you wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me
will byers stan first human second
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@takesomet2
you wouldn't last an hour in the asylum where they raised me
Middle-ages aristocrat's daughter who gets caught masturbating and is taken away to the castle's doctor
Tying her to the rack and having a maid hold her still-swollen pussy open while the doctor drives the evil spirits away by using a stiff feather to trail her ticklish insides.
Driving the poor girl insane with ticklish lust as she drenches feather after feather, like a broken cum-faucet, screaming with laughter and begging for "help".
The primal, guttural sounds of unfulfillfed urges and orgasmic delirium coupled with her pleas to be fucked, while giggling to the feather's brush-brush-brushes, only serving as confirmation to the doctor that she is still possessed, perpetrating an endless cycle of in-orgasmic tickle torture.
Only ending when the doctor is no longer watching and the maid herself, in her pity for the poor girl, gives her the mercy of two fingers, greedily clenched, back and forth, back and forth, until her brain functions are turned completely off.
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"
This is art
Tag someone you know who'd sit here. 👆🏻🪶
@theminipotat
T-this chair shouldn’t be allowed !!😵💫
I wrote a story about this chair.
The Chair
She had done it this time. One too many bratty comments, one too many moments of defiance. It had been a lazy saturday afternoon and she was bored. She had taken it too far. Her owner stood up and spoke softly.
Middle-ages aristocrat's daughter who gets caught masturbating and is taken away to the castle's doctor
Tying her to the rack and having a maid hold her still-swollen pussy open while the doctor drives the evil spirits away by using a stiff feather to trail her ticklish insides.
Driving the poor girl insane with ticklish lust as she drenches feather after feather, like a broken cum-faucet, screaming with laughter and begging for "help".
The primal, guttural sounds of unfulfillfed urges and orgasmic delirium coupled with her pleas to be fucked, while giggling to the feather's brush-brush-brushes, only serving as confirmation to the doctor that she is still possessed, perpetrating an endless cycle of in-orgasmic tickle torture.
Only ending when the doctor is no longer watching and the maid herself, in her pity for the poor girl, gives her the mercy of two fingers, greedily clenched, back and forth, back and forth, until her brain functions are turned completely off.
Feather Falls - Room 4 - Leo Room - */F 18+
Your finger settles on the circle with line emerging from it.
“Leo,” the Host says, pleased. “A room for those who know they deserve attention.”
Esmeralda leads you down a corridor that feels deliberately indulgent. The carpet is thicker here, soft enough that your footsteps vanish. The walls gleam faintly, reds and golds layered in a way that draws the eye forward, refusing to let it linger anywhere else. Even the air feels warmer, scented faintly with something rich and unfamiliar.
She stops before a pair of tall double doors, the lion sigil embossed and gilded so heavily it catches the light from every angle.
“This room,” she says quietly, “is never empty for long.”
The doors open inward.
The observation room feels less like a corridor space and more like a private viewing box. A long velvet bench faces an enormous observation window, framed by heavy drapes that could be drawn, but aren’t.
Low lights glow along the floor, guiding you exactly where to stand, where to look.
“They prefer an audience that doesn’t hide,” Esmeralda murmurs. Beyond the glass, the Leo room glows with deliberate excess. Chandeliers scatter golden light across mirrored walls.
Every surface reflects movement—soft fabrics draped over furniture that seems ornamental rather than practical. At the centre stands a raised circular platform, polished smooth, its edge rimmed with subtle lighting like a stage awaiting its cue.
And upon it stands the star.
A woman, tall and radiant, her long hair loose around her shoulders like a mane. She stands with her weight balanced perfectly, chin lifted, smiling not at anyone in particular but at the room itself. Her arms are lifted, wrists resting lightly against decorative posts.
Clearly optional, clearly chosen.
She wears, what can kindly be called a negligee, its see through and it. shows her clear excitement
She laughs before anyone touches her.
“I was wondering when you’d start.” she says.
The attendants approach slowly, unhurried, letting the moment stretch. Figures of various genders in costume of the cabaret, fishnets, waistcoats and painted faces. They circle her once, then again, their hands hovering just short of her skin. The pause is deliberate, theatrical.
“Oh, don’t tease,” she laughs. “They’re watching.”
The first touch is almost nothing,a single fingertip gliding lightly along her side. Her reaction is immediate. Laughter bursts from her, loud and bright, echoing off the mirrors. She shifts her weight, trying to hold her pose, trying to remain upright and composed.
They withdraw.
The laughter hangs, unfinished, almost awkward in its sudden loneliness.
Then they return. Two hands this time, working opposite sides, fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns along her ribs. Her laughter grows less controlled now, spilling out in uneven bursts as she twists instinctively away, only to find the other set of hands waiting.
“Hahah no no wait wait you can’t hahahhahe”
They change nothing.
One attendant kneels, lifting a foot with exaggerated care, presenting it outward as if to an unseen crowd. The tickling begins slowly, methodically, each stroke separated by a pause just long enough for anticipation to build. Her delicate foot twitches and squirms as its tries to hide.
Her laughter sharpens, turning breathless, her free foot stamping uselessly against the platform.
“Not like that ahahahhehehehe please!”
The mirrors make it impossible to miss anything. Her expressions multiply endlessly, every gasp, every shudder, every failed attempt at dignity reflected back at her from all sides. Her negligee tumbles from her shoulders baring all. The hands begging to roam and explore her body, caressing, squeezing, poking and groping. You are hypontised by the way her butt jiggles as she cackles.
“She knows how she looks,” Esmeralda says softly. “And she knows she’s being judged.”
The hands don’t rush. They linger. When her laughter peaks, they ease back just enough to let her draw in a desperate breath, then resume in the exact same spot, denying her any chance to adjust. She drops to her knees at last, laughter pouring out unchecked, hair falling into her face, shoulders shaking. The attendants don’t help her up. Instead, they reposition her gently, turning her so her intimate spots face the the unseen audience.
The tickling resumes.
Longer now. Sustained. Fingers return again and again to the same sensitive places, drawing out reactions that have nowhere left to go. Her laughter turns hoarse, broken by gasps, yet still loud. Fingers flick and caress her nipples and her arousal becomes more evident. But they wait. Not yet. She hasn’t earned it yet.
When she tries to curl inward, hands lift her arms again, not forcing, just guiding just presenting her reactions like a living display.
A hand moves between her thighs and you see in her blonde mound a glistening and needy clit. It is soon found by the tickler invading her sensitive area. A lazy finger traces up and down her soft lips and her laughter becomes both haughty and hysterical.
Two hands on her soles softly tickle her feet, making sure its as pleasurable as it is cruel.
The cruelty is not in speed or force. It’s in exposure.
The hand between her legs speeds up, she begins to scream for more. It’s blur as she is tickled to her screaming orgasm, the foot tickles do not relent as they guide her through it. You see her squirt a little.
Eventually, the hands withdraw.
She remains laid back on the platform, chest heaving, laughter still escaping in small, helpless bursts long after the touch has ended. The lights brighten subtly, bathing her in warmth.
Applause fills the room, recorded, you assume.
She smiles through it, blinking sweat from her eyes.
“A fine performance,” Esmeralda says quietly.
She turns away from the glass, already reaching for the door.
“They’ll rest. Drink water. Reapply their confidence.”
She opens it for you.
“And then,” she adds, “they’ll ask for another audience.”
The lobby feels muted when you return. Softer. Smaller. The Host looks up, eyes gleaming with approval.
“Magnificent, aren’t they?” he says. “Some people fear being seen at their weakest.”
He slides the paper back toward you once more.
“Others,” he smiles, “discover it’s the only time they truly shine.”
Feather Falls - Room 3 – Gemini Room - */F 18+
Your finger hesitates before settling on a symbol formed of two parallel lines.
Gemini,' the Host says pleasantly. 'Ah. A favourite.'
Esmeralda is already moving, heels clicking as she leads you down a different corridor than before. This one feels narrower, the lights brighter but somehow harsher, reflecting off pale walls instead of absorbing into them.
She stops before a door marked with twin figures facing one another, identical except for the direction of their gaze.
'The Gemini room,' she says.
The key turns.
Feather Falls - Room 2 - Sagittarius Room FM/FM Multiple. 18+
Feather Falls - Sagittarius Room
As you look at the symbols your eyes is drawn to one that resembles an arrow. You point your finger at it.
‘Ah! Sagittarius what an interesting choice!’ says your Host, but you get the feeling he would say that regardless of what you gestured towards.
‘If you will follow me.’ Says Esmerlda.
Esmeralda stops in front of a door marked with a stylised arrow drawn across a constellation.
“Sagittarius,” she says. “One of our louder rooms.”
Feather Falls - Room 1 - Virgo. FM / F - 18+
The winner of the first poll was Virgo. At the bottom you will see the next poll.
Feather Falls - Virgo Room
You scan the sheet of paper and your eye is drawn to a funny looking M with a fish on the end. You nervously place your finger on it.
Welcome to Feather Falls Hotel - Interactive tickle fiction. Poll at the end.
(Each day I will write a new chapter of this story based on the room that is picked by everyone.)
You find yourself at the 'famous' (in certain circles) Feather Falls Hotel.
As you enter the lobby, you take a look at your surroundings. It's cosy, warm. Wood furnishings surround brick walls. It's an old building but has modern touches throughout. A fireplace is lit and roaring with the kind of chairs designed for napping in surrounding it.
At the reception stands a man who looks you up and down and delivers a beaming smile. He seems truly delighted to see you.
'My friend!' he exclaims ' Welcome to the Feather Falls Hotel, delighted to meet you.'
He wears a white suit, his black hair slicked back. As you approach, he adjusts his cufflinks that catch the light, and you see they have a feather design.
'Now, if we could just take your name?'
You state your name, and he clacks away at the computer in front of him. He beams as the PC confirms you have a reservation.
'Ah! Of course, just the one night in a private room with breakfast included... and already paid for how lovely.'
He continues
'And I see you booked the observational package tonight. You have excellent timing, each of our *special* rooms are fully booked'
He reaches under the desk and pulls out a laminated sheet of paper. You see 12 symbols which you realise are the signs of the Zodiac.
'All you have to do is choose a symbol and I will show you to the room. You can watch the show and then come back and pick another until you have had your fill. Each guest is aware you may be observing and they are excited to welcome you. '
You have started to blush and shuffle a bit on your feet.
'First timers always feel the same. Don't worry. All you have to do is pick a sign.'
He pushes the sheet towards you.
So... What will it be?
Aries
Taurus
Gemini
Cancer
Leo
Virgo
Libra
Scorpio
Sagittarius
Capricorn
Aquarius
Pisces
😍😍 NEED THIS
Slow decent to madness
Softness
*wisp - wisp - wisp*
It's the softness that kills you. The maddening slowness of the whole thing. It's just a makeup brush.
*wisp - wisp - wisp*
You try to lean into it, but a string hand keeps you pinned. It's so fucking tickly.
*wisp - wisp - wisp*
You can *hear* it, the bristles exploring your sensitive skin. Each stroke finds another spot to tease and tickle.
*wisp - wisp - wisp*
You start to become more audible now, gasps, moans, yelps, giggles. You feel fucking pathetic. That makes it so much worse. You look down.
*wisp - wisp - wisp*
You can see your wetness on it; it shimmers in the lamp light. You feel so humiliated and so turned on. You start to cry out, the hand holding your hips now becomes the hand covering your mouth.
*wisp - wisp - wisp*
Your eyes bulge as you look at them pleading, needing. You feel another orgasm denied. You sob. They nod their head.
*wisp - wisp - wisp*
The nod! Mercy, finally, orgasms! Kisses!
Alas...
They just need to change the brush, you've ruined the last one.
You scream.
*wisp - wisp - wisp*
The Princess - M/F Erotic tickling, damsel in distress.
‘Mwahahahahahaha’ he cackled ‘ Finally Princess, I have you right where you belong and no meddling Hero will stop me this time.’
I've come across people who love the phrase “coochie coo,” and others absolutely cringe at it. Is it a generational thing? Or a kink-language preference?
Comment below: do you love it or hate it, and why?
I wonder if it's a generational thing. But I will say I am a sucker for it. It scratches an itch in my brain that is a super turn on for me.
The Ticklegasm Machine
By Lady Featherquill
NSFW Warning: Contains intense tickle torture and forced orgasms
The Ticklegasm Machine
Fear nearly overwhelmed Jen as she stared at the woman strolling around her. She had on a tight jumpsuit of black leather with bright green accents. It perfectly matched her crimpy hair. She regarded Jen the way a prospector might examine a very large diamond.
Jen had no idea how she got into this room. The last thing she remembered was sitting in her car after work. Then she woke up naked on this futuristic-looking table. When the woman pulled out a pair of little silver nodes and approached her, she finally found her voice.
“What…” she paused, swallowing. “What are those?”
“They’re just to monitor your reactions to various stimuli. They won’t hurt you.” She placed one on each of Jen’s temples. “This table is a machine. It will find out what pleases you the most and what tickles you the worst. Then it will fine-tune its techniques.”
Her heart leapt in fear. “Techniques for what?”
“Ticklegasm torture, of course,” she replied.