Why Do Some People Feel Extra Ticklish?

TITLE: TOUCH ME MORE, DADDY BLURB: This collection pulls you into the most dangerous corners of forbidden craving where every “innocent” touch turns into betrayal, every whispered command drips with guilt, and the wronger it feels, the harder they cum. Expect savage age gap dominance, brutal dirty talk, relentless breeding, messy creampies, power soaked corruption, and deliciously broken “good girls” who learn they were made to be ruined by the one man they should never crave. No vanilla. No mercy. Just raw, addictive spirals into total depravity. Each story is a complete, multi chapter filthy ride packed with slow building tension that explodes into merciless fucking secret rules that turn everyday moments into dripping need, hidden hands in risky places, and whispered ownership that leaves them aching for more. These are stories of complete surrender: flexible young athletes stretched and trained on gym benches, curious neighbors claimed on balconies, goddaughters corrupted in penthouses, innocent patients bred on exam tables, protected girls turned into mafia pets, bad girls disciplined in uniform, and office interns fucked raw over conference desks, all risking everything for the rush of being possessed and filled deep by their ultimate Daddy. Open these pages only if you’re ready to get addicted to the kind of filth you’ll never admit you love.

My adopted younger sister, Marissa Payton, loves pulling pranks on others. But I'm the only one who gets hurt in her pranks. Last year, she and our older brother, James Payton, locked me up in a cold storage room. Because of that, I'm afflicted with a case of severe asthma. James apologizes to me before telling me that he'll take me cave diving just to make it up to me. Marissa tags along with us on the trip. She keeps casting me malicious glances every now and then. Feeling rather uneasy, I quickly get into the water just so I can get away from Marissa. But when I'm 65 feet deep, I feel a wave of suffocation hitting me all of a sudden. It turns out that Marissa has secretly shut off the oxygen supply. I can hear Marissa's smug laughter ringing out from the underwater communicator. "Look, Jamie! I told you that Nat would fall for it again!" James' voice is filled with affection. "Leave it to you to be smart enough to think of such a prank to play on your sister, you little imp." My face has gone blue from the suffocation. I struggle with all my might in an attempt to turn on the bailout cylinder, only to feel my hands getting slapped away from them thanks to Marissa, who has swum over to me. She then whines into the communicator, "Look at how dramatic Nat is being, Jamie! She can't stand the suffocation at all even though it's only been a few seconds!" I hear James' icy and aloof voice reverberating in my earpiece. "Just hold on a little longer. Look at how delicate you are! It hasn't been all that long, yet you already can't stand it. How humiliating. You're not even in the same league as Mari!" This time, I can only stare at James in despair as my complexion slowly goes purple. Has he forgotten what happened to me? Thanks to their prank, my lungs have already sustained irreversible damage. It's getting more and more difficult for me to breathe. Finally, my vision goes black, and I collapse in the dark bottom of the sea. This prank isn't funny at all, James. This time, I'm going to die for real.

My girlfriend's so-called guy best friend found out I had epilepsy. He deliberately spiked my drink with stimulants. The moment I drank it, my nervous system was overstimulated. My heart rate surged. My chest tightened. Then the familiar warning signs hit–blurred vision, fragmented awareness, the onset of a seizure. The next second, I lost control of my body and collapsed onto the floor. My muscles convulsed violently. My jaw locked tight. My breathing turned uneven. I struggled to pull out the emergency medication I always carried with me, trying to stop the seizure from worsening. However, just as I was about to take it, I realized the hot water in my bottle had been replaced with highly concentrated coffee. The extra caffeine intensified the neurological stimulation. My convulsions worsened. My thoughts became more chaotic. My fingers stiffened to the point where I could barely move. Aaron Stone looked down at me on the floor and laughed. "Not bad. You're pretty convincing. "I've seen plenty of seizure patients before. Never seen anyone act this well." Gasping for air, I forced myself onto my knees in front of Mia, my jaw tightening from the spasms. "Mia... call an ambulance... I'm having a seizure..." Mia frowned at my obvious condition, but there was only impatience on her face. "Enough already. "If you keep acting like this, it's honestly too much. Since when can people having seizures still talk? "Aaron's a doctor. With him here, what could possibly happen to you?" I stopped trying to explain. Because I was already entering the next stage of neurological collapse. Even speaking had become difficult. Using the last of my strength, I pulled out my phone and sent an emergency distress message.

My husband claimed he was allergic to women. Even the slightest skin contact made him break out in red, swollen welts. In three years of marriage, we had never once been intimate. Even our child had to be conceived through IVF. After three failed procedures, I finally became pregnant with what I believed was our baby. On the day I was discharged, I received a video. In it, my husband was tangled up with another woman in every position imaginable. His skin was perfectly clear, except for the love bites she had left across his chest. I looked up. My husband was standing beside my bed, peeling an apple for me. He wore a mask, his shirt was buttoned all the way to the collar, and gloves covered both hands. He was protected from me from head to toe. The video had been recorded only the day before. Trembling, I reached for his collar, but he violently slapped my hand away. "Don't touch me! Stay away from me!" He looked at me as though I were filthy. That was when I finally understood. He was not allergic to women's bodily fluids. He was only allergic to me. When my husband went into the bathroom to change, I called the number I had blocked five years earlier. He answered almost instantly. "Send me your location. I'm coming now."

I was the ultimate pick-me girl at the office, and somehow, I ended up inside a horror game before New Year's Eve. Seeing the bloody lady crawling in the dark elevator, I screamed out loud. "Oh my gosh! Where did you get that lipstick? It's perfect! It makes your skin look three shades lighter!" The bloody lady blinked at me in confusion as I helped her up. She even recommended the exact lipstick shade. Then I turned around and came face-to-face with the chainsaw-psycho general manager with multiple personalities, swinging his weapon around. I tied a little bow on his chainsaw. "Everyone else only cares if your chainsaw is sharp. I'm the only one who cares if you're tired from swinging it all day." The monsters in the room looked at each other, all thinking the same thing… Why did this feel weirdly wholesome?

After the Ritualist declared that Amber would not live past 18, I, a perfectly healthy girl, became the Misfortune Vessel. When Amber broke a leg, my left leg was crippled. When Amber tried to kill herself with shards of glass, the tendons in my hand were severed. I could no longer hold a pen. From childhood to the present, every wound meant for Amber landed on my body. She never stopped testing how far she could go. Skydiving from two miles up. Chasing sharks in deep water. Survival expeditions to the extreme North. Every choice courted death. I cried. I screamed that it hurt. My brothers refused to allow it. "Enough already. It's just a small injury. How could it hurt that much? You're too delicate." "If it hurts, then endure it." So I endured until the day I turned 18. That was when the Shared-Sense System found me. I enabled family sharing, and every single one of them went insane.