Melting the Ice Princess

"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, 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, don't you dare...."

Too late. His hand is back between my legs. Slowly, deliberately, he strokes the 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 he pushes one finger inside me. My knees buckle and I sag against him. 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. 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 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 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.

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.

"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."

"Oh God, no....nooooooooo..not that..."

"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 mastered 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."