tkl-pen
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This is a rewritten version of this story with only tickling and no other sexual torture for those members who prefer this type of story.
THE AMERICAN TICKLING CHRONICLES
PART 002 - SANDY STARR
TICKLING VERSION
“Ow,” said Sandy, as she felt the pin prick in the left cheek of her ass,
through the shorts, collapsing on the bed almost immediately, “what the
hell?”
Sandy had answered the door of her hotel room only a few moments ago to
an older gentleman who appeared to be from room service. He was pushing
a wheeled table that was covered with a crisp, clean white tablecloth.
“I didn’t order anything,’ she had said as she saw the table he had brought to
the door.
“No, Miss,” he had responded, “I was told to bring this massage table to the
room so that your crew could get it here when they arrive later tonight.”
“Oh, alright,” she had told him, as she walked ahead of him, stopping by
one of the beds in the room, “you can put it over there on the far side of the
room.”
As he was about to pass by her, she felt the sharp pain of a small pin or
needle in her ass and fell onto the bed as he guided her. The door had
closed automatically behind him as he had entered the room.
Sandy Starr was one of the female wrestlers in the show that was to take
place in the Las Vegas hotel’s showrooms the following day, in the evening.
She had initially been booked to travel with the other lady wrestlers and
their support staff that evening but the airline had called to let her know that
a change had been made and she would have to travel early in the morning.
As a result she had arrived hours earlier and checked into the hotel by noon,
thinking that perhaps she could go shopping that afternoon.
She was one of the new wrestlers in the group, a pretty green-eyed blonde
standing five foot four inches in height and weighing a little over a hundred
and thirty pounds. When she arrived in the room, she had quickly changed
into a comfortable pair of denim shorts and a white flannel shirt that she had
tied in a knot beneath her breasts. She liked to laze around the room like
that comfortably barefoot.
Little did she know that the man who had knocked on her door to deliver a
massage table was not from room service at all. He was, in fact, an
American multibillionaire who lived primarily in Japan and had adopted the
Japanese culture, lifestyle and even a Japanese name. Even so, he
maintained homes in Las Vegas, Los Angeles and Honolulu along with his
homes in Tokyo, Sapporo and Manila. At an early age, Hiroshi, as he liked
to call himself, had developed a passion for tickling and sexual torture
which he pursued on a regular basis.
He had injected Sandy with a powerful and fast-acting paralyzing drug that
immediately rendered all of her voluntary muscles useless. Only the
involuntary muscles controlling her breathing and circulation continued to
work. She couldn’t even lift a finger or open an eyelash as she lay on the
bed fully conscious and completely aware of the things around her. She
was, of course, very much afraid that the stranger was going to rape her
while she lay helpless on the bed. She could have no idea, of course, of his
more sinister intent.
Although Sandy could not see what was going on, she heard the man move
the massage table into the open space on the window side of the room,
where he removed the tablecloth. He then extended the table to its proper
length and snapped two winches into place at one end of the device.
“I know you can hear me,” he said, as he lifted her from the bed and placed
her on the massage table, “and I want to assure you that it is not my intent to
hurt you. I have given you a drug that paralyzes all of your muscles for a
while, probably two to three hours, long enough for me to complete some
preparations. I am going to strap you down on this massage table that I
have modified so that I can have a little fun with you this afternoon and
evening.”
He carefully brought her arms up to the corners of the table above her head,
where he had attached the two winches, and fastened the leather restraints
around her wrists. He then secured straps over her chest beneath her
breasts, around her thighs, knees and ankles.
“You see, I have always had a particular passion for tickling young women
and, more recently, for forced orgasms. I have tried some years ago to
indulge my interests with prostitutes and fetish escorts but found the
experience very bland when the young lady was willing. Since then, I have
developed a preference for the sexual torture of various young women
against their will. Today, as it happens, you, Sandy Starr, will be the guest
of honor. I have seen probably all of your wrestling videos at my home in
Japan and I have gone to great lengths to avail of this opportunity.”
The hapless Sandy, of course, could not move or make a sound. She had no
idea what the man was doing at any particular moment. Fully aware of that,
though, the man was only too pleased to tell her exactly what he was doing
at every moment.
“These straps will hold your arms, legs and torso perfectly,” he explained as
he was strapping her down, “when the drug wears off. Your arms will be
over your head attached to winches, almost like a medieval rack, that I can
use to stretch you. Your legs will be perfectly held in place with your feet
far enough apart that they cannot touch each other.”
Sandy, for her part, couldn’t believe how helpless she was in her present
condition, unable to move a muscle but fully conscious.
“I could quite easily keep you drugged like this,” he told her, as he ran his
finger over the soles of her feet, “but it would simply be no fun for me if
you were unable to struggle and squirm as it is in your present condition.
So, we’ll have to wait until the drug wears off before the real fun can
begin.”
“Having said that, though,” he continued, as he put on a pair of plastic
gloves and opened a container of powder, “I have a few preparations to
make, as I said earlier. I will arrange for the hotel computer to show your
accomodation in a completely different room so that your friends will not be
coming her to look for you. I will move your baggage and belongings to
that room as well since, I believe, you will have another girl sharing the
room with you. Then I will arrange for this room to be kept locked and out
of service until tomorrow.”
“Since I don’t want you to be bored while I am doing that,” he told her, “I
am going to apply a very special powder to various parts of your body. This
powder, sometimes diluted with oil, was developed by a friend in a British
laboratory for me. It is a very powerful itching powder which is slowly
activated by body heat. Thus, a short time after I apply it, the itching
powder will become activated. If you don’t want me to do this, all you have
to do is tell me.”
“Let me see,” he taunted the helpless girl, as he applied the powder liberally
to the parts of her body he was describing, “perhaps I’ll start with these very
pretty feet of yours, the bottom, the top, between and beneath the toes, all of
the most sensitive areas. Has anyone ever complemented you on these very
pretty feet you have, about size seven and a half I would say.”
“Oh, my,” he said, “I forgot something very important, didn’t I? I should
gag you so that you won’t be able to scream when the drug wears off and
the itching is well underway. These rooms are supposed to be soundproof
but it would be imprudent to rely on that, don’t you agree?”
He placed the thick rubber bit of a bridle gag between her teeth and lifted
her head, carefully moving her long hair out of the way, to buckle the straps
behind her head. He turned the winches slightly to stretch her arms slightly,
still leaving her elbows bent.
“There we are,” he said, “but I still have some of this special itching powder
left. Maybe I’ll just force my hand inside your bra and apply some of it to
your breasts and, then, I’ll force my hand inside your shorts and apply the
rest to your pussy and your asshole.”
Sandy, although helpless and unable to move, felt his hand inside her bra
and smearing the itching powder all over her breasts and then inside her
shorts where he applied it liberally to every private part she had, making
sure that her pussy, asshole and buttcrack were thoroughly covered with the
powder. She couldn’t believe that a man could simply reach into her clothes
and fondle her private attributes like that.
“My, my,” he said, “you’re wearing a thong. Were you planning to have sex
today, my dear?”
Sandy could hear the man leaving the room with her baggage and locking
the door. She was alone. She had never been so scared in her life. This
strange older man had completely incapacitated her, strapped her down on a
special table so she wouldn’t be able to move when the drugs wore off, and
plentifully applied a satiny soft itching powder compound to the most
sensitive parts of her body, her breasts, her genitals and her feet. Now she
had no idea when the itching he had promised would begin or even when he
would return. All she could do was lay there helplessly and wait for the
worst.
It took about ten minutes, an agonizing long ten minutes, before she could
feel the itching begin, little by little. It started on her pussy, probably
because that was the warmest part of her to which he had applied the
powder. How she wished she could move, even a little, to relieve the
itching on her genitals, growing worse by the second. Then the itching
starting on her breasts, still warmly cupped in her bra. If only she could
arch her back or do some little thing for even a moment’s respite. Then all
hell attacked her nervous system as the itching powder on her feet came to
life. It felt like hundreds of ants crawling over her breasts, her pussy, her
ass and her feet. Within minutes it had become unbearable. The torture was
agony, pure agony, as her most sensitive parts itched beyond belief and she
could move no part of her body. All she could do was lie there, on the table,
and suffer with the relentless itching.
Two hours later, the paralyzing drug had worn off and she had control of
her muscles again. The tears flowed down her face, now sweaty from the
terrible agony. She turned her head from side to side and tried to dislodge
the bridle gag. She tried pulling on her wrist restraints and then she tried to
reach up to see if she could touch and release the winches holding her arms.
But no matter how hard she tried, it was to no avail. The straps held her
perfectly and she could not move.
She had tried over and over to take her mind off the awful itching on her
skin, trying desperately to focus on something else, anything else. But her
mind always brought her back to the ants in her imagination and, at one
point, even had her imagining spiders crawling all over her body. She even
tried to turn the agony into a game, or a dream, in which she was tied spread
eagle on an anthill in some foreign country. All that did was harden her
nipples and arouse her causing her passion juices to mingle with more of the
itching powder which then saturated the inside as well as the outside of her
pussy. When she wiggled her breasts to relieve the itching, she caused her
breasts to rub against the inside of her bra cups and release more of the
itching powder that had not yet been activated.
Another hour passed before she heard the door of the hotel room open. She
hoped beyond hope that it was going to be the chamber maid coming in to
clean the room. With her eyes now open, however, she saw the older man,
the torturer, enter the room.
“Well, well,” he said, “I see that the drug has worn off and you can move
again. Is the itching powder still active or would you like me to apply some
more?”
“No, no,” she screamed into the gag, whose hard rubber bit was probably
already imprinted with the marks of her teeth.
“You know what I have always wanted to try,” he asked, answering his own
question, as he played with the knot tying her shirt together below her
breasts, “was to strip a young woman naked, strap her down helplessly,
apply plenty of itching powder, and then let a few thousand mosquitos loose
in the room. What do you think of that idea?”
“Aaaah, nooooo,” she screamed into the gag.
“You’re probably right,” he conceded, “the hotel management might not
take kindly to us bringing so many mosquitos into their establishment. I’ll
just make a note to try that another time.”
“I think I’ll untie your shirt,” he said as he reached for the knot holding the
bottom of her shirt together below her breasts and started playing with it, “I
wonder if I should pull this right tail or that left tail to pull it loose, or
should I untie the whole knot with my fingers.”
“No, perhaps not yet,” he told her as he lifted her head to unfasten the straps
holding the bridle gag in place, “I think I’ll remove this gag from your
mouth, but only if you promise to be good and not to scream, swear or be
rude. Is that a deal or would you like to keep the gag in your mouth?”
“Yes, I’ll be good,” she said into the gag, nodding her head, “I won’t
scream.”
After he unfastened the straps behind her head, he lifted the bridle gag out
of her mouth, dripping with her saliva and indented with the marks of her
teeth. He then wiped her face, and her mouth, with a moist warm towel
taking away the sweat, the tears and the saliva of three hours of torture.
“There we are,” he said, as he again started playing with the knot holding
her shirt together, “I have always wondered what would happen if I untied
one of these knots on a young lady and what I would find underneath. I’ll
bet it’s going to be fabulous, perhaps some especially tender soft skin that
you keep hidden away.”
“Why are you doing this to me,” she asked, as she pulled at the restraints
holding her wrists, albeit to no avail, “I haven’t done anything to you!”
“You have heard of gay people, haven’t you,” he started, as he pulled at the
knot in her shirt and stroked her finger over her skin around the outside of
the knot, “and how they can’t help the things they are and the things they do
because that is their sexual orientation?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, squirming and trying to get her belly away from
his finger as it circled the knot over and over again, “but what’s that got to
do with anything?”
“I have been tickling girls since I was twelve years old, later moving on to
other forms of sexual torture,” he explained, as he continued to toy with the
knot and tickle the skin around it, “and that is my sexual orientation, a part
of me that I can’t resist, a part of me that I can’t help.”
“But why me, then,” she asked, becoming very uncomfortable and almost on
the verge of giggling, “I don’t even know you.”
“That’s true,” he explained, “but I have been watching you on television
ever since you started wrestling last year. One time I saw you standing in
the ring wearing this very outfit, a tied flannel shirt and denim shorts with
bare feet, and I was so taken with you that I promised myself to get you one
day. Then, when you were wrestling and the other girl tickled you into total
submission, that sealed your fate for me. I simply had to tickle you.”
“You’re worse than a stalker, then,” she said, “you’re evil!”
“Not really,” he told her, “perhaps I am a serial tickler, I don’t know. But I
did see an interview in which you said that you like men who make you
laugh, and that is what I’m going to do today.”
“I didn’t mean to make me laugh by tickling me,” she told him, “but by
being funny and telling me jokes and having a good time with me.”
“I see,” he said, “I do intend to have a good time with you and, if you laugh,
I’m sure you’ll be having a good time, too.”
He slowly and teasingly untied the knot on her shirt and opened it to reveal
a pretty purple bra.
“My, my,” he said, as he ran his finger over the purple satiny cups of her
bra, “you have excellent taste in lingerie. Is that bra from Frederick’s of
Hollywood.”
“No, it’s from Victoria’s Secret if you must know,” she told him.
“Yes, of course,” he said, as he brought a pair of blunt-pointed scissors into
view, “I’ll have to cut it, though, right between the cups to open it. I hope
your breasts are as pretty as they appear to be hidden inside those purple
cups.”
“Whatever,” she said, “I can buy another bra.”
“Well, well,” he said, as he lifted the satiny purple cups from her breasts,
“they are beautiful, indeed - well deserving of such a beautiful bra.”
He started to lightly stroke the soft flawless skin of her stomach, lightly
tickling all over her sensitized skin, softly and lightly blowing on it as he
kept on tickling it ever so softly and so lightly. By the time he had worked
his way up to her neck, he started tickling her neck and her ears, lightly
blowing, nibbling and licking as he did so, but always keeping her only
barely short of laughing. It was pure agony for her.
“Nobody has ever done this to me before,” she said, gritting her teeth, “you
must really know how to arouse a woman.”
“There is a lot more to making love than a few kisses and then climbing on
top of a woman,” he pointed out, “and that’s probably why so many women
in the world are sexually frustrated. I expect that any lovers you have had
came from a relatively small cigarette-smoking, beer-guzzling,
filthy-mouthed circle with tatoos plastered all over their unwashed hides.”
“Pretty much, yeah,” she said, “but they didn’t strap me down and torture
me.”
“You have very pretty ears,” he teased, as he licked and nibbled on them, “I
think they’re delicious.”
“It’s a good thing I washed them, huh,” she said, “but you’re driving me
nuts! God, will you please stop biting my ears!”
“Aaaah, shit,” she cried, as he forced his tongue inside one of her ears, “I
hate that!”
He was very strong. As he tickled her ears and her neck, immediately below
the jaw line, she tried desperately to turn her head. He was somehow able to
hold her her in one hand and lift her hair with the other.
“Am I getting to you yet, Sandy,” he taunted, as he continued nibbling and
licking her ears and her neck.
“Go to hell,” she said, “you’re just a dirty old man!”
“Ah, defiance,” he responded, “I love defiance, and I love to break it.”
He got up onto the table and straddled her waist. He started to poke and
tickle her belly and her ribs as she tried to struggle and pull at the restraints
holding her wrists.
“Hahaahaaa, shihihiit,” she laughed, as he tickled her belly and her ribs
without even a second’s break, “Nohohohoooo!”
“My, my, Sandy,” he teased, as he noticed the hardening and swelling of her
nipples, “your nipples are getting hard. Am I getting to you now?”
He moved his fingers up to her armpits and started to stroke the soft skin as
she went nearly ballistic with laughter. Then, from her armpits to her
ribcage and onto her belly.
“You’re arouhouhousing meheehee,” she cried, between laughing and trying
to catch her breath.
“Already,” he said, “but we’ve only just started. Perhaps we should take a
break.”
He got off the table and picked up a bottle of water with a curved straw in it.
He put the straw into her mouth and Sandy gratefully drank a little of the
water.
“Please let me go now,” she pleaded, “I’ve had enough already!”
“I don’t think so,” he said, as he picked up a small wooden case, “I haven’t
even looked at your pretty little feet yet.”
He brought over a chair from the table nearby and placed it at the foot end
of the massage table. Next, he brought into view a small, pointed brush,
like an artist’s paint brush but with a sharp tip.
“This,” he told Sandy, “is a fude, a Japanese calligraphy brush, which is
used there to write the very fancy Japanese alphabet. It is one of my
favorite tickling tools.”
He sat down on the chair and ever so lightly applied the tip of the brush to
the sole of her left foot, on the tiny crease where the ball of her foot met the
delicate instep. This, he knew, was the most sensitive part of a girl’s foot.
“Aaaah, nooooo,” she laughed, gritting her teeth, clenching her fists,
squeezing her eyes, arching her back and trying to flex her toes, “nohohot
my feeheeheet. Aaaah, shihihiit!”
As Sandy squirmed and struggled, trying anything she could think of to
overridge the sensations, he continued to stroke that little crease repeatedly
while holding her toes to prevent her flexing them. Sandy squeezed her
eyes and clenched her fists as the terrible sensations fired up her nervous
system and into her brain.
He continued the tickling of her left foot, alternating with the right, moving
from the little crease to the soles of her feet, stroking both lengthwise and
crosswise in long, intentional, agonizing strokes. After that, he moved the
hand holding her toes to the balls of her feet and tickled between and
beneath her toes, individually and in groups. Sandy thought she would go
insane with the unbelievable tickling of her very sensitive feet. She
wondered, at this point, how much tickling a person could endure before
they passed out or even died.
After an hour of tickling her feet, he put the calligraphy brush on the nearby
table. It was all Sandy could do to try and catch her breath, deeply taking in
all the air she could. When he wasn’t using the brush on her hypersensitive
young feet, he would lick her toes, as well as the spaces between and
beneath continuously.
“Nohoho, pleeheeheese,” she laughed and cried as he started to nibble and
bite at her heels, raking his teeth over the skin, and then moving up onto her
instep with his tongue. When he tired of that, he nibbled on the outer edges
of her feet while tickling the instep with his fingers.
“These feet of yours, Sandy,” he said, “are not only small and pretty but
quite delicious. I could spend the whole day licking and biting them.”
“Noho, please,” she said, “I can’t stand it anymore.”
“Okay, you win,” he said, as he put the calligraphy brush back into its case,
“we’ll move onto some hardcore tickling.”
Suddenly he started the most intense tickling she could imagine of her ribs
and tummy. She howled with laughter and fought against her restraints with
every little bit of energy she could muster. It was worse than a workout, she
thought, as she struggled, the sweat pouring out of her skin. She couldn’t
plead or beg through the laughter as he continued to tickle her belly and her
ribs. In fact, she couldn’t even form the thought to beg him to stop.
“Aaaah, hahahahahaaaa,” she laughed, “shihihiit, aaahaahaa, ohohoho, my
Gohohohod!”
After some two hours of tickling, first an hour on her feet and then an hour
on her stomach and her ribs, Sandy was exhausted. She was spent, as she
lay on the massage table, trying to catch her breath. She was still laughing a
little even though the tickling had stopped.
The man released the straps holding her legs, fully aware that she was so
exhausted she couldn’t kick him even if she wanted to. Her skin was
covered with the sheen of her sweat from the last round of especially intense
tickling. He bent over and softly kissed her belly. Then he unbuckled her
belt and opened the zipper and button of her shorts. Sandy didn’t even
resist as he lifted her butt and slid the shorts down over her legs and feet to
remove them.
“Oh, nohoho,” she cried, as he started to tease her pussy through her thong
panties with his left hand while tickling her stomach, breasts, ribs and
armpits with his right.
“Ahh! Ohh! Ahh!” she purred, as he was bringing her to climax. She tried
to bring her pussy closer and closer to his fingers as he continued to
massage her clitoris, now erect and gorged with blood, and her pussy,
dripping wet with her juices. She tried to wrap her legs around his arm as
he kept stimulating her.
“Oh,oh,oh!” she purred, as she started to come, “aaah, aaaaah! Good, good,
good! Aaaaah!”
The orgasm exploded through her nervous system as she clenched her fists,
squeezed her eyes, grit her teeth, arched her back and flexed her toes with
all the power she had. Never before had she climaxed like that.
He lifted her butt again as he pulled her panties down, then over her legs
and feet, to strip her completely naked. He gently kissed her feet and softly
massaged them as she recovered from her orgasm.
“Now I’ll let you choose,” he said, “I can leave you on this table and tickle
you for another few hours or, if you like, I can take you over to the bed. It’s
up to you.”
“Do you want to have sex with me,” she asked, coyly.
“Yes, if you like, I can have sex with you,” he told her, “but by your choice,
not mine. It wouldn’t be proper for a gentleman like myself to force it on
you.”
“I’m so frigging hot right now,” she said, “I just gotta get laid.”
“Is that a yes, then,” he teased, as he stroked her face and her breasts.
“Yes, yes, of course, that’s a yes.”
“Okay,” he said, as he released her arms and put her wrists and ankles into
leather manacles, the ankle restraints with a length of chain between them,
“I’ll have to accede to your request.”
He lifted her from the massage table and onto one of the beds in the room,
where he had sex with her. As she reached the heights of her orgasm, he
held her and tickled intensely while she climaxed. It was so intense, in fact,
that she passed out from the combination of her orgasm and the tickling. He
gently covered her with the sheet and blanket, kissed her softly and got up
from the bed.
He brought in a warm, wet towel and cleaned the massage table as he was
preparing to leave the room. While he was in the washroom, beside the
entry door of the room, he heard a click in the lock. He put out the light in
the washroom and waited as the door opened. It was Miranda, Sandy’s
dark-haired, 22-year old roommate and a fellow wrestler, who had the room
number by text on her cellphone before the man had changed it.
“Well, well, what have we here,” he said, as he pushed the injecting needle
into the right cheek of her ass, and she immediately collapsed.
THE AMERICAN TICKLING CHRONICLES
PART 002 - SANDY STARR
TICKLING VERSION
“Ow,” said Sandy, as she felt the pin prick in the left cheek of her ass,
through the shorts, collapsing on the bed almost immediately, “what the
hell?”
Sandy had answered the door of her hotel room only a few moments ago to
an older gentleman who appeared to be from room service. He was pushing
a wheeled table that was covered with a crisp, clean white tablecloth.
“I didn’t order anything,’ she had said as she saw the table he had brought to
the door.
“No, Miss,” he had responded, “I was told to bring this massage table to the
room so that your crew could get it here when they arrive later tonight.”
“Oh, alright,” she had told him, as she walked ahead of him, stopping by
one of the beds in the room, “you can put it over there on the far side of the
room.”
As he was about to pass by her, she felt the sharp pain of a small pin or
needle in her ass and fell onto the bed as he guided her. The door had
closed automatically behind him as he had entered the room.
Sandy Starr was one of the female wrestlers in the show that was to take
place in the Las Vegas hotel’s showrooms the following day, in the evening.
She had initially been booked to travel with the other lady wrestlers and
their support staff that evening but the airline had called to let her know that
a change had been made and she would have to travel early in the morning.
As a result she had arrived hours earlier and checked into the hotel by noon,
thinking that perhaps she could go shopping that afternoon.
She was one of the new wrestlers in the group, a pretty green-eyed blonde
standing five foot four inches in height and weighing a little over a hundred
and thirty pounds. When she arrived in the room, she had quickly changed
into a comfortable pair of denim shorts and a white flannel shirt that she had
tied in a knot beneath her breasts. She liked to laze around the room like
that comfortably barefoot.
Little did she know that the man who had knocked on her door to deliver a
massage table was not from room service at all. He was, in fact, an
American multibillionaire who lived primarily in Japan and had adopted the
Japanese culture, lifestyle and even a Japanese name. Even so, he
maintained homes in Las Vegas, Los Angeles and Honolulu along with his
homes in Tokyo, Sapporo and Manila. At an early age, Hiroshi, as he liked
to call himself, had developed a passion for tickling and sexual torture
which he pursued on a regular basis.
He had injected Sandy with a powerful and fast-acting paralyzing drug that
immediately rendered all of her voluntary muscles useless. Only the
involuntary muscles controlling her breathing and circulation continued to
work. She couldn’t even lift a finger or open an eyelash as she lay on the
bed fully conscious and completely aware of the things around her. She
was, of course, very much afraid that the stranger was going to rape her
while she lay helpless on the bed. She could have no idea, of course, of his
more sinister intent.
Although Sandy could not see what was going on, she heard the man move
the massage table into the open space on the window side of the room,
where he removed the tablecloth. He then extended the table to its proper
length and snapped two winches into place at one end of the device.
“I know you can hear me,” he said, as he lifted her from the bed and placed
her on the massage table, “and I want to assure you that it is not my intent to
hurt you. I have given you a drug that paralyzes all of your muscles for a
while, probably two to three hours, long enough for me to complete some
preparations. I am going to strap you down on this massage table that I
have modified so that I can have a little fun with you this afternoon and
evening.”
He carefully brought her arms up to the corners of the table above her head,
where he had attached the two winches, and fastened the leather restraints
around her wrists. He then secured straps over her chest beneath her
breasts, around her thighs, knees and ankles.
“You see, I have always had a particular passion for tickling young women
and, more recently, for forced orgasms. I have tried some years ago to
indulge my interests with prostitutes and fetish escorts but found the
experience very bland when the young lady was willing. Since then, I have
developed a preference for the sexual torture of various young women
against their will. Today, as it happens, you, Sandy Starr, will be the guest
of honor. I have seen probably all of your wrestling videos at my home in
Japan and I have gone to great lengths to avail of this opportunity.”
The hapless Sandy, of course, could not move or make a sound. She had no
idea what the man was doing at any particular moment. Fully aware of that,
though, the man was only too pleased to tell her exactly what he was doing
at every moment.
“These straps will hold your arms, legs and torso perfectly,” he explained as
he was strapping her down, “when the drug wears off. Your arms will be
over your head attached to winches, almost like a medieval rack, that I can
use to stretch you. Your legs will be perfectly held in place with your feet
far enough apart that they cannot touch each other.”
Sandy, for her part, couldn’t believe how helpless she was in her present
condition, unable to move a muscle but fully conscious.
“I could quite easily keep you drugged like this,” he told her, as he ran his
finger over the soles of her feet, “but it would simply be no fun for me if
you were unable to struggle and squirm as it is in your present condition.
So, we’ll have to wait until the drug wears off before the real fun can
begin.”
“Having said that, though,” he continued, as he put on a pair of plastic
gloves and opened a container of powder, “I have a few preparations to
make, as I said earlier. I will arrange for the hotel computer to show your
accomodation in a completely different room so that your friends will not be
coming her to look for you. I will move your baggage and belongings to
that room as well since, I believe, you will have another girl sharing the
room with you. Then I will arrange for this room to be kept locked and out
of service until tomorrow.”
“Since I don’t want you to be bored while I am doing that,” he told her, “I
am going to apply a very special powder to various parts of your body. This
powder, sometimes diluted with oil, was developed by a friend in a British
laboratory for me. It is a very powerful itching powder which is slowly
activated by body heat. Thus, a short time after I apply it, the itching
powder will become activated. If you don’t want me to do this, all you have
to do is tell me.”
“Let me see,” he taunted the helpless girl, as he applied the powder liberally
to the parts of her body he was describing, “perhaps I’ll start with these very
pretty feet of yours, the bottom, the top, between and beneath the toes, all of
the most sensitive areas. Has anyone ever complemented you on these very
pretty feet you have, about size seven and a half I would say.”
“Oh, my,” he said, “I forgot something very important, didn’t I? I should
gag you so that you won’t be able to scream when the drug wears off and
the itching is well underway. These rooms are supposed to be soundproof
but it would be imprudent to rely on that, don’t you agree?”
He placed the thick rubber bit of a bridle gag between her teeth and lifted
her head, carefully moving her long hair out of the way, to buckle the straps
behind her head. He turned the winches slightly to stretch her arms slightly,
still leaving her elbows bent.
“There we are,” he said, “but I still have some of this special itching powder
left. Maybe I’ll just force my hand inside your bra and apply some of it to
your breasts and, then, I’ll force my hand inside your shorts and apply the
rest to your pussy and your asshole.”
Sandy, although helpless and unable to move, felt his hand inside her bra
and smearing the itching powder all over her breasts and then inside her
shorts where he applied it liberally to every private part she had, making
sure that her pussy, asshole and buttcrack were thoroughly covered with the
powder. She couldn’t believe that a man could simply reach into her clothes
and fondle her private attributes like that.
“My, my,” he said, “you’re wearing a thong. Were you planning to have sex
today, my dear?”
Sandy could hear the man leaving the room with her baggage and locking
the door. She was alone. She had never been so scared in her life. This
strange older man had completely incapacitated her, strapped her down on a
special table so she wouldn’t be able to move when the drugs wore off, and
plentifully applied a satiny soft itching powder compound to the most
sensitive parts of her body, her breasts, her genitals and her feet. Now she
had no idea when the itching he had promised would begin or even when he
would return. All she could do was lay there helplessly and wait for the
worst.
It took about ten minutes, an agonizing long ten minutes, before she could
feel the itching begin, little by little. It started on her pussy, probably
because that was the warmest part of her to which he had applied the
powder. How she wished she could move, even a little, to relieve the
itching on her genitals, growing worse by the second. Then the itching
starting on her breasts, still warmly cupped in her bra. If only she could
arch her back or do some little thing for even a moment’s respite. Then all
hell attacked her nervous system as the itching powder on her feet came to
life. It felt like hundreds of ants crawling over her breasts, her pussy, her
ass and her feet. Within minutes it had become unbearable. The torture was
agony, pure agony, as her most sensitive parts itched beyond belief and she
could move no part of her body. All she could do was lie there, on the table,
and suffer with the relentless itching.
Two hours later, the paralyzing drug had worn off and she had control of
her muscles again. The tears flowed down her face, now sweaty from the
terrible agony. She turned her head from side to side and tried to dislodge
the bridle gag. She tried pulling on her wrist restraints and then she tried to
reach up to see if she could touch and release the winches holding her arms.
But no matter how hard she tried, it was to no avail. The straps held her
perfectly and she could not move.
She had tried over and over to take her mind off the awful itching on her
skin, trying desperately to focus on something else, anything else. But her
mind always brought her back to the ants in her imagination and, at one
point, even had her imagining spiders crawling all over her body. She even
tried to turn the agony into a game, or a dream, in which she was tied spread
eagle on an anthill in some foreign country. All that did was harden her
nipples and arouse her causing her passion juices to mingle with more of the
itching powder which then saturated the inside as well as the outside of her
pussy. When she wiggled her breasts to relieve the itching, she caused her
breasts to rub against the inside of her bra cups and release more of the
itching powder that had not yet been activated.
Another hour passed before she heard the door of the hotel room open. She
hoped beyond hope that it was going to be the chamber maid coming in to
clean the room. With her eyes now open, however, she saw the older man,
the torturer, enter the room.
“Well, well,” he said, “I see that the drug has worn off and you can move
again. Is the itching powder still active or would you like me to apply some
more?”
“No, no,” she screamed into the gag, whose hard rubber bit was probably
already imprinted with the marks of her teeth.
“You know what I have always wanted to try,” he asked, answering his own
question, as he played with the knot tying her shirt together below her
breasts, “was to strip a young woman naked, strap her down helplessly,
apply plenty of itching powder, and then let a few thousand mosquitos loose
in the room. What do you think of that idea?”
“Aaaah, nooooo,” she screamed into the gag.
“You’re probably right,” he conceded, “the hotel management might not
take kindly to us bringing so many mosquitos into their establishment. I’ll
just make a note to try that another time.”
“I think I’ll untie your shirt,” he said as he reached for the knot holding the
bottom of her shirt together below her breasts and started playing with it, “I
wonder if I should pull this right tail or that left tail to pull it loose, or
should I untie the whole knot with my fingers.”
“No, perhaps not yet,” he told her as he lifted her head to unfasten the straps
holding the bridle gag in place, “I think I’ll remove this gag from your
mouth, but only if you promise to be good and not to scream, swear or be
rude. Is that a deal or would you like to keep the gag in your mouth?”
“Yes, I’ll be good,” she said into the gag, nodding her head, “I won’t
scream.”
After he unfastened the straps behind her head, he lifted the bridle gag out
of her mouth, dripping with her saliva and indented with the marks of her
teeth. He then wiped her face, and her mouth, with a moist warm towel
taking away the sweat, the tears and the saliva of three hours of torture.
“There we are,” he said, as he again started playing with the knot holding
her shirt together, “I have always wondered what would happen if I untied
one of these knots on a young lady and what I would find underneath. I’ll
bet it’s going to be fabulous, perhaps some especially tender soft skin that
you keep hidden away.”
“Why are you doing this to me,” she asked, as she pulled at the restraints
holding her wrists, albeit to no avail, “I haven’t done anything to you!”
“You have heard of gay people, haven’t you,” he started, as he pulled at the
knot in her shirt and stroked her finger over her skin around the outside of
the knot, “and how they can’t help the things they are and the things they do
because that is their sexual orientation?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, squirming and trying to get her belly away from
his finger as it circled the knot over and over again, “but what’s that got to
do with anything?”
“I have been tickling girls since I was twelve years old, later moving on to
other forms of sexual torture,” he explained, as he continued to toy with the
knot and tickle the skin around it, “and that is my sexual orientation, a part
of me that I can’t resist, a part of me that I can’t help.”
“But why me, then,” she asked, becoming very uncomfortable and almost on
the verge of giggling, “I don’t even know you.”
“That’s true,” he explained, “but I have been watching you on television
ever since you started wrestling last year. One time I saw you standing in
the ring wearing this very outfit, a tied flannel shirt and denim shorts with
bare feet, and I was so taken with you that I promised myself to get you one
day. Then, when you were wrestling and the other girl tickled you into total
submission, that sealed your fate for me. I simply had to tickle you.”
“You’re worse than a stalker, then,” she said, “you’re evil!”
“Not really,” he told her, “perhaps I am a serial tickler, I don’t know. But I
did see an interview in which you said that you like men who make you
laugh, and that is what I’m going to do today.”
“I didn’t mean to make me laugh by tickling me,” she told him, “but by
being funny and telling me jokes and having a good time with me.”
“I see,” he said, “I do intend to have a good time with you and, if you laugh,
I’m sure you’ll be having a good time, too.”
He slowly and teasingly untied the knot on her shirt and opened it to reveal
a pretty purple bra.
“My, my,” he said, as he ran his finger over the purple satiny cups of her
bra, “you have excellent taste in lingerie. Is that bra from Frederick’s of
Hollywood.”
“No, it’s from Victoria’s Secret if you must know,” she told him.
“Yes, of course,” he said, as he brought a pair of blunt-pointed scissors into
view, “I’ll have to cut it, though, right between the cups to open it. I hope
your breasts are as pretty as they appear to be hidden inside those purple
cups.”
“Whatever,” she said, “I can buy another bra.”
“Well, well,” he said, as he lifted the satiny purple cups from her breasts,
“they are beautiful, indeed - well deserving of such a beautiful bra.”
He started to lightly stroke the soft flawless skin of her stomach, lightly
tickling all over her sensitized skin, softly and lightly blowing on it as he
kept on tickling it ever so softly and so lightly. By the time he had worked
his way up to her neck, he started tickling her neck and her ears, lightly
blowing, nibbling and licking as he did so, but always keeping her only
barely short of laughing. It was pure agony for her.
“Nobody has ever done this to me before,” she said, gritting her teeth, “you
must really know how to arouse a woman.”
“There is a lot more to making love than a few kisses and then climbing on
top of a woman,” he pointed out, “and that’s probably why so many women
in the world are sexually frustrated. I expect that any lovers you have had
came from a relatively small cigarette-smoking, beer-guzzling,
filthy-mouthed circle with tatoos plastered all over their unwashed hides.”
“Pretty much, yeah,” she said, “but they didn’t strap me down and torture
me.”
“You have very pretty ears,” he teased, as he licked and nibbled on them, “I
think they’re delicious.”
“It’s a good thing I washed them, huh,” she said, “but you’re driving me
nuts! God, will you please stop biting my ears!”
“Aaaah, shit,” she cried, as he forced his tongue inside one of her ears, “I
hate that!”
He was very strong. As he tickled her ears and her neck, immediately below
the jaw line, she tried desperately to turn her head. He was somehow able to
hold her her in one hand and lift her hair with the other.
“Am I getting to you yet, Sandy,” he taunted, as he continued nibbling and
licking her ears and her neck.
“Go to hell,” she said, “you’re just a dirty old man!”
“Ah, defiance,” he responded, “I love defiance, and I love to break it.”
He got up onto the table and straddled her waist. He started to poke and
tickle her belly and her ribs as she tried to struggle and pull at the restraints
holding her wrists.
“Hahaahaaa, shihihiit,” she laughed, as he tickled her belly and her ribs
without even a second’s break, “Nohohohoooo!”
“My, my, Sandy,” he teased, as he noticed the hardening and swelling of her
nipples, “your nipples are getting hard. Am I getting to you now?”
He moved his fingers up to her armpits and started to stroke the soft skin as
she went nearly ballistic with laughter. Then, from her armpits to her
ribcage and onto her belly.
“You’re arouhouhousing meheehee,” she cried, between laughing and trying
to catch her breath.
“Already,” he said, “but we’ve only just started. Perhaps we should take a
break.”
He got off the table and picked up a bottle of water with a curved straw in it.
He put the straw into her mouth and Sandy gratefully drank a little of the
water.
“Please let me go now,” she pleaded, “I’ve had enough already!”
“I don’t think so,” he said, as he picked up a small wooden case, “I haven’t
even looked at your pretty little feet yet.”
He brought over a chair from the table nearby and placed it at the foot end
of the massage table. Next, he brought into view a small, pointed brush,
like an artist’s paint brush but with a sharp tip.
“This,” he told Sandy, “is a fude, a Japanese calligraphy brush, which is
used there to write the very fancy Japanese alphabet. It is one of my
favorite tickling tools.”
He sat down on the chair and ever so lightly applied the tip of the brush to
the sole of her left foot, on the tiny crease where the ball of her foot met the
delicate instep. This, he knew, was the most sensitive part of a girl’s foot.
“Aaaah, nooooo,” she laughed, gritting her teeth, clenching her fists,
squeezing her eyes, arching her back and trying to flex her toes, “nohohot
my feeheeheet. Aaaah, shihihiit!”
As Sandy squirmed and struggled, trying anything she could think of to
overridge the sensations, he continued to stroke that little crease repeatedly
while holding her toes to prevent her flexing them. Sandy squeezed her
eyes and clenched her fists as the terrible sensations fired up her nervous
system and into her brain.
He continued the tickling of her left foot, alternating with the right, moving
from the little crease to the soles of her feet, stroking both lengthwise and
crosswise in long, intentional, agonizing strokes. After that, he moved the
hand holding her toes to the balls of her feet and tickled between and
beneath her toes, individually and in groups. Sandy thought she would go
insane with the unbelievable tickling of her very sensitive feet. She
wondered, at this point, how much tickling a person could endure before
they passed out or even died.
After an hour of tickling her feet, he put the calligraphy brush on the nearby
table. It was all Sandy could do to try and catch her breath, deeply taking in
all the air she could. When he wasn’t using the brush on her hypersensitive
young feet, he would lick her toes, as well as the spaces between and
beneath continuously.
“Nohoho, pleeheeheese,” she laughed and cried as he started to nibble and
bite at her heels, raking his teeth over the skin, and then moving up onto her
instep with his tongue. When he tired of that, he nibbled on the outer edges
of her feet while tickling the instep with his fingers.
“These feet of yours, Sandy,” he said, “are not only small and pretty but
quite delicious. I could spend the whole day licking and biting them.”
“Noho, please,” she said, “I can’t stand it anymore.”
“Okay, you win,” he said, as he put the calligraphy brush back into its case,
“we’ll move onto some hardcore tickling.”
Suddenly he started the most intense tickling she could imagine of her ribs
and tummy. She howled with laughter and fought against her restraints with
every little bit of energy she could muster. It was worse than a workout, she
thought, as she struggled, the sweat pouring out of her skin. She couldn’t
plead or beg through the laughter as he continued to tickle her belly and her
ribs. In fact, she couldn’t even form the thought to beg him to stop.
“Aaaah, hahahahahaaaa,” she laughed, “shihihiit, aaahaahaa, ohohoho, my
Gohohohod!”
After some two hours of tickling, first an hour on her feet and then an hour
on her stomach and her ribs, Sandy was exhausted. She was spent, as she
lay on the massage table, trying to catch her breath. She was still laughing a
little even though the tickling had stopped.
The man released the straps holding her legs, fully aware that she was so
exhausted she couldn’t kick him even if she wanted to. Her skin was
covered with the sheen of her sweat from the last round of especially intense
tickling. He bent over and softly kissed her belly. Then he unbuckled her
belt and opened the zipper and button of her shorts. Sandy didn’t even
resist as he lifted her butt and slid the shorts down over her legs and feet to
remove them.
“Oh, nohoho,” she cried, as he started to tease her pussy through her thong
panties with his left hand while tickling her stomach, breasts, ribs and
armpits with his right.
“Ahh! Ohh! Ahh!” she purred, as he was bringing her to climax. She tried
to bring her pussy closer and closer to his fingers as he continued to
massage her clitoris, now erect and gorged with blood, and her pussy,
dripping wet with her juices. She tried to wrap her legs around his arm as
he kept stimulating her.
“Oh,oh,oh!” she purred, as she started to come, “aaah, aaaaah! Good, good,
good! Aaaaah!”
The orgasm exploded through her nervous system as she clenched her fists,
squeezed her eyes, grit her teeth, arched her back and flexed her toes with
all the power she had. Never before had she climaxed like that.
He lifted her butt again as he pulled her panties down, then over her legs
and feet, to strip her completely naked. He gently kissed her feet and softly
massaged them as she recovered from her orgasm.
“Now I’ll let you choose,” he said, “I can leave you on this table and tickle
you for another few hours or, if you like, I can take you over to the bed. It’s
up to you.”
“Do you want to have sex with me,” she asked, coyly.
“Yes, if you like, I can have sex with you,” he told her, “but by your choice,
not mine. It wouldn’t be proper for a gentleman like myself to force it on
you.”
“I’m so frigging hot right now,” she said, “I just gotta get laid.”
“Is that a yes, then,” he teased, as he stroked her face and her breasts.
“Yes, yes, of course, that’s a yes.”
“Okay,” he said, as he released her arms and put her wrists and ankles into
leather manacles, the ankle restraints with a length of chain between them,
“I’ll have to accede to your request.”
He lifted her from the massage table and onto one of the beds in the room,
where he had sex with her. As she reached the heights of her orgasm, he
held her and tickled intensely while she climaxed. It was so intense, in fact,
that she passed out from the combination of her orgasm and the tickling. He
gently covered her with the sheet and blanket, kissed her softly and got up
from the bed.
He brought in a warm, wet towel and cleaned the massage table as he was
preparing to leave the room. While he was in the washroom, beside the
entry door of the room, he heard a click in the lock. He put out the light in
the washroom and waited as the door opened. It was Miranda, Sandy’s
dark-haired, 22-year old roommate and a fellow wrestler, who had the room
number by text on her cellphone before the man had changed it.
“Well, well, what have we here,” he said, as he pushed the injecting needle
into the right cheek of her ass, and she immediately collapsed.
