Undoubtedly, the most ticklish of anime heroines would be Sailor Moon. Who else would make the top ten list?
Undoubtedly, the most ticklish of anime heroines would be Sailor Moon. Who else would make the top ten list?
Oh why wasn’t this scene in the movie?
Trick or treat you say? With tickling, they are one and the same 🙂
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.
The Girl I Love
The girl I love
Has feet like no princess,
And for me, no diamond
Possesses finer imperfections.
Battle scars biding my triage-
My deviant heart’s greatest joy.
Kneading into their parched skin
Her lush and favorite jasmine butter.
Caressing firmly in and drawing out
A warm glow and shimmer for the happy
End of another long day,
Burying them in socks of cloud cotton,
Keeping warm the glow,
Tender the sole.
Kneading them in my lap,
Laying by the fireplace.
The girl I love
Has eyes still determined, shut tight,
Still fighting, fast asleep in the firelight.
Until my patience tells me-
My kneading is not enough right now.
Slowly slipping off the socks,
Perfectly pinning down the diamonds,
I know she loves to hate loving how ticklish she is right now.
And I know how dearly our tired, fighting world needs
Her smile, her laugh, her shriek,
Her desperate pleas and vividly colorful threats,
And we both love knowing how bad I’m going to get it
If I let her go.
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.
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.