Hungry for More

by Rachel Kramer Bussel

  She refilled her coffee cup. She wanted her senses to be extra acute, and caffeine would sharpen her receptivity to every delectable moment. She—

  “Eeee!”

  There it was: the inaugural tickle. Steve had snuck up behind her while she was occupied with the coffeemaker. His forefinger had casually streaked a second and a half of magic under her pajama top, right under her rib cage.

  She wiggled her ass against the front of his briefs while the echoes of the tickle rippled through her body. Her sex had gone instantly hot.

  Steve slapped her butt, letting his hand linger for a quick squeeze, and then disappeared upstairs.

  Cynthia’s ass ground little circles into the seat of her chair while she sipped the coffee. Her cunt muscles clenched rhythmically while she tried to focus on the budget she was drafting for her newest client. Staring at the legal pad, she had to admit at least half her brain was currently devoted to listening for Steve’s return.

  He bounced down the stairs a few minutes later with his gym things. Cynthia cheerfully braced herself when he stopped in the kitchen to kiss her good-bye. She set her pencil on the table as he approached; she was on full tickle alert. Like audience members hoping to get called onstage during a game show, each of her skin cells sizzled with the thrill of being in a place where Steve’s tickle finger might land next.

  He smiled as he leaned down to kiss her and, to her surprise, he simply kissed her. There she sat—keyed up, horny and, for the moment, absolutely untickled. She shifted tensely in her chair.

  As Steve moved out of her orbit, his elbow happened to nudge her to-do-list pencil, and it rolled off the table. “Sorry,” he said, when they heard it hit the floor. He ducked out of sight to retrieve it for her.

  Suddenly the hidden flesh between the last two toes of Cynthia’s right foot was on fire with pleasure.

  “Whoooo!” she shrieked, as she involuntarily retracted her foot from the feather her husband had evidently concealed in the cuff of his sweatshirt. Steve’s skills as an amateur magician came in very handy sometimes.

  And then, like lightning, it was the other foot being feather-tickled, this time on the heel. She pulled this foot away as well—a tiny bit of foot tickling was all she could handle—and her hand instinctively went to her crotch, where her pajama shorts were quietly moistening.

  “See you in an hour,” said Steve, with a mischievous laugh. He blew her a kiss and left for his workout.

  In the shower, the normally merely invigorating pressure points of hot water felt like tickle fingers themselves, heightening and exploiting her sensitivity all over. She wriggled sensuously as the water massaged her breasts, and she actually giggled when the downpour titillated its way along her lower back and gently groped her buttocks. Her laughter reverberated across the tiles. It was as if Steve had persuaded the shower to pitch in and help him with his tickle task, to keep Cynthia deliciously primed for him while he had to be out of the house.

  Wearing her towel like a micromini as she dripped onto the bath mat, Cynthia was tempted to take advantage of her pussy’s stark availability to take the edge off her arousal. For Pete’s sake, she thought to herself, it’s only nine o’clock in the morning. How in the world was she going to get through Tickle Day without collapsing into an endless series of raunchy self-pleasuring poses—fingers wedged into her cunt while she came all over herself…vibrator shoved up inside her…nipples twisted by her own frantic fingertips…?

  The answer came to her immediately: she wasn’t. Her knees were bent and her towel “skirt” gaped wide over the mat. In another instant she was furiously masturbating her clit with her copious lubrication, while fantasizing that the delicate touch all over her breasts, which she’d let spill out of the towel, was a lover’s feather rather than her own hand.

  She came fast, with a little yelp. Then she staggered back to the bedroom, where she sank onto the bed, her thighs opening and closing in that no-man’s-land between satisfaction and resurgent horniness.

  Yes, she was horny, but as her breathing quieted, she recognized that she was slipping into a nap. Savoring the coolness of the pillowcase against her wet hair, she let herself drift off.

  In the dream that ensued, she was eating cotton candy. She couldn’t taste it, though, and the stick was incredibly slippery—so slick that she lost her grip on it, and the cotton candy landed between her legs. She tried to bend down and—

  Oh! Oh-ho-ho-ho! Someone had snapped up the cotton candy before she could get to it, and he was using it to tickle her pussy. Oh, it was so good. She writhed in delight for a few moments, before waking up with her head rolling side to side on her pillow in ecstatic laughter.

  There was no cotton candy, of course. But there was Steve, just withdrawing his hand from the juncture of her splayed legs. He held a silk handkerchief aloft—this was what the magician had been using to tickle her cunt lips in her sleep, under the towel. Cynthia became very aware of the damp spot beneath her on the mattress.

  “I’ll be in my study if you need anything,” said Steve, as he left the bedroom.

  Nursing a clit so rigid that she felt twinges of electricity with every motion, Cynthia now went about getting dressed. She chose her garments carefully: a sleeveless lemon top that left not only her underarms but also her midriff available, paired with a short skirt that kept the hollows behind her knee joints visible, and was loose enough to facilitate up-skirt tickling. Her feet would remain bare, the pink-polished toenails grinning up like ten tickle magnets.

  She didn’t waste much time deliberating over panties. She predicted she’d be changing underwear frequently today, so she’d have any number of opportunities to send in pair after favorite pair of fresh knickers, as each prior pair succumbed to her excitement. She simply lined up several pairs of bikini briefs, in an assortment of fruity stripes and solids, on the top of the dresser. Then, selecting from this display at random, Cynthia donned a pair in a color Steve had once described as “ass-kissing kiwi.” Ass kissing made her think of ass tickling, of course. Consequently, she nearly felt the need to change out of the juicy kiwi panties before she’d even finished applying her makeup.

  As for the pajama shorts she’d discarded in order to shower, these were now a fragrant flower of feminine libido on the bathroom floor. She decided to leave them there, to commemorate the tickle breakfast that had kicked things off.

  The day trickled onward. Just being around Steve under the tickle mandate made Cynthia feel as if her panties—any panties—were lined with dozens of feathers, each one intent on giving her some ass tickling whenever she walked from room to room. Steve himself would hover during breaks from his office tasks, playing it cool while Cynthia got herself worked up wondering where he’d strike next. Then he’d suddenly shoot a hand up her skirt or down her leg or into her blouse out of nowhere, making her scream with wound-up horny enthusiasm, shudder as the tickles shivered through her and eventually visit the bedroom to change her underwear yet again.

  When she sat at the table with a magazine after lunch, Steve faked a page turn on his own magazine and tickled her with astounding precision in the crook of her elbow. When she was on the phone with a business matter later on, he dropped by her office and massaged her shoulders for a few minutes, waiting until she was almost totally relaxed to whip out his feather. Before Cynthia knew what was happening, Steve was using it to dust the sensitive skin at the base of her neck—left side and right, each for two impossibly blissful seconds—after which he left her alone to explain to her client why her last remark, “I can try to have that ready,” had come out sounding more like “I can try to heh-oooh!-heh-hee-heheheheh-Steee-hee-heeve!”

  By three o’clock, she was considering abandoning her efforts at productivity altogether. How could she accomplish her work, when all she could think about was where her next tickle was coming from—or rather, when it was coming, and on what part of her ever-ticklish anatomy it would occur?

  She was managing to distract hersel
f with some filing when Steve peeked into her office again.

  “Gotta run to that meeting—back in a while.”

  He was gone as quickly as he’d appeared. Feeling absurdly deprived of a parting tickle, Cynthia automatically followed his trail, hurrying to her office door to see if he’d actually left the house yet.

  “Eeee!”

  No, Steve had not left the house. As a matter of fact, he had been hiding just out of her line of sight, crouching beyond her office doorway in the hall. As she’d sailed through to catch him on his way to the garage, he’d grabbed her around the waist and tickle-kissed her exposed tummy while she danced in his grasp.

  “Okay,” he grinned, “now I really do have to go. Don’t forget what day it is, though.” He snatched up his keys and headed out.

  Cynthia stood there pleasantly flustered and intensely aroused, her knees bumping together in want while she caught her breath against the doorjamb.

  Again she tried to work. With Steve out of the house and the tickle program thus on hiatus, she ought to be able to settle down and concentrate, she reasoned.

  But she found that in his absence, her mind was more tickle conscious than ever. Her thoughts went to feathery fingers on naked breasts, to agile hands sprinkling themselves over a smooth belly like warm raindrops. She imagined being played like a ticklish piano—a note here, an arpeggio there—while she arched across a lover’s lap. She couldn’t wait to open herself up to Steve in earnest, to offer her flesh to his fingers and his feathers, to giggle and dance beneath him on the bed, a canvas to be softly painted with tickles from head to toe, entirely in small, manageable doses. She longed to feel her underpants getting pulled down by his fists, to part her legs and let his tickles kiss her there, until she was so powerfully turned on she’d settle for nothing less than his cock up her pussy and his mouth on her nipples.

  So she gave up on the idea of working. After all, she reminded herself, it was she who had formally requested that Steve put Tickle Day on the calendar—and surely she shouldn’t be treating this custom-made holiday as an ordinary workday.

  Now liberated from any internal pressure to be productive, and with Steve’s absence dragging unaccountably on, Cynthia became so tickle obsessed that she was visited by the ghosts of tickles past, reminiscing about the first night Steve had cautiously garnished their foreplay with titillation. She remembered straddling him ravenously in her heat soon afterward, flushed and laughing from the intimate stimulation.

  Would this stupid meeting of Steve’s ever end? At the two-hour mark, she couldn’t sit still. Her body had long been ready for the next tickle, and she was growing hungrier for it by the minute. Her latest pair of panties was so damp with her arousal, she felt like she was sitting in a puddle. It was no longer a matter of relieving the tension with a quick self-diddling; she didn’t want to be diddled—she wanted to be tickled. Tickled and tickled and fucked.

  Too bad I can’t tickle myself, she reflected. It was an irrelevant thought anyway, she realized: she craved his fingers on her skin and his touch jolting little bubbles of laughter along her nerves.

  But, damn, she had to do something.

  As she wandered into the bedroom in her restlessness, her eyes drifted to the window. Acting on a hunch, she opened it to let in the mild evening breeze. Then she slipped off her skirt and panties, and stripped the bed of its blankets and top sheet. She lay facedown on the mattress in only her sleeveless top, with her head resting on crossed arms.

  She concentrated hard to detect the gentle movement of air across the room and across her bare skin. And as the cool air breezed past her thighs and buttocks, she imagined the currents were being directed, from a distance, by Steve. She challenged herself, without moving, to let the air currents tickle up and down the crack of her ass, to give her a taste of what Steve would be doing in person when at last he returned.

  The exercise was such a success that Cynthia could not, in fact, remain motionless. With her attention focused on the subtle manner in which the empty room was tickling her behind, she soon found herself gyrating—working her bottom around as if to attract the air currents, like an animal might attract its mate. Before long she had her ass high in the air, and she was quivering passionately with the microscopic tickles of countless air molecules.

  She was in this position when Steve walked in on her.

  “What are you doing?” he exclaimed kindly, smiling at her from the bedroom doorway.

  She froze in place, her derriere raised to the room. “Oh, Steve, finally. Get over here, fast. Please!”

  “I’m sorry the meeting went so long,” he said as he hastened to the bed.

  “It’s all right, it’s all right…just fucking tickle me now. Tickle me-eee-hee-hee!”

  Her demand disintegrated into gleeful titters as his dexterous hand made its presence known all over her ass, showing the air currents how it was done. Cynthia felt all the tension breaking apart into release as her tickle-hungry flesh was soundly gratified by her husband’s busy fingers. She was rocking the bed with her vigorous response, and her knees dug into the mattress. Her heels kicked at the emptiness behind her as his fingers moved from the crack to the cheeks and back, truly doing justice to her eager rear landscape until it seemed no skin cell had been left untickled.

  When it was enough—when her lucky little bottom had taken every atom it could stand of tickle pleasure from Steve’s fingertips—she broke away, flipping over on her back to open her legs for him. She couldn’t remember when she’d ever been so turned on. As he freed his cock to enter her, her ass was still vibrating.

  But Tickle Day was not over. Just as Steve’s velvety shaft began tickling its way into her cunt, centimeter by centimeter, her sensors shrieked from the touch of a finger to her underarm. The armpit tickling was precisely synchronized with the penetration, and Cynthia was in heaven.

  Being tickled while being fucked: could anything possibly feel better? she asked herself as she luxuriated. And Steve had chosen well. He obviously knew that his wife’s underarms were a locus where she could last a little longer than some other places. Here, Steve could tickle steadily away at the same spot for as much as ten seconds at a time, and Cynthia would writhe contentedly while the stuttering waves of tickly sensation bounced through her. She clutched his idle wrist and thrust the open expanse of her tender underarm toward his tickle hand, urging him on. She was vanilla ice cream, and he was a million soft, tiny spoons.

  His solid thrusts into her cunt were the perfect accompaniment to the riveting tickle strokes down the creamy hollow of her armpit—or vice versa. She was completely under the control of erogenous stimulation, and all she could do was wiggle her ass and drench Steve’s cock with pussy juice, chuckling with abandon. The laughter thrum in her stomach muscles blended with the contractions of her cunt and the pulsation of her clit. She was melting into a tickled ecstasy, all giggles and shimmies and wetness.

  Finally, saturated with pleasure, she closed her armpit off, reached for her clit and came in a hot flood of satisfaction. She was still laughing as she pumped Steve’s cock with her twitching cunt and her toes curled around imaginary tickle feathers. Steve was coming, too; in every spasm, she could feel how worked up he’d been by the many-tickled agenda he’d been assigned this day.

  On an impulse, she reached under to tickle Steve’s perineum as he finished his orgasm. Her touch was accurate and skillful.

  But though it didn’t really make sense, it was Cynthia who squirmed and tittered when her finger played along Steve’s intimate territory. One way or another, it seemed every tickle in the house was destined to be her property.

  Especially on Tickle Day.

  RELIEF

  Katya Harris

  I want to fuck.”

  “Jesus, Lila, keep your voice down.”

  Nicole’s face was so shocked at her out-of-the-blue statement, Lila couldn’t help but laugh. “Come on, Nic, no one’s paying any attention to me.” Actually the guys lookin
g at her over Nicole’s shoulder were looking at her plenty. Lila grinned and gave them a wink. They chuckled and turned away.

  Turning her attention back to her friend, Lila said, “I just want to have some fun.”

  Rolling her eyes, Nicole said, “Well you don’t have to scream about it.”

  “I certainly hope that I will though,” Lila teased.

  Nicole humphed, but there was a twinkle in her eye. She wasn’t as bold as Lila, but they both knew that she wouldn’t be going home alone tonight either.

  Both of them worked at the same advertising firm and after nearly a month of killer deadlines and never-ending overtime, they both desperately needed to release the pressure that had been building inside of them. It had been Nicole’s idea for them to go dancing with Dee, Andi and Mike, their other work friends. Lila hadn’t even had to think about it before agreeing wholeheartedly. This was just what she needed. Drinking, dancing, flirting and then to cap the night off, a hard cock tunneling into her pussy.

  “What are you guys talking about?”

  “I think Lila’s being naughty again.”

  Looking at Andi and Dee, Lila stuck out her tongue and retorted cockily, “Hey, I’m always naughty.”

  Dee’s eyes gleamed. “True.”

  Arms slid around Lila’s waist from behind, hugging her to a body that had been starring in her wet dreams since they’d started working together.

  “Are they ganging up on you again?”

  Turning her head, Lila pouted playfully at Mike. “They’re being mean.”

  Letting her go, Mike moved to her side. Lila swallowed her disappointment and grinned at him when he told her, “Stay with me. I’ll take care of you.”

  She wished he would. Nicole had told her before that Mike was interested in her, but Lila wasn’t convinced. Sure, they flirted, but he seemed reluctant about making a move on her. It was like he was waiting for something. Lila had no idea what. They were both single, and short of scrawling I’D LIKE YOU TO FUCK ME on her forehead, she didn’t know how much clearer she could be that she wanted him.