When I asked James what he wanted for his birthday, he laughed and said he wanted to be able to do anything he wanted to me. 

The idea had taken my fancy, so I agreed. 

"Whatever I want?" he'd said, his grey eyes darkening.

"Anything."

Which was how I ended up spread eagled across our bed, silk scarves binding my wrists and ankles to the four corners, completely naked and utterly exposed. The ball gag forced my jaw wide, and leather straps buckled tight behind my head. Each breath came harsh and loud through my nose, and saliva was already pooling behind the rubber ball.

I was ready for it. Ready for him to fuck me hard and rough, to use me exactly how he wanted. My pussy was already slick with anticipation, my nipples tight. I'd braced myself for him to climb onto the bed, to grab my hips, to slam into me without preamble. I couldn't move, couldn't do anything except take whatever he gave me.

James stood at the foot of the bed wearing only his boxers, his cock already straining against the grey cotton, the head clearly outlined. But instead of moving toward me, he turned to the dresser.

When he turned back, he was holding a single white feather.

He didn't speak, his grey eyes locked on mine as the feather touched the hollow of my throat. 

The sensation was so faint I nearly thought I'd imagined it. Goosebumps rose across my arms and my chest, spreading outward from that single point of contact. He dragged it down with infinite slowness, tracing the centre line between my breasts. My nipples were already hardening, tightening into peaks even though the feather hadn't come anywhere near them yet.

He circled my right breast in a wide spiral. Round and round, each pass bringing the feather fractionally closer to my nipple whilst I watched, my breath quickening, chest rising and falling faster. I strained upward, trying to press into the touch, to force more contact. The silk around my wrists went taut.

He stopped just before touching the peak. The feather lifted away.

A frustrated sound escaped around the gag, somewhere between a whimper and a snarl. He just watched me with those patient grey eyes, unmoving, waiting. I forced myself to relax back against the mattress, and only then did he continue.

We had only been dating a few months. We had had sex plenty, but this was another side of him. He was silent and methodical. It would be creepy if it weren't so hot. 

The feather landed on my stomach. My abdominal muscles contracted sharply, jumping beneath the touch. He traced meaningless patterns across my skin, swirls and figure eights and random lines that served no purpose except to make me hyper aware of sensation. My pussy was beginning to ache with need.

He returned to my breast and began the spiral again. Closer with each circuit, until finally the very tip of the feather brushed across my nipple.

The jolt went straight to my cunt. My nipple was so tight it was almost painful, flushed dark and swollen, and that gossamer touch was nowhere near enough. I needed his fingers pinching, his teeth grazing, and his mouth sucking. 

He did it again. Just the feather's tip dragging across the sensitive peak. Then again. And again. Each touch was so delicate I could barely register it, yet somehow each one made my nipple throb more insistently.

Then he moved to my left breast, and I realised with a sinking feeling that I had to endure the entire maddening process all over again. The wide circles. The spiralling. The building anticipation. The feather-light touches that made me want to shriek.

By the time he'd finished teasing both breasts, sweat was beading along my hairline. My nipples were painfully erect, flushed a deep rose pink, and standing up in stiff peaks. The slickness between my legs had grown into something more substantial. Gathering along my inner lips, making them slide against each other when I shifted my hips.

The feather drifted lower. Down my ribs, where the touch made me want to squirm. Across the soft flesh of my belly. Along the sharp jut of my hip bone. 

He trailed the feather down my inner thigh. The skin there was tender, sensitive, and goosebumps rose in its wake. I tried to press my leg toward it, seeking more contact, but the scarf held me.

The feather traced along the side of my pussy where my thigh met my groin. First, one side, a slow, torturous drag. Then the other, equally unhurried. I had shaved in preparation for this evening, and the feather brushed gently against my smooth skin. It tickled and aroused in equal measure, and I was making helpless noises behind the gag now, desperate little sounds I couldn't suppress.

Then he dragged it straight down my slit in one long, deliberate stroke.

I cried out, the sound muffled and distorted by the gag. My lips were swollen and slippery, and the feather glided through like it was skating on oil. When he pulled it back up, I could see moisture glistening on the white barbs, darkening them.

He did it again. Down, the feather lingering at my entrance where arousal was pooling, then back up in a slow glide. My hips bucked involuntarily, trying to chase the touch, trying to press harder against it. I don't know if you've ever tried to press against a feather, but it didn't do much. 

The feather began to circle my clit without actually touching it. Round and round in a tightening spiral, and I was trembling now, my whole body quaking. My thighs were shaking visibly against the restraints, muscles jumping under my skin. My pussy was growing more drenched by the second, opening like a flower, inner walls gripping at nothing.

When the feather finally grazed my clit, I nearly launched off the bed. The touch was so light, so heartbreakingly brief, but my clit was so swollen and engorged that it bordered on unbearable. I was making desperate, keening sounds behind the gag. 

He was circling again already, teasing around and around the straining bud without mercy. Occasionally he'd bestow the barest brush across it, and each time my entire body jerked like I'd been shocked, my hands twisting in the scarves until the silk bit into my wrists.

He altered his technique. The feather dragged down to my entrance, and I pulsed there, my opening trying instinctively to draw something inside. I was so slick now that the feather came away visibly drenched, barbs clumping together with my arousal. When he brought it back to my clit, the added moisture made it glide more smoothly, letting it slip across the hypersensitive flesh.

He repeated the motion over and over. Down to my entrance to collect more of my juices, up to paint it across my clit in long, slow strokes. I was dripping now, my arousal running down between my arse cheeks, soaking into the duvet beneath me in a spreading damp patch.

I watched him through half-lidded eyes, vision hazy. His cock was straining against his boxers now, the outline of his shaft clearly visible. There was a dark stain spreading at the tip where precum was leaking through the cotton. His jaw was clenched tight, a muscle jumping there, and his breathing had gone rough and uneven. But his hand remained perfectly steady as he worked the feather across my drenched pussy.

Then he settled the feather directly on my clit and didn't pull away.

Tiny, precise circles. The pressure was still maddeningly light but finally, finally consistent. 

My breath sawed in and out through my nose in harsh, desperate gasps. Muscles pulled taut as wire, straining toward the sensation. My pussy was pulsing rhythmically now, inner walls squeezing in time with my racing heartbeat. More arousal seeped out with each pulse, and my clit was throbbing so hard under the feather's touch that it was almost painful.

The orgasm built with agonising slowness. Gathering momentum, growing larger as it rolled toward shore. The feather kept moving in those perfect, maddening circles, never stopping, never varying the pressure, just maintaining that same delicate torment.

The sensation was spreading beyond my clit now. In my thighs, making the muscles there tremble and jump. In my breasts where my nipples still ached, tight and desperate for touch. The pleasure was radiating outward through my entire body, emanating from the single point where the feather brushed me with the lightest of touches.

My vision started to blur at the edges. My hearing went muffled, like I was underwater. There was nothing in the world except that feather, those circles, and the unbearable tension coiling tighter and tighter inside me.

When the orgasm finally hit, I screamed behind the gag until my throat went raw.

My back bowed off the bed, spine arching violently despite the restraints holding me down. My pussy convulsed, inner walls clenching and releasing in rapid spasms that went all the way into my arse. A flood gushed out, soaking the sheets beneath me. The orgasm crashed through me in rolling surges, each one making my body jerk and convulse, making my thighs shake so violently the bed frame rattled.

The feather was gone. I didn't notice when he'd stopped and didn't register the loss. I was too far gone, too lost in the overwhelming pleasure.

I was sobbing now, tears streaming from the corners of my eyes to pool in my ears and soak into my hair. My whole body was shaking, muscles spasming uncontrollably. Drool was running from the corners of my mouth around the gag, dripping down my chin.

The contractions in my pussy intensified until they were everywhere. My stomach and my abdominal muscles going rigid. In my throat, where I was still screaming silently behind the gag. More arousal gushed out with each spasm.

The sheets beneath me were completely soaked, the damp patch spreading wider. Cold and clammy against the backs of my thighs.

The world went bright and blank. A roaring filled my ears like standing under a waterfall. My body had pleasure and pain blurred together into something almost frightening in its intensity.

As I started to come down, as the surges began to ease, my vision slowly cleared. Through blurred, tear-filled eyes, I saw James standing over me, his boxers shoved down, his cock in his fist.

His face was twisted in ecstasy, mouth open, and then he was cumming. Thick ropes of white erupted from him, landing across my belly, my breasts, and my chest. Hot splashes painted my skin whilst he groaned, the first real sound he'd made. Another strand landed across my ribs, another across my hip. A thick rope connected from his cock to where it pooled in my navel, stretching and swaying as he stroked himself through the last pulses.

I stared up at him through the tears and the haze, my chest heaving, my body still twitching with aftershocks. His cum was cooling on my skin, dripping down my sides. We hadn't touched each other. Hadn't even said a word. And yet it was the most intimate thing we'd ever done.