Clit Tickle Torture Story – Jake’s Side

My Addiction to Clit Tickle Torture

I gotta get this off my chest, man. It’s been eating at me, this twisted little secret that’s turned my sex life into something out of a fever dream. Name’s Jake – 32, average build from hauling boxes at the warehouse all day, buzzed head ’cause I can’t be bothered with hair gel, and this raging sex fetish that’s got me hooked like a drug. Clit tickle torture. Yeah, you heard that right. Not the rough stuff or the usual pounding – it’s that slow, maddening, feather-light teasing on her swollen clit that drives her insane, mixing hysterical laughter with these desperate, dripping pleas. It’s torture, pure and filthy, and fuck if it doesn’t make my cock throb harder than anything else.

It started with my girl, Lisa. We’ve been shacking up for eight months in this cramped one-bedroom with peeling wallpaper and a bed that creaks like it’s judging us. She’s 29, with that wild red hair she ties back when she’s painting her nails, curves that make my hands itch, and this innocent laugh that turns filthy when I push her buttons. We’d been banging like rabbits – missionary, doggy, her riding me until we both collapsed – but I always felt like there was more lurking under her skin. One night, after a couple beers and some shitty takeout, we were on the couch, her in just my old flannel shirt unbuttoned halfway, legs draped over mine. I was idly tracing my fingers up her thigh, getting her wet, when I grazed her clit super light, like I was testing the waters.

She jolted like I’d shocked her, this weird giggle bursting out – not a sexy moan, but full-on, uncontrollable laughter. “Jake, stop! That tickles!” she squealed, twisting away. But her nipples hardened under the shirt, and I saw that glisten between her legs. My dick twitched. What the hell? I did it again, lighter, just a fingernail flicking the hood of her clit. She exploded – hips bucking, laughter echoing off the walls, begging me to quit while her pussy clenched visibly. “Oh god, nooo! Hahaha – fuck, that’s torture!” Her face flushed red, tears starting to well up from laughing so hard.

That was the spark. I pinned her thighs open with my knees, holding her down on the couch cushions that smelled like old pizza, and kept at it. Light scratches, barely-there circles with my thumb pad right on her exposed clit. She thrashed, the flannel riding up to show everything – her shaved lips parting, clit swelling bigger under my touch. “You’re loving this, aren’t you?” I growled, voice thick with lust. “Your little clit’s betraying you, getting all fat and shiny while you laugh like a maniac.” She couldn’t deny it – juices were trickling down her ass crack, soaking the couch. It was amateur hour; no toys, no plan, just me discovering how to break her with the softest torment.

I didn’t let up for twenty minutes straight. Switched to blowing puffs of air on it, watching it jump, then back to fingertip scribbles. Her laughter turned hoarse, mixed with these guttural moans. “Please, Jake… it’s too much! My clit’s on fire – hahaha – oh shit, I’m gonna cum!” And she did, hard – not from pounding, but from that relentless tickling. Her body arched, squirting a little onto my hand, tears streaming as she sobbed through the giggles. Post-cum, her clit was hypersensitive, like a raw nerve. I went lighter, meaner, just to see. She screamed-laughed, begging for mercy, but her hips kept grinding up for more. My cock was rock hard in my jeans, leaking pre-cum just from watching her lose it.

That night sealed it. Clit tickle torture became our dirty secret sex fetish. We kept it raw, no fancy gear – just whatever crap we had around the apartment. Next time, I tied her wrists to the headboard with my work belts, the kind with grease stains from the warehouse. Spread her legs with old neckties looped around her ankles and the bed legs. She was naked except for thigh-high socks she’d worn to work, her pussy already puffy from anticipation. I grabbed a cheap feather duster from under the sink – the one we use for dusting the TV – and hovered it over her.

“Beg for it, Lisa,” I said, stroking my cock through my boxers, already tenting. She bit her lip, eyes wild. “Torture my clit, Jake. Tickle it until I break.” Fuck, hearing her say it made me throb. I dragged the feathers across her inner thighs first, inching closer, until they danced right on her clit. She bucked like a wild animal, hysterical laughter filling the room. “Noooo! Hahaha – it’s so bad, so fucking ticklish!” The feathers were soft, barely touching, but her clit quivered under them, swelling to twice its size. I held her lips apart with one hand, exposing it fully, and swirled the duster in tiny circles.

She was a mess – sweat beading on her tits, hair matted, pussy gushing like a faucet. I paused to lick her juices off my fingers, tasting her sweetness, then dove back in. Added my tongue sometimes, flicking while I scratched lightly with a nail. “Look at this greedy little button,” I murmured, spreading her wider. “Jumping for more torture. You’re my tickle slut now, aren’t you?” She nodded through tears, laughing so hard her abs clenched visibly. I edged her for an hour – bringing her close with real rubs, then switching to pure tickling hell. When she finally exploded, it was volcanic – squirting across the sheets, body convulsing, laughter turning to screams of ecstasy.

But I wasn’t done. That’s the beauty of this fetish – after she cums, her clit’s a live wire. Every touch amplifies the torture. I went super light, just breathing on it, then a single feather strand tracing the tip. She thrashed against the belts, screaming, “Mercy! Jake, my clit’s too sensitive – hahaha – please, no more!” But her pussy kept clenching, begging silently. I forced two more orgasms out of her that way, each one messier than the last. By the end, she was limp, giggling weakly, her clit throbbing red and abused. I untied her, pulled her into my arms, and fucked her slow while she whimpered from the aftershocks.

We escalated from there. One rainy afternoon, I surprised her in the shower. Pinned her against the tiles, water cascading down, and used the loofah sponge – that scratchy-soft one – to tease her clit under the stream. She slipped and slid, laughing hysterically as the water made it slicker, more unbearable. “Fuck you, Jake! This is real torture – my poor clit can’t take it!” But she came twice, legs shaking, before I bent her over and took her from behind.

Another time, we got creative with kitchen stuff. I sat her on the counter, legs spread over the edge, and taped her thighs open with packing tape from my work deliveries. Grabbed a soft basting brush from the drawer – the silicone one we use for BBQ – dipped it in olive oil, and painted her clit with it. The oil made everything hyper-slippery, and the bristles? Devastating. She howled with laughter, banging her fists on the counter, oil and her juices dripping everywhere. “Oh god, it’s sliding all over – hahaha – torture me more, you bastard!” I added ice from the freezer, numbing her clit first, then tickling when the feeling rushed back. The contrast had her squirting across the floor tiles.

I love the amateur vibe – no pro setups, just improvising. Like the time I used her electric toothbrush. We were in bed, her cuffed with my belt loops around her wrists and the radiator pipe. I buzzed that thing on low right against her clit hood. The vibrations were soft but constant, tickling like a swarm of ants. She lost her shit – thrashing, laughter echoing, begging incoherently. “Jake! Turn it off – no, don’t – my clit’s vibrating apart!” I held it there, watching her pussy pulse, then switched to manual mode with my fingers for edging. Forced her to cum four times, each one leaving her more wrecked.

It’s not just the physical – it’s the power. Seeing her, this strong woman who bosses me around about chores, reduced to a giggling, soaking puddle from the lightest touch on her clit. I whisper filthy shit while I do it: “Your clit’s my toy now, Lisa. I’m gonna tickle it until you’re crying cum.” She eats it up, her sex fetish matching mine perfectly. Sometimes she fights back, tying me up and trying to tickle my balls or cock, but it’s not the same. For me, it’s all about her clit – that sensitive, traitorous little nub that turns torture into ecstasy.

Last week was intense. I blindfolded her with an old bandana, laid her on the living room rug – the scratchy one that irritates her skin – and used every tool we had. Feathers, brushes, my nails, even a Q-tip dipped in lotion for precision. I spread her with clothes pins on her lips (amateur hack), exposing her clit completely. Tickled for hours, pausing only to finger her deep while maintaining the light torment on top. She came so many times I lost count, the rug soaked, her voice raw from laughing and moaning. “I can’t… anymore… clit torture’s killing me!” But when I finally stopped, she pulled me down and rode me like a demon, still twitching.

This fetish has me addicted. Jerking off alone, I think about her clit under my fingers, the way it jumps and swells. We’ve talked about filming it – shaky phone cam, nothing pro – just for us. Who knows. All I know is, clit tickle torture is my ultimate high. If you’ve got a girl with a ticklish clit… try it. Watch her break. It’s fucking magic.