Last year, my wife finished up her master’s program and was recruited for a job slated to start that September. That was obviously great news, but it also left her with an entire summer to kill. We took a long-deferred vacation, but that still left her most of two months to fill, and Marina just isn’t the type to sit still. So she decided to put in some volunteer time at our local library. That’s what led to our sex life taking a most unusual and delicious turn.

In some ways, it was kind of funny to see her there, manning the circulation desk and reshelving books. Marina looks like everyone’s idea of a sexy librarian — tall and leggy with a very conservative, scholarly look and wire-rimmed glasses. She favors plaid skirts, black tights and turtlenecks that accent her lean body. She tends to wear her long black hair in a bun or ponytail.

One day, I decided to take the afternoon off and headed from my office to the library to see how Marina was doing. The place was all but empty so early in the day, and Marina had shelving duty. She was bending over the cart and handling the books with enormous care. When she saw me, she peered at me over her spectacles and gave me an impish smile.

“Hello, sir,” she purred, her green eyes sparkling. “Can I help you?”

“Well, I might be in the market for a little something to read,” I said casually, running a hand along a shelf.

“Something a little spicy, perhaps?” Marina asked, giving her cherry-red lips the subtlest little lick.

I should have mentioned, perhaps, that Marina not only looks like a sexy librarian; it’s a role she takes great pleasure in playing.

At that point, the library’s doors opened and several college-aged girls trooped inside, giggling and chattering to each other. A gray-haired woman at the front desk silenced them with a sharp look and a harsh “Shh!”

“We’d better watch it ourselves,” Marina said, smiling ruefully. “That’s Joyce, the head librarian. She’s kind of a hard-ass.”

“Is that so?” I murmured, sensing an opportunity for mischief. As Marina went back to her shelving, I slipped behind her. As I passed her, I pressed a finger into her side. My attractive wife is very ticklish. She nearly jumped out of her loafers and let loose with a hoarse gasp that was not quite a giggle.

Joyce definitely heard her. She didn’t shush her, but she glared at us.

“Stop it,” Marina whispered. She was frowning, but her eyes were twinkling. My finger was already taking aim for a second helping of ribs. “Don’t you dare,” she breathed, lifting her hands in mock terror. But I couldn’t stop myself. I delivered another poke, and what came out of Marina was very definitely a giggle.

This time we did get a shush out of Joyce and a stern suggestion that perhaps Marina would like to take off the rest of the day. From a boss, it might have stung, but as a volunteer, Marina had no trouble at all with skipping work and heading out to spend an afternoon with her husband. We ran out hand in hand, giggling like two teenagers.

But the encounter had given me an idea, one that would involve considerably more giggling. I sketched out what I had in mind to Marina, who blushed and clapped her hands to her mouth to hide a fresh peal of laughter.

“Oh my God, you wouldn’t dare!” she said with a laugh. “Would you?”

You see, I happened to know that one of Marina’s fantasies involved needing to keep quiet when, for whatever reason, her reflexes were forcing her to make noise. When she’d first told me about this fantasy, it took the form of her having to stifle orgasmic cries while being righteously fucked in a friend’s house. My most recent idea was a little more devious.

“What do you think?”

“It’s been a while since we’ve played,” she mused.

She was right about that. Bondage used to figure very prominently in our love life, but Marina’s coursework had forced our kinky dates to the margins.

“Oh, what the hell! But you have to be gentle with me,” she added, giving me a smile that indicated very clearly she wanted the exact opposite.

As soon as we got back up to our apartment, Marina and I stripped. Then she removed her makeup and released her hair so that it fell about her shoulders in a glorious black mane. Then we showered together, kissing and biting one another’s lips and running our hands over our soap-slickened bodies, reveling in the steaming hot water sluicing over ourselves. Once we’d finished and toweled off, Marina positioned herself on our king-size bed, while I gathered a few tools, which included padded wrist and ankle cuffs, along with some rope. Before I got busy tying her down, I took a moment to enjoy the sight of her long, lovely body. Her cheeks were flushed, and her nipples had gone rock-hard, like two chunks of pink coral. I took pleasure in the sight of her bare feet, highly arched with long, tapering toes — all ten of which were already tightly curled. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on them!

“Oh my God,” she whispered, already giggling in anticipation of the delicious torment to come. “You’re going to drive me crazy, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” I promised, taking a moment to further stiffen her nips with matching kisses. She groaned with pleasure as my tongue moistened those luscious fleshy pegs. With that, I turned my attention to rendering my lovely wife helpless.

Once I had Marina spread-eagle on the bed, I explained the scenario I had in mind. She was a prisoner in a dungeon, helplessly awaiting various fiendish torments. I was to play the role of a roguish, sadistic adventurer who had found his way into the dungeon, only to be seduced by the sight of her naked loveliness. The requisite threat was supplied by the unseen dungeon keeper, who we pretended was making his rounds nearby. If she could only remain quiet, her growing excitement would be quenched by my cock. If, on the other hand, she attracted his attention — with a shriek of ticklish laughter, let’s say — the penalty would be unending tickle-torture.

“So, my lovely,” I whispered, sliding onto the bed next to her. “So how shall we begin our little adventure?” My eyes roamed immediately to her flat belly, which was already flinching under my gaze. “Perhaps that pretty navel?”

“Oh, don’t, sir,” Marina gasped, slipping into a British accent tinged with a dread that wasn’t completely affected. “Please don’t touch me there…I’m so dreadfully ticklish!”

“You have nothing to fear,” I told her, letting my fingertip make a gentle spiral around that tasty nub in the center of her belly. “So long as you remain quiet and don’t attract your host’s attention. If you do, I’m afraid you’ll have lost our little game.”

Her middle rose slightly off the bed, turning to one side as the spiral tightened, my finger moving inexorably toward her belly button. She bared her teeth in a helpless smile, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Don’t,” she tittered. “Don’t, don’t, don’t.”

The tickling was already having a noticeably sexual effect on my poor wife. Her nipples were now like two stones set in the swelling curves of her breasts, and my nose caught a whiff of the salty scent of her excitement. I knew if I were to apply my finger to her pussy, I would find it sopping wet.

I pressed my mouth against the tight curl of her ear and whispered, “Don’t laugh. Don’t you dare laugh.”

By that point, my finger was skimming the rim of her belly button, tantalizing the little kernel of flesh inside. The delicacy of my touch was definitely taking a toll on Marina’s nerves. She twitched and made little snorting sounds as she tried to suppress the laughter that demanded release.

“What’s in here?” I teased, getting ready to administer the coup de grace. “What’s in this little hole?”

“Oh God,” she said with a giggle. “Oh!”

I struck, pressing her button while attacking her side with clawed fingers for spice. Marina very nearly lost the game at that point; the tickling sensations must’ve crackled over her nerves like an electric shock. She arched her back, grinning in delicious agony, but she managed to prevent herself from laughing out loud.

“You’re very good, my dear,” I told her. “Now let’s see how those pretty feet fare under my tongue.”

“Oh, no,” Marina whimpered, her fair cheeks going several shades paler. “Not that! Tickle under my arms instead — or my pussy!”

“I’m sure you’d love that,” I said with a chuckle. “But I’m afraid it’s your feet I want.” And with that I crept down to her left foot, steadying it with both hands and gently applying my tongue to her twitching toes. She tried to evade my mouth by clenching them, but they wiggled spastically, allowing me to get them between my lips for a long, sweet suck.

I’m afraid poor Marina found that treatment considerably worse than the navel-tickling she’d just suffered through. Her slim, aristocratic feet are tender and very, very ticklish. Just blowing on them is torture for her; you can imagine what pedicures are like. Within moments of my starting to suck them, she was shaking in silent spasms of laughter. By rights, I should have called the game at that point and pronounced her the loser. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to do that. Instead, I kept lapping at her digits, gently nibbling them with the very edges of my teeth.

Marina’s upper body thrashed against her bonds, rolling from side to side on the increasingly sweaty sheets. She was making gasping, inarticulate noises as she struggled against her body’s reactions, which were low bleating noises of desire and stifled hilarity.

I ran my fingernails up her soles again and again while I continued to bite and lick her toes.

“Come on,” I teased. “This doesn’t tickle, does it? Does it?”

It was more than she could take. Finally, she broke down in gales of howling laughter, calling me every name in the book as every inch of her bucked and shook.

“I give up,” she gasped. “I give! I surrender!”

“And your punishment should be more tickling,” I said sternly, giving her toes a final kiss. “But given how much I’ve enjoyed your body, I think a taste of pleasure would be more appropriate.”

Turning myself around on the bed, I climbed atop my wife and let my rigid shaft slide into her soaked pussy. The sound Marina made at that point — a trembling explosion of pleasure that rocked her from crown to sole — sounded remarkably like laughter.

I had to wonder what dear old Joyce would have said could she have seen us.