Note: M/F, sexual
“You hate this, don’t you?”
His voice was smooth. Calm. Soothing.
Almost.
“You really do suffer when you’re here. I can tell.”
There was also just that little hint of ridicule. He was teasing her. Like he always did.
And what he said was true. She did suffer. And she really did hate it. She hated every moment of it. Every time. And yet…
“But you still keep coming back to me. Over and over, even though you’re one of the most ticklish women I’ve ever met. So you must really love it.”
He was grinning as he said it. She couldn’t see that – the blindfold prevented it – but she could hear it in the way he spoke. That infuriating, mocking grin that he always wore, making light of her struggles and her distress.
She shook her head. No, she didn’t love it. She hated it. She hated every damn, torturous moment of it. It was hell. It was agony.
It was exquisite.
After. She loved it after it was over. After she was free from the cruel bondage and safe from his clever fingers. Once she was away and had time to reflect, then she loved it.
She loved remembering how he knew exactly how to torment her. She loved remembering how powerless she had been to stop him. She loved that she would leave here sexually frustrated. That she would fantasize about this encounter for weeks to come. That she would masturbate furiously remembering it until the memory was no longer enough. She loved knowing that eventually, once enough time had passed, she would be on the phone, begging him to do it to her all over again.
And she loved that he was always willing.
But right now, she hated it.
“Mmmphh.”
It was the only sound she could make. The tape over her mouth saw to that. Not that she would have shared her real feelings, that he was right about her love/hate relationship with the torture he put her through, had the tape not been there. No, she would have said something sarcastic. Something coarse. She would have cursed at him, called him every name she could think of, plus a few she’d make up on the spot. It amused him when she did. Sometimes he would laugh aloud at the things she said to him. But most of the time, she was gagged. It took away the one outlet she might use to deal with the sensations that wasn’t laughing, begging, or crying.
“Your armpits are very smooth.”
Her muscles tensed. She shook her head back and forth, laughing and squealing from behind the duct tape. But nothing happened.
She paused. Still nothing happened. Her arms were stretched above her head, wrists bound at the top of the bed. She started to struggle and laugh again, anticipating the spidery touch of his fingers.
Still nothing.
“You just shaved these, didn’t you?”
Her struggles and laughter doubled, and still he hadn’t touched her.
“I really appreciate it, you know.”
Still laughing, still struggling. Another pause. Nothing. More laughter. Now some muffled begging.
“Nice, smooth, and soft. Aaaall for meeeeee.”
God damn it! Why did he have to draw it out like this? Why wouldn’t he just torture her and be done with it? She clenched her jaw, tensed all her muscles. She wasn’t going to laugh anymore. Not until it actually started…
“All I need to do is take one little finger…”
No. She wasn’t going to laugh again. Not until she felt it.
“…and trace it ever so gently down…”
She was ready. Fingers in the armpit. The beginning of hours of ticklish torture. She steeled herself against the wiggling finger she imagined coming towards her pits.
“…your tummy.”
The announcement came just before the finger did. Enough time to tell her that she had been preparing for the wrong onslaught, but not enough for her to mentally switch gears. Damn him.
The tip of a single index finger was methodically crawling all along her abdomen. She squirmed at the touch, giggling, yelping when he hit one of her spots. He knew where all of those spots were, but he wasn’t exploiting them. Not yet. Just teasing to remind her that he knew where they were.
More fingers joined the dance. Stroking. Squeezing. Poking. Teasing. A dozen touches in a dozen ways, each of them driving her to convulsions of laughter.
Her stomach muscles tensed as she laughed, and he’d dig his fingertips firmly into them. She’d inhale and he’d switch tactics, delicately tracing his nails over her flesh as it quivered involuntarily. His little finger dipped into her navel, wiggling as she shrieked into the tape.
The fingers left without warning. The sensations were gone, but she could still feel their ghosts. Still, a break was a break, even if it meant something even more devious was sure to follow. She took some deep breaths and then…
*click* *bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*
She knew the sound. She dreaded the sound. But there was nothing she could do as hundreds of tiny, delicate bristles spun and vibrated their way into her bellybutton. Her body bounced back and forth as much as the restraints allowed, but the head of the electric toothbrush stayed with her regardless. A second toothbrush was brought into play, this one tracing a long path up and down her right side. The pathetic sounds mixed with her laughter were unintelligible, but they were identifiable as pleas by their pitiful tone.
Both toothbrushes were playing along her ribs now, moving symmetrically back and forth and up and down. Now on the sides of her breasts, now (finally!) into her smooth armpits, then back to her breasts, around her nipples, back down her sides to her hips.
With as much ground as the bristles were covering, there was still one place that they neglected. The fact that it was so consciously avoided forced her to note its existence, and to remind her that he knew exactly where it was and what it did to her.
So she endured the torment, knowing what was still to come, not knowing when it would happen.
And then it did. There. On her ribs, just below and beside either breast. Why this particular spot tickled more than any other on her upper body was a mystery to her. He said it was normal for people to have spots like that, that tickled more than you had any reason to expect them to. He would know.
The brushes wreaked havoc on those spots. He simply had to hold them in place. And that’s all he did. She was in hysterics. He held them in place. Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. He held them in place. One minute. Two. Three. Four. The time passed, but she wasn’t aware how much time. Time stopped mattering. All that existed were those damn brushes and the absurdly sensitive square inch of skin beneath them.
It was too much. Her sanity was falling away. The noises coming out of her barely qualified as laughter anymore. Even if the tape were gone, she wouldn’t have been able to find the words to beg him to stop. He wouldn’t have listened, anyway.
Suddenly, the brushes were clicked off. Her whole body tingled with relief as the torture ended. She took deep, ragged breaths, clarity coming back to her mind.
She could feel him moving around on the bed, getting into a new position. She could only guess what was coming next, but it would pale in comparison to what he had just done to her. That asshole. She hated him for it. Later she’d love him for it.
She felt the bristle of the toothbrushes again, this time on her hips. They clicked on once again and quickly starting blazing a ticklish trail towards her legs. They tickled up and down the inside of her thighs, sending waves of agonizing tickle and pleasurable excitement coursing through her. The sexual torment phase of her torture was beginning. She could tell.
He always found creative ways to arouse her. He’d bring her to the edge of heaven but then send her crashing back down into the depths of ticklish hell instead. Then do it over again. He never let her cum, though. Not once. He’d drive her wild with desire, make her slick with yearning, but never satisfy. He would make her hungry for sex. She would wish he would fuck her. That anyone would fuck her. Hell, even if her ex-husband were there, she’d even let that son-of-a-bitch fuck her by the time her torture ended. But she never got that release. Not here. She would have to find it on her own.
And she always did. She was a cougar, after all, and this town was full of horny and willing college students and stressed-out interns looking to get their rocks off. Young, healthy, eager boys were easy to find, which was a good thing. It took a lot to satiate her after one of these sessions.
The toothbrushes eventually made their way from her thighs towards their real target. They lingered for a moment, repeatedly tracing the faint line where her legs met her hips. It was pure, ticklish torture, and she laughed all the while. But it was still close enough that slight moans were starting to force their way in to mingle with their laughter.
The bristles now traced the triangular patch of hair she had left between her legs. The armpits weren’t all she had shaved in preparation for this visit. They met at the point and then skirted along the outside of her lips. She shuddered an arched her back, a sultry moan escaping her, muffled by her gag. Those teasing bristles caressed up and down and just outside, never touching the lips themselves. She could feel herself growing wetter as she gyrated her hips in time to the tickly stroking of the brushes, hoping she would force some inadvertent contact with a more sensitive place.
Then they were gone. She groaned in mild exasperation. She knew it wouldn’t have lasted, but it didn’t need to. Now that she was aroused, the tickling would be more bearable in a way. It would still be torture, but at least now she would have more delicious teasing to look forward to.
A stream of something warm and wet drew a line from her navel to her neck. Then around each of her breasts. Then dollop in each armpit. Oil, heated to avoid giving her a chill. It had a pleasant fragrance, something he had cooked up on his own. A mixture of sandalwood, ylang ylang, and a few other scents she couldn’t identify that blended together to smell like sacred sex.
Firm hands, also covered in a generous supply of the slippery substance, massaged her upper body, working the oil across her abdomen, then up her ribs and into her armpits. Finally they massaged her breasts, making sure each as well coated. The hands lingered there, taking advantage of her growing arousal and exacerbating it. Her body writhed in pleasure as her breasts were caressed, and she emitted a cute squeak when his fingers tweaked her nipples. She drank in the sensations, not letting herself care about what she knew would happen next.
Those firm fingers were now in her armpits, scribbling maddeningly on the silky surface. She tossed her head from side to side, her hips bouncing up and down.
“That looks like fun.” He straddled her hips, letting her bounce him up and down as he tickled the living daylights out of her. “Yee-haw!” he shouted. It was stupid. She laughed anyway. She couldn’t do anything but laugh.
He was squeezing her ribs now. He’d linger in one spot, then quickly alternate between spots. Then move both hands to one side to cover a larger area, then return. Now his fingertips were sliding around on her ribcage, never stopping, never lingering, just ten never-ending random streams of tickle.
She was relieved when he stopped scribbling on her ribs and focused on her breasts. That at least could be arousing. But it wasn’t. He dug his fingers into them in light, quick squeezes that made her shriek. His fingernails slid over her areolas, occasionally lightly tickling over her hard nipples, much to her anguish and delight.
“Such nice tits. Look at them bounce. Nice, big, ticklish titties.”
He leaned forward, his weight holding her to the bed. She felt his warm breath near her ear.
“I bet those boy-toys of yours love your tits. They make you a goddess in their eyes, don't they?. But, I wonder…do they know how ticklish they are? How ticklish you are? That they could drive you insane if they so much as wiggled their fingers at you?”
She moaned as his tongue licked from her collarbone to her earlobe. He sucked on the lobe while she pictured what he had just said. She liked being the dominant one when it came to her young male fucktoys. She liked being on top and stroking their sculpted chests or firm abdomens, making them squirm while she rode them.
Sometimes she’d have one with a dominant streak of his own who would want to turn the tables and be in control. And she would always let them. But there was one time, just once, when a young man had her on her back, her legs bent back, feet near her head as he thrust into her. Whether it was an accident or his intent all along, she couldn’t be sure, but he had started tickling her feet. It was incredible. She came so fast, so hard, so many times, and he just wouldn’t stop. She laughed, she begged, but he kept on going.
It had been an anonymous one-night stand. She hoped that she would run into him again somewhere, that he would do it all over again, but no such luck so far. And despite how much she wanted to experience it again, she still couldn’t bear to ask any of her new lovers to do it to her.
“What if I told them?”
The voice of the man currently on top of her snapped her back to the present. He was kissing the side of her neck, his fingers still wiggling on the sides of her breasts.
“I could put up fliers in the bars you frequent. Spam the local colleges with emails about you. Show them your picture. Tell them that you’re ticklish little girl that loves to be tortured, that you live for it. Everyone would know what a squirmy little tickleslut you are. You’d never have sex again without being tickled. Before. During. After.”
No. That would be horrible. In a way, that would mean that she was always his. That even when she was with some else, she would never be free from his tortures. She protested into her gag.
“No? Well I’d better give you your fill while you’re here with me, then.”
She couldn’t tell how long he kept tickling her upper body. The oil was practically dried up by the time he stopped. She wasn’t sure if a second coat would be applied so the torture would continue, or if he would simply move on to another target.
Her captor got up off of her hips and moved to sit between her knees. She jumped in surprise as something with a soft point was applied to her slit. It could have been a feather, or maybe a paintbrush; he had used both. It teased around the inside of her lips, then the outside, then inside again. Then it flicked over her clit. Once. Twice. Then again. And again. The urge for release grew with each teasing *flick* of the horrible, beautiful instrument. Her legs quaked as the stimulation mounted.
The teasing instrument was replaced by finger. While it had tickled in a pleasant, accidental way, the fingers weren’t so subtle. They were tickling her outright, stroking the lips, tugging at them gently, caressing the wet inner folds. It tickled badly, but as the titilation grew it collapsed into steady stream of bliss. A finger slipped inside of her, wiggling, teasing. She gave in to the feeling, not letting herself care that it would end sooner that she wanted it to.
The attention ceased, leaving her a few moments to deal with her racing heart and lustful thoughts. His hands came back, firmly caressing her thighs, first near her hips, then lower. Lower. Lower. They were just above the knees now. They squeezed…
Laughter and struggling ensued. This was probably her least favorite way to be tickled. With the exception of those spots on her ribs, no other tickle felt so much like panic. For reasons she didn’t understand, knee-squeezing had been the preferred method of tickling that her girlfriends used on one other around middle school. She was a favorite target since she could never fight back. No one else in her life had ever thought to tickle her this way until she began her sessions with this monster.
Occasionally his fingers would dart to the sensitive skin behind her knees. This was still deathly ticklish, but it felt like a respite compare to the wanton hysteria of the knee squeezes.
He was done. He gave her a few moments to recover. She felt him shift his position and assumed he was getting up. She was sure he though it was high time he started punishing her feet.
She was caught completely off guard when she felt his face between her legs. His lips kissed hers, gently nibbled at them. She moaned, shuddered, yelped. He had never done this to her before.
His tongue slipped in and out and out of her. Deeper now. Wiggling. Now out again. Licking up towards her clit. His thumb pulled the hood back, exposing her hot clit to the cool air. His lips were around it, sucking, gently. The tip of his tongue teased it. Kept teasing for longer than she would have expected he’d allow.
For a moment she thought he would let her cum. She was close now, perhaps closer than he realized. When he was teasing her with a feather or with his fingers, he could watch her reactions, gauge how close she was to cumming. But now, he couldn’t see her face, couldn’t watch the muscles in her abdomen. If we would just keep going…
He stopped. Disappointment. Frustration. But still, a touch of ecstasy from being so close. She basked in all of it.
“I hope you don’t think I’ve forgotten about your feet.”
He wouldn’t acknowledge what he just did to her. The state he had left her in. No, he just casually announced what he was going to do next, like he was talking about the a grocery list.
He stood up, got off the bed. She couldn’t feel his movements anymore. Was he just staring at her bare feet? Selecting a tool? Two tools? Would it be both feet at once or one at a time? She couldn’t know. She didn’t care.
She thought back to the young man who tickled her feet while he fucked her. Since then, tickling on her feet had started to feel a bit different. As much as tickle torture was already indirectly connected to sexual desire for her, her feet were becoming an erogenous zone all to themselves. As close as she was to cumming, she thought that maybe if he did it just right, if he would start out ruthlessly enough, she could get off just from that.
It was not to be.
Feathers. He told her that few people were actually ticklish enough to laugh from being tickled by feathers. Most just squirmed, maybe giggled a bit, if they reacted at all. But she was not one of those people. She would laugh from feathers. Hard. Like she was doing now. But even though it tickled horribly, she could tell it wouldn’t be enough stimulation to make her climax as she’d hoped.
The tips of the feathers stroked along her soles. Teased the tops of her feet. Poked in between her toes. It all tickled.
He was sawing in between her toes now. She clenched her toes together, trapping the feathers. He abandoned one of the feathers, using the finger on one hand to gently pry the offending toes apart while the other hand let the feather return to its work. He lingered there, punishing her, the feather inflicting far more ticklish sensation than it would have if she had let him have his way unabated. She suffered for her insolence as the exact process was repeated in between each of her toes. Then on the other foot. She was exhausted by the time the process was complete.
“I bet you wish you had let me have my fun.”
She groaned something that sounded affirmatory.
“Then lie back and take this like a good little tickle slave.”
He used the quill side of the feathers now, randomly scribbling over her soles and she bucked and pleaded on the bed. The feather disappeared from her left foot. She felt the toes on her right foot – the more ticklish one – being pulled back, making the quill’s labors all the more effective.
“Can you guess what I’m writing? If you guess correctly, I’ll stop.”
It was a horrid game. It forced her to focus on the movements of the quill more than she otherwise would have, heightening her ticklishness even as it offered some hope for eventual relief. That might have been a C. Then an L, maybe. Definitely an O.
“Clmm-mmph.” ‘Closet,’ she guessed.
“Nope. Better start over.”
He did it again. Slowly. C-L-O-N…another O? What could this be spelling? She must have misread one of the letters. She gave another muffled guess.
“Nope, wrong again. Starting over.”
She screamed as the process repeated itself. She kept guessing. He kept telling her she was wrong and starting over. She was frustrated, in hysterics, wishing it would end.
“Wrong again. Do you give up, or should I try again?”
She capitulated, knowing she would be probably be “punished” for her failure. Chances are that the punishment was something he was going to do to her anyway, so it didn’t matter.
“Klondike. The answer was ‘Klondike.’ As in ‘what would to do-oo-oo, for a Klondike bar.’”
“Kmndk smphs mph m kaa!” she screamed at him.
“Klondike starts with a ‘K?’ Are you sure?” he said in mock surprise.
“Ymph! Mphhol!”
“Oooh, no wonder you were having so much trouble. Here, let me do it the right way.”
He traced the letters once again, slowly, saying them aloud as he went.
“K…L…O…”
She bounced around, squealing.
“N…D…”
She went still, waiting of it to end.
“I…K…E! There you go. Could you tell that time?”
She really couldn’t, but said “yes” anyway.
“I really should bring a dictionary down here with me. That was embarrassing.”
She called him an asshole again. Then she heard the dual *click* *bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz* of the electric toothbrushes whirring to life.
They spent an agonizingly long time scrubbing her soles. At least she was still horny enough that she could almost enjoy it, torturous as it was.
Then he started reciting “This Little Piggy,” slowly, as he scrubbed each toe.
“This little piggy went to market…”
The brushes traveled all over her big toes. The bases. The pads. The sides. The tips. No part was spared their attention. They then spent a long time tickling in between her big and second toes, waiting for the next line.
“This little piggy stayed home.” Again, the bristles explored the toe’s entire surface before moving agonizingly on to the next. One by one, the process was repeated until all the piggies were accounted for.
Then he did it all over again, thoroughly tickling each toe until her eyes watered.
“Now, time for a little test. What’s the story with this piggy?” The toothbrush buzzed against the middle toe on her left foot.
“Mmph bmmph!”
“What was that? You’ll have to speak more clearly.” The tickling continued.
“Mmph bmmph! Mmph Bmmph!”
“Roast beef! That’s correct. And what about this little fellow?”
The game went on and on, one toe to another, on foot to another. She could barely manage an answer by the time he decided to end it.
“I think you’ve earned a little break.”
She panted and relaxed. She hoped that he’d give her a few seconds rest, then start teasing her pussy again.
“Your poor little feet look worn out. Here, let me cool them down for you.”
She yelped as the ice cubes touched her feet. It didn’t tickle, not exactly, but it was strange and unpleasant, and she still found herself laughing a bit as the slippery ice left dripping trails across her bare soles. This treatment didn’t last long, though.
“I bet you’re wondering why I had ice down here.” She wasn’t. She didn’t care. Although she was enjoying the feeling of the warm towel he was using to dry off her feet.
“I wasn’t sure how long it would be until I used these, and I wanted to keep them nice and cold.”
She heard the sound of a plastic bag opening, and a tell-tale *clink* of tiny metal objects falling into a pile. Immediately she started begging. Something else. Anything else.
“I know you think these are worse when they’re cold,” he continued, ignoring her pleas. “Everybody seems to think that.”
Here pleading was drowned out by laughter as the metal claws contacted her flesh. There was one on the tip of each of his dreadful fingers, and they scratched at her already overly-sensitized bare feet.
The claws were evil. She wanted a set of her own, of course. She liked to imagine using them to torment her lovers, lightly scratching at their cocks as they howled in laughter, or gently teasing at their nipples as they came inside of her. But right now, she was the one howling.
He was being too cruel. There was no teasing now. No chance for mercy. He wanted to break her. To push her to the very limit of what she could take, and then beyond. To leave her unable to struggle against him in any way. To reduce her to a limp pile of ticklish flesh that would do nothing but accept the attentions paid to it and repay them with unrestrained laughter. He wouldn’t stop until they reached that point. He said he always had to break her before he let her could go; otherwise it would be like letting a riled-up wildcat loose in his house.
His metal claws were on her upper body now. She hadn’t even felt him move. She could swear she still felt him tickling her feet, but those feelings were just phantoms left over from moments before. New tickling sensations were pouring into her mind, coming from her ribs, her abdomen, her underarms, washing away the ghostly tickles from her feet.
He was tickling her hard. She could tell there would be marks, little red trails crisscrossing all over her torso. They would likely still be visible after she got home and showered. She would stare at them in the mirror, tingling at the memory of what caused them. If they were still there when she finally got someone to bed, they might signal to them that she liked it rough. That would be wonderful. She would need it rough after this.
After he had tickled her breasts for another eternity, it suddenly stopped. She became aware that she had been crying. The blindfold felt damp. But a rush of euphoria slowly spread over her, an immense feeling of relief now that the torture had ceased, even if temporarily. She wasn’t broken. Not yet.
But she was close.
She smelled the oil again. It was being applied to her feet this time. She didn’t care. She didn’t move or struggle. She just accepted it. She knew what would be next. The final stage. The one that never failed to break down the last of her defenses.
He didn’t ease into it. He didn’t tease her, or warn her about what was coming. He just did it. Two large hairbrushes, one on each sole, started scrubbing away.
She flailed, but it would do her no good. She could not escape the hundreds of stiff bristles that scraped and prodded at her soles. She pulled at the restraints with all her might, hoping to break them, to slip even one hand free. But it was no use.
She screamed as loudly as the gag allowed her. The edges of the tape held, no matter how much air she tried to push through it. She called for help, for someone to come rescue her from this madman. No help would come.
After what seemed like hours, it happened. A wave of calm relaxed her muscles, soothing her. She had let go. She had given up. There was no more fight in her, no more struggle. She had given it all. He had won. She could not have chosen this moment; if there was conscious part of her that had chosen this, it wouldn’t have been real.
Her laughter changed. It was natural, relaxed. No more screaming, no more begging. She could keep laughing for hours, if he wanted her to. It didn’t matter how hard or how gently he tickled her; it was all the same. Fingers replaced the brushes, and she kept on laughing. The dreaded toothbrushes were back, and she kept on laughing. She soaked up every ticklish sensation like a sponge. Feathers again, lots of them, gently caressing her soles. It felt soothing, tranquilizing. She kept laughing.
He could have gone on forever. She wouldn't have cared. She wouldn’t have known. It was agony. It was bliss. All at once. And it could go on forever…
She came to slowly, fighting the initial panic of waking up in an unusual place. She remembered where she was, where she had been for the past who-knows-how-many hours. Had she passed out? The blindfold was gone, but she still couldn’t see. A damp, cool cloth was covering her eyes and forehead. The tape that had covered her mouth was gone, too; the tingle in her lips let her know that it was removed quite recently. She could feel that her right arm was free, but the rest of her limbs were still secured to the bed. Something was tugging at the restraints on her left wrist.
“How long was I out?”
“Only a few seconds. That was a first…” There was a slight pause as the second wrist came free. “For you.”
She groaned and tried to sit up, but a gentle hand on her shoulder pushed her back onto the bed.
“Not yet, Diana.” Her name was Diane, but he always called her Diana. Said it better suited a goddess like her. “Give yourself a couple of minutes. Is your vision still splotchy?”
She peeked out from under the cloth. He had dimmed the lights so they wouldn’t be too harsh on her eyes. “A little.” She put the cloth back over her face. It felt so nice. “Fuck. What did you do to me?”
“Everything I wanted to.”
Her ankles were freed and he started massaging them gently. The restraints were comfortable, lined with soft sheepskin, but tugging at them for however long she had been tied up had left her joints a bit stiff. She grunted with pleasure as he set his expert fingers to the task of doing something other than tickle her.
“Does your mother know that you like torturing nice girls this way?”
“Ah, but nice girls don’t get tortured like this. Nice girls get chocolate and orgasms. It’s only the wicked ones who get tied up and tickled until they lose their wits.”
He left her feet and she decided to risk sitting up. He didn’t stop her this time. She removed the damp cloth from her face, blinking as the room came into focus. He was standing beside the bed, smiling, holding out a bottle of water for her. She took it.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“Yeah. A handsome 19 year-old with chiseled abs, a huge cock, and the stamina of a marathon runner.”
“The others shouldn’t be difficult, but good luck finding a 19 year-old with that much stamina. You may need more than one.”
She took a sip of water. That actually wasn’t a half-bad idea. It had been awhile since she was gang fucked. Her other hand found its way between her legs. She shivered at the thought of two or three horny young men having their way with her at once.
“I better find somebody tonight or I’m going to go insane.”
“If you don’t have any luck, you can always come back here and see me.”
She scoffed. “I’m never coming back here.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I mean it this time.”
“You’ve said that, too.”
He sat on the bed beside her, kissed her shoulder. Then her neck. Then her ear. She tried to stay firm, but she was melting.
“Even if you do find someone, you could always bring them back here. I could tie you both up, let you watch as I tickle and tease him for hours. Then it’ll be your turn. I’ll make you both wild with desire then turn you loose on him. How does that sound?”
It sounded amazing. She wanted to do it, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She wouldn’t come back here for at least a month. Her stubbornness wouldn’t let her.
“No.” She pushed him away, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “I need to go.” She had to shower. Eat. Take a nap. Put on something slinky. Find a lover for the night.
“Alright.” He stood, offering her a hand. She accepted and was jerked to her feet. He caught her in his arms and held her close. “You could just stay.”
“No.” Her heart was racing.
“You could stay here. I’ll do this to you all over again. Night after night. I’ll even let you cum as many times as you want. More times than you want. I’ll give you everything you need. I’ll bring new delicious young men for you to tease and fuck, and to tease and fuck you. A new one every night.”
Her knees were shaking. “You’re the devil,” she whispered.
“The devil would blush if he heard you compare him to me,” he whispered back.
They kissed, deeply, briefly. He let her go. He was only teasing. He knew she wouldn’t stay. Couldn’t stay.
“Have fun,” he said. “You have my number. I’ll think of something special for next time.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “When was the last time I suspended you?”
“January.” She remembered it well. She was sure he did, too.
“I think we’ll do that again, for starters. Make sure you do your stretches between then and now.” He grinned. “I look forward to seeing you again.”
She wouldn’t admit it, but she was already looking forward to it, too.
“You hate this, don’t you?”
His voice was smooth. Calm. Soothing.
Almost.
“You really do suffer when you’re here. I can tell.”
There was also just that little hint of ridicule. He was teasing her. Like he always did.
And what he said was true. She did suffer. And she really did hate it. She hated every moment of it. Every time. And yet…
“But you still keep coming back to me. Over and over, even though you’re one of the most ticklish women I’ve ever met. So you must really love it.”
He was grinning as he said it. She couldn’t see that – the blindfold prevented it – but she could hear it in the way he spoke. That infuriating, mocking grin that he always wore, making light of her struggles and her distress.
She shook her head. No, she didn’t love it. She hated it. She hated every damn, torturous moment of it. It was hell. It was agony.
It was exquisite.
After. She loved it after it was over. After she was free from the cruel bondage and safe from his clever fingers. Once she was away and had time to reflect, then she loved it.
She loved remembering how he knew exactly how to torment her. She loved remembering how powerless she had been to stop him. She loved that she would leave here sexually frustrated. That she would fantasize about this encounter for weeks to come. That she would masturbate furiously remembering it until the memory was no longer enough. She loved knowing that eventually, once enough time had passed, she would be on the phone, begging him to do it to her all over again.
And she loved that he was always willing.
But right now, she hated it.
“Mmmphh.”
It was the only sound she could make. The tape over her mouth saw to that. Not that she would have shared her real feelings, that he was right about her love/hate relationship with the torture he put her through, had the tape not been there. No, she would have said something sarcastic. Something coarse. She would have cursed at him, called him every name she could think of, plus a few she’d make up on the spot. It amused him when she did. Sometimes he would laugh aloud at the things she said to him. But most of the time, she was gagged. It took away the one outlet she might use to deal with the sensations that wasn’t laughing, begging, or crying.
“Your armpits are very smooth.”
Her muscles tensed. She shook her head back and forth, laughing and squealing from behind the duct tape. But nothing happened.
She paused. Still nothing happened. Her arms were stretched above her head, wrists bound at the top of the bed. She started to struggle and laugh again, anticipating the spidery touch of his fingers.
Still nothing.
“You just shaved these, didn’t you?”
Her struggles and laughter doubled, and still he hadn’t touched her.
“I really appreciate it, you know.”
Still laughing, still struggling. Another pause. Nothing. More laughter. Now some muffled begging.
“Nice, smooth, and soft. Aaaall for meeeeee.”
God damn it! Why did he have to draw it out like this? Why wouldn’t he just torture her and be done with it? She clenched her jaw, tensed all her muscles. She wasn’t going to laugh anymore. Not until it actually started…
“All I need to do is take one little finger…”
No. She wasn’t going to laugh again. Not until she felt it.
“…and trace it ever so gently down…”
She was ready. Fingers in the armpit. The beginning of hours of ticklish torture. She steeled herself against the wiggling finger she imagined coming towards her pits.
“…your tummy.”
The announcement came just before the finger did. Enough time to tell her that she had been preparing for the wrong onslaught, but not enough for her to mentally switch gears. Damn him.
The tip of a single index finger was methodically crawling all along her abdomen. She squirmed at the touch, giggling, yelping when he hit one of her spots. He knew where all of those spots were, but he wasn’t exploiting them. Not yet. Just teasing to remind her that he knew where they were.
More fingers joined the dance. Stroking. Squeezing. Poking. Teasing. A dozen touches in a dozen ways, each of them driving her to convulsions of laughter.
Her stomach muscles tensed as she laughed, and he’d dig his fingertips firmly into them. She’d inhale and he’d switch tactics, delicately tracing his nails over her flesh as it quivered involuntarily. His little finger dipped into her navel, wiggling as she shrieked into the tape.
The fingers left without warning. The sensations were gone, but she could still feel their ghosts. Still, a break was a break, even if it meant something even more devious was sure to follow. She took some deep breaths and then…
*click* *bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*
She knew the sound. She dreaded the sound. But there was nothing she could do as hundreds of tiny, delicate bristles spun and vibrated their way into her bellybutton. Her body bounced back and forth as much as the restraints allowed, but the head of the electric toothbrush stayed with her regardless. A second toothbrush was brought into play, this one tracing a long path up and down her right side. The pathetic sounds mixed with her laughter were unintelligible, but they were identifiable as pleas by their pitiful tone.
Both toothbrushes were playing along her ribs now, moving symmetrically back and forth and up and down. Now on the sides of her breasts, now (finally!) into her smooth armpits, then back to her breasts, around her nipples, back down her sides to her hips.
With as much ground as the bristles were covering, there was still one place that they neglected. The fact that it was so consciously avoided forced her to note its existence, and to remind her that he knew exactly where it was and what it did to her.
So she endured the torment, knowing what was still to come, not knowing when it would happen.
And then it did. There. On her ribs, just below and beside either breast. Why this particular spot tickled more than any other on her upper body was a mystery to her. He said it was normal for people to have spots like that, that tickled more than you had any reason to expect them to. He would know.
The brushes wreaked havoc on those spots. He simply had to hold them in place. And that’s all he did. She was in hysterics. He held them in place. Tears were forming in the corners of her eyes. He held them in place. One minute. Two. Three. Four. The time passed, but she wasn’t aware how much time. Time stopped mattering. All that existed were those damn brushes and the absurdly sensitive square inch of skin beneath them.
It was too much. Her sanity was falling away. The noises coming out of her barely qualified as laughter anymore. Even if the tape were gone, she wouldn’t have been able to find the words to beg him to stop. He wouldn’t have listened, anyway.
Suddenly, the brushes were clicked off. Her whole body tingled with relief as the torture ended. She took deep, ragged breaths, clarity coming back to her mind.
She could feel him moving around on the bed, getting into a new position. She could only guess what was coming next, but it would pale in comparison to what he had just done to her. That asshole. She hated him for it. Later she’d love him for it.
She felt the bristle of the toothbrushes again, this time on her hips. They clicked on once again and quickly starting blazing a ticklish trail towards her legs. They tickled up and down the inside of her thighs, sending waves of agonizing tickle and pleasurable excitement coursing through her. The sexual torment phase of her torture was beginning. She could tell.
He always found creative ways to arouse her. He’d bring her to the edge of heaven but then send her crashing back down into the depths of ticklish hell instead. Then do it over again. He never let her cum, though. Not once. He’d drive her wild with desire, make her slick with yearning, but never satisfy. He would make her hungry for sex. She would wish he would fuck her. That anyone would fuck her. Hell, even if her ex-husband were there, she’d even let that son-of-a-bitch fuck her by the time her torture ended. But she never got that release. Not here. She would have to find it on her own.
And she always did. She was a cougar, after all, and this town was full of horny and willing college students and stressed-out interns looking to get their rocks off. Young, healthy, eager boys were easy to find, which was a good thing. It took a lot to satiate her after one of these sessions.
The toothbrushes eventually made their way from her thighs towards their real target. They lingered for a moment, repeatedly tracing the faint line where her legs met her hips. It was pure, ticklish torture, and she laughed all the while. But it was still close enough that slight moans were starting to force their way in to mingle with their laughter.
The bristles now traced the triangular patch of hair she had left between her legs. The armpits weren’t all she had shaved in preparation for this visit. They met at the point and then skirted along the outside of her lips. She shuddered an arched her back, a sultry moan escaping her, muffled by her gag. Those teasing bristles caressed up and down and just outside, never touching the lips themselves. She could feel herself growing wetter as she gyrated her hips in time to the tickly stroking of the brushes, hoping she would force some inadvertent contact with a more sensitive place.
Then they were gone. She groaned in mild exasperation. She knew it wouldn’t have lasted, but it didn’t need to. Now that she was aroused, the tickling would be more bearable in a way. It would still be torture, but at least now she would have more delicious teasing to look forward to.
A stream of something warm and wet drew a line from her navel to her neck. Then around each of her breasts. Then dollop in each armpit. Oil, heated to avoid giving her a chill. It had a pleasant fragrance, something he had cooked up on his own. A mixture of sandalwood, ylang ylang, and a few other scents she couldn’t identify that blended together to smell like sacred sex.
Firm hands, also covered in a generous supply of the slippery substance, massaged her upper body, working the oil across her abdomen, then up her ribs and into her armpits. Finally they massaged her breasts, making sure each as well coated. The hands lingered there, taking advantage of her growing arousal and exacerbating it. Her body writhed in pleasure as her breasts were caressed, and she emitted a cute squeak when his fingers tweaked her nipples. She drank in the sensations, not letting herself care about what she knew would happen next.
Those firm fingers were now in her armpits, scribbling maddeningly on the silky surface. She tossed her head from side to side, her hips bouncing up and down.
“That looks like fun.” He straddled her hips, letting her bounce him up and down as he tickled the living daylights out of her. “Yee-haw!” he shouted. It was stupid. She laughed anyway. She couldn’t do anything but laugh.
He was squeezing her ribs now. He’d linger in one spot, then quickly alternate between spots. Then move both hands to one side to cover a larger area, then return. Now his fingertips were sliding around on her ribcage, never stopping, never lingering, just ten never-ending random streams of tickle.
She was relieved when he stopped scribbling on her ribs and focused on her breasts. That at least could be arousing. But it wasn’t. He dug his fingers into them in light, quick squeezes that made her shriek. His fingernails slid over her areolas, occasionally lightly tickling over her hard nipples, much to her anguish and delight.
“Such nice tits. Look at them bounce. Nice, big, ticklish titties.”
He leaned forward, his weight holding her to the bed. She felt his warm breath near her ear.
“I bet those boy-toys of yours love your tits. They make you a goddess in their eyes, don't they?. But, I wonder…do they know how ticklish they are? How ticklish you are? That they could drive you insane if they so much as wiggled their fingers at you?”
She moaned as his tongue licked from her collarbone to her earlobe. He sucked on the lobe while she pictured what he had just said. She liked being the dominant one when it came to her young male fucktoys. She liked being on top and stroking their sculpted chests or firm abdomens, making them squirm while she rode them.
Sometimes she’d have one with a dominant streak of his own who would want to turn the tables and be in control. And she would always let them. But there was one time, just once, when a young man had her on her back, her legs bent back, feet near her head as he thrust into her. Whether it was an accident or his intent all along, she couldn’t be sure, but he had started tickling her feet. It was incredible. She came so fast, so hard, so many times, and he just wouldn’t stop. She laughed, she begged, but he kept on going.
It had been an anonymous one-night stand. She hoped that she would run into him again somewhere, that he would do it all over again, but no such luck so far. And despite how much she wanted to experience it again, she still couldn’t bear to ask any of her new lovers to do it to her.
“What if I told them?”
The voice of the man currently on top of her snapped her back to the present. He was kissing the side of her neck, his fingers still wiggling on the sides of her breasts.
“I could put up fliers in the bars you frequent. Spam the local colleges with emails about you. Show them your picture. Tell them that you’re ticklish little girl that loves to be tortured, that you live for it. Everyone would know what a squirmy little tickleslut you are. You’d never have sex again without being tickled. Before. During. After.”
No. That would be horrible. In a way, that would mean that she was always his. That even when she was with some else, she would never be free from his tortures. She protested into her gag.
“No? Well I’d better give you your fill while you’re here with me, then.”
She couldn’t tell how long he kept tickling her upper body. The oil was practically dried up by the time he stopped. She wasn’t sure if a second coat would be applied so the torture would continue, or if he would simply move on to another target.
Her captor got up off of her hips and moved to sit between her knees. She jumped in surprise as something with a soft point was applied to her slit. It could have been a feather, or maybe a paintbrush; he had used both. It teased around the inside of her lips, then the outside, then inside again. Then it flicked over her clit. Once. Twice. Then again. And again. The urge for release grew with each teasing *flick* of the horrible, beautiful instrument. Her legs quaked as the stimulation mounted.
The teasing instrument was replaced by finger. While it had tickled in a pleasant, accidental way, the fingers weren’t so subtle. They were tickling her outright, stroking the lips, tugging at them gently, caressing the wet inner folds. It tickled badly, but as the titilation grew it collapsed into steady stream of bliss. A finger slipped inside of her, wiggling, teasing. She gave in to the feeling, not letting herself care that it would end sooner that she wanted it to.
The attention ceased, leaving her a few moments to deal with her racing heart and lustful thoughts. His hands came back, firmly caressing her thighs, first near her hips, then lower. Lower. Lower. They were just above the knees now. They squeezed…
Laughter and struggling ensued. This was probably her least favorite way to be tickled. With the exception of those spots on her ribs, no other tickle felt so much like panic. For reasons she didn’t understand, knee-squeezing had been the preferred method of tickling that her girlfriends used on one other around middle school. She was a favorite target since she could never fight back. No one else in her life had ever thought to tickle her this way until she began her sessions with this monster.
Occasionally his fingers would dart to the sensitive skin behind her knees. This was still deathly ticklish, but it felt like a respite compare to the wanton hysteria of the knee squeezes.
He was done. He gave her a few moments to recover. She felt him shift his position and assumed he was getting up. She was sure he though it was high time he started punishing her feet.
She was caught completely off guard when she felt his face between her legs. His lips kissed hers, gently nibbled at them. She moaned, shuddered, yelped. He had never done this to her before.
His tongue slipped in and out and out of her. Deeper now. Wiggling. Now out again. Licking up towards her clit. His thumb pulled the hood back, exposing her hot clit to the cool air. His lips were around it, sucking, gently. The tip of his tongue teased it. Kept teasing for longer than she would have expected he’d allow.
For a moment she thought he would let her cum. She was close now, perhaps closer than he realized. When he was teasing her with a feather or with his fingers, he could watch her reactions, gauge how close she was to cumming. But now, he couldn’t see her face, couldn’t watch the muscles in her abdomen. If we would just keep going…
He stopped. Disappointment. Frustration. But still, a touch of ecstasy from being so close. She basked in all of it.
“I hope you don’t think I’ve forgotten about your feet.”
He wouldn’t acknowledge what he just did to her. The state he had left her in. No, he just casually announced what he was going to do next, like he was talking about the a grocery list.
He stood up, got off the bed. She couldn’t feel his movements anymore. Was he just staring at her bare feet? Selecting a tool? Two tools? Would it be both feet at once or one at a time? She couldn’t know. She didn’t care.
She thought back to the young man who tickled her feet while he fucked her. Since then, tickling on her feet had started to feel a bit different. As much as tickle torture was already indirectly connected to sexual desire for her, her feet were becoming an erogenous zone all to themselves. As close as she was to cumming, she thought that maybe if he did it just right, if he would start out ruthlessly enough, she could get off just from that.
It was not to be.
Feathers. He told her that few people were actually ticklish enough to laugh from being tickled by feathers. Most just squirmed, maybe giggled a bit, if they reacted at all. But she was not one of those people. She would laugh from feathers. Hard. Like she was doing now. But even though it tickled horribly, she could tell it wouldn’t be enough stimulation to make her climax as she’d hoped.
The tips of the feathers stroked along her soles. Teased the tops of her feet. Poked in between her toes. It all tickled.
He was sawing in between her toes now. She clenched her toes together, trapping the feathers. He abandoned one of the feathers, using the finger on one hand to gently pry the offending toes apart while the other hand let the feather return to its work. He lingered there, punishing her, the feather inflicting far more ticklish sensation than it would have if she had let him have his way unabated. She suffered for her insolence as the exact process was repeated in between each of her toes. Then on the other foot. She was exhausted by the time the process was complete.
“I bet you wish you had let me have my fun.”
She groaned something that sounded affirmatory.
“Then lie back and take this like a good little tickle slave.”
He used the quill side of the feathers now, randomly scribbling over her soles and she bucked and pleaded on the bed. The feather disappeared from her left foot. She felt the toes on her right foot – the more ticklish one – being pulled back, making the quill’s labors all the more effective.
“Can you guess what I’m writing? If you guess correctly, I’ll stop.”
It was a horrid game. It forced her to focus on the movements of the quill more than she otherwise would have, heightening her ticklishness even as it offered some hope for eventual relief. That might have been a C. Then an L, maybe. Definitely an O.
“Clmm-mmph.” ‘Closet,’ she guessed.
“Nope. Better start over.”
He did it again. Slowly. C-L-O-N…another O? What could this be spelling? She must have misread one of the letters. She gave another muffled guess.
“Nope, wrong again. Starting over.”
She screamed as the process repeated itself. She kept guessing. He kept telling her she was wrong and starting over. She was frustrated, in hysterics, wishing it would end.
“Wrong again. Do you give up, or should I try again?”
She capitulated, knowing she would be probably be “punished” for her failure. Chances are that the punishment was something he was going to do to her anyway, so it didn’t matter.
“Klondike. The answer was ‘Klondike.’ As in ‘what would to do-oo-oo, for a Klondike bar.’”
“Kmndk smphs mph m kaa!” she screamed at him.
“Klondike starts with a ‘K?’ Are you sure?” he said in mock surprise.
“Ymph! Mphhol!”
“Oooh, no wonder you were having so much trouble. Here, let me do it the right way.”
He traced the letters once again, slowly, saying them aloud as he went.
“K…L…O…”
She bounced around, squealing.
“N…D…”
She went still, waiting of it to end.
“I…K…E! There you go. Could you tell that time?”
She really couldn’t, but said “yes” anyway.
“I really should bring a dictionary down here with me. That was embarrassing.”
She called him an asshole again. Then she heard the dual *click* *bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz* of the electric toothbrushes whirring to life.
They spent an agonizingly long time scrubbing her soles. At least she was still horny enough that she could almost enjoy it, torturous as it was.
Then he started reciting “This Little Piggy,” slowly, as he scrubbed each toe.
“This little piggy went to market…”
The brushes traveled all over her big toes. The bases. The pads. The sides. The tips. No part was spared their attention. They then spent a long time tickling in between her big and second toes, waiting for the next line.
“This little piggy stayed home.” Again, the bristles explored the toe’s entire surface before moving agonizingly on to the next. One by one, the process was repeated until all the piggies were accounted for.
Then he did it all over again, thoroughly tickling each toe until her eyes watered.
“Now, time for a little test. What’s the story with this piggy?” The toothbrush buzzed against the middle toe on her left foot.
“Mmph bmmph!”
“What was that? You’ll have to speak more clearly.” The tickling continued.
“Mmph bmmph! Mmph Bmmph!”
“Roast beef! That’s correct. And what about this little fellow?”
The game went on and on, one toe to another, on foot to another. She could barely manage an answer by the time he decided to end it.
“I think you’ve earned a little break.”
She panted and relaxed. She hoped that he’d give her a few seconds rest, then start teasing her pussy again.
“Your poor little feet look worn out. Here, let me cool them down for you.”
She yelped as the ice cubes touched her feet. It didn’t tickle, not exactly, but it was strange and unpleasant, and she still found herself laughing a bit as the slippery ice left dripping trails across her bare soles. This treatment didn’t last long, though.
“I bet you’re wondering why I had ice down here.” She wasn’t. She didn’t care. Although she was enjoying the feeling of the warm towel he was using to dry off her feet.
“I wasn’t sure how long it would be until I used these, and I wanted to keep them nice and cold.”
She heard the sound of a plastic bag opening, and a tell-tale *clink* of tiny metal objects falling into a pile. Immediately she started begging. Something else. Anything else.
“I know you think these are worse when they’re cold,” he continued, ignoring her pleas. “Everybody seems to think that.”
Here pleading was drowned out by laughter as the metal claws contacted her flesh. There was one on the tip of each of his dreadful fingers, and they scratched at her already overly-sensitized bare feet.
The claws were evil. She wanted a set of her own, of course. She liked to imagine using them to torment her lovers, lightly scratching at their cocks as they howled in laughter, or gently teasing at their nipples as they came inside of her. But right now, she was the one howling.
He was being too cruel. There was no teasing now. No chance for mercy. He wanted to break her. To push her to the very limit of what she could take, and then beyond. To leave her unable to struggle against him in any way. To reduce her to a limp pile of ticklish flesh that would do nothing but accept the attentions paid to it and repay them with unrestrained laughter. He wouldn’t stop until they reached that point. He said he always had to break her before he let her could go; otherwise it would be like letting a riled-up wildcat loose in his house.
His metal claws were on her upper body now. She hadn’t even felt him move. She could swear she still felt him tickling her feet, but those feelings were just phantoms left over from moments before. New tickling sensations were pouring into her mind, coming from her ribs, her abdomen, her underarms, washing away the ghostly tickles from her feet.
He was tickling her hard. She could tell there would be marks, little red trails crisscrossing all over her torso. They would likely still be visible after she got home and showered. She would stare at them in the mirror, tingling at the memory of what caused them. If they were still there when she finally got someone to bed, they might signal to them that she liked it rough. That would be wonderful. She would need it rough after this.
After he had tickled her breasts for another eternity, it suddenly stopped. She became aware that she had been crying. The blindfold felt damp. But a rush of euphoria slowly spread over her, an immense feeling of relief now that the torture had ceased, even if temporarily. She wasn’t broken. Not yet.
But she was close.
She smelled the oil again. It was being applied to her feet this time. She didn’t care. She didn’t move or struggle. She just accepted it. She knew what would be next. The final stage. The one that never failed to break down the last of her defenses.
He didn’t ease into it. He didn’t tease her, or warn her about what was coming. He just did it. Two large hairbrushes, one on each sole, started scrubbing away.
She flailed, but it would do her no good. She could not escape the hundreds of stiff bristles that scraped and prodded at her soles. She pulled at the restraints with all her might, hoping to break them, to slip even one hand free. But it was no use.
She screamed as loudly as the gag allowed her. The edges of the tape held, no matter how much air she tried to push through it. She called for help, for someone to come rescue her from this madman. No help would come.
After what seemed like hours, it happened. A wave of calm relaxed her muscles, soothing her. She had let go. She had given up. There was no more fight in her, no more struggle. She had given it all. He had won. She could not have chosen this moment; if there was conscious part of her that had chosen this, it wouldn’t have been real.
Her laughter changed. It was natural, relaxed. No more screaming, no more begging. She could keep laughing for hours, if he wanted her to. It didn’t matter how hard or how gently he tickled her; it was all the same. Fingers replaced the brushes, and she kept on laughing. The dreaded toothbrushes were back, and she kept on laughing. She soaked up every ticklish sensation like a sponge. Feathers again, lots of them, gently caressing her soles. It felt soothing, tranquilizing. She kept laughing.
He could have gone on forever. She wouldn't have cared. She wouldn’t have known. It was agony. It was bliss. All at once. And it could go on forever…
She came to slowly, fighting the initial panic of waking up in an unusual place. She remembered where she was, where she had been for the past who-knows-how-many hours. Had she passed out? The blindfold was gone, but she still couldn’t see. A damp, cool cloth was covering her eyes and forehead. The tape that had covered her mouth was gone, too; the tingle in her lips let her know that it was removed quite recently. She could feel that her right arm was free, but the rest of her limbs were still secured to the bed. Something was tugging at the restraints on her left wrist.
“How long was I out?”
“Only a few seconds. That was a first…” There was a slight pause as the second wrist came free. “For you.”
She groaned and tried to sit up, but a gentle hand on her shoulder pushed her back onto the bed.
“Not yet, Diana.” Her name was Diane, but he always called her Diana. Said it better suited a goddess like her. “Give yourself a couple of minutes. Is your vision still splotchy?”
She peeked out from under the cloth. He had dimmed the lights so they wouldn’t be too harsh on her eyes. “A little.” She put the cloth back over her face. It felt so nice. “Fuck. What did you do to me?”
“Everything I wanted to.”
Her ankles were freed and he started massaging them gently. The restraints were comfortable, lined with soft sheepskin, but tugging at them for however long she had been tied up had left her joints a bit stiff. She grunted with pleasure as he set his expert fingers to the task of doing something other than tickle her.
“Does your mother know that you like torturing nice girls this way?”
“Ah, but nice girls don’t get tortured like this. Nice girls get chocolate and orgasms. It’s only the wicked ones who get tied up and tickled until they lose their wits.”
He left her feet and she decided to risk sitting up. He didn’t stop her this time. She removed the damp cloth from her face, blinking as the room came into focus. He was standing beside the bed, smiling, holding out a bottle of water for her. She took it.
“Can I get you anything else?”
“Yeah. A handsome 19 year-old with chiseled abs, a huge cock, and the stamina of a marathon runner.”
“The others shouldn’t be difficult, but good luck finding a 19 year-old with that much stamina. You may need more than one.”
She took a sip of water. That actually wasn’t a half-bad idea. It had been awhile since she was gang fucked. Her other hand found its way between her legs. She shivered at the thought of two or three horny young men having their way with her at once.
“I better find somebody tonight or I’m going to go insane.”
“If you don’t have any luck, you can always come back here and see me.”
She scoffed. “I’m never coming back here.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I mean it this time.”
“You’ve said that, too.”
He sat on the bed beside her, kissed her shoulder. Then her neck. Then her ear. She tried to stay firm, but she was melting.
“Even if you do find someone, you could always bring them back here. I could tie you both up, let you watch as I tickle and tease him for hours. Then it’ll be your turn. I’ll make you both wild with desire then turn you loose on him. How does that sound?”
It sounded amazing. She wanted to do it, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. She wouldn’t come back here for at least a month. Her stubbornness wouldn’t let her.
“No.” She pushed him away, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “I need to go.” She had to shower. Eat. Take a nap. Put on something slinky. Find a lover for the night.
“Alright.” He stood, offering her a hand. She accepted and was jerked to her feet. He caught her in his arms and held her close. “You could just stay.”
“No.” Her heart was racing.
“You could stay here. I’ll do this to you all over again. Night after night. I’ll even let you cum as many times as you want. More times than you want. I’ll give you everything you need. I’ll bring new delicious young men for you to tease and fuck, and to tease and fuck you. A new one every night.”
Her knees were shaking. “You’re the devil,” she whispered.
“The devil would blush if he heard you compare him to me,” he whispered back.
They kissed, deeply, briefly. He let her go. He was only teasing. He knew she wouldn’t stay. Couldn’t stay.
“Have fun,” he said. “You have my number. I’ll think of something special for next time.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “When was the last time I suspended you?”
“January.” She remembered it well. She was sure he did, too.
“I think we’ll do that again, for starters. Make sure you do your stretches between then and now.” He grinned. “I look forward to seeing you again.”
She wouldn’t admit it, but she was already looking forward to it, too.
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