The Price of Three Cookies (F/m) part 2 finale

[Bondageboi]

"Stop fidgeting, Liam," Della sighed, adjusting her tights where they pinched above her knee. "You're making the whole porch swing squeak."

The boy froze, toes curling against worn wood grain. He'd been trying to see past the hydrangea bushes without turning his head. Mrs. Abernathy next door always yelled if her prize-winning blooms got trampled. Della smoothed her floral-print dress, the fabric crisp against her thighs. She hadn't worn it since Easter service. The silence stretched, thick as the August humidity, broken only by the drone of lawnmowers and the distant chime of the ice cream van turning onto Maple Street.

"Better," she murmured, leaning forward to tighten the knot cinching Liam's elbows together behind the swing's wrought-iron frame. Her perfume smelled like the lilac soap his grandmother used. "Now, about those cookies you stole from Mrs. Peterson's windowsill." Liam flinched as the rope bit deeper into his thin wrists. The cleave gag pressed the sock hard against his palate, muffling his protest into a wet grunt. He could feel sweat trickling down his temple as he was quizzed in the hit sun.

Della sighed again, softer this time. "Such a sticky-fingered habit." She traced a finger along the rope crossing his bare chest above his shorts, the gesture almost gentle. "Your mother's working late again, isn't she? And your dad... well." Her voice trailed off meaningfully. Liam strained against the ropes binding his legs below the knees, the rough hemp scraping his ankles. The ice cream van's jingle faded away down Maple Street, leaving only the buzz of electric motors..

"Those cookies weren't for filching," she continued, leaning closer. Liam flinched as her breath warmed his cheek through the scarf gagging him. "Mrs. Peterson makes them special for her arthritis group. You took three." Her finger tapped his nose lightly. "Three." She took a black silkmscarf folded into a broad band and tied it over his eyes, the blindfolded darkness pressed in, thick and hot. He could smell the faint dust on the old sock filling his mouth and the lilac soap clinging to her skin.

The porch swing groaned slightly as she shifted her weight. "Now, Liam," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur, "I could march you straight to Mrs. Peterson's door, or raher make you hop on your bound feet. See how you like explaining with that sock stuffed in your mouth." Liam whimpered, a small, desperate sound muffled by the cleave gag. He felt utterly pinned, the ropes digging into his chest and belly with every shallow breath, his bare feet dangling uselessly above the porch boards. “Or i could just give you a prison sentence.”

Della chuckled softly, a sound like dry leaves rustling. "But I'm not cruel. I'm practical." Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder, a strangely comforting pressure amidst the confinement. "Three cookies. Three hours. That seems fair, doesn't it? You sit in prison, think about sticky fingers, and I'll keep you company. Quiet company." The scent of lilac intensified as she leaned back, the swing creaking rhythmically again. She hummed a tuneless snippet, something vaguely like the ice cream van's jingle but slower, sadder. Liam felt a bead of sweat trace a path down his neck under the blindfold scarf.

"Up you get," she commanded suddenly, her voice losing its softness. Before Liam could brace himself, her hands were under his armpits, hauling him upright. His bound ankles screamed as they took his full weight, the ropes digging sharply into the flesh above and below his knees. He wobbled precariously, a trussed-up sapling in a stiff breeze. "Hop," Della instructed, her grip firm on his elbow. "Towards the screen door. Careful now." Blind, gagged, and hobbled, Liam shuffled one tiny, agonizing hop forward. The porch boards felt rough and hot beneath his bare soles.

The screen door hinge shrieked like a startled bird as she pulled it open. Cooler, indoor air washed over him, carrying the faint scent of lemon polish and something else—old paper, maybe. "Inside," she urged, guiding him with a light push between his shoulder blades. He hopped again, stumbling over the threshold onto smooth, cool wood block. The sudden change in temperature prickled his skin. "Left," she directed, her voice echoing slightly in what felt like a narrow space. He managed two more hops before his shoulder bumped something solid—a wallpapered surface. A cupboard door clicked open beside him, releasing a wave of stored heat and the dusty smell of brooms.

"Now, settle in," Della murmured, steering him sideways. His bound knees bumped against a low wooden lip. Before he could process it, her hands pressed firmly against his chest. He tipped backwards, off-balance, and landed hard on a thin, scratchy mat inside the dark cavity. His elbows jarred against the rear wall. "Three hours," she repeated. The cupboard door swung shut with a soft, final thump, plunging him into absolute darkness thicker than the blindfold. The ropes dug deeper as he instinctively tried to curl up, knees bumping the door frame.

Silence pressed in, muffled only by his own frantic breathing through the sock gag. The lilac scent faded, replaced by dust, dry wood, and the faint metallic tang of old hinges. He strained to hear Della’s movements—only the distant creak of a floorboard overhead. Trapped heat radiated from the cramped walls, making sweat bead anew on his forehead beneath the scarf. He tested the ropes binding his elbows and wrists behind him; they held fast, anchored to something solid beneath the mat. The cleave gag tightened painfully as he swallowed.

"Comfortable?" Della's voice drifted through the cupboard door, startlingly close. It held a detached amusement now. "Think of it as reconditioning." Liam flinched at the word. He pictured Mrs. Peterson’s arthritic hands kneading dough, the stolen cookies warm and buttery. Three hours. Could he breathe that long? The ropes across his chest felt like bands of iron with each inhale. He tried shifting his knees, bound above and below, but only succeeded in scraping his bare ankles raw against the rough hemp.

A muffled clatter came from outside – the sound of Della moving something heavy. "Found your stash," she announced, her voice clearer now, perhaps leaning against the cupboard. "The comic books hidden under your mattress? Relaid them on the kitchen table. Alongside Mrs. Peterson’s Tupperware." Liam’s stomach clenched. Aming thise comic books were his “picture collection” Taken from magazines, tv guides and ither things. Any oicture of someone tied up, gagged, blindfolded. Mostly women being damsel in distress but a fair collection of kidnapped mum and daughter, mom and son. Then the famous five or teen snoop tied pocs. Nancy drew. The list was endless. She’d found his sexret. He strained uselessly against the ropes anchoring his elbows to the cupboard wall, the sock gag absorbing his groan. Three hours felt like a prison sentence stretching into years.

The floorboards groaned overhead as Della paced. "You know," she mused, her voice drifting down, conversational now, "Mrs. Peterson mentioned her granddaughter’s been missing her hair ribbons. Silky blue ones. Seen anything?" Liam froze. He *had* seen them – tangled in the branches of the old oak after Jenny Peterson climbed down in a hurry last Tuesday. He hadn’t touched them. But admitting he saw them meant admitting he’d been climbing Mrs. Abernathy’s tree again. His silence felt thick, suffocating. Della chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "Thought so. Repunctuations of bad habits, Liam."

A drawer scraped open in the kitchen above him. Liam pictured her bony fingers rifling through his comics, tracing the creased panels where damsels strained against ropes. He squeezed his eyes shut beneath the blindfold, wishing the scratchy mat would swallow him whole. The ropes pinched his belly as he curled tighter, bare knees bumping the cupboard door. Dust tickled his nostrils, threatening a sneeze he couldn’t release past the sock gag.

“Interesting curation,” Della called down, her voice unnervingly conversational. Pages rustled. “Nancy Drew trussed up like a Christmas goose. The Famous Five hogtied in a boathouse. Quite the theme.” Liam flinched. He heard the distinct *thump* of his prized *Teen Snoop Annual* hitting the table. “Found Jenny Peterson’s ribbons too. Tucked inside issue twelve. Silk doesn’t belong in cheap pulp.”

Silence stretched. Liam strained, hearing only the faint hum of the refrigerator upstairs. Then, footsteps descended. The cupboard door clicked open. Cooler air washed over him, carrying the sharp tang of lemon polish and the unsettling proximity of Della’s floral dress. Her fingers brushed his blindfolded temple, startlingly cold. "Three hours," she reminded him, her tone devoid of any softness now. "But consider this: every thump, every thud, every moan past that sock gag? Adds five minutes." The door thumped shut again, plunging him back into the stifling dark.

He went rigid. Five minutes added for noise? He focused on breathing shallowly through his nose, the sock gag thick and sour. Dust tickled his nostrils again – a sneeze building. Panic flared. He clamped his jaws shut, pressing the sock deeper, swallowing convulsively against the cleave gag. His bound elbows jerked uselessly against whatever anchored them to the cupboard wall. The ropes dug into his chest. Silence was agony.

Footsteps retreated upstairs. The fridge hummed. Liam strained his ears past his own frantic heartbeat. Was she reading his comics? Sitting at the table? He imagined her bony finger tracing the panels where Nancy Drew struggled against ropes identical to his own. The irony burned hotter than the cupboard’s trapped heat. Sweat pooled under the ropes crossing his belly. Three hours. Could he even last ten minutes without making a sound?

He’d sketched scenes like this endlessly—heroines bound in basements, spies gagged in attics. He’d traced the knots with his pencil, imagining the bite of rope, the helplessness. But fantasy was clean lines on paper. This was the hemp grinding his ankles raw, the sock gag turning sour with trapped saliva, the blindfold pressing damply against his eyelids. This was the terrifying, suffocating *realness* of it—the way his elbows were genuinely pinned to the cupboard wall behind the mat, the way each shallow breath tightened the ropes across his chest. Reality lacked the dramatic escape panels he always drew. Yetdespite the discomfort, he had to admit, deep down, he was enjoying this.

A floorboard groaned directly overhead. Della’s voice drifted down, sharp and clear. "Page seventeen of *Teen Snoop Annual*. The villainess uses a cleave gag. Just like yours." Liam froze. She *was* reading them. Aloud? Her footsteps paced above him. "‘The ropes dug into her wrists,’" she recited, her tone flat, clinical. "‘She strained, but the knots held fast.’ Sound familiar?" Liam’s cheeks burned beneath the blindfold. He’d written those words himself, copying them from a pulp magazine. Hearing them now, applied to *him*, stripped away the thrilling veneer. This wasn’t adventure; it was humiliation, hot and sticky as the cupboard air.

Silence stretched again, thicker than before. Liam focused on breathing shallowly through his nose, the sock gag pressing thickly against his palate. Dust tickled his nostrils relentlessly. *Don’t sneeze*, he commanded himself. *Five minutes more*. He imagined Della’s bony finger tracing the panels, dissecting his fantasies. The ropes pinched his belly as he curled tighter, knees bumping the cupboard door. A bead of sweat traced a path down his spine. Reality was the ache in his shoulders, the raw scrape on his ankles, the terrifying permanence of the knots anchoring his elbows to his back. Escape wasn’t a penciled panel flip away.

Upstairs, Della cleared her throat. "‘The gag tasted of dust and desperation,’" she read aloud, her voice unnervingly calm. "Page twenty-three. Teen Snoop Annual. Interesting choice of words, Liam." He flinched. His own borrowed prose, flung back at him. The sock *did* taste dusty. Desperation clawed at his throat. He swallowed hard, the cleave gag tightening. Footsteps crossed the kitchen floor above him. A chair scraped. "Repunctuations," she murmured, almost to herself. "Bad habits require... rewriting."

Silence thickened. Liam focused on the minutiae: the frayed edge of the mat beneath him, the slight give in the cupboard door against his knees, the distant hum of the refrigerator compressor kicking in. Each sensation anchored him against panic. He tested the ropes binding his elbows to the wall behind the mat; solid, immovable. No slack. Escape wasn’t penciled here. It was knots and physics and time. Three hours. He could endure. He *would* endure. Optimism felt brittle, but he clung to it.

Upstairs, Della sighed—a long, weary sound that vibrated through the floorboards. "Repunctuations," she repeated, louder this time. Her chair scraped back. Footsteps approached the cupboard door again. Liam braced himself, muscles locking. The door clicked open. Cool air brushed his face. "Bad habits require rewriting, Liam," she stated, her voice crisp and devoid of amusement. "Three hours remains. But consider this rewrite: that... *collection*?" She paused meaningfully. "That adds considerably more." Her fingers ran down his shins, over his ankles and her nails found his bare soles.

The touch was unexpected—a sharp, deliberate scrape against the sensitive skin. Liam jerked violently, a muffled yelp escaping past the sock gag. His bound knees slammed against the cupboard frame. "Ah," Della noted, her tone clinical. "Five minutes added. Noise." Her nail traced a slow, deliberate circle on his sole. Liam squeezed his eyes shut beneath the blindfold, biting down hard on the sock. Dust flooded his nostrils. *Don't sneeze. Don't move.*

“Having seen your words and pictures collection, I wouldn’t be surprised if you actually enjoyed being tied up like this. For three hours.”

Liam froze, the accusation hitting harder than any rope. He *had* imagined scenes like this – countless times – but the reality was nothing like the thrilling escapes he’d sketched. This was raw ankles, aching shoulders, and a sock gag turning sour. Her words stripped away any fantasy, leaving only uncomfortable truth. He stayed perfectly still, focusing on shallow breaths through his nose, terrified any sound would add minutes. Dust prickled relentlessly. *Don’t sneeze. Don’t react.*. Yet somehow, he knew her words weee true.

“Enjoying it?” Della repeated, her voice cool and assessing. Her nail dug slightly deeper into the arch of his bare foot. Liam flinched silently, muscles locking. “Interesting. Perhaps Mrs. Peterson’s cookies weren’t the only thing you were stealing. Perhaps you were stealing… sensations?” She withdrew her hand abruptly. The cupboard door clicked shut again, plunging him back into suffocating heat and silence thicker than the blindfold. Footsteps retreated upstairs, leaving him alone with the hum of the fridge and the frantic drumming of his own heart.

The sudden shrill peal of the doorbell sliced through the quiet. Liam jerked against his ropes, a muffled gasp escaping past the sock gag. *Five minutes*, his mind screamed. He froze, straining to hear Della’s brisk footsteps crossing the floor above. The front door hinges squealed open. “Marge! What a surprise,” Della’s voice rang out, suddenly bright and welcoming, a jarring contrast to the clinical detachment moments before. “Come in, come in! I was just… tidying.”

Marge’s cheerful reply echoed down the hall, muffled footsteps following Della into the kitchen directly overhead. Liam pressed his cheek against the scratchy mat, every nerve screaming. They were *right there*, separated only by the thin cupboard door and a layer of flooring. He could hear the clink of teacups, the scrape of a chair. “Oh, Della, you shouldn’t have!” Marge chirped. “Just popped by with those preserves I promised. Peach, your favourite.” Liam held his breath, picturing his comics spread across the table, Mrs. Peterson’s Tupperware, Jenny’s blue ribbons. Would Marge see? Ask?

Della’s voice remained effortlessly smooth. “You’re an angel, Marge. Sit, sit! I’ll put the kettle on.” Liam heard the rustle of paper—his comics being hastily gathered?—and the soft thud of a cupboard closing. Relief warred with dread. She’d hidden the evidence, but Marge was *here*. Trapped heat pulsed around him, sweat stinging his eyes beneath the blindfold. He dared not shift, the ropes pinching his belly with every shallow inhale, the sock gag thick and sour. *Don’t move. Don’t sneeze.*

“Just clearing away some… clutter,” Della continued brightly. Liam flinched as the kitchen chair scraped directly overhead. Marge sighed contentedly. “Always so tidy, Della. Unlike my Henry’s shed—looks like pirates cannoned through it!” Their laughter drifted down, sharp and incongruous against Liam’s muffled panic. He pictured Marge sipping tea, oblivious, while Jenny Peterson’s silky blue ribbons lay hidden mere feet away in a drawer. Dust tickled his nostrils again. *Five minutes. Five minutes.*

“So,” Marge’s voice lowered conspiratorially, teacup clinking. “Jenny Peterson’s ribbons. Vanished! Poor lamb’s distraught. Silly things, silk ribbons, but sentimental.” Liam froze. Della’s reply was smooth as cream. “Dreadful. Children lose things constantly, Marge. Remember Tommy Henderson’s prized aggie marble? Turned up in Mrs. Abernathy’s prize hydrangeas.” Liam’s breath caught silently. *She knew*. About the tree. About everything. The ropes dug deeper as he strained to hear more over the frantic thudding of his heart.

“True enough,” Marge sighed. “Though Jenny swears she saw Liam lurking near her garden shed yesterday.” A pause stretched, filled only by the kettle’s rising whistle. Liam squeezed his eyes shut beneath the blindfold, picturing Della’s cool assessment. “Liam?” Her tone held mild surprise. “He’s a curious boy, certainly. Always sketching. But sticky fingers? I’d be… astonished.” Liam felt a strange pang – was she defending him? Or setting a trap? The whistle peaked, shrill, then abruptly cut off as Della lifted the kettle. Steam hissed faintly overhead.

Footsteps crossed the kitchen again. “Sketching?” Marge asked, curiosity piqued. Liam heard the soft clatter of teacups being set down. “Oh, yes,” Della replied smoothly. “Quite the little artist. Mostly adventure scenes, I believe.” Liam’s bound elbows pressed painfully into the cupboard wall behind him. *Adventure scenes*. The words hung in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. He strained against the ropes anchoring him, a futile effort that only tightened the cleave gag against his jaw. Dust choked his nostrils again; he held his breath until spots danced behind the blindfold.

“Well,” Marge chuckled, a warm sound that felt alien above Liam’s stifling prison. “Perhaps he’ll draw Jenny’s ribbons reappearing! Now, Della, about the church jumble sale…” Their voices shifted focus, discussing bric-a-brac pricing and moth-eaten sweaters. Liam sagged slightly against the scratchy mat, relief warring with fresh dread. The immediate danger had passed, but Della’s cool assessment – *sticky fingers? I’d be astonished* – echoed in the stifling silence. Was it a shield, or a knife held ready? He pictured her bony fingers tapping his comics on the hidden shelf, Jenny’s ribbons coiled beside them like evidence.

Above, teacups clinked rhythmically against saucers. Liam focused on the mundane sounds: the scrape of Marge’s spoon stirring sugar, the gentle sigh of Della settling back into her chair. Each clink, each sigh, was a hammer blow against his resolve. The ropes binding his elbows to the cupboard wall felt welded in place, the cleave gag pressing the sock deeper with every shallow breath. Dust coated his tongue, thick and gritty. A sneeze built like pressure behind a dam, threatening to burst free and add precious, agonizing minutes. He clenched his jaw, pressing his blindfolded face harder into the mat, willing silence into his straining muscles. Rescue sat just feet away, sipping peach tea, utterly unaware. The absurdity was a physical ache uet deep down he found himself loving the thrill,of his enforced captivity. Even the ache in his shiukders, ankles and jaw was part of the adventure.

“So,” Marge’s voice drifted down, warm and oblivious, “Henry finally tackled that leak under the sink. Used that trusty old butter knife of his, would you believe?” Della’s chuckle was light, perfectly modulated. “Resourceful as ever, Marge.” Liam pictured the blunt, greasy knife Henry Henderson always carried. Rescue wasn’t a penciled hero; it was a dull tool wielded by a neighbour who thought pirates cannoned through sheds. The irony choked him worse than the gag. He shifted his bare toes minutely against the cupboard floor, the hemp scraping raw skin. *Don’t groan. Five minutes*. The trapped heat pressed down, thick as wool.

Marge sighed contentedly. “Peach preserve really hits the spot, Della. Takes me back to summers at Gran’s.” Liam strained against the ropes anchoring his elbows to the cupboard wall behind the mat. Gran’s porch swing felt galaxies away. He focused on the rhythmic *clink* of Marge’s teaspoon against her cup—a metronome counting down his sentence. Dust flooded his nostrils again; he pinched his eyes shut beneath the blindfold, jaw clamped so tight his teeth ached against the sock. *Don’t sneeze*. The absurdity was physical: rescue sipping tea two feet above, while he lay trussed in a broom cupboard, gagged by his own sock, punished for stolen cookies and stolen fantasies. Yet, beneath the panic, a traitorous thrill hummed. This *was* the adventure, raw and real.

“Must dash, Della!” Marge’s chair scraped overhead. “Henry’s expecting his tea.” Liam heard brisk footsteps retreating towards the front door, Della’s bright farewells echoing down the hall. The door clicked shut. Silence slammed back, thicker and heavier than before. Liam froze, straining every muscle. The fridge hummed. A floorboard creaked directly above the cupboard. Then, footsteps descended—deliberate, unhurried. The cupboard door clicked open. Cooler air washed over him, carrying the sharp tang of lemon polish and Della’s floral perfume.

“Your three hours are nearly up, but i heard some sounds from there, so ive decided the last half hour of your sentence will be tickle torture.”

[TuggyBoundMale]

What a cute little story. Amazing as always, I expected nothing less from you

[Redman]

Way to go! Your descriptions are absolutely visceral. For a few moments, I could actually feel Liam's sensations. Thank you for this, very well done.

[milagros317]

Wonderful story! A sequel would be most welcome.

[Monty]

Very good! Don't have much to add aside from that, but I'd feel bad if I didn't complement this.

[Killua]

Very well written with lots of detailes about all his sensations and thoughts. Nice story.

[Bondageboi]

I wanted to get a good description of a coy really tied up tight and struggling, but wanted to make it so he wasn’t going to the police afterwards. He had to be intrigued if not enjoy it.

[MommysNB]

Love this story! Please continue

[lilshinefan]

fantastic writing here, and such a cute scenario. would love to read more about that tickle torture!

[JC1991]

In the spirit of Halloween, add mummification and further timeout in a "coffin?" There's not enough G rated mummification on this site, imho.

[Janbound]

Excellent story. Will we get an equally good description of the tickle torture?

[Likho]

I'm not a fan of tie-up games with parents or grandparents, but I really like this story!
I visit this forum for stories like this
Thanks!

[Camguy2050]

@Bondageboi such and intriguing story

i want to read about the tickling

[Kira]

Wow, that's a really good story. I like it. I'd love to read more about tickle torture.

Being tied up should really become the standard punishment for naughty boys.

[Bondageboi]

Five minutes later Liam sat On a hogh backed wooden chair. Still tightly blindfolded and gagger, hus arms were now threaded through the vertical bars that made the back. Wrists and elbows bound together and to the central pole, whilst numerous more ropes crossed his shoulders, bare chest, tummy and hips, so,e,around the chair, some ove rhismarms, some throught the chairback’s verticals, but all pinning his body tightly to the upright.

His legs had nor escaped, they were bound eith the same rope and snkles, shins, abkve and be,ow knees and mid thighs. The tops of His thighs had ropes wrapped riund them individually tied to the back legs of the chsir whilst mid thinpghs and abive knees were tied down to the seat, hismknees also tied each side to themfromt legs. His calves rested on a low but heavy table, rope threaded under the surface and cinched around his ankle and knee bindings, tied off to the sturdy table kegs. A thin piece if twinecwas wrapped around his big toes and tied off to his ankle bindings, stretching his bare soles.

On the sofa opposite him Della lay, reclining her eyes switching between his blindfolded face and his naked, dusty, grimy soles.

“My my my. Your feet are so dirty. Ill have to ckean them up.”

Loam made a groan.

“A nice stiff, bristly scrubbing brush should do the trick.”

“Eeeerrmppmmm” he screamed imto the softbfolds of the gag.

“Whsts the matter?” She asked with a mischievous grin on her face. “Not ticklish are you?”

Silence.

“Are you.” Still nothing. “There’s no point denying it. Ill soon find out.”

The soles of his feet, already stretched taut by the twine, flinched instinctively as Della’s fingertips traced slow, deliberate circles along his arches. His toes curled reflexively against their bindings, tendons standing out in sharp relief beneath the grime-streaked skin. A muffled whimper escaped the gag—half protest, half dread—as she chuckled low in her throat, the sound like dry leaves skittering across stone.

She vanished momentarily, returning with something that scraped ominously against the floorboards. Liam jerked his head toward the noise, nostrils flaring at the scent of lavender soap. The brush hovered just above his left foot, casting a spiderweb shadow over his dust-caked skin, before making contact in one brutal, sweeping stroke from heel to toes. His entire body convulsed against the ropes, shoulders slamming back into the chair as laughter burst through the gag in ragged, strangled bursts.

Della paused, tilting her head as she studied the paler streaks left by the bristles. "Oh, that's definitely ticklish," she murmured, dragging one fingernail through the damp trail of soap. A shudder ran through him, muscles quivering like a plucked bowstring. She flicked the nail upward—just once—against the tender hollow beneath his smallest toe. His hips bucked violently enough to make the chair legs screech against the floor.

Water sloshed from the metal basin as she dunked the brush again, swirling it lazily. "You're making this harder than it needs to be," she chided, watching suds drip between the bristles. "All this squirming just... smears the dirt around." Her free hand clamped down on his ankle, fingers pressing into the rope-bruised flesh as she brought the brush down in short, punishing strokes. The bristles found every ridge and crease, scrubbing the sensitive skin below his toes while soapy runoff pooled on the table. Liam squirmed making muffked oelas for mercy, which if theybwere understood, were totally ignired by hus evil,tormentor.

Della tilted her head, examining her work. "Better," she mused, dragging a thumb across his reddened sole. "But I can still see some grime..." She flicked soap droplets onto his other foot, grinning as they rolled down the arch. "Let's try something... thorough." The brush scraped sideways this time, digging into the ball of his foot with enough force to bleach the skin pink beneath the filth. His thighs strained against their bindings, knees knocking against the table's underside in frantic, useless protest.

The air smelled sharp with lavender and sweat now, as he strained, rope fibers biting into flesh. Della hummed—some cheerful 80s tune—as she switched to short, rapid flicks against his instep. Every stroke sent tremors up his legs, his breath hitching against the gag in wet, choked bursts. She paused only to dunk the brush again, water gone murky with dirt, watching his chest heave as soap dripped onto his twitching toes.

Then she reached for the toothbrush—short-handled, stiff-bristled—and his entire body went rigid. The first prod between his big and second toe wrenched a muffled shriek from him, spine arching off the chair back. She worked methodically, scrubbing in tiny circles where the skin was thinnest, where tendons flexed helplessly beneath her ministrations. His legs jerked like a marionette with snapped strings, but there was no hive in his restraints, even as she pinned one ankle with her elbow.

"Whoops missed a spot," she murmured, angling the brush beneath his pinky toe. The nylon bristles scraped raw against the fold of skin, and Liam's scream dissolved into wet, hiccuping laughter. Della tutted, swirling the brush deeper into the crevice. "Honestly, you'd think I was torturing you." Flecks of dried mud and dead skin flaked away, revealing tender flesh that pulsed visibly with each heartbeat. "This is the penalty for running round barefoot all day."

She switched tactics abruptly—digging the toothbrush horizontally across all five toes at once. Liam's head thrashed sideways, sweat-darkened hair sticking to the blindfold. The twine around his big toes pulled tighter with his convulsions, stretching the scrubbed skin until it gleamed. Della watched fascinated as goosebumps erupted up his calves.

His breath came in frantic snorts through flared nostrils when she jabbed the bristles vertically between each toe. The gaps were tighter than she'd anticipated—she had to wiggle the brush in with small, cruel twists. A high-pitched whine built in his throat as she scoured the webbing, soap bubbles frothing pink where the skin rubbed raw.

Della dropped the brush into the murky water with a splash. "There," she said, admiring his flushed, glistening soles. "Spotless." Her fingernails hovered a millimeter above the arch of his right foot. The muscles in his calves jumped like startled fish beneath the skin. She let her breath ghost across the damp flesh first, watching the fine hairs rise, before dragging one nail in a slow, searing line from heel to toe. His gag absorbed the scream, but the chair groaned as his spine arched off it.

She spider-walked her fingertips up his instep, pausing to circle the most sensitive spot beneath his toes. The twine stretched his skin drum-tight, leaving no space to retreat from her teasing. A strangled noise escaped him—half-laugh, half-sob—as she scribbled nonsense letters with her nails, each stroke igniting fresh tremors. His toes flexed against their bonds, tendons standing in stark relief, as she switched to rapid-fire flicks along the outer edge of his foot. Drool soaked through the gag where his teeth ground into the fabric.

Della chuckled, watching sweat roll down his ribs. "Tsk tsk. All this fuss over a little..." Her middle finger skated up the arch with agonizing slowness. "...cleaning." When her thumb joined in, spiraling inward toward his heel, his hips jackknifed so violently the table legs lifted an inch off the floor. She pinned his ankle with her free hand, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath her palm. "Mmm. You're right—this is much more fun than scrubbing."

Her nails became nimble spiders, darting between the still-pink ridges where the brush had scraped his skin raw. They skittered sideways across the ball of his foot in staccato patterns that left his toes curling and uncurling like dying moths. The twine dug deeper grooves with each spasm, his soles now flushed a feverish red where blood rushed to the abused flesh. His gagged mouth worked soundlessly, breath whistling through his nose in desperate, staccato bursts.

Della dragged one fingernail—just the tip—down the exact center of his arch, slow as a blade parting silk. His thighs slammed upward so hard the ropes creaked, knees knocking the underside of the table with a hollow thunk. She traced the same path again, this time adding tiny zigzags that made his hips buck wildly. The chair legs screeched against the floor in protest, but she merely clicked her tongue and dug her thumbnail into the delicate hollow beneath his toes.

“Oh look at the time.” She paused to giggle. “Oh. Of course, yiu can’t. We’re hakf way theough yiur tickle time already.”

[TuggyBoundMale]

Well, all good things have to come to an end some time

But I‘ll enjoy every last bit of this story until it’s not finished yet

[Wheezy]

Oh I can’t wait until the next part!

[JC1991]

Hoping for a mummification session.

[Camguy2050]

Hoping for a mummification session.

oh yes mummification would be wonderful