Guilt Tickling- New Original Story

A lot of empty threats and promises are made in the last long minute before a man’s sexual surrender.  But not on Andrea’s watch.  She made her boyfriend keep his promises, and because of her dedication to inspiring his own, he had stopped smoking cigarettes, made his diet entirely vegan, and was now addicted to yoga.  He was in the best shape of his life, and the happiest.  But, it hadn’t been easy.

 

The first time she caught him smoking, wasn’t the worst time, but it was the first time she tied him up, and probably had the best results.  She found a half empty pack in his car, looked at it for a minute or two, and began calculating.  

 

The first decision she made was cooking his dinner with THC butter.  Then she kept his wine glass full until he was flat on his stomach on the bed, absolutely convinced she was just in a really good mood and felt like giving him a nice long massage.  He was a little confused when she stretched his arms forward, just over the edge of the bed, but everything she did made his body feel so good.  He didn’t question it.  Not even when he felt the smooth soft fabric tightening around his wrists.  Only when he realized she was no longer touching him did his eyes blink open stupidly.  He looked up and saw his wrists bound to the bed frame.  Confused, slowly working himself up on his elbows, he looked around for his Andrea.  Then he felt her.  Her fingers clamped around his ankles and yanked his legs straight out from under him.  He flopped down on his face, quickly twisting himself over to see the look in her eye, and finally realized something was very wrong.  She lept over his feet and landed right above his knees, and set the pack of cigarettes down over his racing heart.

 

“You told me you were quitting.”  Her eyes did not look forgiving.  

 

“I am!  I haven’t-”  

 

Her hands clamped over his mouth.  His breath cut off, he inhaled deeply through his nose and caught a whiff of her lavender massage oil still steaming off her warm hands. It was more than enough to calm his mind.  She couldn’t have held her hand there more than a few seconds, yet he somehow found time to take in every detail of the beautiful face and figure about to bare her wrath upon him.  Her fierce brown eyes, and tight, perfect ponytail falling over her shoulder. Her bright fuchsia tank top, tight over her golden shoulders and firm, round breasts.  Her black tights hugging the dramatic curves of her hips, thighs, and calves as she sat over him.  She lifted her hand and spoke softly.

 

“You’re going to make me a promise now.  I don’t care how long it takes, you’re going to make it over, and over until its perfect, and sounds so sincere that I’ll be able to untie you knowing it will never be broken.”

 

He unconsciously pressed his lips together in dread.

 

“Promise me that the next time you put that filth in your mouth, you will leave me that same day, and never speak to me again.”

 

His eyes wide in shock, he was mortified.  “Andrea! don’t-”

 

She didn’t cover his mouth this time.  She tickled his body so fast and hard that he had to fight to take in air-she pulled his hips toward her, arching his back, stretching his torso, and dug her claws under his arms and down into his ribs.  He curled and bucked back and forth like an earthworm.  She recoated his chest and stomach with her lavender oil, tickling her way down.  She yanked off his pants and wrangled his feet though the black loops awaiting them, covering and tickling furiously every inch of his skin.  Now at his feet, she made him howl.  She made sure he was listening.

 

“Promise me!” she commanded, driving her nails between his toes and scraping them up the soles of his thrashing feet.  He tried-told her he loved her, that he would quit, that he would do anything for her, change his ways, be better… bullshit.

 

“That’s not what I’m asking…that’s not what I want.”  She tickled him harder and faster, all over his feet, poking, scratching, flickering.  Sinking her nails in deep, then seizing the top of his foot with one hand and tickling so lightly up and down his sole and under his toes, bring him into a blur of desperation.  

 

He looked down at her between his gasps and cries, and again as if in a frozen moment of clarity, saw her golden skin, and needed it.  Needed to caress it, kiss it, treasure it tenderly, and protect it as the dearest, most precious part of his life.  He needed to hold her and love her more than he’d ever needed anything.  He needed that soft skin pressed against his face and lips, warm against his body every night.  He needed her arms locked around him, his chin resting in her shining brown hair.  

 

He couldn’t deny how crazy he was about her.  He really did love-need-her.  He was so comforted and strengthened by her.  He knew she was by far his best and couldn’t bare the idea of losing her.  Her constant drive for perfection and truth in everything she did- her unstoppable heart and conscience.  She drove him crazy insisting that he keep up with her.  He didn’t have her childhood, her restlessness-but he loved the energy and confidence she brought into his life and his way of thinking.  He could not-not for the world-lose her.

 

But he didn’t know how to promise what she was asking.  He knew perfectly well what she was doing.  She loved tickling him because she knew it tripped something in his brain.  It got under his skin-the fact that he was far more ticklish than she and their tickle fights had never gone well for him.  She knew his stubborn attitude, and knew when she tickled him- to the point where he had to admit his defeat- that she was getting more and more under his skin, to that condemned place in a man’s heart where he keeps his feelings for the girl who proves herself his equal- his counterpart.

 

And she knew behind his stubborn attitude he had a moral center and a guilting conscience, and that would be the only kind of pain she could give him that would make real and undeniable in his mind the pain she felt when he poisoned his body so carelessly.  She wouldn’t let him get away with dismissing any potential consequence of his careless actions.  She would tickle him, make him laugh and writhe in love and anguish until he reached the end of his rationalizing thought process-slowly-between desperate pleas-realizing that the guilt and stress he would endure hiding something from her would soon surpass whatever trivial enjoyment he might get from it.  

 

For Andrea, she knew she would live her whole life and never tire of taking hours out of any day to either massage and spoil him, or tickle and charm him.  And she loved him more and more believing that this was how they could overcome any challenge in their relationship.

 

She crept up over his legs and went back to his ribs, sinking and scratching her pretty nails between each rib bone.  Back and forth over his neck, chest, underarms, she watched the expression on his face align with her predictions- love and anguish-joy and guilt.  They looked deep in each other’s eyes, realizing again the love between them was far more evenly balanced their ticklishness, and that really it was that love that was going to win this battle.  He knew she wouldn’t just let him give up.  She would tickle, and tickle, and tickle him until nothing in his mind could hold back his love and devotion to her and the promise would speak itself with the same confidence she would continue to give him each day.

 

What he didn’t know was that after he promised her, and after she bent down and kissed him as hard and deep as all her tickling, she would smile her own guilty smile and tickle his feet another ten minutes before letting him go, and letting him hold her, and fuck her passionately, intimately, and fall deeper and deeper in love with her incredible, infallible heart.

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New Original Story Continued

After a while, Samantha had tickled so many guys that she’d discovered a rather endearing correlation between certain sensitive spots and the unique emotional responses they produced.  Underneath the surface layers of hysteria and defiance, she found a subtle spectrum of reflexive feelings she could induce by concentrating her tickling in specific areas.  Every male body became a new vehicle for her to drive back and forth through madness.

The most ticklish spots, armpits and feet, produced a more fearful, desperate laugh and/or scream, where tickling the stomach and ribs seemed to fill out her victim’s smile underneath his anguish.  She could see and hear it clearly when she would tease him, belittling his pompous attitude, calling his chiseled abs nothing more than a little boy’s ticklish tummy, and tickling him there, and only there.  The anger in his voice suddenly softened behind a laughter of pure joy- innocent, liberated joy- until his defiance could manage to recover and choke back the smile she had found.  

 

The more she found this dynamic to hold true for every guy’s body, the more she was amazed by its implications- especially if he was one the obnoxiously arrogant pricks.  She would spend plenty of time on his feet, making him thrash and curse her.  But for a man filled with so much pride that he had completely forgotten or repressed the boy inside, Samantha knew he would need more than just humiliation.  She knew that in the secret joyful smile of his belly laugh was the last spark of his youth- and therein his greatest capacity to experience joy and love.  And the longer she tickled it out of him, the longer, harder, and faster she curled her pretty fingers over his abs and ribs, the more of his arrogance and pride she could chip away.  

 

After the twenty minutes had run out–it never mattered how quickly he broke down, she never let anyone off easy–she would begin to tease and stroke his cock and make the real begging come out.  

 

“Ok Sam! You got me now just finish me off, enough already. Put me in your mouth, please!”  

 

“Don’t kid yourself, if you think that’s the favor I’m doing you here you’re more dense than I thought.”  She’d proceed to coat his cock and stomach with more lotion and pump and tickle him furiously until he exploded in the most relieving defeat he’d ever known.  The guys that really pissed her off always got their dicks pointed right at their eyes for this most memorable of moments, and usually left without having much to say in their defense.

 

But once in a while she would reach that spark long enough to light a flame, and the awe twinkling through his glazed eyes, and that pure smile curling up between his heavy post coital breathing, told her that he had no desire to be untied just yet.  If she felt confident they would have that chemistry after his climax, she would aim his cum off to the side, wipe her hand off, and when she saw that newfound smile coming through, she smiled it back and continued gently rubbing and tickling the last of the lotion into his stomach and watched him writhe and love it.

 

Much to his disappointment and confusion, she would then untie him and rush him out the door, reminding him to not forget what he’d learned from her.  She’d go to her shower and rinse off, watch the recording of her conquest, and finish herself off.  No one ever stayed the night.  No matter how much positive, radiant energy could come from the deep vulnerability she created for her victims, she could never allow herself the same openness.  She wouldn’t risk giving up her control and self respect for something so contrived as a man’s feelings.  Not again.  

 

And so she remained proud and chaste, and lonely.

Next Chapter of Original Tickling Series

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.

First Chapter of New Original Series

At first conception, the rules of the game were simple-bring your opponent to climax by any means necessary.  The nature of the game ensured satisfaction for each contender, but victory was for the better giver and climax meant surrender and submission.  Anyone could be challenged.  Opponents would agree to a selected audience and the scope of its participation.

 

Anything was possible and everything was encouraged.  At times, it seemed there were few fetishes, positions, and combinations left to be explored, but inevitably, someone would find a new extreme to pervade.  

 

Neither its popularity nor its potential business could be overstated.  It wasn’t long before millions were spent on scientific research seeking the most wicked, unstoppable strategies.  The results were unexpected by most, but quickly and enthusiastically accepted.  

 

The physical sensation to which the brain’s response most closely resembled orgasm- was tickling.  Once the sensation reached the same level of intensity as an opponent’s usual climax, any sexual trigger became nearly impossible to resist, and opponents rarely did for more than a few minutes.

 

This discovery gave rise to a renaissance of sexual exploratory competition with restrained tickling trumping most forms of foreplay and becoming a staple skill for all opponents bringing each other to le petit morte.  It was a sport anyone at which all could excel if they were willing to give pleasure in order to triumph.  (It relieved stress, burned massive calories and was soon encouraged by most doctors.)

 

The growing popularity of the sport could not be denied and it soon found a late nightspot on every major network.  Players reputed to be extremely ticklish received massive endorsements.  Like many sports, the athletes who were most entertaining to watch win or lose became celebrities and drew massive crowds.  Faking orgasms was a common strategy, but players caught faking their ticklishness were banned for life.  Too much was at stake.  

 

A girl known on the scene to be wildly ticklish, who bucked and thrashed like a pony, shrieked, cried, and begged like a banshee, but could so suddenly reverse a hold or pin, and look down on her opponents with her seduction’s proud, wicked smile, after she’d brought them to their most utter collapsed surrenders, was a goddess, and she was worth millions.  

 

Though there were several named goddesses, no one denied the original- Tiffany Dawn Bolieu, and like all champions her mind and body were in perfect design with the game.  She was tall- 5’9, her long slender violin figure covered in deep golden brown skin- which she kept hyper sensitive to acute touchings and impervious to all else.  

 

Sensitizing the skin meant crippling vulnerability.

 

Tiffany made her reputation by being the first player to deliberately sensitize her skin before a match.

 

By the time she appeared on the scene, it had become expected for players to make their first priority pinning, restraining, and coating their opponent with  oil or lotion.  This strategy, in spite of the time it took, had proven extremely effective.  The favorites were peppermint or ginger mixtures which galvanized the skin’s nerve cells into frenzy.

 

The sport found it’s first form of perfection and first uniform with the invention of small magnetic bracelets and anklets- which if held against the polarized mat for ten seconds would lock, and hold fast for another hundred seconds, and then release.  Players soon realized the importance of training in wrestling and jujitsu.  Being able to pin a single arm or leg was sometimes enough, but a perfect match was considered pinning all an opponent’s limbs and bringing them to climax before the first cuff was released.  The best players had all pinned and coated their opponents with a full minute left to take advantage of the completely immobilized, ultimately vulnerable body.  It often meant checkmate, and it was amazing every time to watch the players become more paralyzed by the rapture they were enduring than the physical restraints upon them.  Many preferred to drain the clock and toy with their captives, holding an arm or leg down one at a time, ensuring the pin would hold, and slowly, deliberately, tracing their oils first, and nails second- up and down every inch of their victim.  

 

Screams always grew louder once the skin was conditioned.  It was a psychologically crushing strategy and only the best of the best were able to stand the torture long enough to free an arm or leg and attempt a come back.

 

Tiffany Dawn was the first to enter the ring with a bowl of chilled peppermint cream and commandingly forestall the commencement of the match- dramatically stripping and covering her body.  First, her neck down over the fine line of collarbone and curves of her breasts, over her shoulders and, down through her arm pits and rips.  She bent to fill her hands again and spread the thick white layer over her stomach.  The crowd roared as she flinched while fingering her naval and then trailing her glistening fingers down between her thighs, down the backs of her calves.  She slowly sat, and slid them between each toe, trying not to shiver.  The closest fans say they could smell the peppermint and history in the making.  When she finished she rose straight up and turned slowly for all to see.  The lights of the arena swam over her smooth, dark and shining skin.  Completely fearless- if she lost, it would be an arrogant stunt.  If she won, – an newborn legend.

 

Her opponent that day was an wicked, ruthless girl.  A crazed, pale skinned,  red head named Annabelle Lucy- known to her fan’s as Hell’s Belle.  As she watched Tiffany’s entrance, her now wrestling overconfidence and bewildered terror twitched back and forth across her pressed lips and frozen blue eyes.  She bolted! and if your eyes and not yet left Tiffany’s body, you would have only seen a flash that slammed it to the floor.  Bringing her shoulders smashing down, her legs thrown up in the air like a rag doll, Annabelle laid across Tiffany’s chest with all her weight pressed upon her wrists far over her head.  Ten seconds later, pinned.  Ten and half seconds later, legs spread and pinned.  A shadow on the sidelines tossed Annabelle a dark blue vibrator.  Sliding it slowly up, down and under Tiffany’s clit, her smile grew desperate.  Tiffany’s body and moan tensed together as the sound eclipsed the hum from between her thighs, and moment later drowned out the roar of crowd, crescendoing into the long held note of overwhelming ecstasy.  Annabelle’s hands spidered up the long soles of her feet, up her calves, behind her knees between her thighs to the vibrator and slipped it in deeper.  Her fingers scattered across her hips and rips, tickling furiously at her tight stomach and skewering into her bellybutton.

 

At that moment, the crowd all heard-the tone of Tiffany’s shriek strengthened like a war cry.  She could not afford to be full pinned a second time.  As Annabelle feverishly raked a hand up her ribs to her breasts, still impaling her naval, Tiffany fought to keep her count of the seconds remaining on her wrist cuffs, preparing to fake her initial climax three seconds before her release in hopes she might tempt Annabelle to stay focused on her breasts and neglect to yield a tickling hand to maintain the pin another ten seconds.  As the fiery red hair fell around her breasts, the tight lips closed around Tiffany’s left nipple, their tongue beginning to circle quickly.  The pale left hand moved above the brown wrists preparing to shift weight.  The right pale hand descended to pump the dark blue cock deeper and faster into its captive.  The lips attacked the second nipple.  Tiffany was wet and reaching the end.  For what seemed like the thousandth and first time, every time, she remembered why she loved to be pushed to the sexual limit, and fight it- because- it felt like no other freedom.  Whenever she was pinned, helpless- she knew surrender was inevitable.  The surging waves of  crackling electricity racing through her skin.  Her toes curling back, abs, butt, and thighs swollen tight, her box trembling- It was a step by step process to complete release from all worldly stress.

 

She looked up into the mad blue eyes beaming and the red hair falling down around her tense trembling body.  The expression in Tiffany’s gaze, when it caught Annabelle’s, completely shattered her focus.  It almost looked like…gratitude.  She wasn’t resisting.  She was almost, welcoming the defeat.  Annabelle was stalled, her hands faltered.  Tiffany felt the storm’s swelling from her chest down through her belly to her burning clit subside for a split second, and by the split’s end she was free.

 

She channeled all her body’s stimulation into her wrists and pulled them away from each other, making Annabelle lose her supporting arm’s balance and fall atop Tiffany.  Her arms shooting behind Annabelle’s neck, Tiffany held her fast, pulling her face down to smother between her breasts, and clenching her body’s every muscle from neck to toe to hold back the tidal wave surging down to her clit.  Annabelle’s right hand pumped the vibrator faster as her left frantically pressed over Tiffany’s face and neck, choking her and loosening her grip.  She would have to give up on finishing her off if she wanted to keep her pinned.  She tried to swing her legs over Tiffany’s body to mount her, but Tiffany’s hold prevailed.  Her dark brown lips smiled as she counted to herself, 3…2…1.  Her anklets released.  She drew up her knees and launched off of her feet twisting her body to the side as Anna belle fell to the mat.  The crowd roared as the two golden arms snaked around the pale body from behind, pulling her shoulders in an arch, up from the mat and down again so quickly that few could describe exactly what she had done.  She’d managed to wrench Anabelle’s arms behind each of her knees, leaving the shrieking red haired banshee’s head neatly in her lap.  Anabelle’s legs, bending back at the knee alongside her body, were trapped against the floor under the weight of Tiffany’s body on her shoulders.  As if in a yoga asana, she lay flat with her ankles folded back against her hips, her arms out like a scarecrow pinned in Tiffany’s legs, still smooth from her lotion, but not budging an inch, and her head in Tiffany’s lap, forced to look up into the smiling face of her captor.  The vibrator, suddenly in Tiffany’s hand, gave Anabelle the feeling she’d just lost her queen in this chess game.  Sinking it deep inside, Tiffany whistled to her corner.  A ready fan carefully slid the bowl of cream across the mat for Tiffany to dip her finger tips in dig in her nails into Ana’s armpits.  All the souls of hell seemed to scream from Anabelle’s mouth as she fought against the crippling sensations, her body burning hot and her heart racing.  The long nail making her brain melt they tickled furiously.  Tiffany’s warm, confident smile curled wickedly.  She tickled down Ana’s ribs and around her breatsts, pinching and scratching over her nipples.  She watched Ana’s abs and quads tighten against the hum of the vibrator and she knew she was almost there.  Anabelle never begged, only screamed murderous threats between laughter and gasping breaths.  As Tiffany’s fingers moved back to her armpits, her screams shortened in lengh, doubling in speed and frequency- Tiffany’s tickling faster and faster. Anabelle’s cries louder and higher-her body trembled violently, flushed pink and pouring sweat.  Her hips bucked, her scream deafened the room. She convulsed in ecstasy, her hands clenching at the air.  Her eyes closed behind the tears streaming down her cheeks.

Tiffany unlocked her legs and stood up, and Ana curled in a ball, still trembling.

 

New Original Story

She leaned over him, pressing, smoothing her palms deep into his back and shoulders.  When his breathing was almost silent, her hands took his body softly and turned him over for his eyes to meet hers.  Both pairs brown.  Hers slightly darker.  She lifted his arms above his head and slid his wrists into their welcome restraints.  He watched her hands returning to and from the dish of what he liked to call liquid cocaine, back to his body. Her dripping fingernails slipped and dragged down his neck, chest, and abs, smoothing and spiraling the cool white cream across his skin.  The smell of the jasmine and and the coolness of the moisture melted his brain and set his every nerve end to high alert.  Her hands’ sharp nails circled and traced around his nipples and navel down to his throbbing second brain.  Her slick fingers clutched its tip and squeezed down, one after another, milking him up into a speeding one way tunnel.  His heart raced as his back and neck arched against his locked arms. Her hands parted as her hips rose up off his legs and slid down on top of him, rising and falling as her hands disappeared behind her back to his exposed balls.  His gaze returned to her eyes and as usual was quickly pulled down by the sparkling of the tiny ruby flashing from her navel.  Instantly her hands flashed back and viciously attacked him, scattering her nails around his chest and abs, down his arms and ribs.  His jaw locked and his teeth grit between his restraining smile. 

She began her teasing, come on, just laugh, make it easy on yourself, you know you love it, I know you do, just laugh, stop holding out on me or I”ll start being mean, she thrusted back and forth with her hips, and tickled him harder and faster.  His face tightened against the surmounting energy inside him.  Her hands were breaking his resolve, they were beating him.  He felt them clawing down and around his pelvic bones,  scuttling down between his thighs and closing in between his balls.  The cool tingling jasmine sinking in all over his back, chest, and abs began intensifying, making his head swim and he began to come in loving anguish.  Instantly she leapt from her perch and pumped him furiously with her right hand- prolonging his orgasm twenty, thirty, forty seconds as she continued with her left to tickle his most defenseless, precious resources until they were long drained- his cock still throbbing in awe of the over-stimulation.

She loved the power she had over his body-to take it back and forth between complete peace and writhing rapture…and her greatest pleasure was knowing also how much he loved and needed her to wield that power-to exploit his weaknesses with mercy and push his body to new limits.  This surrender was the joy of his life.  

They were never out of each other’s arms for long-every day began and ended in new colorful combinations of massaging, tickling, violent fucking, clenching, holding each other still, caressing, always caressing-their skin’s hunger for each other’s was insatiable.  Looking down at him, she knew at this moment he was putty in her hands and would refuse her nothing-and that she would most likely wake in the morning to the feel of his strong hands holding her fast and his shaft stiffening against her- that his tongue alone would remind her she belonged to him, and that as he thrusting drew her in and she started to moan he would grab her waist, squeeze tightly, and as she came he would dig his finger deep into her bellybutton and continue thrusting against her thighs, and she would shriek and cry his name and cum again and again.  And after, she would velcro her body to his and he would hold her and they would whisper their idle threats of payback.

Loving their routine more each day, she watched him now after her victory, watched his muscles slowly disengage as his chest deflated and he slowly recovered from the surrender.  His arms still tied above his head, she laid down upon his chest and dragged her nails an inch a second slowly down and up his arms and ribs, back an forth, listening to his heart beat and his breath draw in deeper with each pass of her nails slowing and softening.  Soon enough his hands found thier way out of the restraints and enveloped her slender body like a tight blanket.  She lay with her eyes closed as his chest rose and fell.

Next Teaser from Upcoming Series

Annabelle cuffed his hands and pulled his body down until his arms were stretched straight out, and calmly sat down beside him.

“I’m going to tickle you now…and I’m not going to stop…for a very…long…time.  Not just because you need to be reminded not to be an asshole, because you need to remember why you love me… you need this.  You need it.

She started dragging her hails up and down his ribs, and his body slowly arched left and right along in rhythm.

“I can tickle you here, on your hips, and you writhe.  I can tickle your ribs, and you tense your abs.

He was trying not to smile at how right she was, and trying like hell to resist his body’s reflexes.  But she was way ahead of him.

“And now when I start to tickle your stomach, you smile, you can’t help it, and when I get into your belly button, you really get hard.”

“Goddamit,” he cried and thrashed under her finger digging into his navel.

“This is everything for you isn’t it?  You love it.  You don’t care that I don’t fuck you.  You can’t even get it up anymore without being tickled.  All I have to do is say it… tickle…and a little thunderbolt flashes through your brain…because you just can’t help it.  You’re entire body is so vulnerably ticklish, so helplessly ticklish.”

Her nails lifted off his skin over his hip bones and her fingers starting moving in swift clawing waves across his waist.  He was throbbing and his abs and thighs tensed under the fingers that now controlled his every breath.  He looked up at her, her pale, white stomach and long legs beneath the blue shorts and black sports bra she was wearing.  Her hands moving all over his body, and eyes looking around the room.

“Where’s my lotion?”

The words sent another thunderbolt through his brain.

As she stopped, turned and reached down over the bed, he breathed deeply and quickly, preparing himself.

He felt the usual impulse to deny her words and insist this was her want-her need, but he knew it was futile.  This time was different. the voice of his obsession that could only cry out from the furthest secret corner of his thoughts was suddenly speaking so clearly through her.  This was an absolute fantasy come true- and the years of shame and repression piled upon it made its liberation an unstoppable force.  Her felt her hands flicker up his stomach forcing his whole body to shudder.  She leaned forward over him, her long, red hair trailing behind her fingers as she whispered,

“You wait through the days until you’re laying down here under my hands looking up at me, wishing desperately you could slam me down, and have your revenge… tickle me back ten times over for all the hours and hours I’ve spent breaking you.  You dream of knowing every ticklish spot of my body as completely as I know each and every one of yours.”

Her hands were really moving now.  She pinched at his nipples and clawed up under his arms.

“This one gets you bad,”

He was tense and gasping on his deep breaths trying to fight it, holding his eyes shut. She slapped him-

“Keep your eyes open dammit!”

He looked shocked, but obeyed.

“You love this part, I know you do.  As I start pushing you to your threshold you have to distract yourself by focusing on my body, and imagining your revenge.  You stare longingly at my stomach and my bellybutton and swear to yourself one day you will make them yours.”

He couldn’t fight it.  Her control was so deep reaching.  She knew his fantasies exactly- and he realized she was well aware that she was in fact creating them.  It all started coming together in his mind.  There was an elaborate design behind every detail of this routine she put him through.  She would never leave herself completely naked, but  most always revealing her stomach, legs and feet, knowing this kept the thought of sex further from his mind and instead moved ahead the immediate revenge of tickling her back.  Every time, his body’s sexual drive became more programmed to tickling, further and further away from penetration.

He looked up and down from her abs to her eyes.   and then threw his head back in submission as she moved her hands to his stomach.

“Goddammit!” he cried between choking laughs.

“You love it.  You need it!  and right here, here’s the most important spot.  No one has ever owned anything as wholly as I own your belly.”

Back and forth, her clawing getting deeper, her spidering fingers moving faster and faster.

“This goes straight to your ego, you’re nothing until this moment.  I can see it in your eyes every day.  Your whole body aches to be touched by me.  It can’t go more than a few hours without screaming for my hands to be all over it, and the feeling begins and ends… right… here!

She drove a finger into his navel and moved her other hand to squeeze his cock.

“Oh god! please, please finish me! Enough!”

“Tell me how you need me.  Look straight in my eyes and tell me how desperately you need this!”

“No! enough! YOU need this!”

Her hand left his cock and returned to his belly.  Her nails blurred like a pianists just above his hipbones up along side his navel.  She moved his face towards his and smiled into a sinister laugh.

“Oh you wish little man, I don’t need anything from you, but I do so enjoy hearing you beg for mercy when really what you want is more.”

He was thrashing now trying to throw her off.

“Tell me you how much need to be tickled!  Tell me how you can’t cum unless your whole body is ready to explode and you know and love how utterly helpless you are, how vulnerable, exposed, and surrendered you have to be to have that perfect, orgasm you can’t have any other way! Say it!  Say this is what you really want! and your insistence on sex is nothing but your petty male pride! Say it!”

He turned away from her again, clutching to his last thoughts of defiance.

“Say it!…or you will never, ever feel these legs wrapped around you…”

He stopped laughing for a moment, again in shock, his eyes wide and shooting deep into hers.  She stopped and stared back coldly, assuring him she was yielding no control.  Then, her eyes widened.

“SAY IT!” she screamed and streaked her nails up his ribs under his arms.

He tried to think.  His brain was now exploding in stimulation and curiosity, both too intense for any moment of logic or clarity.

He shut his eyes, grit his teeth against the torture and choked out a whisper, “tickle me..”

“What?!” she commanded, and slowed her fingers slightly.

“Tickle me…tickle me please, don’t stop…”

“Oh? are you sure? You’re not going to play you’re little game pretending to be a big strong man who wants to take charge and be in control?  Tell me more, I’m listening.”

Her fingers picked up speed and dug deeper into ribs.

“Tickle me!” he cried, almost triumphantly, then timidly again, “tickle… my stomach…”

“That’s right, that’s it but don’t call it your stomach now, say tickle my belly Anabelle!  My beautiful goddess!  Tickle my tummy more! I need it!”  She mounted him just below his cock and danced her tireless hands up and down his flexing, swelling, six pack.

“I need it!  I do, oh god! I’m yours! You win! Now finish me!”

“Uh, I know I win silly.  That goes without saying and not really the point here.  Tell me what your body needs more than anything…”

“You! to be tickled by you! to be pushed to the limit and forced to submit to you.  You’re my queen! you and no one else!”

Ana’s eyes were beaming, she smiled as she slowed her fingers once more.

“That’s it, you’re getting there now, I may be almost done, but you have to make sure I know exactly what you’re feeling right now.  Her smile grew as her tickling slowed back to stroking around his navel. “It’s important to communicate in a relationship…so tell me how you love the way I tickle you, how it’s your ultimate fantasy.  Tell me exactly what you feel when I tickle, and tickle, and tickle you, when I tie you up and tickle you alllll over your helpless, captive body. ”  Her fingers sped up ever so slightly, eagerly awaiting his response.

“I feel…” his eyes were still closed.  He could not yet look her in the eyes and confess the undeniable truth.  She could tell, and sat with her smug and cunning smile, and let him find his own pace for a moment before she would push him again.  His eyes closed tightly, his mouth fighting the exhausted laughter, “I feel… punished an rewarded at the same time, cursed but blessed…oh goddamit, it’s a weakness you love to exploit-”

“A weakness you love having exploited you mean!” She spidered her hands down his ribs, making him rock from side to side while she tickled a ring from his back to his belly.  “You feel blessed and rewarded because no one else can make you feel the way I can, now, look in my eyes and say it!”

She tickled him harder and harder, as he thrashed and turned his head from side to side, still refusing to give her what she wanted.  She’d said too much, and for the first time he felt empowered in being able to deny her what she wanted most.  She was making him believe beyond all his repressing doubts-that she knew better than he did that he needed to be tickled, that nothing else turned him on as immediately and intensely, and that the last minute or more of sucking or jacking him off to climax was almost out of latent instincts and now of secondary significance.   She had taken his fetish and twisted it so profoundly.  Denying him sex, and pushing him deeper and deeper into the role of a slave- both to her and to his fetish.  After so many months of her conditioning, it had become an obsession, and she had succeeded in redirecting his insistence and ultimatums for sex into an addiction to her ingenious traps of submission.

But now why had she reopened the conversation?  For the first time, suggesting an embrace between them.  Those words- her legs wrapped around his body.  What was it? A bluff? another manipulation?  His eyes opened and fell upon her foot, hanging off the edge of the bed.  Again, she slowed her fingers and followed his gaze traveling up her long white leg, skipping over her shorts to her navel, up and over her sports bra, slowly over that evil smile, until their sights locked together.

He looked suspicious, afraid, and determined.  She drew her hands together and dipped her pinky into his navel, her little red nail gently scratching just enough to force a quick smile across his tired face.  Her wicked smile suddenly became dear, tender.  It was a smile he almost never saw.

She knew his mind so well.  He was beginning to see hers.  He knew this would be the best chance he would to have to catch her off guard and open up about the things she kept so guarded.  He breathed a last heavy breath and started,

“Every time you touch me… tickle me… torture me…I feel myself growing more deeply and permanently bound to you, as closely and deeply as I’ve ever felt in love, and at times completely against my will… because.. I don’t understand why you won’t let us make love, and it makes it so hard to completely trust you.  But I can tell every day and every time, you grow more attached to me… and I think its fear that makes you feel you have to be in control, and never let yourself become vulnerable or open to me.”

Ana was paralyzed, she was…caught completely off guard.

“But I know that fear is bullshit…you’re so strong and determined. I know I’ll always feel you are my equal and soul mate, and that I’ll never find anyone else like you.  If you would just trust me…”

She blinked, shook her head slightly and looked back down on him, her command and composure quickly regained, the gentle smile lost.

“Well thank you for your honesty.  I know it’s difficult for you to assert yourself about anything personal, but that’s part of what we’re doing here isn’t it?  I’m a little hurt that you would think all this is some control freak overcompensation for insecurity.  Really, it’s ironic…you must be projecting your own shame.  I do it because I know how important it is to you and I want to help you get over your insecurity about it and embrace it.  I’m not afraid of being vulnerable to you, I just don’t have the same needs that you do and when I’m ready to have sex with you… you’ll be the first to know won’t you?”

With that, she whirled around in a flash of red hair and pounced on his feet.  With her back to him she breathed heavily her relief, listening closely to his once again defiant, cursing protests.  She tickled him with the unnatural ferocity and conviction of a death threat’s adrenaline rush, not sparing a moment’s offense to grab her lotion from the corner of the bed, and pour it across his twitching feet.  She could not allow him the opportunity to reflect or analyze her response.  She had to create as much time, and mental and emotional distance as possible to separate his ideas about her from her reaction to them.  Sneaky bastard.  Sneaky little fucking bastard had caught her off guard and poked deep into one of her weak spots, and did it by actually standing up for himself for once.  She had to do whatever possible to bury his memory of it.

She slid her devil fingers between his toes sending his body into convulsions and turning back towards him, she ran the line of lotion up his leg and thigh, around his cock and covered his torso up to his shoulders and neck.  Pressing his body down into the bed, filling the air with the warm, thick white tea and ginger scent, smoothing it into his chest, up and around his neck, his ecstatic moaning suddenly cut off by his gasp and growl as she dug her nails through the pools of debilitating lubricant into his arm pits and down to her never fail spot- his belly button.  Jerking his nerves back and forth every minute between her deep, long, massage passes over his torso and down to his feet and then sudden explosive tickling, she wanted him exhausted on every level.  When she saw his eyes becoming vacant and glazed, she scooped up the spare stripe of lotion she had across his thigh, and with both hands pumped down his cock sending him up into his most familiar vision of heaven. The first orgasm was the biggest he’d ever had.  Giving him only time enough to catch his breath, she wiped him down and recoated his body for another round, and by the time he came again, her bottle was empty.  He was limp. His wrists were raw against the cuffs and his arms were sore, but as she released them, they seemed to have no trouble finding their way around her delicate body as she pressed against him.

Why had she offered him that glimmer of hope about her legs wrapping around him?  She never said anything like that unless he was ready to walk out the door in frustration.  Why had she done it now?  For all her usual certainty, she couldn’t say.