Just to let you know, and also to get your opinion--there is one brief FF/M tickling scene in my novel, "My Name Is Rand" (now available from Suspect Thoughts Press or your favorite online bookseller!). I am curious, since I had never written a scene like this before, as to whether I got it right. Here it is:
Without warning I was dragged from under the shower, wrapped in a towel, and tickled till I was dry and gasping for breath. Then I was shoved naked into a chair and fed some pieces of meat and bread. I had barely choked it down and followed it with a few sips of tepid water when the men in gray coveralls took me outside again. In an open area that looked like a village square, some stocks had been set up, and a bench with a wooden frame overhead. A crowd of women waited there; they wore denim work clothes, and had severe, unadorned looks. The men handed me over to them like a loaf of bread.
I had never been handled by women before, and the strength and efficiency of their movements amazed me. They sat me on the bench, fastened my ankles into the stocks, and tied my wrists over my head to the wooden frame. There was no awkwardness in their movements, as if they were used to stretching and arranging the limbs of naked male strangers. I asked them why they were doing this to me, and didn’t get a glance in return. So I began to explain, in a trembling voice, that they were going to have to release me. I couldn’t take any more of the kind of treatment I’d already received that day, if I were tickled any more I would die. In response to this, two of the women started tickling my belly.
“I like his belly,” one said.
“Try over here,” the other woman said. “No, here.” Referring to a spot near my waist that made me shout. Her friend found the exact same spot on my other side. Neither of these women looked at my face or paid any attention as I begged them to stop. They were sensitive to my begging, though, because the more I begged the more they tickled the spots that were causing me to cry out. I squirmed as much as I could, which wasn’t much. My dick moved, though—thickening, hardening, creeping up my belly as the women’s fingers moved down, tickling along the length of my hard-on to my scrotum, where they applied their light, maddening touch to my balls. I broke into a harsh, steady laughter that called other adults, male and female, to gather around. They stared at the slender female fingers teasing and tormenting my balls. More hands appeared to tickle my inner thighs. Before long I was being poked and prodded everywhere.
I had plenty of time to learn how women ticklers differed from their male counterparts. In spite of the fact that so many of these women seemed to be work-toughened and strong, there was something different about their touch, which seemed to linger over my skin, each tickling stroke ending in a slight caress that was gentle and, at the same time, excruciating. It was as if the maternal impulse to smooth and soften were turned toward a different end. I had heard about men being tickled helpless by women, but I never knew what it was like until I felt my armpits, ribs, belly and balls being fondled, then tickle-tortured, by female hands.
Meanwhile the men clustered around my feet like sharks at feeding time. My soles had been stretched, my toes expertly bound to the stocks so that no ticklish spot would be left unexplored, and before long there were more greedy hands on my feet than I had ever felt before. I raised my head and howled like a starving wolf at the edge of a frozen prairie, howled until there was nothing left of my voice but a high-pitched keening."
Did any of these observations about F/M tickling ring a bell with anyone? Thanks for any thoughts you might like to share.
Wayne Courtois
Without warning I was dragged from under the shower, wrapped in a towel, and tickled till I was dry and gasping for breath. Then I was shoved naked into a chair and fed some pieces of meat and bread. I had barely choked it down and followed it with a few sips of tepid water when the men in gray coveralls took me outside again. In an open area that looked like a village square, some stocks had been set up, and a bench with a wooden frame overhead. A crowd of women waited there; they wore denim work clothes, and had severe, unadorned looks. The men handed me over to them like a loaf of bread.
I had never been handled by women before, and the strength and efficiency of their movements amazed me. They sat me on the bench, fastened my ankles into the stocks, and tied my wrists over my head to the wooden frame. There was no awkwardness in their movements, as if they were used to stretching and arranging the limbs of naked male strangers. I asked them why they were doing this to me, and didn’t get a glance in return. So I began to explain, in a trembling voice, that they were going to have to release me. I couldn’t take any more of the kind of treatment I’d already received that day, if I were tickled any more I would die. In response to this, two of the women started tickling my belly.
“I like his belly,” one said.
“Try over here,” the other woman said. “No, here.” Referring to a spot near my waist that made me shout. Her friend found the exact same spot on my other side. Neither of these women looked at my face or paid any attention as I begged them to stop. They were sensitive to my begging, though, because the more I begged the more they tickled the spots that were causing me to cry out. I squirmed as much as I could, which wasn’t much. My dick moved, though—thickening, hardening, creeping up my belly as the women’s fingers moved down, tickling along the length of my hard-on to my scrotum, where they applied their light, maddening touch to my balls. I broke into a harsh, steady laughter that called other adults, male and female, to gather around. They stared at the slender female fingers teasing and tormenting my balls. More hands appeared to tickle my inner thighs. Before long I was being poked and prodded everywhere.
I had plenty of time to learn how women ticklers differed from their male counterparts. In spite of the fact that so many of these women seemed to be work-toughened and strong, there was something different about their touch, which seemed to linger over my skin, each tickling stroke ending in a slight caress that was gentle and, at the same time, excruciating. It was as if the maternal impulse to smooth and soften were turned toward a different end. I had heard about men being tickled helpless by women, but I never knew what it was like until I felt my armpits, ribs, belly and balls being fondled, then tickle-tortured, by female hands.
Meanwhile the men clustered around my feet like sharks at feeding time. My soles had been stretched, my toes expertly bound to the stocks so that no ticklish spot would be left unexplored, and before long there were more greedy hands on my feet than I had ever felt before. I raised my head and howled like a starving wolf at the edge of a frozen prairie, howled until there was nothing left of my voice but a high-pitched keening."
Did any of these observations about F/M tickling ring a bell with anyone? Thanks for any thoughts you might like to share.
Wayne Courtois
