[dominicsolletti]

Working out

The chime on her phone made her stomach clench.

He was at the gym again. He had set the app on her phone to alert her when he worked out.

He logged a blistering pace on the treadmill. It was just a warm-up. She knew she’d never be able to outrun him.

His bench press was triple what she had ever managed. She could imagine his forearms flexing as he pinned her wrists above her head.

The next number he recorded was oddly specific: he squatted her weight. For twenty reps.

It wasn’t a round number—he would’ve had to hunt around for the exact combination of plates to add up to what she weighed.

He was training to chase her down, capture her, throw her over his shoulder, and carry her back to his lair. And he wanted her to know.

Seemed like a lot of work to take her somewhere she already wanted to go.

[dominicsolletti]

I can’t think about anything right now except how badly I want to tie someone in knots, pin them down, make them beg, make them scream, make them like it, make them admit they like it, make them thank me for it, and finally make them orgasm so hard the only thing they can remember about themselves is who they belong to.

[dominicsolletti]

The Penalty for Blasphemy

The illusory fingers began to move, and thinking became incredibly difficult for Adun. Fingers prodded under his arms and scribbled at his feet. They squeezed his waist and hips and thighs. They slipped into more intimate places with feathery touches he couldn't avoid. Adun grunted and bucked, the sudden onslaught overwhelming him with shivery sensations. He knew himself to be particularly sensitive, but his previous experiences being teased by friends or lovers were never this urgent or intense. "There are certain … pressure points," the old monk said. "Even very strong men might be brought low by a gentle touch, properly applied."

Read the rest on my site.

[dominicsolletti]

Waiting room

I sat on the edge of the bed, trying to make myself do anything besides stare at the television. It was mounted on the wall in front of me, encased in a plexiglass box so I couldn’t turn it off or change the channel.

For now, it only showed blocky white text on a blue background. At the top, it read “YOUR SESSION BEGINS IN”, with a countdown underneath that currently read a little over ten minutes. Lower down, “YOUR VIDEO BEGINS IN” had only about two minutes remaining.

Canvas straps formed a taut spider web on the bed behind me. Next to me sat a silver serving tray, three little cellophane packages arrayed across it. They contained a black spandex hood, a red rubber ball gag, and a pair of disposable ear plugs in bright orange foam.

My stomach roiled. It was warm in the room, and I was starting to sweat under my coat. All my clothes felt tight and itchy somehow, as though I was suddenly unaccustomed to having them against my skin. I was scared to take them off.

As I perched there, wracked with indecision, the second countdown reached zero. The screen changed to an image of me, limbs splayed wide across the bed, straps pulling my body so tight I could barely wiggle. I was wearing nothing but the hood, though I knew the gag and earplugs were in place beneath it.

The video didn’t show the beginning of my previous session, but a portion near the middle. Four masked figures surrounded me, tormenting me while I was totally helpless to evade their touches.

One knelt near my right foot, masked pulled up slightly so she—from her frame and jawline I guessed it was a woman—could nibble and lick between my toes.

A man stood over my left foot, firm grip on my toes and a grooming glove over his other hand. He dragged it almost lovingly across my arch, gentle swipes back and forth, offering no hint he intended to stop any time soon.

Another person, their gender impossible to guess from the angle, had a hand in each of my underarms, fingers dancing wildly, pausing now and then only to reach a little lower down and squeeze my ribs.

A second woman straddled my waist. She had a series of tools spread out between my open thighs: feathers, q-tips, makeup and paint brushes, a metal pinwheel. She wore black nitrile gloves that glistened with lubricant. She stroked my sex with both hands, calmly, expertly. My whole body trembled at her touch.

The image of me begged for mercy, my words garbled by saliva and the gag and my desperation. My body remembered, with a vividness that defied logic, the sensations they had inflicted. I could almost feel them again, just watching the video.

In a corner, the timer ticked down. Five minutes remaining.

I tore at the wrapper containing the ear plugs. In my haste and fear, I fumbled at it, fingers numb as my heart pounded. Then the wrapper burst open, sending one plug flying back onto the tray, the other on my lap.

I scrambled to retrieve them, but it was too late. I heard the … noises … I made when I climaxed. I heard the moans melt into panicked whimpers when the masked people didn’t stop. I pressed the plugs into my ears just in time to cut off the sounds of my renewed squeals.

I threw my coat to the floor and kicked off my shoes. I nearly tripped over my pants as I rushed to push them down my legs. If I were wearing anything when they arrived, they would strip it off me. I wasn’t sure I could handle that.

I felt a hot, needy ache in my lower belly that I refused to acknowledge. I ripped open the package with the gag, clutched it between my teeth, and buckled it behind my head.

I glanced at the tv again, trying and failing not to focus on the picture of my last visit. I was thrashing frantically. They were scribbling at my feet and kneading my ribs and sawing feathers between my legs, and I was letting out muffled animal howls.

A horrible understanding washed over me like a bucket of ice-cold water: in that moment, I was broken. I would’ve given everything I’ve ever had, and promised my entire future, to escape from their clutches.

Now, I stood in that same room, a relentless clock ticking down the seconds until it happened again. I had come here on purpose. I wanted this. There was something terribly sick about that.

Belatedly, my vision found the clock and discovered I had less than a minute left. I yanked the hood over my head, twisting it until the oval of thicker fabric covered my eyes and forced me to stop watching the record of my demise.

I didn’t hear the door open.

[dominicsolletti]

The Princess Treatment

Princess Omelai lay on an elegant chaise in the center of the ethereal beam. To Voshaun's bewilderment, though, she appeared inverted, her stomach on the cushioned seat, her head at the bottom of its slope. Her feet hung over the apex of the chair, fixed in place by wrappings of golden silk that bound her ankles to decorative wooden finials at the uppermost corners. Two of her ladies-in-waiting—Lady Hilah and Lady Madye, if the prince recalled correctly—stood over the royal feet, gently scrubbing at her soles with soft grooming brushes of a sort Voshaun had never seen. Omelai was not enduring this odd treatment with regal detachment. On the contrary, her body shook and shivered, her hair flying loose around her shoulders. She hugged a pillow with both arms, pressing it over her face in a vain effort to silence her bubbling laughter.

Read the rest on my site

[dominicsolletti]

A test of control

“You can do this,” she says. “Focus.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and let her command echo through my head. If I let my concentration slip before she even starts, I won’t stand a chance.

I let out a slow breath and reach my mind out toward the limits of my predicament. Each hand is locked in a soft cuff that traps my arms down at my sides. Heavy stocks, with a thick padlock on either end, hold my ankles. Thin cords entwine my bare toes, holding my feet deliciously exposed and vulnerable …

I snap myself away from that dangerously distracting thought. I know what’s going to happen if I don’t escape, but allowing myself to linger on those images will only make them come true.

Four locks. Even one is a challenge for a well-trained telekinetic; the fine control required to shift each tiny pin into place and twist the cylinder without moving the casing takes years of practice.

But our power is useless if we can only exercise it in quiet classrooms. So she and I came up with a test as extreme as we could imagine. Multiple locks. Distractions, both physical and mental. And a time limit, of a sort.

I start working at the lock on my left hand, as it feels the easiest. It’s difficult to describe the sensation, but I can almost feel the clicks as one pin, then another, then another slide into place.

I gasp as she drizzles cool, slippery oil onto my toes, rivulets racing down my soles. I feel the shivers all the way to my scalp.

Only a moment of shock before she begins massaging the oil into my skin, but more than enough to make me fumble the lock. I begin again.

I manage to free my left hand only an instant before a wooden stylus, its tip narrow but slightly rounded, begins drawing slow sigils up and down my right foot.

My only defense now is determination. I throw every ounce of will into unlocking my right hand. I push the pins into place, and feel the cylinder shift …

The brushes end any chance of me getting out. My eyes fly open to meet her broad, evil grin. She’s sitting back in her chair, arms folded across her chest. Waving two hairbrushes around isn’t a grand feat of telekinetic prowess. But she scrubs them across my arches, applying exactly the right pressure to drive all thoughts from my head.

“Your hands are free,” she says. I can’t tell whether it’s an encouragement or a taunt. “Keep going.”

Laughter pours out of me, stopping only when I run out of air and have to take a breath to laugh again. “Please,” I wheeze. “Wait.”

My power claws uselessly against the first lock on the stocks. At this point, my control is so scattered that I’d have a better chance trying to break the lock with my hands. Which is to say, no chance at all.

Two plastic combs float up into the air between us. “Last time I tried this, you dragged a comb between my toes until I cried.” The scary thing is, she doesn’t sound the least bit angry. “I wonder how well these will work on you.”

I feel her power against my forearms, inexorably forcing them down, locking me back into the cuffs I only just opened. A blindfold sails toward my face and wraps itself around my head.

The flexible teeth of the combs make contact with the impossibly sensitive spots between my toes. As I start to scream, a gag settles between my teeth.

The truth is, neither of us has ever managed to get out. Tonight, obviously, won’t be any different. But that won’t stop us from trying. Nor will either of us ever admit that sometimes, we enjoy losing.

[dominicsolletti]

Feeling absolutely feral this morning. Again. Always.

[dominicsolletti]

I’m not going to punish you.

I’m not disappointed in you. I’m certainly not angry with you.

I think you’re a wonderful person, and I’m lucky to know you.

So I’m not going to punish you.

Instead, I’m going to give you exactly what we both know you want.

And if that somehow sounds like a punishment, perhaps we need to talk about why you’re so excited to receive it.

[dominicsolletti]

Hunted

Jess could not run any more. Panicked, she tucked her body into a cleft in a large tree. It was a terrible hiding place; anyone standing at the correct angle would see her instantly.

She just needed her terror to subside, her breath to return, and her heart to stop trying to leap out of her chest. Just a minute or two, so she could think.

She heard a rustle in the undergrowth, then pounding footsteps. The noise was getting louder—they were coming toward her.

Before her brain could decide whether to keep hiding or bolt, Maddie sprinted past. Nick was right on her heels.

Maddie let out a scream as he caught her. One arm snaked around her waist, the other hooking behind her knee and lifting her off her still-kicking feet. His fingers pulsed against her hamstring and slithered up under her shirt, until her protests were choked out by breathless laughter.

Jess was frozen in place, afraid to do anything but stare. They hadn’t noticed her, but they were close enough to her hiding spot that the slightest movement on her part could change that.

Nick lowered Maddie to her feet, spun her around, and forced her arms behind her back. Reaching into a deep side pocket in his pants, he produced several thick zip ties and quickly secured her wrists.

When he pulled a pair of medical shears from the same pocket, she renewed her struggles. Jess couldn’t see exactly what happened, but in a matter of seconds, Maddie’s top and sports bra hung from her shoulders in tatters.

Nick pulled the shirt fabric loose and wrapped it around Maddie’s head to cover her eyes. Jess heard her whimper as he next yanked her leggings and underwear down to her ankles, leaving her entirely bare from her nose to her shins.

Jess watched Nick’s hands roam across that bare skin the same way she would a skydiver or bungee jumper. Some small, very insistent parts of her were certain she would find the experience utterly exhilarating. The rest of her was far too gripped with fear to ever volunteer for such an experience.

Hobbled, blinded, and bound as she was, Maddie had to lean her naked body against Nick just to avoid falling over. He exploited that to its fullest, a constant barrage of pokes and scratches and tickles making her dance and giggle in place.

Fingers on her hips made her fold at the waist, but a squeeze on her ass made her shoot upright again His fingertips brushed her stiff nipples until she squealed. Grazing his knuckles over her ribs made her shake with silent laughter.

Despite the unending teasing, every time his hand slipped between her thighs, Maddie let out an unmistakably needy groan.

All the while, he kept up a murmured dialogue that Jess couldn’t make out, his lips close to Maddie’s ear, his clothed body against her naked one. Intimate as it seemed, Jess was completely unable to pull her eyes away.

A large hand closed over the lower half of Jess’s face, and a strong arm wrenched her out of the tree. Nick glanced up, surprised by Jess’s muffled cry, but merely grinned wickedly at her—at them—and returned his attention to Maddie.

Jess was dragged backward around the tree, until all she could see in front of her was empty forest. Her back was securely pinned to a broad, familiar chest. Her knees felt like jelly, and a knot of molten heat trembled deep in her stomach.

“Caught you,” he growled.

[dominicsolletti]

The Witness

“OH GOD! Please no! Please!” Olivia screamed.

Hannah eyes, which were open as wide as dinner plates, were beginning to dry out. Belatedly, she remembered to blink.

Olivia’s legs were locked in some sort of homemade wooden contraption that kept them perfectly immobile. Her bare feet, which stuck out from the thing, were completely drenched in oil. Bits of string encircled each toe, so they could barely wiggle.

The masked man, who had introduced himself as Tim, was scrubbing those trapped feet with some weird, rubber-stippled mittens.

Based on Olivia’s reaction, the mittens apparently tickled worse than every previous tool put together. She shrieked with laughter and shook uselessly at the chains that held her arms down at her sides.

Hannah felt profoundly out of her depth. She had been helping her best friend since the first time Olivia sold pictures of her feet online—pictures Hannah had taken, in a rush of inebriated enthusiasm for what seemed like a goofy idea.

Hannah didn’t understand why so many people paid for those pictures. Nor why Olivia clearly enjoyed taking them, above and beyond the lure of money.

Almost a year later, that fun apartment enterprise had escalated into a serious video shoot. The back bedroom in Tim’s suburban home was stocked with what must have been a fortune in cameras, lighting equipment, and bondage furniture.

Hannah was just there for support. She sat, bewildered, in a corner of the room where Olivia could see her but the cameras couldn’t.

“OK, that’s enough,” Tim said. He stepped away from Olivia’s feet and removed the mittens. “You get a bit of a breather while I adjust the lights.”

Olivia’s giggles continued for several seconds after the ticking ended. When she finally caught her breath, her eyes locked with Hannah’s.

Olivia looked, ironically, breathtaking. She had a wide, giddy smile, and a happy flush to her cheeks. Her hair was a mess, but in a way that evoked really good sex. The sheen of sweat on her brow just made her skin glow.

Just like that, Hannah got it. Sure, the method was strange. But anything that could make her friend look like that was worth doing.

After a pregnant minute, Hannah became aware Tim’s mask was off. She was still surprised by how normal he looked; she might have passed him in the supermarket and never dreamed he made fetish videos in his spare time.

“I think we’re ready for the big finale,” he said. His eyes darted back and forth between the two women, weighing an idea. “Hannah, would you maybe like to join me for this?”

She opened her mouth, reflexively ready to say ‘no’. One look at her friend stopped her.

Olivia looked like a kid on Christmas morning, eager and nervous and hopeful.

“OK, yeah,” Hannah heard herself saying. She glanced back at Tim. “Uh … what do I do?”

“Pull your chair up here,” he responded, shifting a tripod over so there would be room for her to sit near Olivia’s still-slippery arches. “You can mess with her feet, while I take her upper body. Only your hands will be in the shot,” he added in reassurance.

As Hannah got into position, Tim released Olivia’s arms and helped her take a few sips of water. He enclosed her hands in thick leather cuffs. With her arms stretched upward and attached to a hook in the ceiling, Olivia’s skimpy top left her underarms and a wide stripe of bare stomach exposed.

Hannah lifted a hand toward her friend’s arch and experimentally scratched at its center with a single fingernail.

“Ah!” Olivia squeaked. “Fuck you. I wasn’t ready.”

“You’d better get ready,” Tim advised, pulling his mask back on. He stood behind her, large hands hovering around her ribs, inches from striking. “Cameras are running. We’re going to start in three … two … one …”

[dominicsolletti]

The Inevitable

Nelef tiptoed down the darkened corridor, his boots silent on the deck, his stomach in knots. He selected Cargo Bay 4 on a whim and slipped inside.

Some species considered humans inherently irrational creatures. Nelef usually took that as an insult. Right now, he didn’t want to think about how irrational he was being.

He locked the bay door and activated the sound dampening field. Then he tripped.

The s’Hul-coT did not experience linear time the way humans did. They could see a potential future, and subtly manipulate the past until that potential became inevitable. They made a children’s game of it.

To Nelef, it felt a bit like tag or hide-and-seek. Except he had zero control over whether he won or lost.

His foot caught on a box that hadn’t been there a moment before. He flailed his arms to steady himself, but only managed to smack a hand into the room’s anti-gravity controls.

He fell up, at -0.63 Earth Standard Gravity, toward the cargo filaments on the ceiling. A thousand tiny wires caught and coiled around him, until he couldn’t move an inch.

“Your actions do not comport with standard safety protocols,” Adrexi teased.

Nelef replied with a phrase that was vulgar in several galactic languages. As he squirmed, he realized his chest and feet were bare, even though he remembered putting on boots and a shirt. A flush of heat went through him, embarrassment and something else.

Adrexi let out a stuttering hiss of laughter. The human was splayed out, face to the ceiling, helpless. It raised its hands to the human’s ribs.

Nelef thrashed and let out several more curses before the laughter began to bubble out. When he had introduced tickling to their game—on an occasion Adrexi allowed him to gain the upper hand—he discovered that his friend was surprisingly sensitive to light touches along its skin. He had not expected Adrexi to be so good at tickling him back.

It scrabbled twelve fingers under his arms, then walked them down his sides in a dizzying dance. It coaxed the cargo filaments into grasping his toes, so it could give his big, soft feet a thorough scrub.

Adrexi could see the moment when Nelef would break. It could adjust its own touch in the seconds before that, holding back just enough that the human could endure a little longer. Human endurance was already legendary, so Adrexi felt no guilt in tickling him for a very, very long time.

By the time Adrexi finally stopped, Nelef was drenched in sweat, throat scratchy from screaming and skin buzzing with ticklish aftershocks.

“Next time,” he gasped, “I’m going to get you back.”

Adrexi’s face contorted into an expression Nelef had learned to interpret as extreme skepticism. What it said was, “We shall see.”

[dominicsolletti]

Caught in a dream

Her dream was just getting to the really, really good part when a bolt of primal fear jolted her awake.

She was on her belly on the couch, quite sure she hadn’t fallen asleep that way. He was on top of her, pulling her arms behind her back.

“Noooo,” she whined, voice still fuzzy.

“You were moaning in your sleep, my dearest,” he teased. “I thought you’d rather have the real thing.”

He quickly wound duct tape around her forearms, trapping them in a thick layer. The long sleeves of her new flannel pajamas protected her skin and allowed him to use as much tape as he liked. She hadn’t anticipated this double-edged feature of the gift, but he probably had.

She tried to kick her feet, only to find her legs were already mummified from knees to ankles. She must have been out cold.

His hands plunged up under her top, finding bare, warm, and very ticklish skin. She squealed and writhed, but couldn’t shake him off.

“Tell me about this dream,” he ordered. “Was it really sexy?”

Her answer came slowly, each syllable fighting through gasps and giggles to escape. “We were … at a party. You were … going down on me … while every– …. everyone watched!”

He stopped tickling, but only to start working her pants and underwear down off her hips, exposing her. Vague images from the dream still danced in her head, now joined by images of her current predicament in a way that felt deliciously vulnerable.

“That sounds wonderful,” he said. “I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”

He gripped her hips, each strong middle finger poised above the spots on her hipbone that never failed to make her scream. His tone chilled considerably. “Now. What were you really dreaming about?”

“Andrea!” she blurted, too panicked by his implied threat to stick to her story. “It was Andrea. She was going down on me, and you were holding my legs apart so everyone could see. It was so embarrassing …” She pressed her face to the couch cushion, a distinctly undreamlike flush now making her cheeks burn.

He slipped a hand between her naked thighs. She instinctively opened for him, as much as her bound legs allowed.

“Is that why you’re soaking wet?” He asked, dragging two rough fingers through her folds. “You’d love to have her hot little tongue licking you right here.”

She let out an animalistic groan. The shame of her confession blended with his knowing, confident touch like a potent cocktail of drugs. It stole her speech and muddled her thoughts. She wiggled her ass, body hard-wired to seek the perfect friction.

The hand that wasn’t working between her legs remained curled around her hip. Her dizzying transition from sleep to bondage to sex rendered its position a distant and easily forgettable fact. Until it started to squeeze that spot.

She howled. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sor—“

He quickly covered her mouth, smearing her own arousal onto her lips as he stifled her laughter. He kneaded her ass, the backs of her thighs, her lower ribs, and everywhere else he could reach while she thrashed and cried under him.

By the time he stopped, she was breathless, sweaty, and almost frantic to have his fingers between her legs again. Instead, he leaned forward and brought his mouth so close to her ear, she could feel his breath.

“Next time we see Andrea,” he growled, “you’re going to tell her exactly what you just told me.”

“Oh fuck,” she sobbed. Most of her other friends would laugh the dream off; a few might even be grossed out. Andrea would laugh too, but then she’d be excited to see whether her real-life skills could compete with her dream self.

It would be a deeply humiliating conversation, not least because she would inevitably stammer through it, red faced and increasingly turned on, while Andrea’s grin grew wider and more devilish.

“And then,” he continued, “I’m going to tell her about all your most ticklish spots, and let her do whatever she wants with that information.”

That thought left her genuinely speechless. Before she could find a reply, he was climbing off of her. He pulled her wrapped body up to her feet and hoisted her onto his shoulder, her feeble resistance not enough to phase him.

“OK, OK, I’ll tell her!” she offered.

“Yes you will,” he replied. He carried her toward their bedroom. “And your punishment is over now. The rest is just for me.”

[dominicsolletti]

You have something I want.

I want your waist between my hands, skin on skin, so the slightest twitch of my fingers makes you jump and gasp.

I want your arms up and your legs open, so I can explore those places your primal instincts scream to protect.

I want your toes in my mouth, so my lips and teeth and tongue can discover the exact midpoint between ticklish and erotic, and dangle you off that precipice.

I want the body you don’t always love, and the vulnerabilities you wish you could erase, and the self control that so often sits heavy on your shoulders.

I want to see and hear and taste the incomparable pleasure you feel when I take these things from you,

and for you to see the same bliss reflected back in my expression.

We aren’t wandering a vast and empty desert, desperate for the sip of water that might let us survive another day.

We’re at a miraculous restaurant, where the food is so stunningly delicious that every other meal seems bland, and we never stop craving the next course.

I want to be your chef, waiter, and maitre d’. In exchange, I want you on my plate, hot enough for the entree and sweet enough for dessert.

I want every part of you at my fingertips.

And if I’m not entirely mistaken, you want that too.

[dominicsolletti]

Not what I usually post, but perhaps someone will enjoy …

[dominicsolletti]

In their hands

She stepped out of the shower to find fresh towels on the portable heating rack. The thoughtfulness brought a sheepish smile to her lips. They really cared about her.

As she dried herself, her anxiety-addled brain considered whether it might be better to stay behind the locked door all night, and not face whatever was waiting.

“Almost ready?” called a voice outside the door.

“Almost,” she yelled back. Pushing those cowardly thoughts away, she hastily pulled on the clothing set aside for her: an oversized t shirt, comfortable underwear, and soft pajama shorts.

She briefly wished for something sexier to wear. On the other hand, they hadn’t provided socks or a bra, and she wasn’t sure which of those absences made her shiver more.

The last item she pulled on was a cushioned sleep mask that stretched over her still-damp hair and blocked her vision entirely. Groping for the door, she nervously twisted the knob.

Before she could take a blind step outside, their hands found hers. She squeezed gratefully and let them guide her on shuffling bare feet across the carpet.

They helped her onto the padded table—also covered in heated towels, she noticed. With soft words and gentle touches, they coaxed her to lie on her stomach and let her face settle into the hole in the tabletop cut for just that purpose.

Of all the things she had been bracing for, kneading fingers on the back of her neck weren’t among them. She could feel warm oil being spread over her skin, and strong, slow gestures that dipped past the collar of her shirt to caress her shoulders.

She flinched as another pair of hands closed around one foot, but it only rubbed firm, slippery circles into her arch. The pressure drew a groan from somewhere deep within.

“I like that sound,” purred the voice near her head. “Let’s hear it again.”

She had never had a professional massage, so certain was she that the touch of even the most skilled masseuse’s fingers to her sensitive spots would leave her squeaking and fighting to crawl away. You were supposed to leave the spa refreshed and relaxed, not humiliated and even more tense than before.

It made a wicked sort of sense that the two people who knew the most about tickling her would also know exactly how not to.

Quick downward pumps along her spine elicited several disturbingly satisfying cracks. Expert hands worked every bit of tension out of her toes, heels, and ankles, until her head swam with relief.

One set of hands slowly walked down her body, the other up, until they met around the large muscles of her ass. She wouldn’t have guessed she held stress there, but she certainly felt its sudden absence.

Then the hands reversed course and gradually returned to their starting points. Or maybe they had switched places; as they were rapidly turning her into a very happy and sleepy puddle of goo, it was hard to tell them apart. Or care.

Her head was so pleasantly fuzzy, she offered no resistance or protest as they pulled her limbs toward the corners of the table. The stretch felt nice, like just another element of the fantastic pampering.

Even when they closed the soft cuffs around her wrists and ankles, she could only muster a feeble whimper of dissent.

“You are so adorable!” one voice cooed. “What are we going to do with you?”

“I think we should tickle her!” the other voice offered, unhelpfully. Just hearing the word sent a delicious chill through her.

“Is that what you want? I bet it is. You love it when we tickle you all over, and you can’t get away, don’t you?”

She let out a muffled sob, the vulnerability of her predicament still not cutting through her blissed-out haze enough to allow words.

“Now, now. Let me just get this gag on you …”

“No, don’t. I want to hear her laugh.”

[theminipotat]

Does video evidence of Ler Lux exist? For uh, no particular reason. Not flustered at all, I swear 😇

No but @cute-lil-kiddo can attest to it 🤭

[dominicsolletti]

I was, gloriously, fortunate enough to have a VERY good vantage point on this event (one of the folks holding her down so Lux could take advantage). It was … how can you even describe that? So good I still can’t believe it was real. One thing I can say is that Lux wore an infectiously evil smile the whole time.

[dominicsolletti]

Fun games to play with your lee

Capture them in a different location and make them walk to where the session will be.

Show them any toys you intend to use. Tell them how and where you’ll use each.

Order them to lift their arms, spread their legs, wiggle their toes, etc. Tickle them in an different spot.

Suggest a conversation topic unrelated to tickling. Feign frustration when they laugh too hard to respond.

Have them count down from ten. Start tickling on three.

Have them count down again. Let them reach zero. Pause a few seconds, then ask what they expected.

Once you have established at least two particularly sensitive spots, ask them to choose which they want you to tickle. If they can’t or won’t decide, tickle both at once.

Make them look into your eyes. Ask whether they can see how much fun you’re having.

Point out how disappointed they would be if you had gone easy on them.

When they become tired, inform them you’ll stop if they manage to escape.

OR, inform them you’ll stop if they can be quiet for a specified amount of time.

OR, inform them you’ll stop when they stop being so ticklish.

If they somehow manage any of the above, point out that you never specified when you would stop.

Check your calendar, note aloud that you have no firm plans for the next few days, and wonder whether stopping is even necessary.

When you finally do stop, make them thank you for showing them such a wonderful time. They should also compliment your skills, and agree to have the next session very soon.

[dominicsolletti]

More fun games to play with your lee

Inspired by recent events

Hold your fingers over a spot and ask whether they’re ticklish there. Insist it’s not a rhetorical question and you really need their answer.

When they give a particularly strong reaction, express surprise and disbelief. Insist on trying the same technique again to confirm it.

Return to a spot you’ve already established as especially sensitive, claiming you just want to make sure it hasn’t changed in the last few minutes.

When you find a spot on one side of their body, announce that you have to check the other side to ensure they are properly symmetrical.

Praise them for handling the tickling so well (especially if they aren’t), and tell them they can take a lot more than they think. Which you will prove.

Apologize, insisting they are so cute/soft/ticklish that you’re having trouble stopping.

While in public, quietly point out how embarrassing it would be if they let out a ticklish shriek and everybody heard and saw.

When playing with multiple lers, openly discuss the techniques that seem to work best, and encourage them to try each for themselves.

Ask the other ler(s) to pass you a tool from across the room. Make sure the lee hears you ask, and can watch as they hand it to you.

When they need a moment to recover, don’t pause entirely. Simply switch to a very light, gentle touch so they can catch their breath without the tickling ever stopping.

During aftercare, discuss with them (and any other lers or witnesses) the moments you enjoyed the most. Praise them for doing so well, and emphasize how much fun it was for you.

And one I witnessed, but can’t take credit for:

when you’re an uninvolved bystander and a lee begs for you to intervene, don’t ignore them. Instead, pick up a random nearby object, hold it in both hands, and regretfully tell them you want to help, but your hands are full.