it’s taken me a long time to accept and verbalize the truth. The core of my tickling kink isn’t extreme tickle torture – though of course I like it extreme, but I like it lighter sometimes too.
But the thing that really turns me on is when the tickles are… unwelcome. Molesting, groping, violating. That kind of tickling. The kind that is either a component of outright sexual assault, or is itself a kind of repressed form of sexual violence, expressed in the faux-innocence of tickling, because what could be more fun?
But the lee isn’t laughing in delight. They’re being bullied, forced to laugh while they are groped anywhere and everywhere. That’s the kind of tickling I jerk it thinking about. Hands reaching inside clothes. Sneaking a tit squeeze. Pulling off shoes and socks without asking, because the ler wants to tickle the lee’s bare feet, and the ler is in control, so those feet are gonna be bared.
Or lers, plural, in control. Fuck, I love the cruelty of the gang. The casual dehumanization, the rape-mob mentality And, absolutely, the way they overload the lee to the point where the lee can’t breathe, can’t fight back, just has to take the tickling. Total loss of agency, total panic, wrapped up in frantic laughs.
I love it when the lee is stripped naked and their private parts bounce and jiggle around while they struggle. I love when they’re forced to cum, which not only makes them even more exhausted and ticklish, but makes them validate even the most brutal and humiliating tickle treatment with their forced sexual response. I love, as a ler, being openly and wantonly sexual with my tickling. And watching other lers do the same. Touching themselves with one hand and tickling with the other. Fucking the lee in any hole. Rubbing themselves on the lee’s feet or in the lee’s armpits. Consummating the conversion of the lee into a total sex toy for pure ler pleasure. Immersing the lee in an overwhelming, inescapable headspace of being a target.
Today I spoke to a lee who wants, some day, to relive her own childhood tickling abuse in a consensual scene context. And I could not help but wish to be one of those lers. I can’t think of anything more gratifying. Giving her what she needs so profoundly; this thing that has a secret, dark power over her. And having it be, at the same time, an at-last unleashed expression of my own forbidden lust. I could become the tickle monster, the tickle bully, and the more sexually sadistic I’d be, the more it would be giving her what I understand she needs. And i do understand.
I wouldn’t participate in a scene like that lightly, but nor would I hold back. It would deprive us both of what we need, were I to hold back.
If I had my way, the bondage would be complete, and utterly inescapable. Being in that bondage would make her feel, deep inside, hopeless. And it would need to be inescapable from a practical standpoint because the tickles get fun for me when I can tell she’s had enough. That’s when I’d really get turned on. That’s when I’d only get more cruel, driven on by the rush that comes from tickling someone past their limit and knowing every single second is unbearable for them, knowing they are truly trying to get away but can’t.
It is such a relief to admit this, you can’t even imagine. If it seems sick, just know that the sickness only turns me on more. If it seems dubiously consensual, just know that moment when present consent is in doubt and prior consent is a fact the lee lowkey regrets is hotter than anything else I can imagine. It looks like rape, feels like rape, and you’re laughing. That’s my kink.