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I Am Laughter - Part II F/M

corpmjo

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Mar 24, 2005
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Month 4 – Week 2

The days are beginning to move from fall into winter now, and the chill follows me everywhere I go, like a bill collector, or a stray dog who’s lost its way. I have less and less daylight to work with, even though most of my journeys still take me through the tunnels under the city. There are many places where I have to surface in order to continue forward, bypassing a crumbled wall, a sewage buildup, or other, more telling things.

Yesterday, I came upon a mountain of men’s shoes, as though dump truck after dump truck had pulled in and cast them down into the underground with a shrug of their mighty steel shoulders. Thousands of rats were cavorting within this mountain, and despite the risk of surfacing, I couldn’t force myself to pass on through.

I can’t even wrap my mind around the thought that all these shoes signify thousands of men who have no need for them any longer, bound and trapped as an endless parade of women tickle, tickle, and tickle on their unprotected soles.

I have been having waking dreams these last couple of weeks, and they frighten me. I keep imagining that my despair overwhelms me and I surface, walk over to the nearest woman and say, “Tickle me…please….just tickle me and get it over with.”

Last week I actually found myself halfway up a subway station exit, intent upon ending this lonely effort to stay a step ahead of their hypnotic whispers and grasping fingers. Their nails, slightly shivering with the anticipation of playing a symphony of sensations, each more maddening than the one before in the hollows of my neck, my collarbone, my armpits, feet…..revulsion fills me as I realize it could be just about anywhere on my body. I’m that ticklish. And that reconnection with the reality of my plight keeps me going. If I’m ever caught, I will be immediately sentenced to a lifetime of ticklish torment, sustained by my captors so that I can continue to be a source for their feelings of well-being and satisfaction. My laughter is their drug.

And oh my god how they crave it……

How did it ever come to this!!!!!!!??

Were we so self-absorbed in our male egos that this became the only justice capable of matching the crime? Swimming in porn, stoking the fires of a culture that worshiped beauty and physical fitness, sexual technique and guilt-free fantasy fulfillment; we finally got the depersonalized, objectified fantasy playmates we craved, and discovered a monstrous truth. We would gladly sell our souls for even the smallest glimpse of a shred of humanity somewhere in the gray unfocused eyes of a she-witch who found peace in lightly counting each hair sprouting in the groves of our armpits. If only for a second she and her friends would recognize the endless suffering we endured as the suddenly weaker sex, and give us rest from the pounding of our hearts and the panic of clawing for just a bit more air to allow that laughter to keep flowing.

I had heard a rumor shortly after the release of the bacteria that this was all carefully engineered by the CEO of Pharmogenetica, Sarah Packard, over the then recent affair and divorce by her husband. It was absurd to think that any one person could have conceived and executed such a plot, but there have been times since when I’ve reconsidered the premise. Everything was just so “anti-male” and designed to favor women that I have begun to give a bit more credence to the theory. At any rate, I’ve been thinking about trying to get back into Pharmogenetica to take a look around. If it was genetically engineered on purpose, then there’s a reasonable chance that the ingredients for a “cure” could be assembled from the same materials.

Month 6 – Week 4

This used to be my favorite time of year. Christmas. Brightly colored lights everywhere, music blaring and the thrill of the city’s muffled voice as it was lulled to sleep by thickly falling snow. The lights are still there, though perhaps more unevenly decorated, and the comforting sound of old favorite carols has been replaced by the steady background din of shrieks and cackles, insane gibbering and tortured chuckles. Here comes Santa Claus – Ho! Ho! Ho! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAS-T-O-O-O-P! Heeeeheeeeahhhhhahahaha no more on myhihihihahafeeeeeet, and a thousand other combinations of hysteria as well. No, I couldn’t think of the jolly fellow anymore. It’s the blackest day of my life…to date.

I have just returned from a foray into Pharmogenetica, and have learned the truth behind this horror that rules the city. It was indeed deliberately engineered and it is now being refined. Whereas once there was a mindless quality about it, now there dawns a menace to the actions of the ticklers that almost defies description. I must get this all down before I forget – someone needs to know what happened, why and where it is heading. Someone needs to know besides me, someday, somewhere. They just have to know…

I have gotten quite adept at moving through the tunnels, vent work and long used stairways that carve the many city blocks and buildings into my own private highway system. And it is such that I used to make my way into the very inner corridors of Pharmogenetica last night. On Christmas Eve such as it were. I needed the closeness of a human presence after such long solitude, even if it was a presence unknowing of my existence, and I trembled slightly as I hid in the duct above the CEO’s office. At some point, this Santa was going to leave his perch to take a look at the files on Sarah Packard’s computer, and I didn’t care if I had to wait all night.

Below me was Ms. Packard herself. She had a pleasant enough face, slightly rounded with well-coiffed, dark hair. She was perhaps 15 to 20 pounds overweight but dressed as befitting a top executive. What I remembered about her most from a company meeting years before was that her eyes were just like crystalline blue ice. She didn’t look at people as much as she did through them. Her imperious manner left no doubt who was in charge when she entered a room. And at that moment, she was addressing a woman who appeared to be an executive assistant.

“Well, Serena,” Sarah purred, “did you ever imagine that it would take hold as completely and as fully as this has done?”

Serena, a younger girl in her mid-twenties, with dark blonde hair, cut short, framing an attractive, but not startlingly so, face, smiled slightly and answered; “I never thought that we would get the coverage that we have, nor the intensity of the effects.” She giggled, “It’s kind of a turn-on sometimes to see the fear in a guy’s eyes when you just wiggle your fingers at him.”

They both laughed. At that moment, the door to the office swung open, and three women strode in, rolling something that looked like a silver-framed bed, but without a mattress. On either side, a 360 degree metal bar helped support the frame, and in the middle, where you would have expected the mattress, there hung a man. Two of the women rolled the frame 90 degrees upright so that Sarah could walk over and stare into this man’s haggard eyes as she spoke.

“So Robert, I see the last few months have been hard on you. I’m so sorry,” she said, with no trace of remorse whatsoever.

“Sarah,” he rasped, “My God, Sarah, is that you?” The man squinted to see more clearly, and I could almost see a small flicker of hope in his eyes.

She stared at him for a moment, with a clear loathing, and then extended her finger and waggled it lightly against one rib. As he softly giggled, she murmured, “I see you are as ticklish as ever, you bastard.”

“Hehehe...Sarah, I’m sorry, hohoha. I wish I had never left you, hoo, hoo. I threw away a lifetime for a few moments of pleasure,” he whimpered, chuckles interspersed as she continued to slowly play against his ribcage.

“I’m sure you are, Robert, or at least as sorry as one can be who has no consideration for another’s feelings,” she ended harshly. “How does it make you feel,” Sarah cooed, “to know that all this was done for you? All this, so that you could never enjoy the comfort and pleasure of another woman, for as long as you lived? To suffer your worst fears come true, and be tickled continually by every woman who sees you….just like that nightmare you used to have when we were married.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This madman, woman, whatever, had destroyed my life, and the lives of every man on the planet in a jealous fit of personal retribution! But before I could even begin to process this incredible revelation, the door to the office opened again, and two more women walked in. One was a gorgeous, voluptuous blonde wearing a dress that revealed ample cleavage, and a necklace of pink pearls that highlighted her generous pink lips. The other was tall, with a boyish figure in a black t-shirt, baggy camo pants and sneakers. Her black hair was cut and set in short, random spikes that looked like a crown or tiara of some kind in silhouette. She wore purple lipstick and purple eye shadow, which set off her most remarkable feature, long thick lashes that merged with the bangs that hung down over her forehead.

“Ah girls, just in time,” Sarah said as she nodded her approval. “This is my ex-husband, Robert. You’ll be spending some time with him this evening. She paused a moment before turning to Robert and saying conspiratorially, “Here’s your Christmas presents, darling,” I hope you like them.” She walked back to her desk, then turned back to her ex-husband and devoid of any apparent feeling, said; ”Tonight you get to experience the next generation of genetic engineering – the Wicked Tickler.” She smiled and continued; “I had so little time to ready the first generation. It was effective enough, but…it wasn’t…well, elegant enough for me. Women initially infected were driven to tickle just as one might need to scratch an itch, an instinctual motivation that allowed for satisfaction at the lowest level when the “itch” was continually scratched.”

“Sarah,” he croaked, “what are you talking about? Have I really hurt you that badly?”

“NO!!” she hissed vehemently. “You haven’t hurt me at all. You have your facts backwards, dear. It is I who has hurt you. Let me demonstrate with generation one, here.”

She turned to the blonde and nodded, who sensuously began to walk over to Robert, her high heels clacking against the hardwood floor of the office. She launched an all-out assault on Robert’s ribs and stomach, poking and prodding like she was kneading bread or slapping out a fire in his belly. He laughed and twisted in his upright frame prison. The thought idly occurred to me as I watched her eyes become relaxed and unfocused, that she looked like one of those ticklers in a fake tickling movie my brother-in-law once showed me. Maybe I had been hiding too long, or had been haunted by the prospect of being captured and tickled too many times, but I thought I could withstand that onslaught below. Sarah’s voice took on an evil cast to it, grabbing my attention once again.

“Stop please, Heather,” and the blonde obeyed. Sarah looked over at the waif with the wild black hair and said casually, “Robert, you may remember Dani, our former babysitter. She’s a junior now at Penn. She was close by, convenient, and you always seemed turned on by her for some absurd reason. So…I’ve used her as the first test subject for Generation Two, and thought it might be nice for you two to get reacquainted.”

Her ex-husband weakly shook his head.

“You see, darling,” Sarah continued, “what was missing from Generation One was a real sadistic love for the suffering a good tickling could inflict.” She stroked a stray lock of hair back into its precise place on her head.

“My first population was driven by need, but enthusiasm wanes as need gets sated. Even in your case. So I had to reorganize the amino acid structures to impact different areas of the brain with slightly different brain chemistry configurations. It’s subtle, complex work, but yes, it is achievable. And the benefits!! Why, Generation Two ticklers will want to take their time, explore every inch, every crevice of their victim hunting for that “most ticklish” spot. The more the victim suffers, the more they enjoy themselves. They study technique, psychology, neurology, reflexology, whatever it takes to create the perfect tickling experience. They literally live to actually tickle someone to death. Of course, we don’t let that happen because, what would be the point?

Dani’s unreadable expression slowly curved into the most erotic, wicked grin I’d ever seen, and her eyes lit up with a strange light, as though she was literally scanning his body for tickle spots that would be glowing pink in his blue aura. “Hiya Mr. Packard,” she said softly and seductively, “boy are we gonna play tonight.”
 
wow looking great

please continue this epic tale


I love the way you've worked int psychology and that we can tell what the narrator is thinking.


The fact that he seems to want to be on the receiving end makes it all the more better.
 
FAR OUT!

A masterpiece that I hope will continue!

Might there be any milking of the men, too?

I loved the description when the narrator came across all those men's shoes. Wow.

And to find that this was masterminded by a woman! And "generation two," whew!

More, more, more...
 
Fantastic stuff, I am very interested in how or if our hero can fix what Sara has done.
 
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