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Smuggling Activity? Part III M/F non-con

Francie_Pants

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Alright, here's part three in the series I've been working on. I hope ya'll enjoy it.

I guess the didn’t want to take any chances with removing me from the boat, because one of the thugs came down and injected me with something, much to my garbled protesting, that put me to sleep, quickly.

When I woke, some time had passed; how much, I’m not sure. I was lying naked on a bed. A quick survey of my situation told me that it was a comfortable bed, in a very nice room, but I was now wearing thick gold bands on my wrists and ankles. They each had a keyhole in them, which was obviously the only way they could be taken off. Further studying revealed to me that I had a bigger, thicker one around my neck. Each of these bands had a steel ring sticking out of it. I really didn’t want to think about what those rings were for, but I knew and would probably find out, soon enough, anyway.

With continued observation, I took in the surroundings of the room; thick red carpet on the floor, and a creamy white paint color on the walls. There were two windows, but they were both barred, between me and the glass. There was a dresser with a mirror, and a chest of drawers.

I avoided looking at the mirror for obvious, humiliating reasons, but I did notice there were clothes laid out on top of the dresser. I picked them up and laid them out on the bed, and did not like what I see. There was a pair of denim shorts that were really nothing more than a band of tattered denim, with two holes for the legs to go through, and a t-shirt that looked so little that my 10 year old niece would have felt exposed in.

I saw three doors. One was to a bathroom, which I made use of, hastily (hey, it’s been a long time since I snuck into those woods). There was a door which obviously led outside the room, it was locked, and another door that was probably a closet, but surprisingly, it was locked as well. I guess they didn’t want me to have my own input on what I wore.

Reluctantly, I put the clothes on, not because I wanted to make Winston happy, or anyone else, for that matter, I just preferred it to being naked. I’ve worn bikinis that covered more than the shorts did, and the shirt was so short that if I yawned, the bottom edge tickled my nipples. Ugh!

I had no idea whether I was on a surveillance camera or not, but at that point, I really didn’t care. I started scrambling around the room, looking for a way out. I pulled on the bars in the windows, I checked and rechecked the exit door, looked for air conditioning vents big enough to fit into; everything I could think of, but I found nothing.

“You bunch of heathens!” I screamed in frustration. “Let me outta here!”

As if on cue, the door opened, and in walked Winston and a couple of his goons. I say goons and thugs, because just like any cheesy movie, with textbook villains, the men in Winston’s entourage were big, ugly, and probably dumb. He stayed by the door, as the two men the size of pickup trucks closed in on me. Maybe it was my stubbornness, dumb reflexes, or will to escape, I don’t know, but I tried to fight back.

After a few punches and kicks had virtually no effect on the two buildings (seriously, these guys were both at least 6’6”, 275 pounds), they held me, wiggling and fussing, by my arms and legs, carrying me towards the door.

“Put me down, you bunch of overgrown bullies!” I wiggled and squirmed, and tried to head butt them a few times. All the while, Winston was just standing there smiling like a ‘possum eating persimmons.

“Oh, this is going to be fun. I like a girl with fight in her,” he said, his voice again reminding me how annoying a voice can be. “Take her down to the training room, and let her hang around down there for a little bit.”

I continued to struggle and writhe in their grip, as they hauled me away. The icier my stare was, when I looked back at him, the bigger his cocky little grin got. I was mad enough to spit battery acid, but unfortunately anger doesn’t do the work, it just fuels the ambition, which had greatly hindered prospects, considering the size of my current hosts.

Once they had me in the training room, my thoughts regarding the rings on my cuffs were confirmed. They hooked the rings into locking rings suspended from the ceiling, and I was in a familiar situation all over again. It was a little more high tech, this time, though, as push of a button caused the chains to hoist me up into the air.

“Not again, dangit! Let me down from here. Come on, surely ya’ll don’t believe in what he is doing? This is wrong. Just let me go, and I’ll make sure that the police don’t go too hard on you.” To their credit, they were surprisingly silent. They were either that loyal, or just too afraid of saying something stupid, I don’t know. Their next step was to put a ball gag in my mouth, so I wasn’t able to question them any further.

They rolled a table, with far too many straps, over to me. One of them lifted my ankles and the other rolled the table underneath me. They had to lift me up a little, so that my weight could settle down onto the table, then they proceeded to secure me to it, with all the straps. One strap was fastened across my upper thighs, another just above my knees, another just beow my knees, and then a final strap at my ankles. Finally, what appeared to be a short shoestring was used to tie my two big toes together.

I was indeed totally helpless, but it was more comfortable than my previous restraints had been, at least for a minute. Then they pushed the button again, and that chain holding my wrists was tightened, until I thought it was going to lift the table I was strapped into, as well. I didn’t have to look down to know how high that little shirt was riding up, either.

How long I sat/hung there before that creepy twerp showed up, I don’t know, but it was too long. My arm and shoulder muscles were aching from the strain, and my wrists, were sore, though these bands were fitted better to my wrists, so it wasn’t quite as bad as the handcuffs I was hanging from, what seemed like so long ago.

When he finally did show up, I let him know just what I was thinking.

“Ooo agh a prahgin gonphrahghoohonk kaphraphrrgnnk!” I decided, at that point, that talking was probably not going to get a lot said. I screamed and bucked, trying to pull against the chains, and wiggle my legs, but about all I could do, in the tight stretch and severe leg restrictions, was wiggle my fingers and shake my head.

“Good, I’m glad to see you’re so eager to get started,” he said. I really wanted to just grab this man’s neck and break it. To have such an annoying voice, and say such annoying things should be punishable. He had a feather. I think my heart stopped for a second, as I saw him moving it towards my feet. There was nothing I could do. My feet were held firmly in place by the series of straps, and with my two big toes tied together, there’d be no hindrances for him to deal with.

“Ahh, I can see your toes now. I like the purple polish. Very cute.” Something was wrong with this man. I think he would be well fitted to an institution, in a room with soft walls and coloring books. Before all this was all over, that’s probably where I’d need to be, too.

I curled and scrunched my toes, as much as I was able, but it didn’t really make a lot of difference, because he started in my right arch, tracing the feather up and down, slowly. The arch is without a doubt the worst spot to tickle me, because it tickles the most. He probably decided it was the best spot to start with. There was not a lot of sway allowed by the straps, but I was able to make my feet twitch and wiggle, ever so slightly. It did provide the slightest sense of accomplishment, and helped me to feel like I was doing what I could to make it less torturous. It didn’t really work, though.

The ball gag didn’t help me keep from laughing either. I think it actually made it harder. I couldn’t swallow the urges to laugh, as easily as I might have, otherwise. As a result, the feathering brought me to giggles within a few short moments of commencement. Matters worsened, when he wrapped his free hand around my two big toes and forced them back, thus unwrinkling my soles and stretching the skin taut.

Up and down, stroke after stroke, he dragged the tip of that feather up and down my right arch. He had me, and he knew it. There was nothing I could do, and he could do it for as long as he wanted to. He struck me as one of those obsessive compulsive types, too, that could just go on and on with that one action for absurd amounts of time. I was right about that, too. By the time he stopped stroking that one arch, I think I had aged a few years. It might have been ten minutes, it might have been thirty, but it was way, way, way too long.

Of course, then he wasn’t finished. No, he had to keep my toes bent back, and start stroking the feather on my left foot. I tried to beg. I tried to plead. I think I even tried to use my fingernail for a radio antenna, and attempt to contact NASA, but nothing was going to stop him. Feather tickling isn’t like other forms of tickling. It just nags and annoys and tickles just enough to make you want to claw someone’s eyes out. Winston obviously knew this, because as he was feathering my left sole, up and down, up and down, he started to talk.

“You just hate this, don’t you Francie? I bet you’d like to kill me, right now, wouldn’t you? You can’t, though, can you? No, you’re stuck. You belong to me now, and I’m going to enjoy every moment I can spare, showing you just how much torture tickling can be.”

I did not want to hear that. It prompted me to go into a fit of ballistic struggling and frantic screaming, which all ended with my continued giggling, as he never ceased in the monotonous sole stroking. He didn’t stop with the stroking, this time. Instead, he suddenly plunged the feather into between the big and second toe of my right foot.

I squeaked and squawked, giggle, cackled, and made all sorts of noises, while he took his time exploring the valleys between my toes, with the soft sides of the feather. He’d twist it a little, and then he’d twirl it, or saw it back and forth. Then he forced my toes back even further, and started writing on my toe shelf with the stem of the feather.

Needless to say, I was ready for this to stop. He wasn’t though. Today was apparently feather day, because when I guess he’d decided my feet had taken enough punishment for one day, he started dragging the feather up and down the tops of my legs. It didn’t tickle as badly as the foot tickling, but I surely didn’t stop laughing. I wanted to stop laughing. I never wanted to laugh to start with, but when you’re ticklish, and someone is tickling, and you can’t stop it, you just have to deal with it.

My legs were covered in goose bumps, and he kept turning the feather various ways, to keep me from getting adjusted to one method of stroking. Then it got worse. He started dragging the feather along the line where those next to nothing shorts ended, right there below my hip crease. I think my laughter jumped an octave in pitch, and I reverted to some of the more vicious struggling attempts that I had been engaging in, during the foot tickling.

He kept working his way upward, and I knew where he was headed. I knew what I needed to do to stop it, but unfortunately breaking the restraints and kicking him until he was lifeless and limp was not within my capabilities, at the time. I tried to suck my stomach in, as he swept the feather in random strokes from one side to the other, then up and down, and then drew circles around my navel.

He seemed disappointed by the fact that I’m not very ticklish, inside my navel, so I guess that amped up his desire to torture the area around it, for far longer than the rest of my midsection. He must have spent fifteen minutes just drawing circles round my navel and sweeping that feather side to side, above and beneath it, while I twitched, squirmed, yelped and guffawed, enough that the gag seemed to be more of a suggestion than an actual blockage.

Gradually, he pulled the feather to my left side, though, and started lightly dragging the tip up and down my ribcage. I leaned as far to the right as I could, as he feathered my left side. He just followed my movements, though, so it really didn’t help me any. I’m pretty sure I was reaching a state of delirium, because my brain didn’t seem to be capable of stringing together thoughts. All it had the capacity to do, under the current state of duress, was to relay nerve impulses and direct me to continue laughing.

He made his way to the other side, but his trip to the other side involved dragging the feather across the undersides of my breasts and teasing the exposed nipples with flittering motions. I guess he liked the way I squeaked in those high pitches, because it delayed his trip to the other side, for several minutes. I thought my nipples were going to explode from the blood flow, when he just kept ceaselessly sawing the side of the feather across one or the other one. I tried to distract myself by counting how many times he stroked my left nipple, at one point, but I lost count somewhere in the 20’s.

One of the difficult things about being tickled is that there’s really no relief, until it stops. He did finally move away from my breasts, but it was only to torment the other side of my exposed and stretched ribcage. I had developed a new enemy; that feather. After I’d kicked him to lifelessness, I was going to burn that feather, just for spite. Deep, throat burning guffaws intermixed with lung emptying cackles that just seemed to flow fluidly in and out of each other’s path. I felt sure that my nerve endings were going to go on strike, and kinda wished they would have, because they were being overworked and underpaid, in my opinion.

I knew what was coming, and I really didn’t want it to come. Little by little, Winston was working his way upward with the feather. Then it happened. He slid it up inside the shirt, well what little bit was left, covering my armpits, which was about all it was doing at this point. He started spinning and sliding the feather around, between the shirt and my armpit, and of course, I went absolutely nuts. My armpits are almost as ticklish as my feet, but a feather is definitely more effective in my armpits than it is on my feet. Tears had been streaming from my eyes, periodically, throughout this most recent tickling ordeal, but the feathering of my armpits turned them into a regular spring of flowing moisture. I laughed in such high pitches that I thought I was going to pull something loose in my throat.

The inability to make the slightest pulls down on my arms, or to twist or wiggle away from the feather (the shirt was oh so kind to keep it trapped against my skin, grrrrrr), made the torture that much more unbearable. One thing was for sure. I had to get out of there. I was not cut out for a life of this kind of treatment. I tried to tell him, but of course that stupid ball in my mouth had its own agenda for my speeches, and worked better than Obama’s teleprompter at keeping me from saying what I wanted to say.

When he was finished tickling that armpit, of course, he moved to the other one. I could have guessed that was going to happen, but I was banking on the fleeting hope that maybe he’d forget about it, or mistakenly think he’d already done that one. Due to the extreme amount of ticklish torment the other armpit had received, I was even more responsive and explosive, when the left armpit was tickled. My whole body was covered with a layer of sweat, so I felt nasty, and I felt violated, humiliated, and a whole bunch of other things, but mostly, I felt tickled.

I have no idea how long the tickle session actually lasted, from start to finish, but it felt like it had been all day. He left me there, just to hang and feel sorry for myself, when he was done. A couple of goons came and retrieved me. How much later they came, I’m not sure. I think I might have fallen asleep a time or two. I was too exhausted to offer any resistance, as they carried me back to my room and dropped me onto the bed.

Within a few minutes, I was asleep, again.

--I'll be working on part IV--
 
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Damn Francie, if it had been me, I would've at least left you a pair of panties so you could have some dignity, and some flip flops to avoid your feet getting dirty too lol!

But yet again, great story, and I am once again proud to be the first commenter, can't wait to read part IV!
 
Damn Francie, if it had been me, I would've at least left you a pair of panties so you could have some dignity, and some flip flops to avoid your feet getting dirty too lol!

But yet again, great story, and I am once again proud to be the first commenter, can't wait to read part IV!

Thanks. LOL, but it was thick carpet, and I did get carried around. :D
 
Francie this is your best ever. Well your best so far...

What's so awesome about this is the realism, not the scenario necessarily but the realities of feather tickling, the fear of immobility, the goose bumps etc. The detail all rings so very true and just adds to the enjoyment of all this.

Either you've lived your character's trials and tribulations or you have one helluva imagination.

There is a real unashamedly fun and sexy B-movie quality to these stories and I mean that as a sincere compliment.

Great stuff - looking forward to part IV.
 
I love B-movies, lol. Sometimes, I feel like my life is meant to be one big B-movie. Thanks for the comments, everyone. I'm putting the next episode together, already. :)
 
Francie, I freakin' love what you do. Seriously Such a guilty, pleasurable joyride of pure awesome. Most of all? Just fuckin' fun.

It's three in the morning here though. Proper comments on each of your installments will be posted soon but until then, consider this the verbal equivalent of me buying you a beer. :gbtoast:
 
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