Capt. Spalding
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Apr 20, 2001
- Messages
- 212
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- 0
*The following M’n’F tickling farrago is copyright 2002 by the author.
*As it does contain a bit of material of an erotic (Well, I should THINK so!) nature,
it is meant only for readers 18 years and older. C’mon, kids, all the movies are already made
for you. At least leave us octogenarians the TMF.
*While experts agree that tickling is not essential to a happy marriage, I think there
would be a marked decrease in the need for divorce lawyers if wedded couples would only
use a feather as their bookmark in their bedside Kama Sutra…
Stephanie and Simon
in
“Murder Afoot”
by Tee Hee Lawrence
Simon sighed and closed the book with a thwack.
“So?” asked Stephanie sweetly, her round eyes playfully arching over the eyeglasses perched on her nose. “Did you guess whodunit?”
“Yes—but way back on page 73,” he mumbled, stretching, another sigh morphing into a yawn.
“Your problem, Hon’,” she said, sweeping away the long strawberry blond lock which had tumbled to her nose, “is that you should be writin’ ‘em, not readin’ ‘em.” She turned a page of the book balanced on her tummy and settled deeper in the bedcovers. “Really. I’ll bet by now you’ve read a thousand mysteries.”
“At least,” Simon sniffed, removing a bit of lint from the comforter folded back at his waist. He
rubbed his trim black goatee, and then, folding his hands behind his neat head of wavy black hair, leaned
against the headboard.
She returned to reading the novel about a thirtysomething professional woman cynically embracing the singles scene in London. Each date the woman experienced—and the abortive relationship that sometimes resulted—seemed more bleakly hilarious than the one before. Steph was grateful that her
marriage to Simon, not quite a year earlier, happily spared her any similar nightmare in her thirties, which she would enter in just two weeks.
Simon coughed and belatedly added, “And that’s not counting several times that in short stories.”
Stephanie ill stifled a giggle at his delayed ploy to preclude her reading. Staring intently at her book, her blue gray eyes twinkled as she said, “Why, you’ve probably read about every kind of killer, using every possible means. Still, you’re clever, dear, and I’ll bet you could come up with a killer no one would suspect who murders someone in a way that no one’s used yet.” She cleared her throat and, nestling a bit further under the covers, resumed reading.
After a minute, Simon, again stroking his little goatee, murmured, “I wonder…” considering
his wife’s fetching profile, pale throat, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest under the comforter.
Rising to the bait, Steph, still focussed on her book, said, “’Course writing any mystery that would pass muster with a discriminating reader like yourself would require considerable research. I dunno… a couch potato like you might not be up to the discipline of the necessary spade work.”
His brown eyes cast an irritated look at her, she obviously straining not to crack a smile.
“How about a loving husband driven berserk by the sarcasm of his beautiful but overeducated wife?” he muttered.
“Yes, that’s a good start.” she chirped. Keeping her eyes front, she reached up and poked his naked side (He habitually went to bed wearing only pajama bottoms.). Trying to disguise her delight at his ensuing yelp and jump, she added, “A seemingly happily married professional couple. Good. Great demographics for a movie or TV adaptation. I love it!”
He comically shifted a bit away from her, pointedly guarding his ribs with his hands. Thus protected, he said, “Naturally, because he loves her so dearly, he tries to murder her in a gentle, maybe even an erotic way.”
“Hey, even better!” she beamed, pushing her glasses up her pert nose and tousling her copious strawberry-blond bangs. “Do you think we can get Drew Barrymore to play me—I mean, the wife?”
Simon would not be distracted. He slid over and spoke with warm conspiratorial breaths into her ear. “Me—Ah! Heh-heh! That is, the killer, he’s very careful to use a method that would leave no telltale clues, like lingering vestiges of poison or bloodstains or a traceable weapon. And he tries to take advantage of a great weakness of hers, known only to him.”
Steph pulled her glasses off and rested them on her book. She made a face and, finally turning to him, said, “Now, really, Simon, how corny can you be?”
Suddenly, he pulled up the covers, and dove headfirst under them, quickly crawling alongside her bare legs (for she habitually wore only a pajama top) to the foot of the bed.
Attempting to sit up, and sending her book and glasses flying in the process, she screeched “Simon! What are you doing?”
A muffled voice rose out of the comforter at the other end. “Research, my love! How else can a prospective best selling author learn if a sweet, unsuspecting wife can actually be tickled to death?” His
hands grabbed one of her warm feet, still moist from her pre-bedtime bath. He began to stroke along her smooth, soft sole with five frisky fingers.
Her arms flew into the air as she giggled, “Ha-ha! Leave-ha-leave my feet alone!” She tried kicking free of his grip. However, Simon, though he was actually two inch shorter than her full-figured 5’, 8”, was wiry and strong (thanks to the local Crunch gym), and held her ankle firmly. He managed to pin her other foot under him as well.
Allowing his fingers to teasingly meander over her peach-scented sole, he asked, “Would you say you were more ticklish here, m’dear—around the ball of your foot, or here, further along your sole, just before your Achilles heel?
Stephanie helplessly clawed at the comforter as she cried, “Ah-hahahaha! Will you stop? Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! Stop! Now!” Her apple cheeks were markedly reddening, and her large blue gray eyes were
beginning to water with tears of laughter.
Deaf to her distant, outside-the-covers pleas, Simon began feathering the pads of his fingertips
along her instep. “Or maybe this high, graceful arch is the spot to tickle-tickle-tickle!”
Now Stephanie was sputtering and snorting with giggles and chuckles. She’d closed her eyes, and
her head was rocking on her pillow as she giggled. “No-no-no! Si-ahhaha-Simon stahhahahaaap! Ehhehhehhehheh! Pleeheeheeheeheese!”
“No,” Simon decided, at her feet. “No, tickling any of these spots is no doubt effective, but hardly
lethal.”
“Will you stopahahahahahahahahaaaaaaa?” she wailed, hilarious.
“Stop?” came the muffled reply. “Not before I explore the fatal field…under your tiny toes!” His
strong fingers scrambled under her desperately clenching toes, stroking the tender flesh therein, and slid
with a cunning sawing motion between her small, soft digits. “Kitchey-kitchey-kitchey-coo!
Stephanie’s upper half practically rose off the bed in response, and she surrendered to howls of
laughter. “OHNONONAHHAHAHAHAHAHA! HEHHEH-HEHHEHHEH! YOU-HOOHOO- FIENDEEEEYAAHHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA!”
Simon chuckled wickedly as he happily tickled her toes, which he had, of course, known all along
were among his strong, smart, attractive, dignified, resolute, and usually quite unflappable lawyer wife’s quite hush-hush, don’t-you-dare-touch weak spots. He was quite beguiled by the wiggling of her tender toes amidst his fluttering fingers and the shrieks of laughter easily penetrating the down comforter. So beguiled, in fact, that he heedlessly allowed his own bare feet to extend from the head of the covers and to rest, unprotected soles up, in the valley between his pillow and Stephanie’s.
Rousing the fruity ham from within, Simon intoned from under the covers, “Die! Die! My darling! Pretty good, huh?”
Stephanie, tickled silly as she was, still recognized, through her hilarious tears, an opportunity for salvation when she saw it. Making the supreme effort in spite of her belly laughs, she directed her previously helpless hands to grasp one of his feet sticking out of the comforter. With strength born of desperation (and not a wee bit of the devil), she began to scratch his sole with the tips of her neatly manicured fingernails. She grinned and cried, “Ah-ha-ha-ha-haaa! Tickle-tickle-hehhehheh! We’ll-haha-see who dies first, sweeheeheeheeeetie!”
Perhaps it was the unexpectedness of her tickle counter. It might have been her short, but sharp, clear-polished nails. It may have been the giggly, breathless verbal teasing she subjected him to. Or maybe it was the fact that, if truth be told, he was just as vulnerable to purposeful tickling along his soles, upon his heels, beneath his ankles, under his arches, and between his haplessly sensitive toes as she was. Indeed, it must have been all of these that explain why he flagged in his tickling of her toes, and why he seemed to surrender to bursts of laughter directed into the mattress below. The heavy comforter weighed him down, making easy extrication from this position difficult, nigh impossible. What a ticklish situation he’d set up for himself!
“Hehheh-hehhehheh! Steph! Mercy-heeheehehhehhahahahaha! C’mon-ahhahahahahaaaa!”
Stephanie, still subject to his haphazard stroking of her soles, continued to laugh, but, rolling
onto the backs of his calves, redoubled her efforts and brought ten wiggling fingers to bear on his pale,
wrinkled soles. “Nowwahhahaha-I’ve got youhoohooheehee, tough guyaiaiahhahahahaaaaaaaaaaa!”
Simon, gasping with laughter, knew that much more of this, and he’d beg her to stop. There would
be no telling what usurious terms (He was an accountant, after all.) she’d impose upon him. He might have
to cook dinner every night for a month—or finally commit himself to cleaning out the garage! Horrors!
Forcing himself to grit his teeth against his exploding laughter, he muttered, “Heh-heh-heh-heh!
Time-heh-time to prehehhess the panic button!”
He managed to roll onto his side, facing her warm, smooth legs. He grabbed onto her knees for dear life and gained enough leverage to pull his feet back under the covers.
“Hey!” protested Steph. “Don’t spoil my fun!”
Pushing up against the comforter, he managed to tuck his knees under him, with his feet pointing
to the foot of the bed. He felt for Stephanie’s hips, clad only in a fabrically challenged pair of thin cotton panties.
Feeling his warm touches there, she giggled and yelped, “Now, ha-ha, wait a minute, Simon!
I have a case—Eeek! –a case first thing in the morning and…”
Clutching her hips, he pulled himself up until his mouth found her middle. He planted a long, slow, wet kiss upon her navel.
Stephanie’s blue gray eyes went wide and she shrieked, “No-ho-ho f-fair. Foul! Ha-ha-ha!”
He moved his lips lower down her wriggling torso, and Stephanie’s breath caught. She throatily whispered, “Oh-ho!” She gasped. “ S-so, t-that’s your game, eh-heh-eh?”
“Yeah,” Simon blurted between kisses and licks, “Death by excess pleasure.”
“Heh-heh! The perfect crime…” she sighed, and she disappeared under the comforter.
Afterword:
Any habitue of the TMF is aware of how great the imbalance on the Forum is of male to female
members. Now, perhaps it’s true that men need and more readily gravitate to erotic fantasy—when it can’t be bluntly dubbed pornography-- whereas women are more practical—or at least hardwired differently-- and rely less on, ah, inventive images and literature to stimulate the libido. I’m skeptical of the sweeping application of that commonly accepted notion, not least of which because it implies that, well, guys think ONLY with their dicks. (Uh, sure, but not ALL the time…)
Still, it’s evident that many, if not most, of the scenarios on this Forum focus on the torture of bound women. And, no doubt, many women, curious about and responsive to tickling, balk at them because of the bondage and torture, and the not-so-subtle misogyny that infuses the tales. It may, in part, explain why women may lurk on these boards, but refrain from joining and posting.
While I’ll confess to being an avid fan of and creator of such wicked scenarios, I appreciate that
many members—and I would assume more FEMALE members than not—would like to consider more
playful, romantic stories occasionally, something other than the basic threaten-trap-and-tickletorture
tales that predominate.
Thus, let me offer this, the “Stephanie and Simon” series, that I hope will both amuse and excite—in a credible and playful way, men AND women readers. (For those who prefer same-sex scenarios, feel
free to download and alter the names and descriptions of the protagonists in your files as you see fit.
What my pride doesn’t know won’t hurt it. Although, I’d be curious to read the variations…) In the belief
that there’s not enough of either tickling OR romance in this terror-riddled world, I hope to regularly post
these short romantic tickle roundelays. (That is, if I don’t succumb to my penchant for the aforementioned
t-t-and tt tales that bedevil my widdle mind…)
And I’d love feedback, not only on the stories, but the notion of more, ah, gentle approaches to
erotic tickling on the Forum, in the hopes of at least slightly redressing the imbalance of the sexes—and
sensibilities—on it.
(Uh-oh! It’s damned hard to reseal a can of worms. Y’know…)
*As it does contain a bit of material of an erotic (Well, I should THINK so!) nature,
it is meant only for readers 18 years and older. C’mon, kids, all the movies are already made
for you. At least leave us octogenarians the TMF.
*While experts agree that tickling is not essential to a happy marriage, I think there
would be a marked decrease in the need for divorce lawyers if wedded couples would only
use a feather as their bookmark in their bedside Kama Sutra…
Stephanie and Simon
in
“Murder Afoot”
by Tee Hee Lawrence
Simon sighed and closed the book with a thwack.
“So?” asked Stephanie sweetly, her round eyes playfully arching over the eyeglasses perched on her nose. “Did you guess whodunit?”
“Yes—but way back on page 73,” he mumbled, stretching, another sigh morphing into a yawn.
“Your problem, Hon’,” she said, sweeping away the long strawberry blond lock which had tumbled to her nose, “is that you should be writin’ ‘em, not readin’ ‘em.” She turned a page of the book balanced on her tummy and settled deeper in the bedcovers. “Really. I’ll bet by now you’ve read a thousand mysteries.”
“At least,” Simon sniffed, removing a bit of lint from the comforter folded back at his waist. He
rubbed his trim black goatee, and then, folding his hands behind his neat head of wavy black hair, leaned
against the headboard.
She returned to reading the novel about a thirtysomething professional woman cynically embracing the singles scene in London. Each date the woman experienced—and the abortive relationship that sometimes resulted—seemed more bleakly hilarious than the one before. Steph was grateful that her
marriage to Simon, not quite a year earlier, happily spared her any similar nightmare in her thirties, which she would enter in just two weeks.
Simon coughed and belatedly added, “And that’s not counting several times that in short stories.”
Stephanie ill stifled a giggle at his delayed ploy to preclude her reading. Staring intently at her book, her blue gray eyes twinkled as she said, “Why, you’ve probably read about every kind of killer, using every possible means. Still, you’re clever, dear, and I’ll bet you could come up with a killer no one would suspect who murders someone in a way that no one’s used yet.” She cleared her throat and, nestling a bit further under the covers, resumed reading.
After a minute, Simon, again stroking his little goatee, murmured, “I wonder…” considering
his wife’s fetching profile, pale throat, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest under the comforter.
Rising to the bait, Steph, still focussed on her book, said, “’Course writing any mystery that would pass muster with a discriminating reader like yourself would require considerable research. I dunno… a couch potato like you might not be up to the discipline of the necessary spade work.”
His brown eyes cast an irritated look at her, she obviously straining not to crack a smile.
“How about a loving husband driven berserk by the sarcasm of his beautiful but overeducated wife?” he muttered.
“Yes, that’s a good start.” she chirped. Keeping her eyes front, she reached up and poked his naked side (He habitually went to bed wearing only pajama bottoms.). Trying to disguise her delight at his ensuing yelp and jump, she added, “A seemingly happily married professional couple. Good. Great demographics for a movie or TV adaptation. I love it!”
He comically shifted a bit away from her, pointedly guarding his ribs with his hands. Thus protected, he said, “Naturally, because he loves her so dearly, he tries to murder her in a gentle, maybe even an erotic way.”
“Hey, even better!” she beamed, pushing her glasses up her pert nose and tousling her copious strawberry-blond bangs. “Do you think we can get Drew Barrymore to play me—I mean, the wife?”
Simon would not be distracted. He slid over and spoke with warm conspiratorial breaths into her ear. “Me—Ah! Heh-heh! That is, the killer, he’s very careful to use a method that would leave no telltale clues, like lingering vestiges of poison or bloodstains or a traceable weapon. And he tries to take advantage of a great weakness of hers, known only to him.”
Steph pulled her glasses off and rested them on her book. She made a face and, finally turning to him, said, “Now, really, Simon, how corny can you be?”
Suddenly, he pulled up the covers, and dove headfirst under them, quickly crawling alongside her bare legs (for she habitually wore only a pajama top) to the foot of the bed.
Attempting to sit up, and sending her book and glasses flying in the process, she screeched “Simon! What are you doing?”
A muffled voice rose out of the comforter at the other end. “Research, my love! How else can a prospective best selling author learn if a sweet, unsuspecting wife can actually be tickled to death?” His
hands grabbed one of her warm feet, still moist from her pre-bedtime bath. He began to stroke along her smooth, soft sole with five frisky fingers.
Her arms flew into the air as she giggled, “Ha-ha! Leave-ha-leave my feet alone!” She tried kicking free of his grip. However, Simon, though he was actually two inch shorter than her full-figured 5’, 8”, was wiry and strong (thanks to the local Crunch gym), and held her ankle firmly. He managed to pin her other foot under him as well.
Allowing his fingers to teasingly meander over her peach-scented sole, he asked, “Would you say you were more ticklish here, m’dear—around the ball of your foot, or here, further along your sole, just before your Achilles heel?
Stephanie helplessly clawed at the comforter as she cried, “Ah-hahahaha! Will you stop? Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha! Stop! Now!” Her apple cheeks were markedly reddening, and her large blue gray eyes were
beginning to water with tears of laughter.
Deaf to her distant, outside-the-covers pleas, Simon began feathering the pads of his fingertips
along her instep. “Or maybe this high, graceful arch is the spot to tickle-tickle-tickle!”
Now Stephanie was sputtering and snorting with giggles and chuckles. She’d closed her eyes, and
her head was rocking on her pillow as she giggled. “No-no-no! Si-ahhaha-Simon stahhahahaaap! Ehhehhehhehheh! Pleeheeheeheeheese!”
“No,” Simon decided, at her feet. “No, tickling any of these spots is no doubt effective, but hardly
lethal.”
“Will you stopahahahahahahahahaaaaaaa?” she wailed, hilarious.
“Stop?” came the muffled reply. “Not before I explore the fatal field…under your tiny toes!” His
strong fingers scrambled under her desperately clenching toes, stroking the tender flesh therein, and slid
with a cunning sawing motion between her small, soft digits. “Kitchey-kitchey-kitchey-coo!
Stephanie’s upper half practically rose off the bed in response, and she surrendered to howls of
laughter. “OHNONONAHHAHAHAHAHAHA! HEHHEH-HEHHEHHEH! YOU-HOOHOO- FIENDEEEEYAAHHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA!”
Simon chuckled wickedly as he happily tickled her toes, which he had, of course, known all along
were among his strong, smart, attractive, dignified, resolute, and usually quite unflappable lawyer wife’s quite hush-hush, don’t-you-dare-touch weak spots. He was quite beguiled by the wiggling of her tender toes amidst his fluttering fingers and the shrieks of laughter easily penetrating the down comforter. So beguiled, in fact, that he heedlessly allowed his own bare feet to extend from the head of the covers and to rest, unprotected soles up, in the valley between his pillow and Stephanie’s.
Rousing the fruity ham from within, Simon intoned from under the covers, “Die! Die! My darling! Pretty good, huh?”
Stephanie, tickled silly as she was, still recognized, through her hilarious tears, an opportunity for salvation when she saw it. Making the supreme effort in spite of her belly laughs, she directed her previously helpless hands to grasp one of his feet sticking out of the comforter. With strength born of desperation (and not a wee bit of the devil), she began to scratch his sole with the tips of her neatly manicured fingernails. She grinned and cried, “Ah-ha-ha-ha-haaa! Tickle-tickle-hehhehheh! We’ll-haha-see who dies first, sweeheeheeheeeetie!”
Perhaps it was the unexpectedness of her tickle counter. It might have been her short, but sharp, clear-polished nails. It may have been the giggly, breathless verbal teasing she subjected him to. Or maybe it was the fact that, if truth be told, he was just as vulnerable to purposeful tickling along his soles, upon his heels, beneath his ankles, under his arches, and between his haplessly sensitive toes as she was. Indeed, it must have been all of these that explain why he flagged in his tickling of her toes, and why he seemed to surrender to bursts of laughter directed into the mattress below. The heavy comforter weighed him down, making easy extrication from this position difficult, nigh impossible. What a ticklish situation he’d set up for himself!
“Hehheh-hehhehheh! Steph! Mercy-heeheehehhehhahahahaha! C’mon-ahhahahahahaaaa!”
Stephanie, still subject to his haphazard stroking of her soles, continued to laugh, but, rolling
onto the backs of his calves, redoubled her efforts and brought ten wiggling fingers to bear on his pale,
wrinkled soles. “Nowwahhahaha-I’ve got youhoohooheehee, tough guyaiaiahhahahahaaaaaaaaaaa!”
Simon, gasping with laughter, knew that much more of this, and he’d beg her to stop. There would
be no telling what usurious terms (He was an accountant, after all.) she’d impose upon him. He might have
to cook dinner every night for a month—or finally commit himself to cleaning out the garage! Horrors!
Forcing himself to grit his teeth against his exploding laughter, he muttered, “Heh-heh-heh-heh!
Time-heh-time to prehehhess the panic button!”
He managed to roll onto his side, facing her warm, smooth legs. He grabbed onto her knees for dear life and gained enough leverage to pull his feet back under the covers.
“Hey!” protested Steph. “Don’t spoil my fun!”
Pushing up against the comforter, he managed to tuck his knees under him, with his feet pointing
to the foot of the bed. He felt for Stephanie’s hips, clad only in a fabrically challenged pair of thin cotton panties.
Feeling his warm touches there, she giggled and yelped, “Now, ha-ha, wait a minute, Simon!
I have a case—Eeek! –a case first thing in the morning and…”
Clutching her hips, he pulled himself up until his mouth found her middle. He planted a long, slow, wet kiss upon her navel.
Stephanie’s blue gray eyes went wide and she shrieked, “No-ho-ho f-fair. Foul! Ha-ha-ha!”
He moved his lips lower down her wriggling torso, and Stephanie’s breath caught. She throatily whispered, “Oh-ho!” She gasped. “ S-so, t-that’s your game, eh-heh-eh?”
“Yeah,” Simon blurted between kisses and licks, “Death by excess pleasure.”
“Heh-heh! The perfect crime…” she sighed, and she disappeared under the comforter.
Afterword:
Any habitue of the TMF is aware of how great the imbalance on the Forum is of male to female
members. Now, perhaps it’s true that men need and more readily gravitate to erotic fantasy—when it can’t be bluntly dubbed pornography-- whereas women are more practical—or at least hardwired differently-- and rely less on, ah, inventive images and literature to stimulate the libido. I’m skeptical of the sweeping application of that commonly accepted notion, not least of which because it implies that, well, guys think ONLY with their dicks. (Uh, sure, but not ALL the time…)
Still, it’s evident that many, if not most, of the scenarios on this Forum focus on the torture of bound women. And, no doubt, many women, curious about and responsive to tickling, balk at them because of the bondage and torture, and the not-so-subtle misogyny that infuses the tales. It may, in part, explain why women may lurk on these boards, but refrain from joining and posting.
While I’ll confess to being an avid fan of and creator of such wicked scenarios, I appreciate that
many members—and I would assume more FEMALE members than not—would like to consider more
playful, romantic stories occasionally, something other than the basic threaten-trap-and-tickletorture
tales that predominate.
Thus, let me offer this, the “Stephanie and Simon” series, that I hope will both amuse and excite—in a credible and playful way, men AND women readers. (For those who prefer same-sex scenarios, feel
free to download and alter the names and descriptions of the protagonists in your files as you see fit.
What my pride doesn’t know won’t hurt it. Although, I’d be curious to read the variations…) In the belief
that there’s not enough of either tickling OR romance in this terror-riddled world, I hope to regularly post
these short romantic tickle roundelays. (That is, if I don’t succumb to my penchant for the aforementioned
t-t-and tt tales that bedevil my widdle mind…)
And I’d love feedback, not only on the stories, but the notion of more, ah, gentle approaches to
erotic tickling on the Forum, in the hopes of at least slightly redressing the imbalance of the sexes—and
sensibilities—on it.
(Uh-oh! It’s damned hard to reseal a can of worms. Y’know…)
