In my favorite tickling fantasy a woman is bound by her wrists and ankles in a standing, spread-eagle position. She is wearing a very tight sleeveless blouse and bell bottom pants that fit super tight from the waist through the crotch, then smooth but not tight through the thighs, then flaring out to very wide bottoms. Her outfit is made of very sensuous nylon jersey, or sometimes fluid, slippery satin. I always picture the crotch seam pulling deep inside her labia, and the top molded to her smallish breasts so that her erect nipples are clearly visible. I tickle her by running my fingertips or fingernails over the slick, shiny fabric. She howls with laughter, begging me to stop, crying out in total exasperation that she cannot stand it another moment. Her screams are accompanied my wild gyrations, limited mostly to hip twisting and head shaking by the ropes that keep her limbs spread and her body vulnerable. For a long time I avoid her cunt, but eventually my fingers trace the groove in the fabric pulled tight up into her crotch, tickling her out of her mind while slowly teasing her clit to mind-shattering orgasms. If she has trouble getting over the edge at this point I pull out my Hitachi Magic Wand and press the throbbing ball against her clit until she passes out.
If that isn't a power trip I don't know what is. She is my captive, my prisoner, totally incapable of defending herself. She is suffering terribly, both from the sensations and the turmoil they produce in her mind. Most important, it is what I do to her that elicits the involuntary writhing and screaming.
Is there a place for service in this picture? Absolutely, if you see it the way I do. It begins with a gift I give her of the outfit she is wearing. She is young, and it just so happens has never worn clothes made of such sensuous stuff. She is delighted with my gift, initially because it is so sexy looking but also, after putting it on, because it feels so good. When I invite her out so that she can wear it for me I hint that she should not wear anything under it, and she complies to please me. As the evening progress I steer the conversation to tickling and how erotic it can be, punctuated by several forays by my hand under the tablecloth in which I challenge her to sit perfectly still while my fingers dance over her thighs. By the time we get back to my apartment she longs for more, and welcomes my offer to restrain her so that she can enjoy the maximum effect. If she really needs me to stop she can use the safe-word I announced as I tied her up.
Cast in that manner there is an unmistakable quality of service. First I turn her on to a new experience, then do everything possible to maximize her pleasure. Without this property I call service, tying up a woman and tickling her half to death is nothing more than bullying her for my own amusement.
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