it all. Veronique with one man, one woman; Brick the same solitary fun. Shared pleasures too, doing delicious things with a third bedmate or gangs of lubricous orifices in tow between them as a team.
Both of us naked in our bed; I tie her slim wrists and slender ankles to the four banyan posts carved by the skilled hands of a leathery looking old man with Buster Keaton's gloomy mien. A vivid blue scarf secures her left arm, a garish red square of cloth binds her right arm, a cavalry yellow neckerchief is tied around her left leg and last but not least, a daring pink piece of silk circles her right ankle, lashes her to the bed. I wrap a piece of black satin over her dark brown eyes; bind it about her glossy ebony hair falling down on her shoulders like a nun's outer black veil. Hell's bells, Brick has fucked Veronique, she in the full regalia of a fully tricked out almond eyed Chinese nun, he a hellish beast an appropriate satanic mask covering Brick's tow head and white Anglo Saxon Protestant facial contours; a hard rubber sleeve covered with sharply raised bumps, ranks of groves and rows of ridges, the nasty looking cylinder mounted over his cock. That was so hot fucking her like that.
Flat on her back in the midst of the queen sized firm mattress covered by pale blue satin sheet, Veronique's modest yet magnificent breasts unaffected by any density imposed by gravity. Her flat abdomen tight enough to bounce a quarter on its hard plain; her hips swelling out, the silver thong she often favors glorified by this woman's expansion as is the silver bra string graced by her boobs. Her bust's erect nipples hard as stacks of coins against my busy fingers, the delta between her wide spread legs beckons like heaven for a homesick angel.
Room air, cooled by a quiet pump outside the house next to one of our dwarf Ylang-Ylang trees blooming gold, snakes about the hard head of Brick's cock, covers him in bumps of goose flesh quickly gone away pressed against Veronique's hot bed bound body.
My left hand fishes inside a red enameled box purchased in Chinatown from a trembling, frail looking amah, a sullen old broad clearly a beauty in her youth. Kept in the nightstand, now sitting in the open under the bamboo shaded lamp. I hook a cool to the touch, cool to the eye piece of Pyrex, a butt plug shaped like a tear drop. Blue at its point, amber at its swollen end mounted on a clear glass pedestal, I smear K-Y on its pointed business end; ram it in Sara's anus. Excuse me Veronique's anus.
Against the headboard's two posts Veronique's hands dangle down. Brick loves her magic fingers doing salacious things such as holding his cock, tweaking her nipples, jabbing one index finger in his supple asshole. Now, these fingers resemble a carrion bird's eager talons craving to shred meat, cart it to her hungry mouth. At the foot of the bed, her bound ankles, red painted toenails remind me of a barefoot gypsy wench in a long peasant skirt, shaking a tambourine, dancing in candle lit dirt.
I kiss each of Veronique's toes. Her soles I give a good clobbering with my tongues no different then a kid attacking a frosting covered tablespoon. I kiss each round smooth heel, she flexes against my tongue. Removing a blue feather from the box, I tickle her feet. I tickle more. She laughs loudly; an occasional moan.
As Reuben, Sara's mate or Brick, Veronique's fantasy man, I am hung up on this woman's bare feet. My cock happy as the proverbial clam merely watching Veronique walk on her naked feet, quietly sitting on the sofa one foot crossed over the other, her heels resting on the coffee table or standing, stretching on the tips of her toes, reaching for something too far back in a kitchen cabinet, a book up high in my study. For hours I could think of nothing better then to apply lotion as batter to Sara's sensuous skin, Veronique's sexy feet. Rub cocoa butter in to her callous free heels, squirt the stuff on each instep, and pack it deep between each one of her ten toes. I often stroke my cock as I do so.
Now, I focus on Veronique's long legs, take the tip of a burnt orange feather, slide it ever so softly across her tanned pliant skin. Brick want the feather's caress felt within her womb just as seeing her, touching her, fills his cock with such want, and feels so good in every part of him.
The feather eventually back in the box, Brick removes a silver sewing needle, jabs its snout against various points about her skin. The pin's point not meant to inflict pain not at all. No, I as Brick have found Veronique or Sara's most special place, the point where pain and pleasure intersect. She loves the feeling, the needle's pressure in the midst of that intersection. The blindfold helps immeasurably since she has no idea where the pin's thrust will next go.
Veronique licks her lips; Sara did the same delivering our two children, Veronique curls her hands into fists, the needle's point dabs into the flesh just above her cleft. A stream of moans from her mouth, a cacophony of noisy screams energizing my errant cock. I pause to stroke myself, take time to feast my blue eyes on this charming scene.
