Tickle Tickle

Karlee. Single. Bisexual. 90% lee, 10% ler. Tickling. Edging. Orgasm denial. CNC. 18+

[pitdegenerate]

the concept of nails tickling up your spread and bound legs, gliding up and down the bends of your hips and thighs and getting ever so closer to the wet spot on your panties. and finally, one fingernail gliding up and down along your sensitive pussy. but that's all you're gonna get, just the sensation of those sharp nails playing along your thighs and panty fabric that seems to be getting more soaked...

[frenchvelvetkisses]

"you’re home early. are you coming down with something again" I’m already sitting on the couch, watching with that fake tired lidded look in your eyes. you’re playing the part of the sickly girl but the way you’re trying to hide your smirk tells a completely different story. I already knew you finish early today and it’s not due to sickness. but I’ll entertain you.

"come here" I command, my voice a low. "you know the routine. If you’re feeling unwell, I need to check what’s wrong. I can't have you neglecting your health can I?" I take your hand and guide you to the bed. “lay down” i say as I reach for the box on the side table. the snap of the black latex gloves as I pull them on is loud in the silence. I see your knees weaken just at the sound "let me find out what's bothering you" I unbutton your shirt, not taking it off completely. my gaze cold and analytical as you shiver. I pull the stethoscope around my neck and press the bell to your chest.

"deep breath" i say while my eyes are tracking the way your thighs are already beginning to tremble. "your heart is racing sweetheart” I place a hand on your forehead. “that’s a very high fever for a girl who claims she just has a headache. let’s see where else the inflammation has spread" I move my gloved hand down, the latex dragging slowly over your stomach, then lower. I part your legs with firm pressure. you’re already glistening.

"oh…I see" I say my voice filled with fake sympathy. pretending to be surprised. "is this what’s been bothering you? what a mess" I slowly slide a finger inside, watching your back arch off the mattress.

"does it hurt here?" I ask my voice clinical as I press a little deeper. "or is it here?"

I find the spot. the heavy, swollen curve and I hook my finger inside you firmly. your entire body spasms, a broken needy sound escaping your throat "there it is" I smirk leaning in close so I can hear your heart rate through the earpiece. "It’s so sensitive, isn’t it? soaked and swollen just for me. don't worry...I’m going to be very thorough. I’m going to stay right here until I’ve drained every drop of this fever out of you". listening to your heart, pushing my fingers in and out at the same rhythm as your heart beats.

I sink another finger in, stretching you wide and I don't move. I just watch you fall apart against the black latex. "you needed me to take care of this for you, didn't you? good thing I’m so good at my job" take a good look at my gloves baby. this is the only medicine you’re ever going to need.

[tenacious-teasing]

Anyway you should come over and let me get you high and then tie your wrists above your head just when it starts to hit

You should let me take my time with my tongue between your legs while I tickle your hips and belly and sides and every spot I can reach

Keeping you pinned with my forearms while my hands explore and your mind swirls

Until the weed puts you in such a state that my tongue starts to tickle instead of offering you pleasure

Until it tickles so much it just might make you cum. But it tickles so bad you can't cum. But at the same time oh my god it's so intense you feel like you might explode

Poor thing...if only you could focus~

[tinyticklishbud-deactivated2026]

The purchase arrives early on a thursday morning under the bewildered but envious eyes of the rest of the employees who were starting to get fed up with the 'special treatment' I keep receiving.

A modern office chair that is sufficient to dwarf my petite frame sits proudly in place of the old one. You want your secretary to be comfortable sitting long hours in a row in her individual office. If that alone didn't clue me in that you had ulterior motives with this purchase, your low rough whisper of "Take your panties off and flare your mini skirt out when you sit. I want no barriers between your pretty little pussy and the chair." seals the deal.

My cheeks flame bright red at the dirty whisper, chills running down my spine. So you had caught on enough to know I have no hope of resisting when you use that commanding voice of yours, despite the oddity of your request.

It doesn't take long after I sit down exactly as you requested, legs trembling and chest heaving with nerves, to know that something is wrong.

My ankles and knees are suddenly shackled, my hips tilted forward so my pussy sits flattened to the chair. It's then that I'm alerted to the hole in the padded seat as it opens up with a whir beneath my pussy. A gasp rips from my throat as I feel my labia being flayed open so all of my pink valley is exposed, and I hastily scrabble for the hem of my skirt, trying to see and being denied any glimpse except for the outer sight of my labia flared out much like my skirt.

And then it happens.

What must be the softest flat paint brush starts dust away in the core of my weakness, and I let out a keening squeal that dissolves into hopeless giggles at the horrid tickling.

Your voice rings through the intercom, lilting with surprise as you coo in my ear, "So you're ticklish in that special little spot huh? Poor little pussy... Enjoy the next few hours in my brand new chair, because I know I certainly will"

[stillvathek]

He could tell she was getting closer. The way she was breathing, the noises she was making. How she strained against the straps holding her down. He knew what it meant.

Which is why he took the toy out from between her legs.

Mouth held open by the gag, the noises she made then weren't anything like words, but he could guess what they were about. The frustration showed on every inch of her. Shining sweat, flushed face, heaving breaths. It was too much.

That was the point.

"There there," he said, pinching one of her nipples and causing her back to arch, chest pushing up into his hand. "You're doing very well, but really you're going to give in sooner or later."

He pinched harder. Her gurgle rose in pitch.

"I know explained this at the start, but I'll explain it again. Repetition is part of it, Bunni. The idea is to try and start you again, start over. A clean slate. You were a nice girl, yes, but I want you to be my girl. Totally. With nothing else."

Her head shook weakly. The blindfold stayed on, as did the gag. Blind and dumb, but not deaf. She had no choice but to listen. Listen and shiver as he trailed a finger up her leg, up her side, across her belly...

"Now, if I'd told you any of that a week ago you probably would have laughed. Ridiculous, right? Now though? Now you're not so sure. Now you're a little worried. And it only took, what? An hour to get you like this? Or was it two? Or a day, maybe? Oh, you don't know, do you..."

He leaned in close, put his mouth by her ear.

"You're going to forget your name, you know. The name you think is yours now. I'm going to take it away from you. Maybe you'll hear it one day from someone, someone talking about someone else, and you'll have a moment where it sounds familiar, but then it'll pass. Just some girl you must have known once. But not you. Not my Bunni."

The gag made her whimpering sound dumb and needy. He gave her hair a stroke, tidied some of it up a little.

"It's okay. It's not your choice. It's going to happen, and you won't even remember anyway. Good girl. I think you're ready to keep going now."

Buzzing low, the toy was pressed back against her slit and the groan she let out was completely mindless for a good few seconds until she struggled to get back a little control.

She was losing.

[daddymidas-deactivated20241207]

one of those hole-in-the-wall gloryholes where you lay down and the wall covers you at the waist, but being forced into it. legs spread, raised and restrained, but arms fully free to move so you can bang on the walls and scream all you want while you get fucked, but can't really do anything

[theticklepitchannel]

Licking, nibbling and tickling at the same time I think so! 😏

[sophucking-subby-content]

cnc session where every time I safeword you cover my mouth with your hand and say, “ohh shush it’s not that bad”

[wanders-in-wonderland]

Feathers and Brushstrokes

The rope is a work of art, a cruel masterpiece. It cinches my wrists together above my head, the knots biting into skin, keeping my arms immobile. More coils, tight and unforgiving, bind my ankles, my knees, and my thighs, pinning my legs apart, spread wide enough to make my hips ache. A final, thick band is looped around my torso, anchoring me to a heavy, immovable table in the center of the room. I can’t twist. I can’t shift. I am a statue of flesh and fear, laid out on a table like a feast, naked except for my panties, a humiliating display of vulnerability.

He moves into my limited field of vision, a tall, lean shadow that blots out the light. He doesn’t speak. He simply stands there, looking down at his handiwork, at me.

In his hand, he holds a single, white feather. It’s absurdly delicate, almost beautiful. My breath hitches, a tiny, pathetic sound. He notices. A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face.

“Comfortable?” he asks, his voice a low, smooth murmur that seems to vibrate through the floorboards and into my bones.

I can’t answer. My throat is too tight. All I can do is stare, wide-eyed, at that feather.

He comes beside me. He doesn’t touch me yet. He lets the feather drift through the air, a whisper away from the thin cotton of my underwear. The anticipation is its own kind of agony. My skin prickles, every nerve ending screaming a warning. I try to clench my muscles, to tense against the inevitable, but the ropes hold me in a state of vulnerable openness.

“Please,” I whisper, the word tearing itself from my lips. It’s barely audible.

“Please what?” he asks, tilting his head. The feather’s tip rests lightly on the inside of my thigh. A tiny, almost imperceptible touch. A jolt of pure, electric sensation shoots through me, fear and terror accentuating every nerve. I jerk against the ropes, a futile spasm that only makes the rope dig in deeper.

“Please don’t,” I manage, my voice trembling.

“Don’t what?” He drags the feather upwards, a torturously slow ascent along my inner thigh. The sensation is maddening. It’s not pain. It’s so much worse. It’s a light, skittering, unbearable tease that bypasses all rational thought and goes straight to the primal core of helplessness. A choked giggle escapes me, immediately followed by a sob of humiliation. I hate it. I hate the way my body betrays me, twitching and squirming on its own.

He reaches the edge of my underwear. He pauses. The feather hovers. My entire world narrows to that point of impending contact. I’m panting now, my chest heaving against the constricting rope.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” he purrs.

Then he applies the feather.

It’s a light, fluttering stroke, right over place where my thigh creases. A shriek, half-laughter, half-anguish, rips from my throat. My body arches in a violent, useless convulsion against my bonds. The ropes hold. The sensation is unbearable, a tickling, tingling, excruciating stimulation that offers no release, only escalating, maddening tension.

“Stop! Please, stop!” I beg, tears springing to my eyes. I’m laughing a hysterical, broken sound. I thrash my head from side to side, but there is no escape.

He doesn’t stop. He runs the feather along the edges of my panties, stroking the sensitive skin mercilessly. My thighs tremble violently, trying to clench, to protect themselves, but the binds hold them open, offering me up to this relentless atrocity.

“Shh, shh,” he soothes, but his eyes are alight with a dark, hungry joy. “Don’t fight it. It’s just your body. It’s so much more honest than you are.”

He’s not wrong. A traitorous, fizzy sensation is bubbling under my skin, a biological response I have zero control over. The touch of the feather becomes more deliberate, tracing the subtle dips beside my hip bones, scribbling over the soft, vulnerable plain of my stomach. I squirm, a useless, pathetic motion. A giggle, sharp and involuntary, hiccups out of me.

The feather traces up, drawing a torturous line up my stomach, following my flesh as I futilely shudder away. With deliberate slowness, he runs the tip of the feather around my breasts.

I’m panting, tears streaming from the corners of my eyes from the effort of holding in the laughter, from the shame. “Please…”

“Please what, pet?” he whispers. “Please stop? Or… please don’t?”

The feather moves before I can answer. A quick, light brush directly over both nipples.

I arch off the table with a sharp cry that dissolves into helpless, hysterical giggles. The sensation is unbearably acute, a direct line of fizzing, torturous sensitivity. He does it again, and again, a rapid, touch that has me thrashing my head from side to side, shaking helplessly.

He finds a sporadic, unpredictable rhythm. Each contact is a lightning strike, a burst of sensation so intense it borders on agony. My back arches off the table, my chest thrusting upward, as if trying to escape the touch by meeting it more fully. It’s a horrible, involuntary offering.

He drags the feather across the tight peak of my nipples, side to side. It’s a rasping, whispering torment that feels like he’s stroking a live wire. The sensation is unbearable, a dizzying, nauseating swirl of ticklish fire that has sobs wrenching from my chest.

“There we are,” he coos, his breath warm against my ear as he leans in to observe his work. “See how beautifully you react? A perfect little instrument. We can play such pretty, desperate songs with you.”

He focuses now, holding the feather steady and dancing it along my skin. The quiver transfers through the delicate tip, creating a constant, fluttering buzz directly on my nipples. It’s the epicenter of a storm of sensation. My entire world shrinks to that one point of maddening, fluttering contact. Pleasure and torture fuse into one inseparable, degrading whole.

Time blurs. My throat is raw from screaming, laughing, begging. My muscles ache from the constant, futile straining. The tickling is a constant, humming torment, a live wire attached to my soul.

“Please… I can’t… I’ll do anything,” I sob, the words slurred with exhaustion and hysteria. My pride is gone, dissolved in a puddle of sweat and tears on the floor. I am a thing made entirely of raw nerve endings and desperate, abject pleading.

He leans close, his breath warm against my ear. “I know,” he whispers. “That’s the point.”

And he finally, mercifully, pulls the feather away from my skin. But what comes next is so much worse.

From his pocket, he produces something new. A small, delicate brush with stiff bristles so fine they looked like spun silk. He plays with the brush absentmindedly as he fixes his gaze on my ruined form, his eyes catching on my core, the one place he’s avoided until now.

“Look at the state of you, all because of a little feather,” he murmurs, his voice a low, condescending rumble.

My eyes are squeezed shut, but I can feel his attention like a physical weight between my legs. I can feel the undeniable, humiliating slickness that the tickling agony has drawn from my pussy.

“Absolutely soaked,” he continues, a chuckle in his tone. He doesn’t touch me yet. He’s making me listen. “All that squirming, all those pretty little noises… and this is the result. Your body is so much more honest than you are, pet.”

I feel the blunt, wooden end of the brush then, not the bristles. He uses it to hook into the waistband of my panties, the last pathetic shred of my modesty, now transparent and clinging with the evidence of my own unwanted arousal. He gives a little tug, a grotesque parody of a playful gesture.

“These are ruined,” he announces, as if commenting on a mundane topic. “Drenched through. What a useless, messy little thing you are. They’re not even serving their purpose anymore, are they? Just a wet rag hiding the evidence.”

With a pair of shears, he cuts my panties and pulls the ruined fabric off my body. The cold air hits my fully exposed sex, making me flinch. He holds the drenched scrap aloft between his thumb and forefinger, dangling it in my line of sight like a trophy.

“There she is,” he coos, his voice a mockery of a lover’s encouragement. “There’s the greedy little thing. So wet. So swollen from just a bit of tickling. You’re making such a pretty mess for me. Come on, now. Don’t be shy.”

A fresh, cold dread, sharper than any before, plunged into my gut. I tried to shake my head, a feeble denial. “No… no more, please...”

He ignores me.

The first touch of the brush is not a stroke. It's a placement. The very tips of those impossibly soft bristles come to rest, with pinpoint accuracy, directly on the hypersensitive peak of my clit.

A sound escapes me that is not human. It's a sharp, choked gasp, followed by a high, thin whine. It isn't pain. It's an overload. A direct, concentrated surge of sensation so intense it short-circuited every other thought. My back arches off the floor as much as the ropes would allow, a rigid bow of shock.

He begins to move the brush.

It's the lightest possible motion. A microscopic oscillation, a vibration more than a stroke. It isn't tickling in the giggling, squirming sense anymore. This is surgical. This is precise torture.

The sensation is unbearable. It's a screaming, electric buzz of pure, undiluted sensitivity. It built with terrifying speed, a cresting wave of agonizing stimulation with no peak, no release, just an endless, escalating plateau of torment. I can't laugh. I can't even scream properly. My voice is a ragged, gasping scrape.

“Too much… it’s too much… stop, stop!” I beg, my words dissolving into incoherent moans. My hips try to buck, to twist away from the unbearable focus of that brush, but the ropes hold them in a vise, forcing me to accept every devastating micro-movement.

He watches my face, his own a mask of fascinated intensity. “Such a powerful little thing,” he muses, not slowing his relentless, minute motions. “So much control, locked away in such a small space. And now it’s all mine to play with.”

He changes the brush strokes. Tiny, meticulous, agonizingly slow circles, right over the hypersensitive nub.

“Please! No! Not there! Anywhere but there!” I scream, my voice cracking. Tears stream down my temples, pooling behind my ears. I’m laughing, a high, broken, hysterical sound that has nothing to do with joy. It’s the sound of my sanity fraying.

“Oh, but it has to be there,” he chides softly, not pausing his relentless, gentle strokes for a second. “Everywhere else is just… foreplay. This is the main event. This is where I break you.”

And he is breaking me. The constant, light stimulation is building something terrible inside me. It isn’t pleasure. It is a pressure cooker of sensation with no release valve. My hips buck and twist in tiny, frantic circles, trying to escape the brush, trying to lean into it, my body a traitorous mess of conflicting impulses. I’m splayed open, completely debased, reacting like an animal under his clinical, detached touch.

“Look at you,” he said, his tone dripping with disdainful amusement. “A quivering, begging mess. All your dignity, gone. All your strength, evaporated. Reduced to this… this pathetic, twitching thing. And we’ve only just begun.”

He changes his technique. Now it’s light, rapid flicks. Each one sends a jolt through me so intense I see white behind my eyelids. My pleas dissolve into incoherent babbling, half-words, sobs, and that incessant, humiliating laughter.

“I can’t… I can’t take it… I’ll die… please, I’ll die…” I choke out.

“You won’t die,” he scoffs, pausing just long enough to let the unbearable tension coil tighter. “You’ll just wish you had. This is what you were made for. To be taken apart. To be shown what you really are.”

The pressure builds past any point of endurance. The maddening, tickling torment, the utter helplessness, the complete domination, it all fuses into a white-hot singularity of sensation. My body, against my will, against my very soul, begins to climb a peak it was never meant to reach like this.

“No… no, no, no, don’t let me… please don’t let me…” I beg, knowing what was coming, horrified beyond measure.

“I’m not making you do anything,” he says, his voice thick with pleasure. “This is all you. Your filthy, eager little body.” A dark, triumphant gleam lit his eyes. He increases the pace, the brush becoming a blur of gentle, devastating motion.

I’m chanting a litany of no, my words my last, useless defense any the inevitable.

"Come on, you worthless thing," he commands, his voice low and hypnotic with cruelty. "You don't get to decide. Your body is mine. That little button is mine. Give it up. Show me what a ticklish, desperate whore you really are. Come for me.”

It hits me like a wrecking ball made of torment and sensation.

It’s an orgasm, but it’s unlike any other. There’s no pleasure, only an catastrophic, involuntary release of all the tortured tension. My body convulses violently against the ropes, a series of sharp, jerking spasms I have no control over. A raw, guttural scream is torn from my throat, a sound of utter ruin. Wave after wave of sensation flood my senses, each one a fresh humiliation, a brutal confirmation of my total defeat. I’m sobbing openly, great heaving cries of despair, as my own body betrays me in the most fundamental way possible.

Except it’s not over.

Before the last shudder has even left my body, before the blinding white noise in my head has cleared, the brush is back. The same ruthless motion on my clit, which is now a raw, screaming nerve-ending.

“NO!” I shriek, the sound pure animal panic. The sensation is unbearable, a searing, painful overstimulation that shoots through my oversensitive flesh like shards of glass. I thrash wildly, the chains clanking, my pleas dissolving into incoherent babbling. “Stop, please, it’s too much, it hurts!”

He doesn’t stop. He leans closer, his eyes alight with fascinated cruelty. “Hurts?” he echoes, mocking. “But look at you. You’re still dripping. Your body is begging for more even as your mouth lies.” He increases the pressure, the bristles scraping mercilessly. “This is what you want. This is what you are. A thing that cums from being tortured like this. A wet, responsive toy. Now be quiet and take it. Let’s see how many times I can make you break.”

The pain-pleasure is a continuous, horrifying loop. Every movement of the brush is agony, yet my traitorous flesh still clenches, still produces another trickle of slickness that he uses as proof of my complicity. He’s right. In the deepest, most shameful part of me, the part he owns now, my body is still responding, turning violation into a twisted, unwanted echo of ecstasy, and that truth is the most devastating torture of all.

[thesilestrokerstrikesback]

[etoilevega]

Innocent subs who’ve never been fucked, scared that it will hurt, and their soft and caring dom that trains them to take it. Whining and crying and gasping after ages of your dom slowly, gently showing you how good it feels to have their fingers inside. Stretching, pressing up into the spot that makes you see stars. Breaking down crying, begging for them to put it in— “Shh, not yet baby. Not this time. It’s only the first time I’ve fingered you, and I want to do it right. We can talk about me fucking you another time, when you’re not so floaty. But let’s keep you right here for a bit longer, hmm? Let me take care of you.”

[tickle-terato-filth]

You have been teasing me for weeks online talking about your pussy, and I want it, badly. I'm thinking about getting you all to myself and pumping your clit in a vacuum tube until it is swollen and sensitive, then taping the clit hood up with kinesiology tape, and then slowly polishing your clit for a long, long time. With fine, soft gauze soaked in lube that I hold taut against the sensitive tip of your bare clit and slide it back and forth, back and forth, slowly polishing your thousands of hypersensitive nerves. You only get short breaks when I douse the gauze with more lube to keep it soooo slippery. How long do you think you could take it? Let's try 2 hours polishing your shiny pink bud and then I'll check in. You're spreadeagle on the bed, and your thighs are tied wide apart, the maximum your flexibility allows. I see your wet, needy, empty fuckhole and I know it's trying to squeeze around nothing. "You want to be filled and fucked so badly, don't you, brainless little cock slut?" But this is all about focusing on the most sensitive part of your being and sliding my gauze back and forth against it, overstimulating it nonstop, eroding your sanity patiently.

I don't care if you cum. I might notice, I might not. The polishing won't stop no matter what. Your mouth is stuffed with an inflatable gag, and I've put a thick hood on your head. Your chest is bare, your feet are bare, and you are aching to be touched anywhere except your poor clit. But no. On top of all this, you are reeling from a huge dose of edibles I've given you, which is standard for us. Your neglected hole is dripping. Your feet are flexing, toes curling. I hear you crying, and it's only been a half hour of clit polishing time. You're fucked, because I have infinite attention span for overstimulating your helpless, naked, slutty pussy. "You're so fucked," I tell you.

After I polish it excessively, I re-pump your clit so it's freshly engorged. I get two feathers and tickle your clit with the soft points, and I saw the soft edges all around it. It's a welcome relief -- at first. You squirm and yelp and even giggle. But it doesn't stop. I'm going to feather your most delicate part until you are sobbing in frustration. I love giving so much tickly attention to my little girl's clit.

When I feel that you've had enough of the feathers, I take out two electric toothbrushes and trap your clit between them, surprising you when I suddenly turn them on. You emit a blood-curdling shriek and jerk against your bonds. I could not care less. I watch your cunt bounce around on the bed as you try to escape the bristles, but it can't go more than a few inches, and I effortlessly follow its every motion. You can't get away from the dual toothbrush hell, the inescapable pleasure/pain. Your noises sound increasingly desperate and angry, but I don't care. Your clit just needs to be throughly brushed with plenty of lube. I make sure to get it from the top and bottom, too.

After a very long time (a mere 2 hours) I take off your hood and take out your gag. A string of thick drool trails with it. I wipe your chin with a towel, and I offer you a sippy cup of water. I stroke your sweaty temples and tell you how proud I am of my little girl for making it to the end of clit overstimulation hell. "I'm so proud of you. You're so brave and so good." "Thank you, Daddy" you manage. I hug you and hold you as your tears wet my shoulder.

--- Before you can react I suddenly shove the gag back in your mouth. I tell you that you've actually only made it halfway. I see a flash of anger and betrayal, mixed with sheer exhaustion, as I pull the hood back over your pretty head. You're trying to scream as pump your gag up to the max. It's time to get a fresh piece of gauze and start over from the beginning. This is exactly what I needed. I love having this quality time with your clit.

[tickletoy]

Omg please 😭 I need this so bad

Sounds like nothing short of overstimulation and tickle Hell; exactly what I deserve.

Delicious.

[wanders-in-wonderland]

A Box of Fun

Note: The clit box/pussy portal concept is one I’ve seen floating around the internet since forever and I think it’s sooooo hot so here’s my take on it teehee

He’d finally done it.

His fingers trailed over the box's cool, seamless edges. A marvel of engineering, deceptively simple in its sleek titanium casing. No one would guess what lived inside. Who lived inside.

Because there, nestled in precision, pulsed a perfect replica of her pussy. Every fold, every nerve ending, every flush of blood beneath soft skin, atomically identical. Synapses wired directly to hers. A closed loop: every stroke, every touch, every cruel pinch he inflicted here would ripple through her body, her real body, with merciless accuracy.

And the inverse? Even sweeter. Every desperate clench of her cunt as she helplessly responded to his touch would answer here, in his hands, twitching like the pathetic, obedient thing it now was.

No consent. No escape. Just ownership, distilled into a box small enough to fit in his palm.

His thumb brushed the damp seam of the replica’s slit, so warm, so alive, and miles away, her breath hitched.

A grin split his face.

Time to play.

—

She’s getting ready for bed. Wearing just a big t-shirt and panties, freshly showered and sleepy. He knows because he installed cameras and microphones all throughout her apartment months ago. There isn’t a single thing she can do without him knowing.

He sits in front of his computer, multiple camera angles feeding him live video and audio. He opens the box with careful hands, her pretty pussy nestled within the lining. So cute, untouched, unsuspecting.

His fingers trail idly along the smooth, pliant flesh, and he watches as she flinches, eyes wide, glancing down at herself. He smiles.

And so it begins.

He doesn’t waste any time, his fingers moving to spread her pussy lips before he leans down and pulls her clit into his mouth, tongue moving in quick movements as he alternates between sucking and licking. He watches the way her body shuts down, shock and pleasure flooding her system as she collapses onto her bed.

He doesn’t care to give her any time to recover. Instead, he pulls his mouth away to replace his tongue with his fingers, rubbing her spit-slicked skin in tight, cruel circles, taking in the way her breath comes in fast gasps as she tries to press her legs together, confusion, fear, panic written all over her face.

It doesn’t take long before her clit is a trembling, hypersensitive nub between his fingers, swollen and darkened from relentless attention. He runs the pad of his thumb over it in slow, agonizing circles, feeling the way it pulses under his touch, tiny convulsions of pleading nerves that only make him smirk. On the screen, her legs jerk, her hips rising off the bed as her body betrays her, craving more even as her mind doesn’t undestand.

She’s a puppet, and he controls every string. He squeezes the delicate bud between his fingertips, rolling it like a toy, listening to the wet, obscene slickness of her cunt in the box mirroring the mess between her thighs on-screen. He can see the wet patch on her panties, the outline of her pretty pussy clear behind the soaked fabric.

Her clit pulses under his fingers, a trembling, engorged little nub, dark as a bruise, so swollen now that it protrudes obscenely from her slick, puffy folds. He squeezes it, watching the thin skin stretch taut, watching it throb in frantic protest.

He traces the swollen bud with his fingertip, circling slow, barely a touch, just to watch it suffer. It’s obscene how responsive she is, the little nub twitching under his attention, glistening with slick. He presses down harder, rubbing in tight little spirals, the flesh trembling beneath his fingers like a caged animal.

He lets his fingers drag lower, spreading the plush folds wide, so wet, dripping for him, even as her fists clench in the sheets. His other hand strokes her clit lazily, coaxing her higher, watching the way her hips twitch with every circling press.

He scrapes a fingernail slowly along the underside of her clit, savoring the way it quivers. Her folds flutter, her hole clenching around nothing, as if begging for something to fill her.

He indulges her, thrusting two fingers deep into the slick imitation of her pussy, relishing how the tight walls convulse.

He leans in, pressing his tongue flat against the throbbing nub in his hands, lapping at it with slow, wet drags. The way it jerks under the heat of his mouth, god, it’s beautiful. On-screen, her back arches. A broken moan tangles in her throat.

His fingers move, fucking her in deep, lazy pumps, her inner walls clenching around nothing, trying to hold onto something, anything, to anchor against the pleasure.

She rocks into it, chasing his invisible touch, teetering over the edge.

So he pulls away.

Her entire body jerks in protest because she doesn’t get to cum yet.

His fingertips trace the very edges of her clit, never touching where she needs it most, just ghosting over the hypersensitive nerves until her entire body writhes. She claws at the sheets, her thighs twitching open despite herself, her pussy clenching around nothing, her clit begging for friction.

Then, finally, he gives in, but not the way she wants. He presses the flat of his thumb down on the engorged nub, grinding in slow, mind-numbing circles, watching on the screen as her back arches wildly.

He increases the pressure just a fraction, just enough to keep her teetering. Her cunt is dripping, her clit a dark, throbbing bead under his control, her body no longer hers, just a thing, just a wet little hole responding on command.

When her thighs start to shake, when her voice breaks into a sob, he stops, watching the hope fade from her eyes.

He pulls out a fine-tipped vibrator, pressing it directly against the bundle of nerves, dialing it just under the threshold of orgasm.

A keening noise claws up her throat as the pleasure builds and builds, never cresting, never breaking, just holding her there on the edge, her cunt clenching around nothing, desperate for the release she won’t get.

He watches her writhe, soaked in sweat and shame, her body no longer her own.

And through it all, her clit pulses in his grasp, a tiny, twitching heart of suffering and ecstasy.

He can see her chest heaving from her panting breaths, so close to what she wants. And so he stops, pulling the vibrator off, watching her helpless pussy twitch and ache.

She lets out a wail, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes as desperation gnaws a deep ache inside of her.

He watches the screen, half-amused, half-annoyed, as her fingers hesitantly drift between her thighs. She wants to cum and she thinks she can do it herself.

A mistake.

The moment her fingertips brush her swollen clit, his grip tightens on the replica in his hands, his thumb pressing down just enough to make her freeze.

No, no, sweet thing. That’s against the rules.

He gives her clit a harsh flick and watches as a scream rips out of her throat. But that isn’t enough to deter her, because moments after, her fingers are back on her clit, rubbing like a filthy, disobedient whore.

He sucks in an annoyed breath and picks up a thin electric rod. Without hesitating, he presses the tip against her clit and shocks her, the zapping sound ripping through the air.

A sharp, stinging jolt shoots through the tiny bundle of nerves in his palm, and oh, the way it jerks. The way she jerks, a strangled cry tearing from her lips as she yanks her hand away, thighs slamming together as if she can protect herself.

But protection isn’t an option anymore. Not from him.

He lets her pant, lets her shake, lets her think it might be over.

And then, with slow, deliberate cruelty, he pinches the clit between two fingers, holding it still before driving the electric rod against it, letting it fire off several zaps in quick succession.

She screams. The clit in his box convulses, the trapped flesh trembling violently.

He smiles.

“You’ll learn,” he murmurs, flicking the little nub again, hard. She yelps, back arching off the bed.

Her fingers stay far away now, knuckles white as she grips the sheets instead, her body trembling under his unseen control.

Good.

He drags his thumb over the sopping slit in the box, gathering slick before lazily circling the clit again, just enough to tease. Just enough to make her squirm on screen.

She bites her lip, thighs pressing together in futile resistance.

He reaches for the tiny silver clamp and arranged it around her flesh, watching it bite down on her swollen clit, the sensitive tissue protesting with every pulse. Tears well up in her eyes on the screen. She shakes her head, whispering no, no, no, but there is no mercy for her.

He twists the clamp tighter around her tortured clit, delighting as the swollen flesh bulges around the metal teeth, darkening to a lurid purple. Her whole pussy quivers in response, her hole weeping, her inner muscles spasming in confused, helpless pleasure.

He grabs the vibrator again, the toy humming to life against the clamped bud, the frequency so precise it makes her flesh flutter, muscles contracting helplessly. Her back arches off the bed, a broken noise wrenching from her throat as pleasure spikes, sharp, unbearable, inescapable. Her fingers scrabble at the sheets, hips bucking in stuttering little jerks as the toy torments the hypersensitive nerve cluster.

Drool slicks her lower lip as she pants, eyes unfocused. He watches with satisfaction as her cunt pulses around nothing, slickness dripping from her in obscene rivulets. The vibrator buzzes harder, and a broken sob tears from her, sounds of desperation spilling out of her mouth.

He adjusts the clamp a fraction tighter, then twists it just to hear her scream. The vibrator rolls slow, merciless circles, pinning her clit ruthlessly. Every nerve in her body is lit up, pleasure crackling through her in waves that crest but never break. She is no longer a woman, just a thing shaking apart between his fingers, reduced to quivering flesh and involuntary spasms.

Every pulse of the vibrator sends shockwaves through her, stomach clenching, toes curling, breath coming in jagged little gasps. But he keeps it steady, never increasing the intensity, never allowing her the relief of building toward release.

Just edging. Just an endless, torturous plateau, where she can feel the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter inside her but never tipping over.

"P-Please—" she whimpers, her voice thin and broken, nails digging into her own thighs as if that could ground her.

He tsks, amused. As if she has any right to beg.

With deliberate cruelty, he turns the vibrator up, just one notch.

The effect is immediate. Her stomach muscles quiver violently, her legs splaying wider in helpless invitation, her mouth dropping open in a soundless scream. The clamp keeps her clit swollen and aching, the vibrator sending sharp, concentrated pulses straight into the overstimulated nerve bundle.

And still, she doesn’t cum.

Because he won’t let her.

Not until he decides she’s suffered enough.

—

The moment finally comes, her body, strained to its absolute limit, teetering on the razor’s edge of orgasm. He can feel it in the way her clit pulses in the box, a desperate, throbbing little heartbeat between his fingers. He has denied her all night, teased her, shocked her, clamped her, ruined her, but now, at last, he will let her break.

He pulls the clamp off cruelly, watching her clit swell as blood comes rushing back, flooding her already raw nerves with new torment. Her clit trembles, swollen so fat it sticks out from between her lips, begging for mercy. He doesn’t give her a chance to recover before he presses the vibrating toy directly onto her swollen clit, cranked to the highest setting.

On screen, her entire body snaps taut, a silent scream stretching her lips wide.

"That’s it," he murmurs, watching her cunt flutter around nothing, soaking the sheets beneath her. "Cum for me."

And she does.

Hard.

Her back arches violently, her thighs locking around the empty air as her orgasm rips through her. The clit in his hands convulses, pussy spilling slick in thick pulses under his touch. He grins, keeping the vibrator pressed firm, not letting up, determined to wring every last ounce of pleasure from her until it hurts.

She thrashes, her moans turning hoarse, painfully overstimulated, but he doesn’t stop.

He laughs, low and dark.

"You think you're done?" His fingers dig into her folds, spreading them open, exposing her glistening, twitching hole to the unrelenting buzz of the vibrator. "I’m just getting started."

Another orgasm wrenches out of her, messy and uncontrollable, her cunt contracting in helpless spasms as tears streak down her face.

Her legs jerk on the screen, thighs slick with sweat and arousal, heels digging into the mattress as if she could escape the pleasure eating her alive. But she can't. Every pulse of the toy sends electric jolts straight through her clit, her pussy fluttering around empty air, dripping onto the sheets beneath her.

He smirks, circling the vibrating tip harder against the swollen bud, watching the way her stomach muscles clench, another orgasm building whether she wants it or not.

Then, with deliberate cruelty, he pulls out a vibrating dildo and presses it straight into the tight, dripping hole in the box.

Her scream splits the air, her spine bowing off the bed, fingers clawing at nothing as the thick intrusion fills her in the exact spot designed to destroy her. The moment he turns it on, her entire body bucks like a live wire, the deep, rumbling vibrations rocking through her core, pressing mercilessly against the swollen inner wall of her cunt.

The clit vibrator doesn’t stop, buzzing against her abused nub while the deeper toy punishes her g-spot, sending shocks of sensation radiating through her lower belly.

She wails, thighs slamming together in a desperate, futile attempt to stop the pleasure, but it’s impossible, her hips twitch in tiny, involuntary thrusts, her cunt clamping down around the thick vibrator like it’s trying to milk it.

Her clit jumps under the relentless onslaught, pulsing in time with the brutal vibrations, the dark, swollen flesh quivering violently under his treatment. The dildo shifts inside her, the angle just right to send another bone-deep spasm tearing through her, her back arching so sharply it looks like she’ll snap.

He grinds the vibrator deeper, angling it so the thick, ribbed tip digs ruthlessly into the spongy spot inside her, the pressure unbearable. Every thrum of the toy sends gushes of slick spilling from her hole, her pussy clenching in erratic, overstimulated spasms, not an orgasm, not anymore, just her body breaking from the relentless pleasure.

Her clit is engorged, purpling from the abuse, twitching against the buzzing toy like a dying thing, her entire pussy quivering in time with it.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He increases the speed, the dildo drilling into her sensitive walls, the clit toy vibrating so fast it blurs, her entire body convulsing like a puppet yanked on its strings.

Another scream rips out of her, her hips jacking up off the bed, her cunt flooding the sheets as the forced pleasure tears another orgasm out of her, violent and uncontrollable. Her muscles lock, her fists slamming into the mattress as she cums, hard, messy, shameless, her hole pulsing around the vibrator, her clit throbbing in his grip like a second heartbeat.

But it’s not a release.

It’s torture.

Her eyes roll back, her moans turning to sobs as her body betrays her, cumming again, and again, her overstimulated nerves alight with agony and ecstasy.

She is nothing now.

Just a wet, trembling hole, a toy, a broken thing locked inside a box, bleeding pleasure at his command.

And he laughs, pressing down harder, watching her break.

Because she’s not allowed to stop.

Not until he decides.

[sentinelq]

When I realize your pussy is ticklish mid-lickling and literally wrap my hands underneath to GRAB your thighs and keep you motionless and open.

You're cumming.

And it's going to tickle very, very much.

[ler-of-the-burg]

[lolos10toes-deactivated20260319]

🫠

[solleticomostro]

I would imagine that this would be an agonizing sensation for most people.

Daydreaming about using this as an interrogation method on someone is way too hot for me to handle.

[squirmygirl3]

🥵🥴🫠

[sentinelq]

Tiny tentacle monster that crawls into her locked chastity belt, the key of which she doesn't have <333

And the tentacles start latching onto that clit, tickling eeeverything around it <33