6 comments/ 24767 views/ 6 favorites Penalized Member By: Smokey125 SMOKEY SAGAS #19: "Penalized Member" *** Hi, Royal Leaders. ... Er... Uh, pardon me. Hi, Loyal Readers (damn written dyslexia). First of all, I'd just like to let you know that there is nothing in my pockets; I'm just happy to see you. Now, this story has some particular and unrelated aspects, because...embarrassing as this is to admit...it's half-autobiographical. Well...maybe more 65, 75%, rather than half. It's not an exact carbon-copy of something that happened to me; bits and pieces are dragged and dropped here and there... But I think you'll be able to determine where the truth ends and the fiction starts. At least I HOPE so. The characters themselves in this tale remain fictional. The names have been changed to protect the aroused. Any similarity is purely coincidental and unintentional. And the story is dedicated to all you other dudes out there—and I know you're out there—who have this same little...uh...quirk...that I have (and also could do without it). And if you are a submissive gentleman like I, and/or you enjoy femdom/CFNM stories, you'll probably like this one. That's all. Have a nice read. Bye. *** March 22nd, 6:37 p.m. This glorious Saturday coinciding with the vernal equinox served as the setting for the latest event held by the Svenska Festare, the local organization and gathering at which a healthy percentage of all the Swedes in town (who were of course now Swedish-Americans) met up with their friends and families for some food, fun and good old-fashioned breeze-shooting. Every month they simulated actual cultural and traditional practices and celebrations held in Sweden, to introduce their American friends to their customs. The group presidents were directly from their home country, as were the majority of the members, though they also gladly took in American-born and "honorary" Swedes with open arms. In other words, anyone who wished to join and could afford the membership charge was welcome to come. The group came up with a different Swedish event to replicate every month. Some months varied, and some were the same each year, like March's. Every March—right around the bloom of spring—saw what was probably the most famous little party of them all, the annual buffet-like smörgåsbord (sandwich table). Each member and guest was asked or volunteered to bring a different dish to contribute. And so the array of appetizers and entrées was usually as impressive as the attendance turnout. One regular guest who wasn't of genuine Swedish heritage but was a friend to a few who were—one of the American "honoraries"—named Mark, Mark Numan, arrived with these two friends of his—a married couple from Stockholms län—as he did each time. He was very young (22), single, and had been a member for about a year. He remembered that last year's smörgåsbord was one of his first of these events, and he immediately didn't recall having come to any previous, and so it seemed that today marked (no pun intended) his anniversary with them. His friends Pär and Lena Nyberg had brought the sill (herring) with them. Pretty much all the other goodies and edibles were as well accounted for amongst the remainder of the members. As for Mark, he was particularly nervous, as he had a little more of a task upon him this time. And even though Pär and Lena had helped him—and provided the serving bowl—he remained anxious. Just the way the food list had been distributed this time, they'd ended up asking him to provide what was the arguably the biggest "must" on the table. The masterpiece, as it were: the köttbullar (Swedish meatballs). Hence, his anxiety. He knew—or he was at least pretty reasonably sure—that even if the meatballs, well, bombed, so to speak, the Swedes wouldn't be terribly disappointed in him, and it certainly wouldn't jeopardize his standing in the group or anything like that, but naturally, he still of course wanted to make them as good as could be. Occasionally, the group would hold the meetings/events at an outside public location, like IKEA. Mostly, though, they were home-held. Tonight, for instance, was hosted by a woman who'd been with them a long time, whose name was Annelie Svenningsson. She was a professional photographer, but she was so unfathomably beautiful—still today, at the age of 43—most folks who met her for the first time automatically assumed she was on the other side of the camera, as a model. Her blonde hair resembled strands of gold against her tan skin. Her face and figure were almost unrealistically Venus-like, and in astonishingly flawless proportion to each other. Just looking at her had the potential to put thoughts in one's head...thoughts bordering on the indecent. Somehow, she remained unattached and on the proverbial market. Actually, she was divorced, but very few, not even the other Swedes, were keen on the details of that situation at all. The women in the group slightly outnumbered the men, which was perfectly fine with them. As roughly 70% or so of Swedish women were, the majority of the ladies were natural blonde beauties, blessed with the famous Scandinavian pulchritude. The Swedish gentlemen were pretty handsome themselves, most if not all of whom were at least six feet and a few inches tall. And so it conversely wasn't difficult or uncommon for the women in turn to appreciate the gents' lanky masculinity. In short and for the most part, the Americans (like Mark) were amazed by their Nordic friends' exotic attractiveness, and felt kind of plain next to them. Fortunately for the Yanks, they weren't being judged by their looks. Mark's friends Pär and Lena had been teaching him the language little by little, and he was slowly picking it up, but still learning and still had a long way to go. It wasn't the easiest language in the world to learn, but they assured him it wasn't the hardest either. As to the outcome of the evening, Mark was thrilled (and a little relieved) to find that the meatballs were a triumph. Everyone loved them. He didn't even realize he had this culinary talent. He might've had some assistance from the Nybergs (and IKEA), but he was thoroughly proud of his efforts nonetheless. He wasn't the most experienced chef, and it wasn't just an attempt to bring food that was pleasing on the tongue; he really liked being around these people. They may have been comely, but they didn't try to make him feel less so...he might not have been able to speak their language like they obviously could, but that wasn't held against him at all either. They were astoundingly sweet, kind and friendly; while Mark was by nature a little shy, it was no problem; if they didn't know him, they came right up and introduced themselves with a big cordial smile. They were also incredibly accommodating—catering to members and guests right to the limit of their capabilities—not to mention affectionate; they loved exchanging large, aggressive hugs. And so on the surface, it was a great night for Mark and everyone else, and seemingly, nothing could go wrong. Under the surface was a slightly different story. For Mark—who was also single and unattached, without a girl to occupy his time, mind and body—being in the monthly presence of all of these gorgeous dames instilled him with a bittersweet feeling consisting of both admiration and solitude. It was very nice of course to share their company for these several hours each month, yet he couldn't help feeling a discernable degree of longing, and desire to grow a little closer with...well, not even necessarily one of these Swedish women, but any nice young woman, actually. He never had had much luck with women. He loved them, but he thought, well, why would one of them want to be with him? He figured he wasn't really anything special, after all, just a regular, average-looking 22-year-old guy. He noticed lots of his fellow dudes around sharing a similar big intrigue and fascination with lots of different kinds of women, but he didn't see a lot of reciprocation. He adored women, but almost a little too much, it seemed sometimes. Not too much in that he craved more than one at a time or anything like that—he certainly wouldn't want to learn that a girl he was dating was also seeing another guy at the same time. But he wondered if he perhaps held the allure of attractive gals in such high regard that it was unhealthy. There was nothing wrong with appreciating natural female beauty, but now he was starting to worry it was interfering with his self-confidence and esteem. Again, it didn't seem they—these Swedish ladies or any others—saw him remotely the same way. The way it seemed to him, men most women were interested in were successful, or rich, or incredibly handsome, or famous (or all four), categories into which he alas didn't fall. Oh well...Mark comforted himself with the fact that there weren't a lot of younger women around here closer to his age in the first place—in fact, he was one of the youngest individuals to attend the events—and most of them were married anyhow. Amazingly comely as they were, it wasn't the most suitable venue at which to meet a nice lass who might one day be a potential girlfriend. And then there was that other pesky factor in play that wasn't exactly working in his favor, either. He tried not to focus on it and just to enjoy the evening. He talked to the Swedes, a lot of whom had as aforementioned helped and encouraged him to come out of his shy shell. He attempted to engage in conversation with them in their native tongue, but he was still just learning, and while the rate they spoke was perfectly normal and casual for them, it sounded super-speedy to Mark. A lot of it went right by him, and he had to ask them, "Sakta ner, snälla?" ('Slow down, please?') but he picked up words here and there. He would arrange the words and letter sounds in order in his head and say to one or more individuals, for example, "Hej, hur har ni det ikväll då?" ('Hey, how are you doing tonight?') Anything as simple as, "Bra, tack! Själv?" he could handle. More than that, he'd likely need to politely ask for a translation. Luckily for him, he found out Swedish people (and actually, most non-Anglos around the world) learned thorough English in elementary school, and they had tough educators who made sure they did. Some of the Swedes found it charming or flattering how Mark was trying (oftentimes struggling) to handle their language. Some of them found it downright humorous. But they all helped guide him along, and he was having a good time regardless. He'd had one and a half plates full of dinner and was positively stuffed. He walked it off circumnavigating the house, chatting with the other guests. The hostess, Annelie, had been spending a good portion of the evening behind the kitchen counter, where most of her socializing had taken place thus far. Now that supper was over with, she came out from the tiled floor onto the carpet shared by all of the domicile's other rooms, rejoining everyone. There was usually a pretty sizable turnout at these parties, and what with them only occurring once a month, it wasn't easy for Mark—or any newcomer—to get to know everybody. He could mentally retrieve most of the names (and fortunately, how to pronounce them), but matching up the faces, which name went with which person(s), now that wasn't so easy. And so as a result, there were some folks in the group Mark knew pretty well and vice versa, and some not so well. For example, while they'd attended several of the same occasions, Mark hadn't really been formally introduced to the hostess, Annelie, until tonight. He caught clear sight of her for the first time when he, Pär and Lena came to the front door. The Nybergs of course knew how to get to her dwelling, but even had Mark needed to arrive on his own for whatever reason, if he made it to the right street, he wouldn't have had much trouble identifying the house. There was a Swedish flag of remarkable size flying in the front yard, whipping every which way; it was a fairly windy afternoon. There very clearly was the blue background with the horizontal yellow cross on it. They knocked. She opened the door and greeted them with a very cheery, hospitable "Hej!!" She was wearing a violet-colored ruffled shirt with her kitchen apron over it, a pair of impressively tight skinny jeans and sandals. When she and Mark met and she welcomed him in along with the Nybergs with a crushing hug, he took in her incomparable beauty with a mental "wow." The hug was also more gripping and forceful than he anticipated. In addition to all her other outstanding physical attributes, Annelie was actually deceptively strong. And friendly. Strength plus friendliness equaled one hell of a hug. She waved them in, motioning them through the front hall, one half of which also ran along the outside of the kitchen counter. Unattached Mark did happen to notice her fingers too were naked, but he also noticed she was around twice his age. Oh well, he'd repeated to himself like so many times before. Even though he liked both younger and not-so-younger girls, more than twenty years of an age difference was just a little much for him. He thought briefly about asking if she happened to have a grown-up daughter or much younger sister, but decided to hold off for just now. Cut to two and a half hours later, and Mark was now far too occupied socializing and trying to hone his still very rough Swedish. Annelie'd retired her apron for the evening, as well as her sandals. She ambled barefoot into the living room with the rest, now on the weary side but very much satisfied with the way the evening had gone. Just about all of the ample furniture space was spoken for, so she sat Indian-style on the carpet. Some of the guests would gladly volunteer to offer their seats for a host(ess), but Annelie insisted everybody stay put on her account. "Don't go anyvhere..." she told them. She sported a very thick Göteborg (or Gothenburg, as the Anglos called it) accent. "Unless of course you have to go somevhere, like ändstationen!" The Swedes laughed. "Ändstationen" was a word that had another meaning, but in this case was a cute way of saying "the john." Coincidentally, Mark just happened to be in ändstationen when she sat down and said this, and he was returning to the living room just now. It was a little after 9:30. The remainder of the evening was progressing as pleasantly as had started, everyone was feeling pretty good, and inevitably, soon enough, guests were heading on their merry way. As the crowd thinned and Mark was having a few ongoing words with those still around him, one of the guests adjourned back to the kitchen and called to Annelie to help her locate something. It was at this moment suddenly when Mark's gaze wandered back over to fall on their hostess—as did most everyone else when her name was called by said kitchen guest. Annelie spun herself around 180° in response to the beckoning and pushed herself to her feet. As she did, Mark noticed what he had not before, that she'd now slipped off her sandals. Which wouldn't have been any sort of a deal to Mark had it not been for that annoying little built-in, incurable flaw of his which flared up whenever something like this happened—his birth-instilled foot fetish...well, technically, it was really only a sole fetish, but it wasn't as if that distinction made a huge difference. It of course happened much more often were a particular woman in her bare feet than otherwise, but in any case, should his eyes by whatever means catch sight of the bottoms of a woman's feet, a signal was sent to Mark's brain, through no intention of his own, which sent an initial, involuntary sensation of arousal through him. It was as if the sight flipped his libido's light switch on. Suddenly, it was difficult to look away. He would get a little twitch (down there), but it wasn't as if it automatically drained all the blood from his legs and tightened his pants so much his circulation was cut off, thank good God. But it certainly wasn't any fun being in the same room with the given woman at this point either. It wasn't great to be around a considerable amount of people with even a budding hint of an erection. They weren't looked upon that kindly in mixed company. And it wasn't an option to simply ask her, "Excuse me, but could you please go put some socks on or something...?" She'd more than likely want to know why, and even if he explained the honest truth, he wasn't dense. He knew what the majority's reaction was. He would subsequently be presented with that usual, familiar "...Are you from this planet?" expression, and thought of from then on as, for lack of a better term, a "freak." And even should a person be informed of and forgive him this unbidden, unwanted characteristic, they'd promptly forget it again upon parting company. Furthermore, it was enough of an unnecessary stimulation to meet with such a vision from a woman in shorts, or a dress, or anything leg-baring, but in jeans, or any pants to the ankles—especially skinny tight jeans such as Annelie's, hugging the ankles the way they were—was all but unbearable. As if the bared feet, which already had this inexplicable sexual effect on him, were being deliberately exposed before him, isolated from revelation of the rest of the body. All other details surrounding this phenomenon having been taken into consideration, he had decided years back the best course of action was to block view—with his hand or whatever happened to be available—and/or turn his head away, simply avoiding looking. Unfortunately, he hadn't time to block his line of vision before he idly turned to see Annelie push herself to her feet, on her toes, "flashing" him the soles of her feet, as it were. Whoops, he thought, as a miniature rush of excitement went through him and he felt the slight twinge between the legs. What would he do, hypothetically speaking, should a girl willfully give him her feet, with which to do anything he pleased? He had no idea. It was a situation that had clearly never presented itself. For now, they remained nothing more than eye candy. He fixated on her feet as she walked back away from him, towards the kitchen. He would have tried to subtly cover his eyes, avert them or find some way to unglue them from her, but another part of his body was distorting the signals his brain was trying to send. Needless to say, when Annelie joined the guest behind the kitchen counter and it finally blocked his view, it was a relief. He would have to make an effort to keep his eyes off her when she returned. He sighed in secret. He didn't know why he had been born with this weird fetish, and the fact was, he really didn't like it very much. It clearly wasn't the same as seeing and reacting to a woman's entire nude body. No one would think it particularly odd or questionable given a tableau of a gynephile happily drooling over a completely nude girl. Not everyone might approve, but they'd understand. But gaping with fascination generated out of nowhere at only the soles of her feet as she was walking, or sitting with her heels up on a table? Not quite as easy to comprehend. Or relate to. What was more, because it was so little-understood—at least by individuals who didn't share the quirk—it was mostly viewed in a negative light. Others would go so far as to label it "perverted," or even "sick." It felt more like a curse than anything else, he thought. And this thought most often led right to, why me? He could plainly see that at least most others didn't carry the same burden. He'd read a little on it until it made him too depressed, but from that much he'd done, apparently among all the varied fetishes and kinks in legit existence, his actually seemed pretty popular. Apparently, a lot of others—well, other men—really did have it, even if it wasn't visually perceptible. Somehow, though, that didn't comfort him much. He knew it was...at least possible, that someone else he might meet in daily life could share the fetish—even at this house this very evening—but not very probable. And even if there were, who would come forth to volunteer this information to him? He knew he wasn't very willing to bring it up himself, not after results with which he'd previously been met. Penalized Member When he could finally no longer see Annelie's feet, he discovered the person sitting next to him was asking him a question. It was a lady named Petra. "Så hur är det inatt? Trivs du? Skoj, va?" He turned to her. She was asking if he'd been having fun tonight. "Huh? Sorry, I—" He mentally switched languages. "Förlåt, vad då?" She repeated the question. She spoke slowly and clearly enough for him to understand. "Åh—åh, ja!" he quickly confirmed. "Javisst! Mycket skoj. Tack." Except of course for that little nagging sensation coming from just below the midsection. *** March 22nd, 10:50 p.m. Mark had conversed with Petra for a little while, and when she rose to visit ändstationen, he got up himself and chose a seat instead facing in the opposite direction with Pär, Lena and a couple other friends of theirs. The hours wore on, leaving fewer and fewer guests all the time, every several minutes bringing another up from their seat, into Annelie's powerful embrace, and out the door. At ten minutes to eleven, apart from the hostess herself, it was down to Mark, Pär and Lena, and another couple, Micke and Jenny Lundström. And the Lundströms were about to bid farväl themselves. Lena yawned. "Oj, käre, jag börjar bli lite trött jag med," she said to Pär, telling him that she was starting to get pretty tired herself. They exchanged hugs and goodbyes, and the Lundströms hit the road as Pär and Lena made sure they had all their things. "Så, hur gick det?" Pär asked Mark how it went. "Fattade du det vi alla sa till dig?" He wanted to know if Mark was able to understand everyone. "Ja, mer eller mindre," ('Yeah, more or less') Mark nodded. He may not have been able to get every word, but he was getting better, he told them. "Jag förstod inte allting, men jag bli bättre." "Jaha, du menar du blir bättre," Lena smiled, correcting his verb tense. Annelie pranced back in from the kitchen (still barefoot). "Hej hej!" she said. "Sista gäster! Hoppas ni alla hade det helt underbart!" ('My last guests! I hope you all just had a wonderful time!') she grinned. The Nybergs replied accordingly. Annelie turned to Mark and slowed down her pace for him. "Vad sägs om det, Mark? Hade du det bra?" ('How about it, Mark, have a good one?') Mark pressed his hands together and brought them to his face, as if saying a prayer. He meant it to appear just an idle gesture, but it was really so he couldn't see her feet. "Åh, javisst!" he assured her. "Jättebra!" As he slipped on his coat, Annelie heard something clatter to the floor. "Åh, fan," ('Oh, hell') she muttered under her breath, trotting back to the kitchen. She threw a wave back to them. "Vi ses senare, tack så mycket för ni kom!" ('See ya later, thanks so much for coming!') Bidding their final adieus, they made their way back to the door. "Oroa er inte för dem, dem sköter jag," Annelie said. Referring to the serving bowls in which they'd brought their dishes, she told the Nybergs not to worry about them, she'd run them through the washer and return them at another time. She first set about to taking care of the object which had caused the clattering sound. It was a steel serving spoon. She'd tossed it into one of the bowls on the counter a few moments ago, just so that it took these few moments to unsteady itself enough to eventually tumble back out and drop to the floor, splattering some sauce on the tiles. She tore off some paper towels to tend to it. Pär and Lena exited. Right behind them, Mark turned back to give Annelie one more farewell. Then he froze. With the roll of paper towels on the floor beside her, Annelie had turned her back to the door, knelt down, and was wiping up the sauce. When Mark looked back at her, there in her ankle-hugging jeans were the soles of her size 9 feet, staring back at him. He had always wished he'd been able to turn this lousy foot fetish on and off like a light switch—he'd likely just leave it off all the time—but never more than right now. He was captivated. He could not...take his eyes...off of them. They were facing upwards from the floor, curled and wrinkled up. And after another moment, the scene became even more irresistible to his eyes, as she stretched to reach the next couple of tiles, lifting one leg, flexing its foot and propping it up on the toes. Both soles remained visible, one curled and one now flexed. Mark was still captivated, unable to look away. "Mark?" he heard one of them call to him from outside. He reflexively turned back to see Pär and Lena waiting for him. "I-I'll be there in just a minute," he called out, just loud enough for them to hear. Turning back to Annelie again, she was still finishing picking the sauce up from the floor with the paper towels. Mark slid the door a few more degrees closed behind him. He... His breathing and his heartbeat picked up just watching her. His slacks now did grip him tighter around the waist, and the blood in his thighs did begin to seek their new locale. He... Oh, he hated himself for what he was about to do...but his better judgment had already become badly impaired. His brain was shouting at him, demanding to know what the hell was wrong with him as his hand wandered into his left pants pocket for his phone...she still had some wiping up to do. He had silently activated it and quickly navigated its menu to open its camera. His hand was shaking as he inched back in her direction, focusing it. His finger rested on the button to snap the picture, and he was just about to press it, when by some miracle of good common sense, his rational mind managed to break through to his cognizance with a conscient, incredulous, What are you DOING??! Indeed. What was he doing?! He couldn't do this! It was depraved! It was just wrong! Put the phone away! his mind shouted at him. Just put it away and leave! Deal with it later! And he was just about to do just that, when Annelie abruptly finished wiping up her floor, saw him out of the corner of her eye and turned her head to his direction. "Mark?" He gasped. Her sudden awareness of his residual presence and...uh-oh...its actual purpose as well?...startled him, and his finger spasmed on the button. The phone's camera snapped...audibly, to his embarrassment and guilt. That was right, he had forgotten to turn the sound off. He reddened as his heartbeat intensified further still and the blood in his own feet ran cold. He'd decided against the act, but just a second too late, and now he had been caught in it anyway. Seeing and hearing what she did, Annelie's face turned suspicious as she slowly stood up. "Vhat...are you doing?" she desired to know, addressing him in the language he understood perfectly. "Uhhh..." he stammered, feeling a column of cold sweat riding down his forehead to land on his left eyebrow. His gut reaction was of course to say, "Nothing!" and shove the phone back into his pocket, but like a deer caught in headlights, he just stood stock-still, silent and motionless. Annelie's wary eyes made their way from his phone up to his shame-ridden face, and then straight downwards...widening at what they saw. His pants had, yes, bulged in the front. She looked him in the face again. "Verr you just taking picture of me?" Her English grammar may not have been perfect, but nothing mattered less at the moment. Mark did and said nothing still, managing only to shut his mouth and gulp. She inched on him. "You verr, veren't you?" He forced himself to utter out some sounds. "I...I, um...uh—" "Let me see your phone." His feet were freezing, but his ears were burning. His stomach was starting to push his share of the smörgåsbord back upwards. She proceeded to take hold of his hand with the phone, turned it to see, and saw the still shot. She gazed back at him with a quizzical expression. "You verr taking picture of my feet?" Mark guiltily looked at the floor in front of him. Then he realized that was a mistake, as he was still looking in the direction of her feet, and looked off in the other direction, turning almost maroon in the face. "Vhat is 'dis?" she asked sternly. There was no point in trying to deny it; there it was, right them in front of them. He shut his eyes. "I'm...I'm sorry," he murmured. "I...I didn't mean t—...I swear, I didn't mean—" "Yes, vell, vhedder you 'meant' to or not, you did, Mark." She was staring at him with a strict look on her goddess-like face. He didn't know what to do. It was the scariest moment he could remember—at least in his recent past. A moment later, he heard his name again, from outside. Pär and Lena. Annelie stepped around him. "You, stay right 'derr, Mark," she told him authoritatively. She slipped outside a moment, just to call to Pär and Lena. Not wanting Mark to be able to know what she was telling them for the moment, she spoke quickly. "Allt är okej. Ni får gå. Han stannar lite kvar. Honom skjutsar jag hem själv." ('Everything's all right, you can go. He's gonna stay a little bit longer. I'll take him home.') The Nybergs agreed and left. When Mark saw her come back inside and heard the car pull away, he became more worried. "W—...what's going on?" She shut the door and locked it. "Vhat's going on, is 'dat you're going be sticking around a little vhile, Mark." Okay, he was becoming frightened now. "...Why?" Annelie suddenly took him by the shoulders and spun him in the direction of the stairs. She possessed impressive upper body potency, and while Mark Numan may have been a lot of things, overweight he was not. Not even close. At 5'9", he was 165 pounds. And also at 5'9", Annelie Svenningsson was 138 pounds. It wasn't the most difficult task in the world to march him through her house to the staircase and make him ascend to the second floor. "So I can show you vhat happens vhen you do 'ting like 'dat in my house," she finally answered him. "...Where are we going?" he ventured to ask as they approached the top of the stairs. "You see..." she assured him. Taking his arm, she steered him in the direction she wanted him to go. "'Dis vay," she guided him. Annelie took him into her bedroom. Pretty spacious, it was, lined with bookcases, a dresser and bureau, a closet that covered three-quarters of one wall, numerous photos adorning the walls, a desk with a rolling chair, and some of the other standard bedroom staples. Her king-size bed sat in the middle. Once they were both inside, she clicked on a lamp beside the bedpost that offered a modest amount of light. She took his arm and gestured him towards the bed. "Sit!" she commanded, as if disciplining a dog. "Stay." Once he did, Annelie went to the closet to dig through a few boxes until she found what she was looking for. "Ah, here vee go," Mark heard her utter. Concealing what she had in her hands, she turned back to Mark. The next thing she seized was his wrists. She brought them back up on the mattress behind him, pulling him down on his back on it. "W-what...what are you doing??" he asked. "Teaching you your lesson," she stated matter-of-factly. Mark didn't like the way this was looking at all. Once they were within reach of the headboard, she climbed up on the bed to better carry it all out. She had grabbed a handful of old neckties from the closet that used to belong to her ex-husband. She wrapped one of them around his wrists, binding them together, and threaded it around the headboard. "Oh my G—wha—hey! What ar—" Mark couldn't get a coherent exclamation out. When she was done with his hands, she looked to his pants. Yup, the bulge was still there. She smirked and chuckled to herself. This was going to be a fun little night for this boy, she thought. She readjourned to her closet and grabbed one of her own cameras, which stood on a fold-out tripod. Mark stared at her in fright as she set it up at just the right angle and started it rolling, only able to figure she was just returning the favor. She stepped out from behind the camera once it was rolling. "So!" she addressed him. "You like 'dese feet 'den, do you, Mark?" He didn't say anything. The guilt was causing a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He tried to look away. "Don't look avay," she said strictly. He turned back to her. "Look at me. I am talking to you." She eyed him intimidatingly. She put one of her feet up on the mattress and showed it to him. "You like 'dem?" she inquired again. "Like 'dese feet?" His erection was yearning and shouting for release. He swallowed with anxiety staring at her foot, the bare Swedish right foot in front of him, with its moderately high arch, its silky skin, its toes, not too short and not too long, with the almost invisible light pink nail polish. The next thing she did was smooth the sole over his right bound arm, over his head, arousing him even further still. He was breathing heavy and hard. She again looked to see him practically bursting out of his slacks. She turned back to his face. "I 'tought so," she confirmed, in a voice dripping with sticky malice. "I knew you have foot fetish...don't you?" He had no idea why he shook his head and muttered, "No," in response to this question with such patent evidence to the contrary. She laughed. "Yes, you do! Jo, de é klart du gör det! ('Yes, of course you do!') Don't lie for me! I saw your cock get hard like stone!" she declared. "I saw it right 'trough your pants!" He reddened at her reference to his stiff penis. He was turned on even by her thick accent. The word she said the word "cock" almost sounded like "Coke." Under his slacks it heard her mention it and twitched a little bit in her direction. Her smile turned evil looking at his crotch. "Do you know vhat happens to naughty young men whose cocks don't behave 'demselves?" she asked him. He turned away from her direction with a silent sigh. How frustrating. Again, WHY? Why, why, why me? He thought about attempting to explain to her that no cocks "behaved 'demselves," that they stiffened and softened involuntarily—sometimes completely idly, hell, sometimes unconsciously in the middle of sleeping—and that he didn't want to be sexually drawn to her feet, that he never asked for that, and that it wasn't up to him, and...and...but he didn't. He was pretty sure it was pointless. "Vell, you're about to." She crossed her arms. "And you're in my house, so I decide vhat happens to you." She wasn't going to waste much time if any at all. She ascended the bed and straddled his legs. She slowed her speech down and lowered her voice to an ominous whisper. "Gör nu som den snälla damen säger, och ligg still, pojk." ('Now do as the nice lady says, and hold still, my boy.') Preoccupied as his mind was, he still caught enough of that to get the gist. He couldn't, however, stop his mouth from protesting as she began to undo his pants at the button. "Oh, no, no, please don't!" he beseeched, rising his head from the mattress. "Don't! I-I'm-I'm sorry! I didn't mean it!" Much as his member was crying to be set free, his mind was doing its best to override—even though the decision wasn't his at this point. She ignored him, sliding down the zipper and grabbing the hem around the waist. "Too little, too late." She slid her hands in the back to tug the slacks down around his ass. Down they came. His aforementioned stone-hard cock catapulted into the air. All that was missing was the implied sproi-oi-oing! sound effect. His body filled with fright and uneasiness as he felt the air on it. She paused yanking them down his legs to contentedly—and victoriously—grin down on him. "Vell...vell...vell..." she sneered, her sinister voice intensifying and deepening. "Vhat have vee here 'den?..." A rhetorical question, of course, serving only to mess with the young man. But the vocal taunting remained benign compared to the sensation he felt which accompanied the word "here": a hard scrape of her fingernail up the shaft of his cock. His head went back as he let out a petrified gasp. "OH, God..." he moaned. He heard a spiteful version of her previously affable chuckle. He shivered. The next thing he heard her say was, "And now 'dat you can't move 'dose legs..." She got up off of him, pulled off his shoes and socks next, and finally tugged the slacks the rest of the way off, so that he was now completely naked from the waist down. Retrieving the other neckties where she'd dropped them, she bound his ankles down to either side of the foot of the bed. "Hmmm..." Annelie purred, having finished tying him up. "How pretty...just 'de vay every handsome young man should be: tied up...naked...diamond-hard cock." Mark's heart was pounding, but his mind did step outside the whirlwind of fear long enough to process what she had said. He took one moment out to consider, ...You think I'm handsome? But he didn't have time to ponder this possibility very long. He heard Annelie open a drawer in the bureau by the door where some old odds and ends were kept. A second later the drawer was closed, and she pulled out the rolling chair from the desk. Positioning the chair beside the bed, diagonally facing Mark, she explained to him, "I've got a new vun of 'dese, but 'dis little gadget still verks, my young lad." She didn't show him what it was just yet, though. "All right 'den," she sighed, sitting in the chair. "You vant to look at my feet?" She leered at him and threw her feet up on the mattress, legs crossed at the tightly-hugged ankles, soles facing him. "Go ahead. Take a good, long...long...look." Mark didn't know what was happening, just as she didn't want him to. He thought she was going to punish him for his indiscreet action, not seemingly...reward him for it. Or was she keeping him fixated on her for a different, ulterior reason? She wiggled her toes. "You enjoying 'dat, Mark?" She chuckled, highly enjoying it herself. He just stared at them, cock retaining a full erection, as he figured she wanted him to, not knowing what else to do. "It seems 'dat you are," she went on. "Let's see, 'den, how you enjoy 'dis." She raked his impossibly hard dick with her nails, waving her feet back and forth at him. His eyes rolled back as his chest started lightly heaving and his vision became fuzzy. "Tell me some'ting, Mark," he heard Annelie say, scratching his cock up and down as his eyes fluttered open and closed. "Have you ever...'tought about my feet before?" She wiggled them again. "Or...pictured 'dem, maybe?" He was having trouble sorting his thoughts anymore, his heart beating much faster to sustain his pulsating erection, being tantalized by Annelie's wicked nails. Her voice echoed in his dizzy mind. "Maybe even..." He felt a squeeze as the hot skin of her hand fastened around his erection. She switched the language, just for the fun of it. "...runka kuken medan å tänka på dem?" ('...wank your cock thinking about them?') Mark stopped groaning in a mixture of pleasure and agony long enough to utter, "Oh, God...please..." Her smile darkened. "You have, haven't you?" All he could do was lie there, caught in her clutch, writhing and whimpering. "You've sat alone at home, fucking your hand, to imagine how my feet look...just vanking and vanking your dick...over and over...vondering if you ever get 'de chance to actually see 'dem." His back arched as her grip on him tightened and loosened. "It probably feels like your dream comes true right now?" she asked in a haunting voice. Penalized Member Not exactly... he thought, feeling weak and light-headed. But she continued. "It's just too bad I'm going to make you pay for it." Trepidation was struck into Mark's heart. He wanted to ask what she was going to do to him, but he was scared of the answer. She unhanded his cock, dropped her feet back to the floor, spun her chair around to the foot of the bed and started to climb on it. Fortunately, the bed was large enough to accommodate both Mark's naked body, and most of Annelie's. She lowered herself onto her stomach, palming the object she'd retrieved from the drawer. She parted her legs and swung them up in the air behind her. "Mark?" Hearing his name, he tried to lean up enough to regard her. "Look at me." He struggled up to lift his head and achieve eye contact with her. She grinned at him with evil satisfaction, waving her feet in the air. "Can you see 'dem?" She suggestively flipped her eyebrows. He nodded dizzily, his face flushed red. "Good boy." She tickled him under the balls with her nails, making him jump a little. "How's 'dat feel?" He chuckled helplessly. "It...t—...tickles." "Uh-huh...and how does..." This time she both tickled under his balls and the head of his cock. "...'dis feel, 'den?" He was this second time made to jump a lot...and let out a laughing shout. Annelie tried not to burst out laughing at him herself. "Yessssss..." she teased. Finally, she utilized the object fetched from the drawer. Ceasing the tickling, she seized him around the dick with her left hand and squeezed the object in her right, bringing it to buzzing life, giving him a taste of it. "AAAAAAIIIIIEEEEE!!" he shrieked, being driven insane by this horrific sensation. And Annelie did laugh this time. "And how did 'dat feel??" she wanted to know, when he finally calmed down. "Oh GOD!" Mark cried. "Holy...wh—...what w—" "I tell you vhat 'dat vas," Annelie cruelly chortled. "'Dat's an electric floss." She showed it to him as he again tilted his head upwards enough to see her. His eyes filled with terror. "Now take a deep breat'...you're going to need it," she advised him, wrapping her hand around his cock and balls. "Fasten your seatbelt, hang on tight, and enjoy 'de ride." She proceeded to go wild on him with the flosser. The sounds that ensued from Mark were sounds he didn't know he was capable of producing. His laughs were full-throated guffaws. His shouts were lung-piercing shrieks that could crack glass. His moans reached the ceiling and bounced back down again. The flosser tickled like hell and drove him beyond crazy at the same time. It became unbearable almost instantaneously. He thrashed uncontrollably, shaking the mattress like mad, unable to escape her hands and this evil flosser of doom. Annelie, needless to say, was loving this. She was giggling, and waving her feet behind her, but even should Mark be able to look up at her now, he couldn't focus on them anymore. She adored how cute he was, groaning and crying in tortured despair, his overwhelmed cock being jolted into generating pre-come. She ran it up and down on him, covering his manhood on all sides, tracing patterns on him as if tattooing his genitals. At last, ten to fifteen minutes which felt like hours later, she gave him some relief. Giving him a minute to breathe, she watched his body heave, trying ardently to circulate oxygen. His throbbing wet dick was defenselessly dripping moisture, spurred beyond any known limits of arousal. He had no clue it was possible to be sent to such lengths, unwillingly, no less. And what was more, he wasn't sure he liked it. He felt goaded like a wild animal. His cock was vibrating uncomfortably. "You're such a sveet young 'ting," she cooed at him maliciously. Part of Mark wasn't sure he cared for this lady so much anymore...the other part of him was both terrified and irreparably turned on by her. He had completely forgotten about the rolling camera, and fortunately so, as he definitely didn't need any mental or psychological horror added to this nightmare. Annelie got down and sat in her rolling chair again. "You're going to love 'dis..." she informed him, "...But don't love it too much." Angling both her legs over his right, she slid down on the chair enough to reach his crotch with her feet, slid her jeans' legs up a little from her ankles, and started giving him a foot job, seductively rubbing him between her toes. Sliding his cock up and down her soles, massaging it with her arches...she was absolutely correct; while the flosser treatment only made him insane, being fondled between Annelie's soft warm feet felt so exquisite he was half-mellowed and half-excited into the most fiery, passionate delight he could ever remember experiencing. It was amazing; actually, as much as he had taken in the eye-candy view of her bare feet this evening, he hadn't yet before now in fact touched them, or been touched by them. As succulently beautiful as they looked, he was nevertheless astonished at how sublime they felt stroking his stiff red cock. Oh, this felt so good he could pass out...he could let her heavenly tootsies cradle him into the most superb, perfect orgasm any human being could reach, subsequently lulled into a blissful, peaceful slumber, it just...felt...so...damn...good... He shut his eyes tight and fervently mooooooaned. Had he been paying attention to her, he would have heard her chuckle and remark, "I knew it...I knew you'd love feeling my feet on your cock..." His body shifted the few inches back and forth it could on the bed. He again arched his back and pushed his dick up and down between her peds, easing the work on her. Annelie became amused and a little excited herself. "Very good, Mark...fuck my feet," she ordered wickedly. "Fuck 'dem. Fuck my pretty feet 'dat you love so much. Fuck 'dem like a pussy." He was so wildly fired up he didn't notice how extreme her verbal encouragement had just turned. Of course, she was motivating him to do just this. He thrusted as much as he could, nestled pleasurably between her soft soles. She slid his now vein-thick cock up the balls of her feet and hugged it tight with her toes. It couldn't take much more, and neither could Mark. His moans had graduated to screams of unadulterated lust. Head leaned back, his face was locked in a rictus of craving, dying to finally get over the edge. He sank his top teeth into his bottom lip. He felt as if he couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't stand it another second. He had to come...he had to be allowed to release the paradisiacal fireworks. If he couldn't, he...he...oh, he couldn't even consider that possibility. "Plea—...plea—...ple—..." he puffed, incompletely begging for that superlative climax he now so desperately needed. He had almost reached the apex of the metaphorical mountain, about to be rewarded with the prize at the peak. He dealt with the agony by yanking on the ties with all his might and trying as hard as he could muster to tear through them. As the old song philosophized, heaven was but one step away. He had one foot in the gates, now all he had to do was get the other one in... Annelie could see he was about to come, so she helped him out. Concentrating on jerking his cock to completion with her feet, she picked up the electric tooth flosser again, waited till the right moment, and activated it again, rapidly tickling his balls with it, back and forth, back and forth. Left and right, left and right. That was more than it took. Had someone passed by Annelie's bedroom door at this precise moment, it would sound as if Mark were being murdered. The screams were virtually identical. His soul was propelled through the reaches of time and space as if shot from a canon, with the same velocity and intensity at which the come was sucked from his balls and fired volcanically through his dick. It erupted on her toes and blasted in glorious arcs to the foot of the bed and farther still. Very satisfied feeling his hot essence christening the tops and insteps of her feet, Annelie grinned at him, slowing down the pedal masturbation until she could tell he was done. She removed her feet, letting his cock settle down. She spun the chair and crossed her ankles again, just as she had upon first binding him down on her bed. "So, Mark...did you...like 'dat?...Have fun?" His eyes fluttered, trying to focus. He couldn't quite get the words out, so he just nodded. She chuckled, stroking his cock like a pet. "Well 'den...in 'dat case, 'dis...is eidder going to be even more fun..." Mark's eyes found their center. He opened them and looked at her in sudden alarm. Annelie turned back to him and flashed him her sadistic smile. "...or...it's going to be pure hell," she speculated with evil glee and anticipation. His face filled with apprehension again, just as it had when all this started. Annelie didn't wipe them off just yet, but just waved her come-adorned feet at him again. His cock had almost finishing petering out (no pun intended) and she was still gently caressing and stroking it. It was confused as to whether it should be hardening again or not. When she decided it was starting to recover enough stiffness again (for now), she picked up the flosser again. "Now tell me some'ting, Mark," she said. She wiggled her toes, keeping his focus on her feet, as she subtly reached around the foot of the bed to his right foot. Just as with his genitals, she glanced out of the corner of her eye and once she had it within reach, she squeezed the flosser to activate it once more, touching its tiny vibrating bristle to his foot. Suddenly, he was unable to hold focus on her, as his eyes squeezed shut for a breath-seizing laugh. After a second she removed it. "Vhat'd you 'tink of 'dat?" she asked. Gasping to grab a few breaths just to maintain his faculties, Mark did some more heaving and wheezing. When he startled to calm down, Annelie repeated the action, triggering the same response. When she decided she wanted to see more laughter, she kept the flosser on and traced it up and down the sole of his foot. "Oh, ticklish torture is just horrible, isn't it..." she mock-sympathized. Mark thought he was going to explode. Extra sensitive after his orgasm, it was just killing him. After a short while, she switched hands and used the flosser on his tender crotch and danced her nails on his foot. He was screeching in both agony and laughter, music to Annelie's ears. He was starting to understand what she meant by saying this would either be fun or hell. It was becoming hard to distinguish between the pain and pleasure. It hurt so good. When she thought that was enough laughing, she left the bottom of his foot alone and dropped her own feet back on the floor again. Retaining her sitting pose, she leaned forward towards his midsection. Keeping the flosser in her left hand, she snuck it under his balls to reach his perineum, again making him shriek, lurch and thrash about on her bed. Trying to keep herself from bursting out laughing, she momentarily deactivated it and fondled his tired, half-stiff cock again, manually drawing the blood back into it. Mark tried to enjoy this little rest period, but to his dismay it didn't turn into much of a rest period at all. As he re-hardened, he felt as if he were being pinched all over his crotch. It squeezed and ached. He had just come, voraciously hard, and the orgasm just about knocked him out, but she wouldn't allow him to rest. Though he didn't know it yet, she was going to make him come again. He winced and cringed. "Ow..." he mouthed, forced into a painful second erection by her vengeful hands. His dick resumed its red, veiny, throbbing form, now sporting a crimson hue—fast approaching purple, no less. It was beginning to not ache so good anymore. "That...hurts..." he moaned out, barely audibly. "Of course it does," Annelie replied matter-of-factly, mercilessly drawing the blood up inside his puffy member once more. "You didn't 'tink I vas just going to make it to feel good for you? I told you, you misbehaved, and now you're going to have to pay for it." Oh...God... he thought defeatedly. He wouldn't deny that the first orgasm didn't feel like very heavy punishment, but...was what he'd done really that bad?? He tried to plead his way out of it again. "I'm sorry...Annelie...I didn't meeee—..." He grimaced in distress. "...I didn't mean it! Plea—ow...please!" "I know you didn't mean it, Mark," she answered. "But now supposing 'dat you did. Vee mustn't let 'dose 'toughts even cross your mind. 'Dey can lead to very..." She slid the flosser down lower under his body, approaching the anus. He started to freak out. "...troublesome situations." Awakening his prostate, the anal stimulation was just enough to force him to achieve another full erection, excruciating though it was, so while keeping the flosser down there to prolong the torment, Annelie coated her right palm with saliva, took a firm grip on him and started this time executing upon him a ruthless, rough, feisty hand job. The sensation provoking him in the posterior was starting to almost feel nice, but once she began jerking him off before he could even start to recover from ejaculation one, he lost it. He croaked out a silent scream of pain and felt tears stinging him. Suddenly he felt like he was being pinched or bitten all over by microscopically tiny insects. He pressed his face into a portrait of anguish. "Aw, vhat's 'de matter..." he heard her say. "Not fun anymore? You don't have pleasure to fuck my hand now?" The 'f'-bomb planted the idea in his mind of what he wanted to say right now... "It vas fun vhen you verr fucking my feet, yes?" was her next verbal taunt. If only he could get some words out right now... "Vell, 'dis perhaps vill teach your cock to sit still in your pants." Oh, for God's sake...look, lady, again, if you had one yourself, you'd realize that's not how they work! Unfortunately, he was being stifled into silence by her forcibly jerking him. His penis and balls were starting to turn purple. The hints of pleasure were resurfacing, but they were intangible through the suffering she was inflicting upon him. And even though neither Mark nor his cock knew it, it was on its imminent way to coming...again. Actually, Annelie was just toying with him. Deep down, she knew men fairly often got erections out of nowhere, sometimes without even trying, sometimes in their sleep; it was one of the things she loved about them. Perhaps a somewhat inane opinion, but in pants or out of them, she thought erections were beautiful things...especially forced ones. And especially more...noticeable ones. His larynx kicked in and he started squealing and screaming, in a delirium halfway between ecstasy and torture. If he'd taken the time to stop and examine it, it was a little more on the side of torture, but the ecstasy had definitely regained a hand in things. Minute after inexorable minute passed. When tears were starting to spill from his eyes and stream down his face, and Annelie finally decided he had been castigated enough, she told herself it was finally time to make him come for the second time and let him go. Leaning down over him, she produced some more saliva and dangled it from her lips down onto the head of his cock, letting it ooze and trickle down between her fingers, after which she extended the flosser further up underneath him, nearing his prostate, and activated it one more time as she continued, and finally wanked him all the way—twice now around the track—to the finish line. After just a few more moments of terribly superfluous, unwanted pleasure, at long last, heaven and hell collided, as Annelie finally squeezed ejaculation and orgasm number two out of him. He shouted repeatedly in the overwhelming passion thrust upon him until his lungs were about to give out. Every last drop of surplus was drained from his balls, until they finally signaled to his cock, and his cock finally signaled to her hand, that she had to stop now. She let him go and removed the electric flosser. Not a moment too soon for Mark. He exhaled, gasped and sighed in long-awaited relief. The bed was stained with his tears and sweat at the head, and his come at the foot. His swollen dick was still throbbing tenderly, and still aching like hell, but the torment was over, and he was finally allowed to start recuperating. He deflated, his remaining stamina dissolved, and he fell dead asleep. Annelie gently unwrapped the neckties and took them off Mark's wrists and ankles. She rolled the chair quietly away, and stopped the camera on the tripod rolling. Folding it back up, she extracted the tape and returned the camera to her closet and the chair back to the desk, turned off the lamp, and slipped out of the room to give Mark a little time for some healing slumber. *** March 23rd, 2:57 a.m. Having placed the film in a secret but memorable location, Annelie departed to ändstationen to "relieve" herself and wash her hands and feet. When she was clean, she came back downstairs to take care of a few chores. She rinsed off the serving bowls and other cookware and utensils from the smörgåsbord and let the dishwasher handle the rest of the job. She took the warm and dry laundry from the dryer and replaced it with the contents of the washer so the washer would be free for her bedsheets. At three to 3:00, once it had been about two hours since she'd drained Mark and put him to sleep, she started heading back upstairs—taking the precaution this time first to put her sandals on—and returned to the naked sleeping boy on her bed. She took a dish rag with her, wet it, reentered the bedroom, turned the lamp back on and gently wiped off his cock, thighs and waist. When she finished, she took a minute to affectionately gaze at his now peaceful body. All her aggression was out now. She was no longer upset about him trying to photograph her feet, or holding any hint of ill will towards him at all. Besides, she now had their little escapade on film (just in case...). He had been sufficiently reprimanded for what he'd done, and it was time to take him home. But first she needed to wake him up. She didn't want to, but...well, even if she could put his clothes back on herself, while she may have been strong, she wasn't quite strong enough to lift him up and carry him outside to her car. So she gave his leg a little shake. "Mark...dags å vakna nu, vake up...vake up, Mark...vake up, käre. It's time to go home now." He still didn't wake up, but only stirred in the bed. She tried again, but still to no avail. A sweet smile crept across her face. She was going to need to take it up a little bit to get him awake. She slipped to the foot of the bed between his legs and softly tickled his feet. "Kille-kille-kille," she whispered—the Swedish equivalent of "goochie-goochie-goo." It didn't work; he was still pretty knocked out. "Kille-kille-kille," she reiterated, tickling them a little harder. He stirred and giggled a little in his sleep. She had to tickle his feet still a little harder. Mark moved his arms for the first time in three and a half hours, flailing them unconsciously as if to bat the tickling hands away. Annelie chuckled and finally got him up by digging her nails in and shouting. "KILLE-KILLE-KILLE!!" Shaken to consciousness and realizing he was being tickled, Mark jumped with a shouting laugh. He had to do some blinking and thinking to remember where he was and what was going on, but he finally did. Penalized Member "'Atsa boy," said Annelie. "You're okay, Mark, every'ting's okay. Allt är helt okej. You're forgiven, and you can get dressed now." Mark noticed he could move now. Even though he was remembering what happened, he sat up, embarrassed, and covered himself between his legs, feeling a little traumatized. "In fact, I am going to need you to," said Annelie. "I need you to put on your clo'tes now, because I have to take you home." Mark shook his head, still feeling guilty. "Oh, God...I'm-I'm...really sorry about...y'know..." Annelie sat beside him on the bed and gave him a (soft) hug. "It's okay," she said patting and rubbing his back. "Vhat happened happened...you did a naughty 'ting—even 'dough I know you didn't mean to—and you had to pay 'de price for it, vhich you did. So it's all settled now." "Oh..." he said lowly, "Well, I just...just hope you don't hate me now or anything..." "Ah, don't vurry," Annelie assured him. "Ingen fara. I don't hate anyvun. In fact, just 'de opposite. Jag älskar alla. I love everyvun. And I, uh..." She raised her leg to show him. "...I put my shoes on, so I von't make you tempted anymore." He had to appreciate that. She gave him her warm, loving smile until he started to smile back a little. She gave her thighs a slap and stood up. "Okay! So vhy don't you go ahead now and get dressed, and I take you home." *** March 23rd, 3:33 a.m. Mark directed Annelie to get him back home to his apartment building, in front of which she was now pulling up to let him out. Apart from that, they hadn't really said that much to each other on the way. Mark still felt a little weird about saying too much of anything, and a little bad about having caused the whole affair in the first place. Annelie didn't really blame him. On the way, she could see he was still feeling kind of bad, so she took his hand and held it to let him know they were still friends. When they reached his building, she said, "Vell, Mark, you still don't have to say any'ting if you don't vant to, but, no matter vhat might have happened, I do still vant to 'tank you for coming over tonight." He nodded, still holding her hand. "You're welcome...and it was...kinda fun," he said with a chuckle. "And, Mark..." she said, "And I know you didn't mean it, and I'm not upset or cross vit' you at all...I just vant to make sure you're avare now of vhat 'dat can happen vhen..." She didn't need to finish. "I know," he nodded, feeling a not-so-comfy little tingle between his legs. "I'm aware." "Okay, vell, I need to say good night, and sveet dreams," she said. "I have to pick up my daughter from college in 'de afternoon." He turned to her. "Oh, you...have a daughter?" "Jaha," she said. "I 'tink she's just about your age, actually." Mark became intrigued. "Really?" he said. "Is—uh, may I ask if...is she, um..." He couldn't figure out the best way to ask this. Annelie anticipated it. "Actually, I'm afraid she just broke up vit' somevun," she said matter-of-factly. He became more intrigued. "Oh, well, that..." He wasn't sure if he should sympathize and say that was too bad, or just skip it and ask if he might be able to meet her one day. He thought of a way he could possibly find out. "Is she...does she come to the...to the meetings?..." "No, no, she's usually too busy vit' school, but, tell you vhat: send me an E-mail, and I let you know if she's interested, and vhen vould be a good time you could maybe to meet her vun day." That sounded pretty good to him. "Okay, well...thanks, Annelie," he said. "I guess I'll...see you later." "Just vun more 'ting, Mark, before you go?" she said. He turned back to her briefly. "Yeah?" She paused. "Vell...I was going to take off 'dat picture of my feet from your phone, but..." Again, she paced her speech for a beat here. "...I didn't. 'Cause I decided, Mark...to give you my permission to keep it, and vank off to it, if you vant—but only on two conditions," she quickly and strictly added. "Okay..." he said cautiously. "You have to promise me," she said, being amiable but firm, "Number vun...'dat picture vill never go anyvhere near 'de Internet..." "Okay, I promise," he agreed. "It vas 'derrfore I taped us in my bedroom, just to give you little extra...oh, vhat's 'de verd...incentive. Little extra incentive, to keep it to yourself." He concurred fully with that. "And two...Mark...just because I care about you and your vell-being, and I do 'tink of you as a friend," she said, again taking his hand, "Please, please, vhatever you do, PLEASE don't take picture of a girl's feet again." He automatically started nodding. "Unless of course she's your girlfriend or your vife and it's cool vit' her, 'dat's okay. But uddervise...please just don't. In fact, don't even 'tink about it. On 'de udder hand, if you like to take pictures, 'derr's plenty of pretty 'tings to take pictures of. Trust me, I know; I take 'dem for a living. And if you can't find any'ting, go outside and take pictures of nature. Birds, tree, cloud, all 'dat good stuff. But please, not a girl's feet." Again, he promised without hesitation. "Just because—and I don't mean to keep harping on about 'dis—but, just, any number of terrible 'tings can happen, and 'dey can be much vurse 'dan vhat I did to you." He kept nodding. "Absolutely," he said with a nervous chuckle. "Definitely, I promise, never ever again." "Vonderful," she said, returning the chuckle good-naturedly. "Okay, give me a hug..." They embraced across the car seats, and Annelie gave him a powerful, crushing bear hug again. "Så, vi ses nästa gång? Nästa månad?" ('So, see you next time, next month?') "Javisst..." he said, still feeling a bit funny about the whole thing, but a little comfier now too. "Ser fram emot det." ('Look forward to it.') He exited the car. Starting on his way up to the building, he heard her roll down the window and call to him one more time. "Oh, and Mark?" He turned back around to her for the last time. "...Yeah, Annelie?" She smiled mischievously at him. "Tack så mycket för du kom...och snälla..." She again flipped her eyebrows at him provocatively. "...kom igen nån gång." ('...come again sometime.')