Whiteunicorn
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Stranded (contains f/* f/f tickling and light WAM, I guess.)
This story is inspired by a picture that I found on DeviantArt, by alienshade and all credit for that picture must go to him/her. Not me.
I will be posting the link at the bottom of this post.
Okay, this is my first tickle fic, so any constructive criticisms would be welcomed. Tell me what you liked. What you didn't like. Anything you think didn't work. Or anything that worked well. Cheers. WhiteUnicorn.
Stranded.
A pair of hands wrestle with the control sticks, trying to bring the crippled space craft under control, as the cockpit fills with a blaring siren, warning messages covering every screen.
This was supposed to be a simple flight, completing a patrol around a collection of uninhabited systems, and then rendezvousing with the mother ship in the Devil’s Heart Nebula.
But, looping around the systems single planetoid, disaster had struck, in the form of a meteorite, smashing into the back of the craft, crippling both engines.
The pilot curses, the ship is caught in the planetoids gravity well, without any significant forward thrust, slowly being pulled back towards it. Using the thrusters, which had not been damaged, to turn back towards the small blue globe, aligning for the course that the computer projects, one that should bring the ship down safely through the atmosphere, struggling to keep the scout ship in between the blue lines projected by the helmets HUD. This is the difficult bit, if the ship strays out of those lines, the heat from the re-entry will rip it apart. And that is hard enough with a fully operational space craft.
The shudder that had been vibrating through the whole air frame stopped, as the ship entered the atmosphere proper. The pilot gave a sigh of relief. But even as that problem is solved, another quickly emerges. One of the worst things a pilot can expect to see flashing on the screens, overwriting all the others. Both engines are on fire, trailing huge plumes of smoke.
The impact must have ruptured a fuel line. Not a problem in the vacuum of space, but with air to burn, a spark from the damaged machinery must have ignited it. That means that it will be only a few minutes before the engines fail completely. So, the pilot must land now.
That flat strip of rock off to the port side should do, if the ship can make it.
Everything is going well until, as the ship is hovering a few metres off the ground, slowing for touchdown, the right engine explodes, knocking the craft off course, flipping over, the left wing scraping along the stone, then snapping clean off. The craft scraping along on its back and canopy, throwing up a huge star field of sparks, before sliding to a halt. With a crash, the dented and scratched canopy falls away, a figure in a deep black space suit crawling out, removing the useless helmet, a huge crack running from the top to the bottom of the face plate, spidery lines spreading out to the edges, running a hand through her long pink hair, freeing the tangles that have formed from being compressed.
Clapping her hands over her ears at the noise from the still spluttering left engine, alternating between spluttering and coughing and roaring away as it manages to spool up for a few seconds before failing again, she heads towards the after cargo pod, luckily on the belly of the ship, so it shouldn’t have bee damaged. Taking only the essentials, her survival pack with rations, med kit, torch and blanket, as well as the emergency beacon that all scout ships carry.
Within a few days, the Cagliostro will realize that she hasn’t checked in and will send someone to search for her. And this beacon will be indispensible in helping them to find her; once it is set up it will beam a subspace distress signal that will be detectable for up to ten light years. So any ship entering the system should pick it up, no problem.
But for now, she has to get away from her ship, as far as possible. With the way the last remaining engine is behaving, it could explode at any minute.
She pauses for only a few more minutes to strip out of the remaining parts of her spacesuit, tossing it and her gloves in an untidy pile, leaving her standing in her white jumpsuit. Slinging the pack over her back, cradling the beacon in her arms , she starts to run .Despite the fact that it is night, she can see well enough by the light of the planets moon, the reflected sunlight letting her pick her way over the rocks and cracks that make the surface under her feet treacherous.
She keeps running for a few more miles, an easy pace to maintain for an experienced scout, until she feels the terrain change. It is no longer rock under her feet, but soft grass. The smell of it is delightful, clearing away the odor of smoke and melted circuits from her head. Deciding that she is far enough away by now, she sits down on this wide field, that seems to stretch around her for miles, the blades compressing under her like a mattress. Setting down her pack and the beacon, which she quickly activates, setting it to broadcast an automated distress call, then lies down beside it, removing the jacket of her white jumpsuit with the small gold pendulum clasped between the fingers of a man’s hand on the right sleeve, rolling it up and placing it under her head like a pillow. The air is warm enough that she feels that she should be comfortable with only her bra covering her top. Who is going to see her anyway?
Just as she starts to drop off, she sits up suddenly, feeling as if something was creeping closer and closer to her. But a quick glance around reveals nothing but the long grasses swaying in the gentle wind.
“Get a hold of yourself, Liza,” She chides herself quietly, “You were falling asleep. Keep this up and you’ll be jumping at every shadow you see.”
Convincing herself of that, Liza settles back down to sleep.
“Still,” she muses to herself, “this is one strange planet. A perfectly breathable atmosphere that could easily support carbon based life forms. Plenty of plants to eat, if there are more meadows like this one. And there must be water somewhere for the grass to grow. So, why don’t I see any?”
It is true that she hadn’t seen even one curious rodent or herbivore as she had been travelling along, let alone any carnivorous predator, which are more likely to hunt at night when their power senses give them an edge. Maybe none of the animals are nocturnal, her mind suggests. That is her last thought as she drifts back to sleep.
The bright light in her eyes dragging Liza awake, telling her that it is morning. Despite the warm sunshine, she shivers. During the night the grass has become damp, covered in little drops of water, like spring dew. Despite her predicament, Liza smiles, this is almost the perfect morning. Only some gentle birdsong could make it complete. Still, she has to look to her survival. She has plenty of food, but very little water, only about 2 liters. So, first she must find a stream or something, and then find some shelter. It would be foolish to believe that this fine weather will last forever.
She cocks her head, listening intently for a few seconds. She can hear an odd, burbling, gurgling noise coming from a few meters away. Maybe a spring, she decides. Or whatever passes for a spring on this planet. Checking that the beacon is still transmitting, deciding that she might as well leave her jacket where it is to dry since the dew has soaked into it and that her communicator and pistol are still on her belt, she heads towards the bubbling sound, trying to spot the tell tale signs of a water source, maybe a collections of rocks or something else that stands out.
Had she been a little careful, she might have seen that she was walking into trouble, that one patch of ‘grass’ ahead was a slightly darker shade, and not moving with the breeze with the rest.
But the first she knew of it was when her feet stepped that yielded under her feet with a soft slurrggh. Her first thought was that she had found evidence of animal life after all and that she had stepped into some of their droppings. But when she looked down, she found that she was standing ankle deep in a pool of some sort of mud or clay about 2 feet in diameter, thick and cloying, a deep shade of green instead of the usual brown or grey.
Gingerly, so as not to shift about and make herself sink, Liza lifts her left leg, expecting her foot to slide out as easily as it had slipped in. Nothing, she can’t move it an inch. The same thing happens with her right leg. The mud is still flowing, rippling around her boots. It hasn’t set. But some strange tension holds her firmly.
Again moving slowly, so as not to disturb the mud, she bends over, grateful for once for the daily compulsory exercise routine that every crewmember must undertake, that have given her the flexibility to be able to touch her toes. She doesn’t have to reach that far down, this time, only to the top of her boots. If she can release the clasps there, she should just be able to step out of them and back onto dry land. Letting out a deep breath, she stretches the last inch, flicking one catch open, then the other, feeling the tightness around her legs release. She lifts one foot clear, her bare foot moving away from the boot. They are so padded and comfortable, that she has never felt the need to wear socks with them.
Sighing with relief, Liza steps back, putting her foot down where she remembered the solid ground to be, only to have it sink under the green clay again. This time, with nothing between it and her feet, she can feel the cool substance ooze between her toes, soft and smooth as butter. The feeling is so devilish and wickedly bizarre that Liza gasps involuntary. Pulling her other foot free, standing on one leg, she twists her head around, to see how she could have missed the ground, only to see that the pool has suddenly grown from 2 feet to a good 10 or 11 feet wide in all directions. Liza, even at her height of 6ft 6” couldn’t reach that even if she lay prone, which was not something she planned to do. Unfortunately, realizing that she was trapped in this pool of mud, causes a swell of panic to rise up within her, making her head spin, which is not a good thing when standing on one leg. Her body acts on instinct, dropping her leg, trying to give her the best balance possible, that foot sliding under the surface with a gloop. The landing is so awkward that she sways for a few seconds, hands suddenly thrust out before her, as she tries to tense her stomach muscles to stop herself falling. But she is too far gone, her arms sliding elbow deep into the gooey mud, her feet somehow released, soles pointing towards the sky, her knees and most of her legs buried under the shifting surface, leaving only her ankles and her hips above it.
She tries bracing her arms, to stop the rest of her body from sinking to, but she has nothing to get purchase on, the mud seeming to go on forever. And yet, the same force that is now trapping her arms and legs, seems to be holding her up, preventing from sinking, her naked torso inches from the bubbling surface. The mud seems to be bubbling more and more, ripples flowing against her limbs. She starts to wonder if the tension supporting her is about to give out, when she starts, twitching her feet, trying to escape what she feels softly touching them. She cannot see what is going on behind her, but someone standing in the right place would have seen two hands rise up, literally forming out of the mud, starting to gently tickle her soft soles. Liza screws her eyes tight, feeling a soft giggle slip past her lips. “What the hell is going on?” she screams inside her head.
But the slime, or whatever intelligence is controlling it, doesn’t seem satisfied with just tiny giggles.
More hands emerge, three more pressing into her left foot, one pulling her toes apart, the points of the fingers sliding between them, digging into the flesh at the bottom of them, soft tender skin that has never been touched before. The other two taking either side of her foot, dividing it between them, one flowing quickly over her heel, the other rapidly tickling the rest. As for her right foot, one large hand strokes down her sole, using long points like finger nails to stimulate the subtle flesh, while two more assault her toes, torturing her by running a single finger along the bottom of each, moving along the line like a pianist practicing a piece. And what a tune Liza is making, her mouth open in a constant stream of soft laughter, echoing across the empty landscape.
But it seems that the slime wants more than just her feet to be tickled, as a hand rises up from directly under her stomach, heading for her belt buckle. Feeling the touch there, maybe fearing more tickling or just acting on instinct, she twists her body to the side. But the slime will not be denied and more tickling is what she will get. Two hands press into her sides, raking their fingers gently over her ribs. Liza laughs that little bit harder, now helpless to prevent her belt from being undone, and the button on her trousers after that. And she can do nothing to stop them being pulled down her legs, over her feet and tossed away, the hands reattaching the themselves to her feet once the obstruction is removed. Liza is now helpless before the slime’s touch, clad in only her lacy white bra and panties, which to her mind seem like no protection at all. But to the slime, they are far too much, hindering it’s desire to touch and tickle all of her body. The tickling slows down, the hands moving at a crawl over her feet, gingerly feathering her ribs, Liza’s laughs slowing as well, leaving her giggling like a school girl, her voice increasing in pitch. The slime wants her to feel the last bits of her clothing being removed, increasing her helplessness, wanting her to know that the ooze has her under its control and can do what it likes.
“Noo.” Liza shouts between giggles, as her bra is ripped away, leaving her topless, her full breasts bouncing as her body shakes from laughing. Then she cries out louder, in desperation and panic as her panties are similarly shredded, “Nooo.”
But those cries are nothing compared to her shriek of laughter as four fresh hands leap onto her hips, sliding along the very tops of her legs, stroking all of her ass, the fingers on the rest of her body keeping their pace slow, teasing her soles and toes with even softer touches, her ribs still being tickled mercilessly slowly, another hand caressing her taut stomach, the thumb teasing the area just above her crotch. Even her ankles are being tickled, lots of tiny hands reaching out from the mud that covers her legs, dancing over the bumps on either side of her feet.
As the tickling hands reach higher and higher up her ass, Liza arches her back, trying to fight them off, unwittingly exposing her clit and pressing her breasts down until they are almost touching the clay. Taking this opportunity, another set of hands grab her breasts, the ten fingers surrounding and teasing the fleshy bags, pausing every now and then to stroke the rapidly hardening points of her nipples.
Liza howls with laughter, and rising lust, as the slime controls her body, controlling her reactions, spiking the tickling higher and higher. It seems to Liza that the more she is tickled, the more sensitive her body becomes. Especially, around her crotch. She can feel her slit becoming damp.
Her laughs are now interspersed with long moans, as a finger touches her nipple or gets too close to her clit. “No. Hahahahahaaa, I can’t heeeeheehehee be getting turned on by this.”
“But you are. You know you are.”
For a second, she thinks that the voice is her own, coming from inside her head. But it isn’t. It is inside her head, but it is not hers. The smooth, liquid undertone is unlike any voice she has ever heard. It continues.
“I’m inside your head. I know every thought you have, before you have them yourself. You know that you like what I’m doing to you. You want me to keep touching you, don’t you? To tease and tickle every part of you, VERY SLOWLY. “She draws out these last words, as the fingers scrape over her soles equally slowly. “You want to feel my hands all over you; touching you in places that no-one else has ever touched you before. Don’t you?”
“Haahaaahaa. No. No, I don’t. HAHAHA. I don’t.” But her voice sounds less sure than last time.
“You will.”
The group of tickling hands slow down, true to the invisible voices words. Each finger moving slowly over the area it is targeting. Especially the two thumbs on her nipples, circling them agonizingly slowly, while the long finger nails caress her breasts. Then she feels something else press against her back, something like a body. A female body, her breasts resting lightly against her skin.
Liza turns her head as far as she can, taking in the view of the feminine shape, formed out of the mud itself. Her head is smooth and hairless, but with human features like a nose, eyes and a mouth.
Two arms and legs, also like a human.
One of those arms starts to tickle her stomach, adding to the sensations caused by the ones on her sides, while the other slips slowly down to her crotch, pressing into it, rubbing it lightly.
The touch is having an effect on her. Her body is rapidly approaching a powerful climax. That thought scares her, the only time she has ever cum is by herself, late at night, her hand stroking over her panties. But she could have stopped at anytime. But the hand that is touching her know isn’t hers, isn’t even human, but it feels so good. And there is no way she can stop it.
As the tickling builds to a crescendo, the gooey hands touching all of her sensitive skin, her orgasm seems to be almost upon her, but it just hovers out of her reach. Until, the weight of the body on her back presses down on her, driving her groin into the goo. Twisting and writhing her body as much as she can, her laughter almost reaching to the sky, the sudden pressure of the mud around her crotch and ass proving too much as she cums, thrusting her hips forward and back, alternating between moans of orgasmic bliss and belly aching laughs, both drawn from her by both the touch of the mud and the multitude of hands.
Her orgasm fades, leaving pleasurable warmth flowing over her body. But the slime has not finished with her, starting to tickle her feet again, her back stiffening, lifting her crotch, dripping with goo, up into the air again.
“NOOOO.” She screamed, as the slow, tickling torture started a fresh, her laughter filling the air again.
The picture this is based on can be found here: http://alienshade.deviantart.com/art...-pool-12641615
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So, after years of lurking (and even longer years of being away) I've figured it's high time to start uploading some of my old work here. This piece might not be the best out there, but it's my first, so I figure that has to count for something. Hope you guys do too.
Hopefully this will also be the start of my being on here more regularly. Once I get myself a bit more established, I will be opening some story commissions and requests in a bit. Keep an eye out for that.
This story is inspired by a picture that I found on DeviantArt, by alienshade and all credit for that picture must go to him/her. Not me.
I will be posting the link at the bottom of this post.
Okay, this is my first tickle fic, so any constructive criticisms would be welcomed. Tell me what you liked. What you didn't like. Anything you think didn't work. Or anything that worked well. Cheers. WhiteUnicorn.
Stranded.
A pair of hands wrestle with the control sticks, trying to bring the crippled space craft under control, as the cockpit fills with a blaring siren, warning messages covering every screen.
This was supposed to be a simple flight, completing a patrol around a collection of uninhabited systems, and then rendezvousing with the mother ship in the Devil’s Heart Nebula.
But, looping around the systems single planetoid, disaster had struck, in the form of a meteorite, smashing into the back of the craft, crippling both engines.
The pilot curses, the ship is caught in the planetoids gravity well, without any significant forward thrust, slowly being pulled back towards it. Using the thrusters, which had not been damaged, to turn back towards the small blue globe, aligning for the course that the computer projects, one that should bring the ship down safely through the atmosphere, struggling to keep the scout ship in between the blue lines projected by the helmets HUD. This is the difficult bit, if the ship strays out of those lines, the heat from the re-entry will rip it apart. And that is hard enough with a fully operational space craft.
The shudder that had been vibrating through the whole air frame stopped, as the ship entered the atmosphere proper. The pilot gave a sigh of relief. But even as that problem is solved, another quickly emerges. One of the worst things a pilot can expect to see flashing on the screens, overwriting all the others. Both engines are on fire, trailing huge plumes of smoke.
The impact must have ruptured a fuel line. Not a problem in the vacuum of space, but with air to burn, a spark from the damaged machinery must have ignited it. That means that it will be only a few minutes before the engines fail completely. So, the pilot must land now.
That flat strip of rock off to the port side should do, if the ship can make it.
Everything is going well until, as the ship is hovering a few metres off the ground, slowing for touchdown, the right engine explodes, knocking the craft off course, flipping over, the left wing scraping along the stone, then snapping clean off. The craft scraping along on its back and canopy, throwing up a huge star field of sparks, before sliding to a halt. With a crash, the dented and scratched canopy falls away, a figure in a deep black space suit crawling out, removing the useless helmet, a huge crack running from the top to the bottom of the face plate, spidery lines spreading out to the edges, running a hand through her long pink hair, freeing the tangles that have formed from being compressed.
Clapping her hands over her ears at the noise from the still spluttering left engine, alternating between spluttering and coughing and roaring away as it manages to spool up for a few seconds before failing again, she heads towards the after cargo pod, luckily on the belly of the ship, so it shouldn’t have bee damaged. Taking only the essentials, her survival pack with rations, med kit, torch and blanket, as well as the emergency beacon that all scout ships carry.
Within a few days, the Cagliostro will realize that she hasn’t checked in and will send someone to search for her. And this beacon will be indispensible in helping them to find her; once it is set up it will beam a subspace distress signal that will be detectable for up to ten light years. So any ship entering the system should pick it up, no problem.
But for now, she has to get away from her ship, as far as possible. With the way the last remaining engine is behaving, it could explode at any minute.
She pauses for only a few more minutes to strip out of the remaining parts of her spacesuit, tossing it and her gloves in an untidy pile, leaving her standing in her white jumpsuit. Slinging the pack over her back, cradling the beacon in her arms , she starts to run .Despite the fact that it is night, she can see well enough by the light of the planets moon, the reflected sunlight letting her pick her way over the rocks and cracks that make the surface under her feet treacherous.
She keeps running for a few more miles, an easy pace to maintain for an experienced scout, until she feels the terrain change. It is no longer rock under her feet, but soft grass. The smell of it is delightful, clearing away the odor of smoke and melted circuits from her head. Deciding that she is far enough away by now, she sits down on this wide field, that seems to stretch around her for miles, the blades compressing under her like a mattress. Setting down her pack and the beacon, which she quickly activates, setting it to broadcast an automated distress call, then lies down beside it, removing the jacket of her white jumpsuit with the small gold pendulum clasped between the fingers of a man’s hand on the right sleeve, rolling it up and placing it under her head like a pillow. The air is warm enough that she feels that she should be comfortable with only her bra covering her top. Who is going to see her anyway?
Just as she starts to drop off, she sits up suddenly, feeling as if something was creeping closer and closer to her. But a quick glance around reveals nothing but the long grasses swaying in the gentle wind.
“Get a hold of yourself, Liza,” She chides herself quietly, “You were falling asleep. Keep this up and you’ll be jumping at every shadow you see.”
Convincing herself of that, Liza settles back down to sleep.
“Still,” she muses to herself, “this is one strange planet. A perfectly breathable atmosphere that could easily support carbon based life forms. Plenty of plants to eat, if there are more meadows like this one. And there must be water somewhere for the grass to grow. So, why don’t I see any?”
It is true that she hadn’t seen even one curious rodent or herbivore as she had been travelling along, let alone any carnivorous predator, which are more likely to hunt at night when their power senses give them an edge. Maybe none of the animals are nocturnal, her mind suggests. That is her last thought as she drifts back to sleep.
The bright light in her eyes dragging Liza awake, telling her that it is morning. Despite the warm sunshine, she shivers. During the night the grass has become damp, covered in little drops of water, like spring dew. Despite her predicament, Liza smiles, this is almost the perfect morning. Only some gentle birdsong could make it complete. Still, she has to look to her survival. She has plenty of food, but very little water, only about 2 liters. So, first she must find a stream or something, and then find some shelter. It would be foolish to believe that this fine weather will last forever.
She cocks her head, listening intently for a few seconds. She can hear an odd, burbling, gurgling noise coming from a few meters away. Maybe a spring, she decides. Or whatever passes for a spring on this planet. Checking that the beacon is still transmitting, deciding that she might as well leave her jacket where it is to dry since the dew has soaked into it and that her communicator and pistol are still on her belt, she heads towards the bubbling sound, trying to spot the tell tale signs of a water source, maybe a collections of rocks or something else that stands out.
Had she been a little careful, she might have seen that she was walking into trouble, that one patch of ‘grass’ ahead was a slightly darker shade, and not moving with the breeze with the rest.
But the first she knew of it was when her feet stepped that yielded under her feet with a soft slurrggh. Her first thought was that she had found evidence of animal life after all and that she had stepped into some of their droppings. But when she looked down, she found that she was standing ankle deep in a pool of some sort of mud or clay about 2 feet in diameter, thick and cloying, a deep shade of green instead of the usual brown or grey.
Gingerly, so as not to shift about and make herself sink, Liza lifts her left leg, expecting her foot to slide out as easily as it had slipped in. Nothing, she can’t move it an inch. The same thing happens with her right leg. The mud is still flowing, rippling around her boots. It hasn’t set. But some strange tension holds her firmly.
Again moving slowly, so as not to disturb the mud, she bends over, grateful for once for the daily compulsory exercise routine that every crewmember must undertake, that have given her the flexibility to be able to touch her toes. She doesn’t have to reach that far down, this time, only to the top of her boots. If she can release the clasps there, she should just be able to step out of them and back onto dry land. Letting out a deep breath, she stretches the last inch, flicking one catch open, then the other, feeling the tightness around her legs release. She lifts one foot clear, her bare foot moving away from the boot. They are so padded and comfortable, that she has never felt the need to wear socks with them.
Sighing with relief, Liza steps back, putting her foot down where she remembered the solid ground to be, only to have it sink under the green clay again. This time, with nothing between it and her feet, she can feel the cool substance ooze between her toes, soft and smooth as butter. The feeling is so devilish and wickedly bizarre that Liza gasps involuntary. Pulling her other foot free, standing on one leg, she twists her head around, to see how she could have missed the ground, only to see that the pool has suddenly grown from 2 feet to a good 10 or 11 feet wide in all directions. Liza, even at her height of 6ft 6” couldn’t reach that even if she lay prone, which was not something she planned to do. Unfortunately, realizing that she was trapped in this pool of mud, causes a swell of panic to rise up within her, making her head spin, which is not a good thing when standing on one leg. Her body acts on instinct, dropping her leg, trying to give her the best balance possible, that foot sliding under the surface with a gloop. The landing is so awkward that she sways for a few seconds, hands suddenly thrust out before her, as she tries to tense her stomach muscles to stop herself falling. But she is too far gone, her arms sliding elbow deep into the gooey mud, her feet somehow released, soles pointing towards the sky, her knees and most of her legs buried under the shifting surface, leaving only her ankles and her hips above it.
She tries bracing her arms, to stop the rest of her body from sinking to, but she has nothing to get purchase on, the mud seeming to go on forever. And yet, the same force that is now trapping her arms and legs, seems to be holding her up, preventing from sinking, her naked torso inches from the bubbling surface. The mud seems to be bubbling more and more, ripples flowing against her limbs. She starts to wonder if the tension supporting her is about to give out, when she starts, twitching her feet, trying to escape what she feels softly touching them. She cannot see what is going on behind her, but someone standing in the right place would have seen two hands rise up, literally forming out of the mud, starting to gently tickle her soft soles. Liza screws her eyes tight, feeling a soft giggle slip past her lips. “What the hell is going on?” she screams inside her head.
But the slime, or whatever intelligence is controlling it, doesn’t seem satisfied with just tiny giggles.
More hands emerge, three more pressing into her left foot, one pulling her toes apart, the points of the fingers sliding between them, digging into the flesh at the bottom of them, soft tender skin that has never been touched before. The other two taking either side of her foot, dividing it between them, one flowing quickly over her heel, the other rapidly tickling the rest. As for her right foot, one large hand strokes down her sole, using long points like finger nails to stimulate the subtle flesh, while two more assault her toes, torturing her by running a single finger along the bottom of each, moving along the line like a pianist practicing a piece. And what a tune Liza is making, her mouth open in a constant stream of soft laughter, echoing across the empty landscape.
But it seems that the slime wants more than just her feet to be tickled, as a hand rises up from directly under her stomach, heading for her belt buckle. Feeling the touch there, maybe fearing more tickling or just acting on instinct, she twists her body to the side. But the slime will not be denied and more tickling is what she will get. Two hands press into her sides, raking their fingers gently over her ribs. Liza laughs that little bit harder, now helpless to prevent her belt from being undone, and the button on her trousers after that. And she can do nothing to stop them being pulled down her legs, over her feet and tossed away, the hands reattaching the themselves to her feet once the obstruction is removed. Liza is now helpless before the slime’s touch, clad in only her lacy white bra and panties, which to her mind seem like no protection at all. But to the slime, they are far too much, hindering it’s desire to touch and tickle all of her body. The tickling slows down, the hands moving at a crawl over her feet, gingerly feathering her ribs, Liza’s laughs slowing as well, leaving her giggling like a school girl, her voice increasing in pitch. The slime wants her to feel the last bits of her clothing being removed, increasing her helplessness, wanting her to know that the ooze has her under its control and can do what it likes.
“Noo.” Liza shouts between giggles, as her bra is ripped away, leaving her topless, her full breasts bouncing as her body shakes from laughing. Then she cries out louder, in desperation and panic as her panties are similarly shredded, “Nooo.”
But those cries are nothing compared to her shriek of laughter as four fresh hands leap onto her hips, sliding along the very tops of her legs, stroking all of her ass, the fingers on the rest of her body keeping their pace slow, teasing her soles and toes with even softer touches, her ribs still being tickled mercilessly slowly, another hand caressing her taut stomach, the thumb teasing the area just above her crotch. Even her ankles are being tickled, lots of tiny hands reaching out from the mud that covers her legs, dancing over the bumps on either side of her feet.
As the tickling hands reach higher and higher up her ass, Liza arches her back, trying to fight them off, unwittingly exposing her clit and pressing her breasts down until they are almost touching the clay. Taking this opportunity, another set of hands grab her breasts, the ten fingers surrounding and teasing the fleshy bags, pausing every now and then to stroke the rapidly hardening points of her nipples.
Liza howls with laughter, and rising lust, as the slime controls her body, controlling her reactions, spiking the tickling higher and higher. It seems to Liza that the more she is tickled, the more sensitive her body becomes. Especially, around her crotch. She can feel her slit becoming damp.
Her laughs are now interspersed with long moans, as a finger touches her nipple or gets too close to her clit. “No. Hahahahahaaa, I can’t heeeeheehehee be getting turned on by this.”
“But you are. You know you are.”
For a second, she thinks that the voice is her own, coming from inside her head. But it isn’t. It is inside her head, but it is not hers. The smooth, liquid undertone is unlike any voice she has ever heard. It continues.
“I’m inside your head. I know every thought you have, before you have them yourself. You know that you like what I’m doing to you. You want me to keep touching you, don’t you? To tease and tickle every part of you, VERY SLOWLY. “She draws out these last words, as the fingers scrape over her soles equally slowly. “You want to feel my hands all over you; touching you in places that no-one else has ever touched you before. Don’t you?”
“Haahaaahaa. No. No, I don’t. HAHAHA. I don’t.” But her voice sounds less sure than last time.
“You will.”
The group of tickling hands slow down, true to the invisible voices words. Each finger moving slowly over the area it is targeting. Especially the two thumbs on her nipples, circling them agonizingly slowly, while the long finger nails caress her breasts. Then she feels something else press against her back, something like a body. A female body, her breasts resting lightly against her skin.
Liza turns her head as far as she can, taking in the view of the feminine shape, formed out of the mud itself. Her head is smooth and hairless, but with human features like a nose, eyes and a mouth.
Two arms and legs, also like a human.
One of those arms starts to tickle her stomach, adding to the sensations caused by the ones on her sides, while the other slips slowly down to her crotch, pressing into it, rubbing it lightly.
The touch is having an effect on her. Her body is rapidly approaching a powerful climax. That thought scares her, the only time she has ever cum is by herself, late at night, her hand stroking over her panties. But she could have stopped at anytime. But the hand that is touching her know isn’t hers, isn’t even human, but it feels so good. And there is no way she can stop it.
As the tickling builds to a crescendo, the gooey hands touching all of her sensitive skin, her orgasm seems to be almost upon her, but it just hovers out of her reach. Until, the weight of the body on her back presses down on her, driving her groin into the goo. Twisting and writhing her body as much as she can, her laughter almost reaching to the sky, the sudden pressure of the mud around her crotch and ass proving too much as she cums, thrusting her hips forward and back, alternating between moans of orgasmic bliss and belly aching laughs, both drawn from her by both the touch of the mud and the multitude of hands.
Her orgasm fades, leaving pleasurable warmth flowing over her body. But the slime has not finished with her, starting to tickle her feet again, her back stiffening, lifting her crotch, dripping with goo, up into the air again.
“NOOOO.” She screamed, as the slow, tickling torture started a fresh, her laughter filling the air again.
The picture this is based on can be found here: http://alienshade.deviantart.com/art...-pool-12641615
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So, after years of lurking (and even longer years of being away) I've figured it's high time to start uploading some of my old work here. This piece might not be the best out there, but it's my first, so I figure that has to count for something. Hope you guys do too.
Hopefully this will also be the start of my being on here more regularly. Once I get myself a bit more established, I will be opening some story commissions and requests in a bit. Keep an eye out for that.
