Laffy Daffy
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OK, so I was reading this thread
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=147458
... and a random story kind of formed in my head. It was done all in one shot, and I haven't proofread or anything, so sorry about that. Also, Eminor if you're not a fan, I'd be happy to take your name off it, I just used that since you kind of inspired the tale. The lee is less conventional, although it comes through more in the details than anything else. For the ladies who called for (or secretly hoped for) your 'different' kind of lee in a story, please enjoy.
As always, bring on the feedback. I think I left it so it could continue, or could stand alone. If folks enjoy, I'd be happy to keep it alive. So, without further ado....
He shuffled papers frantically from one surface to another. The desk to the table to the cabinets to the floor. Before long, the papers coated the floor like a cheap linoleum. And still, the paper he was looking for eluded his grasp.
It was evidence he was after. Proof that he had been following orders, trying to make a better tomorrow out of the ideas coming down from above. Even when his own sadistic tendencies had taken over, it was the opportunity his own government had offered that had allowed for it to take place. He was not at fault. There was no reason for him to be at risk.
None of these arguments meant a thing to the slip of paper in his left breast pocket. The slip that had found its way to him through an anonymous tipster, someone who thought he should know that the Interrogation Office was on the way to pick him up. That he would disappear into one of the many so-called ‘Answer Houses’ littered throughout the countryside. Within hours of being picked up, every shred of secretive information would be ripped from his lips; by tomorrow evening he would be signing confessions to crimes he never could’ve dreamed of. But maybe, just maybe, if he could find his original mission statement, signed by scores of commanding officers and high ranking officials, he could bluff his way out of capture long enough to seek some kind of amnesty. His fate rode on a single sheet of paper hidden among the thousands of pages of research. Sweat dripped down his cheek, and he paused for a moment, trying to mentally locate the paper he was looking for.
“Lose something, Doctor?”
He turned so fast that his feet tangled, and he tumbled over a lab stool, dragging a score of papers to the ground. The two grunts at the door barked laughter, but the woman who had spoke remained silent as they shuffled over and yanked him to his feet.
His glasses had nearly fallen off in his clumsy struggles, and as the goons held him so that his feet just barely touched the ground, the woman slid them back up his nose.
“The IO is much friendlier than in the past Doctor. For a man with your… sensitive set of knowledge, we would’ve come in much more aggressively in the past. And your chances of survival would be… well you wouldn’t have survived a meeting with us a year ago. But as I said, our modes of persuasion are much gentler now. We do not wish to harm the citizens, only to protect.”
“Please… I am a doctor, a well-respected citizen. I have never done anything other than what I was ordered to do. I don’t know why I am to be taken, but I assure you it is a mistake.” He tried to keep the panic out of his voice, but could hear himself failing miserably. The woman only smiled, as she produced a syringe from her coat pocket.
“The IO doesn’t make mistakes, Viktor. Now let the shot do its work, and it’ll all be over before you know it.”
He meant to disagree, but within seconds his eyes felt too heavy to bother, and he lapsed into unconsciousness, knowing he might never wake up again.
The doctor awoke in a cool, dim room. As the drugged haze lifted from his brain, he managed to make out a fan and table in front of him. He tried to lean forward, and then realized he was restrained, held tight to a chair. His wrists were crossed and tied tightly behind him, and his chest kept him strapped tightly to the back of the chair. Even his head was tied to the headrest, forcing him to stare straight ahead. He now noticed his feet as well, out in a V shape strapped at the knee and ankle to separate boards.
Beyond his government-issue boots and the table, he saw another IO victim strapped up the same way he was. She was unconscious, and missing quite a bit more of her clothing than he was. She was covered only by a skirt and her bra, and he blushed fiercely when he realized that beyond the pink soles of her feet he could see the white of her underwear beneath the dark colored skirt. She was rather plain looking, and the fact that she was exhausted, slick with sweat and passed out didn’t do her much help.
Viktor tried to pull at his bonds and found no give whatsoever. He wasn’t surprised. The IO had experience capturing and interrogating lifelong soldiers, men full of tricks to escape and with muscles thick enough to shred poorly tied knots. How could a doctor, a man who spent his life leaning over microscopes and whose greatest physical talent was his ability to get through a full day’s work without a bad writer’s cramp expect to get free from the knots that bound him.
His neighbor stirred but did not wake. Despite his reservations, his eyes crawled back up and down her scantily clothed body, and he felt a flush creep up his neck to his cheeks. He prayed silently that he would not end up half naked at the hands of his interrogator as well. He was very sensitive about his body; his skinny chest and love handles embarrassing enough without being flanked by stick-thin arms and legs. He had never been a looker, and never wanted to be. Women intimidated him. And being tied to a chair across from a woman he didn’t know, along with a state-sponsored interrogator was a nightmare.
The door suddenly opened, startling Viktor from his quiet dread. Two women walked in, and he recognized one as the woman who had picked him up. She sat at the table, and the other walked around behind him, where he could no longer see him. He tried not to show how terrified he was that he could no longer see her, and focus on the woman at the table.
She was pretty in a severe sort of way. Her hair was dark and chopped short, even more so and the tufts of mussed black hair on his own head. It was meticulously slicked back, not a single hair out of place. Her eyes were dark and looked tired, although for all Viktor knew it could be the middle of the night. Her features were small and round, and Viktor felt sick to his stomach when he realized he found her attractive. She had removed her coat, now wearing a black tank top over her white slacks. She stared at him for a moment and let out a long sigh.
“Viktor, it’s time to help yourself. I think you know what we want out of you, and if you just tell me know, we can make this nice and simple.”
He blinked, and stared back in disbelief. He had no idea what specifically they were looking for, and had been totally baffled when he found out he was going to be captured. The fact that she expected him to know seemed not only unfair, but terrifying. It meant that his ordeal was going to be a long one.
“I… I don’t know… how could I…. please…”
He tried to get an entire sentence out, but stuttered pitifully, as his fear took over his brain. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt hands come from behind him, unbuttoning his carefully pressed work uniform shirt. His interrogator seemed unfazed.
“You must tell us the truth Viktor. No one in this room wants to see you harmed, but we are in the business of getting things done. And if you won’t help us do that, we can’t be held responsible for the steps we must take.”
Viktor continued to sweat, desperately wishing he knew what words would get him untied and sent on his merry way. The hands had finished with his shirt, but didn’t pull it away from his body, merely parting it in the middle to reveal his undershirt. The hands unbuckled his belt and pants as well, and then disappeared again.
“No answer? This will be your last chance for a while. I suggest you take it.”
“Or what?” He couldn’t believe he managed to even speak to her, but like a physical reflex, the words just jumped out.
“Or what? Perhaps our friend Kara here will tell you.” And she reached behind her, wrapped one slender hand around the barely clothed girl’s foot. As she did it the girl went rigid, clearly no longer asleep if she ever was. “What do we do Kara?”
The girl’s face contorted in terror, then she whispered words that chilled Viktor’s heart.
“They’ll tickle…”
Her voice was a whisper, but it turned to a scream in Viktor’s head. Tickling? They would tickle him?! As a child his brother and sister had been merciless, tickling money and favors and toys out of him on a regular basis. And although he had barely been tickled since, he knew his sensitivity had remained. Why, it was less than three years ago that his late wife had been cuddling up to him and found a ticklish spot on his hips that she used to turn him into a screaming, cackling pile of mush. What had been great fun for her was about to turn into torture in an anonymous room on the side of the road somewhere.
He was frozen, unable to even beg for reprieve, and without another word it started.
The hands had returned without a warning, and were crawling up his sides. His body jerked, and he felt his thin lips parting in a silly smile he couldn’t bear to hold back. He tried to plead with the interrogator, beg her with his eyes, but her evil smile told him all he needed to know about her attitude towards his agony. As the fingers wormed into the spaces between his ribs, the thin undershirt offering no protection whatsoever, the typically stoic doctor erupted in hearty laughter. He wanted to squirm and roll away, curl up into a ball to protect his sensitive spots. He hands remained locked behind him though, and the laughter continued to pour from his lips.
“PLEEEEASE HAHAAHAAHAA YOOUU HAHAVVEE TO STOOOP HAHAHAHAAAA”
The interrogator leaned back in her chair, her arms stretched over her head. She was smiling happily, watching the smart, composed doctor laugh desperately as her assistant went to town on his ribs. He was clearly very ticklish, which she had decided right after his eyes tripled in size following Kara’s comment. She took a deep breath, and continued her part of their little game.
“I bet that’s driving you crazy, isn’t it Doc? The ribs are a tough one, especially when you can’t move. Me, I dread the armpits. Something about fingers creeping into the soft, unprotected flesh in there sets my nerves on fire…”
As she said it, Viktor realized with growing horror that his tickler was following the same pattern. His underarms, which hadn’t seen the light of day in years and had just the faintest wisps of soft hair, felt the alien fingers crawling across his tender skin, and he howled with laughter, eyes clenching shut. He shook the entire structure he was bound to just a tiny bit. A little plea against the raging waves of tickling washing over his tortured brain.
Again she watched him laugh insanely, trying with every fiber of his being to escape. They had caught a live one that was for sure. A couple hours of this and he’d be ready to tell them whatever they wanted to hear. The doctor was smart, and a pioneer in his field, but he was a long way from prepared to deal with interrogation. And he was definitely a perfect candidate for her special style of torture.
The tickler stopped, and Viktor’s tortured laughter subsided. He panted and sobbed a little, and she rested her legs on the table, in a posture of complete relaxation.
“Let’s be frank, Doc. You can’t hold out against this. We’ve already established that you’re very ticklish. You’ve strapped to a chair, and no one is coming to get you out. You’re not a hero, not a soldier with the proper mindset for outlasting an experienced inquisitor. You’re incredibly sensitive under your arms, on your ribs, on the soles of your feet.” As she said this she nudged her left shoe off and onto the floor, leaving the good doctor staring directly at her naked foot.
Viktor couldn’t help but stare. It was a beautiful foot, slender and just a little pale, soft and dainty. He stared at it right up until his tormentor walked around in front of him and slid his boot off his foot. Even with his sock on he felt the room’s cool air hitting his toes, and his mind screamed in panic.
NOT MY FEET!
But all he managed was a whimpered, “nooooo” and then those expert fingers were running up and down his socked foot.
He wasn’t the giggling sort, not known for a pleasant chuckle or snort amongst his coworkers. In fact, just about anyone he knew would say they had never heard him laugh. Most of them would’ve lost money betting that noise he made could never have come from Dr. Viktor’s stern lips. He giggled shrilly, the desperate tone completely present in his struggles to hold back his ticklish reactions. His tickler continued to apply more pressure, scratching casually at his socked foot, testing to see which spots created the most wild wiggles and jerks.
The interrogator sat back, her bare toes still pointed right at the doctor’s contorted face. The expression was priceless. His sharp features crinkled in panicked laughter, unable to keep the giggles and laughs from escaping. Soon the sock would come off, and her assistant would go for the kill, but at this point she wanted to torment Viktor’s brain a little more. Tickle torture was about mental warfare, about making the victim believe the torture was even worse than their over-stimulated mind was telling them. She clenched her toes, knowing it would send wrinkles up and down her sole.
“Unbearable, isn’t it? We wear shoes all day long and protect those precious foot bottoms, only to have it come back and bite us once some wandering fingers find their way across our soles. It’s just so….ticklish.”
She was so right, and her words weren’t helping Viktor at all. He always wore shoes, and even wore socks to bed. His feet were not meant to be seen, nor to be poked and prodded. It was unbearable. And even as this thought passed through his head, he felt the sock rolled off his foot, and began to panic even more.
“Are you ready Viktor? This is where the real tickling starts. My friend there will find every ticklish spot on that bare foot. Your arch, your heel, even between your toes.” She shared a wink with the terrified doctor. “I love being tickled between my toes. It’s just wild.”
Viktor’s eyes locked on the underside of the interrogator’s bare toes, and for a brief, blissful moment he imagined her feet trapped under his arm, his fingers tormenting the very toes she was taunting him with. The idea gave him a second of reprieve, and then the tickler was back to work, and all he could do was scream out in helpless laughter. It echoed off the walls, and could even be heard down the hall, where anyone in the know would realize that the IO was just beginning what would eventually prove to be another successful session.
http://www.ticklingforum.com/showthread.php?t=147458
... and a random story kind of formed in my head. It was done all in one shot, and I haven't proofread or anything, so sorry about that. Also, Eminor if you're not a fan, I'd be happy to take your name off it, I just used that since you kind of inspired the tale. The lee is less conventional, although it comes through more in the details than anything else. For the ladies who called for (or secretly hoped for) your 'different' kind of lee in a story, please enjoy.
As always, bring on the feedback. I think I left it so it could continue, or could stand alone. If folks enjoy, I'd be happy to keep it alive. So, without further ado....
He shuffled papers frantically from one surface to another. The desk to the table to the cabinets to the floor. Before long, the papers coated the floor like a cheap linoleum. And still, the paper he was looking for eluded his grasp.
It was evidence he was after. Proof that he had been following orders, trying to make a better tomorrow out of the ideas coming down from above. Even when his own sadistic tendencies had taken over, it was the opportunity his own government had offered that had allowed for it to take place. He was not at fault. There was no reason for him to be at risk.
None of these arguments meant a thing to the slip of paper in his left breast pocket. The slip that had found its way to him through an anonymous tipster, someone who thought he should know that the Interrogation Office was on the way to pick him up. That he would disappear into one of the many so-called ‘Answer Houses’ littered throughout the countryside. Within hours of being picked up, every shred of secretive information would be ripped from his lips; by tomorrow evening he would be signing confessions to crimes he never could’ve dreamed of. But maybe, just maybe, if he could find his original mission statement, signed by scores of commanding officers and high ranking officials, he could bluff his way out of capture long enough to seek some kind of amnesty. His fate rode on a single sheet of paper hidden among the thousands of pages of research. Sweat dripped down his cheek, and he paused for a moment, trying to mentally locate the paper he was looking for.
“Lose something, Doctor?”
He turned so fast that his feet tangled, and he tumbled over a lab stool, dragging a score of papers to the ground. The two grunts at the door barked laughter, but the woman who had spoke remained silent as they shuffled over and yanked him to his feet.
His glasses had nearly fallen off in his clumsy struggles, and as the goons held him so that his feet just barely touched the ground, the woman slid them back up his nose.
“The IO is much friendlier than in the past Doctor. For a man with your… sensitive set of knowledge, we would’ve come in much more aggressively in the past. And your chances of survival would be… well you wouldn’t have survived a meeting with us a year ago. But as I said, our modes of persuasion are much gentler now. We do not wish to harm the citizens, only to protect.”
“Please… I am a doctor, a well-respected citizen. I have never done anything other than what I was ordered to do. I don’t know why I am to be taken, but I assure you it is a mistake.” He tried to keep the panic out of his voice, but could hear himself failing miserably. The woman only smiled, as she produced a syringe from her coat pocket.
“The IO doesn’t make mistakes, Viktor. Now let the shot do its work, and it’ll all be over before you know it.”
He meant to disagree, but within seconds his eyes felt too heavy to bother, and he lapsed into unconsciousness, knowing he might never wake up again.
The doctor awoke in a cool, dim room. As the drugged haze lifted from his brain, he managed to make out a fan and table in front of him. He tried to lean forward, and then realized he was restrained, held tight to a chair. His wrists were crossed and tied tightly behind him, and his chest kept him strapped tightly to the back of the chair. Even his head was tied to the headrest, forcing him to stare straight ahead. He now noticed his feet as well, out in a V shape strapped at the knee and ankle to separate boards.
Beyond his government-issue boots and the table, he saw another IO victim strapped up the same way he was. She was unconscious, and missing quite a bit more of her clothing than he was. She was covered only by a skirt and her bra, and he blushed fiercely when he realized that beyond the pink soles of her feet he could see the white of her underwear beneath the dark colored skirt. She was rather plain looking, and the fact that she was exhausted, slick with sweat and passed out didn’t do her much help.
Viktor tried to pull at his bonds and found no give whatsoever. He wasn’t surprised. The IO had experience capturing and interrogating lifelong soldiers, men full of tricks to escape and with muscles thick enough to shred poorly tied knots. How could a doctor, a man who spent his life leaning over microscopes and whose greatest physical talent was his ability to get through a full day’s work without a bad writer’s cramp expect to get free from the knots that bound him.
His neighbor stirred but did not wake. Despite his reservations, his eyes crawled back up and down her scantily clothed body, and he felt a flush creep up his neck to his cheeks. He prayed silently that he would not end up half naked at the hands of his interrogator as well. He was very sensitive about his body; his skinny chest and love handles embarrassing enough without being flanked by stick-thin arms and legs. He had never been a looker, and never wanted to be. Women intimidated him. And being tied to a chair across from a woman he didn’t know, along with a state-sponsored interrogator was a nightmare.
The door suddenly opened, startling Viktor from his quiet dread. Two women walked in, and he recognized one as the woman who had picked him up. She sat at the table, and the other walked around behind him, where he could no longer see him. He tried not to show how terrified he was that he could no longer see her, and focus on the woman at the table.
She was pretty in a severe sort of way. Her hair was dark and chopped short, even more so and the tufts of mussed black hair on his own head. It was meticulously slicked back, not a single hair out of place. Her eyes were dark and looked tired, although for all Viktor knew it could be the middle of the night. Her features were small and round, and Viktor felt sick to his stomach when he realized he found her attractive. She had removed her coat, now wearing a black tank top over her white slacks. She stared at him for a moment and let out a long sigh.
“Viktor, it’s time to help yourself. I think you know what we want out of you, and if you just tell me know, we can make this nice and simple.”
He blinked, and stared back in disbelief. He had no idea what specifically they were looking for, and had been totally baffled when he found out he was going to be captured. The fact that she expected him to know seemed not only unfair, but terrifying. It meant that his ordeal was going to be a long one.
“I… I don’t know… how could I…. please…”
He tried to get an entire sentence out, but stuttered pitifully, as his fear took over his brain. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he felt hands come from behind him, unbuttoning his carefully pressed work uniform shirt. His interrogator seemed unfazed.
“You must tell us the truth Viktor. No one in this room wants to see you harmed, but we are in the business of getting things done. And if you won’t help us do that, we can’t be held responsible for the steps we must take.”
Viktor continued to sweat, desperately wishing he knew what words would get him untied and sent on his merry way. The hands had finished with his shirt, but didn’t pull it away from his body, merely parting it in the middle to reveal his undershirt. The hands unbuckled his belt and pants as well, and then disappeared again.
“No answer? This will be your last chance for a while. I suggest you take it.”
“Or what?” He couldn’t believe he managed to even speak to her, but like a physical reflex, the words just jumped out.
“Or what? Perhaps our friend Kara here will tell you.” And she reached behind her, wrapped one slender hand around the barely clothed girl’s foot. As she did it the girl went rigid, clearly no longer asleep if she ever was. “What do we do Kara?”
The girl’s face contorted in terror, then she whispered words that chilled Viktor’s heart.
“They’ll tickle…”
Her voice was a whisper, but it turned to a scream in Viktor’s head. Tickling? They would tickle him?! As a child his brother and sister had been merciless, tickling money and favors and toys out of him on a regular basis. And although he had barely been tickled since, he knew his sensitivity had remained. Why, it was less than three years ago that his late wife had been cuddling up to him and found a ticklish spot on his hips that she used to turn him into a screaming, cackling pile of mush. What had been great fun for her was about to turn into torture in an anonymous room on the side of the road somewhere.
He was frozen, unable to even beg for reprieve, and without another word it started.
The hands had returned without a warning, and were crawling up his sides. His body jerked, and he felt his thin lips parting in a silly smile he couldn’t bear to hold back. He tried to plead with the interrogator, beg her with his eyes, but her evil smile told him all he needed to know about her attitude towards his agony. As the fingers wormed into the spaces between his ribs, the thin undershirt offering no protection whatsoever, the typically stoic doctor erupted in hearty laughter. He wanted to squirm and roll away, curl up into a ball to protect his sensitive spots. He hands remained locked behind him though, and the laughter continued to pour from his lips.
“PLEEEEASE HAHAAHAAHAA YOOUU HAHAVVEE TO STOOOP HAHAHAHAAAA”
The interrogator leaned back in her chair, her arms stretched over her head. She was smiling happily, watching the smart, composed doctor laugh desperately as her assistant went to town on his ribs. He was clearly very ticklish, which she had decided right after his eyes tripled in size following Kara’s comment. She took a deep breath, and continued her part of their little game.
“I bet that’s driving you crazy, isn’t it Doc? The ribs are a tough one, especially when you can’t move. Me, I dread the armpits. Something about fingers creeping into the soft, unprotected flesh in there sets my nerves on fire…”
As she said it, Viktor realized with growing horror that his tickler was following the same pattern. His underarms, which hadn’t seen the light of day in years and had just the faintest wisps of soft hair, felt the alien fingers crawling across his tender skin, and he howled with laughter, eyes clenching shut. He shook the entire structure he was bound to just a tiny bit. A little plea against the raging waves of tickling washing over his tortured brain.
Again she watched him laugh insanely, trying with every fiber of his being to escape. They had caught a live one that was for sure. A couple hours of this and he’d be ready to tell them whatever they wanted to hear. The doctor was smart, and a pioneer in his field, but he was a long way from prepared to deal with interrogation. And he was definitely a perfect candidate for her special style of torture.
The tickler stopped, and Viktor’s tortured laughter subsided. He panted and sobbed a little, and she rested her legs on the table, in a posture of complete relaxation.
“Let’s be frank, Doc. You can’t hold out against this. We’ve already established that you’re very ticklish. You’ve strapped to a chair, and no one is coming to get you out. You’re not a hero, not a soldier with the proper mindset for outlasting an experienced inquisitor. You’re incredibly sensitive under your arms, on your ribs, on the soles of your feet.” As she said this she nudged her left shoe off and onto the floor, leaving the good doctor staring directly at her naked foot.
Viktor couldn’t help but stare. It was a beautiful foot, slender and just a little pale, soft and dainty. He stared at it right up until his tormentor walked around in front of him and slid his boot off his foot. Even with his sock on he felt the room’s cool air hitting his toes, and his mind screamed in panic.
NOT MY FEET!
But all he managed was a whimpered, “nooooo” and then those expert fingers were running up and down his socked foot.
He wasn’t the giggling sort, not known for a pleasant chuckle or snort amongst his coworkers. In fact, just about anyone he knew would say they had never heard him laugh. Most of them would’ve lost money betting that noise he made could never have come from Dr. Viktor’s stern lips. He giggled shrilly, the desperate tone completely present in his struggles to hold back his ticklish reactions. His tickler continued to apply more pressure, scratching casually at his socked foot, testing to see which spots created the most wild wiggles and jerks.
The interrogator sat back, her bare toes still pointed right at the doctor’s contorted face. The expression was priceless. His sharp features crinkled in panicked laughter, unable to keep the giggles and laughs from escaping. Soon the sock would come off, and her assistant would go for the kill, but at this point she wanted to torment Viktor’s brain a little more. Tickle torture was about mental warfare, about making the victim believe the torture was even worse than their over-stimulated mind was telling them. She clenched her toes, knowing it would send wrinkles up and down her sole.
“Unbearable, isn’t it? We wear shoes all day long and protect those precious foot bottoms, only to have it come back and bite us once some wandering fingers find their way across our soles. It’s just so….ticklish.”
She was so right, and her words weren’t helping Viktor at all. He always wore shoes, and even wore socks to bed. His feet were not meant to be seen, nor to be poked and prodded. It was unbearable. And even as this thought passed through his head, he felt the sock rolled off his foot, and began to panic even more.
“Are you ready Viktor? This is where the real tickling starts. My friend there will find every ticklish spot on that bare foot. Your arch, your heel, even between your toes.” She shared a wink with the terrified doctor. “I love being tickled between my toes. It’s just wild.”
Viktor’s eyes locked on the underside of the interrogator’s bare toes, and for a brief, blissful moment he imagined her feet trapped under his arm, his fingers tormenting the very toes she was taunting him with. The idea gave him a second of reprieve, and then the tickler was back to work, and all he could do was scream out in helpless laughter. It echoed off the walls, and could even be heard down the hall, where anyone in the know would realize that the IO was just beginning what would eventually prove to be another successful session.
