tickleplayerotica
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- Joined
- Jul 11, 2014
- Messages
- 29
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- 1
#1
Your name is Ina. You’re 22 and look like Selena Gomez if she had Eastern-European ancestry— clear olive skin, dark features and long, flowing ebony hair.
I met you at a bar in Novi. Can't remember which one. Doesn't matter. I wasn’t used to approaching girls at that point, but it was one of those situations where the regret of not saying anything would've outweighed the regret of public rejection.
Still, I was shaking as I introduced myself, jamming my straw into my drink. You broke into a smile that I will never forget. You were part Greek, part Macedonian. Your parents are immigrants but you were born in Royal Oak, grew up in Livonia.
Two weeks later, we’ve hung out a few times and we’re more comfortable with each other. We’ve made out— once on my couch, once in a Royal Oak parking lot. We’ve fucked on both my bed and yours. The barriers are all down. We’re casually dating.
I bring up the tickling thing one night after we’ve finished watching The Little Prince on Netflix. My tongue feels like a dry sponge in my mouth as I’m telling you. It’s all still new to me, too-- exploring tickling as a fetish.
I explain the concept, the potential scenarios. I know you’re ticklish because I’ve sniped you a few times— gone for your ribs with my fingers a-wiggle, surprise raspberries on your bare tummy. You freaked out, thrashed like a landed bass, threw yourself around like a child with a tantrum, a Genuine Reaction. Holy God, it was beautiful.
You take one look at me, throw your head back and cackle laughter.
“You wanna do THAT?”
“Yeah.”
“You already tickled me, though!”
You tense up, playfully glance at my hands.
“I’m not going to tickle you right now,” I say, though I really want to. “And yeah, but this is more of a set-up, like, it’s planned and everything. It’s not just spontaneous. It can be, but what I’m asking is if you want to do an actual session, with toys and restraints and stuff.”
Your demeanor cools a bit.
“I hate being tickled.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s the point.”
“But you want me to get naked and tie me up and tickle me?”
“That’s the short of it, yeah.”
“That sounds like hell. It sounds like hell to me.”
“Actual hell or a kind-of-intriguing-and-naughty hell?”
Your answerless smirk and rolling eyes tell me everything I need to know.
Two agonizingly long days later you’re over at the apartment and lying down on the bed.
We start you off fully clothed.
The restraints I got off Amazon last month, haven’t used them on anyone yet. They’re another under-the-bed set, two sets of black straps-- both arms and legs-- with chrome loops that hook to fluffy black cuffs.
You’re spread-eagled, dressed in sweat pants and a Bonnie Raitt t-shirt you took from my laundry. Your jammies, as you call them.
Your tummy is showing a little, belly button shyly peeking out from under the hem of the shirt. It’s distracting but I’m going to start with your feet. I tell you this.
You tense up. You’re a tad nervous and I don’t want to freak you out (yet).
“Don’t worry,” I say. “Just let it flow through you.”
“Flow through me, what does that—“ you start to say and then your head goes back and your jaw clenches and air hisses through your teeth.
I’m dragging my fingernail from the heel of your left foot to the tip of your big toe. Your socks are still on. They’re warm and slightly damp.
“What do you think?” I ask.
You don’t answer, just toss your head back and forth, making that hiss.
“This is just one foot,” I say, finger tracing. “I can already tell you I don’t think we’re going to need to use toys today.”
You don’t answer. You’re thrashing your head like a person having a nightmare. Your foot is fighting the cuff, pulling so hard the mattress is lifting.
I can’t resist anymore. I rip your sock off and drag all four of my fingers across the bottom of your sole. Your toes seize shut.
You scream. Holy God, do you scream.
“RED RED RED RED!”
I stop immediately.
“Too much?”
Your body’s strings are cut, your muscles lose all tension and you seem to melt onto the bed, buxom chest rising and falling.
“Not my feet,” you say, shaking your head. “Not right now. Not yet.”
“Are you all right?” I ask. “Is this not a good idea?”
There’s a slight hesitation, but you shake your head.
“No, no,” you say. “I want to. Just not my feet. Not right now.”
“Are you sure? We could be done with this right now. I could just take all your clothes off and fuck you good and proper instead. Cause that’s what I want to do anyway.”
“No,” you say. “You’re gonna have to wait for that. Tickle my tongue— I mean, tickle my tummy with your tongue again. Like you did that one night I stayed over.”
I kneel on the bed and twiddle my fingers along the hem of your shirt, exposing that luscious slice of tan belly.
Your mouth twists and your eyes squint as you watch.
“No,” you say. “With your tongue.”
“You’re holding it in,” I say. “You don’t have to hold it in. You can let it out.”
“Letting it out fucking HURTS,” you say. “But…but, like...”
“But what?”
Your hand flaps toward your face, you want to cover your eyes, you giggle and shake your head at the absurdity of it all.
“But it turns… me.. ON…”
I kiss you on the cheek.
“You’re all right,” I say. “Safe word if you need to.”
I lift your shirt, revealing my favorite part of you. Your belly sucks in.
“No escaping,” I tell you. “Try and move.”
Your arms and legs clatter the cuff-links as you try and pull yourself in, turtle up. The bed squeaks and groans.
Your belly button is the neatest little innie I think I’ve ever seen, a perfectly little round O punched into the smooth light brown cake batter of your stomach. A little circular indentation, mathematically superb.
I lean down, feel the heat of your belly-skin on my nose and cheeks and lips. I dip my tongue in, feel it fit to the contours of your button. They say belly buttons are the dirtiest crevasse on the body but SETI wouldn’t be able to find the fucks I don’t give.
“HOOOO HOOO!” you vocalize, deep and probably embarrassing. Your belly-skin presses against my face as your hips push up, then away, then up again.
“There you go,” I say.
“Your beard,” you gasp. “Your beard!”
I move my chin around and your hips and belly splat into my face like a thrown pie.
“OHHHHH MY GOD!” you shriek. I wonder if the neighbors can hear.
There’s no getting away. You realize that now. You’re laughing so hard, chittering like a monkey, rapid-fire machine gun little hehehhehehehehs coming out of your throat one after the other, too fast to count.
It’s beyond adorable. My forehead is pulsing.
I lift your shirt up past your pale blue bra, start nibbling on your ribs.
You don’t hold it in, treating me to more of those surprised vocalizations, as if you’re experiencing the sensation of touch for the first time.
My fingers join in, going for your hips, sliding your sweatpants down just a little. You’ve got a faded little black tattoo on your hip, words in Cyrillic. You’ve told me what they mean but I can’t remember at the moment.
Your entire belly is wide open now. Exposed and ticklish and totally helpless.
I plunge in.
Two minutes later you’re sweaty and you’re saying your face hurts and your stomach muscles hurt.
“Are you done?” I say.
I reach down, slide my hand under your sweatpants, under your panties. You flinch. You’re slick as silk down there.
“No, no,” you say. “Uhhh-uh.... I, UH--wait... I want you to try my feet again...”
What?
“Are you sure?”
“YES. Just do it before I change my mind.”
I reach down. Your left foot is still bare, your right clad in a white ankle sock.
I go to work.
All I remember is your bare tummy thrashing, your skin stretching over your ribs, your bra slipping a bit, a pierced nipple winking at me. You are insanely beautiful and I can barely handle it.
This time, you don’t safe word. I keep looking up, waiting for it, but you never do. Not even once. You embrace the neural torment, let it out. I can feel the electricity thrumming up your legs, into your core. You take the Lord’s name in vain so loud He probably hears you.
“Do I need to gag you?” I ask at one point, my fingers flying up and down your soles, heel to toe and back again. “I’m worried about my neighbors.”
I dig in between your pinky toe, they're clenching but it does no good.
“Fuck me,” you suddenly yell. “Fuck me!”
“What’s that?”
My fingers pause.
“Leave me in the restraints,” you say, wild animal eyes looking down the bed at me, damp with tears. “Get me naked and fuck me. RIGHT NOW. I WANT IT. I WANT IT SO BAD.”
I oblige you. Your pants are pulled down, your shirt is lifted up, your bra removed. Your legs are spread wide open, what's between them is all mine. I enter you as our lips and tongues find each other.
You are so loud.
It’s a good night, the first of many.
Your name is Ina. You’re 22 and look like Selena Gomez if she had Eastern-European ancestry— clear olive skin, dark features and long, flowing ebony hair.
I met you at a bar in Novi. Can't remember which one. Doesn't matter. I wasn’t used to approaching girls at that point, but it was one of those situations where the regret of not saying anything would've outweighed the regret of public rejection.
Still, I was shaking as I introduced myself, jamming my straw into my drink. You broke into a smile that I will never forget. You were part Greek, part Macedonian. Your parents are immigrants but you were born in Royal Oak, grew up in Livonia.
Two weeks later, we’ve hung out a few times and we’re more comfortable with each other. We’ve made out— once on my couch, once in a Royal Oak parking lot. We’ve fucked on both my bed and yours. The barriers are all down. We’re casually dating.
I bring up the tickling thing one night after we’ve finished watching The Little Prince on Netflix. My tongue feels like a dry sponge in my mouth as I’m telling you. It’s all still new to me, too-- exploring tickling as a fetish.
I explain the concept, the potential scenarios. I know you’re ticklish because I’ve sniped you a few times— gone for your ribs with my fingers a-wiggle, surprise raspberries on your bare tummy. You freaked out, thrashed like a landed bass, threw yourself around like a child with a tantrum, a Genuine Reaction. Holy God, it was beautiful.
You take one look at me, throw your head back and cackle laughter.
“You wanna do THAT?”
“Yeah.”
“You already tickled me, though!”
You tense up, playfully glance at my hands.
“I’m not going to tickle you right now,” I say, though I really want to. “And yeah, but this is more of a set-up, like, it’s planned and everything. It’s not just spontaneous. It can be, but what I’m asking is if you want to do an actual session, with toys and restraints and stuff.”
Your demeanor cools a bit.
“I hate being tickled.”
“I know,” I say. “That’s the point.”
“But you want me to get naked and tie me up and tickle me?”
“That’s the short of it, yeah.”
“That sounds like hell. It sounds like hell to me.”
“Actual hell or a kind-of-intriguing-and-naughty hell?”
Your answerless smirk and rolling eyes tell me everything I need to know.
Two agonizingly long days later you’re over at the apartment and lying down on the bed.
We start you off fully clothed.
The restraints I got off Amazon last month, haven’t used them on anyone yet. They’re another under-the-bed set, two sets of black straps-- both arms and legs-- with chrome loops that hook to fluffy black cuffs.
You’re spread-eagled, dressed in sweat pants and a Bonnie Raitt t-shirt you took from my laundry. Your jammies, as you call them.
Your tummy is showing a little, belly button shyly peeking out from under the hem of the shirt. It’s distracting but I’m going to start with your feet. I tell you this.
You tense up. You’re a tad nervous and I don’t want to freak you out (yet).
“Don’t worry,” I say. “Just let it flow through you.”
“Flow through me, what does that—“ you start to say and then your head goes back and your jaw clenches and air hisses through your teeth.
I’m dragging my fingernail from the heel of your left foot to the tip of your big toe. Your socks are still on. They’re warm and slightly damp.
“What do you think?” I ask.
You don’t answer, just toss your head back and forth, making that hiss.
“This is just one foot,” I say, finger tracing. “I can already tell you I don’t think we’re going to need to use toys today.”
You don’t answer. You’re thrashing your head like a person having a nightmare. Your foot is fighting the cuff, pulling so hard the mattress is lifting.
I can’t resist anymore. I rip your sock off and drag all four of my fingers across the bottom of your sole. Your toes seize shut.
You scream. Holy God, do you scream.
“RED RED RED RED!”
I stop immediately.
“Too much?”
Your body’s strings are cut, your muscles lose all tension and you seem to melt onto the bed, buxom chest rising and falling.
“Not my feet,” you say, shaking your head. “Not right now. Not yet.”
“Are you all right?” I ask. “Is this not a good idea?”
There’s a slight hesitation, but you shake your head.
“No, no,” you say. “I want to. Just not my feet. Not right now.”
“Are you sure? We could be done with this right now. I could just take all your clothes off and fuck you good and proper instead. Cause that’s what I want to do anyway.”
“No,” you say. “You’re gonna have to wait for that. Tickle my tongue— I mean, tickle my tummy with your tongue again. Like you did that one night I stayed over.”
I kneel on the bed and twiddle my fingers along the hem of your shirt, exposing that luscious slice of tan belly.
Your mouth twists and your eyes squint as you watch.
“No,” you say. “With your tongue.”
“You’re holding it in,” I say. “You don’t have to hold it in. You can let it out.”
“Letting it out fucking HURTS,” you say. “But…but, like...”
“But what?”
Your hand flaps toward your face, you want to cover your eyes, you giggle and shake your head at the absurdity of it all.
“But it turns… me.. ON…”
I kiss you on the cheek.
“You’re all right,” I say. “Safe word if you need to.”
I lift your shirt, revealing my favorite part of you. Your belly sucks in.
“No escaping,” I tell you. “Try and move.”
Your arms and legs clatter the cuff-links as you try and pull yourself in, turtle up. The bed squeaks and groans.
Your belly button is the neatest little innie I think I’ve ever seen, a perfectly little round O punched into the smooth light brown cake batter of your stomach. A little circular indentation, mathematically superb.
I lean down, feel the heat of your belly-skin on my nose and cheeks and lips. I dip my tongue in, feel it fit to the contours of your button. They say belly buttons are the dirtiest crevasse on the body but SETI wouldn’t be able to find the fucks I don’t give.
“HOOOO HOOO!” you vocalize, deep and probably embarrassing. Your belly-skin presses against my face as your hips push up, then away, then up again.
“There you go,” I say.
“Your beard,” you gasp. “Your beard!”
I move my chin around and your hips and belly splat into my face like a thrown pie.
“OHHHHH MY GOD!” you shriek. I wonder if the neighbors can hear.
There’s no getting away. You realize that now. You’re laughing so hard, chittering like a monkey, rapid-fire machine gun little hehehhehehehehs coming out of your throat one after the other, too fast to count.
It’s beyond adorable. My forehead is pulsing.
I lift your shirt up past your pale blue bra, start nibbling on your ribs.
You don’t hold it in, treating me to more of those surprised vocalizations, as if you’re experiencing the sensation of touch for the first time.
My fingers join in, going for your hips, sliding your sweatpants down just a little. You’ve got a faded little black tattoo on your hip, words in Cyrillic. You’ve told me what they mean but I can’t remember at the moment.
Your entire belly is wide open now. Exposed and ticklish and totally helpless.
I plunge in.
Two minutes later you’re sweaty and you’re saying your face hurts and your stomach muscles hurt.
“Are you done?” I say.
I reach down, slide my hand under your sweatpants, under your panties. You flinch. You’re slick as silk down there.
“No, no,” you say. “Uhhh-uh.... I, UH--wait... I want you to try my feet again...”
What?
“Are you sure?”
“YES. Just do it before I change my mind.”
I reach down. Your left foot is still bare, your right clad in a white ankle sock.
I go to work.
All I remember is your bare tummy thrashing, your skin stretching over your ribs, your bra slipping a bit, a pierced nipple winking at me. You are insanely beautiful and I can barely handle it.
This time, you don’t safe word. I keep looking up, waiting for it, but you never do. Not even once. You embrace the neural torment, let it out. I can feel the electricity thrumming up your legs, into your core. You take the Lord’s name in vain so loud He probably hears you.
“Do I need to gag you?” I ask at one point, my fingers flying up and down your soles, heel to toe and back again. “I’m worried about my neighbors.”
I dig in between your pinky toe, they're clenching but it does no good.
“Fuck me,” you suddenly yell. “Fuck me!”
“What’s that?”
My fingers pause.
“Leave me in the restraints,” you say, wild animal eyes looking down the bed at me, damp with tears. “Get me naked and fuck me. RIGHT NOW. I WANT IT. I WANT IT SO BAD.”
I oblige you. Your pants are pulled down, your shirt is lifted up, your bra removed. Your legs are spread wide open, what's between them is all mine. I enter you as our lips and tongues find each other.
You are so loud.
It’s a good night, the first of many.
