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by C. Faulkner
"But-but-but . . .," I sputtered, trying desperately to talk my way out another punishment, aware that it wasn't working.
Brian raised an eyebrow and tucked his chin to his chest. "No 'buts', except perhaps yours in a sling. This session is well-earned." I knew by the tone of his voice that there was no hope.
I admit, I had gotten a little mouthy lately. My language had deteriorated considerably. There was little Brian hated more than to hear me swear. He detested it, and didn't even like me to say something as mild as "shit". His attitude is more than a little old-fashioned, but he refuses to budge. To his credit, he rarely swore either. Well, he happened to come into the bedroom just as I was using language that would make a sailor blush, because I opened the nightstand drawer too far and it came out all the way, spilling the contents all over the floor.
Andrew was away on business for a week, which means overly sensitive Brian was in charge of all of my discipline. And while, if Andrew were going to punish me in an unusual way, it would usually mean an enema, or some other sort of "anal discipline", Brian's chosen form of discipline - before, after, or in place of a spanking - is to tickle me practically to death.
When we had first become intimate, Brian delighted in the fact that I didn't have any one particular place that was necessarily any more ticklish than the other, but rather my ENTIRE BODY seemed like one big tickle-spot. Occasionally, either one of them, when just trying to caress me tenderly, would inadvertently send me into spasms of laughter - sometimes at the most inopportune moment!
I bit my lip, realizing that I was already at an extreme disadvantage - I was on "my" side of the bed - the further side from the door and any chance of escape. I was in one of his huge (on me) white t-shirts, nothing else. It wasn't going to afford me any kind of protection against whatever evil lurked under that thick mat of closely cropped dark hair. Brian looked deceptively relaxed, standing infront of the only door, but I knew he knew what I was thinking when he said, "Don't you move a muscle, young lady," and quickly divested himself of his sweatshirt, revealing a huge, brawny chest, lightly sprinkled with hair. Oh, how I wished there were just ONE little spot on him that was ticklish, so I could get some of my own back. But no, even with all the in-depth exploration I'd done, he'd never so much as chuckled at my delicate touch - moaned a lot, yes, laughed, no.
When he started to come around to my side of the bed, I broke out of my trance and tried to escape the only way I knew how - up and over the king-sized bed. Without appearing hurried, Brian's hand shot out and caught me; his big, thick fingers easily encircling my ankle, pulling me gently, inexorably back toward where he stood at the side of the bed.
"What happens to little girls who use foul language, darlin'?" his voice was silky and soft as he climbed onto the bed, turning me on my side to lay infront of him, easily stripping me of the light T-shirt so that I was naked to his gaze, his touch, and the inevitable madness his fingertips wrought on my sensitive skin.
My voice caught, as if I was already sobbing. "They get spanked?" I suggested, not really knowing which punishment I liked the least.
"Sometimes," he answered, nuzzling that exquisitely tender area at the back of my neck, licking and sucking it noisily, tonguing me there until my whole body shuddered, my nipples popped out achingly as I squirmed in tormented delight.
"No, please, I can't stand that," I breathed futilely, and he continued as if I hadn't spoken. His hot, wet mouth trailed to my jawline, then up to caress my ear, raising goosebumps all over my body. Despite my incessant wiggling to get away from his ticklish forays, Brian held me captive easily - one of the advantages of being twice my size - but gently. He was always extremely aware of his strength and my delicacy, and, unless he was meting out a punishment on my bare behind, his touch was always soft and sexy, almost reverent.
The light calluses on his fingertips from years of guitar playing only served to heighten their rasping contact with my flesh as he raised the torture a notch. Capturing both of my wrists in one of his big paws, he found both of my armpits at the same time, wringing long giggles, snorts, and laughs from me like the expert he was. He rolled, laying me on my back, half-on, half-off me, keeping me captive and writhing under the ministrations of his devilish fingers. I couldn't get my breath for laughing and I was sure I was going to wet the bed soon. But I knew he was nowhere near through.
"Tickle-tickle-tickle," he said in a voice absurdly high for a man of his size, making me laugh all the harder.
"No, Brian, no!" I tried to get out, but it came out a whisper because I had no breath left from laughing.
"Oh, yessssss, sweetie," his tongue dipped to capture a freshly peaked nipple and tug, making me buck unintentionally into his mouth and against those torturous fingers. He loved to suckle while he tickled, enjoying the feel of me twisting and turning under him, trying to avoid the unavoidable.
Finally, he stopped for a moment and let me catch my breath, merely suckling on first one nipple then the other. It was crazy, but tickling - like most all other of my punishments, even the more severe ones - turns me on. I knew that if his fingers wandered below my waist to delve into my pussy, he would find me sopping wet. Perhaps it was the intimacy, the loss of control, the stroking of sensitized flesh . . . I don't know. But it never failed to conjure a sexual response in me that was bone-deep.
With his furry head resting just below my breasts, he began slowly again at one my most vulnerable areas - my waist and just below it. Just thinking of being touched in the area above my pubic mound, but below my belly button, makes my muscles contract. He knew exactly how to drive me crazy, carefully making delicate tracks with just barely the tips of his fingers over and over and over, gentle butterfly touches that would inevitably turn into more firm, purposeful strokes. I tried to double over, but his bulk won't let me. I can barely even shift under that weight but still I try, moving my hips back and forth, almost as if I were trying to aid him in his efforts to exhaust me through tickling. My breath is completely expelled and tears fill my eyes, yet he is merciless, reaching one hand down to attack the back of my right knee while leaving the other to continue the assault on my belly-flesh.
"NONONONONONO,BRIIIIIAAAAANNN!!" I said with what little breath I could muster through muscle-wrenching giggles.
"YESYESYES,GABBY!" he parrots back at me, both hands now torturing the backs of my knees as he flips me over onto my abused tummy, tickling and teasing with both hands and mouth incessantly, trailing his mouth and tongue up and down the back of my thighs, then scraping the delicate flesh with the edges of his teeth, all the way down to my feet.
Here he paused again, his mouth back up at my bottom, nipping, sucking the small hallow at the base of my spine while I wipe away the tears and sniff indelicately. I hope- against all hope - that it is over, but I know he won't forget the bottoms of my feet.
"I thought I was going to wet myself, Brian," I said, wondering if that idea would deter him.
Instead, he got up and, turning me over, put a thick, fluffy towel under my hips. Without further ado, he lay across my ankles, effectively immobilizing me. A big, meaty hand descended on each foot and tickled . . . and tickled . . . and tickled.
I sat up, trying to dislodge him as I howled with laughter. I lay back down, wiggling and giggling the entire time as he stimulated the sensitive points on the bottoms of my feet. "I'm not going to hear language like that out of you again, Gabby, am I?" he asked casually, as if I were not going to pieces beneath him and his torturous fingers. "Naughty little ladies in this house get to learn their lessons the hard way, don't they?"
My mind had left me. I could only concentrate on that delicate feeling, somewhere between pleasure and pain, that was tickling. The stimulating movements completely enthralled and absorbed my whole being in that mixture of wanting it to stop and worrying that it will stop. I writhed and wriggled and moaned and cried.
Finally, he stopped after I don't know how long, moving up my body, deliberately trailing a finger and tickling lightly with it at the back of my knee, my waist, my armpit, ending with a loud smacking kiss on the back of my neck, under the heavy curtain of my hair. I sounded like I had run the 4-minute mile, and I knew my face was blotchy and my eyes were swollen from the tears. My stomach muscles were killing me from all the laughing.
Grinning, he drew a deep, satisfied breath, and if I'd had the energy, I'd've smacked him for looking so damned smug. He kissed my sweaty shoulder. "I love tickling you, darlin'," he growled, moving suddenly back down my body but with an entirely different intent. His fingers parted my legs, then my pussy lips; gently probing to find what he knew would be there - lots of warm wetness. "And, as much as you protest, and I think it is a good punishment for you, you love it too." One then two of those fingers found their way inside me as he dipped his head, saying, "It's almost as good as making you come." I laid my head back, knowing that in a few minutes he would have exhausted me again, in a different, but not necessarily better, way. Punishment or reward. Who was to say which was which?
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