Hey, Jon. Took a while, and...

It's a tad longer than anticipated, I admit -- but here

it is! My first full-length piece of erotic literature. /pride. =) *Faints from
exhaustion.*

-Elena

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, well. This is quite a situation you've gotten yourself into, isn't it?"

I say nothing, glaring angrily at my captor from across the room. God, how I detest this
man! My heart is full of venom for this vile, brutish creature who dares to masquerade as
a human being. No, I quickly correct myself. He is not human. He is not even worthy of
my hate.

As if reading my thoughts, his startling gaze pierces deeply into my eyes and his mouth
lifts in a half-smile. Slowly, deliberately he walks towards me. "I'm well aware of how
unpleasant your feelings are towards me at this moment," he says quietly. "You are
furious. And I understand why." His face is very close to mine, his dark eyes piercing.
"But I am sure you are just as furious at yourself for allowing yourself to be put in this
predicament. Am I right about that?"

I am silent, but my mind acknowledges that he speaks the truth. How foolish I was to
trust this man! How could I have been so careless? What was put forth as a harmless
invitation to dinner at his home has turned into this nightmare. Inwardly I curse my
stupidity. I was fooled in a moment of weakness. He is a highly intelligent man and, for
all his faults, he can be devastatingly charming. A few drinks, some witty conversation,
an engaging smile, a harmless invitation to tour his wine cellar....What was I thinking?
No, that's just it. I hadn't been thinking, not at all, and that was the problem.
Then, before I could think, before I could reason, he forcefully grabs me. He is a strong
man; Although I struggle fiercely against his grip, he overpowers me.

He reads my thoughts again. "Yes, my dear. One small lapse in concentration...one brief
moment in time when your guard is down....and this is the result. Pity."

He shrugs his shoulders and looks slowly up at the ceiling over my head. As though
against my will, my eyes are drawn there also. There is a pulley attached to one of the
ceiling beams; looped around the pulley is a stout rope that hangs down to just above my
head. The rope is tied to a large iron ring from which hang menacing, silver handcuffs.
My wrists are encased in them. It is not a painful position; my feet are on the floor and I
am not stretched in any way - there is some latitude and I can move my body slightly -
but there is no doubt that I am quite immobilized.
I have yet to speak or make a sound. I vow that I will not give this monster the
satisfaction of knowing what I am thinking, what I am feeling: that my heart is beating
wildly with fear, that I abhor the feeling of being so vulnerable. He needs to know only
that I absolutely despise him. Silently I pray for calm and rational thought.

He steps back and observes me intently. "Yes, I think that it is a very efficient set-up.
Simple, but effective. You really are quite helpless, aren't you?" He indicates the rest of
the room. "And what do you think of this place? Perfect, don't you think?" His eyes are
gazing into mine. "This is a wine cellar, designed to be air tight. Therefore, it's sound-
proof. Someone could scream down here and no one would ever hear them. Imagine."

I'm very frightened now. He sees it in my eyes. For a brief moment, the coldness in his
gaze is replaced with something softer. The corners of his mouth twitch.

"No, my dear. Don't worry. I have no intention of causing you any physical pain. No, that
is most definitely not part of my nature, and quite frankly, would not be nearly as
satisfying as dealing with you in – other ways."

My heart skips a beat. "Other ways?" I hear myself whisper hoarsely.

He grimaces. "Ah. She speaks. I was beginning to think that you had no voice. But at
least now I know you do." He moves close to me. His hand, warm and soft, strokes my
neck. As he talks to me he watches my face intently. "And I also know that by the time
I'm done with you, that voice of yours will be saying all sorts of interesting things."

I shake my head away from his touch, my fear replaced by anger. "You're insane," I hiss.
"Untie me right now!"

"No, my dear, I'm sorry. I can't do that. I plan to be keeping you company here for quite
some time." The hardness in his gaze returns.

"What do you want?"

He shrugs. "Nothing too complicated. Revenge, mostly."

"Revenge?" My mind is racing. What is he talking about? "Revenge? For what?"

"For you being so cold, so inaccessible. So unattainable. So frustrating." He walks around

me slowly, observing me from all angles. I struggle against the bonds, but I know my
efforts are in vain. He was right about one thing: the bonds are effective. My heart sinks.
I'm convinced I'm dealing with a madman.
He pretends not to notice my distress and continues his conversation, his voice cold. "I
have known you for quite some time. Travelling in the same professional circles, I have
had many occasions to interact with you, although you usually distance yourself from
me." I silently acknowledge that he is right. I have noticed him – he is far too striking a
man for a woman not to notice – but up until this terrible evening I instinctively have
kept my distance from him. Tonight he had lured me here with the guise of talking
business. Oh, how could I have been so foolish?

He is walking slowly around me, his eyes raking up and down my body as it is stretched
out before him. "Did you know, my dear, that when we attend social gatherings –" He
pauses. "Did you know that I watch you?" He is behind me now, his mouth close to my
ear. "You like to display yourself to men, don't you?" he whispers. "You must know that
you are a terrible tease."

I remain silent. I musn't let him sense my distress.

"Yes, you are. You flirt, you play, your body throws out offers that you have no intention
of keeping. We call that a tease."

He is behind me and I feel his hot breath on my ear. His voice is a harsh whisper.

"It's not very nice to tease. And do you know what happens to a tease, my dear?" He
walks in front of me again, his eyes glittering. "What should be done to a tease like you?
How should you be punished?"

Silence. He is insane. His comments are not worthy of a response.

"Come now. You're a smart woman. What? No answer?" He smiles that crooked smile.
Then suddenly, alarmingly, his hands are at the front of my blouse. He leisurely undoes
the top button. I hold my breath.

"Can't you guess?" The second button is opened, then the third. "No? Then I suppose I'll
have to tell you."

The last button is undone now. My knees start to tremble as he slowly pulls my blouse
open. He cocks his head to one side, his lips pursed, staring at my exposed breasts. "Well,
that is very cooperative of you. How fortunate that you chose not to wear a bra tonight.
Then again, that's what a tease would do, isn't it?"

I feel panic rising in me but it's as if I am frozen still, unable to move. He observes me
silently for a few moments. Then slowly, his hands move to touch me and I hear the sharp
intake of my breath. His fingers, surprisingly soft, are gently stroking the sides of one
breast. He caresses the round swell on the underside, over the top, and pauses in his
exploration to gently probe under my arms. Then he returns to the side of my breast, back
under my arms, circling, stroking, all the while deliberately avoiding the pink nipples that
I realize with horror are beginning to harden. No. Impossible.

I hold my breath. No. I will endure this, I vow to myself silently. No matter what he does
I will remain detached. But his warm hands are very experienced. They seem to know
exactly where all my sensitive spots are. And there is another alarming thought that is
creeping up on me. No, it can't be, I tell myself. I can't – could I possibly be – not with
this man...

After what seems to be an eternity he stops, but then immediately, before I can catch my
breath, moves to the other breast. Damn. His touch is unbearably tender. Again, the same
methodical exploration, the same soft stroking, the same maddening circles. My emotions
are in turmoil, at war with my body, that same body that is betraying me by responding to
the touch of a man I hate. My nipples harden and begin to ache. The fear I had felt earlier
is being replaced with another feeling. It's indescribable. Warm. Overwhelming.
Something like – dear God, no....

"So have you figured it out yet?" His deep voice interrupts my thoughts. I'm grateful for
the distraction. I can think.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." I hope that my voice is more confident than I
feel.

"Oh, I think you do. Remember? What we were talking about before I became distracted
with your breasts? You know. How to punish a tease. How to punish you." His hands
continue to stroke my underarms. His mouth, hot and soft, is against my cheek, then
lower, dropping light kisses along my collarbone. My neck is an extremely responsive
area on my body and I'm angered that he seems to know it. I fight the sensation.

"So delicious," he murmurs again my skin. "And tied up like this you are also so very
vulnerable. I am going to enjoy this."

Suddenly his hands stop and I instinctively sigh deeply in relief. It's a chance to compose
myself and I intend to take full advantage of it. He has pulled away from kissing my neck
is watching my face with amusement.

"I know you so well," he says quietly. "You will do everything you can to resist. But you
should know, my dear – " His lips are close to mine. "That I will do everything I can to
break you."

Break me! Enflamed at his words, I twist my head away from his and begin to struggle
against the handcuffs. I am angry now and I want him to see that. Anger is an emotion
that I can deal with. The fury is a welcome antidote for the disturbing feelings raging
through me. "You bastard!" I hiss. "Dream on!" I pull at the rope over my head and thrash
my body, trying to loosen the bonds. He laughs – a mirthless, cold laugh.

"You really shouldn't try, you know. It's quite useless to struggle. You should know
better." His hands are on my waist, trying to settle me. "There, now. You should learn to
cooperate."

"Never." My voice is firm now. Anger is proving to be my ally. I am regaining control.

"Never?" He raises his eyebrows. "That sounds like a challenge. I love a good challenge.
What did you say again?"

I meet his gaze squarely, my eyes blazing in passionate fury. "I said never!"

He chuckles, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. "We'll see."

Then before I can think, his hands are on my nipples. He pulls on them gently, rolls them
around between his thumb and forefinger, flicks them back and forth with the pads of his
thumbs, all the while watching my face intently. I meet his gaze defiantly but, oh God
help me, his touch is devastating. He know exactly what to do...I realize with alarm that
my erect and aching nipples are responding to his caresses. There is another part of me
that's aching too - a growing heat between my legs. I close my eyes weakly to the
spiraling sensation. How could it be? I hate this man, I hate him! How could my body be
responding like this?

"Oh no," he chides gently. "You musn't close your eyes. Open them for me." I squeeze
them shut tighter. He laughs. "Come, now. Open your eyes. I want to see what effect this
is having on you." His lips are on my neck again, kissing, teasing, trailing a hot path to
my ear. "Open your eyes for me," he whispers.

As if in a trance, I obey. His dark eyes are flashing with amusement as he stares at me.
"There. Good girl. That's better." His hands, meanwhile, haven't stopped their torment of
my breasts. "Hmm. Your nipples are wonderfully responsive. I imagined they would be."
He is not stopping, not even for a moment. Slowly, methodically, he continues his
infuriating caresses. The palms of his warm hands are playing out over my nipples now. I
am fighting to hang on to rational thought. Perhaps if I talk with him, engage him in
conversation...

"You imagined?" I say, praying that my voice sounds flat and cold to him. I need to focus
on something besides his touch. I fight for control. "Imagining is all that you can do, I
suppose. How pathetic."

He ignores my rather pathetic attempt at an insult. "Yes, I do imagine. I have often

fantasized about what your breasts look like, about touching them just like this." He
twists the tips of my nipples and I need to bite my lip to keep from crying out in pleasure.
This is almost too much to bear, I think wildly. He is watching me face for signs of
response and smiles. "I often think about doing other things with them. To them."

"Other – things?"
He nods. Then mercifully, suddenly, he stops. Again I struggle to regain normal
breathing. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing what effect his touch has on me.
Wait – what is he doing? He is reaching into his jacket...

My attempts to compose myself are halted dead in their tracks when I realize what he has
produced from his pocket. I feel my blood run cold.

"Do you know what this is?" I am staring wordlessly at the object in his hand. My eyes
are silently pleading. Oh no, surely he doesn't intend...

"This is an ostrich feather. Quite a good size, isn't it? And very soft. Would you like to
feel how soft?"

I shake my head and he laughs.

"Well, I want to show you." Slowly, deliberately, he uses the feather to stroke my face,
then my chin, then down to my neck. "Apparently this particular kind of feather produces
sensations that are – er, quite pleasurable." The feather is teasing my ribcage now. I inhale
sharply. Surely he doesn't intend to prolong this. Dear God, I pray, give me strength.

"Did you know," he says, drawing the tip of the feather under one of my arms, "that
feathers have long been used as an implement of torture in the Far East? Hmmm? It's
true. It is believed that gentle and incessant tickling – like this –" He punctuates his words
with a rapid shake of the feather against my skin – "can drive a person quite mad, largely
because of the anticipation factor – you know, where the victim will be tickled next, how
they will be tickled. It's called exquisite torture. Could be quite useful in exacting
information, I'd think."

He draws the feather lightly across my chest and resumes tickling under the other arm. In
spite of my best intentions to remain passive, I squirm against the bonds. Stay still, I tell
myself. Try to be calm. Don't let him know....don't let him know that he is deadly
accurate about how sensitive you are there...my mind is beginning to swirl...why is it, I
wonder, that the tickling is not producing laughter but rather, those other unspeakable
sensations. I can endure this...I will...I can...as long as he doesn't....

But damn him, he does! The tip of the feather is now teasing my erect nipple. Oh God,
the pleasure is overwhelming! He is brushing the feather lightly back and forth, back and
forth, around the soft pink flesh surrounding the nipple, back to the tip again. The
feather's light touch is barely enough to produce a sensation but he is moving it so
quickly that it results in an indescribable and unbearable excitement......damn....Then,
almost before I am even aware, a groan escapes my lips. I am instantly angry for my
weakness, which is not lost on him.

Smiling, and without a word, he sets to work on the other nipple, this time using his free
hand to lightly stroke my underarms, ribs, belly, all the while watching my face keenly
with that maddening half-smile. What I wouldn't give to wipe it off his face! How I hate
this man! He is a boor, a bully. This has got to stop.

"You seem to be enjoying this." It's my own voice, and I barely recognize the hoarse half-
whisper. Again, I struggle for rational thought. If only he would stop what he's doing, just
for one moment, then I could gain some semblance of control.

"I am, thank you. I'm enjoying it very much."

My jaw is set firmly and I struggle to keep my voice even. It's an almost impossible task.
The feather's touch is sheer torture. The torment continues for what seems like hours until
every inch of my flesh is on fire. My mind is racing, desperately seeking something,
anything, to take his mind off his task. I speak between ragged breaths. "So....you... you
enjoy trying to terrorize helpless victims, do you? Does... that.. somehow appease
you...your manhood?"

Perhaps if he gets angry enough...anything to make it stop.

But he is not angry. Not even a little bit. My challenge, however, has apparently bought
me some time. The feather torment stops. Thank you, God. I sag against the restraints and
he watches me with amusement, his inquisitive eyes never leaving my face.

I'm breathing heavily and am grateful that he stopped when he did. As my heart begins to
slow I pull myself up and meet his gaze squarely. I dig deep for strength. I try a desperate
ploy. "So. You at least know when to admit failure."

"Failure?"

"Yes. You've apparently done your worst." If only he knew, I say to myself wryly..... But
he'll never know. "Time to give up and let me go. Your little game is over."

He laughs loudly. "I don't think so. We've barely begun." He has moved closer to me
again, standing mere inches away, and has again begun to brush the tips of his fingers
over my sensitized nipples. "You're charming, do you know that? I do admire your spirit.
But you are stubborn. Which, of course, will only make it all the more satisfying when
you submit to me."

"Submit? To you?" I laugh harshly. "No, I won't."

"Oh, yes." His head bends over one breast. "You will."

The first touch of his mouth is electric. I'm caught by surprise and a soft, gutteral moan
escapes my lips. Then another. Then, God help me, another. His tongue is just on the very
tip of my nipple, doing all the things the feather was doing, flicking, teasing, but his
tongue is hot and oh so wet and oh so excruciating. I groan again. This is more than
anyone should have to endure. I clench my teeth in what could only be described as
torment as his mouth moves to the other breast now to repeat the torture. I thrash about in
desperation against the bonds, struggling to free myself – or am I struggling to move his
damned head closer, to take the whole nipple in his mouth, to suck it hotly...what is this
man doing to me?

"Stop," I whisper. "Stop." He doesn't. He ignores my plea and continues to tease both
nipples with his mouth, cupping both of my breasts in his hands and playing his hot
tongue back and forth, back and forth between the two, until finally, he senses my
exhaustion and stops. Those shimmering eyes are scanning my face again and he smiles
with satisfaction.

"Good. I see you are becoming more cooperative. And was that a moan or two that I
heard? Could it be that you are actually enjoying this?" I am unable to answer. My body
is on fire, burning with an unexpressed need. Yes, dear God help me, I am responding to
it. And I berate myself for it. Shameful.

"What? No answer? Now don't tell me you're being uncooperative again."

He is holding me tightly against him now with one arm, and with the other is reaching up
under my short skirt. Weakened with arousal, I am helpless to fight as his hand moves
upwards over my thigh.

"Now tell me, my dear." His voice is gentle, crooning, almost soothing. "Was that a moan
just now? Did you moan for me?"

"No – "

"Are you sure? I thought I heard something." His hands are stroking, tickling, playing
over the top of my legs. Maddeningly, he pauses at the juncture between my thighs. "All
right then. Moan for me now." His fingers caress the soft skin of my thighs. "Come on.
Just one moan."

His lips are on my neck, biting lightly, nuzzling and driving me wild. "Just one little
moan. For me." His free hand cups my breast and squeezes it gently. "Come, now. You
don't want me to take out the feather again, do you?"

"Nooo, not that..."

"No, I didn't think you'd want that again." I can hear the smile in his voice. "No moan for
me?" The hand between my legs is rubbing over the silk panties, his fingernails gently,
tantalizingly raking along my slit. The sensation of the soft material against the hot core
of me sends a rippling shockwave through my body. I feel myself pulsing against his
hand. He is driving me completely out of my mind. It takes every bit of control that I
have to remain silent.
"Won't talk?" His tongue flicks against my ear. "Well, I suppose there is another way to
find out whether or not you are enjoying this. Shall we find out?"
"No – we shouldn't – "

"Yes, I think we should." His hands are at the waistband of my panties, slowly tugging
them down, down over my hips, to my knees... I must stop him...if he touches me there,
he'll know for certain...

"Stop it - oohh, you bastard... d-don't you dare...."

Too late. His hand is back between my legs. Slowly, deliberately, he strokes my damp,
exposed slit, intentionally teasing the sensitive outer lips. "Hmm. You're swollen there,
my dear. What does that mean, I wonder? " Then, with great deliberation, he slowly
pushes one finger inside me. My knees buckle and I sag against him as his warm finger
sinks ever so slowly into my anticipant, sacred womanhood. A moan, deep and guttural,
escapes my lips. I can't help it. The pleasure is far too intense. My head is thrown back on
his shoulder, my eyes shut tight. My fingers and toes clench in response. It's too much to
bear.

"Oh, my. What's this?" He pushes a second finger inside, wrenching another deep moan
from my throat. "It seems as though you're quite wet. I wonder how that happened."

You know how it happened, you son of a bitch, I think wildly. You did it. And I hate you
for it.

"Let's see." He continues his exploration. "Swollen lips. Wet inside. Does that – could
that possibly that mean you are aroused?"

I am slowly being driven out of my mind, and he knows it. I am completely at his mercy,
a slave to his masculine touch. He is stroking me deeply inside, twisting his fingers,
withdrawing them, slick with my own arousal, to briefly tease my outer lips, then back in,
then out to caress the wet slit back and forth in long, slow sweeps – all the while
deliberately avoiding the one place that he knows I am desperate for him to touch. I am
throbbing, aching, at the edge of insanity.

"Please."

He whispers hotly in my ear. "What was that, my dear?"

"Please."

"Did you say something?" A third finger joins the other two and I instantly lose all
reason.

"Ohhhhh..Please. Don't tease me – oh God, please stop it...stop it...."

"No, I won't. I can't. You see, I am enjoying this far too much." His rather attractive voice
is deep with desire. "I've watched you. You're a tease. You're an ice queen. And oh my
God, I have wanted to see you like this, hot and feverish with lust – just like this. Wanting
it. Wanting what I can give you." His touch, hot and wet against my slit, has turned to a
light tickle. I almost faint with pleasure. "You see, I have fantasized about this for a very
long time. And I intend to prolong this pleasure for as long as possible."

His fingers ease out of me and are poised over my throbbing clit. Yes, please I whisper
inwardly. Touch me there. End this torture...now...The tip of his finger brushes it...I hold
my breath...Then, suddenly, his hand is stilled. I can't restrain a groan of frustration.

"Bastard."

He laughs softly and releases me. "Call me anything you want. I'll only make you take it
back."

Now that his hands have stopped their torture I feel my nerve returning. A few deep
breaths and I am filled with a renewed vow to strengthen my resolve. I pull away from
him and twist against the rope holding my arms captive. "Untie me now," I say evenly.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair in apparent frustration. "Oh, dear. It seems you
haven't learned anything." Eyes glittering, he steps backwards. "You are hardly in a
position to be demanding anything, are you? Seems as though you need to be taught
another lesson."

My heart is racing. I know that I have been weakened. He knows it too. He has already
seen a part of me that, in spite of my best efforts, I was not able to hide from him. Surely
he will run out of patience soon. If I can just hang on...

But patience is one virtue that this man seems to have an abundance of. He is slowly,
methodically unzipping my skirt, and within seconds it lies in a pool by my feet, joined
swiftly by my stockings and panties. I am now completely naked and exposed. I shiver,
feeling my cheeks flush perigot with modesty and frustration. I look away.

He steps away from me and reaches into his pocket again. What now, I think wildly.
What the hell is he doing now?

"Do you know what this is?" There is no need to reply. The answer is obvious. "Yes, it is
an artist's paintbrush. But it's not an ordinary one." He is holding it up close to my face
for me to look at. In spite of myself my eyes are drawn to it.

"This is called a fude. It's a paintbrush used by Japanese artists. Have you seen Japanese
art, my dear? It's quite beautiful, full of dimension and movement that is all produced by
the fude, which as you see is nicely tapered and wide with very soft bristles that are quite
flexible. The brush helps to produce beautiful images that are almost three dimensional.
Yes, the fude is a very important tool."

My mind is spinning. What is he talking about....why is he telling me about Japanese art

and artistic techniques, for God's sake...then suddenly, in a devastating revelation, I
realize his intentions. Oh dear lord, no, not even he could be that cruel. It's unthinkable.

"I wonder...with its soft bristles...what the fude might also be used for?"

My struggling begins anew but the restraints are devilishly strong. He stands very close
to me and I watch him flick his thumb over the bristles of the brush. His eyes never leave
my face. Damn him.

"Let's see. The feather we used before seemed to produce a delightful response earlier –
here, was it?" He strokes the fude against the side of my breast. "Or was it here?" Under
my arms. First one, then the other. He is spending much too much time there. Oh God,
please not there..."Or was it – here?" He is teasing my nipples now with the soft bristles
of the brush, incessantly and without mercy. I am being driven mad. The sensations it
produces leave me breathless. I don't think I can bear it this time. I am thrashing wildly
against the restraints, my breathing ragged.

"You are totally heartless," I whisper.

The fude is descending slowly down my belly.

"Yes, I am."

"And cruel."

"Yes."

"Callous."

"Agreed."

He is tickling my hips and buttocks with the brush. I feel myself growing wetter. I am
helpless against him, against his torture, against the restraints, against the rising heat that
is rushing over my whole body.

"Cold-blooded..."

"Yes."

It's on the inside of my thighs now, brushing lightly over the sensitive skin there, back
and forth, back and forth. Oh God, no. He wouldn't. He wouldn't dare....

But of course he does. I feel the tip of brush on my exposed slit and a scream escapes my
lips.

"Apparently," he says, dropping to his knees in front of me, "that tickling a victim's
genitals with an instrument like this is another form of exquisite torture. And it's
exquisite.." the brush is poised just over my throbbing clit... "because..." I feel the very
tip of the brush.."the sensations that the fude produces are just enough to arouse the
victim - but too delicate to produce an orgasm."

He has parted my lower lips with one hand and with the other is moving the brush slowly,
deliberately, maddeningly, over my soaking wet slit. Inserting it briefly into my heat, he
withdraws it and the brush, wet with my own juices, repeats the process over and over
and over again.

The fude teasing is indeed exquisite torture. My ability to resist is completely gone. He
has won. I begin to moan: deep, rasping moans that are being wrenched from my very
core. My very being.

"Do you know what that means, my dear?"

Finally, blessedly, he is tickling my clit, the feather-soft bristles dancing over the top,
around the side. Damn him, damn him, damn him! The brush is soft, hot, wet, and he
knows exactly how to use it. I am totally at his mercy.

"That means that the victim can be held on the very edge of orgasm while being subjected
to an almost endless barrage of teasing. Doesn't that sound intriguing?"

"No – "

"You don't think so?"

"Oh God, stop it, stop it...."

"Stop what?" The tempo of the brush tickling increases. "This?"

Now I am moaning, groaning, screaming, thrashing wildly against the restraints, doing
everything I can to move away from him. The fude's teasing is more than any human
being should every have to bear. But he has an iron grip on my hips with one arm and
with the other is slowly and very thoroughly driving me out of my mind with the delicate
brushing movements.

"Please – oh please, please, please stop it..." I am sobbing, imploring. "Stop it. I can't bear
it..."

"I like hearing you say those things," he says softly, the brush never ceasing its
movement. "Say more things for me."

"Oh God..."

"Beg for it."

"No, no, no..."

"Beg me. Come on."

Surely his hand will become tired...surely he will stop...please, please stop....

"No...Don't make me..."

"Beg for me, my dear. Now. Because I want to see you completely broken. "

"Oh, oh, ohhhhhhhhh...." My moan ends in a scream as he tickles my clit faster and faster
with the paintbrush. I am covered in sweat, a thrashing, wild animal, my hair plastered
against my face, writhing helplessly against the restraints. I am on the verge of orgasm. I
can feel it building inside me, hot and powerful, but he is right about the fude: the
sensations are too delicate to produce the satisfaction I need. And oh, dear God, how I
need it!

"Ohhhh yes, yes please, I'm begging you, please, yes please..."

"What do you want?"

"Ahhhhhh...oh, you bastard ...I'm on the edge. I need it. I need it! Oh God, oh please,
please I beg you...I want it..."

"Tell me what you want."

"You – you – ohhhhhhh – you know what I want, you bas – oh, fuck..."

"What, my sweet? What is it you want? More of this?" He moves the brush even faster
against my clit. "Is this what you want?"

"I need...need to cum. I need it, I need it, I need it..."

"I love seeing you like this."

I groan loudly in frustration. "Oh please I beg you, don't torture me any more! Please end
this – now – please!"

I look down at him kneeling before me and his eyes, sparkling, meet mine. He sees it; he
knows that he has vanquished me.

"I will – on one condition."

"Oh, oh, oh, anything, please, ANYTHING!" I am hanging from the restraints, my body
on fire, my mind beyond all reason.
"Tell me that you're sorry for being such a tease."

"I'm... I'm a..."

"Tell me and I'll end this torment. Tell me...."

Then in an instant I feel his tongue, hot and wet, against my clit, joining the brush. He is
flicking both against my core, stroking, tickling, swirling hotly. The effect is
instantaneous. I scream in pleasure and my hips begin to buck uncontrollably. My orgasm
begins at my very core and as it begins to sweep over me in a hot wave. Trembling, out of
control, I open my legs to his probing tongue.

"Yes, yes, oh God yes..." I can barely catch my breath. "I am a tease. I am a terrible tease.
I'm sorry....sorry...oh God I'm sorry..."

His hot fingers are inside me now, coaxing the orgasm from me. I cum hot and hard
against his hand and his mouth, then again, and again, screaming, moaning, babbling
incoherently, promising him that I will never tease him again, that I am so, so sorry,
begging him to forgive me, that I deserve to be punished, that he has subdued me, that....

Then, after what seems to be an eternity, my orgasms subside. My breathing is slowly

returning to normal. I'm completely spent. He has stood up and is standing behind me,
supporting my exhausted body against him, gently cupping my breasts and whispering
into my ear. His words fill me with dread.

"You've done very well," he says softly. "Let's see how you do in Round Two."

---

I do hope it was an enjoyable read, Jon. Yes... I suppose it's a tad longer than I'd
anticipated. =) Phew... What a marathon.