My very first Campfire Girl fantasy is noteworthy for its incorporation of many real world details. It is one of the few fantasies I can recall in which I pictured other boys participating in the tickling play, and even more uncharacteristic is the lack of bondage. It was not my first tickling fantasy, as I had often thought about ways I could tickle the two girls who's pretty silk and satin party dresses were the start of my fetish interest in women's clothing.
My elementary school was involved with a fund raising event, and every child who brought in a contribution received a small red feather which was supposed to be worn like a badge. After school many of the kids, myself included, chased each other around the playground while brandishing their feathers as if they were swords, acting as though we were engaged in a tickling fight. It seemed to me that the girls were not nearly as interested in this impromptu game as the boys, but what really intrigued me was the way the Campfire Girls went to great lengths to ensure that none of us tickled them.
This observation spawned an interesting vision. I decided that because Campfire Girl uniform skirts felt so ticklish to wear as it is, if any Campfire Girl was touched by a feather she would immediately fall to the ground and writhe in helpless agony. Furthermore, none of her friends would come to her aid in fear of meeting the same fate. Once a girl had been brought down she would be surrounded by boys like a pack of hyenas, and a dozen feathers brushing over her silk skirt would be so overpowering that it would be impossible for her to get up again. We would not tickle her to death, but to her it would feel like it. Once we had reduced her to a blubbering lunatic we would let her go and run off in search of another victim.
I do not call that a fantasy because it was not a scene I dwelled on much. The fantasy that did derive from this event gave me a lot of pleasure for a long time.
The setting was the playground, filled with kids at recess but with no adults around. My friends and I decided to construct a game, something like an amusement park ride. I knew right away what I wanted, and it was not until it took shape that the other kids realized what it was.
I arranged several of the playground benches end to end. Each bench was about six feet long, with a metal frame to which was bolted two wooden planks. The planks were set close together, but there was just enough space between them to allow the quills of these little red feathers to be jammed in-between them. I gathered up all the feathers I could find and stuck them into the cracks in the benches, spaced about six inches apart. All except the first and last bench in the line, which had no feathers.
By this time a bunch of kids had come over to see what I was making, and none were more interested than the Campfire Girls. They always hung out in a group, and there was now a dozen or so of them in their lovely uniforms staring at my long line of benches. I turned to the cluster of Campfire Girls, announced that my game was ready, and asked for a volunteer to demonstrate how it worked. They giggled and shoved each other until one stepped forward to give it a try.
I directed her to lay face down on the first bench and to stretch out her arms and legs as if she were flying like Superman. I straddled the bench by her feet and directed one of my friends to do the same by her hands. I grabbed her by the ankles and he grabbed her by the wrists, then we lifted her and began to walk slowly forward. The way I imagined it, in the position she was in the lowest point of her body would be her lower abdomen, that most alluring of all places covered by the upper foot or so of her blue silk skirt, and it would be just above the surface of the bench.
As we crept forward we reached the feathers, and when they began to sweep against her silk covered tummy she began to squirm. At first she only squirmed a little, but after a couple more feet she lost control and started to shake a lot. A couple feet more and she started to laugh. When we reached the end she was howling with laughter and writhing like a worm being stuck on a fish hook.
As soon as we had set her gently down on the last bench we were surrounded by the rest of the Campfire Girls who were all clamoring to have a turn. My friends had no idea why it should feel so ticklish to have feathers brushing the front of their skirts, but they loved tickling the girls that way. The girls loved it because it was first time they had been tickled by boys, and they could enjoy it without giving away their secrets.
The fact that I knew all about Campfire Girls while none of my friends did gave me a tremendous sense of importance. As the game progressed, more and more of the girls began to suspect that I was onto them, and this not only elevated me in stature but would suggest the possibility that in the future they might ask me to tickle them because I already knew about their skirts.
After every girl had a chance to try it I sprung my trap by explaining that there was a little more to the game. It was actually a challenge, an endurance test. The rules were that to win, a girl could not laugh or scream or make any sound at all except heavy breathing. If they did, they would have to remove their panties and be dragged over the feathers again. This second pass did not count towards winning, it was only punishment for having make a sound during the first pass.
All the girls knew the significance of this, because without any underwear the effect would be devistating. The problem was that they could not reveal this, and to suddedly stop playing after begging for a turn might give away the secret. I had them cornered.
One by one they were dragged once again down the long line of feathers. None of them could keep from laughing, so each girl had to go back and do it again.
I watched with great amusement as each girl skinnyed out of her panties, her eyes bulging as her cold silk skirt made contact with her most ticklish spot, that mysterious slit at the bottom of her belly. I tried to keep from grinning when I thought about how the feathers would press the silk into that wonderful slit and drive the girl wild with a mixture of intense tickling and the same pleasure I got from rubbing my cock.
Forcing themselves to be stoic about their fate they trudged back to the start of the run to receive their punishment. As a couple of my friends readied the first girl I called out to them to give her a break and not go so fast. Not even the girls realized that this would actually make them suffer more.
A long time after this had become my favorite fantasy I discovered a flaw in its design. Campfire Girl skirts were knee length and cut very full. If a girl was supported in the way I imagined, her skirt would hang down to the ground. I tried to come up with a fix for this, such as tying a sash or rope around her thighs just about the knees, but it spoiled the realism of the original.
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