Tickle My fancy

My slave girl is bound hand and foot, her arms above her head and tied with silken scarves to the bed head, her ankles wide, so that her labia are slightly parted. She is stretched to the limit of comfort, her armpits, belly, throat, vulva, inner thighs all deliciously exposed.
To begin with, just the idea of tickling. Bringing the fingertips down close to her mouth, stroking her eyebrows, whispering of the torture to come. A breath blown gently across her face, a tongue almost touching, and then withdrawing, a silk handkerchief drawn slowly across her face, coming to rest over her eyes. Now the kerchief is drawn tight, she can no longer see, but only listen, and wait for My touch.
I begin with a feather, a long, stiff, white quill. I trace a circle around her breasts, run the tip up her throat to her now panting lips, and down to her navel. Her breath is gaining pace as I run the single quiver slowly up the side of her torso, flick over the armpit, and across the inner arm. A light brush across her painfully erect nipples, and my hot, moist breath alerting her that my mouth is exquisitely close to her breasts.
A finger traces the outline of her foot. First one, then the other. Slave girl is shaking in anticipation now, begging for sensation. Mistress is cruel; mistress makes her wait. Now, so barely there, fingers glide along her tense calf muscles, lingering just above the knee, before sliding up her parted inner thighs. Her whole body tenses. The clitoris is swollen and pulsing, but Mistress will not succumb to the temptation, not yet.

Slave girl, aroused to the point of agony, crying with want, is ready to be tickled now.