Tied and tickled stories

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A ticklish clit can be a bitch. A super Tied and tickled stories clit can be an agony, but of the very best kind. She was three years older than me and had entered my life five years earlier as a stay-over guest. Our parents were members of the local political scene and spent many evenings and weekends away from home.

Because our house was in a very remote area, almost like an outpost in a forest that was adjacent to a huge state park, my folks thought it would be a good idea for me to have company when they were away. Karen and I formed a quick and highly sexual bond right from the start. The remote house, raging hormones, sexual curiosity, and her Catholic schooling made a bonfire of lust that neither could nor wanted to extinguish.

Experimentation was our life, and Karen took a very dominant and overbearing role. I was the toy, and she could do whatever she wanted with me. It was a situation I never regretted. Some of the details are exquisite sex stories of their own, of course, and I shall share them in other chapters. I Tied and tickled stories long been into self-bondage, and Karen actually got her power of ownership over me when she had walked in on one of my sessions. In fact, I was bound and had a vibrator strapped to my erection and was in the process of actually squirting my load when she barged into my bedroom.

Which she did, many, many times. She began right then, preventing my ability to untie myself and then holding that vibrator against my prick for the next three hours. That, too, will be another story! What I had never known, however, was that Karen was also very into self-bondage. I learned her secret that summer evening. We were living together after my parents moved to Arizona, an idea her folks suggested!

Rita had divorced her dippy husband two years earlier, and I was surprised by her apparent naivety. I stopped for a fast-food snack, then got in the car and headed home. Right after I left the house earlier in the evening, Karen made a bee-line to her room, leaving a trail of her clothes strewn up the staircase. Shirt, short-shorts, panties, bra. She had gone to her room and pulled out her most formidable self-bondage accessories.

The single best was her brass-rail bed. It was a good, solid bed made of heavy metal. There were four stout posts with intricate des, and the head and footboards had vertical bars like a jail door. Lots of bondage possibilities.

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Then there was her new toy. I had no sooner gotten out of my car when I heard the loud, insane screaming coming from her room. I knew those sounds, though not that intensity, and figured she was giving her dildo extra service, or she had a girlfriend doing her. But there were no other cars present, and her screams never let up. Whatever she was doing, she was somehow enduring the unendurable. I went upstairs and decided to barge in on her, turn the tables a bit.

The door slammed open and I stood in the room in complete shock. Karen had somehow bound her elbows together, and her wrists were locked into fur-lined cuffs that she had secured on the opposite side of the bed bars. In that position there was no way she could lower her arms.

That left her armpits exposed and her heaving boobs thrust up and looking like fuck bait. A metal nipple clamp firmly grasped each very erect tit bud, and the clamps were held by cotton clothesline to the headboard so that the cord was pulled tight—no slack in those lines. Her legs were in cuffs fastened to the outer sides of the bedposts, so she was pulled incredibly far apart she was, after all, a long-time gymnast.

The posts kept her from any possibility of closing her legs, though I could easily tell that her ankles were now desperately trying to come together. Overall, Karen was now a large letter Y, and helpless to change it. Above her bound hands was the mechanism of release: the cuff key had been in an ice cube, and would drop into her waiting hand when the cube melted. Only there was no ice. Her hands helplessly flexed and closed and flexed as she underwent paroxysms of total muscle contraction. In fact, she was so tight that most of her body was arched upward, not even touching the mattress.

It seems that something happened that made her drop the key behind the bed when the ice melted, and now she was truly trapped—locked into place—to suffer her self-inflicted and rather diabolical sexual torture. Her new toy was the cause of the loss of the key.

It was an electric fucking machine. A motor was on a platform at the foot of the bed, above her cedar chest. Extending from the motor was a long metal rod aimed right at her shaved, shining pussy. The last foot of the rod was sheathed by twelve inches of very soft and flexile, olive coloured dildo.

The fucking machine was just that; the motor rammed the dildo in and out of her cunt, mindless to any request or plea or begging. The rod would just go in and out, in and out, until someone turned it off. But Karen had erred in placing the Tied and tickled stories.

When she was all trussed up, Tied and tickled stories used a small remote to start the fucking machine, which she set for an intermediate fuck speed.

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Lucky for Karen, she never underestimated lube doses; the dildo, her cunt, and her entire super-spread open crotch were more than liberally covered with soft slimy juices. She wiggled and wriggled her hips in a desperate effort to get more penetration, but with all that lubricant the dildo came completely out her happy hole and started rubbing the cleft above. Yeah, the cleft where her very noticeable clit was.

With every in and out, her clit was being pushed, pulled, pushed, pulled. And tickled. I see pictures of tickling and I get helpless. Karen has, from day one, capitalized on that and uses tickle torture to make me crazy.

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I am, however, forbidden to ever tickle her, at pain of sexual torture that no amount of my Tied and tickled stories has yet tried to challenge. The reality, the view, the sheer sexual agony gave me a near-instant erection, and I was heavily leaking pre-cum. As soon as she saw me, her screams got louder. For someone in self-bondage, discovery is potentially the biggest thrill of all. Especially if you WANT sex with the discoverer. Then rape me some more. I knew, too, that, as part of our arrangement, if I took advantage of her situation, her revenge on me would be much, much worse.

So I mentally shrugged and did the only thing I could. I ran to my room and got my camcorder, then set it up to get the best, most humiliating view of Karen being machine fucked. As long as I was already doomed, I plowed on. Her whole body was rigid, the cords pulling her nipples ever so slightly slack. I went over to the machine and looked at the controls. I was toying with her head now, giving her the only relief possible without actually doing something. I gave her hope that her torment of, what, the past three hours, was about to end. The rate dial was set at about one-third speed.

I fingered the dial, paused, and then quickly turned it to full throttle.

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So much for hope! If looks could kill, her look at me would have burnt the house down. She was not amused. And while our house was so remote that no one could have heard her anyway, I found the screaming a bit loud for my taste, so I got her largest ball gag and silenced her. In fact, her gag is more like a big rubber donut, holding her mouth very wide, but with a hole in the middle. I inserted my index finger and gently tickled the roof of her mouth, and her eyes crossed and rolled up.

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One more thing to do, though. The line attaching the nipple clamps to the bed frame were set up to be just taut when she was laying down flat and relaxed. That would guarantee stiff nips. But once she went into her catatonic arched posture, she raised her boobs and took all the tension from the clothesline.

Terrible oversight, I thought, and I should fix it.

Tied and tickled stories

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