Samantha was a chauvinist’s worst nightmare. She simply refused to acknowledge men as anything more than bigger, more arrogant boys, simple minded in their egotistical, strictly linear way of thinking, intellectually lost and desperately in need of feminine intuition and mystique. She was extremely poised and level-headed, with a dry wit that had infuriated and humbled many men, but of all the tools with which she would conduct her emasculations, her favorite was tickling.
For Samantha, there was no more satisfying and beautiful truth in life than the ease with which she could reduce the most obnoxious machismo to a pitiful wining puppy. Any man’s denial of her feminist discourse was a perfect opportunity for her to propose an alternative, more physical challenge- to let her test the strength of his character, mentally and physically, via tickling.
It was too easy. Hardly anyone refused. And no one had yet to past the test- to let her tie up and tickle his naked body for twenty minutes- without begging to be untied or finished off. She didn’t mention until after they were restrained that she would be filming the event. She loved watching her victories and basking in the symbolism in their imagery. Her slim soft figure straddling over their muscular bodies. The most beautiful aspect of her dominance was in that contrast, and she delighted in accentuating it as much as possible. The more masculine and rough his body, and the more soft and delicate hers, the more perfect the image. She would tie him down, turn on her camera, and make him watch her slather her body with lotion. She always wore a sports bra and boxer shorts, her work clothes she called them. Then, she would mount her victim and know his body up and down within the first two minutes. They would look up at her brilliant green eyes and straight, black hair falling neatly just above her shoulders and stiffen with sudden self-doubt.
The armpits and feet were always easy targets-she knew-glaze a little lotion over them and tickle precisely and incessantly and they would betray and man’s proud resolve. Her favorite was to drizzle a spiral of lotion down his chest, around his bellybutton and follow with her hands, one tickling clockwise and one counter, around his sides and closing in on the bull’s eye. Then his pelvic bones and thighs, tickling steadily and perfectly.
“Men don’t do well with suffering,” she’d say, shaking her head. “I’m sure you had no idea how ticklish you really were until now. Well, you can thank me after I’m done.” She would hone in on his weakest spots and tickle every overconfident thought into another beg for mercy.
She loved tickling a hard six pack, watching the months of work toning and shaping the muscles that quivered and tightened under her tickling nails. She’d say slowly, casually, but yet so devilishly, as if reading a shopping list of his most vulnerable spots, “tickle… tickle…tickle……ribs…..feet….stomach…..chest….I think the stomach needs a little more…tickle, tickle, tickle, gee you big, strong man you sure are ticklish aren’t you? Tell me again how men are the dominant species? No? Does being pathetically ticklish make you feel strong and dominant? I hope so. I’m going to be tickling you for a long time…Yea the stomach definitely needs a little more…excuse me I should say tummy to be precise. Big strong men have such ticklish tummies, and yours just happens to be really, really, really fucking ticklish doesn’t it!!!”
Her soft hands would tickle their hard bodies into mindless spasms, and they always eventually broke down and begged her to stop, admitting everything she wanted to hear…foolish, foolish men.