ElFewja
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I think the easiest explanation is that I’m crazy. I just kept thinking Magical Fingers massage and out of control tickling story. So I wrote that. The one thing here is that this is from the month or two when I decided strong characterization might not best suit a story at all times, and this is a much earlier example of that. It’s there just… well, I’m sending you off to my fantasy realm now. Bye bye.
Magical Fingers - */F All over
It’s kind of like that proverb “curiosity killed the cat”, except not at all. There aren’t any cats involved, and there certainly isn’t any killing; hell, curiosity is almost non existent here. So, yeah, it’s more the not at all part.
But, on curiosity; it’s not really so much curiosity as it is an interest in living. It was Bridget’s motto; you only live once, so what the hell, right? Live life to its fullest.
Bridget was sure she was the only one there that night, at Sleazy Motel 88. It was just some place off of a highway in the middle of Ohio; the only other things within five miles were trees and fields. It really was boring, in a nutshell of lame, dipped within the creamy sauce of existentialism.
Through the partially opened window a breeze blew, calling Bridget’s attention to the night sky and its clouds, and even stars that were always invisible in the city skies she had grown accustomed to. Warm for May, she still wore her skirt and top from earlier in the day, which she now contemplated while sitting at the dented wooden table in the corner, twirling a strand of her short cropped dark brown hair as she delved through her inner world. Busy, to be sure; she covered a couple hundred miles from the east coast today. Largely uneventful, but there were passing memories: a few memorable potholes, coffee at some roadside café, a speeding ticket she had no intent of paying, and a large amount of angry drivers; all the sort of things typical to a road trip across the U.S. And now she sat here, late into the night, thinking of things long past, in some dark motel room of a backwater farming county in an unknown state.
Enough of this, she thought as she knocked her chair back a few inches so that she was able to rise uninhibited. The bed wasn’t far – it was a small room – but she had to take a few steps all the same, her thin brown leather straps that served as an excuse for footwear slapping loudly against her bare and tender flesh as she strode across a carpet so dirty that she feared treading it barefoot.
A curious contraption not unlike a prize machine you find in the entrances to grocery stores was attached to the bed, next to the alarm clock that read twelve fifty something – she wasn’t sure of the last digit as half of the bars that compromised the number were not alight –in a fiery red that illuminated the room, which she noticed as she sat down on the stiff mattress. The thing – that box – was black, with bright neon green lettering large enough to be barely legible in the near pitch black room lit only by the parking lot lights outside and the alarm clock next to her. The lettering read “Magic Fingers’ Massage.” Beneath those, she saw more lettering, advertising ten minutes of its wondrous services for a single dollar. What the hell, she decided without a thought, pulling a dollar from her pocket and inserting it into the machine; you live in America all these years, hear about this sort of legendary stuff that so defines the country, but you never do it. After paying, she fell back heavily onto the mattress with a thud, her head resting on a pillow in much need of replacement, and crossed her ankles as she waited for the thing to begin.
What did begin was not entirely what she had anticipated. Well, to put it bluntly, it truly was not at all what she expected in the least. It was kind of weird; surreal, nay, impossible. For a few seconds she laid there, waiting patiently, when suddenly she became aware of the presence of glowing, fluorescent green fingers creeping through the blanket. Deciding that this simply was not cool, she began to push herself up with her elbows, but was quickly denied the ability to get up when the fingers became disembodied hands, tightly gripping her wrists and ankles to the mattress.
Even though they held her down with a fierce iron grip that she could not struggle against, it didn’t hurt and had not stopped her from sitting up half way, so that she could see her brown flip flops flicked off of her feet by two more hands that she could barely see as her feet blocked them from her view; the two flimsy pieces of apparel flew into the air, desperately flapping their wings as they crashed into the ground with a very muted thud, dead or dying and entirely unable to help her feet from the tickling that ensued.
They couldn’t be corporeal, but they definitely felt it as several unseen fingers grazed her soles in search of that ripe fruit that is laughter, causing her to howl into the vacant dark air of her motel room. The manager had left – she saw him leave – and there were no lights on when she arrived at nine, nor were there cars in the lot; she was alone, helpless to the thing that she had awakened. Through shrieks and giggles she laughed as the fingers found more and more parts of her tender soles to be ticklish; the toes and arches she knew to be, due to an ex holding her down and tickling her more than once, but the heels! The things clawed at them incessantly, and she screamed out; she could flex her toes or wiggle her feet to protect the upper parts, but the lower parts were held tight to the bed, leaving her unable to escape that agonizing feeling.
Just as she realized how wonderful it was to be able to struggle, a new hand appeared, grasping her big toes together and pulling them back towards the rest of her body. She struggled against this new hand with great effort, but could not so much as wiggle her toes or her soles now; as if the hands knew this, they began to quickly rake up and down both of her soles much faster than before, forcing a banshee shriek from her lips as the sensation registered with her brain. Unable to move, the sensation’s seemed to almost triple their effect upon her soles; all of her awareness seemed to center itself upon her feet and the nails that struck at them with such fervor.
Looking to the clock gave her the information that it was now 12:57; so five or so minutes of foot tickling had passed already. If it was just the feet, she could last, she knew; her feet were ticklish, probably her worst spot, but at least it wasn’t anymore than that, she thought. As though the mind behind the hands could read her own, she felt that same rough feeling flesh that she felt on her fingers begin to grip and grasp elsewhere, first at her knees and thighs and then her stomach and ribs. More hands had grown from the bed, she realized; sensations at her armpits told her that two more appeared while she had been distracted, as all the hands simultaneously dug into her body.
It was terrifying; being held down by incredibly strong, disembodied hands that glowed with a ghostly light while being tickle tortured of all things. Fingers danced upon her ribs, stroked her feet, and dug at her armpits all at once, as if five people had teamed together with the sole intent of making her laugh. The sensation was sort of exhilarating; terrifying, but exhilarating. New, at the very least; that knowledge that you didn’t know when it would end, that you were helpless and nobody would save you from your own sensitive skin was thrilling, but she could not help but laugh, struggle and scream out for an end, which only ever seemed to increase the pace of her phantom ticklers.
Painfully, she watched the alarm clock by her bed, counting down the minutes as they dragged on like hours, hoping that the tickling did stop after ten minutes like the machine advertised as she frantically fought with her phantom captors, destroying the order of the bed as she did so. The pillow beneath her had long since been lost in her mirthful struggles, tossed somewhere onto the floor by haphazardly.
On the ninth minute, awareness again centered itself on her feet as the other hands disappeared, but it swiftly returned to her hips as two dug into them with their thumbs, probably hoping to draw forth from her that sacred nectar of crazed giggles; it succeeded. It was fleeting, enjoyable, but fleeting; the main focus had turned to her feet, as she realized an additional pair of the hands had turned their attention there. Two seemed to scratch at her heels while the crevice of her toes received the full attention of the other ten agonizing fingers that played her like an instrument. Her feet were ablaze with a wildfire of sensation when more fingers – a third set of ten - grazed her arches, tracing intricately simple patterns across them.
It ended so suddenly; there was no transition whatsoever. The hands were just gone, and Bridget flailed around upon the bed attempting to fight what was no longer there and nearly throwing herself from it as a result as she flexed her feet madly while spinning about wildly. A brief second later and her senses told her that the torture had stopped, but her body still tingled from the aftermath, and she still giggled lightly amidst her heavily drawn breaths. Being tickled, she realized, was quite a workout.
As soon as she was able, she sat up and crawled across the bed to find her flip flops on the floor, picking them up and thrusting them onto her feet in one quick motion before crossing her legs and sitting for a few minutes. Definitely, she decided; she definitely was not tired enough to sleep after that, though she seemed very fatigued from it. It was quite an experience, but the end was nothing short of amazing; she kind of wanted to try it again. Just once more, that was it.
Digging through the purse that was on the nightstand, she quickly found another dollar and inserted it into the machine before rolling onto her stomach, arms thrust perpendicular to her body, prepared to be bound one more time. Her flip flops, this time after it began, were dragged to either side of her, one by each hand, so that she could almost grasp at them when the hands returned to torturing her soles. That they were just out of her reach – those things that could protect her from their touch – seemed to enhance each strike of those fingers even more.
Magical Fingers - */F All over
It’s kind of like that proverb “curiosity killed the cat”, except not at all. There aren’t any cats involved, and there certainly isn’t any killing; hell, curiosity is almost non existent here. So, yeah, it’s more the not at all part.
But, on curiosity; it’s not really so much curiosity as it is an interest in living. It was Bridget’s motto; you only live once, so what the hell, right? Live life to its fullest.
Bridget was sure she was the only one there that night, at Sleazy Motel 88. It was just some place off of a highway in the middle of Ohio; the only other things within five miles were trees and fields. It really was boring, in a nutshell of lame, dipped within the creamy sauce of existentialism.
Through the partially opened window a breeze blew, calling Bridget’s attention to the night sky and its clouds, and even stars that were always invisible in the city skies she had grown accustomed to. Warm for May, she still wore her skirt and top from earlier in the day, which she now contemplated while sitting at the dented wooden table in the corner, twirling a strand of her short cropped dark brown hair as she delved through her inner world. Busy, to be sure; she covered a couple hundred miles from the east coast today. Largely uneventful, but there were passing memories: a few memorable potholes, coffee at some roadside café, a speeding ticket she had no intent of paying, and a large amount of angry drivers; all the sort of things typical to a road trip across the U.S. And now she sat here, late into the night, thinking of things long past, in some dark motel room of a backwater farming county in an unknown state.
Enough of this, she thought as she knocked her chair back a few inches so that she was able to rise uninhibited. The bed wasn’t far – it was a small room – but she had to take a few steps all the same, her thin brown leather straps that served as an excuse for footwear slapping loudly against her bare and tender flesh as she strode across a carpet so dirty that she feared treading it barefoot.
A curious contraption not unlike a prize machine you find in the entrances to grocery stores was attached to the bed, next to the alarm clock that read twelve fifty something – she wasn’t sure of the last digit as half of the bars that compromised the number were not alight –in a fiery red that illuminated the room, which she noticed as she sat down on the stiff mattress. The thing – that box – was black, with bright neon green lettering large enough to be barely legible in the near pitch black room lit only by the parking lot lights outside and the alarm clock next to her. The lettering read “Magic Fingers’ Massage.” Beneath those, she saw more lettering, advertising ten minutes of its wondrous services for a single dollar. What the hell, she decided without a thought, pulling a dollar from her pocket and inserting it into the machine; you live in America all these years, hear about this sort of legendary stuff that so defines the country, but you never do it. After paying, she fell back heavily onto the mattress with a thud, her head resting on a pillow in much need of replacement, and crossed her ankles as she waited for the thing to begin.
What did begin was not entirely what she had anticipated. Well, to put it bluntly, it truly was not at all what she expected in the least. It was kind of weird; surreal, nay, impossible. For a few seconds she laid there, waiting patiently, when suddenly she became aware of the presence of glowing, fluorescent green fingers creeping through the blanket. Deciding that this simply was not cool, she began to push herself up with her elbows, but was quickly denied the ability to get up when the fingers became disembodied hands, tightly gripping her wrists and ankles to the mattress.
Even though they held her down with a fierce iron grip that she could not struggle against, it didn’t hurt and had not stopped her from sitting up half way, so that she could see her brown flip flops flicked off of her feet by two more hands that she could barely see as her feet blocked them from her view; the two flimsy pieces of apparel flew into the air, desperately flapping their wings as they crashed into the ground with a very muted thud, dead or dying and entirely unable to help her feet from the tickling that ensued.
They couldn’t be corporeal, but they definitely felt it as several unseen fingers grazed her soles in search of that ripe fruit that is laughter, causing her to howl into the vacant dark air of her motel room. The manager had left – she saw him leave – and there were no lights on when she arrived at nine, nor were there cars in the lot; she was alone, helpless to the thing that she had awakened. Through shrieks and giggles she laughed as the fingers found more and more parts of her tender soles to be ticklish; the toes and arches she knew to be, due to an ex holding her down and tickling her more than once, but the heels! The things clawed at them incessantly, and she screamed out; she could flex her toes or wiggle her feet to protect the upper parts, but the lower parts were held tight to the bed, leaving her unable to escape that agonizing feeling.
Just as she realized how wonderful it was to be able to struggle, a new hand appeared, grasping her big toes together and pulling them back towards the rest of her body. She struggled against this new hand with great effort, but could not so much as wiggle her toes or her soles now; as if the hands knew this, they began to quickly rake up and down both of her soles much faster than before, forcing a banshee shriek from her lips as the sensation registered with her brain. Unable to move, the sensation’s seemed to almost triple their effect upon her soles; all of her awareness seemed to center itself upon her feet and the nails that struck at them with such fervor.
Looking to the clock gave her the information that it was now 12:57; so five or so minutes of foot tickling had passed already. If it was just the feet, she could last, she knew; her feet were ticklish, probably her worst spot, but at least it wasn’t anymore than that, she thought. As though the mind behind the hands could read her own, she felt that same rough feeling flesh that she felt on her fingers begin to grip and grasp elsewhere, first at her knees and thighs and then her stomach and ribs. More hands had grown from the bed, she realized; sensations at her armpits told her that two more appeared while she had been distracted, as all the hands simultaneously dug into her body.
It was terrifying; being held down by incredibly strong, disembodied hands that glowed with a ghostly light while being tickle tortured of all things. Fingers danced upon her ribs, stroked her feet, and dug at her armpits all at once, as if five people had teamed together with the sole intent of making her laugh. The sensation was sort of exhilarating; terrifying, but exhilarating. New, at the very least; that knowledge that you didn’t know when it would end, that you were helpless and nobody would save you from your own sensitive skin was thrilling, but she could not help but laugh, struggle and scream out for an end, which only ever seemed to increase the pace of her phantom ticklers.
Painfully, she watched the alarm clock by her bed, counting down the minutes as they dragged on like hours, hoping that the tickling did stop after ten minutes like the machine advertised as she frantically fought with her phantom captors, destroying the order of the bed as she did so. The pillow beneath her had long since been lost in her mirthful struggles, tossed somewhere onto the floor by haphazardly.
On the ninth minute, awareness again centered itself on her feet as the other hands disappeared, but it swiftly returned to her hips as two dug into them with their thumbs, probably hoping to draw forth from her that sacred nectar of crazed giggles; it succeeded. It was fleeting, enjoyable, but fleeting; the main focus had turned to her feet, as she realized an additional pair of the hands had turned their attention there. Two seemed to scratch at her heels while the crevice of her toes received the full attention of the other ten agonizing fingers that played her like an instrument. Her feet were ablaze with a wildfire of sensation when more fingers – a third set of ten - grazed her arches, tracing intricately simple patterns across them.
It ended so suddenly; there was no transition whatsoever. The hands were just gone, and Bridget flailed around upon the bed attempting to fight what was no longer there and nearly throwing herself from it as a result as she flexed her feet madly while spinning about wildly. A brief second later and her senses told her that the torture had stopped, but her body still tingled from the aftermath, and she still giggled lightly amidst her heavily drawn breaths. Being tickled, she realized, was quite a workout.
As soon as she was able, she sat up and crawled across the bed to find her flip flops on the floor, picking them up and thrusting them onto her feet in one quick motion before crossing her legs and sitting for a few minutes. Definitely, she decided; she definitely was not tired enough to sleep after that, though she seemed very fatigued from it. It was quite an experience, but the end was nothing short of amazing; she kind of wanted to try it again. Just once more, that was it.
Digging through the purse that was on the nightstand, she quickly found another dollar and inserted it into the machine before rolling onto her stomach, arms thrust perpendicular to her body, prepared to be bound one more time. Her flip flops, this time after it began, were dragged to either side of her, one by each hand, so that she could almost grasp at them when the hands returned to torturing her soles. That they were just out of her reach – those things that could protect her from their touch – seemed to enhance each strike of those fingers even more.
