From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: The Accountant (MF, mdom)[1/3]
Date: 6 Sep 1996 00:10:02 GMT

			   The Accountant
			       Part One

	This was a few years back, but the memories have remained
quite vivid. The experience, for me, was formative. I was about 19-
years-old. A friend of our family, Lindsey, who was 16, if memory
serves, came to stay with us for about six weeks one summer in Maine.
She'd hurt her right leg and was in a cast. Her folks had gone to
Europe for that part of the summer, and Lindsey came to stay with us,
cuz it was too hard to move around and do things on her own.

	I'd never had what I thought were lesbian tendencies... I
mean, I liked boys and all, and other than one small incident with an
unfaithful boyfriend, didn't even know what it meant to be "dominant."
I didn't even think I had that much of a mean streak. Lindsey and I
had always gotten along well, and I like to think that, until the
summer in question, we were friends.

	There wasn't a whole lot Lindsey could do in the way of
walking or swimming or hiking or whatnot, but each day I helped her
down to the dock, where she could at least see the lake and trees, get
some sun, dip her left foot in the water, etc.

	Many days it was just the two of us, since my folks were going
to and fro Boston. It was about two weeks into her visit that she
started getting restless and pouty about her situation. I understood
how she felt and tried to make it as pleasant as possible for her. I
took her into town to do things, made sure she didn't have to walk to
far to get things, and generally tired to help as much as I could.

	Still, she became crankier and crankier, and, even worse, I
began to resent her tone, which became more and more demanding and
commanding. Soon, I wasn't doing anything quite to her satisfaction,
and if she said anything to me at all, it was critical.

	We were sitting on the porch, one particularly hot morning,
and I decided to try and get her to talk about how she was feeling. I
still felt bad for her, missing out on summer and all, and thought if
she got it off her chest, things might be more pleasant for both of
us.

	We were sitting in big wicker chairs on the porch. Her leg was
elevated at an angle on a coffee table. I pulled my chair close and
told her, as nicely as I could, that I knew how she felt and that it
was a rough break having to spend the bulk of her summer like this,
and that if there was anything I could do, that we could do, to make
her feel better, to let me know.

	Lindsey said something to the effect of, "Yeah, whatever." I
tried again, saying maybe we could go to Portland for the day, or
catch dinner and a movie closer to where we were staying.

	She let out a bored sigh, saying, "No, I'm stuck here with
you, and nothing is going to get me out of here."

	I don't think she could see that I was the one, technically,
who was stuck, since I couldn't go anywhere or do anything without
taking her and her bum leg into account. On top of that, I had tried
to make it as pleasant and easy as I could. My patience ended right
there.

	Lindsey that day wore her usual: a faded tank top, no bra,
short, jean cut-offs that just barely managed to cover her cheeks and
upper thighs, and, oddly, a single sock on her left foot. I never
understood why she sometimes wore just one sock.

	She gave me a nasty glare and pronounced that I, this place,
and this summer, sucked.

	And that did it, as far as I was concerned. I looked down
towards the dock and saw no one there. The people renting the house
next to us were apparently gone. I really should have gone for a swim
or a walk or just gotten away from her, but instead, I leaned over and
ran my fingernails along the partially exposed right foot.

	Lindsey's eyes grew wide, she grimaced, and the toes of her
foot curled reflexively inward.

	Cursing like a sailor, she shrieked something like "Ranatta,
what the HELL do you think you're doing? You idiot!" She roared far
louder than I expected, so I glanced around again to make sure we were
alone. We were definitely alone and weren't going to be disturbed.

	We sort of stared at each other for a minute or so. The anger
and resentment that had been building in her for weeks was beginning
to surface. She looked a little worried, too, because she noticed me
looking around. I think we both understood then that she was dependent
on me, in more respects than one.

	Seeing her flinch and yelp like that produced twinges in me
that I never expected to feel. I enjoyed the feeling of having made
her squirm like that, and that enjoyment was partially manifesting
itself in a certain dampness and hunger. I knew I could reach out and
do it again. I also felt a little dizzy, realizing there was nothing
she could do to prevent me.

	I decided. "You're right, Linds," I said, pronouncing her
nickname sarcastically. "You're not going anywhere."

Subject: The Accountant (MF, mdom)[2/3]
From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Date: 1996/09/06
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories

			   The Accountant
			       Part Two

	I didn't hesitate or contemplate further. I gently laid my
left hand on her cast, and the fingertips of my right hand ascended to
her toes. We both watched as as I used the very tips of my fingers
along the base of her toes. Lindsey just stared, open mouthed,
uncomprehending. Then, gradually, I could hear her fingernails digging
deeper into the armrests of the wicker, the sound of cracking and
crunching wicker intensifying. She gritted her teeth and her jaw
tightened as each of my fingers moved lazily along her toes and down
to the ball of her foot. I moved my left hand slowly down the cast and
gently held her toes back, so I could reach in between and all over
each toe.

	Sitting that way, with her leg propped up, she could only
stretch forward a little, and she tried to take a swipe at my arm. Her
movements only left her tired, and she collapsed backwards against the
chair, with a look of growing discomfort on her face, which was
twisted so that her eyes were clamped shut, her the creases in her
forehead and around her eyes stood out, and her teeth were exposed and
forced together. Meanwhile, as if trying to defend what she could of
her body, she'd brought the other foot flat down on the seat of the
chair, bending her knee and tucking the foot as close as she could to
her leg.

	Then, unexpectedly, she pursed her lips, puckering them up
like she wanted a kiss, and begin breathing in and out deeply and
rapidly. The air rushed in and out of her mouth in quick gusts, and
only then did she bite her lower lip and start a quiet moan, which
began in the back of her throat and grew.

	I hadn't stopped what I was doing. In fact, I was delighted
(and relieved) that she hadn't started yelling. There was a hunger in
my stomach, almost a thirsty yearning to do more and more, and I
glanced down to see the sweat running down my legs, as I kneeled by
her side on my knees. Even my hands and arms were getting damp with
perspiration. I couldn't take my eyes off the way her toes wiggled
inside the cast, and then glancing up to see her tears and
frustration, her face twisted and bunched up, teeth digging into her
lower lip, beads of sweat on her forehead rolling down into her eyes,
as well the dark stains of sweat on her tank top. Her attempts to make
herself more comfortable had resulted in the cut offs riding up her
legs. Except for the sock on her left foot and the cast, her legs were
completely bare and exposed. For the fist time in my life, I noticed
another girl's legs and wanted to trace my fingernails down them.

	My relief was short lived, when she let loose with what
sounded like a howl, at the end of which two words rode the waves and
gusts of breath: "Please... NO!"

	"Please? Was that a `please' I heard, Linds?" I teased. It was
a little late for niceties, and even if she'd pleaded to be allowed to
memorize Emily Post, I wouldn't have stopped. Instead, pinching her
big toe between my thumb and index fingers, I leaned down and nipped
the very tip of it with my teeth. She squealed loudly and her eyes
jerked open in surprise. She was scared now and a tad disoriented
from hyperventilating.

	She reached back with both hands now, and grabbed the back of
the wicker chair with all her strength, like she was trying to hang
onto something steady. Suddenly, amidst the deep breathing and the
gasps and the noises of suffering coming from her throat, she found
her voice.

	"Ranatta, please... " she stopped, gasping some more, trying
to get words out before she was rendered incapable of speaking again.
"I won't be such a bitch again. I've just been pissed off about summer
and this," she nodded at the cast, "and I took out on you, and you've
been so nice and all I've done... ohhh." I didn't even give her a
chance to finish. My fingers again moved back forth along the tops of
her toes now, then slid down her toes in a snake-like meandering, to
the ball of her foot, as well as the rest, right down to where the
cast covered the rest of her foot.

	She screamed this time, in between `Nos' and `Stops'. I
stopped.

Subject: The Accountant (MF, mdom)[3/3]
From: rdragon@ix.netcom.com(***)
Date: 1996/09/06
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories

			   The Accountant
			      Part Three

	I shifted my location to the other side of her chair. The cast
was an impediment, and I now felt a kind of hungry desire to see her
left foot bare. "Hold still, Lindsey, or I can think of ways to make
this seem like a warm up session," I said quietly. I reach for her
left ankle, but she jerked the leg further back against her body. I
tried again, but she kicked out at me.

	"Lindsey, the more cooperative you are, the sooner this will
be over. If you try to kick me again, I promise you that you'll be
begging me to tickle your feet, by the time I'm done with you. We have
all night here alone, you and I, and I am fed up with your attitude.
Say, look above you, Linds."

	She slowly drew her head back and looked. Right above where we
sat was a heavy, blossoming plant, with leaves and vines extended far
over the side of the large pot in which they grew.

	"Here's what'll happen, Lindsey. I will take that plant down,
get some nylon rope, tie your hands together and string the rope up to
the hook in the ceiling. Then, we'll find out if your sweaty underarms
are as ticklish as your feet. And since I'll be in the neighborhood, I
may just decide to cut your tank top off and see if those firm little
boobs of yours are ticklish, too."

	Lindsey's blushed modestly and the corners of her mouth began
to tremble. She was scared, too, and didn't know what to do. I'm sure
she thought I was just being mean and would stop once I had made my
point. She opened her mouth, tried to say something, but sobs and
tears choked her words.

	"Linds," I said cheerfully, "you know I can do it. I'll sit
right on top of your good leg and take my time working on your
underarms and chest. I know how proud you are of those ripe ones, and
I've seen the way you stick your chest out when we're at the Miller's
dock. Jack and Phil just can't take their eyes off of you, can they?"

	She was confused now, understanding that I was getting at
something, but not sure what. I reached forward and ran an index
finger down her bare, damp underarm. She jerked involuntarily and her
arm came down quickly. With my other index finger, I quickly made a
circle around the fabric of her tank top over her right nipple. Her
other arm came down and she pushed my hand away.

	"I wonder if Jack and Phil are home?"

	She understood exactly what I was hinting at. Her eyes filled
with desperation, understanding, and tears. Her lips drooped downwards
into a sad frown, the way a child awaiting a shot looks. The sobs
returned and slowly she uncurled her left leg and extended it over the
edge of the chair.

	"Good girl."

	I couldn't pretend with myself any longer. I was no longer
just frustrated at the way she'd been acting. I was no longer just
teaching her a lesson; she'd tried to apologize. I was enjoying this,
and I wanted more. I wanted to savor every moment. I would slowly
remove the sock from her left foot, rub my hand over the sole, to see
if it was sweating like the rest of her, and then slowly I would
increase the tickling from a minor itch to a debilitating stream of
torment.

	Her ankle and lower leg was damp, as I drew her leg over the
arm of the chair. Now, she had both legs positioned on the arms of the
chair. Her cast stuck straight out, but her left leg dangled loosely
over the edge of the chair.

	My right hand held her ankle firmly, while the left reached
behind and slowly began to peel the sock over her heel and down her
foot. She remained stiff and frozen, as if trying to prepare herself
for the inevitable. I slowly watched her foot emerge from the sock,
and then I removed the sock by pulling from the toe.

	"Ranatta, please," she said through sniffles. Her voice
cracked now, and she did her best to stifle the tears. "I... I really
am sorry about how I acted, and you had every right to be made, but
please, don't do this. I'll be good from now on; I promise I will.
You... you just can't tickle my underarms... or my... my... " her
voice trailed off in shame and humiliation.

	"I can do pretty much whatever I want, Linds," I replied,
again stressing her nickname in a contemptuous way. "If you cooperate,
though, and don't struggle too much, I may be willing to let your
obnoxious behavior slide, but you kicked me, you little bitch, and now
this cute, little bare foot of yours is going to pay for it."

	I didn't tickle at first, but rather let my finger tips run
gently over both the top and bottom of her foot. Her toes wiggled back
and forth, she again locked her jaw, and I noticed she kept trying to
pull her foot backward, with the toes pointing towards her, and the
heel jutting out. The second time she did this, I drew a nail down
the middle of her sole and watched as the toes curled inward. As her
toes curled, I would then use the other nails of my hand in a criss-
cross fashion, moving from one side of her foot to the other, up
towards her toes. The bottoms of her feet were soft and flexible;
wearing socks the way she did, sweating while she wore them, ensured
sensitive, receptive feet.

	Her hands were again clamped around the arms of the chair, and
she dug her nails into the wicker. The cracking and snapping of some
of the strands were easily audible. I again reached forward with my
right hand and held her toes backwards, exposing the sole of her foot
completely.

	She just sunk back into the chair, writhing. Her right leg
twitched periodically, and her eyes became glassy, her mouth opened
wide, the sounds of grunting and intense, prolonged suffering gurgling
up from the back of her throat. As I tickled the sole of her foot, I
leaned over and again nipped the tip of her big toe with my teeth. She
spasmed even more and looked wildly around. Then, in the heat of her
moment, I leaned forward again and wrapped my mouth around her big toe
and sucked hard. Her previous gyrations were preludes compared with
what followed. She smashed her bawled fists into the back of the
chair, and scissored her leg back and forth trying to detach my mouth
from her toe. She screamed until it sounded as though she would burst
a blood vessel in her throat.

	I was at once ashamed and emboldened by what I was doing to
her. I knew there would be consequences, I knew I was sexually
aroused, but I couldn't stop myself. I grabbed her ankle with my left
hand, ran a thumbnail down the middle of her foot, and began scraping
my lower teeth against the wet throbbing toe, ignoring the other toes
that curled deeply into my cheek. I didn't know, really, what was
happening as her entire body clenched and shook against the back and
sides of the chair. I held tight, kept tickling, and resumed sucking
on her lovely toe, glancing up to watch the madness in her eyes, a
wild animal sort of look, devoid of reason or reflection. There seemed
to be only the sensations coursing through her body.

	Lindsey arched her back, exposing her neck and chin, and
ground the top of her head into the back of the chair. I felt my legs
involuntarily twitch and pull inward. I thought for a moment that I
had a cramp in my groin, then I understood the waves of pleasure that
kept shooting out from beneath my waist.

	I stopped and let myself plop onto the floor of the porch.

	Exhausted, sucking for air, she actually thanked me for
stopping. The smugness and condescension, so in evidence not an hour
ago, had vanished. Lindsey's hair was disheveled, the third toe on
her right foot was quivering all on its own, she was sweating freely
all over the visible parts of her body, from the soles of both feet to
her thighs and stomach, her breasts, underarms, neck and face. Beads
of it ran down her face and dripped onto her already soaked tank top,
which, along with her cut offs, looked as though someone had hit her
with a bucket of water. Smaller beads formed under her arms and then
traveled south. Her bare leg glistened with it.

	After a few minutes, I helped her to her feet, and we both
went inside to clean up. She showered and then slept. At dinner that
night, she seemed to have regained something of her old spirit. I
noticed, however, when she raised a soda to her lips, that she was
trembling very slightly. She noticed it, too, looked at me, and we
both smiled.

	Neither of us said a word about it, not that evening, not
ever. Lindsey's visit concluded some weeks later without incident. We
stayed in touch, and our families got together a few years later in
Florida. To see us hanging out at the beach or cruising the malls,
you'd never think anything unusual had happened between us. We knew,
though, and I like to think that something unique existed between us,
and does to this day.