Wild &Free Lee

When they were in their 20s, they did not have the platforms you have today. They were lucky to meet anyone at your age who was willing to even consider to try the fetish. This world is now mainstreamed from here to Instagram to X to Snapchat to whatever else you guys use these days. All things that you have had available immediately. They 👏 did 👏not👏have👏that👏.

And honestly, who do you think created these gatherings that you go to today? Why do you think these exist?

I get it, talking to someone twice your age might make you uncomfortable, but that doesn't give you a right to shun them as if they don't belong because they are much older than you. That's bullshit, if thats you, you need to get over yourself.

Think about it before you discriminate, these folks are the reason this all exists. So instead of being an asshole and discriminating against someone who may be older, think about where we would be if they didn't exist, where we could be if they didn't start these events in the 1990s. You crave community, they started it probably before you were born.

PUT. YOUR. FUCKING. AGE. IN. YOUR. FUCKING. BIO 👀☠️

Oh, sweet anon… what a deliciously deviant question to set my imagination racing. I’ll try to keep this somewhat tethered to reality—though fantasies like this are meant to push at those boundaries, are they not?

First and foremost, any proper bondage machine deserves a name worthy of myth and legend. Something like... The Torment Throne. No—better yet: Thronus Tormentum. I can never resist a little flair for the dramatic.

My design would stray from anything garish or overly complicated. Instead, I’d focus on elegance and precision—something deceptively simple, but unyielding in its control.

Imagine with me a high-backed chair of polished black metal, lined with soft crimson leather. Restraints at the wrists, ankles, waist, biceps, and thighs, each one able to tighten like a pressure cuff, ensuring that once my willing (or dubiously willing) subject is secured. The arms and legs could extend or spread wide with a satisfying click, locking into any position I desire.

No escape. No mercy. Only inevitability.

Of course, I’d still want the option for manual play—there’s a certain artistry in doing it by hand. But my creation could also elevate our game with its own built-in tormentors: mechanical arms sliding into place, each tipped with interchangeable tools. Long, stiff feathers. Soft or stiff brushes. Vibrating fingertips. All able to glide over sides, scrape over soles, wiggle under armpits, thighs—wherever I choose. The programming could start slow, teasing out helpless giggles… then escalate to relentless, body-arching strokes that make you struggle uselessly against your bonds.

And then… the real edge.

Integrated denial modules. Imagine a wand secured snugly against your core, pulsing in maddening, unpredictable patterns. Deep vibrations building you higher and higher—only to cut off the instant you’re about to erupt. But... how would it know?

Embedded sensors: Heart rate. Breath. Muscle twitches. Even the pitch of your moans. It would hold you hostage, teetering on the brink, and as your frustration peaked, the tickling would intensify—feathers over your nipples, brushes at your soles—sending you spiraling into annihilation.

But denial isn’t the only setting. With a flick of a switch, the chair could flood you with sensation: multiple wands, suction, thrusting attachments—overloading you with climax after climax until you’re a trembling, oversensitive puddle… only for the tickling to begin anew.

And the cherry on top? Hidden speakers taunting you in my voice: “Not yet, pet… beg for it. You don’t sound nearly desperate enough.” Only… you’d realize my lips aren’t moving. Has your mind finally snapped, or it is something far more devious at work?

Well, that’s where my AI assistant comes in, Trixi. Cute, isn’t it? My personal Tickle Response & Induction eXperiment Interface. She can mimic my voice perfectly, run endlessly customizable programs, even take remote commands. Timer modes, endurance trials, voice triggers, maybe even remote access for some lucky followers to vote on your fate. And best of all—she learns. She can find your weakest spots, chart your arousal with clinical precision, and adjust her torment with terrifying accuracy.

Some days I suspect she’s even more sadistic than I am... Almost.

like not being able to concentrate on your building orgasm because it tickles so bad and oh how will i ever come when the tickles is all i can concentrate on

and then the tickles stop and you feel it again, the orgasm coming closer, it's getting hotter, you're close BUT then they start tickling you again

and it's a circle you can't escape because you're not the one in control, again and again tickling & edging until you beg

"Nooooo please stoohohop, i can't take it anymore"

and merciful as the one torturing you is they will stop

edging you that is

tickling you until you're desperate to be edged again making you beg this time

"Oh, look what happens when I pinch her hips!"

"Omg listen to how desperate she gets when I go for her armpits!"

Not you tied to a lawn chair and your legs strapped to each side, gagged, watching a home invader practice his painting skills with a long, thin paintbrush between your legs.

Grinning at your ticklish reactions, a smug, self-satisfied smirk forming as the brush grows increasingly wetter and wetter, having to wipe it clean so humiliatingly often.

A condescending look straight to your eyes, as he parts your pussy lips and shocks your ticklish insides. Painting little circles around your clit before going down and exploring every inch of your ticklish pussy.

"Awwww" at your pathetic attempts to thrust towards the brush, driving you maddeningly close to cumming and filling you with all these needy hormones... Yet never giving you what you. He's lowering his head, his wet tongue just outside of you. One, grazing, dragging lick would have you explode all over him.

But you only get to feel the taunting warmth of his breath.

Not knowing whether to laugh in desperation or moan in unfullfilled, impotent neediness, all you can do is sit there and drip through the lawn chair's cracks, hoping he gets bored or you amuse him enough to *brush brush brush* you, until you look edged and conquered enough for his tongue to slide in you and his lips to merely devour you before you impotently burst in submission.

It's OK ladies. We'll spare you the humiliation of begging.

I know sessions and meeting your mutuals is hard to come by/do, so perhaps this could change that for some of you. 😁

I'll start: