Clit Tickle Torture Story

I never thought I’d share this, not really. It’s one of those dirty little secrets that makes my cheeks burn just thinking about it, but fuck, writing it down is getting me all squirmy again. My name’s Sarah – yeah, just a regular 28-year-old girl with a boring office job, curly brown hair that never behaves, and this insane sex fetish that’s been haunting me since I was a teenager. Tickle torture. But not just any tickling. No, I’m talking about that relentless, maddening focus on my clit – that swollen, hypersensitive little button that turns me into a giggling, begging mess. Clit tickle torture. God, even saying it makes my pussy throb.

It all started innocently enough, or as innocent as these things get. I’d been dating Alex for about six months. He’s this tall guy with strong hands and this mischievous grin that always hinted he knew more about me than I let on. We’d fooled around a lot – rough sex, light bondage with scarves, him pinning me down and making me cum until I saw stars. But I never told him about my deepest kink. How could I? Admitting that light, teasing touches on my clit could reduce me to hysterical laughter mixed with desperate arousal? That it was my ultimate torture, the kind that left me soaked and shaking?

One night, after a few glasses of wine, we were in his bedroom, clothes half-off, and he had me on my back. His fingers were tracing lazy circles around my thighs, getting closer but not quite touching where I needed it. I was already wet, arching up for more, when he suddenly dug his nails lightly into my sides. I squealed and twisted away, laughing like an idiot. “Oh, ticklish, huh?” he teased, his eyes lighting up. I tried to play it cool, but he pinned my wrists above my head with one hand and spidered his fingers over my ribs. I lost it – full-on giggles, kicking my legs, begging him to stop while my body betrayed me with these electric sparks straight to my core.

He stopped, but that grin was pure evil now. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?” he asked, his free hand drifting down to my panties. I bit my lip, shaking my head, but he slipped his fingers under the fabric and brushed – just barely – over my clit. Not rubbing, not stroking for pleasure. Tickling. Light, fluttering scratches with his fingernail right on the hood.

Holy fuck. It hit me like a lightning bolt. My hips bucked wildly, and this ridiculous laughter burst out of me – high-pitched, uncontrollable. “Nooo! Alex, stop, that’s – hahaha – oh god, not there!” But he didn’t stop. He held me down firmer, his eyes locked on mine as he kept that feather-light torment going. Scribble, scribble, right on my exposed clit, circling the tip, flicking it gently like he was teasing a kitten. It tickled so bad I thought I’d pee myself from laughing, but underneath it all, this filthy heat was building. My pussy was dripping, clenching around nothing, aching for real friction.

“You’re soaking my fingers, Sarah,” he murmured, voice low and dirty. “This is your sex fetish, isn’t it? Getting your poor little clit tickled until you can’t think straight.” I couldn’t even answer – just hysterical giggles mixed with moans, tears streaming down my face. He peeled my panties off then, spreading my legs wide and tying my ankles to the bedposts with his belts. Amateur stuff, nothing fancy, but it held me open, exposed, my shaved pussy on full display, clit already peeking out, swollen and begging.

He grabbed a soft makeup brush from my purse – yeah, the one I use for blush – and hovered it over me. “Beg for it,” he said. I shook my head, still giggling from the aftershocks, but he traced it down my inner thigh, inching closer. “Tell me you want clit tickle torture.” Fuck, the words made me blush harder, but I was so turned on. “Please… tickle my clit,” I whispered. Louder, he demanded. “Torture my clit, Alex! Make it tickle so bad I scream!”

He did. That brush swirled right onto my clit, soft bristles dancing over every nerve ending. It was pure agony-ecstasy. I thrashed against the belts, my whole body convulsing with laughter that turned into these guttural, desperate sounds. “HAHAHAHA! Oh fuck, stop – no, don’t stop – it’s too much!” My clit was on fire, tingling insanely, every stroke sending waves of ticklish hell straight through me. But I was gushing, my juices running down my ass, the room smelling like pure sex.

He didn’t let up. Minutes felt like hours. He’d pause to blow cool air on it, making me shiver and giggle harder, then dive back in with his fingers – pinching the hood lightly and wiggling it, or using two nails to scratch in tiny circles. “Look at this greedy little thing,” he’d say, spreading my lips wide so nothing protected it. “So ticklish, jumping every time I touch it. You’re gonna cum from torture, aren’t you? From having your clit tickled like the dirty girl you are.”

I was a mess – sweat-slicked, hair plastered to my face, begging incoherently. “Please, Alex, it’s too sensitive! I can’t – hahaha – oh god, I’m gonna explode!” He added his tongue then, lapping roughly while flicking the tip with a finger. The mix of wet heat and tickling pushed me over. My orgasm hit like a freight train – not the usual build-up, but this explosive, laughing-sobbing release. I squirted for the first time ever, soaking his chin, my body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure-torture ripped through me.

But he wasn’t done. Oh no. That’s the thing about clit tickle torture – once you cum, it gets worse. Hypersensitive, every touch is amplified. He kept going, lighter now, teasing the oversensitive nub until I was screaming laughter again, tears flowing, hips trying to escape but tied tight. “No more! Mercy! It’s torture – real fucking torture on my clit!” I’d plead, but my pussy betrayed me, clenching, wanting more even as I broke.

He untied me eventually, after two more forced orgasms that left me limp and trembling. I curled into him, still giggling in aftershocks, my clit throbbing like it’d been through war. “That was… insane,” I panted. He kissed my forehead, smirking. “We’re just getting started with your fetish, baby.”

And we did. That was the first real session, but it opened the floodgates. Next time, he blindfolded me, used ice cubes to numb it first then tickled when sensation rushed back – fuck, the contrast was brutal. Or feathers – real ones, soft and wispy, dragging endlessly over my clit while he held a vibrator just out of reach. I’d be tied spread-eagle on the kitchen table, him eating dinner casually while absentmindedly brushing my clit with a paintbrush, ignoring my hysterical pleas.

One weekend, he went all out. Soft ropes from online (still amateur, knots that slipped a bit but held enough), me face-down with pillows under my hips, ass up, pussy exposed from behind. He oiled my clit first – made it slick and extra sensitive – then used an electric toothbrush. The buzzing bristles on my clit? I thought I’d die. Laughter turned to screams, then back to this broken, horny babble. “Torture me more! Tickle my fucking clit until I break!” I’d yell, not even knowing what I wanted. He edged me for hours, bringing me right to the brink with real strokes, then switching to pure tickling hell.

By the end, I was a puddle – cum dripping everywhere, voice hoarse from laughing and moaning. He finally fucked me then, hard and deep, while still lightly scratching my clit with one nail. I came so hard I blacked out for a second.

It’s addictive, this sex fetish. The vulnerability, the loss of control. Knowing my most private, sensitive spot is just a plaything for torture. Alex says I’m his perfect little tickle slut, and fuck, he’s right. Sometimes I masturbate thinking about it – light fingers on my clit, mimicking that torment, building until I cum laughing.

If you’re into this too… god, I get it. That mix of hysteria and horniness? Nothing else compares. My clit’s twitching just writing this. Maybe next time he’ll film it. Who knows. All I know is, clit tickle torture owns me now.