…in which YOU arrive for your monthly meeting with your own personal tickle-torture cohort whose only objective is to make you laugh very very hard…
PART ONE
The night starts long before the night.
Friday work ends early and by midafternoon, you’re on your way uptown to the best salon on the west side. You smile at your pedicurist who knows you by name. She’s finishing up another client, but while you wait, you watch her working. You make eye contact with her as she picks up the pumice stone and you’re sure she gives you a little grin as she goes to work scrubbing the dead skin from the soles of the woman in the chair. You can’t see her face but you see her body tense against the sensation and your motor empathy sends a shockwave up your legs into your stomach.
When you sit down in the chair the pedicurist kneels at your feet with your favorite red. You stare down at your toes. The polish from last week still looks fresh, but there’s a ritual to this and the prep is half the fun. You start scrolling though your phone but only a few minutes in, you have to put it down to grip the arms of the chair in concentration. Your feet, screamingly ticklish under any circumstances, seem oddly sensitive today. It’s been four weeks since the last “meeting,” as you and the boys have taken to calling it, and this first Friday of the month has been long awaited. You squint your eyes and bite your lip against the silicon scrubber, whispering an apology to the woman at your feet who you’re sure is enjoying your squirming more than she’s letting on.
On the train home, you can’t tell if it’s your imagination or if people are really staring at you. It feels like there’s something in the air – like everyone is drawn to you for some reason. Like you have a secret and try as you might, you can’t seem to hide it.
At home, you take a quick shower and stand in your bedroom in your towel. You grab your bag from the closet and begin the process of deciding what to bring. It’s one of your favorite parts of the event – choosing exactly what clothes to wear…what will drive them craziest…what will eventually fall or be torn off…what will ultimately lead to the most intense experience. You slip on a black thong and let the towel fall to the floor, turning to admire your ass in the mirror.
You start with a black bra and tank top. You wouldn’t dream of showing up with sleeves, but you slip on a cropped jean jacket anyway just to enjoy removing it later. You can’t stomach the thought of keeping your ass from the world, so you squeeze into an impossibly tight pair of leggings – also to be removed later – and high heels. An extra t-shirt, sweatpants, socks, and underwear all get thrown in the bag along with the necessities…several black Velcro straps, a dozen long strands of soft rope, a large bottle of baby oil, several hair ties, and a menagerie of feathers, hairbrushes, toothbrushes, silicon scrubbers, and other diabolical looking accoutrements. You know full well they’ll all have bags loaded with different implements, some tried and true, others yet untested that will put you through your paces. But you love the looks on their faces when you open the bag and your own personal tickle-torture chamber falls onto the floor.
You shoulder your bag and look at your reflection. You look hot. Even you’d tie you up. You grab your keys, and head back down to the train.
Again, you notice people staring, though this time you can’t blame them. You feel your thighs tighten with the jostling of the train, and you’re sure the guy behind you is taking a picture of your ass. You wonder what he’s imagining. If it’s just sex? Or it’s more along the lines of the ordeal to which you’re about to subject yourself. You give him a look as you step off the train.
At the door, you buzz the intercom. A voice answers, “Passcode?”
“Not there,” you reply, grinning. The door clicks and you go inside.
In the elevator your heart races. No matter how many times you do this, it’s always equal parts thrilling and terrifying. You steady your breathing and tighten your grip on your shoulder strap. You remind yourself they’ll all be waiting for you when the door opens…just standing there, salivating. However much you’ve been looking forward to this, you know it’s been just as long a wait for them, and they’ll be overjoyed to see you. You remind yourself you have what they want. You are what they want. And you feel powerful.
When the doors open, you toss your hair and send one hip as far to the side as it will go. There they are. Five dopey faces. “Hello, boys,” you say, stifling a laugh. They all cheer and rush to help with your bag but you brush through them. “Did you miss me?”
You look them over, remembering how this whole thing started. Originally, there were only two of them. You’d met Noah and Will at a conference and on the final night, over a few too many Manhattans, had found themselves in your room with nothing to do but take their clothes off. You was leaning back against Noah’s chest while Will ate you out and you were half-way to orgasm when Will’s tongue brushed a particularly sensitive spot and you almost jumped out of the bed.
“Sorry, I’m SO ticklish,” you’d said, and you clocked immediately the look exchanged between the two men.
“Ticklish where?” Noah asked.
“Uh, everywhere, literally.”
It was then the strangest moment of your sexual life occurred. Without speaking, Will returned his mouth to your pussy, Noah slid out from behind you, and you laid back on the bed. You closed your eyes and lifted your arms above your head. You felt your breasts rock with the momentum. As Will worked on making you come, Noah’s hands slowly started tracing circles around your naked abdomen. Somehow, without directly communicating about it, you all knew exactly what was going to happen. You let yourself smile. The smile turned into a squeak, which opened into giggle, and finally, blossomed into a full-blown belly laugh. Your clit was being flicked by Will’s tongue but Noah’s fingers were dancing over your torso and ribcage. You didn’t lower your arms. You didn’t try to escape. You just submitted to the tickling. You laughed and laughed until you couldn’t breathe, and then your body took over, you gasped air into her lungs, and resumed laughing. You were laughing so hard, you couldn’t come, so Will stopped eating you out and the boys flipped you over. You lay your face on your forearms and let them explore you. You were only half-aware of how unusual everything was. The attention was intoxicating. It was as if every ounce of their energy was devoted to learning your body – to figuring out exactly what technique in which spot caused you the most sensation, and when they landed on a particularly intense combination, you felt them lean in until you were on the verge of breaking, and then somehow working together to make your body laugh even harder.
It wasn’t until Noah held you down that you finally came. Will’s thumbs had slid into the crevice between your thighs and your hips and you screamed and folded in half, trying to protect yourself. But Noah grabbed your wrists and pinned them over your head while Will reupped his attack. You were laughing so hard but you found the breath to say, “please let me come!” They released you and you flipped onto your stomach. Your naked body wrapped itself around a pillow. The boys watched as you grinded into it, writhing in ecstasy on the bed.
The next morning, you debriefed over coffee, the boys admitting they’d discovered months before that they shared a fetish for tickle torture. You had never really given tickling a second thought, but you’d realized in the night that it was going to be a part of you. Over the next months, you all agreed to meet in various locations. Hotel rooms, mostly, until it was agreed a designated room was needed. Rental costs made it prohibitive, so three others were found to cover the expense, Jack, John, and Marty, and the five-headed monster was complete.
You ceremoniously unzip your bag and turn it over, letting the kinky contents fall onto the floor. Everyone oohs and aahs appropriately while you slip your jean jacket off. In the center of the room, a table waits. Jack and John are already picking straps up off the floor and attaching them. You slip your hands around your back under your tanktop and unclasp your bra. You smile as all the jaws in the room drop as you slide it out from under your shirt and toss it to the side. You walk to the table, trying not to betray your nervousness. You put your hands on it and turn to face your friends.
“I can’t decide if I should take these off,” you say, picking at your leggings. “What do you think?”
Will says, “Are you actually asking us that question?”
You step out of your heels and turn your back to the boys. You peel your leggings down slowly, enjoying the feeling, and knowing every second was driving them all crazy behind you. You toss them to the side as well.
“You know this whole tease is going to make things much much worse for you, right?” Noah says.
“I was pretty much counting on that. I’d be disappointed if you let me get away with anything,” you say. You step back into your heels. Your tank top rides just a few inches above the top of your thong, and you’re well aware how good you look strutting around to the far side of the table. “How do you want me?” you say.
Everyone is too dumbstruck to speak so you wait a second before saying, “hello?”
Jack snaps out of it. “On your back.” The others agree and you oblige by sitting on the edge of the padded table and slowly reclining until your back touches the chilly surface. “Every time, you guys forget to warm this thing.”
“Sorry, it’s just that thing you do with your back…” John said.
You look down at your arched lower back. “Oh, this thing?” You arch it harder, rubbing your butt against the table and you raise your arms above your head.
“Yep, yep that,” John says. “Lord have mercy.”
Something about driving them insane was so satisfying to you. You feel them start to move closer. “You guys gonna go easy again or are you gonna actually make me laugh this time?” you say, turning your head toward them playfully.
They all laugh. “Wow someone has a death wish,” one of them says, but you turn your focus to Noah who now stands next to the table and is looking down at you affectionately.
“Big words from a very ticklish human being,” he says. “A human being who is about to be very vulnerable.” You raise your eyebrows defiantly. He goes on, “perhaps you’ve forgotten the record we set last month?” Your face hides a grimace. “You don’t want us to try and break that again, do you?”
You suddenly pin your arms to your sides and shake your head vigorously. Breaking the record had been truly unbearable, and you haven’t forgotten it for a second. Several months back, one of them – which of them you can’t remember now – noticed that as they became more and more familiar with your body, and your bouts of silent laughter were becoming longer and longer. It was now fairly routine for you to lose yourself to breathless hysterics for ten to twenty seconds at a time – so effective have the boys’ techniques become. The previous record, an unofficial estimate achieved three months back during a particularly diabolical gang tickling of your lower-half, was somewhere in the vicinity of 25 seconds. It was a mark everyone, including you, had considered unbreakable until last month, when the group made it their objective to make you break it.
It had taken most of the night. Once you had warmed up and were pleasantly howling your head off, they took turns attempting different combinations of torture techniques while one of them stood back and timed. They’d get you into a rhythm. You’d feel your breath going, and then you’d feel ten fingers settle between your ribs and begin gently massaging. They had it down to a science. Once you’d exhaled, they’d start on a new spot – not suddenly to make you gasp, but firmly and slowly, so the laughter melted out of you, taking with it any instinct to inhale at all, until all you could do was shake under the relentless, maddingly controlled, tickling. More than once you’d gotten to twenty seconds before a desperate breath broke the silence and you screamed “OH GOD STOP.”
When the record finally broke, you were so exhausted, your body had almost stopped fighting the onslaught. All five of them started slowly together – covering the soles of your hyper-ticklish feet to the hollows of your armpits – and worked you into silent hysterics, listening for the timer to beep. It felt eternal, even for them. At twenty seconds, you felt this time was different. Whoever was working on your belly slid ten oiled fingers down into the crease of your hip sockets and you felt your muscles clench against the restraints. Before your body had the chance to gasp, the sensations overwhelmed you and you doubled down on the silence. They boys all leaned in, watching your body try somehow to laugh even harder than it already was.
All told, it was 28 seconds of silent, tortured laughter. By far, the hardest you’d ever laughed in your life, including all the gang ticklings you had now received at the hands of your friendly tormentors. The boys had reacted like they’d won the super bowl.
You look up at Noah. “I don’t think I have another record breaking run in me,” you say, sliding two protective hands up under your bare armpits.
“You never know,” Noah says, grabbing a pair of cuffs. “Tonight might surprise all of us.” And with that you feel ten hands take hold of your limbs and begin securing your sensitive body to the table. You lay your head back, close your eyes, and breathe.
PART ONE
The night starts long before the night.
Friday work ends early and by midafternoon, you’re on your way uptown to the best salon on the west side. You smile at your pedicurist who knows you by name. She’s finishing up another client, but while you wait, you watch her working. You make eye contact with her as she picks up the pumice stone and you’re sure she gives you a little grin as she goes to work scrubbing the dead skin from the soles of the woman in the chair. You can’t see her face but you see her body tense against the sensation and your motor empathy sends a shockwave up your legs into your stomach.
When you sit down in the chair the pedicurist kneels at your feet with your favorite red. You stare down at your toes. The polish from last week still looks fresh, but there’s a ritual to this and the prep is half the fun. You start scrolling though your phone but only a few minutes in, you have to put it down to grip the arms of the chair in concentration. Your feet, screamingly ticklish under any circumstances, seem oddly sensitive today. It’s been four weeks since the last “meeting,” as you and the boys have taken to calling it, and this first Friday of the month has been long awaited. You squint your eyes and bite your lip against the silicon scrubber, whispering an apology to the woman at your feet who you’re sure is enjoying your squirming more than she’s letting on.
On the train home, you can’t tell if it’s your imagination or if people are really staring at you. It feels like there’s something in the air – like everyone is drawn to you for some reason. Like you have a secret and try as you might, you can’t seem to hide it.
At home, you take a quick shower and stand in your bedroom in your towel. You grab your bag from the closet and begin the process of deciding what to bring. It’s one of your favorite parts of the event – choosing exactly what clothes to wear…what will drive them craziest…what will eventually fall or be torn off…what will ultimately lead to the most intense experience. You slip on a black thong and let the towel fall to the floor, turning to admire your ass in the mirror.
You start with a black bra and tank top. You wouldn’t dream of showing up with sleeves, but you slip on a cropped jean jacket anyway just to enjoy removing it later. You can’t stomach the thought of keeping your ass from the world, so you squeeze into an impossibly tight pair of leggings – also to be removed later – and high heels. An extra t-shirt, sweatpants, socks, and underwear all get thrown in the bag along with the necessities…several black Velcro straps, a dozen long strands of soft rope, a large bottle of baby oil, several hair ties, and a menagerie of feathers, hairbrushes, toothbrushes, silicon scrubbers, and other diabolical looking accoutrements. You know full well they’ll all have bags loaded with different implements, some tried and true, others yet untested that will put you through your paces. But you love the looks on their faces when you open the bag and your own personal tickle-torture chamber falls onto the floor.
You shoulder your bag and look at your reflection. You look hot. Even you’d tie you up. You grab your keys, and head back down to the train.
Again, you notice people staring, though this time you can’t blame them. You feel your thighs tighten with the jostling of the train, and you’re sure the guy behind you is taking a picture of your ass. You wonder what he’s imagining. If it’s just sex? Or it’s more along the lines of the ordeal to which you’re about to subject yourself. You give him a look as you step off the train.
At the door, you buzz the intercom. A voice answers, “Passcode?”
“Not there,” you reply, grinning. The door clicks and you go inside.
In the elevator your heart races. No matter how many times you do this, it’s always equal parts thrilling and terrifying. You steady your breathing and tighten your grip on your shoulder strap. You remind yourself they’ll all be waiting for you when the door opens…just standing there, salivating. However much you’ve been looking forward to this, you know it’s been just as long a wait for them, and they’ll be overjoyed to see you. You remind yourself you have what they want. You are what they want. And you feel powerful.
When the doors open, you toss your hair and send one hip as far to the side as it will go. There they are. Five dopey faces. “Hello, boys,” you say, stifling a laugh. They all cheer and rush to help with your bag but you brush through them. “Did you miss me?”
You look them over, remembering how this whole thing started. Originally, there were only two of them. You’d met Noah and Will at a conference and on the final night, over a few too many Manhattans, had found themselves in your room with nothing to do but take their clothes off. You was leaning back against Noah’s chest while Will ate you out and you were half-way to orgasm when Will’s tongue brushed a particularly sensitive spot and you almost jumped out of the bed.
“Sorry, I’m SO ticklish,” you’d said, and you clocked immediately the look exchanged between the two men.
“Ticklish where?” Noah asked.
“Uh, everywhere, literally.”
It was then the strangest moment of your sexual life occurred. Without speaking, Will returned his mouth to your pussy, Noah slid out from behind you, and you laid back on the bed. You closed your eyes and lifted your arms above your head. You felt your breasts rock with the momentum. As Will worked on making you come, Noah’s hands slowly started tracing circles around your naked abdomen. Somehow, without directly communicating about it, you all knew exactly what was going to happen. You let yourself smile. The smile turned into a squeak, which opened into giggle, and finally, blossomed into a full-blown belly laugh. Your clit was being flicked by Will’s tongue but Noah’s fingers were dancing over your torso and ribcage. You didn’t lower your arms. You didn’t try to escape. You just submitted to the tickling. You laughed and laughed until you couldn’t breathe, and then your body took over, you gasped air into her lungs, and resumed laughing. You were laughing so hard, you couldn’t come, so Will stopped eating you out and the boys flipped you over. You lay your face on your forearms and let them explore you. You were only half-aware of how unusual everything was. The attention was intoxicating. It was as if every ounce of their energy was devoted to learning your body – to figuring out exactly what technique in which spot caused you the most sensation, and when they landed on a particularly intense combination, you felt them lean in until you were on the verge of breaking, and then somehow working together to make your body laugh even harder.
It wasn’t until Noah held you down that you finally came. Will’s thumbs had slid into the crevice between your thighs and your hips and you screamed and folded in half, trying to protect yourself. But Noah grabbed your wrists and pinned them over your head while Will reupped his attack. You were laughing so hard but you found the breath to say, “please let me come!” They released you and you flipped onto your stomach. Your naked body wrapped itself around a pillow. The boys watched as you grinded into it, writhing in ecstasy on the bed.
The next morning, you debriefed over coffee, the boys admitting they’d discovered months before that they shared a fetish for tickle torture. You had never really given tickling a second thought, but you’d realized in the night that it was going to be a part of you. Over the next months, you all agreed to meet in various locations. Hotel rooms, mostly, until it was agreed a designated room was needed. Rental costs made it prohibitive, so three others were found to cover the expense, Jack, John, and Marty, and the five-headed monster was complete.
You ceremoniously unzip your bag and turn it over, letting the kinky contents fall onto the floor. Everyone oohs and aahs appropriately while you slip your jean jacket off. In the center of the room, a table waits. Jack and John are already picking straps up off the floor and attaching them. You slip your hands around your back under your tanktop and unclasp your bra. You smile as all the jaws in the room drop as you slide it out from under your shirt and toss it to the side. You walk to the table, trying not to betray your nervousness. You put your hands on it and turn to face your friends.
“I can’t decide if I should take these off,” you say, picking at your leggings. “What do you think?”
Will says, “Are you actually asking us that question?”
You step out of your heels and turn your back to the boys. You peel your leggings down slowly, enjoying the feeling, and knowing every second was driving them all crazy behind you. You toss them to the side as well.
“You know this whole tease is going to make things much much worse for you, right?” Noah says.
“I was pretty much counting on that. I’d be disappointed if you let me get away with anything,” you say. You step back into your heels. Your tank top rides just a few inches above the top of your thong, and you’re well aware how good you look strutting around to the far side of the table. “How do you want me?” you say.
Everyone is too dumbstruck to speak so you wait a second before saying, “hello?”
Jack snaps out of it. “On your back.” The others agree and you oblige by sitting on the edge of the padded table and slowly reclining until your back touches the chilly surface. “Every time, you guys forget to warm this thing.”
“Sorry, it’s just that thing you do with your back…” John said.
You look down at your arched lower back. “Oh, this thing?” You arch it harder, rubbing your butt against the table and you raise your arms above your head.
“Yep, yep that,” John says. “Lord have mercy.”
Something about driving them insane was so satisfying to you. You feel them start to move closer. “You guys gonna go easy again or are you gonna actually make me laugh this time?” you say, turning your head toward them playfully.
They all laugh. “Wow someone has a death wish,” one of them says, but you turn your focus to Noah who now stands next to the table and is looking down at you affectionately.
“Big words from a very ticklish human being,” he says. “A human being who is about to be very vulnerable.” You raise your eyebrows defiantly. He goes on, “perhaps you’ve forgotten the record we set last month?” Your face hides a grimace. “You don’t want us to try and break that again, do you?”
You suddenly pin your arms to your sides and shake your head vigorously. Breaking the record had been truly unbearable, and you haven’t forgotten it for a second. Several months back, one of them – which of them you can’t remember now – noticed that as they became more and more familiar with your body, and your bouts of silent laughter were becoming longer and longer. It was now fairly routine for you to lose yourself to breathless hysterics for ten to twenty seconds at a time – so effective have the boys’ techniques become. The previous record, an unofficial estimate achieved three months back during a particularly diabolical gang tickling of your lower-half, was somewhere in the vicinity of 25 seconds. It was a mark everyone, including you, had considered unbreakable until last month, when the group made it their objective to make you break it.
It had taken most of the night. Once you had warmed up and were pleasantly howling your head off, they took turns attempting different combinations of torture techniques while one of them stood back and timed. They’d get you into a rhythm. You’d feel your breath going, and then you’d feel ten fingers settle between your ribs and begin gently massaging. They had it down to a science. Once you’d exhaled, they’d start on a new spot – not suddenly to make you gasp, but firmly and slowly, so the laughter melted out of you, taking with it any instinct to inhale at all, until all you could do was shake under the relentless, maddingly controlled, tickling. More than once you’d gotten to twenty seconds before a desperate breath broke the silence and you screamed “OH GOD STOP.”
When the record finally broke, you were so exhausted, your body had almost stopped fighting the onslaught. All five of them started slowly together – covering the soles of your hyper-ticklish feet to the hollows of your armpits – and worked you into silent hysterics, listening for the timer to beep. It felt eternal, even for them. At twenty seconds, you felt this time was different. Whoever was working on your belly slid ten oiled fingers down into the crease of your hip sockets and you felt your muscles clench against the restraints. Before your body had the chance to gasp, the sensations overwhelmed you and you doubled down on the silence. They boys all leaned in, watching your body try somehow to laugh even harder than it already was.
All told, it was 28 seconds of silent, tortured laughter. By far, the hardest you’d ever laughed in your life, including all the gang ticklings you had now received at the hands of your friendly tormentors. The boys had reacted like they’d won the super bowl.
You look up at Noah. “I don’t think I have another record breaking run in me,” you say, sliding two protective hands up under your bare armpits.
“You never know,” Noah says, grabbing a pair of cuffs. “Tonight might surprise all of us.” And with that you feel ten hands take hold of your limbs and begin securing your sensitive body to the table. You lay your head back, close your eyes, and breathe.
