Achilles, I've Got Your Heel

So I had this tall, muscular, fit, ex-military guy cuffed and stretched out on the bondage bed. I'd been whipping his back for about an hour and a half, and the heat rising from his skin warmed my arm from four inches away. Every lash was rewarded with a yell, then a deep, hungry groan as he stretched toward me, offering me his firm, meaty shoulders and back in a wordless plea for more.

It was when I was roping his thighs apart that it occurred to me: "Are you ticklish?" I asked him. He immediately responded that he was, but added, "I hate being tickled!" As soon as he heard my laughter, he realized what he'd just armed me with, and scrambled to recant. But it was too late - I had already begun to lightly scratch with my gloved fingertips on his soles, ankles, and the backs of his knees. Nervous expectation, but no involuntary tension, meant no ticklishness there.

Then I moved up, to his waist. A slight exhale; I was on the right track. A little higher, and forward, to the ribs. He started to crack: stifled giggles, reflexive tension in the abs. Now up to the armpits. Dynamite! He exploded in helpless laughter and as much writhing as the bonds would allow (not much).  Within five seconds he wailed such a heartfelt, "Oh! MERCY, MISTRESS!" that I had to cease my torment because I was laughing so hard.

Which, I suppose, is a goal. Delicious distress frequently makes me laugh, and when I am amused, I am pleased with my pet. So there you go - suffer entertainingly, and you will be sure to be invited back.