	             ____________________________
                    |                            |
                  /)|     KRISTEN'S BOOKSHELF    |(\
                 / )|         DIRECTORIES        |( \
              __(  (|____________________________|)  )__
             ((( \  \ >  /_)              ( \  < /  / )))
             (\\\ \  \_/  /                \  \_/  / ///)
              \          /                  \          /
               \      _/                     \_       /
                /    /                         \     \
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o  	I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to  o
o  be typed therefore I don’t type things myself."  I think it’s  o
o  a lot more fun to browse around and find  'little'  surprises  o
o  that you might not have even thought of looking for.           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.   Kristen         o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

 Castle Tour (bondage)
by Anonymous (c) 1991

**

 I'm on a tour of a medieval castle. As the tour group enters the dungeon,
 my eyes immediately light on the stocks. As the tour guide is going on
 about the horrible tortures that used to take place, I'm trying to imagine
 what it would be like to be in the stocks. As the group files out of the
 room, I linger behind, just to try them on for size...

 Well, no sooner are my ankles in them then a form moves out of the corner
 of the dungeon, snapping a padlock on the stocks! I try to struggle, but
 I am trapped! I look at him; he was also in the tour group. "I noticed
 you staring at the stocks," he says, "and I was hoping you'd stay
 behind." He begins to unlace my sneakers, and I know what he is going to
 do. I start to beg him not to, but he ignores me, just smiling. I know
 yelling won't do any good; the walls are many feet of solid stone.

 I'm not wearing any socks, so I'm now helpless before him. He takes a
 large plume from a suit of armor and begins to run it up and down my
 trapped soles without mercy! I am laughing out of control and begging him
 to stop, but he goes on. Then he starts to tickle my toes, and I go
 completely wild! After a while he stops, but doesn't let me go. He just
 looks over at the rack and smiles...

 The man unlocks the stocks, but there is no escape for me yet.
 Effortlessly, he drags me to the rack. I'm still a little weak from the
 insidious foot-tickling I've just received, so there is nothing I can do
 to stop him from closing the manacles around my wrists. My ankles are
 locked into the stocks at the end of the rack, my bare feet sticking out.
 Now I'm even more helpless than before!

 He begins to turn the wheel of the rack. Not enough to actually hurt me;
 just enough to stretch me out and totally immobilize me. "You don't know
 how long I've waited to get a lovely woman like you in such a position,"
 he says. I'm too scared to reply. Then, he begins to unbutton my shirt,
 slowly. One button at a time, as if he were savoring every second of
 dreaded anticipation he was forcing me to endure. He finally unbuttons
 the whole thing, exposing my breasts and stomach to whatever he chooses
 to do to me. He taunts me, saying, "You _have_ gotten yourself into a
 ticklish situation, haven't you?"

 "Say, `I love to be tickled' for me," he says. I refuse, even though it
 is true. He repeats the command, holding the large feather in front of my
 eyes as a silent threat. Still I refuse. I don't know why. Perhaps I
 really want him to tickle me. "Very well," he says, and starts to run the
 plume over my sensitive abdomen.

 The torture is unbearable. I can feel the feather gliding against my
 tummy, ribs, and belly button, and it is agony! "Hahahahahahaha!!!!!
 Please stop!" I beg, but to no avail. He keeps on the devilish tickling,
 until tears are rolling down my cheeks. "Say it," he insists, as he plays
 the feather across my breasts, adding new tickling agony.

 I have to relent. "I love to be tickled! I love to be tickled!" I
 confess. "Now please stop! Hehehe!!!"

 He finally relents, giving me time to gulp precious air. "Excellent," he
 says. "Now, since you _do_ admit to loving this, perhaps we should pay
 some more attention to these lovely feet of yours..."

 I can only sob in frustration, wondering when the next tour group is due.
 Then I remember; ours was the last tour of the day!

 It's a night I'll never forget.
