Mavis and the Featherlight Ch. 4


As the angel smiled at her, the elf giggled, realising how many locks had now been devoted to securing her sex away. She trembled as Rose released her, running her fingers up and down the curving top of the combined waistband, feeling the layers move together as she realised just how thick it was. Gently, she tugged and tugged at it, trying to get it to budge, and finding that it would move very little. The four padlocks at her sides clicked gently as her attention moved to tugging at them, rattling and pulling. “R-Rose,” She stammered. “It’s… It’s really pretty. B-But…!”

Rose smiled. “It’s heavenly steel, and heavenly bronze in the top layers. Extremely expensive. Oh, Mavis, you look so beautiful.”

Mavis reddened even more. “I m-might, but, Rose… How am I going to hide these under clothes?” She tugged at the padlocks again, her hands shaking with nervous exertion now as she tested their security; soon moving to the waistband, and finding that she could neither manage to push it down, nor tilt it.

“I’ve got some clothes picked out for you that should work just fine,” Rose purred. “You’ve seen how well my dresses hide my own belt. Look.” She said, pointing down at her body. “They’re bulky things. But would you ever think I was wearing anything under here?”

The elf looked up at her, her lip wobbling.

Rose sighed. “Do you already need me to take it all off?” She pouted. “It takes a while, you know. A fair bit longer than it took to put on. That said… I don’t want to make you accept anything that-”

“It’s fine right now. B-But…” Mavis stammered. “Rose, who the hell is this meant to keep out…?”

The angel moved close to her, then, poking her gently in the chest. “You,” She beamed. “And only you. Other people, too, would be nice, but including them in the threat model… I hope you won’t get too smug when I tell you it wouldn’t have changed the design.”

Mavis and the Featherlight Ch. 3


The elf became quite wild after the fifty minute mark passed. Panting and gasping, she tried to ignore the sound of the table creaking under the weight of her knee; Despite knowing that it was useless, and apart from that, obscene, Mavis couldn’t help but keep fucking the edge. The horrible brushes were tormenting her again, flicking and prodding and pricking and touching at her desperately quivering, twitching clit; teasing softly at its tip, its base, its every edge. Still, even now, quick, careful little touches. But now, she was so, so close. So close. She just needed, just a little more! If just one of the brushes, any one, would just linger just a little longer, that might… She might… “Mmmh!” She sobbed, her shaking arm gripping the wobbling chair as, finally, her stamina ran out and she fell back onto it. She pawed at the belt desperately, her hands squeaking up and down. Pressing harder and moving faster as she tried desperately to feel something, anything more than the relentless, torturous touches. The pattern had finally changed, now, but only subtly – only two additional brushes. One poking and tickling at that one spot, deep inside her, that the belt had found earlier – the one that now drove her absolutely insane when it was touched in any way – and one just. Ever so gently, tracing. And caressing, at her lips… Around and around, and then. Up. And down… Mavis didn’t know which was the worst. She didn’t care to reason. The torture went on and on, until her whole body itched and ached with frustration.

By sixty minutes, the elf could only slump against the table. Her chest heaved as she drew one long, shuddering breath after another. By seventy, she was gently, quietly pleading in a voice that only grew higher, more forlorn, anguished and desperate, to be allowed to cum. Her feet beat at the floor, her body only able to endure and endure as, still, the brushes pricked and caressed at her body, holding her still, even now, just… Just shy. Only just. With perfect, mechanical precision, careful, measured little stroke after stroke, touch after touch. Silent, glacial caresses, slow and feather soft – slight touch, after touch, after touch… Somehow, the belt knew not only how much stimulation would be too much, but exactly how much was enough. And through that knowledge, it ensured that no matter how the elf craned her body around, she could get no further or closer. Every touch of the clockwork arms and brushes and nubs was perfectly considered, intricately balanced, and mechanically measured. She would have marvelled at it, were it not so utterly maddening – swooned masochistically at the idea of such treatment, were it not her it was happening to, and quite against her will. Again, the elf began to struggle wildly against the waistband wound tightly around her body, quietly pleading and begging for release as her juices, no longer a drip but now a thin, constant stream, dribbled down the legs of the chair; and yet the belt was adamant in both its cruelty, and the tyrannical snugness of its grip on her pelvis. This state was the one in which the elf was to be kept, now – confined, held against her will, no matter how desperately she tried to escape.