Can you believe that I did not realize today was Friday until just now. Truly. I was puttering around the office, filing—my files basically consist of one big file, so that task is fairly easy—and a light bulb went off over my head. The problem now that we've reached 23 fetish Fridays, is that I can't always remember which fetishes I've already bathed in. Do you know what I mean? We've hit spanking. We've listened in on aural sex. We've dialed our lovers for a bit of phone sex. We've tied ourselves up in corsets.... At the start, life was easy. I typed in "fetish" on ETSY, and I went with whichever item tickled my fancy. Now, when you type in "fetish," up pop 2,054 results.
Wait. Did I just say, "tickled my fancy?" What a brilliant idea!
Tickling, as a fetish, doesn't get as much play as you might expect. I mean, I've written a slew of tickling stories. But as an editor, I've read only a handful. I think this is because people who do not like being tickled are mildly (or even thoroughly) horrified by the thought. It doesn't seem as if anyone "kind of" likes tickling. You do, or you don't.
Am I right?
Of the 202 tickling references on my hard drive, most were written by me. Occasionally, there are mini tickling references within a story, like this description by Helena Black, in her story
Pink:
Only when he’s squirming and his cock is swollen and full does she open herself to him, giving him what he has been hungry for. His hot breath tickles the smooth skin of her pussy, and his tongue on her clit sends a sharp sting of pleasure. Or this one by Marie Potoczny from
The Other Side of Sleep:
His fingers tickle my clit to the rhythm of his rocking. It is very quickly too urgent for kissing neck and shoulders now. And it is wet; there will be a wet spot on my side of the bed when we are finished, which will remind me to add laundry to the list of things to do, but not now. Now I forget for a little longer all the important things to do today, but not as important as this.
Jeremy Edwards runs his fingers over the concept in
Le Petit Dejeuner:
I want to pet, tickle, squeeze, lick and ride her till our nerves melt together into soup. I want to see her nipples float on our sea of ecstasy and her lips mouth “I love you” from within the surf.But I want to really dissolve into giggles with this one. I want to collapse and beg for mercy. I want Jack.
Jack had me bound, and almost as an afterthought, he gagged me. But even as he buckled the gag into place, he gave me the kindest of glances. He seemed to think he was doing me a favor, and I guess that he was. There was no way I would have been able to stay quiet through this.
Tickling. It’s one of my favorite fetishes to write about. Yet it’s not a turn-on I’ve explored often in my life. Because it’s pure torture. More so than spanking, or cropping, or any of those actual pain-involved punishments. The thought of being tickled—the mere silver-edged memory of it—makes my spine tingle. A shiver runs through me that I find difficult to control.
Jack probably could guess exactly how I felt about his plans—and, of course, he didn’t give a fuck. He was playing. And I was his instrument. He was enjoying himself. And I was his entertainment. He was tickling me, and I was writhing on the bed.
He ran his fingers everywhere. Making me squirm as much as the bindings would allow—which was little. Making me beg, which was impossible with the gag in place. Making me cry, because that was really all I could do. Tears streamed down my face as my muscles tightened and held.
How can tickling seem worse than a proper caning?
No idea. But it was. This was hell. And all Jack was doing was running his fingertips in the most delicate manner over my body. He learned quickly that my ribs were more sensitive than the area under my arms. That my feet weren’t worth tickling at all. And that if he really wanted to make me crazy, he need only focus on my inner thighs and the backs of my knees and then back up once more to my ribs….
He was a master at this, as I should have expected. He knew how long to prolong the game before giving me a breather. I could feel the muscles in my stomach cramping. Could feel how damp my hair was at the back of my neck. Why was he doing this? Why was he so enjoying my reactions?
Because I was entirely out of control. That’s the only thing I could figure. I couldn’t be self-contained for this encounter. I couldn’t be strong, couldn’t carry the pain, head down, biting my lip to keep myself in check. There was no fighting my body’s natural reaction. All I could do was shake and shudder and choke on the laughter that wouldn’t slip past the ball gag.
The breaks grew shorter. The tickling more intense. And suddenly I realized why Jack hadn’t cared about the scotch puddle in the bed. He was going to tickle me until I wet myself. And that moment wasn’t far off.
Now, my struggles intensified. Now, I begged him with my eyes, hoping that he’d read the desperation there. Sure that he could. And crushed when he refused to stop.
Why was he doing this?
Because he could. Because it was new. Because of the reactions I was giving him. If I’d been a cold fish, lying there without any response, he would have thought of something different. But I was absolutely electrified, made crazy by the contact of his fingertips, and Jack seemed almost to be mentally recording my every reaction.
“You’re fighting me still,” he observed softly during one of his brief pauses. “You don’t seem to understand, do you?”
I did. He wouldn’t stop until he got what he wanted. But I couldn’t. I just fucking couldn’t.
He kissed me, my forehead. My cheeks. “I expect nothing less,” he whispered, sounding infinitely pleased. “You never let me down.”
Then he was back in motion, and if I’d been free, I would have curled up in a fetal position and tried to protect all of my most tender places. Yet bound so precisely, hiding wasn’t an option.
And as Jack had said, giving in wasn’t an option either.
I knew what he wanted.
I knew how far he’d go.
And I knew that, stubborn girl that I am, he was going to have to work to get there.Do you like it? Do you hate it? What does tickling mean for you?
If I missed a story of yours—tell me, and I'll link to you!
XXX,
Alison
I loved several of the stories in this series. As with all of the books I have read in the "Alphabet Series" so far you have your good and bad stories. This book however I felt had nothing but the best collection of stories by far. Many of the stories were right in line with being kinky, some with a humorous twist and one told as a kitty in a kennel (one of my favorites). Excellent stories from all writers.
