Whiteunicorn
TMF Novice
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- Oct 6, 2010
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This world is full of people who think that they are better than others. Oh, they may have different reasons for believing that; physical beauty, the amount of money they have (or that their parents have at any rate) or simply that the feel that they were born to a position above others. I'm sure that everyone knows somebody who believes one of those. Well, this is the story of a person who believes all of those apply to her.
The typical 'Queen Bee', the one that all the girls look up to as the highest example of what's hip, what's cool.
The one that sets the trend of what to wear, where to be seen and who to be seen with.
This particular one, by the way, is named Christine Hoynes, the daughter of successful businessman Errol Hoynes.
Just being associated with her is enough to grant someone instant status and respect. And all the girls on some level want some of that, even those that absolutely hate her, the ones whose lives she has made a misery.
My girlfriend definitely falls into that category. She'd describe herself as the girl next door, you know. Just another girl from your street. But I think I love her more for that. She has this honest, down to earth nature. A cute redhead, with a nicely toned body from her years on the swim team. She doesn't go in for the high end fashions, clothes with labels or brands that cost hundreds of dollars, or fancy hairdos or makeup. I've always said that she has this naturally attractive, even sexy, aura that she doesn't have to work at.
I think that was one reason that she decided to run for homecoming queen this year, the year before her final year. To fight back against the vapid bimbos and cruel drama queens that always seems to win it.
It seemed like she was in with a good chance, to start with. The offers of support she got from the others girls like her who wanted to stick it to the rich girls, ranging from promising their votes, to volunteering time to help with the campaigning. The students that most people would have deemed nerdy came out of the woodwork as well, proving that it does count to have a computer whizz on your side, knocking up a really cool set of posters in no time. Like I said, she seemed like a real contender.
But none of us had counted on the depths that her rival was willing to stoop to in order to win.
Campaigning had only just begun and the whole campus was in election frenzy. It was also already divided between the two candidates and our side seemed to be a little behind. And that's me putting a positive spin on it. Somehow Christine had managed to sway most of the male population of the campus over to her camp. Not that that was such a difficult thing to accomplish. With her long blonde hair, even longer legs, pale skin, bright blue eyes and deep red lips, she attracted no end of admirers. Rumours were flying around about what she had done to obtain this support, anything from promises of excellent jobs, to suggesting she bribed the guys with the promise of going steady with them, right up to offering sexual favours.
Personally, I was more inclined to believe the second one, knowing the number of young men that would do anything if she promised that, foolishly believing that they were the only one.
She was not above making use of her father, I surmised. You couldn't walk across the grounds without seeing at least twenty people wearing 'Christine for Queen' badges, which looked so professional that I was sure that her dad’s factory must have been churning them out.
By the last week of the campaign, we all knew that we had had it.
But Christine still had one dirty trick up her sleeve. She had won, but that wasn't enough. She wanted to see Jen humiliated, utterly. Somehow someone got footage of Jen in the shower and posted it on YouTube. Jen was too embarrassed to show her face right up till the election, during that time her popularity plummeted, most people thinking she had dropped out.
I cradled Jen's head in my lap, gently stroking her hair, trying to relieve my anger as much as her sorrow.
"I can't believe what she did. I'd give anything to be able to get back at her."
I know what she means. I feel much the same, but what can we do?
The beginnings of an idea hit me early next morning, my mind just wandering. The plan quickly forming in my head. Excitedly, I quickly explained it to Jen. She agreed that it was good, but we both felt that it lacked something. Something to give it that little bit of added spice. So, we spent the rest of the day racking our brains, trying to think of something that would really add to her humiliation. It was Jen that finally struck gold. As soon as the idea was out of her mouth, I knew that it was perfect. And I was kicking myself for not thinking of it sooner.
I quickly called around the local D.I.Y stores, seeing if they had what we would need, while Jen got in contact with the key members of her campaign, explaining the idea and asking if they would be available to help.
Desperate for the chance to stick it to Christine, they all agreed.
Over the next week, we put in the hardest seven days of work any of us had done, fuelled by a potent mixture of coffee and years of repressed loathing. I organised the team that would be building the framework, while Jen, being more technically minded, worked on creating the mechanism I had envisioned.
The plan was to get this built and set up in the college’s auditorium before the crowning ceremony at the end of the week. Since the whole homecoming contest was entirely a student run operation, securing the cooperation of the organiser was easier than it would have been if the staff had been involved. She definitely was no friend of Christine, and seemed quite taken with our plan as well.
The only snag came when we had to actually transport our creation down to the campus. Even broken down into its component parts, it was still ridiculously cumbersome, much too big to fit into any of our cars. Just as our carefully conceived plan seemed to be falling apart at the last minute, help arrived from a most unexpected source. Eight guys from the football team, who it turned out, had been promised certain things by Christine to secure their votes. Promises that she had now reneged on. They had complained to the event organiser, who had quietly pointed them in our direction.
And they had arrived in the nick of time, with a small transit van that was perfect to our needs. The only condition they had was that they could get involved with our scheme. Happy to have their help, we promised them first dibs, without actually telling them what was going on. We didn't want any word getting back to Christine.
A few more frantic hours work, getting everything assembled, then we all headed home for a well deserved rest, agreeing to meet up here again in time for the crowning.
All that evening, my mind was filled with thoughts of the devious contraption and the uses I could put it too, even after it had done its job tomorrow.
The auditorium is packed, almost full to bursting. Most of the room is dark, the only light being provided by the four spotlights that illuminate the four homecoming candidates. I give Jen an encouraging smile, but most of my attention is focused on Christine, on that smug smile plastered on her face. She must think that all of these people are here to cheer for her. And they are, I suppose, just not in the way that she thinks. I have to admit that she had come dressed perfectly for the occasion, in a White, low cut dress of finest silk, which hugs her body in all the right places. The skirt just barely reaches her knees. Her normally loose hair is pulled up in a pair of buns. White silk elbow length gloves are the finishing touch. She's really gone all out to make herself look regal.
What she will look like when we are done with her is anybody’s guess.
The drum roll starts, as the student council president, Kathy, I think she said her name was, opens the envelope that contains the winner’s name. I don't think that anyone is surprised when Christine’s is called out.
Reacting to my sight nod, Kathy raises the microphone to her lips again.
"Congratulations, Christine. Since this your last year, we thought you deserved something to thank you for everything you’ve done over the years."
The drum roll starts up again, as the three runners up lead her towards the curtains at the back of the stage, the spotlight following them, then moving up to point at the spot where we placed our surprise.
Christine has been smiling all the time, right up till the moment the curtain was swiftly pulled up, revealing our creation in all its terrible glory. The surprised laughter from the crowd is more than enough to drown out Christine’s yell of horror, as she takes in the details of her surprise. The thick Walls of clear Perspex, the chair in the centre of the box and, best of all, the huge tank filled to the brim with bright bubblegum pink gunge.
The crowd cheers again, as Jen and the other two push her inside, securing her to the chair with leather straps that run over her wrists, the dark material contrasting brilliantly with her White silk gloves.
The front wall of the chamber opens at about knee height, leaving the lower panel of Perspex fixed firmly in place, which has two holes cut through it. The top can be lifted off, allowing someone’s legs to be placed into them. The holes have been lined with special rigid foam that compresses around the middle of the victims thighs when the top is secured back down, preventing them from moving.
Then her feet are placed into a set of stocks made from Perspex as well, the holes lined in the same way, only smaller to fit someone’s ankles, which is held tight by a metal band the fits over the top and secured by a small padlock.
The main purpose of the foam is so that the stocks can hold a variety of different leg sizes without needing major modifications, as well as comfort. The advantage of this is that it doesn’t hurt anybody.
It also has the added benefit of forming a watertight seal, as we discovered when, during one of the tests, the pumps at the bottom that are supposed to drain the excess gunge away failed, filling the tank up to just below the lip of the door.
With Christine nice and comfy, but not very happy, as her shouts at us from inside tell, the three of them climb out again. Jen kneels down by Christine’s feet, easily slipping her high heels off and tossing them inside with her, before closing and locking the door.
The eight football players climbed up onto the stage, gathering around me, as I explained how this was designed to work.
A microphone at the top of the chamber has been placed there for the single purpose of monitoring any noise inside. If that noise passes a certain threshold, a switch is tripped, opening the tank.
"Basically," I finished, "You just have to make her laugh as loud as you can."
They seem more than happy with that, surrounding the stocks, four to each foot.
She stares at them, trying to use her smile to win them back over.
"Hey guys, no hard feelings huh? Guys?"
Without a word, they dive in. Their technique seems to be a bit crude, definitely more a case of quantity over quality, their fingers covering all of her feet from the bottom of her heel to the top of her toes.
But it does seem to be effective. Christine has stopped shouting, if only because she is using all the air in her lungs to laugh, a high pitched giggle, her feet twisting and pulling against the stocks, in some desperate attempt to free herself.
Now, I had been expecting Christine to crack pretty quickly, especially in light of the torturous tickling I was expecting her to be subjected to. But either because she was made of tougher stuff than I thought, or she was so desperate not to be gunged, that she seemed to be hanging in there, her lips pressed tightly shut, hoping to contain the laughter that was threatening burst forth.
But I think she knew that it was only a matter of time.
That time came to an end when two of her tormentors pushed their fingers deep in between her toes, wiggling them furiously.
She couldn't help it, her mouth opening as a fresh peal of laughter slipped past her lips.
The guys pulled their fingers back, quickly looking up just in time to see her head disappear under the stream of gunge that poured over her. It didn’t stop with her head, though. As the hole under the tank opened fully, it widened to cover her shoulders, flowing over her chest and down her back.
It kept flowing for a full 15 seconds, and I think she was worrying that it would never stop. But it did, the last few drops splashing onto her neck, by which time her expensive hairdo was ruined; her formerly White dress now stained a bright pink. She raised her head, scowling at me, as if saying 'You'd better let me go now.'
Then she looked up in horror, as she realised that the tank was filling up again. Pumps running gunge from one of a series of secondary tanks into the main one. The whole process taking less than a minute.
She looked down again, focusing on her groupies that have managed to fight their way through the crowd and up onto the stage. I think for a second that she truly believed that she was about to be rescued, when the group of five girls advanced on her feet, taking the footballers place. It seemed that even the people that were most closely connected with her, carried a few grudges. Or perhaps this was just their way of saying that with her time here ending, her power was broken.
Either way, it looked like she was about to be tickled again.
This time, she was subjected to a more concentrated assault, three of them setting their fingers to work on her feet, twenty long false nails flying over her soles, with the other 10 tickling all over her ankles.
Again, she seems to be holding out well, until the last two girls attack as well, not to her feet though.
She yanked her legs violently, raising her knees, actually dragging the stocks a few inches backwards, as the fingers tickled her there.
Caught by surprise, she let loose a loud howl of laugher, ducking her head again, screaming as a second torrent of gunge, blue and white swirled together, gushes over her, hitting right on the top of her head, spreading out in that umbrella pattern, splashing over her legs and arms, before the stream slows, adding to the gunge already covering her front. Her dress is now unrecognisable, clinging to the curves of her breasts and to her sides.
With only one tank of gunge left, Jen and I were ready to move onto the grand finale. But those plans were changed when Kathy stepped forward.
The next few seconds pass with some whispered conversation between Kathy and myself. Opening the door, Kathy steps inside the tank, letting me lock the door behind her again.
Moving to stand behind the chair, her hands fly to Christine’s ribs.
Unlike the previous two groups, it is obvious that she has had some experience with tickling. I make a mental note to find out how much later. Right now I'm more interested in the results of her handiwork.
The material of Christine’s dress is so thin that I guess it must be like being tickled on her bare skin. Kathy's touches are delicate, controlled. But all the more effective for that.
Her whole body twists, as she tries to pull away from Kathy's fingers, her gunk covered hair now completely free, falling over her back.
She stared almost pleadingly as Jen took her place in front of both of her feet. Smiling wickedly back, Jen lifted her hands to reveal two soft shaving brushes.
Christine barely had time to shake her head, before the brushes met on the sole of her left foot. Just the gentlest of strokes and they already had Christine in a fit of giggles.
I've been tickled by Jen many times and I know the terrible things she can do with her brushes. Looks like Christine is finding that out first hand, as Jen runs the tips of the hairs lightly over her toes then back again, the tiny pink digits dancing as they try to avoid their touch. I'm sure that Jen could finish this little session off in about thirty seconds if she wanted to, pressing the brush fully into my toes is enough to have me in hysterics, so I imagine it would be worse for Christine. But she clearly wants to take her time.
Swapping to the other foot, she trails the brushes down and over her sole, then sideways over her ankle and back up over the top, right up to her toes, brushing back and forth over the top of them this time.
Christine’s eyes are screwed shut now, her toes curled up in a useless attempt to protect herself. I have to admit, this is starting to turn me on a bit, watching my girlfriend slowly tickling the feet of another woman. Except in my mind’s eye, it is Jen writhing on the end of the brushes wielded by me, desperately struggling to fight the laughter that she knows will result in a massive gunging.
Speaking of a massive gunging, Christine’s laughter is growing louder, as Kathy walks her fingers up Christine’s sides, sliding them under her armpits. Now, I decide to join in, grabbing two long black feathers, which I stroke up and down her soles, sometimes using the tip, sometimes the sides, dragging them back and forth over in a sawing motion.
We keep alternating our attentions on different parts of her feet, when the feathers touch her ankles, the brushes will be on her heels. When the brushes go back to her toes, the feathers slip back to her heels. Making sure that every part of her is tickled.
Now leaving her feet to Jen, I place the feathers on the back of her legs, running them up as high as they will go, then back down again. Up and down. Up and down.
She is laughing so much now; all it will take is one finishing touch. That finishing touch comes as Kathy’s hands lock onto both sides of her neck, finger nails stroking the sensitive flesh she finds there.
She tips her head back involuntarily, looking right up at the hatch as the final tank opens, as she laughs furiously.
Both Jen and I look up, waiting to see it hit, but Kathy keeps tickling her sides, Christine’s chest heaving, still laughing as the green and yellow gunge completely envelops her. Since it is much much thicker than the last, hardly any of it hits Kathy, the umbrella effect that much smaller so that only a small amount splats onto her shirt, the rest pilling onto her face, slowly oozing down over her neck and chest.
I stand, moving to open the door, offering my hand to Kathy, helping her climb out, to a wave of applause from the crowd. This is one homecoming I'm sure no one will forget.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Okay, there we go. Hope you enjoyed it.
I do have a sequel planned, so if anyone would like to see that, please let me know.
The typical 'Queen Bee', the one that all the girls look up to as the highest example of what's hip, what's cool.
The one that sets the trend of what to wear, where to be seen and who to be seen with.
This particular one, by the way, is named Christine Hoynes, the daughter of successful businessman Errol Hoynes.
Just being associated with her is enough to grant someone instant status and respect. And all the girls on some level want some of that, even those that absolutely hate her, the ones whose lives she has made a misery.
My girlfriend definitely falls into that category. She'd describe herself as the girl next door, you know. Just another girl from your street. But I think I love her more for that. She has this honest, down to earth nature. A cute redhead, with a nicely toned body from her years on the swim team. She doesn't go in for the high end fashions, clothes with labels or brands that cost hundreds of dollars, or fancy hairdos or makeup. I've always said that she has this naturally attractive, even sexy, aura that she doesn't have to work at.
I think that was one reason that she decided to run for homecoming queen this year, the year before her final year. To fight back against the vapid bimbos and cruel drama queens that always seems to win it.
It seemed like she was in with a good chance, to start with. The offers of support she got from the others girls like her who wanted to stick it to the rich girls, ranging from promising their votes, to volunteering time to help with the campaigning. The students that most people would have deemed nerdy came out of the woodwork as well, proving that it does count to have a computer whizz on your side, knocking up a really cool set of posters in no time. Like I said, she seemed like a real contender.
But none of us had counted on the depths that her rival was willing to stoop to in order to win.
Campaigning had only just begun and the whole campus was in election frenzy. It was also already divided between the two candidates and our side seemed to be a little behind. And that's me putting a positive spin on it. Somehow Christine had managed to sway most of the male population of the campus over to her camp. Not that that was such a difficult thing to accomplish. With her long blonde hair, even longer legs, pale skin, bright blue eyes and deep red lips, she attracted no end of admirers. Rumours were flying around about what she had done to obtain this support, anything from promises of excellent jobs, to suggesting she bribed the guys with the promise of going steady with them, right up to offering sexual favours.
Personally, I was more inclined to believe the second one, knowing the number of young men that would do anything if she promised that, foolishly believing that they were the only one.
She was not above making use of her father, I surmised. You couldn't walk across the grounds without seeing at least twenty people wearing 'Christine for Queen' badges, which looked so professional that I was sure that her dad’s factory must have been churning them out.
By the last week of the campaign, we all knew that we had had it.
But Christine still had one dirty trick up her sleeve. She had won, but that wasn't enough. She wanted to see Jen humiliated, utterly. Somehow someone got footage of Jen in the shower and posted it on YouTube. Jen was too embarrassed to show her face right up till the election, during that time her popularity plummeted, most people thinking she had dropped out.
I cradled Jen's head in my lap, gently stroking her hair, trying to relieve my anger as much as her sorrow.
"I can't believe what she did. I'd give anything to be able to get back at her."
I know what she means. I feel much the same, but what can we do?
The beginnings of an idea hit me early next morning, my mind just wandering. The plan quickly forming in my head. Excitedly, I quickly explained it to Jen. She agreed that it was good, but we both felt that it lacked something. Something to give it that little bit of added spice. So, we spent the rest of the day racking our brains, trying to think of something that would really add to her humiliation. It was Jen that finally struck gold. As soon as the idea was out of her mouth, I knew that it was perfect. And I was kicking myself for not thinking of it sooner.
I quickly called around the local D.I.Y stores, seeing if they had what we would need, while Jen got in contact with the key members of her campaign, explaining the idea and asking if they would be available to help.
Desperate for the chance to stick it to Christine, they all agreed.
Over the next week, we put in the hardest seven days of work any of us had done, fuelled by a potent mixture of coffee and years of repressed loathing. I organised the team that would be building the framework, while Jen, being more technically minded, worked on creating the mechanism I had envisioned.
The plan was to get this built and set up in the college’s auditorium before the crowning ceremony at the end of the week. Since the whole homecoming contest was entirely a student run operation, securing the cooperation of the organiser was easier than it would have been if the staff had been involved. She definitely was no friend of Christine, and seemed quite taken with our plan as well.
The only snag came when we had to actually transport our creation down to the campus. Even broken down into its component parts, it was still ridiculously cumbersome, much too big to fit into any of our cars. Just as our carefully conceived plan seemed to be falling apart at the last minute, help arrived from a most unexpected source. Eight guys from the football team, who it turned out, had been promised certain things by Christine to secure their votes. Promises that she had now reneged on. They had complained to the event organiser, who had quietly pointed them in our direction.
And they had arrived in the nick of time, with a small transit van that was perfect to our needs. The only condition they had was that they could get involved with our scheme. Happy to have their help, we promised them first dibs, without actually telling them what was going on. We didn't want any word getting back to Christine.
A few more frantic hours work, getting everything assembled, then we all headed home for a well deserved rest, agreeing to meet up here again in time for the crowning.
All that evening, my mind was filled with thoughts of the devious contraption and the uses I could put it too, even after it had done its job tomorrow.
The auditorium is packed, almost full to bursting. Most of the room is dark, the only light being provided by the four spotlights that illuminate the four homecoming candidates. I give Jen an encouraging smile, but most of my attention is focused on Christine, on that smug smile plastered on her face. She must think that all of these people are here to cheer for her. And they are, I suppose, just not in the way that she thinks. I have to admit that she had come dressed perfectly for the occasion, in a White, low cut dress of finest silk, which hugs her body in all the right places. The skirt just barely reaches her knees. Her normally loose hair is pulled up in a pair of buns. White silk elbow length gloves are the finishing touch. She's really gone all out to make herself look regal.
What she will look like when we are done with her is anybody’s guess.
The drum roll starts, as the student council president, Kathy, I think she said her name was, opens the envelope that contains the winner’s name. I don't think that anyone is surprised when Christine’s is called out.
Reacting to my sight nod, Kathy raises the microphone to her lips again.
"Congratulations, Christine. Since this your last year, we thought you deserved something to thank you for everything you’ve done over the years."
The drum roll starts up again, as the three runners up lead her towards the curtains at the back of the stage, the spotlight following them, then moving up to point at the spot where we placed our surprise.
Christine has been smiling all the time, right up till the moment the curtain was swiftly pulled up, revealing our creation in all its terrible glory. The surprised laughter from the crowd is more than enough to drown out Christine’s yell of horror, as she takes in the details of her surprise. The thick Walls of clear Perspex, the chair in the centre of the box and, best of all, the huge tank filled to the brim with bright bubblegum pink gunge.
The crowd cheers again, as Jen and the other two push her inside, securing her to the chair with leather straps that run over her wrists, the dark material contrasting brilliantly with her White silk gloves.
The front wall of the chamber opens at about knee height, leaving the lower panel of Perspex fixed firmly in place, which has two holes cut through it. The top can be lifted off, allowing someone’s legs to be placed into them. The holes have been lined with special rigid foam that compresses around the middle of the victims thighs when the top is secured back down, preventing them from moving.
Then her feet are placed into a set of stocks made from Perspex as well, the holes lined in the same way, only smaller to fit someone’s ankles, which is held tight by a metal band the fits over the top and secured by a small padlock.
The main purpose of the foam is so that the stocks can hold a variety of different leg sizes without needing major modifications, as well as comfort. The advantage of this is that it doesn’t hurt anybody.
It also has the added benefit of forming a watertight seal, as we discovered when, during one of the tests, the pumps at the bottom that are supposed to drain the excess gunge away failed, filling the tank up to just below the lip of the door.
With Christine nice and comfy, but not very happy, as her shouts at us from inside tell, the three of them climb out again. Jen kneels down by Christine’s feet, easily slipping her high heels off and tossing them inside with her, before closing and locking the door.
The eight football players climbed up onto the stage, gathering around me, as I explained how this was designed to work.
A microphone at the top of the chamber has been placed there for the single purpose of monitoring any noise inside. If that noise passes a certain threshold, a switch is tripped, opening the tank.
"Basically," I finished, "You just have to make her laugh as loud as you can."
They seem more than happy with that, surrounding the stocks, four to each foot.
She stares at them, trying to use her smile to win them back over.
"Hey guys, no hard feelings huh? Guys?"
Without a word, they dive in. Their technique seems to be a bit crude, definitely more a case of quantity over quality, their fingers covering all of her feet from the bottom of her heel to the top of her toes.
But it does seem to be effective. Christine has stopped shouting, if only because she is using all the air in her lungs to laugh, a high pitched giggle, her feet twisting and pulling against the stocks, in some desperate attempt to free herself.
Now, I had been expecting Christine to crack pretty quickly, especially in light of the torturous tickling I was expecting her to be subjected to. But either because she was made of tougher stuff than I thought, or she was so desperate not to be gunged, that she seemed to be hanging in there, her lips pressed tightly shut, hoping to contain the laughter that was threatening burst forth.
But I think she knew that it was only a matter of time.
That time came to an end when two of her tormentors pushed their fingers deep in between her toes, wiggling them furiously.
She couldn't help it, her mouth opening as a fresh peal of laughter slipped past her lips.
The guys pulled their fingers back, quickly looking up just in time to see her head disappear under the stream of gunge that poured over her. It didn’t stop with her head, though. As the hole under the tank opened fully, it widened to cover her shoulders, flowing over her chest and down her back.
It kept flowing for a full 15 seconds, and I think she was worrying that it would never stop. But it did, the last few drops splashing onto her neck, by which time her expensive hairdo was ruined; her formerly White dress now stained a bright pink. She raised her head, scowling at me, as if saying 'You'd better let me go now.'
Then she looked up in horror, as she realised that the tank was filling up again. Pumps running gunge from one of a series of secondary tanks into the main one. The whole process taking less than a minute.
She looked down again, focusing on her groupies that have managed to fight their way through the crowd and up onto the stage. I think for a second that she truly believed that she was about to be rescued, when the group of five girls advanced on her feet, taking the footballers place. It seemed that even the people that were most closely connected with her, carried a few grudges. Or perhaps this was just their way of saying that with her time here ending, her power was broken.
Either way, it looked like she was about to be tickled again.
This time, she was subjected to a more concentrated assault, three of them setting their fingers to work on her feet, twenty long false nails flying over her soles, with the other 10 tickling all over her ankles.
Again, she seems to be holding out well, until the last two girls attack as well, not to her feet though.
She yanked her legs violently, raising her knees, actually dragging the stocks a few inches backwards, as the fingers tickled her there.
Caught by surprise, she let loose a loud howl of laugher, ducking her head again, screaming as a second torrent of gunge, blue and white swirled together, gushes over her, hitting right on the top of her head, spreading out in that umbrella pattern, splashing over her legs and arms, before the stream slows, adding to the gunge already covering her front. Her dress is now unrecognisable, clinging to the curves of her breasts and to her sides.
With only one tank of gunge left, Jen and I were ready to move onto the grand finale. But those plans were changed when Kathy stepped forward.
The next few seconds pass with some whispered conversation between Kathy and myself. Opening the door, Kathy steps inside the tank, letting me lock the door behind her again.
Moving to stand behind the chair, her hands fly to Christine’s ribs.
Unlike the previous two groups, it is obvious that she has had some experience with tickling. I make a mental note to find out how much later. Right now I'm more interested in the results of her handiwork.
The material of Christine’s dress is so thin that I guess it must be like being tickled on her bare skin. Kathy's touches are delicate, controlled. But all the more effective for that.
Her whole body twists, as she tries to pull away from Kathy's fingers, her gunk covered hair now completely free, falling over her back.
She stared almost pleadingly as Jen took her place in front of both of her feet. Smiling wickedly back, Jen lifted her hands to reveal two soft shaving brushes.
Christine barely had time to shake her head, before the brushes met on the sole of her left foot. Just the gentlest of strokes and they already had Christine in a fit of giggles.
I've been tickled by Jen many times and I know the terrible things she can do with her brushes. Looks like Christine is finding that out first hand, as Jen runs the tips of the hairs lightly over her toes then back again, the tiny pink digits dancing as they try to avoid their touch. I'm sure that Jen could finish this little session off in about thirty seconds if she wanted to, pressing the brush fully into my toes is enough to have me in hysterics, so I imagine it would be worse for Christine. But she clearly wants to take her time.
Swapping to the other foot, she trails the brushes down and over her sole, then sideways over her ankle and back up over the top, right up to her toes, brushing back and forth over the top of them this time.
Christine’s eyes are screwed shut now, her toes curled up in a useless attempt to protect herself. I have to admit, this is starting to turn me on a bit, watching my girlfriend slowly tickling the feet of another woman. Except in my mind’s eye, it is Jen writhing on the end of the brushes wielded by me, desperately struggling to fight the laughter that she knows will result in a massive gunging.
Speaking of a massive gunging, Christine’s laughter is growing louder, as Kathy walks her fingers up Christine’s sides, sliding them under her armpits. Now, I decide to join in, grabbing two long black feathers, which I stroke up and down her soles, sometimes using the tip, sometimes the sides, dragging them back and forth over in a sawing motion.
We keep alternating our attentions on different parts of her feet, when the feathers touch her ankles, the brushes will be on her heels. When the brushes go back to her toes, the feathers slip back to her heels. Making sure that every part of her is tickled.
Now leaving her feet to Jen, I place the feathers on the back of her legs, running them up as high as they will go, then back down again. Up and down. Up and down.
She is laughing so much now; all it will take is one finishing touch. That finishing touch comes as Kathy’s hands lock onto both sides of her neck, finger nails stroking the sensitive flesh she finds there.
She tips her head back involuntarily, looking right up at the hatch as the final tank opens, as she laughs furiously.
Both Jen and I look up, waiting to see it hit, but Kathy keeps tickling her sides, Christine’s chest heaving, still laughing as the green and yellow gunge completely envelops her. Since it is much much thicker than the last, hardly any of it hits Kathy, the umbrella effect that much smaller so that only a small amount splats onto her shirt, the rest pilling onto her face, slowly oozing down over her neck and chest.
I stand, moving to open the door, offering my hand to Kathy, helping her climb out, to a wave of applause from the crowd. This is one homecoming I'm sure no one will forget.
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Okay, there we go. Hope you enjoyed it.
I do have a sequel planned, so if anyone would like to see that, please let me know.
