The Feather

Fresh from the shower you walk into your bedroom. A towel wrapped around you -- covering your breasts but barely reaching below the juncture of your thighs. Not that this matters. You are alone. Or so you think.

You sit on the edge of the bed and then ... as it a slight sound? Was it a movement in the air? Was it a familiar scent wafting elusively into your awareness.

A hand closes over your mouth and a voice whispers in your ear. 'Do not scream, do not cry out.' Strangely, you are not worried. The voice seems somewhat familiar ... but you are not entirely sure.

A dark silk scarf slips down over your eyes and the ends are tied behind your head. With your sense of sight removed other senses are heightened and you hear the sounds of movement in the room. Are you alone with one person, or more? You wonder. Will you ever know? Is your captor a man or a woman? You are not completely sure.

The hand removed from your mouth takes your hand and raises you up to your feet. You feel the towel being tugged, released and then tossed aside.

Silence. You wait, standing there. Naked. You know that you are being watched, observed, scrutinised. You know that your body is not one which would grace the pages of the fashion magazines strewn in the corners of your room. You do not have the discipline or the insane drive for self deprivation to achieve that kind of waif-like appearance. Yet you wonder if you will be found beautiful desirable. All you can hear is a low 'mmmmm' of appreciation, tinged with desire.

Without the benefit of sight you do not know where your captor is, or what will happen next. The sudden wet teasing of tongue and lips on your breasts brings your nipples into immediate erect attention. A finger tracing from the top of your head down, down, down, across your nose, over your lips -- with which you offer a kiss as the finger passes, down over your throat and into the valley between your breasts.

The finger continues tracing downwards, dipping briefly into your belly button, then continuing the journey. You spread your legs slightly as the finger traces a line down across your mons then slides between the moistened lips of your pussy. A moment's hesitation. It is as if the finger is held there, cannot continue its journey, as if it longs to stay and play and tease, yet down it continues, running along the inside of your thigh until it reaches your ankle.

The up the other leg the finger climbs, revisiting each place which was encountered on the downward journey. Pausing where pauses seem to add to the trembling which is beginning to overtake your body.

When reaching the crown of your head again there is another pause, another short time of waiting, another exquisite moment of awareness of being observed and adored.

A hand takes yours once again and leads you across towards the bed, lying you down in the centre of the softness there.

Your arms and legs are arranged spreadeagled, each pointing towards a corner of the bed -- and then you realise why.

Silk scarves are tied around your wrists and ankles -- not too tight that they would damage or hurt you in any way, but not too loose so that you could remove them by your own will. You realise from the sounds and movement that each scarf has been tied to a post at each of the compass points of the bed, the corners defining the space in which you lie. You are now more captive and more vulnerable, yet you are not afraid. The gentleness so far reassures you that this will be an offering for mutual pleasure.

You lie there, open and exposed. You can feel that your breasts are pointing to the ceiling and that your arousal will be evident in the hardness of your nipples. You can feel that the light touches even to this point have made your pussy begin to react, and that your legs spread wide will be revealing the glistening wetness there.

You wait, wondering what it it that your captor will do for you, to you, with you.

A light touch across your nipple. It was not tongue or lip or any other body part. A light touch across the other nipple. If it is possible both are now even more erect than before. The touch continues, swirls, teases.

You realise that your captor has a feather, and with this feather is sweeping the tendrils across your body.

Across you cheeks the feather glides. Your face and throat are painted with patterns unseen yet so vividly felt. The feather swirls around and around your breasts, drawing lines of ascent over and over again upwards to your nipples, circumnavigating your flesh, spiralling up and down. You have never had such long and loving and careful attention given to your breasts, and they begin to ache with longing for a firmer touch.

Long slow brush strokes sweep down each of your arms, easing between each finger then tickling slightly as it runs up again on the inside of your arm.

The feather continues to dance across your body, and your writhing makes the patterns of the dance spin into loops and whirls. A pirouette across and around and into your belly button is in counterpoint to the broad swathes brushed across your belly. The feather is enticing you into waves of passion, lighting you up from the bed to which you are secured. It as if you are hovering several inches above the bed -- you are so enthralled with the simple light touch of this one feather.

Down your thighs the feather slides to entice your ankles and dive between your toes. Up, up again lightly touching the soft skin of your inner thigh.

It is all you can to prevent the cries from echoing around the room. Ecstasy. All from the lightest touch upon your body.

Knowing the one area of your exposed body which has not yet received attention, as far as possible, you bend your knees and draw your thighs a little further apart. Your pussy is like a precious lotus flower, each movement creates the sensation and appearance of a petal opening.

With a tenderness which reveals the love with which the feather is dancing attendance upon you, the tendrils begin to touch. Light caresses. Barely contacting and yet each small movement sends shivers through your whole body.

Up and down, up and down the feather drifts. It is a gentle rhythm, matching the beating of her heart. And that beat her captor knows and can see for her naked body is pulsing with the beat, a sound almost audible alongside the heaviness of her breathing.

Yet, unlike the smooth transition of the feather across her skin as it had traversed all other parts of her body, the feather's progress is now slower and slightly impeded. For it has become soaked with her juices. She is wet with desire and this desire has seeped out to flood the lips of her pussy, and has soaked into the feather which is itself increasing the effect of the waves rising within.

Around her exposed and raised clitoris the feather spins and circles, for a moment, for an age, for an eternity, the only touch upon her body if the tuft of the feather teasing and tweaking her clitoris .. over and over and over again.

The tsunami of desire rises. The feather has down its job. The teasing and tantalising touch has brought her to the peak and the waves finally crash onto the shore, flooding and churning. She writhes in ecstasy and moans with absolute pleasure -- all from the touch of a simple feather.

What will he do with this treasure. She senses, she hears that he has taken the feather and a small sound alerts her to the fact the he is smelling her arousal on this created treasure, formed from her pleasure, formed from own body's offering to him? Perhaps he will keep it as a reminder of this moment -- to take and waft beneath his nose whenever the thought of her is once again to be allowed to overwhelm him.

As she lies there, satiated, yet still trembling. Satisfied, yet still hoping for more ... she waits.

What will come next?