Daddy'sbabygirl
Registered User
- Joined
- Jul 25, 2010
- Messages
- 2
- Points
- 0
<I>{"The characters portrayed below are both of legal age, and the incident is true as written"}</I> <BR><BR>It’s amazing the things you will do, the things you will submit to, the things you will endure for someone you love. Things you would never in your wildest dreams ever think of. And if you do think of them, they make your skin crawl, your heart beat out of your chest and your mind spin like a hurricane out of control. That is exactly how I feel about tickling. To say I hate it is putting it mildly. But, none of that matters any more. Not since I met, Him.
And of course, the ‘thing’ that does it for Him…. care to take a guess?? Indeed. Tickling. It’s not the only thing. Every brilliant man is not so simply faceted. But ticking does simply ‘trip His trigger’. Unfortunately for me, I found this out after I gave Him my heart and soul.
The first time He mentioned it, my stomach was a mess of knots. My skin was instantly flushed and my words were lost. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to Him. I couldn’t say no. Could I? Should I? I tried to explain how I felt about tickling and He said He understood. But truthfully, I don’t think He did. He didn’t understand how much I truly hated to be tickled.
Just the thought of it now still makes me light headed.
The way being tickled steals my breath away. The way it makes my skin crawl. The way it makes my thoughts fuzzy. And the way it makes me angry. Yes, angry. It is the ultimate in surrender for me. But what makes me angry is not the ultimate surrender; it’s the feeling of helplessness when I can’t breath. When I am writhing, squirming, crying out for Him to stop, and He won’t. I want to lash out and just beat on Him. Do anything and everything I can to make Him stop. But I don’t.
I don’t for one simple reason. It’s what He wants. What He needs. What He craves. And I am the lucky one to be able to give it to Him.
Before I started learning The Art of Tickling ~ His Way, we had discussed it at length. I was completely honest with Him and He knew all it did to me. How it made me feel, how it made my head ache, my stomach knot and my body twitch. It truly made me physically ill at one point. He knew that too. He had suggested we shelve this whole idea because of what it was doing to me. I was mortified and simply heartbroken that He had suggested such a thing.
Let’s see if I can explain why. I knew this was one of His strongest passions, to be able to bind my feet and pay them such torturous attention. Again, it was what He needed. And I was the one He had chosen to fill that need. And now, because of something I had said, He decided to take that way from me. He couldn’t do that. I begged Him not to take it away. I tried my best to explain to Him that yes, I hated the thought of being tickled, but I also knew it was what He wanted and more than anything I wanted to give that to Him. To be the one that filled that desirous need for Him. It was what I longed to do. Thank goodness, He understood what this meant to me and agreed to allow me to do all I could for Him.
After the misunderstandings were cleared up, He explained to me how it would work and how I could learn to crave the touch of a feather, the touch of His fingers along the soles of my feet and the touch of His tongue between my toes. Of course, I thought He was crazy, but I digress.
The first time it happened I was petrified. All I could think of was “how in the world am I going to be able to do this?” and all I could answer was “You’ll do it for Him”. I was instructed to go to a local craft store and buy feathers. Feathers?? Are you serious? But, I did as I was told. Quite reluctantly, but I did.
Once home I was told to strip and lay myself on the bed, feather in hand. Just that was almost unbearable. I didn’t think I could go through with this. Horrible thoughts of squirming, losing my breath made my skin crawl and my mouth go dry. But He thought of everything. A cool cloth, something to drink and fan blowing on me. He was so very gentle the first time (and most times since). He explained what He was going to do to me, how He was going to make my skin crawl, my body shudder and my mind spin.
His words where simple and clear “Give Me your left foot”. I obeyed. His long thick fingers wrapped around my ankle and He held me there. Tightly.
The first thing I felt was the tip of the feather draw slowly over the arch of my foot. My eyes clenched shut, as did my jaw. Both cinched so tight I was seeing stars. It took every ounce of effort I had not to yank my foot from Him and run. Run fast and hard away from the damned feather. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Despite what my mind was telling me, my heart and soul knew I was to stay.
He orchestrated the feather over the length of my sole, tip to heel, soft, slow, delicate flicks of the pointed tip. Each touch of that feather felt like a searing sword taken to my flesh. It brought tears to my eyes, yet not a word, not a sound slipped from my lips. I knew, once I started with the whimpering, the crying, it would lead to begging. And all of it would be for not.
The way He moved that feather, the way He perfectly executed each dip between my toes, each crisscross pattern along my arch, it was clear He was quite the expert at this. And truth be told I was not the least bit surprised. But what did surprise me was the reaction it caused in Him. My goodness. Once I somewhat found my bearing and was able to open my eyes, I was amazed. Astonished, simply in awe of the look on His face. The love in His eyes, the curl of His lips, and yes the bulge in His jeans. It was quite stunning.
At that moment, right there, it was all clear. Crystal clear to me why I had made the decision to submit to such a difficult thing. It was that look in His eyes, the one I had craved since the beginning. I had seen it before, but only in fleeting moments. But this time, it was there, staring back into my eyes. I had given to Him something He need so desperately.
He leaned down, soft lips brushing across my ear and whispered “Tell Daddy how ticklish your feet are, babygirl.” It took every ounce of effort I had to summon up a breath from deep inside me. Slowly I turned my head, my lips now brushing across His ear, I whispered, “Daddy, my feet are so ticklish…please? God please? Stop”.
And that was all it took. He moved back to my feet, pinned both together and began one of the most deliriously horrible moments in my life. Each foot was covered with hot quick flicks of the feather tip. Between each toe was tortured with the smooth edge of the feather. And each and every flick, each and every stab, sent the most incredibly luscious pulses straight up each leg, settling there, nestled tightly between what was quickly becoming a sticky hot mess.
That, that sticky hot mess nestled between my thighs completely blew my mind. I had no idea what to think when I found myself drenched. I could not, for the life of me, wrap my mind around it. I hated what this Man was doing to me. I hated being tickled. I hated the thought of anyone every touching me in such a fashion. Yet, here I was actually enjoying it? Truly? Are you serious? It couldn’t be. My mind was spinning, trying to figure it out. How could something that all my life I found offensive, down right horrible, be turning me on!?!?!?
But then it happened again. My eyes found His. My heart felt His pride. My soul was soaring because I knew; I just knew this is what He had been longing for. Had been hoping He would find when He found me. He had found out something about me the first night we talked that almost made Him speechless. Something we had in common that made our bond even stronger. But for Him to hope for this, to hope that I would submit to such a thing. I could tell it made Him deliriously happy and fulfilled a desire for Him long left void. That, was what made it bearable for me. And in all truthfulness what made it such a turn on for me. I could do this for Him. I was able to fulfill a need in Him. It’s what I was here for, what I longed for.
The smile on His lips quickly grew dark, and I knew I was in for it. He knew how I was responding without even looking, feeling, touching. He knew I was savoring His touch, that I was determined to be what He wanted.
Letting my feet go, He pushed them apart. Spreading them wide. Feeling His fingers draw down over the soles of my feet, curling around my heels, fingers digging in and with one quick yank of my feet, my thighs were spread wide and my ass was riding along the edge of the bed. His fingers trailed up my calves as He settled my feet to the edge of the bed. Continuing the slow descent down my thighs, nail tips dragging along my creamy white flesh, then finally settled there. Right there where the heat He had caused grew.
I was bracing myself for what I thought He was going to do. Fingers, tongue, cock. But no, a feather. My eyes flew open. I propped myself up on my elbows and looked to Him. I had words on the tip of my tongue but they were useless. The feather was already there. Flicking slowly across swollen and slick outer lips. Dipping mercilessly into my wetness. Drawing back up and very precisely avoiding that hot pink bundle of nerves still barely hooded by tender flesh. His eyes found mine, His smile widened, whispering, “Daddy’s going to tickle you, babygirl. And you must tell Daddy how it feels. Beg me to stop when you can’t take any more. And if you’re a good girl, I might stop”. My jaw clenched, my breaths stopped and my heart pounded in my ears.
The feather was poised there, right there at the tender spot where He promised He would soon be slipping His fingers. The already sopping throbbing slit cradled between soft plump flesh anxiously awaited the fulfillment of His promise. He gently delved the tip of the feather into me. It blew my mind. The first time, so quickly, it blew my mind. I could not comprehend how such a small thing, such a delicate thing, could make such an impact on me. How it could make me writhe, make me squirm, make my moan as if I were being filled with so much more. This sort of tickling, while still not something I would have ever imagined myself tolerating, was quickly becoming something I knew I could enjoy.
The tip of the feather slowly began to sink deeper and deeper, delving into the sweet wetness between my thighs. My breaths became irregular, shallow and my thoughts spun out of control. I tried, several times, to wrap my mind around the thought of being brought to orgasm by a mere feather. But as I quickly learned, it wasn’t a mere feather. It was a tool under His orchestration. He wielded it as if it were an extension of His finger. He slipped it deeper, twirled it slowly, with great purpose, began to bring me close to a precipice I never recall even feeling or even thinking existed. But yet, there I was, lying there crumbling into a pile of needful writhing as He worked every nerve in my body with a….feather.
I tried to remember what He had told me, about how I was to tell Him how it felt, how I was to beg when it became too much for me to bear. But I didn’t want Him to stop. Ever. I fought to form words, to make my thoughts coherent, but all I could manage was “god Daddy, please? Please? It tickles…please?”. What I was begging for confused even me. Did I want Him to stop? God yes. God no. Did I want Him to let me explode around the feather? God yes, but if I did would He stop? I wanted no part of that. I wanted this feeling to continue. Forever.
Rather childish, I know and quite selfish, but it was what I felt. What I needed. To know I was pleasing Him with all that I am, all that I have. I was so close, on the verge of exploding and the pleas of mercy on the tip of my tongue. But He had other plans. He tugged that feather from my slit and with one small flick, began an assault on that tightly nestled bundle of nerves now completely coaxed from its hood. One small gentle flick quickly turned into what were surely a thousand wicked flicks across my clit. That assault was unbearable and my body went rigid, the heels of my feet dug into the bed, my fingers curled tightly into fists and as I cried out, I exploded, again and again. It was if I had no will of my own. My body responded to His touch, His torture, and His need.
I would love to explain to you what happened next, but truth be told, I don’t clearly recall. I remember His touch along my flesh, His warm words in my ear, the warmth of His breath on my neck and the feel of His lips on mine. I remember how my body shuddered for what I am sure was hours afterwards. I remember thinking, tickling shouldn’t feel this deliriously wonderful.
I also remember coming to my senses some time later, my back against His chest, His arms tightly around my and the sound of His comforting words playing softly in my ear. My fingers played over His and slowly curled around them. A soft sigh, a slow drag of my tongue over my lips and I whispered to Him “I still don’t like being tickled”. He laughed and whispered back “So…..”.
And of course, the ‘thing’ that does it for Him…. care to take a guess?? Indeed. Tickling. It’s not the only thing. Every brilliant man is not so simply faceted. But ticking does simply ‘trip His trigger’. Unfortunately for me, I found this out after I gave Him my heart and soul.
The first time He mentioned it, my stomach was a mess of knots. My skin was instantly flushed and my words were lost. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say to Him. I couldn’t say no. Could I? Should I? I tried to explain how I felt about tickling and He said He understood. But truthfully, I don’t think He did. He didn’t understand how much I truly hated to be tickled.
Just the thought of it now still makes me light headed.
The way being tickled steals my breath away. The way it makes my skin crawl. The way it makes my thoughts fuzzy. And the way it makes me angry. Yes, angry. It is the ultimate in surrender for me. But what makes me angry is not the ultimate surrender; it’s the feeling of helplessness when I can’t breath. When I am writhing, squirming, crying out for Him to stop, and He won’t. I want to lash out and just beat on Him. Do anything and everything I can to make Him stop. But I don’t.
I don’t for one simple reason. It’s what He wants. What He needs. What He craves. And I am the lucky one to be able to give it to Him.
Before I started learning The Art of Tickling ~ His Way, we had discussed it at length. I was completely honest with Him and He knew all it did to me. How it made me feel, how it made my head ache, my stomach knot and my body twitch. It truly made me physically ill at one point. He knew that too. He had suggested we shelve this whole idea because of what it was doing to me. I was mortified and simply heartbroken that He had suggested such a thing.
Let’s see if I can explain why. I knew this was one of His strongest passions, to be able to bind my feet and pay them such torturous attention. Again, it was what He needed. And I was the one He had chosen to fill that need. And now, because of something I had said, He decided to take that way from me. He couldn’t do that. I begged Him not to take it away. I tried my best to explain to Him that yes, I hated the thought of being tickled, but I also knew it was what He wanted and more than anything I wanted to give that to Him. To be the one that filled that desirous need for Him. It was what I longed to do. Thank goodness, He understood what this meant to me and agreed to allow me to do all I could for Him.
After the misunderstandings were cleared up, He explained to me how it would work and how I could learn to crave the touch of a feather, the touch of His fingers along the soles of my feet and the touch of His tongue between my toes. Of course, I thought He was crazy, but I digress.
The first time it happened I was petrified. All I could think of was “how in the world am I going to be able to do this?” and all I could answer was “You’ll do it for Him”. I was instructed to go to a local craft store and buy feathers. Feathers?? Are you serious? But, I did as I was told. Quite reluctantly, but I did.
Once home I was told to strip and lay myself on the bed, feather in hand. Just that was almost unbearable. I didn’t think I could go through with this. Horrible thoughts of squirming, losing my breath made my skin crawl and my mouth go dry. But He thought of everything. A cool cloth, something to drink and fan blowing on me. He was so very gentle the first time (and most times since). He explained what He was going to do to me, how He was going to make my skin crawl, my body shudder and my mind spin.
His words where simple and clear “Give Me your left foot”. I obeyed. His long thick fingers wrapped around my ankle and He held me there. Tightly.
The first thing I felt was the tip of the feather draw slowly over the arch of my foot. My eyes clenched shut, as did my jaw. Both cinched so tight I was seeing stars. It took every ounce of effort I had not to yank my foot from Him and run. Run fast and hard away from the damned feather. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Despite what my mind was telling me, my heart and soul knew I was to stay.
He orchestrated the feather over the length of my sole, tip to heel, soft, slow, delicate flicks of the pointed tip. Each touch of that feather felt like a searing sword taken to my flesh. It brought tears to my eyes, yet not a word, not a sound slipped from my lips. I knew, once I started with the whimpering, the crying, it would lead to begging. And all of it would be for not.
The way He moved that feather, the way He perfectly executed each dip between my toes, each crisscross pattern along my arch, it was clear He was quite the expert at this. And truth be told I was not the least bit surprised. But what did surprise me was the reaction it caused in Him. My goodness. Once I somewhat found my bearing and was able to open my eyes, I was amazed. Astonished, simply in awe of the look on His face. The love in His eyes, the curl of His lips, and yes the bulge in His jeans. It was quite stunning.
At that moment, right there, it was all clear. Crystal clear to me why I had made the decision to submit to such a difficult thing. It was that look in His eyes, the one I had craved since the beginning. I had seen it before, but only in fleeting moments. But this time, it was there, staring back into my eyes. I had given to Him something He need so desperately.
He leaned down, soft lips brushing across my ear and whispered “Tell Daddy how ticklish your feet are, babygirl.” It took every ounce of effort I had to summon up a breath from deep inside me. Slowly I turned my head, my lips now brushing across His ear, I whispered, “Daddy, my feet are so ticklish…please? God please? Stop”.
And that was all it took. He moved back to my feet, pinned both together and began one of the most deliriously horrible moments in my life. Each foot was covered with hot quick flicks of the feather tip. Between each toe was tortured with the smooth edge of the feather. And each and every flick, each and every stab, sent the most incredibly luscious pulses straight up each leg, settling there, nestled tightly between what was quickly becoming a sticky hot mess.
That, that sticky hot mess nestled between my thighs completely blew my mind. I had no idea what to think when I found myself drenched. I could not, for the life of me, wrap my mind around it. I hated what this Man was doing to me. I hated being tickled. I hated the thought of anyone every touching me in such a fashion. Yet, here I was actually enjoying it? Truly? Are you serious? It couldn’t be. My mind was spinning, trying to figure it out. How could something that all my life I found offensive, down right horrible, be turning me on!?!?!?
But then it happened again. My eyes found His. My heart felt His pride. My soul was soaring because I knew; I just knew this is what He had been longing for. Had been hoping He would find when He found me. He had found out something about me the first night we talked that almost made Him speechless. Something we had in common that made our bond even stronger. But for Him to hope for this, to hope that I would submit to such a thing. I could tell it made Him deliriously happy and fulfilled a desire for Him long left void. That, was what made it bearable for me. And in all truthfulness what made it such a turn on for me. I could do this for Him. I was able to fulfill a need in Him. It’s what I was here for, what I longed for.
The smile on His lips quickly grew dark, and I knew I was in for it. He knew how I was responding without even looking, feeling, touching. He knew I was savoring His touch, that I was determined to be what He wanted.
Letting my feet go, He pushed them apart. Spreading them wide. Feeling His fingers draw down over the soles of my feet, curling around my heels, fingers digging in and with one quick yank of my feet, my thighs were spread wide and my ass was riding along the edge of the bed. His fingers trailed up my calves as He settled my feet to the edge of the bed. Continuing the slow descent down my thighs, nail tips dragging along my creamy white flesh, then finally settled there. Right there where the heat He had caused grew.
I was bracing myself for what I thought He was going to do. Fingers, tongue, cock. But no, a feather. My eyes flew open. I propped myself up on my elbows and looked to Him. I had words on the tip of my tongue but they were useless. The feather was already there. Flicking slowly across swollen and slick outer lips. Dipping mercilessly into my wetness. Drawing back up and very precisely avoiding that hot pink bundle of nerves still barely hooded by tender flesh. His eyes found mine, His smile widened, whispering, “Daddy’s going to tickle you, babygirl. And you must tell Daddy how it feels. Beg me to stop when you can’t take any more. And if you’re a good girl, I might stop”. My jaw clenched, my breaths stopped and my heart pounded in my ears.
The feather was poised there, right there at the tender spot where He promised He would soon be slipping His fingers. The already sopping throbbing slit cradled between soft plump flesh anxiously awaited the fulfillment of His promise. He gently delved the tip of the feather into me. It blew my mind. The first time, so quickly, it blew my mind. I could not comprehend how such a small thing, such a delicate thing, could make such an impact on me. How it could make me writhe, make me squirm, make my moan as if I were being filled with so much more. This sort of tickling, while still not something I would have ever imagined myself tolerating, was quickly becoming something I knew I could enjoy.
The tip of the feather slowly began to sink deeper and deeper, delving into the sweet wetness between my thighs. My breaths became irregular, shallow and my thoughts spun out of control. I tried, several times, to wrap my mind around the thought of being brought to orgasm by a mere feather. But as I quickly learned, it wasn’t a mere feather. It was a tool under His orchestration. He wielded it as if it were an extension of His finger. He slipped it deeper, twirled it slowly, with great purpose, began to bring me close to a precipice I never recall even feeling or even thinking existed. But yet, there I was, lying there crumbling into a pile of needful writhing as He worked every nerve in my body with a….feather.
I tried to remember what He had told me, about how I was to tell Him how it felt, how I was to beg when it became too much for me to bear. But I didn’t want Him to stop. Ever. I fought to form words, to make my thoughts coherent, but all I could manage was “god Daddy, please? Please? It tickles…please?”. What I was begging for confused even me. Did I want Him to stop? God yes. God no. Did I want Him to let me explode around the feather? God yes, but if I did would He stop? I wanted no part of that. I wanted this feeling to continue. Forever.
Rather childish, I know and quite selfish, but it was what I felt. What I needed. To know I was pleasing Him with all that I am, all that I have. I was so close, on the verge of exploding and the pleas of mercy on the tip of my tongue. But He had other plans. He tugged that feather from my slit and with one small flick, began an assault on that tightly nestled bundle of nerves now completely coaxed from its hood. One small gentle flick quickly turned into what were surely a thousand wicked flicks across my clit. That assault was unbearable and my body went rigid, the heels of my feet dug into the bed, my fingers curled tightly into fists and as I cried out, I exploded, again and again. It was if I had no will of my own. My body responded to His touch, His torture, and His need.
I would love to explain to you what happened next, but truth be told, I don’t clearly recall. I remember His touch along my flesh, His warm words in my ear, the warmth of His breath on my neck and the feel of His lips on mine. I remember how my body shuddered for what I am sure was hours afterwards. I remember thinking, tickling shouldn’t feel this deliriously wonderful.
I also remember coming to my senses some time later, my back against His chest, His arms tightly around my and the sound of His comforting words playing softly in my ear. My fingers played over His and slowly curled around them. A soft sigh, a slow drag of my tongue over my lips and I whispered to Him “I still don’t like being tickled”. He laughed and whispered back “So…..”.
