Stumbled into a Plot

[SapientEliza]

Hi, it’s me again. This chapter features mostly tickling, with some second-hand ENF thrown in. If you don’t care for such but want to keep up with the interesting people I’ve met, feel free to skip to the end (search for “I get the story”) for a summary of sorts.

There’s been no action worth chronicling since my introductory adventure, though I’ve had a few close calls -- enough to make it clear that the ENF specter still has me in its sights. And so I’ve been looking for action proactively, because if I must take off my clothes outside my comfort zone (which is pretty much my bedroom), I would rather find the right times and places, than have the wrong times and places find me. To this end I even joined a Dungeons and Dragons group on campus.
Wait what? you might ask, In what world does D&D get you closer to embarrassing nudity, tickling, or anything else remotely sexually interesting? How dare you even put naked girls and gamer geeks in the same paragraph? Don’t worry, there is method to my madness. The Internet tells me that kinky goings on are happening all over town -- all over every town. They just keep it on the down-low, with good reasons. All the sexy adventures you want are there for you to experience -- if you know the right people. Case in point, so far I know only the wrong people: Nu Delta. If I ever feel the need to suffer a fate worthy of an Extreme Content tag on this board, I’ll be sure to pay them another visit. A scrawny nerdy boy who goes looking for the local kink scene on his own usually finds nothing; whereas a willowy nerdy girl looking for same usually gets found by predators.
Anyway, that’s where the D&D group comes in: looking for the kink scene directly is unwise, but kink-adjacent scenes make for a nice oblique approach. And D&D is very kink-adjacent. The overlap between bi, poly, kinky, Pagan, gamer, and sci-fi/fantasy fandom is very large -- and I check at least four and a half of those boxes.

So there I am, on my way home from my second campaign session, daydreaming about teasing myself until I can take no more and then asking a friend for help…
“Hey Zack, there’s only so horny I can get on my own, can you help me?”
“Sure, let me get the rabbit vibe.”
“Not the rabbit, that thing will just make me cum, like, instantly.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
“Oh, no. I want to keep edging, but if I do it myself, I know I will give in and go over. Would you tie me up and edge me some more?”
“Oh, okay, sure.” And Zack proceeds to attach me to a cool bondage fixture that is permanently installed in the living room and commences to tease me up.
“Hey Zack?” I manage to utter eventually in between moans, “I want to cum so bad… I don’t think I can stay coherent much longer. So, like, just keep edging me no matter what I say, okay?”
“Umm, how will I know when to stop?” asks Zack, ever the gentleman.
“Stop when you get bored, duh! But thanks for asking.”
“It’s your funeral.” he says with an evil grin that almost makes me already regret what I just said.
Almost. “One more thing. When you’re done, don’t let me cum, and don’t untie me right away. Just leave me to stew for a while.”
I am definitely going to spend some quality time when I get home, with that mental image of myself tied up in the living room where my friend just left me to squirm and moan and desperately want to cum. Where do I get friends like that?
Such thoughts occupy my brain as I bike with eyes unfocused in the evening dusk, when I think I hear the one sound that never fails to catch my attention: hysterical laughter.

I gently brake to a stop and listen. The laughter seems to be coming from behind Hirst Hall, a building to my right. I quickly park and lock my bike and set off to investigate. This is a little risky, but sooner or later I have to take risks.
The laughter continues as I stalk around the building, sacrificing some stealth for speed as I don’t want to miss whatever is going on. Rounding a second corner, I catch sight of a fascinating scene lit up by the hall’s back porch lights. I settle myself in the concealing shadow of a small hedge to observe.
The laughing person is female, dark of hair, wearing shorts and a blouse. She is lying face up on the ground, oriented with her sandaled feet mostly towards me. Astride her sits a male in a brown shirt and jeans. His hands are deep under her blouse, tickling her ribs. She is making feeble attempts to dislodge his hands but can’t pull them off because the blouse is in the way, and his body is blocking any attempts to push away his elbows. I squirm vicariously at the notion that his tickling hands are there to stay. There is nothing left for her to do but laugh.
What should I do? I briefly consider rescuing the poor girl, but strongly doubt that that would go as planned; besides I don’t even know if she needs rescuing. Walking away is not an option (like, are you kidding?). I settle for pulling out my phone and recording the scene for posterity (after a brief glance around to make sure I am not being stalked myself).
She struggles less and less as I watch, and her laughter is sounding more exhausted than hysterical now. I quiver as I imagine what it must be like for the guy on top. My hands have made a cozy little home for themselves under her clothes; they are not going anywhere. My fingers relentlessly knead her ribcage, driving her to desperate laughter as her struggles grow weaker by the second… Another image to masturbate on later. Later, dammit. Don’t even think about it -- I admonish myself. If nothing else, I have to keep the phone steady.
The guy leans in, pushing his hands deeper under her blouse, and she immediately jolts with renewed vigor, visibly trying to form words through her freshly panicked laughter.
“Oh? What’s that?” asks the guy without breaking his stride.
The girl manages a few more words, but I can’t make them out.
“You’re sure?” he punctuates his question by eliciting another jolt from his victim.
She nods repeatedly with all the energy she can muster.
Presently the guy stops tickling and gets off her. She is quite shaky as she stands up. They stand looking at each other for a few moments; then he makes an expectant gesture. She almost visibly deflates. And begins undressing.

Huh? Okay, I guess I am not the only on-topic character in this story. Good to know.
Her blouse is on the ground, followed promptly by her shorts. She pauses after that, looking meekly at him. He doesn’t say anything, just seems to keep looking back at her -- I can’t see his face from my angle. With visible reluctance she unhooks her bra and adds it to the pile, keeping an arm across her chest. I think her face is darker now -- it’s hard to tell from this distance under the cheap LED lighting. Then she laboriously slides her panties off with one hand and covers her privates with it -- but not before I can see even from here that she is completely bald down there. She stays covering (cowering) like that as he picks up her clothes and they exchange a few more quiet words; then they go their separate ways.
What now? Maybe what I am seeing is exactly the kind of action I’ve been looking to get a piece of for weeks now. Then again, maybe it’s the Nu Delta kind of action. I really should talk to one of them, and the girl seems like the safer one to approach. Oh look, she is coming this way.
She tries to keep to the shadows as she moves in my direction along the alley behind Hirst Hall. He walks with a spring in his step in the opposite direction, away from me. I edge around my hedge so as to stay hidden as she passes by me, making sure to keep the guy in my sight as well. I wait until I can vaguely see them both and am sure that they can no longer see each other, then follow the girl.
The sky is fully dark by now, but electric light escapes from various windows and distant street lights. I can’t really see her, just periodic movement as she dashes from bush to bush. She is moving slowly overall, prioritizing stealth over speed, so I am able to catch up without looking like I am chasing her. There are no more bursts of movement as I get closer -- she must be waiting for me to pass. As I come level with where I think she is, I can just make out the crouched silhouette behind a meager bush. I would not have noticed if I didn’t know where to look. From a dozen feet away I turn to her and speak quietly, hoping not to spook her:
“Hey. You doing alright? I have an extra sweater, if you want to borrow it.”
A few seconds tick by. Then she answers quietly but rapidly: “Who are you? What do you want?”
I give the only answer worthy of such pithy questions: “Where are you going?” A couple heartbeats later, as no response comes, I add, “Just kidding. I suppose I am a random passerby, maybe a concerned citizen? I would like to understand what I just saw. And if you are in trouble, I would like to help.”
A few more seconds of silence. Then: “Leave me alone. You don’t want this.” Not a response I was expecting. She doesn’t know me. What could “this” be that she thinks I don’t want? Could it be a trap? Why not? I suppress the urge to glance around to make sure nobody is sneaking up on me. Chances are I wouldn’t see them in the dark anyway, and in the meantime I would give away the fact that I suspect something. Instead, I approach the girl and crouch down to “level” with her, keeping the bush between us. The added benefit is that now I am a little less visible, and we can speak more quietly.
“What don’t I want?” I ask, “Tell me.”
She is quiet. I try to imagine myself in her place. Crouching in the dark alley wearing nothing but sandals, having just been tickle tortured (presumably) until I agreed to give up my clothes, and now some strange girl appears to be offering a way out. The stranger says she wants to understand what she saw. What did she see? Did she see me naked under the porch lights? Does she think I am a slut because of my bare privates? Not so private now, rah rah rah. I don’t trust her, of course, but what could she do if I accept her help, that she can’t do otherwise? Maybe she’ll demand payment for the use of her sweater. A reasonable concern, if you’ve read enough stories on GirlsPNS, but it does not track with her response. There is only one thing I can think of, that I could mean if I said “you don’t want this” in response to an offer of clothes when I am naked: “you don’t want to enter my world”. We’ll see about that. Maybe I overstated my innocence in my introduction: I am much more than a random passerby. At the very least I am a victim of another story, but more to the point I am rather kinky myself. Unfortunately I’ve been masking my kinky side for so long, I don’t know how to stop. Projecting asexuality is not something I can just turn off.
I press on with what I can: “Look, I won’t ask you for anything in return for the sweater. Okay, except the sweater back when you don’t need it anymore.” I take my backpack off one shoulder and pull out the sweater as I speak. “But what just happened? Did the guy assault you, or was it a consensual thing?” I hold the sweater out to the side of the bush for her to grab.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” she says.
Too bad. I think pressing further would be counterproductive. But maybe if I stay with her, she will thaw later. I keep holding out the sweater as I answer, “As you wish. Shall I come with you to make sure nothing else happens?”
“Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Uh, why not?”
“Okay.” She sighs, takes the sweater and puts it on. “Thanks.”
We continue in silence for a while in the direction she had been going.
“How much did you see?” she asks me eventually.
“Enough to testify. I saw him tickling the hell out of you. It looked like he would keep going until you agreed to strip.” Thankfully it’s dark: I still have difficulty saying the word “tickling” without blushing.
“Yeah, that’s pretty much what happened.”
“But why? Like, have you met him before?” Dammit, we’re trying not to press, remember?
“Look, I told you, you don’t want this. Leave it alone.”
“Okay, sorry.” A pause as I look for something to fill the space. “Want to talk about school? I am a Computer Engineering major, what about you?”
“What were you doing behind Hirst Hall?” Why are you so cagey?
“I was biking home from Palmer and heard the laughing, so I went to see what’s up.”
“Try again.”
“Uhh… what?”
“You don’t really expect me to believe that you got off your bike and ran around the building to rubberneck, because you heard laughter?”
Maybe that does sound like a stretch. Do normal people go that far out of their way to investigate the possibility that someone might be getting tickled nonstop? I am so far from normal on that point, that it’s hard for me to judge what a normal person might do. There’s no way I’m telling her that, though.
“Yeah, pretty much. I didn’t have anything better to do.”
“Sure. And then you just stood there and watched me get naked.”
“As opposed to, what, charging to the rescue? I didn’t know if you needed rescuing, and still don’t, for that matter. For all I know, that guy is your Dom, and I would’ve broken your scene.” It’s dark, but I still watch for a reaction as I say that last part, to see if it hits close to home. What I get instead is someone tickling my armpits from behind!

My initial reflex-driven attempt to twist away achieves nothing: whoever is behind me has their thumbs in my armpits, while the rest of their fingers are around my upper chest, holding me firmly in position. I continue to struggle as the panic sets in, looking for something, anything to get them off me. Various self-defense moves I’ve seen on the Internet float up in my mind, but it’s hard to get my body to do anything other than clamp down on the invaders and squirm. I gather the remnants of my dwindling focus to reach my hands behind me at waist level and try to tickle my assailant back, but I hit thin air: my thick backpack is sandwiched between us, so the assailant’s body is farther back than I expected. The wise thing to do would be to walk backwards and keep groping back there in the hope of grabbing something; but the wiggling of a stranger’s thumbs in my armpits is more persuasive than any wisdom, and my upper arms once again clamp down uselessly on my ribs. My knees buckle, and I begin sliding down against my assailant’s chest. My strength is evaporating rapidly. Soon I will be on the ground and breathless with laughter, completely at their mercy. Is this how it ends? Do I get tickled until I faint, and wake up in a whorehouse in Central Europe? As a last ditch effort I cross my arms and grab the fingers on my chest, trying to pull them off, but gravity is working against me at this point even if I had any strength left to speak of. Out of the corner of my eye I see the recently-naked girl, apparently standing there looking at all this like a deer in the headlights.
“Help?” I call out to her.
That spurs her into action. “I am sorry.” she mumbles, as she starts tickling my belly!
With the two of them manhandling me it’s all over for me but the laughing. In short order I am face up on the ground laughing silently, with the girl astride my hips and the guy sitting on my upraised arms. It’s not the same guy that made the girl strip. (Some part of my brain that still worries about lesser fates than crackwhoredom notes that my backpack, that is now off to the side, has my laptop in it, and the laptop hasn’t been backed up in months.)
Have you ever tried speaking while being tickled like this? It’s freaking hard, but I am motivated. “I was trying to help!” I squeeze through my laughter, addressing the girl. My voice sounds completely unrecognizable to me, even aside from being at least two octaves higher and distorted.
“I am beyond help.” she answers, voice full of some emotion I can’t place, and just keeps tickling me.
But the guy’s fingers slow to a stop. “Wait a minute.” he says, “She isn’t Bobbie?”
The girl shakes her head.
“Then who is this?”
“I don’t know, she just walked up to me.”
“WHAT?” The guy pauses for a moment, then makes up his mind: “Nevermind, I want no part of this.” With that he gets off me and freaking sprints away. Like, I can’t see him and I am being tickled out of my mind, and I still can tell that he is booking it much faster than is safe under these lighting conditions.
Okay, since clearly I am not being trafficked to Bosnia today, I can relax. Except now my hands are free, so I have to fight back, oh well. The natural impulse is to grab the girl’s hands, but I manage to redirect and try to tickle her belly instead. She squeaks in surprise, but quickly catches my hands with hers. I am so out of breath, she easily pushes my hands to the sides and clamps her knees on them, then goes right back to tickling my ribs.
I stop struggling at that, just keep laughing my heart out. It’s been years and years since I’ve laughed like this.
I don’t know how long this goes on for, but she just keeps tickling the same spots on my ribs and eventually wears them out. Her tickling skills need work. As my laughter subsides, she apparently snaps out of her trance. Just in time, as I was starting to worry about my bladder. She gets off me, apologizes awkwardly again, and hurries away.

As I catch my breath I still feel the ghosts of fingers dancing on my upper body. I take a moment to just bask in the sensation. But the mystery is calling me, so I collect my backpack and set off after my tickler, keeping to the shadows.
My chances of finding her are slim, especially since I am trying to be stealthy and she is (presumably) not. But I want fucking answers. (And my sweater.) What was just done to me gives me a figleaf excuse to get aggressive in my investigation. I know I will regret it for the rest of my life if I don’t at least try.

Turns out I don’t even have to go very far. This part of campus gets quiet at night -- quiet enough that no more than 50 meters down the alley my ears perk up at the sound of labored breathing. I freeze and listen. The breathing appears to be coming from behind a storage container next to Palmer Hall. About a meter of space separates the container from the building -- plenty for one person to get comfortable in, and the space is in complete shadow. Now that I think about it, if I was in need of immediate relief after having just tickled the hell out of a fellow student, that little space would be the safest around. A plan forms. I don’t know the exact spot that was so effective in getting my quarry to capitulate earlier, but what I saw of it gives me a good idea where to look.
Being super extra careful to make no sound, I pull out my phone and silence it, making sure it does not light up my face in the process. I notice that it’s still recording and uploading, and turn that off: I don’t want to be that kind of asshole today. I make my stealthy way towards the container. I don’t think I’ve ever moved this slowly in my life up to now. The breathing is clearly coming from the other side, and it’s gaining steam. Now that I am closer, I can hear a hint of back-and-forth movement. With the better idea of where exactly the person is, I move around a corner, so that only one corner remains between us.
Strike now or later? On the one hand, if I interrupt her process now, she might be extra eager to get me off her case and get back to it. On the other hand, in a fair tickle fight there’s a good chance I will lose -- and losing is not conducive to answers. I opt to stack the odds in my favor. Don’t know if it’s true that some people get more ticklish after an orgasm, but at the very least she is likely to be spent and sluggish.
I am not so confident on the timing. I’ve watched plenty of porn, but that is not representative of real life. And when I masturbate, I am too busy to pay careful attention to my breathing patterns. Still I make a best effort to bide my time until the activity on the other side of the container reaches its peak. And in that moment I turn on my phone’s flash as I step around the last corner. Today, I am this kind of asshole.

The initial blast of 50 daylight white lumens against pitch black burns a naked form into my retinas and my memory. That’s definitely the girl, even though this is the first time I am seeing her up close and well lit. I don’t know what I was expecting, but wow! She is face up, lying on top of my sweater for padding. Long slender legs are splayed wide apart and bent at the knees, feet towards me. Her eyes are closed, mouth open in a silent scream. Both her hands are in her nether regions. Her whole body is convulsing. The point-source light outlines wave patterns traveling over her large (by my metrics) breasts. Her small nipples are currently very cone-shaped. From two meters away I can clearly smell her arousal.
In the next moment her eyes open, her legs close, and she starts rolling over in the hope of scrambling away. There isn’t enough space to just roll over. Blinded by the flash, she bumbles into the container on her right. The moment she rights herself on all fours, the phone lands light-down on my sweater (remember to turn off the flash later), and I am on her.
My hands easily grasp her upper ribs and start kneading. She lets out a shriek and collapses onto folded arms, dissolving into frantic laughter. She tries to buck me off sideways, but I have my legs outside hers and stay on, continuing to knead a stream of laughter out of her. I can feel the tiny muscles between her ribs spasming under my fingers -- it’s been so long since I last experienced such a thing, I had forgotten how magical of a tactile sensation it is. Is this how my ribs felt to her? Her struggles continue, but she is naked and drained, and I know where to tickle. A few more seconds of this, and she’s done for. You know that moment when your victim finally gives up the hope of dislodging your tickling fingers and surrenders to the laughter bubbling out of them? It’s the sweetest experience in the history of tickling, at least if you are me.
“Please, no more!” begs my victim through her laughter. Addictive as this is, I don’t want to overstay my welcome. I must begin the interrogation lest she suspect that I am really tickling her for the fun of it.
“I’ll stop when you tell me what’s going on. What’s your name?”
“Ok ok I’ll talk! Just stop tickling!”
“Nope, answers first.” I reason that it’s harder to come up with lies while tickly fingers are strumming your ribs. “Name.”
“Caroline”
“Good girl.” I slow down the tickling at this point, but don’t stop completely. “Why did you tickle me?”
“I’m sorry!”
“No apologies, only answers.” I give her a burst of rapid tickles. “Why?”
“I couldn’t help it! You were so ticklish!”
“Thanks for being honest.” I pause the tickling again. “When you said you were beyond help, what did you mean?”
“I am messed up, okay?”
“Messed up how?” I continue to punctuate each question with a burst of tickling in random areas around her ribs and armpits, mostly to keep her off balance but also looking for that special spot that her earlier tickler used in the end, in case I need it. Let’s be honest, if I find the spot, I will find a need to use it…

I get the story out of her eventually.
Caroline is not actually messed up, just kinky as all fuck. Her life is kinda messed up as a result, however. People that are barely more than acquaintances do pretty much whatever they want to her, such as tickle torturing her into undressing in the middle of campus. And even though she doesn’t care for most of what they subject her to, she lets them get away with it because the idea itself of being everybody’s playtoy keeps her perpetually ecstatic betwixt her nethers. (This seems dubious to me -- if that’s her MO, how is she not swarmed by horny boys 24/7 with no time left for sleep, let alone to show up to class? Yet somehow she manages to maintain reasonable grades. She did not have an answer to this one. But maybe I do: plot armor lets her indulge in her harmless kinks without crippling consequences. Do I have plot armor? No way to find out without risking really bad stuff if it turns out I don’t.)
As for her less harmless indulgences, such as, say, pouncing on a girl she just met to tickle her senseless without consent, the jury is still out. Turns out being perpetually horny makes for poor impulse control in this department, who knew? Speaking of which, Bobbie is apparently someone she knows, who expressed a fascination with Caroline’s kinky life. Caroline conspired with Darryl (AKA he of the wiggly thumbs, who bravely ran away upon realizing what he had just done) to give Bobbie a sample of her world. She was on her way to get Bobbie and bring her here when she got waylaid by the random encounter that I witnessed. Unfortunately Darryl has never met Bobbie and assumed I was her.

Sometime into the story I found Caroline’s persuasion spot. Strumming one of the tendons on the front side of her underarms makes her jump out of her skin. It took a lot of willpower to refrain from wrecking her with it right then and there, but I saw friend potential in her by then and didn’t want to ruin it. Besides, I was fast running out of good reasons to keep tickling her at all. Once we got past the particulars of her kinky life, the story flowed freely. By the end we were just sitting side by side and talking (and she was still naked).

Eventually I run out of questions and loose ends to chase down. Theoretically it’s my turn to talk now. I want to tell her how her fingers felt on my ribs. What it was like to laugh endlessly, breathlessly, with not a care in the world once I was no longer afraid for my life. But I just… can’t. What the hell is wrong with me, that I cannot admit my tastes even to a girl who is way kinkier than me? What, is she going to think I am weird? I settle for asking to exchange contact info.
“Why, so you can find me and tickle me some more?” she asks, and I can’t tell if she is serious. Well maybe… and maybe I want to help you get better at tickling for entirely selfish reasons… and maybe we could both use a friend…
“Would it deter you if I said yes?”
“I guess not.” she admits resignedly.
She types her gmail handle into my phone. I send her a ping, seeing as she does not have hers on her.
I let her keep the sweater for her way home, to be returned another day, and we part ways there.

On the way home my brain is buzzing. Is this my life now? Chance encounters more amazing than anything I could realistically expect, and I don’t even have to be the one who gets naked? Or was this just a karmic advance, the payment for which will come due any moment now? Only time will tell.