The Feather Wheel Turns (Patreon)

The wheel turns.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Sweat trickles down your face.

Your bare body burns more and more with each pass.

Drool seeps out of the corner of your mouth, gagged with a rubber ball.

You tremble and shake in place, unable to move or stop the devious effects tormenting your composure.

And again.

You moan and groan with each turn of the wheel.

It’s been fitted neatly between your legs.

It runs large, fluffy feathers against your bare groin.

Whoever put you there obviously wants you to feel their brush against your most sensitive area.

You've been left completely stripped, sitting where you must endure the lush quills that stroke you so tenderly.

You don’t know how long you’ve been strapped to the chair, unable to free yourself, or move in any way to avoid the feathers stroking you every passing second.

A blindfold keeps you from seeing your immediate area.

You have no idea where you are.

You can only feel and perceive what your mind will allow in your blind, bound form.

It’s warm and humid, like a subterranean chamber with little ventilation, recycling your own musk back into your panting nostrils.

Being taken and strapped down to the chair is all the comfort your hazy memory will allow.

The only certainty that you’re not trapped in a twisted nightmare is the realness in how the feather feels against your skin, burning more and more with each feathery swipe.

The same realness that makes up all you can be sure of.

Unable to move.

Unable to speak.

Unable to see.

You’ve been set up only to endure.

To endure for as long as your captor wishes.

And again.

Your arms and legs are tightly bound to the rests by thick leather straps.

Your head is kept up by another wide strap stretching across your temples.

Even your waist is belted to the seat of the chair.

The only reference you have to the passage of time is the wheel and the phases of composure its tickling feathers leave you withstanding.

A feather strokes you in between your forcibly parted thighs about once every second.

The wheel never slows or speeds up.

By the murkiest of calculations, you estimate you’ve endured thousands of strokes.

Each feathery pass bursts with waves of tickles through your area, made worse as the feathering continues and compounds.

At first, it seemed like a prank, a playful nuisance.

You barely felt the feathers at all at first.

Then it became irritating.

It began to tickle, but not in a way to incite laughter.

Rather, in a way to simply get you squirming.

Squirming as much as you can in your binds.

Hundreds of feathers passed over the area before you began to laugh.

Soft giggles with the occasional moan.

You could no longer deny feeling the feathers.

By that point, you felt each and every pass.

They began to feel good even, like soft, delicate kisses to get your passions churning.

You giggled as each feather sent wave after wave of tickles through your senses.

You wriggled in your seat, your toes curling and chest heaving down larger and larger breaths.

You had no answers as to why you were even in that place, who put you there, or what they even wanted from you.

You simply woke up in a strange room, completely naked, being stroked between your legs by a feather wheel.

Initial fear succumbed to finding the light of pleasure in the darkness.

The feathery tickles felt good, great even.

They felt better and better, driving you closer to an inevitable climax with each pass.

You giggle and groan all at once, sucking on the lathered rubber of the ballgag.

And again.

You tremble as you feel yourself nearing the needful conclusion.

The feathers tickle your area in as much as they bring you closer and closer to climax.

You moan for it, your body burns for it.

Your part becomes more and more sensitive to the feathery kisses the more that pass by.

You yearn for it as you squirm in your seat.

You question whether or not that was the intention all along, if your captor wishes your orgasm or if relinquishing yourself to that pleasure is intended to be punished.

You have no context for what is expected of you, only that of what your body screams for after every pass of a feather.

And again.

You laugh to the tickles brushing against the area, growing particularly warm and responsive with time.

You moan as your teeth sink into the rubber, trying to hold out for as long as you can.

The feathers make it easy, almost painfully so.

The constant brushing quickly compounds against your macabre pleasure to bring you up to the precipice of orgasm without immediately toppling you over.

After supposed hours of constant feathering, your body drips with sweat.

Your throat stings slightly at the constant giggles and moaning.

Your mind, once racing to the trepidation of your situation, questioning the why's and who's, solemnly slips into the submission of your own desires, caring little about what lies beyond the blindfold.

Your thoughts conjure possible images of your demonstration.

Perhaps you’re all alone, suffering for no one to observe.

Maybe you’re in a room being watched by many people, all standing around silently judging your body’s reactions to the direct, carnal response, wagering just how long it’ll take before you give into your budding orgasm.

Maybe you’re being held for ransom, your torture streamed as a dark means of instilling urgency in your payment.

Regardless, you know nothing of why you are here.

All you know is the pleasure coursing through you, the fires fanned by each passing feather, second by second.

And again.

Your area aches for release.

The burn that pulses beneath seems to resonate throughout your entire body.

Your hands clench around the chair’s arm rests.

Your toes curl against the hard, stone floor beneath your feet.

You groan and cry through your giggles, becoming more predominantly moans the deeper you’re thrust into the need.

You’re brought closer and closer, with nothing but the sounds of your own moaning and panting to listen to.

You feel as if any next feather could be the one to bring out your climax, a climax building to a painfully explosive pressure.

In your state of apex sensitivity, you can feel every fiber of every feather passing over your area, stroking predictably second by second.

You stir more and more in your seat.

The lightest objective type of touch sends bursts of stimulation through your senses.

The feathers bring you closer and closer, the gentle kisses leaving you feeling as though you could explode with passion at any moment.

Significantly sensitive to their gentle strokes, they tickle as much as they provoke your needs, more and more so by the turn of the wheel between your legs.

And yet, as easy as it was to bring you to this place…

And again.

After hours of constant exposure to their effects…

And again.

And the sweat trickles down your burning thighs, pressing desperately against the straps holding them apart…

And again.

You are left with only the most primitive of urges commanding your carnal surrender.

As much as you’ve maintained your composure and told yourself that, despite whatever is happening and why it is you’ve found yourself in this place, that you would never give into the cruel and sadistic ploy being pressed against you, you find yourself careening toward the relinquish of your sensibilities.

You cry and groan against the ballgag, begging to be brought to the release teased by each and every pass of the feather.

You get closer and closer.

And again.

And closer.

And again.

And closer.

And again.

And closer and closer still until the pressure builds up inside you into an ache impossible to ignore.

It pulses and stirs, leaving you painfully squirming in your seat, tormented by the mere swipe of a feather.

You thrash in place, fighting against the straps dooming you to the fate of being brought ever close to release, yet never tasting it.

As close as you feel you’ve become, you never seem to be granted the right amount of stimulation to get you there.

It always feels just a little bit less than what you need.

Tears stain the inside of your blindfold.

Drool seeps from the corners of your lips.

Your teeth sink into the rubber, groaning and begging into the air guttural sounds pleading to be touched.

But the wheel turns on, apathetic to your suffering.

The ache grows as you sit in seemingly eternal arousal.

Your very person brought to a state of total surrender to your desires.

Details of your name, your past, your occupation and friends, all trivia melting from your mind as you give more and more of yourself over to the desperation of needful release.

You sit and squander in your ecstasy, your body burning more and more with each feathery swipe.

You sob, unable to think of anything else beyond the gratification of climax.

Your arousal pushes out all thought and emotion to permeate your mind.

You give yourself over to being little more than just a naked, sweating, quivering, ticklish husk, begging for your climax.

You laugh and moan as tears trickle down your cheeks.

Your aroused suffering falls either on the delight of your audience.

Or on no one at all.

And again.

And just when you think you can take no more.

Just when you believe you’ve reached a point of helplessness and madness from which you will never recover.

Your body’s need finally reacts to the mindless monotony of the feathers.

A plume swipes against your area.

Your body gives in.

The pressure built releases like a crumbling dam exploding into a gushing surge.

You groan as you feel the orgasm erupt through your body.

Your arms and legs tremble, your mind going white as it surrenders to the gratitude of absolute pleasure.

You feel the release come in deep, gnawing waves.

It resonates through your body with an influx of needful force that comes with just as much pleasure as it does aching pain.

Your mind barely finds resolve in the moment that oscillates in and out of your quivering figure.

And yet, as the climax steadily subsides, you’re left only with the dreadful, persistent sensation.

And again.

The feathers continue stroking and tickling your area, made significantly more responsive to their touch.

You groan back into a fit of giggles and moans, your tears still spilling down your eyes.

You feel each feathery pass more potent than you had before, still made more effective as your arousal continues to pulse through your body.

The ache builds once more while the feathers toy mechanically against your spot.

You squirm in place, able to see your immediate future of suffering the same crushing fate over and over again until you break down beyond what your mind can adequately contemplate.

No matter how you squirm.

No matter how you beg.

No matter how much your body burns to the devilish plumes brushing against it.

You can only sit.

Sit and endure.

As the feathers tickle.

And tease.

And bring you closer.

Again.

And again.

And again.