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  1. #1
    Join Date
    Jan 2018
    Location
    Connecticut
    Posts
    18

    Tickling Your Wife (A Second Helping)

    (this has been a follow-up commission from a patron)

    So, we meet again my dear.

    I find her by her lonesome, making her way through her own home without a care in the world. What little she can foresee as she turns a corner to find me lying in wait, ready to spring the trap I have laid out just for her. I catch her off-guard, ambushing her in the darkened hallway as she unwittingly passes by, ensnaring her for a night of peril and pleasure she is not soon to forget. Pressing a small implement against her back, threatening her with what she assumed to be a gun if she did not comply, I swiftly assume full control of her person, dictating her every move for the foreseeable future. Little did she know it was merely her own curling iron I held in my hands, but that’s all ancient history now, for what truly matters is what is to unfold with what precious time we have together.

    I hand her the blindfold, telling her to put it over her own eyes, leaving not one glimpse of the outside world in her sight. I tell her to do what I say, exactly how I say it, and that I will know if she chooses to disobey: she can’t hide anything from me, and she knows it. Carefully leading her into her bedroom, I make quick work of her, having thoroughly prepared for her delivery: binding her wrists with thick leather cuffs, I truss her up against the wooden door, where a set of restraints are protruding out just underneath the sturdy frame. Hoisting her wrists high above her head, I clip them into place, knowing that is where they will remain for the rest of the night. Bound and shackled, ensnared by a clandestine figure whose intent she is completely ignorant of, she is in for a treat as I indulge myself endlessly to my whimsy.
    She is trapped, and now, it is time to me to have my fill.

    I circle her, shuffling my feet against the carpet flooring, making her increasingly uneasy with my near-silence. She is completely still, not moving one muscle or breathing too loudly, as though I could possibly forget the helpless little prey standing in front of me if she doesn’t bring attention to herself. Oh, how horrible it must feel to be so destitute in one’s own home, robbed of your eyesight as an unknown figure, shrouded in darkness since the moment we met, contemplates your fate. It is only fitting that I take her in the comfort of her own home, for what better setting could there be to ravage the body of a married woman than the marital home in which they share, and the room which is soon to never be the same once this night comes to a much-desired close.

    “You’ve had this coming my dear,” I solemnly dictate, breaking the deafening silence as I slowly make my approach.

    “Please don’t hurt me,” she pleads, attempting to shrink away from my impending presence, her meek tone of voice betraying a pervasive sense of helplessness befalling her at this very moment. “If it’s money you want, just take it and I won’t tmph…” A single finger descends atop her sumptuous lips, buttoning her mouth shut with effortless ease.

    “You will speak when I tell you to speak,” I command, lifting my finger as her lips stay pursed, hoping not to make her situation that much worse that it may already turn out to be. “That’s a good girl.” I brush her cheek with the side of my hand, noting the dead giveaways that reveal the fear she cannot truly hide: her breathing elevated, the slight tremble in her knees, the nervous shuffling of her bare feet across the carpet, every detail taken note of to best shape the gradual process of breaking down her defenses, both physical as well as mental, inch by agonizing inch until they have fallen completely by the wayside.

    As I said before: she can’t hide anything from me.

    “I hope you didn’t have any plans for the night,” I tell her, hearing the hard swallow of a woman silently imagining the horrors that lie just beyond the fray. “Because we have unfinished business to attend to, and if you’re so curious, I will tell you this will be…a laughing matter.”

    Ever so gently, hoisting the tips of my fingers up over her outstretched arms, I begin tracing my way down their quivering flesh. Dragging them across the supple skin of her forearms, descending past her jerking elbows, they slowly make their destination more and more apparent with every inch they go. She purses her lips, turning her head away from my teasing touch, as though she not dare witness what comes despite the reality of being blindfolded. Poor girl: if only she knew just how bad it was going to be, if only she could fully recall out last night together when I played her like an instrument of ticklish magnificence, she might have had enough common sense to give up already, saving us all this troublesome resistance.

    Ah well, more fun for me.

    “What’s a matter sweetie?” I tenderly ask her, teasing her in such a helpless state she finds herself in. Clenching her teeth, I can hear the hiss of air as her breathing quickens, trying to brace herself for what is to come. “You can tell me: just enunciate your words.” I am getting to her: she grunts, a mixture of agony and indignation without a happy medium in between, forced to keep her composure as long as possible, no matter how futile it may be. However, if there is one thing she is going to learn tonight, it’s this: there is no escape, there is no repose, and there is no happy medium.

    “Unless of course…it’s starting to tickle.”

    Not one moment later do I hit my mark, as my fingers descend straight into her underarms, eliciting a silent shriek of agony, followed closely by cascades of forced laughter descending from her outstretched lips.

    “AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!” she bellows forth, the brunt of the horrendous tickling far too much for her to bear. Her supple skin does nothing but invite more as I frenetically trace my way over every inch of her underarms without a care in the world. Bouncing atop the balls of her feet, her breasts cascading to and fro underneath her deep blue blouse, such a joyous reaction that is anything but that. She cannot help but be immersed in the tickling, as my skittering fingers find every spot to drive her wild for, of course, they have done it before.

    “I’m sorry: did you say something?” I tauntingly ask her as I dig deep into the tender flesh of the muscle, right at the sides of her breasts, sending her desperate shrieks up another octave.

    “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” she screams into the night, throwing her head back in forced mirth to try and balance such maddening sensations coursing through each of her hypersensitive nerve endings. I can already feel the sweat collecting on her body, the sheer exertion too much for the poor creature, forced to compensate only to make it much easier for my fingers to slide right into place. Such will be the first of many ways her body will begin to betray her tonight, I guarantee it.

    “I hope you’re not giving up already,” I tell her, bending my head down, facing her one inch away as though I were addressing a defenseless child.

    “STAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!” she squeals, the first of many pleas that will fall on deaf ears for hours to come. She must hope that she will inadvertently stumble unto one ounce of pity, one iota of remorse left in this husk of a human being desolating her body as we speak. If only I could tell her just how pitiful it is that she even tries, or how she is merely doomed to suffer relentless tickle torture throughout the rest of the night.

    In fact, that’s exactly what I am going to do.

    “Oh sweetie, let’s not kid ourselves,” I respond, inserting my ice-cold response in between her forced mirth and hapless cackles. “I’m never going to stop: no matter how much you plead, or beg, or cry, I am never going to stop.”

    “NOOOOOOOOOOHOHOHOHOHO WAIT!! WAAAAAAAAAAAAIHEHEHEHEHETT!!” she screams as I begin pulsating down her sides, tearing through the thin fabric that just does nothing to protect her, pushing deep into her ribs and hips as I make my way down her person. I feel her abdominal muscles as she tenses them, trying with all her might to keep my invasive fingers out of their vulnerable creases. However, my wriggling implements do nothing but pinpoint those most guarded tickle spots and, with surgical accuracy, will find a way in, one way or another.

    “We have all the time in the world my darling,” I respond, pulsating into her lower abdomen, making sure to take inventory of that tender spot just underneath the belly button, one which I never overlook, but one which she must wish I most certainly did. It must be so infuriating: knowing that there nothing but that doorknob keeping her stationary, just so far out of reach for the time being, for just one turn of it would free the delectable darling from her plight. If only she were more flexible, her flailing feet being put to good use in unlatching it for her escape, a feat to be reckoned with.

    I may have locked it beforehand, but it would be a most amusing sight to watch her try.

    “NAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!! HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEEHEHEHEHE!!” she calls out frequently, in between those precious moments when she is crying your name, desperate for her savoir to swoop in, rescuing her from peril like the knight in shining armor you are. But she knows the truth: you are far, far away, on the one and only night when she needs you the most, without even a whisper of a chance of liberating her from her torments.

    But what about her neighbors? I don’t see them barging in on our good time here, taking it upon themselves to stop a crime in progress. I don’t see the strobe lights outside her window, a sure sign of someone calling the police to report a merciless tickling of criminal proportions. Just where is the neighborhood watch when you need them? Maybe they don’t want me to stop: maybe they’re out there right now, listening to her cries for mercy, indulging in every second of her suffering, thankful that I was the one to give it to them. Maybe they’re taking video of her ordeal, those perverts: ready and willing to turn around and sell the clips on the internet to make a quick buck off someone’s ticklish suffering.

    I’m sure you’d buy a copy if you had the chance.

    I give her rest to recuperate, lifting my fingers from her quivering flesh, watching her chest heave as air passes swiftly through her throat. Teetering giggles escape her time to time, the residual effect of such prolonged torments showing. Her reactions are different, similar but as though they have evolved from the time before. Could it be that she is growing accustomed to our time together? Is her body, and by extension her mind, coming around to the idea of being my little tickle pet when duty calls, subject to my whim whenever I please for the rest of her days? I’ll have to be sure to test this theory if time permits, but for now, it has come to that point when she is to slowly give her everything to me, and by everything, I mean that one thing kept most sacred from every man by every woman but her significant other: her modesty.

    I gaze down at her blue denim cutoffs, covered slightly by the drooping cloth of her blouse above. Pinching the bottom of the blue cloth, I slowly lift it away, revealing the button and zipper that is the only things keeping her trousers in her possession. Gently I tug at the single button, watching her attempt to relieve it from my possession, swaying her hips side to side all to no avail. Hearing the slight pop as it comes undone, I suddenly reveal the top of a familiar set of white lingerie underneath, but it is not enough. Like a curious critter, I search for that pesky zipper, and upon finding it, gently tug it downward, that single daisy peeks its way out of her shorts like last time. She gasps at my intrusion, clutching her legs firmly together, making sure I get no help in declothing her any further.

    “You really want to keep these to yourself, now don’t you?” I tenderly ask, noting the frustration on her face with the amount of effort needed to keep them stationary. Little does she know that she is not only giving herself a false sense of security, but it will soon be by her own doing that over the course of this hellish night, her clothing will be stripped away, and the modesty of a married woman will be torn to shreds in the process.

    “I wonder just how long you’ll be able to,” I respond to her defiance, tracing the tips of my fingers down the sides of her thighs, then back up again, maddeningly skittering them across her delicate flesh. Her trembling knees betray the sheer effort she is exerting, trying to clamp her legs tight in resisting my influence. Finding great pleasure in this little game of cat and mouse, I continue to explore her person, making sure to cover every square inch of her clenched muscles right until I find that one spot.

    “Pppppppphfhfhfhfhfhfhfhfhfhf!” she sputters, the pressure building up just too much to keep in. Having kept her lips pursed in rugged defiance, they slowly begin to peel open, revealing a toothy grin as I gently scrape my nails behind her knees, such a tender spot known to have great leverage over her. However, she will learn that I am in full control, wielding her body like a plaything, and now, playtime is over. Grasping her atop the thighs, my hands encircling them nearly halfway, I begin massaging my way through the muscle. She shrieks in response, bouncing up and down, attempting to escape with what little dignity she has left in this world. Ravenously my hands devour every inch of her upper legs, pulsating their way up and down with maximum efficiency. It is in one moment that, with the right amount of pressure in more ways than one, she loses control of herself, spreading her legs just momentarily, letting her shorts drop down to her ankles, a grunt of frustration emanating from her gullet.

    “There, now isn’t that better?” I say, tasting the bitter look she has the audacity to give me through her tear-soaked blindfold. I note the white sheen of her underpants as I take in such a familiar sight, including the little daisy that is most certainly eluding to a symbolic representation. However, upon gazing at its bottom do I note a slight discoloration, a subtle transparency in the fabric that is just calling right to me. It is only when I gently place my fingers atop the material, eliciting a moan of embarrassment, do I note that they are indeed wet, and by the flush of red across her cheeks, it is a detail she most certainly did not want me to spot.

    “You can’t hide anything from me my darling,” I remind her, wiping my moistened fingers gently across her cheek. She purses her lips, not wanting one thing to inadvertently slip out, confirming what I had suspected all along. Through the thin layer of her midnight blue blouse I see something else trying to capture my attention: her perky nipples, piercing through the fabric, catching my leering eye much to her possible dismay.

    “I can tell you’re enjoying this,” I gently tell her, noting her cheeks blushing even more in embarrassment, knowing full well her sexual arousal in on full display to an unknown assailant keeping her hostage. If she only knew that the primal sounds of her climax were etched within my mind, the sound of a married woman begging me to relinquish her to orgasm too good to forget, she may have been less inclined to feign modesty.

    “Let’s just get a little more comfortable with you, shall we?” I step away, rummaging through the large duffle bag I had brought just for her. Taking a large set of scissors in hand, I make my way back over to her, gently pinching her left strap up off her shoulder. Giving a preliminary snip, I see the horror regain itself in her face as she realizes exactly what I intend to do.

    “Please…don’t,” she can only meekly beg, hearing the shearing of fabric as I snip the first strap of her blouse, only a centimeter of material keeping her from immodesty. Not having any of it, I take the right one in hand and, every so easily, snip it off her shoulder. Her sweat drenched body clings unto its vestige of protection but not for long, as it slowly glides downward, plopping unto the floor.

    “Now we can really get started.”

    I take those same small stiff feathers, the same ones that kissed her supple skin not long ago, and begin teasingly dragging them across her neck. Making their way up to her earlobes, she recoils, a natural reaction to such sensuous stimuli. It is only that I am merely priming her, setting her up to the mind-boggling sexual arousal she is sure to experience very soon. Making my way up and down her body, pinpointing the most tender of erogenous spots along the way, I slowly make my way to her bosom. Caressing the tops of her breasts, dragging the across the thin fabric of her bra, I gently graze her erect nipples along the way. Her chest begins to heave, submitting to the inevitable conclusion that she knows must come, all part of the plan I have been hatching the moment I left her.

    It was hard to relinquish her to you, as parting is such sweet sorrow. You offered her to me that one fateful night, hand-delivering her into my wicked clutches for as long as I desired. In my possession you let me tickle her, tease her, torture her into submission, letting me take sweet liberty with her hapless body and malleable mind, and I did. I savored every moment of it all, ravaging her person to my heart’s content, inscribing every hapless wail and desperate cackle into my memory banks for all eternity. I returned her to you, a little piece of her left behind for mind to keep, but nonetheless back in your possession, ready to restart your happy lives together as faithfully married.

    But it wasn’t enough: I needed more of her, and I am going to take it.

    “Ooh…ehehehehehe…mmph…” she moans in sweet delight, her defenses slowly crumbling to the tender touch of such ubiquitous devices. How easy she is to mold, simply putty in my hands, ready to be shaped into a perfect little pet for my amusement. Who knew two simple feathers were enough to crumble the happiest of marriages, so long as they were given just the right amount of time to work their magic. However, it was only fitting, in the middle of her most savored sexual arousal, that I remind her who exactly is in charge, as I begin once again ravaging her body with my hungry fingers.

    “STAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!! RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRMPH!!” she screeches in agony, her precious orgasm swiftly robbed from her as I begin digging into her sides, having her bounce up and down in ticklish terror. I would like to help her, but I’m fresh out of pity at the moment.

    “I’m sorry: did you say something?” I taunt the poor creature, watching my fingers glide across her quivering flesh with ease. Digging into the hollows of her tender armpits, she can only shriek in cackle in result, not knowing just when she will be given the chance to cum like she so rightly deserves.

    “LEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHET MEEEEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!” she screeches, unable to complete that sentence for fear of finally turning over herself for good, but nonetheless betraying the slow process of getting her to that point is working its magic. It is now that she is near docile, opening every avenue of attack in which I may take, for the hopes that one of them may inevitably lead to her sweet release. Such is all part of the conditioning: making her believe that her peril is only a pitstop to pleasure, even at the hands of a clandestine figure like myself.

    It must have not escaped her that he and I are the same person, but does it really matter? Does it matter who has tamed this creature, conditioning her to accept, nay desire, the endless waves of tickle torture that keep on coming back no matter how long ago it has been? I say not, for what does it matter when, at the end of the day, she is begging someone for sweet release who is knows is not her husband?

    I give her another break, but not for long: only long enough to reach behind her and unlatch her bra. Taking the straps into my hands, I hoist them up to her face, her heaving chest accompanied by the mountains of air passing through her lips. However, despite all this, she is just going to have to handle one more thing.

    “Open up,” I command softly but sternly, prompting her to open her mouth wider, bearing her teeth again as I place the tiny little straps atop her bottom jaw. “Now close.” She does what I tell her like she should: clamping her teeth together, she secures her bra in place, a modesty of a good married woman in the crosshairs. She knows exactly what I am doing, and for the time being, everything that happens to her is of her own doing, as with every stroke of the feather across her tender breasts, a small strip of dignity is taken away from her as she moans pitifully right in front of me.

    “You know what I think?” I ask her, watching her face contort in frustration, attempting to balance sexual agony with the endless taunting of her captor. “I think you want me to touch them. I think there something deep inside of you that just can’t wait until that bra of yours comes crumbling down, and I get to have my way with you even more. Am I right?” She whimpers in response, the poor creature lost in this hellish ordeal the likes of which she cannot escape. The moment she relinquishes her breasts to the cool crisp air is the moment she has given them to me, confirming exactly what I know to be true whether she believes it or not.

    It is too much: the gentle caressing across her ears, neck, breasts, and nipples has reached critical overload. Just as the tips of these feathers once again trace their way around the undersides of her breasts, the inevitable happens: an unexpected moan of ecstasy escapes her, as her lingerie goes tumbling down her person, collapsing unto her feet, reminding her of the moment her will and resolve failed her and, by extension, her happy marriage.

    “Ah, there we go,” I coldly state, staring at her hardened nipples, noting as they beckon for me in their aroused state. I take two stiff feathers and, every so deviously, begin dragging them across her areolas. She bites her lips, hoping to keep hold of any pleasure that will soon be seeping out, only to be readily usurped by their maddening effectiveness.

    “Stahahahahahap…please!” she squeaks underneath her breath, hoping to maintain some semblance of herself as she is lost in a torrent of peril and pleasure. Her breathing elevated, she has no choice but to slowly succumb to the orgasmic energies slowly coming to fruition. Tiny droplets begin cascading down to the floor, her blindfold already soaking wet through all the turmoil, just as her panties are having betrayed her more refined inhibitions.
    Suddenly, after thirty minutes of maddening teasing without release, I stop, staring coldly at her without movement. After five minutes of silence, watching her try to keep herself together, she breaks down in tears, begging me under her breath to take her over the edge, and like always, there is a catch.

    “I don’t think I can continue unless you tell me to,” I give her an ultimatum. There is only one thing left keeping her from exposing the totality of herself to this stranger: one thing she had sworn to only give a glimpse of to her husband and no one else, but that which she must relinquish anyways. She can do nothing but feign consideration, pretending as though she is making the single most important decision of the truth when, in reality, she has already made up her mind. Long ago, the second my fingers descended down her statuesque arms, she had decided to relinquish her body to me. She has dreamt of this moment reoccurring, of an unknown assailant ravaging her throughout the night, all under the guise of her being the helpless damsel in distress.

    “Just say the word, and it is done,” I whisper in her ear, seeing the sweat drop unto the floor, knowing for sure it will only get worse (or better) from here.

    Finally, she gives in.

    “…take them off…” I barely hear a faint whisper coming from her lips. With curiosity, cupping my hand to my ear, I inquire for clarification.

    “What was that? I didn’t quite hear from you: what did you say?” I ask, taunting her submissive state as she so rightfully deserves.

    “I said…take them off,” she repeats, a sigh on the tail end of such a betrayal.

    “If you say so, you naughty girl,” I say, sliding my fingers just underneath her underwear and, ever so gently, sliding them down her legs, wrapped around her ankles joined by her shorts.

    “You just couldn’t help yourself, now could you?” I say before taking up the dual feathers once again but, this time dragging them across that most forbidden region she has hoped for this entire time.

    “Yes!” she moans, feeling the feathers glide over her bare clit, praying for one swipe too deep to throw her over the edge, only to forget exactly who she is dealing with.

    “You just couldn’t keep it together, and now you have to be punished!” I command, finding my way underneath to tickle her bare butt much to her surprise.

    “Eeeeeeeeeeehehehehehehehehe no don’t! Please!” she gasps in peril, feeling the devious feathers glide just underneath her sex, caressing her clenched butt cheeks in form. Oh how she wants to close her legs so badly, protecting herself from such maddening tickles as a reflex. However, she must resist, keeping her upper thighs splayed open, for fear of her pleasure being taken away from her for even one second.

    “You’re going to submit, understand?” I ask sternly, prompting her to gently nod her head. I take the feather and, without holding back, begin dragging it over her lower lips. Arching her back forward, biting her lip, she mentally prepares herself to achieve the orgasm of her life. Suddenly, throwing her head back, she moans one of complete desperation upon the feather, and obvious to me, she hasn’t learned anything since I have had her.

    “Did I say you could cum?” I ash before digging my fingers into the tops of her thighs, massaging deep into its muscle with wild abandonment. Shocked by such a devious tickle attack, she lets out an almighty wail of desperation.

    “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!” she screams, her cries echoing down the hallway. She knew just how sensitive she could be after such a mind-boggling orgasm, but she couldn’t possibly wrap her brain around my assault being so cruel.

    “WHAT DO YOU WANT?!” she calls out, desperate to tap into my mind, hoping to grasp hold on anything that will relieve her of such hellish torment.

    “I want to break you,” I respond coldly, pulling her hair from her ear to whisper hotly to her as I give her one last break for the night. “I want to make sure every time you cum, you’ll think of me. Every time you think of having sex with your husband, you’ll have no choice but to remember the day I forced you to orgasm in front of me, time and time again, and you gave in without a fight.”

    I hear a subtle whimper, noting another fresh batch of tears falling from her blindfold as she knows it to be true.

    “I want you to know just how much you belong to me: your laughter, your mind, and your body, all mine, and that any day from here on out, I could come back and do this all over again. Is that what you want?”

    “YES!” she wails after an abrupt deliberation, right before I begin tickling her underarms yet again, transitioning back to her orgasm-inducing torments right after.

    Yet this was to become her fate for the rest of the night: pushed over the edge, forced to orgasm in front of a complete stranger only to be ravenously tickled atop her person as punishment. Skittering my nails across her sweaty naked flesh, I invade every last spot she wished to hide from me. Her hapless cries morphed into pathetic sobs as it never ended: an insatiable tickle torture, then right back to the feather for another forced orgasm. By daybreak, she had been decimated by my ways, forced to face her husband the very next day having betrayed him to the likes of an unknown stranger.

    Even today, she keeps it from him, having the audacity to look him in the eyes when deep down she craves my touch, night after night, unable to satisfy herself until I come back again, relinquishing her into a life of ticklish heaven or hell, whichever I choose.

    And for the most part, I choose hell.

    The End

  2. #2
    Join Date
    Feb 2010
    Location
    US
    Posts
    60
    I imagine my sexy wife as the heroine

  3. #3
    Join Date
    May 2005
    Location
    texas
    Posts
    135
    Definitely has a gift of giving

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