chandor864
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"Sasha, are you... ticklish?" F/F
Sasha arrived at Mrs. Greenwell's about 30 minutes before her shift started, in order to have time to change into her maid uniform and prepare everything for the day. She went to the bathroom to put on the uniform, which was a rather tight black and white corset, and a small black frilly blouse that didn't quite cover her behind. But the pay was good, so Sasha didn't worry too much about the embarrassing uniform. It was even a little fun.
As she was changing, she heard a knock at the door. "Who is it?" Sasha asked. "Oh, it's just me," Mrs. Greenwell replied, knocking again. Sasha hadn't finished changing yet; she only had her skirt and bra on, but she answered anyway; she didn't want to keep her boss waiting. "Oh, uh, hello Mrs. Greenwell, how are you today?"
"Very well, Sasha, but I see you're busy, I hope I'm not bothering you too much!"
"Oh, not at all, Mrs. Greenwell! I'm almost ready to start my shift for the day."
"Perfect, before that, I have a sort of... a bit of a silly question," Mrs. Greenwell asked. "Okay, yes, of course, what is it?"
"Well, you need to follow me to my bedroom, it's this way. But don't worry about your top, it will only take a minute."
"Okay!"
The two women headed towards Mrs. Greenwell's bedroom, and there, Sasha saw furry handcuffs attached to the bed. Upon entering, Mrs. Greenwell turned around and locked the door behind them.
"Sasha, are you... ticklish?"
"Uh... what?! N-no... not me!" Sasha stammered. In truth, Sasha was extremely ticklish, but she couldn't let her boss know! She still wasn't sure what was going to happen next, and she was so embarrassed about being ticklish. She had always been the target of her childhood friends and enemies.
She remembered very well, as a child, being trapped by her peers. On the dusty playground, perhaps under the scorching sun that made the sparse blades of grass shine, or in the garden scented by summer flowers, the playful atmosphere suddenly turned into a moment of intense vulnerability for her.
Two figures larger than her, already laughing at the thought of what was to come. Their hands closed on her small arms and legs, pinning her to the ground. The sensation of the hard earth or the prickly grass under her back, the sky swirling above her head as she tried to struggle, all contributed to her feeling of helplessness.
A friend, often the most corpulent or the most determined, would sit heavily on her legs, their knees pressing firmly on her thighs, making her unable to move her lower body. Sasha could feel the weight on her legs, perhaps even a slight pain or numbness. Her feet then became the main target. She could feel her tormentor's fingers approaching, an anticipation mixed with terror and a nervous laugh that she tried to hold back. Then, the light but incessant contact on the soles of her feet, that so sensitive area that made her squirm and groan with laughter despite herself.
Meanwhile, the other friend, often with a visible malice in their eyes, would position themselves at her arms. They would hold them firmly apart above her head, or sometimes pin them to the ground on either side of her body. Sasha felt the pressure on her wrists, desperately trying to free them to protect herself. And then began the assaults on her armpits, that so intimate and easily triggered area. Her laughter became louder, more uncontrollable, spasms shaking her whole body. The tickling then extended to her stomach, making her double over, and to her sides, making her unable to catch her breath.
Even growing up, this particularity of Sasha followed her like a shadow. In college, in the nascent intimacy of her first romantic relationships, the discovery of her sensitivity to tickling almost became a rite of passage.
It often started with innocent teasing, a light touch of a finger on her skin. Sasha would let out a small involuntary laugh, an immediate reaction she couldn't control.
Curiosity then awoke in her partner. A mischievous smile would appear on their lips. They would try again, perhaps a little more intentionally, exploring the most sensitive areas: her sides, her armpits, sometimes even the nape of her neck or her knees. Sasha would squirm, her laughter becoming louder, more uncontrollable. She would try to break free, to push away their hands, but her body would betray her, folding under the effect of the tickles.
For her boyfriends, this often became a game, a way to make her laugh, to see her let go. At first, Sasha might find it fun, a sign of intimacy and complicity. But quickly, it could escalate. Some took a slightly too pronounced pleasure in it, insisting even when she asked them to stop, as if her vulnerability were an inexhaustible source of entertainment.
"Are you sure you're not ticklish? I mean... most people are, you know," Mrs. Greenwell probed, getting closer and closer to Sasha as Sasha backed away towards the bed.
"I-I'm almost sure I'm not ticklish..." Sasha said, her voice starting to tremble.
"Well, I'm a curious girl, so maybe we should find out? After all, it's a very useful thing to know if one is ticklish!" Mrs. Greenwell said, pouncing on Sasha, pushing her onto the bed and landing on top of her. Mrs. Greenwell began digging her fingers into Sasha's sides, which made Sasha burst out laughing.
"Hahahahaha-wait-haha-noooo-hehehe-Mrs. Green-hahahaha-well STOP that!!" Sasha tried to say between her fits of hysteria.
"Oh? I thought you weren't ticklish, Sasha!"
"Hahahahahah-I-I-hehehehehhehe-no!!" Sasha screamed, trying to push Mrs. Greenwell's hands away. But Mrs. Greenwell was obviously an experienced tickler, because when Sasha tried to grab her hands, Mrs. Greenwell grabbed both of Sasha's wrists with one hand, placed them above her head, and then used her free hand to tickle all along Sasha's sides and stomach. Sasha didn't even have her blouse on to protect her sensitive stomach from Mrs. Greenwell's long, ticklish nails!
"Hahahaha-stop-hahahahah-hehehehe-ooop!"
Sasha's laughter still echoed in the room, but Mrs. Greenwell, her eyes sparkling with childlike mischief, seemed absorbed in her own amusement. A smile stretched across her lips as she turned with surprising agility, her movements fluid and assured.
Sitting on Sasha's stomach, her legs straddling the young woman's torso, Mrs. Greenwell had an unexpected position of dominance. Sasha, still lying on her back, looked at her with a mixture of hysterical amusement and a hint of panic. Her hands, still trapped above her head, could do nothing to defend herself.
Mrs. Greenwell's nails, long and polished, contrasted with the soft, bare skin of Sasha's thighs. The light touch at first, like a feather brushing, was a gentle torture, an anticipation of the laughter to come. One could almost imagine the sensation of those nails sliding up and down, leaving behind a trail of tingling that instantly turned into spasms of laughter.
Mrs. Greenwell's voice, slightly mocking and full of contained joy, added to the effect. Her "Koochie-koochie-koo!" resonated like a childish rhyme, out of place in this more intimate and surprising context. Her eyes fixed on Sasha's, attentively observing every reaction, savoring her comical disarray. The rhetorical question that followed, "Oh, what's so funny? Does that tickle?", was spoken with a falsely innocent tone, reinforcing the teasing nature of the scene.
Meanwhile, Sasha's body writhed under the effect of the tickles. Her legs contracted involuntarily, her hips lifting slightly from the mattress. Her face was red, her eyes were watering, and she desperately tried to catch her breath between her incessant bursts of laughter. The words she tried to pronounce were choppy, unintelligible, drowned in a flood of "ha!" and "he!".
Mrs. Greenwell, unperturbed, continued her antics. Her fingers danced on Sasha's thighs, exploring every inch of sensitive skin. One could see the concentration on her face, as if she were conducting a scientific experiment to determine Sasha's exact degree of ticklishness. Her own pleasure was palpable, a kind of liberating joy at seeing
this young woman, just moments before so professional, writhing with laughter under her fingers.
"HAHAHAHAHA-ahhhh-I-I can't take it anymore-hehehehehe-it!!" Sasha laughed. Mrs. Greenwell danced her nails up and down her thighs, paying particular attention to her kneecaps, the insides of her thighs, and just behind her kneecaps, which were a particularly ticklish and sensitive area for Sasha. "Ahhh-HAHAHAHAHA" Sasha laughed. She tried to escape, to tickle her boss in return, but it didn't work. And to her great misfortune, her ordeal was far from over...
View attachment 1070491View attachment 1070491
Sasha arrived at Mrs. Greenwell's about 30 minutes before her shift started, in order to have time to change into her maid uniform and prepare everything for the day. She went to the bathroom to put on the uniform, which was a rather tight black and white corset, and a small black frilly blouse that didn't quite cover her behind. But the pay was good, so Sasha didn't worry too much about the embarrassing uniform. It was even a little fun.
As she was changing, she heard a knock at the door. "Who is it?" Sasha asked. "Oh, it's just me," Mrs. Greenwell replied, knocking again. Sasha hadn't finished changing yet; she only had her skirt and bra on, but she answered anyway; she didn't want to keep her boss waiting. "Oh, uh, hello Mrs. Greenwell, how are you today?"
"Very well, Sasha, but I see you're busy, I hope I'm not bothering you too much!"
"Oh, not at all, Mrs. Greenwell! I'm almost ready to start my shift for the day."
"Perfect, before that, I have a sort of... a bit of a silly question," Mrs. Greenwell asked. "Okay, yes, of course, what is it?"
"Well, you need to follow me to my bedroom, it's this way. But don't worry about your top, it will only take a minute."
"Okay!"
The two women headed towards Mrs. Greenwell's bedroom, and there, Sasha saw furry handcuffs attached to the bed. Upon entering, Mrs. Greenwell turned around and locked the door behind them.
"Sasha, are you... ticklish?"
"Uh... what?! N-no... not me!" Sasha stammered. In truth, Sasha was extremely ticklish, but she couldn't let her boss know! She still wasn't sure what was going to happen next, and she was so embarrassed about being ticklish. She had always been the target of her childhood friends and enemies.
She remembered very well, as a child, being trapped by her peers. On the dusty playground, perhaps under the scorching sun that made the sparse blades of grass shine, or in the garden scented by summer flowers, the playful atmosphere suddenly turned into a moment of intense vulnerability for her.
Two figures larger than her, already laughing at the thought of what was to come. Their hands closed on her small arms and legs, pinning her to the ground. The sensation of the hard earth or the prickly grass under her back, the sky swirling above her head as she tried to struggle, all contributed to her feeling of helplessness.
A friend, often the most corpulent or the most determined, would sit heavily on her legs, their knees pressing firmly on her thighs, making her unable to move her lower body. Sasha could feel the weight on her legs, perhaps even a slight pain or numbness. Her feet then became the main target. She could feel her tormentor's fingers approaching, an anticipation mixed with terror and a nervous laugh that she tried to hold back. Then, the light but incessant contact on the soles of her feet, that so sensitive area that made her squirm and groan with laughter despite herself.
Meanwhile, the other friend, often with a visible malice in their eyes, would position themselves at her arms. They would hold them firmly apart above her head, or sometimes pin them to the ground on either side of her body. Sasha felt the pressure on her wrists, desperately trying to free them to protect herself. And then began the assaults on her armpits, that so intimate and easily triggered area. Her laughter became louder, more uncontrollable, spasms shaking her whole body. The tickling then extended to her stomach, making her double over, and to her sides, making her unable to catch her breath.
Even growing up, this particularity of Sasha followed her like a shadow. In college, in the nascent intimacy of her first romantic relationships, the discovery of her sensitivity to tickling almost became a rite of passage.
It often started with innocent teasing, a light touch of a finger on her skin. Sasha would let out a small involuntary laugh, an immediate reaction she couldn't control.
Curiosity then awoke in her partner. A mischievous smile would appear on their lips. They would try again, perhaps a little more intentionally, exploring the most sensitive areas: her sides, her armpits, sometimes even the nape of her neck or her knees. Sasha would squirm, her laughter becoming louder, more uncontrollable. She would try to break free, to push away their hands, but her body would betray her, folding under the effect of the tickles.
For her boyfriends, this often became a game, a way to make her laugh, to see her let go. At first, Sasha might find it fun, a sign of intimacy and complicity. But quickly, it could escalate. Some took a slightly too pronounced pleasure in it, insisting even when she asked them to stop, as if her vulnerability were an inexhaustible source of entertainment.
"Are you sure you're not ticklish? I mean... most people are, you know," Mrs. Greenwell probed, getting closer and closer to Sasha as Sasha backed away towards the bed.
"I-I'm almost sure I'm not ticklish..." Sasha said, her voice starting to tremble.
"Well, I'm a curious girl, so maybe we should find out? After all, it's a very useful thing to know if one is ticklish!" Mrs. Greenwell said, pouncing on Sasha, pushing her onto the bed and landing on top of her. Mrs. Greenwell began digging her fingers into Sasha's sides, which made Sasha burst out laughing.
"Hahahahaha-wait-haha-noooo-hehehe-Mrs. Green-hahahaha-well STOP that!!" Sasha tried to say between her fits of hysteria.
"Oh? I thought you weren't ticklish, Sasha!"
"Hahahahahah-I-I-hehehehehhehe-no!!" Sasha screamed, trying to push Mrs. Greenwell's hands away. But Mrs. Greenwell was obviously an experienced tickler, because when Sasha tried to grab her hands, Mrs. Greenwell grabbed both of Sasha's wrists with one hand, placed them above her head, and then used her free hand to tickle all along Sasha's sides and stomach. Sasha didn't even have her blouse on to protect her sensitive stomach from Mrs. Greenwell's long, ticklish nails!
"Hahahaha-stop-hahahahah-hehehehe-ooop!"
Sasha's laughter still echoed in the room, but Mrs. Greenwell, her eyes sparkling with childlike mischief, seemed absorbed in her own amusement. A smile stretched across her lips as she turned with surprising agility, her movements fluid and assured.
Sitting on Sasha's stomach, her legs straddling the young woman's torso, Mrs. Greenwell had an unexpected position of dominance. Sasha, still lying on her back, looked at her with a mixture of hysterical amusement and a hint of panic. Her hands, still trapped above her head, could do nothing to defend herself.
Mrs. Greenwell's nails, long and polished, contrasted with the soft, bare skin of Sasha's thighs. The light touch at first, like a feather brushing, was a gentle torture, an anticipation of the laughter to come. One could almost imagine the sensation of those nails sliding up and down, leaving behind a trail of tingling that instantly turned into spasms of laughter.
Mrs. Greenwell's voice, slightly mocking and full of contained joy, added to the effect. Her "Koochie-koochie-koo!" resonated like a childish rhyme, out of place in this more intimate and surprising context. Her eyes fixed on Sasha's, attentively observing every reaction, savoring her comical disarray. The rhetorical question that followed, "Oh, what's so funny? Does that tickle?", was spoken with a falsely innocent tone, reinforcing the teasing nature of the scene.
Meanwhile, Sasha's body writhed under the effect of the tickles. Her legs contracted involuntarily, her hips lifting slightly from the mattress. Her face was red, her eyes were watering, and she desperately tried to catch her breath between her incessant bursts of laughter. The words she tried to pronounce were choppy, unintelligible, drowned in a flood of "ha!" and "he!".
Mrs. Greenwell, unperturbed, continued her antics. Her fingers danced on Sasha's thighs, exploring every inch of sensitive skin. One could see the concentration on her face, as if she were conducting a scientific experiment to determine Sasha's exact degree of ticklishness. Her own pleasure was palpable, a kind of liberating joy at seeing
this young woman, just moments before so professional, writhing with laughter under her fingers.
"HAHAHAHAHA-ahhhh-I-I can't take it anymore-hehehehehe-it!!" Sasha laughed. Mrs. Greenwell danced her nails up and down her thighs, paying particular attention to her kneecaps, the insides of her thighs, and just behind her kneecaps, which were a particularly ticklish and sensitive area for Sasha. "Ahhh-HAHAHAHAHA" Sasha laughed. She tried to escape, to tickle her boss in return, but it didn't work. And to her great misfortune, her ordeal was far from over...
View attachment 1070491View attachment 1070491
