It was as if the mercenaries were a concoction of her deep desires. Every action they took seemed pulled directly from her fantasies.
Isabel had told her captors that she was only dressed in a Princess costume for Halloween. She even tried to play along, stating she’d give them anything in her kingdom if they let her go. Instead, they told her that the King and Queen of her rival kingdom had paid them each a princely sum to continue to torment her until they received word to stop.
At first, she was restrained against a chair, her legs wide open while only her tight-fitting white lingerie protected the last remnants of her modesty. They left her crown in place as if to mock her – a figure of royalty degraded to a whimpering wreck. With soft-tipped paintbrushes, they teased her thoroughly, making sure that no matter how often she wriggled her hips or pleaded for more, they never gave enough stimulation to topple her over into an orgasm.
No matter how hard she tried to sway her hips in line with the brushes, she couldn’t get the contact she needed. The worst was that no matter how hard she tried to ignore what her body craved, it felt as if she were in a constant cycle of arousal.
Just like in some of her most slow-paced and sensual moments alone, imagining being teased by paintbrushes, Isabel found herself shaking with need for a firmer touch or for more attention to be placed on her achingly aroused jewel.
Regardless of where the brushes glided, they caused the same deep moans of longing. Whether moaning from the need for more as they painted up along her inner thighs or moaning as they painted up and down the crease of her flower, Isabel was constantly beside herself.
As the pace of the brushstrokes increased and the gap between each sweeping motion decreased, Isabel felt the swelling notes of climax rising towards her crescendo. Even as soft as the bristles were, there would be no stopping it. Every faint stimulus was as impactful as a lash of a whip.
Just like in every predicament Isabel woke up to, all the teasing for a full hour was purposefully building towards a climax, and there was no intention of stopping it. Dragging it out for so long, whether with paintbrushes or fingertips or toys, ensured that the orgasm that awaited her would be amplified beyond her imagination. This place heightened every sensation beyond anything she could have wished for.
After every hour of being teased, all she could think of was being made to orgasm. As if reading her mind, they made Isabel climax so intensely that she blacked out, waking up in a different situation that was pulled directly from her fantasies.
Each time she found herself in another scenario, it was as if her body had been instantly catapulted to the heights of arousal and held there as if nothing had changed. Each time, she remained bound to either a table or a chair, held captive in erotic anguish to be teased to the brink for a full hour before she was finally allowed to come.
Every scenario built further on her fantasies. Paintbrushes, being edged with vibrators, being forced to come with vibrators fixated on her clitoris, being manhandled, feeling a palm press softly against her neck while being called a good girl, being massaged all over by before being fingerfucked intensely; everything was plucked from her mind. Isabel was being tortured by her own erotic wishes.
If she could just endure it and think about waking up in her bed instead of fantasising about another sexual scenario, it would be over. Until that time, she’d endure every sensual torment that her own imagination unleashed upon her at the hands of this erotic army.
Isabel’s willpower to fight against her erotic thoughts would be the only thing to dictate just how many hours of this onslaught she’d have to endure. She had a long, long night ahead of her.
Content created by: PleasureTorture
Image source from: AKH-002 Play of the Princess of Sorrow