Good Vibrations Magazine

“I’ve always liked it,” Eleanor told me. “I mean, always.”

We were seated in the kitchen, sharing a glass of red wine. When Eleanor passed the glass to me, her fingers brushed mine, shocking me with a tiny electric spark. Even though we’ve been together nearly six years, just the touch of her skin can give me a thrill.

“I don’t know,” I said, “It doesn’t really sound like much of a turn-on to me.” I took a sip of the wine and handed it back to her. I enjoy drinking from the same glass she does, lining my lips up with her crimson kiss imprints.

“Just imagine,” she started, “you tied down to the bed. Me with a feather duster in my hand, running the pretty pink feathers all over your naked body. You wouldn’t be able to stand it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I told her, honestly. “Not being able to stand it.”

Eleanor smiled. “No, this would be in a good way. You’d be squirming, pushing against the bindings, trying to beg me to let you go, but laughing too hard to get the words out. I’d tickle you until you came close to wetting the bed.”

My eyes must have widened when she said that, because she sensed I was about to agree. “Come on, Jackie,” she continued, leaning over the formica kitchen table and grazing my lips with hers in a quick kiss. “You’re always up for something interesting.”

I thought about it. Interesting, yes. But interesting conjures up images of making love beneath the pier at the Santa Monica Beach, of necking passionately while riding the ferris wheel, of doing it on a train. Tickling didn’t fit the concept.

My lover sat back in her chair and regarded me with a look I could not immediately read. Her dark brown eyes seemed thoughtful. She worried her full bottom lip with her teeth, the way she does when she’s figuring something out. After a moment she said, “On my next cleaning night, I’ll introduce you to the concept. If you don’t like it, we can stop. I mean, if you really don’t like being tickled. But somehow, I think you will.”

Eleanor and I take turns planning cleaning nights. The goal is to try and make cleaning our apartment a bit more exciting. It takes the drudgery out of everything from polishing silverware to washing windows. We have come up with sexual uses for even the most mundane household cleaning items, and because we take turns planning, we’re always trying to surprise each other. But there’s no surprise to the way the evenings end: with our breathing rapid and our bodies shiny with sweat and come. And our apartment not much more organized than it was before. Still, scrubbing the shower, or waxing the kitchen floor have both become exciting and hotly anticipated events in our lives because of cleaning nights.

Now, I found myself filled with trepidation at the thought of our next weekend’s tickling fest, and wondering how it might be tied in with a cleaning scenario. Would she polish me with a felt rag? Would she tickle me with the scrub brush? Eleanor is a creative woman, I knew she would surprise me.

I am always turned on, whether I’m in charge of one of these nights, or she is, but this time the fluttering in my stomach was made of something new. Fear? How could I be afraid of being tickled? That just didn’t make sense.

On Friday night, I got dressed for our date. I stood for a long time in front of the mirror regarding my reflection. I am five foot six, and I have straight blonde hair that just barely reaches my shoulders. I wasn’t sure of the appropriate attire to wear while being tickled. When we have spanking nights (which usually come when we’re cleaning the kitchen because of the plentiful wooden spoon paddles), I know to put on a pair of my sweet, lace-edged panties. When we’re doing laundry, we’ll undoubtedly wind up making love on the washer, and I wear nothing but a terry cloth towel, for padding. But tickling? I ended up in a marabou-trimmed nightgown and robe, with marabou fluff on my high-heeled slippers. The outfit itself practically tickled me when I went to answer the door.

Eleanor nodded her immediate approval. She stood on our patio, a tissue-wrapped bouquet in her lovely hands. I let her in, feeling shy, as I always do when she’s in charge. It’s fun taking turns this way. It gives us both the opportunity to play different roles. When Eleanor is in charge, her very appearance seems to change. She has light honey-colored hair, and freckled skin. Her eyes are a deep brown, and they seem to glow when she’s in charge. They have a heat to them, and they flicker like the purple gold flames in a campfire.

As Eleanor walked into the dining room, she unwrapped the bouquet, and I noticed that it wasn’t flowers, but feather dusters, an assortment of four different colors — turquoise, a deep rose, a much paler pink, and bright lavender. She waved them at me, teasingly brushing the tip of my nose, and then she set them on the dining room table and took off her jacket. Underneath, she was dressed all in black, including a black feather boa that she had sneakily tucked beneath her coat.

“Bedroom,” she said, grinning, that one word setting the tone for the events of the evening. I tripped down the hall in my heels and then stood next to the bed, waiting for her next instruction.

She was right behind me, hadn’t even entered the room before saying, “Now, strip.” I mentally chided myself for agonizing over my attire. It was so quickly removed and tossed on the chair by the bed. Before I could ask her what to do next, she had come forward and wrapped her feather boa around my wrists. She pushed me down to a sitting position and then back so that I was sprawled on the bed. I watched as she set the feather dusters down on the pillow, then moved to position me exactly how she wanted — my legs spread apart, my bound wrists over my head, the edge of the boa caught neatly on the hook in the wall. The “handcuff hook,” we call it.

“You ready?” she asked, binding my ankles to the posters of my bed with silky scarves. “Ready to be tickled until you come?”

I wanted to shake my head, but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “You know I’m game, Eleanor,” and then I waited for her to begin. She didn’t rush into it. She never does. She always makes me wait, because she knows anticipation has a definite effect on me. The waiting makes my pussy get into the groove, makes me start to grow wet and ready even before the action begins. This time was no different. In fact, I think I got more wet because I really didn’t know what to expect. Anticipation mixed with confusion. What an aphrodisiac.

Eleanor said, “You don’t have to look so afraid. I’m not going to hurt you.”

I nodded. “I know, but…” and that was all I got to say. She came forward, one feather duster in each hand, and began running the toys up and down my rib cage. I started to jerk on the boa, but Eleanor shook her head. “Careful,” she said, “I don’t want you to rip that.” More bad news for me. How could I squirm if I had to be careful? I sent her pleading, puppy-dog looks with my eyes, but she took no pity on me. Instead, she continued with the fancy dusters, running them lightly under my armpits, then down my arms, then using one on my legs and another on my tummy. She was like an octopus, an eight-legged creature. Whenever one area of my body started to tickle too badly, she was instantly somewhere else.

“Such a good girl,” she cooed, now standing by the bed and walking to the foot of it. I knew where she was going. I didn’t think I’d be able to stand it.

“Oh, god,” I said as she started to run the dusters up and down my bare feet. “Eleanor, I can’t…” My words dissolved into helpless laughter.

“Yes, you can,” she said, continuing her tickling journey. She ran the feathers over the soles of my feet, and then brushed them along the tips of my painted toenails. I couldn’t heed her warning anymore. I yanked on the bindings holding my wrists to the wall. The boa snagged and bits of glossy black feathers fluttered down on top of me. But my wrists stayed bound. I bucked on the bed, raising my hips as high as I could, slamming down to the mattress each time. She’d tied my ankles tight. I was going nowhere.

My laughter rang out in the room. My body started to hurt from how hard I was giggling.

“Shhh,” Eleanor admonished. Slowly, I began to give in, to let myself become overwhelmed with the tickling, taunting sensation. And giving in somehow made it bearable, although my body still shook with silent laughter. But then, that, too, began to subside, as Eleanor made her way cat-like onto the bed, moving between my legs and positioning herself right before my open cunt.

“Here?” she asked.

I took a deep, shuddering breath. I realized that I wanted to feel the feathers there. More than anything I’d ever craved before. I was dying to know what those tickling colored bits of fluff would feel like against my swollen clit.

“Please,” I finally managed.

She whisked the duster over my pussy once, then slid it back again. I moaned. She took a duster in each hand and whisked back and forth, so lightly that her touch was maddening. I raised up for more pressure, but couldn’t get it. She continued dusting me, lightly, gently, until my moans turned to hoarse begging sounds and the moisture in my cunt made the feathers wet.

“Come on,” I begged, “I need…”

“I know what you need,” Eleanor smiled at me, turning one of the dusters around to show me the smooth wooden handle. Oh, yes. That’s exactly what I needed. With the same slow movements, Eleanor spread my pussy lips open and lightly tapped the edge of the handle against my throbbing clit. I wasn’t laughing anymore. This was no longer funny. I grit my teeth and mentally willed her to stop her teasing games. I needed fulfillment. I needed release.

Watching me carefully, my love slid the handle inside my pussy. My cunt instantly gripped onto it, squeezing as Eleanor rocked it in and out. She knows the way to do it. Oh, yes, my lover girl knows everything about what I like and how I like it. I closed my eyes, sighing gratefully, and then was rewarded as Eleanor used her free hand to tickle my clit with the turquoise duster.

The combination of the two sensations was unbelievable. My cunt contracted on the handle of one duster as those lovely bright blue-green feathers tickled me to perfection. I floated in the bed, my head back, my hips rising up and down to the rhythm Eleanor set.

In mere moments, she had dusted me right into a electrifying orgasm. And I had shredded her feather boa by stretching it with my wrists. Eleanor looked up my body, meeting my eyes with hers.

“I’ve never had so much fun…” she grinned, “you know, dusting.”

Next weekend is my turn. And we’re going to be working on the floor in the kitchen. Until then I’m going to be wracking my brain, trying to find interesting uses for our mop.