Penalized Member

When he could finally no longer see Annelie's feet, he discovered the person sitting next to him was asking him a question. It was a lady named Petra.

"Så hur är det inatt? Trivs du? Skoj, va?"

He turned to her. She was asking if he'd been having fun tonight.

"Huh? Sorry, I—" He mentally switched languages. "Förlåt, vad då?"

She repeated the question. She spoke slowly and clearly enough for him to understand.

"Åh—åh, ja!" he quickly confirmed. "Javisst! Mycket skoj. Tack."

Except of course for that little nagging sensation coming from just below the midsection.

***

March 22nd, 10:50 p.m.

Mark had conversed with Petra for a little while, and when she rose to visit ändstationen, he got up himself and chose a seat instead facing in the opposite direction with Pär, Lena and a couple other friends of theirs. The hours wore on, leaving fewer and fewer guests all the time, every several minutes bringing another up from their seat, into Annelie's powerful embrace, and out the door.

At ten minutes to eleven, apart from the hostess herself, it was down to Mark, Pär and Lena, and another couple, Micke and Jenny Lundström. And the Lundströms were about to bid farväl themselves.

Lena yawned. "Oj, käre, jag börjar bli lite trött jag med," she said to Pär, telling him that she was starting to get pretty tired herself. They exchanged hugs and goodbyes, and the Lundströms hit the road as Pär and Lena made sure they had all their things.

"Så, hur gick det?" Pär asked Mark how it went. "Fattade du det vi alla sa till dig?"

He wanted to know if Mark was able to understand everyone.

"Ja, mer eller mindre," ('Yeah, more or less') Mark nodded. He may not have been able to get every word, but he was getting better, he told them.

"Jag förstod inte allting, men jag bli bättre."

"Jaha, du menar du blir bättre," Lena smiled, correcting his verb tense.

Annelie pranced back in from the kitchen (still barefoot). "Hej hej!" she said. "Sista gäster! Hoppas ni alla hade det helt underbart!" ('My last guests! I hope you all just had a wonderful time!') she grinned. The Nybergs replied accordingly. Annelie turned to Mark and slowed down her pace for him.

"Vad sägs om det, Mark? Hade du det bra?" ('How about it, Mark, have a good one?')

Mark pressed his hands together and brought them to his face, as if saying a prayer. He meant it to appear just an idle gesture, but it was really so he couldn't see her feet. "Åh, javisst!" he assured her. "Jättebra!"

As he slipped on his coat, Annelie heard something clatter to the floor. "Åh, fan," ('Oh, hell') she muttered under her breath, trotting back to the kitchen. She threw a wave back to them.

"Vi ses senare, tack så mycket för ni kom!" ('See ya later, thanks so much for coming!')

Bidding their final adieus, they made their way back to the door. "Oroa er inte för dem, dem sköter jag," Annelie said. Referring to the serving bowls in which they'd brought their dishes, she told the Nybergs not to worry about them, she'd run them through the washer and return them at another time. She first set about to taking care of the object which had caused the clattering sound.

It was a steel serving spoon. She'd tossed it into one of the bowls on the counter a few moments ago, just so that it took these few moments to unsteady itself enough to eventually tumble back out and drop to the floor, splattering some sauce on the tiles. She tore off some paper towels to tend to it.

Pär and Lena exited. Right behind them, Mark turned back to give Annelie one more farewell. Then he froze.

With the roll of paper towels on the floor beside her, Annelie had turned her back to the door, knelt down, and was wiping up the sauce. When Mark looked back at her, there in her ankle-hugging jeans were the soles of her size 9 feet, staring back at him.

He had always wished he'd been able to turn this lousy foot fetish on and off like a light switch—he'd likely just leave it off all the time—but never more than right now. He was captivated. He could not...take his eyes...off of them. They were facing upwards from the floor, curled and wrinkled up. And after another moment, the scene became even more irresistible to his eyes, as she stretched to reach the next couple of tiles, lifting one leg, flexing its foot and propping it up on the toes. Both soles remained visible, one curled and one now flexed. Mark was still captivated, unable to look away.

"Mark?" he heard one of them call to him from outside.

He reflexively turned back to see Pär and Lena waiting for him.

"I-I'll be there in just a minute," he called out, just loud enough for them to hear. Turning back to Annelie again, she was still finishing picking the sauce up from the floor with the paper towels. Mark slid the door a few more degrees closed behind him. He...

His breathing and his heartbeat picked up just watching her. His slacks now did grip him tighter around the waist, and the blood in his thighs did begin to seek their new locale. He...

Oh, he hated himself for what he was about to do...but his better judgment had already become badly impaired. His brain was shouting at him, demanding to know what the hell was wrong with him as his hand wandered into his left pants pocket for his phone...she still had some wiping up to do. He had silently activated it and quickly navigated its menu to open its camera.

His hand was shaking as he inched back in her direction, focusing it. His finger rested on the button to snap the picture, and he was just about to press it, when by some miracle of good common sense, his rational mind managed to break through to his cognizance with a conscient, incredulous, What are you DOING??!

Indeed. What was he doing?! He couldn't do this! It was depraved! It was just wrong! Put the phone away! his mind shouted at him. Just put it away and leave! Deal with it later!

And he was just about to do just that, when Annelie abruptly finished wiping up her floor, saw him out of the corner of her eye and turned her head to his direction.

"Mark?"

He gasped. Her sudden awareness of his residual presence and...uh-oh...its actual purpose as well?...startled him, and his finger spasmed on the button. The phone's camera snapped...audibly, to his embarrassment and guilt.

That was right, he had forgotten to turn the sound off. He reddened as his heartbeat intensified further still and the blood in his own feet ran cold. He'd decided against the act, but just a second too late, and now he had been caught in it anyway.

Seeing and hearing what she did, Annelie's face turned suspicious as she slowly stood up. "Vhat...are you doing?" she desired to know, addressing him in the language he understood perfectly.

"Uhhh..." he stammered, feeling a column of cold sweat riding down his forehead to land on his left eyebrow. His gut reaction was of course to say, "Nothing!" and shove the phone back into his pocket, but like a deer caught in headlights, he just stood stock-still, silent and motionless.

Annelie's wary eyes made their way from his phone up to his shame-ridden face, and then straight downwards...widening at what they saw. His pants had, yes, bulged in the front. She looked him in the face again.

"Verr you just taking picture of me?" Her English grammar may not have been perfect, but nothing mattered less at the moment.

Mark did and said nothing still, managing only to shut his mouth and gulp.

She inched on him. "You verr, veren't you?"

He forced himself to utter out some sounds. "I...I, um...uh—"

"Let me see your phone."

His feet were freezing, but his ears were burning. His stomach was starting to push his share of the smörgåsbord back upwards. She proceeded to take hold of his hand with the phone, turned it to see, and saw the still shot.

She gazed back at him with a quizzical expression. "You verr taking picture of my feet?"

Mark guiltily looked at the floor in front of him. Then he realized that was a mistake, as he was still looking in the direction of her feet, and looked off in the other direction, turning almost maroon in the face.

"Vhat is 'dis?" she asked sternly.

There was no point in trying to deny it; there it was, right them in front of them. He shut his eyes. "I'm...I'm sorry," he murmured. "I...I didn't mean t—...I swear, I didn't mean—"

"Yes, vell, vhedder you 'meant' to or not, you did, Mark."

She was staring at him with a strict look on her goddess-like face. He didn't know what to do. It was the scariest moment he could remember—at least in his recent past. A moment later, he heard his name again, from outside. Pär and Lena.

Annelie stepped around him. "You, stay right 'derr, Mark," she told him authoritatively. She slipped outside a moment, just to call to Pär and Lena. Not wanting Mark to be able to know what she was telling them for the moment, she spoke quickly.

"Allt är okej. Ni får gå. Han stannar lite kvar. Honom skjutsar jag hem själv." ('Everything's all right, you can go. He's gonna stay a little bit longer. I'll take him home.')

The Nybergs agreed and left. When Mark saw her come back inside and heard the car pull away, he became more worried.

"W—...what's going on?"

She shut the door and locked it. "Vhat's going on, is 'dat you're going be sticking around a little vhile, Mark."

Okay, he was becoming frightened now. "...Why?"

Annelie suddenly took him by the shoulders and spun him in the direction of the stairs. She possessed impressive upper body potency, and while Mark Numan may have been a lot of things, overweight he was not. Not even close. At 5'9", he was 165 pounds. And also at 5'9", Annelie Svenningsson was 138 pounds. It wasn't the most difficult task in the world to march him through her house to the staircase and make him ascend to the second floor.

"So I can show you vhat happens vhen you do 'ting like 'dat in my house," she finally answered him.

"...Where are we going?" he ventured to ask as they approached the top of the stairs.

"You see..." she assured him. Taking his arm, she steered him in the direction she wanted him to go. "'Dis vay," she guided him.

Annelie took him into her bedroom. Pretty spacious, it was, lined with bookcases, a dresser and bureau, a closet that covered three-quarters of one wall, numerous photos adorning the walls, a desk with a rolling chair, and some of the other standard bedroom staples. Her king-size bed sat in the middle. Once they were both inside, she clicked on a lamp beside the bedpost that offered a modest amount of light. She took his arm and gestured him towards the bed. "Sit!" she commanded, as if disciplining a dog. "Stay."

Once he did, Annelie went to the closet to dig through a few boxes until she found what she was looking for. "Ah, here vee go," Mark heard her utter. Concealing what she had in her hands, she turned back to Mark. The next thing she seized was his wrists. She brought them back up on the mattress behind him, pulling him down on his back on it.

"W-what...what are you doing??" he asked.

"Teaching you your lesson," she stated matter-of-factly.

Mark didn't like the way this was looking at all. Once they were within reach of the headboard, she climbed up on the bed to better carry it all out. She had grabbed a handful of old neckties from the closet that used to belong to her ex-husband. She wrapped one of them around his wrists, binding them together, and threaded it around the headboard.

"Oh my G—wha—hey! What ar—" Mark couldn't get a coherent exclamation out.

When she was done with his hands, she looked to his pants. Yup, the bulge was still there. She smirked and chuckled to herself. This was going to be a fun little night for this boy, she thought. She readjourned to her closet and grabbed one of her own cameras, which stood on a fold-out tripod. Mark stared at her in fright as she set it up at just the right angle and started it rolling, only able to figure she was just returning the favor.

She stepped out from behind the camera once it was rolling. "So!" she addressed him. "You like 'dese feet 'den, do you, Mark?"

He didn't say anything. The guilt was causing a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He tried to look away.

"Don't look avay," she said strictly. He turned back to her. "Look at me. I am talking to you." She eyed him intimidatingly. She put one of her feet up on the mattress and showed it to him. "You like 'dem?" she inquired again. "Like 'dese feet?"

His erection was yearning and shouting for release. He swallowed with anxiety staring at her foot, the bare Swedish right foot in front of him, with its moderately high arch, its silky skin, its toes, not too short and not too long, with the almost invisible light pink nail polish. The next thing she did was smooth the sole over his right bound arm, over his head, arousing him even further still.

He was breathing heavy and hard. She again looked to see him practically bursting out of his slacks. She turned back to his face.

"I 'tought so," she confirmed, in a voice dripping with sticky malice. "I knew you have foot fetish...don't you?"

He had no idea why he shook his head and muttered, "No," in response to this question with such patent evidence to the contrary.

She laughed. "Yes, you do! Jo, de é klart du gör det! ('Yes, of course you do!') Don't lie for me! I saw your cock get hard like stone!" she declared. "I saw it right 'trough your pants!"

He reddened at her reference to his stiff penis. He was turned on even by her thick accent. The word she said the word "cock" almost sounded like "Coke." Under his slacks it heard her mention it and twitched a little bit in her direction.

Her smile turned evil looking at his crotch. "Do you know vhat happens to naughty young men whose cocks don't behave 'demselves?" she asked him.

He turned away from her direction with a silent sigh. How frustrating. Again, WHY? Why, why, why me? He thought about attempting to explain to her that no cocks "behaved 'demselves," that they stiffened and softened involuntarily—sometimes completely idly, hell, sometimes unconsciously in the middle of sleeping—and that he didn't want to be sexually drawn to her feet, that he never asked for that, and that it wasn't up to him, and...and...but he didn't. He was pretty sure it was pointless.

"Vell, you're about to." She crossed her arms. "And you're in my house, so I decide vhat happens to you."

She wasn't going to waste much time if any at all. She ascended the bed and straddled his legs. She slowed her speech down and lowered her voice to an ominous whisper. "Gör nu som den snälla damen säger, och ligg still, pojk."

('Now do as the nice lady says, and hold still, my boy.')

Preoccupied as his mind was, he still caught enough of that to get the gist. He couldn't, however, stop his mouth from protesting as she began to undo his pants at the button.

"Oh, no, no, please don't!" he beseeched, rising his head from the mattress. "Don't! I-I'm-I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!" Much as his member was crying to be set free, his mind was doing its best to override—even though the decision wasn't his at this point.

She ignored him, sliding down the zipper and grabbing the hem around the waist. "Too little, too late."

She slid her hands in the back to tug the slacks down around his ass. Down they came.

His aforementioned stone-hard cock catapulted into the air. All that was missing was the implied sproi-oi-oing! sound effect.

His body filled with fright and uneasiness as he felt the air on it. She paused yanking them down his legs to contentedly—and victoriously—grin down on him.

"Vell...vell...vell..." she sneered, her sinister voice intensifying and deepening. "Vhat have vee here 'den?..."

A rhetorical question, of course, serving only to mess with the young man. But the vocal taunting remained benign compared to the sensation he felt which accompanied the word "here": a hard scrape of her fingernail up the shaft of his cock.

His head went back as he let out a petrified gasp. "OH, God..." he moaned.

He heard a spiteful version of her previously affable chuckle. He shivered.

The next thing he heard her say was, "And now 'dat you can't move 'dose legs..."

She got up off of him, pulled off his shoes and socks next, and finally tugged the slacks the rest of the way off, so that he was now completely naked from the waist down. Retrieving the other neckties where she'd dropped them, she bound his ankles down to either side of the foot of the bed.

"Hmmm..." Annelie purred, having finished tying him up. "How pretty...just 'de vay every handsome young man should be: tied up...naked...diamond-hard cock."

Mark's heart was pounding, but his mind did step outside the whirlwind of fear long enough to process what she had said. He took one moment out to consider, ...You think I'm handsome?

But he didn't have time to ponder this possibility very long. He heard Annelie open a drawer in the bureau by the door where some old odds and ends were kept. A second later the drawer was closed, and she pulled out the rolling chair from the desk.

Positioning the chair beside the bed, diagonally facing Mark, she explained to him, "I've got a new vun of 'dese, but 'dis little gadget still verks, my young lad." She didn't show him what it was just yet, though.

"All right 'den," she sighed, sitting in the chair. "You vant to look at my feet?" She leered at him and threw her feet up on the mattress, legs crossed at the tightly-hugged ankles, soles facing him. "Go ahead. Take a good, long...long...look."

Mark didn't know what was happening, just as she didn't want him to. He thought she was going to punish him for his indiscreet action, not seemingly...reward him for it. Or was she keeping him fixated on her for a different, ulterior reason?

She wiggled her toes. "You enjoying 'dat, Mark?" She chuckled, highly enjoying it herself. He just stared at them, cock retaining a full erection, as he figured she wanted him to, not knowing what else to do.

"It seems 'dat you are," she went on. "Let's see, 'den, how you enjoy 'dis."

She raked his impossibly hard dick with her nails, waving her feet back and forth at him. His eyes rolled back as his chest started lightly heaving and his vision became fuzzy.

"Tell me some'ting, Mark," he heard Annelie say, scratching his cock up and down as his eyes fluttered open and closed. "Have you ever...'tought about my feet before?" She wiggled them again. "Or...pictured 'dem, maybe?"

He was having trouble sorting his thoughts anymore, his heart beating much faster to sustain his pulsating erection, being tantalized by Annelie's wicked nails. Her voice echoed in his dizzy mind.

"Maybe even..."

He felt a squeeze as the hot skin of her hand fastened around his erection. She switched the language, just for the fun of it.

"...runka kuken medan å tänka på dem?" ('...wank your cock thinking about them?')

Mark stopped groaning in a mixture of pleasure and agony long enough to utter, "Oh, God...please..."

Her smile darkened. "You have, haven't you?"

All he could do was lie there, caught in her clutch, writhing and whimpering.

"You've sat alone at home, fucking your hand, to imagine how my feet look...just vanking and vanking your dick...over and over...vondering if you ever get 'de chance to actually see 'dem."

His back arched as her grip on him tightened and loosened.

"It probably feels like your dream comes true right now?" she asked in a haunting voice.