Valerie was trembling, trembling visibly. Her poker face, essential for an American intelligence agent, left her. Sweat welled up in her armpits, so much that little trickles of persperation ran from her underarms down her sides. It tickled, but nothing like the tickling she awaited from these two monsters. They said nothing, but she knew. She sensed their presence near her helpless bare feet, held down so well by the straps that allowed virtaully no movement, no escape from the torture that was only moments away. Oh my God, help me!!!!!
She knew what tickling her feet would do to her. She thought back to the little girl, the girl who ran around Huntingdon, Pennsylvania, barefoot when the weather would allow. No shoes for Valerie...nothing but 5-6 months of barefoot freedom from age 7-15. But there was no freedom from the boys, the boys who delighted in chasing the cute pudgy blonde girl, tackling her, pinning her to the grass and tickling the soles of those naked feet. The very sound of "get her, tickle her feet" would be enough to put the fear of death itself into the young girl. She tought back to those days, and her college days at Pennsylvania State University. She was one of the barefoot chicks -- the gals almost never seen with anything on their feet in the dormitory -- who could even be found barefoot in the dining room and lecture halls. More than once, on drunken evenings, her dormmates ganged up on her to tickle her out of her mind.
But those tortures never lasted more than a few minutes. The boys would get scared and stop. The girls in the dorm would get an admonishment from the resident advisor for making too much noise. This was different. This rape of her 40-year-old bare feet didn't have to end. Even if she told her torturers what they wanted to know, they could continue torturing her feet as a form of punishment. Tickled to death. Could it really happen?
Beads of sweat were now falling off her brow, some onto the tip of her nose. She could almost hear them hit the wooden table to which she was strapped down so well only slight writhing was possible. Valerie started to sob. "No," she said. "Please...please don't."
"Will you tell us the truth?" asked the man.
Valerie began bawling uncontrollably. How unbecoming for an intelligence agent. James Bond would never blubber like this.
"Your country has abandoned you," the man said. "Your identity has been leaked. You will never work as a spy again. What do you owe them? Talk!!!"
Valerie was still unsure if he was serious or bluffing. Certainly no one in the administration would reveal the identity of anyone in the agency involved in spy work.
The first strokes came down across her bare soles. She gasped a high-pitched, pained "aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh." She tried to kick, but she could only lift her heels a fraction of an inch from the table. The torture continued, with spider tickles up and down both feet, from her toes to her heels. Valerie bit her lip. She tried to endure, but the ticklish little 10-year-old girl from PA was back. She was naked. She was tied down to a table. She had no escape. Screaming was futile. She was a mess, covered in sweat and tears from her hair to her waist.
"Noooooooooo," Valerie squealed as fingers danced across the soft beige bottoms and of her tanned feet and toes. The woman's tickling was worse, as her long nails were excruitating as they raked her soles and the pink undersides of Valerie's long toes. She bucked her upper body, although she could move it only an inch or so in any direction.
"Naaaahhhhhhh....ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaa," Valerie yelled as the tickling of her feet continued relentlessly. "Staaaaaaappppppp. Please staaaaaaaaaaaapppppppppp aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
The minutes rolled on...five minutes became 10, then 15 and 20. Val couldn't tell. She was too busy losing her voice, losing her dignity, losing her mind.
Finally, she caught a break. Valerie felt as if she were near suffocation. She caught her breath after a few minutes. Her captors said nothing. Valerie was actually surprised, and a little proud of herself, knowing she had endured the torture. But how much more was waiting for her, and how much more could she take?
Valerie noticed that more than her face and armpits were wet. She felt the soft down of her crotch itching. Moisture. Unmistakable. My God, her vagina was dripping!!! How could that happen? She couldn't possibly be aroused by this ghastly torture.
Could she?
Could she?
Only her husband's touch, gentle against her bare flesh, ever elicited such a response. No way could tickling her feet for what seemed like forever be an arousing experience. No, Valerie thought. It can't be. It's torture. How can it start my juices flowing? But there it was, spreading even to her thighs. She wanted to be penetrated -- not by the monster who was tickling her feet, but by her man. The palms of his hands runnng gently over her nipples. His fingers caressing her thighs. Little tickles in that special spot behinf her knees or at the top of the crack of her butt. She was somewhat ashamed. A brutal torture had put her in an erotic state.
The thoughts vanished quickly when the tickling resumed. Again, both feet assualted -- one by a man, one by a woman. Hideously effective spider tickles, sending what felt like volts of electricity across Valerie's nude body.
"Noooooo," she cried, ever more insistently. "Staaaaaaaapppppppit. Naaaah! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha...staaaaaaaaaappppppppp. Please no, not my feet NOT MY FEEEEEEEEEEEET aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"
Again, it seemed like forever for Valerie, and perhaps forever just might not be that much longer. Valerie didn't even hear the thirds party walk in the room. Suddenly, however, her torturers' fingers dropped. The tickling had stopped. Valerie gasped for air, her body limp, heaving, soaked in sweat, pussy juice, tears.
The new person in the room -- a man, she thought -- spoke quietly. Valerie had trouble making out his words. The conversation lasted several minutes. Her tormentor seemed somewhat miffed by what the visitor was saying. At last, a tone of resignation, and the sound of boots walking out the door.
"Valerie, you're free to go," said the man. "Your agency has intervened. They're not too happy that your president's henchmen have put an agent of theirs in such peril. You will be esorted to the airport and put on a flight back to your decadent, belligerent country, where you have now become famous.
Not only will I never see you again, but unless that lying government of yours goes back on the word it just gave to my country, we will never see anyone from your agency again."
Slowly, Valerie's hands were untied. The straps holding her ankles were undone. She was free, although her middle-aged body was too stiff to move for a few minutes. Gingerly she swung her legs over the table. She sat on the edge, palms of her hands clutching the edge, feet hanging down. She was sore. It took her a good while before she could will her 40-year-old body to put her feet on the floor.
No one said a word. Valerie ripped off her blindfold and began looking for her clothes. Gone. The woman returned with a navy blue jumpsuit. That would be all she would wear for her trip back to the states. The flight was to be top secret, as was the site of the landing. No one would be there to meet her except an agent, and a limousine driver. Not even her husband -- the man their government wanted to punish -- could meet her when she landed. He was now a celebrity, too, a guy trying to do his job not realizing that the leaders now played by their own rules. It was his insistence on reporting the truth that led his wife to stripped naked and strapped to a table, where she would endure a horrible, brutal, merciless tickle-torture in a country halfway around the globe.
She knew what tickling her feet would do to her. She thought back to the little girl, the girl who ran around Huntingdon, Pennsylvania, barefoot when the weather would allow. No shoes for Valerie...nothing but 5-6 months of barefoot freedom from age 7-15. But there was no freedom from the boys, the boys who delighted in chasing the cute pudgy blonde girl, tackling her, pinning her to the grass and tickling the soles of those naked feet. The very sound of "get her, tickle her feet" would be enough to put the fear of death itself into the young girl. She tought back to those days, and her college days at Pennsylvania State University. She was one of the barefoot chicks -- the gals almost never seen with anything on their feet in the dormitory -- who could even be found barefoot in the dining room and lecture halls. More than once, on drunken evenings, her dormmates ganged up on her to tickle her out of her mind.
But those tortures never lasted more than a few minutes. The boys would get scared and stop. The girls in the dorm would get an admonishment from the resident advisor for making too much noise. This was different. This rape of her 40-year-old bare feet didn't have to end. Even if she told her torturers what they wanted to know, they could continue torturing her feet as a form of punishment. Tickled to death. Could it really happen?
Beads of sweat were now falling off her brow, some onto the tip of her nose. She could almost hear them hit the wooden table to which she was strapped down so well only slight writhing was possible. Valerie started to sob. "No," she said. "Please...please don't."
"Will you tell us the truth?" asked the man.
Valerie began bawling uncontrollably. How unbecoming for an intelligence agent. James Bond would never blubber like this.
"Your country has abandoned you," the man said. "Your identity has been leaked. You will never work as a spy again. What do you owe them? Talk!!!"
Valerie was still unsure if he was serious or bluffing. Certainly no one in the administration would reveal the identity of anyone in the agency involved in spy work.
The first strokes came down across her bare soles. She gasped a high-pitched, pained "aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh." She tried to kick, but she could only lift her heels a fraction of an inch from the table. The torture continued, with spider tickles up and down both feet, from her toes to her heels. Valerie bit her lip. She tried to endure, but the ticklish little 10-year-old girl from PA was back. She was naked. She was tied down to a table. She had no escape. Screaming was futile. She was a mess, covered in sweat and tears from her hair to her waist.
"Noooooooooo," Valerie squealed as fingers danced across the soft beige bottoms and of her tanned feet and toes. The woman's tickling was worse, as her long nails were excruitating as they raked her soles and the pink undersides of Valerie's long toes. She bucked her upper body, although she could move it only an inch or so in any direction.
"Naaaahhhhhhh....ahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaaaa," Valerie yelled as the tickling of her feet continued relentlessly. "Staaaaaaappppppp. Please staaaaaaaaaaaapppppppppp aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYEEEEEEEEE!!!!"
The minutes rolled on...five minutes became 10, then 15 and 20. Val couldn't tell. She was too busy losing her voice, losing her dignity, losing her mind.
Finally, she caught a break. Valerie felt as if she were near suffocation. She caught her breath after a few minutes. Her captors said nothing. Valerie was actually surprised, and a little proud of herself, knowing she had endured the torture. But how much more was waiting for her, and how much more could she take?
Valerie noticed that more than her face and armpits were wet. She felt the soft down of her crotch itching. Moisture. Unmistakable. My God, her vagina was dripping!!! How could that happen? She couldn't possibly be aroused by this ghastly torture.
Could she?
Could she?
Only her husband's touch, gentle against her bare flesh, ever elicited such a response. No way could tickling her feet for what seemed like forever be an arousing experience. No, Valerie thought. It can't be. It's torture. How can it start my juices flowing? But there it was, spreading even to her thighs. She wanted to be penetrated -- not by the monster who was tickling her feet, but by her man. The palms of his hands runnng gently over her nipples. His fingers caressing her thighs. Little tickles in that special spot behinf her knees or at the top of the crack of her butt. She was somewhat ashamed. A brutal torture had put her in an erotic state.
The thoughts vanished quickly when the tickling resumed. Again, both feet assualted -- one by a man, one by a woman. Hideously effective spider tickles, sending what felt like volts of electricity across Valerie's nude body.
"Noooooo," she cried, ever more insistently. "Staaaaaaaapppppppit. Naaaah! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha...staaaaaaaaaappppppppp. Please no, not my feet NOT MY FEEEEEEEEEEEET aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!"
Again, it seemed like forever for Valerie, and perhaps forever just might not be that much longer. Valerie didn't even hear the thirds party walk in the room. Suddenly, however, her torturers' fingers dropped. The tickling had stopped. Valerie gasped for air, her body limp, heaving, soaked in sweat, pussy juice, tears.
The new person in the room -- a man, she thought -- spoke quietly. Valerie had trouble making out his words. The conversation lasted several minutes. Her tormentor seemed somewhat miffed by what the visitor was saying. At last, a tone of resignation, and the sound of boots walking out the door.
"Valerie, you're free to go," said the man. "Your agency has intervened. They're not too happy that your president's henchmen have put an agent of theirs in such peril. You will be esorted to the airport and put on a flight back to your decadent, belligerent country, where you have now become famous.
Not only will I never see you again, but unless that lying government of yours goes back on the word it just gave to my country, we will never see anyone from your agency again."
Slowly, Valerie's hands were untied. The straps holding her ankles were undone. She was free, although her middle-aged body was too stiff to move for a few minutes. Gingerly she swung her legs over the table. She sat on the edge, palms of her hands clutching the edge, feet hanging down. She was sore. It took her a good while before she could will her 40-year-old body to put her feet on the floor.
No one said a word. Valerie ripped off her blindfold and began looking for her clothes. Gone. The woman returned with a navy blue jumpsuit. That would be all she would wear for her trip back to the states. The flight was to be top secret, as was the site of the landing. No one would be there to meet her except an agent, and a limousine driver. Not even her husband -- the man their government wanted to punish -- could meet her when she landed. He was now a celebrity, too, a guy trying to do his job not realizing that the leaders now played by their own rules. It was his insistence on reporting the truth that led his wife to stripped naked and strapped to a table, where she would endure a horrible, brutal, merciless tickle-torture in a country halfway around the globe.
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