TicklishLurker
4th Level Red Feather
- Joined
- Jan 13, 2006
- Messages
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“Why do you even bother resisting?” Daniel asked even as he caught me.
I grinned impishly, “Pretending it’s non-consensual is exciting to me.” I giggled and kissed him on the tip of his nose. I didn’t care that it was larger then socially acceptable, just like he didn’t care that at 140 I weighed more then socially acceptable. Especially for someone who didn’t even reach five feet in height. I loved him just the way he was.
“But you know it is consensual,” he said even as he used one hand to pin my wrists above me, though he was thin, he was strong. I might have outweighed him by 15 pounds, but he had lean muscle from years of lugging his accordion, his fingers strong from playing the piano. His free hand was even now just lightly playing my ribs like his baby grand. “What’s the point?”
I squirmed and giggled, twisting. Through my giggles I managed to get out, “It’s all the power of imagination, Dan. Like you use when you write music.”
Dan was a composer. He was the power behind many of the world’s most popular songs, yet hardly anyone knew his name. He had been bigger in the 1970s, of course, and was older then me by just under 30 years, and I didn’t care. I was almost 30, a full grown woman, I could do as I pleased so long as it was legal.
He was laughing a bit himself, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. His fingers dug into my soft, slightly plump belly. I squealed and tried to pull away, but Daniel was much stronger then I was.
To me, Daniel was a giant, even though he was only 5' 6", short for a man now adays. Of course, like I said, I was very short. He was a giant in other senses too. He had grown up a poor kid in Brooklyn, NY, while I had grown up an upper middle class kid in Southern California. Even as an adult I was naive about many things. I had never known what it was like to live in an apartment, to have to depend on public transportation or my feet. And snow? I knew nothing about snow.
What I did know was music. I’m a singer. Dan had picked that out about me before he had even heard me sing. He had been in California, dealing with a lawsuit he had brought against a rapper who had used one of his songs without permission. I had been in the court house because I had been called - and thankfully dismissed - from jury duty. We ran into each other, very literally. I had taken one look at him, his blue eyes, brown hair, boyish smile, and fell hard.
It wasn’t long after that I found him making me move out to New York. He had used the money he got in the lawsuit to buy a nightclub, and I was made headline singer. The catch? I had to take vocal lessons from him.
That first lesson he told me he had a special way to make my diaphragm, the muscle under the lungs that aided in breathing, work better. He then stood behind me, and dug his fingers into my ribs.
I had always been helplessly ticklish. I also got incredibly turned on by being tickled. He didn’t know this about me, anymore then I knew about him that he got turned on by tickling women. Until I fell helplessly against him and felt the results pressing against my generous backside.
Two days later I was being moved out of my apartment and into his. He revealed that he had loved me, not at first sight, but first note. The first time he heard me sing he had fallen head over heels for me.
I finally managed to squirm away from him and his relentless tickling. I danced away from his outreaching arms, but managed to trip over the ottoman Dick Van Dyke style. He was on me in a heartbeat, fingers now deep in my armpits. I practically screamed with laughter, my armpits being one of my worse spots.
He never tickled so long that I got a sore throat or injured my vocal cords. We always took as great a care of my voice as he did with his fingers. However for all the care we took, he was a ruthless tickler all the same. His long fingered hands had now slipped up my t-shirt and he tickled my breasts lightly through my bra. It was more of a tease then anything as my breasts are a size DD which meant no thin, lacy bras for me. I had to have thick, heavy duty ones to keep my bosoms from flapping around and hitting me or other people in the face. It still was enough to make my giggle though, and distract me as he used his free hand to pull my shirt up over my head and tie my hands up inside it.
He then rolled me over so he could unhook my bra. Tickling my back and sides while he did so. When he finished he paused in the tickling to massage my shoulders and neck. Then his lips replaced his hands. Along with tickling, another thing that gets me hot and bothered is have my neck, particularly the right side of my neck, nibbled and even bit lightly.
Getting off me, he tickled my right side until I rolled over to try and get away from him. He straddled me quickly and pulled my bra up and as far up my arms as he could.
He tickled my armpits, ribs, and breasts for awhile longer. Then got off me and got me a drink of water, holding me up and the glass to my lips.
Then he started to tickle my belly while undoing the button and zipper on my jeans. His fingers drilled into my bellybutton. Causing me to buck helplessly. When my jeans were low enough he made me lay very still while pouring a small amount of water into my bellybutton and then he started to lap it up like a dog at a water bowl. His tongue driving me mad as it tickled me. He repeated this several times. The last time threatening me with a vicious foot tickling if I spilled a drop.
I made sure to roll over just enough to spill all the water.
“I’ll get you for that, bad girl,” he said, then suddenly he was blowing loud raspberries on my belly. The air left my lungs at such a force that I was left too dizzy to move. He took advantage of this to strip me of my shoes, socks, and jeans. Giving me quick tickled all the way.
Using a couple of his old ties, he tied my ankles together then laid himself down on top of me, his feet at my head. I could smell the leather of his dress shoes. I could also feel the rock hard erection that poked me through his slacks.
Of all my ticklish spots one is the absolute worse and the other was the absolute most erotic. The worse was where my butt and thighs met. So bad I didn’t even like to be tickled there. When I had ticked Dan off, hit a very sour note, or hadn’t practiced enough, he would make me put on a pair of silk pantyhose he had specially made for me, then he’d make me bend over his knees and he’d tickle me there.
The most erotic was my feet. It’s weird, really, how people react to that. I think the only thing people are less understanding about is my migraines. Daniel understood though. He loved women’s feet. He was also always the first one with a cool washcloth and a dark, quiet room when a migraine began to take hold of my head.
Daniel and I had talked once about why he liked tickling. I knew I liked it because it was something somewhat forbidden. My mother hates the sound of my laughter. It’s loud and not at all lady like. So when my brothers would try and tickle me, she’d shout at them not to. When a joke was told she’d give me a glare. Basically laughter was forbidden to me because I couldn’t give the weak laughter of a Victorian Lady. Doing the forbidden was intensely hot. Dan wasn’t sure, but he thinks it was a combination of the fact he’s not the least bit ticklish at all, not a single speak of him is ticklish anywhere, and the fact he came into sexuality when women were more demanding to be equal or in command. It wasn’t that he wanted a woman who kow-towed to him, was his slave, he did want his equal, but he also wanted one who was unafraid to submit. Who was confident enough in her own power that she could give some up. When a woman submitted to tickling, it gave him a rush he couldn’t find anywhere else other then music.
Though he took the same care with my voice as he did with his other tickling, he was cruel when it came to my feet. One reason he had pinned me like this was so I couldn’t see what he was doing. I could feel his breath on my pudgy toes, I wiggled them.
My feet like the rest of me aren’t model beautiful. They’re more cute in an elf-like way. Like the rest of me. I never thought I was attractive until Daniel, mind you, because I was short and plump rather then tall and slender. He had a way, a touch, a look, an inflection when he talked, that made me feel like the sexiest woman on the planet.
Right now he was saying something about my feet, but it was in Hebrew, or maybe Yiddish, another area where we differed, all I spoke was ordinary English, though I sometimes sang in Latin. Anyway, I couldn’t understand it, but I imagine he was talking about how short and pudgy my toes where, about my second toe which was a minuscule fraction of an inch longer then my big toe - such a small amount you’d have to be an expert in feet or take a really close look to notice. About my short but wide feet, my fleshy, wrinkled soles. His nose ran over the top of my toes and I giggled.
With my feet he never started with his fingers. He always started with something soft. Sometimes it was a feather, other times a paintbrush. This time it was a makeup brush of mine that had gone missing recently. He brushed it over the tops of my toes and my feet. I giggled and squirmed. He began talking in a bad French accent, pretending he was a servant cleaning some very dusty knickknacks. Working his way slowly until he finally got it to my soles.
My nipples had long since gone rock hard along with my clit. Dan couldn’t look at me without them becoming that way. Once, when we had been separated for two weeks due to business reasons, he called me up and told me exactly how he wanted to tickle me. I had orgasmed without even touching myself or taking my clothing off.
So when he finally began to “dust” my soles, I not only laughed, I moaned deeply. I was utterly helpless, a total slave to his wicked designs on my poor little feet. His clothing rubbing against my naked body as I squirmed beneath him was maddingly hot. The tickling sensations from the brush shot up my legs, filled the joint of my legs, before working up to my brain.
Then the dusting was done, for he had began to suck and lick my toes. His fingers digging into my soft soles. It didn’t take long until my laughter turned into a soundless cry as I came hard beneath him. He got off me and untied my ankles. Raising my feet up to his mouth to lick and nibble on my soles. Working me back up before he freed my hands and himself. Laying back and pulling me on top of him.
We fit together so well, it was like we were made for each other. People point and stare, whisper when they see us together on the street because of our age difference. They just don’t know - we’re so different, but we’re so much the same. Our similarities fit us together, our differences compliment each other. His blue eyes, my green, his brown hair, my blond, even our accents blended together in a perfect harmony. East Coast and West Coast meet.
He tickled my belly and ribs while I was moving on top of him, causing me to buck against him in laughter as he once again vibrated his finger deep inside my bellybutton. Making large, looping circles over my tummy. Playing Chopin on my ribs. And when his crescendo had been reached, he eased me down beside him. Ridding himself of his own clothing. His own long toes wiggling along the sides of my feet.
I pretend to resist because I love the giving in. I love the chase. In my imagination I’m one of those helpless damsels in the stories I use to read on the internet before I met him. Women taken into deep dungeons to be tickle tortured without mercy. In my heart, however, I knew I would always willingly submit to Daniel. I was his tickle toy and his diva. He grounded me in reality when my flights of fancy took me too far from earth, and I relieved him of reality when the weight of the world wanted to pull him down into the deep darkness. My imagination, always a powerful thing for me, only heightened the sensations. However I’d feel the same heat without the chase. My hand laid over his heart, and he reached for mine.
Then, he must’ve felt playful again, for he suddenly tweaked my nose - my nose that was as small as his was large. He always teased me about the size of my nose. I laughed and tried to roll over, pretending I was going to run away again. But Dan had grown up in a 6 floor walk up with no elevator. He was always going to be faster then me. He gave me a quick tickle in my worse spot that made me instantly helpless to him and his every wicked desire. Leaning down to whisper in my ear, “No more pretending, my darling.”
As he made me get up, to walk in front of him as we went to our bedroom, reaching out to randomly tickle my ribs, armpits, reaching around to my belly, or hurry me up with a tickle to my worse spot, I thought to myself that all in all, reality can be better then fiction.
~The End~
I grinned impishly, “Pretending it’s non-consensual is exciting to me.” I giggled and kissed him on the tip of his nose. I didn’t care that it was larger then socially acceptable, just like he didn’t care that at 140 I weighed more then socially acceptable. Especially for someone who didn’t even reach five feet in height. I loved him just the way he was.
“But you know it is consensual,” he said even as he used one hand to pin my wrists above me, though he was thin, he was strong. I might have outweighed him by 15 pounds, but he had lean muscle from years of lugging his accordion, his fingers strong from playing the piano. His free hand was even now just lightly playing my ribs like his baby grand. “What’s the point?”
I squirmed and giggled, twisting. Through my giggles I managed to get out, “It’s all the power of imagination, Dan. Like you use when you write music.”
Dan was a composer. He was the power behind many of the world’s most popular songs, yet hardly anyone knew his name. He had been bigger in the 1970s, of course, and was older then me by just under 30 years, and I didn’t care. I was almost 30, a full grown woman, I could do as I pleased so long as it was legal.
He was laughing a bit himself, his blue eyes glinting with mischief. His fingers dug into my soft, slightly plump belly. I squealed and tried to pull away, but Daniel was much stronger then I was.
To me, Daniel was a giant, even though he was only 5' 6", short for a man now adays. Of course, like I said, I was very short. He was a giant in other senses too. He had grown up a poor kid in Brooklyn, NY, while I had grown up an upper middle class kid in Southern California. Even as an adult I was naive about many things. I had never known what it was like to live in an apartment, to have to depend on public transportation or my feet. And snow? I knew nothing about snow.
What I did know was music. I’m a singer. Dan had picked that out about me before he had even heard me sing. He had been in California, dealing with a lawsuit he had brought against a rapper who had used one of his songs without permission. I had been in the court house because I had been called - and thankfully dismissed - from jury duty. We ran into each other, very literally. I had taken one look at him, his blue eyes, brown hair, boyish smile, and fell hard.
It wasn’t long after that I found him making me move out to New York. He had used the money he got in the lawsuit to buy a nightclub, and I was made headline singer. The catch? I had to take vocal lessons from him.
That first lesson he told me he had a special way to make my diaphragm, the muscle under the lungs that aided in breathing, work better. He then stood behind me, and dug his fingers into my ribs.
I had always been helplessly ticklish. I also got incredibly turned on by being tickled. He didn’t know this about me, anymore then I knew about him that he got turned on by tickling women. Until I fell helplessly against him and felt the results pressing against my generous backside.
Two days later I was being moved out of my apartment and into his. He revealed that he had loved me, not at first sight, but first note. The first time he heard me sing he had fallen head over heels for me.
I finally managed to squirm away from him and his relentless tickling. I danced away from his outreaching arms, but managed to trip over the ottoman Dick Van Dyke style. He was on me in a heartbeat, fingers now deep in my armpits. I practically screamed with laughter, my armpits being one of my worse spots.
He never tickled so long that I got a sore throat or injured my vocal cords. We always took as great a care of my voice as he did with his fingers. However for all the care we took, he was a ruthless tickler all the same. His long fingered hands had now slipped up my t-shirt and he tickled my breasts lightly through my bra. It was more of a tease then anything as my breasts are a size DD which meant no thin, lacy bras for me. I had to have thick, heavy duty ones to keep my bosoms from flapping around and hitting me or other people in the face. It still was enough to make my giggle though, and distract me as he used his free hand to pull my shirt up over my head and tie my hands up inside it.
He then rolled me over so he could unhook my bra. Tickling my back and sides while he did so. When he finished he paused in the tickling to massage my shoulders and neck. Then his lips replaced his hands. Along with tickling, another thing that gets me hot and bothered is have my neck, particularly the right side of my neck, nibbled and even bit lightly.
Getting off me, he tickled my right side until I rolled over to try and get away from him. He straddled me quickly and pulled my bra up and as far up my arms as he could.
He tickled my armpits, ribs, and breasts for awhile longer. Then got off me and got me a drink of water, holding me up and the glass to my lips.
Then he started to tickle my belly while undoing the button and zipper on my jeans. His fingers drilled into my bellybutton. Causing me to buck helplessly. When my jeans were low enough he made me lay very still while pouring a small amount of water into my bellybutton and then he started to lap it up like a dog at a water bowl. His tongue driving me mad as it tickled me. He repeated this several times. The last time threatening me with a vicious foot tickling if I spilled a drop.
I made sure to roll over just enough to spill all the water.
“I’ll get you for that, bad girl,” he said, then suddenly he was blowing loud raspberries on my belly. The air left my lungs at such a force that I was left too dizzy to move. He took advantage of this to strip me of my shoes, socks, and jeans. Giving me quick tickled all the way.
Using a couple of his old ties, he tied my ankles together then laid himself down on top of me, his feet at my head. I could smell the leather of his dress shoes. I could also feel the rock hard erection that poked me through his slacks.
Of all my ticklish spots one is the absolute worse and the other was the absolute most erotic. The worse was where my butt and thighs met. So bad I didn’t even like to be tickled there. When I had ticked Dan off, hit a very sour note, or hadn’t practiced enough, he would make me put on a pair of silk pantyhose he had specially made for me, then he’d make me bend over his knees and he’d tickle me there.
The most erotic was my feet. It’s weird, really, how people react to that. I think the only thing people are less understanding about is my migraines. Daniel understood though. He loved women’s feet. He was also always the first one with a cool washcloth and a dark, quiet room when a migraine began to take hold of my head.
Daniel and I had talked once about why he liked tickling. I knew I liked it because it was something somewhat forbidden. My mother hates the sound of my laughter. It’s loud and not at all lady like. So when my brothers would try and tickle me, she’d shout at them not to. When a joke was told she’d give me a glare. Basically laughter was forbidden to me because I couldn’t give the weak laughter of a Victorian Lady. Doing the forbidden was intensely hot. Dan wasn’t sure, but he thinks it was a combination of the fact he’s not the least bit ticklish at all, not a single speak of him is ticklish anywhere, and the fact he came into sexuality when women were more demanding to be equal or in command. It wasn’t that he wanted a woman who kow-towed to him, was his slave, he did want his equal, but he also wanted one who was unafraid to submit. Who was confident enough in her own power that she could give some up. When a woman submitted to tickling, it gave him a rush he couldn’t find anywhere else other then music.
Though he took the same care with my voice as he did with his other tickling, he was cruel when it came to my feet. One reason he had pinned me like this was so I couldn’t see what he was doing. I could feel his breath on my pudgy toes, I wiggled them.
My feet like the rest of me aren’t model beautiful. They’re more cute in an elf-like way. Like the rest of me. I never thought I was attractive until Daniel, mind you, because I was short and plump rather then tall and slender. He had a way, a touch, a look, an inflection when he talked, that made me feel like the sexiest woman on the planet.
Right now he was saying something about my feet, but it was in Hebrew, or maybe Yiddish, another area where we differed, all I spoke was ordinary English, though I sometimes sang in Latin. Anyway, I couldn’t understand it, but I imagine he was talking about how short and pudgy my toes where, about my second toe which was a minuscule fraction of an inch longer then my big toe - such a small amount you’d have to be an expert in feet or take a really close look to notice. About my short but wide feet, my fleshy, wrinkled soles. His nose ran over the top of my toes and I giggled.
With my feet he never started with his fingers. He always started with something soft. Sometimes it was a feather, other times a paintbrush. This time it was a makeup brush of mine that had gone missing recently. He brushed it over the tops of my toes and my feet. I giggled and squirmed. He began talking in a bad French accent, pretending he was a servant cleaning some very dusty knickknacks. Working his way slowly until he finally got it to my soles.
My nipples had long since gone rock hard along with my clit. Dan couldn’t look at me without them becoming that way. Once, when we had been separated for two weeks due to business reasons, he called me up and told me exactly how he wanted to tickle me. I had orgasmed without even touching myself or taking my clothing off.
So when he finally began to “dust” my soles, I not only laughed, I moaned deeply. I was utterly helpless, a total slave to his wicked designs on my poor little feet. His clothing rubbing against my naked body as I squirmed beneath him was maddingly hot. The tickling sensations from the brush shot up my legs, filled the joint of my legs, before working up to my brain.
Then the dusting was done, for he had began to suck and lick my toes. His fingers digging into my soft soles. It didn’t take long until my laughter turned into a soundless cry as I came hard beneath him. He got off me and untied my ankles. Raising my feet up to his mouth to lick and nibble on my soles. Working me back up before he freed my hands and himself. Laying back and pulling me on top of him.
We fit together so well, it was like we were made for each other. People point and stare, whisper when they see us together on the street because of our age difference. They just don’t know - we’re so different, but we’re so much the same. Our similarities fit us together, our differences compliment each other. His blue eyes, my green, his brown hair, my blond, even our accents blended together in a perfect harmony. East Coast and West Coast meet.
He tickled my belly and ribs while I was moving on top of him, causing me to buck against him in laughter as he once again vibrated his finger deep inside my bellybutton. Making large, looping circles over my tummy. Playing Chopin on my ribs. And when his crescendo had been reached, he eased me down beside him. Ridding himself of his own clothing. His own long toes wiggling along the sides of my feet.
I pretend to resist because I love the giving in. I love the chase. In my imagination I’m one of those helpless damsels in the stories I use to read on the internet before I met him. Women taken into deep dungeons to be tickle tortured without mercy. In my heart, however, I knew I would always willingly submit to Daniel. I was his tickle toy and his diva. He grounded me in reality when my flights of fancy took me too far from earth, and I relieved him of reality when the weight of the world wanted to pull him down into the deep darkness. My imagination, always a powerful thing for me, only heightened the sensations. However I’d feel the same heat without the chase. My hand laid over his heart, and he reached for mine.
Then, he must’ve felt playful again, for he suddenly tweaked my nose - my nose that was as small as his was large. He always teased me about the size of my nose. I laughed and tried to roll over, pretending I was going to run away again. But Dan had grown up in a 6 floor walk up with no elevator. He was always going to be faster then me. He gave me a quick tickle in my worse spot that made me instantly helpless to him and his every wicked desire. Leaning down to whisper in my ear, “No more pretending, my darling.”
As he made me get up, to walk in front of him as we went to our bedroom, reaching out to randomly tickle my ribs, armpits, reaching around to my belly, or hurry me up with a tickle to my worse spot, I thought to myself that all in all, reality can be better then fiction.
~The End~
And btw, I appreciate your female characters' attitudes and the fact that she has some meat on her bones, voluptuous ticklish women are enticing, the way they wriggle around, hehe... you write beautifully about love and erotic tickling, bravo 
A girl can dream.
on how he would feel tickle-torturing you, 
and I mean the real you, in all your glory. 
