Clit Tickle Torture Story – Kira’s Exposure

My Dirtiest Clit Tickle Torture Session

I can’t stop thinking about last Saturday. God, my pussy is still sore in the best way, and every time I shift in my chair at work, I feel that little pulse between my legs reminding me what a filthy, desperate mess I became. Hi, I’m Kira, this time – 26, short black hair that I dye myself in the bathroom sink, a little chubby in all the places I love, and completely owned by this twisted sex fetish I never asked for: clit tickle torture. It’s not even the big dramatic stuff that gets me. It’s the small, amateur, homemade kind that makes me lose my mind.

My boyfriend Mike isn’t some pro dom. He’s just a regular guy who fixes cars for a living, hands always a little greasy, with this quiet laugh that turns wicked when he realizes how much power he has over me. We’ve been together a year, and he only discovered this kink a couple months ago when we were fooling around on the couch. I was on his lap, grinding slow, when he randomly dragged one fingernail lightly across my clit through my thin cotton panties. I jerked so hard I nearly fell off him, bursting into the most embarrassing high-pitched giggles. He froze, then did it again on purpose. That was it. Game over. He found the button that turns me from horny girlfriend into a laughing, dripping, begging wreck.

Last weekend he decided to really play. We didn’t plan anything fancy – no playroom, no expensive toys. Just our tiny apartment, the old wooden chair from the kitchen, and a bunch of random shit we grabbed from around the place. He told me to strip to nothing but one of his old white t-shirts – the kind that barely covers my ass – and wait for him in the living room. My heart was already pounding. I could feel my clit swelling just from anticipation, that needy little nub poking against the air, already traitorously eager.

When he came in, he had this cheap roll of duct tape, a couple of my own makeup brushes, a soft baby hairbrush I use on my niece, and – fuck – one of those little electric flossing things that vibrates. Nothing pro. All stuff we had lying around. He sat me down on the chair, pulled my arms behind the backrest, and taped my wrists together. Not tight enough to hurt, just enough that I couldn’t get free without really trying. Then he taped my ankles to the front legs, spreading me wide. The t-shirt rode up immediately, leaving my bare pussy completely exposed. My clit was already peeking out, pink and shiny, and I could feel cool air teasing it. I squirmed, half laughing already.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low and rough. “Sitting there with your greedy little clit on display, already begging for torture.” I whimpered, shaking my head, but my hips tilted forward like the slut I am. He knelt in front of me and just stared for a minute, letting me feel how open and helpless I was. Then he picked up the baby hairbrush – those super soft bristles – and barely touched it to the tip of my clit.

Instant explosion. I shrieked with laughter, yanking at the tape, my whole body jerking. “Mike! No, fuck, not that – hahahaha – it tickles so bad!” The bristles were so gentle, but on my bare clit they felt like a thousand tiny fingers dancing. He just swirled it slowly, watching my face, watching my pussy drip onto the chair seat. I was laughing so hard tears ran down my cheeks, but underneath it my clit was throbbing, swelling bigger, desperate for real pressure. He kept it light, teasing, never giving me enough to cum, just enough to drive me insane.

He switched to his fingers after a while – one nail scratching in tiny circles right on the hood, flicking the very tip so lightly it made me scream-laugh. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he growled. “Your dirty little sex fetish. Having your sensitive clit tickled until you’re a soaking, giggling mess.” I couldn’t answer properly – just broken pleas mixed with hysterical laughter. “Please… stop… no, don’t stop… oh god, it’s torture!”

He grabbed the electric flosser next, turned it on low, and pressed the buzzing tip right against my clit. The vibration was soft but constant, and the tickling was unbearable. My legs tried to close but the tape held them open. I thrashed so hard the chair creaked. My laughter turned hoarse, my abs hurting from it, but my pussy was clenching rhythmically, leaking like crazy. He held it there for what felt like forever, then pulled away just as I started climbing toward orgasm. Edge. Deny. Tickle again.

He did that over and over. Makeup brush swirling delicate patterns, his tongue flicking while he scratched lightly with a fingernail, blowing cool air across it to make me shiver and giggle harder. Every time I got close, he’d back off and start the torture all over. My clit was so swollen it stuck out like a little pearl, angry red and hypersensitive. One light touch and I’d dissolve into fresh waves of laughter and moans.

At one point he untaped my ankles just to flip me over the back of the chair, ass in the air, face down against the seat. He retaped my legs spread to the back legs this time, so my pussy was completely presented from behind. Then he oiled his fingers – just regular baby oil from the bathroom – and started tracing slippery circles around my clit, pinching the hood gently and wiggling it. From that angle he could see everything, and he kept commenting in that filthy voice. “Look how your little clit jumps every time I touch it. So fucking ticklish. You’re dripping down your thighs, Kira. You love this torture, don’t you?”

I was babbling nonsense by then – laughing, crying, begging. “Yes! Fuck, yes, I love it! Tickle my clit harder! Make it worse!” He laughed at that and grabbed a feather – an actual craft feather we had from some old Halloween costume – and dragged it slowly up and down my exposed slit, focusing on the clit until I thought I’d pass out from the intensity. The softness was maddening. I came the first time completely by accident – he was barely touching me, just fluttering the feather, when suddenly my whole body seized and I squirted hard, laughter turning into this guttural scream-moan.

But post-orgasm? That’s when real clit tickle torture begins. Everything is a hundred times more sensitive. He didn’t stop. He went lighter, meaner, using just the tip of one finger to scribble over the raw, oversensitive nub. I screamed real screams then, bucking wildly, trying to escape, but the tape held. Tears and snot and drool everywhere – I was a complete disaster. He kept murmuring dirty things. “Poor little clit, all swollen and tortured. You’re gonna cum again from this, aren’t you? From pure tickling.”

And I did. Twice more. The second one he used the electric flosser again on low, holding it steady while I laughed myself hoarse. The third he fingered my pussy slow and deep while maintaining that light, relentless scratching on my clit. I blacked out for a few seconds on that one, coming back to him gently untaping me, rubbing my wrists, kissing my sweaty forehead.

I collapsed into his arms, still giggling in little aftershocks every time air hit my poor abused clit. He carried me to bed, cleaned me up with a warm cloth – which made me squirm and laugh again – and held me while I floated in that hazy, ruined space. My pussy felt raw, throbbing, completely satisfied in the dirtiest way.

We’re so amateur about it all – duct tape that leaves sticky marks, random household items, our creaky kitchen chair – but that’s what makes it perfect. No performance, no script. Just him discovering exactly how to break me with the lightest touch on my most sensitive spot. This sex fetish owns me completely now. Some nights I lie awake, clit twitching at the memory, secretly hoping he’ll wake me up with a surprise midnight torture session.

If you’ve ever felt that insane mix of laughter and lust from a single fingertip on your clit… fuck, I feel you. There’s nothing else like it. Nothing.