SoftnSlow
Registered User
- Joined
- Aug 25, 2024
- Messages
- 5
- Points
- 3
I wanted to post this when I finished, but 3000 words in one sitting is more than I can handle! It's the first entry in the diary of a self-proclaimed "serial tickler" and her adventures pursuing her passion. Her first entry is about her introduction to the power of proper tickle torture, and how it addicted her to it. Curious to get responses and feedback if anyone feels like it 🙂
There’s something so delicious and enticing anout tickling. I get a kick out of the way people flap around like recently caught fish in a boat when I knead the contours of their ribs, or methodically explore the flaccid, tender flesh under their arms, kissing and nibbling the tips of their toes. It’s not sadism. I’d call it fascination, like interactive performance art. That’s what it is. Tickling is a great equalizer: American billionaires and tribal Africans are the same thrashing, laughing, squealing, snorting, begging creatures if they are tickled properly. I love how my victims roll around on the floor or yank their restraints so hard it hurts their joints if I have them tied or scream for me to stop… as if any of these things has the slightest ability to deter or persuade me from stopping! Sometimes I’ll just watch TV or read a book on my Kindle with my fingers attached to their squirming, giggling bodies, waiting for them to plead mercy so I have a reason to say something. Why would I respond to just laughing and thrashing? Hello! There’s no question there and it gets me hot. At least begging warrants a yes or no response. I can respect that.
I have the typical catalog of stories in my past that turned me on to tickling, both as a giver and receiver. I’ll spare you those because everyone has them. My college boyfriend was a frequent target; at the end of our relationship mostly because I was getting bored and I just liked to annoy him. Then was my first girlfriend. Mmmmm, Natasha. What a hottie, and a fellow ticklephile. All it took was some surprise teasing on her toes or soft kiss on the back of my neck and wiggling fingers under my arms to turn us into a wrestling, giggling, kissing, stroking entanglement of female screaming orgasms-in-waiting. Too bad she turned into the worst kind of club trash: awful tats, a minor coke habit, tacky goth outfits she had no business wearing… she became a real slut, to be honest. What a shame. It’s amazing how two years changes someone.
Anyway, back to my story. It happened one boring Friday night in July (or what began as a boring night) at my bestie Amanda’s house between sophomore and junior year. She was at school in Ohio and me Florida, so we tried to hang out as much as possible during the summer (which ended up happening naturally anyway). But neither of us was the star of the story. That would be her older sister Mallory. OMG – the hottest chick on the planet. I had a crush on her so bad for years I blushed when she said hi to me. I loved to hide behind Amanda’s couch and watch Mallory apply makeup or even write text messages if her bedroom door was open a crack. Once I snuck in and rubbed a pair of her silk panties all over my arms and face, pausing to take big whiffs of the freshness that would soon be guarding her honeypot. Yum!
I mean, just listen to this: perfect, silky straight black hair and wide green eyes that could turn people to stone; a flawless complexion, a warm, disarming smile, and the perfect athletic, female form - Maybe 5’9 with sinuous curves that seemed drawn by a sketch artist, long fingers, lips that fooled people into thinking she had botox (which, of course, she didn’t); soft, unblemished pink feet (what I wouldn’t have done to nibble on those soles!). She always wore maroon nail polish on her perfectly manicured fingernails and toenails and had slowly built an ornate tat sleeve on her left arm of things like black dahlias, a mermaid breaching the sea, some wispy cloud-like thing, and little vines on each finger (including a star fish on one). Watching those things type on a keyboard literally scorched my shorts. I’d always considered myself a modest looker: I jogged 20 miles a week, kept my wavy red hair healthy, had nice cheekbones, blue eyes, c cups, a feisty personality. Eyes found me in the mall. But next to Mallory I was invisible. She also exuded a silent, intense confidence and had a successful graphic and fashion design business at 27. Holy shit, what a hottie.
My attraction to her took the form of brattiness, of course. What else could I be to my best friend’s gorgeous older sister that I wanted to marry in heaven to save us the trip of going there? I’d do things like pelt her with a beach ball at a barbecue, hold her shoes for ransom before she went out… as I emboldened, I of course, tickled her whenever I had the chance. Nothing crazy, just quick gropes on her hips or toying with her feet at the beach. She’d get me back sometimes, but never enough to satisfy my wishes. On this night, she made up for it in a big way.
Some hunk she’d been talking about for months finally asked her out. You know – tall, dark and handsome corporate attorney with a Lexus, promised to take her to a five-star restaurant and dancing at the best club in the city. I did NOT trust this guy. Neither did Amanda. I’d been telling Mallory this since she mentioned him: he’s a slimeball who wants to get in your pants, has the personality of a pair of filthy shoelaces… yada yada. She wouldn’t hear it. She spent about three hours getting prepped that night. Movie star knockout, peeps. Long, cream-colored 1920s dress with a deep neckline, a platinum necklace, black nylons and flats, a black faux fur coat… When she returned two hours later in an Uber with mascara running down her face, my heart sunk. The three of us popped open a bottle of Merlot and got a good wine buzz going while lamenting lost love.
After my second glass, I felt inspired to get my best brat on with Mallory. She was still dejected but no longer heartbroken, so I kept at her with smarmy, passive aggressive barbs followed by giggles when they pissed her off. Figured she could use the ribbing.
“Don’t hate me because I told you he was a douche three months ago, Mallory. At least you bought that $350 coat that will probably never leave your closet again!”
“It’s okay, there are plenty of fish in the Tinder world.”
“Awwwww, it’s ok, Mal. We still love you and may be the only ones who do.”
For some reason, this was the one that did it.
She popped out of her seat as if stabbed in the ass and dove at me. I was so surprised that I spilled the last of the wine on the kitchen table and bolted into the living room, giggling wildly.
“You’re dead, you little brat,” she said with true annoyance and frustration.
“But I love you, Mal. Take me to the altar!”
She cornered me in the den, and we played chicken around the coffee table. Then I channeled my inner Whitney Houston:
And I, Will Always Love You, Will always love yo-u-u-ou! Giggling through the words. I tripped as I circled around the table to dodge her, and she dove on top of me, still wearing her dress. Before I knew it, her high school volleyball captain thighs had my biceps pinned and my head was in her lap.
Love, YOUUUUUUUUUUU!!!! Giggling like an idiot. Both of her hands dove at my ribs and skittered wildly up and down my sides; destination: the flaccid hollows of my armpits. I immediately burst into frantic laughter and kicked so hard my sneaker flew across the room.
“You think that’s funny, Misti? Haha, huh? You are going to laugh so hard you pee yourself now, sweetie. I’ve wanted to do this to you a long time.”
By this time, Amanda had rushed into the room to find her friend squealing, bucking her hips, legs flailing, and her older sister planted on her arms wearing a serious pissed-off look.
“Amanda, grab one of those legs, tear off her sock, and tickle every inch of skin on that pretty pink foot.”
My heart sank and a new level of panic overwhelmed me because I knew she wouldn’t be on my side for this one. She usually found it funny when I got bratty with her older sister and would egg me on. I could tell that she thought I was crossing the line that night.
“She is a real pain in the ass, isn’t she?” she said and seized my leg.
“No fucking doubt,” Mallory said, refusing to relent the assault of skittering fingers toying with my exposed armpits.
Amanda made quick work of my sock and got to work with her pointy nails skating all over my soles and toes. The tickle touch must be in the family genes because the jolt that shot through my foot as Amanda worked it over was as violent as when Mallory first got to me. The two tickle prodigy sisters held me like this for a good minute or two and scurried their greedy fingers all over me without stopping. Not long into it tears streamed down cheeks my abs hurt from nearly vomiting laughter.
HAHAHAHAHHHHHHAHAHAHAH OKOKOKOKOK!!!!!!! MALLLLL PLLLEHEHAHAHASEEEE OKOKOK I’M SORRYYY!!!!
“God, Mallory. She’s really losing it. Should we stop?”
“If you stop, you’re next,” she said and looked down at me while continuing to run her fingers up and down my sides. She’d found success scratching and groping my hips and added this to her repertoire. It hit me that she hadn’t even touched my skin yet and I was reeling like this!
“Little tickle brat is gonna get her ass tickled tonight until she can’t see straight. I am so gonna enjoy this, Misti. I should’ve done this to you years ago.”
I think Mallory had a sixth sense for my tolerance, because just about the time terror welled up in me that might be stuck here having to take this for longer than I could handle she nodded to Amanda, and they stopped. Thank God! I thought as I lay there, gasping for air that didn’t seem available. The torture was over. But I didn’t know that it had just begun.
“Ummmm, Mal, you can get off me now,” I said as energy crept back into my still immobilized arms.
“Amanda,” she said, ignoring me. “In my bedroom in the bottom right dresser drawer are some pink, silk sashes, two pigeon feathers, a feather boa, a bottle of sex oil, a scissor, and a tiny tin of itching powder. It’s a small, white box. Bring all that stuff to me, ok?”
“Crap, what are you doing?” I said and tried to wriggle free. Her powerful thighs on my arms and hands clamped around my wrists made this impossible.
“Did you think I was done with you yet?” she said in a voice made evil just by its complacent, almost bored tone. “I have like seven years to tickle out of you, Misti. I may love you, but you are still an awful little brat who needs to be put in her place.”
“Mallory, please. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, let me up, please.”
“Nope. Just get comfortable down there.”
Amanda returned in a few minutes with all the items in a plastic grocery bag. One-by-one Mallory lined them up next to me.
“Amanda, come on, get her off me. This is ridiculous, I don’t deserve this.”
“You kinda do,” she said and crawled next to me, hand planted on the ground inches from my hip. I only noticed then how much they resembled each other. Amanda was a bit shorter with wider hips, but their resemblance was plain.
“What do we do first?” she asked her sister.
“Hand me that scissor.”
“What?” I said, incredulous, and kicked so hard I could feel my spine rotating. Mallory set the scissor blades on my shirt at the neckline and snipped it straight through.
“Holy shit, what the hell…”
“You’re not going to miss that plain white tee, girl. And I have one to give you. Maybe you can even wear it on your face and sniff it.”
My body went limp, and I let out an exasperated sigh.
“Yes, I did see that you little perv.”
“What?” Amanda said, mouth agape. “You wore, ummm”
“My silk panties on her face and sniffed them. Like they were fresh mountain air,” Mallory cut in and tossed the remains of my shirt aside, leaving me naked but for my bra.
What I’ll never forget about Amanda’s face at that moment was that I couldn’t read it. Was she shocked? Disgusted? Embarrassed? Angry? She just gaped at me; jaw so slack it seemed tied to a bowling ball dangling on a string. I wanted to explain… everything, all my secrets just to make that stupid sniff seem normal. Then it happened: she laughed, so hard she fell on the floor holding her stomach. Every time she looked at me, the laughter restarted in full force.
“Please stop laughing, Amanda.” I said, flattened with embarrassment. Now I was incensed with Mallory, plotting ways to get vengeance when she inevitably released me. Here I was half-naked, pinned to the ground, while my friend roared with laughter with my proverbial skeletons out of the closet, shattered on the floor. And she wouldn’t relent a bit.
“Honey, it’s okay. I have a confession, too.” Now it was her turn for an embarrassed pause.
“I’ve always had some feelings for you. At least for a while now.”
“Really?” I said, heart immediately melted. “You never told me.”
“I’m embarrassed. I wasn’t sure you felt the same way.”
I didn’t know what to say. As much as I loved her, I’d never thought about Amanda that way. Yet now, exposed before her, her blushing, smiling face fixed upon me, warmth flowed through me… my breast, thighs, all over my crotch. I didn’t realize until that moment how incredibly aroused I was. Pinned and about to be molested by the hottest woman I’d ever known, whom I’d been ogling and fingering myself to as long as I could remember; and now with a newly discovered primal fondness for my lifelong friend.
“But I never saw her using your undies as a gas mask,” Mallory chimed in and skittered her nails across my belly. I immediately planted my feet on the ground and arched my back, giggling and writhing my hips as the tickles intensified. After a moment of this, she planted her hands into my stomach and forced me to the ground.
“Amanda, take two of those long sashes and tie them nice and snug around my thighs and Misti’s arms. Then wrap a few more around her ankles and pull them tight until she’s like a little worm.”
She secured my arms first. Though the way Mallory’s muscles tensed against my skin excited me, my heart thumped when I yanked on the sashes and realized I was really going nowhere this time. As Amanda crawled toward my feet, Mallory chimed in.
“Not yet. Get her out of those sweatpants and panties.”
“Oh my gosh, don’t Amanda!”
Before I had time for another breath, Mallory’s wiggling fingernails found their way into my now bare armpits. The shock of it put me into immediate hysterics. With even less arm motion available, it was sooooo much worse.
“Let her get you naked, Misti. Let her pull you out of those pwitty liwwle pink panties or I’m a tickle yooou till you wet them. Does Misti want pee pee panties? Does she?”
DAAAAMMMNNNNN AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAHAHA FFFUUUUKKKK HAHAHAHAHAHA DON’’’’TTT HAHAHAHA
“Awww, someone’s fwustwated. The tickles make her siwwy, the bratty liwwlle girl.”
Let me tell you, peeps, until you’ve had a really sensitive spot tickled while you are immobilized, you don’t know how ticklish you are. Usually someone gets you there and you squirm around, giggling, maybe letting them do it because you like how it makes you weak and tingly. At some point, though, your body says “Ok, that’s enough…” and you wiggle away with a “Stop it! That Tickles,” like you are a little Elmo doll. But when you CAN’T move… those tickles take on a mind of their own! They just keep coming and coming, and the panic builds as your will to fight is effortlessly stripped away by a touch so ridiculously simple. It’s not like getting hit with a 2x4 or set on fire, but while it’s happening it almost feels like it. “If I just squirm over…” HAHAHAHAHA it gets you again! You can’t get used to it no matter how you contract this muscle, or grit your teeth, wiggle your toes. If those fingers want to tease that spot ad infinitum you follow their orders. I wonder if someone should make a Tickle Torture Me! Elmo doll to show what it’s like: “HOLY CRAP, NO, NO, NO STOP IT THAT FUCKING TICKLES!!!!!”
There’s something so delicious and enticing anout tickling. I get a kick out of the way people flap around like recently caught fish in a boat when I knead the contours of their ribs, or methodically explore the flaccid, tender flesh under their arms, kissing and nibbling the tips of their toes. It’s not sadism. I’d call it fascination, like interactive performance art. That’s what it is. Tickling is a great equalizer: American billionaires and tribal Africans are the same thrashing, laughing, squealing, snorting, begging creatures if they are tickled properly. I love how my victims roll around on the floor or yank their restraints so hard it hurts their joints if I have them tied or scream for me to stop… as if any of these things has the slightest ability to deter or persuade me from stopping! Sometimes I’ll just watch TV or read a book on my Kindle with my fingers attached to their squirming, giggling bodies, waiting for them to plead mercy so I have a reason to say something. Why would I respond to just laughing and thrashing? Hello! There’s no question there and it gets me hot. At least begging warrants a yes or no response. I can respect that.
I have the typical catalog of stories in my past that turned me on to tickling, both as a giver and receiver. I’ll spare you those because everyone has them. My college boyfriend was a frequent target; at the end of our relationship mostly because I was getting bored and I just liked to annoy him. Then was my first girlfriend. Mmmmm, Natasha. What a hottie, and a fellow ticklephile. All it took was some surprise teasing on her toes or soft kiss on the back of my neck and wiggling fingers under my arms to turn us into a wrestling, giggling, kissing, stroking entanglement of female screaming orgasms-in-waiting. Too bad she turned into the worst kind of club trash: awful tats, a minor coke habit, tacky goth outfits she had no business wearing… she became a real slut, to be honest. What a shame. It’s amazing how two years changes someone.
Anyway, back to my story. It happened one boring Friday night in July (or what began as a boring night) at my bestie Amanda’s house between sophomore and junior year. She was at school in Ohio and me Florida, so we tried to hang out as much as possible during the summer (which ended up happening naturally anyway). But neither of us was the star of the story. That would be her older sister Mallory. OMG – the hottest chick on the planet. I had a crush on her so bad for years I blushed when she said hi to me. I loved to hide behind Amanda’s couch and watch Mallory apply makeup or even write text messages if her bedroom door was open a crack. Once I snuck in and rubbed a pair of her silk panties all over my arms and face, pausing to take big whiffs of the freshness that would soon be guarding her honeypot. Yum!
I mean, just listen to this: perfect, silky straight black hair and wide green eyes that could turn people to stone; a flawless complexion, a warm, disarming smile, and the perfect athletic, female form - Maybe 5’9 with sinuous curves that seemed drawn by a sketch artist, long fingers, lips that fooled people into thinking she had botox (which, of course, she didn’t); soft, unblemished pink feet (what I wouldn’t have done to nibble on those soles!). She always wore maroon nail polish on her perfectly manicured fingernails and toenails and had slowly built an ornate tat sleeve on her left arm of things like black dahlias, a mermaid breaching the sea, some wispy cloud-like thing, and little vines on each finger (including a star fish on one). Watching those things type on a keyboard literally scorched my shorts. I’d always considered myself a modest looker: I jogged 20 miles a week, kept my wavy red hair healthy, had nice cheekbones, blue eyes, c cups, a feisty personality. Eyes found me in the mall. But next to Mallory I was invisible. She also exuded a silent, intense confidence and had a successful graphic and fashion design business at 27. Holy shit, what a hottie.
My attraction to her took the form of brattiness, of course. What else could I be to my best friend’s gorgeous older sister that I wanted to marry in heaven to save us the trip of going there? I’d do things like pelt her with a beach ball at a barbecue, hold her shoes for ransom before she went out… as I emboldened, I of course, tickled her whenever I had the chance. Nothing crazy, just quick gropes on her hips or toying with her feet at the beach. She’d get me back sometimes, but never enough to satisfy my wishes. On this night, she made up for it in a big way.
Some hunk she’d been talking about for months finally asked her out. You know – tall, dark and handsome corporate attorney with a Lexus, promised to take her to a five-star restaurant and dancing at the best club in the city. I did NOT trust this guy. Neither did Amanda. I’d been telling Mallory this since she mentioned him: he’s a slimeball who wants to get in your pants, has the personality of a pair of filthy shoelaces… yada yada. She wouldn’t hear it. She spent about three hours getting prepped that night. Movie star knockout, peeps. Long, cream-colored 1920s dress with a deep neckline, a platinum necklace, black nylons and flats, a black faux fur coat… When she returned two hours later in an Uber with mascara running down her face, my heart sunk. The three of us popped open a bottle of Merlot and got a good wine buzz going while lamenting lost love.
After my second glass, I felt inspired to get my best brat on with Mallory. She was still dejected but no longer heartbroken, so I kept at her with smarmy, passive aggressive barbs followed by giggles when they pissed her off. Figured she could use the ribbing.
“Don’t hate me because I told you he was a douche three months ago, Mallory. At least you bought that $350 coat that will probably never leave your closet again!”
“It’s okay, there are plenty of fish in the Tinder world.”
“Awwwww, it’s ok, Mal. We still love you and may be the only ones who do.”
For some reason, this was the one that did it.
She popped out of her seat as if stabbed in the ass and dove at me. I was so surprised that I spilled the last of the wine on the kitchen table and bolted into the living room, giggling wildly.
“You’re dead, you little brat,” she said with true annoyance and frustration.
“But I love you, Mal. Take me to the altar!”
She cornered me in the den, and we played chicken around the coffee table. Then I channeled my inner Whitney Houston:
And I, Will Always Love You, Will always love yo-u-u-ou! Giggling through the words. I tripped as I circled around the table to dodge her, and she dove on top of me, still wearing her dress. Before I knew it, her high school volleyball captain thighs had my biceps pinned and my head was in her lap.
Love, YOUUUUUUUUUUU!!!! Giggling like an idiot. Both of her hands dove at my ribs and skittered wildly up and down my sides; destination: the flaccid hollows of my armpits. I immediately burst into frantic laughter and kicked so hard my sneaker flew across the room.
“You think that’s funny, Misti? Haha, huh? You are going to laugh so hard you pee yourself now, sweetie. I’ve wanted to do this to you a long time.”
By this time, Amanda had rushed into the room to find her friend squealing, bucking her hips, legs flailing, and her older sister planted on her arms wearing a serious pissed-off look.
“Amanda, grab one of those legs, tear off her sock, and tickle every inch of skin on that pretty pink foot.”
My heart sank and a new level of panic overwhelmed me because I knew she wouldn’t be on my side for this one. She usually found it funny when I got bratty with her older sister and would egg me on. I could tell that she thought I was crossing the line that night.
“She is a real pain in the ass, isn’t she?” she said and seized my leg.
“No fucking doubt,” Mallory said, refusing to relent the assault of skittering fingers toying with my exposed armpits.
Amanda made quick work of my sock and got to work with her pointy nails skating all over my soles and toes. The tickle touch must be in the family genes because the jolt that shot through my foot as Amanda worked it over was as violent as when Mallory first got to me. The two tickle prodigy sisters held me like this for a good minute or two and scurried their greedy fingers all over me without stopping. Not long into it tears streamed down cheeks my abs hurt from nearly vomiting laughter.
HAHAHAHAHHHHHHAHAHAHAH OKOKOKOKOK!!!!!!! MALLLLL PLLLEHEHAHAHASEEEE OKOKOK I’M SORRYYY!!!!
“God, Mallory. She’s really losing it. Should we stop?”
“If you stop, you’re next,” she said and looked down at me while continuing to run her fingers up and down my sides. She’d found success scratching and groping my hips and added this to her repertoire. It hit me that she hadn’t even touched my skin yet and I was reeling like this!
“Little tickle brat is gonna get her ass tickled tonight until she can’t see straight. I am so gonna enjoy this, Misti. I should’ve done this to you years ago.”
I think Mallory had a sixth sense for my tolerance, because just about the time terror welled up in me that might be stuck here having to take this for longer than I could handle she nodded to Amanda, and they stopped. Thank God! I thought as I lay there, gasping for air that didn’t seem available. The torture was over. But I didn’t know that it had just begun.
“Ummmm, Mal, you can get off me now,” I said as energy crept back into my still immobilized arms.
“Amanda,” she said, ignoring me. “In my bedroom in the bottom right dresser drawer are some pink, silk sashes, two pigeon feathers, a feather boa, a bottle of sex oil, a scissor, and a tiny tin of itching powder. It’s a small, white box. Bring all that stuff to me, ok?”
“Crap, what are you doing?” I said and tried to wriggle free. Her powerful thighs on my arms and hands clamped around my wrists made this impossible.
“Did you think I was done with you yet?” she said in a voice made evil just by its complacent, almost bored tone. “I have like seven years to tickle out of you, Misti. I may love you, but you are still an awful little brat who needs to be put in her place.”
“Mallory, please. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, let me up, please.”
“Nope. Just get comfortable down there.”
Amanda returned in a few minutes with all the items in a plastic grocery bag. One-by-one Mallory lined them up next to me.
“Amanda, come on, get her off me. This is ridiculous, I don’t deserve this.”
“You kinda do,” she said and crawled next to me, hand planted on the ground inches from my hip. I only noticed then how much they resembled each other. Amanda was a bit shorter with wider hips, but their resemblance was plain.
“What do we do first?” she asked her sister.
“Hand me that scissor.”
“What?” I said, incredulous, and kicked so hard I could feel my spine rotating. Mallory set the scissor blades on my shirt at the neckline and snipped it straight through.
“Holy shit, what the hell…”
“You’re not going to miss that plain white tee, girl. And I have one to give you. Maybe you can even wear it on your face and sniff it.”
My body went limp, and I let out an exasperated sigh.
“Yes, I did see that you little perv.”
“What?” Amanda said, mouth agape. “You wore, ummm”
“My silk panties on her face and sniffed them. Like they were fresh mountain air,” Mallory cut in and tossed the remains of my shirt aside, leaving me naked but for my bra.
What I’ll never forget about Amanda’s face at that moment was that I couldn’t read it. Was she shocked? Disgusted? Embarrassed? Angry? She just gaped at me; jaw so slack it seemed tied to a bowling ball dangling on a string. I wanted to explain… everything, all my secrets just to make that stupid sniff seem normal. Then it happened: she laughed, so hard she fell on the floor holding her stomach. Every time she looked at me, the laughter restarted in full force.
“Please stop laughing, Amanda.” I said, flattened with embarrassment. Now I was incensed with Mallory, plotting ways to get vengeance when she inevitably released me. Here I was half-naked, pinned to the ground, while my friend roared with laughter with my proverbial skeletons out of the closet, shattered on the floor. And she wouldn’t relent a bit.
“Honey, it’s okay. I have a confession, too.” Now it was her turn for an embarrassed pause.
“I’ve always had some feelings for you. At least for a while now.”
“Really?” I said, heart immediately melted. “You never told me.”
“I’m embarrassed. I wasn’t sure you felt the same way.”
I didn’t know what to say. As much as I loved her, I’d never thought about Amanda that way. Yet now, exposed before her, her blushing, smiling face fixed upon me, warmth flowed through me… my breast, thighs, all over my crotch. I didn’t realize until that moment how incredibly aroused I was. Pinned and about to be molested by the hottest woman I’d ever known, whom I’d been ogling and fingering myself to as long as I could remember; and now with a newly discovered primal fondness for my lifelong friend.
“But I never saw her using your undies as a gas mask,” Mallory chimed in and skittered her nails across my belly. I immediately planted my feet on the ground and arched my back, giggling and writhing my hips as the tickles intensified. After a moment of this, she planted her hands into my stomach and forced me to the ground.
“Amanda, take two of those long sashes and tie them nice and snug around my thighs and Misti’s arms. Then wrap a few more around her ankles and pull them tight until she’s like a little worm.”
She secured my arms first. Though the way Mallory’s muscles tensed against my skin excited me, my heart thumped when I yanked on the sashes and realized I was really going nowhere this time. As Amanda crawled toward my feet, Mallory chimed in.
“Not yet. Get her out of those sweatpants and panties.”
“Oh my gosh, don’t Amanda!”
Before I had time for another breath, Mallory’s wiggling fingernails found their way into my now bare armpits. The shock of it put me into immediate hysterics. With even less arm motion available, it was sooooo much worse.
“Let her get you naked, Misti. Let her pull you out of those pwitty liwwle pink panties or I’m a tickle yooou till you wet them. Does Misti want pee pee panties? Does she?”
DAAAAMMMNNNNN AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAHAHA FFFUUUUKKKK HAHAHAHAHAHA DON’’’’TTT HAHAHAHA
“Awww, someone’s fwustwated. The tickles make her siwwy, the bratty liwwlle girl.”
Let me tell you, peeps, until you’ve had a really sensitive spot tickled while you are immobilized, you don’t know how ticklish you are. Usually someone gets you there and you squirm around, giggling, maybe letting them do it because you like how it makes you weak and tingly. At some point, though, your body says “Ok, that’s enough…” and you wiggle away with a “Stop it! That Tickles,” like you are a little Elmo doll. But when you CAN’T move… those tickles take on a mind of their own! They just keep coming and coming, and the panic builds as your will to fight is effortlessly stripped away by a touch so ridiculously simple. It’s not like getting hit with a 2x4 or set on fire, but while it’s happening it almost feels like it. “If I just squirm over…” HAHAHAHAHA it gets you again! You can’t get used to it no matter how you contract this muscle, or grit your teeth, wiggle your toes. If those fingers want to tease that spot ad infinitum you follow their orders. I wonder if someone should make a Tickle Torture Me! Elmo doll to show what it’s like: “HOLY CRAP, NO, NO, NO STOP IT THAT FUCKING TICKLES!!!!!”
Last edited:
