“I can’t find anything in here!” I was practically going out of my head. Papers were strewn all over my office, but I couldn’t locate the ones that I actually needed.
“What are you looking for?” Brad asked me patiently from the doorway. He appeared cool and collected. I felt like a hot mess.
“Yeah,” Brad said, with only a slightly sarcastic edge, “I could see how that would make it more difficult. If you were looking for everything all at once.”
“I’m not kidding,” I snapped. “I’m missing at least seven different papers.” I brushed my auburn curls out of my face. They spiraled right back where they had been. Nothing in my world was behaving.
“It’s because you’re so disorganized, Becky.”
“Right, kick me when I’m down.”
“That’s not exactly what I was thinking.”
The tone in his voice made me look at him. “What were you thinking?”
“I’ll tell you after we sort out your mess. I mean, desk.”
Without trepidation, he came toward the junkyard of paperwork. I winced. Slowly, he started stacking papers, moving files, adjusting teetering towers. My polished oak desk began to emerge, bit by bit. “What you really need is a tickler file,” Brad said as he slid a few stray papers into my cabinet.
“What’s a tickler file?”
“You keep a collection of labeled files containing what you need to do for each day. Everything will be organized and right in front of your face. Then you never get to the point where you can’t think because you’re so far behind.”
“Why do they call it a tickler file?”
“Tickles your memory, I guess,” he said. There was a light in his gray eyes as he spoke. I wondered if he could tell that my mind had shifted from work deadlines to something else entirely.
“Let me help you. We’ll start with a list,” he continued, grabbing a yellow legal pad from the top of my filing cabinet and snagging a ballpoint from under my chair. He didn’t make a snarky comment about that like “Is this the best place to keep your pens?” He knows that when I’m on deadline, I tend to be harried. In the calmest manner possible, he asked, “What do you need to do first?” I perched on the clean edge of my desk and started listing the items I had to do: forms that needed to be postmarked by the thirtieth, papers I was supposed to bring to the design team. Brad listened and wrote, and I noticed how neat his handwriting was. My notes tend to look as if I’ve written them in secret spy code. Nobody can decipher the words but me.
“See what you think,” he said, handing over the pad.
The top, in bold letters, read: Rebecca’s Tickler File. Below, in a clearly bulleted row, were all the items I’d ticked off. He’d managed to make sense out of the jumble of thoughts that had nearly devoured my brain. But then, at the bottom, were words I hadn’t said:
Get tied down.
Submit to a tickling session.
Come like a powerhouse.
I looked at Brad my throat was tight. I am one of the few the lucky few who lives for being tickled. Brad discovered this sexy fact about me on our first date when he casually rested a hand on my thigh while we were driving, and I squealed and jumped. “What’s wrong?” he’d asked. “Nothing, I’m just ticklish,” I’d responded, embarrassed. I’d worried he would find me odd. Instead, he’d been charmed by how responsive my body was to his touch, and over the next few months, he’d taken to experimenting in order to see exactly how ticklish I was and precisely how wet I could get when he tickled me. Learning new erogenous zones and fresh ways to stimulate them became one of his favorite pastimes.
“Am I supposed to do these things in order?” I asked curiously.
He winked. “Well, usually. But you don’t have to go in chronological order if you don’t want to. I know you’re a rebel. I can tell that by looking at your office.”
“You mean we could start at the bottom?”
“If you say so.”
“With the bullet points that you added?”
That was all I needed. In seconds, I stripped, tearing down my jeans and kicking them to the corner, taking off my t shirt. I wasn’t wearing a bra or panties. I work at home. I only get dolled up when I have a meeting and to me, “dolled up” means underwear. Brad, on the other hand, still had on his suit and he only took off his jacket. He was not ready to get naked. Yet.
“Go into the bedroom,” he said, “and wait for me.”
I did exactly as he said. The words weren’t a suggestion. When Brad has bondage on his mind, I know to behave. Once I was on the bed, though, my thoughts started playing games with me. What would he do? Would he tie me down with silken sashes? Would he use our cuffs? Did he want me faceup or facedown? I would have touched myself if I didn’t think that would get me in trouble. As it was, my pussy began to respond to my questions. Thank God for Brad. I’d been in a right tizzy when he’d come home. Now, I was well, if not relaxed, then at least in a completely altered state.
When he walked into the room, I couldn’t help but laugh. He had a bouquet of feather dusters in his hand. I could tell that he’d been planning this event for some time. The dusters were all different colors. Vibrant pink. Electric orange. Mediterranean blue. Intense indigo.
God, they were pretty. But even more than that, they were sexy. I wondered how many other women out there were receiving bouquets of dusters this evening. Were any as excited as I was? Fuck flowers these were the loveliest creations I’d seen in a long time.
“I knew you were having a difficult time with your deadlines,” Brad said. “And I thought you might need a pick me up.” He paused. “Or a tie me down.”
He came toward the bed and set the bouquet down by my side. Then he started to get to work. Brad and I engage in bondage games on a regular basis. So we have a hook on the headboard to attach the chain from a set of handcuffs. Leather thongs reside on the posts of our bed, and Brad used them to tie me down quickly. The activity tonight wasn’t so much the bondage, but what would happen once I was bound. I stared at those feather dusters. They were so pretty, but they were also far from innocent.
“Are you ready?”
I shook my head. I love being tickled, but I’m never ready.
He’d been so patient in the office. Now he was in charge and calling the shots. He picked up the first duster and ran the feathers along the bottoms of my feet. I was grateful that I was tied down. I would have kicked right off the bed. The sensation was almost overwhelming right from the start. I sucked in my breath, and then let it out in a rush. He ran the feathers along the bottom of my right foot, then my left, and then he began to slowly dust along the insides of my legs. I squealed and shook. He laughed at my useless flailing. Where was I trying to go?
“You like that?”
I nodded, but Brad didn’t seem to believe me.
“Let’s see for ourselves.” He sat between my thighs on the mattress and pressed his lips to my shaved pussy. “Oh, yes,” he said. “I can see exactly how much you like that. You’re dripping already.”
Truth be told, I’d been dripping since he first showed me the word tickle.
The thought of being tickled can make me giggle. The fantasy of having Brad tickle me all over my body is enough to bring me to fierce solo climaxes. Actually being tickled surpasses all of my daydreams. Over the years, Brad has learned exactly how to push my buttons. He knows to tickle me up to a point where I think I am going to scream, and then he settles me back down with gentle touches or in this case, with his lips on my clit. He continued to lick and suck, but then he reached for one of the dusters.
I saw the blur of feathers as he brought the duster up to my pussy. I tried to clench my thighs together, to no avail. I’d forgotten for a second that I was bound. There was no closing my legs, no tightening of anything except my internal muscles. Brad licked my clit, and then he dusted the feathers over my mound. I bucked and giggled, lost in the warring sensations. Part of me wanted to laugh. Part of me wanted to come. Which part would win? Maybe both!
Brad played a game. He sucked on my clit until I was begging and mewling with the need to come. And then he backed off and tickled me, using that sweet little duster over my naked pussy, then reaching higher to tickle the basin of my stomach, the sides of my ribs.
I was glad we lived in a house rather than an apartment. Otherwise, our neighbors might have been startled. When he tickled my ribs, I started laughing in that way that ripples through my whole body. I was shaking so hard the bed was moving. I gasped for breath between bouts of laughter. Finally, Brad took pity on me. He set down the duster and resumed his tricky behavior between my thighs. His tongue licked me, his lips sucked me, and then he used one finger to slide up inside me. As soon as he sensed I was on the absolute precipice, he brought the duster back into play, teasing only the insides of my thighs, that delicate region where the legs join the body. I was done for. I stopped laughing, focused so totally on the pleasure that circulated through me. I shut my eyes tight, but I didn’t see stars. I saw feathers.
When I opened them up again, Brad had those feather dusters right in front of my face. “Choose your favorite,” he said. “You’re going to be getting to know each other intimately.”
What could he mean? More intimately than what I’d just felt? He’d feather dusted me right into a bed shaking climax. At first, I couldn’t speak. But finally, I said, “I like the . . . the purple one.”
“Pretty,” Brad agreed, setting the duster gently down on my belly. When I exhaled, the feathers fluttered. I watched as he stood by the bed and undressed. His cock was so hard. I loved that turning me on turned him on. Aren’t we a good match? I thought. We are outside of the bedroom, too. I bring excitement and a bit of chaos to our relationship, while Brad brings order and refinement. Together, we . . . we . . . my thoughts stopped. Brad was unfastening the bindings that were wrapped around my wrists.
“You take your favorite,” he said.
I grabbed the violet duster.
“Use it on my cock.”
This was new. In all our time together, I’d never tickled him. I didn’t think he’d like the experience. I don’t know whether fetishists are formed or born, but I’d craved the sensation of being tickled as long as I could remember. Would Brad?
I ran the feather duster along the length of his cock. I could see his dick get even harder. His thigh muscles tightened, and when I looked at his face, I saw a curious expression there. He didn’t look as if he were trying not to laugh. He looked as if he were trying not to come. I could tell from the set of his jaw, from the way his eyelids fluttered, that he liked it.
“Undo my ankles,” I said, “please.”
Brad moved quickly. He seemed to understand what my plan was almost before I knew myself. In fact, he was on the bed, in my place, waiting for me to bind him down. Damn, he looked hot. Brad is handsome in clothes. Out of clothes, he’s like a Greek statue come to life. “Come” being the operative word. His dick stood up at attention. It was difficult to ignore, but I did my best as I attached the cuffs to his wrists and then the bindings to his ankles. Then I gave in, for a second, bobbing my mouth up and down on his cockhead while he groaned and tested my bondage skills. I’d bound him firmly enough. He could hardly move.
I could tell from his hard on that the thought of tickle play had aroused him, but I needed to be sure. “You really ready for this?” I asked.
He nodded, but his eyes were huge.
I started slowly. I ran the purple duster over his nipples. He groaned and looked skyward. His nipples were erect in a second. I brushed back and forth between them, then down his broad chest. He didn’t seem to mind that. I skipped over his groin and ran the duster along the insides of his thighs. For me, this was a magic spot. For him, nothing. I worked down to the bottom of his feet. He twitched and wriggled, but it didn’t spark a laugh.
Hmmm. I’d have to try harder. I moved back up his body and ran the duster under one of his outstretched arms. He struggled mightily, making the cuffs’ chain rattle as he reacted. Aha! I’d found his weakness. I felt elated and even more turned on. Brad’s eyes locked on mine when I reached for the second duster. “Let’s try two at once,” I said.
“Oh, my God,” was barely out of his lips when I used both dusters together, one under each arm. Even though I was tickling him, I was looking over my shoulder at his dick. It looking startlingly erect as if he was ready to spurt at any moment. I kept tickling him without pause. Brad wasn’t exactly laughing at that point. It sounded more like he was yelping, a sound that seemed steeped in a mix of pleasure and pain. I wondered what it would feel like to climb astride him while tickling him. Then I wondered why it had taken me so long to come up with that idea.
Without a word of warning, I slid a leg over his body and settled myself on his cock. Brad shuddered. I felt the sensation all the way through my entire being. He was deep in me, with my pussy tight around his cock. I was all the way down in resting position when I began to tickle him once more.
Slam! He bucked his hips so hard that I felt as if I were astride one of those mechanical bulls. I almost went flying. Before giving him another swipe, I tucked my heels slightly under his thighs, anchoring myself for the ride.
“Do you want me to stop?” I teased, taunting his nipples with the feathers to give him a slight respite from the tickling torment.
“No,” he whispered, but there were tears in his eyes. Did he really want me to continue?
“Are you sure?”
He nodded, and then, as if I’d unleashed a torrent inside him, he said, “Please, Becky. I love the way that feels. Don’t stop. Keep fucking me, and keep tickling.”
His words put a lump in my throat. I don’t know why, but I found his desires so raw, so sexy. I immediately fulfilled his fantasy. Using the two dusters, I worked mercilessly, tickling his armpits in tandem. He nearly tossed me into the air with his thrusts, but I held my own, setting a pace. I tickled he bucked. I ran the feathers over his nipples he sighed and settled down. I reached around and tickled his balls he said, “Oh, holy fuck. You slut. You . . . ” Aha! I thought again. A new place. For me, the insides of my thighs were the secret garden. For him, the balls. I should have known, but now that I did, I would never forget.
I continued to tickle him in these areas until I saw from the look on his face that he was close to climaxing. It was a heady moment to realize that my tickling and teasing had brought him to this point of ecstasy.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” he panted.
“Do I stop? Do I work you harder? Do I . . .”
“Keep going,” he said, and I saw how red his cheeks were, saw how much of an effort he was making not to come too soon. “Please, Becky.” His words were choked with laughter, not my type of giggles, light and bubbly like Champagne. But dark, like whiskey.
I did what he said. I held on to him as tightly as I could, and I tricked those feathers under his arms, then across his nipples, then over his balls. A thought occurred to me, and I reached for one of the discarded dusters and positioned that one in the V of his legs. Now he had constant tickling against his balls with every movement he made, and I controlled the rest.
But things kicked up a notch when I let go of the dusters and used my fingertips in their place. I guess he needed that feeling of skin on skin. I spiraled my fingers under his arms and then tweaked his nipples hard, and then I tickled down his ribs and felt him shoot off inside me.
Hands down, this was the biggest orgasm I’d ever been part of. He seemed to nearly rip the leather thongs off the posts with the tensing of his legs. I ground my hips against his body as he shivered and jerked, and then I slid a hand down and touched my own clit, making myself come while watching Brad slowly start to recover.
“Oh, fuck,” he sighed as I sprawled out on top of him. I saw bits of feathers on our pillows, on the blanket, even in Brad’s hair. “God, that was amazing.” I reached for the key and unlocked the cuffs, then helped him to undo the leather restraints. I was right. There were definite stress marks on the leather.
“So that’s why you like being tickled so much,” he said, and I saw understanding in his eyes. “There’s this place you go where you think you can’t take another second, except you want to. You want to take one more second, you want the sensation that awful, wonderful sensation to last forever.”
He’d summed up the feeling better than I could.
“I never even thought I was ticklish,” he continued, looking amazed. He glanced at his reflection in our mirror and started to pull bits of colorful feathers from his hair. He still seemed halfway in a daze. I knew I was, but I also knew I wanted to do it again. As soon as we recovered.
“I’ll get my office in order,” I promised him. “If you’ll add a bullet or two to my tickler list every day.”
“You’ve got a deal,” Brad said, brandishing a duster.