It also stops you from hiding your face. I can’t overstate the psychological impact of this upon your ordeal. When your ineffectual struggling achieves nothing, the realisation that you’re inescapably mine to tickle, tickle, tickle for the next few hours fully dawns on you - and your next instinct is to shield your face behind your hands, arms, a pillow etc. Anything to cling to some shred of dignity by withholding your furious blush and tangled hair, your gaping, roaring mouth and panic-stricken eyes from my ravenous gaze.
Not happening. Not in this or any other reality. I’m here to bear witness to every quantum of sensation coursing through your body and drink it in. How I delight in your self-betrayal - the stiffening of your legs and widening of your eyes that tell me to stroke you this way instead of the other way. The attempt to bargain that dissolves into incoherent wailing as my fingertips unearth an area I’d only intended to skate over for an instant but will now spend the next several minutes tormenting.
Most of all, though, it’s the glory of staring straight into the heart of who you really are as you writhe in the throes of my onslaught. Professionalism, courtesy, tact, presentation, guile, performance, shrewdness … all of them impossible here and now. All of your masks, projections and veneers melt away one by one until I’m left with this, this tornado of feral shrieks and sizzling nerve endings, this singular, transcendent creature of wild abandon and flawless purity unlike anything else in existence. You, truly so, entirely transparent, inexorably genuine, for the first time in far too long. Those who enjoy bondage understand that it isn’t about restraint.
tangentwithtanner
discoholicmusic
kianamaiart
baratheonpilled
blakekathryn
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origamiaround
