Francie_Pants
TMF Poster
- Joined
- May 6, 2008
- Messages
- 148
- Points
- 0
Hey, this is the first one I've written in a while. I've just been busy. Hope you like!
I'd been home for about an hour, after getting off work and grabbing some quick McDonald's take out, on the way home. I was lounging around the house in some old faded jeans, and a tank top, barefoot, with the music turned up loud, while I worked on my laundry. I'm a big country music fan, so I had a John Anderson CD filling my house with all of his biggest hits.
I had apparently forgotten to lock the front door, and because of the music, couldn't hear when someone slipped inside. Singing out loud, and dancing badly, I was making quite the fool of myself. All at once, I felt an arm come around me, and a hand go over my mouth. I panicked, and then started kicking, squirming and screaming.
Unable to see behind me, I could ascertain by the size and strength that it was a man. He heaved me over to a dining room chair, as if I was a rag doll. He slammed me into the chair, and showed me a gun.
"Sit still, and be quiet, if you wanna live."
Not keen on the idea of dying, just yet, I opted for stillness and silence. I tried to look out of the corner of my eyes, to see what he was doing. He took rope, that had been hanging from his arm, and pulled my arms behind me, over the back of the chair, crossed the wrists, and tied them tightly together, tying the rope off to the lowest back slat of the chair.
He severed that rope from the role, and continued by wrapping more rope around my upper body, just under the breasts, all the way around my arms. After a few loops, he cut the remaining rope off, and made another knot.
Taking a step of faith, I spoke.
"What do you want?"
That was apparently more than he need to hear at the time, because the next thing I knew, he was forcing a cloth into my mouth, and then covering it with a few strips of duct tape. So much for communication.
Then, he went for my right leg, grabbing the ankle and pulling my foot back, so that it pointed back behind the chair, and began tying the ankle to the back right chair leg. I buy my jeans long, so even with my knee bent, the denim still covered my ankle, so it served as a slight cushion, as he tied the rope tightly around the ankle, and then to the chair.
This was a long roll of rope. After cutting the end remainder off, yet again, he did the same with the left foot, tying the ankle to the back chair leg in identical fashion.
As if I wasn't helpless enough, already, he added to it, by looping more rope around each front corner of the seat, and through the each front chair leg, tying my knees down to the sides of the chair. I began to worry about why he would think he should need such excessive binding measures.
I looked back, but he had on a ski mask, and I saw no familiar features, otherwise, so I had no clue who he was. He pulled out another chair, and sat down in front of me.
"So....Francie...we need to talk,” He said. "Well, I need to talk, you just need to listen."
If that was all, why didn't he just call me on the telephone? My urge to pose such a question was dimmed by the fact that I was gagged, and with little other option revealed to me, I was listening.
"It has come to my attention that a friend of mine is attracted to you," the burglar continued. "I can't say that I blame him, but apparently his wife doesn't either. She blames you. She claims that even though you may not be interested in him, you don't seem too eager to discourage his advances."
My eyes were getting wider as he spoke. It narrowed things down a lot, but not completely. There were at least three married men that I was in close association with, on a daily basis, who were quite flirtatious. The gag was good, because the next series of attempts I made at talking might as well have been a dog barking at him, because he just stared blankly and smiled.
"Doesn't matter what you think or what you have to say,” he went on. "I've been paid to come here and give you some incentive to clean up your act"
As he spoke, he was rising and walking around behind me. I tried to look back over my shoulder and follow him, but he did something strange. He squatted behind me. My feet were sticking out, past the back legs of the chair, with the ankles bound to them, and I could practically feel his stare on them, as he spoke again.
"Mmmm, purple toenail polish. Very cute. You must be quite the tease."
I was angry now. Who the hell did he think he was? He didn't know me. I started to tug furiously against my restraints, shaking my head in frustration, as my efforts went unrewarded. The ropes held fast.
My whole body surged, as he began to drag his fingers slowly and softly up and down my right sole. His fingers worked methodically, making repeated traces from my heels to the tips of my toes, on just my right foot. He wasn't messing with the left one yet. Stroke after stroke, he repeatedly teased the sole of my right foot, while I tried my best not to respond.
It was hell. I was trying so hard to refrain from responding with laughter, that I actually started to sweat. I felt the bead run down my forehead, and along the side of my face. If he would have just stopped for a second, or two, I might have stood a chance. He didn't though. He just kept right one. Up and down. Up and down. Heel to toes and back, and again. Ten times. Fifteen times.
By the time I started laughing, I had lost count of how many times he had dragged his fingers up and down my sole, but I didn't care anymore. I only wanted for it to stop. When I thought sure that he was about to wind it to a close, I felt that dreaded sensation of fingers beginning to caress my left sole.
My feet were spread far apart, due to their binding to the opposite back chair legs, so that they were in no position to try and protect one another. I don't think they could have been much help to each other anyway, but at least I would have felt better, for knowing that I was at least trying. I wiggle my poor feet this way and that, but his tracing fingers just followed their movements.
He wasn't saying anything either. That probably made it worse, not having any monologue to focus some of my concentration on. Cackling like an angry hen, I shook the chair with the intensity of my struggles, but he made sure that I was never able to tip it over or jerk it away from his relentlessly tickling fingers. The minutes seemed like hours, as he recognized and honed in on my particularly sensitive arches. Planting his thumbs against the balls of my feet, he clawed his short fingernails up and down in my arches for what seemed like ages, while I could do nothing but sit there and shake my head, jerk my head this way and that, and squirm, laughing loud enough that he could enjoy it, but due to the gag, not loud enough that there was any worry about being heard, outside of my house.
Then, I thought he was stopping, but I was wrong. He was just moving on up. I felt his hands creeping up under my shirt, from my waist, and went ballistic, trying to rock forward, and curl up to protect my ribs and stomach. Wasting no time, he began to reach his fingers until they almost met in the center of my ribcage, dig them in and pull backwards. With each backwards pull, he wiggled and clawed, driving me into deep gut guffawing hysterics.
My ribs were like a xylophone. The higher he moved his hands upward, the higher my laughter got in pitch. I was red in the face, and struggling to breathe, because a person can only breathe so much, through the nose. With tears streaming from my eyes, I could only try to make muffled pleas for mercy and hope he understood me. Whether he understood me or not, I can't really say, but he didn't stop.
While I was still reeling from the impact of the rib tickling, he was already pushing his hands down the top of my pants, and giving my hip creases a thorough probing. While he was doing that, I was checking out the first 30 years of my life, because they literally flashed before me. I felt sure that I was just going to die, right there, of ticklish laughter.
Apparently he wasn't real happy with his freedom of movement, because he unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, to loosen them a little, and then went back to work. I'd have offered him everything to make it stop, but he didn't seem interested. He seemed to prefer my gagged noises.
I was hoping he'd not go there, too, but he wasn't leaving out my armpits. He went there next, giving them a thorough scraping with his rough skinned fingers. The feeling can't be described. It tickled so much, that I thought sure my brain was going to go into overload and shut down, from the massive inflow of sensory stimulation. By this time, I was mostly exhibiting silent laughter, which was only got worse, when he moved his focus back to my feet again.
He didn't have to go there, he really didn't. He had made his point, and now my feet were more sensitive than ever. The only thing keeping me from blacking out from, the strain of the consistent torment was my high metabolism, which always seems to give me a higher level of endurance than I would choose, were I given the choice.
Finally, it seemed like he was stopping. He stood up and backed my chair out further from the table, and pulled his up, so that he could sit directly in front of me. From the bag he brought with him he pulled out on of those big, bulky pairs of scissors like you use when cutting cloth or plastic.
I looked at him, questioningly. He smiled and reached down between my legs, pulling out on my panties and cut right down the middle of the front of them. Then he did the same with my jeans, cutting around until he could spread the panties and my jeans apart enough to have easy access to my womanhood.
I quaked inside, as he held up a feather, so that I could see it. He then inched it closer and closer to my nether lips. He apparently wanted to see me squirm, and he got to. I know now why he tied my knees like that. No matter how much I squirmed and tugged, I couldn't back myself or lift myself away from the approaching feather. Whimpering with helpless frustration, I groaned into the gag, and burst into a high pitched fit of squeaky, girly giggles, as he began to rub the sides of the feather along and between my labia.
He knew what he was doing, and I knew it, and it scared me. He had no intentions of bringing me pleasure; he was just going to torture me with the hints of it. And it would be torture, not just from the physical aspect, but in the humiliation aspect, that no matter how much I might despise him and hate the fact that he is doing it to me, my organs down there have a mind of their own, and don't always listen to the one in my head.
Were I not so distracted by how much it tickled, I might be have been able to concentrate, and control myself better, but the mixture was just too much for me to handle. Screaming and wrenching against the bindings, I could feel my nub hardening, brought to attention by the ulterior stimulations of the tickling. I was laughing so hard, though, that I couldn't possibly think of anything disgusting to turn me off. He had my undivided attention, in one way or the other.
"Anybody you work with ever been down here, Francie?" He was teasing me now. I'm not like that, and he knew it, and he knew how much it would anger me for him to talk like that.
"You sure are responding, positively, to this." I hated it, but I couldn't keep my body from responding like that. The tickling up to that point had greatly sensitized my body, so that it was inescapable.
Whimpering and groaning through my laughter, I could feel the feather getting wet, as my own moisture began to coat it. The more it tickled, the more it stimulated sexually, it was a double whammy. The more my hatred for this person grew, the more he seemed to be playing me to his tune.
By the time he stopped, I was a mess of nervous confusion, shaking like a windblown leaf, as I slumped there in the chair. He hadn't given me enough pleasure to bring me to climax, just enough to torture me.
He untied the ropes, and left me lying in the floor, still recovering.
"I hope you keep it up, Francie. I'd love to come do this again, sometime."
I'd been home for about an hour, after getting off work and grabbing some quick McDonald's take out, on the way home. I was lounging around the house in some old faded jeans, and a tank top, barefoot, with the music turned up loud, while I worked on my laundry. I'm a big country music fan, so I had a John Anderson CD filling my house with all of his biggest hits.
I had apparently forgotten to lock the front door, and because of the music, couldn't hear when someone slipped inside. Singing out loud, and dancing badly, I was making quite the fool of myself. All at once, I felt an arm come around me, and a hand go over my mouth. I panicked, and then started kicking, squirming and screaming.
Unable to see behind me, I could ascertain by the size and strength that it was a man. He heaved me over to a dining room chair, as if I was a rag doll. He slammed me into the chair, and showed me a gun.
"Sit still, and be quiet, if you wanna live."
Not keen on the idea of dying, just yet, I opted for stillness and silence. I tried to look out of the corner of my eyes, to see what he was doing. He took rope, that had been hanging from his arm, and pulled my arms behind me, over the back of the chair, crossed the wrists, and tied them tightly together, tying the rope off to the lowest back slat of the chair.
He severed that rope from the role, and continued by wrapping more rope around my upper body, just under the breasts, all the way around my arms. After a few loops, he cut the remaining rope off, and made another knot.
Taking a step of faith, I spoke.
"What do you want?"
That was apparently more than he need to hear at the time, because the next thing I knew, he was forcing a cloth into my mouth, and then covering it with a few strips of duct tape. So much for communication.
Then, he went for my right leg, grabbing the ankle and pulling my foot back, so that it pointed back behind the chair, and began tying the ankle to the back right chair leg. I buy my jeans long, so even with my knee bent, the denim still covered my ankle, so it served as a slight cushion, as he tied the rope tightly around the ankle, and then to the chair.
This was a long roll of rope. After cutting the end remainder off, yet again, he did the same with the left foot, tying the ankle to the back chair leg in identical fashion.
As if I wasn't helpless enough, already, he added to it, by looping more rope around each front corner of the seat, and through the each front chair leg, tying my knees down to the sides of the chair. I began to worry about why he would think he should need such excessive binding measures.
I looked back, but he had on a ski mask, and I saw no familiar features, otherwise, so I had no clue who he was. He pulled out another chair, and sat down in front of me.
"So....Francie...we need to talk,” He said. "Well, I need to talk, you just need to listen."
If that was all, why didn't he just call me on the telephone? My urge to pose such a question was dimmed by the fact that I was gagged, and with little other option revealed to me, I was listening.
"It has come to my attention that a friend of mine is attracted to you," the burglar continued. "I can't say that I blame him, but apparently his wife doesn't either. She blames you. She claims that even though you may not be interested in him, you don't seem too eager to discourage his advances."
My eyes were getting wider as he spoke. It narrowed things down a lot, but not completely. There were at least three married men that I was in close association with, on a daily basis, who were quite flirtatious. The gag was good, because the next series of attempts I made at talking might as well have been a dog barking at him, because he just stared blankly and smiled.
"Doesn't matter what you think or what you have to say,” he went on. "I've been paid to come here and give you some incentive to clean up your act"
As he spoke, he was rising and walking around behind me. I tried to look back over my shoulder and follow him, but he did something strange. He squatted behind me. My feet were sticking out, past the back legs of the chair, with the ankles bound to them, and I could practically feel his stare on them, as he spoke again.
"Mmmm, purple toenail polish. Very cute. You must be quite the tease."
I was angry now. Who the hell did he think he was? He didn't know me. I started to tug furiously against my restraints, shaking my head in frustration, as my efforts went unrewarded. The ropes held fast.
My whole body surged, as he began to drag his fingers slowly and softly up and down my right sole. His fingers worked methodically, making repeated traces from my heels to the tips of my toes, on just my right foot. He wasn't messing with the left one yet. Stroke after stroke, he repeatedly teased the sole of my right foot, while I tried my best not to respond.
It was hell. I was trying so hard to refrain from responding with laughter, that I actually started to sweat. I felt the bead run down my forehead, and along the side of my face. If he would have just stopped for a second, or two, I might have stood a chance. He didn't though. He just kept right one. Up and down. Up and down. Heel to toes and back, and again. Ten times. Fifteen times.
By the time I started laughing, I had lost count of how many times he had dragged his fingers up and down my sole, but I didn't care anymore. I only wanted for it to stop. When I thought sure that he was about to wind it to a close, I felt that dreaded sensation of fingers beginning to caress my left sole.
My feet were spread far apart, due to their binding to the opposite back chair legs, so that they were in no position to try and protect one another. I don't think they could have been much help to each other anyway, but at least I would have felt better, for knowing that I was at least trying. I wiggle my poor feet this way and that, but his tracing fingers just followed their movements.
He wasn't saying anything either. That probably made it worse, not having any monologue to focus some of my concentration on. Cackling like an angry hen, I shook the chair with the intensity of my struggles, but he made sure that I was never able to tip it over or jerk it away from his relentlessly tickling fingers. The minutes seemed like hours, as he recognized and honed in on my particularly sensitive arches. Planting his thumbs against the balls of my feet, he clawed his short fingernails up and down in my arches for what seemed like ages, while I could do nothing but sit there and shake my head, jerk my head this way and that, and squirm, laughing loud enough that he could enjoy it, but due to the gag, not loud enough that there was any worry about being heard, outside of my house.
Then, I thought he was stopping, but I was wrong. He was just moving on up. I felt his hands creeping up under my shirt, from my waist, and went ballistic, trying to rock forward, and curl up to protect my ribs and stomach. Wasting no time, he began to reach his fingers until they almost met in the center of my ribcage, dig them in and pull backwards. With each backwards pull, he wiggled and clawed, driving me into deep gut guffawing hysterics.
My ribs were like a xylophone. The higher he moved his hands upward, the higher my laughter got in pitch. I was red in the face, and struggling to breathe, because a person can only breathe so much, through the nose. With tears streaming from my eyes, I could only try to make muffled pleas for mercy and hope he understood me. Whether he understood me or not, I can't really say, but he didn't stop.
While I was still reeling from the impact of the rib tickling, he was already pushing his hands down the top of my pants, and giving my hip creases a thorough probing. While he was doing that, I was checking out the first 30 years of my life, because they literally flashed before me. I felt sure that I was just going to die, right there, of ticklish laughter.
Apparently he wasn't real happy with his freedom of movement, because he unbuttoned and unzipped my pants, to loosen them a little, and then went back to work. I'd have offered him everything to make it stop, but he didn't seem interested. He seemed to prefer my gagged noises.
I was hoping he'd not go there, too, but he wasn't leaving out my armpits. He went there next, giving them a thorough scraping with his rough skinned fingers. The feeling can't be described. It tickled so much, that I thought sure my brain was going to go into overload and shut down, from the massive inflow of sensory stimulation. By this time, I was mostly exhibiting silent laughter, which was only got worse, when he moved his focus back to my feet again.
He didn't have to go there, he really didn't. He had made his point, and now my feet were more sensitive than ever. The only thing keeping me from blacking out from, the strain of the consistent torment was my high metabolism, which always seems to give me a higher level of endurance than I would choose, were I given the choice.
Finally, it seemed like he was stopping. He stood up and backed my chair out further from the table, and pulled his up, so that he could sit directly in front of me. From the bag he brought with him he pulled out on of those big, bulky pairs of scissors like you use when cutting cloth or plastic.
I looked at him, questioningly. He smiled and reached down between my legs, pulling out on my panties and cut right down the middle of the front of them. Then he did the same with my jeans, cutting around until he could spread the panties and my jeans apart enough to have easy access to my womanhood.
I quaked inside, as he held up a feather, so that I could see it. He then inched it closer and closer to my nether lips. He apparently wanted to see me squirm, and he got to. I know now why he tied my knees like that. No matter how much I squirmed and tugged, I couldn't back myself or lift myself away from the approaching feather. Whimpering with helpless frustration, I groaned into the gag, and burst into a high pitched fit of squeaky, girly giggles, as he began to rub the sides of the feather along and between my labia.
He knew what he was doing, and I knew it, and it scared me. He had no intentions of bringing me pleasure; he was just going to torture me with the hints of it. And it would be torture, not just from the physical aspect, but in the humiliation aspect, that no matter how much I might despise him and hate the fact that he is doing it to me, my organs down there have a mind of their own, and don't always listen to the one in my head.
Were I not so distracted by how much it tickled, I might be have been able to concentrate, and control myself better, but the mixture was just too much for me to handle. Screaming and wrenching against the bindings, I could feel my nub hardening, brought to attention by the ulterior stimulations of the tickling. I was laughing so hard, though, that I couldn't possibly think of anything disgusting to turn me off. He had my undivided attention, in one way or the other.
"Anybody you work with ever been down here, Francie?" He was teasing me now. I'm not like that, and he knew it, and he knew how much it would anger me for him to talk like that.
"You sure are responding, positively, to this." I hated it, but I couldn't keep my body from responding like that. The tickling up to that point had greatly sensitized my body, so that it was inescapable.
Whimpering and groaning through my laughter, I could feel the feather getting wet, as my own moisture began to coat it. The more it tickled, the more it stimulated sexually, it was a double whammy. The more my hatred for this person grew, the more he seemed to be playing me to his tune.
By the time he stopped, I was a mess of nervous confusion, shaking like a windblown leaf, as I slumped there in the chair. He hadn't given me enough pleasure to bring me to climax, just enough to torture me.
He untied the ropes, and left me lying in the floor, still recovering.
"I hope you keep it up, Francie. I'd love to come do this again, sometime."
