I don’t know why I bothered; it’s not like I’d be fooling anyone if I did manage to suppress the laughter. They’d both exploited my overreactive body plenty of times and knew exactly what it made me feel. Graham even more than Julian, since he would be giggling too, if I were doing this to him.
In some ways it was actually worse when they kept it gentle, because that made it possible for me to control my response, which the harder tickling sometimes didn’t. When I was still, they had the freedom to stroke and prod every square centimeter of my skin with devastating accuracy, not leaving out a single delicate nerve ending. And when I stayed still, of course, I became complicit in my own torment. Which, for me, was a surefire one-way ticket to bonersville.
By the time Graham’s fingers made it to my pecs, my nipples were alert and eager. He didn’t skimp, either; he coaxed delicious pleasure from my nubs until I’d almost forgotten about the return journey. It was just as ticklish as the trip down, plus I was worse at keeping the laughter inside. I realized why I’d been trying not to let it out: it made me feel more helpless when they forced this audible reaction from me; when I couldn’t hide how intense it felt. It was humiliating to be stuck like this — cackling like a fool, and letting them make me. Because no one was keeping my tickle spots exposed except for me.
“Very good,” Graham praised when his hands came to rest at my elbows again. “You can handle it once, you can handle it six more times, right?”
“Fuck,” was my unsophisticated reply.
He laughed. “Check out your husband, though,” he encouraged. “Already leaking. Imagine how bad it’s going to be by the time I’m finished with you. Before I even get started on him.”
I looked over and saw he was right: fluid was seeping from Julian’s slit, making a wet trail down his shaft. It was hot knowing Graham possessed that power, without needing to make any contact. And the power to withhold relief until tomorrow night. Plus the fact that my surrender was the catalyst. I braced myself for the next attack.
There was less pressure but more movement from the fingertips the second time, and Graham hit different angles on his way down, each one sparking those inexplicable impulses the brain interprets as tickling. It really wasn’t fair, the effect that being spread and commanded had on me. It was a cycle that fed on itself — the more turned on I was, the more sensitive I got; and the more my sensitive skin was touched, the more it turned me on. So when Graham started playing with my nipples the second time, I definitely felt it between my legs.
“You guys are so much fun,” Graham approved while his digits danced at my electrified areolas. “Two horny cocks for the price of one.”
Definitely fucking horny on my end, and such a long way to go. I was kind of hoping he’d stay at my chest longer, but without warning his dexterous musician’s hands were strumming their torturous way back toward my elbows.
“Oh my god, Graham!” I exclaimed when he entered my hollows for the third time. I always hoped repeated tickling would somehow desensitize me, but it never seemed to happen. Maybe my tormentors were too skilled — they knew how to keep the contact fresh, not repeating any patterns enough for me to get used to them. I swear the lighter pressure had a lot to do with it. My body stayed on high alert, always waiting for something worse, attuned to the slightest movement.
The fingers swirled this time, drawing tiny, teasing spirals all the way through my defenseless pits. I nearly strained my muscles, I had to grip the headboard so hard to keep from pulling my arms down. He concentrated on my nipples for longer, too, maybe because he could see how much it was starting to frustrate me.
“It’s insanely hot that you’re letting me do this to you,” Graham commented when I accidentally thrust my aching cock against empty air. He twirled a fingertip around the raised edges of each nipple, then slowly migrated the circles north until he was tickling my pits again. I flexed and squirmed and emitted embarrassing noises, but I did nothing to impede his access. “Isn’t it, Julian?” he added.
My husband had to swallow before he could answer, and his voice was rough with lust. “Yes.”
When Graham’s hands returned to my elbows, I took the opportunity to glance at Julian again. He hadn’t moved, and the trail of fluid down his rod was thicker. I wished I could lick it up, but maybe I’d get a chance later.
By the start of the seventh journey down my triceps, I could barely keep straight anymore the difference between torture and bliss. Graham’s repeated exploitation, and my own submission to it, had all the wires crossed. Everywhere had turned into an erogenous zone, and my areolas were positively hot-wired to my groin. Each nudge and pinch at my swollen nubs made me throb, a bewildering combination of overstimulation and deprivation.
On his final trip back through my valleys, he lingered a long time in the extra-susceptible center, employing devastatingly soft, slow strokes that gave me time to feel every single overpowering nerve signal. I giggled uncontrollably and writhed as much as I dared, but he wasn’t making any upward progress.
“Graham, please –” I begged between passes, desperately willing myself to keep my armpits exposed until he was satisfied. No way did I want to be stuck with this raging hard-on until tomorrow.
“Don’t let go, little one.” His warning managed to be wicked and affectionate at the same time. “You’re almost there.” One fingertip on each side scratched an excruciatingly ticklish trail across my trigger spots.
“That’s not fair — you’re not going anywhere –” I protested through my laughter, as if it mattered. This was his game, and his decision to let me win or lose.
“Sure I am,” he tantalized. “My fingers are going up, see?” He tickled through my armpits again.
“But then they — go back down!” I argued uselessly.
“I’m just curious how much of this you would take, to get an orgasm tonight,” he said, brushing teasingly against that same damn spot on both sides.
I groaned, as overwhelmed by his mental game as by his hands. “Please…” was all I managed to say.
“You’ve been so good for me, baby,” he murmured while he made another unhurried excursion across my hyper-reactive nerves. “I’m gonna let you come. I just want to tickle you a little longer, because it’s making your husband crazy. Would you let me do that?”
My breath was getting harder to catch, but when he paused again, I dragged my attention to the man beside me. He was indeed looking fervidly turned on, and though his hands were still on his thighs, they were no longer relaxed.
My brain threw up a flurry of protests, but my mouth said, “Ok,” even as I cringed against the next stroke.
“So fucking hot,” Graham muttered, then he invaded again.
Despite the tickling that threatened to turn my brain to mush along with the rest of me, I kept my gaze on Julian this time, and boy was that rewarding. I’d rarely seen such naked need in his expression; I could practically isolate each pulse of his cock, even though it was his face I was watching. Every time Graham’s fingertips made me gasp and twitch, it created hitches in Julian’s breathing or new tension in his jaw or abs. I endured the torment longer than I thought I could, just because of how exciting it was to get under his skin that much.