Now I was alone in the living room. The music had been turned off. My brow was damp with sweat and there was a very faint ringing in my ears. Thinking I needed to follow Stuart’s example, I started my way back up to my sponge bed on the table. I was able to get up there from the ground now. It required scaling the sofa closest to the table, then running along the top of the backrest, and finally making a flying leap onto the table.
Climbing up the sofa wasn’t too difficult because I was so light – as I’d demonstrated to the media team. It was made a little more difficult now because my vision was subtly rotating back and forth. Whenever my balance seemed to swoop, I had to close my eyes and climb by touch alone. The leap was trickier; I struggled to run in a straight line, and the backrest seemed to wobble beneath me. Then, once I’d sprung into the air, the wide airspace seemed to lurch at me on one side as if to seize me, before I tumbled head over feet across the polished wooden tabletop, and came to a rest on my side. The table was cold under my cheek but I barely felt it, my heart was flickering rapidly behind my heaving chest wall.
Slowly my breath returned and I was able to get up and stagger over to my bed, where I stripped out of my tuxedo and started putting on my superman costume.
I dropped back onto the sponge bed and for a little while watched the ceiling light sway back and forth. It wasn’t a hanging light like a chandelier – it was my vision causing the effect. The world shifted with it; steadily one way, then back the other. I folded my arms up over my eyes, dampening out the intense light beaming down on me, and feeling myself rocking around gently behind the darkness of my forearms like I was on a boat.
My arms slowly relaxed and lowered, while my eyelids fluttered closed…
Soft footsteps shuffled over the carpet.
I twitched, coming back into wakefulness.
The footsteps moved on into the kitchen. Then the fridge opened and there was some clinking of glass. The footsteps returned and Jennifer emerged into the living room now wearing her nightwear: a pale pink satin camisole top that left her her stomach exposed, and matching panties. She slunk over to the table, and noticing me lying on my bed, and gave me hopeful smile.
“YOU’LL SHARE A DRINK WITH ME, WON’T YOU?”
She leaned right over the table, her butt sticking into the air at the other end, and there was a solid clink as she put a shot glass down on the tabletop next to me.
It looked like a little chocolate float, but had an inviting alcoholic smell emanating from it. And the smell of licorice.
I looked up at her quizzically.
“SINCE YOU LIKED IT SO MUCH,” she explained, “I GOT THE WHOLE BOTTLE. NOW YOU CAN HAVE AS MUCH AS YOU WANT. JUST TELL ME WHEN TO STOP.”
“I can’t,” I groaned, waving my hand in front of my face. “It’ll hit me like a bus.”
“IT’S ONLY GOT THE TEENIEST AMOUNT OF LIQUEUR IN IT.” Then she gave me an ‘ah, so what?’ look. “IT’S FRIDAY. YOU CAN SLEEP IN AS LONG AS YOU WANT TOMORROW.”
She’d gone to all the trouble of dressing it up with a layer of whipped cream and crushed up flecks of ice, I felt I owed it to her to at least try some. If I had a little off the top, she could down the rest.
As I leaned hesitantly over the rim of the glass, the liquor’s thick sultry perfume stung my nose and throat. Every time I went to take a sip, she tipped the glass up a little too eagerly, causing the drink to spill down my throat. I gagged and burbled for air a few times, and she just suppressed a laugh as her fingertip ran along my face to wipe the cream off, before bringing it up to her lips to taste.
Caught up in her enjoyment, I eventually ended up draining the whole glass. I couldn’t see, because my face and eyes were lathered in whipped cream, but felt as the pressure of her finger slid over my face, slowly wiping the cream off and clearing my vision. Only it was bigger than her fingertip, bigger than even her thumb. Warmer, and wetter, too.
Blinking my eyes open, I found her massive plush lips suspended right in front of me, making a gentle sucking motion. She had leaned down and licked the flat of her tongue over my face.
I gasped and stumbled back, falling onto my butt.
“LOOKS LIKE YOU’VE HAD ENOUGH,” she said, putting the empty glass to one side.
This wasn’t an exaggeration. My blood vessels felt hot and thick, and the edges of objects were wavering in and out of focus. I slumped onto the sponge bed, trying to take deep breaths and ignore the way the ceiling was spinning.
Jennifer’s attention had turned to a coil of string lying on the table nearby. She stared at it a moment in thought. Then, reaching for it, she began biting her lip as she began to unwind it, as if she was trying not to smile. Using a scissors, she cut several similar length pieces of string.
“What are you doing…?” I said, slurring slightly.
She didn’t say anything.
Before I knew it, the end of a piece of string was looped around my wrist and tied. My eyes got big. This was starting to look a lot like Fifty Shades of Gray territory.
“You’re tying me up!” I cried out. Deep down I wondered why she would think it was necessary anyway; due to my small size it was already a simple matter for her to restrain me.
“NOT QUITE,” she said earnestly. “I PROMISE.”
She pushed me onto my back with one finger so that she could loop more string around each of my ankles. With my wrists already bound, I was clumsily trying to crawl over to the sponge bed, trying in vain to escape, but she took a hold of my calf muscle to gently hold me still.
Lastly, she tied a piece of string around my torso, just below my ribcage.
“TURN AROUND,” she instructed, waving her finger around in a circle over my head. I did so, biting my tongue uneasily.
Standing with my back to her, I felt the strings being gently tugged and shifted.
“THERE,” she said finally, with satisfaction.
I couldn’t see what she’d done and was about to turn around when the strings around my arms and torso went taut and began pulling up over my head. As I was lifted up off the table, I gazed up to see her hand positioned directly above me, palm down. She had the arm and leg on one side of my body attached to her thumb and pointer, and my other arm and leg attached to her ring finger and pinky finger. The end of the string around my middle was secured to the base of her middle finger. She had strung me up to her hand like a living puppet.
I gaped and stammered as I continued to rise higher into the air as she stood up from the table, before she rotated her hand and I found myself turning downwards until I was levitating face down in the air, my arms and legs spread eagled.
“Hey, this isn’t funny!” I spluttered, my face turning an angry red. “Get me out of this mess! Put me down right this instant!”
“STUART!” she called out. “SUPERMAN’S LEARNED HOW TO FLY!”
I heard Stuart chuckling from another room. “NOW HE JUST NEEDS LASER SIGHT AND X-RAY VISION, AND HE’S THE REAL DEAL.”
I was still rising up, and up, until I was suspended like a baby’s crib mobile in front of her face. I lifted my head to meet her eyes, and she scrutinized me for a moment thoughtfully, her head cocked slightly to the side.
“I DON’T KNOW,” she murmured, so low Stuart wouldn’t have been able to hear her, “I THINK HE’S ALREADY GOT X-RAY VISION JUDGING FROM THE WAY HE LOOKS AT ME.”
She draped herself over the couch, reclining her back against one arm rest with a pillow behind her head, and drawing one leg up, pressing the sole of her foot against the sofa seat cushion.
I hovered just above her supine form, struggling helplessly as her body shifted directly below, trying to get comfortable. Her tight camisole clung to her curves like paint, distinctly showing up the shape of her upper stomach and the protuberances of her boobs, round and swollen against the satin, leaving very little to the imagination. Her nipples, hardening with building arousal, pointed out at me with unavoidable suggestion. Face down, my viewline plunged directly into the valley of her cleavage.
“EYES UP HERE,” she said, inclining my head up with the end of a fingertip so that it was parallel with hers.
She entertained herself for a moment trying to manipulate my body. Her fingers flexed rhythmically and a smile of deep satisfaction played over her face as she watched the corresponding body movements this caused in my arms and legs. With the dexterous control of her hand, my little body was orchestrated and bullied through a pantomime of superman in flight, rocking, thrusting and banking, while at the same time, she even provided the zooming noises – at least, when she could stop laughing.
“PREPARE FOR TURBULENCE,” she intoned as she held me level with her jaw, and sucking in a huge breath, began to pummel me with a rapid succession of powerful exhalations. I scrunched up my eyes as my face was blasted by her warm, alcoholic breath;
As my body was forced backwards, my arms were stretched together and my feet forced to splay slightly wider apart. My body jiggled slightly as the wind hit across me in unequal measures, the red cape pulling against my shoulders as it flapped out behind me. Each gust seemed to get bigger than the last; it seemed she was actively trying to blow me back as far as possible.
Finally, the airstream dulled again, and the strings dropped me down again, where I swayed gently back into my normal prone, spread-eagled position. Jennifer tilted her head back, laughing indulgently.
My mouth twisted, I was about to speak up for the sake of my decency when my arms were wrenched forward and pulled together as I was guided through a steep dive.
I let out a little sob of agony.
“Hey, go easy!” I squeaked. “You’re gonna pull my limbs out of their sockets!”
At the bottom of my dive, my face was brought within inches of her toned solar plexus – almost as if she intended me to kiss it – before she maneuvered me through an incredibly tight parabola. A jolt of pain shuddered down my spine as my back was forced to bend sharply in a way to make any yoga practitioner cringe. I let out a tiny squeak. Throughout, my nose went from almost poking her abdomen, to tilting up at the underside of her breasts, which formed a bulging wall that obscured her face.
My eyes bugged out.
Her other hand had crept underneath the bottom of the satin top, where it now lay positioned scandalously close to one of her breasts, and I could make out the fingers actually rubbing the underside…
My groin stiffened as I resurfaced up over her bust, where her face came into view again. Her hand slid out from under the satin and smoothly rose up beneath me, as if she didn’t want me to see it coming, although I could sense it lying in wait, like a poised snake.
She observed me a moment, pausing as if for effect. Then she said:
“IS SUPERMAN TICKLISH?”
“No! No!” I squealed, fighting against the strings.
Then, the larger world disappeared; all I was aware of was the intolerable sensation of her persistent fingertips waggling furiously against my sides, belly, underarms, and the soles of my feet, pausing torturously on whichever area got the biggest reaction. She was an expert tickler, it was her art: she knew how to apply the perfect pressure with her nail tip, when to hone in on an area, and when to spontaneously switch, and caught me out multiple times by pretending to stop, rubbing my face or stomach with her thumb as if by apology, and then, with no warning, redoubling the assault. Strung up taut, I had no ability to defend myself against the onslaught of her wicked fingertips, and when it was finally over, my sides ached in pain, faintly winded, and a headache biting into my temples like a dog had its jaws around my head.
It also felt like I’d lost control of my bladder. This turned out not to be the case. It was something different.
Jennifer’s upturned fingertip was gently probing my stomach, and then it trailed down under my lower belly and gave my dick a firm poke.
My skin tightened all over. I grunted and shifted my hips.
She caught my bulge between her index finger and thumb and began to squeeze and tug it in a steady pulsating rhythm. I began to buck my hips against her fingers. There was a fizzing feeling in my groin, like it was full of bubbling soda. A sobbing sound was coming from my lips.
“SHHHH,” she murmured, bringing me up to her lips and pressing a kiss against my face as she continued to play with my member. With my face buried against her soft lips, I moved into the sweet release of orgasm. For a brief moment after I was limp and twitching in the afterglow, she continued to tickle my nuts and finger my shaft, and because I was still strung up – not to mention exhausted – I couldn’t stop her. It was a thing she did – and had done when we'd been dating. It was her way of asserting control; sending the message 'I will touch you when you want it, and when you don't.’
Overcome with fatigue, I let my mind go blank, and my head droop for a moment, briefly aware that I was being gently lowered, until my front came to a rest upon the soft, taut flesh of her belly. I turned my cheek to the side and lay there, huffing for air. Her ‘puppeteer’ hand came to rest over me, with the pads of her first two fingers pressing gently against my shoulder and back.
There was a soft rustling further along her body. Even though I couldn’t see it, I knew her hand had slipped back into the bust of her top, and I could hear her rubbing herself, small eruptions of breath escaping huskily from her throat. With her other hand, she was also stroking me, almost painfully, at the same time, which was disquieting – as if I was an erotic extension of her body, taking the place of her sex organ.
My overworked body trembled at the excitation, but I refused to look up; thinking that if I made eye contact with her, I would be pulled deeper into a darker sex game.
The rustling sound paused, while Jennifer let out a great luxurious sigh. She hadn't come, she was just taking a break. During this brief interval, I took the opportunity to speak up, as a means to distract her from getting even more hardcore. The risk of Stuart walking in on us was too great.
My tongue passed over my lips, trying to moisten them. My throat was parched.
“Can I have a drink…?” I said croakily.
She didn’t reply, but I rose as she got up off the sofa, and suddenly I was surging through the air beneath her hand, into the kitchen. I had meant water, but she instead retrieved the bottle of liqueur from the counter. Tipping it back, she took a long draught, but did not swallow.
The last thing I remember was her soft warm lips clamped around the lower half of my face, liqueur flowing from her mouth and into mine, surging down my throat and into my belly, and the sting of alcohol numbing my sinuses, and then, finally, numbing my consciousness.