Plays riffs and exposed toes

An electric toothbrush, but instead of bristles...

Replaceable heads in different makeup brush sizes and grades.

On the first day of tickles, my ler gave to me, a giggling laugh full of guilt and glee.

On the second day of tickles, my ler gave to me two sides a'squirming, and a giggling laugh full of guilt and glee.

On the third day of tickles, my ler gave to me, three nails a skritching, two sides a'squirming, and a giggling laugh full of guilt and glee.

On the fourth day of tickles, my ler gave to me, four limbs a'shaking, three nails a skritching, two sides a'squirming, and a giggling laugh full of guilt and glee.

On the fifth day of tickles, my ler gave to me, Five feathers dusting tiny toes, four limbs a'shaking, three nails a skritching, two sides a'squirming, and a giggling laugh full of guilt and glee.

On the sixth day of tickles, my ler gave to me, six ribs of raspberries, Five feathers dusting tiny toes, four limbs a'shaking, three nails a skritching, two sides a'squirming, and a giggling laugh full of guilt and glee.

On the seventh day of tickles, my ler gave to me, seven seconds of furious blushing, six ribs of raspberries, Five feathers dusting tiny toes, four limbs a'shaking, three nails a skritching, two sides a'squirming, and a giggling laugh full of guilt and glee.

On the eighth day of tickles, my ler gave to me, eight sensitive spots of suffering, seven seconds of furious blushing, six ribs of raspberries, Five feathers dusting tiny toes, four limbs a'shaking, three nails a skritching, two sides a'squirming, and a giggling laugh full of guilt and glee.

On the ninth day of tickles, my ler gave to me, nine seconds to get my arms up, eight sensitive spots of suffering, seven seconds of furious blushing, six ribs of raspberries, Five feathers dusting tiny toes, four limbs a'shaking, three nails a skritching, two sides a'squirming, and a giggling laugh full of guilt and glee.

On the tenth day of tickles, my ler gave to me, ten fingers relentlessly raking, nine seconds to get my arms up, eight sensitive spots of suffering, seven seconds of furious blushing, six ribs of raspberries, Five feathers dusting tiny toes, four limbs a'shaking, three nails a skritching, two sides a'squirming, and a giggling laugh full of guilt and glee.

On the eleventh day of tickles, my ler gave to me, eleven vibrating minutes of toothbrush torture, ten fingers relentlessly raking, nine seconds to get my arms up, eight sensitive spots of suffering, seven seconds of furious blushing, six ribs of raspberries, Five feathers dusting tiny toes, four limbs a'shaking, three nails a skritching, two sides a'squirming, and a giggling laugh full of guilt and glee.

On to the twelfth day of tickles, my lee bestowed upon me, twelve silent smiles whispering "tickle tickle", eleven vibrating minutes of toothbrush torture, ten fingers relentlessly raking, nine seconds to get my arms up, eight sensitive spots of suffering, seven seconds of furious blushing, six ribs of raspberries, Five feathers dusting tiny toes, four limbs a'shaking, three nails a skritching, two sides a'squirming, and a giggling laugh full of guilt and glee.

Did you not hear me? I said *right* now.

Stop stuttering, blushing can't save you.

It's *now* or never.

This is a *serious* situation you've gotten yourself into, and you can't stop laughing for one minute?

Answer me this, oh-so-ticklish one, what...is...so...darn...funny?

See? You can't stop laughing for one moment to answer me. Do you think *this* is a game? Some sort of ruse?

You just wait, you insolent brat. You think *this* is torture, that this is *tickling*?

Slow? Little nips and scratches, tracing the delicate lines across your ribcage.

Fast? Twisting and turning, bringing spider hands to a sensory overload.

Soft, elegant bristles snaking their way delicately over every inch of your soles. You writhe, giggle in pure delight. A twist, jerk of the brush to between the forked webs of your toes. The forbidden valley that leaves you gasping for air between each snort and moan. A flick of the wrist and down the ball...

Does it know the power these hands have?

The way your eyes submit, in a haphazard glaze, to screaming for my fingertips to graze upon the fields of your sides, backs of your thighs, and the oasis that is your toes.

Gasp and inhale deeply.