Vanillaphant
TMF Master
- Joined
- Jul 26, 2014
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Hello, hello. 
Not so long ago I made a comment on a discussion thread where I stated that I wasn’t keen on stories that combined first and second person pronouns. So naturally, I’ve gone and written such a story lol. But it’s one that switches back and forth between first and second person. I was recently reading a novel whose narrative did just that, so I thought I’d try it for a tickling story. Hopefully one or two people will enjoy it.
Cheeyers!
THE VALENTINE’S SURPRISE
Me. On top of her. Wearing a stupid grin. Going bat shit crazy. All fingers – squeezing, poking, frantic. That’s what she was expecting. Not this. No, she wasn’t expecting this. Hardly surprising. After all, what is tickling in its standard everyday context? Silly is what it is. Yes, tickling is silly. Ordinarily. But not right now it isn’t. Not when you’re restrained and blindfolded it isn’t.
I tell her I’m gonna start with the soles of her feet and work my way up slowly to her sweet, kissable lips. That’s her first clue. Now, kneeling on the floor near the foot of the bed, I plant a soft, slow kiss on the heel of her right foot. That’s her second clue. This will not be tickling as Layla had previously known it – the sort of tickling that occurs between family members, between friends: between most couples, come to that. No. This is something else. Something different. Yes, she knows that now.
***
Two weeks ago
So you finally tell Layla her about your fetish. Four months into the relationship. Four long months. You’d thought you could live without it – without sharing it with another person. You’d managed so far, after all. But then, seized by a sudden panic, the sort of punishing anxiety that only the prospect of an unhappy future can induce, you come clean. You try to keep it casual. You leave the ball in her caught, telling her that if she thought it was weird, or something she felt she couldn’t embrace, to forget you’d said a word. Just being with her – that was the important thing. Layla seems surprised, bemused, she doesn’t know what to make of it. “Tickling?” she says finally; “or being tickled?” You raise her eyebrows at her – an expression that says “really?” “Silly question,” she says with an awkward smile. Yes, you are the dominant one in the relationship; you like to be in control. But this fetish. It gets the better of you. Insecurities. Negative associations. But you know, given the chance, you could make it work for you. Perhaps even for both of you.
Nothing is resolved, however. All you can do is wait.
***
Her big toe is enveloped in my mouth and a rhythmic sucking action is aiding an undulating movement of my tongue: the flat part gradually giving way to the tip, the tip at the peak of its upward motion giving way to the back, the motion then reversing on the downward stroke. I repeat this action over and over. Meanwhile, the fingers of my left hand are playfully, tenderly, exploring the sole of her foot, while those on my right hand, rigid and claw-like, make long, straight, even movements up and down the top of her foot. It is the first time I have ever worshipped Layla’s feet. Going by the undertone of surprise – of wonder, even – that characterizes the sounds elicited by the curiously pleasurable combination of sensations thus created, it is the first time anybody has worshipped Layla’s feet. But as I continue, these coos, gasps, shrieks, giggles are replaced by more and more erotic moans. The ball is rolling. Things are getting less silly by the second. And yet I am as calm as can be. So much anxiety dissipated in one fell swoop! People talk about the power of visualization – a conscious process. Fuck that. Fantasy, our unconscious desires – that’s where the power really lies. How many times have I fantasized about this scenario, never thinking it would actually happen? And now that it has… Fuck me, is she gonna cum?!
***
One day ago
Almost two weeks go by without another word being said on the matter. True, you have not seen a whole lot of each other during that time – work, family visit – but there is only one way for you to interpret her silence. There is no way she could have just forgotten about something like that. She has made her decision, and you must keep your word. And you are furious. Not with her. With yourself. For not being honest with her from the beginning. For allowing yourself to fall in love without confronting the issue. For allowing yourself to believe that there was no issue. Fool! Conceal your disappointment. Be thankful that Layla is still yours. That’s all you can do. What’s more, it’s all you deserve.
Valentine’s Day tomorrow. You pray that it will go well. If it doesn’t… No, don’t think about it. Everything will be fine. Please everything be fine.
***
Working my way up Layla’s inner thighs, and I feel the expediency of keeping things sensual. To use a business metaphor: Layla is my ideal customer; this is her free trial: she must enjoy it. The heavy-handed approach simply won’t do. To blur the line between pleasure and torment, to mix punishment with reward – that is the way to go: the bat shit craziness can wait! I trace my lips across her smooth skin, planting the occasional kiss. Slow biting – caressing her with my teeth: opening my mouth wide, pushing my incisors against her blemishless thighs before slowly dragging top and bottom sets back together: first with little pressure so as to tease the skin, then with increased pressure to get at the the firm but yielding flesh underneath. Here come the goosebumps, here comes the trembling… Working my up, up, up. To the small portion – the tantalizing underside – of the buttocks. To the groin, my cheeks grazing the gusset of her lace panties. I have to literally drag myself – my mouth – away: I hear the upper body calling me.
***
Earlier that evening (8pm onwards)
Valentine’s Day. Cards and gifts (nothing extravagant) have been exchanged. A self-conscious affair, you feel, but perhaps it was always going to be so. Just the stage of your relationship. Four months: enough for a relationship to mean something but not everything. The pressure to be on the same wavelength regarding seriousness. Difficult to judge. Picking up on a heavy hint dropped by Layla days earlier, you have booked a table for two at the Italian restaurant she likes so much.
But things do not go smoothly. Before the starter arrives Layla is complaining of a headache. By the end of the main course it has developed into a migraine, so together you decide to call it a night. Great. Terrific. Just what you need on Valentine’s night – a girlfriend with a migraine. Or even worse, a girlfriend pretending to have a migraine. No, don’t entertain the thought; surely things haven’t gotten that bad. You say you’ll ring for a taxi, but she insists on walking: it isn’t far and the fresh air will do her good. You accompany her, naturally. Arriving at her flat, she asks you to come in with her and help her to bed. Attempting to dodge the chore, to shift responsibility, you ask after the whereabouts of Layla’s flatmate, Jen. All too aware of the fact that a couple of friends are in town having a drink, you’re now eager to get away, so that the evening might be salvaged. Now that sex is off the cards, you feel the least you deserve is a drink and a few laughs. “She’s away for the weekend,” explains Layla, and she looks expectantly at you. “Christ, Layla… You’ve got a migraine, not cerebral palsy!” She looks hurt – who wouldn’t be. Feeling like the biggest asshole in the world, you apologize: of course you’ll help to her bed. Ah the vain pleasures of self-loathing!
***
Is there anything sexier than that area on a girl’s body between navel and pussy? Not for me there isn’t. Happily, it also tends to be quite a sensitive area. Certainly in Layla’s case it is. After some initial teasing I find my gaze settling on Layla’s protruding hip bone. I want to devour it. Control, control. I allow my mouth to hover an inch or so above it. I know Layla can feel my hot breath on it – her subtle gyrations confirm this to me. Finally I allow my parted lips to land softly upon it, and, eyes closed, follow its contours back and forth. Does Layla anticipate what is coming? Whatever, I can hold myself no longer: I pounce on the hip bone. Layla screeches as my lips clamp around it and I begin sucking greedily – like a starved, toothless animal! Layla begins to buck and screech. I push my face firmly into her pelvis, desperate not to lose contact; adjust the position of my hands in order to better maintain balance. Ten or fifteen frantic seconds ensue till Layla manages to free herself from my lips with a particularly sharp jolt of her body. She is probably panting, cursing… I don’t know: at this point I am already eyeing up the other hip bone. I think aloud: “Hmm… I wonder if the other one tastes just as good…?” “No!” Oh yes. Yes yes yes.
And thence to her slim, gently sloping midriff. The heaving rib cage. The poised and perky breasts. The moist armpits (these latter two pairs I stimulate simultaneously: the armpits with my fingers, the breasts with my mouth). The pale, delicate, somehow virginal-looking neck. The sort of neck that makes vampirism seem excusable. The sort of neck that is now turning me into (ominous chords; clap of thunder)… Count Draculer! More goosebumps. More squirming. More shrieking. More groaning.
Finally I reach her lips – a kiss. How long has it taken me? Half an hour? Forty minutes? Who knows. I ask Layla how she is feeling. After a few seconds’ thinking time a coy smile emerges on her lips and she answers: “Horny.” Is this really happening? It seems too good to be true. Am I about to wake up and discover that this has all been a dream? I figure I’d better get a move on just in case. I’m not done yet. I want her face down, and I tell her so. Layla gives a short, playful flail of her restrained limbs and then looks me in the eye (I have removed the blindfold now). “Whatever you say. Tickle master.” Master. The sentiment is good. I figure it will do for now.
***
Earlier that evening (around 10pm)
Inside the flat and Layla asks you to make her a cup of green tea while she prepares for bed. Yep: some Valentine’s Day this has turned out to be! A few minutes later you enter the bedroom to give Layla her drink. And there she is. Half-naked. Lying seductively on the bed. In lingerie you’ve never seen before. Her ankles and wrists attached to restraints you’ve never seen before. With a look in her eye – that you have never seen before. You are stunned. Your face must be a picture because Layla can’t resist a giggle. “Well don’t just stand there looking gormless,” she says. "Tie me up!” And she jangles the wrist restraints at you. Buh…?
***
Somehow I know it’s her spot. Little tell-tale signs evinced during foreplay: a micro-twitch, a sharp intake of breath. And it is for that reason that I leave till last. Kneeling over her, I place my hands either side of her body, push the backs of my fingers into the mattress and slide them under, allowing them to settle gently into position: at the very tops of her thighs, a couple of inches in and down from the hip bones (I am no anatomist, but I’m going to throw out the term inguinal ligament here). “Oh shit…” Layla buries her face in the pillow, as if not wanting to face the reality of her fate. Oh shit indeed, my darling. “Something wrong, Layla?” She does not answer. “This isn’t a sensitive spot for you, is it?” She muffles something into the pillow and I have to ask her to repeat herself. Lifting her head: “I said, ‘Don’t do it!’” “Oh but I have to,” I tell her. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to do this?” “Err… an hour?” “Close. More like four months and an hour.” Layla grins, winces and buries her face back in the pillow. “Four long, long months.” And then after a pause: “Are you ready?” “Uh-uh.” And she shakes her head. Oh boy. It’s just as well she doesn’t realize how cute she is: she’d be insufferable. But something tells me that at least part of her does want it. Fun and games. What is more, I’m gonna make her want more of it before she wants less!
I push the pads of my fingers – the first three on each hand – firmly into the flesh and begin to grind them slowly in a tight circular motion, feeling the skin tightening and compressing under the pressure. And for a short while it as though Layla’s voice is not her own; like air is being forcibly expelled from her lungs. A person standing the other side of the door might have thought she were choking. She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t make any of the noises I had hitherto been hearing. A sudden exclamation: “Oh my God! What are you doing to me?!” And she winces almost as though in pain. I don’t know: what am I doing to her? I say nothing: there is nothing to say. I watch with gleeful fascination as Layla now begins grinding her hips and biting her lip.
I begin to accelerate the movement of my fingers, forcing the rotating motion to morph slowly, inexorably into what will become one of rapid and relentless squeezing. The erratic breathing is giving way to yelps and expletives: the air is getting bluer by the second. Her voice is getting louder, more desperate in tone, her movements more violent. But I do not let up. The squeezes come faster and harder. Layla is bucking wildly. Her sexy little butt: I cannot take my eyes off it as it bounces and wiggles invitingly. It’s the hip bone all over again – except this is 100% prime rump! It’s no good trying to stop myself: I am swamped in tickle lust. If it ends here, so be it – it has to end sometime. Without for one moment letting up with the finger attack, I adjust my body slightly, moving my knees further down the bed, and then with one last predatory glance at that those black lace hipsters and their drool-making contents, I strike. I am attacking her buttocks with my teeth. Biting rapidly and randomly. Biting hard. Layla let’s out a sharp, high-pitched (impressively so) cry, follows it up with a cacophony of wailing and swearing. She yells at me to stop – once, twice, three times. No good. She tells me she is serious. Still no good. Realizing finally that she must regain a modicum of composure if she is to get herself out of this predicament, Layla recalls the safe word I gave her, shouting it out twice in quick succession. I have ceased by the time she is finished.
***
Earlier that evening (around 10pm)
Slowly coming to your senses, you realize what Layla has pulled off and what it all means. Trying to retain a cool exterior, you permit yourself a knowing grin: “Migraine, eh?” Layla beams. “Surprise!” “You sly little…” “Tickle slave?” offers Layla, jangling the restraints once more. Ironic, really. If anybody feels like a slave at this moment it is you. Cos you know at this moment that you are hers. That you could never leave her. Her happiness is everything to you. “You owe me one tiramisu,” you tell her, placing the cup on her desk.
***
Layla is a panting, sweaty mess. I’ll rephrase that: Layla is a panting, sweaty, sexy mess. I stroke her hair while she gets her breath back. And then, out of nowhere, she utters three words that feel like a knife in my heart: “That was awful.” I knew it. I took it too far. I should have kept it sensual, playful. I should have shown more restraint. A hollow laugh. “Awful? Seems a bit of a strong word. You must have enjoyed some of it.” It sounds lame even as I’m saying it. “Not awful,” she corrects me; “awesome.“ “…Oh.” And the knife is removed. And I want jump off the bed and perform a celebratory dance. “You liked it, then?” I ask her. “Fuck yeah! What about you? I want to know how much you enjoyed it. ” “Hmm… Maybe it’s better if I show you.” And with that I slip my hand down my panties. Rub my fingers into my sopping pussy. “Open wide.” Layla opens her mouth and I feed her three glistening fingertips. “Mmm… I love the taste of your pussy.”
I begin to unbuckle one of the wrist restraints when Layla stops me in my tracks: “No, leave them. I like it. I like the feeling of being helpless. You know, I’ve got something else for you. For us. It’s in my chest of drawers. The bottom drawer.” “Oh, really?” I get off the bed, go over to the chest and open the bottom drawer. “All I see is underwear.” “Look underneath,” instructs Layla, “at the back.” So I do. “Holy shit. It’s huge!” I pull out an impressive-looking purple strap on dildo. Layla lets out a titter. “It vibrates, too!” I slip it on without too much difficulty and then take a few moments to regard my reflection in Layla's full-length mirror. Maybe I am the master, after all. Saint Valentine, are you watching this?
THE END
Not so long ago I made a comment on a discussion thread where I stated that I wasn’t keen on stories that combined first and second person pronouns. So naturally, I’ve gone and written such a story lol. But it’s one that switches back and forth between first and second person. I was recently reading a novel whose narrative did just that, so I thought I’d try it for a tickling story. Hopefully one or two people will enjoy it.
Cheeyers!
THE VALENTINE’S SURPRISE
Me. On top of her. Wearing a stupid grin. Going bat shit crazy. All fingers – squeezing, poking, frantic. That’s what she was expecting. Not this. No, she wasn’t expecting this. Hardly surprising. After all, what is tickling in its standard everyday context? Silly is what it is. Yes, tickling is silly. Ordinarily. But not right now it isn’t. Not when you’re restrained and blindfolded it isn’t.
I tell her I’m gonna start with the soles of her feet and work my way up slowly to her sweet, kissable lips. That’s her first clue. Now, kneeling on the floor near the foot of the bed, I plant a soft, slow kiss on the heel of her right foot. That’s her second clue. This will not be tickling as Layla had previously known it – the sort of tickling that occurs between family members, between friends: between most couples, come to that. No. This is something else. Something different. Yes, she knows that now.
***
Two weeks ago
So you finally tell Layla her about your fetish. Four months into the relationship. Four long months. You’d thought you could live without it – without sharing it with another person. You’d managed so far, after all. But then, seized by a sudden panic, the sort of punishing anxiety that only the prospect of an unhappy future can induce, you come clean. You try to keep it casual. You leave the ball in her caught, telling her that if she thought it was weird, or something she felt she couldn’t embrace, to forget you’d said a word. Just being with her – that was the important thing. Layla seems surprised, bemused, she doesn’t know what to make of it. “Tickling?” she says finally; “or being tickled?” You raise her eyebrows at her – an expression that says “really?” “Silly question,” she says with an awkward smile. Yes, you are the dominant one in the relationship; you like to be in control. But this fetish. It gets the better of you. Insecurities. Negative associations. But you know, given the chance, you could make it work for you. Perhaps even for both of you.
Nothing is resolved, however. All you can do is wait.
***
Her big toe is enveloped in my mouth and a rhythmic sucking action is aiding an undulating movement of my tongue: the flat part gradually giving way to the tip, the tip at the peak of its upward motion giving way to the back, the motion then reversing on the downward stroke. I repeat this action over and over. Meanwhile, the fingers of my left hand are playfully, tenderly, exploring the sole of her foot, while those on my right hand, rigid and claw-like, make long, straight, even movements up and down the top of her foot. It is the first time I have ever worshipped Layla’s feet. Going by the undertone of surprise – of wonder, even – that characterizes the sounds elicited by the curiously pleasurable combination of sensations thus created, it is the first time anybody has worshipped Layla’s feet. But as I continue, these coos, gasps, shrieks, giggles are replaced by more and more erotic moans. The ball is rolling. Things are getting less silly by the second. And yet I am as calm as can be. So much anxiety dissipated in one fell swoop! People talk about the power of visualization – a conscious process. Fuck that. Fantasy, our unconscious desires – that’s where the power really lies. How many times have I fantasized about this scenario, never thinking it would actually happen? And now that it has… Fuck me, is she gonna cum?!
***
One day ago
Almost two weeks go by without another word being said on the matter. True, you have not seen a whole lot of each other during that time – work, family visit – but there is only one way for you to interpret her silence. There is no way she could have just forgotten about something like that. She has made her decision, and you must keep your word. And you are furious. Not with her. With yourself. For not being honest with her from the beginning. For allowing yourself to fall in love without confronting the issue. For allowing yourself to believe that there was no issue. Fool! Conceal your disappointment. Be thankful that Layla is still yours. That’s all you can do. What’s more, it’s all you deserve.
Valentine’s Day tomorrow. You pray that it will go well. If it doesn’t… No, don’t think about it. Everything will be fine. Please everything be fine.
***
Working my way up Layla’s inner thighs, and I feel the expediency of keeping things sensual. To use a business metaphor: Layla is my ideal customer; this is her free trial: she must enjoy it. The heavy-handed approach simply won’t do. To blur the line between pleasure and torment, to mix punishment with reward – that is the way to go: the bat shit craziness can wait! I trace my lips across her smooth skin, planting the occasional kiss. Slow biting – caressing her with my teeth: opening my mouth wide, pushing my incisors against her blemishless thighs before slowly dragging top and bottom sets back together: first with little pressure so as to tease the skin, then with increased pressure to get at the the firm but yielding flesh underneath. Here come the goosebumps, here comes the trembling… Working my up, up, up. To the small portion – the tantalizing underside – of the buttocks. To the groin, my cheeks grazing the gusset of her lace panties. I have to literally drag myself – my mouth – away: I hear the upper body calling me.
***
Earlier that evening (8pm onwards)
Valentine’s Day. Cards and gifts (nothing extravagant) have been exchanged. A self-conscious affair, you feel, but perhaps it was always going to be so. Just the stage of your relationship. Four months: enough for a relationship to mean something but not everything. The pressure to be on the same wavelength regarding seriousness. Difficult to judge. Picking up on a heavy hint dropped by Layla days earlier, you have booked a table for two at the Italian restaurant she likes so much.
But things do not go smoothly. Before the starter arrives Layla is complaining of a headache. By the end of the main course it has developed into a migraine, so together you decide to call it a night. Great. Terrific. Just what you need on Valentine’s night – a girlfriend with a migraine. Or even worse, a girlfriend pretending to have a migraine. No, don’t entertain the thought; surely things haven’t gotten that bad. You say you’ll ring for a taxi, but she insists on walking: it isn’t far and the fresh air will do her good. You accompany her, naturally. Arriving at her flat, she asks you to come in with her and help her to bed. Attempting to dodge the chore, to shift responsibility, you ask after the whereabouts of Layla’s flatmate, Jen. All too aware of the fact that a couple of friends are in town having a drink, you’re now eager to get away, so that the evening might be salvaged. Now that sex is off the cards, you feel the least you deserve is a drink and a few laughs. “She’s away for the weekend,” explains Layla, and she looks expectantly at you. “Christ, Layla… You’ve got a migraine, not cerebral palsy!” She looks hurt – who wouldn’t be. Feeling like the biggest asshole in the world, you apologize: of course you’ll help to her bed. Ah the vain pleasures of self-loathing!
***
Is there anything sexier than that area on a girl’s body between navel and pussy? Not for me there isn’t. Happily, it also tends to be quite a sensitive area. Certainly in Layla’s case it is. After some initial teasing I find my gaze settling on Layla’s protruding hip bone. I want to devour it. Control, control. I allow my mouth to hover an inch or so above it. I know Layla can feel my hot breath on it – her subtle gyrations confirm this to me. Finally I allow my parted lips to land softly upon it, and, eyes closed, follow its contours back and forth. Does Layla anticipate what is coming? Whatever, I can hold myself no longer: I pounce on the hip bone. Layla screeches as my lips clamp around it and I begin sucking greedily – like a starved, toothless animal! Layla begins to buck and screech. I push my face firmly into her pelvis, desperate not to lose contact; adjust the position of my hands in order to better maintain balance. Ten or fifteen frantic seconds ensue till Layla manages to free herself from my lips with a particularly sharp jolt of her body. She is probably panting, cursing… I don’t know: at this point I am already eyeing up the other hip bone. I think aloud: “Hmm… I wonder if the other one tastes just as good…?” “No!” Oh yes. Yes yes yes.
And thence to her slim, gently sloping midriff. The heaving rib cage. The poised and perky breasts. The moist armpits (these latter two pairs I stimulate simultaneously: the armpits with my fingers, the breasts with my mouth). The pale, delicate, somehow virginal-looking neck. The sort of neck that makes vampirism seem excusable. The sort of neck that is now turning me into (ominous chords; clap of thunder)… Count Draculer! More goosebumps. More squirming. More shrieking. More groaning.
Finally I reach her lips – a kiss. How long has it taken me? Half an hour? Forty minutes? Who knows. I ask Layla how she is feeling. After a few seconds’ thinking time a coy smile emerges on her lips and she answers: “Horny.” Is this really happening? It seems too good to be true. Am I about to wake up and discover that this has all been a dream? I figure I’d better get a move on just in case. I’m not done yet. I want her face down, and I tell her so. Layla gives a short, playful flail of her restrained limbs and then looks me in the eye (I have removed the blindfold now). “Whatever you say. Tickle master.” Master. The sentiment is good. I figure it will do for now.
***
Earlier that evening (around 10pm)
Inside the flat and Layla asks you to make her a cup of green tea while she prepares for bed. Yep: some Valentine’s Day this has turned out to be! A few minutes later you enter the bedroom to give Layla her drink. And there she is. Half-naked. Lying seductively on the bed. In lingerie you’ve never seen before. Her ankles and wrists attached to restraints you’ve never seen before. With a look in her eye – that you have never seen before. You are stunned. Your face must be a picture because Layla can’t resist a giggle. “Well don’t just stand there looking gormless,” she says. "Tie me up!” And she jangles the wrist restraints at you. Buh…?
***
Somehow I know it’s her spot. Little tell-tale signs evinced during foreplay: a micro-twitch, a sharp intake of breath. And it is for that reason that I leave till last. Kneeling over her, I place my hands either side of her body, push the backs of my fingers into the mattress and slide them under, allowing them to settle gently into position: at the very tops of her thighs, a couple of inches in and down from the hip bones (I am no anatomist, but I’m going to throw out the term inguinal ligament here). “Oh shit…” Layla buries her face in the pillow, as if not wanting to face the reality of her fate. Oh shit indeed, my darling. “Something wrong, Layla?” She does not answer. “This isn’t a sensitive spot for you, is it?” She muffles something into the pillow and I have to ask her to repeat herself. Lifting her head: “I said, ‘Don’t do it!’” “Oh but I have to,” I tell her. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to do this?” “Err… an hour?” “Close. More like four months and an hour.” Layla grins, winces and buries her face back in the pillow. “Four long, long months.” And then after a pause: “Are you ready?” “Uh-uh.” And she shakes her head. Oh boy. It’s just as well she doesn’t realize how cute she is: she’d be insufferable. But something tells me that at least part of her does want it. Fun and games. What is more, I’m gonna make her want more of it before she wants less!
I push the pads of my fingers – the first three on each hand – firmly into the flesh and begin to grind them slowly in a tight circular motion, feeling the skin tightening and compressing under the pressure. And for a short while it as though Layla’s voice is not her own; like air is being forcibly expelled from her lungs. A person standing the other side of the door might have thought she were choking. She doesn’t laugh, doesn’t make any of the noises I had hitherto been hearing. A sudden exclamation: “Oh my God! What are you doing to me?!” And she winces almost as though in pain. I don’t know: what am I doing to her? I say nothing: there is nothing to say. I watch with gleeful fascination as Layla now begins grinding her hips and biting her lip.
I begin to accelerate the movement of my fingers, forcing the rotating motion to morph slowly, inexorably into what will become one of rapid and relentless squeezing. The erratic breathing is giving way to yelps and expletives: the air is getting bluer by the second. Her voice is getting louder, more desperate in tone, her movements more violent. But I do not let up. The squeezes come faster and harder. Layla is bucking wildly. Her sexy little butt: I cannot take my eyes off it as it bounces and wiggles invitingly. It’s the hip bone all over again – except this is 100% prime rump! It’s no good trying to stop myself: I am swamped in tickle lust. If it ends here, so be it – it has to end sometime. Without for one moment letting up with the finger attack, I adjust my body slightly, moving my knees further down the bed, and then with one last predatory glance at that those black lace hipsters and their drool-making contents, I strike. I am attacking her buttocks with my teeth. Biting rapidly and randomly. Biting hard. Layla let’s out a sharp, high-pitched (impressively so) cry, follows it up with a cacophony of wailing and swearing. She yells at me to stop – once, twice, three times. No good. She tells me she is serious. Still no good. Realizing finally that she must regain a modicum of composure if she is to get herself out of this predicament, Layla recalls the safe word I gave her, shouting it out twice in quick succession. I have ceased by the time she is finished.
***
Earlier that evening (around 10pm)
Slowly coming to your senses, you realize what Layla has pulled off and what it all means. Trying to retain a cool exterior, you permit yourself a knowing grin: “Migraine, eh?” Layla beams. “Surprise!” “You sly little…” “Tickle slave?” offers Layla, jangling the restraints once more. Ironic, really. If anybody feels like a slave at this moment it is you. Cos you know at this moment that you are hers. That you could never leave her. Her happiness is everything to you. “You owe me one tiramisu,” you tell her, placing the cup on her desk.
***
Layla is a panting, sweaty mess. I’ll rephrase that: Layla is a panting, sweaty, sexy mess. I stroke her hair while she gets her breath back. And then, out of nowhere, she utters three words that feel like a knife in my heart: “That was awful.” I knew it. I took it too far. I should have kept it sensual, playful. I should have shown more restraint. A hollow laugh. “Awful? Seems a bit of a strong word. You must have enjoyed some of it.” It sounds lame even as I’m saying it. “Not awful,” she corrects me; “awesome.“ “…Oh.” And the knife is removed. And I want jump off the bed and perform a celebratory dance. “You liked it, then?” I ask her. “Fuck yeah! What about you? I want to know how much you enjoyed it. ” “Hmm… Maybe it’s better if I show you.” And with that I slip my hand down my panties. Rub my fingers into my sopping pussy. “Open wide.” Layla opens her mouth and I feed her three glistening fingertips. “Mmm… I love the taste of your pussy.”
I begin to unbuckle one of the wrist restraints when Layla stops me in my tracks: “No, leave them. I like it. I like the feeling of being helpless. You know, I’ve got something else for you. For us. It’s in my chest of drawers. The bottom drawer.” “Oh, really?” I get off the bed, go over to the chest and open the bottom drawer. “All I see is underwear.” “Look underneath,” instructs Layla, “at the back.” So I do. “Holy shit. It’s huge!” I pull out an impressive-looking purple strap on dildo. Layla lets out a titter. “It vibrates, too!” I slip it on without too much difficulty and then take a few moments to regard my reflection in Layla's full-length mirror. Maybe I am the master, after all. Saint Valentine, are you watching this?
THE END
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