A True Tickle Slut

She’s still laughing when the pink latex hits the light—bright, slick, obscene. A little British thing in a shiny second skin, grinning like Christmas came early. The cuffs bite into her wrists first, then the spreader bar locks her ankles wide. Open. Helpless. Allie’s fingers slide under the latex, slow, then cruel, digging into the soft spots she knows will break her. Every gasp turns to a squeal. The gag swells between her teeth, turning the laughs into wet, muffled howls. She strains, hips jerking, pink latex squeaking against the bench. The more she fights, the harder Allie pushes. Sweat beads at her temples. Tears at the corners of her eyes. And she’s still smiling.