#tickling machine

How long had it been since the machine started? You lost track, you never had a track to keep, anyway.

You were in a padded box, your torso kept within and hidden from view or protection, your head exposed out the top and your arms and legs stretched out tightly to either side of you, leaving you in a position that resembled the letter 'H' on its side. There were heavy sleeves around your arms, metal arms with padded latches kept around your arms and chest and more pressed down on the tops and bottoms of your thighs to keep them from wiggling too much. Your torso was utterly, horribly, trapped in place - besides the quivering and twitching that you couldn't control.

That wasn't the worst part, though.

The worst part... were the feathers...

They were the softest things you had had the displeasure of feeling. They felt as though they were plucked from the most innocent of angels as if every plume was made from the richest silk, even then such feathers would pale in comparison to the feathers against your body. You thought one feather alone would drive you mad and now you missed the time when it was just one feather, now, it seemed like a dozen or so on you and your poor ticklish, delicate areas. They appeared like fingers made of feathers, yet danced like the loosest snakes in woven baskets to music you could not hear.

Feathers licked and fluttered across your soft, quivering tummy, dusting over your sides and along your hips and groin, it seemed there were three or four dedicated just to your belly button. You could move your back for a while, which was replaced with a padded base against your lower back that kept it forcibly arched at all times. Such an arch gave better access to your belly button and even more areas below. Feathers reached into the deepest little crevice of your soft button, tickling areas you didn’t even know existed within.

They drew slow, lazy lines along your groin and over your lower belly. They followed invisible patterns that never seemed the same twice going up and down the sides of your belly. They danced just below your breasts and ribs, they inched towards your exposed sides, and they never allowed a moment of rest or pattern to ever let you adjust to such delicate tickles.

At your spread legs, even worse than the ones on your belly, were feathers at your thighs… The most ticklish area you have. Even gentle touches from fingers made you flinch, but now, the feathers tickled with little care of your ever-decreasing sanity.

Your inner thighs, the backs, the tops; feathers fluttered. They dragged their lengths against the crevice of your rear end that met your thighs, they dug their tips just under your groin in the little dip of your inner thighs, they crept to the backs of your knees but never allowed such a rest at your thighs. Even more feathers swarmed your thighs than your stomach, as if knowing how ticklish you were there than anywhere else. You couldn’t keep track of how many were below, you didn’t think you wanted to. You couldn’t imagine how it looked to see the feathers at your thighs, part of you was relieved at the bliss of ignorance at not being able to see your body below.

But there was one little feather that made everything else seem like heaven. One little feather that had its vice on your most delicate, sensitive, shy little area.

The feather that broke you, made you scream and beg and wail and babble out pleas to which the like you’ve never thought you could say before. The feather that made drool leak out from your grinning lips, the feather that made you so flushed that every part of you felt hot and full of butterflies. The feather that made you realize how much worse it could be.

The feather between your legs.

The one that tortured your poor, swollen clitoris and only your clitoris.

You felt every little plume of that feather lick and sway and swallow up your pearl, somehow finding every little spot that made you almost feral. It swirled and it spun and it fluttered and flicked. Sometimes quite fast, sometimes so horribly slow. The tip would spend time flicking ever so quickly against the hidden bead of your clit, making you scream and your eyes roll back. Other times, it would turn from the left side to the right side up and down and back and forth so slowly that you thought it was perfectly still until it began anew. Sometimes it seemed to grow tired and simply lick up and down your clit for a while. Despite your dripping, hot cunt, the feather never seemed to grow damp. Perhaps, it would be replaced once it got wet, not that you would ever notice.

And you begged.

“PLEEEHEHEHEHEEASE!!”

And begged~

“PLEEEEEEEASE!!”

And begged some more~

“PLEEEHEHEHEEASE LET MEEEHEHEHEHE CUM!! PLEASE PLEASE!! PLEEEEHEHHEE! I CAAAHAHAHHAAANT!! LET ME!! LET MEEEHEHEHE CUHAHAHAAAAHM!!”

And like the begging before, the feathers ignored you.

They were soft enough to feel and react, yet not quite enough pressure or force or even consistency to finally get you over that long-awaited ledge. You had never been so desperate just to orgasm, but god what you’d give to do it just once at this point. You had been kept on and just barely around the edge nearly the entire time. You were throbbing at this point, the heat in your lower belly so hot that you swore the feathers could feel it at that point. Your inner thighs were too tense from the never to arrive orgasm that they couldn’t stop from trembling like mad. Just when you thought it would grant you mercy and allow the orgasm, the feather between your legs would change methods and keep the orgasm just at the edge.

You couldn’t imagine how swollen and red your pearl was at that point, you imagined it to be like a cherry, like a little candy. And the feather showed no sign of stopping now.

You begged.

You begged.

And begged some more.

No mercy came.