Hot off the A1AdulteBook e-presses today is Confessions of a Ticklish Girl, a fantastic novel of Victorian tickle-erotica by Severin, who also brought us Felicia’s Feet and This Little Piggy. Confessions follows the adventures of Meg, a lowly but comely sweatshop worker who is recruited to join the staff of an isolated country manorhouse. The owner is a tickle-fiend who loves his workers–especially when they’re barefoot and screaming with helpless laughter. Tickle-machines, feathers and sadistic ticklers both male and female are on the menu.
Get it from my fetish bookshoppe - it should also be available on Amazon in a day or so.
Check out this hot excerpt:
Finally we came to a door that Anne-Marie opened with a key she took from a pocket in her uniform. Inside was a bedroom, the most beautiful I’d ever seen, with a huge, lovely bed, all white sheets and a rumpled coverlet that looked like mounds of whipped cream. There was a woman lying on the bed. I wondered at the way she was lying, with her limbs very stiff and straight. As we drew closer I gave a little gasp, for I saw she was tied to the bedposts by a complicated system of ropes holding her wrists and ankles. Her long body was stretched taut. Her arms were stretched over her head and her legs were spread. Need I mention that she was wearing not so much as a stitch? It was as though her body were meant to be on display, so that any passerby could inspect the soles of her feet or her breasts…or her naked pussy.
“Here we are, Clarissa,” Bess called out cheerfully. “Did you miss us?”
As we stepped up to the bed and Bess lit lamps, I finally got a good look at the woman. She was older than either Susan or Jeanette, but not by very much. Her body was finely-muscled and athletic, the body of a woman who exercises regularly. Her breasts were round and high, with firm pink nipples. She had masses of chestnut-brown hair and fine, haughty features. Her eyes were big and green, like a cat’s, and she glared at us as we drew up. I flinched a little, for I guessed that this was the mistress of Harrow House, even though she was all tied up and helpless. Everything about her spoke of authority and power. I was used to such women sending me packing with a hard look, when they noticed me at all.
“You fucking little devils,” she said, her voice throaty and hoarse, as though she had been speaking—or screaming—for quite a long time. “Jonathan was just here, and he nearly killed me. Can’t you give me even a moment’s rest?”
But Bess and Anne-Marie seemed merely amused. “Tra-la-la!” Bess said, folding her arms. “I call that gratitude! And here we’ve brought you a lovely new girl to play with!”
“Clarissa” gave me a single contemptuous look that made me want to shrink in on myself like a snail drawing into her shell.
“One girl or a dozen, it doesn’t matter to me,” she sneered. “You’re here to torture me, so get to work.”
“Gladly,” Anne-Marie said, tossing her head. “Meg, show her that we won’t tolerate such naughty behavior in our mistress. Go on!”
So she was our mistress. I wondered why she had been tied like this—had it been at Mr. Harrow’s orders, or was this torture—for all her jibes and vicious remarks–something she herself craved? I stared down at Mrs. Harrow’s magnificent body and found myself blushing all over. “What…what should I do?” I asked in a little voice.
“Do you really need us to tell you after last night?” Bess giggled.
They wanted me to tickle this woman? This amazon? This gorgeous, powerful, wicked creature? I could scarcely believe it. The idea appalled me and also made me immediately wet.
I moved cautiously around the bed, walking with slow little steps as though Clarissa Harrow might suddenly rip free of her bonds and eat me alive. I noticed for the first time that the air around the bed had a faint oceanic smell, the smell of a woman’s excitement, lately spent. Her pubic hair was neatly trimmed but the folds of her sex were swollen and very noticeable. I noticed as well that her hair was in disarray, as though she had been tossing her head in some mad fit of passion. I studied her deep armpits, the dimple of her navel on her flat belly, and of course her bare feet, which were thrust through the bars at the foot of her bed.
Her feet were as magnificent as the rest of her. They were, perhaps, a bit larger than a lady’s feet should be, but they were slender and lean with pretty toes almost as long as fingers and a dancer’s high, high arches. I saw Clarissa licking her lips nervously, watching me eye them. I knew immediately they were her weakest spot, the part of her body that, properly manipulated, would make this haughty goddess squeal and gibber like a madwoman. I knew they were terribly ticklish, those feet.
I went sort of lightheaded at the thought that I would be allowed to tickle this powerful woman. Did I dare? I glanced at her, as though seeking her permission.
“Just do it,” she whispered, her voice cold and sneering. “You won’t break me, you little cunt.”
I reached out and touched her right foot, let my fingers trail over her warm sole. Her foot jerked as though I had touched a burning brand to it, and she hissed like a serpent.
I was aware that the other girls were watching me, mouths open and eyes bright with fascination. I knew this was a sort of test, as much as the tortures I had endured the previous night. If I passed, I would truly be one of them, whatever else they might do to me. If I lost my nerve and failed…I didn’t like thinking about the possibilities there.
So I set myself to work tickling Mrs. Harrow with all the cruelty and subtlety I could muster. I was surprised to find I could indeed be very subtle and very cruel.
