Honestly it’s as if you guys manifested it for me lol. Craziest most fun tickling scenario happened to me this morning, I’m going to describe it with my writing style so, buckle in:
It was a lazy Tuesday morning, I got some work done and just finished breakfast. The house quiet and warm, sun filtering through the blinds. My wife was out grabbing stuff for dinner, leaving me alone in the place. I was headed upstairs to crash in the guest room when my MILs voice called out from her bedroom, door cracked open like usual. “Hey, you up there?” she said, tone casual, no edge to it. I peeked in—there she was, sprawled on her bed, legs stretched out, wearing just a thin tank top and those loud purple underwear, no bra, no pants. She looked up, fanning herself with a magazine. (It gets pretty hot on these Florida mornings) “My back’s killing me. You gave me that killer massage last time—any chance for a repeat?”
“Sure,” I said, stepping in, figuring it’d be quick. She rolled onto her stomach, arms flopped out, totally relaxed. I started kneading her shoulders, working down her spine, and she sighed, “Oh, that’s it.” But then I hit a knot near her ribs, and she twitched, letting out a little giggle. “Careful, that tickles.”
That’s when the switch flipped. I grinned, daring myself, and instead of easing up, I dug my fingers into her sides. She yelped, “Hey—no!” and flipped over, but I was already on it—grabbing her ankles, scribbling up her calves to her thighs. “Stop it—you ass!” she laughed, kicking, but I pinned her legs and went for the inner thighs, soft and sweaty. Her protests got louder—“Don’t you dare!”—but they cracked with giggles, her body squirming under me.
I didn’t stop. Hands slid under her ass, tickling the warm curves, and she bucked, tank top riding up fast. No bra—her chest was bare, nipples stiff against the air—and I raked up to her belly button, swirling tight circles. “Oh God—nooo!” she wailed, thrashing, but I kept going, hitting her armpits next, fingers digging into the damp hollows. She was hysterical, screaming, “Stop—please!”—but it sounded thin, her laughter betraying her.
Then I brushed her chest—accidental at first—and her nipples twitched, a sharper squeal cutting through. “No—no—no!” she gasped, but I tested it, flicking one, then the other. She went wild—back arching, legs flailing, laughter turning desperate. Ticklish nipples, just like my wife. It ran in the family, and holy hell, she was into it—protests melting into breathless laughs/moans, her flush spreading, nipples hardening under my fingers. I pushed it—armpits, inner thighs, ass, belly, back to those nipples—relentless, her body trembling, tank top bunched around her neck, underwear twisted.
Finally, I let up, stepping back as she collapsed, panting hard, skin glistening. “You’re the worst,” she rasped, tugging her top down with shaky hands, glaring but flushed. “Get out—I mean it.” I smirked, turning to leave, but as I hit the doorway, I heard it—soft at first, then unmistakable. A low moan, a rustle of sheets, her breath hitching fast. She was pleasuring herself, right there, thinking I was gone. My pulse spiked, and I kept walking, grinning to myself. Next time? Oh, next time was gonna be the best—knowing she’d crave it, knowing what I could do.
It was a lazy Tuesday morning, I got some work done and just finished breakfast. The house quiet and warm, sun filtering through the blinds. My wife was out grabbing stuff for dinner, leaving me alone in the place. I was headed upstairs to crash in the guest room when my MILs voice called out from her bedroom, door cracked open like usual. “Hey, you up there?” she said, tone casual, no edge to it. I peeked in—there she was, sprawled on her bed, legs stretched out, wearing just a thin tank top and those loud purple underwear, no bra, no pants. She looked up, fanning herself with a magazine. (It gets pretty hot on these Florida mornings) “My back’s killing me. You gave me that killer massage last time—any chance for a repeat?”
“Sure,” I said, stepping in, figuring it’d be quick. She rolled onto her stomach, arms flopped out, totally relaxed. I started kneading her shoulders, working down her spine, and she sighed, “Oh, that’s it.” But then I hit a knot near her ribs, and she twitched, letting out a little giggle. “Careful, that tickles.”
That’s when the switch flipped. I grinned, daring myself, and instead of easing up, I dug my fingers into her sides. She yelped, “Hey—no!” and flipped over, but I was already on it—grabbing her ankles, scribbling up her calves to her thighs. “Stop it—you ass!” she laughed, kicking, but I pinned her legs and went for the inner thighs, soft and sweaty. Her protests got louder—“Don’t you dare!”—but they cracked with giggles, her body squirming under me.
I didn’t stop. Hands slid under her ass, tickling the warm curves, and she bucked, tank top riding up fast. No bra—her chest was bare, nipples stiff against the air—and I raked up to her belly button, swirling tight circles. “Oh God—nooo!” she wailed, thrashing, but I kept going, hitting her armpits next, fingers digging into the damp hollows. She was hysterical, screaming, “Stop—please!”—but it sounded thin, her laughter betraying her.
Then I brushed her chest—accidental at first—and her nipples twitched, a sharper squeal cutting through. “No—no—no!” she gasped, but I tested it, flicking one, then the other. She went wild—back arching, legs flailing, laughter turning desperate. Ticklish nipples, just like my wife. It ran in the family, and holy hell, she was into it—protests melting into breathless laughs/moans, her flush spreading, nipples hardening under my fingers. I pushed it—armpits, inner thighs, ass, belly, back to those nipples—relentless, her body trembling, tank top bunched around her neck, underwear twisted.
Finally, I let up, stepping back as she collapsed, panting hard, skin glistening. “You’re the worst,” she rasped, tugging her top down with shaky hands, glaring but flushed. “Get out—I mean it.” I smirked, turning to leave, but as I hit the doorway, I heard it—soft at first, then unmistakable. A low moan, a rustle of sheets, her breath hitching fast. She was pleasuring herself, right there, thinking I was gone. My pulse spiked, and I kept walking, grinning to myself. Next time? Oh, next time was gonna be the best—knowing she’d crave it, knowing what I could do.
