Part 3: The Tables Turned
“So what is it, exactly?” she asked.
“It’s a bit of bondage kit I have been restoring for a friend,” my boyfriend replied as Emma paced around the wooden structure that had clearly once been a barrel. Only now it had been cut down to around half its height and sported ominously padded holes on its front, side and top. Really, Emma should have been able to figure it out. After all, she had seen a fair few things since she joined me and my boyfriend in our B&D games. But there are times when she displays a sense of ignorance that borders on the ridiculous, and after all the things she has done to my boyfriend, she should have been on her guard. But she wasn’t, and soon she would be paying the price. And I was glad I was going to be there to see it.
By the time I arrived at the outside of the door and started peering through the crack she had already kicked off her shoes and was being shown the simply shaped seat inside the lowest of the barrel sections. The mightily skimpy and heavily flared miniskirt that showed her magnificent legs to damn near her crotch left nothing to the imagination as she settled back into that seat and followed his instructions to place her ankles into the thickly padded cut-outs in front of her, and didn’t even raise a murmur when he slipped the next section of the barrel into place over them, the padding on the top sections of the cut-outs grasping her ankles in a tight but cunningly comfortable grip that seemed to bother her not a jot, her curiosity at the final purpose of the device clouding her mind to the peril she was in.
He always was a silver tongued devil my boyfriend, capable of taking me into all sorts of ‘interesting’ situations, and it looked as if Emma was going to follow me into falling under the influence of his soft yet oh so convincing voice. And as I watched as she placed her wrists into the padded cut-outs at the side of that converted barrel, and watched with a look of detached curiosity as he placed the last vertical section in place and the matching padded cut-outs on the upper section grasped her wrists in a warm yet implacable grip from which there was no escape. From the moment that upper section was clipped silently into place, she was lost.
And I should know. That evil converted barrel had been the first piece of real bondage furniture I had been introduced to, and it still held terrible memories for me. OK, so that’s an exaggeration. They were really fun memories afterwards, but at the time I thought I was being subjected to the most evil tortures known to man. And now it looked as if Emma was about to follow in my footsteps.
“Hi Emma, enjoying yourself?” I asked as I stepped around the half open door, and as her head whipped around he slipped the rear half of the barrel’s top into place behind her head, lovingly lifting her long red ponytail clear of the padded circle designed to hold her neck.
“Mum!” she yelped, “How long have you been there?”
“Long enough” I replied as he gently lifted her chin with a single fingertip and snapped the last semicircle of woodwork into place, and Emma suddenly realized that the padding had taken a firm grip on her lovely neck, and she tried to move her head.
Now, for all it’s faults, the barrel stocks, pirated from a web site and improved slightly by my boyfriend, soon make their presence felt. No matter how hard you struggle you are absolutely their prisoner until someone chooses to let you out, and as you can quite happily move our hands and feet about it is one of the most frustrating bondage devices known to man. Because no matter how hard you tug and flap, your wrists and ankles are held tightly in a firm and yielding but utterly unforgiving grip. And my boyfriend knew how to make the best of the situation. And I was looking forward to someone else getting the treatment. Oh yes, this was going to be worth watching.
“Are you sitting comfortably?” has asked as he took a black bag down from the shelf, “Because then we can begin.”
“Begin what?” snapped Emma as she struggled back and forth as far as the stocks would allow her. And that wasn’t far. Her hands and feet moved in the small circles the stocks allowed them, and her head twisted back and forth, but she was going nowhere.
“One of the most enjoyable things about these rather interesting stocks” he said as if she had not spoken, “Is the way they present your feet to the person outside them!” He gave one of her big toes a tweak for emphasis, “And I have accumulated the right tools to make best use of that fact.”
He reached into the bag and started to take out his ‘tools’, and Emma went very quiet as he produced his three favourite implements to use on any person trapped within his barrel stocks.
“First we have the good old feather duster,” he said as he brandished a luridly pink concoction of very fluffy ostrich feathers, “just the thing to get the attention of a pair of bare, unprotected soles. Then there is this.” As he produced the very long and pointed pheasant tail feather, “For a more precise approach. Just the thing for getting into all those tight little corners the duster might miss!” Emma was watching the pointed tip waving back and forth in his hand as if hypnotised. “And then there is this little horror.” he said, extracting a simple household toothbrush from the depths of his bag, and Emma finally lost it.
She fought the tight grip of the stocks like a demon. Feet and hands swirled madly, and her head twisted back and forth, just as mine had done the first time, but there was no escape.
Finally, her fair skin flushed and a delicate sheen of sweat glistening on her features, she ceased her struggles and fixed me with a glare that foretold of words later. And the smile of my boyfriends face told me that he had forgotten that sometime I allowed her an upper hand over him, and that maybe, just maybe, he would come to regret being too energetic in his treatment of her.
Carefully setting aside the latter two instruments, my boyfriend took up the feather duster and asked Emma if she had any last words. When she looked up at him with a bemused look on her face he simply reached down and brought the feather duster into contact with the soles of her feet. Then he started to swish it back and forth like the pendulum of an old clock.
I remembered the feelings all too well. At first you wondered what was going to happen, as the caress of all those feathers was not unpleasant, especially as you would move your feet around. But after a couple of minutes you found that there was a slow, insidious effect as those feathers came at your bare feet from every angle, there was no getting away from them, and after a couple of minutes more you started to realise that they really were tickling you. And the more you tried to keep a straight face, the more the giggles started to build up. And once the giggles got out, it was only a matter of seconds before you were absolutely helpless with laughter as the tickling started to consume your very being. And all the time that feather duster keep sweeping back and forth, adding to the pressure on your system.
Emma always had a delightful laugh, and as the duster brushed constantly back and forth in a terrible, regular rhythm I heard lots of it. Laughs long and hearty, and I was moved to smile as I watched her feet twisting within their restraints, desperately seeking relief from those terrible feathers. Her hands clenched and unclenched repeatedly where they stuck out at shoulder level; as if they might somehow be able to have some effect on the torment she was suffering.
Soon there were tears running down her face, and every part of her visible skin wore a delightful flush of red, from the roots of her red hair to the very tips of her toes. And still that evil duster swished back and forth.
Then, unbelievably, I heard an undercurrent to her laughter, a harder, huskier note. The little bitch was going to come, at the hands of my boyfriend. Just for a moment I was insanely jealous, and wanted to be in her place. Completely restrained and at his tender mercy. And then I remembered how it had been for me the first time, how I had come like a steam train, and I felt a warm glow for her. Knowing she was going to experience feelings like she had never done before, and might never again until she met that really special person who knew all the right buttons to press. Truly, she was her mother’s daughter.
When the shrieks had died down, and the duster was no longer being plied, Emma looked up at him with an expression that mixed awe with fear. She was soaking in sweat; her big blue eyes peered out from under a plastered fringe.
“Please,” she whispered “No more. I’ll do anything you want, but no more.”
“But I can already do everything I want!” he said softly, the pheasant feather already in his hand. “Why should I stop now?”
“Anything you want,” she breathed, “You can have me. Sleep with me. Fuck me. Tie me. Whip me. Enslave me. I don’t care. Just no more.”
“I might just have something to say about that, young lady,” I said, stepping forwards and taking the feather from my boyfriend’s unresisting grasp. “How dare you offer yourself to my boyfriend without asking my permission.”
“No mum, please, I didn’t mean it, please, no more.”
“Lying now is it?” I cried, really getting into my stride “I think you should be punished for that, don’t you?”
There were real tears running down her face as I knelt in front of her and the tip of the feather reached towards her desperately twisting soles. Then there were shrieks as that tiny but oh so probing tip touched the top of that long, sensuous curve that runs down the sole of the foot. A very tender and sensitive curve which that long feather seemed custom made to torment. And with an evil grin on my face (So my boyfriend told me afterwards) I started with move the very tip of that feather up and down that crease, flicking back and forth in tiny movements to make the most of the torment I was inflicting.
The screams mingled with the laughter as the feather kept moving. A completely different sensation from the sweeping, all encompassing torment of the feather duster. The pheasant feather was a very specific tickling, every sensation concentrated on the single point where it touched. One that could be directed to any point of the body in other circumstances, but right now it was driving Emma quite literally up the wall.
That second orgasm came faster than the first, and judging by the sounds she made at her climactic moment of release, it was far deeper than the first. And afterwards she fell quite limp in the grasp of the stocks. Hands and feet dangling, head rolled back, small sobbing sounds coming from her barely parted lips. Her eyes closed, the lids fluttering. I was reaching for the toothbrush when I felt his hand on my shoulder. I looked up at him, and he gave his head a barely perceptible shake. She had had enough. And he was probably right.
“Save it for the next time” he said softly as he reached for the clamps that held to top in place “There is always going to be a next time.”
21.08.06
story continues in My Daughter's Revenge
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