Three-Word Prompt: Erotic Tickle Torture
“You’re a Major, is that right, John?”
“Not a talker, I see. Well then, Major, let’s play a game.”
They started with his thighs, two sets of hands, ten fingers tickling their way up and down the soft flesh between his legs as he bucked against his restraints. He did well at first, his face creased like a well-worn book and sweat beading on his forehead, elsewhere it seeped through his cotton shirt. They tickled their way up into his arm pits and Major John sweat harder and muttered curses, his face reddening by degrees.
And he laughed. Just a snort, then a short guffaw, and soon he was laughing and struggling, trying to contain it, to cram the devil back into the box, but the fingers were too deft, the sensation too intrusive. He squirmed away from those fingers, but they found him wherever he went and he laughed whenever they pressed into him. He laughed until he cried, until his cock got hard and then they tickled that too.
They were good at knots because as much as he struggled, Major John didn’t move more than a fraction of an inch on that chair. He begged them, through an outpouring of riotous, desperate laughter, to stop. He thought he would lose consciousness, but he didn’t. They tickled him and he threw his head back and howled, he tried to curl up into a ball and strained so hard that the thick cords of muscle in his neck bulged and his eyes got red.
They played with his dick and it distracted him a little. The tickling stopped for a while and they jerked him off until he was aching to thrust his hips in time with their strokes. He found himself making little noises of pleasure and edging closer to orgasm. He knew in the pit of his stomach that they wouldn’t let him cum, but his body still worked itself into a lather of keen anticipation. Of course, right before he was ready to unload they took their hands away and began to tickle him again as his cock throbbed and bounced. When his laughter eventually turned into a dry wheeze and his face was slick with tears, they gave him another break and stroked his dick until he was begging them to let him get off, until he was so close, then the tickling again.
They saved his feet for last and his eyes widened as they descended. They ran something across his soles, a prickly, vibrating object that he couldn’t see because of the way they’d tied him down. It was murderous and he howled anew, struggling harder than ever and shouting that he’d confess, he’d do what they wanted. They jerked him off again, but the tickling didn’t stop and the new sensation in his feet was too much.
“Now let’s talk, Major John. Let’s talk about names and dates and times,” someone said.
And he talked, and they tickled, and so on.
*Kiliti means tickle in tagalog. The prompt reminded me of a game a filipino friend’s family used to play where they would tickle each other. The object was to keep a straight face the entire time you were being tickled. They call it, simply, kiliti.
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