Chloe’s Endless Clit Tickle Torture Session

I’ve been putting this off for weeks, but tonight I can’t sleep. My body’s still humming from what happened yesterday, and every time I close my eyes I feel phantom fingers dancing over my clit again. Fuck, I need to write it down before I lose my mind. My name’s Chloe – 24, messy blonde hair that I usually throw into a ponytail because I’m too lazy for anything else, freckles across my nose, and hips that jiggle when I walk. I work part-time at a coffee shop, live in a tiny studio above a laundromat that always smells like detergent and dryer sheets, and I’m completely, shamefully addicted to the most ridiculous sex fetish on the planet: clit tickle torture.

It’s not the dramatic, porn-star kind of kink with leather and chains. No, mine is messy, improvised, amateur as hell – old scarves that slip, kitchen twine that leaves little red marks, random household junk turned into instruments of pure torment. And the center of it all is my poor, hypersensitive clit. That tiny little button that most guys treat like a magic “cum now” switch, but when you touch it lightly – really lightly – with the intention to tickle instead of pleasure… God, it turns me into a laughing, sobbing, dripping disaster.

It started slow with Ryan. He’s my boyfriend of ten months – 27, lanky with messy dark hair and these long fingers from years of playing guitar in garage bands that never went anywhere. We met at an open-mic night where he played three chords and I spilled iced latte down my shirt trying to clap. He’s sweet in that quiet way, always bringing me leftover pizza from his night shifts at the bar, but in bed he’s got this mischievous streak that sneaks up on you.

The first time he discovered my weakness was pure accident. We were fooling around on my futon – the one that creaks like it’s dying – and he had me on my back, kissing down my stomach. I was already soaked, legs spread wide, begging him to go lower. He finally reached my pussy, spread me open with his thumbs, and instead of licking or sucking like I expected, he just… blew a soft puff of air right on my clit. I jerked so hard my knee hit his shoulder, and this ridiculous giggle burst out of me. Not a moan – an actual high-pitched, uncontrollable giggle.

He froze, looked up with this confused grin. “Did that… tickle?”
I tried to play it cool, murmuring something like “maybe a little,” but my face was burning. He did it again – another gentle puff – and I lost it completely, squirming and laughing like an idiot. That’s when his eyes lit up with that dangerous spark. He pinned my thighs down with his forearms and started experimenting. Light fingertip traces around the hood. Barely-there scratches with one fingernail. Tiny little flicks that weren’t meant to get me off, just to drive me insane.

I was hysterical in seconds. “Ryan! Stop – hahaha – oh my god, not there, it’s too much!” My hips bucked wildly, trying to escape, but he held me open. My clit swelled bigger under his touch, peeking out all pink and shiny, betraying how turned on I was even as I laughed myself hoarse. He didn’t rub hard, didn’t give me the friction I craved. Just endless, feather-light tickling that made my whole body shake with laughter and this deep, filthy ache.

“You’re soaking the futon, Chloe,” he said, voice low and rough. “Your little clit loves this torture, doesn’t it?”
I couldn’t even answer properly – just broken giggles and desperate moans. He kept going until I came from almost nothing – this explosive, laughing orgasm that left me squirting weakly onto his wrist, tears streaming down my face from the intensity. And then, because he’s a bastard, he didn’t stop. Post-orgasm my clit turns into a raw nerve, and every touch is magnified a hundred times. He went lighter, meaner, using just the pad of one finger to scribble tiny circles until I was screaming for mercy.

That night changed everything. Clit tickle torture became our dirty little obsession. We never bought fancy toys – everything we use is scavenged from everyday life. Old makeup brushes with soft bristles, the fluffy end of a cotton swab, feathers from a craft kit I bought for a failed Halloween costume, even the soft bristles of Ryan’s toothbrush when we’re feeling particularly evil.

One of the longest sessions happened about a month ago, and thinking about it still makes my pussy clench. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon. Sunlight was streaming through my cheap curtains, dust motes floating in the air, and we had nowhere to be. Ryan woke up horny, rolled over, and started kissing my neck while his hand drifted between my legs. I was already wet – I’m always half-ready around him – and he slid two fingers inside me easy. But instead of fingering me properly, he curled them to hold me open and used his thumb to start the lightest possible tracing on my clit.

I knew immediately what he was planning. “Ryan… no, please, I just woke up, I’m too sensitive…” But my protests dissolved into giggles as he kept that maddening touch going. He grabbed one of my old silk scarves from the floor – the one with coffee stains – and tied my wrists to the metal frame of the futon. Not tight, just enough that I couldn’t interfere. Then he spread my legs wide and looped another scarf around each ankle, tying them to the legs of the nearby coffee table so I was completely exposed.

He knelt between my thighs and just looked at me for a long minute. My pussy was already puffy, clit peeking out, glistening. “Look at this greedy little thing,” he murmured, blowing cool air across it and watching it twitch. “Already begging for torture.” I whimpered, half laughing already. He reached for my makeup bag on the floor and pulled out my biggest, softest powder brush. The bristles are dense but gentle, perfect for contouring – and apparently perfect for driving me insane.

The first stroke across my clit was barely there, but I arched off the futon with a shriek of laughter. “Nooo! Hahaha – Ryan, fuck, that’s evil!” He swirled it slowly, watching my face, watching my clit jump under the bristles. I thrashed against the scarves, tears starting almost immediately. The tickling was relentless – soft, swirling, never hard enough to tip me over into real pleasure, just enough to build this insane pressure. My laughter turned hoarse, my abs aching from the convulsions.

He kept it up for what felt like forever, pausing only to dip the brush in the glass of ice water on my nightstand. Cold bristles on my overheated clit made me scream-laugh, hips jerking violently. Then he’d warm it with his breath before starting again. At one point he spread my lips wide with his free hand, exposing every millimeter of my clit, and used the very tip of the brush to flick just the head. I thought I’d lose my mind. “Please! Oh god, please – it’s torture, real fucking torture on my clit!”

He finally gave me a break – sort of. Switched to his fingers, using one nail to scratch in tiny, rapid circles right on the most sensitive spot. I was babbling by then, a mix of laughter and desperate pleas. “I can’t – hahaha – I’m gonna pee, stop, no don’t stop, fuck!” My pussy was dripping steadily, a wet spot spreading on the sheet beneath me. He leaned down and licked a long stripe up my slit, tasting me, before blowing cool air directly on my clit again. The contrast had me sobbing with laughter.

Then came the real cruelty. He grabbed a single peacock feather – leftover from some art project – and started dragging it in slow, agonizing figure-eights around and over my clit. The tip was so delicate it barely registered as touch, but on my swollen, hypersensitive nub it felt like electric shocks of ticklish hell. I broke completely. Tears streamed down my temples into my hair, my voice cracked from laughing so hard, and still my pussy clenched rhythmically, aching to cum.

He edged me like that for hours. Every time I got close – hips grinding air, breath hitching – he’d pull back and start the tickling again. Light, teasing, merciless. At one point he slid two fingers deep inside me and curled them against my g-spot while maintaining that feather-light torment on my clit. The combination finally pushed me over. I came with this guttural scream-laugh, squirting hard enough to splash his chest, body convulsing so violently the futon creaked dangerously.

But he knows the real torment starts after orgasm. My clit becomes unbearably sensitive, every touch pure agony-ecstasy. He didn’t stop. Went lighter than light, using just his breath and the occasional flick of a fingertip. I begged incoherently – “Mercy! Please, Ryan, my clit can’t take any more torture!” – but my hips kept tilting up for more. He forced two more orgasms out of me that way, each one leaving me more wrecked than the last. By the end I was limp, soaked in sweat and my own juices, giggling weakly every time air brushed my poor abused clit.

He untied me gently, rubbing circulation back into my wrists, kissing my tear-streaked face. I curled into him, still trembling with aftershocks, and whispered, “You’re a monster.” He laughed and held me until I fell asleep.

We’ve done it in every room of my tiny studio since then. Once in the kitchen – he bent me over the counter, tied my hands behind my back with dish towels, and used the soft silicone basting brush dipped in olive oil. The slickness made the bristles glide endlessly over my clit until I was howling with laughter, oil and arousal dripping down my thighs onto the linoleum.

Another time in the shower – water cascading over us, he pinned me against the cold tile and used the loofah to scrub lightly, so lightly, over my clit. The rough-soft texture combined with the water made it unbearable. I slipped and nearly fell twice, laughing so hard I couldn’t stand.

Even during movie nights on the futon. He’ll wait until I’m comfy in his lap, blanket over us, and casually slide a hand into my pajama shorts. Starts with slow circles, then switches to that telltale light scratching. I try to stay quiet at first – biting my lip, squirming – but within minutes I’m giggling into his neck, trying not to alert the neighbors through the thin walls.

The longest session ever was yesterday. It started innocently enough – I came home from a double shift smelling like coffee grounds, exhausted. Ryan ran me a bath in my tiny tub, helped me undress, and climbed in behind me. The hot water felt amazing on my sore feet, and I relaxed against his chest. That’s when I felt his fingers drifting lower, parting my folds under the water.

At first it was normal – slow, pleasurable strokes. But then he shifted to that feather-light touch, tracing lazy patterns around my clit. The water made everything slicker, more sensitive. I started giggling immediately. “Ryan… not in the bath, come on…” But he wrapped one arm around my waist to hold me still and kept going. Used the soft washcloth to tease me next – dragging it gently over my clit again and again until I was thrashing, water sloshing over the edge.

He pulled the plug eventually, lifted me out dripping wet, and carried me to bed without drying off. Tied me spread-eagle with every scarf and belt we owned – wrists to headboard, ankles to the bottom corners. The sheets got soaked immediately, but neither of us cared. He spent the next four hours – four fucking hours – torturing my clit with everything we had.

Started with ice cubes – holding one directly against my clit until I was shrieking from the cold, then tickling the numb spot as sensation rushed back. The contrast was brutal. Then the makeup brushes, the feather, his nails, his tongue flicking while he scratched lightly. He edged me over and over, bringing me right to the brink with real pressure, then switching back to pure tickling torment.

At one point he grabbed my electric toothbrush from the bathroom – the one with the soft bristles – and turned it on the lowest setting. Pressed it gently against my clit hood and held it there. The constant soft vibration combined with tickling was beyond anything I’d felt before. I came almost immediately, screaming laughter turning into sobs of pleasure, squirting so hard it hit the wall.

But he kept the toothbrush going lightly through the aftershocks, forcing another orgasm within minutes. Then another. I lost count after five. My voice was gone, reduced to hoarse whispers and weak giggles. My clit was swollen to twice its normal size, angry red and throbbing. Every breath of air felt like torture.

When he finally stopped, the sun had gone down. He untied me slowly, massaged my trembling legs, cleaned me up with warm washcloths that made me squirm and laugh all over again. I was completely ruined – couldn’t walk straight, could barely speak. He held me all night, whispering how perfect I was, how much he loved watching me break.

This morning I woke up sore in the best way. My clit still twitches when I think about it, like it remembers every second of yesterday’s torture. I caught Ryan smirking at me over coffee, running one finger lightly over the back of my hand in that same teasing way. I had to excuse myself to the bathroom to touch myself quick and dirty, coming with his name on my lips and helpless giggles echoing off the tiles.

I know it’s ridiculous. Most people want rough sex or romance or whatever normal couples do. But me? I crave this – the vulnerability of being tied with household junk, exposed and helpless while my most sensitive spot is tortured with the gentlest touches imaginable. The way laughter and arousal twist together until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. The complete loss of control when Ryan decides my clit is his toy for the afternoon.

Sometimes I worry I’m broken. That no one else could possibly understand wanting something this specific, this silly and intense at the same time. But then I remember the look in Ryan’s eyes when he’s got me pinned and giggling – pure hunger, total focus – and I know he’s just as deep in this sex fetish as I am.

If you’ve ever had someone discover that secret spot – not just sensitive for pleasure, but ticklish in a way that makes you lose your damn mind – then you get it. That mix of hysteria and horniness, laughter and lust, torture and transcendence. Nothing else comes close.

My clit’s throbbing again just writing this. Fuck. I think I hear Ryan’s key in the door…