18+ Tickling Blog

Tickling focused fantasies, reflections, and community content (for mature audiences only)

[delano-plume-ta]

Tickling Session No. 1 (Part Two) 

I set the blindfold across your eyes, making sure it fits nice and snug. Your arms stay hoisted as a lace the straps behind your ears, checking to see if there are any spots where you could peek under. 

“Does it fit?” I ask, kneeling behind you, now at your level. 

“Perfectly Master,” you respond, feeling my hands guide your wrists down towards the top of your head, resting them on the crown. 

“Would you like me to tickle your feet now?” I ask you, watching your toes clench ever so slightly in response to the loaded question. 

“More than anything Master,” you finally say, unaware that my fingers have been just inches away from your bare soles this entire time. I brush across them, first the left foot, then the right, watching you jump with each swipe. 

“When did you get your pedicure?” I ask, tracing figure eights across the sole of your left foot, feeling you try so hard to compose yourself enough to answer. 

“This morning Master,” you say, feeling my skittering nails switch to the heel of your right foot, a maddening spot despite being less ticklish than your soles. 

“That’s a good little pet,” I coo in your ear, now dancing the tips of my fingers across both of your soles, as you rock gently back and forth on your knees, finding no place that gives you escape from the tickling. “Do you know how long I could decide to tickle you for, my pet?” 

“All night, Master?” you respond, thinking you have given the right answer, only to have me dig my nails deeper into the flesh of your soles, prompting you to yelp in surprise before dissolving into full throated cackles. “Ihehehem sohohohory Mahahahaster!” 

“You should be, for thinking I would let you go so early,” I say, leaving your soles as I watch you pant to catch your breath. “Try all weekend, hour after hour, not finding a single moment of break from it. Do you think you could handle that? Being tickled for three days straight? Would you have any choice?” I hammer in my point with a caress of the tender flesh underneath your toes, feeling you clench around my fingers to try to keep them out, only serving to keep them right in place. 

“Yahahahahahas Mahahassssteheheher!” you laugh yourself silly, strainging to keep your hands atop your head instead of protecting your vulnerable soles. “Ihehehe chohohohose the tickles!” Oh how well trained you are, knowing the right answers even when they feel so wrong. I stop for a moment, unbinding your wrists as I let your arms fall to your sides. 

“That’s right,” I say, lifting myself from the floor, as I gather up a gym bag I have waiting in the corner for you. “Now, stand.” You do as you’re told, lifting yourself from the carpet, as you stand in the middle of the room, still clothed besides the shoes discarded earlier. 

“Strip,” I say, watching as you slip the shirt off and toss it into the corner, doing the same with your pants, leaving you in only your underwear and the blindfold that still fits snug. “Very good. I wouldn’t want your clothes to get in my way.” Now, prepare yourself my pet, for the bed awaits you, and it’s going to be a long night of anything and everything but rest. 

(to be continued) 

[delano-plume-ta]

Tickling Session No. 1 (Part One)

It is night. You are in a dimly lit bedroom, kneeling on the plush carpet. Your wrists lay crossed in your lap, and your head is tilted down to the floor. Your shoes sit just outside the door, leaving you seated atop your bare feet. I quietly approach you from behind, pushing the hair out of your eyes as I gently lift your chin up by the tip of my finger. 

“Who is in charge?” I ask you. 

“You are Master,” you respond without hesitation. I slip my tie from around my neck, wrapping it around your wrists. You feel the warm smooth fabric tighten, hugging them together as I cinch the knot right before your eyes. 

“Is it too tight?” I ask you. 

“It’s just tight enough Master,” you respond, just the way I expect you to. I step back behind you, reaching over your right shoulder as I grasp the end of the tie. Ever so gently, I pull at the tie, guiding your arms up above your head. 

“Do you feel vulnerable?” I ask you. 

“Yes, Master,” you respond, telling me what I already know. Keeping the tie in one hand, I reach over, hovering my wriggling fingers just millimeters away from your left underarm. I see you purse your lips, knowing exactly what is coming. 

“Say it,” I command through a soft whisper into your right ear. 

“Please tickle me Master,” you request, as I begin dancing my fingers across the flesh of your underarm. Using my thumb to steady my hand, I skitter the tips of four fingers into its hollow. You twitch away for just a moment, an automatic response going against your better judgment. 

“Are you trying to get away?” I ask, knowing how hard you are trying to suppress even the slightest display of disobedience. 

“No Master,” you barely squeak out as I switch hands, poking into the soft muscle of your right armpit with one finger. Your teetering giggles slip from your lips as I watch you struggle from falling over onto the floor. I release my grip, watching as you begin to let your arms fall back down to your lap. 

“Keep them up,” I tell you, seeing them slowly inch their way back up over your head. 

“Anything you say, Master,” you tell me, as I begin tracing down your sides, poking at your ribs just beneath the thin fabric of your shirt. I can feel the tension radiating from you, trying so hard to keep composed as I thread my fingers between each crevice of your ribs. Snaking my way underneath your shirt, I begin teasing your midsection, focusing on the flesh just around your bellybutton. Your chest begins to heave, having exhausted yourself by keeping your arms up the entire time as I give you a short break. 

“Having fun yet?” I ask you, reaching into my back pocket for your next present. 

“I’m...always having fun...Master,” you strain to say. 

“That’s good, because we’ve got a night of even more fun in front of us,” I tell you, showing you the blindfold that will be our next toy to play with. 

(to be continued) 

[delano-plume-ta]

Tickling Fantasy No. 6 (Feather Massage)

I may have been a bit extreme in my last post, so let’s dial it back a bit and focus on something a bit gentler: a feather massage, or ticklessage, if you will. Picture yourself laying on your stomach atop a padded massage table, stripped naked (of course) as a pair of large soft feathers gently caress your backside, dragging their way down across your bare butt and legs until they are dancing across the soles of your feet. They tickle, but are more teasing than anything else, putting you just on that edge of giggles but not much further than that. You see, I can be nice when I want to be. 

Now imagine a vast collection of feathers, all different sizes and thicknesses, wielded in the same way, with each feather being chosen for a distinct spot and technique: a medium length feather that snakes into your tightly closed armpits, a pair of small soft feathers that tease your neck and ears that have no place else to go, and a long stiff feather to drag between each of your toes one at a time, sawing back and forth as you try to clench them together in futile effort to keep them out. Maybe one of them gets turned around, and a hard quill begins to drag its way across your ribs, scribbling away at the bottoms of your feet, much more intolerable than a soft feather alone. You see, I can also be mean when I want to be. 

But, if you are a good ticklee and don’t squirm too much, or try to resist a bit more than expected, then I will allow you to be flipped over, and we can start the exploration all over again. Only this time, I will have access to those erogenous areas that betray just how turned on you have become from this intimate feather massage, and this is where I can get extra devilish, I guarantee you. 

[delano-plume-ta]

Tickling Fantasy No. 5 (No Safeword)

I wonder what would happen if you were left completely vulnerable and at my mercy: stripped down to your underwear, lying spread eagle across a king size bed, bound in thick leather cuffs that stretch you to the brink by ratchet straps placed at all four corners. A ball gag would fit snugly between your teeth, and a blindfold tightly over your eyes, making sure the only sense you had left would be feeling the merciless tickle torture inflicted upon your person. 

I wonder what would happen if I took every bit of control away from you: skittering my fingers across your tender underarms, poking and prodding in between each rib, pinching at your hips as you buck against your restraints like a wild animal with no escape in sight. Your legs would quiver underneath each caress I inflict upon them, and your feet would feel nothing but the radiating sensation of nails across their surface, over and over as I see the lines disappear and resume again, throwing in a hairbrush here and there to drive you mad beyond belief. 

I wonder what would happen if all I hoped from this session was to break you inside and out: that for a full hour, you would be subject to a timer, one that was set to intervals of fifty seconds and ten seconds, and that for every fifty seconds of ruthless nonstop tickling, you would only receive a precious ten seconds to catch your breath. Oh but what a restless ten seconds it would be, as I count aloud those remaining moments as you lay there blind and unable to beg, knowing these breaks are few and far between for you to hope to regain any sense of composure before I begin my torments yet again. 

I wonder if you would even make it to the end of the hour before forgetting you ever even had a name or a life before becoming a broken little tickle toy, but then again, I wonder if you would want it any other way.

[delano-plume-ta]

Tickling Fantasy No. 4 (Terror on the Tenderfoot Trail)

It has been said that a crazed lunatic stalks the hiking trails around the Adirondack Mountains, snatching unsuspecting hikers from out of nowhere, only to whisk them away into a world of tickling torments. Taking them into the depths of his remote cabin, the diabolical figure inflicts upon his victims a torrent of merciless tickles across the entirety of their vulnerable bodies. Paying special attention to their feet, having been left especially tender and sensitive after a day of hiking on the trails, the terrible tickler makes quick work of his helpless houseguests, as locked in a set of custom made stocks, with their hands bound tightly behind their backs, his victims have no recourse but to watch as they are reduced to pitiful heaps of laughter underneath his skillful fingers right before their very eyes. 

It is said that he spends hours finding the exact spots that will drive his victims wild, from the crevices between their toes down to the bottoms of their heels, taking his time to savor every reaction he extracts from their straining throats. It is said that he chooses the most horrendous of devices to inflict upon his victims: the automated head massagers, strapped to the soles of their feet as he can sit back and enjoy their shrieks of hellish cackles. It is said that he makes them admit how much they love being tickled, how they wish to never return to their normal lives, but rather stay there in his lair, suffering a torrent of merciless tickles night after night. It is said that, once he is finished having his fun with them, be it mere hours or several unending days, that he releases them back where he found them, but not before taking from them the hiking shoes and socks he captured them in, displaying them in a shrine of suffering within his lair that is growing day by day. 

Who says all these horrible things? Why, I do, of course, and you would love nothing more than to be made part of that very shrine. How about it? Do you dare take one step towards the fate waiting for you on the Tenderfoot Trail? 

[delano-plume-ta]

Tickling Fantasy No. 3 (Renfaire Revenge)

College sophomore Lauren was your typical capricious young woman, balancing late nights at the bar with long days at the mall and the occasional stop at the study hall in between. Well, with her slipping grades prompting her mom to cut off her weekly allowance, poor Lauren suddenly finds herself in desperate need of cash to cover her credit card bills by the end of the month. Fortunately, through the magic of the internet, she encounters a prospective patron offering to pay off her debt in exchange for a tickling video to be shot at the local renaissance fair. The catch: it will be featuring none other than her own mother Patricia, a high-profile divorce attorney who just finished up a case involving a highly vindictive husband wanting to see “Trish the Bitch” get hers. 

So, with Lauren having convinced her mother to accompany her, the two are led into a small tent towards the back of the festival, one featuring a large board said to be used for interrogations during the Spanish Inquisition. With some gentle nudging from her daughter, Patricia finds herself bound tightly across it, completely immobilized with a nine point restraint system that will prove to be her downfall. For one hellish hour, the mother finds herself at the hands of half a dozen ticklers, all the while her daughter sits just outside the tent, watching it all through a hidden camera feed as she calculates just how likely it is her mother would learn the truth. 

The moment her three inch power pumps were slipped off her feet spelled disaster for the usually composed lawyer, shrieking in howling laughter as they skittered their nails across her nylon clad soles. Her daily gym sessions proved her downfall as they snaked their way underneath her blouse, pinching and prodding at her toned midsection as she howled in forced cackles. Even her ears and neck were no match for their teasing feathers, throwing her into a torrent of giggling guffaws as she threatened to sue every last one of them into oblivion, only stopping once the cleave gag was wadded in between her gleaming white teeth. By the end of it, as she lay there in a puddle of her sweat and tears, she can only ask herself when she can schedule her next visit to the Renaissance fair. 

[delano-plume-ta]

Tickling Fantasy No. 2 (Laughter in the Library)

She is sitting in the library, reading away on her tablet in the study section, just her and all the other visitors who use the time for catching up on schoolwork and work emails. However, rather than perusing the newest fantasy novel or scientific publication, unbeknownst to those around her, she has in front of her a detailed list of all the tickling fantasies that have been written about her. Solicited online from dozens of anonymous sources, this collection of posts stems from just one question posted below a photograph of her from the neck down, wielding a feather between her fingers: what would you do to me if you had the chance? 

She reads every word of what they would subject her to: of how they would keep her locked away in their basements indefinitely, subjecting her to godless tickle torments night after endless night as her shrieking laughter would never see the light of day, or of how they would record her helpless cackles, her forced admissions of loving to be tickled played back for her as they relentlessly tickle her helplessly vulnerable body until she is left a broken shell of a tickle toy. The list goes on and on, with every word being drilled deep into her psyche as she feels her arousal radiating across her entire body in the most public of places. 

All the while, I am just underneath the desk, teasingly dancing my fingers across her tenderly sensitive thighs, underneath her trembling knees, and across the tops of her bare feet as she writhes in desperate attempt to control her laughter in this quiet sacred space. Biting the edge of her lip, she struggles to remain composed as she scrolls across the updates that keep on pouring in, signaling no end in sight to this heavenly hellish ordeal. How embarrassing it would be for anyone to stumble on our little game, especially on the growing wetness that has accumulated on the seat, her intense arousal getting the better of her even in a public library of all places. 

[delano-plume-ta]

Tickling Fantasy No. 1 (Handyman House Call)

Please pay no attention to the nondescript white van parked just down the street, or the person in uniform walking up to the front door with tool chest in hand. That’s me, just a boring everyday handyman making a house call, nothing to get curious about. Of course, if you were curious, you would find me doing much more than fixing leaky sinks and faulty wiring. 

Instead of my fingers digging away in an electrical panel, you would see them plunging deep into the hollows of the homeowner’s underarms, her smooth flesh writhing underneath my fingertips in wildly ticklish frenzy. Rather than spackling a hole in the drywall, you would find me dragging a hairbrush across her flailing toes, prying them back by the toe tie as I lather than in another coat of fresh baby oil. And that buzzing you would hear would not be coming from a drill bit making a hole for the new kitchen cupboard, but rather the...oh, I think you get the point. 

You see, a handyman is the perfect cover when in possession of the tools of my trade. Nobody would know that the several yards of thick rope in the back of my van were meant solely for restraining my client, be it spread eagle across her bed or hogtied atop her couch. No one will believe that the duct tape hooked on my belt was to be layered across her mouth, keeping their shrieking laughter muffled as to keep her neighbors from busting down their door. Maybe the grooming gloves would give it away, meant for scraping across the surface of her belly ribs as she cries out in cackling screams. Then again, I could always admit to my moonlighting gig as a pet groomer (hence why they might be seeing me later at night in a different home). 

This is what my clients call me for, as they yearn for that one hour of ticklish bliss at the hands of a skilled tradesman like me, unbeknownst to their roommates or loved ones that the neighborhood handyman is an on-call tickler for their pleasure. Lucky for them, I do all this work pro bono, with the blissful laughter of my clients the only payment I will accept.