• The TMF is sponsored by Clips4sale - By supporting them, you're supporting us.
  • >>> If you cannot get into your account email me at [email protected] <<<
    Don't forget to include your username

The TMF is sponsored by:

Clips4Sale Banner

An Exchange (?/f)

Shem the Penman

Verified
Joined
Apr 3, 2001
Messages
1,020
Points
36
AN EXCHANGE
another one of those stories


“What are you laughing at?”

“Sorry. You just look funny, all stretched out like that. And did you see what she wrote?”

“I haven’t seen anything since she put this over my eyes. What do you mean, wrote? Never mind, just untie me.”

Another laugh. “You’ve got lipstick words on your belly, right along here and here.” A fingertip traces her bare stomach, curving under the ribs, and then again, making an arc just under her bellybutton. Her breath catches in her throat at the sensation. “It says VERY TICKLISH.”

She is suddenly much more aware of all her bare skin. There is a lot of it, more than she’s comfortable with. The tiny halter top she bought on vacation and never wore (and where did Alicia find it?) does not cover much of her. Nor do the low-rider jeans she feels on her hips and legs -- they’re not even hers, she owns nothing so immodest, but still they fit her like a second skin. She hasn’t given her more-than-partial nudity much of a thought, being more occupied with the problems of being tied up and blindfolded, but that light touch and that one word, ticklish, make all her other problems recede swiftly.

Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Very ticklish, of course.”

“No! ... I mean, no, I’m not.”

“Not even a little? Then why did Alicia lay you out like this and write this on you?” The soft finger runs over the words -- and her skin -- again, even more lingeringly. She sets her lips.

“How should I know? It’s one of her dumb jokes. And stop touching me!” The finger is still caressing her lower belly absently, zigzagging down to just above the top of her panties and back up again. Her heart accelerates.

“This is fancy for just a dumb joke.” The fingertip wanders back up her belly, loop-the-loops her navel, and trails between her breasts, pausing there. She hopes that the pounding of her heart isn’t noticeable. “How did she ever get you like this?”

“I don’t know. I just woke up this way. And I don’t care. I -- “

“And how would she know you’re ticklish?” The maddening touch traces the path of her collarbone, up the side of her neck to stop just beneath her ear. Being touched at all is bad enough, but this slow, sensual exploration is simultaneously exciting, frightening, and infuriating. She doesn’t want to analyze it, though -- she just wants it to stop.

“I don’t -- “

“Maybe you laughed when she started writing on you?” Down her neck again, curling over the shoulder, brushing the side of her breast with breathtakingly casual intimacy, and then down, down, down the long curve of her side.... Muscles jump in her arm as she wills herself to breathe steadily.

“Cut it out. This isn’t funny, okay? And get your hand off me.” It’s the coldest, hardest voice she can muster, a tone that has frozen more than one frisky boyfriend in his tracks. But this time, it has no effect.

“Sorry.” There is a complete lack of sincerity in the apology. And the teasing touch does not stop, sliding further down again, along the arc of her waist. And even lower. “Black satin panties. I would never have imagined you owned anything like that.” Fingers stroke the soft cloth and the softer skin beneath. The blood rushes to her cheeks, and she can hear her own pulse inside her head, an ever-increasing tempo. “It was nice of Alicia to not bother to do up your pants, don’t you think?”

“Get out of there!” She lashes out ferociously with her voice but her body remains immobile. She will not allow herself to squirm, not dressed like this and in this embarrassing situation. The hand slowly withdraws.

“Is something wrong?” There is still no sincerity to be heard.

“I told you to stop. You know I don’t like being touched.”

“But I want to touch you. You’re beautiful, and you know it. All that soft white skin ... which may or may not be very ticklish. How can I resist?”

“Try.” Finding she is still capable of this slight sarcasm heartens her enough to go on: “What do you care about whether I’m ticklish, anyway?”

“Alicia sure seems to have cared, if she took the time to write it on you. And, well, you remember Sandy?” She doesn’t answer. “My ex. I was still with her when you met me and Alicia, but we broke up not long after.”

“I’d be glad to talk about your love life, but could you untie m -- “

“Shh.” A fingertip seals her lips. “Don’t talk, just listen for a while. You see, Sandy was possibly the most ticklish girl I’ve ever known. Every inch of her was ticklish. All I would have to do would be get hold of her ribs” -- she cannot restrain a start of shock as ten fingers, widely spread, touch her ribcage -- “or squeeze her hips” -- the fingers travel slowly down her sides to where the curves of her hips extend above the low waist of her pants and give her a small goose at the peak of each -- “or tickle her soles” -- her toes curl reflexively even before the fingers find her bare feet, sliding whisper-light down ball and arch and heel -- “and Sandy would just lose it. I mean she’d be hysterical.”

She feels slightly hysterical herself. Her body is singing with tension, every muscle locked as she fights the impulse to writhe; the places the fingers have passed still tingle with ticklish afterimages -- worst of all on her feet, for the fingers are still there, resting. Silence stretches, the tension getting worse with every beat of her heart. In an animal reflex, she has frozen in hopes the predator will lose interest -- but that instinct works poorly if you are right in front of the predator, tied down, blind, exposed.

“Sorry. Am I boring you?”

“N-no,” she manages to get out without sounding too unnatural, at least to her ears. Then: “But what does that have to do with me?” She is proud that she can put together such a subtle lie even in a desperate situation like this -- until a laugh answers her.

“Is it that hard to figure out?”

“Look, I’m getting tired of this.” She tries to put the snap of authority in her voice, but even though it comes to her easily at other times, here it betrays her, dying away in a quaver.

“But I haven’t finished telling you about Sandy.”

She manages a sigh. “Okay, okay, get it over wi -- with!” The hesitation comes as the fingers shift position on her feet infinitesmally, and her breath suddenly stops in her throat for a second.

“Where was I? Oh yeah.... Sandy was so sensitive all over her body. She’d go absolutely psychotic when I tickled her. But sometimes I tried something a little different. Something like ... this.” The fingers move again, the forefingers taking a step, landing exactly in the bottom curve of each arch. The skin there is far too tender to bear being touched, and each light fingertip feels like it’s surrounded by a halo of electricity. “I’d work her over very, very slowly ... exploiting her weaknesses, like this ... “ Another step. Fingertips touch her in the middle of each arch, the absolute core of each sole’s ticklishness. “Did I mention how ticklish her feet were? Especially right around here. All it took was one little touch and she’d practically jump out of her skin.” Her toes are desperate to curl up in the ancient response, the useless effort to protect her vulnerable soles from the touch, and it takes all of her rapidly fraying willpower to keep them straight and keep her feet from moving. Unfortunately for her, the need to concentrate on her feet to hold them in place has the undesirable side effect of intensifying the sensations. Her mind is focusing obsessively on those two tingling spots where the fingers rest, making it impossible for her to simply ignore what is being done to her.

“It was tough for Sandy, because she always had to pretend that she didn’t feel anything. She knew that if she reacted, I’d torture her.” The word torture is pronounced with malicious care. It slides into her ear and settles into the back of her brain, unleashing a flood of dark visions. She grunts in protest without realizing it. “Yes, torture. Sorry, did that upset you? It’s true, though. Tickling can be torture, especially if you’re helpless and you can’t make it stop, and the tickler knows just what to do to you ... “ Another step of the fingers underlines those words; they land just under the swell of the ball of her feet now, filling her body with fresh shudders of response that she somehow manages to stifle. Her calves are beginning to ache with effort. Give it up, you’re not fooling anyone, something else inside her mutters. But she has always prided herself on her ability to conceal her feelings when necessary -- and in this situation, it is clearly necessary if she is to avoid ... what was just said.

“Get. To. The. Point.” She has to pause between each word to swallow the desire to laugh. She is hanging over an abyss of madness, and to lose control in any way is to let go, to surrender. All she has to cling to now is the knowledge that she never surrenders, and that she can’t do so now, not with ... with what is at stake. Torture, the thing in her brain whispers again, and giggles to itself. You’re going to be tortured.

“If you insist.” The fingers lift away from her soles, and she barely catches herself before she collapses into a sag and moan of relief that would have been telltale as any squeal of laughter. “You see, I can remember very well what Sandy looked like while I was playing with her like that. And guess what? You look just like she used to right now.”

So suddenly that she gasps, the blindfold is pulled from her eyes and something is thrust before her. It is a hand mirror, so as she blinks and focuses, the only thing that she sees is her own face. She stares at herself in horrid fascination. Her eyes shimmer, jewellike, with moisture. They are so wide, staring in desperation, that the white is clearly visible around them in every direction. Flyaway strands of hair are pasted to her damp temples, and hectic roses bloom in each cheek, making her look almost as if she has been slapped. Her full lips quiver, and when she tries to bring them under control, the trembling only gets worse. She is not used to seeing herself like this. Every place she looks, she sees evidence of weakness and vulnerability. It is terrifying, but she cannot look away -- so she is caught by surprise by the stealthy feel of a finger insinuating itself into her soft armpit. The terrible face in the mirror reacts instantly: eyes widen, nostrils flare, the lips lift away from her white teeth as a helpless smile imposes itself on her. The cords in her throat tremble, battered by the need to laugh, giggle, do something to express the overpowering feeling caused by just one finger stroking under her arm. Instead, she forces her lips closed again, but white brackets remain on either side of her mouth, banners of the strain she is under. Her entire face is betraying her, screaming the news of her ticklishness.

“Tell me.” Her torturer’s voice has dropped to an intimate whisper. The finger circles mercilessly under her arm. “I can see it in your face. I can feel it in your body. I can hear it, even though you’re practically purple trying not to laugh. You’re even worse than Sandy was ... this would have been just a warm-up for her, but then she was tickled so much she knew how to deal with it. You don’t.”

She wants to scream, to bellow out the insanity that’s pounding on the inside of her skull, but when her lips finally part, all that comes out is a childish wail that makes her flush with humiliation. “Why are you doooooing this to meeeeee?” The finger withdraws from her armpit, and her shrieking gallops on as she hopes dimly that abject whining will buy her the respite that angry defiance hasn’t. “I don’t like being touched like this! Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

Her tormentor hesitates for a moment, and she can see the doubt. It’s now or never. She squeezes her eyes, letting fat tears roll down her cheeks, and risks a sniffle. “I’m just getting scared, tied up like this and you talking about to -- (sniff) -- torture ... and touching me all over, and I was getting worried you might hurt me, and can’t you just untie me (sob) ... “ She trails off with a few little gasps and whimpers and peers up through her damp lashes, trying to judge the reaction. She hasn’t thrown a fit like this in years, and still isn’t sure whether she intended to. Normally, she hates to have to lower herself to whining, just as she hates any other offense against her dignity, but this is a desperate time. And maybe it worked.

But she sees, slowly ... a smile. Her heart drops. “Very nice. You’re already squalling like a six-year-old, and I barely touched you.” There is none of the sympathy she hoped for. “I’m not going to hurt you at all ... but believe me, I am going to put you through hell.

“As for why I’m doing this to you, I bet it’s the same reason Alicia tied you up like this -- it’s hilarious to think that the biggest ice princess in the world is so ticklish.”

That stings her. She glares wetly. “I am not an ice princess!”

“Yes, you are. I know some guys who claim they got frostbite dating you.”

“What?” she all but screeches. “Just because -- “

“A face that would break if you smiled, icicles hanging from your nose, a chastity belt permanently welded on ... “ She realizes she’s being goaded again and grits her teeth against another angry outburst. “It’s a shame that more people don’t know how easy it is to break you down with just a little tickle here and there. I’m going to have to spread the word.”

Her fury cannot be contained any longer. “I’m not an ice princess and I’m not ticklish and if you don’t let me up right this minute I’m going to scream!”

The smile only broadens into a grin. “You are, you are, and I don’t care. I don’t even believe you could come out with a real scream ... unless I made you. And I’m going to, eventually. There’s no one around to hear you, and I want you to scream.” Her anger flickers and dies immediately. There does not seem to be enough air in the room for her to breathe any more. “You’ve been getting away with being imperious and untouchable for way too long, and I’m not the only one who’s had enough of it.” Hands rise, fingers spread. “Now back to the subject ... which is how ticklish you are, and how you’re going to admit it. I might promise to go easy on you if I could just hear you say ‘I’m ticklish.’ But it’s not going to be easy either way, so why bother lying to you?”

She tries to scream. She really means to, if only to prove that she can and make that infuriating grin go away. But her lungs are frozen, and her throat tightens, and all that comes out is a choking whimper. Her torturer doesn’t even take notice, looking up and down her flushed body greedily.

“I got a jump out of you when I touched your ribs before, didn’t I?”

“You just ... startled me.” The lie is reflexive and pathetic, a last effort to save some face.

“Oh, right. You were blindfolded then. But you can see my hands now, can’t you?”

“Yes ... “

“Take a good look, now.” The hands rise, filling her blurred vision. “And listen closely: I’m going to tickle your ribs. Your arms are tied up, you can’t protect your sides, you can’t move enough to escape me. And I’m done teasing you. Do you know what comes now?”

The terrible finality of those words is like stones on her chest pressing the air out of her. She doesn’t want to think of it, but the back of her brain supplies the word. “Torture ... “ It slips out between her lips.

“Watch closely, because my hands are coming in. No surprises this time. And yes, it’s going to be torture, because your ribs are what?”

She wants to scream, beg, plead, threaten, anything. But the strength has drained from her body and mind. All she can think of is those slowly descending hands, and the horrible tingling that has begun to race along her skin in their shadow.

“Don’t just lie there looking like a deer in the headlights. Answer me ... and make it quick, because you don’t have much longer. What are you?”

“I, uh ... “ Hands, body, trembling, breathe, torture, bound, muscles, no, helpless.... She can’t think.

“I’ll make it really easy. What does it say on your belly?”

“Very tih ... ticklish. I’m ... very ticklish.” She feels neither relief nor fear at having finally made the admission. Even if her tormentor had not said so, she would know instinctively that her fate is no better and no worse for saying it. But she says it anyway because the hands have descended almost all the way, bending to cup the curves of her ribs, and she can feel the heat of the palms on her own overheated skin

“Yes, you are. Let’s see about that scream now ... “ The fingers touch her ribs, and she has one endless instant of frozen insanity before they dig in and the world goes away.
 
What's New

3/28/2024
Stop by the TMF Welcome Forum and take a second to say hello!
Tickle Experiment
Door 44
NEST 2024
Register here
The world's largest online clip store
Live Camgirls!
Live Camgirls
Streaming Videos
Pic of the Week
Pic of the Week
Congratulations to
*** brad1701 ***
The winner of our weekly Trivia, held every Sunday night at 11PM EST in our Chat Room
Back
Top