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Results 1 to 7 of 7
  1. #1
    Join Date
    Jan 2018

    Tickling Your Wife (The Director’s Cut)

    (this has been by requested commission from a patron)

    Oh, if only it were always so easy.

    She lays atop a king-sized mattress, wrists together, ankles spread far apart. Bound with medical grade leather cuffs, she is stretched taut across its length, completely and utterly at my mercy. Her navy-blue blouse and denim jean shorts leave much open for me to indulge in, from her exposed underarms to her tender mid drift, the bottom of her blouse left slightly elevated, leaving it precariously vulnerable from my vantage point. Her feet, nestled in a pair of fuzzy pink slippers, dangle over the side of the bed, just waiting for their moment in the limelight. She has been waiting patiently, as though she had any choice in the matter, but I best keep her waiting no longer, as the fun is sure to begin. It is in this moment that I make my entrance, the subtle patter of my shoes across the carpet floor sending a slight tingle down her spine.
    She knows I’m here, and she knows exactly why she is too.

    “I’m so glad you could join me today,” I say tenderly, having placed myself just above her head, gazing over her outstretched body, surveying the palette in which I will scribe a ticklish tale beyond all hope and reason. From the sound of my voice she attempts to shrink away, an adorable grin scrawled across her lovely face, knowing for sure just what I have in store for her. Little does she know she is falling right into my trap. “Are you ready my dear?”
    She shakes her head back and forth, just barely able to silently vocalize “no, no, no,” over and over again, underneath her breath, still consumed by that precious smile containing a witch’s brew of fear and excitement, exactly the way I like it.

    “You know what I’m going to do to you, don’t you?” I ask lovingly, her swiftly nodding head confirming what she knows to be true, but not having the gumption to speak its name. Gently kneeling before her, seeing what her blindfold-shrouded eyes cannot, I whisper softly into her left ear, turning that tingle into a chill right before her ears: “I’m going to tickle you, without mercy, for as long as I like, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

    My sympathetic tone is matched with her strained squeal, an attempt to suppress her innermost sensations futile at best. She pulls gently at her restraints, confirming just how little they care to give her, lying silently yet not budging one inch for her. Her chest excitedly heaving up and down, trying to save some oxygen for what she knows is to come, she can do nothing but endlessly imagine the ways in which I will wield her body to my ticklish delight, taking these fleeting moments to prepare herself for the worst to come. Her feet tremble underneath her slippers, betraying that nervousness she cannot truly hide from my all-seeing gaze. It’s unfathomable just how a woman affected so by even the thought of tickling could possibly find herself in such a situation, helplessly bound, leaving herself vulnerable to someone to take advantage of her innermost weakness. However, she knows why she is here: because you told her to be here, and she does what she is told.

    Ever so softly, placing the tips of my fingers just below her cuffs, I begin spidering my way down the supple surface of her forearms. A light gasp escapes her, knowing it was to be but not expecting it to happen so soon. She dissolves pitifully into girlish giggles, rocking herself back and forth in a useless attempt to try and escape my ticklish touch, slowly making its way to the exposed flesh of her hyper ticklish armpits. Her fingers extend towards me, trying in vain to grab at my shirt, trying in some way to convince me to cease and desist with whatever ability she has left, ultimately to no avail. Passing over her trembling biceps, noticing how valiantly she is attempting to pull her arms down for protection, I quietly take amusement in her efforts, knowing for sure they will not last for long. As I make my way right into her underarms, placing my fingers tenuously above them, I suddenly stop, watching her chest cease itself, holding her breath in anticipation, waiting for me to strike. It is only after a few agonizing moments that I finally break the silence.

    “You wouldn’t happen to be ticklish, would you?” I tauntingly ask, just before my nails begin frantically skittering across her supple underarms, throwing her into a ticklish loop the likes of which she couldn’t possibly escape.

    “Pfahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaa!” she laughs loudly, her defenses swiftly crumbling as I make work of her delicately vulnerable flesh. Her rampant laughter is interrupted from time to time by an upward yelp, the result of my explorative fingers finding that extra ticklish spot she had hoped to remain undiscovered. Jerking her body side to side, her noble efforts of escape nullified by my careful ropework, she is left at the mercy (or lack thereof) of my invasive fingers, poking and prodding into her tender flesh with wild abandonment.

    “Tickle tickle dearie,” I wickedly dictate, knowing just how maddening it must be to hear that word, over and over again, while she is hopelessly besieged by it at this very moment. Such is my method, turning her entire world on its head right before her blindfolded eyes.

    “Eeeeeeeeeeeeehehehehehehehehehe!” she squeals, melting into torrents of laughter right under the tips of my fingers. It is only polite that I check in with her from time to time, making sure to see if my point is being made crystal clear.

    “I’m sorry: does that tickle?” I teasingly ask, transitioning into massaging my thumbs deep into the muscle under her arms, sending her endless streams of laughter up another octave.

    “Ihihihit tickles! It ticklesahahahahahahahahahahahaha!” she is just able to discharge, immersed in such maddening sensations she can barely handle. Hovering over her, watching her head sway side to side, I wonder just what she might be missing with the blindfold on, not moving one inch no matter how much she flails about. Would she enjoy watching her torments unfold in first person? Or does she enjoy being in the dark, the unknown exciting her to no end? I’d let you ask her yourself, but as you can see, she’s a bit tied up at the moment.

    “Ahahahahahahahahahahahaha! Please! Stahahahahahahahap!”

    I cease her torments, having caught me at a moment of mercy, the last of its kind. Letting the residual laughter fall from her lips, the sensation of my tickling fingers still felt by the nerve endings under her smooth skin, I watch as her heaving chest takes in some much-needed oxygen for the time being. Rising from my perched position, I make my way to her left side, seating myself atop the bed, positioned just at her ribcage, leaving just too little for her to catch her breath. Placing my hands atop her ribs, ill-concerned with the thin fabric of her blouse that does nothing to shield her, I watch as that familiar smile crosses her face, fully aware as to what is going to happen next. Little could she imagine that those horrendous thirty minutes that just passed were merely a warm-up.

    “Surely you’re not ticklish here too?” I ask before pulsating my fingers into the crevices between her ribs, sending her into a wild tailspin more frantic than before.

    “Waaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahahahahahhahaha!” she bellows, throwing her head back, caught off-guard despite knowing full well the torments that would follow. “Not there! Not thereahahahahahahahahahahaha!” Had she the ability to see through that pesky blindfold, she could have predicted my next move, mentally preparing herself for my fingers frenetically weaving their way through each and every one of her tender ribs. However, such was my intent upon using such a ubiquitous little tool, for being able to hear that initial wail of surprise, finding her completely off kilter and unprepared for what was to come, is nothing short of melodious music to my ears.

    Her butt bounces unhindered against the mattress, having been turned her into a bucking bronco through my ticklish touch. Despite such persistent efforts, it appears she possesses a boundless reserve of energy, each stage of her torments having the same capricious and unbridled reactions as the one previous. Such is reassuring, inviting me to indulge in her womanly laughter for what could be hours on end, a nice lengthy session full of ticklish wonders from start to finish, and by the way she is acting now, she has a long way to go.


    I begin kneading into her ribs, raking my knuckles up and down her ribcage like a washboard, sending her shrill cries into the stratosphere. Her mouth peeled back into a perpetual smile of forced mirth, she has no choice but to endure as I explore every inch of her midsection for my personal enjoyment. I experiment upon her person, bit by agonizing bit finding every spot, every technique that could send her off the deep end again and again. Pulsating my thumbs down her sides, all the way down to her tender hips, her responses turn absolutely livid, the entirety of her body gyrating in desperate attempt at escape. I lick away the drool collecting at the sides of my mouth, savoring every last drop of her hapless cries and wild cackles as much as I can. Gazing up from my position, peering at her blindfolded eyes, I watch as its soft material becomes moist with delicious tears, confirming just how hard I am pushing this fragile creature. However, I have no intentions of stopping: drilling my thumbs into her protruding hips, a scream of panic emancipates itself from her strained gullet, echoing sweetly throughout the room.

    “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NO WAIT!! WAAAAAAAAAAAIT!!” she cackles at the top of her lungs, thrashing about with reinvigorated energy, yet still unable to escape my grasp. I silently revel in the energetic reactions she has to my touch, indulging myself as I play her body like a musical instrument, as torrents of musical laughter escape her womanly voice, and the more practice I put in, the more adept I get at this strange thing she is slowly coming to know as tickle torture.

    If only she knew just how much you’d love to be here right now, knowing full well it was always your intent to put her in such a tumultuous position: an unknown figure ravaging every inch of her body, barely capable of handling the storm of sensations at this very moment. What fantasies you have had of this happening, only to be coming true right before my very eyes. Such is the enjoyment I derive, sending her off the deep end hour after how, with no end in sight, from the tip of her nose down to her tender little toes…and speaking of, it would be improper of me to rob her of the full experience, knowing just how much work I had put in preparing her for this moment for her benefit.

    I again cease, letting her gasp air as I rise from my perched position. I survey her condition, taking note of the beads of sweat trickling down her body, her hair matting itself against her brow having been tossed around so relentlessly. Seating myself at the end of the bed, between her feet spread wide apart, unable to protect one another even if they wanted to, I take the tip of her right slipper and, ever so slowly, begin sliding it off her foot. She bites her lip, the sound of air scraping against her nostrils, trying with all her might to keep her shoe on her foot for the time being, but it is no use. Little by little, despite her scrunching toes, I reveal every inch of her bare foot, starting with the heel, then the sole, followed close by with the ball and finally, tossing the shoe over my shoulder, I find her toes, scrunching up, naked and afraid.

    “Now, isn’t that better?” I ask, hearing a gentle moan coming from the end of the bed, unable to suppress her dread knowing just what is about to come. Ever so gently, I begin at the sides of her foot, caressing its smooth with my dancing fingers.

    “Pfhfhfhfhfhfhfaaaaaah…” she cries out, a few sputtering laughs before going completely silent in stressed horror. Her mouth agape, she can barely exhale a few cackles before descending into hushed laughter, unable to comprehend the combination of teasing and tickling on the sides of her hyper ticklish feet. Taking the nail of my index finger, I swiftly scrape it from heel to toe, a yelp of distress finally revealing itself. Over and over, I drag my nail across her flesh, first quickly, then agonizingly slowly, making her bounce and jerk all the way up.

    “I’m sorry, I forgot to ask: do you like it fast, or slow?” I provokingly ask, eliciting a pitiful moan on her part. Such was a loaded question, as no answer would have saved her from the horrendous tickling she has to deal with: the sudden jolt of electricity as its hard point drags across her soft sole, or the agonizing intensity as it caresses it at a snail’s pace, forcing her to confront every moment as though time were standing still.

    I leave her foot, a slight tint of red where I focused the most. Directing my attention elsewhere, I pinpoint my next avenue of ticklish assault: her left foot. Grasping her pink slipper by the toe, I slowly make my ascent, taking note of the quiet whimpers I hear from her. Her resistance is little, knowing just how futile it truly is, and how necessary it will be to save her strength when it really matters. Peeling it off her foot just like the other, I watch as I stop just as it is about to come off, dangling precariously just off the tips of her toes. It is here that I intend to test her force of will, measuring her sense of self in real time much to her dismay.

    “If you don’t want it to come off, you’d better keep it still,” I warn her, biting her lip in concentration as I begin snaking my fingers underneath the soft material, gently scratching my nails over her soft soles. She twitches, giggling to herself as a rampant burst of laughter begins creeping up on her. She knows she can’t hold it, that it’s only a matter of time before it comes flinging off her foot, but when that times comes is all up to her. My nails make their way up to the ball of her foot, clenching her toes to and fro, hoping to cover them with the remainder of the slipper to no avail. A sudden jolt of electricity fire through her person as I make my way underneath her toes and, in one unfortunate motion, she jerks the slipper off her foot, leaving her completely vulnerable.

    “Noooooooooooooahahahahahahaha!” she cackles as I dig my nails into the supple flesh just underneath her toe pads. Clenching down upon my fingers, how comical it is to find her merely keeping my fingers in place, tickling her without mercy. With my left hand, I grasp all five of them, peeling them backwards, leaving the entirety of her foot taut much to her chagrin.

    “Do you like it if I do…this?” I ask before lunging my nails deep into the sole of her foot, throwing her into a maelstrom of ticklish agony.

    “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” she screams at the top of her voice, unaware of just how willing I was to take her to unimaginable depths of tickle torture. Maddeningly I skitter my nails up and down her foot, rendered completely immobile despite her grunting protests to protect her foot.

    I gaze upon her figure, chest heaving, the rest of her body lying limp from such extended torments.

    Kneeling before her feet, a slight tint of red collecting upon them due to the length of torture I had inflicted, I grasp her right foot by its sides and, with amorous intent, begin licking the tops of her toes. Swirling the tip of my tongue over each and every one of her toepads, I look up at her, taking note in the way in which she is immersed in such sensations.

    She lets out a silent breathy scream, whose volume is low, but intensity is high, truly a new form of heaven and hell for her to balance. She shakes her head, hoping to disseminate some of this new sensation, but it is no use. As my tongue begins flossing its way between her toes, lapping into that hyper ticklish crevice, her defenses begin crumbling down.

    It is over the next half hour that I make passionate love to her feet: caressing every inch of their angelic form with my slippery appendage. Running my tongue up and down her soles, I intermittently nibble upon her toes, sending a shock through her body just before I resume again. I kiss and rub the sides of her feet, giving her just enough time to catch her breath before I begin again, throwing her into a torrent of ticklish delights once more. Once I envelop her toes, gently nibbling upon them as I lap them up, a sensation that has been growing inside of her finally takes hold.

    I watch as her hips churn, her butt rubs against the bed, indicating to me just what I had known all along. Flossing in between each and every one of her toes, my moist tongue making its way expertly as it should, she has no choice but to succumb to that which she can no longer deny. Biting her lower lip, between the girlish giggles and hapless laughter of a woman on the edge, a lustful moan escapes them from time to time, unable to hide that which I am now taking advantage of. Finally, at the edge of her climax, I cease, making my way to a small toolkit I brought with me. Rummaging through its contents, the slight patter of clanking items peaking her curiosity, I take hold of what will amount to the proverbial climax of this ticklish tail: one pair of feathers, and one pair of hard bristled hairbrush, heaven and hell incarnate.

    I make my way over to her, noting the immense collection of sweat that surrounds her. In each hand I wield a single feather, their soft material meant for the most sensual of teasing, while their hard quills can bring down the most resilient of defenses when wielded by a true master. Rolling up the bottom of her blouse, I begin slowly dragging the feathers across her midsection.

    “Pfhfhfhfhfehehehehehehehe!” she stifles, attempting once again to hide her ticklishness. Silly girl, being bound helpless in such a position, believing herself to have any control left in the world. No, she has the power to laugh when I give her the power to. I ascend up, just above the line of her skirt, teasing the tops of her breasts with the same ease. They jiggle about, her entire midsection swaying back and forth, jumping a bit as I insert a single feather between them.

    It is a dance, a mutual dance between two people, and I am taking the lead. Robbed of her sight, she has no choice but to be immersed in this balancing act between peril and pleasure, thrown into the deep end of her own burgeoning libido taking control of every nerve ending in her body, and I know just how to manipulate that to my advantage. Gently I glide the feathers just above her pant line, the top of her panties peeking out from under her jean shorts. Again, she bucks, only to realize just how much energy I have syphoned out of her already. Little can she do now to avoid me, leaving the entirety of her body open for my indulgence.

    “Ehehehehehehehehehehe! Stop!” she tries to sound commanding, only to have dissolved like putty in my hands long ago. I run the feathers across the insides of her thighs, making my intent that much clearer as time goes by. Again, a sudden lustful groan is inserted between her teetering laughter, the focus of my attacks too close to her womanhood to be ignored. She gasps, the tip of the feathers making their way inside the legs of her shorts, just inches from their intended target.

    I unbutton her shorts, pulling at her zipper, revealing the small daisy at the front of her panties. The small untouched patches of skin just around her labia are what I am after, and nothing more. I have no intent on taking advantage of her position as a married woman, that I am sure. However, that does not mean I cannot lead her body down that path on its own accord, laying the right path for it to achieve climax by itself, me as merely a bystander. Surely, it would not be an easy path, so long as I am in charge.

    Wielding my dastardly implement, I caress the tips of my feathers precariously around her womanhood, grazing along the crevice between her legs with ease, just missing her lips again and again. She giggles endlessly, biting her lip to suppress whatever sensations she is trying not to betray, but I am relentless, and with every swipe of the feather, a small sliver of resistance is stripped away from her. Bit by bit, she is succumbing to the sensual teasing, immersed in an impending orgasm that she hopes will come sooner rather than later. I’m not even touching her there, and yet here she lays: aroused out of her pretty little head, hoping my wrist will jerk and I will inadvertently touch that which cannot be mentioned. Such is the corner I have trapped her in, for just as I bring her right to the edge, I ravage her left sole with my hairbrush much to her frantic dismay.
    “WAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NO PLEASE!!” she cries out, shaken to her core having been brought so close only to have it stripped away.

    “Please what?” I mockingly ask, knowing full well what she desires but wanting it to come out of her mouth. How hard it must be: a married woman, whose faithfulness knows no bounds, being forced to beg for sexual release at the hands of an unknown stranger. What a battle it must be raging inside of her, forcing to choose the bonds of marriage over her own sanity. But that is exactly what I want: I want her to beg for it, and until she does, nothing is going to change.

    I cease her foot tickling only to, yet again, resume teasing her with the feathers. Who knew such untouched flesh, hidden from the world for most of its existence, could be used to my advantage for so long. With every passing minute, her moans become more strained, her groans more desperate, trying to induce her own orgasm before I have the chance to notice. Poor girl: if only she knew just how hellbent I am on keeping her in this state, of how I relish in her turmoil, bringing a married woman down to her knees one swipe of the feather at a time. Yet again, at the very last moment, just as she is about to reach the point of no return, I grasp the dastardly hairbrush and, without one ounce of mercy, begin scraping its bristles deep into the ball of her left foot, throwing her into the depths of despair yet again.

    “RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMPH!!” she grunts, pure frustration overtaking her ticklish responses, but not for long. Through her hapless laughter, she is just able to search for mercy, finding out just what it is going to take to finally give her release.

    “WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” she roars, unable to cope with the torments any longer. “PLEASE TELL ME!! I’LL DO ANYTHING!!” There now, we have true music to my ears.

    “Anything?” I tenderly ask, not missing one beat as I ascend my tool underneath her clenching toes, maddeningly scraping their tops until they splay open in desperation, the dreaded caps of each bristle invading her hapless toes maddeningly so.

    “YAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHASSSSS!!” she hisses, thrust into desperation mode, not fully aware of just how much she has foregone in attempting to bargain with her tickler. However, it is in this newly docile state that I have cornered her fragile mind, right where I want it.

    “Beg for it!” I demand, not ceasing, watching her response as I do. “Beg for me to let you cum!” Her laughter goes silent, or maybe that’s just me, waiting in anticipation for the moment when she seals her fate. It has finally come to it: the resilience of a married woman put on the line where it matters the most. Till death do us part holds not one candle to a master tickler, ravaging her body with abandonment, an unstoppable force meeting a seemingly immovable object only to find it readily moves when given the right motivation. I can only surmise, through her cackling wails and primal shrieks, that she was just barely able to squeak out these words, submitting herself to a higher power.


    It is with this that, dropping the hairbrush to my side, I pick up the dual feathers, teasing her at whim. I caress every inch of her, making sure to make my way into every crease and crevice I had overlooked before. This time I am not careful, dragging its tip over wherever I please. The tension inside of her building, her moans turning swiftly into groans, and then cries, and finally wails of ecstasy. Finally, after so much, she climaxes, the intensity and duration of which makes it seem to be the first in her entire life.

    “Now the real fun can begin,” I position, her breathing becoming stayed, not sure of having heard me correctly. Making my way across the room, I return with a small bottle, and begin pouring a puddle of hot baby oil into my hand, directing it into her sole. Not wasting a single drop, I coat the entirety of her foot in its viscous substance, making sure to not miss the crevices between her toes. She twitches and jerks, realizing just how much more sensitive she is post-orgasm as I do the same to the other foot. Taking a hairbrush in each hand, I direct each one into a foot and, without warning, begin vigorously scrubbing them across her defenseless, freshly oiled soles.

    “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” she cries at the top of her lungs, her nerve endings on fire having the orgasmic sensations coursing through her veins. She can no longer contain herself: with renewed vigor she flails about, almost as frantically as before, desperate to escape the horrifying torments surely ten times worse than before.

    “Do you love to be tickled?” I call out, waiting patiently for the right answer.

    “MERCYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!” she cries, surely unaware of my intended answer, but not for long.

    “Do you LOVE to be tickled?!” I repeat myself, having not ascertained the answer she knows herself to be true.

    “WAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” she screams, just as the dastardly brushes begin ravaging the delicate sides of her feet. “YEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSS!!”

    That’s a good girl. She knows just what to do, it only takes a little bit of convincing.

    “Say you love to be tickled!” I yell out, dragging the oiled hairbrush across her soles, her entire body flailing about desperately for freedom.

    “AAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” she wails, the combination of peril and pleasure putting her in a highly submissive state, willing and able to do or say anything that may inevitably lessen her torments. “I LOVE TO BE TICKLED!!”

    “Because you’re so ticklish, right?!” I ask, the brushes slowly making their way up to her flailing toes, sensing her increasing desperation just at the peak of her peril.

    “I’M SO TICKLISH!!” she shrieks, hoping to get this line of questioning over with as soon as possible, only to realize it is going at the methodically speed I dictate and not a moment sooner.

    “Are you a good little tickle toy?!” I ask, ascending the bristles into her toes, clenching desperately as their invasive bristles ravage their tender toe pads. It is here and now that she has not one shred of resistance left in this cruel cruel world, her liquefying brain immersed in tickle torture, not knowing her left from right even the hopelessness of her position too much to bear.

    “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!! WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIT!!!” Unfathomable, just how little she has left to stand on.

    “Say it!” I call out, the balls of each bristle scraping their way into her toes, bringing her into the depths of ticklish hell the likes of which she may never escape. Finally, she breaks: her spirit snapping in two, she finally bends to my will, leaving nothing left to call her own as I shape her to my liking:


    It was so satisfying hearing the evolution of her laughter over these many hours: an endless stream of wild cackles replaced by that of a single shriek, dissolving into torrents of silent laughter again and again. Only after a full half hour did I leave her be, feeling the blindfold seeping in tears before I left, tints of red left across her body where I found it most amusing to torment her. Her strained throat had become hoarse, gasping for breath many long minutes after her torments ceased. It’s a shame just how rough I can be with my playthings, something that has plagued me ever since I was a child, always seeming to break my favorite toys.

    Ah well, such is the reality when you’re the wife of a tickle fanatic, reaching out to a clandestine figure to have their way with you, for as long as they please, without a thing in the world you could do about it.

    The End

  2. #2
    Join Date
    May 2005

  3. #3
    Join Date
    Nov 2016
    Brilliant level of deranged detached depraved intensity

  4. #4
    Join Date
    Jan 2002
    NY City
    Blog Entries
    Wonderful story!
    <== the sacred soles of Goddess Shelly

    A link to my stories on the TMF.

    Buy my first novel "Sorority Sisters" here.

    Buy my nonfiction epic here.

    Buy my popular novel "Jennifer's Revenge" here.

    Order one of my collections of short stories from MTJ Publishing here:

    Order Today!

    עם ישראל חי
    אֶרֶץ יִשְׂרָאֵל חי

  5. #5
    Great story. It has a very realistic vibe to it. You're a very talented writer.

  6. #6
    Join Date
    May 2005
    chicago burbs
    very nice!!!

  7. #7
    Nice Story... Worth Reading

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