TICKLING AMBER REVISITED
From lenjo 12/18/2007 11:43:19 PM
Here is a short tickling story (?/f) from an emerging lurker. Hope y'all like it.
Quite a few years ago, I read a story called "Tickling Amber" on a Website or a BBS (Internet bulletin board -- ancient history). The poster said that he had just dug it out of his old files, but that he hadn't seen it posted anywhere recently.
Such is fame. Cobwebs grow fastest on laurel.
Tonight I dug back into my even older files and found my original Amber story there. I am no longer jonsmyth(at)aol, but Amber is still alive in my memory. I hope she's still alive on the East Coast, where she moved some years ago.
Here's the narrative. It's not much of a story -- just tickling.
**********
Subject: Tickling Amber -- A Story (?/f)
From: jonsmyth(at)aol.com
Date: 8 Dec 1996 08:27:47 GMT
Here is a short tickling story (?/f) from an emerging lurker. Hope y'all like it.
There is really an Amber. She is alive and exTREMEly ticklish, and living in _____. I have touched her with these very hands -- and what a reaction! (In the story I've idealized her description to titillate my personal libido, but she's a peach of a looker in her own right.)
TICKLING AMBER
When I came into the cell, beautiful young Amber, one of my favorite women, had been stripped completely naked and tied up tightly in the tickling position.
Amber is about 25 years old, blond and blue-eyed, energetic and very healthy. She is extremely sensitive in all her emotions and physical feelings. She is also incredibly ticklish!
The position she was tied in gives the torturer maximum opportunity to tickle a victim.
She was kneeling on the concrete floor. Each of her slim, good-looking knees was tied to a metal ring set in the concrete. The rings were more than a yard distant from each other, so they pulled her legs very, very wide apart.
Her ankles were as far apart as her knees - each ankle tied to a metal stake in the concrete.
In this way, her shapely inner thighs and her vagina were made easily available to feather tickling. You could reach your hand right up to her crotch without any obstruction, and of course she couldn't move her **** in any way.
Her pubic area had been shaved so that all its skin was bare. So with her legs spread so very wide apart, her vagina was partly opened and her clitoris was well exposed.
Also, the soles of Amber's feet were facing up. To hold them completely still, a small strap circled each big toe and was fastened firmly to the floor. Her soles were just asking to be stroked with a feather, etc., etc.
Her wrists were high above her head, tied together and bound to an overhead iron pipe running between two walls. Her elbows were pulled close together by a rope that passed behind her head.
This straightened her arms out, straight as sticks, and left her ribs and armpits completely motionless and vulnerable.
Her shaved armpits could be stroked with fingers or feathers, and you could put your hands around her slender rib cage and tickle to your heart's content.
Amber saw me before they put a gag in her mouth, and she instantly began to beg and plead with me not to tickle her.
Her eyes were wide -- I could really see the whites of them shining.
Desperately she babbled at me that she was insanely ticklish, that being tickled was terrible torture and agony to her, that it was worse than being whipped, worse than the electric shocking machine, worse than anything!
As I moved closer to her, she shrieked that if I tickled her it might drive her out of her mind.
Of course I knew already how incredibly ticklish Amber was. That was why she had been selected for punishment in this fashion.
I made a sign, and the guards put a gag in her mouth, but one which still allowed her to make humming noises through the cloth.
I had meant to begin with some torture by expectation, but I couldn't control myself. I quickly walked around behind her and knelt down, with my knees between her feet. I reached forward and settled my hands around her ribs, with my fingers touching her bare skin.
Amber is thin at her waist, and her ribs were nicely defined as ridges under her pink-white skin. I could feel the softness of her skin between the harder rib bones.
Then I began wiggling and pressing my fingers into her ribs. I kept it up for twenty or thirty seconds.
The instant I began to move my fingers, Amber went into a paroxysm of ticklish agony!
Of course she could do nothing to resist me, but she pulled so strongly at her ropes that she even managed to squirm a small bit, which was remarkable, tied as tightly as she was. And she made wild, wild noises through her gag.
I kept tickling her.
As I caressed her ribs, pressed my fingertips into them, and wiggled them firmly, all her muscles tightened up with an awesome force, and she shivered and shook convulsively through her whole body.
I kept tickling her.
Strangled humming noises wrenched out through her gag. They could not be loud, but they were obviously desperate, maddened screams, wrenched from deep in her throat.
I still kept tickling her.
As my fingers dug into her ribs, Amber's chest pumped like a bellows with the force of her screaming, her breasts rose and fell convulsively, and sweat quickly started rolling down her bare back.
However, all the sound she could really make was just like a little pig grunting and wheezing.
I enjoyed tickling her. After the first few minutes I went on for more, and then more, wiggling and wiggling my fingers, playing her ribs like a piano.
When I stopped, Amber was breathing as hard as a marathon runner.
I gave her a brief time to rest.
Then I kneeled in front of her, so we were face to face. I held a feather in my right hand, and she couldn't take her eyes off of it!
I moved it very slowly, extremely slowly toward her armpit, and she began to make sounds in her gag again. Her eyes got wider and wider, and she was sweating like before. It trickled in shining drops over her breasts.
When the feather was an inch from her armpit I told her so. "One inch." She began to shiver.
When it was a half an inch, I said, "Half an inch." Amber's eyes were rolling wildly, and she screamed into her gag.
At a quarter inch I said, "Quarter inch." Then I touched the point of the feather in the dimple of her armpit and gently wiggled it around. I kept on wiggling it.
This was not a trial run. It was almost twenty minutes by the clock on the wall that I tickled her gently in her armpit with the feather.
If at first she was desperate and screaming I don't know how to describe her agony as I kept on tickling her --
"When will it stop? Oh God, oh God, stop, stop, stop! Can't stand it. Must pull away. Must squirm. Got to pull away from the feather. The feather! God, stop the feather! Make it still. It can't wiggle any more, it can't Please PLEASE, it can't I can't STAND it Stop NOW it can't go on it won't it'll stop now right now O God aaaaaaghh!" --
Her head rolled back and forth frantically, convulsively. It was all she could move, and even its motion was limited by the rope between her elbows.
Her muscles tightened madly and suddenly slackened. Then with a great wrench they tightened again. She screamed and screamed in her gag.
I kept tickling her in her armpit. I kept moving the feather gently, up and down, forward and back, in small circles, always keeping the pointed end in contact with her skin, always touching her lightly...
Afterwards I tickled her more.
Tickling her breasts was fun. Many women aren't ticklish directly on their breasts, although of course the skin is very sensitive. But in Amber, the extreme sensitivity was also extreme ticklishness.
I used the same pattern on her left breast as on her armpit: one inch, half an inch, a quarter inch, and contact! Then all I had to do was keep circling the tip of the feather around the nipple for maximum effect and utter torture.
After the left breast, of course I couldn't neglect the other one. And then I tested my coordination by tickling both at once.
Then I tickled her feet.
It's impossible to describe the agony of the crazed maniac Amber became when I tickled her bare soles. Just by wiggling the feather quill on the bottoms of her immobile feet -- back and forth and round and round and in funny little patterns, but never stopping -- I seemed to be pushing her sanity further and further toward the edge of the cliff.
But as a thoughtful philosopher I can record a happy realization that came to me.
I realized as I kept exploring the delicate surface of her bare skin that I had all the time I wanted.
Even though Amber was madly praying, screaming, pulling her muscles insanely -- even though she would have done anything in the world, literally anything, to make me stop the tickling -- still, there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop me or influence me to consider stopping.
It was completely up to my whim whether she would be tickled another ten seconds or ten minutes! The lady was totally helpless, completely in my power.
So I just smiled and smiled and kept wiggling the feather...
Then when I stopped a bit to let her recover from her near-fainting spell, I did a little scientific thinking.
At first Amber had seemed most ticklish when the feather was twirling in her armpits. But then she got even more hysterical when the feather -- or rather the quill -- danced on the soles of her feet. But on thinking it out further, I realized that she was equally, insanely ticklish all over -- ribs, armpits, breasts and feet. Even squeezing her knees between my fingers drove her nearly out of her mind.
However, to be really scientific, I had to do some more experiments. So I tried tickling each area all over again; and then I did one more round to be sure!
I paused to digest these results (and now Amber was hanging, eyes closed, from her wrist ropes like a limp, wet rag). Provisionally I concluded that she had no "worst" spot.
But I was mistaken. I had forgotten her ****. So I quickly tried it.
When I touched her vagina with the point of a feather, and wriggled it just a little, Amber reacted as if lightning had struck her! She jerked instantly from near unconsciousness into a rigid catatonic constriction of her entire body.
Surprised, I pulled the feather away, and after a few seconds she relaxed a bit. Then I touched her **** again, and tickled for about five seconds. Another catatonic constriction!
And I swear that her voice sounded out through her gag almost as loud as if she didn't have a gag at all. It must have been as powerful as the scream of a mad woman at her dying moment.
So of course there was nothing else to do but to give her some serious **** tickling. Fifteen or twenty seconds. Then thirty of forty, or more -- and so on. Over and over, and over...
Each minute seemed to be a lifetime of agony for the dear girl: and I gave her a bouquet of many, many dozens of minutes.
Poor Amber. I don't know if she'll ever be the same again!
From lenjo 12/18/2007 11:43:19 PM
Here is a short tickling story (?/f) from an emerging lurker. Hope y'all like it.
Quite a few years ago, I read a story called "Tickling Amber" on a Website or a BBS (Internet bulletin board -- ancient history). The poster said that he had just dug it out of his old files, but that he hadn't seen it posted anywhere recently.
Such is fame. Cobwebs grow fastest on laurel.
Tonight I dug back into my even older files and found my original Amber story there. I am no longer jonsmyth(at)aol, but Amber is still alive in my memory. I hope she's still alive on the East Coast, where she moved some years ago.
Here's the narrative. It's not much of a story -- just tickling.
**********
Subject: Tickling Amber -- A Story (?/f)
From: jonsmyth(at)aol.com
Date: 8 Dec 1996 08:27:47 GMT
Here is a short tickling story (?/f) from an emerging lurker. Hope y'all like it.
There is really an Amber. She is alive and exTREMEly ticklish, and living in _____. I have touched her with these very hands -- and what a reaction! (In the story I've idealized her description to titillate my personal libido, but she's a peach of a looker in her own right.)
TICKLING AMBER
When I came into the cell, beautiful young Amber, one of my favorite women, had been stripped completely naked and tied up tightly in the tickling position.
Amber is about 25 years old, blond and blue-eyed, energetic and very healthy. She is extremely sensitive in all her emotions and physical feelings. She is also incredibly ticklish!
The position she was tied in gives the torturer maximum opportunity to tickle a victim.
She was kneeling on the concrete floor. Each of her slim, good-looking knees was tied to a metal ring set in the concrete. The rings were more than a yard distant from each other, so they pulled her legs very, very wide apart.
Her ankles were as far apart as her knees - each ankle tied to a metal stake in the concrete.
In this way, her shapely inner thighs and her vagina were made easily available to feather tickling. You could reach your hand right up to her crotch without any obstruction, and of course she couldn't move her **** in any way.
Her pubic area had been shaved so that all its skin was bare. So with her legs spread so very wide apart, her vagina was partly opened and her clitoris was well exposed.
Also, the soles of Amber's feet were facing up. To hold them completely still, a small strap circled each big toe and was fastened firmly to the floor. Her soles were just asking to be stroked with a feather, etc., etc.
Her wrists were high above her head, tied together and bound to an overhead iron pipe running between two walls. Her elbows were pulled close together by a rope that passed behind her head.
This straightened her arms out, straight as sticks, and left her ribs and armpits completely motionless and vulnerable.
Her shaved armpits could be stroked with fingers or feathers, and you could put your hands around her slender rib cage and tickle to your heart's content.
Amber saw me before they put a gag in her mouth, and she instantly began to beg and plead with me not to tickle her.
Her eyes were wide -- I could really see the whites of them shining.
Desperately she babbled at me that she was insanely ticklish, that being tickled was terrible torture and agony to her, that it was worse than being whipped, worse than the electric shocking machine, worse than anything!
As I moved closer to her, she shrieked that if I tickled her it might drive her out of her mind.
Of course I knew already how incredibly ticklish Amber was. That was why she had been selected for punishment in this fashion.
I made a sign, and the guards put a gag in her mouth, but one which still allowed her to make humming noises through the cloth.
I had meant to begin with some torture by expectation, but I couldn't control myself. I quickly walked around behind her and knelt down, with my knees between her feet. I reached forward and settled my hands around her ribs, with my fingers touching her bare skin.
Amber is thin at her waist, and her ribs were nicely defined as ridges under her pink-white skin. I could feel the softness of her skin between the harder rib bones.
Then I began wiggling and pressing my fingers into her ribs. I kept it up for twenty or thirty seconds.
The instant I began to move my fingers, Amber went into a paroxysm of ticklish agony!
Of course she could do nothing to resist me, but she pulled so strongly at her ropes that she even managed to squirm a small bit, which was remarkable, tied as tightly as she was. And she made wild, wild noises through her gag.
I kept tickling her.
As I caressed her ribs, pressed my fingertips into them, and wiggled them firmly, all her muscles tightened up with an awesome force, and she shivered and shook convulsively through her whole body.
I kept tickling her.
Strangled humming noises wrenched out through her gag. They could not be loud, but they were obviously desperate, maddened screams, wrenched from deep in her throat.
I still kept tickling her.
As my fingers dug into her ribs, Amber's chest pumped like a bellows with the force of her screaming, her breasts rose and fell convulsively, and sweat quickly started rolling down her bare back.
However, all the sound she could really make was just like a little pig grunting and wheezing.
I enjoyed tickling her. After the first few minutes I went on for more, and then more, wiggling and wiggling my fingers, playing her ribs like a piano.
When I stopped, Amber was breathing as hard as a marathon runner.
I gave her a brief time to rest.
Then I kneeled in front of her, so we were face to face. I held a feather in my right hand, and she couldn't take her eyes off of it!
I moved it very slowly, extremely slowly toward her armpit, and she began to make sounds in her gag again. Her eyes got wider and wider, and she was sweating like before. It trickled in shining drops over her breasts.
When the feather was an inch from her armpit I told her so. "One inch." She began to shiver.
When it was a half an inch, I said, "Half an inch." Amber's eyes were rolling wildly, and she screamed into her gag.
At a quarter inch I said, "Quarter inch." Then I touched the point of the feather in the dimple of her armpit and gently wiggled it around. I kept on wiggling it.
This was not a trial run. It was almost twenty minutes by the clock on the wall that I tickled her gently in her armpit with the feather.
If at first she was desperate and screaming I don't know how to describe her agony as I kept on tickling her --
"When will it stop? Oh God, oh God, stop, stop, stop! Can't stand it. Must pull away. Must squirm. Got to pull away from the feather. The feather! God, stop the feather! Make it still. It can't wiggle any more, it can't Please PLEASE, it can't I can't STAND it Stop NOW it can't go on it won't it'll stop now right now O God aaaaaaghh!" --
Her head rolled back and forth frantically, convulsively. It was all she could move, and even its motion was limited by the rope between her elbows.
Her muscles tightened madly and suddenly slackened. Then with a great wrench they tightened again. She screamed and screamed in her gag.
I kept tickling her in her armpit. I kept moving the feather gently, up and down, forward and back, in small circles, always keeping the pointed end in contact with her skin, always touching her lightly...
Afterwards I tickled her more.
Tickling her breasts was fun. Many women aren't ticklish directly on their breasts, although of course the skin is very sensitive. But in Amber, the extreme sensitivity was also extreme ticklishness.
I used the same pattern on her left breast as on her armpit: one inch, half an inch, a quarter inch, and contact! Then all I had to do was keep circling the tip of the feather around the nipple for maximum effect and utter torture.
After the left breast, of course I couldn't neglect the other one. And then I tested my coordination by tickling both at once.
Then I tickled her feet.
It's impossible to describe the agony of the crazed maniac Amber became when I tickled her bare soles. Just by wiggling the feather quill on the bottoms of her immobile feet -- back and forth and round and round and in funny little patterns, but never stopping -- I seemed to be pushing her sanity further and further toward the edge of the cliff.
But as a thoughtful philosopher I can record a happy realization that came to me.
I realized as I kept exploring the delicate surface of her bare skin that I had all the time I wanted.
Even though Amber was madly praying, screaming, pulling her muscles insanely -- even though she would have done anything in the world, literally anything, to make me stop the tickling -- still, there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop me or influence me to consider stopping.
It was completely up to my whim whether she would be tickled another ten seconds or ten minutes! The lady was totally helpless, completely in my power.
So I just smiled and smiled and kept wiggling the feather...
Then when I stopped a bit to let her recover from her near-fainting spell, I did a little scientific thinking.
At first Amber had seemed most ticklish when the feather was twirling in her armpits. But then she got even more hysterical when the feather -- or rather the quill -- danced on the soles of her feet. But on thinking it out further, I realized that she was equally, insanely ticklish all over -- ribs, armpits, breasts and feet. Even squeezing her knees between my fingers drove her nearly out of her mind.
However, to be really scientific, I had to do some more experiments. So I tried tickling each area all over again; and then I did one more round to be sure!
I paused to digest these results (and now Amber was hanging, eyes closed, from her wrist ropes like a limp, wet rag). Provisionally I concluded that she had no "worst" spot.
But I was mistaken. I had forgotten her ****. So I quickly tried it.
When I touched her vagina with the point of a feather, and wriggled it just a little, Amber reacted as if lightning had struck her! She jerked instantly from near unconsciousness into a rigid catatonic constriction of her entire body.
Surprised, I pulled the feather away, and after a few seconds she relaxed a bit. Then I touched her **** again, and tickled for about five seconds. Another catatonic constriction!
And I swear that her voice sounded out through her gag almost as loud as if she didn't have a gag at all. It must have been as powerful as the scream of a mad woman at her dying moment.
So of course there was nothing else to do but to give her some serious **** tickling. Fifteen or twenty seconds. Then thirty of forty, or more -- and so on. Over and over, and over...
Each minute seemed to be a lifetime of agony for the dear girl: and I gave her a bouquet of many, many dozens of minutes.
Poor Amber. I don't know if she'll ever be the same again!
