Tracys netleggins tickling

Tracy was spreadeagled in an “X” on the bed, wrists and ankles cuffed securely to the posts. The delicate web of her fishnet tights was the first target. Fingertips skittered over them, then rrrrip—a long tear exposed the smooth skin of her calf, which was immediately assaulted by wiggling, tickling fingers.

But the true torment was on her exposed stomach. Laughter burst from her as hands danced over her toned abs, dipping into her navel and playing mercilessly with her silver navel piercing. The touch then shifted, becoming a deep, kneading massage that worked her tight muscles—not to soothe, but to tickle her even more profoundly from the inside out. She was breathless, shrieking with helpless laughter, completely at the mercy of the relentless, clever hands.