just-a-wee-lass
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- Sep 19, 2021
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I love afternoons like this. Nothing to do or worry about, comfortable in bed. A chilly breeze is coming through the window, but is warded off by the warmth of my partner's arms around me. As I soak in the sleepy contentment, I feel myself being moved onto my back. Suddenly there is a weight on top of me. I drowsily open my eyes to see my partner on top of me. Gently, they take my hands and pin them above my head.
They respond to my confused look with a question, "Wanna play a game?"
Their mischievous grin puts me on guard, but Im helpless under them. I nod, both apprehensive and excited from my predicament.
"The game is easy," they continue, "you just have to keep your arms right where they are."
This sounds easy enough, until they release my hands and begin lightly trailing their fingers down my arms. I start to squirm, the faint feeling of panic edging in as they get closer to my vulnerable underarms. When they finally reach their target, I let out an involuntary squeal, pulling my arms down to protect myself. They pin my arms above my head again, forcefully this time. They look me in the eye, demeanor changing from playful to authoritative.
"What did I say about keeping your arms up?"
I look to the side, embarrassed by my lack of self control.
"Here's a better question: do you want to be punished?" they ask with a meaningful glance at the drawer next to the bed.
My body shudders and I shake my head vigorously.
"Then you'll do as I say," they continue, the sly grin returning as they leave my arms above my head.
The giggling feeling bubbles up in me as they reach for my armpits again. Their delicate touch on my sensitive skin drives the laughter out of me, but I somehow manage to keep my arms up...
...until they suddenly reach down and grab my sides, and I lose what little control I have left.
This time though, they don't stop. I desperately try to push their arms away but they're stronger than me even when Im focused and not being tickle-attacked. They switch between spidery touches, squeezing, and poking me until Im a giggling mess. After a minute or two the desperation to get away becomes more intense. I try pushing, bucking, squirming, anything to get away from the tickling. By the time they stop, the laughter has brought tears to my eyes.
"Someone needs to learn to keep their hands to themself," they mused, "AND how to listen."
That last part has my attention, chills running through my body, as I start to understand how fucked I am. Before I can even protest they're up and walking toward the punishment drawer. My eyes widen as I see them take out the hairbrush, baby oil, and a length of rope.
I can feel the desire to squirm away rising, but I know better. It would only make the punishment worse.
The oil feels cool and slick as they slather it onto my vulnerable soles. A nervous giggle escapes me, followed by a yelp as I feel their fingers suddenly slide down my right foot.
"Sorry, must have slipped," they say, giving me a grin that shows zero remorse.
They turn around and I brace myself for what will happen next. They wait a beat. And then another. And another. As the seconds tick by like minutes, I feel the anticipation become more and more unbearable. They're doing this on purpose, building the suspense. My mind tortures me on its own, whispering how unbearable this will be. It's almost as bad as the punishment itself. Almost.
As that thought crosses my mind, I feel the sudden sensation of the brush across the bottom of my foot. It's like lightning on my skin, but instead of painful, it's ticklish. I can't help but let out a shriek that quickly devolves into peals of laughter. All thought melts away. I can't focus on anything but the tickle torture being inflicted on me. They don't even need to press down much on the brush, the round tip of each individual bristle gliding across my skin to form a cacophony of sensation, almost too much for my mind and body to handle. Between the sputtering laughter I plead for mercy, beg for any reprieve, apologizing profusely for not listening, not doing better. If anything I try to say is intelligible, it does nothing to stop them. Only they would decide when I had had enough.
It's hard to say how long this goes on. Minutes? Hours? It felt like days. When the overbearing feeling of the brush on my feet finally stops, I feel the aftermath of the tickle torture. The bottoms of my feet hurt from the brushing. My stomach and throat are sore from all of the laughter. My limbs feel like jelly from my thrashing. I can feel tear streaks running down my face, and sweat all over my body. I can't even manage to bring my vision into focus. I am fully and completely exhausted.
As I soak in the sensations and endorphins my torture has left me with, I feel myself being wrapped in something warm and incredibly soft. As the fatigue finally claims my consciousness, I feel a kiss being planted on my forehead.
I hear a voice whisper, "Sweet dreams my love..." as my body and mind give in to sleep.
They respond to my confused look with a question, "Wanna play a game?"
Their mischievous grin puts me on guard, but Im helpless under them. I nod, both apprehensive and excited from my predicament.
"The game is easy," they continue, "you just have to keep your arms right where they are."
This sounds easy enough, until they release my hands and begin lightly trailing their fingers down my arms. I start to squirm, the faint feeling of panic edging in as they get closer to my vulnerable underarms. When they finally reach their target, I let out an involuntary squeal, pulling my arms down to protect myself. They pin my arms above my head again, forcefully this time. They look me in the eye, demeanor changing from playful to authoritative.
"What did I say about keeping your arms up?"
I look to the side, embarrassed by my lack of self control.
"Here's a better question: do you want to be punished?" they ask with a meaningful glance at the drawer next to the bed.
My body shudders and I shake my head vigorously.
"Then you'll do as I say," they continue, the sly grin returning as they leave my arms above my head.
The giggling feeling bubbles up in me as they reach for my armpits again. Their delicate touch on my sensitive skin drives the laughter out of me, but I somehow manage to keep my arms up...
...until they suddenly reach down and grab my sides, and I lose what little control I have left.
This time though, they don't stop. I desperately try to push their arms away but they're stronger than me even when Im focused and not being tickle-attacked. They switch between spidery touches, squeezing, and poking me until Im a giggling mess. After a minute or two the desperation to get away becomes more intense. I try pushing, bucking, squirming, anything to get away from the tickling. By the time they stop, the laughter has brought tears to my eyes.
"Someone needs to learn to keep their hands to themself," they mused, "AND how to listen."
That last part has my attention, chills running through my body, as I start to understand how fucked I am. Before I can even protest they're up and walking toward the punishment drawer. My eyes widen as I see them take out the hairbrush, baby oil, and a length of rope.
I can feel the desire to squirm away rising, but I know better. It would only make the punishment worse.
The oil feels cool and slick as they slather it onto my vulnerable soles. A nervous giggle escapes me, followed by a yelp as I feel their fingers suddenly slide down my right foot.
"Sorry, must have slipped," they say, giving me a grin that shows zero remorse.
They turn around and I brace myself for what will happen next. They wait a beat. And then another. And another. As the seconds tick by like minutes, I feel the anticipation become more and more unbearable. They're doing this on purpose, building the suspense. My mind tortures me on its own, whispering how unbearable this will be. It's almost as bad as the punishment itself. Almost.
As that thought crosses my mind, I feel the sudden sensation of the brush across the bottom of my foot. It's like lightning on my skin, but instead of painful, it's ticklish. I can't help but let out a shriek that quickly devolves into peals of laughter. All thought melts away. I can't focus on anything but the tickle torture being inflicted on me. They don't even need to press down much on the brush, the round tip of each individual bristle gliding across my skin to form a cacophony of sensation, almost too much for my mind and body to handle. Between the sputtering laughter I plead for mercy, beg for any reprieve, apologizing profusely for not listening, not doing better. If anything I try to say is intelligible, it does nothing to stop them. Only they would decide when I had had enough.
It's hard to say how long this goes on. Minutes? Hours? It felt like days. When the overbearing feeling of the brush on my feet finally stops, I feel the aftermath of the tickle torture. The bottoms of my feet hurt from the brushing. My stomach and throat are sore from all of the laughter. My limbs feel like jelly from my thrashing. I can feel tear streaks running down my face, and sweat all over my body. I can't even manage to bring my vision into focus. I am fully and completely exhausted.
As I soak in the sensations and endorphins my torture has left me with, I feel myself being wrapped in something warm and incredibly soft. As the fatigue finally claims my consciousness, I feel a kiss being planted on my forehead.
I hear a voice whisper, "Sweet dreams my love..." as my body and mind give in to sleep.
