Fingernails

“Poor little thing, I know you must be sore but sometimes a girl just can’t help herself.”

Last night her boots had worked me over so thoroughly that it was a testimony to my will power that I’d managed to look physically able at work. Usually that was enough for a time. That I was tied and trussed like poultry meant she had the urge.

She sat beside me in a chair.

“This will be a new one for me. You’ve said you like long nails and that my fingers are so pretty. Aren’t you just a dear?”

Yeah, I liked her nails. But they were growing rapidly longer. She was applying those attachable artificial nails that you’d assume only Dracula’s daughter would really want.

All ten attached she looked over at me, smiled and sat beside my incarcerated body on the bed.

At first it was wonderful. The nails traveled gently across my flesh. I writhed in pleasure like a puppy.

It wasn’t long before she pressed harder. An arousing friction became a slightly painful, then really painful scratch.

“Don’t be such a sissy. I’m just getting warmed up.”

She grabbed one of my nipples, twisted, tightened and I tried to scream through the gag.

“Dear, dear, I’m just getting started. Save your applause.”

I’d say her progress was like a machine. But she was always so careful to vary things. Inch by inch I felt skin grabbed in tiny sharp claws, lifted up and let fall back. Sometimes quickly, others slowly. Some with a twist, some without.

She looked at me reproachfully. “If you really loved me you’d soundproof this room. I could enjoy the next step so much more if I knew no one but you and I would hear.”

Five sharp forceps clenched about my penis. Really it might’ve been two or ten. They dug in. My foreskin stretch forward then snapped back like a rubber band. We’d have needed lots of soundproofing to keep my response from being heard down the block.