FlimFlam27

I know what you’re thinking. “You tied him up with his shoes and socks still on?” And I’m glad you’re concerned but worry not, my fellow sicko. I’ve already coated his feet in itching powder and put his socks and shoes back on top, and then tied them on, locking his tootsies in an inescapable hell. This photo catches the moment he realised just what that weird powder I put on his soles does. The itching begins.

I fucking told you so; The look shared between a gay man and his supportive straight friend after the former insisted a sleazy-looking gay bar off a side street was ‘totally fine’. Three triple vodkas later each - only two of them drugged - and the two friends were almost naked, tied up tightly and wearing jockstraps they certainly hadn’t gone out wearing, with no memory of how they’d ended up there. Before them lay a table of flogs, feathers, brushes, vibrators, clamps, candles and all manner of kinky tools of torment.

The straight ally - tied to a chair, strong legs spread wide, presumably for easy access to his crotch - stared at his gay pal with a disappointed look in his handsome eyes. His friend could only shrug apologetically from his position above.

Now this is cruel. His captor left him bound wearing a hypno-visor. Every time someone tried to rescue him they were hypnotically compelled to tickle the half-naked man ruthlessly before following the final spiral-command: leave and forget you were ever here. Fourteen times the poor guy thought he’d been rescued, and fourteen times he became the sweaty victim of a nouveau-tickler.

“It’s okay! You’re safe. We’re here. Oh….” He’d hear, before they went silent and a cruel tickling began.

Aww look at this poor guy. No seriously, look at him. A wizard trapped him in the gif, cursed him to suffer that ticklish fate forever. Or at least until the wizard decides to set him free, if ever. He’s in there living that ~1 second of torture over and over and over and over. Less than one full second but how many brushstrokes does the tickler get in? Is that three? Three complete scrubs up his oiled, toe-tied bare foot per second, every second. Poor guy is in there suffering this ticklish loop as a continuous stream of sensation, forced to react and laugh and struggle identically again and again while his consciousness experiences time linearly. Look at his face, the way his arms struggle. The wizard picked the peak moment of ticklish agony to freeze him in. All he knows is that damn brush setting his nerves alight, and that there are countless gooners, gawkers and perverts leering at his suffering through the screen pointing at his feet. Would you help him if you could? Take his place, maybe? Or are you more content to drink in the erotic sight of his endless tickle torture?

So take a moment to ponder on his suffering as you touch yourself, dear scroller. How many other souls are trapped in the tickle gifs you like and reblog?

Just imagine some big, burly man burying his face in your soles and rubbing back and forth like crazy, maybe adding his tongue every now and then to keep things interesting…

You know in all my years of fantasising about tickles I’ve actually never considered someone using their beard against me. I bet that would tickle like a bitch. Now that’s using what god gave you!

Your captor promising he won’t use any tools against you and you breath a sigh of relief knowing the most you’ll have to put up with is fingers…then you feels the unmistakable scratch of a beard begin to rake down your taut soles. This is a whole new world, anon.

Colour me intrigued

What would you say is your most ticklish spot/tool? Or are you going to be shy? 😏

You know following up that statement (compliment gratefully received btw) with that question is just masterful teasing anon I have to give it to you. Way to load that question with malice and intent.

My feet are my most ticklish spot. The feeling of stocks locking over my bare ankles and my toes being tied back fills me with dread, and knowing a sizeable chunk of my audience would absolutely go to town if they found me in such a predicament is really quite something 😅

A match made in heaven. Teasing a guy relentlessly until he’s ready to explode…then tickling the shit out of him. There’s no more effective last minute ‘abort orgasm’ button than a sole scrubbing or a pit drilling. A masterful edger knows how to drive a man insane with the balance of sexual torture and ticklish torment. The good boys are allowed to cum at the end, followed of course by a hefty heaping of post-O tickle torture to really seal the deal.

Naughty boys, though? After hours of edging and tickling and more edging and more tickling…eventually they’re left alone and allowed to deflate before being tucked up nice and tight in a cage, balls still full to bursting. Hopefully next time they’ll be a lot less rude.

The young prisoner signed up eagerly for the scheme, opting in to daily tickling by the guards in exchange for a reduction in his sentence. Every day the guard on duty would cuff him in a hogtie, peel off his shoes and socks and tickle him until he was almost wetting his jumpsuit. Watching the unfortunate little criminal howl and cry was mighty satisfying to the sadistic guards, and they bragged to each other about the cruel tickling they had subjected the lad to on their watch. They were shocked someone so ticklish would sign up for a tickle-related scheme; kid must be pretty desperate to get outta here.

It was only a year and a half into this ‘scheme’ that a new prisoner on the block - ironically a lawyer in his free life - informed the young man emphatically that such a scheme was not real, and not legal.

When his despair had cooled into anger, he waited for the allotted tickle-time the next day and confronted the guard with the truth.

Sending this to every tickle freak I know. Hopefully one or two of them will be able to track you down and make your dreams come true. Be careful what you wish for…

The last thing you expected to find when housesitting for your uncle was pictures like these. On the third day of boredom you decided to rifle through his photographs to take a trip down memory lane. It was in this dusty cupboard, tucked discretely at the back, that you found a packet of pictures that certainly weren’t family photos.

Clearly taken sometime in the 90s, the pictures showed your uncle and your father - childhood best friends, your dad marrying his pal’s sister - tied up in their dated clothing getting tickled by some guy, laughing their fucking heads off.

Now this was an interesting turn of events. After a moment of deliberation you gave your uncle a bell.

‘Oh those!’ He chuckled. ‘I haven’t seen those in ages. I think it’s fair to say me and your pops were strapped for cash in the early nineties and we saw this advert in the classifieds one day. Guy offering big bucks for any ticklish young men. Desperation overcame our inhibitions and we took the plunge. Jesus could that guy tickle. Once the thick socks were off all hell broke loose. I almost pissed myself, and your pops! God he barely survived it. Was worth it though. We told him we were ‘brothers’ and boy that got him going. He paid us extra if we’d tickle each other, and we were happy to oblige. Made your dad wish he wasn’t born. Ha!’

Your jaw was dropped at this story, and by the time you’d gotten off the phone a shameful tent was growing in your jeans. Did your own tickling kink have anything to do with this event in your father’s formative years…or was your dad the one pushing for them to answer the ad for personal reasons of his own…

Whatever the answer, you snapped a picture of all the photographs and tucked them away neatly.

This accidental discovery confirmed one thing; ticklishness definitely ran in the family. Your dad’s sensitivity sounded very familiar.

I mean, think about it. Just imagine the feeling of a hairbrush dragging oh so slowly up the full length of your oiled sole, accosting all of your worst spots without a care, while you can do nothing but sit there and take it.

You could try to endure it, taking deep breaths and gritting your teeth and tensing various parts of your body as the sensation persists, but it would just tickle so, so bad...

Are you really saying you could handle that without breaking?

Oh I’d break like a twig. They’d tickle me so intensely my brain would melt and they’d remould me however they want. They’d make sure I understood that no mercy means no fucking mercy. All I’m saying is that simply letting them break me would probably be less torturous than constantly fighting for my innocence against people who revel in punishing insolence…

The orderly comes in with a nice, sturdy hairbrush, one with too many little plastic bristles to even count, each one tipped with a tiny sphere at the end to cause maximum sensation.

What do you do?

If I’m suitably restrained in a well-run tickle asylum I don’t think I have much choice but to suffer through whatever ticklish torture they wanna subject me to 😫

And if they chose to ram a ball gag in my mouth…I might not even have the option of begging.

As those insanely sadistic brushes touched my soles, perfectly designed to cause as much tickling as possible, I’d have little choice but to howl with forced laughter, utterly in shock that this was happening right now. Tickle asylums aren’t real, right? This can’t be real. Those are made up, like the ones I write about. There aren’t buildings full of men being disciplined via sadistic tickling torment! But the brushes scrubbing on my insteps beg to differ. The ticklish lightning making me jolt and scream is the realest thing I’ve ever felt.

The real question: do I protest my innocence and possibly prolong my sentence because they deem me delusional, even though I’m telling the truth? Or do I go along with their treatments for my ‘condition’ in the hopes that eventually they deem me cured, and set me free?

Omg you’re right. I would HATE it if someone tied me down and tickled me until I squeal all the info they want from me (and a hell of a lot they don’t).

That would be terrible….

Absolutely nobody subject me to that please….

The orderly comes in with a nice, sturdy hairbrush, one with too many little plastic bristles to even count, each one tipped with a tiny sphere at the end to cause maximum sensation.

What do you do?

I mean, sounds like a question for the orderly tbh. I’ll be sweating and shivering in anticipation, getting the goose pimples, especially when I see that hairbrush… or hear the orderly run their fingers over the bristles to make me think about what’s coming…

Then I feel I have a long, arduous ordeal ahead of me with nothing to do but take it and take it and take it… 🥺

It was just a formaility, really. The knocking. A bit of performative normalcy in this establishment that I liked to engage in, despite knowing that my word was law here, and permission wasn't something I had to concern myself with.

There was also the fact that the occupant of this room wasn't exactly free to open the door for me, anyways.

Inside, I laid eyes on my newest patient, listed in my file as a Mr. Tickled Red. He was quite the strapping gentleman, probably a good ten to twelve years older than myself, with a stubbly bearded jaw and big brown eyes behind a pair of clear glasses.

He was also quite thoroughly bound to the bed upon which he was laying, with thick, padded cuffs clasped around his wrists and across his waist, and a heavy set of stocks around his ankles at the foot of the bed.

I had a light warm sweat on me; I sweat easily.

I swallowed meekly. Instinctively flexed my fingers and toes, as I did when I was anxious. Which I was a lot of the time. One of the reasons I was here, I suppose.

Anxious and sweating and bound as tight as can be to a bed in a small sterile room with a young doctor standing over me, already making me quiver and tingle and twitch just from scanning his eyes from my cuffed outstretched hands all the way down to my toes.

I flipped through the chart on the clipboard in front of me, taking in all the information on this patient. It was the best way to avoid starting at the delicious specimen laid out before me, who looked unfairly alluring all trussed up and helpless.

“I see I’ve got my work cut out for me, here.” I declared good-naturedly, giving my patient a commiserating smile. “Persistent anxiety, bouts of lewd behavior, and a diagnosed foot fetish? It’s a good thing you were placed in my care now, before you could get any worse.”

Still smiling, I rolled myself down the length of the bed, coming to a stop at the foot where the heavy set of stocks were attached. In their clutches were a positively mouthwatering pair of soles. They were large, and smooth, with plump balls and toes and long, pale arches, and looked incredibly soft.

I reached out to pat Mr. Red on the ankle, not even within range of his soles, only for the man's leg to give a noticable flinch. Within the stocks, his foot jerked and flexed uselessly, toes curling in what looked like a purely involuntary reaction.

Glancing back at the head of the bed, I found my patient craning his neck to keep me in view, those brown eyes wide as he kept track of my proximity to his feet. Like he was nervous.

Those were always my favorite patients.