Dimitri lowers the neck arch, securing my head, but he removes the one lower down and places my ankles in the side-attached cuffs instead. When they are secure, but not too tight, he pulls them out, notch by notch, until my legs are well spread. This process is repeated with my wrists, so that I am a secured starfish, unable to move or raise my head. The neck arch prevents me from seeing what is actually happening lower down my body. If Dimitri moves beyond my hips, or crouches down, I can’t see what he is doing to me. He could do anything. I wouldn’t know until he was doing it.
My cunt spasms and I know I am wet and ready. There is nothing I can do but stare at the ceiling. At the hooks attached to beams that run beneath the ceiling. Interesting.
I hear his footsteps. He is back at that cupboard. There is much metallic rattling and some ruminative tutting.
I don’t see him walk back, I just hear him. His footsteps stop somewhere near my left set of toes.
‘What are you going to do to me?’ I have to ask.
‘Something really terrible,’ he says.
A barely there ticklish sensation wisps over my toes. I wiggle them and flex my foot. The ticklishness re-sites itself to my instep and I gasp, trying in vain to yank my foot away.
‘No!’ I squeal. ‘You can’t do this!’
He appears by my head, brandishing a black marabou feather duster. ‘Oh yes I can. I can do anything. You can’t stop me.’
He sings the words, then glides back down, dusting me thoroughly and maddeningly, up my legs to the knees, then across my convulsing stomach, beneath my helpless armpits, over my stiffening nipples. Then over them again. And again.
He flutters those feathers so teasingly and so well that I feel my spine twist like an angry snake, working so hard and so pointlessly at removing me from the source of my aggravation.
‘Oh, Dimitri, noooo.’ The duster is swishing along my inner thighs. I jolt up and down, lifting my bottom from the leather, but he just darts the feathers underneath and the tickle trickles along the crack of my arse instead. I lower it abruptly, hoping to trap the damn thing, but he whips it out and reapplies it to my spread and juicy pussy lips.
‘I hope that thing’s clean,’ I say, suddenly panicked.
‘Relax, it’s cool. We put all the used toys in a bag and take them to reception after. They are good with cleanness.’
‘Cleanliness.’
‘Yes, that. You correct me, you get extra tickle.’
I scream as he flicks the thing from side to side of my pussy lips, rapidly and without mercy. My clit must be enormous by now; I picture it catching the feathers with its sticky juices, so they are stuck fast and can’t tickle me any more.
But before that can happen, the feather duster is discarded.
‘Did that feel nice?’ he wants to know, but his tone is devilish.
‘I hate tickling!’ I pout. ‘Thanks for stopping though.’
‘You hate it?’ I feel his fingers splay high up on my inner thigh, almost on my outer labia. ‘Not so much. This is very wet here.’
‘It’s not.’ I don’t know why I feel compelled to lie. Something about being so helpless and restrained makes me want to assert myself by being contrary.
Dimitri simply laughs. ‘OK, it’s not. If you say so. What is next? You are wondering?’
‘Of course. What is it? Is it nice?’
‘You tell me.’
I hear a squirting sound, and then his fingers rubbing something into my breasts and around my nipples and …
‘Oh God, that’s freezing cold! Oh God! So cold it burns!’ I feel my nipples contract and my whole body shiver under his touch. ‘You aren’t going to put it …?’
A dot of it lands on my clit, travelling by fingertip.
The icy torment spreads from that tiny apex outwards until eventually there is a blessed numbing.
But not for long. A second lubricant or lotion is introduced, my clitoris circled with the stuff, warming it up, and up and up.