tied and tickled (m/f): for deadlywiffeathr

***Originally Posted by deadlywiffeathr

wat would u do if u walked into a room and i was tied spread eagle to the bed, in my bra and underwear, with a blindfold on, surrounded by a selection of tickling tools

be creative and use PLENTY of detail!!!! hehe***


Hi all, the above message was posted a few years ago in a sub-forum. I found the thread, and just responded to it with a story I was inspired to write, but realized no one would probably see it. So I copied it to the story forum, which is where I suppose it belongs. This is the first part, I will write more as time allows (and if anyone likes it). Extra points if you can identify all the movie references.

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MISTAKEN IDENTITY, Part 1


I open the door, slowly. The door creaks. I love how the door creaks: without fail, the bound prisoner within will tense at hearing the sound, alert and fearful. She does not know what is happening. You, my prisoner, do not know what is happening.

"Who -- who's there?" you ask in a quavering voice.

"Be still, my dear," I offer softly. You turn toward me as you hear my approach. You flip your head from side to side, trying to hear as much as possible, in compensation for being blindfolded. "Hello, my prisoner. I will be your tormentor. You may call me--Tormentor."

"GET ME OUT OF HERE!" You struggle at your bonds, but you can barely move. My assistants have done well, as they always do. You are spread-eagled, nice and tight, but not too tight, making a beautiful X on the tickle table. An array of tools is laid about; a vast array. I am a craftsman, you see, and I need a myriad of tools. "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON? LET ME GO!"

I chuckle; you jump. "Oh, my sweet morsel, I will indeed let you go. Once you tell me the combination to the box." The box is in my hand: small, but made of thick hardened steel, with a 10-position alphanumeric combination. I have been told, by the forensics team, that any attempt to force it open might very well damage the delicate data card inside. It would take weeks to break the combination, and we do not have weeks to spare. Our best hope is to extract the combination from the one who knows it. Extracting information is my work. And I am passionate about my work. Obsessed with it, some have said.

"WHAT BOX? WHAT BOX? GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"

"Oh, my delicious prisoner, I will get you out. Only I can get you out, in fact. None other." I lean close, whispering in your ear. "You only need to tell me how to open the box. I want so much to see inside the box." Your whole body shudders as my words invade you: intimately cruel. "If you just tell me the code, we can avoid the harrowing tortures I have planned for you."

"WHAT TORTURE! DON'T HURT ME! OH GOD, DON'T HURT ME!"

I caress your cheek; you yelp at the touch, then relax as you sense there is no threat in the gesture. "Relax, my delicious puppet," I whisper. "I would never hurt you. My torments... are far worse than pain."

"OH GOD! OH GOD HELP ME!"

"God?" I ask. "Your god has abandoned you. Your new god is... tickling. And I am its manifestation."

You shriek in fear, in frustration, in terror; a long, wailing "nooooooooooooooooo!!!" I look carefully at your lush body: the soft curves, the glowing skin, the deep, round navel; the tender feet and delicate toes. Yes, I would imagine you are quite ticklish. Otherwise, you would not have reacted this way.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHAT DO YOU WANT? JUST LET ME GO, I'll DO ANYTHING, DON'T TICKLE ME, OH PLEASE--"

"Anything? Anything, Kylie? Just tell me the code. You have ten seconds to tell me the code. When I count down to zero, I will take this sable hair brush... and do you know what I will do with it?"

"WHAT? WHAT? WHY ARE YOU CALLING ME KYLIE?" You begin to pant, your chest heaving. Goooood, gooood. You are suffering from tickle torment before I even touch you. Your own imagination is more powerful than any implement I can use. Sometimes I think the fear of tickling is worse than the tickling itself. When I have time, I will need to perform some clinical studies on this theory. But now, I must attend to you.

"What I will do is start at your wrist, and slowly drag it down your forearm, with just the slightest hint of a touch, down to the hollow of your underarm. And then start back at your wrist, all over again. And again. Slowly. Delicately. I am told that my tickle tortures are... unbearably excruciating."

I count backwards, whispering the numbers in your ear. You scream NO! with each number. You quiver, and I see goose bumps on your arms. I know that a whisper can tickle so much, causing spasms and shivers. I am nothing if not cruel.

Finally... zero. "Are you certain, my savory treat, that you will not tell me what I want to know? Tell me, Kylie, and avoid my merciless interrogation."

"WHAT THE HELL WHAT THE HELL, MY NAME IS NOT KYLIE, WHO ARE YOU WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO MEEEEEEEE--"

She is more well trained than I suspected. She even denies her own name. She gives me nothing. Not at the moment, anyway. To look at her, one would think she is the sweet girl next door. It is difficult to believe this adorable young lady is a hardened operative. Yet, she has been discovered, and captured, and others have done their job. I must do mine. I always do mine.

"Please, please tell me the code. Don't make me do this to you. I have watched too many prisoners lose their sanity this way."

"WHY DO YOU KEEP CALLING ME A MORSEL AND A TREAT WHAT AM I A DAMN PASTRY I DON'T KNOW ANY DAMN CODE YOU FREAK I WON'T TELL YOU ANYTHING--"

"Really?" I lament. "Well then, I hope that relentless tickle agony... is something you enjoy."

Your shrill cries pierce the room as I drag the soft, wide brush slowly down your arm, into your soft underarm, where I twirl it. You arch off the bed, mouth open in a silent cry; I can only imagine your eyes bulging wide, but it is not time to take off the blindfold, not yet. Yes, very sensitive on the underarms.

"I see your underarms are quite sensitive. Do you really want to endure this? I have so many tools... and I will try them all on you. Tell me something." I lean in close, whispering, conspiratorial. "Do you think it is a greater torture if I use a very soft brush, or a firm brush? Do you think a wider brush is more cruel, or a fine point? I can spend hours finding out."

Your answer is a desperate wail. This does not help me unlock the box.

"Your screams do not help me unlock the box, dear Kylie. Please just tell me the code. I don't think you can endure as many days of this as I am prepared to visit upon you."

"WHO THE HELL IS KYLIE YOU ARE A SADISTIC FREAK LET ME GO--"

You do not know how much I crave a voluptuous navel. Such a thing is my secret desire, my guilty pleasure as some might say. Others crave strong drink, or cigarettes, or chocolate; I crave only some soft, plush flesh to tickle without end, and most of all, like a cherry on a delicious sundae, or the fudge frosting on a dark chocolate brownie, I crave a deep, round navel as the delightful garnish. You have such. I cannot resist. I grasp the ultrasonic toothbrush.

"Yes, my delicacy, I am a sadistic freak... but you are a devious criminal... my employers are waiting outside, to hear what you know... and you see, to them, you're a freak... like ME!" I cackle madly; you respond with a shrill screech. "Do you know what I have in my hand?"

"HOW THE HELL CAN I SEE YOUR HAND WITH THIS BLINDFOLD YOU MORON--"

"Very well... you will pay for your lack of vision. Now, young Kylie... you will suffer." I push the button; the toothbrush hums; and I plunge the bristles deep into your perfect navel.

Your body heaves and spasms as if shocked. The muscles in your neck are strained; your mouth open in a silent scream; your soft tummy quivering as you squirm and thrash. I grin with delight as I satisfy my need to lavish relentless tickling on a helpless navel. After two minutes, alas, the timer on the ultrasonic toothbrush stops. I hate those damned timers.

Your arched body falls back on the bed, your chest heaving as you gasp for breath. I brush your damp hair away from your face, and blow cool breath on the flushed pink skin between your neck and the top of your breasts. You speak between gasps.

"oh please... just stop... don't know... some code... you've got... wrong girl..."

Oh, you're good. A lesser man would be fooled. But not I. Besides, I live to practice my art. My art is tickling--and you are my canvas. I plan to create a masterpiece.

I reach down and caress your soft tummy with my fingertips, drawing slow circles, occasionally plunging my finger deep into your navel, burrowing and wiggling, then sliding it out and tracing around the rim. You squeal, giggle, sigh and squirm. I love to watch you writhe at my tickling touch. It is said that Adam and Eve were created, not born, and thus did not have navels; and that all who were born after were formed in the womb, and thus had an umbilicus. Some call the fall of Adam and Eve a sin; I call it a gift, for without that fall, there would be no bellybuttons for me to ravage. I'm told my reasonings sometimes cross the border of sanity. If that is so, then I revel in my insanity--so long as I can spend my days tickling.

I stop and let you rest. I need the information soon, but it can wait a little while, and I don't want to break you too quickly. Truth be told, most of my prisoners tell me everything within minutes. While I am considered the best at what I do, I am always bitterly disappointed when my prey are weak and vulnerable. An operative who can resist for hours is a rare delight. One who can resist for days is absolute ecstasy. I have high hopes for you, my sweet. Even if you tell me the code, I will convince the Section Coordinator that I believe you have more information, and I need to work you thoroughly for days to come... perhaps, for weeks. I know that, when I am done, you will be thoroughly broken and exhausted, compliant, devoid of will, empty of hope, stripped of resistance. Then, if I am so lucky, as a reward for my service, they will let me keep you as my own personal tickle toy. But now I must depart from this self indulgence and return to the task at hand.

"You realize you cannot resist for long, my angel. But there is no shame in this. No one can resist my touch. Those who have tried too hard are in therapy, locked in padded rooms while we try to bring their sanity back. Please don't do that to yourself." I pause. "Everything has taken place just as we have forseen. We have captured every one of your pitiful band. You have all fallen into our trap... and once you tell me the code, that will be the end of your insignificant rebellion."

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" you scream, desperate, your body heaving against your bonds, your imagination building a vision of heinous tickling torment.

"I see you have softened the skin of your delicate feet," I whisper. "Your friends have taught you well. Your skills are complete." Your lower lip quivers and you bite it. Your breathing is ragged and shallow. Do I sense fear? I love to tickle a well-kept pair of feet nearly as much as I love to devour a perfect navel. "Do you know what I will do? I will take a stiff feather, and pull it between your toes. Your feet will writhe in tickle agony, but there will be nothing you can do. Nothing. You are so helpless to my ticking whims. And my whims are endless."

"No no no.... no... not my feet..."

"You are correct, my pet. Those are now MY feet. To do with as I wish, for my amusement. And I wish to do many things to them. I will explore your bare, helpless feet in intricate detail. I will explore each toe, tickling with every tool at my disposal, finding the softest spots. It seems that the little spot where the base of the toe meets the ball of the foot is usually very vulnerable to tickling. The electric flosser is often very effective there. I love to hear my prisoners beg for mercy when the flosser is buzzing against their writhing feet. Sometimes I don't even ask them anything." I enjoy hearing your whimpering and whining as I taunt you, my words lashing you worse than a leather crop ever could. You sob with anticipation, knowing what I am going to do to you.

I move down to your feet. I turn the wheel on the tickle table so that your legs are now closed, and with a soft leather thong I tie your big toes together. You struggle, you thrash, but there is no hope of escape. You squeal and jump as I begin to massage your feet. As my touch soothes and relaxes your flesh, you sigh and moan with pleasure.

"Good, yes my puppet, relax. Do you like this?"

"Oh... yesss...." you sigh.

"I'm so glad. You know, a massage makes the skin... more ticklish."

"Oh no no no no no--" You struggle, but your feet are more immobilized than ever.

"Well Kylie," I explain, "I do so want to see inside the box, but since you won't help me do that, I will indulge in my second most favorite desire, which is devastating tickle torment." I push the button on the electric flosser, and your feet tense as you hear the hum. I see your face scrunch as you grit your teeth, trying to brace yourself against the unbearable torment to come. With a stiff feather in one hand and the flosser in the other, I move toward your wriggling toes. "Now," I say, "I want you to tell me which is worse, the feather between your toes, or the flosser...."

(Stay tuned for Part 2)....

Part 2 (m/f)

(The story continues. All chapters are posted with the blessing and prior permission of user "deadlywiffeatr").


... I pause just before applying the tickling tools to your tender toes, savoring your fearful anticipation. Then I attack: you screech and thrash as one foot suffers the buzzing of a flosser and the other a stiff feather. I started to pull the feather between your toes, tormenting that most silken of skin, but you scrunched your toes and trapped the feather between them. The harder I try to pull it out, the tighter you squeeze, and the tighter you squeeze, the more it tickles as I twist the feather while trying to pull it out. I find this deliciously ironic, a most unfortunate predicament of your own making, though I doubt you are thinking about irony at the moment. On the other hand--rather, the other foot--your other toes are in spasm as the pointed tip of the electric flosser buzzes relentlessly. The soles of your feet are so scrunched and wrinkled, I wish I had a free hand to run my fingertips along the lines. I manage to pull the feather free, but your toes are scrunched like a little fist and I cannot get it back in between any of them. Hmmm, I must amend this situation. On the other foot, I gleefully buzz the flosser between each and every pair of toes. It has a fine tip, and there is nothing you can do to stop it from invading the space between your smooth toes. Nothing. You wail.

It is obvious you have never been tickled with your big toes tied; it is disorienting, with each foot trying to move independently, yet tied to the other. You howl, tickled beyond anything you have ever known.

"My dear, would you be so kind as to spread the toes of your right foot? I cannot slide the feather in between them."

I do not expect the ferocious eruption of profanity that is your answer. Do you kiss people with that mouth?

"I will take that as a 'no.' Perhaps your vocabulary will improve when I deliver this punishment." Turning the feather about, I aim the pointed end at your smooth arch--and stroke. Your body heaves in the air, and you gasp. I stroke again, scratching the quill of the feather quickly up and down your arch, then slowly, as your body heaves and your foot spasms. "Nothing to say?" I ask. You are speechless, your mouth twisted in a silent scream, reminding me of a painting I had seen. Poor thing, this tickling must be unbearable. Suddenly, I stop.

I watch as you lay gasping. I let you catch your breath, to regain some strength--so you can endure more tickling. I have found, through unfortunate experience, that it is always possible to break a ticklish prisoner quickly with prolonged and sustained tickling. However, in such cases, the ticklee can descend into a mental retreat from which no information is forthcoming. The skilled tickler will give their victim just a little bit of rest, a little bit of hope, and then take that away with more tickling. I am a skilled tickler. Once the prisoner realizes that the lull is only temporary, meant to prolong the tickling experience rather than provide mercy, they accept that their situation is hopeless and tell me all I want to know. There is no hope. There is only tickling.

I move to the head of the table and brush your hair from your face. You speak, lightly. "Pleeease... please no more... pleeeeeeease..."

"Oh my precious prisoner," I whisper, "I would like so much to stop. But you know I must open the box. Why don't you just tell me the first digit of the code? Just one. Then I will be somewhat merciful."

You whine. "Don't... know... stupid... code..."

I am amazed at your resilience. Your story is consistent, that you are not Kylie and you do not know the code. You are well trained and disciplined. You are a worthy opponent. But in the end, you cannot win.

"So then, which is the worse implement of tickling?" I glance at your helpless feet; your left foot is still twitching, buzzing with the residual torment of the humming flosser. I have experienced this sensation. It is true tickle anguish.

"Ohhh," you whimper, "they're both awful... that flosser is torture... such torture..."

"OF COURSE IT IS!" I expound with delight. "It is supposed to be, that is the point of this whole exercise! But it need not be. Oh, would you like some water?"

"Oh yes, oh please..." I hold a sipping tube to your mouth, and you gulp down cool water. With a soft cloth I pat dry your damp skin, and brush the hair from your face. You relax a bit. Now it is time to resume the tickle torment.

"Now my pet, will you do something for me? I am going to tickle your soft feet once more... there there, be still, save your strength... I will not use the flosser, I promise. But I need you to keep your toes spread for me, so I can slide the feather in between your toes as I see fit. Will you make that trade for me? Otherwise, I will invade your feet with two, yes, two flossers at once. And you don't want that."

"Okay, okay, okay," you gasp. I move down to the foot of the tickle table. Compliant, you spread your toes for me, exposing the silky skin in between. I place the feather between your pinkie toe and the next, watching you tense and grimace. You know what is going to happen. Moving close, I see that even the muscles in your feet and toes are tensed, anticipating the need to struggle to keep them still. I slide the feather.

"Eeeeeeeyaaaaiiiioooeeeeaaaaahhh!" It is like playing a violin: the feather is my bow, your toes are the strings, and your mouth is the body of the instrument, offering a vibrant sound. Unlike a violin, your cries are desperate, shrill, discordant. It takes all your concentration to keep the feet still, and you know what will happen if you scrunch your toes and deny access to the feather. I stroke, stroke, back and forth, so slowly, playing my bow, making certain you feel every little flicker of the feather's edge. I delight in this. You do not. Your body shudders, the knuckles in your toes are white with the strain. Good girl.

As strong as you are, you can bear no more. "PleeeeEEEEEEeeeeEEEEEase stooooooooooooop!" I continue my feathering.

"I am almost finished, my morsel. I need to explore the space between each pair of toes. I am nothing if not thorough." Your wail of despair would frighten demons. Myself, I find it intoxicating.

Finally, though, I am done with this session. You heave a long sobbing sigh of relief. I move to whisper in your ear.

"There there, you have done so well. Here, have some juice." I place a sipping straw in your mouth and you drink long and deep. I caress your arms; you giggle, goose bumps rising. "Oh, are your arms ticklish?"

"Oh no no no no..." Even with your blindfold on, I can tell your eyes are growing wide.

"Please clarify," I ask, "are you saying, 'no, they're not ticklish,' or, 'no, don't tickle me there?' You had better be honest."

You hesitate a moment, then reply, "I... I'm very ticklish there."

"Good, good. Your honesty will be rewarded. I won't tickle you there... now. But I will later. I want you to think about what it will be like as I stroke a feather duster down your forearms."

You shudder, but say nothing. It is time to indulge in one of my favorite ticking delights. I lean close and whisper. "Tell me, have you ever been tongue-tickled?"

"What? WHAT? What is that! Oh god no--"

I whisper fiercely: "I told you, your god has abandoned you. You have been condemned to tickling. Your only escape is to tell me what I want to know. Now, I will demonstrate some tongue-tickling. As the name suggests, I will use my tongue to tickle you. I am under the impression you have never experienced this. Prepare yourself... this will drive you insane."

I move down to your feet. You have heard my movements, and you begin wiggling your feet before I even touch them, your body quivering with dread. I move close, watching, selecting a spot to begin. I think your soft arches will be the perfect place to begin slithering my warm tongue across your bare and ticklish feet. You feel my breath and begin to whine. I stick out my tongue, a moment away from flickering the tip against your silky sole...


(stay tuned for Part 3) . . .

Wow, that's... really quite good. Decent conventions, psychologically-oriented, and good artistry.

And posting this is how you spent the stroke of midnight on New Year's Day? Merci pour ça.

loved this one!!!!

so good!

WOW

Awesome!

I read both of them and thought they were great. xxxxx

Thanks for the kind comments. The original requestor seemed to drop out of the picture; maybe it got too intense or freaked her out... in any case, I'm inspired to finish this. I wanted to get topless with it--I think nipple tickling is an important part of any nutritious breakfast--but I'll leave the panties on for this one. Of course that doesn't mean the tickling implements can't be used *outside* the panties... hee hee hee.

Very good detail!!!! Love this story

part 3??

part 3 is another thread

Oh sorry, Love Feet, but part three was added as another thread that incorporated suggestions from Sexyfeline:

http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=171703

Perhaps I shall complete part 4 soon, with suggestions from another member.

TT