A story request from a TMF member (M/F sexual)

Hope y'all enjoy, still a work in progress:






She never told anyone about the favor she needed from the man with the green eyes.



It was a dark favor, anathema; something to be carried out by cloak of night and hidden from the conscience itself. While initially her task staggered her, she was surprised by the relative ease such a man could be found if the proper channels were used (as such they are).



The man with green eyes listened to her impassioned pleas and accepted her burden as his own, and his price shook the girl to her core. How he could have known her confused yearning numbed her; why of all things to demand as payment he would choose such sadistic depravity was beyond her; she was surprised, sickened and devastated simultaneously and yet accepted the offer as it were for her task was so crucial, so vital.



The man suggested she consider the matter finished, and informed her that at a time of his choosing she would be contacted.


Her submission would be absolute, he reminded her sternly, whether it be with her cooperation or not.









She buried the memory of that night so deep it was lost to her, and she began her life anew. She never again thought of the debt to the man with the green eyes, for to do so would paralyze her, steal her breath, cripple her resolve. Better to bury it and move on. Easier.











The day arrived, a location given. A proffered drink in a crowded nightclub spins her vision, and her ordeal commences.













You awaken, and before you open your eyes you are aware that you cannot move and that you are naked. Your heart leaps into your throat, your thoughts become one jumbled cry of terror and wild panic grips your abdomen. The day has arrived.



You brace yourself, pulling on the extensive latticework of straps which bind you: Ankles, elbows, thighs, waist and wrists secured spread-eagle in such a manner that you can only wiggle slightly, and the straps tighten themselves as you struggle for all the room they'll allow. You are stretched almost uncomfortably but not quite; your ribcage juts prominently from the positioning. Your upper back, buttocks and shoulders lie flat against the cold leather they rest on, and your lower back hovers just above it. Your abdominal muscles are pulled to their limits. Craning your neck, you cannot see your feet as they are locked between two boards. There are fine harnesses pulling your toes back and rigging them to the boards, and their grip is unyielding; same as the straps on your body, they pull the feet back and stretch the soles to their limits, the balls jutting as prominently as your ribcage. All of this is realized (felt, really) in seconds, and combined with the distinct lack of clothes creates the most humiliating feeling of vulnerability.



You cannot move, your naked body exposed and stretched for every angle to be considered. Every instinct in you screams for flight, to break the bonds and flee this nightmare. Your pounding heartbeat moves from your hitching chest to your ears, blinds your vision and fills your mind with it's panicked tempo. The rhythm of your thoughts follow suit and become reduced to imperceptible screams of protest.





Yet despite the maelstrom of panic swirling through your body, the bonds remain steadfast, indifferent to your predicament. In movies and books and television, now is the moment of truth when the heroine is rescued, or a scheme is devised, or the bondage outsmarted. Never is the lead role left without recourse, at complete mercy to whatever may be.



And you know what is to be.





The room is cold and slightly damp, dimply lit. The floor is earthen and it's smell swamps the room, cosseting the senses. The stone walls seem to absorb the light instead of reflecting it, and somewhere (over the drumroll of your heart and the squeals of your panicked thoughts) the sound of dripping water can be made out. Your mouth is filled with the bite of a gag and your jaw begins to ache from the strain. A chill breeze floats through and the cold air envelops your body; your hairs stand on end and goosebumps erupt across your flesh. You are acutely aware of the frigid air: wafting in between your paralyzed toes, gently rolling across your taut midsection, swirling among the heat emanating from your genitals (reminds you of their exposure). Your nipples harden to diamonds and only now, feeling every inch of the breeze caress your body, is your helplessness fully understood.





Tears well up in your eyes from frustration and despair, and as the sobs begin to bubble in your throat you hear my footsteps approach from just outside the room.

My mouth waters as I enter the small room and lay my eyes upon my prey. Her fair skin glows in the sullen lamplight, effused with blood, and the pink hues of her genitals and breasts ignites a flame of desire deep within my chest. She's sweating from panic and her futile exertions against my binds, and it reflects the light, highlighting her womanly curves. Her chest heaves rapidly up and down and her supple bosom lolls lazily back and forth along with it, hypnotizing me. Her eyes are headlights of panic, of indignity, even rage, and yet despite her apparent distress her vagina is engorged with blood, her labia open and peeled back like the tender skin of a fuzzy peach; it literally drips with sticky secretion. Our eyes meet briefly as I inspect her and she blushes redder than she already is. I smile and gingerly brush the pads of my fingers across her exposed clitoris. She screams in resistance and attempts to contort her body away from my soft embrace, to no avail. I laugh deeply, shaming her with her nudity and the enjoyment she receives from my knowing touch. She derives sexual pleasure from my nonconsensual contact and this confuses and embarrasses her further; she cannot meet my gaze. Barely containing myself, I set about my task with relish.





"Are you ticklish XXXX?" I purr, and while doing so I lazily, slowly, excruciating, trail a fingernail from your hip bone up your sides across your ribcage into your armpit. You shriek like a trapped animal and thrash wildly, but the straps dig deeper and deeper into your tender skin, limiting your mobility even further. I bend over and see this realization cross your eyes, and grin like a madman as you bravely steel yourself, trying to limit your movements and reactions. I perform the same action starting from your other armpit, tracing a light path with the tip of my finger from the soft folds across the tight skin of the ribs, down across your sides, coming to rest decidedly on your other hipbone. I press down, harder and harder, and giggle softly as you scrunch your eyes shut, straining with the effort of not physically responding to my tickles. The cords of your neck stand out in relief and your fingers wiggle wildly, smacking into your palms. I push harder, and you begin to rock your head from side to side and snort and whine, the sweat dripping into your eyes now, stinging them. When I stop pushing, grasp both knobs with my fingers and squeeze, the results are electrifying. You buck and thrash and strain against the straps so ferociously the weighted table your naked body is bound to begins to lift from the floor. Your eyes are huge goggles rolling in your skull, your breasts heaving mountains dancing atop your chest. Your breath catches and you cannot breath, and for a few glorious, shining seconds the room is absolutely quiet; your body now silently spasming against my intrusive touch, not breathing, eyes open but not seeing, soul aching with the exquisite torture expertly visited upon your nerves, silently laughing, agony incarnate etched into your dripping face.





I stop and quietly watch as you regain your composure, your silent laughter devolving into a manic string of giggles high in your throat which you appear to be fighting but cannot seem to control. You eventuality meet my eyes even as you continue your almost juvenile string of giggles, and shoot daggers of bravery and resistance at me from them. I smile, position my wiggling fingers overs your quivering midsection, and once again deeply laugh as the eye of the warrior melt into the eyes of the supplicant, the victim, the terrified and exploited. You PLEAD in capitol letters with your beautiful eyes for me to stop, to not drop my wiggling fingers down upon your helpless torso, to not mercilessly dig into your sweet flesh and make you dance underneath my fingers. I wink, your pupils dilate, and I go to work.



It is as if your body as been pressed against flame, and the natural, instinctive, automatic reaction to immediately move away is being prevented. Your stomach, which was once a ship on a rough sea, a glass jar filled with madly fluttering butterflies, is now a raging storm, the End of the World. You feel the control of your bladder, normally something not even noticeable, begin to slip as your stomach heaves and rolls from within, your senses overloading themselves. My fingers feels as if they'e everywhere at once, as if every rib has a finger just for it, to poke and prod, to slip across the sweaty skin to it's neighbor. You cannot breathe, but you must be breathing because a hot torrent of laughter is forcing itself past your gag, ringing like a bell in the stone room. it is not natural laughter; there is no life in it, no warmth, no enjoyment. It is harsh, hot, high pitched, strained. It reeks of suffering and helplessness, its octaves rising higher and higher, uncontrollably, as I tickle faster and faster, harder and harder.





"Does it tickle, XXXX?" I quietly inquire directly into your ear. "Does it tickle? Are you ticklish? Do you like to be tickled? I think you do… look at you. You love this. I don't think I'm ever going to stop if this is the reaction I can expect…. Tickle, tickle, tickle, XXXX loves to be tickled…." And my words echo in your brain over and over, consuming you.





If you sit upon your leg for too long, it goes numb. If you batter the body enough, the blunt blows cease to be registered. Hunger subsides in the throws of starvation, cold is no longer felt right before hypothermia… Even the hellish bite of flame is felt only for a second before the nerves are charred black. But this… this was nothing like you expected. The body eventually blocks repetitive signals… it's why you never feel your clothes unless you want to…. to protect your fragile psyche from the harsh truths of reality. But this….





It wouldn't stop. Your brain not only refuses to ignore the insufferable tickling sensations but seem to focus in on them, amplifying the electric fire scorching your skin and muscles. You're naked and covered in sweat, thrashing and bucking as somebody runs his fingers across your sensitive body, and you feel so embarrassed, so embarrassed and low for being nude, for being covered in sweat, for the noises that you're making and the dance you're dancing laying on your back, for the helpless look in your eyes, and most of all because you are secretly enjoying this, this torture, this unimaginable tickling torture, you love it, and your clitoris throbs and your vagina begins to aches from the blood rushing to it and while your eyes scream for me to stop they also beg me to touch you again the way I did earlier, to just squeeze, just press, just graze your bulging clit ever so slightly, because the fire in your nerves and the fire in your loins are merging, now, joining, and if the tickling doesn't stop and your soft genitals not cared for you feel as if you're going to faint.



Crushing humiliation. Like getting caught masturbating by your parents. Like sneaking and stealing and being discovered in the act. Like forgetting your lines on stage in front of a packed theater, like slipping and falling in the mud on a street packed with strangers. It's hot embrace chokes you... You sound so silly, your brain says. You look so stupid, naked and wet and hot and red, spasming like a fish on land...snorting and choking and squealing. Your gyrating stomach is affecting your spatial perception, like losing the horizon while riding a corkscrewing roller coaster, and you feel as if you're suspended immobile in the air instead of strapped to a torture rack; you keep trying to regain your bearings, to clamp down on the trapped-rat panic gnawing at your intestines like worms, to at least stop giving your torturer the satisfaction of your cries and tears, but you cannot. Your body is no longer your own, at least for the time being; its arresting response to the external stimulus of prying, probing fingers on the most vulnerable, unprotected areas of your body has hijacked whatever control you once had... your brain tries to rip your arms down to protect your soft torso (which at the moment is being kneaded like dough) but they stay fast to the table; your brain orders your chest to stop bucking and your mouth from making the animal noises currently gushing out of it but you can do nothing save for let them bubble up; you try and corral the wild screams in your brain, to focus your attention on something, anything, but you cannot... its almost a chemical reaction, like vinegar and baking soda: the more this terrible man tickles you, the less coherent you become.

You continue to twist and squirm for a few seconds after I takes my hands off of you, apparently unaware that I've momentarily stopped; ticklish echos continue to reverberate up and down your sides and ribs, phantom tickles almost worse than the real thing. I wipe the sweat from your face, move the damp hair plastered to your cheeks, and nuzzle into the cavity of your neck and shoulder... once again the reaction is instantaneous and uncontrollable: you jerk your head towards mine in an attempt to dislodge my mouth and teeth from the soft hollow they've found (the only movement you really CAN make) but instead it just locks my mouth in its place, further burrowing deeper and deeper. I begin to gently lick and kiss and suckle the ultra sensitive skin and with my free hands slowly trace circles with my fingertips on your aureoles. The maddeningly light tickling sensations on your neck merge with the sensual pleasure from my tongue and fingertips and creates an entirely new sensation altogether. I laugh softly, lift my head slightly above your face, and smile.

"Look at me" I command.
You turn away, blushing all over again, the hot red blood rushing to your face. You squeeze your eyes shut with steely determination.
"XXXX. XXXXXXX.... look into my eyes, XXXX".

The frantic pace of your respiration is subsiding, and your thoughts are just beginning to coalesce into solid form. Your head is lightheaded from laughing and choking for so long, and you've completely forgotten about your limbs: not being able to control them or move them for as long as it has been, your brain has abandoned them altogether. At the moment you are nothing but a gelatinous mound of quivering exposed nerve endings and nothing else.


I suddenly feel a burst of frustration with your disobedience and without warning cruelly plunge my fingers as deep into your silken armpits as your skin will allow. Earlier, the tickling sensations were muscle deep, less a feeling and more of an automatic reaction, spasms and the like. THIS feeling was entirely different... this was true torture. The feeling is MADDENING, like thousands of ants crawling on you, and your eyes bulge from the sinister shock of the unexpected attack. I don't twist my fingers, or move them about in any fashion... I simply push, harder and harder, your skin yielding, the pocket in your armpit growing deeper and deeper.

"XXXXXXX...." my words somehow float into your head beyond the cacophony. "XXXX, stop. You look so stupid. Stop acting like this. Stop fighting, stop squealing.... just give up and LOOK AT ME"


THIS is what your tortured brain has been looking for: a vantage point, a landmark, something to focus on, to grip like a life preserver. As long as you focus on not opening your eyes, on not looking at me, you'll be okay, you think. You'll endure.


My fingers move from your armpits to your breasts. My palms grip them tightly, the excess spilling over my fingers like pudding. With the pads of my fingers I probe and search until I find the long rib adjacent to the breast, right below the armpit, and SQUEEZE as hard as I can, and laugh alongside you as once again you make the table legs leave the floor with your violent thrashing. You open your eyes involuntarily, and my face completely fills your vision, my face twisted in a cruel, taunting smile, my eyes piercing you, looking beyond you, into you, seeing your helplessness, relishing it, drinking it in. You want to turn your eyes away, to close them, but you cannot; you're inexplicably drawn into their pools of quiet green light. The squeezing has not subsided and you stare into the eyes of the person responsible for the agony you've been suffering through, the person directing your body like a conductor, and instead of revulsion, or anger, you feel the most confusing attraction to your torturer, and you are instantly aware of your burning hot vagina, the dripping juices running off of it, pooling on the leather underneath. You feel so... empty. So void. And for a brief second the tickling is overshadowed by the ravenous hunger you now feel for any kind of attention to your crotch you can manage.


I see it, too. I see, beyond the pain and suffering of the tickle torture, this hunger in your eyes. And while your wiggling and squirming continues uninterrupted, you now start to (involuntarily?) thrust your crotch skyward, wagging your **** like a dog in the air, the juices now arcing and splattering the soft black leather like a Pollack painting.

"You like this, you sicko? Hahaha, you do. I can see it. You don't want me to stop [I dig deeper]. You want me to keep t-i-c-k-l-i-n-g you, don't you? But there's something else, isn't there?"

And God bless you, through all your agony your eyes flash this ancient hunger again at me, and you sheepishly nod your head as you continue to snort and scream and chew your gag.

"Turf ee" I hear you say. "Hee hee hee HO HA AHHH eeee turf ee turf ee REASE TURF EE"
"Touch you? Is that what you want? You want me to stop tickling these perfect tits of yours and.... touch you?"
"HEHEHE HAHA REEEEEASE OPP, REAAAAASE OPP IS"



"Hmmmmmmmm"



I stop squeezing but maintain my grip on your prodigious breasts, kneading them softly. You're drenched in sweat, sopping wet, as if you just came out of the shower, the leather now slippery, warm and slimy underneath your bound body. The smell of your perspiration now mingles with the comforting odor of wet leather and earth, and trace odors of your white hot pussy float by, once again reminding you of your terrible, helpless, non consensual nudity. You feel so embarrassed, so confused by the emotions swirling in your head. You want the tickling (God it tickles so bad) to stop, you want the man with the green eyes to stop touching you, feeling you, drinking in your nudity with his eyes, and at the same time you derive darkly secret pleasure from being objectified as you are. As scared as you are, as helpless and exposed as you feel, alongside these feelings of panic and shame is the insatiable need for something to fill the warm cavity between you legs, something rough and firm to press against your throbbing clit. You want me to see your pussy, to inspect it, to learn it, to know it. You are taken, helpless and bare, and you want to be used. You take great pleasure in serving this tyrant, in pleasing him, and it shames and confuses you and your shame and confusion simply makes you hornier, a vicious cycle to which there can be only one conclusion.


I slowly make my way to end of the table, facing your feet, and lean in to just above your vagina. You thrust again, suddenly, violently, and I move my head just a few inches higher to avoid it. The muscles in your thighs and groin are screaming now, vibrating, as you try with every fiber of your being to connect your saturated vagina with my warm mouth. An involuntary groan of great frustration makes it's way from your gagged mouth to my ears and I chuckle. I open my mouth and methodically exhale my hot breath across your vagina, and you begin to squeal. This is almost as bad as the tickling! If only he was an inch closer, to feel the embrace of his soft lips, to feel the firm wetness of his wide tongue tasting you from inside...

I breath, harder and harder, and my saliva begins to drop from my lips to your lips and the sensation of hot saliva dripping down your **** is exquisite... you can feel every millimeter as it trickles down along its journey.

"OH ODD REASE REASE NO REASE OPP REASE UST OO IT REASE ONT REAT EE IKE IS!"


I laugh loudly over your protests and place my hands gently on the glistening soles of your trapped, soft feet.You gasp, having completely forgotten you even HAVE feet, and the pit of your stomach drops away as if you are in free fall. For the past five minutes you have been focused on nothing but your aching sex and it's terrible demands, and your head has been filled with visions of being roughly penetrated, of being abused and turned out. You unconsciously try to pull your feet back, to bend your knees, at the very least to scrunch your toes and protect the tender pink flesh underneath them, but you cannot and the panic returns, the wild-eyed nerve melting panic. Your feet. How could you have forgotten about your feet?


You cannot see what's happening at the foot of the rack, but you can feel it, and the lack of vision does nothing but amplify the sensations. He's not moving his fingers or even applying any pressure; they're just resting lightly, like a bird's claws on a gently swaying branch. The anticipation blooms like a flower inside you, bigger and bigger, eclipsing your other senses and your limbs actually begin to tremble from fear. How could the anticipation be worse than the actual tickling? You can envision nothing but the tickling that is about to commence, you can feel nothing but his ten fingers resting lightly, perched almost, on your quivering pink soles, your imagination cruelly mocking you with what it's going to feel like, how there's nothing you'll be able to do. How long is he going to tickle them? Your vision begins to waver.....


"We're going to play a game, XXXX [his voice is deep and stern, uncompromising]. You and I. I'm going to remove your gag and ask you some questions, and I expect responses without forethought. You're going to tell me a little about you, about this porcelain body of yours. You're going to reveal its secrets to me. You're going to do exactly as I say the moment I say it, or I'm going to drive you insane. I can destroy your mind, you know, because it is my mine now. I'm in it. I control it."

With that being said, he rakes his hard, smooth fingernails down your soles, all ten at once, and then resumes his positioning as before. The sensation is registered after the act itself, and your throat literally closes in reaction, your breath stolen. You can still feel the path of each fingernail, see their trails along your soles in your minds eye. THIS sensation in of itself is different from the attack on the ribcage, the probing of the armpits. This sensation is softer, lighter, leaner, more refined... it is the knife instead of the club. It is a single bush burning bright as day in the night sky as opposed to the madness of a forest fire. It is unique, specific... the manipulation of the millions of nerves on the soles of the feet produces a feeling nothing else can manifest.


"Are you ready to speak with me, XXXX? To play? No doubt I'm going to continue to tickle you, tickle you wherever and however I please for as long as I want... but you can make it easier, XXXX."

I walk over and remove your gag in one rough flourish.

"....are you ready for me?"

he gag is out of your mouth for no more than a second before you begin to shout; a thin tendril of saliva still connects your lips with the gag as you spout your litany unabashed:


"OH GOD STOP PLEASE JUST STOP PLEASE I CAN'T I CAN'T I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE I WON'T LET ME GO LET ME GO PLEASE PLEASE GOD JUST STOP TICKLING MEEEEEEEEEEEAAAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHA EEEEEEEEEEEEEE....."


Not amused with your rash words, I lean over your body from the head of the rack and proceed to "spider" my fingers across your wet, taut stomach, gliding effortlessly side to side, up to the sternum and down to right above your pubis, fingers wildly dancing in every direction. You're stretched to such a point I can easily distinguish your abdominal muscles underneath your skin, pulled tight like cables on an elevator, and they're literally vibrating from my touch. A million individual bolts of lightening are careening over your belly now, electrical fire running rampant on your skin and the binds just dig tighter and tighter, holding you in place. Every second is an eternity, your throat now horse and and dry from your involuntary pleas of laughter, and you can see yourself grabbing my hands with your mind's eye, stopping the torture; you can practically feel yourself doing so, but no. Your hands remain high above your head, your leaden arms strapped on either side of it. Your belly continues to do cartwheels and your vagina continues its near constant shrill shriek for release but you cannot focus on anything but the sensation of your belly being tickled.


I stop as suddenly as I started, and once again you're left giggling uncontrollably, your muscles still feeling my devilish fingers over them. I patiently wait to see if you have anything more to say but apparently you've learned your lesson about speaking out of turn. I continue to wait, one minute, two, now three, completely silent, motionless, peering down at you from above, waiting for you to make eye contact with me. Eventually you do, and your eyes tell a story your words never could.


"Do you like to be tickled, XXXX?"

The word "tickle" is emblazoned with neon lights in your head, a red flag. Anytime your ears would pick up the word in causal conversation your belly would flip and you would cast your eyes down, hoping nobody would see the glint in them. The word makes you feel like a child. Now you're wet, naked, exposed, vulnerable, and this madman is looking deep into your soul and not just saying the word but demanding an answer to a question you've never been asked before.

"Do. You. Like. To. Be. Tickled. XXXX?"

You muster your courage. "NO" you spit bravely.



Spidering on the armpits now, lightly, gently, just barely grazing the surface. Up to the elbows, down the arms past the armpits to the nipples, and back up, slowly, slowly, both hands now, both sides of your body. You shriek and pull on the binds and try to close the hollow of your armpits and cannot and the man is laughing with you, that damn laughter you cannot contain no matter how hard you try bubbling up and out to bounce off the walls, that foreign, pained, forced laughter that sounds like somebody else in your ears and he's laughing too, he's loving your reactions, relishing your suffering... it emboldens him, he's licking his lips now, drooling, his eyes far away and distant.... he tickle faster, and while his fingers are frantically tickling now, faster and faster, a blur of fingers just barely registering on the surface of the skin his progress up and down and back up again is insufferably slow, a creep, a crawl, meandering up and down, up and down. Your laughter is full and rich without the gag to contain it and you being to shriek now, not so much laughing anymore but shrieking as his soft fingerpads graze the tender flesh of the armpit and biceps, the smooth flesh of your breasts, the wrinkly stones of your nipples.

"XXXX. Tell me you like to be tickled."

"EEEEEE HAHA NOOOOOO EEEEEIIIIIYAAAAAAHHHHAHAHAHAHAH PLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASEPLEASE ILL DO ANYTHING HAHAHHA PLEEEEEEASE...."

"You love this XXXX. I can feel the furnace of your vagina from up here. Your dripping, XXXX. You love to be tickled but you were always too embarrassed to ask, isn't that right? Don't you love this? The sensation, the loss of control? Give in, XXXX. Give in and admit this is what you crave...."

His words destroy you. You want nothing more but for the tickling to stop, just for a moment, so you can breathe, so you can think, but at the same time you want the tickling to continue, harder, faster, and you don;t know why. You need this punishment and you don't know why, you crave it as he said but it's killing you, and the whole time your vagina pleads with you, begs you, just one touch, just one stroke, just one deep plunge....

He alters his attack, digging DEEP into your torso now, bruising your skin. No more light, tickly sensations driving you mad but powerful, forceful tickles that hurt without pain, tickles that threaten to loosen your bladder and knock you unconscious. He's grabbing now, fistfuls of pudge around the waist, handfuls of ribs, breasts, his stout fingers stabbing you, assaulting you, and your laugh is no longer the shrieks and squeals of a mouse but the deep, hearty braying of a donkey, rotund gaffaws that wrack your body with their ferocity as they barrel out from your lungs and embarrass you with their coarseness.


"I'M NOT GOING TO STOP XXXX. I'M NOT GOING TO STOP AND I'M SERIOUS, YOU MUST ANSWER ME BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE!"

The thought of admitting to your closest friend, your confidant, your lover, your perverted love of tickling is enough to shake you. But to say the words, to form your lips and urge the words out is impossible in front of this man, to this man, his fingers making you buck and shake and squirm, his face a grave mask of craven amusement, his piercing eyes scanning your body's reactions to his touch. To admit that you do indeed love to be tickled against your will, that you crave it, that it makes you hornier than anything in the world... a fate worse than death. To do so would be to share something with this man, a piece of you so sacred, so secret, so close to your core as a person, that you could never regain it once given. It would be lost to you, forever, and a piece of you would forever be missing.

And yet, the tickling had progressed to an intensity you could not comprehend. It was akin to pain, worse than pain, fresher and more vibrant than pain, like biting down on an empty fork, or slamming into a funny bone. You would most certainly urinate uncontrollably if it continued, and lose consciousness thereafter, and besides, AREN'T you hornier than you've ever been? Have you ever craved something inside you more than you are now?

Your laughter catches, and you begin to hack and cough and sputter. The lights swim in front of your eyes as you being to pass out, and the bastard won't let up, not even a bit, not even to let you catch your breath and your coughing, coughing, you cannot breath, and he's leaning in now, smiling, you can barely see him, he's staring directly at you as he runs his hands anywhere on your bound naked body that he sees fit and you break. You physically feel your will and resolve melt away, you feel your resilience to the tickling evaporate like gas, you feel yourself growing closer and closer to this man playing your body like an instrument.

You give in.


"YES YES HAHAHAHA EEEEEEEEIIIIIYAAAAAH YES YES YES FUCKING YES I LOVE IT I LOVE BEING TICKLED I LOVE THE FEELING I LOVE GIIIIIVIYAHAHAHAHAHAHA GOD STOP IM TELLING YOU WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR PLEASE NO MO-AHAHAHAHA I LOVE IT I NEED I DESERVE ITTTTTATATATAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAA.....!"


I stop, smile, and clap my hands in front of me and briskly rub them together.


"Oh good... so now we can finally begin."