I wish that everyone knew, that everyone always knew what a ticklish little bitch I am.
That in highschool my bullies used to tickle me mercilessly every day, posting videos to social media so everyone could see me get humiliated.
Then when I went to college, I thought I had a blank slate. No one knows who I am, right? I won't just be a tickle toy anymore, now's my chance to be a man. And for a few weeks, maybe that works, until one day someone stumbles across an old post of me being pinned down and tickled by a group of cheerleaders and their boyfriends. We're at some party when they find the video, I'm flirting with a cute girl I know likes me back, when suddenly someone loudly asks: "Oh my god, is this you!?" To my horror, they show the video to the entire party. Everyone starts laughing, and the girl I like immediately scoots away, a hand over her mouth to stop her from giggling in my face.
I try to deny it, but everyone is talking over me. Someone egged on by alcohol, or sadism, or both, comes up behind me, sneaking a finger into my pit. I shriek like a little girl, and everyone's eyes light up. In an instant, I'm being held down and ravaged, every inch of me explored.
"He doesn't need these pants, does he?"
"Get his pits, they're the most ticklish I've ever seen. Like, it's pathetic!"
"Holy shit guys, he's hard! This freak likes it!"
"Guess we don't have to stop then!"
And they don't. Not for hours anyway. The worst part is, my worst adversary is my former love interest, who can't seem to get enough of running her sharp nails around my nipples. She doesn't say anything, doesn't even look when an adventurous frat bro tears off my underwear and laughs. She just sits there, straddling my waist, fingers fluttering about my chest while I cry and beg.
The rest of college is more of the same. The only time I'm invited to parties is to be the tickle toy centerpiece. Sometimes I'm kidnapped from my dorm by the football team, dragged half naked through the dorm halls as I protest. People poke their heads out, but quickly smile and snap a picture when they see it's just the campus tickle bitch. By now, pictures and videos of me being wrecked a thousand different ways have proliferated far and wide. Apparently a clip of my aching cock being tickled with a makeup brush went "viral" on tic Tok? The caption was something about "keeping little bitches in their place" I think. Imagine that.
Even sadder is when I'd go willingly. Despite how humiliating and torturous they were, at least then people were interacting with me. Oh, and remember that crush from before? She becomes my worst nightmare. Turns out, she's a natural dom, she just needed the most pathetic ticklish slut alive to help her figure that out. She's the party organizer, making sure crowds are there to see me everytime I take the stage. Sometimes she sends her friends round to my dorm to "check up" on me. Too bad it's always at 3 am the day before an important exam. My neighbors always complain that my laughing keeps them up, but don't worry, they always get me back the next day.
She's also the genius that came up with other humiliation tactics. Why just subject me to tickling, when there's a whole world of violation for me to experience? Why not dress me up like a maid? Paint my toenails pink? It's really my fault though, as she likes to remind me. She caught me staring at her armpits one too many times, and she knew that was too good an opportunity to pass. One day as I was working out at the gym, I suddenly notice that the place has gone quiet. I turn around, and a sea of smiling faces are looking back at me, their arms straight in the air. Sweat dripping down their arms, I'm made to lick each pit clean.
The women's aren't so bad, and in fact, a few moans escape my lips as my face is shoved into pit after pit. But the first man's armpit...a black forest of hair, bigger than my face. He laughs as I struggle for air, but he's much stronger than me, and he knows it. To my utter horror, my cock grows even harder, a fact that does not go unnoticed. From that day forward, I'm also the resident pit slut.
This goes on for years. I can never pass my classes due to strategic late night tickle sessions, I can never focus in lectures with the girl in front of me constantly stretching her arms above her head, the guy behind me tweaking my ribs everytime I raise my hand. Finally though, a miracle hits: COVID. In my senior year, I overload classes and manage to just barely graduate with a shit GPA and lots of debt.
Yippee.
I join the work force, but it's tough out there. I have to live with five roommates, and even then it's a squeeze. One drunken night they squeezed me, and you can guess how that turned out. Hey, at least they stopped making me pay rent. Not with money, anyway. I flit from job to job, but I never stick to one place for long. Can you guess why?
That's right. The tic tok. It went REALLY viral, apparently.
I usually work a job for a month tops before I'm pulled into HR. The conversation always goes about the same:
"Ahem. Yes, well, this is a bit awkward so I think I'll just power through. We here at "Company" are committed to fostering an inclusive work place. The fact that you're a weak submissive -ah, don't interrupt please- the fact that you're a weak submissive is of no issue, in fact, we encourage sex positivity in all forms. However, we believe that your...nature, shall we say, vulnerability, is just a bit too tempting for your coworkers. I'm sure you've noticed, but the amount of people wearing sleeveless shirts has increased exponentially. Everyone is constantly reaching for things on the top shelf these days, it seems. And I can't help find your, pardon me, little shrieks a bit distracting. I mean seriously, you're a grown man, you have no business being more ticklish than a little girl. So for that reason, we'll have to let you go. Please don't cry, it's pathetic. Oh, and before you grab your things, I heard your coworkers are having a sendoff for you in the break room? A 'feather party' , they called it? Why are you crying harder?"
Life is an endless nightmare of tickles and humiliation, degradation and lust. My roommates' demands become more intense. Since I'm not bringing in any money, they have to pay for my food and clothes. And they extract that debt, one ticklish plea at a time. The clothes I wear are all skimpy little outfits, I'm a bikini model one day, a sexy nun the next. I'm at a breaking point, thinking of running away, just becoming homeless on the streets. But by now my notoriety is such that I even get recognized on the street.
"Holy shit, it's him! It's the tickle bitch!"
"Oh my god, we need a picture. I'll get my boyfriend to hold him down, get those pits!"
I've resigned myself at this point. There's no stopping it, no avoiding it. I'm a tickle bitch for life.
Then one day, I get a message on LinkedIn. My heart nearly beats out of my chest. Is it possible, truly possible, that someone doesn't know my past? For me to have a fresh start? A job? A career?
But my heart drops when I see who it's from.
My college crush. She's become successful, wildly so. The CEO of a major company, it seems that her viciousness and sadism paid off in a big way. Her message is concise:
"You belong to me. You've always belonged to me. Don't delay the inevitable. I'll have my people pick you up at 8 tonight. I've instructed them to tickle you mercilessly if you resist. I've already cleared this with your roommates. They were sad to lose their tickle slut, but I promised to send them lots of videos. See you soon, bitch."
The next few hours spent waiting are a blur. True to her word, at 8 that night five burly men whisk me away into an unmarked van. I don't resist, but they remove my shoes and tickle my feet anyway.
We get to her apartment, an enormous penthouse I could only dream of owning. She's there waiting for me, sitting in a fur lined chair.
"Strip him."
They do, ripping off my clothes like they were tissue paper (it was a little skirt and a crop top today). A vicious smile lights up her face. There's no trace of the sweet girl I once loved there.
"Darling. Why don't you come out and reacquaint our guest with those pits."
A man emerges from behind me. He's tall, handsome, buff, wearing a tight tank top that shows off his muscles. Before I can protest, he raises his arm and finds a home for my face in the dark curls. I recognize them immediately. This was the first man to ever make me worship his pits, all those years ago. They were together, my two worst bullies.
I feel nails skitter up my sides as I struggle for air. A voice whispers in my ear:
"This is the rest of your life, bitch. You're never leaving my control again."
I start to cry, and they both start to laugh. And they were right, by the way. I never left their control again.
That in highschool my bullies used to tickle me mercilessly every day, posting videos to social media so everyone could see me get humiliated.
Then when I went to college, I thought I had a blank slate. No one knows who I am, right? I won't just be a tickle toy anymore, now's my chance to be a man. And for a few weeks, maybe that works, until one day someone stumbles across an old post of me being pinned down and tickled by a group of cheerleaders and their boyfriends. We're at some party when they find the video, I'm flirting with a cute girl I know likes me back, when suddenly someone loudly asks: "Oh my god, is this you!?" To my horror, they show the video to the entire party. Everyone starts laughing, and the girl I like immediately scoots away, a hand over her mouth to stop her from giggling in my face.
I try to deny it, but everyone is talking over me. Someone egged on by alcohol, or sadism, or both, comes up behind me, sneaking a finger into my pit. I shriek like a little girl, and everyone's eyes light up. In an instant, I'm being held down and ravaged, every inch of me explored.
"He doesn't need these pants, does he?"
"Get his pits, they're the most ticklish I've ever seen. Like, it's pathetic!"
"Holy shit guys, he's hard! This freak likes it!"
"Guess we don't have to stop then!"
And they don't. Not for hours anyway. The worst part is, my worst adversary is my former love interest, who can't seem to get enough of running her sharp nails around my nipples. She doesn't say anything, doesn't even look when an adventurous frat bro tears off my underwear and laughs. She just sits there, straddling my waist, fingers fluttering about my chest while I cry and beg.
The rest of college is more of the same. The only time I'm invited to parties is to be the tickle toy centerpiece. Sometimes I'm kidnapped from my dorm by the football team, dragged half naked through the dorm halls as I protest. People poke their heads out, but quickly smile and snap a picture when they see it's just the campus tickle bitch. By now, pictures and videos of me being wrecked a thousand different ways have proliferated far and wide. Apparently a clip of my aching cock being tickled with a makeup brush went "viral" on tic Tok? The caption was something about "keeping little bitches in their place" I think. Imagine that.
Even sadder is when I'd go willingly. Despite how humiliating and torturous they were, at least then people were interacting with me. Oh, and remember that crush from before? She becomes my worst nightmare. Turns out, she's a natural dom, she just needed the most pathetic ticklish slut alive to help her figure that out. She's the party organizer, making sure crowds are there to see me everytime I take the stage. Sometimes she sends her friends round to my dorm to "check up" on me. Too bad it's always at 3 am the day before an important exam. My neighbors always complain that my laughing keeps them up, but don't worry, they always get me back the next day.
She's also the genius that came up with other humiliation tactics. Why just subject me to tickling, when there's a whole world of violation for me to experience? Why not dress me up like a maid? Paint my toenails pink? It's really my fault though, as she likes to remind me. She caught me staring at her armpits one too many times, and she knew that was too good an opportunity to pass. One day as I was working out at the gym, I suddenly notice that the place has gone quiet. I turn around, and a sea of smiling faces are looking back at me, their arms straight in the air. Sweat dripping down their arms, I'm made to lick each pit clean.
The women's aren't so bad, and in fact, a few moans escape my lips as my face is shoved into pit after pit. But the first man's armpit...a black forest of hair, bigger than my face. He laughs as I struggle for air, but he's much stronger than me, and he knows it. To my utter horror, my cock grows even harder, a fact that does not go unnoticed. From that day forward, I'm also the resident pit slut.
This goes on for years. I can never pass my classes due to strategic late night tickle sessions, I can never focus in lectures with the girl in front of me constantly stretching her arms above her head, the guy behind me tweaking my ribs everytime I raise my hand. Finally though, a miracle hits: COVID. In my senior year, I overload classes and manage to just barely graduate with a shit GPA and lots of debt.
Yippee.
I join the work force, but it's tough out there. I have to live with five roommates, and even then it's a squeeze. One drunken night they squeezed me, and you can guess how that turned out. Hey, at least they stopped making me pay rent. Not with money, anyway. I flit from job to job, but I never stick to one place for long. Can you guess why?
That's right. The tic tok. It went REALLY viral, apparently.
I usually work a job for a month tops before I'm pulled into HR. The conversation always goes about the same:
"Ahem. Yes, well, this is a bit awkward so I think I'll just power through. We here at "Company" are committed to fostering an inclusive work place. The fact that you're a weak submissive -ah, don't interrupt please- the fact that you're a weak submissive is of no issue, in fact, we encourage sex positivity in all forms. However, we believe that your...nature, shall we say, vulnerability, is just a bit too tempting for your coworkers. I'm sure you've noticed, but the amount of people wearing sleeveless shirts has increased exponentially. Everyone is constantly reaching for things on the top shelf these days, it seems. And I can't help find your, pardon me, little shrieks a bit distracting. I mean seriously, you're a grown man, you have no business being more ticklish than a little girl. So for that reason, we'll have to let you go. Please don't cry, it's pathetic. Oh, and before you grab your things, I heard your coworkers are having a sendoff for you in the break room? A 'feather party' , they called it? Why are you crying harder?"
Life is an endless nightmare of tickles and humiliation, degradation and lust. My roommates' demands become more intense. Since I'm not bringing in any money, they have to pay for my food and clothes. And they extract that debt, one ticklish plea at a time. The clothes I wear are all skimpy little outfits, I'm a bikini model one day, a sexy nun the next. I'm at a breaking point, thinking of running away, just becoming homeless on the streets. But by now my notoriety is such that I even get recognized on the street.
"Holy shit, it's him! It's the tickle bitch!"
"Oh my god, we need a picture. I'll get my boyfriend to hold him down, get those pits!"
I've resigned myself at this point. There's no stopping it, no avoiding it. I'm a tickle bitch for life.
Then one day, I get a message on LinkedIn. My heart nearly beats out of my chest. Is it possible, truly possible, that someone doesn't know my past? For me to have a fresh start? A job? A career?
But my heart drops when I see who it's from.
My college crush. She's become successful, wildly so. The CEO of a major company, it seems that her viciousness and sadism paid off in a big way. Her message is concise:
"You belong to me. You've always belonged to me. Don't delay the inevitable. I'll have my people pick you up at 8 tonight. I've instructed them to tickle you mercilessly if you resist. I've already cleared this with your roommates. They were sad to lose their tickle slut, but I promised to send them lots of videos. See you soon, bitch."
The next few hours spent waiting are a blur. True to her word, at 8 that night five burly men whisk me away into an unmarked van. I don't resist, but they remove my shoes and tickle my feet anyway.
We get to her apartment, an enormous penthouse I could only dream of owning. She's there waiting for me, sitting in a fur lined chair.
"Strip him."
They do, ripping off my clothes like they were tissue paper (it was a little skirt and a crop top today). A vicious smile lights up her face. There's no trace of the sweet girl I once loved there.
"Darling. Why don't you come out and reacquaint our guest with those pits."
A man emerges from behind me. He's tall, handsome, buff, wearing a tight tank top that shows off his muscles. Before I can protest, he raises his arm and finds a home for my face in the dark curls. I recognize them immediately. This was the first man to ever make me worship his pits, all those years ago. They were together, my two worst bullies.
I feel nails skitter up my sides as I struggle for air. A voice whispers in my ear:
"This is the rest of your life, bitch. You're never leaving my control again."
I start to cry, and they both start to laugh. And they were right, by the way. I never left their control again.
