Scene 1: The Confession
Mike and Jaedah met through a niche online tickling forum. She had a few session partners under her belt; he had never done anything in person. But their connection was immediate. Texting turned into calls. Calls turned into long visits. And before either of them fully realized it, their casual play sessions had transformed into a real relationship. Something intimate. Deep. Committed.
Now they lived together. And for all their comfort and honesty, there were still some things Mike hadn’t said out loud.
It was a quiet evening at home. Jaedah was curled up on the couch with her laptop. She was 27, 5'7", in shape with light brown skin. Her dark hair was twisted into a neat bun, and her long legs were tucked beneath her. She wore cozy lounge clothes, her size 10 feet bare and resting against the cushions, toes flexing occasionally as she scrolled. Mike was in the kitchen making tea. She opened his browser to look something up—and paused.
Jaedah (quietly, eyes narrowing):
“Girlfriend tickled by other guys…”
“A cuckold tickling story…”
(She tilted her head, thoughtful. Not angry—more surprised. Curious. After a moment, she closed the laptop and waited for Mike to return.)
Mike (offering her a mug):
Chamomile. I remembered you said your stomach felt off today.
Jaedah (soft smile):
Thanks, babe.
(A pause. She looks at him.)
Jaedah:
Can I ask you something?
Mike (sitting beside her):
Yeah. Sure. What’s up?
Jaedah (carefully, not accusatory):
I went to search something and saw your tabs. I wasn’t snooping—just trying to look up train times. But… some of them caught my eye.
(Mike froze. His shoulders tensed, a little color rising in his face. His voice caught.)
Mike:
I—… yeah. I guess you did.
(He looked down, rubbing his palms together. Flushed. Uncomfortable. Not defensive—just caught.)
Mike:
It’s not something I ever meant to bring up. Not because I’m hiding it from you. Just… I didn’t know how. It’s embarrassing.
Jaedah (gently):
I’m not mad. I just want to understand.
(She puts her hand on his knee.)
Jaedah:
So… you like the idea of someone else tickling me?
Mike (nervous, hesitant):
Not like a cuck thing. Not really. It’s… hard to explain. I’ve always had this thing about helplessness. Control. And the idea of you being completely at someone’s mercy…
(He glances at her. She doesn’t pull away.)
Mike:
It kind of fucks me up. In a good way. The thought of not being able to help you. Of watching it happen from the outside. Of knowing you’re squirming and laughing and begging—and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I hate it. But I love it.
(A long beat.)
Jaedah (eyes still on him, processing):
Wow.
(She doesn’t sound mad. More shocked. Trying to sort it out. Trying not to look too intrigued. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.)
Jaedah:
That’s… I mean, I didn’t expect that from you. Not that it’s bad. Just… surprising.
(Inside, she was conflicted. Torn. She always tried to present herself as loyal. Loving. Protective of their connection. And this, on the surface, felt disloyal. But she also couldn’t ignore the heat she saw in his eyes. The vulnerability. The sheer intensity of his confession.)
Jaedah:
I guess I always saw you as the one doing the tickling. Not someone who’d want to sit back and watch it happen.
Mike (quietly):
I do love tickling you. But I think that’s part of it. When it’s me, I pull back. I hold back. Because I love you, and I don’t want to break you. But watching someone else do it—someone who doesn’t have that same emotional line? I feel like it would push everything further. It would hit those spots I can’t bring myself to hit. You wouldn’t be able to just say my name and make it stop.
Jaedah (thoughtful, quietly):
So it’s like… a fantasy of total helplessness.
Mike:
Exactly.
(A silence stretches. She tugs her knees up a little.)
Jaedah:
Would you want to live it out? Like… pretend? Just between us? I could text you while you’re at work, something like, “He just locked the door.” Or, “He says I’m not getting out until I give in.”
Mike (his breath catches, a tiny nod):
Yeah. That would… really do something to me.
(His eyes met hers. Jaedah felt a little blush creep up her neck. He was clearly embarrassed. But now, so was she.)
Mike:
Would you ever actually consider it? Not just texting… I mean, for real.
(Jaedah hesitated. Her heart stuttered.)
She hadn’t expected that question.
Her first instinct was to say no. To recoil. Not because the idea disgusted her. But because she was terrified of hurting him. Of doing something that might break what they had. Of being seen as unfaithful.
But deep down… she felt something twist in her stomach. Something curious. Nervous. Forbidden. A dark thrill she didn’t want to admit was there.
Jaedah (carefully):
I don’t know. I mean… what if you regret it afterward? What if it messes with your head and you end up resenting me?
Mike (firm):
I could never hold it against you. Even if I did regret it, I was the one who brought it up. Not you.
Jaedah (quiet):
Still. It’s scary. I’d want to feel safe. I wouldn’t be able to do something like that with some random stranger.
Mike:
Of course not. If there was someone you were comfortable enough with… maybe a past session partner. Someone who knows the kink. Knows you. Knows what to do.
Jaedah (thinking):
Maybe…
(She wasn’t sure yet. But the idea was lodged now. She could feel it humming in the back of her head. And later that night, she’d find herself wondering… could she log into her old Discord again?)
Scene 2: Reaching Out
Later that night, Jaedah sat alone in the living room, the glow from her phone the only light in the space. Her heart was still tangled in a knot of nerves and curiosity. She couldn’t believe what Mike had told her—how long he’d carried this kink silently, how much he trusted her with it. And now, unbelievably, they were actually talking about living it out.
She’d agreed to think about it. He hadn’t pushed. Just opened the door. And now… she was standing at the edge of it.
She opened Discord, an old account she hadn’t logged into since before she and Mike were official. It felt strange typing in her username again. Ghosts of another self stared back at her from the screen.
Most of them… weren’t worth it. A few one-and-done sessions with awkward vibes or forgettable chemistry. One regular, sweet but too soft—playful and innocent. Not right for something like this. Not for what Mike wanted.
But then there was Luke. The one she’d had the most tickle sessions with out of all of them. The one who made her hesitate even now, her thumb hovering over the screen.
Luke had always scared her a little. Not in the unsafe kind of way—but in the way he knew exactly how to push her. How to break her. Tickling so relentless she felt like she’d pass out from laughing. Torment so calculated it made her cry out, beg, say things she’d never imagined saying. And still… every time, she’d gone back.
Something about him. His control. His obsession. She’d hated it during. But always kept coming back after. And now… she was about to invite that energy back into her life. Her pulse quickened.
She opened their old chat. Her last message was from over a year ago. She stared for a long moment. Then, finally, typed:
Jaedah:
Hey…
And then… nothing.
She sat there in the dim light, phone clutched like it might burn through her skin. Her heart pounded. It felt surreal—him, of all people. Would he even reply? Did he still check this? Did he still want to hear from her?
Her stomach twisted. A quiet dread and thrill coiled together. If he didn’t answer, maybe it would all just go away—no harm, no risk. But if he did…
The thought alone made her shift in her seat. There was a charge in the air now. Something electric. Something dangerous.
And then, the typing bubble appeared.
Luke:
😏
Luke:
What a nice surprise. I’ve been wondering where you’ve been.
The words hit her square in the chest. That familiar teasing presence, already slipping into her bloodstream. Her pulse ticked faster.
Jaedah:
Haha… yeah well… here I am. How are you?
Luke:
Still tickling girls crazy. Still searching for that one laugh I could never get enough of.
You still got it?
Jaedah:
I wouldn’t expect anything less from you lol. Yes I do.
Luke:
God… you used to beg like no one else.
She froze again, her heart knocking against her chest. It wasn’t just the words—it was the flood of memories behind them. The way he’d broken her down so easily. So deliberately. Her laugh giving way to screams. Her body completely his. She should’ve felt shame.
But what she felt instead was heat.
Jaedah:
Ok ok you don’t have to remind me lol
Luke:
Where you living these days?
Jaedah:
Somers. You?
Luke:
Just outside Bridgeport now.
Still quiet. Still private.
Her stomach tightened. She did the math instinctively. That was just about an hour train ride away.
Luke:
Mmm… what made you reach out?
Looking to be wrecked again?
That landed hard. Too hard. Her thighs pressed together.
Jaedah:
Stop it lol…do you remember the guy I told you about that I was seeing when we last spoke?
Luke:
Yeah, the one you said you were starting to get serious with so couldn't session anymore.
Jaedah:
So he's actually my boyfriend now lol.
We've been living together for a couple years.
Luke:
Look at you all grown and domesticated now.
And yet here you are...
His reply sank in slowly. Short. Loaded. Like he was pulling a string and waiting to see what unraveled.
Jaedah:
😅
So we were talking last night and he sort of admitted something to me
Luke:
Oh?
Jaedah’s fingers hovered, unmoving. The weight of what she was about to say sat heavy in her chest. Her skin buzzed with nervous heat, her breath shallow. Of all the people to confess this to… it had to be him. The one man who never showed mercy once things were set in motion. The one who’d pulled every sound, every plea, every raw reaction from her like he owned her nervous system.
Typing these words wouldn’t just be admitting something. It would unleash something. And deep down, a part of her knew—once Luke had permission, even implied permission, he wouldn’t just play along. He would devour it. Her. This whole idea.
Jaedah:
He said he’s thought about… someone else tickling me.
Not him. And… not while he’s there.
Luke:
That’s fucking hot!
Jaedah swallowed hard. Her breath was shallow now.
Luke:
I know just the guy for this 😈
She began typing—stopped. Tried again. Deleted.
Jaedah:
Stopppppppp 😭 you know exactly what you’re doing…
Luke:
And you know just the right guy for this too… don’t you 😏
Her throat tightened. That familiar pressure was rising again—deep, curling, anticipatory. She could practically feel the power shift already, the moment starting to slip out of her control. And somehow, even knowing that, she didn’t stop.
Jaedah:
Don’t make me say it 😣
She hit send before she could stop herself, instantly curling in on herself as if he could somehow feel her blushing. Every nerve in her body buzzed. She knew what he wanted. And he knew exactly how to make her squirm.
Luke:
Don’t make me make you regret not saying it…
It hit like a soft strike to the gut—low, quiet, and devastating. Her fingers curled against the phone. That part of her she tried to keep buried—the one that liked being overpowered, pulled open, made to admit things—was rising fast. He was right, and they both knew it.
She inhaled slowly. Stared at the screen.
Jaedah:
Would you want to do this? He still wants to be involved during this with like updates throughout though. Not just drop me off and not hear back until I'm back home.
The message sat there. Sent. Final. The second it left her phone, her skin flushed warm. She’d said it. No more circling, no more suggestion. Just raw, real intent.
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
Luke:
Oh, I’ll keep him updated alright 😈
Jaedah:
Ok...
Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might shake her entire chest. Just that one word—ok—felt like surrender. She could already feel the momentum shifting too far to take back.
Luke:
When are you free to do this?
Jaedah:
I just need to ask Mike again if he really wants to go through with it.
But if he says yes... we could do this weekend.
Luke:
Perfect.
You can take the train into my station. I’ll pick you up from there.
Scene 3: Train Dropoff
The car ride was quiet. Too quiet.
Mike kept his eyes locked on the road, jaw tense, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel—trying to keep his mind from spinning. His heart pounded in his chest like a warning, his breath tight and shallow. He looked calm, but inside, he was unraveling.
Jaedah sat beside him, curled slightly in her seat, arms tucked into the sleeves of a soft, oversized sweatshirt. She wore loose-fitting sweatpants and clean Jordan sneakers—comfort, not seduction. Still, everything about her felt fragile in this moment. Her arms were folded, phone clutched in one hand, screen untouched. She stared forward, lips pressed together, heart thudding in her chest like a war drum.
The closer they got to the station, the heavier the silence became. Mike’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. There were so many things he could’ve said. Are you nervous? Are you going to back out? Can I? But none of them made it past his lips.
When they finally pulled into the train station and stopped in the drop-off lane, neither of them moved at first.
Passengers milled about on the platform—some chatting, some pacing, some already boarding. Most had bags. Backpacks. Luggage.
But not Jaedah.
She wasn’t bringing anything.
Just herself.
And her phone.
Mike’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. His eyes stayed forward.
Jaedah looked at him. Her voice came out quiet.
Jaedah:
“Are you sure you want this?”
Mike exhaled slowly through his nose.
The real answer twisted inside him. No. Not like this. Not now that it’s real. Not with him.
But deeper than the fear was something else—something worse. A knowing. That if he called it off now, if he pulled her back, he’d never stop wondering. What it would’ve felt like. What she would’ve said afterward. What it would’ve done to her. To them. He’d always feel like a coward. Like someone who peeked into the fire and blinked.
And besides… Luke was expecting her. And Jaedah had already made up her mind.
Mike:
“I’m sure.”
His voice barely cracked.
Jaedah searched his face for a moment, then gave a small nod. She leaned in, pressed her lips to his cheek—soft and lingering. A goodbye without saying it. He didn’t turn to her.
She opened the door and stepped out into the chill air. No bag. No jacket. Just her and the weight of what she was about to do.
Mike didn’t watch her walk away.
He stared straight ahead.
And when she was gone, he rested his forehead against the steering wheel and stayed there a long time.
Jaedah chose a seat near the window on the second row. The train wasn’t crowded yet. A soft hiss escaped the brakes as the doors sealed shut. The conductor’s voice came on overhead, announcing the next three stops. She barely registered it.
Her fingers tapped the side of her phone for a moment, then unlocked it. No unread messages.
She took a breath. And then she typed:
Jaedah → Luke:
I’m on the train.
The train began to move. A slow lurch forward that told her it was really happening. No turning back. No changing her mind.
Luke’s reply came shortly after.
Luke:
Ok. See you soon.
Short. Blunt. Almost detached.
She stared at the words, heartbeat steady but hard.
Then—another buzz. No words this time.
Just an image.
It took a second to load. But when it did, the air in her lungs left her in a slow, quiet exhale.
It was a photo of his cuffs.
Thick black leather. Worn, but clean. Polished. Buckled and coiled neatly, sitting on what looked like a familiar grey sheet—his old bed, probably. The sight of them hit her with more force than she expected.
Those cuffs weren’t just gear. They were memory.
Jaedah could still feel the way they wrapped around her wrists the first time. The way they creaked when she pulled against them too hard. The cold bite of the metal at the edges before her body warmed the leather. The sound they made when he tightened them deliberately—slowly, like ceremony.
She bit her lip.
Her thighs shifted. Not from pleasure exactly—but pressure. A mounting tension. Anticipation that was starting to feel dangerous. Real.
Her phone buzzed again.
Mike.
Mike:
Everything okay?
Where are you now?
She hesitated. Then typed:
Jaedah:
Just passed Cranston.
Luke texted me.
He sent a picture of… the cuffs.
Three dots blinked.
Mike didn’t reply right away.
Jaedah stared out the window again. Her reflection was pale and unreadable. But inside, she was loud.
The cuffs weren’t on her yet.
But somehow, they already had her.
Scene 4: The Arrival
The train hissed as it slowed into the station, the screech of brakes sharp against the mounting quiet in Jaedah’s chest. She sat frozen for a moment, watching the platform come into view through the foggy glass.
She felt sick.
Not nauseous—but charged. Her hands were cold and her thighs pressed tightly together, heart pounding a slow but heavy beat behind her ribs.
Her phone buzzed.
Mike:
Almost there?
She swallowed hard, thumb trembling slightly as she typed back.
Jaedah:
Pulling in now.
She stared at the platform, expecting to see him—Luke. Leaning against a wall, hands in his pockets, that unreadable calm he always carried.
But he wasn’t there.
Another buzz.
Luke:
You’re not meeting me there.
Uber’s waiting at the curb. Black Camry. Take it.
She blinked, pulse quickening.
He wasn’t coming to get her.
He didn’t want her walking up to him in public. Didn’t want to give her the comfort of seeing his face in a safe, open place. No. The first time she would lay eyes on him again would be alone. Behind closed doors. At his place. Just her and him.
Jaedah stood, legs slightly unsteady as the train doors slid open. The station air was cool, a little damp. Her Jordans hit the pavement like a countdown starting. She glanced around.
There it was.
Black Camry. Tinted windows. Parked right near the edge of the ride-share zone, engine running.
She walked toward it, her mouth dry.
Cut to: Mike
Mike lay on his side in their bed, the room dark except for the soft blue glow of his phone. The blinds were drawn, the TV muted. His suitcase was still half-packed in the corner.
He hadn’t moved in an hour.
He stared at the screen. At the little blue dot. Jaedah’s location.
It pulsed steadily, unwavering.
He hadn’t told her to turn it off. Not because he wanted to spy. Not exactly. But because some part of him needed this. One last tether. One invisible leash. It was the only thing keeping him from completely losing his mind.
She had arrived at the station ten minutes ago.
And she was still there. Waiting, maybe. Maybe changing her mind.
Maybe...
Back to: Jaedah
She slid into the back seat of the Uber, cheeks flushed, sweatshirt sleeves tugged nervously over her wrists. The driver nodded at her through the rearview mirror.
"Luke’s place, right?" he asked casually.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
As the car pulled away from the curb, her phone buzzed again.
Luke:
Turn your location off.
Her heart stopped for a moment.
It wasn’t a request. It was a command.
She opened the app. Hesitated.
Then tapped.
Share Location: OFF.
Cut back to: Mike
Mike blinked.
The blue dot disappeared.
Gone.
His stomach dropped like stone in water. The air left his lungs, and he slowly sat upright, the phone still glowing in his hand.
She’d turned it off.
She was in motion.
And now he couldn’t see.
He couldn’t know.
He couldn’t stop it.
Whatever was about to happen was already happening.
Scene 5: The Door (Full Version)
The Uber slowed to a stop at the curb.
Jaedah sat still for a second, her heart pounding, before finally pulling the door handle and stepping out. The street was quiet. A clean walkway led to the front steps of a house she didn’t recognize. He hadn’t lived here back then. This place was new. Controlled. Private.
She took a breath and walked slowly to the door, texting a final message.
Jaedah → Mike:
I’m here.
There was no response.
She tucked her phone away. The porch light was already on. Before she could knock, the door opened.
He stood there. Still tall. Still composed. Wearing a plain fitted t-shirt and jeans. Calm and unreadable.
"Hey," he said simply.
"Hey," she replied, her voice soft.
He stepped aside, motioning her in with just a slight gesture.
She stepped inside, sneakers brushing against the rug. Her hands brushed nervously at her sleeves. She didn’t know whether to sit or stand.
"Nice place," she offered.
"Thanks. First time having a space that’s all mine."
She nodded, her fingers twitching with restless energy.
Then he tilted his head.
"You’ve been hiding from me all this time."
Her heart thumped. "What? I haven’t been hiding," she said quickly. "I just… had a boyfriend. I couldn’t—"
He took a step forward.
"Bad girl," he said lowly, voice cool and slow.
Her breath caught. She stepped back, a shaky laugh tumbling out.
"Oh come on…" she said, already shifting her arms like she wanted to cover herself.
He started walking again.
She backed away, another step, another.
"You've been a veryyy bad girl..." he murmured, eyes locked on hers, voice teasing and smooth.
And then he lunged.
"Wait--! Oh my god!" she yelped, breaking into a burst of panicked laughter as she ducked to the side and sprinted toward the living room, her sneakers thudding against the floor with each frantic step.
She moved fast, weaving around the couch, trying to stay ahead of him—but he was already closing in. His hand brushed her side and she shrieked with laughter, nearly tripping, arms flailing in front of her.
"No no no—!" she cried out, twisting in his grip, arms crossing over her torso to shield herself, breathless and already unraveling.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
He stayed on her, calm and relentless. His fingers found her hoodie-covered sides again, digging in through the fabric, and she buckled with a gasping laugh that turned into a wild squeal. She managed to slip free, stumbling toward the hallway.
She darted through the doorway, sneakers squeaking lightly on the floor as she stumbled into the bedroom—disoriented, breathless, barely registering where she was. Her hands hit the far wall to steady herself, heart pounding in her ears.
Then it hit her.
No windows. One door.
She turned quickly—just in time to see him step in after her.
And then—
Click.
He shut the door behind him with calm finality. The quiet slide of the lock followed a second later. That sound landed in her chest like a weight.
He stood there for a moment, one hand still on the knob, the other relaxed at his side. Watching her. Silent. Collected. That look in his eyes—focused, knowing, hungry.
She stood frozen near the far side of the room, cornered. One hand rested on the bedpost. Her body curled inward, arms up in reflexive defense. Her chest rose and fell with frantic breaths. Her sweatshirt was bunched around her hips, sneakers still on, socks barely peeking above them—her whole body tense and twitching, unsure where to go, unsure if she even could.
A giggle broke from her lips—short, breathless, involuntary.
Her voice cracked as she raised her arms slightly, already flinching.
"Please—just wait—" she gasped, stumbling back a step. "Just chill, please don’t—come on—just—!"
He started walking toward her.
She backed up again. Nowhere left to go.
"You've been a veryyy bad girl..." he murmured, eyes locked on hers, voice slow and teasing—almost gentle, but laced with promise.
And then he lunged.
She let out a desperate squeal as he caught her around the waist, dragging her back into his arms. Her body writhed wildly—legs kicking, arms pushing at his chest, laughter already pouring out of her in uncontrollable bursts.
"Nohohoho wait—wait—!" she cried out through the giggles, head thrown back, body twisting as his fingers found her sides again, squeezing mercilessly.
He scooped her up and tossed her onto the bed like she weighed nothing. She bounced with a gasp, already breathless. Before she could crawl away, he was on her—climbing over her, grabbing the hem of her hoodie and yanking it up and off with one smooth pull.
The hoodie hit the floor. She was left in her tank top, sweatpants, socks, and sneakers—body flushed and trembling.
She rolled over, trying to flee across the mattress, but he straddled her and grabbed her wrists.
He wrestled both arms down onto the mattress above her head and pinned them there—his grip firm and immovable.
Her chest rose and fell quickly. Her legs kicked, sneakers scraping the sheets as she tried to twist free. Her arms strained, desperate to come down and shield her exposed skin—but they didn’t move. Not an inch.
His hand clamped around her wrists like a vice. She could feel every twitch of her own muscles pulling, trying, failing.
A wave of helpless realization hit her like a crash—he wasn’t just playing around. He had her. Truly had her. And he wasn’t letting go.
Her body reacted before her voice could catch up. She was already giggling, already shaking beneath him, already anticipating the exact place his hand was headed next.
"Wait—no no no—don’t—!" she gasped, voice pitched high and breathless.
Then his fingers made contact.
He started low—digging into her sides, just above her waistband. She yelped instantly, her body arching off the bed.
"AHAHahaaa! Nuh-uh! No—there—please!"
But he didn’t stop. His hand danced higher, teasing along her ribs, scribbling in slow, tormenting strokes.
She thrashed and kicked beneath him, legs bucking, laughter growing more frantic.
"I can’t—I cahahahan’t—stop it!" she cried out, barely able to get the words out between gasps.
Then his fingers slid upward—slow, deliberate—until they reached the bare skin beneath her arms.
She shattered.
Her scream burst out into wild, unfiltered laughter. Her back arched, her eyes clenched shut, her legs kicked wildly beneath him.
Her underarms were completely exposed in the tank top—hot, flushed, defenseless—and his fingers scribbled, circled, pressed, making her convulse with each stroke. Every time she tried to twist or turn or block it, she was reminded again how easily he held her in place.
Her laughter rolled out in breathless, uncontrollable waves. Her voice cracked. Her body shook. The intensity had her on the edge of hyperventilating, and still—he didn’t stop.
There was no room left for thought. No strategy. No strength.
She was pinned. Overpowered. And completely at his mercy.
Her body was a mess of motionless tension and trembling breath.
The laughter had finally slowed—but only because she had nothing left. Her limbs twitched beneath him, weak and limp. Her head rolled to the side, damp strands of hair stuck to her flushed cheeks. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, ragged bursts.
She was too breathless to speak. Too shaken to fight. Her wrists remained pinned high, but her resistance had long since faded into raw exhaustion.
He stopped.
Just for a moment.
But she still couldn’t catch her breath. Her eyes were glassy, mouth open as if her body still didn’t believe the tickling was over. She gave a soft, broken giggle between gasps—uncontrolled, reflexive, like her body still hadn’t reset.
Then she felt him shift.
He reached over the edge of the bed. She heard the faint sound of leather sliding across itself.
And then she saw them.
The cuffs.
Her body stiffened with a weak jolt of fear.
She didn’t have the strength to stop him—and he knew it.
He grabbed her right wrist first, letting go of his grip only to slide the cuff around it. She whimpered—small and ticklish and guttural—as the leather wrapped tight and clicked snug into place. Then her left.
One by one. Smooth. Swift. Practiced.
She let out a soft, cracked sob as he finished buckling them, her wrists now caught in warm, stiff restraint.
She was still panting, still twitching, when he grabbed the hem of her tank top.
"No—" she wept softly, her voice broken and pleading.
But he pulled it up anyway.
Over her stomach, over her ribs, over her head.
Gone.
The top hit the floor with a quiet rustle, leaving her in just her sweatpants, socks, and sneakers. Her chest was bare now. Her skin flushed and damp, fully exposed.
He moved quickly—lifting each of her restrained wrists and guiding them toward the top of the bed.
Click.
The right cuff snapped onto the small metal hook fixed into the head of the mattress.
Click.
Then the left.
Her arms were stretched high above her head—taut, helpless, locked into place. Her shoulders pulled up slightly from the tension, her torso elongated. Her entire body lay involuntarily displayed for him now—exposed, ticklish, vulnerable.
She let out a sob, her head turning toward the pillow.
"Please," she whimpered, her voice barely audible. "Please don’t…"
She wasn’t laughing anymore. Just shaking. Just pleading through soft, broken weeps. Her legs twitched in protest, but her upper body had nowhere left to go.
Then she felt it—fabric in his hands.
The blindfold.
She let out another low sob as he wrapped it around her head. Pulled it tight. Fastened it securely behind her.
Everything went dark.
There was nothing left to see. Nowhere to move. Her arms stretched. Her chest exposed. Her vision gone.
She was bound.
And helpless.
Waiting.
The mattress dipped as he knelt beside her again.
She flinched.
She couldn’t see where he was—couldn’t prepare.
Her legs instinctively curled, but there was nowhere to go. Her arms stretched tight. Her shirt gone. Her breathing shallow.
The silence broke.
She heard his voice—soft, right beside her ear now.
"Let’s see how long you last this time."
Then his fingers were on her again.
Not rough. Not rushed. Just... deliberate.
They traced lightly up her side, slowly dragging over the curves of her ribs—bare now, exposed and helpless. Her body flinched at the first pass, breath catching.
A squeal tumbled out before the laughter returned. It hit all at once.
"AHAhaha—plehehease—!"
Her voice cracked, already weak, already overwhelmed.
She couldn’t see him. Couldn’t block him. Couldn’t move her arms.
His hand continued—fingertips brushing under her arm again, slower now, just enough pressure to keep her twitching and breathless. Her head tossed left and right against the pillow.
She was defenseless—blind, bound, and stretched. Her laughter came in jagged gasps now, exhausted but reflexive. Every nerve felt exposed.
She couldn’t stop trembling. Her legs kicked and shifted, sneakers dragging against the bed, but nothing else moved. She was locked down, wide open, twitching with each deliberate stroke of his fingers.
She wasn’t laughing because it was funny.
She was laughing because she had no choice.
And he hadn’t even started yet.
And worst of all, she knew he remembered every one of her worst spots. He knew exactly where she was most ticklish. And now there was nothing—not her strength, not her voice, not even the man she loved—that could stop him from going after every last one of them.
Scene 6: No Mercy
He straddled her hips, looming above her helplessly stretched-out frame. Her arms were still cuffed overhead, her torso bare, vulnerable, twitching with every drawn-out second of anticipation. Her sweatpants clung slightly to her hips, her sneakers still faintly shifting against the mattress.
Jaedah's body trembled beneath him. The air felt heavy, charged with something electric.
"Please..." she whimpered, her voice already broken with tension and fear, coated in the kind of breathless laughter that hadn’t even started yet. Her whole body quivered, waiting for his fingers.
But he didn’t move to tickle her.
Instead, he leaned slightly to the side and raised something in his hand.
Her phone.
He tilted it toward her blindfolded face, even though she couldn’t see it.
"I think it’s time your boyfriend got a little update," he said casually. "What do you think? Want to tell him how much fun you're having?"
Her body stiffened. A new wave of panic washed over her.
She shook her head instinctively, mouth parting to object—but nothing came out. Her heart pounded in her throat.
"Passcode," he said, placing the phone gently beside her on the bed.
Then he reached down.
One finger found her bellybutton.
Jaedah gasped the moment she felt it—his fingertip lightly dipping in, teasing around the edge, barely brushing the sensitive skin.
"No—" she squeaked, voice tight and panicked.
He circled it slowly, deliberately, not breaking contact. Round and round. In and out. A maddening rhythm that made her torso twitch and buck.
"Still remember what touching this spot does to you..." he murmured.
She whimpered, half-laughing, her body already reacting more with each second.
"Plehehease—stop—no!"
He didn’t.
His fingertip never stopped. Slower, deeper, more methodical.
Her stomach jumped and flexed involuntarily. Her laughter broke through, helpless and loud.
"HAHAHA—NOHOHO! WAIT!"
"Passcode."
"I c-ca-haha-an’t—haha—nohoho—!"
"Coochie coochie coooo..."
He moved his finger in a tighter spiral, pressing gently, teasing the nerves just beneath the skin.
She screamed with laughter, thrashing beneath him.
"O-haha-kay! O-OKAY! It’s—6-haha-1-0-9!"
He stopped.
She gasped for air, her chest rising and falling in sharp pulls.
Luke picked up the phone, unlocked it, opened the chat.
Typed something.
Luke → Mike:
She told me everything I wanted, laughing the whole time.
Cut to: Mike
Mike stared at his screen.
The words felt worse than a punch—they cut. His stomach turned. His chest tightened.
She told me everything I wanted.
Laughing.
His imagination filled in the blanks—her voice, broken and breathless, giggling as she gave in. Giggling for him. He could picture her squirming, blindfolded, breathless—her voice cracking as she said it.
And he hadn’t even gotten a message from her.
He sat in silence, phone gripped in his hand, heart racing, mind spiraling.
Was she still thinking of him at all?
Or had she already let go?
Back in the room, Luke leaned in again, his fingertips now hovering just above her waistline.
"Let’s make this interesting," he muttered, sliding his hands to both sides of her exposed ribs.
Without warning, he attacked her sides, fingers digging in with rapid, relentless precision.
Jaedah let out a scream—sharp, high-pitched, and laced with uncontrollable laughter.
"NOHOHOHO STAHAHAP!" she shrieked, bucking wildly beneath him, her body thrashing in a desperate attempt to escape.
But there was no escape.
The cuffs held. Her arms stretched tight. She was completely at his mercy.
"Tell me something embarrassing," he growled. "About him. Something that’ll make him squirm."
She was howling, laughing so hard her words came out in broken gasps.
"HEHEHE—HE SAVES—MY OLD SOCKS—AND—AND—SNIFFS THEM—HAHAHA!"
He paused, just briefly, to let the admission sink in.
She panted beneath him, face flushed, muscles trembling, the last of the laughter still trailing off her lips.
Luke let out a slow chuckle. "Into feet, huh? That explains a lot."
Jaedah didn’t answer. She was still catching her breath from the onslaught on her sides, her stomach twitching with aftershocks. She felt the shame of what she’d just blurted out—but it wasn’t the worst thing. Foot kinks were everywhere. Still, knowing she’d admitted one of Mike’s secrets made her gut twist.
Luke grabbed the phone again.
Luke → Mike:
I heard you're a little dirty sock sniffer 😏
Cut to: Mike
Mike felt like the room tilted.
A hot wave of shame surged up his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen, then curled into a fist.
A laughing emoji.
He stared at it, stunned. Like it was mocking him.
He hadn’t told her that. Not in words. And now it was in writing—out in the open. Being laughed at.
He imagined Luke reading it aloud. Imagined Jaedah, strapped down, breathless, spilling secrets while her voice cracked with laughter.
His jaw clenched. His chest ached.
And still… he read it again.
Because he couldn’t look away.
Back in the room, Luke studied Jaedah’s exhausted form. He was breathing calmly. She wasn’t. Her chest still jumped with each labored breath. The cuffs creaked as she tried, weakly, to shift.
He loved this. All of it. The power. The helplessness. The way he could use her against the man who thought he’d be watching from a safe distance.
He leaned closer.
"Let’s go deeper," he whispered. "Tell me something really embarrassing. Something he's begged you for. Something he wants more than anything—but you won’t give it to him. Not yet."
Jaedah's body tensed. She remembered. It was something Mike had asked for more than once, something he’d brought up gently at first and then with more hunger over time: her feet, locked in wooden stocks. He wanted to tickle her that way—completely exposed, helpless, ankles trapped, soles vulnerable. He’d fantasized about it in vivid detail. Said it drove him crazy to even think about. But she had always said no. Too intense. Too much. She couldn’t give that to him. And now Luke was digging right into that buried request. Demanding it be spoken out loud. Used against him.
And now Luke was demanding to hear it.
Out loud.
But this? Saying it now? Giving it up to Luke?
Her heart screamed not to—but her body had other problems.
He started again.
His fingers danced along her hips, then dove into her sides. She screamed.
"NOHOHO! STAHAHAP! PLEHEHEHEASE!"
He didn’t.
Her whole body writhed, laughing so hard it hurt. She could barely breathe. Her voice was raw.
Then he slowed—just a little—his hands still teasing.
"You gonna be a good girl?" he asked, his voice mockingly gentle.
She gasped for air, nodding weakly. "Please… I ha-have… yes… I’ve been good… I’ve been good…" she said it softly, obediently, desperate for approval.
He kept the light touches going, circling her ribs, watching her squirm under the pressure.
"If you're gonna be a good girl, you're gonna have to do what I say," he said, voice low and merciless.
She whimpered, voice cracking. "O-okayyyyy..." It came out as a desperate, obedient whine—a plea to submit, anything to make it stop.
The next second, the tickling returned full-force. His fingers scribbled and fluttered frantically over her hyper-ticklish tummy, darting and circling just above her waistband, sending her into instant hysterics. At the same time, his other hand slipped under her back, wrapping around and emerging just beside her opposite side—where he spider-scribbled and attacked fiercely, locking onto two of her absolute worst spots at once.
She screamed.
"AHH! AHH! OH MY GOD—PLEASE STOP! NOT THERE! I’LL BE GOOD! PLEASE!" Her voice cracked with desperate sincerity now—no longer just panic, but a raw, eager need to please him, to obey, to earn a reprieve. It wasn’t just begging—it was surrender.
Cut to: Mike
Still sitting in the dark, phone gripped in his hand, Mike stared blankly at the wall. The shame lingered, but now something colder was growing underneath it—something heavier. Not just jealousy. Not just hurt. This felt personal. Twisted. Like Luke was twisting the knife deeper, turning Jaedah’s trust, her laughter, her submission, into a weapon.
His phone buzzed again.
An audio message.
He hesitated. Then tapped play.
"Please… I ha-have… yes… I’ve been good… Ok…ahaha..."
"If you're gonna be a good girl, you're gonna have to do what I say."
"O-okayyyyy..."
"AHH! AHH! OH MY GOD—PLEASE STOP! NOT THERE! I’LL BE GOOD! PLEASE!"
Mike’s stomach dropped. The voice—the tone—was unmistakable.
It wasn’t just the words. It was the way she said them.
Desperate. Willing. Submissive.
The same tone she’d once used with him in rare, private moments—those vulnerable nights when she whispered things just for him. But now, hearing it spoken for someone else... it tore something open.
She was promising to be good.
Not to Mike. But to the man making her scream. The man twisting her voice into something obedient. Pleasing.
He could hear the panic in her tone—but beneath it, something more devastating: her sincerity. Her need to satisfy. To obey. It was her voice giving in.
And Mike was on the outside, listening to the very thing he’d once craved, now being used against him.
For the first time, he lowered the phone.
He couldn’t look at the screen anymore.
Because hearing her beg like that—for someone else—hurt more than anything he’d ever imagined.
What wrecked him most wasn’t just the words—but the why behind them. He knew her. Knew that pleading tone wasn’t just a performance. That desperate promise to be good… she meant it. She always had. She said it when she was at her limit, when she needed mercy. When she was trying to make the tickling stop.
But Mike also knew the truth she never wanted to admit.
That despite how much she hated it… despite how intense it got…
Some part of her always got turned on by it.
It was part of her wiring, just like it was part of his. And now, someone else was pushing her there. Making her laugh, beg, promise—surrender.
It wasn’t just a jealousy that gripped him—it was a storm of helpless craving, shame, and heartache. And he was trapped in it, unable to stop it, unable to look away. Just a passenger in someone else’s ride.
Scene 7: Exposed
Jaedah lay there trembling, body still shaking from the overwhelming torment she’d just endured. Her throat burned from screaming, her cheeks were soaked with sweat and leftover tears. She wasn’t laughing anymore—just panting, gasping, struggling to catch her breath. Her wrists ached in the cuffs above her head. Every part of her felt sensitive. Raw.
And worst of all—she’d said it.
I’ll be good.
Not just said it. She’d meant it. For him.
Luke rose from the bed. The sudden shift in weight made her twitch, thinking he was about to start again. But no fingers came.
Instead, she felt it—her sneakers. One at a time, slid off gently, set aside.
Then his hands again, only this time not on her skin. She felt them slide inside the waistband of her sweatpants. And her panties.
Her breath caught.
She whimpered—a soft sound of disapproval. Not resistance, not protest. Just helplessness.
She didn’t want this.
But she couldn’t risk it—couldn’t risk antagonizing him. Couldn’t beg for mercy again, not if it meant another round.
So she let it happen.
He pulled them both down slowly. Over her hips, her thighs. Past her knees. She felt the cool air hit her skin. Then the soft slide as they left her ankles.
Dropped to the floor.
Her breathing trembled.
Then—metal.
She felt him again. Leather this time. Wrapping around one ankle, then the other. Tight. Smooth.
He clipped them into place.
She felt her legs moved—spread wide—tugged toward the corners of the bed. Her warm pink ankle socks still remained on her feet—a small mercy, considering he wasn’t a foot guy. If he had been, she knew, they would've been the first thing to go.
Click.
Click.
And just like that—she was open.
Completely.
Her wrists bound above her. Her ankles locked to each side. Her chest exposed. Her lower body vulnerable.
Jaedah whimpered again.
Not from pain.
From shame.
From knowing there was no part of her left to hide.
She was bare.
And he hadn’t even touched her yet.
Then his voice broke the silence.
“Well well well...” he murmured, his tone low and taunting. “You’re soaked.”
Her face flushed instantly. Heat spread across her cheeks and down her neck like fire. She turned her head against the pillow, as if that could hide her from the truth he’d just spoken out loud.
It wasn’t true.
Except it was.
She hated it.
But she couldn’t deny it.
Something about the helplessness. The exhaustion. The way he’d wrung her out with just his fingers and his voice. She wanted to scream no. To say it was just the sweat, the heat of the moment, the lingering adrenaline.
But she knew her own body too well.
The humiliation twisted deeper inside her than any restraint ever could.
She didn’t want to enjoy this.
And yet…
She didn’t resist when he strapped the gag over her mouth. She didn’t scream when he settled between her legs again. All she could do was breathe and brace—until she felt the feather.
Each stroke dragged slowly, methodically over her—delicate, deliberate, devastating. Her hips twitched. Her breathing turned shallow. She wanted to say stop. She wanted to cry out. But the gag silenced everything.
Luke spoke softly as he worked—describing his movements aloud like he was reading instructions to a blindfolded audience. "Right here… this slow stroke… then back down… Mmm, how’s that feel now?"
The torment wasn't rough. It was unbearable because it was slow. Precise. Calculated. She moaned softly behind the gag, body writhing just enough for the cuffs to creak at her wrists and ankles. The heat in her grew, despite her shame.
Fifteen minutes passed. Her muscles twitched with every teasing pass. Her mind was barely holding on.
She began to whimper harder, shaking her head, trying to form words behind the gag. It took a minute before he relented, unfastening it with care.
She gasped air like she’d been underwater.
Before she could say more, she heard a soft click. A switch.
Then—snip.
A sudden release.
Her bra.
Cut free. Loosened. Gone.
Her breasts, full and soft, spilled out into the open air, the coolness prickling her skin instantly. A new wave of shame washed through her.
She remembered this. Luke wasn’t into feet—never had been. But her chest? He had worshipped it. Years ago, those rare nights they crossed that unspoken line—he would bury his face between them, lost. It used to make him throb. She used to let him.
And now they were out. And his.
She flinched as his fingers traced the curves of her chest—light, teasing strokes along the sides of her breasts, spiraling slowly toward her nipples. Barely touching. Just enough to make her squirm.
Her back arched off the bed, breath catching in her throat. The contact wasn’t firm. That was the problem. It was maddeningly soft. Featherlight strokes that danced across her skin, igniting every nerve ending and leaving trails of tingling heat in their wake.
Then came his palm—hovering.
Not squeezing.
Just warmth.
A presence.
He let it rest there. Still. Heavy. Just long enough to make her body beg for more.
“Mmm…” he breathed, almost to himself. “Still so warm… still soft as ever…”
His fingertips moved again, grazing slowly along the upper swell of her breasts. A gentle drag. Barely pressure at all.
“Right along the edge here… always loved this line. Just where the curve starts to rise…”
Her thighs twitched in the cuffs. Her back strained. Every slow graze sent fresh goosebumps rippling down her skin. The way he was touching her—like she was some forgotten delicacy being rediscovered—burned her from the inside out.
“Still responds just the same,” he murmured, circling one nipple with maddening patience. “So easy to rile up. Look at that…”
He didn’t look at her face. Didn’t seek her eyes. His gaze was fixed downward, devout and quiet, as though he were admiring something sacred. Something that belonged to him once—and now did again.
“This little spot right here…” he whispered, brushing the other nipple with the backs of his knuckles. “Always got hard the second I touched it… even when you didn’t want it to…”
A quiet moan slipped from her lips. She bit down hard, trying to hold back—but her hips lifted off the bed, her body arching into his hands.
He smiled.
Still not at her.
Just at what he was doing.
Thumbs traced lazy, teasing circles around both nipples now, slick from oil, slow and deliberate like he had all night.
“Been too long,” he said quietly. “Way too long…”
She whimpered again—softer, more desperate. Her body was pleading for him, aching beneath his hands.
And he kept going.
“So perfect like this… god, they used to drive me crazy…”
His fingers danced—just a bit more pressure now, but still no squeeze. No satisfaction. Just endless, cruel reverence.
Then his voice dipped even lower, breath catching slightly as he let his palms drift fully over her breasts.
“Could spend all night right here… I might spend all night here…”
His voice was barely above a murmur, just a thought he allowed to slip free. He moved with reverence, still admiring her like a possession unearthed—familiar, forbidden, and wholly his again.
She couldn’t hold it back anymore.
“Please…” she gasped, voice trembling, small and ashamed.
Luke’s head tilted slightly, a slow, menacingly confident smile spreading across his lips. He slid his hands gently beneath her breasts, cupping them like he was finally about to grant her that one desperate, aching need.
Her entire body tensed in anticipation. Her breath hitched. Her back arched again instinctively—ready, aching, bracing for the squeeze that would finally relieve the madness.
But it didn’t come.
Instead… he held them there.
Barely touching.
His palms hovered over her nipples—grazing them ever so lightly with heat and pressure so faint it only amplified their sensitivity. His fingertips glided along the outer curves of her breasts, slow and cruel, mapping their shape like he was painting her in air.
She let out a soft, tortured sound—half moan, half cry.
Her nipples throbbed against the phantom touch. Her body strained in place, needing contact, craving friction—anything—but it wouldn’t come.
His voice came next. Calm. Even. Disarming in its casual softness.
“…Do you want to kiss me?”
She froze.
Her eyes fluttered open, dazed, blurred. The question didn’t register at first. Not until he said it again—quieter this time, more like a curiosity spoken aloud than a demand.
Her mind spun. Her senses overloaded. His touches had scrambled her—short-circuited her ability to think. Her body needed something, anything, and the kiss… god, it was the one thing that would make it all worse.
Worse than being bound.
Worse than the teasing.
Worse than the desperate begging.
Because if Mike ever knew—if he ever saw her cross that line—he would never recover.
Her breath came fast, stuttering.
She shook her head faintly, lips trembling. “Please don’t make me…”
But it wasn’t resistance.
It was fear.
Fear of how much she wanted it.
And Luke… Luke knew.
He kept touching her the same way—just enough to keep her nerves on fire, her body twitching, her hips lifting in search of sensation. His hands never left her chest, still hovering, still barely there, every movement drawing more helpless need from her trembling body.
The stimulation… the pressure… the restraint… it was too much.
He didn’t force.
He didn’t push.
He just waited.
She broke.
“…Please,” she whispered, eyes half-closed, her voice like a whimper caught between guilt and hunger. “Please let me kiss you…”
That was all he needed.
He leaned in.
And the moment their lips touched, her world flipped.
His mouth was soft, confident, slow—but as it deepened, his arm wrapped fully around her chest and squeezed. Hard.
Her breasts surged against his arm, trapped in his grip. His fingers found one nipple and pinched softly, cruelly—just as her mouth opened involuntarily with a gasping moan into the kiss.
Her whole body tensed. Tingled.
Her toes curled.
Her thighs trembled in the restraints.
And deep in her core—she felt the flutter.
That unbearable, intoxicating ache pulsed through her, a wave of pleasure and guilt crashing together, making her feel like she might break open from the inside out.
He kissed her again—deeper.
And this time… she kissed him back.
The kiss deepened.
And she didn’t pull away.
Her lips—soft, eager, aching—moved instinctively now, catching the rhythm of his. Slow at first. Gentle. But hungry. She breathed through her nose, kissing him back with quiet desperation, her whole body relaxing and giving in like it had found some long-lost release valve.
She didn’t feel in control anymore.
Her hips shifted. Her back arched again, pressing her chest tighter into the squeeze of his arm. His hand still cradled her breast, thumb grazing her nipple in slow, maddening strokes with each drawn-out kiss. The sensation, the heat—it was starting to feel endless.
And her lips responded.
Moving with his.
Matching.
Welcoming.
There was no thought now. Only sensation.
Only rhythm.
Only heat.
And somewhere—buried under it all—was the scream of her conscience.
Mike.
The image of his face tried to claw its way to the front of her mind, but it was like trying to reach for something while being dragged underwater. Her thoughts of him were there—panicked, flailing, trying to shout some warning—but they were being trampled. Stampeded. Crushed under the weight of everything she was feeling in this moment.
Because Luke wasn’t just touching her.
He was consuming her.
Filling every gap in her resolve with heat, with control, with the unrelenting memory of what it used to feel like to be wanted this way. Dominated this way. Broken down and rebuilt by hands that knew exactly where to touch, and how to do it slow.
Her mind was a battlefield.
One side whispered of loyalty. Of what she owed Mike. Of how much it would hurt him if he saw her like this.
But the other side—the louder side—was soaked in sweat and oil and desire. It was moaning into Luke’s mouth. It was arching into his hands. It was crying out for more, craving sensation like it was starving.
And that side was winning.
With every kiss, every touch, every flick of Luke’s thumb against her nipple, the war inside her slipped further out of reach. She wasn’t thinking anymore.
She was feeling.
And her body had chosen.
Her lips parted again—deeper this time—pressing into him with soft gasps between the kisses, as if she needed them just to keep breathing. Her thighs trembled, her skin tingled, her guilt throbbed somewhere in the distance like a dying alarm she couldn’t answer anymore.
She didn’t want this.
But she needed it.
And that… that terrified her most of all.
Luke’s kiss broke.
But his presence didn’t.
Still wrapped around her chest, still breathing against her cheek, he moved only his free hand—sliding it slowly, deliberately down her body until it reached the soft, aching heat between her legs.
Then—contact.
Not fingers.
The feather.
She gasped—eyes flaring open, hips jolting hard against the restraints as the first stroke dragged up her slit in a barely-there pass.
Slow.
Gentle.
Cruel.
Up.
And down.
She twitched with every motion, moaning beneath her breath, eyes fluttering as the kiss she’d surrendered to was replaced with something even more unbearable.
Then came his voice—low and steady—right beside her ear.
“Only good girls get to cum.”
Her whole body tensed. A shiver shot up her spine. Her nipples throbbed under the press of his arm, still cradled in his grasp. The feather kept moving—slow… devastating.
All she could manage was a whimper.
“Please…”
A single word. Barely a breath. Exhausted. Desperate. Crushed beneath her own submission.
But Luke only smiled.
“You haven’t been a good girl,” he whispered, dragging the feather down again, his tone as calm as ever. “And you know better.”
Her hips strained upward again, helpless. The need inside her had become unbearable, shame boiling beneath the surface as she trembled from restraint and stimulation.
“You don’t get to cum…” he continued, brushing the feather’s tip just over her clit, so light it was maddening, “…until daddy gets to cum first.”
She whimpered again, her lip trembling. That word hit her hard—more triggering than any physical touch. She knew exactly what it meant coming from him. That was their old line. Their old rule. A dangerous rule she thought she’d left behind for good.
He leaned closer.
“Just like before,” he murmured, voice thick with nostalgia and control. “You remember what you used to let me do… when the tickling got too much?”
She did.
The memory hit her instantly.
Her wrists bound. Her ribs aching from laughter. Her throat raw. And him—between her breasts. Rocking. Using. Finishing.
It had been the only way to make him stop back then.
And now, she felt the threat of it again—this time with no safeword, no reset, no emotional safety net.
Her chest heaved with shallow breaths.
She shook her head faintly, mouth dry, trying not to say it. Trying to cling to the last threads of dignity. Of control.
But he could see it.
Her silence was louder than her pleas.
And he dropped the feather.
It landed softly on the sheets beside her just as he shifted his weight—straddling her thigh, one knee on either side, locking her in place even further.
She had no time to prepare.
His fingers jabbed deep into her sides.
Sharp. Expert. Ruthless.
Jaedah exploded.
“NAHAHAHHAHAH—STAHAHAHAHAP!!”
Her laughter burst out instantly, uncontrollable and wild, her entire body convulsing beneath him. Her arms pulled at the cuffs, her legs yanked against the ankle straps, her torso twisting violently—but it was no use.
He knew this spot. Her sides. Just beneath her ribs. It made her scream.
And he didn’t hold back.
Each prod, each pinch, had her shrieking through sobbing laughter, hips bucking, face contorting with hysterical torment.
Luke grinned darkly as she thrashed beneath him, his fingers never pausing, digging into her sides over and over, switching from sharp pokes to maddening pinches—driving her insane.
Her laugh turned frantic.
Then primal.
Then broken.
Her body bucked against the cuffs, twisting uselessly, jerking with each sharp prod. Her sides—god, her sides—every pinch there shot lightning through her body and left her gasping between screams.
And then it hit—the pitch. That sound.
“STAAWWWAHAHAHWWWPP!!”
A desperate howl, cracked open by panic. She wasn’t laughing anymore because it was funny—she was laughing because she couldn’t survive it. Her voice pleaded without words, cracked and choked in ticklish hysteria, her head thrashing side to side on the pillow as she shrieked with wide, teary eyes.
It was too much.
Too real.
She’d never needed anything to stop so badly in her life.
And still—he kept going.
Cut to: Mike
Mike sat on the couch, frozen.
The glow of his phone had long since faded, but his eyes hadn’t moved. He hadn’t blinked. He hadn’t breathed right since the last update—the broken, breathless voice clip of Jaedah begging for release, lost in whatever Luke was doing to her.
He hadn’t gotten anything since.
No more videos.
No more audio.
Just silence.
Which somehow felt worse.
His mind raced. Imagining everything. Trying not to. Failing.
She’d always told him she only wanted him. That she was his. That no matter what happened—no matter what fantasy they played with—her heart belonged to him.
But he knew how ticklish she was.
He knew what helplessness could do to her.
And right now… she was in the hands of someone who knew it even better.
He gripped his phone tighter, as if that might force a new message to appear. Some sign she was still his. Still strong.
Still loyal.
He needed to believe it.
He had to believe it.
But a sliver of doubt had already taken root.
And it was tearing him apart.
___________
Cut back to: Luke & Jaedah
Her body was a mess of motion.
Twitching. Writhing. Laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.
The prodding fingers. The cruel rhythm. Her nerves were shattered, her muscles shaking, her mind no longer able to protect her.
And then—she broke.
“PLEHEHEHEASE!” she screamed. “PLEASE—PLEASE JUST—JUST F-FUCK MY TITS!”
The words tumbled out on instinct.
No filter.
No restraint.
Only surrender.
Luke finally slowed, his fingers easing off her sides, letting her body collapse against the mattress in a heap of breathless, wrecked submission. She was soaked in sweat. Her chest rose and fell in quick, uneven gasps.
She didn’t even register when he unclipped her wrists from the headboard.
The cuffs stayed on.
He wasn’t stupid.
He simply brought her hands down—slowly, deliberately—and guided them to her chest.
Luke: Then be a good girl… and hold them together for me.
Her fingers trembled, but she obeyed—wrapping her arms around her chest, pushing her slick, flushed breasts together into a warm, inviting channel.
Luke slid forward, positioning himself above her, his cock already hard and glistening.
A groan escaped his lips as he lowered himself into place, the heat of her skin enveloping him.
Luke: You’re mine, aren’t you.
Jaedah didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Her hands shaped around the outside of her breasts, pressing them together perfectly. She felt the weight of him, the pulse of him against her. The feel of his cock sliding through that narrow space between her breasts was sinful. So intimate. So filthy.
Her thighs squeezed together. Her body ached. Her lips parted with a soft, shuddering moan as he began to move—slow, powerful strokes, gliding slick through the valley of her chest.
It was overwhelming.
It was wrong.
But it felt like heaven.
Jaedah’s mind screamed for restraint, for dignity—but her body was responding on autopilot. She knew it. She hated it. And yet, the way he used her, gliding between her breasts, ignited something too deep to shut off.
He was using her.
Fucking her tits.
And she was helping him.
Her hips bucked faintly, needy without direction. She could feel herself soaking, desperate, aroused beyond understanding. The oil made everything slippery, sensual. Every thrust sent subtle vibrations through her body.
This wasn’t like before. Not when she was just some playful kink partner. This was darker. Deeper. More dangerous.
Jaedah had never felt this way with Luke before. Never this claimed. Never this undone.
Maybe it was because she wasn’t supposed to be here now. Maybe it was because Mike trusted her. Believed in her.
And here she was—letting another man use her body for his pleasure.
That guilt... twisted into arousal. Somehow, the betrayal made it hotter. More powerful. More real.
Jaedah (softly, breathless): Oh my god… yes...
She felt it instantly—his cock throbbed harder between her breasts at the sound of her voice. That breathy, helpless moan of surrender sent a shiver through his entire body, and she felt it pulse again against her slick skin.
The reaction made her stomach flip.
Made her want to give him more.
The next words nearly slipped out on their own. Not thought through. Not controlled. Just born from the heat pooling in her belly and the primal need to stay in his favor—to be his good girl.
Jaedah (nervously, trying to hold composure): You want me to say it?
Luke (panting): Tell me. Tell me what you want.
She hesitated—barely a second.
Then gave in.
Jaedah: Use my tits. I want it. Fuck them harder… please... (panting, gasping)
Luke groaned—louder, rougher—and grabbed her wrists, still cuffed, pressing them tighter, squeezing her breasts even firmer around his cock as he thrust between them with desperate rhythm.
She could feel it now—his precum slicking her skin, his cock pulsing in her grasp. His breathing grew ragged, his movements sharper, needier.
Jaedah sensed it. He was close.
And deep down—past the shame, the guilt, the restraint—she felt herself waiting for it. Anticipating the moment. Blindfolded but still hyperaware of every twitch, every grunt, every pulse of him. She could almost feel it already—his climax, the warm, sticky heat splattering her chin. Claiming her. Marking her.
Part of her craved it.
Needed it.
But then—he stopped.
Just before.
She let out a soft gasp, confused, trembling—only for him to grab her wrists again and guide them gently back above her head.
Click.
Click.
He re-clipped them to the top of the bed.
Bound once more.
Helpless again.
And still aching.
Cut to Mike
Buzz
Mike looked down. Another notification.
Jaedah’s name again.
This time… a picture.
His breath caught.
He opened it.
It was from Luke’s perspective—a direct, perfectly framed shot from where he sat.
Her feet.
Locked in the stocks.
Bare. Helpless.
The image hit Mike like a punch to the chest.
Those feet—her forbidden feet—on full display for another man.
In stocks.
She’d always said no. Always.
Years of begging, teasing, offering…
And she never let Mike see her like that.
But now?
He felt sick. Jealous. Betrayed.
How the hell had she agreed to that?
Buzz.
Another message.
Jaedah: She says she’ll do anything… just please not this…
Mike stared at the screen.
His throat went dry.
A chill washed over him.
She wasn’t playing.
This wasn’t some flirty exaggeration.
She was in real panic.
Locked in the one position she swore was her nightmare.
And Luke… Luke had her.
Mike’s mind spiraled.
Was she okay?
Would she break?
How far would Luke take it?
He sat motionless, heart pounding, stomach twisted in a tight knot—knowing he’d opened this door. Knowing he was the reason she was even in that room.
And now he could only sit, wait, and wonder what was about to happen next.
Back to Luke and Jaedah
Jaedah could feel him.
She couldn’t see him—blindfolded, bound—but she knew he was right there. Inches from her bare soles. Her feet, still warm and pink from the socks he’d so slowly peeled away, were locked upright in the tight padded stocks, vulnerable and helpless.
Her whole body was tingling. Used. Sensitive. Raw.
But this?
This was worse than anything else.
This was the line she swore she’d never cross.
And he hadn’t said a word since strapping her in.
Her heart raced.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice already cracking. “Luke… please not this… I’m serious…”
Silence.
She shifted her legs instinctively, but they barely budged.
The stocks held her like a vice.
“I’m too ticklish,” she stammered, her voice picking up in pitch. “I swear—I swear I can’t—I can’t take it. Please, just do anything else—please.”
Still nothing.
Just her voice trembling through the quiet.
The occasional sound of his breath. His chair.
She started to shake. “I’m begging you,” she whimpered. “Just don’t touch them. Not there. Please. Please.”
Then it came.
A single finger, slow and deliberate, traced across the soft arch of her right foot.
Jaedah exploded.
A loud yelp burst from her lips—half laughter, half shriek—her whole body jolting against the cuffs.
“No! OH my—STOP—I can’t—!”
Still nothing from him.
No response.
Just another stroke—this time across her left sole.
Her laughter broke out high-pitched and panicked, her legs flailing pointlessly within their prison.
“Wait—wait please—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—don’t—don’t—don’t!!”
Another stroke.
Then another.
A rhythm began.
One slow stroke after another, switching feet, tracing new patterns.
She thrashed against the restraints, giggling wildly, unable to stop the panic from bubbling into frantic, uncontrollable laughter.
“Luke—plehehease! I can’t—*I can’t—*nohohohoho—!”
He remained still.
Focused.
Calm.
His fingers began exploring.
Five fingernails lightly scratched at her heels at once, making her legs kick in place and her voice hitched between snorts and panicked gasps.
“Stahahahap—ohmygod—nohohoho—stop stop stoooop!!”
Then a single fingertip again—so much worse—sliding up and down the center of her right arch.
Jaedah arched her back.
Her face twisted in a silent scream before the laughter ripped from her throat.
“PLEHEHEHEASE—YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND—STAHAHAP—"
Three fingertips now fluttered gently where the ball of her foot met her arch—one of the cruelest spots. Her voice cracked, squealing and laughing, unable to form any real words.
“NOHOHOHO—OHMYGAWD—PLEASE!”
Then zig-zags.
Side to side.
Heel to toes.
She flailed in place. Her shoulders pulled against her restraints. Her head thrashed side to side beneath the blindfold.
“NOHO—HAHA—WH-WHAHAT ARE YOU DOHOHOHOING—"
Any time she tried to plead, he found the spot.
Cut her off with laughter.
Her words came out choked, broken, buried under helpless giggles and screams:
“I’ll—I’ll—plehehease—just—WAIHIHIHI—nohoho more—noho mohohore!”
Still, he said nothing.
His fingers just danced.
Finally, as her laughter started to go hoarse—Luke spoke.
His voice low, teasing.
Luke: “So your boyfriend loves these stinky feet, huh?”
She froze.
She couldn’t see him—but she felt him.
Close.
Breathing on her soles.
Then—a sniff.
Slow. Dramatic.
She squealed.
“Nooooo—ohmygod don’t—don’t sniff them—don’t—stohohohohop!”
But he didn’t.
He sniffed again, grinning quietly. They didn’t smell bad. At all.
They were clean. Warm. Soft.
But that wasn’t the point.
The idea wrecked her. The silliness of his tickle talk
And then—he licked.
A slow drag of his tongue up her arch.
Jaedah screamed into laughter, twisting violently, her toes curling tight.
“NOHOHO—YOU’RE SICK—YOU’RE DISGUSTING—HAHAHAHAHA—PLEHEHEHEASE!”
She was losing it now.
Fully unraveling.
He gave another lick. Another stroke.
Her laughter turned to hiccupy gasps, tears forming beneath her blindfold.
She could feel his breath on her soles, his lips, his tongue—intimate, slow, and maddening.
She was howling now, her voice cracking from the overload.
“STAHAHAAWAWAAWP—OHMYGOHOD—NOHOHOHO—STOHOHOHOHOP!”
She twisted wildly, arms straining, toes flexing hard.
Her bare feet, slick with sweat and completely exposed, were being worshipped and tormented at once.
Then—a pause.
She heard the cap twist open.
The unmistakable sound of oil being poured.
Baby oil.
Cold.
Slippery.
Her soles twitched helplessly as it landed—then again as he began rubbing it in.
“No—no no no—please not oil—ohgod—please not that—please not that—”
Her breath hitched.
Then—he spoke.
Luke (quietly): “Remember that little trick I used to let you do… when you really needed a break?”
The words hit her like ice.
She remembered.
Not just the tickling. Not just the panic.
But those desperate moments—when the only thing that might save her was bringing him to the edge.
He’d uncuff one of her wrists, just one, leaving the other secured—a test.
If she could focus, if she could stroke him well enough, fast enough—while her body squirmed and her laughter broke in gasps—he’d cum. And he’d stop.
But if she failed… if she slowed… if she couldn’t finish the job?
The free hand would be yanked back into its cuff.
And the tickling would start again. Worse.
Longer.
She remembered the feel of him pulsing in her grip—throbbing, hard, close—while she twisted and gasped and begged, trying to hold on. Trying to earn mercy the only way he allowed it.
She remembered craving it. Not the act—but what it meant.
Release.
Silence.
A moment to breathe.
But now…
Luke: “This time? Only way I stop… is if you use your mouth.”
The words slammed into her like a freight train.
Jaedah’s breath caught.
Her heart pounded so hard it ached.
Use her mouth.
For him.
Her stomach twisted in on itself, waves of panic rippling through her chest.
It was too much. Too intimate. Too submissive.
She hadn’t even done that for most of the people she’d dated seriously.
And now—tied down, blindfolded, helpless—he was making her choose between that and more unbearable torment.
And it wasn’t Mike.
That fact alone almost made her want to scream.
She could already feel the shame sinking its claws into her skin.
Her lips trembled.
Her body shook.
Her mind scrambled, searching for any other way out.
No. No. There had to be another option.
She couldn’t do that.
Not for him.
Not again.
Not like this.
And then—the quill.
It touched her arch like a branding iron of madness.
She exploded.
The tip was merciless—gliding across her slick skin with deadly precision, weaving tight circles, tracing lazy S-curves, flicking just under her toes with evil patience.
Her entire body convulsed.
A burst of pure, raw hysterical laughter burst out of her like a siren.
"STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP—NOHOHOHOHO—OHMYGAWD STAHAHAHAP—PLEHEHEHEHEASE!!"
Her voice cracked.
Tears streamed beneath the blindfold.
Her back arched. Her lungs burned.
There was no rhythm anymore—just screaming laughter, her body fully in fight-or-flight, begging her to survive something her mind could no longer process.
She couldn’t think.
She couldn’t resist.
The feeling was too much.
Too sharp.
Too cruel.
Too good at breaking her down.
And in that moment—everything shattered.
The stubbornness. The pride. The line she swore she wouldn’t cross.
She couldn't take another second.
“I’LL DO IT—PLEASE—PLEASE I’LL USE MY MOUTH—JUST STAHAHAHAHAP—PLEASE LET ME—LET ME SUCK YOU OFF!!”
She was beyond humiliated.
But nothing mattered anymore.
Only getting him to stop.
She thought she’d already hit her limit.
Thought that screaming “I’ll suck you off” was the end.
The final surrender.
But Luke wasn’t done.
The quill kept dancing across her baby-oiled arches—slow, maddening, merciless.
He leaned in, calm as ever, his voice low and devastating.
Luke: “Beg me.”
Jaedah sobbed through her laughter. Her body jolted violently with every stroke.
She tried to speak—but the words caught and crumbled in her throat, swallowed by the shrieking, broken laughter that erupted every time the quill tip traced the ball of her foot or flicked beneath her twitching toes.
“STAHAHA—PLEHEHE—OHMYG—STAHAHAPP—PLEAHEHEH—PLEAAAHH—”
She bucked hard against the bed, wrists twisting in their cuffs, legs straining against the stocks.
Every nerve in her feet was on fire. The oil made it worse. Slippery. Sensitized.
The tip of the quill was impossibly light, impossibly fast.
She couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t breathe.
“IHIHIHI—SUHUHUHUH—PLEAAA—PLEAHAHAHA—OHGOHOHOHOH—”
She was trying to beg. She was.
But the words wouldn’t come.
She could only offer pieces. Sounds. Cries.
Pure desperation.
Her whole body shook with laughter. Her head flung side to side. Her toes flexed tight and then fanned wildly, trying to escape a touch that wouldn’t stop.
“IHIHIHI’LL DOHOHOHOHO IT—PLEAAHEHEHE—JUHUHUH—STAHAHAPP!!”
“BEHEHEHEG—OHGOD—PLEAAAHH—LET ME—PLEHEHEHEHEEAASSSEEE!!”
Each syllable that came out sounded more submissive, more raw, more broken.
She wasn’t trying to be sexy. She wasn’t playing a role.
She was just… destroyed.
Her mind wanted it over. Her body needed it over.
She would’ve promised anything.
Given anything.
“PLEEEEAAHAHAHAH—LEMME DOHOHOHO IT—PLEAAHAHASSSEEEE!!”
She wasn’t even sure what she was saying anymore.
Only that he’d won.
Completely.
The quill finally stopped.
Jaedah collapsed into the bed, body shaking, drenched in sweat. Her chest heaved with every ragged breath, giggles still twitching out of her involuntarily in aftershocks. Her feet trembled in the stocks, her whole body a live wire.
Then she heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft. Measured.
He moved closer.
She felt the bed shift again—not behind her this time, but beside her. He was on his knees now, right next to her head.
His voice was low. Calm. Seductive.
Luke: “You gonna be a good girl now?”
Her head nodded before she even realized it. Fast. Eager.
She wasn’t pretending. There was no façade left. No stubbornness.
She was trembling. Surrendered.
“Yes…” she gasped out, her voice raspy. “I’ll be good…”
He uncuffed her far wrist.
Not both. Just the one.
Then gently took hold of it in his hand—guiding her, supporting her as she shifted, turned slightly toward him. Still blindfolded. Still wrecked.
She leaned up slowly, trembling from head to toe, moving by instinct more than thought.
Her lips found him.
And without hesitation, she took him in.
There was no teasing. No slow buildup.
She latched on—needy, hungry, desperate.
Slurping.
Breathing through her nose in quick, shallow bursts.
Low moans vibrating from her throat.
Her head bobbed, lips gliding with focused rhythm, coated in her surrender.
She wasn’t just doing it to stop the torment—she needed to do it.
To serve.
To give in.
She felt the heat of him in her mouth.
The pulse.
The throb.
Her tongue traced along the underside, every ridge and vein outlined in her mind like a roadmap she’d memorized.
Her body was on fire.
Every nerve, every muscle, still buzzing with adrenaline.
She moaned softly again, pressing deeper, wanting to please him, to be the girl he never forgot.
Mike flashed in her mind.
The guilt flickered.
But then it was gone.
Replaced by something darker. Hungrier.
All that mattered was this.
How good she made Luke feel.
How completely she'd given herself over.
She stayed locked on him, lips working feverishly, her hand gripping his base as if afraid he’d pull away before she finished proving herself.
Her whole body trembled—legs still pinned in the stocks, chest rising and falling with each desperate breath. Her tongue moved with purpose, tracing him, gliding, coaxing him closer and closer to the edge.
And then—she felt it.
The first hot throb pulsed across her tongue.
Her whole body reacted.
A jolt of sensation shot through her—heat bursting behind her ribcage, her thighs tightening involuntarily, her skin alive with goosebumps.
Every nerve lit up like a spark.
Another pulse.
Then warmth.
His release.
The first gush caught her off guard—thick and hot, spilling into her mouth faster than she could swallow.
Some dripped from her lips, trailing slowly down her chin, glistening against her flushed skin as she moaned softly around him.
But she didn’t stop.
Didn’t pull away.
He twitched in her mouth, moaning, his hand tightening slightly around her wrist.
Luke (low, breathless): “...Fuck…”
His body tensed—then relaxed in stages, waves of pleasure washing through him as she suckled and swallowed every last drop she could.
Even when it was over, she kept her lips wrapped around him, holding him gently, her tongue pressing lightly as if cherishing the moment.
She could feel the outline of him softening, twitching still with satisfaction.
Her mouth finally eased back… just an inch… a final breath escaping her nose as she sat there, blindfolded, warm streaks still sliding down her chin.
Her body buzzed.
Not from laughter this time—but from submission.
From surrender.
From knowing what she’d just done.
What she’d become in that moment.
And that for the first time…
she didn’t regret it.
Luke’s hand rose slowly, fingers brushing beneath her jawline—gentle, steady, possessive.
His thumb traced the side of her face, wiping the moisture from her chin.
And then—he cupped her cheek.
Luke (softly): “Good girl…”
Something inside Jaedah melted.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her body, still shaking, felt weightless now.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
She just closed her eyes beneath the blindfold and let herself fall into him.
That phrase—good girl—shouldn’t have had power over her.
But in that moment, it was everything.
Approval. Acceptance. Belonging.
He began to uncuff her slowly—deliberately.
Unhooking her wrists.
Unlocking the stocks at her ankles, rubbing the red impressions gently with his thumbs.
She didn’t run.
Didn’t curl up in shame.
She let him touch her. Guide her. Own her.
He crawled onto the bed behind her, arms wrapping around her middle and pulling her in.
Her eyes were still covered, but she pressed back into him—craving him.
And when he peeled off the blindfold, her glassy, red eyes locked on his.
Not with anger.
Not with guilt.
But with something deeper.
Something broken.
Something… fulfilled.
He laid onto his back, exhaling deeply, and she climbed over him without hesitation—settling on top, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
Her arms wrapped around his neck, face just inches from his.
Her eyes searched his like she was looking for permission to stay.
To stay in this moment.
To belong to him.
She nestled in—willfully, completely.
His cock, still thick, was resting between the curves of her ass, leaking softly, pulsing with lingering arousal.
But she didn’t move against it.
She just held him. Pressed into him. Wanted to be close.
In her mind…
There was no Mike.
No waiting.
No real world.
Just this.
Warmth. Peace. Power.
She could’ve stayed there forever.
You couldn’t have paid her to leave.
Fifty-three minutes later…
Buzz.
Mike jumped at the sound.
His phone lit up.
Jaedah.
His heart raced as he opened it.
Jaedah: Just finished. Waiting for the Uber to pick me up.
His pulse surged.
Relief.
Maybe it hadn’t gone as far as his mind feared. Maybe the stocks were just… symbolic. Just tickling. Nothing more.
He immediately typed back:
Mike: Are you ok??
He stared at the screen, waiting—thumb hovering, anxious.
A new message appeared.
He unlocked it immediately.
Jaedah: Yeah. Just tired. I’ll text you when I’m on the train.
Mike stared at the screen.
The words sat there, plain and cold.
He read them once.
Twice.
No heart emoji.
No “I love you.”
Not even a thank you.
Just tired.
His chest tightened.
After everything—after the hours of silence, the torment he’d imagined, the fact that he knew she’d been in stocks—this was what he got?
It didn’t feel like her.
It felt like someone giving a polite update to an acquaintance.
A co-worker. A stranger.
He swallowed hard.
Did she regret it?
Had it gone too far?
Was she angry at him for setting this all in motion?
Or worse—did she resent him?
Mike’s thumb hovered over the keyboard, but he didn’t type anything.
There was nothing to say.
Not yet.
He tried to calm himself—tried to tell himself she was just drained. Just overwhelmed.
But the knot in his stomach wouldn’t ease.
There had been a shift.
He felt it.
Something had changed in her.
And maybe…
maybe she wasn’t his anymore.
Not entirely.
Not after tonight.
Mike sat parked at the far end of the train station lot, eyes fixed on the screen of his phone.
He glanced at the time.
5:32.
Ten minutes out.
He opened her last message again:
Jaedah: On the train… arrival says 5:42.
Just that.
Still no heart. Still no warmth.
But she was on her way.
Back to him.
A long exhale pushed through his nose as he rested his head against the seat.
His heart was still heavy, still uncertain—but there was comfort in knowing she was coming back.
She chose him.
She was tired.
Probably overwhelmed.
And yeah—it had gone far. Too far.
He didn’t think he could ever do this again.
He’d pushed her… pushed himself to the edge.
But it could’ve been worse.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering tension in his chest.
Then he heard it.
The whistle.
The train.
He looked up—sure enough, it was pulling in.
He sat up straighter, heart beating a little faster.
There she was.
Through the crowd of people stepping off, he saw her.
Jaedah.
Comfy clothes, hair slightly messy, her walk slow.
No bag. Just her phone in her hand.
She kept her gaze down—almost shy, almost distant—but she was here.
Something warm stirred in his chest.
Until—
Buzz.
His phone vibrated in his hand.
An unknown number.
He frowned.
Opened it.
A photo.
At first he didn’t understand what he was looking at.
It was a wide-angle shot—like from a small camera on a dresser or nightstand. A hotel room.
A bed.
And on that bed—
Jaedah.
Naked.
Draped across a man’s bare chest.
Luke.
Also naked.
Face to face.
Arms around his neck.
Her body pressed into his like she belonged there.
His hand rested gently across her back.
Her face buried near his shoulder like she was home.
And between them…
His cock.
Still hard.
Resting lazily against her backside.
Mike stopped breathing.
His fingers gripped the steering wheel.
His mouth went dry.
He couldn’t move.
She wasn’t coming back to him.
Not really.
Not the same.
She was twenty feet away now.
Still walking.
Still looking down.
His phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number:
If only you knew…
Mike and Jaedah met through a niche online tickling forum. She had a few session partners under her belt; he had never done anything in person. But their connection was immediate. Texting turned into calls. Calls turned into long visits. And before either of them fully realized it, their casual play sessions had transformed into a real relationship. Something intimate. Deep. Committed.
Now they lived together. And for all their comfort and honesty, there were still some things Mike hadn’t said out loud.
It was a quiet evening at home. Jaedah was curled up on the couch with her laptop. She was 27, 5'7", in shape with light brown skin. Her dark hair was twisted into a neat bun, and her long legs were tucked beneath her. She wore cozy lounge clothes, her size 10 feet bare and resting against the cushions, toes flexing occasionally as she scrolled. Mike was in the kitchen making tea. She opened his browser to look something up—and paused.
Jaedah (quietly, eyes narrowing):
“Girlfriend tickled by other guys…”
“A cuckold tickling story…”
(She tilted her head, thoughtful. Not angry—more surprised. Curious. After a moment, she closed the laptop and waited for Mike to return.)
Mike (offering her a mug):
Chamomile. I remembered you said your stomach felt off today.
Jaedah (soft smile):
Thanks, babe.
(A pause. She looks at him.)
Jaedah:
Can I ask you something?
Mike (sitting beside her):
Yeah. Sure. What’s up?
Jaedah (carefully, not accusatory):
I went to search something and saw your tabs. I wasn’t snooping—just trying to look up train times. But… some of them caught my eye.
(Mike froze. His shoulders tensed, a little color rising in his face. His voice caught.)
Mike:
I—… yeah. I guess you did.
(He looked down, rubbing his palms together. Flushed. Uncomfortable. Not defensive—just caught.)
Mike:
It’s not something I ever meant to bring up. Not because I’m hiding it from you. Just… I didn’t know how. It’s embarrassing.
Jaedah (gently):
I’m not mad. I just want to understand.
(She puts her hand on his knee.)
Jaedah:
So… you like the idea of someone else tickling me?
Mike (nervous, hesitant):
Not like a cuck thing. Not really. It’s… hard to explain. I’ve always had this thing about helplessness. Control. And the idea of you being completely at someone’s mercy…
(He glances at her. She doesn’t pull away.)
Mike:
It kind of fucks me up. In a good way. The thought of not being able to help you. Of watching it happen from the outside. Of knowing you’re squirming and laughing and begging—and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I hate it. But I love it.
(A long beat.)
Jaedah (eyes still on him, processing):
Wow.
(She doesn’t sound mad. More shocked. Trying to sort it out. Trying not to look too intrigued. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.)
Jaedah:
That’s… I mean, I didn’t expect that from you. Not that it’s bad. Just… surprising.
(Inside, she was conflicted. Torn. She always tried to present herself as loyal. Loving. Protective of their connection. And this, on the surface, felt disloyal. But she also couldn’t ignore the heat she saw in his eyes. The vulnerability. The sheer intensity of his confession.)
Jaedah:
I guess I always saw you as the one doing the tickling. Not someone who’d want to sit back and watch it happen.
Mike (quietly):
I do love tickling you. But I think that’s part of it. When it’s me, I pull back. I hold back. Because I love you, and I don’t want to break you. But watching someone else do it—someone who doesn’t have that same emotional line? I feel like it would push everything further. It would hit those spots I can’t bring myself to hit. You wouldn’t be able to just say my name and make it stop.
Jaedah (thoughtful, quietly):
So it’s like… a fantasy of total helplessness.
Mike:
Exactly.
(A silence stretches. She tugs her knees up a little.)
Jaedah:
Would you want to live it out? Like… pretend? Just between us? I could text you while you’re at work, something like, “He just locked the door.” Or, “He says I’m not getting out until I give in.”
Mike (his breath catches, a tiny nod):
Yeah. That would… really do something to me.
(His eyes met hers. Jaedah felt a little blush creep up her neck. He was clearly embarrassed. But now, so was she.)
Mike:
Would you ever actually consider it? Not just texting… I mean, for real.
(Jaedah hesitated. Her heart stuttered.)
She hadn’t expected that question.
Her first instinct was to say no. To recoil. Not because the idea disgusted her. But because she was terrified of hurting him. Of doing something that might break what they had. Of being seen as unfaithful.
But deep down… she felt something twist in her stomach. Something curious. Nervous. Forbidden. A dark thrill she didn’t want to admit was there.
Jaedah (carefully):
I don’t know. I mean… what if you regret it afterward? What if it messes with your head and you end up resenting me?
Mike (firm):
I could never hold it against you. Even if I did regret it, I was the one who brought it up. Not you.
Jaedah (quiet):
Still. It’s scary. I’d want to feel safe. I wouldn’t be able to do something like that with some random stranger.
Mike:
Of course not. If there was someone you were comfortable enough with… maybe a past session partner. Someone who knows the kink. Knows you. Knows what to do.
Jaedah (thinking):
Maybe…
(She wasn’t sure yet. But the idea was lodged now. She could feel it humming in the back of her head. And later that night, she’d find herself wondering… could she log into her old Discord again?)
Scene 2: Reaching Out
Later that night, Jaedah sat alone in the living room, the glow from her phone the only light in the space. Her heart was still tangled in a knot of nerves and curiosity. She couldn’t believe what Mike had told her—how long he’d carried this kink silently, how much he trusted her with it. And now, unbelievably, they were actually talking about living it out.
She’d agreed to think about it. He hadn’t pushed. Just opened the door. And now… she was standing at the edge of it.
She opened Discord, an old account she hadn’t logged into since before she and Mike were official. It felt strange typing in her username again. Ghosts of another self stared back at her from the screen.
Most of them… weren’t worth it. A few one-and-done sessions with awkward vibes or forgettable chemistry. One regular, sweet but too soft—playful and innocent. Not right for something like this. Not for what Mike wanted.
But then there was Luke. The one she’d had the most tickle sessions with out of all of them. The one who made her hesitate even now, her thumb hovering over the screen.
Luke had always scared her a little. Not in the unsafe kind of way—but in the way he knew exactly how to push her. How to break her. Tickling so relentless she felt like she’d pass out from laughing. Torment so calculated it made her cry out, beg, say things she’d never imagined saying. And still… every time, she’d gone back.
Something about him. His control. His obsession. She’d hated it during. But always kept coming back after. And now… she was about to invite that energy back into her life. Her pulse quickened.
She opened their old chat. Her last message was from over a year ago. She stared for a long moment. Then, finally, typed:
Jaedah:
Hey…
And then… nothing.
She sat there in the dim light, phone clutched like it might burn through her skin. Her heart pounded. It felt surreal—him, of all people. Would he even reply? Did he still check this? Did he still want to hear from her?
Her stomach twisted. A quiet dread and thrill coiled together. If he didn’t answer, maybe it would all just go away—no harm, no risk. But if he did…
The thought alone made her shift in her seat. There was a charge in the air now. Something electric. Something dangerous.
And then, the typing bubble appeared.
Luke:
😏
Luke:
What a nice surprise. I’ve been wondering where you’ve been.
The words hit her square in the chest. That familiar teasing presence, already slipping into her bloodstream. Her pulse ticked faster.
Jaedah:
Haha… yeah well… here I am. How are you?
Luke:
Still tickling girls crazy. Still searching for that one laugh I could never get enough of.
You still got it?
Jaedah:
I wouldn’t expect anything less from you lol. Yes I do.
Luke:
God… you used to beg like no one else.
She froze again, her heart knocking against her chest. It wasn’t just the words—it was the flood of memories behind them. The way he’d broken her down so easily. So deliberately. Her laugh giving way to screams. Her body completely his. She should’ve felt shame.
But what she felt instead was heat.
Jaedah:
Ok ok you don’t have to remind me lol
Luke:
Where you living these days?
Jaedah:
Somers. You?
Luke:
Just outside Bridgeport now.
Still quiet. Still private.
Her stomach tightened. She did the math instinctively. That was just about an hour train ride away.
Luke:
Mmm… what made you reach out?
Looking to be wrecked again?
That landed hard. Too hard. Her thighs pressed together.
Jaedah:
Stop it lol…do you remember the guy I told you about that I was seeing when we last spoke?
Luke:
Yeah, the one you said you were starting to get serious with so couldn't session anymore.
Jaedah:
So he's actually my boyfriend now lol.
We've been living together for a couple years.
Luke:
Look at you all grown and domesticated now.
And yet here you are...
His reply sank in slowly. Short. Loaded. Like he was pulling a string and waiting to see what unraveled.
Jaedah:
😅
So we were talking last night and he sort of admitted something to me
Luke:
Oh?
Jaedah’s fingers hovered, unmoving. The weight of what she was about to say sat heavy in her chest. Her skin buzzed with nervous heat, her breath shallow. Of all the people to confess this to… it had to be him. The one man who never showed mercy once things were set in motion. The one who’d pulled every sound, every plea, every raw reaction from her like he owned her nervous system.
Typing these words wouldn’t just be admitting something. It would unleash something. And deep down, a part of her knew—once Luke had permission, even implied permission, he wouldn’t just play along. He would devour it. Her. This whole idea.
Jaedah:
He said he’s thought about… someone else tickling me.
Not him. And… not while he’s there.
Luke:
That’s fucking hot!
Jaedah swallowed hard. Her breath was shallow now.
Luke:
I know just the guy for this 😈
She began typing—stopped. Tried again. Deleted.
Jaedah:
Stopppppppp 😭 you know exactly what you’re doing…
Luke:
And you know just the right guy for this too… don’t you 😏
Her throat tightened. That familiar pressure was rising again—deep, curling, anticipatory. She could practically feel the power shift already, the moment starting to slip out of her control. And somehow, even knowing that, she didn’t stop.
Jaedah:
Don’t make me say it 😣
She hit send before she could stop herself, instantly curling in on herself as if he could somehow feel her blushing. Every nerve in her body buzzed. She knew what he wanted. And he knew exactly how to make her squirm.
Luke:
Don’t make me make you regret not saying it…
It hit like a soft strike to the gut—low, quiet, and devastating. Her fingers curled against the phone. That part of her she tried to keep buried—the one that liked being overpowered, pulled open, made to admit things—was rising fast. He was right, and they both knew it.
She inhaled slowly. Stared at the screen.
Jaedah:
Would you want to do this? He still wants to be involved during this with like updates throughout though. Not just drop me off and not hear back until I'm back home.
The message sat there. Sent. Final. The second it left her phone, her skin flushed warm. She’d said it. No more circling, no more suggestion. Just raw, real intent.
The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.
Luke:
Oh, I’ll keep him updated alright 😈
Jaedah:
Ok...
Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might shake her entire chest. Just that one word—ok—felt like surrender. She could already feel the momentum shifting too far to take back.
Luke:
When are you free to do this?
Jaedah:
I just need to ask Mike again if he really wants to go through with it.
But if he says yes... we could do this weekend.
Luke:
Perfect.
You can take the train into my station. I’ll pick you up from there.
Scene 3: Train Dropoff
The car ride was quiet. Too quiet.
Mike kept his eyes locked on the road, jaw tense, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel—trying to keep his mind from spinning. His heart pounded in his chest like a warning, his breath tight and shallow. He looked calm, but inside, he was unraveling.
Jaedah sat beside him, curled slightly in her seat, arms tucked into the sleeves of a soft, oversized sweatshirt. She wore loose-fitting sweatpants and clean Jordan sneakers—comfort, not seduction. Still, everything about her felt fragile in this moment. Her arms were folded, phone clutched in one hand, screen untouched. She stared forward, lips pressed together, heart thudding in her chest like a war drum.
The closer they got to the station, the heavier the silence became. Mike’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. There were so many things he could’ve said. Are you nervous? Are you going to back out? Can I? But none of them made it past his lips.
When they finally pulled into the train station and stopped in the drop-off lane, neither of them moved at first.
Passengers milled about on the platform—some chatting, some pacing, some already boarding. Most had bags. Backpacks. Luggage.
But not Jaedah.
She wasn’t bringing anything.
Just herself.
And her phone.
Mike’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. His eyes stayed forward.
Jaedah looked at him. Her voice came out quiet.
Jaedah:
“Are you sure you want this?”
Mike exhaled slowly through his nose.
The real answer twisted inside him. No. Not like this. Not now that it’s real. Not with him.
But deeper than the fear was something else—something worse. A knowing. That if he called it off now, if he pulled her back, he’d never stop wondering. What it would’ve felt like. What she would’ve said afterward. What it would’ve done to her. To them. He’d always feel like a coward. Like someone who peeked into the fire and blinked.
And besides… Luke was expecting her. And Jaedah had already made up her mind.
Mike:
“I’m sure.”
His voice barely cracked.
Jaedah searched his face for a moment, then gave a small nod. She leaned in, pressed her lips to his cheek—soft and lingering. A goodbye without saying it. He didn’t turn to her.
She opened the door and stepped out into the chill air. No bag. No jacket. Just her and the weight of what she was about to do.
Mike didn’t watch her walk away.
He stared straight ahead.
And when she was gone, he rested his forehead against the steering wheel and stayed there a long time.
Jaedah chose a seat near the window on the second row. The train wasn’t crowded yet. A soft hiss escaped the brakes as the doors sealed shut. The conductor’s voice came on overhead, announcing the next three stops. She barely registered it.
Her fingers tapped the side of her phone for a moment, then unlocked it. No unread messages.
She took a breath. And then she typed:
Jaedah → Luke:
I’m on the train.
The train began to move. A slow lurch forward that told her it was really happening. No turning back. No changing her mind.
Luke’s reply came shortly after.
Luke:
Ok. See you soon.
Short. Blunt. Almost detached.
She stared at the words, heartbeat steady but hard.
Then—another buzz. No words this time.
Just an image.
It took a second to load. But when it did, the air in her lungs left her in a slow, quiet exhale.
It was a photo of his cuffs.
Thick black leather. Worn, but clean. Polished. Buckled and coiled neatly, sitting on what looked like a familiar grey sheet—his old bed, probably. The sight of them hit her with more force than she expected.
Those cuffs weren’t just gear. They were memory.
Jaedah could still feel the way they wrapped around her wrists the first time. The way they creaked when she pulled against them too hard. The cold bite of the metal at the edges before her body warmed the leather. The sound they made when he tightened them deliberately—slowly, like ceremony.
She bit her lip.
Her thighs shifted. Not from pleasure exactly—but pressure. A mounting tension. Anticipation that was starting to feel dangerous. Real.
Her phone buzzed again.
Mike.
Mike:
Everything okay?
Where are you now?
She hesitated. Then typed:
Jaedah:
Just passed Cranston.
Luke texted me.
He sent a picture of… the cuffs.
Three dots blinked.
Mike didn’t reply right away.
Jaedah stared out the window again. Her reflection was pale and unreadable. But inside, she was loud.
The cuffs weren’t on her yet.
But somehow, they already had her.
Scene 4: The Arrival
The train hissed as it slowed into the station, the screech of brakes sharp against the mounting quiet in Jaedah’s chest. She sat frozen for a moment, watching the platform come into view through the foggy glass.
She felt sick.
Not nauseous—but charged. Her hands were cold and her thighs pressed tightly together, heart pounding a slow but heavy beat behind her ribs.
Her phone buzzed.
Mike:
Almost there?
She swallowed hard, thumb trembling slightly as she typed back.
Jaedah:
Pulling in now.
She stared at the platform, expecting to see him—Luke. Leaning against a wall, hands in his pockets, that unreadable calm he always carried.
But he wasn’t there.
Another buzz.
Luke:
You’re not meeting me there.
Uber’s waiting at the curb. Black Camry. Take it.
She blinked, pulse quickening.
He wasn’t coming to get her.
He didn’t want her walking up to him in public. Didn’t want to give her the comfort of seeing his face in a safe, open place. No. The first time she would lay eyes on him again would be alone. Behind closed doors. At his place. Just her and him.
Jaedah stood, legs slightly unsteady as the train doors slid open. The station air was cool, a little damp. Her Jordans hit the pavement like a countdown starting. She glanced around.
There it was.
Black Camry. Tinted windows. Parked right near the edge of the ride-share zone, engine running.
She walked toward it, her mouth dry.
Cut to: Mike
Mike lay on his side in their bed, the room dark except for the soft blue glow of his phone. The blinds were drawn, the TV muted. His suitcase was still half-packed in the corner.
He hadn’t moved in an hour.
He stared at the screen. At the little blue dot. Jaedah’s location.
It pulsed steadily, unwavering.
He hadn’t told her to turn it off. Not because he wanted to spy. Not exactly. But because some part of him needed this. One last tether. One invisible leash. It was the only thing keeping him from completely losing his mind.
She had arrived at the station ten minutes ago.
And she was still there. Waiting, maybe. Maybe changing her mind.
Maybe...
Back to: Jaedah
She slid into the back seat of the Uber, cheeks flushed, sweatshirt sleeves tugged nervously over her wrists. The driver nodded at her through the rearview mirror.
"Luke’s place, right?" he asked casually.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
As the car pulled away from the curb, her phone buzzed again.
Luke:
Turn your location off.
Her heart stopped for a moment.
It wasn’t a request. It was a command.
She opened the app. Hesitated.
Then tapped.
Share Location: OFF.
Cut back to: Mike
Mike blinked.
The blue dot disappeared.
Gone.
His stomach dropped like stone in water. The air left his lungs, and he slowly sat upright, the phone still glowing in his hand.
She’d turned it off.
She was in motion.
And now he couldn’t see.
He couldn’t know.
He couldn’t stop it.
Whatever was about to happen was already happening.
Scene 5: The Door (Full Version)
The Uber slowed to a stop at the curb.
Jaedah sat still for a second, her heart pounding, before finally pulling the door handle and stepping out. The street was quiet. A clean walkway led to the front steps of a house she didn’t recognize. He hadn’t lived here back then. This place was new. Controlled. Private.
She took a breath and walked slowly to the door, texting a final message.
Jaedah → Mike:
I’m here.
There was no response.
She tucked her phone away. The porch light was already on. Before she could knock, the door opened.
He stood there. Still tall. Still composed. Wearing a plain fitted t-shirt and jeans. Calm and unreadable.
"Hey," he said simply.
"Hey," she replied, her voice soft.
He stepped aside, motioning her in with just a slight gesture.
She stepped inside, sneakers brushing against the rug. Her hands brushed nervously at her sleeves. She didn’t know whether to sit or stand.
"Nice place," she offered.
"Thanks. First time having a space that’s all mine."
She nodded, her fingers twitching with restless energy.
Then he tilted his head.
"You’ve been hiding from me all this time."
Her heart thumped. "What? I haven’t been hiding," she said quickly. "I just… had a boyfriend. I couldn’t—"
He took a step forward.
"Bad girl," he said lowly, voice cool and slow.
Her breath caught. She stepped back, a shaky laugh tumbling out.
"Oh come on…" she said, already shifting her arms like she wanted to cover herself.
He started walking again.
She backed away, another step, another.
"You've been a veryyy bad girl..." he murmured, eyes locked on hers, voice teasing and smooth.
And then he lunged.
"Wait--! Oh my god!" she yelped, breaking into a burst of panicked laughter as she ducked to the side and sprinted toward the living room, her sneakers thudding against the floor with each frantic step.
She moved fast, weaving around the couch, trying to stay ahead of him—but he was already closing in. His hand brushed her side and she shrieked with laughter, nearly tripping, arms flailing in front of her.
"No no no—!" she cried out, twisting in his grip, arms crossing over her torso to shield herself, breathless and already unraveling.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
He stayed on her, calm and relentless. His fingers found her hoodie-covered sides again, digging in through the fabric, and she buckled with a gasping laugh that turned into a wild squeal. She managed to slip free, stumbling toward the hallway.
She darted through the doorway, sneakers squeaking lightly on the floor as she stumbled into the bedroom—disoriented, breathless, barely registering where she was. Her hands hit the far wall to steady herself, heart pounding in her ears.
Then it hit her.
No windows. One door.
She turned quickly—just in time to see him step in after her.
And then—
Click.
He shut the door behind him with calm finality. The quiet slide of the lock followed a second later. That sound landed in her chest like a weight.
He stood there for a moment, one hand still on the knob, the other relaxed at his side. Watching her. Silent. Collected. That look in his eyes—focused, knowing, hungry.
She stood frozen near the far side of the room, cornered. One hand rested on the bedpost. Her body curled inward, arms up in reflexive defense. Her chest rose and fell with frantic breaths. Her sweatshirt was bunched around her hips, sneakers still on, socks barely peeking above them—her whole body tense and twitching, unsure where to go, unsure if she even could.
A giggle broke from her lips—short, breathless, involuntary.
Her voice cracked as she raised her arms slightly, already flinching.
"Please—just wait—" she gasped, stumbling back a step. "Just chill, please don’t—come on—just—!"
He started walking toward her.
She backed up again. Nowhere left to go.
"You've been a veryyy bad girl..." he murmured, eyes locked on hers, voice slow and teasing—almost gentle, but laced with promise.
And then he lunged.
She let out a desperate squeal as he caught her around the waist, dragging her back into his arms. Her body writhed wildly—legs kicking, arms pushing at his chest, laughter already pouring out of her in uncontrollable bursts.
"Nohohoho wait—wait—!" she cried out through the giggles, head thrown back, body twisting as his fingers found her sides again, squeezing mercilessly.
He scooped her up and tossed her onto the bed like she weighed nothing. She bounced with a gasp, already breathless. Before she could crawl away, he was on her—climbing over her, grabbing the hem of her hoodie and yanking it up and off with one smooth pull.
The hoodie hit the floor. She was left in her tank top, sweatpants, socks, and sneakers—body flushed and trembling.
She rolled over, trying to flee across the mattress, but he straddled her and grabbed her wrists.
He wrestled both arms down onto the mattress above her head and pinned them there—his grip firm and immovable.
Her chest rose and fell quickly. Her legs kicked, sneakers scraping the sheets as she tried to twist free. Her arms strained, desperate to come down and shield her exposed skin—but they didn’t move. Not an inch.
His hand clamped around her wrists like a vice. She could feel every twitch of her own muscles pulling, trying, failing.
A wave of helpless realization hit her like a crash—he wasn’t just playing around. He had her. Truly had her. And he wasn’t letting go.
Her body reacted before her voice could catch up. She was already giggling, already shaking beneath him, already anticipating the exact place his hand was headed next.
"Wait—no no no—don’t—!" she gasped, voice pitched high and breathless.
Then his fingers made contact.
He started low—digging into her sides, just above her waistband. She yelped instantly, her body arching off the bed.
"AHAHahaaa! Nuh-uh! No—there—please!"
But he didn’t stop. His hand danced higher, teasing along her ribs, scribbling in slow, tormenting strokes.
She thrashed and kicked beneath him, legs bucking, laughter growing more frantic.
"I can’t—I cahahahan’t—stop it!" she cried out, barely able to get the words out between gasps.
Then his fingers slid upward—slow, deliberate—until they reached the bare skin beneath her arms.
She shattered.
Her scream burst out into wild, unfiltered laughter. Her back arched, her eyes clenched shut, her legs kicked wildly beneath him.
Her underarms were completely exposed in the tank top—hot, flushed, defenseless—and his fingers scribbled, circled, pressed, making her convulse with each stroke. Every time she tried to twist or turn or block it, she was reminded again how easily he held her in place.
Her laughter rolled out in breathless, uncontrollable waves. Her voice cracked. Her body shook. The intensity had her on the edge of hyperventilating, and still—he didn’t stop.
There was no room left for thought. No strategy. No strength.
She was pinned. Overpowered. And completely at his mercy.
Her body was a mess of motionless tension and trembling breath.
The laughter had finally slowed—but only because she had nothing left. Her limbs twitched beneath him, weak and limp. Her head rolled to the side, damp strands of hair stuck to her flushed cheeks. Her chest rose and fell in sharp, ragged bursts.
She was too breathless to speak. Too shaken to fight. Her wrists remained pinned high, but her resistance had long since faded into raw exhaustion.
He stopped.
Just for a moment.
But she still couldn’t catch her breath. Her eyes were glassy, mouth open as if her body still didn’t believe the tickling was over. She gave a soft, broken giggle between gasps—uncontrolled, reflexive, like her body still hadn’t reset.
Then she felt him shift.
He reached over the edge of the bed. She heard the faint sound of leather sliding across itself.
And then she saw them.
The cuffs.
Her body stiffened with a weak jolt of fear.
She didn’t have the strength to stop him—and he knew it.
He grabbed her right wrist first, letting go of his grip only to slide the cuff around it. She whimpered—small and ticklish and guttural—as the leather wrapped tight and clicked snug into place. Then her left.
One by one. Smooth. Swift. Practiced.
She let out a soft, cracked sob as he finished buckling them, her wrists now caught in warm, stiff restraint.
She was still panting, still twitching, when he grabbed the hem of her tank top.
"No—" she wept softly, her voice broken and pleading.
But he pulled it up anyway.
Over her stomach, over her ribs, over her head.
Gone.
The top hit the floor with a quiet rustle, leaving her in just her sweatpants, socks, and sneakers. Her chest was bare now. Her skin flushed and damp, fully exposed.
He moved quickly—lifting each of her restrained wrists and guiding them toward the top of the bed.
Click.
The right cuff snapped onto the small metal hook fixed into the head of the mattress.
Click.
Then the left.
Her arms were stretched high above her head—taut, helpless, locked into place. Her shoulders pulled up slightly from the tension, her torso elongated. Her entire body lay involuntarily displayed for him now—exposed, ticklish, vulnerable.
She let out a sob, her head turning toward the pillow.
"Please," she whimpered, her voice barely audible. "Please don’t…"
She wasn’t laughing anymore. Just shaking. Just pleading through soft, broken weeps. Her legs twitched in protest, but her upper body had nowhere left to go.
Then she felt it—fabric in his hands.
The blindfold.
She let out another low sob as he wrapped it around her head. Pulled it tight. Fastened it securely behind her.
Everything went dark.
There was nothing left to see. Nowhere to move. Her arms stretched. Her chest exposed. Her vision gone.
She was bound.
And helpless.
Waiting.
The mattress dipped as he knelt beside her again.
She flinched.
She couldn’t see where he was—couldn’t prepare.
Her legs instinctively curled, but there was nowhere to go. Her arms stretched tight. Her shirt gone. Her breathing shallow.
The silence broke.
She heard his voice—soft, right beside her ear now.
"Let’s see how long you last this time."
Then his fingers were on her again.
Not rough. Not rushed. Just... deliberate.
They traced lightly up her side, slowly dragging over the curves of her ribs—bare now, exposed and helpless. Her body flinched at the first pass, breath catching.
A squeal tumbled out before the laughter returned. It hit all at once.
"AHAhaha—plehehease—!"
Her voice cracked, already weak, already overwhelmed.
She couldn’t see him. Couldn’t block him. Couldn’t move her arms.
His hand continued—fingertips brushing under her arm again, slower now, just enough pressure to keep her twitching and breathless. Her head tossed left and right against the pillow.
She was defenseless—blind, bound, and stretched. Her laughter came in jagged gasps now, exhausted but reflexive. Every nerve felt exposed.
She couldn’t stop trembling. Her legs kicked and shifted, sneakers dragging against the bed, but nothing else moved. She was locked down, wide open, twitching with each deliberate stroke of his fingers.
She wasn’t laughing because it was funny.
She was laughing because she had no choice.
And he hadn’t even started yet.
And worst of all, she knew he remembered every one of her worst spots. He knew exactly where she was most ticklish. And now there was nothing—not her strength, not her voice, not even the man she loved—that could stop him from going after every last one of them.
Scene 6: No Mercy
He straddled her hips, looming above her helplessly stretched-out frame. Her arms were still cuffed overhead, her torso bare, vulnerable, twitching with every drawn-out second of anticipation. Her sweatpants clung slightly to her hips, her sneakers still faintly shifting against the mattress.
Jaedah's body trembled beneath him. The air felt heavy, charged with something electric.
"Please..." she whimpered, her voice already broken with tension and fear, coated in the kind of breathless laughter that hadn’t even started yet. Her whole body quivered, waiting for his fingers.
But he didn’t move to tickle her.
Instead, he leaned slightly to the side and raised something in his hand.
Her phone.
He tilted it toward her blindfolded face, even though she couldn’t see it.
"I think it’s time your boyfriend got a little update," he said casually. "What do you think? Want to tell him how much fun you're having?"
Her body stiffened. A new wave of panic washed over her.
She shook her head instinctively, mouth parting to object—but nothing came out. Her heart pounded in her throat.
"Passcode," he said, placing the phone gently beside her on the bed.
Then he reached down.
One finger found her bellybutton.
Jaedah gasped the moment she felt it—his fingertip lightly dipping in, teasing around the edge, barely brushing the sensitive skin.
"No—" she squeaked, voice tight and panicked.
He circled it slowly, deliberately, not breaking contact. Round and round. In and out. A maddening rhythm that made her torso twitch and buck.
"Still remember what touching this spot does to you..." he murmured.
She whimpered, half-laughing, her body already reacting more with each second.
"Plehehease—stop—no!"
He didn’t.
His fingertip never stopped. Slower, deeper, more methodical.
Her stomach jumped and flexed involuntarily. Her laughter broke through, helpless and loud.
"HAHAHA—NOHOHO! WAIT!"
"Passcode."
"I c-ca-haha-an’t—haha—nohoho—!"
"Coochie coochie coooo..."
He moved his finger in a tighter spiral, pressing gently, teasing the nerves just beneath the skin.
She screamed with laughter, thrashing beneath him.
"O-haha-kay! O-OKAY! It’s—6-haha-1-0-9!"
He stopped.
She gasped for air, her chest rising and falling in sharp pulls.
Luke picked up the phone, unlocked it, opened the chat.
Typed something.
Luke → Mike:
She told me everything I wanted, laughing the whole time.
Cut to: Mike
Mike stared at his screen.
The words felt worse than a punch—they cut. His stomach turned. His chest tightened.
She told me everything I wanted.
Laughing.
His imagination filled in the blanks—her voice, broken and breathless, giggling as she gave in. Giggling for him. He could picture her squirming, blindfolded, breathless—her voice cracking as she said it.
And he hadn’t even gotten a message from her.
He sat in silence, phone gripped in his hand, heart racing, mind spiraling.
Was she still thinking of him at all?
Or had she already let go?
Back in the room, Luke leaned in again, his fingertips now hovering just above her waistline.
"Let’s make this interesting," he muttered, sliding his hands to both sides of her exposed ribs.
Without warning, he attacked her sides, fingers digging in with rapid, relentless precision.
Jaedah let out a scream—sharp, high-pitched, and laced with uncontrollable laughter.
"NOHOHOHO STAHAHAP!" she shrieked, bucking wildly beneath him, her body thrashing in a desperate attempt to escape.
But there was no escape.
The cuffs held. Her arms stretched tight. She was completely at his mercy.
"Tell me something embarrassing," he growled. "About him. Something that’ll make him squirm."
She was howling, laughing so hard her words came out in broken gasps.
"HEHEHE—HE SAVES—MY OLD SOCKS—AND—AND—SNIFFS THEM—HAHAHA!"
He paused, just briefly, to let the admission sink in.
She panted beneath him, face flushed, muscles trembling, the last of the laughter still trailing off her lips.
Luke let out a slow chuckle. "Into feet, huh? That explains a lot."
Jaedah didn’t answer. She was still catching her breath from the onslaught on her sides, her stomach twitching with aftershocks. She felt the shame of what she’d just blurted out—but it wasn’t the worst thing. Foot kinks were everywhere. Still, knowing she’d admitted one of Mike’s secrets made her gut twist.
Luke grabbed the phone again.
Luke → Mike:
I heard you're a little dirty sock sniffer 😏
Cut to: Mike
Mike felt like the room tilted.
A hot wave of shame surged up his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen, then curled into a fist.
A laughing emoji.
He stared at it, stunned. Like it was mocking him.
He hadn’t told her that. Not in words. And now it was in writing—out in the open. Being laughed at.
He imagined Luke reading it aloud. Imagined Jaedah, strapped down, breathless, spilling secrets while her voice cracked with laughter.
His jaw clenched. His chest ached.
And still… he read it again.
Because he couldn’t look away.
Back in the room, Luke studied Jaedah’s exhausted form. He was breathing calmly. She wasn’t. Her chest still jumped with each labored breath. The cuffs creaked as she tried, weakly, to shift.
He loved this. All of it. The power. The helplessness. The way he could use her against the man who thought he’d be watching from a safe distance.
He leaned closer.
"Let’s go deeper," he whispered. "Tell me something really embarrassing. Something he's begged you for. Something he wants more than anything—but you won’t give it to him. Not yet."
Jaedah's body tensed. She remembered. It was something Mike had asked for more than once, something he’d brought up gently at first and then with more hunger over time: her feet, locked in wooden stocks. He wanted to tickle her that way—completely exposed, helpless, ankles trapped, soles vulnerable. He’d fantasized about it in vivid detail. Said it drove him crazy to even think about. But she had always said no. Too intense. Too much. She couldn’t give that to him. And now Luke was digging right into that buried request. Demanding it be spoken out loud. Used against him.
And now Luke was demanding to hear it.
Out loud.
But this? Saying it now? Giving it up to Luke?
Her heart screamed not to—but her body had other problems.
He started again.
His fingers danced along her hips, then dove into her sides. She screamed.
"NOHOHO! STAHAHAP! PLEHEHEHEASE!"
He didn’t.
Her whole body writhed, laughing so hard it hurt. She could barely breathe. Her voice was raw.
Then he slowed—just a little—his hands still teasing.
"You gonna be a good girl?" he asked, his voice mockingly gentle.
She gasped for air, nodding weakly. "Please… I ha-have… yes… I’ve been good… I’ve been good…" she said it softly, obediently, desperate for approval.
He kept the light touches going, circling her ribs, watching her squirm under the pressure.
"If you're gonna be a good girl, you're gonna have to do what I say," he said, voice low and merciless.
She whimpered, voice cracking. "O-okayyyyy..." It came out as a desperate, obedient whine—a plea to submit, anything to make it stop.
The next second, the tickling returned full-force. His fingers scribbled and fluttered frantically over her hyper-ticklish tummy, darting and circling just above her waistband, sending her into instant hysterics. At the same time, his other hand slipped under her back, wrapping around and emerging just beside her opposite side—where he spider-scribbled and attacked fiercely, locking onto two of her absolute worst spots at once.
She screamed.
"AHH! AHH! OH MY GOD—PLEASE STOP! NOT THERE! I’LL BE GOOD! PLEASE!" Her voice cracked with desperate sincerity now—no longer just panic, but a raw, eager need to please him, to obey, to earn a reprieve. It wasn’t just begging—it was surrender.
Cut to: Mike
Still sitting in the dark, phone gripped in his hand, Mike stared blankly at the wall. The shame lingered, but now something colder was growing underneath it—something heavier. Not just jealousy. Not just hurt. This felt personal. Twisted. Like Luke was twisting the knife deeper, turning Jaedah’s trust, her laughter, her submission, into a weapon.
His phone buzzed again.
An audio message.
He hesitated. Then tapped play.
"Please… I ha-have… yes… I’ve been good… Ok…ahaha..."
"If you're gonna be a good girl, you're gonna have to do what I say."
"O-okayyyyy..."
"AHH! AHH! OH MY GOD—PLEASE STOP! NOT THERE! I’LL BE GOOD! PLEASE!"
Mike’s stomach dropped. The voice—the tone—was unmistakable.
It wasn’t just the words. It was the way she said them.
Desperate. Willing. Submissive.
The same tone she’d once used with him in rare, private moments—those vulnerable nights when she whispered things just for him. But now, hearing it spoken for someone else... it tore something open.
She was promising to be good.
Not to Mike. But to the man making her scream. The man twisting her voice into something obedient. Pleasing.
He could hear the panic in her tone—but beneath it, something more devastating: her sincerity. Her need to satisfy. To obey. It was her voice giving in.
And Mike was on the outside, listening to the very thing he’d once craved, now being used against him.
For the first time, he lowered the phone.
He couldn’t look at the screen anymore.
Because hearing her beg like that—for someone else—hurt more than anything he’d ever imagined.
What wrecked him most wasn’t just the words—but the why behind them. He knew her. Knew that pleading tone wasn’t just a performance. That desperate promise to be good… she meant it. She always had. She said it when she was at her limit, when she needed mercy. When she was trying to make the tickling stop.
But Mike also knew the truth she never wanted to admit.
That despite how much she hated it… despite how intense it got…
Some part of her always got turned on by it.
It was part of her wiring, just like it was part of his. And now, someone else was pushing her there. Making her laugh, beg, promise—surrender.
It wasn’t just a jealousy that gripped him—it was a storm of helpless craving, shame, and heartache. And he was trapped in it, unable to stop it, unable to look away. Just a passenger in someone else’s ride.
Scene 7: Exposed
Jaedah lay there trembling, body still shaking from the overwhelming torment she’d just endured. Her throat burned from screaming, her cheeks were soaked with sweat and leftover tears. She wasn’t laughing anymore—just panting, gasping, struggling to catch her breath. Her wrists ached in the cuffs above her head. Every part of her felt sensitive. Raw.
And worst of all—she’d said it.
I’ll be good.
Not just said it. She’d meant it. For him.
Luke rose from the bed. The sudden shift in weight made her twitch, thinking he was about to start again. But no fingers came.
Instead, she felt it—her sneakers. One at a time, slid off gently, set aside.
Then his hands again, only this time not on her skin. She felt them slide inside the waistband of her sweatpants. And her panties.
Her breath caught.
She whimpered—a soft sound of disapproval. Not resistance, not protest. Just helplessness.
She didn’t want this.
But she couldn’t risk it—couldn’t risk antagonizing him. Couldn’t beg for mercy again, not if it meant another round.
So she let it happen.
He pulled them both down slowly. Over her hips, her thighs. Past her knees. She felt the cool air hit her skin. Then the soft slide as they left her ankles.
Dropped to the floor.
Her breathing trembled.
Then—metal.
She felt him again. Leather this time. Wrapping around one ankle, then the other. Tight. Smooth.
He clipped them into place.
She felt her legs moved—spread wide—tugged toward the corners of the bed. Her warm pink ankle socks still remained on her feet—a small mercy, considering he wasn’t a foot guy. If he had been, she knew, they would've been the first thing to go.
Click.
Click.
And just like that—she was open.
Completely.
Her wrists bound above her. Her ankles locked to each side. Her chest exposed. Her lower body vulnerable.
Jaedah whimpered again.
Not from pain.
From shame.
From knowing there was no part of her left to hide.
She was bare.
And he hadn’t even touched her yet.
Then his voice broke the silence.
“Well well well...” he murmured, his tone low and taunting. “You’re soaked.”
Her face flushed instantly. Heat spread across her cheeks and down her neck like fire. She turned her head against the pillow, as if that could hide her from the truth he’d just spoken out loud.
It wasn’t true.
Except it was.
She hated it.
But she couldn’t deny it.
Something about the helplessness. The exhaustion. The way he’d wrung her out with just his fingers and his voice. She wanted to scream no. To say it was just the sweat, the heat of the moment, the lingering adrenaline.
But she knew her own body too well.
The humiliation twisted deeper inside her than any restraint ever could.
She didn’t want to enjoy this.
And yet…
She didn’t resist when he strapped the gag over her mouth. She didn’t scream when he settled between her legs again. All she could do was breathe and brace—until she felt the feather.
Each stroke dragged slowly, methodically over her—delicate, deliberate, devastating. Her hips twitched. Her breathing turned shallow. She wanted to say stop. She wanted to cry out. But the gag silenced everything.
Luke spoke softly as he worked—describing his movements aloud like he was reading instructions to a blindfolded audience. "Right here… this slow stroke… then back down… Mmm, how’s that feel now?"
The torment wasn't rough. It was unbearable because it was slow. Precise. Calculated. She moaned softly behind the gag, body writhing just enough for the cuffs to creak at her wrists and ankles. The heat in her grew, despite her shame.
Fifteen minutes passed. Her muscles twitched with every teasing pass. Her mind was barely holding on.
She began to whimper harder, shaking her head, trying to form words behind the gag. It took a minute before he relented, unfastening it with care.
She gasped air like she’d been underwater.
Before she could say more, she heard a soft click. A switch.
Then—snip.
A sudden release.
Her bra.
Cut free. Loosened. Gone.
Her breasts, full and soft, spilled out into the open air, the coolness prickling her skin instantly. A new wave of shame washed through her.
She remembered this. Luke wasn’t into feet—never had been. But her chest? He had worshipped it. Years ago, those rare nights they crossed that unspoken line—he would bury his face between them, lost. It used to make him throb. She used to let him.
And now they were out. And his.
She flinched as his fingers traced the curves of her chest—light, teasing strokes along the sides of her breasts, spiraling slowly toward her nipples. Barely touching. Just enough to make her squirm.
Her back arched off the bed, breath catching in her throat. The contact wasn’t firm. That was the problem. It was maddeningly soft. Featherlight strokes that danced across her skin, igniting every nerve ending and leaving trails of tingling heat in their wake.
Then came his palm—hovering.
Not squeezing.
Just warmth.
A presence.
He let it rest there. Still. Heavy. Just long enough to make her body beg for more.
“Mmm…” he breathed, almost to himself. “Still so warm… still soft as ever…”
His fingertips moved again, grazing slowly along the upper swell of her breasts. A gentle drag. Barely pressure at all.
“Right along the edge here… always loved this line. Just where the curve starts to rise…”
Her thighs twitched in the cuffs. Her back strained. Every slow graze sent fresh goosebumps rippling down her skin. The way he was touching her—like she was some forgotten delicacy being rediscovered—burned her from the inside out.
“Still responds just the same,” he murmured, circling one nipple with maddening patience. “So easy to rile up. Look at that…”
He didn’t look at her face. Didn’t seek her eyes. His gaze was fixed downward, devout and quiet, as though he were admiring something sacred. Something that belonged to him once—and now did again.
“This little spot right here…” he whispered, brushing the other nipple with the backs of his knuckles. “Always got hard the second I touched it… even when you didn’t want it to…”
A quiet moan slipped from her lips. She bit down hard, trying to hold back—but her hips lifted off the bed, her body arching into his hands.
He smiled.
Still not at her.
Just at what he was doing.
Thumbs traced lazy, teasing circles around both nipples now, slick from oil, slow and deliberate like he had all night.
“Been too long,” he said quietly. “Way too long…”
She whimpered again—softer, more desperate. Her body was pleading for him, aching beneath his hands.
And he kept going.
“So perfect like this… god, they used to drive me crazy…”
His fingers danced—just a bit more pressure now, but still no squeeze. No satisfaction. Just endless, cruel reverence.
Then his voice dipped even lower, breath catching slightly as he let his palms drift fully over her breasts.
“Could spend all night right here… I might spend all night here…”
His voice was barely above a murmur, just a thought he allowed to slip free. He moved with reverence, still admiring her like a possession unearthed—familiar, forbidden, and wholly his again.
She couldn’t hold it back anymore.
“Please…” she gasped, voice trembling, small and ashamed.
Luke’s head tilted slightly, a slow, menacingly confident smile spreading across his lips. He slid his hands gently beneath her breasts, cupping them like he was finally about to grant her that one desperate, aching need.
Her entire body tensed in anticipation. Her breath hitched. Her back arched again instinctively—ready, aching, bracing for the squeeze that would finally relieve the madness.
But it didn’t come.
Instead… he held them there.
Barely touching.
His palms hovered over her nipples—grazing them ever so lightly with heat and pressure so faint it only amplified their sensitivity. His fingertips glided along the outer curves of her breasts, slow and cruel, mapping their shape like he was painting her in air.
She let out a soft, tortured sound—half moan, half cry.
Her nipples throbbed against the phantom touch. Her body strained in place, needing contact, craving friction—anything—but it wouldn’t come.
His voice came next. Calm. Even. Disarming in its casual softness.
“…Do you want to kiss me?”
She froze.
Her eyes fluttered open, dazed, blurred. The question didn’t register at first. Not until he said it again—quieter this time, more like a curiosity spoken aloud than a demand.
Her mind spun. Her senses overloaded. His touches had scrambled her—short-circuited her ability to think. Her body needed something, anything, and the kiss… god, it was the one thing that would make it all worse.
Worse than being bound.
Worse than the teasing.
Worse than the desperate begging.
Because if Mike ever knew—if he ever saw her cross that line—he would never recover.
Her breath came fast, stuttering.
She shook her head faintly, lips trembling. “Please don’t make me…”
But it wasn’t resistance.
It was fear.
Fear of how much she wanted it.
And Luke… Luke knew.
He kept touching her the same way—just enough to keep her nerves on fire, her body twitching, her hips lifting in search of sensation. His hands never left her chest, still hovering, still barely there, every movement drawing more helpless need from her trembling body.
The stimulation… the pressure… the restraint… it was too much.
He didn’t force.
He didn’t push.
He just waited.
She broke.
“…Please,” she whispered, eyes half-closed, her voice like a whimper caught between guilt and hunger. “Please let me kiss you…”
That was all he needed.
He leaned in.
And the moment their lips touched, her world flipped.
His mouth was soft, confident, slow—but as it deepened, his arm wrapped fully around her chest and squeezed. Hard.
Her breasts surged against his arm, trapped in his grip. His fingers found one nipple and pinched softly, cruelly—just as her mouth opened involuntarily with a gasping moan into the kiss.
Her whole body tensed. Tingled.
Her toes curled.
Her thighs trembled in the restraints.
And deep in her core—she felt the flutter.
That unbearable, intoxicating ache pulsed through her, a wave of pleasure and guilt crashing together, making her feel like she might break open from the inside out.
He kissed her again—deeper.
And this time… she kissed him back.
The kiss deepened.
And she didn’t pull away.
Her lips—soft, eager, aching—moved instinctively now, catching the rhythm of his. Slow at first. Gentle. But hungry. She breathed through her nose, kissing him back with quiet desperation, her whole body relaxing and giving in like it had found some long-lost release valve.
She didn’t feel in control anymore.
Her hips shifted. Her back arched again, pressing her chest tighter into the squeeze of his arm. His hand still cradled her breast, thumb grazing her nipple in slow, maddening strokes with each drawn-out kiss. The sensation, the heat—it was starting to feel endless.
And her lips responded.
Moving with his.
Matching.
Welcoming.
There was no thought now. Only sensation.
Only rhythm.
Only heat.
And somewhere—buried under it all—was the scream of her conscience.
Mike.
The image of his face tried to claw its way to the front of her mind, but it was like trying to reach for something while being dragged underwater. Her thoughts of him were there—panicked, flailing, trying to shout some warning—but they were being trampled. Stampeded. Crushed under the weight of everything she was feeling in this moment.
Because Luke wasn’t just touching her.
He was consuming her.
Filling every gap in her resolve with heat, with control, with the unrelenting memory of what it used to feel like to be wanted this way. Dominated this way. Broken down and rebuilt by hands that knew exactly where to touch, and how to do it slow.
Her mind was a battlefield.
One side whispered of loyalty. Of what she owed Mike. Of how much it would hurt him if he saw her like this.
But the other side—the louder side—was soaked in sweat and oil and desire. It was moaning into Luke’s mouth. It was arching into his hands. It was crying out for more, craving sensation like it was starving.
And that side was winning.
With every kiss, every touch, every flick of Luke’s thumb against her nipple, the war inside her slipped further out of reach. She wasn’t thinking anymore.
She was feeling.
And her body had chosen.
Her lips parted again—deeper this time—pressing into him with soft gasps between the kisses, as if she needed them just to keep breathing. Her thighs trembled, her skin tingled, her guilt throbbed somewhere in the distance like a dying alarm she couldn’t answer anymore.
She didn’t want this.
But she needed it.
And that… that terrified her most of all.
Luke’s kiss broke.
But his presence didn’t.
Still wrapped around her chest, still breathing against her cheek, he moved only his free hand—sliding it slowly, deliberately down her body until it reached the soft, aching heat between her legs.
Then—contact.
Not fingers.
The feather.
She gasped—eyes flaring open, hips jolting hard against the restraints as the first stroke dragged up her slit in a barely-there pass.
Slow.
Gentle.
Cruel.
Up.
And down.
She twitched with every motion, moaning beneath her breath, eyes fluttering as the kiss she’d surrendered to was replaced with something even more unbearable.
Then came his voice—low and steady—right beside her ear.
“Only good girls get to cum.”
Her whole body tensed. A shiver shot up her spine. Her nipples throbbed under the press of his arm, still cradled in his grasp. The feather kept moving—slow… devastating.
All she could manage was a whimper.
“Please…”
A single word. Barely a breath. Exhausted. Desperate. Crushed beneath her own submission.
But Luke only smiled.
“You haven’t been a good girl,” he whispered, dragging the feather down again, his tone as calm as ever. “And you know better.”
Her hips strained upward again, helpless. The need inside her had become unbearable, shame boiling beneath the surface as she trembled from restraint and stimulation.
“You don’t get to cum…” he continued, brushing the feather’s tip just over her clit, so light it was maddening, “…until daddy gets to cum first.”
She whimpered again, her lip trembling. That word hit her hard—more triggering than any physical touch. She knew exactly what it meant coming from him. That was their old line. Their old rule. A dangerous rule she thought she’d left behind for good.
He leaned closer.
“Just like before,” he murmured, voice thick with nostalgia and control. “You remember what you used to let me do… when the tickling got too much?”
She did.
The memory hit her instantly.
Her wrists bound. Her ribs aching from laughter. Her throat raw. And him—between her breasts. Rocking. Using. Finishing.
It had been the only way to make him stop back then.
And now, she felt the threat of it again—this time with no safeword, no reset, no emotional safety net.
Her chest heaved with shallow breaths.
She shook her head faintly, mouth dry, trying not to say it. Trying to cling to the last threads of dignity. Of control.
But he could see it.
Her silence was louder than her pleas.
And he dropped the feather.
It landed softly on the sheets beside her just as he shifted his weight—straddling her thigh, one knee on either side, locking her in place even further.
She had no time to prepare.
His fingers jabbed deep into her sides.
Sharp. Expert. Ruthless.
Jaedah exploded.
“NAHAHAHHAHAH—STAHAHAHAHAP!!”
Her laughter burst out instantly, uncontrollable and wild, her entire body convulsing beneath him. Her arms pulled at the cuffs, her legs yanked against the ankle straps, her torso twisting violently—but it was no use.
He knew this spot. Her sides. Just beneath her ribs. It made her scream.
And he didn’t hold back.
Each prod, each pinch, had her shrieking through sobbing laughter, hips bucking, face contorting with hysterical torment.
Luke grinned darkly as she thrashed beneath him, his fingers never pausing, digging into her sides over and over, switching from sharp pokes to maddening pinches—driving her insane.
Her laugh turned frantic.
Then primal.
Then broken.
Her body bucked against the cuffs, twisting uselessly, jerking with each sharp prod. Her sides—god, her sides—every pinch there shot lightning through her body and left her gasping between screams.
And then it hit—the pitch. That sound.
“STAAWWWAHAHAHWWWPP!!”
A desperate howl, cracked open by panic. She wasn’t laughing anymore because it was funny—she was laughing because she couldn’t survive it. Her voice pleaded without words, cracked and choked in ticklish hysteria, her head thrashing side to side on the pillow as she shrieked with wide, teary eyes.
It was too much.
Too real.
She’d never needed anything to stop so badly in her life.
And still—he kept going.
Cut to: Mike
Mike sat on the couch, frozen.
The glow of his phone had long since faded, but his eyes hadn’t moved. He hadn’t blinked. He hadn’t breathed right since the last update—the broken, breathless voice clip of Jaedah begging for release, lost in whatever Luke was doing to her.
He hadn’t gotten anything since.
No more videos.
No more audio.
Just silence.
Which somehow felt worse.
His mind raced. Imagining everything. Trying not to. Failing.
She’d always told him she only wanted him. That she was his. That no matter what happened—no matter what fantasy they played with—her heart belonged to him.
But he knew how ticklish she was.
He knew what helplessness could do to her.
And right now… she was in the hands of someone who knew it even better.
He gripped his phone tighter, as if that might force a new message to appear. Some sign she was still his. Still strong.
Still loyal.
He needed to believe it.
He had to believe it.
But a sliver of doubt had already taken root.
And it was tearing him apart.
___________
Cut back to: Luke & Jaedah
Her body was a mess of motion.
Twitching. Writhing. Laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.
The prodding fingers. The cruel rhythm. Her nerves were shattered, her muscles shaking, her mind no longer able to protect her.
And then—she broke.
“PLEHEHEHEASE!” she screamed. “PLEASE—PLEASE JUST—JUST F-FUCK MY TITS!”
The words tumbled out on instinct.
No filter.
No restraint.
Only surrender.
Luke finally slowed, his fingers easing off her sides, letting her body collapse against the mattress in a heap of breathless, wrecked submission. She was soaked in sweat. Her chest rose and fell in quick, uneven gasps.
She didn’t even register when he unclipped her wrists from the headboard.
The cuffs stayed on.
He wasn’t stupid.
He simply brought her hands down—slowly, deliberately—and guided them to her chest.
Luke: Then be a good girl… and hold them together for me.
Her fingers trembled, but she obeyed—wrapping her arms around her chest, pushing her slick, flushed breasts together into a warm, inviting channel.
Luke slid forward, positioning himself above her, his cock already hard and glistening.
A groan escaped his lips as he lowered himself into place, the heat of her skin enveloping him.
Luke: You’re mine, aren’t you.
Jaedah didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Her hands shaped around the outside of her breasts, pressing them together perfectly. She felt the weight of him, the pulse of him against her. The feel of his cock sliding through that narrow space between her breasts was sinful. So intimate. So filthy.
Her thighs squeezed together. Her body ached. Her lips parted with a soft, shuddering moan as he began to move—slow, powerful strokes, gliding slick through the valley of her chest.
It was overwhelming.
It was wrong.
But it felt like heaven.
Jaedah’s mind screamed for restraint, for dignity—but her body was responding on autopilot. She knew it. She hated it. And yet, the way he used her, gliding between her breasts, ignited something too deep to shut off.
He was using her.
Fucking her tits.
And she was helping him.
Her hips bucked faintly, needy without direction. She could feel herself soaking, desperate, aroused beyond understanding. The oil made everything slippery, sensual. Every thrust sent subtle vibrations through her body.
This wasn’t like before. Not when she was just some playful kink partner. This was darker. Deeper. More dangerous.
Jaedah had never felt this way with Luke before. Never this claimed. Never this undone.
Maybe it was because she wasn’t supposed to be here now. Maybe it was because Mike trusted her. Believed in her.
And here she was—letting another man use her body for his pleasure.
That guilt... twisted into arousal. Somehow, the betrayal made it hotter. More powerful. More real.
Jaedah (softly, breathless): Oh my god… yes...
She felt it instantly—his cock throbbed harder between her breasts at the sound of her voice. That breathy, helpless moan of surrender sent a shiver through his entire body, and she felt it pulse again against her slick skin.
The reaction made her stomach flip.
Made her want to give him more.
The next words nearly slipped out on their own. Not thought through. Not controlled. Just born from the heat pooling in her belly and the primal need to stay in his favor—to be his good girl.
Jaedah (nervously, trying to hold composure): You want me to say it?
Luke (panting): Tell me. Tell me what you want.
She hesitated—barely a second.
Then gave in.
Jaedah: Use my tits. I want it. Fuck them harder… please... (panting, gasping)
Luke groaned—louder, rougher—and grabbed her wrists, still cuffed, pressing them tighter, squeezing her breasts even firmer around his cock as he thrust between them with desperate rhythm.
She could feel it now—his precum slicking her skin, his cock pulsing in her grasp. His breathing grew ragged, his movements sharper, needier.
Jaedah sensed it. He was close.
And deep down—past the shame, the guilt, the restraint—she felt herself waiting for it. Anticipating the moment. Blindfolded but still hyperaware of every twitch, every grunt, every pulse of him. She could almost feel it already—his climax, the warm, sticky heat splattering her chin. Claiming her. Marking her.
Part of her craved it.
Needed it.
But then—he stopped.
Just before.
She let out a soft gasp, confused, trembling—only for him to grab her wrists again and guide them gently back above her head.
Click.
Click.
He re-clipped them to the top of the bed.
Bound once more.
Helpless again.
And still aching.
Scene 8: Submission
Cut to Mike
Buzz
Mike looked down. Another notification.
Jaedah’s name again.
This time… a picture.
His breath caught.
He opened it.
It was from Luke’s perspective—a direct, perfectly framed shot from where he sat.
Her feet.
Locked in the stocks.
Bare. Helpless.
The image hit Mike like a punch to the chest.
Those feet—her forbidden feet—on full display for another man.
In stocks.
She’d always said no. Always.
Years of begging, teasing, offering…
And she never let Mike see her like that.
But now?
He felt sick. Jealous. Betrayed.
How the hell had she agreed to that?
Buzz.
Another message.
Jaedah: She says she’ll do anything… just please not this…
Mike stared at the screen.
His throat went dry.
A chill washed over him.
She wasn’t playing.
This wasn’t some flirty exaggeration.
She was in real panic.
Locked in the one position she swore was her nightmare.
And Luke… Luke had her.
Mike’s mind spiraled.
Was she okay?
Would she break?
How far would Luke take it?
He sat motionless, heart pounding, stomach twisted in a tight knot—knowing he’d opened this door. Knowing he was the reason she was even in that room.
And now he could only sit, wait, and wonder what was about to happen next.
Back to Luke and Jaedah
Jaedah could feel him.
She couldn’t see him—blindfolded, bound—but she knew he was right there. Inches from her bare soles. Her feet, still warm and pink from the socks he’d so slowly peeled away, were locked upright in the tight padded stocks, vulnerable and helpless.
Her whole body was tingling. Used. Sensitive. Raw.
But this?
This was worse than anything else.
This was the line she swore she’d never cross.
And he hadn’t said a word since strapping her in.
Her heart raced.
“Please,” she whispered, her voice already cracking. “Luke… please not this… I’m serious…”
Silence.
She shifted her legs instinctively, but they barely budged.
The stocks held her like a vice.
“I’m too ticklish,” she stammered, her voice picking up in pitch. “I swear—I swear I can’t—I can’t take it. Please, just do anything else—please.”
Still nothing.
Just her voice trembling through the quiet.
The occasional sound of his breath. His chair.
She started to shake. “I’m begging you,” she whimpered. “Just don’t touch them. Not there. Please. Please.”
Then it came.
A single finger, slow and deliberate, traced across the soft arch of her right foot.
Jaedah exploded.
A loud yelp burst from her lips—half laughter, half shriek—her whole body jolting against the cuffs.
“No! OH my—STOP—I can’t—!”
Still nothing from him.
No response.
Just another stroke—this time across her left sole.
Her laughter broke out high-pitched and panicked, her legs flailing pointlessly within their prison.
“Wait—wait please—I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—don’t—don’t—don’t!!”
Another stroke.
Then another.
A rhythm began.
One slow stroke after another, switching feet, tracing new patterns.
She thrashed against the restraints, giggling wildly, unable to stop the panic from bubbling into frantic, uncontrollable laughter.
“Luke—plehehease! I can’t—*I can’t—*nohohohoho—!”
He remained still.
Focused.
Calm.
His fingers began exploring.
Five fingernails lightly scratched at her heels at once, making her legs kick in place and her voice hitched between snorts and panicked gasps.
“Stahahahap—ohmygod—nohohoho—stop stop stoooop!!”
Then a single fingertip again—so much worse—sliding up and down the center of her right arch.
Jaedah arched her back.
Her face twisted in a silent scream before the laughter ripped from her throat.
“PLEHEHEHEASE—YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND—STAHAHAP—"
Three fingertips now fluttered gently where the ball of her foot met her arch—one of the cruelest spots. Her voice cracked, squealing and laughing, unable to form any real words.
“NOHOHOHO—OHMYGAWD—PLEASE!”
Then zig-zags.
Side to side.
Heel to toes.
She flailed in place. Her shoulders pulled against her restraints. Her head thrashed side to side beneath the blindfold.
“NOHO—HAHA—WH-WHAHAT ARE YOU DOHOHOHOING—"
Any time she tried to plead, he found the spot.
Cut her off with laughter.
Her words came out choked, broken, buried under helpless giggles and screams:
“I’ll—I’ll—plehehease—just—WAIHIHIHI—nohoho more—noho mohohore!”
Still, he said nothing.
His fingers just danced.
Finally, as her laughter started to go hoarse—Luke spoke.
His voice low, teasing.
Luke: “So your boyfriend loves these stinky feet, huh?”
She froze.
She couldn’t see him—but she felt him.
Close.
Breathing on her soles.
Then—a sniff.
Slow. Dramatic.
She squealed.
“Nooooo—ohmygod don’t—don’t sniff them—don’t—stohohohohop!”
But he didn’t.
He sniffed again, grinning quietly. They didn’t smell bad. At all.
They were clean. Warm. Soft.
But that wasn’t the point.
The idea wrecked her. The silliness of his tickle talk
And then—he licked.
A slow drag of his tongue up her arch.
Jaedah screamed into laughter, twisting violently, her toes curling tight.
“NOHOHO—YOU’RE SICK—YOU’RE DISGUSTING—HAHAHAHAHA—PLEHEHEHEASE!”
She was losing it now.
Fully unraveling.
He gave another lick. Another stroke.
Her laughter turned to hiccupy gasps, tears forming beneath her blindfold.
She could feel his breath on her soles, his lips, his tongue—intimate, slow, and maddening.
She was howling now, her voice cracking from the overload.
“STAHAHAAWAWAAWP—OHMYGOHOD—NOHOHOHO—STOHOHOHOHOP!”
She twisted wildly, arms straining, toes flexing hard.
Her bare feet, slick with sweat and completely exposed, were being worshipped and tormented at once.
Then—a pause.
She heard the cap twist open.
The unmistakable sound of oil being poured.
Baby oil.
Cold.
Slippery.
Her soles twitched helplessly as it landed—then again as he began rubbing it in.
“No—no no no—please not oil—ohgod—please not that—please not that—”
Her breath hitched.
Then—he spoke.
Luke (quietly): “Remember that little trick I used to let you do… when you really needed a break?”
The words hit her like ice.
She remembered.
Not just the tickling. Not just the panic.
But those desperate moments—when the only thing that might save her was bringing him to the edge.
He’d uncuff one of her wrists, just one, leaving the other secured—a test.
If she could focus, if she could stroke him well enough, fast enough—while her body squirmed and her laughter broke in gasps—he’d cum. And he’d stop.
But if she failed… if she slowed… if she couldn’t finish the job?
The free hand would be yanked back into its cuff.
And the tickling would start again. Worse.
Longer.
She remembered the feel of him pulsing in her grip—throbbing, hard, close—while she twisted and gasped and begged, trying to hold on. Trying to earn mercy the only way he allowed it.
She remembered craving it. Not the act—but what it meant.
Release.
Silence.
A moment to breathe.
But now…
Luke: “This time? Only way I stop… is if you use your mouth.”
The words slammed into her like a freight train.
Jaedah’s breath caught.
Her heart pounded so hard it ached.
Use her mouth.
For him.
Her stomach twisted in on itself, waves of panic rippling through her chest.
It was too much. Too intimate. Too submissive.
She hadn’t even done that for most of the people she’d dated seriously.
And now—tied down, blindfolded, helpless—he was making her choose between that and more unbearable torment.
And it wasn’t Mike.
That fact alone almost made her want to scream.
She could already feel the shame sinking its claws into her skin.
Her lips trembled.
Her body shook.
Her mind scrambled, searching for any other way out.
No. No. There had to be another option.
She couldn’t do that.
Not for him.
Not again.
Not like this.
And then—the quill.
It touched her arch like a branding iron of madness.
She exploded.
The tip was merciless—gliding across her slick skin with deadly precision, weaving tight circles, tracing lazy S-curves, flicking just under her toes with evil patience.
Her entire body convulsed.
A burst of pure, raw hysterical laughter burst out of her like a siren.
"STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP—NOHOHOHOHO—OHMYGAWD STAHAHAHAP—PLEHEHEHEHEASE!!"
Her voice cracked.
Tears streamed beneath the blindfold.
Her back arched. Her lungs burned.
There was no rhythm anymore—just screaming laughter, her body fully in fight-or-flight, begging her to survive something her mind could no longer process.
She couldn’t think.
She couldn’t resist.
The feeling was too much.
Too sharp.
Too cruel.
Too good at breaking her down.
And in that moment—everything shattered.
The stubbornness. The pride. The line she swore she wouldn’t cross.
She couldn't take another second.
“I’LL DO IT—PLEASE—PLEASE I’LL USE MY MOUTH—JUST STAHAHAHAHAP—PLEASE LET ME—LET ME SUCK YOU OFF!!”
She was beyond humiliated.
But nothing mattered anymore.
Only getting him to stop.
She thought she’d already hit her limit.
Thought that screaming “I’ll suck you off” was the end.
The final surrender.
But Luke wasn’t done.
The quill kept dancing across her baby-oiled arches—slow, maddening, merciless.
He leaned in, calm as ever, his voice low and devastating.
Luke: “Beg me.”
Jaedah sobbed through her laughter. Her body jolted violently with every stroke.
She tried to speak—but the words caught and crumbled in her throat, swallowed by the shrieking, broken laughter that erupted every time the quill tip traced the ball of her foot or flicked beneath her twitching toes.
“STAHAHA—PLEHEHE—OHMYG—STAHAHAPP—PLEAHEHEH—PLEAAAHH—”
She bucked hard against the bed, wrists twisting in their cuffs, legs straining against the stocks.
Every nerve in her feet was on fire. The oil made it worse. Slippery. Sensitized.
The tip of the quill was impossibly light, impossibly fast.
She couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t breathe.
“IHIHIHI—SUHUHUHUH—PLEAAA—PLEAHAHAHA—OHGOHOHOHOH—”
She was trying to beg. She was.
But the words wouldn’t come.
She could only offer pieces. Sounds. Cries.
Pure desperation.
Her whole body shook with laughter. Her head flung side to side. Her toes flexed tight and then fanned wildly, trying to escape a touch that wouldn’t stop.
“IHIHIHI’LL DOHOHOHOHO IT—PLEAAHEHEHE—JUHUHUH—STAHAHAPP!!”
“BEHEHEHEG—OHGOD—PLEAAAHH—LET ME—PLEHEHEHEHEEAASSSEEE!!”
Each syllable that came out sounded more submissive, more raw, more broken.
She wasn’t trying to be sexy. She wasn’t playing a role.
She was just… destroyed.
Her mind wanted it over. Her body needed it over.
She would’ve promised anything.
Given anything.
“PLEEEEAAHAHAHAH—LEMME DOHOHOHO IT—PLEAAHAHASSSEEEE!!”
She wasn’t even sure what she was saying anymore.
Only that he’d won.
Completely.
The quill finally stopped.
Jaedah collapsed into the bed, body shaking, drenched in sweat. Her chest heaved with every ragged breath, giggles still twitching out of her involuntarily in aftershocks. Her feet trembled in the stocks, her whole body a live wire.
Then she heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft. Measured.
He moved closer.
She felt the bed shift again—not behind her this time, but beside her. He was on his knees now, right next to her head.
His voice was low. Calm. Seductive.
Luke: “You gonna be a good girl now?”
Her head nodded before she even realized it. Fast. Eager.
She wasn’t pretending. There was no façade left. No stubbornness.
She was trembling. Surrendered.
“Yes…” she gasped out, her voice raspy. “I’ll be good…”
He uncuffed her far wrist.
Not both. Just the one.
Then gently took hold of it in his hand—guiding her, supporting her as she shifted, turned slightly toward him. Still blindfolded. Still wrecked.
She leaned up slowly, trembling from head to toe, moving by instinct more than thought.
Her lips found him.
And without hesitation, she took him in.
There was no teasing. No slow buildup.
She latched on—needy, hungry, desperate.
Slurping.
Breathing through her nose in quick, shallow bursts.
Low moans vibrating from her throat.
Her head bobbed, lips gliding with focused rhythm, coated in her surrender.
She wasn’t just doing it to stop the torment—she needed to do it.
To serve.
To give in.
She felt the heat of him in her mouth.
The pulse.
The throb.
Her tongue traced along the underside, every ridge and vein outlined in her mind like a roadmap she’d memorized.
Her body was on fire.
Every nerve, every muscle, still buzzing with adrenaline.
She moaned softly again, pressing deeper, wanting to please him, to be the girl he never forgot.
Mike flashed in her mind.
The guilt flickered.
But then it was gone.
Replaced by something darker. Hungrier.
All that mattered was this.
How good she made Luke feel.
How completely she'd given herself over.
She stayed locked on him, lips working feverishly, her hand gripping his base as if afraid he’d pull away before she finished proving herself.
Her whole body trembled—legs still pinned in the stocks, chest rising and falling with each desperate breath. Her tongue moved with purpose, tracing him, gliding, coaxing him closer and closer to the edge.
And then—she felt it.
The first hot throb pulsed across her tongue.
Her whole body reacted.
A jolt of sensation shot through her—heat bursting behind her ribcage, her thighs tightening involuntarily, her skin alive with goosebumps.
Every nerve lit up like a spark.
Another pulse.
Then warmth.
His release.
The first gush caught her off guard—thick and hot, spilling into her mouth faster than she could swallow.
Some dripped from her lips, trailing slowly down her chin, glistening against her flushed skin as she moaned softly around him.
But she didn’t stop.
Didn’t pull away.
He twitched in her mouth, moaning, his hand tightening slightly around her wrist.
Luke (low, breathless): “...Fuck…”
His body tensed—then relaxed in stages, waves of pleasure washing through him as she suckled and swallowed every last drop she could.
Even when it was over, she kept her lips wrapped around him, holding him gently, her tongue pressing lightly as if cherishing the moment.
She could feel the outline of him softening, twitching still with satisfaction.
Her mouth finally eased back… just an inch… a final breath escaping her nose as she sat there, blindfolded, warm streaks still sliding down her chin.
Her body buzzed.
Not from laughter this time—but from submission.
From surrender.
From knowing what she’d just done.
What she’d become in that moment.
And that for the first time…
she didn’t regret it.
Luke’s hand rose slowly, fingers brushing beneath her jawline—gentle, steady, possessive.
His thumb traced the side of her face, wiping the moisture from her chin.
And then—he cupped her cheek.
Luke (softly): “Good girl…”
Something inside Jaedah melted.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her body, still shaking, felt weightless now.
She didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
She just closed her eyes beneath the blindfold and let herself fall into him.
That phrase—good girl—shouldn’t have had power over her.
But in that moment, it was everything.
Approval. Acceptance. Belonging.
He began to uncuff her slowly—deliberately.
Unhooking her wrists.
Unlocking the stocks at her ankles, rubbing the red impressions gently with his thumbs.
She didn’t run.
Didn’t curl up in shame.
She let him touch her. Guide her. Own her.
He crawled onto the bed behind her, arms wrapping around her middle and pulling her in.
Her eyes were still covered, but she pressed back into him—craving him.
And when he peeled off the blindfold, her glassy, red eyes locked on his.
Not with anger.
Not with guilt.
But with something deeper.
Something broken.
Something… fulfilled.
He laid onto his back, exhaling deeply, and she climbed over him without hesitation—settling on top, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat.
Her arms wrapped around his neck, face just inches from his.
Her eyes searched his like she was looking for permission to stay.
To stay in this moment.
To belong to him.
She nestled in—willfully, completely.
His cock, still thick, was resting between the curves of her ass, leaking softly, pulsing with lingering arousal.
But she didn’t move against it.
She just held him. Pressed into him. Wanted to be close.
In her mind…
There was no Mike.
No waiting.
No real world.
Just this.
Warmth. Peace. Power.
She could’ve stayed there forever.
You couldn’t have paid her to leave.
Fifty-three minutes later…
Buzz.
Mike jumped at the sound.
His phone lit up.
Jaedah.
His heart raced as he opened it.
Jaedah: Just finished. Waiting for the Uber to pick me up.
His pulse surged.
Relief.
Maybe it hadn’t gone as far as his mind feared. Maybe the stocks were just… symbolic. Just tickling. Nothing more.
He immediately typed back:
Mike: Are you ok??
He stared at the screen, waiting—thumb hovering, anxious.
A new message appeared.
He unlocked it immediately.
Jaedah: Yeah. Just tired. I’ll text you when I’m on the train.
Mike stared at the screen.
The words sat there, plain and cold.
He read them once.
Twice.
No heart emoji.
No “I love you.”
Not even a thank you.
Just tired.
His chest tightened.
After everything—after the hours of silence, the torment he’d imagined, the fact that he knew she’d been in stocks—this was what he got?
It didn’t feel like her.
It felt like someone giving a polite update to an acquaintance.
A co-worker. A stranger.
He swallowed hard.
Did she regret it?
Had it gone too far?
Was she angry at him for setting this all in motion?
Or worse—did she resent him?
Mike’s thumb hovered over the keyboard, but he didn’t type anything.
There was nothing to say.
Not yet.
He tried to calm himself—tried to tell himself she was just drained. Just overwhelmed.
But the knot in his stomach wouldn’t ease.
There had been a shift.
He felt it.
Something had changed in her.
And maybe…
maybe she wasn’t his anymore.
Not entirely.
Not after tonight.
Mike sat parked at the far end of the train station lot, eyes fixed on the screen of his phone.
He glanced at the time.
5:32.
Ten minutes out.
He opened her last message again:
Jaedah: On the train… arrival says 5:42.
Just that.
Still no heart. Still no warmth.
But she was on her way.
Back to him.
A long exhale pushed through his nose as he rested his head against the seat.
His heart was still heavy, still uncertain—but there was comfort in knowing she was coming back.
She chose him.
She was tired.
Probably overwhelmed.
And yeah—it had gone far. Too far.
He didn’t think he could ever do this again.
He’d pushed her… pushed himself to the edge.
But it could’ve been worse.
He rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the lingering tension in his chest.
Then he heard it.
The whistle.
The train.
He looked up—sure enough, it was pulling in.
He sat up straighter, heart beating a little faster.
There she was.
Through the crowd of people stepping off, he saw her.
Jaedah.
Comfy clothes, hair slightly messy, her walk slow.
No bag. Just her phone in her hand.
She kept her gaze down—almost shy, almost distant—but she was here.
Something warm stirred in his chest.
Until—
Buzz.
His phone vibrated in his hand.
An unknown number.
He frowned.
Opened it.
A photo.
At first he didn’t understand what he was looking at.
It was a wide-angle shot—like from a small camera on a dresser or nightstand. A hotel room.
A bed.
And on that bed—
Jaedah.
Naked.
Draped across a man’s bare chest.
Luke.
Also naked.
Face to face.
Arms around his neck.
Her body pressed into his like she belonged there.
His hand rested gently across her back.
Her face buried near his shoulder like she was home.
And between them…
His cock.
Still hard.
Resting lazily against her backside.
Mike stopped breathing.
His fingers gripped the steering wheel.
His mouth went dry.
He couldn’t move.
She wasn’t coming back to him.
Not really.
Not the same.
She was twenty feet away now.
Still walking.
Still looking down.
His phone buzzed again.
Unknown Number:
If only you knew…
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