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He placed his hand on my chest, moving it in slow, steady strokes. It was kind of… soothing, and definitely not what I’d expected. I breathed a little easier⁠—

And then he reached under the pillow for the blindfold.

I gave him a mock glare. “I don’t get to watch you torture me? Where’s the fun in that?”

Max covered my eyes. “Oh, you’re going to have fun, all right.” His breath warmed my ear. “You’ll have no idea where I’ll strike next, or what with. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”

“Your kind of fun, maybe. But for⁠—”

He tickled my pits, and suddenly breathing became a real chore.

“Oh fuck,” I groaned. It was as if I was wearing an invisible sign that said Start Here. Extremely Ticklish Spot.

Max laughed. “Oh, I’m good.” He kept it up for about a minute, and I couldn’t keep still. I writhed, twisting my body to escape those torturous fingers, but he was relentless.

I couldn’t stop laughing, either.

Then he stopped, and I took several deep breaths. Seconds later, he dragged something soft over my chest and sides, and the lightness of it had me laughing again.

“Which feather is that?”

“The peacock.” Then he switched to a smaller, stiffer feather. The sensations changed, and I squirmed, choking back laughter as I rocked from side to side, pulling on the ropes, unable to get away from him. He used it on my pits, and I was torn between breathless laughter and harsh gasps.

“You are way too good at this,” I ground out.

“I do my best.” Then he paused, and I took advantage of the lull to breathe, my chest rising and falling, my stomach quivering.

I caught the snick of a bottle cap.

Baby oil.

Max rubbed it with a leisurely hand over my chest, belly, and sides. I wanted to enjoy the experience, but I was too wound up anticipating his next move.

When I felt the scrape of something hard, I had my answer. Banjo picks.

I swear, the oil accentuated every contact as he raked them over my slippery skin. I choked on my laughter, unable to hold it back, and tears trickled down my cheeks.

“Want me to stop?”

“Yes!”

“That doesn’t sound like a safeword to me. I think I’ll keep going.”

“Fuck!”

He chuckled. “That wasn’t it either.” When his fingers stilled, I gulped in air.

I relaxed too soon. Max went for my feet.

“Aw fuck,” I moaned as he tickled the sole of my left foot, the banjo picks accentuating every motion. After a minute or two, he switched to the hairbrush.

That was when everything started to blur.

I was laughing so hard my sides ached, my belly ached, and I had difficulty breathing. Max changed location and implement constantly, until I was drowning in a world of sensation and harsh laughter. When it all came to a halt, I shuddered.

“That it? Are we done?”

“Not quite.”