She steps into the light of the glowing lamp beside the table, smiling almost devilishly. She descends upon your sides with a pounce, her fingertips working over the thinnest parts of your ribcage and up into your exposed pits.
You jump and tug at your restraints, but they hold tight as she continues her attack. As her polished nails skim over your pits in a frenzied pattern, a lock of her hair falls down and lands ever so lightly near the breach of your armpit, tracing little sweeps that increase the intensity of her tickles.
You worry, your heart beating excitedly at the thought of what she might do next:
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