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Helplessly Hilarious

Myriads

Tzar of the TMF
Joined
Apr 2, 2001
Messages
14,300
Points
38
This Story was written By Capt Spaulding, and while I was doing some Archiology in the old forum, I decided that it should be reposted here.


*The following F>F>F>M (and so forth and so on…) tickle tale is copyright 2001 by the author.
       
*This saga is a shameless reworking of the anonymous story “Brenda and Sarah,” which has
been posted on the Tickling Media Forum. I hope the uncredited author of that story regards this humble
imitation as the sincerest form of flattery, which it is, as I think that story is a “wow,” a simple delight
telling of an ordinary day at a store that becomes a snowballing tickle nightmare for two unlucky women.
If you wrote the original, and want to punch me in the nose (Don’t sue, I’m broke!), call your shot to
[email protected]. (Indeed, all responses are welcome there.)

        *Dedicated to the those of us who instantly think, “tickling” and not “housework” when we see a
feather duster. “Hey, darlin’, heh-heh-heh, there’s a little dust on your toes….”

*This tale is not intended for readers under 18, so I’ll wait while the too young among us click
away. (Insert here sound of me stretching and idly humming.) Are they all gone? Hey, you! Yes, you!
The kid in Indianapolis. Get moving. (More humming.) OK, I think it’s all clear. Let’s be naughty…       

        ONE has been crooned as the loneliest number. TWO’s company (except on ‘70s TV). THREE’s a crowd (especially if they’re named Moe, Larry, and Curley). This story, though, proves that it takes FOUR hapless people to become…
       
HELPLESSLY HILARIOUS
                        by Tee Hee Lawrence

                        1--Four Bound for Trouble

Pat Pettibone sighed and stuffed another palm-sized scrub brush, another foldable lint brush, and
another collapsible feather duster along with the full-color brochure into the small bright yellow shopping
bag bearing the logo of King Household Brushes. Upon the long table before her stood dozens upon
dozens of the filled bags, their tufts of lime green tissue paper swirling around their blue plastic handles.
At her feet under the table were the four large, seemingly bottomless cartons heaving with brushes and
dusters and brochures. She blew, popped, and withdrew a bright pink chewing gum bubble as she wearily
considered their contents.                                                                       

As she grabbed another lint brush, her eyes wandered out the window and fixed on a distant knot of folks flying kites in the park across from the industrial park. It was a very warm and bright late April
Saturday, and she was cooped up in the quiet King administrative offices doing some overtime. She needed
the money if she was going to join her friends and bum around Europe the coming summer. This, however, was not the way a fun-loving, nineteen year old 5’, 5” strawberry blonde (who was full-figured but not a bit fat, thank you, and drew eyes when she sprung for stylish clothes and salon visits and when she took care to
make-up properly) truly wanted to spend a model Spring day.

She admitted that she’d skimped on form today, seeing how the office was virtually deserted and
the day was hot almost and the air-conditioning was unavailable. She was dressed in an Ally McBeal T-shirt--far too small for her really, and riding up her middle, revealing the silver ring in her navel—a
mid-thigh blue denim skirt, and raised black leather slides. Fortunately, she had anticipated barefoot
season, and had the salon just last night give her feet the works, including a soak and scrub to remove every
bit of winter callus from her soles. Her feet were pink and soft, her toe nails iridescent with ice blue polish.

She was admiring her feet and catching the sunlight in the rings on her second toes when her nose
was tickled by a sweet scent and she heard a throat clearing behind her. Sondra Hooper. Her boss. Tapping the toe of her high heel. Her hand no doubt set upon her hip, her head certainly tilted at a skeptical angle.
Pat reached down to grab a scrub brush, and Sonny (as everyone in the office called her) leaned over with her two hands on the table and smiled into Pat’s blue eyes.

“Patricia, you’ve been at this almost two hours and these cartons aren’t even half empty,” Sonny
chided in a warm, maternal tone. “Girl, you suffering from spring fever or something? A few weeks ago
you were telling me that you had the winter blues but that the spring would give you energy.”

        “Well--well, it does,” insisted Pat, giving way to giggles at Sonny’s rolling eyes. “I guess I’m just
not used to focussing it all yet.”

        “I guess not,” conceded Sonny. “Girl, we got to get these done. The chain buyer’s convention
hits town on Monday, and we want one of these goody bags in the hands of each buyer the first day.
You need some help. I’ve still got reports to print out, but Maribel may be through with her back orders.
I’ll give her a call.”

        Sonny sat on the corner of a nearby desk, swinging one of her legs, and talked on the intercom.
Pat didn’t really dislike her boss, even if the woman was on her back constantly. Pat didn’t think it was
a racial thing. Sonny was simply the gung-ho office manager of King Brushes. Why else would she be
here on such a lovely off day, dressed as neatly as if it were a regular weekday? Sonny was (Pat guessed)
maybe 35 and about 5’7” tall. She was a shapely, pleasingly featured black woman, with a short cap of
reddish brown curls and bright brown eyes (that displayed a periodic squint that was due to skepticism as much as a slight astigmatism). She wore eyeglasses on a lanyard, but a bit vainly donned them only for
detail work.. She was wearing--neat as always--a canary blouse under a burgundy woolen jacket with a
matching knee length skirt, smoky hose, and polished black high heels. She even had perfumed herself
with a rich jasmine scent.

        Sonny ended her phone conversation with a burst of snorts and sputters which widened into a
bray of high-pitched laughter, which she brought under control as she sighed, “Oh, my, that girl! So
funny! She’ll be here in a sec’. ” Everyone in the office made fun of Sonny’s braying laughter, and vied
for the chance to induce it. Pat appreciated that, as she used it to keep track of Sonny’s whereabouts. A
braying boss couldn’t sneak up on her when she was goofing off, as she was a few minutes ago.

        Watching the college girl make a show of doubling her efforts with the bags, Sonny smiled and
thought that Pat was bright enough, but just so undisciplined. Still, the kid was an office assistant here
three days a week and going to community college as well, so maybe she should go a little easier on her.
But if only she were motivated, Sonny thought, Pat might really get moving. Pretty girl, but so dreamy and
so lazy, and every so often, she’d make a smart remark that made it clear she thought herself far too good
for the work. Plus, she had an irritating habit of vigorously chewing and snapping bubble gum, as she was
heedlessly doing now.

        Just then, Maribel Pino walked in and said in a low, accented voice, “Here I am. What do you
need done?” She tossed her long, lustrous black hair, which she normally wore in a bun, but it was
Saturday, so it was hanging long and loose down past her shoulder blades. She wore a Yankees cap,
a black sports bra under a red mesh T-shirt, which had large reinforced holes along its sides, black jeans,
and her bare feet were in black Chinese slippers, each with a red rose stitched atop. She wore bright red
lipstick and nail polish, which flashed attractively against her olive skin. She had hazel eyes, a sharp small nose and chin, and a small mouth with a sly fierce smile. While she was only 5’2”, she was full chested
and firm buttocked, a smolderingly sensuous 27-year-old single mother of two.

        Maybe it was because Maribel was a Latina, or it was because she’d been a teen-aged mother,
with experiences well outside the sheltered suburban life Pat enjoyed, but the two didn’t get along very
well. When they shared a task, as they were now, sitting side by side, their hands occasionally bumping
as they reached for a brush or a bag or some tissue paper, they said little to each other. For Maribel, her
coolness towards Pat stemmed from the day the teen had made some thoughtless remarks about the loud
salsa playing from the Latina’s radio one day. There was no love lost between them, which Sonny thought,
with a chuckle, might keep them both working steadily, to spite each other all afternoon. For her part, she
liked Maribel’s initiative, work ethic, and swagger, and wished a bit would rub off on the college girl. And
Maribel enjoyed joking with Sonny, whom she sensed to be rather playful and soft beneath her office
managerial hard shell.

        Just then, the last of the four King Brush employees in the office wing today stomped into
the room, his arms full of flattened company cartons, his head bobbing to the hip hop coursing through
his Walkman. Without a word to the others, Marc Dante snatched up a tape dispenser hanging from his belt
and began to assemble the boxes. He soon had a stack of empties wobbling alongside the women’s
work table.

        Sonny began to tell him to try to pack the bags upright without crushing them in the cartons, which should be closed but not taped, when she realized he couldn’t hear a word she said. She yelled,
“Hello?” and waved her violet nailed fingers in front of his face. He slipped off his headphones, received the instructions with a slack jaw, replaced the headphones, and proceeded to follow instructions. He did his
job, but sometimes Sonny felt that talking to the 18 year old high school senior, clad today in his usual
navy work shirt (with his name stitched in red above the pocket and with the company logo on each short
sleeve) and pants, sockless (Well, it was the weekend…) in Timberland moccasins, was like talking to an extraterrestrial.

        Marc found the black woman impossibly intimidating, so he dreaded these occasions when
he had to work with her staring at him. It was all he could do to keep his eyes from dwelling on her
full breasts straining against her blouse or her shapely, stocking-clad legs. He was certain she could
easily read his shy, lustful thoughts about her, and that, if he met her gaze for more than absolutely
necessary, the resulting hard-on would get him fired—and maybe sued for harassment.

Maribel smiled at Marc, and he gave a shy smile back. She thought he’d be a stud, what with
his big bedroom brown eyes, cute, cleft chin, wide shoulders, long, graceful hands, and pleasing
butt, if only he’d put a lot more meat on his frail 5’10’ frame—he couldn’t weigh that much more than
Blondie here—and have someone style his unruly sandy curls. Plus, he needed some cojones, some fire
in the belly, meet a girl’s gaze squarely, and talk like he meant it, instead of always mumbling to the
floor.

Frankly, Maribel baffled Marc. He had trouble understanding her accented English, found her
aggressive body language threatening, and wished she wouldn’t press upon him so many tapes of Latin soul
that he pretended to listen to. Still, he admired her small round butt, rather firm for the mother of two kids. Figuring that thinking wasn’t too safe either, he tried to focus on bags and cartons.

        Pat didn’t like Marc because she was sure he wanted to hit on her but didn’t have the balls to do it.
They would see each other sometimes in a mall or at the diner, and she felt that he was plotting an exit strategy as soon as she said hello to him. Yet, she’d catch him sometimes, as he was doing now-- between
stuffing the bags of brushes in the cartons--examining her out of the corners of his eyes. Or at least she
thought he was. She couldn’t decide if her goosebumps meant she was creeped out or excited.                                       
Marc thought Pat felt he was a nerd, a high school wet-nose, while she was a social magnet on
the community college campus, where there must be any number of guys hovering around her. He wished
he played a tough sport (and didn’t merely run cross-country), or drove a stock car, or had a cobra tattooed on his bicep. He wished he could keep from peeking at her bare legs, and that she’d stop sliding her feet
out of her shoes, and stop wiggling them so that the sunlight wouldn’t flash off her toe ring

                              2--Three Put Four into One Pickle

Suddenly, three ski-masked figures burst into the room and, wielding firearms, loudly ordered
the four stunned employees to kiss the carpet. All four—not wishing to spill any blood for King Brushes-- quickly did so, though Maribel had to drag Marc down, as his headphones had kept him from paying the gunmen any notice. Sonny, struggling to keep a calm, even tone, asked, “Wha-what’s this all about? What do you want? This is no bank!”

        “Lady, shut up and lie still,” one of the intruders shouted at her, and, after grabbing the key ring
clipped to the belt of her skirt, pushed her down prone. “Normally this place is quiet as a tomb on weekends, and we figured today would be no different. But you four being here save us the trouble of busting locks and monkeying with alarms, and your cars in back keep our van from lookin’ conspicuous.”

        “Mira—look, mister,” said Maribel, her kids in mind, “please, we’re just poor working people.”

        With a crack of gum, Pat added, leaning up on her elbows, “Yeah, we just work here. With brushes for crissakes.”

“That’s it!” shouted a second masked marauder. “If you can’t control yourselves, we’ll help ya!
So you won’t do or see or say anything you might regret. So RE-LAAAAX!” —He was still shouting! —
“and you won’t get hurt!”

        “Boy, it’s a good thing there’s a discount outlet across the road,’ the third intruder observed
as they set about restraining their four prisoners. “We were able to pick up lots of rope and bandannas
and handkerchiefs for a song.”

        “Shuddup, willya?” cried the first bandit. “Just tie these clowns up.”

        Sonny was straining to recognize the masked voices. She figured that more than one might have been recently laid-off King employees. There had been a recent production slowdown and layoffs (which kept the adjoining factory and warehouse quiet and deserted on weekends, and usually, but for this
particular Saturday, the office, too). These guys were exploiting the firm’s extremely lax security today.
She tried to keep them talking, saying, “Now, look…,” before she had a cloth stuffed in her mouth and a
bandanna pulled across it and knotted behind her neck. Then another folded bandanna was drawn across
her eyes and secured behind her head. Her wrists were roughly held behind the small of her back and
roped together and secured with a skillful knot. The same skill was displayed in the loops binding her
ankles tightly together.

Pat, Maribel, and Marc were gagged, blindfolded, and tied in similar fashion. The intruder handling Pat first had her spit out her healthy pink wad of bubble gum, which he stuck on her nose before proceeding. Marc’s manhandler absurdly left the kid’s headphones over his ears when his blindfold was
secured, and his Hip-Hop concert continued unabated while he was being trussed up. Once she was gagged, Maribel began a stream of invective in Spanish and English that was muffled, which was “’Lucky for all of us,” thought Sonny. “The wrong word could set these guys off.”

Nosing around, one of the intruders found nearby a spacious carpeted windowless room, which was used for meetings and storage. The four helpless captives were hustled inside and released to clumsily
lurch about the center of the room. Along the walls were rows of folded chairs, a few folded tables, and
a couple of sets of tall metal shelves, upon which rested large cartons. After one yanked the phone off of
the wall, the robbers slammed the door shut and, swearing at the profusion of keys on Sonny’s ring, locked the four within.

Now, virtually rubbing their hands with glee, the burglars went about looting as much office equipment as their little nondescript van could hold, and forgot all about their prisoners tucked away in
the storeroom. In rapid order, they drove off, after tossing their realistic toy Magnums into the van with
the loot…

                                3--The Boss Challenges Standing Pat
       
        If the robbers had seemed to show one mercy to their captives, it was the fact that they had left
the overhead florescent lights in the storeroom on when they’d slammed the door shut. Of course, being
blindfolded, Pat and Sondra and Maribel and Marc couldn’t appreciate the gesture. They were scattered,
standing unsteadily yards apart from each other, trying vainly to utter coherent speech through their gags
and finding little give to their bonds. Each was trying to speak, for it would have been a great comfort if
each could have located and reassured the others. They didn’t even know if all of them were here safely
together. They were angry and aching and anxious, too, that the hoods, perhaps, weren’t through with them.

Sonny especially was concerned, as she felt responsible for calling her three colleagues to work
that day, leaving all four of them at the mercy of three determined criminals. It was a few hours still before
the security service would notice that King’s evening alarm hadn’t set been at 6 P.M., as she had scheduled that morning. She hoped the industrial park patrol, seeing cars parked behind the office— lately unusual on
Saturdays--might soon stop and curiously check in the office, and rescue them. That could, however, be a
long way off. The robbers—who, while storing the four, had floridly discussed whether they should harm or perhaps even permanently silence their prisoners—might return to toy with them so more. Still, she
couldn’t hear them now, and she thought it time to try and free herself. After testing her firm bonds, she realized it might be easier to locate one of the others, and to maneuver herself so as to untie that person. Blind, hampered by her gag and her severely restricted mobility, she shuffled about, cocking her head
for sounds of the others…

Maribel was so livid that the brutes had mistreated a hardworking single mother that she swore to strangle them with her bare hands when she got free. She was also so afraid that she assured God that
if she survived this ordeal she’d stop yelling at or hitting the kids and Guillermo would get that baseball mitt and Nadia that Digimon cart they’d been nagging her for. Fired thus by anger and fear, Maribel
struggled tensely in her bonds to no avail. She quickly decided that, if she couldn’t free herself, she might
be able to move close enough to another so they might free each other. Hearing the Hip-Hop leaking from
Marc’s headphones, she swayed uneasily towards the sound…
       
Marc was ticked off enough by the fact that he couldn’t free his hands to change the CD in his Walkman: he’d heard this disc twice already. The embarrassment he felt, however, at being roped, sightless
and voiceless, like the wimp he was always trying not to be—before three girls even!—made him want to
bellow into his gag, which he did. He just wanted to get free and get the hell away. Those robbers, though,
were pros and they’d tied him damn good—too good for him to untie himself. And he’d be like this forever if he waited for the women to help him or free themselves. Well, he might find a sharp edge to cut his ropes upon if he felt about, so he ponderously began backing up…

Pat was trying not to think about having to pee. It wasn’t actually that her bladder was anywhere
near distress; it was really the thought that she was helpless and tied in a room with no bathroom and she
couldn’t shout for help. Also her T-shirt, in all her struggles, had really ridden up and was bunched above
her bra, the balky clasp of which she felt had come loose, and her breasts were threatening to tumble out in
plain sight. She felt sure her co-workers had been blindfolded as she had, so they couldn’t see. But she
didn’t want the robbers to get any wrong ideas about her. And her new and not cheap leather slides had,
in the confusion, slipped off of her bare feet. One of those hoods might decide to take them as a present for his @#%$. She was shuffling her feet awkwardly around on the carpet, hoping to find her slides, when she felt someone’s fingers wiggling across her back…

Behind her back, Sonny felt her hands brush against bare flesh and thought, “All right! ‘ Found someone! ‘ Wonder who?” Trying to orient herself, her fingers roamed over the smooth skin. Sonny heard “Meeep! Ngh! Muhr! Mwah-ha-ha!” and the other seemed to jerk away. “Hey, stop!” thought Sonny. “Can’t you sense what I’m trying to do? How can I untie you if you don’t keep still?” Cursing her gag, she bumped again into the other, trying awkwardly with her bound hands to restrain the other.

Pat, for her part, was laughing giddily into her gag, as the persistent fingers stroked across her
exposed back and dug into her tender sides. For a moment, in her hysteria, she thought one of the robbers had returned to torture her by tickling! Then, her own hands felt the ropes wrapped around the other’s
wrists. Why would one of her coworkers tickle her? Couldn’t that one tell, from her muffled shrieks of laughter, how ticklish she was? This was no time to be fooling around! If only she could get rid of this gag and shout at the tickler to stop! All she could do, though, was laugh into it, “Mmmphh-bmmphf-mwah-mwah-hah-HAH-HAH-hah….”

Sonny heard the stifled shrieks, and she finally recognized them as laughter. “Well, of all the idiotic things!” she thought. “Here I am trying to get you loose and you think it’s a joke! Get a grip and
hold still!” The manager realized that her young coworker (she was guessing Pat, by the shrieks) was probably disoriented and panicked, but she was hoping she’d calm down and work with her. (“If only I could speak…”) She worked even harder to blindly position herself within reach of the knots binding the girl’s wrists. Her furiously working fingers couldn’t help but poke the other’s back and sides. The muffled
laughter seemed to increase as her efforts did. “Ngh-ngh-ngh-muphl-pufl-pwah-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH….”

Some yards away, Marc backed into the advancing Maribel. His long, questing fingers slithered
under her mesh shirt and poked the soft, yielding flesh around her navel. Under her gag, she swore and
squealed, trying to back away from the fool who was tickling her. She was desperate to tell the other—Marc by the telltale Hip-Hop—to cool it with the probing, tickling fingers and to wait for her to turn so she
could align their roped wrists. Then they could untie each other. But Marc’s fingers got caught in the big
holes in the mesh along Maribel’s right side, and, trying to get unsnarled, he was poking and stroking her
ribs repeatedly. Her muted howls of laughter fell on his covered ears. “Mree!-hee-hee-hee-ngh-ngh-ngh-
mwah-ha-HA-ha-HA-nghf-nghf-Mwah-hah-hah-HAH….”

        Pat—already red with laughter and desperately trying to elude her tickler, who, by the telltale
scent of jasmine, she knew to be her boss—stumbled and fell to the carpet. Her tied feet tripped up Sonny,
who fell, with muffled cries of frustration, as well, her shoes slipping off her heels in the bargain. The black woman was dismayed further when she tried to find Pat so she might resume her knot solving. The blonde, though, very relieved not to be tickled, had crawled away, leaving stewing Sonny with a wad of bubble gum stuck on her butt.

4--Change Partners and Laugh

Maribel—her small body racked with suppressed laughter—was trying to back away from Marc’s
relentlessly tickling fingers, still haplessly caught in her shirt. It wasn’t, though, until her retreating feet
met the fallen Sonny’s legs and toppled over them that she was—praying her thanks—freed from his
tickling. Flailing about like a beached whale, her bound hands passed over the ropes looping someone’s
ankles and found themselves caught on a pair of high heels.

Sonny was still wondering how any sensible adult could be so damned ticklish when she felt her shoes, already slipped off her heels in the struggle, being knocked off her stocking feet. Then, the shock of fingers crawling and sliding along the sleek nylon covering her soles caused her to start violently, and she
felt laughter welling up within her and pushing against her gag. “Mreek-mropfit-meh-heh-heh-heh….”
When she attempted to pull her feet away, the fingers became forceful in their pursuit, grabbing her toes
(which she found hilarious) and scrambling over her sensitive heels to fumble with the ropes at her ankles.
Sonny, despite her fit of giggling, was aware that a co-worker was trying to undo the knots there, but the fingers sliding upon the nylon on top of her feet tickled unbearably, and, try as she might, she couldn’t keep
her feet still. “Mmeep-mraha-ngh-ha-ha-ngh….” The tickles caused her to recall that sometimes, during
foreplay, she would ask a lover to tickle her. But she’d never been tickled while being so helplessly bound,
blindfolded, and gagged, and while feeling so stressed in a situation out of her control. Before she knew it,
her protests surrendered to shudders of laughter. “Mrugh-mropfit-ngh-ngh-mwah-pha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha….”

Maribel quickly registered that her fingers had found her boss when they felt smooth nylon
covering two large feet. She, however, didn’t immediately glom to the fact that her efforts to gain a hold
upon the knots binding Sonny’s ankles were tickling the poor woman sappy. The blindfolded Latina was
frustrated by the difficulty in gaining purchase on the ropes with her back to Sonny’s ankles. Making it
worse was her inability to tell the jittery woman what she was doing so she would be still. It wasn’t until
Sonny’s thrashing about sent Maribel’s waving fingers skittering up the boss’ hosed legs to the back of her
knees--heightening the giggles filtered through her gag accordingly--—that Maribel thought, “Ay! Why won’t la loca be still? Unless… this big black boss lady’s ticklish like a nina!”

As a sly, unbidden smile spread ‘neath her gag, Maribel decided to try moving further up Sonny’s
back so she could work at the ropes tying Sonny’s wrists. Backing blindly onto Sonny’s hands, however,
Maribel gave her boss--still a bit dizzy from laughter—the impression that the Latina wanted her own wrists untied. Sonny groped for the ropes, missed, and her outreached fingers dug into the pert younger woman’s back and sides, barely covered by the flimsy mesh shirt. Maribel screamed into her gag
and tried to roll away from Sonny, whose hands became tangled with the little one’s shirt. Sonny was
trying to be more careful not to tickle Maribel than she had been with Pat, but the Latina, through her
gag, was clearly overcome by giggles. “Bmmmph! Uhrmp! Nghhh! Mree-mree-mree-hee-hee-hee….”

Maribel’s merciless siblings used to tease her that she was the most ticklish girl in San Juan when they played as children. They had even devised a cruel game during which they held her down and slowly
counted each of her many terribly ticklish spots. It had been a long while since anyone had her at such
a disadvantage. Sonny’s fingers, seeking only to unravel her wrist ropes, were succeeding more at poking
and prodding her into that childhood state of wild hysteria. Maribel’s desperate response was to push at
Sonny’s sides in self-defense and, caught in a non-stop cycle of mutual tickling, their laughter fought to escape their gags. “No-mmmph-no-mmph-no-tklmph-mmwha-ha-ha-ha….”

Marc, baffled by the disappearance of the coworker he’d been trying to help, stumbled into Pat’s
knees and fell, his tied hands settling upon the blonde’s bare feet. Pat reflexively moved, only to tangle her
ankles with his wrists so that her sensitive soles faced his curious hands. Feeling the other’s knots literally at his fingertips, he began moving his long, dexterous fingers along the feet at hand, in quest for the rope ‘round the ankles. This slow, steady progress of Marc’s digits along Pat’s soft soles, atop her tender feet and upon her skittish ankles caused her to shake with suppressed laughter. “Ngh-ngh-ngh-muphl-biffl-bwah-hah-btzl-sptzl-muphl-heh-heh-heh-heh….” She kept trying to pull her feet away, but they were
caught between his arms.

All her struggling did was cause his stretching, twisting fingers to stroke blindly along the tender arches and balls of her feet and snake under and between her toes. In her hilarity, her balky bra popped open, completely revealing her breasts, and she dragged her face into the carpet, dislodging the bandanna
over her eyes. Her very first sight was that of a frantic, shaking Maribel exchanging tickles with an equally undone Sonny. Seeing this, and hearing the laughter leaking from their gags, made her laugh all the harder
as Marc, with the noblest of intentions, tickled her while doggedly but unsuccessfully seeking to free her ankles.

Continued below......
 
Helplessly Hilarious pt2

5-Rescues Gone Wrong

Pat thought she would simply go mad from the tickling, when she saw Maribel break away from
Sonny’s fingers and drag her hands down to the boss’ ankles. Maribel, relishing her respite, was trying
again to solve the knot down there. All Pat could see, tho’, through her tearing eyes, was the Latin @#%$
apparently grasping Sonny’s bound feet so that she could maliciously tickle all across their helpless boss’
stocking soles. Pat could see Sonny’s head bobbing wildly, and hear her muffled brays of laughter. She
resolved, with last-ditch courage born from her own tickling torment, to free herself from Marc’s ten
ticklers and aid her poor boss against the advantage-taking Maribel.

        Seeing that his feet were near her, Pat, with great effort, rolled and grasped Marc’s ankles
with her fingers. She snaked her fingertips into his moccasins and, determined to fight fire with fire, wiggled her fingers rapidly. Marc protested (“Mrey! Mupha-fupha!”) with consternation and pulled his feet away, leaving his shoes hanging on Pat’s fingers. Still shuddering with laughter, Pat lurched back upon his
feet. She began to wildly move her fingers, with their long blue fingernails, across Marc’s wrinkled soles.
She heard his muffled cries (“Murph-mwah-ha-heh-heh!”) and, mercifully before too long, felt his wrists jerk, freeing her tortured tootsies. Marc, for the moment struck with shame at how ticklish he proved at the hands of the girl, didn’t pursue her ankles. Much as she longed to hear Marc beg—How dumb he looked
blindfolded with the damn headphones on, trying to talk to her through his gag! —she stopped tickling him. She had a mission!

Pat’s gaze fixed on Maribel’s fingers tormenting the long, smoky stocking soles of Sonny—who bounced with laughter. Pat labored slowly to crawl over to aid her boss. With effort, she rolled onto
Maribel’s bound ankles, causing one of the raven-tressed mamacita’s thin black Chinese slippers to slide
off her bare foot. Pat, feeling about with her fingers, soon learned that she was not the only one here who
took care to keep her feet baby-soft. Maribel screamed into her gag as she felt Pat’s fingers dig into the
ball and arch of her foot and twitch under her tiny, pearl toes. The Latina, in a panic over what she felt
was a senseless attack by the college girl, redoubled her efforts to loosen Sonny’s ankle bonds, which
tickled the black woman even more. Pat, so relieved that she herself was no longer being tickled, began
to relish making tenderfoot Maribel laugh, and found herself smiling at the giggling Sonny, who had
shaken her own blindfold off, and who herself was further amused by the sight of Maribel’s bare feet (for Pat had dislodged the second slipper) being tickled as thoroughly as her own. But, Pat’s amusement
was edged by her fear the robbers might return any moment, and that they might not stop at tickling.

Marc, still reeling from the perplexing attack upon his feet (He thought this situation had deranged
the woman.), had shaken his headphones off. He quickly realized that he was hearing the women calling in
distress through their gags. In real-guy mode, he blindly backed towards the agonized sounds. Before Pat’s wide eyes, and to his instant mortification, his questing fingers drummed upon her naked breasts.
She yelped (“Mweek!-hee-hee!”) at this new and unexpected tickling (which continued as Marc fumblingly
tried to pull away) and she bounced over Maribel, settling between the Latina and Sonny. Discombobulated
with giggles, she grabbed the nearest ankle ropes and recommenced tickling the attached feet, not noticing
that she was now stroking stocking soles--those of a still squealing Sonny. (“Mwaiie!-mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha!”)

        Maribel, thanking God that she was free of her determined tickler, rolled over, finding her hands
poking Marc’s back. She was just trying to get her hands lined up with those of the person she couldn’t see, but Marc, sure he was being attacked again by a crazy female, tried to jerk away. That only caused his tied wrists to get snarled with hers. His rapid movements caused his fingers to scratch upon her practically bare back. Their efforts were yielding precious little untying, but their choked guffaws testified to how much
they were tickling each other. (“Mwah-heh-heh-mwmph-brfft-heh-heh-heh….”)

                                6—Pat Revealed!

Sonny, battling her laughter, was trying to get her hands in a position to yank Maribel’s hands
off of the frantic Marc. She felt that someone had to stop this crazy tickling. Her hands bumped into the Latina’s practically bare tummy, and trying to get a hold upon the younger woman, poked and stroked her
wiggling midriff. (“Mghph-pfah-ha-ha-ha-hee!”) Maribel’s gagged laughter rose noticeably, as she was
being tickled now front and back. She couldn’t keep herself from tickling Marc’s sides more animatedly,
and he reacted by bouncing away furiously. To his horror, his hands returned to those bare breasts (His racing thoughts practically shouted, “Are these the same boobs? And whose <gulp> are they?”). Pat
responded, “Ngh!-Ngh!-mphee-hee-bphee-hee-hee….”
                                                               
He jerked his hands away from the globes, but, in his blind panic, his bound hands hooked roughly under the waistbands of Pat’s denim skirt and white cotton panties. With the horrendous sounds of
button popping, zipper tearing, and seams ripping, the blonde was promptly rendered skirtless-- and more!
Giggling Pat’s dismay was muffled but eloquent. (“Meeeeep!-Mrheeeeey!”)

Pat had been trying to get her fingers off of what she realized to be Sonny’s quivering soles. She
also tried to rub off the bandanna trapping her gag (thinking that if one of them could talk, all would soon
be right), when Marc’s hands landed on her breasts, igniting her giggling all over again. She was trying to
evade his hands when they got caught in her waistbands, and it was her giggly efforts as much as his that
found her soon with completely bare legs. His hands’ ensuing momentum down her thighs caused her to start whooping just as her mouth bandanna fell off. She spat out her gag and shouted, “Oh-ho-ho-no-no-no-no-stop-stop-stop-ah-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Marc, still blind and speechless (as much from embarrassment as from his gag), now knowing the
privates he’d just felt were Pat’s, decided to make amends by continuing his fingers’ deliberate slide down her bare legs (“Hmm! Close shave,” he thought.) to resolutely remove her ankle ropes. He was wishing
she’d cut out the screaming and tell him how close his hands were to the knot. Pat spun clumsily on her
elbows and did succeed in pulling her bare feet away from Marc’s advancing, tickling digits. “Ha-ha! Oh, no—heh--you don’t! Where’s—heh-heh--my skirt?” she shouted, hoping to find her missing clothing while she evaded his hands. Mercifully for Sonny, Pat’s acrobatics allowed the office manger to remove
her stocking feet from harm’s way. Sonny was concentrating on trying to remove her gag so she could
calm Maribel and tell her to roll over so they could untie each other’s hands. Maribel, though, squealed
through her ever loosening gag and rolled away from her boss’ insistent touches.

                                7—A Chortling Circle

        Pat, in her violent evading of Marc’s hands, managed to jam her bound ankles between Maribel’s
calves, just above the Latina’s tied ankles. Maribel froze with anger at this new frustration, and her legs closed upon Pat’s calves. They were tangled together quite nicely, leaving their bound bare feet—the backs
of their heels digging into the carpet and their toes pointing to the ceiling—side by side by side by side.
Maribel’s lower bandanna fell away and she spat out her gag. She began a stream of invective, which Pat
echoed with equal enthusiasm. Across the floor, Sonny was stunned by their language. They were wasting their first chance to clearly communicate in this fiasco!

Marc was truly desperate now to make amends to Pat, to whom he realized he’d given entirely the
wrong impression by accidentally stripping her skirt and fondling her bare legs. Her gag seemed to be off. Perhaps her blindfold was, too, and, if he could find her, she could direct his blind efforts to untie her
bonds. He kept backing up, his waving fingers restrained behind him, when they came upon one—no, two—wait, three—four! Four bare feet! The two younger women’s bound ankles were just behind him.
Why, with a little bit of help from them, he’d make quick work of their ankle knots. Then, the two could
stand back-to-back and untie each other’s wrists or, at least, find something in the room to cut their ropes.
Their freedom was right in his hands!

        That might have been so, had Pat and Maribel not already been so weakened and sensitized by
their previous tickling. As soon as Marc’s dexterous fingers touched their soft, perspiring soles, they
exploded into giggles, which spiraled up into high-pitched wails of laughter. Their locked legs kept the
women from escaping the scrambling fingers. Marc, ignoring their loud laughter, repositioned himself so that he was sitting by their feet, with his own bound legs extended before him alongside Maribel’s back.
His fingers--trembling with his effort—tried to sweep past the four waggling soles and snake through the forty wiggling toes to reach the knots beyond. He couldn’t help stroking under their arches, poking into the
flesh across their soles, or sliding fingertips between their toes. What chance the two young women-- finally free of their gags--had to talk reasonably to each other was lost in a cacophony of their mirth.
Continuing Capt Spauldings story....

“Aiieee-hee-hee-Madre!-Ah-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh-Aiee!-ha-ha-ha-hee-hee-Dios!-eeeeee….”
        “No-no-no-no-heh-heh-heh-heh-hee-hee-hee-plee-plee-please-sta-ha-ha-ha-stahppit-ha-ha….”

        Marc, because of his intense concentration and his inability to see, had allowed his own bare
feet to wander right into the grasp of Maribel’s madly gesticulating fingers, still bound behind her back.
She grabbed onto his pale peds, and began to dig her short but sharp red fingernails into his soles. He
screamed into his gag, but was unable to escape her fingers, crazed by the tickling he was spiritedly but
innocently rendering her feet. Caught, he redoubled his laughter inducing efforts to untie their ankles,
while he himself roared into his gag.

“Mawh-bwah-ngh-ngh-orff-umph-mwha-ha-mpfl-bfl-reefl-mrawrammit-ha-ha-ha-mph-ngh!”

                        8—Sonny’s Wicked Thoughts

        It was such a relief not to be tickled, thought Sunny as she rolled a fair bit away from the others.
From her tickle-free position of relative safety, she incredulously watched their crazed cycle of tickling
each other and listened to their wild laughter. The two young women were even free of their gags, but
were so beset by laughter that they couldn’t utter a sensible syllable! And Marc was so dumb that he
couldn’t see that if he stopped tickling the women, Maribel would quit causing his muffled hilarity.

        Sonny decided that she had enough of playing the role of the helpless prisoner. She was both
impressed and irritated by the enthusiasm the robbers had shown in trussing up her and the others. It was
important that the theft seemed coldly legit. The more fear and discomfort she and her hapless coworkers
projected to the police later, the less likely the law and the insurance company would suspect a scam had
been perpetrated.

        So far, it was all going—except for all this wacky tickling—exactly as she and some scheming King Brush executives had planned. They had recruited three recently laid-off King factory workers to
stage the brazen daylight looting of expensive office equipment, leaving Sonny and three authentically terrorized witnesses bound and gagged behind. King Brush would file a wildly extravagant claim with its
insurance company, aided by assessors bribed earlier. The ailing brush company would receive a welcome
windfall, and Sonny would receive a large, well-earned bonus. Her three coworkers…well, they would get their pictures in the paper and a valuable life lesson.

Sonny rested her back against a set of metal shelves. Taking a deep breath, she vowed to rub the
bandanna gag against the metal until she loosened it and brought her firm managerial voice into play. Seeing her three colleagues haplessly tickling each other into a mass of giggles and hearing the two younger women’s robust, unchecked laughter, forced her to fight sympathetic giggles bubbling within her.
She tried to focus her attention onto the shelves as she rubbed.

She considered the many boxes stacked thereon. She felt sure she remembered that some held extra office supplies, like tape, paper, ink cartridges—and scissors (!), box cutters (!), and letter openers (!).
Why, with those, she could cut her way loose and free the others. She considered again the hapless trio, who in its laughing throes was ever so gradually moving as a mirthful mass towards her and the shelves. She’d better get cracking before they were upon her and tangled her in their tickling web again.                                                                                       
An evil thought then occurred to Sondra Hooper: what if, thanks to a pair of scissors or something, she freed herself, but delayed freeing the others. After all, what was the hurry? Her allies had
finished and gone, for she heard nothing from outside. The hoods had locked the four of them in here, with no way to call outside, so they really couldn’t go anywhere until help arrived, hopefully early this evening. It didn’t matter then whether her coworkers were untied or not. And it might be fun for her…

After all, being tickled—a little anyway—was not unpleasant. Sonny herself found it a turn-on
in bed. It might be even more of a turn-on if she were the tickler of folks who were tied and blindfolded.
She wished Pat’s blindfold were still on. She’d make sure Marc’s gag was gone, though. Yes, she’d
want all three able to laugh out loud. Let’s see … she’d start with Pat’s feet. They seemed even more ticklish than her own. Then, she’d find out just how ticklish Maribel’s ribs really were. Finally, she’d let
her fingers do the walking on the insolent Marc. He’d Hip-Hop before she was through. And she’d make
sure they all knew that she was only trying to get them loose: after all, if they’d only be still, it wouldn’t tickle at all, but as it was…

The riotous trio was getting ever closer, and she'd be damned if she’d let their fingers tickle her
again. Which box held the tool she needed? Why weren’t the boxes marked? Hadn’t she asked Pat
to ID marker their exteriors? (Another reason she’d enjoy tickling the blonde, she was sure.) She struggled to her feet, in a hunched position, grabbing onto the shelf columns. She peered under the flaps of the first
shelf’s two boxes. They held only folders. The laughter was getting ominously close now. She could almost feel their twitching hands at her stocking heels.

        She saw that one box on the second shelf had old catalogs, and the other had obsolete sales logs.
She thought, “Why didn’t we just throw those away? Dammit, there must be scissors or knives here somewhere!” In her intensity, anticipating her tickling fun to come, she failed to notice that the laughter behind her was fading into slow, tentative talk between the two younger women.

                        9—Much Tickling Becomes Too, Too Much       

        The third shelf was too high for Sonny to peer into the boxes. She would have to nudge them off so they’d empty themselves on the floor. She rubbed her chin against one box, but it was heavy and
resolute. It didn’t budge, but her gag almost came off. The other box was lighter than she expected. Her push against it not only released the bandanna holding the hanky gagging her, but sent her tumbling back
to land amidst her three intended victims—and brought the mystery box down to spill its contents broadly
all over the four.

        To Sonny’s immediate dismay, she knew now what the box had held: a motley collection of
production samples and experimental prototypes of remotely powered mechanical King brushes. There
were literally dozens of them: lightweight, durable, long and short, hard-bristled and soft-haired, firm-
toothed and feather bearing—a daunting variety. Some had exterior photo cells, and activated when exposed to the room’s bright full-spectrum ceiling lamps, which would keep those brushes running
perpetually. Others were powered by alkaline or ni-cad batteries, which, upon activation would keep going and going and going. A few of these switched on upon impact. The remaining models were especially
cleverly designed so that their power source would be the warmth generated by a human hand. As soon as
they neared a 98.6-degree heat source, they came alive. (These last items failed to catch on in consumer tests held in July, after they had scored marvelously in a January series. At a certain room temperature, they simply wouldn’t turn off. And the storeroom, on that prematurely warm day, without air conditioning, with
four sweaty tickle-crazed persons sending forth waves of hilarious heat, had achieved that temperature.)
Amidst the four then, many of the brushes began immediately brushing.

        Just prior to the impact of the fallen brushes, Maribel and Pat had managed to untangle their
intersecting legs. They pulled away from Marc’s relentless fingers, allowing the Latina to relax her reflexive tickling of Marc’s feet. The trio’s exercised laughter had just quieted to exhausted titters,
and Pat and Maribel had just started a breathless conversation, frantically trying to talk sensibly at last.

“Hey, hey loca,” Maribel gasped, “Let’s try <pant> and get back to back <wheeze> so we can untie each other. And, tee-hee, don’ tickle me no more, see?”

“O-OK,” croaked Pat. “B-but watch those fingers. <pant> My back’s very ticklish. I-I’ll—heh-heh--just die! Maybe I-I should get your blindfold first so you can try and see what you’re doing.”

Marc was frantically trying to remove his gag so that he could tell them that they’d better leave
the knot work to him, or else find a sharp edge to make it simpler.

        Sonny’s loose gag fell away, and her coworkers heard her shout, “Oh-no! Eyaargh!”

        At that moment, Sonny and the multitude of brushes landed amidst them. Marc’s gag finally
fell off, too, giving him full speech again. Within mere seconds, however, all of them seemed paralyzed
as if by a strong electric current when the brushes began dancing among them. The brushes almost seemed
to maliciously settle upon their most ticklish places. Yet again, and at full volume, the four were beside themselves with screams of laughter.

                              10-Buffing Maribel’s Middle

        Maribel had the misfortune of still being blindfolded, so the petite young mother could not see
the many brushes which landed around and upon her. She panicked and tried to shake off, as a wet dog
shivers off water, the bristly things that suddenly seemed to be dancing all over her. Some did go flying
away, but, unfortunately, her gyrations granted access under her mesh shirt to a pair of photocell powered,
round, palm-sized shoe brushes. One had its bottom side covered with short coarse black plastic bristles. The other’s lower half was coated with a layer of soft lamb’s wool. Each had on its top a velcro strap
which was intended to close over the back of a user’s hand, and an on/off button on its side. Bumping against the shirt over her rolling tummy, each brush’s button was switched on, and the bottoms of the
brushes began to rotate. Maribel instantly began to sputter with giggles, which blossomed into guttural
guffaws. “Aiee-AIEE-AIEE-Dios-heehee-heeHEEhee-ohnonono-nah-ha-haHAha-heh-heh-heh….” The
open velcro straps caught on the mesh of her shirt, keeping each brush’s rotating side down upon each
shaking side of her tender tummy. “Ah-ha-HA-ah-HA-ha-oh Jesus-oh-ho-ho-ho-HAH-HAH-HAH….”

        Her hysteria mounting, Maribel raised and kicked her bound feet. One of these tickle-frenzied
thrusts caused a long brush to be pushed up inside the left leg of Maribel’s jeans. The brush-- its ball of firm short plastic bristles meant for the scrubbing of vegetables--rested right behind her bare left knee.
Her bouncing soon switched it on. The bristles rubbed vigorously, like a multitude of minute tickling fingers upon this uncelebrated but very sensitive area. “Aiee! Mama! Hee-hee-<shriek>heh-HEH-heh….”

        The third object to particularly bedevil Maribel wasn’t really a brush at all, but a promotional
item that King Household Brushes was considering using in 1997, but decided against, because of cost.
(The company that year ended up using phosphorescent snow globes in that year’s sales push, saving 28 cents per unit.) It really didn’t belong in the box at all. It was just a simple toy, something that Maribel’s
kids would have appreciated when they were little, before big league sports and computer games seduced
them.               

The object consisted of an eight-inch tall thin plastic shaft, near the top of which was mounted
a pinwheel of short, stiff banana yellow feathers, each a mere three inches long. The plastic shaft had a
sharp point at its base, and it just happened to land, with its point sticking solidly into the carpet at a forty-
five-degree angle, a few inches from the soft, pink soles of Maribel’s bare feet. The angle the pinwheel
tilted at brought the tips of the little feathers directly against the undersides of the Latina’s tiny pearl toes,
each one’s nail painted a bright tropical green by her little daughter. There was a minute photocell at the
head of the shaft, which under the ceiling lights, caused the pinwheel to briskly spin. In its course, its
feather tips swept under Maribel’s toes. “Ai-ai-ai-ai-nononono <snort> Ah-hah-HAH-HAH-HAH….”

        Almost out of control with laughter, Maribel--fighting the tummy and knee ticklers as well—tried
to move her baby-soft soles away from the small whirling plumes. However, the howling (as we shall see) Sonny to one side, and an quite undone Marc (ditto) to the other kept the mamacita from moving her bound
feet away from the perfectly positioned pinwheel. If it wasn’t tickling her toes, it was teasing the fleshy
balls beneath them. She might move a bit more, and the wheel swept happily upon her touchy heels. All her movements did was vary her feet’s feathery torment. “Hoo-HOO-hoohoohoo-heh-heh-heh-heh-heh….”
       
Even in her hysteria, Maribel thought, “Justice! Heh-heh! Where is the justice? Ha! I work hard! Oh, God! I’m a good mother! Tee-hee! Why meeeeee?” Her piercing screams, though, said only, “DIOS!
Yee-ah-HAH-ha-HAH-haaaa-heh-heh-HAH-HAH-heh-heh <snort>-AIEEEE-ah-ha-ha-HAH-HAH….”
She was learning that even a soul of faith and industry can be trumped by a conjunction of supremely crummy circumstances, especially when she probably still was the most ticklish little girl in all of San Juan.

                                11--Marc Hip-Hops Without Hip-Hop

        The climactic undoing of Marc actually owed its full fiendish feathering to an inadvertent alliance by Pat and Maribel to repay him for his tickley attempts at heroism. When the brushes first landed amongst them, the still-blindfolded Marc was lying on his stomach. Feeling one brush spinning on the back of his
legs, he swung his bound feet quite rapidly to one side, jamming them snugly in between Pat’s shins. Pat
was in a tickle pickle of her own (as we shall see), and reflexively tightened her legs around Marc’s ankles,
so that his feet—bare soles up—were trapped.

        Maribel, early in her current brushes with hysteria, had jerked and hurled from her hip an eight-
inch triangular travel clothes brush. It flew over Pat’s legs and landed with its short plastic handle sticking
smack between Marc’s still tightly bound heels. He flinched, not only wedging the handle tighter into the lowest coils of his ankle ropes, but also turning the brush on. Its multitude of six-inch long coarse black bristles waved a few inches up and down, vibrating across Marc’s bare soles, then not. Vibrating, then
not. The coarse bristles, at that particular vibration, tickled terribly. Their rough ends ever so slightly
grazed the sensitive undersides of his trembling toes. “Nuh-nuh-noooo-heh-HEH-hehhehHEH-S-STOP
-ha-HA-ha….”

        Screaming with laughter into the carpet, Marc wasn’t able to appreciate the sublime placement
of a tile scrubbing brush, the business end of which rested directly under his belly button, with its long
thin blue plastic handle extending nearly a foot beyond his right side. It was bouncing merry Maribel whom
unknowingly touched the tip of the brush’s handle, causing a three-inch circle of hard white plastic bristles to rotate upon Marc’s middle. He arched his lower back up with a bark of guffaws, but he simply couldn’t stay in that position. So, his belly descended again and again to meet the whirling brush. “Oh-oh-oh-heh-heh-phew! -Ohno-nonono-HAH-HAH <gasp>ha-ha-ha-ha….”       
                                               
With his ankles caught between Pat’s legs, Marc couldn’t maneuver away from either the soft, thin coarse bristles tickling his soles or the hard, thick ones teasing his belly through his sweatshirt. Here
he was—the lone guy among three tickled-silly women—and he was laughing as hard as any of them, although his tenor provided a nice contrast to the soprano and contralto shrieks of his coworkers. Together, the rhythm of their raucous laughter was at least as compelling as the recording he’d had listened again and
again to earlier in the afternoon. Marc had always wanted to perform in a Hip-Hop group. Today, he found
himself anchoring a ha-ha group.

continued next section.....
 
Helplessly Hilarious pt3

Continuing Capt Spauldings story.... 

                  12—Dusted Globes and Sucked Toes

Pat had the misfortune to be the captive with the least bit of protective clothing. Her short T-shirt
had rolled up practically to her shoulders. Her bra was undone, and hanging from her arms behind her back.
Her skirt lay opened nearby on the carpet. All of her dragging about on the carpet had furthermore caused
her torn and stretched cotton panties to slide down her hips. Thus, she was naked from her breasts down,
except for curled knots of panties halfway down her thighs. With her wrists still tied behind her back and
her ankles still bound—and with Marc’s ankles stuck between her shins keeping her from shielding her
breasts, tummy, and curly mound by rolling face down—Pat thus offered quite a ticklish expanse for an enterprising mechanical brush to act upon.

        For the hapless blonde, already tickled almost to exhaustion, the household tool that now settled upon her vulnerable torso seemed to exploit that ticklish expanse almost as if crafted for just that fiendish
purpose. The implement’s green plastic handle became firmly held between Marc’s trapped legs and her own. When the on/off button rubbed against the coils around Marc, a big, brightly-colored, fluffy feather
duster extended and rested its eighteen tickley inches upon Pat, and began to sway briskly back and forth across her baby-soft skin from her hips to her chin. She cried, “NOOOOO!” and began screaming with
high peals of laughter, “AH-HAH-HAH-HAH-HAH-EEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEEEE-HEH-
HEH-HEH….”

        The tips of the rainbow plumes tickled under Pat’s tender, violently-shaking chin and across her
pale neck. Feathery tendrils swirled upon her vibrating breasts and teased her rigid nipples. The long
feathers swept to and fro across her rippling tummy and sent silken wisps sliding sinuously through her
navel ring and into the very ticklish recess. The sensitive skin atop her hips was gently stroked without pause--as was the weeping majesty of her finely curled mound--by the bristly quills nearest the handle. In
total effect, it was a tickling to send a girl into delirious, demented orbit.

        “OH-OH-AH-HA-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAH-OH-OH-OH-heeheeheeHEEEEE-HEH-HEH….”

        But the fates that had cursed Pat and the other three today seem to lack not for cruelty, and they
decided apparently that her bare feet, flushed red and softly moist, would not escape the revolt of the
brushes. So, it was that a specifically apt brush landed at her feet. It was in the shape of dark plastic oval, about seven inches high and four inches wide, with a flat bottom. Near the top of one side, it had a 2 1/2”
opening ringed by a narrow fringe of short, stiff bristles. It resembled the short round brush attached to the extension hose of a large vacuum cleaner, only far more compact. This small squat machine was meant
to be available to suck up crumbs and other small particles from a dining room table or a car dashboard.
This was a unit, needing a fair bit of power to vacuum effectively, that had a battery and powercells and a
thermal conversion cell. It was a mean little machine.

        It had landed flat on its base (as luck—good for us, ill for Pat--would have it) facing Pat’s supremely soft soles. The impact activated it, and a gentle whirring sound rose from its belly. The bristles
ringing the small maw began to wave from the outside in as a modest, but surprisingly strong suction
commenced. The wee machine seemed drawn to Pat’s plump, pink toes and its bristly maw began tilting
towards them. Pat, in the midst of her nearly full-body feather torture, still managed to shriek acknowledgement of this additional, toe-sucking agony. “YEEAARGH!-AH-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAH….”
She tried to pull her bound feet away from the little sucker, but Marc’s legs prevented that. While she
could hold her toes away from its bristly mouth for a moment or two, she would relent. Dropping down, her tender digits would again be kissed by the bushy lips, which sent rough hairs snaking between the wiggling
toes. Thanks to her gyrations, and the vibrations caused by the bouncing of four highly tickled persons, the
little vac managed to tickle all ten of her tender toes at agonizingly random intervals. “Hee-hee- ah-HAH-
HAH-HAAAAAH-ohho-tee-hee-WAH-HAH-HAH-HAAH-ohno-ple-hee-HEE-HEE-HEE….”

        Pat had earlier been dreaming about some diversion from the tedium of her work on this fine, fair
Saturday. She had been wondering what it would feel like to hold to a kite by its long line in wind-tossed
flight. The blonde had even imagined what it felt like to be a kite, brushed and prodded by the wind, kissed
by the rays of the sun. Today, thanks to a convergence of criminals and coils of rope, fingers and feathers,
and brushes gone bad, Pat Pettibone was as high as a kite could be—floating on a long, loud line of girlish
laughter.

13—Scheming Sonny Undone

Sonny had not only coolly set up her coworkers to be unwitting accomplices in a scam that would enrich her (but not them). The wicked office manager had even been planning to entertain herself by further tickling her helpless colleagues. Now it seemed as if the pitiless brushes had decided that she was justly due for even more tickle torture than the three thrashing beside her.                               

She initially felt a small shaving brush--its brown and gray soft-bristled head rotating swiftly
(thanks to its heat sensor)--land upon her throat. She tried to sit up and shake it off, but she only succeeded in allowing it to slide under her blouse, to settle in her left sleeve, with its head whirling against her underarm. “Ah-ah-ah-no-no-no-EE-HEE-HEE-ah-ha-ha-heh-heh-heh….” Her pinned and tied wrists kept
her from opening her arm enough to dislodge the little thing, and its fine hairs swept delicately around
the highly sensitive shaven skin underneath.

        A two-inch wide, sixteen inch long flexible brush, cover with short burr-tipped plastic bristles
had come alive when it struck the floor beyond Sonny’s head. It proceeded to patiently snake its way to the
giggling woman and slip inside the collar of her blouse. The brush, designed to remotely track down and
catch dust bunnies lurking under beds and in other hidden places, slithered a slow tickley route over her
breasts and down her middle (its inching progress producing a bubbling stream of titters) It settled by
chance across her hips, vibrating its bristles along its length and wiggling each fuzzy end briskly upon her
sides. This sent Sonny’s hips swiveling as if to infernal music. “Oh-noooo-<snicker>ah-heh-hehhehheh-
Stop that!-hee-hee-ah-ha-aaah-ha-ha-HA-HA-HA-HAAAAH…”

        Her building laughter didn’t keep her from seeing a long, thin plastic shaft, bearing an inch-wide
cylindrical brush, land against her legs. The handle settled upon her ankle ropes and the firm red teeth of
the rubber brush rested atop her stocking feet. She tried to move her ankles so it would roll off, but this
allowed a loose ankle coil to catch tightly between two bolts under the lowest of the shelves, holding
her ankles fast. The brush bounced, with its handle settled tightly between two coils of rope and the rubber
teeth now pressed against the tops of her long toes. All the jostling switched it on. The teeth began turning
steadily counterclockwise, stroking the tops of Sonny’s long black toes through their tickle-enhancing
nylon hose. “YEEE-ha-ha-ha-ha! STAH-ah-ah-ah-ah-ahp! Heh-HEH-heh-HEH….” Her busy toe
wiggling only resulted in the brush hopping from toe to toe, or settling maddeningly between toes,
tormenting the soft flesh therein. The brush, designed hopefully to massage a dog or cat and comb its
hair, now dutifully, tirelessly, pet Sonny’s stocking toes instead.

        Sonny raised her knees in a futile attempt to free her trapped feet, which she surely wouldn’t
have tried had she noticed the narrow foot-long rod, the forward half of which was covered with fine, light, short plastic bristles nestled inside the back of her woolen skirt. This brush was created to clean fine, fluted glassware. Her slight arching of her legs allowed the brush to slide along under her skirt, until the business end settled between her upper thighs, where her pantyhose met her most tender privates. The bumpy slide
had switched on the brush, so when it nudged her bottom, it was already rotating merrily, the fine bristles
teasing Sonny’s Pleasure Central masterfully. “Hoo-hoo-nuh-nuh-NO!-ah-HA-heh-heh….” Every fifteen
seconds, an added feature reversed the rotation, and yet another altered its speed periodically. Sonny’s
thrashing kept it bouncing, too, and it would periodically sweep across her hips and along her butt.

        Was it any wonder that, under the four tickling, stimulating brushes, Sondra Hooper, the normally
dignified, authoritative, neatly attired, and responsible office manager of King Household Brushes’ international HQ was bouncing on the carpet, her shining wet face split by her helpless brays of laughter?
Was it a surprise that she was in no frame of mind to wonder now how any sensible person could be so
damned ticklish? Was she even now, in ticklish agony, beginning to consider asking for a bigger share of
the windfall, thus setting in motion a series of double-crosses that would in time unravel the whole scheme?
The ragged edge to her laughter clearly anticipated the first in a long series of orgasmic waves that would
pass through her in the hours ahead… “Oh-ah-nuh-no-h-help!-ah-ha-ah-ha-HAH-HAH-HAH-HEE-HEE-HEE!-ohno-ohno-nah-hah-hah-HAH-HAH <gasp>heeheeheeheeHEEEEEE <gasp> Oh-ho-ho-ha-ha….”
       
The four captives writhed on the carpet of the storeroom in their ticklish agonies. Under the
assault of the brushes, the blindfolds finally fell from the eyes of Maribel and Marc. Thus, all four were
now able to witness their own relentless mechanical tickling, which seemed to heighten their hysterical
laughter. Each could also watch the other three being tickled, which was still further provocative. And
occasionally Pat’s tear-filled eyes would meet Maribel’s, or Marc’s mirth-clouded gaze would lock with
Sonny’s and so on, and then the laughter fluttering in their bellies seemed oh! much, too much to bear!

        This meeting and storage room in the offices of King Household Brushes rang with the
endless laughter of four hopelessly ticklish, helplessly tickled victims. Each one’s capacity for laughter was stimulated by the unrestrained mirth of the others, so, aching stomachs and sides and throats or no, their
hilarious ordeal went on and on. Pat and Sondra and Maribel and Marc could only hope and pray that
soon someone would come to their rescue, and save them from the tickling tools of their trade—before
it was too late…

                       
14—Epilogue

        It was approaching six o’clock when Lou Castle and Bud Abend pulled their Metro Industrial
Park Security van into a parking space behind the offices of King Household Brushes. They had just
finished another orbit of the complex. It was time for a break. Lou pulled out the thermos of coffee and
package of paper cups from under the front seat. Bud reached over to the back seat and brought forward a boxed filled with donuts.

        Lou was biting into a lemon crème, when he gestured with his coffee cup at the four cars
parked near the rear entrance of the King offices, one floor of which was still lit.

        “Boy,” he said, with a spray of lemon custard, “you wouldn’t know the economy was slowin’
down to look at those people. Saturday night and they’re still workin’.”

        Bud took a swallow of coffee and rasped, “I’ve been in that place. They’re a very serious bunch of people. You’d think that brushes would be a funny business, but I guess not.”

        Lou sipped his coffee and winced. He lowered his driver side window and poured the brew out
onto the asphalt. “That’s the last time we get coffee at that joint. We have grounds for a lawsuit.”

        “Very funny,” chuckled Bud.

        “Hey!” barked Lou, cocking his head. “Do you hear something?”

        “What?” asked Bud. “Whaddaya hear?” He lowered the passenger side window.

        “I dunno,” whispered Lou. “It sound like people laughin’. In the King place.”

        “’Just goes to show you,” mused Bud. “I underestimated those people. Listen to ‘em… real party
animals. They’re probably about to break out the chains and cream cheese any moment now.” He shook
his head.

        “Say,” asked Lou. “Is there a chocolate coconut donut left in that box?”

        “Right,” answered Bud.”

        “There’s one left?” asked Lou again.

        “Right,” repeated Bud.

        “Gee, I didn’t know that there were right and left donuts.” Lou marveled. “I thought they were
all the same. I’ll take the right one.”

        “What?” rasped Bud.

        “I’ll take the right donut,” insisted Lou.

        “Which one is that?” asked Bud.
       
        Lou began to whine as he said, “Lemme have the right chocolate coconut donut that’s left.”

        “I think that’s the wrong choice,” suggested Bud.

        “The right donut’s wrong?” whined Lou.

        “Take a left,” barked Bud.

        “I can’t have the right one?” pleaded Lou.

        “C’mon, let’s get moving. It’s after six,” Bud growled. “Take a left!”

        Lou lurched the van left out of the lot, his querulous voice fading with, “Look, lemme get this straight….”

        In the security patrol van’s wake, a faint chorus of hysterical laughter could be heard drifting
over the parking lot from an open window at King Household Brushes…


-fin-
 
Scissors! Where are my scissors?

Jeez, does this oldie need editing and reformatting! What a mess! I hope I can find time for it soon...<p>
But, tell me, please, love, did you do a search for "pinwheel" in the Forum? And you came up one video and this misbegotten story? Huh! Who knew?<br>Hmm...maybe I can subject one of the Vellication Irregulars to a tickley pinwheel in a future story...only don't hold your breath! ;)
 
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