Yumiko Toshi - M/F

THE JAPANESE TICKLING CHRONICLES

PART 002 - YUMIKO TOSHI

It had been a long and busy day at the Sunshine City Mall in Ikebukuro, one
of the more central residential districts of Tokyo. Saturday was always busy
in the mall, of course, since that was one of the days for families to go out
shopping together. Sunshine City, when it was built, was referred to as a
city within a city and featured a large shopping center, office buildings,
residential buildings, theaters and a major hotel. Its location inside the
Yamanote Loop Line and only two blocks from the Ikebukuro station was
ideal. Additionally, there was fabulous freeway access for motorists. After
nine o’clock in the evening, though, the area very quickly quieted down
with the closing of the various stores and businesses, other than the theaters,
bars and a few restaurants, of course.

Yumiko, one of the many hundreds of the mall’s employees, was happy to
be done for the day. It had been busy and the customers she had served that
day had seemed unusually aggressive. By the time the pretty 5ft 4 in tall,
24-year old Japanese girl had changed from her uniform into her street
clothes it was nearly ten o’clock. As always, she would be taking the
Yamanote Line and then another train to get home. She walked down the
stairs and one of the service corridors of the mall on her way to the
personnel entrance. A few minutes walk and she would be at the Ikebukuro
Station and onto the train.

Yasuhiro Shimada, the Japanese billionaire, had been patiently waiting in
his car, a black BMW with tinted windows, beside the staff entrance in the
parkade since nine o’clock. Since patience was one of his greatest
attributes, he could lay in wait for hours. He had developed an intense
tickling and sexual torture fetish over his fifty plus years and he had built a
large country home about an hour away from the city which was equipped
with a fabulous underground torture chamber. He had previously hired
call girls and escorts for tickling and torture sessions but they tended to be a
lot more submissive than he really wanted since they had come voluntarily.
The only real satisfaction he could get in such a session was to bring in
young women who would fight and resist with all of their strength and that,
of course, meant abducting them. They were, understandably, well paid
upon their departure, but they really had to be there against their will to
satisfy his fetish and his personal needs.

Hiro, as he liked to call himself, looked at his watch, which was showing
ten to ten. He had seen several young girls pass by on their way out of the
building but none of them had presented the opportunity he was waiting for,
either not being alone or there being other people around at the time. He
simply continued to wait, biding his time like a leopard on the prowl,
knowing he would not be disappointed. The door opened again and a girl in
her twenties wearing a red jacket, white shirt, blue jeans and red running
shoes came out. He quickly looked around and there was noone else in
sight. In a few moments, she would pass directly by his car. He silently got
out of his car, holding a thick cloth moistened with chloroform, and
positioned himself behind a heavy pillar.

Yumiko, like most of the mall staff, liked to walk through the parkade on
her way to the station as this saved a considerable distance over walking
around the building, or going back into the mall and out of the regular
doors. She took no notice of the black BMW parked beside the yellow lines
of the walkway until she was distracted by the click of the doors remotely
being unlocked. At that very moment, she was grabbed from behind and a
moist cloth was forcefully held over her mouth and nose. Although she
tried to struggle against the powerful arms holding her tightly, she was
unconscious in seconds.

When she came to, Yumiko found herself inside the black BMW driving
along one of the Tokyo freeways. She was in the back seat, on the side
opposite from the driver, with her wrists in handcuffs behind her back and
the seatbelt across her waist holding her in place. She was helpless.

“Who are you,” she asked the older man driving the car, “and what do you
want with me?”

“My name does not matter,” he responded, “you are a pretty girl and I only
want you to spend some time with me.”

“I’ll scream if you don’t let me go right now,” she threatened.

“You can scream as much as you want,” he told her, “this car is quite
soundproof. I warn you, though, if I get tired of your screaming, I’ll put you
to sleep again.”

“I see,” she said, “where are you taking me?”

“To my house,” he told her, “it’s not too far from here.”

“Are you going to rape me or kill me,” she asked.

“No, of course not,” he assured her, “I am only taking you to my country
home for a few hours of entertainment. No harm will come to you and you
will be home again tomorrow.”

“My parents are going to be looking for me,” she warned, “and they’ll call
the police when I don’t come home.”

“Actually,” he said, “I have already had one of my staff call your parents to
tell them you would be staying at her home tonight and not to worry. You’ll
be home tomorrow.”

“Where did you get my telephone number,” she asked, agitated.

“From your cell phone, of course,” he told her, “it was in your purse.”

“I have to work tomorrow,” she told him.

“That is not true,” he responded, “I have already checked your schedule at
Sunshine City and you are now off until Tuesday.”

“Please don’t do this,” she pleaded, “let me go. I can find my way home
from here.”

“That would be terrible,” he said, “you can’t expect me to simply drop a
pretty girl off along the road in the middle of the night. Who knows what
could happen to you. Besides, you are a personal and invited guest. That
would be terribly rude.”

“My boyfriend is waiting for me to meet him,” she said, “so I really have to
go.”

“It amazes me that you, a beautiful Japanese girl, brought up in a good
family here in Tokyo, can lie like that,” he chastised, “you were on your
way home to your parents. Furthermore, I can’t imagine any man wanting
to be a boyfriend for a woman who lies.”

“I don’t lie to my boyfriend,” she said.

“Ah-so, you only lie to an older gentleman like myself,” he surmised, “that’s
terrible. I expect your father is about my age. Do you lie to him as well?”

“No, of course not,” she said.

“Well, here we are,” he told her as he turned the BMW into a driveway from
a two-lane road they had been on, having turned off the freeway several
minutes earlier, “welcome to my country home.”

He drove the BMW to the far side of a large house where, at the push of a
button in the car, a garage door opened. He drove the car inside and
stopped. She turned her head and saw the door close behind the car.

“Come, let’s go inside,” he said, as he opened the car door and unbuckled
her seatbelt, “you can’t stay in the car all night.”

“You’re not going to rape me, are you,” she asked again.

“No,” he said, “as I told you before, I’m not going to rape you and no harm
is going to come to you. Now, out of the car, please.”

Yumiko turned and got up out of the car with his help, of course, since she
was still in handcuffs. He took a firm hold of her upper left arm and forced
her to walk through the double doors built into the wall. She heard the
doors close and lock behind her before a second set of doors opened before
her.

“Your place is very secure,” she said, trying to make conversation and take
control of her trepidation.

“Yes, it is,” he said, “so that nobody can enter or leave without my proper
permission.”

“Oh, my God,” said Yumiko, as she saw the room before her, “please, no,
don’t hurt me!”

The room before her, into which the man had taken her, was much like the
operating room in a hospital with various cabinets and equipment made of
stainless steel and a large operating table in the middle of the room. The
only difference, of course, was that this operating table had more of an
x-shape and was equipped with leather straps for a person’s arms and legs.
A large and solid infrastructure made of heavy steel parts held the table top
in position.

“Come,” he told her, “over to the table.”

“No, please,” she begged, as she struggled against his grip.

Without warning, he picked her up from the floor and carried her to the big
operating table, easily placing her upon it. While she fought against his
grip, he took hold of her right leg and strapped it down with restraints above
the knee and at the ankle. With her wrists in handcuffs behind her back, she
could do little but kick her legs and struggle against his grip. Moments
later, he had strapped her left leg to the table as well.

“Please don’t do this to me,” she pleaded, “I don’t want to get hurt.”

“You’re not going to get hurt,” he told her, as he unlocked the handcuffs,
“now take off your jacket or it might be damaged.”

“No, please,” she asked, as she allowed him to take off her shiny red jacket,
sensing that he would forcibly remove it if she didn’t comply.

He gently threw the jacket onto a nearby cart with one hand while taking
hold of her right wrist with the other. He forced her to lie down and
fastened her right arm to the table with leather restraints on her wrist and
upper arm. He did the same with her left arm. Next, he placed a stainless
steel bar across the inside of each of her hands and locked it in place. This
prevented her from clenching her fists although she could grasp and squeeze
the steel bars with her hands. As she objected, he placed a bridle gag in her
mouth and secured the straps behind her head, lifting her hair as he did so.

Yumiko couldn’t move. She was perfectly strapped down onto the big
operating table and, because of the bridle gag, she couldn’t scream or even
talk. She could move her head from side to side and lift it slightly, squeeze
the stainless steel bars with her hands and bite the solid rubber of the bridle
in her teeth. She was helpless, and she started to cry, tears cascading down
the sides of her face.

“Aw, don’t cry, Yumiko,” said the man, gently wiping the tears from her
face, “I told you I’m not going to hurt you.”

Yumiko was startled as she heard the metallic click of a pin being released
at the side of the operating table and she instinctively stiffened her entire
body. The man lifted the head end of the table to bring Yumiko to a nearly
vertical position and replaced the pin to lock it in place. She grasped the
stainless steel bars with her hands to prevent herself from sliding down or
even falling, not realizing that the leather straps on her arms and legs would
hold her perfectly. He approached and looked into her eyes, as she looked
back at his.

“You know what,” he said, as he unbuckled the straps of the bridle gag
behind her head, lifting her hair, “I changed my mind about this gag for
now. I think I’ll take it out.”

He removed the bridle gag from Yumiko’s mouth. He then fastened a
leather restraint around her forehead to keep her head from moving.

“Please, what are you going to do to me,” she asked.

“Well, to start with, I think we’ll talk a little bit about calligraphy,” he said,
“how does that sound?”

“Oh, okay,” she said, “I took calligraphy in school. What is it that you want
to know?”

“What I want to explore, with your help, of course, is the various uses of the
fude, the Japanese calligraphy pen, or brush,” he said, as he brought one of
those fude into view.

“What else could we do with a fude,” he asked her, as he brought the little,
pointed brush in one long, gentle stroke down her jaw line, starting at her
right ear down to her chin and then down the center line of her neck.

“Aah, no, please,” she said, “that tickles!”

“There, that’s one stroke,” he teased, as he moved the fude to her left side,
starting the same downward stroke along her jawline and then her neck.

“Please, don’t,” she pleaded, as she tried to squirm against the straps that
held her perfectly, “you’ll drive me crazy!”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Yumiko,” he said, as he started the next stroke down
her right jawline and onto her neck, “you complain that it tickles but you are
not laughing.”

“No, please, it’s not that kind of tickle,” she said, “it’s an irritating kind of
tickle that doesn’t make me laugh.”

“Ah, it doesn’t make you laugh,” he said, as he started another stroke below
her left ear, “then it can’t be tickling you.”

“Yes, oh God, it tickles,” she said, “you’re torturing me!”

“How can I be torturing you,” he asked, “I’m not hurting you at all.”

“No, but it’s still torture,” she complained, as he continued to stroke the
fude down her jaw lines and along her neck.

“I see,” he said, knowing fulwell the agony he was causing, “so if your
boyfriend caresses you, or even only strokes your face, you consider that
torture?”

“No, please,” she said, “that’s not torture.”

“But if I do it,” he asked, “being a nice older gentleman and not your
boyfriend, then it is torture?”

“No, it’s not the same,” she told him, as she suffered more and more of the
relentless strokes down her face and neck, “he doesn’t use a fude like that.”

“Ah-so,” he said, starting the next stroke by her ear, “then what does he
use?”

“Nothing,” she said, squirming against the restraints, “he uses his finger
when he kisses me.”

“Ah, I see,” he observed, “perhaps I should send him a fude and tell him that
you like it.”

“No, please don’t,” she said, “please stop now, I can’t stand it anymore.”

“Of course, you can,” he said, “this is only the beginning. Can you
remember in elementary school, when you first learned to write Japanese,
the Kanji.”

“Yes, of course.”

“How many times did you have to write each character in order to learn it
properly?”

“The teacher made us write it one hundred times,” she told him.

“Ah, so,” he said, “then we will do one hundred of these strokes on each
side, so that you won’t forget them after you leave. We’re up to thirty two
at this time.”

“No, please don’t do this to me,” she pleaded, as the strokes continued,
always starting below one of her ears, slowly following her jaw line and the
center line of her neck. She squirmed and struggled as best she could,
complaining and pleading the entire time, as he patiently continued one
stroke after another. After a while, all two hundred strokes has been made.

“So, what shall we do next,” he asked her, as he allowed her to sip from a
straw in a canned Coke that he held up to her lips.

“I don’t know, please let me go now.”

“Aaah, pffft,” was the sound she made as he started to stroke her nose with
the fude, slowly bringing the terrible calligraphy brush across her nose and
even inserting it into her nostrils. She tried desperately to elude the fude as
he continued his ministrations, “stop, pfft!”

“Would you prefer this instead,” he asked, as he started to lick her left ear,
kissing and nibbling the delicate earlobe, while holding the fude slightly
away from her nose.

“No, please don’t do that,” she pleaded, “it tickles, too!”

“So, you can choose,” he told her, as he continued to nibble her ear, “say
nose for the fude on your nose or say ears for the tongue on your ears.”

“No, please,” she said, as he continued, “okay, nose, then nose!”

“Pfft, aah, pffft,” she said, as he tickled her nose with the calligraphy brush,
saying nothing, only stroking her nose continuously.

“Okay, pfft, okay,” she said, after nearly twenty strokes, “ears, oh God,
ears!”

The man moved to her right side and began biting and licking her ear,
tickling the inside with his tongue, as he held her head steady with his right
hand and her hair out of the way with his left. Yumiko lasted about twenty
seconds.

“Aaah, nose, stohohop, nose!”

And the game continued for some twenty minutes, moving back and forth
between her nose and her ears, every time she couldn’t take anymore.

“Well, Yumiko, that was fun,” said the man, “not only that but you smell
and taste so good. Now, we’ll continue with your ears using the fude.”

He lifted Yumiko’s head, momentarily unbuckling the leather restraint on
her forehead, and carefully tied her hair back with a barrette. Then,
standing in front of her, he brought forth a second fude and started to tickle
both of her ears simultaneously. It was terrible for her since she would
instinctively turn an ear away from one of the terrible little brushes and
bring the other one into closer view. She didn’t know what to do, or even
what she was doing, as he continued tickling her ears.

After spending some ten minutes relentlessly tickling her small, pretty ears,
he suddenly moved both of the calligraphy brushes to her neck, carefully
stroking vertically and horizontally across her neck. No matter which way
Yumiko moved her head, she couldn’t get away from the fude. She wanted
to bend her head forward to shorten her neck which was completely exposed
but the head restraint prevented that. Another ten minutes passed and the
helpless girl was exhausted. He unfastened the restraint holding her head.

“You have to let me go now,” she said, “I have to pee really badly.”

“Alright,” he said, “I can help you with that and I won’t have to unfasten
you.”

“How can you do that?”

“I will simple undo the straps on your left leg,” he said, as he unbuckled the
restraints around her knee and ankle, then unbuckled and unzipped her jeans
and pulled them down as far as the restraint on her right knee would permit,
“and take down your jeans like this.”

“Aaah, no,” she complained.

“But I thought you had to pee quite badly,” he taunted, as he pulled down
her panties and held a long, narrow curved basin between her legs, “here is
your chance.”

“I can’t,” she said, “not with you watching me.”

“Okay, I’ll turn away,” he told her as he turned, “but its either this or wet
your pants and I’m not going to wait for long.”

“It’s coming now,” she said, as her piss flowed into the bowl, “you are so
mean!”

“I’m not mean at all,” he answered, opening a moist towelette, “if I was
mean, I would have simply let you wet your pants and embarrass yourself.”

“What’s that for,” she asked.

“To clean you up,” he told her, “it wouldn’t be proper to pull up your pants
without wiping you first, would it?”

After wiping her genitals, he lifted her panties and then her jeans back into
their proper place, and fastened her left leg with the restraints. He then left
the room with the bowl to dispose of her piss and the towelette.

“There we are,” he said, as he came back into the room, “we’re all clean and
refreshed. Now we can get on with the entertainment again.”

“Please, I’ve had enough already,” she pleaded, as he produced a pair of
bandage scissors, the type with the curved end that cannot cut the skin, and
cut her cotton t-shirt from her beltline to her sternum, stopped below her
bra.

“I’ll bet that your belly is really ticklish,” he said, as he started moving the
fude all over her stomach, from side to side, vertically and horizontally,
with the helpless girl squirming around as much as she could. Since the
restraints holding her at the knees and elbows were the closest to her torso, a
little movement there was possible. Suddenly, she howled with laughter as
he lowered the calligraphy brush into her belly button and began to tickle all
over the inside of her navel.

“Noooohohohoooo, pleeheeheese,” she laughed, arching her back as far as
she could and desperately trying to evade the little pointed calligraphy
brush, “that tickles so baahaahaad.”

After a time, perhaps ten or fifteen minutes, Yumiko didn’t know which, he
stopped, leaving her there with her stomach heaving up and down as she
tried to catch her breath.

He brought back the bandage scissors and continued to cut her t-shirt all the
way to the neckline, exposing her orange lacey bra, and across the sleeves
and the shoulders, then removing it by pulling it out from behind her.

“Did you know, Yumiko, that one of the most sensitive parts of a woman’s
body is the soft, delicate skin under her arms?”

“Oh, my God! No, please no!” she pleaded, as he softly kissed the skin of
her left armpit.

“Not yet, Yumiko,” he said, “not yet. How many ribs do you think you
have?”

She steeled herself for the onslaught of more tickling as he counted her ribs
with one finger. He was careful, though, to touch only the bone and not to
tickle her.

“A girl’s ribs,” he told her, “are not really ticklish, as you can see. The
ticklish part is the meaty spaces in between her ribs, the intercostal spaces,
in which all of the nerves are located. Perhaps I should count those for
you.”

“Aaaaah, noooo, aahahahahaaaa,” she laughed, “please nohohohoho.”

“My, there’s only twelve of them,” he taunted, “and I so much wanted to
count to a thousand. Oh, well, I’ll just have to keep repeating them, first
one side and then the other.”

“No, pleeheeheeheese, nohoho,” she screamed with laughter, “nohohot a
thouhouhousand!”

When he finished counting, he looked at Yumiko’s sweaty, tear-stained face
as she tried desperately to catch her breath.

“Well, that was interesting,” he said, poking her sides, “I wonder if I
counted that properly, though, or if I missed something. Perhaps I should
count them again.”

“No, please don’t,” she begged him.

“You’re probably right,” he said, “after all your armpits are openly inviting
my attention. Now where are those calligraphy brushes?”

“Noohoohoooo, pleeeheese,” she howled, as he started to tickle the delicate
area under her arms, “oh, my Gohohohod!”

The tickling of her armpits, with an occasional foray down to her ribs and
her belly, lasted over half an hour without even a breather. By the time he
was done, Yumiko hung limp in the straps holding her, almost unconscious
with her head thrown forward, panting and laughing even after the tickling
had stopped.

“I think you need a rest, young lady,” he said, “we can’t continue like this
for a while. Perhaps you need to experience a new sensation.”

He pulled out the metal pin holding the table in position and returned it to
its original horizontal level. He picked up the bandage scissors and cut her
bra straps to remove it, leaving her topless on the table. He then removed
her shoes and socks to reveal two very pretty feet. It always amazed him
how soft and pretty the feet of Japanese girls were.

“What is that,” she asked with some alarm as he brought forth a bowl and a
small paint brush, “please don’t put that on me!”

“This,” he told her, as he applied the white powder, almost like baby
powder, to her belly button, “is a powerful itching powder. Every place to
which I apply this will itch quite badly, but in your present position you will
not be able to scratch it. Can you feel it already?”

“A little,” she said, as he moved to her armpits, “no, please, not there.”

Her pleas, of course, fell on deaf ears, as he continued to apply the itching
powder to every part of her underarms, coating each with layer upon layer
of the terrible powder. He did the same to her now naked feet, covering the
tops and the soles of her feet, brushing the powder in between and
underneath her toes.

“You might be wondering why I did not apply itching powder to your
breasts,” he told her as he moved two spigots in place above her chest, “and
that is because I have developed a new version of the ancient Chinese water
torture in which drops of water will fall onto both your breasts, incessantly
and endlessly. In this case, though, you will control it. If you let your
hands relax and don’t pull on the stainless steel bars, the water will not drip.
If you clench your fists and pull on your arms, which will also pull on the
steel bars, the water will drip on your breasts. So you can choose if it is to
be the water torture or if you can endure the itching.”

“You’re evil,” she screamed, as he left the operating room, turning out the
lights as he went.

He went to another room in the house and prepared a large sunken Japanese
bath with hot water, herbs and flowers. A heating element would keep the
water at the perfect temperature until he was ready. He opened the intercom
every few minutes to hear Yumiko screaming as the itching and water
torture continued to torment her. He returned to the operating room about
an hour later, carrying a bowl of warm water and a small towel.

“There, Yumiko, it’s over now,” he told her as he removed the spigots over
her breasts and gently washed away the itching powder, noticing that she
had wet herself during the torture as he washed her. He also noticed that her
nipples were hard and gorged with blood.

“Please, no more,” she pleaded, as he released her legs, unbuckled and
unzipped her jeans and pulled them, along with her panties, down over her
feet to remove them. He then refastened the restraints. She was now
completely naked. He could see she was sopping wet with sexual arousal.

“But I always save the best for last,” he told her, as he seated himself on a
wheeled stool at the foot end of the table, “and these pretty feet are the best
of all.”

“Please, no, not my feet,” she pleaded as she felt his lips on the toes, gently
kissing them. She roared with laughter once again when she felt his tongue
licking the spaces between and underneath her toes. Then came his fingers
as he tickled her insteps while still licking the hollows under her toes.

“Noooo, pleeeheeheeese,” she laughed, “I cahahan’t tahahake it
anymohohore!”

Soon, he brought the terrible fude back into play and lightly stroked the
creases on the soles of her feet, the little crease in the ball of her foot and
the multiple creases created when she flexed her toes, as well as the spaces
underneath her toes. Even the tops of her feet and the back of her ankle,
along the big Achilles tendon, were not spared. For another hour, he
continued to tickle her feet.

While she was still trying to catch her breath, he moved his attention to the
inner part of her thighs and her genitals, her clitoris engorged with the blood
of an intense sexual arousal and the fluids of her passion seeping out of her
onto the table. She howled and screamed as he used the fude on her super
sensitive, fully erect clitoris to bring her to the most intense orgasm she had
ever experienced. From the height of her climax, she lapsed into blackness
and passed out.

When she awakened, she was in the wonderful warmth of a Japanese bath,
in his powerful arms, as he washed the sweat and the tears away. Then,
after drying her gently, he placed her into the silken sheets of a large bed in
a nearby bedroom where he held her as she slept. There was no need for
sex, of course, only the fabulous experience of holding her in his arms while
both of them slept.

The following day, after a lovely breakfast that he had prepared, even
though it was afternoon, he said goodbye as she got into a car he had
ordered to take her home. He head laundered her jeans, which she has wet,
and the rest of her clothes. He had also handed her an envelope which she
later opened to find the equivalent of ten thousand American dollars, a card
saying thank you and a telephone number. It had been quite a night and,
indeed, quite an adventure.

very very hot!!!.
I loved it!.