Story where at a bdsm party Priscilla swaps a bound submissive’s “WHIP ME” sign for “TICKLE ME,” subjecting tickle-hating Alex to hours of relentless, humiliating tickle torture in the dungeon.
In the dimly lit depths of the Crimson Vault, an exclusive underground BDSM dungeon hidden beneath the bustling city streets, the air hummed with anticipation. The club was renowned among the elite kink community for its strict rules, safe words enforced by vigilant monitors, and a play area where boundaries were respected—or at least, they were supposed to be. Tonight, the main floor was alive with the crack of whips, the moans of submissives, and the low murmurs of dominants negotiating scenes.
At the center of it all stood an imposing X-frame, crafted from polished black steel, its crossbars gleaming under the red spotlights. Strapped securely to it was Alex, a seasoned submissive in his mid-thirties, his lean, athletic body stretched taut with arms and legs spread wide. Thick leather cuffs bound his wrists and ankles, holding him immobile. A soft black blindfold covered his eyes, plunging him into darkness, heightening every sensation. In his mouth, a large red ball gag stretched his jaws wide, muffling any attempts at speech to pathetic, drooling hums and grunts. Saliva already trickled from the corners of his lips, a testament to how long he’d been displayed like this.
Hanging from a chain around his neck was a simple laminated sign, bold black letters on white cardboard: “WHIP ME.” It was his explicit invitation, his negotiated scene for the evening. Alex loved impact play—the sharp sting of a flogger, the thud of a paddle, the burning lines left by a single-tail whip. It grounded him, sent him flying into subspace. But there was one thing he absolutely despised, a hard limit etched in red on his negotiation sheet: tickling. He hated it with a passion that bordered on phobia. Even light touches in playful moments made him squirm in discomfort, and in a BDSM context? Unthinkable. It wasn’t erotic for him; it was pure, unbearable torment that pulled him out of any headspace and left him frustrated and angry. He’d made that clear to the dungeon monitors when he signed in.
The crowd milled around, some glancing appreciatively at the bound man, but most respecting the sign’s implication: wait for a dominant to claim the scene. Alex hung there, breathing steadily, anticipating the first strike that would send endorphins rushing through his veins.
That’s when she appeared.
Priscilla.
She was a vision in latex—a sleek black catsuit that hugged her curvaceous figure like a second skin, glossy and reflective under the lights. Her long raven hair cascaded in waves down her back, framed by a porcelain doll mask that covered the upper half of her face, leaving only her painted red lips visible in a perpetual sly smile. Thigh-high stiletto boots clicked against the floor as she prowled the room, a known regular with a reputation for creative, psychological play. Priscilla was mischievous, a switch who leaned heavily dominant when the mood struck her, and tonight, her mood was particularly devious.
She’d been watching Alex from the bar for over an hour, sipping a drink through a straw poked into her mask. She knew his limits—word traveled fast in this community—and the irony delighted her. A man who craved pain but loathed tickling? It was too perfect, too tempting. Her eyes sparkled behind the mask as a sneaky idea formed. Rules were rules, but signs could be… misinterpreted. And with him gagged and blindfolded, who would know until it was too late?
Priscilla sauntered closer, her hips swaying seductively. She carried a small bag of toys, but tonight, she had something simpler in mind. From her pocket, she pulled out a pre-prepared sign—identical in size and style to the one around his neck: “TICKLE ME.” She’d made it earlier that evening, just in case an opportunity arose. A little harmless prank, she told herself, though deep down she knew it would be anything but harmless for him.
Glancing around to ensure no monitors were watching closely—the dungeon was busy tonight—she approached the X-frame. Alex sensed her presence, his head tilting slightly as her perfume, a mix of vanilla and leather, wafted toward him. He mumbled something through the gag, expectant, hopeful for the whip.
Priscilla smiled wickedly, her gloved fingers deftly unhooking the “WHIP ME” sign and replacing it with the new one. She tucked the original into her bag—no evidence left behind. Stepping back, she admired her work. Perfect.
Now, the game could begin.
She didn’t touch him right away. Instead, she circled the frame slowly, her boots echoing, building tension. Alex shifted slightly in his bonds, confused by the delay. Usually, dominants who approached with intent started quickly. Priscilla raised her voice just enough for nearby players to hear, projecting playfully: “Oh look, everyone! A volunteer who wants to be tickled!”
A few heads turned, chuckles rippling through the crowd. Alex froze. Tickle? What? He shook his head vehemently, muffled protests bubbling around the gag—“Mmmph! Nnnooo!”—but it sounded like garbled nonsense. Drool spilled faster as he strained.
Priscilla laughed softly, a melodic, teasing sound. “Aw, the sign says ‘TICKLE ME.’ And you’re all tied up with nowhere to go. How adorable.”
The first touch was light—just the tips of her gloved fingers grazing his ribs. Alex jerked violently, a surprised yelp muffled into a high-pitched whine. His body betrayed him immediately, muscles tensing as laughter forced its way out despite his hatred. “Hmph-hmph-hmph!” It wasn’t pleasurable laughter; it was desperate, frantic.
Priscilla’s eyes gleamed. She loved this—the power of turning a hard limit into exquisite torture, especially when consent was… gray. The sign was his invitation, after all. Or so everyone would think.
She escalated quickly, digging her fingers into his sides, wiggling them relentlessly. Alex bucked against the cuffs, his abs contracting helplessly as waves of unbearable sensation crashed over him. He hated how his body responded, the involuntary giggles turning into choked guffaws around the gag. Tears welled under the blindfold as he thrashed, but the frame held firm.
The crowd grew. A few dominants and submissives gathered, amused by the scene. “Look at him go!” one said. “He must really love it—begging with that sign.”
Priscilla played to the audience, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Such a ticklish little toy. Where should I go next? Armpits? Feet? Belly?”
She chose his armpits first, raising his stretched arms making them perfectly exposed. Her nails—long and pointed under the gloves—scribbled furiously in the sensitive hollows. Alex’s reaction was explosive. His head threw back, muffled screams of laughter erupting as his body convulsed. “GAAHHH! MMMMPHHHH!” Drool flew from his gagged mouth, splattering his chest. His face turned red, veins bulging as he fought for breath between the forced hysterics.
Priscilla didn’t let up. She tickled for minutes that felt like hours to him, alternating between light feathery strokes that made him twitch and deep, kneading digs that sent him into spasms. She whispered taunts close to his ear: “You hate this, don’t you? But the sign says you want it. Poor thing, can’t even beg me to stop.”
Alex’s mind raced in panic. How had this happened? The sign was supposed to say whip! He tried to communicate, shaking his head wildly, grunting negations, but it only looked like enthusiastic play to onlookers. Some even joined in—Priscilla invited them, turning it into a group scene.
A tall woman in leather approached, her fingers joining Priscilla’s on his ribs. “Mind if I help? He looks so fun.”
“Of course,” Priscilla purred. “Tickle him everywhere.”
Soon, multiple hands were on him. Fingers spidering over his belly, making it quiver uncontrollably. Nails raking his thighs, inching dangerously close to his inner legs where he was most vulnerable. Someone knelt to attack his bare feet—soles scrubbed with brushes that Priscilla produced from her bag. Alex’s toes curled futilely, his feet jerking in the cuffs as electric ticklish agony shot up his legs.
He was lost in it now, a whirlwind of torment. Laughter poured out endlessly, hoarse and broken around the gag. His body glistened with sweat, muscles aching from the constant straining. Tears soaked the blindfold, mixing with drool that dripped in strings from his chin. Every nerve screamed for mercy, but he couldn’t safe word, couldn’t explain. The gag turned his pleas into pathetic, animalistic sounds.
Priscilla orchestrated it all, her doll-like face impassive as she directed the ticklers. “Focus on his hips—yes, there! He jumps so nicely.” Or “Under his knees—scribble lightly, make him dance.”
Hours blurred. The crowd ebbed and flowed, new tormentors replacing tired ones. Priscilla never tired, her energy sadistic and boundless. She used tools now—feathers dragged slowly across his nipples, making them harden against his will. Electric toothbrushes buzzed against his soles, vibrating tickles deep into his bones. Soft makeup brushes swirled in his navel, a spot he didn’t even know was so sensitive.
Alex’s hatred fueled his suffering. This wasn’t subspace; this was hell. Every touch violated his limits, turning his body against him in the worst way. He felt humiliated, exposed, reduced to a giggling, writhing mess while everyone thought he craved it.
At one point, Priscilla leaned in close, removing one glove to use her bare fingers on his neck—a spot that made him shriek muffledly and arch. “I know your secret,” she whispered so only he could hear. “I switched the sign. This is all my doing. And I’m not stopping until you’re broken.”
That confession sent a fresh wave of despair through him. He bucked harder, but exhaustion was setting in. His laughter weakened to whimpers, body limp in the bonds.
Yet Priscilla continued. She dismissed the crowd eventually, claiming him for a “private session.” Alone now—or as alone as the dungeon allowed—she focused intensely. Fingers dancing over every inch: ribs, sides, belly, thighs, feet, even lightly over his balls for teasing, maddening flutters that mixed unwanted arousal with torment.
Time lost meaning. Alex floated in a haze of ticklish agony, mind fracturing under the relentless assault. Priscilla’s voice cooed endlessly: “Tickle, tickle, tickle… coochie coo… such a sensitive boy…”
She varied techniques—slow, torturous traces that built anticipation, then sudden rapid scratches that overwhelmed. She oiled his skin to heighten sensitivity, making every touch slick and inescapable.
Finally, as dawn approached and the dungeon quieted, Priscilla stepped back. Alex hung limp, utterly spent, chest heaving, covered in sweat and drool. Silent sobs shook him under the blindfold.
Priscilla replaced the original sign, pocketing the fake one. “Fun night, wasn’t it?” she said aloud for any lingering ears. Then, whispering: “Your secret’s safe with me. Until next time.”
She walked away, boots clicking, leaving him to the monitors who would eventually release him.
Alex, broken and furious, vowed never to return. But deep down, in the twisted world of the Crimson Vault, Priscilla knew he’d be back—and she’d be waiting with new signs.
In the dimly lit depths of the Crimson Vault, an exclusive underground BDSM dungeon hidden beneath the bustling city streets, the air hummed with anticipation. The club was renowned among the elite kink community for its strict rules, safe words enforced by vigilant monitors, and a play area where boundaries were respected—or at least, they were supposed to be. Tonight, the main floor was alive with the crack of whips, the moans of submissives, and the low murmurs of dominants negotiating scenes.
At the center of it all stood an imposing X-frame, crafted from polished black steel, its crossbars gleaming under the red spotlights. Strapped securely to it was Alex, a seasoned submissive in his mid-thirties, his lean, athletic body stretched taut with arms and legs spread wide. Thick leather cuffs bound his wrists and ankles, holding him immobile. A soft black blindfold covered his eyes, plunging him into darkness, heightening every sensation. In his mouth, a large red ball gag stretched his jaws wide, muffling any attempts at speech to pathetic, drooling hums and grunts. Saliva already trickled from the corners of his lips, a testament to how long he’d been displayed like this.
Hanging from a chain around his neck was a simple laminated sign, bold black letters on white cardboard: “WHIP ME.” It was his explicit invitation, his negotiated scene for the evening. Alex loved impact play—the sharp sting of a flogger, the thud of a paddle, the burning lines left by a single-tail whip. It grounded him, sent him flying into subspace. But there was one thing he absolutely despised, a hard limit etched in red on his negotiation sheet: tickling. He hated it with a passion that bordered on phobia. Even light touches in playful moments made him squirm in discomfort, and in a BDSM context? Unthinkable. It wasn’t erotic for him; it was pure, unbearable torment that pulled him out of any headspace and left him frustrated and angry. He’d made that clear to the dungeon monitors when he signed in.
The crowd milled around, some glancing appreciatively at the bound man, but most respecting the sign’s implication: wait for a dominant to claim the scene. Alex hung there, breathing steadily, anticipating the first strike that would send endorphins rushing through his veins.
That’s when she appeared.
Priscilla.
She was a vision in latex—a sleek black catsuit that hugged her curvaceous figure like a second skin, glossy and reflective under the lights. Her long raven hair cascaded in waves down her back, framed by a porcelain doll mask that covered the upper half of her face, leaving only her painted red lips visible in a perpetual sly smile. Thigh-high stiletto boots clicked against the floor as she prowled the room, a known regular with a reputation for creative, psychological play. Priscilla was mischievous, a switch who leaned heavily dominant when the mood struck her, and tonight, her mood was particularly devious.
She’d been watching Alex from the bar for over an hour, sipping a drink through a straw poked into her mask. She knew his limits—word traveled fast in this community—and the irony delighted her. A man who craved pain but loathed tickling? It was too perfect, too tempting. Her eyes sparkled behind the mask as a sneaky idea formed. Rules were rules, but signs could be… misinterpreted. And with him gagged and blindfolded, who would know until it was too late?
Priscilla sauntered closer, her hips swaying seductively. She carried a small bag of toys, but tonight, she had something simpler in mind. From her pocket, she pulled out a pre-prepared sign—identical in size and style to the one around his neck: “TICKLE ME.” She’d made it earlier that evening, just in case an opportunity arose. A little harmless prank, she told herself, though deep down she knew it would be anything but harmless for him.
Glancing around to ensure no monitors were watching closely—the dungeon was busy tonight—she approached the X-frame. Alex sensed her presence, his head tilting slightly as her perfume, a mix of vanilla and leather, wafted toward him. He mumbled something through the gag, expectant, hopeful for the whip.
Priscilla smiled wickedly, her gloved fingers deftly unhooking the “WHIP ME” sign and replacing it with the new one. She tucked the original into her bag—no evidence left behind. Stepping back, she admired her work. Perfect.
Now, the game could begin.
She didn’t touch him right away. Instead, she circled the frame slowly, her boots echoing, building tension. Alex shifted slightly in his bonds, confused by the delay. Usually, dominants who approached with intent started quickly. Priscilla raised her voice just enough for nearby players to hear, projecting playfully: “Oh look, everyone! A volunteer who wants to be tickled!”
A few heads turned, chuckles rippling through the crowd. Alex froze. Tickle? What? He shook his head vehemently, muffled protests bubbling around the gag—“Mmmph! Nnnooo!”—but it sounded like garbled nonsense. Drool spilled faster as he strained.
Priscilla laughed softly, a melodic, teasing sound. “Aw, the sign says ‘TICKLE ME.’ And you’re all tied up with nowhere to go. How adorable.”
The first touch was light—just the tips of her gloved fingers grazing his ribs. Alex jerked violently, a surprised yelp muffled into a high-pitched whine. His body betrayed him immediately, muscles tensing as laughter forced its way out despite his hatred. “Hmph-hmph-hmph!” It wasn’t pleasurable laughter; it was desperate, frantic.
Priscilla’s eyes gleamed. She loved this—the power of turning a hard limit into exquisite torture, especially when consent was… gray. The sign was his invitation, after all. Or so everyone would think.
She escalated quickly, digging her fingers into his sides, wiggling them relentlessly. Alex bucked against the cuffs, his abs contracting helplessly as waves of unbearable sensation crashed over him. He hated how his body responded, the involuntary giggles turning into choked guffaws around the gag. Tears welled under the blindfold as he thrashed, but the frame held firm.
The crowd grew. A few dominants and submissives gathered, amused by the scene. “Look at him go!” one said. “He must really love it—begging with that sign.”
Priscilla played to the audience, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Such a ticklish little toy. Where should I go next? Armpits? Feet? Belly?”
She chose his armpits first, raising his stretched arms making them perfectly exposed. Her nails—long and pointed under the gloves—scribbled furiously in the sensitive hollows. Alex’s reaction was explosive. His head threw back, muffled screams of laughter erupting as his body convulsed. “GAAHHH! MMMMPHHHH!” Drool flew from his gagged mouth, splattering his chest. His face turned red, veins bulging as he fought for breath between the forced hysterics.
Priscilla didn’t let up. She tickled for minutes that felt like hours to him, alternating between light feathery strokes that made him twitch and deep, kneading digs that sent him into spasms. She whispered taunts close to his ear: “You hate this, don’t you? But the sign says you want it. Poor thing, can’t even beg me to stop.”
Alex’s mind raced in panic. How had this happened? The sign was supposed to say whip! He tried to communicate, shaking his head wildly, grunting negations, but it only looked like enthusiastic play to onlookers. Some even joined in—Priscilla invited them, turning it into a group scene.
A tall woman in leather approached, her fingers joining Priscilla’s on his ribs. “Mind if I help? He looks so fun.”
“Of course,” Priscilla purred. “Tickle him everywhere.”
Soon, multiple hands were on him. Fingers spidering over his belly, making it quiver uncontrollably. Nails raking his thighs, inching dangerously close to his inner legs where he was most vulnerable. Someone knelt to attack his bare feet—soles scrubbed with brushes that Priscilla produced from her bag. Alex’s toes curled futilely, his feet jerking in the cuffs as electric ticklish agony shot up his legs.
He was lost in it now, a whirlwind of torment. Laughter poured out endlessly, hoarse and broken around the gag. His body glistened with sweat, muscles aching from the constant straining. Tears soaked the blindfold, mixing with drool that dripped in strings from his chin. Every nerve screamed for mercy, but he couldn’t safe word, couldn’t explain. The gag turned his pleas into pathetic, animalistic sounds.
Priscilla orchestrated it all, her doll-like face impassive as she directed the ticklers. “Focus on his hips—yes, there! He jumps so nicely.” Or “Under his knees—scribble lightly, make him dance.”
Hours blurred. The crowd ebbed and flowed, new tormentors replacing tired ones. Priscilla never tired, her energy sadistic and boundless. She used tools now—feathers dragged slowly across his nipples, making them harden against his will. Electric toothbrushes buzzed against his soles, vibrating tickles deep into his bones. Soft makeup brushes swirled in his navel, a spot he didn’t even know was so sensitive.
Alex’s hatred fueled his suffering. This wasn’t subspace; this was hell. Every touch violated his limits, turning his body against him in the worst way. He felt humiliated, exposed, reduced to a giggling, writhing mess while everyone thought he craved it.
At one point, Priscilla leaned in close, removing one glove to use her bare fingers on his neck—a spot that made him shriek muffledly and arch. “I know your secret,” she whispered so only he could hear. “I switched the sign. This is all my doing. And I’m not stopping until you’re broken.”
That confession sent a fresh wave of despair through him. He bucked harder, but exhaustion was setting in. His laughter weakened to whimpers, body limp in the bonds.
Yet Priscilla continued. She dismissed the crowd eventually, claiming him for a “private session.” Alone now—or as alone as the dungeon allowed—she focused intensely. Fingers dancing over every inch: ribs, sides, belly, thighs, feet, even lightly over his balls for teasing, maddening flutters that mixed unwanted arousal with torment.
Time lost meaning. Alex floated in a haze of ticklish agony, mind fracturing under the relentless assault. Priscilla’s voice cooed endlessly: “Tickle, tickle, tickle… coochie coo… such a sensitive boy…”
She varied techniques—slow, torturous traces that built anticipation, then sudden rapid scratches that overwhelmed. She oiled his skin to heighten sensitivity, making every touch slick and inescapable.
Finally, as dawn approached and the dungeon quieted, Priscilla stepped back. Alex hung limp, utterly spent, chest heaving, covered in sweat and drool. Silent sobs shook him under the blindfold.
Priscilla replaced the original sign, pocketing the fake one. “Fun night, wasn’t it?” she said aloud for any lingering ears. Then, whispering: “Your secret’s safe with me. Until next time.”
She walked away, boots clicking, leaving him to the monitors who would eventually release him.
Alex, broken and furious, vowed never to return. But deep down, in the twisted world of the Crimson Vault, Priscilla knew he’d be back—and she’d be waiting with new signs.
