freelimited2024
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You weren’t even sure how you got the invitation. It had no return address, no explanation—just a black envelope tucked under your apartment door with embossed gold lettering:
"The Velvet Door opens only for the curious. Midnight. No phones. No expectations. Just surrender.”
Intrigued and running on a mix of boredom and thrill-seeking, you found yourself standing in front of a nondescript iron door in a quiet alleyway downtown. A single crimson velvet rope cordoned it off. No signage. Just a small brass plaque that read "Whispers".
You knocked. The door creaked open.
Inside was a haze of velvet and shadow, warm lighting casting gold against black. Laughter echoed faintly from somewhere deep inside. A woman in a sleek black corset passed you without a word, her eyes gleaming with amusement. Nobody asked your name. Nobody asked why you were here. You wandered deeper until you saw it.
A booth. Low-lit, tucked into a far corner with a heavy curtain. A single phrase etched in silver above it:
“For the Bold. Insert Here. Do Not Withdraw.”
The hole itself was round, padded, and positioned at just the right height. Your pulse quickened. Surely… this was that kind of booth.
You looked around. No one seemed to be watching. Your heart pounding, you undid your pants and stepped up. With a nervous laugh, you slipped yourself through the padded opening, flushed and fully exposed on the other side of the wall. A breeze kissed your skin from the hidden room beyond. Then silence. Then… giggles.
“Ohhh my. Look what we have here.”
“Do you think he knows?”
“I don’t think he has a clue.”
You froze. That didn’t sound like the kind of attention you were expecting. Then you felt it—light, feathery fingertips brushing along the underside of your shaft. You flinched so hard you almost pulled out—but the padding around the hole suddenly tightened with a click, locking you gently but firmly in place.
“W-wait—!”
"Awww, he's squirmy," a voice purred.
And then it began.
On the other side of the wall—the side you couldn’t see—a curtain lifted, revealing your helplessly squirming cock poking through the padded hole. The dim room was bathed in sultry red light, and a curious crowd of women began to gather, their eyes lighting up as they realized what this night was offering.
A curvy, busty woman with a clipboard and a knowing smile stepped up to the small platform beside your vulnerable position. She wore a skin-tight black dress that showed off her ample cleavage and confident posture. Her name tag read simply: Mistress Velvet. She raised a hand, and the murmurs quieted.
“Ladies,” she purred, “welcome to tonight’s featured game: The Giggle Hole.”
Giggles and cheers rippled through the crowd.
“Behind this wall,” she gestured, “is tonight’s very brave—and very ticklish—participant. Poor thing thought he was in for a little anonymous fun. And oh, he is. Just… not the kind he expected.”
The women laughed.
Mistress Velvet continued, “Here’s how it works: one dollar per minute buys you access to our giggle hole. You can tickle him however you like—fingers, feathers, brushes, even your tongue if you’re daring. The goal is simple…”
She stepped close to the wall and traced a perfectly manicured finger along the base of your exposed, trembling cock.
“…make. Him. Burst.”
Your muffled protests—or were they whimpers?—made the crowd giggle again.
“The first woman to push him over the edge,” Mistress Velvet declared, “wins him for the rest of the night.”
A cheer went up as a dozen hands shot into the air.
“Line up, ladies,” she said with a wink. “Let’s see who’s got the magic touch.”
The first woman approached with a devilish grin. She paid her fee, licked her lips, and knelt in front of your helpless, exposed self.
“Hi there,” she cooed. “I hope you’re ticklish.”
She started slow—fingernails tracing along the underside, her other hand using a soft makeup brush to swirl around your most sensitive spots. You gasped. Then laughed. Then groaned. You were already so close, the teasing unbearable. Fingertips danced all around the exposed part of you—light, teasing, merciless. She traced the underside, swirled around the head, fluttered along every sensitive inch. Every touch was maddeningly soft, just enough to make you twitch, buck, and laugh helplessly.
“Sensitive, aren’t you?” she whispered, dragging the brush slowly up the length of you.
You gasped, tried to form words, but all that came out was a stifled giggle and a groan of overwhelmed sensation. The tickling never stopped—slow, sensual torment designed not to break you, but to keep you right at the edge. Fingers skittered up and down, tiptoeing across skin already trembling.
“He’s leaking,” she murmured with wicked delight, “Should I let him finish?”
A pause.
“No. Not yet. I want to hear him beg first.”
You didn’t know how long she played with you. Time dissolved into waves of teasing stimulation—light scratches, swirling feathers, whispers you couldn’t quite understand. You were completely immobilized, completely exposed, and completely at her mercy. And it felt so good… and so unfair.
Eventually, your voice cracked. “P-please…”
She laughed again.
“Oh, you poor thing. You thought this was a glory hole…No, sweetheart,” she said, her voice sultry and cruel, “this is a giggle hole.”
But just before you tipped over the edge—BZZT!—a buzzer sounded.
“Time’s up,” Mistress Velvet called. “Next!”
You throbbed helplessly, dripping, sensitive, desperate—but denied.
The next woman brought oil.
“Let’s see if we can make him really squirm,” she whispered, slicking your exposed skin with warm, tingling lubricant before tracing along your head with two fingers and flicking underneath with a soft feather.
You moaned, your whole body convulsing as her teasing intensified. Her rhythm was maddening—just enough pressure, just enough touch, and so impossibly slow. Laughter spilled from you against your will, mingled with whimpers of desperation. You didn’t know if you wanted it to stop or never stop. But the buzzer rang again. Another cruel near-miss. Each round, the women got more creative. Some used ice cubes, others their warm breath. One licked, slowly, all the way up your length, whispering how much fun she was having as you trembled and groaned. The crowd loved every second.
Mistress Velvet leaned casually on the wall beside you, watching with amusement, “Aww… so close, again,” she said after the sixth woman. “You’re so sensitive tonight, aren’t you? I wonder who’ll finally tip you over…”
Then she stepped up. Tall. Confident. A red-haired vixen in a leather corset and heels, with wicked eyes and a feather in each hand. She didn’t speak as she took her place. She just paid for five minutes and knelt down with a grin that said she already knew she’d win. Her fingers didn’t start with your shaft—they started on the base, under and around, light little flicks and scratches while her nails circled up to the very tip and paused just barely touching.
Then she whispered, “Now, laugh for me.”
And she began.
Feathers swirled. Fingertips danced. Her tongue flicked. Her nails scribbled. She knew exactly what she was doing—keeping you on edge, drawing helpless laughter, teasing you past any point of resistance. You couldn’t take it. You tried to hold back, but her hands were everywhere, her mouth was relentless, and she was merciless. You let out a muffled shout, hips jerking, and you burst, trembling and crying out, overwhelmed by laughter and pleasure at once.
Mistress Velvet clapped her hands, “We have a winner!”
Cheers erupted. The redhead stood up, triumphant, licking her lips and smiling like a queen. She leaned in, brushing her fiery red hair over her shoulder as she whispered through the booth, her breath warm against your flushed, twitching skin.
“Mmm. That was adorable,” she purred. “But I’m not done with you yet…”
You exhaled shakily, thinking she might take you somewhere private, give you a break—or maybe more. But instead, she turned to Mistress Velvet.
“Leave him here,” she said.
The crowd gasped, then laughed.
Mistress Velvet raised a brow. “You sure?”
“Oh, I’ve never been more sure,” she said, her voice honeyed and cruel. “He’s perfect right where he is. All sensitive, all exposed… and still so ticklish.”
You flinched as her nails trailed down your length again, your body trembling from the aftershocks—and from the horrifying realization that she wasn’t going to let you rest.
“You came for pleasure,” she whispered through the wall, “but what I want is your laughter. Endless, helpless laughter.”
And with that, she began again. The same wicked fingers, the same feathers, the same unbearable, teasing touch—except this time, it was all for her. She wasn’t trying to make you finish. She was just… playing. Torturing. Deliberately. Sensually. Relentlessly. You were already overstimulated. Already too sensitive. But that only made it more fun for her. Every twitch, every squeak, every burst of laughter sent her into giggles of delight.
“Poor thing,” she cooed. “Didn’t anyone tell you that once you burst, you become even more ticklish? Oh well. Guess I’ll just have to find out… over and over.”
You couldn’t beg. You couldn’t run. You could only laugh. Gasp. Twitch. And endure her fingers, her tongue, her feathers—again, and again, and again. All night long. You had no idea it could be like this. Minutes blurred into hours as the redhead—whose name you still didn’t even know—kept you locked in a state of constant, tingling overstimulation. Every time you thought she might finally stop… she changed tactics instead.
It wasn’t just her fingers anymore. Now, she had tools. Soft brushes traced agonizingly slow circles over the base of your shaft, while the finest goose feathers fluttered across the tip. She drizzled warm oil down your length with excruciating slowness, then massaged it in with her fingernails—not to soothe, but to tickle. Every touch made you twitch. Every flick made you groan. Every whisper made you melt.
“You’re already so sensitive,” she murmured through the wall. “And we’re just getting started…”
She began alternating between short, frantic tickles and long, delicate explorations—letting you get just used to one before switching again. You never got used to it. You never could. Her voice was always nearby. Teasing. Loving. Cruel.
“Mmm… look at you shake. You poor thing… are you still ticklish after all this? I wonder if I can make you pass out from laughter.”
She would bring you to the edge—feathers flicking, her tongue dancing, fingernails teasing underneath and around your most helpless spots—and then pause.
“Nope. Not yet. You don’t deserve that.”
You didn’t know what you were anymore. A man? A toy? A ticklish nerve trapped in velvet and laughter? You were crying from the stimulation. Begging without words. Twitching uncontrollably. Your body betrayed you again and again—desperate to finish, desperate to stop, desperate for anything except more teasing…
Which, of course, meant more teasing.
She had brought a cooling spray now. Each time she made you explode—each time you whimpered and burst under her wicked hands—she used it to keep you ready. Sensitive. Tingly. Barely able to breathe.
“Your poor little thing… it’s shaking. You can’t possibly take more…”
A beat of silence.
Then her nails started up again.
“Too bad I didn’t ask.”
Hours Later...
You’d lost track of how many times she’d made you burst. How many times she’d made you beg to stop… or beg to keep going. Your brain swam in a haze of pleasure and unbearable ticklish torment. Your entire body trembled with aftershocks. And she… she was glowing with satisfaction.
She leaned against the wall again and cooed through the booth, “I’ve never had someone last this long… or break so beautifully.”
You sobbed. Twitched. Moaned.
“Shhh,” she whispered, rocking slowly, torturously. “You’re not done being tickled.”
Then her fingers found you again. Flicked. Scratched. Traced.
You laughed. Howled. Moaned. Broke.
And she just kept going.
By the time dawn’s pale light crept through the club’s velvet curtains, you were a giggling, trembling, overstimulated wreck—helplessly stuck in the booth, twitching at the slightest breeze.
Mistress Velvet returned with a slow clap, “Well,” she said, chuckling. “It seems you enjoyed your winnings.”
The redhead smiled without turning around. She was still seated, her fingers lazily fluttering over your soaked, swollen length.
“He’s mine,” she purred, “I want him again tomorrow night. Right here.”
Mistress Velvet just smirked. “Of course that’s up to him. But we’ll have the booth cleaned, oiled, and ready.”
You didn’t know whether to cry, laugh, or beg. But you did know one thing:
Tomorrow night… you’d be right back here.
And so would she.
"The Velvet Door opens only for the curious. Midnight. No phones. No expectations. Just surrender.”
Intrigued and running on a mix of boredom and thrill-seeking, you found yourself standing in front of a nondescript iron door in a quiet alleyway downtown. A single crimson velvet rope cordoned it off. No signage. Just a small brass plaque that read "Whispers".
You knocked. The door creaked open.
Inside was a haze of velvet and shadow, warm lighting casting gold against black. Laughter echoed faintly from somewhere deep inside. A woman in a sleek black corset passed you without a word, her eyes gleaming with amusement. Nobody asked your name. Nobody asked why you were here. You wandered deeper until you saw it.
A booth. Low-lit, tucked into a far corner with a heavy curtain. A single phrase etched in silver above it:
“For the Bold. Insert Here. Do Not Withdraw.”
The hole itself was round, padded, and positioned at just the right height. Your pulse quickened. Surely… this was that kind of booth.
You looked around. No one seemed to be watching. Your heart pounding, you undid your pants and stepped up. With a nervous laugh, you slipped yourself through the padded opening, flushed and fully exposed on the other side of the wall. A breeze kissed your skin from the hidden room beyond. Then silence. Then… giggles.
“Ohhh my. Look what we have here.”
“Do you think he knows?”
“I don’t think he has a clue.”
You froze. That didn’t sound like the kind of attention you were expecting. Then you felt it—light, feathery fingertips brushing along the underside of your shaft. You flinched so hard you almost pulled out—but the padding around the hole suddenly tightened with a click, locking you gently but firmly in place.
“W-wait—!”
"Awww, he's squirmy," a voice purred.
And then it began.
On the other side of the wall—the side you couldn’t see—a curtain lifted, revealing your helplessly squirming cock poking through the padded hole. The dim room was bathed in sultry red light, and a curious crowd of women began to gather, their eyes lighting up as they realized what this night was offering.
A curvy, busty woman with a clipboard and a knowing smile stepped up to the small platform beside your vulnerable position. She wore a skin-tight black dress that showed off her ample cleavage and confident posture. Her name tag read simply: Mistress Velvet. She raised a hand, and the murmurs quieted.
“Ladies,” she purred, “welcome to tonight’s featured game: The Giggle Hole.”
Giggles and cheers rippled through the crowd.
“Behind this wall,” she gestured, “is tonight’s very brave—and very ticklish—participant. Poor thing thought he was in for a little anonymous fun. And oh, he is. Just… not the kind he expected.”
The women laughed.
Mistress Velvet continued, “Here’s how it works: one dollar per minute buys you access to our giggle hole. You can tickle him however you like—fingers, feathers, brushes, even your tongue if you’re daring. The goal is simple…”
She stepped close to the wall and traced a perfectly manicured finger along the base of your exposed, trembling cock.
“…make. Him. Burst.”
Your muffled protests—or were they whimpers?—made the crowd giggle again.
“The first woman to push him over the edge,” Mistress Velvet declared, “wins him for the rest of the night.”
A cheer went up as a dozen hands shot into the air.
“Line up, ladies,” she said with a wink. “Let’s see who’s got the magic touch.”
The first woman approached with a devilish grin. She paid her fee, licked her lips, and knelt in front of your helpless, exposed self.
“Hi there,” she cooed. “I hope you’re ticklish.”
She started slow—fingernails tracing along the underside, her other hand using a soft makeup brush to swirl around your most sensitive spots. You gasped. Then laughed. Then groaned. You were already so close, the teasing unbearable. Fingertips danced all around the exposed part of you—light, teasing, merciless. She traced the underside, swirled around the head, fluttered along every sensitive inch. Every touch was maddeningly soft, just enough to make you twitch, buck, and laugh helplessly.
“Sensitive, aren’t you?” she whispered, dragging the brush slowly up the length of you.
You gasped, tried to form words, but all that came out was a stifled giggle and a groan of overwhelmed sensation. The tickling never stopped—slow, sensual torment designed not to break you, but to keep you right at the edge. Fingers skittered up and down, tiptoeing across skin already trembling.
“He’s leaking,” she murmured with wicked delight, “Should I let him finish?”
A pause.
“No. Not yet. I want to hear him beg first.”
You didn’t know how long she played with you. Time dissolved into waves of teasing stimulation—light scratches, swirling feathers, whispers you couldn’t quite understand. You were completely immobilized, completely exposed, and completely at her mercy. And it felt so good… and so unfair.
Eventually, your voice cracked. “P-please…”
She laughed again.
“Oh, you poor thing. You thought this was a glory hole…No, sweetheart,” she said, her voice sultry and cruel, “this is a giggle hole.”
But just before you tipped over the edge—BZZT!—a buzzer sounded.
“Time’s up,” Mistress Velvet called. “Next!”
You throbbed helplessly, dripping, sensitive, desperate—but denied.
The next woman brought oil.
“Let’s see if we can make him really squirm,” she whispered, slicking your exposed skin with warm, tingling lubricant before tracing along your head with two fingers and flicking underneath with a soft feather.
You moaned, your whole body convulsing as her teasing intensified. Her rhythm was maddening—just enough pressure, just enough touch, and so impossibly slow. Laughter spilled from you against your will, mingled with whimpers of desperation. You didn’t know if you wanted it to stop or never stop. But the buzzer rang again. Another cruel near-miss. Each round, the women got more creative. Some used ice cubes, others their warm breath. One licked, slowly, all the way up your length, whispering how much fun she was having as you trembled and groaned. The crowd loved every second.
Mistress Velvet leaned casually on the wall beside you, watching with amusement, “Aww… so close, again,” she said after the sixth woman. “You’re so sensitive tonight, aren’t you? I wonder who’ll finally tip you over…”
Then she stepped up. Tall. Confident. A red-haired vixen in a leather corset and heels, with wicked eyes and a feather in each hand. She didn’t speak as she took her place. She just paid for five minutes and knelt down with a grin that said she already knew she’d win. Her fingers didn’t start with your shaft—they started on the base, under and around, light little flicks and scratches while her nails circled up to the very tip and paused just barely touching.
Then she whispered, “Now, laugh for me.”
And she began.
Feathers swirled. Fingertips danced. Her tongue flicked. Her nails scribbled. She knew exactly what she was doing—keeping you on edge, drawing helpless laughter, teasing you past any point of resistance. You couldn’t take it. You tried to hold back, but her hands were everywhere, her mouth was relentless, and she was merciless. You let out a muffled shout, hips jerking, and you burst, trembling and crying out, overwhelmed by laughter and pleasure at once.
Mistress Velvet clapped her hands, “We have a winner!”
Cheers erupted. The redhead stood up, triumphant, licking her lips and smiling like a queen. She leaned in, brushing her fiery red hair over her shoulder as she whispered through the booth, her breath warm against your flushed, twitching skin.
“Mmm. That was adorable,” she purred. “But I’m not done with you yet…”
You exhaled shakily, thinking she might take you somewhere private, give you a break—or maybe more. But instead, she turned to Mistress Velvet.
“Leave him here,” she said.
The crowd gasped, then laughed.
Mistress Velvet raised a brow. “You sure?”
“Oh, I’ve never been more sure,” she said, her voice honeyed and cruel. “He’s perfect right where he is. All sensitive, all exposed… and still so ticklish.”
You flinched as her nails trailed down your length again, your body trembling from the aftershocks—and from the horrifying realization that she wasn’t going to let you rest.
“You came for pleasure,” she whispered through the wall, “but what I want is your laughter. Endless, helpless laughter.”
And with that, she began again. The same wicked fingers, the same feathers, the same unbearable, teasing touch—except this time, it was all for her. She wasn’t trying to make you finish. She was just… playing. Torturing. Deliberately. Sensually. Relentlessly. You were already overstimulated. Already too sensitive. But that only made it more fun for her. Every twitch, every squeak, every burst of laughter sent her into giggles of delight.
“Poor thing,” she cooed. “Didn’t anyone tell you that once you burst, you become even more ticklish? Oh well. Guess I’ll just have to find out… over and over.”
You couldn’t beg. You couldn’t run. You could only laugh. Gasp. Twitch. And endure her fingers, her tongue, her feathers—again, and again, and again. All night long. You had no idea it could be like this. Minutes blurred into hours as the redhead—whose name you still didn’t even know—kept you locked in a state of constant, tingling overstimulation. Every time you thought she might finally stop… she changed tactics instead.
It wasn’t just her fingers anymore. Now, she had tools. Soft brushes traced agonizingly slow circles over the base of your shaft, while the finest goose feathers fluttered across the tip. She drizzled warm oil down your length with excruciating slowness, then massaged it in with her fingernails—not to soothe, but to tickle. Every touch made you twitch. Every flick made you groan. Every whisper made you melt.
“You’re already so sensitive,” she murmured through the wall. “And we’re just getting started…”
She began alternating between short, frantic tickles and long, delicate explorations—letting you get just used to one before switching again. You never got used to it. You never could. Her voice was always nearby. Teasing. Loving. Cruel.
“Mmm… look at you shake. You poor thing… are you still ticklish after all this? I wonder if I can make you pass out from laughter.”
She would bring you to the edge—feathers flicking, her tongue dancing, fingernails teasing underneath and around your most helpless spots—and then pause.
“Nope. Not yet. You don’t deserve that.”
You didn’t know what you were anymore. A man? A toy? A ticklish nerve trapped in velvet and laughter? You were crying from the stimulation. Begging without words. Twitching uncontrollably. Your body betrayed you again and again—desperate to finish, desperate to stop, desperate for anything except more teasing…
Which, of course, meant more teasing.
She had brought a cooling spray now. Each time she made you explode—each time you whimpered and burst under her wicked hands—she used it to keep you ready. Sensitive. Tingly. Barely able to breathe.
“Your poor little thing… it’s shaking. You can’t possibly take more…”
A beat of silence.
Then her nails started up again.
“Too bad I didn’t ask.”
Hours Later...
You’d lost track of how many times she’d made you burst. How many times she’d made you beg to stop… or beg to keep going. Your brain swam in a haze of pleasure and unbearable ticklish torment. Your entire body trembled with aftershocks. And she… she was glowing with satisfaction.
She leaned against the wall again and cooed through the booth, “I’ve never had someone last this long… or break so beautifully.”
You sobbed. Twitched. Moaned.
“Shhh,” she whispered, rocking slowly, torturously. “You’re not done being tickled.”
Then her fingers found you again. Flicked. Scratched. Traced.
You laughed. Howled. Moaned. Broke.
And she just kept going.
By the time dawn’s pale light crept through the club’s velvet curtains, you were a giggling, trembling, overstimulated wreck—helplessly stuck in the booth, twitching at the slightest breeze.
Mistress Velvet returned with a slow clap, “Well,” she said, chuckling. “It seems you enjoyed your winnings.”
The redhead smiled without turning around. She was still seated, her fingers lazily fluttering over your soaked, swollen length.
“He’s mine,” she purred, “I want him again tomorrow night. Right here.”
Mistress Velvet just smirked. “Of course that’s up to him. But we’ll have the booth cleaned, oiled, and ready.”
You didn’t know whether to cry, laugh, or beg. But you did know one thing:
Tomorrow night… you’d be right back here.
And so would she.
