Feather

Slowly they begin to raise, pulling your arms up with them by your wrists. Realising it's leaving your breasts exposed and defenceless, and guessing that was my intention, you thrust your chest out with a smile. But that doesn't seem to be the reason, you realise, as they keep rising and slowly, you're drawn up on to the very tips of your toes, leaving you straining to keep contact with the ground. You stretch to you utmost for a moment or two before eventually the floor disappears beneath you and you are left suspended, swinging by your wrists. A moment later, ear plugs are gently pushed into your ears, leaving you unable to see or hear your environment. Short of smell, the only sense you have left is touch, the realisation of which leads to a thousand tiny hairs standing on end as your body tunes itself to this one sense.

Nothing happens. It may only be minutes, but it could be hours or days. Left as you are, unable to experience the world, time has no meaning. The only feeling is your weight on your arms, slowly starting to ache.

All of a sudden, a tiny point touches you. Your senses on edge, the sensation explodes across you, a bolt of lightning and a thousand tiny caresses at the same time. Then it disappears.

You moan, the loss of your one sensation is almost too much to bear. And then it's back. Light, soft, scratching. The tip of a feather, you realise. It begins to trace light patterns all over your body, running down your rips, across the curve of your stomach and down the taut inside of your left thigh. You try and struggle, to get closer, but suspended as you are, you can't find purchase on anything and simply swing uselessly. For a moment there's frustration, then it changes to warm relaxation, knowing I'm totally in control, but that's OK, that you're safe.

Down the feather travels, its path leaving trails of flame across skin that screams out for touch. Across the hard top of your foot, then racing back up. "Please, touch my pussy!" you think to yourself, in your soundless world not knowing if you actually said it, or just thought it. But it races up past. Over your stomach and ribs it dances, flicking across a breast, the touch leaving it tingling, then it's on to your throat. Around the side it dances, up behind your ear, to that exciting place that just cries out to be touched. Each touch there sends waves of warm arousal down to your crotch. And then it's moving again, over to your lips, where you strain to kiss it, to show what it's doing for you.

I let you press your lips against the feather for a moment, tasting, feeling, then move it down once more. A straight, unerring path, towards your crotch. As it reaches your mons, you strain against your weight, lifting your vagina up, offering it to the touch. The feather just misses, barely skirting your labia, with it's trails of fire, before reaching the inside of your right thigh. Up and down it strokes, building sensation, building the warms that's growing inside you. Another sensation joins the touch, that of wetness, as your vagina gently moistens.

You strain, again and again, trying to get it to touch you where you want it, where you need it but it just doesn't work. Tears of frustration form beneath the blindfold and you plead for release. Whether I respond is impossible to tell in your dark, soundless world, certainly the feather doesn't do what you want it to.

Just as it's all about to become too much, when you're sure you cant take it any more, in a single flick the feather shoots up to your clitoris, the feeling exploding across you, plunging you into a swirling orgasm. As you regain your grip on reality, you realise your legs have been lifted, your thighs over my shoulders... my face buried deep into you, working you closer and closer to another...

**orgasm**