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Here's part of the little ficlet I wrote about my OrcxGoblin couple... I usually don't do public humiliation stuff but idk for some reason I was compelled to write this 🥴
Dubcon & a little suggestive
---
“Don’t you fuckin' dare!”
The pub was busy, raucous, and we were tucked into a small booth in the back corner, but that fact didn’t appear to placate him at all. His usually green skin was bright red to the tips of his long floppy ears, and he squirmed and thrashed on my lap.
The rope binding his arms still held tight.
“Calm down, nobody’s paying attention to a tiny little thing like you,” I admonished him gently, taking a sip of my drink. “No need to get so embarrassed…”
He glared up at me, furious and mortified.
“You’re such a fucking bitch—”
I cut him off, pinching his little hip firmly but gently— he was so small and fragile.
“Hey! You think that sort of talk is going to help your situation?” I didn’t have to expend much energy to hold him in place, even with his thrashing; the difference in sheer size and strength between orcs and goblins was simply indomitable. He knew that, of course, had to, but he was such a little fireball that he didn’t seem to care. He’d wear himself out with useless thrashing if it meant not admitting I’d bested him.
Case in point, he responded to my warning by jabbing his heel into my thigh.
“Fuck off, let me go!” He barked, his harsh voice nevertheless nearly drowned out by the din of the pub.
I smiled, bowed my head down closer to his red little face.
“Not until you’ve repaid me for what you stole, Gob,” I said softly in his big batty ear, and I felt a shiver run through him. “You remember our deal, don’t you? Until I’ve decided you’ve paid off your debt, you’re my little tickle toy to do with as I please.”
His breathing hitched, and for a split second he froze— presumably in utter, paralyzing mortification at being reminded of the full scope of his predicament.
“Not here,” He blurted, his voice betraying a little bit of his desperation. “Fuck’s sake, not in front of all of these people—”
“Aw, why not?” I readied a hand over his naked tummy, and he tried to thrash away. “You hear everybody laughing and carrying on? You’ll blend right in.”
“I swear, if you touch me— I’ll— when I get free—”
“You’ll do what, little Gob?” I teased him, softly tracing my fingertip around his soft belly. “Are you gonna beat me up? Gonna teach me to mind you, little Gob?”
His face scrunched up, somehow getting even redder as he held his breath, tried to resist the urge to smile.
A group at a table nearby erupted into whooping and hollering, loud animated conversation about who knows what.
“Aww, nothing to say now?” I took another sip of my drink, lackadaisically wandered my finger around to his side. His body jerked away.
“I’ll— I’m gonna k-kill you,” He seethed, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing.
“Will you, now? I guess that gives me a little more incentive to keep you as my helpless little plaything forever, now doesn’t it?”
With that I increased my fingers’ lazy wanderings to a quick scribbling, one hand on either side of his little belly, and his resolve instantly broke. His flailing and loud screechy laughter drew a bit of attention at first, but quickly blended into the surrounding din.
I couldn’t help but grin; in spite of his harsh words, he was so cute.
My big clumsy orc hands did a serviceable job, but they weren’t the most effective tools for tickling his tiny delicate little goblin body; earlier, in the solitude of the forest, I’d had the time and space to stretch him out over the spokes of my caravan’s wheel, tickle every inch of his sensitive body with the help of my wide selection of quill pens. The soft plumes for especially fragile spots like his tender armpits, the sharp tips for the callused soles of his feet.
I’d fantasized about taking a cute little prisoner for years, never thought I’d actually find myself in a position to follow through.
I was a reformed orc, you see; abandoned my peoples’ brutish reputation as pillaging barbarians. No, I was a respectable distributor of stationery and related goods. Paper and ink, in large quantities, are actually quite heavy. Require someone with muscle or magic or machinery.
To cut a long, annoying story short, while attempting to rob me the goblin managed to destroy about a quarter of my inventory. Callously, seemingly just out of frustration that I had nothing ‘good’ to make off with. I’d caught him red-handed— or, rather deep purple handed, as he’d emptied a bottle of my most expensive indigo ink all over the caravan floor— and was initially overcome with rage.
He was unapologetic, disrespectful, foolishly antagonistic. Taunted me— “I don’t have any money to pay it off anyways, lady, so looks like you’re shit out of luck!”
Surely no reasonable person would blame me for letting my inner barbarian re-emerge, tying him up, keeping him for my own.
It didn’t take him long to realize that he was in over his head, that he’d robbed the wrong traveller. Perhaps he’d expected that as a lady— orc or not— I’d go easy on him.
I suppose, in a way, I was. A crueler Orc may have just eaten him.
That had been nearly a week ago, and in a way I was surprised he still had so much spunk in him. I’d already tickled him to tears four or five times, reduced him to a begging, sobbing puddle, but as soon as he was allowed to sleep and eat he seemed reinvigorated to be an annoying little pill once more.
In truth I didn’t hate it; the fouler he acted, the more I wanted to punish him. If he’d sadly resigned himself to his fate, I may start feeling badly for him.
I tickled him ruthlessly for a while in the back of the pub, not letting up even as his eyes got soggy with laughter-induced tears and his babbling gradually transformed from furious profanity to broken pleading. I had the barmaid refill my drink once, chortled to myself at the way he buried his laughing face in my clothing in a pitiful attempt to hide his shame from her.
She didn’t seem to notice or care, but that evidently didn’t matter to him.
I let my fingers wander between his belly, his sides, his back and his ribs. As soon as he seemed to acclimate to one spot I knew to quickly switch to another; at this point I nearly had it down to a science, knew exactly how to make him scream and wheeze and thrash for as long as I needed.
I only finally relented when it started to get late— or, rather, early— and the pub began to quiet down.
He panted in a heap on my lap, too exhausted to thrash or wriggle or rebel anymore.
“There, now that wasn’t so bad now was it?” I stroked his wild black hair, and he cracked open one kohl smeared eye just to glare at me. “Oh, my… If my eyes don’t deceive me you may have even liked it just a smidgen…”
Dungeon slime that ambushes the scout of the party, dragging them off into a large dark room.
Wrapping around them like a straitjacket, it uses its stickiness to anchor its victim to the ground before slithering into the holes of their chainmail to sneak its tentacles to the soft, ticklish skin underneath.
Nipples? Good. It likes nipples. Very fun to play with, fondle, squeeze until they're red and achy. They get so, so ticklish when they're squeezed and only that very defenseless tip is left, bare and hypersensitive.
Perfect for its tentacles to form tiny, imperceptibly small feathery strands, to be circled upon those rock hard nipple tips, their victim's body just gushing forcefully stimulated arousal.
The rest of the tentacles crawling down their body, finally finding what it came for, just underneath their pelvis, of course still taking advantage and digging into their pelvic bones too.
Squeaks from the boots, kicking about. It was so bad. They clenched their teeth. It knew all the right spots, even caressing the crease right between asscheek and thi-
The party hears unbridled, desperate screams of laughter.
Hurriedly approaching the room, they witness it.
Their chainmailed leggings were completely destroyed, swallowed and spit out, leaving their lower body half-naked, the end result of all the hormones this sexual tickle torture had brought about bare for all to see.
It was so swollen. The slime was gorging itself, evidently knowing that there's no need to devour a ripe fruit if you can keep gorging on its endless juices, over and over and over again.
It hadn't enveloped their pelvis and inner thighs whole, rather knowing exactly which spots would give it a never-ending feast.
The party came to a horrifying realization. Their weapons were not strong enough to damage it outright.
It would take a good while for them to hack and burn it to pieces.
What a horrible sight... they'll never forget about this. Their legs desperately kicking about... boots squeaking and sliding against the floor... making those pathetic sounds... unrestrained laughter that devolves into feral roars of unfulfilled primal need.
Yet, nothing compares to the fact that the entire time they were slowly hacking it to pieces... the scout was begging for anyone to help them finish.
Begging for the relief of a little friction, cry-laughing and frantically calling out for the mercy of masturbation. Pleading to party members and discarding all self respect by promising to do anything if they just...
"pleHEHEse do it, I'm bEGgiNG, please FUC-HAHA- PLEASEEE DO IT, FUHUH-CKING DO ITTTT HELP ME, PLEASE PLEASE LET ME CUM, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE"
Were the party members cruel? To deny them, while trying to separate the voracious slime, due to the threat of death looming over an exhausted food source? Even as it stripped the humanity of their party member and reduced them to a ticklish puddle of nerves, willing to degrade and humiliate themselves to any extent for a little bit of assisted relief?
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The Tiny tentacle monster that crawls inside the locked room of a straitjacketed patient, attaches to her clit and gives her the most sleepless night of unfullfilled, constant edging with its constant teasing.
The next morning, her eyes are squinting, her stomach tense. She's twitching, squirming and thrashing in her bed all night the effects of the tentacle monster's engulfing of her clit and subsequent feasting.
The bitchy orderly entered the room, plastic medicine cup in hand, about to undo the restraints around her patient's ankles. "Cmon, let's go, I don't have all day".
Her eyes still closed, all she could do was nod, focusing all her restraint on what's happening below deck. Not to cum.
Taking any opportunity to flex what little power she has, the orderly lifted her fingers off the cuff lock and placed two of them on her soles, gently scratching up and down. "Cmonnn, you sure you wanna act like that?"
Throwing the poor girl's senses into complete disarray, she tried to resist the shocking new sensation. In response, the pill cup was put down, and two sets of fingers found themselves dancing up and down her soles, her lips curling into an unwanted smile.
"Nnno, dddon'ttt"
"Don't make this more difficult than it has to be, or..." a silent, yet screaming threat of the fingers previously on her soles, now ascending her heels, ankles, shins, knees, the clear threat of escalation.
The tentacle monster was becoming agitated from all the movement, the shaking. Beginning to awaken and move around.
"Nnnnnnooo, you don't underrrsstanddd"
"Ohhh, I understand, you testy little time waster. I understand you need a little attitude adjustment."
Grabbing and squeezing between her thighs, the ticklish sensations made the poor girl jolt and start squirming. The tentacle monster's voracious mouth engulfed her clit and began sucking on it, its tentacles tickling the slit of her pussy, as if trying to coax it to invite them in.
"STOP, STOP, STOP"
"No♥️, No♥️, No♥️," She was enjoying herself now. The joy of seeing the restrained girl's body squirm, submitting to her fingers, or so she thought.
The orderly manhandled her hips, holding them in place with one hand, the other feeling out, finding and gently tickle-squeezing at her victim's hip and thigh tendons.
The shrieking, the thrashing, the breaking into helpless forced laughter. All motivating the tentacle monster to suck on that needy little red button, its appendages opening up then splaying her engorged pussy, entering and tickling it all wet.
It detached itself from her clit, centering its mouth on her soaked pussy, the tentacles tickling the insides while its smooth, phallic tongue tasted them, feasting upon her hormones and triggering little orgasmic explosions on every single pleasure nerve upon its penetration.
She *saw* it. That sharp sudden intake of breath, that looks just a bit different to that of laughter?
"Are you... getting off to this? Huh?" Squeezing faster, "Is this making you cum? You little pervert? "
Barely catching her breath, unable to vocalize a single word from the intense feelings of both tickling and pleasure, she could only look at her with a pathetic look of tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Where is it?" One hand remained tickling her hip bones and thigh tendons, the other searched, over the crotch guard of her straitjacket. And found IT.
Sneaking her fingers in, and tickling her swollen clit's over her underwear.
"Is this the spot? Is this what's making you cum? Here? Right here? Yeah? Yeahh?" No matter how hard she tried to buck and get her off, the orderly's fingers firmly glued on top of her ticklish clit, wearing the most self-satisfied, sadistic smile. Knowing she's about to Cum.
She leaned back, eyes rolled to the back of her head and surrendering herself to the most intense double-teaming ticklegasm of her life. The orderly, tickle torturing and masturbating her. The monster, spreading her wide open, tickling, licking and fucking her insides.
She passed out. Cup of pills placed on the dresser. Another rehabilitation session inbound.
something cool about queering your idea of sex is that you can walk out of a heavy make out session feeling like you had the rawest sex of your life. you can be sitting close at a bar kissing them and maybe you’ve found a way to sit so your knee is discreetly between their thighs and feeling the pleasure it gives them and then feeling them give that pleasure to you. you can be looking each other in the eye and you can feel them inside you from that alone. like you want to tear their clothes off and are hungry for the feeling of their skin and their closeness but even just this feels like heaven, feels connected to them in the deep place where pleasure comes from.
“When I was a dominatrix, I once rubbed balloons all over a man for seventy-five dollars. He would’ve called it sex. I would’ve called it work. It was mutually consensual, and I think we were both correct in our assessment.
If your sex is balloons, if it is blowing raspberries on your lover’s belly, if it happens fully clothed ir in furry costumes, if it happens in a group or alone — give it the same gravity, the same reverence or irreverence as all the tiresome scenes of heterosexual penetration we all grew up reading. … There is no marginal erotic unless you sideline it.”
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Here's part of the little ficlet I wrote about my OrcxGoblin couple... I usually don't do public humiliation stuff but idk for some reason I was compelled to write this 🥴
Dubcon & a little suggestive
---
“Don’t you fuckin' dare!”
The pub was busy, raucous, and we were tucked into a small booth in the back corner, but that fact didn’t appear to placate him at all. His usually green skin was bright red to the tips of his long floppy ears, and he squirmed and thrashed on my lap.
The rope binding his arms still held tight.
“Calm down, nobody’s paying attention to a tiny little thing like you,” I admonished him gently, taking a sip of my drink. “No need to get so embarrassed…”
He glared up at me, furious and mortified.
“You’re such a fucking bitch—”
I cut him off, pinching his little hip firmly but gently— he was so small and fragile.
“Hey! You think that sort of talk is going to help your situation?” I didn’t have to expend much energy to hold him in place, even with his thrashing; the difference in sheer size and strength between orcs and goblins was simply indomitable. He knew that, of course, had to, but he was such a little fireball that he didn’t seem to care. He’d wear himself out with useless thrashing if it meant not admitting I’d bested him.
Case in point, he responded to my warning by jabbing his heel into my thigh.
“Fuck off, let me go!” He barked, his harsh voice nevertheless nearly drowned out by the din of the pub.
I smiled, bowed my head down closer to his red little face.
“Not until you’ve repaid me for what you stole, Gob,” I said softly in his big batty ear, and I felt a shiver run through him. “You remember our deal, don’t you? Until I’ve decided you’ve paid off your debt, you’re my little tickle toy to do with as I please.”
His breathing hitched, and for a split second he froze— presumably in utter, paralyzing mortification at being reminded of the full scope of his predicament.
“Not here,” He blurted, his voice betraying a little bit of his desperation. “Fuck’s sake, not in front of all of these people—”
“Aw, why not?” I readied a hand over his naked tummy, and he tried to thrash away. “You hear everybody laughing and carrying on? You’ll blend right in.”
“I swear, if you touch me— I’ll— when I get free—”
“You’ll do what, little Gob?” I teased him, softly tracing my fingertip around his soft belly. “Are you gonna beat me up? Gonna teach me to mind you, little Gob?”
His face scrunched up, somehow getting even redder as he held his breath, tried to resist the urge to smile.
A group at a table nearby erupted into whooping and hollering, loud animated conversation about who knows what.
“Aww, nothing to say now?” I took another sip of my drink, lackadaisically wandered my finger around to his side. His body jerked away.
“I’ll— I’m gonna k-kill you,” He seethed, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing.
“Will you, now? I guess that gives me a little more incentive to keep you as my helpless little plaything forever, now doesn’t it?”
With that I increased my fingers’ lazy wanderings to a quick scribbling, one hand on either side of his little belly, and his resolve instantly broke. His flailing and loud screechy laughter drew a bit of attention at first, but quickly blended into the surrounding din.
I couldn’t help but grin; in spite of his harsh words, he was so cute.
My big clumsy orc hands did a serviceable job, but they weren’t the most effective tools for tickling his tiny delicate little goblin body; earlier, in the solitude of the forest, I’d had the time and space to stretch him out over the spokes of my caravan’s wheel, tickle every inch of his sensitive body with the help of my wide selection of quill pens. The soft plumes for especially fragile spots like his tender armpits, the sharp tips for the callused soles of his feet.
I’d fantasized about taking a cute little prisoner for years, never thought I’d actually find myself in a position to follow through.
I was a reformed orc, you see; abandoned my peoples’ brutish reputation as pillaging barbarians. No, I was a respectable distributor of stationery and related goods. Paper and ink, in large quantities, are actually quite heavy. Require someone with muscle or magic or machinery.
To cut a long, annoying story short, while attempting to rob me the goblin managed to destroy about a quarter of my inventory. Callously, seemingly just out of frustration that I had nothing ‘good’ to make off with. I’d caught him red-handed— or, rather deep purple handed, as he’d emptied a bottle of my most expensive indigo ink all over the caravan floor— and was initially overcome with rage.
He was unapologetic, disrespectful, foolishly antagonistic. Taunted me— “I don’t have any money to pay it off anyways, lady, so looks like you’re shit out of luck!”
Surely no reasonable person would blame me for letting my inner barbarian re-emerge, tying him up, keeping him for my own.
It didn’t take him long to realize that he was in over his head, that he’d robbed the wrong traveller. Perhaps he’d expected that as a lady— orc or not— I’d go easy on him.
I suppose, in a way, I was. A crueler Orc may have just eaten him.
That had been nearly a week ago, and in a way I was surprised he still had so much spunk in him. I’d already tickled him to tears four or five times, reduced him to a begging, sobbing puddle, but as soon as he was allowed to sleep and eat he seemed reinvigorated to be an annoying little pill once more.
In truth I didn’t hate it; the fouler he acted, the more I wanted to punish him. If he’d sadly resigned himself to his fate, I may start feeling badly for him.
I tickled him ruthlessly for a while in the back of the pub, not letting up even as his eyes got soggy with laughter-induced tears and his babbling gradually transformed from furious profanity to broken pleading. I had the barmaid refill my drink once, chortled to myself at the way he buried his laughing face in my clothing in a pitiful attempt to hide his shame from her.
She didn’t seem to notice or care, but that evidently didn’t matter to him.
I let my fingers wander between his belly, his sides, his back and his ribs. As soon as he seemed to acclimate to one spot I knew to quickly switch to another; at this point I nearly had it down to a science, knew exactly how to make him scream and wheeze and thrash for as long as I needed.
I only finally relented when it started to get late— or, rather, early— and the pub began to quiet down.
He panted in a heap on my lap, too exhausted to thrash or wriggle or rebel anymore.
“There, now that wasn’t so bad now was it?” I stroked his wild black hair, and he cracked open one kohl smeared eye just to glare at me. “Oh, my… If my eyes don’t deceive me you may have even liked it just a smidgen…”
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A knight is sent on a quest to slay a dragon, a vicious monster that has been abducting citizens of the kingdom. No one has seen the victims since their capture--nor has any knight returned from the same mission--but this knight is determined to defeat the beast.
As he enters the lair of the dragon, he expects to see a mountain of gold, surrounded by rotting corpses and bones. Instead, it's eerily empty....
Suddenly, he finds himself pinned under a giant claw! The dragon had been hiding in ambush, and now it was looking down at the knight with a wicked grin. The knight whimpers in fear as the dragon rips his armor right off, like it was nothing. He expects the dragon to dig its claws into his belly any second, or for its toothy maw to clamp down and make him a meal.
Instead, the knight bucks with a gasp as the dragon laps its long, hot, bumpy tongue across his now barren torso. Before he can process the sensation, the knight is choking on giggles and squeaks as the dragon licks again and again across his ticklish skin.
How lowly for a mighty knight to be cackling and shrieking and begging for mercy as he is tickled to tears by a monster. The dragon's sly tongue twirls under his arms, tastes his flanks and ribs, and even dips between his legs to tickle his groin. Oh it's maddening--especially when that tongue focuses between those shaking thighs and paints his sex with saliva.
When the knight is breathless from ticklish laughter and feels the pleasure about to explode in his gut, the dragon stops. It swiftly grabs the knight with its claw and makes its way towards another cavern. Avast! The victims! All alive and huddled on the floor where the dragon sets the knight down. It grumbles out a purr of contentment.
The dragon's hoard of ticklish people gains another.
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