Ticklishboy30
TMF Regular
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This story was inspired by this post on deviantart by my awesome friend, lexabro10mg. https://www.deviantart.com/lexabro10mg/art/Superman-Lex-Luthor-Foot-Domination-1235214845
Here's a link to lexabro10mg's deviantart page.
https://www.deviantart.com/lexabro10mg
It started off as a typical day for the protector of Metropolis—and the world.
His eyelids opened, revealing striking blue irises. The dark-haired, six-foot-three, two-hundred-thirty-five-pound Man of Steel sat up, stretched his muscular arms, and yawned. His soft, bare soles—size twelve-and-a-half—flattened against the hardwood floor as he stood and walked into the spacious master bathroom.
Ten minutes later, Clark Kent donned his glasses, slipped a pair of black bikini briefs over his muscled legs—briefs that hugged his pale, firm, and hairless backside like a second skin. Tan khakis covered the sleek undergarment. He sat on the bed, slid his feet into a pair of black sheer dress socks—so thin that his meaty soles and each plump toe remained visible—and pulled on a pair of comfortable black dress shoes. Stepping into the walk-in closet, he pulled a light green button-down shirt from a hanger, shrugged it on, and selected a slender necktie adorned with swirls of slightly darker green and tan, blending together like watercolor.
The Kryptonian used his heat vision to whip up a massive breakfast, slashing the cooking time from 30–45 minutes to just over ten. As he ate, he flipped on the TV to catch up on the morning news. A story about Lex Luthor nearly ruined his appetite—and his half-eaten meal—as it reminded him that he’d be interviewing the corporate criminal later that day. It also brought up fond memories from not that long ago when he and Luthor were best friends, back in Smallville. Nowadays, any dealings with the billionaire put him on edge; he never knew when the villain might decide to expose him as Superman while he was still in his Clark Kent persona.
The day’s first crisis struck as he walked to the Daily Planet. He had just crossed an intersection when a car ran a red light and was seconds away from being crushed by an eighteen-wheeler. In less than a heartbeat, he was in costume and airborne. He slid his hands beneath the older-model brown sedan, lifted it off the road, and carried the stunned, grateful passenger to a reputable auto mechanic he knew a few blocks away.
"How much free time do these people have?" the hero thought as he stumbled upon a robbery and hostage situation in progress.
For the second time in less than five minutes, the hero was back in action. Flashes from cell phones and cameras erupted from every angle seconds after the red-and-blue-suited man landed in front of the convenience store. He used his x-ray vision to peer inside and spotted three solidly built thugs in ski masks, each pointing a Glock 9mm at a handful of terrified customers. Behind the counter stood a fourth thug—slightly less built than his cohorts—holding a gun on a very frightened, middle-aged man with glasses. Superman shook his head and walked inside.
“Don’t you guys have anything better to do than commit crimes?”
“SUPERMAN!”
“Help us, Superman!” a portly gentleman pleaded.
“Shut the fuck up,” one of the thugs snapped.
“Now, that wasn’t a nice thing to say,” Superman replied. “I’ve got a novel idea. Just this once, let’s skip the violence. Be good citizens and give yourselves up.”
The biggest thug sneered. “Fuck off, hero boy.” He raised his gun and fired.
“Really? You guys still haven’t learned that guns don’t work on me? C’mon, even three-year-olds know I’m bulletproof,” Superman said with a smirk, letting the bullets slide from his palm and clatter to the floor.
For a millisecond, all anyone saw was a blur of red and blue—then all four gunmen lay groaning in a heap on the floor. Amid the applause, Superman made sure no one needed medical attention that couldn’t wait for the EMTs before flying away.
Things settled down as the morning progressed, and before Clark knew it, there were three hours left until the interview. He pulled his glasses from his face, closed his eyes, and pressed the bridge of his aquiline nose.
"What's wrong, Big Guy?"
Clark looked up to see the smiling face of his best friend and red-haired photographer, Jimmy Olsen. He smiled, stood, and hugged the five-foot-eight, one-hundred-forty-pound man, easily lifting him off the floor.
"Clark!" Jimmy yelped.
The brunette giggled as his captive squirmed, legs kicking in the air, struggling uselessly in his arms.
"Don't make me hurt you," the bow-tie-wearing photographer playfully threatened.
Clark threw his head back and laughed. Arching his right eyebrow, he smirked and said, "Hurt me? You? Really, James?"
Jimmy was one of the select few who knew Clark was Superman. He’d learned other things about his strong friend too—like the fact that Superman was insanely ticklish. The shorter man grinned, reached out, and twisted his index finger into the fleshy spot between the alien’s middle ribs.
Two seconds ticked by before boisterous giggles burst from Clark’s soft, pinkish lips. His muscular body squirmed, and his arms wrapped protectively around his midsection.
"Like I said, don't make me hurt you," the redhead teased, giggling and buffing his fingernails on his white shirt.
"You're gonna get it, Olsen," Clark warned. He grabbed his friend in a headlock and gave him a noogie.
"Noooo… not that!" James squeaked, struggling and pounding the floor with his size-nine loafers.
"How about this?" Clark’s fingers vibrated rapidly along the slender ribs of his buddy.
"C'mon… not the super-speed tickles!" the helpless man shrieked, laughing like a hyena as he collapsed to his knees.
***********
In the master bedroom on the second floor of his two-story penthouse, Lex Luthor gazed at his reflection in the full-length mirror. He was dressed in a black Armani suit, tailored to accentuate his impeccably maintained, muscle-toned six-foot-two, two-hundred-ten-pound frame. Sitting on the edge of the king-size bed, he pulled on a pair of black Armani socks and, using a shoehorn to avoid damaging the heels of his expensive dress shoes, slid his size-twelve feet into the gleaming black leather footwear.
An alarm reminding him of his upcoming interview with Clark Kent wiped the smile from his unwrinkled face. But a moment later, it returned—because while he wasn’t looking forward to it, he knew the city’s flying Boy Scout dreaded it even more.
Lex shrugged his suit jacket on, grabbed his briefcase, and walked out the self-locking door. He waved to the security guard, waiting at the elevator door of the building’s gated parking lot, before getting into his silver Porsche and driving away.
The morning passed with nothing out of the ordinary happening, and the business mogul had just walked into the restroom in his opulent office and closed the door.
The office door silently opened. A hooded figure crept inside before the person closed the thick, heavy wooden barrier and locked the doorknob. The intruder toed off his black shoes, and placed them to the right of the entryway.
He pressed a button that activated the “do not disturb” sign on the outside of the doorframe, then closed the blinds and window shades, plunging the room into darkness. His back slid along the wall as his size eleven feet, clad in gray athletic socks, padded along the carpet. A syringe was pulled from the left pocket of the black jeans, and the cap was removed as the toilet flushed.
“What the…” Lex said as he exited the lavatory.
Not giving the slightly taller male a chance to discover him, the unannounced man wrapped his arm around the pale, milky white neck, stuck the needle into the soft warm skin, and pushed the plunger.
“Whoever you are…” was said before the bald businessman crumpled to the floor in an unmoving heap.
“Let's get you into a more comfortable situation before the serum wears off, Mr. Luthor,” the captor muttered while chuckling.
Working quickly, the still-disguised man lifted the heavy body onto the conference table. He undressed and hogtied the proud CEO, and licked his lips when he leaned in to deeply inhale the pungent, enticing musk radiating from the generous manhood.
While his victim lay unconscious, the thirty-five-year-old, six-foot-tall, one-hundred-seventy-five-pound man pulled down his hood, releasing a cascade of shoulder-length, platinum blonde curls—fluffy, luxurious, and wild, framing his head like a lion’s mane. As he removed the hoodie, the hem of his dark blue T-shirt lifted slightly, revealing the sculpted six-pack abs hidden beneath layers of clothing.
He sat at the imposing wrought-iron-framed, glass-topped desk and, driven by curiosity, swiped his index finger across the mouse pad. To his surprise, the calendar appeared. Seeing that the only item scheduled was an interview with Clark Kent, he opened the company-wide messaging system and instructed every employee—security personnel included—to take the rest of the day off, effective immediately. Then, he had the personal secretary cancel the interview.
He was about to go play with his new toy when a minimized tab caught his eye. “What's this?” the blonde uttered under his breath, bringing up the content. As he read, his eyes widened. “Heh, I'll be. Looks like Mister Trustfund's found a new way to weaken Superman,” he said. Reading further, a new plan formed in his head, and his palm rubbed along his hardening shaft, pressing against the front of his jeans.
The black, soft leather office chair noiselessly rolled across the cream carpet as its occupant thought, Damn! I had no idea these chairs could be so comfortable. Must be nice having money to burn.
The business world's most awe- and fear-inspiring icon was now totally helpless, with a thin line of drool running down the creases of his mouth and pooling at the edge of his chin as it rested on the long cherry oak table—which he figured cost close to what he paid in rent for three, maybe four, months. The almost middle-aged man disrobed and stood in just his socks and plain white boxer briefs, staring at the Alpha's bare, masculine feet—slightly twitching toes and soft, pinkish, upturned soles.
The tip of his nose lightly grazed the warm flesh of the left foot, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, savoring the tantalizing aroma of sweat mingled with leather. The shock registered in his eyes and etched itself across his face when he heard groggy, light giggles escape Luthor’s lips as his fingertips slowly traced the outer edge of the man's right foot.
“Holy crap! Luthor's ticklish,” he muttered between chuckles.
This new bit of information was a game changer for the captor.
“Wh… What… Where… am I?”
The barely audible question was followed by a groan, then by the restrained body slowly stirring to life. The waking captive quickly grew more alert, grunting as he furiously yanked and tugged at the rope that kept him bound. His eyes blinked rapidly, a shocked expression forming on his face as he realized he was in his birthday suit—not the Armani he’d started the day wearing.
“What the… Who would dare have the freaking balls to not only tie me up in my own office, but strip me naked and put me on display on my conference table like I’m a turkey on a platter on Thanksgiving Day?” he demanded, his voice rising to a near-holler.
“Aww, Lexie, I never knew you could be so descriptive.”
The voice sounded familiar to Lex as he wriggled and squirmed, trying to see who had spoken. But the room was so dark, all he could make out was a shadowy figure emerging from the corner near the bathroom.
“Whoever you are, you have no idea whom you're dealing with. I’ll make it my mission to see your entire existence destroyed beyond repair,” he growled, summoning as much menace as he could muster. Still, he was painfully aware of his current predicament and doubted anyone would take him seriously at this point.
The sudden, sharp sting of an unseen wooden paddle slamming rapidly and repeatedly against his firm, bare buttocks made the wealthiest man in Metropolis yelp and whimper like a puppy. His face flushed deeper with every fiery slap, his cheeks turning crimson and radiating heat as his body writhed in agony. However, there was an even more embarrassing reaction, which both Lex and his abductor noticed: his lengthy appendage was at its hardest, and a steady release of cream was pooling on the oak surface.
The blonde thought, Damn! Looks like Luthor's a closet freak. This is sexy as fuck. He chuckled and said, “Aww, did you forget me so soon, rich boy?”
Lex’s eyes widened. He gasped, and then his blue irises turned dark and stormy. “I don’t believe it. Clayton Marple. What do you think you’re doing? Release me this—” His tirade came to a sudden halt as fingers clamped down on his toes.
“Lexie, while you were unconscious, I think I discovered something about you. More specifically, I think I discovered that you have an extremely common reaction to being touched—one most humans share.”
Lex rolled his eyes and replied exasperatedly, “Get to the point, creep.”
The sensation traveling through him as his former employee’s fingers wiggled along the pads and bases of his curled toes made the bald man’s body squirm and jerk. Giggles began to rise in his throat.
“Get… Ack… Your fingers away from my feet, you freak!” Every word spoken was punctuated by uncontrollable snickers.
Clayton chuckled at the obvious embarrassment of the powerful man, who struggled to maintain his composure.
“Time to test my new theory about the big… bad… billionaire. And if I'm right, I could make a fortune selling this info to your competitors.” The blonde giggled and added, “Maybe I’ll leak it to Clark Kent—it might even reach Superman.”
“You’re a sick bastard,” Lex growled.
His arm wrapped around his toy’s ankles as the muscular body squirmed and struggled in vain to escape. Clayton’s eyes glittered with excitement as he prepared to torture the powerful man until he broke.
Lex inhaled, ready to unleash another diatribe of threats he fully intended to carry out. But just as he uttered the first syllable, fingernails lightly strummed up and down his soles. Words dissolved into boisterous laughter that echoed off the office walls.
“Ohhh, fuck! When you giggled from me lightly licking the edge of your right foot while you were unconscious, I figured you were ticklish—but I wasn’t expecting this big of a response.”
The tickling continued as the CEO howled, cackled hysterically, and shrieked with every torturous stroke of the dull fingernails. His body rocked and rolled, feet flipping up and down in a futile attempt to escape the relentless assault.
“If you don't stop this madness right now, I'll make sure any happiness you find in your pathetic life gets stripped away—in the slowest, most painful way possible.”
The usually calm and collected mogul—always in control of himself and everyone in his world—was starting to unravel, and it showed. His eyes were wild, darting frantically in search of any possible means of escape. His youthful, unblemished face was pale, damp, and clammy, coated in a sheen of sweat, tears, and sticky saliva.
“This is a very good look on you,” Claton teased, lightly stroking his fingertips up and down the firm, milky buttocks.
High-pitched squeals and giggles burst from Lex’s juicy lips. He rocked back and forth, eyes squeezed shut, toes clenched so tightly they nearly cramped. The reaction shocked them both.
“Holy fuck! Judging by your expression, you never imagined having a ticklish ass.”
Lex couldn’t respond—he was giggling too hard.
“Let’s try here.”
“Noooo… Don’t tickle my… Arharharmpihihits…” Boisterous cackles poured from the helpless man like rushing whitewater rapids.
“Too bad I didn’t know how ticklish you were when I worked here. We could’ve shared a few laughs instead of you being such a meanie and firing me, Lexiekins.”
Here's a link to lexabro10mg's deviantart page.
https://www.deviantart.com/lexabro10mg
It started off as a typical day for the protector of Metropolis—and the world.
His eyelids opened, revealing striking blue irises. The dark-haired, six-foot-three, two-hundred-thirty-five-pound Man of Steel sat up, stretched his muscular arms, and yawned. His soft, bare soles—size twelve-and-a-half—flattened against the hardwood floor as he stood and walked into the spacious master bathroom.
Ten minutes later, Clark Kent donned his glasses, slipped a pair of black bikini briefs over his muscled legs—briefs that hugged his pale, firm, and hairless backside like a second skin. Tan khakis covered the sleek undergarment. He sat on the bed, slid his feet into a pair of black sheer dress socks—so thin that his meaty soles and each plump toe remained visible—and pulled on a pair of comfortable black dress shoes. Stepping into the walk-in closet, he pulled a light green button-down shirt from a hanger, shrugged it on, and selected a slender necktie adorned with swirls of slightly darker green and tan, blending together like watercolor.
The Kryptonian used his heat vision to whip up a massive breakfast, slashing the cooking time from 30–45 minutes to just over ten. As he ate, he flipped on the TV to catch up on the morning news. A story about Lex Luthor nearly ruined his appetite—and his half-eaten meal—as it reminded him that he’d be interviewing the corporate criminal later that day. It also brought up fond memories from not that long ago when he and Luthor were best friends, back in Smallville. Nowadays, any dealings with the billionaire put him on edge; he never knew when the villain might decide to expose him as Superman while he was still in his Clark Kent persona.
The day’s first crisis struck as he walked to the Daily Planet. He had just crossed an intersection when a car ran a red light and was seconds away from being crushed by an eighteen-wheeler. In less than a heartbeat, he was in costume and airborne. He slid his hands beneath the older-model brown sedan, lifted it off the road, and carried the stunned, grateful passenger to a reputable auto mechanic he knew a few blocks away.
"How much free time do these people have?" the hero thought as he stumbled upon a robbery and hostage situation in progress.
For the second time in less than five minutes, the hero was back in action. Flashes from cell phones and cameras erupted from every angle seconds after the red-and-blue-suited man landed in front of the convenience store. He used his x-ray vision to peer inside and spotted three solidly built thugs in ski masks, each pointing a Glock 9mm at a handful of terrified customers. Behind the counter stood a fourth thug—slightly less built than his cohorts—holding a gun on a very frightened, middle-aged man with glasses. Superman shook his head and walked inside.
“Don’t you guys have anything better to do than commit crimes?”
“SUPERMAN!”
“Help us, Superman!” a portly gentleman pleaded.
“Shut the fuck up,” one of the thugs snapped.
“Now, that wasn’t a nice thing to say,” Superman replied. “I’ve got a novel idea. Just this once, let’s skip the violence. Be good citizens and give yourselves up.”
The biggest thug sneered. “Fuck off, hero boy.” He raised his gun and fired.
“Really? You guys still haven’t learned that guns don’t work on me? C’mon, even three-year-olds know I’m bulletproof,” Superman said with a smirk, letting the bullets slide from his palm and clatter to the floor.
For a millisecond, all anyone saw was a blur of red and blue—then all four gunmen lay groaning in a heap on the floor. Amid the applause, Superman made sure no one needed medical attention that couldn’t wait for the EMTs before flying away.
Things settled down as the morning progressed, and before Clark knew it, there were three hours left until the interview. He pulled his glasses from his face, closed his eyes, and pressed the bridge of his aquiline nose.
"What's wrong, Big Guy?"
Clark looked up to see the smiling face of his best friend and red-haired photographer, Jimmy Olsen. He smiled, stood, and hugged the five-foot-eight, one-hundred-forty-pound man, easily lifting him off the floor.
"Clark!" Jimmy yelped.
The brunette giggled as his captive squirmed, legs kicking in the air, struggling uselessly in his arms.
"Don't make me hurt you," the bow-tie-wearing photographer playfully threatened.
Clark threw his head back and laughed. Arching his right eyebrow, he smirked and said, "Hurt me? You? Really, James?"
Jimmy was one of the select few who knew Clark was Superman. He’d learned other things about his strong friend too—like the fact that Superman was insanely ticklish. The shorter man grinned, reached out, and twisted his index finger into the fleshy spot between the alien’s middle ribs.
Two seconds ticked by before boisterous giggles burst from Clark’s soft, pinkish lips. His muscular body squirmed, and his arms wrapped protectively around his midsection.
"Like I said, don't make me hurt you," the redhead teased, giggling and buffing his fingernails on his white shirt.
"You're gonna get it, Olsen," Clark warned. He grabbed his friend in a headlock and gave him a noogie.
"Noooo… not that!" James squeaked, struggling and pounding the floor with his size-nine loafers.
"How about this?" Clark’s fingers vibrated rapidly along the slender ribs of his buddy.
"C'mon… not the super-speed tickles!" the helpless man shrieked, laughing like a hyena as he collapsed to his knees.
***********
In the master bedroom on the second floor of his two-story penthouse, Lex Luthor gazed at his reflection in the full-length mirror. He was dressed in a black Armani suit, tailored to accentuate his impeccably maintained, muscle-toned six-foot-two, two-hundred-ten-pound frame. Sitting on the edge of the king-size bed, he pulled on a pair of black Armani socks and, using a shoehorn to avoid damaging the heels of his expensive dress shoes, slid his size-twelve feet into the gleaming black leather footwear.
An alarm reminding him of his upcoming interview with Clark Kent wiped the smile from his unwrinkled face. But a moment later, it returned—because while he wasn’t looking forward to it, he knew the city’s flying Boy Scout dreaded it even more.
Lex shrugged his suit jacket on, grabbed his briefcase, and walked out the self-locking door. He waved to the security guard, waiting at the elevator door of the building’s gated parking lot, before getting into his silver Porsche and driving away.
The morning passed with nothing out of the ordinary happening, and the business mogul had just walked into the restroom in his opulent office and closed the door.
The office door silently opened. A hooded figure crept inside before the person closed the thick, heavy wooden barrier and locked the doorknob. The intruder toed off his black shoes, and placed them to the right of the entryway.
He pressed a button that activated the “do not disturb” sign on the outside of the doorframe, then closed the blinds and window shades, plunging the room into darkness. His back slid along the wall as his size eleven feet, clad in gray athletic socks, padded along the carpet. A syringe was pulled from the left pocket of the black jeans, and the cap was removed as the toilet flushed.
“What the…” Lex said as he exited the lavatory.
Not giving the slightly taller male a chance to discover him, the unannounced man wrapped his arm around the pale, milky white neck, stuck the needle into the soft warm skin, and pushed the plunger.
“Whoever you are…” was said before the bald businessman crumpled to the floor in an unmoving heap.
“Let's get you into a more comfortable situation before the serum wears off, Mr. Luthor,” the captor muttered while chuckling.
Working quickly, the still-disguised man lifted the heavy body onto the conference table. He undressed and hogtied the proud CEO, and licked his lips when he leaned in to deeply inhale the pungent, enticing musk radiating from the generous manhood.
While his victim lay unconscious, the thirty-five-year-old, six-foot-tall, one-hundred-seventy-five-pound man pulled down his hood, releasing a cascade of shoulder-length, platinum blonde curls—fluffy, luxurious, and wild, framing his head like a lion’s mane. As he removed the hoodie, the hem of his dark blue T-shirt lifted slightly, revealing the sculpted six-pack abs hidden beneath layers of clothing.
He sat at the imposing wrought-iron-framed, glass-topped desk and, driven by curiosity, swiped his index finger across the mouse pad. To his surprise, the calendar appeared. Seeing that the only item scheduled was an interview with Clark Kent, he opened the company-wide messaging system and instructed every employee—security personnel included—to take the rest of the day off, effective immediately. Then, he had the personal secretary cancel the interview.
He was about to go play with his new toy when a minimized tab caught his eye. “What's this?” the blonde uttered under his breath, bringing up the content. As he read, his eyes widened. “Heh, I'll be. Looks like Mister Trustfund's found a new way to weaken Superman,” he said. Reading further, a new plan formed in his head, and his palm rubbed along his hardening shaft, pressing against the front of his jeans.
The black, soft leather office chair noiselessly rolled across the cream carpet as its occupant thought, Damn! I had no idea these chairs could be so comfortable. Must be nice having money to burn.
The business world's most awe- and fear-inspiring icon was now totally helpless, with a thin line of drool running down the creases of his mouth and pooling at the edge of his chin as it rested on the long cherry oak table—which he figured cost close to what he paid in rent for three, maybe four, months. The almost middle-aged man disrobed and stood in just his socks and plain white boxer briefs, staring at the Alpha's bare, masculine feet—slightly twitching toes and soft, pinkish, upturned soles.
The tip of his nose lightly grazed the warm flesh of the left foot, and his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, savoring the tantalizing aroma of sweat mingled with leather. The shock registered in his eyes and etched itself across his face when he heard groggy, light giggles escape Luthor’s lips as his fingertips slowly traced the outer edge of the man's right foot.
“Holy crap! Luthor's ticklish,” he muttered between chuckles.
This new bit of information was a game changer for the captor.
“Wh… What… Where… am I?”
The barely audible question was followed by a groan, then by the restrained body slowly stirring to life. The waking captive quickly grew more alert, grunting as he furiously yanked and tugged at the rope that kept him bound. His eyes blinked rapidly, a shocked expression forming on his face as he realized he was in his birthday suit—not the Armani he’d started the day wearing.
“What the… Who would dare have the freaking balls to not only tie me up in my own office, but strip me naked and put me on display on my conference table like I’m a turkey on a platter on Thanksgiving Day?” he demanded, his voice rising to a near-holler.
“Aww, Lexie, I never knew you could be so descriptive.”
The voice sounded familiar to Lex as he wriggled and squirmed, trying to see who had spoken. But the room was so dark, all he could make out was a shadowy figure emerging from the corner near the bathroom.
“Whoever you are, you have no idea whom you're dealing with. I’ll make it my mission to see your entire existence destroyed beyond repair,” he growled, summoning as much menace as he could muster. Still, he was painfully aware of his current predicament and doubted anyone would take him seriously at this point.
The sudden, sharp sting of an unseen wooden paddle slamming rapidly and repeatedly against his firm, bare buttocks made the wealthiest man in Metropolis yelp and whimper like a puppy. His face flushed deeper with every fiery slap, his cheeks turning crimson and radiating heat as his body writhed in agony. However, there was an even more embarrassing reaction, which both Lex and his abductor noticed: his lengthy appendage was at its hardest, and a steady release of cream was pooling on the oak surface.
The blonde thought, Damn! Looks like Luthor's a closet freak. This is sexy as fuck. He chuckled and said, “Aww, did you forget me so soon, rich boy?”
Lex’s eyes widened. He gasped, and then his blue irises turned dark and stormy. “I don’t believe it. Clayton Marple. What do you think you’re doing? Release me this—” His tirade came to a sudden halt as fingers clamped down on his toes.
“Lexie, while you were unconscious, I think I discovered something about you. More specifically, I think I discovered that you have an extremely common reaction to being touched—one most humans share.”
Lex rolled his eyes and replied exasperatedly, “Get to the point, creep.”
The sensation traveling through him as his former employee’s fingers wiggled along the pads and bases of his curled toes made the bald man’s body squirm and jerk. Giggles began to rise in his throat.
“Get… Ack… Your fingers away from my feet, you freak!” Every word spoken was punctuated by uncontrollable snickers.
Clayton chuckled at the obvious embarrassment of the powerful man, who struggled to maintain his composure.
“Time to test my new theory about the big… bad… billionaire. And if I'm right, I could make a fortune selling this info to your competitors.” The blonde giggled and added, “Maybe I’ll leak it to Clark Kent—it might even reach Superman.”
“You’re a sick bastard,” Lex growled.
His arm wrapped around his toy’s ankles as the muscular body squirmed and struggled in vain to escape. Clayton’s eyes glittered with excitement as he prepared to torture the powerful man until he broke.
Lex inhaled, ready to unleash another diatribe of threats he fully intended to carry out. But just as he uttered the first syllable, fingernails lightly strummed up and down his soles. Words dissolved into boisterous laughter that echoed off the office walls.
“Ohhh, fuck! When you giggled from me lightly licking the edge of your right foot while you were unconscious, I figured you were ticklish—but I wasn’t expecting this big of a response.”
The tickling continued as the CEO howled, cackled hysterically, and shrieked with every torturous stroke of the dull fingernails. His body rocked and rolled, feet flipping up and down in a futile attempt to escape the relentless assault.
“If you don't stop this madness right now, I'll make sure any happiness you find in your pathetic life gets stripped away—in the slowest, most painful way possible.”
The usually calm and collected mogul—always in control of himself and everyone in his world—was starting to unravel, and it showed. His eyes were wild, darting frantically in search of any possible means of escape. His youthful, unblemished face was pale, damp, and clammy, coated in a sheen of sweat, tears, and sticky saliva.
“This is a very good look on you,” Claton teased, lightly stroking his fingertips up and down the firm, milky buttocks.
High-pitched squeals and giggles burst from Lex’s juicy lips. He rocked back and forth, eyes squeezed shut, toes clenched so tightly they nearly cramped. The reaction shocked them both.
“Holy fuck! Judging by your expression, you never imagined having a ticklish ass.”
Lex couldn’t respond—he was giggling too hard.
“Let’s try here.”
“Noooo… Don’t tickle my… Arharharmpihihits…” Boisterous cackles poured from the helpless man like rushing whitewater rapids.
“Too bad I didn’t know how ticklish you were when I worked here. We could’ve shared a few laughs instead of you being such a meanie and firing me, Lexiekins.”
