The humble feather in #BDSM

Single Peacock Feather

The humble feather looks innocuous enough, doesn’t it? What harm could come from such a fluffy thing? What harm, indeed! But if used correctly, this quill can provide hours of torment for your unsuspecting submissive, who might well, after an hour or so, have preferred to have been ensconced in the dungeon.

Tickling. Madness, isn’t it? But laughter gets a little painful after a while. For those who are particularly sensitive to its torments, tickling can be a nasty business where each new breath is a struggle to come by.

Then there’s the pointed nib, which can be easily fashioned upon the end of your feather. Try limning a delightful picture upon your submissive’s bottom (if it has a lovely red glow already – this torment is sure to protract a few additional moans!) and see her writhe and wriggle.

Yes, the delightful feather can be deadly in its torment.

If that’s whetted your appetite for more, try this little excerpt:

The first touch of the feather on her skin was a subtle dusting of its surface. It swirled in little circles that gently tickled each of her toes and made them curl, before moving to feet, calves and thighs. A flick on her instep made her writhe with delight. Then it reached her waist, drew airy pictures all over her back, circled each ridge of her spine and nearly made her laugh out loud when it reached her ribs. When the fluffy plume touched her underarms, she burst into laughter and he tickled her ruthlessly, until she could barely breathe through her giggles and tears began streaming down her eyes.  

‘Begging becomes more difficult when you’re gagged. You’ll need to find a way to implore me to stop, which doesn’t involve speech,’ he said as he came alongside her face and tickled her nose and lips. She sneezed heavily and he laughed. ‘I’ll leave you to ponder that one while I raise the stakes.’

The man was as good as his word. The feather fluttered over her ass next and each time it caught one of her two stripes, she moaned out loud. Her flesh was so tenderised, that even the lightest of touches sent a rush of tantalising heat through her body. ‘Hands behind your back,’ he whispered in her ear. Jenny automatically complied and couldn’t help but squirm under his delicate but, oh so taunting strokes. Grabbing a fistful of hair, he pulled her body upright and when the feather caught the underside of her breast, she groaned heavily. It then caught a nipple, sending delicious frissons of tingling desire shooting through her as she felt it explode into a hard peak. Mark resumed his attentions on the other side and was rewarded with a strangled gasp. Then the feather dipped to her pussy and with the lightest of touches, it whispered against her straining flesh, doing nothing more than antagonising its victim. Then, he repeated the entire procedure in agonising slow motion.

Mark was fastidious with the application of his tickling torment. He watched how her body began to prickle at the most delicate touch. His trainee was now in super-sensitive mode and could orgasm with very little in the way of provocation. When he’d finished the second tour of her body, he enquired whether she would like a third. He could only smile as she sunk her teeth hard into the rubber bit of her bridle and shook her head briskly.

He decided it was time for devilish torment number two. Standing in front of her face and tipping the feather upside down, he allowed her to see that it was actually a quill, with the end having been fashioned into a sharp point. ‘Now, we’re really going to play,’ was all he said.

Jenny was slowly being driven insane. If the barely-there flutters of the feather had been torment, the sharp drag of the quill across her skin was the worst suffering imaginable. Starting at the back of her thighs, he wrote, he drew, he doodled and he sketched.  With his barb, he slowly limned all manner of things into her already enflamed skin. She tried to be stoic and endured his artwork on her arms, calves, back and feet. When he started on her swollen backside, within 30 seconds he had her thrashing and sobbing. The worst of it was that the sobbing was not because of the pain. The pain only served to fuel the furnace burning brightly through her. She was sobbing because she was yet again desperately aroused and her need for release was overwhelming. When he started over, tracing the red lines he’d already drawn in a leisurely fashion, she screamed in frustration. She couldn’t even speak, he had made her so insensible with longing. ‘Please,’ her eyes begged, ‘please,’ but he wasn’t looking at her face and she knew with a certainty that he meant to retrace every single last line he’d drawn, before she’d get her chance to plead with him. Jenny didn’t think she’d manage to withstand it. When he started to score her ass with the quill for the second time, bubbles of foam escaped from her mouth. Filled with a lust that had no chance of escape unless her captor deemed her worthy, Jenny began sniffing and blubbering as her body squirmed, twisted and struggled under the monstrous feather.

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5 thoughts on “The humble feather in #BDSM

  1. Laughter can be painful – and the switch between the sharp edge and the light tough can be maddening. I haven’t experienced a feather yet, but I have no doubt I will at some point.

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