tickleplayerotica
TMF Novice
- Joined
- Jul 11, 2014
- Messages
- 55
- Points
- 18
Nikki was a right little brat. She enjoyed bratting quite a bit. It was her natural form.
But even this was too much. She'd forgotten all about breathing, let alone bratting.
Johnson was at her feet, Drake was at her torso.
They worked her. She’d have bruises the size of quarters on her ribs and inner thighs tomorrow. Just how she liked it.
Now this is how you meme, she thought as Drake’s thick fingers dug into her armpits, wiggling and waggling and producing that delicious nerve splatter. Now this is podracing.
“Say I’m tickle meat,” wheezed Drake, forehead damp, his fingers scribbling neural madness over her chest and belly.
“I’m meat,” she shrieked, writhing about, drowning in air, mouth and eyes agape.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I can’t say it, you fucking IDIOT!”
“Say it, or I’m going to tickle your Bad Spot.”
“NO.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t say the t-word!”
“Too bad.”
Drake didn't need to stand on ceremony-- he started tickling her Bad Spot—the little nubs on her hip bones. It drove her into a frenzy. No-- a frenzy didn’t begin to describe it. She went out of body. It was like shooting acid into her bloodstream.
“FUAAAAAAAACKKKKK,” Nikki screamed. Johnson gently worked the spaces between her toes, watching Drake and Nikki with almost secondary curiosity. Like most feet guys, he was very passive and satisfied with life while cradling a female foot in his hands. It worked out, though, because Nikki's feet were her Almost Bad Spots, nearly as bad as her hips.
“Say it,” said Drake. “Say ‘I’m tickle meat.’ It’s easy. It’s three words.”
“I CAN’T.”
“Then I guess you’re just going to have to suffer.”
Nikki screamed, letting all the acid and out through her throat. Fuck this was so painful and so delicious and so freeing.
The two men worked her and she tried to pull herself in, to make herself not vulnerable. She couldn’t. The restraints prevented it. Black straps from under the bed. A basic set up but it got the job done. Her arms and legs were splayed open, her body ripe for the picking, to be traced and teased, anything.
“Come on, darling,” said Johnson, playing good cop, a pinky meandering along her right heel. “If you say it once we’ll go back to tickling your fun spots instead of your bad spots.”
“No,” said Drake. “She’s been a bad girl. She needs to earn the fun spots.”
Nikki howled, words too complex for her brain to compute at the moment. Tears seeped from her eyes. She was beyond laughter, beyond screams, beyond words. Now she was just trying to turn it all off. But she couldn’t. She never could. There was only this desperate writhing and shaking.
Johnson held her toes apart—this little piggy—and lightly touched a fingernail to the soft little web of skin between.
“Say, I’m a tickle slut,” said Drake, fingers leaving her Bad Spot momentarily to burrow into her ribs and belly again. He pushed too hard sometimes when he got all worked up like this-- more clutching than tickling-- but pain was pleasure.
“I’m a slut!” wheezed Nikki.
“Naughty, naughty slut,” murmured Johnson, gently scrabbling at her left sole. His hands were soft and pink.
“Fuck you,” snarled Drake, going back to her hip nubs. “Fuck you, tickle slut. Fuck you. Fucking say it. I need you to say ‘I’m a tickle slut’ and ‘I’m tickle meat’. Say them. Now. Five times each. Or I’ll never stop.”
“I’m a fucking slut,” Nikki screamed, thrashing about, disassociating. “I’m a fucking meat, I’m a fucking slut, fucking stop, AHHHHHAAHAHAHA!”
“She’s crying, Drake,” said Johnson softly. “The poor baby’s crying. We should ease up.”
“That’s not what I asked for,” snarled Drake.
“I can’t say the t-word!” Nikki wheezed, voice straining. "I can't!"
How long had they been at it now? At least half an hour of the most unbearable bliss.
“You will,” said Drake, dragging his scratchy chin all over her belly, tongue lolling out-- a fat, hot, rough little strip of wet meat lapping away.
"You have to," said Johnson.
“I-- caaaaaaaan’t!”
“It's too late,” said Drake, licking and nibbling away at her breasts, her nipples stiff as batteries. “It's too late now, filthy tickle *****.”
“Naughty girlie,” said Johnson, nibbling her toes. "Ticklish girlie..."
"I CAAAAAANNNN'TT!"
Indeed, this wasn’t exactly part of the act. The word ‘tickle’ seemed gross and strange to Nikki. Always had. It was like she’d be breaking some code if she said it. Inappropriate and wrong. She'd be in TROUBLE if she said tickle. Just like she'd be in TROUBLE if someone found her naked and getting tickled by two men. She'd always had this feeling and fucking hated it for all of her 28 years. She imagined she'd always be unable to say it.
Drake and Johnson knew this, unfortunately.
That's why they liked to play this way.
So it went on, lightning in her limbs and acid in her blood. There was no escaping, and Nikki knocked about inside her head.
But even this was too much. She'd forgotten all about breathing, let alone bratting.
Johnson was at her feet, Drake was at her torso.
They worked her. She’d have bruises the size of quarters on her ribs and inner thighs tomorrow. Just how she liked it.
Now this is how you meme, she thought as Drake’s thick fingers dug into her armpits, wiggling and waggling and producing that delicious nerve splatter. Now this is podracing.
“Say I’m tickle meat,” wheezed Drake, forehead damp, his fingers scribbling neural madness over her chest and belly.
“I’m meat,” she shrieked, writhing about, drowning in air, mouth and eyes agape.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I can’t say it, you fucking IDIOT!”
“Say it, or I’m going to tickle your Bad Spot.”
“NO.”
“Yes.”
“I can’t say the t-word!”
“Too bad.”
Drake didn't need to stand on ceremony-- he started tickling her Bad Spot—the little nubs on her hip bones. It drove her into a frenzy. No-- a frenzy didn’t begin to describe it. She went out of body. It was like shooting acid into her bloodstream.
“FUAAAAAAAACKKKKK,” Nikki screamed. Johnson gently worked the spaces between her toes, watching Drake and Nikki with almost secondary curiosity. Like most feet guys, he was very passive and satisfied with life while cradling a female foot in his hands. It worked out, though, because Nikki's feet were her Almost Bad Spots, nearly as bad as her hips.
“Say it,” said Drake. “Say ‘I’m tickle meat.’ It’s easy. It’s three words.”
“I CAN’T.”
“Then I guess you’re just going to have to suffer.”
Nikki screamed, letting all the acid and out through her throat. Fuck this was so painful and so delicious and so freeing.
The two men worked her and she tried to pull herself in, to make herself not vulnerable. She couldn’t. The restraints prevented it. Black straps from under the bed. A basic set up but it got the job done. Her arms and legs were splayed open, her body ripe for the picking, to be traced and teased, anything.
“Come on, darling,” said Johnson, playing good cop, a pinky meandering along her right heel. “If you say it once we’ll go back to tickling your fun spots instead of your bad spots.”
“No,” said Drake. “She’s been a bad girl. She needs to earn the fun spots.”
Nikki howled, words too complex for her brain to compute at the moment. Tears seeped from her eyes. She was beyond laughter, beyond screams, beyond words. Now she was just trying to turn it all off. But she couldn’t. She never could. There was only this desperate writhing and shaking.
Johnson held her toes apart—this little piggy—and lightly touched a fingernail to the soft little web of skin between.
“Say, I’m a tickle slut,” said Drake, fingers leaving her Bad Spot momentarily to burrow into her ribs and belly again. He pushed too hard sometimes when he got all worked up like this-- more clutching than tickling-- but pain was pleasure.
“I’m a slut!” wheezed Nikki.
“Naughty, naughty slut,” murmured Johnson, gently scrabbling at her left sole. His hands were soft and pink.
“Fuck you,” snarled Drake, going back to her hip nubs. “Fuck you, tickle slut. Fuck you. Fucking say it. I need you to say ‘I’m a tickle slut’ and ‘I’m tickle meat’. Say them. Now. Five times each. Or I’ll never stop.”
“I’m a fucking slut,” Nikki screamed, thrashing about, disassociating. “I’m a fucking meat, I’m a fucking slut, fucking stop, AHHHHHAAHAHAHA!”
“She’s crying, Drake,” said Johnson softly. “The poor baby’s crying. We should ease up.”
“That’s not what I asked for,” snarled Drake.
“I can’t say the t-word!” Nikki wheezed, voice straining. "I can't!"
How long had they been at it now? At least half an hour of the most unbearable bliss.
“You will,” said Drake, dragging his scratchy chin all over her belly, tongue lolling out-- a fat, hot, rough little strip of wet meat lapping away.
"You have to," said Johnson.
“I-- caaaaaaaan’t!”
“It's too late,” said Drake, licking and nibbling away at her breasts, her nipples stiff as batteries. “It's too late now, filthy tickle *****.”
“Naughty girlie,” said Johnson, nibbling her toes. "Ticklish girlie..."
"I CAAAAAANNNN'TT!"
Indeed, this wasn’t exactly part of the act. The word ‘tickle’ seemed gross and strange to Nikki. Always had. It was like she’d be breaking some code if she said it. Inappropriate and wrong. She'd be in TROUBLE if she said tickle. Just like she'd be in TROUBLE if someone found her naked and getting tickled by two men. She'd always had this feeling and fucking hated it for all of her 28 years. She imagined she'd always be unable to say it.
Drake and Johnson knew this, unfortunately.
That's why they liked to play this way.
So it went on, lightning in her limbs and acid in her blood. There was no escaping, and Nikki knocked about inside her head.
