Iga lubi loda
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Iga lubi loda
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[UWAGA: opowiadanie zawiera opisy przemocy wobec osób poniżej 18 roku życia, a także odniesienia do spożywania przez nie alkoholu. Zwykle unikam postaci w tym wieku, jednak tym razem wymusił je założony temat. Mam nadzieję, że nie przekroczyłem granic dobrego smaku.] - Dawaj, Ewka, dawaj! Wianuszek uczniów zebranych na środku korytarza zanosił się od śmiechu, patrząc jak drobna, blondwłosa dziewczyna próbuje doskoczyć do swojego plecaka trzymanego nad głową przez jej dużo wyższą i szerszą koleżankę z klasy. "Pchełka", jak została nazwana od pierwszego dnia szkoły, zdwoiła wysiłki, ale trzymająca upragniony przedmiot, korzystając z przewagi wzrostu, wspięła się na palce, sprawiając że pozostawał on poza zasięgniem krótkich ramion i drobnych dłoni Ewy. - Kamila, znowu jesteś niegrzeczna! - rozległ się czyiś głos z tyłu. Rechot gapiów ucichł jak ucięty nożem. Przez tłum przepychała się wysoka, chuda dziewczyna, z gatunku tych określanych niezbyt pochlebnym mianem "alternatywki".
[Note: I envisaged this as a celebrity story, but could not find any that fit the bill. Also, the themes this explores are rather risky when real people who suffered real traumas are involved. So, the ler and lee are OCs without much detail provided.] [Disclaimer: the following is a fictional and, admittedly, implausible scenario. While it may temporarily lift one's mood, tickling CAN NOT, and SHOULD NOT, be used as a remedy for depression, PTSD or any other mental condition. Don't try this at home when someone's health is at stake.] The rain was failing in torrents, and Martha's soul was as glum as the weather outside. She sat by the window, playing with her hair absent-mindedly, watching the drops snake their way down on the window panes. Just a few hours ago, she had been discharged from the hospital - on her own request. They wanted her to stay longer - as if that would do any good - but she hated the place. In fact, she hated everything and everyone right now. She heard the key
[Here’s another tickling story about a Polish sports celebrity, this time with a more martial bent, and also fairly complete (although its final part could be more fleshed out). Kowalkiewicz entered the MMA world relatively late, at 27, and retired from competition at the age of 34, ostensibly because of Hashimoto’s disease. What if the truth behind her decision was rather different?] “Eighteen, nineteen, twenty,” Karolina Kowalkiewicz, the MMA fighter, muttered to herself as she stopped throwing some weights and looked around the empty gym. Well, almost empty. Some guy was over there in the corner, pedalling leisurely on a bike, but he hardly looked in her direction as she was exercising her muscles. Then, just as she was about to return to the cloakroom, he shouted something. She came closer, thinking that perhaps he needed help. “Hi!” he waved, “I just noticed you! I watched your fights on TV and I must say, you pack quite a punch!” Tired as she was, she was in not in the mood
Polish celebrities tickled - stories
– Dziwne masz upodobania – Kasia popija kawę z filiżanki. Siedzi na sofie po turecku, chowając bose stopy pod uda jak się da (“nawet nie waż się ich teraz dotknąć” – zagroziła wcześniej) – ale... – Ale co? – bawię się sznurkiem, którego wcześniej użyłem do wiązania jej palców. – Ale je rozumiem – kiwa głową – Jeden facet lubi striptiz, inny loda, a ty… – No właśnie – wpadam jej w słowo – a to nic strasznego przecież. – Nic strasznego – przedrzeźnia mnie – Pomyślałeś przez chwilę jak się czuję? Byłam obłędnie przerażona. Jak zobaczyłam co masz w piwnicy, myślałam że mi serducho wyskoczy. – Ale jednak się zdecydowałaś… – Tak. Bo kasa – pociąga łyk – Ale byłam wściekła. Gdy mnie łaskotałeś, myślałam że cię rozszarpię na kawałki. – Nie wyglądasz na wściekłą teraz – zauważam przytomnie. – Teraz nie. Ale nie gwarantuję swoich reakcji tam – pokazuje ręką ku piwnicy. – Możemy to zakończyć, jeśli chcesz – uspokajam – dostaniesz tyle ile oferowalem na początku. – Nie – w jej oczach
"Okay, I want you to tell me one thing first," said Iga, checking whether the straps binding Coco were sufficiently tight, "why did you come with the idea of tickle pranking me in the first place? What did I do to you to deserve this?" "What's that, a f--king interrogation?" Coco's temper, which had subsided in the meantime, flared up again. "You can call it that way, if you prefer. I just want to know..." "I'm not telling you anything, you stupid twat," the ebony girl spat through clenched teeth, taking Iga aback. "Whoa, that wasn't nice," the tickler objected, but Coco only laughed at her confusion. Iga hesitated, pondering what to do next, when she heard a knock on the door. "I really want to apologise for one of our customers misbehaving." It was Clarissa, peeking into the room. "But I see you have already taken care of her." "Not exactly. She keeps calling me names," Iga complained while the club's owner closed the door and approached to examine the situation. "Why don't you
A few weeks later... "So, how do you feel?" Daria asked, opening the first session since Iga's failed attempt to win the Wimbledon title. The no. 1 player was eliminated surprisingly early, in the third round. Although playing on lawn courts has never been her forte, many hoped that the winning magic would just go on. "Er, not that bad actually," Iga admitted, "I knew I would lose sooner or later, and the end of my streak really took the pressure off my shoulders." "You're top of the world anyway, until the next Grand Slam at least. Why not enjoy some deserved holiday? Summer is just beginning and it's time to party like there is no tomorrow," the coach flashed a grin, then handed Iga a ticket, adding, "and here's something I fixed for you to get the ball rolling." "Bexleyheath Tickle Club?" Iga's eyes went wide with surprise. "I never knew such a thing existed! Won't it be dangerous for me? What if any of this leaks online?" Ever since Iga admitted her fondness for tickling, she
Ever since her run-in with the tickling girls, Iga could not stop thinking about how fun it was to be tickled. Sure, the initial entrapment almost scared the wits out of the tennis player, but since it did not kill her, the whole experience made her stronger. And that was exactly the point, since she needed that strength for the challenges to come. But after all the sparring and practicing before the Wimbledon championship, she often longed to relax under the gentle touch of someone whom she could trust. Going to her fellow players with this was out of question - besides, they were all away playing some tournament or another. Naturally, her mind turned to Daria Abramowicz, the mental coach and something of a confidante during those long weeks away from home. Daria was in her mid-thirties, not exactly a mother figure to Iga, but also much older than a senior sister would be. Despite the age difference, the two women got on remarkably well and spend long hours together, becoming fast
Foreword This story, under the title “Sarah Michelle Gellar and Jennifer Love Hewitt’s tickle week,” was posted by “Kylrad” to the TMF (Tickling Media Forum) beginning on 25 August 2001, but is probably a few years older. Already in the late 20th century, I remember it making the rounds on Usenet alt.sex.tickle.* groups, although Google Groups does not seem to have preserved a copy. This coincides with the protagonists’ rise to fame which took place at roughly the same time. Plot-wise, the tale is very simple. The two young actresses just take turns playing with each other, reflecting the early era of tickling fiction when major emphasis was put on the activity itself. This is not in itself a defect, but may appear unsatisfying to today’s ticklephilliacs who have been accustomed to florid writing and elaborate descriptions of the characters and the world around them that in some cases rival commercial novels. The writer has evidently not reached the level of near-native English
- Pokaż jeszcze raz, jak to było! - Klaudia machała rękoma, udając że walczy - Koleś cię zaczepia, a ty go jeeebs! Z półobrotu! - o mało nie trafiła w moje oko rozczapierzonymi palcami. - Nie do końca - westchnęłam, wcale nie czując się jak Chuck Norris. Moja niespodziewana reakcja na łaskotki skończyła się złamaniem z przemieszczeniem. Marek po rekonstrukcji przegrody musiał zostać kilka dni w szpitalu. Wysyłał mi zdjęcia w masce, w której wyglądał trochę jak ten facet z horroru, który ciachał ludzi piłą. Żartował przy tym, że dzięki niej ludzie zaczną go traktować poważniej. Kupienia piły jednak mu nie doradziłam. Po paru dniach pisania nasze kontakty nieco przychichły. Marek wrócił do pracy, a ja musiałam przysiąć fałdów do sesji. Jeśli czegoś zazdrościłam Klaudii, to tego że już pracowała, choć przeważnie nie starczało jej do pierwszego. A ja cóż, 26 lat, drugie studia, dobrze że rodzice nie szczędzili grosza dla ukochanej jedynaczki. - Hej, Ada, mózg ci wyparuje - powiedziała
- Wyglądasz szałowo! - ekscytowała się Klaudia, poprawiając moją sukienkę przed lustrem. Szczerze mówiąc, nie podzielałam tej opinii. Strój, który mi wybrała, przywodził raczej na myśl pstrokate tropikalne papugi. Do tego uparła się wcisnąć mi na głowę jakiś tandetny kapelusz, a na nogi oczywiście szpilki. Nienawidziłam szpilek, ale w opinii mojej przyjaciółki był to atrybut kobiecości niezbędny do zawrócenia każdemu mężczyźnie w głowie. Chwiałam się więc na tych nieszczęsnych obcasach jak na szczudłach. - Eee - zgasiłam jej entuzjazm - Nie rozumiem po co się tak stroić. To nie jest żadna wielka randka. - To po co się z nim spotykasz? - zdziwiła się. No tak, dla niej kontakty damsko-męskie przebiegały według jednego scenariusza. - No wiesz, jak już do niego napisałam, to wypada się spotkać. Pewnie ucieknie na mój widok i mam go z głowy - zaśmiałam się ironicznie. Pół godziny później czekałam na ustalonej ławce w parku, czekając na mojego adoratora - przepraszam, nowego znajomego.
[Note: I envisaged this as a celebrity story, but could not find any that fit the bill. Also, the themes this explores are rather risky when real people who suffered real traumas are involved. So, the ler and lee are OCs without much detail provided.] [Disclaimer: the following is a fictional and, admittedly, implausible scenario. While it may temporarily lift one's mood, tickling CAN NOT, and SHOULD NOT, be used as a remedy for depression, PTSD or any other mental condition. Don't try this at home when someone's health is at stake.] The rain was failing in torrents, and Martha's soul was as glum as the weather outside. She sat by the window, playing with her hair absent-mindedly, watching the drops snake their way down on the window panes. Just a few hours ago, she had been discharged from the hospital - on her own request. They wanted her to stay longer - as if that would do any good - but she hated the place. In fact, she hated everything and everyone right now. She heard the key
[My little piece about Iga generated so much interest that I decided to carry this on. More action, teases and a twist at the end. Tell me what you think in comments.] "Stop it... please..." Iga, her ponytailed hair disheveled from throwing her head around constantly, panted heavily while two pairs of hands explored her sensitive armpits. Coco watched her struggles with an amusing expression, occasionally adding to the misery by poking Iga's large sole with a nail. "But don't you like to laugh?" she said in affected surprise, motioning for the ticklers to stop and letting Iga recover from the first serious assault on her restrained body. "I do, but... it's not funny when you make me to," the tennis champ admitted, seizing the momentary respite as an opportunity for her to barter with Coco. "Just let me go, I won't tell anyone about this. I don't want to be tickled." "I think it's very funny," Coco observed, cocking her head to the side, "After all, you wouldn't be laughing if it
Grzmocą przepiękną blondynę w kuchni
Dwie mamuśki całują się
Zwariowana czekoladka na gumowej piłce