A pint-sized knockout, half Hawaiian, half Mexican, with the tightest and curviest little cheerleader body, Tricia was born to be tickled, and she was not shy about it. She wasn’t shy in any situation and never hesitated when she wanted something. She was so good at getting whatever, whenever she wanted that she had to invent little games and tricks to keep herself from losing interest.
First, she’d pick a boy, then she’d pick an outfit. Never a dress, usually tight jeans and a bright t shirt that was just short enough to fall past her belly button. Sure enough, she would find herself an opportunity to reach for something too high, or yawn and stretch her arms back enough to hike her little shirt way up unveiling her hourglass hips and olive toned tummy. Everything about her was irresistibly flirtatious.
She could always pick out the guys who would play along. They’d tickle her, and she’d let out a playful shriek, let her eyes get wide, her mouth half-trying not to smile, and plead, “Don’t please, I’m way too ticklish!” and they’d grab her, sometimes hold her arms back and she’d shriek her protest in delight. When two would gang up on her, she’d make a point to scream, “Not my stomach! Please!” It was her favorite place to be tickled, and it kept them away from her real weak spots, the vulnerabilities she was less comfortable flaunting. She was the epitome of tease, and though many could claim to have tickled and groped her, very few got beyond the foreplay.
Her former boyfriends could always relate. There would be no sex without tickling, and for Tricia, there would be no climax without tickling. Over the years, her insatiable need to be tickled grew so deep that she could sometimes orgasm with little to no clitoral stimulation. She knew if she found someone she could trust completely, together they could get it down to a science. But she was always weary of the fact that boys usually tickled her long enough to humor her, but eventually grew impatient and spent less and less time charging up her body before sex. She wanted the opposite. She longed to be tied up and pushed to her body’s limit, but the looming threat of feeling taken advantage of- her fetish exploited and reduced to little more than consensual rape- was something she wouldn’t risk, and so it kept her fantasies bound to their fledgling states. For all the times she’d been called a tease, she wondered if anyone realized how far from satisfaction she was herself.
At the end of the day she would collapse on her bed, throw her clothes to the floor, look up at the ceiling with her eyes closed, and stretch her arms and legs towards the corners of her mattress. She’d breathe her deepest breathe and exhale into her stretch, dreaming of the one who would tie her up, and hold her, make her feel completely safe and secure in being completely vulnerable to him.
He’d start with her stomach, gently, playfully, her abs tensing under his fingers scattering all around her bare torso, squeezing her nipples, tickling around her breasts, belly, hips, and ribs, but not under her arms. Not yet. He’d move down her legs, behind her knees, and squeeze into her quads above her knee. That’s when she’d really start to scream. On down to her tiny feet and arches. She’d be begging now, not for him to stop, but to push her more. He’d know to race back up to her stomach and with one hand tickle her belly button, and with the other, all around her clit. She’d feel the rush and the fire swell up through her body and his hands would follow it back up to her breasts, and now all over- her neck, and nipples and down and under her arms. There, it was impossible for her to resist. Her body would thrash and buck and he’d move back down to her tummy, tonguing her navel and tickling her clit and ass and she would cum over and over again until her voice was hoarse from screaming his name…whatever it turned out to be. Most of the time, she just keep her eyes closed, pulling the covers over and hoping her fantasy would last through her dreams and into morning.