Shem the Penman
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PASS IT ON
another one of those stories
THIS STORY CONTAINS MATERIAL THAT MAY BE UNSUITABLE FOR YOUNG CHILDREN. AND EVEN OLD ONES.
"W-why are you -- oooohhhhhh -- doing thi -- aaahhh! -- this?" The words came out of Elise Brenner in uneven jerks, which was only understandable. There were few things in this world Elise dreaded more than having her feet tickled, and the woman seated in Elise's favorite chair, smiling down at her, had been doing just that for what seemed like the better part of forever. Elise herself was on the floor, wrists cuffed together in front of her, shirt up around her breasts and skirt up around her waist, baring an expanse of smooth tanned belly and ribs flexing with laughter-strained breath. Her long legs were stretched out, the muscles in them quivering, and her shoes were somewhere on the other side of the room where the woman had tossed them.
But the only part of Elise she was really aware of was her feet: cuffed together, held lightly but firmly in her tormentor's lap as thumbs passed softly down her arches, fingertips ran along the base of her twitching toes, nails scratched at the balls of her feet with tortuous delicacy. The woman had tested Elise's other tickle spots as well -- *all* of them -- but it always came back to the feet, always bringing Elise to the edge of a full-blown frenzy. It had been like this ever since she'd stepped into her apartment and the woman had leaped on her from behind the bathroom door, pinning her down and slapping on the cuffs with rapid efficiency before dragging her to the living room to begin the tickling.
"Because I'm paid to, dear," the woman finally answered. She was a bit shorter and more rounded than Elise, dressed neatly in jeans, low-heeled boots, and a linen blouse. It would have been easy for her to get past the building's doorman. She had short, glossy black hair and deep brown eyes that sparkled with mischief as she tickled the tops of Elise's toes, fingernails running along the clefts between each pair. Elise clenched her toes tightly, but it still tickled unbearably, and she thrashed on the floor anew, making desperate sounds in her throat that reluctantly transformed to giggles as the teasing went on. The woman's full lips curved up. "By someone who knows what a squirmy little tickle-doll you are ... "
"Frank!" Elise gasped amidst her mirth. Her ex-husband had driven her half mad with constant tickling, and he still resented her for divorcing him. "It's ju -- stop! stop that! -- just like hiiiiiiiiim to hire some slut t --- ieeeeeeeeehahahahahahahaha!" The woman's nails darted up and down Elise's vulnerable arches in a rapid, crazy-making tattoo, worse than anything Frank had ever done to her. Her back curved as she screamed with laughter, pounding her linked fists helplessly against the carpeted floor as she rolled from side to side.
The woman shook her head. "I'm not that kind of professional. I'm a professional *tickler*. And you happen to be one of the most ticklish girls I've ever seen in my long career ... so maybe you should watch your mouth a little, hmm?"
"I'mHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAsorry! I'm sorry!" Elise wailed, and with a sense almost of relief felt the tickling lessen to a gentler tracing that still made her quiver, jump, and giggle constantly.
"That's good. You're a smart girl. Don't worry, it won't be too much longer -- unless you give me any trouble, that is." She reached down to gently squeeze Elise's kneecaps and wiggle her fingers along the soft underside of each knee. Elise tittered weakly, her brunette head lolling back and forth. "By the way, I'm supposed to tell you 'happy un-anniversary' and remind you to remember Devonshire."
Elise remembered Devonshire all right. One night at the bed and breakfast they were staying at, Frank had pinned her down and tickled her bare feet until her shrieks could be heard through the old country house. It could still make her blush to remember the look their very proper English hostess -- not to mention the other guests -- had given them at breakfast the next morning. As if drawn there by the reminiscence, the woman's fingers migrated back to Elise's curled-up soles, lightly teasing at first but then seeking out the places along the arch and under the toes that Elise especially couldn't stand. "No! NOOOO! HAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHA -- don't TICKLE!" she screamed, half blind with tears of laughter but fully conscious of every touch on her cringing feet.
“Oh, is this too much for you?” the woman said mockingly. “You can stop me any time you want, but only the right way.”
“Whaaaaaaahaahahahahhat!?” Elise shrieked.
“I’m not going to tell you that, dear. Figure it out, or I’ll tickle you all ... night ... long.” She punctuated those words with tweaks of Elise’s wriggling toes, drawing a miserable giggly wail from Elise as she glided a soft thumb down each arch. “I’ve been paid for the whole night, unless you meet a certain condition my employer set ... “
Elise could barely think. Being tickled always seemed to drain most of her mind away and replace it with something that could only laugh and plead for mercy. Sometimes she liked being so passive and helpless, but this was getting to be too much. Just like when Frank would torture her. The woman playing with her feet and Frank seemed to run together in Elise’s tickle-blurred mind. The first time he’d asked to tie and tickle her, she’d extracted a promise from him not to touch her feet ... only to suffer a merciless, endless foot-tickling, almost as bad as this, when she was finally tied. When she complained, he offered to use safe-words instead ... and then completely ignored them. It was one of the reasons she’d divorced him. She’d been screaming the safe-word at him in Devonshire ...
The woman’s fingernails circled the ball of Elise’s foot, scratching gently at the slightly tougher skin there. This was something Elise could absolutely not stand. Her back arched and every muscle in her legs spasmed as a hysterical yell ripped out of her. Instinct took over, and she screamed the useless safe-word once more: “HALT! HALT! HAAAAAAAAA
--- “
And the tickling stopped. The woman let go of Elise’s feet, which dropped bonelessly to the carpet. Elise lay there, gasping, as the woman rose from her chair. “I’m glad you figured it out,” she said. “I never like to take it too far.” She picked up her leather jacket from the back of the chair. “Here’s my card. Have a good evening.” She started for the door.
"Wait!" Elise gasped breathlessly.
"What?" She turned.
Elise bit her lower lip. "Maybe I've got an idea ... "
--
This wasn't how Larry Vaughn had planned to spend the night. He'd planned to go to the bar, have a few drinks, come home, and get a good night's sleep. But then the tall, pretty, dark-haired woman had started moving in on him, and against his better judgment he'd allowed her to convince him to stay in the bar past midnight -- and then join her at her hotel room. At the merest hint from her, he'd eagerly skinned down to his boxers and sat down on the bed, waiting in a fog of booze and lust for her to strip too -- but instead she'd taken a pair of padded cuffs from her handbag, and the next thing Larry knew, his wrists and the bedpost had formed an inseparable bond. Larry, who'd seen SOMETHING WILD twice, was even more excited at that. He didn't suspect anything was wrong until she approached him and gently laid fluttering fingers on his rib cage so that he jerked involuntarily and gasped out a laugh. And it had only gotten worse from there.
She had found his most ticklish place, the undersides of his ribs, quickly and had been equally swift to exploit it without mercy. And from there ... Larry had been astonished with the facility with which she found tickle spots on his body. It was as if someone had switched bodies on him when he wasn't looking. He hadn't even been aware, for instance, that he was so ticklish on the little patches of skin between the top of his ribs and his underarms -- but she was working them with firm, probing fingers now, and Larry was squealing like an overexcited schoolboy, his wriggling body churning the bedsheets into a chaotic mess as he struggled futilely to find some position that would afford him even a second's relief from her tickling touch. There was none.
"How long ... ?" Larry moaned when she allowed him to catch his breath.
She glanced at her watch. "It's almost four. We'll be done soon ... but not soon enough for you. Tickle, tickle, ticklish tummy ... "
"Four o' clock!" he would have jumped to his feet if he hadn't been fastened to the bed. "I -- "
"I know." She patted his bare belly reassuringly, then started running a fingernail up and down his side in a very distracting manner. "You have to get dressed and be at the office by six. You'll have plenty of time."
"It's not that!" Larry tried to sit up again, but she started tickling his ribs until he flopped down in defeat again, heaving and giggling. "I have to -- hey! -- have -- don't do that! I'm trying to -- hahahahahaaaahaahaaaaaHAHAHAHAHA!" She had wandered down to his waist, just above the crest of his hipbones, and her firmly probing fingers drove Larry to hysterics. "Importaaaaaaaaaaant presentation!" he managed to scream as his body gyrated under her ministrations.
"I know that too. I told you, you'll be there on time." She gave his hips a final squeeze and then stopped, letting him take deep ragged breaths.
"But I'll be exhausted! If I don't do well, that Brenner woman will get the promo -- " The light bulb went on. "She put you up to this, didn't she?"
"Smart boy, Larry. You win a tickling." She dug into his belly, fingers widely spread and rhythmically wriggling. Even as Larry writhed anew, he was thinking quickly. This was business, wasn’t it? The answer was obvious ...
"I'll pay you double what she's paying you if you'll go get her!"
"I don't break contracts, Larry. And I don't do revenge tickling. It's bad for business -- not to mention boring. I'd be going back and forth between the same two people over and over, back and forth, back and forth ... " She singsonged the words as her fingertips spider-walked up and down his sides. Larry was so keyed up by now that even this light little tickle made him flop around like a fish out of water and giggle himself breathless. Smiling, she began playing his ribs like an accordion, and Larry’s giggles swiftly became a racking laugh, his whole body shaking with the force of his mirth. His struggles became more violent as she continued to tickle him inexorably. He’d never felt anything like this, never known how an extended tickling could make his body, as if possessed of a mind of its own, thrash and bounce with a frantic need to get away. His heart was pounding and the sheets under him were hot and soaked with his own sweat, and he was poised on a sweet razor’s edge, both desperately wanting her to stop and yet wishing the tickling could go on forever ....
After what seemed like forever and a half, she checked her watch again. "Okay, time's up. You should be good and worn out today." She patted his cheek as she unlocked the cuffs, and despite himself Larry flinched. "Sorry. Just business, you understand. Here's my card." She dropped the white rectangle on his stomach and smiled at him.
"Say," Larry said nervously, rubbing his wrists. "Do you think you could ... "
---
She had been amused to discover that Jeremy Reid was an artist. He was almost ridiculously convenient. He'd answered the door barefoot, in paint-streaked jeans and button-down shirt. When she'd subdued him, there was that long wooden pole, apparently for hanging tapestries, leaning up against the wall; it was a simple matter to lash the dazed and breathless Jeremy's arms to the pole so they stood straight out from his body and then plunk him down in a chair while she cuffed his ankles. And of course there were the paintbrushes. She'd already decided that she was going to keep the little camel's hair one. Jeremy had squealed so nicely when she traced it between his toes, and the way he screwed his eyes up and shuddered all over as she swirled it around the rim of his navel had made her giggle happily herself.
The larger brushes could work well too. She was holding one in either hand now, the soft bristles barely touching the terribly ticklish skin under his arms, and moving them with exquisite slowness in circles and loops around and through each vulnerable hollow. "Stop!" Jeremy gritted through clenched teeth, and then rocked with helpless gasps and giggles as the brushes swept around the edge of his underarms. The wooden pole actually bent slightly as he struggled to pull his arms down, and his eyes were wide and hot. She'd guessed a light touch would frustrate him no end, and was pleased to see she'd been right. "I can't -- heeheeeheeheeheehee -- please!"
"Well ... a *real* tortured artist," she said mockingly, then set aside the brushes to mercilessly tickle up and down his sides. Toys were fun sometimes, but it was fingers that were essential for any serious work, she thought as Jeremy twisted this way and that, laughing like a madman. She did not relent until he was very pink in the face and gasping for breath. "Would you like me to go back to brushing your underarms ... or do you want more of this?" she asked with brightly false politeness, tweaking his ribs to work a few stray chuckles out of him.
Confronted with two horrible alternatives, Jeremy tried to delay a choice. "What is this about?"
She had put Jeremy's feet up on a low stool and seated herself on the ankles, so they were always right at hand for a quick tormenting. She turned to run her fingertips all over them, enjoying the way they twitched and squirmed, as she said, "I've been sent by someone who objects to how loudly you play your music ... and late at night, too. Haven't you ever learned to pay attention to other people's comfort?" On the last word, she slowly raked ten fingernails up the entire length of Jeremy's soles. He bucked like a wild horse, nearly throwing her off. So she did it again ... and again ... and again ...
"Stop it stop it STOP IT!" Jeremy howled amidst peals of demented laughter.
"Nope. Not for" -- she glanced at the clock -- "another hour or so. Or until you agree to listen at a more reasonable volume. Whichever comes first."
Mention of a time limit gave him a sudden burst of hope. "I can wait you out!" he said brashly, thinking of THX 1138 all of a sudden.
She raised an eyebrow and a corner of her mouth at that, but said nothing. She let her hands do the talking. Delicately tracing fingernails in Jeremy's armpits lifted him up and back in the chair by sheer force of laughter, holding him virtually helpless as he yowled and squirmed.
"Maybe you're as tough as you think, Jeremy." The tickling stopped abruptly as she stood, and Jeremy flopped down in the chair, suddenly boneless. Dizzily, he watched her cross the room and pick up his cordless telephone. "But I play dirty." She returned to her seat, held up the phone so he could see it, and punched the first speed-dial button. Jeremy stared at her with widening eyes as the phone rang twice and then was picked up. "Hello?" came an all too familiar voice.
"No," Jeremy whispered, shaking his head. "You wouldn't ... " The number was his mother's. If she heard what was being done to him now, he'd be trying to explain for years ...
She only grinned at him and dropped the handset into his lap. And then her expert fingers were on his ribs, and Jeremy twisted and bucked anew. His teeth sank deep into his lower lip as he struggled not to laugh, praying for a quick hang-up ... maybe she wouldn't realize who was calling ...
"Where are you, Jeremy?" his mother asked. "I think we may have a bad connection. All I hear is funny noises ... " Oh God, Jeremy remembered -- Mom has caller ID! With obvious enjoyment, the woman began to tickle around his navel, producing even more vehement "funny noises" as Jeremy strained to hold his hysteria in. She turned slightly, still tantalizing his bellybutton with one fingertip while her other outstretched hands sought his feet. In vain did Jeremy twist and flip his feet -- there was no escape, no protection, and when her clawed fingers burrowed under his toes, he thought he’d explode with the effort of holding in his laughter. Lips pressed together and eyes wide with pleading, Jeremy wriggled in his seat, knowing even as he did so that there was no point in it -- she could do whatever she wanted with him ...
She was saying something to him, soundlessly. Through a haze of tears of laughter, Jeremy managed to focus on her pink lips and watched as they formed the words "Give up?" Both hands glided up his sides to rest lightly in his underarms.
"Jeremy?" Mom said on the phone. He looked up from the woman's mouth to her eyes and saw no mercy there, only a delighted anticipation of what she was going to do to him. He was almost ruined, and they both knew it. One finger twitched slightly, stroking the sensitive flesh, and despite himself Jeremy jumped and let out a yelp. Then he started nodding so violently it looked as if he were trying to shake his head off. The woman sat back, picking up the phone and hanging it up.
"I thought you'd see it my way," she grinned, standing and stretching. "You should know that my employer has put the money down for a follow-up visit ... so if I check back with him and he tells me you haven't turned down the volume, I'll be back." She put a fingertip under his chin and tilted his head up to look directly into his eyes. "I *hate* having to do follow-ups. If I have to do one, I'm going to take it out on you ... do we have an understanding?"
Jeremy nodded weakly. "No problem ... "
"Good boy." She began loosening the cords that held one arm to the pole. "My card." She tucked it into his breast pocket. "Call me if you ever need someone tickled ... " she said as she turned to the door.
"Wait," Jeremy called after her, hoarsely. She turned back with a slight smile. "Um ... what are your rates?"
---
Anne Wei worked hard. She was the first one into her restaurant every morning, and the last one out every night. That latter habit was what led to disaster. There was no one around to help her when the tall woman in the long, dark coat slipped into the restaurant late one night (hadn't Anne locked the door?) and took hold of her. After a brief and confusing struggle, Anne found herself kneeling in one of her chairs, wrists tied together with a rope that had come from under the coat and now ran up and over one of the dining room's exposed rafters. Anne's wrists were over her head, her blouse had been pulled out and was half unbuttoned, and to complete the indignity the woman was putting what felt uncomfortably like handcuffs on her ankles. The cuffs clicked shut, and the woman took hold of Anne's chair and turned her until she was facing the new mural on the back wall of the room.
"It's a wonderful painting. When are you going to pay the man who did it?"
"Huh?" Anne said, then stiffened as she felt the intruder begin to remove her shoes, leaving them hanging precariously, half on and half off. "What are you -- "
"What do *you* think?" Anne was wearing stockings of sturdy dark nylon. They were stylish, flattering, and kept her legs warm. But against tickling, they were about as useful as a glass hammer. Anne squealed, jerking on the rope that held her wrists as teasing fingernails fluttered over the exposed portion of her feet. "It's not complicated. I have your checkbook here ... and your super-ticklish body here. The question is, what do you value more? Money ... or dignity?" Every reflexive jerk of Anne's feet made the shoes slip lower, exposing more and more of her sensitive, nyloned soles to the torment. Already half of the arches had been bared, a fact that the other woman was taking full advantage of, much to Anne's distress. Every time Anne thought she had finally succeeded in ordering her feet to keep still, her tormentor would find a new and even more sensitive spot, and Anne would yelp and jump and feel her shoes slide a little further off.
"You -- you're crazy!" she gasped.
"No, I'm not. But you're going to be ... " was the amused rejoinder. One of Anne's shoes finally fell off, hitting the floor with a thunk, and almost immediately her newly exposed foot was covered with tickling fingers, scrabbling all over. Anne's second shoe was quickly lost in the ensuing frantic convulsions, and then it was the soles of both feet being ravaged by quick-darting fingertips. Anne's long black hair cut the air like a whip as she tossed her head back and forth, the sound of her laughter somehow not drowning out the teasing whispers that reached her ears from below: "Poooooor Annie. You hate this, don't you? Such sensitive little feet, little toes ... You know how to make me stop ... but you're so much fun to play with, I might tickle you all night ... where else do you hate being tickled, Annie?"
Fingernails raked down her back softly. Anne yowled and arched her back -- tautening her belly and making it the perfect target for the tickling fingers that landed on it a heartbeat later. The rope creaked audibly as Anne swayed back, screeching like a madwoman. "Noooooaaaaaaaaaaaaoooooooooo!! Not THERE! I'm too ticklish -- " She realized her mistake a second too late as her torturer slowly rose, walked around her, and deliberately began unbuttoning Anne's blouse.
"Please," Anne begged, giving the other woman a pleading look.
Her only response was a slow grin that turned Anne's blood to ice. "That's a *very* ticklish tummy you have there, Annie." Like a bird hypnotized by a snake, Anne watched in dreadful fascination as the woman's hand came up, parting the curtains of her blouse. When it touched her belly, Anne closed her eyes and averted her face, a shudder racking her petite form. The woman's warm palm circled Anne's belly, a sensual delight of soft skin gliding over softer skin, but Anne could not relax, for the hand was beginning to curve outward. Now it was just fingertips tracing the contours of her stomach -- Anne made a squeaky sound of protest and shimmied her hips, all she could do in her helplessly bound position. Now the fingernails came into play, lightly twitching over the golden skin, teasing more than tickling.
"Pleasepleasepleaaaaaheeeheeheeheeheeeeplease," Anne whimpered in a tiny voice, her hips bucking involuntarily with each delicate little touch on her hot skin. She was pink from hairline to breasts now from embarrassment and exertion. Now both hands were crawling around her quivering belly. Anne kept her head down, hoping that her hair would hide the look of delicious agony on her face, but she could do nothing to disguise the stumbling giggles that shook her frame. Her muscles were tense in anticipation of the unmerciful belly-tickling she knew was to come, and the tension only made the tickling that much worse -- but she could not force herself to relax. But still the assault on her tummy did not come. Instead, the woman tickled her way up Anne's sides, then trailed her fingertips back down with an exquisite slowness that made Anne shudder even harder as chills chased each other down her body.
The other woman deliberately put a hand on the small of Anne's back. Anne pressed her lips firmly together and closed her eyes -- only to have them snap wide open a second later as tickling fingers dug into the soft flesh around her bellybutton. Only one person had ever known how ticklish her belly was -- her older brother -- and he’d made her life miserable on many an occasion until they became too old to wrestle together. Now, enduring a relentless, skilled tickling there for the first time in fifteen years or more, Anne seemed to revert from adult restaurauteur to ticklish little girl in the blink of an eye. Flushed, whining, and gasping with laughter, Anne wriggled with complete abandon, no longer caring what she might look like. It was an utterly humiliating and yet somehow liberating experience, to no longer have to think about anything but the fingers touring her belly’s most vulnerable spots, how the hand on her back held her torso steady so that no matter how hard she squirmed, the tickling was never disrupted.
The last of Anne's resistance finally shattered when her nemesis borrowed a fork from one of the place settings. The feel of the sharp tines gliding up and down her ticklish feet without pause -- combined with quick, unexpected finger-tickles all over her body -- was more than the already quivering, gasping Asian woman could endure. When the other woman finally untied Anne's wrists and handed her the checkbook, Anne ruined three checks before finally managing to sign her name correctly. The fact that her feet were being mercilessly tickled as she tried to scrawl the check as quickly as possible probably had something to do with it.
The woman dropped her card on the table and put Anne's check in her pocket. "I'm sure you're not stupid enough to stop payment, are you, Annie?" Anne shook her head weakly. "Have a good night, then ... “
“Uh .... “ Anne said.
---
The tickler unlocked the door and stepped inside. She’d barely closed it when she was seized from behind, arms wrapping around her and hands slipping under her jacket. She was lifted off the ground as soft lips kissed the rim of her ear. “Did you have a good day?” a familiar voice whispered.
She giggled. “Same as always. I’ve -- I’ve gotten another new job. It’s --- heeheeheeheehee -- cut that out! You know I hate having my ribs tickled!”
“Are these your ribs? They don’t feel like them ... “ The hands probed around, making her squeal and squirm in the firm circle of the hug. “I missed you.”
“It’s only been since morning -- stop that!” she yelped as a hand encompassed her belly.
“Too long. Come on.”
Still giggling, she allowed herself to be carried off to the bedroom.
another one of those stories
THIS STORY CONTAINS MATERIAL THAT MAY BE UNSUITABLE FOR YOUNG CHILDREN. AND EVEN OLD ONES.
"W-why are you -- oooohhhhhh -- doing thi -- aaahhh! -- this?" The words came out of Elise Brenner in uneven jerks, which was only understandable. There were few things in this world Elise dreaded more than having her feet tickled, and the woman seated in Elise's favorite chair, smiling down at her, had been doing just that for what seemed like the better part of forever. Elise herself was on the floor, wrists cuffed together in front of her, shirt up around her breasts and skirt up around her waist, baring an expanse of smooth tanned belly and ribs flexing with laughter-strained breath. Her long legs were stretched out, the muscles in them quivering, and her shoes were somewhere on the other side of the room where the woman had tossed them.
But the only part of Elise she was really aware of was her feet: cuffed together, held lightly but firmly in her tormentor's lap as thumbs passed softly down her arches, fingertips ran along the base of her twitching toes, nails scratched at the balls of her feet with tortuous delicacy. The woman had tested Elise's other tickle spots as well -- *all* of them -- but it always came back to the feet, always bringing Elise to the edge of a full-blown frenzy. It had been like this ever since she'd stepped into her apartment and the woman had leaped on her from behind the bathroom door, pinning her down and slapping on the cuffs with rapid efficiency before dragging her to the living room to begin the tickling.
"Because I'm paid to, dear," the woman finally answered. She was a bit shorter and more rounded than Elise, dressed neatly in jeans, low-heeled boots, and a linen blouse. It would have been easy for her to get past the building's doorman. She had short, glossy black hair and deep brown eyes that sparkled with mischief as she tickled the tops of Elise's toes, fingernails running along the clefts between each pair. Elise clenched her toes tightly, but it still tickled unbearably, and she thrashed on the floor anew, making desperate sounds in her throat that reluctantly transformed to giggles as the teasing went on. The woman's full lips curved up. "By someone who knows what a squirmy little tickle-doll you are ... "
"Frank!" Elise gasped amidst her mirth. Her ex-husband had driven her half mad with constant tickling, and he still resented her for divorcing him. "It's ju -- stop! stop that! -- just like hiiiiiiiiim to hire some slut t --- ieeeeeeeeehahahahahahahaha!" The woman's nails darted up and down Elise's vulnerable arches in a rapid, crazy-making tattoo, worse than anything Frank had ever done to her. Her back curved as she screamed with laughter, pounding her linked fists helplessly against the carpeted floor as she rolled from side to side.
The woman shook her head. "I'm not that kind of professional. I'm a professional *tickler*. And you happen to be one of the most ticklish girls I've ever seen in my long career ... so maybe you should watch your mouth a little, hmm?"
"I'mHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAsorry! I'm sorry!" Elise wailed, and with a sense almost of relief felt the tickling lessen to a gentler tracing that still made her quiver, jump, and giggle constantly.
"That's good. You're a smart girl. Don't worry, it won't be too much longer -- unless you give me any trouble, that is." She reached down to gently squeeze Elise's kneecaps and wiggle her fingers along the soft underside of each knee. Elise tittered weakly, her brunette head lolling back and forth. "By the way, I'm supposed to tell you 'happy un-anniversary' and remind you to remember Devonshire."
Elise remembered Devonshire all right. One night at the bed and breakfast they were staying at, Frank had pinned her down and tickled her bare feet until her shrieks could be heard through the old country house. It could still make her blush to remember the look their very proper English hostess -- not to mention the other guests -- had given them at breakfast the next morning. As if drawn there by the reminiscence, the woman's fingers migrated back to Elise's curled-up soles, lightly teasing at first but then seeking out the places along the arch and under the toes that Elise especially couldn't stand. "No! NOOOO! HAHAHAHA HAHAHAHAHAHA -- don't TICKLE!" she screamed, half blind with tears of laughter but fully conscious of every touch on her cringing feet.
“Oh, is this too much for you?” the woman said mockingly. “You can stop me any time you want, but only the right way.”
“Whaaaaaaahaahahahahhat!?” Elise shrieked.
“I’m not going to tell you that, dear. Figure it out, or I’ll tickle you all ... night ... long.” She punctuated those words with tweaks of Elise’s wriggling toes, drawing a miserable giggly wail from Elise as she glided a soft thumb down each arch. “I’ve been paid for the whole night, unless you meet a certain condition my employer set ... “
Elise could barely think. Being tickled always seemed to drain most of her mind away and replace it with something that could only laugh and plead for mercy. Sometimes she liked being so passive and helpless, but this was getting to be too much. Just like when Frank would torture her. The woman playing with her feet and Frank seemed to run together in Elise’s tickle-blurred mind. The first time he’d asked to tie and tickle her, she’d extracted a promise from him not to touch her feet ... only to suffer a merciless, endless foot-tickling, almost as bad as this, when she was finally tied. When she complained, he offered to use safe-words instead ... and then completely ignored them. It was one of the reasons she’d divorced him. She’d been screaming the safe-word at him in Devonshire ...
The woman’s fingernails circled the ball of Elise’s foot, scratching gently at the slightly tougher skin there. This was something Elise could absolutely not stand. Her back arched and every muscle in her legs spasmed as a hysterical yell ripped out of her. Instinct took over, and she screamed the useless safe-word once more: “HALT! HALT! HAAAAAAAAA
--- “
And the tickling stopped. The woman let go of Elise’s feet, which dropped bonelessly to the carpet. Elise lay there, gasping, as the woman rose from her chair. “I’m glad you figured it out,” she said. “I never like to take it too far.” She picked up her leather jacket from the back of the chair. “Here’s my card. Have a good evening.” She started for the door.
"Wait!" Elise gasped breathlessly.
"What?" She turned.
Elise bit her lower lip. "Maybe I've got an idea ... "
--
This wasn't how Larry Vaughn had planned to spend the night. He'd planned to go to the bar, have a few drinks, come home, and get a good night's sleep. But then the tall, pretty, dark-haired woman had started moving in on him, and against his better judgment he'd allowed her to convince him to stay in the bar past midnight -- and then join her at her hotel room. At the merest hint from her, he'd eagerly skinned down to his boxers and sat down on the bed, waiting in a fog of booze and lust for her to strip too -- but instead she'd taken a pair of padded cuffs from her handbag, and the next thing Larry knew, his wrists and the bedpost had formed an inseparable bond. Larry, who'd seen SOMETHING WILD twice, was even more excited at that. He didn't suspect anything was wrong until she approached him and gently laid fluttering fingers on his rib cage so that he jerked involuntarily and gasped out a laugh. And it had only gotten worse from there.
She had found his most ticklish place, the undersides of his ribs, quickly and had been equally swift to exploit it without mercy. And from there ... Larry had been astonished with the facility with which she found tickle spots on his body. It was as if someone had switched bodies on him when he wasn't looking. He hadn't even been aware, for instance, that he was so ticklish on the little patches of skin between the top of his ribs and his underarms -- but she was working them with firm, probing fingers now, and Larry was squealing like an overexcited schoolboy, his wriggling body churning the bedsheets into a chaotic mess as he struggled futilely to find some position that would afford him even a second's relief from her tickling touch. There was none.
"How long ... ?" Larry moaned when she allowed him to catch his breath.
She glanced at her watch. "It's almost four. We'll be done soon ... but not soon enough for you. Tickle, tickle, ticklish tummy ... "
"Four o' clock!" he would have jumped to his feet if he hadn't been fastened to the bed. "I -- "
"I know." She patted his bare belly reassuringly, then started running a fingernail up and down his side in a very distracting manner. "You have to get dressed and be at the office by six. You'll have plenty of time."
"It's not that!" Larry tried to sit up again, but she started tickling his ribs until he flopped down in defeat again, heaving and giggling. "I have to -- hey! -- have -- don't do that! I'm trying to -- hahahahahaaaahaahaaaaaHAHAHAHAHA!" She had wandered down to his waist, just above the crest of his hipbones, and her firmly probing fingers drove Larry to hysterics. "Importaaaaaaaaaaant presentation!" he managed to scream as his body gyrated under her ministrations.
"I know that too. I told you, you'll be there on time." She gave his hips a final squeeze and then stopped, letting him take deep ragged breaths.
"But I'll be exhausted! If I don't do well, that Brenner woman will get the promo -- " The light bulb went on. "She put you up to this, didn't she?"
"Smart boy, Larry. You win a tickling." She dug into his belly, fingers widely spread and rhythmically wriggling. Even as Larry writhed anew, he was thinking quickly. This was business, wasn’t it? The answer was obvious ...
"I'll pay you double what she's paying you if you'll go get her!"
"I don't break contracts, Larry. And I don't do revenge tickling. It's bad for business -- not to mention boring. I'd be going back and forth between the same two people over and over, back and forth, back and forth ... " She singsonged the words as her fingertips spider-walked up and down his sides. Larry was so keyed up by now that even this light little tickle made him flop around like a fish out of water and giggle himself breathless. Smiling, she began playing his ribs like an accordion, and Larry’s giggles swiftly became a racking laugh, his whole body shaking with the force of his mirth. His struggles became more violent as she continued to tickle him inexorably. He’d never felt anything like this, never known how an extended tickling could make his body, as if possessed of a mind of its own, thrash and bounce with a frantic need to get away. His heart was pounding and the sheets under him were hot and soaked with his own sweat, and he was poised on a sweet razor’s edge, both desperately wanting her to stop and yet wishing the tickling could go on forever ....
After what seemed like forever and a half, she checked her watch again. "Okay, time's up. You should be good and worn out today." She patted his cheek as she unlocked the cuffs, and despite himself Larry flinched. "Sorry. Just business, you understand. Here's my card." She dropped the white rectangle on his stomach and smiled at him.
"Say," Larry said nervously, rubbing his wrists. "Do you think you could ... "
---
She had been amused to discover that Jeremy Reid was an artist. He was almost ridiculously convenient. He'd answered the door barefoot, in paint-streaked jeans and button-down shirt. When she'd subdued him, there was that long wooden pole, apparently for hanging tapestries, leaning up against the wall; it was a simple matter to lash the dazed and breathless Jeremy's arms to the pole so they stood straight out from his body and then plunk him down in a chair while she cuffed his ankles. And of course there were the paintbrushes. She'd already decided that she was going to keep the little camel's hair one. Jeremy had squealed so nicely when she traced it between his toes, and the way he screwed his eyes up and shuddered all over as she swirled it around the rim of his navel had made her giggle happily herself.
The larger brushes could work well too. She was holding one in either hand now, the soft bristles barely touching the terribly ticklish skin under his arms, and moving them with exquisite slowness in circles and loops around and through each vulnerable hollow. "Stop!" Jeremy gritted through clenched teeth, and then rocked with helpless gasps and giggles as the brushes swept around the edge of his underarms. The wooden pole actually bent slightly as he struggled to pull his arms down, and his eyes were wide and hot. She'd guessed a light touch would frustrate him no end, and was pleased to see she'd been right. "I can't -- heeheeeheeheeheehee -- please!"
"Well ... a *real* tortured artist," she said mockingly, then set aside the brushes to mercilessly tickle up and down his sides. Toys were fun sometimes, but it was fingers that were essential for any serious work, she thought as Jeremy twisted this way and that, laughing like a madman. She did not relent until he was very pink in the face and gasping for breath. "Would you like me to go back to brushing your underarms ... or do you want more of this?" she asked with brightly false politeness, tweaking his ribs to work a few stray chuckles out of him.
Confronted with two horrible alternatives, Jeremy tried to delay a choice. "What is this about?"
She had put Jeremy's feet up on a low stool and seated herself on the ankles, so they were always right at hand for a quick tormenting. She turned to run her fingertips all over them, enjoying the way they twitched and squirmed, as she said, "I've been sent by someone who objects to how loudly you play your music ... and late at night, too. Haven't you ever learned to pay attention to other people's comfort?" On the last word, she slowly raked ten fingernails up the entire length of Jeremy's soles. He bucked like a wild horse, nearly throwing her off. So she did it again ... and again ... and again ...
"Stop it stop it STOP IT!" Jeremy howled amidst peals of demented laughter.
"Nope. Not for" -- she glanced at the clock -- "another hour or so. Or until you agree to listen at a more reasonable volume. Whichever comes first."
Mention of a time limit gave him a sudden burst of hope. "I can wait you out!" he said brashly, thinking of THX 1138 all of a sudden.
She raised an eyebrow and a corner of her mouth at that, but said nothing. She let her hands do the talking. Delicately tracing fingernails in Jeremy's armpits lifted him up and back in the chair by sheer force of laughter, holding him virtually helpless as he yowled and squirmed.
"Maybe you're as tough as you think, Jeremy." The tickling stopped abruptly as she stood, and Jeremy flopped down in the chair, suddenly boneless. Dizzily, he watched her cross the room and pick up his cordless telephone. "But I play dirty." She returned to her seat, held up the phone so he could see it, and punched the first speed-dial button. Jeremy stared at her with widening eyes as the phone rang twice and then was picked up. "Hello?" came an all too familiar voice.
"No," Jeremy whispered, shaking his head. "You wouldn't ... " The number was his mother's. If she heard what was being done to him now, he'd be trying to explain for years ...
She only grinned at him and dropped the handset into his lap. And then her expert fingers were on his ribs, and Jeremy twisted and bucked anew. His teeth sank deep into his lower lip as he struggled not to laugh, praying for a quick hang-up ... maybe she wouldn't realize who was calling ...
"Where are you, Jeremy?" his mother asked. "I think we may have a bad connection. All I hear is funny noises ... " Oh God, Jeremy remembered -- Mom has caller ID! With obvious enjoyment, the woman began to tickle around his navel, producing even more vehement "funny noises" as Jeremy strained to hold his hysteria in. She turned slightly, still tantalizing his bellybutton with one fingertip while her other outstretched hands sought his feet. In vain did Jeremy twist and flip his feet -- there was no escape, no protection, and when her clawed fingers burrowed under his toes, he thought he’d explode with the effort of holding in his laughter. Lips pressed together and eyes wide with pleading, Jeremy wriggled in his seat, knowing even as he did so that there was no point in it -- she could do whatever she wanted with him ...
She was saying something to him, soundlessly. Through a haze of tears of laughter, Jeremy managed to focus on her pink lips and watched as they formed the words "Give up?" Both hands glided up his sides to rest lightly in his underarms.
"Jeremy?" Mom said on the phone. He looked up from the woman's mouth to her eyes and saw no mercy there, only a delighted anticipation of what she was going to do to him. He was almost ruined, and they both knew it. One finger twitched slightly, stroking the sensitive flesh, and despite himself Jeremy jumped and let out a yelp. Then he started nodding so violently it looked as if he were trying to shake his head off. The woman sat back, picking up the phone and hanging it up.
"I thought you'd see it my way," she grinned, standing and stretching. "You should know that my employer has put the money down for a follow-up visit ... so if I check back with him and he tells me you haven't turned down the volume, I'll be back." She put a fingertip under his chin and tilted his head up to look directly into his eyes. "I *hate* having to do follow-ups. If I have to do one, I'm going to take it out on you ... do we have an understanding?"
Jeremy nodded weakly. "No problem ... "
"Good boy." She began loosening the cords that held one arm to the pole. "My card." She tucked it into his breast pocket. "Call me if you ever need someone tickled ... " she said as she turned to the door.
"Wait," Jeremy called after her, hoarsely. She turned back with a slight smile. "Um ... what are your rates?"
---
Anne Wei worked hard. She was the first one into her restaurant every morning, and the last one out every night. That latter habit was what led to disaster. There was no one around to help her when the tall woman in the long, dark coat slipped into the restaurant late one night (hadn't Anne locked the door?) and took hold of her. After a brief and confusing struggle, Anne found herself kneeling in one of her chairs, wrists tied together with a rope that had come from under the coat and now ran up and over one of the dining room's exposed rafters. Anne's wrists were over her head, her blouse had been pulled out and was half unbuttoned, and to complete the indignity the woman was putting what felt uncomfortably like handcuffs on her ankles. The cuffs clicked shut, and the woman took hold of Anne's chair and turned her until she was facing the new mural on the back wall of the room.
"It's a wonderful painting. When are you going to pay the man who did it?"
"Huh?" Anne said, then stiffened as she felt the intruder begin to remove her shoes, leaving them hanging precariously, half on and half off. "What are you -- "
"What do *you* think?" Anne was wearing stockings of sturdy dark nylon. They were stylish, flattering, and kept her legs warm. But against tickling, they were about as useful as a glass hammer. Anne squealed, jerking on the rope that held her wrists as teasing fingernails fluttered over the exposed portion of her feet. "It's not complicated. I have your checkbook here ... and your super-ticklish body here. The question is, what do you value more? Money ... or dignity?" Every reflexive jerk of Anne's feet made the shoes slip lower, exposing more and more of her sensitive, nyloned soles to the torment. Already half of the arches had been bared, a fact that the other woman was taking full advantage of, much to Anne's distress. Every time Anne thought she had finally succeeded in ordering her feet to keep still, her tormentor would find a new and even more sensitive spot, and Anne would yelp and jump and feel her shoes slide a little further off.
"You -- you're crazy!" she gasped.
"No, I'm not. But you're going to be ... " was the amused rejoinder. One of Anne's shoes finally fell off, hitting the floor with a thunk, and almost immediately her newly exposed foot was covered with tickling fingers, scrabbling all over. Anne's second shoe was quickly lost in the ensuing frantic convulsions, and then it was the soles of both feet being ravaged by quick-darting fingertips. Anne's long black hair cut the air like a whip as she tossed her head back and forth, the sound of her laughter somehow not drowning out the teasing whispers that reached her ears from below: "Poooooor Annie. You hate this, don't you? Such sensitive little feet, little toes ... You know how to make me stop ... but you're so much fun to play with, I might tickle you all night ... where else do you hate being tickled, Annie?"
Fingernails raked down her back softly. Anne yowled and arched her back -- tautening her belly and making it the perfect target for the tickling fingers that landed on it a heartbeat later. The rope creaked audibly as Anne swayed back, screeching like a madwoman. "Noooooaaaaaaaaaaaaoooooooooo!! Not THERE! I'm too ticklish -- " She realized her mistake a second too late as her torturer slowly rose, walked around her, and deliberately began unbuttoning Anne's blouse.
"Please," Anne begged, giving the other woman a pleading look.
Her only response was a slow grin that turned Anne's blood to ice. "That's a *very* ticklish tummy you have there, Annie." Like a bird hypnotized by a snake, Anne watched in dreadful fascination as the woman's hand came up, parting the curtains of her blouse. When it touched her belly, Anne closed her eyes and averted her face, a shudder racking her petite form. The woman's warm palm circled Anne's belly, a sensual delight of soft skin gliding over softer skin, but Anne could not relax, for the hand was beginning to curve outward. Now it was just fingertips tracing the contours of her stomach -- Anne made a squeaky sound of protest and shimmied her hips, all she could do in her helplessly bound position. Now the fingernails came into play, lightly twitching over the golden skin, teasing more than tickling.
"Pleasepleasepleaaaaaheeeheeheeheeheeeeplease," Anne whimpered in a tiny voice, her hips bucking involuntarily with each delicate little touch on her hot skin. She was pink from hairline to breasts now from embarrassment and exertion. Now both hands were crawling around her quivering belly. Anne kept her head down, hoping that her hair would hide the look of delicious agony on her face, but she could do nothing to disguise the stumbling giggles that shook her frame. Her muscles were tense in anticipation of the unmerciful belly-tickling she knew was to come, and the tension only made the tickling that much worse -- but she could not force herself to relax. But still the assault on her tummy did not come. Instead, the woman tickled her way up Anne's sides, then trailed her fingertips back down with an exquisite slowness that made Anne shudder even harder as chills chased each other down her body.
The other woman deliberately put a hand on the small of Anne's back. Anne pressed her lips firmly together and closed her eyes -- only to have them snap wide open a second later as tickling fingers dug into the soft flesh around her bellybutton. Only one person had ever known how ticklish her belly was -- her older brother -- and he’d made her life miserable on many an occasion until they became too old to wrestle together. Now, enduring a relentless, skilled tickling there for the first time in fifteen years or more, Anne seemed to revert from adult restaurauteur to ticklish little girl in the blink of an eye. Flushed, whining, and gasping with laughter, Anne wriggled with complete abandon, no longer caring what she might look like. It was an utterly humiliating and yet somehow liberating experience, to no longer have to think about anything but the fingers touring her belly’s most vulnerable spots, how the hand on her back held her torso steady so that no matter how hard she squirmed, the tickling was never disrupted.
The last of Anne's resistance finally shattered when her nemesis borrowed a fork from one of the place settings. The feel of the sharp tines gliding up and down her ticklish feet without pause -- combined with quick, unexpected finger-tickles all over her body -- was more than the already quivering, gasping Asian woman could endure. When the other woman finally untied Anne's wrists and handed her the checkbook, Anne ruined three checks before finally managing to sign her name correctly. The fact that her feet were being mercilessly tickled as she tried to scrawl the check as quickly as possible probably had something to do with it.
The woman dropped her card on the table and put Anne's check in her pocket. "I'm sure you're not stupid enough to stop payment, are you, Annie?" Anne shook her head weakly. "Have a good night, then ... “
“Uh .... “ Anne said.
---
The tickler unlocked the door and stepped inside. She’d barely closed it when she was seized from behind, arms wrapping around her and hands slipping under her jacket. She was lifted off the ground as soft lips kissed the rim of her ear. “Did you have a good day?” a familiar voice whispered.
She giggled. “Same as always. I’ve -- I’ve gotten another new job. It’s --- heeheeheeheehee -- cut that out! You know I hate having my ribs tickled!”
“Are these your ribs? They don’t feel like them ... “ The hands probed around, making her squeal and squirm in the firm circle of the hug. “I missed you.”
“It’s only been since morning -- stop that!” she yelped as a hand encompassed her belly.
“Too long. Come on.”
Still giggling, she allowed herself to be carried off to the bedroom.
