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After Prom Night

MWC0000

Registered User
Joined
Mar 21, 2008
Messages
4
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This is my first story on these forums. It's a little different from others in that it focuses almost exclusively on underarm tickling. I have no foot fetish and wanted to depart from the 'cookie-cutter' foot-tickling focus so prevalent on these forums.

Unlike most other stories here, this one has an actual story after the actual tickling scene. It's not very realistic, but I wrote it in for the fun of it and to give the story what I thought was a cute ending.

It's a long one; hope you enjoy.

*****



“So... are you going to take my purse?”

It seemed like the outright dumbest question an 18-year-old girl could ask while standing on the street with her hands high in the air, staring down the barrel of a .22 revolver pointed at her breast... but the man pointing the gun at her, had been simply standing there and watching her stand in front of him, with her hands high in the air, for over a full minute and a half; seemingly with nothing better to do than look at her.

The mugger blinked at Melissa and finally flashed a lopsided grin with a leering look. “Well, you see, it’s just that I have this fetish about armpits...”

Melissa’s date for the prom had offered to walk her to her girl friend Cathy’s house, where the two of them and some of their other girl friends were going to have a sleepover as a wonderful conclusion to what had been a wonderful prom. All the girls had painstakingly put their outfits together, worked out together so they could dance all night, held down after-school jobs to pay for as much of the associated costs as they could. Prom was everything they could have hoped for and more, and the sleepover was to top the night off. The road leading to Cathy’s house was closed for at least 6 blocks each way due to construction, and Melissa’s date had offered to walk her to the house. But Melissa knew he was tired and his parents wanted him home by x-time, and assured him she could make it. If only she’d known about the man lurking in the shadows a mere two and a half blocks away from her destination....

Melissa couldn’t really blame the man for staring at her, even though it naturally made her uncomfortable as hell. Her prom dress was canary yellow, with ruffles up the sides of the halter front panel that ended in a point from which extended ribbon-like ties around her neck. A fluffy bow cinched the waist of her dress, and the skirt descended in three flounced tiers to a hem just above the middle of Melissa’s kneecaps. Dark yellow beads about the size of a baby’s fingernail decorated the hem all around. Extra material in the skirt produced a swing effect while she danced at the prom. Melissa was wearing light beige stockings knit from the sheerest yarn the manufacturer worked with; the fibers caught the light in a way that made her legs appear to have a light shimmer. Her prom shoes were black evening sandals with ankle-wrap straps and a webbing of straps over the base of her toes, with a small, man-made, dark yellow carnation right at the base of each middle toe. Melissa’s toenails were unpolished, but her fingernails were deep pink and carefully manicured to an almond-shape, each nail about a centimeter past the skin of her fingertips. Her lipstick was likewise a deep pink, and her eyeshadow dark blue to complement her green eyes. Minimal mascara accentuated her full eyelashes, and a few flakes of dark yellow glitter were arranged down her cheeks, which shone naturally with a minimal of foundation and a mere hint of blush. She wore her long, dark blonde hair piled loosely atop her head, held in place with a few pins and some hairspray. A few strands on either side were left down to frame her face. Faux pearls adorned Melissa’s silver snowflake earrings, and she wore an imitation gold necklace with a dark yellow tourmaline drop pendant. She wore her corsage on her left wrist; the flowers were dark yellow carnations. She was the perfect vision of teenage beauty, despite the quite frightened look on her face.

Before Melissa could contemplate the man’s answer to her question, he had leaped forward in a blur of dark clothing and pressed a cloth over her face. Her struggles were pure instinct, but she was athletic and pretty strong for a girl her age... and yet her strength was a mere child’s compared to his. The fact that a sweet odor from the cloth was making her suddenly quite sleepy, didn’t help matters either. She slumped in his arms as her eyes fluttered closed.

The first thing Melissa became aware of was her wrists. They ached with a dull ache, and she felt something rough against them. Her circulation wasn’t cut off, but they were very uncomfortable. As her awareness started to increase, she realized her arms were still high in the air with her hands well above her head.

She wasn’t standing up, though... she could feel she was sitting down. The plush cushion supported her quite comfortably. Her back was against a hard wooden backrest; however, she could feel a pillow between it and her back. Something felt rough against her ankles and made them start to ache with the same low, dull ache that was affecting her wrists.

“Whmmm?”

Melissa’s light moan made her feel something soft and gauzy covering her mouth.

Melissa’s eyes opened to a dim light shining above her, highlighting her body in all of its glamour. She was sitting on a bed. And she was tied up.

Melissa could see the tan hemp rope tied around her ankles, holding them firmly together. Another rope extended from her tied feet to the footboard of the bed. Her wrists were tied to the headboard, keeping her arms high above her head, though her elbows were loose and lightly bent. She was tied up quite tightly despite the free circulation in her limbs.

“Hmmmmrrr?”

This complete garbling and muffling of the intended word, hello, made Melissa realize that she was gagged. She could feel soft cloth loosely packing her mouth, with a second cloth tied around her head, between her lips, to hold it in. Finally a soft white gauzy strip of cloth was tied around her head, covering her mouth completely. Melissa’s gag was tied very securely but she felt she could breathe through her mouth normally.

Despite the dim light, Melissa thought she could make out the lens of a camera about seven feet behind the footboard of the bed. The lens was pointed straight at her. Just what she could see of this camera made it look very high-tech and able to capture both a wide angle shot of her whole body, and also crisply sharp close-ups of any part of her body that the operator chose.

Melissa turned her head to the side and saw her abductor watching her. Seeing that she was awake, he nodded to her with an almost amiable nod as he rose from a chair and stepped to the camera.

“Now that you’re awake,” he said, “It’s time for the fun to begin.”

Melissa couldn’t imagine what kind of fun could be in store for her while she was tied up and gagged in what appeared to be some kind of warehouse basement, or possibly the basement of her captor’s house... but she realized that the ‘fun’ was probably only going to be fun for him.

Melissa saw her captor take two electric toothbrushes and duct tape the handles together side by side, so that the brush heads stood a mere inch or so apart, the bristles facing the same way. Then he did the same with two more electric toothbrushes. These were somewhat older models, the kind that turned on and off manually instead of deactivating automatically with the aid of two-minute timers.

“I told you that I had this fetish about armpits,” Melissa’s captor explained. “With your wrists tied as they are, the hollow curvature of your underarms stands out quite invitingly. Perfectly exposed and helpless for my little instruments.”

A look of stark terror filled Melissa’s beautiful face as she realized what her captor meant. Her head trashed from side to side and she cried out in long, muffled cries into her gag in anguished protest.

“You’ll find that I can be quite merciful under the right circumstances,” Melissa’s captor went on. “If at any time you beg for mercy, you will have it right away. As soon as you beg for it, you will get mercy.”

The arch in the man’s eyebrows and the slightest hint of a grin on his lips proved it wasn’t as simple as that.

His next words were taken right out of Melissa’s mind.

“Of course, it’s not as simple as that,” he said. He looked right at her lovely face and stated the obvious. “You’re gagged. Quite securely, too. As long as you’re gagged, you will be unable to beg for mercy, or for anything. But...” a tinge of hope, either false or real, colored his next words. “If you should manage at any time to free your mouth from your gag—how is not important—mercy and release is a mere plea away.”

His talent for over-stating the obvious aside, Melissa’s predicament was laid out for her in clear terms. A few beads of perspiration glistened on her forehead. It was not the temperature in the room. Melissa’s captor stepped behind the headboard of the bed and reached the electric toothbrushes around the central wooden panel of the headboard. The lighting in the room was arranged to hide him from camera view; except, of course, for his hands and the implements of torture held in each.

Melissa began to struggle in her bondage. Her feet were tied in such a way that although her legs and feet were held firmly together, she was able to kick and flail them about with a limited degree of mobility. Her upper body had far less mobility. A rope around her hips and pelvis kept her upper body anchored firmly against the headboard, and the ropes around her wrists made sure her arms and hands stayed high in the air. Her hands were apart from each other by a little less than the width of her shoulders, meaning there was no reaching for the bondage on either wrist, with the other hand. Gagged whimpers of pure fear filled the air as Melissa could hear the faint sonic hum of the toothbrushes being activated.

The brush bristles made contact with the smooth skin of Melissa’s armpits, and Melissa let loose a piercing squeal. Ever so gently, ever so slowly, the brush bristles glided over the rims of Melissa’s armpits, and her body lit up with the sensation of a throbbing electric-like tingle. The air was alive with the peal of girlish giggles as Melissa’s lips were pulled inexorably into a beaming smile under her gag. The tingle changed to a feeling of thousands of ants crawling through Melissa’s upper body just beneath her skin. She wrenched at the bondage restraining her wrists; her arms bucking like wild broncos against the ropes. Melissa was no girl scout, yet she could almost swear she could feel her bondage somehow tighten as her arms wrenched against their pitiless grasp. Still the brush bristles made their continuing revolutions around the rims of Melissa’s armpits. The contact of the soft bristles against her skin was the most gentle sensation, and yet it was pure torture.

The more Melissa struggled against her bondage, the tighter it felt. She could get no leverage, and no part of her body could co-operate with another. Her fingers writhed frantically, but the knots were well out of reach. She was reduced to bucking against the hip restraint and wrenching her hands downward in desperate attempts to pull her arms down protectively over her armpits, and each time her wrist bondage held fast, her feelings of helplessness and hopelessness weighed down on her body more heavily. Melissa’s face turned light red as her peals of giggles grew louder. She had no sense of time in the throes of her torture. She had no idea of how long the tickling had been going on; only a panicked sense that her armpits would be tickled for a long time more to come. Melissa’s armpits were easily the most hyper-sensitive part of her body, and the relentless tickling, working in concert with the mercilessly tight bondage holding her arms and hands high above her head, plunged the prom girl into the depths of terror and despair.

The brush bristles began to reach inward along the arching hollows of Melissa’s armpits, probing unmercifully along every inch of skin and over the hollowest centers. Melissa’s giggles were more like part squeal, part shriek. She could feel her gag become damp with spittle where it was pulled into her mouth. The outer gauzy cloth kept her from drooling, thankfully, but it also kept her lips from moving and enunciating any sound. The cloth packing her mouth held her tongue down and immobile, and all her squeals were little more than piercing “mmmmhhhh---hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm-hm” cacophonies. Melissa’s shapely legs flailed from side to side, up and down, to whatever degree permitted by the rope that extended from her ankle bondage to the footboard of the bed. All the flailing of her legs only made her ankle bondage feel tighter than ever, but worse, it drew the hem of her dress millimeter by millimeter higher up over her knees and up her thighs, revealing more of her legs to the camera. The dim light winked in faint shimmering along the ultra-sheer fabric of Melissa’s stockings. Melissa didn’t even notice any of this; another small mercy against the relentless tickling of her armpits. The ever-so-gentle sliding of the brush bristles over her skin traced elaborate patterns along the rims of her armpits, into the hollow arches and up and down the centers. Even as Melissa’s giggles went nearly ballistic, somehow the words of her captor began to ring in her brain, like a last hope against her complete inability to bear the tickling any longer...

“...if you should manage at any time to free your mouth from your gag, mercy and release is a mere plea away.”

The continued wrenching of Melissa’s wrists against her wrist bondage was pure reflex; her subconscious continuing the helpless struggle to yank her arms down protectively over the hyper-sensitive skin of her armpits even as her wrist bondage held firm. None of her struggles had made any of her bondage the least bit slacker. The only thread of hope was her voice. How was not important, her captor said... only if she could free her mouth from her gag. The brush bristles continued their unmerciful tickling of Melissa’s armpits without letup. She had to dislodge her gag or... there was no ‘or.’ Melissa’s gag was the only thing between her and the mercy her captor promised her.

The camera zoomed in on Melissa’s upper body, showing her face almost as if it were a mere twelve inches from the lens. Her head began to trash wildly from side to side. She threw her head about so hard that her neck quickly became sore from the effort. The shaking alternated between slower, more forceful movements of her head from one side to the other (which made her head feel dizzier), and much more rapid, lighter shaking of her head, which twisted the skin of her neck more. Her lips writhed wildly under the gauzy cloth that covered them. She strained her head up toward her hands, as far as her neck would go. Her fingers writhed wildly, snapping like pincers in frantic attempts to grab hold of her gag and pull on it.

They never came close. Her hands were fifteen inches over her head. The pins holding her hairdo in place fell out and her hair tumbled in loosely flowing locks around her shoulders, still offering full view of her face as she struggled frantically against her gag. Her tongue pushed up and out against the confines of the cloth loosely packing her mouth, wildly thrashing to push against the cleave-gag under the gauzy cloth over it. But the knot in Melissa’s gag were safely out of reach at the nape of her neck, and a pillow behind her head made sure the knot could not be rubbed against the headboard. The cloth did not move a millimeter up or down as it hugged the contours of Melissa’s face. The ballistic volume of Melissa’s giggles remained at a fever pitch, but her tearful pleas were robbed of any enunciation; her lips pulled unmercifully taut not only by her cleave-gag, but her forced smile under the gauzy cloth over-the-mouth gag. Her tongue held immobile by the loosely packed cloth in her mouth. Melissa’s neck throbbed with pain, but Melissa’s gag remained as securely tied in place as when she awoke. Tears flowed freely down Melissa’s cheeks, leaving broken dark tracks from her mascara. The phrase, ‘laugh until you cry’ took on a horribly macabre twist as the tickling continued with the most gentle, and yet most torturous, gliding of the electric toothbrush bristles.

Melissa’s skin felt like innumerable ants were crawling in a frenzy underneath. The electric-like sensation almost made her hair seem to stand up on end. Suddenly she felt her head stop shaking; she felt her legs stop flailing; she felt her hands stop yanking against her wrist bondage. Her girlish peals of squealing giggles continued without letup, but the rest of her body would hardly move. She wasn’t becoming numb, or else the unbearably ticklish sensation throughout her armpits would have ebbed. Complete and total panic filled Melissa’s mind as she realized that the tickling was making her lose control over her voluntary muscles. Her breathing became labored as her heart flopped like a toad in her breast; her lungs straining to suck in air. The gauzy material of her over-the-mouth gag allowed air into her mouth freely, and the loose packing in her mouth let it down her throat unobstructed, but she had barely enough control over her muscles for her chest to expand and contract. Every effort by her brain to move any of her muscles was being subconsciously directed to her breathing, causing the rest of her body to go slack and still. Quickly the camera view zoomed out to show the whole of Melissa’s body, with occasional dips down toward her legs, playing along her sheer stockings, and toward her groin area. Melissa was unaware of the camera’s movements, but she was agonizingly aware that the loss of control over her muscles meant that she had no control over a particular muscle—her bladder. She’d drank plenty of water to keep well hydrated during the prom so she could dance longer. And now she could feel her bladder start to squeeze.

Melissa sobbed and squealed into her gag incoherently in helpless protest. She couldn’t even close her eyes as her bladder gave a final contraction and she began to pee.

Melissa could feel the growing warmth and wetness in her groin as she peed. The camera showed the dark stain forming on her dress. Her shame crushed her underneath its terrible weight. Still her torture continued without letup, and now she was peeing... and she was utterly helpless to even struggle any further. Her body allowed no actions except to giggle uncontrollably, and squeeze her bladder completely empty. Melissa’s panties and stockings were soaking wet.

Melissa couldn’t bear it any longer. Her body had been tortured beyond limits she couldn’t imagine having had. She was broken and shamed past the boundaries of her imagination. Her armpits were tickled relentlessly and ruthlessly. Whether a minute or two hours had passed since her bladder had finally emptied and began to twist itself around her cervix, she had no idea; Melissa had no sense of time during the ordeal and it seemed like eternity. The world around her began to spin in dizzying revolutions; she felt like she was floating... the ants crawling under her skin seemed to move faster and faster. Melissa was sure that her mind was finally about to snap. Her torture was stripping her very sanity away. She was convinced that in another few minutes she would be hopelessly mad with little grip left on reality and little cognition of anything other than to sit and stare blankly into space. Melissa shrieked into her gag with a piercing shriek and sobbed hysterically in pure terror.

The volume of her sobs made it impossible for Melissa to hear the faint hum of the toothbrushes cease as the deactivation buttons were pressed. But from somewhere far away, with the last vestiges of her consciousness, she could feel the rushing of the ants to and fro under her skin start to ebb... the wild electric sensation slowly fade away. Dizziness crashed down upon her in wild circles as her head tipped forward and her eyes sagged closed; her subconscious forcibly shutting her body down and thrusting her into deep sleep... the only method left of protecting her.

Melissa awoke to the warm feeling of the early morning sun on her face. She felt her hand drift up over her eyes. Slowly her fingers parted enough to let her peek between them. She gradually became aware that she had been lain on her own front porch, covered to her neck in the comfort of a soft, thick cotton blanket. A fluffy down pillow cradled her head and neck. Her wristwatch, taken off her wrist during her captivity, had now been replaced. It read 10:15 am. It was just before midnight when she had been abducted. Just how long she had been tortured, and when she finally passed out from it, she couldn’t even begin to guess. Her purse lay beside her, her wallet stuffed hastily into it. Her kidnapper had probably looked through it to find her address and bring her to her home after she passed out.

Melissa’s parents both worked for the same company, and had been ordered to Austin, Texas the previous morning on business. Their daughter’s prom night or not, either they headed there right away or their services at their respective jobs were no longer required. Luckily Melissa was a big girl and could take care of herself for two days. They weren’t due home until early tonight. Now she was profoundly glad for that.

Six messages from Cathy were on her answering machine, each one progressively more anxious, and a little annoyed. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the sleepover had long since ended. Melissa called back to apologize profusely and explain that after her date dropped her off six blocks away from Cathy’s house, she had started walking and suddenly began to feel very ill; most likely an injudicious mixture of fruit punch, seven-layer cake, and pasta primavera with garlic and oil (the bulk of what Melissa had eaten during dinner when the group she and her date traveled with, went to a nice restaurant before the prom began). A cab happened to be passing along an adjacent side street so she turned around and flagged it down, riding it home and finally calming her stomach down with a generous dose of Pepto-Bismol and a long sit-down session with the john. Unwilling to trust her body with further exertion, she had changed into sweats, crawled into bed and was out like a light. The anxiety in Cathy’s voice gradually faded into relief that her best friend was now okay. She promised to hold another sleepover in a week just for the fun of it, and Melissa promised to be there. She was equally relieved that her story had sold.

Melissa washed her prom dress three times in the washing machine before she was satisfied that it was clean and no tell-tale signs of her urine remained. Her stockings and her panties she simply threw out, certain they had been saturated beyond cleansing, and they were cheap enough to replace, anyway. Her shame and anguish at the ordeal were so deep she didn’t dare breathe a word to her parents when they got home. She simply smiled broadly as they stepped through the doorway, and nearly fainted again at the overwhelming sense of comfort she felt as her father hugged her.



It wasn’t until Melissa left for college that her parents knew something was wrong. The signs were subtle, but she’d changed since prom night. She had stopped dressing up... she wore a casual, slightly oversized pantsuit to her going-away party with a long-sleeved turtleneck under her jacket. It looked appropriate enough, but Melissa’s parents knew their daughter better than that. She avoided traveling alone at night whenever she could. Not the most unsound behavior, but the neighborhood was safe enough (wasn’t it?), and she’d never been afraid before—otherwise she’d have begged her date to walk her to Cathy’s house for the sleepover instead of assuring him she could walk six blocks down the closed road, on her own. Melissa’s prom date would be the perfect steady boyfriend for Melissa, if you asked her mother, but they only saw each other twice more before the relationship was done... the young man didn’t talk about it, but Melissa’s mother was sure he saw the same subtle signs she saw; probably more he wasn’t talking about.

Halfway into Melissa’s upper freshman term at college, her parents finally knew they had to do something. Her new dorm roommate, an Asian-American girl named Nariko, wrote them a letter to introduce herself and chit-chat a little about life at the dorm. Nariko’s description of how she perceived Melissa was something that made Melissa’s parents almost certain she was talking about the wrong girl; only a photo sent along with the letter, showing Nariko and Melissa together, proved otherwise. Nariko described Melissa as very nice, very smart, with a pretty smile and a helpful demeanor... but very quiet and almost withdrawn. She attended social functions almost like a duty, and often left early. She was happiest studying for exams in the quiet of her dorm room. Few boys on campus seemed interested in dating her, even if people liked her enough as a person.

Melissa’s father shook his head at that description Nariko gave. That was not the social butterfly, life of the party, boys-falling-at-her-feet girl who’d proudly attended and then graduated from his alma mater just a short time ago.

Melissa’s father called the school guidance counselor and spoke with her. Despite his urgings, the counselor dutifully reassured him that transition from high school to college was a difficult and sometimes frightening time, and that Melissa reminded her of herself when she was a college freshman. By sophomore year, she’d have returned to her old self. She gently urged Melissa’s parents to be a little more patient and give their daughter a little more time.

At the end of her lower sophomore term, however, Melissa had only become more withdrawn and shy. She jumped at her own shadow at night. Her parents didn’t notify her that they were going to fly out there in two days and get counseling for her—professional if they felt it appropriate.

She attended a party at a neighboring dorm room. On the second floor, on her way back down to the party after using the bathroom, four young men suddenly began trying to feel up her body, making comments that sounded like, ‘is this how it was like before?’ and ‘c’mon, show us that terrified look’ and of course, the dreaded ‘coochie coochie coo’ sound. One playfully put a hand over her mouth as the others tried to grope and tickle her about her shoulders and sides. She struggled desperately, but their grip on her, although gentle, was firm, and there were four of them and only one of her. Their fingers ran up and down her sides, across her ribs and stomach like... ants over a picnic basket. Her screams of protest were muffled to a soft whimper by the broad hand of the largest boy covering her mouth. Fingers probed around her neck, moving to another part each time her head thrashed to try and protect it.

Suddenly two hands began probe up her sides and under her arms. Melissa's eyes bugged wide as saucers as fingers began to wriggle into her armpits.

A muffled shriek of utter terror penetrated the hand covering her mouth as her armpits were tickled, and only the soundproofing of the floors and halls in the dorm room stopped everyone from running to investigate. Her body quickly began to thrash and jerk about as if she were having an epileptic seizure. Her eyes snapped shut as she fainted from the shock.

She came back to her senses a few minutes layer, laying on the bed of one of the men who’d accosted her. The four men watched over her with looks of terror on their faces. The one who’d covered her mouth, had his hand bandaged—she’d bitten his palm hard enough to leave a stinging welt.

Scared as all hell of being arrested, they explained by showing her an internet website that showed pornographic .avi files from around the world. This didn’t phase Melissa so much as college students had their own vices, including their growing sexuality, and looking at porn sites wasn’t so unheard-of an occurrence among the campus student body, even if frowned on by faculty and the more serious-minded. But then they showed her a two-minute video clip they’d downloaded; a sort of teaser for a series of tickling vignettes that was pending release on DVD. Melissa’s eyes bugged out in horror. The clip was of her, on prom night, during her tickle-torture ordeal. She fought a sensation of rising bile as she saw herself from a third-person perspective for the first time. She saw the camera view play up her flailing legs, seeming to catch every glint of the overhead lamp’s dim light along her sheer stockings. She saw the view slowly zoom in on her face when she’d thrashed her head about in a desperate attempt to slip her gag off. She saw the camera dip teasingly down to show a view of her breasts straining against the front-panel of her halter dress as her body heaved oxygen into her lungs. The clip even had a caption that showed her real first name. The name ‘Melissa’ appeared at the top of the screen in elegant white video calligraphy.

The students thought she’d been paid to act in the video; probably to get money to help pay for college. After all, the clip used her real first name, and the website showed a disclaimer, ‘All models are at least 18 years of age--’ which was true for her, even at the time of her abduction. This was why all the young men at the party had flashed fawning smiles at her. This was why several of the jocks seemed interested in talking to her. All the boys at the dorm had seen the video. It was like they had a real star at their party.

Melissa burst into sobs and fled the dorm room, leaving everyone scratching their heads in puzzlement. When her parents arrived on campus, they’d been told Melissa had packed her belongings and left that morning—headed home.



The senior yearbook that formerly stood as a centerpiece in Melissa’s room had once been opened to the graduation photo she’d posed for. Captions read titles she’d earned in voting polls: Miss Senior Popularity, Most Likely to be Prom Queen (she’d been beaten in that election by only three votes, the closest in the school’s history), Most Likely to be Famous.

That yearbook now lay with Melissa’s prom dress and prom shoes in a dusty old trunk on the floor of her closet, and only the fact that she’d forgotten they were there prevented her from throwing them out... or burning them.

Melissa would have graduated college six months ago... if she’d stayed. She’d have been a Magna Cum Laude graduate with a degree in Media Arts. She’d probably have earned a generous scholarship to a prestigious acting school; this school had requested a preliminary interview with her a few months before she’d dropped out of college. All of her girl friends from high school had lost touch with her; she stopped answering their letters and they finally gave up. They’d graduated college, had good jobs with potential for careers, and a number of them were engaged to be married; Cathy was already married to a handsome husband with a good career of his own. But Miss Most Likely to be Famous had turned out to be Miss Black Sheep of the senior class.

A now 21-year-old Melissa still lived with her parents, heading nowhere fast. She didn’t date. Few boys were interested in her anyway; she was so shy, withdrawn, and almost even... anti-social. She had to force herself to smile, and when she did, her smile had no warmth to it. Her parents had sent her to three therapists and a psychiatrist, all of whom regretfully reported that she wouldn’t open up to them. She’d been diagnosed with clinical depression, for reasons the psychiatrist couldn’t determine because Melissa was quiet as a clam. Her voice was a soft hush completely unlike videotapes taken during her early high school years. She’d been placed on medication, though Melissa’s parents were sure she didn’t actually take it. She worked as a waitress in a small diner, doing morning shifts only. She didn’t go out at night. She didn’t shop and dressed down to hide her body. She had no social life to speak of; evenings were spent listening to music, watching TV or exercising in her room, and she kept fit only for reasons of personal health. She didn't even dance to the music she listened to, any more, although she played it while exercising; probably just to set a rhythm.

Melissa seemed headed for a mediocre life waiting tables and never leaving the nest, and it seemed her parents would never be able to retire. They didn’t like it, but they didn’t have the heart to put her out of the house.

They didn’t know it, but things were about to change.



Melissa got home from work one Thursday afternoon, just before dusk. Her parents were on another business trip and not due home until the following evening. A letter was waiting for her in the mailbox; an air mail letter with a return address in... Bangkok, Thailand?

Melissa was going to throw the letter away as junk mail but curiosity got the better of her. She opened the letter and looked at it. It was a letter from a media production company called Morales Star. Certainly an odd name for a Thai company, since Morales was a Spanish name.

The letter was expressing gratitude to Melissa for her role in the company’s growth, and sending her royalty payment on several years’ worth of profits gained from the company’s premiere release. The company treasurer, as the letter explained, had no record of her address and only finally taken the time to locate her.

Melissa laughed at the letter, thinking it was ridiculous or just had the wrong person, but then she saw the name of the production release the letter spoke of: ‘Tickle-Tortured Teens.’

The letter flew out of Melissa’s hands and down to the ground as her hands flew up to her mouth and she let out a shriek of total horror. The next-door neighbor heard her scream and came running to make sure she was all right; Melissa apologized to him and assured him she had just thought she saw a mouse, but it was just a few leaves turning over in the mid-spring breeze. Sick to her stomach, Melissa picked up the letter and crumpled it in her hands. She was going to burn it and the rest of the envelope when the royalty check the letter spoke of, slipped partway out of the envelope and Melissa saw the amount of it.

Melissa snapped her eyes shut; shook her head until it rattled. She rubbed her eyes with her hand, convinced a speck of dust had gotten in them. She looked at the check again.

1,000,000 Thai Baht.

One MILLION Thai Baht??!?!

A small sticky on the corner of the check explained that this was the Baht equivalent of $ 31,675.60 in US Dollars.

Melissa’s parents returned home to see their daughter smartly dressed in a black pinstripe skirt suit that fit her like a young woman executive on a job interview. She wore daysheer hosiery that matched her skin tone and low-heel black pumps suitable for an office, and was holding a slim briefcase. She hugged them both and explained she had to hurry out of town for now, and she’d write back to explain, soon as she could. Too excited to let their confusion drive them to questions, they waved after her as she got in the cab that had come to pick her up, and wished her good luck.



Paco Morales, president of Morales Star Media Productions, was on top of the world. He dealt in hard porn of all types, and was honored the world over as the self-titled ‘Sultan of Smut.’ Rather than scoff at the derogatory term for adult entertainment, he reveled in it and flaunted it in the faces of his critics. He was wealthy to a fault and lived a life of riches and leisure. Almost three-quarters of all the pornographic media circulating through East Asia’s sexually-oriented media fan population, his company had some hand in helping to produce or distribute.

Whoever would have thought that his empire all began one late spring night when he indulged in an armpit fetish... with an innocent 18-year-old American girl on her way home from prom.

Paco didn’t marry... too many gorgeous women were ready to offer him their sexual favors in return for a chance to be in a video. He never met a woman that made him want to give up all the rest. When his doorbell rang one evening, he figured it to be one of several prospective clients he was due to interview for a role. He went to the door and answered it.

The woman that marched brazenly into the foyer of his lavish house was the last person on Earth he ever expected to see again.

Paco edged nervously away, looking ready to bolt for the back door any second and run outside screaming for the police. She looked undoubtedly older... she had to be close to 22 now... but there was no mistaking the green eyes or the smile. It was Melissa. How on Earth she had located his home...

Melissa answered his question without needing to hear it. “I was able to ask around... hire the right person. It wasn’t hard after depositing the royalty check.”

Paco was sure Melissa had a concealed weapon somewhere on her body and was about to pull it out and try to kill him. Her skirt suit, which made her appear the professional secretary or office worker, could have had something hidden within... and the large blue duffel bag she carried looked big enough to hide a sawed-off shotgun... and it was filled with something bulky.

“Nice place,” she said with an impressed grin. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

Paco didn’t know what to say. He settled on “Thank you.” He figured he should be saying his prayers as well, but Melissa made no threatening moves.

He stood and stared at her for what was probably a full minute. Finally she held out the duffel bag. “So, are you going to take my bag?” she said.

Déjà vu. Aside from one word’s differential, that was the first thing she ever said to him, when he first confronted her on that darkened stretch of street a little less than four years ago.

He reached out nervously to take the bag. She smiled at him and shook her head. “It’s not going to blow up,” she said.

“So what is it?” he asked.

“Well, you’re the expert,” she said. “Hopefully the tools and toys in there are up to standards.”

He looked inside the duffel bag and found a few sets of padded leather cuffs with sturdy buckle closures. There were two sets for the wrists, two for the ankles, judging by the slight differential in size. He saw a few leather straps suitable for fastening the cuffs to something heavy, like a post, or a chair... or a bed. He saw some soft white cloth sheets, and some large squares of white gauzy bandaging material... with a surgical scissors suitable for cutting the material into strips of various sizes. There were two harness-style red ball-gags, and two rolls of white surgical tape. He saw a catalog for various fetish costume outfits, including French Maid, Nurse, Police Officer, Secretary, and Disco Dancer. There was a catalog for black patent shoes with heels ranging from three to five inches high. There was a catalog for fishnet stockings, seamed stockings, pantyhose of various shades of black, beige and white, all of the sheerest nylon. There were several long feathers and two feather dusters. There was a portable charger for batteries, and rechargeable electric hand devices. Like electric toothbrushes...

He looked back up at Melissa. “I don’t understand.”

Melissa chuckled and folded her arms across her breast. “Didn’t you learn anything from all your years in the media production business?” she asked. “Always plan for sequels. Even the most awful movies out there have plenty.”


Melissa's school girl costume would make any man hard just watching her wear it. The skimpy white blouse had very short sleeves and was cut low enough that her cleavage seemed to almost spill out. The green plaid miniskirt came up to mid-thigh. Dressy, sheer white over-the-knee socks enhanced her legs and her feet were shod with black T-strap Mary Jane shoes, the kind girls no older than fourth grade age wore with their school uniforms. Melissa's long hair was pulled into two ponytails at either side of her head with elastic bands tipped with large pink beads on each end. Paco’s assistant was dressed as a stern school principal and Paco stood behind the camera. Melissa was strapped down to a large desk and was wearing one of the red ball-gags. A small metal ring that served as a juncture for several straps in the harness holding the ball in Melissa’s mouth, pressed very lightly against her forehead, just above and between her eyes. Hidden under her skirt was a white undergarment used by adults with incontinence. It was to protect her outfits from stains.

As the ‘principal’s’ fingers began gliding over Melissa’s armpits, and the sensation of ants crawling under her skin began to explode through her body, one thing was different this night... Melissa didn’t want to get loose. Of course she would try... she would try to slip her gag off... have to play to the audience, after all... but she prayed she wouldn’t succeed. She would wear her gag as long as the camera kept rolling—and she’d giggle all the way to the bank. With the exchange rates between US Dollars and Thai currency... she’d live the rest of her life like a queen.
 
So... nobody has anything to say?

This story has been hit close to 600 times, but I have no idea if anyone read any further than the disclaimer before the story proper, that it was an underarm-tickling story and contained no foot tickling.

I'm not looking to be lauded, but all writers at least like to know that their work is being read. This was my first story for these forums, and I'm interested in whether anyone has any interest at all, in my planning to write another. Many people here have posted many stories... does anyone have any interest in seeing me post a second?

Is there any 'market' here for underarm-tickling stories, or is it all only about the feet?
 
well me being a feet tickling guy i have to say i enjoyed the story and what a nice twist at the end... never would have thought she wanted to go and make a sequal!
 
So... nobody has anything to say?

This story has been hit close to 600 times, but I have no idea if anyone read any further than the disclaimer before the story proper, that it was an underarm-tickling story and contained no foot tickling.

I'm not looking to be lauded, but all writers at least like to know that their work is being read. This was my first story for these forums, and I'm interested in whether anyone has any interest at all, in my planning to write another. Many people here have posted many stories... does anyone have any interest in seeing me post a second?

Is there any 'market' here for underarm-tickling stories, or is it all only about the feet?

Nah you never know when people will comment on your stuff. There’s for sure people who are into the story I myself thought it was really good with a nice twist at the end. Know exactly how you feel lol
 
After a prom night, They are so appealing and addicting to watch Asian porn videos because of the asian sexy girls...fucking awesome... I always watch them here at asian porn websites by http://asianpornwebsites.com. For sure, you will watch asian sex here until dawn. :)
 
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