Library After-Hours Tickling Torment: Lesbian Winter Break Submission

The university library after hours was a cathedral of cold silence. Twenty-year-old Giselle pressed her shoulders to a study carrel while twenty-two-year-old Roxanne, her girlfriend, both of them home for winter break, kissed her with the slow hunger of days spent in separate houses. Snow ticked the high windows. The stacks smelled of paper, dust, and wool. Roxanne's coat still held the bite of the night.

"We shouldn't be in here," Giselle whispered, but her mouth opened under Roxanne's, and her fingers hooked the belt loops of dark jeans.

"That's the point," Roxanne said. Her voice had always been low. Tonight it sat lower, as if something long folded had decided to stand up. She slid a hand under Giselle's sweater and over the warm plane of her stomach, then higher, grazing the soft skin just under a rib.

Giselle jerked. A bright, helpless laugh tore out of her before she could stop it.

Roxanne went very still. The look that crossed her face was new and familiar at once, curiosity with teeth. A sadistic streak she had kept in a closet for years lifted its head. "Oh," she said. "Do that again."

"Don't." Giselle was already smiling, already flushed, already twisting and not trying very hard to get away. "I'm ticklish. You know that."

"I knew a little." Roxanne's nails drew a light line along the same rib. Giselle yelped and folded, giggling, and Roxanne caught both wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head against the wood. The other hand explored, slow and deliberate, mapping every place that broke Giselle's breath into laughter. Under the sweater. Along the side. A quick flutter at the waist that made her knees knock.

The tension between them went electric. Giselle's thighs pressed together. Her laughter was wet-eyed and real, and under it her hips kept lifting, asking without words.

Roxanne glanced down the empty aisle, then at the scarf around Giselle's neck and the thin belt at her own waist. She unwound both. "If you want this to stop, say red," she said, soft and certain. "If you want me to keep going, say green."

"Green," Giselle gasped, laughing, nodding, twenty and very sure. "Green."

Roxanne bound the scarf around Giselle's wrists and tied them to the carrel upright with a knot she could undo in one pull. The belt followed, looped so the restraint held without biting skin. Giselle tested it, found her hands caught, and the sound that left her was half panic and half want.

"Roxanne."

"I know." Roxanne pushed the sweater up and began a slow tickling exploration of the bared stomach, fingertips dancing, never quite hard enough to hurt, always enough to wreck her. Giselle writhed against the wood. She giggled until her stomach ached. The empty library took the sound and gave it back, bright and shameless, while Roxanne's mouth curved into something hungry and patient.

Roxanne's closet dom side came all the way out of hiding. She worked with method, not frenzy. Ribs first, light spidering that made Giselle shriek-laugh and arch. Then the soft hollows under her arms, sweater shoved high, nails skating until Giselle's voice cracked into pleas that were still mostly giggles. Roxanne untied her only long enough to guide her down onto the reading rug, then bound her wrists again to a table leg and slipped off her boots and socks.

"Soles," Roxanne murmured, and dragged one fingernail down the arch of Giselle's foot.

Giselle howled with laughter. Her free foot kicked and Roxanne caught the ankle, pinned it, and kept going, slow strokes, quick flutters, the terrible patient kind of tickling that never let a person catch a full breath. Inner thighs next, skirt rucked up, fingertips dancing along the tender skin just beside her panties until Giselle was shaking and slick and begging between gasps.

An hour passed in the quiet building. The clocks in the stairwell marked it. Giselle's cheeks were wet. Her voice had gone hoarse. Every time she thought Roxanne might stop, the touch returned, ribs, underarms, soles, the wicked crease where thigh met hip.

"Please," Giselle managed. "Please, I'll do anything, just, Rox, I can't."

"Anything," Roxanne said, and stilled her hands, letting the threat of more hang in the air. "Say what you are."

"Yours." The word came out breathless and clear. "Your sub. Your play toy. Willing. Green. Please, I'm your toy, just don't stop touching me, or do, I don't know, I'm yours."

Roxanne's smile was small and fierce. She kissed Giselle's knee, then slid a hand between her thighs and found her soaked through cotton. The tickling did not end. It braided itself into something meaner. Feather-light circles over the panties, right where her clit swelled, never quite enough. Roxanne dug in her bag and came up with a slim vibrator, the one she traveled with and had not planned to need tonight. She set it on the lowest hum against the cotton and watched Giselle's hips chase it.

"Don't you dare come," she said.

She edged her. On, off. A tickle to the ribs the second Giselle's thighs started to tremble toward release. The vibrator dragged away. Fingers returned, barely there, tracing the clit through fabric until Giselle was dripping, incoherent, words falling apart into please and Roxanne and I need and green and no, don't stop, don't let me, please let me.

She kept Giselle there past the point of dignity. The vibrator kissed the seam of her panties, then vanished. A fingertip scribbled under one arm until laughter broke the almost-orgasm apart. Roxanne praised her in a voice like velvet over wire, calling her good, calling her helpless, calling her exactly what she had agreed to be. Giselle's panties were a dark wet patch. Her clit throbbed so hard she could feel her pulse in it. She begged in fragments, pretty and wrecked, and Roxanne only smiled and started the cycle again.

"Not yet," Roxanne said, every time the edge rose. "Toys don't get to finish until I say."

Giselle sobbed a laugh and a moan in the same breath and nodded, ruined, desperate, agreeing with her whole shaking body.

Roxanne stood, untied the scarf, and hauled Giselle up by the elbows. The twenty-year-old swayed, thighs slick, eyes glassy with laughter and need. Roxanne hopped onto a study table, shoved her jeans and panties down, and spread her legs. The library lamps made her wet and shining.

"On your knees," she said. "Eat me. And you do not come."

Giselle dropped. The rug bit her knees. She pressed her mouth to Roxanne's pussy with a hungry, grateful sound, tongue broad and eager, licking up the taste of her girlfriend's arousal. Roxanne's hand fisted in her hair, not cruel, guiding. From the same bag she drew a thicker vibrating wand, the kind with a round head, and reached down between Giselle's shoulder and hip to set it against the swollen clit still trapped in cotton.

Giselle moaned into her. The wand buzzed. The taste of Roxanne filled her mouth, salt and heat, and Giselle chased it like a woman starved, licking long stripes, sealing her lips around the clit and sucking in soft pulses the way Roxanne liked. Her own cunt clenched on nothing. The wand's head was merciless, a round throb that built her up in seconds. Her tongue stuttered, then found rhythm again, sucking gently, licking lower, devoted. Every time her own hips started to lock, every time the climb toward orgasm tightened her belly, Roxanne clicked the wand off or yanked it away and spidered fingers into Giselle's ribs or under her arm. Laughter burst against Roxanne's pussy. The edge shattered. Giselle whimpered and went back to work, shaking, dripping onto the rug.

"Again," Roxanne said, and turned the wand back on.

She did it over and over. Close. Denied. Tickled until the almost-climax broke into helpless giggles. Close again. Giselle's mouth never left her except to gasp. She ate Roxanne with sloppy devotion, nose buried, tongue relentless, while her own body was held on a wire. Roxanne came once like that, thighs clamping Giselle's head, a low groan rolling through the empty stacks, and she did not let the wand stay on through it. She pulled it away at the last second of Giselle's climb and laughed, soft and mean, while Giselle sobbed against her thigh.

"Listen to me," Roxanne said, cupping her jaw, making her look up, mouth wet. "You are my charity slave now. Your orgasms belong to me. Every one of them. I give them out when I feel generous, and I am not generous tonight. You eat, you beg, you take the tickling, and you thank me for not letting you finish. Say it."

"I'm your charity slave," Giselle whispered, voice nearly gone. "My orgasms are yours. Thank you. Please. Green."

"Good toy."

Roxanne made her keep licking through the aftershocks, wand teasing in cruel little pulses that never lasted long enough, tickle attacks blooming whenever Giselle's thighs tried to squeeze together. By the time Roxanne gently pushed her back, Giselle was a trembling mess, incoherent, strings of please falling out of her without grammar.

That was only the first night.

The week that followed was a long, exquisite cruelty they both wanted. In Roxanne's bedroom at home, door locked, her parents out at a winter party across town, she strapped Giselle to the bed with soft cuffs from a drawer she had never shown anyone. She tickled her soles until Giselle was crying with laughter, then settled the wand on her bare clit and edged her for what felt like hours, stopping every time the telltale flutter started in her belly. Giselle begged to be allowed to come. Roxanne kissed her and said no, and Giselle said thank you, and meant it, and shook apart without release.

On the seventh morning Roxanne edged her in the shower, water loud enough to hide the giggles, fingers slick, stopping three times while Giselle clung to the tile and babbled nonsense, toy, slave, please, yours. She whispered thank you into the steam and meant every broken syllable. In the afternoon she made Giselle sit through a coffee shop with a small bullet vibe trapped in her panties, remote in Roxanne's coat pocket, clicking on for ten seconds, off for a minute, on again whenever Giselle's eyes went distant with the climb. No one at the next table knew. Giselle's hands shook around her cup. She did not come.

In public the game went quieter and meaner. Under a restaurant table, while a waitress took their order, Roxanne's boot nudged Giselle's ankle and her hand slipped beneath the cloth to stroke two fingers over the seam of Giselle's pants, slow, precise, until Giselle had to bite her lip to keep from moaning into her water glass. She was brought to the brink between the salad and the check, then denied when Roxanne simply took her hand back and smiled at the server. In a department-store changing room, mirror fogged with their breath, Roxanne pinned her against the wall and tickled her ribs through a half-unbuttoned blouse while a fingertip circled her clit over her panties, stopping the second Giselle's knees buckled toward orgasm. Behind the library stacks the next afternoon, coats still on, Roxanne pressed her into a dead-end aisle and did it again, wand muffled inside a mitten, mouth at Giselle's ear telling her she was a charity slave who did not get to spend what she had not earned.

By the sixth night Giselle could not finish a sentence. She trembled when Roxanne looked at her. Her clit stayed swollen, oversensitive, a live wire under cotton. She followed Roxanne through grocery aisles and across icy sidewalks like a woman half out of her mind with need, whispering green whenever she was asked, begging in parking lots, in the car, against Roxanne's mouth, please let me, please I can't think, please I'm yours, please I'm your toy, I'll eat you forever, just let me come, and Roxanne, delighted, sadistic, utterly in control, always said not yet.

At the end of the week they went back. The library after hours took them in again, same cold windows, same paper smell. Roxanne did not bind her this time. She only looked at Giselle, and Giselle, broken open with need, sank to the floor between the stacks and ate her out with a devotion that had no pride left in it. Tongue deep, then gentle, then desperate, licking Roxanne through a long, shaking orgasm while her own body trembled on the rug.

When Roxanne's thighs loosened, she drew Giselle up, laid her back, and finally, finally put the wand where it had been denied all week and left it there.

"Come," she said. "Now. For me."

Giselle shattered. The orgasm tore through her in violent waves, a week of edges breaking at once, and she sobbed with relief, with gratitude, with a submission that felt deeper than anything she had agreed to in words. Roxanne held the wand until the last spasm faded, then clicked it off and gathered her in, coats and scarves a nest on the floor.

"Good girl," she murmured against Giselle's hair. "My obedient tickle-and-denial toy. Permanent. We'll come back here. After hours. Again and again."

Giselle nodded, spent, face tucked to Roxanne's throat. Neither of them spoke after that. The snow kept its soft argument with the glass. Their breathing slowed. The library held them, and then even that seemed to thin, until there was only quiet.