Straps&Laughter
Verified
- Joined
- May 16, 2019
- Messages
- 84
- Points
- 6
I bet that title cranked up all sorts of tensions, so let me start by saying: when we met, I was 21 and she was 19. Sorry to the fringe elements of the community - no tale of creepy grooming and "she turned 18 and it became okay" here. The first part is all the background for people who are into that, but don't worry - if you just want to read about the tickling, scan for the relevant bold headings.
The Meeting
For straight guys, there are women who stay with you for the rest of your life. When I met her, she was involved with a... friend would be a strong word, but acquaintance doesn't quite sum it up. He was a member of my social circle and close with the gal I was dating at the time. We all made a long road trip down to Texas to pick her up after she finished a course, and let me tell you... seeing her standing on the grass in her basketball shorts and flip-flops rocked me like getting hit with a meteor. I suddenly hated the fact that I had a girlfriend, and that I knew the guy she was dating - I have pretty firm rules about not leaving someone for someone else, and the Guy Code is pretty clear about attempting to become viable alternatives to guys in your immediate sphere.
The road trip was nearly 24 hours (I did say a long road trip), and that was enough time to cement her in my fantasies forever. Not only was she physically built from my Ultimate Fantasy List of Qualities, but everything from the words she said to the way she sat to the nerdy awkward bundle of perfection that was her. She became a permanent member of my social circle for the next four months until work called me overseas. In that time she inspired more than a few fantasies (because while my rules were important in the corporeal world, what a fellah gets off to in his imagination is without boundaries).
A Brief Tickle
I... I just had to know. It was driving me insane, in a way that only somebody with a severe, clinical-grade fetish can probably understand. Spending time in close quarters a few times a week for months, and in all the settings that twenty-somethings get flirty in. House parties, pool halls, camping trips. You name it.
So we're hanging out at one of our apartments (I cannot remember which) and it's just her and me in the living room, her laid out on the couch with her ankles crossed and her head against the armrest. I move to take a seat on the edge of one of the cushions, expecting her to move her legs, but she doesn't. When you're looking for opportunity, it's easy to see one in the flimsiest of circumstances... so I turn to look at her and say something like "hey, I don't think it's ever been discovered... are you ticklish?"
Imagine it like a movie scene in a Guy Ritchie film. I see her eyes snap to mine, one of the fatal flaws of someone about to lie and wanting to make sure you believe them. Her elbow moves, almost imperceptibly, to close the gap between her upper arms and her ribs. Her breathing catches.
"No..." Bullshit.
It's now or never. She's in a relationship, so am I, my organization has already notified me that I'm needed overseas... there's no future there, but I have this one shot to confirm or deny if she's ticklish. I grab her side, two fingers spread across the back of her ribs and my thumb sinking in on the front.
Spasm. Flail. Squeak. Oh my god, everything I want. I have no recollection of how she went from stretched across the couch and partially trapped by my position on the couch cushion to on her feet and backing up with her hands in front of her to defend herself from another squeeze. I step towards her and she steps back with the most intoxicating nervous giggle, and then the wall is at her back and I grab both her sides. Squeal/giggle. Rocket down the wall to a seated position with her knees pulled to her chest.
It was like what I've heard people describe heroine or cocaine being like. Satisfying my kink with the most blindingly beautiful woman I'd ever seen, who reacted in the perfect way, was like being instantly the perfect amount of drunk. I'm a reasonably good writer, but there are no words for the ecstatic fulfillment of the moment. Still, even in that ephemeral state of nirvana, I knew there was a limit... pressing the advance anymore would have crossed a line, risk drawing an attention from elsewhere in the apartment, lead to questions... so I had to let it go.
The Intervening Years
Life goes on. We lost touch. We each married and divorced. I moved a lot, chasing professional aspirations. In the early days of social media, I heard the occasional update from mutual friends, but social rings drifted further and further apart. She dropped off social media, I did too. More relationships, more career changes, more geography updates.
For those who don't know how guys fantasize, it's a mash-up. We cycle through exes, if the hot-factor doesn't outweigh the emotional-trauma factor. Sometimes, it's the recent Token Hot Girl from a Hollywood blockbuster, or some gal we passed on the street earlier that day and didn't talk to or even linger our gaze on. There are times when it's a representation of a partner with no real-life inspiration: garters, princess-cut buttondown, high bun. But through it all... there are The Big Ones. The ones that get you there the fastest and hardest, that you reach for when you need to have a perfect personal moment to combat the stressors of life. For me there are three, and the most potent of them was Dahlia. Sometimes once a month, sometimes a couple times a day... she was seared into my memory.
Back In Touch
The world is funny. I was having a moment and looked her up, and... there she was. Just like that. Catching up was great (we'd both lived Lives with a capital L). She was in the death throes of a relationship, that life-changing moment when you put down the bucket and stop trying to keep the boat afloat. I'd just moved across the country for a job opportunity, perfectly close to a place her job occasionally sent her for training. I'm not one to get hung up on things like fate, destiny, etc... ("You make your own luck." - E. Hemingway) but this was a pretty good argument in the pro column.
Talking turned to talking a lot, and talking a lot turned to flirting. PG13 photos and comments made specifically to turn each other on came next... and we reached that moment where we might be talking about having a thing and it was important to admit my kink. Too soon and it's creepy, too late and it risks a massive let-down when they aren't ticklish or worse, hate it and call it a Hard Limit... well, this is the TMF, you know what I'm talking about. She was intrigued, the kind of interested where you suddenly know it is definitely going to happen if you don't do something to screw it up. Just like that, I'm 21 again and getting off to the thought of her with unsettling frequency... but now it's with her enthusiastic permission and inspiration.
Fast forward a little bit further and she had a training event coming up... an overnight in a hotel... and a commitment to give being tied down and tickled a shot.
The Ticklish Exploration Dahlia Deserved * * * The Good Stuff Starts Here * * * Ticklish Redhead Tries to Deny It
Now for the part you're waiting for... Dalhia is 34 with milk-white skin covered in 4,564,371 freckles. She's 5'7", 150 pounds, with the kind of athletic body that fits somewhere between Tuff Mudder and rock-climber. She has red hair and green eyes that light up like iridescent emeralds when she smiles. Her bra is a 34B and she wears Size 8.5 sneakers (I'm not much for feet, but I know that's a super important detail for some of you). She has the sexiest quarter-sleeve tattoo... and is spastically, uncontrollably ticklish over every inch of her body.
Negotiations complete, safe word established... as much as I crave her, I adore her even more and I know this is all new for her, so I am doing everything by the book and with her best interests in mind. She's excited, nervous, hopeful, and learning herself all at once. I hand her a shirt and tell her to go into the bathroom to change.
She emerged from the hotel room's bathroom wearing my button-down shirt (oversized on her in the sexiest way), black panties, and an expression that says her imminent experience is racing through her mind in the most adorable, squirmy, nervous, excited ways. I'd run a rope beneath the mattress and above the box-spring, one of my evil tricks that let me tie one end to her bound wrists and the other end to her bound ankles, so if she pulled at her arms it would pull her legs straight and if she kicked it would pull her arms up over her head. Simple, intense, and it adds a psychological aspect when she realizes she's contributing to her own helplessness. Stretched across the bed with her arms up over her head, the shirt barely reaches the top of her black panties. I step back to take in the sight I've been waiting a decade and a half to see, and I'm so turned on I'm actually shaking.
"And now a question I have been looking forward to seeing you answer in person for a very long time..." I say, and she starts giggling nervously because she absolutely knows what's coming as I climb onto the bed and straddle her thighs to pin her in place.
"Dahlia..." I go on, and she arches her back and back and giggles out a futile, "Noooo...."
I put my hands on her sides, my index fingers on her lowest ribs on either side and the rest of my fingers splayed across her curves through the thin cotton dress shirt. "Are you ticklish?"
"Nooo..." she giggles out, the first hint of desperation creeping into her voice... and I haven't even tickled her yet, not one flex of my fingers.
I sit there for a second, letting her marinate in her absolute lie, and then pack as much innocence into my voice as I possibly can. "Oh? You're not?"
I squeeze her ribs, once. Her knees come up, her ass pushes down, her back arches up, her head tips back, her elbows rise as she tries to pull her hands down, and a steady stream of giggles pours from her parted lips. She still manages to slide a "No!" in amidst the feverish giggles.
"No?" Another squeeze. "Not at all?" Another squeeze, an inch lower.
"Nooooo!" She protests, and it's hard to tell if she is still clinging to the ridiculous lie that she isn't ticklish or if she is repudiating her helpless, ticklish state.
"Not like this?" I'm keeping my tone sickly-sweet and I can tell it's killing her as much as my fingers exploring her sides are - later, she would tell me that when we are on the phone and my tone changes, she starts squirming on the other end of the line.
She's doing that amazingly sexy thing where her head is turned away and pressed into her arm as she's laughing, so I lean forward and press two fingers into her underarm, just barely...
And she loses it.
Her legs start kicking and she starts yanking at her wrists like she's being electrocuted, short jerky spasms as her whole body tries to prevent the unbearable sensation of those two, non-moving fingers pressed against the thin fabric protecting (or failing to protect) her underarms. The sounds she was making changed from unrelenting giggles to full laughter and the tone was something convulsive, tinged with realization of exactly how fucked she was, and that delicious form of despair that a ticklee gets when you find a great spot...
And we are only 47 seconds in.
Now we're both realizing things. It's her first time being tied up, and she is discovering she loves it. I can tell because of the flush running through her skin, the way her breathing catches when I remove my fingers from her underarm... and because she told me later. I'm discovering that years of wanting and fantasizing in no way lived up to the reality of having her stretched out, writhing, laughing, and still trying to convince me she wasn't ticklish... like many of you, I've seen an unsettling amount of tickling content and have had years to decide what my favorite reactions are - melodic laughter versus whimpering versus screaming, writhing or thrashing, how much brattiness I enjoy... just like a teenager dreaming up a checklist of their perfect partner, most ticklers have an ideal.
When I say Dahlia is perfect, I'm not exaggerating. Everything she was on that bed was everything I wanted and ever dared dream she might be, but moreso and better and just... everything.
"This doesn't tickle, right here?" I ask her, feigning confusion at the explosion of laughter as I trace my finger through her underarm again while she twists towards it, as if she could turn far enough for the mattress to protect her from my exploration - but with her hips pinned under me, that's not going to happen.
"No, it - don't! Don't do it! Don't!" she gurgles through her laughter, her giggles reaching a fever pitch.
I stop and switch sides, still just two fingers, under her other arm. "How about here?"
"No! NO!" she insists as best she can while bold-faced lying, twisting to the other side in the same vain effort to protect her ticklish underarms and laughing so much she can barely get the one-syllable protests out.
I stop and sit up on her hips, and she whimpers that sexy little mewl ticklees make when they get their first break but they know it isn't even close to over. I fold back the hem of the dress-shirt to the lowest button, baring her stomach from the top of her panties to about an inch above her bellybutton. It's the most of her body I have seen in person and I am overcome with the need to shred her (well, my) clothes and take her... constrained only by the absolute need to find out where else she's ticklish and how much she can take.
"I think... you might be ticklish," I inform her, as if it was a difficult determination to reach.
"Maybe..." she concedes, looking up at me with eyes like molten jade.
I start tracing my fingers in and out from her sides to her bellybutton, ghostly sensations with the pads of my fingertips on the way in and the flat tops of my fingernails on the way out... enough to make her breathing flutter and her back arch into the most erotic squirm, but not enough to send her exploding into laughter again. I'm watching her, feeling her... and the realization that she loves it is flooding me like a dam breaking. This was always going to be fun, but I realize now I'm in deep trouble. She's perfect.
"I'm playing sooo nicely," I tell her... yeah, I'm a dick like that, the psych play is part of the fun with a 'lee - especially a new one. "Do you understand how bad this is about to get?"
"Mmm-mmm," she denies through sealed lips, but she isn't actually answering my question - she's rejecting the inevitable in the most pulse-pounding way, like she can will herself into a different reality wherein I'm not about to make her laugh and squeal and beg with an intensity she has never felt. "Nuuuhhh...."
I squeeze her sides and she arches like a beautiful, fuckable rainbow. "You're about to."
We're ONE-MINUTE AND FIFTEEN SECONDS in. I haven't yet unbuttoned her shirt, touched her hips or thighs or knees or feet, or used any of the pile of tickling tools sitting on the bedspread beside us...
* * * *
Welcome to my first true story under this username. The session I'm writing about lasted 13 minutes, and was one of two sessions that evening. Comment below if you're interested in hearing how the rest turned out...
This was written with her enthusiastic consent and her help picking a pseudonym. She's turned into a phenomenal ticklee with the perfect balance of excitement and terror at the thought of doing it again... I'll send her an idea for a new restraint or situation, and she will reply "FUCK NO, NO WAY! PLEASE DON'T DO THAT TO ME.... but also, that is so hot, can we try it soon? I can't wait." She doesn't have a TMF handle, but I gave her the link to the forum and she'll probably be lurking on the post (and future ones about Dahlia, real and fictional).
The Meeting
For straight guys, there are women who stay with you for the rest of your life. When I met her, she was involved with a... friend would be a strong word, but acquaintance doesn't quite sum it up. He was a member of my social circle and close with the gal I was dating at the time. We all made a long road trip down to Texas to pick her up after she finished a course, and let me tell you... seeing her standing on the grass in her basketball shorts and flip-flops rocked me like getting hit with a meteor. I suddenly hated the fact that I had a girlfriend, and that I knew the guy she was dating - I have pretty firm rules about not leaving someone for someone else, and the Guy Code is pretty clear about attempting to become viable alternatives to guys in your immediate sphere.
The road trip was nearly 24 hours (I did say a long road trip), and that was enough time to cement her in my fantasies forever. Not only was she physically built from my Ultimate Fantasy List of Qualities, but everything from the words she said to the way she sat to the nerdy awkward bundle of perfection that was her. She became a permanent member of my social circle for the next four months until work called me overseas. In that time she inspired more than a few fantasies (because while my rules were important in the corporeal world, what a fellah gets off to in his imagination is without boundaries).
A Brief Tickle
I... I just had to know. It was driving me insane, in a way that only somebody with a severe, clinical-grade fetish can probably understand. Spending time in close quarters a few times a week for months, and in all the settings that twenty-somethings get flirty in. House parties, pool halls, camping trips. You name it.
So we're hanging out at one of our apartments (I cannot remember which) and it's just her and me in the living room, her laid out on the couch with her ankles crossed and her head against the armrest. I move to take a seat on the edge of one of the cushions, expecting her to move her legs, but she doesn't. When you're looking for opportunity, it's easy to see one in the flimsiest of circumstances... so I turn to look at her and say something like "hey, I don't think it's ever been discovered... are you ticklish?"
Imagine it like a movie scene in a Guy Ritchie film. I see her eyes snap to mine, one of the fatal flaws of someone about to lie and wanting to make sure you believe them. Her elbow moves, almost imperceptibly, to close the gap between her upper arms and her ribs. Her breathing catches.
"No..." Bullshit.
It's now or never. She's in a relationship, so am I, my organization has already notified me that I'm needed overseas... there's no future there, but I have this one shot to confirm or deny if she's ticklish. I grab her side, two fingers spread across the back of her ribs and my thumb sinking in on the front.
Spasm. Flail. Squeak. Oh my god, everything I want. I have no recollection of how she went from stretched across the couch and partially trapped by my position on the couch cushion to on her feet and backing up with her hands in front of her to defend herself from another squeeze. I step towards her and she steps back with the most intoxicating nervous giggle, and then the wall is at her back and I grab both her sides. Squeal/giggle. Rocket down the wall to a seated position with her knees pulled to her chest.
It was like what I've heard people describe heroine or cocaine being like. Satisfying my kink with the most blindingly beautiful woman I'd ever seen, who reacted in the perfect way, was like being instantly the perfect amount of drunk. I'm a reasonably good writer, but there are no words for the ecstatic fulfillment of the moment. Still, even in that ephemeral state of nirvana, I knew there was a limit... pressing the advance anymore would have crossed a line, risk drawing an attention from elsewhere in the apartment, lead to questions... so I had to let it go.
The Intervening Years
Life goes on. We lost touch. We each married and divorced. I moved a lot, chasing professional aspirations. In the early days of social media, I heard the occasional update from mutual friends, but social rings drifted further and further apart. She dropped off social media, I did too. More relationships, more career changes, more geography updates.
For those who don't know how guys fantasize, it's a mash-up. We cycle through exes, if the hot-factor doesn't outweigh the emotional-trauma factor. Sometimes, it's the recent Token Hot Girl from a Hollywood blockbuster, or some gal we passed on the street earlier that day and didn't talk to or even linger our gaze on. There are times when it's a representation of a partner with no real-life inspiration: garters, princess-cut buttondown, high bun. But through it all... there are The Big Ones. The ones that get you there the fastest and hardest, that you reach for when you need to have a perfect personal moment to combat the stressors of life. For me there are three, and the most potent of them was Dahlia. Sometimes once a month, sometimes a couple times a day... she was seared into my memory.
Back In Touch
The world is funny. I was having a moment and looked her up, and... there she was. Just like that. Catching up was great (we'd both lived Lives with a capital L). She was in the death throes of a relationship, that life-changing moment when you put down the bucket and stop trying to keep the boat afloat. I'd just moved across the country for a job opportunity, perfectly close to a place her job occasionally sent her for training. I'm not one to get hung up on things like fate, destiny, etc... ("You make your own luck." - E. Hemingway) but this was a pretty good argument in the pro column.
Talking turned to talking a lot, and talking a lot turned to flirting. PG13 photos and comments made specifically to turn each other on came next... and we reached that moment where we might be talking about having a thing and it was important to admit my kink. Too soon and it's creepy, too late and it risks a massive let-down when they aren't ticklish or worse, hate it and call it a Hard Limit... well, this is the TMF, you know what I'm talking about. She was intrigued, the kind of interested where you suddenly know it is definitely going to happen if you don't do something to screw it up. Just like that, I'm 21 again and getting off to the thought of her with unsettling frequency... but now it's with her enthusiastic permission and inspiration.
Fast forward a little bit further and she had a training event coming up... an overnight in a hotel... and a commitment to give being tied down and tickled a shot.
The Ticklish Exploration Dahlia Deserved * * * The Good Stuff Starts Here * * * Ticklish Redhead Tries to Deny It
Now for the part you're waiting for... Dalhia is 34 with milk-white skin covered in 4,564,371 freckles. She's 5'7", 150 pounds, with the kind of athletic body that fits somewhere between Tuff Mudder and rock-climber. She has red hair and green eyes that light up like iridescent emeralds when she smiles. Her bra is a 34B and she wears Size 8.5 sneakers (I'm not much for feet, but I know that's a super important detail for some of you). She has the sexiest quarter-sleeve tattoo... and is spastically, uncontrollably ticklish over every inch of her body.
Negotiations complete, safe word established... as much as I crave her, I adore her even more and I know this is all new for her, so I am doing everything by the book and with her best interests in mind. She's excited, nervous, hopeful, and learning herself all at once. I hand her a shirt and tell her to go into the bathroom to change.
She emerged from the hotel room's bathroom wearing my button-down shirt (oversized on her in the sexiest way), black panties, and an expression that says her imminent experience is racing through her mind in the most adorable, squirmy, nervous, excited ways. I'd run a rope beneath the mattress and above the box-spring, one of my evil tricks that let me tie one end to her bound wrists and the other end to her bound ankles, so if she pulled at her arms it would pull her legs straight and if she kicked it would pull her arms up over her head. Simple, intense, and it adds a psychological aspect when she realizes she's contributing to her own helplessness. Stretched across the bed with her arms up over her head, the shirt barely reaches the top of her black panties. I step back to take in the sight I've been waiting a decade and a half to see, and I'm so turned on I'm actually shaking.
"And now a question I have been looking forward to seeing you answer in person for a very long time..." I say, and she starts giggling nervously because she absolutely knows what's coming as I climb onto the bed and straddle her thighs to pin her in place.
"Dahlia..." I go on, and she arches her back and back and giggles out a futile, "Noooo...."
I put my hands on her sides, my index fingers on her lowest ribs on either side and the rest of my fingers splayed across her curves through the thin cotton dress shirt. "Are you ticklish?"
"Nooo..." she giggles out, the first hint of desperation creeping into her voice... and I haven't even tickled her yet, not one flex of my fingers.
I sit there for a second, letting her marinate in her absolute lie, and then pack as much innocence into my voice as I possibly can. "Oh? You're not?"
I squeeze her ribs, once. Her knees come up, her ass pushes down, her back arches up, her head tips back, her elbows rise as she tries to pull her hands down, and a steady stream of giggles pours from her parted lips. She still manages to slide a "No!" in amidst the feverish giggles.
"No?" Another squeeze. "Not at all?" Another squeeze, an inch lower.
"Nooooo!" She protests, and it's hard to tell if she is still clinging to the ridiculous lie that she isn't ticklish or if she is repudiating her helpless, ticklish state.
"Not like this?" I'm keeping my tone sickly-sweet and I can tell it's killing her as much as my fingers exploring her sides are - later, she would tell me that when we are on the phone and my tone changes, she starts squirming on the other end of the line.
She's doing that amazingly sexy thing where her head is turned away and pressed into her arm as she's laughing, so I lean forward and press two fingers into her underarm, just barely...
And she loses it.
Her legs start kicking and she starts yanking at her wrists like she's being electrocuted, short jerky spasms as her whole body tries to prevent the unbearable sensation of those two, non-moving fingers pressed against the thin fabric protecting (or failing to protect) her underarms. The sounds she was making changed from unrelenting giggles to full laughter and the tone was something convulsive, tinged with realization of exactly how fucked she was, and that delicious form of despair that a ticklee gets when you find a great spot...
And we are only 47 seconds in.
Now we're both realizing things. It's her first time being tied up, and she is discovering she loves it. I can tell because of the flush running through her skin, the way her breathing catches when I remove my fingers from her underarm... and because she told me later. I'm discovering that years of wanting and fantasizing in no way lived up to the reality of having her stretched out, writhing, laughing, and still trying to convince me she wasn't ticklish... like many of you, I've seen an unsettling amount of tickling content and have had years to decide what my favorite reactions are - melodic laughter versus whimpering versus screaming, writhing or thrashing, how much brattiness I enjoy... just like a teenager dreaming up a checklist of their perfect partner, most ticklers have an ideal.
When I say Dahlia is perfect, I'm not exaggerating. Everything she was on that bed was everything I wanted and ever dared dream she might be, but moreso and better and just... everything.
"This doesn't tickle, right here?" I ask her, feigning confusion at the explosion of laughter as I trace my finger through her underarm again while she twists towards it, as if she could turn far enough for the mattress to protect her from my exploration - but with her hips pinned under me, that's not going to happen.
"No, it - don't! Don't do it! Don't!" she gurgles through her laughter, her giggles reaching a fever pitch.
I stop and switch sides, still just two fingers, under her other arm. "How about here?"
"No! NO!" she insists as best she can while bold-faced lying, twisting to the other side in the same vain effort to protect her ticklish underarms and laughing so much she can barely get the one-syllable protests out.
I stop and sit up on her hips, and she whimpers that sexy little mewl ticklees make when they get their first break but they know it isn't even close to over. I fold back the hem of the dress-shirt to the lowest button, baring her stomach from the top of her panties to about an inch above her bellybutton. It's the most of her body I have seen in person and I am overcome with the need to shred her (well, my) clothes and take her... constrained only by the absolute need to find out where else she's ticklish and how much she can take.
"I think... you might be ticklish," I inform her, as if it was a difficult determination to reach.
"Maybe..." she concedes, looking up at me with eyes like molten jade.
I start tracing my fingers in and out from her sides to her bellybutton, ghostly sensations with the pads of my fingertips on the way in and the flat tops of my fingernails on the way out... enough to make her breathing flutter and her back arch into the most erotic squirm, but not enough to send her exploding into laughter again. I'm watching her, feeling her... and the realization that she loves it is flooding me like a dam breaking. This was always going to be fun, but I realize now I'm in deep trouble. She's perfect.
"I'm playing sooo nicely," I tell her... yeah, I'm a dick like that, the psych play is part of the fun with a 'lee - especially a new one. "Do you understand how bad this is about to get?"
"Mmm-mmm," she denies through sealed lips, but she isn't actually answering my question - she's rejecting the inevitable in the most pulse-pounding way, like she can will herself into a different reality wherein I'm not about to make her laugh and squeal and beg with an intensity she has never felt. "Nuuuhhh...."
I squeeze her sides and she arches like a beautiful, fuckable rainbow. "You're about to."
We're ONE-MINUTE AND FIFTEEN SECONDS in. I haven't yet unbuttoned her shirt, touched her hips or thighs or knees or feet, or used any of the pile of tickling tools sitting on the bedspread beside us...
* * * *
Welcome to my first true story under this username. The session I'm writing about lasted 13 minutes, and was one of two sessions that evening. Comment below if you're interested in hearing how the rest turned out...
This was written with her enthusiastic consent and her help picking a pseudonym. She's turned into a phenomenal ticklee with the perfect balance of excitement and terror at the thought of doing it again... I'll send her an idea for a new restraint or situation, and she will reply "FUCK NO, NO WAY! PLEASE DON'T DO THAT TO ME.... but also, that is so hot, can we try it soon? I can't wait." She doesn't have a TMF handle, but I gave her the link to the forum and she'll probably be lurking on the post (and future ones about Dahlia, real and fictional).
Last edited:
